Chapter Text
During the height of the conflict against the Sirens and the entities beyond them - the ones only whispered about as X - every minute of every day had belonged to something else.
Sorties. Emergency meetings. Repairs. Evacuations. Casualty reports. Strategic briefings that stretched deep into the night before beginning again at dawn.
For years the port had existed in a state of controlled panic, always preparing for the next crisis before the previous one had fully ended.
Now?
Now the port seems alive and somewhat happy.
The Eagle Union girls argued over baseball near the docks. Royal Maids pushed tea carts through corridors that no longer shook from bombardment. And if it was even possible, the Iron Blood dorms were hosting even more drinks than before.
The ocean itself was calm for once in a long time.
The same can't be said for the Commander's office at headquarters.
There were stacks of paperwork everywhere. Folders balanced precariously beside half-finished reports. Several binders occupied territory that probably belonged to his coffee mug.
He sat behind his desk, staring at a stack of unfinished logistics reports while late afternoon sunlight spilled through the office windows.
A knock came. Three sharp taps.
Not hesitant. Not polite.
The Commander knew who it was already.
“Come in.”
The door swung open immediately.
Jean Bart entered like she owned the room.
Black coat draped over her shoulders, hands in her pockets. Her light brown hair catching some glow beneath the office lights.
Her ruby pink eyes swept across the office before landing on him.
Jean Bart respected the Commander long before she ever grew comfortable around him. The entire port seemed to orbit around him naturally. From the elegant Royals to the tough Iron Blood ships, from loud Eagle Union carriers to the fractured remnants of Iris and Vichya. Somehow, impossibly, they all trusted him.
She had fought beside him enough times to understand why. He was calm where others panicked, stubborn where others compromised, and treated every shipgirl with a sincerity that couldn’t be faked. They worked well together. Dangerously well, if she was being honest, but their relationship had always stayed professional. It was one with mutual respect and reliable coordination, strung with the occasional sharp-tongued exchange. Nothing deeper.
At least, that was what Jean Bart had always told herself.
“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”
The Commander looked towards her, and shrugged.
“It’s for your own good too, y’know?”
“I’d rather be out fighting Sirens than being a pretentious paper-pusher.”
“Are you saying I’m a pretentious paper-pusher?”
“You know that I didn’t mean you… whatever.”
“At least it’s only for a week.”
“Tch. Long enough.”
Despite the words, she stepped fully inside and shut the door behind her.
The Commander hid a smile.
This had not been his idea.
After the reunification summit between the fractured factions of Azur Lane, someone in Naval HQ had proposed a rotating secretary schedule “to improve inter-faction coordination and interpersonal cohesion.”
Weeks earlier, during one of the post-reunification planning meetings, Richelieu had quietly submitted Jean Bart’s name for the secretary rotation herself. She had simply grown tired of watching her sister spend every waking hour either isolated at the docks or throwing herself into sorties that were frankly beneath her. The Commander agreed.
When Jean Bart eventually discovered who had arranged the assignment, she immediately accused Richelieu of meddling. Richelieu, naturally, denied everything with a smile far too serene to be trustworthy.
By the time Jean's turn to be secretary arrived, the arrangement had already been ongoing for nearly a month.
Belfast had restored order to the Commander’s office with terrifying efficiency, yet it was warm and livable, where fresh tea seemed to appear the moment his cup emptied and delicate cakes somehow found their way beside his paperwork during long evenings.
Cleveland turned the place into a second break room, dragging him outside often enough that half the port jokingly credited her for improving his health.
Akagi spent an entire week hovering just close enough to make every visitor deeply uncomfortable, while somehow ensuring his tea was always perfectly warm before he noticed it himself.
Then came Prinz Eugen, who treated the entire assignment like a game designed specifically to test the Commander’s self-control. Between her shameless teasing, habit of leaning far too close over his shoulder, and constant amusement whenever he became flustered, the office had survived the week with far less dignity than before.
By the time Jean Bart’s assignment began, the Commander assumed he had already experienced every possible type of secretary the port could offer. He was very, very wrong.
Jean Bart glanced at the mountain of documents on the desk.
“Do you always drown yourself in this crap after battles end?”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s pathetic.”
“And yet you’re helping me.”
“I never agreed to help.”
She walked over anyway and leaned over the desk slightly, scanning the reports with narrowed eyes.
Supply routes. Reconstruction budgets. Joint fleet restructuring between Iris Libre and the former Vichya forces.
At the sight of the document, Jean Bart grimaced.
“Still buried in reunification paperwork?”
“Turns out rebuilding an alliance is harder than winning a war.”
“Haah. No kidding.”
There was no venom in it. Only exhaustion.
That was the thing people misunderstood about Jean Bart.
Most assumed she thrived on conflict.
In reality, she just hated hypocrisy.
The Commander had learned that during the reunification talks.
While diplomats danced around each other with rehearsed speeches and political caution, Jean Bart had simply walked into the room and said:
“Either we stop pretending your petty old grudges matter more than survival… or the Sirens win.”
It had nearly caused a diplomatic incident.
It had also worked.
The Commander slid a folder toward her.
“Here.”
Jean Bart frowned.
“What’s this?”
“Secretary duties.”
She opened it.
Then stared.
Then slowly looked back up at him.
“…You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”
“I wish.”
The folder contained scheduling logs, sortie approvals, inventory verification forms, meal coordination sheets, meeting reminders, etc.
Jean Bart looked physically repulsed.
“You’re telling me this is what secretaries do?”
“Mostly.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You get used to it.”
“I’d rather fight Observer solo with broken rigging.”
The Commander laughed before he could stop himself.
Jean Bart blinked.
The sound caught her off guard.
Not because he rarely laughed, but because it sounded genuine.
Relaxed.
She realized, suddenly, that she hadn’t heard that from him in a very long time.
The seemingly endless battles had carved exhaustion into him.
Everyone saw it.
The endless calm professionalism. The impossible composure. The way he always carried everyone else’s burdens without complaint.
Even now, after the massive victory, he still looked tired, and is fighting the worst battle of all: paperwork.
Jean Bart clicked her tongue softly.
“Tch, move.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Before he could protest, she shoved half the paperwork aside and dropped into the chair beside his desk.
Boots against the table. Coat hanging loose. Absolutely zero professionalism.
“What are you doing?”
“If I’m stuck here for a week, I’m makin’ sure you don’t die buried under paper.”
“That’s surprisingly considerate.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
The Commander smiled faintly and returned to his work.
For a while, only pages turning filled the office.
It should have been awkward.
Jean Bart wasn’t good at quiet company. Most people either irritated her or feared her.
Somehow, he never did.
Occasionally she glanced sideways, watching him work.
Watching the slight crease between his brows when concentrating. The way he rubbed at his eyes when reading smaller text. The habit he had of mumbling numbers calculating it under his breath.
Human.
That was the dangerous thing about him.
Not the brilliant strategist. Not the fearless war hero.
The human part.
The part that remembered every shipgirl’s favourite drink. The part that stayed beside hospital beds after battles. The part that reunited an entire fractured alliance not through force, but through sheer trust. This idiot cared, far more than was probably healthy.
Jean Bart hated how much she respected that.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the ocean.
The Commander looked up and sighed.
“Guess there’s a storm coming tonight.”
“Mmhmm.”
“You gonna head back before it gets worse?”
Jean Bart crossed her arms.
“Hmmm… nah.”
“No?”
“Someone’s gotta make sure you actually stop working eventually.”
The Commander smiled softly.
“Well then, Secretary Jean Bart…”
She immediately narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t call me that.”
“…I’m trusting you.”
Jean Bart felt a bit of heat rising up her chest, and then looked away.
“Yeah, yeah.”
And she stayed.
Long after sunset painted the harbour gold. Long after the office lights became the only illumination left.
Neither of them spoke much after that. And neither seemed to mind.