Chapter Text
His footsteps on the stairs are always mismatched. It’s been two and a half years since the shooting, and he walks, he runs, he swims, he bikes sometimes with Connie. But Jean still feels the pain on the stairs; he still favors his right leg over his left.
Even from the back room, I hear him come down the steps from the apartment and into the shop, one heavy boot landing a little louder and stiffer than the other.
“Sweetheart,” Jean calls from the front, “I’m leaving for work.”
I give him a second, rustling invoices for flower orders on my desk. Then I lean forward in my chair and say, “back here.”
I let him come to me. I let him stand still in the shop for a moment, because I know he’s setting his jaw and taking a deep breath, dealing with the pain. I let him do it without me in the room, because he doesn’t want me to worry. I expect him to still be frowning when he appears in the doorway--
But I can’t really tell, because of his full, scruffy blonde beard.
Damn it, No Shave November. Do you know how difficult it is to communicate with Jean Kirschtein already, and now I can’t read his expression?
Jean leans in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest, watching me like he does with those tawny eyes.
I smile at him. “C’mere. Let me rub my face on you.”
Jean wrinkles his nose, and I know he’s ok.
I rub at my jaw, my own beard thicker and darker and more grown out than his. The fiance narrows his eyes at me, and half of me wants to laugh because he feels like I beat him in some unspoken beard competition, when it was his idea to do it in the first place.
The other part of me can’t get enough of him leaning in the doorway with his uniform like that, and when he comes over to me, my heart catches a little in my chest. Jean’s hand curls under my chin and tips my head back.
I kiss him soft. His beard is coarse and ticklish against mine. And then I pull away, just a breath, just far enough that his lips still linger. I can still taste the toothpaste and the coffee and my man.
And then I grab Jean’s cheek with my hand and viciously rub the side of my scruffy face on his, cackling with laughter.
“What the-- hell-- I’m gonna-- catch on fire if you keep fuckin’ doing that.” Jean plants a firm, aggravated kiss on the top of my head. “You’re shaving that goddamned thing off today.”
“I can’t,” I tell him, grinning. “You’ll miss it too much.”
Jean shoots me a dirty look from the doorway.
“You have to get in on the Douchey December Moustache competition this year,” he reminds me. “You wouldn’t do it last year.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” I say.
The edge of Jean’s mouth twitches up in a smirk. “Why, because you think you can beat me? You think you can douchey moustache better than me, Bodt? I always win. I am the biggest douche.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You wanna bet--”
I wait for him to realize what he said. And when he does, he surprises me, and that smirk at the corner of his lips turns into a full blown grin.
I still get surprised by that, sometimes. By how happy Jean is.
I can’t stop looking at him. I don’t want him to go, even if it is for work.
Jean narrows his eyes at me again as he hovers in the doorway, his smile now a challenge.
“Alright, Bodt,” he says. “That’s it. You, me, Douchey Moustache Showdown.”
“And Connie and Bert and Reiner,” I remind him.
“Yeah, yeah. They’re weak. You and me, babe.”
“Game on,” I say, rubbing my beard.
“I’m gonna destroy you.”
I snort. “In your goddamned dreams. Bye, honey.”
Jean raises his hand in a wave as he turns away. I hear the bells go on the front door of the shop, and rub my beard again, my thoughts trailing.
*
I try. I really do.
I try to think of a douchey moustache that is less... douchey. Maybe somewhat respectable. I don’t wanna put the smackdown on Jean, not when he’s so proud of his fluffy beard.
But really. He wants me to compete.
I’m Italian. We invented thick hair. It’s not even a question.
No, the real question is-- how do you compete best with douchey-moustachio’d cops?
You out-cop them.
I take the chance when the shop is quiet, mid-morning right before the lunch rush. I leave the front door of our apartment open at the top of the stairs, so I can hear if any customers come, but the door bells are quiet while I shave.
I’m careful. The razor is smooth and cool against my cheek. I’m gonna miss not having to worry about doing this every few days. I’m gonna miss waking up next to Mountain Man.
But the look on Jean’s face will be totally worth it.
I keep the picture I printed out for reference taped to the mirror while I shave.
*
My cellphone vibrates in the pocket of my apron an hour later.
“D’you do it yet?” Jean asks over the phone, his mouth full of a sandwich.
I hear Connie in the background. “Tell him to get a chin strap.”
“It’s not a chin strap,” I laugh, holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear, twisting my fingers into a bouquet of roses. “Con, what did you do?”
“Oh,” Connie says, closer to the phone. “I just shaved off enough so Henry didn’t have anything to grab onto anymore-- hey!”
There’s a distinct sound of a dull slap, and Jean cuts him off. “It’s a secret, god damn it. You have to wait until the unveiling later.”
“What, is there a specific procedure here?” I had stayed out of it last year, I don’t remember.
“Hell yeah there is,” Connie says, his voice farther away from the phone.
“Yeah,” Jean replies firmly. “We’ve been doing it like this since college.”
I’m silent for a beat. It always takes me a second to remember that he doesn’t mean the college with me.
And Jean knows that. After a second, I hear the shuffling of the phone, and Jean’s voice is low in my ear.
“Marco baby,” he says softly.
“Hmm?”
“I can’t wait to marry you.”
I smile slightly. “Hmm.”
It helps to hear stuff like this. It does. But what helps more is knowing that he’s saying it in front of Connie, in front of one of his hetero friends, and the only reason he’s embarrassed is because he’s private about showing emotion like this.
Old habits die hard, and three years later, I still struggled sometimes not to feel like I had to hide. Like he was going to leave. This was my pain I carried, this was the equivalent to his heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.
So it helps.
It helps when I hear him smile, and he says it again.
“I can’t wait,” Jean murmurs.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, feeling my face flush red. “You’re just buttering me up so I won’t out-moustache you.”
“Pfffft.”
“You’re scared. You’re scared of my stache powers.”
*
The shop is quiet today, but I’m thankful. The most common thing I get up here is orders for weddings, and aside from Valentine’s Day, late fall and early winter is my busiest time; everyone loves outdoor weddings in the mountain foliage, you know what I mean? It’s really beautiful. It’s also a lot of time, and a lot of late nights. A quiet shop means some time to catch up.
I like them. I like the weddings. I like these themed flowers, bucket after bucket of the same soft colors. I like spending late nights in this shop, with the lights warm inside and the street quiet after the sunset.
I like that I am home, and at work, and I can’t tell the difference.
I like Jean in basketball shorts and my old college hoodie, wandering downstairs with his hair still wet from showering after he gets home from work. I like that he brings two bowls of mac n cheese down with him. I like him in my space, slouched on the floor with his back against the counter, nudging himself room between the buckets of flowers with his bare toes. I like it because it’s our space, and Jean blushes and rubs the back of his neck whenever we talk about our wedding flowers.
The shop is quiet today, which is why I notice every single time a squad car drives, so casually slow, past the shop.
I turn my back to the windows as soon as I see it, every time.
I don’t care if it’s not him. I’m not taking the risk. I turn my face away.
Nothing is ruining my moustache game.
*
I am in the back room again, hauling bags of soil from the supply cooler, when the bells ring out over the door at a little after six, and I hear Connie’s laughter.
And then, clear as day -- the low, rough voice Jean gets when he’s either competing to win something, or about to get laid.
“Where is he?” I hear him ask. “Marco?”
I’m already grinning to myself, but decide to play it cool. Cute and sweet. Don’t let him suspect.
I hover in the doorway, just out of sight, and call, “hey guys.”
It has exactly the intended effect. Jean’s thrown off-guard, and he’s already laughing to himself in the front part of the shop.
“You didn’t do it, did you?” Jean’s voice is dripping with satisfaction. “Knew it. You didn’t want to have--”
He stops dead, mid-sentence, when he sees me. I lean in the doorway, crossing my arms over my chest and raising my eyebrows.
Connie snorts, leaning against the counter and sporting an impressively obnoxious chin strap. “Oh my god, that’s awesome.”
Jean’s eyes widen as he stares at me. He’s shaved his beard into the most carefully cultivated handlebar moustache I have ever seen. It’s the kind of thing you seriously judge yourself for, because it’s gross and weird and vaguely paternal but you still find it hot.
Or at least, I do.
I mean, it’s Jean.
He’s gaping at me, a mixture of challenge and surprise and outrage and... oh yeah, he’s turned on.
I smile innocently at him. Mhmm. Oh yeah, boy. I know you.
Jean’s face blushes a dark red, making his handlebar stand out even more.
“I can’t believe,” he says slowly, “you Tom Selleck’d.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” Connie adds with a grin.
I wipe my hands on my apron and run my fingers over my moustache, the thick dark hair tapering down in a straight line to the corners of my mouth.
Jean’s handlebar sags when he frowns. He crosses the length of the counter and takes my face in his hands; I think for a second that he’s going to kiss me, but he holds me at arms’ length and examines my face. I let him do it, patient, trying not to smirk at him.
The longer he looks at me, the madder he gets.
And the madder he gets, the more turned on he gets.
And this makes him even madder.
“I can’t believe you gave yourself the typical cop look,” he grumbles through his moustache. “How did you... Why the-- fucking-- oh god damn it, Marco.”
And that’s how I know. I grin, and kiss his smooth cheek.
“Does this mean I win?” I ask when he lets go of me.
“I vote for you,” Connie offers, leaning up against the counter.
Jean whips around to glare at him. “You’re not even gonna try to beat him?”
“Look at this asshole,” Connie says reasonably. “Look at that Tom Selleck moustache. You tell me how I’m supposed to compete with that.”
“I did a Tom Selleck two years ago,” Jean says, outraged. “You didn’t think it was so great then.”
“Yeah, but you blonde Tom Selleck’d,” Connie replies.
“So?”
“It’s not the same.”
“It’s not th-- are you fucking kidding me Con--”
“Can I pet it?” Connie asks me. “Can I literally pet your moustache, dude?”
I think for a second Jean will explode with anger. His handlebar is twitching. Whether he’s angry that another guy wants to touch me, or just angry that his blonde Selleck didn’t cut it-- I don’t wait to ask. I just wrap my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my palms flat to his chest. It’s like therapy to him, a reminder to take a deep breath, and Jean leans into my grip for a moment.
I kiss his neck, and suddenly, he’s angry again; Jean glares at me over his shoulder, and the handlebar makes it look even worse.
“Get away from me with that thing,” he grumbles, giving my moustache a deadly glare. “Wait until Reiner and Bert see it, I swear to god, I’m gonna crush you.”
“You don’t have to be so competitive,” I croon in his ear. Just to make him madder. Just to watch him do what I know he’s gonna do. “It’s just for fun, baby.”
Jean pushes my hands roughly away, muttering about fun and competition and Tom Selleck, stomping his way up the stairs to our apartment with Connie and still muttering furiously to himself... before he realizes.
And then I hear them. The mismatched steps, slower and less certain than before, one foot a little heavier than the other.
Jean reappears at the foot of the stairs behind the counter and looks at me sheepishly. His face is still red with anger when he comes back to me, pulling me toward him with one hand on my waist and kissing my cheek. His handlebar tickles my smooth-shaven face.
“Hi,” Jean grumbles.
“Hi,” I reply, smiling wide. He always does this.
“I’m still mad,” he asserts.
Even when he’s mad, he still kisses me whenever he comes home.
“I told you I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” I say to him lightly.
“Oh, are you fuckin’--” Jean lets go of me, steaming all over again, going up the stairs and still yelling about Tom Selleck, and I have never been prouder of the fact that I’m about to marry this complete loser, because he compliments my own loserness so damn well.
*
The skype call with Reiner and Bert does not go well. They appear on the display of Jean’s laptop after a few seconds of dialing, and Jean and Connie hover over the screen waiting to see them. I stay out of vision a few steps away, biding my time.
The two in New York sit shoulder to shoulder, looking down at the screen, especially in Bert’s case. Reiner sports thick, light blonde lamb chops with an edge that points right at his mouth on each of them; Bert has shaved his to a thin pencil moustache like a thirties’ movie star, with long sideburns that disappear into the hem of his grey beanie.
As soon as the image of them is clear, Jean grins. “I totally fucking win.”
“I told you he’d go for a handlebar,” I hear Reiner say. “He always handlebars.”
Jean is outraged again, about to launch into an explanation of all the different styles he’s tried over the years, when Connie cuts him off.
“Marco wins,” he says firmly. “Jean’s being a pissbaby.”
“I am not being a pissbaby--”
“What’s Marco’s look like?” Bert asks.
I shuffle behind the two at our kitchen table and wave at the camera, as innocent as I can. “Hey dudes.”
Reiner and Bert are both silent for a minute before Bert lifts his hand to wave back.
“That,” Reiner says, “is a breathtaking moustache.”
Jean sighs. “Oh, god fucking damn it.”
“Somewhere,” Reiner says, “Tom Selleck is shedding a tear. Beautiful. I vote Marco.”
“Marco,” Bert agrees, running one long finger across his moustache.
“Are you guys kidding me?” Jean interrupts. “I did a Tom Selleck two years ago.”
“You attempted a Tom Selleck,” Reiner corrects him, his voice deep in the speakers. “But you can’t blonde a Selleck. It doesn’t work.”
“Thank you,” chimes in Connie.
I put my hands on Jean’s shoulders and squeeze, but I can tell he’s not really mad. I can tell by the way he keeps talking to his friends, friends that watch me with him and don’t say a thing. I can tell by the way he doesn’t shrug away from me, or try to explain away why I’m touching him.
It’s been two and a half years. And it’s been eight and a half years since he did anything like that. But still. It helps. It helps that we can do this. That we’re doing this right now.
It helps when Jean reaches up for one of my hands on his shoulder and covers it with his own while he talks, his thumb unconsciously grazing my knuckles until he finds the engagement band on my finger. Then he squeezes my hand, right in the same moment that he calls Reiner a false prophet of lambchops.
I don’t let go of him. No matter what, I don’t let go.
*
It’s nearly one in the morning by the time Connie’s gone home and I finish cleaning up the kitchen from dinner. I haze my way into the bedroom, turning off lights as I go. I used to leave half of my lights on all the time, but when you live with a cop, you don’t have to worry as much, you know what I’m saying?
Except my cop is sprawled out on the bed, one arm folded over his eyes, half asleep and still wearing his boots. I sit down at his feet and untie his laces; he only lifts his arm up to look at me when I tug one boot off, then the other, as gently as I can.
“Please baby,” I say to him. “Please go shave that thing off.”
Jean lifts his arm and runs his fingers down his handlebar. “No.”
“C’mon, I shaved mine...”
Jean folds his arm over his eyes again. “I’m keeping it just to piss you off. I’m getting married with this bad boy on.”
The thought grosses me the hell out. All I saw was him with wedding cake stuck in his moustache.
Jean laughs softly to himself at the look on my face. I lay down next to him on the bed, sinking into the mattress with a deep sigh of relief.
“Congratulations on your win,” Jean mumbles.
“May we have many more years where the worst thing you’re angry about is my moustache,” I say softly.
This gets him. This unfolds his arm from his face, and this is what makes him come to me. Jean rolls over and reaches up, stroking my hair back with one hand. He runs his fingers over my lips, and the clean-shaven part above my top lip especially. When he touches my mouth again, I kiss his fingertips.
The look in Jean’s eyes is warm and sweet and intense, the way he always looks at me. I want to kiss him. I want to do a lot of things to him.
It’s just.
It’s just the moustache.
“Is it really that bad?” Jean asks, laughing at the expression on my face.
“I feel like I’m about to make out with my middle school math teacher,” I whisper.
“Some people are into that,” Jean reasons. He grins at me when my eyes narrow at him. And then he kisses me, brief and light, before he climbs out of bed.
“I’m going,” he says, yanking a towel from the closet. “I’m going. Our wedding pictures are still salvageable.”
“Thank you. I love you,” I say as he goes into the bathroom.
“Yeah, yeah, I lo--” and then Jean’s voice stops halfway through the word.
And I remember.
And I know exactly what he’s staring at in the bathroom.
And I’m trying my hardest not to burst out laughing.
And I can practically see his face turning red with anger when Jean says slowly, “There’s a fucking picture of fucking Tom Selleck taped to the fucking mirror.”