Work Text:
If Jeremy has to be honest, today has been a shitty day. When he’d pulled back the curtains this morning, the sky had been grey and hanging heavy above him, with no sign of sun in sight. For the third day in the row. Can Jeremy survive without the sunlight? Maybe. Does he want to? Not really.
Then he realized his favorite jeans weren’t quite dry enough for him to put them on (even though they had been washed three days ago), which meant he couldn’t wear them today unless if he was okay with living in wet jeans for at least two hours, which he wasn’t. Breakfast had been fine, but just fine, and not great, because today is Thursday and Jeremy had to get up earlier so he could deal with the club’s paperwork this morning and not tonight, and so Jean was still out running with their dogs. The paperwork in question had shown that at least three different kids have not paid for their classes yet, and Jeremy had ended up on the phone for longer than he would’ve liked trying to explain that to their parents. He got late to a meeting because of it, and the delay had meant that he hadn’t been able to go home to eat lunch like he usually does. The afternoon had gone, surprisingly enough, without problems, except for when Juliana had twisted her ankle, thankfully without gravity.
Still, Jeremy is so fucking tired when he gets into his car that he rests his forehead on the wheel for a few seconds, trying to muster the energy to drive. He finds the motivation in the knowledge that his husband is home and waiting for him, but the faint noise of raindrops starting to splatter on his windshield has him groaning out loud. He does end up starting the engine, gets out of the parking lot, turns right, almost runs over a hare running across the road, turns left a first time and then a second, and finally, finally, gets home. He counts to three in his head, yanks the door open and launches himself outside and the door back in place, managing to reach the front porch as dry as possible when the rain is still drumming from above him.
Jeremy doesn’t have time to open the wooden door in front of him, his husband beating him to it. Jean gives him a once-over, a small smile starting to stretch his lips when he spots the disheveled state of him, but it doesn’t have time to bloom fully before Jeremy catapults himself into his arms. Jean catches him like he always does, big hands settling over his ribs, and Jeremy drinks him in. God, he missed him, all of him, his smile, his heat, his snarky remarks, his scent, the softness he carries everywhere, the French nicknames. It’s a little stupid, he knows, to miss Jean so dearly when he sees him every day, but then again he hasn’t seen him at all today. He feels a little silly about it still, but the twinge of embarrassment fades away as soon as he feels Jean’s lips in his hair, leaving little kisses and then talking:
“I missed you too, mon amour. But would you perhaps agree to move inside the house, where there is heating and no rain?”
Jeremy hums his approval in Jean’s chest, feeling the little sigh he gets in response, right before Jean tightens his grip around his shoulders and lifts him up enough to do a one-eighty and land Jeremy inside the house. There, they reluctantly let go of each other so Jeremy can take off his coat, his scarf, his gloves, his shoes, and the second he straightens up again Jean is right there and his lips are on Jeremy’s. They kiss soft and languid in the middle of the hall way, no rush to it and no other intent behind it except the full enjoyment of the other’s presence after a full day of absence. Jeremy could spend days like this, he thinks, and he is ready to, when a timer starts ringing in the distance and they detangle from one another.
“The soup is ready,” Jean murmurs, and Jeremy can only nod, still not immunized against the closeness of him, even after ten years together, even after three years of marriage, even after a house and two dogs.
Said dogs run into the kitchen when Jeremy opens the door that leads into the backyard, where they have been since Jean led them outside so he could cook in peace. They are dry, though, and when they press closer to Jeremy, demanding cuddles, he has no qualms about sitting down and running his hands down their fur. He would have done it if even they had been soaked and muddy, but this is more enjoyable.
By the time he unfolds from the floor to wash his hands, Jean has set the table: two bowls and two spoons and two glasses, a pot full of soup, a little package of croutons, a wine bottle left half-full from the last time Cat and Laila were here. The first spoonful of soup is so hot Jeremy nearly burns his tongue, but the taste is enough to make him forget about it. He has eaten it many times before: the onion soup is one of the first meals Jean had learnt how to make when he’d picked up cooking again, and he always makes it when the days get shorter and the air colder.
The familiar taste is what finally makes him relax in his chair, and Jean must sense the change, because he reaches a hand to comb through Jeremy’s hair, a smile dawning on his face.
“Not a good day, then, mon chéri?”
Oh, how Jeremy loves him, this beautiful man who cooked soup and walks their dogs and who knows him all of his little tells, enough to see him for five minutes and judge exactly how his day went. It should be scary, terrifying even, this bone-deep knowledge of each other, but it is the opposite: comforting and safe and loving. It is, after all, a knowledge born out of years of love, years of fighting side by side, at least until the world had been kind enough to cave in, until they built a home together.
“Not really, no,” he says instead of declaring his undying love to Jean. “Work was shitty and I didn’t see you,” and he knows he sounds whiny and annoying, but Jean merely smiles and answers “Well, it can only get better then, can’t it?”, and Jeremy loves him so much he can’t say anything else than this exact sentence. It earns him a little chuckle from Jean, and yeah, his day is already getting better.
They trade little stories from their respective days while they finish eating, the various containers of soup and croutons and applesauce wiped clean and placed in the dishwasher. Somehow, the comfort of being home after a long day has exhausted Jeremy enough to send him tumbling into a yawn. Jean turns towards him at the noise, his face softening impossibly more at the sight, and he ushers Jeremy to their bedroom with a promise of a quiet evening in bed on his lips. They slip into their pajamas and then under the covers, curling into each other like they always do, Jeremy’s head on Jean’s chest and Jean’s chin atop his hair.
Just like earlier, he feels Jean dropping kisses on every inch of his skull he can reach. The urge to get a proper kiss on the lips has him tilting his head backwards and Jean immediately answering his wordless demand. They kiss slowly for a few minutes and maybe for a few more, and the feeling of closeness has Jeremy melting into the sheets. They split up at some point, but they stay close, and Jeremy knows without needing words that Jean missed him too today. He remains half-laying on his husband’s chest even as Jean reaches for the book on his nightstand, listening to the rumble of his voice as he starts reading out loud.
Jeremy couldn’t listen to the story even if he tried, Morpheus’ call too appealing for him to try and fight it. He can’t help it, really: he is in his house, stomach full, snuggled under an undefined number of blankets, pressed against his husband. The comfort of it all is what gets him, Jeremy knows, and his last coherent thought as he slips under is how lucky he is to have all of this, when he once thought he would never deserve it.
(When he wakes up the next morning, neither Jean nor Jeremy have moved from their positions, Jean’s book still open on the blanket, its pages open haphazardly, his husband softly snoring into his hair. One of the dogs is awake already, paws barely making noise against the hardwood floors. Jeremy falls back asleep.)