#tttkmb

[scullydubois]

that terror that keeps me brave: a sex education fic

hi, hello, now that I am riding high off the excitement of season three, i am finally gonna start publishing the sex education fic that I began writing in uhh...february! it primarily follows jean, maureen, and jakob as they deal with the ramifications of the season two finale. again, i started this months ago so it is not influenced by season three, and you can read it without watching that. it will focus on jean's pregnancy and maureen exploring her sexuality in the wake of her separation.

chapter one is under the cut! 1.5k, rated T. read it on ao3 here.

I:

Jean taps her pen absentmindedly against her soft leather notebook, misery on the faces of the couple in front of her. It’s a classic story: the once-adoring wife who has seen the dream crumble in front of her and her unshaven husband. Jean’s eyes train on him as he squirms in his seat.

“So, to clarify, you experienced a nocturnal emission from a dream about your co-worker, and then when Cecelia asked what the dream was about, you told her the truth.”

The man nods. Jean shifts her focus to the woman.

“And now, Cecelia, you are mad at him because you believe that he cheated on you.”

“Yes,” the wife squeaks. “He got off on another woman! Am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Jean pulls her lips into a poorly drawn line. “But you don’t have any other evidence of his cheating, correct? You’re using this dream as the sole reason for your accusation?”

“The dream is the cheating, there doesn’t need to be nothing more.”

Jean glances at the woman over her glasses. “Let’s ask Brian, shall we?” She crosses her legs, turning her attention warmly toward the poor man. “Have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse or anything of the sort with this woman while you were awake?”

“No.” He shakes his head violently. “Never.”

“Would you ever do so?”

“No...Addison--that’s her name--is fine-looking, but I’m married and I love my wife. I would never do such a thing.”

Jean has seen her fair share of men who are bullshitting. Brian is not one. She closes her notebook. “See, Cecelia? You are the one he wants. Nocturnal emissions are involuntary physical responses to subconscious stimuli. Addison is Brian’s co-worker, which means he probably sees her quite often. This makes it more likely for her to turn up in his dreams. It’s neither an affront to you, nor a compliment to her.”

Cecelia pouts. “I just don’t feel right about it.”

Jean rests her glasses on the crown of her head. “This could easily have been you who had the dream about your co-worker, and what then? How would you feel if Brian were accusing you of something you couldn’t control?”

“I never have those nasty dreams,” Cecelia counters, scoffing. “Not even about my own husband.”

Jean can’t help but fight back a smirk. “Well, Cecelia, that may be an issue for another session.”

“Like hell it will be! I’m giving you money to tell me it’s okay for my husband to make love to another woman! What do I look like, a fool?”

Jean folds her hands over her lap. Nothing she hasn’t heard before.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Cecelia, but I’m glad you and Brian could come in and have this conversation today.” She exchanges a sympathetic look with Brian. “My ears are always open.”

“Thank you, Jean,” the man says, ushering his wife out of the office. “We’ll see you next time.”

And Jean’s sure they will, because they’ve had this exact session about five separate times. The only thing that ever changes is what woman features in Brian’s dream. Once, it was even Jean! Now that was a session. You’d think, by now, that Brian would just tell Cecelia that every dream is about her. The honest men are always the ones who can afford a little dishonesty.

This is what’s on Jean’s mind when she jaunts into the foyer and finds the most honest man she knows standing there like he’s waiting to be checked in. Grease streaks his clothes; he’s stopped by in between jobs.

“Jakob!” Her voice is taut and uncompromising.

“Jean!” His is cordial and languid. “That nice couple let me in, I hope it won’t be a problem.”

Jean shifts her weight onto one heel, stretching her free leg. “I have another session in a few minutes. You should go.”

“Such strict avoidance of an ex-partner is not healthy, you know. I’m sure they taught you that in therapy school.”

“And continuing to show up at your ex-partner’s home after they have indicated they do not wish to see you is called stalking.” Jean strides into the kitchen. His clunky footsteps follow her. “I didn’t need to go to ‘therapy school’ to learn that.”

“We didn’t have those kinds of laws in Sweden until very recently. It was viewed as an expression of fondness when I was growing up.”

“That’s a view universal to men around the world,” Jean retorts. “They can’t all be right.”

“I was let in here, remember?” Jakob points out. “I don’t believe that makes it possible to prosecute me for any crimes.”

“Well, if I see you grab a kitchen knife, I’m going to assume the worst.”

“If I touch a kitchen knife, you may arrest me.”

“Wonderful.” Jean starts the coffee pot and pulls her beloved honeycomb mug from the cabinet. Despite herself, she grabs another one and offers it to Jakob. “Coffee?”

“No thank you. I had my smoothie this morning.”

“Ah.” She should’ve known. She stands on her tip-toes to slide the rejected mug back on the shelf. When she turns around, her visitor is gone. This isn’t of particular concern to her, though it is rather strange.

She sets her mug beneath the coffee pot and lets it run. As the steamy liquid spews out, she surveys her kitchen. Following the trend of the day, curiosity gets the best of her. “Jakob?” she calls.

A familiar head pops out of the pantry. “You have not used your pan shelf.”

Jean takes her coffee and shuffles over. “No, I have not,” she confirms, mimicking his charmingly formal way of speaking.

“Is it not adequate?”

“I told you, I don’t need it.” She turns on her heel, gliding toward the table. “Now, can you get out of my pantry?”

With an amused smile on his face, Jakob slips out and shuts the door.

“How was the session?”

Jean casts a downward glance at him. “I’m not supposed to share--”

“My mistake.” Jakob sits down and settles his hands on the table, the epitome of patience. Jean feels a nagging tug in her stomach, and she can’t discern one potential cause from the other.

She sighs. Jakob’s eyes have always struck her as those belonging to a guard dog who’s sworn to protect. Their inability to deceive is a great comfort, and so different from most of the men she has known.

She presses the mug to her lips, drinking in the miracle roast that she has been meaning to cut back on. 200 milligrams per day, that’s the recommended maximum intake for expecting mothers. She’s keeping herself right at that.

It is hard to steel herself against Jakob when he looks at her with such genuine eyes, especially knowing that she can’t offer him the same.

She swallows her sip, sets the mug against the table. “Do you feel that a husband who’s having wet dreams about another woman is cheating?” She eyes Jakob like he’s one of her clients, someone she must pick apart.

Jakob eyes her in kind, deducing that this is not a trick, but an honest question. “Yes,” he responds in his frank tone. “That would be an emotional betrayal at least.”

Jean leans back in her chair. “Why do you say that?” She may as well have her notebook and pen in hand.

“Because he’s emotionally attached enough to this person to have those sorts of dreams.” It sounds completely sensible, Jean thinks, when he says it. And it makes her sound like a bitch for what she has to say, but a situation where she must leave her emotions out of the equation is exactly what she needs when it comes to him.

“Dreams occur in our subconscious, unbeknownst to our waking selves. We cannot plan them. And the physical response is involuntary. Nocturnal emissions happen without our intervention. He is neither choosing the subject of his dreams, nor is he choosing his sexual response to them. Therefore, no cheating is taking place.”

“So cheating is a choice then,” Jakob muses. The weight of this statement hangs between them. He searches Jean’s face for signs of apprehension.

She stiffens in her chair but holds firm. “Yes. It is.” She understands the implications of admitting this, and she hopes he does too. She has done him wrong, and the worst they can do is let it keep happening. Even this choice, though, does him wrong, and for that Jean is sorry.

The doorbell rings, no doubt the next sexual conundrum she must untangle. She slides her chair back, grabs her mug, and gives Jakob a look that’s almost apologetic.

He returns the look, his eyes both fire and ice. “Another pair whose relationship you will save.”

Jean breaks eye contact when she realizes he’s being serious, for that’s simply too sweet a thing for him to say. She walks him to the door, and it strikes her as all too familiar.

“Thank you for your help,” he utters when she opens the door to her clients. She sees what he’s doing and plays along.

“You’re welcome. See you next week.”

“Yes,” he says, fixated on her. “See you next week.”

[scullydubois]

chapter two is up now!! it's the first glimpse at Maureen’s perspective as Adam chooses which parent he wants to live with. you can also read it below the cut:

The picture over the fireplace always makes Maureen smile, even now as reality chips away at the smiling family captured in the portrait. How infrequently they are all together. How wonderful to have even Madam included. Everything she has to show for, that photo displays.

She thought her life had reached its peak when she became Mrs. Groff and fit herself into the cookie-cutter life of a housewife. That’s where fairy tales end after all. The common girl gets the prince, and so she is not common anymore. Happily ever after everyday.

But Maureen overlooked one crucial detail: Michael Groff is not a prince. He’s not even, really, a man. In the respected sense anyway. A fancy job title and nuclear family does not a man make. Those elements form a convincing illusion if you suspend your disbelief, but like the rest of the Moordale community, Maureen is tired of pretending. Michael’s been a mediocre husband, a lousy father, and a coward masquerading as a leader. Everything he has is squirming in his fingers, waiting for complacency to loosen his grip. And as it happens, his job has gotten away from him. His marriage too.

Maureen would be lying if she said she wasn’t terrified. It’s a crummy life, yes, but it is the one she’s known. She went from home ec to running her own home, marrying Michael right out of sixth form. He failed out of flight school and fell back on teaching. You can imagine her disappointment when her military man became tethered to school grounds. Still, she stood right next to him as they made their descent into conformity, neither one of them knowing anything else.

And now it’s what...? Twenty-five years later? A daughter, a son, a little house in a tight-knit community: they’ve got all that was asked of them. And yet, it feels like nothing at all. Their children are loved, make no mistake about that. But when your children don’t love you back, you begin to wonder where you went wrong. Consider the daughter who did the thing her father never would--enlisting, shipping off, and fighting like a hero--but never calls. And what about the son who sat vigil at the local shop, but has lost even that now? All of Adam’s mistakes, Maureen feels, must stem from some sin of his parents’ that bounces around in him. She wants to help him, but surely she must confront her own faults first.

At last, Mr. Groff stalks into the living room. Maureen has struggled to think of him as Michael recently...Mr. Groff is so much more impersonal and fitting.

Adam follows behind. Maureen’s eyes move from her snapshot son to the living, breathing version of him right in front of her. Every night she goes to sleep worrying that he will be just like his father. And as she watches Michael stoop onto the opposite edge of the sofa while her son settles into the adjacent accent chair, she fears it might be too late.

“Good morning, Adam,” she chirps. “I missed you at breakfast this morning.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I was out,” he grumbles in response.

They are living in different dimensions lately, and it hurts. Maureen has the sense that his life is progressing without her...that she is losing the front row seat to it, just as she did with her daughter.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” she answers because it is true, and why shouldn’t she say it?

“Your mother and I have something important to discuss with you,” Mr. Groff begins, like he’s in front of the Moordale podium. “You may have noticed, I’ve been sleeping at the school…”

“You’re getting a divorce,” Adam interjects calmly. “I know.”

The elder man’s face falls, the excitement squeezed from his announcement. “Okay, well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but--”

“You were put on leave from Moordale,” Adam finishes. “Yeah, everybody knows.”

“Yes, and I am making the best of it by taking a fishing trip with some lads of mine in Scotland.”

May as well take me out to the backyard and shoot me if that’s the big announcement --that’s what Adam’s thinking as he sits through this one-act play. His father folds his hands over his lap and starts another thought.

“Because your mother and I are getting a divorce, we have to figure out living arrangements. One of us--though we have not decided which one--will be moving out. And since you are sixteen, you can legally choose who you want to live with. We assume you will want to stay in this house--”

“Mum.” Adam’s decision is resolute. “I want to stay with mum.”

The corners of Mr. Groff’s mouth wrinkle. A harsh blow, his son abandoning him outright.

“Alright, then you stay with your mother.” He looks to his long-suffering wife. “I suppose you’ll get the house, then.”

Maureen sits up straighter. “Yes, I suppose so.” Thank goodness, now she can finally decorate to her liking! No more ugly end-table simply because it belonged to Michael’s great-grandmother, as if leaving old magazines and dirty dishes strewn on it is somehow honoring the family.

Adam’s sneaker squeaks against the floor. “Is there anything else?”

“Uh…” Mr. Groff looks around. Clearly this conversation has not gone his way. “No, no, I guess that’s it. Unless you had something you wanted to add…?”

Adam stands, shrugs. “Have fun in Scotland, I guess.” And with that, he’s off. His parents sit in silence until they hear the front door shut.

“That went well I think,” Maureen says with a half-hearted smile.

Mr. Groff scoffs. He rises from the couch and walks over to the family portrait, admiring the face of his daughter. It’s never looked anything like his, and for that, she’s lucky. “If only our angel were here...we could each take one, and I wouldn’t have to be alone.”

Maureen doesn’t share his rose-colored glasses. “If we had given her the option at sixteen, she would have set off on her own. We’re lucky that Adam doesn’t want to do his own laundry.” She caps this with a smile because, frankly, she’ll do her son’s laundry for the rest of her life if it keeps him around.

Michael kicks the ground. “I’ll have to line up someplace to stay when I get back from Scotland. I don’t know of any vacancies nearby--do you?”

Maureen shakes her head. “But I’ll be on the lookout.”

“Very well.” He straightens his suit jacket with an insistent tug. “I’m off to the school to see about clearing some items from my office.” His chocolate stash, mainly, but that’s a private matter in his eyes. He is- -was? --the headmaster. His name is on a plaque in the office...nobody else there can say that.

He scampers out, leaving Maureen alone in the house and in need of some relaxation. Relieved, she decides to visit with the little friend Jean gifted her. It has freed her, in more ways than one.

that terror that keeps me brave: a sex education fic

hi, hello, now that I am riding high off the excitement of season three, i am finally gonna start publishing the sex education fic that I began writing in uhh...february! it primarily follows jean, maureen, and jakob as they deal with the ramifications of the season two finale. again, i started this months ago so it is not influenced by season three, and you can read it without watching that. it will focus on jean's pregnancy and maureen exploring her sexuality in the wake of her separation.

chapter one is under the cut! 1.5k, rated T. read it on ao3 here.

I:

Jean taps her pen absentmindedly against her soft leather notebook, misery on the faces of the couple in front of her. It’s a classic story: the once-adoring wife who has seen the dream crumble in front of her and her unshaven husband. Jean’s eyes train on him as he squirms in his seat.

“So, to clarify, you experienced a nocturnal emission from a dream about your co-worker, and then when Cecelia asked what the dream was about, you told her the truth.”

The man nods. Jean shifts her focus to the woman.

“And now, Cecelia, you are mad at him because you believe that he cheated on you.”

“Yes,” the wife squeaks. “He got off on another woman! Am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Jean pulls her lips into a poorly drawn line. “But you don’t have any other evidence of his cheating, correct? You’re using this dream as the sole reason for your accusation?”

“The dream is the cheating, there doesn’t need to be nothing more.”

Jean glances at the woman over her glasses. “Let’s ask Brian, shall we?” She crosses her legs, turning her attention warmly toward the poor man. “Have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse or anything of the sort with this woman while you were awake?”

“No.” He shakes his head violently. “Never.”

“Would you ever do so?”

“No...Addison--that’s her name--is fine-looking, but I’m married and I love my wife. I would never do such a thing.”

Jean has seen her fair share of men who are bullshitting. Brian is not one. She closes her notebook. “See, Cecelia? You are the one he wants. Nocturnal emissions are involuntary physical responses to subconscious stimuli. Addison is Brian’s co-worker, which means he probably sees her quite often. This makes it more likely for her to turn up in his dreams. It’s neither an affront to you, nor a compliment to her.”

Cecelia pouts. “I just don’t feel right about it.”

Jean rests her glasses on the crown of her head. “This could easily have been you who had the dream about your co-worker, and what then? How would you feel if Brian were accusing you of something you couldn’t control?”

“I never have those nasty dreams,” Cecelia counters, scoffing. “Not even about my own husband.”

Jean can’t help but fight back a smirk. “Well, Cecelia, that may be an issue for another session.”

“Like hell it will be! I’m giving you money to tell me it’s okay for my husband to make love to another woman! What do I look like, a fool?”

Jean folds her hands over her lap. Nothing she hasn’t heard before.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Cecelia, but I’m glad you and Brian could come in and have this conversation today.” She exchanges a sympathetic look with Brian. “My ears are always open.”

“Thank you, Jean,” the man says, ushering his wife out of the office. “We’ll see you next time.”

And Jean’s sure they will, because they’ve had this exact session about five separate times. The only thing that ever changes is what woman features in Brian’s dream. Once, it was even Jean! Now that was a session. You’d think, by now, that Brian would just tell Cecelia that every dream is about her. The honest men are always the ones who can afford a little dishonesty.

This is what’s on Jean’s mind when she jaunts into the foyer and finds the most honest man she knows standing there like he’s waiting to be checked in. Grease streaks his clothes; he’s stopped by in between jobs.

“Jakob!” Her voice is taut and uncompromising.

“Jean!” His is cordial and languid. “That nice couple let me in, I hope it won’t be a problem.”

Jean shifts her weight onto one heel, stretching her free leg. “I have another session in a few minutes. You should go.”

“Such strict avoidance of an ex-partner is not healthy, you know. I’m sure they taught you that in therapy school.”

“And continuing to show up at your ex-partner’s home after they have indicated they do not wish to see you is called stalking.” Jean strides into the kitchen. His clunky footsteps follow her. “I didn’t need to go to ‘therapy school’ to learn that.”

“We didn’t have those kinds of laws in Sweden until very recently. It was viewed as an expression of fondness when I was growing up.”

“That’s a view universal to men around the world,” Jean retorts. “They can’t all be right.”

“I was let in here, remember?” Jakob points out. “I don’t believe that makes it possible to prosecute me for any crimes.”

“Well, if I see you grab a kitchen knife, I’m going to assume the worst.”

“If I touch a kitchen knife, you may arrest me.”

“Wonderful.” Jean starts the coffee pot and pulls her beloved honeycomb mug from the cabinet. Despite herself, she grabs another one and offers it to Jakob. “Coffee?”

“No thank you. I had my smoothie this morning.”

“Ah.” She should’ve known. She stands on her tip-toes to slide the rejected mug back on the shelf. When she turns around, her visitor is gone. This isn’t of particular concern to her, though it is rather strange.

She sets her mug beneath the coffee pot and lets it run. As the steamy liquid spews out, she surveys her kitchen. Following the trend of the day, curiosity gets the best of her. “Jakob?” she calls.

A familiar head pops out of the pantry. “You have not used your pan shelf.”

Jean takes her coffee and shuffles over. “No, I have not,” she confirms, mimicking his charmingly formal way of speaking.

“Is it not adequate?”

“I told you, I don’t need it.” She turns on her heel, gliding toward the table. “Now, can you get out of my pantry?”

With an amused smile on his face, Jakob slips out and shuts the door.

“How was the session?”

Jean casts a downward glance at him. “I’m not supposed to share--”

“My mistake.” Jakob sits down and settles his hands on the table, the epitome of patience. Jean feels a nagging tug in her stomach, and she can’t discern one potential cause from the other.

She sighs. Jakob’s eyes have always struck her as those belonging to a guard dog who’s sworn to protect. Their inability to deceive is a great comfort, and so different from most of the men she has known.

She presses the mug to her lips, drinking in the miracle roast that she has been meaning to cut back on. 200 milligrams per day, that’s the recommended maximum intake for expecting mothers. She’s keeping herself right at that.

It is hard to steel herself against Jakob when he looks at her with such genuine eyes, especially knowing that she can’t offer him the same.

She swallows her sip, sets the mug against the table. “Do you feel that a husband who’s having wet dreams about another woman is cheating?” She eyes Jakob like he’s one of her clients, someone she must pick apart.

Jakob eyes her in kind, deducing that this is not a trick, but an honest question. “Yes,” he responds in his frank tone. “That would be an emotional betrayal at least.”

Jean leans back in her chair. “Why do you say that?” She may as well have her notebook and pen in hand.

“Because he’s emotionally attached enough to this person to have those sorts of dreams.” It sounds completely sensible, Jean thinks, when he says it. And it makes her sound like a bitch for what she has to say, but a situation where she must leave her emotions out of the equation is exactly what she needs when it comes to him.

“Dreams occur in our subconscious, unbeknownst to our waking selves. We cannot plan them. And the physical response is involuntary. Nocturnal emissions happen without our intervention. He is neither choosing the subject of his dreams, nor is he choosing his sexual response to them. Therefore, no cheating is taking place.”

“So cheating is a choice then,” Jakob muses. The weight of this statement hangs between them. He searches Jean’s face for signs of apprehension.

She stiffens in her chair but holds firm. “Yes. It is.” She understands the implications of admitting this, and she hopes he does too. She has done him wrong, and the worst they can do is let it keep happening. Even this choice, though, does him wrong, and for that Jean is sorry.

The doorbell rings, no doubt the next sexual conundrum she must untangle. She slides her chair back, grabs her mug, and gives Jakob a look that’s almost apologetic.

He returns the look, his eyes both fire and ice. “Another pair whose relationship you will save.”

Jean breaks eye contact when she realizes he’s being serious, for that’s simply too sweet a thing for him to say. She walks him to the door, and it strikes her as all too familiar.

“Thank you for your help,” he utters when she opens the door to her clients. She sees what he’s doing and plays along.

“You’re welcome. See you next week.”

“Yes,” he says, fixated on her. “See you next week.”

[scullydubois]

here's chapter three! Jean and Maureen Facetime...Maureen doesn't understand how it works...need I say more?

Jean frowns at the computer screen--words are written there, but they fail to say anything. Her cursor blinks, the half-blank page taunting her, and she no longer understands why anyone has tried to communicate anything ever. Especially this useless bundle of words: Bringing Up Men... what kind of title is that? What is she even going for here? An all-encompassing guide to raising a son who’s not an asshole? Certainly she has no proof that she’s achieved that--there’s growing evidence to the contrary. And she can blame his father, sure, but isn’t that the point of the book? To keep history from repeating itself?...For heaven’s sake, maybe she should call it How to Raise a Son That’s Not a Steaming Sack of Shit Like Your Ex-Husband. That would have wide appeal, wouldn’t it?

She takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. Whoever came up with the concept of writing in exchange for money was a masochist. In fact, the entire lineage of literature is just one big parade of history’s greatest masochists--Shakespeare especially--and shame on her for getting involved with that.

Her phone vibrates and it makes her laugh, as it sometimes does when it catches her off-guard. A blurry selfie of her and Maureen--taken mid-drunken dance contest--pops up on the screen. Maureen’s requesting a video call.

Jean clicks accept, preening herself as it connects. The image from Maureen’s side loads black.

“Hello?” Maureen’s voice tingles with confusion. “Jean?”

Jean realizes very quickly what has happened. She giggles. “Maureen, this is a video call. You don’t have to hold it against your ear. Let me see your beautiful face!”

“Oh!” Maureen’s face moves into the camera view, though still a bit close. “There you are! Hello!”

Jean smiles. Maureen is a comforting reprieve from the clients she deals with all day. “Hello, Maureen. How are you?”

“Oh, I'm fine. I'm not interrupting your work, am I?”

“No, no, I was not having a very productive time anyway.” She carries her phone and now nearly empty coffee mug into the kitchen. Her sanity is much more reliant on it than she could have imagined. “I was doing some editing on my book, but I'll take any excuse for a break.”

“Yes, how is that getting along?”

“Oh, you know...kill your darlings and all that.”

Evidently, Maureen doesn't. She furrows her brow.

Jean’s coffee machine beeps, and she taps the button that’ll fill her cup. “It’s an expression,” she explains while the coffee pours out. “It means that the parts you as an author are most attached to are probably the most tedious for the audience. Therefore, you have to cut them from the piece, so you're killing your darlings.”

“Ah.” Relief floods Maureen’s face. “You had me frightened there!”

“No need to be worried, I’m not a murderer. Not yet, at least.” She raises the filled mug to her lips. Hot liquid sloshes over the edge and lands square on the day’s look, her teal jumpsuit.

“Shit,” she mutters, abandoning the phone and mug on the counter and pulling a napkin breezily from the holder. She pats the stain to no avail. It soaks in, warm against her skin.

“Jean…?” Maureen’s voice floats out of the phone speaker. “Did I lose you?”

Jean, if she’s being honest, has been highly distractible these days. She looks toward the voice as if expecting Maureen to be in the room with her. When she’s not, Jean tosses the napkin in the bin and hurries toward the phone, picking it up in a clumsy jolt.

“I'm sorry, Maureen. I spilled some coffee, and it’s decided that it looks very fashionable on my jumpsuit.” She pans the camera to show the splotch on her hip, which Maureen surveys with a critical eye.

“Dear, that's an easy fix. Rinse the area with cold water, then make a paste from powdered laundry detergent and vinegar and rub it on with a toothbrush.”

“Really?” Jean smirks, impressed by this knowledge she doesn’t have.

Maureen nods, her eyes bright. “Works wonders.” Finally, someone has called on her skill set.

“Mmm, good to know.” Jean takes the phone but leaves the coffee, strolling out of the kitchen. A comfortable silence passes between the two women as she climbs the stairs to her bedroom. A moment later, she opens her closet and flips the camera so that Maureen sees it too.

“Which one?” She pulls a yellow ankle-length dress away from the rack, then does the same with a fuchsia jumpsuit.

“Oh, those are both lovely,” Maureen gushes. “But I have to say, yellow is such a fitting color for you.”

“You think?” Jean takes the hanger, drapes the dress over herself. She angles the camera and checks herself in its image. Yes, Maureen’s right... yellow lights her up.

“Yellow it is then.” She leans her phone against the bedside lamp and strains to reach the zipper on her back. She kicks off her sandals during her struggle, and Maureen can’t help but chuckle at the scene. Her friend always seems so put together; backstage glances like this are a joy.

Getting a grip on the zipper at last, Jean lets the jumpsuit’s velvet slide off her shoulders. Her black bra stands out against her bare skin, and Maureen is startled...she had expected her friend to step out of the camera’s view. She’s reminded of the girls locker room after gym class and feeling like she was intruding just for being present. She thought she left that behind a long time ago, but no, there it is in the pit of her stomach.

She averts her eyes as Jean steps out of the jumpsuit and lays it over the bedspread. She doesn’t watch herself undress, how could she do that to Jean?

Maureen looks up as the yellow cotton flutters over her friend’s figure, settling over her in hazy glory. The black undergarments dilute the dress’ brightness just a tad, adding an edge that is oh so Jean Milburn. Maureen is dazzled by anyone who has a strong sense of self; she’s been floundering as long as she can remember.

Jean picks up the phone and steps back into her shoes. “What did you want to ask me?” She says it with such casual steadiness that Maureen realizes Jean knows she could see her and doesn’t care.

“Um…” Maureen tries to summon thoughts back into her brain. “Well, there were a few things.”

Phone in hand, Jean bounds back downstairs.

“First, I wanted to thank you for the, uh, gift,” Maureen continues.

“The vibrator, yes,” Jean says, picking up her coffee and heading toward her office nook.

“Uh-huh,” Maureen stammers. “It has been very helpful.”

“I’m glad.” Jean settles back at her desk, takes a sip of her coffee.

“But, also, I wanted to mention that Mr. Groff--uh, Michael--and I discussed our living arrangements, and he will be moving out when he gets back from a brief trip to Scotland. Have you heard, I was wondering, of any vacant lodgings nearby?”

“Hmm…” Jean taps her nails against the desk. “A flat in the village perhaps? I’m not aware of anything else, but I do have an extra bedroom if he needs a temporary roof over his head.”

“Really?...You would take him?”

“As long as I don’t have to mother him!” Jean effuses, fully serious though she and Maureen both laugh.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, he’s probably too proud to let you mother him.”

“Yes, yes, I know. He doesn’t like me very much, that’s no secret.”

“But he likes a bed to sleep in and a warm shower more than he could possibly dislike you,” Maureen responds. “If he can’t find anyplace else, I’ll give him your offer.”

“Sounds like a deal.” Jean smiles into the camera. She doesn’t have many girlfriends--it’s an unintended consequence of her job--and Maureen’s entrance into her life is valued more than her friend could possibly know.

“Oh, one more thing!” Maureen pipes up. “I was wondering if you’d like to go dancing again. I felt so free-spirited. I’m never like that!”

Jean’s heart drops. “That's a lovely offer, Maureen, really, but I'm trying to limit my alcohol consumption at the moment, and I don’t know that the Macarena would be so enjoyable sober.”

Just like that, Maureen’s confidence is shot. She tries not to be pitiful about her only friend rejecting her offer, but her sadness shows. “Oh. I see.”

Jean frowns. She kicks into over-explanation mode, as if that will compensate for the secret she’s keeping. “I've recently found that alcohol is not the most, ehrm, beneficial to my well-being. I’m sorry.”

“No, I understand. I’m not much of a drinker myself.”

Jean bites her lip. There’s a sensible way out of this, but she’s not ready for it yet. “I should get back to my book, but if you'd like to do something else, do let me know!” Maureen nods, a bit caught off guard by the abrupt ending. “Yes, yes, I will.”

Jean musters a smile into her phone's camera. “Goodbye, Maureen.”

Maureen waves. “Goodbye.”

Jean ends the call, then throws her phone against the desk. Nothing about this situation is fair to anyone involved, but she needs to sort out her own feelings about it before she lets others have their say.

She stares at her laptop's background, a photo of her and a younger Otis, and it stares menacingly back at her.

that terror that keeps me brave: a sex education fic

hi, hello, now that I am riding high off the excitement of season three, i am finally gonna start publishing the sex education fic that I began writing in uhh...february! it primarily follows jean, maureen, and jakob as they deal with the ramifications of the season two finale. again, i started this months ago so it is not influenced by season three, and you can read it without watching that. it will focus on jean's pregnancy and maureen exploring her sexuality in the wake of her separation.

chapter one is under the cut! 1.5k, rated T. read it on ao3 here.

I:

Jean taps her pen absentmindedly against her soft leather notebook, misery on the faces of the couple in front of her. It’s a classic story: the once-adoring wife who has seen the dream crumble in front of her and her unshaven husband. Jean’s eyes train on him as he squirms in his seat.

“So, to clarify, you experienced a nocturnal emission from a dream about your co-worker, and then when Cecelia asked what the dream was about, you told her the truth.”

The man nods. Jean shifts her focus to the woman.

“And now, Cecelia, you are mad at him because you believe that he cheated on you.”

“Yes,” the wife squeaks. “He got off on another woman! Am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Jean pulls her lips into a poorly drawn line. “But you don’t have any other evidence of his cheating, correct? You’re using this dream as the sole reason for your accusation?”

“The dream is the cheating, there doesn’t need to be nothing more.”

Jean glances at the woman over her glasses. “Let’s ask Brian, shall we?” She crosses her legs, turning her attention warmly toward the poor man. “Have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse or anything of the sort with this woman while you were awake?”

“No.” He shakes his head violently. “Never.”

“Would you ever do so?”

“No...Addison--that’s her name--is fine-looking, but I’m married and I love my wife. I would never do such a thing.”

Jean has seen her fair share of men who are bullshitting. Brian is not one. She closes her notebook. “See, Cecelia? You are the one he wants. Nocturnal emissions are involuntary physical responses to subconscious stimuli. Addison is Brian’s co-worker, which means he probably sees her quite often. This makes it more likely for her to turn up in his dreams. It’s neither an affront to you, nor a compliment to her.”

Cecelia pouts. “I just don’t feel right about it.”

Jean rests her glasses on the crown of her head. “This could easily have been you who had the dream about your co-worker, and what then? How would you feel if Brian were accusing you of something you couldn’t control?”

“I never have those nasty dreams,” Cecelia counters, scoffing. “Not even about my own husband.”

Jean can’t help but fight back a smirk. “Well, Cecelia, that may be an issue for another session.”

“Like hell it will be! I’m giving you money to tell me it’s okay for my husband to make love to another woman! What do I look like, a fool?”

Jean folds her hands over her lap. Nothing she hasn’t heard before.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Cecelia, but I’m glad you and Brian could come in and have this conversation today.” She exchanges a sympathetic look with Brian. “My ears are always open.”

“Thank you, Jean,” the man says, ushering his wife out of the office. “We’ll see you next time.”

And Jean’s sure they will, because they’ve had this exact session about five separate times. The only thing that ever changes is what woman features in Brian’s dream. Once, it was even Jean! Now that was a session. You’d think, by now, that Brian would just tell Cecelia that every dream is about her. The honest men are always the ones who can afford a little dishonesty.

This is what’s on Jean’s mind when she jaunts into the foyer and finds the most honest man she knows standing there like he’s waiting to be checked in. Grease streaks his clothes; he’s stopped by in between jobs.

“Jakob!” Her voice is taut and uncompromising.

“Jean!” His is cordial and languid. “That nice couple let me in, I hope it won’t be a problem.”

Jean shifts her weight onto one heel, stretching her free leg. “I have another session in a few minutes. You should go.”

“Such strict avoidance of an ex-partner is not healthy, you know. I’m sure they taught you that in therapy school.”

“And continuing to show up at your ex-partner’s home after they have indicated they do not wish to see you is called stalking.” Jean strides into the kitchen. His clunky footsteps follow her. “I didn’t need to go to ‘therapy school’ to learn that.”

“We didn’t have those kinds of laws in Sweden until very recently. It was viewed as an expression of fondness when I was growing up.”

“That’s a view universal to men around the world,” Jean retorts. “They can’t all be right.”

“I was let in here, remember?” Jakob points out. “I don’t believe that makes it possible to prosecute me for any crimes.”

“Well, if I see you grab a kitchen knife, I’m going to assume the worst.”

“If I touch a kitchen knife, you may arrest me.”

“Wonderful.” Jean starts the coffee pot and pulls her beloved honeycomb mug from the cabinet. Despite herself, she grabs another one and offers it to Jakob. “Coffee?”

“No thank you. I had my smoothie this morning.”

“Ah.” She should’ve known. She stands on her tip-toes to slide the rejected mug back on the shelf. When she turns around, her visitor is gone. This isn’t of particular concern to her, though it is rather strange.

She sets her mug beneath the coffee pot and lets it run. As the steamy liquid spews out, she surveys her kitchen. Following the trend of the day, curiosity gets the best of her. “Jakob?” she calls.

A familiar head pops out of the pantry. “You have not used your pan shelf.”

Jean takes her coffee and shuffles over. “No, I have not,” she confirms, mimicking his charmingly formal way of speaking.

“Is it not adequate?”

“I told you, I don’t need it.” She turns on her heel, gliding toward the table. “Now, can you get out of my pantry?”

With an amused smile on his face, Jakob slips out and shuts the door.

“How was the session?”

Jean casts a downward glance at him. “I’m not supposed to share--”

“My mistake.” Jakob sits down and settles his hands on the table, the epitome of patience. Jean feels a nagging tug in her stomach, and she can’t discern one potential cause from the other.

She sighs. Jakob’s eyes have always struck her as those belonging to a guard dog who’s sworn to protect. Their inability to deceive is a great comfort, and so different from most of the men she has known.

She presses the mug to her lips, drinking in the miracle roast that she has been meaning to cut back on. 200 milligrams per day, that’s the recommended maximum intake for expecting mothers. She’s keeping herself right at that.

It is hard to steel herself against Jakob when he looks at her with such genuine eyes, especially knowing that she can’t offer him the same.

She swallows her sip, sets the mug against the table. “Do you feel that a husband who’s having wet dreams about another woman is cheating?” She eyes Jakob like he’s one of her clients, someone she must pick apart.

Jakob eyes her in kind, deducing that this is not a trick, but an honest question. “Yes,” he responds in his frank tone. “That would be an emotional betrayal at least.”

Jean leans back in her chair. “Why do you say that?” She may as well have her notebook and pen in hand.

“Because he’s emotionally attached enough to this person to have those sorts of dreams.” It sounds completely sensible, Jean thinks, when he says it. And it makes her sound like a bitch for what she has to say, but a situation where she must leave her emotions out of the equation is exactly what she needs when it comes to him.

“Dreams occur in our subconscious, unbeknownst to our waking selves. We cannot plan them. And the physical response is involuntary. Nocturnal emissions happen without our intervention. He is neither choosing the subject of his dreams, nor is he choosing his sexual response to them. Therefore, no cheating is taking place.”

“So cheating is a choice then,” Jakob muses. The weight of this statement hangs between them. He searches Jean’s face for signs of apprehension.

She stiffens in her chair but holds firm. “Yes. It is.” She understands the implications of admitting this, and she hopes he does too. She has done him wrong, and the worst they can do is let it keep happening. Even this choice, though, does him wrong, and for that Jean is sorry.

The doorbell rings, no doubt the next sexual conundrum she must untangle. She slides her chair back, grabs her mug, and gives Jakob a look that’s almost apologetic.

He returns the look, his eyes both fire and ice. “Another pair whose relationship you will save.”

Jean breaks eye contact when she realizes he’s being serious, for that’s simply too sweet a thing for him to say. She walks him to the door, and it strikes her as all too familiar.

“Thank you for your help,” he utters when she opens the door to her clients. She sees what he’s doing and plays along.

“You’re welcome. See you next week.”

“Yes,” he says, fixated on her. “See you next week.”

[scullydubois]

i am once again posting another chapter that no one asked for--chapter 4 is here! Jean & Maureen decide to spy on Mr. Groff and Adam, dragging Otis along...

that terror that keeps me brave: a sex education fic

hi, hello, now that I am riding high off the excitement of season three, i am finally gonna start publishing the sex education fic that I began writing in uhh...february! it primarily follows jean, maureen, and jakob as they deal with the ramifications of the season two finale. again, i started this months ago so it is not influenced by season three, and you can read it without watching that. it will focus on jean's pregnancy and maureen exploring her sexuality in the wake of her separation.

chapter one is under the cut! 1.5k, rated T. read it on ao3 here.

I:

Jean taps her pen absentmindedly against her soft leather notebook, misery on the faces of the couple in front of her. It’s a classic story: the once-adoring wife who has seen the dream crumble in front of her and her unshaven husband. Jean’s eyes train on him as he squirms in his seat.

“So, to clarify, you experienced a nocturnal emission from a dream about your co-worker, and then when Cecelia asked what the dream was about, you told her the truth.”

The man nods. Jean shifts her focus to the woman.

“And now, Cecelia, you are mad at him because you believe that he cheated on you.”

“Yes,” the wife squeaks. “He got off on another woman! Am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Jean pulls her lips into a poorly drawn line. “But you don’t have any other evidence of his cheating, correct? You’re using this dream as the sole reason for your accusation?”

“The dream is the cheating, there doesn’t need to be nothing more.”

Jean glances at the woman over her glasses. “Let’s ask Brian, shall we?” She crosses her legs, turning her attention warmly toward the poor man. “Have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse or anything of the sort with this woman while you were awake?”

“No.” He shakes his head violently. “Never.”

“Would you ever do so?”

“No...Addison--that’s her name--is fine-looking, but I’m married and I love my wife. I would never do such a thing.”

Jean has seen her fair share of men who are bullshitting. Brian is not one. She closes her notebook. “See, Cecelia? You are the one he wants. Nocturnal emissions are involuntary physical responses to subconscious stimuli. Addison is Brian’s co-worker, which means he probably sees her quite often. This makes it more likely for her to turn up in his dreams. It’s neither an affront to you, nor a compliment to her.”

Cecelia pouts. “I just don’t feel right about it.”

Jean rests her glasses on the crown of her head. “This could easily have been you who had the dream about your co-worker, and what then? How would you feel if Brian were accusing you of something you couldn’t control?”

“I never have those nasty dreams,” Cecelia counters, scoffing. “Not even about my own husband.”

Jean can’t help but fight back a smirk. “Well, Cecelia, that may be an issue for another session.”

“Like hell it will be! I’m giving you money to tell me it’s okay for my husband to make love to another woman! What do I look like, a fool?”

Jean folds her hands over her lap. Nothing she hasn’t heard before.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Cecelia, but I’m glad you and Brian could come in and have this conversation today.” She exchanges a sympathetic look with Brian. “My ears are always open.”

“Thank you, Jean,” the man says, ushering his wife out of the office. “We’ll see you next time.”

And Jean’s sure they will, because they’ve had this exact session about five separate times. The only thing that ever changes is what woman features in Brian’s dream. Once, it was even Jean! Now that was a session. You’d think, by now, that Brian would just tell Cecelia that every dream is about her. The honest men are always the ones who can afford a little dishonesty.

This is what’s on Jean’s mind when she jaunts into the foyer and finds the most honest man she knows standing there like he’s waiting to be checked in. Grease streaks his clothes; he’s stopped by in between jobs.

“Jakob!” Her voice is taut and uncompromising.

“Jean!” His is cordial and languid. “That nice couple let me in, I hope it won’t be a problem.”

Jean shifts her weight onto one heel, stretching her free leg. “I have another session in a few minutes. You should go.”

“Such strict avoidance of an ex-partner is not healthy, you know. I’m sure they taught you that in therapy school.”

“And continuing to show up at your ex-partner’s home after they have indicated they do not wish to see you is called stalking.” Jean strides into the kitchen. His clunky footsteps follow her. “I didn’t need to go to ‘therapy school’ to learn that.”

“We didn’t have those kinds of laws in Sweden until very recently. It was viewed as an expression of fondness when I was growing up.”

“That’s a view universal to men around the world,” Jean retorts. “They can’t all be right.”

“I was let in here, remember?” Jakob points out. “I don’t believe that makes it possible to prosecute me for any crimes.”

“Well, if I see you grab a kitchen knife, I’m going to assume the worst.”

“If I touch a kitchen knife, you may arrest me.”

“Wonderful.” Jean starts the coffee pot and pulls her beloved honeycomb mug from the cabinet. Despite herself, she grabs another one and offers it to Jakob. “Coffee?”

“No thank you. I had my smoothie this morning.”

“Ah.” She should’ve known. She stands on her tip-toes to slide the rejected mug back on the shelf. When she turns around, her visitor is gone. This isn’t of particular concern to her, though it is rather strange.

She sets her mug beneath the coffee pot and lets it run. As the steamy liquid spews out, she surveys her kitchen. Following the trend of the day, curiosity gets the best of her. “Jakob?” she calls.

A familiar head pops out of the pantry. “You have not used your pan shelf.”

Jean takes her coffee and shuffles over. “No, I have not,” she confirms, mimicking his charmingly formal way of speaking.

“Is it not adequate?”

“I told you, I don’t need it.” She turns on her heel, gliding toward the table. “Now, can you get out of my pantry?”

With an amused smile on his face, Jakob slips out and shuts the door.

“How was the session?”

Jean casts a downward glance at him. “I’m not supposed to share--”

“My mistake.” Jakob sits down and settles his hands on the table, the epitome of patience. Jean feels a nagging tug in her stomach, and she can’t discern one potential cause from the other.

She sighs. Jakob’s eyes have always struck her as those belonging to a guard dog who’s sworn to protect. Their inability to deceive is a great comfort, and so different from most of the men she has known.

She presses the mug to her lips, drinking in the miracle roast that she has been meaning to cut back on. 200 milligrams per day, that’s the recommended maximum intake for expecting mothers. She’s keeping herself right at that.

It is hard to steel herself against Jakob when he looks at her with such genuine eyes, especially knowing that she can’t offer him the same.

She swallows her sip, sets the mug against the table. “Do you feel that a husband who’s having wet dreams about another woman is cheating?” She eyes Jakob like he’s one of her clients, someone she must pick apart.

Jakob eyes her in kind, deducing that this is not a trick, but an honest question. “Yes,” he responds in his frank tone. “That would be an emotional betrayal at least.”

Jean leans back in her chair. “Why do you say that?” She may as well have her notebook and pen in hand.

“Because he’s emotionally attached enough to this person to have those sorts of dreams.” It sounds completely sensible, Jean thinks, when he says it. And it makes her sound like a bitch for what she has to say, but a situation where she must leave her emotions out of the equation is exactly what she needs when it comes to him.

“Dreams occur in our subconscious, unbeknownst to our waking selves. We cannot plan them. And the physical response is involuntary. Nocturnal emissions happen without our intervention. He is neither choosing the subject of his dreams, nor is he choosing his sexual response to them. Therefore, no cheating is taking place.”

“So cheating is a choice then,” Jakob muses. The weight of this statement hangs between them. He searches Jean’s face for signs of apprehension.

She stiffens in her chair but holds firm. “Yes. It is.” She understands the implications of admitting this, and she hopes he does too. She has done him wrong, and the worst they can do is let it keep happening. Even this choice, though, does him wrong, and for that Jean is sorry.

The doorbell rings, no doubt the next sexual conundrum she must untangle. She slides her chair back, grabs her mug, and gives Jakob a look that’s almost apologetic.

He returns the look, his eyes both fire and ice. “Another pair whose relationship you will save.”

Jean breaks eye contact when she realizes he’s being serious, for that’s simply too sweet a thing for him to say. She walks him to the door, and it strikes her as all too familiar.

“Thank you for your help,” he utters when she opens the door to her clients. She sees what he’s doing and plays along.

“You’re welcome. See you next week.”

“Yes,” he says, fixated on her. “See you next week.”