Chapter Text
April 21, ‘52: 19:58
Kim watched Jean shuffle a pack of cards, yawning into the crook of his elbow. It was not particularly late, but the day had been long—and he had spent most of it worrying. Jean hadn’t got a lot of sleep last night, he’d mentioned to Kim, and it showed.
Still. There was something about him today that seemed… Calmed. Kim couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe Harry would have known. At least, he would have felt comfortable asking about it.
As it was, Kim sat at Harry’s kitchen table, waiting for Jean to deal another round of their waiting game. He watched Jean’s hands struggle with the cards, trying the shuffling trick that Kim had done the last deal.
Sometimes he liked to show off. That was true. He even kind of liked watching Jean fumble.
A tension still hung between the two of them as they sat and played their third game, keeping each other company as they took turns checking on Harry upstairs. Neither had apologized yet for what had happened yesterday morning. It was not a position that Kim enjoyed to be in, but neither was he the type to offer an apology that he did not believe in. And he knew that what he had said was true.
Regret scaled off of them both in other ways. Concern, competition, companionship. Kim had won all three games, but knew that Jean would have taken offense if he’d started to go easy.
“How have the juniors been taking to their case?” Jean asked, dealing the next hand.
Kim waited until all seven of his cards were laid on the scratched wood. Like most of Harry’s furniture, ten years ago, this must have been a handsome table. Like most of Harry’s furniture, lack of care had worn it down to humble dinginess.
“Well. They’re very smart. We’ve only needed to accompany them when required.”
“That’s good to hear. I know you and Jude have a lot on your shoulders right now, on top of supervising this. Don’t push yourself, I can help if you need.”
Kim watched as Jean frowned into his hand. He and Harry were so similar, in so many ways. Kim could practically read his cards in the reflection of his disappointment.
“You shouldn’t push yourself, either. We all know we all have too many cases, and Harry’s out. Three is too many for just one person—”
“Five. We gave ourselves five.”
“Jean…”
“I know. We didn’t want to ask too much from the younger officers, though. Some of them have families. It’s already hard enough. Besides, We’re already—”
“You’re already exhausted to the point of breaking?” Kim raised an eyebrow, pointedly nodding up the stairs. ”I insist that you accept, if not help, then the reality of the situation.”
Jean scoffed out a laugh. “I was going to say, we’re already broken.”
It wasn’t funny. The attempt hung solidly in the air, Kim refusing to give it the benefit of a strained smile. He had had enough of indulging in the destruction of those around him.
Thankfully, Jean picked up the hint. He sighed. “Yeah. You’re right. We can’t both lose our heads. I’ll push some of the low priority stuff off to next week while Harry heals.”
“Or you could ask for help from the other officers.”
Jean paused, like it pained him to consider the idea of burdening another. “Or… The other officers.”
Kim laughed—softly, for a bit, before recognizing the smile tugging at Jean’s perpetual frown. Then he smiled a little more.
Jean had a funny way of apologizing, he was beginning to realize. He had heard too many I’m sorrys for the words to have meaning to him anymore. He showed it with scowls, tough love, furtively thoughtful actions.
Forgiveness, too, could be uttered by doing. And understanding. It was why everyone had thought that Jean and Harry hated each other—Harry himself did, in those first months. But Jean had an odd way of communicating, and Harry an odd way of getting it.
“Are you going to stay?” Jean offered, laying down a frankly dismal match. “If not, I can. I’ll sleep on the couch. Done it enough times before.”
“Hm.” Kim chose his words carefully, glad for the cards in his hand—he pretended to think about anything but his near-desperate need to stay. “I’ll stay. We’ll see how he’s doing when he wakes up.”
He hoped he had said it as neutrally as possible. Jean made a small noise, something between a bemused laugh and a thoughtful hum.
Kim made his play, laying down a match that gave him more points than Jean had earned the entire game.
Jean scowled, rubbing his face. “You were here last night, right?” he asked, drawing and re-sorting the cards in his hand from highest to lowest like he always did. This is what made it easy to play against him—maybe one day, Kim would let him know.
“Yes. We, ah… Had an argument. He asked me to leave.”
“He asked you to leave?”
Jean’s incredulity made the resulting silence awkward.
“I said something I shouldn’t have in the moment. He, ah… Took it poorly.” Kim’s tone had made it impossible for Jean to ask what it was that he had said. He was surprised when Jean took that as an opportunity to ask instead the question he had been hanging onto for hours.
“Do you think he’s…” Jean trailed off, hoping Kim would understand. He did.
“I think he’s sober. But we won’t know for sure until he’s up, I think. But I think… I hope…”
They both hoped.
“Do you think he’ll remember?”
The question knocked the wind out of Kim in a short, sharp exhale.
What if he didn’t remember? What if he woke up a new person again? Would they teach him everything all over, introduce each other, fill in the gaps? Would Kim hold on to the tremble in his own hand until, if it happened, Harry’s eyes wandered once more his way? Would he lay against Kim once more and breathe—
Have we done this before?
It hadn’t occurred to him to be worried about it. Jean would have thought about it, though—of course he would have. The sudden nothingness, the vacancy in his eyes. He’d gone through it already.
“He’ll probably remember,” Jean reassured. Kim looked away, ashamed that his fear had crossed to his face. He felt Jean watch him, felt his split second of planning—
“I mean,” Jean continued, before Kim could act. “Out of anyone that would happen to, it would be that fucking asshole. Get out of paperwork… Never need to apologize, nothing.“ Jean grimaced, playing his abysmal last hand.
Kim thought about Jean’s words, then the feeling behind the words. He wasn’t joking, not really. He knew that Kim was not one to talk about the worry that had set against his lips, and he was happy to distract them both from the subject by taking the brunt of an emotional embarrassment. Too brusque. Too harsh. It was his way of saying— Whatever’s going on in there, I’ll let you feel in your own way.
“Yes, but it would be a little too convenient, even for him.” Kim offered Jean a small smile in thanks, playing his own last hand. He tallied up the score.
“It’s me, again. By about, ah… Forty seven points.”
Jean scowled, tossing his cards down and getting up from the table. “I’m done. Remind me to never play poker with you, Kitsuragi. I’m in enough debt as it is.”
Kim scoffed a laugh in response, gathering the cards and shuffling them back into their case. Jean moved around the kitchen, then the living room. He opened cabinets, looked under the sink. Obviously looking for signs of drugs, alcohol—anything.
“I already checked when I got here,” Kim said. “I couldn’t find anything in the usual places.”
Jean frowned, a thought overheating in his brain. Then—
“I trust you. I’m just trying to keep my hands busy.”
Kim nodded, letting Jean continue his search. Less than making him feel untrusted, it made Kim feel strangely exposed. He thought of the way Harry could, sometimes, stare at an empty space and see the whisps of an event that had already passed. Two bodies, pressed against this counter, here. There—the smaller one presses the larger one up against the wall. One and a half metres away, they switch positions.
“Kitsuragi?”
He had been staring at the space of wall between the refrigerator and the staircase. Jean had been saying something to him.
“Hm?”
“I asked you if you wanted any coffee.”
Kim stifled a yawn at the mere mention of the word.
“Ah. No, thank you.”
He rubbed the heat out of the back of his neck. He was tired of thinking about it. He was tired of pretending not to think about it.
“Actually—yes, please. What the hell, right?”
Jean smiled, apparently happy with his lapse of structure. “Yeah. What the hell. It won’t kill you.”
A groan escaped from the bedroom. Kim was on his feet in a second—both he and Jean looked to each other, then to the stairs.
Harry lumbered down to the kitchen in his underwear, leaning against the right side of the stairwell to sturdy himself. He stopped at the last stair, watching both Jean and Kim with interest, curiosity, a little hesitance—
“‘M not drunk,” he mumbled, softly.
“But you’re bleeding,” Jean grumbled, breaking the silence to take the few steps to Harry. He looped a hand around his good side, and Harry let him walk him to the kitchen table. “You didn’t take care of this at all last night, it looks horrible.”
“Speak for yourself,” Harry said, sitting down at the chair Kim had just stood from with a loud grunt. Kim watched them from the edge of the kitchen, standing blankly on the tile, unsure of where he might fit in the scene.
Harry and Jean moved about each other with the grace of familiarity—there was nothing that complicated their easy physicality. Jean pulled the bandage off of Harry’s shoulder, catching the hair around the adhesive. When Harry made a loud noise of protest, the way Jean scowled and said settle down seemed like the most gentle thing in the world. He pulled the rest of the bandage off in one clean, sweeping motion.
“You’re gunning for an infection, aren’t you, you shitting idiot? That is the only explanation I have for this. This is covered in… Blanket fluff.”
Harry grumbled something under his breath, earning him a scowl from Jean. The coffee machine gurgled—Jean left Harry to tend to it.
“I was busy,” Harry replied, reaching around his shoulder to scratch the sutures.
“Busy? You slept for almost twenty four hours.”
“Yeah. Busy. Prophetic dreams. Someone’s gotta have them, else the future will never come to light.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m serious, Jean. Everything was revealed to me last night. Myself, the future, all that will pass, you don’t even know—”
“—Don’t even know the shitstorm that will befall us. Heard this one before.”
“—Bodies in the water, far as the eye can see. The final war.”
“Yep. Three sugars?”
“Yeah.”
Jean took the mugs from the counter to the tabletop, setting one down for Harry, one for himself. He motioned with the last mug in his hand—
“Don’t be a stranger, Kitsuragi. Sit.”
Kim sat, accepting the warm mug. He felt like a ghost in the conversation. It had been easy, comparatively, to sit at this table with just Jean. It had been easy to sit here with Harry. Now—He didn’t know how he was supposed to act. He pretended for a moment that it was due to last night’s argument, before settling himself into the truth.
This is how it will always be if I continue this. There will always be a secret to keep from the rest. It will affect my work. It will affect my career. I will never be comfortable with this.
Then, easing himself further in—
I still want it.
Jean drank his coffee awfully quickly—his face screwed up in a mixture of pain and pleasure, making loud slurping noises. Kim tried a sip of his own—it was still scalding hot. Jean and Harry made eye contact in a way that Kim could not hope to follow.
“I met with Pryce today about the case,” Jean said, finally. “He’s pleased with the result. We found the money under the, uh. Those beach-coloured tractors you were talking about.” He said the words beach-coloured like it was a grace to Harry—there was nothing beach-like about two rusted vehicles atop each other to him.
Harry said nothing for a long, guilty moment. “Hm,” he considered, finally.
“Made good headway on the other case, too, the one with the Graadian laundromat. Lucinda helped me with it this afternoon. She’s smart.”
“Yeah.”
Kim wished they were playing cards again. At least then he would have something to do with his eyes, something to keep his mind on. As it was, he watched Harry and Jean drink their coffee, holding the heat of his own mug against his hands. Jean briefed Harry about the day that he missed to little interest. Jean drank his coffee like it was a mistake.
“Do you want me to stay?” Jean asked Harry suddenly, tipping the last of his coffee from the mug into his mouth. He had no subtlety, and with Harry, no need. Something about this sudden question sent Kim into painful self-awareness of the room—was something obvious, where it should be hidden?
“No,” Harry shook his head. “Get some sleep. I’ll be in tomorrow.”
Jean nodded, leaving his mug on the table as he collected his jacket.
“Good thing, too. I can’t keep up with this shit alone.”
“Hm.”
Jean looked to Kim, who met his stare with a blank expression. He tried to listen to whatever it was Jean and Harry were avoiding talking about.
Kim took a sip of his coffee as it cooled. It was delicious. A promise he had allowed himself to break. He felt the indulgence more strongly than he did the bitterness or caffeine. Some part of the back of his mind thought—
Is it strange that I am not leaving too? Isn’t it suspicious to him? What must he think?
Another part of him did not care. It easily overpowered his worry. Instead, he focused on not looking guilty.
“Alright. I’m gonna head out, then.” He reached into the pockets of his jacket, tossing a pack of cigarettes to Harry. “Oh, these are for you.”
Harry caught them in a clean, swift motion with his good hand, immediately using his teeth to rip the foil off the pack and sticking a cigarette between his lips.
“Thanks, Vic,” He said, puffing a first, then a second, cloud of smoke.
“Good night, Jean,” Kim offered.
The screen door swung shut behind Jean with a clatter. He had left the main door open—the cool spring air held something heady and floral as it breezed into the now-silent kitchen, mingling pleasantly with the smell of coffee.
“Lilacs,” Harry remarked.
Kim nodded in thought. He closed his eyes as he took another breath in.
“You were right. They do smell good.”
“Yeah. Really good.”
There was silence. Waiting.
An opening. Take it.
Kim reached under the table, grabbing the first aid kit that he had brought with him from the carriage. Kim tried to understand the meaning in Harry’s eyes as he met them, the way that Harry seemed to always be able to do for him. It was difficult, but he understood the surface of the conversation.
May I? Kim asked with an eyebrow. Harry’s green eyes mapped his face, the emotion of last night melding with this morning melding with the night before melding with this past year, until—
… Yeah.
Kim pulled himself from the chair, standing behind Harry. He unzipped the first aid kit, setting it down on the table. He looked at Harry’s shoulder—hesitated for a moment, his hands hovering in the air, feeling the radiating heat of Harry’s skin.
The pads of his fingers settled on the curve of Harry’s shoulder. Harry leaned into them easily, pressing the rest of Kim’s hand against him—Kim fought the heat creeping up his neck, the feeling that he was doing something wrong.
I am just tending to his wounds. Nothing more. It is expected.
Kim frowned in focus. He rustled into the kit, producing a roll of clean gauze and a bottle of disinfectant. “This might sting,” he warned, his voice more gentle than he’d meant it to be. He tilted Harry’s body forward, just a bit —so pliant— and poured a small amount of the liquid against the twisted lines that held Harry’s skin together.
Harry hissed in pain; Kim kept a hand pressed against him, comforting, keeping him in place.
“I didn’t know he’d stabbed you twice,'' He remarked, pressing the gauze to the wounds to wipe them dry.
“Did he really?” Harry hissed, drinking the coffee that had been left to cool while Kim worked. His tone was unfathomable, a something there that laid beyond the bounds of meaning. Almost like he was impressed. Like he was uninterested, or preoccupied, or a million miles away.
Focus on the task at hand.
Disinfect. Check for torn sutures—none. Ensure that the entire area is clean and clear. Ointment. Bandage.
They breathed together as Kim worked, the rough surface of Harry’s broad shoulders warm and alive, swelling against his fingers with each inhale. One. Two. Three.
The air filled with something stronger than the scent of lilacs. Words unsaid—meaning unheard.
Harry was the one to break the heaviness of the silence.
“I’m always going to be this way,” Harry said. His voice came from his chest—low, deep, gravelly from smoke.
Kim understood what he meant. “Pardon?” he asked, all the same.
“It doesn’t matter what I’m doing. I’ll always have this… Fire in my brain.” He waved his good arm in a loose circle around his temple, almost knocking the bottle of disinfectant from the table.
Kim ran his fingers across the edge of the bandage, ensuring a good seal as he considered Harry’s words. The fire in his brain was the problem, yes. But it was also the spark. It could not just be removed.
“I know.”
Harry shook his head, plowing forward. It was less a prepared speech than an uninterruptible stream of consciousness.
“So, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter where I am. Or if I can or can’t do it. It wouldn’t matter if I was working in some office somewhere. Fuck, that would probably be worse. You know how bad I am with paperwork.”
“I hadn’t meant—” Kim frowned, pressing the pads of his fingers into the bandage’s edges again. It was secure, but he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.
“I know what you meant.”
Harry twisted his entire body around, facing him. Kim pulled his arms back in alarm, leaning back, suddenly finding himself staring down into Harry’s face. He couldn’t quite understand his expression—he stared at Kim for untold seconds. His hands on his knees. Kim clasped his hands behind his back, settling for a distance.
“Well?” Kim breathed, impatient for a resolution. Was Harry expecting an apology? A fight? “What now?”
A cloud of thought passed over Harry’s eyes. Almost automatically, he reached up to rest a hand on Kim’s hip. Immediately, Kim tensed. The touch was unexpected, but not unwanted; it was the want that was causing the tension. He did nothing to stop it.
“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, gently. “I don’t know what’s supposed to happen now. But I think you might be right.”
“I spoke carelessly, Harry. I’m not saying you should quit, I just—”
“Wouldn’t it be nice, though? To not have to worry about me all of the time? To not have to come into work every day and deal with all of my shit? My reputation?”
“Are you asking if it would be nice for me, or nice for you?”
Harry rubbed worried rings into the side of his shirt. He leaned into the touch against his own volition. His hand was warm, welcome.
“For everyone. For you.”
Kim frowned. Harry frowned, too—rethought his argument.
“Okay, For me, too. I’m not doing too good, uh, up here. Things have been getting worse, you know. My, uh. My memory gets worse, when I’m in the building. Like I don’t want to remember it.”
Kim frowned. He had noticed it yesterday morning, but to know that it had been something Harry had been experiencing for some time now…
“I didn’t know that. That is worrisome.”
“And I don’t want to worry you.”
Kim’s hands could no longer stay clasped behind his back, away from the situation. He rested an arm against Harry’s, holding him steady at the elbow. Breath caused them both to sway together, reeds in the wind.
“I can’t be responsible for a decision like this. I will not be made the reason for it. I spoke out of turn last night.” He spoke softly, but with authority.
Harry nodded, too eagerly. “Whatever happens. It’ll be because I want it. I can prove it to you.”
“I don’t need you to prove it to me. I—I don’t want you to do anything for me .”
“I’ll prove it to me, then,” Harry replied, undeterred.
Maybe later, another day, his naive persistence would grate on Kim. Maybe soon he would find the immediacy of his devotion troubling. Maybe time would pass, and he would begin to understand what part Harry had to play in his fiancé leaving him.
Or maybe not. Maybe Harry really was a different man.
“You’re—okay, with this?” Kim asked, turning the conversation onto its opposite face. He spoke of the hand on his hip, the look in his eyes, the heaviness in his chest. The scene of lilacs in the air. “If we… If we do this, it will be a secret. No one can know.”
“I—” Harry thought better of whatever he was about to say. He winced slightly as he lifted his bad arm to take Kim’s other hand in his own. He held it for a moment, his rough thumb tracing over Kim’s knuckles. Then, he brought Kim’s hand to his own face—Kim let him settle it on his cheek, his fingers curling against the curvature of his jaw.
“I like you, Kim. I like spending time with you. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but you… You make me feel better. You make me feel really, really good.” The smile he offered up to Kim was loose and easy, even if his eyes were uncertain. “Are… Are you okay with it?”
“It will be difficult. It could jeopardize our careers. My career. I know you don’t act like it, but technically I am your subordinate officer.”
“No one really cares about that. McCoy’s slept with every woman in the precinct he possibly could.”
“You are not McCoy. And… I am not a female officer. You know this situation is different.”
He was stalling. His thumb traced the dark circles under Harry’s eye.
“I am okay with it,” he admitted, finally. “I… I like this. I like you.”
Harry closed his eyes in relief. He tilted his face farther into Kim’s hand. Had it been a surprise? Had there been any doubt?
Kim took a half-step closer, almost without thinking. Alarms of doubt flashed through his mind, calculating risk and reward as he let the breath in his lungs make this decision.
Outside, the cool edge of early spring rounded out into something dynamic. Revachol thawed with turbulent life, with discarded hope, with a fifty year promise brimming to fulfillment.
Two men held each other in yellow light in a kitchen in Jamrock. That was all that mattered, for now.