Work Text:
Kim sees Kortenaer raise his gun a second too late.
A shot pierces the air, followed by a scream of pain that rings out amidst a cacophony of violence and shouting. Dread twists in Kim’s gut as he watches Harry fall, his body landing hard on the stone ground.
Kim raises his gun and aims it at Kortenaer, but he’s already slumped over, likely dead.
“The cop!” Titus’s voice booms through the chaos. “Protect the cop, he’s down!”
Kim tries to reach Harry when another shot flies past his head. He ducks, tearing his eyes from Harry writhing on the ground. The frenzied movement of bodies around him is dizzying. A sudden, inhuman screech to Kim's left causes him to turn reflexively. Titus and Angus have Ruud pinned to the wall. Angus is pulling at Ruud’s helmet while Titus holds down his arm. Ruud thrashes his legs, delivering a hard kick to Angus' stomach and dislodging him. He bashes his head into Titus’s chin—and he shoots, sending a spray of bullets into Angus’s chest and the windows of the Whirling. Angus’s mouth hangs open in a silent scream as he falls boneless to the ground.
Kim takes aim at Ruud. The shot goes wide, hitting the wall beside his head. “Shit,” Kim hisses. From the corner of his eye, he catches Theo charging towards Ruud. He forces his helmet back in place just as Theo is about to reach him. With a swift movement, he lifts his gun and shoots Theo square in the stomach. He’s thrown backwards, a spray of blood trailing him as he falls.
Titus springs to his feet and crashes bodily into Ruud. With a low growl, Titus pins his neck to the wall. He shoves the barrel of his gun against a slit in Ruud’s mask and pulls the trigger, cutting Ruud’s broken screech short. When Titus releases him, he falls limp to the ground.
Kim snaps his attention away and forges a path to Harry. He finds Eugene kneeling over him, his gun twitching from left to right. He waves Kim over when he spots him, then leaps over Harry and heads to Titus’s side.
Choking down the fear rising up his throat, Kim falls to his knees beside Harry. His eyes are shut, and a string of unintelligible groans and curses stream from his mouth. Kim’s eyes scan over him to assess the damage—and finds where the bullet entered in his upper left thigh. Blood pools out from the wound, soaking into his pants and staining the ground beneath him red.
Harry’s pulse races under his fingers, his skin clammy to the touch.
He’s going into shock.
With a sharp inhale, Kim undoes the buttons of Harry’s coat, then takes off his bomber jacket and carefully pillows it under Harry’s feet. He pulls out a handkerchief with shaking hands and holds it over the wound. Using both hands, he presses down hard, his teeth gritting with the strain. Blood soaks through the handkerchief and onto his gloves. The air is ripe with the scent of iron and gunpowder, the cloying taste of it stuck in his throat.
A low whimper makes Kim’s gaze snap up. Harry’s eyes are half opened, unfocused. Kim’s stomach sinks when he sees the white pallor of his skin.
“You’re bleeding out!”
“No one wants to do anything with me,” Harry mutters, his voice slurring. Tears are streaking down his cheeks. “No one wants to party with me…”
“Stay with me!” Panic edges into Kim’s voice as he presses harder on the wound.
“I don’t want to be anymore.” Harry’s voice grows weak and bile rises in Kim’s throat. “It hurts.”
Kim pushes down the panic. He has to stay strong for Harry. He has to keep him alive.
“Yes! Keep talking!” He puts all his weight behind his arms. “You hear me?! Stay awake!” He pulls Harry’s tie from around his neck. Holding the handkerchief in place, he wraps it tight around his thigh and ties it. It’s the first time he’s been thankful for the horrible yellow disaster.
Despite Kim’s pleas, Harry’s head lolls back and his eyes slip shut. “No,” Kim hisses through gritted teeth. “No, god dammit. Harry—” He can feel the cooling blood where it’s soaked through his gloves.
I’m losing him.
Ice shoots through his veins at the thought. His world is shrunk down to the panic twisting his gut. To the sticky feel of blood on his fingers. To Harry’s shallow breaths, growing fainter with each passing moment.
Then Harry jerks awake, his eyes wide and wild, and Kim nearly topples backwards.
“NO.”
The word rings out clear, coming deep from Harry’s chest. Kim sees the alarm in his gaze as he stares past his shoulder. Shakily, he thrusts his pistol into Kim's hands. Realization dawns on Kim, and he draws the gun as he turns. All he sees is a flash of white armor before taking the shot, but it grazes de Paule’s neck and she lets out a cry as she staggers backwards.
Kim dares a glance back at Harry. He’s gone still, his head resting on the cold ground. That was the only opening de Paule needed—and she throws herself at Kim with a growl, her shoulder barreling into his chest. A sharp pain shoots through his sternum and he’s hurtled.
Kim’s glasses fly off his face, Harry’s gun thrown from his hand as he hits the stone. The air is forced from his lungs. Wheezing, he pushes through the pain to sit up, but de Paule jumps onto him, her gun in hand. Her eyes are wide, her face red and twisted with rage. She straddles his chest and brings the butt of her gun down on his face. She doesn’t want to just kill him—she wants to make him hurt.
Kim’s head cracks onto the stone with the blow, stars exploding behind his eyes. He throws his arms in front of his face, but she wrenches one aside before bringing the gun down again. Sharp agony blooms across his cheek. He tastes blood. He can barely make out her form above him—she’s little more than a blurry mass of white and red.
His head swims, black dots clouding over his vision. De Paule raises the gun high above her head again. As she swings her arm down, he catches her wrist before it connects with his face. With a strength that surprises even himself, he yanks her arm to the side and slams her against the ground, a strangled yell escaping her.
Kim reaches his hand over the ground, groping blindly for Harry’s gun. He holds his breath, half his attention on the vague shape now stirring in the corner of his vision. Finally, his fingers close around cold metal. He aims at where he prays her head is and pulls the trigger. She slumps to one side like a marionette with severed strings.
His chest heaving, he watches intently for any sign of her rising once more. But she remains still, and he's able to let out the breath he had been holding back. Sliding his palm over the ground, he finds his glasses and puts them back on with shaking hands. He hisses through his teeth as he drags himself to his knees. He crawls over to de Paule, Harry’s gun in hand, and finds a pool of blood spilling from her limp head.
He grabs her by the hair and studies her face. The shot went right through her upper cheek, nearly blowing out her eye. She’s dead.
He slumps onto his knees, taking in a few deep, gasping breaths. But that's all the respite he can afford. He forces himself to his feet and rushes back to Harry’s side .
Titus is one step ahead of him. He drops to his knees beside Harry and Kim follows him. Kim reaches to check his pulse—its rhythm a weak thrum against Kim’s fingers. Kim’s stomach drops and he turns to Titus.
“I need to get him inside for treatment,” Kim says, unable to help the waver that threads his voice. “I could use some help.”
Aside from a few shallow cuts, Titus looks to be mostly unharmed—but his usual confident demeanor is gone. His mouth is set in a grim line across his ashen face. With a groan, he maneuvers Harry around his shoulders and lifts to his feet. There’s not a stir from Harry.
As Kim stands, a sharp wave of nausea shoots through him. Doubling over, he vomits onto the ground.
The heavy tread of Titus’s boots stop in their tracks. “You alright?”
A stabbing ache pounds at Kim’s head. He spits and wipes at his mouth. “I’ll survive,” he croaks and straightens his back. “Just get him into the Whirling.”
Titus nods and strides forward. Kim picks up his jacket, following after on shaky legs, and still grasping tightly onto Harry’s gun.
Even despite this whole nightmare of a situation, Kim could almost laugh when he sees the top of Garte’s head poking over the bar. “The mercenaries are taken care of,” he says. “I might need you later, so stay put.” Titus is already heading up the stairs.
“Y—yes, of course,” Garte mutters from under the counter.
“Last door on the right,” Kim calls out as he follows Titus upstairs. As he reaches the second floor, he’s struck by another wave of nausea. He swallows it down and pushes forward, heading into his room and grabbing a medical kit. From there, he makes his way to Harry’s room. The bottles strewn on the floor rattle as he strides in. A creak sounds overhead with each turn of the fan, though it does little to dissipate the smell.
Titus has placed Harry down on the crumpled, stained mass of blanket. “You sure he’s not gonna get sick from staying in here?” He looks around at the carnage with a wrinkled nose.
Kim stares at Harry’s gun, his finger tracing along the etched words before setting it in one of the drawers. He’s surprisingly reluctant to let it go. “There’s few alternatives, unfortunately.” He pauses and glances over at Titus. “Your men—are they—?”
Titus clenches his jaw. “Alain and Eugene are taking care of them. All we can do now is pray.”
“Right,” Kim says, exhaling sharply. “I can take it from here, then.”
“You sure?” Titus says, but Kim can tell he’s halfway ready to bolt out the door.
“You help your men.”
Titus gives him a tight lipped smile and nods. “If it wasn’t for you two, it—” He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It would have been a hell of a lot worse. So—thanks.”
“Just doing our jobs.” With his mind so focused on Harry, Kim barely hears Titus’s words.
“Still.” After one last glance at Harry, Titus heads to the door. “Take care of him, alright?”
Kim nods curtly. “I will.”
Titus’s heavy footsteps resound down the stairs, fading as he leaves the Whirling.
Kim heaves a deep sigh, wincing as he rubs at his eyes. His limbs are heavy, and a sharp pain periodically stabs through his head. He takes off his jacket, setting it aside. In the bathroom, he quickly scrubs his arms and hands, then unpacks the medical kit and slips on a pair of gloves.
He has work to do.
* * *
Although it took some time, Kim had managed to extract the bullet and suture Harry’s wound. Harry remained unconscious, but stable, though a fever gave Kim cause for some worry. A small window of wakefulness gave Kim enough opportunity to administer water and medication, letting Harry fall back into sleep.
Kim removes and discards the blood-stained gloves, pushing up his glasses to wipe the sweat that had accumulated there. The pounding in his head has not ceased. His strength has been drained over the course of the three hours spent tending to Harry, Kim's entire body feeling leaden and sluggish.
But Harry’s going to be alright. That thought alone eases the tension running up his back.
Kim takes note of the blood-and-other-questionable-substances-stained blankets and sheets. He calls up Garte to bring a fresh change of linens and water.
“I really need to get this place cleaned up,” Garte grumbles as he bundles up the soiled linens.
“That would help, yes,” Kim says. He’s sitting slouched in a chair next to Harry’s bed, resting his forehead on his hand.
“You’re looking worse for the wear,” Garte says, eyeing him with what could be worry.
Kim waves him off. “It’s fine. Nothing a few painkillers can’t fix.” He takes off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand.
“I see,” Garte says. He’s clearly not convinced, but doesn’t push the matter. “Well, do let me know if you need anything else.”
“Actually, if you could unlock the door in the bathroom,” Kim says. “He’s running a fever, so I’d like to keep an eye on him for the night.”
“Oh, of course.” He recedes into the bathroom, Kim hearing a jangle of keys and then the other door creaking open.
Kim breathes out a short sigh. “Thank you.”
“Right. I’ll—leave you to it, then.” Garte scurries out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Kim slowly cranes his neck and watches Harry on the bed. He stayed mercifully unconscious when Kim was treating him, but now all he can hope for is him to wake soon.
With some effort, he heaves himself to his feet and shuffles to the bathroom. A few empty bottles are sitting at the bottom of the tub. He picks them up and sets them carefully on the floor. Harry is diligent with his tare collection, after all. The thought draws a soft chuckle from him.
He runs the hot water then undresses. He wrinkles his nose at the blood soaked state of his shirt and tosses it on the bathroom floor. That’s a problem for tomorrow Kim.
The mirror catches his eye. His reflection shows patches of fresh bruises forming on his face. He traces a finger over his cheek, then hisses at a sharp stab of pain. His only lucky break, he thinks wryly, is how his glasses were spared from the destruction.
Gingerly, he steps into the tub, facing the open doorway. Tension drains from his shoulders as he submerges himself in the hot bath. His face stings as he dunks his head under the water. He should take care of that, a distant part of his mind thinks.
Instead, he closes his eyes and sinks further. His ears are attuned for any sign of Harry stirring, but the neighboring room remains quiet. Despite knowing the worst has likely passed, there’s a nagging sense of anxiety at the back of his mind.
Really, at the forefront of his mind, if he’s being honest.
Despite himself, he had grown accustomed to Harry’s exuberance. Seeing him, skin ashen and speaking as though he was just barely clinging to life, shook Kim to the core.
He’d never have guessed, after meeting Harry only a scant few days ago—obviously hungover, his breath reeking of alcohol and having forgotten even his name—that this bizarre man would worm his way into Kim’s affections. He had expected to have to grin and bear it through the whole investigation, to carry the weight of a belligerent drunk on his slight shoulders.
But when it came down to it, Harry’s eyes were sharp—and even more surprisingly, so was his mind. He was—unorthodox in his methods, to say the least, yes, but he didn’t half ass anything, even if at times he clearly, desperately wanted to.
Kim lets out a deep breath as he submerges his head under water, watching the stream of images that had begun to course through his mind.
*
Sitting with Harry on a swing set, chains creaking. They watch over the ruined remains of what is most assuredly Harry’s vehicle—though Kim doesn’t have the heart to tell him.
Harry puckers his lips and blows as if to whistle, but all that comes out is an unfortunate rain of spit. Kim can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, and he turns to hide his smile, eyes gazing out at the shimmering sea.
Harry is anything but deterred, however, even when he only manages to produce more spit.
Kim raises his head and blows through his lips, a smooth, steady whistle ringing out sharp and clear through the salty air. He turns back to find Harry staring at him. His eyes are shining and his is tongue sticking out from between his lips. The sight tugs at something within Kim, and he swiftly averts his gaze.
*
The deep rumble of Harry’s voice fills the Whirling as he sings. Flickers of color roam over his form as the disco ball spins above. Kim can’t tear his eyes away. The sorrow wrung from Harry’s throat brings a fluttering pang to his chest. He wrings his hands together behind his back.
The last notes of the song play, and when Harry looks up, their eyes meet. He gives Kim a soft, sad smile and Kim’s heart beats hard against his chest.
“I’d like to dedicate this song to my partner, Kim Kitsuragi.”
Kim blinks and pushes his glasses up his nose. Heat rises to his cheeks. He flashes Harry a quick smile and turns, the pounding of his heart growing ever faster.
*
“How did you get so cool, Kim?” There’s a flicker of something in his gaze that Kim can’t quite place.
*
Harry gets that same look in his eyes each time they come across the Smoker on the Balcony, and Kim absolutely does not file that away for further contemplation.
*
Harry’s shooting finger guns at him, and oh god, is Kim actually charmed by this?
*
Harry’s dancing ridiculously at the makeshift church-slash-club, and, yes, Kim absolutely can not deny he’s charmed by this. Also, he has no choice but to join him. Obviously.
*
“Harry du Bois.” The words roll around in his mouth like he’s testing the taste of them. He hums, his hand on his chin, and nods once. “Yeah, I feel like a Harry.” He turns to Kim. “What do you think?”
Kim’s not sure why, but he thinks it suits him.
*
Harry kneeling down as he places his hat on the girl stuck out in the cold. He grins at her and pats her head, and she gives a sheepish smile back.
*
Harry, Harry—
*
Harry.
*
Kim breaches the water. The floodgate that he had been very carefully erecting is close to breaking. He buries his face in his hands and groans, only to wince at the soreness.
“Now you’re the one who needs to get your shit together,” he mutters under his breath.
He gets dressed in his room, eyes growing heavier with each passing second. A deep yawn escapes his throat. He shuffles back to Harry’s room and his eyes snap open when he sees him stir.
“Detective?” he whispers as he kneels beside the bed. Harry’s head is thrashing back and forth, a stream of unintelligible words coming from his mouth.
“I’m sure you’re in pain,” Kim says. “I’ll get you some—”
Harry’s eyes slowly blink open. Another groan, and he shakily reaches his hand out. His fingers close around Kim’s wrist.
His voice is all but a sob. “Don’t leave me.”
A sobering pang shoots through Kim’s chest. He carefully grabs Harry’s hand and holds it in both of his.
“I won’t, Harry.”
Harry sniffles and closes his eyes. His breathing evens out as he falls back into unconsciousness.
Kim slides his legs out in front of him, turning and leaning his back against the bed. Harry’s hand remains in his, the skin rough and calloused. Kim gently runs his fingers over the knuckles until his eyes slip shut and he falls into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
The next day is fraught, but better, Harry waking in short bursts from time to time, a few choice curses on his lips. Kim can't make his pain go away, but he can stay by Harry's side, changing his bandages and administering his medication. Garte comes by, as well, to work on the room. When he's finished, the space actually looks presentable.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate this once he wakes,” Kim tells him with a small smile.
“Yes, well, I suppose it’s the least I could do.” He sounds less miserable than he could, given what he’s actually had to clean. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a very long shower.”
Kim attempts to keep busy and look over his notes, but after frustrating himself into another pounding headache, he has to admit that, at least for now, the case is at something of a dead end.
With night comes more restlessness and little sleep. The pain in Kim’s head has subsided only slightly, but the nausea, at least, has mostly gone. Harry thrashes awake on more than one occasion, sobs clawing up his throat. Each time, Kim sits with him until he falls back asleep. His fingers memorize the map of Harry’s hand.
* * *
In the morning, a loud groan sounds from Harry’s room. Kim rushes in, finding Harry sitting up with his head cradled in his hand. He looks up at Kim and blinks.
“Kim,” he groans.
His gaze is clear as his eyes widen and a rush of relief surges through Kim.
If it’s a war they’re heading into, at least it’s going to be together.
“Sunrise, parabellum.”
* * *
Kim hangs back with Harry as they watch Judith, Jean and Trant discuss the logistics of taking in the culprit.
“All things told,” Kim says as he glances at Harry, “that could have gone worse.”
Harry’s face is beaded with sweat, the color drained from his skin, but there’s a weak smile on his lips.
“I think solving the murder and having proof of an actual cryptid gave me something of an edge.” His smile falters. “But I really fucked them over, didn’t I.” He inhales sharply. “For a long time.”
Kim presses his lips together. “It does sound like it, yes.”
Harry grunts and a silence settles between them. Kim cautions a glance over at him, surprised to find him smiling again.
“Gotta do better this time, then,” Harry says, nodding decisively. “Make it up to them.”
A soft smile crosses Kim’s lips. He pats Harry on the arm. “I’d say you’ve proven you’re capable of that already.”
Harry chuckles sheepishly. “Well, if you say so.”
“I doubt I would have solved this case without you,” Kim says. “Remember that, detective. I didn’t go to bat for you for nothing.”
A flush creeps over the tip of Harry’s ears. He looks over at Kim and his eyes crinkle with his smile. “Yeah, you really saved my ass there. I owe you one. Big time.”
Kim waves him off. “I didn’t do that so you could owe me any favors. I did it because it was the right thing to do. You deserve a new start.” He looks up to meet Harry’s gaze. “And—I wanted to.”
“Aww, geez.” The redness spreads to Harry’s cheeks. “I mean—you saved my damn life, too.”
“And you saved mine.” His lip quirks up. “While you were nearly bleeding to death.”
Harry gives a half shrug and rubs at his neck. “I mean, y’know. What good is my sorry ass if I can’t even do that.” His gaze is soft when he looks back at Kim. He holds out his hand.
“Welcome to the team, Kim Kitsuragi. I’ll try and make sure it’s less of a shitshow from now on.” He pauses. “I’ll be less of a shitshow from now on.”
Kim chuckles and takes his hand. “Pleased to be working with you, Harrier du Bois.”
Harry’s grasp is firm and the familiarity of it makes warmth curl up in Kim’s stomach. There’s a wide grin on Harry’s face. His gaze doesn’t leave Kim’s, and Kim can’t bring himself to look away, either. Just as Kim is about to pull back, Harry tugs him forward. Kim barely holds in a yelp as Harry pulls him to his chest. His arms wrap around Kim’s back, held tight around him.
Kim freezes, his arms stiff at his sides. Harry’s body is soft against his—and warm. Very warm. He gives off heat like a furnace. The dull scent of sweat fills Kim’s nose—he’s suddenly very glad that Harry finally took a bath.
Harry’s grip around him loosens. Kim glances up at him. His mouth is hanging open and regret is painted on his face. “Oh, shit, Kim, I’m so fucking sorr—” His mouth snaps shut when Kim’s arms snake around his middle, settling on his back. Kim rests his forehead on Harry’s shoulder. His eyes slip closed of their own accord. Harry chuckles and brings his arms around Kim’s back. It’s not at all unpleasant.
“You know, I think the pleasure is all mine, actually.” Harry’s voice rumbles through his chest. Kim’s grin is hidden against Harry’s shoulder.
I very much doubt that, Kim thinks.
“Hey!” Their eyes both shoot up simultaneously. Jean is watching them with narrowed eyes. His face is twisted in a frown and his arms are crossed over his chest. “It’s not the time for a goddamned makeout session!”
They slowly pull apart from each other and share a sheepish look. Kim trains his expression back to neutrality as he clasps his hands behind his back.
“Come on, haven’t I earned a hug?” Harry is close to pouting. “Hey, we’ve hugged before, right? How about another one for old time’s—”
Kim elbows him in the side.
“Ow, what—”
Kim raises a brow and Harry’s mouth freezes.
Don’t push your luck.
Harry nods once and closes his mouth. Thankfully, he’s quick on the uptake.
“It’s not the time for hugging, it’s time to take care of this perp and get you to a goddamned hospital.” Jean is fuming again, his face red, until Judith pulls him away. She gives Kim and Harry an apologetic look. Trant watches bemusedly from the sidelines.
Kim takes off his glasses and polishes them. “Given how your wound has opened up again, he is right.”
“Yeah, I’m, uh, not feeling too great.” And he looks it, too, but Kim leaves that unspoken. “But I did earn that hug, didn’t I?”
When Kim puts his glasses back on and looks up at him, he’s smiling softly. A smile tugs at Kim’s lips in return.
“Yes, I’d say so.”
Harry beams then claps him on the shoulder. “Let’s go before Jean over there has a heart attack. Let me tell you—those aren’t fun.”
“I’ll—take your word for it.”
“You know, I think I really like hugs.” Kim can tell this is more Harry’s “thinking out loud” voice. “They’re nice. Really nice. Is it too late to add a new one? Cuddle cop?” Harry strokes his chin in contemplation.
Kim blinks at him. “What are you even talking about?”
“Oh, yeah, don’t worry about it.” Harry brushes him off. “More importantly—we did damn good, didn’t we?”
Kim’s smile widens. “That we did, detective.”
Harry throws an arm over Kim’s shoulder as they walk.
“You can call me Harry, you know.”
Kim glances up at him, brow raised. “I know, detective.”
“Aww, c’mon, don’t be like that.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose. “But you make it so easy.” Harry whines. Kim rests a hand on Harry’s lower back, which shuts him right up. “We still have a long day ahead of us, so let’s not dawdle any more.”
Kim takes Harry to the motor carriage and sits him down. Despite his injury, he’s buzzing with excitement. I could get used to thinking of him as a partner, Kim thinks, before realizing with some surprise that he already has.
He looks down at Harry—this amnesiac, (recovering?) alcoholic who has long chats with himself in his head—and the man who saved his life, helped crack the case, and had some kind of telepathic conversation with an undiscovered species of animal.
Partner. The word rings pleasantly in Kim’s mind. Yes, he thinks, glancing down at Harry with a fond smile. That feels just right.