Chapter Text
The detective from precinct 41 is late.
Your superior officer told you to meet them at the Whirling in Rags at 7:30. You can only assume that they’ve been given the same instruction. Their tardiness leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
The lobby is empty except for two inebriated men (one asleep, one awake), a woman in a wheelchair, and the young cafeteria manager by the bar. He’s trying to act nonchalant, but you can feel him sneaking curious glances at you every now and then. There’s a broken piece of taxidermy in his hands. The woman is sitting next to an old pinball machine. You’d think it a bad omen, if you were the kind of person to believe in such things.
You’re nervous, itching for a smoke. You hate to break routines, and you haven’t had a partner since Eyes died. You only accepted this one because it’s supposed to be temporary and because you can’t afford to tell your superiors no. That kind of luxury is reserved for the white, hetero-sexual officers.
A charge passes through the room. Running like an electrical grid under your feet, it makes the woman squirm and the manager scowl. He ducks his head down, pointedly ignoring whoever is moving down the stairs.
The stranger’s gait is slow and weary. He lumbers down the stairs one heavy step at a time, before he loses his composure and trips down the last two. He just barely manages to stay upright.
He’s wearing snakeskin shoes, yellow flared pants, a cloud of liquor that stings Kim’s nose all the way across the lobby, and a green RCM jacket.
YOU: - “Merde.”
The curse slips out.
Luckily, only the little old lady seems to have noticed. Her eyes crinkle in amusement behind her Quarter Moon glasses. The tip of your ears heats up.
You watch your drunk excuse of a partner bumble around the cafeteria. He’s making a fool of himself, running tobacco-stained hands into and against every surface he can. He looks at the karaoke machine like it’s his first time seeing one, before he dives down to collect a coin from the floor. You’re surprised vertigo didn’t knock him out.
He looks your way, briefly, and suddenly-
You’re dragged beneath the surface of the world. Into the face of a blinding, pale light.
HARRY, ??? CENTURIES AGO: - “Do you hear them, Kim? The birds! Listen to the birds!”
You hear them.
Skuas are thrashing in the harsh winds around you.
You feel the cafeteria sway, and seaspray sting against your chapped lips. Fear is a wild-eyed hare, drumming its feet against your ribcage and clawing at your throat.
Until:
HARRY, ??? CENTURIES AGO: - “Can I help you?”
A bright, golden glow washes the storm away.
When you turn to Harry, his face is haloed by it. Gone is the half-assed excuse of an RCM uniform, replaced with strange, dark robes. There’s a stained glass window where the staircase used to be, portraying the late Innocence Dolores Dei.
The soft look in his eyes leaves you fumbling.
Where are you? What is this?
YOU, ??? CENTURIES AGO: - “Harry…”
He looks confused. Confused, but intrigued. His lips tug into a smile so hauntingly familiar that you ache with it.
HARRY, ??? CENTURIES AGO: - “Have we met?”
KIM, ??? CENTURIES AGO: - “I-”
Why does it tear you apart when he looks at you and sees a stranger?
In the blink of an eye, a kaleidoscope of visions washes over you.
Harry is a preacher man, with soft hands and kind eyes, lined with age. He’s a sailor, then a man of violence, a handyman, and a teacher, before he’s an artist, gagging in his own sick. And you…? You’re a madman, more often than not; burdened with hundreds of years worth of loneliness, and longing.
When you blink again, the visage bleeds away, bringing you back to the Whirling’s entrance.
Your partner ( Harry ) from the 41st precinct (who’s late and who’s drunk and who hasn’t even introduced himself yet), is talking to the cafeteria manager.
You’re sweating. Holding your breath. Digging your nails into the soft flesh of your palm, physically restraining yourself from doing something as foolish as falling, or running away, or going to him.
He’ll come to you.
He’s an inevitability, like the Pale to Elysium. He’ll come to you, whether you like him to or not.
But he’s certainly taking his sweet time doing it.
He tries the kitchen doors, rattling them around for a bit before he turns back to the manager. He’s making a scene: completely shameless, and entirely unprofessional.
Privately, you’re grateful for the opportunity to collect yourself.
You’re not sure about the nature of your hallucinations. But whatever they were, they’re going to have to wait until after work. You’re a lieutenant, after all, and the quality of your investigation depends on your unmitigated focus.
You’re untouchable: a Master of Compartmentalisation.
When he finally turns to you, you’re ready to meet him. Except…
What is that mysterious ticking noise?
Your foot is tap, tap, tapping away at the marble tiles on the floor. An old, nervous habit of yours.
He shuffles up to you, a disheveled mess of a man with bloodshot ( pale green ) eyes and unkempt hair. His face is twisted in a strange, painful-looking grin, and you decide to play this as if you are, and he is, and the world is, completely normal.
You extend your hand in greeting, only just managing to keep the tremble out.
YOU - “Hello, I’m Kim Kitsuragi. Lieutenant Precinct 57. You must be from the 41st…”
You raise your eyebrows, waiting for him to offer any other name than the one spinning like a broken record through your mind.
His face goes through a series of odd acrobatics. Something old and battered stirs in you.
Don’t. There is nothing for us here, but pain.
HARRY: - “My name is Raphaël Ambrosius Cost-”
YOU - “No.”
Your treacherous tongue interrupts whatever bullshit he was about to spout.
YOU - “No, your name is Harry. Though it’s usually an acronym for something. Harvey, perhaps? Or…?”
Chewing over your words, he looks like he’s going to be sick.
HARRY - “Harrier. My name is Harrier Du Bois.”
And then he bends over and pukes all over your shoes.
***
HARRY: - “Kim…”
YOU: - “Lieutenant Kitsuragi.”
HARRY: - “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, but-”
YOU: - “Yes?”
HARRY: - “Can you not call me Harrier…?”
You don’t know if you should laugh or cry.
Instead, you take a deep breath, sidle up next to him, and help him up the stairs to his hotel room. The front of him is covered in puke, and you’ve just spent the past fifteen minutes helping Garte (the manager) clean up the mess he made of the Whirling’s Entrance.
YOU: - “I won’t, detective. I promise.”
It comes out surprisingly gentle, and you’re immediately annoyed with yourself. He’s a grown man - he doesn’t need your coddling!
But Harry seems to appreciate it. He chokes down a sob that you pretend not to notice.
Once he’s safely (?) back inside his hotel room, you go downstairs to rent a room of your own and fetch your bags from the Kineema. You clean up, change into your spare pair of shoes, move for the door, and-
Freeze.
Stuck in a maelstrom of thoughts, you try and fail to make sense of it all.
Somehow, you knew that your new partner's name was Harry. You remembered it before even he did. And for whatever reason, the reminder was painful enough that Harry suffered some kind of episode because of it.
Whatever’s going on here, you need to be more careful moving forward. Careful, and professional.
You dig out your spare notebook and begin to write.
EVENT 1:
Experienced a sudden episode with vivid hallucinations.
Some kind of birds - skuas? Possibly inspired by the taxidermy the cafeteria manager was handling.
Harry, at the center of it all. Somehow knew his name before he did.
The Church of Dolores Dei - Harry as a priest.
I knew him.
He did not know me.
Once you’ve collected yourself enough to get back to work, you find Harry waiting for you outside your room.
He’s sopping wet, looking like he just walked into the shower fully clothed.
It takes all of your composure not to turn back around and leave him there.
YOU: - “What.”
You say, instead.
The terrible smile on his face twitches.
HARRY: - “Are you some kind of psychic or something?”
YOU: - “What?!”
HARRY: - “Or have we met before? Sorry, I gotta tell ya’- I can’t really remember anything.”
YOU: - “Detective, don’t you have anything else to wear?”
The grin twitches again. You’ve never seen a more miserable expression in your life.
HARRY: - “I couldn’t find any, sorry. But it’s fine, I’ll be fine!”
YOU: - “It’s six degrees outside, with freezing winds. You will not be fine.”
HARRY: - “Are these your psychic powers talking? Are you seeing my future right now?”
YOU: - “It’s called common sense. Look it up.”
He looks up.
You stifle a groan.
You’re a man of reason. You don’t believe in psychics or the supranatural, and you certainly don’t believe in resurrection or soulmates. Not even when you catch this complete stranger’s eyes, and see your best friend staring back at you.
Something in his smile turns softer, more genuine, and you deflate with a terrible, soul-weary sigh.
YOU: - “Alright, let's get you some clothes. I saw a pawn shop down the street.”
***
The following ten days are eventful, to say the least.
You not only solve the Case of the Hanged Man, but help start a nightclub in an abandoned church, survive a public tribunal, capture the Insulindian Phasmid on camera, find a hole in the world, and accept a job at Harry’s precinct.
And now, you’re finally driving him home.
The road is long and dark, the rain pattering against the windscreen turning streetlights into blurred, neon glares. You’ve got Speedfreaks FM playing on low volume so as to not disturb him. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet, ever since you left Martinaise.
He must be exhausted, just like you.
Did he fall asleep…?
You glance his way only to find him looking back at you, something dangerously pensive and soft in his pale green eyes.
You turn back to the road, the tip of your ears burning.
Somewhere, in between all the crazy events of Martinaise, memories of your past lives have returned to you. You found them in voices whispering in your dreams, and in small, waking moments of Déjà Vu. Every time you’ve caught him gazing out to sea, lost in thoughts, nostalgia has come a-knocking.
Watching him press his cheek to Little Lily’s plush lamb, you saw him as a father, in a lifetime where you didn’t get involved.
Finding his colorful tie hanging from a noose in the ceiling fan, you recalled his body spasming in the gallows, in a lifetime where you tried too hard to win him back.
And when he sang his broken heart out on the Whirling’s karaoke stage, you remembered all the times he’s died for, and because of, love.
You’ve kept notes of all the memories, trying to make sense of them, or at the very least place them in chronological order. So far, this side quest of yours has been a colossal failure.
If it wasn’t for that damn Swallow in the middle of that damn church, you might have been able to convince yourself that it’s all in your head.
But now…
After life, death -- after death, life again. After the world, the pale -- after the pale, the world again.
Evidence suggests that you’re being reincarnated.
And so is Harry; who’s spent the past four hundred years being everything you can’t let yourself be. Sensitive, enthusiastic, and idealistic (when the world hasn’t beaten it out of him); he’s a bleeding heart, caught in the rough shell of a man. And you’ve spent the past four hundred years longing for him. Wondering why you remember, when he never does.
You haven’t told him. How could you, with everything that’s been going on?
What would you even say…?
You sigh, sinking deeper into the car seat.
The radio is playing one of your favorite songs.
You haven’t heard it since before Martinaise. An excited thrill runs down your spine.
If Harry wasn’t in the car with you, you’d raise the volume until it felt like the sound was gonna split your head in two.
Instead, you give in to temptation, just a little bit, drumming tentative fingers against the steering levers. When Harry doesn’t react, you start to hum.
It’s not enough! You whisper along:
YOU: - “See the future into the present… see my past leaves in the distance. Try to guess now what's going-”
HARRY: - “Kim.”
He’s looking at you like you put the stars in the sky.
You just manage not to blush.
YOU: - “Harry.”
He reaches out, and for a moment, you think he’s going to touch you. Instead, he turns the dial to the radio up, raising the volume. And begins to sing:
HARRY: - “Don’t you see my condition? The fiction - is gonna run it again,”
You smile in the way only he seems to notice, and his face splits into a huge grin.
BOTH OF YOU: - “Can’t you see now: illusions? Right into your miiiiind!”
He’s dancing in his seat, head banging to the rhythm while you drum out the beat on the levers.
When you raise your voice, he’s right there with you, singing loud enough that you’re screaming: Tequila Sunset-style.
BOTH OF YOU: - “I have been in this place before!”
HARRY: - “HIGHER ON THE STREET!”
KIM: - “And I know it’s my time to GO-O-O!”
HARRY: - “CALLING YOU! And the search is a mystery-”
YOU: “Standing on my feet, it’s so hard when I try to be me!”
BOTH OF YOU: - “WOOOAAAAAAAH!”
You spend the next twenty minutes singing together. If it was up to you, you’d continue all the way home.
But somewhere along the way, Harry closes in on himself: growing silent, glassy eyes turned to the road. You know better than to push him when he’s like this.
He’ll let you know what’s eating at him in due time.
HARRY: - “Sorry, but… I don’t really know where to go. I don’t know where I live.”
You sigh and turn the radio off. Keep your eyes on the road, and hope he doesn’t notice the rapid-fire beat of your heart.
He always notices.
Then you reach out and flick him on the forehead.
HARRY: - “Ow!”
YOU: - “What did I say about apologizing all the time?”
HARRY: - “Uhm… that I should stop doing it?”
YOU: - “Exactly. Now stop.”
HARRY: - “Alright. Sor-”
He freezes. You only just manage not to smile.
YOU: - “We’re not going to Jamrock, Harry. I’m taking you home.”
HARRY: - “Home…?”
YOU: - “My apartment, by the harbour. We’ll ask Lieutenant Vicquemare for your address in the morning, but for now…”
He’s not ready to be alone. And you’re not ready to leave him.
HARRY: - “...for now?”
You sigh.
YOU: - “Just… let me take you home, okay?”
Let me keep you safe.
His voice is small and full of gratitude when he says:
HARRY: - “okay.”
You’re pretty sure he hasn’t seen much kindness this lifetime. It breaks your heart.
***
Watching Harry limp into the hallway of your apartment, you feel like you’ve found the missing piece to a lifelong puzzle.
Suddenly, you’re embarrassed.
You’ve left the walls empty for years, figuring that you’ve no use for nor any particular interest in art. Harry loves art . He used to fill your homes with paintings and little clay statues, with colors and laughter and-
There are plenty of empty slots in your bookshelf, an extra chair by the kitchen table, and two coffee cups in your cupboard, just in case you entertain a guest. The extra cup is green, and you’ve never once used it.
You’ve spent your life waiting for him to complete it. This space is his, as much as it’s yours.
Once you’re alone in the bedroom, you hide your journal in the bottom of a drawer, hoping to never use it again. You know from experience that these memories are better left forgotten.
***
Five months later, Harry is hunched over a corpse.
It’s late august, and you’re in the middle of an oppressively warm heatwave.
Luckily, the dead body was reported before the point of decay. If left out for much longer, the smell will quickly become unbearable. The flies congregating on the windowsill already seem to have their little facet eyes set on the soft parts of his remains.
The room is dark and cramped, like a preliminary tomb.
They’re in a one-bedroom apartment, with bars across the window. The floor and the coffee table are covered with old, molding takeout cartons, and the sheets on the pull-out couch are in disarray and mottled with sweat.
Someone’s been tossing and turning in them. Because of the heat, or something more…?
The ceiling fan is working at full speed, circulating the dusty air and filling the space with a low, mechanical whirr.
And there, in the middle of the room, is a Swallow.
According to their only witness/suspect, it appeared the moment the man’s head hit the coffee table. As if the universe opened up and ate his soul post-mortem.
Harry is performing the field autopsy, and you’re supposed to be taking notes, but you can’t hear a word he’s saying.
You stare into the eyes of the victim and see Harry staring back at you. Dead on the floor of that church in Martinaise, hanging from the gallows, in the muddy wartime trenches, and in an apartment that looked far too much like this one, you remember each and every Swallow that’s opened, every time you’ve seen him die.
That’s it! A treacherous little part of you insists. The reason for all of this: the Pale, this disease eating at the world, is you. Your pain is tearing the world apart.
You frown, and mumble:
KIM: - “What a load of egocentric bullshit…”
HARRY: - “What was that, Kim? What’cha think? Kim? Kiiiiiiiiiim?”
He waves his hand around your face, snapping you back to reality. The glove he wears is covered in dead person-gunk. You swat it away.
HARRY: - “Ouch! Kiiim!”
You think that you need to revisit your old notes from Martinaise.