Work Text:
At this hour, Kim expects to have the precinct’s gym showers all to himself. The majority of the night shift has trudged home; their morning replacements are half-asleep at the desks. Yet the water is running in the depths of the locker room, behind the corner from where Kim has entered.
Kim hesitates. The showers are one big room — "open plan," as McLaine likes to say, "to build camaraderie," which he mispronounces as cum-my-raderie. Being in there naked alongside one other person is uncomfortable: nothing at all like a communal clean-up. But the thought of the warm spray hitting his face, his shoulders, his overworked back… It’s too good a thing to pass on. Kim takes a seat and waits, flipping through his notebook to occupy himself.
A valve squeals; the sound of water cuts out. Footsteps shuffle across the wet floor and come to a halt. Somebody clears their throat. Kim ignores it, until the person clears their throat again, more pointedly. Kim raises his head to see Jean, wearing nothing but slides and a skimpy blue towel. Their eyes lock.
Inexplicably, Kim feels cornered, despite being the one who’s fully dressed. He’s seen Jean shirtless before; he knows the man is well-built. Yet it’s disorienting, to be confronted with the reality of this young, damp, flushed body at five in the morning.
COMPOSURE: This is the first time you two have been alone since the night at Jean’s apartment.
"Nice of you to lie in wait. All yours if you want it." Jean points back to the showers. "Though I don’t know why you’d want it. G.R.I.H. not big on amenities?"
His face sports a faint smirk of mild, almost disinterested amusement. Kim resists the urge to draw the bomber tighter around himself. "My hot water has been cut off for the week."
ENCYCLOPEDIA: This is a planned annual shutdown, which happens so that Revachol’s aging pipes can get the maintenance they need. The shutdowns affect a couple of neighborhoods at a time. This lets authorities conduct pressure tests and detect leaks without much disruption to the life of the city.
ENDURANCE: Too bad that your neck of the woods got scheduled for this during the still-cold month of April.
Jean attempts to whistle. "Shit. Tough luck." He doesn’t sound particularly sympathetic.
PERCEPTION: He also doesn’t know how to whistle.
At this fact, Kim regains a measure of control. "What about you? Your shift ended hours ago."
Jean shrugs. "Couldn’t sleep, etcetera etcetera. Thought I’d get some gym time out of it."
CORPUS SANUM: Like he needs any more of that, the bastard.
As if reading Kim’s mind, Jean continues, "You know me. The more I sweat, the less saltwater I have for tears." His affect is flat as he says it, so that Kim is not sure what to make of it. Is it a quote? A joke? A cry for help? Kim keeps his face blank to avoid falling into a trap.
In a beat, Jean breaks into a cackle. "Shit — déso — I wanted to defuse things. This is too awkward." He shakes with laughter; the towel slips a little. He readjusts it, hunching over himself in the process.
The brief show of nerves makes something unclench in Kim’s gut. He smiles. "So it is." His eyes rake over the treasure trail on Jean’s soft stomach, then the rest of his body: long and lovely, speckled with moles and furred with dark hair.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Two weeks ago, he was throwing himself at you. You could have him here, right now, if you wanted. You could pin him against the wall — rip the towel off —
Kim stands up. "It was good seeing you. Now, if you don’t mind, I will go do what I came here to do."
***
In the shower, Kim’s mind drifts. What if he had walked in here from the get-go? Jean would be naked and glistening, head bent under the spray, droplets cascading down his body. Through the soft roar of the water he would fail to hear Kim approach. He —
— startles when Kim’s hand settles on his back. His skin is soft, smooth —
LOGIC: Actually, scarred from smallpox.
His upper back is scarred from smallpox, but the rest of it, between the shoulder blades and below, is a soft, smooth, fever-hot expanse. Kim wants to touch and claim all of it. His gloved hands —
INTERFACING: You didn’t undress for the shower?
His gloved hands offer a nice contrast with the naked body before him. They trail down, down, to the obscene swell of Jean’s delectable ass. Jean shudders the entire way through, wanton and impatient. He makes a move to turn around, but Kim stops him with a firm press of the hand. The wordless command —
BEHAVIORISM: — is disregarded. Did you think he would simply roll over? You’ll have to work for it.
The wordless command makes Jean groan and go pliant. Gone is his usual attitude: he's eager to please. Kim gives his ass a half-hearted swat of approval. All at once, Jean arches his back and widens his stance, his body an invitation. Kim grabs one supple cheek and pulls him open —
Well, that’s as far as Kim is willing to take it. He’s only allowed himself this mental indulgence because it’s late, and he’s tired, and he hasn’t had sex in a while. As he lathers his scalp, he wonders if he should give a call to his most recent bedfellow, Richard.
SUGGESTION: Maybe next month. He’s not going anywhere.
***
Jean has also not gone anywhere. He is perched atop a creaky exercise bike, idly pedaling and smoking. Mercifully, he has changed into a patrol cloak and joggers.
"I don’t think you’re allowed to do this here," Kim says, meaning the cigarette.
"Please." Jean waves a dismissive hand through the smoke. "Like I’m not improving the air quality."
PERCEPTION: The stench here is so pungent as to have heft and shape. Rubber mats, stale sweat, bruised egos —
ESPRIT DE CORPS: — all that is man, in the immortal words of McLaine.
Jean wordlessly offers Kim the pack of Drouins and shrugs in a "suit yourself" way when Kim demurs.
BEHAVIORISM: He is mildly offended at the refusal, like anyone with a vice that others don’t partake in.
Overhead, the lights are dimmed. A feeble gray glow is coming in through the small opaque windows, located high up on the walls. Bathed in shadows, the gym has an air of mystery: a vast, echoing cavern deep below the ground. Kim’s lack of sleep, too, makes the scene fuzzy and dreamlike, suspended in a strange space outside his normal life. He can say or do anything right now and it will get erased by the light of day. You rile me up to a degree I find worrying. Or: You really should catch up on sleep. Or: Why did you wait for me?
He settles on, "Since you’re here, I can give you a ride home."
Jean regards him with dangerous pale eyes. "You don’t have to. I’ll take the tramway. You’ve seen where I live."
Why must he make everything so difficult? It’s annoying to make the offer twice, as if asking for a favor. "Let’s not play a game of politeness chicken. I’m leaving now, and you are free to tag along."
He heads for what he hopes is the correct exit. The parking garages lie behind the main building, which should make them easy to locate once he makes his way outside. He is still getting used to the layout of the precinct; a repurposed silk mill, it’s full of confusing passageways and half-hidden rooms.
"Sheesh. Are you ever this mean towards Harry?" Jean falls into step next to him, matching his loping stride to Kim’s pace.
HALF LIGHT: Every day in the Major Crimes Unit is a humbling reminder of your short stature. All your coworkers, including Minot, are giants born and bred on the dairy farms of Oranje.
"He doesn’t give me any reason to be."
"I’m sure." Kim can hear the eyeroll in Jean’s voice. "He’s imprinted on you like a big baby duckling, and you’re sooooo fucking flattered by it."
A hallway, a stairwell, a door, and finally — clean sharp air, the promise of springtime warmth carried on the breeze.
PERCEPTION: A pinkish light on the horizon, dawn unfurling through the shadows. It’s almost, but not quite, morning.
The Kineema sits in its designated parking spot. After all this time, Kim still feels a jolt of pride and pleasure upon spotting it.
Jean, too, surveys the carriage with open interest. "Damn, that’s one fancy bagnole." He takes a closer look. "Makes me feel like a wanted man. Literally. Where the fuck is the passenger seat?"
Kim unlocks the doors. "This model doesn’t have one."
"How symbolic." Jean huffs as he clambers in: his long legs are a bad fit for the back bench. "I’m shocked Pryce lets you keep it. You’re gonna have to drive something else when you’re partnered."
The motor rumbles to life. For a split second, Kim’s mind flips through a set of memories: a gunshot, a head coming apart, a body hitting the ground. "I have no plans to be partnered."
"Okay. Have fun doing zebra runs till you keel over."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: These are the one-man patrols who handle trash calls of many stripes. Jean is right: all prime crime goes to partnered officers.
Jean takes Kim’s stony silence as an invitation to continue his spiel. "Pryce is fucking huge on décomptage. It’s like, if Grandpa Mazov did it, we should, too. He’s a total old school communard."
AUTHORITY: This is useful information for navigating precinct politics.
"And you and Jude are both, uh, unpaired." Jean’s tone drips with feigned nonchalance. "You would work well together, I think."
Why won’t he drop it? Kim accelerates through a yellow light. "Maybe I should request Harry as my partner, since you so insist." He feels a pang of regret at the underhanded tactic, but it does work to shut Jean up.
COMPASSION: He’s ashamed that he swallowed the bait and hurt that you would stoop so low.
Streets pass by in the pre-dawn dark: shift workers, night walkers, flickering hydrogen lamps. A slender radio tower rises above the rooftops, red eye winking. The silhouette of the Kineema reflects in the blackened windows of houses and shops.
The quiet is broken when Jean's finger jabs into the SAVED button on the dashboard. "Sorry," he says, sounding anything but, as Speedfreaks FM blares from the speakers. "I don’t want us to suffer through noble silence. And I was curious about your default settings."
"No, by all means, distract the driver," Kim says dryly. He can't bring himself to be angry: this was such a Harry thing to do that it's rather amusing. For all of Jean's moaning about Harry's disregard of procedure, he's cut from the same cloth. Maybe all Jamrock cops are. Kim turns the radio off and makes a mental note to unbind the station from the button.
"So," Jean says, undeterred by the earlier exchange of verbal punches. "Speedfreaks, huh? Is that really your, uh, speed?"
"Very funny. If you mention this to anyone except Harry, you will never ride in this vehicle again."
"What? Why? C’est très cool, ça. An unexpected choice."
"If by unexpected you mean juvenile and embarrassing, then yes. But enough about me. I'd rather talk about you and your hobbies. What is it that you like to do?"
"Uh." Jean has stiffened in the rearview mirror. "I don't know what to tell you. I'm not very interesting. Or intellectual."
"Let me be the judge of that."
"Well, I go to the gym. Which you knew. And I like — running, I guess."
BEHAVIORISM: This you also knew. He has invited Harry to go jogging with him once the latter's quad heals.
"...And le foot. I don't go to a lot of games, but I try to keep up with the standings."
"Hm. Are you a Les Armés supporter?" The club started out as an RCM affiliate, so it's a favorite among officers of the law.
"Couron FC, actually. Local pride. You?"
"Les Armés, if I have to pick. They’re more consistent. But I really only follow TipTop Tournée. The intellectual's choice." He hopes Jean can tell it’s a joke.
"Wow," Jean says. "I guess this," he reaches forward to tap the radio dial, "makes more sense now. Did you ever see it at Zéro Carrousel?"
"Someday."
ENCYCLOPEDIA: The ticket prices are obscene, even for the nosebleeds.
LOGIC: You keep a so-called home fund that is a cover for a future TipTop admission.
"I've only ever been to horse races," Jean says. "Don't even say anything. Harry took me for my birthday last year. He was like: oooh, Jean, dress nice, let's go celebrate. I thought he was taking me out to dinner, because I'm stupid like that. But it was just le fucking hippodrome. In Harry's world you had to look good for that and wear a fancy hat."
"No hats necessary, I suppose?"
Jean snorts. "It was literally only old farts in the audience, plus some teenagers, Harry, and me. It was raining that day and super cold. I was congested for a week after."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"I'm not complaining. It was fun. He was trying to give me a good time. If I wanted something different, that's on me."
Kim glances in the rearview mirror, hoping to catch his eye. But Jean has turned away, cooling his forehead on the window glass, lost in thought.
***
"This is you." Kim keeps the motor running as he pulls up to the entrance into Jean’s building.
PERCEPTION: A pregnant ginger tabby lounges by the door. Pigeons coo on the Brutalist awning, their feathers the color of gasoline spills.
Jean remains seated. For the first time this morning he looks wildly unsure of himself. "Do you — do you want to come in? I can make us coffee. And I have a working hot shower."
COMPASSION [Fail]: He’s offering a fuck of thanks in exchange for your services.
Kim sighs. "Go get some sleep, Jean."
"Is this, uh, politeness chicken?"
The mouth on this man. Kim reaches behind himself to unlock the back door. "Good night. I will see you at work."
The shadow of uncertainty is gone from Jean’s face, replaced by its typical grim expression. "I think you mean ‘good morning.’" He gets out and gives Kim a mocking little salute. "Drive safe." And he’s off, rummaging for the keys in his pockets as he goes.
INLAND EMPIRE: He will turn around at the door, to check whether you’re still watching, waiting for him to turn around.
Starting towards home, Kim rolls the window down to let the spring winds in.