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Published:
2020-12-31
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1/1
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aces high

Summary:

The Du Bois-Vicquemare rift has gone on long enough. Kim decides to take matters into his own hands.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

There is very little Jean finds intimidating. He could count his fears on the fingers of one hand. None of his superiors, past or present, have ever made the cut—he prefers to reserve trepidation for stuff that actually matters. The Pale, for example, or large groups of small children, or surprise phone calls from his mother. Real, genuine, terror-inducing shit.

“Good evening, officer.” Kitsuragi’s voice is soft but direct, as always. “Have a seat.”

Jean scowls. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

In all honesty, he isn’t sure what happened here. This is one of his usual Friday night haunts, he knows that much. His brain offers up foggy memories of walking through the door… what, five minutes ago? Ten? Making his way across the bar, weaving through the throng of people to reach his usual table, only to find it already occupied.

Jean opens his mouth again. Slowly, Kitsuragi arches an eyebrow.

Say something, his brain hisses—which is annoying and unhelpful, since Jean isn’t gaping like this on purpose. He’d love to say something. Anything. Literally a syllable, at this point, would be a victory. Ideally two syllables, involving fuck and off, in the same sentence.

The lieutenant inclines his head at the opposite side of the booth. Despite his best efforts, Jean’s legs betray him. He slides into it. Kitsuragi nods, just once.

“Thank you,” he says lightly.

There’s something different about him now Jean’s sat down, a warmth in his voice that reaches his eyes. If he saw that expression on someone else’s face, Jean is relatively sure he’d be able to pin it down—relief, maybe, or gratitude—but the lieutenant isn’t someone else, and this is all there is. An imperceptible shift behind his glasses as he unfolds his arms. It feels important, but Jean doesn’t know why. Getting a solid read on this guy is like trying to decipher Harry’s field notes: time consuming, ultimately hopeless, and liable to give him the mother of all headaches.

“What are you drinking?”

If Kitsuragi’s offended by the brusqueness, he doesn’t show it. He shrugs, glancing at the tumbler in his hand.

“Oranjese ‘41.”

Jean’s eyebrows dart to his hairline. Of all the single malts the isolas have to offer, this guy drinks ‘41? That’s a scam. It’s overpriced bullshit whiskey. Jean should know, he wastes a solid chunk of his paycheck on it every year.

“That’s overpriced bullshit whiskey,” he says—and feels oddly vindicated when the corners of Kitsuragi’s mouth curl into a smirk, so brief it’s barely noticeable.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is.”

Five minutes later, Jean takes a swig from his own glass of ‘41. He savors the first taste, letting the fire burn away on his tongue before he swallows. Sweet, smoky warmth prickles through him in its wake, curling up in his chest like a cat. 

“All right.” Jean steels himself, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “What the hell has he done this time?”

Kitsuragi doesn’t answer. He just swills his overpriced bullshit whiskey in one hand, slow and thoughtful, leaving Jean to fidget in silence.

“What makes you say that?”

Jean grins. It’s wolfish, bordering on a sneer—but come on, he’s staring his calm, collected replacement in the face with barely one sip of alcohol to soften the blow. He’s earned a little cruelty.

“That’s why we’re here,” Jean deduces, leaning back in his seat. “This is a Du Bois bullshit task force meeting. I know what they look like, Lieutenant, fuck knows I’ve organized enough of them.”

An ugly, vindictive part of him is glad. See? You can’t fix him. I sure as hell couldn’t.

Kitsuragi doesn’t react—not to the wolf-smile, to the provocation, or to anything else. He just sits there, meeting Jean’s eyes with his steady, impassive gaze, until Jean gets that telltale prickle on the back of his neck, the one which always shows up when he puts his foot in his mouth. 

“Good guess,” Kitsuragi says mildly. “This is a Vicquemare bullshit task force meeting.”

Jean splutters around his mouthful of ‘41.

“You—” The rest of his sentence gets lost in a coughing fit. His throat feels stripped raw. “But I haven’t done anything!”

“Harry misses you,” Kitsuragi informs him, just as calm and matter-of-fact as he was five minutes ago.

“Not my problem,” Jean snaps.

“No,” Kitsuragi agrees, inclining his head to one side. “It’s not. But… and forgive me for my candour, officer—I think we can safely say the feeling is mutual.”

He gets to his feet. For one wild, stupid moment, Jean hopes this is it, that he’s going to fuck off now he’s dropped his little bombshell, but all Kitsuragi does is walk over to the bar, then return a minute later with a water glass that he pushes across the table. Jean ignores it.

“How would you know?” he mutters, eyes fixed on the table’s sticky surface. “He doesn’t miss me, he barely knows who I am.”

“He knows you’re important to him.”

Jean barks out a laugh.

“Oh, don’t start with that shit,” he warns, looking up from the tabletop as his hackles start to raise. “You won’t get anywhere.”

“How long were you partners?”

Not long, in the grand scheme of things. Long enough for there to be spare mugs gathering dust by the sink, clothes Jean doesn’t own cluttering his closet, a pack of Astras discarded on the same cramped table he and Harry would hunch over for hours at a time, case files fanned out in the space between them. It’s been months, but he can still see it if he tries: Harry kicked back in his usual chair, grinning, eyes bright, shirt untucked, his tousled hair haloed in smoke. He’d say something so stupid, or brilliant, or unexpected, and it would make Jean crack up again—which would, inevitably, crack Harry up again. They could spend hours like that. Alone together, caught in the feedback loop.

“Four years,” he mutters.

“Hm.”

“Yeah, I knew the sorry bastard pretty well.” Jean takes another gulp of his drink, ignoring his sore throat. He swallows with a grimace. “I don’t need you to explain him to me, I know how he thinks, I know the kind of shit he likes to pull. Trust me, you’ve got it wrong.”

“I don’t think so, actually,” Kitsuragi says, adjusting his glasses. “But your opinion is appreciated.”

Jean stares at him. He realizes, with a jolt of shock and begrudging respect, that he’s misjudged this guy. Kitsuragi’s not nice. He’s a shithead. No wonder Harry likes him.

“He misses you,” Kitsuragi repeats, blissfully unaware of Jean’s epiphany. “He’s told me as much himself.”

Jean scoffs.

“Oh, well, if he told you—” 

“Yes,” Kitsuragi says, his voice firm, “he’s told me. Multiple times. What would he gain from lying?”

“Has he talked to his tie yet?” The words bubble up from some deep, hollow place, sore to the touch. It’s a low blow, but Jean can’t bring himself to care. “Stripped in broad daylight, maybe? Shown up hammered, waved a fucking gun at his head in front of a witness or ten—” 

“Lieutenant Du Bois has been sober since the incident in Martinaise,” Kitsuragi says icily. “As you already know.”

It’s hard to be sure, thanks to the glasses, but it looks as though his eyes are narrowed. Jean’s chest thrums with grim satisfaction. Even saints have their limits, then.

“He’s been sober before.” Jean muffles a hoarse cough into his elbow. “It never sticks.”

Between one second and the next, a hand reaches across the table. Jean blinks, wondering if he’s about to be punched in the face—but all Kitsuragi does is push the water glass towards him pointedly, eyebrows raised.

Jean swallows. Just one sip, to soothe his stupid throat… 

“I know how Harry feels,” Kitsuragi says, very quietly, “because he told me. And I know how you feel, Jean, because you wouldn’t resent me so strongly if you felt otherwise.”

Jean exhales, hard. He slams the empty water glass down.

“Fine. Fuck it, fine, let’s pretend for a moment that you’re right on both counts—”

“Yes,” Kim says dryly. “Let’s pretend.”

“Even if that were true,” Jean growls, “what the hell am I supposed to do? Talk to him?”

“He’s not dead.” Kim’s voice is too calm for comfort. It makes Jean’s skin itch.

“You didn’t know him,” he snaps. “Of course he’s not dead to you. Four years I spent cleaning up his messes, and now he’s forgotten all of them.”

“He also forgot his name and the concept of currency,” Kim points out, not unkindly. “Both of which he relearned, in time.”

He drains the last of his drink, pushing the tumbler neatly to one side. Everything he does, Jean observes, is imbued with quiet, considered intensity. This is a man who cleans his glasses with the same focus most people would use to load a gun.

“What do even you see in him?”

The question blurts out of its own accord. Jean’s barely aware he’s said it until the answering silence smacks him in the face and makes him cringe—but Kim just hums, sounding thoughtful, and taps his fingers on the table.

“He caught me off guard,” he admits, at last. “Our first day in Martinaise, the way he talked… to be blunt, I assumed it was a distasteful joke by the 41st. I only accepted he wasn’t acting when he called the station. Over time, I realized nothing was an act. His confusion over field work, all his mistakes, his beliefs, his fears, his habit of talking to walls…” 

“Harry without a filter,” Jean murmurs. Kim smiles at him, faint and wry.

“He wanted to hold a funeral for his motor carriage,” he says quietly, tracing a pattern on the table with his fingertips. “We met a girl out on the ice, he gave her the scarf he was wearing. He wanted to talk to everyone, solve their problems—he was chaotically earnest. Frustrating, impulsive, constantly curious, I’ve never answered so many questions in my life, but… earnest. He seemed determined to be kind. I was drawn to that, I suppose.”

His face has softened. There’s a small, imperceptible smile playing on his mouth. Jean’s seen him smile like that before, but only rarely, and only when Harry’s in the room. Not for the first time, he wonders what it means.

Occasionally, when Harry was very drunk, or very tired, or very high, something would break through like a snatch of song in radio static. That manic grin would slide off his face and the gloom in his voice would fade. Then he’d do something stupid, like grab Jean’s wrist and say his name, unguarded and curious, or ask him why he looked so sad. Some nights he did both, and Jean would stumble home and chain smoke on the fire escape until morning.

Jean looks down at his hands. 

“Thank god the 57th sent you,” he mutters. “I would’ve throttled him.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Kim says, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Jean grunts and tips his head back as he drains his glass. His throat’s recovered enough that he can savour the dregs properly, mulling them over before he swallows.

Kitsuragi may be a shithead, he decides, but he’s right. Was spending four years in the same hellish feedback loop healthy? No. Was it addictive? More than anything else in the world. Jean would know, because he’s looked. This Harry isn’t the one he knows, except for the ways in which he is, and the ways he could be. It would be a nice change of pace if they pulled it off. They could try it out: the novelty of being people who aren’t terrible for each other. How long it would last, if it lasted at all, is another question in itself. But…

Across the table, Kim offers him another slight smile. Whatever he was planning to say next doesn’t make it out.

“You left early,” Harry complains, sliding into Kim’s side of the booth. “You never leave early.”

Jean jumps, cursing. Kim, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch.

“This may come as a surprise,” he says, glancing at Harry, “but occasionally people have things to do. Hello, detective.”

“How the hell did he find us?” Jean hisses. 

“The Kineema told me,” Harry says absently. He frowns, wrinkling his nose. “Who was drinking Oranjese ‘41?”

For a brief moment, he goes very still. Then, finally, his head whips up so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t strain something.

There’s an unbearable silence. Jean groans, dragging one hand down his face.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to punch you, Harry, for god’s sake.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to?” Harry asks. “I would, if I were you.”

“I never said I didn’t want to—” 

“Nobody is punching anybody,” Kim says firmly.

“He can punch me if he wants,” Harry argues. “I’m tough. I can take it. I can punch him back, Kim, then it's a fair fight.”

“Nobody,” Kim repeats, louder, “is punching anybody, in this bar.”

There’s a look on Harry’s face that Jean is familiar with: that quizzical furrow of his brow, his parted mouth, the way his broad shoulders shift as he crosses his arms. It means, in his experience, that Harry intends to go down fighting for the last word, regardless of how outgunned his argument is.

Later, Jean mouths at him. His chest glows warm when Harry catches his eye, the same way he always does, and starts to grin.

 

Notes:

sorry if this reads a little rough! i just finished my first playthru (HOLY FUCK. holy fuck. what a game) and wrote this in a crazed feverish haze afterwards. thank u for reading ♡