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There was a lot that was never explicitly addressed after Martinaise.
For example, it was just so natural that you'd both go back to your place for a week or so after the debriefing at Precinct 41. Even after Gottlieb properly saw to Harry's wounds (did anyone think it was weird that you were hovering outside? You were just waiting for him, after all!) it was probably still a good idea to have someone at his side for a while to help him keep an eye on the bits of damage he couldn't quite reach. Besides, it's not like he had any idea how to get home.
And sure, the rest of the team did seem a bit more at ease with Harry after a few hours (especially after seeing the way Lena and Morell acted towards him and sang his praises), but they wouldn’t have exactly been ready to welcome him into their own apartments.
Nope, Harry was obviously coming over to stay at yours. When he was ready, you both just hopped in the Kineema and drove off, no questions asked. Well, that’s not quite true. Many questions were asked. Harry asked questions about your thoughts on the precinct (promising), how it compared to your own (very different), your favourite animal (you didn’t have one). You asked him about his leg (“what leg?” accompanied by a pained expression), about how much he remembered of the place (“still fuck all, it turns out”) and, with a forced and heavy sigh, what his favourite animal was (“all of them! Except mosquitos, they can die and go to hell!”)
But no questions or comments about where you were going, or why. That didn’t need to be said. Both glad to be alone (together) again, after a long, weird, and incredible day.
He settled onto the sofa like it had always been his home, and you even caught him rearranging some of your books, making a mental note to swap them back as soon as you got the chance. (He was arranging them by THE COLOUR OF THE SPINES. You thought that nothing about this man could horrify you any more.)
*
When Jean finally came over with the spare set of keys to Harry's apartment he might've briefly looked confused when you grabbed your jacket and made the move to leave with them. But if he had wanted to say anything about it he was quickly silenced by the confidence in yours and Harry's expressions, looking back at him as if there was never any question about it. Of course you'd be coming along. It wasn't protectiveness, as such (although you didn't know Jean very well then, and what would he act like around Harry without you there?), it wasn't even possessiveness over the man who you'd come to think of as your new partner. It was just natural. Clearly the default. You're going where Harry goes.
Perhaps to an outside observer it might've started to look suspicious when Harry's place was finally cleared out and ready for living in. It hadn't actually been as bad as you'd both worried it might be. Past Harry had clearly never wanted to spend much time in his apartment. Although the place didn't exactly look like it had ever been cleaned, at least there wasn't too much there to fail to clean.
"There isn't even a bed frame. Why am I not surprised that you slept on a mattress on the floor?" You'd quipped, a small smile at the edge of your mouth while you take in the surroundings.
"I'm just pleasantly surprised to discover that I own a mattress!" He grinned back, with Jean just visible behind him rolling his eyes.
But nevertheless, the three of you spent the next few days doing what you can for the place. The symbol of Harry's new start - with himself, with the RCM, with Jean.
When you were all finally done, Jean got ready to leave with some warnings, criticisms, and choice swear words that you now know are his way of showing guarded affection to Harry.
Harry gave him a tremendous squeeze, and Jean's face turned the colour of borscht as he told the other man to "absolutely fuck the fuck off of me". Their goodbyes were heavy with emotion. Resentment. Worry. But also gratitude. Timid optimism. Relief.
Harry did look a little bit concerned when he saw you ready to leave with Jean, but again, no words were spoken about it.
At all, in fact. You didn't even say goodbye.
Jean, too distracted to notice, shuffled out, muttering curses under his breath. As you went after him you just nodded at Harry, hoping that your face conveyed everything you meant.
You walked Jean out as far as your car, and you got in and drove back to your apartment.
Where you promptly gathered a number of overnight items into a bag, a couple of books, and a board game, and went straight back to Harry's. You hadn't said goodbye, of course, because why would you actually be leaving?
You’d barely started knocking before the door swung open, Harry almost picking you up as he scooped you into your arms. Neither of you said anything about your return. You were just here now. Of course you were.
Harry was wearing a lurid multicoloured jumper that he most certainly didn’t have on when you left.
“Harry, didn’t Jean throw that jumper away yesterday?”
“Yes. But, Kim, have you seen the colours on this thing? It’s like I’m wearing a disco. A dance club. A prayer to everything in the world that is loud and alive. A symbol of-”
“You fished it out from the trash?”
“The very second he was gone. That man might have a sense of style of his own, Kim, but-”
“Yesterday, Harry. He threw it out yesterday. It’s been in the trash outside for a day.”
“But, Kim!”
“You are taking that thing off right now, and you are washing it at least twice before you wear it again.”
*
A week later your transfer paperwork was all ready to be processed, and you and Harry were in Precinct 41 again for a meeting about how the department would run in the wake of your joining and Harry's recovery.
Jean declared that Harry should no longer be his partner, and he couldn't work alongside a man who’d fucked himself up so badly that he couldn’t even remember the precinct. (Or, as Jean didn't say, Harry couldn't even remember him.)
You thoroughly suspect that Jean was hoping Harry would fight for him at least a little. But Harry just looked confused, and declared that you, Kim, were his partner.
Jean would need to have a new, different relationship with Harry now. And that was probably for the best.
There was a moment later that day when Jean called you a fuckface for drinking the last cup of coffee. You knew at that moment that he was somehow forgiving you and welcoming you at the same time.
*
That evening you and Harry both made your excuses and left early from the post-work trip to the bar. (Perhaps the others thought you were simply giving Harry a lift home, rather than leaving to go home together. Perhaps they didn’t know that you hadn’t even brought your Kineema. You're not good enough at reading people to know how much they suspect, and you won't ask Harry's opinion on the matter.)
As soon as you were outside, you both breathed in the warming evening spring air and relaxed. Two sets of shoulders dropped, and you started up a slow and leisurely pace back to the flat. Even Harry, you could tell, had found the situation a little bit overwhelming. He has enough baggage at Precinct 41 to fill an airport. He told you as much, and you both chuckled together, walking side by side.
Looking back, this might've been the point where one of you had to give in. To address the strange, terrifying, and wonderful unspoken thing.
The fact that you'd not spent more than a couple of hours apart since you stayed in separate rooms at The Whirling. The fact that you'd just found yourselves arranging your plans for the day as if you were a single unit: eating together, walking together, smoking together. Working out what needed to be done to sort out Harry's life and your new job together. Each problem, activity, meal, approached as a joint task.
The fact that it had just happened so easily.
The fact that in a few short week's you'd become a better detective and a better person with this incredible man by your side. And that you suspect the same was the case for him.
The fact that you fitted together so perfectly.
But miraculously, you continued to not speak about it.
Because instead you turned to him, you pulled him close, and you kissed him.
He cried for most of the kiss, quietly at first, then somehow joyously wailing loudly even when his lips were half occupied with your own. When your faces parted he squeezed you so hard that you thought he might break a rib. But you wouldn't have had your first kiss with him any other way.
*
And now here you are, a few months after the moments that seemed like a lifetime ago. And you have unspoken words on your tongue still.
You'd never really seen yourself as the sentimental type, but that's one of the sides of you that just seems more willing to come out now that Harry is here. You're sat on your couch with a book in your hand. It’s actually pretty difficult to hold the book comfortably, because there are two big, long, hairy, chunky, soft, beautiful, and slightly sweaty legs draped haphazardly over your lap. Toes occasionally wiggle at you from just to your right, almost daring you to ask them to move. It’s fine, you weren’t actually planning to read the book anyway. You’d just plucked it from its new place in your newly colour-co-ordinated bookshelf as something to hold. Instead, you sigh, and gently stroke the top leg.
Immediately, your book is catapulted into the air and you nearly lose your glasses in a quick and messy display of leg acrobatics. Harry's ticklish spots are ever-changing and unpredictable. Another thing you somehow find endearing.
As he tucks his legs back in with a cheeky grin you swing your own around and face him. His giggling slowly quietens and he starts to focus again on the car magazine he was flipping through.
“Harry, we need to talk-" You immediately wince at your own choice of words.
"Fuck! Ok. Look. Kim. I’m sorry I ate the last slice of bread while you were in the shower. Ok, the last few slices. The last half of the loaf. It’s the jam we made! Do you have any idea how good that tasted? Oh, wait, of course you do, that's. Uh. I was going to leave you some, I swear, but it-”
Unable to help yourself, you smile again, and press a finger to his lips.
"This isn't about the bread, Harry. I just..."
You shift awkwardly for a bit before you can continue. He puts a hand on your leg.
"I need to apologise to you."
He looks blankly back at you.
"For Martinaise."
Harry, by this point, has adopted his serious face. You've seen him practicing it in the mirror before. It's not very good yet, but it's improved. He gives you the space to say what you need to say.
“I struggle sometimes to think back to when we first met. Martinaise was… a lot of things.” You feel a little silly, swallowing nervously. You don’t need to tell Harry what Martinaise was. What it meant to you both. “But those first few days keep sticking out in my mind. Whatever you might’ve done before I met you, you had also been through a lot. And then… had your memory wiped. It's easier not to worry too much about who you were before the blackout, somehow. But I keep thinking about how you - current Harry, my Harry - woke up in a strange room. In a strange building. In a strange city. You couldn’t even remember a home, a friendly face, anything to cling onto. You didn’t know who you were. You didn’t know where you belonged. You had nothing.”
You take a deep breath and force yourself to look him in the eyes before you carry on. Another thing you hadn't always been good at. “You told me all of this, and I refused to answer most of your questions. I was unsympathetic.”
Harry’s cheeks are puffed out and his eyes are wide. He has so many thoughts inside of him screaming to escape, he looks like he has literally inflated from the pressure. He wants to insist that everything was fine. To tell you how perfect he thinks you are. How he loves your faults and your idiosyncrasies as well as the rest of you. How he regrets nothing about the way you both were together in Martinaise. He’s trying to keep it all in until you’ve said your peace. He’s trying so hard.
One more deep breath. “I know that things are better now. I know that you still found some grounding for yourself, that while we were there you discovered your place in the world without much of my help. I know that the journey you went through in Martinaise has shaped you into who you are now. I know I had reason not to trust you, selfish reasons, to worry about being vulnerable or being tricked. But I am still sorry that I did not take you more seriously when I met you, Harry. I had to say it.”
You finish, and he visibly exhales. He has tears in his eyes, and you’re grateful for the immense effort he had clearly put into not only to let you speak, but to cry quietly. He is, as always, a beautiful and perfect mess.
“Fuck, Kim. Is this how other people feel when I apologise to them? Shit. I’m so sor- fuck! I'll never apologise again.”
You both find laughter together, and you gently pull him into your lap where he rests his head on your shoulder.
“Thank you, Kim. I don’t think you need to be sorry. But thank you for saying it.”
You sit there together for a while and hold each other. He traces shapes on your side with his fingers and you smell his hair. Eventually he starts humming a disco tune and you gently start kicking him.
It's only been a few months, but it seems strange to remember what life was ever like without him. What you were like.
There's still a lot left unspoken. But lots more that you just never needed to say. And plenty of time to say the rest.