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“Vic. Seatbelt.”
Jean pulled his gaze from the road ahead of him to look sideways at the man in the passenger seat beside him. Trant Heidelstam met his gaze with zero hint of that smug little smile he usually carried. Instead he was serious. Admonishing. Probably the same face and voice he used on Mikael if the young boy did something he wasn’t supposed to.
Jean sighed loudly and blindly grabbed for his seatbelt, pulling it taut over his body and clipping it in place.
“Happy now?” he grumbled.
“No.”
Jean looked over at him, but Trant didn’t return his gaze now. The blonde man was looking out his own window quietly, drumming his fingers on an impossibly old city planning ledger sitting open but forgotten on his lap.
It was the end of a very long day. The two of them had spent the entirety of it together, running around the entire damn isola tracking down every dumb-fuck “lead” that Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harry Fucking Du Bois threw their way. Grabbing reports from other precincts, blueprints and ownership documents from the halls of records downtown, books from both the university and the largest library in the Revachol system, research reports from a private chemical plant across town. Fuck, they even picked up a pig’s heart from the butcher. Why the fuck do we need a pig’s heart, Harry??
Or maybe that one was Trant’s idea. Frankly, Jean had long lost track of which of these hairbrained side quests were Harry’s idea and which were Trant’s. They were both fucking nuts, but both way too deeply engrossed in this crazy convoluted investigation. Jean was merely the chauffeur of the information at this point.
But while Trant had spent literally the entire day talking a mile a minute about whatever-the-fuck leapt to his mind – absolutely grating on Jean’s already grated nerves – now, he merely sat in cold silence, avoiding his gaze.
Somehow, this was even worse.
After what felt like an eternity but may just have been thirty seconds, Trant finally spoke up in a low voice. “You know that seatbelts save lives, Jean.”
Not Vic. Not Detective. Not Satellite-Officer. But Jean.
That was new.
“And?”
“So why don’t you put yours on unless asked?”
“Laziness,” Jean lied. He absentmindedly patted at his pockets, seeking out his pack of cigarettes to steady the nerves that were being agitated by this line of questioning. He swore under his breath as he remembered smoking the last one after lunch, and there weren't any extra packs in the car. Trant certainly didn’t have any – the goddamn saint didn’t smoke.
Trant watched him fidget with quiet focus. “That’s not it. You’re the least lazy person I know.”
“I doubt that,” Jean growled. He thought of how instead of cooking himself any meals he would just butter up some bread or eat cheese straight off the block – just enough of something to keep his body functioning. He thought of his nights spent just lying in bed staring at the ceiling, just numbly waiting for either sleep or work to claim him. The piles of laundry, the stacks of unopened mail, the dirty counters, the bags of garbage he kept forgetting to take out.
No, he was fucking useless and everyone knew it.
He steered the MC to the onramp to the motorway, picking up speed to merge with the rest of rush hour traffic. The sun was getting lower in the sky, but it was maybe another hour until sunset.
He could feel Trant’s blue-eyed gaze burning into the side of his skull. He couldn’t help but glance over at him. “What?”
“You’re depressed,” Trant said quietly, as though just realizing.
Jean couldn’t help but bark a humorless laugh. “No shit. Everyone knows that. It’s a well documented fact about me. I take medication for it.”
“No, I know. I mean…” Trant began, then paused, as though sorting through the thoughts in his head. It was so unnerving, hearing Trant hesitate before speaking. “You have no sense of self-preservation, do you? You don’t care what happens to you.”
Jean gave a dismissive scoff but otherwise didn’t answer. He could still feel Trant’s gaze still lingering on him. He wished it would stop.
“You want to die,” Trant finally added quietly. Sadly.
“I’m not fucking suicidal!” Jean snapped, his voice rising despite himself.
Not at the moment, he didn’t add. He forced back memories of the dark moments when he had been. They were memories that were dangerous to dredge up.
Trant was still watching him. “Not actively but… Jean, you’re RCM. You spent time as a traffic patrol officer. You’ve seen what happens to people who get into motorcarriage accidents. You’ve seen the outcome when someone goes hurtling through their windshield or gets knocked through the passenger door at high speed. When they end up on the road and crushed under another vehicle. You’ve stood on the doorsteps of unsuspecting families, had to tell them that their loved one has died and how. You had to listen to their despair, had to witness their lives falling apart in an instant in the sudden absence of their person. You’re fully aware that seatbelts save lives – you’ve undoubtedly heard the same studies everyone else has. So why? Why would you neglect to do something so simple as put one on ? To potentially save your own life? Unless you just don’t fucking care if you live or die.”
Jean’s eyes snapped over to him in disbelief. Trant was… swearing?? He was raising his voice?
He was… mad at him.
Okay, no. Fuck this. Where was that Trant that just babbles on about stuff Jean didn’t really care about? That one was so much easier to share a car with.
“It’s not like that…” Jean began quietly, avoiding his gaze now.
“Then what is it like?”
Jean watched the road and cars ahead of him. He changed lanes and scoured his brain for some other excuse he could give, but his mind was blank. He released a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding and blinked at the road ahead of him.
…okay maybe that is what it’s like…
Jean’s sigh seemed to be enough of an answer for Trant. The man shook his head incredulously and looked out of his own window.
“Why can’t you care about yourself the way the rest of us care about you?”
“Fuck off,” Jean mumbled bitterly. “Like you would actually care if I died in a car accident tomorrow.” It wasn’t a question. He said it like he was merely stating a fact.
He could see Trant’s face in his peripheral vision. The widened blue eyes, mouth open, skin paler than usual.
“Of course I would, Jean. Why wouldn’t I?”
Jean’s eyes were drawn back to him for a moment, before he forced them back to the road, grimacing.
Because I’m trash and a waste of goddamn space. Everyone just puts up with me because they have to. No one actually gives a shit about me. The only reason anyone would notice if I disappeared is someone else would have to run the goddamn unit in my place.
Jean of course said none of these things. His voice box seemed temporarily broken.
It was Trant’s turn to sigh.
“I care a great deal about you, Jean. You might not enjoy my presence much, but I enjoy yours. And you have no idea how hard it is to watch you treat yourself this way. I just wish I knew how to make you see what the rest of us sees.”
Jean swallowed past a weird lump that had formed in his throat. “What do the rest of you see?” he found himself asking in a quiet voice. A strange prickling sensation went up his spine and over the skin of his arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
Trant was watching him carefully. When Jean finally glanced his way for a moment, a small smile graced Trant’s face, causing little wrinkles to decorate the outer corners of his sad eyes. Jean looked back to the road and kept it there, his heart pounding in his chest.
“We see how much you care about those around you,” Trant said gently. “You have such fierce loyalty to the team, to your friends. You’d do anything to help them… unfortunately often to your own detriment. You’re incredibly intelligent and insightful – you might think I’m the brains in our little outfit but I’m merely a glutton for information gathering, you’re the one who picks out the important bits and connects them to the investigation. Just look at all the cold cases that have been solved because of that, because of you. Not me. Not Harry. You. How many suffering families finally got closure because of you. Just caring enough to even try is far more than most people in this militia ever manage.”
Jean listened quietly, his fingers gripping the levers of the MC so tightly his knuckles were turning white. And Trant was still talking. Jean realized with a flip of his stomach and burning of his cheeks that Trant was fucking knowledge-babbling now about him.
“You’ve got such an enormous heart, Jean, even beyond the work. I see how well you interact with Mikael, and with Judit’s kids. You treat children with such compassion and respect, like they are little adults rather than oversized infants. There aren’t many who do that, and you do it without second thought. You are handsome, strong. capable… And you are funnier than anyone has any right to be.” Trant gave a small laugh and smiled wider, as though remembering something. “No one quite tickles my funny bone like you do.”
Jean was sure his face was going to set on fire with how fiercely he was blushing.
“If you don’t fucking stop, Trant, I’m going to lose control of this motorcarriage.”
Trant gave a little chuckle. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you’re wearing your seatbelt, because I could keep on going for another few paragraphs.” He then turned grim once more. “But seriously. Jean. There are so many of us who care for you, who are happy you are in our lives. I just wish you’d care for yourself along with us.”
“Please…” Jean managed to croak through a strained throat. “Trant. Please stop.”
Trant frowned, but was mercifully quiet again. Jean felt like his whole brain had just short-circuited – he had no idea how to respond to or counteract an infodump like that.
Fuck Vic, why did you run out of goddamn cigarettes?! His nerves seemed to scream at him.
His eyes snapped onto the sight of an oncoming sign on the motorway ahead of him. A big green exit sign. It was a few exits shy of their destination, but he took the ramp anyway. Trant didn’t realize it at first, lost in his own thoughts. As they came down the ramp though and into the busy streets of the rundown shopping area, he spun his head around in confusion. “Wait, this isn’t– where are we going?”
Jean didn’t respond, his fingers twitching on the levers as he took the first available parking spot on the curb. He yanked the levers to neutral, pulled the emergency brake, flipped switches and twisted the key. The motor behind them cut out, the roar petering out into a whine. The fans hadn’t even finished spinning before Jean was yanking off his seatbelt and throwing open the door.
“Vic? What–”
Jean slammed the door and staggered around the back of the MC to the sidewalk. He was only beginning to realize he was shaking. He grabbed at his hair and fought to breathe, staring down at the sidewalk.
He wanted to run. He couldn’t handle this shit right now.
“Jean?”
Car door slamming. Jean spun to see Trant walking his way, eyes wide in concern.
“You–you can’t just say shit like that to me!” Jean yelled at him before he could stop himself. A strange, raw emotion surged unchecked from inside his chest, but he couldn’t place a label on what it was. Rage? Disgust? Shame? Embarrassment? Whatever it was, this unexpected reaction built up and concentrated into a dagger that was burrowing straight into his chest, springing tears to his eyes. He could barely breathe.
Fuck, VIc, are you having a goddamn panic attack over being COMPLIMENTED BY HEIDELSTAM?!
Jean had to turn away. He wanted to fucking run and hide. He wanted to scream, or throw shit, or punch someone or something. He couldn’t handle any of this right now.
Why did Trant Heidelstam have to be so fucking sure about everything all the time…? Why did he have to…?
He staggered uneasily away from the car, from Trant. He reached out and clutched onto a light pole, leaning his head against it, fighting to breathe.
You could smash your head against the light pole , a small voice murmured in the back of his head. You could do it again and again to make the pain in your chest stop. It would feel so good.
He gritted his teeth and pulled his head back. He was ready to do it. He really really wanted to do it.
A hand gripped the back of his collar, as though to hold him back.
“Jean. Whatever you’re about to do. Don’t.”
Jean swallowed hard, just staring at the pole in front of him. He saw the owner of the hand come into view beside him. Jean didn’t dare look directly at him. He closed his eyes tight and clenched his teeth together even tighter. The hand moved to grab the fabric of his upper sleeve instead, giving a little tug.
“Sit. Please.”
He did. His knees seemed to collapse beneath himself without any input from his brain. Trant followed him, fingers still twisted up in his sleeve, quiet. Jean pulled his knees toward his chest, leaning over them with hands tangled into his hair, hiding his face from the world around him as he fought to breathe.
He had to calm down.
Deep breaths.
Just breathe.
It took way too fucking long. Each minute that passed caused more shame to well up in his chest. God, he was fucking pathetic. Couldn’t handle the barest amount of kindness without falling a-fucking-part. And then people passing them on the sidewalk and the busy street… what kind of RCM officer was he, falling apart like this?
The hand on his arm slowly relaxed, then fell away. “Stay right here,” Trant said softly. “I’ll be right back.”
Jean didn’t argue. He had no strength to. He didn’t care. He wiped his hands down his face and lifted his head, looking down the street, back at the motorway.
Such a fucking fool. So fucking shameful. A goddamn RCM officer losing his shit in the street like this. How you made it as far as leading a team is un-fucking-believable.
“Here.”
Jean turned his head. A hand hovered next to him, holding a cigarette.
“I was able to bum one off of a store clerk over there,” Trant said quietly as Jean took it from him. The man settled on his knees beside him, hands in his lap, looking pensive. “I know it can be calming. If you’re going to be self-destructive, figure it’s better to do it in a way that will take decades to cause permanent damage rather than seconds.”
Jean’s breath hitched a little in his chest. Like a scoff, or a chuckle caught halfway out. “Thanks,” he murmured, rolling the stick between his fingers for a moment. His voice was more gravelly than usual. Emotional. He flinched at the sound of it as he fumbled for the lighter in his pocket.
He could feel Trant still watching him, but kept his eyes focused on the ground to the left of his own knee.
“I’m sorry I overwhelmed you,” Trant said quietly. “It was not my intention.”
“Yeah, well…” Jean muttered. He put the cigarette between his lips and lit it, taking a deep pull so the fire could catch.
The heat hit his lungs. He held it then sighed in release, his shoulders relaxing. His nerves were instantly calmed simply by the familiar act, followed closely by the chemicals flowing from his lungs to his bloodstream.
For the first time since exiting the car, Jean looked over at his companion. Trant was watching him carefully, somehow looking younger than his years, his laugh lines slack and smoothed out by concern. Jean cleared his throat and stared at his cigarette, and finally finished his thought.
“It’s not your fucking fault. I’m apparently the kind of trainwreck that is easily overwhelmed by someone saying nice things about me.”
Trant adjusted his position so he could cross his legs in front of himself. “I should have anticipated as much. I know it’s difficult for depressed individuals to handle displays of affection when their internal dialogue insists on the opposite. I’ve read that patients often have to spend years in outpatient therapy to undo such habits, but no one in the RCM could possibly afford it. So I apologize, though I can’t take back anything I said, because I meant every word of it”
Jean smoked in silence, trying to find a balance between relishing this lone cigarette and getting as much nicotine into his system as quickly as he could. He realized that his smoke had begun circling around Trant’s face in the stale Jamrock air, and he waved a hand to try and dispel it for him. “Sorry.”
Trant gave a small appreciative smile, but otherwise remained silent. The smile was tinged with a kind of sadness that made Jean’s lungs twist a little in his chest. He had to look away.
They sat like that for a long time, in uneasy silence. The cigarette slowly disappeared into ash and smoke, until Jean finally put the butt out on the sidewalk beside him. He could tell Trant kept glancing at him, then looking away.
Jean felt he should say… something. But he didn’t know what. His mind mulled over the whole conversation in the car, again and again, feeling like he was missing something.
…wait.
You might not enjoy my presence much, but I enjoy yours.
Jean looked over at him, frowning deeply. Trant’s blue eyes met his.
“You think I hate you.” Jean found himself saying quietly. Not a question.
Trant gave a little laugh. “I’ve gotten that impression, yes. I mean, I seem to get on everyone’s nerves more often than not. I get too excited about information and can’t stop myself from sharing every little tidbit. I’ve been called annoying, tiresome, a downright pain-in-the-ass...”
Trant kept smiling, but he was avoiding his gaze. Jean flinched. He was certain he’d probably personally said all of those things, at one point or another. He knew he had more than once told Trant to his face that he would rather not spend time in a motorcarriage with him.
Jean, why are you such a fucking asshole? He’s really not so bad.
You just do everything you can to try and keep people from caring about you, don’t you?
But Trant just shrugged. “I’m used to it. I’ve always been this way, and people have always reacted this way. It’s simply who I am. I’ve long accepted I’m not for everyone.” Even as he said it though, a twitch in his lip and his falling gaze gave away that it still very much did affect him. “And those who stick around? Well, I guess they are the ones who matter.”
“I don’t hate you,” Jean said quietly. “I just push people away. Though sometimes I may get a little overwhelmed, but that probably says far more about me than you. Too much information coming at me at once, I can get overloaded.”
“Overstimulation. It’s not uncommon. Happens to me sometimes too, typically with large crowds or loud music. Too many sensory inputs at once, it makes my brain shut down.”
“I–yeah, something like that.”
Trant nodded thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his chin as he stared out into space ahead of him. He finally turned to look at Jean, his eyes squinting as a full smile graced his face. “Tell you what. Maybe we should come up with a kind of passcode so I know when you’re reaching your informational limit, particularly if I’m rambling about topics that are unimportant to the investigation at hand.”
Jean blinked.
“I… Are… Wait a second, Trant, are you fucking suggesting we make a safeword ?”
“I…” Trant froze, eyes going wide. A pink blush crept up his neck into his cheeks and he looked away, spine stiffening. “I–I mean, I suppose that is essentially what I am suggesting but not with any of the standard implications of a safe word. It would purely be for the aforementioned situation, and nothing else, I swear!”
Jean laughed in spite of himself, watching Trant bumbling nervously, so completely caught off guard. It was endearing, almost. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen the special consultant lose his composure like that before.
Endearing? Trant?
Jean forced his laugh into a fake cough, also looking away. His face felt warm again.
“I mean, in this case we’d want something that could never possibly come up in conversation,” Jean said quietly, furrowing his brow. “And if I know the two of us and the Major Crimes Unit, basically any topic ever is up for grabs.”
“Right,” Trant agreed, rubbing his cheeks as though to massage the blush away. “Like just last week when we were discussing the historically healing properties of Mesque cactus varieties. We certainly tend to end up on the wildest tangents.” He kept tapping his chin, eyebrow furrowing in thought. “Although I suppose, for this instance it should be something you would never say. That broadens our options far more than if we incorporated me and the multi-volume encyclopedia that is my brain.”
“Oh. Wait.” Jean blinked a moment, then grinned ear to ear, eyes sparkling as he looked over at him. “I know what fucking thing I would never say willingly in a million goddamn years.” He rotated a little in his spot, leaning his elbow up against the light pole as though he were propping himself up in a door frame. He locked his eyes on Trant’s blue gaze, swaying as he summoned up the mental image of muttonchops and booze. “Trant, that is just so disco .”
Trant busted up with laughter, bending double over his criss-crossed legs. Once the fit passed he straightened up again, wiping a tear away. “Yeah, yeah, I think you’re right. The RCM would be gifted a ten million reál donation before you ever said ‘that’s so disco’ unironically. Alright, I now know my signal that you’ve reached your mental capacity for information.” He tapped his temple as though to indicate the information has been logged and filed away for future use.
“And it’s a terrible enough statement that I’ll be sure not to abuse it. I’ll only use it if I’m about to snap.” Jean smirked, and then added, watching the other man’s reaction carefully. “Honestly, it’s not a bad safeword for bed either, it would immediately kill the mood for anyone.”
Trant choked on his own spit and went pink again, looking away. Jean laughed and shook his head. Oh this was too easy for some reason. Who knew Trant was so easily embarrassed by innuendo?
They lapsed into a much easier silence than before, the two of them just sitting quietly together. Jean picked at a thread on his knee, his smile fading into a contemplative frown. “Maybe we should come up with a safeword for you to remind me to stop being such a self-destructive idiot. We can’t really use ‘disco’ for that, you’d probably be saying it every other sentence, and that’s too much disco in the world.”
He flinched as he realized what he was admitting – that he was too hard on himself too often. Then again, it’s not like he never knew that. He just never wanted to confront it.
“Okay, how about… ‘You’re being a self-destructive idiot again, Jean’?”
“I’m being serious, Trant.”
“I know. Me too.” Trant gave a small smile. He looked around, as though seeking a possible answer in the world around them. “No, I don’t know, I feel like in this instance, perhaps it would be better to have something more honest, like ‘Stop that. There are people who give a shit about you.’”
More swearing. Jean smiled, in spite of himself. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before today,” he said softly.
“Guess you bring that out in me, since I do indeed give a shit about you.” Trant returned the smile with a gleam to his gaze. “We’ll figure out a good warning system. In the meantime,” he glanced down at his watch and frowned slightly. “It is getting late. Should we get going? If you’re ready to, that is.”
Jean nodded as Trant got to his feet. The consultant held out a hand, and Jean grabbed it without second thought, letting himself be pulled to his feet. Trant clapped a hand on his shoulder fondly, then stepped toward his side of the motorcarriage. Jean lingered a moment, watching after him, feeling weirdly… happy? Was that even the right word? Content maybe?
You depressed piece of shit. You can’t even tell what your positive emotions are?
He admonished himself, Trant’s smile in his head and voice echoing from just a little earlier.
“There are so many of us who care for you, who are happy you are in our lives. I just wish you’d care for yourself along with us.”
Jean kept an eye on the traffic as he stepped back to the driver’s side and settled in his seat. He turned the ignition, flipped the appropriate switches, firing the engine back to life. Then, with a little glance to Trant (who was watching him closely), he reached over and fastened his seat belt.
Trant smiled wilder and looked away out the window. “That’s better.” Jean blushed a little as he put the carriage into gear and began leading them back to the precinct.