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The apartment is neater than it is usually. Not neat, though, not by any stretch of the word.
(All its aesthetic faults aside, it’s lonely. Irredeemably so.)
It's yours. Evidence of this fact colours every corner of the space, almost too predictable, too perfect. Photos of you and a gorgeous blonde woman litter the space. There’s some shattered glass from where one such photo fell from its perch. Empty bottles strewn across the floor also attest to your prolonged misery. The couch has been indented from all the years someone of your precise stature has curled up in it, presumably to cry or sleep-- or both.
Lieutenant Kitsuragi takes the lead as you both step into the space. He doesn’t turn back to gauge your reaction. He is too busy indulging his own curiosity.
"It's about what I expected," he says with a hint of fondness, though not enough to make him smile. You hold your breath as he takes in the deplorable mise-en-scène. All of the evidence of your past as a shitbag.
(You are still a shitbag.)
And oh, god, your chest hurts. For a moment you think maybe you’re dying, the years of bodily neglect catching up to you yet again, clawing into the empty cavern of your body to kill you, but no, another revelation crosses your mind:
You are ashamed.
"Don't worry, detective, I've seen a lot worse in my time. I think there's something… cozy about a house well-lived in."
He is being polite. You tell him this.
"Yes. Yes, I am. But, I am hardly going to be rude when you've so graciously invited me to stay." He drags his suitcase in from the hallway. It's compact. You wonder how a man could fit his entire life into such a small vessel. You're pretty sure it won't even fit the contents of your necktie drawer.
"Well, the alternative was letting you sleep on the street until you find another place to stay closer to work."
"The alternative," he says, taking off his gloves and setting them on the table. His hands are small, but elegant and precise. "The alternative was driving 38 minutes to the precinct every morning.”
58 minutes during rush hour. You do not mention this. It would mean admitting that you searched his address through the RCM database.
"Why the rush to get started at 41, anyway?" you say instead.
He shrugs, settling down onto the couch with the grotesque indentation. He disrupts the pattern. "I was a glorified desk jockey in 57. I wouldn't want to delay being partner to the infamous Harrier du Bois."
Uh.
He smiles. It disarms you somehow. You find yourself mesmerized by the contours of that curved mouth as you dumbly take the seat next to him. "Besides, I haven't had a roommate since I was young. Maybe it can bring me back to that time in my life. It could be fun."
"Fun," you repeat, slowly. Your mouth gapes like an unseemly fish.
He leans back in his seat, the long line of his neck exposes itself and disappears into the hem of his jacket. His boot reaches across the divide and taps your socked foot. He’s still smiling. He hasn’t stopped yet.
--
It is night-- late. The glaring red clock at the bedside table tells you it’s 3:23 in the morning. Your bladder tells you that you have to take a piss.
You take a moment to despair once more at your faulty decision-making mechanism. You hadn’t even taken the time to consider all of your embarrassing middle-aged bodily functions before inviting the lieutenant to stay with you. You enjoyed that he respected you. You can’t be certain that will continue. You almost hate him for accepting the offer.
(No, you don't.)
You contemplate pissing your bed for a long moment before realizing why that might be the best idea.
Then, notice the empty beer bottle at the foot of the bed. It’s tempting, and it would be so easy . Most of all, it wouldn’t mean waking Kim with the embarrassing sound of a flushing toilet in the middle of the night. Your hand almost reaches for it, but you rule it out at the last second.
With great effort, you try to sneak quietly. You count about four metres between your bedroom door and the toilet. Your treacherous, lumbering body has other plans, though, and you realize it may even be incapable of being quiet.
"Good morning, detective," Kim says from the couch.
You force yourself not to notice that he's not wearing his glasses or a shirt. (You fail.)
Two metres to the bathroom. You abandon the quest. You suppress your ned to pee. "Are you always up so early?"
"Not usually, but it's my first night in this district. I didn't want to miss all the action."
"And what action is that?"
He looks out the largest window in your apartment, watching the people on the street. The city still breathes late at night, still beats. You follow his gaze to some men across the street, a disruptive force amidst the otherwise quiet crowd of civilians floating back from their late-night jobs to their beds.
"There," Kim says softly, and he points to the pair swaying arm in arm. They seem loud but you can’t hear them from this high up. "Drunk on a Tuesday evening. This late, too."
"And that's strange?"
"Not really, no. But it adds to the ambiance of hooliganry. They're vulnerable targets, regardless. Good to be aware, don't you think?"
His head is just inches from your chest as you lean on the window together. You suspect he might also notice the proximity. "You think they're going to get mugged?"
He waits a moment, still watching them. The men swing into each other's arms, easily, as if they've had a lot of practice. They kiss.
"Do I live in a homo-sexual part of the city?"
The lieutenant laughs, a curt but sincere sound. "Not any more or less than others, I'd imagine. It's a big city, though. Good place to live if you want to fly under the radar. Presuming you don't want to make waves." He wraps your duvet around himself, the cleanest thing in your apartment. He looks smaller than usual. Dwarfed by the high window, the altitude of your apartment view. Vibrant neon reds and pinks and blues surround his frame. He watches the decrepit advertisements and weathered murals, the smattering of people living entire lives without you, the uncaring brick and cobble engulfing it all. You watch him, though you can’t label exactly why you find him so fascinating.
You get the feeling he's watching you, too.
"Detective? Did you have to use the bathroom?" He had noticed you crossing your legs uncomfortably.
"No, peeing at night is for losers and geriatrics," you say, unconvincingly.
He looks you up and down, a joke on his tongue, but he's restrained enough not to say it. Too obvious, he thinks. And he leaves it at that.
-
You are alone with your thoughts because your precinct has unanimously voted to force you into a vacation. A “sabbatical” they call it. You haven’t taken one of those in your entire life, you assume. You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would enjoy prolonged time alone with your own mind. Alone, the Thoughts begin to creep in. You feel a shiver down your spine as one sneaks its way through your flesh and into your bloodstream, your brain, your lungs. You suddenly feel so small and impotent in the world. All this sky above you, all this city below, and who in the world would have to pay attention to you? Who would want to? You try to reach deep into your mind and shake out a positive thought. You really do try. A picture of your ex watches you fail from the bedside. You’re failing her.
You try again. What is there in your mind?
Your mind lurches at your own prodding. You wonder what’s behind that omnipotent void.
What do you remember? What do you know? The texture of your ceiling. The cool relief of alcohol down your throat. The warm drag of a cigarette. You have a good sense of who you were before your world effectively began, before Martinaise.
In a flash, you receive a memory. You remember one drunken stupor you’d experienced when you drank yourself to oblivion upon finding all your notes torn up and crumpled in the trash.
Fourteen suicide notes. Six of them, you hadn't even gotten past the first four words. One was written in sloppy letters on the back of a receipt.
"No, no more. Please," was all it said.
You'd bought a lot of painkillers. And a frozen dinner of corn and cheesy potatoes.
You don’t want to be that person anymore, and you think that’s progress.
-
Kim leaves in the morning. He is not being unanimously forced out of a purpose for being. His mind is relatively intact. The precinct is six blocks away. You wonder if he enjoys the walk or whether he had preferred his morning commutes listening to the radio. He hadn’t woken you up as he left. He’d been early enough to fold his sheets neatly and leave them in a stack on the couch with his wheeled suitcase tucked between the furniture and the wall. An island of order amidst the rest of the chaos.
You decide, after a lunch of takeout pizza and Astra, that you should probably clean up.
Where does one even start to clean? You're pretty sure if this were any other space, it wouldn't matter. Any starting point would yield a clean apartment within an hour or two of sorting and dusting.
You can’t seem to be normal, though, can you?
You notice a pair of soiled undergarments on the ground, another thing Kim had been too polite to mention.
You place a vinyl record into your (dusty) record player at random and attempt to start cleaning.
You fail. For three hours.
You wake up in the afternoon. It is mid-March now. The weather is beginning to warm, though it isn't yet hot. Some clouds fill the air and you want to catch them, join them, become them. You don’t think you can handle another responsibility.
You were face down on the couch, drooling into the sheets and the pillow you'd given to the lieutenant. You wipe the spit stain to no avail and hope he doesn't mind. The last clean thing in your apartment, and you managed to spoil it within a day.
The music had stopped some time ago, but the record is still spinning, fruitlessly. The record has no more sound to give. You shake yourself free from the slumber. You place the needle back at the start.
-
Evening hits just as you tie up the last of your garbage bags. You place them near the door to throw away tomorrow. You stand to wipe your brow just as the last of the dusk light slips below the horizon. Late evening, then. The floor is still unvacuumed, but your space seems habitable now. Your body refuses to take another step.
The door unlocks and a sensation of familiarity pierces your chest. You don’t know what you’re hoping for, but for a panicked second, a woman’s name almost escapes your lips. You almost see her out of the corner of your eye.
Instead, Kim stands at the doorway. He holds a plastic bag in his hand, and in that bag, food. “I picked up some more frozen meals on my way home,” he explains without greeting. “I thought we were running a little low.” He is unfazed by the Feeling that had just overcome you, and he is equally unawares that he seems to be its cure. If he notices anything, he doesn’t mention it. He just steps out of his boots and shoves them to the side with his foot to make a clear path ahead of him.
“Kim,” you say, though you don’t have a complete thought beyond that.
“You cleaned up, I see. Good, I was hoping--” but he doesn’t finish his thought either. He avoids your gaze.
It’s nearly nine, you notice, and your stomach grumbles. “I should have made dinner,” you say, apologetic. Kim brushes this infraction off, though, as he had with every other failure of yours.
You wonder why he doesn’t demand more from you. You wonder why he doesn’t demand more from everyone. He could. He should.
“There’s no need, detective. Besides, I prefer the packaged stuff.” He pulls out two meals from the back of your freezer, caked in shards of crystalline ice, before replacing them with fresher frozen meals. He wipes at the freezer burn to read the label. “I guess it’s broccoli and steak today.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What for? We’re being young roommates, now, remember? It’s going to be another ten years before this will start affecting our gut.” He’s playful. This isn’t a jab at you. “You know, I’m not much of a cook, myself,” he admits. He prepares the meals expertly, and you reason that he has done this hundreds of times before (or it simply doesn’t take much skill). He shoves them into the microwave before finally washing his hands at the kitchen sink.
“You’re not wearing your gloves,” you notice.
“We weren’t dealing with bodies today.” He takes off his jacket and sets it on the back of a chair. You notice he’s unshaven, looser than you’d ever seen him at Martinaise. You wonder if it’s a positive change. You wonder if you have anything to do with it. You hope you do.
The thought makes you straighten your shirt. It’s useless. There are permanent sweat stains on it. “So what did you get up to?” You do a poor job of hiding your shame.
“It was mostly an orientation, some paperwork. I went on a patrol around the district, acquainted myself with the area. Nothing major.”
He stretches a little and you see the musculature of his body in the shift of his shirt fabric.
“So when are you going to get some cases to crack?”
He cracks a smile. “Tomorrow, I’d hope. I think they would want me to start clearing some of that paperwork in the back room.”
“That’s all months-old grunt work!” You parrot what you’d heard some of the boys say when you got back. “You’re worth more than that, Kim. You ought to be out there, with the big action and the concepts .”
“The concepts?”
“You know. The ideas. You should be a champion of the people. They should plaster your face on every billboard!”
“Like a wanted poster?” He’s amused.
“No, like an icon. Like Dolores Dei.”
“That’s practically sacrilege, detective,” he chides, but he’s flattered, in his way. He turns back to the microwave and takes out your meals just before the timer hits one. He sets them on your table, which you cleared just twenty minutes ago. “Where do you keep your utensils?”
You shrug. You don’t think you’ve used a fork since you got back. Kim decidedly doesn’t sigh as he takes a moment to rummage through the drawers. Eventually, triumphantly, he lifts two clean forks into the air.
You feel the urge to clap. And so you do.
“And how was your day?” he asks finally, settling down on one of the chairs in your dining area. You don’t remember the last time that chair had been used. You think probably not since your ex.
Kim doesn’t wait for you to take your seat to start eating. Unceremonious. He doesn’t usually share meals with people. The thought unexpectedly warms you. You feel like you match.
-
“Coach Du Bois?” you hear an unfamiliar voice calling. You’re almost certain the greeting is for you. As you take a moment to calculate how common your surname might be, a young woman waves at you, beckoning you to the wall where she’s been having a smoke break. She has piercings in her face, and can’t be any older than 35. You have utterly no clue who she is. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around,” she comments, smiling brightly at you.
You feign recognition. “Well, yes, I’ve been busy.”
“Getting shot, you badass. Been all over the papers,” she says. She bumps your shoulder with hers, friendly and familiar. You draw blanks. “What’s this?” She gestures to your face. “You’re looking a lot more alive today. Finally get on that sobriety train?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, it suits you, coach. You’re looking younger. Almost like how you were before the whole cop thing.” Just then, you notice the apron around her waist, which has a pinned tag with “Gracie” written on it, likely to differentiate it from the other employees’. “Don’t be a stranger, though. Drop by for karaoke sometime. We have water at the bar, too, you know.”
“Alright,” you say, a little forlorn. “I’ll bring my partner. He loves karaoke.”
She quirks her brow. She’s interested in your use of the word “partner.” It hits you that she must have known your ex.
“I look forward to it. Anyway, it’s been nice having a chat, but my break’s almost over.” She gestures to a pub behind her, the Lonely Eclipse. As you peer inside, you notice a distinct lack of patrons.“I really do mean it, Harry. Folks like us need each other. If you can sober up, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us, yet.”
-
The lieutenant smokes one cigarette outside your window every day because you don't have a balcony. His thin body wraps around itself, seated on your windowsill, an eternal watcher, a hawk over the city. You wonder what he's thinking. You wonder if he misses working with you.
(There are ten days left of your sabbatical. You had begged the captain to let you back. You don't even know who you are outside of work. You strongly suspect it doesn't involve being lucid. You've started to learn how to knit from an old book your ex left behind. It was never opened.)
It has been twelve days since his arrival. Twelve cigarettes. He's more than halfway done the pack now. It makes you worry.
You wonder what kind of timeline he’s set for himself. You wish he would tell you so you can prepare for his departure. You don’t want him to go.
You have been looking at him for a full, continuous minute. He nods at you and shuffles over on the windowsill, leaving room for you. He hands you the cigarette, half smoked, to share. In doing so, he lets you in on his delicate ritual, and you take a slow and cautious drag. Not too much, lest he run out too soon. You don’t want to leave him wanting.
He is wearing his sleep clothes again, a pair of shorts. In the light of the moon and the street, you can just make out the scarring on his torso. He's thin, but he has a surprisingly sturdy figure. Narrow shoulders, but muscular. His chest and back have some stark definition, an initial shock after getting used to his silhouette in his bomber jacket. He has a few tattoos on his arms and back. You don't know what they mean, but they've become familiar to you. He's not a delicate man, though you hold him in your mind like he is.
There are beautiful people who exist. Irreconcilable and mysterious people who float through the world just to grace it with their existence. Commonly seen and rarely noticed, they’re practically cryptozoological. It strikes you that Kim would fit the description. If he were, would he tell you? And if he did, would you have to start worshipping him? You feel like you could.
"You inspire me." The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them.
He quirks his eyebrow. You’re amusing him again. "Oh?"
"I mean I cleaned the apartment so you wouldn't get stuck under a pile of booze or something. That’s plenty inspiring."
He smiles at you. He's become almost generous with them. "I can navigate debris quite well, actually. Don't make any concessions on my account."
You want him to stay. It seems unjust that he won't.
"Harry?" He whispers. He leans close.
For a second, you think he might kiss you, but you're not ready.
Instead, he takes his cigarette back from your hand and your fingers brush in the process. He draws back, settling back into his watchful perch above the city.
(You realize, with disappointment, that he was not going to kiss you.)
You live on the sixth floor, objectively not very high up. There are ten more just in the building you live in.
You realize you've been sitting and looking at Kim for the past two minutes.
"Is there something wrong, detective?" He asks you.
"Not a thing," you say, and surprisingly, you feel it to be true.
The night continues below you. The same as it always is and yet different now. You think you used to love this city, before Martinaise, before Dora. The love you used to have for Jamrock is stored in a soft memory you can't quite access under layers of disappointment and disillusionment but you decide you don't need to access it. You were a different person, then. You can learn to love it anew. You can learn to love it now.
-
"Come in, come in!" Lena greets you warmly and you bend down to hug her slight, old frame.
Your body might be like this one day: fragile, small, sagging. You're on your steady way there.
She's still bright-eyed, though, and she looks at you with an admiration and affection you did not earn. No doubt because you credited her and Morell with the plasmid discovery.
Or perhaps she likes you for your personality, though you doubt it.
"I brought a gift," you tell her, and you gracelessly present a paper gift bag.
Lena, treating everything with care, takes the shoddily knitted scarf and wraps it around her neck. She beams at you. "It's beautiful, dear. Thank you."
"I wouldn't go that far," you say. It's not modesty. She must be overheating in it. The apartment is balmy and it's April. A scarf in spring was a silly idea.
Kim walks in behind you, eyeing the apartment. Newspaper clippings clutter one wall in the living room, which is covered in corkboard, but the rest of the place seems cozy. You spot something familiar in a metal frame: the photo you sent them in the mail.
Other photos fill the rest of the space; Lena and Morell in their childhoods, on excursions together, even photos of their families and friends. Their furniture is mostly old (though not antique) worn down and rough from years of use. The space is well-loved.
Out of the corner of your eye you see Kim and Morell nod at each other in acknowledgement. Lena doesn't seem to notice. Instead, she leads you to the dining room where the table has been set with a gorgeous array of vegetables and breads and pastas in casserole form.
"I wasn't sure what y'all liked so I made a bit of everything," Morell chimes in gruffly. "I hope you boys brought your appetites."
Lena pulls out a chair at the head of the table and gestures at it. "Come, sit. We so rarely have guests over. I want to hear about everything."
You take the seat, but you feel uncomfortable being in such a venerated spot. Kim seems to notice and quickly settles in at the table, directly to your right.
-
The morning of your first day back to work brings with it a whole new dread. The alarm shrieks at you early in the morning. The date had been circled in red ink on the calendar on your wall. Previously,it had been motivating. Now, it has turned ominous.
You feel unprepared despite having had all this time to prepare.
You conclude that you must be lazy and unworthy of your title and your accolades. You are an imposter to your peers and your position. They are upright citizens working to keep Revachol running smoothly. You are a fat, old loser thirty years past his prime. You suffer major cognitive damage from all the drugs and the alcohol.
In the kitchen, you hear a commotion. Kim’s radio plays and you recognize the fast-paced heady music of Speedfreaks FM.
Kim makes breakfast. You count two bowls of some gruel you imagine exists only to make men feel old. He places a few bits of cut up bananas on top, though it doesn't do much to increase its visual appeal.
You're overcome with affection for the man anyway.
"Thank you," you say. You give him an awkward hug from behind. For a long and horrible moment you think made him uncomfortable, but you persist. His body is slight and yielding. You're glad to have experienced it despite the awkwardness.
You break slowly from the embrace. He doesn't step away. You think it means something.
He turns and faces you, but avoids your gaze. "Are you ready, detective?"
You begin to nod, but he leans up and plants a kiss into the dense forest of your facial hair. You regret not shaving it.
Then, as quick as he did it, he is gone, sitting at the table and looking expectantly at you with a spoonful of gruel headed towards his lips.
You bring your bowl and clamor over to the seat opposite his.
--
There is a large bouquet of flowers on one of the desks at the precinct. That one is yours. The officers in the room follow you with their eyes as you make your way to the desk. No one speaks. The flowers are cheap carnations in yellows and blues. Some baby’s breath along the perimeter, some ferns for contrast. It’s not an expensive arrangement. In the centre, a plastic stem holds up a rectangle of plain white cardstock which reads “Sorry you got shot, asshole” in steady, block letters
Out of the corner of your eye, Kim smiles, more to himself than anything else. He seems proud, like he had something to do with the vase on your desk, but you decide against asking. Lieutenant Vicquemare pats you on the shoulder.
"Alright, everyone back off and get back to work," he says to the room, but the other officers refuse, still watching you. You give them a nod, and finally, they disperse, as if you aren't the spectacle you feel. As if they respect you.
They're good men, you decide, despite everything. Vic sits down next to you and hands you some paperwork. "These are almost done. You just need to sign off on the report," he says.
You open the folder and find most of it complete in Kim's nearly illegible handwriting. Helpfully, he's written little X marks everywhere that needs your signature.
Kim has a desk across the office from you, seated near the window, a coveted spot. You see him wrapped in conversation with Officer Minot, whom you're glad to recognize. He feels your attention on him and gives you a little wave. You wonder if he's going to be so distracting for the rest of your career.
-
Your first case back is a fresh death; an accident involving a young married couple and erotic asphyxiation gone awry.
The wails from her grieving wife send you into an episode. Six bottles of beer down your gullet, and you still hear them. They were married just six months ago.
The last thing that woman needs is to be on trial for murder on top of it all.
Your eyes are blurry and you try to work on your report. You try to put to words what was said at that woman's questioning. All you remember are her cries.
You wonder if you can love someone so much you would let them kill you. You wonder if it’s healthy.
(You can. You know you can, and worse, you want to love someone that much. You want some to love you that much.)
"I think that's enough of that," Kim says gently. You hadn't heard him come in. You wonder what he's still doing at your apartment, why he hasn't gone and found somewhere else to live by now. Somewhere better. "Do you want me to leave?" He asks you, setting the bottles down by your sink and emptying the rest of them. You hadn't realized you were talking.
"No," you say, practically pleading. "I'm saying, why do you let yourself sleep on the couch?" You rub at your eyes a little too hard and your head hurts. Your heart hurts.
"Your back is worse than mine. You need the bed," he says matter of factly. "I take it your day didn't go very well." He tries to read through your case notes, but they're chicken scratch. You can hardly make them out, either.
"It's just the darndest thing. Can you imagine killing your spouse because you loved them so much? Can you imagine the trepidation and the fucking fear? You're tying a noose around your wife because she asked you to and you have to trust your own damn hands not to do anything rash."
He thinks for a long moment. "I would be glad to die at the hands of someone I loved and trusted, I think."
You nod, a mistake as you feel lightheaded already. "What about her?" You ask, pointing to the deceased’s wife. Her picture was taken before she was taken in for questioning. She looks like a ghost, as if she was the one who died. You're sure a part of her did. "She's just supposed to move on? Live with herself?"
"You are grieving for the victim's spouse?"
You nod. "It's a fucking death sentence for her. Having to live with herself every day after that. How's she supposed to cope with the guilt?"
Kim's hand hovers over you for a moment, hesitates, and lands on your shoulder. "That's exactly what the rest of us do." He looks at you for another moment, and you get the feeling he would kiss you again, but it would be too much for you. You shake away the thought, the want. “You feel so much, Harry.”
Then, before you can register it, he hauls your massive, ungainly body up on his tiny shoulders. Vaguely, you feel his knees buckle. You nearly vomit on him.
He drags you to your bed and lets you collapse over it, a pile of limbs that no longer want to work.
The lieutenant collapses, too and lands in a heavy thump beside you.
“Is it so bad? Feeling so much, I mean,” you ask him.
“No. I admire it, actually.”
The darkness seeps in. The impression of love left behind is pain. You understand that pain better than anything else in the world. It is the truth at the core of your being.
"Do you ever think about getting married?" you ask idly.
"Once or twice," Kim admits. "It never panned out."
"Why not?"
"I became a cop."
He turns his head to look over at you and adjusts his glasses doing so. Almost like he wants to see your face. You're at the precipice of understanding why. You see pain in his eyes.
He starts to get up but you ask him to stay, so he does. He doesn't move any closer, but he stays where he is.
-
Cleaning up the bodies never does get easier for you. There is no point you can imagine where you would become desensitized to the uncanny look of eyes without life, the haunting feeling of flesh with no warmth. You try to treat the bodies with care, never forgetting that someone, somewhere, loves that vessel deeply. These bodies are not yours, and they do not belong to themselves now, either.
You wash the rancid viscera off of yourself and run the washing machine twice.
You remind yourself that you love your job. You remind yourself that you are helping people, as the lieutenant so adamantly believes.
By 21:30, you are hungry, having thrown up the contents of your breakfast and lunch all over Vicquemare, and you do decide you could use a breather.
"Do you want to go somewhere with me?" you ask Kim as you step out of the shower. Your hair is wet, dripping down your back and to the floor. A towel strains to keep you decent.
Kim looks at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. "Yes," he says.
It's summer now, late June. You've gotten accustomed to Kim's presence and you have difficulty imagining living without him. A season has gone by, and you want to be near him more and more. Your bodies are electric as they move together, side by side in the sultry summer evening.
He wears a t-shirt and some sandals you didn't know he could own, the kind with velcro straps. He wears socks with them to keep his feet clean.
As soon as you enter the lonely little pub, Gracie notices you and waves from the bar. "Coach! Over here!"
There's a man already passed out, though there's still ample light outside. You take a seat two stools away from him and order yourself a soda.
Kim, though, does something peculiar. He orders himself a cocktail. The words exit his mouth in that same prim and determined tone you've become so accustomed to. "I'll have a popped sherry."
A moment passes between you both as you wait for your drinks and suddenly you feel your hands become clammy. "So, uh." You say. Strong start. "What do you usually do for fun?"
He smiles at you, appreciates the effort. "I would think you would have caught on by now. In what little free time I have, I like to sleep."
"Do you have friends?" It sounds rude.
He shrugs. "We are old men, Harry. Do you have friends?"
"I have you."
"Well, there you go."
You regret that more people don't know about him. You grieve that more people do not love him. At the same time, you are glad to bear quiet witness to him, as if he is a glorious and rare secret made more beautiful in his esotericism. A cryptid visible only to you.
"You're so mysterious," you say.
"Not really. I'm just not very interesting." He watches the karaoke stage, the lights from the disco ball do not obscure how empty the room is.
"Never too late to start," you decide. You're standing, reaching out your hand before you've thought it through. He smiles at you fondly and takes your hand.
"What do you mean?" He sounds dazed, but he follows you to the stage.
You plant him in front of a microphone and he panics. (His eyes widen minutely and his brows raise. Confusion and betrayal flash across his face.)
"Let's duet."
"Let's not."
But Gracie is already wolf whistling from the bar. "Fire up one of your faves?" she asks, loud enough to wake the drunk at the bar. You give her a thumbs up, though you have no idea what music she's referring to.
The lights dim further and bass guitar begins to play over the tinny speakers.
"Boogie!" you scream discordantly at the top of your lungs, more triumphant at recognizing the song than following the lyrics. "Boogie in the night!"
Kim huffs into the mic, loud enough to be heard throughout the bar. It might be a laugh. As the music starts ramping up, you realize you've forgotten most of the words. You power through with your own additions. "Dance with me baby, baby, something, something out the window and the streetlight," you struggle. You keep your eyes on Kim, though, and he gives you a small smile. It's worth the humiliation.
He starts to sing along quietly. His foot starts tapping, a development that seems to surprise you both. He sways from side to side begrudgingly as you dance around the stage, taking your mic stand with you.
The lieutenant is off-key and off-beat, but you decide you sound good together.
-
When you get back home, he kisses you before you even lock the door.
You don't stop him.
He tastes like fruit and sugar from the drinks he's ordered, indulgences to be enjoyed in moderation rather than the swaths of alcohol you would clear simply as fuel.
His body fits into yours. It simply does. You find your hands slipping under the hem of his shirt, and he doesn't stop you. You want to stay there for hours.
He pushes free eventually, though. He smiles softly and fondly as he bends to the ground. Your heart is racing as you watch him gingerly undo the velcro of his sandals. You kick off your own sneakers, not caring where or how they land.
He holds your hand as you make your way to the bedroom together and collapse in a heap. Kim lands on top of you and you bring your lumbering arms around him to keep him there.
He lets out a low, pleased groan and he kisses you again, languidly. Then the kisses dissipate into your cheek and neck. You hear him mumble something, but he's asleep before you can ask about it.
-
You like that he likes you. He likes to sniff you when you fuck. He sucks your tongue when you kiss. He rakes his hands through your hair just to get a clear look at your face. You feel precious when you’re with him. You’re convinced he’s fixed you.
“Thank you,” you tell him one day. You’re watching him read a book. He reads at a moderate pace, slow, savouring the words on the page and thinking them over before moving on.
“What for?” He dog ears his book. You admire his decisiveness, his quiet irreverence for property.
“For liking me. For staying.” You run your hand up and down his thigh.
The lieutenant leans down to kiss your temple. “The pleasure is mine, detective, believe me.”
“I think I might love you,” you tell him, and he doesn’t say it back, but you know he does because he smiles at you like he doesn’t for anyone else. He likes winning, though. He likes having power over you. You like it, too.
-
In your hands, you hold a bundle wrapped in newspaper. The thought of going to the store to buy festive paper made you anxious. You had worried about making this too significant.
“What’s this?” Kim asks, looking up from the kitchen table where he’d been rifling through some case notes.
“A gift.”
His eyes light up with curiosity and he takes out his pocket knife to tear away neatly at the layers of wrapping. He peels them all away and sets them aside before turning over the wooden frame in his hands.
“A photo?” The two of you, a photo taken from afar. Your body leaning over Kim’s desk as he points to something in a folder.
“It’s apparently the only one we have together. Torson took it by accident with a confiscated camera. I caught him trying to throw it away to pretend he hadn’t tampered with any evidence.”
“And you framed it?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he says, touched. You are relieved. “Can I put this anywhere I want?” You nod.
You watch as he makes a beeline to the bedroom, where he places it on the nightstand, right in front of one of you and your ex. He gives you a small nod and walks back to the kitchen to resume his work.
The phantom of her presence eases its stronghold on you. Something shifts in the apartment, then, and your shoulders begin to relax.