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“Thank you, Lieutenant, that’s very thoughtful of you,” Jean heard from across the room, and glanced up to see Harry standing over Kitsuragi’s desk. Kitsuragi had swiveled his chair around to face him, and was holding a small potted plant. A pit seemed to open up inside Jean’s chest.
“Yeah, I just thought you might like it,” Harry said. He appeared embarrassed – no, nervous? A frenetic energy had overtaken Harry’s frame and, though Jean couldn’t be sure from this distance, he seemed to be blushing. “And besides,” he continued, “it’s symbolic: a new plant for your new start here.”
“It’s symbolic: a new plant for your new start here.”
It had been a little more than four years since those exact words had been said to Jean himself, though he’d overheard the phrase a few more times since then. The last time, just a few months before, he himself was saying them: to Judit Minot, the previous new officer to join the ranks of the homicide task force. He’d long-since realized that the gift Harry gave to all of their new recruits and transfers was nothing more than an empty gesture, that it didn’t mean anything, but he didn’t see why Minot couldn’t receive the same courtesy just because Harry had slid too far into his own self-destructive bullshit to remember to do it himself. Jean felt unexpectedly guilty that he’d forgotten to pick one up for Kitsuragi’s first day.
Watching Harry and Kitsuragi talk animatedly about the plant, he knew it wasn’t just an empty gesture this time. Jean couldn’t be sure if Harry actually remembered his old tradition or not, but it was clear that this one was much more meaningful than any other he’d given over the years. Kitsuragi placed the plant on a corner of his desk, beside his lamp.
Jean had also kept his plant on his desk for the first few years, watering it diligently. He’d had a few plants at home that he’d often struggled to remember to keep watered, but this one had been special to him, especially as his friendship with Harry had grown. Later, when that friendship had become strained, the plant had lost its place in the worst way:
During one of his fights with Harry, which were getting more frequent at that point, Harry had picked up that precious gift and smashed it on the ground before storming out of the precinct. Jean cleaned it up himself, like he would later clean up so many of Harry’s messes. He put everything into a garbage bag: the plant, the dirt, the shards of pottery, all mixed together. He’d intended to toss it into the dumpster, but he surprised himself by taking it home and repotting it instead. He’d put it on the shelf in his living room with his other plants, but the shock of replanting had turned out to be too much for it, and it only lasted a few months. He hadn’t been able to muster the motivation to throw it out, so it stayed on the shelf until, one by one, all of his plants had died.
Jean looked up again at Kitsuragi’s and Harry’s smiles: one restrained and careful, the other now wide and toothy. It was hard to hope that this new leaf of Harry’s would stay turned over (Jean internally rolled his eyes at the imperfect but too relevant metaphor), but he wanted to believe that his years of trying to keep Harry alive wouldn’t be for nothing, that something good could come from him in the end. He took a deep breath, and returned to his work.