Work Text:
Focus.
Your life has revolved around that word for as long as you can imagine. It was a mantra, a commonality in all things. For a while, it was the only consistent thing in your life. When everything else failed you, looking straight into the world, through the lens of a camera or your glasses, gave you clarity.
The optometrist had made you stare at pages of black amorphous blobs. You weren’t quite sure what he wanted you to tell him. Was there something there you were missing? Had you not gotten the memo?
He took it back when it became clear you couldn’t parse what he wanted. Then he strode across the room, pinned it up on the wall. Blobs formed into familiar shapes, numbers, letters. You don't think they always been that clear.
You stared at that chart on the wall while he and your current legal guardian spoke. The conversation wasn’t important, so you could tune it out, you decided.
“Lens… refraction… correction… unlikely… focus . ”
Your attention reverted to the conversation when you heard the word. What had he said? Your confusion must show on your face in bunched eyebrows.
“You’re going to need glasses, Kim, for the rest of your life.”
No, not that. And why was he… talking about getting glasses like it was a death sentence?
“I-I’m sorry,” you had stuttered. “What did you say before that?”
“Your eyes can’t properly focus on things close to you.”
Ah. That’s what you had heard behind the haze of childhood distraction. The blurry shape of the optometrist looks at you for too long to be comfortable. Is there something he wants you to do?
Is he expecting you to be upset? Should you be?
You can imagine he’s giving you the same expectant look he had probably made when he handed you the eye charts. You can’t see enough to prove or disprove your theory. Instead, you look past him to the far wall. To you, that is crystal clear. Every single crack, crevice, brushstroke.
(When you later got your hands on a camera for the first time, you almost laughed at how adjusting the aperture gave you a feeling of nostalgia, a memory. Your partner had stared at you in disbelief at your small chuckle.)
The next time you hear the word, it’s yelled in your face. The teacher is clearly… unhappy feels like too simple a word for what his face is doing. His eyebrows look almost as if they’d slide off his face at that angle. The creases at the corners of his mouth are more jagged. Those eyes seem to pierce into you like a needle or pin.
“Are you not listening to me, Kitsuragi?”
Oh yeah. He had been yelling at you while you studied his face like it would tell you something else. You don’t really respond, but you try to seem like you’re listening.
“Would it kill you to focus on something other than the wall or the windows for once?”
You know no response will make him happy. This isn’t about the window or the paint on the walls. This is him trying to reassert his dominance in the classroom, humiliate you. He’s giving them ammunition, whether he knows it or not.
The other kids will laugh at you later, asking if it’s because of your “squinty eyes” that you can’t see the board. They’ll take your glasses, throwing them back and forth until someone’s slippery fingers drop them. One step and the crunching noise signals the end of the amusement. You put them back on anyway. Even if you can’t see properly, it’s better than running into the wall.
It’s your fifth pair this month.
It becomes your internal monologue as you train, take the exam, age out of your awkward years.
Oh who are you kidding? They won’t ever be done.
Relearn every question you get wrong. Focus . Running everyday until your legs ache. Focus. Reread the Citizens’ Militia Handbook. Focus.
You have to do well, you know, in order to prove that you deserve to be here. It’s your right as a citizen to join and you do so with enthusiasm - even if some people question the citizenship part.
The RCM physical is more rigorous than you expected. You’re good at running - got really good at it after learning it kept your glasses in one piece for more than a week. Running after you was a hassle, a chore, something bullies saw as too much effort. You passed the physical.
(Your strength was less than ideal, you later learned from the whispers of your coworkers.)
Your first two bullets went wide, hands shaking slightly with nerves. You over-thought it.
Just shoot.
Seven in succession hit their target, garnering you a pleased hum from your commander from behind the clipboard and safety wall. The last one is lined up, just close to perfect, when one of your fellow recruits yells at the moment you pull the trigger. You can’t prove it but you know he startled you on purpose.
Can’t be outshot by a binoclard, after all.
It stings, but you’re used to it. It will all be worth it when you’re given the badge, the certificate, the keys to the Coupris. It will be worth it.
It was not worth it.
Teenagers are the worst. They remind you of the worst parts of your life. You stopped being one a handful of years ago, but you still feel detached from that period in your life.
Shut away, compartmentalize. Just like the doubts about your name, the dreams of aerostatics, the shuffling from one house to another. If it’s tucked away, it can’t hurt you. Not if you don’t open the box.
They pick away at your insecurities, zooming in on them like a sniper’s scope. If you seem vulnerable in any way, they’ll know. Teenagers always do - let alone those with the kind of thought processes that land them in juvenile detention.
You remember the crunch of glasses underfoot for a moment but then remember to put it back in its box.
You wonder how many of them are like you - parentless, directionless, basically lifeless. Maybe you’re a little sympathetic, or maybe you’re just too new to this. They said it was a ‘temporary position’ until they could find someone more suited to the department. So you wait.
You supervise classes in a brick box of a detention center. You monitor them during lunch. You are always there, an unwanted presence in an otherwise unoccupied space. Perhaps they see right through you, like you aren’t there.
But no. They see you. They see you when you hear them laugh at you again while you try to redirect them to the dormitories. They see you when they sit in classes, passing notes back and forth discussing the ‘scrawny pig bitch binoclard.’ They see you when you look towards them and remember your school days.
The box is getting too small.
Every time, you need to remind yourself why you’re here, why you’re doing this. It’s temporary. A stopping point until they move you to your real assignment. Then you know you can make the difference you were promised. So, for now, you breathe and try to act stoic.
Focus. Breathe, Kitsuragi. Focus.
It takes fifteen years for them to find the person for the department, it seems. It had become routine. It reminds you of your mantra when you first started training for the RCM.
Wake up. Get dressed. Drive to the detention centre. Endure the day. Focus and do NOT think about your own teenage years. Go home. Make something to eat. Fall asleep. Do it again, ad infinitum.
Your salvation comes in the form of a new recruit, a junior recruit even younger than you. He’s shaking a little. They’re going to destroy him , you think, but you simply keep your stoic façade and shake his hand. It’s a pleasure to meet him, yes, but it is a greater pleasure to know you are now free.
(You don’t say that last part out loud for obvious reasons.)
It took another year of bullshit. You spend a year in what is kindly referred to as “Processing,” and it becomes more clear than ever before that they’re trying to condemn you to mediocrity. You’ve learned your lesson though, so you put in transfer paperwork as soon as you can.
Not another fifteen years of this.
The manila folder tells you a desk is waiting for you in the homicide division. You are elated, but wary.
Thirty-eight has really made you a pessimistic son of a bitch, huh? Or maybe it’s just knowing you would never have left that brick prison if that kid hadn’t taken your place.
A few doors down, on your desk is another manila folder, a handful of blue pens, and a small flip notebook. This manila folder seems more intimidating somehow, like a bull in the ring opposite you waving the red flag. It could be the best chance you get to prove yourself, or it could make you more of a laughing stock to your colleagues if that’s even possible. Regardless of your own anxieties (focus and put them in the box), you open and skim your eyes on your first assignment.
Infiltrating a crime ring suspected of five deaths. You’ll be partnered with another officer just in case the whole thing goes belly up. Sounds reasonable.
You’ve learned to hate the sound of rapid clicking. It’s a constant reminder that you spent nine months of your life preparing for a case, only for your accomplishment to be reduced into a terrible nickname and a useless skill.
You thought you had buried the box with anguish over your name in it beneath the mountain of other issues you’ve accumulated. But no. One nickname and it opened and spilled its contents out into your thoughts, your life.
What a joke. The whole of the 57 found it hilarious and they weren’t shy about telling you to your face.
The only one who doesn’t bother you about it was there for the whole thing. He had watched you win the champion title. He helped provide covering fire when the ring was less than amicable at discovering there was a cop among them. He had made sure you got to leave with your life and some of your dignity, at least.
He knows the nickname isn’t something you want plastered to you for the rest of your life. So, to him, it’s just “Kim.” “Officer Kitsuragi.” Sometimes, it’s just “Kitsuragi.”
The sergeants and patrol officers are snickering and looking in your direction, with little effort into trying to be subtle.
Fill out the request paperwork. Ignore it.
You readjust your glasses as you go to start the first page in the stack. As you begin the tedious task of recording your career on paper, you know you won’t miss these people - just like you don’t miss the butchers down in Processing.
You do hope the only nice one out of them manages to make it out with an unscathed heart and some sympathy left.
But no use thinking about that now. You dot the i’s on your signature at the bottom, swearing that everything you’ve written down is true.
Page one done. Focus. Fifteen more to go.
-
Criminal Investigations is hesitant, but they eventually take you. It’s a relief, made better by the fact that you are not the only one to have transferred into the department. The one from the pinball case is here now too. His hand is warm when you shake it.
You’re partners now, you learn. He sits with you during lunch as you turn on Speedfreaks for background noise, offering you help when you can’t find your spark wheel lighter. You don’t think he smokes, but he shows little hesitation flipping open the lighter for you. Lunch seems to go by faster when you start talking.
Maybe you’ll let yourself have more than one cigarette.
As you fill out the new paperwork, you learn his handwriting is more legible. He takes notice and offers to fill out any reports for the both of you, saying it’s not a problem. You offer to help, but he insists.
“No offense, Kitsuragi, but I think our department would appreciate it if they can actually figure out what the reports say.” He laughs a little at your raised eyebrow.
He treats you like an equal.
It’s… nice? Unsettling? Both.
But he doesn’t bother you when you get up to get coffee or call you “Kimball,” so you take it as a win. The partnership is good, you think. Lunch has been nice with someone sitting next to you. You take turns getting coffee for the morning review. There’s friendliness, but there’s boundaries.
It’s bittersweet in a way, knowing that this is how it (could?) should have been from the first day you stepped foot into the RCM building.
The two of you establish a pattern, closing cases so efficiently other officers take notice. You name cases simply (which makes your partner laugh), take fast, illegible notes, and point out big picture things. He hyper-analyzes detail, pens neat reports for the file, and zooms in on the smaller details for you. When you point this out, he finds it funny.
“Maybe I’m just showing things you couldn’t see before. You put the pieces together while I just point them out. I’m the-” he stumbles for a metaphor. “I’m the ‘zoom in.’ You’re the ‘whole frame,’ you know?”
An eyebrow hits your hairline but you know he’s aware it’s all in friendliness. “There must be a better way to explain this than comparing us to cameras. After all, we’re cops, not photographers.”
You conveniently leave out the part where he’s the reason you learned to capture crime scenes on film effectively.
Speedfreaks plays quietly in the background while he thinks and you take a sip of your water. He startles suddenly, as if a lightning has struck him. You would have choked on your water if you had taken a drink a second later.
“It’s like you’re the brain! And I’m the eyes!”
It’s ridiculous. It's great.
You can’t help but laugh a little at that one. His eyes are bright and he looks ridiculously proud of himself for thinking of it - or maybe at getting you to crack your façade of stoicism. Very few can get through it.
You made sure of that long ago.
“Okay, ‘Eyes,’” you chuckle. “Whatever you say.”
You don’t expect the nickname to stick.
After a few months, it becomes clear to the whole precinct that you two are like a well oiled machine. Cases are solved, reports are legible, and you think some of your coworkers might actually have developed a sense of respect for you.
It’s an odd feeling, to be respected as an officer but ridiculed as Kim Kitsuragi.
Eyes never bothers you about it or comments on the attitude shift in the office. Maybe he realizes it’s an uncomfortable feeling for you. Maybe he just doesn’t want to open old wounds. Maybe he hasn’t fully noticed but you doubt that. Anyways, you are thankful he has a sense of tact.
When you get your next assignment, he’s quick to join you in the Kineema with a clipboard and a camera. You are both prepared for another case. It hits you as he shuts the door to the car. Has it really been a year of collaboration already?
Eyes looks the same, though you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to see subtle changes even if you tried. These glasses are basically magnifying glasses and they’re not enough. He’s got the same smile, same gleaming eyes, same jokes. You think you have more bags under your eyes and your hair is certainly not as great as it was before.
You wonder how he sees you.
Does he still see you as “Kitsuragi”? Does he ever think of you as “Kimball”? Are you still the awkward, scrawny man in an officer’s jacket of your recruit days?
You’re sure he wouldn’t treat you any differently regardless. Eyes notices everything - including your hesitancy to be amicable with most people at the precinct besides him. He knows you’ve been burned before, so he doesn’t try to cross the line. It’s a good middle ground.
“Hey uh… Revachol to Kitsuragi?”
There’s a hand waving in your face, slightly out of focus. You zone back into whatever it was Eyes was saying to you.
“Are you good, Lieutenant?” It’s a genuine question, with no hints of condescension. Eyes is looking at you, irises gleaming like usual as he takes in all the details of his world.
“Yes,” you assure him and yourself, twisting the key in the ignition. “Just thinking about how long we’ve known each other. It seems as though it’s been forever.”
Laughter. “Oh come on! I’m not that old! After all, would eternity with me be all that bad?”
It’s clearly a joke but not in a mean way. You chuckle a little and you can feel your ears heating up.
“No, I suppose not.”
You didn't see it coming. It hurts when your body hits the pavement. It doesn’t even matter if you’ve broken anything. Your body still shakes from being shoved, but you crawl over on hands and knees like an anxious child. You’re more concerned with the man bleeding out next to you. You take a shaking breath and take it all in.
His eyes aren’t shining with that look he gets when he comes up with another joke that manages to make you laugh, or when you discuss Speedfreaks over coffee.
There’s so much blood.
Eyes has never been this pale before.
He shouldn’t be this pale.
You want to comfort him right away, call emergency services, and take him to a hospital. But you hear another click and his eyes widen. You know exactly what it is he’s looking at. The threat hadn’t been neutralized yet. It’s as though you collect yourself in an instant, going on autopilot.
Breathe. Focus. Aim. Pull the trigger. Do it again. Breathe. Focus. Aim. Pull the trigger.
It’s almost mechanical. You can hear Eyes gasping next to you and you remind yourself you need to be calm. There are still four more people and you are no good to your partner if you’re both bleeding out.
Turn a little. See one person in the corner of your vision. Adjust. Repeat.
Four shots ring. All hit their target. You’ve still got it after all. The moment you hear the last body hit the ground, you remember why you’re out in the open to begin with. Reality hits you like a lorry.
The blood is so warm, but Eyes is so cold. He’s shaking, camera next to him, lens smashed when it hit the ground. He can barely seem to concentrate on you. It’s clear his vision is hazy. Yours is too.
This time, it’s not your vision that’s the problem - but your Eyes.
“Hey, hey! Revachol to Kim?” It’s a tragic mirror of this morning. He’s chuckling. Why is he chuckling? Why is he laughing as he stains the pavement red? What’s so funny about this? Did you miss another cosmic memo?
You force yourself to look at him again. He’s smiling. You know you look horrified, your normally neutral visage peeled away. He can see you’re afraid. He’s afraid too, but he wants to make sure you’re keeping it together.
You hope he’s not looking at a reflection of himself in your glasses.
“What? Eyes? What’s so funny?” You’re trying and failing to keep your voice calm.
“It’s just…” Tears are in his eyes. “No one’s gonna be able to read your handwriting on the report.” More laughter.
Despite yourself, you let out a wet chuckle. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, well this asshole,” he groans and points a thumb towards himself, beaming, “just saved your ass!”
You go to get up, but he grabs onto your sleeve. You’re going to have to burn this jacket after all this, you know. The stains will never come out. The black jacket might never show them, but you’d know they’re there.
“Hey, hey! where are you going?” A little desperation seeps into his voice at that but he seems to swallow his panic.
“I’m going to the Kineema. I’m going to- I’m going to call the station and we’re going to get you to the hospital, okay?” You’re trying to go but he’s holding firm onto your wrist.
A laugh turned into a wet cough. “We both know I’m not walking out of here, Kim.”
“N-no.” You are still trying to stay calm for his sake. “We’re going to get you help and then you’re going to sit with me and listen to Speedfreaks while we eat lunch.”
Your vision is getting blurry with tears and you go to wipe them away with the sleeve Eyes isn’t holding onto.
“Kim.” Even while dying, he’s extremely confident and calm. “It’s okay. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t you.”
He smiles and you know the tears are coming faster than you can wipe them. This is why you don’t "do emotions." They never fit back in the box.
Fuck your reputation. Fuck the other officers and anyone who sees. You don’t care. You gather what little strength you possess and pull Eyes up by the shoulders into an embrace. You’re staring up at the sky as his head rests on your shoulder.
“You’re a dick for leaving me, you know?”
It’s the closest you’ll ever get to being direct.
“Eh, you’ll be fine.” Chuckles, softer this time. “You were always the level-headed one, the brains.”
You have to know. “But why would you- I mean- why didn’t you let me-”
He cuts you off before you can waste more time. “Revachol deserves at least one good person on its side, don’t you think?”
No , you think. It doesn’t deserve you . But you never let that stop you.
You sit together in the gloom, feeling the Pale creep in.
You know he’s gone when the weight in your arms seems to slump a little heavier and the uneasy, wet breaths stop. So you do what you can. You gently lower him back down to the ground, get up, and walk numbly over to the Kineema.
“Operations speaking. How can I help you?”
“Connect me with Precinct 57.” It feels like you’re going through the motions but you’re not doing any of it.
Keep an even tone or else you’ll start crying. Focus on what you need to say. Be confident, calm, like Eyes.
“Hello?” your captain speaks on the line.
“Sir, there’s been an…” How do you describe what just happened? You’re barely done processing it yourself. “There was an incident.”
“What do you mean, Kitsuragi? An ‘incident’?”
You take a deep breath to calm yourself more. When you go to open your mouth, he cuts you off. You can hear the rustling of papers in the background and a knocking on his office door.
“You know what? I don’t have time for this. Put Eyes on the line.”
“I- I can’t, sir.” You barely whisper it out.
“What?” he says. The papers cease shuffling. “Say again?”
Another, deeper breath. Say it louder this time. “I can’t put Eyes on the line, sir.”
“Kitsuragi, if this is you trying to be insolent I can-”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand. I can’t put Eyes on the line.” If the wavering of your voice didn’t say enough, you might start yelling.
You hear a sharp intake of breath on the other line and the sound of papers being set down.
“Oh, I see,” he murmurs. “Should I send for the lazareth?”
You shake your head and then remember he cannot see you. “You may but there is nothing that he’ll be able to do except collect the…” you trail off.
He gets the message. “Understood. Stay where you are, Lieutenant. I’ll tell Alice to send whoever is closest to you.”
“Thank you sir.”
You don’t even wait for him to say goodbye before you disconnect from the radio and slump in your seat. It’s not even midday and already there’s blood in the streets and on your hands. You must have zoned out, because the next thing you realize, someone is knocking on the window of the Kineema.
You turn and push open the door, to which the officer gives you space. Even if he can’t see the blood on your jacket, the scene should provide him with enough context.
“Um,” the officer takes a second to collect his thoughts. “Good morning.” You notice he seems to flinch at his choice of words and he adjusts his tie. “I’m Satellite-Officer... partner and I are from Precinct 41… dispatched to help you with a reported incident.”
Maybe it’s the Trauma-and-Stressor Disorder again. It feels like you can’t focus, think, or exist in this moment. Zoning out, his voice sounds like a rumble from another room.
You should probably try to look like you’re paying attention. Turn your head. Look at him. Seem engaged in the conversation.
You can’t really focus on the details on his face between the tears and your god awful eyesight. What was his name again? You weren’t really paying attention.
Over his shoulder, you can (at least more clearly) see a Coupris 40 with an older man in a green blazer leaning against the hood unsteadily. The blob-shaped officer to your right notices your line of sight and you can hear him as he sighs under his breath.
It seems as though no one is having a ‘good morning’ today.
“Lieutenant Kitsuragi from 57.” You manage to get it out after swallowing the lump in your throat. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate the… assistance.”
The officer nods and pulls a clipboard out from under his arm. “Where would you like to start, Lieutenant?” He holds out the clipboard and pulls a flip notebook. He wants you to fulfill the report. Makes sense, you suppose. After all, who else will?
Who else can?
You take the clipboard and expect to follow his lead but he stays in place.
Oh. He’s deferring to you.
Oftentimes, you forget about your seniority and the fact that other Precincts have officers that respect one another. It only really comes up when you have to do paperwork. How long has it been since you filed - no- wrote a report?
You never thought about your rank when you were on duty with Eyes.
He just treated you like a person, like an equal.
You clear your throat, trying to push down the… the everything. Too many boxes bursting at the seams. If it wasn’t only eight in the morning, your single daily cigarette would sound pretty good right now.
Would you even be able to light it with how much your hands are shaking? Eyes probably could. His hands were always steady at the right time. His hands never shook when aiming down and-
You cut off that train of thought before you throw yourself in front of it. There’s an officer here waiting for you to begin. Don’t waste his time. You can do this.
Breathe. Focus, Kim.
Calm visage back on - you hope he ignores the redness of your eyes - and professional posture corrected.
You take a deep breath and begin.