Work Text:
Rain falls, tinkling on the roofs of Central Jamrock, as the dark, stormy clouds roll over the city. A man, judging by his looks, in his late twenties or early thirties stands, leaning on the wall of an old silk factory. Droplets of water run down his black, trench coat. A strand of hair sticks to his forehead. He brushes it away, in a irritated gesture. Someone passes him, staring down on the wet pavement, and disappears in the door on his left.
‘Fucking spring,’ he thinks, glancing over his wristwatch. He still has time, a good half an hour. He could go inside and find a place to wait in there, but… No. This is not a place he belongs to, not yet. Doesn’t want to feel like an intruder. Especially not at the Bloody Murder Station.
He glances at his watch again and sighs. He seems to be considering something for a long while, staring at the grey, dirty-looking sky over his head. Another person passes by, not even noticing him, as it seems. The man reaches into the inner pocket of the coat. A pack of Astras and an elegant, silver lighter appear in his hand. He puts a cigarette in his mouth and tries to light it. The lighter produces a faint, shaky flame that disappears in the blink of an eye. He tries again and again, but the flame flickers and dies. The rain grows heavier.
“Motherfucker,” he mutters, furiously snapping his thumb over the sprocket.
“Need a hand with that?” A man materializes before him, out of nowhere. His steps must have drowned in the drumming of the rain. His sleeves carry the white insignia of the RCM, and there is a lighter in his hand, held out. He fires it. The question still hangs in the air.
The other man leans in, putting his cigarette to the flame and drags, a long one. Then he nods. ‘Thanks.’ He expects his sudden companion to leave, disappear in the door, seeking shelter from the rain, like any sane person would. Instead, the man takes out his own Astras and lights one. The man in a coat leans back on the wall. His face is hard to read.
“You’re a fresh transfer?”
He frowns, hearing those words. He takes another drag, buying himself a little bit of time to eye the other man. Slightly taller than himself, wearing a standard, black RCM uniform, though his tie hangs nonchalantly under the unbuttoned top button of his shirt. His hair is short, a bit grown-out, and now wet, but still in shape. A neatly trimmed mustache frames his upper lip. He grins, waiting for an answer. There is something about this grin, but the more one tries to catch it, the more the feeling starts to fade away.
“…yeah,” he replies finally, releasing a cloud of smoke. He stays with his mouth open a little too long, as if he’s going to say something more, but eventually, he takes another drag of the cigarette and his expression turns back to a hard-to-read. The mustached man seems to have noticed that, anyways.
“You’re in civil, but still too dressed up for a Jamrock civilian and too early here for business. And I haven’t seen you here before, so you’re not a local,” he sums up, answering the unasked question. A glimpse of respect reflects on the other man’s face and he seems to notice that. His grin widens. “So anyways. What made you transfer to the 41st? I thought we had a… certain fame,” he drags deeply on his Astra, “and you don’t look exactly like a brawler,” he adds, the smoke covering his face for a moment.
“Nothing,” the man in a coat replies, fixing his gaze on the top of his shoes. “I asked for a transfer to the Criminal, I got assigned to 41st”. His voice is sharp, one could even say there is something arrogant in the way he talks. It doesn’t seem to discourage the other man.
“Oh yeah, predictable. We’re understaffed as hell,” he puts the cigarette to his lips before he continues. “And where do you transfer from?”
“Searchlight.” He doesn’t want to elaborate on this one. The man with a mustache doesn’t press here.
“Well,” he says instead, “I hope you will find what you look for at the 41st then.” He passes his eyes over the windows of the building towering over their heads. He really means it, though something in his voice says he doesn’t really think of that as a probable scenario. The other man stays silent. For a while, there is only the pattering of the rain and the distant sound of motor carriages on Main Street.
“Would be cool if we ended up working together, don’t you think?” the mustached man breaks the silence, putting out his cigarette on the door frame. Judging from a black hole in it, he’s not the first to do this.
“Huh?” the other man seems a bit taken aback. Or maybe just startled out of his thoughts. It’s hard to tell.
“I mean… Our wing is not in its best shape. We could use some fresh perspective on some matters. And someone to help with the caseload,” he explains, a slight blush appearing on his face. “Uh, I didn’t even introduce myself,” he adds quickly. A change of topic to cover embarrassment. He pulls out his hand. “Harry Du Bois.”
The other man squeezes it, firmly. His fingers feel cold.
“Jean Vicquemare,” he says, as their hands part. The last peck of ash fell off the stub in his other hand. A moment of awkward silence. Two silhouettes against the brick wall.
“Should probably go now.” Harry’s words break through the rain strumming. “You coming?” he adds, stopping before the door to the precinct, with his hand on the handle. Jean checks his wristwatch again. No. Still too early. He shakes his head. A few droplets of water fell off his hair.
“Uh, you sure?” Harry’s eyes follow them to the ground, his eyebrows slightly raised. Then his expression changes, “Sorry. Not my business, actually.”
He opens the door and is about to enter, but stops one more time. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and takes something out.
“Here,” he speaks, throwing said thing over to Jean. He catches it, barely, taken by surprise. “You can give it back whenever.”
“Uh, thanks,” he responds, looking at it. It’s a cheap, store-brand, yellow lighter with the most horrific flowery print he has ever seen.
“No biggie.” Harry takes half a step inside. “Be seeing you around?”
“I guess you will.” There is a slight change in Jean’s voice. It’s hard to tell what changed exactly, but he seems less tense now. Such subtle changes like to hide in the sound of the rain, though.
The door closes. The rain tinkles still, on the rooftops of Central Jamrock.