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"I see the marital bed is no longer cold and empty," McCoy says to DB. They're out drinking, McCoy on his third beer, DB on his fourth. A typical weekday evening after work. "Found a nice new replacement for your runaway welkin, huh?"
DB's face twists in a rictus of pain, as it does whenever The Ex gets mentioned. "Are you having a stroke, McCoy? What the hell are you on about?"
McCoy motions to the other side of the barroom, where the precinct's newest sergeant idles at the water station. "Your little work wife, the virginal Vicquemare," he says. "She’s a bit too mannish for my taste, but what do I know? That ass of hers might be ample compensation." Emphasis on ample.
DB takes a second to process and erupts into laughter. "You fucking bastard," he says, slapping McCoy on the back. "Be nice to Jean. He's just trying to fit in."
Right, McCoy thinks. Fit in between your legs, maybe.
McCoy is a modern person. He doesn’t care if some men want to fuck other men. As long as they keep things discreet and out of public view, it’s all hunky-dory. But Vicquemare… Oof. The kid is a parasite. He trails DB like a dark slouching shadow, both at the precinct and outside of it, taking on extra paperwork duties and inserting himself into McCoy's bar nights. There's something sycophantic about him: the proclivity for overtime, the eagerness to please. And he's a total wet rag.
Speaking of the devil: Vicquemare comes ambling back, two glasses of water in his hands. He puts one in front of DB. McCoy tries to catch DB's eye, to say: See? Ball and chain. Told you so.
But DB is focusing all of his attention on the sergeant. "Thank you, Jean," he says. "You didn't have to."
Vic smiles. It's the bashful smile of a demure bride on her wedding night. On his long, sallow, pockmarked face it looks decidedly off-putting.
"Where's my water, Jean?" McCoy says. "Are you saying DB can't hold his liquor like me?"
Vicquemare startles, then sets the second glass in front of McCoy.
"Thank you, Jean." McCoy apes DB's appreciative tone to the best of his ability. "You didn't have to."
The impression is spot-on. DB huffs out a hesitant laugh.
A look of hurt flashes over Vic's features, only to dissolve into unreadable placidity. "It's no problem," he grumbles. He visibly debates going back to the water station — McCoy has commandeered his glass, after all — but decides against it and settles down at the table. His ears glow bright red.
***
An hour later, the entourage has mostly dispersed. Torson and Golem are jostling over the bar's lone pinball machine. Feuerbach has left for the bathrooms and vanished into thin air. Elfboy is chatting up the bartender, and DB is trying to pick up a busty blonde fifteen years his junior.
Vicquemare comes back with another drink. It's easy to pinpoint the exact moment he realizes that he's stuck alone with McCoy, because his grip on the beer glass turns clawlike. "Pardon me," he says, rising from the table. "I’ll be just..." Coward.
McCoy grabs him by the wrist. "Don't go, Sergeant. Let’s have a talk."
To his credit, Vic doesn’t react beyond a slight furrowing of the brow. He folds himself back into the seat, then looks pointedly at where McCoy's still gripping his arm. McCoy lets him stew for a moment and lets go.
"Oh-kay," Vicquemare drawls. "What can I help you with?" No sir or even Lieutenant-Yefreitor. Kids these days.
McCoy affects a tone of amiable carelessness. "It’s about our mutual acquaintance, the venerable DB. I can see what you’re trying to do." He points a finger at Vicquemare. "You should stop doing it."
Vic frowns. "Doing what, exactly?"
No sense in beating around the bush. "Milking a promotion out of him."
"Pardon?" Vicquemare doesn't sound angry or penitent, merely confused. He's a better actor than McCoy thought.
McCoy loops an arm around Vic's neck and reels him closer in. "Let me paint you a picture," he says pleasantly. "Here we have a detective who's mourning the end of a long-term relationship. He is talented, if unstable. His work partner is old. Decrepit, one might say. He will retire within the year and leave open a spot on the roster. And at this exact moment a bootlicking transfer waltzes in and glues himself to the detective's side. What do you think this whole situation looks like to an outside observer?"
Vic has frozen under his arm. "I'm not — what? I'm not bootlicking! Are you trying to haze me?" It's hilarious how offended he sounds. He forcefully disengages from McCoy's grasp. "There's no, uh, ulterior motive. Harry's just being nice and showing me the ropes. It's like a project for him, to take his mind off things. And I'm not —," Vic looks around as if to check whether DB is listening in, "— I'm not glued to him or whatever. We hang out because we're friends."
Friends. As if they are anything near equals.
Now, McCoy and DB are actual friends. They go way back. They have a routine. They’ve shared laughs and drinks and played wingman for each other. Vic is a fussy buzzkill who feeds DB activated charcoal before bar crawls. He wouldn't know real male camaraderie if it stared him in the face.
"Don't worry about keeping Harry company," McCoy says. "Get friends your own age. And stop cramping our style."
"I already have friends my age," Vicquemare hisses. Now that McCoy thinks about it, Vic does have another so-called friend at work — a dopey redhead, McSomething-Or-Other. He's tall, even taller than Vic, with all the grace and poise of an overcooked noodle. The two of them together look like an old-school comedy act: Harlequin and Pierrot. "People can have more than one friend," Vic adds unnecessarily. McCoy detects a snide note in his voice.
He shrugs. "Sure, kid. But this is the RCM, not grade school. I wouldn’t get too attached to anybody." McCoy would know: his previous four partners have all been total busts. Harrison ate his gun. Dumont ate someone else's gun. Jankowski had a nervous breakdown and quit the force. And right before Janky there was the one and only DB, who was too sensitive for McCoy's methods and requested a wing transfer.
At least his current partner was alright. Hulking, near-silent. A perfect meat shield for raids and riots.
Vic stares at McCoy from beneath a tangle of overgrown bangs. His irises are unnaturally light, as if washed out of all pigment. Outside of zombi films, McCoy has only seen that eye color on paledrivers.
"It's okay to care for others," Vic says. "It's not a weakness."
McCoy smirks. "Is that what your shrink tells you?" He knows Vicquemare goes to therapy for assorted emotional woes. He once overheard Pryce and Berdyayeva laughing about it: their young workaholic sergeant, getting his wages docked to pay for RCM-mandated sessions with a head doctor.
Vic flinches. He is probably only now realizing how much intel McCoy has on him. "No? It's just a thing that normal people should know about."
"But we’re not normal people, are we? We’re cops."
Vicquemare’s face softens. Something like pity flickers in his eyes.
McCoy’s lungs glow white-hot with anger. The nerve of this twerp, to sit there and play at moral superiority, as if out of the two of them McCoy is somehow the deficient one. It's clear that their conversation hasn't really put the fear of McCoy into the man. No matter: that will shortly change. "One last word of advice," he says. "I know it's a tall order for a homo, but when we go out to bars, you should at least pretend to hit on some broads. Otherwise, people might start to gossip."
Vic arches an eyebrow. He has probably taught himself to keep calm at remarks like these. But his face has turned a whiter shade of pale, so the armor is not impenetrable.
"I'm sure women love being called broads," he says. "But I don’t have the time to sleep around right now, so."
"Of course," McCoy agrees sweetly. "Keep telling yourself that." He taps at his chin, as if deep in thought. "It could work as a cover story. Her Innocence Jean-Héron Vicquemare, too busy for earthly dames."
Vic’s shoulders are a tense line. McCoy leans in, pats his hand, and mock-whispers, “Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I don't give a damn about your sex habits. But between the two of us, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” He turns his head to look at DB, who’s sat next to the blonde in her booth across the room. Their bodies are angled toward each other. His lips are at her ear. He is probably getting laid tonight.
Vic looks over at them, too. McCoy can try and imagine that he's in acute agony but, in all truth, his expression betrays nothing. McCoy gives the proverbial knife one final twist. "DB is all about the ladies. And even if he’s not, you’re a bit too —," he snaps his fingers, "— how do you folks say it? A bit too moche for him." Unattractive.
Vic’s lower lip trembles. Only for a split second, but a split second is enough for McCoy to notice it. Microexpressions: that’s where it’s at.
"Right," Vicquemare says stiffly. His face has slid back into stony neutrality. "Glad that’s settled. I guess I’m getting that promotion based on my work merits. You know, my ability to solve cases. And my excellent track record of not murdering civilians."
If he means for that to sting, he's severely off-target. McCoy bares his teeth in a smile. "Our very own knight in shining armor," he says. "You’re cute, Vicquemare. Let's see how long that attitude lasts."