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Kim tugs his tie a minute distance to the left and frowns thoughtfully into the mirror. It's been a long time since he's worn a tie, and while he's certain the knot is perfect, he's considerably less sure about the way the thing is lying against his chest.
"Stop fussing, Lieutenant," says Alice. He can see her smiling in the mirror behind him. "You look nice."
It has occurred to him that it might reflect poorly on him in some way that the best person he could find to stand up beside him at his wedding is an ex-coworker, but he feels a little ashamed of that now. Alice has been enormously helpful from the moment he tentatively broached the subject with her. And the "lieutenant" there hasn't escaped his notice. They're friends enough to call each other by their names when off-duty, but also, it seems, enough for her to know what form of address is mostly likely to calm and focus him. Manipulative, perhaps, but he appreciates it.
"Thank you," he says. "But I want to make sure it's perfect. No doubt when I'm standing up there next to Harry, no one will be paying any attention to whether it's straight." He hasn't seen Harry today, thanks to Harry's instance that it would somehow be bad luck. But he has seen the suit he's planning to wear, and it is very... eye-catching. "But I will know," he concludes.
"Trust me," she says, "when you're standing up there next to Harry, no one is going to think it's straight."
Even in the mirror, the twinkle in her eye is unmistakable, and he can't help letting the hint of a smile creep onto his face. "True," he says, and turns away from the mirror.
"Almost time," she says. "How are you feeling?"
How is he feeling? It's not a question he usually likes to be asked, but he supposes it's traditional at this point. "Good," he says. And then, in a fit of honesty that surprises him a little, "Strange, though. It doesn't seem quite real, somehow."
"I think that's normal," she says.
"Is it?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "That would be the first normal thing about any of it, then. Given who it is I'm marrying." To her, he can say it. Alice likes Harry, eccentricities and all.
She laughs with him, then looks up at the clock. It ticks calmly on, as if it's not counting down the seconds to one of the most important, and frankly one of the most insane moments of his life. "Almost time," she says. "Shall I tell them you're ready?"
Is he ready? Ready to stand up in front of a room full of people and admit out loud that one of the things he wants most from his life is to spend it with a muttonchopped recovering alcoholic in a glittery green tuxedo, a man who claims he only worked up the courage to propose because the city of Revachol told him to do it in a gust of smoggy wind? To risk making that big of a fool out of himself?
"Yes," he says, and takes a deep breath.
And then he's walking down the aisle of the church, past smiling guests – more of them on Harry's side than on his, thanks to Harry insisting on inviting anyone he's known for at least five minutes – and warm yellow candles and gray stone walls. It's not a large or a fancy church, which suits him well enough, even without taking into account the fact that most of the richer, more mainstream churches would be reluctant to perform this sort of ceremony. The only real decoration, candles aside, is the large painting of Dolores Die behind the alter.
Harry, he remembers, stared at that painting for a very long time, when they first scouted out this church as a possible location. He turned to Kim with glittering eyes and a strange, complicated smile, and said, "She's happy for me, Kim. She'll be glad to see us doing this," and after that, there had been no more discussion about anywhere else.
Funny, how that memory feels so much more real than this moment.
It's beginning to irritate him. This is his wedding. He should be mentally present for it. And yet, all of it – the church, the guests, the officiant standing ready behind the altar – all of it feels distant. Dreamlike. As if he's watching it in a film. A very old film, on degrading celluloid.
Everything, that is, except Harry. Every detail of Harry is firm and solid and real as he approaches the altar and takes his place next to Kim. The lively colors of his clothing. The warm and serious look in his eyes. The roughness of his calloused fingers as he takes Kim's hands at the appropriate moment. The raspy rumble of his voice as he pledges to Kim his life and his fidelity and promises to love him with every remaining particle of his bruised and healing heart. (Which is entirely too dramatic for Kim's taste, but his own heart swells at it, anyway, as he promises everything he has to give in return.)
The voice telling him they're married and that they may kiss comes to him as if from a vast distance, or as if muffled on the other side of a wall, but the feeling of Harry's lips on his is very, very real, and that is the only thing he cares about, isn't it?
They walk out together, down an aisle that feels too short, or too long, or somehow both at once. Adrenalin, Kim thinks. Emotion. Funny what they can do to a man.
As they exit the doors, Kim grabs Harry's arm and stops him for a moment. There is someone ahead of them, running down the path that leads from the church. Tall. White. Skinny. Stringy blond hair. Kim's cop's mind catalogs it all almost reflexively. Strange, how familiar he seems. Strange, how much more vivid and real he feels than anyone besides Harry. Strange, this man being here at his wedding.
And then he's gone, disappeared into... bushes? Trees? Another building? Does it matter?
They begin walking again. He and his husband, together. Into their future. Into--
**
Kim frowns into the mirror and straightens his tie.
Behind him, Alice smiles at him, tells him to stop fussing, makes a reassuring joke. He's grateful for her presence, appreciative of her support, but he finds himself answering her on autopilot, because he's too distracted by the mirror.
It's hard to tell exactly what's wrong with it. When he focuses on any one detail – his tie, his hand, Alice's face hovering just behind his shoulder – it looks perfectly fine. But the overall image just seems... wrong. As if it's not himself that he's looking at. Not the real him, standing here in his suit on his wedding day, but some other Kim Kitsuragi. Although, no, that doesn't feel quite right, either. For a moment, the conviction grips him that the image he's seeing is reflecting something much more distant than his face, that rays of light emitted years ago are bouncing back to him, out of sync with the present because they have nothing to do with it at all.
He blinks. Nonsense, of course. Complete nonsense. It's obviously due to a combination of wedding day nerves and the fact that, thanks to the chaos of planning and preparation, he is overdue for an eye exam and a new pair of glasses. Well, there's nothing he can do about the latter problem now, but he gives himself a stern look and a mental admonishment to deal with the former. The mirror begins behaving itself again, as if in exercising his will over himself, he's done so over it, as well. Good.
And yet, the feeling of strangeness is hard to shake. It persists all through the ceremony. Everything is disturbingly fuzzy and hard to think about, and only Harry is solid and present and real to him. Is this what marriage does to a person? Surely not. Surely not to him.
He might take some comfort from the fact that Harry clearly feels it, too, from the way that Harry clasps his hand as they walk toward the doors of the church and says, "It doesn't feel quite real, does it?" But he's distracted, just then, by the tall blond man who darts down the aisle and out the doors in front of them. Strange behavior, that. Very rude. Does he know that person? He looks familiar, somehow.
Well, never mind. He isn't important now, surely. What's important is Harry, and the future they are--
**
Kim frowns into the mirror. His hand is at his tie. What was he just doing with it? It's straight enough, isn't it?
How long has he been standing here staring at himself?
"Stop fussing, Lieutenant," says Alice, somewhere far off in the distance... No wait. Alice is right behind him. Why did he think she was somewhere far away? "You look nice."
Her words echo in his mind. He seems to hear them a moment before she says them. Or to remember doing so. Is this deja vu? An annoying time to fall prey to such a thing. Kim shakes his head, trying to override whatever neural misfiring is causing this ridiculousness.
In front of him, the mirror image doesn't seem to be following along, but it's so fogged over, it's hard to tell. His reflection is all but lost in misty gray haze. Why does that remind him of something? And what's causing it to fog over, anyway? There's no steam. It's not even a humid day. He doesn't remember it being a humid day.
He raises a hand to wipe the glass, then puts it down again. He's walking down the aisle of the church. Why is he doing that with his hand up? Who is he waving to? It's shockingly undignified for the occasion. And why is the lighting so bad in here? It's hard to see anyone's faces in front of the flickering candles. Except, for some reason, that tall blond man in the front row. And, of course, Harry.
Harry, at the altar, grasps Kim's hands as if he's afraid of falling and is trusting Kim to pull him to safety if he does.
Kim clasps back, and stands firm, and tries to blink away the shadows. He has promises to make to Harry.
"Kim," Harry says, "this is really, really wrong."
"What?" Kim says. "You don't want to marry me?" But he feels no fear. No anger, no humiliation. Harry can be capricious, but he's not having second thoughts. Kim knows. Their wedding happens, it's always happened, he and Harry have been married for... for...
"Are you kidding?" says Harry. "You're the only thing that's not wrong."
He kisses Kim, and Kim isn't the only thing that's not wrong, Harry isn't wrong, either, but, yes, everything else is. This isn't just wedding jitters, it's not deja vu, it's not all in Kim's mind, and they need to get out of here. Kim doesn't know why, but Harry might, because Harry is pulling him down the aisle now, his grip on Kim's arm desperately tight, and this isn't how it happened, is it? Especially not that man running down the aisle in front of them. Wait, wait, something is coming back to him, now. Weren't they chasing--
**
Kim is standing in front of a mirror, but the mirror is nothing but a gray confusion that hurts his eyes. He's meant to be getting married, he knows that, but how can he go out into the church if he can't see to straighten his tie? Or if he doesn't really exist here?
There's something wrong with that last thought, something irrational, but he can't quite tell what. Damn, that's going to nag at him. How annoying, to be distracted by something so stupid on his wedding day.
There's supposed to be someone here to help him. He's certain he remembers that. But he's lost the shape of her, forgotten her name. He'll have to go out there by himself. He takes a step forward.
The church is a great, echoing emptiness around him. Weren't there supposed to be candles? Weren't there supposed to be people? He can only see one, a blond man there in the front row, looking almost as disoriented as Kim feels.
And then Harry is holding his hands. "It's OK," he says. "I won't let it get any worse. I figured it out."
"Yes, I know," Kim says. There's something in Harry's words that stirs a memory of conversations they had long ago. Or... should it be recently? "That's why I agreed to marry you."
"I'm not sure we're talking about the same thing, but thanks, Kim," Harry says, and he smiles. It's as dazzling as the glitter in his suit. He looks up, focusing on something on the wall. Is that a wall? It's so gray. So hard to make sense of. Like the mirror. But for a moment, Kim thinks he can see eyes gazing benignly down on them.
"Is that Dolores Dei?" Kim isn't certain whether he's said that out loud. It's hard to hear himself. And nothing he's saying now is something he remembers having said. God, is this what being on hallucinogens is like? Did someone dose his coffee?
"I'm really good at remembering things," Harry says. "At least, when I haven't given myself amnesia. Stuff from the past goes round and round and round inside my brain."
"What the hell is going on, Harry? This is supposed to be our wedding!" That much, he is sure of. Even in his current state. Which feels like... Hmm. Maybe it's not like taking hallucinogens, but more like slipping into a dream. He could do that now, he thinks. Close his eyes and accept the edge-of-sleep unreality he feels, and live forever in the moment where he married Harry. The satisfaction of it, deeper than he'd imagined was possible for him. The astonishing freedom of admitting that something, someone, so utterly ridiculous was not only too important to him to deny, but important enough to celebrate in a public ceremony.
"It was," says Harry. "It was our wedding. But, Kim, that was... I don't know. Years ago. Not sure how many, my mind's pretty foggy. We came back to it."
"Came back?" If the eyes on the wall were ever really there, they're gone now. Even the wall itself is fading away. But Harry's hands are as real as ever. Harry's green-gray eyes, his unfortunate nose, the mouth from which he makes all his unhinged and profound pronouncements.
"In the pale. We're in the pale, but we remembered our way back here. I think we chose this moment together."
It's becoming so hard to focus now, but this is important. Kim Kitsuragi, he tells himself, snap out of it. You can function on four days of no sleep. You can function under extreme stress, or when wracked with grief. You can function while nearly blind, while concussed. You can function when surrounded by teenagers. You absolutely can function in the pale. "We're in the pale," he echoes. "Reliving our wedding?"
"You got it, Kim!" Harry's relief is so palpable. It sweeps a little more of the fog away. "I guess it's the moment we most wanted to come back to."
The fog. The deja vu. "That... that makes sense. We would, wouldn't we?"
"But it's a trap. It always is, getting stuck in time like this. It's degrading, can't you feel it? You remember over and over and over and over, like taking a photograph of a photograph, and the memory itself breaks down. It turns into something else, and you lose yourself in it."
"Right," says Kim. "Right. What do we do? Use a volta?" Can he remember any? He's certain he knew one, but when he searches his mind, he gains only the memory of straightening a tie. His mind tries to snag on it, to slip back into that moment, but this time he sees it happening and, with a tiny wince of irritation, yanks his attention back to Harry.
"We have to get out," says Harry. "We have to find... Aaah!" He grimaces in frustration. His hands spasm in Kim's. The strength in them is strangely reassuring. "I don't remember! We were looking for something."
"Or someone," says Kim. He turns his head.
The church is roiling gray mist. The pews are only vague suggestions of shapes. The wedding guests are disembodied memories, names without faces, except...
Except for one face without a name.
"Him," says Kim, decisively.
"Huh? Who?"
Kim points at the man, rising now from his seat, which vanishes behind him into mist and dream.
"Son of a fucking bitch!" says Harry. "I do remember him. Kim, that's the guy--"
"The guy we chased in here!" Kim finishes, and he remembers now, he does remember, the pursuit, the journey, the criminal they cannot let get away.
He drops one of Harry's hands and pulls him along by the other, but Harry's already coming with him, running beside him, still Kim's partner in this as in all things, all these years later. (Years, yes, he remembers years, but now isn't the time to dwell on that.)
The man is running. The officers pursue, hand-in-hand. (He can't let go. Not now. He's certain of that. If they let go of each other, they're lost.)
Kim wouldn't have thought it was easy to tackle someone while holding hands with someone else, but Harry throws himself into it like the former athletics instructor he is, and Kim is right there with him, and the man is squirming beneath them now, pinned, and the church is gone, the church was never here, and they're all in a pile on the floor on an airship's engine room, and the pale is still all around them, but not inside them anymore. They are free of it.
Kim isn't wearing his wedding suit. His handcuffs are right here in his pocket. Letting go of Harry's hand, he grabs first one flailing arm and then another, and snaps them on. The man goes limp, defeated.
Harry stands up and rolls him over. There are tears in the man's eyes. No, not "the man." The perp. Jeremiah Jordans, wanted for mass murder and terrorism and a long list of other crimes that are, cumulatively, almost as bad. Kim remembers now. Remembers why it was so important that they chase him to the ends of the earth, or the center of the pale.
"We got him," Harry says, wonder and satisfaction in his voice. "You were right. He was stowed away on this ship. Hiding among the goddamned latitude compressors!"
Memory sharpens into focus. Chasing this ship through the pale in a faster vessel. (Faster, that is, in whatever incomprehensible way still exists when time and distance have lost most of their meaning.) Searching the ship. The sudden surge of power through the engines, the overloading of the compressors as they entered this room.
And something else, too. The date. Kim remembers the date. Or at least, what the date should be, if time were working properly here. He gives in to the absurdity and begins to laugh.
Harry looks at him with a quizzical half-smile, waiting to be invited into the joke.
Kim grabs Jordans by the scruff of his jacket and hauls him to his feet. The man looks angry but resigned now, and makes no protest. Kim pushes him towards Harry. Not far. Just a nudge. Kim smiles, slowly at first, then wider. And wider, until he can feel a pleasant aching all across his stretched-out face. A rarity for him, but then, it's been a very strange day. "Happy anniversary," he says.
Harry looks at Kim, then at the man who tried to blow up Revachol – who might still have ended them all if he'd gotten away -- and back at Kim. And then he throws back his head and laughs, a rough, warm, booming sound. All this time, and Kim is still not tired of hearing it.
"Ten years," Kim says. He remembers now. He remembers every one of them. "Seems like it was only yesterday. Or possibly today."
"Hey, maybe we should thank this asshole," Harry says, slapping their prisoner on the back. "That was more interesting than looking at the photo album!"
"Well," says Kim, "I wouldn't go that far. It was... very disorienting. In a different way from our actual wedding, that is. Let's not do that again, okay?"
Their prisoner mutters something insulting, but they pay no attention to him.
"Really?" says Harry, as they begin to haul Jordans away. "You sure? Because it doesn't have to be about reliving the past. It can be about the future. I was thinking, ten years is a nice time for a vow renewal." He shrugs and smiles. As always -- or at least since he dropped the disturbing grimace he was wearing when they first met -- it's a more charming expression than you'd expect from that face, if you didn't know it well. If you hadn't already spent ten years being pleasantly surprised by it. "Could be a good excuse for a party."
"Hmm." Perhaps it's just recent experiences making him nostalgic, but now that he thinks of it, Kim wouldn't mind seeing Harry in that glittery green suit again. He knows it's still hanging in the back of his wardrobe somewhere. Just as Kim still has the tie. "Well, we can talk about it. Let's just get out of the pale first, shall we?"
"Yeah," says Harry. "Come on, hubby, let's go home."