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“Okay. So. First, adjust your seating so you’re holding the wheel comfortably . Don’t sit too close to it, though your arms shouldn’t be too stretched out, either.”
Harrier giddily adjusts himself in the car, impervious to your solemn gaze - or at least pretending to be. Your hands are tapping against your knees, itching to get on the wheel, something strange needling your nerves as you find yourself in the passengers’ seat.
Not ever in my car, not ever on busy streets, and not on working hours, Officer. Was your answer the day Harry asked you, big puppy eyes and body exuding old disco sensuality. Even his disco-est of pants and pleads couldn’t affect you on Kineema matters, though.
He stared at nothing for a short moment, and grumbled a short ‘okay’, deflated and defeated. You thought that was the end of it.
“Okay, now what?”
“Hm? Oh, the protective belt, of course.” Yours is already firmly pressed against your torso. Your body unconsciously went through the familiar motions as soon as you entered the vehicle.
“Of course”, Harrier chides in, pulling and pulling to get the belt around his ample chest and the swell of his belly. You ogle a bit from the side of your eye - the girth of him alone is incredible. Belly, chest, arms -
“On the rare motor chase or if attending an emergency as RCM, you may choose to skip the belt-”
“Yeah, that will slow me down when getting out of the car, right?” His hands are already on the wheel, belt in place, posture relaxed and natural. Good, you think. It might come back to him easily enough. Let us hope Martinaise was the product of alcohol only.
“Exactly.” You make him start the carriage and point out to him some of the lights - oil, headlights, hazard lights - and mirrors, and a quick lesson in the way the motor works. Pedals and gear positions and parking brake and things you didn’t even need to consider for a long time. The green of his eyes is almost disconcerting as he focuses on you between glances to the panel, the pedals - the intensity of his attention turned to you through the motor carriage. You make him step on the clutch all the way and feel the auto rumble quietly, and there’s a small smile on the corner of his mouth, gold light diffusing around his ruddy face and large hands that cover much of the wheel. The street is empty as you expected it to be as you double check to make sure he can let go.
“This is different from the Kineema, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you where the biting point is. It’s probably a bit more responsive than this one, but no matter - it’s different for every carriage, and it’s something you have to learn how to feel. Lift your feet slowly from the clutch - can you feel the motor gearing up?”
It is without doubt more responsive than this, you think to yourself, quietly thankful you’re far away from the Kineema. There’s no comparison between the motor carriage you usually drive around and this old machine Harry rescued from the impound lot. Some whisper in your mind finds it almost offensive to compare the autos, but this one fits your purpose much better.
You hadn’t even given thought to the matter of driving lessons again, but two weeks from your conversation detective brought you to the station’s lot and you eyed this vehicle warily, not understanding what he wanted to show you. Has he crashed this one as well? you had considered silently, as you eyed the beaten, obviously ancient car. You could already hear the worrying motoric sounds it would make if it was ever driven - if it could be driven.
“For the lessons”, he was beaming then, a smirk on face. “This one isn’t great, it’s too old for the station and wouldn’t fare well on an auction. The mechanic was gonna scrape it for parts, but she let me borrow it when I explained what I needed - it will do well enough for a few slow rides, she thinks.” He winks at you. “Are you free on Sunday, Officer?”
“Khm.”, you grumbled, heat rising to your ears. Your weekends are not usually busy, and the lieutenant knows this - you spend a lot of time on each other’s apartments, playing Suzerainty, going out for dinner and for late night runs, watching bad cop movies, tip top tournée races (that bore Harry a bit) and horror films (that make him hide his face and grip your hand tight, sometimes. It’s pretty fun, mashed fingers aside). You’re sure your couch has the imprint of his side profile by now. It's been a while since you've been unavailable on a weekend - and it’s been a while since you’ve had some slow rides -
“Fine, Double-Yefreitor Du Bois”, you retorted, as if he was some kid caught with his hand on the cookie jar. He won this one. “But you will be an exemplary student and you won’t go a single kilometer above the limit”. This will not be another Martinaise, you had thought to yourself then.
“Deal”, he shaked you on it, seeming grateful and-- relieved? He must’ve thought you wouldn’t agree to it, in the end. But all a man can have is his word.
And Harrier can’t possibly be Martinaise-levels bad at this, you thought then and you ponder it again now, as he slowly releases the clutch, reaching biting point smoothly without hiccup or stall. The old motor carriage makes worrying sounds, as you expected, but none of them are his doing. He has been sober for months. He is doing better than could have been imagined, you think, and some part of your chest feels warm every time you consider his hard-won sobriety.
“Release the brake now, steady.” He does, and the carriage hums along, slowly going forward. “You can release the clutch fully and accelerate a little.” He goes a bit to the left, avoiding staying too close to the curb.
“Okay, let’s make that right curve now. Good.” His speed is slow and he has no problems steering the wheel to the right and back, keeping the vehicle straight. “Excellent, detective. Remember now what I’ve said about first gear - it’s a working gear. It’s apt for stopping and starting the vehicle, but we need a bit more speed now. Engage the clutch, switch to second, on-.”
Before you can finish, the car is in third gear, the motor roaring at the sudden change. You brace yourself as you surge forward, speeding along, but thankfully still at a normal velocity.
“Shit, sorry, Kim, I could swear second gear was here, sorry-”
“Not to worry”, you say calmly, as you instruct him to change gears and stop the car. He’s bashful and contained, as if any sudden movement would spook you.
“The gearshift can be different on some models. See, the Coupris 40 you drove would have reverse in the front, here” you point to the side of his knee, “so that would make the second gear where your third is now. It’s ok, muscle memory can be tricky. When you drive the same vehicle for some time, you get used to it.”
“Oh”, his mouth goes ajar, his face almost broadcasting his thoughts. What other cars might lie in his past, how much time has he driven that Coupris before its funeral on Martinaise? What else does his fingers know that he doesn’t remember?
“Feel the clutch’s point again - good. Now”, you feel the gearshift of this strange old car and it fits naturally on your palm, even as you grab it with your left hand. “Here is second gear, see.”
You pull the stick back to second gear, closer to his pelvis. His thighs are massive compared to yours, gear lever close to his body even as it was near his knee, and you feel his pants through the fabric of your own gloves as you shift to second gear. You never had to worry - your own thin legs never get even close to it; a stark contrast to see his almost spilling out of the seat. I wonder if it makes it harder to change gear sometimes, you think. Does it chafe a bit when he’s wearing shorts? Or would his hairy thigh be soft as the levers--
“Got it!” he says, enthusiastically, his hand suddenly on top of yours. His eyes are pleading as he looks at you. “Can I try again, Kim?”
“Of course.” You remove your hand and cough into it, as if the sudden contact hadn’t jolted through your arm. “First, get it moving again”.
You walk him through the motions - first gear, breaking point, release the brake, accelerate - and you’re going forward again.
“Good. Accelerate enough, you can’t change to second without enough speed.” He does as he’s told, and you are satisfied to see he’s obedient and prudent, at least right now. “Now clutch and second gear - remember to pull the shift close to you, here.” You tap lightly on his flank, not allowing your fingers to linger there. The lieutenant throws you a quick glance before he’s changing gears quickly.
The transition goes smoothly and you hear the contented rumble of the motor as the parts settle into place. It’s almost endearing, the way you feel your body itching to shift into second gear as soon as the machine purr reached your ears.
“Really good, Lieutenant. Could you hear how the car demanded second gear before you changed?”
“Yes”, Harrier responds immediately, “he’s happy now.” He’s smiling, and you let a small smile of your own. His way of seeing the world is so colorful that it’s hard for you to grasp at times. Right now, though, you’re together in this: the car is happy. So is your partner - he might as well be on a tiptop race the way he’s grinning, exultant, tipping his head to the side to catch the wind. He’s not fearful as he drives, not at all; but there’s something, some sort of… reverence in the way he works the machine, some careful confidence. As if he can’t believe how lucky he is. As if this is something wonderfully dangerous. Like a man who has lost something dear only to find it again decades later, serendipitously.
The same way he treats you, a small voice inside your head dares to suggest. You fiddle with your hands a little, not letting yourself get caught on these thoughts. He’s a good partner.
He drives for almost two hours and he gets better at it every minute. You teach him to drive in reverse and he tries to park in some easy spots; the autocar stalls only two or three times. In the end, you even let him reach fourth gear, on the long avenue that will take him home; and you can almost feel the pump in his blood as he speeds along. When your eyes meet, you recognize that obvious joy, that freedom that sweeps you as you begin to drive.
By the time he’s close to his apartment, he’s singing disco songs as he drives and you chime in on the choruses you can remember, your pitch terrible and the overpowering bass of his voice making your gut feel fuzzy. Harrier confidently parks on the side of his building as you arrive, pulling the parking brake and looking at you like the cat that got the cream.
“So…?” He turns to you, seatbelt off, big disco smirk. His big green eyes are soft and expectant, though, as if he’s not quite the disco seducer here, but the disco seduce-é.
“So?” You know what he wants to hear, but you’ll make him ask it. Even if it’s hard to contain your own smile. I’m glad he picked it up smoothly, you think.
“What do you think?” You raise an eyebrow, only slightly, as if you have no idea what he’s talking about. “About my driving, I mean.”
You wouldn’t be able to stand his puppy eyes a second further. “You did great, detective. It’s clear you were a good driver before your memory loss. It comes easily to you.”
“Yes, baby!” He pumps a fist in the air, as up as the metal frame allows him. “I knew it! I mean…” he looks down and at you, almost sheepishly.
“...you’re the best driver I know, Kim, so I knew it would work.” His smile is almost too kind, and you think you see a wet spot in the corner of his glossy eyes.
“Khm. You overestimate me, Lieutenant. But thank you.” You clear your throat and motion to leave the carriage, but a hand on your shoulder stops you on your tracks.
“Wait”. His hand is large and warm, the weight of it comforting through your jacket. “Stay for dinner? I bought some groceries and I want to cook for you. As thanks.”
Before he can go on, you put your own hand on top of his. “Lieutenant.” You can hear him swallow audibly. “Yes, of course. ”