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Summary
Jamrock, November ’49. Jean and Harry go undercover in La Puta Madre.
“Vic, this could be dangerous.”
Jean takes a long drag of his cigarette, not breaking eye contact.
“Yeah, I know you’re tough, Vic, but-” and something breaks on his face, something raw and open and pained comes through, and he spreads his hands wide, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “You could get hurt, Vic. Or killed.”
“Du Bois, I’ve been a cop for fifteen years. I don’t fucking care about that.”
“I fucking do.” Harry smacks his hand flat on the table, knocking over a bottle, which falls, noisily. Talk stops - the guitar misses a beat - and Harry flushes, and picks it back up, setting it exaggeratedly on the table.
“Why?” Jean says casually, once talk in the room returns to normal. His heart is pounding. “Why do you care so much?”
For some reason, Harry flushes even more. “I hate training new partners,” he says.