Archive of Our Own

Jean used to like drinking a lot more before he was partnered with Harry—he's RCM, they all do. It takes the hard edge of the world and softens it. Makes you buzzy. It's a pleasant enough feeling in the moment, especially when the rest of the moments you compare it to are just a dreary sludge of drugs, sex, and work, to keep the misery at bay. 

So of course he used to go to bars on his nights off, when he knew he had nothing better to do the next day. What else was there to do?

Hell, it's probably half of why he put up with Harry for so long in the first place. Up until the last stretch, it'd been tolerable. When Harry could still control himself to some degree, enough at least to still go drinking with. It was nice to have the company. Someone who understood exactly the horrors he was trying to soften with the drinks.

If a few other drugs got thrown in the mix along the way, that only sweetened the deal.

They used to hit the precinct gym together, when Harry still tried to pretend the alcohol wasn't taking a toll on his body. Harry was the one who always insisted on rest days and breaks. But then rest days at the bar turned into rest weeks, and the pretense was lost.

When Harry got as bad as he did, Jean stopped going altogether. He didn't want to encourage the habit, and quite frankly, he had to be sober enough to collect his drunkass from wherever else he had wandered off to without Jean anyways.

If he wasn't getting drunk anymore anyways, and no one was around to make him take rest days, he might as well go all out at the gym. So that's what he did instead. If anything, it only helped him to better peel Shitkid off the pavement every other night.

But now new Harry was really trying to reclaim his lost youth, so the precinct gym isn't all that appealing anymore.

But hey, it's been long enough since Martinaise, he thinks, and Harry has new vices – or at least one in particular – that seem to be more healthy.

How nice for him.

After one restless night too many of staring at his ceiling on his night off, he decides fuck it, and starts skulking off to bars again.

He embraces the buzzy feeling of a night on the town like an old lover, slotting it in nicely into the rest of his miserable – but meaningful, he tells himself, because it's all he has – week, a nice and adequately depressing endcap to his fraught existence. Perfect for him.

Most of the time he'll go as soon as the shift ends, not bothering to take off the suit jacket. He likes having it on. People give him a wide berth, so he can stew in his depression alone rather than entertain someone else's drunken bullshit. People who would otherwise try and make themself his problem don't bother him. And if he even so much as gets a whiff that someone's about to start a fight, one look is usually enough to get them to drop it.

Sometimes he gets looks from some unsavory types. There's no shortage of people who have a bone to pick with the RCM. Usually though, the stares amount to nothing, and he manages to pay his tab and leave without fanfare.

He can feel some unwanted stares on his back from the moment he walks in tonight. It's almost enough to make him turn around and go home, but the week has been particularly shitty and he can't bring himself to scout out a different bar, so he sits down at the counter, and pointedly ignores it as he nurses a drink.

He thinks he discovers why he was getting stares when only one cheap drink later, a fight breaks out in the back. He sighs and loudly pushes his bar stool back, getting up to go break up the fight. 

“Alright, break it up! RCM. I'm not gonna ask twice,” he grunts more than shouts as he intercepts an unsteady fist that was going to miss its target by miles. He isn’t in the mood for this shit. 

Maybe it's a stroke of good fortune, or maybe they can tell how not-in-the-mood Jean is, because after only a moment of half-hearted struggle in his grip, the man rips his fist out of his hand and just pulls back with a sleazy grin. After an offhand remark about next time to the other patron, they both seemingly drop it.

He decides he's just tipsy enough to chalk it up to the city giving him a break after his long week, and downs the rest of his drink in a long satisfied chug. 

His face puckers, eyes going wide. The drink is saltier than he expected, fouler. 

He knows that's the only warning he's going to get, and slams the glass down in a panic.

He's a cop. He's done enough drugs to know. Taken enough victim reports.

He should be thanking Host above, he thinks, that whoever did it was dumb and used one of the preformulated drugs, the ones that get mixed in with a shitton of sodium to prevent this very thing. That they hadn't managed to get their hands on one of the newer drugs. The ones that are truly tasteless. Cheaper too. Not that you couldn't already get GHB for centims on the reál. 

But his hands still shake, fumbling for the bills to pay for his drinks. He tosses the reál on the countertop with an uncoordinated throw, ready to duck out.

Which is, of course, when the perpetrators make themselves known.

“Where ya going, copper?”

“Leaving so soon, pig?”

Jean recognizes them as the two patrons who were having a supposed “bar fight” mere moments ago. Host in heaven, how had he fallen for that?

From somewhere further in the back he sees a third man approaching, something glinting in his hand. The man in front – a skinny man in a disheveled white button up – is already cracking his knuckles, the top few buttons of his shirt popped. His eyes flit down to where Jean’s hand has already instinctively reached for his handgun, and a smirk breaks out, taunting.

“Fancy some target practice, pig?” He mocks, and Jean mutters a curse, taking his hand off the gun and inching closer to the door. They both know he can’t shoot three civilians, unprovoked, in a bar. Even the RCM wouldn’t be able to sweep that under the rug. 

The man in the back – a jumpy guy with bloodshot eyes and a five-o-clock shadow so unkempt, Jean isn’t entirely sure he’s not some hobo the men recruited – is clearly spoiling for a fight now, shifting back and forth on his feet.

Jean didn't make it to 34 by taking fights he can't win though.

Jean turns, only a few feet from the doorway now, only to stop in his tracks.

A bald man in a grey tank top stands in the doorway, lean muscular arms crossed over his chest, daring Jean to try and make an exit.

What the hell? Is every patron of this bar in on this?! He wonders, incredulous, before adrenaline has him acting on pure impulse.

He shifts on his feet, feinting an uppercut at the man in the doorway, swiftly ducking out under the opposite side before he can recover.

He almost makes it past the threshold, but the man manages to grab him by the wrist just as he reaches the pavement. Jean attempts to whirl back around to face him, and barely has time to react to the fist flying at his face. He only just manages to raise an arm up to block the hit that had been aimed right at his jaw, it instead glancing off the side of his jaw with half the force the man had intended.

Jean knees the man in the stomach in retaliation, succeeding in getting him to let go of his wrist, and he stumbles backwards, barely able to catch himself from falling, already feeling somewhat unsteady on his feet.

The men from inside the bar have already filtered out before he can turn to escape, and he scrambles to catch the arms of the man wearing the disheveled button up, who immediately leaps at him. 

They struggle like that for a few moments, before the man manages to pull one of his arms free from Jean's grip, rearing it back and punching Jean in the face, dead center, before he has a chance to back away.

Jean swears he felt something shift as he takes a few uncoordinated steps backwards, hands flying up to cup his nose instinctively. His eyes widen in panic as the man rushes at him for a follow-up attack.

He only just manages to side-step the man's attempt at a tackle, but the momentum leaves them off-kilter enough for Jean to slam the point of his elbow down hard into the back of their neck, sending them crashing to the ground, momentarily stunned.

Jean has no illusions about being able to take down four guys with Dei-knows-what pumping through his system – he's just trying to create an opportunity to escape – but once again he finds himself intercepted before he can even attempt.

The lanky man is definitely on something, and the other two seem to recognize this, backing away as he swings a switchblade wildly at Jean, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

Jean is backing away too, trying to put distance between him and the man, but dodging is beginning to prove somewhat difficult with how his head is starting to spin. The hand wielding the knife swirls in his vision, and he yelps as he misjudges how close the blade is, the man managing to slice his cheek. 

The stinging pain sharpens his focus a little, and he's able to better track the slashing movements, brain now instead whirring as it desperately searches for a way to disarm the man without getting his fingers cut off.

He's focusing so hard on avoiding the man's desperate slashes, he does not realize he's veered into the little outdoor seating arrangement of a nearby restaurant until he backs into one of the tables, catching himself on his elbows as he falls onto it.

The arc of the man's slicing motion is slowed by the sudden friction of fabric and flesh against knife, almost as if he hadn't been expecting the knife to connect either. It attempts to glide across Jean's chest for a few inches before the man realizes this, increasing pressure on the knife suddenly.

Jean howls at the pain, kicking at the man's knee forcefully, causing the man to drop the knife and skitter backwards. 

His chest pulses in time with his heart, pain clouding his vision briefly, but he quickly blinks it away, straightening up as he tries to take stock of the situation. 

The man with the knife is now incapacitated, clutching at his knee painfully, but the other three have already regrouped and are quickly advancing. He can't keep fighting them, he needs to manufacture a diversion now, and escape while he still can.

“Stay the fuck back!” He shouts, arms trembling where they're now outstretched, holding his Pepperbox. The words stumble out less decisive than he'd hoped, the artificial intoxication already starting to settle in, but the men thankfully still freeze in their tracks. “All fucking bets are off. I've got just enough bullets for the lot of you, and I'm not afraid to use all three!” He is, he hates using it actually, it was one of the only things he and Harry agreed on, and it never gets easier.

He's hoping the bravado is enough to distract them from the fact he has been hastily backing away, trying to put as much distance between them as possible—or the fact his arms are shaking so much he wouldn't be able to land a shot anyways. As soon as he reaches the intersection he clicks the safety back on, stowing his gun as he turns the corner, breaking out into a sprint, legs steadied only by pain and the fear of certain death if he's caught. 

He cuts across the street immediately to run down an alley he knows outlets to another street—he's not outrunning anyone in this condition, his best bet is to lose them. As soon as he reaches the mouth of the alley he takes a sharp turn, then another at the end of that street, before nearly diving across the street to reach an alley on the opposite side. 

This alley is on the wider side, and he realizes it’s because it’s an inlet to a series of unconnected garages. He almost crashes to a stop when he comes across a garage that’s improperly closed, rolling shutter still partially lifted. 

That gap is big enough for me to fit under, he thinks, and hopes he hasn’t miscalculated, dropping straight onto the dusty pavement and attempting to shimmy into the garage.

No sooner than when he has successfully wedged himself under the gap and into the garage does he hear the pounding of footsteps on asphalt at the entrance to the alley. He holds his breath, dizzy from exertion, but body still abuzz with adrenaline, hoping the shadows conceal his form well enough for his pursuers to pass without incident. 

It's only after the sounds of the last pair of footsteps begin to fade into the distance that he lets go of his breath, inhaling in large raspy gulps. Fuck that was a close one. Holy shit.

He still doesn't dare move, afraid one of them might double back and discover him once they realize they've lost him.

Exhaustion weighs on him like a lead blanket, the cold of the cement floor settling into his bones. There's a slowly sharpening throbbing pain under his collarbone, and the blood that was dripping down his face is beginning to crust uncomfortably. He should probably get up before the dregs of adrenaline leave his body. 

Head still spinning, he inches forward back under the threshold, casting a furtive glance up and down the alleyway before dragging himself the rest of the way out of the garage. He pushes himself onto his feet before he can lose the nerve, eliciting a low groan he feels rumble deep in his chest. The world tilts on its axis, and he struggles to remain upright, staggering back towards the wall and catching it to remain standing. There's a pounding in his head that is picking up tempo and he scrunches his eyes shut against it, leaning his forehead against the brick, breathing heavily through his mouth.

He won't get very far in this state; his head already feels heavy enough to fall right off his shoulders and his vision is being forced through slits.

But Jean is nothing if not resourceful. 

With considerable effort, he raises a trembling hand to the laceration on his chest, pushing firmly against the wound, fingers digging into the edge where the knife had sunk in deeper.

He straightens up with a sharp hiss, the white hot bolt of pain sending a lurch of wild energy through his veins, cutting through the fog that had descended upon his brain, and bringing with it a momentary lucidity. 

He attempts to get his body moving, in an effort to ward off the inevitable crash, to some modicum of success. His legs still refuse to respond properly, but he manages to remain mostly vertical as he staggers away from the wall, swaying with every step.

Payphone. He needs to find a payphone.

He stumbles out of the alley, opposite the way that the men went, and starts heading further up the street, trying—and failing—to get a good grasp on his surroundings. Normally, he knows the city like the back of his hand–especially the locations of most the bars. But right now it's as if someone threw water on drying ink, smudging the scenery and dampening all recognition of the streets before him.

He catches himself heavily on the edge of the phone booth as he crosses over to it, another spasm of pain jolting his brain back into the forefront. He slumps into the booth, leaning heavily onto the phone box, fumbling in his pockets for his wallet. He only fails a handful of times to retrieve the loose centims from it, before he's dialing a number from muscle memory alone, distantly remorseful for the little smears of blood he is leaving all over the cheap plastic of the handset.

Anxiety curdles in his gut as the dial tone continues. His thoughts are too disjointed and fuzzy to have really thought of a plan beyond calling Harry. He also isn't really that far from where he managed to shake those guys off. If they were really still looking for him, they could find him fairly trivially. 

Panic begins to set in, thrumming in his veins as the dial tone drones on. He tries to make out the details of the street while it rings, comparing what he sees to his mental rolodex of several nights of bar hopping with and without Harry. He consults the bank of memories specifically dedicated to every payphone booth he's managed to haul Harry out of, desperately trying to make out some sort of landmark feature he can orient himself to.

His concentration is broken by an abrupt click, before a familiar voice comes onto the line, sending a chill down his spine.

“Heyyy Vicky, you just missed me! I'm probably out hitting the town–and hopefully something else, if you know what I mean–but hey, if you think it's important leave a message and maybe I'll remember to check this thing when I get back.”

The first thought that crystallizes in his mind is he never updated his fucking answering machine.

The second is that he's fucked.

“You fucking asshole…” He breathes into the receiver, “You'll call any other time, but the one time I need you to pick up…” the words feel funny on his tongue, unwieldy. They leave his mouth in a slur, as if he drank a whole bottle of convenience store vodka. 

What the hell could Harry even be doing? It's too late for recovering alcoholics to be out still. Maybe he's just taking a shower? Or somehow managed to sleep through all that ringing? Maybe he'll answer once he hears the recording being played in the next room.

He holds onto that fragile hope as he continues, “Listen Harry… I think I was slipped something… my head's fucked and I…” he swallows, trying to tamp down on the rising anxiety that threatens to make his voice break, “Fuck, I couldn't… can't even tell where the hell I ended up… can’t stay here though… s’not safe… s-so…” he runs a trembling hand through his hair, letting out a shuddery breath, “I need you to commune with the city o-or whatever bullshit it is you do and help me out here… just this once… please…” it comes out as a strained plea. His voice drops to only a whisper, too delirious to keep the fear and anguish at bay anymore, “God, I'm so fucking screwed. This is definitely how I fucking die. Fuck. Fuck!”

Unwilling to let himself devolve further into hysterics over a recorded message that–if he lives to see it–might make him want to kill himself anyways, he slams the receiver back into its cradle.

Shit. Okay, so he couldn't count on Harry, big fucking surprise. He should be used to it by now. This fact does nothing to quell the nausea threatening to make him upend his stomach contents all over the bottom of this very public phone booth.

He shoulders his way out of the booth before he can get too comfortable standing there, knowing there's a high chance he won't wake up the next time he almost drifts off.

As he exits he catches himself on his knees, trying to catch his breath and avoid hurling. God he could use a cigarette right now. Or a line of speed. Or hell, even just a cup of coffee.

But if Harry can live his fucked up miserable life and do his job without his addictions anymore, Jean can probably at least manage to figure out how to get home before he passes out. Maybe. Hopefully.

Jean very pointedly only almost throws up, before straightening back up shakily, trying once more to make out what street he's on. 

Nothing is clicking for him at all until a misshapen lightpole at the end of the street manages to coalesce in his swimming vision long enough for recognition to click in the far recesses of his mind. 

He knows that bent light post, he can tell from the way the light flickers in rapid staccato bursts, like it should go out at any moment. It's been doing that for almost three years now though, and still hasn't burnt out, or hell, maybe the wiring is just faulty and every lightbulb put in there does that. Regardless, he knows that lamp. And by extension he knows where he is; he's fairly close to Harry's place. 

There was a time where he'd end up walking Harry home past that damn lightpost every other night of the week. He could probably navigate to the apartment from that specific lightpost with his eyes closed. Not that he's eager to put that theory to the test—his vision is already swimming as it is, thank you.

Okay, so maybe he can't make it to his place before he passes out. But his experience helping walk a certain drunk to Harry's place is about to pay dividends.

Admittedly, being on this side of the equation is not as fun or carefree as he'd thought it'd be. Jean doesn't think there's any demons inside him worth trying to drown at such a colossal cost of his motor abilities and spatial awareness, but he guesses that's why he’s not Harrier fucking Du Bois.

He can't tell if it takes him hours or minutes to stumble his way there, having to stop to get his bearings several times – and clinging onto every bit of purchase he can find to avoid falling headfirst into the gutters– when finally, the faded door that leads to the stairs of Harry's tenement is pulsing in front of him.

Which brings with it its own hellish problem—namely, traversing stairs.

He's tempted to just get on all fours and crawl up the damn things, just to keep from the not-insignificant chance he loses his balance and fucking tumbles down the stairs and dies in Harry's goddamn apartment building like a crazy, drunk, stalker of an ex. After all, he's only two of those things, not all four. 

But the thought of being discovered curled up in the middle of his stairwell and having the precinct called on him to point and jeer sounds just as bad, so he settles for clinging onto the rail with a death grip as he ascends. 

By the third flight of stairs, he is using his arms more than he is his legs to drag himself up the stairs, but if anyone is disturbed by his drunken shambling, they don't come out and say.

He only manages to find Harry's door by muscle memory again, but seeing as he can just about feel his brain about to wink out, he thanks it for managing that much, as he presses himself up to the door, leaning all his weight against the door and door knob. He bangs on it loud enough for one to consider calling the cops, were the tenants not already intimately familiar with Jean banging on Harry's door. He considers shouting, but it feels like his ability to formulate words is the first thing that got shut off, so he continues banging mindlessly, hoping to hear a shuffle from within that indicates he doesn't have to try and find Harry's spare key. He pauses to listen inside for any signs of life, but there is only a sudden silence heavy enough for his eyes to drift shut.

He jerks back awake, nearly yanking the knob right off the door, when he starts sliding off it. Keys. Right, he just needs Harry's keys, and then he doesn't have to desperately cling onto consciousness any longer.  

He has to fish through too many pockets before he remembers which one he keeps the spare in, but he's too exhausted to care about any of that anymore, fumbling three or four times to get the key in at all.

When the door all but slams inwards, he slides along with it, forgetting to take his hands and weight off the door, as it smashes into the wall behind it, shaking the whole apartment – and likely the whole floor – with it. He recoils from the door, pain radiating in his chest, sharp and unwelcome, but quickly dulling out under the heavy wave of intoxication that is beginning to drown out all other sensation, as the second wind of adrenaline peters out of his system.

He tries to stumble towards the bedroom, but only makes it as far as the opposite side of the apartment, before his legs give out, collapsing into a heap on the ground.

In the still darkness of Harry's apartment, the ajar front door is the only source of light. Something about that strikes him as wrong, but he lets the thought slip through his hands–a drop into a vast ocean of nothingness. He doesn't have the presence of mind to wonder about these things anymore, feeling miles away from his body now, eyelids lazily drifting shut as he sinks under the waves of unconsciousness.

“Do you wanna come up for tea?” Harry asks Kim as he steps out of the Kineema, “I know it's a long drive back.”

Kim hums noncommittally. He's not against the pitch, but isn't entirely convinced yet either. Their game of Suzerainty had gone on entirely too long, because someone is a sore loser who refused to cede ground. So a cup of tea does sound somewhat appealing right now.

“Come on. You could smoke your one a day on a balcony that only smells like stale fumes and failure, instead of stale fumes, failure, and rotting sea air.”

“Well with such a persuasive argument, how could I decline?” Kim deadpans, but turns off the engine anyways.

Kim ignores the little fist pump of excitement Harry does, leading the way into Harry's tenement and towards the stairs. 

“Kim, wait!” Kim startles halfway through the door, hand still on the door handle, as Harry gently pries his hand off the handle, inspecting the glove.

“Harry, what are–”

“Look,” he says, pointing at the little red stripe that has collected on Kim's glove now, “I think… this is blood.” Harry says quietly, having gone a shade paler.

Kim frowns at first his glove and then the door handle, but seeing that the handle isn't saturated in it, he can only conclude it wasn’t a heavily bleeding wound. He clears his throat before responding, trying to knock Harry out of his rapidly spiraling thoughts, "While not exactly sanitary, trace amounts of fresh blood on an oft used door handle hardly means a crime occurred, detective.” He points out, scrubbing his glove with a handkerchief.

Harry pushes past him suddenly, heading towards the stairs, and Kim hurriedly stuffs the handkerchief back in his pocket to catch up.

“It's here too,” Harry calls out, from halfway up the first flight of stairs, but he needn't have, because Kim can see it clearly now as well, streaks of smudged blood trailing up the railing as if the person were consciously making an effort to smear the rail with their bloodied hand, rather than politely trying to keep their spilled blood to a minimum in shared public spaces. “Kim, I've got a bad feeling about this…” he says, trailing off.

Kim also has a bad feeling now, hand already reaching for the gun in the holster hidden underneath his jacket. “I think we should proceed very carefully, detective,” he says, dropping into a half crouch instinctively. Harry follows suit, despite not having his gun on him, and together they climb the remaining two flights of stairs, trying not to eye the concerningly bloodied handrail, checking for movement around the corners as they ascend.

Harry rounds the corner towards his apartment first, gasping in alarm, and Kim quickly rounds the corner as well, on full alert. 

He sees nothing at first, until he notices Harry's door; almost entirely open.

“Do you think they're still in there?” Harry whispers at him, unmoving. Kim very much doesn't want to move towards it either.

“I don't know, detective,” he admits, “Follow my lead,” He says, decisively, taking point as the one with the gun. 

As Kim approaches, he presses up close to the frame of the door, listening for movement. It's late, and most people are asleep, so only a few sounds bleed through from the other apartments. 

But no movement can be heard in Harry's apartment.

Kim looks back, locking eyes with Harry, and motioning with his hand his intent to countdown and storm through. Harry nods in agreement.

He counts them down, turning sharply into the room as soon as he drops his last finger. Harry storms in right behind him, and they scan the room for any hidden assailants that might pop out at the sudden intrusion. 

What they find instead is an unmoving form at the far end of the room, only a sliver of which is visible in the pale rectangle of light that extends across the room from where they've slammed the door the rest of the way open. 

“Turn on the lights!” Kim demands in a harsh whisper, never taking his eyes off the form at the end of the hall as he advances. Dread pools in his gut at the unnatural stillness of it. A burglar—even a caught or otherwise incapacitated one—would've reacted to all this commotion by now.

His finger twitches minutely on the trigger of the gun as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the light, but nothing jumps out at them in the split second it takes for his vision to clear.

But he almost wishes something had; it would be much much easier for his brain to comprehend than the reality of Lieutenant Vicquemare lying at his feet.

“Jean!” Harry is the first to break the stunned silence, rushing to his side.

“He isn't dead,” Kim says in a rush of breath, not realizing he'd been holding it until he'd spotted a sign of life in the unconscious body of their colleague, “Just unconscious. He's still breathing.” He confirms with a sigh of relief.

He definitely looks worse for the wear, though, the streaks of blood that have since dried under his nose and a slash across his cheek looks particularly grisly, but Kim knows that head and face injuries tend to look worse than they are, so he ignores that for now to focus on other things. Like the large bloodstain in Vicquemare’s dress shirt, peeking out from under his suit jacket.

“How bad is it?” Harry asks uneasily, as Kim pulls the suit jacket away and unbuttons a few of the top buttons on the dress shirt, pushing all the fabric aside to inspect. He takes a glove off, tracing a finger lightly along the length of the wound hesitantly, ready to pull back in case Vicquemare awakens, agitated. When he doesn't react, Kim cautiously massages around the skin to get a more accurate estimate, hissing in sympathy at the deeper maroon near the end of the wound, and at the hitch in Vicquemare’s breathing, as he subconsciously tries to pull back from the touch.

“Mostly surface level,” Kim says, pulling back to his haunches, once again pulling out his handkerchief to wipe at the blood, “He's very lucky; the skin around the chest is very thin. It looks like it only grazed him… for the most part. It looks like they managed to dig the blade a little further into his chest near the end. Still, I don't think it went too deep. It'll need some stitches, but it's not immediately life threatening.”

He clears his throat uncomfortably, “I'd prefer not to keep cataloguing our colleague's injuries like he's a cadaver though,” Kim says, “Shall we try rousing him instead?” he asks, not actually waiting for Harry's answer. He presses firmly into Vicquemare’s shoulder, squeezing at first, before switching to lightly shaking the man. “Lieutenant Vicquemare?” He asks when his face twitches.

Vicquemare acknowledges the prodding with a soft noise of discontent that fails to project past his lips, dying in his throat. Kim tries a little more firmly, adding a gentle “Hey” in the hopes it'll stir the man.

This succeeds in getting Vicquemare’s eyes to flutter open, though they remain half-lidded, with seemingly no intention of opening wider. Unfocused pupils stare at nothing for a moment, before slowly sliding towards Kim, as if on a delay.

Kit…suragi? 

It lacks the normal commanding weight the officer's voice usually has, spoken as if the syllables barely managed to escape his mouth.

Clearly some amount of conscious thought is occurring, so it can't be too bad, Kim thinks. Kim can deal with someone who's overdone it on the drinks. “Officer? Can you hear me?”

Mmm. A small, drawled, sound with hardly any conscious thought behind it. Vicquemare is looking at him, but it's evident the man isn't really seeing him.

“I'm going to sit you up now, okay?” Kim tells Vicquemare softly, waiting for the words to register. He does not outwardly react to this knowledge, save for the quiet “okay” he eventually mutters. 

For a drunk, Kim thinks, he's eerily quiet. This, combined with the complete lack of any sort of expression on the officer's usually quite animated face—as if the mere act of controlling his facial features is completely beyond him—is more than a little unsettling. Kim has seen corpses with more emotion than this.

Vicquemare makes no effort to sit himself up, body remaining uncannily limp and yielding as Kim pulls him into an upright position, shuffling him so that he is supported against the wall. Kim has handled his fair share of drunks who become complete deadweight when they're too inebriated, but there's a growing sense of unease now that he can't quite put his finger on.

“Something isn't adding up here.” Harry says, as if having read his mind.

“Officer, a lot isn't adding up here.” Too many things to pick just one. “Is finding each other like this commonplace for you two?”

“No–I mean, maybe? I don't remember. But I meant more just Jean's general state… Like, he's clearly still wasted, so leading theory should be he got drunk, apparently got into some kind of fight or maybe he got jumped, and then eventually came here to crash for the night, right? But…”

“But…?” Kim prompts when Harry lapses into silence.

“But he doesn't smell like he overdid it. He doesn't smell like he actually drank much at all.”

Kim blinks, his nose wrinkling suddenly at the faint smell of iron on the man—sans the overpowering smell of booze. “You're right. I hadn't noticed.” The more he thinks about it, the more things don't seem to quite line up with the symptoms of bog standard alcohol abuse. 

He gives Vicquemare—whose eyes have already slipped back shut—an appraising look, and determines that it's unlikely they will be getting answers from him anytime soon.

He grabs Vicquemare’s chin, tilting it up slightly from where it'd fallen over his chest again, placing two ungloved fingers on the pulse point in his neck, counting silently in his head, before frowning at the conclusion. “His heart rate is slow. Pretty atypical for a night of binge drinking; in fact it should be the opposite.” Was there some other substance involved? Maybe it hadn't been alcohol he was abusing. But then when the hell had he also managed to get into a fight?

There's too many unknowns here, and the man isn't super responsive right now, which is more than a little concerning. They should really quit speculating and take him to a hospital. 

“Harry, I think we should take Lieutenant Vicquemare to the hospital. We don't know why he's currently unresponsive. He could be overdosing on something that isn't alcohol.” Kim points out, because he hasn't been able to rule it out and the idea is starting to worry him.

Instead of responding, Harry stands abruptly, heading back towards the living area.

“Detective? Where are you going?”

“It looks like I missed a message while I was out,” he calls back, letting the implication sink in.

Kim holds his breath at the sound of Harry hitting play, exhaling harshly when the sound of Vicquemare’s slurred voice fills the room.

If Kim had to guess, he'd say that Vicquemare seems to be contending with the deepest sleep he's had in weeks, so he doubts the man is even aware of his own message being played out loud. Still, it's too overwhelming for Kim to be staring at his unconscious body as he listens to a message from him that had to have been recorded only mere hours ago. He ends up averting his eyes.

Instead, he focuses on Harry's face by the landline, watching as it seems to shift through the five stages of grief – completely out of order – all at once. 

Listen, Harry… I think I was slipped something.

A stab of ice shoots through his core as the pieces click into place. Lieutenant Vicquemare is still in uniform. It's possible, then, that this was a premeditated attack by someone with grievances against the RCM.

Can't even tell where the hell I ended up… can’t stay here though… s’not safe…

This further confirms the vague timeline of events that has begun to form in his head. Vicquemare must've managed to slip away from his attacker and called Harry's landline in a panic. When Harry didn't answer he somehow managed to find his way to his apartment on his own and let himself in. 

It would seem they've already missed the inciting incident and are now firmly in the denouement. Had Vicquemare not left a message they'd all—likely even Vicquemare himself—be none the wiser.

Kim grimaces as the rest of the message plays out, Vicquemare getting increasingly agitated and desperate—sounding on the verge of total hysteria—only to end abruptly through a string of curses. 

It's not any one's fault, but it's hard not to feel just a tiny bit guilty that Harry and him were out late playing Suzerainty while Lieutenant Vicquemare was apparently dazed and fearing for his life. He should remember to check with Harry later and make sure that he doesn't end up blaming himself for this.

Harry, who has already been standing there, near catatonic, for far too long. Kim has no doubts that whatever internal dialogue he's having with himself, it isn't any good.

And they really don't have time for this right now.

“Detective…” He calls, trying to snap him out of it. Harry doesn't even react.

“Harry.” He says louder, firmer. His listen the fuck up voice, the one that seems extra effective on Harrier Du Bois. Harry jolts to near attention. “We need to clean Lieutenant Vicquemare up, get him situated.” Harry can throw himself a pity party later. There's a protocol for this—though he's more used to using it on civilians than he is his fellow officers—just as there is for everything, and whenever Kim is in doubt he will always fall back on protocol. “Come give me a hand, please, detective.”

“R-Right. You're right.” Harry shakes his head, briefly, falling back beside Kim, who motions for him to grab the officer's other side and lift. Vicquemare stirs slightly, tensing at the sudden change in elevation, a mumbled noise of confusion, but the fight leaves him just as quickly and he goes limp once more.

Before Kim can ask whether they're taking him to the bed or couch, Harry speaks up; “Let's just take him to the bedroom. I'll sleep on the couch tonight, it's fine.”

As soon as they've hoisted him onto the bed, Harry announces he's going to grab the first aid kit and some rags, which Kim agrees is a good idea. Probably better to stitch him up now while he's still more or less incapable of hurting himself – or anyone else – over it. 

Kim briefly laments the lack of sleep he will be getting tonight, already convinced it's in everyone's best interests if he stays the night as well; Harry and him can sleep in shifts. Overkill perhaps, but any chance of potentially lethal side effects—of which, off the top of his head, he knows fatal respiratory depression, or Host forbid, seizures, aren't exactly out of the question—is too high a chance to take for no good reason. Unfortunately for them, on an RCM officer's wage, not being able to afford an unnecessary hospital bill is actually a good reason not to go straight to the hospital. The lazareth will have already gone home for the night as well. 

But really, the most likely outcome is that Vicquemare will wake up confused and agitated – and having had the best sleep of his life.

Although, if he is correct in his assumptions, the chance of aggression post-somnolence is not to be understated, particularly, if he recalls, when combined with alcohol. Given their already tenuous relationship, it's probably better if Vicquemare does not wake up in Harry's apartment with no recollection of the night before and only Harry around to explain. Kim would rather not have them both come in looking like they got into a domestic on their day off.

Kim watches as a shudder passes through Vicquemare. Right, he remembers suddenly, sedatives can impair the body's ability to regulate its own temperature. He takes pity on Vicquemare and grabs another blanket to throw over him. 

He's a lot less imposing laid up like this, Kim notes…and a lot more depressing, he thinks unwittingly.

He chides himself for the ridiculously unprofessional observation. But the thought fosters some kind of strange empathy for the man; an understanding. Vicquemare went out drinking in full RCM uniform, alone. That's as close to a death wish as you can have without being actively institutionalized.

And yet, if it was Harry he usually went drinking with, what else could he really do? 

Well, maybe not go in uniform to start, but that's missing the bigger picture. 

Despite his grievances with Harry, and even some barbed comments about Harry's supposed sobriety at first, when Kim had transferred, Vicquemare’s doubts had disappeared seemingly overnight. There is no doubt in Kim's mind that the officer has begun to tentatively believe in Harry's sobriety – or at least that he's attempting it again.

Even if he's just waiting for the inevitable crash, he wouldn't be the one to tempt Harry. He’s been very vocal that if Harry fucks up again, it'll be of his own volition.

So if hitting the bar after work had been a ritual for them, it's not like he could just ask Harry to go drinking with him nowadays. He might not want to even if he could—with all the holes in Harry's memory, there's no way it'd be the same. 

He'd already lost everything else about their old partnership; perhaps he simply didn't want to lose this too. Inviting someone else – even Harry – would destroy an already fragile shard of the past he's holding onto. Better then, in his mind, to go alone than not go at all.

And sure, maybe he could stop to switch into his civvies. Or he could just do what he's been doing, with the certainty that everything will most likely be fine anyways. It's a figurative dice roll. Kim's seen it a thousand times; cops aren't allergic to a little risk. You're not going to roll snake eyes most of the time, so you get comfortable with rolling the odds anyways.

Kim wonders how many times Vicquemare had decided to roll the die before he lost the roll tonight.

He is interrupted from this pensive line of thought by Harry returning with the first aid kit, a bucket of warm water, and some rags.

Kim takes the first aid kit and deposits the remaining items off to the side, “Can you try and get his clothing off? I'm gonna double check that the first aid kit has everything we need.”

There is a tense silence as they both set to their tasks, but Vicquemare does not interrupt it with any sudden fits of wakefulness as Kim was hoping.

“Hey Kim,” Harry eventually says, unnervingly detached, “Will things ever be alright?”

“What?” Kim looks up, startled, “Yes, detective, I already told you his wounds aren't that severe–”

“Not that. I mean between us. Me and Jean.” He clarifies. “Do you think I'll ever be able to figure out what happened between us? Or do you think Jean will just carry it all into an early grave?” There's real anguish in Harry's voice now.

Kim shifts uncomfortably, staring at the man in question. “I don't know, Harry,” he eventually says, sighing. “There isn't exactly a blueprint for fixing a relationship you don't remember the details of due to your rampant alcoholism. It might not be possible…” He admits. “Perhaps he just needs a little space still.” Kim offers, consolingly.

“But I've been trying to give him space for so long,” Harry complains, almost petulant, “I want to be his friend again, but it's like he won't let me!”

Kim really doesn't want to be having this conversation right now, but Harry needs to hear this, “Officer, not everyone is going to want to be friends with you. You have to allow them the ability to say no. You can't make him be friends with you again.” It is an unfortunate possibility that Vicquemare doesn't want anything to do with Harry anymore, but that is well within his right.

“But…” Harry whispers, stricken, “I don't think he actually wants to be alone in those memories.”

Kim worries the edge of his lip as he considers this. This had occurred to him as well, but he doesn't have any actionable advice on that end. There's not a lot that can be done, bar Harry actually remembering those things. “Harry… There's not a lot either of us can do about that. Let's focus on what we can, please.”

He means it to try and steer things back to the somewhat pressing matter of stitching up their colleague's chest, but finds it's actually fairly sound advice on the matter.

Harry can't do anything about what happened in their old relationship, this much is apparent. But he can make better decisions now so that whatever new relationship comes out of the ashes is healthier than the last.

And Kim… 

Kim still doesn't know Lieutenant Vicquemare all that well—though arguably neither does Harry—but he hasn't been given a reason to dislike the man since starting to work with him. You really do get used to his abrasiveness quite quickly.

Especially because it just as quickly becomes apparent that Lieutenant Vicquemare is actually quite bad at maintaining that front. It almost feels like a point of cruelty that nobody in C-Wing has told him he's practically transparent, but Kim isn't one to rock the boat.

But maybe he needs to be. As a principle, Kim doesn't like getting involved with interpersonal strife. But he also really doesn't like the knowledge that Vicquemare could've died tonight. And it's especially worrying that the only person he thought to call was an amnesiac who, at best, still would've had trouble locating him, nevermind that he may have been completely unable to do so. Though maybe it bodes well for Harry that, at least subconsciously, Vicquemare still trusts him with his life – for better or worse.

It wouldn't hurt for him to have another person in his corner though. Kim hadn't realized the dependency went both ways – that Lieutenant Vicquemare just as equally has no one else but Harry to fall back on when things go to shit. 

He'd assumed Vicquemare would rely on the other members of the task force. Vicquemare had been the first to offer Kim support with transitioning to the 41st when he'd first arrived, so Kim had thought maybe Precinct 41 was just a closer knit group than some of the other Precincts. Or that at least C-Wing was. 

But Officer Minot had chuckled when he'd asked. “Jean's just like that,” she had said, without further explanation. 

He hadn't got it at the time, but now it made sense. Vicquemare is stuck in leadership mode; everyone is a direct report, but the relationship doesn't go both ways. 

And as much as Harry may have become his responsibility at some point, Harry was still his superior. The one person Vicquemare was allowed to rely on. Whether or not he was actually reliable was irrelevant—though Kim imagines he must have been at some point, otherwise Vicquemare wouldn’t have called at all.

But Kim isn't his subordinate, and he's certainly not his responsibility. Technically speaking, he's actually also his superior, though he'd prefer not to see it like that. 

Because it's clear what Vicquemare desperately needs is a friend. Ideally one that isn't wearing the body of his best friend. Not yet, at least.

Kim thinks he can manage that much. He's not looking forward to that conversation; it's bound to be awkward, and Vicquemare probably won't even be that reciprocative. But he'll make sure Vicquemare takes his number, if nothing else. If a little awkwardness is the price to pay to avoid a situation like this again, he'll gladly pay it. It's much more preferable to Vicquemare being dead.

As he clicks the first aid kit back shut, looking back up, he notices Harry has already gotten the clothing off, and is now gently scrubbing Vicquemare's face with a rag.

It's a surprisingly tender moment, almost domestic. He's reminded suddenly of why he himself trusted Harry with his life at the tribunal.

He nearly startles as that thought completes. 

If something had happened to him tonight, would he not also have first called Harry?

Would he have called anyone besides Harry, in fact?

In the absence of an answer, he nearly laughs at the absurdity. The Lieutenants of C-Wing are all apparently self-isolating messes.

Well, no better place to start than with each other, he supposes, preparing to disinfect the wound and stitch it shut. It's a little late to back out now. After tonight there will be no “respectful distance” to go back to anyways, not when his stitches will still be there every time Vicquemare undresses.

Kim really needs to stop making friends this way; he's not sure his heart can handle the repeated shock. He determines to make sure the next one does not almost die before the first time he invites them over.

Tonight however, he is content to be on caretaker duty. 

Maybe one day all of them will even be able to hang out together. Under completely normal circumstances, no less.

For the first time, he finds he genuinely wants that.