Chapter Text
Paperwork at the RCM is notoriously, legendar-ily slow. Especially, perhaps even inevitably, if one decorated lieutenant is abandoning his own precinct to transfer to a rival one.
“It’s ridiculous,” Kim sighs into the phone. “These pissing matches…ugh. Another week or two, I think.”
Harry nods mindlessly, shifting from foot to foot, testing his pained leg.
HAND EYE COORDINATION: The phone dial is balanced precariously on top of all sorts of dubious ephemera. The cord is too short to make it to the equally cluttered couch. There is no way to solve this predicament while you are still on the phone without making a lot of noise and answering questions.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You can take it. For now.
“I get it—well, kinda,” Harry laughs. “I’m pretty sure I’m on desk duty until you get approved to be here. I—uh, I think they don’t think lightning will strike twice until you’re around.”
Harry doesn’t think anything—he’d explicitly been told that. Jean had delivered the news with a piercing, wounded malice that still made Harry flinch, even if he understood where it was coming from.
“You’re a great detective,” Kim replies. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t think it would take this long.”
“Oh, no no, it’s fine,” he assures into the phone, clutching it to his face, as if for warmth. “I’m just glad you still wanna transfer.”
After another round of assurances and a promise to meet up tomorrow, over the weekend, they end the call. The butt of the phone clacks against the rotary as Harry fumbles to put it away, tenuously balancing it on the one unbroken tine.
He sighs and turns back to his apartment, rubbing his hands together. He’s been cold a lot lately.
The place is…it’s a wreck. A once rather modest but serviceable one bedroom apartment has been turned into a bulbous ooze of Harry’s failings. Unread mail has been shoved through the flap and scatters through the apartment entrance. Bottles sprawl across the floor. A small, brown trash can is barely visible through a pile of crushed cans. The fabric of nearly every piece of furniture has been graced with cigarette burns or dubious stains.
He’d been dropped off by Jean after Martinaise with a sarcastic wave from his car, a point, and been left to—
HALF LIGHT: Wither away.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Get fucked! There’s got to be something exciting here—where do you think you hid it? Under the cushions? Behind the cabinets?
VOLITION: Sit down and take it slow. It doesn’t have to be all at once. One thing at a time.
One thing at a time. He’d been given a few days off before he was assigned to desk duty. He’d started on one corner of the apartment and gotten about halfway through the bottles and food bits and unidentified goo in that section before his leg had protested too much to continue.
That had been about a week ago. His desk at work had been another matter entirely, like a little terrarium of his apartment. He’d started on tidying that, too. He’d gotten further there than here.
He’d been sent home two days ago with a large pile of paperwork to get through.
“Rest that leg,” Captain Pryce had said, after their last debriefing. “And get some rest yourself—you’re too quiet, Du Bois.”
He’d made a dent in the paperwork, but every time his attention turns to his living state, his throat tightens. He has to think in small actions in order to move to work on any of it—it’s too overwhelming otherwise.
The nauseating piles of soggy paper and moulded food, the feeling of the trash in his bare hands, the horrid smells evoking terrible feelings he can’t remember the source of. The broken glass. The ungodly amount of alcohol in half finished or half broken bottles he braces himself to pick up and pour out into the sink.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: No fun!! No fun.
INLAND EMPIRE: What are you throwing away that you’ll never remember again? What artifacts are lost forever?
EMPATHY: You could call Kim, you know. He’d help.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: In a small, third floor apartment a few blocks away from Precinct 57, Kim glances at the receiver from the kitchen sink, pausing. He shakes himself and returns to washing. They were just on the phone. Harry will call, if something is wrong.
Harry can’t let Kim see this. It is one thing to change clothes in the street or trash a hotel. It is another to be seen living like this.
LOGIC: You weren’t exactly a paragon of virtue in Martinaise. Sober, yes. Put together in any normal, conceivable way? Negative. He wouldn’t be surprised.
RHETORIC: Jean’s seen you fucked up so many times, nothing would surprise him, either. He’s got to have some part of him you could still appeal to.
HALF LIGHT: But they didn’t just drop you off, Harry. They left you to see if you’d swim, or if your engine would finally, mercifully seize up. They’re waiting for you to break.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Kim is not waiting for you to break. Jean…
PERCEPTION: It’s not so much malice, as exhaustion. You’ve exhausted him.
HALF LIGHT: You’ll exhaust Kim, too. You always do.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Come on, seriously?! It’s just a mess. You’ve cleaned up messes before. We can make this look like it never happened.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Wait, that’s not entirely—
Harry gets up, grabs a trash bag, sets his teeth, and gets to work.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: There you go, Harry boy! No one’s ever cleaned this hard or this suavely. You’re a machine!
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: Bottles go in the bag, liquid goes down the sink, paper garbage goes on top. Fold, tie, place bag by the door. Repeat.
EMPATHY: What are you guys trying to prove, here?
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: Some of these clothes are stained, but—
SAVOIR FAIRE: No, they’re disco, baby! We can find a washer. You certainly didn’t lose your spark in the Before!
LOGIC: How would you lose your spark, if it was in the Before?
After a burst of clean freak storm hits the front of the apartment, Harry opens the door to the bedroom before he can stop himself, his breath hitching.
THE BEDROOM: You should have left me to die.
LOGIC: I’m pretty sure he left you to die, but—
INTERFACING: The door jams, but you’re able to shove whatever it is out of the way.
VISUAL CALCULUS: The bed is unmade. There is a pig trail from the door to the nightstand, where a puddle of clothes is bundled up and flattened into a station upon where a hulking figure—
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Unnecessary.
VISUAL CALCULUS: —Appears to habitually crawl in. There are pills and alcohol on the table. A bottle of lube and an empty box of tissues complement the picture. Dust accumulation and bottle rings suggest three weeks of absence.
Harry leans against the doorframe, wiping away sweat with a shaking hand. His breaths are heavy. He lurches himself at the mess, grabbing his makeshift trash bag for clothes-to-wash and pushing them in.
THE BEDROOM: I cannot be made, no matter how hard you try. I am changed, forever.
Section by section, more of the dirt crusted floor is revealed. His arms shake as he picks up the final piece of clothing and places it into his fresh bag. Easing himself to sit on the mattress, he looks around.
He’s bagged up…nearly everything, really, the bags thrown towards the bedroom door.
INLAND EMPIRE: There’s a strange echo in the air—a loud emptiness.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You should really just get rid of the whole mattress. It’s stained and it smells weird and you’ve been sleeping on the couch anyway.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Harry, please—
Harry stands. The mattress is pretty rough.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: If you move it onto its side, it won’t be as bad. The doorframe is tall enough to roll it through.
It’s not awful to shift the mattress side to side on its frame. Harry anchors one hand, squats, and breathes out as he pushes the mattress up.
PAIN THRESHOLD [Legendary: Failure]: POP. Pain explodes in your wound.
Harry doubles over, the half-lifted mattress falling onto him. His leg gives out from under him. He lands on his knee, rolling to the floor in white, hot pain.
“FUCK!”
PAIN THRESHOLD: What’d I say, huh? It sucks. Your muscles are on fucking fire, and you’re bleeding.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Scar tissue damage, probably. Aggravation of an established wound, certainly.
PAIN THRESHOLD: As shitty as this is, the mattress springs are making this shittier. Can we—
ENDURANCE: Yep—on it.
Harry, one hand clutched in a death grip on his leg, uses the other to slough the disgusting mattress off his body. His head lands back against the wood floor with a thunk.Tears run down his face and onto the floor. He grits his teeth, letting out shaky breaths.
Chills run up and down his arms. His teeth begin to clatter together. He looks to the door, blocked by black bags.
HALF LIGHT: This is BAD, this is very bad—
VOLITION: Harry, you need to get to the phone. You need to call Kim—Kim can help.
Harry props himself up on his hands and tries to inch on his ass to the door. He is met with blinding pain.
ENDURANCE: Shit.
SAVOIR FAIRE: C’mon hairy Harry! You can do it! No one saw you fall, baby! Let’s go!
He lets out hitched breath and tries again, inching ever so slowly.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You know what would help is those thrown away pills - tear open those bags and find it!
ENCYCLOPEDIA: We don’t know what those pills are. The wrong one could kill us.
He sputters out just shy of the ring of trash bags, lying on the floor.
“I can’t—” he wheezes, bringing scraped knuckles to lay against his chilled forehead.
All is black.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: And we’re back, Harry-boy. Into the nothingness. Into the cold, damp dark.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Your soft body is on fire. Hot against the squeezing cold.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Brrrring, Brrring. A thrumming trill, piercing through plaster. He’s calling. He’s going to wonder why you’ve finally stopped calling. What trouble you’ve gotten yourself into this time.
ANCIENT REPTILLIAN BRAIN: Let it ring, baby. There is no Kim. There is only the sweet, sulfurous heat of your own decay.
INLAND EMPIRE: The shadows from beneath the bed frame play with your hair.
SHIVERS: Across the Jamrock skyline, a man in an orange bomber jacket checks his watch. A motor carriage door creaks open. A radio clicks on.
Harry opens his eyes to—light? He blinks, turning his head.
PERCEPTION: The sun is like a jagged knife against your eyes, catching dust motes in its wake. You turn away.
He is shaking. Badly. Everything hurts.
Some time later, boots stomp up stairs. A familiar RCM-esque knock raps at his door.
“Detective?”
It’s Kim.
“H-hey,” Harry wheezes. He can’t make it any louder.
“Harry! Are you in there?”
Another four hard raps. Harry groans, thumping his head against the floor in frustration. “Kim—”
Footsteps trail away. Tears prick at Harry’s eyes. Moments later, Harry flinches at the CRACK of boot hitting wood. Seconds later, Kim, gun drawn, appears in the bedroom doorway.
He quickly holsters it and steps over the bags. “Harry—”
“Didn’t take anything,” Harry slurs. “Tripped—was cleaning—can’t walk—”
Kim kneels next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Shh—ok, leg?”
Harry nods, tears escaping. He whimpers, even attempting to readjust himself resulting in searing leg pain.
Kim presses the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead. His eyebrows knit. He produces a pocket knife, flipping out the small scissors, going for Harry’s waistband.
“I liked these pants,” Harry mutters.
A ghost of a smile graces Kim’s lips. “We’ll find you more.”
He undoes Harry’s belt and cuts the pants, wincing as Harry shouts at the fabric sticking to skin.
“Infection,” Kim says as soon as he can see it, his voice growing urgent. “I need to call for help from the Kineema.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: More immediate medical help can be received from the direct RCM line than what citizen emergency services provides. A perk of the job. The only downside is that your precinct will likely send a representative.
“Jean’s not going to be happy,” Harry slurs miserably. “Didn’t do drugs. Or alcohol. Maybe not Jean? Maybe Tr—”
“Detective—Harry, I have to make this call. I’ll be right back. Hold steady for me, ok?”
He runs, leaping over the trash bags, over and out the collapsed door.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He looked good doing that. You should get him to work out in front of you.
PERCEPTION: Without him, the cold, hard wood underneath your head and your aching bones protesting from a night on the floor make themselves very well known.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Aside from the pain of the infected gunshot wound, of course.
PERCEPTION: Yes, that too.
A few minutes later, Kim runs back up the stairs and over the bags, medical supplies in hand. He pulls out gloves and a liquid, and pours it onto Harry’s leg.
PAIN THRESHOLD: It’s not water—it’s fire. He’s pouring liquid fire straight into your wound.
Harry jerks up with a shout, keening. Kim steadies him, holding him in place. “I know, I know. That’s probably the worst part, alright?”
Harry’s eyes get heavy. He blinks at Kim, who is rooting around in his kit. Kim turns back, eyes growing larger behind his lenses.
“Hey! Hey, look at me,” he says firmly. “No falling asleep.”
“Mmm, sepsis?” Harry mutters, a lilt to his lips.
Kim eyes him as he works. “It’s a concern.”
“Wasn’t thinking,” Harry replies, staring up at the ceiling.
PAIN THRESHOLD: No, you weren’t listening!
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: My bad.
“How long have you been down here?” Kim asks.
“What time is it?”
Kim looks at his watch. “1 PM.”
Harry winces. “Uh. Last night. Not sure when, probably around 10 PM.”
Kim proffers a canteen of water to Harry’s lips. It’s cold and clear, heaven on his mouth and throat.
HALF-LIGHT: You’re going to die, Harry.
“C-cold,” Harry mutters, shivering.
“You’re cold?” Kim asks, his hands stilling.
HALF-LIGHT: He’s too late.
VOLITION: He’s not too late—he’s right here. He’s not going to leave you.
“You’re not going to leave, right?” Harry asks.
Kim shakes his head, squeezing his arm. “No, I’m not. Why would I leave?”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Shock. Not good. Why didn’t he call?
“Couldn’t get to the phone. Wanted to,” Harry says. His eyes droop again.
Kim unzips his jacket, draping his coat over Harry.
PERCEPTION: It smells like oil and cigarettes and hair pomade. It’s the best smelling thing in the world.
Kim looks around, eyes settling on the upended mattress, the various trash bags. “It’s bad in here. I—I didn’t realize how bad it was, Harry. I would have come. You could’ve—”
SHIVERS: A small apartment on the industrial side. It’s got a garage and a balcony. Only one and a half people can fit in the bathroom. There’s a television, and a mostly empty fridge, and a bed with one nightstand on it. He’s thought about giving that side to you, someday, wherever you two ended up.
“Wanted to clean up my own mess, for once,” Harry rasped, offering a cracked smile.
Kim doesn’t smile back. “It’s not worth this.”
PERCEPTION: A mechanical shriek is bouncing off the grey tenements of Jamrock. It’s a long, low wail that sounds like a wounded animal. Or a woman screaming in a dream you can't quite remember.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: A medical carriage. Their horn is rather…distinct.
“There she is,” Harry says. “Any chance you could fend off anyone from the precinct entering my hellhole? If they show up,” he adds with a mutter.
Kim’s lips thin. “I’ll do what I can.”
The medics, blessedly, get there first. Kim raps off information to them rapid fire and helps them move Harry’s body onto a stretcher. It hurts almost as much as Kim’s peroxide did.
Just as they are about to carry Harry down, a too-familiar angry gait storms up the stairs. Quick and thankfully true to his word, Kim meets Jean at the door. Jean tries to push past him, index finger already raised.
“Lieutenant,” Kim barks. “Back up. Now.”
The medics carry Harry out quickly down the stairs. Jean and Kim follow. The light of the afternoon hurts Harry's eyes. The wind carries their conversation to his ears.
“He is not high. Or drunk. He’s suffering from septic shock. He was left alone with a gunshot wound to clean up a biohazard he has no memory of making.”
“You’re blaming me for this?”
“Aren’t you his partner, lieutenant? Were you unaware of the state of his apartment?”
“Not anymore, I’m not,” Jean mutters. “I—fuck.”
The rest of their conversation disappears behind the carriage. The medic pats him, gently readjusting him. Kim opens and closes the side back door moments later, climbing in, sitting near Harry’s head. The carriage moves.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Kim!
PERCEPTION: You still have his jacket.
“Don’t let them cut the jacket off, Kim,” Harry slurs. He’s curled his arms into the arm holes backwards, wearing it like a blanket. “It’d be like shaving your head or something.”
Kim quirks a brow. “Oh?”
Harry nods, eyes settling on Kim’s exposed arms—his holster hugging his shoulder. The medics prod at him, working to stabilize the wound.
He looks good. “You look good.”
Kim’s eyebrow raises further, if possible. “Khm. Well. Thank you, detective.”
Harry looks down at himself, ruined bellbottoms still uncut around his uninjured leg, his button down slick with cold sweat. He is handed more medicine and water. An IV is inserted into his arm.
SAVOIR FAIR: You’ve looked better, Harry.
“Sorry about our plans,” Harry says, his eyes sliding shut.
Kim pats his cheek, “Hey—Harry. Look at me.”
AUTHORITY: Can’t say no to that—it’s Kim. He has superpowers.
“Don’t go to sleep yet,” he commands, eyes intense. “Keep talking to me.”
ENDURANCE: Doin’ my best, Kim.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: A common tactic used for more quickly spotting patient deterioration.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: And to reassure concerned lieutenants. This situation has evoked too many tribunal memories already.
“Wanted to—thought it’d be good to get it all clean, you know?” Harry rasps. Has he already said this? He isn’t sure. “I don’t think I want to live there.”
“You can’t stay there,” Kim agrees. “We’ll figure something out.”
“The bedroom told me it would never recover,” Harry sniffles. The medics exchange looks.
“Where were you sleeping, anyway?” Kim asks.
“The couch.”
“Mmm.”
“Sorry, Kim.”
Kim sighs. “We’ll talk about it later, detective. There’s no need to apologize.”
“Did you leave the Kineema?”
“I did. I’ll fetch it once you’re stable.”
“Sir,” the medic chimes in. “Any history of allergies we should know about?”
Harry blinks. “I don’t know.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Medically mandated drugs?! Your lucky day!
“Lieutenant Du Bois has recently suffered memory loss,” Kim explains quickly. “He also has a predisposition to addiction.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Killjoy.
VOLITION: You’ve been doing so well, Harry. Don’t give up now.
“No narcotics, please,” Harry says.
The medics nod. The carriage finally comes to a halt and the back doors open. Harry is met with a brief glance at the sky before being overtaken with rolling, off white ceilings.
People all around him are talking about him in rapid fire, bullet-pointed speech. He is hooked up to more machines. Kim’s jacket is deftly removed to make way for punctures and prods.
PERCEPTION: The splash of orange is helpful, returned to its owner. You can find Kim in the blurry crowd of white, sitting straight in a visitor chair, his hands tight on his knees.
ENDURANCE: Okay, can we system shut down now? I think we can.
Harry falls asleep, pulled under the waves of murmurs and beeps.