Chapter Text
When he had transferred to Precinct 41, Kim hadn’t been sure what to expect - from his new colleagues, from Jamrock. From Harry. Part of him had assumed that this would be the end of the partnership they’d only just begun to build in Martinaise. That Harry would simply settle back into his old role - however much he could - that he’d return to being Jean‘s partner and slowly lose interest in Kim.
He wouldn‘t have blamed him and he wasn‘t naive - he knew that part of why Harry had clung onto him like a drowning man was because that‘s what he had been. It wasn’t unreasonable, then, to assume that a newly sober Harry would no longer need Kim. But now, four months later, spring is beginning. And Harry is still there. And somewhere, stashed away deep under layers upon layers of professional distance and well practiced repression, Kim is glad about it.
In fact, Harry is almost never not there. It is entirely impossible - for Kim and all of Precinct 41 - not to notice how much he isn’t not there. Wherever Kim goes, he goes. And right now, where Kim is going is the little diner just around the corner from Precinct 41.
They have lunch here often. The food is nothing special - burgers and fries, grease and salt, adjusted to cigarette-withered cop tastebuds - but it‘s good enough. And after a morning spent running around Jamrock - with Harry, it‘s always running - Kim is almost inclined to rank the place among the top three restaurants he‘s ever eaten at.
He unzips his jacket and sits down, carefully avoiding a spill of sticky something on the red leather. Harry slides into the seat across from Kim, his coat half-unbuttoned, hair shaggy, face flushed from the last bite of winter cold. For a moment, Kim can’t help but think he looks good like that. Alive. Healthy. Sober. He hides a smile and takes off his gloves, placing them neatly on the table.
Across from him, Harry stares down at the laminated menu and examines the cartoony images of the various burgers as if he is going to be tested on them later. Like the rest of the diner, the menu has seen better days. Faded at the corners from years of greasy, tired detective hands. A survivor. Like everyone in this city.
„You think cops in Revachol eat more burgers than the general population?“
Kim looks up from the yellow napkin he‘s been tormenting absentmindedly. „It certainly seems likely“, he says and briefly allows himself to wonder if the diner staff might be able to deduce how dire the situation at the precinct is based on the amount of burger orders coming in until late at night. Some kind of burger index to measure criminal activity in Jamrock. A silly idea, of course. He almost wants to scold himself for it.
„They should do a study“, Harry interrupts Kim‘s thoughts and drums his fingers on the menu. „Of the burger-per-cop consumption,“ he adds.
„I suspect the results would be rather depressing, detective“, Kim says, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Harry squints at the menu as if trying to decipher a hidden message. Or maybe he‘s arguing with it about the correct toppings-to-bread-ratio on the perfect burger. Why not - Kim has seen him do and claim things much stranger than that.
„It could almost be like an economic indicator,“ he muses. „Burger inflation. Crime goes up, burger consumption goes up, too. All of Jamrock‘s cops are suddenly too busy to cook.“
Kim decides to let the poor napkin be, much to its relief. Instead, he folds his hands on the table.
„I don‘t know that many police officers regularly cook for themselves,“ he says, unconvinced, and gently blows a lone bread crumb off the table.
He‘s seen what his colleagues at Precinct 41 eat over the course of the day and has come to the unshakable conclusion that he is not exactly in the company of gourmands. In fact, he‘s pretty certain he once observed at least a handful of officers arguing about whether eating the maggot-infested kebab from the stall across the road would boost their immune system.
„Well, they have to, really,“ Harry says emphatically. „Otherwise Revachol‘s law enforcement apparatus would eventually collapse under the weight of its own sodium intake.“
Kim allows himself a small exhale through his nose. A laugh, almost. „An alarming prospect,“ he concedes. Though his face is blank, he hears a smile in his own voice. „We wouldn‘t want that to happen.“
Harry finally looks up from the menu. „You usually get the number two here, right? Maybe I should try that today. I can probably trust your taste. You always make the right choice with everything,“ he beams.
Kim feels the color rise on the back of his neck and quickly looks away, somewhere far less dangerous than Harry‘s bright eyes. Recently, he‘s not been so sure of too many of his choices. This includes getting lunch with Harry every day. A small part of him, hidden somewhere at the back of his mind with all the other questionable thoughts he’s been noticing and carefully filing away one by one, has started to wonder if this still qualifies as professional. Some boundaries should not be crossed, after all.
Besides - people talk. Cops talk even more.
He clears his throat with an embarrassed cough. „It‘s more a matter of habit. The most reliable item on the menu.“ A way to spare himself the disappointment of wasting his lunch break on worse-than-usual food. It‘s hard to mess up a simple cheeseburger. But also - a way to free up mental space for more important thoughts. Precinct 41 is much busier than his old precinct. He simply cannot be spending his time analyzing the pros and cons of different questionably colored burger-sauces. Harry, on the other hand, doesn‘t seem to share this problem.
When Kim looks up again, Harry‘s eyes are still boring into him. „Are you trying to deduce what dark secrets my burger order may reveal to you, detective?“, Kim says wryly. „I’m afraid you’d be sorely disappointed. Sometimes a cheeseburger is just a cheeseburger.“
Harry leans back, hands clasped behind his head, his white shirt stretching over his chest. The tiny buttons are in over their head, holding on for dear life. A small sliver of pale skin manages to see the light of day. He‘s been working out again these past few months. Kim makes a concerted effort to ignore the hair on his chest snaking through the gap between two buttons or the bulge of his biceps straining against the ridiculously tight sleeves.
It’s hardly professional, Kim thinks and tries not to acknowledge the faint realization that he doesn’t really mind all that much. After all, it is better than some of the other things he’s seen Harry wear. In fact, this is probably as good as it’s going to get. At least none of his current clothes were pulled out of a trash can or sport an obscenely high leg slit. Small victories.
„So you‘re saying there is a secret?“, Harry grins and wiggles his eyebrows.
Kim almost rolls his eyes. It’s taking him everything not to let out a groan. Before he can say anything, though, the waitress decides to relieve him - or spare Harry - and comes to take their orders. They both get the number two.
Then, Harry tries again: „Still,“ he says, „you make good choices.“ His face contorts into a horrible attempt at a wink, a ghost of The Expression almost.
It sends a weird sting through Kim‘s heart. He tries to make one of these good choices of his that Harry keeps praising and ignores it. Whatever this is, it‘s going to have to remain stuffed into a far away corner of his brain, never to be re-examined, like files of a case he couldn’t solve. And then, he hopes, it simply won‘t happen ever again.
He hides behind the glass of water the waitress set down earlier and takes the slowest sip anyone has ever taken. Somehow, the water manages to taste extraordinarily dry.
Harry‘s eyes are still fixed on him, his face split into one of his impossibly wide smiles. He looks so happy to be here on this lunch run with Kim right now. Like he won the lottery, even though they go here almost every day.
Something tugs at Kim’s heart again. He searches for something to say. Harry’s big green eyes staring at him like that makes his face itch. Heat threatens to flush the tip of his ears. He adjusts his glasses and feels relieved when Harry turns his attention to the salt shaker - a tiny ceramic imitation of a bag of fries - instead.
The diner hums quietly around them - the low drone of conversation, the hiss of the grill behind the counter, the rhythmic clatter of plates being stacked somewhere in the back.
„Like what?,“ he finally asks flatly, a small part of himself occupied with feeling annoyed that he couldn’t come up with something more interesting, something wittier.
And somewhere underneath that, frustration creeps in at himself for even wanting to say something cool.
What is he? A junior officer trying to impress his superior?
Those days are long behind him.
Harry rolls the fry-shaped-shaker between his fingers. „Why is the pepper shaker just normal when salt is this?,“ he asks. „There’s no internal coherence in these design choices.“ He sounds bewildered, like this is the most important puzzle anyone has ever been confronted with.
The pepper shaker on the table is indeed just a regular pepper shaker shaped like every other pepper shaker. For a moment, it seems plausible that the fry-shaped-shaker on their table is the only one in the entire restaurant, that it had simply appeared here some day and no one had paid it any notice or bothered to replace it with a regular one since.
Kim shrugs and raises an eyebrow, still waiting for an answer to his question.
„Oh. Right. Well, choosing to transfer, for example. I‘d say that was pretty solid as far as choices go,“ Harry finally says, almost sheepishly, as if he isn‘t sure Kim will agree.
That stupid hopeful wet dog look on Harry‘s face makes Kim‘s skin tingle. He quickly looks away and takes another sip of impossibly dry water.
Maybe they shouldn’t get lunch again tomorrow. They really do need to watch their sodium intake.
And maybe that‘s what this is. Slowly but surely overdosing on burgers and fries and something close to but not quite like cheese sauce. That much salt and grease can‘t be good for anyone. It‘s bound to cause side-effects.
Besides, they‘ve already gone over their allotted break time anyway. They haven‘t even eaten yet and should be back at their desks already. Still, he feels a strange reluctance at the thought.
Harry has started to drum his fingers against the edge of the table. His smile looks more nervous now. Restless energy radiates from him like from one of those dogs that never seem to calm down. Like a motor that never quite stops running.
Kim‘s face doesn’t betray the smile he feels trying to crawl out from under years of practiced stoicism, nor the warmth he feels rise in his chest.
„Sure,“ he finally says, a smidge softer than he intends. „You‘re not wrong. That was one of the better decisions I‘ve made recently.“ And he means it.
The tension falls from Harry‘s features almost audibly and he beams at Kim again in that blinding, very Harry way that makes it difficult to think straight. He likes this answer. It settles something in him. Kim feels the corners of his eyes crinkle together in the ghost of a smile.