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The whole fucking prescient was on edge.
Since Harry’s mandated time off, two months have passed and Harry has, as much as Revechol busses will allow, been on time. And Sober.
That’s right. Big S, baby.
Today was different, though. It had been two hours since Harry would have normally been pushing aside the doors of the C Wing-- a moderately less disco mess; all fluffy, curly hair and clattering headphones on the desk, haphazardly tethered to a portable cassette walkman.
“Do not disrespect Soonie,” he had said one day after a jab at Her Honor at a lunch. He quickly stuffed Her in a drawer. “She’s nice to me…” Kim had caught that last comment quickly through the murmur of prescient bullshit.
Normally, Harry might make a comment about someone he saw on the bus during his way in.
Today, his desk was fucking empty.
Today, everyone was quiet; and everyone hated it. There was no flurry, no errant tapping. No snide comments…
Kim glanced up from his desk, from his desk to the right, a clock on the wall; face red with some ugly smear of takeout launched in a senseless fury of restlessness and long forgotten. It was just quiet. He was starting to realize how much he hated this precinct’s distinct form of quiet. It wasn’t a good, clean, safe one. It was heavy, greasy, straining, tiring, and droning.
Jean seemed to feel Kim’s anxious anticipation and himself began tapping a neurotic rhythm as he returned to his paperwork. But then again, not but three minutes later, the heavy-lidded man shoots his head up again to check the clock. Jean has a hard time keeping track of time, anyways, Kim has noticed. He has to sit close to a clock at diners or he will get anxious.
Mclaine stretches, loudly emphasizing every little move in his chair. After his moment of shared pause with the minuet hand, he begins, “Hey, where--”
Before he can finish his thought, Jean has shoved all his paperwork off to the side and stood up; his chair loudly scraping behind him. “I’ll go check on him.” His voice is sharp, Tired. And ripe with spite. But underneath it, almost oozing from the edges like a cracker sandwich, is a deep care. Sickening and sweet, like the honey wines they each, separately, had tried once at some fancy Seol restaurant-- a date from so long ago.
Kim set his pen down, clicking it neatly. “I’ll give you a lift. I have an errand to run, anyways.” He finished his sentence before even turning to look at Vic, hands promptly stuffed into his pockets.
“Fine,” is all he says. But he is already moving towards the path of Kim’s kinema; neatly transferred along.
When they arrive on the scene, Kim is thankful at how quickly Jean pulls out his spare key-- so he doesn’t have to. The quick and green-twinged thought passes his might that everyone in their right mind must have a key to Harry’s flat-- despite him never having used his--- that he is so miraculously not special just because he has one.
And then, he remembers Harry’s room in Marinaise. God knows what set him off and how, but that room was a testament to what it is like to live without wanting to. Kim shudders at the memory of the smell, and reminds himself that passing a key is one good way to stay alive-- or be found sooner rather than later in the alternative.
Harry was in his bed, thank God. He was safe. Jesus Christ, he was here and safe… Kim’s eyes trailed down to two green, empty bottles of wine standing vigil at his bed. Kim had been here just the other night, and those were not there. And the lieutenant had been so proud in his boastings of not drinking an entire bottle himself-- but only to the lieutenant would he allow such a small celebration. The brief thought that he picked these up after work and never left his bed was unshakable; but Kim reminds himself this is not a case-- he does not have to think like that.
Yet.
The feeling chokes up in his throat. “Harry,” he spits out to make room for the feeling. “Wake up.”
Jean lights a cigarette. “That won’t work.” He jabs the lit end in the direction of a red blur. It flashes the time, and plays some cheap, disco rendition of a much older song-- leaking out of its speakers like it too needs a day off. “He’s out cold.”
The other lieutenant lets out a cough, grabs the pale spectre’s cigarette from his hand and takes a long drag. It is partially for him. He is thankful. Then, he blows it in the Double Y-Frieter’s peaceful and cozy face.
His eyes flutter open like a new born deer. “Are we going out for a cigarette?” His voice is crackling, like it came straight from the pale into the men’s pockets.
“Of course that wakes him up.”
The cigarette was handed back.
“I’ll start making him coffee.”
Harry almost gasped as he came to.
“You know where you are, shitkid?”
A meaty hand thrown onto a face in desperation. An awkward glance thrown around the room. Then, to Jean.
“...Please don’t tell Kim.”
Jean is tired. He has seen this before. Before he can begin to tell him that Kim is already here, making coffee, Harry continues. “Having Kim is like having a glowing sobriety chip… His voice is soft and yet heavy with sleep and he trails off for just a moment. Jean very briefly wonders if he still dreams about him; but refuses to say a word. “...that makes me laugh,” the other man, all freckles and curls and awkward fitting shirt and half draped in-and-out of the bed finishes.
Shit, Jean thinks. He’s still fucking drunk.
Harry’s last case was a nasty domestic abuse call. A young girl had called in her father drunkenly beating his wife to death. He left after, presumably in shock from what had happened. Harry can only hope the worst for that father. The girl had come home early from school and found her best friend and worst nightmare holding hands. She was a wreck. Harry understood all too well. She had told Harry all she wanted to hold her mother’s hand one last time. To know the feeling of her mother holding her again; but she just stood there, in shock, watching the scene be swept before she had a chance. He was sick to his stomach. He understood this shit so well. But didn’t fully know why.
He had gotten the number of the girl’s aunt that she would be staying with from her. He knew he would be awkwardly trying to ease the sharp knife of the loss of a best friend in any way; but it didn’t make it any easier. A flood of feelings from before Martinaise came back in a messy mix like a garbage cocktail while he talked to her, but he held strong. He doesn’t remember anything after that conversation. Not from then, ‘til now. Just being angry at the idea of filling out paperwork for all or even any of it. A vague hope that he could be a respite, a movement of sense in the senselessness. And then something warm and cold and bitter and welcome and deeply alive. But he didn’t care. And now he’s here. He didn’t know how it happened. He doesn’t remember, anyways. For a brief moment, he is anxious that he doesn’t remember, and then he reminds himself he doesn’t care. Another failed check. Another new start the next day.
Jean knew it would set him off. But he had no way of asking if anyone other than Harry could take the call without it being loudly broadcasted onto the police frequency for everyone to hear. So he left Harry to it. And knew it wouldn’t be pretty the next day. Now he wonders if he will even remember promising the girl he would check up on her or if he even knows where the paper it had been scrawled on is.
Harry was still drunk for sure. Impulsively, he reached over for his alarm, presumably realizing the music was his queue to function, and knocked it onto the ground and hissed a quick, “sshit.”
That was all Jean needed. This familiar dance. It had been a while, but Jean still knew all the moves. “You’re not going to work.”
“Yeah no shit.”
The words came before he knew, and as soon as he said them he felt like he was picking up a broken window. “Fuck-- shit, I’m sorry.” He tried to move like he was going to tumble himself out of bed, and then stopped-- seemingly having thought of a better idea- and threw all his weight back bedside once more.
“I’m sorry?” Jean was not used to the level of upfront-ed-ness. Normally, this would have been an ordeal. It didn’t seem like Harry was going to make an ordeal out of this.
“I can’t do it.”
It was barely audible. “What?” Jean snapped. There were images of his once best friend at his worst. Indescribable suicides that made his stomach twist for the first time since he was a junior officer on a few stray calls that didn’t have enough hands.
“I’m not…” Harry started so strong. But so quickly it trailed off. “I’m not going to be a police officer today.”
Jean couldn’t bite his tongue. “You’ve tried that already. Come on, we’re waiting for you.”
“I told Price that I’m not coming in.”
Jean's cigarette hung limply in his mouth. This was new. This is it. He’s done. Say goodbye to your partner before it’s too late.
“I told Price that I’m not coming in. I can’t do it today. Just… Just tell Kim I started on a case early.” Before he continues, Jean knows what he means. This is how it starts. “Tell him I’m okay.” It makes him sick with anger. How many times has he done this bullshit with you? An irreparable number. But this time it is soft. Fuck, it is so gentle. Why is he suddenly so less skittish now? Jean wishes he knew what that was like. Maybe…? No
Kim’s already hanging in the doorway; he had heard Harry and wants to make sure he’s okay. “I can’t let him down.”
Jean starts a small, nauseous twitch of a smile and Harry grabs for his hand. At first, Jean is sure he’s going to pluck the cigarette from him before saying much else. But Harry just holds it. Tightly. Jean missed this. Jean misses it all. He is tired. He realizes he wants to go back to bed. Where Harry’s at doesn’t look too bad.
No.
“I need him to know he can count on me. I need him to know I see him.” There’s some look that flashes over Harry’s eyes. What did they say? “If he doesn’t,” his voice trails off, watching Jean's cigarette, then sharply watching Jean. “If he can’t depend on me, he’s just going to feel like he’s always alone.” Something desperate sets in Harry’s jaw. Like when he didn’t have money for drinks. “I can’t do that. I can’t let him down today.” He sighs like a tired dog. “Just.. Tell him I’m out. Please.” A brief flash, and he startles to. “Jean, …--no. Shit--”
“Good morning, shitkid.” A returning tired dog sigh. “I’ll tell him just…” he is wondering whether he should or can say this or not. “Don’t drink too much today.”
There is a small “C’mon,” and then he is gone. They always leave.
It’s okay… They’ll be back. Rest.
Please, just rest.