Chapter Text
[25 MARS ‘51]
people died every day in the city of revachol. people were murdered during a robbery or because they crossed the wrong person or because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. people starved on the streets and in their homes, of heat stroke and freezing temperatures until they shivered into a quiet stillness. people overdosed on drugs and alcohol, jumped from bridges and buildings, put a pistol in their mouth and redecorated their walls as a final farewell. some hung themselves with horrific ties and drove their vehicles into the sea.
some people died little by little, day by day, so slowly they didn't notice how close to the pale they were until it was too late.
revachol was full of death at every turn, even for the best of its citizens.
he had seen too much death over the years. bodies frozen where they died, cracking as they were pulled off frozen concrete. bodies infested with maggots and flies in the dead of summer that fell apart with the lightest touch. remains unidentifiable after slamming into the ground from a dozen stories above or nibbled to anonymity by the fish of the river.
it didn't phase him anymore. it couldn't. it just… couldn't.
maybe that's why satellite-officer jean vicquemare didn't care about the moralintern fuckers dying like they did – a crackshot through a slit in a helmet, burned to a crisp by a molotov thrown by a madman. he didn't have much sympathy for the martinaise union ‘police’ either, their involvement in the case was their own downfall. they died for their mistakes and officer vicquemare couldn't sympathize with the stupidity of it all.
that day in martinaise, nobody fucking died. nobody that mattered, anyway.
which is why it was laughable that vicquemare was staring at a leaflet about grief while tucked into a doorway waiting for the downpour of chilling rain to subside. above him rested an empty but optimistic flower box barely hanging onto the sill of a window. it blocked most of the rain, but there was a steady drip off the corner of the neglected flower box that fell directly onto his collar. the cold rain was soaking into the fabric and soon it would begin to drip down his back where it would settle into a chill that would take well into the evening to shake.
the leaflet in his hands was too glossy and brightly colored for the text on the page. the city was muted and grey, the further contrast not lost on him.
he laughed bitterly, a cigarette hung loosely between his lips as if he had forgotten it was there.
he had, in fact, forgotten the unlit stick was held in his mouth as habit. in two minutes time, he would come to regret this.
THE FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF read the title of the leaflet, the words juxtaposed the poorly drawn sad face beneath it, inked in a yellow like the burning sun of a sweltering revachol summer at midday. the background was a blue as bright as the sky holding the same burning sun of the sad fucking face.
it was almost funny. he was certain it wasn't supposed to be.
it was a waste of his time, was what it was. he had a dozen more important things he needed to be doing with another twenty he didn't want to do that was more appealing than this stupid fucking leaflet held in his hand.
but judit had pressed it into his hand like something sacred, giving him a look of worry with a sad smile. (it's not like he died, he remembered someone saying. he remained neutral, saying nothing and giving nothing away. so he thought. judit saw something, clearly.) no words, just that sad look before she went back to her desk like nothing happened at all.
with a quiet sigh, vicquemare opened to the first page. five words were in large, bold letters, each one underlined. DENIAL. ANGER. BARGAINING. DEPRESSION. ACCEPTANCE. the words alone brought a discomfort to his chest that he pushed away before it could grow. beside each word was a short description he could only roll his eyes at.
he could feel the first few drops of cold rain begin to travel past his collar. still, he looked at the first word.
DENIAL – the first reaction is denial. in this stage, you may believe the event is somehow mistaken and cling to a false, preferable reality. some may also isolate themselves, typically avoiding those who may have accepted what is happening.
vicquemare snorts at the words. “yeah, fucking right. not in damned denial when he's fucking lying about it.” grumbling the words made the forgotten cigarette fall from his lips, straight onto the drenched concrete in front of him. it soaked through immediately. before he could contemplate trying to save it, a pair of feet trample over it as they walk by, disintegrating it into nothing but wet tobacco and ripped soggy paper.
a cigarette would do him good, actually, but patting his pockets reminded him that the trampled cigarette was the last of his pack. he had no money until he returned to the station, having spent what little he had on him on a shitty lunch he regretted.
“fucking fuck!” the small outburst pulled a few looks by passersby as they trudged through the rain. he paid them no mind, just scowling down at the tragic remains of his last cigarette. it was a comical metaphor for the tragedy of his own life, he was sure.
without looking at the leaflet again, he crumpled it into a glossy ball. he pushed into the thick of the rain, not for the first time today wishing he had his rain cloak. too little too fucking late.
he shoved the bullshit leaflet of psychobabble into a trash can as he passed by it, glad to be rid of judit’s unfortunate and unwanted attempt at helping him. (no one died, remember?)
head down against the rain, jean vicquemare’s long legs led back to the station where he could warm up with abysmal coffee, get some work done, and hopefully bum a cigarette (or two) from one of his colleagues.
[10 MARS ‘51]
“he's lying!” jean barely waited seconds after harry and lieutenant kitsuragi left the building before yelling this out in the middle of the cafeteria, drawing a few looks from the otherwise quiet patrons. “he's fucked in the head. he's pulled some shit before but this is one for the fucking books. putting on a show, the drama of it all!” he threw his hands in the air.
he pulled the stupid blonde wig off his head and threw it on the table behind him. he left the sunglasses on, hoping it would hide the goddamned wet of his eyes from judit. he didn't know if he was angry or sad or frustrated or murderous. maybe all of the above.
judit pressed her lips together in an expression of understanding, in a way. “he seemed… confused.”
“fat chance.”
“it didn't seem like he was faking it, vic.” her voice was quiet and gentle, like talking to a spooked horse.
he didn't appreciate the tone but he had more important things to focus on, so he let it slide. “oh, he's faking it. i don't know why, i don't know what his fucking game is, but it's all bullshit.” he brought a hand up to his face, scratching at a pocked section of his cheek a little too roughly. “he drove the MC into the sea! 45,000 reál drowned to death.” at least harry didn't drown.
harry should have drowned.
“pawned his fucking gun! his gun, judit! lost his badge.” he scratched a bit harder at his face. “i covered for him this entire case.” for years, always cleaning up his messes. “we all have. and he doesn't fucking remember us?”
harry had to be making it all up. he had to have a reason, some ulterior motive. it being a massive fucked up prank would hurt less than the truth.
judit remained silent, giving jean the moment to vent, to get it out of his system. to tire himself out. she was upset too. she knew harry always struggled with things, had seen it firsthand on some level. he had his dramatics but this felt like something else altogether. there was no making jean see anything but red right now.
almost tentatively, she reached out and tugged jean's hand away from his face by the sleeve of his shirt. he barely noticed, too in his head. “jean.”
he glanced to her, eyes still hidden by the dark lenses. “yes, officer?” he sounded tired all of a sudden, like he hit an invisible wall.
“go for a walk. i'll order us food and then we’ll go back to the station.” there was a slight pause as she tried to look him over, get a read on him. “i'll drive us back. meet me back at the MC in ten minutes.”
shockingly, he didn't argue. jean grabbed the hideous blonde wig, plopped it back onto his head. he muttered a thank you and left the warm air to wait in the cold wind.