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taking care of the people around him started at a young age. with a father who worked so often he was never home and a mother in a constant fog of depression, vic had to not only fend for himself but also his mother. there was a point where she did nothing but stare at a wall or out of the window without actually seeing a thing. she didn’t take care of herself and seemed to forget to take care of him. it made his heart hurt to see her like that. she was a shell of the mother who used to dote upon him, making his favorite meals and baked goods, reading him stories and comic books, playing silly little games.
she was withering away in front of him and he felt helpless. so he learned to cook, did what he could to make her eat anything at all. he left meals for his father warming in the oven or covered in the fridge. he cleaned and helped his mother wash and dragged heavy bags of laundry to the laundromat a few blocks away. he still attended school and pretended everything was just fine. he could fake it, just enough to get through those school days. then he would trudge home and maybe see his dad, who would thank him for the food or let him know how his mother was or give him an awkward hug.
there were a few days where his mother seemed better. she ate the food he made, she showered on her own, and even smiled once or twice. she didn’t talk much, but for brief moments he could see his mom again. he came home from school that thursday and found his mother dead in the tub, the length of both forearms sliced through. there was more blood than water in the porcelain tub at that point. the image would live in his mind for the rest of his life and haunt his nightmares. as he turned to leave, to call– who would he call? –someone, he realized the expression on his mother’s face was one of such pure relief. he was eleven years old.
he had hoped she would get better, that she would get better for him. hope was often the cause of the biggest heartbreaks.
satellite-officer jean vicquemare shakes the image of his dead mother out of his mind. it’s been twenty years and it’s as fresh in his mind today as if it was still that late afternoon. he’s four years diagnosed with the same mental illness that took over his mother and killed her. he’s terrified that he’ll one day slip into a catatonic state like her that ends with a slice of skin and a bath of blood or just give up and shoot himself in the head like his father did eight years ago.
and then there’s harry fucking du bois. lieutenant du bois, vic’s partner. it’s the only reason vic himself is a satellite officer, a shadow of harry’s name and rank. harry who drinks too much and comes to work on drugs and is one of the most brilliant men jean has ever met. odd methods of investigation but he always closed the case. they had a great success rate and they made their newly-formed unit into one of glory.
harry’s vices began to affect his job negatively, though, and vic began to cover for him. he wrote harry’s reports, forged his signature, made excuses for the man to the captain and the other officers in the unit. he did it because he cared about his partner and wanted him to succeed. selfishly, part of it was because of there was no harry then vic would drop down in the ranks once more. he lived in harry’s shadow and kept him and the unit afloat all at once.
soon, harry turned to him outside of work. started showing up at vic’s apartment and dragged him out to clubs and bars. vic would have a few drinks and ignore the drugs but always ended up having to bring harry to one of their apartments, whatever one was closer. countless nights of making sure harry didn’t drown in his own vomit or take too many pills or beat a man half to death. too often harry sobbed into vic’s chest about dora or how awful of a human he is or how lonely he was and wouldn’t vic kiss him just this once?
he relented a few too many times, pulled in by the charm harry exuded despite how pathetic he could be. in the wreck of the tornado of the other man, vic saw a pinprick of care and lost himself in it. but harry didn’t care, not really. harry cared about harry and dragged people with him along the way and deposited them whenever he saw the next shiny thing to grab at. vic remained in harry’s shadow and he would be remembered when no one else was there.
sometimes, harry would talk about wanting to kill himself. vic would remain quiet and let harry rant and cry and punch the sofa cushions. sometimes, harry would try to kiss him with tear-flavored sloppy kisses. jean would let him because maybe it would stop harry from thinking about killing himself, even if for the night.
vic wasn’t sure when he realized that harry was a lost cause, when he decided to stop giving in, to start calling his friend out on all of his bullshit. harry was fucked up more than he wasn’t, stealing drugs from evidence, increasing violence toward suspects, a neverending swing between anger and despair. the unit was becoming a joke, officers and consultants scared away sometimes within days.
he was turning into someone he didn’t want to be. angry, hopeless, a shell of who he wanted to be.
once, when vic tried to turn harry away at two in the morning, his partner told him that no one could ever care about him, could never give him love, even his own parents couldn’t be bothered to stick around for him.
vic punched him and left him bleeding in the hall of his quiet apartment building.
by this point, jean was running the unit. the officers came to him for things instead of harry. other departments and precincts considered him the unofficial head of c-block, in everything but name. it was difficult to run a major crimes unit on his own but he was falling into a routine. he still tried to cover for harry with their captain, but it was half-hearted and pryce began to see the cracks.
pryce told him to stop covering for harry, to let harry fall into disgrace on his own, to not let himself get dragged into it. so vic stopped. he let harry get into trouble without diving in to save him. he let harry deal with the consequences of his own actions.
he couldn’t save harry and it was out of his hands. there was nothing he could do anymore. harry wouldn’t listen to reason, refused to hear what he needed to hear. there was no criticism, nothing but anger and victimhood and self-hatred.
it broke his heart, but he couldn’t drown. he didn’t want to become someone he didn’t recognize.
and now he’s thinking about his dead mother while waiting for harry to come into the office. it’s late, everyone home or on patrol. he has to do it tonight. he has to at least warn harry that this is it. that this latest disaster is the start of his demotion.
he hears harry coming up the stairs and his chest constricts. harry’s sober right now, jean can tell. he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse than harry being completely off his mind. this is going to be harry’s rock bottom. jean isn’t sure he can be there to help harry climb out.
harry just looks defeated, like he knows what’s coming. he drops into the chair by his desk and it lets out a screech that seems to echo in the quiet of the office. “pryce wants it to come from you.” it isn’t a question.
straight to it, then. “unofficially, yes.”
“i’m such a fuck up.”
vic nods. “yeah, you are.”
harry blinks, finally looking to his partner. “and you hate me.”
“i don’t hate you.” there’s a tightness in his throat that he can’t get past. the words are difficult. “but you’re ruining us.” you’re ruining me.
“right.”
“i’ve tried, harry, i’ve tried so fucking hard with you. i wanted to save you from yourself.” he wants to save someone in his life and he’s never going to be able to. he’ll never be enough to save someone from themselves. he’s so, so tired from trying. “i think i was so drawn to you because of how broken you were.” vic fixes people. he takes broken people and tries to piece them back together, to hold them up while even while he starts to drown. “i care about you too fucking much, harry.” he can’t look at him, can’t meet harry’s eyes. not yet.
“you hate me for trying to fix you. you resent me for it because it makes you feel weak and it’s a neverending fucking cycle that we can’t get out of. i just wanted to help you, harry. you wouldn’t let me, no matter how hard i tried.” vic’s voice is tight but there’s an exhaustion creeping it. attempts to talk like this always ended in screaming at each other. this is almost worse. “you’re a broken shell of a man, harry. there’s a void in you that can’t be sated and you’ll kill yourself trying to fill it. you’ll bring anyone down with you.”
“vic, i–”
“shut up, i’m not finished.” surprisingly, harry does shut his mouth. “you only care about yourself. you don’t give a fuck about anyone else unless it benefits you. you don’t give a fuck about the unit or the rcm or trying to actually help people like you swore to. you’re just another broken person i care about that i can’t fix and i’m done killing myself over it. i have to take care of myself, harry, and you don’t let me do that. i can’t let you break me because i don’t think i’ll ever come back from it.”
there are sniffles coming from both of them, with silent tears coming down their cheeks. neither mention it. “i’m sad, vic.”
he almost laughs but stops himself with a bite of his tongue. “yeah, well. so am i.” and he feels like he will be for quite some time. there’s a crack in his heart that he may never be able to fill. he’s not sure if he wants to.
vic clears his throat, willing the tightness to disappear. it doesn’t. “you have options. the rcm is willing to help you with sobriety and therapy because you’re vital to this place when you’re good. you need to get your shit together, for your own sake. pryce will run through your options tomorrow, but all i know is you’re suspended from c-block until further notice.”
they’re silent for a few moments and jean is desperate to know what is going through harry’s mind. he’s too quiet and his face blank. despite himself, jean rises from his own desk to cross to harry’s. with no warning, harry stands and crushes jean into his arms. there’s only a moment of hesitation before jean’s arms come around harry’s large frame. they stay like that for some time, letting the silence say all the things they haven’t been able to say and may never be able to.
vic pulls away first but takes harry’s face in his hands. “i believe in you. harry, please work on yourself. we need you.” i need you.
harry nods, leans into the touch for only a moment before he walks away, leaving jean alone in the too quiet office.
his heart hurts and he feels like he’s drowning in the grief of letting go, of acknowledging that he can’t fix everyone, not even his partner. he lets himself sit in the grief for a little while before deciding to head home. tomorrow’s a big day after all. tomorrow, when he comes in, he’ll be lieutenant jean vicquemare in his own right.