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Harry is quiet on the drive home.
The five of them have somehow squeezed into one motor carriage: Heidelstam, Minot, and Harry knee-to-knee in the Kineema’s backseat, Vicquemare staring sullenly out the passenger side window, and Kim behind the wheel, navigating a path through Jamrock’s crowded streets.
“...a true hallmark of pre-Revolutionary architecture! In fact, Saint Michel is one of the few bridges in Revachol West with this style of brickwork. It’s estimated that—”
“Trant,” Vicquemare mutters. He doesn’t look away from the window. “Stop talking.”
Behind him, Minot sighs.
“Jean...”
“I have a goddamn headache,” Vicquemare growls. He slumps lower in his seat like a petulant child, hunching his shoulders and leaning his forehead against the window.
You can’t hate this man yet, Kim reminds himself. You don’t know him. He’s had a challenging week.
Reflexively, he glances at the rearview mirror. Harry’s head is bowed over the scuffed knees of his trousers, the same way it has been every other time Kim has tried to catch his eye. He hasn’t said a word since they left Martinaise.
“You can drop me here, Lieutenant,” Minot says quietly. “Thank you.”
Kim pulls away from the road and into the shadow of a hulking red brick tenement building. Heidelstam wordlessly follows Minot onto the street, and Vicquemare, with a lowly uttered “fuck it,” wrenches open the passenger side door and gets one foot on the pavement before he hesitates, turning around.
“Hey. Shitkid.”
Blearily, Harry glances up from his lap. Vicquemare tips his head back and breathes like he’s exhaling smoke.
“Go home,” he mutters. “And for fuck’s sake, see a lazareth about that leg before you lose it.”
He slams the door without waiting for a reply. Silently, Kim rejoins the flow of motor traffic, watching the three figures behind them grow smaller and smaller as they walk away—two together, one alone. His fingers itch. In the rearview mirror, he watches Harry cock his head the way he does when questioning a witness. After a beat, he slumps in his seat with a groan, as though something inside him has failed.
“Detective?”
“I don't know where I live, Kim.” Harry tips his head back and breathes out with two fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. “Sorry.”
“You need a lazareth,” Kim decides, glancing between the road and the rearview. “I’ll call the station.”
“Mm,” Harry mutters—slumping miserably against the window now, his body contorted into a half-moon shape that would be hell on anybody’s spine, let alone one belonging to a man with two open gunshot wounds. He looks worse than Kim has ever seen him: it’s got something to do with the curls sticking limply to his forehead, the flush creeping up his cheeks. He looks half dead.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Kim says, flicking the radio on and picking up the receiver.
“I won’t,” Harry argues. The first snore makes landfall in under a minute.
“Lieutenant Kitsuragi?”
“That’s correct, yes.” Kim accepts the handshake with a nod. “Thank you for seeing him on such short notice, officer.”
“No trouble at all,” Gottlieb says, waving him off. “A tad unorthodox, perhaps, but in my experience everything the Double-Yefreitor does is unorthodox, so we’re in familiar territory. Please, call me Nix.”
The 41st’s lazareth lives in a tall narrow townhouse near central Jamrock, ensconced in a row of other tall narrow townhouses. Kim moves to one side as Gottlieb steps out his front door and onto the street, hooking the handle of his cane around the brass doorknob behind him and tugging it closed.
“He was shot twice, you said?”
“Right shoulder, left thigh,” Kim confirms, leading him to the Kineema. “I recovered the shrapnel and treated a bacterial infection in his leg, but…”
“Then he went running around and undid all your hard work,” Gottlieb says wryly. “Sounds like Harry.”
They share a glance. Of the limited number of Harry’s coworkers he’s met so far, Kim decides he likes this man the most. Gottlieb has a stiff gait and a whiskery beard, shorter and slighter than Kim, but there’s a calming, unflappable steadiness to him. He might as well be wearing a badge that says, cool under fire.
“He’s asleep,” Kim warns, opening the passenger door.
“I’m spectacularly awake, unfortunately,” Harry says, sitting upright with a wince. He shoots Gottlieb a rueful grin. “Hey, Nix. I know you.”
“Evening, Lieutenant,” Gottlieb says, not unkindly. “You look like shit.”
That seems to be a popular greeting in the 41st. Or, perhaps, a popular greeting when Harry is involved. Figuring out the specifics will take time.
“You remember him?” Kim asks quietly, stepping closer to Harry as Gottlieb rummages through the satchel on his hip. Harry glances at him, perched on the edge of his seat with his shoes grazing the ground. His eyes are bloodshot and very blue.
“I think I do.” Harry frowns, scratching the back of his neck. “Sort of. It’s in pieces. Have I been shot before?”
He directs the last part at Gottlieb—who pauses, cracking the seal on a peroxide bottle, and nods.
“Nine years ago,” he says. “By one of the rookies you were training. Accidental discharge. The bullet only grazed your sternum, although I believe there’s still a scar.”
Harry’s face falls so suddenly that Kim has to duck his head, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“You were hoping for something cooler, weren’t you?” he murmurs.
“I wasn’t even in a fight, Kim.”
“Look at it this way,” Kim points out, squeezing his shoulder as Gottlieb unwraps the nest of bandages from Harry’s chest. “Now you’ll have two cool scars to make up for it.”
Harry’s eyes widen.
“You think they’re cool?”
“I’d prefer you hadn’t been shot at all,” Kim says carefully, “but your bravery during the tribunal was very… disco.” He allows himself a small smile. “Something to be proud of, in my opinion.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Harry says faintly.
The bar is not high, Kim’s subconscious points out. A split-second later, Harry snorts.
“Fair point,” he says. Before Kim has time to ask how he does that, Harry yelps, flinching so hard he nearly tumbles out the passenger seat.
“Apologies, lieutenant,” Gottlieb says cheerily, dabbing a peroxide swab over Harry’s exposed shoulder. “I wanted to start while you were distracted. You should be thanking whoever sewed you up, by the way, these are in remarkably good shape. I’ll need to redo your thigh to flush the infection, but this set has held.”
Harry frowns.
“I don’t know who did my stitches.”
“I did,” Kim says.
Gottlieb hums approvingly as he prepares another swab.
“You have triage training, I take it?”
“Yes.” Harry winces a second time. Kim squeezes his shoulder again. “I’m a certified field medic, second class. What gave it away?”
“The bruising,” Gottlieb says, gesturing to Harry’s upper thigh with his free hand. “Always a relief to find an officer who knows his way around a tourniquet.”
He turns away to rummage through his bag again. Harry takes the opportunity to lean in.
“You never told me that,” he whispers, prodding Kim accusingly in the ribs.
“We’ve known each other ten days,” Kim points out.
“Still,” Harry mutters. He’s leaning heavily into Kim’s side now, clearly flagging, and doesn’t say much else until the sun has started to set and Gottlieb’s finished repacking both wounds, twenty minutes later. He commandeers Harry’s wrinkled Frittte bag afterwards, waving off his protests.
“If you have clean bandages in that hellhole apartment of yours, I’m the next fucking Innocent. Just take them, Harrier. I insist.”
Scowling, Harry opens his mouth. Kim meets his eyes and arches one brow, a fraction at a time, until Harry wilts, looking away.
“Fine,” Harry mutters. “But I’m paying you back. I do that now.”
“Glad to hear it,” Gottlieb says mildly. “You can pay me back by continuing this sober streak of yours. Alcohol is a nasty blood thinner.” He taps the top of the Kineema lightly with one hand, zipping up his satchel and stepping back. “It’s good to have you home, Harry. Try to stay in one piece. And it was a pleasure meeting you, Kitsuragi.”
“Likewise,” Kim says, smiling briefly. “Thank you for doing this after hours.”
“He's the 41st.” Gottlieb shrugs. There’s a wry, fond expression on his face. “Keeping him alive is my job. And what can I say, I like him. Warts and all.”
“I don’t have warts,” Harry says sleepily. “Nix, what happened to the rookie?”
Kim blinks, taking a second to catch up with whatever bizarre tangent Harry’s brain has wandered into. Gottlieb starts to grin.
“A question for Officer Vicquemare, I think,” he says lightly. “Good night, gentlemen.”
By the time Kim starts the engine, the sun has disappeared. A dark bank of cloud is rolling in from the north. It looks dull and heavy, thick with snow. The motor carriage growls at the sight of it, rumbling under Kim’s hands, and he pats the steering lever reassuringly. He won’t take her out if there’s ice on the roads tomorrow. The Kineema is known for its speed, not its grip.
“I’ll call the precinct for your address,” he begins, glancing at the passenger seat. The rest of his sentence trails into nothing.
At some point in the past week, God knows why, Harry took it upon himself to remove the hangover beard. He looks gaunt without it. Sobriety has sapped the puffy ruddiness from his cheeks, and his lashes cast heavy shadows on them as he sleeps, his chin ducked low in the collar of his patrol cloak.
The radio clock face reads 21:27. The last wave of RCM officers, as per the winter schedule, will leave their posts at 22:00. After that, there’s the night staff and the 24-hour enquiries line. An active precinct is never empty.
Kim sighs. With a neat flick of the wheel, he turns the Kineema around.
He knows these roads, so he doesn’t waste time. Within ten minutes Pont Saint Michel is looming on the horizon again, Martinaise gleaming dimly on the opposite bank. Kim finally eases off the accelerator, turning left. A cluster of brownstone apartments rises up to hide the bridge from view.
Rue de Frères is grubby and cramped, like every other street this side of the river—but on the bright side, it’s far enough from the harbour to avoid the worst of the fumes and close enough to Jamrock to have a cafeteria within walking distance. There’s a magnolia tree on the corner that blooms every spring.
“Detective,” Kim says quietly. Harry flinches, eyes fluttering open. He struggles upright with a grunt.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Tired.”
“I’m not surprised.” Kim inclines his head at the street outside. Harry nods, tugging clumsily on the door handle, and Kim walks around the Kineema to meet him. “You’ve been running on adrenaline all week, I doubt the fever is helping.”
“I don’t want another fever,” Harry grumbles.
“That’s what mercurochrome is for,” Kim says, looking both ways before taking his hand and tugging him across the road. “Come on. It’s getting cold.”
Privately, he suspects Harry has been running on adrenaline for much longer than a week. He also suspects Harry knows this just as well as him, if not better, so he allows the subject to drop. Harry hovers awkwardly behind him as they approach the stairwell of a small apartment block, fidgeting from foot to foot. Kim rolls his eyes and turns around, reaching for his hand again.
“Hold onto me if you’re dizzy,” he advises. “Two grievous injuries is enough, detective. You don’t need a third.”
“I’m not dizzy,” Harry argues, swaying on his feet. “And they’re not grievous.”
“Khm,” Kim says.
Despite his protests, Harry doesn’t let go. They hobble up the stairs as a singular, four-legged entity, stopping for breath once they reach the third floor walkway. It’s narrow, grimy, and exposed to the elements, lined with rusty balcony railings on one side and pockmarked by doors on the other. Kim hates everything about it other than the view.
“This is your apartment,” Harry accuses, leaning against the guard rail while Kim unlocks the door. “You live here.”
“Yes,” Kim agrees. He turns around to meet Harry’s eyes, inclining his head at the doorway.
Harry doesn’t move. Kim braces for... he’s not sure what he braces for, actually. For him to say no, or start apologising, or possibly both.
“Thanks, Kim,” Harry says softly. His breath unfurls in the air like smoke. The hallway's overhead lamp is swaying on its hook a few feet away, caught in a draft, and when the warm glow skims over Harry’s mouth something stirs, low in Kim’s stomach.
No, Kim tells it. Absolutely not.
You’re a terrible liar, that dangerous feeling purrs, winding through his ribs like silk. Especially to yourself, lieutenant.
And just like that, there is another man in Kim’s apartment for the first time in six months, skimming his fingers curiously along Kim’s bookshelves and touching the whitewashed walls like he’s listening to them. That gym teacher backstory really does make sense, Kim thinks, watching him work. The biceps alone...
He busies himself with brisk efficiency, flicking on the hot water and collecting a clean towel from the shelf in his closet.
“Here,” he says. Harry takes the towel like it’s priceless, looking back at Kim with wide eyes. “The bathroom is on the left.”
Harry doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring, tilting his head in the way that makes the hairs on Kim’s neck stand on end. Eventually his mouth curves into a slight, crooked smile, as though he’s seen something good on Kim’s face.
“Harry,” Kim says.
“Showering!” Harry clears his throat, stumbling backwards. “Right, showering. Towel for the shower. Sorry.”
Romantic interest in this man, Kim decides wearily, watching him scamper towards the bathroom door, proves a theory he’s privately suspected about himself for many years: he is perfectly sane, aside from his taste in men.
After running ragged around Martinaise for so long, his small apartment feels strangely confined. He’s unsettled in his own skin, itching to bolt—but it’s freezing outside and there’s nowhere to go, so Kim diverts his attention to other things. He hangs his jacket on the hook by the door. He changes his sheets and washes the lone plate in the sink. He’s too restless to be hungry, but he goes through the motions of plucking sprigs from the mint plant by the window and tipping them gently into a cup, waiting for the kettle to boil. Water hits the leaves with a soft hiss. Kim ducks his head over the steam, inhaling.
“Does it help?” Harry asks curiously.
There’s no point asking how he knows what he knows. Kim hums, tapping his fingers on the porcelain.
“Not always,” he admits. “Sometimes it helps me realise what I really want is a break, or time to think.”
“And sometimes...?”
“Sometimes what I really want is another cigarette,” Kim says drily.
Harry laughs at this, surprised but delighted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s barefoot, and that horrendous Hjelmdall shirt is sticking to his damp torso. He looks shorter without his heeled shoes. Unbidden, Kim finds himself wondering what it would’ve been like to meet this man under other circumstances, ten years ago; or even ten months ago, before the promotion-that-wasn’t, the one responsible for setting Harry’s mind ablaze.
Kim taps a rhythm on his thigh. He sips his tea.
“Are you tired?”
“I swear I’m not on speed,” Harry says, “but… no. Not really. I’m not hungry, either. I swear I’m not on speed, Kim—”
“It’s adrenaline,” Kim assures him gently. “It’s normal. Don’t worry about it, I’m feeling the same way.”
For a split-second, he’s stuck by the awful suspicion that he’s shared too much; but even if he has, the raw relief on Harry’s face makes it a worthwhile mistake.
“Really?” When Kim nods, Harry sighs. A whole wave of tension seems to leave his body at once. “Oh, that’s good. I was worried I’d taken something and forgot.”
Kim turns his head away. The corners of his mouth twitch.
“It could happen,” Harry insists. “If anyone could forget getting high, it would be me. I have a history.”
“Impeccable logic, detective,” Kim says mildly. “As always.”
That earns him another snort of laughter. Kim hides his own grin in the rim of his cup, taking another sip before turning to set it down on the counter. He stretches his arms absently, wondering if it's too late to walk down to the laundry room.
“I like it when you called me Harry,” Harry blurts out.
Kim stares at him.
“I like it when you call me Harry,” Harry babbles, helpless, “I really like it, I feel like I’ve known you forever—I—shit—”
He tips his head back with a pained sort of sound, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What is happening to you?” Kim asks, amused.
“I miscalculated the odds,” Harry says miserably.
Kim keeps looking at him. It’s difficult to stop, at this point. He has a feeling he’s miscalculated the odds, too — if this confession had come from anyone else, he would be terrified. As it stands, he’s still terrified, but something fragile is clenching and unclenching in his chest like a fist.
A door slams in the hallway. Kim ducks, and in the same instant, Harry launches forward—pressing him to the wall and shielding him with his body, moving with the unflinching confidence of someone who’s done this before. Muscle memory, Kim thinks distantly. It’s hard to focus with his heart in his throat and Harry wedged against him. For a long minute, they stay perfectly still.
“I, um.” Harry laughs, low and breathy. “I don't think that was a gun.”
“It’s doubtful,” Kim murmurs. Experimentally, he leans back to see if Harry will lean closer, tilting his chin up like an invitation. Their noses brush.
“Are you ok?”
Goddamn him. He must have seen Kim flinch.
“I’m fine,” Kim says quietly. “You?”
Harry nods. They’re close enough that as he does, his lips end up grazing across the corner of Kim’s mouth.
“Sorry,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse and low. “I didn't...”
They’re both still trembling from the sound of the door. Kim cants his chin up to catch him mid-word, aware of something inside unravelling—Harry is an amnesiac alcoholic with the personality of a rogue comet, a prolonged history of substance abuse, and two significant gunshot wounds, one of which is now infected for a second time; Harry has been in his life for barely ten days, Harry outranks him, which is somehow the worst part; Harry is kissing back, cupping Kim’s face as he leans in, again and again. There’s something living in the reeds near Martinaise. The pale is swallowing the world. Harry is here, solid to the touch, and his big hands are still framing Kim’s face like that, thumbing over his cheeks like he’s worth holding onto.
It's been years since anyone touched him like this. He'd forgotten how addictive it is. Kim feels stupid folding his arms around Harry's neck, but Harry knows, the way he always seems to know; meeting him halfway and tugging him closer, sliding one hand under Kim's shirt and fitting it to the small of his back. God, his hands. Kim tips his head back and kisses Harry's bottom lip once, twice, revelling in it, before giving into temptation and biting down, sliding his tongue over the mark. Harry makes a sharp, breathless noise. Heat curls through Kim's stomach in a satisfied rush. He drags Harry forward by his hair, feeling dizzy; in the back of his mind, where all his traitorous impulses live, he wonders if Harry could take his weight. Lift him, carry him, hold him against the wall. Harry’s breath catches in his throat. His nose skates Kim's cheek as he seeks out his mouth again. A split second later his hands slide down Kim’s thighs, hefting them up—
Kim pulls back, panting. Harry lets out a pained, confused sound, chasing his mouth when Kim turns his head away, and that alone is almost enough to make him give in. Almost.
“Harry,” Kim says, dragging the scraps of his composure together. “Harry, your shoulder…”
“Shoulder's fine.” Harry’s voice is rough and low. He’s trailing hot, messy kisses down his jaw. Kim's eyes flutter shut. “It’s fine, doesn’t hurt, let me—”
Kim squirms out his grip, pushing through the haze of arousal to bat Harry’s searching hands down from his thighs. Harry’s shoulders slump. He groans, knocking his forehead on Kim’s chest.
“You were going to pull your stitches,” Kim points out, stroking his hair.
“I was going to seduce you,” Harry says. His voice is muffled by Kim’s shirt, but the disappointment is palpable. Kim swallows a laugh, closing his eyes and stifling it by dipping his nose into Harry’s hair. It’s soft and clean, not quite dry. He smells like Kim’s soap.
"Try again in two weeks," he murmurs. His heart is still racing; the words slip out without permission. Luck seems to be on his side for once, at least. Harry just yawns, oblivious, nosing Kim's throat.
“You’re tired,” Kim tells him, tapping his shoulder. When he doesn’t move, Kim uses the hand in his hair to pull him back—an expression flits over Harry’s face as he does, surprise tinged with something else, but it's gone before Kim can get a closer look.
“We’re both tired, Harry,” he says.
Harry sighs.
“I lied,” he mutters, trailing after Kim dejectedly and following him to the bedroom door. “My shoulder does hurt.” He groans, tipping his head back. “Fuck, all of it hurts. Why does it all hurt?”
“You were shot at close range three days ago,” Kim reminds him. “Sit down, please. I’ll check the dressings.”
He can feel Harry’s eyes follow him as he drags a wooden chair to the edge of the bed, sitting down and peeling back the surgical tape from Harry’s thigh with careful fingers. The stitches are still there, whole and unpopped. The knot in Kim's chest unwinds a little.
“So,” Harry says. “Field medic.”
Kim glances at him, surprised. Harry just shrugs his shoulders—then grimaces, clearly regretting it.
“When did you find the time?” He tips his head back with a grunt as Kim applies a light layer of the cream Gottlieb packed in the Frittte bag. “In between being a pinball champion, I mean.”
Kim lets him have it. Extenuating circumstances, et cetera.
“Night classes,” he admits, keeping his eyes on his work. “I liked them.”
Harry hums thoughtfully.
“You ever think about quitting juvie for it?”
“A few times.” Kim wipes his hands carefully with an alcohol swab before switching to Harry’s shoulder. “But my eyesight being what it is…”
“You would’ve been the best lazareth, Kim,” Harry says sleepily.
Kim blinks. Warmth blooms in his chest, pleasantly unexpected.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
Harry yawns, scrubbing a hand down his face. He stays where he is on the edge of the bed, his uninjured leg bouncing up and down nervously while Kim repacks the Frittte bag and returns the chair to its usual corner.
Kim refines his plan of attack in the shower, silently reciting his arguments while he brushes his teeth—but it turns out he shouldn’t have bothered. His bedroom is dark when he walks into it. The dim outline of Harry’s body is already curled on the far side of the bed.
“You’re shivering,” Kim says, frowning. “Don’t you want a blanket?”
“Nah,” Harry mutters as he sits upright. “Didn't want to impose.” The haggard smile on his face is eerily similar to the one Kim remembers from the early days of The Hangover. “I’ll be fine on the couch. I can sleep anywhere, Kim. You know me.”
He stumbles to his feet, scratching his uneven stubble. Kim side steps neatly in front of him before he can reach the doorway.
“I stayed in your room in Martinaise,” he says. “I’d prefer it if you slept in here until the infection clears. I want to keep an eye on your temperature.”
Now his eyes have adjusted to the dark, he can see the shock on Harry’s face.
“You don’t mind?”
“No,” Kim says, “I don’t mind.” He hesitates. “Frankly, I thought you would mind.”
“I don’t want to die anymore.” Harry shakes his head, clearly bemused by that statement, and lets out a tired huff of laughter. “I can’t die in my sleep, Kim. That’s not very disco.”
“You’re not going to die,” Kim murmurs. He reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Harry's ear. “Lie down.”
Harry sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress. The sheets rustle when Kim settles on the other side. He takes off his glasses, folds them carefully, and places them on the bedside table, before pulling his winter quilt over their bodies.
There are two hundred and forty hours in ten days. On average, Kim reflects, it takes fifty hours to befriend someone, and another forty to know them well. Joint survival of chronic stress has been proven to foster intimacy, as have near-death experiences — and all those games of Suzerainty can’t have done them any harm. The supra-natural may exist, and Harry may be connected to it, but whatever exists between them is comfortingly mundane. It’s the natural conclusion that comes from ten days glued to each other’s sides: an equation of chemistry, proximity, and time.
“Did you mean it?” Harry says.
Kim rolls over in the dark to find Harry’s hazy shape already facing him. He can feel his ears start to burn.
“Harry...”
“It's okay if you didn't,” Harry insists. “Really. I just want to know.”
Kim sighs.
“In two weeks,” he says wearily, “if your stitches are out and you’re still set on this, you can try…”
“Seducing you,” Harry supplies.
Kim shuts his eyes, long suffering.
“Seducing me,” he says. "Yes.”
“Okay.”
Harry sounds like he's grinning. Kim scrubs his face with the palm of his hand.
“Any other questions?” he asks. “Or do you think you can sleep now?”
“Nah, I’m sleeping,” Harry promises him, his voice gravelly and low as he noses into the pillow. Kim looks at the broad shape of his chest, close enough to touch, watching it rise and fall. He closes his eyes.