Work Text:
Twilight is long past and the task force bustles around them. A sea of desk lamps and fluorescent ceiling lights keep the Precinct bright, brighter than anything the sun could accomplish with the building’s frosted windows. The brightness is almost painful, and Harry would’ve raised hell if they didn’t do such a damn good job keeping him awake. The abominable fixtures color the bullpen in hues of yellow and green; beacons, lighting everything except the team’s abysmal morale.
Another twelve hour shift passed and they had nothing.
Harry started playing with office supplies at the ten hour mark. Fidgeting gets the juices flowing; he made paper hats, pen mustaches, sticky note beards, anything he could get his hands on. Notes wrangled from hours of investigation cover his desk. Mockingly neat, their linchpin eluded them for weeks , but now…
Harry’s breath shudders on the exhale. His mind races, double checking, triple checking.
“You’re a goddamn genius,” he says, voice weak with disbelief.
Harry looks up. Jean is wide-eyed, waiting; focused on Harry’s face and not the manila folder perched on his head.
“The stepdaughter did it, Vic. You’re right.”
Jean blinks. “Huh?”
Harry sits up and knocks his makeshift hat off his head, grinning. “I said: ‘ You’re a goddamn genius’ because-”
“What?” Jean tilts his head. He doesn’t bother to hide his smirk. There’s no point, not when the fronts of their desks are pushed together and they sit so close. “I can’t hear you. I’m a what ?”
Harry chucks the folder. “Smartass.”
It misses Jean, sputtering past him by half a meter as Jean stands and slings his Lieutenant’s jacket over his shoulders. He snorts at the attempt, but the warmth in his eyes bleeds into his words. “Let’s pick up dinner on the way? Your treat. Goddamn geniuses don’t pay for food.”
“I’ll take it out of your payslip,” grumbles Harry, but there’s no bite in it and the grin is still plastered on his face. They share a look, and it’s all victory, all satisfaction, because they fucking solved it.
They still had to get the suspect. Still had to bring her down, wrangle a confession, but...
Harry shuts his eyes. Runs a hand through cropped hair and feels something terribly close to exhilaration bubble in his chest. The stepdaughter did it. Fucking finally . Major Crimes needed a win and this catch was huge. “How about that Samaran place across the street?”
“Detective?”
Harry opens his eyes. Kim Kitsuragi studies him from behind Jean’s desk, and the space around him is abruptly empty and busy in all the wrong ways. There’s too many vacant desks, too many new faces, too many files on Jean's desk.
The change is jarring, a vacuum that sucks the air from his lungs. Where is everyone? Why is the sun out?
“You were saying something about Samara, detective?”
“I…” Harry tries to catch his breath as he scans this new environment. Tries to reorient himself. His partner (no, not Harry’s partner, he’s Kim’s partner now) is pointedly not looking up; Jean is too busy scanning through a stack of files Kim brought him.
“Hey.” Harry tries to get his attention, because Jean has never passed a chance to give Harry a reality check, and his head is spinning between the past and present. “I just- was there this Samaran-”
But the memory is fading like a dying dream. Edges blurring; content disintegrating to sand, to nothing. The hand in his hair (long, why the hell is his hair so long?) digs into his scalp, as if his nails can reach into his brain and anchor the memory.
Pointless. Like everything good in his life, it’s hopelessly gone.
“Fuck,” Harry whispers, low enough to be a hiss.
Jean looks up from the file he’s working on, expression not unfriendly, but not far from it either. Dark circles drag under his eyes, highlighting the redness around his irises. Used to be they could have whole conversations with a look or a smile. Now, Harry looks at this man and sees nothing but exhaustion. He has no idea what Jean is thinking. But these days, he never does and the pain of it kills him.
A silky voice in Harry’s head chimes in. Don’t you remember, Harry? Like a switch flipping, memories flood in and they press against his head, grind against his chest like broken glass. It’s all your fault. You fucked it up with your drunken-
Jean sighs. “Is your pen bullying you again?”
Kim clears his throat; he looks just as tired but does a better job keeping it from his voice. “It’s getting late, detective. Perhaps you should go home.”
Translation: You look like shit.
Harry shakes his head; he doesn’t want to stop working. Doesn’t want his unfinished work to add to theirs, yet another Harry problem to fall on their laps. He was a Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor, dammit. He can hold his own.
Harry’s about to argue when Jean narrows his eyes. He says, weary, “If you’re not going to go home, rest in the conference room, Harry. For a little bit.”
“Okay.”
Harry’s not sure whether to be offended or pleased by the shock on Jean’s face. As if it’s a fucking secret that Harry would crawl for Jean’s forgiveness.
Don’t start apologizing out of the blue, another voice warns, Apologizing doesn’t go well, remember? It’s over, it’s caput, but don’t make work weirder than it needs to be.
“Yeah. I’m going to rest in the conference room.” Harry tells them. An affirmation to himself to get the fuck up more than anything, because if he keeps looking at Jean he’s going to tell the voice to screw itself and blurt out something ridiculously pathetic.
The room spins as Harry stands and he stomachs the nausea that comes with it. “Yup. Time to...gonna rest my head,” Harry mutters. His throat constricts at the sight of two empty desks. He doesn’t remember the people who sat there, but the emptiness is wrong . His heart could burst with how everything is so, so wrong .
-----
“Where the fuck is he going?” Jean mutters as Harry makes a beeline for the exit.
Two decades in the RCM have trained Kim to keep his voice steady in the face of uncertainty. “Perhaps he’s heading to the bathroom,” Kim offers. He hopes. Harry has never bolted from work since Kim arrived at the 41st, but at this point, meandering outside by accident is a disturbing possibility.
The man always had a peculiar workstyle, but his behavior these past two weeks was unsettling. More conversations with inanimate objects, more mood swings, more lapses of reticence.
Now there’s this. These fits of disorientation.
Jean and Kim watch Harry silently, the piles of unorganized work on Jean’s desk forgotten, as Harry continues to walk towards the exit. Neither man is brave enough to discuss his behavior directly, as if speaking it outloud would make it more dire.
Perhaps because both knew that talking about it made it actionable . Forces the conversation towards things like “What should we do about it?” and “How do we handle this?”
And there are very few avenues left for Harry Du Bois. He’s been demoted and strippped of his Lieutenancy, put on a probationary program, and department funds are being spent to send him to a psychiatrist for his amnesia and...other problems. Harry needs to get better. Or else…
Well.
Kim digs his nails into his palms and pushes the thought away; it’s an alternative that will break all their hearts, and one he doesn’t like to dwell on.
Jean’s chair squeaks as he stands, probably on his way to wrangle Harry. On cue, Harry freezes. He looks around, dazed, before stumbling toward the conference rooms.
“Holy shit, Harry,” Jean hisses.
Kim agrees silently; Harry’s behavior isn’t reassuring.
But the man is finally heading in the right direction, and he and Jean have problems of their own. Kim clears his throat and tries to turn their attention back to their paperwork.
Tries being the crucial word.
Jean makes a show of shuffling through a file Kim hands him, but his eyes don’t leave Du Bois.
Typical , Kim thinks. He waits; patient until Harry is safely tucked away in the conference room. It’s pointless to talk to Jean when he’s like this. Yet another odd behavior Kim has accepted since transferring.
Working with Jean and Harry meant dealing with a list of odd behaviors. Some of them stemming from Harry, some from the two men dancing around each other. Their past is an obvious chasm, and while Kim has told Harry repeatedly that their relationship will improve over time, it’s apparent that things are not progressing fast enough. Kim has lost count of the number of times Harry turned to him for ideas to earn Jean’s approval. Or Jean’s trust. Or (only Harry would say this in sincerity) his “fraternal affection.”
And Jean was so easily distracted by Harry. So aware and protective of Harry’s stumbles and flares of mental instability. Always looking at Harry. But to be fair, both men were looking at each other. Constantly. A game of ping pong, one glancing up just as the other turns away.
Their behavior gave credence to the rumors that Kim heard about their relationship. He thought it was hearsay at first. But now....
It’s another thought he doesn’t bother dwelling on; nothing more than malicious gossip. With the years they’ve worked together, familiarity is to be expected. And it’s really none of Kim’s business.
Jean sighs after Harry vanishes into a conference room. He taps a mindless pattern on a file with the back of his pen; his attention returning to the work waiting for them.
Mountain of files aside, things are quite dire. Not because the task force is drowning in work, or because the number of unsolved cases are skyrocketing, but because, amidst the piles of paperwork, is a resignation letter from their newly hired Sergeant.
It meant not only trying to find another replacement for an overworked department, but sorting through all the sergeant’s case work and dividing it amongst an already overworked team.
The letter sits in the middle of Jean’s desk, crisp, clean, and kindly written. It was given with two weeks notice and the resignation was professionally handled.
We’re so fucked. Kim doesn’t say the expletive, doesn’t let it show on his face, but he does dig his fingers into the edge of Lieutenant Vicquemare’s desk. And perhaps that says more than he intends because Kim feels a shoe tap his shin.
“Hey.” His partner glances at him, weariness edges into the confidence Jean is trying to convey. Kim can’t blame him, likely he looks the same. Neither of them have been getting much sleep with all the work. “We’ll figure something out, Lieutenant.”
Kim keeps a straight face and nods. Where Du Bois looks for a soft smile and gentle words, Vic liked to see resolve reflected back at him. “I never doubted otherwise, detective.”
That earns Kim a smile. “So you-” Something flashes across Jean’s face, gone in an instant. His eyes flicker to the conference room before turning back to the files.
“Nevermind.”
Kim waits; he gives his partner a chance to elaborate. But Lieutenant Vicquemare is not Harry Du Bois. There are no rambling expositions. No insight beyond what he chooses to convey and what Harry carves out of him.
Jean just starts leafing through the paperwork, and Kim doesn’t pry.
They have work to do.
-----
Of course this is what Harry dwells on during his break.
Kim scratches his brow. “Alcohol triggers his cluster headaches, Harrier.”
Harry groans and his swivel chair lurches as he throws his head back. He’s unreasonably dramatic after thirty minutes of rest and meditation, but Kim takes it as a good sign. Yet another mood swing, but one that puts Harry in a substantially better state than where he was before. Compared to almost leaving work in a trance, Kim would consider his heightened spirits an improvement.
“ Seriously ? Fuck. I thought you get those in your sleep.”
“Typically, yes. Unfortunately his headaches also get triggered by alcohol,” says Kim. The ease in his tone undermines his jitters; his fingers tap a beat on his armrest and his thigh bounces in place.
It was, perhaps, a bad idea to chug a triple strength coffee before their break.
“Vic doesn’t go to bars anymore.”
Harry sighs. “Damn it. I finally remember this one place and...Fuck.”
“Fuck.” Kim agrees, albeit for different reasons. Inaction is making him anxious; he can’t quite relax. Not when he has so much energy and so much work waiting for him. Not while the clock above the conference room door reads 6:11.
It’ll be another late night.
Kim reminds himself that this break was needed; the words were starting to blur together. His comprehension slowly decreased with each page read. It’s too much information, too much work , too many other things that both demand and chip at his attention.
Harry slowly circles in place, enviously unbothered by it all. “We used to go to bars all the time, Kim. What are we supposed to do for fun?...”
“You-” should focus on work. Kim cuts himself off as realization dawns. He’s pleasantly surprised. It’s rare for Harry to ask for advice. “You should-”
“ How do I repair the bonds of brotherhood? How can I piece this back together when I’ve broken his trust so many times? It’s…”
Kim’s eyelids flutter in exasperation. Nope. Just another one of Harry’s weird monologues.
“Perhaps,” Kim interrupts, mildly annoyed, “ Don’t refer to your relationship with Lieutenant Vicquemare as a ‘bond of brotherhood.’”
Harry waves his hand dismissively. He stops himself with his foot, leans in, and says in total earnestness, “Vic and I had a special relationship, Kim. What we shared went beyond friendship.”
Kim stares. If he were a less controlled man, he’d slap his forehead. Instead, he strikes his head against the plush backrest of his chair, because there was poor phrasing and there was Harry Du Bois .
His thoughts race. You should start small. Buy Vic coffee or earn his trust in the workplace. Stop focusing on nonsense. The words don’t leave Kim’s throat. They sound too close to unwarranted advice and getting involved in personal matters. Neither of which, according to others, go appreciated. Especially with Kim’s supposedly “clinical” delivery.
Both men stew. Harry looks despondent enough to start another monologue about ‘losing life partnerships’ and Kim can’t figure out a way to cut off “you should” or “you need” from his suggestions without sounding “clinical”.
After a long silence, Harry sighs dramatically. “I’m destined to fuck up everything good in-”
Doomed either way, Kim goes for it.
“Start with dinner,” Kim proposes, as if Du Bois hadn’t spoken at all. He pauses and considers their workload for the week. “No, sorry. Start with lunch . Ask Lieutenant Vicquemare to lunch. Preferably next week.”
“Oh. Are you sure?” Harry asks reluctantly. “That sounds kinda lam-”
The door swings open and the small room fills with the smell of cigarette smoke.
“Hey,” Jean steps in and shuts the door behind him. He’s more lively, looking as restless as Kim feels; he probably didn’t relax during their break either. “How are you feeling? Better?”
“Yeah, dude.” Harry swivels in his chair and does something odd with shoulders, like someone trying to slouch for the first time. “I’m peachy. Hunky-Dory. I am a-okay and ready to go back to work. Go team.”
Kim sighs.
“Cool,” Jean says mildly. He glances between Kim and Harry. Perhaps it’s because Kim has seldom seen Jean without a miasma of exhaustion, but his sudden smirk looks positively triumphant.
“...So you haven’t been freaking out about our broken bond or what types of bars I like?”
Harry makes a strangled noise, half gasp, half yelp. Before Kim can intervene, Jean continues, “You can hear everything that goes on in here from the balcony. But I guess you forgot.” He rolls his eyes and adds affectionately, “Shitkid.”
Du Bois turns towards Kim, cheeks reddening, unwilling to make eye contact with his former partner. He massages the back of his neck and Kim recognizes his glassy-eyed stare: Harry is trying to dig up his past.
“I did forget,” Harry says slowly. “Fuck. This was our conference room too...we used to brainstorm in here when it got too loud.” The hand on the back of his neck travels up, massages his temple. He tilts his chin towards the empty chair across from him. “...You always sat there.”
“Right, because you were terrible at checking the balcony. Half the Precinct heard us talking shit about them,” Jean says fondly. He walks over, shoes clicking against linoleum tiles, and takes the seat. His pale eyes never leave Harry and Kim can't help but think of an interrogation. “Do you remember?”
A pause. Harry’s pupils dart around the room, taking everything in, before resting on Jean. Harry swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and the distress on his face speaks for him. “I want to, man. I-I’m trying.”
It happens again, the same ripple of emotion crossing Jean’s features, gone before Kim can catch it.
“Right,” Jean says serenely, and perhaps it's his exhaustion or Kim has gotten better at reading his partner, but he doesn’t look as unaffected as he pretends. Jean rasps his knuckles against the table. “If you’re feeling better, we should get back to work.”
“Right,” Harry echoes, expression twisting into despair.
Kim really shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be in any of these interactions, but Harry seems determined to make him an unwilling spectator in the saga of his recovering friendship. He’d be uncomfortable if these interactions weren’t happening on a weekly basis. It’s comical how unnecessarily dramatic all of this is.
He clears his throat and nudges Du Bois’ chair with his foot. Raises a brow after he catches Harry’s suffering look. Ready to try my idea?
Resigned, Harry sighs. “Vic. Do you wanna, like, get lunch next week?”
“ Lunch ?” Jean asks derisively. Harry flinches and Kim would anticipate a rejection if not for the way Jean’s eyes soften.
“...Not one of your friendship dinners ?”
Harry makes an unintelligible sound. “Oh my God. Our friendship dinners.”
Friendship dinners?
Kim’s not sure what just happened. Can’t register the slow mirth spreading over both their faces - because it makes sense for Harry to act hopelessly, childishly sentimental. But he can’t reconcile his perception of Lieutenant Vicquemare with a man that says ‘friendship dinner’ with complete sincerity. Not unless Kim is living in some sort of pale-induced twilight zone.
“Are you free tonight? For a friendship dinner? ” Asks Harry enthusiastically. Of course he’s completely jumping the gun at the first sign of reciprocation. He leans in. “We can bond over the culinary wonders of Ubian cooking.”
Their ridiculous vernacular jettisons Kim back to Martinaise. Memories of Harry’s aggressive camaraderie...his talks of “their palpable connection as officers”...the time he insisted on sharing a pilfered sandwich to “solidify their bond.”
Oh my God, it all makes sense now.
It’s not from brain damage. Harry was always like this.
Jean doesn’t seem phased by the phrasing, his eyes flicker to the corner of the room as he mulls over the request. “Maybe next time. Kim and I have to finish…” Jean falters as Harry’s hand snakes over his forearm, but he doesn’t pull away.
“It’ll be a quick break,” Harry tells him. Something’s shifted. The Harry that struggled to speak to his former partner melts away. Du Bois is emboldened, grasping at a lead; this is the Harry Du Bois that doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants. “Come on, man. You need to relax , the work will be waiting when you get back.”
Jean smiles, amused. His expression is a cocktail of tired, determined, and touched. He knows what Harry’s doing. Likely his thoughts mirror Kim’s; he’s thinking of interviews, of deadlines, of how much more work can be squeezed from a skeleton crew.
“No, sorry.” Jean doesn’t hide the regret in his voice. “Have you seen my desk? The department’s a goddamn shitshow, Harry. We’re barely hanging by a thread.”
“It’s true. It’ll be an uphill battle for the next few...” Kim sighs. Weeks? Months? “For awhile.”
Harry makes a face. “Yeah, and you guys already look like shit.”
Jean and Kim share a look. Harry Du Bois, charming as ever.
“Let’s go to that place across the street.”
“Really? Samaran ?” Jean tilts his head, caught off guard. His voice is teasing in a way Kim’s rarely heard. “What happened to ‘let’s bond over the culinary wonders of Ubian cooking?”
“Nah, forget Ubian. You...love Samaran,” Harry says, oddly slow. He shifts in his chair, angling to give Jean all his attention. “...Even if I don’t. We can go wherever you want, man.”
There’s a moment of silence. Kim, uncomfortable with the sudden palpable tension and itching to get back to work, his colleagues just looking at each other. Harry leans in, expression pleading.
“ Please , Vic?” Harry begs, and something cracks.
“...Fuck it. Fine ,” Jean says, but he doesn’t look annoyed. “I’m ten steps past burnt out. Let’s just call it a night, Kim?”
Kim's partner glances at him, and Kim realizes it's the first time Jean has given him his undivided attention since entering the room. Of course . Kim shrugs. “I suppose? It has been a very hard day, lieutenant. I doubt we’ll be incredibly productive after dinner.”
Not that his opinion mattered. Harry is practically vibrating out his skin. They seem to be having some sort of wordless conversation and Kim is too put off to feel excluded. Of all the ways they could’ve reconciled, Kim didn’t think this would’ve been effective. But he also didn’t picture being a bystander during this process, yet here they were.
Three chairs creak as they get up, and it’s a few steps to the door, but Harry grabs Jean’s shoulder as he reaches for the handle.
“Hey. I know I'm still...figuring things out-"
"I've noticed," Jean says dryly.
"-but you're really- I mean- I'm really sorry-"
The look Jean gives him is all tempered patience. "Take care of yourself first , Harry," Jean says slowly. "It’ll work itself out.”
Kim smiles, agreeing, and the conversation comes to a natural break. Again, Jean tries for the handle, but Du Bois isn’t done.
"Dora had a phrase,” Harry chimes in suddenly. “‘The mind forgets, but the heart remembers.’”
Kim glares at Harry. Leave it to him to say something appallingly sentimental. He waits for Vic to shut him down, but the other man just hums. Something close to fondness flits across his features.
“At least you remember me.”
Harry grins, his whole heart in his eyes. “I don’t remember a lot, but I could never forget you.”
Kim reels. This entire interaction has been weird, but this is new ground: the tone and the words and everything is throwing him off. What’s left of his composure hangs by his fingertips, kept together out of respect for his colleagues. He glances between Jean and Harry, confused by their sentimentality, how close they’re standing. There is definitely something here.
Their previous behavior was suspect but this is-
Kim flinches as Harry suddenly whirls around; Du Bois’ burst of warmth breaks Kim’s train of thought. Harry is grinning, elated. Like a puppy seeing its family at the front door.
“You’re coming to dinner too, right?”
-----
They wait in the lobby while Jean returns some of the files piled on his desk. Harry is ecstatic, babbling about the “congenial spirit” of Samaran cuisine despite it “lacking a contrasting flavour profile”. Jamrock’s citizens mill in and eye them warily. They give the two officers a wide berth; a circumference of two empty chairs lay between them and the nearest citizen. Some people opt to stand against the wall.
Kim is just happy Harry isn’t falling into one of his trances.
“...Man, we used to spend a ton of late nights together, Kim.”
He really shouldn’t pry, and Harry would tell him eventually, but…
His mind keeps replaying the exchange in the conference room.
“You two must have been pretty close,” Kim observes. Keeps his voice in the most neutral tone he can manage.
“Oh, you have no idea ,” Harry says happily.
Kim bites his tongue. Curiosity burns, and the words come out before he can stop himself. “Do you remember specifics about your relationship?”
Harry shakes his head. “The more I talk to him, the more I remember. But I know we were close. Inland E-” he purses his lips and gives Kim a weighty look.
“My soul told me.”
Alright. He set himself up for that one.
Perhaps it’s coffee that’s twisting his head; exhaustion battling the effects of caffeine. Maybe he really is blowing things out of proportion. Either way, the thought of a night to himself, away from the drama of the 41st sounds more appealing by the second.
“Have fun on your date, detective.”
He wonders if it's a sign that Harry’s first response isn’t to balk. “You’re not coming?”
Kim shakes his head. “I’ll take a rain check. I could use an early night, and I get the impression that you two have a lot to catch up on.” He scans Harry, searching, trying to find a hint of a lead, but Harry just stares back with a mix of disappointment and understanding.
An exaggerated pout juts out from under his mustache. “Alright, but the three of us are due for some manly bonding in the future.”
Kim blinks. Controls his exhale so it doesn't sound like a sigh. “Goodnight detective,” he says, and he’s pleased with how undisturbed he sounds.
Harry’s farewell vaguely registers on his way out.
Crisp spring air, chilled by the night, hits his skin. Clears his thoughts like a warm shower washing dirt from his body. He focuses on Jamrock’s architecture, the cracks in the sidewalk, the smell of car exhaust in the air. Anything except the RCM.
It’s nice. A reset. Hopefully those two will get one too after tonight. Whatever that means.
He’ll wait for Harry’s inevitable play-by-play before making any more assumptions, but in the meantime, he’ll enjoy his night. A calm before the storm.
Things will make more sense in the morning.