Chapter Text
Kim Kitsuragi has a lot of things he’s peeved by. Junior officers trying too hard to suck up to their superiors. The kebab cart going overboard on sauce. The unpredictability of horses compared to his trusty Kineema.
But few things can compare to his disdain for moving.
Kim is a man of routine, and nothing shakes up one’s routine quite like having to pack up all of their belongings and physically transport it to an entirely new location. But staying in his old apartment after transferring to Precinct 41 wasn’t practical, considering the dramatic increase in his commute time. The high likelihood of running into officers from the 57th wasn’t exactly ideal either. He’d quickly grown weary of navigating small talk with them—their almost predatory curiosity toward Kim’s sudden job change present in every conversation during his final days in GRIH.
Precinct 57 really didn’t expect this, of all things, to be the result of their pissing contest.
—
Thankfully, the most laborious part is now over. Kim is splayed out on a faded brown couch, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand as he glances around at the stacks of boxes he’s just finished carrying into his new living room. Mentally, he’s already making decisions about where certain things should go, cycling through three or four different layout options in his head while he considers the pros and cons of each. He looks forward to the day when not a single box is in sight, because that means the chaos of this move will be nothing but a distant memory, and he can begin to fall back into his usual routines again.
Turns out life as Precinct 41’s newest officer had other plans.
Kim gets as far as making his bed the night he moves in, and unpacking bathroom supplies in addition to half his clothes the next day, before he’s assigned to a case that eats up every ounce of his attention and just about every minute of his free time. For the entire week that follows, he’s utterly exhausted by the time he arrives home from work, and unpacking takes a considerable back seat to the ecstasy of his own bed. Boxes are cut open as the days pass, with various objects placed in haphazard piles on the floor so he can uncover exactly what he needs in that moment—a clean mug to drink out of, a fresh towel for the bathroom after a particularly grimy day, a book to take with him on a stakeout that he doesn’t get a chance to read.
After another very long week, the case finally comes to an unsatisfying end—solved, but not without an additional victim’s death at the hands of a sequence killer ultimately apprehended by him and Harry. Despite being given the next day off, Kim finds it extraordinarily hard to drum up the motivation that’s required for him to start unpacking.
The disorder within his living space grates on him like sand underneath his fingernails. Kim could very well be assigned another whirlwind case tomorrow and if he doesn’t tackle this now, it could be several weeks before he gets another chance.
The unpacked boxes sit on Kim’s floor mocking him while the battle of wills happening inside his head rages on. The phone suddenly lets out a shrill ring, and Kim, grateful for the distraction, reaches over the armrest of his couch to pick up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey Kim,” comes a voice through the line. Harry. He sounds hesitant. Quiet. There’s a slight waver in Harry’s voice causing Kim’s grip on the plastic handle to tighten.
“Everything all right, detective?”
“I’m…” A pause. A shuddery breath, loud and distorted, comes crackling into Kim’s ear.
“I don’t think I’m in a good place right now. Up here,” Harry says, before realizing whatever hand gesture he had just made can’t be seen, and adds, “Uh, mentally, I mean.”
Kim’s not entirely surprised to hear this. The case was no doubt harrowing, and he gets the sense that Harry could very well be teetering on the edge of his sobriety—likely sitting in his apartment with nothing but the torment of his own thoughts. I could’ve saved her. If only I’d been faster. Better. I’ve failed this city and her people yet again.
(Harry’s consciousness is a radio station tuned to observe the pain and injustice of this wretched existence with staggering clarity. And right now, he needs someone to turn the dial.)
“Would you want to come over and help me unpack?” Kim finds himself blurting out.
Wait, what? Kim's common sense, which had unhelpfully abandoned him for a split second, returns in full force and proceeds to make a big stink about everything. You’re just going to let another person go through all of your private things? What the hell’s the matter with you, Kitsuragi? He grimaces to himself.
Judging by Harry’s stunned silence, he seems just as surprised. “You uh…haven’t unpacked yet?”
“The case started immediately after I moved in, so I haven’t really had the time,” Kim responds, defensiveness creeping into his voice even as he knows Harry wasn’t passing any judgement. Kim looks down at the phone cord he’s started picking at with his fingers. “I was going to spend today doing it…”
“Actually never mind, forget I asked” is on the tip of his tongue but he manages to bite down on it before the words make their way out. It’s not the worst idea Kim’s ever had, if he’s honest. It’ll give Harry something to focus on that isn’t drowning his sorrows, and he’ll be in a location where Kim can easily offer his support.
Not to mention if Harry’s here, Kim definitely can’t slack off and decide to forgo the task entirely. If this means he’ll have to go through whatever Harry’s unpacked and rearrange it to his own satisfaction afterwards, so be it. At least these damn boxes will be empty.
Harry seems to sense a rare opportunity and brightens. “Alright. Sure! I’ll head out in a bit, what’s your address again?”
—
Some thirty-odd minutes later, Kim opens his front door to a surprisingly well-dressed Harry carrying two plastic bags filled with takeout. Kim’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly as he takes in the sight of the man on his doorstep.
Harry’s wearing a white satin shirt that Kim almost doesn’t recognize, given the sorry state he’d last seen it in—stained and reeking of a foul smell that Kim had tried his best to ignore. Now, the freshly cleaned shirt is practically transformed and Kim can’t help but notice the way its silky fabric catches light at every little movement. Pretty fancy shirt for something as dull as unpacking, Kim thinks, but then again, when it comes to Harry’s peculiar fashion choices this is one of his least egregious, so the thought passes quickly.
What does not pass quite as quickly, much to Kim’s frustration, are his thoughts about the bottom half of Harry’s outfit. Specifically, the particular pair of blue jeans he’s donning—the one that always draws Kim’s eyes toward Harry’s ass. Kim tries not to let his face heat up at the prospect of witnessing Harry bend over again and again while pulling items out of the boxes on Kim’s floor, and diverts his attention toward the food in Harry’s hands instead.
“Hello detective,” Kim says in greeting, before nodding at the takeout bags. “You shouldn’t have. You’re already doing me a favor—I could have treated us to lunch.”
Harry shrugs. “It was on the way. I figured we might as well fuel up before we get going. May I?”
Kim nods, then wordlessly steps aside to let him in. Harry toes off his green snakeskin shoes at the door before padding into the kitchen to set up their meal on Kim’s small dining table. The delicious smell of fragrant stir-frys and freshly steamed rice fill the room, making Kim realize just how hungry he is.
The two men chat amicably as they eat, both relieved that they can now focus on far lighter topics than they had during the two weeks prior. Better still, this Harry seems to be far more cheerful than the Harry that spoke to Kim over the phone earlier. Kim starts to relax, feeling reassured by the knowledge that inviting him over seems to have been the right call.
He then puts his chopsticks down and leans back in his chair as he watches Harry launch into a thorough description of the new cryptid he’d been reading about, hands waving around animatedly as he recalls every single detail he’d recently committed to memory. Kim’s face remains impassive even while struggling to register the rapid clip of words coming out of Harry’s mouth.
He does not stare at the bit of brown sauce that’s made its home on the edge of Harry’s lip.
He definitely does not think about how much he wants to lean forward and lick it off.
—
More and more, Kim finds himself having to swat away increasingly inappropriate thoughts about Harry that plague him like tiny fruit flies during his waking hours. And much like the buggers themselves, he isn’t sure where they came from or when they started making themselves known at every inopportune moment. He’s been working with Harry at Precinct 41 for a few weeks now, and despite all of the idiosyncrasies that seemingly conflict with his own, Kim’s never known a partnership to be as effortless as this. He’s scared by how easy it was for the two of them to act like one well-oiled machine—able to communicate critical information through a single look, a slight twitch of the hand, or a coded message delivered mid-conversation in front of a suspect.
Kim also isn’t sure when he started noticing the flicker of gold in Harry’s green-grey eyes during sunny days, or when he’d picked up on Harry’s tendency to laugh while speaking whenever he’s nervous, or when exactly the wry smile he lets slip upon hearing Harry call him cool (again) had evolved into a genuine one.
He’s not going to call this a crush for god’s sake. He’s 43 years old, and the term makes him feel utterly ridiculous. But he does know he needs to get over whatever this is, and he needs to do it fast—he’s not about to jeopardize what they have now as partners, and as friends, for…
What? The possibility of true love? No.
It is too late for us.
—
For a task that Kim had dreaded since the moment he woke up that day, he finds himself having entirely too much fun now that Harry’s involved. They crack jokes that he’s pretty sure only the two of them would find funny, argue over whether they should store spices in the cupboard or the drawer, and race each other to see who can break down a cardboard box the fastest.
Harry, for his part, also spends the entire time looking like he’s struck gold with each box he helps unpack. He peppers Kim with questions about every object he comes across that happens to pique his interest, with no signs of slowing down despite the fact that only a tiny fraction of these questions are being answered.
“This alarm clock matches your jacket, did you do that on purpose?”
“Comic books?! Kim! Who’s your favorite superhero?”
“Kim, I gotta say. We need to work on expanding your wardrobe. You’d look great in red, you know?”
Kim feels his face heat up at that last comment, while simultaneously wanting to scoff at Harry of all people giving him fashion advice, and quickly excuses himself to the kitchen for a glass of water he doesn’t actually need.
He’d had his reservations about letting Harry see this much of himself, at the start. But there’s something about the way Harry regards Kim’s things, and by extension Kim himself. It’s his sense of wonder and awe, the reverence in his eyes when he looks at Kim, the way he treats everything in Kim’s humble apartment as precious. Kim feels wholly undeserving of it all, yet he can’t help but feel warmth bloom in his chest all the same.
They descend the stairs together by the time evening hits, carrying the flattened boxes under their arms to deposit in the trash bin outside. Kim gives his thanks to Harry who lobs it right back, the words “I needed this today” remaining unspoken. After dropping off Harry at his apartment, Kim returns home and stands in the middle of his living room, taking stock of his newly unpacked apartment.
He should feel happy that this painstaking chore had finally been dealt with. Relieved that he can now get back to the stability of his usual routines. Completely at ease now that Harry’s not trying to can-open him left and right.
Instead, Kim collapses onto the couch and drops his face into his hands as he tries not to think about how empty it feels with Harry gone. The peace and quiet that he’d always enjoyed as part of living alone suddenly feels oppressive—the silence that now permeates his home deafening to his ears. Loneliness gradually settles into him like sediment collecting at the bottom of the sea.
In the end, he doesn’t rearrange a single thing Harry had unpacked and placed.