Chapter Text
“It's the cigarettes, isn't it?” You cough, a thick cough that seems to dislodge something from your lungs before thinning out into a hoarse bark.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – This is not from the cigarettes. You haven’t smoked in weeks. On a related note, just buy a new pack already.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – The lungs are just doing their job.
On the steps leading up to the Precinct, you swallow. Your throat feels like it is lined with itchy wool, and somewhere in the recesses of your mind, water seems like a potential curative.
ENCYCLOPEDIA – Dehydration is a common side effect of the common cold or flu. Drinking water can help the body regulate its temperature and soothe dry throats.
Am I sick? Your brain bounces around your head and you feel another wet cough slip past your pursed lips. Spittle sprays the warm autumn air before you shut it down.
VOLITION – Go in, or you will be late.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – Late for the briefing you’re supposed to be giving.
Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a dingy handkerchief. You have two, both from your partner. With only two total, and no in unit washing machine, you have to reuse them. You swipe it over your mouth and nose, clearing away any lingering snot and spit.
Groaning, you tighten the extra jacket you added for warmth and ascend the stairs in a jilted, arrhythmic pattern. You pause on the landing to cough again, wishing you could reach in and pull out the suffocating, heavy gunk from your lungs.
CONCEPTUALIZATION – Imagine the thick layer of phlegm and mucus filling your lungs, now reach through the epidermis, the muscle, past the ribs and into the spongy tissue of your lungs. Clutch with your fingers and pull.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – That is not physically possible.
Before entering, you spit some gunk out of your mouth into the street and open the splintering wood doors.
With hunched shoulders, you amble through the precinct, idly waving at your fellow officers as you enter. When you find your desk, you collapse into the seat and stretch out. Suddenly, the extra layers you are wearing feel stifling and you begin to peel them off. Stripped down to a single cotton t-shirt with a Contact Mike fight poster printed on it. You feel a little better as the sweat on your neck and back begins to cool.
LOGIC – It would be prudent to review the cases before you give the briefing this morning.
RHETORIC: failure – That sounds like a lot of work, you should be able to do it from memory.
VOLITION – You’ve got this, just reach out and grab the files.
Sitting up, you open the stack of files you needed to go over today. You take a moment to look at your partner’s desk, empty, but the steaming cup of coffee allows your honed detective senses to deduce that he is here somewhere. You look at the top file.
FILE ONE: UNNAMED – A man’s apartment was broken into, all of his items were rifled through, but most alarmingly, an excessive amount of what appeared to be blood was found on the cracked linoleum floor.
VISUAL CALCULUS – Based on the picture from the scene, at least 3 liters.
FILE ONE: UNNAMED – While you were waiting on processing to confirm the fluid was in fact blood, it was being treated as a potential homicide.
SUGGESTION – Normally, you’d be chomping at the bit to get this case, but -
Irritation builds in your throat. You try to clear your throat. Instead the gentle clearing seems to be aggravating the issue.
AUTHORITY – Close the files, don’t sully the paperwork with your germs and fluids!
Leaning away from your desk, you hunch over and wheeze and hack and cough until you forget what breathing is like. Squeezing your eyes shut, you cough into your sleeve, hoping to contain the geyser of internal fluids from erupting onto your desk.
ENDURANCE – That’s enough now, slow, shallow breaths.
With a few last hacks, you sit up, eyes watering, body aching.
A clean, white handkerchief is proffered before you, folded neatly into a tidy square. You follow the gloved hand up to see your partner looking down at you, one eyebrow raised, not in intimidation, but in question.
“Getting sick, detective?” Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi asks calmly. You look longingly at the handkerchief. If you had three handkerchiefs, you wouldn’t have to let them get as grimy.
RHETORIC – Or you’d just do your laundry less often. Cleaning the handkerchiefs is sometimes the only reason you journey to the laundry mat.
You take the handkerchief and wipe your chin and nose before tentatively offering it back to Kim. Kim retracts his hand, refusing the return of the hanky.
“I don’t know,” you rasp out. Your voice, already hoarse and low, seems to be diminishing. This answer seems to confuse Kim. “What does getting sick feel like?”
“Hmm,” Kim sits on the edge of your desk, his thigh nearly knocking over your pile of folders. You stare between the files and Kim for a moment.
SAVOIR FAIRE – Hey, careful there. That is a carefully sorted and organized stack, artfully placed to appear messy and meaningless.
“You have never been sick before?”
Shrugging, you place FILE ONE: UNNAMED back into place, hand grazing Kim’s leg, and slide the handkerchief safely into your pocket. You certainly don’t remember feeling like this before. You remember aches and pains, dry mouth and pounding headaches, but this is a different combination. “Can’t remember,” you mutter.
In these first six months of your new life, Kim has had to help explain many basic things to you, although he does not want to be your walking encyclopedia, he also knows it can reflect poorly on both you and the RCM if you go around asking people about what most people consider to be common knowledge. You aren’t embarrassed by it, but Kim does not like how people look at you. He does not consider it a burden to help you out, but he is still surprised at the things you do not remember.
EMPATHY – He carries your dignity in his hands, protecting it in the little ways that he can.
COMPOSURE – Since you do not seem overly concerned with doing so yourself.
“Depending on the illness, sore throat, aching body, chills, fever,” Kim removes a glove and lifts his hand as if to touch your face.
ENCYCLOPEDIA – An informal test for an elevated temperature, commonly used by mothers for their small children.
You lean away from Kim, you certainly do not need him to mother you. “Well, then I’d say I’m sick,” you grumble. Another cough, this time into your new hanky.
Officer Vicquemare rounds the partition separating C-Wing from the rest of Precinct. “Kitsuragi, Du Bois?” He gestures to the corner. No one has moved over there yet, but the wobbly podium the officers use to lend authority to their morning meetings is waiting.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – They aren’t going to go until you go. No one is early for briefings anymore.
Stifling a cough, you grab the case files you hadn’t actually reviewed and drag yourself over to the podium. Sniffling, you lay them out in order. Six new cases since yesterday.
VOLITION – Normally, you’d be happy to be busy. . .
ENDURANCE – You’re run down though, you need a break.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – I have a suggestion-
VOLITION – No.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Wait, hear me out, these drugs are legal!
You look at Kim, “Are there drugs for sickness?” The idea startles you, but that isn’t too hard right now. Your brain feels like it’s careening down a racetrack. You lean in and try to whisper, but your voice is fading, “Like, legal ones?”
Kim’s lip twitches, “Yes, detective. There are several options.” Taking pity at your blank expression, he continues, “I have some nosaphed at my desk, that should help.”
You nod. A memory of some teenagers in a tent on ice returns. “Drugs.” You feel hot again. “Hardcore.” Then you smile at Kim and turn back to the podium. You clear your throat suggestively.
ENDURANCE – Wait-
You let out a whooping bark as your abdominal muscles clench while you cough, using the ancient podium for support.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Not today, brother man. Just hold tight and you won’t collapse.
When the fit subsides, you look up. It was not dignified, but it has summoned the officers working today over to the briefing corner.
Bent and mangled metal chairs are lined up in rows. The more studious officers have brought their notebooks. Kim, as your partner, and second highest ranking officer in C-Wing stands to the side as you shuffle the files, while Jean leans against a table, arms crossed as he watches.
“Got a busy day coming up,” You manage to rasp out. Your deep voice seems to fade as you talk. “Six newly opened investigations.” You pull out the first file, “A potential homicide-” you pause as you cough. A look around shows the front row leaning back, away from any potential fall out.
LOGIC – They know what you have forgotten, getting too close to a sick person is perilous to one’s health.
Swallowing past the swollen feeling in your throat, you continue, “Man found blood...” Or you try to continue. Your lips are opening, air is moving past your vocal folds, but no sound is escaping. You grin and give another cough and try to again explain. A rough, gravelly sound comes out.
HALF LIGHT – Your voice has been stolen, locked away from you.
PAIN THRESHOLD – Keep trying, a little bit of pain shouldn’t slow you down.
“…” You look over at Kim, your breath still whistling out in the vague shape of syllables, but you know that the tightness in your throat is blocking your voice from working.
Smoothly, Lieutenant Kitsuragi steps up, pushing you gently away from the podium and reviews the file. “As Lieutenant Du Bois was saying, we have a potential homicide, a man entered his home to see evidence of a burglary and a large quantity of blood.” Kim adjusts his glasses as he skims the file, “Processing has a blood sample, so until we know more about the potential victim, we need people to canvas the apartment, look for witnesses and follow up with the victim.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS – Kim effortlessly takes over the briefing, assigning the cases, holding back one for the two of you.
LOGIC – A relatively low stakes case, actually. Apparently uncomplicated.
EMPATHY – He’s just looking out for his partner as your nose drips and voice fails you.
RHETORIC – He may also be concerned with the way your eyes are only half open.
With less grumbling than you receive after distributing cases, the slowly growing ranks of C-Wing disperse to their assigned tasks.
You shoot finger pistols at Kim and manage to wheeze out something approximating a ‘thanks.’ Kim gives you a faint smile and passes over the file he’d held back for the two of you as you sit back at your desk.
“Lucky you, Kitsuragi, a whole day without shitkid talking? Talk about living the dream,” Jean slams a mug on your desk and slides it over to you. Looking down, you see the sloshing liquid is clear. You sniff.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Not alcohol. Probably water. Lame.
Narrowing your eyes, you take a sip. Your throat is dry from all the coughing and the metallic water provides a temporary balm. Coming up next to Jean, Kim slides a bottle of nasal spray over to you. “Some nosaphed, detective?” He pulls out his notebook, as you stare at it suspiciously. “Before we head out for the day please?”
You hold it up and look at it, then opening it, you stuff the nozzle up your nostril and try to inhale.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Goddammit, you can’t even do this right!
SUGGESTION – Blow your nose.
Pulling the nosaphed back out, you grab the dirtier of the two Kim hankies and give a great honking snort, temporarily clearing your nasal passages. Jean has left, Kim has stepped back as you wipe the dripping strings of mucus from your face.
This time, you’re able to successfully inhale.
ENCYCLOPEDIA – The healing liquid disperses up your nasal membrane, on its way toward reducing swelling and reducing fever associated symptoms.
Eyes watering, you look back to Kim. You give him a smile.
“Better?”
Efforts are made to respond, but you just wheeze. You nod enthusiastically instead. Kim gives a heavy sigh.
EMPATHY – It is going to be a long day.