Work Text:
It is almost eerily quiet in the office in the old Silk Mill, safe for the perpetual hum of the neon overhead lights and the scratching of a pair of pens on paper, both his own and Harry’s. They’re the last two officers working as the clock slowly inches toward midnight, something that has been a frequent occurrence over the last few months since they’ve started working together and is likely to happen many more times in the future. Officer Jean Vicquemare does not mind this. The darkness outside the windows is strangely soothing, as if the ugliness of Jamrock City has vanished underneath its cover, just for a moment.
Of course, he knows that is absolute bullshit. Crime rates are high, and being outside at night is basically an open invitation to get mugged or murdered. And then he and his partner will be called in to clean up the mess in the morning.
“Can you pass me the notes from the interviews earlier?” he asks, glancing at the mess of papers on the desk opposite of his.
Harry grumbles, carelessly pulling the requested pages out of a pile. He extends his hand to pass them over, but freezes midway, as if something has suddenly occurred to him.
Shivers [formidable: success] - A woman lies on the cold, dirty ground, face first in the mud, her blond hair matted by the pouring rain and the blood pouring out from a gunshot wound. The same woman walks the street, headed further and further away from the body. Same face. Same blond hair. A gun in her hand.
“What if the victim and the murderer look like the same person?”
“What.”
Harrier du Bois is not a bad partner. He drinks too much in his off-time, comes in hungover - something about an ex-wife, from what Jean has gathered from the occasional bitter comment, something he is still convinced the man will get over sooner or later, not yet knowing that the spiral is only ever going downwards - but he is a good police officer, hard-working, even being considered for a promotion that will raise Jean in rank along with him. The erratic way of thinking gets on his nerves sometimes, like now, only being able to muster the energy to blankly stare at him, and yet those insane hunches keep him on his toes, force him to consider angles he would not otherwise - and often turn out right.
After the initial moment of confusion has passed, Jean skims over the interview notes. There had been an eyewitness report, talking about seeing the same woman double, shooting herself, that he had dismissed as drunken ramblings. It probably had been, given that the man had seen this after stumbling out of a nearby bar and still smelled like an entire brewery when they’d spoken to him, but he should have taken it into account. Especially since the victims’ elderly parents had mentioned a twin sister. Supposedly, she'd moved far away to Mundi with her new husband, proudly shown off on wedding pictures, but he should have considered that she might be involved anyway.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying futilely to relieve the headache that is starting to form. It is late. He’s had too many cups of coffee and too little sleep. This angle is more complicated than he thought this case would get. More than he'd bargained for, even though he usually likes the puzzle these cases provide. He doesn’t want to think about it tonight, but he also doesn’t want to stop working, to go and sit in his empty apartment and not sleep despite the exhaustion, because he can’t ever seem to.
There's the familiar thought that maybe none of his options sound good because the only thing he truly wants is to be dead, but he brushes it aside, as he always does. He's been diagnosed with clinical depression for a while now, and this is nothing he isn't used to.
Maybe he’ll put in some hours at the gym before he heads home. Train until he passes out, too tired to think about anything. That works, most nights.
“Want to grab a drink together?”
The question is just as startling as the other one. He's never been one to go out with his colleagues before. He isn't sure if he cares enough to want to.
“Why?” he asks warily, wondering if Harry knows something about him that he isn't even aware of himself. Because there is another thing that is fucking annoying about his partner: his uncanny ability to see right past a person's facade, to uncover their deepest, darkest secrets. Like a fucking human can opener.
Empathy [legendary: success] - The pockmarked man sitting at the other desk and you are twins as well, in a sense. You might not have shared a womb, nor do you look the same, but your emotions are a mirror of each other. The weariness. The loneliness. The pain.
Jean hates being the can in this metaphor, but he also can't help admiring Harry for it. He can't help respecting him for being capable, and even worse, he can't help but like him, somehow.
Harry shrugs. “Helps with the headache. With everything, really.”
“Alright.” He can't quite muster the optimism to expect any good from this tentative friendship, but what the hell. “Are we calling it a night, then?”
“Yeah. Just one last thing.”
Scribbled in all caps letters across a piece of paper is a title for their case, Harry holding it out for him to read. It says: THE TWIN MURDERER. One of the corners of Jean’s mouth lifts the tiniest bit into a crooked grin - nothing against the the almost grimace-like smile that seems to be permanently etched onto Harry’s face, but it’s there.
“Not bad” he admits.
“Let’s celebrate it with those drinks.”
He returns the paper to the pile with the others and stands, ambling towards the exit with his disco blazer slung over his shoulder. Jean grabs his own uniform jacket. Then, he follows.
There’s no response as he raps his knuckles against the door. Jean waits a moment longer, shifting from foot to foot in the dimly lit hallway of a rundown apartment building, before he tries again, even more forcefully. He has never been a patient man. His knuckles feel like they are going to bruise, and yet his efforts yield no result. With a long-suffering sigh, he looks around the hallway for potential witnesses. When he sees none, he simply starts to pick the lock; something he has done what feels like far too many by now. He should probably just get himself a spare key at this point.
The door swings aside after a last wiggle of the doorknob, rusty hinges protesting with a high-pitched squeak. The smell hits him like a punch to the gut, rotten food and stale beer. He has to side-step a mountain of soiled laundry as he enters, unclear on whether the garments have been left there to be washed or to be worn again.
“Shitkid!”
He better be there. A quick glance at his watch reveals that he doesn’t have the time to search the ditches and back alleys near Harry’s favorite bars for him, if they don’t want to be late. Not to speak of the fact that he lacks the will to do so. Again. It’s been happening more and more lately.
Jean doesn’t know if the drinking is affecting Harry’s ability to solve cases or if the struggle to solve cases - more specifically, THE UNSOLVABLE CASE - is affecting his drinking. What he knows for certain is that he doesn’t care either way. And yet he is still standing in this disgusting mess of an apartment, attempting to pick him up to ensure that he makes it to work at all. To make sure that he hasn’t drunken himself to death, this time. That he denies feeling that little spark of fear at the thought even in the privacy of his own mind doesn’t mean that it is not there. Because even if the thought of death and killing himself is like an old friend to him, even if he sees corpses on a regular basis in his line of work - defiled, decapitated, in every thinkable stage of decomposition - discovering the corpse of his partner might irreversibly break something deep inside of him.
Not having to search the ditches is a small consolation when he finds the man in question curled up in a corner of the tiny single room instead, in a vomit-stained, blanket-covered lump that is, for better or for worse, still breathing, snoring noisily.
He kicks the lump, aiming his foot at where he suspects the ribs, and the noise ceases.
“Time to get up, you useless fuck.”
“...noo… don’ wanna…”
Slurred with sleep or slurred from alcohol? Jean decides that it’s probably both. He has the tip of his shoe tangled with the blanket in a way that allows him to pull at it a little, inch by inch, but stops when he uncovers more vomit. The smell in the apartment is only worsening - a mixture of brewery and dumpster. He’s seen crime scenes more sanitary than this.
“You still drunk, shitkid? Fucking hell…”
He receives only a grumble in reply, sounding vaguely affirmative. There's some movement underneath the blanket though, indicating that Harry is more or less awake now, especially when Jean pokes his foot into his ribs again, once more for good measure.
“You got five minutes for a shower to sober up before we go. You need one, anyway. You reek.”
“M not going” the lump protests, and Jean rolls his eyes so hard it hurts.
“Yes, you are.” He steps on the blanket when Harry tries to pull it back over himself. “You'll be better once you're up and doing something.”
The tone of his voice may sound harsh, but Jean speaks from experience. Wallowing has never done him any good, endless hours of laying awake in bed, staring into the darkness of his bedroom and waiting for something that never comes. For some sort of relief. For death. It's better to be up and moving. Throwing himself into work is both distracting and a reason to keep going. He knows it used to be like that for Harry too, back when they first started working together. They used to be damn good together, staying at the office for long hours and cracking one case after another. He can't help feeling bitter that it has turned into something like this.
“No” Harry says, the first clear word he has uttered since Jean found him.
Volition [legendary: failure] - You hear what your partner, your friend, your brother-in-arms is saying. You hear it, and deep down you know that he is right, and yet you cannot find the strength to care. There is no reality in which you get up from the floor right now. You don't even want to. All you want is to lie here, and maybe have another bottle of whatever it was you were drinking last night. You don't even want to stop being miserable.
“I don't want to get better. I want to get worse.”
For ages, Jean has kept on hoping that Harry would pull himself together. Had, in an uncharacteristically naive and optimistic way, held onto the belief that things would change for the better. It is in this moment, with that sentence said, that it truly hits him how foolish he had been, and he almost hates himself for it.
“Fine” he spits out. “Go to work or don't, doesn't matter to me. I don't fucking need you.”
He tries not to think of the case files waiting on his desk, the ones he'd wanted to discuss with him in search of fresh ideas. Maybe he'll talk to McLaine or Torson instead - but then again, the two of them are almost as useless as the drunken heap in front of him. And annoying. He can just figure things out on his own. He'd been doing that long before he and Harry were ever assigned as partners, after all.
There is one last moment in which he lingers over him, as that last ember of hope he had fades into ash and smoke. One last chance for Harry to get up, to do or say anything. But he doesn’t, and so Jean turns around and leaves, the door of the apartment slamming closed behind him. He allows himself to lean his back against it and run his hand over his face. A piercing headache has settled deep behind his eyes, and he suspects that it isn’t likely to go away anytime soon.
It is a lively late afternoon in the office of the 41st precinct. Oldboy Pidieu is speaking on the radio in his calm, unobtrusive manner; Torson, who has never been blessed with the ability to speak quietly, is telling some sort of outrageous story to McLaine, loud enough for everyone to hear. Someone is using the coffee maker in the corner. Next to him, Judit Minot is writing up a report on her typewriter, the steady clicking of keys providing a rhythm to the noise. Jean is trying to focus on his own work when he catches Harry's voice through the din, and pointedly does not look up as the man enters with Kim Kitsuragi in tow.
He harbors no negativity towards the Lieutenant for this change in partnership. He had come by the day of his transfer from the 57th to ask if he'd be okay with it, almost apologetically, and Jean had wholeheartedly meant it when he'd said it would be for the best. Kitsuragi’s patience for Harry’s shenanigans is admirable. Jean would not have it in him. Not anymore.
Neither can he share Judit's unwavering faith that Harry will be better, that he will stay sober this time, despite all her attempts to convince him to give him a chance. She's a good officer, responsible and reliable, but he had that hope ripped away from him once and for his own sake he will not let it happen again.
Harry's steps stop in front of his desk, and still Jean keeps his eyes stubbornly trained on the papers in front of him. Even to his own ears, he sounds pissed when he speaks. Then again, he always does, so he can tell himself that it doesn't mean anything.
“What do you want, shitkid?”
Empathy [legendary: success] - You can't remember, but you failed and hurt this man horribly, in so many ways, even if he'd like to pretend that you didn't. Underneath the facade of indifference, the pain still cuts deep. How will you ever atone?
Suggestion [impossible: failure] - You don't know how. You don't know if it's even possible. You can only try.
Jean can feel Harry hesitate and think before he answers, but he knows that he will answer anyway. He's never been deterred by his rudeness before, not once since the very beginning. Some things just don't change, even after a bout of retrograde amnesia.
“Do you want to go down to the kebab stand with Kim and me?”
It's so fucking earnest, like a grade schooler asking someone to be friends, that Jean temporarily forgets how to form an answer. He just looks up and stares.
“Khm. We could also bring some back if you are still busy” Kitsuragi offers after a clear of his throat, breaking the tense silence instead of him. He has one of his eyebrows raised high, glaring back from behind the lenses of his glasses, a premature sort of subtle reprimand, like he is only waiting for Jean to say something mean. Judit seems to expect him to do the same, from the way she taps her foot against his leg underneath the desk. It’s gentle, because other than too many officers, she is not one to be unnecessarily violent, but it is a clear reminder for him to be kind nonetheless.
He heaves a tired sigh. It’s not that late, yet it feels like it has been a long day. His head aches, like it does ever so often, the job and the weight of simply existing in this world wearing him down. Taking a break, even if it is just a short walk down to the kebab stand might be nice, and it is a luxury he will not afford himself it is just him alone.
“Alright. I’ll come. What about you, Jude?”
“Of course” she says enthusiastically, looking so damn pleased with herself he almost wants to take it back. There is a tiny smile tugging at Kitsuragi’s lips as well, and Harry… Harry is absolutely beaming. It’s not his old twisted, pained grin - he’s not worn that expression since returning from Martinaise - but an actual, genuine smile. Jean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look this happy, not even with a bottle in his hand.
He wishes he could be happy, too.
If he drank enough to forget literally everything, if he could start over with a clean slate, would he be happy then, or would he slip right back into his old, miserable routines?
Maybe he is being unfair. It must take a great deal of effort, rebuilding a life from nothing, and making it better than it was at that. Staying sober. Harry is trying. Despite everything, Jean can see that. He isn’t ready to trust it yet, but maybe he can try, too.
Esprit de Corps [heroic: success] - Despite everything, you are still brothers. A bond that can’t be broken.
Pulling on his jacket, he looks back at Harry, who appears to be frozen in space. Possibly having another one of his strange premonitions or following some weird train of thought that might or might not lead to the solution of a seemingly unsolvable case or whatever goes on in that head of his. Jean has witnessed it before. He rolls his eyes, but there is some fondness there this time, the way it used to be a long time ago.
"Are we going or not, shitkid?”
“Yes, we are!”
He snaps out of it, still smiling. Kitsuragi closes the zipper of his orange bomber jacket. Judit straightens the papers on her desk one last time. When they head out, they are greeted by the early evening sun and the mild warmth of spring. And later, as they are on their way back with food in their hands, with Jude and Kim talking quietly and Harry walking beside him, Jean will notice that for once, the pain in his head has receded.