Chapter Text
It all started with one innocent sentence.
“See ya, don’t be a stranger!”
Now, this is quite a kind goodbye to say to someone you might think. If you were in this situation, you would probably smile and offer another kind farewell of your own. Maybe you would wave with gusto or make an overly dramatic exit to get a few laughs. It is the most socially appropriate way to react after all.
Jean Vicquemare tries, he really does try, to be socially appropriate in most situations.
“Bit fucking late for that now, shitkid” Jean snapped before slamming the entrance door of the precinct shut.
Well. He tries but always fails when it involves one particular person.
Through the glass of the roughly handled door, Jean caught sight of the puppy-eyed look of le fameux Harry Du Bois. Which only worsened his anger, and he quickly turned away, into the cold night of Revachol. He wasn’t proud of how his anger would get so quickly out of hand when it came to his old partner. Hated the way his stomach would twist in pain every time something or someone would remind him that his friend -his partner, the man he hated and trusted the most in this fucking world- and himself… Have indeed become strangers to one another.
Don’t be a stranger. Said the man who drank himself to death in Martinaise and came out of this as a new yet achingly familiar soul. Not that Jean missed the times where Harry would rise to his feet, fist grasping and pulling at Jean’s shirt to yell in his face. Sure, Jean would yell back, engaging in that familiar routine of violence and abuse they both knew well.
They had been good days. It’s what made the whole ordeal worse for him. Because had he been that rotten apocalypse cop from the start, it would have been easier to drop it. To take his distances physically and emotionally… But it wasn’t like that. Not always.
Jean still remembers that dance they once shared at Harry’s apartment. It was stupid and uncoordinated, but they had laughed so hard that night. For once, they were unburdened by their job, their addictions or their depression. Harry had danced, sometimes catching his hands to spin him around. Since Jean was taller, he would have to bend a little, which would make him roll his eyes and complain. But it only made the twinkle in Harry’s eyes gleam brighter. How did such large hands that have broken so many things hold him so gently?
Harry was probably happy to get this clean slate, to be freed of the bad memories, of his mistakes. Scratch that, of course he was. Jean should be happy for him, right? The detective is sober, he’s got that sparkle back in his eye mixed with a childlike wonder for nearly everything around him. He arrives at work smelling like soap instead of vomit and alcohol. He’s gentler with people. He’s got Kim fucking Kitsuragi as his new partner and friend. -No, Jean isn’t jealous of Harry. Or of Kim either. Good for them if they can get along. Yeah. Good. He’s-
Harry’s happier. And it was not thanks to Jean. He got better when Jean left him in Martinaise. All it took was Jean to leave.
It was for the best, he thought, as he asked for the change in partners. Lieutenant Kitsuragi would have a familiar figure as his partner in this new precinct, and Harry would keep getting better because he was with the right person now. It made sense. Plus, he and Judith got along well. He appreciated the soothing and calm presence she offered. The more Vicquemare got to know her, the more he could see the teasing nature she had underneath all of her professionalism. That’s probably why she didn’t stop him from wearing that fucking wig when they kept a on Harry in Martinaise. It *was* funny.
His shoes crunched against the gravel of the pavement as he carried himself around the old silk mill, taking the familiar way back to his apartment. Spring was around the corner, but even if the days were starting to warm up, the air still had that chill and cold wind that could make you shiver if you didn’t cover up properly. Jean tried to pull on his coat to wrap himself tighter in it before feeling a little drop of water on his head. Then a second. Then a third. He let out a curse and quickened his pace.
Even though he is fast, Jean doesn’t quite manage to escape the downpour, even as he jumps inside the precinct stables for shelter. His hair is soaked and drips down on his face and neck. His whole body tensed up at the cold feeling of rainwater sliding under his collar and down his back.
“Putain de bordel de sa race(*)” He hissed as he pulled off his cloak and threw it over a pile of haystacks. He froze when he realised what he had done and picked it back up quickly. Too late, hay has started to cling to the fabric. The satellite officer started shaking it desperately because, come on, he already had a shit day; he didn’t need to look like a scarecrow to top it off.
A couple of huffs from deeper in the stables reached his ears. He turned to see his horse, Patroclus, staring at him. When the animal caught his gaze, he let out a short neigh. Neigh, that could be translated as a hello, but Jean heard it as a ‘’bout fucking time you came to see me, asshole’
Jean switched the lights on so he wouldn’t step or trip over any shit or equipment the other equestrian officers had forgotten to clean. His coat now on his arm, he walked up to the large Clydesdale. Torson had once asked, quite mockingly, why Jean needed such a huge horse since he was already so tall? McLaine had joined in on the teasing.
“Compensating for something, hey?”
Jean scoffed at the memory and rubbed Patroclus’s head, scratching at the mane between the ears. Clydesdale were larger than most horses, due to being draught horses. Therefore, they were not as mobile between the scrawny streets of Jamrock as other breeds. Their use came from the fact that they were pretty fucking intimidating. Unless you were borderline suicidal, you wouldn’t try to jump a horse that size. (It is also slightly suicidal to ride such a horse; a fall from this height is NOT forgiving on the body.) During the war, they were used in the charge again because of their massive size. Yet at heart, they were big softies.
Harry had laughed when Jean mentioned that he reminded him of a wild horse. Horses are emotional sponges. If you climb a horse and you’re worried about something, the horse will feel it and will react strongly to it. The lieutenant double-yefreitor had that terrifying empathic accuracy that always made Jean feel like an open book.
Or an open wound, depending on the day.
Harry then asked what breed of horse he would be. Pointing at himself with a teasing glint in his eyes because he knew, that fucker knew Jean was a walking encyclopedia when it came to horses. Sue him. They were beautiful and loyal beasts. It was something that spoke to him. Vicquemare had smiled and said that Du Bois was a shetland. Smart but small and round. “Podgy even”, he teased as he poked the beer belly of his partner with a pen. The offended look he had received made him howl in laughter. Nothing was funnier than taking the “super cop” down a few pegs.
“I’m not small, you asshole!”
“From where I stand, you kinda are.”
Patroclus huffed and bumped his huge head against the officer’s chest, who snapped back out of the memory. Jean raised his hands and stroked the side of the horse’s face before stepping closer and pressing his head against its neck. Warmth spread in his chest at the feeling of the rough short hair against his cheek. Maybe he could just stay here until the rain passed. The stables were warm and the smell of horses has always been comforting for Jean. He could stay here until the rain stopped. Patroclus wouldn’t mind.
.
)°( )°( )°(
The hay was still stuck to his cloak. Quite the pickle when you tried to look like you got your shit together, unlike the others at the precinct. Apart from the Captain, of course. And Kitsuragi and Judith. And to be fair, Mclaine was an idiot, but he didn’t look like a constant wreck at least. Torson was Torson.
Okay, fair enough: Harry and Jean were the ones who always looked the worst for wear: Harry dressed up every day as if it were carnival season, Jean looked like he was about to murder someone or kill himself just to get out of a conversation.
Jean opened his lighter; he got a few sparkles for his trouble, but nothing enough to light up his smoke. He let out a tired sigh and closed it, rubbing the polished surface of the lighter before pocketing it. He leaned back against the door of the stables, looking up at the greyish dawn that was rising on Revachol. In the end, he had spent the night in the stables. When he got bone tired, he had pulled a chair and some horse rugs as makeshift pillows. It was restless. But between this and walking through the rain to arrive at an empty and cold apartment, it had been the better option.
That heavy horsie smell clung to his skin, and his clothes felt filthy since he couldn’t change them from the day before. He should get up from his ass and take a shower at the precinct. Who spends a night in the stables just because of a few drops of rain? Who hides his tears in a horse’s mane instead of swallowing them back inside and facing whatever this shitty life throws at you?
Pathetic.
His teeth clenched around the filter of his cigarette, a headache spreading from his forehead to his temples. The lack of sleep and nicotine wasn’t helping. He should move it.
As he was trying to find a little strength to get off the wall and back to work, he heard the distinct “clink” of a lighter being opened, and a flame suddenly appeared in front of him. He blinked in surprise and, out of habit, just leaned to get his cigarette alight. He let out the smoke through his nostrils and laid back against the wooden door, eyes closed.
Sweet sweet release. Sweet sweet poison, hopefully it kills me soon.
He heard the weight of someone leaning against the wood, right next to him, a hiss as they tried to settle on their good leg and then a sigh when they finally got comfortable. Then the soft sound of someone breathing in his own addiction before blowing it to the wind. Jean hated that he could recognise the person even though they hadn’t said a word.
Being tuned to someone so deeply is a blessing. You would be able to recognise their footsteps in the middle of the busy streets. To know how their breath hitches in surprise or the sigh they make when they’re asleep.
Being so tuned to a stranger who forgot your own melody was a curse.
“For once, you’re early,” Jean muttered.
The newcomer bumped his shoulder against his. A gesture so familiar it clawed at the younger man’s heart.
“I try to go on a run every morning on the way here. Keep in shape ya know? Most of the time, I take the wrong turn. Or stop by Kim’s. Or just don’t get up-”
Harry stopped and cleared his throat. Sometimes you’re too bone tired to get out of bed. You just drag it to your work because you need to pay rent. Jean knew that feeling, oh, too well.
“Anyway, today I managed not to get sidetracked and me voilà~”
The satellite officer finally opened his eyes, his gaze settling on Harry’s face without bothering to turn his head. His cheeks still bore a little red flush on them, the last remnants of his run. He had a bag loosely hanging from the hand that wasn’t holding his cig, probably containing his RCM clothes for the day. Jean didn’t understand the point of his running. Mainly because his fucking leg was shot not too long ago, why was he insisting on pushing his limits?
His old partner turned slightly to look back at him. For a moment, no words were exchanged. Jean wondered what Harry could see. Was he ‘can-opening’ him? Was he remembering their shared past, or was he counting the pox marks on his cheek? Jean scratched them absentmindedly at the intrusive thought.
“You smell like horses.” Fucking hell, this was the detective superstar cop in all his glory. Pointing out the fucking obvious.
“Yep.” he groaned, emphasising the “p”.
“It’s nice. It suits you.”
The dark-haired officer raised an eyebrow.
“If the shitkid says I smell good, it means I really need a shower.” he then gave a slow look, up and down, at the man in front of him. “And so do you, you had a good run, it seemed.”
A softer version of the famous “Expression” appeared, showing a heavy smoker’s yellowish teeth.
“That's your way of saying I stink?
“I was being tactful for once, you fucker.”
They still didn’t move. Just look at each other for a few seconds before Harry whispered:
“You’re not a stranger, Jean.”
Jean sighed and looked away.
“I am. And you’re a ghost to me.”
The body next to him moved closer until a heavy hand gently caught his wrist. Sweaty, warm, made of flesh and blood. Alive. It gave a light squeeze and then held it loosely, as if he wanted Jean to know he could shake him off easily if he wanted.
Harry would grasp and squeeze until it hurt. Voice rising and piercing his ears. Jean’s own throat was sore with screams, but he couldn’t shake off this hand, couldn’t break off when his friend needed an anchor in his darkest hour. The reddish marks on his skin would just be proof he hadn’t lost his friend yet. That he had stayed, that they could hold on to each other in the storm no matter what.
How could those hands, that have broken so many things, treat him so tenderly?
It’s going to break him when that vicious cycle of addiction comes and takes his friend again. It always does.
A short whinny broke the silence. Patroclus couldn’t understand why his human was better outside, away from him, than keeping him company inside, in the warmth. The equestrian cop clicked his tongue a few times in response. He promised himself to visit him during his break. He could also propose to Judith to do a few patrols on horseback. Jean stubbed out his cigarette, the movement freeing his wrist and putting some distance between him and Harry. The older man didn’t mind; his attention was now focused on the Clydesdale that huffed in their direction. His bushy eyebrows were in a frown, looking at the horse as if it were a strange puzzle.
“Come on shitkid, let’s get cleaned up. Need to at least look the part for the old bloody mary station”
He started walking away, not bothering to see Harry’s reaction. Nevertheless, his ear caught the steps that followed him to the old silk mill. Steady and strong, followed by a whistle.
Despite everything, it filled his lungs with affection.
Dolores Dei.
The next time he’ll break-
It’s going to kill him.