Chapter Text
Kim trailed behind Harry as they headed up the stairs to the balcony for their nightly debrief. He was especially exhausted tonight after spending hours arguing with Cuno and Cunoesse, feeling eternally thankful to Harry for finally breaking through to Cuno… despite using tactics he wasn’t completely supportive of. Cool air flowed through the open door, washing over Kim and carrying the faint sillage of Harry’s cologne and liquor. Kim’s fingers itched for his nightly cigarette as Harry held the door open for him and closed the door behind them.
Harry leans against the frosted glass of the building, the lights from inside illuminating his body. The yellow light highlights a fresh, darkening bruise around Harry’s eye. Kim quickly looks down, hiding his smile and rummaging for his cigarettes as he remembers how Harry had fallen over and bashed his head into the icy dirt floor earlier that day.
“You said you had some questions earlier?” Kim asks, successfully fishing out a cigarette from his pocket and placing it gently in his mouth. He sparks a lighter as he continues speaking around the cigarette. “And we’ll talk about our progress on the investigation of course.”
Harry hummed in agreement as he studied Kim. The shorter man takes a long pull from the slim stick, leaning his head back and allowing smoke to escape lazily from his parted mouth into the cool night’s air.
Electrochemistry: Oh man, he looks so devastatingly *cool* with that cigarette.
“How did you get so cool, Kim?”
The lieutenant laughs, the light of his cigarette illuminating a fleeting smile. Harry can’t help but smile as well, feeling proud of making—
Composure: What a funny guy you are to make him laugh.
Harry’s smile dissolves as he resists the urge to punch himself in the head.
“You mean this?” Kim flicks the ash, bringing Harry back to reality. “This isn’t cool—it’s an unnecessary trial of will. And unhealthy.”
Volition: Keeping the habit within the parameters he’s given himself takes a lot of focus. It would be easier to simply quit.
Composure: Yet were he to quit, he would lose the cool factor. This man relishes his cool quite a bit—below it all.
Harry considers these thoughts as several responses marinate on his tongue. Eventually he clears his throat and says, “Right then—the debrief.”
“Yes, it’s been a long and eventful day.” Kim pulls on the cigarette. “Above all, though…today was exhausting. What’s with all the running? You run a lot. Is that a standard Precinct 41 practice?”
“Yep. It’s part of the Jamrock shuffle.” Harry grins sheepishly, slightly wincing as he remembers the consequences of him running earlier. He wonders if his eye is starting to bruise.
Kim nods thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his cigarette. “It’s impressive, especially for a man your age—and in those heels…”
He looks at Harry’s snakeskin shoes and smiles, suddenly. “Nice shoes, by the way. I like the green. Goes with the orange.”
“Thanks, Kim.” Harry shifts his weight to the other foot, ears feeling hot from the compliment. He decides to focus his attention on a building across the courtyard. The walls look as old and crumbly as the rest of the architecture in this place.
Shivers: So many walls all over Martinaise—weatherworn, cracked, their paint peeling…
Harry shakes it off quickly and refocuses back onto Kim, who has begun talking about their investigation progress. The two exchange information they’ve gathered throughout the day and consider what their next moves are. Kim made sure to be patient and thorough when answering any questions Harry asked about Martinaise or Revachol, or even his job position, even when they were a bit odd.
There was a lull in the conversation, but Harry didn’t want to leave just yet. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.
The lieutenant arches a single eyebrow. “No.”
Harry tries to ask again, but his lips are refusing the order.
Volition: The eyebrow is exercising *psionic* control over you.
Composure: It’s like you’re *locked down*.
Harry isn’t sure what’s happening to him. He even attempts to break eye contact with Kim but he just feels stuck.
Kim continues to stare at him, and Harry swears he sees amusement in the lieutenant’s eyes.
“Something the matter, detective?”
Authority: This guy’s got Authority off the charts. With just a flick of his eyebrow he’s able to make you his thrall.
Harry contorts his face into what Kim perceives as a somewhat painful smile, and shakes his head quickly. Is there nothing I can do against this eyebrow?
Authority: Nothing. You better hope he doesn’t abuse his authority. There’s a lot of it.
Kim’s eyes flicker across Harry’s facial features and his expression turns serious, almost somber. “What do you see when you look at me?”
Harry exhales loudly, so grateful for the change in conversation that he doesn’t notice the shift in Kim’s mood. “A true Vacholiere.”
The lieutenant is caught off-guard by Harry’s response. A few days ago the two had an interaction with Gary, the Cryptofacist, and he had called Kim a racial slur reserved for Seolites. Harry did his best to defend Kim during the conversation, which Kim appreciated, but it was just one of many times during this investigation that he had been subject to racial profiling. Between that and Harry’s predilection for running, he was starting to feel a bit worn down. It may have been a bit out of character to ask such a direct question at this time, but Kim sought comfort after everything they’ve been through so far.
Kim takes a moment to collect himself before responding. “Nobody’s ever said that to me before… I don’t suppose anyone ever questions whether you belong here. Whatever your faults, you’re a solid detective. You’re obviously Revacholian…
I was born here. I grew up here. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. And there’s a good chance I’ll die in the line of duty here, too.
But—to most of my countrymen, I will always be some monkey fucker.”
Harry stared at the lieutenant, wide-eyed and guilt-ridden. The amount of fuck-ups Kim had to deal with on his behalf most likely added to this stress as well. Harry vaguely recalled a moment, or maybe it was several—his memory wasn’t the best these days—where he was insensitive towards Kim. He made a promise to himself to find some way to make it up to the lieutenant soon.
“I’m sorry, Kim.” Harry finally breathed, walking over to where Kim was leaning against the balcony railing. He gently put his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and gave Kim his best smile. “To me, you’re my partner.”
A faint smile cracked on Kim’s face as he quickly glanced up at Harry, then went back to intensely studying his dwindling cigarette. “Thank you, detective,” he responded, the frailty of his voice surprising himself. “Shall we call it a night?”
Empathy: Those words of yours meant a lot to him.
“Sure. Thanks for this.” Harry gives Kim’s shoulder a squeeze and allows his arm to drop to his side again, grazing the lieutenant’s arm on the way down. He walked over to the door and held it open for the other man, looking at him expectantly.
Kim’s arm twitched at the featherlight touch as he quickly took one last pull of his cigarette before stubbing it out, slipping the remains into a compact ashtray he carried with him. The lieutenant gave a small nod to Harry as he walked by and began heading down the stairs.
Harry’s eyes shut for a second as he breathed in the subtle traces of burning leaves Kim left in his wake.
Electrochemistry: Should’ve asked him for a ciggy! It must feel so good. Need one soon.
He groaned and lightly hit the back of his head against the door before following Kim downstairs to their rooms. The two stopped outside of their respective doors, giving each other a small wave and a bid goodnight.
Harry enters his room and looks at the bed. It is cold and not particularly inviting, but it’s his. The sheets look awful, but he crawls in anyway, the fabric feeling coarse and clammy against his skin. The bed sags beneath his weight as he stretches out and finally closes his eyes, hoping, for once, to get a peaceful night’s rest.
On the other side of the wall, Kim sits on the edge of his bed. His notebook is open in his lap, and he stares at the words he’s scrawled inside, reading them over and over again without conjuring new meanings or conclusions. The pit of anxiety in his gut pulls at his stomach and leaks through his limbs. He stays like this until the late hours of the night.