Work Text:
"It's a
clear n
ight in Revachol tonight folks and I, for one, hope you're having a damn good one. There's a full moon out, and I hope some of you'll be howwwling along with me to this next tune...."
The engine sings in the night. The speakers pulse, bass thumping through metal and leather, bone and blood. The lamps cut a steady light over the deserted carriageway as Lt. Kim Kitsuragi guides the MC expertly, swooping through each bend, following the coast road home.
One more long day over, another case closed – nothing out of the ordinary. He has completed another revolution around the sun entirely without fanfare. He's indulged himself enough to buy something a little nicer to drink tonight, along with a new model, and a whole day of annual leave to build it in. But no-one has noticed his birthday, and he counts that as a success.
Harry hadn't even prodded him about him taking tomorrow off; that, in itself was suspicious. He’s been careful not to share such specifics, but Harry has a habit of just plucking things out of the air somehow. He'd spent most of the shift half-waiting for some kind of absurd antics. Or at least, more absurd than usual. Normality is a subjective concept, in the vicinity of Lt. Double-Yefreitor Du Bois.
He’d half expected for Harry to leap out of the evidence locker singing- or perhaps attempt to trick him into shoplifting a cake. Or present him with some kind alarming gift, the logic of which made sense only to himself.
But relative tranquillity had reigned, and Harry had wandered off maybe an hour before knocking-off time, muttering about misplaced witness statements. The others were as polite and distant as always. The day was as uneventful as he could ever have hoped, and it appears he’s gotten away scot-free.
Kim breathes in deeply, deliberately relaxing back against the upholstery.
The long drive home from Precinct 41 is a meditation in itself. The miles fall away quickly, and the music is loud enough to quiet his thoughts, to find peace in. Leather creaks as he grips the wheel, fingers tap. He keeps his eyes on the road, and tries to think of nothing- silence within the noise, until the pounding beat fades down.
"Goood evening freaks, that was "Bigfish Littlefish" by Cardboard Box - absolute classic, that one - and you've been banging your fine heads along to Speedfreaks FM tonight.”
The man’s voice sounds a little manic. “Gustav G, that's me, with you till the back of 11 and boyyyy do I have some pure crackers to play for you tonight!- But first, there are a few messages here for some very special listeners..."
The new DJ talks too much. Kim's attention drifts from the voice. Another MC passes in the opposite direction, spinners whirring and glinting defiantly in the Kinema’s glow. The engine is making an unhealthy sound. Even at a glance in the dark, it looks more than the worse for wear.
He wonders idly who would bother trying to jazz up a vehicle like that, instead of actually looking after it.
Sporadic cats-eyes flare and wink out as he passes them. The Kineema’s engine hums up a slight hill. He zones out, waiting for the music to resume - until something catches his ear. Kim stifles a yawn.
"--- congratulations to you both!.... and finally - huh, now this is a weird one! Mr. K, are you with us tonight? I hope you are. Let me read this out properly:
‘A very Happy Birthday goes out to a certain "Mr. K". who is extremely cool!’ – he must be, for that part’s even underlined. ‘Extremely cool - and maybe even a little bit Disco.’
The voice pauses for a second. Squinting at scribbled words in a dim booth.
“‘You should have let me steal the….. penguin? Then I’d have had something exciting to give you.’ Well, now. Disco! On these airwaves?! Dude.” Gustav chuckles “Maybe our caller has got the wrong station, what do you think? Many happy returns to you anyway, "Mr. K"- if you're out there!”
The show moves on, and music resumes, something upbeat- trumpets, drums and exuberance.
Kim sits frozen, blinking through the wind shield for a few long moments before giving in to the hilarity. He's still chuckling quietly as he parks up and climbs the dingy staircase.
His apartment is dark, but a crumpled envelope has been stuffed under his door- two tickets to something inside. When he turns it over on the threshold to squint down at crabby scrawl.
“Yes, this is a date. Not a stealing trip. Unless…?” Kim snorts.
A certain smell lingers in the hallway. Not- quite fashionable cologne and cheap tobacco. Not his brand, but familiar.
“Practice your lurking skills another time, Detective.” he calls, but doesn’t turn as he steps through the door. He can’t be certain he’s quite maintaining straight face. “You stole my transfer file, didn’t you?”
Footsteps creak across the landing.
“Maybe little bit. You look very cool in your photo, you know.” No contrition, false or otherwise. Just Harry, brimming with earnest enthusiasm, clearly very pleased with himself.
“Khm. You’d best come in and ah, explain yourself.”
Harry follows him inside, grinning enough for both.
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