Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

March 11, CC51

The first time that Kim Kitsuragi saw the detective from the 41st Precinct, he already hated him a little. Not a lot—he wouldn’t allow himself to be so unprofessional. Still, making the drive out to Martinaise day after day only to be ignored by the officer he was meant to be working with was enough to put him in a sour mood.

He tried to stay calm and professional, at least on the outside. Getting snappish wouldn’t do anything to improve the situation. Besides, Kim was self-aware enough to know that at least part of his anger had nothing to do with the situation at hand.

Kim had lots of experience being ignored by his colleagues, after all, as his nigh-unending purgatory in juvenile crimes proved. And getting upset about it only egged them on.

On the third morning, he decided that the polite approach (leaving messages with the long-suffering hostel staff, waiting in the pre-arranged rendezvous location) was not going to be effective, and just planted himself by the door. The man—he hadn’t even been given the name of the officer he was to meet, and only knew his gender from the hostel bartender—would have to leave his room eventually, after all. And if he somehow avoided Kim again, Kim would just proceed with the investigation on his own, interdepartmental pissing match be damned. Nobody could claim he hadn’t put in a good-faith effort.

All things considered, Kim found himself quite taken aback when he actually met the officer in question.

At first glance, Kim had thought, “ah, of course.” Coming down the stairs, the officer had looked like exactly the sort of cop who liked to throw his weight around: big, broad, white, macho. The sort of man who never questioned his place in the world, who took things as his due. But then he’d rounded the landing; that image wavered, then fell away entirely as Kim got a better look at his face and the way he was moving. He looked… ravaged, was the best way Kim could think to put it. Devastated. Lost. He was limping a little, moving stiffly like every muscle ached, his broad shoulders bowed as though carrying a heavy weight. His face was bloated, an unhealthy color, his nose red. He looked horrifically hung over, but not only that; there was more than merely physical suffering there. Honestly, he looked like a trauma victim, like someone that the lazareth would put on safety watch. He looked like anything but the arrogant officer Kim had expected.

Kim watched in fascination as the man walked around the room, studying everything—the locked summer doors, the menu board, the karaoke stage—as though he’d never seen it before, despite the fact that, as Kim had learned from the staff, he’d been at the Whirling-In-Rags for three days already. He listened as he approached Lena—who Kim had already met, on one of his previous attempts to make contact—and struck up a conversation.

That conversation was the second thing that wasn’t what Kim expected from the man who had, as far as he could tell, alienated the entire staff of the hostel while ostentatiously snubbing his colleagues. He had reacted with a shy confusion to the woman’s gentle flirting, had asked her questions with a guileless openness to his expression and voice. He asked questions Kim would have expected the woman to find offensive, but with so sincere and well-meaning a bearing that she seemed to find it charming.

Kim had wondered if this was some sort of high-concept new investigative technique, a verbal counterpart to the Jamrock Shuffle perhaps. It had to be an act, surely? The prelude to an interrogation? Was Lena perhaps some sort of material witness?

He was so busy puzzling over the question that it barely registered when the officer introduced himself as Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau, which seemed… unlikely. Even when he asked the manager what money was, Kim had thought for a moment that he was making some sort of rhetorical point.

It wasn’t until the man painstakingly counted out forty centims and proudly announced that he only needed ninety more to pay his debt—his 130-réal debt—that Kim realized that he hadn’t been acting, before. Had not been making a point, or trying a clever interrogation technique, or trying to prank Kim in some kind of petty RCM one-upmanship. All his odd questions and bizarre statements had been completely sincere.

Something was very wrong with the detective from the 41st Precinct.

Kim had expected many things from the investigation in Martinaise, most of them falling somewhere between tedious and miserable, but never in his most outlandish imaginings had he come anywhere near the reality. Throughout that whole first endless day, it had seemed that every time he thought he’d come to grips with his strange colleague, the man would do something to upend the portrait Kim was building and he’d have to start fresh. That night, after he finally closed the door of his room in the hostel and allowed himself to take his boots off and rest his aching legs (seriously, a man with that severe a hangover should not be able to run like that), he’d turned to one of the back pages of his notebook and tried to get his head around what he’d learned.

41st, he wrote neatly at the top of the page, then underlined it.

What did he know about the man based on their interactions so far that day? He stared at the page for a long moment.

1. Amnesia, he wrote at last. Appears genuine. Exhibits sporadic recall of facts when prompted but appears more likely to remember information the less directly connected that information is to himself…

He wrote and wrote, filling the page, and another, and most of a third; questions, behaviors, random thoughts. Suitable, really, if you thought about it. If you drew lines tracing the connections between Kim’s different observations of the man, perhaps it would look like a map of the route they’d taken through Martinaise that day, zigzagging from seems protective of children to appears to have sold gun during suicidal crisis to shows no hesitation to take clothing from rubbish and change in public like jogging from the hostel to the wharf to the pawn shop and back again. And for all of that, Kim still felt no closer to understanding the officer—the detective, for he undoubtedly was one.

Kim had almost managed to re-convince himself that the whole thing was an elaborate ruse when the detective had unearthed his ledger from the trash container. Under the miasma of rotting food and toilet cleaner, its revelations were startling—all the more because the detective did not seem to realize they were anything out of the ordinary.

Eighteen years of service, over two hundred cases closed, and only three kills to his name. Taking on two cases a week, on average, month after month, working out of what was widely considered to be the toughest precinct in the city. If the man had known his name, Kim strongly suspected it would be familiar to him, even though he was never as plugged in to station gossip as most officers were by the time they made lieutenant. The career that ledger described was the sort on which legends were made. The only surprising thing was that he hadn’t been promoted out of the field yet.

Still, though. Two cases a week. Once Kim had been promoted high enough that he was responsible for junior officers, he’d taken management trainings. They had all stressed how important it was to avoid running that kind of a caseload for long. It was just too much for most people to carry; they started losing sleep, getting careless, making mistakes. Sometimes they burned out slowly, ground down to nothing over years. Sometimes they shattered quickly. It was hard to say which one was worse.

Kim hadn’t been lying, when he’d told the detective that he had seen officers in worse shape over the years, though admittedly he now wasn’t sure if he’d seen any whose breakdown took quite such an unusual turn. He had seen a lot of fine officers lost; on first glance it always looked like drink, or drugs, or accidents, like death in the line of duty or suicide. Underneath they were nearly always the same thing: that weariness that started in the body and grew until it swallowed you, hollowed you out, carved the breath from your lungs. The steadily growing conviction that it would never get better.

“I’m just so tired, Kits,” Dom had said to him, slumped in despair over a stack of case files, the air heavy with chestnut-scented smoke.

He should have told Dom to take a vacation, or a leave of absence. To transfer out of field work. To retire. To take another job, something with regular hours, something where the worst thing you’d see on a given day might be a surly customer or a tiff in the staffroom over a stolen lunch. Instead, he’d told him to go home early, get some rest. That they would pick up the case in the morning and go to question the witness again.

He’d picked Dom up the next day, handed him a massive cup of coffee, tried not to worry about the deep blue circles under his bloodshot eyes, and driven them to the interview.

The witness had been stonewalling them. Kim had been frantically trying to think of a fresh angle for the interrogation; Dom had been frowning in the way that Kim knew from experience meant he was dying for a smoke.

Neither of them had noticed the second man in the shadows until it was too late.

Kim had never known what it was that alerted his partner. The faint sound of the hammer cocking? A gleam of light on the barrel? Whatever it was, Dom noticed it first, and moved like a snake striking, knocking Kim out of the path of the bullet. Putting himself in Kim’s place.

Kim would never forget the way it had felt, the way the adrenaline and rage had seemed to set him aflame. He had never fought so fiercely, and he never knew afterward if it was his own skill or the suspects’ shock at seeing the skinny binoclard go feral that had allowed him to subdue the men so quickly. But then, after. The hot blood cooling on the floor, sticky on his hands. His helplessness. Dom’s face, so kind even as his light was fading.

Kim shook his head, sharp and angry. Now wasn’t the time to get lost in memories. He should stick to the matter at hand. His temporary… partner, for want of a better term, and whether he would be able to work through whatever storm had overtaken his brain for long enough to be an asset to the investigation.

Strangely enough, despite everything, Kim rather thought he would. There had to be something there that had kept him alive and solving cases for eighteen years of service. The uncanny flashes of insight, the way the man seemed able to convince even the most reluctant witnesses to talk, even the stamina that allowed him to move around town at a steady jog all day despite a hangover for the ages… it might be any of these things, or all of them together.

His mind went back to the yard, remembering the moment when the detective had shot out the buckle on the shipping belt, getting the Hanged Man out of the tree and saving them from having to go hat in hand to their main suspects to ask for assistance. He’d dropped into his shooting stance with the ease of someone who has practiced a motion so often it’s been worn into his body. He’d looked fragile all day (even when he wasn’t actively vomiting), but as he’d raised the gun it was like a blanket of steadiness fell over him. The late afternoon sun had glinted across the tenement roofs, turning his hair golden-brown as he had focused, his very breath seeming to sync with the wind. And then: an exhale, a puff of smoke, the deeply satisfying whirr of the belt unraveling and the body falling at last to earth.

Whoever or whatever else he might be, Kim thought—HDB or 41st or Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau—the detective was a damn good shot. Kim’s hand still seemed to tingle a little with the force of the jubilant Ace’s High and Ace’s Low they had exchanged.

It had been a long time since Kim had felt the urge to hold up his hand for an Ace’s High. A long time since it had felt… appropriate. It wasn’t the most professional of gestures, really. A little immature. And one never wanted to risk being left hanging.

He had known, somehow, that the other officer wouldn’t leave him hanging. It had been written clear in the man’s shocked laugh after the shot had connected. He’d turned toward Kim, as though to check—did you see that? Did that really happen?—and in that moment he had looked different. Younger. Lighter. A real, natural smile on his face, his eyes sparkling with the simple joy of succeeding at something difficult.

Kim had not previously noticed that his eyes were green.

And that, of course, led one to the other notable thing about the detective, the one Kim was trying not to dwell on too much.

(Kim, what should we do? Kim, help me out here. Kim, what are you packing? Kim, what are we looking at? Kim, is that true? Kim, look, bullet holes!)

The man woke up with no memories, surrounded by evidence of past actions that obviously shamed him each time a new one came to light. Small wonder that he would cling to the first person he encountered who offered some sort of stability, some small measure of professional support. It was no different than a new-hatched bird confusing a human keeper for its mother, and would surely dissipate as the man returned to himself.

(The quiet of the balcony. The smell of chestnut smoke. The smooth strokes of pen on paper. The questions—always, endless questions—and the way he believed each answer Kim gave, trusting that Kim wouldn’t lie.

He wouldn’t. It would have been vile to betray that trust.

How did you get so cool, Kim?)

Kim snapped his notebook closed, sighing. He had never been especially susceptible to flattery, but sincere admiration was another matter. It was difficult not to let it go to his head a little, not to bask in it: this veteran detective treating him with so much respect when officers he’d worked with for years could never be troubled to do so.

He had to keep reminding himself of the reality of the situation: that he should treat the detective with compassion but bear in mind his difficulties. Think of him as a confused, mutton-chopped duckling, he thought, following your lead because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Kim went to bed, and dreamed of a garden, dozens of green-eyed orange flowers turning toward him like he was the sun.

Chapter Text

March 13, CC51

FISHING SHACK — The little fishing shack is shabby, but clean and cozy and warm. There are no empty liquor bottles or other evidence of your terrible choices within. It is better than your previous accommodations at the Whirling-In-Rags in every way.

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — Almost every way.

YOU — It’s true. Something’s missing. You just can’t put your finger on what.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Medium: Success] — You need some free weights and a chin-up bar. Start getting rid of that beer belly.

YOU — No—okay, yes, probably, but there’s something else.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Challenging: Failure] — No medicine cabinet. No liquor cabinet. No party. You should go up to Frittte and take care of that.

YOU — It’s the middle of the night and freezing. Plus, Kim needs me sharp tomorrow. I’m not doing that.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Failure] — The decor is uninspired. At least the Whirling had interesting vintage mosaic tilework.

YOU — I don’t think that’s it. It’s not like the decor in my room was all that great, at least not that I remember. What is missing here? I really feel like there’s something…

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — Across the canal, in Room 2 of the Whirling-In-Rags, Ltn. Kim Kitsuragi studies his blue notebook. The ashtray at his elbow holds the recently extinguished butt of a single Astra cigarette. Chestnut-scented smoke slowly dissipates through the cracked-open window.

He closes the notebook and stares off into the middle distance, his forehead creased with thought. Eventually, he shakes his head, one corner of his mouth tipping upwards in a tiny smile.

Despite everything, it was a good day, he thinks. Pleasure working with you, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Du Bois.

YOU — Wait, it was? Why?

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Formidable: Failure] — Maybe the lieutenant secretly enjoys… jogging?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Challenging: Failure] — At last! You’ve finally won him over to your disco lifestyle!

LOGIC [Easy: Success] You have definitely not done that.

YOU — Mysterious as his motivation might be, thinking that Kim likes working with you makes you feel warm on the inside, like you’ve just had a hot drink on a cold day. If someone as cool as Kim thinks you’re worth his time, maybe there’s hope for you after all.

And you did do some good police work today. You found out who threw away the dead man’s clothes, and located his stolen cuirass. You found a secret passage in the Whirling that might very well have allowed the killer to escape unseen. You got Titus Hardie to… well, not to cooperate, exactly, but you at least broke through his first set of lies to get to a second, deeper set of lies and learn the identity of another key witness. And you found Lena’s husband. And Billie Méjean’s, although that one didn’t end as well. The thought of him, dead on the boardwalk stinking of cheap booze, stirs something sour in your gut.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — A man stumbles home from work, desperately trying to shove gum into his mouth to cover the scent of the alcohol. A sharp squeal of rubber, a blaring of horns: the motor-carriage swerves just in time to miss him.

He will live to go home to her, but her love for him is already dying. One day soon, he will go home and she will be gone.

YOU — Kim said you did a good job, giving Billie the news about her husband. He wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — He meant what he said. The lieutenant is uncomfortable expressing emotion and appreciates that you have maintained your ability to empathize with others even after such a long and difficult career.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He finds it admirable.

DRAMA [Trivial: Success] — He also liked when you dedicated your karaoke performance to him, my liege. He was trying not to show it, but he was genuinely touched.

YOU — If Kim liked it, then you’re happy. You don’t know what would have happened to you this week if it weren’t for him. Everything seems a little bit less awful when you remember that he’s there. It’s like just by existing he makes the world less shit.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — He has seen the evidence that you were a good cop, once. He believes you can be one again. That you are one, now, underneath the damage.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He’s seen officers end up worse. There are shadows behind his eyes when he talks about it. He knows what that kind of pain can do to a person. But you’ve kept going this long, Harry. He thinks that means there’s still hope for you.

YOU — You don’t remember the last time someone believed in you like that. Granted, you don’t remember very much just at present, but something about this lack feels… older than the others. Like you haven’t been able to remember it for a very long time.

You let yourself think about it—really think about how it felt, all those little moments when Kim let you take the lead, backed you up, followed you on a hunch despite his skepticism. How it feels to think that Kim—competent, brilliant, cool Kim Kitsuragi—trusts you.

You would do anything to avoid letting him down.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Good. Remember that next time you’re tempted to be unprofessional. And for god’s sake no more trying to lick puddles of booze off the counter or the crumbs off some tweaker’s speed-plate.

YOU — Hey! I haven’t licked anything! Not even a little bit! Thinking about it doesn’t count.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Challenging: Success] — There’s something else you could lick that would be a lot more fun than substances.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — NO. LICKING. ANYTHING. YOU WILL NOT BE DOING ANY MORE LICKING DURING THIS CASE. Not if you want Ltn. Kitsuragi to respect you.

YOU — I really, really do.

VOLITION — Then solve this case.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Be a good cop.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — And then we’ll revisit the licking question!

YOU — You sigh, and wash up in the little basin. You consider shaving—clean face, fresh start? But your hands are still a little shaky and it would be a shame to accidentally cut your own throat so soon after resolving to get your shit together. Plus, the exuberant mutton-chops at least hide some of the bloating and broken capillaries.

You’re not going to look like the man on your badge again. He’s dead, now. He died… you aren’t sure when or where. It might have been years ago, or months. It might have been after he drove his colleagues away. Perhaps that man died as his motor-carriage crashed into the sea ice, or in the last pathetic throes of struggle after trashing his hostel room.

You aren’t him, not now, but you can feel him like a ghost lurking just behind your eyes. He might be dead, but he is never far away: a haunt, a threat, waiting for you to give him an opening. Tequila Sunset, another urban legend to scare the rookie cops with. It could happen to you, kids, if you aren’t careful.

Kim had sat with you so patiently that morning, waiting for the tide to go out. Waiting for you to discover the sad truth about the “traffic hooligan” you’d been tracking through Martinaise for the last two days. Indulging your chatter, whistling a harmony to your tune.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — He’s been doing that ever since you met him. The two of you are better together than apart.

YOU — He told you things would be all right. It’s hard to believe, but you want it to be true. You want to make it true. You want him to look at you the way he did when you made that shot, when you got Titus Hardie to give up the witness’ name, when you discovered the hidden passage in the Whirling. You want—

ESPRIT DE CORPS — You want to be the kind of partner Kim Kitsuragi would be proud to work alongside.

SUGGESTION — If you really prove yourself, maybe you could convince him to keep working together. They obviously don’t appreciate him properly at the 57th or they would have promoted him a long time before they did. He could transfer to the 41st! You could be partners forever!

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — The 41st is known as a tough precinct, but other cops respect it. It’s seen as a place that where legends are made. A detective as ambitious as Kim might well be willing to consider a transfer, if this case comes to a satisfactory conclusion.

YOU — As soon as you consider the possibility, you realize how much you’ve been dreading the end of this joint investigation in Martinaise. The thought of never seeing Kim again sends a lance of pain through your chest. If there’s the slightest chance of that not happening, you don’t care how hard it is to claw your way back to some semblance of function; you’ll do it.

VOLITION [Easy: Success]— You can’t build your identity around a single person, Harry.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success]— It always ends badly. Apricot-scented oblivion.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) [Challenging: Success]— Kim smells like pine needles and smoke and a little like motor oil.

YOU — It isn’t like that. I just… he makes it easier to feel like a person. Like I could maybe still do something good for the world instead of only fucking things up. I don’t want to let him down, sure, but also… when I’m around him I don’t want to let myself down either. It’s like, when he sees me as someone worth his time… I can see myself that way too. I don’t want to lose that. I want…

I want to get better.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — Kim wants that for you, too.

INLAND EMPIRE [Legendary: Success] — A book closes. The new volume begins. Everything may change.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — You’ve got a long way to go. You’ve done a lot of damage. But it might not yet be quite beyond repair.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Easy: Success] — It’ll hurt.

ENDURANCE [Formidable: Success] — But you can take it.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — A miracle approaches, rising from the reeds. With faith, you may touch the impossible.

YOU — A quiet feeling fills you. A sturdy feeling, unwavering. It summons a ghostly echo from the back of your liquor-soaked brain.

Determination. Resolve. Even a little bit of optimism.

You crawl into bed. You have a case to solve in the morning.

Chapter Text

March 15, CC51

The setting sun streamed through the windows of Harry’s old room at the Whirling, falling like a spotlight on the bed and glinting off Harry’s hair where it lay tangled on the pillow. For a moment, it reminded Kim of a scene from an adventure serial: the protagonist lying unconscious center stage, his bed surrounded with dirty bandages and medicine bottles. Is this the end for our dashing hero? Tune in next week to find out!

Kim winced, both at the overdramatic nature of the thought and at the glare; the light was not being kind to his concussion. Why in the world were there no curtains in this room, and why had Harry not done something to address it? Changing clothes would turn into some sort of peep show at night unless one did it only in the bathroom.

Of course, Harry had heretofore shown very little body-shyness around changing his clothes. Kim had given up on trying to prevent him from most of the public changing around the second day he’d known the man; making him duck around a corner before taking off his shirt to replace it with another one (so I can tell if he’s lying to me, Kim!) just took up extra time, and didn’t really seem to improve anything about the eventual outcome.

(He did still insist that any changing of trousers took place out of public view; fortunately, Harry didn’t seem to want to change those as often as the rest of his ensemble.)

Kim was actually starting to believe that the clothes thing was part of what made Harry such a successful interrogator. Before this week, if Kim had encountered a detective who solemnly donned a green plastic froggy visor with googly eyes before inspecting evidence or insisted he needed to wear his “Man from Hjelmdall” t-shirt so that he could listen to the voice of the city, he would have been thrown off his stride at the very least. But whether it was some kind of psychological strategy or something… else, it seemed to work for Harry.

…for Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Du Bois. Kim couldn’t afford to lose his professionalism now. Not when everything had just gone so horribly, spectacularly wrong. Not when the cracked tiles of the square were stained with blood, when all their efforts had come too late to prevent the mercenaries from holding their own “tribunal” in the matter of their murdered leader. There would be questions, Kim knew. There could hardly be anything else, not unless Wild Pines and the other corporate interests involved flexed some serious muscle to keep things quiet.

Harry flinched and muttered in his sleep, shaking Kim out of his thoughts. He dipped a fresh cloth into the basin of cool water on the floor and gently wiped Harry’s brow, frowning at the fever-heat still rising from his skin. The room smelled sharp and sour, of blood and old sweat and congealed red wine. The scattered detritus of Harry’s bad nights had been kicked aside to clear the way for them to carry him in and make space for Kim to tend his wounds. A line of bloodstains traced their path, splatters that had dripped off the ends of the hastily-applied tourniquet Kim had used to keep Harry from bleeding to death in the square.

He’d bled so much, so fast, the stain spreading over the stones like someone had broken a bottle of Commodore Red, soaking Kim’s gloves as he tried to apply pressure to the wound. His stomach heaved any time he remembered it, although of course that might be due to the head injury. He would need to go out soon, to get fresh bandages and disinfectant and more Drouamine. He should make another radio call to their precincts, beg one of the station lazareths to come to Martinaise. Kim’s own first aid abilities were adequate for emergency first response, but gunshot wounds were another matter, and Kim was very much afraid that infection had already taken hold. He knew resources were scarce, but surely things weren’t so bad that a homicide detective with two night classes in field medicine—and a fresh concussion—was the best available medical care for a trauma emergency.

Six people were dead. More than Harry—Ltn. Du Bois, keep it together Kitsuragi—had killed in an entire eighteen-year career. But it could have been so much worse; they had at least prevented a complete massacre. Kim had thought, several times, that the mercenaries were about to start shooting, as the conversation seemed to teeter on a knife’s edge.

It had been so close. If Alice hadn’t tracked down the information about the victim’s history, if Harry hadn’t convinced the mercenary leader to trust him just enough to stay his hand for a moment. If Kim himself had not somehow managed that impossible shot through the eye-slot of Ruud’s helmet. Those semi-automatic guns could have made mince of everyone there in seconds.

The scene kept playing out in his memories: the two of them coming up from the water-lock, seeing white ceramic armor gleaming in the watery noon sunshine. The dockworkers gathered in an angry knot, Garte watching warily from the balcony of the Whirling, Lizzy Beaufort standing with her hands on her hips like she could prevent what was about to happen through sheer strength of will. Titus Hardie and his Boys, so used to being the unchallenged authorities in Martinaise that they still thought the mercenaries would back down.

Exchanging looks with Harry—Lieutenant Du Bois—no, damn it, with Harry. Both of them knowing what they had to do. Both of them knowing how small the odds of success were. Both of them knowing their duty. Running into the line of fire side by side, standing between the two groups, Harry flinging his arms out like he could hold back the tragedy.

Kim had thought they would both be killed, but there was no question of whether he would follow Harry. He could no sooner have let Harry walk into that situation alone than he could sprout wings and fly through the Pale.

Six people were dead. But seven others—nine, if you counted himself and Harry—had lived, who probably wouldn’t have if they hadn’t stepped in. He had to remember that.

Kim opened his notebook and turned to the next page in his notes for the Hanged Man case.

Upon returning to the Martinaise waterfront, we saw a group of people gathered in apparent confrontation in front of the Whirling-In-Rags. Present were:

• Laurence Garte (manager, Whirling-In-Rags hostel-cafeteria) (on balcony overlooking scene)

• Elizabeth Beaufort (lawyer, Revachol Débardeurs Union)

• The “Hardie Boys” vigilante group (Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour, Revachol Débardeurs Union): Titus Hardie (leader), Alain, Angus, Dennis (“Shanky”), Eugene, Glen, Theo (surnames currently unavailable, additional research required)

• Raul “Korty” Kortenaer, foster brother of deceased (mercenary, Krenel)

• Phillis de Paule (mercenary, Krenel)

• Ruud “The Killer” Hoenkloewen (mercenary, Krenel)

The three Krenel mercenaries were visibly inebriated, openly armed with semi- or fully-automatic firearms, and armored in ceramic armor that matched the Fairweather T-500 Vitreous Enamel armor worn by the deceased. They were engaged in a verbal altercation with Titus Hardie, with Elizabeth Beaufort attempting to de-escalate the situation. It was apparent that the mercenaries had tired of waiting for an arrest in the matter of the murder of Ellis Kortenaer and intended to deliver punishment upon those they held responsible, as we had feared. (Note: see notes on conversation with Joyce Messier, negotiator for Wild Pines Logistics, for more background on the Krenel mercenaries and their “tribunal.”)

Though innocent in the matter of Kortenaer’s death, Hardie’s group had, for unrelated reasons, purposefully made it appear that they had killed him. (See notes from interviews with K. Amandou, T. Hardie et al, C. Villedrouin, “Ruby.”) The group from Krenel, having heard this information but not being privy to the truth of the matter uncovered by the RCM, came to the Whirling-In-Rags intending to kill all eight men involved in the hanging. It was apparent that the attempts by Ms. Beaufort and Mr. Hardie to end the confrontation without violence were not succeeding, and the Krenel mercenaries were preparing to open fire.

LTN 2-JFR Du Bois and LTN Kitsuragi, hoping to prevent further casualties, identified themselves as RCM personnel and stepped in between the two parties. They attempted to convince the mercenaries that the hanging had been a smokescreen, unrelated to the murder, and that the true culprit was a third party as yet unknown. Unfortunately, this attempt was unsuccessful. The Krenel mercenaries began to attack, and LTN 2-JFR Du Bois and LTN Kitsuragi were forced to engage them in defense of themselves and the nine civilians present at the scene.

Casualties from the ensuing firefight were as follows:

• Glen (surname unknown): two gunshots to spine by Krenel mercenary (shooter unknown pending ballistics analysis), deceased at scene

• Angus (surname unknown): shot multiple times by one or more Krenel mercenaries (pending ballistics analysis), deceased at scene

• Theo (surname unknown): cardiac arrest following gunshot to right shoulder by Krenel mercenary (pending ballistics analysis), deceased at hospital following removal from scene.

• Raul Kortenaer: burned by improvised incendiary device by LTN 2-JFR Du Bois, deceased at hospital following removal from scene

• Ruud Hoenkloewen: gunshot to eye by LTN Kitsuragi using service weapon (Kiejl A9 Armistice), deceased at scene

• Phillis de Paule: gunshot to head by LTN Kitsuragi using service weapon belonging to LTN Du Bois (Villiers 9mm), deceased at hospital following removal from scene.

• LTN 2-JFR Harrier Du Bois: gunshot to right shoulder by Ruud Hoenkloewen, deflected by ceramic armor cuirass (formerly belonging to deceased, collected as evidence in ongoing investigation—see interview notes with “Gary the Cryptofascist.”) Large contusion and swelling on impact area, probable soft tissue injuries. Gunshot to left quadriceps by Raul Kortenaer. Stable, unconscious, medical treatment ongoing.

• LTN Kim Kitsuragi: Concussion and multiple contusions to head and upper body subsequent to physical assault with the butt of a firearm by Phillis de Paule. Stable, conscious, recovering.

Once control of the scene was regained and emergency triage and wound stabilization was performed on LTN 2-JFR Du Bois, LTN Kitsuragi issued a call for assistance on the RCM general-call radio frequency…

A knock sounded at the door. “Um… officers?”

Garte’s voice, though he sounded unfamiliarly deferential. Well, he’d seen the whole thing; it was a wonder he hadn’t fled back to Jamrock the moment the bullets had stopped.

Kim slid his notebook back into his jacket pocket. “Come in.”

The door opened slowly and Garte came in, followed by a tall, vaguely-familiar man. Both of them had their arms full.

“Tibbs has come to repair the window,” Garte said. “And I, ah, I thought perhaps I could work on tidying up the room? It can’t be good for him in this state, not with… well. You know.”

Kim nodded.

“And I have a message for you. One of the local kids brought it by? I didn’t want to bother you, but I thought it might be important to your case.” He handed Kim an envelope: thick creamy paper, sealed tight, Kim’s name written on the front in a bold, looping hand.

“Thank you,” Kim said, pulling out his pocketknife to open the envelope. There weren’t many people in Martinaise who were likely to use stationery of that quality, and all of them were persons of interest in the investigation.

“Is he… how’s he doing?”

Kim stifled a sigh. “The bullet is out, but he has not regained consciousness. I fear he may have started an infection in the wound; I may need to clean it again soon if the RCM is not able to send a proper lazareth.”

Garte looked at the pile of bloody bandages on the floor at the foot of the crumpled bed. To his credit, he’d run inside to change the sheets and patch the broken window with some cardboard while Titus Hardie had been helping Kim carry Harry inside, but it still wasn’t a very inspiring sickroom.

The envelope contained a single sheet of notepaper with an embossed monogram: RLM.

Lieutenant Kitsuragi,

I was terribly sorry to hear of the incident which occurred this morning involving the Krenel contractors. As I am sure you understand, these events necessitate my rapid return to the Wild Pines head office in order to consult with our business associates regarding how best to move forward from this unfortunate situation.

Before I leave Martinaise, I would very much like to speak with you in person, to ensure that my account of today’s incident is as accurate as possible.

My sloop will be moored at the pier in the fishing village until approximately 9 pm. I hope we will have a chance to speak before my departure.

Best wishes to Lieutenant Du Bois for a speedy convalescence.

Cordially,

Joyce L. Messier

Senior Labour Negotiator

Wild Pines Logistics Inc.

Well. That was certainly… interesting. He wondered very much what message was important enough to warrant Mme. Messier delaying her departure, not to mention sending a written message, no matter how noncommittally worded.

“Er… officer? Is everything all right? I mean, erm, aside from…” Garte waved a hand vaguely around the room. He was wearing lime green rubber gloves.

“I’m afraid I may need to go out for a little while,” Kim told him. “There is some business in need of my attention, and I have run out of medical supplies.”

“You can put the supplies on the Whirling’s account at Frittte,” Garte said, surprisingly. “And, well. I imagine cleaning the room will take a while. I’m happy to stay and keep an eye on the detective while you’re out.”

“Thank you,” Kim said, after a moment’s thought. The Whirling was practically deserted now, all the Union people withdrawn behind the safety of the harbour walls, the crowds of strikebreakers and stalled lorry drivers in front of the gates dispersed. “If he takes a turn while I am away, use the radio in my motor-carriage to contact the RCM for assistance.”

“Sure thing,” Garte said, though he didn’t look terribly convinced. Kim could almost hear the question dancing on the tip of his tongue: didn’t you already do that? I don’t see any assistance turning up yet…

Kim had, several times. The best he’d gotten was Gottlieb, the lazareth from the 41st, getting on the radio long enough to quiz him on bullet-removal techniques and then bark out, “you’ll do. Don’t forget the mercurochrome,” before closing the connection again.

He looked down at his hands. There was still blood under his fingernails; he wasn’t entirely sure whose. He needed to have a proper wash as soon as the time could be spared.

“All right,” he said, forcing himself to stand and bracing against the wave of nausea the motion brought. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He permitted himself to touch Harry’s forehead again; it was still hot, creased with pain even in his sleep. “There is cold water in the basin if his fever gets worse.”

The path across the water-lock to the fishing village was familiar by now, after three days of traipsing back and forth across it multiple times a day: meeting Harry in front of the old washerwoman’s shack in the mornings, walking back with him at night, filling the time in between with ticking items off Harry’s ever-expanding list of witnesses and clues and side-cases that he insisted might yet be relevant to their main inquiry.

Perhaps Kim should have tried harder to make Harry focus only on the main investigation, but enough of Harry’s tangents had turned out surprisingly relevant—the mysterious blue door leading to the secret passage in the Whirling, the Doomed Commercial Area holding the ice bear fridge that had allowed them to finish the autopsy properly—that Kim had eventually started mostly giving Harry his head, only intervening if things seemed to be getting too far off-track.

(And even then, sometimes, he’d let things go on. Kim very much doubted that helping a group of delinquents start some sort of dance club in an abandoned church would help them locate the mysterious sniper who killed Ellis Kortenaer. But, as Harry had pointed out, it had brought those four kids out of the cold, and Harry had been able to talk them out of their little drug-lab idea, which was a net gain for the neighborhood.

And it had been… good… to see Harry so happy. Dancing in the flashing lights of the old church, floorboards creaking under his feet in time to the pulsing beat, the yellow plastic Frittte bag in his hand swinging around wildly like some sort of gymnast’s ribbon. His face, for the first time since they’d met, had looked joyous, easy, eyes crinkled and teeth flashing as he grinned with the pure, uncomplicated joy of movement. The kids had joined him, one by one, until Kim was the only one left still.

Come on, Kim, this is a code 31 emergency! Officer in need of assistance… on the DANCE FLOOR!

He’d tried to demur. He’d told himself, when they’d finally promoted him out of juvenile crimes, that he’d never again flail around like an idiot half his age.

The emergency is NOT ENOUGH KIM!

It was ridiculous. It was absurd. Age-inappropriate, a poor use of their time…

I will pull rank on you ONE TIME, and it’s now! Get your groove on! BOOGIE-WOOGIE!

He’d danced, and Harry had looked at him like Kim had… had solved the case, and rebuilt Communism, and kicked the Coalition out of Revachol, all at once. Kim couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at him like that before. It had made him almost giddy, euphoric…

…Until Harry had passed out from over-exertion because he’d forgotten to take his overcoat off before cutting a rug. But still, the memory lingered in Kim’s mind. A moment where something… shifted inside him, though he couldn’t exactly tell what.)

Joyce Messier’s neat racing sloop bobbed cheerfully next to the dock. The tide was coming in; Kim thought the deadline she had given in the note must be related to high tide. The shallow little channels around Martinaise were likely difficult to navigate at other times. Joyce stood on the deck, her green raincoat matching the stripes on her sails, watching the path that led from the canal bridge to the fishing village.

Watching for him? Or something else? It was difficult to say.

“Thank you for coming, Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” she said, as soon as he drew close enough that she didn’t have to raise her voice. She sounded tired; her face was drawn and pale. “I know you must be very busy today.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said. “So I would appreciate it, madame, if perhaps we could minimize the amount of… negotiation-speak in this conversation. Lieutenant Du Bois was quite badly injured this morning, and I must obtain some additional medical supplies before I return to continue overseeing his care.” She liked Harry, he knew; she’d spent hours giving him his “lowdown on reality,” with every sign of enjoyment. He wasn’t above twisting that knife a little. It was Wild Pines, after all, who had brought Krenel into the situation in the first place.

She sighed. “Yes, lieutenant, I know,” she said. “I’m so terribly sorry things went the way they did. And after the two of you got so close—but those people from Krenel wouldn’t listen to reason.” She laughed a little, short and bitter. “I should know; they didn’t pay the slightest attention to me, either, for all that they were nominally here for my protection.”

“They were here to break the strike and threaten the Union,” Kim said. “For all the good it did.”

Joyce tilted her head, acknowledging the hit. “And now I have to go attempt to negotiate Krenel away from any further retaliation,” she said, her voice weary. “Fortunately the people they’ll send to discuss the matter at Head Office will be slightly less… unhinged. At least enough to see the downside of allowing armed mercenaries to open fire on civilians in the middle of Revachol.”

“I don’t think they even remembered they were in Revachol, by the end,” Kim said. “Perhaps it was the alcohol. They were speaking as though they were still… shall we say, very far away from Coalition oversight.”

“Yes, I’ve heard some of the unsavory terms they employed for the citizens of Martinaise.” Her face twisted at the memory.

“So what now?”

She sighed. “I think we can safely say there will be no strike negotiations anytime soon,” she said. “I’m best used trying to contain the situation at a higher level, so this horrific mess doesn’t spiral any further than it already has. As soon as the tide rises enough for me to navigate the inlet, I’m going back to Ozonne.”

“So why the message?” He held up the envelope. “What is so urgent it had to happen now?”

“I—“ she stopped short, looking down at her hands. They looked like the hands of a working woman, short nails and callouses where they weren’t covered by her sleek fingerless gloves.

Kim waited, quiet. He wasn’t Harry, able to lay an unerring finger on just the right thing to tip a reluctant witness over into speech. He’d always found patience his best ally in these matters.

“This whole thing is a mess,” she said at last. “Wild Pines won’t take responsibility.”

He tilted his head, agreeing. “It does seem unlikely.”

She set her jaw, and Kim was suddenly reminded of the conversation she’d had with Harry about what she would have done differently, in the Revolution.

Revachol is ours. We should have died before we surrendered our sovereignty. I would have let it burn to ash first.

“They won’t take responsibility, but they should,” she said. “It’s their—it’s our fault that things came to this. We were the ones who escalated the situation, bringing in mercenaries to solve a labor dispute in my city, and now we’ll likely lose the Martinaise terminal entirely and God knows what sort of contraband the Claires will run in order to keep it going without us. And people have died, and your partner is wounded, and this whole situation is a fiasco and they made a fool of me on my own damn assignment and I do not like to lose.”

Ah. There it was.

“And so?” he asked, keeping his voice mild.

“Nobody will want responsibility for this,” she said. “But in avoiding responsibility, there may perhaps be room to apply leverage. To encourage a few… civic minded projects. To bolster some reputations. Discourage the wrong kind of gossip.” She looked at him. “What does the RCM need most to help this city, Lieutenant Kitsuragi? There’s always something. Pressure points that never quite get addressed, wheels that never squeak in quite the right way to get grease. I’d wager you know them all.”

A strange feeling ran up his spine, hair lifting on the back of his neck. How could he trust this? Then again… how could he not? Opportunities like this did not come along often enough that he could afford to ignore it.

He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. It fell open to the right page almost of its own accord; he’d been working on these lists for a long time. “How many do you want?”

A slow, predatory smile curved her lips. “Start at the top,” she said. “Let’s see how far we can get before the tide.”

“There is a proposal under consideration to address the issue of officer burnout,” Kim said at once. “Thus far, it has not been implemented due to… resource constraints.”

She shot him a keen look. “Officer burnout,” she said. “I suppose this includes… mental health issues? Problematic use of substances? Suicidal thoughts? Trauma-and-Stressor Disorder?”

“Unfortunately,” Kim said. “As well as increased casualty rates. Higher numbers of… accidents, with corresponding loss of life and property.” He did not look over his shoulder, to the dim blue bulk of Harry’s motor carriage frozen in the sea ice.

“And would I be correct in assuming that you played a role in the development of this proposal?”

I’m just so tired, Kits.

You think this is funny? This isn’t funny, it’s fucking sad! He’s one of us!

I don’t want to be here anymore…

“Yes,” Kim said. “You would.”

“Then by all means, Lieutenant, tell me more.”

As he walked back to Martinaise, some time later, his mind spun with possibilities. He had no real faith that Joyce would be able to do even a fraction of the things he had told her the RCM needed—even a senior negotiator wouldn’t have that much power—but he couldn’t help a stubborn, flickering optimism about the first item on his list. After all, it would directly benefit Harry, and Harry had been wounded as a direct result of Wild Pines’ actions. And Joyce liked Harry, besides.

(Kim could hardly blame her. He liked Harry, too.)

It was nearly dark by the time Kim reached Frittte, and even his continued failure to get a doctor to Martinaise for Harry had not been able to completely extinguish the furtive little spark of hope that things might finally get a little better, if they could just hold on for long enough for Joyce to do her thing.

At least the racist lorry driver had gone. Once Harry had realized what was behind the man’s comments, he’d been furious on Kim’s behalf. It had warmed something inside him; not many officers Kim had worked with would have cared. Still, he and Harry were the first RCM officers to come to Martinaise in years. It would hardly get them off on the right foot in the district to get into fist-fights with citizens who had technically not committed any crimes, especially since the man seemed to be trying to provoke them, loitering in front of the only grocery in Martinaise to accost them every time they passed by.

Hey, saffron picker—you lost? You look like you’re lost. Like you don’t belong here.

Kim had to admit that he had not been sorry when they’d realized the man had information about a probable drug-smuggler, and thus they had a justifiable reason to intimidate him a little. The look on his face when Harry had loomed over him making threats had been… satisfying. Harry really could do a very credible impression of a brute, when he put his mind to it. Most of the time since Kim had met him, he’d stood stooped over, like he was trying to make himself smaller. When he pulled himself to his full height, it was a startling change.

The bell jingled as Kim opened the door; the bored clerk looked up from her magazine, then startled a little. “Oh! You’re the pi—police officer, right? Staying at the Whirling?”

Kim pulled his thoughts away from the spread of Harry’s shoulders under his green blazer. “I am,” he said.

“Garte sent word,” she said. “I, ah, I put together a bag already? You can get more stuff if you need it but I thought it might save some time? It’s on his tab, you don’t have to pay or nothing.” She set the magazine on the counter and pulled a yellow plastic Frittte bag out from behind her, setting it in front of him. She bit nervously at her thumbnail as she looked up, gauging his reaction.

“Thank you, miss,” Kim told her, sorting through the bag. Bandages, gauze, tape, mercurochrome, Drouamine, packets of nuts and candy, bottles of spring water… even a plain white undershirt, crisp in plastic packaging. Kim thought of the one lying on the floor of Harry’s room, stiff with dried blood. “This is excellent,” he told the clerk. “Everything I need.”

She smiled a little, stiff and awkward, and he nodded and turned to go. “I saw what happened,” she blurted, when his hand was nearly on the door. “I mean, like, I saw the first part of it. And then I hid behind the counter, but, like, I heard you guys trying to stop them? And then the guns. And they were really close to here, so. Um. Thanks.”

His stomach twisted with guilt, for all the years the RCM had left Martinaise to rot. That they expected so little from their supposed protectors that even a failure like this seemed worth thanks.

“You’re welcome, miss,” he made himself say, but he couldn’t quite muster a smile.

By the time he made his way back up the stairs in the Whirling, his head was killing him and his feet felt like they were made of lead. He wished suddenly that it was a few days ago, and that he was on his way upstairs with Harry, to smoke on the balcony and talk, then say goodnight at the door and tuck himself up in his tidy little hostel room for some rest.

Unless a lazareth has miraculously appeared, medical treatment first, Kitsuragi. Rest afterward.

The door to Room 1 was unlocked. The first thing Kim noticed on coming through the door was the temperature. It was the first time Kim had been inside the room without shivering; the window had been repaired. The second thing he noticed was Garte, on his hands and knees on the floor scrubbing at a red stain that Kim thought marked the final resting place of a half-full bottle of Commodore Red.

“Oh! You’re back,” Garte said. “Everything all right, officer?”

“Indeed,” Kim said. “Thank you very much for making arrangements at Frittte.” He held up the plastic bag.

“Oh, um, yes,” Garte said. “Of course. It’s the least we could do to show our appreciation to the RCM.” He frowned. “I’m afraid nobody else has been by, though.”

Kim sighed a little. “I was afraid of that. Our lazareths are quite overburdened most of the time; detectives are expected to be self-sufficient where field medicine is concerned.” His mind kept returning to the two officers from the 41st who had appeared downstairs on Wednesday morning. Harry’s colleagues, for all that Harry didn’t remember them. His friends, surely, at least at one point; even hung over and amnesiac the man had made friends at every turn. The woman—Judit—had seemed sympathetic, but the man in the sunglasses had spent the whole time simmering with some kind of vast and poisonous emotion, seeming perpetually on the verge of erupting into a rage.

Jean, she had called him. Harry’s partner.

Kim’s cooler than you, Harry whispered in his memory.

There was a little side table pulled up next to Harry’s bed. Garte had changed the bloody water in the basin for clean and put a fresh cloth beside it. Kim opened the Frittte bag and laid out his supplies on the table: gauze, bandages, Drouamine, mercurochrome, bandage scissors. He had another pair of latex gloves in his jacket pocket: part of his normal work kit.

Harry was huddled under the blankets, face drawn with pain even in sleep, shivering. His forehead was hot and dry; the fever had risen.

“Can I help, somehow?” Garte had stood and was hovering uncertainly at Kim’s elbow. “I mean, I’m not much for first aid, but I could… hand you things, or something.”

“That would be appreciated,” Kim told him. “If, perhaps, the gloves…” he nodded at the lime-green rubber gloves the man still wore.

“Oh! Yes, of course, my apologies.” He pulled them off and tossed them onto the floor next to his scrub-bucket with a damp splat. “Let me just wash up.” He went into the bathroom, and Kim heard the water running.

The other officers from the 41st had been gone before things came to a head with the mercenaries.

The voice of the kind old man who ran the radio switchboard at the 41st: I’m sorry, Lieutenant Kitsuragi, but officers have already been dispatched to assist in Martinaise. Perhaps they have been delayed?

Or perhaps they just… left. Wrote Harry off as a bad job and cut their losses.

He remembered the little tableau on Wednesday morning, the tension between Jean, Judit and Harry palpable in the air. Judit worried and saddened, Jean slewing between despair and bitterness and fury so quickly it made one dizzy, and Harry in the middle of them, eyes wide, asking his innocent questions and growing more and more confused.

You’re the police, right? Cool, so am I! What precinct are you from?

It had to have hurt; Kim had seen the wince, followed by the anger. It probably hadn’t helped matters any that every time Jean had lashed out, Harry had visibly sidled closer to Kim. And then that whole excruciating conversation about Harry and Jean’s hypothetical partnership at their imaginary precinct… the man kept jabbing at the sore spot like a missing tooth, like he was trying to prove something, though Kim honestly wasn’t sure what. That Harry hadn’t really lost his memories? That he had? Kim wasn’t sure Jean knew the answer himself.

Actually I shouldn’t have called you my partner, Harry had said at last. Kim’s my partner. He’s going to know.

I’m not your partner. Kim had tried to defuse the situation—Jean had looked for a moment like he might actually start throwing punches—but it hadn’t seemed to help. This… this union is temporary.

Harry had just given him one of his odd looks, but Jean had turned on him with a vicious kind of glee.

Sooner or later your new friend will tell you he doesn’t need you. He will then suggest you should fuck off. When that happens I suggest you take his advice.

Kim could picture it, easily. He’d seen it happen many times before, when things had gotten bad enough: officers pushing away their friends and partners, crawling into a bottle like an old dog skulking into the woods to die.

Oh, Harry.

Kim understood. But still, for all of that, he had believed that the officers from the 41st would come back for Harry, and a little kernel of anger behind his sternum burned a bit hotter with every hour they did not. How could they just abandon—

Garte came out of the bathroom, shaking his hands dry; probably a good choice, considering the state of the towels. Kim took a deep breath, fighting down another wave of nausea. He needed to stay calm for what he was about to do.

He pulled down the covers, wincing sympathetically as Harry made a low noise of discomfort, gooseflesh rising on his long bare legs. The bandage around his left thigh was starting to soak through. Kim picked up the scissors and started to work.

The infection was worse, but not yet beyond help; Kim cleaned the wound again, as gently as he could while still being thorough, wincing internally every time Harry flinched or moaned. He’d roused a little, muttering nonsense, but had subsided back against the pillows when Kim spoke gently to him, an expression of trust in his glassy, unfocused eyes that made the air ache in Kim’s lungs.

When the wound was finally disinfected and fresh bandages applied, Kim peeled off his gloves and smoothed his hand over the hot skin of Harry’s leg, far enough away from the wound not to pain him. Fine brown hair tickled his palm.

“There you are,” he said. “All done. Good job, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “Kim?”

“That’s right.” Kim patted his knee. “You did well. Before you go back to sleep, can you do something for me?”

“Okay.”

He didn’t even hesitate before agreeing. It made everything worse, somehow; Kim made his voice as kind as he could, as though that would help anything. “You need some water. And I’ve got some painkillers for you.”

“Oh.” Harry’s leg moved slightly under Kim’s hand, then flinched. “Ow. Kim, what…” he trailed off, squinting up at Kim pitifully.

“You were shot.” Kim pressed down a little on his leg in emphasis. “I’ve just cleaned and re-stitched your wound. Now you need to drink some water and take your medicine before you go back to sleep.”

“Oh,” Harry said again. “Okay.”

Kim opened one of the bottles of water and pulled two Drouamine from the pack. Harry opened his mouth like a baby bird, and Kim laid the pills on his tongue, lifted his head from the pillows with a careful hand cupped behind his neck, tilted the water bottle carefully so he could swallow and not spill. If he stroked the tangled hair away from Harry’s face after settling him back down, it was only so it wouldn’t get in the way if Kim had to give him another compress.

“…so cool, Kim,” Harry murmured, his eyelashes fluttering as he drifted back into sleep.

Kim cleared his throat, suddenly remembering that he was not alone in the room. “He is delirious.”

Garte did not pause in bagging up the rubbish. “Of course, officer.”

The sheets were clean enough for now; Kim straightened them out and covered Harry back up, drawing the blankets up over his broad chest. The bruise from where Ruud’s bullet had struck the cuirass spread out in a livid blotch all over Harry’s shoulder, barely hidden at all by his thin white vest. Kim had a tube of bruise balm in his room; he would offer to apply it, the next time Harry woke.

“I, ah, I’ll come back in the morning then, shall I? To finish the room.”

Kim stilled, realizing that he had been standing there for some time, smoothing the blankets over Harry’s torso. “That would probably be for the best,” he said, straightening up and turning to nod at Garte. “I apologize, I fear the head injury is catching up with me.”

“You should get some rest, too.” Garte shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Won’t do him much good if you end up passing out next.”

“A fair point.”

“Good. Well. See you tomorrow, then, officer.” Garte picked up his scrub bucket, careful not to slosh dirty water on the floor, and left, closing the door carefully behind him.

The room seemed very quiet once he had gone, the only sound Harry’s congested breathing and the tiny whines he occasionally made in his sleep.

Kim hoped it was only the wound and the fever making his rest so unquiet, but he remembered the dark circles under Harry’s eyes each morning and knew it wasn’t likely. He touched Harry’s forehead again. He couldn’t tell if the fever was coming down, but at least it didn’t feel worse. His thumb rubbed idly over the creases between Harry’s brows, smoothing the frown lines. If the Drouamine didn’t reduce the fever soon, he would try the compress again. He should set the basin outside the window for a while so the water would stay cold.

There were a number of things he should do before he tried to sleep a little. He could feel that once he let himself lie down, it would be quite difficult to get up again anytime soon.

Garte had already taken Harry and Kim’s bloody clothes down to be laundered. Fortunately, Kim’s sleeves had been pushed up while he’d worked on Harry; his trousers and gloves had taken the worst of it. He took off his jacket; he needed to look it over for splatter so he could spot-clean it in the sink.

There were a few spots on the sleeve—from Harry, likely—and some on the shoulder; judging by the angle, those were probably his, from where de Paule had got him in the face with the butt of her gun. He worked on the spots methodically, something about watching the stains vanish under the running water helping his shoulders unknot. Once he was sure he’d gotten everything, he hung it over the shower curtain rod to dry.

He caught his own eye in the crooked mirror as he turned, and winced at the sight. One entire side of his face was bruised, an uneven bandage hastily applied over the swollen, livid cut that ran up his temple into his hairline. One arm of his glasses was bent, too; he was honestly lucky she hadn’t shattered his glasses with that blow.

His head was killing him. He might take one of Harry’s Drouamine before he tried to sleep.

A blotch of color where there shouldn’t be any caught his eye, and he realized that he’d put his gun back into his shoulder holster with the grip still bloody. He should clean that before it corroded something.

The gun seemed reluctant to come out of his holster, sticking a bit and making Kim give it a little yank to get it free. Once it was in his hands, though, he remembered why; this wasn’t his own single-shot Armistice, but Harry’s three-shot Villiers.

“You’re bleeding out!” Kim stumbled to his knees, his empty gun clattering to the cracked tiles. Blood was already spreading out around where Harry had fallen: fast, too fast. Had Kortenaer hit the artery? Harry could bleed out in minutes if—

People were yelling, shooting, running. Titus Hardie shouted to his men: “Protect the cop! He’s down!”

Kim fumbled for the wound in Harry’s thigh, pressing as hard as he could, trying to staunch the bleeding. Harry twitched, groaning with pain. He made a sound in his throat: mostly consonants, but Kim recognized his own name.

“Yes!” he said, trying to feel for an exit wound while still keeping pressure. Nothing: the bullet must still be inside. “Keep talking!”

Things couldn’t end like this. Not again. Kim couldn’t do this again without shattering into dust.

“Stay awake!” He made his voice as sharp as he could. Harry couldn’t die here. Not after everything he’d survived. Not when they had come so close to solving it. Not when Kim had finally let himself enjoy working with a partner again. “Look at me!”

Harry tried, the effort visible as he turned toward Kim’s voice—then he twitched all over, gasping, his eyes fixing on something over Kim’s shoulder. He looked so afraid.

Time slowed. Kim’s hands slipped in the blood as Harry tensed, muscles straining, his hand moving—

“NO!” Harry cried, his voice despairing, his hand shaking as he pushed his gun into Kim’s hand.

Kim’s fingers closed around the Villiers as he turned, bringing it up instinctively as he looked down the barrel of de Paule’s gun and firing just before her finger squeezed the trigger. His bullet hit the barrel, shattering it; she didn’t lose her grip, though. She was too well trained for that.

With a hoarse cry of rage she lunged at Kim, using the broken gun as a club, striking him in a blind frenzy. He was on his back on the ground almost before he realized what had happened, de Paule looming over him like she would beat him to death right there, all the military precision stripped away and only animalistic fury remaining.

She would not stop unless someone stopped her. She would kill him where he lay, and then she would turn that rage on the others, on Harry—

Kim raised Harry’s gun and fired its last shot, right into her snarling face—the only unarmored spot.

She fell, and Titus Hardie stumbled over to her, kicking the shattered gun away from her hand.

It took Kim several tries to regain his feet and make it back to Harry. He was unconscious, his strength spent in that last great effort. His blood pooled beneath him, dark red between the tiles of the mosaic sidewalk. A pit of dread opened between Kim’s lungs.

Kim went into his own room for his cleaning kit; he’d be able to hear Harry through the open connecting door if he became distressed. He’d never carried a Villiers himself; nobody at the 57th were issued three-shooters as a matter of course. Kim supposed things must be different in Jamrock, at least for officers of Harry’s rank. There were good reasons for most RCM officers to only carry single-shot pistols, but the officers of the 41st were more likely than most to encounter multiple armed suspects at one time, especially if the Besmerties were having one of their territory fights. Still, Kim had paid attention in his weapons training, and practiced regularly with all the common firearms the RCM used. With his poor eyesight, it was important to keep in good form, in the hopes that muscle memory could carry him where visual acuity could not.

Lining up that impossible shot on the eye-slot of Ruud’s helmet. He couldn’t make it—he couldn’t possibly make it— but he had no choice if he was to stop this massacre. “God, please…”

The Villiers was well-maintained, the bloodstains coming up easily. It was a bigger gun than Kim was used to, but he could tell how well it would fit in Harry’s larger hands. Kim scrubbed a little at a particularly stubborn stain, then realized that the grip of the pistol had been engraved with a few words, revealed as he cleaned the blood away: sunrise, parabellum. Something that the communards had said to each other, during the Revolution. Good morning: get ready for the war.

Policing Jamrock probably did feel like going to war every morning, from everything Kim had heard. An appropriate enough sentiment, especially given Harry’s communard sympathies.

Finishing the Villiers, Kim pulled his Armistice from the pocket of his jacket and cleaned that too, letting the familiar motions and the smell of gun oil soothe him. He always did feel better when he was working with his hands. After packing everything away and stowing both guns safely in his locked case, he changed into his pajamas. He checked on Harry again, then turned his lights out and lay down to rest a while.

He woke suddenly from a heavy, fretful sleep, unsure of what had roused him until he heard a whimper and a thump from Harry’s room.

“Harry?” His voice was sharp with worry, and he made an effort to gentle it even as he scrambled to untangle himself from the bedclothes and cross the bathroom. “Don’t move, I’m coming to help you.”

He’d left a low light burning in the corner. Harry had knocked over the little table where Kim had left the extra bandages, but thankfully had not fallen out of bed as Kim had feared. He looked up as Kim drew near, blinking hazy eyes up at him like he wasn’t entirely convinced what he was seeing was real.

“Kim?” his voice caught in his throat, sounding painful.

“I’m here,” Kim said, picking the table up and scooping up its contents to be sure he wouldn’t trip on them. “It’s all right, we’re back at the Whirling. You’ve been injured.”

“I thought… “ Harry shook his head, his face crumpling. The light reflected off wetness on his cheeks. “She shot you? She—you were bleeding and I couldn’t—” He tried to sit up, falling backwards with a pained grunt as he moved. “I couldn’t—” he cut off with a little gasp, almost a sob. “Red on your coat. You fell and—Kim, I—”

“Shh.” Kim laid his hand on Harry’s uninjured shoulder, pushing him back into the pillows. “I’m all right, Harry. She didn’t shoot me. You warned me in time.”

Harry reached up, his big hand fumbling at Kim’s breastbone, his touch shockingly hot through Kim’s thin undershirt. “You were bleeding,” he said again. “I fucked up. Too slow.” He sounded so lost. In the dim light, his face was flushed with fever.

Kim laid his hand lightly over Harry’s, stilling him. “I was not shot, Harry. You warned me, and you gave me your gun so I could defend myself. You did not… ‘fuck up.’ You saved me.”

Harry’s hand was trembling. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

Harry exhaled gustily, slumping back into his pillows. His hand relaxed, but he didn’t pull it back from where it lay, resting between Kim’s hand and his chest. “Okay. Good.”

Kim checked his watch. He’d been asleep for several hours. “It’s time for your medicine,” he said. “And maybe a cold compress for that fever, okay?”

Harry nodded, his eyes heavy-lidded and red. Kim patted his hand and laid it carefully back down on the bed. “I’ll be right back.” He gathered up his supplies, fishing the bottle of Drouamine out from where it had rolled under a chair and giving Harry his dose, then holding the bottle of water up for him until he turned his face away. “Sleep if you can,” Kim told him. “You’re safe here. I’ll keep watch.”

A thin skin of ice had formed on the basin while it had been outside. Kim cracked it easily, soaking the clean cloth and wringing it out, ignoring the sting on his bare fingers. He folded it up and laid it across Harry’s brow, shushing him softly when he flinched away from the cold.

“It will help you, Harry, I promise,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We need to keep your fever down.” A fat drop of water rolled down Harry’s cheek, and Kim wiped it away before it could soak into Harry’s sideburns. Harry sighed, turning his face into Kim’s open hand. The hair on his cheek was springy and softer than Kim would have expected, the skin hot. Crow’s feet fanned out from the corner of his eye, delicate beneath Kim’s fingertip. He started to pull his hand back, but stopped when Harry made a fretful noise, pressing closer.

After some time, when Harry’s body had relaxed and his face gone slack in deep sleep, Kim eased his hand away and went back to bed.

Harry woke twice more in the night, both times distressed from nightmares. He wasn’t particularly coherent, but Kim gathered the topics were largely the same: Harry failing to give that last desperate warning. De Paule making her shot. Kim falling, bleeding, still.

Kim was sadly familiar with those sorts of dreams.

After the second time, Kim brought his blanket and pillow over and dragged the easy chair and footstool over, pulling the chair level with the head of the bed. Harry watched his progress silently, confused frown illuminated by moonlight from the window. Kim settled into the chair, making himself as comfortable as he could. He’d slept in worse places, over the years. Most officers eventually developed a knack for sleeping wherever and whenever it was available.

“Kim?”

Kim reached over the few inches between them and laid his hand over Harry’s wrist, where he could feel the flutter of his pulse. “Sleep, Harry,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

Harry didn’t wake again until the morning.

The next day passed in a blur. Garte returned to finish cleaning the room and return their laundry; he’d even had Harry’s trousers mended, the bullet hole patched and the seam repaired from where Kim had cut it to get at the wound. Harry still alternated between sleep and short periods of disoriented wakefulness, meekly allowing Kim to feed him water and painkillers and sips of broth, to help him with his bodily needs, to check his bandages and apply cold compresses for his fever. He still grew agitated if he woke and couldn’t see Kim; it was unclear how much he remembered between wakings, how much he understood of what was happening. Kim didn’t mind staying close. It was easier to rest if he didn’t have to keep one ear open for sounds from the next room, and there really wasn’t anything he could do about the investigation at this point anyway. He busied himself by working on his reports, then by making long lists of possible actions they might take next. He wished they had found a way to check the little island off the shore, the one place left unexplored in their list of possibilities for the sniper’s nest. Who knew whether there would be anything left to find there by the time they managed it now?

His lists were all very practical, prosaic even. He had that reputation, and was proud of it: a dependable officer. Grounded, persistent, level-headed. Kind of a cold fish, Kitsuragi. Not much team spirit, but he’ll get the job done.

Somehow, it didn’t seem like enough anymore, not without Harry pausing to stare into the middle distance for an indefinite time before announcing that they just had to do something foolish and completely unrelated to the case.

Most of the major breakthroughs they’d had so far had started out as something foolish and unrelated to the case. And even when they didn’t lead back to the Hanged Man, Harry’s tangents always seemed to lead them somewhere. To a missing person, to the cuirass that had saved Harry from that first bullet, to one of the breadcrumb clues to Harry’s past, to the bottle of medical spirits that Harry had lit on fire and thrown at Kortenaer before the man could finish the order to shoot.

He’d used his own hideous necktie as the fuse on his improvised firebomb. Kim wouldn’t miss its eye-searing patterns, but he did feel a little bad for Harry. It had apparently been a favorite, judging from how often he’d worn it that week.

Kim put his notebook away, the weight a comfort in his breast pocket. He wouldn’t get anywhere churning over the same ideas all night. When Harry was better, they would go over it again, and they would think of something.

At the beginning of the week, Kim had wanted nothing more than to wrap the investigation up quickly and get back to the 57th, where things made sense. Now, though, the thought made discomfort swirl in his chest. Working with Harry had made him a better detective, had pushed him to consider approaches and avenues he never would have before. He was doing some of his best work in Martinaise, he knew. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to match it, not without Harry there pushing him along like a perpetual-motion investigation machine.

He worried that he wouldn’t be able to get used to working alone again.

Enough. There was no purpose to be served by getting maudlin over something that had not even happened yet. He should keep his focus on the duties of the day. It was nearly time for Harry’s medicine, and then a dressing change once it had taken effect, and by then Garte would likely come up with more food. Each step, one at a time. Steady, undramatic progress.

The evening wore on: medicine, bandages, food. Harry’s wound was starting to look better. His fever was a little less severe, his body a little less restless in sleep. Kim was doing better, too; the cut on his face had closed enough to remove the bandage, and he had not thrown up from the concussion since the day before. They were healing.

Eventually, he settled in to sleep, rousing only a few times during the night to give Harry water and Drouamine.

Kim opened his eyes into the gray light of dawn, filling the room through the uncurtained windows. Beneath his hand, Harry’s pulse throbbed, slow and steady.

His head was killing him. God, no wonder Harry had seemed so miserable those first days; these windows must have been sheer torture for a man with that bad a hangover. He got up slowly, and moved the chair back where it belonged, careful not to drag it along the floor and make a noise. Harry needed as much sleep as his battered body would permit.

Kim took care of his toilette as quietly as he could. He felt a little better with each step, as though he was rebuilding himself brick by brick: a clean shave, a firmly laced boot. Lieutenant Kitsuragi, ready to report for duty. He went back to Harry’s room and leaned over the bed, trying to gauge his condition.

Harry groaned, and stirred. Gray-green eyes fluttered open, still a little dazed, but clearer than they had been since before his injury. In the light from the windows, they shone like sea-glass. He blinked, shaking his head slightly, then focused on Kim’s face. Sweat-damp curls clung to his forehead; his fever had broken at last.

“Kim,” he said, his voice rough in his throat. His face was still creased with pain, but there was something else there, too, something delicate and promising and easy to break. A seed. A spark.

Every time he wakes up, the first thing he says is my name.

Their eyes met, and held. Harry was truly there in a way he hadn’t been since the tribunal, his eyes keen. The air between them felt thick with potential. What was there to say, after everything? Kim could still feel Harry’s blood hot and slick on his hands, soaking through his gloves. They had stood between two armies, together, neither thinking they would make it, and yet they did. And now, what remained was simple: to finish the work. To solve the case. To quiet the dead. It was the morning: time to go to war.

Kim wet his lips.

“Sunrise, parabellum,” he said, and Harry smiled.

Chapter Text

March 26, CC51

41st PRECINCT — Inside the repurposed silk mill that holds the 41st, it is business as usual for the middle of the week in Jamrock. Officers move around like bees through a hive.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — Evidence their pollen and justice their honey.

41st PRECINCT — Inside C-Wing, a bullpen filled with desks fills the space that was once the factory floor. Junior officers and patrol officers pack the space, a parade of young faces over Perseus Black uniforms. To one side, a series of hastily-constructed partition walls carve out a series of rooms.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Easy: Success] — There are neat signs on each door. “Conference Room,” “Break Room,” “Major Crimes Task Force,” and one more at the end that you can’t quite make out.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — The door to a grave. The home of ghosts.

1. Move closer to the mystery door.
2. [Perception: Challenging 12] Squint at the last sign.
3. Forget signs, you have places to be.

YOU—you squint your eyes, trying to make out the lettering on the sign.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Success]—

DU BOIS

VICQUEMARE

SHIVERS [Medium: Success] — Jean Vicquemare sits at his desk in the dark, trying to convince himself that the radio call was some sort of joke, or temporary condition. It’s the booze talking, he thinks. Or the speed. Probably he found some new sort of shit in Martinaise cut with rat poison or something. He’ll come dragging back soon just like always, making his hangover everyone’s problem. Maybe if his trip is bad enough he’ll “get clean” again. At least that would give us a week or two of not having to go scrape him off of some bar floor every night.

He tries to believe it, but something about the way his partner sounded on the radio sticks in his mind. Not just the desperation—he’s heard a lot of that over the years—but the lack of recognition, the strange, almost childlike blankness.

Those numbers don’t mean anything to me.

I don’t want to be here. I want to come home.

Please, come get me.

He buries his face in his hands. His guts roil with a terrible stew of emotion, fear and anger and sadness all mixed in together.

“Fuck,” he says, as if to himself. “Goddamned fucking…”

Someone knocks at the door. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep, unsteady breath, and he scrubs his hands over his face before sitting up again. He doesn’t look at the empty desk across the room. His eyes are reddened, but dry.

“Come in,” he says, crisp and businesslike. There is no time for regret. There is only the work.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Wow, Jean’s really fucked up about you.

-1 MORALE

41st PRECINCT — A narrow iron staircase rises over the bullpen. What was once the mill overseer’s office perches above, overlooking the open space. It has been converted into office and meeting space for Captain Ptolemy Pryce.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — Your boss.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Who called you in for a meeting that starts in less than five minutes. Better get a move on.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — Oh god oh god. He’s gonna fire you. He’s gonna fire you and then arrest you. You’re gonna die in prison and never solve another case and never see Kim again and—

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] — If the captain was going to fire and then arrest you, it’s very unlikely that he would have sent you a bunch of grapes during your stay at the lazareth to recover from your infected gunshot wound. Which he did. There was also a “Get Well Soon” card with a picture of a racehorse on it.

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — Just go up there. Whatever the captain wants, the meeting won’t get any better because you were late for it.

YOU — You swallow hard and run your hand over your new tie. It was a gift from Kim, a replacement for the one you sacrificed at the Tribunal. It’s not lurid like its predecessor, but still colorful: a mottled pattern of misty greens, interrupted with little speckles of ruddy gold.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — It matches your eyes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — Green and orange. Cool and warm. The harmony of opposites. Like you and Kim.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — It’s a really nice tie. It looks good with both your disco-ass blazer and your uniform blacks without being boring.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — Kim chose it with care. He wanted you to like it.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Knowing this makes the tie sit a little heavier around your throat, like a constant reminder of his honest respect and esteem. He believes in you. It is a comfort.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] — Not a fetter, but a lifeline. An anchor chain. The sea rages but your fragile craft is not swept away.

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — You can do this, Harry. We’ve got your back.

+1 MORALE

1. [Volition: Legendary 14] Go upstairs and meet with your boss like a professional.

• +1 The Necktie of Hope and Emotional Support has your back.
• +1 Kim believes in you.
• +1 The grapes of probably-not-wrath.

2. [Half Light: Medium 11] Don’t face this music. Flee the precinct, change your name, and take up a new career as a party boy in an anodic dance club.

• +1 There is a lot of music to face.
• -1 Too old to be HARDCORE.
• -1 Jean doesn’t deserve to be abandoned again.
• -1 Kim wouldn’t come with you.

VOLITION [Success] — You take a deep, steadying breath, and climb the stairs.

TERRIFYING STAIRS TO JUDGMENT — The staircase is narrow and steep and sways a little as you climb it. By the time you get to the top, your thigh throbs with dull pain.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Challenging: Success] You remembered your Drouamine before your left home, so it isn’t unbearable. You pause a moment to regain your composure, then knock on Captain Pryce’s door.

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Come in.” He looks up as you open the door, and smiles. “Du Bois! Welcome back. How’s the leg?”

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — This welcome is not an act, sire.

YOU — “Better than it was, that’s for sure. It’s good to be back, sir.” You cross the room to the captain’s desk and lean over to shake his outstretched hand, managing to keep your limp to a minimum.

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Glad to hear it. Take a seat, Lieutenant. There’s a few things we need to discuss before you return to duty.”

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — GET AWAY GET AWAY JUMP OUT THE WINDOW

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — Do not do that. Remember the grapes. You’re going to be fine, just sit down like a normal person.

YOU — You sit down in one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk, arranging your leg into the least uncomfortable angle. You feel a thousand apologies crowding up in your throat, but somehow you can’t say any of them. You don’t remember much about Captain Pryce, but you know that you respect him, so much that the emotion lingers even without the memories to anchor it.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Kim respects him, too. He mentioned him specifically as someone it would be an honor to work with.

YOU — It just makes it worse, sitting there waiting to hear your sentence.

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain looks at you for a long moment. His dark eyes are sharp and kind and miss absolutely nothing.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — He KNOWS EVERYTHING!

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Of course he knows, he read your reports.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — You’re gonna get fired and have to sleep in a trash container and DIE!

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — “That was some good work in Martinaise,” the captain says at last.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — I KNEW IT— wait, what?

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Trust in the grapes, Harry. They won’t steer you wrong.

YOU — “Er, thank you, sir?” You’re not sure what else to say.

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — He nods. “It’s a testament to your resilience and commitment to the force that you were able to manage it so soon after your unfortunate exposure to the entroponetic anomaly. It’s a miracle that you survived with your sanity intact.”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Relatively.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — So that’s how they’re going to make the debacle in Martinaise go away. Blame your breakdown on Pale exposure, mark it down as a workman’s compensation accident, sweep everything under the rug. You end up indebted to him for keeping your job and he keeps your skills on-side. Clever.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] — You fucked up, but you didn’t do it alone. He saw the collision coming for months, maybe even years before the crash. He could have done something about it sooner, but you closed more cases than any three other officers. He needed you. Jamrock needed you. You’d been holding on for years; he’d hoped that you could make it just a little longer. Now you’ve blown up and taken half of Major Crimes with you, and things are completely in the shit. But if you could get it back—if you could pull a miracle out of your ass here like you did in Martinaise—he doesn’t give a shit if you never remember your past. His city needs you.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — Her children are patient, her children prepare. Behind a locked door. Down the coast. Over the waves. Above the striving.

SHIVERS [Challenging: Success] — The heart of Revachol, Jamrock. The heart of Jamrock, Precinct 41. The heart of Precinct 41…

LA REVACHOLIÈRE — HE DOES NOT HEAR ME AS YOU DO, BUT HE IS MINE AS YOU ARE. HIS HANDS ARE MY HANDS, HIS FOOTSTEPS MARK MY PULSE. HE KEEPS MY FAITH THROUGH THE LONG WAITING.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] —Un jour elle sera de retour près de vous.

YOU — You realize Captain Pryce is looking at you expectantly. You swallow hard, and nod. “I’ve been very lucky, sir.”

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — He chuckles, just a little. “Indeed.”

RHETORIC [Easy: Success] — He knows you know what’s really going on.

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Of course, having had such a narrow escape, we want to make sure you’re fully recovered before you return to duty.” He shoots you a significant look.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — One more chance. Make the most of it.

YOU — You nod. “Yes, sir.”

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Fortunately, this precinct has been offered the opportunity to participate in a new pilot program designed to assist officers in… recovering from difficult cases. It’s a comprehensive program. They’ll do an assessment and provide you with whatever services you need to be at your best.” His eyes meet yours; you feel his gaze like a physical weight. “I strongly encourage you to take advantage of this opportunity, Du Bois. I know these things haven’t been very useful in the past, but I understand this program was designed in consultation with actual officers. I really think it could help you.”

SHIVERS [Challenging: Success] — Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi stands on the shabby dock of the nameless fishing village outside of Martinaise. His temple is cut and his face bruised. His bare hands are stained reddish with blood and mercurochrome as he flips through his blue notebook.

“Is that all?” From the deck of her boat, Joyce Messier watches him carefully.

“It isn’t everything,” he says. “We don’t have time for everything. But any of those would help a lot.”

“I make no promises, Lieutenant,” she says. “But I’ll see what I can do.” Suddenly, a smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “Do give my best wishes to your partner.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

The tide is high. She starts unmooring the sloop. He turns, and walks away down the path toward the canal bridge.

I hope this works, he thinks. I hope it’s enough. He has the will. He just needs some help.

He is thinking about you.

YOU — Your breath catches. You can hardly believe it.

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — We believe in you, Harry.

+1 MORALE

1. [Volition: Challenging 12] Accept the offer. Get help.

• +2 You actually want to get better this time
• +1 Kim believes in you

2. No, I can do it on my own! Just because it’s never worked before doesn’t mean it won’t work this time.

3. I’m a piece of shit. I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t deserve this chance. Pryce should go ahead and fire me and send me to the trash container where I belong. (Start crying)

VOLITION [Success] — Suddenly, you feel warmer. Your leg hurts a little less. You don’t feel so alone. This will not be easy, you know, but for the first time you think that it might be possible.

YOU — “Thank you, sir,” you say again. “I—I’d like that. To do that. The program, I mean. I want to make sure I’m back at a hundred percent.”

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — He relaxes back into his chair, looking relieved. “I’m glad to hear it.” He smiles. “With any luck, you’ll be through the first phase of treatment and ready to come back to work in time to welcome our new lieutenant to C Wing. That was a lucky piece of recruiting, Du Bois. Men like Kitsuragi don’t change precincts very often. You must have really impressed him on the Hanged Man case.”

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Kim’s captain must have finally agreed to the transfer!

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — Your karaoke serenade hath won his loyalty, sire!

PAIN THRESHOLD [Easy: Success] — You thought you might never get to work with him again. It would have been unbearable.

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — “Not to mention, we received some philanthropic donations to our equipment fund in gratitude for the work you both did in Martinaise. Some body armor for our tactical units and a new patrol and pursuit vehicle. I understand Lieutenant Kitsuragi is a certified pursuit driver.”

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] — Maybe he’ll let you help him install those headlights!

SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Success] — Forget the headlights, do you think Roy still has those spinners?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — KIM KIM KIM KIM KIM

YOU — “That’s all wonderful news, sir. Lieutenant Kitsuragi and I developed a strong rapport on the Hanged Man case. I look forward to working with him again.”

CAPTAIN PTOLEMY PRYCE — The captain gives you a business card. There’s an appointment time already written on it: tomorrow morning. “I look forward to having you back with us when you’re fully recovered, Du Bois,” he says, and shakes your hand again before you leave.

YOU — You carefully tuck the card into your breast pocket, like it’s something precious. You need to get off your leg soon, but that pain is minor compared to the hope that you feel. You smooth your hand over your tie. You’re probably imagining it, but you think you feel it squeeze you just a tiny bit. Like a hug. A neck-hug.

Moving carefully so as not to aggravate your wound, you start carefully down the stairs.

41st PRECINCT — At the end of the row of offices, a man in dusty, paint-splattered overalls has just finished hanging a new sign on the last door.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Medium: Success] —

DU BOIS

KITSURAGI

VICQUEMARE

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — It’s like a beautiful dream.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — This is what you’ll be working for, Harry. This is what you’ll be coming back to.

YOU — I’m coming back. And I’m doing it right, this time.

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — Ace’s high!

YOU — You thump your hand against your own chest, like you’re trying to clear your throat. The tie is smooth and cool under your hand.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — Almost as cool as Kim is.

YOU — Ace’s high, buddy. Ace’s high.

Chapter Text

April 22, CC51

The roof of the 41st Precinct was wide, the central dome flanked by a few meters of level space and the whole thing surrounded by a waist-high crenellated parapet whose original color had long since been lost to a thick coating of bird droppings and soot. In the twilight, the twin smokestacks that had once belched coal ash into the air stood like leafless trees, filling the space with shadows. A damp wind blew in from the sea, raising a shiver on the back of Kim’s neck as he looked at the city skyline and contemplated his own folly.

That day had marked the end of his second week at the 41st, and the end of Harry’s second week back on the job after his sick leave. Kim’s arrival and Harry’s… situation… had led to a reshuffling in ranks and assignments in Wing C; Jean Vicquemare had been promoted to lieutenant, with a similarly promoted Satellite Officer Judit Minot as his partner. Kim had, at Captain Pryce’s request, agreed to be partnered with Harry permanently.

(He had wanted it. He had wanted it so much that he’d been worried; in Kim’s experience, things that he wanted that badly were usually dangerous somehow. He still wondered whether the captain had made the request official because Jean was too fed up with Harry to work with him anymore, or whether he’d somehow seen through Kim’s professional façade to what made him tick and arranged matters accordingly. It was a fanciful thought, but Pryce was an RCM legend for a reason, and working with Harry had taught Kim not to discount the value of a detective’s intuition.)

The workload in Jamrock being what it was, Kim had been on the job less than two days before he and Harry had three cases in progress. By the end of his first week, they’d cleared the cases of THE MAN WHO WASN’T A BEGGAR and THE LEWD SHOP WINDOW. The next week, they helped Jean and Judit catch THE MEDIOCRE KEBAB BANDITS and made significant progress on THE DOLL FULL OF BULLETS. It was an almost dizzying pace, and yet nobody else on the task force seemed to take it as anything out of the ordinary.

“How’s it been so far?” Lieutenant Vicquemare had asked him, late one night when they were the only ones awake in the dog-watch of a stakeout. “Sorry you left the 57th yet?”

“It’s certainly different,” Kim said. “Everything I’d heard about the caseloads here is holding true. Still, though, it’s been good. Rewarding. It’s nice to feel that you’re accomplishing something useful every day.” He watched Jean out of the corner of his eye. “Lieutenant Du Bois seems to be thriving since his return.”

A wince, clearly visible where the light from the streetlamp outside fell on his craggy face. “Sure,” Vicquemare said, his tone sour. “He always seems to be, for a while.” He turned his face away. “The worst part, Kitsuragi, is that he’s such a brilliant goddamned detective. Every time you think, this is it, he’s through, I’m through—he’ll pull something out of his ass to close the case and send you right back to where you started. Hoping it’ll be different. Hoping he’ll be different. And every goddamned time, he disappoints you.”

He’s never disappointed me. The words pushed against his teeth, but Kim knew better than to say them. He’d known Harry less than a month to Vicquemare’s many years, and he knew that Harry had failed before, over and over, during the long descent that had ended in Room #1 of the Whirling-In-Rags. Kim had no reason to believe that this time would be any different. He reminded himself of that every day.

But he hoped. Oh, how he hoped, how he wished for it. For that great shining promise to be kept, for Harry to prove them all wrong. For Harry to be healthy, to be happy, to be safe.

Safe by my side, where he belongs, something whispered inside him. A tiny voice that burrowed in between his lungs, making unkeepable promises. Kim was good at ignoring that voice; he’d been doing it for a long time. Safe with me.

“Mm,” he said. “Well. I suppose we shall see.”

He knew the burnout program was available to the 41st; he’d actually received information about it in his orientation packet. He had not asked if Harry was participating, and Harry hadn’t told him. Harry hadn’t mentioned much outside of work so far, honestly. Kim told himself that this was a good thing, and tried to believe it.

(Harry wore the tie Kim had given him at least three times a week. Kim had seen him fiddling with it often, when Harry didn’t think anyone was looking, stroking idly over the silk while looking at nothing in that way he had when he was lost in his thoughts.

Kim had found that fabric on sale at the crowded little shop where he got most of his tailoring materials, a bolt-end with just enough fabric to make a tie, and the idea had jumped into his mind unbidden that he could replace the one Harry had burned during the tribunal. Before he’d had time to talk himself out of it, he’d put the little bundle of silk in his basket. He’d re-used the interfacing and lining from one of his own ties (which had acquired an unfortunate stain during a previous case). When the whole thing was finished, he’d flattered himself that the finished product was every bit as fine as anything one could buy: certainly better than most of the ties one could find in Jamrock. He’d pressed it and folded it neatly in tissue paper into a small box and wrapped it in brown paper and red twine, and stopped by Harry’s apartment under some pretext to give it to him.

Harry had looked haggard and shaky when he’d answered the door, but his face had lit in genuine delight at seeing Kim. He’d made so much of the gift that Kim had hardly been able to meet his eyes as he ran it through his thick fingers exclaiming over the softness of its material, the vividness of its colors.

Kim had hoped the gift would be appreciated, of course—he’d hardly have taken the time otherwise—but he hadn’t expected it to become Harry’s new favorite. Every morning that he got to work and saw Harry wearing it, that petty and proprietary something in his chest seemed to curl up and purr.)

This was unprofessional. It was a problem. Kim was working on it, but the simple truth was that his professionalism was seriously compromised when it came to Lieutenant-Double-Yefreitor Harrier DuBois.

The worst part about the whole thing, Kim thought as he stared out over the roofs of Jamrock, was that he’d known better. He’d seen the danger, and had the opportunity to walk away, and he’d thought it over, calmly and rationally, and then instead of being sensible he’d turned his back on logic and thrown himself straight into (metaphorical) traffic. He’d said yes, and then kept on saying it: yes to the transfer, yes to the partnership, yes to “hey Kim, I think I just remembered where to get the best kebab in Jamrock, let’s get lunch,” yes to “Kim, do you think we could just swing by the library on the way back to the precinct, they’ve got my book in,” yes and yes and yes to Harry every time, just for the pleasure of seeing the happiness light up his pretty green eyes.

(They were so much clearer, now. Surely that was a good sign.)

This could derail his career, he knew. This could ruin him. The risks were clear; Kim just… couldn’t make himself care enough to stop taking them.

Dom would have blamed Kim’s terrible taste in men. He would have been… a little right. Maybe half. While it was undeniable that Kim did have, by most sensible measures, objectively terrible taste in men (Harry, unfortunately, was exactly his type), that was really a symptom of a larger underlying issue.

The unadorned fact of the matter was that deep down, at the core of himself, Kim Kitsuragi was a raging speedfreak: an adrenaline junkie, a thrill-seeker. It was only through decades of practice, a high-risk career, and the careful maintenance of certain habits to act as a controlled safety valve that he had never caused himself some sort of epic crisis.

In another life, Kim sometimes thought, he might have ended up on the other side of the law. Perhaps he might have run an underground street racing circuit, or a luxury motor carriage theft ring. Perhaps he would have died young, in that life. Or perhaps he might still have crossed paths with Harry.

How would that Kim have reacted? Would Harry’s chaotic genius have shone as bright to a Kim who hadn’t spent his life trying to keep the wildest parts of himself strictly restrained, honed to a needle-point and aimed only in approved directions? Would a Kim who let himself be ruled by passion have had the patience to look beyond the surface wreckage to see what was beneath? The philosophy and the humor, the compassion and the kindness, the great golden lungs that Harry never quite managed to hide?

It was all there, once you knew where to look. Harry felt so much, so dangerously close to the surface. The RCM taught its officers to wall parts of themselves off, not to identify too closely with the people you were meant to help; that way lay burnout, trauma, worse. Kim had always considered himself a caring man, but he was very good at maintaining distance.

Harry… wasn’t.

Kim wondered, sometimes, if that was the secret. If everything about Harry, from beginning to end, was because he’d never got the knack of keeping himself apart from anything. If the uncanny insights he got from talking to inanimate objects or going down conversational rabbit holes were all of a piece with the drinking, the drugs, the nightmares, the spiral after Dora. If the first step that Harry had taken down that road could never have led anywhere else but to Martinaise, to the anguished obliteration of self that had, against all odds, granted him this peculiar fresh start.

To Martinaise, and to Kim.

For all that he seemed at once fascinated by and terrified of Dolores Dei, Harry was more like her in some ways than anyone else Kim had ever met. Harry breathed without a filter. He filled his lungs with the pain of everyone he came across, and somehow transmuted it to compassion: almost, one might say, to love. It shook him, hurt him, until even the dullest observer could sense the sharpness of it, and yet Harry kept moving, kept trying. Harry kept breathing.

It was his gift, like the grace of an Innocence; love flayed-open and flinching but still given, offered freely to children and fishers, to artistic delinquents and literary lorry-drivers, to cryptozoologists and communards, to Revachol.

Another Kim, from another life, might have breathed unfiltered too, might have met Harry and breathed in his suffering and tasted the love there.

In this life, Kim’s lungs stayed locked away safe behind his ribs. In this life, Kim restricted his street-racing to duly approved suspect pursuits. In this life, he had one-night stands with gorgeous chaotic messes but dated discreet men who did not care enough about him to want more than spare corners of his life. He worked twice as hard to get half as far. He kept his head down. He kept his focus. He assured himself that these were the right things to do.

In this life, Kim Kitsuragi had shown up in Martinaise expecting a disaster, and he had found one. It was just that he’d found a miracle at the same time.

SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN, painted blood-red on the wall, Harry hiding stained hands behind his back as though Kim hadn’t been there when Harry found the oil, borrowed the paintbrush, muttered to himself for days about what his message ought to be. As though he hadn’t pulled Kim down that alley at sunset for three days straight, staring at the wall—which looked, as far as Kim could determine, precisely like every other wall in Martinaise, give or take a few dozen bullet holes—with wonder in his eyes.

It’s so beautiful, Kim. Look at those colors! Just… look at it. Let it heal you.

Wretched though Harry had been—hollowed and wounded and ashamed though he had been—Harry had still filled his lungs with love and breathed out hope amidst the hurt.

And Kim had stood on an island in Martinaise, and filled his lungs unfiltered, and reveled in the ache.

He had thought—as much as he thought about it at all—that the Hanged Man case was an anomaly. It had been such a strange experience; cut off from his normal life, dedicating all his time to a single case, spending nearly all his waking moments running around after the strangest detective he’d ever met, he had sometimes felt more like he was having a particularly vivid dream than trying to solve a murder. He’d expected that the case would wrap up, and he would head back to work, and things would go back to normal. Even after agreeing to transfer precincts, he’d still thought that.

In hindsight, he really should have known better.

He was different, after Martinaise. Things that he had long grown accustomed to suddenly chafed; restrictions that he’d always placed on himself seemed stifling instead of practical. In the same way that a plastic raincoat would never again fold small enough to fit neatly into its pouch, he felt like he’d sprawled out beyond his boundaries and didn’t fit into his own life anymore.

His life had not been easy, but it had been predictable, moderate, safe. He had known what to expect, everything—even his vices—slotted neatly into the proper place.

One cigarette every day, never more or less. A pickup at one of the more colorful clubs on Boogie Street—well away from his own precinct—no more than once a month. Speeding no more than ten kilometers per hour above the speed limit unless required in the performance of his duties. Keeping himself apart from his colleagues, socially, always polite and professional but never revealing anything that could be turned into a weapon. Weighing every choice, gauging every risk.

He’d never realized how bare his apartment was before Martinaise, how little of himself he permitted to show—on guard even in his own private space. He had good reasons for it: the turn of his features alone was enough for some people to hate him on sight, and that was before they discovered his personality, or his sexuality, or any number of other things that had made him a target over the years. He’d been operating on a practical system, hiding anything that could make him vulnerable. He’d just never realized that at some point protection had turned into a prison, that he had made his own private Reunion and sentenced himself to life.

He’d hoped the transfer would be enough to satisfy this newly fretful part of himself, but it never could be, not with Harry always there, filling Kim’s days with disco and finger-guns, brilliant insights and non-sequiturs, with kindness and humor and chaos and life. Not with how happy Harry was that Kim was there.

Kim couldn’t remember anyone ever being made so happy by the mere fact of his presence. It was like Harry had some kind of supra-natural attunement to him; he could be focused deeply on something on the complete opposite side of a room, but within a few seconds of Kim’s entry he’d lift his head, look around, and smile delightedly as soon as he caught Kim’s eye, dimples just peeking out at the edges of his sideburns.

Have you met my new partner Kim? Jean got promoted, this is Lieutenant Kitsuragi, my new partner. Oh! Kim, come have a look at this. Kim, what do you think? Kim, I’m not sure I believe that story. Kim, I saved you one of the donuts you like. Kim, I’m so glad you’re here.

“There you are! I was looking for you, you left your cigarettes downstairs.” Harry was wearing his patrol cloak, thrown on carelessly over one of his less outlandish ensembles: a white shirt, the green and gold tie Kim had made him, a pair of brown tailored trousers that Harry always called his “moralist pants” for some reason, and his favorite green snakeskin shoes. At some point since Kim had last seen him, he’d pulled his hair back into a messy knot and stuck a pencil through it to hold it in place. Judit had taught him that trick, Kim thought, and he didn’t know whether to bless or curse her for it. Something about the way it looked on Harry—the bared nape of his neck, the little stray curls that worked loose around his hairline—made Kim’s hands itch under his gloves, made him imagine pulling the pencil out and combing out the tangles with his fingers.

Harry held out his half-empty pack of Astras. “Here,” he said. “I didn’t see your lighter, but I’ve got one if you need it.”

Kim smiled at him. There wasn’t anyone else there to have an opinion on his professionalism, after all, and it made Harry happy. “Thank you,” he said. Harry’s fingers were warm as Kim took the pack from his hand. Harry was always so warm; it was probably down to the muscle mass. He might bemoan the padding his years of overindulgence had deposited on his frame, but he was solid underneath.

“No problem,” Harry said, beaming at him. Kim hadn’t noticed the dimples in Martinaise. Harry had trimmed his facial hair at some point before going back to work, just enough to make them visible. “Sorry that meeting took so long.”

“It is always the way of such things,” Kim said, lighting his cigarette. He had intended to save it for later, but this way he could have two little indulgences at once: the smoke itself, and Harry’s obvious enjoyment in watching him have it.

Kim leaned against one of the smokestacks, and gestured Harry to join him. “Come be my windbreak,” he said, teasing a little, and Harry laughed.

“Anytime, partner,” he said, angling his body to block the wind. He smelled good, fading aftershave and cinnamon chewing gum, so different from when they’d first met. He was standing close enough for Kim to feel heat radiating from his body as he watched Kim smoke, his eyes flicking from Kim’s hands to his mouth and back.

(Kim thought about pushing him up against the smokestack and kissing him. He thought about threading his hands through his hair and guiding him down to his knees. He thought about curling his bare fingers through the thick salt-and-pepper hair on his chest. He thought about Harry looking up at him, eyes wide, adoring—)

The physical desire, distracting as it was, wasn’t the problem. Kim had gotten rather practiced at dealing with those sorts of matters over the years; he’d gotten want almost to an art form. Just enough to let off the pressure, and no further. No, the problem wasn’t Harry’s deep voice or his expressive hands, his long muscled legs or his broad shoulders, or even the sheer physical stamina that had allowed him to jog back and forth the length of Martinaise for twelve hours a day.

The problem was that unstudied kindness, that tender consideration, that open admiration. The problem was how a room felt pallid and lifeless after Harry left it. The problem was how hard Harry was working—the little prescription bottles that had replaced the flask in his desk drawer, the notebook where Harry scribbled away at mysterious exercises from his therapist, the cinnamon gum that he turned to when he was troubled by cravings. The problem was how he was somehow an even better detective—a better partner—than he’d been in Martinaise.

The problem, in short, was that Kim was teetering on the edge of falling in love, in a way that he knew would leave him utterly wrecked if things went wrong. Harry was doing so much better, but it was still new and fragile. Kim felt sometimes as though the slightest wrong move might bring about some sort of unspecified doom. And it was less than a month ago that Harry had needed to devote a “twenty-hour mind project” to determining his own orientation, only to come to the conclusion that his time would be better spent determining who had actually murdered the Hanged Man than obsessing over his sexuality.

If he had later continued his “project” and come to any more personally relevant conclusions, he hadn’t seen fit to share the results with Kim. Of course, his fascination with the young man in Martinaise, not to mention the way he looked at Kim sometimes, did seem to support certain conclusions. Kim had learned, though, that the obvious explanation was often incorrect when it came to Harrier Du Bois.

“So, um,” Harry said. “I wanted to ask you something.” He fiddled with his tie.

“Ask away, detective.” He didn’t bother trying to cover the warmth in his tone, and Harry’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. It was dangerous, how easy it was to make him happy. It could become a habit.

“You can say no,” Harry said. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. But I need to go to Martinaise—there’s an expansion for Suzerainty that just came out and Plaisance ordered me a copy, she called me yesterday that it came in, so I just thought maybe. But just if you want to! There’s a bus I can take instead, if. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, then gave his tie another little pat. “So…”

“So would I like to drive you to Martinaise to pick up your game?” Kim took a long drag on his cigarette, considering. There were other things that he could do with his day off than driving Harry clear to the other side of Jamrock to buy a board game. Practical things. He probably should do those. He’d finished a notebook recently and hadn’t had a chance to index it yet.

Harry shifted his weight, very obviously attempting to look like he didn’t care much either way what Kim decided. Very obviously, he did care.

Ah, fuck it. Kim’s notebooks would survive another week without being cross-referenced.

“Sounds good,” he said. “I’m free on Saturday. I could pick you up after lunch?”

Harry grinned, wide and bright. “That’d be disco!” He snapped finger-guns at Kim.

“Only if we stop in to see your delinquent friends in the church-slash-dance club on the way.”

Harry chuckled, low and a little raspy, unselfconscious in his good mood. “I think Noid has a crush on you, Kim,” he said. “Last time I was there he told me you have complementary sines.”

Kim shook his head. “I find that… unlikely.”

“Aw, come on, Kim, we both know you’re hard core to the mega.” Harry’s eyes were sparkling with humor in the dim light. The moon had risen.

Kim snorted, burying his cigarette butt in the bucket of sand that some officer had dragged up to the roof for the purpose. “We know nothing of the kind,” he said. He stepped out from the lee of Harry’s bulk, shivering a bit as he faced into the chilly breeze.

Harry fell into step with him as he walked back toward the door. “I said what I said.” He reached out as they approached the door, pushing it open with one long arm and gesturing Kim ahead of him with the other. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscled forearms dusted with brown hair. Kim’s sleeve brushed against it as he passed by.

The smart thing to do would be to try to pull himself back before it was too late, to do his best not to get any more invested in Harry than he already was. He should go to a club this weekend, pick up someone with more muscles than sense, and work this distraction out of his system so that he wouldn’t endanger what was shaping up to be the best professional partnership he’d had since Dom.

(“If the cravings bother you, why don’t you just quit?” Judit was in the middle of quitting smoking, and had given Kim a piece of hard candy when she’d seen his fingers twitching as Jean lit up on the way back from the kebab stand. “One cigarette a day, it can’t be that much harder to stop altogether.”

Kim had shrugged. “I know it’s foolish,” he’d said. “But… somehow, the cravings make the one smoke better, when I have it.” The highlight of his day, much of the time, though he hadn’t said that to Judit and Jean. “Gives me something to look forward to.”)

“Kim, I’ve been thinking.” Harry’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Would you rather have to wear a constantly changing outfit or have a constantly changing hairstyle?”

“You already wear a constantly changing outfit,” Kim pointed out, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching.

Harry laughed. “Okay, sure, you’ve got me there,” he said. “But seriously, Kim…”

Kim listened, contented, as Harry expounded on the virtues of having just the right ensemble for whatever situation you found yourself in, and he knew that he was not going down to Boogie Street that weekend.

He didn’t. He drove Harry to Martinaise, and they picked up his game and got roped into helping Annette with a school report on how detectives solved crimes, and had dinner at the Whirling, and got ice creams on the way home even though it was really still too cold for ice creams, and then Kim dropped Harry off at his apartment and came right back the next day for a Suzerainty marathon which ended in a draw, two victories each. They ate Saramaritzian takeout on Harry’s faded green couch, and Kim smoked his one cigarette out on Harry’s fire escape, with Harry leaning half out of the window to talk to him, during. Then Kim drove himself home and brought himself off in the shower to the thought of a man with broad shoulders and warm hands whose face he very carefully did not picture.

On Monday morning, he went back to work.

Chapter Text

May 15, CC51

THERAPIST’S OFFICE — Your therapist, Dr. Benoit, has an office in Couron. It is warm and comfortable, the furnishings soft and the colors soothing. Since starting the burnout-prevention program, you’ve had consultations and treatments in a number of places around the city, but this is the one you come back to the most. Twice a week, for six months: that was what you agreed to. Medication for the physical part, and therapy to help you learn how to function as an adequately functional person rather than some kind of maddened, violent animal, swinging helplessly between anguish and oblivion.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Joyce must really have felt bad about what happened in Martinaise to convince Wild Pines and Krenel to part with enough money to fund this program. The standard RCM medical coverage technically covers mental health services, but it’s almost impossible to find a provider in Jamrock who accepts it and officers aren’t paid enough to afford much on their own. And that doesn’t even take into account the other costs, like the Torpedo ampoule and the crisis line and the medication—including, ironically enough, a low daily dose of Preptide XR, because during your intake exam the doctors had determined that you actually do legitimately need it.

YOU—The doctor had wondered aloud how your obvious EFDD had never been diagnosed when you were in school. You’d just stared at her, a little blankly, and reminded her that you’d gone to school in Jamrock, where you were fortunate to actually have teachers the entire year, let alone any sort of learning-disability screenings.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success]—Executive Function Deficit Disorder, or EFDD, is a neuro-developmental disorder affecting brain chemistry, particularly the neurotransmitters dopamine and norepinephrine. Common symptoms of EFDD include difficulty regulating focus, physical and/or mental restlessness, high distractibility, intense and sudden emotions that are difficult to control, trouble making and/or carrying out plans, and impulsive behavior. Persons with untreated EFDD are more likely to be involved in motor carriage accidents, commit crimes, develop substance use disorders, and suffer difficulties in personal relationships and job and/or school performance.

Used correctly under the supervision of a physician, central nervous system stimulants such as Preptide are safe and effective in mitigating the symptoms of EFDD in the majority of patients, making it among the most treatable conditions in psychiatric practice. Studies have shown that once patients are appropriately treated, their risk profiles for addiction, crime, accidents, and divorce return to normal.

YOU—The Preptide XR is actually a lot better than the speed had been; it’s on a time release, so it doesn’t make you rave and then crash. When you take it, you don’t feel like a different person the way you did when you got high; you just feel like yourself on a really good day. You have to get your pills a week at a time right now because of your past issues, but once you’ve shown that you can use them responsibly you’ll be able to refill them every month like any other medication.

You make sure to take it at home, though. You’re worried the others would think you were relapsing if they found out, even though Dr. Benoit wrote Captain Pryce a note about it and gave you several copies to have on hand, just in case.

LOGIC—She’s an excellent doctor. Wild Pines really spared no expense in setting this program up. They even had you see Dr. Elisa Virtanen, one of the leading entroponetic radiation experts in Insulinde, to make sure the Pale radiation wasn’t still eating your brain.

YOU — She was really excited about the Swallow. I think she would have paid us to have a chance to examine me.

DR. BENOIT — Dr. Benoit looks up with a smile as the receptionist shows you in. “Good afternoon, Harry! Take a seat.” She pulls your file—already fat with papers—and flips to the session notes from your last visit. “Before we get started, I wanted to check in—now that you’ve had several weeks to grow accustomed to your ampoule, how has it been working for you?”

“TORPEDO” OPIOID RECEPTOR ANTAGONIST AMPOULE — Under the skin of your upper arm is a small metal ampoule that delivers a steady flow of medication into your bloodstream. The medication binds to opioid receptors in your brain, dampening the intoxicating effects of alcohol and reducing physiological cravings.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success]—It sucks. It makes things boring.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — You agreed with the doctors that the ampoule was a better choice for you at this point in your recovery than oral medication that you would have to remember to take. Less chance of sabotaging yourself in a bad moment.

YOU — You think about the question.

1. It’s great. No issues whatsoever. It’s like I never was a drunk. (Lie)

2. It helps a lot, but…

3. I hate it. What is the point of me if I can’t party?

YOU — “It really is helping. When I was in Martinaise, you know, we talked about how I was trying to go cold turkey and it just made me so sick? This isn’t like that, I don’t get the, the physical symptoms.” You look down at your hands, embarrassed. “But, um, some of the time I still really want to drink, even when I know it won’t do anything for me. I guess it’s like we talked about before, that since that was what I always used to do when stuff was hard, my brain still thinks of that first?” You fidget nervously with your tie—the one Kim gave you, the one that helps you remember that no matter what else happens, at least your partner is on your side.

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — It’s good to tell her, Harry. She’s here to help you, not to judge you.

DR. BENOIT — “Exactly right. That’s completely normal. You had a long time to learn those responses, so it will take some time to make new habits. I know we talked before about some strategies you might use to help form better habits to cope with stress. How have those been working for you?”

YOU — “Mostly pretty well. I, ah, I’ve been drawing again. You were right, I do find it easier to do that than to write some of this out in words. And I have to take notes at work a lot, so it doesn’t look too weird if I do it in front of people.”

DR. BENOIT—“I’m happy to hear that. Is there anything you’d like to show me from your journal?”

CHEERFUL ORANGE SKETCHBOOK — The doctor calls it your “art journal” but you just think of it as your notebook. It’s sized just right to fit in your pocket and the cover is a bold orange color.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Since your police ledger is blue, it helps make sure you grab the right one.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — You got the orange one because it made you think of Kim.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Remembering Kim’s faith in you reinforces the role of the journal as a stress-reliever.

YOU — Are there any sketches in your journal you’d like to discuss with Dr. Benoit?

1. [Inland Empire: Medium 11] The dark one. The one about the Dream.The one about her.

2. [Electrochemistry: Easy 8] The one of Kim checking the oil on his Kineema!

3. This one of Annette wearing your Dick Mullen hat is really cute.

4. No. I’ll figure this out on my own. (Refuse.)

YOU — “I think this one turned out really well.” You hand her the book, open to the right page.

CHEERFUL ORANGE SKETCHBOOK — It’s a portrait of Annette from the shoulders up, sitting in her usual chair in the bookshop. She’s wearing your Dick Mullen hat, peeking up at you from under the brim and laughing. You’ve captioned it “Junior Ace Detective.”

DR. BENOIT — She smiles as she looks at the picture. “That’s wonderful, Harry. You really captured the moment, and it looks like a good memory as well.”

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — Her admiration is sincere, my liege.

DR. BENOIT — “I see the bookshelves in the background. Is this the little girl from Martinaise? The one whose mother owns the bookstore?”

YOU — “Annette, yeah. She’s great. Kim and I went down there a couple weekends back to get something at the shop and she was doing a report on detectives for school, so we helped her with it.” You smile, remembering the note you’d gotten from Plaisance earlier that week. “She made top marks, too, so at least we know we didn’t mess anything up for her.”

DR. BENOIT — “I think it’s a very good idea to capture things in your journal that remind you of positive experiences in addition to using it to process negative ones, Harry. In fact, I’d encourage you to try to journal about at least one positive thing each day. It doesn’t have to be something large—just something you experienced that day that made you happy. Do you think you could try that for a week or two and see if you find it helpful?”

YOU — “Sure, if you think it’s a good idea.”

DR. BENOIT — “Great. We’ll check in next week to see how it’s working for you. Was there anything else you’d like to share from your journal?”

YOU — Any other artistic impulses you want to discuss with the doctor?

1. [Inland Empire: Medium 11] The dark one. The one about the Dream.The one about her.

    +1 You really do want to get better.

    +1 Turn from the ruin.

2. [Electrochemistry: Easy 8] The one of Kim checking the oil on his Kineema!

3. This one of Annette wearing your Dick Mullen hat is really cute.

4. No. I’ll figure this out on my own. (Refuse.)

INLAND EMPIRE [Success] — Darkness, and the scent of apricots, and the sense of doom. You must exorcise the ghost before beginning your life anew.

YOU — “Yeah, there’s—there’s another one. It’s the last filled page.” There’s a small hole on your jeans, just above the right knee. You pick at the fraying threads, not wanting to see the doctor’s face as she looks.

CHEERFUL ORANGE SKETCHBOOK — The picture covers two facing pages of the notebook. A figure of a man cowers low on one side of the page. He is naked, kneeling, hands covering his ears, eyes shut, manacles around his abraded wrists. His face is twisted with pain beneath ragged whiskers. All around him, looming out of the darkness, monstrous reflections of himself grab at him with taloned hands. His bare flesh is covered with claw-marks.

The man is you.

On the other side of the page, Dolores Dei stands holding her little suitcase under the Video Revachol 24 sign, her lovely features made harsh by the expression of disgust she levels at the man. A thick, black chain snakes out from under her long skirt, connecting to his—your—manacles.

YOU — You shift uncomfortably in your chair as the doctor inspects the drawing. “I know it’s pretty fucked up.”

DR. BENOIT — She looks at the picture for another long moment before she speaks. “I can tell that this piece was inspired by something very difficult, Harry.” Her expression is compassionate and her voice is kind. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

YOU — You are silent for a long time. It’s so, so hard to talk about it, even now. You run your fingers over your tie. “I have bad dreams a lot,” you say at last. “About my ex—about her leaving me, and me not being able to let her go. We fight—the same fight, every time—and it hurts, and she still leaves. I’m so tired of watching that over and over. And then when it’s not her, it’s voices, sometimes. Telling me how shit I am, that I’ll always be alone, that I fucked everything up and I’ll never climb back out of Hell. Telling me I’d be better off just sinking into the Void. And they all—they’re all me talking, but like, different. Like me, but monsters.”

DR. BENOIT — A look of concern crosses her face. “Harry,” she says slowly. “Do you still think about hurting yourself? When you have these dreams, or at other times?”

1. [Drama: Formidable 13] I’ve never even considered it. (Lie)

2. Not really, but…

YOU — “I don’t want to die,” you tell her. The words spill out in a rush, burning on their way, but you can’t stop now that you’ve started. “I’m not… I’m not suicidal, or anything like that. Or I guess… I’m not anymore? I don’t remember, but I did a lot of fucked up things in Martinaise, before the…” you touch your temple illustratively. “At least people told me I did. Threatening to shoot myself. Things like that. And I drove my MC into the sea, so that… doesn’t really seem like a guy who doesn’t want to die. But it’s not been like that since. I’m doing a lot better most of the time. I’ve got a great new partner, I’ve made new friends… or at least, you know, some of them are old friends really but they’re new to me. But I still have those dreams. Still think those things sometimes, about how I’m a piece of shit. And I mean—I do deserve it, you know? Before I lost my memory, I—I did a lot of fucking awful things. Hurt people. Nearly ruined the task force, made my own partner hate me, terrorized the poor bartender at the Whirling. Just because I don’t remember doing it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

DR. BENOIT — “You’re right about that,” she says. Her voice is gentle. “You not remembering those events does not change the impact they had on others. But it does have a significant impact on how they affect you now.” She looks down at her notes; her brow furrows in thought.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — Is this really the time? Will it help, or just make things worse? She’s never dealt with a situation quite like this before.

DR. BENOIT — “The truth is, Harry, your case is very unusual. Your body and mind remember the negative emotions you were struggling with before, but you no longer remember the events that caused them. You experience triggers, but don’t remember the traumas; you feel guilt and shame over things that you know you did but don’t remember doing. Normally our minds make connections between our memories and the emotions connected with them, but right now your connections have all been severed. Picture a fleet of boats moored in the harbor: they’re all secured in the docks where they belong. Then a storm comes, wipes out the docks and snaps all the lines. The boat just drift, wherever the wind and the waves push them. Maybe they crash into each other, or into the shore. It’ll take a lot of work to match up the boats with their owners, and maybe with some it won’t ever be possible.”

She shoots you an inquiring look, like she wants to make sure you’re following the analogy.

1. [Conceptualization: Medium 10] I get where she’s going with this.

2. [Logic: Legendary 14] I don’t know what the boats have to do with it but I think I understand.

3. Just stare at her in bewilderment.

YOU — “So you’re saying that my amnesia is the storm and the boat crashes are my dreams?”

DR. BENOIT — “Basically, yes,” she says, smiling. “All the reactions and emotions that would usually have been tied to specific memories are unanchored, now—just sort of floating free in your mind. Once they would have been triggered by the memories they belonged to, or by other experiences that reminded you of those memories, but now your brain is trying to make sense of responses that it doesn’t know the stimulus for. The human mind is amazingly resilient and built to recognize patterns. Right now, your mind sees a lifetime of pain and guilt and worry with no obvious cause. I suspect that your subconscious is trying to make sense of them by associating them with any stressor you experience, or even your own self-image. If that’s true, it might explain why you’re still having those dreams.”

YOU — “My brain trying to play detective,” you say. “Solving the case of why I feel like a horrible person by accusing me of being one?”

DR. BENOIT — She nods. “It’s a theory, at least,” she says. “Honestly, Harry, there have been very few people who’ve suffered that level of entroponetic over-irradiation and maintained the ability to function, so in a lot of ways we’re just having to make educated guesses with your treatment. For example, we often do progressive exposure therapy for Trauma-and-Stressor-Disorder, but I can hardly help you learn to safely revisit traumatic memories that you no longer have.” She sighs. “To that end, I have a proposal for you. You may remember that Lieutenant Vicquemare provided me with a confidential account of the time leading up to your memory loss.”

YOU — You nod. You gave permission; you thought it might help. And Jean seemed like he needed to talk about it to someone who wasn’t involved.

SHIVERS [Challenging: Success] — A very sad man sits slumped in the cozy chair, words pouring out of him like pus from a lanced boil. When he is finished, he is hollow and weary, but he feels a very little bit better. He takes an appointment card from the doctor’s hand.

It’s a bit late to prevent his burnout, he thinks. It happened so long ago he’s barely smoldering anymore. But the Captain asked him to think about it.

He will go, and keep going.

INLAND EMPIRE [Heroic: Success] — He has been an island, but hope is an ocean. Little by little, in rolls the slowest tide.

LA REVACHOLIÈRE — WHEN HE WEARS HIS COAT, HE CARRIES ME.

DR. BENOIT — “Captain Pryce and Dr. Gottlieb also provided some additional documentation.” She speaks softly, her body language open, like she’s trying to coax a feral cat out from under a trash container. “I think that filling in some of the gaps in your memory—rebuilding some of the shattered docks, if you will—might help you connect those reactions more directly to the events that caused them and give us a path for your treatment.” She meets your eyes, serious. “I can’t guarantee it will help,” she said. “But I’ve discussed it with the rest of your treatment team, and this was the idea we thought held the most potential. However, I know that you previously decided not to review the background materials on your service record from the RCM. Would you consider revisiting that decision?”

YOU — You think about it.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] — RUN. DO NOT LOOK BEHIND THE SHADOWS.

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] — It might actually help to know more about what really happened. At least then you’d feel like shit over something real instead of everything you can imagine you might have done. And you can imagine a lot.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — Such a long, sad story.

1. [Pain Threshold: Impossible 20] “Give me the files. I want to know.” (Read everything)

2. [Volition: Heroic 15] Ask the doctor to summarize the information for you.

    +1 Only logical.

    +1 Nightmare fatigue

3. “No. Absolutely not.” (Refuse.)

VOLITION [Success] — You breathe in and out, steady and deep. A pattern the doctor taught you, to calm yourself. You can do this. It’s better to know.

YOU — “I’m not ready to know everything. I don’t know if I ever will be. But do you think you could sort of summarize what’s most relevant?”

DR. BENOIT — “Of course, Harry.” She flips through her notes until she finds the correct page. “If you need me to stop, or you just need a break for a few minutes, please tell me. We don’t have to finish everything today.” She waits for your answering nod, then begins.

“Some years ago, early in your career, you took part in a prolonged undercover assignment. While portions of the operation were considered very successful, it ended with an incident that resulted in significant loss of life, including that of your partner at the time, a veteran officer who had been your mentor since you first volunteered.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Legendary: Success] — Not the father of your body, but a father nonetheless. You, his satellite, reflecting his glory. How can the moon shine once the sun has been snuffed out?

SHIVERS [Heroic: Success] — A man in a white suit walks through his garden. The air smells of poppies. Blood splashes the ground like flower petals.

Agony, deep in your blue soul. It should have been me.

DR. BENOIT — “The reports from your superior officers indicate that your behavior changed significantly after this incident, leading the station lazareth to recommend that you be evaluated for Trauma-and-Stressor Disorder. Unfortunately, you were not able to obtain treatment at that time.” A strange look crossed her face: sadness, frustration.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — She knows how much treatment costs and how little the RCM pays.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — She wishes she could have helped you then. It would have spared so much pain for so many people.

DR. BENOIT — “You were promoted to lieutenant based on your performance on the undercover mission. For many years afterward, you performed very well on the job, with a high case closure rate and very few casualties. However, the TSD was still affecting you, and you began to drink more heavily. Additionally, your relationship with your fiancée began to suffer.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] Clinging to her, then pushing her away. Getting angry and then begging to be forgiven. She never understood what had happened to you. Your shining one, untouched, unmarred, uncomprehending.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] The man she loved was gone, and you were there behind his eyes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] In your mind, she was perfect, a higher being, an Innocence. You wanted her to lift you out of darkness with her grace, but feared you would drag her down into the muck with you instead.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] It’s exhausting, being someone’s only reason to keep going. She wasn’t some supra-natural creature, she was just a naïve young woman facing a problem she had no way to solve. She needed a partner, not a supplicant.

DR. BENOIT — She keeps talking, calmly laying out the stages of your downward slide; Dora left you, and then you started the Major Crimes task force. You’d worked with the Inspectorate General, posing as a corrupt cop in order to root out officers who were being bribed by the organization you’d been investigating on your undercover assignment.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Legendary: Success] — Captain Pryce takes you offsite for the meeting, a club where the pulse of the music makes eavesdropping impossible. He tells you the plan. There’s an inter-district operation in the works, but they need your help. They’re going to take down La Puta Madre. You agree at once, thinking of blood and poppies.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — That explains the rumors, then. Probably started on purpose to strengthen your cover. They’d have probably done a few dummy ops, too, let a few key people think they’d witnessed you taking a bribe or misplacing evidence. All planned ahead of time. Laying out snares.

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — ’Twas all lies, sire, in service of a greater goal. Thou didst not betray thine oaths.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Success] — You feel as though you could burst into tears of pure relief. It has been eating away at you since you first heard the rumors, saw Ruby’s face white with terror.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Medium: Success] — Her fear of you had been almost unbearable. You felt like a monster. You had nearly begged for reassurance that it wasn’t true, but neither Kim nor Jean had been able to give it.

DR. BENOIT — She tells you that you worked with the rat squad for years, until they thought they had everything they needed. Intel on a time when the Madre would be out of his compound, away from most of his peones. Vulnerable. Plans were made for a raid that would break the back of the organization in one fell swoop.

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Success] — The church!

YOU — “It was the church, wasn’t it. The RCM raid on the church in Martinaise. The one that nobody knows the truth about, the one that went to shit. I was there.”

DR. BENOIT — “Yes. In October of last year. I do not have many details, just that the raid involved significant loss of life and did not succeed in its primary objective. However, your performance was noted as exceptional throughout the operation. You were offered a promotion and leadership of a new intra-district organized crime task force. You refused.”

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] — Your second yefreitor. That’s why your badge was new.

DR. BENOIT — “It was at this point that your use of alcohol and other substances increased to the point that your job performance became significantly impaired. After about five months of escalating issues, including several smaller episodes of memory loss and an uncharacteristic incident of excessive force that nearly resulted in a disciplinary hearing—“

YOU — You flinch at the reminder of THE UNSOLVEABLE CASE.

DR. BENOIT — “—you arrived in Martinaise to investigate the Ellis Kortenaer murder.” She turns back to today’s page in her notes, giving you some time to process.

YOU — You… aren’t really sure how you feel now.

ENDURANCE [Easy: Success] — That was a lot.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — But she was right. It does help, at least a little, to know more about the things you did and the things that happened to you. There are some fears you can lay to rest now. Some shadowy horrors whose forms have finally coalesced.

YOU — As it sinks in, you feel yourself start to tremble.

1. [Composure: Heroic 15] Calmly thank the doctor for filling you in.

2. Don’t bother trying to explain, just sit there in silence until she changes the subject.

3. Excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, climb out the window, and go home.

COMPOSURE [Failure] — You try to thank her, but the first word degrades into an ugly, harsh sob. You press your face into your hands as though you could force the tears back physically, but it only makes things worse. You’re just straight up crying now, deep racking sobs and snot and all. It’s not an attractive look.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Easy: Success] — The doctor crouches next to your chair, offering a box of tissues.

DR. BENOIT — “It’s okay, Harry. I know this must have been difficult.”

YOU — You take several tissues and try to mop the worst of the mess up even while you’re still blubbering. “Sorry, I—” you cut yourself off. You’ve had several talks already about allowing yourself to experience emotions without being ashamed of them. “I just—” You can’t get the words out; they keep getting overtaken by sobs.

DR. BENOIT — “Take all the time you need. This is a lot to process.” She stays there, holding the tissue box for you, radiating patience, until your weeping finally peters to a stop.

YOU — “Thanks,” you mutter, blotting at your mustache with a wad of tissues.

DR. BENOIT — “You’re welcome, Harry.” She gets up, giving you a firm, encouraging pat on the shoulder before returning to her seat. “It’s not surprising that hearing that information would bring up some big emotions. Was there anything in particular that stood out to you?”

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Success] — Relief.

YOU — “I’m not a dirty cop.” Just saying it makes a few more tears well up. “I was terrified that it was true. It didn’t feel true, but I was afraid that was just wishful thinking. And you can’t get an ampoule to stop you from being a corrupt piece of shit who’d sell out to a criminal, so if it was true, that would mean—there’d be nothing for it. For me. Unfixable. But I’m not.” You start crying again, and this time you don’t even try to stop.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] — Alone in the musty locker room of the 41st Precinct, Lieutenant Jean Vicquemare dries off after a shower. As he rubs the towel over his right arm, he pauses, tracing over a long scar, still raised and red. His partner had shoved him aside just in time for the shot to graze his arm instead of burying itself in his stomach.

He shuts his eyes and whispers, “please let it fucking work this time.”

May 16, CC51

ROOF OF THE 41st PRECINCT — As you open the door to the roof, you see Kim leaning against the parapet. The setting sun, big and red in the sky, curves behind his head like a halo in the portrait of an innocentic saint. A single unlit cigarette rests between his gloved fingers.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant looks over his shoulder at you. “There you are, detective. I thought you said you’d be right behind me?”

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] — His voice sounds warm and a little amused.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Success] — How does he always look so effortlessly cool?

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He’s teasing you, and a little curious about what held you up, but he isn’t angry you kept him waiting.

YOU — “Sorry, Kim.” You cross the roof to stand beside him. He likes to smoke up here, looking out over the city. He’s told you he enjoys seeing people and houses and lights instead of mostly asphalt and containers; Jamrock has much more life to it than his old station in the Industrial Harbour did. “Had to talk to the Captain for a minute.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He looks up, interest sparking in his dark eyes. “Oh? Anything I should be concerned with?”

YOU — You wiggle your hand back and forth. “Kind of? I mean, it’s not a case or anything, or at least not a new case. It’s about my past.” You bite your lip. You want to tell him—you’re practically bursting with it—but you’re also painfully aware of how much you’ve burdened your fellow officers with your own problems over the years. Kim has been kind to you—he’s been so kind, kinder than you ever deserved—but that doesn’t mean he might not wish to keep your relationship firmly confined to the professional.

Jean was kind to you once, too, and now he can hardly even look you in the eye.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Would you like to talk about it?”

1. [Drama: Heroic 15] “Nah, it’s not important.” (Lie)

2. Say yes, but only if it’s not too much of an imposition.

3. Just jump right into telling him.

YOU — “I’d like to tell you about it, but I know I’ve been kind of, um, needy with you lately. I get like that—I mean, I do now and from what I’ve learned it seems like I always did? Anyway I don’t want to make you sick of me, I mean more than you probably—”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry. Stop.” His tone is firm, one eyebrow quirking above the lens of his glasses.

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Failure] — It’s impossible to resist when he does that. How is it so strong?

YOU — You stumble to a halt, feeling your face heat.

KIM KITSURAGI — “You aren’t being too needy, and I am not sick of you. You’re my partner, and I’d like to think that we’re becoming good friends as well.”

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — The noble knight speaketh true, my liege!

KIM KITSURAGI — “You’re recovering from a very difficult experience, not to mention the physical aftermath of being shot. Anything that you want to tell me—whether it’s because you’d like my opinion, or you need moral support, or just because you’d like to share it—I am glad to hear.”

EMPATHY [Legendary: Success] — He doesn’t like how quick you are to self-deprecate. He wishes you could see yourself the way he sees you: wounded, but striving. Pushing yourself to be better than you were. Willing to face the consequences of your past and still keep going.

INLAND EMPIRE [Heroic: Success] — A crashed motor carriage, damaged, nearly given up—but the engine still powerful, the mechanics still sound. It will rise again beautiful, restored by deft and caring hands.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Wait, what was that about hands?

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Stop it. We’re not doing this right now.

YOU — You feel your eyes welling up with tears again at the lieutenant’s words.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Success] — But they don’t quite spill over.

YOU — “Thank you, Kim. That means a lot.” You sniff, trying to keep it subtle.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] — It isn’t.

YOU — “I want to be friends too. I mean, you are my friend. My best friend, but don’t tell Jean, okay? I know he kind of hates me now but I still think it might hurt his feelings.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Lieutenant Vicquemare doesn’t hate you, Harry. But I promise not to… taunt him with our friendship.”

EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — It would be easier for Jean if he did hate you. Everything you put him through hurt worse because, despite everything, he still cares.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — Always your brother, your once and future friend. You will stand together on the crescent of the hill.

KIM KITSURAGI — “So,” he says, bringing his lighter to his cigarette. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

YOU — The words all bunch up behind your teeth. You don’t even know where to start.

COMPOSURE — You didn’t tell Kim about the burnout program because you couldn’t stand the thought of him finding out you’d failed it. Even after you got through those first hard weeks, you still weren’t sure how to bring it up.

1. [Savoir Faire: Godly 16] “Turns out, I not only wasn’t a dirty cop, I was a hero.”

2. [Composure: Challenging 12] Just tell Kim the whole thing without breaking down again.

    +1 Good friends!

    +1 Kim is glad to listen.

YOU — “So, ah, when you did your orientation, did they give you the handout about the new burnout program? They do, um. Treatment, for cops who have problems. Like depression, or Trauma-and-Stressor Disorder, or, um. Substance problems. Or all of the above, I guess. Like me.” You force a stiff little laugh.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim doesn’t join you in laughing at your combo-menu of issues. “I was told about it, yes.” He pauses.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — Weighing his words carefully.

KIM KITSURAGI — “From what I know of it, it seems like a carefully designed and potentially very effective program.”

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He’s not sure if he should admit the role he played in that careful design.

YOU — “It is. I mean, I’m doing it. Started after Martinaise. And it’s really helped, so far. I’m… I’m doing a lot better than I would have expected.” You pick at a fraying thread on your cuff. “From what I heard, I tried to quit before, but it never took. This time, I’m doing it smart. Science-style, as Cuno would say. I have one of those Torpedo ampoules, for the physical cravings? And I saw a doctor, and an entroponetic radiation specialist. I’ve started anti-depressants, and some other stuff—things to help with the, you know. Damage.” You wave a hand at your battered, long-suffering body. “And I’m going to therapy. Twice a week. It’s not really meetings, I’m sorry I lied about that. I was… I didn’t want people to know, if I fucked it up again.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant looks at you for a long moment. In the glow of the setting sun, his eyes shine bright and his face looks sharp and defined like the portrait of an Innocence on an old coin. He looks… he looks…

EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — Happy, and proud, and fond, and deeply moved.

YOU — Something inside your chest catches and flips at the expression on his face. You wish you had Kim’s camera right now, so you could take a picture and be able to look at it any time you wanted. You feel like you could do anything, as long as Kim was looking at you like that.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry. That’s wonderful news.” His voice is gentle, uplifting, warm. It makes you want to smile and cry at the same time. “I know it can’t have been easy to make that decision. It takes real courage to admit that you need help, and to accept help when it is offered.” He smiles—not even one of the little half-smiles you so delight in trying to coax out of him, but a real, broad smile that makes your breath stick in your throat. “It may not be my place to say it, but… I am very, very proud of you.”

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — Sire, it is all true. He delights in hearing of thine efforts toward healing. His smile is as sincere as it is beautiful.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — More radiant than any glowing lungs.

YOU — If you think too much about what Kim just said, you’ll break down sobbing, so you hurry to say the rest. The recurring nightmares, the doctor’s suggestion. Getting another reality lowdown, this time about yourself.

KIM KITSURAGI — He listens intently, as though you were giving him the key witness testimony to solve a case. “So, was the doctor right? Did it help, hearing that information?”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He wants it to have helped.

YOU — “Yes. It—Kim. Ruby was wrong. It wasn’t true, I never worked for La Puta Madre.”

KIM KITSURAGI — His brow furrows. “Were you still worrying about that? Lieutenant Vicquemare and I both told you that was only foolish rumors.”

YOU — “But you didn’t know. And Jean—he told me I was too unstable for a mob boss to hire me, Kim, that wasn’t exactly reassuring. But after my appointment I double-checked with Captain Pryce, and he confirmed it. I was never a peone for the Madre.” You lower your voice. “We started those rumors on purpose. I was undercover.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He sucks in a short, sharp breath. “Undercover—with the Madre, Harry?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — But that’s horrifically dangerous, he thinks. Many officers have lost their lives in unthinkable ways trying to infiltrate the Madre’s operation.

YOU — “When I was a sergeant, apparently. It… didn’t end well. My partner at the time was killed. I still don’t…” your eyes overflow at last. “I don’t remember his name. When I try I just see blood and poppies. But that operation was what got me promoted. And afterward… I worked with the IG. Posing as a peone to find who was compromised, get intel. I guess I got out of the first op without burning my cover, so I could make it work. There’s more—I’ll tell you later—but what’s important is that the Captain confirmed everything. The rumors, the gossip, it was all planted. I may have been a fuckup, but I wasn’t a traitor.” You swipe your sleeve across your face, and when you next speak your voice comes out small and shaky. “I was so scared it was true.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim takes a step closer to you, cupping your shoulders in his hands and looking into your eyes.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Easy: Success] — He put his cigarette out on the parapet and left it there, crumpled and half-smoked, so that his hands would be free.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Easy: Success] — You can feel his grip through your coat, strong and steadying.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harrier Du Bois,” he says, slowly and clearly, yet with something inexpressibly tender in his voice. “Listen to me. In the time we have known one another, I have seen many things I would never have believed possible. And yes, when we first met, you were in a bad way. But I never—not for one moment—believed that you worked for the Madre, no matter what anyone said. You have made mistakes, yes: many mistakes, some of them grave. You have made poor choices. But I never believed that you betrayed your oath. Never.” His voice rings with conviction, rock-solid and unshakeable. Nobody you can remember has ever believed in you like he does.

COMPOSURE [Legendary: Failure] — It’s too much: it’s overwhelming. You’re accustomed to defending yourself against accusations; you just don’t have the toolset to be unmoved in the face of such trust. You feel your face crumple and a sob escapes your throat.

YOU — “Sorry, I—” Another sob interrupts you, your voice cracking and breaking. “Fuck, I’m a mess, let me just—” you try to pull away, find some hidden corner where you can try to get your shit together unobserved, but you can’t move: Kim is still holding you by both shoulders.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — Technically, you could break his grip. He’s a lot stronger than he looks, but you’re stronger still, especially since you started working out again.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Except we aren’t going to do that, because it’s Kim and we want him to keep touching us.

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant looks at you. His expression is hard to read—at least while you’re actively crying—but you don’t think it’s bad, exactly. After a moment, where you just stand there bawling while he watches, he seems to come to some kind of decision. He tugs you forward, toward him.

YOU — You let him move you, following the direction of his hands like he’s leading you in a dance, but that isn’t what he’s doing. He draws you in close and gently guides your head down to rest on his shoulder. Your brain is buzzing and your body is shaking and you can’t stop crying.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — HOLY SHIT IT’S HAPPENING THIS IS NOT A DRILL

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — This is a hug. From Kim. Kim is giving us a hug.

YOU — With the possible exception of the time that Jean slung your arm over his shoulder to help you into the motor carriage at the end of the Hanged Man case, you cannot remember anyone ever holding you like this. And you don’t really count that time, since you had a gunshot wound and bruised ribs and physically needed the assistance.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders and pats your back gently. “It’s okay, Harry,” he says, so soft you wouldn’t have heard it if his mouth wasn’t inches away from your ear. “I understand.”

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] —After all the terrible revelations about your past, it must be overwhelming to hear something about pre-Martinaise Harry that makes you feel better about yourself. Especially something like this.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Easy: Success] — Kim’s a little stiff—he’s not comfortable with this level of emotional display—but he isn’t pushing you away even as your tears slowly soak through the collar of his jacket. You can feel his breathing stirring your hair. Every time he inhales, the zipper of his jacket brushes your shirt front. His hand on your back is heavy and grounding, a lifeline: pat, pat, pat, just like after your panic attack in Martinaise. And the second time you threw up while trying to examine the body, also in Martinaise.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — It’s his go-to comforting gesture when things are really bad.

YOU — You’ve cried a lot since you woke up in your trashed hostel room with no memories. This time is different, though. These tears don’t hurt like they usually do. It feels like you’re purging something vile, and the longer you weep, the lighter you feel.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim stands there and lets you cry on his shoulder and doesn’t push you away.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Challenging: Success] — He’s like a support column in one of those Dolorian buildings - slim and strong and beautiful, holding up the world.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — Pull yourself together, man. The lieutenant will lose all respect for you!

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — He initiated this, so no, he won’t.

YOU — Eventually, you run out of tears, and the storm you’ve unleashed on Kim’s shoulder dies down to shuddery breaths and sniffles.

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Easy: Success] — Now that your nose isn’t completely blocked off from crying, you can smell Kim. He smells like the mechanic’s shop at the precinct: brake pads, transmission fluid, the harsh citrus soap that’s meant to get engine grease off your hands. In the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, inches away from where your face still rests, you can smell pine needles and snow: his cologne, mostly faded now at the end of the day but still clinging to his skin.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — Like a racing driver making a pit stop in a frozen forest.

VOLITION [Heroic: Success] — That’s enough, now. You should step back.

1. [Volition: Formidable 13] Step away and wipe your face.

    +1 Kim said he was proud of you.

    +1 Kim said it was okay.

    +1 Back-pats of solidarity.

2. [Electrochemistry: Medium 11] Hug Kim tighter.

    +1 He smells so good. Why does he smell so good? It’s weird.

3. Just stay where you are. Just a little bit longer.

YOU — Reluctantly, you lift your head from Kim’s shoulder, trying not to look too closely at the wet patch you left on the fabric. Kim’s hands slide over your shoulders and down your arms as you take a step away and fumble in your pocket for your handkerchief.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Here.” He holds out his own handkerchief. This one is white with green hemstitching and a small, neat “K” embroidered in one corner.

YOU — “Thanks.” You take the handkerchief and try to clean up.

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] — If you’re going to keep crying like this, you might want to shave. Nobody wants to see a cop with snot in his mustache.

YOU — You try to check your mustache for snot without being too obvious about it.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Easy: Success] — You’re fine, you got it all.

YOU — You fold the handkerchief up and put it in your pocket, then notice that Kim is watching you. “I wasn’t going to keep it!” you blurt. “I’m just gonna wash it. Then I’ll bring it back.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “You can keep it, Harry,” he says gently. “I have plenty of others.”

YOU — “Thanks,” you say again. You slip your fingers into your pocket to touch the handkerchief again. It’s strangely comforting, like the little square of cloth is actually woven out of Kim’s kindness.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — Knights in the Franconigerian cavalry used to carry pieces of cloth known as “favors” into battle to symbolize that they were fighting for the honor of and supported by a noblewoman who was their patron or lover. These favors were usually sleeves, handkerchiefs, or other small parts of the lady’s garments.

Knights in the Franconigerian cavalry also used to engage in homo-sexual relationships with one another during long campaigns.

YOU — I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Forget the nerd. You should try to get some of that cologne that Kim uses and then you can make the handkerchief smell like him again after you wash it. It’ll be like having a Kim hug in your pocket that you can put on your face whenever you want!

VOLITION [Formidable: Success] — No. We are not becoming some kind of perfume-stalker. You will wash it like a normal person and then use it like a normal person.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Heroic: Success] — But if it smelled like Kim you could take it to bed with you and put it on the pillow and smell it while you—

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] — KIM ASKED YOU SOMETHING!

YOU — “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim gives you a little half-smile. “It’s all right. I was just asking if you wanted to get something to eat before we call it a day.”

ENDURANCE [Trivial: Success] — You really, really do. You haven’t eaten in hours and all the crying really took it out of you. Plus, you still have to cycle home.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — You need to carbo-load, son!

YOU — “Yeah, that sounds great.” You meet his eyes, trying your best to radiate sincerity and gratitude without getting so intense it’s creepy. “Thank you, Kim. Your support really means a lot to me. I don’t know why you decided to stick around, but I’m really glad you did.”

KIM KITSURAGI — It might just be the sunset, but you think you can see the tips of his ears turning pink. He clears his throat. “Well. I appreciate that, Harry, but don’t sell yourself short. You’re a good partner and a good friend. It’s no sacrifice for me to, ah, ‘stick around,’ as you put it. I like to think we have a mutually beneficial partnership.” He reaches up and touches his glasses, then puts his hand back down again.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He was going to clean his glasses, but he remembered he’d just given you his handkerchief.

YOU — “Oh! Here.” You reach into your other pocket and pull out your own handkerchief. You don’t only carry one in case Kim needs it, but the thought that he might is definitely why you bought the nicer ones that wouldn’t scratch if he used them on his glasses.

KIM KITSURAGI — “There, you see?” He accepts it and cleans the lenses, the corner of his mouth ticked up on one side, his voice warm with humor. “Mutually beneficial.” He puts it in his pocket and smirks at you.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Heroic: Success] — What if Kim takes your handkerchief to bed with him!?

YOU — He doesn’t have any reason to do that. He doesn’t wear his glasses while he’s sleeping.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Harry, I’m trying to help you here, but you really need to work with me a little bit.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Anyway, I was thinking maybe that diner on the corner of Main and Solidarity?”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He knows it’s one of your favorites.

YOU — “Disco.” You snap him some finger guns, for good measure. He shakes his head at you, but it’s in the way that means he’s amused and trying not to let on in case it encourages you to do something even wackier. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”

As you follow him down the narrow stairway heading down from the roof, you have a nagging feeling like you’re missing something.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Harry. Buddy. We need to talk.

YOU — I am not going to Frittte to smell all the aftershave and try to figure out which one Kim uses so I can put it on his handkerchief like some kind of sequence killer.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — That wasn’t even what I was going to say this time. Look, you owe me one, okay? You have systematically taken away everything from me! You barely even smoke anymore!

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — He needs those lungs clear! They’re the exhaust system on a finely-tuned machine!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Shut up, Coach, it’s my turn. Harry, it has become obvious that if I’m going to help you find any kind of physical pleasure ever again, drastic measures are necessary.

YOU — The kind of drastic measures that made me ruin my life last time? I don’t want to be like that anymore!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Let me finish! Fortunately, you haven’t taken all my options away. Remember when you spent eight hours working on your mind project about the Homo-Sexual Underground?

YOU — Of course I do. I came to the conclusion that I needed to stop obsessing over my sexuality and focus on solving the case.

VOLITION — Which was correct and appropriate.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Sure, yeah, but the case is over now, right? You solved it and all. Go, you! So I think it’s time you revisited the topic. Specifically, you need to think about Kim.

YOU — But I already think about Kim, like, all the time.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Right. Exactly. This is exactly the point. You’re already doing it, you just need to be a little more focused. Really dedicate some resources to considering the way he smells, and that little smile he makes that only you can see, and the way his hands look when he takes his gloves off, and the way the muscles in his arms flex when he’s driving.

YOU — Wait, I thought you said I needed to think about the Homo-Sexual Underground again. What does Kim have to do with that? Besides the obvious, I mean.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Just… just trust me on this one, okay Harry? Don’t worry about the other thing yet. Just think about the way you feel when you’re around Kim, as opposed to when you’re around, I don’t know, MacLaine or Pideau or whoever. Other cops who aren’t Kim. And just… keep the Underground in the back of your mind. I promise it will all make sense eventually. Plus, this way you won’t keep getting distracted with all these weird, incomprehensible feelings you’ve been having about Kim lately.

1. I guess that is a good point. I don’t want Kim to think I’m a spacey weirdo. More of one, anyway.

2. No, no, absolutely not. This is one door I do not want to open. (Discard thought.)

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Attaboy, Harry. I have faith in you. There’s a little disco party left in you yet.

Thought Gained: Opening the Floodgates

Temporary Research Bonus:

-1 Reaction Speed: Head in the Clouds

+1 Electrochemistry: Mind in the Gutter

Research Time: You honestly have no idea. 8 hours? Let’s say 8 hours.

Problem: You don’t remember much, but you’re pretty sure the way you react to Kim isn’t normal for a working partnership, even a good one. You look at him sometimes and your face gets hot, your heart pounds, your stomach does flips inside you. It’s like being high without taking anything first. It’s exhilarating and frightening and you have no idea why it’s happening but you’re terrified it’s going to make you ruin things with him. You’ve been trying not to think about it, but that is obviously not working. It’s just becoming more and more of a problem as time goes on, so if you want to avoid some kind of disaster you really need to resolve this one way or another.

Chapter Text

May 20, CC51

THERAPIST’S OFFICE — As always, Dr. Benoit’s office is welcoming and warm. Today there were donuts in the waiting room.

DR. BENOIT — “The last time we talked, Harry, I asked you to record one thing in your art journal every day that made you happy. How has that been going for you?”

CHEERFUL ORANGE SKETCHBOOK — It has been five days since you started doing the happiness sketches. So far, you have drawn:

• A really good piece of cake that you got on the way home from therapy
• Kim sitting across from you at the diner on Solidarity Street, illustrating a crash from the latest TipTop Tournée race with two breadsticks and his water glass
• A close-up study of the handkerchief Kim gave you on the roof
• Little Lily, asleep on her mother’s pile of fishing nets, clutching Lamby against her round cheek
• Your new neighbor’s friendly dog, who has taken to joining you on your evening runs
• Kim, walking up to your desk with a mug of coffee in each hand. Yours is in your favorite mug, which says “MAZOVIANS do it for the working class!” in three different typefaces.

YOU — “Good, I think. I like doing it. It helps me think about nice things before I go to sleep. I think that’s been helping with the nightmares.”

DR. BENOIT — “Excellent! Then I think it’s worth keeping it up, at least as long as it’s still benefitting you.”

YOU — You nod.

DR. BENOIT — You and the doctor talk for a while about the standard sorts of things: your stress levels, the strategies you’re using to lower said stress levels, the exercise and the drawing and the sensory grounding exercises and the special kinds of breathing. How your antidepressants and Preptide are working for you, how your energy levels are, how troublesome your cravings have been. A seemingly endless list.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — High-performance machinery, by its very nature, requires more frequent and intense maintenance, particularly under heavy use conditions.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — The infernal engine, perpetually racing. Afraid of what comes if it ever stops.

DR. BENOIT — “There was one other thing I was hoping to discuss, Harry. Something we didn’t get to last time we talked about the drawing you did of your nightmare.”

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — NO!

YOU — You take a deep breath. You’d figured she’d bring this up again, eventually. “About her, right?” You clear your throat. “Dolor—I mean Dora.”

DR. BENOIT — “Yes.” She lets the word hang in the air for a moment, her expression sympathetic. “I noticed that you drew the two of you chained together.”

YOU — “Yeah. We aren’t actually chained in my dreams, but… it feels like we might as well be.” You shake your head. “Honestly, doc, its so fucking unfair. I lost my memories, right? I don’t remember anything about her except what other people have told me, the contents of an old love letter I apparently kept in my police ledger for some reason, and some kind of fucked-up thing where I get her confused with Dolores Dei. I guess because they were both blonde? I don’t even know.” You fidget with your orange notebook, playing with the little elastic strap that keeps it closed. “I don’t even remember being happy with her, though I know I must have been, once. I don’t remember anything about that life. But it’s like my body remembers. All I have left of her is hurt. I’m out there freaking out over random things, having panic attacks when I see a stained glass window—I passed out the first time I read that love letter. Kim almost had to take me to the hospital. Fuck.” Your hands have gone a little shaky just remembering the letter. It’s infuriating. “This doesn’t make sense. I don’t even know what I’m mourning for!” You gesture with your notebook, warming to the subject. “And she left six years ago! What kind of a loser doesn’t get over a breakup after six years?” The way you’d been in Martinaise, you’d thought the loss must have been fresh. You’d felt so humiliated when Jean told you otherwise.

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Success] — As well you should have been. A real man would have gotten over her years ago. Letting her fuck you up like this just makes you weak.

DR. BENOIT — She nods sympathetically. “It must be very difficult for you when those painful feelings come up seemingly out of nowhere. And you’re right that six years seems like a fairly long time for the end of that relationship to still be causing you such acute distress.” She pauses, one of the thoughtful little pauses that signal she’s about to ask you a hard question. “Now that you know a little more about your past, do you have any ideas as to why that might be happening?”

EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — Come on, Harry. Put the pieces together.

YOU — You sit for a while in silence, stroking over your tie while you mull over what you’ve learned about the series of events that led up to Martinaise. You’d been so focused on learning that you hadn’t been a dirty cop working for a mob boss that you hadn’t really thought about the rest of it much, but…

1. [Logic: Heroic 15] Try to figure out what else might be going on.

    +1 You aren’t a dirty cop

    +1 Preptide XR helps you focus

2. Maybe Dora really was the reincarnation of Dolores Dei and was controlling me with inhuman war-criminal powers and that’s why I can’t let her go?

3. I give up. I guess I’m just doomed to hurt like this forever without really knowing why. Fuck me.

LOGIC [Heroic: Success] — It all goes back to the undercover mission. The first one, where your partner died. The one that gave you Trauma-and-Stressor Disorder that you couldn’t afford to be treated for.

SHIVERS [Formidable: Success] — In a tiny house on Voyager Road, a young couple sits on a shabby couch. The man is tall and strong, with a chiseled jaw that is currently covered in greasy stubble. His hair is growing out of a buzz cut and just beginning to curl. He has a dimple on his chin and dimples on his cheeks, though they only show when he smiles. He isn’t smiling now, and looks like he hasn’t for a long time. His gray-green eyes used to sparkle with life and humor, but now they are reddened and dull with pain.

The woman is voluptuous, blonde and blue-eyed, with a pouty little mouth the color of a rose petal. She looks almost otherworldly, too rarefied for her surroundings. Her hands are still soft and smooth, with neat pink nails like little seashells. She did not grow up poor. Worry creases her unlined forehead; her eyes are bright with tears. Somehow, she even cries beautifully.

She smells like apricots.

“I just don’t understand, Harry,” she says. “I’m sorry about Edouard—so, so sorry—but it’s been almost a year and you aren’t getting any better at all.” Tears spill like crystal drops down her flawless cheeks. “I don’t know what else to do—I want to help you, Harry! Please, tell me how I can help you!”

“I can’t—I don’t know, Dora,” the man says. He bends almost double, clutching his stomach like he’s taken a blow. “I just—everything’s ruined, now. I’ve fucked everything up. Maybe there’s nothing to be done. Maybe this is as good as it can get.” He sobs, once, sounding like it ripped its way out of his throat. “I wish I’d never taken that job,” he whispers. “I wish things were like they were before. We were happy, once, weren’t we? I’m not just imagining it?”

“We were happy once, and we can be again,” she says, laying one little hand feather-light on his heaving back. “You just have to stop pushing me away, Harry. Please, just let me in.”

YOU — You sit in silence while you process what the city just showed you, gooseflesh rising on the back of your neck as a conclusion settles heavy on you with that certainty you’re more accustomed to feeling about your cases at work, in that moment when you’ve hit on the theory that will make everything make sense.

“Fuck me,” you say, just above a whisper. “Fuck, it’s not… it was never just about Dora.” You stare at your shoes, your mind spinning with the immensity of your realization. “What I lost—the thing I couldn’t stand to think about—it was…”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — Your partner.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — Your vision.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — Your hope.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Your optimism.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — Your Innocence.

YOU — “It was me. The way I was before. When I was happy and I believed I’d always be that way. When I hadn’t really seen how awful people can be to one another.” You laugh a little, bittersweet. “When the worst thing that happened to me in any given month was hearing that the latest Guillaume Le Million album had been delayed.” You scrub a hand over your face. “The way I was when living didn’t hurt.”

DR. BENOIT — The doctor watches you patiently, letting you find the words in your own time. Her expression is soft and kind.

YOU — It really does feel like solving a case, like the moment when everything snaps clear and you can just see what really happened, only instead of tire tracks and footprints and shattered glass you’re reconstructing your own slow painful collapse. “I think… I think that’s why I couldn’t let her go,” you say slowly. “Because… if everything shitty happened because she left, then all I had to do to fix it was to win her back.” Your breath is coming faster. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You feel like you might pass out again, but you don’t care. You have to say this, here and now. You have to make it so you can’t forget again. “But it never would have worked, would it? Even if she had come back. I was trying to, to fix a faulty transmission by changing the brake pads over and over.”

INLAND EMPIRE [Formidable: Success] — The cracks in the walls widen, no matter how often they are papered over. They cannot be mended until the foundations are made whole.

VOLITION [Legendary: Success] — Dora. The drink. The drugs. The relentless work, day in and day out, never stopping, until you were so exhausted you could sleep without dreaming.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Formidable: Success] — Anything to make it hurt less. You gave up on feeling good and focused on feeling nothing.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Challenging: Success] — You were a bucket with a hole in the bottom. It didn’t matter what you poured in, you would always end up empty again.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Easy: Success]—Something tickles your neck; reaching up, you feel wetness. You’re crying, silent tears just welling up and running down your face.

Secret task complete: Figure out why you really couldn’t get over Dora.

YOU — You take Kim’s handkerchief out of your pocket. It is clean and soft. You rub your thumb over the little green monogrammed “K” before you blot the tears. Something about it is strangely comforting. “I wasted so much time.”

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] — Your voice is small and wavering, like a lost child. You hardly recognize it.

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — It’s okay, buddy. You know what’s going on, now. You’ve already made a good start. You can do this.

DR. BENOIT — “I think you know what I’m going to say to that.”

YOU — “Yeah.” You’ve talked a lot with the doctor about learning and moving on from the past instead of being obsessed with mistakes you can’t change. “I should think about what I’m going to do now, not what I should have done back then.”

DR. BENOIT — “That’s exactly right, though I’m not going to ask you to come up with something right away. How about you give it some thought and we can talk about it next time?” There’s something in her voice you haven’t heard before. Excitement, maybe even a little bit of pride.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — This is it, she thinks. I think he’s made a real breakthrough. She is genuinely pleased for you and optimistic about your prospects from here.

YOU — “Yeah, that sounds good. I guess I’ve got a lot to think about. A lot of things I thought were true… well. When you uncover new evidence, you have to revisit your theory of the case, right?” You dab at a few last tear tracks.

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] — You’re tired, but it’s a good sort of tired. Like the kind you get after a long work day where you made real progress, or after a run where you beat your best time.

DR. BENOIT — “Exactly. I think you’ll find your… ‘deductions’ go a lot more smoothly after this, Harry. You’ve done some tremendous work today, and I know it wasn’t easy. I want you to make sure to be kind to yourself for the next couple days, all right? Keep an eye on your stress levels, and if you start to feel overwhelmed, don’t hesitate to call the office and we’ll work you in for an extra session. I want to make sure you have the support you need to continue this momentum.” She smiles, wide and sincere. “You should be very, very proud of yourself. I know that I am.”

NUMBER 19 BUS — The bus back to Jamrock is only half-full today. You sink into a seat in the corner, your mind still turning over the revelations of the day. You feel like you want to do something, but you aren’t sure what. You also feel like you want to fall into bed and sleep for a week. You’re really glad you made this appointment for the end of the work day and don’t have to go back to the station right now; you’d likely do something worrisome, like maybe grab Jean in a hug and burst into tears over everything he did for you that you can’t technically remember (but still somehow have feelings about.)

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He never even met Dora, but he resents her for what he thinks she did to you. You were his hero, and then his best friend, and he had to watch you ignore every lifeline he threw while you slowly drowned, until he started drowning, too.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Once you’re a little less likely to completely break down in the process, you should tell him that you appreciate it. That even if you forgot the details, you still know what he did for you and you’re grateful.

SUGGESTION [Challenging: Failure] — You should get him a cake that says “Sorry I Treated You Like Shit, Jean.” A chocolate cake. Just to reinforce the message.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — That’s not a good idea. You should do something else that won’t make him even more angry and hurt than he already is, and also isn’t disgusting.

Task gained: Find a way to apologize to Jean.

YOU — Your fingers are twitchy; honestly, your entire soul is twitchy. You pull out your orange notebook and the slim little tin case where you keep a couple of drawing pencils. You never used to be much of a note-taker—it interferes with your flow—but since you started the “art journaling” you feel like you understand Kim’s relationship to his blue notebook a lot better.

INLAND EMPIRE [Challenging: Success] — Two detectives sit across from one another at a small table in a cozy room. The slim one fills pages with neat handwriting in bold blue ink. The sturdy one smears graphite all over his thick fingers as he sketches. They are perfectly content in their shared silence. In a moment, one of them will look up, and smile.

CHEERFUL ORANGE SKETCHBOOK — You open the book to the next clear spread and start to draw.

NUMBER 19 BUS — When you look up from your sketchbook, you realize that you’ve gone a few stops too far. You’ll have to get out at the next one and walk back.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Medium: Success] — Good! You could use the exercise.

YOU — Before you put the notebook away, you take one last look at the picture you’ve drawn. You think you’ll show it to Dr. Benoit at your next appointment; it does a better job of conveying your feelings than any words you’ve been able to put together.

CHEERFUL ORANGE SKETCHBOOK — It’s a little shaky here and there from being drawn on a moving bus, but it works; you drew this in a much looser style than you used for the nightmare drawing.

A man in an RCM uniform stands at the crosswalk in front of a 24-hour video store, looking toward the boarding area of the aerodrome on the facing page. The waiting crowds are indistinct, save for one figure: not Dolores Dei with her silk gown and wreath of glory, but Dora Ingerlund. Her face is not unnaturally perfect: it is the face of a normal human woman who happens to be very pretty. She is wearing simple, normal traveling clothes and carrying a suitcase. She looks over her shoulder toward the man, giving him a sad smile.

The man is waving goodbye, his shoulders straight. He is not chained to anything. Behind him, the vague outline of a Coupris Kineema motor carriage.

The man has tear tracks on his face, but he looks peaceful.

The man is you. 

May 25, CC51

41st PRECINCT MOTOR POOL — At the bottom of the repurposed silk mill, where lorries were once loaded with bolts of fabric bound for the wardrobes of the wealthy, a series of bays holds a row of armored motor carriages. In the far bay, a mechanic with a block of fine-grit sandpaper and a pot of paint works to repair the side panel of a Coupris 40 into which the words “FUCK THE PIGS” have been carved with something sharp. All the motor carriages show the signs of hard use: dings and scrapes and patched-over bullet holes, misaligned wheels, cracked headlights.

All the motor carriages but one.

In the first bay—the one with the best access to the street—a brand new ’51 Coupris Kineema gleams in the bright lights. Unlike the others in the pool, its keys are not present in the lock box behind the desk: only certified pursuit drivers are allowed to use it, and there is only one certified pursuit driver at the 41st Precinct. This motor carriage is permanently assigned to him.

KIM KITSURAGI — In his few short months at the 41st, Kim has endeared himself so completely to the mechanics who maintain the motor pool that they permit him to keep his own tools in the garage, neatly stowed in a large rolling tool chest with a lock. He goes down to the garage often; he’s proved himself adept enough that they let him take on maintenance and repair jobs any time he wants to. He says that keeping his hands occupied helps him think.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — It does, but he also just likes doing it. His new Kineema is amazing, but sometimes he misses the constant tuneups and tinkering that the old one needed to stay in top condition. Fortunately, the motor pool at the 41st provides more than enough work to keep everyone busy.

KIM KITSURAGI — He finishes laying out his tools on the top of the workbench and picks up a cardboard box. “All right,” he says, smiling at you. He smiles more easily here than almost anywhere else. “Ready to get started?”

YOU — “Born ready,” you say, snapping finger guns at him. You’re wearing paint-splattered jeans and a threadbare Ostentatious Orchestrations t-shirt. Changing out the headlamps on the Kineema shouldn’t be that dirty of a job, but there’s no need to take any chances. “This’ll be fun. It’s almost a shame this one is too new to need much done to it.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He huffs a breath, the ghost of a chuckle. “I have no doubt that time and our jobs will take care of that soon enough,” he says wryly.

YOU — “True.” You grin at him. “Après le Kineema, le Kineema nouveau.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He actually laughs aloud at that, and you bask in it like you’ve just discovered another cryptid.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Trivial: Success] — Kim is wearing actual mechanic’s coveralls. They are the same nondescript blue that the station mechanics wear, but his are tailored to fit him perfectly. He keeps them in his locker at the station. He’s also wearing a pair of thin, flexible work gloves with reinforced grip. He looks like a member of the pit crew at a TipTop Tournée race.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — He looks really good. So, Harry, how’s that mind project coming along?

YOU — The mind project is… well. It’s fine. You’re making progress; you think you’re getting pretty close to finishing. It’s just really hard to tell how close. Your estimates of how long a certain project will take to complete are usually really good, but this one has defeated you. You updated your estimates so many times that you finally just threw up your hands and decided it would be done whenever it was done.

’51 COUPRIS KINEEMA — You and Kim work together just as smoothly installing the headlamps as you do when working a case. The job isn’t exactly difficult, but it is fiddly, and it helps to have an extra set of hands for some of the steps. The two of you chat idly as you work, on topics ranging from your open cases to how on earth Torson managed to glue his left nostril shut when Dr. Gottlieb had already ordered the entire station not to give him any more cyanoacrylate to the latest TipTop results to what you thought of the new Suzerainty expansion.

YOU — Since you had your breakthrough about Dora earlier in the week, you’ve been sleeping better than at any other time in your admittedly short memory. Having the MC to focus on helps distract you from getting weird around Kim. You’ve even been doing better about remembering to eat and hydrate regularly, like a functional adult human. All in all, you’d be feeling good today even if you weren’t getting to spend the afternoon with your favorite person. The fact that Kim was willing to spend his afternoon off with you, letting you help him work on his precious MC, just makes things even better. You are absolutely going to draw this tonight for your happy sketch.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim tightens the final bolt and secures the chrome cover back in place. “There! That’s done it. Great work.”

YOU — “Ace’s High?” You hold up your hand, hopeful.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim is not the kind of man to leave you hanging. “Ace’s High!” He slaps your hand, grinning widely. The solid impact sends tingles all down your arm.

YOU — You adore this man.

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] — Wait, what?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — OH YEAH HARRY BABY THAT’S THE TICKET! We’re DOING this! Finally!

BREAKTHROUGH IMMINENT

Opening the Floodgates

Solution: You know now why the weird feelings were so foreign and so familiar at the same time. You’re infatuated with Kim, probably more than halfway in love with him: you just didn’t recognize it because he’s a man. You don’t think you ever felt that way about a man before, or at least, not consciously. (Your whole Guillaume Le Million thing takes on kind of a different tone in hindsight.) But Host on High, do you ever feel that way about Kim. You want him any and every way you can get him. His smile puts the breath in your lungs, his support makes you feel you can take on the world, his body makes your body light up with desire like all your organs are glowing at once. The thought of kissing him—of holding him—of more than that—makes you weak with want.

This might become something of a problem for your professional partnership in future, but at least you won’t waste any more time wondering why you’re being so weird about him, so at least that’s something?

Yeah. That’s something.

+3 Empathy towards Kim Kitsuragi: attuned to his every word

+1 Electrochemistry: He’s so cool, and also so hot.

-1 Reaction Speed when Kim Kitsuragi is present: trying too hard to hide your infatuation

-1 Hand-Eye Coordination when Kim Kitsuragi is present: Can’t look away from him

 

YOU — It’s a good thing that Kim is busy putting his tools away, because you’re just standing there staring into space.

VOLITION [Heroic: Failure] — Wow. You’re fucked.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Challenging: Success] — That’s the idea! It’s now my top priority. Don’t worry, Harry, I won’t give up until you and Kim get down.

YOU — That’s what I’m afraid of.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] — You don’t know how to do that with men!! Shit, you don’t remember how to do it at all! You’ll be terrible at it and Kim will hate you and everything will be ruined! Again!!!

VOLITION [Heroic: Success] — Okay okay. Sorry. That was just a surprise. I’m fine now. Look, Harry, you are getting ahead of yourself here. Leaving aside anything to do with a physical relationship, do you really think you’re ready for another emotional relationship right now? Especially one with someone who is so important to you?

YOU — I… I’m probably not, no. It’s only been a week since I figured out the thing about Dora. I mean, it was a good week, but still.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — You’ve made some progress repairing your relationships at the precinct, but it’s still early days. Kim is still your staunchest ally and greatest support.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — But now that he knows, he can at least jerk off thinking about Kim, right? Right?

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Give this one an inch…

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — It’s gonna happen anyway. He’s regaining his virility now that he’s gone off the liquor-and-amphetamine diet. Only question is if he’ll feel guilty afterward.

VOLITION [Legendary: Failure] — All right. Fine. Jerk off to Kim until you grow callouses on your dick if you want to, just please don’t make any moves on him until you’ve figured out a way to handle a relationship without blowing up everything else in your life.

Task gained: Figure out what you need to do so you don’t fuck things up with Kim.

YOU — I can do that! I’m… pretty sure I can do that. I’ll figure something out. Maybe Dr. Benoit will have some ideas. About the not fucking it up, I mean, not the… other thing.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Just leave that to me, Harry. I’m putting together some amazing memories for you to use later, when you’re alone. This is gonna be epic.

Task gained: Jerk off thinking about Kim.

LOGIC [Medium: Failure] — I’m sure this will all go completely well with no issues whatsoever.

May 27, CC51

YOU — You start talking as soon as you’re through the office door. “So, doc, I have a question.”

DR. BENOIT — She looks up from her notes, a little surprised. You usually let her open the conversation. “Of course, Harry. What is it?”

YOU — You drop into the chair and lean forward, elbows on your knees. “Okay. So. First, I know I’m not ready to do anything about this right now. I’ve got too much else going on. But I hope I’ll be ready eventually, and I want to not fuck it up when I get there, you know?”

DR. BENOIT — She nods encouragingly.

YOU — “So, um, my question is. Let’s say that some day I meet someone that I want to, you know. Be with. Romantically.”

DRAMA [Challenging: Failure] — She totally believes that this is all a hypothetical situation, sire, and has no idea who the object of your hypothetical interest might be.

YOU — “How can I keep from fucking it up again, like I did with Dora? I know a lot of that was my—” you gesture at your head, trying to encompass everything that contributed to your earlier downfall. “But not all of it was. And I don’t want to do that again to K—to anyone that I might be with, in the future.”

DRAMA [Challenging: Failure] — A seamless recovery, my liege.

DR. BENOIT — She smiles at you. “First, Harry, I want to note that this kind of forward planning is a step in the right direction for you. I think it’s a great idea to think about things that you can do now to make sure that you’re in a good place to have a healthy relationship again someday.” She leans forward, her eyes bright.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — I’ve really helped him, she thinks. Moments like these are the best part of this job for her. It makes her feel like all the rest is worthwhile.

DR. BENOIT — “So let’s talk strategies.”

Chapter Text

May 31, CC51

Kim set his pen down and stretched, wincing a little at the way his spine cracked at the movement. They’d closed a case that morning (CHILI CON POISON—not the most original name, perhaps, but he found it amusing) and spent most of the day finishing the report. He glanced over at Harry, who was scribbling industriously on his paperwork with movements too loose and curvy to be writing; he must be making another one of the sketch illustrations he’d taken to appending to his notes. It was a little unusual—and a new thing for Harry, according to the rest of their colleagues—but it was surprising how often Harry’s remarkable eye for detail and superb visual memory came in handy. They had Kim’s camera, of course, but the ampoules were too expensive to take photographs of every crime scene they investigated.

Harry really had been doing well, especially over the last few weeks. He got around town mostly by cycling—Lieutenant Vicquemare had carried through on his threat, and Harry had been issued a road bicycle painted in police livery—but the extra exercise seemed to be doing him good. Kim was generally at work earlier than Harry, and it was both a small reward and a test of his fortitude that this meant he was able to watch Harry arrive in the mornings in his tight FALN sportswear and then enjoy the sight of him coming up to the office after a quick shower, face flushed healthily from exertion, his hair half-dry and still curly from the damp.

He seemed to be sleeping better, too, or at least he wasn’t showing up groggy and bleary-eyed much anymore and his coffee consumption had decreased to levels that didn’t make one worry for the state of his cardiovascular system. He’d even started carrying a notebook around, one very similar to Kim’s own (except orange, and it was truly a test of Kim’s will not to read too much into the color choice) and writing in it. Drawing in it, really, Kim suspected. He’d never looked, much though he burned with curiosity to see what was inside. He knew better than to snoop in a man’s notebook uninvited.

Harry’s energy levels had improved, too. He had run Kim nearly ragged in Martinaise, so it was something of a shock when Kim had realized that he’d been low-energy during that time; the more he recovered, the more he seemed driven to move. He spent most of his office time pacing restlessly to and fro while he mulled over clues and tried to suss out connections, despite his cycle commuting and, judging from a few offhand comments he’d made, a new nightly running routine.

Judit had given Kim a sympathetic look, one day when Harry had gone down to the precinct gym “to do some active thinking,” by which he meant lift unreasonable amounts of weights while pondering his cases. He would come back, Kim had learned, glowing and mellow and languid, generally having pieced together some new investigatory thread for them to pursue. It was completely unfair.

“It’s kind of ridiculous, isn’t it?” she’d said, glancing toward the door. “I mean, it’s good that he’s getting back to normal, but I get worn out just watching him some days. Jean says he’s like one of those clever dogs that you have to exhaust with miles and miles of running every day so they don’t get bored and tear up your house.”

“I suppose he was a gym teacher, after all,” Kim said.

“Oh, yes, and apparently some kind of track and field champion before that, Jean says. Long-distance running, I think? And, what is it. The one where you throw the cannonballs.”

“Shot-put.” Kim thought of Harry in Martinaise, finding the shot-put in the old gym and hoisting it up, unconsciously holding it poised to throw for a moment before dropping it into his bag, not seeming to notice the weight. “Still, though, that was decades ago. Shouldn’t he have slowed down by now?” He immediately felt a little guilty about saying it, like he was being disloyal.

Judit laughed. “You’d think so,” she agreed. “I don’t know, maybe it’s like a steam engine. He has so much on his mind he needs to let the pressure out somehow. And better this than… what he did before.” Her expression turned serious. “None of us want him to go back to that.”

“No, certainly not.” Kim tried to look encouraging. “If it helps, he seems to be doing very well.”

“Yes, he told me he was going to that burnout program.” She looked thoughtful. “I thought at first it was some sort of Moralintern claptrap, but if it’s helped Harry that much, perhaps there’s more to it.”

“I don’t for a moment believe the funding was provided out of altruism,” Kim told her. “But the program was designed with input from actual officers. Plus, it is at least free.”

She’d laughed. “You make a good point, Lieutenant. Perhaps I’ll drop by some time myself.”

“May as well get what you can out of it while it’s available,” Kim had agreed, trying not to show the fierce exultation he felt any time one of his colleagues mentioned taking advantage of the program. “Perhaps I need to step up my physical exercise before Harry leaves me in the dust.”

He shook himself out of his memories and looked over at Harry again. He’d paused in his drawing and was looking out into the middle distance, the way he did when he was thinking something over intently.

It was nearly time to stop work for the day. Perhaps Kim should invite him to get dinner. They did it at least once a week, usually. It was… good. Pleasant, and companionable. Harry, for all his quirks, was surprisingly restful company, open-minded and good-humored and willing to look for the best in people.

“Lieutenant Du Bois? Ah, good, you’re still here. Can I borrow you for a few minutes?”

Harry looked over, startled, then relaxed into a friendly smile when he saw Civilian Consultant Heidelstam poking his head into the Lieutenants’ Office door. “Oh, hi Trant! Sure, what’s up?” He stood up, stretching.

“The Captain and I were having a meeting about that community liaison idea, and we wondered if you might have some time to discuss it?”

“Oh! Yeah, that’d be great.” Harry grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “Lead on. Bye, Kim! See you tomorrow if you’re gone before I’m done.” He grinned at Kim, warm and happy.

“Yes, goodnight, Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” Heidelstam said.

“Goodnight.” Kim watched them leave, a little taken aback. He wondered what on earth had Harry so excited about community liaison work. Most officers hated that sort of thing.

Well. He supposed he’d have to get dinner with Harry another day. Which was completely fine, of course. There was no reason that Harry had to tell Kim about every last detail of his days, or reserve his evenings just in case Kim wanted his company.

Nonetheless, he went home feeling somewhat disgruntled, and annoyed at himself for it.

June 16, CC51

Summer had finally arrived in Revachol, and Kim’s apartment had east-facing windows that filled his tiny dining nook with buttery morning sun. Since he wasn’t working that day, he indulged himself with an extra cup of coffee and the crossword puzzle, opening the windows to let the soft breeze in. It really was shaping up to be a lovely day, too pleasant to spend cooped up indoors working on tailoring his new summer uniform jacket as he had planned.

Perhaps Harry would want to do something. Kim tried not to monopolize his time too much; he didn’t want to encourage co-dependence. And, well, it was also easier to keep things on a professional footing if he limited his opportunities to do otherwise. Nevertheless, it was important for their partnership that they maintain their excellent rapport. Maybe there was some part of Jamrock that Harry might like to show Kim; he’d mentioned something about the open-air markets on South Boogie Street earlier in the week.

Decision made, Kim finished his coffee and picked up the phone, dialing Harry’s number from memory. It rang once, twice, three times…

“Du Bois.” Harry sounded a little out of breath; Kim wondered if he’d interrupted his exercise routine.

“Good morning, detective.”

“Kim! Hi!” He sounded delighted that Kim had called him. He always sounded delighted; it was part of the reason Kim didn’t allow himself to do it too frequently. “What’s up?”

“Since the weather looks to be pleasant for once, I was wondering if you might want to do something today. The street market, or perhaps a park?”

“Oh.” Oddly, Harry sounded disappointed. Did he not like those options?

“Of course, if there’s some other activity that you’d rather—” Kim started to say.

“I’m really sorry! I want to, I just—” Harry said at the same time.

They both stopped talking.

“Go ahead,” Kim said.

“I was just saying, I really want to,” Harry said reluctantly. “Really. It’s just, I can’t today. I’ve got a community liaison thing, Trant’s picking me up in… shit, fifteen minutes. I won’t be back until close to suppertime, probably.”

Kim blinked. Harry was doing community liaison work with Civilian Consultant Heidelstam? On his day off? All day?

“…Kim? I’m really sorry. If I’d known you wanted—I should have told you, I just didn’t think you’d care,” Harry was saying, his words coming faster the longer Kim was silent. “I mean, you always said—and I didn’t want to remind you of the pinball thing, only shit, now I just did. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Harry,” Kim said, feeling a little guilty for making Harry think Kim was angry at him. Kim wasn’t angry. It was a good thing that Harry had plans, and it would be completely unreasonable for Kim to expect him to drop everything at his whim. “I was just surprised. I didn’t realize you were doing liaison assignments. At the 57th, we left that mostly to junior and patrol officers.”

“Oh, well,” Harry said, sounding a little sheepish. “It’s a new thing we’re trying? In Martinaise, because the RCM ignored them for so long. And it was kind of my idea, plus they know me there, so the Captain is letting me do it officially so we can pay for supplies and stuff. Plus he said I can charge the hours as overtime, which is good. I’m trying to help pay for, um, the motor carriage I drove into the sea? It wasn’t fair for the others to have to pay for it, so I’m trying to cover as much of their shares as I can. Captain Pryce takes what I’d have gotten for the hours and credits it to the debt.”

Kim winced. As he’d transferred after the incident in question, his pay was not being docked for the wrecked MC. He’d actually forgotten that the rest of Wing C’s would have been. Damn it, he should have found a way to weasel that out of Joyce too. Forty thousand reál was nothing to Wild Pines.

(With five members of the task force at the time of the accident, the debt would come to eight thousand reál each. Lieutenant Vicquemare was not far wrong when he’d said he’d be paying for the wrecked Coupris until he died.)

“I see,” Kim said. “That’s very kind of the Captain.”

“He got Trant to work out a depreciation schedule for the value of it, too, so that helps,” Harry said. “I think he wouldn’t make us pay for it if the IG didn’t make him. I tried to get them to put it on just me, since I was the only one there at the time, but apparently the policy isn’t negotiable.”

“I believe it is meant to encourage a culture of good stewardship of police resources,” Kim said, “but it does seem unfair in this instance.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could join you today? I could contribute my hours to the cause.”

“I… that would be great, Kim, but are you sure? The kids will be there, and I know how you feel about, you know. Juvie.” Harry sounded like he was trying very hard not to get excited.

Kim sighed, as quietly as he could. His constant desire to make Harry Du Bois happy about things was getting to be a real problem. “It’s only one day, Harry. How bad can it be?” He winced as soon as the words were uttered; he wasn’t as superstitious as some, but that didn’t mean he wanted to tempt fate.

“Okay! Great! I mean, that’s great.” Harry sounded so pleased it was impossible to even think about backing out. “Um, I’m going early to set up and Trant is going to be here soon, but you could meet us there? At Plaisance’s bookstore, starting at one pm.”

“I’ll be there,” Kim promised. “See you soon.”

“Disco!” Somehow, Kim knew that Harry had just done a finger gun with the hand that wasn’t holding the telephone. “Oh, hey, there’s Trant. See you soon! Bye!” He hung up the phone with a clatter, and Kim was left listening to the dial tone as the realization slowly dawned that he had just agreed to go to Martinaise to do some kind of community liaison work. With children. On his day off. With Harry and Trant Heidelstam, who was a kind, intelligent, and pleasant man that Kim secretly found excruciatingly boring much of the time.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Harry got on with him quite well. Kim just didn’t have Harry’s inexhaustible appetite for impromptu lectures about random trivia.

He groaned, and went to change clothes. He’d have an early lunch before dragging himself out to Martinaise.

When he pulled up in the square, he saw a series of tables set up in front of Crime, Romance, and Biographies of Famous People. Harry was just coming out of the shop; he jogged out to meet Kim, waving as enthusiastically as if it had been weeks since they had seen each other instead of a day and a half. He had his hair pulled back, and was dressed in an outfit Kim had not seen before, paint-stained jeans and a t-shirt under some kind of many-pocketed canvas vest with an RCM insignia on the back. He was smiling in welcome, his face so radiant Kim felt a little better about his impulsive decision to spend his day off working. For free.

“Kim! You’re just in time. Everyone will be here in a few minutes, I just got done setting up. We usually meet in the Whirling, but the weather was so nice today I thought we’d sit outside where we can see the water.” He waved a hand toward the canal and the fishing village, both looking admittedly more picturesque in the sunshine, from a distance.

The bell over the bookshop door jingled, and Trant Heidelstam emerged, followed by Annette and, Kim was surprised to see, his small son… Mikael, he thought the boy’s name was.

“Lieutenant Kitsuragi! A pleasure to see you on this fine day. I was happy to hear that you’d be joining us. Say hello to Lieutenant Kitsuragi, Mikael.”

The boy mumbled something around the ribbon on his sailor hat, which he was chewing on.

“Hello, Mikael,” Kim said, trying not to sound pained. “Annette. Civilian Consultant Heidelstam.”

“Hello, detective!” Annette grinned at him, her eyes sparkling. “It’s nice to see you again. We’ve been hoping you’d come back. Mum says she can get that racing book you asked about if you want it.”

“I’ll have to speak to her about it before we leave, then,” Kim said. The book in question—an in-depth treatment of the history of custom engine tunings in TipTop Tournée—was an import from Graad, and somewhat difficult to come by; perhaps the day wouldn’t be an entire waste of time, after all.

“Go ahead and sit down, kids,” Harry said. “I can see the others coming, we can get started in a minute.”

“Others?” Kim shot an involuntary look over toward the back yard of the Whirling. The fence, he noted, had been repaired.

Harry waved toward the water lock, and Kim turned to see.

A group of people were crossing the canal bridge. Kim squinted, trying to make out their features as they walked up the sloping path from the water. The first was Lillienne, with her twin boys to either side of her; next was the blonde girl from the nightclub in the old church, the one that Harry had given his hat so she wouldn’t catch cold out on the ice. After that was…

Kim blinked, and took off his glasses, and wiped them, and put them back on to look again, but the sight refused to change: Cuno, the horrible gremlin child that had plagued their entire investigation, carrying Lillienne’s little girl on his shoulders. She was clutching her stuffed lamb in one hand and a handful of his unruly ginger hair in the other, a wide grin on her tiny face.

What in all Elysium was going on?

He was so taken aback that he just stood there staring until Lillienne reached the plaza.

“Good afternoon, detective,” she said warmly. “Nice to see you back with us; I’ve been telling that partner of yours he ought to bring you by.”

“Good afternoon,” Kim said, then stalled out a little. It didn’t seem exactly appropriate to say something like “why on earth are you trusting your daughter to that delinquent,” and he honestly couldn’t think of anything else to say. Thankfully, Harry came to his rescue.

“Great, we’re all here!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. His voice had an unusual tone; it was carrying and clear and authoritative, but still… approachable? Kim had never heard him sound exactly that way before. “Everyone grab a seat. I thought today we’d work on some landscapes.”

Cuno nodded at Kim as he passed by on the way to the tables. “Bino pig,” he said. “About time you showed up.” He then proceeded to lift the little girl off his shoulders and settle her on a seat where, Kim realized, a few phone directories had been piled so that she could reach the table.

Despite the insults, Cuno had sounded downright friendly. And he hadn’t used a single curse or slur. It was deeply disturbing.

As the group—including Lillienne and the girl from the church—settled in around the tables, Harry handed Kim a thick pad of paper. “Can you tear off one sheet each and hand them out?” he asked. Kim nodded, taking the pad, but caught Harry’s elbow before he could leave again.

“Harry,” he whispered, “what is…” he nodded at Cuno, trying to convey what in the actual fuck with his eyebrows.

“It’s cool,” Harry whispered back. “I’ll tell you later.”

Well. Kim had to be content with that, he supposed.

He busied himself with giving each person a sheet of thick paper. Harry handed around pencils and erasers and paintbrushes and tin boxes of aquarelles; Heidelstam set out little cups of water and plastic paint palettes. The smallest children, Kim noted, were clustered at one end of the tables, and given large boxes of crayons instead of pencils and paint.

That was Harry’s teacher voice, Kim realized. Harry had come to Martinaise to teach. An art class.

And even worse, it rapidly became obvious that he was good at it.

The afternoon passed in something of a blur; Kim mainly stood around watching the lesson, handing things out when requested, and trying not to make it obvious how wrong-footed he was by the whole situation. Harry was seemingly always moving, stopping by each student in turn to answer questions, demonstrate a technique, give a piece of advice, or lavish praise. He was absolutely in his element, and his students all seemed to be meeting him with equal enthusiasm.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Heidelstam murmured, nodding at where Harry was solemnly listening to Mikael explain that his indecipherable crayon drawing was in fact a picture of a würm attacking Martinaise. “I knew he was a teacher before, but it never really seemed real to me until the first class. He’s excellent with the children. Captain Pryce is very pleased with how things have been going so far.”

“I imagine so,” Kim said. “Especially after, hm, previous events.” He couldn’t help looking over at the plaza. Ruud had stood against the bookstore, just a short distance from where they were standing now. Harry had lain just there, a few meters away, bleeding out onto the pre-revolutionary mosaic tilework. Kim wondered if you could still see the stain of his blood on the ground in between the ghostly burnt outlines of Cindy’s graffito.

You’re bleeding out! Stay awake… look at me! Harry!

He felt a soft touch on his shoulder and shook himself out of his reverie, feeling his ears get hot as he realized that he’d just spent an unknown amount of time staring at the plaza in silence.

“That’s where it happened?” Heidelstam’s voice was low and kind.

Kim nodded.

“A terrible business all round.” Heidelstam shook his head. “I’m just glad that the both of you came through it all right. And that we’ve been able to make some small progress in repairing community relations here.”

“Do you think it will make a difference?” The words came out before Kim could reconsider, and he fumbled to explain. “I mean… with everything that has happened. The strike, the Union, the tribunal. Thirty years of neglect and poverty…” he trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought: and we think we can fix it with a few art lessons?

Heidelstam tilted his head thoughtfully. “Of course, you have a point, Lieutenant,” he said. “There are definitely many material and political issues here that need a more, shall we say, substantial investment in time and resources than we are currently able to provide. But at the same time, I would caution against underestimating the results that can come from seemingly small things.” He looked over to where Harry was bent over the table, listening intently as Annette pointed something out on her drawing. “Being trusted. Being heard. Having someone acknowledge that you need more than just the necessities of survival to truly thrive.” He cleared his throat. “I’m far from the Mazovian conceptualist Harry is, but even I understand that.”

A cool breeze kicked up, lifting the hair on the back of Kim’s neck. He looked back to the students and saw something besides an afternoon spent drawing: possibility. A few hours spent focused not on the grinding, unceasing labor of survival, but on creation; on making something beautiful, under the gentle guidance of a man who never even questioned their ability or their right to do it.

He remembered Harry, facing an ignominious defeat in Suzerainty because he’d invested in public education for his workers instead of engaging in a trade war with Kim’s apricot empire, insisting that he’d won the moral victory.

“Perhaps you’re right, at that,” Kim murmured.

The lesson lasted for about two hours, though Heidelstam and Lillienne took the smaller children away to run around the square for a while in the middle. At the end, Harry had everyone take turns telling the group about their work, starting with the youngest and working their way up.

The smaller children all produced crayon works of varying levels of incomprehensibility, which were pronounced to be, respectively, “Lamby makin’ sand castles” (Lillienne’s little girl, also called Lily), “a motor carriage flyin’ over the canal an’ it’s gone on fire” (Lillienne’s twins, in a joint effort taking up two sheets of paper), and “a würm attacking but Papa and Uncle Jean beat it” (Mikael.) Harry found something to praise about each one, whether it be the apparent softness of picture-Lamby’s coat or how heroic “Uncle Jean” indeed looked wielding a sword in each hand like the Man From Hjelmdall.

(If Kim was on slightly less formal terms with Lieutenant Vicquemare, he would have taken great pleasure in somehow obtaining the picture and pinning it to his desk. It wouldn’t be appropriate at this point, however; the two of them were still feeling each other out, both still more or less revolving around Harry like twin awkward moons.)

Annette had drawn Dick Mullen standing dramatically next to the bookshop in his signature coat and hat, looking out over the sea. Dick Mullen, in this case, had a curly brown ponytail peeking out from under his fedora and a pair of flared mustard-colored pants visible under the hem of his coat. Harry’s cheekbones actually flushed pink when he got a good look at it. Kim found that probably quite a bit more endearing than he really should.

Cuno was the next in line, and Kim found himself tensing up as the child opened his mouth. He’d spewed all manner of filth during the investigation, and there were sensitive little ears around.

“Cuno’s done the Locust City,” the boy declared, waving his paper in the air. “The f—the flippin’ Night City. Plague-style!” He was so excited his voice kept breaking.

“I like how you’ve used perspective to really show the size of the locust swarm in relation to the city,” Harry told him, with every appearance of sincerity. “It makes them look more threatening. Doom-style.”

“Hell yeah, pig,” Cuno said, nodding like a gangster who’d just negotiated a settlement with a rival besmertie. “Some real apocalypse shi—things.”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder approvingly and then moved on. “Acele?”

“Oh! Yeah,” the girl from the nightclub said. “I, ah, I went with something a bit more abstract? Just, you know, playing around a bit with color.” She’d filled her paper with translucent, overlapping shapes in various colors, blues and greens and grays with occasional splashes of bright red or yellow. Kim was no art critic, but it was an attractive enough composition, he supposed. The sort of thing one might find on display in a middle-class café in Revachol East. Harry seemed to like it, though, saying a lot of things about the “rhythm of the composition” and the color-layering being symbolic of life passing through the Pale.

The mention made something clench uncomfortably in Kim’s chest.

Lillienne had actually done her own artwork in between helping wrangle the children; it was a boat, cutting smoothly through marshy water. Kim bit back a laugh when he realized that there was a tall figure standing in the bow, holding a boom box on one shoulder.

For a man with as much existential angst as Harry had, he certainly managed to leave an impression.

“Now you, pig,” Cuno said.

“Yeah!” Annette chimed in. “Show us yours, ace detective!”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, fair’s fair,” he said. “Here.” He pulled the orange notebook out of one of his vest’s many pockets and held it up, opened to show a drawing that took up a two-page spread.

It was a pencil sketch, loosely done but full of life. Instead of a landscape, Harry had drawn the class. The students were variously drawing, painting, or (in the case of the twins) poking one another; Plaisance was just visible looking out of the bookshop window at the scene. To one side, Kim was startled to see representations of himself and Heidelstam, both looking off the edge of the page toward the plaza. Heidelstam looked concerned, leaning slightly toward Kim; Kim himself was standing stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. His face didn’t show any obvious expression, but something in the fluid lines of the sketch suggested internal turmoil nonetheless.

The only color in the picture was a wash of brilliant orange, highlighting the folds in Kim’s jacket.

“…and by choosing to use color in only part of the work, you can draw the viewer’s attention, or make a symbolic point, or establish a tone,” Harry was saying. “How would this picture be different if the only figure with color was Annette’s mum, here behind the window?”

He managed to engage them in what seemed, to Kim’s inexperienced eyes, to be a rather respectable discussion of art techniques. Kim wasn’t really listening; he kept seeing himself captured by Harry’s pencil, reliving that horrible moment at the tribunal, the strokes of color making him stand out from the background.

“You should use your brightest color on the most important thing in the scene,” Harry was telling Annette. “That draws the eye to the thing you want the viewer to care about the most.”

“Excuse me,” Kim muttered to nobody in particular, and ducked through the bookshop door. He wasn’t being of any particular help at the moment, after all, and he needed to speak with Plaisance about that book.

He managed to make the discussion last long enough that the class was breaking up by the time he re-emerged; he went over to help Heidelstam pack up art supplies while Lillienne herded her children back across the canal bridge, calling out a cheerful farewell over her shoulder.

“Finished with your little piggy paintings?”

Harry turned around, two folding chairs in each hand, and beamed at the girl who was leaning against the corner of the shop with her arms folded. “Cindy! Hi! It’s great to see you.”

Kim couldn’t decide what it said about Harry that he seemed fond of so many people who constantly called him a pig. Probably something positive, he supposed. It wasn’t as though the people of Martinaise had many reasons to be fond of the RCM, after all, so it was likely for the best that it was Harry who was taking the lead on the whole community liaison thing. Kim had never really been what you might call charismatic.

Cindy had shed her moth-eaten fur coat in deference to the warm weather, but she was still dressed like someone’s pre-Revolutionary grandmother. At least she was stylistically consistent, he supposed.

“So what did you do, Acele?” Cindy had sidled up to the table beside the other girl, watching her with bright, kohl-lined eyes.

“Oh!” Acele ducked her head, her pale face going bright pink. “Nothing much, Cindy. Just some color studies.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Acele! Cindy, look at how dynamic this composition is—” and Harry was away again, like he was Acele’s agent instead of her once-a-week volunteer art teacher. Cindy listened with a wry smile; between that and her old-fashioned clothes, she looked for a moment like she was the elder of the two.

“…and the stylistic allusions to Dolorian stained-glass art add an additional resonance to that symbolism,” Harry concluded.

Cindy looked at the watercolor for a long moment, then turned to Acele. “Piggo’s right,” she said. “It’s good.”

“Oh!” Acele’s blush, impossibly, got even brighter. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been working on something I think you might find interesting,” Cindy continued, with studied nonchalance. “If you wanted, you could come up to the studio and take a look.”

“I—that would be great,” Acele said. “Thank you! I really admire what you’ve been doing with your guerrilla installations lately.”

“Come on, then,” Cindy said, turning on her heel sharply and marching off in the direction of the Capeside Apartments.

“Yes! I mean, okay!” Acele snatched up her watercolor and waved at Harry as she hurried after Cindy. “See you next week, officer!” she called over her shoulder.

Harry watched them go, smiling indulgently. “Acele has the biggest crush on her,” he said softly. “Isn’t it sweet?”

Kim started to say something acerbic about how such a relationship could only end in Martinaise being swallowed by pretentious graffiti, but stopped himself; he was here in a semi-professional capacity, after all, and meant to be improving community relations. It wouldn’t do to speak dismissively of members of said community in public.

“It is quite charming,” Heidelstam said, smiling indulgently in their direction. “I wish the young ladies well.”

“Are you serving as a matchmaker now as well as an art instructor, detective?” Kim asked, letting himself tease Harry just a little. Truth be told, he was a little surprised at Harry recognizing the dynamic between the girls; it was not so many months ago that he had been completely dumbfounded as to why a certain witness had an older, wealthy “friend” whose visits only occurred at night. And to why said witness smelled nice, and was such a good listener, and never seemed to button his shirt.

“My pig can do whatever he wants,” a grating voice announced. “He doesn’t fu—doesn’t flippin’ care. Hardcore.”

Kim did not startle, but it was a much nearer thing than he would have preferred. He somehow had not realized that Cuno and Annette were still present, standing with Mikael Heidelstam over near one of the outdoor displays of books near the railing at the edge of the plaza. Annette was holding a book open, like she’d been showing the boys something.

“It’s good for young artists to have connections with their community,” Harry said, his mouth twitching in that way that Kim had learned meant that he thought he was doing a good job at suppressing a smug grin.

(He was not.)

“Ah, of course. Art connections,” Kim said. “I should have realized.”

Harry gave him an odd look, but let the comment pass, and Kim busied himself in helping the other men bring the rest of the folding tables and chairs back to the Whirling. He’d actually hoped to see Garte—he’d developed a certain amount of fellow-feeling with the man during his vigil over Harry after the tribunal—but there was a fair-haired young white woman standing behind the bar instead. There was something familiar about her, but Kim had trouble putting his finger on it until he saw Harry meet her eyes and flinch, immediately looking away and drawing in on himself, as though trying to make himself look smaller. Harmless.

Kim remembered, now. This was the bartender that had quit due to the trouble Harry had made during his memory-obliterating bender. The one who had fished his ledger out of the toilet. The one Harry had frightened, ranting about the apocalypse, screaming and sobbing in his room far into the night. Threatening to… to shoot himself.

A wave of nausea twisted in Kim’s guts at the thought. Harry had done that in front of so many people. Roy, at the pawnshop. Klassje. The entire Saturday night crowd at the Whirling karaoke stage. And… Sylvie, that was her name. Sylvie Malaìika.

Thank whatever gods or Innocences had led Harry to pawn his gun that night, and had gotten Roy to accept it despite his reluctance. If things had been different—if Harry had still had the gun when he’d hit his lowest point—

Kim did not usually consider himself a particularly imaginative person, but the image unspooled itself behind his eyes in a vivid rush. Walking into the Whirling, that Monday morning. Sylvie and Garte standing behind the counter, red-eyed and shaky. “Thank goodness you’re here, officer,” Garte might have said. “I’m afraid something terrible’s happened.” Going up the stairs. Opening the door to Room 1. And on the ground, Harry—but not his Harry. A crumpled, broken shell of a man, lying on the bloodstained floor amid a sea of broken glass and empty bottles. Kim would have… he would have performed the field autopsy, called the 41st, told them the news. He would have been sorry, as he is sorry any time he hears of an officer succumbed to despair. He would have given his condolences, and meant them.

He would have lost Harry, and he would have never known.

“Kim? Are you okay?” A big, warm hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Do you need some water?”

Harry.

The real Harry, his Harry, standing beside him smelling of cinnamon and sweat and pencil shavings, his face pink from the afternoon sun, his brow furrowed as he looked down at Kim in concern. Alive, and healing, and so much happier than he had been. Kim looked up into those guileless green eyes and felt the tense knot in his shoulders unfurl.

“I’m all right,” he said, trying to pull himself together. “Apologies, detective; I must have spent too long in the sun this afternoon.”

Harry gave him a long, worried look. “You should sit down for a while,” he said. “Here, let me—” he took the folding chairs out of Kim’s hands and hurried into the back room, emerging a short time later empty-handed and holding a glass. He took hold of Kim’s shoulder again and gently steered him to a chair, pressing the glass into his hands. “Drink that,” he said. “Aren’t you the one always telling me how important it is to stay properly hydrated?”

Kim sipped the water obediently. It was a little embarrassing for everyone to think that he had neglected so basic a matter, but better that than to try to explain what had really happened. There was no graceful way to tell someone that you had been temporarily frozen with horror imagining what might have happened if he had killed himself the night before you met. “I’m fine, Harry,” he said. If his voice was perhaps softer than was completely appropriate, it could always be attributed to mild dehydration. “Go finish what you were doing, I’ll come join you when I’ve finished this.”

Harry looked like he was going to argue, then sighed and nodded. “All right,” he said. “But don’t push yourself.”

Kim waved him off with the hand not holding his water glass, and Harry went, though not without a few glances back over his shoulder on the way out the door.

“He cares a lot.” A soft voice, female; one he had last heard distorted by static over the radio of his old Kineema. Kim looked over at the bar.

“Ms… Malaìika, was it not?”

She smiled. “Just call me Sylvie, officer,” she said. “Laurence told me how you helped him when that awful shooting happened. How both of you helped.”

“Lieutenant Du Bois more than I,” Kim said. He felt a strange urge to defend Harry to her, even though she hadn’t even looked at him crosswise so far that day. “Despite suffering from the aftermath of an unusual medical episode, he saved many lives that day at great risk to his own. Mine included.”

“Yes,” she said. Her gaze was steady and knowing; Kim supposed that bartenders did tend to have a good grasp of human nature. “I’m glad he’s doing better now. I will admit I wasn’t happy when Laurence agreed to let the RCM use the Whirling for these sessions he does, but he’s been very careful not to cause any trouble.” She gave a lopsided little smile. “Honestly, I’m starting to feel kind of guilty over how careful he’s being to stay out of my way. He doesn’t even talk to me; he always sends any messages over with Mr. Heidelstam. He even sent an apology letter for before. And some money to help pay a taxidermist to repair Scottie.” She waved at the wall, where Kim noticed that the great skua that Harry had broken was indeed repaired, hanging next to the ruffled grouse that Harry had offered to Garte in apology during the investigation. “You know, I see a lot of drunks in my line of work. They don’t usually… change, like he has. I think he said he was doing some kind of treatment?”

“The RCM recently received a philanthropic donation which allowed us to provide enhanced health care to our officers,” Kim said. “And Lieutenant Du Bois has been working very hard to take advantage of the opportunity. He regrets the actions he took earlier this spring, during his… difficult time, and has tried to make amends where he can.” More than Kim had even known, apparently; he wondered how many other little apology letters Harry had sent.

“I can tell,” Sylvie said. “I thought the art classes were some kind of… I don’t know, some sort of Moralintern bullshit? Something to put in the notes of some committee report so the Coalition can pat itself on the back for their services to the needy and then go back to ignoring us for another thirty years. But even if that was the idea originally, he sure doesn’t seem to think so. He takes it really seriously, and the kids adore him, even that awful de Ruyter boy who used to hang out in the backyard all the time.”

“Cuno?”

She nodded. “I don’t know how your partner pulled it off, honestly. That kid was a menace, but since I came back to work here he’s really not been a problem. He spends most of his time down at the fishing village now, I think? Lillienne says he’s gone back to school, even. But either way, at least he isn’t hanging around here shouting profanities and slurs all day. It makes for a much more pleasant environment.”

“That… is impressive,” Kim said. “I must admit, I would have pegged that one for a hardened delinquent. And the girl as well, though I haven’t seen her today?”

“Oh, nobody’s seen her for ages,” Sylvie said. “And good riddance, though I suppose I should be ashamed of saying that about a child. She was such a hateful little thing, though. Sometimes I was honestly frightened of her. She seemed like the kind who might cut your throat in your sleep.”

“She did, at that.” Kim swallowed the last of his water and brought the empty glass up to the counter. “I appreciate your hospitality,” he said. “And your generosity, in allowing the RCM to use your facilities for our community liaison work. Please give my regards to Mr. Garte.”

“I will,” she said. “You’ll probably see him if you come again; he likes to be here for the classes, but there was some kind of trouble at the kebab stand today so he had to be there instead.” She bit her lip, looking uncertain, then pressed on. “And… you can tell your partner he doesn’t have to avoid talking to me anymore. As long as he stays like he is instead of, um, how he was? I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.”

Kim smiled at her. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that very much, Miss,” he said, and went out onto the plaza to rejoin the others.

Harry was standing in front of the Heidelstams’ car, pointing at something in a book that Cuno was holding. “…and that’s the key thing to remember about the Wayfarer Act,” he was saying. He looked up and grinned. “Kim! Hi! Are you feeling better?”

“Much better, detective, thank you.” Kim looked more closely at Cuno, noticing that the boy did seem a lot less jittery than he used to, and his pupils were normal. No speed today, then. Had he turned over a new leaf in truth, or had he just lost his ability to procure it? It was entirely possible that the Hardies had clamped down on the minor drug trade in Martinaise in the aftermath of the tribunal. “More art theory?”

“It’s for pig school.” Cuno slammed the book shut and clutched it to his skinny chest, lifting his chin defiantly. Kim could see the cover, a familiar shade of blue with stamped white lettering: RCM Handbook for Junior Officers. “My pig needs an apprentice. We’re gonna take on the streets, bino, justice-style.”

“Don’t call Kim a bino,” Harry said.

Cuno huffed. “Fine. Officer.”

“There you go.” Harry clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. “I knew you could do it. You’ll be ahead of them all by the time you’re fifteen.”

The boy glowered, but Kim noticed that he leaned ever so slightly into the touch. He wondered, with a rush of queasy guilt, when the last time was that Cuno had known anything but rough handling from an adult. “I’m ahead of them all now, pig.”

Harry chuckled. “Oh, here, before I forget.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a battered coin purse. “For the phone.” He picked out a handful of 10-centime pieces and gave them to Cuno, who shoved them deep into the pocket of his grubby FALN pants. “You know what to do if you need anything?”

“I know, pig,” Cuno said. “I got this. Code 31-style.”

“Good job.” Harry snapped him finger guns. “I think you know the codes better than I do.”

“Not like it’s hard.” Cuno preened under the attention, looking for a moment like an ugly ginger bird. “Anyway. I got business down the village.” He shot Kim a beady-eyed look. “Why don’t you come with me, Officer? We need to talk.”

Harry started to say something, looking vaguely alarmed, but Kim waved him off. He was curious as to what the boy wanted to say to him. “I’ll meet you back here when we’re through, detective.”

“Right. Good call, pig.” Cuno started marching toward the canal bridge, and Kim fell into step beside him. They walked across the bridge in silence, then Cuno led him down the pebbly strip of beach to the rusted old swingset. Kim could see the dim blue bulk of Harry’s wrecked motor carriage in the water just offshore.

“Where’ve you been, pig?” Cuno demanded, scowling. “I can’t say this around my pig, he thinks you shit gold bars or something. But you’re falling down on your job.”

“I beg your pardon?” Kim hadn’t been sure what Cuno wanted, but he certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

“You heard me. He’s down here all the time, like. Fixing that fence, you know, checking on Isobel, doing his art classes. And you’re his partner, ain’t you? But I don’t see you here till today, rolling up in that MC all TipTop style while he’s coming round on the bus. So where’ve you been? He’s kicking the booze, pig. Man needs his partner when he’s doing that intense shit. Cuno knows.” The boy shook his head, a shadow crossing his face. Judging from how high he’d been during the investigation in Martinaise, he did indeed know something about the matter.

Kim felt guilty, and vaguely resentful about it. “I didn’t know he was doing any of that,” he said, trying not to sound defensive in front of the twelve-year-old. “He never mentioned it. If he had asked, I certainly would have accompanied him. Today is the first time he invited me to come along.” Only because he’d coincidentally tried to invite Harry to do something else, but Kim saw no need to elaborate on the subject.

“I appreciate the difficulty of what Lieutenant Du Bois is doing,” he continued, gentling his tone. “And I assure you, I am doing everything I can to support him in his recovery.”

Cuno squinted up at him, and Kim tried not to feel pinned by the unexpected weight of his gaze. “All right, TipTop,” he said at last, and something tense in the air dissipated. “Reckon I’ll be seeing you next week, then.” He stuck out a hand, smeared with graphite and paint and who knew what else.

“I suppose so,” Kim said, and forced himself to shake the boy’s hand without shuddering. He even waited until he was halfway across the canal bridge to wipe his own hand clean on his handkerchief.

This really had been a day of revelations.

Harry was hovering on the pavement near Roy’s pawnshop when Kim reached the other side of the bridge, looking like he was ostentatiously trying to not look nervous. Kim smiled.

“Relax, detective,” he said. “I promise I escaped unharmed.”

Harry blew out a breath, then shook his head, chuckling. “I never worried for a minute,” he said, transparently lying. “You, ah, you have a good talk?”

“It was… enlightening,” Kim said. “I must admit I’m very curious what techniques you’ve used to rein in that child’s tongue. I haven’t heard him use a single slur all day.”

Harry shrugged. “I just told him he’d have to stop if he wanted to join the RCM,” he said. “I think Lillienne and Isobel did the rest.”

“Yes, that was another thing I wanted to ask about,” Kim said, as they got back to where he and Heidelstam had parked. “If you don’t have any further business with Civilian Consultant Heidelstam this afternoon, perhaps I could give you a lift home? I’d like to hear more about the work you’ve been doing here.”

Harry perked up visibly, then shot an anxious look at Heidelstam. “Trant, would you mind if I rode home with Kim? I’m sure Mikael will be wanting his supper soon.”

The other man smiled. “No problem, Harry. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Thank you for coming today, Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” He tugged Mikael out from behind his coattails. “Mikael, say goodbye to the lieutenants.”

“Bye,” the boy muttered, nearly inaudible.

“Bye, Mikael!” Harry waved cheerfully. “See you next week! I can’t wait to see what you’ll draw next time.” He elbowed Kim in the side.

“Goodbye,” Kim said awkwardly, trying to include both Heidelstams.

It felt comfortable to have Harry settled into the Kineema with him as he carefully drove back over the drawbridge and onto the 8/81 back towards Jamrock. Even when he was quiet, the other man had a way of filling any space with his presence; if Kim had not liked Harry so much, it might have been somewhat exhausting. As it was, it just felt… right; like knowing backup was right around the corner, or coming home at night to warmth and light instead of cold and darkness.

“So, um, Kim,” Harry said. “I know you probably have lots of questions, and you weren’t meaning to do this today, but if you wanted—do you want to have supper with me? I mean, it’s nothing fancy, just sandwiches, but I’ve got plenty and I thought if you wanted we could talk, during?”

He probably shouldn’t, Kim thought. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to care about professional boundaries where Harry was concerned.

“That sounds very nice,” he said. “I’d enjoy that.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror just in time to see the brilliant smile spread over Harry’s face like the sun rising over the sea. It made something light and eager fizz in the space between his lungs.

“I thought you were a gym teacher,” Kim said. “So how is it that you decided to give art lessons?”

“Well, I didn’t think anyone would show up if I offered exercise lessons,” Harry said. “Plus, it turns out I have an actual art degree? I found the diploma in my apartment. I guess maybe there was more need for gym teachers than art teachers in Couron or something so I had to do that instead.”

“I did think you knew a lot of art theory for a detective, let alone a gym teacher,” Kim said. “Perhaps you actually taught both art and gym, and Lieutenant Vicquemare either didn’t know or simply didn’t mention it.”

“Huh.” Harry was quiet for a while, thinking. “That actually feels right, though I can’t say for sure. Maybe they were trying to save money.”

“That, I think, is a near-universal state in Revachol.”

“You’re not wrong there.” He gave a funny little sigh and continued, his voice softer. “I think maybe I haven’t done art in a long time. My, ah, my therapist suggested I try it, when I told her about finding the diploma. I was really rusty but it’s coming back the more I draw, like my fingers still remember even if my brain doesn’t. I don’t know why I stopped; I really like it. It helps.”

“Then you should keep doing it,” Kim said at once. “It has professional benefits too, of course, but even if it didn’t, your enjoyment is reason enough. I did tell you to take up a hobby.”

“And you were right. Another fine life lesson from Lieutenant Kitsuragi.”

Kim kept his eyes on the road, but could hear in Harry’s tone that he was smiling. “Just the voice of experience,” he said.

“You never did tell me what your hobbies are.”

“I suppose I didn’t.” Kim wasn’t sure why he’d felt the need to keep them a secret. What possible harm could it have done to let Harry know, even that early in their acquaintance? He cleared his throat. “I enjoy following TipTop Tournée,” he said. “I tailor my own clothes. I do crossword puzzles. And from time to time, I have enjoyed building model aerostatics.”

The MC was silent for a long moment except for the sounds of the 8/81 outside the cabin. Kim glanced into the mirror again, feeling a little exposed and wondering why Harry wasn’t saying anything.

Harry was staring at Kim in awe, looking like Kim had just offhandedly given him a map to the secret treasures of Le Royaume instead of telling him a few minor details of his personal life.

“Harry?”

“Oh! Sorry, Kim, I just—that’s so disco.”

“I think you may be the only man in Revachol who would think so, but thank you.” He steered the Kineema smoothly onto the exit ramp, heading toward Harry’s place on Perdition Street.

“That must be why your clothes always look so good on you,” Harry continued. “I thought maybe it was just because of how cool you are.”

That was… gratifying. “I doubt even the ‘coolest’ person on Elysium could cause their clothes to fit better without doing some tailoring,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “But I do appreciate the thought.”

I could tailor something for you. He bit his tongue to keep the words back. That would be a step too far, much too personal and presumptive to be appropriate. If Harry wanted his eclectic wardrobe to fit him better, he had the ability to hire it done like anyone else.

Reaching his arms around that broad chest to pull the measuring tape around. Recording the girth of those arms, those thighs. Kneeling in front of him to pin up his trouser hems. Harry’s body draped in clothing made by his own hands.

He pushed the mental images away and concentrated on finding a safe place to park the Kineema near Harry’s apartment building. He’d been to Harry’s place before, of course; they got together for food and board games at least every other week, and Harry always hosted. If asked, Kim would claim he never invited Harry over because his place was so far away from the precinct; he hadn’t been able to break his lease and was still commuting in from the Harbour District for another month or so. In fact, if he were honest with himself, the truth was that he was afraid of inviting Harry into his space. Harry had such an intense presence; Kim was a little afraid that once he had seen Harry in his home, he’d never again be satisfied to be there alone. He spent enough time picturing Harry on his couch, at his table, in his bed; the last thing he needed was actual memories of Harry moving through his private spaces to make his imagination more vivid.

(It had been eight years since Kim had lived with a lover. Things had ended poorly, the last time, and after Gio had left, their apartment had seemed haunted with the echoes of him, every corner holding ambushes of memory: laughter, kisses, quarrels. Kim had moved as soon as he practically could, and considered the slightly higher rent a bargain.)

Despite everything that had happened to him, Harry was so much braver than Kim felt able to be. Perhaps it was easier for him, in some ways. Kim thought that he had himself found it easier to trust when he was younger, before certain betrayals had taught him to expect the worst from people. Would he be like that again, if he forgot those lessons? Or would the ghosts of pain still linger, even uncoupled from their causes?

“I, ah, I didn’t clean up, or anything,” Harry said, pausing in front of his door. “Sorry if it’s a mess.”

“I won’t hold it against you, detective.” Kim smiled, trying to reassure him. “I did join you today at the last minute, after all.”

He relaxed. “Well, you’ve seen worse, either way,” he said, unlocking the (several) locks.

(Kim had copies of Harry’s keys, given to him on their first day of official partners. “In case anything happens,” Harry had said, and Kim had read the anxiety underlying the sentence. In case I forget again.)

Despite Harry’s concerns, his apartment was fine; a little cluttered with the detritus that Harry accumulated everywhere he went like a bird feathering his nest, but the overall effect was actually pleasant. There was something reassuring about seeing a stack of books and an empty coffee cup next to what was obviously Harry’s favorite reading chair, a series of figurines lined up on a shelf, a stout little pot plant on the window ledge, an easel set up in one corner. It was certainly worlds better than empty bottles, broken glass, and gummy, reeking puddles of spilled wine.

Harry’s little kitchen barely had enough room for him, so Kim leaned against the wall just outside it to talk to him while he made his meal preparations.

“So,” he said. “Cuno.”

“He’s really not that bad, underneath,” Harry said. “Bright kid. Observant. Creative. A lot more caring than you’d think when you first meet him. Getting off the speed helped, of course.”

“Your influence?”

Harry snorted. “More like his dad stopped being able to get any,” he said. “I think the Hardies cracked down after that whole thing with Krenel, Evrart locked that harbor up tight. But to Cuno’s credit, he hasn’t gone looking for it anywhere else. I think that’s a good sign.”

“Ms Malaìika was telling me that nobody has seen the girl lately.”

“Cunoesse? Yeah, she took off.” He shook his head, pulling a container out of the refrigerator and putting a small saucepan on the stove. “How do you feel about cream of tomato soup?”

“I like it.”

“Good.” He poured soup into the pan and turned the heat on. “Did you know she wasn’t his sister or anything? He didn’t even know her real name. He found her hiding in the janitor’s closet in the Capesides, she was there for days. After a while I think he sort of adopted her—he’s got a good heart underneath it all—but she scared him. He told me she’d killed before.”

Kim thought about it. “It wouldn’t be unprecedented, sadly, even at her age. It’s not common, but sometimes…”

“Yeah.” Harry gave the pot a stir and started slicing bread. “Anyway, she wasn’t happy that he was spending so much time talking to us. After the tribunal, she wanted Cuno to leave with her, but he wouldn’t.” Harry sniffed a little. “You know, I think he was worried about us?”

“About you, maybe,” Kim said. “He seems to have nominated himself to be your… I’m not even sure. Protegé? Hype man?”

Harry scoffed. “That’s just because I talk to him like a human being,” he said. “He’ll get over it soon enough.”

Privately, Kim doubted that, but he let the comment pass.

“So Cunoesse took off back to wherever she came from, I guess. Anyway Cuno needed somewhere to go when his dad was drunk, which is basically always, so I asked Isobel if he could stay in the shack in the village as long as he promised to behave, and she said he could. Turns out he’s apparently really good with Lillienne’s kids? He’s been a big help to her and Isobel both. I think he’d knife anyone who looked at little Lily cross-eyed, he adores her.” He sounded approving; Kim couldn’t really blame him, not considering the things a person might run into in some parts of Revachol West.

“And the RCM handbook?”

“How else is he going to get out of there? And I really do think he’d be good at it. He just has to unlearn some things, you know? I mean, don’t we all. Well… maybe not you.”

“Oh, I assure you, I had to unlearn a great many things in my day.” Kim watched Harry slicing tomatoes, feeling an impossible depth of fondness for the man. “He’s very fortunate that you took an interest.”

“Me? I didn’t do anything anybody else wouldn’t have done. He’s only twelve! He just needed someone to give him a chance, needed something to make him feel good about himself that wasn’t, you know, stupid macho posturing.” Harry gestured with his knife. “Lillienne and Isobel are really good for him. Plus, he calls me sometimes when he wants a man to talk to about shit. So.” He opened the fridge again, rummaging around. “What kind of cheese do you like? I’ve got Mesque Red, Caillou cheddar, and something that was just labelled ‘cheese slice.’”

“Cheddar, please,” Kim said. “I must admit, I’m starting to feel I’ve been remiss in my duties toward Martinaise.”

Harry looked up, his eyes wide. “What? Of course you haven’t. I’ve just been trying to help out because of all the… you know. The trouble I caused with the whole Tequila Sunset thing.”

“Tequila Sunset didn’t have anything to do with the local delinquents’ home life.” Kim allowed his voice to go just as warm as it pleased. “I think that’s all you, Harry.”

Harry bent over to stir the soup pot. The back of his neck was bright pink. “I, ah. Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you think it’s… good, what I’m doing. I’m trying real hard, but… well, you know. My decision-making hasn’t always been the most reliable. It means a lot to have a trustworthy second opinion.”

“It is good,” Kim said. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to do absolutely everything alone. We’re partners, after all. I hope you know that any time you could use my support, you have only to ask.”

“I know that!” Harry bit his lip. “It’s just, I know that I’m. A lot. And since I lost my memories I don’t really… there’s a lot of empty space in here, you know?” He gestured at his head with the soup spoon, flinging droplets of tomato soup onto the kitchen cabinet with the motion. “I’m trying to fill it up with good stuff, on purpose, so there’s less room for bad habits to get in. But you’re normal, you have an actual life apart from work. You’ve got a lot more to worry about than dealing with me.” He turned the stove off and turned away, reaching plates down from the cabinet. “Sometimes I think I ruined Jean’s life,” he said, his voice very small. “Did my best to pull him down with me and it’s only luck we both made it out alive. I couldn’t stand it if I did that to you, too.”

Kim was moving before he had consciously decided to, taking three long steps into the kitchen. He laid his hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing just a little. Harry’s skin was warm through his threadbare t-shirt. “Harry,” he said. He felt Harry shiver a little beneath his hand, and let go reluctantly. “Please turn around.”

Harry turned, slowly. He was clutching the plates to his chest with both hands, not meeting Kim’s gaze. “Sorry,” he said. “I made it weird, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to. Just forget I said that.”

Kim wanted to say a thousand things. He wanted to tip forward and rest his head on Harry’s broad shoulder and listen to him breathe. He wanted to reach up and pull Harry’s face down and kiss him until he stopped looking ashamed. He wanted to throw decorum to the wind.

“I’m not normal,” he said.

Harry jerked his head up, an almost comical look of surprise on his face. “What?”

“I’m not normal,” Kim repeated. “I never have been. I honestly cannot remember a time in my life when I looked around at my ostensible peers and thought, ‘yes, I fit right in here. I belong.’ So if ‘normal’ is the standard—if such a thing even exists, which I very much doubt—I fear we are both going to miss that mark.” He reached out and took the plates from Harry’s hands, setting them on the counter.

“But you’re not normal because you’re better than them,” Harry said. “I’m just—”

Kim held up a hand, palm out, like he was a junior officer directing traffic; Harry stopped talking immediately.

“Just what, Harry? Just a lieutenant double-yefreitor after only eighteen years on the force? Just a detective with one of the best case solve rates in the RCM?” He dropped his hand, softening his tone. “Just a man who has worked tirelessly to make amends for his past wrongs, many of which he no longer even remembers committing? Who has done everything he can to ensure he will never go back to the way he used to be?” Harry’s eyes were wet, now, but Kim couldn’t stop the outpouring of words that bubbled up from somewhere deep within him. “Just the only man in Revachol who looked at Cuno and saw a child in need of help instead of a problem to be solved? Just the man I—” he stopped himself, reeling, and corrected course. “Just my partner, and my best friend,” he said, forcing his voice to be calm again. “No, Harrier Du Bois, you are not normal. And I am very glad of it.”

His heart was hammering as though he’d just been running. What was he doing, what was he doing? He couldn’t just say things like that. But how could he not, when Harry had sounded so beaten? Harry should be proud of what he’d accomplished. He had worked so hard.

They were standing very close together, now. Kim could feel the heat of Harry’s body on the bare skin of his forearms; he had to look up to see Harry’s face. And the look on that face—broken open, completely without artifice, looking at Kim like—like—

It was hard to take. Kim didn’t know what to do with it. Once, when he was very small, his class at school had gone to a farm, and someone had placed a baby chick in his cupped hands. It had been so light, so soft. He’d been paralyzed, terrified that he would hurt it somehow.

He was the kind of man you trusted with hard things, with guns and motor carriages and murder investigations, with logic and process and control. A proud man, to a fault sometimes. A bit vain in certain ways. Independent, and stubborn, and reticent, and deliberate.

He met Harry’s eyes and felt the ghost of down tickling his hands, something new and very easy to crush, all fluttering heartbeat and matchstick bones. For a moment, he was almost angry at Harry; what did he think he was doing? He should protect himself better. He should—

“Kim,” Harry said, his voice thick. “I want— can I—” he made some kind of indeterminate gesture, and Kim nodded without thinking.

The next thing he knew, he was held tight against Harry’s chest with Harry’s head on his shoulder, Harry’s breath uneven against the skin of his neck.

Oh. Oh.

He feels so real, Kim thought, absurdly. Harry lived so lavishly, for good or ill, that sometimes Kim forgot that he was just a man like any other, flesh and bone and breath. It was impossible to forget, now, not when he was pressed so close. The beat of Harry’s heart and the motion of his breathing, the little twitches of muscle, the faint wetness on Kim’s shoulder where Harry was crying into his shirt: suddenly it all seemed overwhelmingly intimate, like something Kim was never meant to witness. The weight and the heat of him, big and messy and alive. Precious.

And then there was the other thing. What Kim had just barely stopped himself from saying. To Harry, about Harry: the man I love.

There would be no strictly controlled half-measures here. This was Harry; he should have known from the start there would be no keeping him contained. Kim had been deceiving himself all along.

Slowly, with a feeling like he was walking on cracked sea ice, he put his arms around Harry’s waist and hugged him back. Harry’s breath caught, and held, and then rushed out of him in a shuddering, half-voiced sigh. Tense muscle under Kim’s hands relaxed, and Harry’s hands curled into the back of Kim’s shirt.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling so wanted. He’d had sex that felt less intimate than this. Part of his brain was shrieking warnings—this was dangerous, this could go so badly wrong, this could annihilate him—but the rest of him just wanted more.

Four months ago, he didn’t know what money was, a little voice whispered in his brain. Annette had to explain books to him, remember? “Like a friend telling you a story in a really long letter.” Do you really think this is desire? He’s an innocent, looking for human connection from his friend. Don’t read more into this than is really there.

The thought was like a splash of cold water. Kim forced himself to loosen his hold and give Harry a few pats to the shoulder, trying to gently withdraw without making him feel rejected. Harry took another deep, tremulous breath and stepped back, pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe his wet face and revealing a strip of soft, pale belly downed with fine hair.

That wasn’t fair. Kim put his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch. He was thankful he’d worn a baggy pair of cargo pants that day, just to be safe.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I, ah. That was—thank you. That meant a lot to hear, especially from you.” He sniffed.His eyelashes were long, still clumped together with his tears. Kim hadn’t particularly noticed them before.

“It is all true,” Kim said. Even the part he hadn’t said out loud.

“Thank you,” Harry said again. “You—you’re my best friend too. The best friend ever. You’re like the Innocence of best friends.”

Kim had to laugh at that, shaking his head. “Well, I won’t be holding my breath waiting for the Perikarnassian church to schedule my coronation,” he said. “But I think you promised me supper.”

“Oh! Right!” Harry looked around the kitchen, then waved Kim away. “Go on, sit down, I’ll bring it out in a minute, it’s basically ready,” he said.

Kim retreated to the little table, watching in silence as Harry finished assembling sandwiches and dishing out soup. He felt unsettled and excited by turns, and strangely achy in a way that was not physical, like some core part of himself, long-frozen, was finally turning to thaw.

June 15, CC51

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “…and the head of the biology department has invited Morell to do a lecture series on the Insulindian Phasmid next term! Isn’t that exciting, sweetie?” She leans forward in her wheelchair, her eyes sparkling.

YOU — “That’s wonderful, Lena! And so well deserved.”

MORELL AND LENA’S HOUSE — Your friends the cryptozoologists live in a neat little house on Tabernacle Road. It lies between your place and Martinaise, and you’ve stopped over to see them a couple times a month ever since you met this spring. At first it was mainly to talk about the phasmid—Morell’s article about it, proudly illustrated by the picture Kim took, had resulted in his career entering a renaissance—but by now you’re just regular friends.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Trivial: Success] — Cryptozoology doesn’t pay much—Lena and Morell wouldn’t live in Jamrock if it did—but the furnishings of the house and the quality of the refreshments Lena offers when you come by have seen a noticeable uptick since the first time you were here.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Lena’s so proud of him you can practically see her lungs. It makes you happy, too, not just because of the phasmid but because Lena was one of the first people in your memory to be kind to you and you like to see her happy.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Success] — She was also the first person in your memory to tell you that you were handsome. Honestly, the first person for a long time.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “But you didn’t come here to listen to me nattering on. What’s on your mind, sweetie?”

1. [Volition: Formidable 13] Ask Lena for advice about relationships.

    +1 Cryptozoological discovery of a lifetime

    +1 You’ve talked about her relationship before

2. [Rhetoric: Challenging 12] Lead the conversation around to relationships, but subtly.

    -1 Confidence shaken: Kim thought you looked 58 that time

3. Lose your nerve and ask her to tell you about another cryptid.

VOLITION [Success] — You can do this. She told you about her own insecurities before, and she knows both you and Kim. She has genuinely wanted to help you since the first time you met; she’ll do her best for you.

YOU — “Actually, Lena, I wanted to ask your advice about something? Um, if it’s not too much trouble?”

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “Of course! Anything I can do to help.” She smiles at you. “You’ve done so much for us, after all!”

YOU — “I just was wondering. I know you and Morell met through a dating agency and you first hit it off because of the phasmid, and all. But after that, what did you do to make it… good?”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — She’s a little confused. She’s not sure what you mean.

YOU — “I mean, I don’t know very many married people. And a lot of the ones I do know don’t seem very happy. But you two are. So what I’m asking is, how? Because I had a relationship go real bad, before, and I don’t want that to happen again. And you’ve been together sixteen years and you’re still really happy, so you must be doing something right.”

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — Lena’s cheeks go a little pink. “Oh, sweetie, that’s ever so kind of you to say.” She looks off to the side, to where a photograph of her and Morell is framed on a small table beside the sofa. “I don’t know that I’m all that more qualified than anyone else to give advice, but I’ll try.”

YOU — You set your cup of tea on the low table in front of you and pull your orange notebook and a pen out of your pocket. You flip to a clean page and title it RELATIONSHIPS, then think about it again and add (HOW NOT TO SCREW UP), and then underline it several times.

“Okay, go ahead,” you tell Lena. “I’m ready.”

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “Oh, my,” she says, laughing a little. “I’m sure nothing I have to say is as important as all that. But it’s good that you’re so serious about this.”

YOU — “It is?” You were a little afraid you were being super weird again. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “Of course it is. How else do you succeed at something other than by taking it seriously?”

VOLITION — She makes a good point there.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — This is good news for us. This one will be easy: we’re extremely serious about Kim.

YOU — You nod, and write “Take it seriously” in your notebook.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “I also think it’s important to have interests in common, but not to do absolutely everything together. If you’re never apart, what would you have to talk about?” She laughs a little. “Plus, I think you tend to appreciate things more if you have to miss them sometimes.”

YOU — “So if, for example—hypothetically—you both liked, um…”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success]— Solving crimes!

HAND-EYE COORDINATION [Easy: Success]— Target practice!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success]— Dancing the forbidden dance!

RHETORIC [Easy: Success]— Philosophical debate!

INTERFACING [Easy: Success]— TipTop Tournée!

YOU — “…motor carriage racing, but one of you liked to go to a com—political reading group and the other one liked to sew. That would be a good thing?”

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “It certainly could be, as long as both of you respected the interests the other one had that you didn’t share. That’s another important thing, you know. If you don’t respect someone, it doesn’t matter how much you like them, you won’t ever be on an equal footing in a relationship.”

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — Well, that’s easy enough. We definitely respect Kim. He has so much natural authority.

COMPOSURE [Easy: Success] — And he’s so cool under pressure.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Success] — He’s cool in every way, all the time.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — And he’s so kind, and loyal, and principled.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — And hot. Don’t forget hot.

YOU — He’s the best man in Elysium, I know that. But… what if he doesn’t respect me?

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Lieutenant Kitsuragi has a sterling reputation and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He probably wouldn’t have transferred to the 41st if he didn’t respect you at least a little, and he certainly wouldn’t have agreed to be your partner.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] — Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi sits in a diner across town, in his old precinct. He’s having dinner with two of his former colleagues; you know Officer DeMettrie from the radio, but you’ve never met Officer Laguerre, who was in Kim’s décomptage until his transfer.

“…really shoot the body out of the tree?” Sgt. DeMettrie is asking.

“He really did,” Kim says. His voice warms at the memory. “It was a hell of a shot, especially considering that he was unwell at the time. And it saved us from the very real possibility of having to ask the primary suspects to assist us with the body, which would have been… problematic, to say the least.”

Sgt. Laguerre smiles. “I bet he was smug for days; I know I would have been.”

“Most officers would have.” Kim smiles, his eyes going a little distant behind his glasses. “And he celebrated, certainly, but you know, he didn’t gloat at all? And any time he mentioned it afterward, he always talked about how ‘we’ had got the body down. I don’t think it ever occurred to him to use it as an opportunity to… prove his superiority, or score points, or any such nonsense. That was when I began to realize that he was the kind of partner I could trust. The kind of officer I could respect.”

COMPOSURE [Formidable: Success] — It means the world to you to hear that, but you don’t start crying, because that would probably worry Lena.

YOU — “Respect,” you say, making notes. “And… trust?”

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — Lena smiles encouragingly. “Oh, absolutely,” she says. “Trust is extremely important.”

RHETORIC — This is very promising. You and Kim have pretty much got everything on this list already.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Except that Kim isn’t your lover. You have to be missing some key component, here. Ask her what it is!

YOU — You frown down at your list. “Hold on, these are all things I have with K—I mean, these are things that might be true about lots of people,” you say. “Like, your best friend, or even someone you work with.”

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “Of course they are, sweetie. They’re important to any good relationship, not just romantic ones. Whether you’re building a house or a shop or a discotheque, you have to start with the foundation, right?”

YOU — “Sure, but let’s say your foundation is done. How do you build a disco instead of a… a Frittte, or a ice cream shop, or whatever?”

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “I think that varies from person to person,” she says. “Part of it is just… chemistry. Attraction. And of course, you have to actually tell the person you’re interested in that you’d like your relationship to go in that direction, but be prepared to handle it gracefully if they say no.”

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] — IF YOU TELL KIM HE’LL HATE YOU FOREVER AND THEN HE’LL LEAVE AND YOU’LL DIE OF LONELINESS UNDER A TRASH CONTAINER!

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] — It might make things a little awkward if Kim doesn’t feel the same, but he wouldn’t hate you. Not unless you refused to accept his answer and kept calling him in the middle of the night to beg him to give you another chance or something.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — We would never do that!

LOGIC — Ahem.

VOLITION — …again. We’ve grown a lot as a person since March. We have better coping mechanisms now.

MORELL AND LENA’S HOUSE — You hear a key rattling in the door, and then Morell comes through, already talking.

MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST — “You’ll never believe it, Lena, that bastard Deschamps called me today, and he had the nerve to—“ he breaks off as he gets all the way into the room, blinking as he sees you. “Oh! I didn’t know we had company. Hello, Harry.”

YOU — “Hi.” You give him an awkward little wave with the hand holding your pen. “Lena was just telling me about how to have a good relationship. I’m doing research.”

MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST — A broad smile creases his weathered face. “Well, you certainly couldn’t ask anyone better than my Lena!” He hangs his hat on the hook by the door and runs a hand over his untidy white hair.

PERCEPTION (Sight) [Easy: Success] — Lena’s cheeks go pink.

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — “I think you’re a little biased in my favor, darling.”

MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST — “Not at all, I just have lots of opportunities to see the truth.” He looks at you. “Still, good on you for asking. A lot of people would just assume, oh, it’s my partner, we’ve been through so much together, fought off armed criminals, discovered a rare species of insect—”

HALF LIGHT [Trivial: Success] — HOW DOES HE KNOW? This is a disaster, get out of here now! What if he tells Kim but makes it sound creepy?!

LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST’S WIFE — Lena coughs. “He’s asking about romantic relationships, dear. Hypothetically.”

MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST — “What? Oh. Oh!” He laughs. “Oh, how silly of me, of course you meant hypothetically.” He winks.

DRAMA [Medium: Failure] — False alarm, my liege. Your secrets are yet safe from his scrutiny.

MORELL, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST — “But regardless, you should always take Lena’s advice! Now, Harry, you’ll like this. You remember I told you about old Deschamps over in Sur-La-Clef? Well he’s had to eat his words since the paper was published…”

YOU — You pass a pleasant evening with Lena and Morell, and the topic of relationships doesn’t come up again. When you leave, you feel like you’ve gotten some useful information for the long term, but you’re still missing something. You need to figure out how to get Kim to agree to build a disco with you on the foundation of your partnership. Surely someone has a better idea than just having a talk about it. You need something special, so he knows how important he is. You need to woo him.

Task gained: Find someone who knows a lot about romance and ask them for wooing advice.

June 22, CC51

RUE DE SAINT-GHISLAINE — The bus lets you out just past the drawbridge before continuing on its labored way along the coast. It’s not raining, yet, though it has looked all day like it was just about to. Neha called you to see if you’d be willing to help her clear out some of the blocked-off halls in the Doomed Commercial Area, and you didn’t have any special plans, so you agreed.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Captain Pryce was also willing to mark it down as community policing overtime hours and apply it to the debt from your wrecked motor carriage, so that’s a plus. Every reál you can put back in your teammates’ pockets is a weight off your conscience.

RUE DE SAINT-GHISLAINE — The book-stands out in front of Plaisance’s shop have their covers locked over them today, likely in deference to the threat of rain. You can see Annette through the shop window, bent over her schoolbooks with the name of the shop floating above her like a banner: Crime, Romance, & Bio—

REACTION SPEED [Trivial: Success] — WAIT!! There it is!

YOU — There what is? The bookstore?

REACTION SPEED — Your task, Harry! To find someone who knows a lot about romance!

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — Remember how much Annette was able to tell you that time? Since she helps her mum at the bookshop, she knows all about romance!

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Are we sure she’s the right person to ask? She’s pretty young. And she knows about romance novels, not romance in real life.

SUGGESTION [Formidable: Failure] — No, no, this is perfect. She told us all about it before! Remember, she said that romance books are stories about nice and pretty people, and everyone is happy in the end. That’s exactly what we need!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Kim is the nicest and prettiest person on Elysium.

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — And we really want him to be happy in the end!

1. Okay! I’m gonna go ask her!

2. This is ridiculous, I’m not asking a ten-year-old for help with my love life.

YOU — Annette’s really smart. I bet she knows all about wooing. And those books probably say how to do it really classy, too, like Kim deserves.

Task updated: Ask Annette for wooing advice.

CRIME, ROMANCE, & BIOGRAPHIES OF FAMOUS PEOPLE — The bell chimes merrily as you enter the bookshop. Plaisance is upstairs doing inventory; when you come in she looks up, ready to give her sales talk, but deflates when she sees that it’s just you and gives you a halfhearted wave.

Annette, however, looks delighted to see you.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — It’s only partially because talking to you will let her put off finishing her homework. She does genuinely like you.

ANNETTE — “Hi, ace detective!”

YOU — “Hi Annette! It’s good to see you.”

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — Her smile widens.

YOU — “Listen, do you think you could take a break for a couple of minutes? I need help finding some… research materials.”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — She sits up a little straighter at that. It makes her feel important that a grown-up detective wants her help.

ANNETTE — “Of course, sir! I know where everything is in the shop! How can I help you?” Her voice takes on an unconscious imitation of her mother’s cadence at the end.

YOU — “Okay, so.” You clear your throat, a little nervous. “Remember the first time I came here?”

ANNETTE — “You mean when you were running around town without your shirt on and with party eyes? Or after that, when you’d lost your memory?”

PAIN THRESHOLD [Medium: Success] — Okay, that stings. But we can take it!

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — We’re much better now.

YOU — You manage not to wince. “Um, the second one,” you say. “When I’d forgotten what books were and you explained to me about crime, romance, and biographies of famous people.”

ANNETTE — “Oh, yes sir, of course I remember!”

YOU — “And you told me about postcards. That you can send to your friend, or your beloved.”

ANNETTE — She looks impressed that you remember. “That’s right! Do you need some postcards?” She looks like she’s about to jump up from her seat and find you some.

YOU — “Not postcards,” you say. “A beloved.”

ANNETTE — Her little face scrunches up in confusion. “At the bookstore?” She looks around. “But there’s nobody here but me and Mum.”

YOU — “I don’t want to get a beloved at the bookstore, I want to learn how to get one. And I thought, where else to learn about romance than here? It’s right there in the name of the shop!” You gesture at the window.

ANNETTE — Her eyes get very wide.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — This is the most exciting thing that has happened to her in months.

ANNETTE — “Oh,” she sighs, clasping her hands in front of herself. “That’s wonderful! Of course I’ll help you.” She hops up from her chair, looking determined. “Do you already have a lady in mind, or do you need to find one?”

YOU — “I do have someone.” You lower your voice. “It’s not a lady, though. It’s a gentleman. I don’t know if that makes a difference for getting a beloved or not.”

ANNETTE — If possible, she looks even more excited. “You mean like Jacob Irw and Alfie Delatraz?”

YOU — “Exactly like them! Except for hopefully without the motor carriage accidents.”

ANNETTE — She nods seriously. “Yes, you ought to be very careful. Even though it would be terribly romantic if you died tragically in a motor carriage race and your beloved collapsed in grief at your funeral.”

YOU — “I wouldn’t get to enjoy the romance very much, though, if I was dead. And neither would my, er, beloved. Since he’d be collapsed and all.”

ANNETTE — “Yes, that’s true. And also you wouldn’t be able to solve any more crimes if you were dead, and that would be a shame.” She chews on her lower lip, looking thoughtful. “I don’t think we have any romance books that are about a man and another man,” she said. “But perhaps we could look at some of the man-and-lady books and you could use your imagination.”

YOU — “I have a very good imagination,” you assure her.

ANNETTE — She nods. “Right. Okay.” She marches over to the romance section, with you trailing behind her like an unmoored aerostatic. “So the man you want to be your beloved - are you friends already? Or is he a dashing stranger?”

YOU — “We’re friends already,” you tell her. “Although he is very dashing.”

ANNETTE — “Of course he is,” she says, pulling several books off the shelves. “You wouldn’t want him as a beloved otherwise. Gentleman beloveds have to be dashing. Here, hold this. And this, Oh, and these—”

YOU — She loads your arms down with books and pulls you back to her little study area, shoving her schoolbooks aside and gesturing for you to put the romance novels in their place.

LARGE STACK OF ROMANCE NOVELS — The books have lavishly illustrated covers that mostly depict various ladies swooning into the arms of various men, while everyone’s hair and clothing billows as though the wind were coming from several directions at once. Do you want to know the titles?

1. Of course, that’s why I’m here.

2. Wait, what am I doing? No! (Flee the bookshop)

    -1 Annette is so excited to help

    -1 You really want Kim to be your beloved.

LARGE STACK OF ROMANCE NOVELS — The first one is called The Billionaire’s Secret Bride. The next one down is A Royal Courtship. This is followed by The Wicked Vespertine Earl, How To Marry A High-Net-Worth Individual, Wooed By A Noble Knight—

DRAMA — Ooh! Like Kim! Get that one, sire!

YOU — “What’s this one about?” You point at Wooed By a Noble Knight.

ANNETTE — “Oh, good choice, sir!” She pulls the book out of the stack. “This is about a poor boy who falls in love with a rich girl. He knows her parents won’t approve, so he goes away and becomes a noble knight in the Franconigerian cavalry. And then he comes back, and nobody recognizes him anymore, so he woos his beloved without telling her his secret. And she is sad at first, because she loved the poor boy and feels bad that she likes the knight now. But then she finds out who he really is, so that’s all right, and they get married and live happily ever after.”

YOU — “But I didn’t go away and come back as a knight,” you say.

ANNETTE — “You did go away, though,” she points out. “And when you came back you never had party eyes anymore. I think that counts.”

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — It does.

ENDURANCE — Some days were definitely like a battle. But you came through victorious.

+1 MORALE

YOU — “Okay, then. Tell me what I need to do.”

LARGE STACK OF ROMANCE NOVELS — Annette spends some time talking you through the pile of books, with notes on which parts of the story she thinks will give you the best ideas for wooing. When you’re done, you’ve added a page to your notes (RELATIONSHIPS — WOOING) and picked out several books for purchase.

ANNETTE — Annette rings you up, looking very proud of herself as she carefully counts out your change from the till. “Thank you for shopping at Crime, Romance, and Biographies of Famous People,” she says, her high-pitched voice very prim before she goes back to how she normally talks. “And don’t forget to come back and tell me how everything goes with your beloved!” She clasps her hands in front of her chest and sighs dreamily.

YOU — “I will! Thanks, Annette!”

DOOMED COMMERCIAL AREA — You’re a little late to meet Neha, but she was working on a commission and had lost track of time anyway, so she’s not mad. You get a good amount of work done before you have to go catch the bus back to Jamrock. On the way back, you start reading Wooed By A Noble Knight.

It’s really very good. You feel encouraged about how your plan is going.

Task complete: Ask Annette for wooing advice.

Chapter Text

July 1, CC51

“Du Bois! Kitsuragi!”

Kim looked up from his notes, started. Patrol Officer Roland had opened the door to the lieutenants’ office and stuck his head inside. “Captain needs you upstairs,” he said, after Kim caught his eye. “Soon as you can, please.”

Kim nodded. “We’ll be right up,” he said, and Roland left, satisfied.

“Kim? Do you know what this is about?” Harry looked a little spooked, though it was better than it had been right after his leave, where he’d seemingly expected every encounter with Pryce to end in some kind of disciplinary action.

“No,” Kim said. “Which is why we should go find out.” He gathered his notebook, making sure he had both his pens.

“Right,” Harry said. “Yes. Exactly. Good.” He picked up his ledger and slipped his orange notebook into his breast pocket. “Let’s go.”

Kim really was proud of how far he’d come, but he didn’t think it was the best idea to mention it in front of Lieutenant Vicquemare. Instead, he tried to make his tone warmer than normal. “After you, detective.”

They climbed the narrow iron stairs to the Captain’s office, where Roland had already retaken his seat at the reception desk. “Go on in,” he said.

Kim knocked, as a courtesy, then opened the door. He was a little surprised to see that there were people already in the office, sitting in front of the Captain’s desk with their backs to the door.

“…for giving me this opportunity,” one of them was saying. She turned around, and Kim was hard-pressed not to let his jaw drop in surprise.

“Officer DeMettrie? And is that—” he looked again, and recognized the other woman as well, one of the most promising patrol officers who had been stationed under him at the 57th. “Officer Laguerre?”

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Alice said, her eyes dancing with humor. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Hey, is that Alice?” Harry nudged Kim’s back, and Kim realized that he’d stopped still in the doorway. He moved inside, trying not to show how wrong-footed he felt, and Harry brushed by him to stand near the Captain’s desk, rocking up on his toes and back to his heels the way he did when he was excited about something. “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you! In person, I mean, not just over the radio. Did Kim tell you how that information you dug up on Kortenaer saved someone’s life in Martinaise?”

“Lieutenant-Yefreitor Du Bois! What a pleasure. Yes, he did mention that. I was very glad to hear that it helped.” Alice was blushing a little, Kim was astounded to see. She’d been in and out of the 57th with her father since she was a child; he’d assumed she’d long since lost the capacity.

Captain Pryce cleared his throat, and they all turned to face him with the air of scolded children. He was smiling, though.

“It seems the introductions are hardly necessary, but allow me to stand on formality,” he said. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi, thanks to your excellent recommendations, I’m happy to announce that the 41st has recruited some additional talent for the Major Crimes Unit.”

He could hardly believe his ears. He’d spoken to Captain Pryce at length after his transfer, about certain personnel who had perhaps not advanced as quickly at the 57th as their performance would warrant, and who might possibly be amenable to a transfer. He hadn’t honestly expected anything to come of it, though, even as thinly staffed as C Wing currently was in the aftermath of Harry’s spiral.

“Sergeant DeMettrie and Sergeant Laguerre will be assigned to you in the décomptage, Kitsuragi,” Pryce was saying. “I’d like them to work with Satellite-Officer Minot as well, as time allows. We’ll see about adding some additional officers to the unit to flesh out the décomptage once the three of you have some time to wear the shine off those new ranks.”

“Sergeant?” Kim looked at the two women with delight. “Both of you? That is wonderful news! And richly deserved.”

“And you’ll be assigned to Kim? That’s great! He’s the best,” Harry told them seriously.

Rosaline laughed. “We know, Lieutenant-Yefreitor Du Bois,” she said.

Kim cleared his throat, feeling his ears heat. “Offi—Sergeant Laguerre was assigned to my décomptage from the time she started as a junior officer until my transfer,” he said. “And Sergeant DeMettrie and I have worked together for many years as well.”

“My father used to bring me to work with him and make the juvie officers babysit,” Alice said, shooting Kim a mischievous look. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi was the only one with too much of a sense of duty to weasel out of it. He coped by giving me the junior officers’ handbook and quizzing me; I could have passed the entrance exam by the time I was ten.”

“Yes, well. Just because one works in juvenile crime does not mean one is good with children,” Kim said. “And it yielded a fine officer for the RCM, so it paid off, did it not?”

Beside him, Harry was practically vibrating with excitement. “You knew Kim when he was in juvie?” He looked between the women in delight. “Do you have stories? I want to hear all your Kim stories.”

Kim sighed. “Detective…” he said, and Harry looked sheepish.

“Um. If that’s okay with you, Kim.”

“Perhaps we should discuss all this later,” Kim said.

Pryce looked amused. “Oh, don’t let me keep you, Lieutenants,” he said. “We were just about done, here. Why don’t you take your new colleagues downstairs and show them around Wing C? I had Roland clear out a pair of desks in the Task Force room.”

“Of course, sir,” Kim said. He lingered in the office a little after Harry had led the others out, talking excitedly about how good it was to have them on the task force and how happy everyone would be to meet them.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I wanted to thank you, sir,” Kim said. “I appreciate you taking my recommendations so seriously.”

“They were good recommendations,” the Captain said. “From a source I trust. I’m happy to hear any others you have, going forward.”

“I—of course,” Kim said. He felt almost giddy. Captain Pryce—the RCM legend—trusted his judgment. “Anything I can do to assist, of course, sir.”

“Good man. Was there something else?”

Kim just shook his head, half-afraid he’d embarrass himself if he said anything more.

“Go on, then. Introduce your new sergeants around, I’ll see you at the party later.”

Kim blinked. “There’s a party?”

“Weren’t you paying attention? There’s always a party,” Pryce said.

There was, indeed, a party, or at least Wing C all left work early and decamped to a nearby club called Go Go Boogie. The establishment seemed unsure if it wanted to be a bar, a nightclub, or a karaoke lounge, but Kim gathered it maintained a steady popularity with the RCM by virtue of selling extremely cheap beer.

Kim’s own welcome party had been a quieter affair; he and Harry had still been suffering from some of the effects of their injuries from Martinaise. Because of that—and also, Kim suspected, out of a desire not to tempt Harry’s newfound recovery too far—he’d been welcomed ice cream and vanilla waffles in the break room and then everyone had been granted an hour of administrative leave. He’d appreciated it, at the time; now, seeing what the more usual practice was, he appreciated it more. He generally preferred quieter recreational pursuits, and it took some effort on his part not to seem too much of a spoilsport.

The corner of Go Go Boogie where the 41st had set up camp was buzzing. Everyone on the task force was excited about their new additions; it had been, as Kim overheard Judit say wistfully to Officer Pideau, a long time since they’d gotten two new transfers in at once. The team seemed to be taking the occasion as a good omen for the future, and celebrating accordingly. Sergeant Torson had managed to get his mother to make her vanilla waffles at short notice and bring them to the party herself. Captain Pryce had bought several appetizer platters for the group. Even Lieutenant Vicquemare looked happy; Kim almost didn’t recognize him without his perpetual scowl.

“Isn’t this great, Kim?” Harry appeared at Kim’s elbow, holding a glass of… something. It was bright green, and frozen, and seemed to contain approximately a dozen fat red cherries. It was garnished with a paper umbrella. And an orange wedge. And a few more cherries. And a red sugar rim.

“What on earth is that,” Kim said, eyeing the monstrosity.

“It’s a virgin Disco-tini,” Harry said. “I got them to give me extra cherries. It’s really good.”

“I see,” Kim said, very deliberately not wondering if Harry had even noticed the double entendre in what he’d just said. “It’s certainly… colorful.” His teeth ached a little just looking at the thing, but he wasn’t the one who had to drink it.

“I actually could drink a little, if I wanted to,” Harry continued, hitching himself up onto the stool next to Kim. “I talked about it with my doctors. My ampoule makes the alcohol not affect your brain the way it usually does, so it won’t trigger your cravings and such. But it turns out I don’t actually like it all that much without the brain part? So I usually get something like this. Plus a lot of times they think I’m the designated driver and give me a discount.” He leaned in and lowered his voice, his mustache tickling at Kim’s ear. “I don’t tell them I don’t really drive anymore. Don’t give me away.”

Kim chuckled. “Your secret’s safe with me, Harry,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve found something that works for you.”

“Jean says I’m not allowed to sing karaoke tonight,” Harry continued. “But that’s okay, the only songs I remember right now are sad ones, and I don’t want to bring down the mood.”

“Perhaps an argument against too much Sad.FM?” Kim suggested, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t like the thought of Harry not remembering any happy songs.

“Yeah, probably,” Harry said. “I’ll try to re-learn something happy before the next time we do this. We’ll have a little time, though. Captain Pryce isn’t putting me back in the décomptage for a while yet. He says it’s more important for me to work back up to helping Jean lead the task force. We’re going to re-evaluate in a couple of months.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, I don’t actually remember running it before,” he said. “I’d be just as happy to let Jean do it, but he doesn’t want to. Plus, I guess on paper it looks weird since he’s technically got the least time in rank of the three of us. We’ve talked about doing a joint thing, with the three of us splitting the duties, but we aren’t going to start until after I finish my program in September.”

“The Captain did mention something of the kind,” Kim said. “I wasn’t aware there was that specific of a timeline involved.”

“Yeah, it’s still a little fuzzy, but I think it’s a good idea. You should definitely be in charge of more things, anyway. You’ve got so much natural authority.”

Before Kim could parse that statement, Judit came up to his other side, giving them a gently chiding look. “No more shop talk,” she said. “Go mingle, lieutenants. Enjoy the night off; goodness knows we don’t get many.”

Harry toasted her with his elaborate drink and headed back over to the table where Mrs. Torson was handing out waffles.

“You’re good for him,” Judit said, watching him make his way across the floor.

“He is working very hard,” Kim said, feeling a little defensive on Harry’s behalf. “That’s all his own effort.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” Judit said. “Even before things got bad, last year, he hardly ever used to be happy like this. Even when he was drunk, he wasn’t happy so much as… manic. Like something was chasing him, all the time, and he was terrified it would get him if he stopped for even a minute.” She sighed. “Jean practically worshipped him, at first,” she said. “I was just a junior officer when he and Harry started working together, but he bragged about it nonstop for weeks; he was going to be partners with the Harrier Du Bois. Of course nobody ever mentioned it, but everyone at the precinct had heard the rumors about him. That he could get anyone to talk. That he could solve cases everyone else thought were impossible. That he’d infiltrated one of the big besmerties and lived to tell the tale.”

“Even I heard of that,” Kim admitted. “Not the officer’s name, of course, but that someone had managed it. I thought it was just a rumor.”

She nodded, and was silent a moment before her expression changed, turning determined and maybe a little nervous. “I know you think Jean is too hard on Harry,” she said, with the air of someone jumping into cold water so as to have it over with all at once. “You try not to let it show, but you’re…” she gestured at Kim’s face. “You look so neutral sometimes that it cannot possibly be real.”

Kim did not wince. He did not wince so hard that his neck twinged a little. “I have the greatest respect for Lieutenant Vicquemare,” he said. “He is a fine officer.”

“See,” Judit said, nodding like he’d just proved her point. “Like that.”

Kim briefly considered making his excuses and walking away, but… she wasn’t wrong, and he had a responsibility to do his part to contribute to positive morale among his colleagues. “I know that Harry caused him a lot of trouble, and hurt him personally on many occasions,” he said. “He has a right to be upset; I don’t deny it. And I know it must be… difficult, interacting with someone who played such a significant role in one’s life when that person remembers so little of it, for good or ill.” He looked down at his own drink. “But I can’t help thinking that it seems... cruel, to punish Harry now for the things that he did then. Things that he is working very hard to make restitution for, despite not having any memory of doing them.”

Judit looked over to the tiny dance floor, where Harry was leading Mrs. Torson in a surprisingly respectable Mirovian waltz. “He wanted to die,” she said. “You do know that, don’t you?”

Kim swallowed down bile at the reminder. “I know.”

“That’s what we were all afraid of,” she said. “Jean especially. That he had pushed us all away on purpose, like maybe he hoped if he made us angry enough we wouldn’t mourn him. When we realized he hadn’t been home all weekend… we were afraid that we’d left him there to die.”

Kim thought, again, of the pawnshop, the karaoke stage, the motor carriage plunging into the sea ice. Tequila Sunset, he had called himself. The old Revacholian slang for drinking yourself to death.

“It was... perhaps not an unreasonable fear,” he said quietly. “At the time.”

“Thing is,” she said, “ I think maybe Harry did die, in Martinaise. The Harry we knew, anyway. And it isn’t that we want him back the way he was, not after seeing what he can be when he isn’t so… burdened. It’s just... we cared for that Harry, too. And he’s gone. But he’s also...” she waved at Harry on the dance floor again; he was attempting some sort of three-cornered Ubi folk dance with Torson and MacLaine.

“Here,” Kim said. No matter what darkness lay behind him, Harry had come through it. That was the most important thing. “Doing better. Being happy.”

“It feels disloyal to miss him,” she said. “And yet, it would feel disloyal not to.”

Kim thought about that. In a way, he was the most fortunate among Harry’s colleagues; he didn’t have any old memories getting in the way. He could respond to Harry as he was, because he simply didn’t know him any other way. “Perhaps,” he said at last,”it might help if you were to think of Harry as if he were someone else? As though the two of us had transferred together from the 57th, and he just happens to resemble someone you once knew.”

“Après le Harrier, le Harrier nouveau?” She laughed. “How very Dolorian of you, Lieutenant.”

He shrugged. “I’m in favor of whatever strategies are effective,” he said. “Harry may not remember those times, but he remembers how he felt about people. It hurts him, this rift between himself and Lieutenant Vicquemare. All the more because he knows it was mostly his fault. Anything that might help them repair it would make him happy.”

“And what makes him happy, makes you happy?”

“He saved my life,” Kim said, and once the words had left his mouth he found he couldn’t stop talking. “He was bleeding out on the ground in front of me, and he used the last of his strength to warn me and give me his gun so that I could defend myself. He offered me respect as a colleague that I have struggled to get from men I’ve worked with for years. He was a better detective as a hungover amnesiac who had forgotten the concept of currency than many veteran officers I’ve known in full possession of their faculties. He is my partner, and my friend, and he woke up on a hostel floor five months ago with nothing. Everything he has, he’s clawed back from oblivion himself, so yes, Judit, anything that might give him back one of the few good things he’s lost would make me happy, too.”

Judit looked at him for a long moment, then smiled. “Oh,” she said. “Well, then. That’s good.” She looked back over the floor. Come and dance, Lieutenant,” she said. “Alice says you’re quite accomplished.”

“Alice is a traitor,” Kim grumbled halfheartedly, but he followed her over nonetheless. He couldn’t quite believe he’d said those things; at least Judit had a sense of discretion and was unlikely to punish him for his lapse in professionalism.

Someone had convinced the bar to put disco music on, and Harry looked to be having the time of his life. He danced with anyone who could be persuaded; Kim watched as he danced with Judit, with Trant, with Rosaline and Alice, and even, terrifyingly, with Captain Pryce.

“Enough of this wallflower act, Kits,” someone said at his elbow.

He sighed. “Really, Alice?”

She grinned up at him, the lights playing over her auburn hair. “Really,” she said. “Don’t make me bring up MURDER ON THE DANCE FLOOR.”

He froze for a moment in horror. “We had an agreement,” he said.

She just laughed, her eyes sparkling. “I think there’s a case to be made for any such agreements being invalidated by our transfers,” she said. “Don’t test me, Kits. Come dance.” She leaned in a little, lowering her voice. “This isn’t like the 57th. Nobody’s going to hold it against you. Look, even Lieutenant Vicquemare is dancing. You’ll stand out more if you don’t than if you do.”

The awful thing was, she was right, and they both knew it. “Fine,” he said, finishing his drink and setting the empty glass down on the table. “Remind me again why I encouraged you to join the RCM?”

“Because you were a juvenile officer who somehow had no idea how to relate to children?” She grabbed his hand and towed him out onto the floor. “Come on!”

The ancient sound system was so distorted that Kim could hardly tell what song was playing, but he didn’t really need to; he could feel the beat rattling in his teeth and reverberating in his chest. The group from the 41st were clustered on the floor, dancing with various levels of skill in groups and pairs. It was surprisingly easy to sink into it, letting his body take the lead like he did when he was shooting, or driving, or fighting. There was something freeing, there, in allowing thought be subsumed by pure physical effort.

He danced with Rosaline, her braids whirling around her as she moved. He danced with Judit, who smiled at him and shouted encouragements over the beat. He let Mack Torson twirl him around, did step-work next to Chester MacLaine, even spent half a song dancing with Lieutenant Vicquemare. Then a new song began, this one with a beat that was ingrained as deeply into his nerves as the rhythm of pinball flippers.

No. She hadn’t.

Alice made her way back across the floor, face lit up with mischief, and held out her hand. “Come on, Lieutenant. Let’s show them how we did things at the 57th.”

She had.

The pinball case, though the most influential of his undercover assignments, had been far from the first. That had been the case that they had named MURDER ON THE DANCE FLOOR, and it had required Kim and a brand-new Junior Officer DeMettrie to infiltrate an underground dancing competition. They had spent six weeks polishing their routine, drilling for hours on hours a day.

They’d taken second place, and apprehended the murderer (a member of the winning team, who had a bad habit of eliminating their rivals) at the victory party.

Alice wiggled her fingers, arching her brows at him. “What’s wrong, Kits, did you forget the steps?”

The others were clearing away, now, clearly realizing that something was about to happen. Kim could see in Alice’s face the moment she realized that his competitive streak wouldn’t let him back down from her challenge now, not in front of everyone. She grinned, mischief sparkling in her eyes; she’d looked much the same at ten years old, just without the pigtails.

He hadn’t forgotten the steps, and she knew it.

“Ah, fuck it,” Kim said under his breath, and took her hand.

The routine had been designed to be showy and impressive without being too difficult, and Kim had always had an exceptional muscle memory; his part came back to him almost at once, kept fresh by the occasional evenings Alice had talked him into going to some distant part of the city with her, at times when she just wanted to dance without the complication of warding off potential suitors (or she’d decided Kim needed to do the same.)

They swung around one another like a pair of pendulums. Kim could almost hear their instructor. ONE, two, THREE-and-a-four, keep those feet light, Kitsuragi! You’re not stomping cockroaches!

They reached the first chorus of the song, and with it the first tricky bit of the routine. It started with a flourish, the two of them at arm’s length from each other, and then—

—step-step-twirl, bringing Alice back in—

—turning side to side and then the hip lift that had taken them three days to master—

—and there, that was it! Kim spun them around, Alice’s legs tucked up neatly, her weight balanced between Kim’s hip and her arm slung across his shoulder. She was a little heavier than she had been at sixteen, but he was stronger than he had been at twenty-four, so it balanced out. He was distantly aware of cheering and clapping from the gathered crowd, but couldn’t spare any more attention than it took to meet Alice’s eyes and grin at her in triumph before drop-step-twirl, they were into the next section and away again.

The second verse, the last chorus, and coming up on the finale; they’d originally ended the routine with a showy finish. Alice looked up at him, quirking a brow. You up for it?

He probably shouldn’t. He’d probably end up getting kicked in the head or putting his back out or something. He was probably too old. He spun, catching a glimpse of Harry as he turned—standing at the edge of the floor, watching them enraptured.

He nodded at Alice. Let’s do this.

He led them in a wide circle, encouraging the onlookers to leave them plenty of room. They moved back to the center of the floor, and then it was too late to change their minds; they were in it, now—

—three-four-there, the airstep, Alice rolling over his bent back with her feet in the air: there, the straight lift and twirl: the bar of combination footwork that left them back-to-back: they linked arms, Kim planted his feet: Alice jumped, and Kim bent and lifted, and she flipped neatly over his head, her feet hitting the ground with a thud just as the music gave its last triumphant chord.

They just stood there for a moment, grinning at each other in triumph, and then a wave of sound broke over them. It looked like everyone in the bar had been watching, and now they were surrounded by a crowd, clapping and cheering and shouting encouragements.

“I can’t believe that worked!” Kim said, breathing hard. He’d half expected it to end in disaster.

“Neither can I, you lunatic!” Alice started laughing, then, and Kim had to join her—still amazed that nobody had sustained some sort of head injury—as their colleagues rushed forward to exclaim over them and a slightly slower song began to play.

“Kim. Holy shit, Kim, that was so disco!” Harry—of course it was Harry—was standing in front of him, his color high, looking as though he’d just had some sort of divine visitation.

Kim laughed, a little; he couldn’t help it. “I think it was some kind of hybrid swing, actually. But I’m not a choreography expert.”

“You have to dance with me like that.” Harry reached out a hand, imploring. “I mean, please? Please, Kim.”

“I don’t think I could lift you, detective,” Kim said, but he was already taking Harry’s hand, already moving. “And I’m afraid I only know how to lead.”

Harry looked down at him, his eyes shining. “That’s okay,” he said. He stepped in closer, resting his other hand on Kim’s shoulder. “I can follow you.”

Kim rested his hand at Harry’s waist. Harry’d taken off his jacket at some point, and his white satin shirt was damp over hot, soft skin. He was wearing the tie Kim had made him, but had untied it and undone the top two buttons on his shirt, revealing a thatch of thick salt-and-pepper hair. The notch of his collarbone was shiny with sweat. Kim could lean forward a few inches and lick it, if he wanted to. His mouth watered, imagining salt.

“You never mentioned you could dance like that,” Harry said. “You were amazing.”

Kim shrugged. “My skills are really quite limited,” he said. “That particular dance, we had to learn for a job.”

Harry looked, if anything, even more enthralled. “Undercover again?”

He nodded. “A murder at a dance competition.”

“Wait, how many things have you had to get really good at for undercover jobs? Are you secretly a TipTop driver, too? Professional squash player? Underground triktrak sensation?”

“One of those guesses is closer than you might think,” Kim said, unable to hold back a smug grin. He tried for a little twirl, feeling daring; Harry followed his lead flawlessly, though he had to duck a little to get under Kim’s arm. “But really, detective, you can’t expect me to give away all my secrets. Permit me to maintain my air of mystery.”

“I’m good at mysteries,” Harry told him earnestly.

“Well then, I suppose you’ll have your work cut out for you.” They were surrounded by other dancers, but nobody seemed to be paying them particular attention anymore; Kim felt light, almost giddy with it.

They stepped apart, and Harry added a little disco flourish before letting Kim reel him back in again. He was light on his feet for such a big man, his favorite high-heeled crocodile disco shoes for once completely appropriate to the setting in which he wore them. Kim had fallen back on the ancient dance lessons, running on automatic memory, which was good for his showing on the dance floor but unfortunate in that one lesson that had been drilled into him was the importance of maintaining eye contact with one’s partner.

Harry’s eyes were shining, clear green like a deep pool of water in the sunshine. His face was flushed with exercise, damp curls clinging to his forehead. He was smiling, so wide his dimples were showing, bright and unashamed. It felt almost indecent to meet his gaze, as though such joy was not meant to be seen without a filter.

“You’re so cool, Kim,” Harry said. “You should dip me.”

“What? Come on, Harry, I can’t do that.” He was picturing it instantly, though, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Sure you can,” Harry said. “Come on, it’ll be totally disco!”

“Harry—” his resolve was weakening, and he knew Harry could sense it.

“If you drop me I’ll tell them it was my fault,” Harry offered, and Kim had to laugh.

“If I drop you, it will be your fault,” he said. “Are you sure you know how to do this?”

Harry’s eyes went distant for a beat, and then he nodded. “Oh yeah,” he said. “At least, hm, eighty-six percent sure.”

“That much? Then who am I to argue,” Kim said. He grinned; the expression felt sharp on his face. “Brace yourself, detective.” The music was winding down, so he had to move fast; a little spin to build momentum, a few steps to get them into place, and—“Now,” Kim murmured, but he needn’t have bothered; Harry had already read the lead through their joined hands and was moving with him in perfect accord.

Step wide, weight slightly to your front foot to help you take the weight. Move your hand to mid-back and press gently to signal the dip, wait for your partner to push back into your hand.

Kim’s spread palm had covered Alice almost from shoulder to shoulder, but seemed much smaller resting against Harry’s broad back. If Harry slipped, it would be difficult for Kim to catch him.

Eighty-six percent, Kim reminded himself as they started to move.

You’re not here to sling her around like a sack of potatoes, Kitsuragi. She’s doing most of the work—you just keep the movement stable and balanced and trust your partner to do the rest.

Harry was heavy, dense and solidly built. For a panicked second, it was nearly too much, but then Kim felt Harry’s powerful muscles contracting as he moved, stabilizing his weight with thighs and core as he balanced perfectly between his own feet and Kim’s hand. He looked up at Kim for a moment, a cheeky grin on his face, and then arched his back into the dip, throwing his free hand back dramatically and pointing one snakeskin-clad toe, holding the pose for a moment before allowing Kim to guide him back upright. He whooped in victory and gave a swooping, theatrical bow, to raucous applause from the crowd.

“All right, enough,” Kim said, nodding at their colleagues in acknowledgement. “I need a drink.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder, trying to keep it casual. “Thank you for the dance, detective.”

Harry snapped him finger guns, his face radiant. “Anytime!”

This was going to be a problem, Kim thought, gulping down a tall glass of water. He couldn’t stop thinking about Harry tipping his face back, exposing the line of his bare throat, pale tender skin flushed rosy with exertion. Kim could set his teeth there, just at the square hinge of Harry’s jaw, could leave a trail of love-bites like blooming forget-me-nots down to the crook of his shoulder. He thought of Harry clutching him tight, shivering under his lips, begging him for more.

Enough. Any more of this line of thinking and he’d become indecent. He was in public. At a work event. Get your shit together, Kitsuragi.

Rosaline came up beside him, regarding him impishly over the rim of her glass. “So, Kits,” she said. “Your new partner sure likes to dance, doesn’t he?”

Kim groaned and buried his face in his hands. He was so, so fucked.

July 11, CC51

YOUR APARTMENT — The summer sunshine streams through your window, making even your dingy apartment seem cheerful.You’ve spread out your supplies on your kitchen table: books, notebooks, pens and pencils, a tall glass of lemonade, a few cookies on a plate that Lena gave you last time you were over. You are ready to plan OPERATION DISCO.

DRAMA — We should have named it OPERATION WOO THE NOBLE KNIGHT.

CONCEPTUALIZTION — No, this name is perfect! It’s all about the metaphor. Building on the strong foundation of our cherished friendship, transforming it into a place of joy and romance!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — And blowjobs in the bathroom! Believe me, that’s a key component of the disco experience.

EMPATHY — as long as it’s only a metaphorical bathroom. Kim probably wouldn’t think it was hygienic otherwise.

YOU — Since you talked to Annette, you have read (and taken notes on) all of the books she recommended, as well as High Speed Love, since the first time you read it you were more focused on learning about the homo-sexual underground in general than looking for courtship advice. While obviously you won’t be able to do all the things from the books—since you don’t own a yacht, you aren’t secretly the long-lost prince of Suresne, and you’re several hundred years too late to join the Franconigerian cavalry—you’ve identified a few key themes and you think you can probably extrapolate pretty well from there.

CHEERFUL ORANGE SKETCHBOOK — The section near the back where you keep your notes for OPERATION DISCO has grown considerably. You flip to your list of wooing techniques, which you have decorated in the margins with little doodles of disco balls and cartoons of your green snakeskin shoes and Kim’s boots cuddling that make you feel all soft and happy when you look at them. Your list reads:

1. Go for a walk/ride/boating trip together. Impress with ability to ride/drive boat/fight off attacking wild animal.
   PROS: Already go lots of places together. 41st has horses. Lillienne would lend boat again if I paid for fuel. Kim likes driving.
   CONS: I don’t remember how to ride. Also may be afraid of horses. No way to guarantee animal attack to heroically defend Kim from. Kim would probably want to drive instead of being wooed.
   QUESTION: Does it still work if the woo-er does the driving? I’m already impressed with his driving. Not sure this would get us that far.
   
   
2. Save younger sibling/aged mother/dearest friend from disgrace/bankruptcy.
   PROS: Shows that you care about the people he cares about
   CONS: no siblings, mother is dead in Revolution, I think I might actually be his dearest friend.
   QUESTION: does saving myself from disgrace count?? He has said he’s proud of me a lot. And the whole Tequila Sunset thing was pretty disgraceful so finishing my program might count as saving myself from it? Does the saving still count if I caused the disgrace myself too?
   
   
3. Pay attention to rival in order to inspire jealousy, then dramatically reveal that you think he is better in every way
   PROS: He is better in every way, that’s just the truth. Show everyone how cool he is!
   CONS: He doesn’t really like being the center of attention. Might be embarrassed. Not even sure he has a rival. Would Jean be his rival? Don’t want to hurt Jean’s feelings, especially since he’s mostly stopped yelling at me now. Might come across as insincere/untrustworthy??
   
   
4. Get on knees, make passionate and poetic speech declaring eternal devotion, begging to be allowed to remain by his side
   PROS: 100% mean it!! Could probably work up a pretty good speech given time.
   CONS: Leg still a little dodgy since Martinaise, getting stuck on knees would ruin the atmosphere. Might embarrass him if I did it in front of other people. Maybe a little bit too much for a first step? Might come across too needy/desperate in an unsexy way?
   
   
5. Compose aria/write sonnet/paint picture extolling his beauty and virtues
   PROS: Can actually paint! Also he might like a picture for his apartment or his desk at the precinct and if he hung it up he would think of me when he looked at it.
   CONS: He probably wouldn’t want a picture of just himself though, he’d probably think that was arrogant. Maybe a picture of something else he likes? The Kineema? Maybe him in the Kineema?
   
   
6. Save from loveless arranged marriage by offering to marry him instead
   PROS: would be married to Kim, one million out of five stars!!!!!
   CONS: don’t think there’s anyone in a position to arrange a marriage to save him from. Kim unlikely to go along with arranged marriage anyway unless he wanted it. Don’t think he stands to inherit any property with secret emerald mines under it for any wicked earls to plot to steal. (If he was secretly rich he’d have bought the RCM body armor years ago.)
   
   
7. Hand stuff: kissing, holding, pressing tenderly while gazing meaningfully into his eyes
   PROS: [Just a bunch of scribbled doodles of hands, hearts, little explosions, disco balls, etc.]
   CONS: He wears gloves a lot and most of the time he isn’t wearing them we’re at the station or somewhere else inconvenient for romantic hand things
   MORE PROS: What if I kissed OVER the glove, and then along the edge, and then slipped it tenderly off his hand and kissed it again on the bare skin???!!!
   MORE CONS: I might literally have a heart attack and die if I did that… Still not convinced it’s a bad idea if can find an appropriate place/time.
   
   
8. Ask parents/respected elders for permission to present my suit for Kim’s hand
   PROS: Show respect, seriousness.
   CONS: Parents dead. Only respected elders that I know of Captains Pryce, Berdyayeva. Might get fired or put on leave again if asked Captains for Kim’s hand. Also Kim is the one who decides who gets his hand anyway.
   
   
9. Be caught in freak snowstorm together, huddle for warmth, be forced to marry afterward to safeguard reputation
   PROS: Cuddling!! In the snow!! With Kim!!!!
   CONS: It’s summer. Also nobody really cares about our reputations so we wouldn’t have to get married to save them. Also applies to alternate scenarios i.e. shipwrecked together, motor carriage ran out of fuel after fuel stations closed, etc.
   
   
10. Narrowly defeat him in championship motor carriage race, win him over with driving skills (like Irw and Delatraz)
    PROS: Kim loves driving fast and racing
    CONS: motor carriage in sea, street racing illegal, flaming MC crash not romantic
    
    

INTERFACING [Easy: Success] — We should do the driving one!!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — We should definitely do the hand one!

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — We should make him art, as a tribute!

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — We should go down on our knees to swear our eternal devotion and fealty unto him, sire.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — Absolutely not! There will be no pansy-ass kneeling as long as I have anything to say about it!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success]— Well if I have anything to say about it, we're gonna be kneeling a lot, so get used to it, square-jaw.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success]— Kneeling would put you at the correct height for many activities. You could wrap your arms around Kim's hips and lean your head against his stomach. You could perform fellatio on him. If he was facing away from you, you could kiss down his spine to the small of his back. You could kiss or nibble on his buttocks. You could perform analingus on him. If you leaned forward so that you were on your hands and knees, you would be at the appropriate height for him to perform anal or intercrural intercourse on you if he were to kneel behind you.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success]— I have never respected that guy as much as I do right now.

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Failure]— …

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — You know, we don’t have to pick just one of these strategies. We could combine several different ones, to customize our wooing!

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — We should spread them out over a period of time. A wooing campaign, if you will. That way, by the time we’re ready to ask Kim out, we will have already laid the groundwork.

YOU — Oh, that’s another question. When should I ask him? I mean, I know I want to be ready and I’ve been working on strategies for not fucking it up with him and all, but when will I have learned enough?

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] — Jacob Irw kissed Alfie Delatraz for the first time on the winner’s podium of the Ozonne Grand Prix, after he had narrowly defeated him to reclaim his title. You should ask Kim out after a triumph! Like after you graduate from your program in September. That’ll show him that you’re a winner.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — There are plenty of other ways you could show him you’re a winner. Like actually winning something.

VOLITION [Trivial: Success] — Completing a six-month treatment program for substance abuse, depression, entroponetic radiation exposure, and Trauma-and-Stressor Disorder will be the biggest victory of your life.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Maybe so, but only until we win Kim into our bed.

VOLITION [Medium: Failure] — Sure. Fine. Whatever. Can we just get on with this please?

YOU — You start annotating your notes, crossing out the options that just won’t work and noting a rough order of operations. When you’re done, your task list reads:

1. Paint picture of Kim driving the Kineema. Make him look extra cool.
2. Keep inviting Kim to community liaison events so he can see that I’m doing better now. (Not disgraced anymore!)
3. Look for opportunities for Kim to drive really fast?
4. Picnic??? Maybe at park by meteorite lake. (Note: make sure no crimes occurring as making arrests would interfere with romantic atmosphere.)
5. Think of way to get Captain Pryce to say nice things about me to Kim???? (Sort of like getting his blessing maybe??)
6. Finish program, determine ongoing treatment needs with Dr. B
7. Have excellent date with Kim, convince him that a relationship with me is a good idea. ***How???? MORE DEVELOPMENT NEEDED
8. Hand things!!!
9. Swear eternal devotion (in private, once it won’t be weird.)

Honestly, aside from a few places that need more fleshing out (and the giant uncertainty of whether Kim will be successfully wooed no matter what you try), you think it looks like a pretty good plan. It’s a shame it’s the wrong time of year for snowstorms, though; you missed your opportunity to huddle for warmth back in Martinaise when it was actually snowy. But maybe if all goes well, you’ll be on huddling-for-warmth terms with Kim by the time it gets cold again.

Kim’s always chilly, you’ve learned. He doesn’t have as much insulation as you do. It’s better now that it’s summer, but even now you’ve seen him rubbing his hands together to warm them up when you’re called out on a case in the small hours. You wish you could wrap your own hands around his and warm them up for him. Maybe soon he’ll let you; the thought makes you feel a little dizzy. Maybe he’d slip his hands under your coat to steal some of your body heat. Maybe eventually he’ll even want to sleep with you, and you will get the sheets all nice and warm for him and not even complain if he puts his cold feet on your legs in the night or puts his cold hands on your back or your belly.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Hey. I don’t want to discourage this train of thought—it’s a great thought—but I just need to tell you that you forgot something.

YOU — What could I possibly have forgotten?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — You lost all your memories of sex, Harry. You need to do something, or you’ll have no idea what to do when you finally get your chance with Kim.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Medium: Success] — You need a training regimen, son! No pain no gain!

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — You need to read up. Get some underground books.

YOU — The only bookstore I know is Plaisance’s, and she only had High Speed Love. Are there special bookstores for underground books?

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — The area between Rue des Arbes and Rue d’Argent in Couron is known colloquially as the Book District, and offers the highest concentration of specialty booksellers in Revachol.

Task gained: Go to the Book District and find some underground books to study so you’ll be prepared to date Kim.

July 29, CC51

“This is a disaster,” Harry moaned, burying his face in his arms on the desk.

Kim looked up from his notes. “A ‘this dance song needs more bass’ disaster, or an ‘Insulinde is about to be swallowed by the Pale’ disaster?”

“An ‘I’m about to embarrass the entire precinct in front of a bunch of rich people, again’ disaster.” Harry’s voice was muffled by his arms.

“Ah. Is this about that award dinner?” He and Harry were to be given special service commendations for their role in averting further casualties in Martinaise. Wild Pines was sponsoring a fancy event, primarily to undercut any possible negative press coverage in the matter by placing themselves squarely on the side of law and order. Krenel, naturally, had already changed names again and distanced themselves from the whole affair. “Surely it won’t be that bad. Joyce will be there for you to talk to; I’m sure she’d enjoy giving you another lowdown on some basic aspect of reality, for old times’ sake.”

“She is fun to talk to,” Harry said, lifting his head. “She’s so charming. But Kim, that’s not the point. Have you seen this?” He groped around on his desk and waved something ivory and gold in Kim’s general direction.

“The invitation? Of course.” He’d retrieved it from his precinct mail-slot that morning; honestly, he was a little surprised that Harry had his already. Harry tended to let his mail pile up until the cubby was full before he remembered he had any such thing.

“Then you saw the dress code,” Harry said. “Black tie!” His voice was almost a wail.

Across the room, Lieutenant Vicquemare snorted. “Have they met you?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Harry looked at Kim in despair. “Do I look like I have any black ties?”

“Ah.” Kim wondered, suddenly, whether Harry had ever gotten a “reality lowdown” on formalwear since his amnesia. He rather suspected not. “Don’t worry, detective. Your dress uniform is considered appropriate wear for such occasions.”

“Um.” Harry looked shifty. “I’m… not sure I have one? I think mine might have been in the, you know.” He lowered his voice, glancing over at Lieutenant Vicquemare. “The motor carriage. In Martinaise.”

And therefore, one presumed, currently at the bottom of the sea.

“Just wear your old one, shitkid,” Vicquemare said. “It’s in a box in the back of your closet, or at least it was in January. Sergeant Rosenthal in Supplies can get you an updated insignia.”

Harry looked over at him with a shy smile. “Thanks, Jean.”

“Whatever.” He scowled down at his paperwork. “Can’t have you embarrassing the precinct. Any more. Help him out, Kitsuragi, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Kim said. He set his notes aside. “Why don’t we go see about that insignia? I can help you sew it on once you find your old uniform.”

They picked up a new set of double-yefreitor insignia, and then Harry saw something in the Supplies office that gave him a new idea about THE MELTED WAXWORKS MURDER, so they ended up going to re-interview some witnesses and didn’t finish up until nearly dinnertime.

“We could have dinner at mine,” Harry suggested. “And I could dig out my old uniform and see how much of a mess it is?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Kim told him. “But I’m happy to take a look.” It was just as well to be forewarned, after all. The thought of Harry in full dress uniform was… inspiring. It would help to have some time to prepare himself before he had to encounter it in public.

They ate first; Harry was becoming quite a good cook since Martinaise, and he’d been experimenting with Mesque food lately, leaving the kitchen fragrant with cilantro and cumin. After they ate, Kim offered to do the dishes, Harry insisted that he was a guest and didn’t have to, and they ended up doing them together; a little ritual that was becoming something of a habit. Kim tried not to dwell too much on the dense, pleasant feeling behind his breastbone at the quiet domesticity of it.

“Okay, I guess I can’t put it off anymore,” Harry said. “Give me a minute, let me see what we’re looking at.”

“Take your time, detective,” Kim said. “I can amuse myself.”

“Yeah, feel free to read a book or put the radio on or whatever,” Harry said, disappearing into his bedroom. Soon, a series of thumps and rattles announced Harry’s search for the mysterious box containing his uniform.

Kim wandered around Harry’s living room, indulging his curiosity. Harry had framed a few of his artworks: a charming pencil drawing of Annette wearing Harry’s fedora, a dreamy-looking watercolor that Kim recognized as the Whirling-In-Rags’ balcony, a figure silhouetted against the sky with a lit cigarette in his hand. There was another piece lying on the coffee table, unframed, with several pastels lying near it. Kim sat down in Harry’s chair, facing the table, to look closer.

It was a picture of him.

More accurately, it was a picture of the last in-service training day Kim had held for his décomptage. They’d been working on field first aid; Sergeant Torson had been recruited to serve as a practice patient. He was sitting in a metal folding chair, swathed in bandages of various types, while Alice applied butterfly strips to his bald head and Rosaline splinted his leg. Kim was standing a little distance away, watching them, and the look on his face was soft and fond. The colors of the scene were all pale and indistinct, save for Kim’s jacket, which was lovingly rendered in brilliant orange.

The brightest color, Kim remembered, for the most important thing in the scene.

If Harry had been any other man, Kim thought, he would know what to do. Any other man who looked at him the way Harry did—who saw him the way Harry did—who danced with him and cooked for him and seemed to want to spend as much time as possible in his company? There would only be one way to take that, one conclusion to draw. But Harry wasn’t any other man, and the uncertainty was enough to stop Kim’s tongue every time.

Harry loved him; Kim couldn’t deny that any longer. But Kim was still not sure what sort of love it was, and Harry’s social circle was not wide enough, at this point in his life, to offer much opportunity for comparison in the matter of different kinds of affection. Did Harry see Kim as a potential lover? As a brother, or a brother-in-arms? Had he even regained enough of his memories of human relationships to know?

This was one thing that Kim absolutely could not get wrong. Harry trusted him, so much it was frightening. When it came to Kim, Harry was… suggestible. Even now, if someone told Harry something that he thought was too outlandish, he would turn to Kim for validation. Kim, is that true? It would be far too easy to influence him unduly.

No. If Harry wanted to turn their relationship sexual, he would have to be the one to open that door. It had to come from him, unambiguous; it had to be real. If Kim took the lead here, he might push Harry into a relationship he didn’t really want, a situation that could only end in tragedy for them both.

Kim wouldn’t be able to survive it if he ended up taking Dora Ingerlund’s place in Harry’s nightmares.

He would stay the course, he told himself. Be receptive and encouraging to anything Harry initiated, but not cross the line until explicitly invited. It was the right thing to do.

“Kim?” Harry sounded worried. “It doesn’t fit.”

The fact of the matter was that Harry needed him, and he needed Harry. Even taking into account the stew of sexual frustration that had been a near-constant in Kim’s life of late, it had been a very, very long time since he spent so much of his time happy—not fine or content or not bad, considering but honestly happy. To keep that, he would do much harder things than be patient.

“Let me take a look,” he said. “Maybe we can salvage it.”

Harry came out of the bedroom in his uniform and sock feet, looking ruffled. “It’s like, too big and too small at the same time,” he said. “That’s not even fair.”

“Hm.” Kim crossed the room to examine the fit closer. “Here, come into the light so I can see… yes, I see what you mean.” It made sense, if you thought about it; Harry had stopped living off of booze and greasy street food and started exercising to cope with stress. His body composition had definitely shifted since Martinaise; he just didn’t usually wear his clothes tailored, so it hadn’t been as obvious.

The jacket was fine at the shoulder, but tight at the bicep and baggy at the waist. The trousers’ waistband sagged loosely but the seams were straining over Harry’s thighs—well, Kim thought, trading in a motor carriage for a bicycle did tend to have that effect on one. “Take off the jacket?”

The shirt, fully revealed, looked at least a size too large everywhere but the sleeves.

“I can’t get a different uniform,” Harry said. He was starting to sound a little panicked. “The thing is next week, there’s no time!”

It was unfortunately true that getting a new dress uniform was a lengthy process, and nearly impossible to rush, at least for anyone below the rank of captain. But there was one silver lining in the situation; Kim knew from experience that RCM uniforms were made with an eye to future alterations, it being more economical to reuse old ones than to order fresh each time. “I think I may be able to help,” he said, before he had time to talk himself out of it.

Harry accepted this immediately. “You’re so awesome,” he said, something of the hangdog look leaving his face. “What do I have to do? Do you know a secret underground sewing ring?”

Kim shook his head, amused. “I am the secret underground sewing ring, remember?” he said. “I do my own uniforms, I’m sure I can fix yours too. Do you have a tape measure?”

Harry did not have a tape measure, but he did have tissue paper, markers, chalk, and a ball of kitchen twine, which would do well enough.

Kim started with the jacket. He marked the spots where it needed to be let in or out, then carefully eased it off (he had to tug to get the sleeves over Harry’s biceps) and folded it in tissue paper to preserve the chalk marks. “Could you untuck your shirt, please?” he asked, and then forced himself to pay attention to marking where the seams needed to be brought in rather than on how Harry looked in such déshabillé.

(This was ridiculous. Kim was being ridiculous. Harry had changed clothes in front of Kim probably hundreds of times. In the locker rooms, at the gym, in the back of the Kineema, in the streets of Martinaise… but it was different now. Everything was different, because Kim was in love with him, now, and even the most ordinary things he did had taken on monumental erotic significance.)

He kept his hands steady and his face controlled as Harry unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off, leaving him in just his vest. He folded the shirt up into its own neat tissue-paper packet.

“I need to take some measurements,” Kim said, picking up the ball of twine. “I’ll have to cut this to length and measure the pieces at home, but it should do well enough.”

“That’s so smart,” Harry said, admiringly. “You think of everything.”

“I’m accustomed to making do,” Kim said. He felt a little flustered, which was intolerable. Really, one would think that frequent repetition would lessen the impact of Harry’s compliments, and yet it never seemed to. Kim held the free end of the twine and handed the rest of the ball to Harry. “Hold this for me. Can you move your right arm away from your body a little? Yes, just like that, thank you.” He wrapped the twine around Harry’s thick bicep. “Now move your arm around.” He watched the muscles bunch and flex, loosening the twine until the loop could support a full range of motion without becoming too tight, then marked the spot where the ends met. Harry’s skin was freckled and soft under his fingertips.

“Chest, now,” Kim said. “Lift your arms a bit.” He braced himself; there was no way around it. He reached around Harry’s torso to pass the twine across his back, stepping in so close that he could feel the heat rising from Harry’s chest, could smell the faint remains of his cologne: light musk and something sweet and tannic, like vanilla tea. It blended well with his ubiquitous cinnamon gum, giving an impression something like a very masculine bakery.

Enough. Kim brought the twine around, running a hand along it to make sure it was lying evenly across the broadest part of Harry’s chest, over the rosy nipples that peeked out of the thicket of brindled hair. “Take a deep breath,” he said quietly. “Good.”

Springy hair tickled at his hands as he took the measurement. He could feel the soft thudding of Harry’s heart, the gentle rocking of his breath, the heat rising from his skin. For once, Harry wasn’t chattering away about anything that crossed his mind; he seemed to have caught Kim’s peculiar mood, and was content to stand with him quietly, watching him work with bright, fascinated eyes.

I could seduce him, Kim thought. He could almost see the way it would unfold; Kim would linger over the measurement, would tease Harry’s nipples with the twine. He’d find an excuse to rest his hand low on Harry’s waist, let his fingertips skate under the loose waistband of his trousers. Harry was so attuned to him, so obviously skin-hungry; likely it wouldn’t take much to rouse him. Kim could lay his palm flat over Harry’s chest and feel the quickening of his breath. You’re breathing hard, detective, he might say. He could raise his eyebrow, possibly wet his lips. He imagined the way Harry’s gaze would fixate there. Have you seen something that excites you?

It would be a simple thing. Kim knew Harry very well by now, after all. And he knew his way around male lust, knew how to nudge interest over the line into desire. And Harry never bothered to guard himself around Kim, as though the idea had never even occurred to him that he might want to.

Harry let out the breath he’d been holding while Kim was lost in thought, then looked sheepish. “Sorry,” he said. “Do I need to breathe again?”

Harry trusted him, and he would never take advantage of that. The momentary pleasure of such a thing wouldn’t make up for breaking that trust. It didn’t matter that Kim wanted him; what mattered was that Harry have the time and space to make up his own mind. Kim would bide his time until then. After all, he had always taken pride in his own self-control.

“I have what I need.” He allowed himself to give Harry a little pat, high on his chest. “You’re doing great.” He tucked the length of twine he’d used for the chest measurement into his pocket. “Waist, next.”

The waist measurement was slightly less challenging than the chest had been, if only because it was farther away from bare skin and tempting hair; still, Harry’s belly was charming enough to make one want to linger, soft and alluring to the hands. Kim wondered if Harry was ticklish there, if he would giggle and squirm under delicate touches. He thought about slipping his hands under Harry’s patrol cloak on a cold, wet day, resting his cheek against Harry’s shoulder and filling his hands with the warm curves of his sides.

Perhaps that might yet happen. Some day.

“I still have a ways to go, there,” Harry said, looking down at the twine with a sigh. “I should probably run more.”

“I’m not sure that’s even possible, Harry,” Kim said, just barely stopping himself from cupping his hands protectively over Harry’s stomach. “I think you’re doing just fine.”

Harry ducked his head, blushing a little. “Thanks, Kim.”

Kim trimmed the twine and set the piece aside. “All right, I’ll do the trousers next,” he said. “And then the lower body measurements while I’m down there.”

“Down where?”

Kim knelt down in front of him, raising an eyebrow. “How else am I supposed to reach your hem?”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Down there. I, ah, I see. That makes sense.”

As a small mercy, the fitting situation of the trousers was actually enough to distract Kim somewhat from the man inside them. He marked the points on the thighs where the seams started to pull under the strain of Harry’s newly-acquired cycling muscles, and pinched excess fabric from the waistband at the sides to eliminate the gaps. “It’s pointless to mark the hem yet,” he said. “I’d just need to do it again once I made the other adjustments. We’ll finish up at the fitting.” He patted Harry’s knee, trying not to let his hands linger on the wool fabric just above it, stretched taut over thick muscles. “Turn around so I can do the back.”

Harry made a little noise, like he’d started to say something, but cut himself off and turned around obediently.

Kim… should have thought that through better. He should have moved first, or something, because Harry’s turn had left Kim’s face just inches away from Harry’s ass.

It wasn’t that Kim hadn’t noticed that Harry’s new… lifestyle… had made an impact on his rear view. He had especially noticed whenever Harry wore that one pair of jeans he’d found stuffed inside a furnace in Martinaise. But he’d never noticed from so close before. Or from that particular angle. All the running and cycling and squatting had certainly. Had a prominent effect.

Okay. He could do this. Focus on the trousers, Kitsuragi, not what lies beneath.

Harry’s added… bulk… was pulling the line of the garment back and up, skewing the side seams. The center seam was also pulled up, riding between his cheeks a little.

Uncomfortable, and a sign of poor fit, Kim reminded himself firmly. A defect to be corrected, no matter how compelling a curve it revealed. Harry probably wouldn’t even be able to sit down comfortably, as things stood. He quickly made a few chalk marks, tracing the places where the fabric pulled. “All right,” he said. “Turn so your side is facing me, please.”

He measured Harry’s full hip, and then took another measurement just under the curve of his ass; he’d need to make sure the legs tapered appropriately, or he’d end up with excess fabric there. He worked as quickly as he could; he was worried if he lingered too much longer he really would do something… unfortunate. The outseam was easy enough to take, too, while he was there.

Just the inseam, now, and he’d be through. He hardened his resolve.

“Okay, nearly done. Face me again?”

Harry did, though he took a half-step back this time. It was really just as well.

“Move your feet a bit farther apart? Good, thank you.” He tied a knot in the end of the twine and handed it to Harry. “Keep your right leg straight. Okay, can you find the crotch seam and hold the knot there?”

Harry took the twine, then looked at it helplessly. “Um. The which seam?”

Kim bit the inside of his cheek. “Feel the inner side seam of your pant leg,” he said. He pressed his fingers against it briefly, just above Harry’s knee. “Here, you see? This one. Then follow it up until the spot where the two trouser legs are sewn together.”

Watching Harry’s thick fingers tracing up his own inner thigh was a special kind of torture, but at least Kim’s own hands were safely away from any… delicate areas.

“Here?” Harry said.

Kim looked just long enough to verify that Harry had the right spot. “Yes, very good. Now just hold that there.” He stretched the twine down to the floor and marked a few spots quickly; the knob of Harry’s ankle bone, the top of his foot, the floor. That should be enough to work with.

“All right,” he said. “You can let go now.”

Harry dropped the other end of the twine like it was on fire. Kim looked up, startled; Harry’s face had gone bright red and his mouth moved soundlessly, like he was trying to say three things at once and couldn’t make any of them emerge.

“I—I—” He was starting to look a little panicked.

“Harry, is everything—”

“I have diarrhea!” Harry exclaimed, and bolted into the bathroom, slamming the door with a thud. After a moment, Kim heard the water start running.

That was… weird.

Kim put the last piece of twine with the others, and went to knock on the bathroom door. “Harry? Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine!” Harry’s voice sounded… strained. Well, if he was having some sort of gastric trouble, that would account for it, Kim supposed. “Sorry, Kim! I think I’m gonna be… in here. For a while. I’m sorry. Can you let yourself out? I’ll, I’ll bring you the pants to work tomorrow, okay? I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kim said. “Tomorrow will be fine.” He paused, reluctant to leave while Harry was in distress. “Are you sure you don’t need me to stay?”

“No! I mean, um, no thank you. I’m fine. I mean, I will be. Fine. See you tomorrow!”

“See you tomorrow, then,” Kim said. “Feel better soon, Harry.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. The sound was faint through the bathroom door.

Kim made his way home, still feeling a little wrong-footed. The next day at work, Harry brought him the trousers, wrapped up in paper, for some reason blushing bright red as he handed them over.

Ah well. No matter. Perhaps he was embarrassed to have ended the evening on such an abrupt note. Kim focused on treating Harry no differently than usual, and by lunchtime Harry was back to his normal self—meaning that he found a piece of trash in the gutter next to a crime scene that led them to unravel a particularly complicated murder-for-hire scheme—so everything was fine.

August 7, CC51

“Wow,” Harry said, looking at himself in the mirror. “I mean. Wow. Kim, you’re a genius. I can’t believe this is the same uniform.”

“It did turn out well, didn’t it?” He really had done an excellent job; the jacket now emphasized the width of Harry’s shoulders and chest without pulling, and the trousers now skimmed over Harry without sagging or binding anywhere.

They were still, perhaps, a tiny bit tight in the back. But there was a limit to what even generous RCM seam allowances could do.

“So I’ll be all right in this? For the award thing, I mean? I won’t embarrass the precinct?”

“You look very handsome,” Kim said without thinking, then coughed, the tips of his ears going hot. “And professional, of course. The model of a fine, upstanding RCM officer.” He picked up his pincushion and crouched down next to Harry’s feet. “All right, stand up straight, look straight ahead, and don’t move while I mark your hems.”

“Why do I have to look straight ahead?” Harry asked, though Kim was touched to see that he kept his gaze obediently forward.

“If you bend down to look at me, your clothing will move around, and your hems won’t sit straight,” Kim explained. “I’ll only be a moment. Quarter turn, please.” He made quick work of marking the hems, then stood. “All right, you can take it off. I’ll finish the hems and insignia tonight and bring it to work in the morning.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “Can I stop looking ahead now?”

“Go ahead, detective,” Kim said. He felt affection rising in his chest. Harry really could be almost impossibly sweet sometimes.

Harry turned to face him. “I just wanted to thank you again,” he said. “Really. I was afraid it was a lost cause.”

“Well, we have to make sure we make a good showing for Revachol West, don’t we?” Kim smiled at him. “Maybe they’ll be convinced to pry their wallets open a little farther.”

Harry sighed. “I hate that we have to rely on donations,” he said. “The Coalition really is taking advantage of us, aren’t they? They allow us to do all the dirty work of trying to protect this city, take all the credit when things go well and none of the blame when they don’t, and they don’t even have to pay for it.”

“It’s certainly a problem,” Kim agreed. “Unfortunately, not one that we’re likely to solve by Saturday night. Perhaps you could think of it as a… small-scale redistribution of capital?”

Harry grinned at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You may regret giving me that idea, Kim.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Kim glanced at his watch. “If we leave in the next fifteen minutes I think we can make it to the Fête de la Viande on Boogie Street before the tasting session closes. I know you mentioned you wanted to go.” It wasn’t really Kim’s first choice for dinner, but it wouldn’t hurt him this once. And Harry had looked so excited when he discovered the ad in the paper.

It says here they have over sixty different stalls and nearly a hundred different meat dishes, Kim! And they sell unlimited tasting tickets!

Honestly, one of these days, Kim’s irresistible impulse to make Harry smile at him was going to get him into serious trouble.

Harry lit up like Kim had just informed him that disco music was making a comeback. “Oh! Yes! Hold on, I’ll change and then we can go. You’re the best, Kim.” He hurried into his room, shutting the door behind him.

Kim wandered over to Harry’s chair, which seemed to be where all the most interesting items in the room accumulated. There was no artwork on the table this time, so he picked up the top book on the ever-present stack on the end table, curious what Harry’s magpie brain had fixated on this week. Harry had marked his place with a drawing pencil, and the book fell open immediately:

“…reductive to conclude that the Commune’s position on homo-sexuality was due entirely, or even primarily, to the individual orientations of Mazov or, indeed, any other notable Mazovian leaders. In fact, the legalization of homo-sexual acts by the Commune in CC04 was but one of a series of laws that aimed to enshrine true Mazovian values within the infrastructure that governed daily life in Revachol…”

Kim blinked, taken aback, and turned the book over to see the title: Tender Comrades: Homo-Sexuality In the Mazovian Era. It had stickers on its spine proclaiming it to be part of the collection of the Université de Revachol; probably something from Harry’s Communist book clu—reading group in Martinaise, then.

The next book in the stack was an obviously secondhand copy of Delacroix’s Human Sexuality, third edition. Kim’s breathing quickened as he looked through the rest of the pile. Marriage Under The Gossamer State and Transgressive Desire: Queerness in the Dolorian Age seemed to be academic works, while I Think I’m Bisexual! Now What?! and You’re Not The Only One: Discovering Your Sexual Orientation as an Adult were brightly colored paperbacks obviously written for a lay audience. Harry even had a dogeared copy of High Speed Love: the Tragic True Love Story of Jacob Irw and Alfie Deletraz. And then one more volume, hidden at the bottom of the pile and yet, when Kim flipped through it, rather extensively annotated with notes, stars, underlines, and even a few marginal sketches that made his ears heat: Blowing Up the Bed: A Complete Sexual Handbook for Men Who Love Men.

Well. This certainly cast certain things in a different light. Perhaps, Kim thought, he would not have to be so very patient, after all.

A sound in the bedroom alerted him; he scrambled to replace the books where they had been. By the time Harry emerged, wearing sweatpants and his Man From Hjelmdall t-shirt, Kim was standing by the window, looking out at the lights of the city.

“I’m ready!” Harry held out a canvas shopping bag containing his uniform.

Kim took it. “Great,” he said. “Come on, detective. La Fête awaits.”

August 10, CC51

Naturally, Harry looked incredible in his newly-tailored uniform. Half the attendees at the ceremony made it a point to flirt with him, and he danced with Joyce Messier three times.

Which was fine. Kim had passed near them on occasion while dancing dutifully with various dignitaries, and they’d seemed to be discussing entroponetic research and the exact psychological mechanisms by which the Volta do Mar protected one from Pale irradiation: hardly a festive or romantic topic. And it wasn’t like Kim wanted to invite the scrutiny that would come with dancing with Harry again in such a setting.

Still, though. After the fifth time Kim saw some East Revacholian socialite using the cover of the dance to sneak a feel of Harry’s chest—or worse, his ass—he forced himself to go find Pryce and Berdyayeva and subject himself to as many stultifying RCM glad-handing conversations as possible, lest he succumb to the temptation to do something… inappropriate.

Harry was a grown man, and could take care of himself. He did not need his partner defending his virtue like some kind of hyper-vigilant chaperone.

Kim thought Pryce might have some inkling of his motivations; at least, his expression was suspiciously amused when he pulled Kim aside and told him to “take your partner and go home, Lieutenant, before you have some kind of cardiac event and Gottlieb stabs me in my sleep for ruining the only man in Wing C with any common sense.”

Kim tried not to dwell too much on what the Captain might or might not know about his feelings for his partner, but that didn’t stop him from pulling Harry aside with an “excuse me, RCM business,” that was precisely calculated to give the impression that he was taking Harry to investigate, say, a diamond heist or brutal murder. In fact, he just led Harry into the foyer and said “I’m tired, do you want to leave now?” and Harry had agreed at once.

They stopped off for ice-creams at the park next to the meteorite lake and ate them sitting on a bench overlooking the water, trying to avoid dripping on their uniforms while the soft night wind caressed their faces. Harry smiled at Kim in the moonlight.

“The party was more fun than I thought it would be,” he admitted. “But I like this better.”

“So do I.” Kim let himself slump a little, let his shoulder press against Harry’s. He thought of the tissue-paper patterns folded carefully away in his apartment, records of the shape and span of those shoulders. Perhaps someday soon he would be granted the opportunity to memorize them with hands and mouth as well as measuring tape and tailor’s pins.

Perhaps, someday. But for the time being, he ate his ice cream and listened to Harry tell him about the history of the meteorite park, and was happy.

Chapter Text

August 16, CC51

41st PRECINCT — It is, for once, a slow afternoon at the precinct. Kim is taking advantage of the slight lull to do some more development work with his décomptage, and has asked Jean to assist in providing some equestrian training for Alice and Rosaline. You and Judit are alone in the Lieutenants’ office.

YOU — You like to tag along on Kim’s training sessions when you can, but the stables still make you uneasy. You’re convinced the horses don’t like you; Kim says that your anxiety around them makes them nervous and if you were calmer they’d be fine with you, but you’ve decided to stick to your bicycle for the time being.

Plus, with both Jean and Kim occupied, it gives you a chance to have a conversation you’ve been wanting to have with Judit.

You wait until she puts down her pen and stretches out her cramped hands. “Um, Judit? Can I ask you a question?”

SATELLITE-OFFICER JUDIT MINOT — She looks up, a little startled, then gives you a warm smile. “Sure, Harry.”

YOU — You smile back, though it feels a little bit shaky. “You’re married, right?”

SATELLITE-OFFICER JUDIT MINOT — “Yes.” Kindly, she does not comment on the fact that you weren’t sure. “Was that the question, or—?”

YOU — “It’s just, Jean said that people don’t get married much anymore, and I think I only know maybe three married people? Well, four, but two of them are married to each other so I don’t think that counts. Oh, and two people who used to be married but their husbands died. But you’re the only one who works for the RCM, so I thought that might be relevant.”

SATELLITE-OFFICER JUDIT MINOT — She blinks, but it only takes her a moment to parse the stream of babble. “Relevant to what?”

1. [Suggestion: Godly 16] Get Judit to tell you how to convince Kim to marry you and stay with you forever.
2. [Composure: Formidable 13] Calmly ask Judit why she decided to get married when so many people don’t anymore.
3. Just wimp out and tell her never mind.

COMPOSURE [Failure] — Even as you open your mouth to ask the question, you find yourself utterly convinced that she’ll know why you’re asking, and then she’ll tell Jean, and Jean will tell Kim and convince him that you’re the last person he should ever marry, and then Kim will leave and everything will be ruined forever. Quick, throw her off the scent!

YOU — “I’m not proposing to anyone! I just want to know how to get someone to want to get married! Hypothetically! And you’re married so I thought you might know? But never mind it was a stupid question any—”

LOUD, ANGRY VOICE — “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] — It’s Jean. He’s back.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean stomps up and slams his hands down on your desk, just in front of the report you were writing.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — He’s going to murder you! RUN AWAY!

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “You listen to me, shitkid,” Jean says, looming over you. “I am not fucking doing this again. No more, do you understand me? You are not proposing to anyone. You are not trying to propose, or thinking about proposing, or anything else, because we are only just starting to recover from the unholy disaster you caused the last time! It didn’t work out then and it wouldn’t work out now, so just give up and leave whatever poor woman you’ve set your sights on this time the hell alone.”

PAIN THRESHOLD [Challenging: Success] — Jean’s words hurt, but you meet his eyes squarely, hoping that he’ll see your sincerity and let you explain.

YOU — “I wasn’t—“

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “No!” His voice is explosive, ringing off the walls. “Just—just stop, Harry. It isn’t going to happen. People don’t do that kind of thing anymore. And even if they did, it sure wouldn’t be with someone like you.”

COMPOSURE [Legendary: Failure] — You flinch back in your seat like he just punched you in the face.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — His blow landed somewhere far deeper than that.

SATELLITE-OFFICER JUDIT MINOT — “Jean, please. He wasn’t doing any harm.” Her voice is gentle and kind.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — She hates to see anyone suffer, and does all she can to prevent it. She aches for you both.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He looks over at Judit quickly, as though he hadn’t realized she was there, and then back to you. His mouth twists.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He didn’t mean to go that far. He wishes he hadn’t. But he dreads what might happen if you go down that old road, and his fear made him cruel.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] — Someone clears their throat. It is a very distinctive throat-clearing.

REACTION SPEED [Trivial: Success] — It’s Kim! We’re saved!

PAIN THRESHOLD [Godly: Failure] — He heard everything. He’ll leave, now, and we won’t be able to bear it.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Lieutenant Vicquemare.”

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — Formal address and his stiffest professional voice. Ouch.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Easy: Success] — If he ever said our name like that we’d burst into tears on the spot.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He half-turns, and you can see Kim standing behind him, his face hard and stern. Jean’s shoulders slump. He’s taller and broader than Kim, but in this moment he looks small beside him.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Might I have a word.” He turns sharply on his heel and walks out of the office without checking to see if Jean is following him.

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Success] —Of course he will. The lieutenant’s natural authority is unquestionable.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean looks at you, sadness and anger fighting in his expression, then follows after Kim. Through the window, you can see them going into the Major Crimes conference room and shutting the door.

MAJOR CRIMES UNIT LIEUTENANTS’ OFFICE — The silence rings in the office after the firm click of Jean closing the door behind him. Judit looks stricken. You are staring down at your desk, trying very hard not to cry.

EMPATHY [Legendary: Failure] — Everyone hates you now. You’ve ruined everything. They probably all wish you’d never come back from Martinaise.

SATELLITE-OFFICER JUDIT MINOT — Judit’s chair scrapes as she stands up. Surprisingly, she doesn’t leave the room, but comes over next to you and rests her hand lightly on your shoulder, then squeezes just a little.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Challenging: Success] — It’s a gesture of support. She’s not sure what to say, but she wants you to know she doesn’t think badly of you.

YOU — She doesn’t? Even after what Jean said?

ESPRIT DE CORPS — No. She admires the courage it took to admit you needed to change, and how hard you have worked to try to do it. You give her hope that even the messiest situations can improve.

YOU — You reach up and pat her hand, thankful for her kindness, for not leaving you alone.

SATELLITE-OFFICER JUDIT MINOT — “It was for the children,” she says. You must look confused, because she continues, “when I found out I was expecting, for the first time, we decided to get married to make things easier with the children.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — You remember reading in Marriage Under the Gossamer State that Revacholian civil marriage under the Coalition government provides relatively few benefits to the average working-class citizen. What legal effects it has are mainly concerned with questions of inheritance taxes and the custody and support of minor children. Therefore, marriage is most often undertaken by the rich and/or parents, though a small minority still engages in the tradition as a symbolic or romantic gesture.

YOU — That makes a lot of sense, actually. Of all the married (or formerly-married) people you know, Lena and Morell are the only ones who don’t have any children.

“Thanks, Judit,” you say. You mean for the answer, but also for being your friend.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — She knows.

JUDIT MINOT — Judit pats your shoulder again. “You’re welcome,” she says. “And, Harry… I know that your romantic life was not the best, before. But you’ve been doing so well since you got back from Martinaise. I’ve been really happy to see you taking care of yourself. If you feel ready to have a relationship again, I trust that you know yourself well enough to make that decision.”

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] — You were able to keep the tears back when Jean was yelling at you, but you fail completely in the face of Judit’s words. They well up hot in your stinging eyes and run down into your beard.

YOU — You sniff, and swipe at your face with your sleeve. “Thanks, Judit,” you say. “I… I know Jean’s right, about the way things were before. But I’m not like that anymore. I’m trying not to be like that, anyway.”

JUDIT MINOT — “I know you are,” she says. “And you’re succeeding. Don’t let yourself get discouraged because of what Jean said.”

YOU — “I’ll try.” You sniff again, then remember you actually have a handkerchief in your pocket and pull it out to clean your face. “It’s hard, sometimes. It’s like he thinks he knows me better than I know myself, and maybe that’s true. He sure remembers more about me than I do. But also it feels like he doesn’t see me now, you know? Like he looks right through me to the man who was his partner. And I still feel that he’s important to me, but I don’t remember why—I know why, but I don’t remember. I just know it, like it’s something from a book I read.” You sigh. “Sometimes I feel like I’m being haunted by my own ghost.”

JUDIT MINOT — “That must be very hard.”

YOU — You nod, then sigh. “I’m sorry I made things weird. I really didn’t mean to.”

JUDIT MINOT — She smiles. “You only made things a little weird,” she says, gentle teasing in her voice. “Jean did the rest all by himself.” She pats your shoulder again, then goes back to her desk.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — This is hard for her. She was friends with Old Harry, too. And she knows better than anyone the burdens that Jean carries. She wants very much to make things better, but she knows nobody can do that but the two of you.

YOU — “Hey, Judit?” You wait for her to look at you, then manage a watery smile. “You’re a really good friend. To both of us. And also, just a good person. We’re lucky to have you here. Revachol is lucky to have you.”

JUDIT MINOT — She looks surprised, and then sad, and then she smiles. “Thank you, Harry,” she says. “That means a lot to me. And... please don’t take this as a slight, but the man you used to be would have never said it. That’s the kind of thing I mean when I say that I can see you’re trying. That’s the kind of thing that makes me think you’ll be all right.”

YOU — “That guy was an asshole,” you say, and then you remember what you talked about with Dr. Benoit about negative self-talk and correct yourself, even though it feels awkward to do in front of Judit. “I mean, he acted like an asshole. I acted like an asshole. I was leading the unit, and you deserved to hear from me how well you were doing. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you sooner, but it was wrong of me.”

JUDIT MINOT — “I don’t know why either,” she says. “I could tell there was something very wrong, especially toward the end, but I never knew the full story. But I think it’s important you know that the asshole wasn’t the entire picture, not all the time. He—you—could also be a true and loyal friend. A kind man. Funny. Willing to go to great lengths for us. Dedicated to public service, to the city. I think that’s part of why the bad times were so very bad; it wasn’t just the asshole being here. It was the loss of the man he’d replaced.” She sighs, looking far away and melancholy, before she visibly shakes off the mood. “What I’m trying to say is that… all the good things about you now, Harry, they didn’t spring from nowhere. They’ve always been a part of you. It’s just that now instead of drowning them out, you’re helping them grow. So… keep it up, okay?”

YOU — You smile at her again. It’s easier this time. “I promise.” She nods, and goes back to her report; you take the cue to pick up your own papers from where they scattered when Jean slammed your desk and try to remember where you were. It’s absorbing enough that you actually forget to watch nervously through the window to see when Kim and Jean will come back out of the conference room, so you don’t notice that they’ve returned until you hear Jean cough. It’s a specific cough, one that you don’t consciously remember but that your nervous system knows is a request for attention.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — Jean is standing in front of your desk. His hands are clenched and his shoulders are curved down. He looks older than he is, and very sad.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — It makes something in your chest hurt to see it.

YOU — “Hi.” You see a blur of orange in your peripheral vision: Kim, moving quietly to sit at his own desk, next to yours.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing for something difficult. “Harry.”

YOU — You blink in surprise. He hardly ever calls you that. “Jean?”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. Especially here. It was unprofessional of me. And unkind. And.” He swallows, so hard you can see his throat working. “And it was not justified by the facts. I allowed my past experiences to overwhelm my judgment, and interrupted a conversation—one I was not a part of—in a very inappropriate manner.” He turns, so that he can include Judit. “I apologize for my behavior.”

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Medium: Success] — Jean’s fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — It’s not from anger. He does that so his hands won’t shake. He is experiencing strong emotion and trying not to let it show.

YOU — There’s a mean part of you that is glad he’s upset. What he said hurt you, especially after you’ve been trying so hard to be a good colleague to Jean even if he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore. But the rest of you absolutely hates seeing him like this, and would do anything to make him feel better. Maybe it’s Old Harry’s ghost, you think, wanting to atone for his sins.

You wonder if your old self is to Jean a bit like Dora was to you, if Jean has that aching gap inside him somewhere that he can’t stop poking, because the person who could answer his questions is gone.

Old Harry went to the aerodrome, and he isn’t coming back. You wonder what Jean is chained to, in his dreams.

Jean shifts his weight, and you realize you’ve just been looking at him silently.

“Thank you,” you tell him. “I appreciate that.” You want to tell him you forgive him, but… it wouldn’t quite be true. You’re trying not to lie to yourself so much these days. You still want to do something, though, so you try to think of things that are true that you can say.

“I know I hurt you a lot,” you say, slowly. “I know that doesn’t go away, just because I lost my memories. And it’s probably harder for you because I did lose them.” You pause, trying to get your words in line. “I can apologize for the things I did then, but it probably doesn’t mean very much to you, since I don’t remember doing them. But I do want you to know that I honestly am sorry. I can’t tell you what I was thinking, or how I justified myself at the time. I could make some guesses, but that’s all they would be.” You pause, fiddling with your pen. It’s the Kind Green Ape pen Lena gave you—the first gift you remember ever getting. Looking at it helps.

1. [Volition: Legendary 14] — Calmly but clearly set a boundary with Jean.
2. [Physical Instrument: Impossible 18] — Offer to settle things through a boxing match.
3. End the conversation and go hide in the bathroom.

VOLITION [Success] — You remember talking with Dr. Benoit about this. She helped you practice some things you could say. Jean hasn’t been as mad at you lately, so you haven’t needed it, but you still remember.

YOU — “I haven’t said anything about this before, because I felt that you were justified to be angry with me, and I didn’t know any other way to make it up to you than to let you vent your feelings. But that was a mistake. I’m not saying you can’t talk to me about things I did wrong. But I am saying that we need to stop dragging the whole unit into it, especially now that we’ve started recruiting again. Our team and our city deserve better from us. If we need to go into the past, we should do it privately.” You feel shaky with adrenaline; your fingers and toes are cold.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He scoffs, a hectic flush rising on his cheekbones. “Oh, sure,” he says bitterly. “When you do it for months on end, it’s your prerogative as a senior officer, but when I do it it’s ‘your city deserves better.’ Where was this concern for the city when you were making us scrape you out of a new gutter every night?”

YOU — You nod. “I know,” you say. “I was wrong to act that way. You have every right to be angry about it. But I don’t do that anymore.” You bite your lip. “Please don’t let my fuck-ups drag you down any longer, Jean. You deserved better from me then, and I didn’t give it to you. Please let me do better now.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He presses his lips together. Something deep and wounded flashes in his eyes.

YOU — Your eyes are stinging again, but you don’t bother to hide it.

DRAMA — The script was rehearsed, but you mean every word.

YOU — “I want to be a man you can respect again. Please let me try.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — “Fuck.” The word is harsh and sharp, like a bullet shattering a pane of glass. He bends, rests a hand over his face. His shoulders shake: once, twice. Then he straightens. His eyes are red, but dry, and his mouth trembles. “I want that too, Harry,” he says. The words sound like they clawed their way out of his throat. “Goddammit, I—that was all I ever wanted.”

YOU — You stand, slowly. You feel like if you move too fast, he’ll spook like a racehorse. You come around your desk and hold out your hand. “Then let’s make it happen,” you say. “I think we can do it if we both try.”

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He stares at you for a small eternity. Just when you’re about to give up, he reaches out and shakes your hand. “Okay, Harry,” he says. His voice is still harsh, but there’s something different there, a sour note you never really noticed until it was gone. “Damn you. Okay.” His hand is warm and rough in yours, and you have a sudden, dizzying sense of déja vu. You wonder if you shook his hand like this, when he first came to Major Crimes to be your partner. You kind of want to hug him.

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — Maybe someday, but not yet. Things are still too raw.

Task Complete: Find a way to apologize to Jean.

JEAN VICQUEMARE — He pulls away with a cough, then goes over to Judit’s desk. “Can we talk?” he asks her.

JUDIT MINOT — Judit dabs at the corner of her eye. “Of course, Jean,” she murmurs, and the two of them slip out of the office.

YOU — You feel wobbly all over, and hurry back to collapse into your chair, burying your head in your hands. That was… so, so hard. But good. A relief, like putting down a weight you’d forgotten you were carrying.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) — Someone lays their hand on your slumped back.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry. Are you okay?”

YOU — You look up at him. He makes a little sound—just a half-caught breath—and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket with his free hand. You take it with a shaky smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just… that was hard. I think it’s… good? Or it will be? But, yeah. Hard.” Your voice wobbles.

KIM KITSURAGI — “You handled that very well.” He smiles at you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — It’s like the sun coming out. It’s like the blessing of an Innocence.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — He’s incredibly handsome. You want to kiss the curve of that smile.

YOU — You feel your cheeks getting hot. “Thanks, Kim.” You dab at your face with his hanky.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — Like he’s kissing your tears away.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Now is really not the time, guys.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Perhaps it is not my place to say this—I hope you will forgive me, if not. But Harry? I am very, very proud of you. Not only for what happened today, but for everything you have done since Martinaise. How hard you have worked at your recovery and how much you have done to try to make amends for the past. Many men, in your situation, would disclaim all responsibility for the wrongdoing that they no longer remembered. You have not. I find it… admirable. And I respect you very much for it.”

YOU — Hearing that—hearing Kim say that—is so good you start to cry again. It means so much to you.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Legendary: Failure] — So much that you cannot imagine a metaphor vast enough.

RHETORIC [Legendary: Failure] — So much that we can’t find the words to describe it.

YOU — You spin around in your chair and fling your arms around him, burying your face in his middle. He startles a little, then the hand on your back pulls you in closer and the other one strokes gently over your hair.

KIM KITSURAGI — “It’s okay, Harry,” he says. “You did well. It’s going to be okay.”

YOU — You believe him, with everything you have.

Task complete: Save Kim’s dearest friend from disgrace.

Art by Simon (@ramdotexe on Tumblr)

August 24, CC51

When Kim had recommended to Captain Pryce that he hire Alice and Rosaline, he had mainly been thinking about what promising young officers they both were, how badly C Wing needed promising young officers, and how the 41st could offer them opportunities for professional advancement they had so far struggled to find at the 57th. He had not really considered the impact it would have to bring in two new officers who had both known Kim for years and who considered it part of their official duties to make sure he didn’t “turn into a sour old fossil like the rest of the assholes at the 57th, you’re too good for that, Kits.”

They were amazing officers, and he was happy they had transferred and tremendously proud of all they had already accomplished, but between station gossip among the sergeants in the Major Crimes bullpen and Harry’s determination to prise every last scrap of Kim Kitsuragi trivia he could out of his new colleagues, Kim had found his aura of mystery greatly diminished of late.

It was probably for the best, he thought; had he not been telling himself recently that it would be a good idea to try to be more accessible to his colleagues?

He just hadn’t envisioned it looking quite like this.

Kim’s lease on his apartment near Precinct 57 was finally up, and after quite a few days off spent searching he had located a suitable new home. It was located on the northern side of the Rue de Saint-Cristophe, in a pre-Revolutionary house that had been converted into four apartments; the building had maintained some of its antique architectural charm in the conversion, had been well-kept by Jamrock standards, and—most compelling of all—was possessed of an old outbuilding where the landlady had agreed that Kim could park the Kineema. He had even been permitted to move in a few days ahead of the official start of his lease; all in all, he could scarcely ask for better. He’d been planning to handle everything himself, the way he had done every time before, but Rosaline had overheard him on the phone inquiring about rental rates for moving lorries and before Kim had quite realized what was happening, the entirety of C-Wing was crowded into the lieutenants’ office, discussing how they would help Kim move.

After some discussion (and an arm-wrestling contest in the Major Crimes bullpen that Kim purposefully avoided discovering too much about), it had been decided that Harry, Mack, Rosaline, and Jean would turn up to help load and unload the lorry on Saturday, while Judit, Alice, and Chester—and Harry, again, because the man wouldn’t hear of any other plan—would come on Sunday to assist with cleaning Kim’s old place up so as to ensure the return of his full deposit.

And that was the other thing about having his décomptage join the unit; Kim was finally on first-name, or at least nickname, terms with all of his colleagues.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to be, before. He’d just started off on the wrong foot. The 57th was a very hierarchical precinct; Kim had been trained from the earliest days of his career to speak formally to other officers until explicitly invited to do otherwise. The 41st was considerably more collegial. Kim suspected it had something to do with their legendary caseload; it was hard to cling too hard to protocols and etiquette when you were spending all your time running around from one crime scene to the next. Kim honestly found it a refreshing change, but the downside was that it didn’t seem to occur to most of them that it was necessary to invite someone to use their first name; they had all apparently assumed that Kim was just formal because he liked to be, an eccentricity that they seemed happy enough to accommodate. By the time Kim realized what was happening, it had been long enough that it felt awkward to bring up the subject. As a result, until Alice and Rosaline came, the only person in Major Crimes that Kim used first names with was Judit; she had invited him to do so on his second day, when he’d caught her call for backup and assisted her in apprehending a serial arsonist that had just happened to turn up at the café where she had been taking her lunch.

(He also used first names with Harry, of course. But Harry was a special case.)

Her second day at work, Rosaline had buttonholed him after the unit meeting and demanded to know when he’d decided to jam the steering lever of his Kineema so far up his ass. His indignant denials—and subsequent sheepish confession of his awkward social situation—had made her laugh so hard she gave herself the hiccups and had to go to the lazareth for a tonic, but afterward she had patted his shoulder and told him not to worry about it.

Within a week, he found himself on informal terms with the entirety of the unit. He still wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but he was glad, on the whole, even if it meant that his old nickname from his juvie days—the one he’d actually liked, not the ones that had been used to taunt him after the pinball case—had been picked up by what seemed like half the precinct.

(But not by Harry. Harry only ever called him “Kim.” Nobody else had ever said his name in quite the same way Harry did, as though it were not only a name but some sort of invocation.)

It had even helped things become more comfortable with Jean; he’d slipped and called Kim “Kits” one day, then caught himself, looking vaguely appalled; Kim had smirked at him a little and called him “Vic” in return, and they had both been more relaxed after that.

Kim was glad of it; the dynamic between himself and Jean had always been a little fraught, even before the incident with Harry the week before. He understood why; he’d heard enough about how Harry and Jean had been, before, to appreciate how difficult the situation was. Just trying to imagine how it would feel if Harry forgot him was enough to make his breath freeze in his lungs. And if Harry immediately seized on someone else—a stranger—as his new partner…

Regardless, though, Kim had frequently found himself torn between his sympathy for Jean and his protective instincts when it came to Harry. For all that he would never suggest that Harry bore no responsibility for the things he had done in the past, berating him for it now served no useful purpose; it felt cruel. He’d stayed out of it as long as he could—it wouldn’t help matters for the interloper to insert himself in the middle of things—but he’d finally reached a breaking point when he’d come into the office to hear Jean shouting at Harry that he should give up on love, because it wasn’t for people like him.

(If love wasn’t for people like Harry—generous, curious, affectionate Harry—then who in the world was it for?)

It was the expression on Harry’s face that had done it. He’d looked afraid, and ashamed, and so terribly sad—like he believed the things Jean was saying. Like he thought Jean was right.

It could not be permitted. Not only because of certain hopes that Kim harbored about the possible target of Harry’s affections, but because he could not bear to see that hopeful light in Harry’s eyes go dim.

It had been a long time since Kim had felt that angry, like ice crystalizing in his veins. He had pulled Jean into the conference room—because no matter how angry he was, he firmly believed that correction should always be administered in private—and said…

Well. He honestly couldn’t remember his exact words, just that he had made his displeasure known in no uncertain terms, and Jean had accepted it as his due. It was obvious that he felt guilty over what he’d said, but that didn’t un-say it; however justified Jean was in being hurt and angry, it did not justify being cruel.

Kim had been impressed by Jean’s immediate, forthright apology. He had been even more impressed by Harry’s response. In that moment, it had been very easy to see why Harry was a double-yefreitor.

It hadn’t been easy for him, though. As soon as Jean had left, presumably to make his apologies to Judit in private, Harry had practically collapsed in his chair. And when Kim had gone to check on him—had dared to lay a comforting hand on his back—Harry had clung to him like Kim was the only thing keeping him afloat on a storm-wracked sea.

At the time, of course, Kim had been focused on Harry’s emotional wellbeing. But in hindsight, he had to admit that in the days since then, he’d found himself dwelling more than he probably should on the strength of Harry’s arms around him, the softness of his hair, the heat of his breath through Kim’s shirt.

After that day, Jean had been making an obvious effort with Harry. He was treating him more like a professional stranger than a friend, but it was an improvement nonetheless; Harry was touchingly grateful any time Jean was even moderately civil to him and happy for hours any time Jean was pleasant. Since Kim was apparently destined to permanently care about Harry’s feelings and Judit hated to see her friends at odds, this tended to create a positive feedback loop in the lieutenants’ office.

Kim had made sure to go out of his way to be friendly to Jean in the days since his apology, to demonstrate that he would not hold a grudge. Honestly, the more he learned of Jean, the more he hoped that they would someday become good friends of their own accord, independent of either one’s relationship with Harry. He was a good man, underneath the layers of calcified hurt and acidic grief.

Harry seemed delighted and vaguely apprehensive by turns about the new warmth between Jean and Kim, which Kim supposed was fair enough. Time would tell the shape that things would take in the future, though he hoped Harry wasn’t worried that Jean would persuade Kim to think poorly of him. Surely Harry understood by now that Kim Kitsuragi made his own decisions about who and how to trust.

His colleagues from Major Crimes, for instance, could absolutely be trusted to come to his aid should he run into danger in the course of his duties, or to get him home safely should he ever, through injury or overindulgence, be unable to do so on his own. They could not, however, be trusted to restrain their curiosity enough not to snoop a little into any open containers that might come their way. It was something of an occupational hazard for detectives, especially detectives from Jamrock, so Kim didn’t hold it against them. He did, however, take pains to have all his moving boxes neatly and securely taped shut by the time the others arrived with the lorry.

Harry had looked anticipatory and excited as he’d come through the door to Kim’s apartment, but his face had fallen as he’d looked around to see nothing but sealed boxes and bare furniture. Truth be told, Kim felt a little guilty for having found so many excuses not to invite Harry over all this time. Harry really ought to know Kim’s space at least as well as Kim knew his. He was important, and ensuring that he knew how highly Kim valued him should take higher priority than Kim’s doomed attempts to convince himself that he was not, in fact, deeply and thoroughly infatuated with his partner.

There was nothing to be done about it now, but Kim made a mental note to invite Harry over for Suzerainty as soon as he finished unpacking his new place. What did it matter if the sight of Harry sitting at his table gave extra ammunition to the part of his brain that persisted in spinning achy little fantasies in which Harry came over one day and left never? He had more than enough material in his memory to provide all the necessary verisimilitude already. It was not, after all, so great a leap to extrapolate the feeling of Harry’s body from appropriate professional or friendly settings to others that were neither. They had embraced, on more than one occasion; they had danced; they had leaned on one another through difficult footing. Kim had pulled the fragments of a bullet out of Harry’s thigh, had knelt in a spreading pool of his blood and frantically tried to stem the flow. For better and worse, his hands remembered all of it.

“Coming through!”

Kim moved out of the way as Harry passed him in the narrow hallway, carrying Kim’s desk. By himself.

And that was the other thing that promised to shatter any resolve Kim had left; Harry, wearing nothing but his cycling shorts and a threadbare t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, flushed and sweaty from doing physical labor in the summer heat, looked like something out of a homo-sexual pin-up calendar of the sort that a much younger Kim would have glanced through furtively in the shop but never have had the courage to buy.

Honestly, was there no limit to what a man was expected to endure?

Kim permitted himself one lingering look at Harry’s ass before getting back to work. Naturally, as soon as he turned around to get more boxes from the kitchen, he saw Rosaline standing in the doorway, smirking at him.

“Not a word, Sergeant,” he said.

She glanced down the hallway in the direction Harry had gone, then back at Kim, her eyes sparkling with amusement under the red scarf she’d tied over her hair. “Vic says Lieutenant Du Bois used to be a gym teacher.”

Kim walked into his tiny kitchen and picked up a box of dishes. “I believe so, yes.”

“That explains a few things.” She picked up the second—and last—box and fell into step behind him.

“You would not be the first person to think so.”

“No, I imagine I wouldn’t.” She was quiet the rest of the way down to the lorry, but it was a very speaking silence. She had too much discretion to say anything untoward here, but Kim had a feeling that he’d be getting an earful at the next opportune moment.

He reminded himself that the interest in his personal life shown by his décomptage was due to sincere and kindly meant concern for his well-being, not prurient curiosity.

Well. Not only prurient curiosity.

“These are the last things from the kitchen,” he called out as they approached the lorry.

“We’ve made good time,” Jean said. “Just the bedroom left and we’ll be able to go.” He was standing just inside the open back of the lorry, and reached down to take the box from Kim. He was dressed similarly to Kim himself, loose shorts and a t-shirt, but Kim could still see toned muscles working in his arms as he lifted the box.

He wondered whether it was the famous Jamrock shuffle that turned the officers of the 41st into pillars of muscle, or if perhaps it was due more to said officers turning to physical exercise to cope with the stress of working the Bloody Murder Precinct. Kim himself had definitely noticed an improvement in his overall conditioning from running around after Harry all day. The best you could say about his physique otherwise was “wiry,” though. Perhaps he ought to expand his training regimen.

Harry fell into step behind him as he went up to his bedroom. “We just need to take the bed frame apart,” Kim said. “Everything else is ready to go.”

“I’ll help,” Harry offered at once, and there really wasn’t any good reason to decline, so Kim pulled a spare wrench from his pocket and handed it over.

“I’ll start at the foot of the bed, you take the head,” he said. “Please make sure the bolts don’t get lost.”

“Promise,” Harry said, crossing his lungs with a grin.

“What’s ready to take, Kits?” Rosaline and Mack had come up as well.

“The bureau, the nightstand, and all of the boxes,” Kim said. “The drawers come out of the bureau if it is too heavy.”

He glanced over at Harry, was was staring at the headboard with a distant expression on his face.

It was a good piece of furniture; quite sturdy, made from hardwood and wrought iron, and optimistically wide enough to sleep two men comfortably. Kim had exchanged tailoring services for carpentry with one of his old neighbors to have it made, and found it well worth the effort. One could often find scrap wood and metal in the harbor, if one was willing to look, which had brought the cost down further.

Harry reached out as if mesmerized and curled his hand around one of the iron bars in the headboard. It was, Kim knew, thick enough to fill one’s grip in quite a satisfying manner. Not that he’d had much occasion to brace himself against his headboard of late, but, well. He’d ordered the bed before Gio had left him, and optimism had carried the day in more than one part of the design.

Harry’s big hand gripped the bar like it had been designed with him in mind from the beginning. Kim forced himself to look away.

“Something wrong, detective?” He crouched down at the foot of the bed and applied himself to the first bolt, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye.

“What? Oh! No, I just—um—this is a really nice bed, Kim.”

From the corner of the room, where she and Mack had been quietly debating whether to move the bureau with or without its drawers, Rosaline snorted, then quickly turned it into a cough.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry in the least. “It’s dusty back here.”

Kim had in fact dusted the entire apartment the night before, but he let the comment pass. “Thank you,” he told Harry. “The bolts are in the corners.”

“Right,” Harry said, and squatted down to reach under the frame. Kim felt his ears heat as he turned his attention back to his own task.

They managed to disassemble the frame by the time the others got back upstairs. Within a half hour, they had managed to finish loading. This was due in large part to Jean, who had rented the lorry and was therefore intent on their keeping to a strict timeline so as not to incur any late fees.

(Naturally, Kim was planning to cover the cost, but he supposed it was the principle of the thing.)

“All right,” Jean announced, slamming the back of the lorry closed with a satisfied look. “There’s room for two more people in here, anyone else will have to ride with Kitsuragi.”

“Oh! Me,” Harry said. “I mean, I will. Ride with Kim.” He looked over at Kim. “I mean. If that’s all right.”

“Of course, detective,” Kim assured him.

“Okay, Harry goes with Kitsuragi, what a surprise,” Jean said flatly. “Anyone else, or are you all riding in the lorry?”

“There is room for one more,” Kim said, though to be perfectly honest he wasn’t sure whether he hoped anyone would take him up on the offer. On the one hand, it would spare him a thirty-minute drive alone with Harry while the sight of his hand gripping Kim’s headboard was still fresh in Kim’s mind. On the other… well. The same thing, really.

Rosaline looked between Harry and the back seat of the Kineema, then grinned at Kim. “I’m with Vic, thanks,” she said. “See you in Jamrock, lieutenants.” She climbed into the cab of the lorry with a jaunty wave, and Jean nodded at Kim through the windscreen as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

“You know he isn’t going to let you pay him back for the lorry, right?” Harry asked, watching it drive away. “He’ll expense it. There’s a budget for recruitment incentives, he’ll make it like we paid your relocation costs to get you to transfer.”

“That really isn’t necessary,” Kim said, opening the door to the Kineema. “But as long as he’s not paying for it himself, I won’t argue.”

“Enjoy it while you can, I’d say.” Harry settled into the rear seat with a little sigh. “It’s not like the RCM pays for much.”

“Mm, true.” Kim turned on the engine, pausing for a moment to just enjoy the sound.

Harry chuckled a little as Kim pulled out smoothly into traffic. “You know that was the first thing I ever remember hearing? Blacked out on the floor, and then this infernal whining sound woke me up. As hungover as I was, it was like being stabbed with an icepick through the ear, but I still actually recognized it as a Kineema. I wasn’t even all that sure what a Kineema was, but I knew that sound was made by one.”

“It’s certainly… distinctive.” Kim glanced at Harry in the rear view mirror. “Should I apologize?”

“Never,” Harry said at once. “I mean, I didn’t like it that much at the time—mostly because of the ungodly headache—but now?” His expression went distant and complicated. “Every time I hear it, now, it reminds me. I did my best to die that night, Kim.”

“I know.” He swallowed, hard. “I’m… very glad that you didn’t.”

“Me too.” In the mirror, Kim could see that Harry was leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I honestly don’t know how I didn’t—I should have died at least three or four times that I know of—but I’m so glad, now. Things are so much better than they were; I don’t remember much, but I know that. I enjoy my life now. I look forward to things. And it all started when you drove into Martinaise that morning and woke me up.” He huffed a little laugh. “I know it sounds weird, but that’s what I think of when I hear your engine now. That moment when things turned around for me. When I woke up and started living again instead of marking the time before I died.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Plus you’re the only person I know who drives a Kineema, so hearing it means I’m going to get to see you soon, which is always good. So it makes me happy for multiple reasons now, I guess.”

Kim wasn’t sure what to say; he hated being reminded of how bad things had been for Harry—of how much pain he had been in, how much pain he had caused—but he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t gratifying to hear that Harry marked Kim’s advent in his life as a turning point of sorts. His chest caught at the simple affection in Harry’s voice. He honestly wasn’t sure if anyone had ever looked forward to seeing him the way that Harry did. “Harry,” he said, and then fell silent again as he merged onto the 8/81.

“It’s okay, Kim,” Harry said. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

For all that Harry could be catastrophically oblivious sometimes, Kim thought, he was almost supra-naturally perceptive when it came to divining Kim’s moods. He meant what he said, Kim knew; he wouldn’t hold it against him if Kim changed the subject, or turned on the radio, or made the rest of the drive in silence. But Kim didn’t want to do any of those things.

“I was ready to hate you that day,” he said at last, trying to feel his way through the tangle of emotions that Harry’s words had roused in him.

“You didn’t, though.” Harry sat up, his eyes going keen; his curiosity was roused by the hint of some new information to gather. “You had every right to, after I ignored you all weekend, but you were really nice to me from the very beginning. You kept trying to make me feel better or letting me save face, even when I was actively fucking things up for you.”

“I realized quickly that you were experiencing genuine difficulties,” Kim said. “It wouldn’t have been fair to punish you for them when you were clearly trying your best. And soon it became obvious that even in your condition you were still a detective to be reckoned with.” He cleared his throat; his voice felt oddly thick. But he needed to say these things; Harry deserved to know. “As the days went by, I began to—working with you woke a part of me that had been dormant for some time. I could feel myself stretching, learning new approaches. And all your side-cases—”

“A lot of them really were connected, in the end,” Harry interrupted.

Kim smiled. “I know they were,” he said. “But even the ones that weren’t were still good for something. It didn’t solve any crime to talk Plaisance into letting Annette come in out of the cold, but it still helped her. I realized that I had gotten so focused on solving specific cases that I could sometimes lose sight of the reasons I joined the RCM in the first place—I wanted to help this city, to help its people, to make things better. You helped me remember that. And then, just when it seemed like we were getting somewhere—”

“It all went to hell,” Harry said softly. “Klaasje, and Ruby, and the tribunal—I still wonder if there was some way we could have avoided all that.”

“I do too,” Kim admitted. “I don’t know. I’ve been over it a hundred times, and I’m still not sure. But there is one thing I do know.” He swallowed, hard. “When I heard the shot, and saw you fall… there is only one other time in my life I have felt that afraid.”

“That sounds like how I felt,” Harry said softly, “when I looked up and saw the last merc aiming her gun at your head.”

“You saved my life.” Kim kept his eyes fixed on the road. “I had no idea she was there. I thought—you had lost a lot of blood.”

You’re bleeding out!

“It’s still pretty hazy,” Harry admitted. “Shock, probably, plus the blood loss. I do know everything got really blurry and dark. Confused. I think I was starting to pass out, but then you were there. Talking to me. It was… important. That I listen.”

Stay with me!

“I should have been more careful,” Kim said. “It’s the first thing they teach you—make sure the threat is gone first, before you begin first aid. But I didn’t even think to look for de Paule. I saw the blood, and I just…”

You hear me?! Stay awake! Look at me!

“I panicked,” Kim admitted. He was gripping the steering levers so tight his fingers were starting to ache. “I did everything wrong and nearly cost us both our lives. You were barely conscious, Harry, and you still had to be the one to warn me. If you’d lost consciousness just a few seconds earlier—if you hadn’t seen her… ” he trailed off, his throat tight. He still sometimes dreamed of what would have happened, if Harry hadn’t seen de Paule leveling her gun at Kim’s back.

“You saved me,” Harry said. His voice was still gentle, but there was no uncertainty there; this was something he knew, as sure as his next breath. He leaned forward and rested his hand on Kim’s shoulder, warm and steady through the thin cotton of his shirt. “More times and in more ways than you probably know. If she had—hurt you—”

Harry’s hand tightened on Kim’s shoulder. If she had killed you, he did not say, but Kim still heard it ringing in the silence. He reached up, very briefly, and squeezed Harry’s hand before putting his own back on the steering lever.

“I just… couldn’t let that happen,” Harry finished. “It wasn’t anything heroic, Kim, it was selfishness. I saw the gun and all I could think was no.”

He’d shouted it, deep and shocking, as though funneling everything he had left into that word, into pushing his gun into Kim’s bloodied hands.

“No,” Harry said again. His voice had gone distant and strained, as though he were lost in the memory. “No, goddammit, I won’t let you take him—” he broke off abruptly, leaning back into the seat, his hand sliding back off Kim’s shoulder. Kim glanced into the mirror and saw him staring at the ground, his arms wrapped around his middle.

Kim’s hands were perfectly steady, but something in his chest couldn’t stop trembling.

“Whatever your motivations,” he said softly, “You did save me. I am here right now because of you.”

Harry sighed, deep and shaky. “I guess that makes two of us, then,” he said.

“I guess it does.”

They were quiet after that, until they’d exited the 8/81 and turned onto Rue de Saint-Cristophe.

“I think perhaps that is one sign of a good partnership,” Kim said, as they drew nearer to his building. “That it isn’t… one-sided. That we save one another.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Yes. I—I think you’re right, Kim. I hadn’t really thought of it like that before.” He sniffed, just a little. “It’s good to think that maybe I can help you, too. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You haven’t been a burden since about four hours after we met,” Kim told him. “Except maybe when you were unconscious and I had to ask Titus Hardie to help me carry you into the Whirling.”

Harry chuckled a little, as Kim had meant him to. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s fair.” He looked around as Kim slowed to turn into the drive of his new building. “Is this it? Kim, it’s really nice! And not that far from my place, either, I think Perdition’s pretty close to here.”

“About two kilometers, give or take,” Kim said. “Once I finish moving in, I’ll have to host our next Suzerainty session.”

“That’d be excellent!” Harry had shaken off his melancholy, and was looking around excitedly as Kim pulled the Kineema into its new makeshift garage. “Do you think I could park my bike in here with the Kineema?”

“Sure,” Kim said. He set the parking brake and cut the engine, listening to the falling whine of the magnetic coils as it shut down. “Now come on, and I’ll show you around a little while we wait for the others to get here.”

Harry followed him out of the garage, looking around himself like he was memorizing the layout of the property. Possibly he was; Kim wouldn’t be surprised. “We left after them, but we still beat them here,” he said.

Kim shrugged. “I lived in the Harbour for twenty years. I knew a shortcut.”

“That’s so cool.”

“I think perhaps you’re easily impressed, detective,” Kim said, feeling his mouth twitch as he tried to hold back a smile.

“I think perhaps you’re just really impressive,” Harry shot back, then snapped his mouth shut, blushing bright pink behind his whiskers. “I mean, at driving. And map… things.”

Kim gave up on trying to hide it and just let himself laugh, leaning back against the front wall of the building. “Thank you,” he said. “Tell you what, you can be in charge of searching all the containers at our crime scenes, and I will be in charge of the driving and the ‘map things’.”

Harry leaned next to him, jostling Kim’s shoulder with his in a friendly way. “I mean, you already basically are,” he said, smiling. “But sure, we’ll make it official.” Their arms were pressed together. Harry’s skin was hot; his hair brushed Kim’s forearm between his shirt sleeve and the cuff of his glove. A shiver ran down Kim’s spine, goosebumps rising on his arms and the back of his neck.

“You know, Kim,” Harry said, “I was thinking—”

But Kim never got to hear what he was thinking, because at that moment Jean pulled up in the lorry, and their colleagues piled out all talking together and demanding to know how they got there so fast, and then they had to unload the lorry and carry all Kim’s things upstairs, and he and Harry didn’t get another chance to talk alone before Jean firmly steered everyone out of the apartment “to give poor Kitsuragi five minutes to think before he has to start again tomorrow.” Harry had shrugged at Kim apologetically, and Kim had given him a reassuring smile, and then the door had closed behind them all, leaving Kim standing in his new apartment, surrounded with sealed boxes and a sudden, ringing silence.

He should get started on unpacking, he thought. At least enough necessities that he wouldn’t have to scramble in the morning.

He found the small box in the kitchen labeled “KITCHEN - OPEN FIRST” and sealed with with bright blue evidence-sealing tape for greater visibility. Three quick slices with his pocket knife opened it, and Kim unpacked the most important items: kettle, coffeepot, coffee, jar of sugar cubes, two spoons, and two mugs, along with a box of nutrition bars of the sort Kim kept stashed in his pockets in case he got stuck on an investigation and didn’t have time to stop for a meal. There was a similar box for each room, a habit he’d learned from Alice’s father very early in his career and had maintained ever since. The box in the living room yielded his radio, the cushion he used for back support in his favorite chair, an extra notebook, and the book he was reading. The one in the bathroom contained a bottle of headache pills, his toothbrush, toothpaste, and mug, his shaving kit and cologne, and his essential toiletries. Thus assured that he’d be able to make himself presentable the next day, he checked the locks and turned out the lights before moving into the bedroom.

There was a tiny balcony just off the bedroom, not terribly large but well-maintained. Perhaps two people could occupy it at once, if they did not require too much elbow room. Kim opened the double doors and let the soft evening breeze play over his skin as he unpacked the “BEDROOM - OPEN FIRST” box. Pillows, bed linens, his thin summer quilt. Sleep clothes. Casual clothes for the next day. Work clothes for the two days after that. Deodorant. A bottle of lubricant, half-empty. A box of condoms, never opened.

There were good reasons he’d made sure that all his boxes were sealed before the others arrived.

He put the clothes away, put the deodorant on his bureau, tucked the lube and condoms into the drawer of his nightstand. He made his bed. His sheets were misty green, faded with many washes. Almost the same color as Harry’s eyes.

His memory brought up the image of Harry’s thick fingers curled around one of the iron bars in his headboard. He started to push it away, then something inside him seemed to snap. Why shouldn’t he imagine it? He liked to imagine it, and it would harm no-one. And he was alone, and exhausted, and his new apartment felt so terribly empty, his footsteps echoing oddly off the bare walls. Could he not be permitted even this much comfort?

It’s dangerous, something whispered in his brain. You could get hurt.

It was true, and Kim knew it; he just didn’t care anymore.

Decision made, he finished making his bed, letting the anticipation simmer in his veins.

Growing up an orphan in Revachol made one value privacy. Kim’s first apartment, rented proudly with his first paycheck as a patrol officer, had been more like a closet—infested with spiders, half-buried in a basement, with electricity that worked half the time if he was lucky—but he could be alone there, and that had made it dearer to him than a luxury suite at l’Hôtel la Delta. Able to work, to sleep, to think. Able to—not to put too fine a point on it—spend as long as he liked masturbating furiously to pictures of big men with thick muscles and hairy chests.

He’d liked to spend a long time. He’d been a lot younger then, and much less tired.

Regardless, he still felt that if one was going to indulge, one should do the thing properly.

He pulled his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket and stepped out onto the little balcony. If Harry was here, he thought, he’d want to join Kim on the balcony; Harry rarely smoked himself but seemed delighted any time he was able to join Kim for his one-a-day. It was less about the cigarette, Kim thought, than it was about being included. Invited.

Kim very rarely invited anyone else to join him. Jean, once or twice, by way of bridge-building. Mack, on a day when Chester had been grazed by a bullet; the man had taken his partner home to recuperate, in evident good humor. Kim had found him in the precinct later that night, sitting on the stairs that led up to the roof, staring at his hands and shaking.

But other than that, only Harry.

Perhaps it would happen one night after a game of Suzerainty. Kim would have won, but Harry would have given him a close fight. They would put the game away, the little tokens and pawns making satisfying clunks as they fell into the box. Kim would hold up his cigarette, incline his head toward the bedroom door. “Join me?”

Maybe Harry would misunderstand for a moment, flushed and flustered. He’d follow Kim wordlessly, darting glances at his bed, then his shoulders would fall when Kim opened the balcony doors and stepped outside. A little relieved, a little disappointed. He’d crowd onto the balcony after Kim. His shoulders were so broad, they would be pressed together along their sides, just as they’d been that afternoon, before Jean arrived. Perhaps he’d produce his own lighter, and Kim would lean in to put his cigarette to the flame.

Kim lit his cigarette, closing his eyes and imagining Harry beside him. He always radiated such heat; Kim’s other side would feel cold by comparison. Perhaps he would shiver, and Harry would shrug off his coat and drape it over Kim’s shoulders, still warm from his body. He would watch Kim’s hands, his lips. His breath might quicken, his eyes grow bright and hungry, his fingers curl unconsciously as he fought the urge to reach out and touch.

Kim remembered the sweat-sleek curves of muscle on Harry’s bare arms. Perhaps he’d be wearing something sleeveless beneath his coat. It was possible; the man had, after all, sung karaoke in front of half Martinaise wearing a black mesh tank top, a silk bathing robe, and a purple bow tie.

(I’d like to dedicate this song to my partner, Kim Kitsuragi.)

He kept his eyes shut as he finished his cigarette, enjoying the way heat curled around his spine and gathered between his hips as he thought of how Harry had looked that day in his tight athletic clothes. The way his muscles moved under the freckled skin of his arms. His ass in those shorts—Kim had thought the uniform trousers were bad, but those shorts were practically obscene.

He exhaled for the last time and stubbed out the cigarette on the sole of his boot. He’d have to set up an ashtray out here. Later. For now, he threw the butt away absently, still preoccupied with thinking about Harry. He’d follow Kim in from the balcony, just a tiny bit too close, so Kim’s skin prickled with his nearness. He’d say something about how he should probably leave, but there would be that note in his voice, the one that said that he was hoping that Kim would stop him going.

And oh, he’d do it.

“Don’t go yet,” he’d say, letting his voice drop. Low, intimate. Harry liked his voice, Kim thought. He’d take a step closer, looking up into Harry’s face, and he would see nothing but eagerness there. Perhaps Kim would reach up and cup his cheek, stroke over his whiskers. Perhaps Harry’s eyes would flutter closed at the sensation. Kim would say his name, tender and soft. Like a lover. He would ask Harry to stay.

Harry would shiver under his hand. He would moan—he would kiss him—no, first he would hold him, would fold him up in those strong arms and hold him like all the treasures of Le Royaume were somehow contained in his body, like he would never let him go—

(I won’t let you take him—)

Kim would wrap his arms around Harry’s soft middle, stroke over his broad back, slip his hands down to cup the plump curves of that ass and squeeze. He pulled off his gloves, dropping them on the bureau. The skin of his hands tingled in the air. Harry would want to touch him; Harry wanted to touch everything. Kim skated his fingers down his own neck, traced the vee of his neckline. Rubbed across his nipples through his shirt, making himself shiver.

He kicked off his shoes and skimmed out of his clothes. He’d left the bedroom window open a few inches, and the soft night wind felt amazing on his bare skin. He pulled down the covers and pictured Harry, naked, stretched out on the green sheets and watching eagerly as Kim undressed and moved towards him. Reaching out a hand to him like every moment he wasn’t touching Kim’s skin caused him actual pain. Pulling him in as soon as Kim slipped into bed.

The sheets were cool against his back. Kim shoved the covers down around his knees—he didn’t have any other sheets unpacked yet—and ran his open palms down his own flanks, imagining Harry’s larger, hotter hands. Harry was furry everywhere; it would rub and tickle all over Kim’s body as Harry held him close, kissed him, humped against his side like he couldn’t help it, whispered little broken adoring phrases. Kim would thread his fingers through the hair on his chest, play with his nipples, nip at his collarbone, lick at his throat.

(Harry’s head thrown back at the pinnacle of the dance, the arch of his neck in the disco lights.)

Kim toyed with the thick hair at the base of his prick. Would Harry be curious about it? Would this be the first time in Harry’s memory that he’d seen another man hard? Kim felt himself jerk at the thought, a rush of blood stiffening him further. Would he want to explore Kim with rough hands and soft mouth? Would he ask permission first?

“Can I touch you here,” he might say. “Kim, please, can I kiss you? Will you let me?” and yes, Kim would say yes, always yes. Harry’s lips wet and hot and soft against him: Kim traced the lines of imaginary kisses with his fingers, plucking at his nipples with his other hand.

Harry would be clumsy at it, probably, at least at first. He had that thing with his jaw, he couldn’t open his mouth all that wide. But he’d make up for any lack in technique through sheer enthusiasm; if there was one thing Kim was sure of, it was that Harry would be an eager partner. His touches would wind Kim up and up without ever being regular enough to tip him over; he’d start writhing beneath Harry’s bulk, pinned in place, every inch of him alive with it. Kim rolled his balls in his hand, licked his thumb and rubbed over the head of his prick. His toes curled.

He’d hold out as long as he could, just to draw out the pleasure, but eventually it would be too much. He’d tug at Harry’s shoulders, at his hair, draw him up Kim’s body again until he was stretched out atop him, where Kim could rut against his belly while Harry kissed him.

He scrabbled blindly at his nightstand until he found the lube and filled his hand with a generous pump. The cool gel on the hot skin of his prick made him shudder, pushing into his hand. He thought of grabbing Harry’s naked ass, holding tight and grinding up against him, feeling Harry’s heat and his hardness, the bunch of his muscles. His hand sped up on his own erection as he imagined Harry’s breath growing labored in his ear, Harry’s arms—one braced on the headboard, one snaked around under Kim’s back, holding him close—Harry’s voice breaking around Kim’s name as they neared their peak. Would he babble as he reached his climax, or go paradoxically silent? Kim imagined him—a high, whining breath—every muscle tightening—

Kim lifted his knees, imagining Harry between them. He arched his back, and sped up his hand, and this was it, he was there, he was—Harry—

He pressed his prick tight against his belly as he came, imagining it trapped between their bodies, imagining the spreading hot wetness of his climax belonged to both of them. Imagining Harry sighing in bliss, his big body going limp and heavy with pleasure, pressing whiskery kisses into Kim’s hair, his shoulder, the crook of his neck. Whispering his name, over and over, come-drunk and tender.

Kim sighed, his body falling limp against the sheets, then forced himself to lean down and scoop up his t-shirt from the floor to wipe himself clean, or at least clean enough not to soil his only available set of bedding. He really should get up and clean up properly, but fuck it. It could wait for the morning.

He rolled onto his side. His back felt very cold now that he’d stopped imagining Harry pressed up against it.

He thought again of Harry’s book-pile: queer theory and history, popular self-help for adults questioning their orientations. A biography of two male racing drivers whose off-track romance had famously been just as passionate as their on-track rivalry. A manual for men who wanted to have sex with other men.

It was suggestive, he reminded himself, but not conclusive. Harry’s interest might be theoretical; he might chew on the idea for while, devote a few of his mind-projects to it, and then decide that he was straight after all. Or his interest might be pointed at someone else entirely: someone else from the station, or someone Harry had met on one of his runs, or at the library, or at his communist group. Or at nobody in particular.

After all, the only knowledge Kim had of Harry’s actual sexual preferences was of his ex—gorgeous, Jean had called her. A gorgeous bourgeois woman. Waifish. Like a welkin basically. It’s obvious you formed a real spiritual connection with how pretty she was—and that twink in Martinaise whose sugar daddy had witnessed the hanging. Harry had been so fascinated with him—the flirty way he spoke, the slinky way he moved. He made me feel special, Kim. He smells really good, that’s weird, right? Why is his shirt always unbuttoned?

Kim himself looked nothing whatever like a gorgeous bourgeois welkin or a teasing, sensual art student. Any attention he got based on his appearance was usually some sort of anti-Seolite racist bullshit or, failing that, some other sort of insult: you hear that? The scrawny binoclard wants me to put down the knife! Don’t make me laugh, pig.

Still, though. Harry thought Kim was cool. And the way he’d drawn him—in both the sketch of the art class and the drawing of his décomptage—was certainly flattering. Kim was fairly sure his cheekbones were nowhere near as good as Harry drew them, his forearms not as toned, his mouth not nearly so pleasing a shape.

And the way that Harry turned to him. The way he lit up any time Kim paid attention to him. How he caught Kim’s little jokes, the ones that most people missed. How he would smile, delighted by the two of them sharing little private moments of humor. The way he made Kim feel: not just valuable but valued, respected, important. Hopeful. Excited for the future. Special.

Harry’s rough voice, in the Kineema that afternoon. That’s what I think of when I hear your engine now. That moment when things turned around for me.

It was not nothing. It couldn’t be nothing. And Harry had been looking at Kim differently, of late, like Kim was the primary clue in a particularly difficult case Harry was trying to unravel. Like Harry knew, if he just had enough patience, that he would eventually find his answer.

Please, Kim thought, as his exhausted body finally dragged him down into sleep. Please, Harry, let it be me.

Chapter Text

September 7, CC51

FISHING VILLAGE — The late summer sun is warm on the planks of the dock. Lillienne called you to let you know that Cuno had gotten top marks on a test, so you came up to Martinaise to bring him some pastries and the latest issue of a comic book he’s been reading. It’s about revolutionary aerostatic pilots having adventures; you wonder if Kim might like to read it too.

You spent the first hour of your visit helping eat the pastries and answering a few questions Cuno had about building safety inspection, and now the two of you are just sitting together on the dock, enjoying the sunshine. Cuno is leafing through his comic. You’re mostly trying to figure out where you should take Kim on your first date, assuming that your wooing campaign is successful.

CUNO — “…right, pig?”

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Easy: Failure] — I have no idea what he just said.

YOU — “Pardon?”

CUNO — He tilts his head and looks at you. “Something’s off with you today, pig. You keep going all—” he makes an extremely unflattering vacant expression. “You thinking of a case? Got another murder? I could help. Go over the clues, like. Mullen-style.”

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He hopes you do need his help. He’d never admit it, but he likes to feel useful. Important. Valued. And somehow, over the months, he’s come to crave validation from you, specifically.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — You know you aren’t exactly a great role model, but you’re what he has right now. You’re doing your best to at least not screw him up more than he was already.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — You’re a better male role model than his dad, at least. You do want to help him. Plus, you read some books about child psychology and how to help traumatized kids, back before you started the art classes. Dr. Benoit has helped, too. And of course Lillienne is pretty much an expert in not fucking up kids. All in all, you think you’re getting by.

YOU — You feel bad that you let your thoughts wander. Children need periods of focused attention from adults who care about them; it’s important for their emotional security. Dr. Benoit gave you an article about it.

“Sorry, Cuno,” you say. “I guess I have been pretty distracted.” It’s also important to model good behaviors, like apologizing. “It’s not a case though, I’m just… I want to take someone out and I’m trying to think of how to do it.”

CUNO — His eyes get huge. “You’re taking people out now, pig? Like, execution-style?”

YOU — “What? No! No, I meant out on a date! Like out to dinner or out dancing or, or something. Not—” you make a vague gesture that is meant to convey “gangland execution” in a child-friendly manner.

CUNO — He looks disappointed.

YOU — You’re about ninety percent sure that he’d been planning to help you with your hypothetical assassination, which is simultaneously horrifying and kind of weirdly sweet.

Honestly, that’s a combination of emotions you feel a lot around him.

CUNO — “Oh. What’s so hard about that?”

YOU — “I don’t know where we should go! At first I thought dinner, but we already eat dinner together all the time and a date should be special. And then I thought maybe dancing? But I don’t think he really likes dancing much, even though he’s amazing at it. But I want him to have fun. So I got a book of ideas, but most of them don’t really seem relevant to us, so I just don’t know what to do.”

CUNO — “Wow, pig.” He shakes his head sadly, with the air of a lazareth saying there’s nothing else to be done for you. “You’re fucked.”

YOU — You bury your head in your hands. “This is a disaster.”

CUNO — You hear him sigh. “Look, pig,” he says, not unkindly. “I don’t fucking care about this dating shit, but I’m gonna help you out so you stop embarrassing yourself.”

YOU — You lift your head again, feeling a little more optimistic. Cuno’s a sharp kid. Maybe he really will have a good idea. “Yeah? Thanks, Cuno.”

CUNO — He scoffs, but a pleased little grin sneaks out anyway. “Listen,” he said. “Listen. This is all about TipTop, right?” He holds his hands up in front of his eyes, fingers making circles like he’s peering through binoculars; it’s undeniably a reference to Kim’s glasses.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — He knows!! Who gave away our secret? Is everyone talking about it already? Is Kim trying to think of a way to let us down easy? What if he’s planning to move away?!

ENDURANCE [Medium: Failure] — If Kim moves away, you will definitely die.

YOU — Still, though, it is really cute that Cuno calls Kim “TipTop” now instead of “bino pig” or worse.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — They seem to have reached some kind of mutual understanding since Cuno dragged Kim off for a talk the first time he came to the art lessons. You’ve started hoping maybe Kim might help you tutor Cuno for his junior officer exams eventually.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — You feel weird, complicated emotions when you think of the two of you working together to help Cuno. Somehow, it would be a bigger deal than the way that you sometimes help Kim train with Alice and Rosaline.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — We aren’t quite ready to analyze that thought yet.

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Success] — Also, you should probably say something soon if you don’t want to make things weird.

YOU — “Um.” You try very hard not to look obviously shifty. “I never said it was him. It could be anyone…”

CUNO — He rolls his eyes. “No, it couldn’t. Anyway, it’s easy. Just take him to see motor carriages or aerostatics or something, he loves that shit. Stop making it so complicated. I know better than that, and I’m twelve.”

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — He has a good point.

YOU — “Okay. Thanks, Cuno.”

CUNO — The boy nods, looking satisfied. “Cuno’s got your back, pig,” he says proudly. “Code 31-style.”

YOU — “Code 31-style,” you echo solemnly, and hold up your hand for an Ace’s High.

CUNO — He rolls his eyes, but smacks your palm with his, leaving a smear of icing sugar in his wake.

YOU — The two of you spend the rest of the afternoon playing tag with Lillienne’s kids, which somehow turns into some kind of complicated game where you have to give all four of the children piggy-back rides. You still aren’t sure who won or what the scoring criteria were, but you finish the day pleasantly sore, with childish shrieks and giggles ringing in your ears. That night, you draw a picture of yourself carrying Cuno on your shoulders. Both of you are smiling; you’re holding his shins to keep him steady, and he’s clutching chunks of your hair in each thin hand as though they were reins.

The next day, you stop by the library on the way home from work to see if there are any mechanical exhibitions scheduled to be held in Revachol this month. You’re delighted to discover there’s actually a traveling exhibition entitled “The Art of Motion” scheduled to arrive at the Musée des Artes in a few weeks, which is supposed to contain notably beautiful motor carriages, aerostatics, and other machinery, including a section about the history of the pleasure wheel. It sounds perfect. You call over immediately and book two passes for the opening day, which is supposed to feature live music and themed refreshments. You’re not sure what sort of food represents motor carriages, but you’re pretty sure Kim will appreciate it.

Task complete: Figure out where to take Kim on your date.

September 10, CC51

YOUR CLOSET — Your closet is a sea of outfits. You’ve got sportswear, work clothes, casual clothes, disco clothes, uniforms, even a folk dance outfit for the “Traditional Folkways of Vesper-Messina” class you go to with Trant every second Thursday.

Naturally, you still can’t find anything to wear.

The painting you did for Kim of him driving his Kineema is finally finished and you framed it last night. It’s already wrapped in many layers of paper and tied up neatly with twine, tucked into your bag in between your FALN jacket and the clean gym clothes you’re bringing to replace the stinky ones in your locker at the precinct.

DRAMA [Easy: Success] — You are offering your tribute unto our noble knight today, sire! You must dress to impress!

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — You’re just going to work. Put on any of the roughly fourteen work outfits you own and get going before you’re late.

1. [Electrochemistry: Formidable 13] You’re there to woo! Wear something sexy.
2. [Esprit de Corps: Medium 11] Wear your uniform. Kim likes it when you look professional.
3. [Empathy: Medium 10] Wear the tie Kim gave you, so he’ll know how much you love it.

YOU — The tie feels soft and cool in your hand. As always, you get a happy little zing when you imagine Kim picking it out for you.

“What should I wear you with, tie?”

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — The white button-down shirt that reminds you of math, the jeans you found in the furnace at the Capeside Apartments, your disco-ass blazer, and your green snakeskin shoes.

YOU — “Aren’t jeans a little casual? It’s a special occasion, I wanted to dress up a little. And those jeans are a little tight in the thighs now.”

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — Trust me on this one, buddy. Wear the jeans.

YOU — You don the outfit specified, and study yourself in the mirror. It does look pretty nice.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Medium: Success] — Okay, now take all that off again and put on your cycling clothes. You don’t have a motor carriage anymore, remember?

YOU — “Shit!” You jam the clothes into your bag and pull on your FALN performance wear before slinging the bag over your shoulder and hurrying downstairs to unchain your bike and make your way to the station.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Trivial: Success] — You’re fifteen minutes late, but you’re also really sweaty.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) [Trivial: Success] — You need to shower. Being a little extra late will not be as bad as inflicting this odor upon your colleagues.

41st PRECINCT LOCKER ROOM — The showers are, as always, vaguely terrifying and reek of bleach, but the hot water is inexhaustible and the water pressure is permanently set to “firehose.” You hurry through a shower as fast as you can, then jam your still-damp body back into your clothes. You nearly fall over trying to pull up the jeans, but finally manage it.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — The clock on the locker room wall informs you that you are now thirty-two minutes late.

YOU — You check yourself in the mirror to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything crucial. It’s a discouraging sight; your clothes are rumpled from being shoved in your bag and still clinging in weird places from where you didn’t bother drying off all the way. Your hair is scraped back unflatteringly from your face, and even though you toweled off, it is dripping down your collar. Your face is red from the heat. Even your tie is looking a little wilted.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Easy: Success] — You look like a mess. Are you sure you should be wooing today?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Don’t listen to him. You look fine! Kim thinks you’re handsome. He said so when he was fitting your uniform, remember? And then he knelt down and—

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — We are not going to think about that right now. We’re going to be late enough for work as it is.

DRAMA — Please don’t remember that. I am still writhing in shame at how I let you down, sire. I just panicked in the moment. I was… overcome by the nearness of our beloved knight.

LOGIC [Medium: Failure] — Anyway, Kim actually said you looked handsome. Because he’d fixed your uniform. He doesn’t think you’re good-looking normally. Remember how he thought you were 58?

YOU — I’d been trying to forget that, actually.

-1 MORALE

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Challenging: Success] — Don’t let that get you down, son! You’ve been getting a lot of exercise since then. Not to mention laying off the booze and smokes and getting more sleep. You probably only look 49 or so by now!

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — Not to mention that your hygiene is much better now than it was in Martinaise. You’re a lot more appealing without the boozy flop-sweat and the eau de corpse and trash container.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) [Easy: Success] — You do smell a lot better now.

SUGGESTION — Your old cologne made you feel like you were going to have a heart attack for some reason, so you threw it away and got something different. This one smells warm and soft and a little sweet. It smells the way you’d like to feel.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — Like the opposite of the ice bear fridge. The anti-fridge.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — You know what I promise you Kim doesn’t like? When you’re late for work. Which you are, right now. Stop staring at yourself in the mirror and get upstairs!

YOU — You put your bag carefully over your shoulder, making sure Kim’s picture is still protected within, and head up to your office. Jean and Judit have already gone somewhere—which is for the best, probably—but Kim is at his desk, working on a case report, a coffee mug steaming gently at his elbow.

KIM KITSURAGI — He looks up when the door closes behind you and gives you a half smile. “Good morning, detective. I’m afraid your coffee may be cold.”

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He’s not angry that you’re late, but he does wonder what happened. You aren’t exactly prompt, usually, but you generally arrive within about a fifteen-minute window of when you’re supposed to be somewhere.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — We’ve worked really hard on that. Being on time for things is difficult for you, though the Preptide helps a lot.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Wait, did he say coffee? You need it.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — Your favorite “MAZOVIANS do it for the working class!” coffee mug is on your desk, filled with coffee.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Trivial: Success] — Kim brought you some when he got his own, even though you weren’t here yet.

YOU — “Aw, you got me coffee? You’re the best, Kim.” You set your bag on the floor next to your chair and sit down, then immediately pick up the mug and take a big sip.

PERCEPTION (TASTE) [Trivial: Success] — Even though it isn’t hot anymore, it’s creamy and sweet, exactly how you like it.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — DRINK IT ALL RIGHT NOW PUT IT IN YOUR FACE HOLE.

+1 MORALE

YOU — “It’s delicious.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just from the Wing C coffee corner.”

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He’s actually really touched that you like it so much. It makes him feel good to see you happy because of something he did.

YOU — You beam at Kim. It’s a simple thing, you know, but it isn’t the coffee itself that’s important to you; it’s that Kim remembered how you liked it, that he thought of you when you weren’t there, that he took the trouble.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — While you’ve certainly caused your share of trouble for others over the years, you don’t have many memories of people voluntarily putting themselves through any for your sake.

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — It implies that he considers you worth thinking about, even when you aren’t with him.

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Success] — You’ve just been staring into your mug with a big dopey smile for a while now. Might want to actually say something.

YOU — You take another sip of coffee—it tastes like caring—and reluctantly set the mug down. You want to apologize to Kim for being late, but you also know it’s likely to happen again and you don’t want him to think you don’t take it seriously.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — You’ve talked about the whole Sorry Cop saga with Dr. Benoit. She pointed out that there was a difference between the kinds of things you did before you lost your memories—which definitely needed to be sincerely apologized for—and things like being late or getting distracted that might be annoying but usually don’t cause anyone actual harm. Some of them are just always going to be hard for you because of how your brain works, and it doesn’t mean you’re secretly a horrible person. All the same, you don’t want people to think you don’t care when you cause them problems, but you also know “sorry” doesn’t mean much when you’re likely to repeat the behavior you’re apologizing for, whether you want to or not.

She suggested that instead of focusing on apologies when your symptoms inconvenience others, you thank people for being patient with you. It’s been hard to cut off the instinct to reflexively apologize for your… everything, but you’re working on it.

YOU — “I got a late start this morning,” you tell Kim. “Got all ready for work and then remembered I was cycling in, so I had to change, and then when I got here I needed to shower so I wouldn’t fumigate the office with my stench.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The corner of his mouth quirks up. “On behalf of myself as well as the other occupants of this space, thank you for that.” He pulls a folder from the neat stack on his desk. “Fortunately, things have been fairly quiet this morning. Just one new case. Care to take a look? I thought we could go out to the scene once I’ve finished this report.” He holds out the folder.

YOU — You lean across the small space between your desks and grab it. “Sure thing,” you say. “And, um. Thanks for understanding. And for not being mad.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “You’re dealing with a lot,” he says. His voice is gentle. “I think you’re doing quite well, on the whole. I know you’re really working at it. And it isn’t as though you don’t put in enough overtime to make up for an occasional schedule misfire.”

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Success] — Your eyes sting, but you manage not to cry.

YOU — “Thanks, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He nods, as though his endless patience, unfailing kindness, and staunch support—of you, probably one of the biggest fuck-ups in Revachol—are no big deal.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — He’s a man who cares about results, and he knows that you get results even when your methods are haphazard.

EMPATHY [Legendary: Success] — He admires you for your strengths and for the efforts you have made to shore up your weaknesses. He thinks that the way he treats you is logical and well-deserved.

DRAMA — The noblest of knights indeed, sire.

YOU — You flip through the case file—kind of interesting, a break-in where the thief stole cheap junk and left the more valuable things behind—noting the key details and starting to put together a list of witnesses and questions while doodling little cartoon robbers in your orange sketchbook. It’s pretty absorbing; you aren’t sure how long it’s been when Kim clears his throat and you look up to see him standing next to your desk, looking down at you with amusement in the set of his jaw.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Anything jumping out at you?”

YOU — “A few things, yeah. I really want to talk to the neighbor.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He nods, looking satisfied. “I thought you might.” He flips a page in his notebook. “According to the report taken by the patrol officer on the scene, he works the afternoon shift at a food stall near the meteorite park. I thought perhaps we might look for him there.”

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — Now’s our chance! You’ll be at the park, it will be mealtime—ask him to have a picnic!

YOU — “That’s a great idea. And, ah, maybe we could get lunch! It’s a nice day.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Sure,” he says. “It would do us good to get some fresh air.” He glances at his watch. “Actually, if we leave now, we should make it at about the right time. Are you ready?”

YOU — “Absolutely,” you say. You snap him a quick finger gun with the hand that isn’t holding your pencil. “Let’s do this, partner.” You sling your bag over your shoulder and tuck your pencil and sketchbook into your pocket. Kim leads the way to the garage and unlocks the Kineema with his usual care while you try to subtly check yourself for any loose contaminants so you don’t get the seats dirty.

You hesitate before getting in. You want to give him his present now, just in case things get complicated and you end up needing to chase your witness halfway to Sur-La-Clef or something. “Um, Kim?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Yes?” He pauses just before climbing into the MC, turning back around to face you. “Is everything all right?”

YOU — “It’s fine! I just, um, I made you something. You don’t have to keep it or anything if you don’t want to but I thought you might like it.” You fumble in the bag and bring out the little parcel, holding it out to Kim like a child offering someone a sticky sweet from the bottom of their pocket.

KIM KITSURAGI — He takes it, handling it carefully like he thinks it might shatter if he isn’t careful. “Thank you.” It’s hard to see his expression in the dim lights of the garage, but he unties the string with quick movements, fingers nimble even through his gloves, and unwraps the paper.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) — He draws a short, sharp little breath when he sees it.

PORTRAIT OF KIM DRIVING: It’s a small painting, of a similar size to the sort of photographs that some officers put on their desk. You wanted him to be able to display it wherever he likes, on a desk or table as well as on the wall. It shows Kim driving the Kineema, both hands lightly on the steering levers, his body poised to react to any changes and his eyes on the road. You’ve depicted the windows rolled down partway so that the wind ruffles his hair, and high speed is suggested by the blurred outlines of buildings in the background. You took a lot of trouble to render the Kineema accurately; you’ve spent a fair amount of time doing sketches in the back seat while Kim drives you to cases.

You flatter yourself that Kim looks extremely cool in the picture. Almost as cool as he looks in real life. And you know you got all the bits of the Kineema right.

You signed your initials in the corner, but small enough that it won’t be obvious if he wants to display it somewhere without people asking about it.

Kim hasn’t said anything yet and it’s starting to make you nervous.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — He hates it and now he’s going to be mad!

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — No. He doesn’t hate it. Shush.

YOU — “It’s your Kineema,” you tell Kim.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Yes,” he says. He takes another quick little breath. “It is.” One gloved thumb traces across the corner where you signed the painting, and then he looks up at you. Something in his expression is… new, keen and bright and compelling. You can’t look away.

“It’s very well done, Harry,” he says softly. “Thank you. I know exactly where to put it.”

+1 MORALE

CONCEPTUALIZATION — You see!!! He likes it! I told you a tribute of art would win him over!

Task complete: Create work of art extolling Kim’s virtues and offer it to him as a tribute.

YOU — “You really like it?”

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — Stop groveling, man, he already said so. Don’t be pathetic.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I really like it.” He looks down at the little painting again and smiles. “You even got the radio controls right. Those knobs are non-standard; I installed them myself.”

YOU — “I know. I wanted to make it good for you.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Oh, that’s not the only thing you want to make good for him, Harry-boy.

KIM KITSURAGI — He coughs a little, then wraps the painting back up in its paper and twine. “I’m going to put this away so it doesn’t get damaged before I can get it home.” He tucks the little parcel neatly in the sliding tool box under the seat, then waves you into the Kineema. “Now, detective, I believe our witness awaits.”

MEET THE MEATS FOOD STAND — You successfully locate both your witness and a delicious-smelling lunch at the food stand at the edge of the park. The former is gratifyingly eager to talk to you; apparently the robbery victim in this case is a terrible neighbor, and you only had to slightly imply that he might get into some kind of trouble over the whole thing to get told everything the witness knew (and quite a bit of additional speculation.)

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Plus he gave you a discount on your sandwiches.

METEORITE PARK — Notebooks crammed with new information and hands full of lunch, you meander over to a bench to eat.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — It’s the same bench that you sat on with Kim to eat ice creams after the charity dinner last month.

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] — That’s because it’s the closest bench to the food stalls that overlooks the lake and is too visible to use for illegal activities.

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — It’s your special bench now! You should propose.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — No. You’re on the clock right now, and also you aren’t even in a relationship yet. Remember your task list. There’s a proper order to these things.

1. [Suggestion: Impossible 19] Just propose to Kim right now.
   +1 Your special bench
   -1 Volition’s against it
   -5 Not technically actually dating yet so it might be weird
2. Propose to Kim here later, after you finish your wooing. And when you aren’t at work.
3. [Half Light: Godly 16] You are never, ever, ever proposing to anyone, ever again. If you do, you will die.

YOU — This is totally your special bench now, and you’re gonna propose to Kim here. Eventually, when the time is right.

Task gained: Once he has been sufficiently wooed, propose to Kim at your special bench.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim looks around at the lake and the little walking path that circles it. Down by the water, a small child is playing with a toy boat.

“Hey, isn’t this the same bench where we had ice cream after the gala?”

SUGGESTION — I TOLD YOU!!!! KIM AGREES!!!!!!!

1. [Savoir Faire: Legendary 14] Play it cool.
   -3 Kim acknowledged the special bench
2. [Suggestion: Medium 11] Propose after all.
3. [Drama: Godly 16] Pretend you don’t remember.
   -2 Drama’s 100% on Team Wooing

SAVOIR FAIRE (Failure) — “Oh, yeah! I think you’re right. Hah, what a coincidence.”

YOU — …is what you mean to say. What you actually say is:

“You remembered! It’s our special bench now.”

PAIN THRESHOLD [Challenging: Failure] — You immediately blush so hard it physically hurts you. Is it possible to rupture capillaries from sheer humiliation?

-1 HEALTH

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim is suspiciously silent for a long moment. “Our… ‘special’ bench,” he repeats slowly.

ENDURANCE [Challenging: Failure] — This is it. We’re going to have a heart attack and die. Right here on the special bench. Which will be ruined forever.

YOU — “Um. I mean… since we keep eating here?” You’re pretty sure your face is red enough to guide an aerostatic through the Pale.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I suspect twice isn’t enough to stake an official claim, detective.” He smiles then, and it feels like every muscle in your body relaxes at once. “Still, I suppose it is a nice thought.”

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] — Okay, team, false alarm. We’re not having a heart attack after all.

YOU — “We could eat here more often,” you suggest. The sudden release of tension is making you feel almost giddy. “Strengthen our claim.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “It is good to get out of the station,” he agrees. “Assuming we have business in this part of town.”

YOU AND KIM’S SPECIAL BENCH — You finish your lunches and sit for a while, going over what you know about the case so far, debating whether you should call it HOMEOWNER’S HUBRIS (you) or THE RUBBISH ROBBER (Kim.) In the end, you pretend to be convinced that Kim’s idea is better, because his voice gets all excited when he thinks he’s won something, and you’d do pretty much anything to hear it. Kim writes the name in his notebook in neat block capitals, looking sleek and smug and pleased with himself.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Thanks to your trip to the Underground bookstore, you have a lot of ideas of sexy things that you and Kim might do that would put that look on his face. You want to do all of them, preferably all at once.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Trivial: Success] — Your face is really hot again, but it’s for a different reason this time.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Also, you’re about to get hard unless you stop thinking about how Kim might put you on your knees and make you wait while he slowly unbuttons his pants and—

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] — EVASIVE MANEUVERS. RIGHT NOW.

YOU — You hop up from the bench, holding your lunch trash in front of your middle. “So! Um, probably time to get back to work, right? Here, let me take that.” You pluck Kim’s neatly-crumpled sandwich wrapper out of his hand and walk down the path a little ways toward the nearest trash can, taking the chance to calm down some.

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] — Sometimes it’s a good thing you’re in your mid-forties. You’d have to start permanently wearing really loose pants and long coats to work otherwise.

YOU — By the time you rejoin Kim, the situation in your pants is back under control. You gesture dramatically toward where you parked. “Shall we?”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim smiles in that way that’s mostly in the corners of his eyes, the way that nobody but you realizes is a smile. “Lead the way, detective.”

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] — It’s a formal form of address, but he says “detective” differently when he uses it toward you than at any other time. When he calls you “detective,” his voice is softer and warmer. It’s a term of affection and regard.

YOU — You pat the special bench goodbye and follow Kim back to the Kineema. The sun is shining on the water of the meteorite lake, and every breath you take feels golden in your lungs.

Task complete: Take Kim on a picnic.

September 12, CC51

CAPESIDE APARTMENTS — “…that in a third-order, or even a second-order society, bourgeois prescriptions on the matter of gender become irrelevant,” Steban says, gesturing with his copy of Tender Comrades. “An exhilarating conclusion indeed.” He turns to you with a grin. “Thank you for the excellent suggestion for the reading group!”

Ulixes nods, excited. In the corner, Cindy snorts. She’s painting; her palette seems full of various shades of red. Acele is perched on a cushion nearby, watching her. She looks confused, but happy.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — You can sympathize. You feel that way a lot of the time lately.

YOU — “Thanks, Steban.” You clear your throat. “You know, while we’re on the topic, I kind of wanted to get your opinions on something.”

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST — “Please! You always bring such fascinating discussions to the table.”

YOU — “Right. Thank you. So, um. You know my partner Kim… he’s come with me a couple of times? I’ve been thinking that I want to, ah, take our relationship to the next level. And I was wondering if you—”

ULIXES, THE ECHO MAKER — “Ah! Of course, your partner. Truly, Steban, this gendarme puts us to shame with his anti-bourgeois embrace of truly revolutionary sexual practices.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Well they aren’t yet, but they’re sure gonna be. I’ve been focusing on this. I have lists. We all know Kim’s a list-sexual, it’ll drive him wild.

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST — “Indeed, Ulixes. I wonder, do you think that the production of plasm occurs at a greater rate under such circumstances?”

CAPESIDE APARTMENTS — They start discussing the ways in which revolutionary sexual behavior might affect the production of revolutionary fervor and thus hasten the elevation of a society to truly second-level status. It’s a surprisingly non-sexy discussion, given the subject matter.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] — Cindy thinks it’s hilarious, though. She keeps snickering to herself behind her easel.

RHETORIC [Easy: Success] — This isn’t getting us anywhere. Redirect them. We need to figure out what to say to ask Kim, and they know more fancy words than anyone else we know except Trant.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — Trant would help if you asked him, but he can’t keep a secret from Jean to save his life. And even though Jean’s been better lately, you’re not really in a hurry to tempt fate again by bringing his attention to your romantic plans. Especially before they become a reality.

YOU — “So, um, to go back to my original question, what approach do you think will work the best for—”

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST — “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that!” He grins at you, enthusiastic. “I think with the revolutionary fervor you’ve already demonstrated, coupled with your study of infra-materialism and the inherent anti-capitalist nature of your relationship, you almost certainly generate sufficient plasm to make a good showing.”

ULIXES, THE ECHO MAKER — “Intimately speaking.”

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST — “I mean, you probably won’t be able to maintain relations for eight hours, like the great communard heroes of the Revolution, but perhaps that’s just as well! One must sleep sometime, eh?” He winks.

ULIXES, THE ECHO MAKER — “An excellent point, Steban. Perhaps we should write an editorial note on this topic for the next issue of La Fumée—”

RHETORIC [Legendary: Failure] — Yeah, I got nothing. This is the best you’re going to get from them.

CINDY THE SKULL — From behind her screen of canvas, Cindy snorts. “Honestly, piggo,” she says, sounding more indulgent than scornful, as though Harry is some kind of small, stupid animal she can’t help having a little sympathy for. “What did you expect?”

YOU — You sigh. “I’ve never done this before,” you say. ”Or, I mean, I’m sure I have, I just don’t remember. I don’t want to mess it up.”

ACELE BERGER — “Maybe you just need to practice,” Acele suggests. “Work out what you want to say ahead of time.” She shoots Cindy a shy look under her lashes. “I’ve done that before. You could walk back to the church with us after the meeting, I’m sure the boys and Soona would help if you like.”

CINDY THE SKULL — “Oh, please do. That’s something I really need to see.”

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — That’s true, my liege. Though it is possible her motives are not entirely charitable.

YOU — “Thanks, Acele. Cindy. I’ll do that.”

CAPESIDE APARTMENTS — After Steban and Ulixes finish working out the main points of their editor’s note about the sexual potency benefits offered by communist belief, the meeting breaks up. Steban cheerfully wishes you luck with your revolutionary sexual pursuits as you follow Acele and Cindy down the sidewalk toward the canal.

CINDY THE SKULL — Cindy reaches out and takes Acele’s hand, shooting you a defiant look over her shoulder like she expects you to have something to say about it.

YOU — You just grin and snap her some finger guns. She rolls her eyes and faces forward again, but you can see her cheek curving in a smile.

It’s good to see them making progress. André and Acele broke up back in May to focus on getting the dance club off the ground, and you’ve been hoping something would come of Acele’s obvious crush ever since. Given your own painful history, you wouldn’t wish a breakup on anyone, but neither of them seemed too cut up about it. André’s a nice enough guy, but you don’t think he’s right for Acele; you’re still kind of mad on her behalf about the whole tent thing. Cindy might be what Kim would call a “delinquent”, but she has a kind heart under all that eyeliner and disdain.

“DISCO ELYSIUM” ANODIC DANCE CLUB (FORMERLY DOLORIAN CHURCH OF HUMANITY) — Much to Kim’s surprise, the kids actually did manage to open their club in the old church; it’s never what you might call crowded, but the inconvenience of the location seems to actually appeal to anodic music fans enough for them to make the trek up to the shore. They co-exist remarkably well with the small rotating team of entroponeticists studying the Swallow; Soona managed to get some kind of grant and has been co-authoring a paper on the effects the music has on the anomaly.

Egg Head has even started sampling occasional old disco hits to weave in to his club mixes, by way of a peace offering to the occasional disco holdover who comes in based on the name. It works surprisingly well.

On this particular evening, perhaps a half-dozen people are dancing, while Egg Head nods along to the beat from his mixing deck in front of the broken stained glass window. You can see André tending the makeshift bar off to one side, and in the rear of the building you see a dim shadow that you think is Noid. The pulse of the song—still the same Arno van Eyck song that you helped the kids mix back in the spring, though it’s acquired some additional flourishes since—sends itchy tendrils through your limbs.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — You want to dance.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — We can dance afterwards. We came here for a reason.

ACELE BERGER — “Go over and say hi to André, I’ll get the others,” Acele says, giving you a little push toward the bar.

YOU — You go over and sit at one of the stools. André waves at you cheerfully, and brings you a drink that he made up especially for you; soda water and simple syrup with lime juice and a cherry. He’s a better mixologist than he is club promoter, honestly.

ANDRÉ — “Evening, officer! What brings you by?”

CINDY THE SKULL — “He needs help,” Cindy says, perching on the stool two spaces down from you and grinning impishly. “Romantic help. He wants to ask his partner out.”

ANDRÉ — He blinks. “Wait, the one with the Kineema? And the orange jacket? I thought you already—” he stops himself, shooting you a worried look. “I mean, ah. That’s great. Anything we can do to help.”

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — Hang on, what did he mean he thought we already something? Already what?

YOU — “What did you mean? You thought we already did what?”

ANDRÉ — He shrugs. “I just… he comes here with you sometimes, right? Even though he obviously doesn’t like anodic music. Or dancing. Or churches being used to dance to anodic music in. I figured he must have some other reason.”

YOU — “That’s just because he’s my partner,” you tell him.

ANDRÉ — He looks doubtful. “I never heard of any other cops going to clubs with their partners much,” he said. “I mean, I’m not exactly an expert, but…”

PERCEPTION (HEARING) — A squeal of feedback interrupts the music, making you and André both flinch.

EGG HEAD — On the stage, Egg Head is holding a microphone. “DISCO ELYSIUM!” he yells. “THE PLACE TO BE! Please excuse me for one moment, everyone! I will be back very soon with more HARD CORE Arno mixes! But I have been called on a sacred mission of LOVE! YEEEEEEEEAGH!” He fiddles with the mixing deck and sets down his headphones and microphone. Seeing you look at him, he grins widely and makes a gesture with his hands that you think is meant to represent a pair of lungs before heading over to the bar. By the time he arrives, Acele has dragged Noid over, and you can see Soona watching you from where her radiocomputer has joined a jumble of other miscellaneous entroponetic equipment in the corner of the room.

YOU — You explain your situation; this time, you’re able to get all the way through, though Cindy does giggle to herself periodically. It honestly feels good to just tell them the whole story; it’s reassuring to watch them nodding along, since you’re pretty sure at least one of them would tell you if you’d made any really obvious horrible mistakes.

“So I know where I’ll take him, assuming he says yes,” you say, once you’ve laid out all the background. “And I know when I want to ask him, and when we’d go, and I have two potential outfits picked out depending on the weather, and money set aside to pay for it. And I have a plan for what I’ll do to cope if he says no.”

COMPOSURE [Legendary: Success] — Your voice doesn’t waver or otherwise betray the sick fear in the pit of your stomach when you think about how Kim might say no. All that time you spent working on this with Dr. Benoit really did help.

NOID — “You sound really well prepared.” He nods solemnly, his pearl earrings swaying with the motion. “So what do you need our help with?”

YOU — “I don’t know how to ask him!” You sigh, and take a big gulp of your soda. “What if I just... freeze up? I’ve never done this before! Or I mean, not that I remember, so even if I have it isn’t very helpful.”

ACELE BERGER — “I told him he just needs to practice,” Acele pipes up. “I said we’d help him. Let him practice on one of us and give him feedback, he can work on it until he feels more comfortable.”

EGG HEAD — Egg Head’s large, square face lights up with glee. “Love is the true path to immortality! HARD CORE!” He pumps his fist in the air. “I volunteer! Together we will build you up to truly Perikarnassian heights of sacred LOVE!”

CINDY THE SKULL — Cindy appears to be having a coughing fit into her empty glass. You hope she’s okay.

ACELE BERGER — A small frown crosses her face. “I dunno, Egg,” she said. “Are you sure you want to? You’ll need to act like Lieutenant Kitsuragi, and he’s a lot…” she pauses, as though searching for a word. “Quieter than you,” she finally says.

EGG HEAD — “Absolutely!” He pumps his fist again. “I will play his role to the MEGA!”

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] — This seems unlikely.

“DISCO ELYSIUM” ANODIC DANCE CLUB — Egg Head’s devotion to Perikarnassian ideals is sincere; he decides that he needs some accessories to make the role-play truly convincing and sets about scouring the church for them. Within a few minutes, the scattered club patrons have abandoned the dance floor in favor of hovering near the bar, and he has acquired a pair of sunglasses with purple-tinted lenses and a woolen lace shawl the color of apricots that he has draped around his shoulders in a rough approximation of Kim’s jacket. He even convinced Soona to part with a composition notebook and pen. Nobody is even pretending not to be watching the whole affair; you even think you see Tiago’s silhouette in the rafters.

EGG HEAD — “Okay! I am ready!” He positions himself next to the bar, opens the composition notebook, and starts writing in it. “Go ahead!” He peeks at you around the purple sunglasses, looking back down at the notebook when you nod.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Trivial: Success] — He looks extremely unlike Kim in nearly every respect.

ENDURANCE [Medium: Success] — And yet your hands are starting to tremble with nerves.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — It’s good that we’re practicing. It will help.

YOU — You take a deep breath and walk up to Egg Head, squinting your eyes and pretending that the pale-orange blur is really him. “Hi, Kim,” you say, too loudly, your intonation deeply weird. “Can I talk to you about something?”

EGG HEAD — He looks up from his notebook — you notice that he’s just been writing “HARD CORE” and doodling little pictures of lungs over and over — and grins. “Hello, my partner!” he says. “RCM! The place to BE! Hard core community policing to the MEGA! I will happily talk with you!”

DRAMA [Trivial: Success] — Unconvincing, but a spirited effort, sire.

YOU — You stare at him for a moment, trying to find words.

1. [Inland Empire — Formidable 13] Use your imagination. Really commit to visualizing Kim there.
2. Don’t even try.

INLAND EMPIRE [Success] — You take a deep breath and picture Kim as clearly as you can: the angle of his shoulders under his jacket, the soft sound of his pen moving across the pages of his notebook, the way he clears his throat when he’s feeling awkward or wants your attention, the scent of fuel oil and pine needles. You imagine him looking up at you quizzically, waiting to hear whatever it is you have to say.

1. [Savoir Faire — Heroic 15] Ask Kim out — suavely.
2. [Logic — Medium 11] Ask Kim out — rationally.
3. [Suggestion — Formidable 13] Ask Kim out — persuasively.
4. [Electrochemistry — Legendary 14] Ask Kim out — sexily.
5. [Authority — Impossible 19] Ask Kim out — dominantly.
6. [Empathy — Challenging 12] Ask Kim out — emotionally.

LOGIC [Failure] — Kim’s a really logical person, right? It just makes sense that a rational appeal will be the way to go here.

YOU — You look deep into Egg Head’s eyes, or at least as deep as you can see past the purple sunglasses. “Kim,” you say. “Um…” you rack your brain, growing increasingly desperate: you know there are a million logical reasons for why you and Kim should date but you can’t seem to remember any of them. “We both work too much to meet people!” you finally blurt out. “So you should date me. That’s logic, baby!” You snap your finger guns to punctuate the point.

EGG HEAD — He smiles encouragingly from around the sunglasses. “Hard core!” he says. “We are both lonely and pathetic! That is a sure road to LOVE!”

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — I don’t think Kim would like you implying he’s lonely and pathetic.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] — Forget Kim, we aren’t lonely and pathetic!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Well we’re definitely lonely. In our pants.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — But we’re a lot less pathetic than we used to be.

ACELE BERGER — “Um,” she says. “Maybe you should try that again? In a way that’s a little more… complimentary?”

CINDY THE SKULL — She gestures to André for another drink. “Maybe next time he’ll call him a binoclard.”

YOU — “I would never!” You huff, insulted. “Kim is perfect and his glasses are perfect. I’m going to try again until I get this right.”

CINDY THE SKULL — “Good thing this club’s open late,” she mutters, but you can see a twitch in her cheek that looks almost like she’s about to smile.

YOU — “Okay, Egg Head,” you say. “Stay here. I’m gonna take it from the top.”

Over the next half hour or so, you practice every variation you can think of, and they are all terrible. Your attempt to be suave made you sound like you were gearing up to sell him a used motor carriage that would break down as soon as it was driven off the lot. Your attempt to be charming came off as creepy. You tried being seductive—

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I said I was sorry!

VOLITION — We are never letting you talk to Kim ever again.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — It wasn’t that bad.

RHETORIC — Yes it was.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — I admit it wasn’t the most graceful wording—

RHETORIC — “I know man-fucking things now. You can do the sex on me.”

YOU — …which went poorly. After that you were so desperate you tried to be authoritative, but then you remembered Kim’s eyebrow and stumbled to a halt and had to go sit in the bathroom for a minute to regain your equilibrium.

EMPATHY — Come on, Harry. One more try. I promise I’ve got this.

YOU — But Kim doesn’t like emotional stuff.

EMPATHY — I think he might surprise you. Just trust me?

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Success] — You splash your face one last time and go back to the bar.

THE BAR — Egg Head is sitting on a bar stool. From the motions of his hands he seems to be pantomiming driving a motor carriage.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Easy: Success] — He is making a high-pitched vrooming sound that sounds very much like the coil noise on a Coupris Kineema.

YOU — You drag one of the bar stools out to be slightly behind and to the side of Egg Head, the same position as one of the passenger seats in the Kineema.

EGG HEAD — “Hello my partner!” He lifts a hand from an imaginary steering lever and waves at you. “I am driving this HARD CORE motor carriage for justice! YEAGH!”

1. [Savoir Faire — Heroic 15] Ask Kim out — suavely.
2. [Logic — Medium 11] Ask Kim out — rationally.
3. [Suggestion — Formidable 13] Ask Kim out — persuasively.
4. [Electrochemistry — Legendary 14] Ask Kim out — sexily.
5. [Authority — Impossible 19] Ask Kim out — dominantly.
6. [Empathy — Challenging 12] Ask Kim out — emotionally.

EMPATHY [Success] — You squint until Egg Head’s back is just a vaguely orange blur and think about how Kim makes you feel, though that’s really too simple a phrase to really capture the truth of the thing. Your feelings for Kim are like the sea, vast and unknowable in some places, sparkling and warm in others. You could let them surround you, overwhelm you; you could let them carry you to somewhere new and strange; you could dabble at their edges; you could drown in their depths. You could spend the rest of your life exploring them and never get their limits and never get bored.

YOU — You take a deep breath and close your eyes, pretending that you’re sitting in the Kineema while Kim drives; the club music is on the radio, the murmur of the other people milling around is the sound of traffic on the 8/81. You just solved a case and you’re going to dinner to celebrate. You open your mouth to tell Kim how you feel—part of how you feel, anyway—but then you stop.

Kim isn’t here, not really, and the words boiling up inside you are for him and nobody else. They belong to him: your secret thoughts, the things you’ve wrestled with, the things it took so much time and work to know, the terrifying vulnerability of saying them out loud, the risk of putting everything on the table for him to take or leave as he will. They are his, and none other’s. Your offer. Yourself, an offering.

The fear of stumbling over your words, of making a fool of yourself in front of Kim, dissipates like sea-mist as the sun rises. He might accept you, or he might not, but you trust him. Even in rejection, you know he will be careful. You know he will be kind.

“Hey, Kim,” you say. Even though you’ve tucked the other words away for later, they still shade your voice, turning it warm and deep with hope and reverence and the love that has been growing for months inside your fallowed soul. “Will you go on a date with me?”

EGG HEAD — Egg Head starts to turn around on his bar stool, then remembers his imaginary motor carriage and pantomimes pulling over and parking it before spinning around to face you. “Yes!!” he says, teeth flashing in an enormous, proud smile beneath the purple glasses. “Indeed, my partner, that would be HARD CORE to the MEGA! I very happily will go on a date with you! YEEEAGH!!” He flings his arms wide, making his makeshift bomber-shawl-thing slide off him.

ACELE BERGER — “That was really good, officer!” Acele beams at you. “See, I knew if you practiced it you’d get it right eventually.”

THE BAR — André starts applauding, and within a few seconds all of the assembled onlookers have picked it up. Even Cindy is giving you a very slow, deliberate clap, smirking at you in a way that somehow still feels kind of encouraging.

YOU — You pick up your soda—André had a fresh one for you after you came back from the bathroom — and toast them with it, smiling. “Even an old dog can learn new tricks eventually,” you say, thinking of what Cindy had said to you back in Martinaise, that you were like an old dog left out in the rain too long. She hadn’t been wrong, then. She just hadn’t realized that the rain would be ending soon.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — Really, it’s more that Kim came by with an umbrella and took the old dog’s leash and led him back inside, and talked the family into giving him another chance to live there if he could stop himself pissing on the rug and chewing up all the furniture. And then Kim moved in too. And gave the dog a nice new shiny collar, and—

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — Don’t overextend the metaphor. This is starting to get weird.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — I think you meant to say it was starting to get good. Feel free to think some more about Kim putting you in a collar any time you like, Harry. I can work with this. I mean, he already kind of has, if you think about it. You wear that tie he gave you an awful lot. You like how it feels. Kind of like your RCM insignia, but a secret just for you and Kim. Your allegiance and his care, wrapped around your throat.

YOU — You realize that you’re fiddling with your tie and make yourself put your hand back down. Fortunately, now that the show is over, everyone is too focused on their own drinks and Egg Head’s return to the mixing deck to care about you staring silently into your glass instead of continuing the conversation.

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — Don’t worry about it, Harry. It’s okay. I’m here to mean whatever you need me to mean.

YOU — What?

SHIVERS [Legendary: Success] — Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi sits in his bedroom in a small apartment in the Harbour district, bent over his sewing machine. He works slowly and carefully, turning a scrap-end of silk into a necktie that could compare favorably to anything the high-net-worth individuals of Revachol East might buy from their bespoke tailors. His slim, clever fingers negotiate the delicate work with confidence and expertise. As he works, he smiles to himself a little, picturing how the color of the fabric will bring out the green of your eyes, and hoping you like the gift enough to wear it to work occasionally so that he can see.

YOU — Kim… Kim made you? For me? I mean—special for me?

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — From beginning to end. Each cut of the shears a thought of you, Harry, each crease and stitch set with hope and care.

EMPATHY [Godly: Success] — He likes to see you wear it. He notices how often you touch it, and when you do he smiles that smile that only you recognize. It means something to him, that the trouble he took over it was not wasted.

YOU — The cool, familiar slip of silk under your fingertips makes gooseflesh rise on your arms and the back of your neck. You tighten the tie just a little. Just enough so you can feel its gentle pressure against your throat when you swallow.

+3 MORALE

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — It’s almost like Kim’s touching you.

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] — If Kim touches you, he isn’t likely to do it around your neck.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Challenging: Success] — Maybe he would. If we asked nicely. You’d let him, wouldn’t you? You’d love it. Putting your life into his beautiful clever hands. You’d beg for it, Harry, and thank him for the privilege.

VOLITION [Legendary: Success] — Easy there. I know you got really inspired by some of the later chapters of that underground book we got, but maybe concentrate on getting him to go on one date with you before you bring up any of our more advanced research topics.

YOU — Fortunately, the dim lights in the club give some plausible deniability for the effect your wandering thoughts had on you. You concentrate on finishing your soda, then make your farewells before strolling down the quiet misty streets to where you pick up the late-night bus home. You wedge yourself into a corner and pull out your orange notebook; not to draw, this time, but to write down some of the things you thought of to say to Kim. If you choke up in the moment, you can refer to your notes to remind yourself what you wanted to tell him. You know he wouldn’t hold it against you. He might even like it that you thought about it enough to prepare.

You don’t get a lot of sleep that night, but even though you’re bleary-eyed and half asleep at work the next day, you still pay attention as you walk into the lieutenants’ office. You see Kim look at you: he always gives you a quick once-over, the first time he sees you after an absence. You used to think he was checking for signs of drink or drugs, but he does something similar to his décomptage and his desk and even to his Kineema; checking for damage, you think. Making sure that the things he considers himself in some way responsible for didn’t come to any harm while they were away from him. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he does it, but that doesn’t make you like it any less. The thought of Kim being protective over you—like you’re his—makes you feel hot and dizzy and desperate for it to be true.

You pay attention to his face. You see his gaze linger for a moment on your tie, and the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little, the left side of his mouth tucks in a fraction.

He made it for you, and you wore it, and that pleased him.

You swallow, hard, so you can feel the work of Kim’s hands snug around your throat. It’s a reminder to be patient, to follow your plan.

VOLITION [Heroic: Success] — You’ve waited this long, you can make it a few more days.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Show Kim you can be good for him, and if we’re lucky, soon he’ll let you be bad.

YOU — You shiver, and swallow, and then you go to work. You close a case that day. That night, you barely get your front door shut before you’re shoving your trousers down, the hand not on your cock tugging on your tie. You come fast, so hard it almost hurts, the memory of Kim saying “good job, detective” ringing in your ears.

You’re going to ask Kim out in seven days.

September 17, CC51

One unexpected consequence of his transfer was that Kim was occasionally called into meetings with Pryce and/or Berdyayeva in order to provide a “cross-jurisdictional perspective” on various matters. He supposed it made sense — officers of his rank did not change precincts that often—but it still never failed to give Kim a tiny thrill to hear that his insights were valued by his superiors.

(And Harry always looked so proud when the meeting invitations came, which only made it sweeter.)

On this particular occasion, the meeting in question regarded the roll-out of the burnout program pilot; the preliminary statistics were very positive indeed, so much so that Kim had some hopes of the RCM continuing it even after Wild Pines inevitably walked back their level of support. He’d always thought it likely—officers, especially senior officers, were expensive to replace, after all, and that didn’t even take into account the difference in productivity and case closure rates between a healthy detective and an unhealthy one—but now there was actual data to support the projections. By the time the meeting broke up, Kim was so happy it was difficult to school his expression into appropriate professionalism instead of just grinning manically at everyone in the room.

“Kitsuragi,” Captain Pryce said, as Kim was getting up to leave. “A word?”

“Of course, sir.” Kim sat back down and turned his notebook to a fresh page.

“No need for notes, Lieutenant.” Pryce smiled. “I just wanted to check in with you. You’re coming up on six months with us, and from my point of view, things are going very well. Wing C is running smoother than it has in years; closure rates are up and stress is down. I’ve actually started to get other officers interested in working with Major Crimes again. It’s obvious that you and the officers you recommended from the 51st are a good fit here.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s very good to hear.” Even after all these months, Kim still felt a little thrill of surprise any time his accomplishments were recognized without the undertone of scorn or envy that he had been so long accustomed to. It made everything about the job easier, feeling that he and his fellow officers were completely on the same side.

Pryce nodded. “I’d like to hear your perspective,” he said. “How do you think things are going? Do you have any feedback for me? Questions, concerns?”

Nothing sprung immediately to mind, but Kim thought about it. His greatest concern had been the difficulties between Harry and his former partner, but since the confrontation (and subsequent apology) in the bullpen back in August, things had improved considerably in that quarter. Morale had improved on the task force overall as the atmosphere in the lieutenants’ office had lightened, which was only to be expected. The senior officers in any unit played an outsized role in setting the tone for the workforce, for better or worse. Honestly, the greatest issues Kim had seen lately were all related to the intensity of the precinct’s workload.

“I’m not sure this is within our span of control,” Kim said, “and it’s definitely not anything you don’t know already. But even with the additional supports from the burnout program, the typical officer caseload here continues to be significantly higher than recommended. The team is handling it remarkably well, all things considered, but long-term sustainability is a concern.”

Pryce nodded, sighing. “Jamrock should have at least three precincts,” he agreed. “Everyone knows it, but nobody can agree on the best way to fix it. I’ve been advocating a re-districting for years, but, well. You know how IG can be about change.”

Kim nodded. He knew all too well how they could be.

“I am, however, focusing heavily on recruitment, especially for Wing C,” Pryce continued. “Happily, it’s becoming less of a hard sell the farther away we get from the… unfortunate events of last winter.” He sighed. “Which, honestly, brings me to something else I need to thank you for, Lieutenant: I’ve got my best detective back.”

Kim bristled a little, though he tried not to let it show. “Lieutenant-Yefreitor Du Bois has certainly made an impressive recovery since his entroponetic injury,” he said, unable to keep his tone from going overly formal. “Due entirely to his own dedication, talent, and hard work.”

Pryce blinked at him, then shook his head, smiling. “At ease, Kitsuragi,” he said. “I’m not saying this to downplay any of the work he’s done or imply anything uncomplimentary about either of you. What I am saying is that he’s working better with you than I’ve seen him work in years, and he seems to be managing to do it without putting himself through the grinder for once.” He looked down at the ledger on his desk, running one finger down a page full of neat lines of text. “You don’t see detectives like him very often. Not just because he’s got a rare gift for it—though he does—but because the same things that make him so good also make him vulnerable.” His mouth twisted. “If I were a better man but a worse captain, I’d probably have encouraged him to retire years ago. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. We needed him right where he was, for as long as he was willing to stay.”

Kim looked down at his hands. “I… I understand,” he said slowly. “I’ve wondered, sometimes, if it might not be better to encourage him to do something else… to teach again, perhaps. But…” he sighed, and met the Captain’s eyes. “I love this city,” he said quietly. “I always have. And for all its many faults, the RCM is the only thing that keeps Revachol West from being either abandoned wholesale to the besmerties or wiped out of existence by the Coalition. And the RCM needs Harrier Du Bois.” His mouth was suddenly dry, and before he even realized what he was going to say he’d continued. “And so do I.”

A wave of horror made him feel ill. What had possessed him to say that to Pryce?

“I mean,” he said. “I’m a better detective, working with him. He pushes me to consider things I would have overlooked. Discussing cases with him sparks ideas I wouldn’t ordinarily have had. And for all his eccentricities, he cares. About the city, and the people in it. Working with him, I find that I remember why I joined up in the first place.”

He forced himself to stop talking. His ears were burning hot. Damn it, Kitsuragi, what is wrong with you?

Pryce chuckled a little, rusty and dry. “Yeah,” he said. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Du Bois has that effect on people, one way or another. He’s… a catalyst. When he’s off kilter, everyone around him gets pulled off. When he’s on his game, he brings everyone up to a higher level. He and Vicquemare… they were a hell of a team, before things started going sour. But at some point they started bringing out the worst in each other instead of the best.” He looked at Kim, his eyes sharp and knowing. “The two of you, though. I can’t say from firsthand experience, but I believe you when you say he makes you better. You do the same for him. Most people either let him do whatever he wants or try to clamp down on him, but you’ve found a good balance. He’s more stable than he used to be. Less desperate. Happy, even. He does other things beside work and drink—and yet his solve rate’s back to where it was three years ago.”

“That’s down to him, Captain,” Kim said. He didn’t deserve credit for Harry’s successes, not when Harry had worked so hard for so long.

“It’s down to you both,” Pryce said. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working for the two of you, and I’m very glad to see it.” He pulled his ledger closer and picked up a pen. “Good work, Kitsuragi,” he said. “To you and your partner. I look forward to seeing your future careers.” He nodded, a clear dismissal, and Kim gathered his things and went back downstairs, his brain spinning.

Harry was at his desk, deeply absorbed in a sketch plan of a crime scene he was making. He was whistling softly through his teeth: some old disco song Kim couldn’t remember the name of. His hair curled softly over his bent neck; soon, Kim knew, he’d get annoyed with it falling into his face and pull it back. Kim had a packet of hair ties tucked into one of his pockets, because Harry was forever losing them and he always looked so shyly pleased when Kim gave him one at an appropriate moment. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he had already loosened his tie—the one Kim made him, again—and unbuttoned his collar.

Perhaps Kim would make him another tie soon. His patrol cloak needed a new interlining before the winter, and he was planning a fabric-shopping trip soon. He’d have to check the silks, see if anything caught his eye.

The office door shut behind him and Harry glanced up from his sketch, then smiled. “Hey, Kim! They put you in charge of the precinct yet?”

“Not today, detective,” Kim said. “It was a good meeting, though. Very… enlightening.” His in-tray had gained two new folders while he’d been gone; he picked them up, stifling a sigh. The pace seldom slowed in Jamrock. “I spoke a little with Captain Pryce, afterward. He had some very complimentary things to say about your work of late.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, really?”

Kim nodded. “And well-deserved, if I might take the liberty of saying so. You really are doing exceptionally well, Harry. I know you’ve worked tirelessly at it; I hope you know that your efforts have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated.”

Harry was blushing, Kim noticed, his cheeks going pink; Kim was hopelessly charmed by the sight.

“Well,” he said. “I hope he said nice things about you too, Kim, because you deserve them way more than—”

“He did,” Kim said, cutting Harry off before he could work himself up too much over what Kim did or didn’t deserve. “As I said, a good meeting. It appears the Captain is just as happy as I am that I decided to transfer here.”

Harry’s face lit up. “You are?” He said. “I mean, really? Even with—” he waved a hand at the stack of case files teetering on the edge of his desk. “You’re really glad?”

“I really am,” Kim promised. “It’s been… good. Very good. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had gotten into a rut at the 57th. Since the transfer, I really feel like I’m pushing myself, getting sharper. It’s good for me.” He paused. He still had a slight impulse to hang back, afraid of giving anyone too much potential ammunition to use against him. Much more, though, he wanted to see the look on Harry’s face, reveled in the way even the smallest morsel of praise seemed to mean the world to him.

“You’re good for me,” Kim said. “Pryce agreed. We make each other better, he said.”

Harry caught his breath, as though he’d just heard that… that a new Innocence had been coronated, or that the Coalition was pulling out of Revachol. “I’ve always known that about you,” he said quietly. “From the day we met, I knew it. It isn’t that you make we want to do better—I always want to do better—it’s that you make me believe I can. When things get hard, I think about that. That you think I can do it, and if you think so it must be true.” His eyes were bright, a little wet, the color of new leaves in the springtime. His face was guileless, open and trusting.

It was almost frightening. Kim was not accustomed to having such power handed over to him unquestioning. “I’m glad it helps,” he said. “But I’m not infallible, Harry. I make as many mistakes as anyone.”

“Well, maybe,” Harry said.”But not about me. Not that I’ve ever noticed, anyway. Of the two of us, you definitely have the better track record.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Kim said. “Whatever encouragement or support I’ve been able to provide would be useless if you weren’t prepared to do the hard work.”

“You didn’t know me before,” Harry said. He looked away, eyes going unfocused as though he was looking into the past. “I think… I think I’d given up on myself. I don’t think I believed things would ever get better for me. I don’t think I believed they could.”

“And now you do?” It hurt, thinking of how much pain Harry had been in. With a very few exceptions, during their acquaintance Harry had always seemed optimistic almost to a fault, irrepressible and determined. Kim hated to consider what it must have taken to quench that spark so thoroughly.

Harry smiled, wide enough that Kim could see the little gap between his front teeth. “Yeah,” he said. “I really do.”

“Good,” Kim said. “After all, the sign of a strong partnership is that you work better together than apart.”

“That’s true in a lot of ways,” Harry said. “Um… Kim…” he trailed off, something uncertain in his face. Before Kim could gently nudge him into speaking, the door opened; the sergeants came in a little bunch to ask Kim and Harry to clarify some esoteric point of procedure in arson investigation, and the moment passed.

Harry was in a good mood the rest of the day, though, and if Kim was honest, he was too.

Chapter Text

September 20, CC51

Harry wasn’t in the office when Kim arrived on Friday morning. It wasn’t unexpected; he’d confided to Kim beforehand that he had to see his doctor, completing the primary phase of the treatment program he’d been in since shortly after Martinaise. He’d been shyly proud, talking about it, and there was something about his attitude that made Kim feel protective and fierce over him. Harry was terrifyingly good at a great many things, but he didn’t often seem proud of himself for it. If anything, Kim thought, he was more likely to seem subtly relieved underneath the veneer of bluster, as though he’d narrowly passed a difficult examination.

Once, early on in their partnership, he’d had one of his impossible flashes of insight and tracked down a fugitive. He’d threaded through the Jamrock streets like a hunting hound, unerring and implacable, straight to his quarry. It had been thrilling to watch; like something out of a novel or maybe a film, something fictional because nobody real was ever that good, except that Harry was. The patrol officers who had come to assist had been enthusiastic in their praise, but Harry had flashed a broad grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Gotta give you some reason to keep me around,” he’d said, and the other officers had laughed at the joke.

Kim had not laughed, because it hadn’t really been a joke.

(“I’ve got my best detective back,” Pryce had said.)

As the months wore on, Harry had lost some of the insecurity he’d had at first, bravado gradually replaced with quiet confidence. It had been infinitely satisfying, like watching a beautiful but damaged building be restored brick by brick. For all of the wretched mess that Krenel and Wild Pines had brought to the city, at least their restitution had led to this; to Harry, healing, and to everyone who Harry seemed determine to sweep along in his wake as he walked the path towards something better than they’d had before.

(“He’s a catalyst.”)

Kim still hadn’t mentioned to Harry the role he’d played in getting the burnout prevention program off the ground; Harry was already a bit too eager to give Kim credit for his accomplishments, and Kim didn’t want to muddy those waters any further. As far as Kim was concerned, Harry had done the work, difficult and daily and unrewarded, and he should credit his successes to nobody but himself.

(“I believe you when you say he makes you better. You do the same for him.”)

The treatment standard for substance use disorders included medically supervised detoxification, ongoing medication for physiological dependence, and six months of therapy to assist with psychological dependence. After the six months, patients should be evaluated to assess whether they were ready to move into a maintenance mode. Success rates for patients who completed the entire course of treatment were encouraging.

Harry had completed the entire course of treatment.

(“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”)

Harry didn’t talk about his program much, though he never seemed to mind if someone brought it up. He wasn’t ashamed, as far as Kim could tell; he was always willing to discuss it with any other officers who expressed curiosity and had actually convinced an officer from wing B to give it a try when the man had asked if Harry thought it might be helpful for his recurrent insomnia. Kim remembered what Harry had told him, the first time they’d talked about it; that he hadn’t wanted to tell the rest of the task force that he was trying, so he wouldn’t have to face them if he failed. And even though he hadn’t failed—had, in fact, succeeded beyond what many would have expected possible—he seemed to have carried that reticence forward.

It was understandable, especially given how tense things had been between Harry and Jean at first, but Kim wished that Harry hadn’t had to face that complication on top of everything else.

Enough. Wishing was a waste of time; far better to spend one’s energies attempting to make the future better than to look back on the past with regret.

Kim spent the morning working through his paperwork backlog from the week, and if he looked up every time the office door opened, that was only natural. He was surprised how out of sorts he felt—was he getting codependent?—but he managed to avoid being visibly irritated with every person who came into the room and committed the sin of not being Harry. Naturally, this meant that by the time Harry actually got there, Kim had finally managed to absorb himself in his work, and didn’t notice him until a familiar shadow fell across his desk.

“Hey, Kim.”

“Good morning, detective.” He could hear the warmth in his voice, even though he did his best to keep his expression professionally cordial. “I hope your appointment went well.”

Harry beamed. “It did, yeah,” he said. “I could tell you about it over lunch, if you’ve got the time to spare?”

Kim didn’t, strictly speaking, but then he never really did; as understaffed as they were, they could all work twenty hours a day without stopping and still not get ahead of the caseload. But he’d learned relatively quickly after his transfer to measure such things on a sliding scale. There was nothing on their docket that day that would cause significant harm if neglected for the length of a meal; therefore, by Precinct 41 standards, he did indeed have time to go to lunch.

“I do,” he said, “as long as we go somewhere close by.”

They walked down the road to the New Sandwich Place, which was still called that despite, as far as Kim had been able to tell, having been operating out of its current location for at least six years. (He had not so far been able to discover whether there was an Old Sandwich Place. He probably could have asked someone, but it was more fun to try to find out himself.) It was a beautiful day, clear sun and high, puffy clouds and a crisp edge to the air that whispered of the coming autumn. Harry was uncharacteristically quiet, but one look at his face reassured Kim that it wasn’t for any concerning reason; he was looking up at the sky with the same kind of wonder in his expression that he’d had looking at his favorite wall in Martinaise, or while he’d danced in the old church, or while eating ice cream in the meteorite park. His shoulders were relaxed. He’d even slowed his normal frantic pace enough that Kim didn’t have to consciously rush to keep up with his long strides. Kim wondered if this was how peace looked on him.

I want to make him look like that, he thought, and promptly missed a step, stumbling ungracefully as they stepped up onto a curb. Harry caught him by the elbow, looking down in concern.

“You okay?”

Kim cleared his throat, his ears going hot. “Yes. My apologies, detective.” Harry had not yet let go of his arm. Kim imagined he could feel the heat of his fingers even through the sleeve of his jacket.

“No worries,” Harry said lightly. Was it Kim’s imagination, or did his hand linger a little on Kim’s arm before he moved it away?

Kim started walking again. “So the appointment went well, you said. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yeah.” Harry walked a few steps before he spoke again. “It was actually several appointments; I saw the lazareth again and the entroponeticist as well as Dr. Benoit. They wouldn’t always do that much, I don’t think, but since it’s still a pilot I agreed to be one of the official test subjects for the program? So they needed good before-and-after data. I guess they figure if they can unfuck my head they can fix anyone.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but Kim still frowned a little. Harry was doing better with the whole self-deprecation issue lately, but it still slipped through from time to time.

“I’m sure the doctors did good work,” Kim said. “But so did you. Nothing they did would have succeeded if you hadn’t been determined to follow through.”

Harry smiled down at him, his eyes crinkled with fondness. “Always sticking up for me,” he said, his rough voice gone warm. “Even against myself.”

“It’s the truth,” Kim said, ignoring the way something in his chest fluttered when Harry looked at him that way.

“I know,” Harry said. He chuckled a little, rueful. “Believe me, I do. One side effect of losing forty-odd years of memories in one go is that my memory since Martinaise is really good. I guess I had a lot of room in there, for better or worse. I’ve been trying to focus more on the nice memories, but there have been some rough days, especially at first.”

Kim nodded, sympathetic. He had a feeling he hadn’t seen the worst of Harry’s bad times, but he always noticed the traces they left behind—on Harry’s face, his hands, his moods. He realized, now that he thought about it, that at some point over the last several months the balance had tipped. Harry was more likely to come to work in the morning now with bright eyes and a ready smile than bleary and grim.

“I still don’t completely remember what happened, that first weekend in Martinaise,” Harry continued. “Honestly, I’m fine with that. The things I heard from other people about myself are bad enough without remembering how it felt from the inside. To want… oblivion. Not to exist anymore.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I still get echoes of it. Like a bastard voice in my head, saying all that hopeless shit.”

“Don’t listen,” Kim said. His voice came out thin, his throat tight. “That voice is wrong.”

“I don’t,” Harry said. He laid a hand briefly on Kim’s shoulder, feather-light and fleeting. Kim wished he hadn’t moved away so fast. “Like I said, it’s echoes. Things I used to think, maybe. Old habits.” He smiled a little. “I argue with him now. Prove him wrong, show evidence. Or I pretend he’s Evrart Claire, trying to get a rise out of me. That one was hard to explain to my therapist but like she says, whatever works.”

“I’m glad it works,” Kim said. “If—if you ever need backup. Arguing with the… the manipulative man in the shipping container… I hope you know you can call on me.”

Harry’s smile widened, his dimples flashing at the corners, his eyes sparkling. “Kim,” he said. “Partner. Where do you think half my evidence comes from? You’ve had my back on this the whole time whether you knew it or not.”

“Oh,” Kim said. He felt… oddly light, in that moment, as though some twisted corner of him was easing out its snarls. “Good. But you can still call. Anytime you need.”

“I know,” Harry said, like it had never been in question. “I will, if I need to. Promise.” He nudged Kim with his shoulder. “Same for you, obviously. I mean, I know you probably won’t need me to help shout down your inner asshole, but everyone needs a support system. Doesn’t matter why. You need me, I’ll be there.”

Kim looked up into Harry’s face. At some point in the last six months, he had memorized that face; all its quicksilver changes of expression, the marks of time and pain but also of life and laughter. The strong jaw, the long lashes, the green of his eyes and the pink of his cheeks. The little bump on the bridge of his nose. The faint scar that made his lower lip cant to one side when he smiled. Kim hadn’t touched that face since he’d wiped it clean of fever-sweat in Martinaise, but the palms of his hands tingled underneath his gloves, remembering the spring of Harry’s whiskers against them, the delicate tracery of lines under his fingertips.

He remembered the times when sleep had eluded him, when he had sat up all night alone, eyes burning, forcing himself through the Volta over and over until dawn came and he could pack himself back inside the box shaped like a perfect officer and go to work. He thought of how it might feel, if he picked up the telephone instead. He thought of listening to Harry, chattering about something he’d just learned from one of his ever-present books, or even just sitting with Kim, his breath echoing down the line a reminder that they weren’t alone. He thought of asking Harry to come over, of opening the door and stepping forward and burying his face in Harry’s shoulder.

Harry would hold him, Kim thought. Even if they weren’t lovers. Not without questions—Kim wasn’t sure Harry had ever done anything without questions in his life—but without conditions, without any sort of quid pro quo. He wouldn’t use it as leverage against Kim later. Honestly, he’d probably consider it a favor to be permitted to help.

They’d stopped walking, Kim realized. They were standing in front of the New Sandwich Place, and Harry was just watching him patiently. Giving him space to think, to process. Waiting to hear what he would say.

“I will,” Kim said. “When I need to. I promise.”

Harry’s answering smile was so dazzling Kim felt for a moment as though he’d looked straight at the sun. He had to turn away before he did something rash. He opened the door.

“Let me buy your lunch,” he said. “As a congratulation on your accomplishments.”

“I was going to buy your lunch,” Harry said, following him into the shop. “As a thank-you for your support while I was, you know. Learning how to be a human again.”

“Another time, detective,” Kim said. “Let today be for celebrating your victories.”

He bought their sandwiches, and Harry suggested they eat them outside; he knew a spot, apparently. He seemed to know a spot for any possible need, just about anywhere in Jamrock; Kim hoped that eventually he would develop a similar knowledge of his territory. For the time being, he was content to follow Harry to the overgrown back courtyard of some defunct municipal building, where a wrought iron bench covered in chipped blue enamel was nestled beneath what had once been some kind of decorative arch, now barely visible through a solid mass of vines.

“In the spring, these are covered with flowers,” Harry said, as they sat. “They smell really good.” The bench was small, decorative; they had to sit pressed shoulder to shoulder to both fit. Harry was just enough taller that if Kim tipped his head sideways he could rest it on Harry’s shoulder.

He wasn’t going to, of course, but something in him liked to imagine it. Harry had very nice shoulders.

“Perhaps we should come here again in the spring,” Kim said. “I’d enjoy seeing that.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I—I’d like that. To show it to you. I like showing you good things.” His cheeks flushed a little, and he ducked his head to take a large bite of his sandwich.

“I like that too,” Kim said, mainly to distract himself from doing something inappropriate like resting his hand on Harry’s knee or staring at his mouth.

“So, um.” Harry was looking intently at his sandwich, like he expected it to tell him the secrets of the universe. (Which, knowing Harry, might not really be that far-fetched.) “Kim. There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. But I’m really nervous about it. And I don’t want to mess things up between us.”

Something in Kim’s chest jolted, and he felt his entire body come to attention. Could it be? Was this going to happen? He tried to keep his voice sounding normal. “If you want to talk to me about it, Harry, I want to hear it,” he said. “And I promise to do my best not to let it damage our relationship, whatever it is.”

“Good,” Harry said. “That’s… good. Thank you, Kim.” He was still looking down, his face in profile; Kim could see his throat move as he swallowed. He’d shaved unusually carefully that morning, Kim noticed, his throat and chin bare of the stubble that he sometimes let build up for a few days.

“So, um. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last couple of months.” Harry’s voice was quiet and tight with nerves, but underneath it rang with certainty. “About myself, and who I am, and what I want. What kind of a man I want to be. What’s important for me to keep, and what I should let go. I’ve done a lot of really hard mind projects about myself.”

“It shows,” Kim said quietly. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” He glanced over, smiling. “I’m glad you think so.” His eyes flicked over Kim’s face, down to his hands, back up again. The smile faded; underneath his mutton-chops, he looked pale but determined.

“I want you to know, first of all, how much your friendship and support has meant to me,” he said. “When you met me I was… wrecked. But you never treated me like I was too broken to fix. You believed that I could do better. Could be better. You believed in me when nobody else did. And then I started to think, well, he’s been right about pretty much everything else so far. Maybe he’s right about that, too.” He was looking down again, like he couldn’t stand to look at Kim and say those things at the same time.

It was just as well. Kim wasn’t sure he could look at Harry and hear them. His heart was beating so fast he felt like he’d just been sprinting.

“You saved my life, after I was shot,” Harry said. “But you’d already saved it, even before then. Not because I’d decided to live for you, or anything like that. I know better than to do that, now. But because you helped me feel like I had a chance. I don’t mind things being hard, you know? I’m not afraid to have to fight. But for a while there I’d lost my faith that there was anything to fight for. That I could ever really win. You gave me that back. And when things would get hard I could look over at you, or think about what we’d done that day, or even just look at that tie you gave me, and remind myself that you believe in me. And then… I’d believe in me, too.” His words were coming faster, now, like he’d broken through some kind of barrier inside himself and now couldn’t wait to let everything out. “So, yeah, that was the first thing.”

“And the second?” Kim had set his sandwich down and had clasped his hands together to stop them from trembling. Inside his gloves, he knew his knuckles would be white from the pressure.

“I fucked up my relationship with Dora,” Harry said, and Kim bit his tongue to keep himself from saying something.

“I mean, okay, technically my untreated Trauma-and-Stressor Disorder did a lot of that,” Harry said. “But neither of us handled it very well, from what I’ve been able to put together about that time. I think part of the problem was that I tried to protect her too much. I put her on this pedestal, like she was perfect and untouchable, but instead of making her feel special it made her feel like I didn’t even see her as a real person. I wouldn’t… be vulnerable with her. I wouldn’t let her help me. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I wasn’t letting her be my partner, not really. I wasn’t letting her in.” He looked over at Kim; his eyes were clear, and he looked a little sad but not devastated. It was a long way from the man who’d been so shaken by any reminder of the woman that he’d nearly passed out in the middle of a crime scene.

Kim thought it probably didn’t speak very well of his own character that he felt so triumphant over that.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this,” Harry continued. “I do have a point, I promise. I’m getting there. See, I talked about this a lot with my therapist, because I realized that I wanted—that I was falling for someone else. And I wanted to make sure that I didn’t make the same mistakes this time. That I didn’t do to… that person, the same things I did to Dora. This time I wanted to do it right.”

He looked at Kim, steady and sure, all his nerves seemingly faded away, and all Kim could think in the moment was if he tells me he’s fallen in love with Lillienne Carter, I’m going to scream.

“I’ve been working on this as hard as I can,” Harry said. “And I’m going to keep working. Because I deserve to be proud of who I am. But also because—” he trailed off for a moment, then set his jaw and barreled ahead, like the end of the sentence was a door he was trying to break down. “Because you deserve a partner you can be proud to work alongside. And… only if you want to, Kim, only if you feel the same, but if you do—if you think there’s a chance that maybe you could—I wanted to be the kind of man that… that you might be happy to… be with.”

Kim’s hands and feet were cold. His face was hot. Part of him was still trying not to get excited, but another, deeper part was rising swiftly to the surface on a wave of exultant joy. He met Harry’s eyes, and trembled at the look in them. “Harry? Are you—what was the question you wanted to ask me?”

“I have tickets to go look at artistic motor carriages at the museum next week,” Harry said. “Will you go with me? As a date,” he added, like Kim might not have been sure what he meant. “My date. I don’t really remember dating much, but I’ve been doing research and I promise I’ll make it good.”

The sunshine was warm on Kim’s back, the bench hard and a little chilly beneath his thighs. He could smell toasted bread and salami. It was an ordinary scene, prosaic even. So why did he feel like he was about to fall off a cliff? He’d been hoping this would happen, imagining it—so why was it so hard to reach out and take it, now that it was on offer?

Harry bit his lip, his forehead creasing in worry. “If you don’t want to go to the museum we can do something else,” he said. “That would be fine with me, I just thought you’d like it—” and that was it, that was the thing that Kim needed to break through his strange paralysis; his partner needed backup. Kim might be afraid, but he wasn’t going to leave Harry to do this alone.

“Harry!” Kim’s tone wasn’t sharp, but it was carrying. Harry stopped talking immediately. His eyes were wide and pleading, his body tense, like he was holding himself still by sheer force of will.

He wants this, Kim thought, and finally stopped trying to brace himself for disappointment. He really wants me back. The thought was intoxicating, the sheer dizzying relief of hopes solidifying into truths.

“Harry,” Kim said again, just because it felt so good to say. It came out soft and low, warm, almost… caressing. Intimate. The way he’d say it across his pillow.

Harry’s eyes got impossibly wider. Kim wasn’t sure he was even breathing.

“I would love to go to the museum with you,” Kim said. “As your date.” He laid his hand on Harry’s knee, reveling in the tiny, shocked gasp Harry gave. “I’m happy and proud to be your partner, and to be your friend.” It was terrifying to say these things, but thrilling too; it was a high-speed chase in the dark, but Kim had always been a speedfreak in his soul. “We’ve been good together in all the ways we’ve tried, so far. You’re not the only one who’s wondered if we might make good partners personally as well as professionally.”

Harry half-turned on the bench, his eyes searching Kim’s face. “You’re saying yes?” He was trembling, just a little. “You want to date me? In a romantic way, so maybe I can hold your hand some time and, and maybe you would kiss me if you wanted?” He took a deep, ragged breath. “I just, I just want to make sure, sometimes I misunderstand things—”

Kim laid his hand over Harry’s mouth, just for a few seconds to make sure the flood of words had stopped. “I’m saying yes,” he said, firmly. Harry deserved to be sure of this. “I want to date you, in a romantic way. And I am not opposed to holding your hand, if you wish it, or to kisses, or to anything else of that sort. In fact, I’m rather looking forward to exploring that with you. When the time is right, of course,” he added, because Harry had gotten a Look on his face that Kim recognized, and Kim wasn’t at all confident in his own ability to resist if Harry had proposed that they ditch work early and get right on that exploration.

They had waited this long, after all. There was no need to rush. They deserved to take their time and do things properly.

For the moment, Kim was content to watch as Harry processed his words, his face like the sun rising.

“Really?”

Kim nodded. “Really.”

Harry whooped with joy, jumping to his feet and punching the air; it was really the most flattering response Kim had ever experienced to his own romantic interest. He gave up on regulating his expression and just let himself grin at Harry, enjoying the moment.

Eventually, Harry realized that he’d accidentally flung the rest of his sandwich over the courtyard wall in his exuberance, but he didn’t seem to care. After some debate, Kim convinced him to take half of Kim’s sandwich, which he’d barely touched and which was considerably bigger than he really needed anyway. Afterward they walked back to the precinct, closer together than they had walked on the way out: just close enough that the backs of their hands brushed occasionally. Harry’s hand twitched every time, like he was starting to reach out and stopping himself.

He would hold Harry’s hand at the museum, Kim decided. The whole time, if he wanted. Harry was very tactile; it wouldn’t do for him to think that the professional distance between them that would be necessary while they were at the precinct was a reflection of any lack of ardor on Kim’s part. And he’d mentioned hand-holding specifically, which likely meant that it was important to him.

He’d mentioned kissing, too. Kim glanced up at Harry’s face; his lips were pink beneath his mustache, curved into a gentle smile. Would they feel as soft as they looked? Would they taste of cinnamon? He could find out immediately, if he wanted to; he was fairly sure that Harry would be willing. But… he didn’t want to, not yet. Not when they were halfway through an all-too-short lunch break, on their way back to an afternoon of work. Instant gratification had its charms, but they paled in comparison to how good it would be if he let the anticipation build for a while first. Especially now that Kim knew that his attentions were welcomed. It was much more pleasant to look forward to something you were fairly sure you’d actually be allowed to have. Kim’s life had not been filled with so many pleasures that he’d lost the urge to linger on the ones he got, to draw them out, to make them last.

Harry knew Kim probably better than anyone else alive, by now, but there were parts of himself that Kim kept private. Things that he would share with a lover but not a colleague, however close. The thought of sharing those things with Harry made his pulse race and his breath catch.

He would hold Harry’s hand, at the museum. And after the museum… well. Kisses, certainly. More? That would depend on a number of things.

Kim remembered the books he’d seen in Harry’s apartment, and hoped Harry had booked the museum tickets for the night before their day off. Just in case.

September 20, CC51

YOUR APARTMENT — You’ve been home from work for nearly half an hour, and you’ve done nothing since you got here but wander around your apartment, picking things up and then putting them down again, like a fat bumblebee buzzing from flower to flower. Nothing holds your attention for very long; you’re too preoccupied with the internal monologue that’s been running more or less non-stop since lunchtime.

YOU — He said yes he said yes he said yes he said yes!!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Forget booze. Forget drugs. This is the best high you’ve ever had. I’m officially changing your diagnosis to Kimaholic.

YOU — You spent the entire afternoon this way, so happy you felt like you could float up into the sky with the force of it. Judit took one look at you and grinned. “Good news, Harry?” she’d asked, and you’d very carefully avoided looking at Kim when you beamed back at her and said, “The best news.”

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) — You looked at him plenty the rest of the afternoon, though. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but his eyebrows were happy the whole time.

EMPATHY — He was happy and excited, too, but he’s better than you are at putting his personal life to one side to focus on work. Still, he did look over at you a lot more frequently than usual, and when he remembered that he’d promised Alice and Rosaline he’d go to dinner with them tonight he looked genuinely disappointed when he’d apologized to you for not being able to spend time together after work.

YOU — It’s okay. Next week we’ll get to spend the whole evening together just the two of us, and we have the day after that off, too, just in case.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Kim could keep us up all night long.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — Next week is only your first date, though. That’s a little soon to be planning for all-night-long sorts of activities, don’t you think?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — No I absolutely do not! We’ve been waiting for this for months! We’ve been so patient! We even went to therapy first!

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — We’ve been waiting for months, but the first Kim heard about it was at lunch today. Give him some time to catch up.

YOU — It isn’t like we just met, though. We’ve been best friends for months. Shouldn’t that make a difference?

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] — Probably, but it’s hard to predict in what direction. Kim might be more cautious than usual, out of a desire not to damage your existing relationship. Or he might be less cautious, because he already knows and trusts you. The best way to find out would be to ask him.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] — Just try to do it in a way that doesn’t make you sound pathetic. Have some pride.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Name one time having pride has gotten us laid. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

SAVOIR FAIRE — That isn’t fair! You know we don’t remember any times we got laid.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — We weren’t all that dignified when we asked Kim out and he still said yes. Maybe he doesn’t mind that we aren’t as cool as he is.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He doesn’t. He thinks it’s kind of charming.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — Anyway, you don’t want to sound too presumptuous. Best to bring it up after your date, once you see how things go.

YOU — I’m not worrying about that today. I’m too excited! Because Kim said YES to our date! We’re going to go look at artistic machines at the museum together and we won’t have to hurry away to go do work stuff. I’ll be able to look at Kim all I want without it being weird, and he will talk to me and pay attention to me because that’s what you do on dates, and maybe afterward he’ll let me hug him again or hold his hand or maybe even kiss him a little! It’s going to be so great.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Kim has hugged you and/or permitted you to hug him three times: on the roof of the precinct after you found out about your undercover work, in your kitchen after the first time he came to one of your art classes, and in the office, when you were so upset about the thing with Jean. Also he danced with you that time. You remember all of them with crystal clarity and relive them frequently when you’re alone.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Trivial: Success] — Kim has a lean build but he’s dense with muscle under that loose jacket he wears. He must work hard on his strength.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — He probably works even harder because he’s naturally lean. Anyone who thought he was an easy target because of how he looks would get a very unpleasant surprise.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Easy: Success] — A sprinter, that one, not a long-distance guy like you are. Agile, too. He’d do well on hurdles.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — It’s only right that he’s built for speed.

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] — And dexterity. It’s not escaped our notice how good he is with his hands. All that detail work on the Kineema…

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Just imagine what he could do to your body. Remember when he was fixing your uniform and he told you to take off your shirt?

YOU — I remember that constantly.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Trivial: Success] — Your nipples get hard as the twine scrapes softly over them. Kim is focused on taking the measurement of your chest; he’s leaning forward a little so he can see what he’s doing. You can feel his breath on your bare skin. His fingers are cool wherever they brush against you. When he finally lays his hand flat on your body you can feel the outline of it tingling for a long time after he moves away. You’ll feel its ghost every time you remember.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Picture it, Harry. You’ve been on a date with Kim and you invite him back to your place for coffee. You go to make it and he follows you into the kitchen. He steps in close; you’re up against the counter. There’s nowhere to go, even if you wanted to. He rests his hands on the countertop to either side of you and looks up into your eyes and says…

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — “On second thought, detective, there’s something else I’d rather have.”

YOU — You collapse onto your sofa and let your head fall back, your eyes sliding shut as you picture it. You imagine the way Kim would look, his eyes gleaming, a smile you could cut yourself on.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — A predator’s smile, all teeth and hunger. You want to bare your throat and let him devour you.

YOU — You fumble at your collar, undoing buttons and pulling your shirt away from your skin. You run your fingers down the lines of your neck. Would Kim bite you a little, if you asked him? Would he let you wear marks from his lips or his teeth? Would he want them to stay private or leave them where other people could see?

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — Kim is a very reserved person. He doesn’t even like to laugh in public. You’d literally saved one another’s lives and been best friends for three months before he would tell you what his hobbies were. He doesn’t seem very likely to be an exhibitionist in this way, especially not since you both work at the same place.

YOU — I could wear a high-necked shirt.

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] — You don’t have any of those.

Task gained: Buy some high-necked shirts in case Kim wants to leave marks on your neck without everyone seeing them later.

YOU — You skim your fingers over your lips, light touches that make the skin there tingle with sensitivity. What if Kim grabbed your tie and used it like a leash to pull you into the living room and then pushed you down onto the sofa? You wouldn’t resist, you’d go right wherever he wanted. He could straddle your lap, one knee to either side of you. Maybe he’d put his hand in your hair and use it to move your head to the right angle for him to kiss you. You imagine him teasing you with feather-light kisses, trailing from your mouth over your jawline, down your neck—

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Making you wait for him the way he makes himself wait for his cigarette every day. Not giving it to you until you’re desperate for it.

YOU — until he got low enough that it would be covered by your shirt, and then kissing hard enough to bruise, to mark, enough that when it’s over and he’s gone you can still see the traces of where he was, still press there and feel the ache from where he let himself take what you wanted to give him.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Trivial: Success] — Your pants are getting tight enough that it kind of hurts. You might want to do something about that.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Medium: Success] — Or—hear me out here—you could not do something about that. It’s uncomfortable, yeah, but think about it, don’t you kind of like the way it feels?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Hm, now that you mention it, that is kind of hot.

1. [Electrochemistry — Medium 10] Lose the pants and keep going! This was just starting to get good.

2. [Volition — Challenging 12] Go to your bedroom and take off your clothes before you finish. Do you really want to have to wash those pants and/or your couch this weekend?

3. [Pain Threshold — Heroic 15] Ride this out without taking your pants off. See how it goes.

YOU — There’s something interesting about the idea of bringing yourself off in your pants—like you’re so desperate you can’t wait even long enough to undress—but you’re too far gone to think about doing something new at this point. You arch up from the couch, lifting your hips enough to wrestle your fly open and shove your pants down. You wind up sitting bareassed on your couch, pants around your knees, your cock poking comically through your wrinkled shirttails. You feel hot all over, but the cool air on your newly-exposed skin still makes you shiver.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — Your pants are holding your legs together, the same way you imagine they would be held together if Kim really were kneeling above you, his knees pressing against the outsides of your thighs.

YOU — You pull your shirt up and wrap your hand around your cock. It feels hot and twitchy in your hand, almost totally hard; your vivid fantasy has already gotten you most of the way there. You give yourself a long, luxurious stroke, groaning aloud at how good it feels. Your hand doesn’t feel the way you think Kim’s would—it’s bigger, thicker, clumsier. Maybe Kim would want you to do it yourself at first, though. Maybe he’d like to watch. Keeping your eyes shut, you imagine him settling his weight back onto your knees, looking at you like you’re a machine whose functions he’s trying to learn, saying something like—

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — “Touch yourself, Harry. Show me how you like it.”

YOU — You press your body back into the cushions, pushing your hips up into your hand. Your shirt rides up over the curve of your belly. The hair on your body is ruffled and untidy, tickling your forearm as you move. You don’t have any lube or anything, so you’re keeping your strokes slow—

DRAMA [Medium: Success] — “Slow down, Harry, we have all night…”

YOU — It all feels so good. You rub and pluck at your chest through your shirt, the barrier of cloth turning scratching and pinching into delicious sensations that seem to zip between your nipples and your cock like electricity through wires. Your back arches as though to present yourself to Kim, writhing and panting in front of him, beneath him. You feel yourself starting to leak and swipe your thumb over the head of your cock, spreading the wetness around. You’re sweating with it, grunting with each stroke of your hand over your cock. You’re getting so close. You try to open your legs wider but you can’t; your pants (Kim’s knees) are pinning them together. You start speeding up; you can’t help it, you can feel your climax starting to build, coiling in your balls, ready.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — Kim looming above you like a predator, his dark eyes gleaming behind his glasses, his mouth soft and wet from kissing you, hard inside his pants from watching you. Neat clothing rumpled from your eager, clutching hands. He’s breathing quickly as you speed your strokes; he knows you’re close. He likes it. He—

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Heroic: Success] — Kim Kitsuragi stands under the hot spray of the shower in his apartment on the Rue de Saint Cristophe. He’s leaning on one hand, braced on the tiled wall. The muscles in his lean back flex as his other hand moves furiously over his cock. His face goes tight with pleasure, then falls slack. As he comes, he says something, so quietly it’s barely audible over the sound of the water.

“Harry…”

YOU — Your orgasm hits like a lorry, what feels like every muscle you have clenching. You think you make a sound, but you couldn’t say what it was. Afterward, you go limp, your hand still wrapped around your limp, wet cock, bliss singing through your nerves.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Trival: Success] — You haven’t come that hard since… actually I can’t remember you ever coming that hard.

LOGIC [Easy: Failure] — That was probably the most intense orgasm in all of human history.

YOU — You feel warm and glowy and like all your limbs weigh a ton. You could fall asleep right here.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — And then you’d wake up with a sore back and your hand glued to your cock. Clean yourself up and go to bed.

YOU — Even though you came all over yourself, it went mostly on your clothes and hand and didn’t get on the couch. You pull your pants back up enough that you can walk and shuffle into your room. You do a fast and desultory job of cleaning yourself up and crawl into bed naked.

SHIVERS [Challenging: Success] — In a cozy little apartment on Rue de Saint Christophe, Kim Kitsuragi curls up beneath soft green sheets. He is warm and clean and sleepy, his hair a little ruffled. His bed is big enough for two, and he sleeps on one side of it, as if to make room for someone else to join him. As he drifts into sleep, one hand stretches into the empty space beside him as though reaching for something that is not yet there.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — The place where the bone breaks grows back stronger. The void fills. The bridge is built from both sides of the canyon. Soon, you will meet in the middle.

YOU — Sleep rolls over you like a porch collapse.

September 21, CC51

Kim was on his second cup of coffee and nearly through his crossword when the phone rang. Given usual patterns, it was either someone at the station calling him in for an emergency, or Harry, calling for any of a thousand reasons. As Kim crossed the room to answer, he hoped it was the latter.

“Kitsuragi.”

“Hi Kim!”

Harry always sounded so happy to hear his voice. Kim felt his shoulders relaxing without his conscious input, and when he spoke his tone was low and affectionate. “Good morning, detective.” He paused. The term had become something of a pet name, at least to him, but he realized that he wasn’t entirely certain if Harry knew that. “Harry,” he added.

“Hi,” Harry said again. “Um. Good morning.”

There was silence for several moments.

This was absurd, Kim thought. Just because they had agreed to see each other socially—romantically—they shouldn’t lose the ability to have a normal conversation.

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.

“Oh! Yes,” Harry said. “Thanks. Yes. I, ah. First I wanted to tell you that I’m really glad you said yes to going on a date with me. Really glad.”

Kim smiled. “Good. I’m really glad you asked me.”

“Yeah? I mean, thank you. Me too. Um.” He sounded awkward in a way that he hadn’t in a long time—not with Kim, anyway. Kim wished Harry was there in person so he could see the look on his expressive face, to try to get some idea whether this was simply nerves or if there was something more.

He heard Harry take a deep breath. A familiar sound, one that usually preceded Harry saying something unexpected, often something brilliant or insightful or brave but occasionally bizarre or unintelligible or wildly inappropriate.

“I’m not crazy,” Harry said.

Something in Kim’s chest flared hot and protective. “Of course you aren’t,” he said. “Has someone been saying you were?”

“No, just—you might, when I tell you. I know it sounds that way. But I promise, I’m not. I have a note and everything, from Dr. Virtanen.”

“Dr.—wait, the entroponeticist?” A flash of cold fear ran down Kim’s spine. “Did something else happen with the Swallow? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine! Or, I mean, I’m not any less fine than usual,” Harry said, his gravelly voice gone soothing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not saying this right. I keep trying to make it better and making it worse instead.”

Kim leaned back in his chair heavily, only then realizing he’d half-stood, as though he could somehow run out the door and… and arrest the Pale, or something, for having the audacity to touch Harry. “Just say it, whatever it is,” he said. “And we’ll go from there.” A horrible thought struck him, and his voice caught oddly in his throat as he spoke. “If—if you’ve reconsidered the idea of, of expanding our partnership—”

“What? No! I mean, fuck no, Kim, I’ve wanted that forever.” Harry’s voice was reassuringly vehement, and the feeling crept back into Kim’s fingers. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Just, to be fair, I wanted to give you a chance to change yours. Once you knew the, the whole story. About me.”

Oh. This was… not exactly good, but not unexpected. “Harry, whatever you may have remembered about your previous life, I doubt very strongly it would make me change my mind. Just tell me, and whatever it is, we can work it out together.”

“It’s not a—I mean, it was—I—I know you jerked off to me in the shower!” Harry blurted. “I, I heard it. Last night. And I got off on it! I’m so sorry, Kim, I didn’t do it on purpose, it’s just I was already, um, en route, and you’re just so hot and I was so excited from yesterday and I thought it was just part of my fantasy at first? But then this morning I realized it wasn’t, and I didn’t mean to spy on you through the Pale, I swear! But, um, even though I don’t really control it the skills kind of do what I want anyway, so I can’t promise it won’t happen again—although I swear I’ll try! But if this is a dealbreaker I, I’ll understand, just please tell me now before I—just, please say so.” He stumbled to a stop, panting a little.

Kim felt as if he’d been picked up by a giant hand, flipped upside down, shaken around violently, and then set back down in his chair. “I—wait. Are you—I’m not sure I understood. Did you just confess to…” it was almost too absurd to say, but he pressed on. “…to watching me showering in my apartment? Through the Pale?”

“I wasn’t watching,” Harry said. “It’s not like the Remote Viewers Division or anything. More like if, if someone else was watching and described it to me on a radio. In my head. It’s, um, it’s kind of like the lorry driver we met in Martinaise, do you remember? The lady driver who wasn’t Ruby?”

“The one who was so over-irradiated that she spent all her time re-living other people’s memories?” Fear made his voice go sharp. “Harry—”

“No!” Harry’s voice cut through his looming panic. “I mean, yes, her, but that’s not what’s happening with me. I promise, Kim. Dr. Virtanen did all kinds of tests. I have a note.”

Very distantly, Kim realized that he was extremely curious about the contents of said note. Or at least he would be, once he had any brain capacity to spare for such things. “So what is happening with you, then? If it isn’t the same?”

“I have these… I call them my skills,” Harry said. His voice was quiet, tense. “They’re like… parts of me? Or, um, aspects maybe? They tell me things, or give me advice on what I should do in different situations. Usually it’s things I know or, or used to know? Or that I could put together logically. But sometimes they tell me things I don’t know, and don’t have any way to know. I’d think it was just my imagination, only… every time I’ve had a chance to check, they’ve always been true.” He sighed. “At first I thought maybe they were from the, you know. Substances. Or that I was having delusions—even I know it’s not good to hear voices that nobody else can hear.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “So I asked the doctors—better to know, right?—and they think it’s something to do with the Pale. Like I’m picking up entroponetic crosstalk, only for some reason, instead of getting overwritten like people usually do, my brain can sort of…. filter it? They don’t know if it’s because I lost my memories or if I just have, like, some kind of weird genetic trait or what.”

Kim noticed, distantly, that the hand not holding the telephone was shaking. He wrapped it around his coffee mug, letting the warmth of the ceramic soak into his chilly fingers.

(It was a bootleg TipTop Tournée mug with a picture of Jacob Irw on it. Harry had given it to him as a housewarming gift.)

The part of him that had spent nearly two decades working to maintain a reputation of flawless, by-the-book professionalism was shrieking that Harry had finally had some kind of breakdown, that none of this could possibly be true. But Kim hadn’t let that part win by default for a while now; the thoughts surging to the top of his mind were not skeptical at all.

“So… does that mean you’re all right?” Kim said. “I mean, you’re not in any more danger from the irradiation?” A thought struck him, something he hardly even dared hope might be true. There was a nightmare that had haunted him, deep in the coldest watches of the night: their duty taking them to another Swallow, or near the porch collapse, or on an interisolary journey. Harry’s chatter slowing, stopping, then starting up again in someone else’s voice. Harry’s eyes looking at him in cloudy confusion, everything that made him Harry set adrift, other selves bleeding over and washing Harry—his Harry—away, as certain as a bullet but slower and more cruel.

“If your brain can do that,” Kim asked, his voice shaky, “can it protect you from the Pale?”

There was silence for a moment before Harry spoke. “I tell you I have creepy Pale powers that make me hear voices, and I used them to spy on you, and the first thing you ask if me is if I’m okay?” His voice rose at the end, disbelieving.

The receiver creaked from how hard Kim was holding it. “That’s the first thing I want to know.”

Harry made a soft sound. “Shit. Kim.” His breathing was getting rougher, like he was trying not to cry. “I—yeah. Yeah, they think probably it can. I mean, I shouldn’t go live in the porch collapse or anything, but they say that whatever happened originally seems like a one-time thing. I’m not, like… contagious, or getting worse, or anything. And apparently I score really high on that test they use to see how many days of interisolary travel they’ll clear you for? So as far as we could tell I don’t have anything wrong with me. I mean, other than the stuff you already knew about. And Dr. Virtanen thinks that however the filter thing works, it probably means I could take a lot more exposure than most people before it got serious.”

It wouldn’t happen. The Pale could never steal Harry from him; that nightmare, at least, wouldn’t come true. Kim let out a breath, sagging at the sudden release of tension. “Good. That’s good. Okay.” He still felt unsteady, the relief so vast he could barely process it, but there were more things he should probably find out. More things to ask and understand. He wished he had his notebook handy, though really this wasn’t the sort of conversation well suited to official records. “So. These voices, your… skills.”

“Yeah?” Harry still sounded a little worried, but less like he was about to cry, which was a step in the right direction.

Kim opened his mouth intending to say something understanding and supportive, but what actually came out was “Is that how you knew where to look for Ruby? And that the door in the Whirling’s kitchen was important? And that Armand Devereaux was actually the Flotsam Street Flayer?”

“Oh. Um, yes? I mean, I don’t remember which ones told me what, but almost everything I do when we’re working on cases they at least help with. I mean, it’s only a few of them that actually tell me things from the Pale, the rest are more… Dr. Benoit thinks after I lost my memory, that maybe whatever it is that lets me filter Pale stuff started doing the same thing with the parts of my brain that are just… me. So instead of just remembering things in general, different kinds of knowledge get filtered into specialized streams that I experience as, well, voices.”

“Huh.” Kim thought vaguely that this conversation should probably be upsetting, but in fact it just made so many things about Harry make so much more sense. “So when you go quiet sometimes, they’re talking to you?”

“Probably? I usually don’t notice I’m doing that unless someone mentions it, though, so I can’t say for sure.”

“What’s the difference between the ones that tell you things from the Pale and the ones that don’t?”

“You’re taking this really well,” Harry said, still sounding like he didn’t quite trust it.

“It’s far from the strangest thing we’ve encountered together,” Kim pointed out. “I’ve always known you weren’t exactly a typical detective; this just tells me how. Also, I’ve been wondering how you saw through Devereaux for weeks, trying to figure out what I missed. I feel a lot less stupid over that now.”

Harry laughed, sounding surprised at himself. “No, that one was totally a Pale thing,” he said. “There was nothing there you could have spotted. One of them mostly talks about… places? Or maybe more my connection to the city. It tells me about things that happened here in the past, sometimes. The second time we went over that basement it told me about how Devereaux cut up the bodies there.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s the difference. The Pale voices talk about things I have no way to know—things happening somewhere else, or in the past, or sometimes things that haven’t happened yet. The others are just—there’s one that knows random trivia, and one that knows about exercise, and one for convincing people of things—they’ll help me do things but they also know stuff? So, um, the one I call Logic might help me think logically or help me recognize when someone else is or isn’t being logical. Most of them are like that. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Kim said, trying not to sound too clinical; for all that what Harry was telling him was fascinating and still a little frightening, it was also Harry, sharing something he’d been afraid to tell Kim before. And then there was still the… other matter Harry had mentioned, which they really should discuss. Communication was important in a relationship.

“And you said that one of your Pale voices told you about… me? When I was…” imagining Harry on his knees in front of him, keeping his hands behind his back and waiting for permission to touch even while he shook with desire, open and trusting and so good for him— “showering?”

“…yes,” Harry said, his voice gone tentative again. “I promise, I didn’t try to do that! The skills usually tell me things related to what I’m thinking about, but I can’t make it happen on command. I’d never fail to solve a case if I could do that.”

“I believe you, Harry.” Kim kept his voice gentle. “I’m not angry at you for something you can’t help.” He paused, weighing his curiosity against his desire not to press Harry too hard. “What did it tell you?” he said, after a moment. “So that I can verify the account, or not, and we can know for sure what happened. Think of it as an experiment of sorts. Validating the information.”

“Oh.” Harry sounded a little breathless. “Thank you! For not being mad, I mean. Um, it was last night, after I got home. I was, um. Thinking of you. And, well. You know. Um, sorry if that’s not—I mean, if you want me not to do that anymore, since we aren’t, um, in real life yet, I’ll stop—”

“Harry.” Kim cut through the babble with a firm tone, then waited for silence before he kept talking. “I don’t mind if you think of me like that.” He cleared his throat. “Intimately, I mean.”

“You don’t?”

Kim really wished Harry was with him instead of at his own apartment. He wanted to know what sort of facial expression went with the way Harry’s voice sounded just then. “Not at all. In fact, I find it rather flattering.”

“Oh, good,” Harry said. “Because I do. I mean, I have. Lots.”

Kim’s ears felt hot, but he also felt the most ridiculous impulse to preen a little, despite there being nobody else in his apartment. “As you’re about to tell me.”

“Right! So, um, yeah. There I was, heading into, you know, the final lap—”

Kim forcibly stifled a laugh at the metaphor.

“—and then it happened, and I knew you were in your shower right at the same time, doing the same thing.”

Kim had been, if his time estimates were accurate. It had been sweet torture, going to a work event that evening when every fiber of his being wanted to go home and exult in the knowledge that Harry had finally, finally made a choice, and that choice was Kim. He’d barely made it into the shower before giving in and touching his prick. “How much detail did you get?” he asked. “Did it just tell you what I was doing in general, or…” he trailed off suggestively.

“Um, it said you were leaning against the wall with one hand, and t-touching yourself with the other,” Harry said. “And, um. When you—at the end, you… you said my name.”

The last words were pushed out quickly, mumbled, like Harry, even after everything, thought they were too bold.

“I did,” Kim said. He remembered the feeling, bursts of pleasure sparkling behind his closed eyes as he imagined it was Harry’s mouth on him instead of his own hand. “That really happened; information verified. A point to you, detective.” He almost sounded flirtatious, now. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard himself take that specific tone with someone. “I suppose in future I shall have to make sure to put on a good show, just in case.”

It was hard to tell for sure over the phone, but Kim thought he heard Harry gulp.

He eased off, after that, and spent another twenty minutes on the phone, chatting with Harry about the next things he was thinking of doing to the Kineema, and the module on collage Harry was planning for his students in Martinaise, and who was looking promising in the latest TipTop season; the sorts of things they always talked about. Somehow, by the time they hung up, they’d decided to meet in a few hours to play some new board game Harry had acquired and then have dinner.

“Like we usually do,” Harry had clarified. “Not as a date yet. That’s next week.”

“Of course,” Kim had agreed. “Next week.”

Still, Kim found himself taking particular care getting ready, and hot satisfaction swirled in his gut when Harry greeted him at the door obviously freshly shaved and showered, wearing a green linen shirt that skimmed lovingly over his biceps and brought out the color of his eyes.

Any pleasure, after all, was but made the sweeter by a period of anticipation.

Chapter Text

This illustration is based on the sketch Harry drew of his nightmare. To refresh your memory, check out Chapter 6, "Turn From the Ruin." 

(And yes, she is also going to do a companion illustration of the catharsis sketch!)

In case you missed it, previous chapters have also been updated with illustrations inline from Harry's Cheerful Orange Sketchbook - see chapter 6 for Annette in the detective hat and chapter 7 for an adorable picture of Kim demonstrating a TipTop Tournée crash with breadsticks and condiments while Harry watches in adoration.

The date chapter is in progress - watch this space!

Chapter Text

September 27, CC51

YOUR APARTMENT — Your apartment on Perdition and Main is extremely tidy. The bed is made up with clean linens, all the dishes are washed and put away, every polishable surface is gleaming, and the air smells like beeswax and lemons. You have burned off a lot of energy over the last week making sure that your place will be impeccably clean in the event that Kim wants to come up for coffee after your date. You even bought some fancy coffee, just in case. It’s not that Kim usually drinks fancy coffee—he’s a detective, he drinks anything he can get with enough caffeine to get him through his shifts—but he deserves to have it anyway.

YOU — You are dressed in the nicest outfit you could assemble, freshly showered and carefully shaved, and now you’re just waiting for Kim to pick you up.

VOLITION — It’s still ten minutes before the time Kim said he’d arrive. You’ve been waiting for fifty-seven minutes, because you were worried that you would take too long getting ready and be late. During that time, you have checked your wallet for the museum tickets and your money thirty-two times and straightened your tie forty-six times.

NECKTIE OF HOPE AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT — Don’t worry, Harry, you look great!

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Trivial: Success]— You’ve also paced across your living room seventy-eight times.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success]— And had eleven sexual fantasies about Kim...

VOLITION — …that you stopped before you were tempted to jerk off and maybe get yourself or your outfit dirty.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — You’re kind of a twitchy mess right now. Like you SHOULD BE, because this is THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY OF YOUR LIFE and if you fuck it up YOU WILL NEVER BE HAPPY AGAIN.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] — That really isn’t helping.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Plus, evidence would indicate that Kim kind of likes you being a twitchy mess, or at least he doesn’t dislike it. So you’re fine and you should really calm down. If he didn’t change his mind after… any of the many weird things he’s seen you do… it isn’t very likely that you being nervous before your date is going to be the dealbreaker.

YOU — I know that. I just… I really really want this to work out.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] — Rising out of the distance, you hear the high-pitched sound of a Coupris Kineema motor carriage approaching.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Trivial: Success] — Your siren song. An irresistible allure.

ENDURANCE [Easy: Success] — Your heart is hammering in your chest and you’re starting to feel lightheaded. Take some deep breaths or something before you pass out.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Kim would worry if he got here and found you passed out from nerves. He’d probably want you to go to the lazareth.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Do that stress breathing you learned with Dr. Benoit. That’ll calm you down.

YOU — You concentrate on your breathing until you don’t feel like you’re about to explode. It’s different doing it because of good excitement instead of to manage a trauma flashback but it still works. Good. This is good. You’re totally fine now. Just a normal guy about to go on a normal date.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] — The Kineema stops out in front of your building.

YOU — You start to move towards the door, then stop. Sometimes when Kim comes to pick you up for something, you go down to meet him when you hear the MC stop; sometimes you’ve gotten busy doing something and don’t notice the Kineema and he comes up and knocks on your door. He’s never seemed to mind either way. Should you go down now? Or wait? He said he’d pick you up, did he mean at your apartment door or in front of the building or what? You should have asked him. If you go down will you seem too overeager and weird? But if you make him come up is that inconsiderate? You don’t want Kim to think you’re weird OR inconsiderate. But—

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Trivial: Success] — There’s a knock at the door.

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] — Kim!

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Kim.

YOU — You swallow hard and open the door.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim is standing in your doorway.

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — What is he WEARING he looks AMAZING we’ve never seen that outfit before?! He— he looks so—cool!

YOU — You drop your eyes down to his feet, like it might burn you to look at his face without working up to it gradually.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Trivial: Success] — Kim is wearing slim-cut, tailored black trousers and black boots with heavy silver buckles. The boots are polished to a dull gleam, obviously broken in and just as obviously well cared for. He’s wearing a black leather belt. A thin dove-gray V-neck sweater is neatly tucked in, clinging to his lean torso enough that you can map the contours of his body. Above it all, an aerostatic pilot’s jacket, but not the orange one you’re accustomed to; this one is black and looks nearly new. He’s wearing a watch that you’ve never seen before, fancier than his usual one, a flash of silver under the dark sleeve. He’s wearing red leather driving gloves that mold over his hands like a second skin. His hair is… different than it usually is. A little softer, falling a bit more over his forehead. You’ve only seen it like this a few times, when work went extremely late and whatever wax or pomade he uses to slick his hair back has started to lose its hold. He is watching you, his eyes soft, a gentle smile curving his mouth.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Trivial: Success] — If not for the warm colors of his skin and eyes and the scarlet gloves, he could be a pen-and-ink drawing. It is breathtaking.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — He is literally the sexiest person who has EVER EXISTED IN THE HISTORY OF TIME.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Trivial: Failure] — Yeah, he’s right, this is the objective truth. Probably it’s been proven by hotness scientists in Mirova or somewhere.

LOGIC [Trivial: Failure] — Agreed. Literally nobody has ever been hotter.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Hi.”

1. [Savoir Faire: Legendary 14] “Hey there, handsome.” (Wink at him)

2. [Empathy: Easy 8] “You’re the best thing I’ve seen in my whole life.”

3. [Electrochemistry: Medium 10] “Nice outfit. I can’t wait to see it crumpled on my floor later.”

4. [Composure: Heroic 15] Just greet him like a normal person and don’t make it weird.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Failure] — Yeah we’ve totally got this. We are so fucking normal right now.

YOU — Your mouth is suddenly dry and you feel like you’ve maybe never spoken before. “Hot pants!” you blurt, then snap your mouth closed so fast you accidentally bite your tongue. Ow. “Um. I mean. Sorry, I—you—” You trail off, making a helpless gesture at Kim’s… whole existence.

KIM KITSURAGI — He chuckles. It sounds like hot chocolate tastes. “Thanks, Harry,” he says. “I’m glad you like them.”

YOU — “I, ah, I’ve never seen you wear that jacket before. Is it new?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “This? No, I’ve had it for a while.” His smile deepens. He’s so handsome. They should put his face on all the money. “I keep it for special occasions.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — It’s gonna be a special occasion. And by “special” I mean—

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — WE KNOW. Just stop. We’ll never get there if you make Kim think we’re some kind of sex-obsessed pervert.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — He’s probably dressed up because we’re going to an art museum. On opening day, even, so it’s extra fancy.

YOU — “Special occasions like art exhibits?” You try very hard to sound nonchalant, like it doesn’t really matter why he wore his special jacket.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Occasions where I wish to look my best,” he says. He takes a half-step closer and reaches up, tweaking your tie a half-inch to the left then resting his fingertips lightly on the silk.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) [Easy: Success] — You can smell the warm clean scent of his soap, overlaid with snow and pine.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Imagine smelling him on your pillow. On your sheets. On your naked skin.

VOLITION [Formidable: Success] — Do not imagine that right now if you want to get a second date. Say something nice to him that doesn’t make you sound desperate.

1. [Electrochemistry: Trivial 6] Tell Kim that you want to roll around in the way he smells.

2. [Suggestion: Godly 16] Ask Kim if he’ll come lie in your bed later so your sheets will smell like him.

3. [Empathy: Medium 10] Kim has obviously put some effort into his appearance. Let him know you appreciate it.

4. [Logic: Easy 8] Why would he need to worry about how he looks? He always looks great.

5. Just keep staring at him. Maybe drool a little.

LOGIC [Success] — Kim looked amazing while literally doing a field autopsy on a week-old corpse. You cannot imagine him ever looking anything but handsome and sexy and incredibly cool.

YOU —“You always look your best, though.”

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim shakes his head a little, though he’s still smiling. “Thank you, Harry,” he says, something a little wry and wistful in his tone. He sighs, then gives your chest a gentle pat before stepping back. His gloved fingers slip down your tie like he’s reluctant to break contact before he absolutely has to. “Are you ready to go?”

YOU — You snap him finger guns. “I was born ready.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “After you, detective.” He gestures, and you lock the door and step out ahead of him. Normally he’d follow you down the stairs a few steps behind—you sometimes get the urge to jump down a few at a time—but today he walks next to you and rests his hand on the small of your back.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Formidable: Success]— Even through your jacket and shirt and vest, you can feel his hand. It fits into the dip of your spine like it was made to rest there. You shiver.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Okay, Harry?”

YOU — You’re too busy memorizing how this moment feels to say anything; you just nod and grin, helpless and delighted. You aren’t entirely sure what all your face is doing, but it must not be bad, because Kim gives you another soft look and presses his hand against your back a little harder.

FRONT OF YOUR APARTMENT BUILDING — When you get downstairs, the Kineema is pulled up in front of the building in the usual spot. Kim opens the door for you and watches as you settle yourself into the back.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I thought about taking one of the 40s from the motor pool, so that you could sit beside me,” he says. “But I remembered what you told me about hearing the engine, so I thought the Kineema would be better. I can always get the 40 next time, though, if you’d rather.”

YOU — “If you’d come in a different car, I’d have thought something bad happened. Anyway, I like watching you drive. You always look so cool.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He looks for a second like he’s going to argue, but just shakes his head. “Thanks.”

’51 COUPRIS KINEEMA — Neither of you says much for the next little while; Kim seems focused on figuring out the optimal route to the museum given the state of the eastbound traffic, and you’re honestly just enjoying watching him drive.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success]— It’s always a pleasure to watch him drive, but his current ensemble elevates it to art. From behind, his dark hair blends with his black jacket—his special occasion jacket—and turns his body into a silhouette of graceful, deft movement. The only color in the image comes from his hands, curled lightly around the steering levers. His thin gloves are a deep, rich red, like the heart of a ruby, and the early evening sun falling through the windscreen makes them seem almost to glow.

INTERFACING [Trivial: Success]— Kim has exceptionally dextrous hands.

YOU — You look down at your own hands; thick fingers, broad palms, rough with callouses from pencil and pistol, the web of scarring on the back of the right whose cause is still a mystery. Serviceable enough, certainly; a working man’s hands are nothing to be ashamed of. But you doubt that the sight of them would freeze the breath in anyone’s lungs. Not like Kim’s.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Imagine him using them on us instead of the Kineema. We’ve got a steering lever for him. By which I mean your dick, Harry.

YOU — Your mouth goes dry at the thought, and you feel your heart seem to jump in your chest. It’s a good thing you’re sitting down.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Medium: Success] — You’re dehydrated, DuBois! How do you expect to last out the course without hydrating properly?

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — We drank plenty of water today. These are symptoms of something else.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] — You’re getting SICK! What if it’s contagious and you give it to Kim and then he DIES AND HATES YOU FOREVER?

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — Physiological signs of sexual arousal may include muscle tension, rapid pulse and breathing, flushed skin, dilated pupils, elevated blood pressure, erect nipples, and increased blood flow to the genitals.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Listen to the nerd, Harry. All you’ve got is a bad case of Horny-For-Kim.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Of course you do, that’s perfectly logical.

VOLTION [Challenging: Success] — Logical or not, you need to settle down. You promised Kim a nice date, and it won’t be very nice if you end up humping his leg like a badly-trained dog as soon as you get out of the motor carriage.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Formidable: Success] — You never know, he might be into that.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — Not in public, he’s not.

YOU — Wait, does that mean he might be into it when we aren’t in public?

EMPATHY [Impossible: Failure] — Impossible to say. You’d have to ask him.

VOLTION [Challenging: Success] — LATER. MUCH LATER.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim merges seamlessly onto the motorway that will carry you over the river to Revachol East, and glances at you in the rear-view mirror. “You seem like you’re thinking pretty hard.” He smiles—not like he usually does, the smiles that exist mostly in subtle angles and fleeting micro-expressions, but the sort of smile that anyone can see.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — He allows himself to be much more expressive in private, social situations than in professional ones.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — It’s more that just that.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Got an interesting mind project going?”

YOU — He’s never made you feel like a freak for the way your mind works. It’s just one of the many reasons he matters so much to you.

1. [Drama — Impossible 19] “I was just thinking about how much I love justice.” (Lie).

2. [Rhetoric — Legendary 14] “Yeah, but it’s not developed enough to share yet.” (Deflect.)

3. [Electrochemistry — Easy 8] Tell him you’re thinking about how hot he is.

4. [Empathy — Heroic 15] Tell him you’re thinking about how he makes you feel.

EMPATHY [Success] — You don’t have to get too complicated. Just let him know that you’re happy to be here with him.

YOU — “I was just thinking.” You fidget a little, nerves tightening your throat. “I’ve never been anyone’s special occasion before. It’s really… it’s a good feeling. That you feel that way about our date.”

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — Could you at least try to be less pathetic? Next thing you know you’re going to be groveling at the man’s feet.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Sounds like fun! Let’s do that.

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — For the last time, will you stop—

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] — Shh, Kim’s about to say something!

KIM KITSURAGI — “Harry.” He’s using the hot-chocolate voice again. “Regardless of what I was wearing, I can assure you that spending time with you has been a special occasion for me for… quite some time now.” He clears his throat. “Though naturally this is preferable to our professional pursuits. It certainly smells better.”

YOU — You let out a startled laugh. It’s too honking to be attractive, but Kim doesn’t seem to mind; he smiles at you in the rear-view mirror again.

+2 MORALE

ART MUSEUM, REVACHOL EAST — The Musée des Artes de Revachol is an ostentatious building in the part of town frequented by people who make money in Revachol—which is to say, non-Revacholians. It had been erected in the thirties by a group of high-net-worth individuals who were less interested in art and more interested in having their business associates see their names in gilt lettering over the entrances to various parts of the building; accordingly, it was designed to look as impressive as possible while simultaneously offering as many name-able wings, ballrooms, courtyards and exhibit halls as could reasonably be crammed in.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim finds a surprisingly good parking space—he always finds one, you suspect he’s got supra-natural parking powers—and gets out of the Kineema. Instead of clearing the way for you to get out of the back, he stands beside the door and offers you a gentlemanly hand down the small step to the curb.

DRAMA [Trivial: Success] — Truly, the noblest of knights, my liege!

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Easy: Success] — His gloves are thin and supple and skin-warm. Every nerve ending he touches lights up in unison, as though you’d set your hand down on a hot stove but the burn was somehow pleasant.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Imagine what it would feel like if he touched you all over.

YOU — I am. Constantly.

1. [Suggestion - Impossible 18] Try to get Kim to touch you all over, right now.

    -1 You’re pretty sure doing that in public is a crime

    -1 Very unlikely Kim’s that much of an exhibitionist

2. [Electrochemistry - Legendary 14] Suggest that you ditch the rest of the date and go back to one of your apartments so Kim can touch you all over.

    -1 It will feel better the longer you wait for it

    +1 Have waited so long already

3. [Volition - Godly 16] You spent too long planning this date to derail it now. Stay the course!

    +1 Every single person you asked for advice is going to want to hear how it went

    +1 Cruel to taunt Kim with artistic motor carriages and not follow through

    +2 Kim wore his special occasion jacket

VOLITION [Success] — Once you’re out of the car, you let go of his hand.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — But not before giving it a little squeeze. Like a hug! A hand hug.

COMPOSURE [Legendary: Success] — You don’t even make any agonized noises of loss when he stops touching you, or cry even a little!

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — Kim was just as reluctant as you were to let go. He returned your hand hug and is walking much closer to you than he usually does.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Easy: Success] — You can feel him inside your personal space bubble. It makes your skin prickle with awareness.

YOU — As you walk down the sidewalk, you glance at Kim out of the corner of your eyes, only to catch him doing the same thing to you. You smile at one another. Your shoulders brush.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He’s a little nervous and a lot excited, just like you.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — In sync in this, too. Partners, always.

ART MUSEUM, REVACHOL EAST —The museum entrance is busy, the crowd seemingly made up of equal parts fancy art museum people who come to everything, struggling artists who got their tickets comped and plan to stuff their pockets with canapés at the reception, and torque dorks who are willing to go outside their usual orbit for the chance to see a legendary motor carriage up close and in person. A banner over the entrance proclaims THE ART OF MOTION; even the letters look fast. The façade of the building is rosy in the slanting late afternoon light.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — The museum exterior is clad in over 2500 tons of Messinian Arratzo Rosa marble. It was shipped through the Pale at tremendous expense.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Formidable: Success] — Arratzo Rosa is one of the most expensive building materials in Elysium, largely because it is both rare and delicate. It’s much better used on building interiors; it’s sensitive to climate and environmental factors and must be carefully maintained when used externally.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — It has not been carefully maintained. The combination of air pollution and acid rain in Revachol is gradually eating through the cladding. At current rates, it is estimated that it will be entirely gone within the next fifteen to twenty years.

LOGIC [Formidable: Success] —There are preservation techniques that could save it, but the museum’s management has been unsuccessful in finding anyone to fund the project. Most of the original funders have moved on to other things. There was a minor outcry about it in the papers last year, but it never really got anywhere.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — Saving something that already exists isn’t as impressive as building something new and flashy. Plus, the art museum’s pretty much run out of space to put people’s names.

CONCEPTUALIZTION [Easy: Success] — Here, as elsewhere, the corrosion of capital eats away at the very things it claims to value.

YOU — As you climb the stairs to the front doors, you pass next to the main wall. The stone is still lovely, lacy pink and white patterns with gleaming threads of gold, but you can see the rough pits and channels left where the rain runs down over the walls, carrying away a tiny bit more of them each time.

1. [Inland Empire - Heroic 15] Do you miss Messina, Impractical Capitalist Wall?

2. Pat the wall.

3. Kick the wall.

4. Ignore the wall.

INLAND EMPIRE [Success] — You pause, resting your hand on the sun-warmed stone.

ARRATZO ROSA PINK MARBLE CLADDING — I slept beneath the green hills, dreaming of the wonderful things I would become as the artisans carved out perfect blocks to sculpt. But then the artisans left and the machines came. They tore open my hills and left them like wounds in the ground when they packed me in crates to fly through the cold nothing.

I should have become art, not the decaying shell around it. Every winter leaves me thinner. Every storm might be my last.

I was beautiful once.

1. [Inland Empire - Heroic 15] Do you miss Messina, Impractical Capitalist Wall?

2. Pat the wall.

3. Kick the wall.

4. Ignore the wall.

YOU — You pat the wall tenderly as you pass by. “It’s okay, Impractical Capitalist Wall,” you whisper. “You’re still beautiful. Revacholians know that beauty doesn’t require perfection.”

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] — Don’t talk to walls! Kim is RIGHT THERE! He’s going to think you’re insane.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — If he doesn’t already think that, he’s never going to.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — He’s honestly not sure whether “sanity” is the best metric, given how inherently chaotic and bizarre the life of a Jamrock detective tends to be. And he’s fundamentally a practical man; your unusual approach works, and doesn’t generally do any harm these days, so why try to change it?

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Besides, he knows about your entroponetic condition. He read your note from Dr. Virtanen and everything.

SUGGESTION — The one from Dr. Benoit about your Preptide, too. You insisted; you wanted to put all your cards on the table before your date.

PAIN THRESHOLD — As bad as Kim saying no would have been, it would have been much worse if he’d said yes and then changed his mind once he found out how much of a mess you really are.

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] — Again, I’d like to point out that when he met you, you smelled like cheap wine and piss, you were having intermittent arguments with your tie, you had forgotten what money was, and you told him your name was Raphaël Ambroisus Costeau. If you being a mess was a dealbreaker for Kim, that deal would have been broken a long time ago.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — Mess or no mess, whatever you are, he likes it. It gives splashes of color to an otherwise dull world.

KIM KITSURAGI — “A profound sentiment,” Kim says. He’s angled his body slightly so that his back forms a barrier between you and the rest of the crowd. “And certainly true.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Formidable: Success] — It’s an instinct by now, to shield you from potentially hostile eyes.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Easy: Success] — He’s still standing close to your side, and his voice is pitched just loud enough for you to hear it. Somehow, it creates a private little bubble in the middle of the crowd.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I am curious, though. Why did the wall need to hear it?”

YOU — “Kim, the wall is a metaphor for the suffering of the working class under the boot-heel of capitalist oppression,” you tell him solemnly.

KIM KITSURAGI — His brow furrows for a moment, then clears. “Ah,” he says. “Because of the acid rain issue?”

YOU — All you can do is stare, your mouth falling open in surprise. How did he know?

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — He is a very good detective.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success] — The longer you’ve worked together, the more attuned to you he becomes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — He maps the twists of your thoughts as though they were the back alleys of Jamrock and he’s a fresh patrol officer learning his beat.

EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — He wants to figure you out. He can’t help it; the more he likes something, the more he wants to take it apart to see what makes it tick.

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] — I hate to break this up, but you might want to say something before Kim thinks you’ve had an aneurysm or gotten erased by the Pale again.

YOU — You drag your wandering brain back into the actual out-loud conversation you’re meant to be having. “That’s exactly it,” you tell Kim, not bothering to hide how impressed you are. “Wow. You’re so smart, Kim.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He grins. Just full-out grins at you, right there in the middle of the stairs where anyone could see. The corners of his eyes crinkle behind his glasses.

YOU — You suddenly imagine how it would feel to kiss him there, soft as a moth’s wing. Your fingers reach up to brush your lips in echo.

1. [Composure - Heroic 15] Try to remain unaffected.

2. [Drama - Medium 10] Swoon at Kim’s feet.

3. [Savoir Faire - Legendary 14] Say something suave to cover up for how spacey you’ve been acting in the last few minutes.

4. [Volition - Formidable 13] Just go on inside.

COMPOSURE [Failure] — It’s no use. Some forces are just too potent to withstand. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta.

YOU — “You’re so handsome I think I’m going to swoon.”

KIM KITSURAGI — His expression shifts, just slightly; just enough to take it from affectionate to mischievous. “You shouldn’t swoon right now,” he said. “You’d fall down the stairs, and then we’d have to spend the evening at the lazareth instead of doing something fun.”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Trivial: Success] — Listen to the man! Concussions are no joke, son!

1. [Composure - Heroic 15] Try to remain unaffected.

2. [Drama - Medium 10] Swoon at Kim’s feet.

    -2 Traumatic head injuries are not romantic

3. [Savoir Faire - Legendary 14] Say something suave to cover up for how spacey you’ve been acting in the last few minutes.

    -1 At least 80% of brain focused on Kim’s eye-crinkles

4. [Volition - Formidable 13] Just go on inside.

    -1 Noodly legs

SAVOIR FAIRE [Failure] — Okay, okay, cool. We’re cool. We’re in control. Men want to be us and women want to fuck us. And also the other way around! We got this! Vive la révolution sexuelle!

YOU — “I definitely want to do fun to you. I mean with you. Instead of with Gottlieb. Not that I would do fun things with him! I meant that—”

KIM KITSURAGI — “I know what you meant, Harry.”

DRAMA — Our noble knight is as merciful as he is dashing, sire.

KIM KITSURAGI — “And I want to do fun things with you, too. That’s why we’re here, after all.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Just so you know, your brain is a party right now. I think you could smoke the Madre’s whole poppy garden and not feel as good as this.

KIM KITSURAGI — He holds out his hand. “Shall we get started?”

1. [Composure - Heroic 15] Try to remain unaffected.

2. [Drama - Medium 10] Swoon at Kim’s feet.

    -2 Traumatic head injuries are not romantic

    -1 Couldn’t reach Kim’s hand from the floor

3. [Savoir Faire - Legendary 14] Say something suave to cover up for how spacey you’ve been acting in the last few minutes.

    -1 At least 80% of brain focused on Kim’s eye-crinkles

4. [Volition - Formidable 13] Just go on inside.

    -1 Noodly legs

    +2 That’s what Kim wants

    +3 Holding Kim’s hand! Again!!

VOLITION [Success] — You could walk straight through the Pale and back again unharmed if you were holding hands with Kim while you did it.

YOU — You take Kim’s hand (which somehow feels even better than it did before!) and walk with him into the museum.

KIM KITSURAGI — He interlaces his fingers with yours and lets your hands swing a little between you as you walk.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Trivial: Success] — Body-warm, supple leather. Beneath it, you can feel the tiny shifts and flexes of muscle and the delicate lines of bone.

ACTUAL ART DEGREE — You get the feeling there are a lot of hand studies in your future. You need to learn to draw Kim’s hands so that you can look at them whenever you want, even if you’re in different places. You’ll memorize every curve and bump and scar.

YOU — You bask in the glorious sensations of holding hands with Kim (holding hands! With Kim! On a date! That he knew was going to be a date and agreed to come anyway and wore his special occasion cool jacket! You’d think it was all a dream, except your dreams are never this good.)

REACTION SPEED [Heroic: Success] — Oh shit we need our tickets. Get your wallet!

1. Let go of Kim’s hand to get the tickets out of your wallet.

2. [Interfacing - Godly 16] Get the tickets out one-handed so you don’t have to let go.

    -1 still a little noodly

YOU — You reluctantly let go of Kim’s hand so that you can get the museum tickets out of your pocket.

COMPOSURE [Challenging: Success] — Other than a little sigh, you don’t show how hard it was.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — If Kim held your hand before, he’ll probably do it again someday. This wasn’t your last ever chance.

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] — But what if it WAS, though?

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — It wasn’t.

“THE ART OF MOTION” ARTISTIC MOTOR CARRIAGE EXHIBIT — The tickets you bought included deluxe editions of the exhibit catalogue. Kim opens his copy immediately and starts flipping through it, pausing occasionally to cross-reference a pamphlet map of the museum that he must have picked up on the way in.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He is genuinely excited to see the exhibit, so much so that he’s let himself become distracted.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — He very rarely lets his guard down in public; an occupational hazard as well as a temperamental inclination. It only happens when he’s with someone he trusts to watch his back if necessary.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — Looking at him makes something in your chest ache, but in a good way.

YOU — “Planning out the optimal route?”

KIM KITSURAGI — He looks up from the catalogue, his expression a tiny bit sheepish. “Ah. Yes,” he said. “My apologies.”

YOU — You wave a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it,” you say, grinning at him. “I’m glad you like it; I hoped you would.” You very deliberately do not mention Cuno’s role in selecting the destination.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I do, indeed.” He smiles at you again, broad and happy, eye-crinkles and all. “Gold star, detective.”

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Easy: Success] — Your cheeks go hot under the power of that smile.

YOU — You smile helplessly back, not even caring how obviously smitten you must look. It’s your first date. You’re allowed.

KIM KITSURAGI — “So, is there anything in particular you’d like to see first?”

YOU — “I’ll follow your lead.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Medium: Success] — Always.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Anywhere, any time.

DRAMA — [Easy: Success] Until the Pale swallows the stars.

KIM KITSURAGI — “The motor carriages first, I think, and then the aerostatic section. It looks like the area about the pleasure wheel is next to the food, so perhaps there to finish?”

YOU — You shoot him finger guns. “Sounds disco!”

KIM KITSURAGI — He tucks his map inside the cover of his catalog and puts them under his arm, then starts taking off his gloves.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — HANDS. NAKED KIM HANDS.

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] — You’ve seen him without his gloves before. He only wears them at work and when he’s driving.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — We couldn’t TOUCH THEM then.

VOLITION [Formidable: Success] — We were trying not to notice, for the sake of our own sanity. What there is of it.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — Hold his hand hold his hand hold his BARE HAND touch his SKIN! RIGHT NOW!

ENDURANCE [Challenging: Success] — Just so you know, if you hadn’t been cycling so much for the last six months you would definitely have passed out by now.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim tucks his red gloves into the pocket of his special occasion jacket and takes his catalog back out from under his arm.

He holds his free hand out to you. “Shall we?”

YOU — What feels like every voice inside of you is saying “yes,” all at once. You wonder, for a moment, if this is how it feels inside a normal person’s head.

PERCEPTION (TOUCH) [Trivial: Success] — Kim’s hand is smoother than yours, though the skin is still toughened from work; he takes care of his hands, but it’s obvious that he uses them. He’s strong despite the elegant slimness of his long fingers, and even though your hand is bigger, the confidence in his grip makes you feel enveloped by it.

YOU — A happy little sigh escapes before you remember that Kim asked you a question. “Yeah, let’s go.” You glance sideways to check, but he doesn’t look impatient at your shenanigans.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He looks like he’s having a great time.

YOU — You walk into the exhibit proper, hand in hand.

“THE ART OF MOTION” ARTISTIC MOTOR CARRIAGE EXHIBIT — The exhibit really is very cool. All of the machines on display have some sort of artistic merit to them; some were concepts, deliberately pushing the envelope of mechanical design, while others were actually intended to make some sort of philosophical statement, but they’re all interesting and many of them are genuinely beautiful.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — So far, your favorite one has been the LUM Fouetté, which is extremely low-slung and painted a fascinating iridescent gray that flashes rainbows where the light hits it. It’s obviously meant to minimize wind resistance, with a pointed nose and long rounded body that looks like it would slip through the air like a well-thrown javelin.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — It looks like a giant entroponetic dildo. On wheels.

SUGGESTION [Formidable: Success] — Maybe don’t mention that part if Kim asks.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim has looked at every exhibit carefully, comparing the entry in his catalogue with the machinery and noting any features that have been especially called out. Sometimes he points them out to you.

You think you could listen to him explain things forever, especially if he was holding your hand during. It would certainly be a lot easier to focus during double shifts at work if you had Kim’s skin on yours to sharpen your attention.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Not very professional, though. Distracting.

PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — Next to you, Kim stands up a little straighter, everything in his demeanor sharpening. It’s the way he looks when he’s spotted a particularly well-hidden clue, or caught a witness out in a lie, or sometimes when he figures out an especially tricky part of one of his puzzles.

KIM KITSURAGI — “There it is.”

YOU — “There what is?”

KIM KITSURAGI — He strides across the exhibit hall, tugging you along behind him towards a rather more elaborate display than most of the ones you’ve seen so far. On an elevated plinth is—

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] — The most beautiful motor carriage you’ve ever seen. The Innocence of motor carriages.

KIM KITSURAGI — “The Bullet Lavolta.” His voice is hushed, as if he were in church. “Alfie Deletraz’s Bullet Lavolta.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Easy: Success] — You read about him! He was one of the best TipTop drivers in the history of the sport. As a young rising star, he quickly formed an intense rivalry with Jacob Irw, the reigning champion. As they raced each other across Elysium, the rivalry turned to friendship, and then to love. Their partnership off-track was as passionate as their rivalry on-track.

Alfie Deletraz was tragically killed in an accident during the championship race at Fjordhammer. Jacob Irw, not knowing the extent of the damage until after the race, eventually won it, famously collapsing with grief on the winner’s podium when a careless journalist told him what had happened.

Irw commissioned this Bullet Lavolta—then the fastest street-legal motor carriage in existence, and one of only ten ever made—as an engagement gift for Deletraz. Their wedding was planned to take place shortly after the end of the season—in Revachol, because the extraordinary legal freedoms of the Gossamer State extend to homo-sexual marriage.

Irw never raced again. He kept the Bullet Lavolta in his private garage until his death in ’48. He died fairly young; it was attributed in the press to the effects of heavy and sustained substance misuse.

INLAND EMPIRE [Formidable: Success] — How long can a man live, after the breath has been ripped from his lungs?

YOU — That’s so sad.

1. [Composure - Legendary 14] Try not to cry.

2. Don’t even bother trying. Alfie died less than a month before their wedding!

COMPOSURE [Success] — Your eyes well with tears, but they don’t spill over.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim glances over and squeezes your hand reassuringly. “It’s a tragic story, isn’t it?”

YOU — You nod, sniffling a little. “Sorry.” Your voice is thick. “It’s just… they loved each other so much, and they were so happy, and then—”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Yes.” He moves a little closer, pressing his arm against yours.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Trying to lend you support without making a scene.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — Solid and dependable and true. A shelter never shaken.

ALFIE DELETRAZ’S BULLET LAVOLTA DISPLAY— Unlike the rest of the motor carriages you’ve seen so far, the Bullet Lavolta is surrounded by related items: photographs of Irw and Deletraz, copies of newspaper articles about the accident and Irw’s retirement, even a first edition of High Speed Love. Your eyes linger on the golden TipTop Tournée championship cup from the fateful race, one side dented in from where Irw had thrown it away in despair.

The motor carriage is a thing of sleek, opulent curves, with the exterior painted in a sparkling metallic blue-green; a custom request, the placard informs you, to match Alfie’s eyes. The interior is done up in gleaming chrome, lacquered wood, and opulent soft leather the color of a good crème brûlée. Propped beside it on a gilt easel draped with blue velvet is a large color photograph of the two men standing on the winner’s podium of a TipTop race, Irw in first place and Deletraz in second. The photo was taken moments after Irw had leaned down and pulled the other man into a kiss—their first kiss, if High Speed Love was to be believed.

Deletraz had been roguishly handsome, smaller in build than his lover, with tousled dark hair, a dimpled smile, and a mischievous glint in his eyes. It was a striking contrast with Irw, who had been famous for his blond mane and chiseled jaw. They looked good together; they looked obviously, radiantly happy.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Some would say it wasn’t worth it. To find love like that, if it ended in such tragedy. Others would say the opposite; that having known such love would be worth any price one had to pay.”

YOU — You hold tight to his hand. “Which do you think?”

KIM KITSURAGI — He’s quiet for a while, thinking, then takes a slow breath before he speaks.

EMPATHY [Legendary: Success] — He’s nervous about what he’s about to say.

KIM KITSURAGI — “For a long time, I would have said that nothing could be worth the risk of that kind of pain. The thought of it is… terrifying. I’ve seen that kind of loss obliterate stronger men than I am.”

YOU — You lean a little harder into his shoulder. “And now?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Now? Now, I find myself thinking… one may try to avoid pain by never letting oneself have anything important enough that losing it would hurt. But the life that creates is… empty. Not really worth the sacrifices it takes to achieve it. Perhaps it is true after all that only by facing a great risk may one earn a great reward.”

PAIN THRESHOLD [Heroic: Success] — Deep inside you, there is a place that was a treasure, and then it was a wound, and then it was a scar. It flinches and aches at Kim’s words, but it’s the ache of stretching out a cramped limb or working salve into a scar.

YOU — “Yeah, Kim,” you say. You don’t feel brave enough to look at him, so you keep your eyes on Irw and Deletraz, captured forever in the dawn of their joy. “I think… I think you’re right.”

KIM KITSURAGI—“Of course, that doesn’t mean one should be reckless. Calculated risks only.” The corner of his mouth quirks in a wry little smile.

YOU—You aren't sure how long you stand there, only that Kim stays beside you the entire time. You remember what Lena said about him long ago, on the first morning of your vie encore: a man you can lean on when you feel unsteady.

You hope that you’re able to do that for him, too.

EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — His needs are not the same as yours, but you give him things he had not realized he lacked.

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — Challenge.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — Backup.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success]—Admiration.

VOLITION [Challenging: Success]—Commitment.

RHETORIC [Easy: Success]—Respect.

LA REVACHOLIÈRE —Revolution.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Legendary: Success]—You know what it really is you give him, Harry. You can feel it, burning through your veins and lighting up your lungs.

LIMBIC SYSTEM—Sparking terrifying after-images of something you can’t quite see, like a monster glimpsed in a lightning flash and only visible afterwards on the backs of your eyelids.

VOLITION [Heroic: Success]—Those are just the echoes of old fears. They can’t hurt you any longer, not unless you let them. But you don’t have to name them right now, not if you aren’t ready.

EMPATHY [Challenging: Success]—Kim is ready, but he is also patient. He will wait.

1. [Volition- Godly 16] I’m definitely ready.

2. Do we have to get into this right now? (Explore this thought later.)

3. No way, this is terrifying. (Run away.)

YOU—You can feel it looming just below the surface, but it can stay there for a little while longer. Right now, you have Kim beside you and no crimes to solve, and that is enough.

“Ready for those aerostatics?”

KIM KITSURAGI—“Sure. It says here they have a Hurricane Accipter; I’ve always wanted to see one up close.”

The two of you make your way into the next hall. If anything, Kim seems even more taken with the aerostatics than he had been with the MCs.

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] — He’s had much fewer opportunities to see aerostatics, at least not this well. Not a lot of detail to be seen on a machine flying high above the city.

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] — The constant threat of aerial bombardment doesn’t help either.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Trivial: Success] — You do appreciate the illustrative photographs of revolutionary pilots, though. They’re very cool.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — Kim thinks so too. He always has.

SHIVERS [Impossible: Success] — In the crowded, trash-strewn play yard of a Coalition-sponsored children’s home, a small, bespectacled boy stands alone, squinting into the sky at the silvery flash of rotors. His stomach aches with a longing he can’t quite put into words: to go away, to fly far and fast and never have to come back. Never again to hear that he’s too small, too strange, too different.

One day soon, he will learn that Revachol no longer has an air force, and a tiny hidden part of him will break. He will tuck its shards away, and in time he will have almost forgotten where they came from.

INLAND EMPIRE [Godly: Success] — Repair. Rebuild. There are still embers within the ash; the flame, tended, can burn anew.

“AEROTERRE” AEROSTATIC MUSEUM DISPLAY — The last exhibit in the hall is of an unusual-looking aerostatic, small and quick and nimble, with a complicated arrangement of rotors. The placard in front of it explains that it was intended to serve as a medical rescue craft, able to quickly bring medics to wounded soldiers and allow them to be easily extracted. The Revolution ended before they could be put into wide production.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Challenging: Success] — If Kim had been an aerostatic pilot, surely this would have been the one he’d have flown.

YOU — “I bet you’d have flown one of these, Kim.” You wave your free hand at the Aeorterre. “I mean, if they’d had actually made it into wide use. And you were alive back then.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Oh?” He looks at the placard with interest. “Why this one in particular?”

YOU — “It’s really fast, but also maneuverable, so you can get in and out of tight spots,” you explain. “It takes a lot of skill to fly well, which you totally have for driving so you’d have it for flying too. And it’s made especially for saving people, so of course it would be perfect for you.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “I— thank you, Harry.” There’s an uncommon note in his voice. “It means a lot, that you see me that way.”

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] — He has always wanted to help; it was why he joined the RCM in the first place. But it’s hard to keep idealism like that from being ground down, one small mundane tragedy at a time.

It’s easier, when he’s with you. He sees his best self reflected in your eyes, and it seems possible to be that man again.

YOU — “It means a lot to me that you are that way.” It’s your turn to squeeze his hand.

KIM KITSURAGI — “And who would you have been, Harrier Du Bois? While I was evacuating wounded in my aerostatic?”

1. [Authority - Formidable 13] In charge.

2. [Physical Instrument - Challenging 12] A drill sergeant, training recruits.

3. [Half Light - Medium 10] Getting blown up, most likely.

4. [Conceptualization - Medium 11] Making art! Communist art.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Success] — There’s only one role in the Commune for you. Propaganda officer! Use the power of art to uplift the workers!

YOU — “I’d have been with the boys in the propaganda bunker,” you say. “You know, make inspirational radio broadcasts, write leaflets. Paint heroic portraits of dashing aerostatic pilots.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He smiles. “I’d have liked to see that, I think. I’m sure they would be very heroic portraits.”

Task gained: Paint a heroic portrait of Kim as a dashing aerostatic pilot.

YOU — You smile back. “I’m sure you would have been a very dashing pilot.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “It’s nice to think so.” His voice is warm. “What do you think, are you ready to eat? Apparently food is set up in the courtyard, next to the exhibit about the pleasure wheel. They’ve got a scale model replica of the original prototype.”

YOU — “Sounds good.”

ELIZABETTA CARAMON-VAN HOLDWYCK COURTYARD AND SCULPTURE GARDEN — The double tinted-glass doors to the courtyard are propped open, with signs nearby directing you along a hedge-lined path toward the pleasure wheel exhibit and reception area. You hear music playing; a jaunty tune that somehow makes you think of colored lights and laughter. As you round the corner, you can see the courtyard proper, and you stumble to a halt while you take it all in.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — The architects of this museum wanted a sweeping view of the Esperance, but they needed to avoid the flooding issues that come with building too close to the shore. The solution they arrived at was to situate the building on the crest of a hill overlooking the river. The courtyard faces out toward the water; with the sun setting, Revachol West is nothing more than a backlit smudge along the horizon.

ELIZABETTA CARAMON-VAN HOLDWYCK COURTYARD AND SCULPTURE GARDEN — The manicured grass and careful flowerbeds of the sculpture garden have been transformed into something very like the vision of the Martinaise boardwalk you once had. Brightly colored stalls bear neon signs; some are advertising carnival food while others seem to contain things pertaining to the history of the pleasure wheel. To one side, a young woman dressed as a sad clown is twisting balloons into various shapes and handing them out to museum patrons. A man on stilts walks among the crowd, playing a hurdy-gurdy. And there, at the bottom of the garden, a pleasure wheel rises, silhouetted against the sky. Warm lights run along its slow-turning steel arms.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim takes a sharp little breath. “It’s working.” He turns to you, eyes sparkling. “Do you see, Harry? People are riding it! I didn’t see that in the catalogue.”

YOU — “I thought this was supposed to be a scale model? I didn’t expect that would be big enough to ride.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “It is.” He watches the wheel turn, enraptured. “The original Bueller pleasure wheel was over eighty meters tall; this looks about half that size. The axle alone must weigh thirty tons.”

Secret task complete: Find a working pleasure wheel that Kim can ride.

YOU — “Disco.” You nudge Kim. “Come on, let’s go ride it.”

KIM KITSURAGI — He looks a little startled, then strangely uncertain. “Didn’t you want to eat first? It’s getting late; we took our time inside.”

EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — He’s had a long time to live with this being something he’d never have. He’s a little thrown at the thought of having it, now. Not in a bad way, it just takes a somegetting used to.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Godly: Success] — The pleasure wheel is a metaphor in this scenario, by the way. Can you guess what for?

YOU — ....is it for me? I feel like it’s usually for me. At least a pleasure wheel is a better thing to be than a piece of toilet paper.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — Give the man a prize.

YOU — I don’t need another prize. Kim already came on a date with me! And the best way to get used to having good things is to go ahead and start having them, so you can practice. Dr. Benoit gave me homework about it and everything.

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — He wants to do it. He just needs a nudge. An excuse, if you will. A way to have what he wants without feeling like he’s being frivolous and selfish.

YOU — “I’m not that hungry. I had a snack after work. Besides, I don’t remember ever going on a pleasure wheel before, and I know you said you hadn’t been on one either. I like it that there’s something we can do together that’s new to both of us.”

RHETORIC [Challenging: Success] — Yes! Make it seem like it’s something he’s doing for your sake. He’s always more ready to put himself out for you than for himself.

KIM KITSURAGI — “Well. When you put it like that, how could I refuse?”

VOLITION [Formidable: Success] — He can’t. This is dangerous knowledge, Harry. Be sure to only use it for good.

YOU — “Come on, then. I bet the view is amazing from the top of that thing.”

ELIZABETTA CARAMON-VAN HOLDWYCK COURTYARD AND SCULPTURE GARDEN — The air is soft and cool, scented with sugar and popcorn. The dressed-up art patrons aren’t exactly a carnival crowd, but most seem to be getting into the spirit of things, unbending enough to chat and laugh over their small plates and wineglasses. You look forward to reading all the exhibits later, but for now you hone in on the pleasure wheel.

The ride operator is sitting on a stool in a small brightly painted shack at the base of the wheel, trying to surreptitiously read an MC magazine under the counter.

YOU — “How much for a ride?”

BORED TORQUE DORK RIDE OPERATOR — “Normally, one-fifty a go,” he says. “Free today, though. It’s included in the ticket price for the opening. Just get on and off whenever.”

LOGIC — We knew getting the tickets for today was a good idea!

YOU — “Great! Thanks, man.”

BORED TORQUE DORK RIDE OPERATOR — “Sure. Uh, thank-you-for-supporting-the-Musée-des-Artes-de-Revachol.” He shoves a pamphlet into your hand and returns to his magazine, duty done. As the two of you walk toward the boarding area for the pleasure wheel, you take a look at it.

COLORFUL PAMPHLET — The front says “A gift to last beyond your lifetime” in elaborate scripted typeface. You skim the text, which appears to be encouraging you to consult a “philanthropic legacy curator” for assistance in “bequest planning.”

LOGIC [Challenging: Success] — They want you to leave all your money to the museum.

YOU — Joke’s on them. I don’t have any money.

WORKING SCALE MODEL REPLICA OF THE BUELLER PLEASURE WHEEL — There are a few people ahead of you in the line to board, but you aren’t in any particular hurry. From what you can tell, the wheel isn’t full, plus you can ride as much as you like.

Up close, you can hear the low creaking of machinery as the wheel turns. Kim is looking up towards the massive gears. His face is unguarded, eyes wide and softly smiling; you’re suddenly reminded of the way he looked up at the giant crane in the harbor, part mechanical fascination and part innocent wonder.

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — This was a perfect place for a date. Kim’s having a great time, you’re having a great time - good job, Harry.

YOU — The happiness on Kim’s face seems to settle in your chest, dense and sweet. You want to make him look like that all the time forever.

Task gained: Make Kim happy as often as possible, for the rest of his life. (This may take a while.)

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Legendary: Success] — This, Harry. This feeling you have right now? Remember it. This is how it’s supposed to feel.

YOU — How what’s supposed to feel?

VOLITION — Are you sure you’re ready to know?

1. [Volition- Godly 16] I’m definitely ready.

    +2 You want to make Kim happy forever

2. Do we have to get into this right now? (Explore this thought later.)

3. No way, this is terrifying. (Run away.)

VOLITION [Success] — Yes. You are.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — It’s love, baby. The Real Deal, the way it’s meant to be. That sweet ache etching grooves into your cortex? You’ve carved space in yourself that’s the shape of him, Harry, right down to your core, and nothing else will ever fill it up quite right again.

LOGIC — It’s not that much of a surprise, not really. Parts of you have known for a long time now.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Like me.

EMPATHY — And me.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — You don’t feel about any other cops the way you feel about Kim.

HALF LIGHT — It’s a terrifying realization.

PAIN THRESHOLD — If this goes wrong it will ruin us.

VOLITION — We’ve been ruined before, and we rebuilt. We could do it again, if we had to.

EMPATHY — I don’t think we’ll have to.

ESPRIT DE CORPS — Kim doesn’t start things he’s not prepared to finish.

INLAND EMPIRE — Your partner unto the end, unless you drive him from your side. Loyal. True. Beloved.

SHIVERS [Godly: Success] — The porch collapse races inland, something becoming nothing. The past and the future jostle the present like rude men on a crowded sidewalk. Your ears ring; the Coalition is bombing Revachol. Will bomb Revachol. Bombed Revachol. Revachol is new-built and shining. Revachol is ancient and crumbling.

Two men stand in the eye of the storm, in a sliver of silence inside an old church. One is slim, the other sturdy. They cling together, clutching hands twisted white in each other’s coats.

The man in the orange jacket speaks. “Did you hear that?”

The taller man turns his face upward. His eyes are distant. “She’s calling us.”

His companion shudders, grip tightening. “But where? There’s nowhere left to go.”

“I know where. Will you come with me?”

“Always.”

LA REVACHOLIÈRE — MY PRECIOUS ONES. YOU SHALL WALK TOGETHER INTO THE REEDS WHEN THE RIVER RISES.

YOU — Is that the future? Will that really happen?

INLAND EMPIRE [Legendary: Success] — The steps shift; figures fade; the great dance continues forward. In the end, what remains? His hand in your hand, his breath in your lungs, your days at his side.

YOU — I want that. So much.

INLAND EMPIRE — It is already yours.

VOLITION — Yours to give and to receive. Simple, but not easy.

EMPATHY — He’s made his decision. You need to make yours. How will you step into your future, Harry?

YOU — I know how.

WORKING SCALE MODEL REPLICA OF THE BUELLER PLEASURE WHEEL — As you step to the front of the line, the next empty gondola slows to a stop, its two facing bench seats gratifyingly empty. The gold-painted curlicues on its side gleam in the last of the ruddy sunlight. High in the sky, above the swirling streaks of pink and orange and purple that paint the sky, the stars are coming out.

You hold Kim’s hand tighter and step into the gondola together.

Chapter Text

September 27, CC51

It took, on average, about a quarter of an hour to get from Kim’s new apartment to Harry’s place on Perdition, once you added in the time it took to maneuver out of the shed, drive, find a parking place on the other end, and climb the stairs to the third floor. It could vary five or ten minutes to either side, depending on the vagaries of traffic, but still, half an hour was an extremely generous estimate for the time it would take to arrive.

Kim had been ready to go embarrassingly early; to make matters worse, he couldn’t even drive over and park around the corner until it was the right time to pick Harry up, because Harry could hear the Kineema’s engine coming from a fair distance away. He listened for it, even, because he liked the sound. Because it reminded him of Kim, and of everything that had changed for him since they first met.

It was a deeply touching thing to know, but it did mean that Kim was left with time to kill and not much to do but think.

He’d realized, some time in the long week since Harry had asked him out (and what a flat, uninteresting little phrase that was, for something so momentous that remembering it still stole Kim’s breath), that he hadn’t gone on a date like this in over a decade, not since early days with Gio. After that relationship had ended—

—just marry the fucking RCM already, Kim, you already live there more than here, you can’t even get through a single meal with me without pulling out that fucking notebook—

—he had concluded that his personal life needed to take a back seat to his career for a while. Just until he settled into his new position. Just until he’d proved himself in Homicide. Just until Dom’s killer was sentenced. Just until Dom’s unfinished cases were closed. Just until one thing after another, and then eventually it had been so long that Kim no longer even bothered to pretend it was a temporary state of affairs. He could get by very well, he’d thought, on the occasional trip down to Boogie Street for some efficient stress relief.

And then a hungover amnesiac had looked at him with all the stars in the sky glimmering in his reddened eyes and asked him how he got so cool, and a cramped and wizened part of Kim’s soul had woken up and started wanting.

One would think that performing field surgery on a man’s bullet wound and caring for him through two days of fever afterward would be enough to wipe out any mystique that still remained after watching him find a pair of trousers stuffed in a furnace and immediately put them on. And yet, for all that it sometimes seemed that Harry said his every thought aloud, Kim thought sometimes he would never stop being surprised by him.

The determined set of his jaw, when he’d said that he wanted to do things right this time. The way he’d braced himself against disappointment when he’d asked Kim on a date, and then the joy when Kim had said yes, washing over his face like a wave smoothing out the sand. The sparkle in his eyes ever since, the way he couldn’t stop shooting little glances over at Kim as though to make sure he hadn’t imagined him. The new haircut he’d shown up to work with three days before, the unruly waves of his hair now falling artistically down to his shoulders, at least until he forgot himself mid-afternoon and pulled it up into a pencil-knot again so it would stay out of his eyes while he looked over some possibly-forged documents.

They’d worked late, the night before, the two of them in mutual unspoken agreement to clear everything possible from their docket to minimize the chances of their off time being interrupted. Kim had smoked his cigarette on the roof at around ten, Harry loping after him up the stairs. Harry had offered his lighter; Kim had laid a hand over his to steady the flame. They’d done it before, often, and yet somehow Kim had never felt anything quite like the back of Harry’s hand, knobby punch-hardened knuckles and soft brown hair and that tracery of scars that even Harry didn’t remember, a street map to an unknown city.

He’d skimmed his fingers over them before he pulled away, and Harry’s breath had caught, a tiny sound that snagged Kim’s attention like a fishhook. He’d been staring at the cigarette between Kim’s lips, his eyes blown black in the dim light. Kim had leaned back against the smokestack and watched Harry watch him with the sparkling lights of Jamrock spread out behind him.

Kim had once gone undercover to infiltrate an underground racing ring, had earned his place in the gang by winning a race in the old service tunnels beneath the 8/81. He would never forget the sensation of throwing the throttle open wide, the engine roaring with the gush of fuel, the rush of speed that pressed him back into the driver’s basket, every inch of him alive.

Harry’s eyes had flicked from Kim’s fingers to his mouth, and he had wet his lips, and Kim had felt the lurch of acceleration in his stomach.

His watch beeped; it was finally time. Kim gave himself a last once-over, checked his pockets to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, and went down to get the Kineema out of the shed. He exceeded the speed limit on the way over to Perdition, but only by a little.

Harry’s building was located in a part of Jamrock largely occupied by arty types who’d been gentrified out of the parts of the city where the arty types had lived a decade ago. Kim had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Harry had apparently been a well-liked presence in the building before his spiral, and that even during the worst of it many of his neighbors had reacted with more concern than anger. Kim thought that a lot of them considered Harry as something between a building mascot and a talisman against interference from other RCM officers who might be less inclined to live and let live in matters narcotique. Regardless, the building was typically Jamrock-shabby, but the residents generally banded together to keep it in decent repair as best they could, and the hallways were painted with colorful murals that perhaps provided a clue to Harry’s obsession with graffito.

As he entered the building, he passed one of Harry’s neighbors, a girl with short blue hair who liked to smoke on the fire escape and debate inframaterialism with Harry through his open window.

She gave him a once-over and whistled. “Looking sharp, Ace,” she said.

He held back a sigh at the nickname; it would only encourage her. “Good evening, Miss Martel.”

She grinned. “So formal, detective! So what’s the deal, you and Art Cop upstairs got a case in La Delta or something?”

Kim opened his mouth to deflect the question, but what actually came out was, “a date, actually. At the Musée des Artes de Revachol. We’re going to an exhibit opening.”

He froze, elation and horror at war within him. What on earth possessed him to go spreading his personal business around like that? And yet… why should he not, after all? She was hardly likely to report him for unprofessional behavior or be in a position to spread unsavory gossip about him at the precinct. And being excited about dates was a thing that people did every day. Normal, unremarkable. Besides, Harry was worth being excited for. He deserved for someone to be excited to have his company.

Miss Martel—Eugenie, he thought—looked honestly surprised, and then delighted. She beamed at him, her teasing manner transformed into warmth.

“Oh, that’s great,” she said. “I’m so glad. He’s got the biggest crush on you. It’s kind of adorable, you know?”

Kim cleared his throat. “Yes, well. That’s as may be.”

“You kids have fun tonight,” she said. She was, it must be noted, twenty-four at most. “Just, um. Look. Harry’s all right, you know? He really tries. I had a bad breakup a couple months back and he sat with me on the fire escape for hours while I cried over it and then he went with me all the way over to Couron at four in the morning so I could throw eggs at the stupid bourgeois white picket fence around her stupid bourgeois house.” She stopped short, shooting him an uneasy little look. “Um. Forget I said that.”

“Couron is out of my jurisdiction,” Kim assured her solemnly.

“Good. Yeah. Um. Anyway. Just… I know things sometimes don’t work out and it’s nobody’s fault, but Harry’s been so much better lately and he just… his poor old heart’s been through a lot, you know? Just… be careful with him? Fuck, this is stupid, forget I said anything.” She looked like she wished she could take back her words, but also strangely intense; Kim felt a sudden, blinding rush of affection for Harry, his sweetness and his generosity and his desire to help people that left him with friends in the oddest places.

“Miss Martel,” he said, then corrected himself. “Eugenie. Harry is…” —everything, everything— “a dear friend. I can assure you that as far as it lies in my power, I will never knowingly or deliberately cause him harm.”

She relaxed. “Good,” she said. “Then I guess you should get going, yeah? Have fun at your museum. Show him a good time.”

“I shall do my utmost,” Kim said, and her laughter trailed behind her as she continued on her way with a jaunty wave.

He was glad for the little interlude; it had gotten him out of his head a bit, reminding him of the most important thing. Harry didn’t care if it had been ten years since Kim went on a date, or eight years since he’d made a serious attempt at romance; he was, by necessity, very focused on the present. Whatever echoes from the past might rear their heads, as long as the two of them handled it together, they would be all right. If they could make it through a shootout with armed mercenaries in the middle of a civilian neighborhood, surely they could between them muddle through a romantic relationship that they both wanted.

Overall, he was feeling pleasantly confident by the time he knocked on Harry’s door, and then Harry opened the door and every thought in Kim’s head screeched to a halt like a pileup in a TipTop race. Was he wearing velvet trousers? He was. He was wearing bottle-green velvet trousers that fit him like a second skin from hip to knee, where they belled out into luxurious flares that skimmed the tops of his favorite snakeskin shoes. He’d paired the trousers with another satin disco shirt, this one a luminous primrose yellow, and a floral paisley brocade waistcoat in shades of green and yellow and blue. He was wearing the tie Kim had made him, knotted with unusual care but still lying just a bit askew, probably from Harry nervously fiddling with it. He’d put his hair up. He smelled of warm spices and tea. Those trousers looked so soft, and so tight. Kim could see muscle flex in Harry’s thighs as he shifted his weight. He felt like he might spontaneously combust.

“Hot pants!” Harry blurted, then instantly went bright red, looking like he wanted to sink right through the floor and keep going until he was lost in the sepulchers of Le Royaume.

Kim wondered for a frozen moment if Harry had read his mind—or had it read to him by one of his voices—but then he noticed the way Harry’s eyes kept darting to Kim’s own lower half. He felt himself relax all at once, affection bubbling up in his chest and emerging as fond laughter. He had picked out his own outfit for a reason, after all. “Thanks, Harry,” he said. “I’m glad you like them.”

This was going to be great.

Kim had thought, in the days leading up to their date, that he had a fairly good idea of how things would go, allowing of course for the chaos factor that went along with doing anything with Harry. Harry would be sweet, he’d thought—sweet and sincere and open like he had been when he’d made the invitation in the first place. He’d be excited, probably, maybe feeling a little nervous to do something he didn’t remember doing before. He’d be flirty and charming, and probably say at minimum three extremely unlikely things.

The predictions hadn’t been wrong, exactly. What Kim had failed to account for, though, were his own reactions, both emotional and physical. He’d known Harry was tactile, and that he probably got insufficient physical touch in his daily life. But he hadn’t predicted what it would do to him when Harry shivered beneath his hand, his pulse quickening with arousal as his imagination caught fire. If Harry was that sensitive to Kim’s hand on his lower back over at least two layers of clothing, how would he react to Kim’s touch on his naked skin? How long would Kim be able to tease him before he couldn’t take it any longer? Would he beg for more, or take what he was given?

Honestly, it was probably for the best that the layout of the Kineema kept the passenger out of easy reach of the driver. Of course, the distance didn’t stop Kim from watching in the mirror as Harry’s thoughts flickered over his expressive face, or from hearing the soft, almost shy note in his voice when he said that he’d never been anyone’s special occasion before.

Even though he knew full well that Harry had extremely few pre-Martinaise personal memories, Kim had still felt an irrational desire to track down everyone in Harry’s past who ought to have made him feel treasured and… well. And do what, he wasn’t entirely sure. He couldn’t exactly levy fines; not appreciating Harrier DuBois was not actually a crime, no matter how much it seemed like it ought to be. He could lecture them, he supposed, but to what purpose? He didn’t want any of these theoretical past lovers, much less the one he knew about for certain, to take it into their heads to attempt to correct their past mistakes. Really, the only thing for it was to make sure Harry was left with no doubts as to his importance to Kim.

It was perhaps not the most well-adjusted thing, to feel such fierce competition for the affections of a man who wouldn’t remember most of his exes if he passed them in the street. But nevertheless.

He gave Harry a hand down from the Kineema when they stopped, less because he thought Harry needed it (he did, after all, ride in the MC almost daily) than because he thought Harry would like it, which he obviously did.

Harry’s hand was broad and strong, warm even through the leather of Kim’s gloves, and as he stepped out onto the pavement he shot Kim a sweet little smile and squeezed Kim’s hand before letting go.

Kim squeezed back before releasing his hand reluctantly for the walk down the road to the museum, staying half a step closer to Harry than he’d usually walk. He wasn’t particularly concerned with being seen showing affection in public—there wasn’t likely to be anyone from the precinct east of the river, after all, so professionalism and gossip weren’t concerns—he’d just spent too long in the RCM to feel comfortable walking down a public street without his hands free.

Not that he expected to be ambushed by criminals down the street from the art museum, but a lot of unexpected things had happened in his life of late. It was better to be prepared for any eventuality.

Late afternoon was slipping into evening, their shadows stretched long in front of them on the sidewalk. Their arms brushed, and their eyes met, and Kim found himself answering Harry’s smile with one of his own. It was strangely freeing, not feeling the need to keep a straight face all the time. There was no harm in letting Harry see how he felt; one might even argue the opposite. And Harry was so easy to smile at. He always had been, since the very first day.

There weren’t a lot of people Kim wanted to smile at, as a rule, but since Harry had entered his life the number somehow kept growing.

They made their way through the crowd toward the entrance. At the top of the stairs Harry paused and rested his hand against the wall of the museum, which was made of some sort of impractical fancy stone. Kim vaguely remembered a scandal around it—something about the rain in Revachol being too acidic and wearing it away unless an expensive preservation program that nobody wanted to pay for was embarked upon. Typical, really, for Revachol East.

After a moment, Harry sighed, a sad look crossing his face. He patted the wall, his big hand gentle against the stone, and whispered something. Kim stepped closer, remembering the mailbox in Martinaise.

“…you’re still beautiful,” Harry was saying. “Revacholians know that beauty doesn’t require perfection.”

Kim swallowed, something in his throat aching at Harry’s words. He turned a little, so that his back was between Harry and the rest of the crowd, the angle of his body encouraging people to steer around them. If Harry needed a moment of privacy, Kim would do his best to make sure he got it.

“A profound sentiment,” he said softly. He thought of the cracked mosaic tiles on the floor of the Whirling, of Harry’s favorite alley wall. “And certainly true.”

Harry flinched a little, reflexive, his shoulders rounding in a way that Kim deliberately didn’t dwell on, lest he spoil their date by losing his temper at whoever had trained that reaction into him.

“I am curious, though,” he continued, trying to keep his expression free of anything like judgment. “Why did the wall need to hear it?”

I know about the things you hear, he thought, half-hoping one of Harry’s Pale voices would pick up the message and deliver it on his behalf. I know why you hear them. I know you aren’t delusional, Harry. Please don’t be afraid.

Maybe it worked—or maybe Harry just read Kim’s body language, which he was usually exceedingly good at—but either way, Harry relaxed, straightening out of his defensive hunch. “Kim,” he said, his voice serious. “The wall is a metaphor for the suffering of the working class under the boot-heel of capitalist oppression.”

Of course it was.

Kim was scarcely the Mazovian firebrand Harry was, but even he had to admit that Harry had something of a point. “Because of the acid rain issue?”

Harry’s mouth fell open in astonishment. Kim just smiled a little, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation of actually surprising him for once; he didn’t manage it too often.

Surprise really did look quite appealing on Harry, his parted lips soft and pink, his wide eyes bright and clear. One day, Kim thought, he would look like that and Kim would step in and kiss the tiny scar that left a dent in his lower lip.

“You’re so smart,” Harry said, looking at him in a way that was better saved for things like solving a murder case or discovering a new species of rare insect, rather than the minor accomplishment of reading about something in the newspaper and remembering it a few months afterward.

Harry would give him a swelled head if he wasn’t careful. He wasn’t nearly as impressive as Harry seemed to think. Still, Kim couldn’t stop himself from showing his pleasure at the compliment. He was only human, after all, and what person doesn’t like to hear themself admired by the object of their affections?

As though he’d heard the thought—and for all Kim knew, he might have—Harry actually fluttered his eyelashes like the ingenue in a romantic film and said, “You’re so handsome I think I’m going to swoon.”

It should have looked absolutely ridiculous. Unfortunately, Harry was so transparently sincere in his appreciation that it just made him even more appealing. He was somehow already a little rumpled in a way that made Kim’s hands itch to either set him to rights or disarrange him even more, his cheeks pink above his fluffy muttonchops, clinging to his new friend the capitalist metaphor wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright in the face of Kim’s charms. (However unlikely such a thing might seem.)

“You shouldn’t swoon right now,” he said, reminding himself that they weren’t even inside the museum yet and it would therefore be both churlish and inappropriate to grab Harry’s tie and tow him back to the Kineema at the moment. “You’d fall down the stairs, and then we’d have to spend the evening at the lazareth instead of doing something fun.”

Harry’s flush deepened, and he spent a few seconds staring at Kim with huge eyes before blurting, “I definitely want to do fun to you. I mean with you. Instead of with Gottlieb. Not that I would do fun things with him! I meant that—”

Kim took pity on the increasingly desperate look on his face. “I know what you meant, Harry.” There was probably something wrong with him, he thought, that he found it endearing when Harry tripped over his words like that. It was… cute, though Kim would rather be pistol-whipped again than ever say that out loud. He wasn’t a teenager giggling over boys, after all. He didn’t think he ever had been.

“I want to do fun things with you, too,” he assured Harry. “That’s why we’re here, after all.” He took it as a personal triumph when Harry relaxed, smiling so wide his dimples peeked out around the edges of his whiskers.

Kim was absolutely going to kiss those at the first appropriate moment. They’d been driving him to distraction for months.

He forcibly put it out of his mind and held out his hand to Harry. “Shall we get started?”

Kim laced their fingers together and let himself enjoy the feeling of Harry’s broad palm against his and the way Harry kept sneaking admiring little looks at Kim out of the corners of his eyes. He wished that he’d thought to take off his gloves first so he could feel Harry’s skin properly.

He got a little distracted by the exhibit catalog as soon as Harry handed it to him; he’d purposefully not looked up any information about it beforehand, in case Harry wanted anything to be a surprise. It was just as well, because if he’d known in advance he was going to get to see the Deletraz Lavolta he’d have been even more useless at work all week than he already had been. The aerostatic section looked fascinating, too, and they even had a model of the original Bueller pleasure wheel! He pulled a pen from his pocket and started planning an optimal route on the pamphlet map of the museum he’d picked up from a kiosk while Harry was communing with the wall.

It was a little embarrassing that he’d let himself get so absorbed he just let Harry stand there waiting for him for some time, but at least Harry hadn’t seemed to mind; he’d just been happy that the date location he’d picked was a success. He even agreed to let Kim pick their route through the exhibit.

This time, Kim remembered to take his gloves off before offering Harry his hand again, and spent half the first exhibit hall (mostly hypercarriages, which were interesting technically but tended to look rather comically phallic) focusing on the heat and strength and callouses he could feel now they were skin to skin.

(Being a detective did tend to be rough on the hands—just one of many reasons Kim had taken to wearing gloves in the field—and Harry compounded that with the artistic endeavors that tended to leave his hands smeared with graphite or ink or splattered with paint. Kim wondered if he had forgotten that hand cream existed, or if he somehow hadn’t realized that men were allowed to use it. He took such delight in things that felt nice or smelled good; Kim had already seen him idly rubbing his fingers over his own velvet trousers twice that evening. Perhaps he should buy Harry some lotion. That might not be appropriate between work colleagues, but it was a natural thing to give one’s lover.)

Lover. Thinking the word lifted the hair on Kim’s arms and the back of his neck. Harry wasn’t, not yet, but… he might be. Would be.

Probably. Assuming that everything kept going well.

His attention kept bouncing between the splendid motor carriages in the exhibit and the careful, gentle grip Harry had on his hand. He held hands like—

—Like he’d never done it before, Kim realized. Because in all likelihood, as far as Harry could remember, he hadn’t.

He’d thought about being Harry’s first man (or at least the first he remembered) enough that he’d thought he could manage not to come across as creepy about it when and if it came to pass. But Harry’s relationship with Dora loomed so large that Kim had never stopped to wonder how much of it Harry actually remembered beyond the end.

Did he have any memories of sex at all? He obviously masturbated—thinking of Kim, no less, as he’d confessed the week before—but did all his knowledge come from self-pleasure and his pile of books?

Kim had never had any sort of virgin kink before—for one thing, given the physical type he was most attracted to, being someone’s first could easily end up as a safety risk if they lashed out in some kind of gay panic, after—but it was different, when it was Harry. So many things were different, when it was Harry.

If he had forgotten—if Kim really did become the first memory of sex that Harry had—

Kim could make it so good for him. He might have been going through a dry spell, but bed was about the only place that his previous relationships hadn’t had any complaints. He was observant and thoughtful and good with his hands; he trained his body regularly and knew what it was capable of and how to use it to best advantage. Not to mention that a sizable number of people seemed to find the authoritative manner he’d refined as a juvenile crimes officer erotic when deployed in the proper context.

So many things in Harry’s life had been painful and cruel. Kim wanted him to be able to think back on his sex life and only remember good things; pleasure, yes, but also tenderness, consideration, joy. He wanted to feel like he’d earned the way Harry looked at him sometimes, his eyes liquid with emotion that Kim never quite felt able to admit to himself he could read.

(Nobody had ever looked at Kim like that before. Kim didn’t think anyone ever would again. There could only ever be one Harrier DuBois.)

They walked around a corner, and Kim’s attention was forcibly yanked away from Harry’s erotic experiences at the sight of a flash of blue.

“There it is,” he said.

Harry cocked his head, looking in the moment a little like a confused retriever. “There what is?”

Kim was already tugging Harry’s hand, urging him across the floor. “The Bullet Lavolta. Alfie Deletraz’s Bullet Lavolta.”

He’d never even dreamed of getting to see it one day. He’d read about it, of course. If you grew up in Revachol and cared anything about TipTop (or if you were a homo-sexual who was starved for news of other people like you), you could scarcely avoid knowing about the Bullet Lavolta that Jacob Irw had ordered as a wedding present for Alfie Deletraz. Miles of paper and gallons of ink had been used up recounting every detail; the astounding power of the engine, the custom-mixed paint color that Irw had insisted be redone over and over until it was an exact match for his lover’s eyes, the intricate wood inlays and filigrees of the interior. And then, after Deletraz died, the tragic romance of the whole affair had spurred even more rabid attention, especially as Irw had shut the MC up in his own estate and never allowed anyone to photograph it.

They’d said he used to drink until he was practically delirious, then sit in the passenger seat and hold long conversations with Alfie. Kim very deliberately did not draw a comparison to Harry’s Pale-voices; they weren’t at all the same thing. The note from the entroponeticist had been very clear.

He glanced over at Harry, and noticed with a pang that there were tears brimming in his eyes as he looked at the display. He squeezed his hand, trying to be comforting. He’d certainly shed plenty of tears of his own over the story, curled up in his bunk in his dormitory with the blankets pulled over his head to scrape out a meager privacy.

“It’s a tragic story,” he said, trying to convey his understanding in his tone. “Isn’t it?”

Harry nodded. “Sorry,” he said, and cleared his throat. “It’s just… they loved each other so much, and they were so happy, and then—” his eyes flicked from the photo of the two men kissing to the golden cup with the dent in one side.

“Yes.” Kim sighed, leaning in a little so that his arm pressed against Harry’s, hoping to lend him some comfort, and maybe some reassurance besides. He found his attention being pulled away from the exhibit to watch Harry; he studied every piece like it was key evidence in some sort of crime that they would have to solve. Kim wondered what he was thinking, if he was tempted to draw parallels between them and the doomed racing drivers, simply because they were two sets of men who had worked a dangerous job together and came to care for one another.

The soft leather of the passenger seat was creased, as though someone had sat there frequently. The driver’s seat was still pristine.

Kim closed his eyes, and saw blood spreading in a fine lattice between mosaic tiles.

Stop that, he told himself firmly. It wasn’t the same thing. Harry had not died of his wounds that day, and even if he had—Kim’s stomach lurched at the thought, but he forced himself to keep going—even if he had, Kim hadn’t loved him, then. Not the way he did now.

Oh, the seeds had been there, for much longer than really spoke well of Kim’s romantic judgment, but they hadn’t been irrevocable yet. It had been friendship and curiosity and fondness, a certain affection and more than a little lust, but it hadn’t yet sunk its roots deep, hadn’t twined throughout him until there was scarcely any part untouched.

Losing Harry then would have shaken him badly. Losing Harry now would rip him into pieces. The man he used to be would have never taken such a risk. Even now, Kim could feel the echoes of him, the ghost of an impulse to put his walls back up, to push Harry away, to save himself.

The man he is now knows that loss is not the only thing he needed saving from.

“Some would say it wasn’t worth it,” he said softly. “To find love like that, if it ended in such tragedy.” He looked over at Harry. “Others would say the opposite; that having known such love would be worth any price one had to pay.”

Harry looked down at him with a solemn expression, his eyes wide and wet. His grip tightened around Kim’s hand, as though bracing to keep him from being swept overboard. “Which do you think?” His voice trembled a little.

Kim took a deep, slow breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. Was he really going to say this here? Was this really the time? He thought perhaps it would be better to wait. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t look at the naked emotion on Harry’s face—Harry who had been so open with him, who had taken so many emotional risks, always the one to speak first, to be brave. Kim owed him the truth, even if the prospect of saying it aloud was both the most terrifying and the most exhilarating thing in the world.

“For a long time, I would have said that nothing could be worth the risk of that kind of pain,” he said. “The thought of it is… terrifying. I’ve seen that kind of loss obliterate stronger men than I am.”

Spouses, partners, lovers, siblings—all flavors of love, all precious in the having and devastating in the losing. It had always seemed safer to keep doing without. He’d made it that far, after all. The few times he’d tried to let someone in had only served to reinforce his original conclusion.

Harry pressed back against his shoulder, his solid weight a tether and a comfort. “And now?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it? The question he’d been asking and answering, asking and answering, asking and answering over and over again since March. Since Martinaise. Since he met Harry and realized he didn’t want to say “no” anymore.

“Now?” He spoke slowly, trying to put words to the surging emotions he’d only recently come to terms with. “Now, I find myself thinking… one may try to avoid pain by never letting oneself have anything important enough that losing it would hurt. But the life that creates is… empty. Not really worth the sacrifices it takes to achieve it.” He let out a breath, long and a little shaky; saying the words felt a great deal like falling from a great height. Harry’s hand warm and steady in his felt like being caught by strong arms just before you dashed yourself on the pavement at the bottom. “Perhaps it is true after all that only by facing a great risk may one earn a great reward.”

Harry’s hand clenched, once, as though he was overcome. When Kim looked up he had his eyes fixed on the photo again, but his lips were trembling.

“Yeah, Kim,” he said roughly. “I think… I think you’re right.”

They hadn’t moved, but adrenaline sent Kim’s pulse hammering in his throat. Falling, after all, was a great deal like flying, if you knew there was someone to catch you.

“Of course,” he added, because this was Harry DuBois, “that doesn’t mean one should be reckless. Calculated risks only.”

Harry chuckled a little, more an amused huff of breath than anything else. Kim stayed beside him, feeling the tense muscles of his arm gradually relax as Harry worked through his feelings.

He’d come such a long way since Martinaise, worked so hard to learn how to cope with life without falling back on bad old habits. Kim was so proud of him that it ached.

When Harry was ready to move on, he shook himself a little and then looked over at Kim with a gentle smile. “Ready for those aerostatics?”

He smiled back. “Sure. It says here they have a Hurricane Accipter; I’ve always wanted to see one up close.”

The aerostatic exhibit was located in one of the largest halls of the museum. Kim had rather thought that considerations of size would limit the exhibit to blueprints, photographs, and the like; he had been delighted to learn that they had full-sized examples of many of the smaller craft and large scale models of the others. He tried not to linger too long—he didn’t want to bore Harry, after all, since the exhibit was only the secondary purpose of the outing—but after the second time Kim tore himself away from one thing to move on to the next one, Harry had shot him a keen look and told him to take his time.

“If you’re happy, I’m happy,” he said, and Kim took him at his word and spent another ten minutes getting a good look at the working model of the Accipter’s folding rotor assembly that you were actually allowed to fold and unfold yourself.

Honestly, the Revolutionary air brigades had developed the most innovative and clever aerostatic designs. That was just an historic fact.

Kim lingered over the exhibits as long as he wanted. He kept an eye on Harry in between to make sure he didn’t look impatient, but Harry continued to demonstrate a quite uncharacteristic lack of fidgets, seemingly happy to absorb all the Revolutionary atmosphere he could in between shooting Kim shy little smiles and fiddling with all the hands-on machinery models. He didn’t even look put out when Kim slipped a notebook from his pocket and made a few quick notes about the landing assembly on the third-generation bombers. There had been an article in last month’s Les Aérophiles that had been unforgivably sloppy on the subject; Marchand was always slapdash in his research. Kim had been considering writing a letter to the editor about it. Such flagrant inaccuracies should not be allowed to go uncorrected. Perhaps he should ask Harry to sketch the parts for him? Alternately, he might return with his camera and photograph the relevant portions, if he decided it was worth the cost of the ampoule.

Looking up from his notes, he noticed Harry watching him with a fond smile, and hurriedly shut the notebook and returned it to his pocket. Aerostatic debates could wait for a more opportune time.

Finally, they reached the last exhibit, one of the smaller craft that could be fit into the hall in one piece. Kim recognized the distinctive rotor layout at once; this was one of the very few Aeroterre medical rescue aerostatics that had been produced before the Coalition shelled the factory into rubble. Only a handful of production models and one or two prototypes had survived the war; a pity, really. He was sure that there were still a great many places where an exceptionally maneuverable aerostatic equipped with medical facilities would be quite useful. The Coalition seemed to have rather a childish prejudice against adopting any of the Commune’s designs in their own equipement, though, until they had been revamped in Messina or somewhere and made worse in the process.

It was an elegant machine, he thought, every contour stripped to an aerodynamic minimalism. It gave the impression of speed even when mounted on a platform inside a museum. Kim felt a sudden, aching wish that he could have seen it fly.

Harry looked up from studying the placard. “I bet you’d have flown one of these, Kim,” he said, gesturing at the cockpit. “I mean, if they’d had actually made it into wide use. And you were alive back then.”

Kim blinked, puzzled but more than a little gratified. “Oh? Why this one in particular?”

“It’s really fast, but also maneuverable,” Harry explained, his gestures getting wider as he warmed to the subject. “So you can get in and out of tight spots. It takes a lot of skill to fly well, which you totally have for driving so you’d have it for flying too. And it’s made especially for saving people, so of course it would be perfect for you.”

Harry’s eyes were sparkling, his expression open and eager as he explained his theory. Kim thought, not for the first time, that nobody in all his life had ever seen him like Harry did, looked past all the things that Kim did for appearance or propriety’s sake to the secret heart of him and declared it good. There had been a time when Kim thought romantic success meant finding someone who could care for you despite your imperfections; now, standing in the museum exhibit that Harry had chosen specifically to cater to the juvenile hobbies that Kim had never quite outgrown, listening to Harry spin a tale that might as well have come from Kim’s own childish flights of fancy, he realized how much he’d shortchanged himself, even in his imagination.

It was a very humbling thing, for someone to like you not in spite of the things you’re insecure about, but because of them. A little unsettling, even frightening—endless avenues opening around you where previously there had been blockades—but exhilarating, the same way flooring the accelerator on an empty road in the middle of the night was exhilarating.

Harry cared little for what Kim ought to be; he was far too busy lo—admiring Kim exactly as he was.

When Kim spoke, the words felt heavy, like he was dropping big round stones into a pond. “Thank you, Harry. It means a lot, that you see me that way.”

He squeezed Kim’s hand, warm and reassuring. “It means a lot to me that you are that way.”

It still hit Kim sometimes, how terribly sincere Harry could be, and how very disarming it was. He thought perhaps a large part of what made him so good at his job was that people in general had very little defense against sincere interest; one encountered it so seldom.

He cleared his throat. “And who would you have been, Harrier Du Bois? While I was evacuating wounded in my aerostatic?”

Harry thought for a moment, then grinned. “I’d have been with the boys in the propaganda bunker,” he said. “You know, make inspirational radio broadcasts, write leaflets. Paint heroic portraits of dashing aerostatic pilots.”

Kim imagined it; Harry in paint-spattered clothes, creating the sorts of bold-colored posters that depicted brawny workers united for a common cause. He imagined that Harry’s versions would be every bit as homo-erotic as the originals had often been. (Kim had seen a lot of Revolutionary propaganda art and a lot of homo-sexual pinup art from the same era, and the difference was largely in degree of nakedness and the presence of communard slogans.) “I’d have liked to see that, I think.” His brain kept throwing up images: a pilot in an orange jacket posing for a painting inside the old propaganda bunker. Harry carefully adjusting the angle of his lapel, square graphite-smeared fingers brushing lightly across a hammering pulse. “I’m sure they would be very heroic portraits.”

Harry’s smile turned wicked, and he gave Kim a quick up-and-down look that made his skin heat. “I’m sure you would have been a very dashing pilot.”

Kim’s brain was providing the propaganda bunker with an unrealistically large bed, a pile of discarded clothing slung over the easel with an orange jacket on top. He cleared his throat and forced himself to stop before he became unfit for public viewing. He changed the subject by asking Harry if he was ready to eat.

Aside from a knowing little smirk, Harry followed his lead, and agreed that food sounded like a good next step, so they made their way to the doorway leading to the sculpture gardens where the pleasure wheel exhibit had been set up.

They emerged into a brilliant spectacle, jaunty fairground music playing behind an assortment of booths made to look like carnival vendors, draped in colorful lights and gaily lettered signs advertising food and museum exhibits. And there at the bottom of the garden, rising up in silhouette against the setting sun, a pleasure wheel turned slowly, the lacework of its many struts picked out in fat yellow lightbulbs that glinted off its bright paint.

“It’s working.” The words came spilling out before he had a chance to think about it. “Do you see, Harry? People are riding it! I didn’t see that in the catalogue.” He’d skimmed the later parts—he hadn’t wanted to keep Harry waiting too long, after all. But he’d come away with the mistaken impression that the model would be fairly small, and certainly not operational.

Harry looked between the wheel and Kim’s face, delighted. “I thought this was supposed to be a scale model? I didn’t expect that would be big enough to ride.”

Kim nodded. “It is. The original Bueller pleasure wheel was over eighty meters tall; this looks about half that size. The axle alone must weigh thirty tons.” He felt a bit like he should disapprove on principle—it was rather wasteful, after all, to use up that much steel (and money) making a pleasure wheel when the resources could be going to a more practical cause. Still, though, it wasn’t as if the people who funded the exhibition were debating whether to fund pleasure wheel replicas or build orphanages; more than likely it was the pleasure wheel or some other project with even more limited benefit. At least a pleasure wheel could give enjoyment to a great many people.

“Disco,” Harry said. The colored lights on the stalls played over his handsome face, reminding Kim of how he had looked under the mirrorball when they had danced at Go Go Boogie. “Come on, let’s go ride it.”

Kim found himself strangely reluctant to agree. After so many years, it seemed somehow too demanding to just… go ride the pleasure wheel, just like that. It felt a bit like something they should have to go through some kind of complicated process to earn, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

(Look at that, he’s crying! Is the bino baby sad he can’t go on the pleasure wheel? Don’t worry, bino baby, I’ll take your ticket—ow! Shit! Miss! Miss, Kitsuragi bit me because he can’t go on the pleasure wheel! He oughtn’t to get to come with us if he can’t be civilized! Miss!)

He pushed the memories aside; no need to remember unpleasant children from the distant past. It was hardly relevant now. “Didn’t you want to eat first?” He asked Harry. “It’s getting late; we took our time inside.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m not that hungry. I had a snack after work. Besides, I don’t remember ever going on a pleasure wheel before, and I know you said you hadn’t been on one either.” Despite being half a head taller than Kim, he somehow contrived to look up at him through his lashes, his expression endearingly shy. It was the way he looked when he honestly wanted something, and Kim hoped he never realized how difficult it was for Kim to resist. “I like it that there’s something we can do together that’s new to both of us.”

Kim could think of a great many things they could do together that would be new to Harry, and a fair number that would be new to him as well, but none of them were really appropriate to the setting. He made sure he had a good view of Harry’s face before he spoke. “Well. When you put it like that, how could I refuse?”

Honestly, Kim didn’t know how people weren’t giving Harry things all the time; the way his face practically blazed with joy at even the smallest acts of kindness was as addictive as any substance that had ever rested in an RCM evidence locker.

Perhaps the expression lost some of its potency if one wasn’t in love with Harry.

“Come on, then,” Harry said, bouncing a little on his toes in excitement. “I bet the view is amazing from the top of that thing.”

They worked their way through the crowd to the booth at the base of the wheel. The ride operator—who was reading the most recent issue of MC Tuning Monthly, the one with the feature on those new modular wiring ballasts—told them that unlimited rides were included in their ticket price. Kim very deliberately did not worry over how much Harry had paid for said tickets; he wasn’t that much of a boor. Besides, as Harry had remarked more than once, his budget had developed significantly more breathing room now that he’d stopped buying recreational substances.

Also, it was… pleasant, to think of Harry possibly saving up to make their first date extra special. Not so much because of the cost, but because of the consideration it implied. Harry was one of the most impulsive men Kim had ever met; for him to take the time, not just to find an activity so clearly in line with Kim’s interests, but to procure the one-day-only opening tickets? It felt so good it was a little embarrassing.

He makes me feel special, Kim thought, and nearly laughed at loud at himself for echoing Harry’s bewildered reaction to the witness in Martinaise. Well. Harry was a good listener and he did indeed smell good, though his shirt was not unbuttoned at present. Perhaps it wasn’t such a far-fetched parallel, even if Kim had previously been under the impression that his days of getting flustered by an attractive man’s attention were long behind him.

The sunset was extra vivid that evening—probably due to particulates in the air, but still enjoyable to look at—and a fresh breeze was stirring, ruffling the hair on the back of his neck like invisible fingers. As they approached the front of the line, he looked up at the giant gears. He had always found something uniquely beautiful in the perfect interplay of well-made machines; every part in its place, doing its job, a unique and irreplaceable contributor to the whole. The gentle creaks of the turning wheel laid a soothing undertone to the fairground music playing on the other side of the courtyard, and Harry’s hand in his was warm and rough and perfect. He let his eyes slip out of focus for a moment, trying to fix it all in his memory.

Harry squeezed his hand. They had reached the front of the line, and the wheel was slowing, the next gondola pulling to a stop for them. Kim felt his pulse skip as they stepped in and sat down beside each other on one of the bench seats, Harry’s satin sleeve brushing his arm with a slick whisper of sound. Was he imagining it, or could he feel the heat of Harry’s skin even through his shirt and jacket?

The wheel moved, carrying them upward into the gold-streaked sky. The courtyard slowly diminished and the lights of the city winked into view, white and yellow to the east, splashes of neon reds and blues and greens marking the bar districts in the west, and the Esperance shimmering like a great metallic ribbon in between. His city, from her towers to her catacombs, battered and ill-treated but still shining at the heart.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, so quiet it was barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah,” Harry said. His voice was hushed, too, and a little more raspy than normal; Kim glanced up at him and had to look away almost immediately, the expression on Harry’s face too nakedly yearning to be borne for long. He wanted that look, and everything it promised, but even after all that they’d been through it still made his stomach lurch, his mind skitter around half-formed fears: he doesn’t really know what he wants. He’s going to decide he’s straight after all. He’s going to get bored. You won’t be able to keep him interested. You aren’t the kind of person men adore.

The wind gusted cold down the collar of his coat, and he shivered involuntarily. Harry smiled down at him, soft and sweet like a lamp lit in the window when you expected to come home to the dark.

“It’s chilly up here,” he said. “Can I—?“ He let go of Kim’s hand and lifted his arm in invitation. Kim looked into those guileless green eyes and read the tentative hope there.

Before anything else, Harry was his partner. Harry would never let him down or leave him hanging. Harry had thought of him first when he was about to pass out from blood loss; he would never pull Kim so far from safe territory and abandon him there.

Kim kicked his anxieties into the metaphorical sea.“Please,” he said, and let himself be pulled against Harry’s side, wrapped in his strong arm. He leaned his cheek on Harry’s shoulder and reveled in the heat of his big body and the satisfaction of his delighted smile.

Harry turned his face toward Kim, not quite close enough to kiss, but close enough that Kim could feel his skin tingle with it.

“Kim,” he said. “I always—I mean, you’re so—” he broke off with an exasperated little huff. His breath smelled of cinnamon. “Kim,” he said again, plaintive; the tone that meant help me out here, partner.

Of course, he answered. “This is good, Harry,” he said, and he knew he was on the right track when he felt Harry slump a little. “It’s… very good. I couldn’t imagine a better first date.”

Harry made a soft, surprised noise that Kim would probably hear in his dreams that night. “Oh,” he said. “I—yeah, Kim, exactly, this has all been so disco.” He squeezed Kim tighter against his side, reaching across his own lap with his free hand to twine their fingers together again. Kim could feel his thigh flexing through the skin-warm velvet of his trousers.

Neither of them spoke as the wheel made its slow revolutions. Twice, three times, and on the fourth they felt it slowing, allowing for riders to come and go.

“I don’t want it to be over yet,” Harry said, his low voice wistful, in the little space between them.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Kim said, squeezing his hand. “The attendant said we could ride as long as we wanted.”

“Would that be okay? I mean, I know you wanted to see the rest of it.”

“We can come back another day if we want to,” Kim said. “Let’s stay here a while.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, sighing happily. “Yeah, I like that idea. You’re so smart, Kim.”

Kim just smiled, and let himself lean a bit more heavily into Harry’s side. Their gondola paused, and then started moving again when it was clear they didn’t intend to get out yet.

It was a beautiful night. The music and the creaking of the wheel and the murmur of distant conversations in the garden blended together into a kind of noise that was nearly silence, a fog of indistinct sounds that made their gondola seem like a tiny, private pocket of some other world. With Harry’s arm around him, with Harry’s breath hot and soft against his temple, with Harry’s lips close enough that a turn of Kim’s head would be a kiss, Kim felt like he had somehow summoned the moment out of some perfect dream.

Harry stroked his thumb over the back of Kim’s hand, tracing the lines of bone and sinew with that startling focus he used on pieces of evidence, on works of art, on the phasmid. On things that were important, or beautiful, or wondrous.

Harry lifted their joined hands and pressed Kim’s hand to his lips; once, twice, three times, solemn and reverent. Harry’s lips were petal-soft, his whiskers ticklish and springy. He shifted his grip to trace kisses along Kim’s knuckles down the back of his hand to his jacket cuff, then turned Kim’s hand over to start again, paying sweet obeisance to his fingertips, laying kisses like offerings in the cup of his palm. He pushed Kim’s cuff back just enough to kiss the thin skin of his wrist; the feeling ran through his nerves like the exact spot where Harry’s mouth touched had been wired straight to Kim’s prick.

Harry pulled his cuff back up and stroked over it softly, as though he were sealing his kiss away safe so that Kim could keep it forever. “Thank you,” he said, barely audible above the sound of the gears turning. “Thank you for giving me a chance, Kim.”

Harry was always so terribly brave. There was nothing to do in the face of it but find a way to return it. It was time to stop himself refusing to accept the truth that he already knew. He looked up at Harry, silhouetted against the last pink swirls of daylight, and found his courage.

After all, what was there to fear in saying something they both knew to be true?

“You really do love me back,” he whispered.

Harry froze for an endless second, and then he clutched Kim tight—as though he couldn’t help himself, as though he would go flying through the air if he didn’t hold himself in place. Pressed against his side, Kim could feel him tremble.

“…back?” Harry’s voice had never sounded that way before, somehow at once impossibly vast and terribly small.

“Back,” Kim agreed. Harry sobbed, just once; a cut-off sound that hurt to hear. Kim couldn’t bear it. He squeezed Harry’s hand tighter, pushed himself closer to his side.

“Did you really not know? Not even with your skills to tell you how I thought of you when I was alone, the way I said your name when I thought nobody could hear?”

“Kim,” he said, and oh, that was so much better—that deep voice nearly a moan around his name, around his name. “I—I didn’t—sometimes they’re wrong.” His breathing quickened, great gulps of air that moved Kim up and down like the rocking of a boat on the waves. “If I believed them and they were wrong, I couldn’t—I had to hear it from you, do you understand? It’s too important to believe anyone but you.”

Kim’s lungs ached, filled with sweet air and silver and the surety of Harry—with him, for him, filling up the old and empty spaces with his open hands and golden lungs, his strange and his silence, the whole hot eager glorious mess of him.

You spent so long chasing after a love that would not stop for you, something whispered in the back of his mind. Give him your hand, walk at his side, and he will never go where you can’t follow.

“Then listen to me,” he said. It was like the words were the first drops of a downpour, or the first snowflakes of an avalanche; he couldn’t stop talking even if he’d wanted to. It was unbearable for Harry to go another moment without being sure of him. The brakes were off, the throttle open—his heart drumming in his chest, Harry against him and around him, always and everywhere—he felt it in the palms of his hands and the pit of his stomach, from his spine to his scars. He knew it, the feeling swelling his throat and tripping his tongue. “I love you, Harrier Du Bois. I want to keep being your partner and friend, and I want to start being your lover.” He felt light-headed with terror and relief, but made his voice as steady as he could; if Harry needed to hear it plain, he’d hear it. “You can believe that, Harry. You can believe me.”

“I do,” Harry said, and then he laughed; big and bright and exultant, a sound that made Kim feel dizzy with joy and desire. “I do, Kim, I believe you—you want me to love you, you want me—”

“So much,” Kim said; too loud, people would hear, but he didn’t care; let them hear, let them know, let them wish themselves in his place, with this man, loving and beloved. “For so long, mon haleine, but I couldn’t—”

“I know.” The lights on the pleasure wheel glinted off wetness on Harry’s face. “You were looking out for me. Having my back.” He buried his face in Kim’s hand again, his lips moving against the sensitive skin, his voice muffled. “My partner. My noble knight.”

“I want to kiss you,” Kim said, and felt Harry’s gasp run over his nerves like an electric shock. “But once I start, I’m not sure I can stop again.”

Harry groaned, deep in his belly. “You can’t say things like that,” he breathed. “Like you weren’t sexy enough already. Fuck, I think I’m going to pass out from lack of blood in my brain.”

There was no force in existence that could have prevented Kim from darting a glance down at Harry’s lap; what he saw there—the unmistakeable shape of Harry’s erection laying down his thigh, a thick mouthwatering curve wrapped in velvet—made his mouth water and his hands shake with the urge to touch.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, and Kim tore his gaze away from his lap to look at his face; he looked sheepish, biting his lip uncertainly like he was afraid Kim would be displeased with him.

It was completely intolerable that he should think such a thing.

“So lovely,” he said, looking down again to make it clear what he meant. “Is that for me? I’m honored.”

Harry went bright red, like he’d been dipped in scalding water, and made a shocked little squeaky noise.

(The sounds he made! Kim wanted to catalog them all, until he knew just how and where to touch him to get a growl or a moan or a sigh.)

“Y-yeah,” he said. “If you, if you want.”

Their hands were still joined; Kim pulled them to his own lips and kissed the scars on the back of Harry’s hand, his lips soft and a little open. “I do,” he said. “I want everything you care to offer me.”

“Everything there is,” Harry said at once, his voice trembling. “All of it, Kim, everything I have. I, I know you won’t use it against me.”

“Never,” he promised.

“I know we can’t… you know, while we’re here,” Harry said. “But, um. Until I’m more… presentable… could I maybe hold you a little? Only if you want.”

“Please do,” Kim said, and found his voice unexpectedly thick, remembering the many nights when his bed had felt so wide and cold and empty.

Harry half-turned in the seat and wrapped Kim up in his arms, and for the first time Kim let himself sink into the embrace without keeping a mental tally of how long he could permit himself to stay. For such a simple thing, it felt so indescribably good, like safety and home and acceptance and joy. Like love.

Like Harry. At last, after all, his Harry.

The wheel carried them into the sky again, and Kim breathed in cinnamon and breathed out starlight.