Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Kim first entered Harry’s room, a couple of days ago (God, only a couple of ago, really?) the mess had shocked him to the point of almost being impressed. Almost. His partner had been in Martinaise for longer than him, but not by much. They’d spent every day since his own arrival running around in the cold, tailing dead ends, so where on Elysium had he found the time to completely wreck the place?

Kim didn’t comment on it the first time. The second time, the room had been cleaned and readied for a new guest, and was probably disappointed to find that it was going to continue housing Detective Harrier Du Bois until further notice. Again, Kim didn’t make any comment. At the time, if the room had been hit by cannon fire, he wouldn’t have noticed.

He had yet to write anything in his notebook about the Mercenary Tribunal, aka: the most monumental fuck-up of his entire career. He’d have to sooner or later, lest the details muddle in his mind, waiting to be forgotten, but he couldn’t put the words to paper. Not yet.

He knew it was irrational, that there was no point in dwelling on something that hadn’t happened, but he couldn’t help thinking, in quiet moments like these, what if Harry hadn’t warned me in time?

What notes he had made since then were sporadic and messy, not even written on the lines:

Shots taken in the shoulder and thigh. Heart rate approx. 60 bpm. Bleeding stopped. Remains unconscious. Still breathing.

No fatal injuries.

Unconscious for the past two days. Keeps muttering strange things. Still breathing.

Still breathing.

Kim stared at the pages, trying to think of anything else worth writing down, to no avail. What more was there to say? His partner hadn’t come to, but he was alive. That was all.

Really, he wanted to do something productive because he felt the need to justify the cigarette in his mouth. He wanted to reassure himself that it was still just a matter of ritual. He didn’t want to acknowledge how much he appreciated the lightheadedness brought on by the nicotine.

His room, in stark contrast to the one next to it, was in much the same state that it had been before he’d arrived in Martinaise, save for his books and clothes. It didn’t look lived in. Even his bed was perfectly made. He preferred working at his desk, but the room’s window was right next to the bed, and he wanted to prevent cigarette smoke from lingering. The window would only open two inches, presumably as a means of preventing anyone from leaping out. If Kim ever felt so moved, there wouldn’t be a balcony waiting to catch his fall, so this made sense, but it also made the window an ineffective preventative for yellowed walls.

Kim flicked ash into the night sky, watching as it danced on the wind. Looking into the darkness brought his attention to the outer wall of the Capeside Apartments. His view was obscured, but he knew what he’d see painted there if it weren’t:

SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL IS GOING TO HAPPEN

Yet another memory that seemed so far away now, the sentiment itself even further. Even at the time, Kim thought it was a strange statement to make a mural of. It seemed so contrary to everything happening around them, the strike conflict so close to erupting, whilst the case was nowhere near solved. Despite that, he wanted to share his partner’s enthusiasm; he really, really wanted to agree with him.

Kim had been perched atop a pile of stones whilst he waited for Harry to finish. He’d decided to review his notes. If the Detective really was so intent on wasting time, he’d prefer it if at least one of them was doing something productive.

Ultimately, he read very little, being easily distracted by the way Harry worked when he painted. He manoeuvred himself around the wall in ways that shouldn’t have been possible for an alcoholic in his forties. It was uncanny; fascinating, if not a little frightening. On that note, Kim was grateful for the break, deep down. It gave him a chance to catch his breath.

“Hey, Kim!” Harry called from his precarious position atop the wired fence. He had been consistent in referring to Kim by his first name since they’d met. Harry spoke like they were friends, rather than co-workers. Definitely not the most professional approach, but Kim couldn’t find it in himself to complain. “Does this look straight to you?” He’d just finished painting the B. It wasn’t yet clear what the message would say.

From the spot where Kim was sitting, he really couldn’t tell. He just shrugged. “You’re the artist, Detective.”

This made Harry smile. Droplets of bright red fuel-oil fell from his brush. “Really? You think so?”

“You’re painting, aren’t you?”

The man still didn’t seem sure. He squinted at the letter and leaned back on the fence to try and get a proper look. Kim decided to intervene, not fancying the thought of running over to cushion a potential fall. “It looks fine. Come on, the sooner you finish, the sooner we can get back to work.” His stern tone of voice was dampened by a smile he couldn’t hide. Harry was just close enough to notice it.

Kim had been more fond of the finished product than he’d let on. Much better to have something like that decorating the building than some meaningless, inflammatory slogan. Yes, he’d thought, maybe he’s right. Considering his partner’s track record, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been thinking about Kras Mazov when he came up with it, but even still. It made Kim feel lighter whenever they walked past.

Now, Kim found the mural frustrating. Harry had spent the better part of an hour painting that on an empty wall, and days after, he was shot. Twice. Kim had never left a case cold, but right now, despite all their work, the culprit of The Hanged Man seemed more out of reach than they had been on day one. What now? Harry wouldn’t die, he’d made sure of that, but how much longer would he remain unconscious? Kim couldn’t sit around waiting forever, not when there was a murderer roaming free on the streets of Martinaise. He’d have to continue the investigation alone.

…

Was that it? Of course, he could handle it by himself. It would be much more difficult without Harry there to crack suspects open, but not impossible.

Then again, getting to watch Harry over the past few days, as he wrangled answers from each and every suspect, no matter how standoffish they were at first, was really something. What was it that Ruby had called him? The human can-opener? That was about right. Even with the occasional blunder, he always got the information they needed. Kim couldn’t have done all that, and Harry certainly couldn’t have navigated the investigation without him. It was a two-man job for a reason. Throughout all of this, they’d needed one another.

It really was that simple… What was Kim to do, once this case was solved? Just return to the fifty-seventh precinct, continuing his work without Harry’s aid, like none of this had ever happened? Could he?

Alright, now you're just being ridiculous, he thought, snuffing out his cigarette before flicking the butt out the window. Yes, Harry had been indispensable this time around, but once this was over, he’d go back to work as normal. He’d always been a good detective, he’d continue being one going forward.

I don't need him.

That thought seemed so obvious that it wasn't worth the brain power it took to think. Kim removed his glasses and began to wipe them with their cloth, more out of a desire to do something with his hands, and to look somewhere other than the window, than for necessities sake. The mural was still there, playing in his mind, like Harry had painted it directly on his brain. Something beautiful…

But I want him.

This shocked Kim enough that he dropped his glasses, catching them mid-fall. He exhaled sharply, the smell of tar strong on his breath. He scratched the hairs above his lips. Where the hell had that come from?

He grumbled. Even on the day they met, when Harry was in the depths of a monumental hangover, watching him air-kick a racial supremacist, who had yet to be physically overpowered by anyone, directly in the face like it was nothing, had been a sight to behold. His physical prowess was impressive. There was that, or how, a couple days later, they'd spent the better part of the afternoon running around, looking for cryptids, despite Kim knowing that they wouldn't find any, just to help a couple of hopeful enthusiasts. He’d even gone out of his way to help that group of teens establish their nightclub, although Kim had wanted no part in it, and probably wouldn’t have done the same if it had been up to him. Harry made mistakes, his work wasn't always perfect, but he was perhaps the most earnest man Kim had ever met. Was that why he was thinking like this…?

A fleeting image of Eyes passed through Kim’s mind, grounding him back to reality. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about his old partner at all over the past few days. The connection seemed far too obvious; he’d fall into an abyss of dread if he dwelled on it. Once again, he’d messed up, and someone had had to come in and save him. Twice was too much. It couldn’t happen again. Harry would be alright, if worse for wear, once he woke up, but it was far too close.

That should have been you. After everything, that should have been you. For once, could you protect someone you care about?

Kim became conscious of how overly sentimental this was getting and tried to push down the thought. Whatever happened in the past, in the here and now, he’d stitched his partner up and kept him from bleeding out. The case remained unsolved, but if Harry was fit to work, they’d continue on. They’d finish this. His own feelings were probably unprofessional, and also unimportant, but they wouldn’t stop him from investigating. In the worst case scenario, he could finish the job by himself.

Kim put his glasses back on and looked out the window, the red fuel-oil barely visible in the dark. He managed a small smile. There was still hope. They couldn’t save the people who’d already been lost, but they could make things better for the people still living.

Once they’d done that, maybe something beautiful would happen.