Chapter Text
You'd thought you'd known what you were getting yourself into.
Not that you were in your right mind when you made the decision, but you couldn't just leave the kid. Not after everything. After the Tribunal, Kuuno had attached himself to your side like a creeping fungus to the point that even Kim's eyebrow couldn't get him to leave you alone. The image of Kuuno standing on the edge of the dock as you and Kim took the boat to the island burned itself into your memory and haunted you like a ghost—a small figure growing smaller, shoulders curled forward, eyes large and uncertain.
You couldn't just leave him.
But of course, even with retrograde amnesia, you still manage to be a selfish piece of shit, only now you have the misfortune of self-awareness.
"Fuck, where is he even gonna sleep?"
A dark and claustrophobic single room apartment spreads itself before you. Empty bottles line any and all available surfaces like toy soldiers while food rots in forgotten takeout containers. The smell of addiction and depression hangs in the air like a miasma. You can only gawk at the destruction that the man whose name you carry has left for you.
This is no place to raise a child.
You're in no state to raise a child.
This was a bad idea.
"Yeah, I knew you didn't fucking think this through," says Jean.
"It fuckin' reeks like shit and socks in here!" Kuuno pinches his nose and turns to you. "Cuno's seen some shit, pig. This is deep shit. Mental shit. Hobo fuckin' shit."
"Yes, thank you Cuno, I agree," Jean says flatly.
You turn to Jean with a pleading look. "Do I have, like...cleaning supplies?"
"How the fuck should I know? I spent as little time as possible in this shit hole." He runs a hand through his hair, exhales loudly. "Fuck you. You can't remember shit, and you still know how to fuck me."
What's this about fucking him?
No, that ship has sailed. Do not comment on it.
–
You stay at Jean's apartment that night.
It is not much larger, but the floors are free of garbage and there's actual food in the refrigerator. You had attempted to salvage what clean clothing you could from your apartment to add to the growing collection you'd accumulated in Martinaise. Then, you swore with a hand over your heart you'd look into actually cleaning the place tomorrow.
Kuuno has no spare clothing, and so ends up in a pair of Jean's too-small boxers and an old t-shirt after Jean forces him to take a shower. Both are still comically large on him as he sits at the small kitchen table and picks at the dinner Jean cooked. His hastily towel-dried hair sticks up at odd angles, dark circles beneath his eyes.
"What, is it not good enough for your refined tastes?" Jean asks, pointing to Kuuno's plate with his spatula.
"Cuno's just not fuckin' hungry, pig. Get off Cuno's dick about it."
"Harry’s hungry," you say from across the table, your own hair still wet from the shower and clinging to your neck.
Jean points the spatula at you. "Shut the fuck up. I'm cooking as fast as I can."
Cuno snickers and takes a small bite of food.
Jean makes Kuuno a bed on the couch and puts you in the worn out recliner.
"This feels familiar," you comment as you settle back into the chair. Jean throws a pillow at your head.
"Yeah, because I used to put you in this goddamn chair whenever you'd show up at my door drunk at three in the morning--"
Sometimes, he let you crawl into his bed.
"Had to make sure you didn't choke on your own vomit."
"Hardcore shit," Kuuno comments sleepily from the couch.
"Go to sleep, Cuno," Jean scolds.
"Cuno's fuckin' tryin'! Can't sleep while you two pigs are squealin' away."
You laugh deliriously and your bullet wound throbs. You hiss and clutch your thigh. "Goddamn. That fucking hurts."
"You'll have to ride it out until we can get you to Gottlieb tomorrow, because I’m sure as shit not giving you anything. Who knows what state your liver is in." Jean starts to turn away. "Now go the fuck to sleep."
"Jean."
Your partner stops in his tracks, turns around, glares.
"Thank you."
Jean just stares at you, his jaw working silently as his hands curl into loose fists at his side.
Without another word, he turns and strides into his bedroom and shuts the door firmly behind him. Kuuno clicks his tongue and lets out a chuckle.
"Your fag fuckin' hates you, pig."
"Kuuno, you promised you wouldn't use that word anymore." Bone-weary exhaustion rolls through your body, your eyes growing heavy. "You can't go back on promises."
"What am I supposed to call him?" Kuuno asks irritably, defensively.
"Officer Vicquemare."
"Fuck that. Too fuckin' long."
"Okay, call him Vic. Just don't call people...the f-word. It's not nice."
"Pig can't even say fag," Kuuno mumbles under his breath, amused.
"Kuuno, I'm serious," you say as authoritatively as you can manage through the pain and the exhaustion. "You promised, remember?"
"Fine! Fuckin' fine." Cuno rolls over on the couch so that his back is to you and falls silent.
You exhale, long and slow, then take a deep breath through your nose. A light sheen of sweat covers your entire body, leaving you chilled and shivery. Jean had forced you to drink a beer with dinner to stave off your withdrawal symptoms. It hadn't even given you an enjoyable buzz, had only stopped the shake in your hands.
You want to know who Jean is to you, what the past you had done to so thoroughly break this man. So far your brain has only supplied you with fleeting glimpses and impressions. Some impressions are sexier than others, but most of them are depressing and awful. Two things are for certain: Jean was your best friend, (whether or not that's still the case remains to be seen), and Jean still cares about you, for better or for worse.
The throb in your thigh keeps you from fully dozing off, so you sleep in fits and starts, your dreams turbulent and sharp. At one point you dream that Kim is sitting in a chair across from you, smoking a cigarette, his expression unreadable behind the shine of his glasses. You smell the smoke so vividly that it pulls you from sleep and you blink blearily into the dark living room, momentarily disoriented. A soft light glows from beneath Jean's bedroom door.
Jean Vicquemare leans out his bedroom window, unable to sleep, a cigarette held loosely in his fingers. His eyes are distant and glazed as he stares out over the darkened streets, catching glimpses of the Jamrock lake between buildings. The still waters glisten from the moon whenever it manages to peak through the shifting cloud cover.
You sigh and close your eyes, let the vision fade. There's an ache in your chest that you don't know how to remedy. You don't even know where to begin.
"STOP!" Kuuno shrieks into the silence, sitting bolt-upright on the couch.
Your heart slams into your throat and you lurch off the recliner, your leg spiking with pain as you stumble over to the couch, dropping to your knees. "Hey! Hey-hey, Kuuno, hey..."
Kuuno is shaking and hyperventilating, his cheeks wet. "Dad?"
"You're safe, buddy," you affirm, clearing your throat around the tremor in your voice. "I got you. You're fine." You run a hand over Kuuno's head, pushing the hair out of his face. His forehead is slick with cold sweat.
Jean materializes at your side, looming over both of you. "Here." He hands you a glass of water.
"Hey, I need you to drink some water," you coax.
Kuuno lets out a shuddering whine. "I don't feel good."
"Yeah, I bet you don't, buddy. I don't either." You continue to stroke his hair with a trembling hand, tears springing into the corners of your eyes. "Just drink some water for me and you'll feel a little better, okay?"
Kuuno drinks like he's dying of thirst, gasping between gulps while you rub his bony shoulders. He hands over the empty cup and wipes his mouth on the back of his arm.
"Pig?"
"Yeah, kiddo, I'm right here."
Kuuno stares at you in the shadowy room, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "...Okay."
"Yeah," you agree again, nodding and blinking the tears back into submission.
Kuuno lies back down and stares unseeing at the ceiling, breathing heavily.
You continue to stroke his hair while Jean quietly moves around in the kitchen. You kneel by the couch for an untold amount of time, keeping watch until Kuuno's eyes flutter closed, the tension between his brows softening and his breath evening into something steady. As quietly as possible, you attempt to get to your feet, gritting your teeth against the pain.
Jean returns to your side, helping you up with a strong grip. He gestures towards his bedroom with his chin, and you limp after him. You shut the door quietly before falling back against it. You feel gored out and hollow, and the tears come without your permission. You cover your face with one hand and weep as softly as you can manage against your palm, shoulders shuddering, your mouth twisted into a grimace. When you finally catch your breath and the tears begin to slow, you wipe aggressively at your eyes and look up.
Jean is staring at you from across the room, his posture mirroring that of a mistrustful dog.
"Fuck me." Your voice is like gravel in your throat.
Jean is still staring at you with those ghost-grey eyes, brows drawn tight.
You swallow thickly, manage to make eye contact. "I think I ripped my stitches."
Jean exhales forcefully. "Sit on the bed. Pants down."
Just like old times!
Absolutely not like old times.
You limp over to the bed, sniffing back snot. You slide your FALN track pants down your thighs to your knees, then sit back against the mattress with a groan. Your thigh bandage is a mottled red. Jean returns with an old cigar box serving as a mismatched first aid kit. He puts on a pair of latex gloves and kneels in front of you, then gently peels the bandage away from your thigh.
"Oh, goddamn it," you moan. "That doesn't seem good."
The skin around your thigh is hot and red, the wound itself the color of an overripe plum and oozing.
"It's infected," Jean says, pressing tenderly on the outside of the wound.
You suck in a hissing breath. "Can't you give me something to bite down on?"
"Relax. You're fine." Jean squirts a cold, stinging liquid onto the wound, and you slap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from howling in pain.
"You motherfucker," you growl through clenched teeth. When you look down, Jean is smirking. "Are you fucking enjoying this!?" you whisper-yell.
Jean looks up at you, the smirk stretching into a smile, his eyes bright. Something tender unfurls in your chest; the pain eases slightly.
Jean is handsome.
You jerk your gaze away, squeeze your eyes closed, breathe through your nose as Jean dabs at the infected wound.
"I didn't want to fucking believe it, you know," Jean says quietly. "I think I kept expecting you to… I don't fucking know. I was waiting for you to pull the rug. Say you were faking it. Maybe wait until it would really fucking sting." He sighs, and it's a deeply mournful sound. "But I've seen you cry more times than I'd like to count. Drunk fucking blubbering. Self-pitying bullshit."
Your throat tightens as you swallow. The antiseptic spray has numbed your wound marginally.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry like that. For anything other than your own sorry ass.” His voice turns hoarse, and he pauses. “Never seen you…care like that. Never heard you say fucking ‘thank you’.”
“That’s fucking sad,” you say, your own voice wrecked. “That’s really fucking sad.”
“Yeah,” Jean agrees quietly, turning to pull a bandage from the cigar box. “It is. You’re sad. You are a sad sack of shit, Harry. I think it’s why you keep me around.”
“Because you make me feel better?”
Jean lets out a gravely laugh and presses the bandage against your thigh a little too hard. “No, because I’m fucking sadder than you.”
You groan and your hands jerk towards his wrists automatically. “Easy, easy, fucking take it easy…” You suck in a breath through your teeth. “I get the picture, Jean. I was a piece of shit.”
“You still are a piece of shit, you goddamn asshole!” Jean snaps, his voice growing louder.
You shush him, looking at the door. “Alright, alright, for fucks sake, just let the kid sleep, okay? He’s fucking detoxing off of speed, too, y’know?”
“And whose fault is that, Harry?”
“Fucking shit, Jean! I didn’t give him speed! He was on the shit when I got there!”
“Stop calling me ‘Jean’. It’s fucking weird.”
“Okay, well, what the fuck am I supposed to call you?”
“JV. Or Vic. Just not…Jean.”
“Judit called you ‘Jean’. And Trant called you ‘Jean’.”
His eyes snap up, all cold fire and fury. “Don’t you fucking talk about them like you know who they are. They call me ‘Jean’ because they know who I fucking am. They call me ‘Jean’ because they didn’t drink themselves into oblivion and then drive their goddamn motorcarriage into the sea!”
You shush him again. “Okay, maybe we should talk about this in the mornin–FUCK!”
Jean presses his palm down hard over your wound as he lays a line of medical tape along the bottom of the bandage. Then he looks up and has the fucking gall to shush you, and you have never wanted to hit someone across the face more than in that moment.
“I’m starting to think you’re also an asshole,” you loudly whisper through clenched teeth.
“Yep,” Jean says smugly as he tapes the top of the bandage to your thigh. Then, he leans back on his heels. “You specifically requested me as your partner, by the way. Since you don’t fucking remember.”
“I’m sure I had my stupid reasons, whatever the fuck they might have been,” you bite back, gently holding your thigh. “Goddamn, that hurts.”
Jean’s expression pinches, and he looks away. “Let me get some fucking Drouamine…” He silently gets to his feet and steps out of the room.
Your thigh throbs as you rub the sides of your leg, trying to distract yourself from the pain. You look around, taking in the room around you.
The room is cramped with furniture. A bed, a dresser, two bedside tables, and a narrow bookshelf. The single window is open, usually covered by a black-out curtain, which has been pulled to the side.
On the street below, a cat darts into an alleyway, slinking behind a row of rubbish bins. A line cook steps out the back door of the late night eatery on the corner and lights up a cigarette. He looks up at the sky and thinks about the girl he’d slept with the night before and whether or not to tell her she has herpes now.
You shake your head and grimace.
I don’t need to know that shit.
If not you, then who?
Jean steps back into the room holding a small packet of pills.
“The kid is out cold,” he says.
“God, I wish that were me,” you groan.
“Shut up. You’re being dramatic.” Jean pops a pill from the foil. You open your hand and let him place the little white pill in the center of your palm.
You look up at him with a pleading look. “Just one?”
“Yes, just fucking one!” he spits. “I already told you, I don’t know what state your liver is in, and I’m not going to wake up with your goddamn corpse in my bed tomorrow, Harry.”
Hold on–
“Why would I be in your bed?”
Jean blanches. His lips pull into a sneer. “Because I’m taking the chair.” He gestures to you without looking. “Pull your pants up and go to sleep.”
“Jean–” You let out a frustrated growl. “Vic. JV… Whatever the fuck you want me to call you, can you just–”
“Just, what, Harrier?”
You stare at him, brow tight.
He is a stranger to you—tall and dark and foreign—and yet he is the most familiar thing you’ve encountered since you awoke into the hellish dreamscape of Marinaise. The rigid line of his shoulders, the deep scars on his face, those ghostly eyes. He’s frightening, and you desperately want him to like you for some reason.
“You really don’t–” You sigh. “Just. Thank you. You didn’t have to do all this, but you did. You could have fucking left me–”
“I didn’t just do it for you. I’ve left your drunk ass alone plenty of times.” Jean gestures to the living room. “I did it because you decided to abduct a fucking kid from Martinaise, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to leave him in your filthy apartment. Now, we need to sleep so I can get you to Gottlieb in the morning, and then we can figure out what to do with Cuno.”
He’s partially lying, sire. He would not have left you in your filthy apartment, either.
The phrase ‘figure out what to do with Cuno’ makes your hair stand on end.
“I’m gonna adopt him.”
“No, you’re not.” Jean sounds more tired than angry. “Be fucking serious, Harry.”
“I am serious.”
You are incredibly serious.
Jean can sense this. He actually looks at you, making real and prolonged eye contact. His demeanor shifts briefly, as disbelief and worry flash across his face.
He is too easy to read.
It’s because you know him like the back of your hand.
You used that against him, once upon a time.
His expression settles on exhausted frustration. “Sure, whatever you say, shitkid. Let’s sleep on it.” He turns and leaves without another word, closing his own bedroom door behind him.
Jamrock Shuffle time!
No, bed time. Sleep time. You couldn’t shuffle around this room even if you wanted to.
The pain is nearly exquisite. The Drouamine can’t kick in fast enough.
You pull your pants back up and slide beneath the covers. The mattress is firm and the pillows are too flat, but they smell like Jean in a way that makes your chest ache. Something so painfully familiar and yet one thousand miles away.
As you lie there, the throbbing in your thigh slowly begins to subside. The sound of a distant siren wails through the cracked window. Someone shouts in the apartment above you. A baby starts to cry.
You think about Kuuno and how he fell asleep against your shoulder on the ride back to Jamrock—that he felt safe enough around you to sleep at all. The life you inherited drags behind you like a thick metal chain, made up of the people you’ve hurt, failed, and abandoned. But for whatever reason, this chaotic, whirlwind of a child—progeny of violence and abuse, his very soul thickened with calluses—saw you and decided that you made him feel safe.
It’s the kind of trust you cannot afford to break.
It’s the kind of trust that could heal you both.
The ache in your chest doubles down, and you think you understand the feeling a little better.
It’s love.