You awake under fresh smelling sheets, the mattress below you is soft, like lying on a cloud. Opening your eyes, you remember you stayed at Trant's place again. In Trant's bed, with your arms wrapped around each other. Not lovers, or frightened children, but in the moment it seemed okay. At some point in the night you must have let go of each other and moved to opposite sides of the bed. Light is coming through the gaps in the curtains, and you think how strange it is that you were able to sleep through the night twice in a row. Sleeping through the night is rare enough in your own bed.

Trant is lying beside you, the early morning light highlighting his golden hair. You hold your breath and listen intently for a moment, then let it go when you hear him breathing.

You don't know what time it is, and for a few minutes you allow yourself not to care. There are so many things that you'd rather not deal with. Chiefly, what happened last night. You could have brushed it off as nothing worth mentioning if you'd just given him a normal hug. But you had to ruin it by getting a fucking hard-on. The worst part is, you don't even think of Trant in that way. But it seems your body didn't get that memo.

You can't. It's ridiculous. Trant is handsome and charming and middle class, exactly the kind of person who wouldn't even talk to the likes of you without a warrant.

But Trant didn't seem surprised or horrified by – how did he put it? – your physiological reaction. What does that suggest he thinks about you? That you're some hornball who'd fuck anything with breath in their lungs given half the chance? And what does it say about him? He's got a kid, was it so crazy to assume he likes women?

The solution to this problem is obvious. You just act like it never happened. Hopefully Trant will get better soon, you'll wrap up those two cases, and then you can blow your brains out, or whatever. It occurs to you that you've subconsciously added take care of Trant to your list of things you have to do before you can die. He doesn't have anyone else. You'd have to be a complete asshole to abandon him like that. Anyone would do the same, it's no big deal.

Beside you, Trant turns over to face you. Eyes still closed, he reaches out and runs a hand over your arm. "Morning, dearest," he murmurs.

Your arm burns from where he touched it. Dearest? Nobody has ever called you dearest. Such words are not for you. He must be thinking you're someone else, wishing you're someone else. Someone he loved so much. Someone who isn't in his life any more. It's sad. But that's how things go in this fucked up world, even for people like Trant, apparently. Whenever feelings have been involved between you and whoever you're fucking, you don't think they've ever been mutual. You decided long before you even turned thirty that love isn't for you. Maybe not even possible in the next world.

Trant opens his eyes. Has he always had such long eyelashes? He blinks, and looks at you.

You get up so fast you almost fall off the side of the bed.

"Jean? Are you all right?" he says as you pick yourself up.

"Uh-huh," you say as you pick up your tie from the floor. Your clothes are full of weird creases from sleeping in them. But who cares. You try to do up your tie too quickly and make a hack job of it, all too aware of Trant watching you.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Mmm," you say non-committally. The domesticity of this conversation is making your skin crawl. "I have to get to work. Do you need anything before I go?"

"No, I'll be fine," he says, and you wonder if your tone was too sharp and made him decide not to ask you anything. "Jean, thank you. For staying last night," he adds as you leave the room.

"Yes yes, no problem," you say quickly.

It's too hard to think about Trant any more, so you try to put him out of your mind. You're early for your shift. You didn't need to rush off. You could have gone home for a change of clothes. But whatever, it's not like anybody will give a fuck.

You smoke a cigarette on the way home and light another one to smoke on your way to your apartment, just to keep your hands busy and stop you from tearing your hair out in public. Today went badly. Fucking hell, that's the understatement of the year.

You open the first bottle you lay your hands on, some cheap wine, and drink from the bottle. God, you could have got the lot of you killed. If only you could convince yourself you could lay the blame on someone else. But you'd planned the operation yourself, even ignored suggestions from other officers.

This just proves it, everyone is better off without you. Even Trant doesn't need you. He asked you to do one thing last night and you had to go and make it weird. You tip up the bottle and wine runs out of the corner of your mouth, trickles down onto your shirt.

You put the bottle down, shrug off your jacket and unfasten your gun holster, setting it down and holding the gun in your hand. You just hold onto it as you take another drink. Maybe it's time. Maybe thinking about the cases and Trant have just been pointless stalling exercises. The cases will get solved without you. Trant will get better, or he won't. The world will move on without you, caring nothing for your existence.

Raising the gun in front of you, you look down the barrel. How should you do this? There's no harm in a little rehearsal. You press the barrel to your temple, adjust your grip. Eyes open or closed? What does it matter? It'll all be over in a matter of seconds, all you might see is some of your own blood splattered on the wall. You've seen blood before. Eyes closed, then. You squeeze the trigger.

Nothing. The safety is on.

You return the gun to your lap, sweating. Your heart races. It's just as easy as that.

Picking up the bottle again, you take another few gulps, sticky liquid running down your chin in your hurry to drink faster. The bottle is empty before you know it. The alcohol hits you, and you laugh. What happened to your legendary alcohol tolerance? It's only one bottle of wine. But then you remember you haven't eaten anything since first thing this morning. Yeah. That'll do it.

The gun wavers in your hand as you raise it again. You steady it with your other hand, and slide the safety off. You open the cylinder. Two bullets. Six chambers. Sweat soaks through your undershirt, sending a chill through you. You close the cylinder and give it a spin. Graadian roulette.

Your vision shakes. You can see your blood vessels contracting before your eyes as you raise the gun to your temple again.

Fingers tremble. You hold your breath.

Click.

You exhale heavily. Relief? Disappointment?

It would be so easy to pull the trigger again. And again, as many times as you need to to make it all end.

Your arm is shaking. Hot tears blur your vision. You sniff and wipe your nose on your shirt.

The gun is in your lap again. Sweaty hands struggle to put the safety back on.

In the bathroom, you run the faucet and swipe at your face, trying to get rid of the tears and the snot and the wine. You're a mess, Vicquemare. In the mirror, your expression looks back at you, horrified with yourself. Horrified for trying? Horrified for not going through with it? You don't know. All you know is you can't look at that fucker any more.

You should take some sedatives. Or drink some more. Or both.

But you're already outside, trying to light a cigarette as you walk. Before you can get your shit together enough to get a flame from your lighter, you've reached your destination.

The intercom is still broken, but you remember just where to kick the door to make it open.

You knock on the door to Harry's apartment. You won't have to explain to him, he's been in this position plenty of times himself. Although, will he remember? Doubt strikes you as you knock again. What are you doing here?

"Kim, will you see who's at the door?" Harry's voice comes from inside.

Shit! What the fuck are you doing here?!

Panic sets in. Before you can even think, you're running back out of the building. You don't stop until you've made it half way down the street and down an alley.

Gasping for breath, you fumble for your cigarettes. Try to light one. Fail. Click click click goes the lighter. Your heart hammers in your ears. Finally, you succeed and light it. You fall back against the wall and breathe the cigarette in deeply. Hot tar and nicotine fills your lungs, bringing you a moment of relief.

The thought of calm, together Kim Kitsuragi seeing you in this state fills you with horror. Also the thought of the new improved Harry Du Bois looking at you with pity isn't so great either. They were part of your operation today. They'll be especially short of sympathy for you outside of work.

New plan. Buy more booze, go home. You pat your pockets. Your wallet is in your jacket. Fuck. Of course it is.

You start walking, smoking one cigarette after another. At some point you realise you don't know where you are, but it doesn't matter. So long as you keep walking and smoking, you don't need to think about anything.

Turning a corner, you realise you recognise this street. You've wandered into Trant's affluent neighbourhood. Trant is good at solving problems. That's enough to convince you to head towards his apartment.

You think of what to say as you pause with your fist up, about to knock on his door. Maybe you shouldn't say anything. Maybe this was a bad idea.

You realise you must have knocked because Trant opens the door. His brow furrows as he looks at you, and your vision blurs with hot tears.

"Oh, come in," he says, a shake in his voice.

You step inside, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand.

"Jean, what's wrong?"

You lean against the wall and laugh hollowly. "Nothing," you say.

You look down at the floor, not wanting to see Trant's reaction to you in all your fucked up glory. Trant doesn't move, he just patiently waits for you to answer his question.

"Trant, I tried to kill myself," you mutter.

"Shit! Jean!"

You brace yourself for a lecture.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. That can't be an easy thing for you to tell me."

You slowly drag your gaze from the floor up to Trant's face, and you're helpless to stop tears spilling from your eyes again. Trant is leaning against the opposite wall, his arms wrapped around himself.

"Would you come and sit with me? Standing up takes more energy than I have right now," Trant says.

You glance towards the door, and consider bolting again. "I could just go," you say.

"No! No Jean, please, stay." There's a catch in his voice, and you see tears welling up in his eyes.

You sit on the couch beside Trant. He asks you what happened and you're unable to answer. You feel too stupid, throwing your life away while he is sick.

Trant doesn't press you, and after a while he goes to the kitchen and comes back with more strange smelling tea. He tells you it is chamomile. It tastes awful, but he insists it will make you feel better. As you hunch over your cup and try to force the liquid down, Trant rubs your back.

You start to tell him what happened. How you feel. Or at least, you try. It doesn't make sense when you try to put it into words. Trant just listens to you, and his silence makes you feel exposed. You want to retract everything you just said. Tell him it's all a joke.

You look at him. His brow is creased and his mouth is tight. You always thought he smiled too much, but now you wish you could see him smile again. Why can't things be normal again? Boring, shitty normal? Once again, you only appreciate what you had when it's gone.

"You're smart," you say. "Tell me, what should I do?"

Trant takes a breath. "Jean, if you kill yourself, you won't have any more chances to put right what you think you've done wrong."

"Who cares? I'll just fuck it up all over again."

"What about your décomptage? What would they do without you?"

"Probably be better off."

"There's people who can help you. Professionals."

You shake your head. "Do you think I haven't tried? It's just endless waiting lists to talk to someone for half an hour who doesn't give a shit!"

Trant sighs.

You put your cup down on the coffee table.

"I'm glad that you're still here. And before you say it, not just because you've been keeping an eye on me while I've been sick. I care about you, Jean."

"You do?" You lean back on the couch, at least you mean to, but you go back at an angle and end up with your head on Trant's shoulder. You are about to move, but Trant puts his hand on your head, ruffles your hair gently and keeps it there.

"I really do. You're a good friend, and I'm lucky to have you. I don't want to lose you."

You feel your eyes fill with tears again. You shift position until you're lying with your head on Trant's lap, and pull your knees up to your chest. He strokes your hair.

"The fact that you're here with me right now tells me that you don't really want to die. Am I right?"

"I… don't know," you say, your voice thick with tears.

"We'll find a way to get through this, together. Just, hold on. Please."

You close your eyes and try not to sob. Even if Trant can't see you crying, he can surely feel your tears soaking through his trousers.

"Your hair is so dark, Jean. Like a black hole," he observes, while running his fingers through it. "When I was young, I wanted dark hair so badly."

You let out a snort. "Why?"

"Because all of my favourite film stars had dark hair. I watched how the hair of some of the other boys my age turned darker, but alas, mine stayed the colour of straw."

"Like wheat in a field, blowing in the wind," you say, although you're not sure why.

"Yes," Trant says. "What I didn't realise at the time was that many of the men back then would dye their hair black or darken it with brilliantine. So I could have been an actor."

"You wanted to be an actor?"

"For a time, yes. I also wanted to be a director, or a producer. I wanted to be everything as a child."

You could just imagine young Trant, dreaming of being a hundred different things, all of which were totally within his grasp. You resist the urge to make some derisory comment. Tell him how you thought you'd be lucky to even survive until adulthood. Trant is still stroking your head, and you don't want to make him stop.

"I managed to do some reading today and I came across an interesting idea. People often die regretting things they never got to do or experience. So the idea is to make a list, then complete everything on the list. I've made a start on mine. I've always been a cautious person, but I've never truly thought very much about actually dying. I hate to sound paranoid, but this illness has got me worried. I've started writing a list of my own." Trant pauses, his hand still resting on your head. "What would you put on your list, Jean?"

"What?" you say. Everything you want is so complicated or impossible, there's really no point in wanting it at all. You've thought along these lines before, and you're sure you're more or less ready to go. There's nothing you want to stick around for, just things you feel like you should. "I can't think of anything."

"Think about it, won't you? I'm sure you'll think of something. It doesn't have to be anything huge. It can be as simple as wanting to watch the sunrise, wondering how the morning breeze will feel on your face."

This time you can't keep your cynicism to yourself. "So I watch the sunrise, cross it off my list, then I'm ready to die? What does that solve?"

"I... didn't mean it like that," Trant says slowly. "Maybe that was a bad example."

"Sorry. I'll think about it," you say, but only to pacify him. You sit up and rub your eyes. Trant is the one who's sick, and here you are acting pathetic and expecting him to humour you. "Do you need me to do anything?"

Trant shakes his head. "Nothing that can't wait," he says.

"Then I should leave you to it."

"No, Jean," he says, putting a hand on your arm. He tightens his grip when you try to move away. "I don't think you should be on your own tonight. You should stay here."

You look down at your shirt, stained with wine and drenched in sweat. "I need to change my clothes."

"You can borrow some of mine. They should fit you, we aren't too dissimilar in build," he says, and gives you a smile. "You can take a shower here. I'll lend you pyjamas too, you shouldn't sleep in your clothes."

You lift an arm and sniff yourself. You smell terrible. Not surprising, with the day you had at work, and everything that's happened afterwards.

Trant's shower is hot. You think about turning down the temperature, but instead of doing so you just let the burning water rain down on you. If it's anything like yours, it'll turn cold in a moment and stay that way no matter how long you wait. But it maintains its heat. Your hands shake and your legs feel unsteady as you wash, running your fingers over scars old and new.

You walk back into the living room, rubbing your hair with a towel, wearing the cloud patterned pyjamas Trant lent you. "I don't think these are really my style," you say.

Trant smiles. "Mikael chose those for me," he says.

"I think they'd suit you."

He smiles wider. "I have a hairdryer if you want to borrow it."

"I'm fine."

"You shouldn't go to bed with wet hair. Sit down," he says, pointing to a footstool.

You find yourself doing as you're told. Trant goes to get the hairdryer and sits down behind you.

"You don't need to-"

"It'll only take two minutes," Trant says, and switches on the hairdryer, destroying your ability to protest.

You sit and let him comb and dry your hair, and wonder if he does the same thing for his son. Despite the pyjamas that don't suit you and Trant now probably thinking that you can't look after yourself, you feel warm and cared for. You could have died tonight, and tears prick at your eyes at the thought. You never cry. You've seen most members of precinct 41 cry at one time or other, but it's very much part of your character that you don't. Why then do tears keep coming tonight?

Trant turns off the hairdryer, then he puts his arms around you. You tell yourself it's okay to let yourself be hugged. You're so tired.

Letting go of you, Trant smooths down your hair, then tilts his head to look at you. "Okay?"

You nod.

He smiles. "Do you want to sleep in the spare room?" he asks.

"Yeah, that's probably best," you say, thinking about last night.

You stand up. Trant moves towards you, touches your arm. "Shout if you need anything," he says.

"Yeah. You too."

"And Jean? We'll look after each other, okay? You don't need to do this all on your own."

You nod, and manage a small smile.

Trant smiles back at you. "Good night, Jean."

"Good night."

You head down the hall, images of everything that happened today flashing across your mind. You're so tired but you don't know if sleep will come to you tonight.