You have a fucking terrible night's sleep, constantly tossing and turning. Asleep or awake, your mind is filled with visions of yesterday. The botched operation. Your team's reactions. The way Pryce will react when you explain. Your gun pressed to your temple. Squeezing the trigger. How easy it would be to pick it up and do it again. Going to Harry's. Remembering he has Kim now. How fucking crushing that is.

And that's without thinking about the stuff with Trant. You're grateful for his kindness. You really don't know how you would have coped without him. But you're embarrassed about showing such mortifying vulnerability, and leaning on him so much when he's sick. What must he think of you?

There's a knock on the door.

You get out of bed and open the door. Trant smiles when he sees you. It must be out of politeness, nobody could be that happy at this time in the morning, especially not faced with you. "Good morning, Jean."

"Morning," you croak, rubbing your head. It's aching. Probably because you just had breakfast and a bottle of wine yesterday. World's most pathetic hangover.

"Fresh clothes, as promised," Trant says, handing a pile of neatly folded clothes to you. "I don't think my sizes have changed enormously over the years, but if anything doesn't fit, let me know and I'll see what else I can find."

"Thanks."

"Do you have time to stay for breakfast?"

You're eager to say no, get out of here before you can humiliate yourself some more. But you're ravenous and think you might collapse on the way to work if you don't eat something. You go to grab your watch. "Yeah, it's still early," you say. "Wait. Shit! I left my MC at home. Can you take a bus from here?"

"Take my MC."

"What, really?"

"I'm not using it," he says, smiling. "And I trust you not to crash it."

"Of course I wouldn't," you say, and wonder if he too is thinking about Harry's MC, slowly thawing in its final resting place in Martinaise.

"Now I'll fix breakfast while you get dressed," he says, shutting the door behind himself.

You unfold the bundle of clothes that Trant left you with. A white shirt and black trousers. Thoughtful. This will look enough like your uniform that nobody should notice. More fucking disconcerting, he has also provided you with a fresh pair of socks and underclothes. Also thoughtful, you grudgingly admit. Yesterday's clothes smell so goddamned bad even you can't contemplate wearing them. But still, fucking weird, Trant.

You try not to think about it as you get dressed. When that fails, you tell yourself to be normal about having Trant's clothes next to your skin. The shirt fits fine, and looks passable as one of yours once you put your tie on. The trousers are tight, and slightly short, but you'll manage.

In your mind, a Heidelstam breakfast is something exotic, so you're surprised when you walk into the kitchen and see a box of bran cereal and a jug of milk on the table.

"I hope this is all right," he says. "As I'm sure you can appreciate, I haven't been able to go out for groceries for a few days."

"It's fine," you say, sitting down at the table. Trant pushes the box of cereal towards you, and you fill your bowl then pass it back to him.

"Do you know the origin of the breakfast cereal?" Trant asks as he fills his own bowl. He doesn't wait for you to answer. "It was created in the advent of the industrial revolution, so that workers would have something filling and quick to prepare in the mornings. There are also rumours that it was designed to suppress the libido. Now, whether this was to aid the proletariat population in their concentration at work, or to curb the number of children they had, that is still contested."

"Hmm?" you say while eating, then when your mouth is empty you add, "Got a problem with excessive libido?"

Trant laughs. "It is just a rumour. Although perhaps a little experiment is in order."

"You need to get better, Trant. That story will go down a fucking storm at the precinct."

Trant touches his chest and is quiet for a moment, as he struggles with his breath. He inhales deeply. "I hope I can return soon," he says. "I'm growing tired of being stuck inside and having no energy to do anything."

"Tell that useless doctor of yours to hurry it up."

He shakes his head. "The tests will take as long as they take," he says.

"Have you tried making threats?"

"No, Jean."

"Can I have her number?"

Trant smiles. "I know you want to help, but no."

"All right, I'd better go."

Trant goes to get the keys to his motor carriage, and throws them to you. You snatch them out of the air.

On the way to the door, you pause. You consider going home on the way to work, to grab your gun and your jacket. But you don't even want to walk into your apartment right now, not after last night. Let alone picking up your gun to put it in its holster. You have shitloads of paperwork to do today, and Pryce will probably demand a word with you. You don't really need your gun or your jacket. You try to convince yourself you don't really need to go to work today. God, you don't want to face it.

"Jean?" Trant says.

You turn to him. He looks concerned, like he read your mind. He gives you a worried smile and holds his arms out.

"I don't need a fucking hug," you say. Not that you'd be mad if he just grabbed you anyway. You wouldn't struggle.

Trant looks disappointed, and lowers his arms. "Hey Jean, I thought maybe we could have dinner together tonight and watch a film."

You feel a wave of heat cross your face, and you hope you're not going as red as you fear you are. God, things have been getting weird between you and Trant these last few days, and for a moment it really sounded like he was asking you out on a date. You cross your arms. "Trant, it's going to get real difficult for me to justify you not being at work if people see you at a restaurant and the cinema."

Trant laughs. "No, I didn't mean the cinema. I have a collection of eight millimetre films right here. What do you say?"

"Fine," you say. "If you need a babysitter, who am I to say no?"

"Great," he says, but he winces at your words. As you wait for the elevator, you wonder if you overcompensated a bit trying not to sound eager. You really don't want to be alone with your thoughts. And having company will stop you from feeling so jealous of what Harry and Kim have. And there are no more selfish reasons why you might want to spend time with Trant. None at all.

The whole of C-wing is writing up their reports from yesterday. The atmosphere is tense. Kim asks a question about a box on a form that is different from his old precinct. Harry scratches his head and looks over at you. Nobody has been openly hostile to you today, but you're just waiting for them to start pointing fingers.

You weren't listening properly to what Kim said, so you walk over to his desk, and lean over to squint at the small writing. "That's where you put the witness's name, if you have one," you say.

"Thanks, lieutenant, I should have realised that," Kim says.

You're about to stand up again when someone slaps your ass. You turn around to see Torson smirking at you.

"Who're you trying to impress with those tight pants?" he says.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" you shoot back.

McLaine pops his head up. "He's wearing new aftershave too," he says.

"That I didn't notice," Torson says.

Harry stands up and comes over to sniff you. You narrow your eyes at him. "It's nice. Smells kinda familiar, where have I smelled it before?"

"Okay, time to stop fucking with me. Back to work!"

As you sit back down at your desk you surreptitiously raise your arm and sniff the cuff of your shirt. You were already aware of the clothes smelling vaguely of Trant's house and Trant, but the discomfort of wearing someone else's clothes had distracted you enough not to dwell on that. With your nose pressed against the fabric, you can definitely smell the mixture of spice, wood and vanilla that you associate with Trant. You glance at Harry, willing him not to make the association too.

You try to focus again on your work, but the smell on your clothes is so damn distracting. It keeps dragging your mind to everything you and Trant have been through in the past few days, and the complex ball of emotions you have about it that you'd rather keep buried.

Giving up, you put down your pen and decide to go smoke as many cigarettes as you need to get rid of Trant's smell and replace it with your usual aroma. When you open the packet, you're devastated to find that there are only two left. Scratch that plan, then. You light one of them and try to think about something else.

Your mind keeps going back to last night, reeling away from the worst parts of it. Trant asking what you want to do before you die. Life has never particularly been a matter of what you want. It's just an unending procession of bullshit that you have to deal with, and there's more every day! You wonder, what would you want, if you were lucky. If you were rich. If you weren't fucking depressed.

The end of your cigarette burns down to your fingers before you can think of anything. You grind the stub against the wall and then go back inside. Better save the other one for later.

As you head back to your desk, you see Harry trying to use a stapler like he has never seen such a device before. This man is a lieutenant double-yefreitor, two ranks above you. He might have ten years on you, but it's still an injustice. Just, look at him. His tie is caught in the stapler now.

There's something for the list. Get promoted. You feel pleased with yourself. Now you have something to tell Trant if he brings up the subject again.

You finish up your report by the end of the day and leave it on Pryce's desk. He doesn't ask to speak with you immediately, so you spend the rest of the day sweating and dreading being called into his office. However, your shift ends before he does. Which means you have to fret about it happening tomorrow. Or accept that maybe you overreacted and it wasn't that bad. Nobody was killed, after all. No, you can't let yourself off the hook that easily.

You drive Trant's motor carriage back to your place first. You walk up the stairs and down the hall, but when you get to your apartment door you pause.

Bang. Splatter.

The image of what might have been is burned into your brain.

You baulk at opening the door, as if you might see something horrible inside.

For fuck's sake get ahold of yourself Vicquemare, you tell yourself, and force yourself to open it.

It doesn't look that bad. Your gun and holster are lying on the couch. Your RCM jacket is on the floor for some reason. An empty bottle of wine is on the table, a small sticky spillage around it.

Splatter.

In your mind's eye your brains splash messily over the wall again. Fuck. You close your eyes. The vision doesn't go away.

You don't know if you can trust yourself to touch your gun. You turn away from it and pick up your jacket instead and put it on. Your wallet is in there, and another pack of cigarettes. That's all you need.

You've seen enough here. Turning around, you leave the building and get back in the motor carriage.

You park in front of Trant's building and get out. You follow a young woman with hair piled up on her head covered by a scarf. She hears your footsteps and turns to look at you.

"Oh, you must be Trant's friend, the policeman," she says.

You're not sure you would describe Trant as a friend, even though he literally called you a friend last night. But after what you've been through together, insisting that you are just colleagues seems silly. "Yes," you say. "I'm here to see him."

"So am I."

"He didn't mention he was expecting other visitors," you say, feeling aggrieved at that.

"Oh, I'm not stopping. Just here to drop off some food. It's beef and lentil curry with rice, and apricot pudding for dessert," she says, holding up the bag. So this must be the local woman who sells home-cooked meals.

"I can take it up to him," you say. "How much do we owe?"

She hands the bag to you. "Don't worry about it, he always pays at the end of the week. He's very reliable like that," she says. "You're doing such a good thing taking care of him like this. Some of the other people I make food for don't have anyone at all."

You're not quite sure what to say to this, so you give her a grim smile.

"Well then, enjoy your meal," she says.

"Thank you."

You let yourself into the building and go up in the elevator, the pleasant smell of the curry permeating through the bag.

"Take-out's here," you say when Trant opens the door.

"Oh, you met Laila?" he says as stands to one side to let you in.

"We didn't get as far as introductions."

"And yet she gave you the food? You never fail to impress me with your negotiation techniques."

"Didn't need them. She said she knew you had a friend who's a policeman."

"Oh, yes, I have mentioned you to her."

That much was implied in what the young woman told you herself, but still, hearing it from Trant is oddly touching. You shake your head, and give the bag of food to Trant. "Where should I hang my jacket?" you ask.

"There's a coat rack behind you," he says.

You hang up your jacket, then follow him into the kitchen.

"Still warm," Trant says, taking the containers out of the bag. "Are you ready to eat?"

"Am I?" you say. Your stomach has been rumbling since you first caught a whiff of the curry.

You help Trant to set the table and put the main course into dishes. "So, how was work?" he asks as you sit down to eat.

You pause with your fork halfway to your mouth. "You trying to put me off my fucking food?"

"Sorry."

"It wasn't too bad," you say. "I mean, it wasn't good, but I didn't get fired."

"If you need me to put in a good word for you, just let me know."

You shake your head. "Trant, you weren't even there," you say, and when you see his downcast expression you add, "But, thank you."

You eat in silence for a few moments. This is undeniably the best food you have had in recent memory.

"How was your day?" you ask him.

Trant smiles weakly. "I didn't do much. Slept all afternoon. On purpose this time. I wanted to try and be awake enough to watch a film like we planned to."

You find yourself smiling. It's nice that he wants to spend time with you. It's a novelty. The last few people you were close to just wanted someone to get fucked up with. It's almost too good to be true. He must feel sorry for you, or… something.

"Laila's a good cook, isn't she?" Trant says after you finish dessert.

You nod. "If you ain't gonna marry her, I will," you say.

Trant laughs. "I actually don't think either of us are her type," he says. "She has a girlfriend."

You resist the urge to make some homo-sexual joke, like you would at the station. For some reason you'd say it in earshot of Trant when everyone else is there, but somehow it feels like he would disapprove if you said it when it is just the two of you. "Good for her," you mumble.

You try to insist on washing the dishes, but Trant has one of those modern dishwashers, so you help him stack everything inside. "How does it work?" you ask, peering inside.

"Magic," Trant says with a grin.

"No, really."

"Well, I could give you a full explanation, but I thought it would be a more fruitful use of our time to decide which film to watch," he says.

"Magic it is then," you say, shutting the door to the dishwasher.

Trant clasps his hands together and looks excited. "So, what would you like to watch?"

"You're seriously asking me to name any film and you're going to say you own it?" you say as you follow him into the living room.

"I do have a large collection."

"I'm gonna be honest, I don't really pay attention to films."

"Well, I have been thinking about this today, in the time I've been actually been awake," he says, laughing nervously. "Which one of my films is the most Jean? And one did spring to mind, Eterna Rankoro. Its title translates as Eternal Grudge. It's a mystery, it's very dark and has an element of science fiction to it. It is in Mesque, so there are subtitles, I don't know how you feel about that?"

"To be honest, I would be surprised if you chose something in Suresne," you say.

"So, want to give it a try?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Trant spends some time setting up the projector and setting the film reel in place. You turn out the light once he is done and sit down to watch the opening images on the reel, which look to be the logos of various Mesque film companies who were involved in its production. Trant sits beside you, and you are aware of him taking some time to catch his breath. It's strange to see him like this, exhausted after just clearing up after dinner and setting the projector going. He's always been so active and involved in so many things. Your concern makes you miss the first few subtitles in the opening scene.

Those aren't the last subtitles you miss. Some don't appear on the screen for long enough for you to read them. Others you miss because Trant insists on excitedly explaining references and cultural differences to you, leaning his head towards you conspiratorily as if you aren't the only ones in the room. Despite this, you enjoy the film. You like its atmosphere of doom and hopelessness. You forgot how freeing it can be to concentrate on horrible things happening to fictional characters, instead of the horrible things in your own life.

"So, what did you think?"

"I didn't expect the man from the beginning to turn out to be the main chick all along," you say.

Trant smiles. "It was a brave choice, especially for the time," he says.

"Is there a sequel?"

"You did enjoy it then?" he says. "But no, I'm afraid there isn't. I was wondering if you would pick up on the fact that the opening scene actually happens last chronologically."

You frown and try to remember what happened in the opening scene, but you were too busy trying to get used to reading the subtitles. "I'm not as smart as you, Trant," you say.

"Oh, I didn't figure it out the first time I watched it," he says, touching your arm. "But I thought you might, being a detective."

You sigh. "You think too highly of me. You should be impressed I even managed the subtitles."

Trant looks at you for a moment, then swallows. "How about I play the opening scene again? Once you know, it's more obvious. I actually didn't figure it out at all, an associate of mine had to explain it to me." Without waiting for your response, he gets up and feeds the start of the tape into the projector again.

He sits back down, closer to you this time. Probably an accident. He leans his shoulder against yours. That can't be an accident. Shit. You feel your whole body getting warmer and you don't know why. You try to ignore it and actually read the subtitles this time.

"It makes sense now," you say. "Of course there's no sequel."

"You see?" Trant says, leaning into you even further. He laughs to himself.

"What?"

"I'm just pleased I know you well enough to choose a film you'd like."

"What do you want me to say? Well done?"

Trant shakes his head. "Seeing your enjoyment is enough of a reward for me," he says.

The film is still playing. "So are we watching the whole thing again?"

"Ordinarily, I'd jump at the chance to analyse a film in detail, but I'm not sure I have the energy right now," he says, and gets up to stop the projector and wind the tape back onto its reel. "Now, I've gone and painted myself into a corner haven't I? I'm going to have to find a second film that you will enjoy."

"Oh, film night is going to be a regular thing, is it?"

"It can be if you want it to be," Trant says.

You're very tempted to say something sarcastic and resistant, but you fight that instinct. You don't actually want to turn him down. "Yeah. Sure," you say.

He smiles, and you smile back. The moment goes on for a bit too long and you start to feel uncomfortable.

"I'm really glad you came over tonight. I had a really nice night," he says. "Do you want to stay here again?"

You get up. "I really should go home," you say.

"You don't have to. Really, I like you staying here."

But you feel better, you tell yourself. You don't want to admit that you still don't want to be alone. That you worry that he might die. Or that you might try to blow your brains out again. You've slept at Trant's place three nights in a row, and that's already pushing the boundaries of acceptable behaviour. You shake your head. "I drove your motor carriage here. The pool MC is still at my place, I should take it back tomorrow."

Trant looks disappointed. "Well, if you're sure," he says, following you to the door. "How are you getting home?"

You grab your jacket. "I'll walk. It's not far."

"It's dark, Jean."

You snort. "I'm a big boy, Trant. I'll be fine."

Trant smiles. "Of course," he says. "Call me when you get home."

"Why?"

"So I know you got back okay."

You sigh. "It really isn't far."

Trant reaches out to touch your shoulder, and says, "But still, call me."

You give a non-committal grunt, then remember something. You turn back around. "I'll, er, wash these clothes and bring them back to you."

"Thank you."

Then something else occurs to you. "Remember what I said, if you ever need me, call me and I'll come straight away."

Trant smiles. "Thank you, Jean. Good night."

You linger for a moment, in case he wants to forcibly hug you. He doesn't.

"Night," you say on your way out.

The night air bites at your skin as you smoke and stride in and out of the pools of light cast by the streetlights. Trant said he had a nice night. That's good, he deserves to have a nice time, especially in his condition. You suppose you had a nice night too. Nicer than you deserve. Did you do the right thing by leaving? God, there's no right thing to do in this fucked up situation.

When you get home the difference between your place and Trant's is undeniable. Cold. Empty. Trant has a home. What do you have? A crummy little box that you never planned to live in for long. And will probably die in.

Trant asked you to call him when you got home. He wasn't being serious, right? He was taking the piss, must have been.

You just stand and stare at the wall for a long time.

The telephone rings.

You almost trip over your own feet in your haste to pick it up.

"Jean?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing, I just wanted to check you got home okay."

"I died on the way home. You're talking to my ghost."

"Jean, that's not funny."

"But you're okay?"

"Yes." He pauses, as if there is something else he wants to say. "Well then, I won't keep you. Take care of yourself. Good night."

"Yeah. Good night."

You put the receiver back on its hook. If there is something wrong with Trant's heart or lungs, you probably shouldn't worry him like you do. No, you've got that backwards. If Trant valued his health he shouldn't give a damn about someone like you. You really thought he was smarter than this. Still, it's nice to be cared about by someone like Trant. Maybe it's enough to keep you around in this fucked up world a little longer.