"Harry, you can't just invite yourself round without asking," you say.

"Well, do you get permission from Trant to visit him every day?" he says.

"No, but that's different. I'm helping him, with, various things," you say, feeling uneasy about the way Harry is grinning at you. "Which is none of your business."

"But Judit says he wants visitors."

"I didn't say that, I just said it might be nice for us to visit him some time," she says from her desk.

"Now is some time," Harry insists.

"I haven't even asked him if he wants visitors yet."

"Well, how do I know you won't pretend to ask him and just say no?"

"Why would I do that, Harry?"

"It'd be better if we make it as surprise. Everyone likes surprises, right? Does Trant like surprises?"

You think about that. "I don't know," you say, annoyed by the question. You thought you knew Trant well, but there are still a lot of things you don't know about him.

"Hey Kim, don't you think we should go visit Trant?" Harry asks.

"I don't know, lieutenant, maybe we should let the man have some privacy," Kim says.

The debate rages on for some time. You can't understand why Harry is so adamant in visiting Trant. He's like this sometimes, he gets some idea into his head and refuses to be talked out of it. After your conversation yesterday, you were hoping for some time alone with Trant, but it's looking more and more likely that it's going to be gatecrashed by Harry at least.

After your shift, you reluctantly get into Kim's motor carriage along with Harry and Judit. Harry insists on stopping by Frittte on the way to get Trant a gift. The options aren't great.

"Would it be cheating to buy alcohol for someone else?" Harry asks you. "If I'm not gonna drink it myself, it doesn't count, right?"

"I don't think Trant would drink any of this shit, do you?" you say.

The clerk at the counter doesn't look up at you but you notice her smirking.

"No offence," you add.

She just shrugs and goes on filing her nails.

You end up buying a box of chocolates and some random magazines.

As you knock on Trant's door, you feel like you should have warned him in some way, maybe called him from the station to let him know you were bringing company.

"Good to see you, Jean," Trant says as he opens the door.

"Trant, I-"

Before you can say anything, Harry leans around the door. "We heard you wanted visitors," he says.

Trant looks caught off guard. "Oh. How utterly unexpected!" he says. "Please, come in."

"Sorry for dropping around unannounced, but Jean said you still weren't feeling very well," Judit says as Trant leads everyone into the living room.

Trant puts on a smile. "Oh, I'm just taking a small break while I wait for some test results, I'm sure I'll be right as rain in no time," he says. "Would anybody like a cup of tea?"

"Sit down. I'll make them," you say.

You go into the kitchen and fill the kettle, and while it boils you wrap your arms around yourself and lean on the wall, glad to get out of the way of everyone. You hadn't anticipated this weird feeling of two worlds colliding. A few short weeks ago, Trant had been nothing more than another one of your colleagues. But since he got sick, the two of you have developed a completely separate dynamic. And now it doesn't feel right for you to be all together.

You're not sure you remember how you used to treat him back at the office. You're not sure what will read as normal behaviour. Acting like you normally do when the two of you are alone is obviously a bad idea in front of three detectives, but if you overcompensate and be a total asshole to him that'll also ring alarm bells. All you can hope is they won't stay long, or else you'll have to make some excuse to leave.

Trant still has that drawing you did on the fridge. The one you foolishly signed your name on. Fucking hell it's a good job none of them followed you in here. There's no way you'd ever live that one down.

The kettle finishes boiling, and it occurs to you that you haven't asked anyone what they want. But then Trant doesn't even have normal tea. You decide to say fuck it and make everyone that weird peppermint tea. If nothing else, it might make them leave faster.

You make the teas, and look around to see if Trant has any trays. He has several, of course he does. You put the cups on the tray and will your hands not to shake as you carry it and betray how fucking on edge you are right now.

When you get back to the living room, Trant has steered the conversation to what's been happening at the precinct, and Kim and Judit are filling him in while Harry pokes around one of Trant's bookcases.

You put down the tray and without thinking you pass a cup to Trant, then sit down beside him and pick up a cup for yourself. Harry comes to join you. The conversation continues but you stay out of it, wondering if you shouldn't have sat next to Trant on the couch, and if it's suspicious that you did. But it's too late now. You concentrate on the tea that you didn't want.

"Yes, Jean has been a big help to me," Trant says, and you tune back into the conversation at the mention of your name.

You shrug. "It's not like I've got anything else going on," you say, and you wish you'd thought of something better.

Judit puts down her cup of tea, which you notice is empty, surprisingly. "Well, it's been good to see you, Trant. I think I'd better be going now. The kids will be wondering where I am," she says, getting to her feet.

"Yes, we shouldn't outstay our welcome," Kim says.

"But we only just got here," Harry says.

You stand up. "Come on, we should let Trant rest," you say.

Trant turns to you. "Jean, would you stay a while longer, there's something I need your help with."

"I can help too!" Harry says.

"No, Harry, get out of here," you say. "You've already outstayed your welcome."

"Oh, not at all. It was lovely to see you all. I hope I'll see you all back at the precinct soon," Trant says.

You hang back as Trant sees the others to the door. You want a cigarette. For something to do, you gather the cups and put them back on the tray. After work you still had some energy left, but now you're completely exhausted. You sit back down on the couch and wait until everyone else is done saying their goodbyes to Trant.

When Trant comes back into the room, he gives you a smile, but one that is significantly more tired looking than the one he gave to the rest of your colleagues.

"Sorry," you say. "I didn't know they were gonna do that. I should've warned you."

Trant shakes his head. "It was unexpected, but the thought was nice. And I appreciate the gifts. One can never have too much reading material."

"So, what was it you needed help with?"

Trant rubs the back of his neck. "Well, that might have been a lie to get you to stay, so we could talk," he says.

You can't help but smirk. "Thought so."

He twists his hands together and starts to pace back and forth. "Sorry, I have thought about what I want to say to you, but the others dropping by has rather thrown me."

You consider that you could put him out of his misery by pulling him onto your lap and sticking your tongue down his throat. Instead, you pat the couch beside you and say, "Sit down."

Trant comes over to sit, but still looks uncomfortable. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out. "I'm really sorry, Jean. I've had time to think about my actions, and I came on way too strong. I shouldn't have dropped all of that on you like I did and ignored your obvious discomfort."

You shake your head. "It's fine."

"No, it isn't. Please, just let me apologise."

Just fucking kiss me, Trant, you think, but what comes out of your mouth, breathless, is, "You don't need to."

"I do. You're important to me, and I messed up. I overstepped your boundaries and tried to push you into something you're not comfortable with."

"Is this because of what I said?"

"Partly. But also I have had two days to think it through."

There's a sinking feeling in your stomach. "So if I hadn't have reacted in that way, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now?"

"Well, obviously I am going to take your feelings into account, that's just how relationships work. To clarify, I mean any kind of relationship, including our friendship."

Shit, you've really blown it now. You really thought you could push him away, fuck off and come back two days later and still have a chance? You should think yourself lucky that he's giving you the we should just be friends spiel. "Right," you say hollowly.

"I truly am sorry for upsetting you. You can rest assured that I will never again bring up my desires for a romantic relationship. It was a major faux pas on my part to do so in the first place."

Trant doesn't know about the self-reflection you went through yesterday. Would he change his mind if you tried to explain it to him? Or, as usual, does it just not fucking matter? "Oh, so you've come to your senses and realised that I'm actually not good enough for you, huh?"

You want Trant to stroke your hair and kiss you, to prove you wrong. But he's just looking at you, a hurt look in his eyes. "No, that really isn't it, Jean. I still very much want you in my life."

"Bullshit."

"Jean, I don't know what you want me to say. I'm trying to put your mind at rest. I want us both to be able to relax and trust each other. Isn't that what you want?"

Can you be okay with the fact that Trant has changed his mind? You literally only just came to terms with wanting him, and there's a hollow pit of grief in your chest now you know that desire will never be fulfilled. Before yesterday, you'd never even kissed. Before that, you were nothing but friends. Friends who sometimes cuddled up to sleep and hugged for a little too long. Friends. You and Harry were friends.

"What do you want, Jean?"

Oh my god, you want him to kiss you, you want him to fuck you, either, both. He doesn't need to love you, but you just want him to make you feel special for five fucking minutes. You're distraught by the thought that you've fucked up. Trant might have always have ended up coming to the conclusion that he doesn't actually want you, but you had a chance to have one night of passion with him and you threw that away because of your stupid fucking self-loathing.

"Jean?"

"I want a cigarette," you say.

You get up and stumble out of his apartment. You're pushing open the door to the fire escape before you realise Trant has followed you.

There's not much room for two people at the top of the steps. You offer him a cigarette. He takes one, and you light it for him, your fingers shaking on the lighter. You light one of your own, and almost drop it when Trant starts coughing.

"It's been a while," he says, leaning on the railing and letting ash from his cigarette fall down onto the street below. "A long while."

You don't say anything, just smoke your cigarette and watch him take another drag on his and manage not to cough this time.

"You know, me and Harry, we were never more than partners. I guess you could say we were friends," you say, making air quotes around the word. "But we used to fuck."

Suddenly Trant is coughing again, and it goes on longer this time. You suspect it isn't because of the cigarette, but to cover your embarrassment you snatch it from his fingers and toss it over the railing before you can consider that you could have smoked it yourself. "You shouldn't smoke in your condition."

Trant puts a hand on his chest and clears his throat. His face is red. "I, er, didn't know that," he says. "I mean to say, obviously I wouldn't. I had noticed the two of you were very close. Before."

"Yeah, before. And now he hates me. Whatever. Shit happens."

"I don't think he hates you."

You don't answer, you just smoke your cigarette and look into the distance.

"Is that something you're concerned about? With us?"

You turn to look at him, and swallow. "I mean, I wouldn't say no, but I'd have to be drunk."

Trant's mouth falls open and his brow furrows. He looks… hurt. It's frustrating that you can't get him to understand what you mean. "Oh, do I not meet your usual standards?" he asks, his voice small. It's not a flippant comment like one you'd usually make.

Fuck, you're hot as hell, Trant, you want to say. Then pull him in for a kiss. Maybe break your rule about being drunk. But you haven't the nerve. Your hands are shaking more now. "Fuck off, as if you believe that," you say.

"I'd rather you did say no, if that was the caveat."

You don't know where you were attempting to go with that horrifying admission about you and Harry, but it sure hasn't led you down any avenue of conversation you wanted to go down. God, you wish you were drunk so you had something to blame the fucking stupid things you said on. You think that it's probably best if you keep your mouth shut and go home, but you decide to try one last ditch effort. "Were you disappointed? That I turned you down?"

Trant looks surprised by your question. He smiles, but it's forced. "No," he says, and you sense that he's lying, but it's probably just what you want to see. "You did the right thing. I'm glad one of us had some sense."

Why does he have to be so damn sane and reasonable? Why can't he make some effort to pursue you, to convince you, to beg you to be his? The hollow pit in your chest opens again, and with that your last scrap of hope dies.

When you get home, you punch a hole in the wall. Then there's a gap in your memory, and then you're sitting on the floor, sobbing drunkenly and pulling clumps of hair out.

You wake up with a headache. What's new? Nausea and dizziness comes with this one, definitely a hangover this time. You're able to get up and get ready for work, so long as you're careful what you let yourself remember about yesterday, i.e. not much.

You haven't had a nice, reliable, supportive friend since… well, if you're honest, never. And having a friend like that is a good thing, you tell yourself. Certainly not a thing to go apeshit about. Your hand still aches from punching the wall.

You feel like you're floating above your body, puppeteering it from a safe distance.

You're an unexploded bomb, everything will be perfectly fine if nothing and nobody comes near you.

Ignoring everyone, you pick up your cup and go to make coffee. Not even bothering with a spoon, you shake the coffee from the jar into your cup.

"Hey, leave some for the rest of us, will you?" Harry says over your shoulder, his tone indicating that he is in an insufferably good mood.

"Here," you say, shoving the jar into his hands.

You pour water into your cup and watch as some of the coffee granules float on top, refusing to dissolve. You grab a spoon and stir it resentfully.

When you look up, Harry is still there, holding the jar of coffee and looking at you. "Am I in your way?" you say, and wonder why you're using the polite version of stop staring at me and make your goddamned coffee.

Harry puts down the jar. He leans closer to you and lowers his voice. "So, you and Trant, huh?"

Your heart jolts. So he's not even gonna be subtle with his can opening today. Harry's way of dealing with unexploded bombs is to light the fuse and run. "What about us? And what is that you're doing with your hands?"

"Oh, this? It's hand-lungs. All the kids are doing them these days!" he says, looking down at his hands and frowning at them, as if he's not sure he's doing it right.

"What."

"You know, because lungs are for love!"

"And how exactly does that relate to this situation, you absolute moron? Wait, no, don't answer that. I don't want to hear your drivelling bullshit. It doesn't. Now, shut up and fuck off."

Harry shuffles away and you stand there and frown at your coffee a while longer. Just what exactly had he picked up on? You making tea for Trant? Sitting next to him? Staying after everyone else left? Well, it doesn't fucking matter because you can honestly deny that there is nothing going on between you and there never will be. If you were alone you'd throw your coffee cup at the wall.

You're in no mood for the usual office bullshit today, and the coffee only makes your head hurt worse. The drouamine you take does nothing.

To get out of there, you decide to take Scout out on patrol. It's been a while, since you've been concentrating on following leads lately. You'd rather be alone, so you don't invite Judit to join you, but she saddles up one of the other horses anyway, and you can't refuse her without sounding majorly suspicious.

Judit doesn't actively antagonise you like the others do, but you still find yourself snapping at her. She tries to ask you what's wrong, but gives up after you make it clear you don't want to fucking talk about it.

"I know it's hard," she says. "He seemed well yesterday, but they can sometimes. It doesn't mean everything is fine."

You say nothing, and urge Scout to trot on.

Work is one thing to endure, but after work is another matter entirely. A mature, sensible person would go check in on Trant, help him with whatever he needs and have reasonable conversations for friends to have. Your gut instinct is telling you to stay away from him. The thought of being around him after what just happened between you is not attractive. But you promised you'd take care of him no matter what.

God, going to see him, not going to see him, both options make you feel like shit. Why is that always the way in your miserable fucking life?

Alcohol will help you decide. After a few drinks, you'll be able to think much more clearly.

You lose most of the next few hours. You remember screaming and banging your head against the wall until the neighbours started banging back and yelling for you to shut up. Then you remember biting your nails until they hurt. You don't remember how much you drank, but you do remember at one point you decided against passing out on your own tonight.

You find yourself outside Trant's apartment building. You don't know how you got here. You feel sick. Not just about facing Trant. You feel physically sick. You walk over the grass and throw up in the bushes. Then you lose your balance and fall over. Instead of trying to get up, you decide to sit there on the grass. You just need a minute to get your shit together. Just a minute.

You're vaguely aware of some footsteps, but you falsely assume it is someone just walking past until you feel a hand on your shoulder. You look up, the taste of whiskey and vomit still in your mouth, and see Trant.

"I saw you from the top of the steps," he says.

"You were watching me?"

"No. I was just standing there, thinking," he says, and drops into a crouch beside you. "Are you okay, Jean?"

You need to say something, just go for it. Trant was right, there's never a good time. So fuck it. Just say it. How could it make things any worse?

"No, I'm not fucking okay!" No, not that. But it's a start.

"What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong! Why, Trant? How can you do this to me?"

Trant stands up. "Jean, please stop shouting. Come inside," he says, holding out a hand to you.

"What's the fucking point?"

Trant takes hold of your arm, and you struggle free. He grabs you again, tighter this time, and pulls you to your feet. Being manhandled by him like this fills a need deep inside of you. You want to struggle and fight him, but you can't be sure he won't falsely assume you want him to let go of you. You let him take control and put an arm around you. You lean on him more than is strictly necessary as he leads you inside.