You have less than an hour before your shift starts, so you drive straight to the precinct. You park up and close your eyes for a moment. Obviously you're not going to sleep here but maybe you can rest your eyes at least.
Suddenly there's a loud knock on the window. "Good morning, partner!"
You open your eyes and see Harry's grinning face. It's been a long time since he looked at you like that. Your head spins. You're confused. Did you imagine all that shit? Harry's memory loss. Switching partners. Trant's illness. Was that all some fucked up dream?
"What the fuck are you talking about?" you say.
Harry opens the driver side door. "We're partners for the day," he says.
"Ugh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me," you say, stumbling out of the MC.
"Hey, who's MC you driving?" he asks.
You don't know whether he's taking the piss so you don't answer. "Thought you were supposed to be covering for me yesterday, shitkid. What gives?"
"Oh, Kim said he actually preferred to have today off, so I switched with him," Harry says.
"You'd jump off a cliff if Kim asks you to, huh?"
"What? I mean, yeah," he says. "I trust him. There'd have to be a good reason for it."
You narrow your eyes at him, scanning for any sort of sarcasm in his voice. But no, he's being completely serious. This is going to be a long fucking day. "Okay, partner," you say, putting as much disdain into that word as possible, "first job, get me coffee. And something stronger if you've got it."
You follow Harry into the building and sit down at your desk as he goes to put the kettle on. You should do some work, but you end up staring blankly at the picture Mikael drew for you. The thought of having dinner with Trant tonight makes your heart race. Excitement and terror are at war within you.
"Six spoonfuls of coffee, just how you like it," Harry says, putting the cup down on your desk.
You jump. How did he get over here without you noticing?
Picking up the cup, you take a sip. It burns your mouth.
Harry perches on the edge of your desk. "So, what's on the cards for us today?"
"You tell me. You're the superior officer, or have you forgotten that as well?"
Harry raises his eyebrows. Probably surprised since you normally downplay the fact that he outranks you. "No," he says. "Judit helped Kim work our cases yesterday, so I'm at your disposal all day."
You nod and take another sip of boiling hot coffee. Moving a few things on your desk, you find a note from Judit. She tells you what Harry just told you, and adds a few ideas that occurred to her about your gang case. You copy them down into your notebook.
"Think I'm gonna need another coffee before I'm fit for anything," you say.
Harry gets up. "That reminds me, there's something I need to show you," he says, giving you a huge wink and beckoning to you.
As you follow him downstairs, you start to think maybe he isn't so useless after all.
"I didn't get much sleep last night, me and Kim were up till late playing board games," he tells you as you reach the bottom of the steps down to the dusty archiving room.
"Board games," you say, and feel too hypocritical to even put a disparaging tone into it.
"Yeah! Kim's amazing, but I'm getting better. I don't think there's much that he's not good at," he says, with a look that's almost a swoon.
"Yes yes, we're very lucky to have him here," you say.
Harry takes a little bag of powder out of his pocket and grins at you. You give him a nod in response.
"So why did you not get any sleep, Jean?" he asks as he pulls out a random file, puts it on top of a filing cabinet and pours some of the powder out onto it.
"Oh, you know, the usual," you say, as he searches his pockets. You find an old business card and hand it to him.
"Pole dancing at that high class place on Boogie Street?" he says, looking up from breaking up the lumps and shifting the powder into two lines.
"Fuck off," you say. You know all of his can-opening techniques, and you won't fall for them. "Depression fuelled insomnia is much more fun."
Harry takes out a ten reál note and rolls it up, does one of the lines and then passes it to you. You snort the other one then pass the note back to him.
"You okay, Jean?" he asks you.
Your head whirls. That's the sort of question that used to prompt you to either punch him or kiss him. Sometimes both. Instead, you laugh. "Never fucking better!" you say. "No, seriously. No sarcasm this time. You actually pulled through for me this time, shitkid." You sniff and wipe your nose on the back of your hand. "Oh yeah, that's the good stuff."
Harry grins at you, his eyes too wide, too bright. He pats his pocket. "There's more for later. Unless you wanna do it all now and be super super cops?"
It's a tempting offer. "Better not. Don't wanna come down in the middle of a shift. Save that shit for later."
"Good thinking," he says. "So Jean, are you okay? Just, you've seemed different lately. Like the other day, you were even in a mood with Trant. He was really hurt when you ignored him."
Harry may as well have stabbed you in the gut. There's always the chance he's making it up to wind you up and get you to spill whatever secrets he's sure you're hiding. But you've seen him have eerie insight into how other people are feeling too many times to dismiss it completely. Well, whatever. Trant obviously forgave you so what does it matter? But did he though?
"Just thought you'd be glad he was back, that's all," Harry says.
"What are you blabbering about? I am," you say, walking past him and heading back upstairs.
You go to your desk and drink the rest of your coffee standing up, grab your notebook, then go to sign out the pool MC. "Right, partner, let's roll!"
"Let's go, Kim! I mean, Jean," Harry says, speaking way too loud.
Great, just great, you think. Tell everyone what we've been doing.
On your way out you put a cigarette in your mouth and offer the packet to Harry, hoping this will shut him up. In the doorway, you automatically lean your head close to his while he lights both cigarettes. You shudder when you realise what you're doing. Muscle memory is a bitch.
"Hey, that's Trant's MC," Harry says.
"Yeah," you say, blowing out a plume of smoke, and willing him to not fucking comment on it.
"How is he?"
"Fine."
Harry opens his mouth, and you're afraid he's going to say something spooky and supranatural like he's not okay. You're scared he'll die and you've got it so bad for him that if he dies you'll die too. But what he says is, "Cool."
He holds his hand out to you as you approach the pool MC. "I'll drive," he says.
"No, I'll drive. I guarantee I'm less fucked up than you are," you say, hoping to god that you're right.
You spend the day following the leads that Judit suggested. You kick yourself for not thinking about these things yourself, but your head really has been elsewhere these past few days.
Half way through your shift you feel the artificial energy from the speed wearing off. You agree to park the MC somewhere secluded for 'lunch'. You do some more speed and smoke a couple of cigarettes, and neither of you think about food at all. It's uncomfortably like old times.
"It's still there," Harry says.
You follow his gaze to what everyone calls the Next World Mural. "Well, where'd you expect it to go?" you say.
"Dunno," he says. "Do you think it's right?"
You shake your head. "I've told you before, it's not about whether it's right or wrong," you say. "The people like it. It speaks to them or some shit. Figure they like the fact that somebody else has decided it's too late for them. Takes the responsibility off them for not finding some other loser to shack up with, eh? It's not their fault. It's fucking society's fault. It's the Coalition government's fault nobody wants to fuck 'em."
Harry nods along thoughtfully as he smokes his cigarette. "Do you think it is, then?"
You lean back in your seat again. "What?"
"Too late for us."
You look at him. He looks back at you. He looks good. Better than he's looked in a long time. His hair is washed, facial hair trimmed, his clothes are reasonably clean, even his skin looks better. His pupils are huge, but that's probably the drugs.
You wonder, not for the first time, if he remembers anything about what you two used to get up to off (and sometimes on) the clock. He remembers how you take your coffee. He remembers about always lighting your cigarette for you. Goddamn him, why does he have to look at you that way? All helpless and needy, like you're the only one, the only special one who can save him. Fuck. You can't breathe.
"It's too late," you croak out. "It's always been too late."
He sighs. "You're right. Who would love me, right?" he says, his cigarette burning down between his fingers.
Did I? you think. You never thought of it like that. You always justified it by telling yourself he needed you. Did he love you? Did he hate you? You're not sure you can tell the difference. "Love's a fucking scam to sell flowers and chocolates," you say, waving your cigarette about. "The most you can hope for is someone'll fuck you once in a while."
Harry's eyes go distant and he wraps his arms around himself. For a moment you're afraid he's going to have another Dora freak out.
"At least you've got someone to play board games with, right?" you say.
He snaps back to reality, and a fond smile crosses his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I have."
You smirk at him.
His mouth drops open. "Wait. You didn't think I was making a euphemism did you?"
"Well, were you?" you ask, then quickly add, "Wait, don't answer that. I do not want to know. No. You're not putting that picture in my head."
Harry has been at the top of his game today, working his magic on suspects, pulling wild hunches out of nowhere. In fact he makes you feel a bit useless in comparison. But he's not always like this. Never has been. You always thought you'd be so relieved when you didn't have to deal with his shit any more, until that time came and the loss of it made you feel so empty and dead inside. You've distanced yourself from him to cope. You're no longer his satellite, you're cast loose. No, that's not true. Not quite. You've been orbiting around Trant instead. But how long until he cuts you loose too? How long until you're totally devastated again?
Harry elbows you. "So what about you, huh? You seeing anyone?"
"Me?" You laugh, but Trant is already on your mind. Could you love Trant? Do you want him to love you? God, Harry better not do his mind reading shit on you or you are fucked. "Fuck no! I'm too goddamned depressed for all that shit."
Harry throws the butt of his cigarette out of the window and looks glum. "You know, I don't think it's too late for you. I don't want it to be. Because I'm older than you and if it's too late for you it's super too late for me."
You narrow your eyes at Harry. He's being nice to you as a crude attempt at can-opening, or an attempt to get you to pity him. Either way, not fucking happening. You take one final drag on your cigarette before tossing it. "Come on, let's get back to work before it's too late for that."
You're surprised at how much help Harry is. In the circumstances, you would have been forced to hide your lack of disappointment if he had been a major hindrance.
"Hey Jean. You don't actually want to solve this case, huh?" Harry says out of nowhere as you head back to the MC.
You look at him. There's absolutely no normal way he could know about your promise to yourself regarding this case. How it's all that stands between you and the sweet release of death. You shrug your shoulders. "It's hard to get enthusiastic about a bunch of dead gangsters, but unfortunately I can't just write I don't fucking care, case closed," you say.
"Gangsters are people too, Jean," Harry says.
"Are they."
"Yeah. They've got hopes and dreams and families and people who love them just like the rest of us."
"And they'll blow your head off as soon as look as you."
"We've all shot people."
"It's not the same."
"Is it not?"
"I gotta stop you there, shitkid. Any further down that road and you'll be off to join the fucking Syndicat des Pacifistes," you say, reflecting that on balance it might have less annoying to tell him the truth.
Harry shakes his head. "Kim would understand."
"Would he?"
"Yeah. Kim just gets me. It's like we've known each other our entire lives."
"Great," you say emotionlessly. And you wonder, can you be happy for him? Can you at least not resent him for his happiness?
As you're getting into the motor carriage, you wonder if you could cajole Harry into punching you. Just a comment about his obsession with Kim should do it. You'd let him kick the shit out of you and maybe you'd feel normal again. You try to put the thought of your head. Trant made it clear he was going to have words for you later. Maybe that'll satisfy your desire to be punished like you deserve.
"Kim'll be back tomorrow," Harry says. "I wonder what he's been up to today?" You tune out and listen to the engine noise and the inane chatter of Primeline's evening show.
Before you know it, your shift with Harry is over. He'll be back to working with Kim tomorrow, and you'll be back to working with Judit. And you're… surprisingly fine with it. You're not just telling yourself that.
No, really. Working with Harry again hadn't been as bitter as you thought it might be, but nor had it been as sweet. You stopped far short of clinging to his legs and begging him to take you back as his partner.
Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Maybe it's the speed still in your system. But you're feeling surprisingly okay with how things are. Right now, you feel like you can keep moving forward, even if things are hard, even if things are shit. Maybe once that gang case is closed, you might stick around for a while longer, see how things turn out.
You drive over to Trant's place in a daze. All you can think is the other drivers must have gotten out of your way.
You let yourself into building as you used to do, take the elevator up and knock on his door. A few moments later Trant opens the door with a smile. Despite everything, he still smiles at you. "Hey Jean, come in," he says.
"Hey," you say, and find yourself smiling back at him as you step inside. You feel a twinge of guilt as you remember how Harry told you he was hurt when you ignored him. It makes you want to wrap your arms around him.
"That was really good timing, dinner has just arrived," he says.
You step forward and pull him into a hug. He makes a sound of surprise, and returns your hug, briefly. Then he pats you on the back and laughs nervously.
"Good, I haven't eaten all day," you say.
"Oh Jean, you really should take better care of yourself," he says, leading the way into the kitchen.
Dinner turns out to be nothing short of a feast, consisting of many different dishes, most of which you can't identify. Trant tells you about each of them and their cultural significance, and you start to suspect he had asked his friend to make something extra special tonight. He tells you he spent the day resting and trying to recover, and asks you about your day. You give him the (heavily edited) highlights of your day working with Harry.
"You must be tired. Go and make yourself comfortable. I'll make some tea."
You head into the living room, and before you can sit down you notice something. A blue book sits on the coffee table. There's no mistaking it, it's Trant's journal. This is not here by chance. You've never seen it him leave it here before. You feel your blood pressure rise. Just as you're starting to actually trust him, he's starting to fuck with you. Just fucking perfect. What made you think he'd forgive you and forget about it? People never let you off the hook that easily.
You sit down on the couch and lean forwards, resting your elbows on your knees. This is obviously a test. He's expecting to catch you reading it again. Well, you're not going to give him the satisfaction. No matter how interesting his secrets may be, he can fucking keep them.
Trant walks into the room with two cups. Before you even say anything, you can see he looks on edge.
"I didn't fucking touch it," you say, and refuse to take the cup he holds out to you, so he places it on the table.
"I didn't say you did," he says, sitting down beside you, a picture of innocence. "Have you read all of it?"
"No."
He swallows. "Would you like to?" he asks, and you feel like this is another trap.
You shake your head. "Just get to the point. What the fuck are you trying to pull here?"
Trant blinks. "Nothing!" he says. "I wanted to talk about this with you, and I didn't want to give myself the option of backing out. I'm merely trying to establish what you read that upset you so much. I'm sure I didn't write anything negative about you in there."
You scratch at your beard, and pull on the hair. What more can you say if he's so intent on misunderstanding? Trant sips his tea and looks as uneasy as you feel. You wonder if you should just leave. Running away seems the safest option right now. You're questioning why you ever came here.
You drop your head into your hands. "I fucked up, okay? I shouldn't have read it. Can we just forget about this?"
"I don't think I can. I want to understand why you reacted the way you did."
"It doesn't matter."
"I was going to wait until I was feeling better, but I don't know when or even if that will happen. I also wanted to wait until you were feeling better." Out of the corner of your eye you see Trant glance down at your arms, which are covered by your sleeves, but the look still makes you feel very exposed.
You scoff. "I'm not gonna get any better. This is as good as you get," you say.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Life's always been shit."
"And I really wish that wasn't so. But you must know it doesn't make me think any less of you." He's quiet for a moment. "It seems like there will never be a good time for us to talk about this." He swallows. "But, I think you know already."
"Know what?"
"Jean, youdo know I have feelings for you, yes?" he says, and you feel heat rush to your face.
Fuck.
There it is, in no uncertain terms… what? What you've been hoping for? Afraid of? You don't know. Trant is expecting you to say something, but you can't. You're frozen. You're speechless.
"Or is that why you're so uncomfortable?" he says, and his voice is suddenly quiet and uncertain. "Is that why you were so upset by what you read in my journal?"
You lift your head slowly to look at him, check for any signs he's lying. Any signs he's fucking with you. He's looking away, and he's put the cup down, his hands now curling into the fabric of the couch.
Shit. Shit. Shit. You need to say something. Do something.
You reach out and touch his hand. He flinches, then curls his hand around yours. You squeeze, and he squeezes back. You realise you've been holding your breath. You let it out and take a few shallow breaths.
Trant moves a little closer to you.
"May I kiss you?" he asks.
You laugh softly and give him a sidelong glance. "You don't need to ask."
He places a hand on your cheek and slowly turns you to face him. "I want to make sure you're okay with it."
Honestly he could have kissed you any time and you'd have been surprised but you wouldn't have been mad. You lean forward and let your eyes fall closed. He presses his lips to yours, and for a moment all your problems go away. He starts to pull away but you kiss him back, waves of pleasure flowing over you as you move your lips against his and suck on his lower lip. You're still holding hands, and his other hand moves to rest against the back of your head. He's so gentle, he kisses you like he's afraid he might break you.
You could just throw yourself at him. That's what you normally do in these situations. But you're afraid, afraid of falling too deep.
"I'm sorry, I'm not very good at expressing my feelings," he says, pulling away and trailing his fingers across your cheek. Looking into his eyes is almost too much for you to bear.
"I don't do feelings. It's easier that way," you say, searching your pockets for your cigarettes. "I need a smoke."
"Don't go," Trant says, reaching out a hand towards you. "Just open a window."
You go to the window and open it as far as you can so you can lean out with your cigarette.
"I've read extensively on the matter. Some people grow up in very stoic families and just aren't socialised to express their feelings. And that is compounded by the stigma attached to males showing their feelings at all in many societies. And although it all too easy to read up on how to properly express one's feelings, it is quite another to put that into practice. My mother and father telling me to always smile, be polite and to concentrate on suitable areas of study is deeply ingrained in me."
You listen to him as you blow smoke into the wind, angling your cigarette so the smoke won't gust back into the room.
"Were your parents anything like that?" he asks.
You think of your father yelling at you, your mother and brother taking his side. Of course they yelled at each other too. And you yelled back, but that never went unpunished. "I don't want to talk about them," you say.
"Okay. You don't have to. But if you ever want to talk about them, or anything else, I will listen without judgement."
You grind the end of your cigarette against the wall outside and watch the dying embers snuffed out. That's the price of becoming close to someone. They always want to know more about you. Trant thinks he knows about the darkness inside your head, but in reality he has only scratched the surface. Part of you really wants him to be the one who totally understands and accepts you, but you know that's impossible. If he really knew you, he'd hate what he saw. God knows what he sees in you, but it isn't real.
You're not sure how long you stand there, hunched over with your forearms resting on the window frame. It's not cold but you shiver anyway. What are you gonna do, get drunk and fuck? You sense that Trant wants more from you than that.
Suddenly you're aware of a presence. Trant is standing beside you. He puts his arms around you and rests his head on your shoulder. "Jean?"
"I can't do this," you mumble.
"What do you mean?"
You stand up and struggle out of his arms. "You're too good for me, Trant. You'll only hate me in the end. Everyone always does."
"I can see you really believe that, but it's not true. I don't think I could ever hate you, Jean."
You wrap your arms around yourself and look away.
"Why don't you give me a chance? We can take things slow."
You shake your head. "I don't do feelings. I don't do relationships." You shudder at that last word.
He takes a sharp breath in and then lowers his head and lets it out. He looks so sad you feel like your lungs are being ripped out of your body. "I don't want to lose you. Tell me what I need to do to keep you around."
You're tempted to put your arms around him as you have before. But you know that'd only hurt him more in the long term. "You're better off without me, Trant. Everyone is."
He shakes his head. "That's not true. My life is so much better with you in it." He swallows. "I don't know what I'd do without you. I know you say you don't do feelings, but you have been an essential source of emotional support to me." He pauses, and looks at you as if he is expecting a response. When you don't give him one, he continues. "And I would never have made it to Ozonne yesterday for my appointment without you. That's an undeniable fact, not an opinion."
You stare at him for a moment. You want to construct some argument, no matter how ridiculous. But it hurts to see Trant upset, and you hate yourself for doing this to him. Whatever you do, you're going to hurt him. You don't know how to do anything else.
You fall forwards and grab him around the shoulders, sniffling back the tears that prick at your eyes. He gasps, and then he clutches you tightly. "You must be tired, Jean. You haven't been home in two days. You haven't slept," he says.
You try to say something, but all you can do is make a noise. Yes, let him make excuses for you. Let him lie to himself.
"Do you want to stay here tonight?" he asks you as he strokes your back.
You think of the walk home. It isn't far, but you're not in the best state for it. You remember the speed you took with Harry and realise you're coming down hard. Trant doesn't need to know that. Do you really care if you get hit by a bus crossing the road? Maybe it'd be better for everyone that way.
"I really picked the worst time to drop this on you. I'm sorry. We can talk about it later. You should get some sleep."
"Okay."
Trant steps back, keeping his hands on your shoulders for a moment. There is still some tension around his eyes, but he smiles at you. You don't deserve it, but he smiles nonetheless.
He goes to sit down, and rests his forehead on his hand.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes," he says, smiling weakly. "Just a little light headed. I thought I'd rested enough, but-" He sighs. "I'm so tired of being tired."
"Wake me up if you need me."
"Thanks. And Jean? I'm here if you need me."
You nod. You really don't know how to feel. Exhaustion has you in its grip. You're so tired that you think you might actually sleep tonight. Maybe in the morning you'll be able to make sense of all this. Maybe.