Leave It In The Sun 02
CHAPTER TWO
Precinct 41 is more or less how you left it. You think. You still don’t remember much about anything beyond approximately three weeks ago, but it feels right somehow. It feels like you’ve walked through those doors thousands of times.
LOGIC: Because you have, of course. There will always be a part of you that cannot forget, no matter how hard you try. Which is oddly comforting, in some horrible way.
It’s an uneventful, if awkward, first day back. You don’t know these people the way they know you. They know you better than you know yourself, even. Or at least, they know the person you used to be, and that’s someone you still can’t quite fathom.
...
When you arrive at the door to your shared office, your coworkers--friends?--greet you with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Judit Minot opens the door and gives you a warm yet nervous smile. Like you’re a wild raccoon trying to break into the garbage and she just went ahead and opened the lid for you.
“Well, if it isn’t Dick Mullen!” exclaims a scrawny red-haired man. You know him, but you’re blanking on his name along with almost everyone else’s. Eventually, Judit discreetly whispers a reminder to you: that’s Chester McLaine.
“Mullen actually showed up?” grunts the man behind him. Mack Torson, you’re informed. “Goddamn. Alright, I guess I owe you 20 reàl, Chester.”
You do remember Jules Pidieu, the man you spoke to the most over the radio back in Martinaise. Hunched over, one knee on the passenger’s seat of Kim’s beloved Kineema.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He was more patient with you than the others, for the most part. Tried to minimize the damage you were doing, embarrassing yourself in front of your coworkers.
INLAND EMPIRE: He was so kind when you sobbed and begged him to come pick you up and bring you home to Jamrock like a frightened child.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You can do it, sir.
Then there’s Jean Vicquemare. You definitely didn’t forget that name. Not since remembering it again, anyway. Like the old silk mill itself, you can’t completely scrub this man from your mind.
EMPATHY: He doesn’t seem to know how to react, though. His eye twitches and his mouth contorts strangely when he sees you, like he practiced a million different possible scenarios in the mirror the past two weeks in preparation, and now they’re all bubbling to the surface at once and fighting for dominance on his face.
Finally, he settles on one: a vaguely disgruntled half-frown and a gruff, oddly cordial, “shitkid.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: This room and everyone in it is so familiar. Frayed as it may be, the connection persists. Unbreakable. Deep down, you know you’re supposed to be here.
INLAND EMPIRE: So why do you feel so out of place?
...
Sometime around midday, Jean finally approaches you. He’s holding a stack of papers that he drops roughly on your desk with a thud. Judit hovers nearby, on alert.
“I doubt you’re sober enough for this,” he says. “But try to pay attention.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You are in fact too sober for whatever this is.
PAIN THRESHOLD: The hangover is still kicking your ass.
“Just tell me what you want, asshole,” you grumble, rubbing futilely at your pounding head.
“I want you to do your goddamn job,” he says dangerously, teeth clenched. “You think you can manage that, or am I on my fucking own again, huh?”
“Jean,” Judit cuts in. “Please. Let’s have just one nice day before we start this again, yes?”
Jean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.
PERCEPTION: You look down at the documents and realize that they’re part of a case file. One you recognize.
“The Unsolvable Case?” you say, puzzled. “But I solved it. Because I’m a great detective, remember?”
“It’s been reopened. Your, ah, method of solving it has proved…inadequate,” Judit says carefully.
Jean slams his palms down on the desk inches from yours, sending some of the loose papers flying. “Harry, you shattered a man’s fucking kneecaps! You didn’t solve shit!”
EMPATHY: When he locks eyes with you, you suddenly realize just how intense his anger really is. You have disappointed this man so many times, and that history has built itself into furious rage. Maybe even hatred.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: His feelings toward you are not hatred, but they are very close to it. He cannot bring himself to hate you, not really. But if he could, he would.
INLAND EMPIRE: Oh yeah. That was how you solved the case, wasn’t it? You know you reread this one along with the other case files back in Martinaise when you recovered your ledger, but the details still swim around the ruins of your brain, slipping out of your grasp and darting away to the edges again.
“What’s done is done,” Judit interrupts.
EMPATHY: She knew this would happen. That’s why she trailed after Jean, ready to throw herself between the two of you when necessary. To protect you and him. From each other.
“Harry, would you please read through the updated case files?” she asks kindly. “Jean, let’s give Harry a moment to catch up.”
“Catch up,” he mutters under his breath. “Yeah. Hurry and catch up, shitkid. I’ve been spending the last week doing damage control on this little development.” He fixes you with a glare. “Clean up after your fucking self for once, would you?”
You flinch from his words as if he had physically struck you.
EMPATHY: He wants this to hurt you. He’s choosing his words to deal maximum damage.
INLAND EMPIRE: Haven’t you suffered enough?
SUGGESTION: Have you really?
“Jean,” Judit hisses. “Enough. Please.”
Jean allows himself to be dragged away, and you turn your attention to the case files now scattered on your desk.
CASEFILE: Apparently, the case has been reopened due to Burke’s new addictive substance of choice: any and all opioids he can get his hands on. Unfortunately for old Burke-o, the “getting his hands on them” part has proven rather difficult.
YOU: How did he get addicted to opioids in the first place?
CASEFILE: Turns out being beaten to within an inch of your life by a drunk cop can result in some long-term health issues.
EMPATHY: He’s taking opiates to relieve the chronic pain in his ruined bones and rattled brain.
CASEFILE: Anyway, due to the fact that he can’t leave his apartment, Burke’s had a hard time fueling his addiction. That’s where Leslie comes in. In the last month, Leslie has run afoul of the law at least ten separate times.
YOU: What did he do?
CASEFILE: Well, for starters, he’s still a drunk. And he still likes to take his pants off in public. And lately he’s been out in public more often in order to acquire drugs for Burke.
INLAND EMPIRE: Your throat tightens and you are suddenly aware that your hand is shaking as you dig your thumb into the paper.
PERCEPTION: It’s all wrinkly now. Very unprofessional.
CASEFILE: In addition to the latest round of degeneracy and dick-flashing, the 41st has also received reports of theft, burglary, and a delightfully varied sampling of drug-related misdemeanors.
YOU: Is there anything that stands out in particular?
CASEFILE: An attempted bank robbery last Wednesday. According to witnesses, he brandished a gun but did not shoot. When police were called, he panicked and fled the scene empty-handed.
YOU: And where is he now?
CASEFILE: At his apartment.
YOU: And why hasn’t the RCM arrested him for the attempted robbery?
EMPATHY: Then who would care for Burke?
CASEFILE: Leslie was served with a summons and ordered to stay under house arrest until the marked date of appearance.
AUTHORITY: Seems awfully lenient considering we’re talking about a drug-transporting genitalia enthusiast who attempted an armed robbery here.
CASEFILE: You would have to take that up with the responding officer who issued the punishment. The document is signed “JV.”
YOU: And that was the most recent incident?
CASEFILE: No. The latest incident is the one you will be responding to momentarily, right at the bottom of the page: Leslie broke the house arrest order and allegedly pickpocketed several individuals on the street.
YOU: At least he didn’t expose himself, I guess.
CASEFILE: Oh no, he did that too. It’s just that the wallet-stealing stuff sort of overshadows it. You should just assume that if Leslie is in public, his penis is likely to be visible at some point during the outing.
YOU: Noted.
...
ESPRIT DE CORPS: A few rooms and an entire world away, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi sits at a sparse desk nursing a large mug of coffee that has long since gone cold...
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” Judit says politely.
He looks up from his notebook. “Ah, good afternoon, Officer Minot. Is there something you need from me?”
She hesitates, then says, “I wanted to talk to you about Harry, actually, if you don’t mind.”
“I see. And what about him?” he asks in an even tone.
Judit frowns. She looks like she’s regretting doing this already, but she just closes her eyes and takes a breath and answers the question with a steady voice.
“I want to understand how you made it work,” she says, gazing intently at Kim. “Your partnership with him in Martinaise, I mean.”
Kim considers for a moment. “Detective Du Bois has some unusual methods, but he does good work.”
“Yes, but,” she says awkwardly, “about your personal relationship with him…”
“My personal…” The lieutenant clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Officer Minot, but I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean…you know how he is,” Judit says, looking mortified that she has to spell this out. “The drinking, the drugs, the whole…unstable mental state he’s in.”
“Yes, officer, I do know,” the lieutenant says, his face made of stone. “And as I said, he does good police work.”
Judit bites her lip. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi, would you consider your rapport with Lieutenant Du Bois to be…good? Friendly?”
“You could say that,” he answers carefully.
Judit sits down across from him, hands balled up into fists in her lap, all pretense of professionalism now gone.
“What I really mean to ask is…just… How did you do it? I’ve seen how he works with Jean, the way they treat each other… Let alone how he treats the rest of his coworkers that he doesn’t like as much…”
“Hang on…” Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s face cracks into a small crooked smile. “Are you asking me how to make friends with the detective?”
“Yes, I guess I am,” she says with a small nervous laugh. “You’ve clearly managed to get through to him somehow. He’s…different with you. I don’t understand it.”
He takes a long drink from the mug, reflecting on his experiences with Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Harrier Du Bois. It is true that he was not initially confident in his new partner’s ability to solve the case or even walk in a straight line. Harry did not make a good first impression when he came stumbling down the stairs of the Whirling-In-Rags that morning. Kim had given him a chance, though, because what else was he supposed to do? If he hadn’t, there would still be a rotting corpse in that tree behind the Whirling and at least a dozen more besides.
Circumstances brought them together and obligation bound them, but it’s not just that. There’s something that draws Kim to this strange, broken man. Something that affects both of them even now, after those bonds of obligation have been broken. Something that made Harry walk ten blocks to a payphone just to call Kim to ask about…whatever exactly all that was supposed to be. The very same something that made Kim invite him over anyway.
“Harry is…troubled. Difficult to deal with at times,” Kim says finally. “But you know that already.”
He sighs and sets down the coffee cup. Judit watches silently.
“I think the Harry I met--the Harry that came back from Martinaise--is a different version of the Harry you knew.”
“Due to the amnesia, you mean?” she asks. “But that’s temporary, no? He’s remembered some things, and there’s so much about him that hasn’t changed at all…”
“Officer Minot,” he says, “Lieutenant Du Bois should not even be here right now. If the world made sense, that Coupris ‘40 would not be alone at the bottom of the bay right now.” A gentle, grim smile crosses his tired face. “But luckily, the world does not make sense--at least not the parts of it in close proximity to Harry Du Bois.”
“Was he really that close to…?” Judit shakes her head. “I know the broad strokes of the incident, but the details…”
“Are where the devil is, yes.”
“So what are you saying exactly?”
“It might be helpful to think of this as a…” Kim pauses. “A rebirth, of sorts.”
...
“No, fuck you, Jean! Get off my ass!”
Jean grabs the lapel of your blazer and yanks it hard.
“I’m so goddamn sick of this shit,” he hisses. “Why did you even come back, then?”
INLAND EMPIRE: Why did you?
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Because you have a duty to serve and protect.
AUTHORITY: Because you like the power being a cop gives you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Because of the free drugs in the evidence locker.
VOLITION: Because you don’t know how else to make yourself feel useful.
INLAND EMPIRE: But it’s not working anymore, is it? Every morning you wake up and taste the memory of the barrel of your gun. It never goes away entirely, just lingers faintly on your lips and tongue, sour and cold. But it doesn’t compare to the sensory extravaganza of letting yourself rot away slowly in your cockroach-infested apartment, looking for the right combination of drugs and alcohol that’ll finally stop your vital organs for good.
VOLITION: This is not a productive line of thought. You’re not going to do this. Not today. Today, you will keep your shit together.
You stare back at Jean, wide-eyed and silent.
EMPATHY: He can see that the fire and anger has left you suddenly. Now he is alone in his fury, and it is pointless.
Jean releases his grip on your jacket and you stumble backward. He sighs loudly and runs a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. “Fuck it. Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”
INLAND EMPIRE: You weren’t really even angry at him in the first place, were you?
...
The building where Burke and Leslie rent their apartment looks pretty much exactly what you would expect: shabby, dirty, paint peeling off the walls, a gallery of eviction notices and “BILL PAST DUE” warnings taped to more of the doors than you care to count. Unfortunately typical for this area of town. And you would know. You live just a few blocks away in a building nearly identical to this one.
Jean stops and knocks on a door. No answer.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Of course no one answered. No way anyone could hear that pansy-ass knock. You should do it.
Show Jean how a fucking man knocks on a door.
“That was embarrassing. You’ve got the forearms of a newborn calf,” you declare, rolling up your sleeves. “Step aside, it’s time for daddy to do it right.”
“Never fucking say that again,” Jean immediately interjects.
“By which I mean me,” you clarify. “It’s a continuation of the metaphor in which you are a weak calf and I’m a bull, because I’m stronger. And it’s like I’m your dad, I guess? Anyway, let me know if I’m going too fast for you, Jean.”
Jean rolls his eyes.
RHETORIC: Good. You steamrolled him with that argument. You’re free to proceed with the knocking.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Fuck that door up, son.
You flex your right bicep in preparation. Then you do some range of motion exercises in your wrist and elbow and flex your fingers. You’re gonna do this right. Get the whole arm involved. Every muscle should be working in tandem, each a tightly coiled spring eager for launch. You pull back, twisting your entire upper body… but no, that wasn’t quite right. A warm up swing. Release early and try again.
“Oh my fucking God,” Jean groans, interrupting your concentration on attempt number two.
“Shut up, Jean, I’m preparing.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something you can’t quite make out.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Here comes the wind up…
WHAM!
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And the pitch!
The door shudders under your assault. Jean takes a step back in surprise and yelps, “fucking lunatic!”
PERCEPTION: The door opens just a crack. An eye stares silently back at you from the darkness of the apartment interior.
REACTION SPEED: As soon as that eye lands on you, the door begins to close again.
In a flash, you’re wedging your left foot in the space between the door and the frame. You don’t even think about it, you just move, like a well-oiled policing machine. Then, almost as fast, the door closes on it. Hard.
LOGIC: This was unavoidable. No one could’ve seen this coming.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Yes. This is definitely worth breaking your foot for.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: We must all make sacrifices in the line of duty, lieutenant.
“Open the door, sir,” Jean says firmly. He does not seem concerned about your foot’s new job as a doorstop.
“G-go away,” the person behind the door hisses. “I’m sorry, I’ll do as I was told. Just don’t…”
Jean steps between you and the man, blocking his view of you. He places a hand on the door frame and says gently,
“Leslie, it’s all right. We’re just here to talk.”
“Yer here to talk, but you brought him? Don’t much like his style of conversation,” Leslie says, eyeing you. He tugs the door closed a little further. You grit your teeth in a stoic and manly way. Jean sighs.
“Will you talk to me alone, then?” Jean asks. His tone is gentle and placating, but he’s visibly annoyed.
Leslie looks from Jean to you and back again.
AUTHORITY: What? That’s not how this works. You. Are. The. Police. And he is a criminal. You decide how this goes, not him. Don’t let this degenerate disrespect you like this.
EMPATHY: He has a reason to fear you, though.
INLAND EMPIRE: You threw that respect and authority away when you came to work drunk and ready to beat a man unconscious.
YOU: I didn’t… I mean I was drunk, sure, but I never… It wasn’t planned. It was just…
“Fine,” Leslie says. “You, Officer Vicquemare, sir. You can come in by yourself. Leave that one in the hall, he’s not welcome.”
“Hey, I don’t give a shit about getting into your apartment,” you say brusquely. “Why don’t you come out here and answer some questions?”
Leslie just shakes his head and pulls on the door again.
Jean turns toward you and heavily places a hand on your shoulder. “Shut the fuck up,” he mutters. “I’ll handle this.”
AUTHORITY: Jean lacks the commanding eyebrow of authority that Kim has, which is good because it would be far more dangerous in his hands. However, as he stares you down, you feel something slightly similar. You are not his thrall, yet you are still being sapped of your own authoritative power. It’s awful, strange, terrifying.
EMPATHY: It’s called guilt.
...
It feels like Jean is gone for hours, but it’s probably really only twenty minutes or so. It’s twenty tortured minutes you must spend alone with your wretched thoughts, though, so you’re pretty sure that adds some sort of bonus multiplier.
“Stupid,” you mumble to yourself as you sink down the wall to sit on the floor.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Oh, this was a mistake. You’re a 44-year-old alcoholic with a poorly healed hip injury. You’re not getting up from the floor on your own.
YOU: I’ll ask Jean for a hand.
PAIN THRESHOLD: No. You live here in this hallway now.
PERCEPTION: The cheap low-pile carpet beneath you is matted and caked with years of dirt and grime. Its filthiness is rivaled only by the wall behind you.
But you don’t really care right now. You’re caught up in your fuzzy memories as you read the casefile in your ledger again. You feel so disconnected from these events. This isn’t something you would do… But you did.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur. Somehow Jean manages to convince Leslie to at least briefly meet with you in the hallway before you leave. You immediately forget what you said precisely, and you’re pretty sure it doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing you could ever say to him that would be worth a single shit.
EMPATHY: Not even “I’m sorry.”
…
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: So good to see you again, Harry-boy! Welcome back.
YOU: Welcome back to where?
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: The place you belong. The place you’ll always come back to. The blissful nothingness. Don’t act like you don’t know why you’re here.
YOU: Oh no.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Oh yes!
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Oh Harry, don’t worry. It’s not the end of the world this time.
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: This was just your average evening of drinking yourself stupid.
You push through the heaviness that clings to your thoughts, trying to remember what happened. What did you do today?
You slowly open your eyes.
PERCEPTION: It’s darker than you expected it to be. The moon hangs low in the sky, and a mild breeze carries a hint of cigarette smoke. Clearly you are somewhere outside, and it seems likely that you are lying on a park bench somewhere.
ENDURANCE: You’re dizzy, lightheaded, and still a little drunk.
You make use of the back of the bench to pull yourself up into a sitting position. You look around a little, wondering how you ended up passed out in the park at this time of night. Maybe now you can manage to figure it out.
LOGIC: Okay. Let’s think this through. You went to work today. You know that much. Something must have happened there to make you do this to yourself.
HALF LIGHT: Wait. There’s someone here. You’re not alone.
Behind you, leaning against the back of the bench and breathing out delicate tendrils of smoke into the chilly night, is Kim Kitsuragi. He glances over his shoulder and gives you a little nod. “Good evening, detective.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He looks devastatingly handsome right now. He’s at peak cool. It’s like the city itself is doing its best to showcase the man… The streetlight nearby casting shadows on his face and chest in just the right places. The smoke framing him like some sort of halo. The way the half-finished cigarette rests in the corner of his mouth. It’s really kind of ridiculous, actually.
“Kim,” you say dazedly. “What are you doing here?”
“I’d like to ask the same of you,” he replies. “But I have the sinking feeling that you won’t be able to answer that question.”
RHETORIC: Shit. He’s so good at making you feel bad in so few words.
DRAMA: Just tell him you were out for a stroll after work. It’s not a lie, sire. You can safely assume that you walked here, and it is indeed after work.
LOGIC: There’s no way he doesn’t smell the alcohol on your breath, so what’s the point?
“I… yeah,” you concede. “I’m trying to figure that out myself. Most of the day is just… I can’t remember…”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Fragmented images snag on the rough edges of your mind. A frightened man staring out at you from behind the door. “Catch up, shitkid.” The weight of the ledger in your hands. And then everything explodes into something approaching clarity.
“Fuck,” you mutter.
Kim takes another drag of his cigarette and waits patiently for you to regain your psychological footing.
INLAND EMPIRE: If you tell him any of it, he’ll lose all respect for you.
SUGGESTION: Don’t make him hate you. Please.
INLAND EMPIRE: Then again, maybe he should know so he can finally cut his losses.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Imagine sitting here and telling him that story. Imagine forming those words with your mouth and watching his eyes narrow and his lips tighten and his eyebrows knit together as he pictures it.
LOGIC: Kim is also a cop. He’s done terrible things too, even if you don’t know what they are. He’s had to shoot people. Take lives. He knows you’ve had to do that too.
RHETORIC: Isn’t it different when it’s in self-defense, though? Your life wasn’t in danger. What’s the worst Burke would’ve done to you? What did he ever do that you haven’t also done while drunk off your ass in the streets of Jamrock?
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Do you remember the sound it makes when a heavy clipboard collides with human flesh and bone? Do you remember the look on his face before he fell unconscious? The screaming of passersby who witnessed the brutality? The sensation of both Leslie’s and Jean’s hands on each of your arms, trying to hold you back, fingers digging into your flesh right through your coat?
INLAND EMPIRE: No. Of course you don’t. You washed those things out of your mind because you don’t have to remember any of them.
EMPATHY: Other people do.
“I fucked up,” you finally choke out. “I’m so bad at this.”
“We all feel that way sometimes, detective,” Kim says.
“You don’t understand, I…” You trail off, hesitant. But you want to get this off your chest. You want him to pass judgment on you, to absolve you of your sins.
INLAND EMPIRE: He won’t because he can’t. This is outside his jurisdiction, detective.
He gives you a cold look. “Don’t I?”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Maybe he does. Maybe he’s already familiar with the case, in fact.
“I ruined a man’s life,” you mumble.
“Yes, well, that comes with the job,” Kim says quietly, exhaling smoke.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: How many lives has he ruined?
“A bit of advice, detective: stop the pity party. Killing yourself, metaphorically or otherwise, will not change anything. It is nothing but egoism.”
“What do I do then?”
“Do better.” He puts out his cigarette.
“What do you mean?”
“Let me put it this way,” Kim answers. “Would you choose the same course of action now?”
“No,” you say quickly, without thinking.
INLAND EMPIRE: Are you sure about that? He was going to destroy the ledger and everything inside its apricot-scented inner compartment. The old, faded letter serving as a reminder that once upon a time, it was possible for someone to love you. Gone. He was going to take away the last tattered remnants of her and leave you with absolutely nothing.
“I… I don’t know,” you hesitantly add. “God, I fucking hope not. I don’t want to be that person again.”
“Well, I have good news, then: you don’t have to be.” He thumps you on the back roughly in a way that was probably intended to be comforting, but just makes you feel kind of nauseated.
“I don’t know if I have a choice,” you say.
“Detective,” he says in a tone of voice that tells you he’s done tolerating your bullshit for this evening.
“I mean... Thanks for the therapy session, Dr. Kitsuragi,” you say with a grin. “You’re pretty good at this. Thinking about a career change?”
“Don’t even joke about that,” he sighs, shaking his head.
EMPATHY: There are few people in this world whose personal issues he would be willing to spend time addressing like this. Don’t push it.
Somehow, you manage to stand up from the bench on wobbly legs. Kim weaves his right arm beneath your left and around your waist to help you keep your balance. It feels strange, being this close to him. Is this the first time he’s actually put his hands on you? No, there was the time you got shot… but that doesn’t count, does it? You weren’t even conscious for most of that.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah, and oozing, infected wounds tend to be a big mood-killer.
YOU: Huh? Mood-killer?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: For most people, anyway. Maybe he’s into that.
LIMBIC SYSTEM: Nasty boy.
YOU: No… No he’s not.
Kim’s grip on your waist tightens as you slip a little. There’s probably more alcohol in your veins than blood right now, and it makes it impossible to think clearly anymore. Your head feels so heavy that you can’t help but lean it on Kim’s shoulder.
PERCEPTION: A muscle in his neck twitches under you, but he says nothing. Your nose is filled with the scent of cotton and motor oil.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: No matter how many times he washes that jacket, it always smells at least faintly of motor oil. Secretly, though, he likes it that way.
Deep within the sludge that is quickly filling your skull, a thought forms. A question that feels absolutely vital in this moment.
“Hey Kim?” you mumble. “I got a question.”
“Mhm?”
“Kim, would you tell me if you were a nasty boy?”
“What?”
Then everything fades to black and you lose consciousness once more. You don’t know how you made it out of the park--did you manage to stay standing? Did Kim drag your limp body down the street?--but somehow, for some reason, the next thing you know you’re swathed in an itchy, rough blanket and curled up in the bathtub in Kim’s apartment.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: As kind as the lieutenant is, he was not about to put his nice couch and spotless carpet in drunken vomit range, so into the tub you went.
You stumble out of the bathroom to find that the living room is dark. Judging by the hint of rose-gold light on the horizon, it’s probably sometime around 4:00am. It’s quiet except for the occasional motor or horse carriage on the streets below and a light snore coming from the couch.
PERCEPTION: Kim is asleep in the same nest of blankets he piled there for you the other night.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Sometime around 10:00pm, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi deposits a very drunk and distressingly sweaty unconscious middle-aged man in his bathtub. The lieutenant picks out his least favorite blanket, just in case, and drapes it over the man in the tub. He puts his hands on his hips and sighs deeply.
“You cannot keep doing this to yourself, Harry,” he mutters under his breath. Then he leans down and carefully rolls the man onto his side before leaving. He will not go to bed, though. He will camp out on the couch right outside the bathroom, alert to any sounds of distress from within, until he cannot help but surrender to sleep.
You blink. He looks so peaceful curled up there, glasses askew and the crossword puzzle from the Sunday paper splayed across his chest.
EMPATHY: Clearly he was not intending to fall asleep like this.
SUGGESTION: You should take his glasses off and set them aside neatly, like he would’ve normally done.
You reach out and gently remove the glasses. In the process, your fingertips brush lightly against his face. It’s checkered with little scars and pockmarks, warm and alive and perfect. He twitches slightly in his sleep at the tickling sensation. You quickly fold the glasses and set them on the nearby coffee table before he wakes up and wonders what the hell you’re doing caressing his face.
ENDURANCE: Your stomach growls and your gut twists in empty rage. When was the last time you ate anything? When you wander into the kitchen, you discover something very important and exciting: Kim has all the ingredients you need to make pancakes. You’re pretty bad at a lot of things, but making pancakes is definitely not one of them. Maybe you can surprise Kim with a kick-ass breakfast as a way to thank him for taking care of you last night.
EMPATHY: It’s not enough, but it’s a start.