engagement chicken

by forgetcanon

Summary:

He was happy for them. Happy at least something good had come out of everything, that something could work out in this world. And if he went home to his empty apartment and twin bed, well, that was his problem. If he dressed in one of his nicer shirts, if he spent a while in front of the mirror arguing with himself over how pathetic it was to touch up his appearance for what was a casual fucking dinner with coworkers, it was his problem. He could handle it. It was worth it.

Notes:

Thank you exocredit for the recipe!

Friday night dinner was starting to become something of a ritual. Harry didn’t even ask him in advance, just looked over from his desk, mid-afternoon on the day itself, and asked, “You coming tonight?”

“Depends on what you’re making,” Jean said, as though he was on the fence. 

“Roast chicken,” Harry said. 

Oh, that meant Harry would be bringing in chicken soup, chicken sandwiches, and the like for the next week—and it was hard to beat fresh roast chicken. Harry with his sleeves rolled up, pink from the heat of the oven, slicing off thick, juicy pieces of—Stop it. 

“Yeah, I’ll be by after work,” Jean said. A more exact time wasn’t really needed anymore. They knew it would be 7:30ish, enough time for Jean to get home and shower, decompress a bit. Time for Harry to cook, for Kitsuragi to spend some time without a guest in their apartment. 

He looked forward to closing the week out like this, sad as it was. Shooting the shit in Harry and Kim’s cosy little apartment, trying their damndest to discuss anything other than work and often failing miserably. Most of the time it was just three middle-aged cops playing board games, trying not to think of whatever horrific thing they’d seen that week. Sometimes it reminded him of the old days, years ago when he and his partner were still headed to the top, the two of them cracking open a six-pack and shooting the shit. Before those nights became… 

These days, Harry was sober. He was still erratic, sure, still odd. But Jean hadn’t gotten a call in the middle of the night about him for a long time. He did his work, he volunteered at a cat shelter every other weekend, he made a lot of weird fucking art. He had Kitsuragi as a boyfriend, which was, honestly, impressive- and probably explained a bit about everything else. 

(If Harry messed things up with Kim like he did with Dora—well, Kitsuragi could handle himself. But Jean still dreaded that day, knowing he’d probably pick Harry, would try and stay friends with both of them but he’d always pick Harry, and the idea of losing Kim to his stupidity made him seethe, sometimes.) 

(Except that things were fine between the two of them, and had been for years, and showed no signs of deterioration from the outside. Jean was upsetting himself over fucking nothing.) 

(And, even worse, sometimes he found himself wondering what if Kim had been assigned to Precinct 41 years ago, had a different Satellite-officer…) 

(Stop it. That kind of thinking didn’t help anyone.) 

He was happy for them. Happy at least something good had come out of everything, that something could work out in this world. And if he went home to his empty apartment and twin bed, well, that was his problem. If he dressed in one of his nicer shirts, if he spent a while in front of the mirror arguing with himself over how pathetic it was to touch up his appearance for what was a casual fucking dinner with coworkers, it was his problem. He could handle it. It was worth it.

Their place was a bit further away than Harry’s old apartment, but still walkable. It was on the second floor instead of the fourth, and the downstairs gate actually stayed locked by the tenants most days. Jean buzzed to be let in and Kim came down to open the gate. 

“An entire chicken,” Kim said, without preamble. He was in his post-work wear- same cargo pants, a different shirt, a light jacket to ward off the evening’s oncoming chill. Casual, but still flattering. Jean had to wonder if Kitsuragi tailored everything he wore to best show off his shoulder-to-waist ratio. He suddenly didn’t feel so self-conscious about the button-up he’d picked out- if Harry wanted to eat dinner in pajamas he was free to slob it up, but Jean and Kim had some self-respect. 

“An entire chicken sounds like good news to me,” Jean said, following Kim up the steps. “It’s definitely going to be good news for the rest of C-Wing, that’s for sure.”

Kim sighed, half-looking over his shoulder to reply to Jean: “That may be the case, but the rest of C-Wing didn’t have to watch him carefully select three lemons only for him to shove them inside a bird.” The mental image that conjured was certainly… evocative.

Jean breathed in deeply as he came in through the door- so did Kim. The entire apartment smelled like chicken, undercut by lemon and herbs and the earthy scent of roasting vegetables. 

In his head, he still called this place the new apartment, but Kim and Harry had been living here for something like eight months, now. It was a small place, but it probably would have seemed bigger if nearly every wall didn’t have a bookshelf against it. Only a few actually held books- quite a bit of shelf space was taken up by baskets and containers for paints, notebooks, yarns, tools, MC parts, little empty glass bottles, various knick-knacks picked up from who-knows-where, aerostatic models, board games… 

Frankly, a lot of it was gathering dust. But it was much more promising than Harry’s old empty walls. And he knew from experience that this couch was both comfortable and didn’t smell like vomit or piss.

The kitchen table itself was clean, set for three already. Something sizzled in the oven and the entire kitchen radiated heat. Jean shucked his coat at the door and hung it up on the row of coat hooks, next to Harry’s patrol cloak and Kim’s pilot jacket. “Where’d Harry get off to?” 

There was a thump from the bedroom. Kim moved around Jean to the kitchen. “He’s been cooking since he got home. You don't need me to tell you to make yourself comfortable." 

In the meantime, Kim succumbed to his instinct to neaten; he straightened the chairs at the kitchen table, closed a cookbook sitting open on the counter, and took a clean glass out of the drying rack and put it away. Jean made small talk about the newest junior officers at the 41st, comparing notes on whether or not any of them showed promise. 

(Kim didn't perform training very often- he tried his best to trade the duty away whenever his name was put up for it. The man simply hated teaching. But he did have something of an eye for spotting potential when he saw it.)

"Work talk," Harry chided, as he finally came out of the bedroom. After an afternoon in the kitchen, Jean generally expected a sweat-soaked and food-stained shirt underneath a grin. Tonight, Harry had on a somewhat nice collared shirt and a pair of jeans he definitely hadn't worn to work. At Jean's incredulous look, he smiled, one rosy cheek rising as the finger guns came up. 

"What the fuck did you dress up for?" Jean asked. (In the kitchen, Kim snorted.)

"I can't choose to dress nicely?" Harry asked. "I can't make a nice meal and dress up for it?"

"You never have in the past," Jean pointed out. "I'm not sure who you're trying to impress here, shitkid." 

Harry deflated a little. "Kim," he said, a bit of a whine in his voice. "I look good, right?"

"You do," Kim replied. "Now make sure the vegetables aren't burning."

"The carrots," Harry muttered, moving past Jean, and- cologne, too? What the fuck? It wasn't the old scent he used to wear when Jean started working with him, the shit that had made Jean's eyes water in confined spaces. It smelled kind of spicy, almost floral, on the edge of what Jean might call perfume, instead. But it wasn't bad, and if the shitkid wanted to smell like a milf, that was his business. 

Harry brought a pan of vegetables out of the oven along with a cloud of steam, poking and prodding various pieces of sliced vegetables with a fork. Jean gravitated towards it, stole a crispy-looking carrot from the edge of the pan while Harry was turned away. It burned his fingers and seared his tongue, but it was salty, on the edge of crunchy, and drowned in herbs. "That's good," he said, looking for another piece to filch.

"Got it from a recipe from Trant," Harry said. "It's supposed to be a health thing."

"And it might have been," Kim observed, "Before you drowned them in olive oil and salt."

Harry shrugged, starting to transfer the vegetables to a plate with the fork. (He was already sweating through his nice shirt. How he didn't see this coming, Jean didn't know.) "Olive oil's healthy. The ancient Meteroans swore by it."

"Oh, well, if the ancient Meteroans did it," Kim murmured, making eye contact with Jean over Harry's back. Jean bit back a smile- it wasn't even very funny. But there was something about being crowded in the tiny, hot kitchen, trying to steal a slice of squash that practically came apart on his fingers, Harry’s weak protests that they wait for dinner, that was very compelling. 

Jean edged around them and poured himself a cup of water, leaning to avoid banging his head on the pan rack Harry had installed too low. He took it to the kitchen table and sat down- still only a few feet away, but far enough he couldn't feel the heat from their bodies, couldn't smell Harry’s perfume or Kim’s cologne. Couldn’t get carried away. 

When Harry opened the oven door again to check the chicken, Kim migrated with him to the table. It was a good thing, too, because Harry’s jeans were tight and worn-in, and Jean needed to focus on literally anything else. 

"So," Jean said, looking at Kim, who was Harry's lover, he definitely couldn't be caught staring at Harry's ass by Kim, "What's the latest from the Zéro Carrousel?” 

Kim sighed, which was a good sign. Not for the state of racing in Revachol, no, but for the impending entertainment value. Winding Kim up a little and watching him seethe about engines and incompetent pit crews and behind-the-scenes bribery was a treat and a half. Truth be told, Jean hadn't had much interest in Tip Top until Kim had joined Precinct 41- he enjoyed a good crash as much as anyone, but had little interest otherwise. But he'd picked some up from Kim, some up from tuning into the occasional race in his off-hours.

Harry put in the occasional remark, but mostly he stood in the kitchen, watching Kim go. Making the occasional eye-contact with Jean, looking away again. In another life, it would have been guilt- back when Harry had been capable of guilt, instead of jumping straight to self-loathing. But he wasn't that man anymore. A similar man, sure. But different in a dozen ways, each adding up to, well, someone that Jean could stand to have dinner with. Someone that Jean hadn't worried about for quite some time- at least, not in the same way. Their job was still dangerous and Harry still sometimes took risks that made Jean want to strangle him, but he didn't go off half-cocked with no one at his back, he didn't find his fun in ways that involved waking up in alleys and calling Jean at sunrise to please grab a horse (or the MC, when they'd gotten it) and come get him, it'd never happen again.

In the kitchen, Harry shifted, head tilting, eyes on Jean. He shook the memory off. It was just a memory. Better to leave it where it belonged. 

Kim wrapped up about the time that Harry pulled the bird out of the oven. It was gorgeous, glistening, with golden-brown skin. Harry congratulated himself on the skin crisping like it had. He didn't get far into carving it before he took off his shirt, hanging it over the back of the empty chair that was going to be his. The undershirt beneath was already wet across the chest and back, and Jean did his best to keep his eyes on the chicken and not on his best friend's biceps flexing as he removed the legs, then sliced pieces for the three of them, spooning juice over the meat as it steamed on their plates.

"Dolores fuckin' Dei," Jean muttered, as Harry fucking salted the sliced chicken. “Would you hurry it up? I haven't had blue balls this bad since-" Oh fuck he could not tell this story, here and now. 

"Since...?" Harry prompted. Eyebrows up, grinning. 

“Never you fucking mind,” Jean snapped. 

Harry shook his head and set the carving knife aside. “Oh no. I’ve got to hear this. Kim, haven’t we got to hear this?”

Kim grimaced. “Are you going to hold us hostage until Jean talks? Is that how our dinner is going to go tonight?”

Harry said, “Yes.” Simple, instant. But with a certain gleam in his eye that Jean recognized. 

Jean sighed. Looked like he was telling this story, here and now. But he could ruin Harry’s fun and boil it down to the essentials: ”I was on a date and ripped the condom when I was opening the foil. Had to get dressed and find a Frittte to get another. In the fucking rain. In a neighborhood I didn't know."

Harry winced, even as he chuckled. "Fuck, I don't think I would have had the stones to go back.”

Jean shrugged. "I was really into her." 

He wasn't sure why he lied. Kim and Harry both already knew he wasn’t picky about the sex of his partners. It wasn’t like they were going to be weird about him sleeping with a man. But the instinct bit into him, even here, even now. 

But Harry snorted at the story, and Kim smirked and said, "Well, I've never known you to give up easily," and the moment passed without remark. 

The chicken was fucking divine, too. Juicy, lemony, swimming in its own sauce. It would almost be a crime, to turn it into soup. Even fastidious Kim went after a wing with his bare hands, oil on the pads of his fingers. (He licked them when he thought neither Harry or Jean were looking, pink tongue darting out between his shining lips. Jean tried to put it out of his mind.)

Dinner concluded slowly, as Harry and Jean gave up on the idea of having just one more slice, and one more after that. Kim nibbled on a final piece of carrot, leaning back in his seat. Harry started gathering plates. He gave Kim a look. 

Kim said. "Have a cigarette with me?"

"Sure," Jean said, instantly. One bed, part of him whispered, as it always did when they passed through the bedroom, as though he hadn't known for nearly two years now. It was neatly made up. Usually when he saw it, it was left loose. But he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about their fucking bed. He stepped onto the tiny balcony and shut the accordion door behind them.

There wasn’t any space out here for any furniture. The ashtray had been glued directly to the corner of the railing. As he and Kim knocked their cigarettes out of their packs, their elbows brushed. Kim lit his with his brass lighter. Offered the flame to Jean. Cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame to protect it from the wind, Jean sucked in a deep lungful of smoke. 

"Thanks," he said. Kim just nodded, eyes closing. Smoking in companionable silence, as they usually did. 

No doubt he was going through his lists of things to do. Tasks to do around the apartment he and Harry managed to keep somewhat neat despite their utter lack of time and two adults' worth of belongings and hobbies. What to do at the precinct tomorrow, the day after, next week, next month. Maybe planning a strategy for Suzerainty later tonight. The glow of the cigarette lit him from beneath. Smoke drifted from his nose, his lips.

His eyes opened. They met Jean's. 

Jean looked away. Leaned on their rusty balcony rail and admired their shitty fucking view of most of an alley and a few parking spaces. Tried to act like he hadn't just been staring at his best friend's boyfriend. Like he hadn't been thinking hard about the way his lips parted around a mouthful of smoke. Yep. Just looking at this fucking brick wall. Like an idiot. What the hell was he thinking?

Belatedly, he remembered the cigarette burning between his fingers. Fuck. Fucking idiot. He took a drag. Inside, through the thin balcony door, through the bedroom, dishes clinked. 

"Dinner was good," Jean said. 

"Mm." Kim exhaled. Smoke drifted past Jean's ear. "Harry's getting back into a cooking phase."

Harry drifted in and out of hobbies, these days. Jean couldn't say he minded. It was better than drifting in and out of bars, drug dens, Jean's apartment at three in the morning...

Though that had been a long time ago. Long enough that Jean could sometimes forget to brace for it, sometimes for weeks at a time. 

"Good," Jean said. "Does he still have that bread machine from last time?"

"I'll put it on the counter tomorrow," Kim said, an amused lilt to his voice. "As long as he doesn't forget about his starter again."

Last time, Harry had fed it until he drifted back out of cooking and neglected to do something about the jar of glorified mold. It had stayed in the cupboard for weeks, festering. Kim's displeasure upon its discovery had manifested in a palpable chill, felt for days. Jean snickered at the memory, Harry looking like a kicked dog over a jar of fucking molding yeast. 

"I'm glad," Jean started. Winced. Soldiered on anyways. "I'm glad he's... well..."

"Doing better?" Kim said. 

Jean made a sound that was cousin to a laugh, drained of all volume and humor. There was a time that a day when Harry showed up to work not smelling like literal shit was a good start to the day. “Yeah. He’s… happy.” 

Kim hummed again. "You could stand to say it to him, sometime."

Jean turned. Kim's face was carefully devoid of judgement. But it was still probably there, concealed under a decade and a half of dealing with juvie cases. "Pssh. He knows."

"He suspects," Kim said. He blew out one last stream of smoke and ground the remains of his soldier in the little ashtray. "It would be nice, to have proof."

But that would mean, well. Telling him. To his face. Jean turned back around, trying to disguise how the idea grabbed a hold of his intestines and twisted. 

A dish clattered. Jean tensed- but nothing broke, there was no sound of pain. Harry's footfalls fell heavily, but they didn't stumble. Right. Right. He breathed out and stubbed out his own cigarette beside Kim's. "Yeah." 

The two of them lingered in silence. A breeze meandered through the city and found their little balcony. Kim shivered.

"Should we head in?" Jean asked. 

Kim didn't reply. Jean turned, about to ask again. Kim was looking at him with that same analyzing gaze from earlier, dark eyes intent on Jean's, looking for... something. 

Jean swallowed. 

Kim blinked. Cleared his throat. They were little tells- Kim was one of the most rigorously controlled men Jean had ever met. He said, "I've been wondering something for a while now. About whether you- weren't understanding, what we've been offering, or if you've been politely ignoring it." 

Jean blinked. Frowned. "What?" 

Kim closed his eyes, breathed out through his nose. "Jean. The flirting?"

"The..." Jean swallowed again. "Oh." Sitting close on the couch while Tip Top Tournée played the recap. Passing dishes so that their hands touched. The way Harry had discovered a new need to mother-hen Jean, helping him into his jacket, bringing too much lunch at least once a week... Oh, holy shit, the dinner. Harry dressing nicely for dinner. Jean turned away, scratched at his cheek. "I, ah. Thought I was-"

If he said 'reading too much into it,' Kim would know. Know that Jean wanted it. That he'd gotten his hopes up, like the fucking idiot he was. 

But he was kind of stuck on this balcony, and he'd already said too much. He could feel his blood, in his face, in his chest, in his gut. His throat was dry. 

"Look," Kim said, and hesitant was a bad sound on him. Kim Kitsuragi had never hesitated in his life. (At least not that Jean had known.) "I'm glad to be your friend, Jean. So is Harry. If that's what you want-"

"Fuck off," Jean snapped, turning. No, shut up. Shut up! "No, fuck, I didn't-" He ran a hand through his hair. There was no space on the balcony, he needed to move. Critically, he needed to be more than half an arm's reach away from Kim, who was back to studying him, like he was an opponent in a game, or, or a junkie being arrested, volatile-

He wrestled the balcony door open and stepped past Kim, back into their fucking bedroom. He half expected Kim to grab at him, but the lieutenant didn't move. 

Damn it all. Harry was still out in the kitchen. Humming under his breath, but the fucker always had good hearing. 

"Look," Jean said, turning back to the balcony. Kim had turned to watch him, lit from behind now. Expression completely shadowed. Unreadable. "Look," Jean said again, "I didn't- I don't want to mess up what-" He cut himself off again, pacing back towards the bedroom door. Back towards the balcony. Fuck, he had to look deranged. 

(He'd paced in this apartment before. Harry, passed out on the bed. Harry, barely conscious on the couch. Harry, high as fuck in the kitchen, screaming about how Jean was trying to control his fucking life. But that wasn’t this apartment.) 

"Jean," Kim said, calm, handling him. "You don't have to make a decision now." 

Jean laughed, bitter and sharp. "Like you two didn't plan this. Have Kim present it, because he's the reasonable one, have Harry stay inside and listen in case things go well, ready to bail if they don't- Fuck, what the fuck, I was supposed to just be reading into it."

Out in the kitchen, a guilty step. Harry appeared in the doorway and flipped on the bedroom light. He looked- Honestly, he looked nervous as hell, grey-green eyes jumping over Jean like he was looking for clues, sidling into the room like he was trying not to block Jean's exit. 

"Fuck you," Jean spat, practically instinct. This fucker. "You made your boyfriend ask for a threeway? I was your partner for six years, and you couldn't-" 

"Jean," Harry said, eyes widening, "That's not- I didn't want to screw it up, that's all, that's..."

He trailed off because Jean was laughing again, back to pacing. Fuck. Fuck, he wanted to leave, to walk out into the night and back to his place, but if he left then he left things like this, all screwed up and broken, because of fucking Harry and fucking Kim, what fucking possessed them to spring this on him. 

"The fucked up thing," Jean said, "Is that I've thought about this. I thought- I thought it was a stupid fantasy, wishful fucking thinking, and here- and here you two are, just casually dangling it in my face?"

"Jean Vicquemare," Kim snapped, steel in his voice. He stepped in off the balcony, face stern. "Take a deep goddamn breath and think for five seconds." 

Jean was so shocked, he did. He took a breath. He swallowed, and crossed to the (neatly made) bed, and sat his ass down. Put his head in his hands and got his shit under control.

(Holy shit. They’d made their bed just in case-)

He was acting like a lunatic. He was a fucking mess of a person. He was definitely blowing things out of fucking proportion. 

"Fucking damn it," he muttered. 

"Jean." It was Harry's tentative voice, the one he hated, the one he'd never heard before he went to Martinaise and lost his fucking mind, lost all of his memories, lost everything he and Jean had ever built together. "You've... thought about it?"

"Thinking about it is a bit different than actually having it," Jean growled. 

Harry approached. If he hovered over Jean, he was going to snap at him. If he sat next to Jean, he was going to snap at him. 

The mattress dipped as Harry sat- a good distance away. Jean breathed in through his nose- the remnants of dinner, laundry detergent, sweat, perfume- and didn't snap. 

"I'm sorry," Harry said. 

"Cut that shit out," Jean muttered, half-hearted. "Fuck you. How long have you- This dinner thing started months ago."

"It wasn't all just to get in your pants," Harry protested. (Kim made some kind of sound. Amusement, maybe? Consternation, maybe?) "Look- I'm so fucking glad to have you as my friend again."

"You don't remember a fucking thing about what we were like before." 

"I... remember some things," Harry said. "And I read my old case files. I don't- I don't know how it was. But. Sometimes it sounded fucking awful."

"It was," Jean said, dully. "It was- fuck, you were such a piece of shit. A genius. My best friend in the fucking world. Sometimes you could be so kind, was the worst thing. And then you'd turn around and..."

Harry, bludgeoning a man's kneecaps in for the crime of being a big fucking nuisance. Harry, screaming at Jean as Jean tried to wipe vomit out of his beard. Harry, weeping uncontrollably in his arms, begging him not to go anywhere, telling Jean that Jean hated him, that he was going to abandon him like everyone else. 

A hand on his shoulder- from the wrong side. Kim, awkwardly standing, not quite able to meet Jean's eyes. Embarrassed and on edge from the whole thing. "Like I said," Kim said, "You don't have to decide anything tonight." 

Jean didn't dignify that with an answer. "And what the fuck is your stake in this?" 

Kim stared down at him. "You're an idiot," he breathed. "Jean. Which one of us do you think actually brought the idea up?"

Jean stared up at him. (If he was Harry, Harry would have answered the world's dumbest question to prove himself the world's dumbest cop.)

"You're a hell of an officer," Kim continued. Stoic, except for the slightly hunted expression on his face. "A dedicated friend. One of the most stubborn people I know. And you give me a run for my money at Suzerainty."

"Really? That's what I got going for me?" 

"I'm no fucking good at this," Kim muttered, withdrawing his hand. "Harry was going to write you a poem, do you think that would have been better?" 

Wow. That was one way to avoid a tough conversation. Jean bit his lip. 

"I'm still probably going to write you a poem," Harry said. He scootched closer on the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. "If, ah. If you'd like." 

"Fuck you," Jean said, laughter making the words wobble. "And fuck you too, Kitsuragi, you think you can get out of this by tossing Harry under the trolley? You want to fuck me because I'm good at Suzerainty?"

"I want to fuck you," Kim said, "Because you're one of the best men I know, and I don't intend to let you slip through my fingers." 

"Well," Jean said. "That's." He could almost believe it was true. 

Harry cleared his throat. "If, uh, you want to." 

"Oh, I want to," Jean said. It was far too late to be coy about that now. Kim had seen him staring at his lips. 

"Good," Kim said. "Khm. Good." 

Harry scootched closer. Jean could feel him just inches away on his left side, doing that fucking thing where he hovered over Jean waiting to see if he'd lash out or not. Kim was managing to hold Jean's gaze, just barely. 

Two of the RCM's finest officers, and it took all of their effort to get a willing man into bed with them. Jean bit back a laugh and reached out, catching Kim's arm in a light grasp. "Well? After all that were you just planning on staring at me?" 

Kim rolled his eyes, bent down, and kissed Jean. He tasted like cigarette smoke and lemon, his lips were chapped, he was satisfyingly solid as Jean leaned up into the kiss. Kim broke the kiss with a huff and dropped to his knees, inserting himself between Jean's legs like he belonged there, and this time it was Jean leaning down into the kiss as Kim clutched his waist, pressed their chests together. 

Beside them, Harry made a small sound. Jean looked over. His former partner was watching them with wide eyes. 

"Oh," Jean said, "So you forgot you were a voyeur?" Between his knees, Kim's chest quivered in a silent laugh. (Fuck, between his knees. It had been a while since anyone had been there.)

"I- Do I want to know how you know that?" Harry asked.

"No," Jean said. He was going to save that story for when he really needed to humble Harry in a hurry. "And I've got good news. You're an exhibitionist, too. And I really don’t want to share that story.” 

"Oh?" Kim asked. He was carefully lowering his hands from Jean's waist to his hips, staying close, but looking between Jean and Harry. "Are you sure? He may have lost that inclination."

Harry licked his lips. "Only one way to find out," he said hoarsely. And looked at Jean. And didn't move a muscle closer. Jean had to twist around and drag Harry closer by the shirt, lips landing off-center until Harry corrected. 

He'd thought about this, over the years. Before Martinaise. He'd known it would kill him, back then. It might have done something for Harry, for a while, sure. Given him something else to focus on. But he'd get bored, he'd move on, and then where would Jean be? Wherever Harry fucking dropped him, that's where. 

But this Harry raised plants on the windowsill. He apologized for his mistakes- and actually fucking held to his promises to not do shit again. He cooked dinner, and did the dishes afterwards. He made a tiny sound as Jean cupped the back of his head, their beards scraping, their lips parting. 

"You can do better than that," Jean muttered, and Harry pressed in. Their lips smacked and popped. Harry's arm wrapped around Jean's waist, solid, and he radiated heat like a furnace, even while he took Jean for all he was worth, and Kim-

Kim smoothed a hand down Jean's thigh, right along where his cock was coming awake, and Jean cursed into Harry's mouth. It had really been too fucking long. He was going to embarrass himself. 

Harry broke off, lungs working like bellows. Jean swallowed and looked down at Kim. "So?" he asked. 

"Am I supposed to be grading this?" Kim asked. Despite his tone, his eyes had a definite sparkle in them, and his fingers idly stroked the bulge in Jean's trousers. 

"You're supposed to be enjoying it," Harry said. 

"I am," Kim said. A bit defensively. 

"Come up here and kiss me again," Jean said. 

Kim looked between him and Harry, some silent communication going on before Kim said, "I think it's past time our clothing came off."

"I couldn't agree more." Harry was already rolling away on the bed, shimmying out of his shirt and pants at the same fucking time, guess he hadn't forgotten all his bad habits. Jean had seen it before, but not recently. Harry's body was familiar, the round belly, the hair, the height and weight of it. The tan lines were new. Guess he'd been serious about that jogging thing he was getting into. Kim rose to his feet with a groan, lifting his own shirt over his head like he was in the locker room, not about to fuck two of his colleagues at the same time. He was lean, but sturdy. There was a scar on his collarbone, another on his hip. Knife wounds, Jean thought automatically. He'd been in a knife fight- maybe two. Both of the scars were old. 

By the time Jean got his belt undone and his trousers down his hips, Harry was fully nude and eager to drag Jean's shirt over his head. The collar caught on his nose. 

"Watch it," Jean snapped, reaching down to remove his socks. "Damn it, shitkid."

"Somehow I thought a hard-on would make you nicer, not meaner," Harry complained. (Kim laughed. It was a quiet thing. Jean almost missed it.)

"Well, you're about to learn a lot about me," Jean muttered. 

"I meant to ask before we got this far," Kim said. "Did the two of you...?"

"No," Jean said. Quickly, to get it out of the way. "Never. Closest we ever got was me shoving Harry into the shower, and him crying on me after he got out. Now come here."

"Bossy," Kim murmured, and guided Jean backwards up the bed, up to the pillows. He kissed like he argued- leaving little opportunity for a retort. Jean was just fine with that. Beside them, Harry shifted on the bed. Just fucking watching. Typical. 

"So," Kim said, in a pause. "What would you like?"

"What is this, a fucking restaurant?" Jean panted. 

"It's my bed," Kim said. "And I would like some idea of- of what you want. Or know that you don't want."

Jean didn't think there was much he didn't want, from the two of them. Or, at least, not much he couldn't bear to take. "Fuck, anything."

"We can just take turns making out until an idea strikes," Harry offered. Probably because he knew it was his turn next, the greedy bastard. 

Kim's lip pursed. There was a slight inward tilt to his eyebrows. "That works," he said, anyway. 

"Come here," Harry said, and Jean rolled onto his side. Kim settled in behind him, one slim hand warm on his ribs, teasing his nipple, brushing kisses over his shoulder and the back of his neck. (Fuck, Jean knew he had acne back there, had to fight the urge to squirm.) Harry fucking held him, running his hand up Jean's back, through his hair, muttering compliments that Jean half-heartedly rebuked. Jean's heart thundered in his chest. He pawed at Harry’s ass, thick muscle under soft fat. He felt like a live fucking wire. He hadn't been this worked up over having reached third base since he turned 30. 

"This isn't fucking fair," Jean managed. He took hold of Kim's forearm- oh, shit, there was hard muscle under there- and Kim stopped moving. "It's both of you on me-" There wasn't a great way to say, 'It's been a while and I'm already way too fucking hard, the minute something touches my dick I might come.' "It's not fair."

Behind him, Kim hummed in consideration. "You know," he said, smoothing his hand over Jean's ribs in a way that was probably supposed to be soothing. It would be, if Jean couldn't feel his muscles flexing in his arm against Jean’s grip, his voice vibrating against his back. "I put a lot of thought into tonight."

"Kim likes his plans," Harry confided to Jean in what was absolutely not a subtle whisper. 

"And you know what I kept coming back to?" Kim asked. 

Jean had no fucking idea. "Oh shit, oh shit, what if this ruins our work relationship?" 

Harry snorted. Kim sighed. "No. Well, yes. But mostly I kept wondering what you would look like between us." Kim swallowed. "What you would look after we fucked your brains out." 

Jean's dick throbbed. "Oh?" Shit, shit, think of something clever and sexy-

"It's what I was thinking about over dinner," Kim continued. He gently flexed his arm out of Jean's grasp. In front of Jean, Harry was looking at them, gaze switching between Jean and Kim with rapt attention, pupils blown wide. "When you were looking at my lips on the balcony- you have a lovely voice, Jean." 

"Wh-what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?" Jean demanded. "I- fuck-"

"Maybe," Harry said, one of his sweaty hands landing on Jean's hip, "Calm down and enjoy yourself?"

"But what about..." 

"Jean." Kim kissed the shell of his ear. "What part of 'I want to see you squirming and undone' is so hard to understand?"

Jean shuddered. Squeezed his eyes shut. That moment- the low growl in Kim's voice, the flex of Harry's hand on his hip- was going to plague his every distracted daydream for weeks to come. He knew it. 

"Fuck, okay," he said, "Lie back and think of the suzerain, got it." 

Harry snorted. "I know, I know, such a chore." His thumb stroked the edges of Jean's pubic hair. He shuffled down the bed and moved in close, beard and lips on Jean's throat, his collarbone. Jean just held on to a handful of his hair and tried not to moan. 

"I believe," Kim said, "Something was said about taking turns?" Harry started back guiltily. Kim laughed, belly against Jean's back, reaching over him to pat Harry's shoulder. "I'm kidding. You looked like you were having fun."

"Let me know when you want a turn," Harry muttered, and went right back to it. Like Jean was a toy they were sharing. Fuck, Jean needed to never let them know how much he liked that idea. He closed his eyes, trying to banish thought. 

Kim kissed Jean's ear again. His hand found Jean's in Harry's hair, briefly, stroking his head affectionately before it crossed back to Jean's body, sliding down his chest, down his stomach, to the base of his aching prick. Jean twitched, fought down a gasp. 

"Mm?" Harry asked, pulling away from Jean's throat. Kim's grip was deliberate, loose as he slid up Jean's length, firmer on the downstroke, spreading Jean's own slick as he went. Jean shuddered. Harry moaned. "Fuck, Jean, you look so fucking good right now." 

"F-fuck you," Jean spat, all his will devoted to not bucking into Kim's grip. Where was Harry looking? At his face, contorted and scarred? At his prick, leaking all over Kim's hand? "Fuck-" 

Kim's thumb circled the head of his dick. Jean groaned. His hips jerked. Harry's hand squeezed, keeping him steady, and wasn't that another thought to add to the collection of them brewing in the back of Jean's mind: Harry holding Jean still while Kim thrust into him. Or the other way around. Fuck. 

"Next time," Jean said, "One of you is going to fuck me."

Harry groaned, low in his throat. Kim asked, "Only one?"

Jean laughed. "I'm not a fucking teenager any more. I'd like to be able to move the next day." 

Kim snickered. "You may have a point." The whole time, his hand moved steadily on Jean's dick, driving him fucking insane. A piece of warmth that could only be his prick nudged against the back of Jean's thigh. 

"We could be gentle," Harry said. Jean snorted derisively. Harry's forehead rested on Jean's collar, meaning he had to be looking down, watching. His hand trailed up and down Jean’s side, almost soothing, almost tender-

Jean groaned, hips jerking. Oh fuck, it was now. He panted, voice hitching, as Kim sped up his strokes, as the sound his hand made on Jean's skin became filthy, as Harry murmured, "Holy shit, Jean, that's it, fuck you're breath-taking...."

He trembled through the last of it, the last shocks of blood and nerve, as muscles he hadn't even known were tense began to slacken. As he relaxed, Kim's strokes slowed, stopped. 

"Fuck," Harry whispered. He kissed Jean's slack mouth, startling his eyes into opening. Harry's face was red, his irises shockingly pale. (The last time he'd looked like this-) "Holy shit, Jean." His voice was oddly soft, deep in his chest. It knocked the memory out of Jean’s head before it had a chance to form.

"Mm," Kim agreed. He moved further away on the bed, let Jean collapse onto his back. Still tenderly holding his softening cock. 

Jean batted his hand away, trying to insist to himself that he was not embarrassed. (Or maybe he should be?) Kim backed off and started to push himself upright, but Harry's hand snaked out and caught Kim's wrist. A drop of Jean's cum broke loose from his knuckle and dropped back onto his belly. 

And then Harry leaned forward and sucked one of Kim's cum-covered fingers into his mouth. Kim made a sound, somewhere in the neighborhood of surprise, outrage, and delight. Jean just watched, eyes wide, as Harry's lips snacked against Kim's skin, his tongue reached out to get the spots between his fingers...

"Dolores fucking Dei, Harry," Jean muttered. 

Harry's eyes went from his careful work to meet Jean's. He paused, lips still wrapped around Kim's pinky. 

"You missed a spot," Kim said, voice shaking a little. Jean looked over and upwards- Kim was holding himself rigid, his free hand digging into the mattress. His chest was red. His cock curved upwards from the awkward angle of his hips, still half-tilted from trying to get out of bed to wash off his hand. No longer necessary, now. 

"Kim," Harry said, and swiped his tongue along Kim's wrist, getting the last few drips. "I wanna suck your cock."

Jean swallowed. Kim stopped breathing for a moment, head tilting back, expression visible only to the ceiling. He said, “Sure, go for it.”

Harry didn't even give Jean the option of getting out of the way. He leaned over on all fours, elbows on either side of Kim's hips, and went for it. Kim leaned back on the bed, propped up on his elbow. His newly-“cleaned” hand fluttered to his mouth, then to the bed, digging in to the comforter, keeping him propped upright as Harry's head bobbed. The sound it made was fucking obscene. Harry's grunts of effort, the wet suction of his lips, Kim's near-silent open-mouthed gasps. Jean could imagine it- Kim's usually stone-calm face cracking under pleasure, his eyes screwed shut, his lips red.

Wriggling out from under Harry wasn't hard. Kim looked at him, alarmed, but Jean just cupped his cheek and kissed him. Kim made an odd sound, a breathy moan-sigh. He leaned into Jean's lips more than anything else, hardly following as Harry, apparently, sucked his brain out through his cock. 

Jean snorted. "He's like a fucking vacuum."

Kim's laugh broke their kiss. He fell back on his elbows, stomach shaking. "Please," he begged, "Do not put that image into my mind while he has my cock in his mouth." 

"Am I wrong, though?" Jean asked. 

"You aren't, now stop talking about it." Kim's hips lifted off the mattress a little as Harry did something enthusiastic. "Ungh. Stop looking at me—and kiss me." 

The first part of that had been said sharply. The last, placatory. Jean hesitated. Kim looked at him, glasses slightly askew, face red, lips pressed together. So Jean cupped his cheek in his hand, leaned back in, and kissed him. Kim relaxed into it, briefly trying to raise a hand to touch Jean, teetering—and subsiding with a nearly inaudible whine when he realized he couldn't do that without losing his balance. Trust Kim to make this complicated for no fucking reason. 

Jean snorted and took his hand from Kim's cheek to his shoulder, pressing him until he went flat against the mattress. He even tugged a pillow under Kim's head, gentlemanly. (Down the mattress, the noises of enthusiastic sucking subsided. Even Harry had to rest his jaw sometime.) "There." It made it easier for Jean to kiss him, too, sucking on his lower lip.

"Kim?" Harry asked quietly. 

"I'm- I'm fine," Kim replied, as Jean looked down at Harry. That gentle, handling tone was the way Harry treated families of victims. It wasn't a good sign to hear it in bed. Harry's hesitant expression confirmed that something was definitely wrong as Kim continued, "I'm fine, I am, I just..." He averted his face as Jean looked at him. His earlier, deliberate position, looking up at the ceiling, the admonishment not to look at him, well, Jean didn't exactly have to be a detective to work this one out. 

"Don't like being looked at," Jean concluded, making his tone questioning, leading. 

"I don't like being watched," Kim corrected. He reached up and straightened his glasses. "I- don't." He tone was final.

Fuck, Jean got that. He had a complicated enough relationship with his mirror even before you added in another person. "Don't have to justify that to me," he said. He crawled inelegantly back across the expanse of bed, got to his feet, and turned out the light. "That help?”

The room was plunged into mostly-darkness. There was a little light from the balcony, but it was reflected from the streetlights two stories below and did little more than simply illuminate where the balcony itself was. In the darkness, Kim and Harry's breathing suddenly took the foreground of Jean's awareness. 

"That's... That works," Kim said, after a moment. "Come back here." There was a sound- a wet pop. Kim grunted. "Hold on- let me put down my glasses-" 

Jean warily wove his way back towards the sound of Harry resuming his work, trying to remember if there was anything on the floor other than their discarded clothing. His knees found the bed and he felt his way back towards the two of them. 

Kim reached out and pulled him close, his near-silent breathing fast and light against Jean's chest. Jean felt his way around his new lover's body, the smooth skin of his throat, the flex of his bicep, the softness of his nipple, the thin hair on his stomach. Harry moaned when Jean briefly ran a hand through his hair, trying to get a gauge of what was going on down there in the darkness. 

Kim clutched at him, one hand on his shoulder, the other on the back of his neck, sliding up into his hair as, between du Bois and Vicquemare, Kim Kitsuragi gradually lost his perpetual cool. Jean only knew when it happened because Kim's breathing stuttered, and then he gasped, quiet but intense, once, twice- and relaxed with a sigh. 

Harry pulled off with a slurp. Kim twitched, and huffed. Jean stayed in close, not quite sure what to do next, waiting for a bit of direction, but with Kim kind of out of the picture for the moment it seemed nothing was going to be coming from that direction. 

"Harry," he said after a long moment. 

"Ngheah?" Harry asked. 

"Want me to stroke you off?" 

"Yes." The answer was instant and enthusiastic and followed by the shifting of the mattress as Harry blindly climbed towards him. Jean snorted, shifted aside, man-handled Harry into the spot in the middle, because fair's fair. Harry was always so warm. Harry used to be a tactile drunk- apparently he was just tactile all along, and repressed. Go figure. Jean could fucking relate. He tracked down Harry’s face in the darkness and leaned in for a kiss. His lips were warm from sucking cock, and he tasted like cum. Guess he had a thing for it, which was-

He cackled. He couldn't help it. "Fucking Dolores Dei, Harry, I always figured you'd be kinky, but that isn't one I'd have guessed."

Kim's voice was a bit drowsy as he said, "What would you have guessed?" 

"Bondage," Jean said instantly. "Probably getting spanked and shit, getting called names. Or getting praised for being such a superstar detective with a ten inch dick, hard to say." 

"Jean," Harry said, reaching out and feeling for Jean's hand. "I really can't stress enough how little I want to talk about the past and how badly I want you to touch me." 

"That, I can do," Jean said. Harry was hot under hands, tacky from sweat, responsive as all hell. Then again, he'd barely been touched all night, between Jean's catatonic response earlier and the focus on Kim afterwards. As Jean slid his hand south and gripped, Harry groaned, reaching out to envelope Jean in his arms, digging his fingers into Jean's back, his thigh. 

"Is it good?" Kim asked, softly. The covers shifted as Kim did- Jean could picture their positioning from earlier, Kim wrapped around the one in the middle, except now it was Harry he was spooning. 

"Yeah," Harry panted. "Yeah, fuck, Jean, fuck..."

Kim chuckled a little. "He gets a little tongue-tied when he's been this wound up." 

"Oh, I don't blame him," Jean said. He worked Harry slow, a sudden burst of spite popping up. A vindictive desire to see him squirm. Harry groaned in response, but didn't protest. "He's had to sit there and watch all night."

"Mm." Kim's hand found Jean's arm, the rhythm he was keeping. He snickered. "Oh, you bastard." 

"What, you have a problem with the way I'm jerking your boyfriend off?" Jean asked. 

"I've got a bit of a problem with it," Harry said, voice strained. 

Kim murmured, "I'll bet you do. But if you want something from Jean, I have a feeling you'll have to ask for it nicely." His hands eased into the tight space between Jean and Harry's chest, squeezing his tit, playing with his nipple.

Harry groaned, trying to push into the sensation, trying to thrust into Jean's hand. "Jean," Harry said, voice wrecked. "Please. Please don't tease me. Fuck."

"Hmm." Jean didn't especially want to give in. Harry at his mercy was a sensation Jean felt he could grow to really, really like. "Didn't Kim say nicely?"

"That was nice," Harry protested. His hips jerked into Jean's hand and Jean loosened his grip, letting Harry move against pliant, unresponsive fingers. "Fuck, fuck, please, I've been good, aa-Ah, Kim!"

"What's Kim doing to you?" Jean asked, and started stroking again. A bit faster. 

"He's, ah, he's biting my shoulder," Harry said. "Fuck. Fuck!" He writhed as Jean closed his hand over the tip of his prick and rotated. "Shit, fuck, please Jean!"

"Alright, alright," Jean murmured, mock-soothingly. "I've got you. Though I'm not sure 'louder' is 'more nice.'" He gave in, stroking Harry nice and fast, as Harry's grip on him tightened, as he moaned his way around gratitude and pleasure, vindicated in his body's search for the apex. He found it with a quiet shout, hips bucking into Jean's grip, Kim quietly murmuring in his ear. Warm slick spread along Jean's hand, his stomach, and he wondered whether Harry was going to want that, too. 

Suddenly that was all he could think about- Harry sucking it off his fucking fingers, the same way he'd done to Kim. 

"Harry," Jean said, voice suddenly rough. "You made a bit of a mess." 

"Sorry," Harry murmured. 

"That isn't what he meant," Kim said, kindly. He patted around for Jean's wrist and brought it up to Harry's face. Harry moaned as Jean slowly pressed his index finger inside, Harry's tongue hot and flexible and eager along the pad of his finger, getting every last drop. (Fuck, Harry's mouth on his fingers, on his skin, on his cock- would he even be able to look Harry in the face after this without imagining that, feeling that?) He moved on to the next finger without hesitation, cleaning Jean's whole hand, docile and compliant. Eager to please. 

Kim rolled away at a certain point. In the dim light from the streetlamp, Jean thought he stretched, before he grabbed his glasses from the bedside table, rose to his feet, padded out into the living room. Water ran- the sink, not the shower. 

Harry finished his appointed task, his tongue rasping against Jean's palm, between his fingers. Slow. Cum was drying- had already dried on Jean's stomach, his thighs. The room reeked of it and sweat. This would be when Jean would get up, usually, open a window, bargain for who was going to shower first- if the person he was with would even let him use their shower, or stick around for his. 

Oh shit. He'd just slept with, well. His superior officers- who were practically married, to each other. And one of them was Harry du Bois, the man who'd, well. The man who'd dominated his life for years, for better and for much, much worse. Shit, he was going to have to see them in the office on Monday and be fucking normal about this. 

"Jean," Harry murmured. He ran a knuckle along Jean's arm- the same arm he'd gripped so hard when he came that Jean was almost certain he'd bruise. "You- you okay?"

Jean sniggered. "Am I okay," he repeated in a hoarse whisper, mockingly. "Fuck if I know, Harry."

Harry made a quiet sound- protest, or hurt, or something small and pathetic. "You don't- Do you regret this?"

Jean sighed. Caught Harry's hand as he tried to retract it. "This sure as shit makes my life more complicated... but...." He swallowed. "I don't think so."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Found his face in the dark and kissed him, soft, muttonchops brushing against Jean's beard, tasting yet again like cum. "Good. Good. Scared me for a second there."

"Do you regret it?" Jean countered. 

"No," Harry said. He kissed Jean again, a quick peck. "No, I... I've wanted this. For a while. I know I don't have any right, but..." 

"Shut up," Jean said. "No one has a right to do fucking anything. And if you bring up how badly you fucked my life up, right now, in this bed, I might strangle you."

"Okay," Harry said meekly. 

It wasn't the sort of conversation they couldn't avoid having forever. But Jean sure as shit was going to put it off for as long as he could. 

Kim came back. He paused in the doorway a moment. Jean wondered what he was thinking, seeing his lover’s feet intertwined with a former partner’s. If it had been Jean in his shoes, he'd never have allowed this. 

But Kim sat on the edge of the bed- Jean's side- and took his hand. And pressed a warm, wet cloth into it. "Here," he said. 

Practicality always won, when it came to Lieutenant Kitsuragi. Jean wiped himself down with a murmur of thanks, and passed the cooling rag over to Harry, who did the same. He let out a contented sigh. 

"We still have some things of yours," Kim said. "If you'd like to." 

The verb was suspiciously absent at the end of that sentence. If Jean'd like to, what? Stay the night? Leave with some dignity? Jean rolled over, squinting up at Kim's expression in the light from the living room. Surprise surprise, his expression was hard to fucking read. 

Harry murmured, "Jean, um, in case we didn't make it clear, this isn't just, um, a tonight thing? Unless, well..."

Jean sighed. "It's a good thing you have a big bed." Harry's relief was tangible. Kim didn't react either way. "Mind if I use your shower?"

Harry flapped a hand. "Go for it."

In the shower, in the light, it became a bit more real. This was the same shower where he'd washed mud off his skin when there had been a body discovered in pouring rain, three months ago. When he smelled the soap, it was the same soap Harry used, mild and kind of vanilla-y, the one that made McLaine ask him if he was getting in touch with his feminine side back when he started using it. (Jean still snorted when he remembered the way Harry had looked at him and simply said, "Yes?" like he was confused about what McClaine was getting at. Come to think of it, he probably had been confused- though Innocence knew Harry played up the amnesiac bit whenever he thought it was funny.) 

This was real. He'd just been jerked off by Kim Kitsuragi, kissed his former partner, let him suck his fucking cum off of Jean's fingers... It was a bit pathetic, how badly he just wanted to do it again. It was certainly easier than picking someone up at a bar, he'd never been good at making it clear he was there for fun.

So that's what this is? Jean thought, deliberating over which towel to use. Easy sex? 

But Harry had kissed him. Shit, Kim had kissed him. And the dinner, and the months leading up to this... fuck, what was this? 

There was a quiet rap at the door. "I found some clothes of yours," Kim called. "And a spare towel. If you like." If Jean hadn't already used one of theirs, he meant. 

"Thanks," Jean called back. "Uh." He crossed to the door, dripping on the linoleum, and opened the door wide enough for Kim to pass the bundle through. It was his old clothes, a sweatshirt and some old pajama pants he'd left over at Harry's old place. Fuck, these things had to come through a move. 

Well, it wasn't as though he hadn't ever needed spare clothes in a hurry. It was the same reason Kim kept a bag in the Kineema, spares for himself and for Harry. You didn't get to go home just because your socks got wet or because you accidentally brushed up against some blood. Harry had kept them in case they ever came in handy. Like they were now. 

He scrubbed his hair on the towel and hung it up on the rack. Out in the living room, the radio turned on and flipped through a few stations. He looked through the medicine cabinet, but it appeared that whatever had spurred Harry to hang onto his clothes did not extend to the spare toothbrush he'd kept here. Well, whatever. His teeth had survived worse than a night without brushing. 

When he emerged, the radio was on ChillFM. Harry and Kim were on the couch, their heads bent together, talking quietly- though that stopped the moment they noticed him. 

"Hi," Jean said. Stupidly. Kim was wearing a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt. Harry was just wearing a pair of briefs, belly and thighs exposed to the world. Or at least, to Jean. 

"Hi," Harry replied, his face softening. His smile was a bit uncertain. "Um. My turn, I guess." 

"Please," Kim muttered. He kissed Harry on the cheek as he got up and reached for one of the books on the coffee table- a well-loved paperback with a cracked spine. As Harry walked towards the bathroom, Jean stepped aside, but Harry altered course to intercept him. There was a brief moment of hesitation, his grey-green eyes flicking over Jean, before Harry stepped in for a quick cheek-kiss. 

It was childishly innocent. It also succeeded in making Jean blush. "Just go shower," he muttered. 

Harry smiled at him. He kissed him again, this time closer to the nose than anything else, muttonchops brushing against Jean's face, before stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Jean looked at the closed door uselessly for a moment before he shook himself out of it. Kim was still on the couch, idly holding the book he'd picked up, looking at the cover. As though it wasn't something he'd definitely read before. A prop? 

What the hell were they supposed to do now? Jean sidled over to the couch and sat. ChillFM played a quiet guitar track. Kim turned the book over in his hands. 

“I should have-“ he began, at the same moment that Jean said, “So, uh-“

“No, you go first,” Kim said. 

Jean flapped a hand. “Nah, it was some bullshit about Tip Top. You go.”

Kim cleared his throat. “Khm. Well. I suppose I should have... we should have made it a bit clearer. What we wanted. Before jumping right to the sex.”

Jean’s eyebrows rose. “Okay. Because I was reacting so well to everything before.”

Kim sighed. “That’s why we should have taken our time. I don’t- Jean, I don’t want you to feel... pressured into any of this.” He tapped the book against his thigh, an anxious rhythm that he quickly stifled. 

He can't quite help the snort, even though Kim shoots him a look for it. "Oh, yes," Jean said anyway, "you definitely pressured me into sex with two men I've been-" He did not say 'crushing on.' Things probably weren't going to be casual between the three of them, that much was clear. But at the same time... "-attracted to for a year now. I can't believe you, Kitsuragi."

"I don't appreciate your attempts at levity," Kim said, even as his shoulders loosened a touch. "I'm serious." 

Well, Jean could do this next bit. Dei knew he'd practiced it during enough interrogations over the years. He softened it, for Kim. "You think that because we didn't have every detail on the table beforehand, you took an unjustified risk to get your rocks off. That about right?"

Kim clearly didn't appreciate it being put quite that way. Or he recognized what Jean was doing and didn't like that, either. "And if it turned out you weren't interested, after all? Or were, but upon thinking more clearly about what we just did, realized you don't need the complication in your professional life?"

Okay, yeah. Kim wasn't Harry, wasn't about to let him slide through this with some mumbled bullshit about dealing with it as it came. Harry had said it: Kim likes his plans. It had been one of the first things he'd appreciated, upon Kim's transferral from the 57th; the incoming Lieutenant had a clear vision for what he wanted to accomplish, when, and what he needed from Jean and the others to make it happen. A far fucking cry from Harry's old leadership style, which used to be 'spitball until something comes together' and eventually metamorphosed into Harry coming up with something vaguely resembling a plan and screaming at everyone else for not being on the same page with his insane fucking vision. 

"Sure, we could have talked," Jean said. "And it would have lead to me walking out that door and a whole lot of other bullshit later. I wanted this, Kim. Still do. As for what it does for our work life..." Jean shrugged. "That's something we'll figure out."

Kim nodded. Sighed. "I- I realize-" He stopped himself. Tapped the book a few more times, putting his thoughts into order. Jean waited patiently until Kim said, "I realize I may be making things more complicated than necessary."

"You're Kim Kitsuragi," Jean said, without heat. "Stands to reason you've got a plan for every occasion. You have a plan for what to do if I want to make out a little?" 

Kim's mouth twitched. The tension around his eyes eased, just a touch. "I suppose I'd give in," he said. "If only to soothe your pride."

Jean scoffed, even as he edged closer on the couch. Extended an arm down the back of the couch, not sure where Kim stood on the sliding scale of masculinity when it came to this sort of thing. Kim didn't reject the overture, set aside his prop book and pulled Jean in by the shoulders of his sweatshirt. 

He likes control, a distant part of Jean noted. A long-dormant part, the part that remembered what a partner liked, what got a rise out of them, what turned them away. He hadn't had to use this particular muscle in a while. Like the others, it ached, but in a good way. He hoped to be using this one more in the coming weeks. 

Fuck, that settled it, even as he helped Kim settle across his lap, like the two of them were teen sweethearts. Even as Kim licked his way into Jean's mouth with the kind of self-assurance that didn't quite mesh with Kim's worry of a moment earlier but somehow made sense, in the grand scheme of things. 

Distantly, Harry turned off the shower. Kim drew back a moment, head turning in response to the sound. He gave Jean an appraising look. "You said Harry's a voyeur?"

"What, you need more evidence than the way he watched you jerk me off tonight?" Jean asked. The memory of it washed through his body like a warm tide- not enough to get him going again, but enough that he was considering it. But he left the answer to Kim's question in Kim's court: "I do think that if he walks out of there to us making out, it'll make his week." 

There was that thing, from earlier, Kim not wanting to be 'watched.' Jean didn't think that was exactly what was going on there, but that was another conversation to have later. Kim thought about it, shifting in Jean's lap. A small smirk touched the corner of Kim's mouth. He leaned back in, cupping Jean's jaw with one hand, pressing close, chest-to-chest. His thighs spread wide to accommodate the closeness and Jean shuffled away from the back of the couch to help. 

The door to the bathroom opened. There was no sound from it. Jean smirked into Kim's mouth. 

"Hey," Harry said, after a good twenty seconds of staring. Kim broke the kiss and turned to look. So did Jean. Harry was holding a towel around his waist, hair still wet from the water, eyes fixed on the pair of them. 

Kim wordlessly slid out of Jean's lap. His thumb brushed Jean's cheek in silent affection before he crossed the room to his boyfriend and kissed him too, deep and reassuring. 

"So," Harry said, quietly. Mostly to Kim. "Talk went well?" 

Kim shrugged. "There’s more to say, still. But I think we're all on the same page that this is more than just sex, and that we want for it to continue."

"Good," Harry said. He leaned in and pecked Kim's forehead, his free hand cupping his elbow for just a moment as the two leaned together. Pure comfort. They'd taken a risk, Jean realized. On inviting him in. If things had gone poorly, there would have been more at risk than Jean's own hurt feelings on the subject. 

Kim was the one to pull away, with a stifled yawn. "Jean," he said, turning to look at where Jean sat, quietly observing their moment. (Oh, shit, was that weird?) "If you want to go again, you should bring that up with Harry. I'm off to bed." 

Well, that sure as shit got Harry's attention. His gaze went roving over Jean, from his lips down to where his cock was making a bit of an impression through his new (old) sweatpants. 

"I could go either way," Jean admitted. It was sad to admit that an extra half hour of sleep was something he was this loathe to give up- it was never clear when he'd get the opportunity to catch up on any sleep debt he might accrue. 

Kim headed into the bedroom- after a quick stop in their tiny closet for a fresh set of sheets, giving the two of them a meaningful look. If they were doing anything else, it said, it was happening out here. And they'd better be clean when they got in bed. He closed the bedroom door behind him. 

Harry's gaze went between that and Jean. "I..." he said. He swallowed. "I'm fine with calling it a night, if you are." Even as he said that, his eyes were on Jean's body, not his face. 

"Come here a minute," Jean said. Harry did, no argument, no further questions. He settled next to Jean, and greedily reached for him in return as Jean leaned in for a kiss. The towel across Harry's thigh concealed very little, held in place by nothing more than gravity as Harry shamelessly felt Jean up over his sweatshirt. He smelled like clean soap and shampoo, but he was hot where he pressed up against Jean's side, his hand on Jean's body solid and intent.

"We already both showered," Jean muttered, his body still ambivalent- sex would be nice, but Kim would be nice and warm in bed... 

"We can shower again," Harry said, even as he drew back, gaze raking over Jean's face. "Or- we can go to bed." 

"I guess it's up to you," Jean said, "Whether you want to suck me off now, or later." 

He'd said it as a joke, 'haha, just kidding, unless...' But Harry kissed him again, with intent. 

"Tell me you're joking," he said, even as his hand dropped down to fiddle with the waistband of Jean's sweatpants. 

Jean swallowed. "I'm really not," he said. 

Harry got up, the towel clinging to his thighs falling away. He picked up one end of the coffee table and moved it aside, angling it so he had space to get right up between Jean's thighs. Always a good partner, Jean grabbed one of the couch cushions and set it between his feet on the ground. Harry crowded in just as Jean was pulling his sweatpants down his thighs, planting a wet, scratchy kiss on Jean's stomach, on his thigh, getting in the fucking way in the best way possible. 

"Fucking Dolores," Jean muttered, burying a hand in Harry's wet hair, just trying to get a sense of where Harry was going with this. Harry grunted, breath fluttering against the hair on Jean's thigh, and Jean gently tightened his grip. Water trickled down his wrist. 

Harry's eyes opened and he looked up at Jean, right next to Jean's half-hard prick. "Jean," he said, voice gravelly and sincere. "How would you feel if I told you I really want you to fuck my mouth?"

Jean knew his expression did something- probably better than his words could. Harry smothered a smile against Jean's thigh again, breathing deep. "Just checking," he said, satisfaction radiating off him. 

"You smug son of a bitch," Jean muttered. He experimented, pulling at Harry's hair- Harry went with the motion, leaned against it just enough to have some tension but still pliant. "Tap my hip if you need a breather."

Harry tapped Jean's hip and nodded. They'd already fucked once tonight. It was still surreal to take hold of his own cock, stroking it inches from his partner's face, holding Harry back by his hair. Harry's eyes tracked the motion of his hand, and wasn't that a nice little ego boost, the hungry look he gave Jean's fingers they slid over his own skin, jerking himself back to hardness. 

Some other night, Jean thought, he wanted to do something very much like this- just stroke himself off, holding Harry at bay, making him watch, making him beg. Harry on his knees was a compelling sight. But not tonight. When Harry opened his mouth to speak, Jean held his cock in place and tugged Harry into position. 

His mouth was hot. His eyes slid shut like it was Jean touching him, not the other way around. His breath caught in his throat as he realized Harry wasn't kidding about having Jean fuck his throat at all, he was waiting for Jean's guidance, waiting for Jean to show him the rhythm he wanted. 

"Fuck, Harry," Jean said, guiding Harry back off his cock. "How- I mean, how deep-"

Harry didn't answer with words. He just leaned forwards, taking Jean's cock in his mouth again, sliding several inches in before pulling off again with an obscene, wet pop. The suction made Jean's thighs tremble. "That's about as far as I can go comfortably." 

"Some other night," Jean said, and he knew he sounded shaky, "we'll talk about how far you can go uncomfortably."

Harry met Jean's gaze, and what Jean had thought would be a dirty joke somehow morphed into a promise under the sheer want in those green-gray eyes. His former partner, his ex-best friend turned friend again, opened his mouth and leaned forward again, lapping at the head of Jean's cock. 

There was no Kim here now, nothing to distract him from Harry du Bois wrapping his lips around his cock and closing his eyes, sucking like he had something to prove. Jean groaned, his free hand digging into the couch cushion beside his thigh, as he tried to scrape together enough composure to show Harry the rhythm he wanted. Harry went with it eagerly, leaving Jean gasping and swearing under his breath, aware by turns that Kim was trying to sleep in the next room. 

Was he sleeping? Was he laying in the darkness listening to his lover and his coworker get off just a few meters away? No, he probably couldn't hear much, Jean was quiet and Chill FM was still playing, onto a soothing violin piece now. But the thought of it, Kim listening to this, to Harry carefully taking him apart, made Jean's breath catch. 

It was his second round of the night, and his body felt little urgency to hurry to the finish line. Jean eased Harry off his prick, knowing he looked a mess, face red and cock the same, wet and shining with spit. Details kept coming into focus, fighting for importance, and right now the fact that Harry was completely naked while Jean was mostly clothed definitely did something for him. 

Harry worked his jaw with a knowing look, leaning his cheek against Jean's sweatpant-enclosed thigh. "Jean," he murmured, and there was no way to look at him that did not mean Jean looking at his own dick very nearly tapping the man on the cheek. 

"Yeah?" Jean asked. He stopped his fingers in their idle combing of Harry's wet hair- the moment he realized he was doing it, it brought back an odd memory of a press conference, getting Harry looking presentable, praying that Harry's composure held out with the public's eyes on him. 

Harry didn't say anything. He just closed his eyes and leaned his head into Jean's idle fingers. "Keep going?" he asked. "Whatever you want. I don't..."

"Don't...?" Jean prompted. 

"I don't want this to end, yet." A flash of something crossed Harry's face before he looked up, his green eyes- "Just... Keep going?" 

His eyes fluttered shut as Jean once again took a handful of hair by the nape of his neck, going pliant. Jean shuffled forward on the couch, spreading his knees, pushing his sweatpants around his ankles. Harry took Jean back into his mouth gratefully, his tongue sliding along his shaft. 

Some part of Jean remembered that, right, sex had a goal. And that it was getting late. He guided Harry into a faster rhythm, Harry completely- not slack, but not taking any initiatives. Jean dragged Harry's face over his own cock and covered his own mouth with his other hand. Spit, sweat, Harry's red lips, his hands moving to spread Jean's thighs wider, how Harry eagerly groaned when Jean's hips twitched of their own volition.

"You weren't joking about me fucking your face at all, huh," Jean gasped. 

Harry's eyes opened. He looked Jean in the eye and fucking winked at him. 

"Bastard," Jean muttered. He held Harry in place and moved his hips, gently. Just the motion felt good on its own, and the way Harry went with it, his fingers digging in and his groan vibrating against Jean's cock, well, shit. Jean bit his fingers and fell into the feeling, into slick heat and hands on his skin, into the sound of wet suction and Harry's quiet moaning, into his body's need for more. 

"Harry, Harry I'm close, are you going to-" 

Harry abruptly pulled against Jean's grip, taking his cock deeper, a rumbling groan against Jean's skin that made him groan in answer as Harry unequivocally told Jean to come down his fucking throat. He did, almost gently, his dick throbbing gently from pleasure and over-stimulation both, not much left to give after their earlier business. 

After a few shuddering breaths, he pulled Harry off his dick. Spit and cum stretched between them. Hand shaking, Jean brushed Harry's bottom lip with his thumb. 

"Dolores fucking Dei, shitkid," he murmured. Exhaustion hit him like a lorry. He could fall asleep right on this couch, Harry warm between his legs. Harry didn't seem inclined to move in a hurry, either, leaning into Jean's body when he retrieved his hand, running the back of his knuckles against Jean's thigh. 

"Your turn...?" Jean said. 

Harry shook his head, the motion dragging his muttonchops against Jean's skin. "Not tonight. I'm good." He pressed his lips there, too, fond. By his slowed blinking, he wasn't much better off than Jean. He leaned back with a groan. "C'mon, let's go keep Kim warm."

Harry was half hard, but Jean was too tired to pursue it if Harry said he was done. There was a quick stop in the bathroom for him, to get a drink of water and wipe down his dick again- hopefully Kim wouldn't mind the fresh sweat. Harry turned off the living room light and the radio, double-checked that the front door was locked, and padded into the bedroom. By the time Jean joined them he expected Harry to be under the sheets and halfway to oblivion. 

But when he felt his way to the bed, Harry was still sitting on the edge of it. He pushed Jean in first, making him be in the middle. 

Kim stirred, rolling over. He hooked a hand in Jean's shirt collar and tugged him close with a contented sigh. "...have fun...?" he asked, voice small and far away from sleep. 

Harry slid into place behind him, the mattress shifting. His legs, his side, brushed up against Jean. Jean pecked Kim's cheek and nodded. 

"Mm." Kim's arms slid around Jean until he found a comfortable spot, settling back into sleep. 

He was warm. He was fucked out. Jean's eyes closed, and he remembered no more. 

He slept hard, no dreams, only vague memories of turning over in his sleep, of finding much less mattress space than he was used to. At some point he pulled off his sweatshirt and tossed it away. At one point the mattress shifted, freeing up valuable, pine-scented space that Jean moved into with a greedy sigh. 

He woke up with his face mashed into an unfamiliar pillow, his foot caught under someone else's leg, and a variety of interesting and satisfying aches. There was a brief moment of disorientation as he opened his eyes in the weak pre-dawn light, and then memory rushed in to fill the gap. 

He stayed still, like a cat caught in the moment before it fled. He'd fucked Harry and Kim. He'd been invited to. He was dating Harry and Kim now? He was in their bed, and despite his racing thoughts his body was at ease, trying to pull him back down into sleep. 

Further memory filtered in. It was Saturday. He could do it, if he wanted. Just roll over and ease back into sleep, leave this for another hour or two. Behind him, Harry snorted in his sleep. Nails rasped against skin and hair as he scratched his belly. Jean's eyes started to drift shut. 

Out in the living room, a dish clinked. The smell of coffee drifted into the room. Harry shifted in his sleep, freeing Jean's ankle. What the hell were they going to do about this? Regular dinners? Meeting up in the rare free hours the three of them shared? It would be simpler in pairs, most of the time. What was Kim's take on all of this? He'd put off discussing it last night, and now he was regretting that. Unanswered questions drove him to find the sweatshirt he didn't remember removing. It was still on the bed, clinging to a corner of the comforter. 

Out in the living room, Kim sat at the kitchen table. There was a plate with laden with crumbs and a mug of coffee at his elbow, a pencil in his hand, and the crossword in front of him.

"Good morning," Kim said quietly. 

"Morning," Jean said. He wanted to walk up close, put a hand on Kim's shoulder, kiss him. In the fragile morning light, he went for the coffee pot instead. "Did I drive you out of bed?"

Kim chuckled. "No. I usually wake up early even on weekends- I find it's better to maintain my sleep schedule where I can." 

Jean nodded, the steam rising from his pouring coffee hitting him like the nectar of the gods. "Makes sense." In a Kitsuragi kind of way. He drank, leaning up against the kitchen counter, knowing that the longer he went without going to sit at the fucking table the weirder he was making this. 

"Did you sleep well?" Kim asked, belatedly. 

"Yeah," Jean said, surprised to find he meant it. Sometimes he could sleep for hours and still wake up drained- his fucked up brain and the meds he took for it did more to sabotage him than anything else, some days. "Like a rock."

"Good," Kim said, sounding genuinely pleased. "There's bread, if you'd like toast. Harry'll probably make something bigger when he gets up, though that's not likely to be for a while." 

Jean's stomach grumbled- the caffeine hitting him on an empty stomach as much as the hunger. He put a slice of bread in the toaster and ventured back into the bedroom to find his pants, and therefore his wallet and his medication. 

Harry had moved in his absence, rolling onto his side and cuddling up to the other pillow. He was also snoring raucously now. Jean suppressed a snicker. He found his wallet and dug the little plastic baggie with his spare pills out of the billfold without making too much noise. He took them back to the kitchen. The pill he washed down with his coffee at the counter. The toast he ate at the breakfast table. 

Kim appeared to be quite focused on his puzzle. Jean knew how he kissed, now. What he felt like under his hands, breathing hard and quiet. It didn't come with any sense of urgency- it was just information Jean had, now. 

The lieutenant glanced up, catching Jean's eyes on him. He looked back down at his puzzle for a moment, then sat back. He met Jean's gaze and cleared his throat. 

"So," Kim said, "What now?"

"I was kind of hoping you had something in mind," Jean said. 

Kim's eyes closed for a moment. He breathed out through his nose. Collecting himself. "It would help," he said, after a moment, "To know what your expectations are. How you see this progressing. I have some ideas about what Harry wants, but..." 

Was Kim... feeling insecure? 

"You," Jean said. Maybe a bit too fast. "And Harry. More dinners, maybe? Fuck, I don't know, the two of you had this planned out, this wasn't real for me until what, ten hours ago?" Kim opened his mouth and Jean interrupted him. "No, I'm not regretting anything, I'm just..." He waved a hand. "Trying to catch up. I don't know what I expect, yet."

That seemed to settle Kim a bit. "If it helps, Harry and I expect... more or less the same. Fidelity, emotional and physical- I don't want any of us seeing anyone else, for the time being."

"This is already complicated enough as it is," Jean murmured. 

Kim nodded, and continued: "Harry and I live together, and we're in an established relationship, besides. Seeing you will have to be something that happens as time permits."

Which would be difficult, since they often worked different shifts, to leave someone experienced in charge of C-Wing. "We'll make something work. Besides." Jean smiled a little, tried to make this a joke more than a warning. "I don't expect to be able to perform like last night on a regular basis."

Kim blinked. "Your medication?"

"Kind of has a stranglehold on it, at times."

"That's... fine," Kim said, after a moment's thought. "We do enjoy your company, not just your body." 

"The body helps, though," Jean said. He'd prefer honesty rather than platitudes. 

"It's nice," Kim agreed, his eyes briefly landing on Jean's hands, and wasn't that interesting. "But sex isn't all we'd like from you. If things are difficult, we'll manage."

Jean cleared his throat. "Uh. Good." He'd see how that went when it happened. "Apart from that..."

Kim waited. Took another long sip of his coffee. 

Jean didn't know how to fucking phrase this. Do you cuddle? Obviously, based on last night, but that was after sex, and the rules always got relaxed and hazy after sex. Would Kim call him a faggot if he tried to hold his hand? Probably not. But he couldn't see Kim going in for tenderness-

Harry cupping his elbow in his hand, pressing a kiss to Kim's forehead, a quiet murmured exchange...

-much. If Jean tried for too much and Kim rejected it, or...

Kim's calf bumped his under the table. On purpose. Jean let out a breath, and bumped back. 

"Jean?" Kim asked. 

"I'm fine," Jean said, automatically. His hand rose to his face, scratching. Tearing up scabs with his fingernails. "Just- if I cross a line, you'll let me know?" 

"I have no problem letting people know where my boundaries are," Kim said. It was true. Kim was somewhat famous in the 41st precinct for being completely immune to any peer pressure they tried to bring to bear on him. "Harry... is a different matter, but that's a discussion to have with him present."

Jean nodded, even as part of him wondered what the fuck that meant. "Sure, yeah. So." He fucking hated this conversation. "That thing. Where you don't like being watched."

Kim sighed a little. No doubt he didn't like talking about this any more than Jean did- less, maybe. "It's... a holdover from my youth. Something I'm working on." He paused. 

Jean bumped his calf against Kim's. "Got it. Let me know if." Jean waved a hand. "You know. You need me to change course or anything." 

After a moment, Kim bumped back, a small smile flashing across his face. "Of course." He cleared his throat. "Same goes for you, of course. I have the highest regard for you as a lieutenant, Jean, and as a friend. And." His gaze went over Jean's shoulder a little as he tried to unbend his spine far enough to say, "As more than that."

Jean nodded. Fuck, no, he shouldn't just nod at that, he should, you know, reciprocate. "Same." Fuck. That was worse. "I mean- You know what I mean. Shit, I owe C-Wing's survival to you, and you're a hell of a cop on top of that, and..." He steeled himself for the next thing. "And you're a good man. I trust you." 

Now he just had to trust Kim to sort through that word vomit and understand what Jean was trying to say- that he thought Kim was hot and smart and secretly really funny, under layers of professionalism and his solitary nature. That it meant a hell of a lot that he was willing to risk what he had with Harry, to invite Jean in from the cold. That he wanted to kiss him again. 

"I. Khm. I'm glad." Kim's eyes drifted back down to the crossword puzzle. His calf still pressed against Jean's. "Though I'm not convinced you owe me C-Wing. That was more than just me."

Sure. It was Harry coming to his fucking senses- first just not fucking up everything he touched, and then actually getting his act back together. It was Pryce's hand on the reigns- loosely, but present to provide guidance and discipline when it became necessary. It was a whole lot of dumb fucking luck at times, to be honest. But a lot of it was thanks to Kitsuragi's steel spine and unflappable calm, the way he could cut through a knot of problems to find and focus on the things that really, truly, could not wait. 

"Take some fucking credit, Kitsuragi," Jean said. 

"As long as you promise to do the same, Vicquemare." Kim's tone was hard, but his eyes flicking up to meet Jean's over the rim of his glasses were warm. 

Jean shrugged. He drank the last of his coffee and debated the pros and cons of a second cup. He decided against it. Instead he sat with Kim in companionable silence, thoughts drifting as Kim scratched away at the crossword. 

Sooner than Jean expected, the mattress in the other room squeaked and groaned. Harry poked his nose out into the living area, eyes barely open. His long hair hung loose around his shoulders, in some kind of fucking state. (Jean already knew what sex hair looked like on Harry. He just hadn't known what it would look like when it had been his hands-) He relaxed when he saw Jean sitting at the kitchen table and scrubbed the sleep out his eyes with the heel of his palm, lumbering out into the main room, intent on the coffee pot still warm on the countertop. 

Jean held out his mug as Harry passed. Harry took it, filled both his and Jean's, and returned it. Harry took his mug of coffee with him to the bathroom. 

Once the door clicked shut, Jean met Kim's eyes. The two of them shook with their own suppressed laughter. Harry re-emerged not long after, hair tied in a low ponytail, chin shaved, looking like if he spoke it would be in more than animalistic grunts. He even went into the bedroom and got dressed- in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, certainly, but more than his aging briefs.

"I think we've got bacon," he said, heading to the fridge. "Maybe some peppers. Cheese. Scrambled eggs?"

"Fine by me," Jean said. He'd consider the grease and carb intake later. 

"We're out of bacon," Kim said, looking up as Harry passed his chair. "But a run to the Fritte could be arranged, if you're fixated on it."

Harry flapped a hand in dismissal, digging around. He produced eggs and cheese, peppers and green onions. Jean got up to chop. Between the two of them, soon peppers and onions were sizzling in the pan. 

"Good morning, by the way," Harry murmured. He looked at Jean out of the corner of his eye. 

Jean jumped his arm against Harry's. "Good morning to you, too." 

Harry opened his mouth around a question that he apparently rethought. He stirred the pan instead, like it took all his concentration. 

"Hey," Jean said. Feeling bold and a little vindictive. Harry looked up, and Jean caught his face and leaned in to kiss him. 

Harry's surprise only lasted a second before Jean felt an arm snake around his waist, Harry's lips parting to make the kiss a bit dirtier than Jean had intended, but hey. When they parted, Harry looked starstruck. 

"The onions," Kim called. 

Harry used the arm not around Jean to stir the pan. He cleared his throat, his cheeks turning a bit pink. "Okay. That, um. Answered a few of my questions."

Kim had said there would be more. There were some things they needed to discuss with Harry there. And Jean knew there was a hell of a lot he should probably be talking to Harry about, too, whether or not the Lieutenant was there to keep the conversation on track. 

"Can it wait until after breakfast?" Jean asked. He prized Harry's arm off of his waist and put a few slices of toast in the toaster. Harry watched him go longingly, like him being even that far away was a torment, before he started cracking eggs directly into the pan. 

"Sure," Harry said. "That sounds... yeah." He flashed a nervous smile. 

The eggs were finished. So was the crossword, with Harry leaning around Kim's shoulder to bounce ideas off him. And then they talked. What they wanted. What it could look like. What it was likely to look at, when you took Revachol and their work into account. By the time Jean finally got his clothes together and walked home, it was wending towards sunset. His apartment was blessedly quiet. He had time to catch up on some paperwork for the sergeants before tomorrow morning- not like they'd be upset if he failed to finish, leaving them at odd ends, but it was a bad idea to let Chester and Torso's leash get too long. They tended to trip themselves on it. 

And tomorrow morning... well. Kim had remembered in the middle of the day to drag the bread maker out of the back of the cupboard. Jean had it on good authority that he shouldn't bother packing a lunch.

Notes:

I came this | | close to calling this fic "winner winner (chicken dinner)."

Thank you, Syb, Morgue, and DanseDan for the beta-reading and the encouragement!

This fic just kinda kept... getting longer... it went from the thesis statement of "Jean deserves to get railed" to "Jean deserves some love and affection and also I kind of want chicken now."