Chapter Text
Lieutenant Jean Vicquemare was on his 6th or 7th cigarette of the morning by the time Judit returned to C-Wing, empty-handed and anxious, from Radio control. Officer Pidieu had been quietly firm: “No, Officer, no word” , but his eyes were full of an unspoken understanding. The entirety of the 41’s Major Crime Unit were on edge, unsettled; Jean’s chain smoking was the least of it.
No word from Du Bois or Kitsuragi for 6 days now. Given that the MCU had gone almost a week without contact from Harry in Martinaise, it seemed foolish to allow the anxiety to creep in so soon. But Martinaise was not La Puta Madre territory, not explicitly, and neither officer was deep within the belly of the beast for The Hanged Man case. Jean didn’t want to think too hard about it, that both officers could have been killed, their bodies lost to the sea or the earth, and they’d only find out too late to save them.
He kicked out his feet under the desk, shifting lower into his already terrible posture, paperwork forgotten and coffee cold.
The hell was this fucking case, anyway.
—-
Spring of ‘52 was fraught with issues for the RCM. Whatever had come to a head the previous year was weaving tentacles of unrest throughout the city of Jamrock, and the Coalition had become more and more interested in the actions of it’s citizens’ militia as the unrest continued. Far too interested, as far as certain members of the MCU were concerned. The restrictions of funding allowances and dependences weighed heavier than usual on the force. Don’t bite the hand that feeds it warned its officers.
Then, one morning, a small company of Moralintern agents had descended on the 41st, all sharply pressed and clean; starkly contrasted against the shabbiness of the old Silk Mill and its inhabitants. They’d spent an age in Captain Pryce’s office, the precinct’s officers taking turns to ostensibly use the coffee point as an excuse to gossip in hushed voices over these new visitors. Jean remembers the day very clearly. Harry had spent it leant against the countertop, eyes focused on Pryce’s closed door, expression dark and unmoving behind his coffee cup, unusually quiet.
It had scared the shit out of Jean. He’d traded a look with Kitsuragi as he passed his desk and saw the fear reflected back at him. When at last the door opened and the Coalition’s agents filed out, Harry’s eyes had tracked them steadily, his face still far too serious and closed.
Pryce had called them in not long after that; Jean, Harry, Kim and Judit dutifully stood at the back of his office, as he relayed information that was not to leave the room. The Moralintern have an assignment for us. We’ll be told more in good time, but we need your brightest and best. He had looked pointedly at Harry and Kim then. Jean remembers feeling like his insides had been replaced with ice. Harry was still unnaturally quiet, had stayed behind after the others were dismissed: “I need to talk to you, Captain”. Pryce had raised a singular eyebrow but gestured to the others to leave. Outside the office door, the 3 of them had exchanged concerned looks but returned to their desks, desperately trying to ignore the fear bubbling up within their chests.
2 days later the Moralintern somehow deposited a man into the 41st’s holding cells without being seen by the night guard.
He was Seolite, maybe late 30s, floating on the edge of consciousness, battered and bruised by his previous handlers. His suit was expensive, soiled now, neatly fitted and well-tailored.
He was a Madre peone.
—-
The gist of it was this: infiltrate La Puta Madre, get key names, dates and locations, and get out. As if this was an easy task, and not something the RCM had been struggling to achieve successfully for decades.
The Moralintern’s present, Benjamin Setsuna, was a recent addition to the Madre, previously not physically present within the Jamrock locale. La Madre knew a name, that he was Seolite, his necessary business dealings, but had never actually seen the man.
Kim resented that this task had fallen to him, as the precinct’s only high ranking Seolite officer. He had accepted the task, mask carefully in place, but he felt Harry shift angrily next to him at their secondary briefing.
They were to ‘debrief’ Setsuna in the 41st’s cells, take up the role of the newly assigned agent and meet in 3 months’ time with his intended Madre rendezvous. Neither Kim nor Harry questioned how the Moralintern had managed to determine that much about the man, or even bring him in without raising suspicion in Madre ranks. Pryce knew as little as them anyway, it would get them nowhere to question the Coalition’s intentions. It burnt a sour hole in Kim’s stomach he didn’t want to think about.
It was decided that sending Kim alone would be far too foolhardy, so Harry had been assigned the task of Setsuna’s Bodyguard— a role that he took incredibly seriously. Kim tried not to read too much into this; Harry had been sober now for just under a year, but he threw himself into preparations with the laser-focus of a past-self, madly driven. Sobriety had already been kind to him, lessening the softness of his midsection and jowls; he’d allowed his hair to grow out further and now often tied the excess back into a small tail. The mutton chops remained, as did the questionable disco pants and ties, but he was a different sort of man now from the one Kim had met that first morning in Martinaise. Harry had always looked at him with a clarity that made Kim feel exposed, but now it was somehow simultaneously sharper and softer.
Neither of them had touched upon it, but the frisson of something between them that had begun early on in The Hanged Man had grown, blossomed into something steadier; sometimes Harry would joke closer to the bone with him, invade his personal space in a way he didn’t with anyone else; and Kim would let him, would indulge him with his itinerary of barely-there smiles that only Harry noticed. They shared a singular cigarette on the RCM balcony religiously, organised what little free-time the job allowed around each other, but danced around each other, neither one wanting to potentially step on the other’s toes and try to name whatever it was between them.
Kim saw less of Harry now in those months of preparation, but often Harry would return to his desk before leaving the precinct out of breath, sweaty from the gym, wearing a pair of *far too short* shorts, challenging Kim’s carefully constructed self-control. As the weeks passed, Kim noticed his bicep girth was also considerably more defined, his waist trimmer, his legs more toned.
Indeed, he thought a lot about this, alone in the dark of his apartment, when sleep eluded him; fingers twitching and aching for a cigarette and something else.
And now here he was, waiting for Harry in the early hours of a Wednesday morning in a back corridor of the 41st, dressed the part as Benjamin Setsuna; neatly tailored black trousers, tight dark waistcoat over a white, mandarin-collared shirt, a silver pocket watch and chain—the real Setsuna’s own—attached between waistcoat pocket and button hole. A black velvet blazer, padded on the shoulders, and tailored with the Lieutenant’s usual precision, grey pocket square tucked neatly. A pair of slightly tinted horn rimmed glasses had made their way to his desk in the prior months, round like his usual pair, but undoubtably 3 or 4 times the cost of his wire frames. “My glasses prescription is within my personnel file, Detective; no doubt obtained from there” he had said cooly to Harry when the man had expressed wide eyed concern over the anonymous delivery. It was clear who they were from, and why; another reminder of influence and knowledge. We don’t have to explain ourselves, just do your jobs and be good little officers.
Kim had to admit, they were a damn sight more comfortable than his usual pair, far more ostentatious than he would have liked, but in keeping with the style of their mutual friend still sitting in solitary in the bowels of 41st. Most of the precinct were unaware of their guest and Captain Ptolemy intended to keep it that way.
The Lieutenant pushed the bridge of his new glasses to the top of his nose, black leather gloves a soft crunch against the acetate. Ran a careful hand over his hair, smoothing any stray wisps into place. Took another deep and silent breath of the corridor’s stale air, tinged with the scent of the ageing wood tiles and cigarette smoke.
Lieutenant Vicquemare was also in attendance that morning, smoking furiously and pacing even more so beside him in the hallway. Jean had been uncomfortable with the whole situation since the beginning, but was now likely to vibrate off the face of Elysium if he didn’t just settle down. It exhausted Kim just to stand in the same room as him.
“Lieutenant, I’m not sure the RCM has the budget to repair the hole you’re wearing into the floor,” and he’d looked suitably cowed, pace a little less erratic.
At the sound of doors opening at the far end of the corridor, both officers glanced up.
It took everything within Kim to school his expression into something relatively non-plussed. Jean, however, was not so successful; cigarette limply hanging from his fingers, gaping openly at Harry as he strode towards them.
His hair was swept back in the now usual half ponytail, but his muttonchops had been trimmed neatly, the stubble of his chin cut closer than usual. It looked like his eyebrows had been trimmed too, his face altogether more put together and sharp. He wore a black suit that came in at the waist just right and defined his broad shoulders, a grey and black thinly striped tie resting neatly at this throat over a perfectly pressed white shirt, fastened with a tie pin just before the jacket buttoned over his chest; His long legs in trousers not too tight but not too loose, straight cut, the definition of his thigh muscles a slight suggestion under the fabric. His shoes were pointed, lacquered black facsimiles of his usual green crocodile. Kim caught a glimpse of black leather gloves before hands were pushed into Harry’s pockets. His expression was laser focused and careful.
He looked incredible.
“Holy shit, shitkid,” Jean muttered as he came to a halt in front of them. Harry tilted his head gently.
“I’ll take it that’s a positive reaction?” A small grin on his lips as Jean huffed. When he turned to Kim, however, it was clear that the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“The two assigned Moralintern agents are outside waiting, we probably shouldn’t delay them any further, Detective,” Kim spoke softly, turning his eyes toward the exit doors, trying not to think about how assessing Harry’s gaze was. Jean cleared his throat, stubbing out his cigarette against the metal wall trim and clenching the butt in his fist, striding ahead of them out into the early morning darkness. Harry followed Kim, half a pace behind, already falling into his role. Kim could practically feel his weight behind him, reassuring and terrifying all at once. It felt like the air in the corridor was crackling.
Despite being early summer, there was a chill in the air as they came through the doors into the inconspicuous lot at the back of the precinct; space usually reserved for dumpsters, emergency drop offs or junior officers’ clandestine cigarette breaks. Start as you mean to go on, Kitsuragi; in the filth and the dark.
Jean was already at the car, speaking intently to an immaculately dressed man leant against the engine compartment of a black coupris. The Lieutenant’s arms were folded high, chin low, eyes boring into the younger man’s.
“An unnecessary show of dominance,” Harry muttered into Kim’s ear; he hummed in agreement— whatever Jean thought he was achieving, he doubted the agent thought much of the satellite officer. Just another hick cop in some backwater precinct, like all Revachol. As if to punctuate this, the agent gave him a curt nod mid sentence and made for the driver’s side door. The remaining agent, a younger woman with a sharp bob haircut, appeared at Kim’s side and gently corralled the two of them into the passenger seats, before joining them and nodding to her partner.
Next to him, Harry turned in his seat as the MC left the lot, watching as Lieutenant Vicquemare’s figure receded into the distance. Kim caught his eye.
“With minimal reliable radio contact, you’ll have to give the Lieutenant a thorough rundown of events when we return,” he murmured. We’ll see him again, left unsaid. Harry gave him a small smile in understanding. I appreciate the thought. Thank you.
But when Harry’s eyes returned to the road ahead of them not even the warming bulk of the lieutenant’s form against his own was able to quell the mounting dread in Kim’s lungs.