Work Text:
"Don't worry, Kim, I'm not drunk, I'm just drinking," Harry says down the phone line, and there's a slight bend in his words that leaves Kim wondering just how much he's been drinking.
He adjusts the phone against his ear, pressing it against his shoulder, cold plastic against his bare skin. As buttoned up as he is in public, Kim doesn't care much for layers of clothing in his own apartment. A pair of loose sweatpants sit on his hips, and naught else. He sighs slightly before he answers.
"Is this why you called, detective? Do you need to be picked up somewhere?"
"No, I'm at home," Harry says, trailing off.
There's something else to be said, Kim knows, but he doesn't know what.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah," he says, and Kim can see the hand wave. "Just wanted to talk, I guess."
Kim settles down on the kitchen chair, legs crossed, and passes the phone to his other ear.
"What did you want to talk about, detective?"
"You can call me Harry, you know."
This is a line Kim does not know if he can cross without changing something. Harry is himself, a bright force of nature that has never played by the rules, whether for good or bad. Kim, on the other hand, has needed to keep himself perfectly in line to maintain the reputation and respect he currently has. If there was anyone to be unprofessional with, it would be Harry.
They aren't exactly just coworkers, either, Kim knows this. They have dinner after work is done, Harry calls sometimes when the world is overwhelming. Partners at work, friends after work, though some of the precinct would like to assume partners is a double entendre for them. Calling him Harry outside of work would inevitably lead to calling him Harry at work. If it were anyone else in the world, Kim would have far less reservation.
"Then what did you want to talk about, Harry?"
There's a soft huff of laughter across the phone static.
"Dunno. It's nice to hear your voice, I like it," Harry says, and Kim hears the clink of ice in a glass. This is not a safe conversation.
"How much have you had tonight?"
"Less than you're thinking. Like I said, I've been trying. I had some wine at dinner, and this is my second vodka," Harry confesses.
It's the truth, Kim knows. He can't can-open the same way Harry does, but he knows when Harry is lying. Besides, Harry doesn't often lie to Kim, and never about alcohol.
"That's good, Harry."
Kim can practically see the man preening under the praise. Grin spread across his face cheeks red, a light in his eyes that shines a little bit extra. It's a dangerous game, but on occasion, Kim finds himself seeing what gets this reaction out of the man. In Martinaise, when Harry was talking to Joyce about the general affairs of the world, Kim had called him a 'diligent boy' which seemed to stop him in his tracks. Kim hadn't meant anything by it initially, but the praise seemed to work well.
"I really am trying," he repeats, and there's an unguarded earnestness in his voice.
"Of course you are."
"I like being your partner, Kim. You're the only one at the precinct who talks to me like a normal person. Judit tries, but she thinks I'm going to fall apart if anyone looks at me wrong. Jean just seems to hate me."
"I'm sorry, Harry."
"It's my fault," he says, laughing bitterly. "I don't blame any of them."
"You don't need to blame them, but you also can't hold yourself to actions you don't remember. There is middle ground."
There's a lapse in the conversation as Harry mulls the statement over in his head. Kim doesn't want it to continue this path, doesn't want to be the stand-in therapist for Harry.
"There's a new Occidental restaurant by precinct, if you didn't already know," he says. "Opened last week. I haven't gone yet."
"That would be good for dinner. Did you wanna go?" Harry sounds so hopeful it tugs at something painful in Kim's chest.
"Yes, detec- Harry. It would be nice. Maybe tomorrow?"
"Okay," Harry says, and Kim can hear the beam across his face through the phone.
Kim smiles softly, adjusting in his chair. It isn't uncomfortable, but it is utilitarian, and the sofa would be much better.
"Hang on, I'm just going to move the phone."
Harry hums in what sounds like assent, so Kim stands and stretches, uncurling from his seat. The cord that plugs the phone in is long, and his apartment is small, so it doesn't take much finessing to find a decent spot for the bulk to sit, curled phone cord making it's way to Kim's ear on the couch. He lays back, one hand behind his head, the other holding the phone.
"Sorry about that, my kitchen chairs are only comfortable for so long."
"All good. I'm laying in bed anyway," Harry says, and as he shifts, Kim can hear the bed-springs creak.
There's a brief moment where Kim imagines himself laying there, too, turned on his side to face Harry, tucked close in the late evening. The sodium lights washing over the pair, the orange sheen warming the room further. Harry would be warm enough, Kim has seen the man run around in an undershirt in early spring without a single goosebump.
"I'm just on the couch," Kim replies, trying to keep his tone conversational. "I've been trying the cryptic crossword, too, instead of just the regular one. It's harder than I expected, frankly."
"What's that?"
"The crossword, but the hints are wordplay, sort of like riddles."
"That sounds like something you'd enjoy," Harry laughs.
"And what is that supposed to mean, detective?" Kim asks, but there's no bite in his voice.
"You just like using your brain, that's all. I don't mind crosswords, but I can't stay focused on them. They take too long."
"Crosswords take too long, hmm? But not all your hours-long thought projects?"
"Keeps me occupied, at least," Harry says, and Kim can hear the swish of his glass again.
"Like calling me keeps you occupied?"
"Similar. You're just nice to talk to."
"Wouldn't want you to get bored, would we."
Harry laughs and Kim relishes in the sound. He adjusts the pillow behind his head and sighs slightly.
"You alright, Kim?"
"Of course. You?"
There's a silence over the phone line that sounds suspiciously like can-opening, and when Harry finally speaks, Kim wishes he had poured his own drink before settling on the couch.
"It would be nice if you were here. I know I'm supposed to be getting used to being alone and keeping myself sober, but there's times where I'm laying here just thinking. It's easier when I'm distracted, it's easier when I'm drinking or drunk or high. There's so much world to take in. I know you don't like being treated like a therapist, Kim, I'm sorry if you think that's what I'm doing. Life is just easier when you're around."
"Harry…"
"I just feel like myself when you're around."
"Harry."
"It was so nice when you joined the precinct and when we became partners, and I'm sorry I don't live up to the standards you're used to from the 57th, but I hope you feel like I'm a good partner, or at least half-decent. I don't want you to hate me, too."
"Harrier. Stop."
"I'm sorry—" the whisper is cut off by what sounds almost like a sob, and Kim has to take a deep breath.
"You're right, I do not like being treated like a therapist, it is neither my job nor my aptitude. However, I will make time for you in my evenings if it is helpful to you. I do not hate you, I do not want to see you fail. You are enjoyable company, and if an extra game of Suzerainty is good for you, I'm happy to oblige."
Kim can almost see Harry right now, sitting up in bed, knees pulled up, forehead resting against them, one hand clutching the phone like a lifeline, the other circled around his shins. He imagines himself there again, Harry pressed into his side, arm slung over his shoulders. He shakes the image from his mind, trying to stay focused.
"Dare I say you are a friend of mine, Harry, and I do care about your well-being."
There's a quiet sniffle on the other end of the line, and Harry blows his nose, thankfully distant from the phone.
"Is it dumb I kept your handkerchief? I use it whenever I'm sad because it reminds me I have you."
There's a feeling in Kim's chest, like his heart is trying to leap down the phone cord and come out the other side.
"No— I'm— That's— I'm glad you have it, Harry," he gets out, trying desperately to think of a way to redirect the conversation, though he's fairly positive there isn't one.
"I'm glad I have it, too."
"Was there something in particular that made you want to drink tonight?"
After a pause, Harry says, "No, I don't think so. I just felt alone, like the world was moving away from me faster than I could keep up with it. You told me, in Martinaise, if I couldn't get my shit together, the world would leave me behind. You were right, you're always right. I can feel it happening, I just don't know how to catch up."
Kim tries to think of anything to say, but nothing comes to him. He is stuck between offering meaningless comfort and throwing himself at Harry's feet for forgiveness. His words had been harsh, a kick in the ass he knew Harry needed in the moment, but he had never intended for them to carry this much weight. He had never intended for Harry to make himself as big a part of his life as he has. The precinct change, the partnership, the calls— it was so much more than Kim had bargained for, and yet from the moment he had seen the hungover, sweating, stinking mess of Harry Du Bois stumble down the Whirling-In-Rags stairs, it was inevitable.
"I never meant for those words to hurt you," he starts, cautiously.
"No, I know that. I'm not saying you did, only that they were true and stuck with me."
"What do you need from me, detective?"
"Back to detective again, huh?"
"Old habits."
"I dunno, Kim. I think I just need company."
"Would you like me to pick you up? You could come here," Kim offers.
"It's already late, don't worry. Just the phone is nice."
"My couch is almost certainly more comfortable than your bed, you know."
Harry laughs— a real, genuine laugh that tugs in the pit of Kim's stomach— and Kim can hear him sitting up in bed, the springs creaking.
"We do have tomorrow off. Late night Suzerainty wouldn't be the worst idea. I'll walk over, I could use the air," Harry says.
Kim knows the implication is he wants to sober up, wants to walk off the drinks before he enters Kim's apartment. Despite the number of slip-ups and relapses, the one thing Harry has been reliably good at is showing up to Kim's apartment at least mostly sober. A drink or two, sure, but he's never shown up sloppy. Kim doesn't quite know what to make of that, given Harry's track record of showing up to places drunk.
"Being drunk in your apartment feels worse than anywhere else," Harry says quietly, replying to the unvoiced thoughts in Kim's head. "I don't want to ruin your stuff or make a mess of your home. You deserve things that are clean and good."
"Harry…" Kim has truly no idea how to respond.
"I'll start walking in a minute, so I'll be to you by 11 pm, give or take. See you soon, Kim."
"See you soon, Harry."
Kim hangs up, and the silence stretches around him, the world pushed off its axis for a moment. He stands up from the couch, waiting in the quiet for some direction from the universe, some actionable thought that doesn't involve getting as close to Harry as humanly possible. He goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on the stove, watching the street from his kitchen window.
He stays there, unmoving, watching the quiet night drift by. At this hour, there aren't very many people out and moving. A few drunks, though the diehards are still in the bars. Second shift is beginning to wind down, though not over yet. The kettle whistles behind him, but he doesn't move. Something keeps his gaze on the street below.
It is nothing insidious, nothing that has him reaching for the phone again to call the precinct. There is an older woman, Seolite, a handkerchief wrapped around her hair. She has a cart full of flowers that she is pushing down the street, unbothered by the cracks in the road and places where the old cobblestones poke through the new asphalt. She passes out flowers to everyone she walks by, and when one well-meaning dockworker tries to pass we a few reál, she ignores his hand, and continues on her way.
Kim watches her walk, a slow meander down the road, stopping at everyone she passes by. She stops into a bar across the street from Kim, the bartender holding the door open for her to come in. She is clearly known in these parts, and Kim wonders a bit how he has never seen her before. He turns to set the kettle back on, and watches again as she emerges from the bar, cart thoroughly depleted. He thinks about going down for a moment to take a flower for himself, when he sees the familiar, shuffling gait of Harry come down the street.
He takes the flower she extends, and stoops to give her a kiss on the cheek— he knows this woman, of course he does. He gestures up at Kim's apartment, and the woman nods, handing him a second flower. Kim's heart squeezes in his chest, and he turns away from the window before Harry can see him at the window. The kettle calls again, and Kim pulls out a second cup, waiting for the knock at his apartment door. Harry has a spare key, a contingency plan, most partners at the precinct do, but he always knocks.
It only takes a moment for Harry to reach his door, and Kim is there waiting, swinging it open. They extend hands at the same time, a flower and a cup of tea. Harry smiles widely, and takes it with his free hand. Kim takes the flower, finding a tall, thin vase tucked away in his cabinet for it. Harry is still in the doorway, looking around at everything but Kim.
"Are you alright?" Kim asks, watching the man.
"You, uh— you're not wearing a shirt."
"I'm glad you're still sharp, detective. I did forget to put one on. One moment."
Kim's ears are burning red as he walks into his bedroom. He'd been so distracted by the conversation and the window he left any sense of propriety behind. He pulls on a plain white undershirt, and rejoins Harry in the kitchen, whose face is still a brilliant shade of red.
"Sorry if I got here too fast," he says, avoiding eye contact.
"It's alright. Did you run or something?"
"Jogged," Harry admits, the blush somehow deepening across his face. "I've been trying to run more anyway, and it was a nice night for it."
"You've been trying to run… more? You can run more?"
Harry laughs, a low rumble in his chest, and grins.
"Not just shuffling, but actually running. Gotta stay fit," he says, and flexes his bicep in what would normally be an over-the-top way, but in the deeper shadows of the night just catches Kim's eye more than ever.
"You and your ridiculous muscles. Gym teacher, for sure."
Harry chuckles and sits down on the couch, drinking from his cup of tea, waiting for Kim to sit down with him. It's companionable enough, a quiet few moments spent simply knowing the other was present. It doesn't distract Kim from why Harry wanted to come over in the first place, but it's pleasant enough to stifle the worry.
"How are you doing?" Kim asks, trying to keep his tone relatively casual.
"Disco, Kim. Never been better."
Kim raises an eyebrow, and Harry crumbles into his cup.
"I dunno, it's like I said over the phone, I just needed company."
"That's alright."
Kim leans down, grabbing the cardboard box that holds the pieces to Suzerainty from under his coffee table. Harry had given it to him when they left Martinaise, telling Kim he didn't want it getting lost or ruined in his own apartment. Kim had refused at first, but after seeing the state of what could, technically, be called a room on Perdition, he tucked the box under his arm and took it home.
Kim quickly sets up the board, and motions for Harry to go first. From anyone else, this would be a gesture of kindness, but Harry knows Kim doesn't play board games like that. Letting Harry go first is Kim's way of analyzing how he's going to play, giving himself a leg up on what Harry's method is going to be this game. After all, the first time they played, Kim had soundly beaten him, giving him a wicked grin.
"Never fuck with Kim Kitsuragi," Harry says, intending to think it, but mumbling it out loud instead.
"I'm sorry?"
Kim looks at Harry, slightly amused, trying to figure out where that sentence came from. The blush quickly goes back across Harry's face, and he scratches the back of his neck.
"Oh, uh. You said that to me when you beat me in Martinaise. It made me laugh, and playing with you again just makes me think of it."
"Hmm. Well, I was right," Kim says, confidently, and Harry already knows he's not winning tonight either.
They play in relative quiet as the shadows shift across the living room, one small lamp on the table to illuminate the game. At some point, Kim's had lingers over the pieces, Harry's brushing it when he reaches for his own. Harry yanks his hand back like he'd been burned, mumbling an apology, and Kim tilts his head.
"Did I do something?" he asks, uncertain of the reaction.
Harry isn't one who is particularly shy of physical touch, having few to no boundaries around himself. He's often draping over coworkers, throwing an ace's high to anyone in reach, stripping down and changing clothes regardless of who's around. For him to be embarrassed about Kim being shirtless and then react so strongly to accidentally bumping his hand was not his usual style.
"NO—" Harry's voice comes out much louder than either of them expect, and Harry quickly cuts himself off.
"I'm sorry, Kim, I didn't mean to yell. You didn't do anything," he says, hands twisting in his lap.
"But there's something on your mind," Kim says, not bothering to phrase it as a question.
Harry hesitates, and Kim can see the nervousness written across his features. He looks like a schoolboy with a crush— that thought crashes into Kim at full speed, and he blinks, trying to keep his face neutral. If that is what Harry is thinking, he doesn't know how to react.
Sure, Kim has spent more than enough time looking at his physique, and he enjoys the company Harry provides, but he's never really sat and thought about the fact that Harry might reciprocate any type of feeling for him. They're both in their 40s, not old, but not looking for the dating life of younger men. The precinct, of course, would become an obstacle course through hell. It would be a terrible idea, but Kim finds himself thinking more and more about Harry in the Kineema listening to Speedfreaks FM with him, legs tangled under the dinner table, sprawled out and snoring next to him in bed. Without realizing it, Kim has leaned forward, putting himself in Harry's space.
Harry's pale green eyes are wide, breathing picking up pace slightly. His eyes keep flicking between Kim's mouth and his gaze through his glasses, the glow of the lamp illuminating his face with a soft, hazy glow. Harry thinks Kim has never looked more divine than in this moment, lungs full to bursting with a wave of affection.
Harry leans in, too, one trembling hand coming up to cup the side of Kim's face, warm and calloused. There's an animal fear behind his eyes, and Kim knows he needs to wait for Harry to come to him, just be patient, just hold back— he does none of these things. Kim closes the gap, and Harry startles for a second, but Kim holds his wrist, keeping Harry's hand in place on his cheek. Harry's shoulders relax, and he sighs slightly into the kiss, a small noise that makes Kim's chest ache. He pulls away after a moment, a half-smile across his face.
"Don't let this distract you, Harry— I still intend to beat you in Suzerainty."