TRIGGER WARNING AHEAD
suicidal thoughts, self harm, substance abuse, toxic partnerships, toxic masculinity, and police.
JUNE 3RD '41, JAMROCK, 05:22
Fucking-- awake. again. Yet he still felt like he hadn't slept in weeks. A full-body exhaustion, weighing on him like a coat of molasses, unrelenting even in the brightest moments -- he knew they weren't as rare as he might convince himself they were, but it was hard to find them when he could barely breach the surface of whatever vile ocean he'd walked himself into.
Christ. And it was only Tuesday.
He should be happy, he knew; work was steady, he wasn't being hounded by anyone to pay bills that were overdue, and his romantic life was... non-existent, actually-- which was better than it being bad, right? Though realistically, the thought of anyone having to put up with him made him want to vomit from the overwhelming guilt of it all. He had some nerve thinking about inflicting himself upon some poor dame when he couldn't even stand being around him. At least they could leave- would leave. He was stuck.
Stuck in this shitty apartment, at this shitty job, in this shitty city, weighed down in this shitty bed that made his back ache like he was ten years older than he was. However fucking old he was. twenty-something? Thirty? He felt older than thirty. Though anyone over twenty would be able to take care of themselves a whole lot better than this; he didn't remember the last time he'd changed his bedsheets, which only led to acne flare-ups, he knew, which only led to his nervous skin picking, which only led to the knowledge that anyone forced to look at him would see the result of his compulsive self-mutilation. Then there was the fucking... floordrobe. He'd ended up selling a chest of drawers because he couldn't justify having the thing when he never used it. Except to set mugs down on. And then set more mugs down on. And beer bottles. And... well, it doesn't matter; he'd sold it, it was gone now, and now he only had a nightstand to clutter with mugs and glasses and plates. Much less space there. It didn't help that same sense of guilt when he looked at it though, knowing he was too much of a lazy piece of shit slob to just-- do things like a normal person. How fucking difficult was it to just be fucking normal for once?
His eyes were getting misty, his throat tight, like some kind of fucking pussy, he was starting to cry over nothing, and it wasn't even--
His alarm went off, 6:00AM, and the dam broke like cheap plastic. He'd been laying here for almost an hour being fucking miserable about nothing! He'd woken up before his alarm, and instead of starting the day early, he just lay there! He couldn't stop the sobs, and he knew hiding under the sheets wouldn't do shit to change the fact he was such a weak bitch, but it made him feel better -- because he was a weak bitch. He left the alarm to ring out, scream directly into his eardrums like some kind of punishment for being like this. Whatever this was.
The worst part, or at least the one that pissed him off the most right now, was he stopped sobbing after barely even a minute. Just like that, he was back to feeling a whole lot of nothing. What a fucking pussy he was, crying like a complete baby because something didn't go his way. He took a deep breath, held it, then sighed out through his nose, letting it turn into a frustrated growl as he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then, finally, he got out of bed.
It wasn't anything, but it felt like something. He didn't wait for applause, he didn't expect a horde of people to burst into his house and begin congratulating him- he wasn't stupid. He didn't deserve to be praised for something normal people do every day. He shouldn't be praised for being anything other than a lazy piece of shit.
He stretched his arms above his head and let his shoulders slump after. Looked like it was time to start the day now.
... well, at least going to work meant he got to see Pepper. She was a good horse.
NAME: JEAN-HERON VICQUEMARE
AGE: 27 YEARS OLD
SEX: MALE
POSITION: EQUESTRIAN OFFICER
PRECINCT: 41, JAMROCK QUARTER
DETAILS: PATIENT DESCRIBES FEELINGS OF HOPELESSNESS AND GUILT, LOW MOOD, LACK OF INTEREST IN MOST THINGS INCLUDING PREVIOUS HOBBIES, LACK OF ENERGY OR MOTIVATION. PATIENT ALSO DESCRIBES EXTREMELY FREQUENT THOUGHTS OF SELF HARM AND/OR SUICIDE. PATIENT HAS BEEN ASSIGNED TEMPORARY LEAVE FROM THE PRECINCT FOR HEALTH REASONS. PATIENT WILL BE PRESCRIBED A LOW DOSE OF ANTI-DEPRESSANT MEDICATION AND MONITORED FOR CHANGES IN BEHAVIOUR AND MOOD.
ADDITIONAL NOTES: PATIENT SHOULD BE MONITORED CLOSELY AS ADJUSTMENT TO MEDICATION CAN CAUSE AN INCREASE IN NEGATIVE BEHAVIOURS SUCH AS AN INCREASE IN THOUGHTS OF SUICIDE OR SELF HARM OR ATTEMPTS AT SUICIDE AND SELF HARM, LOW IMPULSE CONTROL, AND EXTREME MOOD SWINGS.
FOLLOW UP REVIEW IN TWO WEEKS.
SIGNED: DR. NIX GOTTLIEB.
JANUARY 29TH '44, JAMROCK, 14:22
Well. There it was. In plain, if not slightly dry writing: Jean's head was fucked.
Standing in his hallway, brushing his teeth idly, reading the copy of the report from the precinct lazarus over and over and over and-- he only stopped when he felt a glob of foamy toothpaste-laden spit fall on his bare foot- no, the third glob, he noticed upon looking down. The third fucking glob- how long had he been standing there?
He stepped back, halfway in the door of the bathroom and the hallway now, and felt around for a cup to spit into, which he also crassly used to scrape the toothpaste-spit off his foot into. Whatever. He was the only one using it. The cup clattered unceremoniously into the sink once he was finished with it, the sound of plastic on porcelain drowned out by the thick cloud of smoke swirling in his mind, obscuring any sense of how to feel about... this.
... he could tell there was anger. Maybe that was his default state, but it was still a state at all. Anger at himself, mostly; what fucking right did he have to be so-- his hand crumpled up the letter as he thought about what word he wanted to use, while his other hand, dangerously idle now that it didn't have teeth to brush, began to dig into his left cheek, digging, clawing, pretending it was just trying to grab at an ingrown hair or blackhead or something and not just gouging to gouge. Then it, or rather, they hit, the words he'd been looking for: why was he so useless and weak?
He was suddenly very aware of the sting in his cheek, the blood on his fingernails, the letter discarded on the floor amongst weeks of unopened mail (the only reason he'd noticed this one was the handwritten address - the hope that his mother might be reaching out had flickered then, began to swell, illuminate him in a light that was so unceremoniously snuffed out by the sight of such cold typewritten text on precinct paper) and it was all he could do to just.. sit. In the hallway, face and fingers bloodied, eyes wet but the energy to cry very much not joining them this time, heavy with the knowledge that he wasn't just a pussy, he was a pussy who would need to take medication to stop being a pussy. He was a terminally diagnosed little bitch. Didn't matter if he toughened up physically, he'd always be fragile mentally.
The sigh that followed was long and hollow. Didn't make him feel any better. There wasn't anything to sigh out anyway. He'd only just woken up - 2pm, the prick - and he was already getting to his feet to crawl back to bed with his tail between his legs like the whimpering mongrel he was.
At least there was still the possibility that his mother would contact him. No news was good news, a sign she hadn't written him off completely, she was just... busy, probably. There was still time.
See, even in his worst moments, he sought out the silver linings, however small. There was always at least one.
FROM: DR. GOTTLIEB, PRECINCT 41
REGARDING: JEAN-HERON VICQUEMARE
MESSAGE: PATIENT HAS SHOWN MARKED IMPROVEMENT IN MOOD. THOUGH HE STILL CLAIMS TO THINK OF SUICIDE AND SELF-HARM OFTEN, IT'S NOT AS FREQUENT - HE REFERS TO THEM AS "PASSIVE, NOT AGGRESSIVE". DEPRESSIVE EPISODES ARE LESS FREQUENT WITH LESS OF AN IMPACT ON HIS DAILY LIFE. HE HAS AGREED TO CONTINUE MEDICATION AND CONTACT MYSELF WITH ANY CONCERNS HE MAY HAVE REGARDING FURTHER TREATMENT. PATIENT HAS EXPRESSED A MORE POSITIVE OUTLOOK ON LIFE GOING FORWARD WITH A DESIRE TO FOCUS ON HIS CAREER. I AM PLEASED WITH PATIENT'S PROGRESS AS HIS PRECINCT LAZARUS.
FOLLOW UP REVIEW UNNECESSARY.
SIGNED: DR. NIX GOTTLIEB.
- ps. welcome back, vic.
AUGUST 11TH '48, RMC PRECINCT 41 STATION, 10:01
Harrier Du Bois-- god, even the name gave Jean a thrill. The man was it. The guy was a goddamn supercop like the ones from old detective movies, except better somehow! The moment he'd stepped into the room, he became the source of all its energy, even in a high testosterone environment like an overworked and understaffed police precinct. The way he'd responded to Jean's politely professional offer for a handshake by just grabbing Jean by the hand and pulling him in for a one-armed hug, like they'd known each other for years. Jean didn't even really mind that he felt dwarfed by the man, standing what felt like a head and a half shorter than Harry and maybe a third of his entire width if he was lucky.
Harry draped his arm over Jean's shoulder's as the captain briefed them. "This is lieutenant Du Bois," Pryce had pointed out, "he's our..." he paused, then barely even shook his head as he decided words wouldn't do, "he's your new partner going forward."
Harry laughed like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard, "Shit, cap, you make a guy feel real special when you put it like that!" he crooned, though it maybe wasn't a croon and Jean just needed to reel it in a bit, or maybe that's just how he spoke- he wasn't from the area, his accent was strange, and Jean could see a slight twinge in the man's jaw as he spoke, like it was lagging behind his animated way of... talking. It was talking, not crooning. Look, point is: he was cool, even dressed like he didn't get the memo that disco was dead and buried and the foxes and crows had long since scraped the meat from its bones. That was part of the charm. Even when he was uncool, Harry was so fucking cool.
Pryce didn't seem too interested in Harry's anything, he just grunted and sucked in through his teeth in some sort of disdain. Meanwhile, Harry had taken to uncapping a thermos to semi-carefully top up Jean's empty coffee cup, never once shifting the younger man from under his arm, just pouring him a new hot drink like it was the most natural course of action.
"Just try not to make him quit too soon, he's one of the good ones."
Before Jean could sputter out his thank-yous, Harry tugged him closer, "Really now!" he said- or, bellowed. The man didn't seem to have a concept of volume, "In that case," he lifted the arm on Jean's shoulders to give him two solid pats on one of them - Jean could tell the damage this man could do if he wasn't careful just then - before he returned to his casual side-hug, "I'll keep you right, kid. You ain't getting away from me that easily."
A few more pleasantries, more between Harry and the captain as Jean stood by, taking an experimental sip of the coffee he'd been poured. It was...
... was that whisky?
He glanced up at Harry as the man seemed to usher their captain away from them with assurances. Then back to the mug. Another sip.
... maybe he was just imagining things.
"You're not," Harry said to him as he settled down against his desk to flip through the case files they'd had thrown on them.
"H-huh-" Jean blinked, pulled from some kind of reverie, "sorry?"
Harry didn't elaborate. He just looked up from the case file and winked with a click of his tongue before looking back down.
So fucking cool.
SEPTEMBER 13TH '48, SOMEWHERE IN REVACHOL PROBABLY, 19:43
Harry had convinced the precinct to give them a motor carriage. How he managed, Jean wasn't sure, but he did, and they were definitely misusing it right now.
Their shifts had ended hours ago, so they'd fucked off to the off-license and picked up vodka. "I'd call today a job well done," Harry had shrugged, despite most of today being full of fucking nothing. At least, nothing worth mentioning. They'd been forced to ticket some people just to look like they'd done something, but really, for once, Jamrock was being handled by other precincts and wards. They hadn't done fuck all to deserve a drink, but that didn't do much to stop it happening.
Jean had driven them out to the middle of nowhere, outside of Jamrock, toward the coast, and they'd both pushed the motor into a field (Jean told himself. Harry did pretty much all of that himself, Jean just put his hands against the thing and pretended to help.) and in a blatant show of disrespect of anyone's property, they'd climbed on the hood to drink their spoils.
They'd left the radio on. A song rolled out between them like honey: i'm working on my backwards walk, walking with no shoes or socks, and the time rewinds to the end of may, i wish we'd never met, then met today
"It's just- it's a vibe, I can't explain it, li'l buddy," Harry drawled, "It's like... an intuition, y'know? A fifth sense-"
"Fifth? Are you dumb?" Jean scoffed, rolling a cigarette with all the expertise of a seasoned smoker with nothing much else to do outside of poisoning his own lungs, with the weed and tobacco crushed in evenly.
"Seventh, then-"
"Shut your bitch ass up."
"-I just looked into his weird swollen eyes and- ah!" he fluttered his fingers outward, "I understood. My third eye was busted the fuck open, brother mine-"
"That was the drugs."
"Never on duty."
Jean didn't answer, just stopped rolling the cigarette to turn his head toward the older man, eyebrow raised.
"Sometimes on duty," Harry conceded- sort of. He was lying. Jean could no longer count the amount of times Harry had given him a bump of speed to get through a case- not due to the taxing nature of it, but for fun.
"Always on duty," Jean concluded for him, then dragged his tongue along the edge of the paper-
"Damn, baby, what's that tongue game like?" Harry cut in, smirking like the fucking pervert he was. Jean was glad the alcohol made him red in the face anyway, because he'd be blushing.
"Weak, like my dick," Jean shot back, earning laughter from Harry that was warm and genuine and- yeah, it felt good. Whatever. It felt good to be accepted by your peers and coworkers and shit. Jean finished rolling and brought the joint to his lips, barely even beginning to fish for a lighter before Harry was lighting it for him with his own windproof lighter. Jean grunted a thanks to him and took a deep inhale, feeling the slight sting of forcing any sort of smoke into his lungs - he didn't even lie to himself about quitting. he wouldn't. - and basking in it. Every nerve seemed to dull immediately, the tingle of the vodka pushing it all along, resulting in a numbness that felt far better than the numbness he was used to.
He heard Harry shift, but didn't think too much about it, until he exhaled the smoke-- directly into the other man's mouth.
... i'm working on erasing you, just don't have the proper tools, i get hammered, forget that you exist, there's no way i'm forgetting this...
"Harry-"
"What?" Harry mumbled, still inches away from Jean's face, "Never done some gay shit with one of your fellow pigs?" he smirked, his breath reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, and Jean couldn't even argue- well, no, he could; he'd never done gay shit with anyone, but this...
"God, you're so fucking cool" Jean sighed out, his face splitting into a grin as he laughed quietly between them. Should he be mad, actually? That was... inappropriate. But they were off duty- just friends hanging out- but-- "I've never done gay shit with anyone," Jean admitted, "I'm not-"
"Hey, me either," Harry finally pulled away, back to reclining by Jean's side on the hood of their car, "but I'm a hedonistic son of a bitch- y'know, my brain tells me what it wants, and I deliver it."
"Yeah, you fucking ape, it's called thinking-"
"No! No-" Harry was intense suddenly, almost pouring vodka on himself as he pulled their shared bottle from his lips mid-drink-- had he even exhaled yet? "Vic-- Jean, Jean-- I hear it," he pointed to his temple, his eyes wild, but not dangerously so, "it's not just-- it's not just a desire, it's... he tells me what I need to do, I hear him do it, like he's fucking-- whispering into my ear- look, he just did it right there-" Harry wiped his lips of extra vodka, took a second to turn his head and exhale which answered Jean's question, then lowered his voice slightly. It was rougher now, like gravel, with a different lilt than Harry's usual drawl, "Stop your fuckin' talkin' and get your lips around that dirty little joint, Harry-boy," he said-- quoted, Jean could tell.
"Huh." was all he could say. He raised the joint to his lips before he paused. Harry could definitely be bullshitting right now, he knew, but... he offered the joint to him- he could just... get the smoke from him too, right?
"He says you're a fucking sucker," Harry announced with a chuckle, then took a long hit of the joint. "For the record, I don't agree- for what it's worth. This guy's just..." he lowered his voice, into a whisper, like it would help, "he's not my favourite. Kind of a jackass."
Jean couldn't help but chuckle. This was... this was weird, right?
"You say that like there's more than one," he pressed, casual as he could. Should he run? Was this a serial killer thing? Was he going to die?
Would anyone notice?
Jean shifted to face Harry more, leaning closer. You know, since they were doing gay shit...
"There is! There's, like..." he exhaled the hit into Jean's mouth while the younger man practically purred, "fuck, I dunno. Tons. They're all different. They're all fucking pricks."
"Huh."
They were silent for a few seconds more.
"They don't bother you? I mean-- you wouldn't... you don't think it's a reason to go to Nix?"
Harry suddenly began to laugh, again, like Jean had just told the world's funniest joke- it was genuine, but not condescending. That's what Jean liked about Harry. He never felt stupid around him.
"The fuck? No, no, no- that'd be a fucking disaster, kid! Don't you get it-? This is- I wouldn't be able to do my job if I wasn't constantly hearing these dickheads bicker amongst themselves! The third eye--" Harry propped himself up on his elbow, using his free arm to reach out to the horizon, "you remember, the third eye- that's... that's what this is! I didn't know to check the body today- I wouldn't have, but- they told me to. They knew I had to!"
Jean couldn't fucking figure out what was going on anymore. He was too high for this. Too drunk. Whose idea was it to fucking drink-- "right," he drew out, nodding slowly, his brain fumbling with the concept like it was trying to hold wet soap, "that's... I mean- shit, I believe it- stranger shit, right? Just... fuck!" he foolishly gulped down more vodka, the bottle now empty, and he tossed the bottle in a random direction into the field for someone else to find. It was suddenly as if he was seeing in colour for the first time in his life, everything lighting up until it was almost overwhelming to think about how bright it all was- "Holy shit, Harry," he breathed, slumping back against the motor, "you... you really are such a fucking supercop!"
Was it the right response?
Hindsight, and all that...
"You're so fucking cool!" he lilted, beginning to slur his words, every nerve in his body both completely numb and so deeply aware to every sensation. This might have been the happiest Jean had ever been in his life.
If there was a response, he didn't hear it. He was suddenly aware again, in a moment of clarity, just where they were. "Shit," he breathed out, sitting up to look around, "shit- Harry- where are we?" He asked, only sitting up fro as long as his body could allow. Which wasn't long.
"Uh- shit... like, half an hour outside Jamrock?" Harry offered, motioning toward the horizon behind them as he tossed another empty vodka bottle into the field.
"Fuck," Jean hissed, and a chuckle began to bubble up from deep inside him. He didn't know what was so funny- or, he did, but it wasn't funny- "Shit, Harry, how the fuck are we getting back home?" he tittered.
There was a beat of silence before Harry reached the same page. "Shit..." he muttered, his own laughter starting up, "We didn't think this through, kid. We're lost at sea-"
"The precinct's gonna want this car back- Harry, for fuck sake-"
Harry was covering his mouth as if the fact he was laughing was something to be hidden- it should be, really, since Harry was technically Jean's superior, and Harry should technically not be taking company motor carriages without permission to go drink and do drugs on possibly private property. Yet, here they were... "It's fine! It's fine- we can just- we broke down, right?"
"No, we didn't-"
"No, no, Jean- we broke down," Harry enunciated best he could - there was that jaw twinge Jean had noticed before - "Jean... we broke down. We broke down."
Jean nodded. "We broke down."
Harry threw out his arms, "We broke down!" he practically yelled, then, settling back against the motor, "and we couldn't get back because it was so dark, and... look, I've made worse excuses for stupider shit, I'm not-- I'm fucked right now, but I'll figure out how to bail us out on this one. Trust me, kid, we'll do just fine."
It took longer than it should have to realise Harry's arm was draped over Jean's shoulders again, and that he'd pulled Jean closer, and that Jean had just sort of... let him.
Harry was warm, and Jean felt safe like this, Nobody would want to fuck with a guy like Harry. He knew Harry wouldn't let anyone fuck with Jean either- Jean, his partner. Jean's partner Harrier Du Bois, the coolest fucking supercop partner this side of Revachol.
"Just trust me, kid. I got this. Promise you."
Jean sighed heavily, like he was breathing out his stress from the last-- decades of his life, all in one long exhale.
"I trust you," he said, easily, quietly, "you're the fucking supercop, of course I trust you."
"''Atta boy," Harry crooned, stroking Jean's arm while Jean basked in the feeling of all his vices and the gentle static they'd turned his nerves to. Harry's touch was a comforting sort of electricity against his arm. And the soft kiss to his temple too. "Love ya, kid."
you're the shit and i'm knee-deep in it, you're the shit and i'm knee-deep in it, you're the shit and i'm knee-deep in it...
September 14TH '48, A SHITTY FUCKING FIELD IN THE GOD DAMN RAIN, 04:33
Jean woke up full of regret. First for the hangover, second for the fact they had fallen asleep on the hood of the motor carriage.
"Fuck..." He groaned. His voice was scratchy from sleep. "Fuck! Harry, for fuck sake, wake up!" he peeled himself away from the other man, now rousing from his own sleep to discover his own hangover, "Fucking hell, it's raining! Whose fucking idea was it to sleep outside?!"
Harry scoffed, muttered: "You fell asleep on me, kid, I wasn't gonna carry you to the backseat or something."
"I didn't expect- you- oh fucking hell-" Jean leaned over the side of the carriage to retch, earning a chuckle from Harry as he climbed down, seemingly unscathed. He certainly looked like he was feeling it, but...
"Ah, I'm used to it," he grumbled. Jean would have asked how he knew what he was thinking, but he was too busy having his stomach turned inside out. Harry hopped into the back seat, "I reckon we can get another two hours in. Cap ain't gonna give a shit if we're late, never does."
"He gives a huge shit-" Jean croaked out. He'd finished retching, his face now wet and sad looking. Outside of the fucking rain beating down on him, of course. He hurried into the carriage- "Where the fuck am I supposed to go, you fat cunt?"
Harry shrugged, then patted his stomach, "It's like a mattress." he offered, then, in another moment of obscene clarity, "relax, relax! we did gayer shit last night. "
Jean bristled. "Gayer shit- w-what did we do?"
"Ha! Really, you don't remember? Damn you're a lightweight. Ah, well- I don't see you relaxing, kiddo. We shotgunned."
"I do remember, I just- I don't--" Jean cut himself off, levelled him with a glare. A scowl, actually. He felt awful, he just wanted to go home, and now the thought of the precinct finding out about the two of them even hanging out after hours- he swallowed thickly and pointed a warning finger at Harry, "that stays between us."
Harry drew a cross over his heart with a cool smile that did nothing to cool Jean down.
"I'm fucking serious, Do Bois, if word gets around that we're off shotgunning each other-"
"You think I want that? C'mon, kid, my neck's on that same chopping block. This doesn't get out- not from me anyway. That I can guarantee you." His smile barely changed, but Jean felt like it did, as he added, "And you wouldn't want to fuck with me like that."
It was both a statement of fact and a threat. Jean knew Harry was enough of a fucking bull to let his words be a warning shot. Jean was not immune to Harry's physical strength just because they were partners.
"I wouldn't," Jean half-squeaked, then corrected himself, "I wouldn't. We're partners."
"Yeah," Harry nodded slowly, and any evidence he'd threatened Jean at all was completely gone. The moment was over. The contract had been signed. Harry patted his stomach again, "now get your skinny little ass over here and go to sleep betwixt my ample bosom."
Jean retched a few more times, then got into the carriage. He settled against Harry easily, cold and wet from the rain, hung over from the impromptu celebration, but comfortable. Even after he'd been indirectly threatened, he felt safe here.
"Comfortable?" Harry rumbled, and Jean could hear his smirk.
"Shut the fuck up."
NOVEMBER 20TH '49, JAMROCK, 23:18
The gun was a little much, Jean thought, and not because it was aimed directly at him. By a psychotic drug addict in the midst of yet another drunken meltdown.
Sorry, that was insensitive. He should see the person behind the addiction: Harry. Jean was currently having a gun aimed directly at him by Harry.
The guy hadn't shown up for work again. Third day in a row, he'd just disappeared into thin air like some kind of magical buffalo. Not even his usual haunts were, well, haunted. Jean and the new recruit - Judit, her name was, lovely girl, but that was for another time - had scraped through them all at the behest of Captain Pryce, and when it all turned up empty, Jean had began to spiral. He was used to Harry's suicide threats, promises, attempts, but he was always there after it all. What the fuck was Jean supposed to do now that he might actually be gone?
Truth was, Jean wasn't done mourning yet. In fact, he'd refused to start. Harry had promised to get clean again, he'd been fine for about a week- he'd been great actually, and Jean had stupidly thought that this time was the one. This time, he'd have his partner back, and he wouldn't have to babysit or clean up his messes or stay up all hours of the night to talk him out of killing himself or pull strings at the precinct to get help covering up some shit he'd done. He wasn't Harry's partner, he was his fucking caretaker. Harry could still solve cases, but fuck, man! He'd come in to the office jacked up on amphetamines and god knows what else, spout some shit about a vision he had, then... god, he'd fucking solve the case like a fucking supercop. Jean wanted to be impressed. Like, he was still impressed, but it was drowned out by the feeling that it could have gone better. Harry didn't need to be like this to do his job.
And it would ebb and flow, his episodes, which made Jean feel even more stupid for thinking the bursts of lucidity would last. It was, again, always this time that would bring Harry back to him for good. He wouldn't wake up in a month- two if he was lucky- and find Harry had broken in to his apartment, relapsed and talking about his visions again. Fucking rabid again.
Which, incidentally, is what had happened this time. But, yeah, the gun was new and a bit dramatic even for the Lieutenant double-yefreitor.
(How he managed to not only get a promotion -- a second one -- but also have the sense to turn it down like the first... Jean was still finding it hard to see him as anything other than a supercop at times.)
Jean was trapped between the wall and Harry, not exactly pinned, but any attempts to escape would probably leave him with some kind of injury- or dead, if he was lucky. Harry just had his arm against the wall, looming, while the other waved a very loaded, very capable gun issued by the Revacholian Citizens Militia - which, if he'd forgot to mention it, was their employer - and wielded by a man that Jean had watched hit a fleeing suspect on a busy street, managing to leave all civilians unscathed outside of their temporary hearing loss and adrenaline rush from the shot, and with only minor injury to the suspect, all things considered. Harry was more than capable of doing real damage with his weapon. Harry was aware that he was more than capable of doing real damage even without his weapon. Jean had watched that damage too. Even if Jean wasn't being held at gunpoint right now, he'd still be hesitant to try and escape. Again: injury or death, with death being the easier option, if Harry got too carried away.
"Fucking- it's easier if I just die," Harry was growling out, holding the gun in a hand as it switched between targets, "you know it, we both know it, right? One less pig to fucking worry about," he pressed the gun just under Jean's jaw, "two, maybe? Jean, buddy, trust me: I know you wouldn't mind."
Jean was trembling, pressed against the wall like he was trying to phase through it, and he whimpered as the gun touched his skin. He didn't say anything, and Harry just laughed; at first a cruel chuckle, then a harsher version of his usual laugh, so far removed from the ones Jean used to like getting from him.
"Shit, now you're scared to die? Fucking pussy. So, what, was all that just for show?" Harry demanded, a very sudden switch from amusement to frigid anger, "You never really got it, did you? That feeling- the one of... fuckin'..." he waved his free hand as he thought of the word, "drowning. For weeks, months? Just did that for sympathy, eh? Girls love a fixer-upper..." he pressed the gun into Jean's neck harder now, finger on the trigger, watching Jean's face as the younger man did nothing to hide his terrified tears and sweat or the fact he couldn't look Harry in the eye right now.
It pissed his superior off.
"FUCKING ANSWER ME, VIC!" He suddenly snarled, slamming the gun against the wall directly next to Jean's head. Jean tensed up and trembled harder, swallowing thickly as he whimpered pathetically, which Harry found funny too. "Shit, you're real scared right now, huh? Maybe I'm being too hard on you, kid... ach..." he slid his hand back down the wall, then brought the gun back to Jean- his mouth, this time, "fine, here, look: answer me now, and I'll stop pointing it at you. Then we can decide other ways we can both die. I think that's fair. Gives us both what we want."
There was a moment of silence as Jean swallowed again, "I... I-I wasn't lying, I'd never lie about-- I get it, I get it-" he sniffed and hiccuped, "I'd never lie to you, Harry, you know I wouldn't- right?"
That seemed to settle his partner slightly. Harry hummed, then sighed, then let his hand fall back to his side with his finger off the trigger now. "You wouldn't. You're a good kid, you're right! Fuck, Vic, I didn't mean anything by that. You know that, yeah?"
"Yeah- yes. Yes."
A sudden tension, a flare of something behind his partner's eyes-- not that Jean would see it.
"'Yes', what?"
"Y-yes, lieutenant!"
Harry nodded once, "Sloppy, but it'll do." he pulled away just slightly, set the gun on the coffee table, went back to looming, and even with the weapon down, Jean was still terrified, "Look at me, Vic." And Jean opened his eyes at least. It wasn't enough. Harry slammed his hand against the wall next to Jean's head this time. "LOOK at me, Vic!" he snarled, and Jean forced himself to look.
He didn't know this man. He knew the face, vaguely, at least when it was softer, not red and twisted into something that looked like disgust. Jean had been mourning harry longer than he'd ever known the man, and he thought maybe, like an open casket, this would show him that the man he knew was dead. But Jean wasn't very clever, and an excellent liar toward himself. It'll get better, he'd profess, he'll come back to me, better than ever-- this time.
"Tell me about it." Harry demanded, softly. Jean swallowed, frowned slightly, didn't even get to ask what before Harry prodded again, "The despair, tell me about it. What brought it on?"
Jean shook his head slightly, glancing off to the right, "I... I don't think anything did," he confessed in a voice so small it made him sick to his stomach, "I think I'm just like this. I don't remember ever not being like this." He looked back to Harry, who hadn't moved, just staring back at him like a predator waiting for its prey to make the next move. "I skipped school a lot- I told you that, I'd just not go in for weeks because I couldn't get out of bed. I had to drop out."
Harry huffed in dry amusement. "Didn't know that about you, kid. Pretty disco how we're always learning new things about our friends, mm?" he pulled back, just slightly, eyes still trained on Jean though the feeling of being loomed over wasn't so intense now. "Can't imagine mama was too happy about that."
Jean swallowed again, a sudden sting in his eyes. "N-no... no, she..." he couldn't even continue, all the emotions from the last however long they'd been standing here welling up, pouring out of a wound that had been poked and prodded relentlessly and so had no chance to heal. The first tear rolled up, not one of fear this time. "I don't remember the last time I heard from her," he sobbed out, "I don't know what I did wrong- I've sent her mail, I don't even know if she's getting it- I miss my fucking mom-"
It was stupid to cry over something so trivial, but this entire situation was stupid. Harry cooed like he was dealing with some kind of baby, stepped to the side to lean back against the same wall as Jean, and pulled them both down to sit. Jean just let it happen, happy to be pulled against his partner even if he smelled like alcohol and sweat. "Not everyone is equipped to deal with people like us, kid. You don't get misery 'til you go through it yourself. Would be real fuckin' nice if we didn't have to at all," he scoffed, "'swhat drugs and shit are for, I guess."
There was a beat of silence as Jean thought about it.
"Man, to think we can bond over the shared abandonment from people who just couldn't wrap their fuckin' heads around the furies." Harry sucked in through his teeth, "tell y'what isn't disco: this right here. She didn't get it- neither of them got it, and look where that got us, we fucking beasts of burden."
Even now, Jean couldn't help but roll his eyes when Harry got all poetic about his ex. Dora had a lot to fucking answer for.
"We fucking beasts of burden," he sighed out in an echo.
They didn't say anything else. Despite everything, there wasn't really much else to say.
NOVEMBER 21ST '49, JAMROCK, 06:32
On the way out to work - to clean up Harry's mess - the blanket behemoth called to him from the couch: "I'm gonna stay sober this time," it claimed groggily, "I'll get clean and we can run the task force together- properly."
The silence was suffocating, Jean standing with his hand on the front door handle.
"You believe me, right? Like, you trust me?" Harry, or at least the temporarily sobered remnants of him, pressed on.
Jean picked at the edge of the door handle while his other hand stayed in the pocket of his slacks, fidgeting with the bullets he'd taken out of the gun. "If you're not out of my house by the time I get back-" he started strong, but faltered. Then what? He knew he couldn't do shit. "... I want you out of here by the time I get back."
He didn't wait for an answer, just opened the door and left. He made sure to slam it shut; it didn't really help anything, but it sure made him feel better.
NOVEMBER 21ST '49, JAMROCK, 22:56
Harry had left like Jean had told him to, and it only made Jean hate himself even more. He could feel himself spiral; he was mad at himself for telling Harry to leave when the man clearly needed him, he was mad at himself for caring despite everything, he was mad at harry for not getting it together, he was mad at the rest of the task force for not trying to help more, he was mad at himself for expecting that of them-- he was furious at himself for crying about it.
It had been another day of getting through every case that nobody else wanted on top of the ones he already had- that he should have had a partner for, but...
Judit helped where she could, but she was barely able to keep on top of her own. Jean couldn't expect too much from her- not because she was incompetent, of course, she was far more competent than... a lot of their ragtag gang of not-so-supercops. More importantly, she stuck around despite Harry being... Harry. Even when he was sober, Jean was realising that Harry Du Bois was a fucking jackass.
"I've been in this precinct for almost two years," Judit had said with a tired smile, "it'll take a lot more than him to scare me off."
"You're stronger than most of the entire precinct, then," Jean had offered.
"Just because I have a pussy, doesn't mean I am one." She scoffed, and Jean found himself laughing despite wanting to just wallow in his misery, being miserable. Judit hid her face for a second, "Ah- sorry, that was vulgar," she apologised behind a barely hidden smirk. She wasn't sorry.
"It was, you're right. Back to work before I write you up, Minot." Jean used his best superior officer voice as he wagged his finger at her. She muttered out a yes, sir and pretended she wasn't still smirking as she went back to her work. It was a comfortable silence after. Jean felt light, though he knew it would only be temporarily.
Jean didn't know how long he'd just stood there, still in his uniform, staring at nothing. Harry's gun was gone - something that would have turned his blood cold if he hadn't thought to remove the bullets - and the only sign he'd been there at all the night before was two dents in the wall. Jean felt like he was suffocating for a second, remembering it, remembering how he'd been so afraid of Harry then. He swallowed thickly as his eyes began to sting. What kind of pussy was scared of his partner? Why didn't Jean just get a better fucking handle on the both of them? Why the fuck was he so useless and weak?
Jean didn't bother eating anything that night. He didn't deserve it. He didn't even deserve to sleep in his own bed; he just stripped out of his uniform, hung it up so he could at least look put-together to strangers, and curled up on the couch in his boxers and undershirt. He used the same blanket Harry did last night, and fell into a terrible, restless sleep surrounded by the bittersweet knowledge that he used to find this smell comforting.
??? ??ND '??, ???, ??:??
Jean was awake, in his room as it looked during any time that wasn't a Revacholian winter. The same piles of belongings cluttered it, the only difference now was that some daylight managed to sneak through the blinds, illuminating Jean's incompetence while attempting to somehow make it look better. The sun offered no warmth, the room offered no sound, his alarm clock didn't show any time he could read. It shifted and morphed and blurred as he looked at it, became worse the more he focused.
It felt like dawn. He was in his uniform, his vision shifting almost imperceptibly: he was in the hallway now, staring at the piles of letters - stacked up to the letterbox where more had been shoved in. There were no words to make out, but he felt an overwhelming sadness as he realised, somehow, that none of them were from his mother. He touched the pile and it felt like hair with an added sensation of touching sand.
The living room light was on. When Jean stepped in, he was at work and it was empty, but the noise was overwhelming.
He opened the door to their task force's office, and immediately wanted it to be over.
Harry was there- what was left of him anyway. Jean had seen corpses that had died via a shotgun wound to the head. He'd seen plenty, be it suicide or murder, and even when he'd went home and drank himself to sleep, his brain remembered everything. It spared no detail as it presented him with Harry. Even in this state, Jean knew it was him, he knew behind the vicsera-- that was his partner.
He screamed, covered his mouth, but it didn't make a single bit of difference. It came out as a whimper either way, the feeling of screaming without the satisfaction of hearing it all leave the system, just a pathetic whimper like a scared animal.
He tripped over the piles of empty bottles of both pill and liquor, scrambled to reach Harry, landed at his side and stupidly checked for a pulse. His head was back, but it wasn't Harry- or, it was Harry, but not how Jean wanted to remember him. It was the bloated corpse of a drunk. The bloated corpse of a drunk that Jean had failed in every single possible way.
He could see the lips moving, wine pouring from them in a steady stream, a whisper crawling toward him through the tinnitus of silence in the same gravel-like snarls Harry ground out in his worst moments.
The Ancient Reptillian Brain, he called it.
Jean was yelling, angry, felt his throat turn raw from it, but all that came out was the same miserable, pathetic whimper of prey in the jaws of a predator.
What? he'd not-screamed, What is it?
The whispering continued. He leaned closer. The wine was thick and sticky like blood and reeked of fermentation.
I can't hear you, he not-screamed, Harry, I can't hear you, what is it?
He pressed his ear to the corpse's mouth, suddenly the wine was up to his neck and he was close to drowning. He still couldn't hear- or, he could, but the words shifted, evaded his grasp, yet all the same, they filled him with a miserable, freezing dread. His heart was trying to batter through his ribs, his lungs were full of wine, he couldn't breathe and it didn't bother him. He wasn't afraid- his body was responding to his drowning, but it was all fine.
That's it, baby. This is how it's meant to be.
The corpse wasn't even in sight anymore, just the whispers.
This is what you wanted--
The sound of someone banging against his door jerked him from sleep, treating him with the brutality he never thought twice about applying to others. His lungs hurt, his heart was back to trying to escape him, the couch was soaked in sweat- and he was crying.
NOVEMBER 22ND '49, JAMROCK, 11:13
Judit stood at the door once he'd opened it, fist up as if she was about to knock again with the other hand on her holster; she'd expected the worst. Jean wanted to vomit. What right did he have to stress her like that?
"... Pryce asked me to check on you. You, ah... didn't show up for work."
Jean's jaw fell open as he realised- christ, she was in her uniform, why else would she- "Oh-" he stepped back from the door, "Oh, shit, I didn't-- fuck, it's- I'm sorry, I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me-"
Judit stopped him with both her hands to his chest, "Woah, woah... woah. Lieutenant- Jean." her voice went firm, the same way it did when she was chastising him for getting a bit too prickly, "Jean. You look like shit, and I mean that as a friend. You're not the type to just not show up, we just thought..." she suddenly grew hesitant, bit her lip, brought her hands back to herself to nervously pick at her own cuticles, "well-"
"I get it." He said, to put her out of her misery. They needed to make sure he didn't come and do himself in.
Normal people didn't need wellness checks.
"... yes," she ground out, "Standard procedure- you're awake though, so... that's all I really wanted!" she offered a bright smile that faltered almost immediately when she got a really good look at him. "My god, Jean, I was just being polite when I said you look like shit, but you... really look like shit. Have you seen yourself?"
"No." His tone was clipped. "And I don't want to."
"Mm..." Judit nodded slowly, lifting her hand to tilt his face toward her, inspecting him, "well... it's fine, we can get it patched up."
That's all Jean needed to know he'd been clawing at his skin during the night. Normal people didn't claw at their skin during the night. He didn't even respond, just sighed in a way that didn't help.
"I'll tell Pryce you're unwell," she added, letting him go to clasp her hands in front of her, "I took one of the carriages, I'll radio him now. He'll understand. And when I come back up, er..." she glanced at the sliver of living room and kitchen she could see from the hall, eyebrow raised, "... and when I come back up, we're cleaning up this pig-sty you call an apartment."
The joke wasn't funny right now, but Jean appreciated her enthusiasm.
NOVEMBER 30TH '49, JAMROCK, 21:45
Harry was sober for almost a whole week.
One of their cases involved the corpse of a blonde woman.
Jean tried to keep him steady, center him, keep him on the path best travelled.
Harry didn't need his vices to grab Jean by the neck and choke him against the same wall he'd pinned him against the last time. Jean was close to passing out before he was let go, unable to fight off his partner as he went through some kind of episode. Again.
Look, you don't need all the details, it never changes, it just went like this: Harry had reloaded his gun, he shot it at Jean and hit the wall instead, ruining his lone shot to kill at least one of them tonight - bullets were expensive, the precinct didn't just hand them out to known flight risks - and Jean couldn't hear him through the hearing loss gained from shooting a fucking gun indoors, but he knew he wouldn't see Harry for the rest of the night.
The next morning, he set up a routine that involved spending far more time at the precinct gym than he currently did. The next time Harry tried to kill him, he wouldn't go down without a fight.
MARCH 4TH '51, WHIRLING-IN-RAGS HOSTEL, MARTINAISE, 16:21
They'd only come to clean up a body. Unhook it from the tree, find cause of death, ask around, finish up, and boom. Case closed. But Jean had managed to stay stupid, and now look at the mess he was in. A half-trashed room in a hostel with his shit-for-brains supercop partner already drunk off his ass and high on whatever he could shove up his nose.
Only this time, Jean had been able to fight back. He'd knocked Harry on his ass and got on top of him and thrown a punch with all his weight in it- not the first punch he'd ever landed on the man, but this one had so much more behind it.
Jean was done.
He was crying like a pussy again, something Harry was all too happy to point out which is partly how they started the scuffle in the first place, but it was because he knew just how done he was. This was it. After he'd left this room, this was it for them. He was done babysitting, he was done giving chances to a sorry sack of shit that cared more about his own misery than how it affected anyone else. There was no hero standing in front of him, no embodiment of so fucking cool, no supercop of Revachol: just the shell of his partner. The thought of this being the man Jean once looked up to made him want to get off of him and vomit. What the hell were they even doing here?
Even when he threw his punches at Harry, he avoided anything that would do him any real damage. His plan was to leave - for good - and not have to return here to scrape up the corpse that had died of blood loss by his hand.
(And also, because he knew, deep down, he wasn't entirely done; he wanted to fix this, he wanted a happy ending to all of this, he wanted a satisfying conclusion to the tumultuous trials and tribulations of his task force at the hands of their piece of shit lieutenant. Jean called it hope, but he knew that was easily swapped with 'stupid' with no change in the result.)
As he threw one more solid punch at his former partner-in-anti-crime, he choked out a sob, watching the bruise bloom almost immediately underneath the swollen, aged, red-stained skin of an alcoholic he'd long since stopped recognising. He stood up and tugged his coat back into position.
"You wanna get worse? Do it on your own then," he snarled, and it felt good, "Die miserable, you fucking prick. You fucking- sack of shit!" he continued on as he made for the door, turning back to look at Harry as he sat up, cradling his beaten face. He felt his breath hitch, and only just now realised he was bleeding from his own nose, his eye swollen shut, having been the first to take a hit between them. He sniffed and spat out a glob of blood, then allowed himself one singular sorrowful sob. "You were my fucking hero, you stupid asshole. You fucking-- you moron, I fucking loved you. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why couldn't you just--" he cut himself off with another spit.
He didn't look back before shutting the door behind him, leaving the mountain of rot inside to mar the floor of a once decent room.
He didn't acknowledge anyone on the way out, just made a beeline for the outside, to Judit, where she leaned against their carriage. She looked up, startled by Jean's appearance. "What-" she started, but he cut her off with a shake of his head and a hand gesture.
"He said--" he started after a few seconds of silence, to steel himself, but they didn't work. He still got choked up when he spoke, "He said he didn't want to get better. He said he wanted to get worse-" he swallowed and dragged his hands down his face, too numb with adrenaline from the fight to register the protests of his bruising- the last real gift he'd been given by Harrier Du Bois.
Judit looked pained, glancing between Jean and the window to Harry's room. She knew she couldn't fix it. This wasn't as easy as going to HR and having them talk it out. This was years in the making, this was resentment in its purest form, this was a man pushed to the cliff's edge with no choice but to jump or see himself be eaten alive by wolves. She sighed heavily, sorrowful, and shook her head slowly. "Oh, Jean..." she breathed out, and did the only thing she could think to, as a mother, and stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around Jean's shoulders, letting him cling to her like she was a life raft in an ocean he was too exhausted to keep swimming in. He was shaking, sniffling, but he wasn't crying like he wanted to. Not here, not on duty. He was too proud for that even amongst his low self esteem and self-deprecation.
Minutes later, in the car, shivering from being outside in the snow, Jean looked back up at the window to that room.
Stupidly, he asked, "Do you think I can fix it?"
Judit couldn't lie to him anymore. She was tired. Jean was exhausted. She'd watched him go through this too many times. Enough was enough, and she'd had enough.
"No, Jean."
She could only rub his back as he finally let the dam break, curling up in the passenger seat of their motor carriage, sobbing like the stupid child he was. It wasn't cathartic, he wasn't letting anything out, he had been running on empty for as long as he could remember. This was just going through the motions.