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parvuls · 3 years

Text

fic: kintsugi

summary: The day after brunch at Jerry's, Jack and Shitty have a raw, much-needed conversation over the phone. Some issues need to be addressed before they can head down the road to patching things up.

word count: 6k

tags: year 3, post-comic 3.12, phone calls, friendship, canon compliant, apologies, introspection

notes: based on the prompt ‘providence + family’ by @atlasthemayor.

read on ao3

Jack’s stomach churns strangely when he sees Shitty’s name flash on his caller ID.

It’s a disconcerting feeling, a slight jolt and twinge in his gut, both reminiscent of when anxiety coils low inside him and distinctive in some way. It makes Jack frown and set his heated dinner aside on the coffee table with the hand not holding the buzzing phone. He’s not sure he ever had this foreign reaction to Shitty calling him before, so after a brief moment of puzzlement he decides to write it off as a side effect of the exhaustion weighing him down.

The phone vibrates once more in his palm before Jack slides his thumb across the screen to accept the call. “Hey, man,” he greets, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder so he can pick his food up again. Shitty won’t mind the sound of his chewing, probably. “Staying up late to study?”

It’s coming up to half past eleven on Saturday night. Jack dragged himself through the front door and into the dark apartment at around ten forty-five, his muscles sore and his body beat from over twenty minutes of ice time. He dumped his gear bag in the entryway next to his shoes and headed straight into the kitchen without flicking any of the lights on, shoved one of his frozen meal plan boxes of grilled chicken and brown rice into the microwave without pausing.

The yellow glow of the microwave was the sole source of light in the room as Jack strapped an ice pack to his shoulder, still aching from Ericsson’s high-stick, stuck Bitty’s handwritten PB&J note on the fridge, and waited. The only thing he really wanted to do was fall face-first into his bed, text Bitty that he was home, maybe break down the game over the phone if Bitty wasn’t too busy -- but his regimen had taken precedence. He knew he needed to put in some calories and take care of his pain if he wanted to get up for his six a.m. run. By the time his phone started ringing, Jack was mechanically chewing on his food in the living room. His couch was more comfortable than a dining chair, plush upholstery engulfing his tired limbs, and it only distantly occurred to him that there was something sad about eating dinner alone in the dark.

Shitty’s call, when it came, was unexpected.

“Hate to tell you this, but eleven thirty is not late," Shitty replies, the familiar timbre of his voice tinny due to cell reception. It's an effect Jack is closely acquainted with after months of daily phone calls with Bitty, so he knows that's not all there is to it when he notices something else amiss about Shitty’s voice; like the rhythm of his speech is slightly off. He registers it as abnormal, but before he can figure out if he wants to ask about it Shitty carries on talking. “How’s everything going for ya?”

“Okay,” Jack answers plainly, piling rice onto his fork. He doesn't have the energy to think of anything more gripping than the truth. “Eating post-game dinner.”

Shitty pauses on the other side of the line, makes the creases in Jack’s forehead deepen. Something feels weird, but Jack doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it if nothing is really wrong. Sometimes people act in ways that confuse him for any number of reasons, and he’s not always good at telling them apart.

“Yeah, yeah, I saw,” Shitty says, clearing his throat quietly. “The Red Wings. Great game, brah. Your shoulder doin’ okay?”

Jack’s mouth slows down his chewing on instinct, and he swallows the rice with difficulty. Shitty never just tells Jack great game. Shitty talks about hockey like he’s the narrator in a porn film, with an enthusiasm unmatched by anyone Jack has ever met. Shitty once sang Jack’s praises for half an hour after a game against UND in which Samwell lost 2-0. That, combined with his tone -- something isn’t quite right, Jack thinks. He's more confident in that observation now, but his brain feels slower than usual and he’s too tired to connect any dots.

“Euh, yeah. I’ll be alright. Really have to shake it off and make sure I’m all there on Monday night, eh? We’ve had a good streak, but it’s always about how we play the next game. We’re getting better as a group.”

Jack’s tongue slips into hockey speak naturally before he can do anything to stop it, but instead of chirp him, Shitty makes a vague, throaty noise and doesn’t comment. “Yeah, I get what you mean. You and Mashkov really seem to hit it off out there, heh. Uh, listen -- I know you had to drive back for your practice, but. We didn’t really get the chance to talk much yesterday, and I guess…” Shitty pauses again, and Jack lowers the box to rest against his knee, apprehensive. “Well. D’ya have a moment? Because I’d really fuckin’ like to apologize for some shit.”

Jack’s hand clenches convulsively around his fork, a piece of chicken breast sliding off the tines and falling back into the box with a dull noise.

The early morning and then noon hours of Friday were an emotional blur. From the anxiety spike when Jack stepped off the plane to the car ride on the flooded highway; from the sleep-deprived, tearful conversation in Bitty's narrow bed to the cathartic brunch at Jerry’s with their friends. Jack drove straight home after his nap and stepped out of the car back in Providence to find his phone overflowing with chirping text messages. The chirps haven’t really died down over the weekend, but Jack doesn’t mind them, and he doesn’t think Bitty does either; it feels good to have a subject that’s been burdening them both treated lightheartedly. Trusting their friends with this secret isn't as heavy on Jack's shoulder as he feared it might be.

Shitty is the only one who hasn’t written much in the group chat. He and Jack talked briefly on the lawn outside the Haus after the six of them had returned from brunch, and then they resorted to roughhousing when the mood got too somber. Jack hoped that it’d be enough to put everything behind them, but if he pushes himself to think it through, a part of him has known that this conversation was coming. It wasn’t like Shitty to let things go so easily.

Jack's glad that Shitty can't see his face right now, because he can feel himself grimacing. He hopes his brief silence hasn’t been too revealing. “Shits -- it’s cool, yeah? We’re cool.”

“I don’t think we are, actually,” Shitty argues. His voice is growing strained. “You don’t have to talk, even --”

“C’mon, man, there’s really not much to say. Everything is good now --”

“Jack,” Shitty cuts him off, and the tone of his voice shuts Jack right up. Shitty can get wrapped up in things, can lose himself in long tirades about rights and wrongs and justice, but this tone sounds different than it has through the hundreds of rants Jack has been witness to. Shitty sounds dead serious. Jack blinks, and realizes: this isn’t Shitty being his normal self. He’s genuinely torn up about this. “Just -- will ya let me…? Please.”

“I…” Jack starts, but he doesn’t really know what he wants to say. He’s never been skilled at these kinds of conversations, and the odd feeling he got when he saw Shitty’s name on his screen squeezes even tighter than before, making him feel slightly nauseated.

“It’s -- I --. Jack, what I said in front of everyone during the home opening kegster… and all the other times I... That was some fucked up shit. I fucked up real bad, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jack tries again, but this time the words feel so wrong in his mouth that he has difficulty shaping his tongue around them. It tastes like an outright lie, although he wasn’t aware he was even lying at all.

Jack hadn’t recognized the churning in his gut until now, but Shitty’s steadfast apology intensifies the feeling and dredges up what Jack has clearly failed to notice. He wants to tell Shitty that there’s no need to apologize, but apparently that’s just not true; it’s only now that he realizes the sharp response he had to Shitty’s call is bitterness. Jack’s feelings actually were hurt by Shitty. Maybe he should be startled by discovering wounded feelings he wasn’t cognizant of for over a month, but if this past summer has taught Jack anything, it’s that sometimes he manages to overlook the most substantial of things.

“-- and it’s not enough to be chill about it now,” Jack blinks out of his thoughts and tunes back into Shitty’s distressed train of words, coming chopped and fast through the ear speaker. “I should’ve -- before, too, I should’ve created a safe enough fuckin’ environment --”

“You were always talking to us about creating safe environments, Shitty,” Jack interrupts him. His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, and he puts his fork in the box and the box back on the coffee table to free his hands. He’s still making sense of his own mental state, and he knows that whatever is going to come stumbling out of his mouth will be barely coherent at best. “It’s not -- it was just that -- you’re always saying it’s important, and then, câlice… It was hard enough, hiding, and then with you as well --.”

Everyone was allowed to be queer, for Shitty. Jack remembers how in sophomore year Shitty marched into the Haus, ecstatic about the five different people who had come out to him that same week, babbling about how great it was and how different Samwell was to Andover. He mentioned sexuality labels Jack had never even heard of, had accepted so effortlessly those borderline strangers who had trusted him with their identities. Shitty has always been the most open-minded person Jack knows, the one to talk endlessly about the inherent toxicity of heteronormativity and to lecture the team about never labeling others without their consent.

Jack’s not always good at pinpointing the root of his own feelings, but the moment he thinks of that thrilled look on Shitty’s face almost three years before, he knows, like a lightbulb going off, why he was hurt. Because it seemed like everyone was allowed to be queer, for Shitty -- except Jack. Like Jack wasn’t queer enough to warrant the same respectful treatment. Like he wasn’t really allowed to be queer at all. Jack had never felt particularly close to his sexuality, but when even Shitty assumed so assuredly that he couldn’t be anything but straight, it stung. He just hasn’t registered it until now.

There’s a split second of tense silence, and then Shitty says, “I didn’t even know you were having a hard time, brah,” the pace of his speech slowed down.

Jack’s eyebrows draw together. His right hand, absentmindedly, pinches the fabric of his suit pants and rubs the smooth texture between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t -- what does that mean? It’s not like you asked.”

Shitty’s breath comes out in a harsh exhale, crackles in Jack’s ears. Jack can hear springs squeaking and sheets ruffling, the sounds of Shitty dropping heavily onto his bed. “Brah. How was I supposed to ask? You never pick up the damn phone anymore. Shit, man, I know fuck all about your life lately."

The fabric of Jack’s pants stretches in the tight grip of his fingers as he blinks, takes in Shitty’s accusation, and realizes he’s right all in the space of two and a half seconds. He can recall a few missed calls that he never got around to returning, but it didn’t seem so important at the time. He was, and still is, in the midst of his first NHL season, trying so hard not to get so lost in hockey and his own worries that he drowns in it and forgets to be a good boyfriend to Bitty.

It never occurred to him that he was investing so much effort into being a good boyfriend to Bitty that he wound up forgetting to be a good friend to everyone else. He knew Shitty and he weren’t talking as often, that things between them haven’t been great lately, but the truth is he had so many other things to worry about that he let it drift to the margins of his mind.

Jack lets go of his pants, rubs his palm down his thigh to smooth the creases away. His momentary bout of anger deserts him with the release of a slow, purposeful exhale. "You’re right. I’m sorry."

"No, no, shit,” Shitty says immediately, switching back from resigned to guilt-ridden in the matter of nanoseconds. “Don’t -- damn it, don’t apologize, oh shit, I’m victim blaming aren’t I, I totally didn’t mean to put this on you --"

"Shitty --"

There’s the sound of bed springs creaking again and then loud footsteps hitting a floor, which Jack assumes are the background sounds of Shitty rushing up from his bed to pace the length of his room. He’s seen Shitty do it across his small room in the Haus countless times, and it feels strange now, having it happen forty miles away. "It’s just, you know, I tried and you didn’t pick up and I get it, fuck do I get it, remember how in freshman year you forgot to talk to anyone for like a week during the preseason stress?"

Jack cracks a tiny, shaky smile that he knows won’t make it into his voice. His first few months at Samwell were a horrible time, fraught with loneliness and frequent panic attacks, too absorbed in thoughts of the path he was supposed to take to function in the path he ended up taking. His therapist helped with that, later, but before that there was Shitty. Determined to be Jack’s friend for no good reason at all. "Yeah. And you broke into my dorm room to make sure I wasn’t dead."

"So it wasn’t like I was offended you didn’t pick up or some bull,” Shitty hurries to finish, “I know you, I get it --"

But that’s wrong, Jack thinks, frowning deeply. Surely, Shitty must know that. "Shitty."

"What? No, seriously. It’s not the first time it happened, and with the pressure of playing in the league and all, I totally get it -- it’s just --"

"You’re allowed to be offended, Shits." Jack says quietly. His hand reaches up to curl around the phone and tug it away from the crook of his shoulder, but his muscles remain tense even when his shoulder drops down. His other hand is still fisted on top of his thigh and the purple shadows cast by the faint stars outside the windows heighten the grooves of his veins. "I know I -- I know it can get difficult -- with me --"

"No," Shitty interrupts, sounding even more emotional than before, a penitent snowball that keeps on rolling down the hill. Shitty’s capable of rolling on forever, if he thinks something is truly wrong. "No no no, Jack, I didn’t mean --"

"Shut up, Shitty." Jack says firmly. He preserves, reminding himself forcefully that the sentiment he wants to establish is too important to be derailed by Shitty’s atonement. His hands have begun to shake slightly, but he needs to get it out. "I know I’m worthy of love and friendship and all the crap you were about to say. I’m just saying --. You’re allowed to be hurt even if it isn’t new behavior. Just because I -- my anxiety -- y’know. If it hurts you, you’re allowed to be hurt."

The other side of the line goes quiet for a long moment, not even the sound of breathing coming through. Jack closes his eyes, counts to ten, tells himself that it’s Shitty and that the two of them are going to figure it out. Fighting with Shitty has always been mentally hard on Jack, has always felt like shaking the only foundation Jack had to stand on. It didn’t happen often, but Jack tries to remind himself that whenever it did they always came out intact on the other side. Arguing was a healthy way to understand your needs and the needs of the other person, his therapist told him.

When Shitty speaks, he sounds awed. "Christ on a cracker, man. That was fuckin’ wise. That Bits’ influence on you?"

Jack pauses to consider it seriously, taking time to recompose his brain. Being with Bitty -- it has taught him so much, about his own feelings and others' and how to put them into words, the importance of open communication. He told Shitty that the previous day after Jerry's -- feelings could easily not occur to him, even if he felt them very strongly. He coexisted with them without acknowledging their existence a lot of the time, and this phone call is only one example of it. Being with Bitty, having to be aware and give name and give value to his own feelings to make things work between them, has changed the way he interacted with his emotions. Made him understand himself better. He’s not at all sure he would’ve been capable of articulating himself in a conversation like this if not for the progress Bitty and he have made together.

But being aware of his worth as a person, and learning that his disorder didn’t define him but shouldn’t be brushed aside either, that wasn’t Bitty. “No, Shits. That’s your influence on me.”

This silence is even longer than the one before it, and then it’s broken by muffled sniffles on the other side. Jack's heart leaps, panic building in his chest -- but then Shitty says, throat choked up, “I thought -- fuck, Jack, this is gonna sound so motherfucking stupid. But I thought you didn’t, y’know. Need me anymore. I know this is on me too, I’m barely keeping my head above water here and the whole -- fuckin’ Harvard situation, it’s not… but each day we didn't talk and I saw your game scores, or I would see those Falcs vids… it looks like you have this spankin’ fuckin’ brand new life that I know shit about. And you’ve got Mashkov, and St. Martin, and…”

Jack can’t find adequate words for a long moment, and once he opens his mouth he’s surprised to hear his voice is thick, surprised to feel hot tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “Shitty. Tater is great. And Marty is great, and -- Thirdy, and all of them. But.”

None of them are you, he wants to say, but that sounds too dumb to utter out loud. That’s not how Shitty and he talk to each other, or at least, it’s not how Jack talks to Shitty. Shitty is good at phrasing his feelings in ways Jack can handle, but Jack can’t ever make the right words come out of his mouth.

There’s another pause, his mind blanking, and then he says, “Tater didn’t make me sign a friendship contract.”

Shitty snorts, but it isn’t a happy sound. “Jacko --”

“No. Shits --. Tater didn’t make the effort to be my friend even when I was doing everything I could to push him away. He didn’t drag my ass to the Haus my freshman year after I hadn't talked to anyone but faculty in two weeks. He didn’t argue with Bergey until we were banked together on every roadie and was heartbroken when no one spread rumors about us hooking up.”

That shot goes wide. “Oh fuckity fuck, Jack, I’m a fucking dickhead --”

“Bordel de merde, Shitty, will you fucking listen?” Jack rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose, feels his skin crease between his brows. “Tater didn’t make me go to Gender in Warfare in Early 20th Century America because he knew it’d end up one of my favorite classes, or learnt my story about the fire extinguisher and the football team by heart, or -- or have been defending me behind my back since the first week he knew me. Tater’s great. I’m -- you know, uh, thankful, for having people on the Falcs. I didn’t think it could be -- after the guys at Samwell, no team would ever be the same.”

“Yeah,” Shitty says, sadly, in the tone of someone who knows exactly what Jack means.

Jack’s throat bobs when he swallows, chest aching. “And they’re great. But Tater -- or Marty, or any of them -- they’re not...”

None of them are you, Jack wants Shitty to hear, gripping his pants in his hand again to balance himself. He doesn’t know how to say it in a way that would make Shitty hear him. None of them could ever be you.

There’s once again silence between them, only interrupted by Shitty’s quiet sniffles and the erratic beating of Jack’s heart. His phone is too warm on his ear, clammy from sweat smearing over the screen, but he can’t bring himself to put Shitty on speaker. It feels like they’re too far apart to have this conversation already, like Shitty should be sitting here on the couch next to Jack in flimsy underwear like he was every time they needed to talk like this over the past four years.

After a long moment, Shitty makes an ambiguous rasping noise and admits, “I was jealous.”

Jack winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Yeah, I mean, apology accepted, whatever, just. I was jealous they got to be there for you every day, really be there in the moments I used to live through with you that I now know zilch about. I was used to that being me.” He then adds, much more grimly, “Except apparently I sucked ass at being there for you at all when it counted.”

Jack sighs. They veered off topic to talk about something Jack considers more important, but now they were back to that and he knows in the pit of his stomach that they, both of them, won’t be able to move on until they talk this through. This is a conversation they need to have, even if it would be easier for Jack to not have it at all. “Shitty. I need to tell you something.”

The thing about Shitty is that he has faults like the rest of them, but Jack has always known that he’d drop anything if Jack needed him. He knows because it goes unconditionally both ways. Shitty’s voice goes immediately even and he wastes no time before saying, “I'm listening.”

Jack swallows. It feels -- heavy, on his breastbones. It didn’t before, it didn’t at Jerry's. He doesn’t remember this weight from years ago, when he first talked about it with his parents, and then -- later, too much later -- with his therapist. His chest was so laden with other concerns then that there was no room for anything more, and this burden was only ever an afterthought. At Jerry's he was thinking of Bitty, of Bitty’s happiness and Jack's own happiness with him, and the necessity of the action for their joint happiness. It didn’t leave any space for this weight.

Now he can feel the weight. It’s stupid. Shitty already knows, and besides, it’s Shitty. Jack knows Shitty so well that he can practically predict the exact words he will use, and even if he couldn’t, he knows Shitty would never turn him away. Yet his chest feels tight, like he’s holding in all of his air, and his fingers are again shaking against his thigh. “Shitty, I'm dating Bittle.”

Shitty makes a baffled sound, clearly not expecting this choice of confession. “I -- yeah, dude, I know.”

“I’m dating Bittle,” Jack reiterates determinedly, eager to get it over with. “He’s a guy.”

Shitty goes quiet for a moment, and then he says, voice low, “Okay.”

Jack wasn’t sure he was going to say it, but now that they’re here, this is something he wants Shitty to know. “He’s not the first guy I’ve been with.”

Shitty’s sharp intake of breath at this is audible even over the phone, but other than that he doesn’t react outwardly. Jack's shaking hand lifts up to rub over his chest while he waits for Shitty to say something, and Shitty doesn’t keep him waiting long. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

That’s almost exactly the reaction Jack expected to hear, but for some reason he doesn’t feel settled. “It never came up before.”

“That’s okay, buddy,” Shitty reassures him. Jack’s not sure what Shitty is thinking, if he’s thinking anything at all. This probably isn’t as big a deal to him as it feels like to Jack.

Jack frowns down at the shadows of his socked feet in the dark, thinks it over, and then corrects, “No, actually -- no. It never came up with anyone else. But I did think of telling you. More than once. You were the only one… but I had reasons not to. Or, I thought I did.”

“That’s still cool, brah,” Shitty hurries to interrupt. “You don’t have to --”

“No, because,” Jack sighs, trails off midsentence. He doesn’t want Shitty to make this easy for him, to allow Jack to take the exit he’s being offered. He knows they could stop the discussion right there and Shitty would never say a thing, but he doesn’t want this to hang over their friendship for the rest of time, and he knows that it could if he doesn’t force himself to dig deeper. “Because when you assumed that if I had someone it must’ve been a girlfriend, it hurt. I didn’t realize before -- I thought I was upset because Bitty was hurt, and I hurt him even more with my reaction, and it mattered more at the time. But it hurt. And that’s not entirely fair to you, because you had no reason to think otherwise. Because I didn’t tell you.”

There’s more rustling in the background, and Shitty talks over him before the last word is out of his mouth. “Jack, no, you’re under no obligation to disclose your identity to anyone and it doesn’t give them any right to assume -- I assumed and it was so fucking wrong --”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, because it was. He’s not trying to argue that it wasn’t. Shitty was wrong, but that’s not the point Jack is trying to make.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Shitty sounds contrite, and Jack can almost imagine the look on his face now. The small wrinkle in his forehead, the downward slope of his mustache, the sharp angle of his jaw. Shitty always looks older when he feels guilty about something. “So fuckin’ sorry.”

“That’s okay, man. Eh. Well, it's not, but it's forgiven.” And it is, Jack knows. He’s already forgiven Shitty, would have to try so hard not to forgive Shitty. They’ve hurt each other in the past and they’ll most likely hurt each other again in the future, but it’s never done intentionally. Shitty’s friendship is worth all of this crap and always has.

“I guess I just... “ Shitty lowers his voice, and Jack has to press the phone harder into his ear to hear him. “Fuck, I don’t want to excuse my actions, this does not in any way justify the shit I said. But I guess, in my mind, even though I know you should never assume about anyone, I did think that because it’s you… that you’d tell me. If there was ever anything to tell.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says this time. He’s not sure Shitty knows this, but this is what he was trying to get to before. What Shitty is saying is reasonable even if it isn’t ideal.

“Fuck no. What the fucking fuck are you apologizing for, you idiot --”

“I’m not apologizing for not telling you, Shits,” Jack stops him before it becomes another rant. He’s growing tired of using so many words at once, feeling the toll of the unexpected emotional turmoil he’s dragging his overworked body through. “I know what you said was wrong, and I know I didn’t have to tell you. I’m saying I’m sorry if you were hurt by it. And I'm apologizing if it made you feel like I didn't trust you, or. Or some shit.”

Another pause follows Jack’s words, and he has to stifle the urge to collapse sideways into the couch and shove his face into a cushion until everything goes away. This conversation, as necessary as it is, doesn’t come naturally to either of them. They’ve been talking about their feelings for too long now and it’s starting to get awkward and overwhelming.

“I’m not saying I wasn’t super touched by your previous comment,” Shitty says, suddenly. “Because stereotypical masculinity is complete bullshit and I’m not ashamed to admit I teared the fuck up. But Jack -- Bitty has done some serious work on you. Or, like, you know, healthy relationships and all, you two worked on yourselves with each other to be better and all that, but. Man, I don’t think that’s a distinction you would’ve made six months ago.”

Jack considers it. The idea of someone’s hurt being valid even if the reason for it didn’t make sense probably isn’t a concept he would’ve been able to grasp, or at least would not have paid much thought to. Looking back, he was probably hurt dozens of times by little comments in the Haus, or things he heard around campus, or moments of feeling left out by his team; but when the reason for his hurt wasn’t completely logical it was harder for him to allow himself that pain. He would usually distract himself from it, instead. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“But can I just say again -- I'm so fucking sorry for being a heteronormative jackass. I’m sorry for hurting you, I’m sorry for hurting Bits, I’m sorry for --”

Esti de câlice de tabarnak. Jack drops his face into his palm and sighs over the string of Shitty’s rapidly escalating apologies. Jack is fully aware that Shitty is just going to apologize until they’re both old and gray if Jack doesn’t stop him. “Shitty, can you knock it?”

Shitty hesitates, but the flood of his words stops. “I miss you,” is what he says eventually.

Jack drops his hand down, leans his weight on his elbows and blinks at the dark room. Shitty used to tell him that all of the time. When they were apart on school breaks; when they were separated on roadies; when Jack had two lectures and a senior workshop on Wednesday nights and Shitty wouldn’t see him for several consecutive hours. Shitty’s affection was always abundant and inescapable, and Jack didn't know it was something he was lacking until he finally hears it. “I miss you, too, man.”

Shitty lets the gravity of it, the seriousness in Jack's voice settle between them, the earnestness he wouldn’t usually hand over easily when they were back at school. And then he says, “It’s hard as fuck, man. It’s hard to admit that it’s hard, too. It’s hard to see Lards’ pics from kegsters I can’t attend anymore, and it’s hard to find friends in this pretentious shithole full of pretensions dicks, and -- Harvard is fucking hard, Jack. And I hate being away from you guys, but I don’t wanna bring you down with my sad. You assholes are my goddamn family, there’s nothing that’s ever gonna replace that. It sucks knowing that I'm stuck here. I miss you so much it drives me fuckin’ insane.”

Jack knows, instantly and wholeheartedly, what Shitty is talking about. He’s living his dream and he loves the Falcs and he’s sincerely grateful for all of it even on his worst days. But sometimes stepping off the ice after a grueling practice and getting pictures of Bitty, laughing with Holster and Ransom on the ice at Faber -- it aches somewhere deep inside him. Sometimes he lies awake in foreign hotel rooms in foreign cities, and while most nights he longs for nothing more than Bitty’s presence, others he closes his eyes and wishes Shitty was there to crawl into his bed again. Sometimes he puts on his jersey before games and imagines the blue and yellow are red and white. His team from Samwell is his family, too, and sometimes missing them feels like missing an amputated limb.

“I wish we got to see each other more,” Jack squeezes out. His windpipe feels strangled, and for a moment he thinks that if he blinks too hard tears might well up again. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so tired his body is shutting down, or because he’s been holding on to more emotions than he previously thought. “I didn’t know --. I feel the same way, Shitty, but I didn’t know you felt like that. I’m sorry we didn’t really talk much lately.”

It wasn’t something Jack was consciously aware of, but he more or less assumed that if Shitty was ever struggling he would just reach out for help. Shitty was always the better one of the two of them at communicating his feelings, at saying when he needed something or was going through a rough time. It never occurred to Jack to reach out and ask because he always figured that Shitty would come to him first. It's a startling realization. He really isn’t as good a friend as Shitty deserves.

“‘S not your fault,” Shitty objects, even though in some ways it really is. But Shitty means it, Jack knows, despite the lingering hints of anxiety. Shitty wouldn’t say it if he didn’t honestly believe it wasn’t Jack’s fault.

“Maybe, but you should make time for the things that matter to you, right? I’ll try to be better about that. I wanna be there for you, too.”

Shitty sighs, and the tails of it turn into a breathy, weary laugh. “Fuck, Jacko, this is a fuckin’ sobfest. Shit, man. Yeah. I’ll try, too. We could Skype, even. You know I miss that mug of yours.”

Jack finally pulls the phone away from his ear, wipes the sweat tracks away and switches the call to speakerphone. His calendar app is full of cute little reminders Bitty leaves anonymously, like 06:30 work hard and have fun! or 11:11 someone is thinking of you. He’s developed a habit of checking his calendar often these past six months, counting down the days until he gets to see Bitty next. He’s sure it won’t be easy, especially with the progression of the Falconers’ season, but from now on he’ll have to make every effort to fit more people into his schedule. Bitty makes him happy, but he’s not the only one who does.

Jack scrolls through the events logged into his upcoming week. He’s got a game on Monday and one at home on Wednesday, and then Thursday is American Thanksgiving. Bitty is throwing together a whole meal for the Samwell team. He told Jack that he’s under no obligation to come if practice time doesn’t allow it, but... “Are you going to Hausgiving on Thursday?”

Shitty curses loudly. “Fuck, I fuckin’ wish, but I don’t know if that’s smart. I’ve got this fuckin’ test coming up. But I promised Lar-- uh --”

Jack smirks, even if it’s only to himself in an empty apartment. Lardo texted him after Jerry’s to let him know that the two of them will exchange deets privately like civilized bros, but Shitty still seems to be under the illusion that he’s fooling someone. Like his heart-eyes haven’t been obvious from space -- and Jack is painfully aware that if he noticed, that really says something. “Lardo, eh? Not getting out of that one.”

He can almost see Shitty’s answering furious blush from all those miles away. “Fuck you, Zimmermann, don’t make this about me. What I was sayin’ is, I wanna be there super freakin’ bad -- we all know I will gladly sell my right leg for Bitty’s cooking --”

“And for Lardo’s company,” Jack chirps, incredibly satisfied with this turn of conversation.

“I will fuck you right up, don’t you think I won’t!” Shitty threatens emptily, even though Jack takes him down every single time. “Seriously. Your bro becomes a pro athlete and suddenly he thinks he’s a goddamn comedian. Anyway. For Bitty’s cooking, I will make an effort. You got team stuff?”

“No,” Jack says with finality, swiping his calendar closed. He always feels better when things are put into action. “I think I’m going.”

“For Bitty?” Shitty asks, most likely trying to chirp Jack back.

“Well. Yes,” Jack says, perfectly honest. He’s not in any way ashamed of how much he wants to be near Bitty all of the time. He doesn’t think he can remember ever being less ashamed of anything in his life. “But also for you. Think you can meet me there?”

Shitty’s quiet. And then he says, “For my best friend? I’ll meet you halfway across the universe, Jackabelle.”

After the two of them hang up the call, Jack doesn’t move, his eyes fixed blindly in the direction of the windows across the room. His food is growing cold on the coffee table, but Jack thinks that at this point he might genuinely be too tired to eat. Whatever little energy he had left after the game was spent on this conversation with Shitty. He doesn’t regret it; they needed to say all of those things. Jack needed to hear all of those things, both so he could forgive Shitty for something he didn’t know he was holding onto, and so he could work on being a more considerate friend.

The game plan is solid, though, Jack decides. Thanksgiving dinner at the Haus will bring the opportunity to be completely honest with his friends after months of hiding a big aspect of his life from them. And it’d be fun, too. Ransom would put together actual charts for the seating arrangement, and Holster would draw everyone into a betting pool on the football game results, and Bitty would inevitably prepare insane amounts of food using the frogs as his sous chefs. He would probably insist that they’d hold hands around the table and say one thing each of them wants to give thanks for, as well.

Jack doesn’t mind American Thanksgiving, but he’s never really seen the point of that ritual. He’s known for a long time now what he's truly grateful for.

#omgcp #jackshitty #jackshitty fic #omgcheckplease #pavfics #i decided not to wait for friendship day because i'm not sure i'll be around to post then #but i hope you'll enjoy this anyway?#i wanted to write something about their friendship in early y3 in forever

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alphawave-writes · 4 years

Text

Requiem for the Apostle Chapter 2: Birthright

Synopsis: Harry and Kim retrace their steps to learn more about the victim of their latest case.

Read it here or find it on AO3. You guys can also find me on twitter @alphawave13.

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YOU — It's exactly 08:00 in the morning when you enter Precinct 41. Compared to your previous workplace, Precinct 57, it's almost exactly the same. The building is faded and chipping away, with the office and its workers running on fumes. It's hot and humid and sticky, with paperwork piling up everywhere. The only empty space is right next to the molds growing on the wall like vines on a trellis. There's still the daydrinkers, the cops that sleep all day, the racist bullies that want a chance to flex their muscles, and the lustful perverts ogling at scantily clad women in magazines. By now you've learned not to judge your fellow half-brothers. They're all coping mechanisms for what is essentially under appreciated, underpaid, and unsatisfying work. That's not to say it's completely the same. At least Precinct 57 had a decent few Mesquites and Seolites in their ranks—whether born and raised in their home isolas or Revacholieres in all but appearance such as yourself—and that gave a bit of variety with your coworkers. Precinct 41 however consists almost purely of true blue Revacholieres, with the odd individual from Graad. Just because Precinct 57 is more diverse doesn't mean the people there can't be racists, it's just that the people who worked there were encouraged to be racist behind closed doors. In Precinct 41, not so much.

REACTION SPEED [Formidable: Success] — As you walk to your desk you hear a Patrol cop whisper "Fucking Seolite" under their breath.

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] — There's only one 'Seolite' in Precinct 41, or at least one half-Seolite. They can only be talking about you.

COMPOSURE [Trivial: Success] — You've heard it too many times before, these racist remarks behind your back. It won't affect you today, just like it won't affect you ever.

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Success] — It's still so stupid though. You're a proud Revacholiere, just like the rest of them, you only look like a Seolite. You should storm in there and tell them so. You're a detective and they're just a cop. You have the upper hand. They will bend to your will.

VOLITION [Easy: Success] — Do you want to get us kicked out of the RCM? Just take it like a man. Like you've always taken it.

YOU — You take a seat at your old, hand-me-down desk opposite Harry's. Despite being the exact same make and colour, it's impossible to mistaken your desk for his. Your desk is clean and tidy, with all your paperwork sorted into a neat pile. Harry's desk is surprisingly not the messiest in the precinct, but compared to yours it looks like a dumpster. Papers are strewn all over in no discernible fashion. Handwritten notes are pinned on a corkboard which takes up way too much room, the rambling handwriting difficult for all but Harry and Jean to read (it's only through experience that you are now able to decipher Harry's script). There is a system in his mess, just like there’s a system to the insane logic inside Harry’s bizarre yet brilliant mind, but very few have had the opportunity (and patience) to see the patterns.

In that regard, you're one of the lucky ones. Or unlucky ones, depending on who you ask.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — This desk actually used to belong to Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare. Your original desk, the one you were supposed to be assigned to, is much further away at the end of the room and is much more cramped and much less nice than this one. However, Jean was only too happy to let you take his desk and move all his stuff as far away from Harry as humanly possible. Even if you didn't see Jean move all his stuff away from here, you would be able to tell this desk once belonged to him by the scent of powerful medication emanating from a single locked drawer to your right, which you refuse to touch.

PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — You hear a yawn, then a groan, as Lieutenant double-Yefreitor Harry du Bois plops his way down onto his seat.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — Judging by the humongous kebab in his hands and the obnoxious level of sauce on his face, it's safe to say that this is his breakfast.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] — Could he at least try to eat with his mouth and not his beard? They're not called mutton chops because there's food in those locks.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Formidable: Success] — Though they are rather luscious locks. Wonder if they're as soft to the touch as they look.

YOU — "Harry…" You say, voice rising slightly in warning. You point at the little bit of orange marring his face.

HARRY DU BOIS — "Huh? Oh, sorry." He fishes out a handkerchief from his jacket and wipes his face messily before licking the sauce away from the handkerchief.

REACTION SPEED [Formidable: Success] — It's definitely the handkerchief you gave him all the way back from the Hanged Man case. You'd recognise those initials anywhere. You forgot to ask it back.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success] — Before Harry wiped his face with it, it was completely clean. He's been washing it, caring for it. He treasures it.

VOLITION [Legendary: Success] — There's still a stain on the edge of his lip that Harry keeps missing. It takes all your willpower not to reach over and wipe it off yourself.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — Are we not going to talk about Harry's tongue, because whoo boy, it's long. Just the way we like it.

YOU — "You kept the handkerchief?"

HARRY DU BOIS — "Why not? It's pretty nice and I like it." His lips dip into a half-frown. "Oh, do you want it back?"

YOU — "Just…keep it," you shake your head. "Consider it a present."

HARRY DU BOIS — Harry relaxes and neatly folds the handkerchief back into his jacket.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Medium: Success] — He looks like a child that's been told they can have a cookie. Or a hand embroidered handkerchief.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — Does Harry even know you hand embroidered it yourself?

HARRY DU BOIS — "So Jean’s officially assigned me as your partner for this case. Our number one objective is to find Lucky at the moment. If we solve the murders, that's a bonus as far as they're concerned."

YOU — You nod grimly. "I assume these are the Captain’s words, not Satellite-Officer Vicquemare’s."

HARRY DU BOIS — "It totally sucks, I know, but that’s our orders."

YOU — "And do they know about my…medical condition?"

RHETORIC [Medium: Failure] — You can’t help but wince at your own words.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT [Godly: Success] — You better thank me the only sign of injury on you is a light bruise on your head, completely obscured by your hair.

HARRY DU BOIS — "I almost did, but I decided not to. Can’t let them know they now have two amnesiac cops in their precinct."

YOU — "It’s different. You’ve literally forgotten everything. I’ve only forgotten the last week."

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] — The most important week.

HARRY DU BOIS — He shakes his head forlornly. "Still. Don’t need another reason for Jean to separate me from you."

RHETORIC [Formidable: Success] — There’s deeper meaning to his words. He fears separation. Not just physical separation, but a spiritual one. A bond he hopes will never break or slip away.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success]— A bond you will perfectly curate. The perfect distance. No further. No closer.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — No weaker, but no stronger. You won’t push him away, but you won’t let him closer either, even though it hurts.

HARRY DU BOIS — "So. I'm assuming you read up your case notes. Fill me in?"

YOU — You take your notebook out, just so you can refer back just in case.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — It's easier for you to read than hear your thoughts. Even now you give us life not through voices but with type-written words flashing before your eyes. Text flying across your vision as though it comes from a world-class computer.

YOU — "The corpse was found in Villalobos, near but not on Mesque gang grounds. For the first few days of my investigation, it was just known as Corpse#1, but later I found out the corpse was named Santiago Velez, an immigrant from Mesque. Medium height and build, no unusual features except for these ritualistic cuts all throughout his torso. Throughout the investigation we found out that these cuts were performed while he was alive. Cause of death was blunt force trauma."

You flip your notebook to the next page where a rough diagram of the corpse's markings is on full display. You slide the notebook over to Harry so he can take a look. He does not take it, just peers over the low boundary between your desks. He winces.

HARRY DU BOIS — "Nasty shit. Also, did I mention you cannot draw?"

HAND/EYE COORDINATION [Medium: Failure] — What are you expecting me to say? You can't draw shit. You haven't even mastered the fine art of the humble stickman.

AUTHORITY [Medium: Success] — But he doesn't need to know that.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success] — He also doesn't need to know that this is not your handiwork. Your previous attempts at drawing are far worse than this. These drawings were ripped out from someone else's notebook and added to yours. This was Lucky's handiwork.

YOU — "Drawing skills were never a prerequisite for becoming an officer of the RCM. And anyway, I have a photograph as well from the initial autopsy." You hand that also to Harry, who takes one glance and grimaces.

ENDURANCE [Easy: Success] — The green on his face is a bit too close to the colour of his shoes, but at least he does not vomit.

HARRY DU BOIS — "These markings. They look like Mesque iconography. Like the brands they would put on criminals that were sent out into the community."

YOU — "A dead end according to my notes. This body has been cut by two different blades. The Mesque iconography was just to throw us off the scent, to pin it on one of the gangs."

You flip over to the next page and show two more drawings Lucky had made, this time of the cuts on the body separated by which blade made them. They're slightly better in quality, and therefore slightly more horrifying.

HARRY DU BOIS — Harry glances at your notebook and groans. "Fuck, can I at least finish my kebab before you show me this?"

YOU — "Wouldn't that give you more room to savour what's left of your food?" You raise an eyebrow.

HARRY DU BOIS — "Kim, please."

YOU — "What is it that the Satellite-Officer says? Toughen up, shitkid?"

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] — Somewhere behind you, you hear Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare shout "Damn fucking straight!" before disappearing out of sight.

HARRY DU BOIS — Harry buries his free hand into his greasy hair. "I fear the day you two work together and gang up on me."

YOU — "I'll be sure to let him know you're so eager to get rid of me."

HARRY DU BOIS — "That's not what I mean, I…" He huffs, his red cheeks getting redder. "Just tell me about the drawings already."

YOUR NOTEBOOK — You look down at the two drawings. Of the two, the first picture is the more interesting one. There are swirling shapes within these cuts, not angular and straight as you'd expect from a knife. The marks don't make much sense. There are two ovals on both sides of the victim's chest, a spiral near the stomach, and a few other intricate marks that don't make much sense to you. Whoever made these markings had plenty of experience cutting skin into these intricate shapes. They had to be an artist, or someone who's used to cutting meat, like a butcher. It's possible the murderer learned this skill from cutting animals. You don't discredit the possibility however that there's been many more victims before this one, each a new canvas to practice on.

The second picture is less interesting, but has its own story to tell. On its own it looks like a random jumble of tiny cuts. The blade used for this one is wielded by someone else with less artistic skill, making the more normal straight cuts. The person who made the second set of cuts must have been Mesque or involved with Mesque gangs, because of the use of certain lesser-known Mesque gang iconographies such as the old Franconigerian motto for Mesque: en mis dominios no se pone el sol.

HARRY DU BOIS — He points at the phrase. "What does that mean?"

YOU — "In my domains, the sun does not set. It was once attributed to Franconegro when he incited his citizens to fight back against the Army of Humanity led by Dolores Dei. It did not go well."

HARRY DU BOIS — "And what is it attributed to now?"

YOU — "The Mazda. If you think about it, it's clever. They did close off a street in Villalobos. If you look at The Mazda as the sun, then the sun truly does not set in their domain. If you've been working for the RCM as long as you have, you would have encountered this phrase eventually. A lot of Mesquites involved in the gangs have this as a tattoo."

HARRY DU BOIS — "Until I forgot literally everything."

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — There's a bit of sadness in his voice, but also acceptance. He tries not to think too much about the things he's forgotten. If they haven't come back by now, they never will.

YOU — "Does the phrase ring a bell?"

HARRY DU BOIS — He shakes his head. "Don't remember it, and I haven't heard it either. Is it commonly known?"

YOU — "Amongst Precincts 41 and 57? Yes. Amongst the populace? No. Most people try to avoid the Mesque gangs. They certainly wouldn't want to get close enough to know what their mottos are."

HARRY DU BOIS — "So if it's not that common, doesn't that mean the second guy who carved it was involved with The Mazda?"

LOGIC [Medium: Success] — You must have considered it at one point judging by your notes. But there's nothing else to confirm or deny that theory, and you didn’t seem to pursue that lead later on.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Formidable: Success] — You would have pursued it, but something stopped you. A piece of evidence you didn’t write down. A certain trainee detective meddling with your affairs.

YOU — "It’s possible, I admit, but we don’t have any evidence. Either way, forensic analysis did confirm that these two different cuts were both made within an hour of each other. At least two people are involved in this murder, if not more."

HARRY DU BOIS — He strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Interesting, interesting."

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] — He has no idea what to make of all this so far.

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — You don't either. Not that Harry knows.

HARRY DU BOIS — Harry snaps his fingers. "You must have processed the body, right? It’s barely been a week, there’s a chance it’s still in the Morgue."

YOU — "Probably, but it’s unlikely. We go through a lot of corpses in a week's time. It might not be there."

LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Although you do have the corpse’s processing ID number. You can always ask.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — Good thing you have the amnesiac by your side again.

HARRY DU BOIS — He taps your notebook. "You have the ID number. We can check it out, I can always pretend to forget everything."

YOU — "But you really don't know anything about it."

HARRY DU BOIS — "Then my dazzling performance will be all the more believable then." He winks.

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] — Even if he did know something, he likes pretending not to know anything if it gets him what he wants.

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — And what he wants, apparently, is to spend time with you.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Legendary: Success] — He wants you bad.

YOU — He does not want me badly. You guys are just saying stuff because you're part of my imagination or something.

REACTION SPEED — Have you been imagining about Harry recently?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Easy: Success] — It's probably easier to ask when have you not been imagining about Harry?

INLAND EMPIRE [Legendary: Success] — Harry is on his back. You're crouched on top of him. Your hands are on his throat and the sun's light is behind you. You are the sun and he is the moon, reflecting your brilliance back. You're stronger than him, could burn him into a crisp, but you can't and you won't. His skin is pale and full of craters, but kissed by the sun's light, it would light up brilliantly. He can eclipse you perfectly. Together, you can make a true spectacle.

YOU — I'll make a spectacle of myself if I did that.

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — You probably will.

AUTHORITY [Heroic: Success] — But you won't.

YOU — You stand up from your seat, pocketing your notebook into your jacket. "Come on. Let's go then and check up this lead."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Godly: Success] — He smiles a bit to himself, relishing in the knowledge that you two are partners working a case again. He misses this. Misses the distraction. The camaraderie.

VOLITION [Godly: Success] — Harry's hand lies prone by his side, but you do not take it. You walk side by side, a comfortable distance away from each other.

PATH TO THE MORGUE — For many logical and logistical reasons the RCM morgue is at the completely opposite end of Precinct 41. It's a long, winding path to the Morgue, such that only the local RCM officers are able to navigate.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — All morgues within RCM precincts are built this way to prevent the theft of corpses. It doesn't stop thieves from attempting, but if they are able to grab the body they want and get out without being spotted, it's almost seen as an accomplishment. It also doesn't make it easy to put the dead bodies into the Morgue in the first place, which is why it often takes a long time to process a corpse.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Formidable: Success] — It's a common hazing ritual for most new RCM hires to make them do errands between the bullpen and the morgue. You spent days before the transfer documents got officially processed remembering all the routes for the Precinct 41 building so you would be well-prepared if they tried to do the same to you.

To your relief, they didn't. Though they did plan it.

HARRY DU BOIS — He whistles a song you don't know for half of the journey. When he stops whistling, he asks the question you've been dreading.

"What's up with you and Lucky?"

COMPOSURE [Medium: Failure] — You can't help but grit your teeth at the name.

HARRY DU BOIS — "That bad, huh?"

YOU — You sigh a little and adjust your glasses. "Lars Langley is the son of one of the founders of the RCM, Luc Langley. He's not a bad kid. Smart, good with people. Wouldn't hurt a fly. I believe so far in his entire career as a young detective, he's only had to use his gun once, which is pretty impressive when he has to work in the Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour."

HARRY DU BOIS — "But you don't like him."

YOU — "He may have started from the same position as everybody else does, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get some additional 'help'. He's called Lucky in Precinct 57 because he always solves a case. Always. When he doesn't, daddy comes in to sweep everything under the rug or declare it solved anyway. He's the only officer in the RCM so far to have a perfect record. That's how you rise up the ranks, don't you?"

HARRY DU BOIS — "So his father plays favourites and that's why you hate him?"

YOU — "It'd be one thing if he knew, but Lucky is so naïve that he doesn't even realise what his father's doing. He just thinks he's lucky. Thinks it's all his hard work that got him to where he is, that he deserves a higher rank."

HARRY DU BOIS — "You're jealous that he got to the same rank as you in far shorter a time than you."

COMPOSURE [Impossible: Failure] — Your face cracks. A grimace escapes your lips, your fists balled up by your side. Anger ripples through your veins.

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] — But you stop and pause. A cool breath is sucked in. Your frustrations are breathed out. You calm down, slowly but surely.

HALF LIGHT [Formidable: Success] — You don't want to say it out loud. You don't want to say you're jealous. Admitting it out loud will just give Harry another weakness to exploit.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] — But Harry already knows.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] — It's far from the worst secret you have. He won't judge you for it.

YOU — "Year after year I'm pushed aside so others may rise up the ranks. And year after year my friends and comrades die a gruesome, early death because they were not capable. They claim my eyesight is the reason why I can't go any higher. I doubt it's the only reason." You can't hide the venom in your voice.

HARRY DU BOIS — Harry nods slowly. "They push you aside. Meanwhile, here I am. Lieutenant double-Yefreitor, and an absolute mess unworthy of my status."

EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — His tone is somber and dejected. He thinks you deserve to be a higher rank than him.

DRAMA [Legendary: Success] — Of all the people in the world, he holds you in the highest regard, bixia. That includes himself.

YOU — You shake your head at him. "You've worked incredibly hard for so many years. It was inevitable that you'd fall for something to cope. But you're getting better."

HARRY DU BOIS — "And how would you know that?"

YOU — "You're taking it easier—well, relative to your previous workload, if your ledger is to be believed. And you don't stink of Magnesium and alcohol anymore."

PERCEPTION (Smell) [Easy: Success] — He smells quite nice actually. A combination of lemon-scented soap and kebab meat.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] — It'd be even more intoxicating if you got closer. Draw yourself in, get lost in the prismatic disco lights, get wild and boogie down. You know you want to.

HARRY DU BOIS — "I’m trying to cut the habit when I can. And I'm taking it easy because Jean's looking for an excuse to kick my ass to the curb. Doesn't stop me from being a massive screwup."

He breathes out a plume of air. He’s silent for a while. Then, quietly, "You deserve better, Kim."

RHETORIC [Formidable: Success] — He's not just talking about a promotion.

YOU — "I don't deserve better," you say, barely louder than a whisper. "We get what we deserve. That's why I'm here."

HARRY DU BOIS — He turns to stare at you, his piercing gaze taking you apart layer by layer. With his eyes alone he finds the hidden latch to your chest and opens it, holding your lungs with his sweaty, clammy hands. With just a look he has you where he wants you. And what he wants is to know more about you. He has another question on his lips. Another probing question you don't want to answer.

AUTHORITY [Godly: Success] — You turn your head and raise one eyebrow at him. A warning shot. The question burns in his throat and is swallowed down like the disgusting bile it is.

PATH TO THE MORGUE — The two of you walk down the empty path, alone but never truly alone, together but not together, silent but not truly silent. Unspoken words dangle in the air, so crisp and legible you won't need your glasses to help you pluck them out of the sky. It's not an entirely comfortable silence, but it's the most comfortable silence you can have with another person.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] — Harry begins to whistle again, low and melancholic and quiet. The same song he whistled on the swing during the Hanged Man case, or something close enough to it.

YOU — Your puckered lips join in with his melody, and together you create the strangest duet known to mankind.

SHIVERS [Impossible: Success] — The Precinct disappears. The world disappears. All that is left is you and Harry and the song filling the distance between your souls and the whispers of Revachol flowing through your veins.

MORGUE — The morgue, like the rest of the Precinct, has seen better days. It stinks of decay and herbs, no doubt to hide the scent of rotting corpses but it only makes it worse. Once upon a time the room would be white, but the drains near the floors are caked with an unknown substance, and the off-white is more off than white by a number of unknown substances. In other words, an almost spitting replica of the morgue back at Precinct 57.

HARRY DU BOIS — He takes his handkerchief out and retches into it, but does not vomit.

COMPOSURE [Legendary: Success] — It's an ungodly stench, to the point that even you feel the urge to gag, but you swallow tightly and the feeling fades.

HARRY DU BOIS — Harry is not so lucky. He's only able to suppress so much, but a tiny bit of regurgitated kebab spills down his lips. He groans as he wipes it away before it hits the floor, but he does not retch anymore. Miraculously, he's able to stomach it.

YOU — Still, you shake your head at him. "Keep your shit together."

DIENER — "This is Lieutenant du Bois we're talking about. I don't think that's possible."

You turn to observe the only other person in the room. They wear the standard white apron and black garb of a Diener, a mortuary assistant. Their face is sharp and narrow like a blade, and you get the inexplicable feeling that their mind is just as sharp as their face. There's a badge on their lapel with their face and name on it.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Formidable: Failure] — Try as you might, there is no decoding the indecipherable handwriting. You can only assume it's a name.

SAVOIR FAIRE [Medium: Success] — You're also barely able to decode gender from the person's face. You're unsure if that's a deliberate choice, or if they were born with such an androgynous face and body.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Godly: Success] — It’s becoming a bit of a fashion trend in recent times for the counter culture youth to fight back at the hypersexualisation of women. The more you confuse people about your gender, the better.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Godly: Success] — Highly doubt it’s a fashion statement for the diener though. They've tailored their appearance very carefully to maintain this image. They've done this for years, turned it into an artform.

DIENER — "Lieutenant du Bois, Lieutenant Kitsuragi, I see you two have been partnered up again."

REACTION SPEED [Medium: Success] — They almost say "good for you" but stop themselves.

DRAMA [Formidable: Success] — They know it would be such an obvious lie, bixia.

YOU — For formality's sake, you flash your badge long enough for the diener to read it. "Lieutenant Kitsuragi and Lieutenant Du Bois. We are here to inquire about a body for a case I’ve been investigating."

DIENER — "Body? What’s the identification number?"

YOU — You look back at your notebook to check. "ID number 248765900."

DIENER — "That one rings a bell. Haven’t you already looked at it twice now?" They raise a skeptical eye at you, then at Harry.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — Even they have heard about Harry’s infamous amnesia episode. They’re a little envious Harry’s able to forget just like that. And also worried how he’s going to react this time.

HARRY DU BOIS — Before you can reply, Harry cuts in. "I’ve been recently reassigned as Kim’s partner for this case. Need to see it myself."

DIENER — "Just don’t stick your fingers into their ass again," they raise their eyebrows at Harry before heading for the records room, closing the door behind them.

YOU — You slowly turn your head to Harry. "You stuck your fingers inside someone’s ass?"

HARRY DU BOIS — "It was for a case, honest."

RHETORIC [Legendary: Success] — The way he phrases it suggests he’s put his fingers up someone’s ass outside of cases as well. Or even his own.

COMPOSURE [Legendary: Failure] — You can feel the sweat drip down your forehead, your ears burning up in surprise and maybe even shame.

ELECTROCHEMISTY [Trivial: Success] — You’ve seen him without his pants before. Those delectable jeans of his don't leave much to the imagination. You fill in the blanks.

YOU — "S-sure, Harry," you say, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere else

HARRY DU BOIS — But he’s already moved on to the next topic, head turned to where the Diener disappeared to.

His voice lowers conspiratorially. Barely a whisper. You already know what he's going to say based on that curious look in his eyes. "You think they’re part of the homosexual underground?"

YOU — "I thought I told you to stop obsessing over other people’s sexualities," you whisper back.

HARRY DU BOIS — "I mean…y-yeah, but…"

YOU — "But nothing. It’s not just heterosexuals and homosexuals, you know. There are people who feel no attraction, or only feel a certain type of attraction. There are some people who think beyond the binary of men and women, who change themselves to be more true to how they see themselves." You straighten your back. "As members of the RCM, it is not our place to judge."

HARRY DU BOIS — "And people in the middle?"

YOU — "The middle." Your voice rises slightly in tone but it’s still a statement, not a question.

INLAND EMPIRE — Could it be the great Lieutenant has finally figured out what he is? Or rather, what type of people he’s attracted to?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Trivial: Success] — And are we on that list?

HARRY DU BOIS — "You know. People in the middle. Not heterosexual, but not fully a member of the homosexual underground. Like Miss Oranje Disco Dancer."

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — He’s trying to not-so-subtly hint he’s bisexual.

AUTHORITY [Formidable: Success] — About time.

YOU — "They’re the same. Heterosexual, homosexual, people stuck in the middle, it does not, and should not, change the RCM’s opinion about them." You raise one eyebrow at him.

HARRY DU BOIS — "And what if they’re not exactly right down the middle? What if they’re tipped towards one end but not completely? More towards the heterosexual side."

EMPATHY [Trivial: Success] — He’s not asking about the RCM’s opinion. He’s asking for your personal opinion. Whether you would accept him.

YOU — "As I mentioned, the RCM would not judge. But if you’re asking for my personal opinion?"

You pause, carefully deliberating your words. You look him in the eyes and feel dizzy from the glittering disco lights staring right back at you. You have no choice but to look away.

"Khm. I suppose I don’t mind at all."

HARRY DU BOIS — His pale but ruddy face breaks into a grin. It’s a kind, warm smile. A puppy smile. And then, because he has to rub it in, he gives you a wink and some finger guns.

INLAND EMPIRE [Formidable: Success] — Finger guns should be the intersolary symbol for bisexuals, honestly.

DIENER — They promptly return from their office with two folders under each arm, none the wiser of your conversation. A fresh pair of gloves has been placed on their hands.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Formidable: Success] — Why two folders? You only asked for the records of one body.

HARRY DU BOIS — "Hold on, we only asked for the records of one body."

DIENER — "Knowing you, you'd ask me to get the records for both victims." They roll their eyes, as if it's obvious.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — They're well aware of Harry's insistence of following every lead, no matter how ridiculous.

YOU — You turn to Harry, who has already turned his head to you. The words escape your lips in chorus with one another.

YOU AND HARRY DU BOIS — "Both victims?" You say in unison.

DIENER — They ignore you as they head over to the freezer section, where dead bodies sit in cheap caskets. Each of these corpses are blanketed from their head to their ankles, with only their feet sticking out. Each one has a tag on their pinkie toe of their identification number, as well as the person who checked them, their names and age, and any other important details.

The diener leads you through, past corpse after corpse, until they come to a stop between two corpses. With dramatic gusto, they take the ends of both blankets and pulls them down.

EMPATHY [Medium: Success] — They may have been practicing that move for a while.

CORPSE #1 — On your left is the corpse you've written notes about. Corpse #1: Santiago Velez. There's a bit of decomposition on his body, mostly at his hands and feet, but the markings on his chest are identical to the photograph. They're even more gruesome up close.

CORPSE #2 — On your right is a different corpse. A woman, approximately the same age as Corpse #1. There's a gunshot wound to her temple, and similar markings on her chest carved by a knife, except this time there's no second blade to disguise it as Mesque gang iconography. Her tag gives her the name of Sasha Drugova.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Easy: Success] — Apart from their age, they do not resemble each other at all. Corpse #2 has blonde hair and blue eyes and pale skin, but Corpse #1 has tan skin and dark hair and pitch black eyes. The tags suggests they lived in completely different neighbourhoods.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] — You remember thinking this before. You looked into this. They are completely different from each other. The only thing they have in common are the identical cuts on their chest…

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Impossible: Success] — …and a lung-shaped birthmark at the centre of their chest, untouched by the blades.

SHIVERS [Impossible: Success] — You need to remember those birthmarks. You know it's important somehow. A critical clue in this case.

HARRY DU BOIS — He follows your gaze to the birthmark, recognition sparking before his eyes. He puts on a pair of gloves and presses his fingers to the birthmark of Corpse #1, then Corpse #2. He inhales deeply, as if in a trance. His eyes grow pale.

"Where was this body found again?" He points at Corpse #2.

DIENER — They flip through one of the folders. "The burnt-out quarter. On the shore."

HARRY DU BOIS — He points at Corpse #1. "And this one?"

DIENER — They consult the other folder. "Villalobos. At the South."

HARRY DU BOIS — "Near the shore as well?"

DIENER — "Yes, actually. Why do you say that?"

HARRY DU BOIS — "These bodies were supposed to be dumped in the water, to be washed away by the waters, but they didn't stay in the water long. There's water in their lungs still, but it got frozen because of the freezer. And the blade. It had their DNA, but also the DNA of many more people. People we haven't identified yet."

DIENER — They look up at Harry, surpised. "They did, actually."

HALF LIGHT [Formidable: Success] — You know what he's going to say. You're dreading it.

HARRY DU BOIS — "These weren't the only victims, just the most recent two we've found."

YOU — "Which means…"

HARRY DU BOIS — He nods grimly. "We're dealing with serial killings. And if that's the case? I don't think Lucky is alive."

PAIN THRESHOLD [Formidable: Failure] — Your chest hurts. You're seeing blood. You've failed, and this is all your fault.

YOU — You try not to show the shock and fear that strikes you when you're weakest.

COMPOSURE [Impossible: Failure] — But your lips quiver slightly, but pathetically.

YOU — Lucky, wherever you are, I may hate your guts, but…

…I'm sorry for failing you.

#Disco Elysium #Harry du bois #Harrier du bois #Kim Kitsuragi #Requiem for the Apostle #I swear to god it was a coincidence about the whole racism in the police thing #I mean...police have been racist for a long time so uh. The timing just makes it better #Also Harry slowing coming to terms with his bisexual side #And wait until Kim gets drawn in to the chaos. He's gonna have it tough

1 note · View note

tiny-trex5 · 5 years

Text

Ah 1987...what a year

The Reagan administration coined the phrase ”this is your brain on drugs”

Gorbachev ”tore down the wall”

Water beds made up 22 percent of all mattress sales

The competitive world of party games changed with the invention of Jenga

Prozac hit pharmacies everywhere

Bill Cosby had a flawless reputation and the number one show

Cocaine was cool

But maybe the best thing to come out of 1987 was me. On a rainy Wednesday in early November I made my debut appearance into this world. According to my mom, I came in a bit hastily. Quickly, aggressively and without warning. This was definitely foreshadowing for the rest of my life.

As I sit here seven days out from my 32nd year, Running through my life memories, lessons, hardships and accomplishments I can't help but feel contemplative.

So naturally, like any elder millennial I turned to my trusty old friend the Internet for answers about life. After an exhaustive google search about what happens when you turn 32, I came up with nothing but comprehensive lists about 32 things to do before 32. Cute lists, thorough lists, lists that would make Oprah Whinfrey feel inadequate. Being comparative by nature I began measuring my own life achievements to those of these random internet drones.

I immediately felt contrition about how I have lived my life. How come I haven't traveled the globe or began training to climb Mount Everest? Why am I not married to my adorably ironic soulmate? I don't even eat a cruelty free vegan diet! The anxiety started to set in. Am I inferior because I don't have a college degree on my wall?

Luckily for me, I'm not one to wallow in my own self-loathing. For whatever reason I'm pretty self assured and I know who I am. I don't want to climb Mount Everest. That sounds awful. I would prefer to keep my fingers over losing them to frost bite.

. I've lived a messy life, I fall on my face a lot. I don't have a lot of tangible accomplishments. What I do have is a compassionate, humble, realistic, sometimes irreverent view of the world around me. So, instead of dwelling on what I haven't done I decided to make my own ”32” themed list.

32 years worth of random thoughts, musings and advice that has stuck in my head

32.) Empathy and sympathy are often confused but they are two very different things.

When someone is sympathetic to something it means they share the same feelings or have gone through the same thing. Sympathy can often be off-putting to the person on the receiving end. It can show up as ”one-upping” or trying to diminish someone's emotions about a certain situation. Empathy is when a person understands someone's emotions but doesn't necessarily share them. Empathy is a skill that needs to be practiced. It doesn't always come naturally to humans. It requires us to step outside of our own heads, ideas and opinions and really sit with someone in their pain. To truly be empathetic is a treasure and it will change the way you see the world.

31.) Human beings are resilient if they chose to be.

Humans are powerful. There is nothing in the world more motivating than watching another person come back from the bottom. I mean, did anyone else shed a tear when Tiger won the Masters?

30.) We are responsible for our reaction to life.

Bad things happen to good people. We are not responsible for (some) of the things that happen to us but we are responsible for our reaction to them.

29.) We create our experience.

If someone walks into work everyday and says to themselves it's going to be a miserable day...chances are it's going to be a miserable day.

28.) When something about another person really bothers us, most likely it's because we do the same thing.

Some shit is just annoying. Loud chewing, people who wear sunglasses inside etc...i'm not talking about that. I mean when someone has a behavior or character trait we can't stand it's because they are holding a symbolic mirror to us and something we don't like about ourselves. The first time I heard this I rolled my eyes. But then, I started to pay attention to when someone really got under my skin and low and behold this annoying piece of advice is true.

27.) Diet Coke is terrible for you and every time you drink one someone will let you know you're going to get cancer.

I drink a lot of diet coke. You know what else is terrible for you? Being judgemental.Leave me alone and drink your water.

26.) ”Regardless of the circumstances, You are completely capable of creating the life you want, so keep your head down and make your next move”-MHB

My dad told me that after I was fired from a career job. I will never, ever forget those words.

25.)A dysfunctional family is not a life sentence. Break your own cycle.

No one is perfect. You do better when you know better. A bad childhood can certainly affect our lives. Do whatever you need to do to heal from it, forgive the people involved and build a better life so history doesn't repeat itself.

24.) Wherever you are is exactly where you need to be.

Take time to reflect on your journey and how you got to whatever point you may be at. Learn from it, sit in it and appreciate how far you have come.

23.) Perfection is unattainable.

So stop striving for it. Strive to be healthy, strive to be comfortable in your own skin. Stop comparing yourself to everyone else. find peace with who you already are and then make goals.

22.) it's okay to like things about yourself.

Women especially are terrible at accepting compliments. We tend to downplay them. It doesn't make you stuck up to enjoy parts of yourself.

21.) ”Always protect the friendship”-MHB

This is another gem from my dad. In a romantic relationship always, always protect the friendship you have with your partner. That is what will carry you through the bad times. Even if it doesn't work out.

20.) The best cat to own is one that doesn't use a litter box

Albert, you're the real MVP. Miss you.

19.) Time is a master healer.

Sometimes the only answer to great pain is time. Time softens the blow and cools the burn that grief brings to our lives. It has a magical way of erasing bad memories and replacing them with fondness.

18.) Love hard.

Tell people how you truly feel about them. Even if it leads to rejection. Don't punish new relationships because of things someone in your past did.

17.) Love and Attachment are two very different things.

Read that again. Attachment is unhealthy. It's an enmeshed relationship that will never meet your emotional needs and it ends in resentment.

16.) We are all born inherently good

The issue is that we were given free will. Use it wisely.

15.) Invest in a pair of black boots and a long cardigan

They look good with every thing

14.) Everyone owns a coordinating sweat suit

For the love of God do not wear it to the airport.

13.) No human can love you enough if you don't love yourself

You cannot expect someone to save you. It's not fair. If you don't love yourself there isn't enough human power on earth that will fill that void. Not a partner, not a child, not a parent. Trust me, I've tried.If you hate yourself deep down you don't believe that another human can love you. It leaves you wanting constant reassurance which is exhausting for the other person. Self-loathing cannot be fixed by external validation.

12.) Nobody ever wakes up after a night of staying sober wishing they would have had a drink.

Facts.

11.) Your job title is not your identity.

It's amazing to have a career that you are passionate about. Build a full life, so that if God forbid that job goes away you still know who you are.

10.) Be comfortable going to a restaurant to eat alone

It's always awkward the first-time. It is a huge self esteem boost to feel comfortable being with yourself.

9.) Take a lot of pictures.

Not selfies (those are great too). Take candid pictures. It gives you physical evidence of times in your life.

8.) Find a perfume and stick with it.

Human Beings will always remember how you smell. Make it a good one.

7.) Give genuine compliments.

Genuine is the key word here. If someone looks especially radiant, or has on a great outfit, tell them. You never know who needs to hear something

6.) Experiment with your look until you find your signature style.

Dress in a way that makes you feel good. It helps you carry yourself with confidence. I love clothes, they are my passion. I love when women find their own style and embrace it. Trends are great, but you don't have to follow them to a t. Unless that's your thing. Play with your clothes, it's fun.

5.) Write handwritten notes.

I love to write so this is important to me. It's always so meaningful to receive something handwritten.

4.) Be assertive, not aggressive.

Advocate for yourself and hold your ground, don't bully or instill fear in others to get your point across. No one will ever take you seriously if you just get angry and explode.

3.) Real growth starts when you get tired of your own shit.

I can personally attest to this. Nothing and I mean nothing motivates change like really stepping back and realizing your behavior is why and how you've gotten to the point in your life that you are at. Realizing that the same shitty coping mechanisms you have used your whole life may not be serving you anymore. My mom once said to me ”you complain that all these bad things keep happening to you, but what is the common denominator?” Me. I am the common denominator.

2.) It's okay to need help.

We can't always fix everything ourselves. The reason therapeutic environments exist is because there is a need. Whatever help may look like for you, it's okay to reach out and take it. For me, it came in the form of rehab. Not once, but a few times. I have a drinking problem and an eating disorder that I can't just will myself through. I need help. And that's okay. By taking help and services I found a community of people that are just like me. I found a place I belong and a safe area to walk through my issues. I have support and a network that pulls me through my darkest days.

Regret and shame will keep you sick.

This is a very emotional one for me. I have a crushing amount of regret about how I have shown up as a mother. It haunts me every moment of everyday. I have made a lot of mistakes. Living in shame has kept me in pain. It has kept me distant and in hiding. Regret has told me ”your daughter is better off without you”. And I listened. I built an emotional wall so high that now I don't know how to tear it down. Hiding in my shame has created mountains of problems that wouldn't be problems if I just would have faced my own situation. I don't know how to overcome these obstacles. I do know I love my child with every ounce of my soul. My fear is that she doesn't know that. So it's time to do things differently. To step into the light and heal not hide from choices I've made.

As I approach this new year of my life I won't feel bad for myself. No, I'm not where I thought I would be at 32 but I'm right where I need to be. And maybe that's the best place for me.

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garamonder · 6 years

Text

Chosen Peers

(During a field trip to Central University, Havoc sees the possibility for a different future for Ed.)

Jean Havoc hadn't been in a university library in ages. He stared around the quiet rows of high wooden shelving with a sort of fond nostalgia, finally squashing the weird reservation he had about being there. School buildings always seemed like the property of students, and he had to admit to himself he felt a little like a trespasser. He was seated at a sturdy long table, tipped back in his chair and waiting on the boss to collect the materials he wanted here before they dropped in on Professor Haggerty's chemistry office.

A stack of books landed before him with a thump that made one of the librarians frown their way. "Here," said the boss.

The lieutenant sighed at the load and craved a cigarette.

"Don't look so morose, we have a cart," said Ed. He retrieved a two-wheeled metal book cart from the librarian, who briefly regarded him as though she was not sure he'd bring it back.

"Why don't we have an Alphonse?"

"Because Alphonse has a job, and now we have a Havoc."

At this moment, Al was probably up to his helmet in stuffed animals and teatime. He was babysitting Elicia Hughes, allowing poor Gracia an evening with her sister. Havoc hoped they were having a good time. It was good of Alphonse to offer.

In truth, Havoc didn't mind the field trip. Sometimes he liked a change of scenery and the boss was entertaining company. Once in a while they struck up a quick game of cards. The kid's promise not to tell Hawkeye that Havoc had taught him poker was nearly four years old and he was old enough now to make it moot. Ed was ever grudging of his time, but Jean liked the moments when he wheedled a few minutes of downtime out of the young major.

It wasn't as often these days that the Elrics dropped in to town, Ed getting his assignments on the road as often as not. Things seemed to happen faster now than they did a few years before. Sometimes Havoc felt events escalating in a way he couldn't express except in the increase of cigarettes he consumed too quickly every day.

Then the boss had collected Havoc to act as the extra pair of arms for lugging Ed's research from the school. "They let you check this stuff out?" he asked.

"The watch helps," Ed said smugly.

Right. The watch did it all. Jean clapped his hands to his knees and stood up, dutifully wheeling the cart behind Edward as they trundled out of the library and down a long path through one of the leafy campus squares. Students were taking advantage of the fine weather to sprawl along the grass on picnic blankets. Some had brought along books to study; others had abandoned pretense and were loafing about.

Every so often someone would send Havoc a curious look. He was wearing his usual blues and was clearly identifiable as a military officer. They must have wondered what he was doing on their campus. Colleges were sequestered communities in a way that few places were now, and anyone not recognizable as a student or faculty stuck out like a cowlick.

Ed got fewer glances and it suddenly occurred to Havoc that Ed looked like he belonged here. How odd.

They paused at a little crossroads of diverging paths as Ed squinted at the directions Professer Haggerty had scribbled. "Does this say 'Norrey Hall' or 'M—Murray?' Murray Hall?" He frowned at the paper. "This is chicken scratch."

It was probably about as decipherable as Ed's own handwritten reports, which Hawkeye had tactfully requested be typed out from now on. No one gave him too hard a time about it because it wasn't hard to guess he'd had to relearn to write left-handed and it seemed bad sport to make jokes. Ed shoved the note under Havoc's nose, who couldn't make heads or tails of it either.

A gaggle of chattering students were passing by, weaving around Havoc and his cart. "Hey," Ed waved a hand at them. "Any of you know where Haggerty's office is? Chemistry department."

The students paused with expressions of surprise. "Actually," said one girl with long blonde hair, "we're headed to his class. We're picking up some exam results."

"Is it Norrey or Murray? I can't read this stuff."

One of the other kids giggled. "Is it his handwriting? It's so bad. The teacher's aide has to decipher it for us half the time. It's Norrey. Come on, you can follow us."

They started walking again, Havoc bringing up the rear. Now that Edward was definitely associated with the military officer, they glanced curiously at him too.

"Are you a student?" the first girl asked.

"No. Just need to drop in on Haggerty."

"Do you know him?"

Havoc knew Ed and Haggerty spoke periodically and flapped their gums a lot about chemical reactions whenever they passed within a twenty-foot radius of each other. Haggerty wasn't much for alchemy, even disparaging its use in Ed's presence, but somehow they collaborated quite well. Ed seemed to relish lecturing the professor that alchemy acted as the ultimate authentication for mathematical and chemical theorems. If it was bullshit, he was fond of saying, a rebound will tell you sure enough.

"Yeah," said Ed, "I see him around."

He was clamming up as he did sometimes around interested strangers. It was funny, reflected Havoc, how he could be so cocky around people who others found intimidating, but he shut up in the presence of—well, those who would ordinarily be peers.

Come to think of it, he never saw Ed with anyone his own age save for Alphonse or his mechanic.

"Are you…with the military?" asked a bespectacled boy dubiously, eyeing Havoc.

Before Ed could give a one-word answer to a spectacularly complex question, Havoc mischievously replied for him. "Major Elric? Is he ever."

He grinned at Ed's sharp look. If he was going to drag around a heavy cart of books, he'd have some fun with it.

"Major?" repeated a few of the kids, exchanging glances. Ed shrugged and slowed to keep pace with Havoc, who was leisurely strolling along steering the cart with one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other. When they approached a large, red brick building, Havoc took a last few drags and regretfully extinguished it on an ashtray outside the hall. A few students taking a smoke break nodded at him and Havoc rolled his eyes at the implied solidarity.

"Back in my academy days, I knew a girl who went here," he told Ed conversationally.

"Of course you did."

"'Course, military curfew's bit of a damper on young romance. She ended up ditching me for some dip in the sociology department."

"What, she wasn't into boys with a bedtime?"

Havoc sniggered and Ed shook his head, smiling despite himself. The hallway was congested with students coming and going and Havoc weaved his cart upstream, feeling like salmon. At last they pulled up to a handsome wooden door where "Professor Haggerty" was neatly engraved. Haggerty definitely had tenure.

The blonde girl ducked her head in the office. "He's probably in the classroom," she informed them. "It's just this door over."

They obediently followed her and her classmates into the room next door. The classroom was set up stadium style, with all the seats ringing a half-moon around the space where a professor would hold court. On a green chalkboard up front, some chemical formulas were laid out and the beginnings of a alchemical array was sketched out on the wall. Ed glanced at it and snorted.

A stout, balding man looked up at the sound and roared in a deeper timbre than anyone would have credited at sight alone: "Elric! There you are. I have a bone to pick with your alchemy."

Ed dropped the book he'd been carrying onto the desk. "It's not my alchemy, and I'm sure it's your fault."

"It damned well isn't, that array is faulty and—"

"—Don't blame science, if you're going to use alchemy to test theorems you might actually bother learning to construct a proper array." Edward flapped his hand at the chalkboard. "Just what the hell is this?"

"It's a perfectly cogent formula, is what it is—"

"Cogent, my ass. You don't even have all the elements represented on the array!"

"I don't need all the elements!"

"You still have to denote them! How many times do I have to tell you? Even if you're canceling it out—"

And they launched into squabbling, punctuated by words Havoc supposed to be alternately scientific and profane. This was their way, picking up each time as though they were resuming an interrupted conversation from the last word. That conversation was usually an argument, and both were always trying to get the last word.

The students they'd arrived with stared with growing amusement. Their grins widened as both Elric and Haggerty grabbed stubs of chalk and began brandishing them at the incomplete array and then each other.

Havoc leaned against a desk in the first, lowest row. The stadium setup put him in mind of a gladiator arena, with these two as the premiere match. The blonde girl said dryly, "I guess they do see each other around."

"Like ships passing in the night, except they bicker across the way." Havoc counted the smokes remaining in his pack. He'd sneak by the commissary on base before reporting back to the colonel. He looked forward to that night, when he'd be wining and dining his date at a swanky cafe he'd had to reserve a table at weeks ago. Sometimes the military blues came in handy, especially in the big city.

"What do you need all those notes for?" asked another of the students, who hadn't yet addressed them directly. He had neatly combed hair, a faintly aggressive tone and generally reminded Havoc of the sociology student Harriet had ditched him for years ago.

Jean shrugged. "The boss needs 'em," he indicated Ed, "I just carry 'em."

"Is he really your boss?" the boy asked skeptically.

"Technically, he's my superior officer," said Havoc. He never minded clarifying the fact. The 'Major' title made Ed sour, which took the sting out of referring to a younger soldier as such. "We have the same boss."

"Oh."

Haggerty drew breath from the argument to address the milling students. "Yes, yes, your exams are here," he said. He reached into a drawer of his desk and retrieved the papers, shuffling through them and handing them out to their respective owners. "Good job, some of you."

Havoc snickered as a few of the faces paled. Then Haggerty took a positive brick of paper from the desk and dropped it in Ed's hands. "Here, you ingrate. Write me an array and we'll call it square."

"That could be the problem with your arrays," said Ed, "they're always square."

And they launched into a fresh round of quarreling before more students piled into the classroom for the afternoon lecture. By the time most of them had settled into their desks, watching their professor squawk at the kid engaged in scribbling furiously on the chalkboard, Ed had fixed the array and both men were covered in chalk dust.

Haggerty seemed satisfied. "Equivalent exchange," he announced, and the two parted with a last few amiable insults. Ed waved a hand over his shoulder as he followed Havoc out the door and into the hallway.

"You do have array with people," Havoc told Ed slyly.

The major rolled his eyes. "How long have you had that waiting in the wings?"

Neither of them noticed that the students they'd arrived with had filed back into the now-clear hallway with them. "Any more stops on the tour?" asked the bespectacled kid, and Havoc glanced at Ed, who shook his head. By the looks of their cart it appeared as though they had dangled the university by its ankles and turned out every pocket for relevant notes.

"It seems we've emptied the mines for now," said Havoc. He leaned on the cart and caught sight of a scuff on his boots. He'd have to take care of that before picking up Bianca that night. Thank God his military curfew had for the most part ended after academy.

"Tell Haggerty I'll send this stuff back with an aide," Ed told the students. He'd probably conscript Sheska if he could peel her away from headquarters long enough. In fact, Havoc suspected he'd rope her into copying most of the notes. Ed couldn't take every page with him on the road, but he loathed parting with research documents and liked knowing they were all within reach of Sheska's recollection.

"Hey," said the blonde girl. Ed turned to her. "Do you guys want to come to lunch with us?"

"Lunch?" repeated Ed blankly as if he'd forgotten what the word meant.

"Yeah. I mean, it's cafeteria food, but it's not the worst," she said. The others snickered in universal disparagement of cafeteria fare. It was probably a common joke among the students, something in which they were all initiated freshman year. One of those silly little things that was oddly bonding because it belonged to a shared experience.

"Ah. Thanks, but we have to get back to the office."

Havoc winced. Ed sounded so official. How long had the boss been talking like them before they'd realized it?

"Are you sure? Even soldiers have to eat," said one of the other girls with a smile.

The words were out of Jean's mouth before he even considered them. "I can drop this stuff off at the office," he offered.

He didn't think that merited the glare Ed leveled at him. "I have to file a report," Ed lied shamelessly—shameless because he had no report to file at the moment and because his reports were famously terse and probably took all of five minutes to write. "Thanks anyway."

Gone was the easy belligerent rapport he'd had with the older professor. Like a switch had been flipped.

"Oh. Yeah, I get it. Okay, see you around," said the girl, and her companions gave them awkward little waves as they moved away.

Ed moved to secure everything on the cart, and made sure the unbound stack of papers Haggerty had given him wasn't going anywhere.

"Why don't you go with them, Ed?" Havoc said wistfully, gazing after the departing students. "I won't tell the colonel if you want to play hooky for a while."

Ed snorted. "I don't. Let's go."

"You sure, boss? Wouldn't kill you to go with them. You might even like it."

The teen conveyed his doubt of this with a flat look and went back to checking over the notes he was bringing back. At last he was satisfied that he had wrung out all that the school could offer and they wheeled back down the hallway, out to the fine sunshine. Havoc thought about the wonderful weather he'd have for his date tonight, but he felt distracted for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.

The automobile was parked in a place of somewhat dubious legality not far from the main campus. Military plates stalled the hand of anyone who might be tempted to write a ticket. The two rolled up to the car and Havoc unlocked the trunk while Ed began unloading the cart. As he sorted it out, Jean filched another cigarette from his pack and lit up, gazing around at the college scenery. Maybe the nice day was affecting his sentimentality.

"Come on, I'm starving. Let's grab lunch from that one place on the corner. Military's paying." As though on cue, Ed's stomach distinctly rumbled. He pointed to it as confirmation and shoved the last of the books in the car.

Havoc protested. "You just turned down lunch with those guys!"

"Doesn't mean I'm not hungry," said Ed. He slammed the hood and made to wheel the cart back to a librarian who probably thought she'd said her goodbyes to it for good. "What, aren't you?"

Sure Jean was. His stomach was rumbling right along in sync with the major's. He dragged on the cigarette while Ed took the book cart to the library, returning with an expression that said he didn't think the librarian's relief was necessary or polite. Havoc didn't know why he couldn't let it go that easily.

"Why didn't you want to eat with them?"

"I'm on the job," said he who notoriously never cared whether he was on the job.

"Don't you ever want to be around people your own age?"

"No," said the boss distastefully.

And that was the simple truth. He did not envy or resent other young people for their ordinary lives. He did not think about them at all. It was not that he looked down on their simpler, everyday concerns, but he could not relate to them.

Ed raised an eyebrow and leaned against the car. "What is this?" he twirled a finger to indicate the general matter of Jean's concern. "You nostalgic for school or something?"

"No," said Havoc truthfully. Military academy had represented the end of his formal education and he'd had a good time there, but he wouldn't shave away a few years now even if he could. The fact was, grown women were—well, they were just tops. "It's just that this might be the only time you get to experience this stuff."

"Experience what, cafeteria food?" Ed deadpanned. "Thanks to the military, I get plenty."

"You know what I mean."

"Okay. You mean bitching about professors, midterm exams, and student government."

"I mean dorm life, making friends you'll have forever, late night pizza runs, hanging out and laughing…without the pressure to like, stop a murder or bust some smuggling ring. I know those are little things," he said to Ed's skeptical frown, "but they add up to something greater."

"And what good will one lunch do? Aside from the good this lunch will do, because I'm still starving and we're not moving."

Obediently, Jean stubbed his cigarette and they started walking. Maybe it wasn't too late. Ed was still young; there was still time to finish the job he'd started and turn his eyes to every experience he'd been ignoring. Havoc realized suddenly he wanted this for Ed, and he wanted Ed to want it.

At first they walked in silence but Ed seemed exasperated. "I don't know what you want from me here," he said finally.

Havoc blinked, then laughed. "I don't know either. Sorry."

Jean put the incident out of mind for a few days, until next he ran into Al at HQ and felt strangely compelled to relay it. "I feel a little bad," he admitted to Alphonse. "Sometimes I wonder if we're the reason he can't relate to anyone his age."

If a helmet could smile, he was sure Alphonse would be smiling then. "It's not your fault, Lieutenant," he reassured Havoc. "The truth is, Brother was never really interested in other kids, even when we were little."

Littler, corrected Havoc's guilt instinctively.

"He didn't pay much attention to them at school. He mostly just talked to me and Winry."

"Why is that?" Havoc asked.

Alphonse shrugged. "Brother's always been ornery, and too clever for his own good. He just didn't relate to anyone our age." Sensing Havoc's hesitation, his voice gave that smile again with his words. "Not everything about Brother boils down to—what happened. Actually, a lot of it doesn't. He's just Ed."

Of course he was. Havoc was almost embarrassed. It was hard to separate Edward from what had happened to the brothers that day, and easy to assume the harsher parts of his nature originated from trauma. But then there would be so little of Ed left, and that wasn't fair.

"How did your date go, Lieutenant?" asked Alphonse politely. Havoc groaned.

"A little too well. She wants to go there again next week. My wallet can't take it."

Ed's yellow hair and red coat popped around the corner. Colonel Mustang was matching him stride-for-stride and the two were bickering about a detail Edward had conveniently left out of his latest report. The colonel expressed a stony opinion that it constituted a misrepresentation of events.

"Do you really want it on military record?" Ed told Mustang flatly, who reconsidered his position in light of the detail Jean was sure he was better off not knowing.

The colonel harrumphed and paraded into the office, Ed following with rolling eyes. Behind them filed Hawkeye, in whose professional countenance Jean detected a flicker of amusement.

Havoc was reminded of the major launching into easy debate with Haggerty, and for a moment felt glad their little office fell onto the comfortable side of the fence Ed had built around himself.

I’d forgotten to post this here

#fma #fmab #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #edward elric #jean havoc #fic

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