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[vvindication]

what would you trade the pain for? — 2. Aftermath

3.6k word count content warnings: smoking, alcoholism, harassment, mentioned break up

Vincent Travart, diligent patrol officer of precinct 41 in the RCM, forms a bond with the infamous Lt. Du Bois when he fails to escape his own inherent need to help people — unwittingly exposing himself to the very beating heart of Revachol, a man who he will never be able to drive from his mind as it seems he's fated to shadow his every step.

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Vincent's absence has become a notable occurrence during the lunch hour, where before he'd frequently lingered in a quiet corner of the break room like a persistent ghost. It started with late arrivals, gradually leading into occasional disappearances - the tar scent of cigarette smoke lingering on his dark uniform - until his presence had ceased entirely. While the chatter of the precinct's officers continues on around him, Harry picks distractedly at his wilted sandwich.

Unknown to him, Vincent himself is leaning against the rusty railing of a decaying fire escape. The structure juts out from the very end of the old silk mill like a metallic fungus, clashing with the ruddy brickwork as it snakes down the building. The air is thick with autumn rain, and he takes a deep breath of his smoke. Below, the city is a hive of activity. Raindrops patter along the tops of tenements, lorries, and people alike as the daily cycle commences before his eyes, to and fro among Jamrock's estuary of roads, filling the silence with the steady drone of ever-moving traffic. He watches it all without comprehension, his focus on a murmur beyond.

Despite their inelegant first meeting - an awkward encounter after-hours that provided more insight to one another than any of the chats they'd had in passing - the two men had kept in contact. He'd offered his phone number - "in case of emergencies" he clarified, though the lieutenant's flash of a grin when handed the scrap of paper implied that he expected otherwise. What had started out as a simple attempt to help a coworker in need transformed into an odd sort-of friendship the evening Harry had called and asked for him.

He rolls the cooler end of his cigarette back and forth between his finger and thumb, habitually. Deep in thought.

When the door behind him opens with a heavy thunk, he jolts - the little spark of a cigarette flickering out and disappearing onto the sodden pavement two stories down.

"Is this where you've been hiding lately?"

He scoffs, straightening out to greet the man who'd abruptly interrupted his thoughts. "Hiding?" He asks, rhetorical. Still, the corner of his lip turns up in a faint smile as he greets him. "Lt. Du Bois."

The heavy metal door swings shut as he steps out beside him, giving the platform a wary glance as it groans with the added weight. "This isn't the safest place for a smoke."

"Yeah, probably not. At least it's quiet." His tone is subdued, shrugging his shoulders and resting his arm against the rail. Already his brown gaze has wandered off, the small fleck of blue in his left iris much more visible in the clouded daylight. He watches the swifts fly in arcs above the roofs of Jamrock, dark little silhouettes dancing in the pale grey sky.

Harry gives what seems an appropriate pause, following his lead in appreciating the view from their vantage point. Then he presents his own box of cigarettes from his overcoat, bright red with a bold triangle of black printed across the front. Astras, half-full. "Sorry about your cig."

"Oh - thanks." His hand hovers, uncertain, then takes one for himself. He uses his own lighter, shielding the flame from the humid breeze, and wordlessly offers him the same courtesy. The lieutenant leans in close with cigarette between his lips to catch it before it's blown out.

He lets the smoke trail from his open mouth, billowing away with the wind. "Since when do you smoke, anyway?"

Vincent chuckles softly. "Since I was young and stupid." He presses his cheek into the palm of his own hand, the darkened rings under his eyes prominent as he closes them. His posture is sagging with evident fatigue.

"Wait - aren't you twenty? That's not even old."

He hums. "Younger and stupider, then."

That at least makes him laugh a little.

The seconds tick by as they smoke side by side, arms slung over the railing, allowing cold raindrops to soak into the fabric of their clothes. Somewhere down the street, the horn of an aggravated driver sounds. In the reverberating heart of a city, beating with the lifeblood of its citizens on their daily commute, there is a shared moment of quiet between two officers. The younger sighs out the smoldering contents of his lungs and bumps his shoulder into the other's.

"How've you been?" He asks directly.

"Me?" Harry asks as if there were anyone else the question could be directed at, "fine. Only drank half a bottle."

His brows lower, blinking open his eyes to examine him closer. "Wait - Only? You're drunk?"

"'Course not, do I sound drunk?"

He frowns, pupils flickering back and forth with close inspection. Eventually, he concedes. "No." His expression has hardened considerably, shifting to stare in the opposite direction of his companion and instead at the horizon. A stagnant silence hangs between them.

"It hasn't stopped my work." He huffs. "I'm still filing paperwork, gathering evidence -"

"Forget it. I'm glad you're okay." Suddenly the lieutenant's fingers are on his wrist - again - and he instinctively jerks his body backwards, pulls against his grasp.

The man's dull green eyes are intense, fingers pressing hard into the small amount of skin exposed from under the sleeve of his work coat. His still-lit cigarette is perched in the other hand, flickering yellow in his peripheral. "What happened?" His tone is far from aggressive, yet the sudden drop in octave makes Vincent freeze.

"W-What?" He stammers out.

"You've been avoiding everyone to come out here and smoke, by yourself." As quickly as his demeanor had shifted before, it eases again, lightening his grip on him. "On an old rusty fire escape that barely holds two people."

He shrinks into himself, tries to move further away from his prying gaze.

"What's wrong, Vincent?"

His jaw juts out slightly, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Don't wanna do this now." He eventually mutters, turning his head and refusing eye contact.

"Do what? Talk?" He remains at his side, unflinchingly fixated as he waits for his answer.

A shaky sigh is released, held within his chest for far too long, nicotine burning at his insides. The sensation pushes up and leaks out from the corners of his eyes, hastily rubbing the moisture away. "Broke up with my boyfriend. That's all."

"Oh." The remark is barely audible, a whisper in the wind.

The cracks in his demeanor have crumbled, his entire weight is on the metal now as he shudders out in a sob, "Happy?"

Harry says nothing.

"I-It's - It's all my fault. After that one night, I just … I don't know. Wanted the chance to know you. I shouldn't have - He didn't …" he trails off as he struggles to breathe, hurriedly trying to explain himself between gasps for air.

He pats his arm, slides his palm up to rest on his upper shoulder. Vincent leans into him for support.

"M'sorry." He sniffles, a little clearer now. "I made such a mess of this."

He's vulnerable, emotionally open. Both are acutely aware of it.

Wordlessly, the lieutenant takes a small step closer into the other's personal space, hand fitting comfortably into the crook of his neck as he lifts his chin. With the way he has to stoop down, he must be about half a foot taller than him - the difference evident with their proximity. His mouth moves to say something. Soothing words. Anything. The other's dark eyes stare up into his own, anticipating.

"Don't." He whispers, breath unsteady.

"Why not?" His tone is equally quiet, leaning in over him. Even with barely any contact between them, their bodies readily share heat as they stand closely together under the overhanging clouds - Vincent's cheeks flushing with bright, unmistakable color. "You want this too, don't you?" Closing the distance would take no effort at all.

He declines to answer, biting his lip.

"Please - talk to me." He's practically begging. Desperate for connection.

Finally, he puts an end to the exchange, dipping his chin and pulling himself away. "I - I can't do this now." He puts his own cigarette out on the railing. "And you've been drinking. Should get it out of your system."

"That doesn't mean anything," he protests, "I can think fine." He moves after him.

"Stop, Harry." He speaks sharply, drying the last of his tears and adjusting the collar of his shirt to look presentable. "Let me … I need to think." He retreats further, back against the door. "I just need to think."

He pursues his exit, hand outstretched. Vincent is faster this time, recoiling from his reach and tucking his arm closely to his chest. There's a flash of fear in his expression, there one second and gone the next.

"… I'll call - I'll call you. Okay?" It's more a question than a statement.

"Wait …"

His request goes unheard. Unceremoniously, the steel door closes.

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