#this chapter was soooooo fun finally I get to use things Ive built up in prev ones wheeeehehe

[vvindication]

what would you trade the pain for? — 4. Solace

4.3k word count content warnings: implied homophobia, sexual harassment, canon-typical drug use

lots of themes and ideas within this chapter were inspired by @thegrimreaperisanerd's absolutely phenomenal HarryKim fics "Imprinting" and "DUCKLINGS THAT DROWN", highly recommend them to anyone who's enjoyed this one <3

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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"Am I ever going to see you again?"

Patterned sunlight filters through the windshield of the motor carriage, highlighting the pale lashes of his companion and shimmering in the strands of his hair, golden threads akin to spun honey. He smiles fondly at him from under relaxed eyelids. "Of course you will, officer." He reassures smoothly, his voice just as sweet.

Sitting forward, he slips into Vincent's space with practiced ease. The soft tips of his fingers stroke up along the ridges of his knuckles and their lips meet with the barest hint of a kiss. The officer sighs out through his nose at the contact, eyes closing. Everything about this man - his smell, his touch, his taste - radiates a certain warmth. He lingers in it, soaking it in, committing the texture of his lips to memory.

A cough from outside breaks the momentary bliss. Each of the two men quickly retract into their respective seats, one looking far more guilty than the other as he shuffles back into his place and casts his gaze at the floor.

"I've got that station call for you, Mr. Arcelis." Joakim announces himself as he steps up into the driver's side of the vehicle, fixated on the slip of paper he holds in his hand. He doesn't once look up from it, even as he addresses the man eyeing him warily in the adjacent passenger seat. "This station call obligates you to return to Precinct 41 …"

Near word for word from the days of training, the routine easily fades into meaningless speech. Instead, Vincent watches Arcelis as he reluctantly takes the form in his delicate grasp and scans over its dutifully filled out sections. Slowly, he nods in understanding, though his pale eyes shine with a certain apprehensiveness.

He keeps his silence, even after his partner has seen fit to dismiss him with a near guarantee of another eventual meeting.

"What the hell was that, Travart?" A few minutes later Joakim pulls over onto a quiet street among the sprawling network of Central Jamrock's old buildings and turns in his seat to face him, wide-eyed. He's gripping the steering lever with a tight grip, even after he's parked and the engine is cooling with inactivity.

"Was what?" He snaps back. His shoulders have been hunched and at the ready ever since they'd stopped in the first place. Tension is curling like a tightening spring in his chest, winding up further, further …

He scoffs in disbelief. "What if someone had seen you?" The other's mouth opens, yet he remains wordless. "They don't need more fuel for the mill."

"The - mill?" Even as he asks, understanding dawns on his features. "Wh - What? You're not going t-to …" Vincent struggles, producing not much more than a vague sound of confusion in his throat.

"Report you?" He guesses. As he looks back at him with a leveled gaze, a twitch in his expression suggests that he's genuinely considering the idea after speaking it into existence.

It takes some time for him to recollect from that line of thought. "I-I'd expect that, no, you're - not going to start calling - calling me slurs?" He lets out a little cynical laugh, bitter in tone, "Telling me h-how I'm -"

"The fuck you take me for?" Joakim recoils, apparently taken aback. Quickly, he resumes upholding his stern disapproval. "Sorry, excuse me. I don't want any part of that. You need to be careful."

Vincent's mouth is uncomfortably dry when he runs out of words to say, mind flickering with half-thoughts as numerous as the raindrops that begin to drum against the roof. At the sound, he pulls open the door and steps out into the empty street.

His partner calls his name with concern.

Standing under the sky, he lifts his head and lets the moisture slowly seep into his uniform. It's a welcome reprieve from the past week of heat that had soaked into the very bones of the city in much the same manner, gutters fervently drinking up the offering of succor they've finally been granted. His hair is rinsed of gel by the increasing torrent in a mere minute. The lenses of his glasses spotted with water, the cloudscape above blurs into unremarkable paint strokes of grey.

HE NEEDS YOU.

The voice shudders through him like a sudden gust of wind - the inside of his skull coming alive with overwhelming dial tones and the sound of phones ringing in their handsets, desperate to be answered. He wraps his arms around himself, ducking down into his coat, but he's stood in the rain too long. He's shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering.

He turns back to the safety of the motor carriage only to stop dead when he glimpses the lieutenant standing a few paces away in the street. His green blazer is drenched without his issued cloak to protect him from the elements, weighing on his shoulders and dragging him down into the muck that's been swept downhill.

Vincent steps toward him, reaching out. "… Harry?"

Joakim grabs his arm, a vice-grip that floods sudden adrenaline into his veins. He's forcefully twisted away in a rush, the world around him blurring. "What do you think you're doing? You're an officer, not a socialite."

Dread comes over him, pierced into the marrow of his bones. "Let go -"

"You know you're playing with fire," he's muttering in a hushed tone now, "sneaking around with a politician, a suspect." With every word spoken he closes the distance between them, until he's pulled Vincent flush against his chest, coppery breath hot on his face.

Attempting to wrench himself free, he finds his arms too weak to fight him off. "S-Stop, stop, Joakim, th-that hurts -" he hisses out between his teeth, muscles contorting further in a wasted effort to keep any amount of distance between them.

"Be my rescue," the discordant yet familiar phrase tumbling from his mouth sends a jolt through his system - "just for tonight." The man's tongue finds his throat, trails up the line of skin, and he gasps - thrashing in place and ripping at the fabric of the other's shirt. He fights him like an animal cornered, bearing claws and fangs, until he can hardly breathe anymore. His lungs burn with exertion.

Gulping for oxygen, he chokes instead - brackish water filling up his lungs in its absence. Vincent blinks rapidly and fights for consciousness as sunlight flickers on the surface of the waves above him, so far out of reach.

Coughing like a man dragged from the Esperance itself, he wakes abruptly with the blankets thrown from his bed in fitful sleep. There's a dull ringing in the kitchen as the phone calls for his attention, another eagerly awaiting an answer on the other side, but he can't bring himself to force his aching body to act. He's still shaking, heart rapid in his chest as he adjusts back into the world of reality.

Eventually the officer slumps back onto his mattress and wipes the sweat from his forehead, then unsteadily pulls the covers over himself once more with a suppressed shiver. It's far too cold of a morning for this.

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