#yes that is a tiny judit and harry

[dotssu]

jean jean jean

[5lazarus]

5: Share a snippet that you’re proud of from an upcoming fic/chapter.

thank you for the ask :) getting me through this last hour at work from these fic asks! send me, I beg, work is grinding my brain to dust. I fell deeply deeply in love with the game Disco Elysium, which is everything I ever want to write, and is heavily inspired by my favorite novel The City & The City. I'm writing a longer-form piece about the detectives at the end of the game, about queer solidarity, loving addicts in recovery, and domestic abuse. And, of course, showing how even with the best of intentions, all cops are bad. Even Kim Kitsuragi. He even says it. Here's a snippet of it, called Dispatches from the Homo-Sexual Underground:

The divorce is not going well and the children are fretful and Marcel simply will not leave the house. Judit sleeps on the floor, because Marcel will not give up the bed. She wakes up at dawn, back aching, and eyes him snoring on the pullout couch. The children are still asleep in the other room. They cannot—she cannot—afford much better on a patrol officer’s salary, but it is marginally better than the tenements in Martinaise. At least they have their own toilet here.

She gets up and hurries to the shower, wincing at the blast of cold water. Revachol inks her dirty fingers along the tiny bathroom window, set high by the showered. Judit hums to herself, and then giggles. She’s got the song from last night stuck in her head.

Marcel is still asleep when she reenters the living room, washed, brushed, and dressed. She tiptoes past him and prepares a quick breakfast—a sliced hardboiled egg on toast—for the kids. Evangeline and Clara are still asleep. She taps some coffee grounds into the moka pot, wrinkling her nose at the tarnished metal. She needs to set some time to make it shine again. Coffee percolating on the stove, Judit hurries to the children’s bedroom.

“Eva, Clara,” she says quietly. “I’m leaving for work.”

Eva rolls over. Clara opens her eyes, scrunches her face up, and stretches enormously. She’s gotten so big.

“No school,” Clara says.

“Yes school,” Judit corrects—but now she hears the coffee bubbling on the stove, so she rushes back, grabbing at the handle and cursing when it burns her hand. She grabs a rag and dumps the molten black liquid into her mug. Marcel stirs. Judit takes her bag, her gun, and her mug, and runs for it.

Jean of course is waiting outside, leaning idly against his motor carriage, smoking a cigarette. It was a gift to Harry from a mysterious wealthy woman that Jean promptly requisitioned. Judit spills her coffee as she rushes out of the building.

“Marcel awake?” Jean says. Almost imperceptibly, his spine stiffens. He’s wondering if he needs to start a fight.

Judit says, “No, no,” and maneuvers her way into the Coupris. He’s playing Motown. She settles in the passenger seat, adjusting her holster, and sips at her coffee. It is bitter and sour, like her life.

Jean slams in and pulls the car onto the road. It is only a ten minutes’ drive to the precinct, but it’s some kind of ritual. She drinks. He taps his hand on the wheel, in time to the music, and hums tunelessly along. If she has a chance, she’ll radio Alice, but she doesn’t think she’ll have a chance.