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The first things that Harry Du Bois makes you feel, well before either of you learns his name, are annoyance and impatience. When he fails to meet you in the pre-arranged place at the pre-arranged time, you assume it is for one of two non-mutually-exclusive reasons. Either he isn't taking the case seriously, or he is engaging in a deliberate display of disrespect. For the 57th, most likely, although if he, unlike you, has been told in advance who his partner will be, there is a non-zero chance of it being aimed at you personally. Kim Kitsuragi: the Pinball Cop, the stick-up-his-ass, the bino, the "foreigner," the f****t. It would hardly be the first time for any of those.
But when you finally meet him -- lurching across the hostel lobby in filth-encrusted disco clothes, teetering on the edge of that sour, ugly moment where extreme drunkenness becomes intolerable hangover, looking around at the world as if he has no idea how it works or what he's doing here -- you quickly realize your mistake. None of this has anything to do with you, or the case, or the stupid interdepartmental pissing contest. It's pure, simple self-destruction. You've seen it before, too many times. A terrible waste. And a cautionary tale: this is what could happen to you, if you ever let your self-control begin to falter.
A pity, in other words. A very great, very unfortunate pity. You would hardly be human if you didn't feel for him, knowing what it is that drives men in your line of work to this point, and despite what you sometimes believe are your best attempts, you are very much a human. So that feeling settles in to stay, although you try to not indulge it, or him, too much. At times, it becomes tinged with a profound discomfort: when you realize he's not fucking with you about the memory loss, when he breaks down crying on the ice, when you overhear a phone call you wish you hadn't, every time you learn something new about the recent behavior he's erased from his mind, every time he looks at you and for a moment the expression in his eyes is sad, or haunted, or lost.
Uncomfortable or not, from the beginning it engenders in you a pragmatic sense of responsibility. There are reasons why two officers have been assigned to this case, and not all of them are about the pissing contest. You need him. And so, it falls to you to keep him functional. To guide him along. To prop him up with your own strength of will. Just until the case is over.
There are two possible emotional responses to finding yourself in this situation. The first is resentment. The second, a sort of protectiveness, as one might feel for a small child, or a young and half-trained dog. The latter is more practical. Easier. More likely to lead to good results. You don't see a problem in allowing yourself to indulge in it a little.
The feeling you aren't expecting, the thing that hits you with a jolt and lodges permanently somewhere deep inside your brain, is the admiration. Even at what may well be the least functional moment of his life, the man's skills are astonishing. The effortless way he assesses a jumbled mess of footprints and pulls out information you know you never would have discovered on your own. The shot that saves you from having to beg for help from your suspects. The bullet.
Like the pity, the admiration never fades, but unlike the pity, which sinks slowly beneath the weight of everything else you come to know of Harry, the admiration takes up more of your attention the longer you observe him. Those three tiny perforations in the kill record of his ledger. His refusal to drink again once he learns what he did last time, no matter how much he obviously wants to. The quiet skill with which he comforts a grieving widow, for all his lack of confidence beforehand. The way he handles that poor, mentally ill old lady. His dogged persistence in pursuit of answers. The frankly unlikely way his hunches seem to pay off. His unconventional but effective way with people.
And here is where you begin to feel a thing that you don't put a name to. A sense that this bizarre madman complements you somehow. That he's strong in places where you're weak, as well as the other way around. That if you lend him your rationality, your knowledge, and your focus (as well as your handkerchief and your pen), he will lend you his intuition, his eyesight, and his talent for taking people off-guard. Certainly that last thing proves extremely useful during questioning, more than once.
And here is another thing, an outgrowth, perhaps, of the admiration: you come, despite yourself, to like him, even through the pity, and the discomfort, and the many, many moments of sheer bafflement. There is something refreshing about his approach to the world, the way he simultaneously questions everything and utterly accepts everything. Even you.
He's also startlingly funny. Contrary to popular opinion, you do have a sense of humor, and he taps into it immediately. Gets you making jokes back to him, with a level of comfort that took you nearly a year to reach with Dom. It helps, perhaps, that he is one person whose judgment you don't have to concern yourself with. Here is a man with no leg to stand on when judging anyone's professionalism. So why not be yourself with him, just a little? Who is he going to tell? If, sandwiched between predictions of the coming apocalypse and tear-stained rants about hats, he starts saying things like, "Kim Kitsuragi is actually just a dork with a stupid sense of humor," who will listen?
Not that he does say things like that. Not that your ego is immune to the things he does say about you instead. To the worshipful way he looks at you when you demonstrate the slightest glimmer of intelligence or understanding of reality. To the tidal waves of gratitude he radiates at you in response to the smallest gesture of kindness or support. Or the breathless way he tells you how cool you are. Which is embarrassing, to be honest. You know what you are, behind your facade of imperturbability, and cool is absolutely not it. But you allow yourself to enjoy it, anyway. Just a little. Allow yourself to feel a little cooler in his presence.
And none of this, none of these slowly accumulating feelings means anything, other than that you are able to work together well. Better than expected. Better, perhaps, than either of you has any right to expect. Until.
Until the crazy bastard goes and saves your life.
And what are you left with, after that? Not annoyance, or pity, or detached amusement, or that strange sense of easiness in his company. Something else.
This is due to the concussion, of course. The concussion, the sleep deprivation, the stress and the uncertainty, and the goddamned case, not to mention the bad memories of the last person who took a bullet for you. It's all that, of course, that makes you want to cry. (You don't, though. You want to, but you don't.) It's what makes you want to reach out and stroke his hair as he lies there, half-conscious and fevered. (Which you do. Just a little, you do.)
You don't even know what these feelings are. Gratitude and worry and loneliness? Well, that last one is definitely the concussion. You don't do loneliness.
And yet, when he wakes up and says your name, it's a little like the sun rising. Like the sun rising after an awful sleepless night onto a day of exhausted struggle, but still.
You don't let yourself think too hard about why that is. You just do what you always do, and get on with the job.
**
But later. Later, after Martinaise, after your transfer paperwork comes through, you begin, perhaps, to understand that you might feel something else entirely.
It comes to you suddenly, almost as a physical shock, when you see Harry for the first time in clean and vaguely normal clothes, with his hair pulled back and his whiskers trimmed, a full month sober and smelling of aftershave instead of sweat and vomit, alcohol and death. It's only surprise, you tell yourself. And a sort of pride, and, all right, yes, pleasure. You are glad for him. You didn't believe, when you first saw him, that he would ever be able to pick himself up this far.
And when he envelops you in a bear hug the moment you show up at his door, you feel, what? Embarrassed, awkward? No, not really. Mostly, you feel warm, and welcome, and... embraced. Well. Why shouldn't you? It's the literal truth, isn't it? The man's arms are around you, and he's glad to see you. Why shouldn't that feel nice? Who will you hurt if you let it? And how could anyone with a heart, even one as self-sufficient as yours, not want to hug him back, when he seems to be pouring so much of himself into the action?
How, too, could anyone not appreciate the smiling looks he gives you, after that? The way he sometimes touches your arm or your shoulder, as if reassuring himself that you're really here? The way he catches you looking at the still-impressive muscles in his arms and rolls up his sleeves as if to give you a better view? The way he gazes into your eyes, sometimes, as if he sees you, right to the center of you, sees all your stupid hidden emotions and somehow wants them?
Not you. But you can't say it. You've never said any of it. Not "I feel sorry for you," not "I admire you" not "I was so afraid that you were going to die." You can't say things like that. The best you've ever been able to manage is "I understand" and "Good job" and "You can do it, detective." But how do you do that now? How do you take words like that and make them say whatever it is you want to tell him? Whatever it is you want from him now?
You can't. But you don't have to. Because he does, in fact, complement you very well.
"Kim," he says at last, into your useless silence. His eyes are deep and serious, but his mouth is curled in a smile. His face is centimeters from yours. "Kim, do you know what I think? I think you want me to kiss you."
Ah. An action. A simple, concrete action. Like accepting a transfer, or inspecting a body. You like actions. You're good with actions. But then, you're sure he knows that. For having known you such a short time, he knows you very, very well.
"All right," you say. The words aren't difficult at all.
And you feel...
How are you supposed to feel, when someone like this kisses you? Someone so unsuitable, who somehow fits so well? You don't know. All you know is that you feel like you. You feel like yourself, with him. Maybe that's enough. Maybe you don't have to put another name to it.
Maybe you can leave that sort of thing to him.