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The Case of the 41st's Shadow

Chapter 16: June 4th, ‘51 [11:45]

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

June 4th, ‘51
11:45

Harry Du Bois’s life continues to be a series of contradictions, the complexity of which has only deepened these last few months. Discrepancies first revealed themselves in March, when he awoke splayed on the floor of a trashed hostel room. With his identity purged by alcohol on his tongue and speed stuck in his beard, he didn’t belong anywhere. His only lifelines were unexplained heartache and a man in an orange jacket calling him Detective. Hollow with purposelessness, this former version of Harry stands in stark contrast to the person he’s become.

Four weeks ago in mid-May, something sparked within Harry he hadn’t felt in years – confidence. After six years of being a washed-up disco cop, he committed to being a better version of himself. The perfect opportunity came in the form of a confidential mission from Captain Pryce. It was supposed to be easy. All he had to do was secure a weapons cache from a known crime lord. True Dick Mullen shit. This task seemed like a strong first step. 

Yet, like all things Harry pursues, it spiralled out of control. 

Not only did he unearth perilous truths, but Pryce has coerced him and two of his fellow officers to join a task force against the Coalition.

Despite the dire stakes, Harry’s in his bedroom cleaning out his dresser instead of hauling ass on the field. For a long, long time, he’d believed he could never make room for another person again. Now, he finds himself making room for Kim in all the parts of his home he would’ve been ashamed to share in March. He’s already tidied up his bathroom’s medicine cabinet and filled the kitchen with Kim’s favourite coffee. 

This mundane shit won't matter in another two weeks, but Harry finds comfort in sharing domesticity with his partner.

“I hope you don’t mind if I just bring a few things. I’m cleaning out my place anyway,” Kim had said. 

Instead of a few things, Kim returned with a cardboard box filled with pots and pans he’s organising into the vacant spaces in the cupboards. Ever since they confessed their true feelings, a shift occurred. Their partnership has grown to accommodate more unspoken compromises like the ones they’ve made in Harry’s apartment. Continuing to cultivate his new relationship with Kim is a balm in the face of the uncertainty lying beneath the secrets they uncovered in the Pox.

As Harry lingers between his bedroom and the living room, fresh coffee and reedy cardboard mingle with the succour of Kim’s presence. Approaching it with the same level of meticulous detail as a case, Kim takes the last items out of his box. With each pot and pan removed, he consults a checklist filled with crisp markings. If it were any other day, Harry would glide over and smother him with hearty embraces and soft kisses. But the burgeoning complications of his life tether him to the doorway as a mix of emotions swirl. 

Their first week away from the precinct, they welcomed the luxury of time alone. Memories are painted with the aroma of pine soaked into Harry's worn hands after tending to bandages on Kim’s shoulder. After, they’d nest beneath blankets, feigning ignorance of Pryce’s revolution. They did everything they could to forget the reality on the other side of their leave. Days were overscheduled with late breakfasts, intimacy, and walks around the neighbourhood.

It should've been perfect.

Yet, these distractions don’t heal the spreading tension across Harry’s temples. But it’s not Kim. It’s Revachol, Harry’s complicated love for her and her troubles outside the walls of his crappy tenement. He thought proving himself through Pryce’s mission would supply the validation he’s craved. Instead, irrefutable guilt has displaced any potential self-improvement.

Through no intention of his own, Harry carries the weight of complicity in Pryce’s illicit stockpiling of weapons. Not normal firearms, but atomic bombs the RCM has no business possessing. Despite Pryce’s insistence he’ll only use them against the Coalition, his lofty goals still leave the city as collateral. In Harry’s pursuit to prove his worth, he may have jeopardised the livelihood of Revachol herself.

No matter how much his partner loves him, nothing changes the fact Harry has made an irrevocable mistake.

As his green eyes rest on Kim, Harry sighs as he drinks in the beautiful view in front of him.  “How are things over there?” he asks, voice hushed.

Kim reviews his list one last time, making a final crossmark on the page.

“Done. You’ll find things much better stocked for the next meal we cook.” Kim tosses the list into a waste bin, mouth curling in satisfaction. “I noticed you had some ground beef in the freezer. Do you want to thaw it for dinner?” 

“Sure...” Harry’s response fades off, strained with the worries trapped in his chest. Discomfort nips at him, but he endeavours to drown it out with small talk. “I’ve heard they’re having some sort of community flea at the park near Grand Couron tomorrow. Should we go check it out?”

“That sounds lovely. I could use some fresh air after all the cleaning we’ve done today.” Kim smiles until he sees the pensive frown that’s carved itself onto Harry’s face. “I know that look. What’s on your mind?”

As Harry ponders the question, he feels a shift deep in his body. It’s as if something is making every bone and muscle twitch, tremoring beneath his flesh. It picks away like fingers plucking at a guitar. He attempts to repress it, but the malaise intensifies into a visible shudder that spreads to his hands.

Kim's brow furrows in concern. "What's wrong?" he asks, approaching with quiet steps.

Shivers rattle Harry’s spine with an intensity that terminates his reply. With each kink in every vertebrae, the upheaval in the life line connecting him to Revachol thrusts its way into his consciousness. Until today, he hasn’t been able to channel them to their fullest potential. His time in the Pox, crippled by exhaustion and injuries, left him disconnected. While playing house with Kim, he’s attempted to suppress them like his other erratic thoughts. 

Now, they refuse to be ignored. A grim story is told in a quick succession of unfolding sensations – perhaps, broken memories reminding him of a forgotten plan Pryce once disclosed. 

An unmarked motor carriage parks in the fishing village on a cloudy day. Seagulls cry as rain pelts its windshield. A sweaty dock worker receives a cheque, smooth parchment kissing weather-beaten skin. Captain Pryce whispers, his declarations a low rumble in Nix Gottlieb’s ear. Kim and Harry’s names are on his tongue, but they’re not special. Everyone’s names are. Jean’s. Judit’s. Even Trant’s. Then Pryce mentions a boat with a wave of a hand. 

A red jetty on a one way trip, drifting with purpose. It crashes on the shore, waves lapping against jagged rocks. A lone newspaper, crumpled, ink bled away by brine. Ink melting into the ocean before fire and ash do. Spreading tendrils, spreading shadows.

Lurking in the mist, a Coalition warship shadows the city. Retribution for the cache in the Pox, a rumour from a lone peone. Perhaps it was just that – rumour. Regardless of the truth, the Coalition won’t forget. The time for forgetting is over. The opportunity for protocol and inaction is slipping away. Let it be known they never forget– 

But then a loud ring snaps Harry back to his place in the doorway. His trembling hand clutches its chipped wood as the second ring echoes. On the third, he almost sprints to pick it up. It keeps ringing. Each tone intensifies the disquiet multiplying in Harry. He reaches towards the receiver until Kim intervenes with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll grab that. You relax, Harrier.” 

Normally, hearing his full name makes Harry feel doted on. Instead, the shivers wrack him with an increasing sense of dread as his partner answers the phone. He hears Kim talk, but the blood pulsing in his ears drowns out the one-sided conversation. All he hears is the thumping in his head. It hurts. 

He sees Martinaise’s endless horizon, feels its briny air against his cheeks. Ms. Lilienne Carter, the net picker, grabs her three children running. Her lungs are already one fire. Black curls sticking to her face, she rustles the washerwoman next door. Get up, ma’am, we need to go now. They flee over the water lock, as far away as they can get. They all start to cough, faces adorned with specks of black ash. Lilienne wipes her brow, thinking of all the fish that will choke on it this season.

He keeps seeing more of them growing more distorted until they splinter into existence.

Kim’s frantic movements send shockwaves through the flat. With a clang, he slams the phone. A new pallor betrays his composed demeanour, skin growing grey under the light spilling from the window. He dashes towards it, hands gripping the sill as his whole body quivers like a frail leaf in autumn wind. Harry recognizes the shivers consuming his partner as a mirror to his own, but he can do nothing to stop them as he cries.

“Harry, you've got to see this!” Kim’s fingers throw themselves against the glass, reaching.

Body stilling, Harry joins Kim, witnessing the fragmented sensations coalesce into chilling reality. North, near the old Sea Fortress in Martinaise, a billowing cloud of orange and grey smoke lines the horizon. Its plumes drift towards the Dolorian church north of the fishing village, on the verge of devouring its rickety structures. As it creeps closer, a haunting whisper brushes the edge of Harry’s mind:

It’s happening.

Harry’s fingers intertwine with Kim’s, palms warm as they connect. 

“I love you,” he says, pressing into Kim’s hand.

Kim presses back harder, nails digging into the back of Harry’s hand until the skin goes white beneath his tips. It’s going to leave pink crescents on top of ruddy, scarred skin, but he allows the sting.  It reminds him he’s still here. They’re still here. Together. Even when it hurts, he won’t let go.

No matter how tumultuous the streets of Revachol become during the revolution, Harry won’t let go. When they come back to this tenement at the end of a long day, covered in sulphuric blood and sweat, he won’t let go. When the Coalition’s been expelled in a year or two, when victory is as piquant as Gorący's Brew on his tongue, he won’t let go. When he and Kim are five or ten years older, and they’re still kissing each other goodnight, he won’t let go.

Harry won’t ever let go again.

Notes:

No massive author's note here, but just a big, big thank you to everyone who read this fic from start to finish and engaged with it. Whether you left kudos, comments or are lurking with hits, appreciate each and every one of you very much. Thanks for tagging along for the ride. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing it <3