#and even with what kim says about how rcm officers have to be men of many hats

[palms-upturned]

.

#meg talks #KSZGSJDH sorry this one is petty but #baffles me when ppl say the rcm is not quite as bad as irl cops like… #i feel like that’s not the intended takeaway at all #didn’t elysium start out as a ttrpg about precinct 41 where they played the cops as comically corrupt and horrible as possible? 😭 #harry himself has a history of horrific police brutality #kim talks abt how officers are corrupt and take bribes and are hostile to misconduct investigations to protect their own #even (and especially) in the context of using deadly force #not to mention how the hardie boys/union have basically become cops in everything but name #and the claires are massively corrupt #like the only real difference is the rcm’s lack of funding and its origins #but even re: the post-revolution origins… kim admits that it’s EXTREMELY ambiguous #whether the rcm was started to protect the citizens of revachol from the coalition as an assertion of independence #or whether it was really a hollow gesture to placate the citizens and the rcm has really served the coalition the whole time #and if u say u believe that the rcm is the revolutionaries’ legacy even kim will be like lol. well you can be sentimental if u want #and either way the fact remains that NOW they’re just another arm of the coalition regardless of how they started #like… i dunno man. i feel like the game makes the point p clearly that a cop is a cop #even a labor union can become a police force bc it’s about the act of policing more than anything #and even with what kim says about how rcm officers have to be men of many hats #and include things like social work in their jobs… i mean… #social workers and psychiatry are already part of the carceral police state irl 💀 that’s not all that different #and also like can u imagine KIM handling social work? let alone any of the other assholes at 41? 😭 #the rcm’s station call system may be better as well than what we have irl but like. u know. reform vs abolition etc #idk man. i just can’t get behind the idea that the rcm being better than irl police forces by the slimmest of margins #and more due to lack of resources than principles #means much of anything 💀 a cop is a cop #anyway. watever…

[klaasje]

Just wanted to say if you had any stray Jean/Kim thoughts I would love to read them :O

After Martinaise, Kim takes Jean under his wing.

*

A week before he officially transfers, Harry is placed on indefinite suspension/sick leave/informal recuperation while Pryce fights his corner against the Moralintern. Harry is lying low with Lena (at Lena’s insistence). Morel is across the river at the university, reporting his research on the phasmid. Kim is at the 41st. He immediately realizes that Satellite-Officer Vicquemare is grieving, lonely, and out of his depth.

Case in point: he stays too late every night, pecking away at an ancient typewriter. Dark shadows loom under his eyes. Torson and McLaine (and everyone else), amuse themselves by cracking jokes about Tequila Sunset ditching the RCM for good. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times they’re corrected or who corrects them: nobody at the 41st appears to have any faith that Harry will be coming back at all. 

All of this is making Jean worse at his job. Kim has noticed, and he has decided to point it out. This does not go as planned.

“You think I’m not up for this? You think… what, that I don’t have the guts to run a task force—?”

“No, I think you’re smart,” Kim says evenly, unrattled by this posturing. “You have sound instincts, you’re good with your people, and you know how to lead. You’re also understaffed and overworked. I can help.”

Jean doesn’t say anything. Internally, Kim allows himself a little exasperation. Men can be so territorial…

“I’m not territorial,” Jean blurts out. “I’m not an asshole.”

Kim waits, quiet and curious, for the rest of this sentence. Jean lets out a strangled growl of a sound and drags one hand down his face.

“This situation is making me behave like an asshole,” he says through gritted teeth, “but I’m not. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Likewise,” Kim says honestly.

Jean’s grey eyes flick up to meet his. They look weary and contrite.

“I’m sorry, he says. “If I act above my rank, lieutenant, it’s because I work above my rank. I don’t have a choice. I know I’m out of my depth in this, believe me… but it’s been months since I followed any orders. That’s all. It’s not intentional, I’m not trying to undermine you.”

“I don’t want to give you orders,” says Kim. Jean’s brow furrows.

“Pissing contests don’t interest me,” Kim explains to him, not unkindly. “I’m not here to requisition your partner or take your job. I just want to do my job, part of which is working with you.”

“Okay,” Jean says. He looks equal parts bewildered and relieved.

“Okay,” Kim agrees. “Good.” He pauses. “Do you feel any better?”

Jean nods stiffly, scuffling the floor with the toe of his shoe.

“I’ve been wanting to apologise for a while, actually… I can’t imagine how this must look to you.”

“How do you think it looks to me?”

“Oh, like a shitshow,” Jean says bitterly. “C-Wing is a disgrace to the force, at this point. The only saving grace was our clearance rate, and now even that’s gone to ground. They’re going to take us out back and shoot us.”

*

Over the course of a month or so, Kim redistributes Jean’s workload until it’s suitable for one person. He shows him radio computer passwords and gives him advice and tells him all the things lieutenants are supposed to be told. They begin the long administrative slog of clearing Harry’s case backlog together. They’re lucky: it ends up being a quiet summer for homicides. The new cases that pop up are run of the mill shootouts and drug busts, so they can delegate them further down the decomptage. But this is Jamrock, and nothing good lasts forever — which is how Kim finds himself, three months to the day since that first Monday in Martinaise, grimly helping to wrestle a body bag into the Kineema’s holding cell, while torrential rain sluices bright blood into the storm drains and gutters.

It’s filthy work. Jean stumbles once it’s over and done with, pale-faced. Kim steadies him with a hand on his back. Jean glances back at him and nods.

*

Summer ends. Everything is complicated. Bureaucracy is excruciating. Martinaise is full of loose threads and ghosts. Harry has been taken to La Delta for questioning. Jean is not dealing with this as well as he says he is. 

Cunoesse throws stones at them from the roof of Cuno’s shack while they investigate the greenhouse drug stash. One hits Kim’s glasses dead-on and cracks the lens. Cunoesse cackles like a howler monkey. Kim takes his glasses off and turns around without a word. He hides it well, only stumbling once by the broken fence, but Jean still notices. Kim can tell that he notices, because he hears Jean’s footsteps change pace behind him — he slows down, like he’s watching. They continue walking. Kim squints. The Kineema is almost in focus across the plaza. As they get closer to it, its chassis blurs into a hazy blue fog.

“You don’t have to walk behind me, detective,” Kim says. His voice is as mild and unruffled as it ever is.

Jean snorts.

“Considering the amount of insubordination I subject you to, I think the least I can do is walk behind you.”

He opens the Kineema’s side door and steps back so Kim can climb into the driver’s seat. The engine is still cooling down. It’s warm inside, and the misted up windows cocoon them. Kim takes his glasses off and goes to rub his eyes. Jean grips his wrist.

“You have glass on you, hold on,” he murmurs.

Kim nods and tips his head back. Jean studies his face, waiting for sunlight to catch on the pieces and make them glitter so he can carefully pick them away one by one. Kim’s dark eyes remain open, watching him.

“How do I look?” Jean asks.

“I wouldn’t know,” Kim says drily, which makes Jean laugh. “There should be a spare pair in the glovebox, could you…?”

Jean leans over him and pops it open. He passes the new glasses to Kim, who wipes the lenses briefly on his white undershirt before placing them on his nose. The world slides back into focus. The car’s engine clicks softly to itself as it cools. Kim breathes in the comforting smells of waxed leather and fuel oil.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jean says gruffly. He steps back and away, sliding into a loose parade rest, ready to walk behind Kim again.

*

Three days later, they snap at each other’s throats. They have to spend the night at the Whirling, because it’s October in a coastal city and the first gale of the season is raging with savage enthusiasm outside. The hostel, at least, is doing good business despite the weather: it’s bustling with dockworkers and camion drivers. Jean is lounging by the counter of the bar, talking to a faceless someone. The karaoke music is very loud. Kim does not like music or the look of whoever Jean is talking to. Jean is like “I can talk to whoever I want,” in a shitheaded, bullish way. Kim points out, “when you’re not on duty, yes, you can.” 

Jean says, laughing in disbelief, “are you PULLING RANK on me?” which leads Kim to say, “officer,” in a very sharp and disapproving lieutenant-y voice. Jean snaps into silence like a reprimanded schoolboy. Kim shuts his eyes.

“Jean,” he says. “A word, please.”

They go upstairs. Jean is silent and sullen until they reach their room, and then he is silent and sullen inside their room. 

“I’m not a junior officer, you know,” he mutters, whirling around as soon as the door closes. His patrol cloak flaps irritably at his heels. “I’m not a teenager, this isn’t juvie.”

“I know that,” Kim says.

“Okay.” Jean’s voice is tight with barely repressed rage. “Then why are you treating me like this?”

“When we’re in uniform, we’re on the clock. We represent the RCM. Our jurisdiction here is tenuous as it is, it isn’t helpful to undermine it by… fraternizing, so to speak, with the local population.”

Jean starts to laugh. It is a horrible laugh.

“Is there a problem?” Kim says icily.

MISTAKE, his juvie instincts warn, lurching suddenly to life. BEWARE. YOU HAVE ENGAGED WITH HOOLIGANISM.

“You know, if you’re not going to sleep with me, I’m still going to sleep with other people.” Jean is loosening his tie with sharp, jerky motions. His voice is shaking a little. “You can’t control me, that’s not how the world works.”

Kim is shocked into silence. His mind is nothing but white noise.

“If you don’t want to, fine. I won’t take it personally. But don’t you dare tell me who I can and cannot—”

“That’s enough,” Kim interrupts, coming back to himself; aware, on some level, that he has broken his own cardinal rule and raised his voice. He cuts Jean off. “We’re done for today. You’re dismissed.”

“…Excuse me?”

“You’re dismissed,” Kim repeats firmly. “You’re hysterical, officer. I’ll drive you to the station in the morning and handle this myself.”

Jean laughs in disbelief.

“I’m hysterical?”

Kim tips his head forward for a moment, exhaling through his nose. Jean lets out a breath and looks away. There’s just enough light pollution filtering in through the curtains to make his lashes shine wetly. His mouth trembles for a moment, wavering, before he appears to wrench it under control. 

“I’m your superior officer,” Kim says, at last. Saying this makes him feel very weary, all of a sudden.

“Interim superior officer,” Jean mutters.

“I outrank you, regardless.” Kim hesitates, before adding, “and I’m too old for you.”

“I’m thirty four,” Jean says, incredulous.

“I’m forty three,” Kim points out.

“Good for you, who gives a fuck.” Jean is scrutinising Kim’s face now, still flushed and rumpled from crying, but his professionalism (or sheer stubbornness) has won out. He looks handsome like this, which isn’t helping Kim’s resolve. “None of these are actual reasons, are they? You’re just avoiding the question.”

Kim rubs the bridge of his nose where his glasses rest. A headache buzzes, mosquito-like, in his peripheral vision, threatening to rise up and swallow him whole.

“You’d distract me,” he says. “I can’t afford that right now, and neither can you.”

“So, just to clarify,” Jean says slowly, “you can’t sleep with me because if you did, you’d never get any work done?”

Kim shuts his eyes.

“Yes.”

“But you want to sleep with me.”

Kim cracks an eye open. Jean is studying him intently. His expression is impenetrable.

“Do you want me to?”

“Don’t be stupid, please, it doesn’t suit you,” Jean murmurs. They’re so close, now. Chest to chest, nose to nose. They’ve edged towards each other without realising.

*

In the morning, after the rain has stopped, they get coffee in little styofoam cups from the Frittte around the corner. They drink it on the bench in the bombed out square, looking out at the unsettled sea. The tide is coming in.

“I want to take the lieutenant’s exam,” Jean says. “Properly, I mean.”

Kim sips his drink and hums approvingly.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll put your name forward.”

“Thank you.”

Kim nods in acknowledgement. Their boots tap together under the bench.

“Last night…” Jean murmurs. “It can’t happen again, I know that. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Well, I am,” Jean says. “Take it or leave it.”

They settle in comfortable silence. Kim watches a military aerostatic drift over the bay, its rotors casting shadows and ripples on the water.

“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” 

Kim glances at Jean.

“He’s in La Delta,” he points out. “Not Ozonne.”

Jean’s answering scowl is deeply indignant.

“Nevertheless,” Kim says smoothly, as though he hadn’t seen it, “If you want my opinion — yes, he’ll come back.” He pauses. “I don’t think anything could stop him from coming back.”

He’s needed here, he thinks, but he chooses not say this part out loud. Jean has dealt with enough derangement from the chain of command. There’s no need to add to it unnecessarily.

Jean nods, tracing a circle on the bench arm with his index finger. There’s a bruise peeking out from his shirt collar which Kim tries very hard not to look at. The post-storm sunlight has turned his hair a tawny shade of brown. Revachol is tired but stirring, blinking awake, shedding summer like an old coat.

“If he doesn’t come back,” Jean murmurs, “if he leaves me, what do I do?”

“You write him a station call,” Kim says mildly. Jean barks out a hoarse laugh. “But somehow I doubt it will come to that.”

#THANK YOU FOR THIS… WE SHARE A WARRIOR’S BOND #ask #anonymous #fic tag #this is supposed to be part of a longer fic but hopefully it makes sense in its current form (hot mess first draft) lol