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You're sitting in your shitty apartment, at your shitty table, in your shitty chair. The place is a lot cleaner than when you first saw it a month ago. When Kim broke into it with you—meaning when Kim called a locksmith and paid her for you—the place was covered in so much trash you could barely see the stained carpet floor. Half-drunk bottles of alcohol were littered around the place like you’d had a party the night before, different drugs and pills dotting your living room like fairy lights. Honestly, you’re surprised your past self would leave alcohol just lying around like this. You haven’t had a drop since you first woke up in the Whirling Rags, but your hands started itching and your brain started whispering when it noticed how easy it’d be to stuff some pills in your pocket or wrap your lips around the mouth of a bottle. Kim was kind enough to take care of all the narcotics for you, so you dealt with the more regular kinds of trash.
It was a two-day effort, all-in-all, with the first day focusing on just untrashing your place and the second on actually making it clean, scrubbing the floors and such. Kim helped you with all of it—you weren’t cleared back for work yet, and he’d taken a few days off after The Hanged Man. You felt guilty for having him spend some of his precious time off just cleaning you up, but were too much of a sack of shit to tell him he didn’t need to help. You’re pretty sure you did need his help, anyways—you definitely wouldn’t have been emotionally prepared to confront this relic of the past on your own.
You have a plastic tare in your hands, and your fingers are peeling away at the wrapper surrounding it advertising whatever brand. Damn Capitalists. The little sticky pieces cling to your hands in a pale imitation of what they once were, whole, together. They’re searching desperately for something to hold on to. You’re vaguely reminded of how your past refuses to leave you, despite the fact your amnesia appears to be here to stay. You shake your hand, but the scraps stay on. Awkwardly, you try to pick them off with your left hand, hoping they won’t stick to it. You’re stalling. You're nervous. Of course you are. How could you not be, with what you’ve been thinking about lately?
Kim is sitting across from you, silent, as usual. He’s watching you fail to rid yourself of the stupid plastic remnants with a mildly amused look in his eyes. His own water is near untouched. He’d probably be drinking wine if he was with anyone else. You’re stuck between feeling guilty at denying him one of his few indulgences and feeling so damn grateful that you want to hug him. You two have been making rather pleasant conversations most of the night. You’ve discussed lots of things, like your current cases, his cases, how long it might take for Lena to mail a reply, whether or not Kim will be able to talk his way into transferring the Coupris Kineema to Precinct 41 anytime soon. The current lull in talk is comfortable, natural—a thing of friendship. Kim knows you, knows how you work, how you speak, how you breathe. He knows you have something on your mind, and he'll wait until you're ready to say it. Until then, he’ll sit there, patiently waiting. God, Kim’s so cool.
How well do you know Kim? Sure, you became friends over the course of The Hanged Man investigation, but how well do you really know him? Yes, okay, he joined Precinct 41 because you suggested it, and he’s not your partner anymore (Jean said he’d “put up with too much of your shit to be ousted by the first guy you latched onto after drinking yourself into fucking amnesia”) but you still see each other every day. He’s been your rock ever since you came into existence, but you haven’t been his. You’re like an annoying yappy dog with separation anxiety, except it’s also an alcoholic. Who the fuck wants a depressed acoholic dog following them around?
See, the thing is, there's this thought in your head. You've had it in there for quite a while, but you've yet to come up with a solution. You don't know what's going on, what's happening in your head and body. You don't understand it. You're not sure if you want to.
See, the thing is, you look at Kim, and there's a drop in your stomach. A punch to the gut. It feels like you've stepped off the edge of a cliff backwards, your eyes pointed helplessly towards the sky as you plummet to the ground. You don't know what's beneath you. You don't know what you're rushing towards.
It's not a bad thing, necessarily. It's a little uncomfortable, a little sad, a little desperate, but also—hopeful? Wistful? Longing, maybe?
Your tongue is thick and heavy in your mouth like a brick weighing down a tarp—how could it not be, with what you're about to ask? Kim is a very private person. It took you ages to work up the confidence to call him your friend outside the privacy of your own mind, and sometimes, you're still not sure he is. He might just be indulging the demands of his superior, or hanging out with you completely due to pity. How could someone so cool be friends with you ? Thankfully, you're pretty sure it's only a little bit due to pity (how could anyone look at the sack of shit you are and not pity you) as he does seem to genuinely enjoy your company, for whatever reason.
Kim must have other friends he hangs out with. He’s a little anti-social, but he’s a nice guy, and pleasant to be around. Very amicable. You wonder if he misses anyone from Precinct 57. He must, he was there for what, twenty years? No way he’s completely a lone wolf after that much time. Does he miss them? Does he regret transferring? You’re the one who put the idea out there, so if he does, he must also regret meeting you.
He’s neatly slotted into the C-Wing at Precinct 41. Jean respects him, both as an officer and as a person, perhaps doubly so for being willing to put up with so much of your shit. McLaine and Torson admire how badass and cool he is. Minot appreciates his quiet and reserved nature, as does Pidieu. Even Gottlieb seems to like him, probably because he, unlike most of the other officers, is cautious and tries not to end up with more scars than necessary. And Trant is just a civilian consultant, but they seem to get along well enough. But, again, he must’ve had friends, good friends even, at 57. You feel guilty for dragging him away from them, you greedy bastard. You find something good and precious and you grab it and hold on tight with your big fucking paws. You’re a bastard who will hold on whenever there’s something good in your life until it crumbles due to the pressure you put on it.
No. No, Goddamit, fuck that. Kim chose to transfer. He could’ve brushed off your suggestion, politely smiled at you and declined, but he took it seriously and thought about it and made the final decision. Kim’s a fucking adult, and a Dolores-damn badass, he knows how to take care of himself. He knows how to take care of himself and then some. He took care of you during The Hanged Man case and he’s continuing to take care of you now. He’s someone with intense personal boundaries who’s decided to become friends with a recovering alcoholic and let you cry on his shoulder. Sure, you may have developed an unhealthy amount of dependency on him and his opinion of you, but you’re also recovering for yourself, damn it.
It is unhealthy, though, how much you’re doing it to make Kim proud of you. But you can’t help it. You can’t help how you feel about him.
You should say something. It’s been a little too long for this silence to be comfortable. Besides, you’ve been avoiding the topic you want to ask him about for long enough. You wish you had someone else to ask about this—you think Judit might be able to help, maybe even Jean, but they both knew you before, and you think it’d only hurt all of you if you asked them about it. And it would be unbelievably awkward. It’s going to be awkward enough asking Kim, who only knows your sins through stories instead of personal experience.
You clear your throat. “Kim, how did you know you were... y’know?”
He just raises an eyebrow. Of course, for all the times for his deductive reasoning to fail him, it had to be now, when you were asking him about his… sexuality. God, you can barely think the word in your head—how the hell are you supposed to say it out loud?
Alright, better to just dive in head first. Get it over with. Straight and simple. Or, would that be gay and simple? Non-straight and simple?
God, okay, focus. Asking Kim about sexuality. Go.
“Kim, how did you know you were a homo-sexual?”
His breath doesn’t catch, exactly, and you’re sure you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking, but his eyes widen just a fraction, and he leans back just the slightest bit, the chair not even creaking his weight shifts so little. Whatever he was expecting you to ask, it clearly wasn’t that.
He gives himself a moment to think by pulling off his glasses and cleaning them with the cloth that he always keeps handy. You don’t call him out on it—it’s an intensely personal question, after all, and he deserves a second to consider it.
He puts his glasses back on and looks at you. The light catches them in just a way to make his eyes invisible in the gleam. Finally, he gives you a wry grin. “You clearly didn’t stop obsessing about sexuality.”
“See, the thing is, I just sort of tabled the issue for the time being, as we were busy solving a murder and there was other stuff to think about it. But then we solved the murder, and then I had plenty of time to think, but I’ve yet to come up with any conclusions.” You’ve finally gotten all of the plastic off your hands, and drum your newly clean fingers against the table. “Sorry I’m asking you about all of this stuff again. The only other people I really know are you and the others at Precinct 41. And I don’t think I’m on good enough standing to talk to them about it. Sorry,” you add again for good measure.
(You’ve been trying to cut back on the sorries, but it’s hard. Jean has threatened more than once to put a Sorry Jar on your desk, and you think the only reason he hasn’t is because he hasn’t found a jar big enough.)
Kim takes a deep breath. His fingers seem to twitch absentmindedly, and you’re sure if he was less principled, he’d been fiddling with the neck of his jacket or chewing on the side of his cheek, which you’d only seen him done once, when the two of you were interviewing a particularly racist woman in the precinct who had two young children with her.
“I was thirteen, I think.” You struggle not to interrupt—that’s so young! You’re not even sure if you knew you were… whatever you are before, and you had 44 years to figure it out. “There… there was a boy I liked. His name was Daniel. He was a bit of a rebel, skipping class to smoke, and he claimed to own a motorcycle, though I never saw it. I liked him.”
Hm… Well, that’s not particularly helpful. It’s not like you can talk about your own maybe-possibly homo-sexual awakening, since you’re pretty sure it involves—
What does it involve?
Wait, shit, Kim’s about to speak again.
“Harry…” Oh snap! He pulled out your name! He’s only done that, like, five times! “I’m making some assumptions about what you’re struggling with, and I wanted to ask if you’ve ever head of bi-sexuality?”
You rack your brain, but, nope, nada, nothing. No no nopey nope. But bi stands for two, right?
“Don’t think so. But I’m pretty sure bi stands for two, so I’m guessing it has to do with the number two?”
Kim gives you a small smile, and you struggle not to preen under his approving eyes. “Yes. Bi-sexuality refers to individuals who are attracted to two, or possibly more, genders.” He waits quietly for you to process this.
Oh. Oh. Oh! Bi-sexuality, meaning two, as compared to homo-sexuality, meaning those attracted to the same gender. That was a pretty easy leap, now that you think about it. You should’ve been able to do it on your own.
Bi-sexuality. Attraction to multiple genders. Huh. You’re pretty sure that’s what you are. Feels nice to have some kind of label for yourself. You mouth the words, testing them out in your mouth. Bi-sexual. You wonder how Kim learned about all of this. Though if he’s known he’s a part of the Homo-sexual Underground since he was thirteen, he’s had a lot of time to research this, probably. You wonder if Kim once thought he was bi-sexual. That one is probably a bit too personal, not that that’s stopped you before, but no reason to push.
Wait. Multiple genders? As in, more than two?
“Wait. Multiple genders? As in, more than two?”
Kim reaches across the table and pats your resting left hand. “I think that’s a conversation for another time, hmm?”
Sounds good to you! You’ve had enough learning for tonight.
“Thank you for this, Kim. Really, I mean it. Sorry again about asking.”
He smiles again and leans toward you, letting his gloved palm settle on your shoulder. “No need to apologize, Harry. I’m happy to help educate you on your journey of self-discovery. Though perhaps give me a bit more warning next time. If you’d like, I can lend you some reading materials.”
He lets his hand drop back to his side, but you still feel the heat in your body where his gloved skin touched you. You burn with it. The feeling of his touch has lit some sort of fire in you, and the way he’s looking at you is only fanning the flames.
You barely manage to give a tiny nod in response to his statement, and your hands fly to your tare bottle again, desperate to clutch something and have a weight to ground yourself.
Kim settles back into his chair, content again, and you figure he’s giving you more time to process the new information he’s giving you. A Kim secret about his childhood and a big clue (if not the answer) about your sexuality. God, he’s so cool.
You find it in you to look at Kim again, out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly, finally, the thought clicks in your head. Whatever is going on with you, whatever is happening, you seem to have finally figured it out. At the very least, you’ve put a name to the feeling you have when you stare at him.
When you look at Kim, his dissecting eyes, his thick glasses, his quirked eyebrow, the subtle curve in the corner of his lips that's like a secret little smile just for himself, one you wouldn’t be able to read if you weren’t so attuned to him, the brush of his hair that he keeps oh so neatly managed, his gloves clean of any sign of his smoking, of the one cigarette he allows himself, one of his few vices he indulges in, Dolores Dei, his everything—
It's yearning.
You look at Kim, and you yearn. You yearn to touch the slender fingers that lay beneath his thick leather gloves, to examine his dark eyes up close, to feel his hands on you, to, to, to—
For what, though? What exactly do you yearn for?
That thought will take you at least another eight hours. Or twenty hours. Or whatever.