Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You drum your fingers against the countertop as you wait for the kettle to boil, the orange leather of your gloves muting the impact. You were late this morning, and there’s an odd vibe in the C Wing that you can’t quite place. You’d try and ask Heidelstam — ever happy to explain the nuances of the 41st and never worried who’s toes he might be trampling — but he isn’t here.

Through deduction, you think the mood might be stemming from newly promoted Lieutenant Vicquemare. Officer Minot had seemed a little tense as she’s greeted you, attention quickly flicking back to her partner. He’d just started tossing a stack of fresh cases to people, with all the apparent delicacy and care of a prickly tornado.

Personally, you find it more alarming is how Torson and McLaine are quiet. Instead of the usual hubbub they greet the morning to, they’re huddled at Torson’s desk, whispering rapidly to each other and sniggering every other word. Every now and then they look to you, but their attention is mostly on Vicquemare and Harry.

Harry is watching you, perched on his desk next to yours.

You make the universal gesture for Tea? And he makes the universal gesture for GOD yes, please before Vicquemare calls for his attention.

Harry is definitely not the cause of the cloud hanging over the department. That might surprise some, but it doesn’t surprise you. Observing him from here, you can see that today is a good day. There’s a lightness to his movements, showing in how his arms move in response to something Vicquemare said. You wonder when you started being able to read into that.

His hair and chops are clean, his green eyes are clear. His skin is no longer the colour of an alcoholic deathwish, and as the swelling has subsided, the muscle mass has been increasing. He’s not quite muscular, but he’s a larger man trending in that direction and it’s much, much better than the bloated, chicken-legged mess that washed up in the Whirling-In-Rags that cold spring morning.

The only thing that could be considered concerning is that he seems to be dressed… sensibly.

The word doesn't quite fit, much like the white shirt trying to strain around his biceps and midriff as he continues to animate. But on the Du Bois fashion scale of 'Passable' to 'Crime' this outfit is firmly on the low end. Too Small (New?) Shirt is tucked into Good Sized Jeans. The Permanent Snakeskin Shoes are as they always are, and the Disco Blazer is draped across his chair. The ensemble is topped off with a Perfectly Normal, Blessedly Silent Tie that replace the Absolutely Horrendous, Allegedly Chatty Tie he ruined in Martinaise.

Sensible. There has to be a catch.

Sergeant Torson is coming your way with a half full mug. Clearly, whatever plan of attack he and McLaine came up with, he’s the one to action it.

You’re a bit pleased he’s seeking you out. You’re not a fan of the office rumour mill but for something as mild as being late talking to Torson is spectacularly efficient. Instead of constantly repeating yourself, you'll only have to say it twice.

You will always have to tell Harry — because he'll ask before you even put the tea down — but by telling Torson, it'll get to McLaine, which means you can absolutely guarantee that the whole C Wing (and beyond) will know everything in the next half an hour.

'Never thought I'd beat you into the office, Lieutenant!' Torson is all smiles and light amusement as he tips cold tea down the sink.

'Hm.' You say, as you set the tea to brew. 'Are you sure you didn’t have some sort of advantage, Sergeant? A night in the lazareth office after another misadventure with Cyanoacrylate, perhaps?'

Torson lets you have it. 'What happened?' he asks.

'Some sort of accident on the '88, I think.’ You add two sugars to Harry's drink. He'd personally add three, but you can't bring yourself to do it. You forced yourself to when it seemed to be withdrawal related, but five months down the line it’s clearly more a terrifying preference. ‘Traffic was heavier through downtown. Nothing exciting.'

Torson hums, starting his own drink ritual. 'That blows man.’ he says. ‘Hey, maybe we'll find out from Vic? Might be in the pile.' He gestures with a teaspoon towards Vicquemare, who's now quietly talking to Minot, a vice like grip on the case file he's supposed to be handing her, even as she gently tries to tug it from his hands. Torson makes a noise, and you turn back to see him scratching at his ear and chewing on his next words. It's a look he gets when he's not completely confident in a deduction.

You find that if that look appears, he's more often right than wrong.

He finally chooses to speak. 'I should warn you, pretty sure you've gotten a bad one.'

Joy. Groans one part of your brain.

Someone has to do it. Says a better, louder part.

'Oh?' Is what comes out your mouth.

Torson nods. 'Vic was really chewing over it. I thought he was gonna keep it. Had that weird look on his face. The super angry one, ya know?'

You don't. All of Vicquemare’s expressions read angry or super angry to you. You shrug and finish stirring milk, tapping the spoon against one mug before lifting both. 'Well, I'll find out shortly, I'm sure.' You give him a nod, say 'Sergeant' as a goodbye, and walk to your desk as he lazily salutes in return. Harry sits up straighter as you approach and, sure enough:

'Kim! What happened? Where were you?' Harry's speaking as soon as you’re in earshot, much less in range to pass him his mug. You wait the two steps and arm stretch to hand him his drink, which he cradles to his chest, before you to respond.

'Traffic accident, slowed me down.’

He winces in sympathy. As you step around him he moves too, off of his desk to resettle on the edge of yours. His ass is facing you, his big hand a little further up the desk to help him balance as he swivels his spine to talk to you. His forearms flex with the movement. You absolutely do not look.

You sit down, pull your notebook from your bomber jacket and ask, ‘What did I miss?'

He shrugs, 'You haven't missed anything. Got a call from the Cutesy Cake Place. Marie's gonna be in after 12 so we can swing by for her statement this afternoon. Chester was saying a sequence killer must’ve got you. I said they’d know better than to get you on the way to work, because we’re all immediately on-to.’

‘I’ll be extra careful going home. Clearly that’s when they’ll strike.’ You reply, noting the Bakery timings in your notebook. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nope. ‘Cept I think a weird case came in. Jean is… more Jeany.’ He makes some sort of flowing motion with his hands; you suspect it’s supposed to signify ‘Jeany’.

‘I heard. Sergeant Torson said it was mine.’

Harry rolls his eye and groans, loudly. ‘So it’s ours. He sure? Was he scratching his ear?’

‘MmHmm.’

‘Fuck.’

‘MmHmm.’

‘Quit howling like a walrus, shitkid.’ The noise has attracted Vicquemare, who brandishes the final, bad, weird file at Harry like a weapon. Harry starts to hold his hands up in mock surrender and grin, but the motion is aborted as he remembers his tea, cursing as it sloshes dangerously at the rim of mug. He saves his shirt. Just. Vicquemare ignores all of this and turns to you, nodding his head in greeting. ‘Kitsuragi. Heard you got shitty traffic.’

McLaine comes through again. ‘Mm. Well, I’m here now. What have we got?’

You realise just how silent the Wing is. The only thing you can hear is the background noise of the precinct. It might as well me miles away. All of C Wing waits.

And Vicquemare sighs.

Oh dear.

McLaine hoots from across the room. ‘Lieutenant Vicquemare’s Harbinger Sigh claims another case! The curse is upon ye!’

It hasn’t. Because curses don’t exist. Even if they did, he’s wrong. Because he didn’t see it.

The half-second flick of Vicquemare’s eyes from you, to Harry.

Not even Harry saw it because he’s taken a sip of his tea and is currently staring at it with a look of mild betrayal.

That wasn’t a ‘Harbinger Sigh’ or whatever McLaine deemed to call it. That was a ‘I Know Shitkid Will Love This, It Is Not Good That He Will Love This, And We Will Feel The Cascading Tremors Of This For Weeks To Come; I Am Sorry For Assigning You This But He’s The Best One For This Case And By Giving It To You And Not Him I’m Hoping He Will Fucking Focus’ Sigh.

Pithy name pending.

‘Kim did you put two sugars in my tea again?’ Harry's resurfaced.

‘Yes,’ you say, plucking the file from Vicquemare’s hand to finally see it for yourself, opening it to the initial report and trying to get started over the commotion. Victim reported in the early hours-

‘Really, Harry?’ Vicquemare says.

- by a young man. Caller found the body when they -

‘What?’ Harry says, raising his voice to compete with the increasing volume of Torson and McLaine, ’The case is a case, but my tea-’

- came to work to do the morning set-up for the first birthday party… (Oh god, birthday party? Wait, Harry’s tea did what?)

‘Chester!’ Harry suddenly he rounds on the commotion. You do not jump. ‘If you don’t shut up and get to work, I’m giving you mine and Kim’s case!’ The Sergeant and his satellite-officer laugh even louder.

You look over the file and catch Torson’s eye. He immediately stops laughing. He grabs McLaine and hauls him back into work mode.

‘But my tea is sabotaged.’ Harry finishes, coming back to you and Vicquemare.

‘Better than your heart, detective,’ you say. You flourish the statement with a sip of your own tea, looking back to the file. Vicquemare snorts.

Harry sighs, but there’s only a little feeling in it. He gets off your desk, moves back to his own, and starts rummaging through the draws. He’s looking for one of those little sugar packets he picks up five of every time you stop for a drink on patrol. He’ll be a while. He might have a million of those sugar packets, but his desk is a mountain of shuffle-collected paraphernalia.

Also, he never throws out the used packets.

‘Thoughts?’ You blink, look up. Vicquemare is still here, watching you. There’s a tight knit to his brow. He really hates giving this to you. You worry for his blood pressure.

‘In a minute Lieutenant,’ you say, and start rapidly skimming the report again. It’s less a report and more the harried scribbling of a call receiver with ten calls too many demanding their attention.

Victim reported in the early hours by a young man. Caller found the body when they came to work to do the morning set-up for the first birthday party of the day. Caller insistent the victim was assaulted. Ask caller to confirm status of victim. Caller confirms victim deceased. Victim is at the centre of the roller rink. Caller gave no more details.

You blink, a little lost. Your experience tells you this is open-shut. Vicquemare has the experience to see this, so it’s not the case per say, that’s worrying him. Typically, this is the type of thing that would go to a medical team for bagging. If anything was out of the ordinary, then they would loop you in. The only thing that led this to your desk is the caller’s certainty about assault. So far, so normal.

Then the final detail sinks in.

Centre of the- you look for the address the victim was found at, just to make sure. And there it is, the reason Vicquemare’s been so worried about this.

‘Ah.’ You finally say.

This case happened at a Roller Disco.

The incredibly juvie mash-up of Roller skates and disco music.

You didn’t think any survived the ‘30s. You’ve never been, because the basic concept is designed ground-up to repel you, but the few people you’d known who’d gone to them regularly had adored them. Vicquemare is right about one thing for sure: If this case ends up being something complicated, Disco-Cop Harry might be the best man for this.

But the disco part is still not enough to frazzle the Lieutenant. He has tolerated The Disco for more than half a decade.

…Roller-skating? Harry?

You think about it a little more. About Harry, and Roller-skates. For half a blissful a second you think, surely not.

But it was a knee-jerk defence, because no sooner have you thought it you remember this is the man who round-housed a racist, raised hell in an old church to the ‘future’ of music, scrambled up an old mural like a man possessed, and, most importantly, was a goddamn Gym Teacher when Roller Disco was at its peak. If Harry wasn’t into roller disco, he sure will be by the end of this case.

For a terrifying second you think it’s almost a shame Harry didn’t turn up in his full disco gear today. Then you stamp the thought down, because it’s absurd. You’ve been having a lot of absurd thoughts lately.

‘I’m sure this will be nothing, Lieutenant,’ you add.

‘I really hope you’re right,’ Vicquemare says, quietly. You hear a draw shut and a hum of triumph behind you. ‘I really hope we don’t all end up with personalised fucking FALN whee-’

‘Success,’ says Harry, pouring a final helping of sugar into his mug as soon as he’s in eyesight. Vicquemare changes whatever the end of that alarming sentence was into a cough. ‘Yum yum yum. What’s that about FALN?’

‘Just wondering if it’ll be useful on this case.’ You say, as you get up. ‘Once you finish your drink, we should get going. It’s probably best to start with mine? It’s on the edge of the district and we can work our way back in.’ You shake the file for emphasis. Harry makes an affirming noise around his mug, tipping it back in a way that must surely burn.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Vicquemare says, giving you a grateful look as he moves toward Minot. ‘Behave, Harry,’ he hisses as he passes the man.

‘I always behave!’ Harry says, then he cackles. Still grinning he turns to you, and finally focuses. You quickly plan a route, and then you’re out of the old silk mill and into Jamrock.

But not before Harry grabs his Disco Blazer and the Frog Visor.

Ah, there’s the catch. Much to your relief.

——

Harry is delighted. ‘A Disco? This happened at a disco?’ He’s leaning forward, nearly out of the backseat of the Kineema and gripping the driver’s seat in front. You spare him a quick glance in the rear-view mirror before focusing on the traffic again. It’s eased up a bit since this morning, but not by much.

‘A Roller Disco, yes,’ you say.

‘Is that juvie talk? Is it like being Baller? A Baller Disco?’

‘No.’ You’re incredibly please to realised you don’t know what Baller means. You suspect Harry doesn’t know either. ‘It’s-’ How do you explain this? ‘A Disco. But you’re on wheels.’

‘What.’

‘You’ll get the idea when you see it, detective.’

You’re not that surprised Harry hadn’t rediscovered roller-skates yet. Asides from a month’s leave after Martinaise, he’s barely been out of the precinct. In that time — when he wasn’t climbing the walls or calling you at 3am — he rediscovered the broad strokes of life and some of the finer details of it that affected him directly. But the minutiae of existence, the little details and trivia that most people would have picked up in Forty-Four years on Elysium, that was still gone.

Well, gone, wasn’t entirely accurate. It was stored away, ready to come tumbling back to him as it became relevant. That usually meant when he was on a case, usually with you. The most recent rediscovery had been when you were on patrol last week; a heard of giraffes had descended on a very busy square in Grand Couron and it ended up being your job to try shoo the bastards out. Along the way, Harry had remembered a frankly astonishing amount of giraffe trivia, and a case that involved a very short lived underground giraffa racing ring in the early 40s.

(A part of you had wondered about the relevance of the racing ring, but it made the time wasted with the herd much more bearable. A smaller part of you had wondered if that was the point, that he’d dug up that story for you - before you crushed it and focused on the task at hand.)

A tut from behind makes you look up from the traffic again. Harry’s scowling at the floor and shaking his head. ‘Nope,’ he says, ‘don’t remember anything about it. How can I have forgotten something about Disco, Kim? Me! King of Disco!’

‘Hand over your crown, my Liege,’ you deadpan. Harry laughs.

‘No, please I can change! Actually, hang on, wait. YES, take my crown, throw it to the guillotine. I’m a man of the people. Disco King is dead.’

‘Long live the Disco proletariat.’

‘Exactly,’ Harry says patting and squeezing your shoulder before finally letting go of the drivers chair and relaxing into the back seat, still chuckling. The heat of his hand lingers on your shoulder. You absolutely don’t think about it. ‘We’ll have a communard out of you yet Kim.’

You hum, non-committal. The noise has the waver of a laugh; barely a whisper but you know Harry heard it.

It used to bother you, that he would spot those little things. An ancient, gravely fear would rear its head, whispering the idea that you’d given yourself away in some capacity, revealed yourself as you are under your Professionalism in a way that would come back to harm you.

(Instead, you’d been invited to C Wing, and you’d accepted. You think of it as not letting childhood fears rule you, or taking a valuable career opportunity. You absolutely don’t think of the other reasons you moved.)

Over the months since your transfer, it became clear that it wasn’t some ‘failure’ on your part, it was Harry; who’d punched through your walls and settled in your orbit before you could even form an opinion on the new situation. To the others of the C Wing, no matter how good they were you were still unreadable. They would only see as much, or as little, as you let them.

It had still taken a lot for you to accept Harry breaking through was a good thing. Slowly but surely settling into the novelty of Kim being seen under Lieutenant Kitsuragi. Slowly but surely accepting that the existence of Kim hasn’t been seen as a weakness to take merciless advantage of. He hasn’t used what he knows to hurt you.

(Yet, says the ancient voice. You’ve seen him at his worst, how he’ll pull people apart and curse them when they leave. Five months sobriety won’t have destroyed that person.)

There’s the shoutout on the radio. Trading cases with Minot to bag THE CROSSWORD STALKER. The set of very good ballpoints he’d seen and bought for you. The fact that once your transfer had gone through, while you’d been cashing every favour, you’d ever been owed at the 57th (and you had a list) to secure transfer of your Kineema, he’d been doing the same with what little he had left at the 41st. Vicquemare made you swear not to tell Harry you knew.

And, certainly, those gestures aren’t unique to you (Minot cat mug, Vicquemare’s ever growing postcard collection) but he seems to delight in any knowledge he can get from you, about you in a way that feels different, that feels reserved for moments outside the office when it’s just the two of you.

(You don’t know what to make of that.)

But for all your luck with Harry, you can’t believe the luck will continue with the rest of C Wing. It’s incompatible with every survival instinct you’ve built up over twenty years.

Before you can sink too deep, your destination dawns on the horizon. ‘It should be just on the corner, Stowaway Street’ you say, pulling the Kineema into a small parking lot at the main intersection.

Harry makes a relieved sound as he throws open the car door. ‘Any longer and I’d have baked alive, it’s getting hot out.’ He’s not wrong. As the sun creeps up, the temperatures going with it, today won’t be pleasant.

Stowaway Street is quiet. It’s off the main road and was originally a set of warehouse units, probably selling either trade goods or home expansions. Those days are long gone, and most of the establishments now cater to a night crowd. It’s no Boogie Street, but the businesses are eclectic enough to pull in the curious, or the devoted. The place won’t stir for a long few hours yet.

Fair du Roller stands out. Its sign is made of sequins, rattling in a rising breeze as Harry stares at the words. A large roller skate has been painted onto the concrete facade.

It also appears to have had another life as a conservatory wholesaler. At least, you think it’s a strong guess, since the front door is literally a conservatory, with a blackout curtain over the second door into the main building. The conservatory’s been made more on brand with more paintings of roller skates, a discoball, and some frankly atrocious figure paintings that you think are supposed to have expressions of joy but look more like they’re screaming in pain.

You look at Harry, who’s still staring at the sign, a distant look on his face. His hair is getting even longer, you realise. He’s going to need to start tying it back or get a cut soon.

The wind stills, and Harry blinks. ‘Hey Kim?’

‘Yes?’ you respond, and he looks at you. His face cracks into large grin, and it’s so much brighter than the fissure that had been frozen to his features the first few days in Martinaise.

‘Tu veux faire du Fair du Roller?’

The sentence is wrong. His pronunciation is atrocious. His accent worse. It comes together like someone squashing a potato. You bite the inside of your cheek, god forbid he thinks the terrible name of this establishment is what you find funny.

(He knows what’s funny. He knows you know too.)

‘Non.’

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in mock surprise, ‘Non??’

You stand straight, hands behind your back. ‘Non, Officer, je ne veux pas aller à Fair du Roller.’ Then you indicate for him to enter first.

‘Zuts Gendarme!’ And with that, Harry’s exhausted his language skills. He simply tuts as he steps into the conservatory and pulls back the blackout curtain. You follow, of course.

Inside is quiet, to your relief. As you and Harry push through a second blackout sheet into the main area, you notice they’ve made an attempt to justify the wordplay in the name of the place. Ribbons of various colours have been attached to the walls, arching over the dance floor to meet at the centre of the ceiling, mimicking a tent. A moderate discoball hangs from the middle.

The warehouse is large. Larger, you think, then most establishments like this. You’ve emerged onto a wooden platform. It’s been buffed and judging from the way Harry is testing it with his snakeskins, gives very little grip. Your own boots creak with each step but hold firm. To your left is a booth, built into another old conservatory, the glass removed from one side. The bright word ‘Rental’ is stuck haphazardly to arching roof, with the same sequined lettering as the name outside. It is full to bursting with red and white skates.

Leaning against the booth, looking out over the warehouse and smoking a cigarette, is a scrawny young man (the caller?). He hasn’t noticed you yet, and you almost didn’t see him. He’s stock still, the only movement being the smoke as he breaths. He wears a red and white t-shirt two or three sizes too big for him (uniform?), his jeans are stained at the knee. He is hunched in a way that screams he would dearly like to be anywhere but here, his frizzy hair falling over his face. You don’t have to follow his gaze to know why.

Ahead of you, a short step off the platform, is the dance floor. It’s so polished you can see your face in it. At the centre of that is the reason you came, right under the disco ball and streamers, head towards you, in a halo of blood. The smell of it is thick, with an undercurrent of menthol from the man’s smoke.

Harry’s looking at the whole place with eyes the size of saucers, mouth slightly open below his muttonchops. There isn’t any music, and he’s still enraptured.

You can admit to yourself you’re fond of that look, when Harry rediscovers something.

He spots you looking and closes his mouth. He looks away, a blush creeping up his neck. He looks back after a moment and jerks his head towards the young man. You nod, and he steps forward, towards the booth.

‘Hello!’ he calls, and the man jumps a foot, nearly dropping his cigarette. He looks at Harry, looks at Harry’s hat, looks at you, and back to Harry. ‘I’m Harry Du Bois, RCM, and this is my partner Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, we’re here about the call.’

‘Uh, yeah. Over there,’ say the man indicating with his cigarette. As he does so, he seems to remember what he’s holding. He swears, looking for a place to stub it out. Harry just holds up a hand.

‘I ain’t gonna tell your boss, kid, I’d be smoking too.’

The man blinks. ‘Uh, yeah. Thanks.’

‘Boss makes a Reál, you make a centim am I right?’

‘Uh-’

Time to intervene.

‘We’d appreciate of you could clarify a few details for us, before we check the body,’ you say, pulling out your notebook and flicking to a blank page. He stiffens at the word body. ‘Would you mind, Mr-?’

‘Uh, no. Sure. I’m Ahmad. Just call me that,’ he takes a deep pull of his cigarette and looks to the floor, letting out a breath after a moment.

He confirms he was the caller. He arrived for his shift, saw the victim immediately, and made the call. This was about 07:00 to 07:10.

‘You didn’t give the guys on the phone much info, how come?’ Harry asks.

Ahmad shakes his head. ‘I, I dunno man. If I’m honest I don’t remember much of what I said. Then after-’ he clears his throat. ‘-After they asked me to check her and come back I just sorta…’ he trails off, holds out his hands. It’s a deep, weary shrug.

You’ve seen this reaction, or a near variation of it in a few others before. This man had never seen a corpse before today.

Harry is pressing. ‘You hadn’t checked before you called?’

‘Uh, no. Sorry. I saw her, saw the blood, and I guess I panicked. They had to tell me to go over in case they needed an ambulance.’ Ahmad laughs as he says the last part, there isn’t any humour in the sound of it.

‘But you knew she was hit?’

‘Huh?’

Harry looks to you, and you finish his line of reasoning for the man. ‘The call transcript we were given shows that you were adamant the victim was stuck, even before you were asked to check the body.’ It’s a very small thing, but it’s good to be thorough.

Ahmad thinks about it, then stiffens. Looks at you, then back to Harry.

‘Oh, Right,’ he says. ‘Look, guys, I didn’t-’ he stops, and lets a hard breath out through his nose. He pushes his hair back before he points to the corpse. ‘It just looks too good.’

‘What,’ Harry says.

‘Not as in good, good!’ Ahmad scrambles, waving his hands in a crossing motion, then gestures out toward the corpse again. ‘As in she’s right in the middle right under the ball and with all that blood it’s gotta be her head and-’ he pauses for breath. ‘Amelia is a pro. Does little competitions. The boss trust her enough to let her practice here after hours. She wouldn’t just… she wouldn’t just fuck it like that.’

There’s a silence when he stops, as he sinks into stillness again. The only sound is your pen in your notebook, as you take in the last details. When you look up, Harry indicates towards the corpse.

‘Thank you for telling us, Ahmad,’ you say, closing the blue book, keeping it in your grip. ‘We’re going to examine the victim now. I’d appreciate if you could stay, in case we have any more questions.’

The man nods and straightens up. Then he pauses, looks you and Harry up and down, and says:

‘Need skates?’

Pardon?

‘Absolutely!’ Harry’s thrown his shoes down before you can even begin to process the two syllables that Ahmad said. By the time you do, Ahmad’s muscle memory and professionalism has failed you again, because Harry’s sat on a bench nearby, wrestling on a pair of skates, and they appear to fit.

Then Ahmad looks at you. He looks expectant. Something about this fills you with an existential horror you’ll have to unpack latter.

You pull your glasses off and start to clean them very carefully. ‘Ignoring the Officer’s enthusiasm, is there a reason we would need them?’ You’re very pleased with how neutral your tone is. The question is pure curiosity. Absolutely nothing else.

Harry snorts quietly.

Ahmad just shrugs, ‘Rink’s polished for skates, not shoes, thought you’d have an easier time.’

Ah, yes, sliding around like a hooligan is as natural as walking. Of course.

You slip your glasses back on, ‘Do staff not have shoe coverings?’

Something about the conversation has unwound something in Ahmad. A slice of normal for him. ‘Nah. We all skate, and it makes routine maintenance a bit more fun.’ He looks over your shoulder and blinks. ‘Hey dude! Needs some tips first?’

‘I don’t know!’ Harry yells back. There’s the sound of skates on the floor. You decide not to look, because if this ends in disaster you won’t have to be watching to know.

Ahmad looks at your boots and assesses. After a pause he says: ‘Your boots look pretty tough. If you’re not having any issues up here, you should be okay out there. Your partner would’ve had a bad time though, with those old things.’ He points to the faithful snakeskins. ‘Just be careful, it’s more slippery out there than up here. Oh, and try not to get to much mud on the rink, it’s hard to-’

Clean. That’s what he was going to say. And you watch as he remembers that mud is the least of the issues, and closes up again.

You turn away. ‘I’ll be careful, Ahmad.’

He doesn’t reply.

As you step onto the rink - focusing on your foot as you test your grip - you’re relieved to note that in the intervening minute, you haven’t heard the sound of a forty-four-year-old man hitting a wall. Or a forty-four-year-old man face-planting a floor. Or a forty-four-year-old decorated lieutenant double-yefreitor running over a corpse.

In fact, all you’ve heard is the steady roll of wheels, running over the boards and clacking whenever the wearer needs more momentum.

Satisfied your boots won’t fail you, you look up. You forget to breath, and in that moment several thoughts you’d been tamping down come bubbling to the surface all at once.

The first is that no matter how hard you try (and you have really been trying), that shirt is going to haunt you. He’s left his blazer on the bench, and the shirt caught tight across his chest. It’s riding up as he spreads his arms slightly for balance, a sliver of soft midsection rolling over his trousers.

The second is that those jeans are almost as bad as the coal-bin jeans. You hadn’t been sure earlier but now that he’s skating, with knees bent and good posture, you’re certain. On the plus side, these jeans won’t haunt you. They’ll just be replaced with the coal-bin jeans, which already do.

The third is how you want to smooth the scowl off his face. It deepens whenever he takes a corner, making the old urge twitch through your fingers. You flex them around your notebook instead.

The fourth is how he’s making it look effortless. He’s not doing anything fancy, he’s just going around the edge of the rink, mostly looking at the floor. But his legs move like water, adjusting for each turn with some deep in-built muscle memory. It’s-

The fifth is that you absolutely need him off the rink, off the skates, now. Your heart can’t take this. And you can’t get him off the rink because there is still a body, and his shoes are useless.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath, pulling those thoughts back under and slamming a lid on them for good measure.

‘Kim, where are your skates?’ Harry says, and he glides right past you on another round of the rink.

‘They are not here, because I am working,’ you say, your shit now fully under control. You walk across the rink. ‘As are you.’

Harry changes course. He’s on a trajectory to meet you right by the body. You tense.

His timing is perfect. He sets his break down, twists his hips, and slows to a stop right next to you; shoulder to shoulder and millimetres from the blood stain below. You let yourself loosen up with a sigh.

‘I’d never making it out here in the disco shoes.’ He nudges your arm. ‘Did you think I was gonna crash into you?’

‘Khm.’ You give him a small smile. ‘It would be like you to remember how to glide but forget how to break.’

‘Actually, that’s fair.’ His eyes are now flicking over the body, and the blood. You crouch down to get a better view yourself. She was young, no older than twenty you think. Her eyes are closed. Blond hair, fairly slim build, but muscular legs. She’s wearing a baggy t-shirt and shorts (practice wear, probably), and a pair of sparking pink skates (her own pair, not from the booth). No safety gear. A large amount of blood has been absorbed into her clothes and hair.

After a minute, Harry lowers himself as well, skates barely moving. ‘Seeing what I’m seeing?’ His voice is low, keeping it between the two of you. You nod. This won’t need a field autopsy.

‘I think so, though you probably see the details better than me.’ You indicate to the halo around her head and the flecks of blood scattering across the floor below your feet. ‘Most of it has been covered by subsequent bleeding, but there are the edges of the original splatter arc. It seems to be consistent with her hitting her head on the floor.’ Harry nods.

‘Yeah, I think so too. It sorta, cones?’ Harry makes a triangular motion with his hands; in the direction the victim had fallen. ‘She fell backwards, and her head took the whole impact. There’s not much splatter around the rest of the rink I checked as I went around. Nothing that would match swinging a weapon anyway. More importantly for us, there’s no void patterns that I could see.’

You almost smile. It doesn’t quite surprise you, but it fills you with a strange pride to realise Harry wasn’t just testing his skates. ‘Glad you stayed focused, Detective.’

He grins, but turns serious again quickly. ‘I’d say she was here most of the night. We’ll need to be a bit more hands on to be sure.’ He hums, and points lower. ‘That’ll be where Ahmad knelt to check her.’ You look to where he indicated. You barely see it, but there’s a dip in the stain. It’s mostly refilled after some displacement, but the viscous quality makes it pop at the edges. You put it together.

‘Oh, the stains on his trousers. Yes, that makes sense.’ Thinking for a moment, you straddle the blood as best you can, and gently lift the head. Harry leans in to help, supporting some of the weight, and watches you in silence. Looking at her face, you gently feel around the back of the head, tracing the line you find there. ‘Rigor Mortise has started in the head and neck, but there’s still some softness. There’s an abrasion on the lower part of the skull, a little higher than where the neck meets. It feels like there’s a fracture, a flatter part where she hit the floor.’ You gently lower the head again, and look back to Harry. ‘Nothing that would indicate a pipe, or another blunt weapon. Death was likely not instantaneous, but she was knocked unconscious, and bled out.’ You get up and step around to her mid-section. Leaning over, you push up her shirt. ‘No signs of blanching on her front or sides. She’s not been moved.’

Harry sighs. ‘Bad luck?’

‘Bad luck,’ you agree. You finally note down your joint conclusion in your notebook.

‘Let’s check her stuff anyway,’ he says, pushing himself upright. ‘Might have some answers.’ He glances at Ahmad, who’s still at the booth, lighting another cigarette and trying not to look your way.

‘I agree, for her relatives as well,’ you say, putting a final full stop to your findings and righting yourself. Your knees crack, and you step back around to Harry. ‘Shall we?’ He agrees and kicks off toward the entrance.

Backwards.

Again, you’re hit by how easy he’s making it look. The way he’s keeping his movements minimised. Just the right amount for what he wants to do. There’s something oddly un-Harry about it, and you find yourself wondering what it would be like if he had fun with this. It’s this thought that makes you say, ‘You know, you’re quite good at that.’

He finger guns you, because of course he does.

But then Harry tilts his head and blinks. For a second he’s quiet, before he shakes his head and the moment is gone. Anyone else, and you think they just decided to drop something they were going to say. Not Harry. Something tells you you’ll be hearing about whatever it was in seven hours or so. You or Vicquemare anyway.

Oh god.

He looks down, then back up, grinning. ‘Think I was a roller-cop in my last life?’ he jokes.

‘It would explain how you got all over Jamrock so quickly. It wasn’t just the running.’

He steps off the rink, ‘Hey Kim, we should go around on roller-’

‘No.’

‘Aw, come on! It’ll be fun!’

‘It will not,’ you say, stepping onto the platform yourself.

‘Okay, how about I go on skates, and you follow in the Kineema?’

‘How about you follow me?’

‘Whichever! I’ll attach myself to the bumper and you can go full speedfreak. We can try both, figure out-’

He’s interrupted by a high pitch squeal outside, followed by a lot of laughter. It’s not a sound most people would consider negative, but even seven years free, it sets your back on edge. It’s the sound of children, and worse, they’re excited.

Harry’s face is a mixture of horror and delight as he quickly turns to the rental booth.

‘Ahmad, did you remember to cancel that birthday party?’

——————

The rest of the day goes smoothly. Or at least, normally. After disappointing (but not traumatising) ten children, you clean your gloves, radio the precinct and convince them to get someone else to collect the body. Then find some medication and formal ID in Amelia’s belongings, and you pull a favour from one of the medics collecting the body to get the details of said medication sent to your desk. Finally done with Fair du Roller, you ride over to the Cutesy Cake Place via a cafe where you grab two coffees and Harry grabs all the sugar packets. You interview Marie, get two new leads, and also get two extremely good cakes. There is another giraffe complaint, you follow up one of Marie’s leads, chase the man down when he tries to run, and white slip him for two days’ time. The precinct radios, you fish a body down from a telephone wire, autopsy and bag it, before delivering it back to the 41st just as the sun starts to sink. The details of the medication are on your desk (the side effect of blood thinning stands out), and next to it is Amelia’s next of kin.

Now you’re walking back to the Kineema after informing Amelia’s father of her death. The sun’s finally gone, and a muggy kind closeness has taken its place.

‘You okay Kim?’ You look up to realise Harry was watching you, face pensive. You nod, and it’s not a lie, but you are feeling… heavy. You hate informing someone of a loved one’s death so late in the shift, when it’s more likely to stick with you through the night. But it’s still better than leaving it till the next day.

‘Mm. Just tired,’ you finally say, rolling your neck. ‘Yourself?’

‘Fine, fine,’ he says, a little too quickly. You look at him. There’s a tightness that wasn’t there this morning, and the heat is getting to him. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed. He’s got his disco blazer slung over one shoulder, and he’s sweating through that damn shirt, the sleeves rolled up even higher now, getting stuck on his biceps.

You’d thought it had clung to him this morning, but now…

Now you absolutely don’t think about it. You keep you gaze steady on his face.

‘I am, really!’ He says, doubling down, ‘That bit’s always shit, but it’s gotta be done. I’m just boiling. Aren’t you boiling?’

You are, a bit, you’ve got your bomber jacket open wide, and you can feel your own v-neck sticking to your skin. There’s sweat pooling at the bridge of your glasses too. His comment makes you flap your bomber jacket, trying to get some cooler air circulating. It’s ineffective.

Harry’s eyes flick to your chest, then snap up again.

You look away, taking off your glasses to try and wipe away the collected sweat. ‘A little,’ you admit. ‘I’m not looking forward to the drive back to mine.’

Air conditioning would be a rarely useful battery sucker, but this is one of the very few days it would’ve been heavenly. You’re still living in the G.R.I.H, and the drive is long. At the beginning of the year, you’d agreed a new long-term lease with your landlord, to see you through the twelve months. Now, after your transfer, you were stuck with it or facing eye-watering fines. It would be a few months yet before you could finally move into Jamrock proper.

(It does mean though, that if this all goes wrong you have somewhere to go.)

‘Gonna say it again Kim,’ Harry says pulling at his tie. ‘Offer still stands, the sofa is yours if you ever need it.’

You smile, just a little, as you place your glasses back. ‘I know, thank you.’

He’s said it ever since you transferred. You can always stay at his flat. That time the ice was thick on the roads and he worried about your drive back. The multiple times you’ve both stayed well past midnight in the precinct. That time you both nearly drowned when a flash flood filled the storm drain you were down while chasing a lead. It’s practically a mantra of his now, and you’re truly grateful for the offer. But…

But.

You’d go, if he needed you. If he couldn’t be alone. Though interestingly he’s never asked that of you. He has called you, when the walls are starting to creep in and he needed conversation to keep it at bay, but he’s never called when it’s at its worst. At those points, he calls Vicquemare. You don’t know exactly why, but your glad Harry’s found a system that works for him, and you’ll take your role.

But… staying casually? Because you can? You can’t. You just… can’t.

You’re aware it’s a bit stupid. You’d go if he needed the kindness but can’t bare the kindness in return.

(The horror is, you might like it.)

Harry’s already moving the conversation on. You’re grateful for that too, the way he knew and is comfortable with your answer, and while he’ll ask a lot of questions, he won’t question this.

‘So, THE WHEELY BAD MURDER, huh?’

You cough into your glove, composing your voice. ‘Khm, it wasn’t a murder, Detective.’

‘Still needs a name, right?’

‘It’s not even being logged as an incident.’

‘I’m still calling it THE WHEELY BAD MURDER.’

‘It’s my turn to name it.’ You’re aware you have about ten seconds to think of something better.

‘If you think of something better in ten- oh shit I was a roller master.’

You’re so busy trying to think of the basic parts of roller skates and their homonyms that you almost miss the breakneck subject change. ‘Huh?’

He taps the side of his head, waggling his eyebrows. Every part of you that cares about your cool want to say it looks ridiculous. Every other part says it’s very Harry. ‘Had a thought project going, had it since this morning.’

‘Have you now. Is it about any of our cases? Or, perhaps, how to solve Jamrock’s giraffe problems for good?’ You’ve just reached the Kineema, and you make a show of (lightly) leaning on the bonnet and inspecting your gloves.

‘Nope,’ he is so proud of this. ‘It’s about roller disco Kim.’

‘Of course it is. Alright, what about roller-skates?’ You cross your arms and wait. You’re a little worried about this, for your own sanity, and for Vicquemare’s heart, but for the most part you’re happy to hear it. These days he frequently shares the outcome of his little ‘projects,’ and when you’re not having to gently course correct (if he still thinks he might be a magnesium-based life form, he hasn’t shared it with you), you’ve come to enjoy the inventiveness.

You’re also glad this has come up now, just as you’re finishing up for the day and not, say, thirty minutes ago when you were telling a man his daughter is dead. There have been worse timings. You’ll never be able to look at frozen chicken the same way again.

‘Not roller-skates, roller disco!’ He waves a hand in front of his face, scattering the semantics to return to the point. Suddenly, he takes a step forward, crowding so tightly into your space you can feel the heat coming off him. The only thing you can see is the pure joy in his eyes. They sparkle and when he lowers his voice like he’s sharing some sort of secret, breath brushing your chin, there’s a tingle at the back of your neck. It takes all of your composure not to bask in it, to join in and grin.

‘I was good, honest. I knew all the moves! Roller fucking Master! I used to go every other weekend so long as… others weren’t board of it.’ He stumbles on others. You can guess what he nearly said. He recovers quickly however, more focused on the hobby. ‘It is the best. No other disco like it.’

High praise from a part of the Disco Proletariat.

‘I’m serious! It was just, fun. Once you had your balance you could do anything, you could fucking fly! And you couldn’t pretend to be disco out there, you had to be disco.’ He leans back a bit, looking at the sky, and something cloudy enters his expression, his joy falling. Something about it makes you want to reach out and squeeze his arm.

You look down, and white-knuckle the nylon of your jacket instead. ‘All started disappearing around the 40s though.’ He finishes.

There’s a beat, as he sinks a little deeper into himself and you slowly unclench your fingers. As you do, you try to picture it. Finding that feeling of freedom and flight in such an environment with some many others around.

You can’t, honestly. The space is too far out your comfort zone. But if Harry gets something from it…

You realise he’s bobbed up from the depths, and he’s watching you again. You clamp down a flutter of nerves and fix your jacket.

Finally, you speak: ‘Well, some seem to have survived, and it seems to be having a bit of a revival as well. Maybe it’s time to reclaim an old hobby? If your comfortable going such places.’

Harry knows what you’re asking at the end, about the atmosphere and the drink. To his great credit, he pauses a moment to think about it.

Or you think he’s thinking about it. He’s still observing you, and it makes you feel more transparent than it has in a long while. Worse, you’re not even sure why.

Then the grin is back, and you’re a little more worried. ‘You should come skating with me, Kim.’

You blink ‘What?’ Maybe he didn’t say exactly what he said. ‘If you’re asking me to come along to keep you out of trouble then-’

‘God no! I can handle myself. I can, right?’ You nod, still a little dumbstruck. ‘Right! Join me Kim! In a world of wheels and lights!’

You started shaking your head, slowly and mechanically, around the words ‘join me.’ You cannot think of anything that you, Kim Kitsuragi, would hate more than to put on a pair of skates and make an absolute fool of yourself.

‘Aw, come on! Fair du Roller’s gonna be baller at night.’

Oh thank god, a foothold. ‘I wouldn’t want to go skating around a crime scene detective. Old or Active.’ You pointedly raise an eyebrow at the last bit. He doesn’t even bother looking sheepish, he just waits for you to continue. ‘Besides, I suspect it will be closed for a little while yet,’ another useful barrier occurs to you. ‘And I doubt the kids would appreciate cops in their forties cramping their style.’

Harry pauses for a second. ‘So, what you’re saying is, no Fair du Roller, and nowhere crowded with the youths, right?‘

You nod, slowly. That puts the one rink you know off the table and crowds in general (with or without the youths) knocks out all the rest. Surely. You sigh, trying to release a knot of tension sitting in your ribcage. ‘I’m afraid roller-skating is not my-’

Suddenly, a large, incredibly unseasonable breeze picks up. It the encircles the two of you, cold enough to make you shiver. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

Inexplicably, you feel deeply betrayed by it.

Before you can blink, Harry launches himself off the car, and bolts down the street. Yelling over his shoulder and becoming increasingly inaudible as he goes:

‘Gotta run Kim don’t wait up I’ll see you at work tomorrow!’

And you’re left by the Kineema.

Oh god, Vicquemare’s blood pressure is going to spike when you explain this.