Work Text:
The cold tip of his gun pressed against his pulse. The sound of the shot so close to his ear it deafens him for minutes, a painful ringing the sole echo inside his head. Sharp white pain starting at his left temple, burning through his brain, coming out of the other side. The thick bone of his cranium shattering at the impact. Twice. Warm, sticky blood gushing out, running down the sides of his face, sticking to his hair and beard.
A knock on the door.
Disrupted, Jean lets out a grunt. He drops his hand and places the gun carefuly on his desk. He looks up.
He can make out the shape of a body through the glass square of the door to his office. Not tall and wide enough to be Harry's. The knock was too quick and precise, too. He would have just barged in. So it must be...
Another knock, followed by a voice. Soft. Professional. Enticing.
"Officer Vicquemare?"
Lieutenant Kisturagi.
"Come in."
His own voice is gruff as ever.
Jean sits up in his chair, into a more suitable position. His back hurts from being crooked for the whole duration of his rêverie.
Kim closes the door behind him, then turns around to face Jean again. They exchange a look. Kim's eyebrows furrow as he takes in his coworker's appearance: intense dark circles under his eyes and vacant gaze caused by a prolonged lack of sleep, hair dishevelled from passing his fingers through it too many times, white shirt wrinkled from general neglect. His eyes track down lower, along his arms. Some scabs, signs he has been picking at his skin again. To his hands. Dry on top. Fading bruises on his knuckles. Right hand resting next to his gun.
"Vicquemare. Shouldn't you take a break?"