Archive of Our Own

Harry stares at his clean desk. 

No longer is it a riot of half-completed reports from an endless intray, detritus he’s collected while out on a case, half-dead pens he hasn’t committed to throwing away just yet and half-drunk cups of coffee. Its surface is still grungy and ring-marked, but it’s completely devoid of paperwork.

The phone call from Lena had come as a surprise. While Harry had kept in friendly contact over the last couple of years, the discovery of the Insulidian Phasmid meant great and exciting changes in their field, and so she and Morell were rarely home to phone. Harry mostly received letters every few months with their news, and he greatly enjoyed reading about the couple’s renewed passion for their work. Cryptozoology had become something of a craze lately cross-isola, but Harry, Lena, or Morell could have never imagined it would form part of a legitimate lecture at the University of Königstein in their lifetime.

Not one in cryptozoology itself but as a study of the phenomena spreading globally, Lena was quick to add, but still excited by the progress nonetheless. The course had attracted enough interest at Königstein that they were eager to have a guest speaker who had supposedly encountered a real cryptid, and while Lena and Morell were both honoured to be asked, they simply weren’t up to the interisola travel. However, they could recommend a certain RCM officer who would make a fine representative in their stead.

Harry had been flattered, but uncertain. Lena assured him it would be all expenses covered, but that wasn’t his core concern. Harry mulled over the offer, and the next day, voiced the idea with the task force over coffee, unsure whether it was wise for him to take so many days away from C-Wing.

There was little chance to discuss it, as the conversation was immediately monopolised by Trant, who insisted Harry had to go. How could he not - a unique chance to legitimise a long ill-considered science! It was Harry’s duty to bring his experience of his rare discovery to the wider world, and who better, as one of the only living witnesses in Elysium of a cryptid to have returned from the encounter with irrefutable evidence?

Trant worked himself into a passionate lecture at the entire task force, who all knew better than to try and stop him. What they didn’t expect is for the Special Consultant to march into Pryce’s office himself to advocate for Harry’s trip abroad.

The news spread like wildfire from C-Wing that Pryce had agreed with Trant’s assessment. It was positive PR and a rare opportunity for the RCM to be seen doing good beyond Revachol. Since it was in service to the community, as Trant spun it, Harry was granted the days off as paid leave. That effectively settled the matter. 

Harry found himself looking forward to it. He’d never been to another isola, and he’d likely never have another opportunity to do so.

The arrangements were smooth sailing. Harry asked Kim whether he wanted to join him - he was quite certain if Königstein was willing to pay for both Lena and Morell, Harry could also request the person who had photographed the phasmid - but Kim declined.

“Not that I wouldn’t enjoy the time away with you,” Kim had said apologetically, “but C-Wing can’t spare both of us out for a week. Besides, I prefer to be recognised for my police work. But you, Harry - you absolutely should go. You deserve this opportunity.” Kim smiled, and the words had made Harry’s insides glow warm and proud.

“Earth to shitkid.”

Harry blinks. Ah. Right. He’s staring at his empty desk with a stupid little smile on his face. He looks up to see Jean frowning at him as he plonks down a full, fresh cup of coffee in front of him.

“Sorry. I was miles away.”

“When are you not?” Jean’s grumpy tones belies his dry smile, the snippiness affectionate as he nurses his own coffee. He leans back against his own adjacent desk, which now bears considerably more paper files, having migrated from Harry’s. Harry feels guilty about it, though any time he’s tried to bring up the topic with Jean, he’s been shut down. Under normal circumstances, he’d take that as his partner not having a problem with it.

But honestly, he’s not sure where he and Jean stand at the moment.

It’s been less than a month since the entropenetic incident that had scrambled Harry’s mind and body. He knows he’s lucky to have come out of it in good shape and his memories cohesive… and his interpersonal relationships intact. He looks back at the evening and is horrified at his twenties-self and his behaviour, although he can’t say that he regrets any of what happened. If anything, he’s seen what could be possible, if he can keep his big mouth shut and not screw it all up. 

He knows he needs to be patient, give Jean time and space to process it all, but he also just wants to know.

As of tomorrow, he’s going to be away for a whole week to fret about it.

Jean’s been hard to get a read on, his internal voices of intuition drawing blanks, and Harry is nervous as to what that means. Jean rarely says what he actually feels directly but offers it in his moods and mode of venting. Lately, Jean has been unusually quiet and contemplative, offering few clues as to his thoughts. Whatever happens, Harry just wants their hard-won partnership to come out of it unscathed. It means too much to him. Jean means too much to him.

He picks up the coffee that Jean set before him, glad for the offer of its kick to clear the cobwebs of his thoughts. He takes the first grateful sip, and to his surprise, Jean speaks again.

“Speaking of.”

Harry sees Jean’s gaze is firmly fixed on the precinct’s peeling paint on the far wall, his jaw set as he steels himself for something. Harry slowly sets his cup down again, and waits.

Jean’s words are abrupt. “You all ready for it?” 

“Yeah.” Harry doesn’t even need to ask what he means.

“I mean. You did all the mental exercises.” The way Jean says it, it’s undecided whether it’s a statement or a question, the inflections all wrong. It doesn’t seem to matter to him, as he ploughs on. “Not that you - you just had a massive overdose of pale, and you’re about to go through inter-isola travel for at least three hours, and I - ”

Jean’s fingers tighten on his mug.

“Even the most experienced travellers don’t always - fuck,” Jean exhales, clearly frustrated by his own inability to get to the point, “just fucking come back and don’t -” His voice constricts, becomes smaller. “Don’t forget about me, this time.”

Harry freezes. He hadn’t expected that at all.

His voices all clamour for him to say something, but he doesn’t know which words to use. If he makes a fuss, if he tries to reassure, Jean will close up and deny he said a word. He knows Jean well enough to know that the man must have worried about this for sometime, to work himself up to saying anything at all, and he will continue to worry while he is away. He won’t stop worrying until he’s seen for himself that Harry is whole and well.

LOGIC: That’s why you couldn’t read him.

EMPATHY: He was worried about something else.

He doesn’t want to hurt Jean, and he didn’t realise that fear still ran so deeply. He briefly considers the merit of cancelling the whole trip, before immediately scratching it out: besides the logistics this late, Jean would know why, and resent him for it.

In the stunned pause - he still hasn’t said a word in reply - Jean slugs back his own coffee abruptly. A prop, Harry realises, to getting this off his chest.

“Don’t say a fucking word. I didn’t say anything last time, and - yeah. I’ve done it now. Okay. Seriously, Harry - have a good trip. Bye.”

And Jean stalks off, determinedly not making eye contact.

Harry wants to run after him, grab his sleeve and tell him, right there in front of the precinct, that he wouldn’t do that, not again, not after everything they’ve been through. That he loves him, and he never wants him to forget that.

VOLITION: He would hate that.

He holds onto the impulse, but the agitation remains. He leaves in fourteen hours. Not enough time to fix everything, and Jean’s sharp exit indicates he’s not going to stick around for a heart-to-heart.

Someone needs to take care of Jean.

Harry sets his mind to the problem. If he gets this right, he might be able to resolve more than one issue on the way.

*

Kim is dealing with a very strange feeling.

The bedroom is a tornado of clothing with Harry at its epicentre, surrounded by all the rejected shirts, trousers, shoes, and hats that didn’t make the cut into his packed bag. Kim sternly insisted that all of it was put away before Harry leaves for the aerodrome. He tries not to sigh. It’s twenty minutes until the bus arrives, and he knows he’ll probably put the last few garments away himself, just to make sure Harry is ready and waiting in good time.

He could have driven Harry, but Kim would be late for his shift if he did. He gave it extensive thought. He knows every shortcut to the precinct, and he would probably be late by ten minutes - a forgivable lateness. That’s not the real reason he hasn’t.

At one time, he could not imagine sharing so much of his life, so much of himself with another person, let alone with someone as exuberant and open as Harry. Now, he’s coming to realise he’s going to miss him. 

He’s glad he won’t be in public the moment Harry leaves.

“What time is it?” Harry yells for the umpteenth time over the sound of opening and closing drawers.

Kim obediently checks his watch. “Eighteen minutes.”

“Fuck!” The sounds come at a more rapid frequency, followed by a thump and, “ow…”

“You’ve plenty of time, Harry,” Kim calls back patiently.

“No, that’s not - “ Harry makes a frustrated sound. There’s the sound of cloth being dumped on the bed, and Kim winces to know Harry is about to take the bundle and throw it onto the closet floor.

There’s the tell-tale creak as the closet door opens, and closes. Harry steps into the living room, looking a little pink with exertion, but proud of himself.

“All done. I wanted to talk to you before I go.”

Kim feels fond despite the sense of exasperation that he’s not going to enjoy opening the closet later. “Harry, it’s only going to be a week.”

He’s trying so hard to be the voice of reason as he usually is, and not give into the urge to cling onto Harry tight.

His partner seems to always find a way to put himself in dangerous situations. Whether it’s by his sometimes naive way of interacting with their world, his desire to help every person he comes across, or the supernatural phenomena that somehow seem to find Harry.

The most recent of these, of course, resulted in Harry temporarily losing his memories and physical years with it while making him more charismatic than ever. Kim still can’t believe how neatly Harry had turned his terrifying abilities onto both him and Jean. There was no coercion, just pure effectiveness in teasing out what was already there. Kim is glad Harry isn’t nearly that brilliant all the time.

They talked about that incident extensively: Harry being nervous that he had damaged their existing relationship; Kim worried what other impact the pale might have had on his partner. 

Inevitably, they had both talked about their mutual attraction to Jean. Kim had been firm in the face of Harry’s fretting to give the man space and let him focus on work while they are both on the clock. They can’t afford the distraction in the Major Crimes Unit.

That hadn’t stopped them both from wondering, and having some fun thinking about the possibilities inbetween the very serious concerns.

There’s something ironic, Kim thinks, that the past few weeks he’s been worried about the lack of privacy with the possibility of two partners, and now, he’s distressed about Harry’s imminent absence. Kim hadn’t known how to deal with the sense of loneliness that bubbled up in him the previous night, realising he soon wouldn’t have Harry’s warmth wrapped around him at night, his familiar smell in the sheets. 

Harry had known how to handle it, of course. Harry made sure Kim never felt lonely.

It’s only going to be a week. He’s trying to convince himself as much as Harry.

“I know,” Harry answers simply, bringing Kim back to the present moment. “But I have something I want to say, first.”

Kim’s eyebrows raise in mild surprise as Harry steps into his space and takes both of his hands. Harry’s impromptu gestures still makes his insides flutter, even now.

“I’ve given this some thought,” Harry says, looking at Kim with seriousness, the slight furrow of his brow in no way hiding the intensity of his gaze. An ocean of sea-green that sparkles with adoration when beholding his partner.

“While I’m away. If you and Jean spent some time together. I’d like that.” Harry chuckles nervously. “I mean. To get to know each other better.” He squeezes Kim’s hands. “Anything is fine.” 

Kim searches his eyes for answers, and finds only earnestness. “Anything,” he intones, waiting for Harry to elucidate.

Harry nods firmly. “Anything. As much or as little as you want.” He shrugs, and his smile tips dry under the facial hair. “Maybe have a couple of beers. Play Suzerainty. Keep each other company. And if anything else happens while I’m away, I’d be okay with that.”

Kim exhales. Anything, in the way Harry means here, is an endless scope. “Harry. I think we should have talked about this before you -”

Harry abruptly screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. “I knew you’d say that,” he says, and his smile turns rueful, “and then I knew you’d use the eyebrow to try to talk me out of it -”

Kim realises that he is, in fact, doing the supposed thing he does with one eyebrow, though he still has no idea how a single expression can hold Harry in its thrall. He can’t deny it’s useful, though.

“- and I know there is absolutely nothing that you would do that I would not be okay with. So yes, I am giving you a free pass to do whatever you want with Jean. Whether that’s nothing at all, or going full-out disco. I trust you. I trust you both.”

Kim almost wants to be annoyed, but he sees Harry’s logic. Harry is absolutely correct; he would have preferred a full discussion about this, and he can’t deny that if Harry had offered his wholehearted trust like this upfront, he would have tried to dissuade him: something too precious to give so freely.

And yet Harry’s given it, and by his tone of voice, he’s going to be bullheaded if he tries to argue. They’re both good at it, but here it’s futile to protest as Harry has to make for the bus soon. He’s a bastard, Kim thinks, but a clever one.

“When you return, we will talk about this.”

Harry cracks open one eye, sees that Kim’s eyebrows have returned to neutral, and opens the other. And then he winks. “I hope so. If you did invite Jean round, and you two had a good time… I’d like to hear all about it.”

Kim huffs an exasperated laugh. “Of course. If I did.” 

He has no doubt, from Harry’s mischievous expression, that his partner is going to enjoy thinking about the prospect while they are apart.

“Okay. Good.” Harry looks at him more solemnly, studies him as if to frame the image of him in his mind. “I’d better get going, hadn’t I.”

“Yes.” But that doesn’t stop Kim from leaning in and pulling him into a hard kiss first. The kiss is returned with just as much feeling, and it quells some of the already-settling emptiness inside him.

A few lingering seconds of bliss - squashed noses, the soft abrasion of Harry’s beard, aftershave caught in his senses, warm lips - and then he pulls back with reluctance, and gives the broader man a gentle shove. “Go on.”

Harry steps back, a little stumblingly. Kim’s not sure if it’s from trying to keep him in view as long as he can, or if he enjoyed the farewell kiss as much as he did.

Harry slings on his coat and then his bag over one shoulder, and opens the door.

“See you in a week.” He turns back at the last second to throw the finger-guns. “Keep out of trouble.”

Kim smiles.

“Enjoy your trip, Harrier.”

Harry’s expression softens at the use of his full name.

“I love you,” he replies, and before either of them can become more distracted, he slips out of the door.

Kim stares into the space that Harry has left him with, those last words warm in his chest… and the tips of his ears.

The apartment is quiet already.

He thinks of Harry’s parting offer, as much to block out the sudden silence as anything else, and it’s with a jolt he realises that he doesn’t have much time to consider it at all. He knows the department roster for this week, and the only overlapping shift he has with Jean is today. If he is to ask anything at all before Harry’s return, it has to be today.

He shakes his head, and wonders just how thoroughly Harry had planned this.

*

Jean stretches at his desk. A few joints pop and he scowls; he must have been at it longer than he thought, finishing up the latest paragraph of his report. He hates the dawn shift.

He checks his watch, and his heart thumps hard when he realises how much time has passed: Harry will now be on the aerostatic, moving through the fathomless antimatter that separates the isolas. He scrubs a hand over his face, debating the merits of making another cup of coffee to distract himself, or whether it’s just going to make him even more jittery.

He often wishes he could turn off his ability to worry enormously about his partner. Hell, for once he’s doing something that is probably safer than what they do for a living - Trant fucking Heidelstam’s cheery longwinded stories of academia abroad are living proof of that - but he can’t help it. It’s etched into his psyche. Trouble is, it stops him focusing on his work. He should have completed typing this report by now. Harry occupies far too much real estate in his head.

He forces himself to see to his tasks, but the hours crawl by. Different folk come and go for their shift or out on patrol. They all successfully read Jean’s mood and for the most part, he’s left alone to stew in his thoughts, until his attention is caught by the return of Officer Minot. In her wake is Lieutenant Kitsuragi, who listens as she talks through a theory on her current case. 

On paper, Lieutenant Kitsuragi is not part of their décomptage. Everyone in Precinct 41 knows he’s effectively C-Wing’s second Lieutenant, official RCM structure be damned; Major Crimes needs all the help it can get. After about six months, all pretence was abandoned, and an extra desk suddenly appeared for the Lieutenant with the rest of C-Wing.

Judit heads to that same desk now, and lays out her notes for Kim’s perusal.

Jean watches them, reflective. He never asked for the headache of trying to stop C-Wing from eating itself alive during Harry’s bender, and he’s been more than happy to let the leading be done by actual Lieutenants. He never was good with handling people, and the added stress of Harry’s condition did not help matters. Kim is not affably sociable, but he’s professional, authoritative, and well-respected, and he keeps C-Wing in line. More so than Harry, who cares more about cases than cohesion, but there’s no denying it’s Harry’s charisma, drive, and innovative brilliance that draws in officers like himself, who want to do something more.

Jean knows that while he’ll never be at their level, he’s just as vital to their operations. He keeps Harry grounded, has the guts to call Harry out on his bullshit, to keep him together when he’s overwhelmed or too far into his own head.

He’s fucking proud of what they’ve built together, after they brought it back from the brink. It’s unconventional, but it works.

“Khm.”

Jean blinks and looks up from his typewriter. Kim stands by his desk, hands behind his back.

“Lieutenant,” he greets, ever respectful within the walls of the precinct. 

Kim lightly shrugs, dismissing the use of rank. “Could I have a word?” He inclines his head indicatively to one of the interview rooms.

Jean’s eyebrows rise for a moment. A private talk, on the day that Harry’s left the precinct. That’s no coincidence. The topic is unknown, and he can only speculate.

“Sure,” he offers, more casually than he feels as he follows Kim down the line of makeshift holding cells-slash-interview rooms in the silk mill. Kim enters interview room number two: the one room that backs onto a solid wall, providing a better chance of not being overheard.

Jean shuts the door behind him and takes a seat across from Kim, and waits for an explanation.

“Harry made a suggestion on his way out of the door this morning,” Kim says, without preamble. “That I invite you over sometime this week.”

Jean’s hand comes up to his jaw, concealing the purse of his lips as he contemplates Kim’s words.

He’s hung out with Kim before and after shifts; usually at Harry’s urging and nearly always with Harry there. They’ve played board games or watched a movie or shared takeaway. He likes to think he’s made a friend in Kim, though he’s long kept distance out of respect. The request would be entirely innocuous… if not for the last time he was at Harry’s.

“Does he mean… of course he does,” he sighs, answering his own question, the image of Harry’s wicked grin flashing in the forefront in his mind.

“Yes,” Kim says, voice wry, as that reply confirms what he thought: that Jean hadn’t been privy to Harry’s plan. He had wondered. “He said anything is fine by him.” His eyes search Jean’s face, ever cautious, as he takes the calculated risk. “I’d like to extend the invitation. With no expectations.”

Jean doesn’t immediately reply as he chews it over, scratching at his beard. He appreciates Kim’s candour. It’s one of the many things he appreciates about him.

It’s not like he hasn’t given the whole event extensive thought. He can’t say it’s entirely a bad idea - even if Harry is a manipulative git, trying to orchestrate something in his absence. Even if he and Kim just shoot the breeze for a few hours after work one day, it’s better than sitting in his bedsit alone. But if he’s being honest with himself…

He thinks a lot about that night, of course he does. It was probably the single hottest experience he’s ever had in his life, fantasy fuel whenever he’s writhing in bed with a hand on his dick and needing something to bring him over the edge.

But it’s more than that. Harry had implied that it meant something. A surprise success of a fucked up night isn’t an indicator of continued success. Jean’s not naive enough to let himself believe that.

Yet. Harry and Kim had been considerate and interested in his pleasure and his comfort both. He had felt safe to try things, to not hold onto his shame. 

And Kim -

Kim kept Harry’s impulses at bay out of concern for Jean. He remembers Kim’s voice turned low, smooth and rich in his ear as Kim talked him through fucking Harry. Kim, whose careful fingers he can still almost feel as phantom impressions on his skin.

He can almost see Harry smirking at him in his mind’s eye. Daring him to be honest.

He scowls at the imaginary Harry. If he’s being honest, he’s too stressed to play Harry’s little games for his absent entertainment. It’s such an asshole move, fucking off and leaving him to deal with the mess, as always. He lets out a small sigh. It’s easier to be mad at Harry sometimes than it is to look inside himself for answers. How does Harry always find a way to make him come to a reckoning with himself?

“With no expectations,” he echoes, looking at Kim for confirmation.

Kim hums, relieved that Jean isn’t avoiding this, avoiding him. “Mm. I’ll be glad for the company.”

It’s true.

Kim isn’t playing either. Sorry, Harry. But he does want to learn more about Jean.

He remembers one evening, not long after he and Harry had moved into their new apartment where they were playing a very competitive game of Suzerainty. Harry and Jean threw constant, creatively verbal jabs at each other at their play, much to Kim’s quiet amusement. It stoked his own competitive spirit, joining in with a few well-chosen quips of his own. Jean had suddenly got up from the table and stormed off to the bathroom without a word.

Kim was sure that the banter had gotten out of hand, but Harry had looked unconcerned, got up and retrieved the spare blankets. He casually explained that Jean was enjoying the game, but had realised if he doesn’t call it quits soon he’ll miss the last bus, but thinks he’ll impose by asking to crash over.

Kim was dubious at the explanation, making his mind up to apologise for overstepping, until he saw Jean snap at Harry for the made-up bed on the sofa, but visibly relax when Harry stubbornly insisted he stay. Jean smiled a lot more at the table after that.

Kim knows Harry has a way with people in general, but he has something special when it comes to understanding Jean that he simply cannot replicate. He’s curious as to how they will interact without Harry mediating between them.

He realises he is holding his breath on whether Jean will take up the invitation.

It’s a relief when Jean smiles wryly in return. “Well. It’ll keep me from worrying about him. And you guys have a great video projector.” 

“I have a great video projector,” Kim corrects, and returns the smile. He knows Jean well enough to know his deflective sense of humour. “It’ll be nice to watch without Harry’s commentary.”

“Yeah?” Jean is glad it’s squared away, and it makes him a little brave. He’s not much of a flirt, but… with a small quirk of his lips, easily played off as a joke: “then it’s a date.”

Kim’s eyes widen behind his lenses, an expression of open surprise. He appreciates the sentiment for what it is, the little risk Jean took in kind. He takes another.

“Tonight?” He asks, simply.

Jean nods, trying not to openly grin that Kim might be keen. He’s sure he fails as Kim shoots him a knowing look back.

After they determine a time, the talk turns safely back to shop: Jean’s got a stack of shitkid paperwork to deal with before he leaves for the day, and Kim offers his thoughts on the current caseload. His perspective is entirely different from Harry’s, and not unwelcome as Jean takes notes, only slightly distracted as he thinks ahead.

*

Fuck.

Jean critically eyes his appearance in the bathroom mirror. The same pockmarked face with heavy bags under the eyes stares back at him, but there’s a light in his eyes he hasn’t seen in himself for a long time, borne of cautious hope.

After his shift ended, he questioned himself every step of the walk home as to what he was doing. He fell into a nap on the sofa, hoping it would all seem easier after sleep. His mind worked overtime, second-guessing himself as he distractedly packed a bag. He’s crashed at Harry’s before, no big deal, except this time it’s just him and Kim and far too much temptation. How does he even broach the subject, anyway? He dodges potshots most days of the week, but letting himself care about someone more deeply than superficial friendship is far more terrifying.

Not that his friendship with Kim is superficial. It’s fucking complicated. Kim is his RCM brother-in-arms, part of his pack. Kim is also Harry’s intimate partner. He feels like he’s walking a tightrope, exhilarating in potential, but the cost of failure high. He has to get this right.

He tilts his chin, inspecting his handiwork. He’s trimmed his beard. Brushed his teeth. Had a shower and scrubbed up as nicely as he ever gets, wearing a smart grey sweater over one of his white uniform shirts. He’s a little embarrassed with himself; he’s never fussed so much before going over to Harry’s. Not for meeting up with Kim before, either.

Don’t pretend you’re going to sit and just play board games.

Yeah, so maybe he’s curious how far anything extends to. It certainly sounded like Kim was unopposed, to bring it up in the fashion he did. On the other hand, Kim’s words echo reassuringly: no expectations. No rushing things while he’s figuring this out, which he’s relieved for.

He checks his watch: he needs to move it if he’s going to make it over there at all. He gives his reflection a firm nod, and picks up his bag like a soldier going off to war.

*

Meanwhile, Kim is calm. Having worked the late shift, he has less time to spend at home fretting than Jean. He would have offered to pick Jean up in the Kineema, but he needed the time to actually prepare for the evening.

Not that he was quite sure what to do. Jean has been over plenty of times and seen the apartment’s usual state, marked by a trail of Harry’s discarded articles over most surfaces and the floor. The mess is already addressed by Harry’s absence. Kim hadn’t wanted to tidy any further than that. The place already looked lonely enough in his eyes.

In the end, he settled for changing into clean clothes - a basic replica of his work clothes: white shirt and cargo pants sans jacket - and getting out some food to prepare in the kitchen. He debated the merits of ordering a takeaway, but Jean’s playful comment, it’s a date, lingered in his mind. It felt fitting to cook something homemade. It also helped to have his hands occupied in the run-up to Jean’s arrival, chopping meat and vegetables, focussing on the motions to make a familiar recipe.

For all his overthinking, Kim is looking forward to the evening. He meant what he had said, and he is determined not to make Jean feel he is obligated to make any sort of decision. Just because Harry wants everything to neatly fall into place, like crossing off one of his lists on a case, doesn’t mean it has to happen to his schedule. Kim knows the value of patience, and he thinks Jean is very much worth waiting for.

He himself is nervous about the idea of opening up to another person, Harry being an exceptional individual to have managed it in the first place. It’s reassuring to know Jean likely feels the same way, and probably has experienced the exact same approach from having Harry assigned as his partner. The boorish jokes of the precinct about Jean and Harry’s partnership have their grain of truth to them, a ready intimacy already there. This new relationship is a shift that can be managed. Kim would never have thought to ask for more than what he has, but Harry has always been good at broadening his horizons.

And honestly… he thinks back to that night, Jean inexperienced but so very eager to please, and heat rises in his blood. His mind casts over the possibilities, what he could show Jean. If things were to go well, of course.

The loud buzzing of the apartment intercom takes him out of his thoughts. It’s with a small flip in his stomach that he pads over in socked feet to answer it and let Jean into the building. He waits, mentally timing the walk up the stairs. His heart rate jumps when he hears Jean’s heavy footsteps approach the front door.

As Kim opens it, he catches the pleasingly subtle scent of cologne before he even sees the man wearing it. The figure of Jean in the doorway is just as pleasing. Kim notes his change of clothes, Jean’s overcoat opens over a simple, smart combination that isn't overly-formal or uncomfortable. The muted palette some might call plain, but Kim rather likes how it brings out his eyes. And the lines of his chest.

In addition to his outfit, Jean wears a bag over one shoulder and a scowl, which lessens slightly at the sight of Kim.

“If you’re wondering why I look like I was roughed up on the way here, the bus was shit,” Jean announces by way of greeting.

“You don’t. Come in.” Kim steps back to let Jean in, closing the door behind him. Jean shrugs off his coat, and isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Normally he’d have Harry talking up a storm, taking up the room and the space inside his head. Larger than life, Harry leaves no room for Jean to stare into the abyss. It’s why he loves him.

Kim speaks more softly, wearing that subtle smile of his. “I have almost finished preparing dinner. Give me a few minutes to finish up, and then I can give you my full attention.”

“You need a hand?” There’s no room in the tiny kitchenette for Jean to help, but he feels he ought to offer.

“No. Make yourself comfortable.” Kim turns back to the vegetables, and Jean takes his seat at the tiny rickety dining table that abuts the kitchen space.

It’s a companionable silence that fills the apartment, but it’s a noticeable one without Harry there. Jean scans the room, observing the gaps with a detective’s eye: the bare peg, Harry’s greatcoat missing. The too-tidy dining table is set for two and holds today’s newspaper, folded, a pen atop. Jean notes the page and its mostly-completed crossword.

He turns his gaze to Kim’s back while the other man sweeps a round of vegetables into an already steaming pot, the scent of rich broth blooming across the room. Kim is a marvel in how he is all impeccable calm compared to Harry’s chaos… and his own, he supposes. He’s nervous as all fuck, and Kim is cutting vegetables into perfectly neat, quick slices with a practised hand.

As promised, it doesn’t take him long. Kim sets a lid onto the pot on the stovetop, and turns around with a content sigh. “That’s taken care of. Would you like something to drink?”

Jean sits up straight. “Yeah. That reminds me…” he pulls his bag close, and rummages in its innards, pulling out a bottle of red wine - half-decent, according to Trant. “I thought I’d bring something to have with dinner.”

Kim hesitates at the sight of it. He’s always supported Harry’s effort at sobriety, and it was no real sacrifice for him to not keep any alcohol in the apartment. He was never a heavy drinker, and he gets enough of that from collegial outings. Harry’s never begrudged him that.

Anything is fine. Maybe have a couple of beers.

Harry’s parting words spring to mind, and he relaxes. The permission - in this at least - was explicit.

“Yeah, I know we wouldn’t normally,” Jean adds, sensing the hesitance. “But hey, if the shitkid’s away, no reason why the grown-ups can’t partake. And I thought since this is sort-of a special occasion...”

Kim’s attention pricks up at Jean’s uncertainty. This is a date. Right. He’s never been very good at this. Fortunately, there is a simple solution here. He steps over to Jean, and gently takes the bottle from his hands.

“I’ll set it to breathe.” He smiles.

Jean relaxes, but his eyes remain fixed on Kim’s face.

He’s so very tempting, Kim thinks, Jean peering up at him where he’s seated like he’s awaiting his judgement. Jean apologised earlier for his appearance, but Kim thinks he looks more fetching for it, ruffled like a loose bow on a present, ready to be pulled open.

There’s a pause where they are both sizing up the moment… and then it passes. Kim takes the bottle and looks for a corkscrew, ignoring the heat creeping up to his ears.

Jean clears his throat awkwardly. “It’s from Sur-Le-Clef. Bastards can’t cook for shit, but maybe that’s why they make decent wine.”

Kim looks at the bottle for a moment. He’s not a wine-drinker by any means, but it’s no Commodore Red. The label is embossed, script flowing. A gentle scene of a harbour on the textured paper. It’s clearly expensive.

“Where did you buy it?” It’s definitely not available from a local Frittte.

“Didn’t. It was gifted. After my second promotion. Didn’t have an occasion to open it.” Jean shrugs. “By then, every day was an “occasion” to Harry.”

Kim doesn’t reply immediately, hearing the layers of pain under Jean’s offhand comment, the dark spectre of Harry’s vices that Jean lived through. Kim only saw the glimpses, the tail-end of the storm. As much as he loves and adores Harry and is fiercely protective of him, he absolutely understands Jean’s right to his anger. He sees it for what it is - Harry might have been the one imbibing poison, but it’s been slowly killing Jean, and his anger is how he purges it. It’s obvious to Kim that they love each other, and there is no cure for this but time. 

If Jean’s anger ever goes too far, Kim knows with certainty he will be there - for both of them. They’ve come too far to fail now.

“But we have an occasion now.” Kim’s lips tip into a smile, neatly drawing Jean from the past to the present. He can’t pretend he’s not flattered to be considered such, in Jean’s eyes.

The cloud over Jean seems to part, his eyes gaining a twinkle, a hint of smile beneath his beard. “Yeah. We do.”

The smiles linger through the pop! of the cork, and the bottle’s contents decanted into two glasses.

“Would you like anything else to drink before dinner?” Kim asks, politely.

Jean gently snorts. It’s actually really fucking endearing that Kim’s treating him like a first-date, but he probably knows his way around the cupboards as well as Kim does, and he doesn’t want to be waited upon. It feels too weird - and not just because he’s technically his superior.

“I could kill for a coffee.” Jean propels himself up from his seat before Kim can make a move. “You got dinner; I got this. You want one?”

“... Please.” Kim normally wouldn’t - no caffeine in the evening, if he wants a good night’s sleep - but it seems churlish to refuse, and frankly, he wants to be able to stay awake, for once. He knows Jean is particular about his coffee, and so lets him clatter about the kitchenette for mugs, a saucepan, and a battered coffee pot that is almost the age of his partnership with Harry. He moves to the table’s opposite chair, content to watch Jean work; neither of them are big on small talk, and they see each other virtually every day. That, and Jean is very handsome, and he’s allowed to look. That aggressive workout routine of his shows as he stretches into the higher cupboards, fabric clinging to strong arms and the outline of his abdominals.

Jean sets a saucepan of water to boil on the stove. He returns to sit, and he checks his watch. When he does, his gaze doesn’t immediately lift from its face.

“He’ll be arriving about now.”

Kim checks his own, and sure enough, accounting for time zones - Harry is now standing in another isola. It’s a small jolt to realise he hadn’t thought about it since this morning - and that Jean has. He’s probably been worrying about it all day, he realises.

“I hope he has a good time.”

“Yeah.” Jean fidgets. “He better do - this is a week of desk-duty for me, boring as fuck.”

Kim simply looks at him, and waits. He can tell Jean wants to broach something, but he needs to work through what he feels to get to what he actually wants to say.

After another long pause, Jean sighs. “I wish I was with him.” He follows up quickly, “I know he doesn’t actually really need a fucking babysitter and the unit needs me here and Harry’s allowed his own life and he’s not going to -” Jean bites back the words, swallows them down. “But… fuck.”

I miss him.

“It’ll be alright.” Kim reaches across for Jean’s shoulder, lets his hand rest heavy there for long seconds. It’s what he would do ordinarily, to comfort a friend, a brother. Jean is tense, but incrementally, the muscles relax beneath his palm, and he blows out a slow breath.

“Yeah. I know,” he mutters. “I’m not his -” Shit. He’s talking about Harry at Kim, the one time he has Kim to himself. He shifts the focus of the topic. “...This must be weird for you too.”

Kim shakes his head gently, in response to both meanings Jean implied. “It is a little quiet.” A wry smile threatens at the corners of his mouth. “But I am comfortable enough. I’ve lived by myself for a long time.”

“If you’re enjoying the peace and quiet then I’m not gonna stop you, but if you want to, I don’t know, share some more dinners this week?” Jean’s lips thin, his tongue nervously darting over the upper. “You’ve got me. For what it’s worth.” His eyes flicker over Kim’s face. “I don’t necessarily mean - fuck whatever Harry’s planned, just…”

Jean trails off. He’s not doing a good job of this. How can he convey that he likes Kim professionally, as a friend, and maybe more, but that whatever happens in any of those capacities, he’ll always have his back - just like he did with Harry - and not sound like a manipulative bastard, here on this sort-of-maybe-a-date?

Fortunately, Kim seems to understand, at least in part, because his lips quirk into a genuine smile. Jean’s beginning to learn the nuances of a Kim smile. Maybe Kim’s learning how to read between his words, too.

“I’d appreciate the company.” There’s a little mischief in his eyes, letting the potential meanings go unclarified.

The expression on Jean’s face in response Kim had not accounted for. He’s an expressive man, and surprise turns to want, to appreciation, to uncertain hesitance, to Jean’s gruff brand of affection wrapped up in a smile. Kim thinks he wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t want to push Jean if he’s still feeling this out.

In many ways, Harry being here would make this easier, Kim thinks. Harry has a habit of dragging secrets out into the light. As it is, it’s up to them both to find the right words at the right time.

“So.” Jean is struggling for those words, his fingers drumming on one thigh. “You and Harry. Do you guys do date nights? Or is Harry’s idea of a good time taking you on an investigation?”

“Khm. Well, if that were the case, you go on more dates with him than I do.” Kim teases, but it’s not exactly a joke: he used to feel prickles of jealousy for the man who follows Harry into hell on the regular. A lot has changed since then.

“Yeah, I can never say no to his debonair invitations to chase down another sequence killer,” Jean deadpans, but he shifts uncomfortably, given the context. He feels he has to elaborate. “I fucked up a lot with Harry, but we never - he was my partner.”

“I know.” Kim puts into words what Jean can’t. “Your relationship was professional.”

Jean barks an empty laugh. “Yeah. Professional.”

“Regardless.” Kim is unfazed.

“You’re right.” Jean’s tone is gruff, but grateful. He sighs. “Didn’t exactly do right by the book, but I want to do right by you. And him. In… whatever the hell this is we’re doing.” His face twitches back into a dry smile. “... The three of us on investigations.”

Kim laughs, caught off guard. He enjoys Jean’s way of phrasing things - often colourful, often slicing and harsh - and sometimes, as here, incisive. Jean chuckles gently with him, cutting through the previous tension. His eyes drop to the newspaper on the tabletop. Jean did ask what a typical date night consists of.

“Here.” Kim leans forward, plucks the sheets and spreads them across the table, the crossword laid out before them. With a scrape of chairs, Jean leans in close to read the clues. It’s a devilish cryptic, but it makes for pleasantly stimulating conversation, rubbing shoulders as they pore over the words. They manage to solve two of them by the time the sound of bubbling water reminds Jean to attend to the coffee.

All is well until Jean grabs the coffee bag from the cupboard, and frowns. It’s not an uncommon expression on him, but it’s frozen on his face.

A pause, and the coffee bag is set down as he unfolds a small piece of paper in his hands. The scowl deepens.

“Of all the -” Jean looks appalled, then amused, and finally, exasperated when he looks at Kim, and thrusts out the paper at him. “A loving missive from our shitkid.”

Kim takes the note, puzzled, but his expression goes through about the same motions as Jean’s when he reads it.

It’s Harry’s handwriting, messy with haste.

Jean -

Hope you’re having fun.

He likes his shoulders rubbed.

I trust you.

A couple of flymarks on the paper - a pause on the pen-tip to select his words, perhaps.

Remind him I trust him.

 - Harry.

“Yeah,” Jean says. “The fucking nerve… he just can’t help himself, can he?”

Kim sighs. He’s marginally annoyed, too, but…

Remind him I trust him.

Something in his gut eases. Harry.

“Kim?”

He looks up from the paper. Jean looks at him now, with a little more worry in his brow. Because he cares. Kim knows right then with absolute certainty that he’s worried Harry’s meddling might drive them apart.

I trust him.

Kim smiles. Despite all his years of a distrustful heart, despite what he thought was his better judgement: I trust you too, Harry. He does. And Harry trusts Jean.

And now Jean is waiting for him to say something.

“... I’d like that coffee,” Kim says. “Then let’s talk about it.”

Jean’s visible discomfort breaks, shoulders easing back. He nods briskly before returning to scooping coffee grounds into the pot receptacle. With his focus back where it needs to be, Kim migrates from the table to the living room sofa, still holding the note.

Harry knows them both too well. Not just that only Jean would make a coffee in the evening, and not just that Kim would invite Jean here tonight. He’s frustratingly uncanny, but even more so when it comes to the two closest men in his life.

But seeing the effort he’s made to orchestrate this - to give them this space. It’s not forcing them together. Harry might be a genius, but Kim knows his partner, and he can follow the threads now: remind him I trust him.

If Harry had wanted to pull their strings, he could have. It wouldn’t even be difficult for him - as this little ploy of his demonstrates. Gently or otherwise, he could have can-opened them both to where he wanted them to be.

Instead what he chose was to give them the opportunity to decide what comes next - without his input, other than his given trust and, naturally, his stamp of approval. Kim can’t begrudge him for wanting a specific outcome from this - especially, if what he suspects, Jean and himself feel the same way about exploring this. From here, there’s many options: how slowly to advance this, and between whom and how. What Jean’s limits and boundaries are; Kim has thought about his own, though he’s not prepared to share all of them at once. What this might look like. How they manage this in their professional lives.

He’s taken out of his thoughts as he inhales the sharp-sweet scent of freshly-brewed coffee, anticipatory neurons firing. The clink of ceramic and chime of a spoon heralds Jean’s approach to the sofa with two steaming mugs. Jean is outwardly calm to a casual observer, but Kim knows his tells, and that Jean is doing his damndest to not appear as nervous as he is: the cups come down hard onto the coffee table.

Kim takes the lead for them both to make themselves comfortable on the squashy old sofa, cradling a mug each. He takes a slow, indulgent sip, the bright, smoky taste flowing over his tongue. It’s a good coffee, and it gives him the space to turn his ruminations to words.

He wants to be sensible.

His eyes drop to Harry’s note.

…

He wants to not be sensible. The messy scrawl repeats its message before his eyes, an affectionate urging from an absent Harry.

With a sigh, he sets down his coffee and half-turns into Jean’s space. He lets his sensible thoughts go. He has Jean close and all to himself (for now), this man who cares so much for both of them.

“I want to kiss you.”

It’s honest, sensible be damned. He chooses to omit again, because this is different from when they kissed before, emotions running high and irradiated by pale.

Jean had started to raise his mug to his mouth, anticipating more words than that, and stops abruptly. Kim’s gratified to see how the lines of Jean’s scowl smooth to something softer, the way his pale eyes sweep over his face.

“Right.” Jean sets down his coffee cup, but doesn’t take up the offer. A man with less composure would take it as rejection, but Kim waits: there’s conflict clearly writ out on Jean’s face. His body angles to his like a plant seeking warmth, his jaw shifts with words found wanting. Whatever reassurance Jean needs, Kim only needs him to voice it.

Sensible thoughts begin to creep in, and so Kim clears his throat. “If you want more time, that’s fine. If you don’t want to - that’s also fine. I want to be clear that I will not hold the decision against you, in any capacity, be it personal or professional.”

“I know that!” Jean barks out, looking immediately frustrated for it. “It’s just…” he blows out a breath, and tips his palms upward where they rest on his knees. “What are we doing, exactly? Where do I fit into…” He gestures, wide and vague. “Is this an… experimental thing, or -”

“It’s not.” Kim cuts in, and rests a hand on Jean’s knee to steady him. “Not for me. And not for Harry.”

He holds Jean’s gaze, trying to communicate a depth of feeling where words are inadequate, fickle things.

Jean swallows, and nods, but the stiff angles of his body, his jaw remain. Kim can’t deny that he’s offering this from a place of safety and security, and how much more of a risk this is for the man before him - it only strikes him here and now how much he has, seeing Jean like this.

“We like you. Harry loves you. We discussed it. We want you with us. As much as possible.”

“... How does this work?” Jean’s voice is quiet.

“However we want it to.” Kim’s own voice is soft, his smile apologetic. He has no answers, no framework for this. They will have to build it. It will be hard work, but worth it.

Jean hums, but his expression says he is anything but satisfied by this answer. Unoffended, Kim waits out the brooding silence that follows.

His patience is rewarded when the other man finally mutters, “... I don’t want to be the one that fucks this up.”

And Kim smiles, he can’t help it. Jean is all coiled tension and snappish in his vulnerability, and it only makes him feel fonder. Jean cares, cares so much. And if that’s his only reason -

“You won’t.” He’s confident of that. He reaches across to cup Jean’s cheek like he’s wanted to. His thumb catches on Jean’s beard, scrapes through the stubble of his cheek. The other man melts into it, eyelashes fluttering, even as he stubbornly tries not to with all the scowling success of a toddler resisting tiredness. He doesn’t stop, letting his thumb stroke along his jaw. He feels more than sees Jean swallow. He hears the unvoiced insecurities in Jean’s shaky exhale that still holds him back.

“Look at me.”

Jean lifts his gaze, leans into the tilt of Kim’s warm hand. Why is this so fucking difficult? Why can’t he just kiss him? He’s so close, and he wants to, but his brain screams that it’s not that fucking simple. This - him and Kim - on some level still feels like a trespass. Harry is finally something resembling happy, for god’s sake. He knows they can’t take it back.

Kim draws closer still, and he takes up all the space until Jean is forced out of his head and into looking at the eyes fixed on his, soft and calm behind his lenses.

“You’ll have both of us.” 

Jean’s breath stills. Both. The word from Kim’s own mouth somehow makes this real, serious, but Kim continues without pause, “we’ll work it out together.”

He closes his eyes, letting the words settle into his bones. Kim is right, and goddamn he should already know this or he wouldn’t even be here, but feeling like a scared little boy, he needed to hear it. When he opens his eyes again, Kim is still there, close enough to feel his breath tickle.

He’s so patient, and he’s being patient for him.

He can’t bear it. He outruns his fears by closing in, to fit his lips to Kim’s, wanting to taste the echoes of his words.

It’s a surprisingly gentle kiss, given their recent history, given the last time they kissed. This time it’s given reverence, unhurried, exploratory. It’s soft presses and lingering contact and contented hums. It’s sweet, affirming their commitment to this change between them. It’s finding their own pace, one of Kim’s hands coming to rest on Jean’s shoulder while Jean’s hand steadies him at his hip. 

A light, fizzing, foreign sensation bubbles up that Jean recognises as joy: he’s allowed to want this, to have this. A low, happy sound reverberates in his throat, and he freezes, immediately mortified for letting it escape him. Worse, Kim pulls back from their kiss. The wide smile Kim gives him, corners of his mouth digging into his cheekbones, makes him realise it’s not just him feeling this way. Kim doesn’t let him dwell on his wayward feelings, pulling him back in; getting more comfortable in the process. Jean winds his arms around Kim's waist and half-tugs him into his lap to get a better angle to kiss him without twisting his neck. 

Kim goes willingly, humming into his mouth in pleased surprise. While Jean’s motives might have been utilitarian, he can’t deny it’s hot having a strong man haul him up with such ease. It turns his thoughts to how far Jean might want to take this tonight, thinking how he wants to feel those muscles jump and flex against his palms.

That is until his lungs, which had been glowing full to burst, rapidly begin to protest their need for air, and their lips part. It takes only a hum on his part to indicate he’d much rather continue kissing, and Jean answers in kind, just as breathless. Breathless, and looking at him with the kind of sweet, desperate devotion Kim has seen on his face only ever for Harry, whenever he thinks he can’t be caught looking at him that way. Jean is so hopelessly expressive, and he conceals his feelings with a near-permanent scowl. Here he isn’t hiding it. It makes his chest constrict seeing him so unguarded, affection blooming in his stomach in kind.

He’s certain his own expression is soft and obvious, and it’s confirmed when Jean’s grey gaze sharpens, and a slight smile tugs at his mouth, tongue making a quick pass over his top lip. All signs point to more kisses as soon as he regains air, and Kim is keen to demonstrate his own enthusiasm for the concept.

Unfortunately, Kim is cursed with a practical mind, and his own smile turns briefly rueful as he sits up, released from Jean’s arms. “Before we continue this, let me turn down the stove. We might actually want dinner later.”

Jean’s heart recovers from its sudden stop with the information that Kim’s leaving is temporary. He doesn’t trust his tongue and nods, sitting up to watch Kim as he goes, not wanting him out of sight. He has a good view as Kim raises his arms to stretch as he walks. It makes him think of a jungle cat, confident and content in its territory.

Kim adjusts the stove dial, and turns around. Jean knows he is staring, but he can’t look away. The other man has him in thrall from a kiss. Oh fuck, who is he kidding - Kim has had some kind of hooks in him since the day he met him on a windswept jetty and faced his hot anger with cool professionalism in defence of Harry.

He shakes his head a little as Kim approaches him, sliding on a smile to replace what he hopes wasn’t a slack-jawed stare. “Dinner secured?”

“Mm. I’d rather not be distracted by thinking about it.” Kim’s answering smile is playfully mischievous as he rejoins him on the sofa, boldly leaning in until Jean is pressed back into the cushions, half-reclined. Jean relaxes and lets Kim slot into his arms, now knowing he has permission to kiss him for as long as he damn well wants. Jean grabs onto this promise, a hand sliding up to cradle the back of Kim’s head for when their lips come together.

There’s no tentativeness this time, Jean sinking into the cushions, drawing up one knee so his leg doesn’t dangle off the sofa and better holds Kim’s frame to his. It’s easy now to let himself be swept away, yield willingly as Kim takes over his senses with a warm hand dragged over his chest with slow deliberateness that sends shivers up his spine. He rumbles approval, chest vibrating beneath Kim’s fingertips.

He feels Kim exhale against his cheek, dragging his lips there. He’s about to ask why, when Kim’s fingers come to rest on the outline of one pectoral.

“Jean.” It takes a lot not to shiver at hearing Kim form his name with soft susurration, as if exhaled in a plume of smoke from his precious one-a-day. But when Kim declares in the same low voice, “I want to take you to bed,” he can’t suppress the shudder that rolls through him.

He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Thought we weren’t - we weren’t playing shitkid games.”

The warmth of Kim’s breath leaves his skin as the man sits up just enough to look him in the eye. “I want to take you to bed.”

Kim can feel how Jean’s breath catches, a sudden stillness beneath his hand. He sees his grey eyes darken to thunderstorms, his tongue darting over his lips.

“Though, I consider this a perfectly good evening also,” Kim adds, to make clear this is honesty, and not expectation. He smiles; that doesn’t mean he can’t also lean in, and murmur against Jean’s lips. “I’m not one to rush good things.”

And he’s not. He waits, tension thrumming as he supports himself over Jean, watching his eyebrows knit together in an expression of disbelief. He lets Jean’s eyes rove over his face, lets him read that he means it. He sees the change on Jean’s face, the glint of playfulness that settles over his features. 

“I know,” Jean growls. “You’re a man of infinite fucking patience.”

It’s a statement of fact, but he’s genuinely grateful for it. His own patience ever-thin, Kim temptingly close, he tugs him down and kisses him like the first time they kissed when everything was a whirlwind; he licks into Kim’s mouth, hungry to absorb more of him, to fill the empty spaces inside him. Kim gives as good as he gets, pressing into him with body and mouth until the other man moans softly underneath him.

And then he pulls back. “Yes?” He asks, simply.

Jean just breathes for a moment, in-out, in-out, before he finds his voice. “Hell yes. Though give me a minute, I think I just lost all the blood in my brain.”

Kim chuckles at that. His smile stays through giving Jean a hand to his feet, and through nudging him with one hand set on Jean’s broad chest all the way from the sofa to the threshold of the bedroom. It’s a delight to see the younger man yield to him, gentle and stumbling, caught up in being so manhandled: those pretty eyes of his and his sharp edges turned soft, just for him. It’s Kim’s turn to be robbed of breath to have him so pliable.

Jean recovers enough of himself to press back against Kim, insistent and stubborn until he can wind his arms around Kim and kiss him again, and then it’s Jean tugging Kim and it’s all push and pull until they fall onto the mattress in a tangle of legs and fists caught in shirts, a playful tussle of want. It’s all fun and games until Kim’s glasses threaten to fall off his face, and finally he has to sit up and take a moment to adjust them.

Setting them back to their rightful place allows him to appreciate the sight of Jean reclined beside him on the bed, breathing hard. His shirt is rumpled askew, and with each full rise of his chest, muscles strain against the buttons. Better than that - when he can finally pull his gaze upward - is the grin Jean wears.

“Got this all planned out?” The grin is a challenge, his usual brand of affectionate snark.

“Maybe.” Kim is not about to reveal exactly how much thought he’s given to this - Harry had been all too delighted to contribute additions to Kim’s fantasies of a pliant Jean. Still, this is as good a segue as any to find out how many of his plans he can enact. “I know last time was… a little head-first, but is there anything you don’t like?” He smiles. “Or anything you did?”

Jean huffs. “If I object to anything, I’ll let you know about it.” It’s a testament to his upper body strength that he pushes himself up to sitting in one fluid movement, and to his desire, as he takes hold of the hem of Kim’s shirt. “First, I want your goddamn clothes off.”

“Wait.”

Jean blessedly does so, jaw tense. Kim quickly reassures.

“Glasses.”

Kim sets them aside on the bedside table, and then obligingly raises his arms so Jean can pull off his shirt. He doesn’t get to see where it is thrown to as Jean kisses him again, and neither does he care: Jean kisses in the same way he loves, all ferocity. He’s still dizzy, riding the high of it, the sting of stubble burn when Jean tips him back onto the mattress and divests him efficiently of everything below the waist.

And yet, for all Jean is fierce, he doesn’t feel the disparity in being nude where Jean is still fully clothed. Not with the way the man looks at him, that intense gaze made tender, all lashes as his gaze sweeps over him. Kim doesn’t even get the chance to feel self-conscious as Jean crawls over him, pushing a kiss square in the centre of his chest. He sighs, breath warmed by the gesture.

Jean doesn’t stop. His kisses are peppered like raindrops, made sweeter with the scrape of his beard over the sensitised skin, a meandering trail from sternum to shoulder, from his neck to his belly until Kim finds himself squirming, fingers flexing into the sheets.

“S-stop,” he manages, in a gasp.

Jean’s head lifts, and looks at him inquisitively. It’s almost spooky, the way he mirrors Harry’s habit of reading every micro-expression he must be making, because after a few seconds of this analysis, Jean smirks. “You’re ticklish, huh?”

“A little, but please don’t.” Despite his stern plea, Kim braces for experimental, wiggling fingers.

Jean hums agreeably. “Okay. Was the kissing elsewhere okay, or…?” He manages a nonchalant shrug, even messily sprawled down the end of the bed as he is.

Kim is too distracted to answer. A stab of fondness fills him for how hard Jean tries, as he does with everything. Kim just wants to show Jean he’s allowed to have what he wants. He has nothing to prove here. He shifts so he’s reclined back against the pillows, half sitting up, the better to see Jean’s face even without his glasses.

“What do you want, Jean?” He asks, far more soft this time.

Jean’s eyebrows raise in response to the tonal shift; there’s no bite back this time. His tongue darts over his lips, betraying his thoughts before he gets the words out. “... I want to suck you off.” He fights not to break Kim’s gaze, despite the fiery blush that creeps above his beard.

He’s not shy about the act, god no. He’s aflame because he wants to so badly.

Kim blinks, but Jean’s expression is so deathly serious that it’s hard to fight back a smile. He reaches down and runs a hand through Jean’s thick hair until he can stroke against his scalp: he wants to savour the words for a few moments longer. Jean leans into it, his eyes falling closed. He makes a mental note that he likes that. He then thinks back on their previous encounter.

“Have you…?”

Jean shakes his head before he can even ask. “Only when you and Harry, uh. A bit.” But through the blush, there’s a glimmer of a smile, and his voice, already coiled low, turns sweet and rumbling. “But… I’m certain you’d be an excellent teacher.”

Oh, curse him for remembering. Kim can’t hide how much he likes the idea, having to bite the inside of his lip to contain himself so he doesn’t just flop back and let Jean have at him; if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do this right. Jean’s grin spreads wide and bright and boyish with glee down around his middle, and he can’t wait to see what he can do with that clever mouth of his. 

The gauntlet is thrown: damn right he’ll be a good teacher.

“Khm. Maybe.” Kim restrains himself to modesty, in voice at least. There’s also some practicalities to address, reluctant as he is to admit it. “I should mention, I find it difficult to orgasm from oral alone.”

“Regardless. I’ll give it a good damn go.” Jean pushes himself up on his forearms for a moment, sparing Kim from having to squint down at him by bringing them level. He wants Kim to see he’s in earnest, games aside. “I want to. Let me.”

Seeing Jean’s expression up close is mesmerising in its intensity. Apparently he’s not the only one who has fantasised about what could be possible, and he’s the lucky object of that fantasy. His hand follows Jean’s head to continue appreciatively raking through his hair. Jean’s eyes slide closed.

He looks lovely, Kim thinks, with his marked face lit up in pink, the stress-deep furrows of his brow evened out under his caresses. He lets his fingers slide over his bearded cheek, and gently presses into the hollow to encourage his jaw to open, sliding his thumb over the man’s lower lip. His pleased sigh is echoed by a low hum when Jean takes it fully into his mouth and sucks. 

He is a very good student. Kim doesn’t even have to give instruction as Jean takes the practice run for what it is, tongue exploring the pad with a slow and deliberate firmness; Kim can swear he can feel Jean lick over every single groove of his thumbprint. When Jean hums low in his throat, Kim slides in a finger, and watches Jean adjust to take it deeper, tilting his head into it so he can properly suck. He continues to stroke Jean’s hair with his free hand, humming his approval.

He tries and tests him by rocking his finger and thumb, pleased to feel the absence of teeth, but he can’t resist slowly spreading a gap between them for the pleasure of seeing Jean’s mouth stretch a little around him, before letting them slip back into the welcoming wet heat.

“Very good, Jean,” he murmurs, pleased at how quick a study he is. 

When Jean opens his eyes again, they are that much hazier, pupils dark; between that and his low rumbles of pleasure, it’s the heralding of a thunderstorm. Kim is quietly thrilled to be caught in it.

He hums and slips his fingers free, and Jean looks at him through lashes, like he needs permission to continue. Maybe he does - or maybe it’s newness and nerves. Either way, Kim smiles, before giving his head a gentle push down in the right direction.

Jean takes the path down his body with his nose and mouth pressed hot against his skin, beard tickling his chest and belly as kisses are lavished downward, wet and open-mouthed: firmer than last time. A breath becomes a gasp he can’t hold in.

“Good?” Jean rasps, head tipping up to confirm the noise is a good one. Kim nods, more economical than words when he wants Jean’s mouth back on him: it’s good, but more than that, it’s so painfully clear how much Jean wants him, on all fours on muscular forearms as he slithers down his torso without breaking contact. Kim spreads his legs further to accommodate, and instantly Jean’s hands explore the softness of his inner thighs with his palms, as if he can’t bear to leave any part of Kim untouched in this process.

Jean slows here. He’s daunted, but that’s not why he lingers. He drinks in the sight of Kim laid bare, aware of how relaxed his body is against the sheets, how much trust he’s been given. His lungs burn with affection, and in a surge of appreciation, he presses a kiss onto one thigh to let a little of it out.

Kim sighs above him. It’s praise, and he’s not even fucking done anything, but his skin is alight with it and he wants to hear more. He hums low, and settles himself draped over Kim’s hips. He eyes up his prize, from the bright sleek curve resting against his belly down to his balls, pulled tight. His mouth pools with saliva. He hasn’t the slightest fucking clue what he’s doing - he's regretting not making more notes when being the recipient - but he trusts that Kim will give him the tutelage he needs.

It’s with that thought he wraps a hand around the heat of him, and fuck, he’s shaking. He’s wanted this for so damn long, in so many ways. He’s wanted a man. He’s wanted to suck dick. He’s wanted to see Kim outside his parade rest, unlayered, unfiltered. He’s wanted Kim, in regretful little fits of fantasy he boxed up tight and packed away because he’s not Harry, he doesn’t just walk in and fuck things up and leave the mess for everyone else to -

God, he’s grateful to him. For giving them both this chance.

He focuses on the present, on having Kim’s dick in his grip, hot and unyielding against his palm, so close he’s a breath away. He presses his mouth over the tip, salt blooming on his tongue as he licks, familiarises himself with the feel of it. A hand settles into his hair, heavy but not pushing. As he explores, blunt fingernails gently scratch at his scalp, and he hums, eyelids fluttering. He really, really likes that, and Kim’s fingers are careful and precise as they smooth through the wiry strands.

He kisses the exposed glans, then lets his tongue drag over the skin to the base as if he could measure Kim’s dick with his mouth: whatever the number, it’s more than enough for him to taste and lick and kiss and press his nose down into the short wiry hairs to inhale the scent of him. He indulges every whim he’s ever had, years of repression unleashed to lavish Kim’s cock with his mouth.

“There, again - use the flat of your tongue,” Kim urges, and hums pleasure as Jean does just that.

Hearing Kim make such a lovely noise makes Jean want to do more. He makes the snap decision to go for it, licking his way up and over the head once more until his lips encircle the crown. 

He swallows down, down as far as he can and quietly revels at Kim’s soft whine when he sucks. He repeats the action, but this time, struggles to take in enough air without breathing in through his mouth, forcing him to surface with a wet pop from the vacuum of his mouth, gasping. He frowns, annoyed with himself: it’s one thing to joke about needing lessons, but he’s not a fumbling teenager anymore.

“You’re doing fine,” Kim breathes, and means it. Looking down at the lovely mess of Jean, he’s in no rush. “Take your time.”

Jean hums absently in acknowledgement, and then dips his head so fast that Kim’s next breath stutters as he’s engulfed in heat, the head of his cock briefly grazing against the other man’s soft palate. He’s momentarily overwhelmed, so much so that he feels more than hears Jean moan around him, slower as he raises his head and sinks once more.

For someone having had the barest amount of practice, he’s very good; Kim knows his first blowjob was not nearly so adept, all fumbling and teeth. Jean has the advantage of age, wisdom, and experience receiving to give him an edge, and it makes Kim appreciate all the more that given Jean’s had ample opportunity since their last encounter, Jean chose him for this particular little induction to the underground. 

“That’s good - slowly, let me feel you,” Kim instructs, when he manages to get the words out; Jean’s enthusiasm is something to behold - and struck with the thought, he stretches toward the bedside table to retrieve his glasses, capturing them by fingertips. He’s glad he did when he settles them to regain his vision.

Jean is gorgeous, and now he can take in the details: he can count each of his dark eyelashes where they flutter against his cheekbones. The tiny little fold in his brow, for once not set in a sharp frown but from sheer concentration; utterly devoted to the task. His hair is a mess, thick enough to show evidence of how Kim’s hands have run through it. The subtle ripples and flexes of his muscular shoulders and forearms strain against his shirt as he uses his strength to support his own weight, his grip unfaltering at the base of his cock.

It’s all for him. His ears burn red with the thought to match the ache in his lungs. His world had been solitary before Harry. How does he have two brilliant men that adore him as much as he adores them…?

Maybe Jean can sense his distraction, maybe he just felt him shift to retrieve his glasses, but suddenly Jean’s eyes are fixed bright on his, no doubt checking for evidence he’s doing this right. He feels exposed, caught in his feelings. Being pinned by that gaze, his cock twitches against the other man's tongue.

Jean pulls up and off him, hand taking over fully from his mouth. Like this, the hard lines in his mouth and eyes have given way to tenderness that radiates in an unexpectedly soft smile. He’s a beautiful mess.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Jean’s voice scrapes through gravel, but his tone is reverant, gentle.

Kim stares back at him - lips flushed and dewy, eyes hungry, heedless of his rumpled shirt sticking to his back, and almost wants to argue the point. He’s diverted however as Jean goes back down on him, words popping out of existence like the centre of the Pale. He might not come from this, but Jean is certainly gunning for it. His only real concern is the other man’s jaw might tire from the effort in not too long.

Caught in his thoughts, he lets his gaze follow the lines of Jean’s shoulders, and finally notices two important things: the arm that’s not jacking him off disappears out of line-of-sight, muscles still shifting, and Jean’s trousered hips are rhythmically bouncing against the mattress.

“Jean.” It comes out a sigh, and he’s forced to repeat himself. “Jean. That’s enough. Up.” It’s a command, but it’s softened by his hand skimming over his profile to cup his cheek.

Jean lifts his head fuzzily. He was deep into the rhythm of it, desperately trying to coordinate his mouth and hand and then do something about his own state of arousal, trapped between trouser fabric and the bed. It’s with a grunt that he extricates his hand from his trousers and sits up onto his haunches, wiping his mouth on his forearm, breathing hard; he can’t think to coordinate his next move when he’s this light-headed, his cock throbbing in complaint like a second heartbeat.

Fortunately he doesn’t need to, as Kim brings himself up onto his knees and shuffles in close enough to pop open buttons on his shirt. 

“You can do that again another time,” Kim assures, his eyes wandering down Jean’s body, lingering between his thighs. It takes him a moment to find the way back up to his face. “But I want more of you.”

“Fuck,” Jean murmurs, as Kim makes quick work of his shirt, and the cool air is such a relief on his overheated skin as it flutters out of view. But Kim’s hands don’t stop, hot like brands on his bare chest as they greedily rove his musculature. He groans, practically pushing his chest forward into his hands, as desperate as he is to be touched. “Kim…”

Kim smiles, all teeth. This is what he loves, making a big strong man fall to pieces. There’s still a long way to go, and too much in the way, as a couple of fingers catch in the belt loops of Jean’s trousers. “Mm. Take them off, please.”

Jean doesn’t need to be told twice: as soon as Kim releases him, he yanks the button and fly open. He’ll later lament ruining the perfectly pressed wool in his haste to shuck them off, forming a crumpled pile when they slide off the bed. He’s too preoccupied with dispensing with his socks with all haste because there’s nothing at all sexy about having to sit up and peel them off, dropping them one by one to the floor.

Kim is watching nonetheless. Jean’s acutely aware, licking his lips as he works down the waistband of his underwear, his cock springing free and hanging heavy as he slides the last of the fabric barriers down his legs, and those too are lost to the aether beyond the bed. He’s on his knees and looks to Kim - for instruction, for approval, for anything.

But Kim remains quiet a moment longer. He can’t help but reflect on how his lovers differ from one another: Harry stripping is a tornado of loosed clothes hitting the walls, with socks often lost for weeks behind the dresser. It’s inelegant but charming in his desperate haste, often with doing himself an injury contorting to wrestle off a shoe instead of stopping to undo it. Jean’s approach is more methodical, but the way he doesn’t even stop to see where each article has gone speaks to his desire. 

He can’t wait to have both of them, to see how they fit together. But now -

Jean is stunning. He drinks in the exhibit of him now on display. He’s handsome and muscular, et cetera et cetera, but it’s more than just his physical attributes that has Kim hooked.

It’s how Jean waits for him when he's so hard, skin flushed and sweat collecting on his skin, the scent of mingled arousal and cologne pouring off him. He waits, while looking at him with such obvious desire. He waits, trusting that Kim will do him right.

Kim exhales slowly to ground himself, and sets his mind to showing Jean how much he’s wanted him.

He closes the space between them without taking his eyes off Jean's. Still on his knees, Kim places a hand on his chest, drags it down his abs and takes him in hand. The other man’s breath stutters as he strokes him in long, firm pulls: he’s not going to leave Jean wanting.

Firm, warm hands fasten onto his hips, and Jean's mouth falls open as his eyes screw shut.

“Look at me.” 

It’s lovely watching Jean try so hard to obey, lashes quivering as he struggles not to let his eyes slide closed. It’s even better watching his face, the way the years and burdens seem to fall from his features as Kim holds his gaze, not hiding how he desires the younger man. The pink turns more fiery across his cheeks, his jaw still slightly open as he takes quickened sips of air.

A shaky exhale is all the warning Kim gets before Jean uses his considerable strength to pull Kim into his arms, his lap, and into a kiss. How could he not, the way Kim looks at him? The feelings he stirs up inside him, reflected in his dark eyes? He needs to kiss him more than he needs oxygen. He wants to feel his lungs burn, wants to drown in Kim.

He gets his wish. He’s lightheaded as his back hits the mattress, but the only thing that parts his lips from Kim’s is an involuntary gasp, when the other man’s hips shift against this. “Oh fuck.” His head tilts into the sheets, overwhelmed.

Kim hums and fastens his mouth to the exposed line of Jean’s neck, tasting his jumping pulse. Jean’s hips jump with it. His arms enveloping Kim tighten reflexively.

“You’re fucking killing me,” Jean groans, while still leaving his neck exposed to Kim’s attentions. “This is the way I always wanted to die. Don’t stop.”

Kim snorts against his jaw. He can’t help it, caught utterly off-guard by Jean’s deadpan delivery: while entirely in-character for him, he hadn’t expected it while in bed with the man.

“Mm. I prefer you alive. More responsive that way.” 

He sucks hard against his skin; his point is made as Jean lets out a strangled moan. He’s so tempted to repeat the motion, but he can feel how restlessly the other man’s body shifts under his. He promised him more than just endless teasing.

He reaches up and strokes Jean’s now-wild, sweaty hair away from his face, and the younger man leans into his touch until they are face to face once more.

Jean smiles, a bright, genuine gem that Kim has unearthed from the bedspread, though that doesn’t stop his usual sardonicism. “Guess I live to see another day.” 

He flexes beneath Kim, tilting his hips in hopes of continuing where they left off, but the other man deliberately pushes himself up out of easy reach. He makes a frustrated sound, straining upward. “Nngh - Kim, c’mon!”

A pair of hands settle on his thighs and stroke soothingly while still pressing down. Jean stills, even as he wonders if the other man still intends to kill him through spiked blood pressure. Kim smiles beatifically down at him like he doesn’t feel Jean’s desperation. Even so, there’s tells that his famed composure is being tested. Jean can see the heave of his chest, and feel the minute trembling in the fingertips set against his skin.

“Look at you,” Kim breathes, soft and confessional, his thumbs and fingers making meaningless little sweeping circles in place. “There’s so much I want to do with you.”

It catches Jean off-guard, the emotion behind it, and he laughs shakily even as his chest aches with longing and love. It’s so much easier to hide behind his reflexive snark.

“Then could you hurry up and do them?” The words should bite, but his voice cracks over them.

“Khm.” Kim’s fingertips squeeze into the muscle of his thighs, but his voice stays soft and steady. “I would, but generally, I like to obtain consent before I put my fingers or my cock inside someone.”

That shuts Jean up properly.

He has no hope in hell in hiding how he feels about this. He’s fantasised about those fingers and what they’ve done to him, and what they could yet do to him. He’s had only a taste of what Kim could do, and it’s left him wanting more. His mouth works for a moment, the words unable to find their way out. He swallows thickly, and nods twice in succession, before remembering how to breathe.

“Yes,” he manages, a hoarse whisper.

“Yes?” Kim’s voice lilts, and Jean knows what he has to say.

“I want that. You.” He’s said it. It’s a relief to say, and his next breath is deep, steadying, because nothing will stop the flood from spilling out of him now. “God, Kim, I’ve fucking wanted you to give it to me for god knows how long.”

Kim’s eyes widen, but Jean doesn’t stop. “You were Harry’s - and then everything that happened -  and I haven’t stopped thinking about what you could do - and I only had your goddamn fingers - ”

Kim makes a noise despite himself, he hadn’t expected Jean to be so effusive. It takes a moment to regain his senses and not just immediately see to giving Jean what he’s asking for. He knows Jean, and his propensity to push himself.

“I’d love to know what you imagined,” Kim says. “What you’d have liked me to do, if you had the chance to ask me. If you’d found out how much I wanted you.” He shakes his head slightly, a gentle smile playing. Now is not the time for it, but some other time… “How would you like this to go?”

Jean swallows thickly. Kim cares about him. He’s been given the option to set the pace, to go slow and gentle if he needs.

It’s not what he wants.

“... How you were with Harry,” he admits, gruffly. “I want that. To really feel it. It was hot seeing you like that. I want to feel you cut loose like that… for me.”

God, that low growl on that last word does it. Kim groans brokenly, and his mouth is on Jean’s, as if he could seal the words in before his composure breaks entirely. His hands roam all of Jean with possessive greediness without finesse; there’s no grace, no thought behind it. He hadn’t even taken a breath, and the kiss is as short as it is artless, but it doesn’t matter.

What matters is rolling Jean onto his stomach, encouraging him to all fours, and - 

“- wider, that’s it,” he coaxes, as Jean obligingly sets his thighs further apart, head pillowed on his arms. “Perfect.”

Jean tries to watch him out of the corner of his eye, as much as he can given the inconvenience of the angle, as Kim slips off the bed to pull open the drawer of the bedside cabinet.

“How prepared are you?” Kim asks, as casually as he can manage. He has a towel in his hands, and is considering the merits of another.

“... I used up all the hot water in the shower.”

“Khm.” Kim’s ears burn hot. That’s certainly an image to enjoy later. Right now, Jean creates a pretty picture waiting for him. He gathers the rest of his prizes to return to the bed.

God. The sight of Jean - buttoned-uniform, sarcasm-incarnate Jean - now stripped down and spread out obligingly, ass in the air…

Jean huffs from his arms. “It’s not all that to look at,” he grumbles, because he wants Kim to hurry up already, and he’s not going to wiggle his ass at him to get him to do it.

“I beg to differ.” Kim settles, still admiring the view, and he sets his hands to better appreciate the curvaceous bounty.

Jean snorts, equal parts annoyed, amused, and pleased that Kim considers his derriere worth a detour. His breath hitches as Kim’s fingertips circle in, brushing over more sensitive skin. A whine escapes him, he’s so desperate for more, but he won’t beg, he won’t -

“Kim.” His voice is clipped, trying to hold it in. “Please.”

Kim smiles. Well. He did ask nicely. And he wants Jean just as much. His only concern is around adequate preparation. Kim is uncompromising on this point, especially with a new partner. Fortunately, there are many ways to warm Jean up, and at least one of them aligns with his own desire to savour this part of Jean.

It isn’t his favourite act, being as fastidious as he is, though Harry has been enthusiastically persuasive about changing his mind. Judging from how much Jean enjoyed being prepared last time, Kim suspects he’ll be delightfully sensitive. He’s assured by Jean’s hygiene and fuelled by impulse and the opportunity is too good to miss.

He gives Jean some warning, hands gently prising him apart, and letting his breath ghost over his skin.

Jean shivers at the unexpected feeling of cool air as he’s exposed and the sudden contrasting warmth of Kim’s breath. His own stills, as he realises what Kim intends.

He gasps.

The lewd sweep of tongue sends electricity up his spine that wipes his thoughts, his brain offline from a tongue-tip magnetic pulse that leaves only his own frantic heartbeat ringing in his ears. His fingers tighten in the sheets.

And Kim does it again.

Jean buries his face, muffling the groan that’s ripped from him as Kim works him over. If he had any coherency left for thought, he would be mortified - he’s vaguely aware that he’s making sounds, that his whole body is quivering against Kim’s hands. He gets a mere second of reprieve to gasp for air as Kim mouths at his balls, dizzy with sensation, before Kim’s mouth returns to setting every nerve ending alight.

Kim, for his part, can’t help but feel a little proud of himself for his correct guess, and his lips spread into a private grin at the thought of how Harry will react when he learns of this later. He’ll look forward to watching Harry doing this, and getting to see Jean’s face - he can only imagine what he looks like when he’s making such gorgeous noises like this. He’s even more responsive than he had hoped.

Jean chokes out a sob, and Kim eases up the pace, letting his tongue drag slowly over saliva-slick skin, eliciting another full-body shiver beneath his grasp. He wonders if he can make Jean come just from this. As tempting as the idea is, he has promises he means to fulfil.

That, and Jean has finally got enough air to swear a storm between his laboured gasps for breath. He twists just enough to snarl the words over his shoulder.

“Kim - for fuck’s sake - fuck me already!”

“... Khm.”

It’s all Kim can manage as a reply, needing to take a deep breath. Hearing Jean demand him in that strong voice - it takes a moment to recover from the wave of heat that floods him. It’s a small mercy that Jean doesn’t notice the effect he’s had, and he covers the moment by reaching swiftly for a condom, wiping his mouth on his arm.

The foil sounds loud in the room, slicing through their breathing. The mattress creaks as Kim shifts, the click of the lubricant pump giving Jean adequate warning of the two cool, slick fingers that press and explore; a distinct contrast to the heat of Kim’s mouth.

And then he stops breathing altogether from anticipation, as Kim’s knees and calves come to rest inside his own. A solid, careful hand on his lower back; affectionate, grounding. And then -

The stretch, the little grunt out of Kim as he slides in…

“Jean.” Kim sighs his name with all the reverence of a new Innocence. Jean has to bite his lip not to make a pitiful noise in response.

“... Was that good?” Kim’s voice is gentle, but concerned. Maybe he didn’t muffle it as well as he thought.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he manages. His voice is not cooperating.

Kim hums. His hands set on Jean’s flanks, caressing and squeezing appreciatively enroute to his hips. He lets his own do the talking, the slightest rocking motions that are as maddening for him as they must be for Jean.

“Kim…” Jean’s voice is back, a low and threatening growl. Kim fights a smile, and convinced of Jean’s well-being, takes him to the hilt.

Both men gasp at once, and Jean shudders hard. Kim’s balance falters, his whole body weight tipped onto Jean so he’s sprawled across his back. He’s flustered, and more so that Jean hardly finds it a struggle to support him, the only hint being a minute tremble of muscle beneath his skin. He should pull himself up, but god, he doesn’t want to. Jean is so warm.

“Fuck.” Jean’s voice has more tremble in it than his body does. He’s overwhelmed, in the best possible way, Kim filling all his senses. The only thing that could make it better is if he could kiss him, but he can’t; he’s no contortionist.

But Kim presses a kiss against his nape, murmuring an apology as he does so. Jean squirms, sighs, and Kim dispenses more, each one more devastating for its softness than the last, incongruent with how hard Kim feels inside him. He buries his face into the pillow as sentimental words threaten to flow from his lips. Too much, too soon. But god, each sweet little kiss from the stoic Lieutenant threatens to undo him.

It’s a mercy when Kim shifts, recentering himself. His fingertips, warm and firm, come to settle at his hips, and it feels just as steadying for Jean to know he’s in such good hands. He pushes his hips up, satisfied at eliciting a surprised-pleased grunt out of his partner, who takes the hint. Kim’s hips smack against his ass and he sees stars.

It’s just as he wanted, just as he imagined from watching him fuck Harry - Kim doesn’t coddle him, just fucks him hard - and with his head tipped back, the moan that leaves him is resonant from his very bones. He presses back, encouraging more without having to ask for it. He knows he’s going to feel it later, but he doesn’t care. He wants everything Kim can give him.

And Kim gives. He’s the same in bed as he is in his work: single-minded focus on the task at hand, and just as conscientious. He strokes Jean’s back with a strong, sure hand. He’s not shy of pulling Jean’s hips up against his, or pressing down on his shoulders to intensify the angle. The latter action lights Jean up like fireworks. Fuck, he sort-of knew he wanted Kim Kitsuragi to push him around a little, but that sees it confirmed.

His world becomes narrowed to hazy bliss and sensation as he falls into the rhythm of it, and then Kim inexplicably slows. Jean lets out a low whine of frustration. Alright, so he knows that he can’t take hours of that kind of pounding, but he can take enough. He grunts and shoves his hips back.

He can feel Kim’s stomach quiver with silent mirth - too breathless to laugh. “Let me - catch my breath.” The hand on Jean’s hip pats his lower back - clumsy, but soothing.

Kim finds it endearing as it is delicious that Jean is comfortable enough to ask for what he wants, given his relative newness to taking cock. His enthusiasm too, but he’s equally guilty - he normally knows to pace himself, to switch up rhythm. But the sounds Jean made, every line of his body cued for the next thrust - Kim wanted to keep him like that as long as he could. Already, he’s rocking his hips that bit faster, feeling Jean quiver while trying not to impatiently push back for more.

Jean is so tempting, and he’s not even trying to be. Kim considers handing over the reins to let Jean drive, put those strong muscles to good use - he’d look so good spread over his lap, bouncing on his cock - but god, this first time together, he wants to be the one that makes Jean come, and he’s willing to put in the work to make it happen.

He shifts and pulls Jean back against him with momentum, and adores how Jean gasps, his breath stuttering into a repetition of “ah” as their bodies collide again and again. It coils low in his gut, how deeply he feels, until it bursts free in an exhale.

 “Jean.”

Jean groans. Kim is not allowed to sound like that, not if he has any hope of lasting more than a few minutes. “God, Kim, feels good,” he manages to gasp, because the last thing he wants is for Kim to stop.

“Are you close?” Kim asks, blunt and breathless. He knows the general signs, but he doesn’t yet know Jean. He feels more than hears the rumbling affirmative, mumbled into pillows. He wants to hear it. “Jean. Tell me.”

“Fuck.” It’s still muffled, but god, how can Jean deny a direct order from a superior officer - especially when Kim’s voice is strained from exertion? He lifts onto his elbows, but his head remains drooped; it’s easier to confess that way. “Y-Yeah. Gonna blow in another minute.”

Hot shame briefly creeps in over his face. He’s not normally so quick - and yes, it’s been an evening of teasing and he’s been hot for Kim for a while and he got to suck him off like he wanted and -

“I want you to.” For all that it’s breathy, Kim’s voice is firm and decisive; hungry, chasing away any doubts Jean had. In the wake of his words, Kim’s hand quests in a searing drag against his lower belly, making the muscles jump as Jean realises his intent, and begins to think a minute was being too optimistic. 

Kim’s hand takes him firmly, and he doesn’t play around: he jacks him with perfect quick strokes, with ruthless precision, until Jean knows he is moaning and swearing but he has no control over any of it, lost to the rising tidal wave of sensation.

Kim’s eyes lock onto the rolling lines of Jean’s back, and it nearly takes his breath away. He’s doing his damndest to keep going, to not let stars take over his vision, lest he miss a second of watching Jean shuddering apart. He bites his lip, trying to stave off the desperate pull he feels just a little longer: between having the younger man’s growling voice lifted in pleasure and the sense-memory of his lips and tongue wrapped around him earlier - it won’t take much. A welcome surprise at his age, but he’s not going to stop short of seeing Jean come first. His chances are good; he can hear the edge in Jean’s gasps.

The body beneath his jolts, and he can feel Jean come into his hand, but Kim doesn’t get to see him tremblingly collapse into the sheets, the world whited out by the force of his own orgasm. After the world stops sparkling enough to come back into focus, he realises how deeply his fingers have dug into Jean’s hips, and releases him, rubbing soothing circles in place over the impressions he made.

Jean doesn’t seem to mind, or notice. He’s face down, chest heaving. Kim isn’t about to interrupt his recovery - or the pretty image of him utterly ruined - and takes the moment to carefully extricate himself, tie off the condom, and dispose of it.

Turning back to the bed, Jean is still sprawled out on his belly. It makes Kim’s lips twitch into a smile. It’s nice to know he still has it, though he is a little worried by the other man’s continued silence. He sits on the edge of the bed, and runs a hand gently down the slope of his back.

“How are you feeling?”

Jean shifts and mumbles into a pillow, and lazily gropes in his direction, an arm questing across the bed in hopes of finding Kim and pulling him into his arms. Yes, he’s clingy after sex, but goddamn, he’s allowed to be, in the sweating-trembling aftermath.

But the bed dips, and the rush of cool air marks Kim’s departure. Jean freezes, his stomach drops, and he doesn’t open his eyes. Stupid, really, for him to assume without asking.

He can hear Kim’s feet pad somewhere nearby. The hiss of the bathroom tap moments later pin-points his location. The water runs twice more, and it feels like eternity.

Jean considers the merits of getting up. It feels presumptuous to get under the blankets when Kim clearly isn’t the cuddling type, but the sweat is beginning to chill on his skin. He should probably clean up and put clothes on. Pull on a smile, while he’s at it: he has no right to complain, skin still zinging with pleasurable aftershocks.

He hears Kim leave the bathroom, footsteps returning to the bedroom. Jean scowls into his pillow and tells himself to get a grip, and forces himself to sit up.

It’s worth it. Kim is still gloriously nude and comfortable with it, wearing only his glasses and a smile. A smile aimed at Jean that is so soft that Jean finds his disappointment melted like butter.

“Here.” Kim’s voice is so warm that it wraps him like a blanket, and he can’t speak, even as Kim sits at the edge of the bed and hands him a hot cloth, carefully wrung. “Clean up and get more comfortable.”

He’s not wrong, Jean is sticky and slick and frankly, a little sore. He can’t even feel self-conscious about putting it to immediate use, the warmth a relief on his tender muscles. It’s a little bit thrilling to feel where Kim’s fucked him open and soft, a pleasing ache.

“Done?” Kim takes the cloth with a smile. He chivvies Jean to roll over to take the towel as well. Both are consigned to the laundry hamper without a backward glance. That dealt with, Kim removes his glasses, setting them on the bedside table once more.

Jean suddenly has arms full of Kim as the man slips onto the bed and up against him. Kim looks… delighted, eyes sparkling, and then he’s kissed, and his stomach swoops again in a wholly different way. Kim kisses him with slow indulgence. He tastes of mint, and Jean puts two-and-two together before all his cognitive abilities are swept away.

He wraps his arms around Kim, caging him in close just as he wanted. He touches Kim’s hair, explores neck and shoulders and every other part he can smooth his palms over to claim as his. Kim hums, pleasure and encouragement, with no urgency behind it. It’s exactly what Jean needed, scouring his doubts until he’s feeling almost giddy with post-coital bliss.

It means when their lips part, Kim is treated to Jean’s unguarded smile. It makes him want to kiss the man all over again. He restrains himself to merely stroking his fingers against his jaw, stretching out the moment just that little bit longer. Jean leans into it, rumbling contentment.

The temptation to draw in under the blankets, cocooned in muscle and Jean’s steady affection is difficult to resist. He does, however, let himself linger, quietly counting out the rhythm of Jean's breath where his chest rises against his resting hand.

When he draws back against the settling cold, the disappointed moue of Jean's mouth almost makes him crawl back into bed to kiss it.

“Dinner?” He prompts, hoping he can tempt Jean out of bed, rather than be tempted back into it.

“Hnn. You really know how to woo a guy.” Jean's mouth tips into a smile again as he stands up.

“I should hope so.” Kim allows the kiss that follows… until it is interrupted by the rumble of his stomach.

That doesn’t stop him from kissing Jean again when they return to the kitchen, just before dinner is served. Or after a shared cigarette, leaning out of the window.

And if Jean had any lingering doubts that he’s earned a second date, his detective’s memory for detail serves him well. Harry is right: Kim really likes his shoulders rubbed.

*

Pale travel is unpredictable at the best of times, but it’s nonetheless a pleasant surprise to Harry to land back on Insulindian soil almost two hours early. It didn’t feel any faster, but time means little in interisolary travel.

He’s weary, but triumphant. Not from a case, but from something altogether different. An echo of his past life as a teacher, but without the unpleasant ghosts: something new, exciting. He can’t wait to tell everyone all about it. He can’t wait to tell Kim. And Jean.

LOGIC: The first bus to Revachol leaves in under an hour; you can be home around the time you were expected to land.

ENCYCLOPEDIA: The Lausanne Central Aerodrome - Jamrock 901 bus leaves at 05:48. The light rail doesn’t operate until 07:30.

As he weaves his way through the aerodrome, he considers making a phone call home.

EMPATHY: And wake Kim?

ESPRIT DE CORPS: The freshly printed schedule rota is pinned to the wall by the precinct’s coffee machine. By the end of the week, it will be a mess of swapped shifts and no-shows.

Approximately one-third into its alphabetisation, K. KITSURAGI is scheduled for the morning shift: an almost-normal working pattern; recognition for having worked several graveyard shifts this past month.

Near the fluttering bottom of the sheet, it’s J. VICQUEMARE’s turn to work the night.

VISUAL CALCULUS: If you move quickly, you’ll catch Kim before he leaves.

Regardless of how fast he can move, it’s a long bus ride with many stops. As the bus pulls away from the bright lights of the aerodrome, Harry settles into his seat and tries not to fret about it, turning all his mental projects fully to thoughts of home.

He was too busy to let his mind wander while he was away, though occasionally laying in his hotel bed, he would wonder how Kim was, whether he had taken up his suggestion. His inner voices had not offered any hints on the matter, which he supposed was a side effect of being so far removed from both his companions and his city.

VOLITION: Or you were simply too tired from the all-day lecturing.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: But you have this long bus ride to think all about it!

With nothing better to do, he lets his imagination run wild. As fun as it is to imagine an assortment of dates - and positions - that Jean and Kim might have enjoyed, as the broken roads of Jamrock rattle beneath the bus, he begins to feel more anxious.

He wants this to work, but he can only hope the two most important men in his life feel as he does. There's so many variables, and he already has Kim’s steady, understated love. He can't rush this for them. It's why he wanted Kim to make the first move. He didn't want to make either of them feel like they were just another item on his list, ready to be ticked off by applying the right words.

He hopes they know that he loves both of them enough that he’s willing to be patient. Even if he finds it difficult. 

The surroundings become familiar under the flickering street lights, Boogie Street yawning ahead. He steps out into the haze of dawn, the sun struggling up to cut through the morning fog. It feels a little like he does: tired, but hopeful as he reaches his front door. He secretly hopes Kim isn’t fully up and dressed yet, hasn’t shaved and still smells like sleep and home.

He pauses on the threshold to listen, focusing to ignore the creaks and bumps of neighbouring apartments. He can hear the clatter of pans, and catches a hint of the smell of frying. 

ENDURANCE: Your last meal was an isola ago. Breakfast is just what you need.

He only hopes Kim has made enough to share.

He smooths down his hair ineffectually, fumbles his keys, and finally opens the door.

But it’s not the sight of Kim that greets him in the small kitchenette. The frying pan is sizzling after the satisfying crack of egg shells against its rim, and there stands Jean, a vision of dishevelled, limp-haired sweaty loveliness at the stove as he briskly turns the egg around the pan.

More distracting is that he's in only a t-shirt and boxers, forearms exposed and biceps straining against faded red fabric -

The Man From Hjelmdall shirt, Harry realises. On Jean, the machismo print struggles across his chest in an entirely different manner. It should look ridiculous on him, but it doesn’t. Harry’s cheeks glow as red as the shirt.

Jean turns slowly from the stove. Harry still can't quite bring himself to move. Or speak. That would mean he’d have to take his eyes off of Jean. Distantly, he can hear the creak of the bathroom pipes, the splash of water on ceramic: Kim is in the shower.

And Jean is in his kitchen, semi-naked, wearing his t-shirt.

Jean’s expression is utterly unreadable. There’s a tension in his broad shoulders as he regards Harry standing in the open doorway. His lips perform something like a spasm beneath his beard.

“I haven’t moved in,” Jean suddenly blurts out.

Harry blinks. Every line of Jean is tense: on the defensive, a familiar stance. He’s too surprised - and yes, still too distracted - to think of what to say to that, but Jean continues.

“I’m not - this isn’t all fucking squared away - I’m still -” Jean paces a small square of the kitchen lino, like he can’t make his mind up whether to approach Harry or not. He stops, pushes a hand frustratedly through his hair and looks away. “You’re back early.”

Harry sways on the doorstep, torn between his desire to comfort Jean… and to continue drinking in the dreamy quality of the moment. Whatever Jean says, it feels like they are home.

EMPATHY: Or it will be.

“Can I help?” He decides on, as a safe reply.

Jean looks like he’s about to protest, gaze flicking around the tiny space. “... Yeah. Fine. Get in here and shut the door already. You’re letting all the cold air in.”

Harry does. Jean’s back is momentarily turned away as he returns to concentrating on the pan.

The view is just as good from this side.

After a few more bliss-filled seconds of ogling, Jean half turns back over his shoulder, and gives Harry a glare that’s half-threat, half-embarrassment. “Shitki- Harry. Just… get the fuck over here.”

Harry smiles - not The Expression, but soft and radiating contentment regardless of the other man’s mood, as he slips out of his coat, drops his bag, and steps into Jean’s space. This time, Jean turns around in full, ignoring the spitting hiss of the frying pan as his sharp gaze drinks in Harry’s features.

“You’re alright?” Jean asks, shortly. Harry feels his insides twist, knowing what he’s really asking, and he nods earnestly.

“I remember all of you, Jean. As much as I remember anything.”

He dares reach out for Jean’s shoulders, hands closing over them, and he can feel them slowly relax as he circles his thumbs in place. Jean’s eyes close, though the furrow in his brow remains, still trying to quell the emotional storm inside him.

So Harry takes the bigger risk, and lets his hands traverse Jean’s arms to slide around his middle, taking him into a hug. Jean lets him without a fight, head bowed. Harry can feel the prickle of his beard through his shirt.

For long, comfortable seconds, they breathe. It doesn’t surprise Harry in the least that Jean breaks the embrace first. The soft, slightly rueful expression the other man wears, that he did not expect.

“Don’t want cinders for breakfast,” Jean explains, snatching up the pan once more.

Harry hums agreeably. “Is there enough for me?”

*

There’s more than enough, the old dining table groaning under the weight of three places. 

Kim emerges from the bathroom fully dressed, ready for work. His eyes sparkle behind his glasses in quiet delight when he sees Harry is home. He greets Harry with a “welcome home” kiss and follows with one for Jean, as a “thank you” for breakfast.

Harry animatedly describes his trip to his audience of two, Kim humming interestedly between mouthfuls, with Jean snapping at Harry that he’s jabbing him with his elbow, yet he never moves beyond touching-distance of Harry’s side.

The table wobbles. Kim rushes to be on time for work; Jean’s eggs are burned, Harry is exhausted. It is imperfect, but they are here together.