Archive of Our Own ^beta

He is never chasing after a suspect younger than 15 again.

The little shit had had the cheek to dip into a previously unseen turn at the edge of the field—had leapt with practice, used to the terrain, over a particularly large stretch of mud and filth, hidden in the dark unless you knew it was there. Jean had not seen it until he was face first in it.

Judit had the presence of mind not to laugh too much at his sorry form as he’d traipsed back to her, too furious to make much of an apology for losing their uncooperative suspect. She’d even helped towel him off somewhat, a small mutter of “oh, dear,” on her lips, like he was a small child. He’d been miserable and damp on the journey back to the 41st. It was a fuck up, with no reward.

Thankfully, the precinct’s locker rooms are blissfully silent at this time of night. The night shift are already in situ, so no one will be using the facilities likely until the day shift returns in the morning. He is lord of this particular domain for the time being and intends to make the most of it.

He peels his soggy uniform off carefully, the cold and mud making the skin underneath unpleasantly itchy. In a fit of anger, he balls up the offending articles and slams the sodden mess across the locker room into the darkness; he regrets it almost immediately. Did we even have a spare change of clothes here, idiot? Find it later.

The showers here have no business being as good as they are. Jean thinks he probably prefers them to his own—god bless whoever thought to make them separate cubicles, neatly tucked away from the main changing area, safe from the usual nonsense he’d grown used to in the men’s facilities. He hangs up his threadbare towel in the cubicle with him and stands under the hot stream for an age.

He’s a little more human when he finally finishes, faucet off, standing in his little box of safety with his eyes closed, towelling dutifully.

The swing of the locker room door opening breaks him out of his reverie.

So much for that, then.

He thinks he should probably make it clear that he’s also in here, until he realises that whoever has come in doesn’t appear to be making proper use of the facilities. He rolls his eyes— really? At this time of night? He’s ready at this point to just walk in on whoever this is, interrupt and admonish them, but when he peeks around the edge of the stall that plan dies a spectacular death.

He’d noted earlier that both Harry and Kim were still in the precinct—they’d not noticed him return, too absorbed in trawling over some case file or another. Kim had been unusually animated, running on that shot of adrenaline that only comes in the darker hours, when something just clicks into place after countless dead ends. Harry was sat next to him, chin propped up, that ridiculous soppy look he often got around their newest recruit plastered across his ruddy face. Jean had been slightly disappointed then that they’d flat out ignored him.

He was less disappointed now, as Harry crowded into Kim’s space, his hands on Kim’s arms, kissing him in between the other’s half-assed, chuckled protests.

“Can you really not wait—unf, Harry—!” A soft laugh. Jean crumples against the cubicle wall silently. Oh, no.

“Don’t blame me, I wasn’t the one making that little breakthrough so damn appealing, fuck—“ Less of the soppy look now, and more of a predatory gaze. “Just...let me—I want to make you feel good,”

A solitary eyebrow raised. “Cracking the case felt good enough as it is, I’m not sure what else you think you can add,” Kim responds, voice typically bland. Harry huffs, a pathetic whine from a man his age, and Jean feels his annoyance bubbling at the surface again.

You should really just interrupt them. Or do you actually want to stand here, wrapped in nothing but an itchy towel and watch your colleagues stick their tongues down each other’s throats? Sad, little man?

Kim has moved now, to sit on the central bench of the locker room, his arms crossed. Jean has always been a little bit fascinated by this man, obviously holding on to the chasm edge of burnout as much as the rest of them; but he’s never fallen in, has a heightened level of control that so far has evaded Jean or Harry. He has a good idea why and how, given the key difference between them, and it angers him; obviously angers Harry too. This is a very good detective, and they are very lucky to have him.

Harry, especially, it seems.

His former partner is now on his knees before Kim, looking up at him like he’s the sun—Kim has his chin between leather clad fingers, tilted to look at him. There’s an expression on his face, new to Jean, and it is decidedly something that only Harry gets, only in these moments; Jean is suddenly overcome by a potent mix of shame and lust.

“What are you going to do then, Detective?” His voice is low and syrupy, rough at the margins. Harry practically melts, eyelids fluttering.

“I want...I want to suck you off,” Wow, classy, Du Bois. Jean rolls his eyes, for the benefit of no one. He’s still watching, not entirely sure why he can’t stop.

Kim hums. He uncrosses his legs, enough for Harry to shuffle closer and between them. “Very well,”

Harry launches himself forward with maybe a little too much enthusiasm, but it seems to amuse Kim no end. He runs his gloved hands through Harry’s hair, face alarmingly open for Kim, all soft fondness and mirth. Harry is nuzzling deep into his thighs now, moans muffled and happy, and Kim closes his eyes, using one arm to prop himself as he leans back slightly.

Jean tears his eyes away, his head back against the tiles, thoroughly miserable. He really needs to leave, but it’s too far gone now. There’s no way he can salvage this without making it embarrassing for all 3 of them.

So he’ll just have to bottle the embarrassment up by himself. Add it to the back-catalogue. 

He’s broken out of his thoughts by a sharp gasp of “Harry”, startlingly loud in the darkness. He knows he really shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself.

He peeks back out between the crack in the cubicle dividers.

In the interim period Harry has managed to pull Kim’s length out of his cargos, and is enthusiastically going to town. Kim, so normally composed, is struggling to maintain said composure, leaning heavily into the arm bearing his weight. One of Harry’s hands has made it’s way up Kim’s torso, and is now moving in circles over hardened nipples under the other man’s white tank. Kim has his hand placed over it, on top of the fabric, his breathing short and heavy, hips rolling minutely.

Harry alternates between diligently sucking, noises obscene and far too loud in the locker room quiet, eyes closed in pleasure—and sneaking looks up at Kim through his lashes, adoration plain on his face. Kim makes a low noise in the back of his throat and Harry responds in kind, pulling back to the head of his cock and sucking, before taking him in as far as he possibly can, nose buried in the dark curls at the base of it.

Kim’s head falls back at that one, legs moving, as if he’s trying to find some purchase for his feet and failing. He settles for wrapping them around Harry’s shoulders, trapping him tight between, so that he’s forced to remain—the entirety of Kim’s cock in his throat.

Jean has to clamp a hand to his mouth at that, unable to look away from Kim’s face. He has never seen the other man look even remotely like this, pulling his bottom lip with sharp teeth, his expression practically feral as Harry sucks him off, still trapped. He closes his eyes briefly, willing his traitorous body to settle the fuck down, overwhelmed by the knowledge that he absolutely should not be here looking at this, fuck, fuck, fuck!

In the darkness behind his eyelids, it’s somehow more obscene; Harry moaning, his mouth full; soft gasps of encouragement from Kim above him. There’s a noise, leather on wood, and a deeper gasp from Kim, and then he speaks, voice raw and unravelled: “Ah, fuck...!”

You should look. Look at them.

He catches the tail end of Kim’s orgasm, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open—head falling back in the aftershocks, a soft laugh on his lips. He loosens his legs and runs another affectionate hand through Harry’s hair as the other man releases his cock with a soft ‘pop’.

And then Harry’s moving up into his space, hands planted on either side of Kim’s hips and they share a kiss, an utterance that Jean can’t quite make out between them. Kim reaches, Harry now almost completely bent over him, one knee on the bench, and huffs as Kim’s hands find their way into his trousers.

It takes an embarrassingly short time for Harry to come, voice muffed into Kim’s neck. Jean is annoyed by the man all over again, biting into his wrist to quiet his breath, painfully hard, desperate and wanting against the cold tile. Kim deserves something better than a burnt-out, ex-alcoholic fumbling against him.

Like a burnt-out, lithium addicted chain smoker instead? If you say so.

When he rolls his neck to check the locker room again, both men are standing, Kim gently brushing something from Harry’s shoulder. His face is a lazy smirk against Harry’s now muted exuberance, and they kiss, once, twice, before Kim unhurriedly makes his way out, Harry trailing behind.

Jean slumps, alone again, in his cubicle; hands rubbing furiously against his unshaven face. He can’t very well leave now, not without running the risk of either running into Harry or Kim, or worse—someone new in the locker room whilst sporting something that could hammer nails. He’s pissed off, at himself, at Harry (though not Kim, for some reason), at the fucking kid that lured him into a muddy ruckus in the first place. He just wants to go home and smoke about 5 packs of Astras, in peace. Just him and his inconvenient feelings.

He almost completely loses his goddamn mind when the cubicle divider is abruptly drawn back, absolutely nothing left to preserve his dignity. 

“Having some pretty loud thoughts in here, are we?” Says a bizarrely nonplused Harry. Jean thinks he might die.

“H-Harry! Get the fuck out—!” His voice is embarrassingly high, furious at being caught out—and Harry is far too calm for this, moving into his space, crowding him up against the wall. In the background, Jean sees Kim, stood in his usual manner, silently observing. The words die in his mouth, eyes back on Harry—he’s looking at Jean equal parts amusement and predation, and the younger man is forced to reassess his previous opinion; maybe Kim’s attraction isn’t quite so...bizarre.

He used to pull you off guard like this before, when you were both younger; you had no idea how to react then, and you’re not sure now either. He never...did...anything back then. You’re not sure if that would be quite the same anymore.

Harry is looking expectantly at him now, and Jean realises he completely missed that Harry was even talking—this amuses the older man no end, and the red mist starts to creep in again.

“I said, would you like some help...lieutenant?”

“Help with what!?” No, no no no, absolutely not. This isn’t happening.

Harry raises a single eyebrow—he’s got both ends of Jean’s towel, one in each hand, now partly unwound from Jean’s body, and uses it to pull him into the locker room proper. “Help with—“ A glance downwards— “...the insistent issue both of us have caused you,”

God, he is far too fucking smug about this. So, what, they knew he was there and decided to give him a show? Fucking asshole.

The anger is all the confidence he needs to bite back.

“Yeah, great job, Du Bois, you can-opened me into a boner; fuckin’ thanks,” Jean attempts to pull the towel out of his grip, but Harry doesn’t budge— just laughs, affection in his eyes. It makes Jean embarrassed, ashamed all over again. His barbs don’t seem to hit quite the way they used to anymore.

And that’s...nice. It’s nice, actually. He doesn’t patronise you; these days he lets you get it out and then is...kind about it?

Jean recalls Harry mentioning in the Martinaise debrief that Kim had been the best person he could have rolled into, in his amnesiac haze, because he had been so unrelentingly kind. He had met Harry’s odd outbursts with patience and a surprising amount of care for a stranger. At the time it had pissed Jean off no end, but looking back he realises that Harry was right. 

And now Harry is giving him that same kindness, and...it is helping. Things are getting better.

His fists are balled in the front of Harry’s shirt, deliberately not looking at his face. Harry shuffles him slightly with the towel, gently, like he’s trying to get an answer out of a sulking child. “Jean? Would you like some help?”

You would. “...Yes,”

Harry kisses him, surprising him, and continues to manoeuvre Jean to the bench, a hand on his shoulder pushing him seated. And then he kneels.

Oh. Oh! Oh my god—

Harry’s hands on his hips are surprisingly warm, calloused against Jean’s chilled skin. His expression is still placid, like he’s trying so hard not to spook him—although Jean’s not sure the butterflies could get any worse, honestly.

“Ok?”

“Y-yes, ok,”

A smile. “Good,”

Wait, where is Kim? Is the last thought in Jean’s head before Harry swallows him whole.

The sound that comes out of Jean’s mouth is louder than any of them could have anticipated—and then Jean knows exactly where Kim is, because he’s got one gloved hand over Jean’s mouth, the weight of him warm against his back. The contact is incredible; a dream he previously couldn’t have hoped to fulfil. 

“He’s very good, is he not?” Kim’s voice is warm and provocative in Jean’s ear, doing obscene things to his insides. He shakily moves to hold Kim’s forearm, the one covering his mouth; his nostrils are full of leather and sweat and some sort of menthol undercurrent, intimately Kim. He whimpers in the other man’s grip.

“Look at him,”  He whispers, an order.

Harry has drawn himself back up to the head of Jean’s dick, his expression intense—A glimpse of his tongue, swirled against the tip, and then deeper, sucking at the head of him until Jean’s toes curl, moaning under Kim’s firm hand.

“He loves doing this. He’d do this for me at every opportunity if I’d allow him. He’s desperate for me to fuck his mouth, on his knees, subservient and obedient. Like a dog. I’m surprised he hasn’t done this for you already,” There’s a glimmer of something in Harry’s eyes now; Jean realises this monologue is as much for Harry as it is for him. Harry closes his eyes in pleasure, taking more of Jean in, pinning his hips to the bench. Jean flexes uselessly against him, far more riled up than he could have imagined, both by Harry’s ministrations and the honeyed voice in his ear. 

“Touch him,” It supplicates. Jean obliges, a fist in Harry’s hair, guiding him; the other man moans in compliance.

“Did you enjoy watching him before? With my cock all the way down his greedy throat? Do you want the same?”—A muffled ‘umhf!’ in response—“Then take it. Take what you want from him,”

Harry’s hands aren’t quite so tight on his hips anymore, and Jean does as he’s told—he squeezes Harry closer with his knees, forcing the other man to swallow the entirety of him, and almost comes completely undone.

The man’s gag reflex must be non-existent; he can feel the head of his cock bump the back of Harry’s closing throat and it’s entirely too much, his body shivering out of control in Kim’s grip as he comes, shout muffled by leather softness.

Harry takes all of it, a sleepily satisfied look in his eyes.

When Jean comes back to, Harry has his arms crossed over Jean’s thighs, chin propped by a fist, a supremely fond look on his face. At some point, Jean must have reached out for Kim, one hand now firmly clasping the other man’s knee. The hand at his mouth has loosened, still hovering somewhat nearby. Kim huffs a laugh near his cheek and gently runs a finger against his stubble.

“I think he needed that,” Comes Harry’s rumbling baritone from below. Another laugh, and Harry is up near his face, searching—he appears to find what he wants, and plants a kiss across Jean’s tired mouth. “You all right, kid?”

Better than all right. Better than he’s felt in months, held between the two people he trusts the most, like a contented cat. 

“Good...all good..shitkid,” 

He enjoys the responding laugh the most.