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The first time Jean felt afraid of Harry was a year and a half into their partnership.
They had spent the better part of a week arguing about a case, which had turned to personal sniping within a day. When he was in one of his dark moods, Harry liked to argue, the way it brought out Jean's meanness, liked taking potshots at Jean to see what would make him snap back, and he was being a stubborn jackass about the case based on feelings and hunches and an extremely detailed dream that, as far as Jean was concerned, had absolutely fuck-all to do with the case. He was drunk, like, drunk-drunk, by 1pm, when he and Jean gave up on the street and returned to the precinct, and earlier that day had sneered at Jean and called him a pussy when Jean suggested he not down fucking Touloula vodka before talking to witnesses. When they stepped into the precinct, Harry grabbed him by the back of his coat.
"Gym," he said.
"What? No, fuck you, we have to file this paperwork, then go see the widow, and that'll take at least two hours, and—"
"Gym," Harry said again, yanking him. Better to go along than cause a scene. There were four other officers in the gym when they entered; the second Harry saw them, he barked out in his booming gym teacher voice, "Clear the room!" It startled one of the men into dropping his weights. None of them protested; the room was clear in under a minute. People at the 41st knew Harry Du Bois. They knew that Pryce would go to bat for him under just about any circumstance, and that Harry himself was a shoe-in for captaincy once Pryce retired, and, above all, knew he was not afraid to brawl with anyone for any reason.
As soon as they were alone, Harry started to strip, yanking his tie loose and shucking his jacket. Jean felt a tired numbness coming over him. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm sick of this shit," Harry said. "You got a problem with me? Then have a fucking problem. Come on. Let's go."
"Go where, Isabella's?" Jean asked, the question dripping with sarcasm. "Get a nice espresso and strawberry parfait to share?"
"Let's box," Harry said. "That's your thing, right? Wanted to be in the big leagues? So let's do it." He gestured at the precinct's ring, a sorry affair with sagging ropes that Jean was sure had seen many gambits just like this one. "See if you can get a hit in on me or if you're all talk."
"You're insane," Jean said. He'd never told Harry that, but Harry was not wrong. There was a period of six months when Jean was seventeen that he practiced every day, hoping to make it to the ring. He never did. Anyway, it was all just a cover-up for his overwhelming desire to beat the shit out of his father, and, one day, a month before he turned eighteen, he did just that, and the drive to box professionally went out of him. Funny how that worked. Jean shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on a nearby bench. "But fine. Yeah. I'll kick your drunk ass. Happily."
"Oh, baby boy, you won't get a hit on me. I'm a boxing champ. I'm a fucking heavyweight." Harry stepped out of his shoes without bending over and then hauled himself between the ropes. So much of his power was apparent in his back and arms; Jean refused to stare, refused to let Harry psych him out with his warm-up, the stretching, rolling his shoulders and arms, making deep huffing breaths as he pumped himself up. "You can't beat a drunken master, Vic. We don't feel the punches. That's why I'm a better cop than you, too. This bitch is immune." Harry punched his chest twice, like an animal showing off. That talk was cheap coming from a man who cried two weeks ago because they had to interview someone named Doreen.
"Whatever," Jean said. He set his button-up and tie on top of the jacket. "I don't know what the fuck has gotten into you."
"Me? What's gotten into me? You're the one spiraling, Vicky. You're the one taking shots at witnesses for no reason. You know I'm right about Marlin but your judgment's clouded. Wanna tell me why?"
Jean slipped into the ring and cracked his neck. Harry was already starting to move, light on his feet, dancing back and forth. He sniffed and brushed his hand under his nose, tried to give Jean his gorilla eyes, a technique he used on particularly difficult interviewees that was more or less just furrowing his brows and opening his eyes real wide. Its power was significantly reduced when Jean knew Harry had given it such a stupid name. "I don't know what you're talking about," Jean said, but, as he did, he realized that he knew exactly what Harry meant. And Harry was right. Again. Always. It started with Jean, after the field autopsy. He'd told himself that he was fine. He wasn't a rookie, anymore, far from it, and had mastered the professional detachment so important to their work. But their victim, their genitalia had...Jean shook his head.
"Be first," Harry said. "Come on."
Jean cracked his knuckles and focused. "We shouldn't do this bare-knuckle," he said.
"We shouldn't do this bare-knuckle," Harry echoed in a high-pitched, whiny voice, and swung at Jean, a quick hook that Jean only really managed to dodge because Harry pulled it.
That, more than anything—more than the stink of alcohol or Harry's taunts and loose-limbed aggression—was what pissed Jean the fuck off. Fine. Fuck you, Jean thought, and let his anger flow through him, settle between his eyes and in his fists. I'll beat the alcohol out of you.
"I said be first," Harry snarled. "Give it to me."
Jean advanced. Harry dodged his first few swings easily, bobbing and weaving with all the agility of a man a decade younger. This time, when Harry returned a punch, Jean dodged it on his own merit; a smile cracked across Harry's face, and Jean aimed for it, hoping to wipe it off. Harry yanked back and danced away, whistling at him, jeering. "C'mon, baby, tell me what's eating you." He ducked, feinted left, swung with the right instead, connected with Jean's ribs. That gave Jean a brief window to strike, too, tapping Harry's arm and chest in two quick strikes before they both broke away, circling.
The ache in his ribs helped Jean center himself, focus on the fight. Think. He'd seen Harry working a punching bag, he'd seen him brawl with suspects. He knew what to expect, which was to expect nothing and find a flow, instead. Treat it like dancing. Assume Harry would suddenly go berserk, overflowing with energy and emotion. Jean wouldn't be able to wear him down. He could only hope to avoid and deflect until he caught an opening to take him down. "I'm not your god damn baby," Jean snapped. Harry threw two quick jabs; he was still just toying with Jean, warming up. "You know it pisses me off when you go on a bender. Makes you shit."
Jean drove a left hook toward Harry; Harry yanked back just in time to avoid taking the full hit, but Jean would've sworn he felt his knuckles brush against Harry's nose, so, so close to contact. He was beginning to sweat already, the back of his shirt sticking to him. He'd seen Harry bare-ass naked often enough, but this still felt—intimate, especially now, as he had nowhere to look but Harry's body, the sheer masculine power of it, his thick arms, his hairy pecs and heavy belly and the thick trail of hair that led into his pants. Harry's nipples were stiff. Harry clocked him in the arm, harder now, putting more of his weight behind it. Fuck!
"Shit, huh?" Harry said. "What's that make y—" There—there! Jean cracked one across Harry's face; Harry hopped back and shook his head like a dog. He let out a huff that could only be described as pleased. "Is it the rape thing?" he asked. "We've worked rapes before." That incensed Jean enough to make him lunge forward, go on a hard offensive. Harry raised his arms to take the brunt of the blows, peering through a gap in his forearms to gaze steadily at Jean. No gorilla eyes this time, just raw intensity, the full power of his deductive mind focused on Jean.
Damn him, damn him, damn him—Harry swung. Connected, socking Jean right in the eye, hard enough to make the world spin as Jean staggered back. Jean threw his arms up to protect his head—he couldn't see straight—damn him, god damn him.
"Is it Marlin?" Harry persisted.
"It's fuck you!" Jean shouted, coming at Harry half-blind, now, swinging wild. He didn't want to think. Not about the victim, or Harry's surprised sound when he pulled down the man's underwear to reveal his bruised and ruined vagina, or the flippant way Harry said, Hey, this guy's got a pussy, or the way Harry called the victim ------- even after Marlin told them the man's name was Paul. Not the sneering of the shopkeep who called the body in. Not the split-second relief on Paul's mother's face, as if she had been hoping for this. Not any of it—not—any of it—
Jean realized, belatedly, that Harry let Jean hit him four fucking times, one after another, not even defending, just swinging right back, punching him in the chest and arms while Jean aimed for Harry's fucking face. Jean danced away from Harry, a rush of hot shame going through him. Harry's nose was bleeding freely, dripping onto his chest and down to patter on the ring. Harry spit. It made Jean's pulse throb between his legs. Suddenly, Jean was aware of the wetness between his legs, his heart pounding there, his underwear sticking to him as he watched blood mat Harry's chest hair. Harry advanced, threw a punch that was almost lazy, but Jean was frozen in place by the realization of what this had done to him and it connected, crack, right in Jean's cheek, hard enough to make him hit the floor. Immediately Harry was on him, pinning him to the floor with the full brunt of his weight and one arm hooked around Jean's throat.
"You're useless to me like this," Harry said, right into Jean's ear, his breath hot, his blood dripping onto Jean. "You're not gonna interview the widow. You understand, kid?"
Jean struggled against him, but only for a moment, because Harry put his free hand on Jean's chest, over his sternum. He would feel Jean's binder through his t-shirt. He was going to—fuck, not now, not now—fear seized Jean. He froze under Harry, as Harry's hand began to slide down his chest, his stomach. Jean realized with horror that he did not trust Harry to stop. Harry's arm tightened around his throat.
"You're gonna go home," Harry said, "and take a cold shower," his hand slid lower, lower, "and you're gonna get whatever is fucked up in your system out, and we'll try again tomorrow." Jean was aching between his legs, his core stretching toward Harry even as he tried to mouth the word stop. Not like this. He never wanted Harry to learn this part of his life, but if he was going to, not like this, but fuck, he also wanted Harry to touch him, and he didn't, and he didn't know what he wanted, and he was so fucking dizzy, and he was starting to melt against Harry's body. Harry skipped over the bottom half of Jean's stomach entirely to grope him between his legs.
It was Harry's turn to freeze.
"Stop," Jean croaked out. "G-get the fuck off me—"
"Where's your penis?" Harry asked, his tone completely changed, all the aggression gone, replaced by shock and a confusion that was almost innocent.
He wasn't going to stop, he wasn't going to stop, he wasn't—"Get off me!" Jean shouted, and got his shit together enough to crack his elbow into Harry's face.
Harry crumpled off of him with a moan of pain. Jean rolled away, panting hard, then regretted it, because his head was still spinning. He dropped flat onto his back, wheezing. Then, before Harry could catch the upper hand again, Jean sat up and screamed, "His name was fucking Paul!"
As if that was what mattered. (But—maybe it was.)
Harry's hand was on his nose; he stared at Jean from his place on the floor like a fucking idiot, utterly stunned. "You don't have a penis," he said.
"Grow up," Jean snarled. He tried to stand but found he still couldn't, still too dizzy. He was also still so turned on that it was hurting, pound-pound-pound between his legs, and he hated Harry for that, just not quite as much as he hated himself.
"I didn't know," Harry said. "Jean, I didn't know. I'm sorry. I—I fucked up. I thought—I didn't think—I thought you were gay, I thought you had a hard-on for Marlin."
"Yeah, well, you weren't supposed to know," Jean said. "No one here is supposed to know. Except Gottlieb," he added, as an afterthought. God, but he wanted Harry back on him, and why, why, what the fuck was wrong with him? His throat tightened. He touched his face, gingerly, and pain radiated all through his head, made him groan, made him tighten between his legs. He took his hand away, furious with himself. "Wait, you thought I had a fucking hard-on for a suspect and you were gonna—what, jack me off in the precinct gym? That's your idea of problem-solving?"
Harry sat up. Jean couldn't look at him, but could feel Harry's gaze on him still, the intensity changed. He scooted closer to Jean. Touched his shoulder, gently. "The victim," he said, slowly.
"Drop it, Harry."
"No. Fuck you, man, it's compromising the case, it fucking matters. Look at me. Jean. Look at me." He cupped Jean's face in his hands, turned him toward Harry. Blood was still trickling from his nose, down his chest, his belly. One of his eyes was already beginning to swell shut. His left cheek was coloring, a dark and angry red. "Can you do this case with me?"
Jean hesitated. "Of course I can," he said. "What do you take me for? I'm a cop. We've seen worse." Harry ran his thumbs across Jean's face, slow. The smell of Harry's blood overpowered the stench of alcohol. Jean wanted to lean forward and kiss Harry. He wanted to hit him again. He wanted to fucking quit the RCM and start over somewhere else, where his partner wouldn't find out—this—in a god damn boxing ring, dripping blood, choking him out. Jean had no idea what he wanted.
Harry tipped his head forward, touched his forehead to Jean's. "Okay," he said. Neither of them moved for a while, Jean catching his breath, taking in Harry's smell, his warmth. Remembering why he stayed. Remembering that he loved Harry, in spite of everything. He touched Harry's chest, felt his heartbeat under his palm.
"We should clean up," Jean said. His palm came away sticky with Harry's blood. "You look like a fucking mess."
"Speak for yourself," Harry said, but it was with a crooked smile. "Okay. Can you stand? 'Cause you really did a number on me and, uh, I might pass out if..."
"Yeah, yeah," Jean said. "C'mon. Together."