The anti Haftesal rants- Harry is swallowing them down so hard right now it’s practically visible in his throat. He’s grumbled a lot of it at Kim in passing since the incident, in bits and pieces between the recent stretches of uncomfortable silences.
“Yeah. Yeah.”
He just stands there for a moment. Trying to gauge if the conversation is over. It doesn’t feel over. An odd shadow flickers over his paleomammalian cortex. You’ve done this before it says. And like, no shit. No shit, he’s done this before? He’s probably stood in many apartments feeling like he should physically eject himself from the conversation as soon as possible.
“I don’t…want to blast my brain all over the place. I don’t want people to know that I’m…you know. You know how I am.”
HAND EYE COORDINATION - (You tap your temple. An ancient human gesture for ‘totally and utterly batshit insane with little to no redeeming qualities.’)
His voice breaks but he isn’t crying yet, but he’s breathing hard. His jaw clicks audibly. The Expression contorts his face once again, rigid. Rictus.
“It’s hard enough to act…decent- passable when people can’t read my thoughts.”
[A pause. Kim stares off into the distance, his foot tapping against the ground--not out of impatience, but more out of habit.]
Detective, it takes years, maybe decades for people to organize their thoughts in a constructive manner. It takes even longer to exert a level of control over them to wipe away all the unnecessary chatter.
[He's sharing the barest amount of information to Harry in an attempt to assuage his concerns. Treat it well.]
It's easy to think one's self at the center of attention of whatever occurred. But, think about it--how many thoughts from other people did you also overhear?
[He's trying not to be callous. He genuinely doesn't understand Harry's own struggles.]
EMPATHY - (He’s not. This is a Kim thing. His foot does that. He’s a restless type of creature.)
COMPOSURE - (When he’s impatient his cute tail gets more flicky.)
[That’s…true.]
VOLITION - (The reactions from your sympathetic nervous system are taking precedent over the rest of us because you’re freaking out. The twitchy guy in red is more compromised than usual. Just breathe.)
HALF LIGHT - (I am not compromised. I am always right.)
ESPIRIT DE CORPS - (Lieutenant Kitsuragi is not about to hurt anyone. He isn’t even above a personal baseline level of typical impatience right now. You are verifiably wrong.)
HALF LIGHT - (If I’m wrong now I’ll be right later. Patience is a limited resource for anyone.)
“It’s not really unnecessary chatter- ok, maybe some of it is. I hear voices. That’s just how I think. They got scared…I know they’re just me, by the way. I anth- anthropomorphize my thought process, or something like that.”
He adds the last part very quickly, like a disclaimer on a television commercial. Like something someone else told him that doesn’t mean much to him now. Trying to stick words on his brain doesn’t seem to help it, but maybe it can help other people get it.
INLAND EMPIRE - (Change. The. Topic. She hated this. She did *not* want to hear this.)
EMPATHY - (She used to. She thought you were being poetic until she realized you were insane. Then it got scary.)
INLAND EMPIRE - (Not all at once. Scary ferments like homemade booze. In dark places. And when you can’t afford to keep the lights on, every corner becomes a dark place. She stuffed her doubts in those places. ‘Father was right.’ ‘He’s sick.’ ‘Was it always this bad? Am I just stupid?’ ‘What if he gets worse?’)
VOLITION - (You’re talking to Kim. She’s not here. Focus.)
Harry’s brow is furrowed, frustration turns into a much more sickly look, he pulls out a kitchen chair with a little squeak and sits down. He inspects the salt and pepper shakers as he talks.
“I heard the other people, yeah but I still feel really bad. Violated…can I ask you something?”
[He listens, quietly, brow furrowed as he listens. His eyes flit between Harry and the space behind him, trying to process it. He's been shown how the detective's mind works, and he sympathizes with the sheer chaos that he witnessed. Even if he can't deal with it, he's gained...perhaps an understanding as to how the man's fragmented brain operates. It's a small piece of information, and still very difficult to wrap his own thoughts around it, but perhaps it's just as disorienting to Detective Du Bois as it is to him.
He's asking him a question. He can't possibly guess what it is. He tilts his head to the side, raising an eyebrow.]
Harry thinks of what to say in terms of lists, in branching columns and tiers. Apparently it’s good for being a cop and not for being a husband, a boyfriend, or a fiancé.
“Do I embarrass you?”
The ghost of a hundred apologies swell in his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs as they manifest. 1. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to your parents. 2. I’m trying so hard, I really am. 3. Do I have to move out? 4. Did you catch that bit where I said I love you and I think you're sexy? 5. I think I’m going to tear my skin off and throw myself out that window, that’s how at my limit I am…
He ploughs forward, that thing he just said was a mistake.
“No- ah, fuck. I mean, are we friends? We don’t have to be friends. I just- want to know if we are.”
He looks up at him, as earnest as the proverbial schoolboy Kim once compared him to. His leg bounces under the table.
COMPOSURE - (“Do you like me?”)
INLAND EMPIRE - (“Are you ashamed of me?”)
VOLITION - (“Am I a burden?”)
The list in Harry’s head shifts. 1. Am I just your boss that you keep around for some semblance of normalcy and can’t let go? 2. Am I just some kind of pet detective that you take for walks at work and if left alone, are left praying it won’t piss on the carpet or chew up the furniture? And so on. Twenty three nervous men in Harry’s brain holding a conference together. Voices blur, spilling over each other. Swirls of colors fill the creases of his brain. He’s getting a headache.
These choices suck. He doesn’t need to say anything else right now.
[There's a long pause. Kim's brow furrows deeply as he sizes up Detective Du Bois, looking for some sort of catch or trick behind this line of questioning. He's acquainted with the detective's methods of peeling an individual down to their core to shake out whatever information he wants from them. It's uncomfortable for him--these are personal questions, involved with personal affairs.
But imagine how much more uncomfortable it is for the detective to ask these questions, he thinks to himself. And when he sees nothing but earnest desperation, he reroutes his train of thought to mull upon the questions posed to him. Friendship with Detective Du Bois something that he hasn't really taken the time to reflect upon. Examining his own interpersonal relationships with others isn't exactly a habit of his, and when he does, it's usually in terms of authority and respect.
He'd like to think that he was friendly and professional towards his fellow RCM officers. But who would he define as a friend, exactly? Eyes, definitely. But that ended abruptly and left the lieutenant utterly, completely alone. Who did he used to confide in off work hours, play games, get into arguments, or simply enjoy the silence with? No one. He thinks about the quiet, empty apartment in Martinaise where he would return to after work, the empty room at Whirling-in-Rags. Both of them empty, both of them quiet.
Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi was in a perpetual state of being Alone. The lieutenant had long accepted this. And then, suddenly, he was simply not Alone, for the sheer fact that he now was trapped in a strange new world with the detective he met a week ago at his back. He knows that Detective Du Bois would likely do anything for him, and that's the trouble.
He owes the detective an honest answer. He weighs all of these things carefully, like a scientist measuring out milligrams of chemicals and components, trying to formulate his way to the truth. Eventually, the lieutenant responds.]
Yes, detective, I'd like to think that we're friends.
[That's the truth. One that's difficult for Kim, himself, to process and categorize in his little filing cabinets filled with thoughts and emotions.]
And even if you did embarrass me, so what? I hate to draw upon clichés, but nobody's perfect.
[He would be concerned first and foremost before treading into embarrassment. But he finds it difficult to say aloud.]
HALF LIGHT - (He doesn’t trust you, or your questions. He watches you turn people inside out every day.)
COMPOSURE - (He’s just thinking, it’s been a few seconds.)
Harry’s face breaks into a broad grin, the crest on his head perks up.
“Cool...that’s super cool. That’s disco.”
He nods with enthusiasm, and with his crest totally fanned out like that he looks unreasonably reminiscent of a cockatoo.
“‘Cause I’ve been hoping that we are. Or that we could be if we weren’t.”
For awhile now. Ever since that first ace’s high and the smoking on the balcony. He hoped they could be friends. There’s other stuff he hopes for too. But it’s foolish and embarrassing and really doesn’t bear thinking about in the light of day. This is for real and doesn’t make him feel weird when he looks at his partner.
…
Oh, ok now he’s feeling weird. His smile gains a strained edge. A twitch. He’d like to be perfect. The petulant voices in his head light up in chorus. He can do better, he can always do better. He can take on ten cases a week. He can handle it. All he needs is time. Maybe he can’t not be embarrassing but he can do other things. All he needs to do is be better.
And when he’s better Kim will trust him for real.
There will be no walls between them. He will take his time with Kim’s secrets, one at a time, everything treated equally and filed away. A pleasure wheel, a pilot jacket, and a dead partner are all equally important. All have added up to build Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, the finest of Precinct 57.
THOUGHT GAINED - ONE DEEP BREATH
VOLITION - (You have a problem. This isn’t normal. This isn’t the right way to think about people.)
INTERFACING - (You are what you are. A machine of perpetual motion. You were wired to be like this with purpose. If you stop you simply won’t be you any longer.)
CONCEPTUALIZATION - (You’re a romantic. An experimental poet.)
He wipes his face on his sleeve. There it is, he knew it was coming. He’s getting so fucking good at crying like it’s normal and not humiliating. And he gets an extra second or two to remember what he was saying.
“…I guess not, but I embarrass Jean too and we used to be friends. I just don’t want it to ever get like that. With us.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
“Yeah. Yeah.”
He just stands there for a moment. Trying to gauge if the conversation is over. It doesn’t feel over. An odd shadow flickers over his paleomammalian cortex. You’ve done this before it says. And like, no shit. No shit, he’s done this before? He’s probably stood in many apartments feeling like he should physically eject himself from the conversation as soon as possible.
“I don’t…want to blast my brain all over the place. I don’t want people to know that I’m…you know. You know how I am.”
HAND EYE COORDINATION - (You tap your temple. An ancient human gesture for ‘totally and utterly batshit insane with little to no redeeming qualities.’)
His voice breaks but he isn’t crying yet, but he’s breathing hard. His jaw clicks audibly. The Expression contorts his face once again, rigid. Rictus.
“It’s hard enough to act…decent- passable when people can’t read my thoughts.”
no subject
Detective, it takes years, maybe decades for people to organize their thoughts in a constructive manner. It takes even longer to exert a level of control over them to wipe away all the unnecessary chatter.
[He's sharing the barest amount of information to Harry in an attempt to assuage his concerns. Treat it well.]
It's easy to think one's self at the center of attention of whatever occurred. But, think about it--how many thoughts from other people did you also overhear?
[He's trying not to be callous. He genuinely doesn't understand Harry's own struggles.]
no subject
EMPATHY - (He’s not. This is a Kim thing. His foot does that. He’s a restless type of creature.)
COMPOSURE - (When he’s impatient his cute tail gets more flicky.)
[That’s…true.]
VOLITION - (The reactions from your sympathetic nervous system are taking precedent over the rest of us because you’re freaking out. The twitchy guy in red is more compromised than usual. Just breathe.)
HALF LIGHT - (I am not compromised. I am always right.)
ESPIRIT DE CORPS - (Lieutenant Kitsuragi is not about to hurt anyone. He isn’t even above a personal baseline level of typical impatience right now. You are verifiably wrong.)
HALF LIGHT - (If I’m wrong now I’ll be right later. Patience is a limited resource for anyone.)
“It’s not really unnecessary chatter- ok, maybe some of it is. I hear voices. That’s just how I think. They got scared…I know they’re just me, by the way. I anth- anthropomorphize my thought process, or something like that.”
He adds the last part very quickly, like a disclaimer on a television commercial. Like something someone else told him that doesn’t mean much to him now. Trying to stick words on his brain doesn’t seem to help it, but maybe it can help other people get it.
INLAND EMPIRE - (Change. The. Topic. She hated this. She did *not* want to hear this.)
EMPATHY - (She used to. She thought you were being poetic until she realized you were insane. Then it got scary.)
INLAND EMPIRE - (Not all at once. Scary ferments like homemade booze. In dark places. And when you can’t afford to keep the lights on, every corner becomes a dark place. She stuffed her doubts in those places. ‘Father was right.’ ‘He’s sick.’ ‘Was it always this bad? Am I just stupid?’ ‘What if he gets worse?’)
VOLITION - (You’re talking to Kim. She’s not here. Focus.)
Harry’s brow is furrowed, frustration turns into a much more sickly look, he pulls out a kitchen chair with a little squeak and sits down. He inspects the salt and pepper shakers as he talks.
“I heard the other people, yeah but I still feel really bad. Violated…can I ask you something?”
no subject
He's asking him a question. He can't possibly guess what it is. He tilts his head to the side, raising an eyebrow.]
Yes. What is it?
no subject
“Do I embarrass you?”
The ghost of a hundred apologies swell in his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs as they manifest. 1. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to your parents. 2. I’m trying so hard, I really am. 3. Do I have to move out? 4. Did you catch that bit where I said I love you and I think you're sexy? 5. I think I’m going to tear my skin off and throw myself out that window, that’s how at my limit I am…
He ploughs forward, that thing he just said was a mistake.
“No- ah, fuck. I mean, are we friends? We don’t have to be friends. I just- want to know if we are.”
He looks up at him, as earnest as the proverbial schoolboy Kim once compared him to. His leg bounces under the table.
COMPOSURE - (“Do you like me?”)
INLAND EMPIRE - (“Are you ashamed of me?”)
VOLITION - (“Am I a burden?”)
The list in Harry’s head shifts. 1. Am I just your boss that you keep around for some semblance of normalcy and can’t let go? 2. Am I just some kind of pet detective that you take for walks at work and if left alone, are left praying it won’t piss on the carpet or chew up the furniture? And so on. Twenty three nervous men in Harry’s brain holding a conference together. Voices blur, spilling over each other. Swirls of colors fill the creases of his brain. He’s getting a headache.
These choices suck. He doesn’t need to say anything else right now.
no subject
But imagine how much more uncomfortable it is for the detective to ask these questions, he thinks to himself. And when he sees nothing but earnest desperation, he reroutes his train of thought to mull upon the questions posed to him. Friendship with Detective Du Bois something that he hasn't really taken the time to reflect upon. Examining his own interpersonal relationships with others isn't exactly a habit of his, and when he does, it's usually in terms of authority and respect.
He'd like to think that he was friendly and professional towards his fellow RCM officers. But who would he define as a friend, exactly? Eyes, definitely. But that ended abruptly and left the lieutenant utterly, completely alone. Who did he used to confide in off work hours, play games, get into arguments, or simply enjoy the silence with? No one. He thinks about the quiet, empty apartment in Martinaise where he would return to after work, the empty room at Whirling-in-Rags. Both of them empty, both of them quiet.
Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi was in a perpetual state of being Alone. The lieutenant had long accepted this. And then, suddenly, he was simply not Alone, for the sheer fact that he now was trapped in a strange new world with the detective he met a week ago at his back. He knows that Detective Du Bois would likely do anything for him, and that's the trouble.
He owes the detective an honest answer. He weighs all of these things carefully, like a scientist measuring out milligrams of chemicals and components, trying to formulate his way to the truth. Eventually, the lieutenant responds.]
Yes, detective, I'd like to think that we're friends.
[That's the truth. One that's difficult for Kim, himself, to process and categorize in his little filing cabinets filled with thoughts and emotions.]
And even if you did embarrass me, so what? I hate to draw upon clichés, but nobody's perfect.
[He would be concerned first and foremost before treading into embarrassment. But he finds it difficult to say aloud.]
no subject
COMPOSURE - (He’s just thinking, it’s been a few seconds.)
Harry’s face breaks into a broad grin, the crest on his head perks up.
“Cool...that’s super cool. That’s disco.”
He nods with enthusiasm, and with his crest totally fanned out like that he looks unreasonably reminiscent of a cockatoo.
“‘Cause I’ve been hoping that we are. Or that we could be if we weren’t.”
For awhile now. Ever since that first ace’s high and the smoking on the balcony. He hoped they could be friends. There’s other stuff he hopes for too. But it’s foolish and embarrassing and really doesn’t bear thinking about in the light of day. This is for real and doesn’t make him feel weird when he looks at his partner.
…
Oh, ok now he’s feeling weird. His smile gains a strained edge. A twitch. He’d like to be perfect. The petulant voices in his head light up in chorus. He can do better, he can always do better. He can take on ten cases a week. He can handle it. All he needs is time. Maybe he can’t not be embarrassing but he can do other things. All he needs to do is be better.
And when he’s better Kim will trust him for real.
There will be no walls between them. He will take his time with Kim’s secrets, one at a time, everything treated equally and filed away. A pleasure wheel, a pilot jacket, and a dead partner are all equally important. All have added up to build Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, the finest of Precinct 57.
VOLITION - (You have a problem. This isn’t normal. This isn’t the right way to think about people.)
INTERFACING - (You are what you are. A machine of perpetual motion. You were wired to be like this with purpose. If you stop you simply won’t be you any longer.)
CONCEPTUALIZATION - (You’re a romantic. An experimental poet.)
He wipes his face on his sleeve. There it is, he knew it was coming. He’s getting so fucking good at crying like it’s normal and not humiliating. And he gets an extra second or two to remember what he was saying.
“…I guess not, but I embarrass Jean too and we used to be friends. I just don’t want it to ever get like that. With us.”