your corpse will be marked by stars

disco oc sideblog of vvindication

[parabellvvm]

hi im Vin @vvindication (he/they)!! I've specifically dedicated this blog to Disco Elysium original characters, because im deeply obsessed with disco game and love ocs :]

my own guys can be found under the tag #vvin ocs, #fic, or the nice formatted page on my main blog /discocs enjoy, be vigilant, I love you <3

🌠— header photo by ultraviolet-nymphetamine 🌠— icon artwork by seum41

[parabellvvm]

look im not going to start posting on here regularly again bc fuck this website but I just had the biggest fucking epiphany that is so obvious ANTONIN IS TRANSFEM SHE'S FEM HOW DID I NOT SEE IT SOONER. ITS IN MY OWN TEXT !!!!!

there's literally a plot where after Antonin's disappearance a woman shows up that looks uncannily like him that I was plotting might be his twin sister or someone else related. ITS HIM. ITS HER. SHE RAN AWAY AND TRANSITIONED CONGRATS GIRL WHATS YOUR NEW NAME AND PRONOUNS

[parabellvvm]

ah yes 700 words is good enough for one sitting. good bye forever. disintegrates

[parabellvvm]

now that I finally have that out of my drafts (haunting me) I think I can actually bear to look at the project again . maybe.

for my next trick I will attempt to write a page (500 words minimum) for every one of my "main" characters' POVs to try and re-inspire (and make sure im familiar with everyone. hehe)

Vincent Travart — N/A

Joakim Virtaenen — N/A

Antonin Arcelis — N/A

Mikael Wyrzyk — N/A

Harry du Bois — N/A

Kim Kitsuragi — N/A

[parabellvvm]

what would you trade the pain for? — the character of Vincent Travart

How does one find the truth of oneself while the past continues to loom over them? Is the continued knowledge of this past a curse, or a blessing?

Born by the name of Marielle Travart to a struggling single mother in the year '25, he was raised in poverty, with his mother barely scraping by most days. The decade of the financial boom beginning in '30 provided the tiny family some relief, coming to an abrupt end with the economical collapse in '40 and soon after, the death of Maria in '41.

By the year '45, Vincent has socially and medically transitioned at 20 years old to the point of being comfortable with his outward perception. He presents as a cisgender man to prevent judgement and violence, particularly from his colleagues in the RCM - he is well aware that his job does not provide him safety. Even so, he still faces consistent transphobia and homophobia from the uncle who helped raise him - being an officer doesn't provide enough money to move away.

Short of stature at 5'5", he has pale skin, short and somewhat spiky black hair, a faint stubbly goatee, and black rectangular glasses that frame his brown eyes. There is a fleck of pale blue sectoral heterochromia in his left iris. Prefers to wear muted plainclothes with his RCM-issued patrol cloak over the top and a warm, more colorful scarf picked from his small selection.

The choice of joining the RCM was not entirely his. Frequently expected to prove his masculinity in stereotypical ways by his uncle, and under threat of homelessness once he became a legal adult, Vincent decided to undergo police training - believing the position would satisfy his uncle best and give him a way to help people. As a required civil specialization, he opted to be trained in first aid.

He is valued as one of the more observant officers in the precinct, able to pick out the smaller details of a patrol that others may brush over. While not the proper rank for such work, he is often assigned to crime scene investigation alongside his superiors for this very reason. If nothing else, they trust his senses. Though not even Vincent himself realizes that there is a supra-natural element to this skill of his.

The crucial turning point is when he becomes too comfortable with the amount of power he's been granted as an officer of the militia. Falling for the charms of Moralintern politician Antonin Arcelis, he makes the conscious decision to obscure the truth of his drug smuggling in return for the favor of a powerful man - quickly stumbling into a secretive relationship with him that seeds distrust between himself and the authority of the precinct.

Harry, incidentally, lures him back from the precipice of a potentially violent resignation.

[parabellvvm]

cont. (post-"what would you trade the pain for?")

Even with his relationship with Antonin lasting mere months, the damage continues to be felt for many years afterwards in his career and interpersonal relationships. Joakim never receives a rightful promotion alongside his partner before he is gunned down in the line of duty. The eyes of the Moralist International settle on him when Arcelis is later found to be missing.

Vincent finds meaning during this time in working hard to serve Revachol - in supporting Harry, disastrous self-destructive man that he is. When the detective returns from Martinaise with a blank slate, he can't help but yearn for the same opportunity to restart.

He gains that opportunity when a bullet pierces his skull and half-blinds him, almost ending his life. Rendered ineffectual, he is dismissed from the RCM. Granted the chance to find a new purpose - at what cost?

[parabellvvm]

what would you trade the pain for? — the character of Vincent Travart

How does one find the truth of oneself while the past continues to loom over them? Is the continued knowledge of this past a curse, or a blessing?

Born by the name of Marielle Travart to a struggling single mother in the year '25, he was raised in poverty, with his mother barely scraping by most days. The decade of the financial boom beginning in '30 provided the tiny family some relief, coming to an abrupt end with the economical collapse in '40 and soon after, the death of Maria in '41.

By the year '45, Vincent has socially and medically transitioned at 20 years old to the point of being comfortable with his outward perception. He presents as a cisgender man to prevent judgement and violence, particularly from his colleagues in the RCM - he is well aware that his job does not provide him safety. Even so, he still faces consistent transphobia and homophobia from the uncle who helped raise him - being an officer doesn't provide enough money to move away.

Short of stature at 5'5", he has pale skin, short and somewhat spiky black hair, a faint stubbly goatee, and black rectangular glasses that frame his brown eyes. There is a fleck of pale blue sectoral heterochromia in his left iris. Prefers to wear muted plainclothes with his RCM-issued patrol cloak over the top and a warm, more colorful scarf picked from his small selection.

The choice of joining the RCM was not entirely his. Frequently expected to prove his masculinity in stereotypical ways by his uncle, and under threat of homelessness once he became a legal adult, Vincent decided to undergo police training - believing the position would satisfy his uncle best and give him a way to help people. As a required civil specialization, he opted to be trained in first aid.

He is valued as one of the more observant officers in the precinct, able to pick out the smaller details of a patrol that others may brush over. While not the proper rank for such work, he is often assigned to crime scene investigation alongside his superiors for this very reason. If nothing else, they trust his senses. Though not even Vincent himself realizes that there is a supra-natural element to this skill of his.

The crucial turning point is when he becomes too comfortable with the amount of power he's been granted as an officer of the militia. Falling for the charms of Moralintern politician Antonin Arcelis, he makes the conscious decision to obscure the truth of his drug smuggling in return for the favor of a powerful man - quickly stumbling into a secretive relationship with him that seeds distrust between himself and the authority of the precinct.

Harry, incidentally, lures him back from the precipice of a potentially violent resignation.

[parabellvvm]

anyway, all this name talk about mr Mundi's name to say that hes the resident mixed heritage Revacholian-Mesque darling of Tip Top because hes insane and hot while doing it. Kim has a parasocial rivalry with him because he keeps getting in the way of HIS favorite driver. doesnt have brain parasite problems in discoverse hes just having fun and maybe almost dies in a fiery motorcarriage crash at some point who knows 💖

dont think its possible to dye your hair white in a post-soviet industrial state of world so he probably has it bleached blond with purposeful dark roots. still rocking the red accents wherever he can fit them in his outfit. probably gets called Rooster a lot (Mesque national symbol, cocky bastard, always preening)

[parabellvvm]

thinking very deeply about disco!Vance I think he would have a different name but I cant quite settle on one

theres so many factors that go into it. he's mixed-race Revacholian (+Mesque if youre wondering), so his name could pull from a few different cultures. it wouldnt be his birth name, hes an unnamed orphan - it wouldnt be his given name, hes trans - it might not even be his conventional chosen name. Revacholians have a tendency to make up creative names for themselves like Call Me Manana, Tommy Le Homme, Measurehead ... not to mention he's definitely an infamous Tip Top racer who would jump at the chance to give himself a fun moniker

[parabellvvm]

something more conventional; Vasco - "crow" - portuguese/spanish Vanya - russian

something he'd probably call himself; Victor, Ryder (canon surname)

ridiculous stage names; something something corpus mundi, the tallest point in Elysium, found in Mesque ... Mundi as a surname? Anima (latin, "soul") Mundi, to contrast corpus (latin, "body")? maybe too fancy for him

think Ive settled for Vasco Mundi. its symbolically rich, something I think he'd call himself, and keeps the V- to his name

[parabellvvm]

thinking very deeply about disco!Vance I think he would have a different name but I cant quite settle on one

theres so many factors that go into it. he's mixed-race Revacholian (+Mesque if youre wondering), so his name could pull from a few different cultures. it wouldnt be his birth name, hes an unnamed orphan - it wouldnt be his given name, hes trans - it might not even be his conventional chosen name. Revacholians have a tendency to make up creative names for themselves like Call Me Manana, Tommy Le Homme, Measurehead ... not to mention he's definitely an infamous Tip Top racer who would jump at the chance to give himself a fun moniker

[judasrpc]

THE SWORDS

a collection of character development questions based on the arcana and their themes !! this is part of a collection of tarot-themed asks. if multi, please specify which muse(s) the question is directed toward !!

[PAGE] - Are they a curious person? If so, what are some topics they would like to learn more about?

[PAGE, REVERSED] - Have they been deceived? If so, how (and if known, why)?

[ACE] - Do people consider them sharp/witty? Are they quick to adapt to social situations?

[ACE, REVERSED] - Do they have a fear of rejection? If so, is there anything that's influenced/affirmed that fear?

[TWO] - Are they indecisive, or do they know what they want when they want it? If they are indecisive, what do they do to help make a choice (e.g, talk it out, flip a coin, etc.)?

[TWO, REVERSED] - What confuses them the most? Is it something literal, or a broad concept?

[THREE] - What is something that gives them grief, or otherwise makes them feel suffering and sorrow?

[THREE, REVERSED] - Is it easy for them to let go of their pain, or do they tend to hold it closely to their heart? Is it dependent on the situation that causes them pain? What factors go into it?

[FOUR] - Do they get enough rest? What does their nightly routine look like, if they have one?

[FOUR, REVERSED] - What are the telltale signs that they are exhausted and/or burnt out?

[FIVE] - Are they competitive? If so, what lengths are they willing to go to in order to win?

[FIVE, REVERSED] - What is something they do to reconcile with those they've had conflict with? Do they do anything?

[SIX] - Is there something they need to "move on" from? If so, is it a specific event or person?

[SIX, REVERSED] - Do they have any unfinished business? A score to settle? If so, what is it?

[SEVEN] - Are they secretive? If so, what about? Is it something small, or something serious?

[SEVEN, REVERSED] - Do they struggle with imposter syndrome (self-doubt of intellect, skills, or accomplishments among high-achieving individuals or in comparison to their peers)?

[EIGHT] - Have they been in a situation where they've manipulated someone into doing something for them/in their favor?

[EIGHT, REVERSED] - How do they define freedom? Do they feel free in their life, or is something keeping them entrapped?

[NINE] - Are they an anxious person? If so, what makes them feel that way, and how intense do their feelings get?

[NINE, REVERSED] - What is their general mental health like? Is there a lot of inner turmoil, or do they manage it?

[TEN] - How do they react in a crisis? Do they jump into action, or do they freeze?

[TEN, REVERSED] - What was their lowest point, and how (if applicable) have they moved upward?

[KNIGHT] - What is a belief they have that they would "die on that hill" for? Is there anything that could change their mind, or are they steadfast?

[KNIGHT, REVERSED] - Are they good at guessing/predicting how situations/events will turn out?

[QUEEN] - Are they more objective (neutral) or subjective (emotional) when passing judgment?

[QUEEN, REVERSED] - Do they resent anybody? If so, who and why?

[KING] - Do people consider them disciplined, or are they more rebellious?

[KING, REVERSED] - Do they believe social hierarchies are necessary, or do they believe that these systems are tools for control?

[parabellvvm]

what would you trade the pain for? — THE RANKS OF B WING

more subject to change draft material!

I havent done that much research on police divisions yet (let alone older versions or european versions) but I imagine the B Wing to be the pretty standard "patrol" wing. look for problems, report, take care of them until someone more specialized shows up.

LIEUTENANTS Břetislav "Břeti" Souček (pronounced breh-kyi-slaf) — Senior adult man with short & patchy ginger hair and a thick mustache, discernible by the unusually patterned moles on his face. Grouchy, stubborn, & uncompromising. Often seen getting after Junior Officers for their behavior. Rumored deadbeat and/or absent father.

Patritsiya "Siya" Volkov — Older adult woman with thick & greying black shoulder-length hair. Energetic, determined, & independent. Near workaholic, with the highest amount of closed cases among those of B Wing. Mother to twins, one of which is deceased. Has also outlived her late husband. Yefreitor.

The lieutenants are technically work partners - however, they are rarely seen together, let alone working together. Sometimes they convene for precinct-encompassing issues. Otherwise, they seem to prefer working by themselves or with other lower ranking officers.

SERGEANTS no fucking clue what im doing with this position right now. gotta figure out a couple weirdos to shove here 👍 might introduce an AU character like Nicolas from Fallout or Vance from Cyberpunk. Vance would never be a cop though 💖

PATROL OFFICERS Kirill Heidrich — Young adult man with wild, long blond hair that is usually tied back. Still looks like a teenager, and is often mistaken for one due to his trouble growing facial hair. Has a precinct-wide reputation for being impulsive and violent, especially in the absence of his partner. Spreads conspiracy theories and rumors.

Lucas Orlowski (pronounced luy-ka) — Young adult man with short brown hair that is greying early. Has a few tattoos he likes showing off. Neurotic, put bluntly. Often worrying more about appearance and reputation than actual work - a suitable anchor for Kirill, who actually listens to his concerns. Needs consistent reassurance and isn't afraid to ask for it.

Almost constantly attached at the hip during work hours, sometimes even on time off, Kirill & Lucas have found a strange synergy together that keeps them happy, and the RCM happy. Most consider them to be unhealthily dependent on each other, but it seems to work for them.

Vincent Travart — The one and only. Young adult man with short somewhat spiky black hair and black rectangular glasses. Anxious, curious, compassionate. Looking to fill a void. Partner of Joakim.

Joakim Virtaenen (pronounced yo-ah-keem) — Young adult man with short, dull, light brown hair. Quiet, loyal, discreet. Hopes to prove himself capable to both his peers and superiors by serving the RCM without question. Partner of Vincent.

Sloan Siebert — a huge work in progress. he's certainly here. silly, talkative, tends to steal things.

JUNIOR OFFICERS Gwendoline "Gwen" Aulbert — Teenage girl with black shoulder-length hair, sometimes badly dyed blonde. Has a collection of little scars on her face and arms that she makes up stories for. Headstrong, pushy, snide. Gets away with almost everything due to her uncanny ability in gaining thorough witness testimonies. Hasn't been assigned a partner yet due to her tendency to follow around Kirill & Lucas.

Mikael Wyrzyk (pronounced mee-ka-ehl) — Teenage boy with short & somewhat wavy light brown hair. Needs corrective lenses that he absolutely refuses to wear in public, but will sometimes be seen with when doing paperwork. Confident, optimistic, & calm. Adept at talking others in circles in order to get out of telling anything about himself. Hasn't been assigned a partner yet.

[parabellvvm]

what would you trade the pain for? — TIMELINE

what would you trade the pain for? is supposed to mainly take place about 6 years before the events of Disco Elysium, when Dora packs her things and leaves Revachol and Harry behind, before he and Jean became partners in the RCM, and when he and Vincent officially meet.

the canon is extensive and might be chopped up into multiple fics rather than just under the what would you trade the pain for? (WYTPF ????) umbrella. im not really sure yet!

subject to change etc etc canon events = italicized fics written = purple

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

YEAR '40 - The economic boom of the thirties comes to an end following a financial collapse.

YEAR '41 - 10 years ago > Vincent Travart's mother Maria Travart is killed in an unspecified accident. He is begrudgingly adopted by his uncle, Kenrick Faure, as a favor to his deceased mother. > The ficlet "Mother's Name" takes place about here.

YEAR '42 - 9 years ago > Joakim Virtaenen officially joins the RCM at 18 years old despite already serving a few years off and on as a civilian informant on local trafficking.

YEAR '43 - 8 years ago > Vincent joins the RCM at 18 years old at his uncle's insistence to prove himself man enough. Kenrick pays for his training. > Joakim is assigned to be Vincent's partner in the RCM.

YEAR '45 - 6 years ago > Joakim & Vincent find themselves in the right place and time to rescue a politician by the name of Antonin Arcelis, nearly abducted by who appear to be paid thugs. Antonin convinces Vincent to fudge his report, promising him a powerful favor. > Antonin, Vincent, & Joakim enter a dubious relationship. > Joakim breaks up with Antonin and reports his doubts in Vincent directly to Ptolemaios Pryce in an effort to gain his superiors' favor. The pair are barred from promotion and watched with a more careful eye. > Mikael Wyrzyk joins the RCM at 15 years old. > Dora Ingerlund breaks off her engagement with Harry du Bois. > The fic "what would you trade the pain for?" starts here. > Vincent encounters Harry for the first time, who is desperately looking for a way to distract himself. > Vincent breaks up with Antonin and gets into a situationship with Harry soon after.

YEAR '46 - '47 (estimate) - 5-4 years ago > Antonin disappears under mysterious circumstances, rumored to have been abducted. > Joakim is shot and killed during an investigation. Vincent believes his death to be related to Antonin's disappearance, but there is no hard evidence. > Despite the RCM's efforts, Antonin's case (and by extension, Joakim's case) goes cold.

YEAR '48 - 3 years ago > Vincent transfers to C Wing's "Major Crimes Unit" to work alongside Harry. Mikael, inspired, chooses to follow. > Mikael is assigned to be Vincent's partner in the RCM.

YEAR '49 - 2 years ago > Jean Vicquemare is assigned to be Harry's partner in the RCM (estimate). > A fire breaks out, damaging multiple old wooden houses on the edge of the Valley of Dogs. Kenrick is killed in the blaze, destroying the home and forcing Vincent to move into an apartment with very few belongings.

YEAR '51 - current > Harry, Jean, & Judit Minot begin an investigation in Martinaise after the death of a mercenary. Harry is left to complete the investigation and meet up with the Precicnt 57 contact, Kim Kitsuragi, alone. > Harry loses his memory. The game takes place within about a week. > Harry returns to working at Precinct 41. Kim requests his transfer from Precinct 57 to work alongside Harry. > Le Retour is predicted to happen in May by Shivers.

??? (at some point after Martinaise. unknown territory) > Vincent & Mikael are promoted to Sergeants, with Mack Torson & Chester McLaine transferring to another wing. > The case of Antonin's disappearance is reopened when new evidence is stumbled upon. Vincent & Mikael investigate, with the help of Harry & Kim. > Vincent is shot and nearly killed by a hired mercenary, losing an eye in the process. He is dismissed from the RCM due to the apparent disability and long recovery time. Harry & Kim resign from the RCM in turn. > Harry, Kim, & Vincent found their own investigative business.

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BIRTHDATES

Harry du Bois - Year '07 // 38 years old as of '45 Kim Kitsuragi - Year '08 // 37 years old as of '45 Antonin Arcelis - Year '17, February // 28 years old as of '45 Ward - Year '21, January // 24 years old as of '45 // (estimate) Joakim Virtaenen - Year '24, June // 21 years old as of '45 Vincent Travart - Year '25, March // 20 years old as of '45 Mikael Wyrzyk - Year '30, September // 15 years old as of '45

[parabellvvm]

long story short im going to rewrite the disco fic before I get further in because the chapters I have now didnt go how I wanted. not that its bad. I do love what I wrote. but the timeline is off and I want the pacing to be different and its making me insane. SO

I'll be writing up an editable timeline to post on here bc posting that kinda thing helps me pay more attention to the details. and probably more draft stuff! less secretive about my plans! >:]

[twentythousandblades]

what would you trade the pain for? — 1. Midnight Meeting

2.6k word count content warnings: alcoholism, homophobia+transphobia

Vincent Travart, diligent patrol officer of precinct 41 in the RCM, forms a bond with the infamous Lt. Du Bois when he fails to escape his own inherent need to help people — unwittingly exposing himself to the very beating heart of Revachol, a man who he will never be able to drive from his mind as it seems he's fated to shadow his every step.

The bustle of the old silk mill's usual occupants had gradually come to a quiet conclusion as most officers shuffled out of the building and headed to their homes for the night, leaving only the essential and the insomniacs working under the supervision of incandescent table lamps. The familiar buzzing of radio equipment droned on from the other room as Vincent filled in the last details of his report, writing diligently with his favorite blue pen.

"Hey, Pidieu," he calls as he stands up from his desk, chair creaking in protest from the movement, "need another cup? I'm headed out for tonight."

"There's no need for that, officer ..."

"I'm up already. I don't mind." He leans against the open doorway with his papers tucked neatly under his arm, peering into the small office that houses the transceiver system for the entirety of Precinct 41 that's marked with an array of dials and pinprick neon lights. The Communications Officer shows a rare smile as he turns away from the receiver, his dark brows etched into an expression of permanent concern.

"If you insist. Thank you, Travart."

He stands by the coffee machine humming to himself, silent halls filled by the tune of whatever song had last played over the radio during patrol. It's when he picks up the full mug, warm in his hands, that he takes pause.

Another sound, almost imperceptible. He'd heard it for only a moment.

Casting a long look at the darkening corridor, he eventually returns to Pidieu with his coffee. "Here you are, easy on the sugar," he'd said - but if there was a reply, he didn't hear it. Instead he retraces his steps.

Vincent walks further into the building, past his jacket hanging on the back of the chair. The aged floorboards creak underfoot with every careful step. A clock in one of the offices counts the passing seconds with little mechanical clicks. Somewhere, a sobbing man sits alone with a bottle. He wonders if he imagined it, until he hears the sound again, an echo of muffled crying through the abandoned hall of the C Wing.

A metal plaque is fitted neatly on the wall, engraved with a name. He takes a deep breath, and knocks sharply on the door with his knuckles. "Lt. Du Bois?"

Shuffling comes from within the room, a distinct clinking and the closing of heavy wooden drawers. Some sniffling. "Who is it?"

"Patrol Officer Travart, sir." There's a quiet lull, and he shifts on his feet. "Are ... are you alright, lieutenant? Any way I can help?"

The barrier between them opens a fraction, the reddened face of a tired middle-aged man just visible through the gap. The pungent smell of hard liquor wafts out, betraying any subtlety. Du Bois quickly looks him over, glances out into the hall, and gradually pulls the door further open to reveal some papers strewn across the floor behind him. "New kid, aren't you?" He speaks with a mild slur, rubbing at his moist cheeks with the back of his hand. "From, whats'it, that other wing."

"Er, B Wing, yes -"

"What're you doing here, then?" He interrupts, squinting warily as he retreats halfway behind the door.

"I, um - I heard something, and I was concerned." He too takes a step back, observing his lopsided posture. "Why don't I get you some water, lieutenant? Give me a second."

Lt. Du Bois is waiting when he returns with a cup of filtered tap water, sitting behind his desk and staring out the window where humming lampposts begin to illuminate Jamrock's fragmented asphalt streets. He hands it directly to him. "Here, sir. Easy to get dehydrated, drinking and crying."

He seems to think this funny, laughing to himself as he looks down at the mug he's taken. "How'oud you know?" He fails to suppress a hiccup, roughly patting his own chest. "You're, like ..." a quick glimpse, "fresh off the press."

"Fresh off the - Oh, no. I've been working here two years now."

"S'been that long? Shitting hell." He mutters, slouching in his seat until his head and arms are resting upon the surface of the desk, water forgotten after a gulp or two. "How're you …" He wiggles his pointer finger in the younger man's direction, as if to ask an important question, yet trails off into silence instead. Staring with a blank expression.

Vincent hesitates. "Well, I went through training in spring, so … a little more than two years." His gaze settles on the extra chair, unoccupied. He then clears his throat. "How am I what, sir?"

"Sir this, sir that." He waves him off with a scoff, "I've got a name, you know."

"Sorry, Lt. Du Bois."

"No, no," he protests, becoming more agitated with every passing moment, "Harry! It's Harry."

"I'm sorry - Harry, then." He shuffles a little further away.

Harry's fixed on him again, the sclera of his pale green eyes bloodshot. "Well? Wha's yours?"

"What, my name?" He lets go of a small breath he was holding. "It's Vincent, sir. Er - Harry. Sorry about that."

"Vincent!" He shouts with sudden animation, abruptly sitting up and causing the officer to jump visibly as he claps his shoulder with a strong hand. "Thas'it, knew it! Y'were the one on that - the arse ..." he screws up his face, repeating the word a few times before sighing in frustration, "Y'know, the arse case! Th'one everyone was talkin' about!"

His quickly growing smile is crooked with barely contained laughter as he whispers, "The Arcelis case. Yeah, that was … my partner and I. Virtaenen." He finally agrees with a brisk nod, pushing the mug towards him and covering his own mouth with one hand. "Uhm, you should drink some more water."

"Now I get it." He's grinning now, prodding him with a rough finger. "Y'like rescuin' people."

"Pff - what?" He's unmistakably flustered, looking at the floor with particular interest. He starts to turn toward the door. "Look, you're drunk and -"

"Wait, Vincent." his grip on his sleeve stops him, pleading. His voice cracks as if he might start sobbing again. "Don't go."

The two men are silent for an extended few moments, Harry's calloused and scarred hand still holding onto the fabric of his dress-shirt. Little pale marks are scattered across his knuckles where something had shattered and cut deep. Then Vincent sighs, gently guides his hand to the cup. "Okay. As long as you drink this."

The lieutenant has hastily drank the rest of its contents before either of them can comment on it again, making the other chuckle. Wiping his mouth haphazardly, he gradually focuses back in on him. Even in a drunken haze, it looks as if the gears are working within his mind. "You have a partner?"

"Yeah, Virtaenen. Helped me with that case you were talking about." He takes the empty seat for himself and leans his elbows on the desk, glancing once at the door that stands slightly ajar before fully settling in. "He keeps to himself, you might not know him well."

"Huh. Cool guy?"

"He's a fine enough coworker."

Harry huffs. "Wha's that supposed t'mean?"

"It means, uh ..." His eyes scan around the space and its clutter, humming thoughtfully. "It's professional. That's about it."

"What's an … unprofessional one look like, then?" His teeth are showing again in that askew grin he makes, reminiscent of an actor's perfected expression.

He rolls his eyes, smirking slightly. "Whatever this is, probably." He doesn't miss the fact that he's crept in closer, fingers brushing along his wrist. He sits up a little straighter. "Hey, we shouldn't …" The beginning of a protest only seems to draw him in further, quicker, and Harry's feeling along the stubble on his chin before he can even react properly.

"Y'want to be my rescue?" Harry's voice lowers, spoken from deeper within his chest. "Just for tonight? I won't tell." His nose and cheeks are colored rosy with inebriation. The scent of his anticipating breaths is tinged with cheap wine. The pad of his thumb, weathered with time and work, brushes daringly along his lightly chapped lower lip.

Vincent's own heartbeat is pulsing quick under the skin of his neck.

"I - can't." He pushes him away with a soft gesture. "I'm with someone."

With that, he slowly retracts, then collapses against the desk with a thud, followed by a heaving sigh. He scatters more papers onto the floor as he shifts to hide his face. "M'such a fuckup …"

"Hey now, that's not true." He gets to his feet, pats his shoulder.

"Can't go one day. Not even a fuckin' day."

"Lieutenant, how are you getting home? You can't drive like this."

"Doesn't matter, sleep under m'desk."

"No, you don't need to do that ..."

Sniffling, he's started to pull himself from his chair and trying to crawl into the small space underneath. "Screw it. No one'll notice."

"Harry!" He raises his voice, stooping to hold him back by his arm. "Let me drive you home. Okay? Then you can get some well-needed rest."

He sits on the floor with his disheveled hair partially obscuring his face, shoulders slumped with dejection. "Why?"

"Wh - because I'm not going to leave you to be found sleeping on the floor, reeking of alcohol, by the captain tomorrow morning." Clicking his tongue, he attempts to help hoist him back up to his feet. "Come on."

The pair make it safely to the garage without much incident, other than Vincent barely saving his drunken superior from tripping down the steps. Arms locked together to help keep him steady, he walks him to one of the very few motor carriages available to the precinct and helps him into the passenger side with a firm grasp.

"Alright." Vincent declares once he's settled into the seat next to him, taking a deep breath while retrieving the jingling key-ring from the pocket of his jacket. "Where to?" He lets the keys hang loosely from his fingers, brown gaze focusing on Harry - who appears dazed with his jaw hanging slightly loose, not unlike one of the long-suffocated fish on display at the market, frozen in a last gasp for oxygen.

"… Harry?"

"I can't r'member." He confesses, blinking rapidly.

"Your address?" He's momentarily incredulous, gripping one of the steering levers.

"Starts with V? V, v ... Vincent road?" He idly scratches at his growing beard, brows furrowed deeply in thought.

"There's not a Vincent road." He sighs simply, shaking his head. Looking out toward the exit, he bites at his lip and lightly taps his foot along the gas pedal in a repetitive motion. "How about a friend's, then?"

That question he doesn't bother with an answer, only a miserable scoff.

The younger man watches him for a few moments, silent, until his expression changes with realization. He curses something inaudible, fishes a leather wallet from his pocket, and stops short when only a few black notes of reál are revealed.

"Okay. Well … I don't have enough for a hotel." He shuffles it back into his jacket and turns the ignition, engine roaring to life with a press of the designated button. Cautiously, he shifts the machine into gear and drives out into the Revachol night. "You can stay one night at my uncle's. Okay? Just one." He speaks again once the rumbling has died down somewhat, concentrated on the road ahead.

"Your uncle's? Who ..."

"No need to worry about him," Vincent dismisses with a curt shrug, "live under his roof, so that's where we're going."

"Oh, so y'live with him?" He shifts so that his head is resting on the window, eyes closed against the passing lights of residences and other vehicles.

"Yeah." Nothing more.

"Cool guy?"

"Hardly." He scoffs in response. "Listen, we don't have guest room or anything, so I only have the couch to offer." He doesn't once glance his direction as he speaks, thumb tapping along the lever he holds. "He's not gonna like it. Let me handle him." He pulls onto a quieter side road, parking in an unpaved yard. The silhouette of a house stands in the darkness, barely visible if not for the light pouring from the windows, and guiding their way - a flickering porch lamp.

"Whad'ya mean? He gonna be mad?" Harry mutters as he clambers out of the vehicle himself, shuffling through the brown and dying weeds that rattle against his legs. He grasps his own fist, cracks his knuckles on his palm.

"He won't do anything drastic. Might yell and cause some noise is all." He joins him at his side, once more supporting him with his shoulder as they make their way toward the porch.

"Really? Pisshead."

He shushes him, steps away to knock and unlock the door with his key. "I'm home!" He calls inside, motioning for the other man to wait while he leans to look around the corner. "Hey Ken, I've got a guest."

"What, a guest? At this hour?" Ken calls back in a decidedly loud tone, footsteps audible as he comes to the door to glare at both of them. A rail-thin man, his hair is grey and mussed, and he immediately curls his lip at the sight of a stranger. "The hell are you bringing a drunk man home for, Mari -"

"He's a coworker, and he needs a place to sleep." All at once, tension is palpable between them. Vincent stands at his full height, chin lifted. "One night, that's all."

"A coworker? Sure." The elderly man sneers and carefully examines Harry with a critical eye.

"Lt. Du Bois of the RCM." He introduces himself flatly, patting his side for a moment and producing his badge.

He backs off at the sight of it, crossing his arms and grumbling wordlessly for a few moments. "Better be gone by morning." He stalks away into the house, leaving one last remark in his wake, "Should bring home a woman next time." Harry lurches forward to follow.

"Don't. Please." Vincent stops him with a gentle hand on his arm, voice quivering. "It'll only make everything worse."

"Maybe a rearranging of his teeth would fix his tone." He growls, fists clenched.

"Stop it, he's not worth the time." He pulls at him, seemingly eager to disengage, and he eventually lets himself be turned from his course. "Come on, I'll get you settled in."

He more than gets the lieutenant settled in on the couch despite his straight-lipped expression of fatigue, providing him with a blanket, a pillow, a glass of water, and even an old steel bucket for any 'stomach upsets', in the younger man's words. He takes the extra time to tuck him in. "Think you'll be alright?"

"S'He always like that?" He asks instead.

He sighs and averts his gaze. He moves to leave. "Get some rest."

"Wait ..." He grasps at his sleeve again.

"I don't know what you want me to say." He answers with exasperation, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm only here until I can afford something else, then I'll be gone."

"Will y'be okay? Until then?" Through his slurred speech, there's an earnestness to his tone as he touches his wrist.

"Been like this since I was 16. What's another few years?" He tries to joke, but his voice cracks, quickly clearing his throat. He closes his eyes tightly, turning his head away as Harry takes hold of his hand.

"Could stay't mine." Harry offers without a hint of irony.

"No - No." He manages a chuckle from sheer surprise, shaking his head. "I couldn't. Thank you, really." He meets his eyes with his own and smiles slightly, squeezing his hand. "I'll be okay. For now, sleep off that booze - we can talk about this later if you really want."

"… Fine." Reluctantly, he lets him go.

"Sleep well, Harry. Call if you need me."

[twentythousandblades]

what would you trade the pain for? — 2. Aftermath

3.6k word count content warnings: smoking, alcoholism, harassment, mentioned break up

Vincent Travart, diligent patrol officer of precinct 41 in the RCM, forms a bond with the infamous Lt. Du Bois when he fails to escape his own inherent need to help people — unwittingly exposing himself to the very beating heart of Revachol, a man who he will never be able to drive from his mind as it seems he's fated to shadow his every step.

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Vincent's absence has become a notable occurrence during the lunch hour, where before he'd frequently lingered in a quiet corner of the break room like a persistent ghost. It started with late arrivals, gradually leading into occasional disappearances - the tar scent of cigarette smoke lingering on his dark uniform - until his presence had ceased entirely. While the chatter of the precinct's officers continues on around him, Harry picks distractedly at his wilted sandwich.

Unknown to him, Vincent himself is leaning against the rusty railing of a decaying fire escape. The structure juts out from the very end of the old silk mill like a metallic fungus, clashing with the ruddy brickwork as it snakes down the building. The air is thick with autumn rain, and he takes a deep breath of his smoke. Below, the city is a hive of activity. Raindrops patter along the tops of tenements, lorries, and people alike as the daily cycle commences before his eyes, to and fro among Jamrock's estuary of roads, filling the silence with the steady drone of ever-moving traffic. He watches it all without comprehension, his focus on a murmur beyond.

Despite their inelegant first meeting - an awkward encounter after-hours that provided more insight to one another than any of the chats they'd had in passing - the two men had kept in contact. He'd offered his phone number - "in case of emergencies" he clarified, though the lieutenant's flash of a grin when handed the scrap of paper implied that he expected otherwise. What had started out as a simple attempt to help a coworker in need transformed into an odd sort-of friendship the evening Harry had called and asked for him.

He rolls the cooler end of his cigarette back and forth between his finger and thumb, habitually. Deep in thought.

When the door behind him opens with a heavy thunk, he jolts - the little spark of a cigarette flickering out and disappearing onto the sodden pavement two stories down.

"Is this where you've been hiding lately?"

He scoffs, straightening out to greet the man who'd abruptly interrupted his thoughts. "Hiding?" He asks, rhetorical. Still, the corner of his lip turns up in a faint smile as he greets him. "Lt. Du Bois."

The heavy metal door swings shut as he steps out beside him, giving the platform a wary glance as it groans with the added weight. "This isn't the safest place for a smoke."

"Yeah, probably not. At least it's quiet." His tone is subdued, shrugging his shoulders and resting his arm against the rail. Already his brown gaze has wandered off, the small fleck of blue in his left iris much more visible in the clouded daylight. He watches the swifts fly in arcs above the roofs of Jamrock, dark little silhouettes dancing in the pale grey sky.

Harry gives what seems an appropriate pause, following his lead in appreciating the view from their vantage point. Then he presents his own box of cigarettes from his overcoat, bright red with a bold triangle of black printed across the front. Astras, half-full. "Sorry about your cig."

"Oh - thanks." His hand hovers, uncertain, then takes one for himself. He uses his own lighter, shielding the flame from the humid breeze, and wordlessly offers him the same courtesy. The lieutenant leans in close with cigarette between his lips to catch it before it's blown out.

He lets the smoke trail from his open mouth, billowing away with the wind. "Since when do you smoke, anyway?"

Vincent chuckles softly. "Since I was young and stupid." He presses his cheek into the palm of his own hand, the darkened rings under his eyes prominent as he closes them. His posture is sagging with evident fatigue.

"Wait - aren't you twenty? That's not even old."

He hums. "Younger and stupider, then."

That at least makes him laugh a little.

The seconds tick by as they smoke side by side, arms slung over the railing, allowing cold raindrops to soak into the fabric of their clothes. Somewhere down the street, the horn of an aggravated driver sounds. In the reverberating heart of a city, beating with the lifeblood of its citizens on their daily commute, there is a shared moment of quiet between two officers. The younger sighs out the smoldering contents of his lungs and bumps his shoulder into the other's.

"How've you been?" He asks directly.

"Me?" Harry asks as if there were anyone else the question could be directed at, "fine. Only drank half a bottle."

His brows lower, blinking open his eyes to examine him closer. "Wait - Only? You're drunk?"

"'Course not, do I sound drunk?"

He frowns, pupils flickering back and forth with close inspection. Eventually, he concedes. "No." His expression has hardened considerably, shifting to stare in the opposite direction of his companion and instead at the horizon. A stagnant silence hangs between them.

"It hasn't stopped my work." He huffs. "I'm still filing paperwork, gathering evidence -"

"Forget it. I'm glad you're okay." Suddenly the lieutenant's fingers are on his wrist - again - and he instinctively jerks his body backwards, pulls against his grasp.

The man's dull green eyes are intense, fingers pressing hard into the small amount of skin exposed from under the sleeve of his work coat. His still-lit cigarette is perched in the other hand, flickering yellow in his peripheral. "What happened?" His tone is far from aggressive, yet the sudden drop in octave makes Vincent freeze.

"W-What?" He stammers out.

"You've been avoiding everyone to come out here and smoke, by yourself." As quickly as his demeanor had shifted before, it eases again, lightening his grip on him. "On an old rusty fire escape that barely holds two people."

He shrinks into himself, tries to move further away from his prying gaze.

"What's wrong, Vincent?"

His jaw juts out slightly, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Don't wanna do this now." He eventually mutters, turning his head and refusing eye contact.

"Do what? Talk?" He remains at his side, unflinchingly fixated as he waits for his answer.

A shaky sigh is released, held within his chest for far too long, nicotine burning at his insides. The sensation pushes up and leaks out from the corners of his eyes, hastily rubbing the moisture away. "Broke up with my boyfriend. That's all."

"Oh." The remark is barely audible, a whisper in the wind.

The cracks in his demeanor have crumbled, his entire weight is on the metal now as he shudders out in a sob, "Happy?"

Harry says nothing.

"I-It's - It's all my fault. After that one night, I just … I don't know. Wanted the chance to know you. I shouldn't have - He didn't …" he trails off as he struggles to breathe, hurriedly trying to explain himself between gasps for air.

He pats his arm, slides his palm up to rest on his upper shoulder. Vincent leans into him for support.

"M'sorry." He sniffles, a little clearer now. "I made such a mess of this."

He's vulnerable, emotionally open. Both are acutely aware of it.

Wordlessly, the lieutenant takes a small step closer into the other's personal space, hand fitting comfortably into the crook of his neck as he lifts his chin. With the way he has to stoop down, he must be about half a foot taller than him - the difference evident with their proximity. His mouth moves to say something. Soothing words. Anything. The other's dark eyes stare up into his own, anticipating.

"Don't." He whispers, breath unsteady.

"Why not?" His tone is equally quiet, leaning in over him. Even with barely any contact between them, their bodies readily share heat as they stand closely together under the overhanging clouds - Vincent's cheeks flushing with bright, unmistakable color. "You want this too, don't you?" Closing the distance would take no effort at all.

He declines to answer, biting his lip.

"Please - talk to me." He's practically begging. Desperate for connection.

Finally, he puts an end to the exchange, dipping his chin and pulling himself away. "I - I can't do this now." He puts his own cigarette out on the railing. "And you've been drinking. Should get it out of your system."

"That doesn't mean anything," he protests, "I can think fine." He moves after him.

"Stop, Harry." He speaks sharply, drying the last of his tears and adjusting the collar of his shirt to look presentable. "Let me … I need to think." He retreats further, back against the door. "I just need to think."

He pursues his exit, hand outstretched. Vincent is faster this time, recoiling from his reach and tucking his arm closely to his chest. There's a flash of fear in his expression, there one second and gone the next.

"… I'll call - I'll call you. Okay?" It's more a question than a statement.

"Wait …"

His request goes unheard. Unceremoniously, the steel door closes.

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[twentythousandblades]

what would you trade the pain for? — 3. Fire Escape

3.4k word count content warnings: implied homophobia, alcoholism, medical neglect

Vincent Travart, diligent patrol officer of precinct 41 in the RCM, forms a bond with the infamous Lt. Du Bois when he fails to escape his own inherent need to help people — unwittingly exposing himself to the very beating heart of Revachol, a man who he will never be able to drive from his mind as it seems he's fated to shadow his every step.

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"Did you hear about the latest Mullen case?"

Any other day, Vincent would have tuned out the usual morning gossip. Today however, his coworkers in the B Wing crowd around a couple of commandeered desks - including his own - cluttering the workspace with lukewarm mugs of scalded coffee. The machine has been acting up ever since yesterday's power outage, providing even less appetizing drinks than usual.

"What? Like, those lame detective novels?" A Junior Officer, no older than eighteen, replies, "can't believe you read that garbage."

Unfortunately, the others are impossible to ignore while standing over him, chattering among themselves.

"No, dumbass," the other insists, "the one working in C Wing."

"There's a Mullen in C Wing?" The eldest of them interjects - a young brunette man who's sprawling his arms across the surface as if he owns it.

Joakim meanwhile has claimed one of the few chairs available to sit directly behind his partner, a loose sheaf of papers in hand as he pretends not to listen. He passively scans the words printed there, leaned back comfortably with his feet propped up on the empty desk adjacent. Over his shoulder, Vincent can make out what seems to be a general summary of gang activity in, and related to, Central Jamrock.

"No! Not literally!" The blond who started the whole conversation is beginning to lose his patience, sighing and letting his cup thud onto the wood. "Just some fuckup I heard about. Gonna let me tell or not? - heard the guy's marriage fell apart when he was caught with another -"

"Shh! Don't let Břeti hear you."

Everyone turns their heads at that, light catching on the lens of Vincent's glasses and reflecting in a distracting spot on the ceiling. The grizzled lieutenant glares in their direction from under greying brows, busy enough not to waste the time reprimanding them on his way past.

He dares his own little wave, even if it isn't reciprocated.

The junior laughs and elbows the man standing next to her, "Quit being such a kissass, Travart." Her companion snickers, looking away.

Joakim's gaze snaps up, suddenly shifting to sit properly in his chair. "Can see your brown nose from here. Not a competition."

"That's rich from you -!"

Within seconds, overlapping voices are drowning out all other sound as an argument cascades down around him like a great waterfall. He flinches and clasps a hand over one ear. "Hey, hey, take it easy -" he tries to protest - none of them relent. Underneath, a shrill whine is still piercing at his mind. He forces his eyes shut tight as pressure gathers behind them.

"Quiet." His partner's raised voice cuts through the noise above him, cold as jagged stone. There's a tense few seconds of silence before anyone speaks again. "Gossip somewhere else. We're working."

"Fuckin' killjoy ..." One of them mutters.

The three begrudgingly collect their mugs, wandering away to take perch on one of the wing's less ancient desks of sturdy manufactured metal. That certainly won't be the last of the trouble they cause in one day.

Vincent hesitantly checks that he is in the clear with one eye, still clutching at his own head. "You good?" Joakim speaks calmly. He's the only one standing over him now, warm grey gaze betraying concern as he grips his shoulder.

He nods, wordless at first, then taps his temple. "Head's been killing me ever since that lightning strike."

"And you haven't seen the lazareth." It's a statement laced with disappointment, not a question.

"Hell no." He mutters, fingers pressed into the skin.

"Travart -"

"Don't get started. I'll go see him after lunch."

"Good." He moves away with a sharp tap to his upper back. "Don't keep me waiting."

"Yeah, yeah."

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[twentythousandblades]

what would you trade the pain for? — 4. Solace

4.3k word count content warnings: implied homophobia, sexual harassment, canon-typical drug use

lots of themes and ideas within this chapter were inspired by @thegrimreaperisanerd's absolutely phenomenal HarryKim fics "Imprinting" and "DUCKLINGS THAT DROWN", highly recommend them to anyone who's enjoyed this one <3

Vincent Travart, diligent patrol officer of precinct 41 in the RCM, forms a bond with the infamous Lt. Du Bois when he fails to escape his own inherent need to help people — unwittingly exposing himself to the very beating heart of Revachol, a man who he will never be able to drive from his mind as it seems he's fated to shadow his every step.

read the full thing on AO3 💖

"Am I ever going to see you again?"

Patterned sunlight filters through the windshield of the motor carriage, highlighting the pale lashes of his companion and shimmering in the strands of his hair, golden threads akin to spun honey. He smiles fondly at him from under relaxed eyelids. "Of course you will, officer." He reassures smoothly, his voice just as sweet.

Sitting forward, he slips into Vincent's space with practiced ease. The soft tips of his fingers stroke up along the ridges of his knuckles and their lips meet with the barest hint of a kiss. The officer sighs out through his nose at the contact, eyes closing. Everything about this man - his smell, his touch, his taste - radiates a certain warmth. He lingers in it, soaking it in, committing the texture of his lips to memory.

A cough from outside breaks the momentary bliss. Each of the two men quickly retract into their respective seats, one looking far more guilty than the other as he shuffles back into his place and casts his gaze at the floor.

"I've got that station call for you, Mr. Arcelis." Joakim announces himself as he steps up into the driver's side of the vehicle, fixated on the slip of paper he holds in his hand. He doesn't once look up from it, even as he addresses the man eyeing him warily in the adjacent passenger seat. "This station call obligates you to return to Precinct 41 …"

Near word for word from the days of training, the routine easily fades into meaningless speech. Instead, Vincent watches Arcelis as he reluctantly takes the form in his delicate grasp and scans over its dutifully filled out sections. Slowly, he nods in understanding, though his pale eyes shine with a certain apprehensiveness.

He keeps his silence, even after his partner has seen fit to dismiss him with a near guarantee of another eventual meeting.

"What the hell was that, Travart?" A few minutes later Joakim pulls over onto a quiet street among the sprawling network of Central Jamrock's old buildings and turns in his seat to face him, wide-eyed. He's gripping the steering lever with a tight grip, even after he's parked and the engine is cooling with inactivity.

"Was what?" He snaps back. His shoulders have been hunched and at the ready ever since they'd stopped in the first place. Tension is curling like a tightening spring in his chest, winding up further, further …

He scoffs in disbelief. "What if someone had seen you?" The other's mouth opens, yet he remains wordless. "They don't need more fuel for the mill."

"The - mill?" Even as he asks, understanding dawns on his features. "Wh - What? You're not going t-to …" Vincent struggles, producing not much more than a vague sound of confusion in his throat.

"Report you?" He guesses. As he looks back at him with a leveled gaze, a twitch in his expression suggests that he's genuinely considering the idea after speaking it into existence.

It takes some time for him to recollect from that line of thought. "I-I'd expect that, no, you're - not going to start calling - calling me slurs?" He lets out a little cynical laugh, bitter in tone, "Telling me h-how I'm -"

"The fuck you take me for?" Joakim recoils, apparently taken aback. Quickly, he resumes upholding his stern disapproval. "Sorry, excuse me. I don't want any part of that. You need to be careful."

Vincent's mouth is uncomfortably dry when he runs out of words to say, mind flickering with half-thoughts as numerous as the raindrops that begin to drum against the roof. At the sound, he pulls open the door and steps out into the empty street.

His partner calls his name with concern.

Standing under the sky, he lifts his head and lets the moisture slowly seep into his uniform. It's a welcome reprieve from the past week of heat that had soaked into the very bones of the city in much the same manner, gutters fervently drinking up the offering of succor they've finally been granted. His hair is rinsed of gel by the increasing torrent in a mere minute. The lenses of his glasses spotted with water, the cloudscape above blurs into unremarkable paint strokes of grey.

HE NEEDS YOU.

The voice shudders through him like a sudden gust of wind - the inside of his skull coming alive with overwhelming dial tones and the sound of phones ringing in their handsets, desperate to be answered. He wraps his arms around himself, ducking down into his coat, but he's stood in the rain too long. He's shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering.

He turns back to the safety of the motor carriage only to stop dead when he glimpses the lieutenant standing a few paces away in the street. His green blazer is drenched without his issued cloak to protect him from the elements, weighing on his shoulders and dragging him down into the muck that's been swept downhill.

Vincent steps toward him, reaching out. "… Harry?"

Joakim grabs his arm, a vice-grip that floods sudden adrenaline into his veins. He's forcefully twisted away in a rush, the world around him blurring. "What do you think you're doing? You're an officer, not a socialite."

Dread comes over him, pierced into the marrow of his bones. "Let go -"

"You know you're playing with fire," he's muttering in a hushed tone now, "sneaking around with a politician, a suspect." With every word spoken he closes the distance between them, until he's pulled Vincent flush against his chest, coppery breath hot on his face.

Attempting to wrench himself free, he finds his arms too weak to fight him off. "S-Stop, stop, Joakim, th-that hurts -" he hisses out between his teeth, muscles contorting further in a wasted effort to keep any amount of distance between them.

"Be my rescue," the discordant yet familiar phrase tumbling from his mouth sends a jolt through his system - "just for tonight." The man's tongue finds his throat, trails up the line of skin, and he gasps - thrashing in place and ripping at the fabric of the other's shirt. He fights him like an animal cornered, bearing claws and fangs, until he can hardly breathe anymore. His lungs burn with exertion.

Gulping for oxygen, he chokes instead - brackish water filling up his lungs in its absence. Vincent blinks rapidly and fights for consciousness as sunlight flickers on the surface of the waves above him, so far out of reach.

Coughing like a man dragged from the Esperance itself, he wakes abruptly with the blankets thrown from his bed in fitful sleep. There's a dull ringing in the kitchen as the phone calls for his attention, another eagerly awaiting an answer on the other side, but he can't bring himself to force his aching body to act. He's still shaking, heart rapid in his chest as he adjusts back into the world of reality.

Eventually the officer slumps back onto his mattress and wipes the sweat from his forehead, then unsteadily pulls the covers over himself once more with a suppressed shiver. It's far too cold of a morning for this.

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