[Jean listens with rapt attention to the things he already knows by heart: Mills, the mill, Jamrock night shifts and stairs leading up to the precinct and the horses, back when they had horses, back when Jean had another good thing to grudgingly count in his life. It's exciting, and he rarely gets excited. He hates Harry, but for a moment, he can pretend that he doesn't, because at least he remembers something. If not what he did, then where he did it—if not Jean's name, then their office. Jude. Major Crimes.
His face falls when Harry stops talking, and he quickly composes himself back into irritation.]
Fuck are you talking about? Why not?
[He tries not to take it personally, which is nearly impossible.]
no subject
His face falls when Harry stops talking, and he quickly composes himself back into irritation.]
Fuck are you talking about? Why not?
[He tries not to take it personally, which is nearly impossible.]