Isn't it odd to think that he was once a beloved figure at his precinct?

Harrier 'Harry' Du Bois, lieutenant double-yefrietor, head of the Major Crimes Unit, eighteen years of service, two hundred sixteen solved cases, top ten percent of officers in the entirety of the RCM. So many titles, so many numbers, bringing him up and up, higher and higher, just for him to fly a little too close to the sun and fall from grace, shattering every bone that carried his pride and confidence through the marrow.

Now he was a new, albeit worse version of himself. Beaten down, stumbling over his own words and feet, the scent of alcohol permanently buried deep into the layers of his skin like a parasite. A scraggly, beastly shadow of his former self. He couldn't even recognize himself in the mirror, The Expression set like stone in his features.

The weary, forced smile and cheeky glint in his eye that wouldn't go away, no matter what he did.

When he turned to you, it was easy to catch. It was almost unnerving, how uncanny the smile looked on his worn, flushed face. The misery hidden behind it didn't go unnoticed.

Harry cleared his throat as he leaned over the Whirling's balcony railing, murky green eyes flicking over your face, the corner of his lips twitching, words hesitant to fall. Get it together, don't be a pussy. Talk. Speak. Run your mouth like you always do.

"Uh- hello there,"

Superstar cop my ass.