Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The scene where Officer Sell’s truck was discovered was essentially one big puzzle. Every little shoe imprint, blood splatter, and fingerprint was an important piece of the bigger picture—alone they may not mean much, but combined they told a complete story of what had happened and what state their unsub was in when Oliver Sell was taken. There were signs of a struggle and footprints left in the mud beside the parking lot leading into the woods, but no tire tracks indicating the unsub had driven to the scene.

Thankfully, the crime scene techs had already done their initial sweep of the scene, marking droplets of blood staining the gravel with yellow evidence cards and getting ready to make casts of the shoe imprints. The previous scenes had held limited insight into their unsub’s mind, but with every attack this guy seemed to be getting hasty in his eagerness to take another victim, and hopefully left more information this time around.

It was a hazy morning, fog from the nearby river cloaking the ground and twisting around their ankles as Harry skirted around the abandoned vehicle. He scanned the scene before them and furrowed his brows. The driver’s side door was ajar and there were traces of blood smeared over the edge of the door, most likely from Oliver considering the vague outline of an upside down hand.

“There’s blood on the headrest,” Zayn noted with a hum, shining his flashlight into the cab of the truck. “The unsub must have hit him in the head to subdue him.”

Harry nodded, pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger as he thought. It would have been difficult to lure a trained police officer out of his car, even if it was at gunpoint, and they profiled that the unsub was average, so it’s not as though he could have dragged him out by force. “Don’t you think that’s odd though? Guy like Sell just lets some stranger waltz up to his car, much less get close enough to actually hit him?”

Zayn shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he knew or at least recognized the unsub.”

There’s a thought Harry hadn’t considered. It was entirely possible that Officer Sell recognized the killer but then they’d be faced with the reality that perhaps Oliver knew who the unsub was all along. “Something doesn’t seem right about this,” Harry muttered, hands on his hips as he surveyed their surroundings.

Zayn hummed his agreement but neither one had time to do much more than walk around the truck a few times before a van accompanied by a squad car pulled up, tires crunching over gravel as they came to a stop and headlights illuminating the mosquitoes buzzing in the air. The scent dogs that bounded out of the back of the van were used by the county in all sorts of missing persons, drug busting, and illegal firearms searches and were tugging at their leashes eagerly, excited to get to work.

“Charles,” Liam hummed in greeting and extended his hand to shake the hand of the man holding the dog leashes and then the sheriff’s. “Thanks for coming out.”

The man, Charles, nodded and patted the bloodhounds’ heads. “Of course. Patsy and Garth here are excited to get started, so do you have something that has Oliver’s scent on it? No use wasting daylight sitting around here,” he said gruffly, clearly a no-nonsense kind of man. Harry could appreciate that. At least shit got done.

As they spoke with the sheriff, Harry’s pocket buzzed against his thigh. “Sorry,” he muttered and excused himself with an apologetic smile, something in his chest tugging when he saw the name on his phone.

Louis.

Was he even ready to talk to Louis? What if things were weird between them? What if Louis regretted what they had done or hated him or worse—felt completely indifferent to what had happened the previous night? 

Harry stared at the name and the blue eyes glimmering with joy, wrinkles in the corners, that beamed back at him. Nerves bubbled in his stomach, but Harry steeled himself to the anxiety of the unknown churning nauseatingly. He exhaled sharply, hoping that neither Zayn nor Liam noticed his hesitancy, and answered the phone, pressing the button with a microphone. 

“This is Agen—”

“Talk dirty to me.”

A conflicting battle between fear of what else Louis might say and relief that perhaps things could just continue on like normal washed through him as his eyes flicked toward the others. “Hey, baby,” he hummed, worries only slightly alleviated at the sound of Louis’ voice. “You’re on speaker, so behave yourself.”

Without missing a beat, Louis’ giggle tickled Harry’s eardrums. “Or what, you’re going to spank me?”

Harry’s jaw dropped and a guttural, sputtering noise came from his throat. Instantly, flashes of sultry blue eyes and petal pink lips curled into a smirk filled his head, the sounds of those very same words whispering in his ear and sending shivers rippling down his spine. Memories of glimmering jewelry pierced through flesh and nothing but tanned, golden skin came rushing back to him. 

A glance in Zayn and Liam’s direction only proved that this behavior was normal, neither one of them showing much reaction other than an apologetic look at the shocked expressions on the sheriff and handler’s faces. Right, they didn’t know what had happened last night. They had no clue that Louis said the exact same thing last night and ended up bouncing on his cock moaning ‘daddy’ and Harry really needed to stop thinking about it, lest he pop a boner on the job. 

Clearing his voice, Harry crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Lou, focus.”

“Alright, alright. Grumpy pants.” The boy sighed. “I call bearing some interesting news.”

“Interesting?”

“Mhmm. Ladies and gentlemen, please buckle your seatbelts and keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times—”

A small smile twitched on Harry’s lips, fondness billowing like sails in his chest as he tried to remain stoic in front of his co-workers and the local authorities. 

“I felt weird about what that waitress said at the diner and I’ve been getting some weird vibes from the universe, so I did some digging into Officer Oliver Sell’s past. As it turns out, my shockingly beautiful friends, before coming to Milford Police Department, Officer Sell was a rookie with the Dexter PD but his service was short-lived due to ‘tensions’ within the department.”

Harry frowned. He’d been certain that the chief and even Officer Sell himself had mentioned that this was his first job as a police officer. 

“So, being the absolute genius that I am, I called over to Dexter to get the scoop on our missing cop and through a bit of charm found out from their receptionist that Oliver Sell received numerous complaints from citizens for abuse of power, and I quote, ‘being sketchy as fuck.’ Other officers noticed that things were going missing from evidence lockers and his partner at the time asked for a new one because Sell was intimidating witnesses and acting unprofessionally.”

“Hold on,” Zayn interrupted. “How the hell was this not in his file? How did MPD not know about this when they hired him?”

“Evidently, the Dexter Police Department decided not to start an internal investigation because only two weeks after complaints started trickling in, he put in his notice that he was moving.” Louis paused. “I don’t think the chief or any of the other officers had any idea what was going on. I talked to Jason to see if any of this sounded familiar, and he was just as shocked as I was about this. Oliver didn’t even tell the chief that he’d worked a previous law enforcement job, nor did it show up in his background check when he started with the MPD.”

Harry couldn’t tell if he should even be surprised by this new information. They’d known there was something suspicious going on with him from what they had learned from his ex, but Harry never would have imagined that Oliver Sell was a dirty cop and lied to get the job in Milford. There was no way that this was all just some coincidence that Oliver happened to be a corrupt police officer and was chosen by the killer. The unsub must have known about this. 

“Did Oliver ever go to some sort of therapy?” Harry inquired, the cogs in his mind turning over the new discovery as he wandered around the truck. What exactly he was looking for, he didn’t know. But he’d know it when he saw it.

Keys clacked on the other end of the line along with some muffled muttering before Louis hummed into the phone. “No, it doesn’t look like he did. I’m seeing absolutely nothing in his history about therapy, not even grief counseling when his mother died a few years ago or couples’ counseling after that whole situation with his ex. This guy is adamant about perpetuating toxic masculinity, I swear.”

“Yeah, well.” Harry sighed. “They can’t all be as wonderful and free as you are, my dear. Especially not in a town this small.”

“Excuse me?”

Harry looked over his shoulder at a plump woman in her thirties, her glasses comically big on her small nose as she blinked up at him. In her hands was a clear plastic evidence bag holding only one small piece of paper. “Yes?”

The woman shifted her weight and pushed the glasses further up her nose. “I think I found something. It could be nothing, but it seems odd to me.” When Harry nodded at her to continue, she fidgeted, licking her lips and nervously handing over the bag. She seemed skittish, like she was terrified of the federal agents. “Well, um, it’s a receipt. I found it in the grass.”

Turning it over in his hand, there didn’t appear to be anything special about it. “Nelson’s Deli,” Harry read out loud, frowning at the crumpled up piece of paper. “Were there fingerprints present?”

“No, we didn’t find any fingerprints, but we’ll take it back to the lab to examine the trace evidence. Look at the address though. Isn’t that kinda weird?” she asked in uncertainty. 

It looked like a normal receipt, a bit smudged from being abandoned in the dew-covered grass, but right beneath the name of the restaurant it came from was the name of a city and a state. Madison, Wisconsin. “You’re right,” Harry hummed, flipping the evidence bag over and frowning. “That’s very weird.” 

Though not exactly damning evidence, this receipt could finally break the case open. After many years in the police force, he’d learned that even the smallest pieces of information could help find an unsub. Realistically, he knew that it was entirely possible that this receipt belonged to Oliver Sell or virtually any person passing through Milford, but if by chance this receipt belonged to the unsub, it could prove to be invaluable. 

“Hey, sweet cheeks, you still there?”

“Oh, mon cheri, I’m always here,” Louis purred into the phone. 

Spotting the surprised blink and raised eyebrows of the crime scene tech, Harry chuckled and shook his head fondly, somewhat used to the looks he and Louis always got when they spoke together. He was relieved that seemingly nothing had changed between them and Louis was still being his flirtatious little self, though he couldn’t wait for this case to be over so they could discuss last night and either agree to never talk about it again or figure out what the fuck had happened.

“We found a receipt here from a deli in Madison, Wisconsin. I need that big sexy brain of yours to do a little magic for me.”

“Well, here at Tomlinson’s emporium of all things mystical and wonderful, we specialize in magic, so lay it on me.”

Harry smirked. “Alright, I need you to look into any crimes or suspicious activity involving tarot in Wisconsin. This guy thrives on power and control, so focus on crimes like murder, sexual assault, or even stalking.”

Louis’ fingers raced over the keyboard, the clacking and quiet mumbling of Louis talking to himself filtering through the speakers. “Mmmm, nada.”

Pursing his lips, Harry paced back and forth, gaze fixated on the gravel beneath his feet. They had profiled that the unsub was born and raised in Milford, but maybe he had moved here from Wisconsin a few months ago when the murders first took place. Often there was an introductory  period where the unsub began exploring his own desires, dabbling in various violent crimes to get a taste of what he longed for most. “Try cross referencing men who worked in the mental health industry with men who filed for divorce, got demoted at work, or fired in the last year. This guy had to start somewhere, so narrow it down by men who had unstable childhoods and whose partners were the victims of abuse.”

“Your wish is my command. This might take me a while, so I’ll hit you back when I find something! Tommo over and out.”

When the line went dead, Harry pocketed his phone. Liam and Zayn had followed the team with the dogs into the woods in search of Officer Sell, leaving Harry alone with the crime scene techs. Though he wouldn’t say it aloud to the local police, Harry had a feeling that they weren’t going to find Oliver alive. The amount of aggression that the officer exhibited made it highly improbable that he would try to empathize with the unsub to gain his trust and avoid being taken as the ninth victim, most likely challenging the unsub’s masculinity and need for control. 

Of course, the possibility that Oliver himself might be the Tarot Card Killer had crossed Harry’s mind—he was sure it had crossed all of their minds. It was entirely plausible that he had staged his own kidnapping to evade suspicion but ultimately, he didn’t fit the profile, and if what Louis said was true, it would have been much more apparent that he was into tarot. 

No, Harry was pretty sure Oliver Sell was just an asshole who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

As he walked up and down the length of the crime scene, brows furrowed into a frown and his bottom lip pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Harry pictured the evidence board back in the precinct. The abduction site fell right within the comfort zone of their unsub, but there were things that just didn’t make sense. Sell had never sought counseling, which was how this guy was finding their victims, and they still didn’t know how the unsub had access to the information on these vics. And then there were the numbers. Something about these cards and these victims being killed in this exact order meant something to the unsub.

Running his fingers through his tangled curls, Harry gazed at the rising sun cresting the horizon through the heavy fog and breathed in the damp air of morning. The weather in Maine was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced before, but it was fitting for his own mood, all doom and gloom despite the sun slowly creeping into the sky. He hated the unknown. Though he liked to tease Louis about his own control issues, he was well aware that he was hardly any better. Not knowing the truth and being left to his own devices to spin the question of ‘why?’ around and around in his head drove him crazy. 

Nine, one, twelve, fifteen, four, six, twenty—they meant absolutely nothing to him and the longer he repeated them over and over in his head, the less they began to sound like actual words. Normally, he’d call Louis to vent and brainstorm, but given their current circumstances he was a bit apprehensive. Louis seemed like he always did, light and jovial, but Harry still worried about how their actions would affect their relationship. 

Last night was amazing. It was by far the best sex Harry had ever had in his nearly thirty years of life, but the realization that he’d managed to fall in love with his best friend had disrupted the equilibrium he and Louis had balanced between flirtation and friendship, sending that fragile dynamic teetering off kilter, and now he was stumped. Though normally he was a big proponent of communication, Harry was struggling to even find the words to express how he was feeling. Especially without knowing if talking about the previous night would fuck up what they had even further.

Harry groaned to himself and turned his back to the crime scene to bury his face in his hands, wishing the earth would swallow him up whole so he just didn’t have to think about any of it anymore. 

The thoughts lingered with him as the sun crept higher and higher into the cloudy sky, always there in the back of his mind as he poured over the crime scene and catalogued their findings on his tablet. He almost wished he’d gone with Liam and Zayn into the woods with the search dogs instead, though getting eaten alive by mosquitoes that were way bigger than the ones in Pennsylvania was far less appealing. Truthfully, Harry would be more than happy to never have to come back to Maine ever again after this case was over.

Throughout the late morning, Niall sent them updates from back at the precinct, mainly about the media frenzy that was breaking out as surrounding cities sent over reporters to cover the disappearance of Oliver Sell. Harry didn’t envy him one bit, not when Niall was constantly arguing with reporters and bribing them into refraining from calling their unsub The Tarot Card Killer. They’d done well in keeping a low profile, but now that the media knew of the murders and the involvement of tarot, they were swarming the town of Milford.

A little before lunch, news vans began congregating just beyond the yellow tape surrounding the crime scene, reporters and cameras everywhere as Harry sighed in annoyance and shook his head. He hated reporters. 

Luckily—or unluckily—he got the call from Zayn and Liam shortly after their arrival that Officer Sell had been found. 

Swatting mosquitoes and cursing the entire state of Maine, Harry hiked through the dense woods along the river’s edge until he came upon his fellow agents and the scent dogs. They were gathered around a form Harry couldn’t quite make out like vultures, low chatter buzzing like flies as he walked closer. It was the look on Zayn’s face when he glanced over his shoulder at Harry that told him all that he needed to know. 

As he expected, Oliver Sell was not found alive, though he would never have foreseen the exact level of overkill that they found upon locating the ninth victim. 

“My god,” Harry muttered, shaking his head as he looked down at the mutilated body left in a crumpled heap. 

Liam shook his head. “God had nothing to do with this. This is pure evil.”

Even a corrupt police officer like Oliver didn’t deserve what they found. It almost looked like a bomb had gone off, sending blood splashing over the ivy leaves creeping over the rocky embankment beside the river, and the man Harry once would have recognized was obliterated to a bloody pulp, chunks of bloodied flesh hanging off his skeletal frame. All Harry could see was rage, pure fury dying the uniform a deep burgundy. 

Stomach churning, Harry pressed his fist to his lips and crouched to peer at the card shoved in his mouth. He could barely read the text through the blood and crumpled shape of the card, but he could make out just enough to read ‘Judgement.’

“We already called Lou and he said this one is literal. This one means judgement, inner calling, and absolution. He’s getting angrier,” Zayn noted, voice thick as he spoke. “He took the time to carefully place the cards in previous crime scenes, but it’s like his outrage outweighed his compulsions this time.”

Liam hummed his agreement. “For him to abandon his motivation like that it must have been something Officer Sell did or said to challenge his authority that enraged him to that extreme. Look at this,” he pointed out and gestured to a deep cut across the corpse’s neck. “Sliced right through his jugular to the bone. It takes a lot of adrenaline to give a man the strength to do that.”

Beyond the near beheading, Officer Sell’s body was practically shredded into minced meat, almost to the point of being completely unidentifiable. Harry had hoped that the worst of the unsub’s aggression would have been taken out on the previous victim, but evidently he proved that his anger and fury knew no bounds. 

As Harry leaned in closer, the smell of death and early stages of decay seeped into his lungs, the sickening smell making him glad he’d skipped breakfast. Decomposition clearly hadn’t set in yet. It would be at least another twenty-four hours before the body would begin to release the natural gases built up, but there was nothing that compared to the stench of a corpse—Harry would recognize it anywhere. 

Though Harry wasn’t exactly an expert on body decomposition, he’d guess that Officer Sell had met his death just about a day ago, meaning he likely was attacked right after his shift. They’d of course try to pull security footage from a few of the local businesses in hopes that they’d see something that might point them in the right direction, but Harry’s hopes weren’t up. Evidently, the people of Milford seemed to think that just having cameras, even if they didn’t work, would be enough to deter theft and vandalism. 

The sound of his phone ringing sliced through the thick silence fallen on mossy rocks, Louis’ face grinning up at him as he pulled out his phone and put it on speaker phone, hoping that perhaps Louis had some good news for them. “Hey, sweetcheeks,” he greeted.

“Hiya, baby,” Louis’ voice murmured.

As Harry got to his feet and joined the others, he watched with tired eyes as the crime scene techs trickled through the woods and descended upon the scene. “Talk to me.”

A light hum filtered through the speakers and he pictured Louis’ innocent little smirk. “PG or NC-17?”

Even with a dead body a few feet away and crows screeching from their perch high in the surrounding pine trees, Harry couldn’t contain the slow smile that twitched on his lips. “Lou, you’re on speakerphone.”

Rather than keep it clean and move on to talk about the case, Louis only giggled and purred into the microphone, “I charge extra for groups.”

Zayn rolled his eyes, not in annoyance or frustration but out of tamed fondness for the two co-workers. He was used to their antics and had been the subject of Louis’ teasing more than a few times, though it was never quite as flirtatious as Louis was with Harry. “Lou, please tell me you’ve got some good news for us?”

“ Well, my fine friends, it may not be cute photos of fluffy kittens or videos of baby goats, but I do have something that might make you smile. After the press conference aired this morning, we received a tip from a woman out of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. I just sent pictures to your tablets, so please follow along,” Louis spoke and a few keys clacked in the background as Harry, Liam, and Zayn pulled out their devices to swipe through the photos. 

“Meet Emily Johnson, thirty-two year-old nurse who two years ago went to the local police to report that her ex husband broke into her room and attacked her in her sleep. According to Emily, she and her ex split after a few years of marriage because her husband was a grade A asshole who liked to berate, belittle, and beat her. When she filed for divorce, her ex didn’t take it well, so she moved out in the middle of the night and got a room in a nearby hotel. One night, she woke up to find a shadow standing over her. Before her unknown assailant could stab her, adrenaline kicked in and she was able to thrash and kick her way to freedom, just barely getting away as she took off, half-naked, no shoes, no wallet, and no phone.”

Harry scratched at the stubble on his jaw, nodding slowly as he looked over the files Louis had sent. He didn’t know how someone at least eight states away would have seen the local press conference, but he supposed the reach of modern media had grown exponentially. They’d seen it before where men and women came forward with false leads just to get their fifteen minutes of fame and what he had heard so far wasn’t too far off from previous misleading tips they’d received on other cases.

“Emily ran all the way to a 24/7 gas station and asked to borrow the station’s phone to call the police. When she reported what had happened, the responding police officer thought she had hallucinated the whole thing in some kind of drug-induced haze, assuming that she must have been on something due to her hysteria and, get this, refused to investigate and threatened to arrest her for public indecency and possession of a controlled substance because she had taken fentanyl to help her fall asleep,” Louis continued. “She didn’t see it until she returned to the hotel room with a friend to pack up her things and find somewhere else to stay, but on her bed she found a tarot card.”

A few pictures later, Harry scrolled to a picture of the card. “The Tower?”

“Yep. Luckily, Emily took a picture of it as soon as she discovered it. It was placed upright, signaling sudden change, upheaval, chaos, revelation, or an awakening. For years she didn’t know what to think of what happened that night, but when she saw clips of the press conference this morning, she said she had a gut feeling.”

If the police didn’t believe her when she reported the crime, it could explain why their initial search for crimes involving tarot had come up empty, simply because it was never investigated and therefore never entered into the system. As frustrating as it was, things fell through the cracks all the time, especially in smaller towns with departments who weren’t trained to empathize with the victims. Sometimes it was easier to blame the victim than it was to think that something horrible could happen.

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. “So, what about the husband—”

“Shh, I’m not finished yet,” Louis cut him off, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I’d like to introduce my next guest, Lyle Delaney—thirty-one, data processor, divorcee, and tarot enthusiast with a short temper. His history for the most part is squeaky clean, aside from a few complaints of rowdy and disorderly behavior when he’d had a few to drink. After she saw the sketch of the unsub and heard the profile during the press conference, she called the tipline immediately. He looks generic and simple, but if you kinda squint he does look a bit like the drawing. Although, he also kind of reminds me of a less attractive Ken doll,” the boy mused.

“Focus, sweetness,” Harry reminded. “Look into any crossover between the husband’s whereabouts and the most recent murders.”

A huff blew into the speakers of the phone and Louis was probably rolling his eyes, Harry could picture it. “You wound me, Harry. You really do. Being the wonderful and amazing person that I am, I already cross referenced my little ass off and came up with something that is going to tickle you pink.”

Having been incredibly blessed enough to have had the privilege of seeing Louis’ ass, Harry would vehemently deny that it was anything but perfectly plump, but he figured standing over Officer Sell’s corpse within earshot of his co-workers was the least appropriate place to bring that up. “Alright, baby, show me what you’ve got.”

“With pleasure. I looked further into Lyle Delaney’s past and there were numerous calls made to child protective services by his guidance counselor in elementary school with suspicions that there was abuse in the home. Unfortunately, CPS could never find any evidence and Lyle was returned to the home. The plot thickens when Lyle is mandated to therapy after doing some totally disgusting things to the neighbor’s cat that I will not torture you with — just know that I am scarred for life — and low and behold, he gets super into tarot. He moved around a lot in his college years before settling down in Osceola. Now, here’s the real clincher. Only months after his wife filed for divorce, Lyle moved across the country to Bangor, Maine and started up as a data entry clerk for an Informatex Processing firm.” Louis paused for a few seconds. “Okay, this is where you ask me what Informatex Processing is.”

With a chuckle, Harry smirked and shook his head fondly but played along with Louis’ antics. “Tell me, O Wise One, what is Informatex Processing?”

“Informatex Processing is a local business based out of Bangor that handles the sensitive information of clients, including but not limited to licensing, payment information, and patient files of surrounding counseling and mental health facilities.”

That was him. It had to be.

White male, thirties, experienced a trigger shortly before his first attack, and an established history of violence and abuse—he fit the profile to a T. 

“We’ve got him,” Liam spoke and brought his phone up to his ear to make a call to the chief. “We’ve got the son of a bitch.”

Harry nodded, victory swelling like the sails of a ship in his chest, expanding in his lungs as he took a deep breath. Finally. “Baby, you are a goddess and I worship the very ground you walk on,” he breathed in relief. Now it was the mad dash to track down the suspect, the team working together as a well-oiled machine to hunt Lyle Delaney down and take him into custody before he could hurt anyone else.

Louis snickered, probably grinning softly with rosy cheeks that Harry would very much like to kiss at that moment in time. “Get in line. ”

⌖

The beginning stages of a case were all about gathering—gathering evidence, clues, witness statements, and taking in as much information as they could. Then came the building stage, putting all of that gathered knowledge together and constructing the profile as they tried to map out the inner workings of an unsub’s mind. The first two phases of any case were the most time consuming, countless hours spent pouring over notes and files and reports until they found a viable suspect—stage three. Then it was like time warped and everything suddenly went from zero to a hundred. 

After getting the call from Louis, Liam had called the chief and filled him in, agreeing to meet him at the last known address of Lyle Delaney. Zayn, Harry, and Liam all trekked through the thick undergrowth of the forest and returned to the SUV. They wasted little time in gearing up in their bulletproof vests and teaming up with the local officers to head over to the Delaney house located on the other side of the river. 

One of the things that Harry had learned early on in his career was that so often killers like John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, and even lesser known killers like Richard Angelo, all seemed to be completely normal. You could look at their homes and talk to their friends and find nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until you dug deeper into their past and began to peel back the layers of their carefully built facade that you’d see the true darkness of their souls. 

That’s what Harry’s mind conjured up when they pulled up to an average looking rambler tucked into the marshland of Old Town just across the river from Milford. They were practically the same town, distinguished only by the river winding between them and a weather-worn sign welcoming them to Old Town when they crossed Babb’s Bridge. The home was nothing special to look at, not much smaller than Harry’s own townhome back in Virginia, and painted an unassuming beige color that nobody would look twice at. 

A wolf hiding amongst sheep.

Niall, Chief Windham, Detective Murnane, and Officer McNam were waiting for them when Harry and the team arrived, climbing out of their squad cars when the black SUV rolled to a stop at the end of the driveway. On first inspection, it didn’t look like anyone was home. The curtains were drawn, no lights were on, and there were no signs of movement from within the home, but that didn’t mean that no one was inside. 

As Harry climbed out of the SUV, hand resting on the grip of his weapon, he followed the others up the driveway to the front door of the modest home, adrenaline pumping in his veins. Together, the BAU descended upon the home like one being, moving together with practiced motions while the three local police followed behind. 

It was Liam who knocked on the door, hand on his weapon. When no reply came, he knocked again. “Lyle Delaney, open up!” he called out firmly, waiting a few seconds before yelling again. “Lyle, this is the FBI, open up!”

Still, there was no reply.

With a glance over his shoulder, Liam stepped to the side. “Styles.”

Harry nodded and stepped forward, pulling his handgun from its holster and disengaging the safety. Years ago, Liam had hurt his back which limited his physical abilities and put Harry as the go-to for busting in doors and chasing down unsubs, putting all those countless hours in the gym and sparring with Zayn to good use. Bracing himself, Harry grunted and slammed his boot against the door, wood splintering where it broke away from the lock and swung open to bang into the wall. 

Wordlessly, the team swarmed the entry of the small home, each body angled in a different direction with guns drawn. Beneath his feet, the wooden floorboards creaked under his weight and groaned with every creeping step down the hall. One by one they swept through the shadowed house, clearing the bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom as they efficiently checked every corner of the home. It wasn’t until they were sure that Lyle Delaney wasn’t hiding that Harry and the team allowed themselves to really look at their surroundings.

For the most part, it was a relatively clean and boring abode—almost sterile with the lack of any real personal touches. Harry stood in the center of the living room, slowly turning as he scanned the modest furnishings. It looked like any other house, almost reminding him of the houses on TV shows, like it was merely a staged set pretending to be someone’s home.

“He’s not here.” Detective Murnane sighed, the group of seven gathered in the sparsely decorated living and dining room. There was a sofa, recliner, a few scattered picture frames holding impersonal art, and a ticking grandfather clock—but by far the most notable feature in the home was the bookshelf looming over them from the corner of the room, stuffed with more books than Harry was pretty sure he’d ever owned.

Chief Windham holstered his pistol and crossed his arms, the disappointment of not finding their unsub weighing heavily on his shoulders. Harry could imagine the stress this man was under with the entire town, and even neighboring towns, looking to him for answers and protection. It must have been crushing. “Now what?”

“Now we tear the place apart,” Zayn answered, wandering over to the bookshelf. He reached up, pulling an armful of what looked like leather-bound journals from the shelf. “Starting with these.”

“There’s got to be at least twenty of them,” Officer McNam muttered, his wrinkled eyes narrowing as he squinted at the slowly growing stack of books on the coffee table. “We don’t have time to read all of these. What if he comes back?”

Harry nodded and snagged a book from the top of the pile. “I guess we better get started then.”

Thankfully, Zayn was the fastest reader Harry knew, always with his nose in a book and his eidetic memory had proven to be one of the greatest assets on the team. He read at least ten thousand words a minute and was skilled in the analysis of tonal shifts, typically the man they turned to when there was any kind of reading involved. It had started out as a teasing joke when they found a manifesto by an unsub that filled at least four three-ring binders, but over time Zayn had loosened up a bit and volunteered whenever there were letters, journals, or manifestos involved. 

Harry had once seen him read the entirety of War and Peace in one four-hour flight to Oregon.

While Liam called over to the precinct to fill Louis and the other officers in, the rest of them each grabbed one of the books and began flipping through the worn pages. The journals were filled with daily ramblings of a narcissist, complaining about everything and anything that was even a minor inconvenience to Lyle. He wrote of his anger at his ex, the time the mailman ‘disrespected him’ for leaving his mail on the doormat rather than knocking and handing it to him, that he was convinced the waitress at the diner spit in his food once, and even a traffic stop that he insisted was a mistake. 

It was clear from the scribbled writing that Lyle Delaney thought he was better than everyone else and was merely being targeted by his neighbors because they didn’t see the truth, like the whole town disrespected him because they couldn’t see that he was superior. Their profile was right. This man craved the power and control he did not have in his daily life, taking his frustrations at the world out on his victims. 

The evidence they found in those journals was damning, his hatred for the world depicted in the vicious words written so forcefully they tore through the page, and he had nothing but scathing remarks about his employer. It sounded as though he’d received a demotion at work—likely the final trigger that made him snap. 

“Hey, guys, I think I found something,” Zayn spoke up when he was on the third journal. “He’s got addresses written here, but listen to this one. 1691 121st St, Little Falls, WI, 54620.”

Realization dawned on Harry as he peeked over Zayn’s shoulder at the address. That was it. Sixteen, nine, one, twelve, fifteen, four, six, twenty. “Fuck,” he muttered. “The cards—they’re addresses .”

Jason frowned and rubbed his tired eyes. “But what’s the significance? If he’s killing people because of the cards in this order because of some address in Wisconsin, it must mean something to him, right?”

Harry nodded, already tapping Louis’ contact on his phone. If there was one person in the world who could tell them what some seemingly random address meant, it was Louis.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite statuesque god sculpted from white chocolate.”

A small smirk tugged on Harry’s lips. “Hey, baby. I need you to work that magic of yours, think you can do that?”

“What is it with you and underestimating me today? Have the past few years taught you nothing? I’m Louis the Great and Powerful of all things cyberspace, of course I can work magic. Give it to me good, H.”

“Alright,” Harry murmured and listed off the address. “We found it in his journals, but I need you to tell us what it means. He’s got other addresses here but none of them are in Maine.”

As Louis’ fingers darted across his keyboard, Harry paced back and forth with his brow furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. “Okay,” Louis drawled as he read through the search results. “Jinkies. That address you gave me is the childhood home of Lyle Delaney and his parents Rita and Jim Delaney. Looks like there were multiple 911 calls to the home when Lyle was a kid and a few hospital records that reported a broken arm and a fractured rib when he was in elementary school.”

Zayn looked up from the fourth journal he was on and drummed his fingers against the leather cover thoughtfully. “That’s probably where he experienced the brunt of his abuse. He’s spelling out the addresses of the places that shaped him. The next one he wrote in his journal was a place in Michigan.”

The address that Zayn proceeded to recite turned out to be yet another address where the suspect had lived, this time with his grandparents, yet again facing more abuse—but instead of physical, this was mental. Having received both mental and physical maltreatment would explain the increasing levels of overkill present in the most recent crimes. Although those who were physically abused were more likely to demonstrate overkill of their victim, the most specifically violent methods of kill were practised by those who had been sexually or psychologically abused in early life—especially Grayson Bell and now Oliver Sell. 

Harry pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger and hummed, brain tumbling over itself as he paced back and forth. There were other addresses in the notebook too, ones belonging to local residents that Harry would guess were also targets. 

“Uh, guys? ” Louis’ voice crackled through the phone. “I think he’s on the move. When we came up with his name in the cross search I put an alert on his bank accounts and it looks like he just used his credit card at a shop called White Buffalo Spiritual Healing and Gifts. Looks like they sell all kinds of tarot cards, crystals, and oracle cards.”

Liam frowned. “Where is it located?”

“Bangor just off of Pearl Street and Mount Hope Avenue.”

“Bangor,” Zayn muttered, brows creased as he hastily flipped through one of the previous journals he’d already read. “Hold on. One of these addresses is in Bangor. Louis, look up 467 Hillview Drive.”

“Okay, ummm. That address is a residential property belonging to an Eddie Beagsley. Looks like a regular guy in his fifties,” Louis read, a quiet curse falling from his lips. “Shit. Eddie Beagsley is a supervisor at Informatex Processing.”

Dread dropped in Harry’s stomach. The metaphysical shop, the address, and the profile swirled around like dust in a storm in his skull. “Fuck. That’s it, that’s the next victim.” Harry spun on his heel to face the rest of the team, determination sinking its teeth into his gut. “He’s going to go after his boss.”

“We’ve got to warn him, don’t we?’ Niall asked.

It might not do any good. A morbid, pessimistic thought perhaps, but one that Harry couldn’t ignore. They could warn Eddie Beagsley all they wanted but unless they took him into custody, they couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t end up with a tarot card pressed to his chest and his body left laying in a lifeless heap on the side of the road. 

Liam nodded his head, eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and his thick brows pushed together, clearly formulating a plan as he looked around the room and examined a map on his tablet. “We’ve got to split up. Zayn, you and I will head to Eddie’s home to take him into protective custody. Harry, bring Detective Murnane and Niall with you to follow his tracks if he visits anywhere else in Bangor. And Louis, see if you can run a trace on his phone and track him down.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Louis chirped through the phone. Maybe he was a man with a one track mind, but Harry’s heart still squeezed in his chest and a fond smile threatened to tug on his lips with endearment for the sunshine boy. “I’ll send you the coordinates. Call me, beep me if you wanna reach me!”

‘Focus. Think about how cute Louis was later,’ Harry thought to himself as the line went dead.

“It’s possible that Lyle will come back to his home, so Chief, I’ll have you and some of your men watch the house,” Liam continued and tossed the keys to the SUV to Harry. “Let’s move out.”

In an exodus, the team filed out of the cramped home and made their way to the awaiting vehicles. Harry’s group would take the SUVs to maintain a low profile so as not to spook Lyle into running while Liam and Zayn would take a squad car to Eddie Beagsley’s home. Normally, they tried to pair up as much as possible, but with Harry’s group having only three people Niall and Detective Murnane took the first SUV and Harry climbed into the second one alone. He didn’t mind. Harry could take care of himself.

The sun was setting already, painting the skies with hazy orange and pink that was slipping into purple as the seconds passed. It had been a long and exhausting day, but it was far from over. In some ways, Harry was thankful for the hectic chaos of the day, providing a welcome distraction from everything that had happened the night before. He and Louis would need to talk, there was no doubt about that, but a part of him wished the case would never end simply so he wouldn’t need to have the awkward conversation of where this left them now. 

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Louis had wanted the events of the previous day, his pleading eyes and eager lips seared into Harry’s mind for eternity, but now that Harry knew what the boy looked like spread out just for him and whimpering Harry’s name, he didn’t know that he could ever go back to being just friends. He loved Louis. He loved him so deeply that the ache of adoration seeped into the very marrow of his bones. There was no longer a world in which Harry could pretend that he wasn’t head over heels in love with his best friend.

Pressing his foot on the gas pedal, Harry clenched his jaw and whipped down the dirt road, like he was trying to outrun his own feelings with Niall and Detective Murnane hot on his tail. Dust billowed in clouds behind him as he followed the GPS toward their destination only twenty-five minutes away, heart beating like a drum against his ribs. 

No matter how many cases he worked or unsubs he tracked over the years, the adrenaline of the chase never went away. Every time he felt the rush of anticipation buzzing under his skin and a thrill shivering down his spine—it was instinctual. 

The caravan of government-issued SUVs barreled down the I-95, lights flashing and swerving in and out of the evening traffic into the city. Louis had sent them the coordinates of the last place Lyle Delaney’s phone pinged, but from there they would have no way of knowing where he had gone. It would be a witch hunt after that.

A steepled spire of an old church towered into the skyline in the distance, and the brick buildings peered through the trees along the highway the closer they came to Bangor. Though he’d visited at least a hundred cities throughout the United States, Bangor felt different. There was a time-worn, almost ominous air to the traditional buildings crammed closely together along the streets. Spindly iron gates and crumbling bricks were the uniform of every home like something straight out of Stephen King’s novels. 

It all passed in a blur around him, his brain laser-focused on the stretch of road before him, and the lines blended as one with the speed of their pursuit. At the city lines, he watched from his rearview mirror as Liam’s group veered off onto a side street in the direction of the next victim’s home, leaving the last two vehicles speeding along pavement into downtown Bangor and descending upon the streets lined with gothic-style street lamps. 

For a Thursday night, the city was alive and buzzing with pedestrians wandering down the city sidewalks and climbing into their cars to return home. Bookstores, restaurants, and boutiques spilled out of the shops and onto the sidewalks, beckoning in the passersby and teasing what other goods may lay inside. Louis would have loved it. 

The last location their suspect’s phone had pinged was two blocks from the metaphysical shop in an alley dimly lit by flickering lamps swarmed with moths. Gradually, Harry slowed the SUV to a halt in front of the neighboring shop and climbed out of the vehicle when Niall and the detective pulled up behind him. 

“So this is it?” Niall questioned, hands on his hips as he squinted at the alley of darkness.

Checking his phone, Harry nodded with a shrug. “Looks like it.”

Niall, Harry, and Detective Murnane surveyed the quiet side street the suspect had last been, studying the nearby shops and looking for any clue as to where Lyle Delaney may have gone. There wasn’t much to look at, only a few businesses closed for the evening and what looked to be empty office buildings across the street. Harry wondered to himself as he peered into the alley what the man would have been doing in a seemingly empty alley. There was nothing but garbage bins, a dumpster, and broken crate, no signs of their suspect to be found.

The older detective’s brows pushed together as he frowned at the quiet streets, weary eyes wrinkled at the corners as he scanned the area. “Forgive me if this is a stupid question, but why is this guy even in Bangor? I thought his comfort zone was in Milford.”

“It is.” Harry hummed and pulled a flashlight out of his pocket, shining it down the alley. “For killing. He’s probably here to scope out his next victim and learn his daily routine, not to kill him. The cooling off period between kills is becoming shorter and shorter, but he murdered Officer Sell only twenty-four hours ago. It’s not likely that he’ll take his next victim so soon.”

“But we should err on the side of caution,” Niall added. “We may be able to characterize these men, but they can still be unpredictable.”

“Exactly.” 

The beam of light from Harry’s flashlight illuminated the cracked pavement of the concrete, littered with cigarette butts, dirt, and broken glass—all things you would expect to find in an alleyway. But the knife left discarded beneath a pile of soggy newspaper was not, light gleaming off the blade.

Harry’s eyes narrowed at the object. There was no way. Surely they hadn’t gotten so lucky as to stumble upon the murder weapon in a dank, decrepit alley in the middle of the city. Pulling a latex glove from his pocket, Harry crouched into the shadows and pinched the handle of the knife between the rubber glove. 

“Is that what I think it is?”

With a somewhat bewildered nod, Harry squinted at the scratched metal as he handled it with the utmost caution—there could be fingerprints or trace DNA on the handle of it. “I think it’s exactly what you think it is. Here, hand me a bag.”

Slipping the knife into a plastic evidence bag, Harry held up the blade and examined it. The blade was a few inches long, serrated at the hilt and the spine angled at the tip. Often serial killers chose knives as their weapon of choice because they were convenient, unlike firearms or poison, but statistically speaking unsubs who chose to commit their crimes with a blade were more emotionally connected to their victims. Stabbing someone was intimate, a visceral experience that for some became sexual gratification.

He didn’t think that was the case with Lyle Delaney, but they wouldn’t know for sure until they had the opportunity to interview him. 

A crunch of gravel against pavement caught Harry’s attention, his curls falling into his face as he looked up at a shadowy figure halfway down the block. Lyle . Harry’s hand reflexively went to his hip where his gun was holstered, gripping the evidence bat in the other. “Lyle Delaney? We just want to talk.”

Even from twenty feet away, Harry could see the way the faceless stranger’s body tensed, his shoulders hitching and shoes bracing against the sidewalk. 

He was going to run.

In the same fraction of a second that the thought passed through Harry’s mind, the hooded figure turned on his heel and took off in the opposite direction, boots kicking up plumes of dust with each thundering step. Without wasting even a moment, Harry lurched forward, taking off after him as Niall and Detective Murnane scrambled to follow. 

Almost immediately the man yanked open the door of a vehicle still idling a block up, tires squealing as he took off. 

“ Niall !” Harry yelled, repeating the license plate number over and over again in his mind as he bolted for his car. “Follow him, I’ll try to cut you guys off!”

Without so much as a glance in Niall’s direction, having full confidence that Niall and Jason would be able to tail the suspect, Harry ripped open the door of his SUV and tossed the evidence bag holding the knife into the passenger’s seat. The road ahead was a one way street and the city blocks of Bangor would be a difficult maze to navigate on his own, no way of telling which way the unsub was going to turn. 

He needed eyes in the sky.

Adjusting his earpiece, Harry stabbed the quick dial button on the dashboard of the SUV and threw the vehicle into gear before peeling away from the sidewalk, catching a glimpse of Niall’s tail lights as he barreled through the busy streets with his lights flashing. 

As always, the phone only had to ring twice, but Harry didn’t give Louis the chance for one of his usual flirtatious quips. “Lou, I need you to track Niall’s phone!” he shouted over the sound of tires squealing. 

“Why? What’s going on?” The boy’s voice was laced with concern but Harry could still hear the clack of computer keys in the background as he did as Harry asked. 

“I need you to be my eyes, Lou— fuck ,” Harry hissed, swerving around an open door of a car parallel parked on his right. “We’re going after Delaney but I need you to tell me where I’m going. I’ve got to cut him off.”

The scrambled sound of shuffling papers and Louis’ muttering filled Harry’s ears through the com, a pregnant, momentary pause before Louis was clearing his throat. “Okay, he’s heading down Stillwater Avenue but it’s a one-way, so take a left on Parkview and you can head him off in a few blocks.”

Harry squinted at the street signs that were an unintelligible blur with the speed he was barreling down the road.

“Wait! Harry, you just missed it—”

“Louis!” Harry snapped, swerving around a taxi. “I can’t read the signs, you’ve gotta give me a heads up.”

“Sorry, sorry! Okay, umm, just head west and floor it. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

Harry sunk his foot down on the gas pedal, weaving in and out of the hoard of cars on the road, not bothering with his blinker as he kept his eye trained on the SUV in the distance containing Niall and Detective Murnane. 

“Now! Take a left at the next cross street onto Palm Street.”

Checking his mirror, Harry cut across a lane, nearly clipping the bed of a pickup truck. He slammed his foot on the brakes as he turned off the main road onto a small side street lined with townhouses, two cars behind him consequently also screeching to a halt and slamming into one another with a loud crash. Shit. Liam was going to yell at him for that later, he was sure.

“What was that?” Louis questioned. “Oh my god, Harry, what was that?”

Harry shook his head even though Louis couldn’t see him. If Louis started panicking now he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on getting Harry in front of Lyle’s car to stop him from making a run for it. They couldn’t lose him now, not when they had all the evidence proving it was him. If he ran now, he’d take another victim and go into hiding. “It’s nothing, baby! Talk to me, where am I going?”

“Oh my god,” Louis whined. He could practically hear the pout on Louis’ lips as his crackled whimper met his ears. “Why does it always have to be you? Why do you always have to do this?”

“Focus, baby.”

Rain splattered against the windshield and distorted the red tail lights of the traffic ahead of him. Of course it was going to start raining. Because speeding through downtown traffic wasn’t enough. 

“Left! Left, take a left!”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white as his tires skidded over the puddles forming on the asphalt, the tail end of the vehicle swinging into oncoming traffic for a brief moment before he centered himself in the lane and darted out of the way of an oncoming semi.

The more rain that fell from the sky, the slicker the roads became and the more his SUV hydroplaned over the rainy streets. Harry had been thoroughly trained in motorvehicle chases, he was one of the best, but even he was beginning to feel the queasy clench of uncertainty twisting in his gut. 

“Okay, the Broadway park is coming up in front of you. You can head him off there.”

As Harry careened around a bend in the road, a pair of headlights shined in front him as the same blue car Lyle had sped off in turned onto the same street Harry was driving down, right into oncoming traffic. The other vehicle wasn’t showing any signs of slowing down or stopping, speeding through the red light leading into the park.

“He’s right there!”

Two bright lights danced in Harry’s eyes. This was a desperate man, one that would never willingly surrender. There was no way that this was going to end peacefully. The knowledge hooked itself in his mind, sinking its teeth into his bones and dragging like weights attached to his limbs. 

Naturally, Harry had been in plenty of near-death experiences throughout his years. In fact, he had a bit of a knack for winding up in dangerous situations, but in Harry’s mind that only made him all the more aware of when he may be in over his head. Speeding over puddles reflecting the red and white lights toward a frantic, reckless murderer with nothing to lose but his own pride certainly qualified as one of the most insane things he had done. 

It only took a fraction of a second to weigh his options. Either he continued going straight forward, passing right by the man who’d taken nine lives to narrowly avoid an accident but potentially cost them the arrest, or he jerked the steering wheel to the left and prayed to whatever god there was that Lyle Delaney would stop. 

Licking his lips, Harry took a deep breath and gripped the steering wheel in his sweaty palms. “There’s something I really want you to know, Louis.”

“Save it,” Louis cut him off, the panic in his tone trembling audibly.

“No, no, it’s important, Lou,” Harry insisted. It felt like his ribs were shrinking around his heart, the rabbiting beat thrashing against his sternum and sweat prickling at the back of his neck. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. “You know what you are?”

“Harry—”

Clenching his teeth so hard he worried they might crack, Harry’s nose wrinkled and his lip curled into a snarl as he tugged on the steering wheel. Rubber squealed against asphalt in a spine-chilling screech. His heart dropped to his stomach.

The average adult tended to experience pain or discomfort at a level of sound around 120 decibels, something between the sound a chainsaw makes and the noise level of a typical rock concert. Gunshots registered around 160 decibels and explosions ranged from 150 to 200, both of which Harry had experienced. But nothing would quite compare to the sickening crunch of metal on metal that reverberated in his skull as pain bloomed like roses over the entirety of his body.

He felt weightless.

For a moment, it felt like his stomach had jumped up into his throat as the very air in his lungs was sucked out, but then with a deafening grind and a loud pop, his whole body lurched forward before being thrust back against his seat. 

All he felt at first was pain. It was everywhere, spreading like wildfire through his limbs as shock gradually lifted to reveal the ache in his bones. Head pounding, chest constricting, and arms and legs tingling, Harry gasped for air, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut. Even as he breathed in, dust and smoke clung to his lungs and coated his tongue, but at least he was alive. 

“Harry?”

The voice sounded miles away. 

One by one, he registered each of his limbs, checking for broken bones or open wounds but found none. His arms were pinned to his sides and he could feel something warm dripping down his cheek, but he was relieved to find that he seemed to be okay. He probably had a concussion and potentially a cracked rib if the sharp pain in his side was anything to go by, but he’d been shot before and had felt worse.

“Oh my god, Harry?!”

As the ringing in his ears quieted to a dull roar, Harry opened his eyes and blinked through the blood dripping in his eyes. “Louis?” he croaked, unable to actually feel his hands as they fumbled for the button of his seatbelt. “I’ll tell you what you are to me. You’re my god-given solace.” 

A wet sob ripped through the speaker at the sound of Harry’s voice.

“Baby honey, you promise me one thing,” Harry panted, wincing at the pain blossoming in his temples and shooting up his side as he coughed on the thick dust clogging his lungs. “Whatever happens, don’t you ever stop talking to me.”

To his left, he could vaguely hear the sound of an ambulance wailing into luminescent streets and rain drizzling down on the roof of the crumpled SUV above him, but most of all he could hear Louis’ distraught cries through his earpiece. “I can’t because I’m fucking mad at you! I love you so fucking much you absolute shit-head!”

Breathlessly, Harry leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, pain thumping in his skull from the whiplash. “I can wait,” he whispered, dizziness swimming in his head as he waited for the medics to help him out of the car, knowing all too well that he wouldn’t be able to even stand on his own when the entire world felt like it was spinning around him. “I’ll wait forever for you.”

⌖

Lyle James Delaney was arrested for nine counts of murder in the first degree, two counts of breaking and entering, and three counts of stalking after Detective Murnane and Niall had pulled him from the car and thrown him to the ground to cuff him. As Niall had described it, the moment Harry’s vehicle had swerved in front of the suspect’s, Delaney had slammed on his breaks but the car hadn’t stopped, skidding over the water pooling in the streets and colliding with the passenger side of Harry’s SUV. Apparently the impact had not only completely dented the passenger door, but sent the vehicle spinning into oncoming traffic that only narrowly missed broadsiding the SUV. 

At some point, Harry had fallen unconscious in the driver’s seat after being hit, but Niall had assured him that, miraculously, nobody else had gotten hurt and the suspect had only experienced minor bumps and bruises—not that Harry would have minded if it had been worse for Lyle Delaney considering the horrors dealt by his hand, but he supposed it was probably a good thing that he hadn’t died. Death would have meant no justice for the victims or closure for their families. 

As for himself, Harry had indeed gotten a minor concussion from the accident and two of his ribs had been bruised from the seatbelt keeping him strapped into his seat, remarkably having no more serious injuries than a nasty cut on his brow and a soreness in his body that left him hobbling. He was lucky that it hadn’t been worse. 

Though Liam had offered him an early trip home, Harry insisted on returning to the Milford Police Department to finish out the case. There was no point in him sitting in his apartment wishing he was there to help. They’d be able to solve it without him, Harry wasn’t that self-righteous to think that he was the only one who could get Lyle Delaney to break, but he felt compelled to get the truth and be a part of the interview that would bring him to justice.

And then there was the panicked, adrenaline-fueled confession.

He’d not been able to stop thinking about it, the words replaying in his mind over and over and over again like a warped record. They’d said it to one another before, but more so in a platonic, soul–bound friends kind of way. Now, he didn’t know if those weighted words that had seemed to fall so easily from Louis’ lips held more meaning. He knew the call of his own heart, the ache of wishing he could peer into Louis’ mind deeper than the ache of his own bruised ribs. 

His gut was a mess of fear, worry, and excitement over what intentions might lie behind Louis’ words as he eased himself out of the back seat of the new SUV and held in a grunt of discomfort. On the way back from Northern Light Medical Center, he’d run over every possible way his return could go. He worried that the words Louis had practically shouted into the phone were nothing more than an exclamation of fear and desperation, pleading for Harry to live solely because he didn’t want to lose his best friend.

Would he show up to the precinct and face a Louis who only held platonic feelings for him? Would Louis pretend he’d never uttered his love? To lose Louis would be to lose the person he was closest to in the entire world. It would be losing his other half, the missing piece to his puzzled life, and he didn’t know if he could bear it. He wouldn’t be able to continue on with the case if Louis rejected him now. 

So he’d decided to play it off as if nothing had happened. He would march into that precinct and hug his best friend and shove down the feelings of complete adoration. Ultimately, he had a job to do and, although he was dying to know if the man he loved felt something in return, he had to focus on the case.

Of course, this plan was immediately torn to shreds the moment he walked through the front door and all five feet seven inches of soft fringe, blue eyes, and honey tan skin came barreling toward him. Louis looked completely beside himself with worry. His eyes were puffy and red, the sleeves of his cardigan were stretched out from his nervous fidgeting, and his bottom lip was swollen, still trapped between his teeth as he came stalking over to Harry. 

“Lou, I promise I’m fine, I just—”

Before he had a chance to utter another word, the petite boy was surging forward onto the tips of his toes, fisting Harry’s bloodied henley in his hands, and tugging him down into a desperate kiss. He tasted like stale coffee and hazelnut, the taste tingling on Harry’s lips as Louis kissed him with enough force to have him stumbling forward before he was able to steady himself, ignoring the ache in his sore body.

Kissing Louis was kissing heaven, made even better by the complete lack of alcohol to dull his senses this time around. In that moment, with Louis clinging to him like his life depended on it, Harry felt more alive than ever. Louis was a tree rooting himself in the echoed caverns of Harry’s chest. He didn’t care that a room full of his co-workers and local officers were bearing witness to this sunshine boy throwing himself into Harry’s arms like a soldier coming home from battle. Perhaps later he would, but in that moment he was simply happy to feel Louis’ heart beating against his own.

Louis slid his hands over his pecs and draped his arms over Harry’s shoulders in a hug, never once allowing their lips to disconnect. As the boy pressed himself against Harry’s chest, the sharp pain of cracked ribs snaked up Harry’s sides and he couldn’t help but wince, grunting against Louis’ lips.

Just as quickly as he’d tugged Harry into a kiss, Louis pulled away, lips shiny and pink like candy that Harry could hardly keep his eyes off of. “Shit, are you hurt? You look hurt—did you break something?” 

Louis’ nervous babbling paired with fidgeting fingers covered in dainty gold rings and a wash of pink dusting his cheekbones was cute, a feeling of complete endearment curling up in Harry’s chest and making itself at home. “I’m gonna be okay, just a bit banged up and bruised,” Harry promised, suddenly feeling very aware of the weight of his whole team’s gaze on them.

“Good,” Louis muttered and dragged his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Then I can do this.” He stomped his foot and jabbed a fist against Harry’s bicep, not hard enough for it to actually hurt but with enough force to get out a bit of the pent up energy still coiling in Louis’ body.

“ Ow .” Harry frowned and rubbed his arm. “What was that for?”

“For making me worry about you, you idiot!” Though there was a frown tugging on the corners of Louis’ lips, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was upset, but his body language didn’t show that he was angry with Harry.

If Harry was a stronger man, he would not have found the pout and arms crossed over his chest to be so adorable, but he was in fact weak and currently very endeared by his best friend’s annoyance. He nodded and fought the urge to cradle Louis’ cheek in his hand and kiss that frown right off his lips. “I’m sorry, but—”

“No. Harry, you listen to me, and you listen good.” Louis huffed and shifted uneasily on his feet, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and glaring at the ground. “I thought I had just listened to you fucking die! I thought you threw yourself in front of that psychopath’s car and would be yet another victim to add to his file. I thought I lost you.” His words started off angry but slowly melted into soft uncertainty, his confidence leached from his body language as he gradually shrunk down in defeat. “I thought you were dying before I got the chance to tell you that I love you.”

That same feeling that had fizzed in his veins that night in their motel room came flooding back, every single moment of gentle touches, comforting cuddles, and late nights whispering to the stars played in his mind like a movie as Harry stared down at the boy. “I’m here, Lou,” he murmured and reached down to take Louis’ hand in his. This boy. This was the one person in the world who could bring a smile to Harry’s face on gloomy days. This was the ray of sunshine that could envelop Harry with warmth, cloaking him in comfort when it felt like morosity would overtake every part of Harry’s soul. He was there for Harry through thick and thin, a constant presence in even the darkest of days. “I love you too. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hope glinted in diamond blue eyes. “You do?”

Nodding, Harry gently tugged Louis in for another hug and nosed into his messy hair, inhaling the sweet smell of his shampoo. “Yeah. A lot.”

A feeling of contentment sunk through the taut muscles stretched over Harry’s bones, blanketing them both in a moment of softness as Harry closed his eyes and bathed in the glow of Louis. Harry would have loved to have sat there all day holding Louis and kissing him until they fell asleep, but Niall cleared his throat and reality came crashing back as Harry reminded himself that they were currently standing in the middle of a police station in the middle of small town Milford, Maine. 

“First of all, fucking finally , and second of all, as happy as I am that you two finally got your shit together, can we go get this guy to confess so we can go home?” Niall asked as a smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. 

Only slightly embarrassed at the scene he and Louis just caused, Harry nodded and rubbed Louis’ back before pulling away. Now that they had at least figured out that the feelings were mutual, they’d have plenty of time later to hash out exactly what they were and what they wanted after they finished closing the case. “Let’s do it.”

The interview room was a tiny, cramped space in the back of the precinct with no windows and a long two-way mirror stretching along one wall. While Harry had been in the hospital getting checked out, Zayn had been watching Lyle for three hours, documenting his every move and studying his nonverbals as the man paced back and forth. 

Normally, Harry was the one who went first, his dimpled smile and casual mannerisms putting the suspects at ease as he opened the conversation to talk about things unrelated to the case. A key part of interviews was establishing a baseline to see how the suspect acted and what tics they had before addressing anything about the case, so when they were confronted with uncomfortable information they could detect misalignments. But Harry being the one who caught Lyle Delaney, and had the cuts and bruises to prove it, would only put him more on edge. 

With his arms folded over his chest, Harry stared at the man inside the room. It was clear the suspect was restless, crossing and uncrossing his arms as he shifted his weight and walked from one end of the small room to the other. From looks alone, he didn’t seem like anything special. The man had dark hair cropped short and gelled into place, brown eyes, and a plain face void of any identifying marks like moles, scars, or birthmarks. But there was an air about him—a twisted, hateful curl to his lip as he shook his head and glared at the mirror.

Liam paused outside the door for a brief moment and fixed his tie, inhaling deeply through his nose before reaching out and twisting the knob on the door. The second the door swung open with a low groan, Lyle’s head snapped around and he seemed to shrink back from the agent as he walked into the room. Despite his need for absolute power and control, it was fascinating to see Lyle recoil and drop his chin in a self-protecting gesture, like he couldn’t help but submit to Liam’s more dominating personality and stature. 

“Good evening, Lyle. Why don’t you have a seat?” Liam offered with a hum and gestured to the chair closest to the door.

The man eyed him warily. “Why am I here? You’ve kept me locked up in here all night—I have rights, you know.”

“I know. Please have a seat so we can begin and then you can be on your way.” Liam pulled out the chair opposite to Lyle and sat down, setting a thick file onto the table and crossing his leg over his knee. With an expectant look, he watched the suspect eye him warily before dragging the chair back and sitting down, leaving plenty of space between himself and the agent. “So, Lyle, can I get you something to eat? Maybe a burger or a slice of pizza? That diner around the corner might still be open.”

Harry leaned against the table in the observation room, balancing his chin on the back of his hand and studying the surprised tilt of the suspect’s head. 

“Something to eat?”

Liam shrugged and pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his suit, leaning back in his chair casually. “Yeah. I figure we might be in here for a little while and the least we can do is get you something to eat, but if you’re not hungry then that’s fine.” His movements were tracked by two nervous brown eyes. 

“Hmph,” Lyle mumbled to himself, and the faintest of smiles flickered over his features before his expression sunk into a grim, impatient frown and he cleared his throat. “What if I want a steak from that fancy place on the other side of town?”

With a chuckle, Liam nodded and tapped his pen on the notepad in his lap. “Well, we can certainly try our best. If they’re not open, I promise we’ll get you your steak as soon as they open and maybe we can treat you to some coffee and donuts or something to tide you over.”

A satisfied inhale swelled in the suspect’s chest as he sat up a bit straighter and nodded. Interesting . If Harry had to guess, he’d say that the appeased smirk twitching over his lips was a response to being shown respect that contrasted so distinctly to the usual treatment he received from the people in his life, the expression so brief that an untrained eye might have missed it. Micro expressions were a good indicator of authenticity, lasting only a fraction of a second and very difficult to control, whereas a macro expression was one that could be controlled and used to manipulate the audience. 

“How can he sit across from a man like that and not want to throttle him?” Chief Windham asked, shaking his head as he stood next to Harry in the observation room. His brows were pulled together with a slight curve of his mouth downwards, contempt written into the wrinkles embedded in his skin. He looked almost older now than he had when they first arrived a week ago, skin a bit paler, hair a bit grayer, and eyes sadder. 

Harry understood the exhaustion of working a hard case like this, but even he couldn’t imagine what that must be like to feel lost and out of control when everyone in town was looking to him to make things right. It was a burden too heavy for solely Chief Windham to bear. “He does,” Harry promised. “But if he did that it would taint the case. We lay a single hand on him and you can kiss his conviction goodbye.”

The chief sighed, slouching against the wall and crossing his arms over his round belly. “I’m sure you folks do this all the time, but I don’t see how it doesn’t phase you to speak to him like that. We know what he did. We have all the evidence proving that he was the one who brutally murdered nine people, and yet he’s acting like they’re old golf buddies chatting about the kids going off to college.”

The open body language, cursory introductory questions, and positioning within the room itself were all an attempt to get Lyle to relax. It would do them no good if he was on edge or tense right off the bat. The more relaxed the suspect was, the more any misaligned body language would present itself. There were very few moments in Harry’s career that being hostile with an interviewee led to a true confession, and as he studied the two people in the other room, he watched as Lyle gradually began to mirror Liam’s body language down to the crossing of the legs and lax lean into the chair. 

“It’s all a tactic. Liam has to build rapport with him, forming a connection and a mutual bond to coax a confession out of him,” Harry explained and winced as he leaned back in his chair, glancing over his shoulder when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Louis had stuck by his side, refusing to leave him alone after being distressed over his well being for hours while he was in the hospital. Normally, this was the kind of thing Louis would never want to witness, opting to hide in his office with computer screens and his colorful bits and bobs to brighten up the darkness of their work. 

The boy’s nimble fingers rubbed gently at the tension in Harry’s muscles, wearing a soft smile that Harry couldn’t help but return.

“I could never do what you do,” Chief Windham muttered, rubbing his hands over his face with a heavy sigh. 

Harry hoped he would never have to. Their work was not for the faint of heart and he’d seen it destroy even the strongest of men. To catch a criminal was one thing, but to peer into the mind of a psychopath and try to empathize without losing yourself was an entirely different thing.

Liam spoke to Lyle like he was an equal, going over information that they already knew; such as what he did for a living, when he moved to Milford, and where he’d grown up, allowing the man to sink into his nonverbal baseline. As they talked about his daily routine and the people in his life he was closest to, Lyle’s nostrils flared and his lips compressed into a thin line, as if he was disgusted by the question or insinuation that anyone would be worthy of his friendship. He had superiority issues, that much was obvious.

Slowly, Liam would ease in a few harder questions about Lyle’s childhood but with each question, there was a spike in Lyle’s nonverbals as his hands fidgeted in his lap and his knee bounced. He was attempting to play it off like he was indifferent to the memories of being a young boy, but from Louis’ research they all knew that he was far from indifferent. 

His parents had been horrible to him as a kid and as with all narcissists, a man like Lyle would never forgive someone for wronging him. That was a grudge he would carry with him for the rest of his life, and subsequently, one that would result in nine people losing their lives and countless others affected as families, friends, and the entire town mourned the loss of their loved ones.

Just from looking at the man in the room, you’d never guess what horrors he had done. It was something that always stuck with Harry, the thought hissing the endless possibilities of ‘what if’ in his ear when he passed seemingly normal people on the street. Statistically, it was entirely possible that one of the people he saw every day would wind up to be a murderer and, sure, maybe he was only being paranoid, but men like Lyle Delaney, Philip Markoff, Harold Shipman, and Ted Bundy had proven that you can’t trust even the most charming of strangers. 

Though, Harry definitely wouldn’t categorize Lyle as charming. As he watched the man fidget and slouch in his seat, he could tell he lacked the confidence of the kind of killer who could lure a victim into danger with charm alone. No, this man’s secret weapon was his unassuming demeanor that allowed him to hide amongst the masses, camouflaging himself as a shy, meek man as his victims let down their guard before he pounced, too late for his target to save themselves. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

With the faint ticking of the hands on the clock face, an hour slowly crept by. Though it was only four in the morning, Niall had already begun working on the press conference announcing the capture of Lyle Delaney and somehow managed to convince Louis to help, which Harry was incredibly grateful for. As strong as Louis was, Harry knew that once Lyle started opening up, the sinister reality they would uncover would make Louis squirm. He didn’t need to hear that. He saw enough evil through the separation of a computer screen, he didn’t need to witness it up close and personal. 

After the coffee and donuts had finally arrived from the bakery in town, Liam glanced toward the two-way mirror with a subtle nod. That was Harry’s cue: get the suspect to relax with Liam’s soothing nonverbals and then confront him with the reality of his current situation by having Harry walk in, a visual representation of Lyle’s crimes with the cut above his brow and bruising on his jaw from the impact of the airbag. 

He ignored the pain of his bruised ribs as he strode over to the door and stepped inside without warning, three bottles of water in hand and a file of photographs tucked under his arm. His sudden appearance had Lyle flinching as he glanced back at the door, his shoulders creeping up to hunch into himself. 

“Water?” Harry asked in a hum and set one in front of the suspect before handing the second to Liam.

Lyle shook his head, pulling the sleeves of his hooded sweatshirt over his hands and fidgeting with his fingers in his lap. Harry was making him nervous, though it was an unusual sight to see a man the same age as himself shrink in on himself, making him look so much more pathetic and years younger than he actually was.

Shrugging, Harry dragged a third chair over to the table and sat down with a heavy exhale, legs spread confidently as he leaned back in the seat. “Suit yourself.” While Liam was mirroring Lyle’s body language in an effort to coax him into trusting him, Harry assumed a more dominant, powerful stance. “So, Lyle, where were you two nights ago?”

“I dunno. I was probably at home watching TV,” the man mumbled, crossing his arms and scooting back in his chair. The crossed arms were a blocking gesture and it seemed more difficult now for him to make any sort of eye contact—he was trying to distance himself from Harry. 

Liam leaned forward, earnest curiosity tilting his brows and glinting in brown eyes. “And what were you watching?”

Lyle’s bottom lip pinched between his teeth as he picked at the peeling laminate on the table with nothing but nubs on his fingers. Nail biting was a sign of not only stress and anxiety, but in some cases, it also could indicate obsessive compulsive disorder. “The news.”

“Oh, really?” Harry chuckled, humorlessly. “And what happened on the news? What time did you watch?” 

“I can’t remember.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” Harry questioned, a bitter edge to his tone that he couldn’t shake. For a few long moments, he just stared at the man across the table, studying every hair, facial muscle twitch, and nervous shift of the eyes. “There isn’t a single person who can corroborate your story? No friends? No girlfriend? Nothing?” 

The very mention of a girlfriend had the man under suspicion bristling, his shoulders creeping up to his ears and his swollen, bitten lips pulling into a tight line. Harry hummed and crossed his arms over his chest as he glanced to his right and exchanged a look with his supervisor, an understanding passing in the air between them. 

“Lyle, why don’t you tell me what happened with your ex-wife,” Liam suggested, clasping his hands on top of the table with a curious tilt of his head.

Knee bouncing, Lyle sunk down further into his seat and hesitantly reached for the bottle of water Harry had placed in front of him, picking at the label rather than drinking from it. It was more a distraction, but whether it was for himself or for them Harry wasn’t sure yet. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Liam hummed and drummed his fingers on the table. “And why is that?”

“She had plenty to say about you,” Harry added, casually. Though Lyle still didn’t look up from his fixated stare on the plastic bottle in his hands, Harry could see the spark of curiosity blended with the bitterness of disdain. 

“Harry, why don’t you tell him what she said?”

With a theatrical sigh, Harry pulled his notebook out of the folder and flipped to a blank page, acting as though he was reading off his notes. “Let’s see here. Well, she said quite a lot. She claims you were a poor husband, didn’t have very many friends, couldn’t seem to hold down a job, and that you were—well, you know, impotent—among other things. From her description of you, I doubt you would have the confidence or the power to do any of these crimes,” he spoke with a chuckle.

The water bottle crunched in Lyle’s hand, plastic twisting in his palm as Lyle’s eyes finally tore away from their fixed stare at the ground to glare up at Harry and, for the first time, Harry could finally see the spark of fury that simmered below the surface just waiting to be unleashed. “I am not impotent,” he hissed.

Harry held his hands up with an amused smirk. “Hey, I’m not saying that you are, Lyle. To be honest with you, your ex sounds like a bitch.” He shook his head with a shrug and took a swig of his water, doing everything that he could to attempt to relate to this man. Not a word that came out of his mouth was a genuine opinion, but empathizing with unsubs and weaseling into their brains was vital, even if blaming a victim made him sick to his stomach.

“What?”

“I mean, I don’t care if you couldn’t get it up for her, she shouldn’t have said that, right?” Harry explained, shifting forward in his seat and dropping his voice, as if revealing a secret. “C’mon, be real with me, was she a little, you know?”

A frown carved itself into Lyle’s brow, his mouth turning down at the edges and his nostrils flaring with the twist of his lips. “Excuse you?”

Beside him, Liam crossed his arms, a wariness edging on the sharp lines of his face as he watched Harry. The agent chuckled and rolled up his sleeves, displaying the tattoos inked into his forearms. “She just seems like the kind of woman to be hard to please and I don’t blame you for not being able to get it up. Demanding, nagging, bossy—you know, wears the pants. I guess I get it, growing up with such an overbearing mother must have conditioned you to some extent. We see it all the time, people looking for partners who vaguely resemble their parents as they seek out the same characteristics they were raised with.”

The jarring boom of Lyle’s fist banging down on the metal table echoed through the small room. Nostrils flaring and eyes burrowing holes into the two FBI agents, he snarled, “I am not impotent and if that frigid cunt said I was, then she’s better off dead!”

Finally. This was their unsub. This bundled up rage and pure hatred was the man responsible for taking nine lives and leaving behind mutilated corpses. The evidence all pointed to Lyle, but even with all the evidence in the world, all it would take was one good lawyer to have this whole thing come crumbling to the ground. They needed a confession.

“Alright, alright, I believe you,” Harry conceded, not entirely convincing with the shrug of his broad shoulders. A man like Lyle would want to prove himself. Being faced with someone who doubted his physical prowess would only make him want to validate his abilities “But the problem is that those men right outside that door? They don’t believe you. They think you ran from us because you’re guilty.”

Liam nodded. “Help us help you, Lyle. Why did you run from us?” 

When their suspect only looked away from the two agents to stare daggers at his own reflection, Harry leaned forward with his elbows perched on the edge of the table and rested his chin on the back of his hands laced together. “You know what I think? I think you were scared.”

Their profile predicted that the killer would have a superiority complex, facing so much invalidation and belittling in his daily life that the only way he could feel some semblance of power was to brutally murder his victims. It would bother him to be painted as weak or pathetic, and just as Harry predicted, the very mention of fear had Lyle bristling at the word. 

“I think we were wrong about you,” Harry mused. One by one, he pulled photographs of the crime scenes from his folder and scattered them across the table. “I mean, look at these. This. Now this is impressive.” He pushed the picture of Alison Blaker toward the suspect, studying his expression closely. “This took skill and strength. Look at the way the killer sliced through the neck muscles and esophagus so deep that he nicked the vertebrae in the neck. Whoever did this has balls. But I look at you and I don’t see a man who’s capable of doing anything as impressive as this.”

The moment Lyle laid his eyes on the photographs he was transfixed. His Adam's apple bobbed and he licked his lips, eyes glued to the gorey images as his gaze flicked over the photos, as if he was trying to devour them and commit every blood spatter and twisted scream to memory. Typically a dry mouth indicated nerves, and as Lyle rolled his lips to clamp them between his teeth, Harry could tell he was trying to withhold something and quite literally biting his own tongue. Still, the man didn’t utter a word.

Harry stared at him for a long moment, though Lyle never looked up from the photos. Most people would take one look at the bodies and blood splashed across the paper and recoil, but not this man. His hands were being wrung in his lap and his leg hadn’t stopped bouncing from the second that Harry walked into the interview room. 

“Lyle, I’ve been doing this for nearly fifteen years. I’ve interviewed hundreds of kidnappers, burglars, and murderers, and you know what they all say? It takes strength to do this kind of thing. To strangle a man to death or stab someone over and over and over takes a strong man,” Liam spoke, accenting each word with a dull thud of his fist against the table, miming the action of slicing through flesh with his hand. “No offense, but I don’t see you as someone capable of doing this.” 

Hesitantly, Lyle reached forward and pulled one of the photos from Grayson Bell’s crime scene closer, the pads of his fingers leaving sweaty smudges on the pristine glossy page. The way he looked at the crumpled, lifeless form of the boy was enough to have Harry’s gut twisting sickeningly, the burn of bile in his throat as he swallowed his rage and leaned in conspiratorially. “Listen, Lyle. It’s obvious you don’t have what it takes to do this. But the problem is, we found some pretty incriminating things in your house.”

Lyle’s brows scrunched together as he frowned. “You went into my home?”

“We did. And you know what we found?” Harry asked, pulling photographs they took while searching through his home out of the file and dropping them on the table in front of Lyle. “We found the journals.” 

The moment he laid his eyes on those pictures in particular, Lyle’s jaw muscle flickered as he clamped it shut and he ran his fingers through his short hair in a self-soothing gesture. “I didn’t do anything, those are just words. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I did it.”

Liam shrugged. “Fair enough. But we don’t just have the journals, Lyle.” Next, he produced evidence bags with a few tarot cards inside and held them up. “We found these.”

“So?”

“Well,” Harry began with a hum and pointed to one of the crime scene photos, “whoever did these crimes shares your predilection for metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. You’ve already said that you didn’t do this, but tarot doesn’t exactly strike me as the kind of thing many people are into. Now, I’m no expert on tarot cards myself, so why don’t you tell me what it would mean for a killer to leave something like this with his victims?”

Lyle’s nostrils flared as he seethed up at Harry. “It isn’t mumbo-jumbo,” he spat and shoved the photos away from himself, a spine-chilling screech sending Harry’s hair on end as the legs of the chair scraped against the concrete floor with the force of Lyle lifting himself to his feet. 

For the entirety of the interview so far, Lyle hadn’t been able to stop fidgeting. When under stress, a person would experience an increase in adrenaline being funneled to their hands and feet as the body prepared itself to stand and fight or to run, often coming out in feet shuffling or grooming gestures to self-soothe. But Lyle’s instincts had finally taken over, his hands wringing as he paced the room. 

“Then talk to us , Lyle,” Liam encouraged, shuffling around the photos as he pointed to the photographs containing the tarot cards. “Tell us what this is supposed to mean.”

Harry snatched one of the pictures of the young boy and stalked over to the man pacing back and forth like a caged animal, shoving the photo of a young Grayson Bell on his first day of kindergarten in his face. “Tell us what it means that a grown man would attack a little boy and cut him up so his own mother hardly recognizes him!” he hissed, anger bubbling up as fury prickled at the back of his neck. He grabbed another photo of the crime scene, the paper crinkling in his clenched fist as he jabbed a finger at the card left on the body. “Do you know what I think? I think whoever did this is an insecure, pathetic, small man who has to get validation from taking a child from this world.”

“Harry—”

“No!” Harry snapped, gesturing with his finger up in Liam’s direction. “The Fool, The Lovers, Judgement—to me, this looks like a weak person using a card game to rationalize their behavior. So tell me, Lyle, is the person who did this weak?” 

His voice echoed through the sparsely furnished room, clanging like metal pots in pans in a quiet room as the jarring words clattered in Lyle’s ears. “ I am not weak! ” Lyle yelled as he slammed his fist against the wall.

A slow, snake-like smirk slithered over Harry’s lips in satisfaction. “There we go, now we’re talking,” he said with a laugh. “Now that , that was exciting! You almost had me fooled for a minute there, Lyle. Here I was thinking you were just a sniveling coward.”

Lyle stumbled backwards, away from Harry, ripping the photograph out of Harry’s hands and throwing it on the ground with a snarl. “I am not a coward, I am not pathetic, I am not insecure! You’re just like the rest of them!”

The chair creaked as Liam pushed it back and rose to his feet. “Just like the rest of who, Lyle? Tell us what happened and maybe we can help you.”

Realistically, the only help would potentially be a lighter sentence if he cooperated, but in the predicament he was in, that might be the best they could do. There weren’t many prosecutors who would look at the pile of evidence they had and the slew of victims left in his wake and be willing to offer any kind of plea deal. Lyle was almost there. He was teetering on the edge of a confession, just one final push and he would give, Harry could feel it in his bones. 

“Are you a man, Lyle? Or are you just a boy?” he sneered, holding up the images of mutilated bodies that any normal person would find nightmare-inducing. Hell, Harry wouldn’t necessarily consider himself normal, but even he had seen the twisted limbs and blood-drained mangled flesh when he closed his eyes at night. But Lyle didn’t so much as bat an eye.

Cold, contempt-filled brown eyes glared up at Harry, flicking from the bloodied corpses he seemed so proud of and the challenging stance of the FBI agent. “They deserved it,” he growled. “It had to be done.”

It felt like the air in the room was punched from Harry’s lungs, the very breath rushing out in a heavy sigh as he felt the relief of a thousand weights being lifted from his shoulders. For a few moments, the room was quiet, save for the fuming labored breaths heaving in Lyle’s chest and the quiet drone of the air conditioning unit. They had him. They fucking had him.

Rubber soles of his boots creaking against the linoleum, Harry returned to the table rested his hands along the edge in wait, heart beating against his ribcage as he stared at the narcissistic, power-hungry monster like a wolf stalking its prey. “They didn’t understand you, did they?”

Slowly, Lyle shook his head. 

“They thought you were weak. They saw you as the butt of the joke, the pathetic husband, the laughing stock of the office—they didn’t respect you,” Harry murmured, the very words scrawled by Lyle’s own hand in his journals spilling from his lips. 

“They didn’t see the truth.” The words were breathed into the early morning, flickering with the fluorescent lights humming in the fixtures overhead, but they still sent shivers down Harry’s spine. Despite his steeled nerves, Harry wasn’t immune to the chill of horror sinking into his bones. 

But to show weakness now would be to throw all of this away. 

“Show me,” Harry urged. With the kaleidoscope of death, misery, and pain at his fingertips, Harry pushed a pad of lined paper and a pen across the table, extending forth the invitation of absolution. “They didn’t see it, so show me what they didn’t see.”

Leisurely, Lyle strolled over to the table covered in scattered photographs of his handiwork, a haughty sense of satisfaction lifting his chin as he perused the images spread out before him. His hesitation was gone, replaced with the overwhelming craving for validation as pulled his discarded chair back to the table and eased himself into the seat, taking his time as he reached for his coffee and took a long sip. 

The dynamic in the room had shifted. 

After building and building and building to this moment, Harry and Liam had flipped the script on Lyle, now allowing him to feel as though he was in control, and clearly Lyle was thriving on it. His lips quirked into a smirk as the chair creaked beneath him when he leaned forward to peer at the photographs. 

This man was an entirely different person to the Lyle Delaney that had first cowered in the corner when Liam had walked in, the one sitting across from Harry brooding with a sinister twist of his lips. He was revelling in this shift of power. Lyle took his time in shuffling through the photographs and studying his own work, seemingly not bothered by the two agents waiting patiently for him to crack. 

“I was going to go back for Emily,” Lyle murmured, brushing his fingers over the glossy pictures of Alison Blaker’s glasgow smile. He hummed and shook his head in disappointment as he rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “I had such big plans for her, but she ruined it.”

Liam nodded, pulling up the photograph of the tarot card Lyle’s ex wife had sent them on his tablet. “She got away before you could finish.” 

“She was supposed to be the first, but then she woke up. Do you know what I was going to do to her?” the man asked rhetorically, sighing wistfully like he’d been dreaming of the very moment in which he could bring his plan full circle. “I was going to make her respect me. I was going to show her the man that I really am by making her watch as I took her apart piece by piece. She was going to be my final masterpiece.”

With almost all killers, there was one victim that meant the most. Sometimes it was the very first victim an unsub killed, the trigger that pushed them over the edge and made them snap, or it could be the last victim, one that they had built up to by learning from their mistakes with each murder leading up to the final one. But with Lyle, his ex wife Emily was both. He was too inexperienced the first time he tried to murder her, making too many mistakes that led to her escape, but there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that if Lyle had completed his Fool’s Journey, Emily would be dead. 

“Why tarot?” Liam inquired, his hands spinning the ballpoint pen between his fingers and tapping it against his notepad. “What makes it so special to you?”

Harry watched as Lyle huffed, his pride edging on disdain as his nostrils flared and his lip curled. “My grandparents were religious, the hateful kind. It didn’t matter what I did or said, they would always find a reason I was disobeying the Lord. I went to a therapist once and she helped me process the hell they and my parents put me through using the cards. They were the only things that helped. But do you want to know what Edith and Jeffrey said when they found out?”

After barely a moment’s pause, Lyle leaned closer, eyes narrowed to slits. “They said I was twisted. That tarot was blasphemous and they’d have none of that witchcraft in their house of God.” The man smiled a bitter, sly smirk. “They called it the work of the devil. But I’d show them. If they wanted me so badly to be wicked then I’d show them just how bad I could be. I’d show them I was the Devil himself.”

A shiver ran down Harry’s spine, controlled only by the willpower left in his tired and aching body as he nodded. “We know that you were using the cards to spell out the places you’d been hurt. The first was your childhood home. There were at least twenty different addresses in those journals we found belonging to previous victims as well as what I’m presuming were future targets. So tell me, Lyle, what address were you spelling out next? Who were you going to kill to fit the storyline of the Fool’s Journey?” Harry questioned and slid over copies of some of the journal pages taken by the crime scene analysts. 

A thick brow twitched as Lyle laced his fingers together and stretched his arms over his head languidly, grinning like the cheshire cat as he stared at Harry. “The Justice card was next. That snake of a man has screwed people over for long enough; giving promotions to people who didn’t deserve them, lying, stealing, cheating. I was going to make him pay for what he’d done to me,” he hissed, a dark expression creeping into the sharp edges of his smile and furrowing in his brow. 

From what little they knew of Lyle Delaney’s boss, some of the facts they’d garnered from their research didn’t quite fit the narrative that Lyle had spun. “I presume you’re talking about Eddie Beagsley?”

With a nod, Lyle scowled at the mere mention of the man’s name. There was so much hate bottled up in that brain of his that it was spilling over into his nonverbals, no longer able to contain the contempt openly exhibiting itself through tension in the brow and a wrinkled nose. “That rat bastard had fucked me over. All those late nights I pulled for that man meant nothing to him. It didn’t matter how hard I worked or how good I was at my job, he still gave the promotion to that slut he was sleeping with!”

Fighting the instinctual urge for his eyebrows to creep upwards in surprise, Harry nodded and firmly jabbed his finger at the evidence photos. “He and Emily were different than the others, weren't they? None of the others had a personal connection with you. I can see why you’d choose your asshole boss and the nagging, uptight woman you used to be married to, but why did you choose the others?”

“Because they fit,” Lyle explained simply, his shoulders rising and falling in a shrug as he shoved his sleeves up his arms and sat up a bit straighter. Harry hadn’t noticed at first, but Lyle had ink covering his forearms, the dark lines a bit messy and crude—telltale of an inexperienced artist—but he could see the familiar shape of a man and a woman, what looked like a king, and an upside-down person peeking out from the hem of his sleeve. They all looked to be of the same age, fully healed over but not quite faded enough to be more than five years old. 

Lyle had been planning his crimes for years. This wasn’t a sudden act of violence or a random act of passion, it was a carefully plotted odyssey of self-actualization and justification of his sinister compulsions. He possessed wherewithal to get the muse for his crimes inked into his flesh, a constant reminder of what he was working up to. Though Harry and the rest of the team wouldn’t stick around for the trial unless subpoenaed to testify, he’d seen enough cases to know that those tattoos could very well be what put Lyle away for the rest of his life. 

Harry nodded at the art decorating his flesh and took a swig of his water to wet his throat after what felt like hours of coaxing Lyle into a confession. “We know you chose your victims because they fit specific cards, but how did you find them? What made you want to kill those particular people?”

“Do you know why I chose to work at a data processing firm?” Lyle asked instead, tilting his head inquisitively and pursing his lips. Without waiting for a response, he slid a photograph of their most recent victim from the pile of corpses and smirked down at the image of Oliver Sell’s mutilated body. “Secrets. People will tell their therapists anything—you cheat on your wife? Tell your therapist. Doing drugs? Tell your therapist. Getting abused by your father? Tell your therapist. But do you think people would truly bare their souls like that if they knew their most hidden secrets weren’t as private as they thought?”

Seated beside Harry, Liam frowned and tugged on the knot of his tie to loosen it as he jotted down a few notes. “It’s the ultimate sense of control, isn’t it? You get to peer into their lives without them even knowing you’re there.”

Lyle nodded, lips twitching into a pompous sneer. “You have no idea. I read thousands of secrets every day, people’s darkest thoughts and desires at my disposal, and they haven’t got a clue. When you think about it, the pawns I chose are lucky. They’re the chosen ones,” he mused in a low hum and stroked his thumb over the glassy, empty eyes of the youngest victim, as if he was fond of the memory encapsulated in the image. “I could have picked thousands of people, but I chose them.”

Irritation thrummed in Harry’s veins and pulsed in his temples as he took a deep breath to quell the rising anger bubbling in his gut, plastering an indifferent smile over his features rather than reaching out and throttling this man like he wished he could. “So you read their case notes and those nine people stuck out to you?”

“Essentially,” Lyle agreed. “There were plenty of people who could have filled the same role, but the moment I read their files I knew it had to be them. It was clandestine. It was fortuitous, if you will.”

And so it was confirmed, Lyle had found his victims through the private files of unsuspecting patients of surrounding mental health facilities, chose them to fit the cards preorganized into a sequence spelling out addresses that held significance for him, and reaped power and control from murdering the victims. But there was one thing that still didn’t make sense to him. 

They had all that they needed to put this man away for the rest of his life, contained behind iron bars and sequestered from the thirteen remaining people he had chosen to target. They may never know that they were destined for death, left to live completely normal lives without so much as a clue of what could have happened to them had Lyle not found his way behind bars. Leaning his elbows against the edge of the table, Harry propped his chin on the bridge of his fingers laced together and furrowed his brow. “Then tell me, Lyle, this supposed quest that you seem to be on, what’s the point? What is it about the Fool’s Journey that inspired this spree of killings?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tearing his gaze from lifeless bodies sprinkled across the table, Lyle looked up at Harry and Liam with amusement and vindication clouding cold brown eyes. He leaned back in his chair and held out his arms. “Self-actualization, wholeness, growth, but most importantly, revenge .”

⌖

Harry had never in his life been so excited to watch the world fade away, shrinking and getting smaller and smaller as miles of rocky bluffs and gray seas disappeared behind the clouds. Had it not been for the dreary rain that rarely lifted or the sadistic nature of their stay in Maine, it might have even been a picturesque place to relax and enjoy the eastern coastline. Harry loved the outdoors and exploring the untouched wilderness found in places like this, but after the past week he didn’t think he’d ever be able to look at stormy blue skies or craggy cliffs the same way. 

Most cases didn’t manage to get under his skin to such an extreme, but this one felt different. This one was lingering and festering in his mind like an unwelcome guest camped out in his head. Maybe it was the complete disregard he’d seen in Lyle’s eyes, like the lives he took without hesitation that were snuffed out as though they were only a flickering flame, or the crimson stain found on the pale cheek of a young boy that was the juice of cherries and not blood, but he knew in the recesses of his mind that he would never forget this case. It would burrow itself deep within his subconscious, carving out a home in his memory and rearing its ugly head when he least wanted it to. 

For the most part, Harry was good at compartmentalizing. He’d seen the worst of the worst, sat in the depths of darkness with serial killers and child predators, had to sift through decomposing bodies for evidence, and seen more death than most normal people would ever have to deal with, but he could move on from it. He could arrest a human trafficker on a Wednesday at two in the morning and still show up to Liam’s kids’ teeball game six hours later without blinking an eye. 

But as he peered out the small windows of the government-issued jet, he couldn’t shake this case. The barrage of ‘what if’s’ filtered through his mind over and over again, fear that maybe they hadn’t done enough sinking its teeth into his skull as he stared at gloomy gray clouds billowing around the plane. They’d gotten a confession and had plenty of evidence of Lyle Delaney’s involvement in the murders, but still he worried that he hadn’t done enough. That was perhaps the hardest part of his job. To acknowledge that they’d done all they could do and let go; allowing the local police and legal system to take over and seek justice was difficult for someone as stubborn as Harry.

So he was torn. The headstrong, determined FBI agent side of Harry felt obligated to stay and help the town repair from the hurricane of chaos caused by what the media was officially calling ‘The Tarot Card Killer’—despite the BAU’s insistence that they not. The other half of him, the exhausted, battered and bruised man who longed for the comfort of his own bed, couldn’t leave the town of Milford behind soon enough. 

A soft, sleepy snuffle broke through Harry’s inner turmoil and brought him back to downy brown hair and clear blue eyes framed with long lashes. Louis . He’d fallen asleep the moment the plane lifted off from the runway with his knees pulled up to his chest, his head pillowed on Harry’s thigh, and cuddled up with a blanket draped over his small form. This boy, this beautiful, wonderful person, with exuberance permeating the entirety of his being, outshone the shadow of death looming over Harry. 

The rest of the team had withdrawn to their own corners of the jet, spreading out throughout the cabin to catch up on some much needed sleep and decompress after such a jarring case, but Louis had followed Harry to the back of the plane and plopped himself down beside him without hesitation. Despite being constantly worried about Louis, it had been kind of nice to have his best friend to keep him company and he’d forever be grateful that this trip had led to the realization of their feelings for one another. 

As he watched Louis’ chest rise and fall with each languid breath, Harry combed his fingers through Louis’ hair and allowed the faintest of smiles to flutter across his features. It was rather funny to think that only a week ago Harry hadn’t even recognized his own feelings, stupidly convinced that the love and adoration he’d felt swirling in his veins was only platonic. Granted, they still had plenty of things to figure out and discuss, but for now he was happy to simply sit and watch Louis’ button nose scrunch as his fringe tickled the faintest freckles dusted over its bridge. 

“Mmph. What’re you doing?” the boy asked in a mumble, his voice thick and slurred with sleep as he nuzzled into Harry’s hand, lashes fluttering but his eyes still gracefully closed.

Harry hummed quietly and smoothed his hand over the slope of Louis’ side, cataloguing every inch of Louis that he could commit to memory. “Just thinking.” 

‘About being in love with you,’ he thought, too nervous to voice the depths of his affections. 

“Gross. No thinking. Only sleep.” Louis yawned, two bluer-than-blue eyes finally peering up at Harry as he rolled onto his back and gazed up at him.

Hmm. Maybe Louis had the right idea. It had been thirty hours since Harry’d last slept and the exhaustion was finally catching up to him. For almost twelve hours he’d nearly forgotten that his ribs had been banged up and bruised, and his head had bounced off the window of the car, too distracted by work and invigorated by the adrenaline to think about the pain. But as Maine slipped away, fatigue settled into his bones and creeped down his back, pinching at the muscles between his shoulders down to his lower back. 

With a long stream of air passing through his lips in an exhale, Harry nodded and ran his fingers through his mop of tangled curls. “Yeah. You might be right,” he agreed, rubbing at his dry eyes. Before the words even left Louis’ mouth, Harry knew exactly what the boy would say. “I know, I know—you’re always right.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong. But what I was going to say was that you should pass me my airpods and we can listen to music to relax.” Louis’ giggle was one of the cutest sounds Harry’d ever heard and when paired with crinkles around his hooded blue eyes, he figured he may as well be a goner.

Grabbing the small case from Louis’ bag tucked beside them in the seat, Harry handed over one of the earbuds and tucked the other into his ear. He gently pulled the clips out of Louis’ messy fringe and combed out his messy fringe, allowing Louis a few minutes to pick out a playlist and smiling when Jack Johnson’s voice filtered through the speakers.

‘Maybe we could sleep in, make you banana pancakes, pretend like it's the weekend.’

It was too soon for Harry to be thinking about it, but as the song crooned about lazy mornings making breakfast together, Harry couldn’t help but realize that it was everything he hoped to have one day—two or three kids, a dog and a cat, and Louis by his side.

There would be no getting over Louis William Tomlinson.

⌖

When they landed at Raegan National Airport, the afternoon sun welcomed them into the fray of tourists, businessmen, and security guards. The cloudless blue skies were a welcome sight after spending a week in dreary Milford and even the air felt like coming home, no more humidity clinging to his skin or mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds buzzing around his head. 

Their excitement to be back in DC was cloaked with heightened concentration in their hurry to get home. To any other passersby they probably looked like indifferent businessmen, but Harry knew these men well. He spent the majority of the last five years in their presence and had come to recognize their tells, their relief evident as the tension drained from their muscles and breathing seemed to come a little easier.

The flight hadn’t been nearly long enough to get quality rest in, only a two-hour jaunt down from Maine to Virginia in which Harry spent most of the flight staring out the window or watching Louis, but he’d managed to get a few minutes of sleep in. His back was in knots and his neck had a crick in it, but there was nothing that a good night’s sleep and a strong cup of coffee in the morning couldn’t fix. While on work trips there were plenty of things Harry missed, but the bed waiting for him at home was perhaps the most longed for.

Already Liam was on the phone with Unit Chief Rowland, Niall was ordering delivery to his apartment so it’d be waiting for him when he got back, and Zayn was, as usual, being secretive about what his plans were for however long they had until they’d be called back in for another case. As for Louis, he had been practically glued to Harry’s side and was standing beside Harry with his go-bag lying by his feet, sleeves of his cardigan pulled over his hands, and his glasses perched crooked on his nose as he blinked sleepily at the passing crowd. 

A week ago, Harry might have squashed down the temptation to pull Louis into his arms, refusing to even acknowledge that his insides fluttered when green eyes met blue. He would have found any excuse to touch Louis, fixing his fringe or wrapping an arm around his shoulders to guide him through the crowd. But he didn’t have to do that now. He needn’t have an excuse to trail his fingers down Louis’ arm and slip his fingers through Louis’, smiling as the stress melted away.

Louis looked at him with doe-like eyes, his fingers wiggling in Harry’s and his body gravitating closer as he yawned into his other hand. As Harry watched him, he wondered how the hell he’d ever been so stupid to never realize that he and Louis would never be just friends. If it weren’t for the overwhelming fondness blossoming through his chest, he might have even been concerned that he hadn’t noticed the signs of adoration in Louis’ body language. 

But he supposed that’s what love did to a person. It came over you slowly at first, creeping in through the cracks as it gradually seeped into every aspect of your life. In the beginning, Harry had chalked it up to Louis just being that charming, his warm personality and affectionate soul merely being contagious as Harry found himself more and more enamored with the boy. Over time it became a constant, the feeling of being absolutely transfixed by his best friend seeming so incredibly normal and routine that he’d never thought to question it. Until he did.

Looking back now, Harry couldn’t believe he’d been so oblivious. Love had made him blind, but he was now a man who could see, experiencing the world in all of its technicolor glory. 

“Alright, guys, I’ve got good news,” Liam announced when he hung up the phone and returned to the team loitering by the gate, simultaneously snapping Harry out of reveling in the fortuitous turn of events that had left him with a heart that felt too big for his chest and drawing the attention of the group. “I just got off the phone with Chief Rowland and he’s called in the reserve team to give us the weekend off.”

Beside him, Louis breathed out a sigh of relief and Niall’s loose smile widened into a grin. “Thank god,” the latter moaned happily. “Forty-eight hours of rest and relaxation, here I come!”

Liam nodded and flashed them all a rare smile as he pocketed his phone. “You guys have worked hard and I want you all to know that I’m incredibly grateful for such a good team. I know this case was a hard one, so go home and get some sleep. You earned it.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Zayn muttered, running his fingers through his dark hair that never seemed to look messy no matter how many red-eye flights they took or all nighters they pulled.

Niall hummed his agreement and hoisted his bag onto his shoulder as he and Zayn began wandering toward the exit. “No kidding. I’ve got big plans involving my ass reuniting with my couch and stuffing my face with takeout.”

Zayn snorted with a roll of his eyes, most likely on the same wavelength as Harry considering Niall was almost always found with a snack in hand but miraculously never seemed to gain any weight. He claimed it was merely a midwesterner thing where his body processed calories faster because of weather or some other bullshit answer that nobody ever believed. “Nuh-uh. After eating nothing but diner food and vending machine snacks, the only thing I want right now is two fingers of Kentucky’s finest bourbon.”

“Bourbon?” Niall’s nose wrinkled.

“Yes, bourbon.”

“Nah, Z, you’ve got it all wrong. C’mon, man. If after all this time of having a Minnesotan as your best friend you still think bourbon is better than a lager from Bent Paddle Brewing, then I have failed,” Niall crowed, slinging his arm around his more stoic counterpart.

“Who said you were my best friend?”

Niall practically stopped in his tracks, wearing an expression of faux offense as his jaw dropped half an inch and his hand covered his chest. “Say it ain’t so. I can’t believe this. And to think I was going to invite you to join me at Bar Louie tomorrow. Guess you’ll be drinking alone, buddy.”

Chuckling to himself at the duo’s incessant bickering, Harry watched as Zayn shrugged off Niall’s arm and scooped up his and Louis’ bags to follow his team toward the escalators. Though an indignant huff expelled from Louis’ lips, Harry had not missed the softness around his eyes or the subtle upturn at the corners of his mouth that gave away the hidden glee the boy found in allowing Harry to carry his things. Never more than a few feet away from one another at any given time, Louis trailed after Harry with his sneakers scuffing against the concrete floors, the pale pink fabric of his blouse wrinkled and creased, and his cardigan hanging askew off one shoulder. Disheveled perfection.

“What about you, Harry?” Niall asked over his shoulder, twisting around as they rode the escalator down to the first floor. “What are you planning on doing with your two days of freedom?”

Normally Harry would be flat on his back for at least a day doing nothing but sleeping and watching trashy TV and would spend the rest of his time getting as much done around the house as possible, but he and Louis still had so much to figure out and talk about. But after such a long case that he was sure was draining for the boy, he wasn’t sure if Louis even wanted to be around other people or if he was hoping to isolate for a few days before returning to work.

“Uhm, I don’t really know. Kind of just looking forward to sleeping on a bed that isn’t full of lumps and eating something that hasn’t been cooked in a bucket of grease,” Harry admitted and chanced a glance in Louis’ direction to gauge his reaction. 

He was pinching his bottom lip between his teeth, cheeks flushed pink and his blue eyes flickering over Harry’s features. “You could come over,” Louis offered with a hopeful lilt to his voice. “I’ve got one of those fancy Tempur-Pedic beds, though I can’t promise anything I cook is going to taste better than greasy diner food.”

Harry’s heart pitter-pattered against his sternum as he took in the sanguine eyes and carefree smile plastered over Louis’ features, feeling that same sense of awe and admiration that he always did when it came to this boy. “I could cook,” he hummed, swaying slightly in Louis’ direction as he itched to reach out and touch. “I mean, if you wanted me to.”

A delighted, jovial grin stretched over Louis’ lips as he hummed and leaned into Harry’s side, linking his pinky with Harry’s between them as they stepped off the escalator. “Having a big, beefy man in my kitchen wearing nothing but an apron while cooking me pancakes for breakfast has always been a dream of mine,” he professed wistfully and batted his lashes playfully, eliciting a burning, deep ache in Harry’s chest of complete and total reverence for this boy. 

Damn, he really was a goner.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Niall laughed with a shake of his head. “We don’t need to know what you two weirdos get up to now that you finally got your heads out of your asses.”

Louis giggled. “Fine, we’ll spare you all the details about what we do with a bottle of whipped cream and—”

“Okay!” Harry laughed, wrapping his arm around Louis as he nosed at his temple. “That’s enough out of you, sweetcheeks. Let’s not scar our co-workers.”

“Yes, please keep the dirty details to yourselves,” Liam agreed solemnly, though the faintest hint of a smile was glimmering in his eyes.

With a roll of his eyes, Louis shrugged and rested his head against Harry’s shoulder. “You guys are no fun at all.”

When they emerged from the crowded airport, Harry and Louis bid the others goodbye with promises to go out for drinks in a few days, and flagged down a cab. While Harry took care of loading their bags into the trunk, Louis rattled off his address to the driver. Though Harry had spent countless nights hanging out in Louis’ apartment, this felt bigger somehow—monumental almost. It all felt a bit more real now that they were back in Virginia with no distractions or death getting in the way of the conversations that needed to happen. 

He was nervous, he realized as he slid into the seat beside Louis and leaned back into the pleather seats that smelled vaguely of cigarettes. Glancing over at Louis on the other side of the car, he wondered if Louis felt the same nerves he did. It was silly of him to feel this way, it’s not as if he didn’t know if Louis loved him too or if he was only imagining the connection they both had. Louis did love him, he’d said so himself. 

Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was that was making his palms feel so clammy and his throat scratchy, but he did his best to distract himself as he stared out the window and watched the trees turn to blurs of green. Excitement, apprehension, and impatience swirled around in his chest and leaked into his limbs as his leg bounced restlessly, the forty minutes it took to get from Arlington to Quantico seeming far too long for Harry’s nerves to handle.

The cityscape of Washington DC disappeared into the distance as the cab wove through the traffic headed southbound on I-395, city turning to suburb as cul-de-sacs and trees replaced the concrete buildings and bridges lining the interstate highway. Shifting in his seat, Harry cleared his throat and rubbed his palms over the thighs of his jeans, feeling very aware of his rumpled clothing and greasy curls that he was sure smelled less than fresh. 

God, he hoped he didn’t stink. 

Harry nearly jumped out of his own skin when he felt something brush against his arm, brows furrowing as he looked over to see Louis’ tentative smile. The boy poked Harry’s bouncing knee with a glint in his eye and held out his hand, offering it to be held. With hopes that Louis either couldn’t tell how sweaty Harry’s hands were or at least didn’t mind, Harry reached over and loosely knit his fingers between Louis’, letting their hands rest on the center seat. 

Louis smiled, all sunshine and tranquility as he leaned his head back against the seat and gazed out the window. Harry usually found peace in the ride home from the airport; enjoying the sights of Occoquan River and the rocky bluffs that rose alongside the interstate carved into the terrain of northern Virginia, but it seemed far less interesting than studying Louis. In Harry’s hand, Louis’ fingers seemed so much daintier, the small digits adorned with slim bands of gold framing the numbers inked into his skin fitting perfectly between Harry’s. 

It decidedly did not mean anything that Harry liked the way rings looked on Louis’ fingers.

Eventually Harry did drag his attention away from the beautiful man he called his best friend and forced himself to look out the window, thumbing at the back of Louis’ hand absently as his breath fogged up the glass and obscured the trees into blobs of green along the road. For the remaining drive, he listened to the aggressive lyrics of whatever rap artist their driver was playing and watched the other cars traveling alongside them.

When they pulled up to Louis’ townhome, Harry thanked the driver and slid him his tip before climbing out of the car. The building was one of the older ones in the area, made up of bricks and boasting of its historic Richardsonian Romanesque architecture that Louis had always loved. From the outside of the home, it looked traditional and modest, but the inside of the home was like stepping into another world. 

It was no secret that Louis was a bit of an extravagant individual, fascinated with color and adventurous when it came to funky patterns and textures, something that certainly bled into his choice for interior design. Harry had always found Louis’ home to be the perfect embodiment of Louis’ soul with antique refurbished furniture that Louis often refurbished himself and random knick-knacks collected from various thrift stores. It was colorful and fresh and wonderfully quirky. 

“It feels so good to be home.” Louis breathed in a sigh, kicking his shoes off and tossing his keys into the ceramic bowl he and Harry had made during Louis’ brief obsession with pottery a year ago. 

Harry couldn’t agree more. Toeing off his own boots and stretching his arms over his head with a yawn, Harry nodded his head and hummed tiredly, ready to collapse into a bed and hibernate for at least a week. His body was still sore from the accident, his bruised ribs aching dully as he arched his stiff back and grunted when his spine cracked and popped with relief. 

He blinked in surprise when two arms wrapped around his middle, a chuckle falling from his lips as fluffy brown hair tickled at his chin, his laugh eliciting a muttered hiss of pain at the stretch. “Hey, there.” He yawned and loosely draped his arm around Louis. 

“I’m hungry.”

With a hum, Harry nuzzled his nose against the crown of Louis’ head and closed his eyes, inhaling the smell of his best friend. “I’ll see if I can whip something up with whatever you have in the cupboards.”

Louis nodded. “Sounds good. But first, you should maybe go shower. No offense, but you stink like hospital mixed with plane and as much as I love you, you’re a little ripe.” He giggled and craned his neck to look up at Harry, a slow and sleepy smile toying at his lips. 

Though it wasn’t the first time Harry had thought those lips looked kissable, it was the first time he actually acted on such an impulsive thought. His thumb brushed over Louis’ cheek as he leaned in, eyes going hooded as he nuzzled his nose against Louis’ and pressed a feather-light kiss to the bow of his upper lip. “Promise you’re not going to disappear while I’m in there?” He asked, the smallest part of him worried that maybe this was all made up and he’d wake up to find that he’d had one of the longest, most vivid dreams of his life.

“Promise,” Louis whispered and rose up onto the tips of his toes to return the kiss. “I’ll work on unpacking and then take one too while you make dinner.”

You can join me. Harry swallowed the words, bobbing his head as he pressed one last kiss to the tip of Louis’ nose before stepping away. “Sounds perfect.” 

“I’ll miss you.”

The angelic features of this being, this beautiful and wonderful man, looking so hopeful and earnest in his words had Harry’s heart thumping heavily in his chest. “I’ll be quick,” he promised with a playful wink, slowly backing away in the direction of the stairs. 

Whether or not Louis had said it to tease him or if he’d really meant that he’d miss him, Harry wasn’t sure, but the feeling of fondness bubbling up within him had him feeling like he was a teenager with a crush, the butterflies in his stomach relentless as he headed for the bathroom.

That feeling of giddy excitement stuck with him while he wandered down the halls of Louis’ petite townhome, pushing the strands of multicolored beads hanging in the doorway and passing countless photos that Louis had taken of them together and framed on his walls with his path illuminated by the fairy lights dangling from the ceiling. 

It wasn’t until Harry had stood in Louis’ bathroom and turned to face the mirror that he was able to see the dopey smile stretched over his lips. He looked very much like the lovesick teen he felt like, but in a way it was almost freeing to feel so fully and completely fond of the boy peetering around downstairs. 

The warm spray of the water cascading down his back melted away whatever remaining stress had resided in the muscles in his upper back. It thundered against his skull and pummeled the knots strung between his shoulders, water pressure just right to ease his sore body and relax his mind. 

As much as he did enjoy a good, long shower, Harry was much more interested in hurrying along to be in Louis’ kitchen cooking for him and getting to kiss him. Being as careful as he could with his bruised up body, Harry scrubbed away the smells of airplanes and hospitals. Lingering worries of the case pooled with the suds of Louis’ lavender scented shampoo at his feet and swirled down the drain, leaving him feeling fresh and weightless. 

When Harry wandered back downstairs with a borrowed towel wrapped around his hips, he caught a glimpse of Louis standing in front of the large mirror propped up against the wall in the living room, fidgeting with his wrinkled cardigan and trying fruitlessly to fix the fringe hanging limply in his eyes. He paused, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed as he watched Louis frown and lean closer to his own reflection, muttering something Harry couldn’t quite make out. For a few moments, Harry remained hidden, tenderness warming his chest and wrapping its tendrils around his heart with a squeeze. 

He could have stood there forever, happy to simply observe and appreciate the soft planes of Louis’ body and the glow of his inner beauty that radiated from him like rays of sunlight. But as Harry smiled and emerged from the shadowed hallways, Louis spotted his presence and spun on his heel. 

“Hi,” Louis greeted him, almost sounding shy as he clasped his hands behind his back. His gaze dropped almost immediately to Harry’s bare chest, blue eyes widening at the sight. 

Harry raised his hand in a wave. “Hey.”

Gaze transfixed below Harry’s shoulders and traveling downwards, Louis tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and tentatively took a step toward him. “You, uh—you know, look a little—um,” he babbled, gesturing vaguely to Harry’s chest as Harry approached.

With a smirk, Harry tilted his head. Amusement leaked into his body language as he raised a brow in questioning. “Look a little what?” he asked and stopped in front of the petite man, chuckling when Louis never once looked up from his fixed stare.

A pretty flush of rosy pink colored Louis’ cheeks as he licked his lips and reached out a hand to just barely brush his fingertips over the defined muscles of Harry’s abs. “Wet,” he breathed, swallowing around the word. “And hot.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry hummed. Their roles had reversed. Just a couple of days ago, it had been he who couldn’t keep his eyes off Louis’ body, his tipsy state lowering his inhibitions as he had stared so openly at Louis’ nipples and lithe little body. But now it was Louis’ turn. “I thought you were hungry.”

Louis shrugged, something akin to mischief glinting in his eyes as he trailed his finger down the valley between Harry’s abs, sending shivers down Harry’s arms. “Still am,” he murmured and finally dragged his stare from the muscles to meet Harry’s gaze. “But I think I’m craving something else now.”

Harry’s stomach jumped beneath Louis’ touch when a bark of laughter belted from his lungs as he grinned widely. “You are a little minx, aren’t you?” he asked teasingly and loosely wrapped his fingers around Louis’ wrist, engulfing the delicate bones in his palm with ease. “Why don’t you go take that shower you were talking about earlier while I find something to eat and then we can talk. Sound good, baby?”

With a dramatic sigh, Louis reluctantly nodded, the traces of bitterness melting away as Harry brought his hand up to kiss the back of it. “So long as you keep looking at me like that, anything sounds good.”

“That’s my good boy,” Harry said with a chuckle, feeling quite pleased with himself as Louis’ cheeks darkened. 

“You really don’t know what you do to me, do you? God damn .”

Releasing Louis’ wrist, Harry rolled his eyes playfully and nudged the smaller man toward the stairs. “Go.” He watched with endearment coiling in his chest as Louis meandered toward the stairs, a cheeky smirk on his pink lips as he glanced over his shoulder one last time and disappeared down the hall to freshen up. 

Jesus, he really did love that boy far more than he ever would have thought possible. 

The kitchen was perhaps the least lived-in room in Louis’ townhome, the oven still spotless from the last time Harry came over and cleaned it after the baking incident two months ago, and the pots and pans still looking brand new. It wasn’t that Louis was that bad of a cook, it was more so the fact that he was in his office at the BAU more often than he was here, and grabbing prepackaged food was so much easier than trying to find the time to cook.

Though it was less used, it was no less symbolic of who Louis was than the rest of the home. The walls were painted a sunshiny yellow and Louis had accented the white cabinetry by painting little daisies in the corners of the panels—something Zayn had been appalled by at first, being a ‘wood-purist’ as he called himself—but it was fitting. All along the countertop, little trinkets and colorful kitchen utensils decorated the space and Harry hadn’t a clue where Louis had found fairy lights in the shapes of little pieces of fruit, but it all somehow worked. 

Shaking his head fondly, Harry checked the pantry, fridge, and freezer for food, unsurprisingly finding not much more than a package of dried pasta and a few cans of beans. Maybe tomorrow they could go shopping together and stock Louis up on food. It wasn’t good for him to eat nothing but freezer meals all the time or order take out because he didn’t have any real food. 

As he drifted through Louis’ kitchen, he hummed softly to himself an old tune he used to listen to as a kid, the jazzy melody stuck in his head. He moved off complete muscle memory as he pulled out a few ingredients from the cupboards, something he was nearly positive he could have done in the dark after three years of familiarizing himself with the layout of Louis’ home.

“It’s a lovely day today,” Harry mouthed, drumming his knuckles against the countertop as he stared at the contents of Louis’ pantry. Noodles, taco seasoning, three boxes of macaroni and cheese, way too many packages of graham crackers, and a stale loaf of bread. Spaghetti was too boring, though admittedly easy, and tacos didn’t exactly scream romance. Harry pursed his lips. Not macaroni, not grilled cheese, not chili—definitely not chili. With a hum, Harry grabbed the loaf of bread and moved on to the fridge. 

“So whatever you've got to do, you've got a lovely day to do it in, that's true.”

Eggs, milk, butter, and vanilla joined the army of leftover ingredients on the kitchen counter, followed by a pan and a spatula. Cooking was one of those things that could relax the body and empty the mind, allowing him to numb his feelings and muffle the memories that screamed in the night. As Harry swayed from one foot to the other, humming lowly under his breath, he cracked a few eggs into a bowl with a splash of milk and beat them together with a whisk, his mind far from mangled limbs and lips cut into a perfect smile. Instead, he thought of mornings. He thought of messy bedhead, sleepy smiles, and Louis’ cold toes pressed against his leg.

“And I hope whatever you've got to do is something that can be done by two,” he murmured, inhaling the warm aroma of butter melting on the pan as the shower turned off upstairs. He hoped there would be many mornings like this, with Harry in the kitchen making them both breakfast while Louis slept in or took a shower. “ For I'd really like to stay, it's a lovely day today.”

He meandered around the kitchen, grabbing two plates, two forks, and a knife from one of the drawers before plopping a slice of bread into the beaten eggs and turning it over. The egg batter sizzled in the hot pan when Harry carefully dropped the slices of bread into the melted butter and wafts of cinnamon tickled in his nose. There was something special about breakfast to Harry that had always been so comforting. It was domesticity and peacefulness—it was home.

“Are you really singing half naked in my kitchen or did I just wake up in my wildest dreams?”

Harry looked up from the french toast cooking in the pan to see Louis standing with wet hair dripping down his back and a t-shirt sporting the University of Pennsylvania logo Harry had left here at one point draped over his delicate frame. 

“And whatever you've got to do,” he crooned with a wide grin, setting down the spatula to take Louis’ hand in his and pull him closer until Louis was flush against his chest. “ I'd be so happy to be doing it with you.”

Louis’ smile stretched over his lips as he giggled, nose wrinkling when Harry nuzzled his nose against his jaw. “You’re scratchy.”

“Am I?” Harry chuckled and purposefully dragged his stubbled cheek against Louis’ neck just to make him squirm at the sensation, powerful arms trapping him against his chest as he pressed a kiss against Louis’ pulse.

“Harry.” Louis giggled, his hands planting themselves on Harry’s shoulders as he pushed weakly. “Stop, it tickles!”

A feeling of complete and total adoration coiled in his gut as Harry closed his eyes and smiled against Louis’ skin, swaying slowly back and forth. He would spend a lifetime giving Louis his heart, forever being Louis’ until forever fell apart. “I love you,” he whispered against Louis’ rabbiting pulse. 

And just like that, their playful moment melted into something softer—something fragile as Harry’s grip loosened and Louis’ giggles faded. But when Harry pulled back, he saw that Louis’ smile had only grown, a beaming grin on his lips as he gazed blissfully up at Harry. There were no signs of hesitancy or uncertainty in his nonverbals as he rose onto the tips of his toes and brushed his lips against Harry’s, whispering right back, “I love you too.”

With a burning fist clenching in a vice grip around his heart, constricting in his chest and aching in his veins, Harry skated the pad of his thumb over the faint freckles dusting his cheeks. Touching Louis like this felt like touching heaven, and somehow Harry had done enough good in this world to have the privilege of having Louis to himself—or at least he hoped he would. Despite all the heinous things Harry had seen and the horrible things his hands had touched, he handled Louis with the utmost care, as though he was made of porcelain and would break if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“Hey, H?” Louis whispered, their noses bumping as the boy kissed him again.

“Yeah?”

“Whatever you’re cooking seems to be burning.”

Harry’s stomach dropped in his gut, ripping himself away as he rushed over to the stove where his french toast was indeed burning in the butter. “ Fuck .” He frowned, flipping the pieces over in hopes that they were only a little bit too brown, but the edges were almost completely black. “Damn it.”

“Oops.” Louis giggled, wrinkling his nose as he peeked around Harry’s shoulder to see the damage. 

Harry couldn’t even manage to be that upset, too busy feeling completely overwhelmed with his feelings to be frustrated by burning their dinner. Instead, he shook his head with a small smile and tossed the burnt pieces in the trash. “See what you do to me?” he asked teasingly and poked Louis’ side. “Got me all distracted.”

Louis hummed innocently and hoisted himself up onto the counter island, feet swinging back and forth. “Guess my plans to suck you off in my kitchen while you make me food are moot.” He sighed, the corners of his lips curling upwards into a coy smile as he batted his lashes up at Harry. He didn’t look the least bit sorry for the way Harry’s eyes widened and a fiery desire sparked in his gut—in fact, he rather seemed to be enjoying himself.

Now that Louis had brought it up, Harry couldn’t help but think that teasing smile of petal pink lips would look so good around a cock. Licking over his own lips, Harry’s gaze darted down to Louis’ mouth, his own feeling suddenly very dry as he imagined the sinful blue gaze of his boy blinking up at him, cheekbones on proud display as he worked to bring Harry pleasure. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Lou,” Harry groaned, swallowing thickly as he leaned against the counter between Louis’ legs, his hands itching to touch and his cock stirring from beneath the towel loosely wrapped around his waist. The passing thought that this wasn’t the first time Louis had him feeling this way in a towel flickered through his mind but was gone as quickly as it had appeared when Louis wrapped his legs around his waist and pulled him forward.

“Hmm?” Louis smirked, tilting his head as he trailed his fingers up Harry’s arm and over the tattoos littering his forearm and bicep. 

With a shake of his head, Harry rested his hands on Louis’ pillowy thighs, channeling every ounce of strength he had to not slide them up his thighs to explore Louis’ body. “We’ve gotta talk about this,” he reminded, though he wasn’t sure if he was reminding Louis or himself at this point.

Louis shrugged. “What’s there to talk about? I love you and you love me. Seems pretty simple.”

As he watched Louis’ lips curl around the words, Harry found himself forgetting what it actually was that they needed to talk about. Maybe Louis was right, maybe this was just one of those things that happen and they’d figure it out as they went. “Food,” he murmured, cock twitching as Louis’ touch traveled over his shoulder and down his chest. “You said you wanted to eat.”

“I did, but there’s something I want more than that,” the boy whispered and sat forward, pressing a kiss to the right swallow inked into Harry’s collarbone and trailing kisses up his neck, lips like fire against Harry’s skin. 

“Baby—”

“I want you to fuck me,” Louis simpered into his ear, breath hitching when Harry’s hands squeezed the flesh of his thighs reflexively as the following word tumbled from his lips, “ Daddy .”

Any and all thoughts disappeared from Harry’s mind, Louis’ words stealing the very air from his lungs as his eyes fell shut. “Shit,” he practically wheezed as his cock chubbed up, tenting his towel that was somehow miraculously still holding on. “I—”

Louis giggled, mischief dancing in his eyes. “What? Is there something else you’d rather be doing than me?”

Harry shook his head, far more focused on this pixie-like boy wrapped around him than the hot pan on the stove behind him or the hunger that had once ached in his belly. The rest of the world may as well have not even existed. “I—I have completely run out of excuses,” he admitted and skated his palms up over the smooth curve of Louis’ thighs and snuck beneath the hem of the oversized shirt hanging off Louis’ body.

“Thank god.”

As he moved to grip Louis’ hips, Harry came to the sudden realization that Louis was completely naked beneath that shirt. “Jesus Christ, Louis,” he groaned in a guttural voice, hips jerking forward to rock against the cabinets. All he wanted was to shove the remaining ingredients out of the way and push Louis onto his back on the counter, exploring every inch of Louis’ body until the petite man was trembling with need. “Not even wearing underwear. Is this what you wanted the whole time? Planned on coming down here just to tease me?”

Harry thumbed at the soft flesh of Louis’ hip, every curve of his body filling Harry’s hands perfectly. If he were a man of religion, he might have thought that this was destined, that Louis and he were put on this earth for the sole purpose of being one another’s perfect halves. It sounded a bit dramatic even to Harry, but with the way this boy looked in that moment, he felt his dramatics were justified.

In a complex mix of innocence and lasciviousness, Louis smirked at him with hooded eyes and reached forward to hook his finger through the knot in Harry’s towel. “Turn off the stove. You can make dinner for me after,” he whispered and nosed along his jaw to press a kiss to Harry’s stubbled cheek. 

He didn’t need to be told twice. 

When he turned to do so, the towel slipped from his hips and fell to the ground in a pile of damp terricloth. Harry wasn’t exactly shy when it came to his body, the loss of the only piece of clothing covering him up only served to make him harder as he turned the knob on the stove and pushed the pan off the heat. With full intentions of carrying Louis upstairs to his bedroom, Harry spun to face the other but froze in place, his cock bobbing between his legs at the sight.

Sucking in a breath, Harry stared at the boy. He’d hardly blinked and Louis had flung off his shirt, basking in all his naked glory leaned back on his elbows with the setting sunlight from his kitchen window cascading over him beautifully. Thin pink lips, long lashes sending shadows over his cheeks, and sun-illuminated blue irises may as well have been from a painting—it was the only way someone as exquisite as Louis could exist.

“Well?” Louis questioned, goosebumps rising on his arms and his chest quivering with a shaky inhale. 

In dismay, Harry shook his head and rested his palms on the smooth golden thighs spread over the edge of the counter. “You are unreal, sunshine.”

The boy giggled, lower lip wet with shimmering spit as his tongue darted out to wet them. “I can assure you, I’m very real. And I’m very horny.”

“Sounds like quite the predicament,” Harry mused in a murmur, eyeing the barbells pierced through Louis’ nipples and the flushed, swollen cock resting against the small swell of his tummy. He would never get over how downright pretty Louis was, every inch of him crafted to perfection. 

Louis nodded, chin tucked down to look up at Harry through his lashes, the picture of heaven come down as he smiled. “Well, what do you think, Agent Styles? Are you going to save the damsel in distress as you always do?”

With a smirk, Harry leaned down to press a kiss to the soft flesh of his thigh, ignoring the ache in his ribs for the sake of giving Louis everything he could ever desire. “I’m on the case,” he agreed with a chuckle and trailed his lips over the rising goosebumps. 

He could hear a shallow, airy exhale leave Louis’ lips as he lathed his tongue over the inside of the boy’s thigh and scraped his teeth lightly against the sensitive skin. The goal was to leave Louis with enough marks that if Harry had to leave in two days on a case, he’d have the reminder of Harry’s adoration staining his flesh. As he sucked a bruise into Louis’ skin, the boy’s thighs twitched in his hold and a soft sigh left his lips, a hand coming down to push back the curls flopping over Harry’s forehead.

Once satisfied with the lovely purple mark placed perfectly where the inseam of his jeans would rub to remind Louis of his claim, Harry trailed a line of kisses up to the crease of his thigh. “So soft,” he murmured against Louis’ hip, nosing at the soft skin. 

Louis squirmed beneath him. “H, that tickles.” He giggled.

“What does?” Harry asked, looking up to take in the silhouette of peaked nipples adorned with silver bars and glinting diamonds on the balls on the end. The planes of Louis’ body, all the juts and dips of endless golden flesh, deserved to be eternalized, but Harry wasn’t sure there was a single material known to man that could do this vision justice.

Louis’ fingers threaded through his hair as his tummy flexed with his laughter. “Your hair,” he explained, the jewel dangling from his bellybutton glinting in the evening light as he arched his back. “Tickles.”

When Louis looked and sounded like he did Harry couldn’t be bothered to find it in himself to feel sorry for it. He chuckled, breath fanning over the glistening tip of Louis’ prick, looking so pretty and pink that Harry couldn’t help but stare at it, amazed, despite his experience as precum bubbled from the slit in pearls. To be fair, nobody—man or woman—had ever compared to this ethereal creature. 

‘I love you,’ Harry incanted silently with every press of his lips to Louis’ hip bones, navel, and the faint bruises left from the last time he’d been blessed to have Louis like this for him. He mouthed at pale blue jewel contrasting with Louis’ tanned skin. I love you. Hands skated over Louis’ thighs to pin down his hips. I love you. Trailing a finger lightly over the short length of Louis’ cock, Harry gazed at the bitten, swollen lips, rosy cheeks, and hooded eyes of the man he hoped he could call his. 

I love you.

Between his legs, Harry’s own cock throbbed with want as he teasingly stroked the pink shaft with just the tip of his finger, petting at the glistening head without giving Louis the full attention he would need to get off. He was eager to get some sort of relief, but this was the first time he was completely, one hundred percent sober whilst having Louis’ naked form at his fingertips and he’d be damned if he was going to rush it. 

Louis, bless him, seemed completely content to allow Harry the time to explore the dips and curves of his body, sighing softly as Harry attached his lips to the hollow of his hip and sucked a fresh bruise over the ones left from his fingers just days ago. He belonged like this—draped beautifully across the counter with Harry nearly on his knees, worshiping the artistry of Louis’ body and awarding him the attention he so clearly deserved. 

Harry took his time in covering every inch of Louis in kisses but avoided the one place he wished to get his mouth on the most, determined to take Louis apart piece by piece. He spent so many hours getting into the mind of serial killers and taking himself into the darkest places every day to understand them, but as he looked up at Louis—all demure smiles, baby blue bedroom eyes, and an unexplainable inner glow—the wish that he could climb right into Louis’ skull and know even the depths of who he was was overwhelming. 

Touching Louis like this, spreading his thighs and running his palms over them, wasn’t enough. He needed to worship him.

The first ghost of breath over Louis’ hole had his heels knocking against Harry’s back where they rested, legs draped over his shoulders. “Oh,” he breathed out, shuddering from his shoulders to his toes. 

Harry hummed, eyelids falling shut as he licked a broad stripe over the rim and thumbs digging into the globes of his cheeks. He was hungry for the noises spilling from Louis’ lips with every wet swipe of Harry’s tongue, the taste of Louis’ desperation; a heady mix of lavender bodywash and freshly clean skin. Louis was a tightly wound spring, his every muscle straining as he writhed under his touch, and Harry was determined to be the one to unwind him. 

“Yeah,” Louis breathed. As he wiggled his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, Harry heard Louis’ palm slap at the granite countertop, his hips rising from the counter needily as Louis whimpered out quiet curses with the struggle to keep himself from squirming out of Harry’s grasp. 

With fervor, he poured himself into pursuing the sweet whines from his beautiful boy, each gentle stroke of his tongue against Louis’ walls eliciting an airy moan. He was a maestro and the sounds coming from the man he deemed his best friend, and hopefully someday something more, were a symphony of pleasure and passion. 

His right hand gripped himself, alleviating the throbbing desperation, and the other shared that pleasure with Louis, stroking them both in tandem. With arousal pooling in his gut and the heat of want in his veins, he hardly felt the pain of his bruised ribs. He didn’t even think about his injuries, his sole focus on the boy laid out over the kitchen counter, draped gracefully over the granite.

As Harry twisted the palm of his hand over the head of Louis’ cock, Louis’ jaw fell open and his heels dug into Harry’s back. “Fuck,” he mewled, hips rocking down onto Harry’s tongue. “Please, H— oh —m-more.”

Pulling away to catch his breath, Harry finally got to see the feast set out before him, hungrily taking in his rosy cheeks, sweat pooling in his collarbones, and the prick curved against Louis’ tummy drooling over his belly ring. God, he looked like nothing Harry would have ever been able to conjure up in his wildest dreams. “So desperate for it, aren’t you, sunshine? Being such a good boy for me, baby,” Harry cooed, stroking a finger over the pink rim wet with saliva and clenching around nothing. 

“Good,” Louis repeated as he licked his lips and nodded eagerly. “Gonna be good—the best. Best you’ve ever had.”

With a slow grin, Harry leaned up and immediately pried Louis’ lips apart in a messy kiss, allowing Louis to taste himself on his tongue. The boy beneath him melted like butter on the counter, hands scrabbling to take hold of his shoulders from the moment Harry’s fingertip breeched his rim. “You already are, honey. My lovely boy.” The words were muttered between kisses, gracing Louis’ lips like rose petals as he thrust his finger in up to the last knuckle. “Fuck yourself back on my fingers, baby.”

As always, Louis responded beautifully. A soft ‘oh’ expanded in his lungs with the first buck of his hips, propping himself up on his elbows to brace himself with his head lolling back.

Hot, searing kisses trailed down Louis’ neck, between the barbells decorating his chest, to the pearly precum smeared over his belly. The second Harry’s lips dragged over the head of his swollen pink prick, a moan echoed into the kitchen, and if Harry wasn’t injured, he would have fallen to his knees right there and then and worshiped at Louis’ feet. Instead, he swallowed down the leaking cock with ease, the size perfectly fitting in his mouth as he scissored his fingers and hummed. 

Brows pinched and fire consuming his veins in white hot satisfaction, Harry doubled his efforts and played Louis like a fiddle, orchestrating the most erotic minuet from his lungs. Mozart, Chopin, Bach—none of them could ever hope to create as beautiful a sound as the one pouring from Louis’ lips as he moaned Harry’s name through his release. 

Harry’sHarry’sHarry’s , it was all he could think of, his own name infused into the very air expelled from Louis’ lungs. He was everywhere, pressing kisses to the cum-streaked belly, inked into purple bruises blossoming over his hips, and working Louis open with every whimpered mewl. He was there in the hazy blue of Louis’ eyes, the splotchy pink flush coloring his cheeks, and on the tongue of this beautiful boy gazing down at him as he rode out the high of ecstasy.

It was a sight that Harry could have gazed at forever, bringing himself to the brink of euphoria as he gazed upon the delicate form of Louis’ body hewn from heaven’s matter—but Louis had other plans. Without a word, he slinked down from his perch and sunk to his knees in a show of grace Harry didn’t think he could have managed, mirth glimmering in Carolina blue as he engulfed Harry in the soft velvet of his mouth, tight and hot and wet .

“Fuck, baby,” Harry groaned to the ceiling, grasping for the edge of the counter behind him.

Louis only purred around him, fisting what he couldn’t fit in his mouth and wasting little time in enthusiastically dragging the flat of his tongue over the underside of Harry’s cock. If it weren’t for the ache in his side, Harry might have scooped Louis up into his arms and carried him like a bride over the threshold of the bedroom to have his way with him, but he supposed he’d have to settle for the lovely minx’s lips stretched obscenely around him.

Settling felt an awful lot like winning, to be fair.

He could die a happy man, the pleasure licking up his spine had him slumping against the counter as he fought the urge to fuck into the wet warmth enveloping him. “So good for me, love. Ugh— fuck . My best boy,” he praised to the heavens, sweat gathering at his temples and a heavy heat boiling in his gut. MineMineMine.

As Louis’ tongue caressed his cock with the bob of his head, Harry’s eyes rolled back into his head, toes curling against the cool tiles. Something came over him, he didn’t know what and he couldn’t quite explain it, but as Louis’ crystalline eyes watered in their gaze up at him, a feeling of absolute love exploded within him. Blue seemed bluer, heat seemed warmer, and, as impossible as it felt, Louis seemed even more dazzling.

“Baby—” Harry groaned, a sweaty hand brushing back Louis’ fringe. “God, ‘m not gonna— fuck —last.”

Rather than slow down to allow Harry the time to catch his breath, one of Louis’ hands gripped his thigh while the other held the base of Harry’s cock, doubling his efforts as he bobbed his head faster and messier. Spittle shimmered on his thinly stretched upper lip as red-rimmed eyes closed in concentration, small puffs of air from Louis’ nose fanning over Harry’s lower abdomen as his hips twitched.

Muscles contracted and saliva spilled out of Louis’ mouth, gagging around Harry. For a moment, guilt began to rise within him, but Louis was quick to quell his worries, his hand squeezing Harry’s thigh in encouragement. He nodded as best he could, looking so eager to please as he scooted forward on his knees, pulling off for only a moment to murmur, “Please, daddy, make me yours.”

In a fluid motion, Harry fit himself back into Louis’ mouth, curses falling from his lips as a bead of sweat dripped down his spine and nothing but Louis remained in his thoughts. He chased the butterfly promise of ravished paradise as he watched the line of his cock fill Louis’ cheeks and nudge at the back of his throat. Throbbing, it fucked a whimper from the lips stretched around it, a pearly mix of spit and precum bubbling down Louis’ chin—God, he wished he could keep this moment forever in a photograph.

Primal need and desperation barreled through him in a tsnunami wave of delirium. Louis’ name flew off his tongue and he tipped over the edge into pure pleasure with his jaw locked open in a moan.

He felt like he was falling—and he supposed he was: falling more and more in love with this boy—as a kaleidoscope of color exploded behind his shut eyes. The colors danced and twirled in his head with a million things he needed to say, but all those words could be boiled down to just one thing. 

With ardor trembling in his lungs, Harry gently coaxed Louis to his feet and enveloped him in a sticky embrace, tasting one another on their breaths as he pressed a soft kiss to Louis’ lips. 

“Lou?”

“Hmm?”

“Baby? Honey? Sunshine?” he whispered, pecking a kiss to Louis’ lips with every nickname and nuzzling their noses together. “Can I take you out on a date?”

Swollen lips stretching into a smile, Louis nodded happily and tucked himself into Harry’s arms, his laughter like angel’s lyres as he rose onto the tips of his toes. “Nothing would make me happier. But now that I’ve had cock, I really am starving. Can we eat now?”

Harry chuckled and skated his thumb over Louis’ high cheekbone, mapping constellations of freckles over his nose and cheeks. “Of course. Anything for my boy.”

And I know whatever we've got to do, Is something that can be done by two.

I'll say it's a lovely day for saying—it's a lovely day.

⌖

For two whole days, Louis and Harry hid from the world amidst the homey comfort of Louis’ townhouse, spending hours on end cuddling in bed, catching up on Louis’ favorite trashy TV shows, and cooking—well, Harry cooked and Louis remained a menace in the kitchen. It was so wonderfully domestic, the two of them falling into it like they were always meant to be together. They were kismet. 

Being with Louis was effortless. In fact, in some ways it felt like nothing had changed at all. They still bickered back and forth over whose turn it was to wash dishes or what movies they should watch, they laughed at the petty drama of the Selling Sunset cast while Harry called out all the times he could spot one of them lying, and they still teased one another relentlessly. 

But things had changed. 

Now, Harry got to kiss his best friend and he took every opportunity to do so. Whether it be at the kitchen counter while he cooked them breakfast, in the shower as the hot water cascaded down their bodies, or in the early haze of morning when Louis was still sleeping peacefully and Harry’s heart was swelling with overwhelming love, Harry was determined to catalogue the feeling of Louis’ lips against his own lest he wake up to find that it had all been a dream.

He could picture being with Louis forever, settling into a routine of their own in a house that they shared together, one that Louis would pick out for the historic charm and that Harry would be in charge of fixing up. When he closed his eyes at night, he imagined the two of them in a beautiful brick house with a cozy backyard with a grill, an herb garden, and a lounger where Louis would spend his afternoons relaxing and reading books as he watched Harry tend to the lawn. Some day there would be a ring on his finger and maybe in a few more years they’d have two little feet padding down the halls of their home. 

It was certainly early to think of such things but he knew in his core that he and Louis were it—they were soulmates.

As Harry gazed at the delicate features of his lover, cloaked in midnight shadows and looking peaceful as ever burrowed between the sheets with his cheek pressed to his pillow and hair a tousled mess, he smiled. The love he had for this lovely man was more than he could bear at times, the ache of it radiating through his body until he felt as though his bones had turned to dust, crushed by the weight of his affections. As quietly as he could, Harry closed the door behind himself and crept down the hall to the kitchen, leaving behind Louis with a piece of his heart guarded in the gentle hands of the boy he adored.

Their mini-honeymoon away from work of course had to come to an end at some point, and with Monday morning’s arrival, it was time to return to the BAU. Louis wasn’t required to report in until nine, but Harry had stacks of reports and paperwork he had to get a start on for trials. It was something he’d normally take home with him to work on, but he didn’t want to bring that into Louis’ home, he wanted this space to be reserved for love, not the evil of mankind. 

With the early hour of 4:00 glaring red on the microwave clock, Harry pattered about the kitchen making himself a cup of coffee for the commute to work. He loved this time of day when the world was still asleep, frost clung to the blades of grass, and only the cooing of mourning doves could be heard. Fog crept over the hedges just outside the kitchen window like ships sailing through the night, slow and languid as it curled and floated on the morning air.

Harry sipped from the thermos with a wince as scalding bitter coffee coated his tongue and checked his calendar for the day. There weren’t any new cases yet, but there was always work to be done, whether that be assisting remotely with other departments, writing up reports, or preparing to testify in court. 

As he slid on his rings, the shuffle of socked feet on tile came up behind him and a soft smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “What are you doing up so early, sunshine?”

Louis’ sleepy morning voice hummed and two bare arms wrapped around Harry’s torso. “Have a question for you.” He yawned and nuzzled the space between Harry’s shoulder blades. 

Harry set his mug of coffee aside and twisted to face the boy, terribly endeared by the crinkle of bedsheets pressed into his cheek and feather fringe sticking up in all directions. “What’s up, buttercup?” he asked and reached up to brush the hair off Louis’ forehead, tenderness coiling in his chest.

Louis smiled sleepily and pushed his glasses further up his nose, craning his head to look up at Harry. “I love you.”

The beauty held within Louis’ soul was practically blinding, crippling Harry’s mind as he found himself dumbstruck by how utterly wonderful this creature was. Not for the first time, he wondered how on earth he’d gotten so lucky as to have found himself worthy of Louis’ love. “That’s not a question,” Harry teased lightly with a chuckle and nosed at the boy’s hairline.

With a hum, Louis nodded and sighed contentedly, melting against Harry’s chest as their hearts beat in synchrony. “Mhm, and it never will be.” 

⌖

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another." — Thomas Merton

⌖