Chapter Text
The cartoon snowman on the paper plate winks at Harry, peeking out behind the two toffee bars that are left. Somehow Harry has ended up alone in a small circle of people whom he doesn’t know and yet insist on asking questions like they’re old friends. The BAU encourages internal communication and cooperation—but usually within a work context.
Gregory, or George, or whatever his name is, asking Harry if he’s working during the holidays feels odd, even if it’s a question to be expected at the office Christmas party. This is a subject he can’t help but warm up to, however, a smile rising to his face.
“Not this year. I’ve got the full week, from the twenty-third till New Year’s Day.”
“Oh, lucky!”
“Big plans?”
Harry understands their excitement; extended time off is rare. “I’d say so: visiting family in California with my boyfriend.”
Caroline, or Carol, laughs. “He must have low standards if those are big plans.”
Harry pouts. “He’s never been to California.” He’s not quite sure why he’s making excuses to a group of strangers. Louis was happy to discover the West Coast, he’d said so. And he’d met Harry’s mum and sister through Skype before, talked to them a few times on the phone as well—they weren’t total strangers. Harry kept reminding himself of these facts whenever he noticed how nervous Louis was about the trip.
“California’s not the problem, mate. It’s the in-laws,” Gregory guffaws, then pats Harry’s arm. “I’m sure your mother is perfectly lovely, though. You have a picture of her at your desk, don’t you?”
A small line appears between Harry’s eyebrows. “Yes, I do.”
It’s an old picture, from before he even left home for college, of his mother showing off her collection of ceramic figurines on the shelves behind her.
One of the other women in the group smiles at him. “I’m sure your boyfriend will have a great time,” she says kindly.
Harry nods absently. “Yeah. Thanks.” He instinctively looks around at the sea of heads in the function room, the lines on his forehead deepening when he fails to catch sight of Louis. “I hope so…”
He trails off, and after another sweep of the room, detaches himself from the group with a quick ‘excuse me’. Louis had needed a bit of coaxing to come to the party, with his aversion to crowds and meeting strangers. It had taken weeks for him to agree to meet Harry’s team when he’d first moved to Quantico. He’d grown close to Nick with time, but Harry had the distinct impression that Cara’s bluntness intimidated him, and he hadn’t quite warmed up to Azoff.
Harry checks his phone for texts or calls, but there are none. Pulling at his bottom lip, he stops and surveys the room, determined to be rational and not think the worst. Louis could have gone to the bathroom, or stepped outside for a bit of air if he was feeling overwhelmed. His eyes fall on the emergency exit that leads to the stairwell, which nobody uses even when the elevators are packed and slow.
He expects the door to screech when he pushes it open, but it doesn’t. He lets it fall closed behind him, squinting in the gloom before he finds the light switch along the bare wall. His breath rushes out in a sigh of relief when he looks up to see Louis sitting on the stairs near the first landing.
“Louis!” Harry climbs the stairs to sit next to him, ignoring the dust on the scuffed, worn floor. “Where were you?”
He places a tentative hand on Louis’ thigh, but nothing else. Up close he can appreciate the blank look on Louis’ face which he’s come to know frequently follows one of his disassociative fugue episodes.
“I don’t know,” Louis says finally, confirming Harry’s suspicions. “Fifth floor, I think? A janitor found me instead of security, so that’s good.” He lets out a weak chuckle and leans against Harry, lacing their fingers together on his lap.
Harry pulls him into a hug, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. It makes him want to cry when he hears Louis’ contained sniffle and feels the rapid fluttering of his eyelashes against his neck.
“It’d been a while,” Harry says softly.
Louis nods, keeping his head tucked in the crook of Harry’s neck.
“It’s OK. I’ve got you.” Harry tightens his arm around him and squeezes his hand.
There’s no creak of the door to alert him, and he’s startled when he looks down and sees Nick at the bottom of the staircase, looking at them with a sympathetic grimace on his face.
“Director Singh is here. You might want to make an appearance, Harold.”
Harry swears under his breath, then nods. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Nick offers him a quick, commiserating smile before he leaves. Harry feels Louis take a deep breath before pulling back from his embrace. When he tilts Harry’s chin to give him a soft kiss, his fingertips are cold on Harry’s skin.
“Big boss wants to shake your hand,” Louis says in a bit of a sing-song, smiling faintly. “I’ll see if I can’t find you some of those toffee bars meanwhile, hm?”
Harry wipes a trace of moisture on Louis’ cheek. “But I wanted to show you off,” he whines, mock petulant. It’s not really a joke, but he knows Louis won’t want to and he doesn’t want to pressure him.
Louis shakes his head, head down, then gets to his feet, pulling Harry up after him. “C’mon. Think positive: you might get a pay rise.”
Harry chuckles and leads them out back into the party.
*
Harry watches Louis sleep for longer than he’d care to admit. Louis is a quiet sleeper when he’s not having one of his dreams: cheek pillowed on his hand; lips a little parted; deep, even breathing. Harry resists the urge to touch him where they aren’t already entangled—sharing a twin bed is a tight fit, though not uncomfortable.
“Happy Birthday,” Harry whispers, smiling, when Louis opens his eyes. “Sleep OK?” he asks, even though he can guess the answer.
Louis nods, a mirroring smile on his own face. “’s your childhood home. Feels safe. I like it here.”
“I like you here.” Harry grins, palms the back of Louis’ neck, warm and soft. “And my mom and Robin are happy to have you here, too.”
Louis runs the tip of his pointer finger over Harry’s jaw. “I’m pretty sure they’re happy to have you here, love. They put up with me. A necessary evil, kind of.”
Harry frowns, nips at Louis’ finger when it reaches his lips. “That’s not true.”
Louis shrugs, displacing Harry’s hand.
“Where is this coming from?” Harry asks gently.
Louis bites his bottom lip. “Thanksgiving. You cut your visit short because of me. Your mom can’t be happy about that, Harry.”
Harry frowns. “Lou. Your sister called me that you were in hospital. My mom was the first one to tell me to get back to you.”
Lottie had been so upset, crying about how she’d poisoned her brother for trying to be original and serving seafood instead of turkey. She’d kept on apologizing for days even though Louis had been fine after a short trip to the ER.
Louis shakes his head. “I should have known I was allergic to shellfish.”
Harry knocks their foreheads together. “I didn’t know you were that kind of psychic,” he teases.
Louis lets out a reluctant laugh. “Idiot.”
Harry raises himself up on one elbow. “My mom knows I love you. She can see you love me. That’s all she cares about.” He glances at the digital alarm clock, a relic of his childhood, on the bedside table, before leaning in to nuzzle Louis’ neck. “We’ve got half an hour before everyone starts waking up.”
Louis slips his hands under Harry’s thin tee shirt. “Are we on a schedule?”
“Mhm.” He kisses up Louis’ neck. “Wake up next to the love of my life—”
He pulls back just enough to smile at Louis, whose face is scrunched up with a mixture of happiness and embarrassment.
“Have a heartfelt talk with the love of my life,” Harry continues, running a hand down the curve of Louis’ spine. “Fuck the love of my life.”
Louis’ breath catches when Harry wriggles his hand under the waistband of Louis’ pajama bottoms to grip his ass, the tips of his fingers brushing against his hole.
“Shower.” Harry goes on with his list, rolling his hips. “Make breakfast for the love of my life—”
“Pancakes?” Louis breathes.
Harry buries his laughter against Louis’ chest. “Is that what you’re interested in?”
Louis tugs at Harry’s shirt. “I could be persuaded to have sausage and eggs, too.”
Harry can’t contain a loud squawk of laughter, and Louis shushes him amid giggles, clapping a hand over Harry’s mouth. “That’s not convincing me, Harold!”
Harry sits up to pull his shirt over his head and throws a leg over Louis to straddle his upper thighs. “I’ll give you a full English breakfast.”
Louis makes a face. “You’re not even English and that is not—” He squeaks when Harry lifts his jumper up to his armpits. “—remotely arousing.”
Harry bends down to lick over one of his nipples, rubbing his hands up and down the warm expanse of his chest. Louis’ fingers dig into the swell over Harry’s hips while they move against each other.
“I’m not getting up to get the lube,” Louis says, later, once Harry’s stripped him of his pajama bottoms so that he’s spread out on the bed, with his jumper still half on and his cock hard against his hip.
“Don’t have to.” Harry gets off the bed to kick off his boxers and reaches into the bedside drawer, pulling out the small bottle. “I was prepared.”
Louis bites back a laugh. “Think a lot of yourself, do you?”
Harry has to take a moment to stare at Louis in wonder, thinking about how it was at first: their sex tentative and careful on Harry’s part and more than a little stressful on Louis’—always good, though, if not easy. And Harry wouldn’t have minded if that was how it was forever; he was happy with whatever Louis could give him. But as time went on Louis relaxed, and Harry relaxed, and playful, easy sex became a part of their lives.
Almost a year later now, Louis is joking and drawing Harry close when he climbs back on the bed, hands and mouth eager. Telling Harry to go faster when he’s opening him up. Whimpering ‘that’s good‘ when Harry pushes in and then adding, with a grin, ‘but I still want pancakes'. Giggling between moans as the mattress creaks with Harry’s thrusts.
Harry leaves Louis burrowed under the duvet, grumbling about being cold and not wanting to get out of bed, and comes back from the shower to find him asleep. He goes downstairs to get started on breakfast, the house still silent as he takes what he needs out of the fridge.
A knock on the door startles him; egg yolk pools in his palm and seeps between his fingers. He’s still wiping his fingers when he peers through the peep hole. It’s a delivery man with a package. Harry frowns: the US postal service doesn’t deliver on Christmas Eve.
The man knocks again, and Harry opens the door just to stop him from waking everyone up.
“Good morning, sir. There’s a package for one Mr. Harry Styles?” he says, thrusting the clipboard toward him. “If I can get a signature, please?”
It’s obvious he’s impatient to get home.
“I’m not expecting anything. Who sent you?”
The messenger shrugs. “Anonymous sender.”
Harry signs and waves him off, holding the small package in his hand. Back in the kitchen he considers it for a long moment, biting his index finger, before opening it. There’s a tiny ceramic figurine of a weasel. The silence feels like pressure building up in Harry’s ears. The figurine is a perfect match for his mother’s collection.
After a moment he takes it upstairs, stuffing it in his suitcase.
Louis blinks at him sleepily. “Everything all right?”
Harry rises from his crouch, walks over to the bed and leans down to kiss him. “Yeah. I’ll have your pancakes done in five minutes.”
He grabs his phone on the way out of the bedroom.
“You’re lucky I’m a morning person. What the hell do you want? You’re on holiday.” Nick answers on the second ring tone.
“You sound like a morning person,” Harry snipes. “And I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course you do. What is it?”
Nick doesn’t get back to him until the next afternoon.
Louis doesn’t wake up from his nap when Harry lifts his feet off his lap so he can get off the couch and hide out in the kitchen to talk to Nick.
“You’re lucky Malik doesn’t celebrate Christmas or I’d owe him one.”
“Did you get anything?”
All he’d managed was to trace the source of the package to a post office in West Virginia. “I’ll make inquiries, but—”
“It’s a dead end,” Harry finishes for him with a sigh. “Thanks, Nick.”
“We’ll figure it out, yeah? At least it’s not inherently hostile. Just... stalkerish.”
“For now.”
“That’s the spirit,” Nick replies, making Harry’s lips twitch.
He’s still restless, though. And he starts pulling out measuring cups and bowls, rifling in the cupboard for the flour and sugar.
“Hey, sweetheart. You missed the end of the movie.” Harry’s mum walks in after a cursory knock on the door.
Harry shrugs. “The puppies found their way back home, right?”
Anne chuckles. “They did.” She takes the butter and eggs out of the fridge for him. “Is everything OK?” she asks carefully as she sets them down on the countertop.
“Just some stuff from work. It’s nothing.”
Anne takes down a checkered apron from a peg and hands it to Harry. “I remember when you wanted to be a baker.”
“I still bake,” Harry protests.
“You stress bake now,” Anne says, shaking her head.
“It’s Christmas. I’m making cookies.” Harry starts measuring out flour. “And I’ve been stress baking for ages. Remember that bake sale when I was waiting for the results of my bar exam?”
Anne laughs, handing him the oven paper. “Financed the school’s prom all by yourself.” Then she puts her palm to his cheek, her smile wistful. “But you used to talk to me then, about what had you stressed. Now who do you talk to?”
Harry takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. “Mom.”
She shakes her head again. “Louis is a dear, but I can tell you want to protect him. You don’t want to upset him, so you’re not going to tell him what has you upset.”
Harry’s eyebrows dip. “I do. Sometimes. But he’s—”
“I understand, honey. But you’re my baby, and I worry. I need to know there’s someone you can talk to. It’s not healthy keeping things inside.”
Harry shrugs, uncomfortable. “We have mandatory therapy.”
Anne rolls her eyes. “Like you don’t know how to get around that,” she scoffs.
“I talk to Nick,” he says truthfully. “When there’s something wrong I talk to him.” He smacks a kiss to the back of her hand before turning to back to his baking. “But there’s nothing to worry about. Promise.”
*
Harry manages to put the mysterious delivery out of his mind for the rest of his vacation. And he almost forgets about it once he's back at work and they have their first case.
Then he comes back from a consultation in New York to find an unmarked, large brown envelope on his desk, from which he shakes out a series of surveillance photos of his sister getting out of her car in the driveway of her house.
He stomps over to Nick’s office and throws the photographs onto his desk, pacing while Nick looks them over. “My mom. Now my sister.”
Nick drums his fingers on the table, glancing up at Harry. “Someone’s trying to make you nervous.”
“Well it’s working,” Harry bites out.
“We’ll get them protection. Police car parked in front of their house 'round the clock.”
Harry gives a tight nod, although he doesn’t fancy having to explain it to either of them. “What the fuck is going on?”
Nick throws a thumb to point at the cabinet behind his desk. “Want a drink?”
“Please.”
*
He receives nothing for another week.
On Saturday he goes into the office late in the morning for a team meeting and to finish up on some paperwork. He doesn’t like to take home work. He takes longer than he’d hoped for and ends up leaving almost at dinner time.
When he gets to the car he finds a leaflet pinned to the windshield under the wiper, flapping in the cold wind. He’s about to crumple it up to throw out when he recognizes it as one from Corden’s music shop. When he flips through it he finds it has some annotations inside, a few guitars circled and some prices and delayed payment possibilities written down— in Louis’ handwriting.
Harry marches right back into the BAU headquarters, almost crashes into Nick who was leaving his office.
“Talk to your damn boyfriend,” Nick insists, leaning back against the front of his desk. “Maybe he remembers someone suspicious.”
Harry shakes his head.
“You have to tell him if we’re going to put him under protection anyway. The last thing you want to do is have him thinking someone’s following him, or that he’s imagining things.”
Harry frowns at that. “Louis doesn’t have paranoid schizophrenia, you know.”
Nick winces. “I know. I’m sorry—”
“And I trust our people would be discrete enough that he wouldn’t notice.”
“OK. Probably. But you should still tell him.”
Harry runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to worry him.”
Nick clucks his tongue. “Maybe he should be worried? At least on alert?”
“He has enough going on. Those three weeks with Reese were tough for him.”
Nick tilts his head, bewildered. “That was months ago.”
“He still has nightmares. Actual nightmares, about it.”
Nick rubs a hand over his lower face. “Honestly, I’m not surprised,” he says with surprising gentleness. “One of the ugliest cases I’ve ever worked on. And the press, calling him ‘The Sculptor’ like he was some kind of artist.” He shakes his head, eyes wide. “And we just got to see the end result. If Tomlinson was living through the whole... process...”
Harry nods his head slowly. “Yeah. The nightmares just cropped up again a couple of weeks ago. All of a sudden. He’s been good this week, but the last thing I want to do is risk setting it off again. So I’m not telling him about this unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
There’s a rap of knuckles on the door before it swings open and Cara sticks her head inside. “Oh. You’re both still here?”
“Yeah. What is it?” Harry snaps, not welcoming the interruption.
Cara raises her eyebrows. “We might have a case. Azoff just told me.”
“Might?” Nick drawls. “We always 'might' have a case. How is this news?”
“Just wanted to give you a head’s up, but fuck you both,” Cara says, throwing her hands up.
“Sorry!” Harry says quickly. “Some personal stuff... Family troubles.”
Nick puts on his best martyred expression. “His grumpiness is contagious. You know that, dearest.”
Cara rolls her eyes. “I’m used to your temper tantrums, baby boy. Don’t sweat it. And you, Nick, can suck my—” she points two fingers at her crotch, making Nick burst out laughing.
Harry takes a bit of a detour to get home to clear his mind. He doesn’t want to bring anything negative with him and upset Louis. He’s surprised to smell food when he steps through the door.
“Of course you’d show up just in time for dinner,” Louis greets him, slipping his arms around Harry’s waist before he can even put down his briefcase.
“You cooked?”
“It’s not the first time!” Louis replies, indignant, beginning to pull back from the hug.
Harry hugs him tighter, even though he’s hot in his coat and he’s still holding his briefcase. “You’re right. Maybe the third or fourth time?” he teases.
He lets Louis push him off, laughing harder when Louis flips him off in an overly dramatic gesture.
Harry puts his worries aside for dinner. They’re snuggled up on the couch watching a movie when his phone rings. Azoff himself calling to tell him they have a case in Arizona and they’re leaving first thing in the morning. No details.
Louis mutes the movie, leaning back against the armrest. “Where?” He knows what a late night call means.
“Arizona.”
“Well. At least you’ll get out of this cold.”
“I like the cold,” Harry says, just to be contrary.
Louis rolls his eyes. “Good for you.” Then he slips his cold toes under Harry’s jumper, poking at his sides, making him squirm. “Got your bag ready?”
Harry nods. He always has a bag packed with the essentials in case they have to leave on short notice. “Just missing one thing, but I’m not sure it’ll fit.”
“What?”
Harry can’t contain his grin. “You.”
Louis groans and throws himself at Harry to pinch his sides and tickle him until Harry’s stomach hurts from laughing.
He has to get up at five in the morning, so he drags himself to bed before it’s even eleven. Kisses Louis good night and leaves him on the couch to finish watching his program. Three minutes after he’s turned off the light, he has Louis sliding under the covers and pulling him into a long kiss.
“That’s a proper good night’s kiss,” Louis whispers.
Harry feels under his palms Louis’ face shift as he smiles, and he thumbs at his bottom lip with a grin of his own.
“Come to tuck me in, too?” He traps one of Louis’ legs to pull him closer so that they slot together.
“No. You’re being very naughty.” Louis nips at his neck playfully. “You need to get your sleep.”
“I will,” Harry assures him. “After.”
He doesn’t get to sleep until half past, but he slips into sleep much better after a great orgasm, with Louis at his side, warm, and soft, and boneless with his own release.
He’s jarred awake by a shriek and a sudden change in temperature as the bed covers are pushed down when Louis backs up against the headboard, heels slipping on the sheets, hyperventilating.
Harry squints at the clock on the bedside: 4:13 AM. It’s not the first time this happens, but it doesn’t get any easier.
“Louis.” Harry sits up, keeping his hands to himself. He’s learned to wait to touch, but talking helps, sometimes, to bring Louis back and calm him down quicker. His voice is rough with sleep as he murmurs a litany of ‘Lou. You’re at home. You’re safe’.
Louis drags his hands down from his shoulders to his hands, inspecting each of his fingers, his chest, his legs, toes. “It’s him. It’s him again. It’s him.”
Harry places a hand on his arm, making Louis flinch. “It’s another nightmare, baby. Just a nightmare. It’s not real.”
Louis shakes his head hard. “It is real. I can tell the difference, Harry!” His voice is shrill.
Harry can tell by the tension in his jaw and the hitches in his breath that Louis is about to start crying.
He does, making a keening sound in his throat as he collapses against Harry’s chest, his whole body shaking.
Harry strokes his back, trying to soothe the tremors running down his spine. “I’ve got you. You’re OK, Lou. It’s going to be all right. I love you.”
Louis grips the front of Harry’s tee shirt so hard the collar digs into the back of Harry’s neck. “It’s the same. But it’s real. But it can’t be real. You got him. You got him. But it’s the same. I don’t—” He keeps sobbing, muscles so rigid he’s twitching.
When after twenty minutes he still hasn’t calmed down and his breathing is starting to get wheezy, Harry takes a deep breath and carefully maneuvers them so he can reach into the bedside table drawer. He shakes out two Xanax pills and coaxes Louis into taking them. “You’ll feel better in a bit,” he says, helping him hold up the glass of water.
Fresh tears spill from Louis’ eyes after he swallows the pills.
“It’s just for today. It’s all right, baby,” Harry assures him, knowing Louis is more ashamed about the anxiety medication than about the sleeping pills. “You’ll feel better in a moment.”
He folds Louis into a hug, holding him while the medication take effect. In less than fifteen minutes he’s limp in Harry’s arms.
4: 46 AM and it’s almost time for Harry to go. He bites his lip hard, blinking back his own tears, and holds Louis for ten more minutes. Then he gets up. He tucks Louis in, strokes his hair out of his face and wipes the tears from his cheeks, tasting the residual saltiness on his skin when he kisses his cheek softly, before forcing himself to step away.
*
Harry wasn’t sure if the heaviness in his chest at the state in which he had had to leave Louis would let him sleep on the plane, but Azoff asks them to gather around before he can even try to get some sleep.
They all wait for Azoff to speak, but he sits in silence, wiping his glasses clean with slow, deliberate movements.
“Well? What is it?” Cara asks finally.
Cara can hold out for hours during an interrogation, but the rest of the time she has no patience at all.
“I received a personal call about this particular case,” Azoff begins, putting on his glasses and peering at them each in turn. “The detective who called was upset. And confused.”
“That’s why they call us, generally speaking, isn’t it?” Nick interjects with a bit of a smirk.
Azoff ignores him. “He was confused because he received a note, claiming that a certain dead man was at work again.”
“Reese,” Harry breathes without thinking.
Azoff’s eyes snap to him. “Julian Reese,” he confirms.
Cara’s nose wrinkles. “But he’s dead. Shot him myself. Got the autopsy report and all. Remains destroyed. Etcetera. Why are we even taking this seriously?”
Azoff opens the folder he had on the tabletop. “It wasn’t just a note. It was a package.”
Harry examines the pictures of the box and its content of human body parts. Fresh.
“It's confirmed this is... real? Awfully good Halloween props these days,” Nick says.
“DNA matches one Fred Walters. Reported missing on the 19th this month. Still haven’t found the body, but...” Azoff shrugs. “It’s a matter of time.”
Nick waves one of the pictures around. “What kind if killer sends a heads up like this?”
“One who wants to get caught,” Cara answers with a curl of her lips.
Harry shakes his head, raising a hand to pull at his bottom lip. “One who's making a statement.”
Azoff nods. “Now we just have to figure out what he’s trying to say.”