Chapter Five I Just Wanna Make Love To You #2
And if sex was the escape, then Kenny? Kenny would’ve just been a body.
A fix. A distraction with hands. And a mouth.
A really good, warm, expert mouth. But a mouth, nonetheless.
And whilst that wasn’t completely true, Aaron understood why Kenny had pulled him back, redirected him.
Why he’d handed him plates instead of permission.
Because Kenny wanted him present. Not spiralling. Not deflecting. Not lost.
Kenny wanted Aaron in the room with him.
So Aaron set the table, the jukebox flipping to something sultry from their mess of a playlist. Maybe Patsy. Maybe Zeppelin. Didn’t matter. It filled the space while Kenny moved behind him. And as he laid the cutlery, one piece at a time, he shook himself out.
“Thought you were joking when you said I should get used to being rejected for corpses.”
“You’re not being rejected.” Kenny peered over from the stove where he sizzled sausages in some onion sauce thing.
“You’re with me. Right now. I’m making you dinner.
After, we’ll share a bath. Go to bed. I’ll hold you all bloody night if I have to.
You occupy ninety-nine percent of my thoughts, and the other one percent is a career I’ve built from training, analysis, and an observation that keeps people alive and brings killers to light. ”
Aaron pouted. Folded his arms. Then leaned on the table. “All right. Tell me, then. Let me into that one percent that isn’t obsessed with me.”
Kenny huffed a quiet laugh. Amused, fond. Then went back to cooking dinner while dissecting murder.
“I think the victim was specifically chosen. This isn’t random. That much is already clear.”
Aaron nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed on the way Kenny got himself back into that mindset he’d all but abandoned in the past couple of years.
“You think he was stalked?” Aaron asked. “Not just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time? If he’s a homeless kid, he’s vulnerable, right? Easy prey for the right person?”
“He was vulnerable, yes. But the way he was placed on his back, arms folded, almost composed, it wasn’t careless.
It wasn’t dismissive. It was arranged. Intentional.
” Kenny stirred the sausage thing. “There was symmetry. Order. No chaos. No rage or panic. It was restraint. Ritual. That tells me something.”
“So…he knew his killer?”
“Perhaps. Not clear yet. He could’ve been a stranger, but not in what he represented. He was chosen for a reason.”
“Punishment?”
“Not exactly. At least, not in the classic sense. It wasn’t retribution for disobedience.
It felt like… correction. Maybe he didn’t fit the mould.
Too visible. Too alive. Too much a reminder of things they weren’t allowed to be.
So instead of confronting that, they erased it.
Froze him. Stillness as punishment for being too real. ”
He let that settle while he drained the potatoes.
“The staging, the symmetry, the symbolism…it all suggests a killer who isn’t reacting in the moment. Not driven by heat. Trying to restore something. Reassert control over what could be seen as disorder. Not just killing. Making a statement.”
Aaron stilled. “Like Roisin.”
Kenny peered over, checking on him. Aaron gave a faint smile to let him know he wasn’t falling apart just yet. So Kenny retrieved the butter to dollop some in the spuds and began mashing.
“She also reframed reality to suit her, yes. Anyone who didn’t fit her narrative was…
edited out. Rewritten. It’s a kind of God complex.
Part punishment, part creation. If she wanted something, she took it.
” Kenny glanced away, unease filtering through him.
Too close to home, probably. So he moved away from her and drew on the theory.
Aaron was thankful. “She’s not unique. Dennis Rader, BTK, posed his victims to create a scene.
A story. Kemper said the silence of his victims was the only time he felt heard.
They weren’t removing people. But building something in their place. ”
Aaron chewed on his thumbnail, then got the plates out of the cupboard.
“Some killers don’t want chaos.” Kenny returned to the bubbling veg. “They crave order. A world that doesn’t challenge them. That doesn’t reflect back what they hate in themselves.”
Aaron frowned. “So, what? The killer believes they’re helping?”
“Not consciously. But yes. If they see autonomy, visibility, defiance as threats to order, they convince themselves they’re restoring balance.
They don’t think they’re punishing rebellion.
They think they’re removing the noise. Silencing the disruption.
Rewriting the world into something they can stand to look at. ”
Aaron was silent. Then, a beat later, “Why the Santa suit? Are they taking the piss? Tis the season and all that?”
“No. It’s not mockery. It’s theatre. Symbolism. Not to humiliate, but to repurpose. Using their body to say something. The tree. The costume. The position. It’s all part of the same narrative. It’s not leaving a crime scene. It’s constructing meaning.”
“Like a gift?”
“Exactly. The question is, to whom? Who are they presenting the gift to? Because once we know their audience, we can understand the motive. Whether it’s public, or painfully personal.”
Aaron stepped forward, resting his chin on Kenny’s shoulder, watching him finish the sausage casserole thing, which smelled fucking fantastic. “You’re gonna do it, aren’t you?”
“Do what?”
“Step in. Fully. You’re gonna profile him.”
Kenny turned his head. Searched Aaron’s face. Read his mind. “I’ll only do it if you’re okay with it. I’ll walk away if you need me to.”
“How can I make you walk away?” Aaron wrapped his arms around Kenny’s waist, held him, planting his forehead right between his shoulder blades. “You’ve already got that look in your eye. The one you get when you’re about to rip someone apart with nothing but adjectives and behavioural cues.”
“It’s not about ripping anyone apart.”
“It is.” Aaron slumped away, down to the seat at the table. “It’s hot, by the way.”
Kenny looked away. Went back to the dinner. Served it all up on a plate.
“Do you think they’ve killed before?” Aaron asked as Kenny put a plate of delicious sustenance in front of him. “Related to these other deaths?”
“It’s extremely likely.”
“And you’ll find them?”
Kenny took a seat next to him. “I’ll try. But again, if you want me to step away, I will.”
“You’d do that for me?”
Kenny held his gaze. “I do everything for you.”
Despite himself, Aaron smiled.
And with total composure, Kenny picked up his fork and said, “Eat.”
“Smells good.” Aaron sniffed, then dug his fork into a sausage and held it aloft. “Bit phallic, though, for someone on enforced celibacy.”
Kenny raised an eyebrow. “You’re half-naked in our kitchen, jeans practically spray-painted on. I’d say your seduction quota is already overdrawn.”
“Keeping morale up.” Aaron winked, then wrapped his lips around the sausage, sucking it into his mouth before pulling off with a wet pop.
A smile threatened to break through Kenny’s careful control, but he dropped his gaze back to his plate, cutting neatly into his food as though Aaron hadn’t just staged a porno across the table.
“Good,” he said. “You’ll need that morale later.”
“Will I?” Aaron licked a smear of sauce from the tip of the sausage, then nudged Kenny’s thigh with his knee under the table. “And will I have your full attention?”
“Absolutely. Undivided. Always.”
That made Aaron pause. And for that fleeting moment, he forgot about the murder.
The death. The rot that followed them around like a bad smell and bit into the sausage.
The rest of the meal was consumed with only the clink of cutlery and wind hitting the windowpanes slipping alongside the low hum of the jukebox spinning into something more subdued.
A few Christmas songs trickled out here and there, ones they’d added to their vinyl collection.
Old stuff. Classics. Their shared love of crooners and soul divas was their grounding.
And Aaron let the domestic normalcy tether him back to himself.
When they’d finished eating, Kenny stood, circled behind Aaron, and pressed a kiss to his neck. “Go finish those forms.”
That made Aaron bristle. “Still not sure about those forms.”
Kenny settled his hands on his shoulders, firm and grounding. “They won’t say anything except Aaron Jones. That’s all they’ll ever see.”
Aaron glanced down at his empty plate. “Doesn’t mean I trust it.”
“Finish them.” Kenny leaned down and pressed his lips to Aaron’s ear. “Then fetch that absurdly expensive wine you bought and bring it upstairs.”
Aaron looked up at him, defiant for half a breath.
Then, as always, he did what Kenny said.
Like a good boy.