CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Larkin hadn’t slept—really slept—for a very long time.
It was always in fits, lasting no more than a few hours, brought about by drug dependency or self-induced physical exhaustion, neither of which presented him with any sort of lasting restfulness. He woke tired, irritated, and since last month’s threat against Doyle, afraid.
Afraid that in the handful of minutes he’d try to fit a full night’s rest, some awful terror would befall his partner—something immediate, something that’d produce no sound, no cry to rouse Larkin to action—and so every morning, he woke with an uncontrollable sense of dread, certain he’d find Doyle dead beside him.
It’d begun as an obsessive thought that had since manifested into a physical tic he couldn’t quite contain, like a man forced to witness the same atrocity day in and day out, but each and every time he’d flinch, refusing to be conditioned.
So when Larkin sluggishly came to the next morning, belatedly registering the scratch of chest hair against his back and the weight of an arm draped over him, he lurched violently, turned so quickly that he ended up elbowing Doyle in the face.
“Ouch!”
“Ira?”
Doyle rubbed his nose while blinking sleep from his eyes. “I hope you weren’t expecting someone else.”
Larkin sat up. “Why’re you in bed.”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
Larkin leaned over him and read the time on the clock: 9:22 a.m. He was supposed to be at the precinct an hour and twenty-two minutes ago.
“You’re not late,” Doyle warned.
Poised to launch from the bed, Larkin asked, “What.”
“Connor was going to make you take a personal day, but I cautioned him against it.”
Larkin’s tension eased. He arched an eyebrow.
Doyle sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. He seemed to fortify himself before saying, “The last Adam Worth case triggered some unhealthy tendencies in you that haven’t…
really abated. I think the right thing to do would be to remove an individual from the source of the compulsion, but what works for others, I know doesn’t always work for you.
And sometimes, not allowing you to confront the cause for an obsession ends up making it stronger.
” He clarified by tapping the side of his own head and adding, “Up here.”
Larkin stared, silent and unblinking.
“I see what it’s doing to you, and if you’re going to solve this case, you need to make sure your basic needs are met or you’re going to burn out.
That’s how mistakes are made and that’s how people get hurt.
But you’ve got me, and I won’t let that happen.
If getting you one step closer to catching the sender means making grilled cheeses at midnight or charming your lieutenant into a late call time, then that’s what I’ll do to support you. ”
After a moment of consideration, Larkin only said, “Connor never approves late call times. You either show up, or you don’t.”
Doyle leaned in. “I’m very convincing.”
“What’d you do.”
Smiling brightly, Doyle said, “Evie, we’ve been over this. I just smiled and asked.”
Larkin grunted.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Is it in bad taste to say I slept like the dead.”
Doyle kissed Larkin’s shoulder before climbing out of bed. “I’m glad.”
“You skipped your workout,” Larkin noted.
Doyle went to the dresser and collected underwear from the top drawer. “Yeah. I was in a sex coma.”
Larkin didn’t typically hang on to ego strokes—compliments were unnecessary when he was already quite aware of his own capabilities—but that one he didn’t mind.
He planted his hands behind himself and leaned back, taking in the view of Doyle’s naked body and its almost ethereal glow in the morning light.
Doyle turned. “Mind if I shower first?”
“No.”
Larkin waited, waited until Doyle had left the bedroom, until the bathroom door had closed, until the shower had turned on, before he blew out a very cautious breath.
He felt so—dare he say it— good that Larkin was scared one wrong move would send the euphoria into dormancy again.
He could’ve kicked himself for lowering his guard so much that nearly eight hours of uninterrupted sleep had been obtained, but… .
Larkin climbed out of bed, found his discarded T-shirt, pulled on a pair of low-rise trunks, and as he padded into the kitchen, drawing open the blinds to reveal a beautiful summer day, he considered the last time sleep had felt so simple and pure .
Certainly before he’d gotten addicted to benzos.
Larkin took his morning medication and flipped the switch on the coffeepot.
Before he’d become dependent on ZzzQuil.
He opened the fridge and collected a handful of ingredients.
Before he and Noah had tied the knot, even.
Larkin grabbed a cutting board and began dicing a few potatoes while the coffee brewed.
His promotion, he finally decided. It was the stress of working cold cases.
The stress of remembering the ever-fluctuating count—currently 9,024—of victims forgotten by the rest of the city.
The stress of the race against time to bring solace to those left in mourning, before they, too, were nothing but a memory.
The stress of simply being reminded daily what a fucking joke humanity was.
“You didn’t have to make breakfast.”
Larkin looked over his shoulder. Doyle stood in the threshold of the bedroom, wearing a pair of stark white boxer briefs, his damp hair already finger-combed, and even from this distance, Larkin could smell his freshly applied cologne of neroli and sandalwood and cardamom.
Perhaps not all of humanity .
Larkin added some salt and pepper to the cubed potatoes sizzling in the skillet.
“Disliking something isn’t the same as being incapable of doing something.
It’s only fair that I shoulder the responsibility now and then.
” He cracked eggs one-handed into a bowl.
“Besides, recovery from two rounds of vigorous sex will require something hardier than greek yogurt and granola.”
Doyle only chuckled in response, but that smooth and smoky voice settled over Larkin like a shield against all the world’s trials and tribulations, and he realized he didn’t just feel good.
He felt better.
He felt amazing .
Doyle returned a few moments later, dropped his suit coat and shoulder holster over the back of a kitchen chair, and joined Larkin.
He reached overhead, collected two mugs from the cupboard, then fetched cream from the fridge.
Doyle wore dark brown trousers and brown oxfords, a white button-down shirt, and a gold tie.
“Is that my tie.”
Doyle closed the fridge before instinctively smoothing the tie against his chest. “Do you mind if I borrow it?”
“No, I don’t. It looks very nice on you.”
Doyle poured them each coffee. He leaned back against the counter, saying teasingly, “Thank you, Mr. Menswear Aficionado.”
“I’m merely a product of my upbringing,” Larkin corrected. “You’ve met my mother.”
He poured the bowl of beaten eggs and finely chopped herbs into a pan bubbling with butter before hastily moving it back and forth over the burner while softly scrambling the contents with a fork.
Larkin glanced sideways. Doyle had declined to comment on Jacqueline and was silently sipping his coffee.
Larkin folded the omelet a few times before banging his open palm against the handle of the pan, causing the other side of the omelet to bounce up and fold over, creating a seam.
He grabbed one of the plates, tilted the pan, and let the omelet roll out, seam down.
French omelets were deceptively difficult to master, and Larkin was satisfied he hadn’t lost his touch in the intervening eleven months since he’d last made one.
Noah had always preferred American-style, so Larkin rarely bothered more than once or twice a year to make one for himself.
He shoveled some home fries onto the plate and then handed it to Doyle.
“Wow. What’d I do to deserve this?”
“It’d be easier to ask what you haven’t done.”
Doyle leaned down and kissed Larkin. “Thank you, sunshine.”
Larkin nodded and returned to cracking more eggs for his own omelet.
He melted butter, poured the mixture, worked the pan, and asked as he smacked the handle a second time, “What did you say to my mother yesterday—before we left.” He plated the omelet and potatoes before collecting his coffee and taking a seat.
Doyle looked up from his breakfast but didn’t answer.
Larkin said, “I assure you, she very well needed to hear whatever you said.”
“I don’t know about that.” Doyle set his fork down. “I let anger get the best of me.”
“Anger is a universal emotion.”
Doyle leaned back in his chair. “I told her a child has a right to unconditional love and acceptance, but being a parent isn’t the same.
It’s a privilege. And that… my grandmother would’ve prayed to St. Dymphna for intercession because, surely, any woman who treated their child as she did must be ill. ”
“You called my mother—”
“No, no. I only told her what an old Irish grandmother would’ve made of the situation.”
Larkin smiled wryly and took a sip of coffee.
Doyle stretched his legs out under the table and recited rote, “‘Lord, our God, you graciously chose St. Dymphna as patroness of those afflicted with mental and nervous disorders. Please grant, Lord, through the prayers of this pure youthful martyr, relief and consolation to all suffering such trials, and especially those for whom we pray.’ Heard that one a lot growing up.”
“About you,” Larkin asked.
Doyle shook his head. “My mom. A lot of prayers to St. Monica too.” He straightened in his seat, picked up his fork, and added, “But did you know there is a patron saint of juvenile delinquents?”
“I still struggle to picture you being a little hellraiser.”
Doyle grinned like the Cheshire Cat.
“Oh, no, never mind,” Larkin corrected.
They both laughed, and Doyle asked, “You’re not mad, are you?”