“I left him.”
Doyle’s head jerked so quickly, he probably suffered whiplash. “What?” He stood, once again that head taller than Larkin. “Oh my God. I didn’t—let me talk to him.”
Larkin shook his head. “No.”
“Larkin—”
“This was a very long time coming.” He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned his head back. “I struggled for a long time with the concept of love languages,” he said into the quiet. “You know these?”
“Affirmation, quality time, service, gifts, touch.”
Larkin nodded. “I’m garbage at all of that. My words are stilted. I like to be by myself. I never know what sort of service wouldn’t feel intrusive, and buying gifts is an art unto itself. But I’ve struggled with touch since—” The words cut off sharply, and Larkin instead raised his hand and tapped the side of his head. “But afterward, when the HSAM started, for lack of better description, I thought: remembrance is the greatest act of love there is. Because… because no one is truly dead and gone, so long assomeoneremembers them.”
Doyle touched Larkin’s arm and squeezed.
Larkin smiled a little as he said, “Andyourlanguage is touch.”
Doyle looked like a kid who was caught red-handed in the cookie jar. “Sorry.” A nervous laugh. “I’ve definitely been accused of being too touchy-feely with people.”
“You said something the morning we met,” Larkin continued. “‘I can give John Doe back his identity so someone can remember him.’ I thought, how incredible it was to meet someone who understood the gravity of remembrance. How incredible it was that you spoke my language, even if it’s not your own. And when you hugged me, it was like a shock from a defibrillator. I haven’t been touched in a way that’s comfortable for me in a long time. Three years, I calculated. Most of my marriage. What marriage is worth holding on to if your partner is resentful of the memories most important to you and can’t touch you without wanting something more from it?” Larkin took a breath and wiped a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. “My life feels like wreckage I’ve only just woken to and I don’t even know where to start picking it up… but… whether we only interact as professionals or maybe friends or…something… I think you’re someone I would be very lucky to continue knowing.”
Doyle smiled from ear to ear. “I’d like that too. And I’m not saying this to rush you, because I understand you’ve got a lot to deal with now, but if someday you want to have that date, let me know?”
Larkin took Doyle’s hand to draw him closer, and Doyle leaned down into the hug. Larkin gripped the back of his shirt collar for a minute, soaking up Doyle’s warmth, and the promise his embrace spoke: I won’t forget you. There was a joy in knowing that if he were to die tomorrow,someonewould remember Larkin, and fondly. Doyle began to pull back, but Larkin cupped the back of his head and pulled him down into a kiss. Nothing sexual, but not so light as to suggest either of them were standing with feet firmly planted in the friend zone.
Doyle brushed his nose against Larkin’s, kissed him again, very lightly, then whispered, “Thank God you brushed your teeth.”
Larkin rolled his eyes and gave Doyle a firm shove to the chest as his partner started laughing.
Doyle unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves back in what was apparently most comfortable for him if he were to be stuck in a suit for twelve hours a day, and said, “You seem okay right now.”
“A combination of exhaustion, relief, and positive associations,” Larkin explained. In answer to Doyle’s curious expression, he tapped his own lips, referring to their kiss. “But I’ll hit a wall once I’m off the clock and don’t have work to distract me.”
“You can talk to me,” Doyle offered. “If you need to vent. All right?”
“All right.”
“Larkin!” came Miyamoto’s muffled shout from the bullpen. She was the only member of the Squad to call him by his real name.
Larkin adjusted his tie, smoothed his shirt, and opened the door. “What.”
She stood, tall and thin with a pixie haircut, in the archway of the hall, jutting a thumb over her shoulder. “A Roger Hunt is here to see you.”
Larkin spun his Rolodex but came up with nothing. “I don’t know a Roger Hunt.”
“Something about Local4Locals—that motherfucking piece-of-shit vigilante app.”
Larkin drew himself up straighter, looked into the room at Doyle, then asked, “Where is he.”
“The lobby.” Miyamoto craned her neck. “Who’s in there with you?”
“No one.”
“Liar. Is it that artist guy? I know you’re married, Larkin, but there’s no harm in looking. I’d eat a three-course meal off his ass.”
Doyle stepped out of the room and joined them in the hall. “Hey.”
“Oh!” she said, surprised. “Hello. Aiko Miyamoto.” She offered a hand.
