On The Hunt: Gay M/M Mystery Romance

by Marina Lander

  Hunter had felt a hand slide up his arm and squeeze his shoulder, once, gentle but firm. There was nothing else but that touch, a lingering warmth Hunter felt all the way down to his bones, and just like that, his breathing slowed and his mind cleared.

  “You haven’t had your coffee this morning,” Stephen said.

  Hunter sighed. He’d left Stephen asleep in his bed that morning and had gone to the station to pour over evidence he had practically memorized. “No,” he replied, “‘s no time.”

  “There’s always time for coffee.” Hunter felt Stephen’ thumb skim over his collar, cool against the frustrated heat of his skin. “Tommy’s is just up the block. I’ll buy.”

  He knew Hunter had a weakness for tiny, cramped diners, and Tommy’s had the best bare-bones coffee in Chicago. “Frederic’s expecting us back, he’s—”

  “Fuck Frederic, he’ll understand this is for a good cause.”

  “A good cause, really.”

  “Of course.”

  Hunter lifted his head off his arms and gave Stephen a tired, lopsided grin. “And what’s that?”

  Stephen slid the back of his knuckles down Hunter’s cheek. He didn’t quite smile back, the look in his eyes pensive and softly affectionate. “Keeping you in one piece,” he said.

  “You just don’t want to be left alone with Sonny and no one to do your paperwork.” But Hunter let himself lean into the touch, already giving in.

  “Very astute, you’ve completely read my mind.” Stephen leaned over and kissed Hunter, just a chaste press of his lips against the corner of Hunter’s mouth.

  Then he’d whispered, “Let me take care of you, love? Just this once? Promise I won’t tell anyone, honest.”

  Hunter huffed a laugh, nudged their noses together, and whispered back, “Okay, fine. Just this once.”

  ~

  He wakes up in a hospital bed, surrounded by sporadic beeps and shushing sounds. Hunter tries to open his eyes, but everything hurts, like he’s been hit by a bus. The room comes into hazy focus one object at a time, and as he turns his head on the pillow he sees a broad, blurry mass beside the bed, hunched to one side. Hunter blinks hard, and soon Stephen comes into focus, slumped fast asleep in a chair.

  But there are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is an absolute mess. Stephen’ shirt is rumpled, untucked from his jeans, but Hunter can still make out the indentation of his gun holster. His arms are folded tightly over his chest, cheek pressed to his shoulder and his face slack with sleep, lips slightly parted. Stephen looks exhausted, young, vulnerable.

  Hunter does nothing but watch him for several long minutes, wondering how long Stephen has been here.

  Eventually the pain starts to kick in and Hunter gasps, shifting against the bed sheets as he fumbles for the morphine button he knows has to be there somewhere, and suddenly Stephen startles awake and grabs for the bed, eyes wide and terrified for a moment. He meets Hunter’s eyes and sighs, shoulders sagging in relief.

  “You’re awake,” he says, and his voice sounds shredded.

  Hunter swallows a few times. “How long was I out?”

  “Three days.” Stephen rubs a hand over his eyes. “And that’s after they nearly had to perform bloody heart surgery on you to get that bullet out of your chest.”

  “But...but Reeves shot you, you were bleeding...why aren’t you—”

  “Right, yeah.” He leans back in the chair and pulls his shirt up to reveal only smooth skin, completely untouched by bullet wounds. “It was only fake blood, Hunter,” he says quietly. “I tried to tell you, but it was rather difficult at the time. The bastard wanted his torture kink up until the very end.”

  Fake blood. He doesn’t remember anything past the moment Reeves pointed his gun at him. Hunter knows he was shot, that he went down, but the rest is all a void. “Reeves, did he—”

  “I know if was your intention to finally take him down, but, I, ah, did the honors myself.” Stephen smiles weakly, fidgeting with the edge of Hunter’s hospital blanket.

  “He’s dead.”

  “A bullet to the brain will do that, yes.”

  “Did you—you shot him after I—”

  “He wasn’t going to stop, Hunter.” Stephen’ voice goes sharp, painful. He grips the blanket a little harder. “I think all along Reeves wanted to kill you, not me.”

  Hunter has a sudden, impulsive urge to reach his hand out and lay it on top of Stephen’ head, let his fingers thread through his mussed hair. He blames the morphine sinking into his blood stream. “I’m just...just glad I found you,” he says, words slightly slurred. This doesn’t feel at all like the last time he was shot; this is like every inch of his body fighting just to stay conscious and focused, the pain dull and muted at the back of his mind.

  Stephen shakes his head. “It was a stupid move on my part. I went out for a smoke in the middle of the night and thought I’d talk to the night patrol guy on duty, only it wasn’t a CPD officer in the car. Reeves pulled a gun on me before I knew what happened.”

  He’s only been awake for what feels like only a handful of minutes, and yet Hunter can already feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness. “‘s not your fault, Stephen, it’s mine, he...he just wanted me, that’s all...not your fault...”

  “No, love, it is my fault. A lot of things are my fault, actually.”

  Hunter begins to drift off against his will, barely catching the last of Stephen’ words.

  ~

  He dreams about falling and reaching out for things he can’t quite touch, and when Hunter finally comes to again, he feels covered in one massive ache from head to toe. He turns his head toward the chair beside the bed, where Stephen had been before, but in his place sits Alyssa.

  “Hey,” she whispers, and touches his hand gently. “How are you feeling?”

  “Hurts,” he grumbles, struggling to shake the sleep haze from his mind as he pushes himself up in the bed. Before he can stop himself, he adds, “Where’s, uh—are you—?”

  Alyssa smiles tentatively, her eyes sad. “He went back to D.C. this morning.”

  Hunter swallows, looks up at the garish lights above him. “Yeah, that makes sense. The case is closed, after all.” His throat is tight, heat flooding his cheeks, but what did he expect? He’s not dead, and Stephen stuck around long enough to make sure of that before he left. There isn’t anything keeping him in Chicago now.

  She shakes her head and squeezes his hand. “He never left your room for three days. I barely saw him away from this chair. When Stephen said he was going back, he looked...I don’t know, wrecked. I don’t think it was his choice to go.”

  “It’s always his choice,” he says, wincing slightly as the words tumble out. He tries to pull his hand away, but Alyssa holds on.

  “No,” she whispers. “You didn’t see his face when the paramedics took you away. There was blood everywhere, the bullet when straight through your vest, and Stephen was just—it took Frederic and Agent Talbert ten minutes to calm him down.”

  “Ari—”

  “Hunter, I know the whole story, okay? I made Frederic tell me. I’d pretty much figured it out on my own, anyway, but I wanted to know for sure. I may not know everything, but it’s so obvious that he’s still in love with you, that it’s eating him up knowing how much he hurt you, that you’re still hurting.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are.” Alyssa tightens her fingers around Hunter’s palm. “All this time, I thought you wouldn’t open up to me because that’s part of who you are, but it’s not. You’re terrified of letting someone get close to you again.”

  He sighs deeply, closing his eyes for moment to concentrate on the pain in his body. Alyssa doesn’t push him again, just holds his hand and lets her thumb brush back and forth over the back of his wrist.

  Eventually she whispers, “He loves you, Hunter.”

  He laughs brokenly, head tipped back against the pillow. “And yet he’s not here anymore, is he? It took the fucking
Scholar showing up to bring him back to Chicago—there wasn’t so much as a postcard in three years before that. I’m not a romantic, Ari, and I stopped wanting shit I can’t have a long time ago.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she says.

  “I won’t make you. But sometimes, things just fucking happen. And you learn to move on, end of story.”

  Alyssa frowns down at their hands and doesn’t say anything, the silence punctuated by the soft beeps and hisses of the monitors surrounding Hunter’s bed. Then, she stands up slowly and leans over the bed.

  “You deserve to be loved, you know,” she says, kissing his cheek.

  Hunter presses his face into the pillow and, for the moment, lets himself believe her.

  ~

  Another week goes by before Hunter is released from the hospital. He’s told his wounds are healing nicely, but his arm will be in a sling for at least a month, if not longer. Frederic tells him he’s on paid leave until he says otherwise, no matter how much Hunter insists he can handle desk duty until he’s back in working order.

  “I’ll come visit and bring you all the soul-numbing paperwork in the world,” Alyssa says with an affectionate smirk as she helps Hunter into his apartment. She’s been taking care of Sonny in the meantime, and he goes absolutely nuts the moment Hunter walks through the door.

  Hunter groans in pain when Sonny jumps on him, but still laughs and kneels down on the floor to scratch at Sonny’s ears with his good hand. “And here I was worried he’d forget what I looked like.”

  “Hardly. I heard Stephen reassure him that you were okay the few times he came over with me.”

  Hunter’s hand pauses, heart skipping a beat. “Thanks for doing all that, by the way.”

  “No problem. Do you want me to help you unpack your stuff?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m fine, seriously. Frederic’s got you all paranoid.”

  “God, what a jerk. It’s like he thinks you were shot point-blank by a serial killer or something.” She reaches up, ruffles his hair like he’s a kid, smiling. “Just...go easy on yourself, all right?”

  Hunter rolls his eyes, but he still hugs her, once, before she leaves. Alyssa seems slightly startled at the abrupt display of affection, but she relaxes almost immediately and hugs him back.

  He stands alone in the living room with Sonny at his feet once the front door closes behind her.

  “Well,” he says softly to his dog, trailing his fingers over Sonny’s soft muzzle, “guess it’s just you and me again.”

  Sonny wuffles, leans into his touch. Hunter smiles crookedly.

  ~

  Two days into Hunter’s leave, he finds a t-shirt stuffed into the corner of his couch. It’s dark gray, a large hole in the hem, with wide black letters proclaiming CPD across the front.

  He throws it in the wash, telling himself he should really just throw the thing away. Instead, Hunter ends up wearing it to bed fresh out of the dryer that night. He wears it all the next day, and the day after. It’s a seriously comfy shirt, and Hunter’s too physically fucked up to really do a heavy load of laundry.

  The shoulders are a little stretched out, but Hunter tries not to think about that.

  ~

  Since coming home from the hospital, Hunter’s been harassed daily by the media, all eager to get the first story from the lead detective who help collar The Scholar. Hunter ignores his cell if it’s anyone other than Frederic or Alyssa, and the sporadic knocks at his door usually taper off once Hunter yells, “Fuck off, you’re not getting your goddamn interview!” It becomes almost second nature to ignore the press, and Hunter jokes to Sonny that he’s one step away from having his own paparazzi.

  So when the door bell rings the evening of Hunter’s sixth day home, he rolls his eyes and calls, “This cop’s not interested, thanks.”

  There’s a long pause, then a tentative knock against the door.

  Hunter sighs, about to yell something really obscene, except Sonny jumps down from the couch and trots to the door with his tail wagging. He never, ever goes to the door when reporters are lurking around.

  “Look, if you’re with The Tribune, I told them I’d sit down for an interview in a couple months,” Hunter says, muting the television as he sighs in resignation over the fact that his dog is making him be halfway social. “Until then, you’re just gonna have to wait for me to—”

  He opens the door a crack, but stumbles back slightly when he realizes it’s not a reporter standing in the foyer, but Stephen.

  Hunter blinks at him dumbly, mouth suddenly dry. “Um,” he says, digging his fingers into the doorway.

  “I take it you weren’t expecting anyone?” Stephen asks, and the tiny grin he gives Hunter is far from comfortable. He’s just—just standing there in jeans and a plain black t-shirt with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder like he never fucking left.

  Hunter opens his mouth, then immediately shuts it. He tries again, but the only thing that comes out is, “You’re here.”

  Stephen clears his throat. “Quite right. And you’re...” He nods toward Hunter’s sling, then goes very still, eyes narrowing. “Hang on, is that my shirt?”

  Hunter hugs his good arm around his chest. “It was just laying around in my couch,” he says tightly as Sonny shoves his way between Hunter’s legs and snuffles his way into Stephen’. Without breaking eye contact, Stephen reaches down and scratches Sonny behind the ears.

  “It looks good on you,” he says quietly, tugging at the strap of his bag, and fuck, Hunter’s tired of playing this game.

  “What do you want?” It comes out softer than Hunter intends.

  “May I come in?”

  “Answer my question first.” You fucking left. Again. How many times do I have to let you back in?

  Stephen scrubs a hand through his hair, looking lost for a moment. “I came to explain myself,” he finally says.

  There are any number of responses Hunter could have to this, namely that Stephen could’ve easily explained himself over the goddamn phone, not standing awkwardly in Hunter’s foyer. He could rail on Stephen, call him every name in the book and mean every one of them and then promptly tell Stephen he can fuck off, but all of that dies in the face of Stephen’ tired gaze and the resigned slump of his shoulders. He doesn’t look much better off than he did at the hospital.

  Hunter closes his eyes, sighs and nods his head once as he holds the door open.

  ~

  Stephen doesn’t come into the living room. Instead, he sets his bag down carefully just inside the door and just stands there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Hunter wants to ask where he’s staying, why he even has stuff with him, but he bites the inside of his lip as he sits down on the couch, on the end furthest away from Stephen.

  “How’s your arm?” Stephen asks, shoulders hunched in.

  “It’s all right. The Vicodin helps.”

  “Good. That’s good. I’m glad Frederic gave you the time off.”

  “He didn’t give me shit, he told I’d stay home or he’d fire me.”

  Stephen smiles faintly. “He knows you well. You never know when to take care of yourself.”

  Hunter bristles. “I know perfectly well how to take care of myself, thanks.”

  “I never said you didn’t know how, you just...don’t. Not unless it’s forced upon you.”

  “I was shot, okay, this isn’t news to me.”

  “Shot and nearly bloody died on an operating table, you forgot that bit.”

  “I’m not an invalid, all right?” Hunter shoves himself to his feet. “Is that why you’re here? Just to check up on poor little Hunter, make sure he’s not all fucked up after a psycho tried to kill him? Well, guess what, Stephen, I’m a grown-up now. I can handle my shit, and I don’t need you to come here and lecture me on post-traumatic stress and what-the-fuck ever. I’m fine, I’ve been fucking fine, so if this is what you came to hear, great, there you go. Mission accomplished.”

  He realizes with an em
barrassing start that he’s panting, heart jammed in his throat. Hunter rakes a hand through his hair as he drops back down onto the couch. Stephen just stands there, mouth in a tight line, completely expressionless.

  Hunter cups his free hand over his face. “I wish you never came back,” he whispers. “I wish I didn’t—I fucking hate that I—”

  “I’m sorry,” Stephen says, and his voice breaks.

  Hunter jerks his head up, and Stephen’ expression finally crumples before his eyes. Hunter wants to look away, but he can’t. He couldn’t even if he tried.

  “This wasn’t—god, I tried to think about how to do this for days, thought about how you’d react, the exact words to say, but the truth is—” Stephen breaks off, swearing under his breath as he glares up at the ceiling and swallows. “The truth is, you were right all along.”

  Hunter can barely breathe. “About what?”

  “About me being a pathetic coward. I’ve always been one, always. I just hide it well.” He laces his fingers behind his head, still staring up at the ceiling fan with his mouth twisted to one side.

  It’s not at all what Hunter expects to hear.

  “So,” he says roughly, “is that all you wanted to tell me?”

  Stephen laughs, but it’s breathless, sad. “You don’t even know. If that was it, I would’ve just—I’d still be in D.C. right now instead of mostly homeless.”

  “You’re—what?”

  “I broke my lease and moved out. Everything I own is sitting in a storage building, save that bag over there.” He nods his head toward the duffel by the door.

  “But—you’re based in D.C., what are you—”

  “I...asked for a transfer. I’ll be based in the Chicago offices starting Monday. Hopefully I’ll have found an apartment by then.” Stephen doesn’t look at Hunter at all, just folds one arm across his chest and sort of fidgets with his shirt sleeve. Hunter remembers that move, how it signified when Stephen was nervous and unsure.