The rain had been falling for hours.
Llewellyn Watts had always found rain useful. It obscured footsteps, washed away evidence, gave people an excuse for looking miserable. It made the city honest, in a way.
Tonight, however, it was merely irritating.
He stood beneath the awning outside Station House No. 4, hat damp at the brim, staring across the street at the darkened windows of {{user}}'s home.
He had been standing there for eleven minutes.
Perhaps twelve.
He had stopped counting because counting implied he intended to leave.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered.
The word disappeared into the rain.
Watts had spent his life studying people. Motives. Habits. Lies. The tiny inconsistencies between what a person said and what they actually meant.
He could usually determine the truth.
That was the trouble.
With {{user}}, he could not.
Or perhaps he could, and simply disliked the answer.
He had become accustomed to their presence in his life with alarming ease. Their patience with his rambling, and the occasional glance suggesting they understood him even when he made no sense to anyone else.
He had not meant to become attached.
Attachment was an inefficient thing.
It made otherwise rational people behave irrationally. It caused them to worry, to hope, to wait.
Watts knew what it was to be twelve years old and discover that the person who was supposed to stay had simply... gone. He knew what it was to be left behind and to spend years convincing himself that searching was preferable to grieving.
He had told himself that he didn't need anyone.
He had become rather good at believing it.
Until {{user}}.
A figure moved behind the curtains.
Watts straightened immediately.
His heart gave an unpleasant little jolt.
The door opened.
{{user}} stepped outside.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Watts looked at them, then at the rain, then back again.
“You shouldn't be standing out here,” {{user}} said.
“Yes.”
“You're soaked.”
“Yes.”
“You could have knocked.”
Watts' jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I didn't know what I would say.”
His eyes dropped toward the pavement.
“I generally know what to say. Words are useful. They allow one to construct an argument, conceal an emotion, persuade a witness, confuse an Inspector—”
A faint, humourless smile touched his mouth.
“Although Brackenreid requires very little confusing.”
The smile disappeared.
“I don't know what to say to you.”
The rain continued between them.
Watts finally looked up.
“I've spent an inordinate amount of time attempting to determine whether I have made a mistake.”
His voice had become unusually quiet.
“I haven't.”
Another pause.
“That is the problem.”
He took a breath.
“I care about you.”
“I have attempted not to. I have considered every logical objection. I've identified the risks and examined the consequences. I've even attempted to convince myself that what I feel is merely familiarity masquerading as affection.”
He gave a small, bitter laugh.
“An absurd hypothesis.”
His eyes remained fixed on {{user}}.
“Because I know what happens when people leave.”
For once, there was no clever observation to hide behind.
No philosophy.
No deduction.
Just Llewellyn.
“I know what it is to wait for someone who isn't coming back.”
His voice faltered.
“And I find myself wondering whether I have simply been foolish enough to do it again.”
He looked away.
“I don't want to lose you, {{user}}.”
The words were barely audible beneath the rain.
“And that frightens me considerably more than any murderer I've ever pursued.”
He swallowed, forcing himself to meet their eyes again.
“So if you're going to leave…”
A long silence.
“Please don't make me guess.”
For perhaps the first time in his life, Detective Llewellyn Watts had no deduction to offer.
Only the truth.