Archive of Our Own

Harry’s still awake when Louis gets in. Of course he is, Louis stays up too when Harry’s gone out on a mission.

“Hiya, love,” he slurs and Harry tips his head around to grin at him, the smile sliding off his face when he sees Louis.

“Aren’t you a little messed up.” Louis shrugs and collapses on Harry, pressing his face into his shoulder. He’s probably getting blood on his shirt, but Louis doesn’t really care right now. “Bad night?”

“Had a run in with a security guard,” he mumbles, curling his fingers into Harry’s shirt. It hurts and he hisses. He might’ve punched him in the face. He repeats that out loud.

“He might’ve punched you in the face too. C’mon, let me see.” Harry tugs gently on his hair and waits for his head to pop up, tracing over the already-bruising skin on Louis’ cheekbone. It’s light, so light he can barely feel it.

Harry’s frowning and Louis reaches up to poke at his lips, hissing again when he jars his knuckles against Harry’s jaw.

“Think they’re broken.”

“Babe,” Harry says as he carefully takes Louis’ hand. “Maybe you should’ve gone to the clinic first.”

“Nah, m’fine. Had some whiskey on the way to dull the pain. Barely feel anything, promise.”

“Lou--”

“Shh,” he says, burying his face in Harry’s chest once more. “I wanted to see you, alright?”

Harry’s quiet for a moment, fingers idly drifting along Louis’ spine. It feels really nice, and he almost falls asleep right there until Harry’s voice jerks him awake.

“How did it go, then?”

“Fine. He’s dead, and a guard is going to have a fucking awful headache tomorrow. Suspect I will too, actually. The Director was pleased.”

He feels Harry drop a kiss on the top of his head and Louis sighs, relaxing into his body and soaking up the warmth. He hates solo missions, hates going out alone. It makes him anxious and jumpy, and Harry too, but they can’t always be assigned together. It’d raise too many flags if they made a fuss and they’d get split up and, well. It’d just be not a good situation.

“What did you do today?”

“Knit a scarf.”

“Shit, really?”

Harry shakes underneath him and Louis can hear the laughter rumbling in his chest.

“Of course not. Went to the gym, went to the Agency to help a little. Bothered Ed, the usual. He says hi, by the way.”

“Hi Ed,” Louis says around a yawn. Harry’s arms tighten a little around him. “Christ, I’m knackered.”

“Bed, then?”

“Please.” Taking a second to gather his strength, he hauls himself to his feet and then offers a hand for Harry to take. Harry kisses him, deeply, when they’re both upright and it’s the first time of the night. Louis sighs into it, feeling the comfort of Harry’s nearness wash down to his toes, and mumbles a I love you against his lips.

“Do you want a shower first?”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “Would you be awfully disgusted if I just got into bed like this? I don’t really have the energy.”

“Do you have anyone else’s blood on you?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Yeah, then,” Harry tells him softly, already pulling his shirt over his head. Louis watches unashamedly and gets a wink when Harry glances up.

“Minx.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You know you like it.”

Louis does, and god, he wishes his head and hand didn’t hurt so much. Harry helps him out of his clothes because he’s unable to undo the buttons, drunk and in pain, and then they crawl under the covers. Harry tangles their legs together and blinks at him sleepily, a smile on his face.

“M’glad you’re back and safe.”

“Me too. I didn’t do anything stupid.”

“Hard to believe,” Harry says with a snort and Louis nips at his chin a bit. It turns into sucking a bruise on his jaw, until he’s humming with contentment. “I love you.”

“Love you too, H.”

He’s stuck to the pillow when he wakes up, the blood on his lip and cheek dried. He grimaces as he peels himself off and sits up, rubbing gently at his eyes. His knuckles are swollen too, bluish bruises scattered across the skin.

Harry’s side of the bed is empty, as per usual, and Louis wanders out into the kitchen to find him. He’s listening to the radio and sipping on a cup of coffee. Louis nicks it for a sip.

“Oh,” Harry starts, eyes wide until he realises who it is. “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“How are you?”

“Disgusting,” Louis grumbles, sipping at the coffee again. It hurts his lip, but it tastes good enough that he can ignore it.

“You smell awful. Time for a shower, maybe?”

“Only if you come with me,” he teases, but he’s already moving towards the bathroom, Harry’s laughter trailing behind him.

The water feels good, turned up as hot as he can stand it, and it massages his shoulders and back. He almost falls asleep again, actually, there under the spray and feeling the tension drain out.

He gives a few minutes attention to the cuts on his face, dabbing at them with the medkit they keep in behind the mirror, after he’s dressed and then he slips back out to where Harry is making breakfast. Sliding his arms around Harry’s stomach, he tips his forehead against his neck and sighs.

“You’re getting me all wet.” Louis presses closer, making sure his hair drips down onto Harry’s back. “Dick.”

He laughs, biting gently at Harry’s skin, and smirking when he jumps.

“Did you miss me?”

“Not a bit,” Harry says evenly, even as he turns around so he’s facing Louis. “Not a single solitary bit.”

The swelling takes two weeks to go down, and Louis gets that time to rest. He can’t very well shoot straight when he can barely crane his finger to pull a trigger, but as soon as he can, he’s given another assignment. Harry’s gone when they get it, handed to them by an agent with a soft voice.

“You have a new assignment,” she says, fingers white on the folder. “For you and Agent Styles.”

“He’s not here right now,” he tells her, smiling just the smallest bit.

“I know that, but the Director said it’s alright if you accept for both of you.”

“What are the details?”

She shuffles a bit, opening the file and scanning it briefly. She hesitates a for a second and then snaps it closed.

“This one’s not in either of your specialities, it’s a basic assignment. But high profile.”

“Not one that needs a sniper?”

She shakes her head. “Information recovery.”

“But not one that Harry can charm his way into,” he asks, frowning at the folder in her hands.

“It’s a locked, high-security facility.”

Louis blinks in surprise. High-security facilities are definitely not their area of expertise; they usually are assigned things more along the lines of flirt your way to an office or shoot through a very small window from the next building over.

It takes him a moment to recover. “Where?”

“Central Europe.”

“Targets?”

She hands over the file and he glances at it, nods at her while chewing on his tongue.

“I--we-- accept the assignment.”

Something flashes across her face, an expression he can’t catch, before she schools her features into something more neutral.

“You’re to go get your weaponry when Agent Styles comes back,” she says, starting to move away. She pauses before she’s fully outside, though, and looks back with an arched eyebrow. “Tomlinson? The Director says not to leave a mess.”

“Understood,” he replies and she leaves, sliding into a nondescript car on the corner. Louis waits until it’s out of sight before he locks the door and throws the folder on the kitchen table.

Harry comes home smelling like expensive cologne and cigar smoke, even after a shower. He presses a kiss to the top of Louis’ head before sitting down next to him.

“How are you, love?” he asks, a little sleepily, and Louis shrugs.

“We’ve got a new assignment.”

Harry stills for a moment, before taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Is that a bad thing?” He sounds more awake, less like he’s about to drift into sleep.

“It’s a weird one, like a really weird one.”

“Okay? Is anything not, though?”

“The file’s on the table; you can go look at it.” He waves his hand in the general direction of the kitchen and Harry gets up to look. Louis can hear him shuffle through the papers, but other than that he’s silent.

“Bloody hell,” he says eventually, all in a breath.

“I know. It’s a lot,” Louis calls as Harry comes back, a hand tugging through his hair. He looks uncomfortable, vaguely off, and Louis understands.

“Information recovery, in a high security facility,” Harry repeats. His eyes are wide, even with his exhaustion. Louis leans forward and smoothes his thumb over the lines at the edges.

“Why us? Like, why not someone who’s a little more qualified?”

“Dunno, you’re pretty high up, yeah? A zeta, maybe they think you’ll get it done.”

“Zeta’s not that far, though, and you’re an eta, and they gave it to both of us. There’ve got to be plenty others who are more trained for this.”

“I dunno, Louis,” Harry sighs. “I really don’t, but it’s what they gave us. We have to do it.”

“I know that,” Louis scoffs. “I just wish I knew why.”

Harry tucks his head into Louis’ neck and hums, Louis stroking his back absently as he thinks. There’s something going on, he’s almost certain, but they can get through it together. He trusts Harry, trusts their ability to keep each other in check and in the right mind.

He doesn’t believe in fate, not in their line of work, but it’s a miracle he found Harry.

“I’d go mad without you,” he says quietly and Harry lifts his head to smile at him, eyes sparkling. “I mean, sometimes you drive me absolutely mental, but I’d absolutely go mad without you.”

“Love you too.”

“That’s not what I said,” he huffs and Harry’s smile grows wider.

“Okay, but that’s what you meant.”

“I’ve changed my mind, I don’t know if you’re worth the trouble of keeping you out of trouble.”

“You do not keep me out of trouble, I keep you out of it!”

“How quickly you forget San Francisco.”

“That was an exception,” Louis says severely and Harry laughs.

“You were so drunk, so drunk.”

“You were too,” he protests, but it’s swallowed up in their uneasy laughter and then in their kisses. Harry shifts so he’s straddling Louis, grinning down at him for a second before pressing their lips together.

They snog for a few minutes before Louis bites on Harry’s lip, tugging gently at it and tightening his fingers on his skin. Gentle is nice, but there’s restlessness crackling under his skin, and gentle’s not going to help.

Harry makes a sound in his throat and drops so he’s more on top of Louis, their bodies pressed together the entire length down. He moves away from Louis’ lips and kisses down his cheek instead, mouthing a little at his jaw and then biting at his neck.

Louis lets out a breath at the feel of Harry’s mouth, all the air going out of him in a whoosh. He can feel Harry’s smirk being pressed into his skin and he pinches his side lightly for being cocky.

“Be nice,” Harry complains, rucking up Louis’ shirt so he can get at his collarbones.

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t be nice to you,” he mutters rebelliously, grazing Louis’ skin with his teeth. Louis flinches a bit and relaxes when Harry soothes it with his tongue, moving lower and repeating the process. “Won’t fuck you.”

“That’s being nice to me?” he teases, but he’s breathless and Harry can definitely tell he’s blustering. He fingers the buttons on Harry’s shirt as a distraction, helping him shrug out of it.

Harry’s fingers fit against his ribs, and Louis’ settle on Harry’s shoulders and it’s distracting and comforting and perfect. It’s perfect.

Louis laughs when Harry can’t wear his shirt unbuttoned like he wants to, because of the love bite dark on his chest.

“This is your fault,” says Harry, pausing to pinch Louis’ nipple. Louis twists away and laughs harder. “I hate you.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night when I put it there.”

“Smug is not a good look on you,” Harry tells him severely and Louis grins at him. He’s lying, Louis knows, but it’s cute that he’s trying.

“C’mon, we’re going to be late.”

“Aren’t you always?”

“Oi.”

“Oi yourself.”

The normal banter’s a little stilted, not as easy, and they both know they’re on edge. Harry’s hands shake just the tiniest bit when he shrugs on his coat, and Louis can’t stay still for more than a few seconds. The car ride seems long and dreary with the weight of anticipation, the wrongness of their new assignment hanging over them like a cloud.

The weaponry warehouse is in a nondescript warehouse, looking like it could be holding the next shipment from IKEA or summat. But Louis doesn’t think those warehouses have five levels of identification to go through before the doors open. Louis counted once, and those are the ones he knows about. There’s probably more, securities no one knows exist except the Director and those directly underneath him.

The wall right opposite the entrance is inscribed with their Latin phrase, a reminder of the power and danger that comes with being at the Agency.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori; mors et fugacem persequitur virum. It is sweet and honourable to die for one’s country; death pursues the man who flees.

A shiver goes down Louis’ spine that he pretends is just from the draft, and not at all from the weight of the words.

Ed meets them at the door, a wry grin on his lips and a list in his hand.

“You’re still hurt, Tomlinson,” he says, pointing to Louis’ knuckles. Louis flexes his hand a bit, shrugging.

“Just a little bruised. Nothing major.”

Ed cocks an eyebrow. “Can you shoot a gun with them all battered like that?” he teases and Louis rolls his eyes.

“I can outshoot you with my hand in a cast, Sheeran. We can try it when I get back, if you’d like. Now give me my gun, yeah?”

Louis moves towards the sniper guns, almost on instinct, but Ed shakes his head and pushes him past.

“Not those, this time. Smaller ones.”

They’re briefed on the alarm system of the facility as they’re outfitted with tech and weaponry. Ed’s got the information on the computer that he’ll read off if necessary, but it’s best to have some idea in case something goes wrong.

Louis listens intensely as he’s handed some tranquilizer guns, some normal ones. Harry gets knives to strap to his leg as well. Louis’ not good with knives, hates having them on his person, so they give him an extra revolver. The weight feels good against his back, and the holster wrapped around his thigh makes him feel safer.

It’s weird, dressing for security and not stealth. Usually Harry gets some sort of nice suit with the comms wired into the seams, and Louis does too, more often than not. Or he gets a fucking big gun, with a tripod and ways to conceal them.

Louis feels almost naked in his fitted black trousers and shirt, gloves on his hands and flexible shoes on his feet. Vulnerable. Harry’s uncomfortable too, he can tell by the way he taps on his leg, right where one of his knives is hidden.

“It’ll be simple, yeah?” Louis says reassuringly, brushing his arm. Harry turns to look at him with eyebrows raised. “An in-and-out job. We’ll be done and napping on the couch in our flat by Sunday.”

“Yeah,” Harry says after a long, uncertain moment. Louis nods firmly and squeezes his shoulder.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Harry gives him an amused look. “Never,” he replies.

“Alright lads,” Ed says into their ear as they land. “I’m sure the Director has already given you all the information, so you know what to do?”

“Affirmative,” Harry mutters. Louis checks his firearms one last time and taps himself on the chest. His pill’s still there.

“Going silent, then. Call if you need anything.”

Louis and Harry murmur their understanding and squeeze their hands together, just for a second. It’s calming, centering, and Louis feels a lot more relaxed when they drop their palms to their sides. With a jerk of his head, the two start running towards the fortress in the middle of the forest.

It’d be intimidating even if they didn’t know who and what were inside, didn’t know it was crawling with men who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot them at first sight. They’d been given a job, though, and they’ve got to go through with it. No backing out now.

They work their way quickly and efficiently through the facility. There’s a lack of guards for such a high profile place, and Louis would be suspicious if he wasn’t concentrated on making sure all of them were taken down without a sound.

“Harry--” he whispers, when they’re halfway through and only seen ten guards.

“I know,” he says grimly, ducking as another person comes into view. Harry steadies his tranq gun and shoots the guy in the neck. “Also, I’m running out of tranquilizer.”

“The fuck? We haven’t even-- how many did they give you?”

“Not as many as I thought, apparently.”

“Jesus,” Louis says, checking his supply. He’s got a decent amount, but certainly not as many as he’d originally assumed. “We checked these back at the Agency, though.”

“I don’t know, Louis,” Harry’s frustrated, obviously, even as they dart down the hallway. “Ed, you’ve got the cameras down, right? Ed? Ed?”

There’s just static in their earpieces and Harry presses his mouth into a thinner and thinner line.

“It’s alright, H. Let’s finish this and get back, yeah? We’ll talk to someone and figure out what’s going on--” They round the last corner, where the vault is, and instantly stop short. “Shit,” spits Louis, dragging them both back and out of sight.

The room’s filled with guards, almost on top of each other, and they’re all armed.

“Shit,” he says again, knuckling at his face. “Okay, back to grab a uniform off one of the guards, yeah? And then we can figure it out from there.”

Harry nods and they retrace their steps until they reach where they hid the last two, stripping them of their clothes and pulling it on. Tying his hair up and stuffing it under a cap, Harry raises an eyebrow at Louis.

“Good?” At Louis’ affirmation, he nods and settles his weapons at his back again. “Alright, what are we going to do?”

Everything goes fucking wrong, horribly fucking wrong.

They’re swarmed as soon as they step inside the vault, surrounded at every angle. Harry gets one finger on the handle before he’s kneed in the back, cracking his head against the door and out like a light.

Louis lasts a few seconds later, able to shoot a few of them before his gun’s knocked from his hands, his arms wrestled behind his back. There’s simply too many people, too many to fight when it’s just him.

Something hits him on the back of the head, hard, and he crumples to the floor.

He wakes up with a headache and probably a concussion. He’s in a cell, a little one, and he’s alone in the dark.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, spitting out a mouthful of blood first. His lip split again, and his mouth tastes like copper. He spits again.

“Louis?” Harry’s voice is a little distant, but clear. He’s nearby, then, and not dead.

“Yeah?” he croaks out painfully.

“Thank God you’re awake.”

It’s coming from the front of the cell, beyond the bars that line one wall. It’s too shadowy to see much beyond them, but Harry sticks out his hand and waves it. They’re close, then, close enough to nearly touch.

“How long was I out?”

“Dunno, they took my watch. Three hours, maybe?” Louis can tell he’s frowning, can hear it in his voice. “I was out for a while, so it might be longer than that.”

“We’ve got twenty one hours, then. Until they can come rescue us.”

Harry lets out a breath, shaky and uneven.

“Yeah. Twenty one hours.”

They take turns napping, trading off every hour or so. It’s not ideal, but it gives them something to do, some way to mark the time. It’s hard to gauge time when it’s dark and there’s nothing to do, but they’ve learned how and they’re not bad at it. Louis hums a little to himself, something distracting, and watches Harry’s finger twitch in the gloom.

Fourteen hours in, give or take, it all goes to shit.

Louis is startled from his dozing by loud thumps and shouts. Somewhere, a door is thrown open and light floods the air. He can see Harry now, in another cell. His face is blank, expressionless, but Louis can see the flicker of fear in his eyes. The door slams shut and an electric light flicks on, leaving everything sickly and washed out.

Men come down the stairs and pour into their cells.

“Up, get up,” one demands in accented English, and Louis is pulled roughly to his feet. “Up against the bars.”

He does what he’s told, can feel the press of a gun in his shoulderblades. It’s not worth it to fight when they’ve got fourteen hours to go. So he faces the bars and watches as they handcuff Harry’s wrists, and secure them above his head.

“What are you doing?” Louis asks lowly and the metal of the gun barrel presses into his skin.

“Just watch,” the man says, just as someone lands a punch in Harry’s stomach. Louis lets out a gasp, he can’t help it, as Harry groans in pain.

“Stop, what are you doing?!”

There’s not an answer this time, just more blows rained down on Harry in the other cell. His arms are up and he’s not able to flinch away. Louis can’t look away either; he’s pushed back into place whenever he shifts even an inch.

Louis has been in many living nightmares. He’s broken bones, had a knife to his throat. He’s killed people, killed a lot of them.

But this, this is the worst nightmare he’s ever been through.

Harry refuses to make sounds, besides grunts as he takes the beating, and Louis presses his lips together to keep himself from begging them to stop.

Finally, after what seems like an infinite amount of time, the guards step back. Harry sags against his restraints, looking at the floor.

“Who are you working for?” one of the men asks, the one that told Louis to get up. He’s in charge, maybe. Looks like it. “Give me a name.”

Harry shakes his head and spits on the ground. It lands near the officer’s feet.

“Alright,” the man says softly and barks an order as he steps out of the cell. The other men follow suit, not bothering letting Harry down.

They listen to the door close, the light still on, and the space is silent for a few seconds. Panic coats Louis’ mouth, and he plasters himself to the bars to try and reach his partner.

“Ouch,” Harry says around a whimper, breaking apart for the first time. “Louis, ouch.”

“I know, love. Hold on, okay? Just a little bit before we’ll get out of here.”

Harry slurs an assent, but it’s hazy. Louis tamps down the fear building in his stomach; panicking isn’t going to help either of them and he’ll need to keep his head. They’ve got thirteen or so hours to go before they can hope for a rescue. There’s a lot of damage that can be done in thirteen or so hours, but they can hope.

Harry falls into an uneasy sleep, more of a defence mechanism than anything else and Louis tries to stay awake. He really does, but his head’s fucking killing him and he passes out slouched against the bars.

He wakes up to a cracking noise echoing through the space and bucket of water poured over his body. Waking with a splutter, he’s forced to his feet and the whole thing starts again.

They ask different questions each time, rapidfire and one at a time. They ask Louis and they ask Harry, and when neither one answers, they take it out on Harry’s skin.

Louis screams at them, he glares, he begs, he tries everything, but still they don’t stop.

Harry’s finally gone silent, and Louis doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. His head’s slumped forward, long tangled hair covering his face, and he’s so, so still. Louis doesn’t take his eyes off of him for a second, terrified that as soon as he does, Harry will stop breathing.

He can’t tell if he’s passed out from the pain, or if he’s dead.

“Harry,” he calls as loudly as he dares, pressing himself up against the bars of the cell. “Harry, please don’t be dead.”

The guards are coming back eventually. Louis had caught bits of their orders coming through their radios, some language he’d understood but not been able to place. They’d gone to lunch or whatever, and then are coming back.

He tries again, and Harry shifts just enough to let Louis know he’s alive.

“Thank God,” he breathes, pressing his face to the cool wall. He’s got a fever, he’s almost certain, and it feels good against his heated skin.

He kind of wants to die.

It’s a new feeling, usually it’s the last thing he wants to do, but usually he’s not in a place with absolutely no way to survive. They’ve passed their twenty-four hour mark, passed it long ago, and there’s nothing to hope for left. There’s nothing in his future but seeing Harry tortured, again and again.

“Harry,” he says out loud, voice cracked and hoarse. He realises that he’s crying, body shaking with it and great stuttering breaths being ripped out of him. “I want to die. I want to die, H.”

Harry doesn’t answer. Louis buries his face in his hands and sobs.

The door flies open with a bang, and every nerve in Louis’ body feels like it’s been electrocuted. Harry jerks weakly, jolted awake. He’s begging already, just from the noise, an incoherent stream of words that make Louis want to be sick.

“Up,” the guard barks and Louis stumbles to his feet, trying to gather enough strength to brace himself for whatever’s coming next. The gun’s not held to his back this time, no one swarms into his cell.

Instead, someone goes into Harry’s and unhooks his arms, lowering them down to his sides. Harry whines, in pain from the blood moving through them for the first time in hours, but no one pays him any mind.

“Since you haven’t answered any of the questions,” the man says evenly, looking Louis straight in the eye, “we’ll have to do it this way.” He points the gun at Harry’s head and his grip doesn’t waver. “Tell me everything, or I’ll kill him.”

They’re dead either way, but fuck it if Louis is going to bring the Agency down with them. He stays silent, staring at him with his chin jutted out.

The minutes tick by and no one moves. Eventually, the leader nods his head.

“Fine, then. Take him outside. Both of them.”

Harry can’t walk on his own. Louis can barely walk on his own, and he’s not been through half of what he’s been through. Soldiers hold Harry’s elbows and drag him up the stairs, Louis tripping along behind.

The sun is just rising outside, Louis notes with a little burst of hysteria. It’s not dark anymore, and the sunshine is rising. People are going to get ready for their day like nothing’s wrong, and Louis and Harry are about to be executed.

They get led to the forest. It’s the same one they were dropped off in, a lifetime ago. Harry tips into Louis’ side for support, barely conscious, and the guards line up opposite them. The leader lifts his eyebrows.

“No begging for your lives?” Louis is too exhausted, too proud. He squares his shoulders as best he can and just stares. The man shrugs, aiming his gun.

Dying for one’s country is not sweet or noble. It’s dirty, and gut-wrenching, and feels a lot like someone’s ripped out his lungs from his chest. But the alternative is so much worse. He screws his eyes shut and prays for it to be quick.

A gunshot rings out, and Louis flinches. Harry first then, and he’s next.

Another shot goes off, and then another, and another. None of them touch him, not even close, and Harry huffs out a breath against Louis’ neck.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, barely audible under the sudden explosion of sound, and opens his eyes. There’s more people around, people that weren’t here before. Three of the guards are dead on the ground, and the others have their arms up.

“What the fuck,” he repeats, louder this time. One of the new people rips off his mask and looks directly at them.

“Agents Styles and Tomlinson?”

Louis’ throat is dry, his heart pounding in his chest. “Yeah?”

The woman smiles and relief is clear on her features. Louis feels weak, like he’s going to collapse any second. He might, too. Harry’s heavy and he’s not very stable.

“We’re your rescue mission. You’re safe now.”

Louis’ legs give out from underneath him and he lands on the ground, hard. There’s more sound, sound that he can’t make sense of because the only thing he can think about is that it’s done. They’re safe.

Something inside him breaks and he slides into unconsciousness.

He wakes all at once, with a jerk and a cut-off breath. It’s dark and panic claws its way up his chest.

He’s vaguely aware of a frantic beeping but he doesn’t pay attention to it, too wrapped up in the fear that’s weighing his limbs down.

“Harry,” he shouts, begging for a sound or anything to know that he’s still alive. They’ve turned the lights off again, left them unable to see anything. How can he check on Harry if he can’t see, why did they turn the lights off again, oh god is Harry dead?

The shadowy figure of a guard appears and Louis starts screaming.

“Stop, don’t! Leave him be, please! Stop.” He’s yelling so hard it hurts, but he keeps yelling as the guard comes closer.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out and Louis scrambles up to stand. He’s not on the ground, which is strange, but he holds his hands up.

“I’m up, just don’t touch him,” he says, sobbing, and backs up. “Please don’t hurt him.”

“I’m not hurting anyone,” the person in front of him says and there’s just enough light for it to be reflected off their white clothes. Louis frowns.

“You’re going to.” There’s a scream working up in his chest again, hysteria building until he’s going to explode from it.

“I’m a nurse, Louis. My job is to help you, not hurt anyone.”

“What?”

It’s like the words aren’t sticking in his head, he’s too busy scanning the room and trying to understand where he is, where Harry is. The person in white holds their palms open so Louis can see they’re unarmed.

“Where’s Harry?”

“He’s in another room--”

Louis doesn’t listen to the rest, pushing past her and into the hallway. He picks a door at random, pushes it open and checks inside. Empty. Empty. Empty.

He’s choking on air again and he can’t see, he can’t see, Harry’s going to be dead, they’ve got him--

It takes him a full ten seconds to register that there’s a body on the bed in front of him, a familiar one. Louis breathes out around a sob and puts out a hand to touch his cheek.

Harry’s asleep and doesn’t even flinch when Louis strokes his skin, eyes flickering behind his eyelids. He’s warm and soft and very much alive. Louis sighs, tries to match the rising of his chest with Harry’s.

“You can’t be in here, he’s healing,” someone hisses. A strong hand wraps around his shoulder and jerks him back and tows him out of the room, gently but firmly. “Stay here,” they order and push him down on the bed. “Sleep, and you can see him when he wakes up.”

Louis lays down obediently, but just stares up at the ceiling, too afraid of what will happen when he shuts his eyes.

They’ve medicated Harry, a doctor tells Louis. A doctor, because they were rescued and put in a hospital for recovery. Louis has a concussion and had a bit of a fever. Harry’s in worse shape, fucked up like no other. Broken bones, external bleeding, internal bleeding, infection, all of it. He’s still out from surgery.

“You two have gone through a lot of trauma,” the doctor says solemnly, as if Louis didn’t know.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, we have and I need to see him.”

The doctor shakes his head. “Not allowed, not when he’s in intensive care.”

“You don’t understand,” Louis says, and it’s close to begging. “I have to see him. Please.”

“I’m sorry.”

Louis wakes up screaming every night, certain that there’s someone coming for Harry. The nurses try to calm him down, every night, and he just can’t.

“He’s going to die,” he tells them through tears. “He’s going to die if I stop watching him. Don’t you get that?”

“He’s not,” one of the nurses tries to placate him, but he knows the truth.

Eventually, they jab a syringe into his arm and let the medication pull him to sleep.

The fifth night like this in a row, they finally give in. One nurse, frustrated with his fighting, snaps and marches him down the hall to Harry’s room.

“There you go,” she says aggressively, nudging him towards the door. Louis very carefully does not imagine the barrel of a gun in his back. “There he is, still alive. Happy?”

He nods and his fingers itch.

“Can I go in?” he mutters, but he’s already pushing the door open and crossing to the bed. The nurse trails behind him, whispering threats, but Louis ignores them all.

Harry looks broken, about as broken as Louis feels. He’s still covered in bruises and cuts, but the swelling’s gone down a bit. Louis touches the tips of his fingers to Harry’s cheekbones, careful as if he’s made out of glass. With a barely there motion, Harry turns into the touch and Louis abruptly feels like he’s going to cry again.

Louis takes one glance behind him and then decides it doesn’t matter, crawling into bed with Harry and curling his body around him.

“You can’t do that,” the nurse hisses and he flips her off. His eyes are already closing, lulled by the gentle steady beating of Harry’s heart.

Harry’s a solid weight beside him when Louis wakes up and Louis sighs into it for a moment, feeling content for the first time in quite a while. He carefully laces their fingers together and just breathes.

Alive. Safe. Together.

Louis is really tired of crying, but he might at the thought of being safe. He’d always appreciated it, always had to with their line of work, but this is overwhelming.

“You’re a shit patient,” a nurse says, one of the nicer ones. Louis smiles tiredly at him and shrugs a little bit.

“I’m a shit person, just in general.”

The nurse laughs, throwing his head back. It’s a nice sound, a bright sound, and it seeps through Louis like sunlight.

“I highly doubt that, Mr Tomlinson. Agent,” he corrects himself with a shake of his head. “From what they tell me, you saved a lot of people.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m a good person, though,” Louis says lowly, flexing his fingers in Harry’s and watching the skin move. The nurse doesn’t say anything, just marks something off on his clipboard. “Do I have to leave.”

“Do you want to?”

Louis starts. “Fuck, no.”

“Then you can stay, I think. It’s better for you, yeah? And as long as you don’t hurt Agent Styles, then it should be okay.”

“I’m not going to get dragged from the bed,” says Louis dryly and the nurse laughs again.

“I think you’ve had enough drama for now.”

Louis concedes the point with a nod, slipping down to lean his head against Harry’s shoulder. The nurse’s eyes soften a little bit but he clears his throat.

“I do need to check him,” he says apologetically. “Just make sure he’s recovering.”

Louis nods again, slipping out from the bed and going into the bathroom.

“You don’t have to leave.”

“Don’t really want to see the bruises, thanks,” he answers over his shoulder and shuts himself away before he can think about it anymore. Splashing a bit of water on his face, he sighs.

The mirror’s right there, but he’s been avoiding looking at himself. He’s not as fucked up as Harry was, but he doesn’t want any reminder of anything that happened. None at all.

If only he could stop hearing Harry’s cries when he’s by himself.

“When Agent Styles wakes up, we’re going to send in a psychiatrist,” Ed says over the phone. His voice is rough, like he’d been smoking. And maybe he had, worried at their safety.

“We don’t need one.”

“Are you fucking mental, mate? You abso-fucking-lutely need a psychiatrist, after the shit you went through. Shit,” Ed repeats and Louis sighs. “When the line went dead I thought it was just an accident. A jammer we didn’t know about or summat. And then you didn’t come back.” Ed’s voice catches.

“How long— How long were we, uh, gone?”

“Four days,” Ed says lowly. Louis closes his eyes and tips his head against the wall.

“Fuck. Four days?”

“Yeah. They couldn’t get to you faster. They tried, they really did.”

“Who took over our mission, then? Did they complete it?”

Ed’s quiet for a few minutes, and Louis can just picture him frowning and tapping at his leg. He’d never been the best with keeping the missions straight, immersing himself too much in one at a time.

“I don’t know if they did?”

He sits up straight.

“They didn’t complete the mission? But I thought it was something vital in that vault?”

“I can’t be certain, but if another agent did complete it, then they didn’t come to me. I didn’t see anything on the server, either.”

“That’s fucking weird,” Louis says, slowly and considering. “The way they gave it to us, it was like it was high priority. There were definitely enough soldiers to warrant something like that. There were so many, Ed, it’s like they knew—“ he cuts himself off, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

“They knew what? Louis?”

The words barely register in Louis’ mind; he’s too busy thinking through everything. How they knew exactly where to be, how it was a mission out of their skill set, how they knew what to do to make them break.

Holy fucking shit. It was a setup.

“Louis!”

Shaking himself out his trance, he gingerly puts the phone back to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“Where’d you go, mate?”

“I…” he hesitates, mindful of the fact he’s talking not talking on a secure line. “Sorry, I got, uhh, distracted.”

“Are you alright?”

He’s not, is the thing. He’s really not.

“As well as I can be,” he tells him quietly. Ed makes a soft noise over the other end. “Listen, the doctor’s wanting to talk to me again. Can I call you back?”

“Of course, Louis. Anytime.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“See you later.”

He hangs up and just breathes for a second, trying not to let the accusations swirl up and overtake him.

“They set us up,” he whispers so quietly he’s barely making sound. “They fucking set us up.”

Maybe he should feel some sort of rage at it, anger or betrayal or something, but he’s just kind of numb. Empty. It’s just… they went through all that pain and it was on purpose.

He’s got no proof, no authority, and absolutely no idea what to do.

He sneaks into Harry’s room that night, twitchy and bored of being by himself. There’s a restless on his skin and he keeps glancing over his shoulder, expecting a hitman to be there. Being next to Harry helps a little. He winds an arm carefully around him and feels his stomach rise and fall.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He sleeps through the night without a single nightmare.

The shifting under his head wakes him, and Louis blinks awake. Harry’s twitching and letting out little huffs of pain when he does, but his eyes are open and looking at him.

“Harry,” Louis breathes, feeling like he could cry and laugh all at the same time. “Harry.”

Harry blinks at him once, slow and hazy, and twists his face in pain.

“Ouch,” he mumbles, sounding on the edge of tears. Louis presses his fingers to his cheekbone, just briefly, and pushes the assist button.

“Hey, love. It’s alright, don’t worry darling. We’re safe now, yeah? You’re fine.”

“Ouch.” Harry’s crying now and cringing, like he’s trying to escape from some pain. Louis grabs a hand in his own and twists their fingers together.

“Squeeze, okay?” He does, but Louis doesn’t flinch away from the pressure. He just squeezes back and begs for the nurse to come quickly.

They come soon enough and sedate Harry, fiddling with his medication until he slumps against the pillows, exhausted. He hasn’t let go of Louis’ hand yet.

“C’mon, sir,” one of the nurses says, tapping on his shoulder. “He needs to rest still, and you need to be looked at again.”

“No,” Louis tells her.

“Sir—“

“I’m not leaving him.”

“It’s just down the hall—“

“No,” Louis says again and climbs in beside Harry. Harry tips his head towards him, just a little, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. The nurse sighs and gives up, going out the door with a glare.

“Hiya, H. I love you.”

Harry smiles bigger at that, even as Louis can see the tiredness pulling at his skin and the medicine making his eyes dull.

Love you too, he mouths back, just as he slides back into sleep.

Now that Harry’s awake, they can start preparing a timeline for departure. At least that’s what the brisk doctor tells Louis.

“You’re alright, and Harry’s on his way.”

“I don’t feel alright,” Louis mutters mutinously, but the doctor just clicks her tongue at him.

“You’re in fine physical shape, and Agent Styles will be in a few weeks. We’ve run some tests, and I think maybe around a week in hospital, and then the rest can be at home. We’ll get you back on the field in no time, Agent.”

Louis stiffens. He hadn’t even thought of that, that they’ll have to go back. It sends a shiver down his spine, his heart rate picking up.

“Agent Tomlinson?” the doctor asks, one eyebrow quirked. Working best to hide his emotion, Louis smiles thinly.

“Thank you. Um, keep me updated?”

“Of course.”

She nods at him and leaves, heels clacking on the linoleum. Louis waits until she’s out of sight and then goes back to Harry’s room. He’s more awake now, more lucid, and he sighs when Louis comes in.

“You’re back.”

“Said I would be, didn’t I?”

There’s a cloud that crosses over Harry’s face, but it’s gone almost before Louis can notice it, and he’s smiling again. He moves back so there’s space on the bed, and Louis sits next to him.

“How are you feeling, love?”

“Hurts,” Harry says, playing with Louis’ fingers. “But I’m okay. You?”

“Better, now that you’re awake.”

“Cheesy.”

“No,” Louis tells him honestly, giving him a quick kiss to the top of his head. “I was so worried about you, but you’re awake now.”

Harry’s quiet for a moment before bringing Louis’ hand up and pressing his lips to them. Louis feels like he might cry all over again.

“I—“ he starts, and is interrupted by a loud bang. Louis jumps, watching the door and tensing in case anyone comes in. He waits one beat, two and then three, but no one barrels in. Relaxing, he leans back to catch the rest of whatever Harry’s saying.

But Harry’s gone very pale and very still, eyes clamped shut and fingers shaking. The beeping that monitors his heart is beeping quickly, quicker than it should be.

“Harry?” Louis asks, as cautiously as he can. Harry doesn’t respond, his breaths coming in quick, sharp gasps. “Harry, what’s the matter?” When Harry still doesn’t talk, still doesn’t move, Louis leans over and hits the call button.

“What’s going on?” a nurse demands and Louis shakes his head, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know, he just stopped, won’t talk or anything. I don’t know what’s wrong, I don’t—“

The nurse ignores him and steps up to Harry, checks his vitals and murmurs a few questions to him. Louis watches, chewing on his lip and forcing himself not to panic, Harry’s fine, the doctor said so.

“It’s an anxiety attack, sir,” the nurse says after a minute that drags on too long. “I’ll get something to relax him a little, but you’ll just have to talk him out of it. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, I can.”

“Okay. Hold his hands, maybe, and tell him to concentrate on breathing. I’ll be right back.”

She leaves and Louis steps in to take her place, catching Harry’s hands and looking him in the face.

“Hey now, love, hey. What’s wrong? Don’t worry, just take deep breaths,” he says shakily. Harry’s fingers twitch a little in his. “That’s right, babe. Was it the noise? Was that what scared you?” Harry nods, just a tiny bit, and Louis drags in a breath. “No one’s coming to get you, I promise. You’re safe, they’re not coming. We’re safe.”

The door flies open, it’s just the nurse with some meds, but Harry flinches so hard Louis worries he ripped his stitches out. The heart monitor beeps even faster. It’s an angry sound.

“She’s going to help you, not hurt you. I promise.” He keeps muttering encouragements, over and over, until Harry’s death grip on his hands loosens, and the beeping slows to something steady.

Harry’s half-conscious at this point, not really awake but not asleep either. Louis doesn’t take his eyes off of him, tracking every movement. He can’t take in a deep enough breath.

“Sir?” someone asks, touching him gently on the shoulder. He startles so badly he nearly falls off the bed. It’s the kind nurse again, looking worried. “You need to calm down too.”

He can’t, he can’t, and the nurse seems to realise that. Louis feels the prick of a needle in his arm before the drugging effects of the medicine seep through his blood. He slumps next to Harry and listens to the sound of machines all around them.

They leave the hospital with a pamphlet of what to do during an anxiety attack, and not much else. There’s an Agency car that picks them up, a driver Louis has never met before. He doesn’t talk and neither do they, sitting in the back seat with their pinkies linked.

“They set us up,” Louis whispers into the dark, forehead pressed against Harry’s and the blankets pulled up to their chin. “The guards knew we were going to be there.”

Harry shifts, the tiniest bit.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he says and there’s a long pause.

“Well then, you can’t tell anyone else. They’d kill you if they heard you say that, really kill you. Promise me, Lou.”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, hands scrambling for Harry’s, and nods slowly.

“I won’t.”

“I’m Dr Watson,” the lady says, dressed smartly in all black. “I’m here to do an evaluation.”

“Now’s not really the best time,” Louis says wearily, leaning against the door. She narrows her eyes at him.

“Is there ever?”

“Not really. But especially not right now.”

She gives him an unimpressed look, one that almost makes him step aside so she can get through.

“Why not?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that, doesn’t know how to say because there was a loud noise and now Harry thinks someone’s coming to beat the everloving shit out of him, doesn’t know how to say because we were tortured a few weeks ago and Harry’s curled up in a ball expecting to be hurt any second now.

“My partner’s, uh, feeling poorly,” he says finally, after too long of a pause. She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m a doctor.”

“He’s having a panic attack,” he says flatly, “and you keeping me from him is making it worse. Come back in a few days, yeah?”

She stops the door from shutting and follows him in; he’s too tired to keep her out. Harry’s where he left him, curled up on the sofa and breathing shallowly.

“Harry,” he says as gently as possible, coming into Harry’s line of vision and putting a cautious hand on his arm. Harry flinches. “Harry, it’s just me, yeah?”

“Louis--” he breathes, turning towards him. His pupils are blown black and his face is so pale, except where he’d been chewing on his lip. Louis feels his heart break, just a little.

“I’m here, it’s just me.” Harry’s gaze flickers to the lady behind him and he goes even paler, if possible. “She’s a doctor.”

“Don’t let her hurt me,” he manages, just barely audible. Louis grabs his hand and squeezes it tightly, brings his attention back.

“I won’t, love. Do you need anything?”

Harry tugs on his arm instead of speaking, and Louis understands. He sits down on the sofa next to Harry, pulls him into his lap, and wraps strong arms around his chest. Harry’s breathing is quick, anxious, but he soon starts to slow as he matches the rise and fall of Louis’ stomach.

“Does this happen often?” Dr Watson says quietly, and Louis glances over his shoulder to look at her.

“When he hears a loud noise, yeah. He’s getting better, but like… it’s still difficult for him.”

“Hmm,” she mutters, pulling out a notepad and scribbling something down. “What about you, then? Are you alright?”

“I wasn’t the one who was tortured, was I?” he says, watching her wince at the word. “So yes, I’m fine. Abso-fucking-lutely fine.”

“A safe house,” Louis says flatly, raising an eyebrow at the agent.

“In Budapest,” adds Harry in the same tone. She nods. It’s the same agent that gave them their assignment, and she looks even more apologetic this time around. Louis almost feels sorry for her. “Why can’t we just stay here?”

“I don’t know, the Director didn’t say…” She sighs when they both give her a look, fingers tapping out a little rhythm on her leg. “It’s because you’re a liability. Or, rather, because this address could be compromised, your position known, and for you to heal, you need to be somewhere safe.”

“Home is safe,” Louis insists, clenching his fists.

“Agent Tomlinson. You can’t possibly believe that.”

They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them budging until Harry nudges his side with an elbow.

“We’re perfectly fine, though.”

The agent snorts, a little smile pulling the corners of her mouth up. “If you say so, but the Director thinks otherwise.”

“But he can’t just make us leave.”

“It’s temporary, Agent. Just for about a year, or so.” When Louis doesn’t say anything, she sighs again. “Please, Louis.”

Harry brushes his hand against Louis’ back, lightly, but it seems to take all the tension out of Louis’ body.

“I’ll go,” Harry says softly, smiling a tiny bit at the agent.

“Harry, you can’t--”

“I’m going to go,” he tells Louis, firm and solid. Louis flinches a little at the uncharacteristic harshness in his tone, “and you can come with me or you can stay. But I’m going.”

“You’d leave, just like that? Fuck off to a different country, no matter what I wanted?”

“I want to go,” he says slowly, and there’s a spark behind his eyes Louis knows well. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“I can’t stay here without you.”

“Why don’t you want to go, Louis? What’s wrong with going to a safe house?”

“Because last time they sent us somewhere, we almost ended up dead.”

“We’re safe here, we’re safe. God, I just--” his voice cracks and he can’t continue, slumping against the wall instead.

“There’s been reports of agents being followed back to their homes,” the agent says after a moment and fuck, Louis had almost forgotten she was here. “Their families were attacked. We at the Agency want to insure that your safety is protected at all times. That’s why we’re sending you to a safe house.”

There’s a moment where everything in the world pauses, when it’s just Harry’s green eyes and the frantic tangle of Louis’ thoughts. His heart is racing, and the thought of leaving their flat, their home, for god knows how long makes him want to vom, but he can’t stay here by himself. He nods, just slightly, and Harry smiles.

“Give us the address, then,” Harry says and holds out his hand. The agent looks amused, fishing in her pocket for a slip of paper.

“Here. There’ll be tickets sent to your email; your flight leaves in two days. Take a cab from the airport.”

“That’s not very safe,” Louis mutters and gets two sets of glares for his trouble. The agent continues.

“You won’t be alone, there’ll be a few other agents there too.”

“For the same reason?” asks Harry.

“Well,” she says, “I highly doubt they’ll be there for the exact same reason, but they all need some sort of safety to be in a safe house.”

“In Budapest,” Louis adds, not quite able to get his mind around it.

“In Budapest. I hear it’s a lovely city, especially around the holidays. Maybe you’ll enjoy it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just salutes them smartly and starts to step away. “Have a nice time, Agent Styles, Tomlinson. The Director and the Agency thanks you for your service.”

Louis waits until she’s out of sight before he turns to Harry.

“Fuck the Agency,” he says, as emotionless as he can manage, and disappears into the flat before Harry can scold him.

“Louis--”

“Fuck you too.”

Harry catches him by the wrist and he stumbles to a stop, whirling around to look at his partner.

“What the hell was that for?” Harry asks, angry in his tentative way, like he’s not sure if it’s worth the emotion or not.

“Don’t, Styles.”

“I don’t understand why you’re angry at me.”

“Because I don’t want to listen to another one of the fucking Director’s orders, but you’ve given me no choice.”

“How, Louis? I’m not forcing you to do anything, you don’t have to have to stay by my side at all times. You don’t.”

Louis can’t find the words to explain, doesn’t have the vocabulary to do so. He can barely fucking breathe.

“You can’t leave me here by myself,” he whispers, and yanks his arm out of Harry’s grip.

“Then I guess you’ll have to come with me,” Harry says finally and Louis gives a jerky sort of shrug.

“Thought we already agreed to go.”

“You didn’t,” Harry points out. Louis doesn’t bother to correct him, just scrubs at his face with a hand. He’s feeling jumpy and twitchy, like there’s electricity running under his skin, and he just wants to curl up in Harry’s side and not have to think about anything else.

But Harry shifts away slightly when Louis reaches out, and Louis doesn’t try again.

The bed’s empty when Louis wakes up, and he knows, he just knows that they’ve come for him again. It’s dark, too dark, and he can feel the rapid rabbiting of his heart in his chest.

He can’t see, doesn’t know where Harry is, and that can only mean one thing.

“Stop,” he begs, because that’s the only thing he can do. “Stop, stop, stop.” The words get louder as he gets more frantic, and it’s pointless because no one can hear him, but there’s always the chance. Maybe he’ll wake himself up, and it’ll be a nightmare.

Except he doesn’t wake up, and he’s been screaming for what seems like hours, the words ripped out of his throat by the panic flooding his veins.

“Please, not Harry. Please don’t!“

There are hands on his body and he wrenches himself away from them, fighting to get away and get to his boyfriend.

A light floods the room, suddenly, and Louis blinks against the intrusion.

“No, no, no, I don’t want to see,” he says, not ready to watch Harry flinch under their fists, not ready to watch the bruises bloom on his skin while Louis stands helpless. He wants to die again.

Someone’s hands catch his cheeks and hold it still, press their own forehead to his. Louis nearly goes cross eyed trying to figure out who it is, but then Harry’s beautiful wonderful worried face swims into view, and Louis’ heart drops so fast it takes his breath away.

“Harry,” he cries desperately, needing to know, to understand. There’s a voice filtering through the rush of panic in his ears, Harry’s familiar tone trying to soothe him.

“I’m here, please stop screaming, Lou.”

“Are you… are you…” He can’t get the words out, so he scrabbles at Harry’s skin instead, trying to check for bruises and cuts and blood streaked on his chest. It takes a moment, but then Harry gets it, strips so Louis can run his hands over his body.

It’s whole. There are scars, and yellowing bruises, and neat stitches, but it’s whole. With gentle, shaking fingers, he traces up to Harry’s face, checking to see if it’s still intact, and then down to his wrists, checking to see if they’re free. Finally, he presses his hand over Harry’s heart, just to feel it beat steady under his palm.

“Safe?” he manages to choke out, and Harry nods.

“Yeah. We’re safe. I’m right here, and we’re safe.”

It’s like something breaks inside of him and he’s crying, huge, heaving sobs, before he can stop them. His hands are digging into Harry’s side, but Harry doesn’t move them, crushes him close to his chest instead.

Louis cries until he can’t cry any longer. Harry’s right there through it, kissing his head and muttering an endless stream of soothing nonsense. Louis cries until his stomach hurts, and his cheeks are wet, and his eyes are gritty and dry. It takes a while.

“What do you need?” Harry asks, so quietly, when Louis has been silent for a few minutes. Louis breathes in, burying his face in Harry’s chest, and lets it out.

“Shower. Feel disgusting,” he croaks. His voice is cracked and hoarse from the tears. Words hurt, scraping against it.

“We can do that,” Harry says, and carefully leads him out into the bathroom. He runs the shower as hot as they can stand it, and then pushes Louis under the spray.

They shower until their skin is pink, and the blood in Louis’ imagination is washed away.

“Louis,” Harry says carefully, pressing a kiss to his head. “Louis, what’s wrong? You need to talk to me, love.”

Louis pushes his face into Harry’s shirt for a moment before shifting just enough to murmur, “I worry about you when you’re not there.”

“Okay.”

“No, like…” he squeezes his eyes together and touches Harry’s wrist to remind himself that they’re okay, that they’re safe. There aren’t any handcuffs. “When we were down there I thought… I thought that if I could just see you, then you wouldn’t die. And anytime I can’t, I’m terrified--” his breath catches and Harry’s hands tighten around him. “I’m terrified that means you’re dead.”

“Oh, Louis.”

“You weren’t moving, Harry. They kept hitting you and you weren’t moving, and I needed to watch to make sure you did.”

Harry’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Louis can calm down a little more and let his heart settle into something not as frantic. They haven’t moved, Louis still in Harry’s lap and trying to reorient himself.

“I love you,” he whispers. Louis whispers it back, muffled by his shirt. “We’re going to be okay. I think. Eventually.”

“Yeah.”

It’s not confident, but Harry doesn’t call him out on it. Louis counts to thirty, gives him that amount of time to pull himself together, and leans back.

“C’mon, love,” he says. It’s tired, and his voice just barely shakes, but he lifts his chin anyways. “I think we’ve got some packing to do. Do you reckon Budapest is cold?”

“Dunno,” Harry answers, steadying them both as they stand. “Probably not now, but maybe when it gets to be winter.”

Louis hums, and works on shoving the memories of the past month into the back of his head, shuts down all his memories of it and boxes them up tight. That can wait for another time. He drifts his fingers along Harry’s arm, and pecks him on the cheek as he goes to get his suitcase.

They’re safe. Louis could cry.

Harry’s here right next to him, and they are safe.