chapter seven
“Hello, beautiful.”
“I don’t think your knives like to be talked to like that,” Regulus says softly, perched atop the kitchen counter. He smiles.
Barty whirls to face him. His jaw goes slack. “You… weren’t supposed to be there.”
“Clearly. A private moment, obviously.” Regulus tilts his head. “What did you have to summon me here for? What could you not deal with yourself?”
Barty tucks away his collection of polished knives. He patiently stows them in a safe in the cabinet, wetting his lips, eyes aglow with something akin to pride. “Anything to see you, dearest.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Why? Were you busy?”
Regulus doesn’t entertain him with an answer. He raises a brow. Waits.
“I need your help,” Barty relents. “One of my clients was being annoying, and I wanted you to… you know…”
“I don’t, Barty.”
“You know…”
Regulus’ brows climb higher. Right into his hairline. “You want me to kill him?”
“I can’t ask you to do something like that!” Barty says, quickly. His face is flushed. His eyes are bugged out wide. “But would you?”
Regulus hops down from the counter. He busies himself with coffee machine, waiting until there is a steady hum and he can feel it vibrate beneath his fingers. Only then he answers, “I can’t kill everyone who bothers you, Barty.”
“Not everyone! Just him!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have standards,” Regulus says, quite simply, and he turns away to end the conversation.
Barty doesn’t abate. He sidles closer to him, eager, and says, “I don’t think that’s your real answer.”
“Hm?”
“I think you have too many pride.”
There is a beat of silence. Regulus debates taking the coffee machine and swinging it at him. A crack and a crunch. He breathes in.
Then, he starts to laugh.
Barty laughs with him, leaning his head against his shoulder. He swipes at his eyes. His hair is a mess, ruffled from his hands gripping the strands in stress, and Regulus wants to know why. He almost asks.
“You had me going, you know,” Regulus says. His lips quirk in the smallest of movements. Just a touch of mirth.
“If I wanted someone dead, you would be able to tell.” Barty’s looks him up and down. As if he could tell by looks alone that something was amiss.
Against his will, Regulus’ stomach writhes.
“Where did you go?” Barty asks.
“Just out to eat.”
“Bullshit.”
“The truth, actually,” Regulus counters. “I went out, I ate, and then I murdered someone.”
“Did he deserve it?”
“Yes.”
Barty hums. “How fun. Will I expect to see it on the news?”
“Most likely. I’m quite the star.”
“In more ways than one.”
The comment makes Regulus twitch. The coffee machine is done, and he sips at his mug to distract himself from unwelcome thoughts. He instead thinks of far more enjoyable things, like the new detective he’d come to collect. The curve of his mouth, the hollow of his throat, the skin around his eyes that crinkles when he grins.
If something had changed in his face, Barty had noticed. “What’s going on in that little brain of yours, Reg?”
“Nothing.”
But Barty is persistent. He prods him in the arm, a sick grin on his face. “You didn’t come straight from the scene when I called, did you?”
“… No, I didn’t.”
“What did you do?”
“I took a stroll.”
Barty scoffs. “You don’t take strolls. You’re not eighty-five.”
“It’s a new hobby.”
“Fucking bullshit. Tell me the truth for once, will you? I’ll keep it safe.” Barty taps his head. “In here.”
For a moment, Regulus considers lying. The moments passes.
“I’ve met someone,” he confesses.
Barty looks positively delighted. “And?”
“He’s enjoyable. I gave him my number.”
“But is he hot?”
“He’s quite the specimen.”
“Reg—”
“He’s hot.” Regulus smiles, nastily, thinking of the innocent quality the detective—his detective—possessed. “He’s gorgeous.”
In fact, Regulus might just keep him.