Those of you who have read my past fic know I love to create AUs of a show I fall head over heels for. After an extremely long dry spell and writer's block that wasn't funny anymore (and even several good movies couldn't break), I stumbled into Instinct. Another tiny fandom again! I'm surprised there aren't more stories for it by now!

I've been watching the season backwards and forwards, I'm so in love with it and the characters! It's addictive and I'm incredibly happy it gets a second season.

So I did what I always do: wrote an AU, with a little twist, of course.

Since this is an AU, some things from the show didn't happen, some I interpreted my own way.

I started writing before Lizzie got to know Julian, so that's not happening here.

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The room was quiet, the light of the waning day casting shadows across the room, battled by the lights fluorescing everywhere. The 11th precinct was never quiet, but now and then the noise quieted a little and the whole atmosphere changed, was less electric, almost muted.

November had come in with cold fronts and nasty winds, sometimes brief showers, erasing all the brief joy of the prior, more golden October. The weather didn't help to lessen the number of cases or gave the homicide division easier ones. Halloween alone had had the calls spike in frequency. Just like every year. It was the time where the crazy became even more crazy, even more bizarre, and it multiplied. Most had been noise disturbances, neighborly disputes or pranks that had gone out of hand. The usual stuff.

Now and then a homicide case came their way, but it was their job. One such case had been a spousal dispute on Halloween that had ended with a dead zombie bride wife and the Steampunk undertaker husband confessing to slamming a kitchen appliance over her head in his rage.

Because… because of something laughably small like a missed recording of some obscure b-movie. Things had escalated and finally ended in one death and one horrified perp. The man had been in such shock, he had hidden himself in his basement work room where unis hadn't looked in the first sweep of the apartment complex.

Harris had closed that one quite easily.

No three days later, a new murder had come in and the case had been assigned to Detective Elizabeth Needham. Apparent B&E with a body and no obvious signs of a forced entry. The wife had been killed by the suspect or suspects unknown, with the husband grievously injured and unconscious next to her.

There were no leads.

Their only witness was the husband and he was in a coma.

Then a second B&E with a body and a seriously injured spouse had been called in.

Lizzie had decided to call her consultant away from his job and his private life, not to mention the second book he was supposed to be writing.

Again there had been no signs of how the killer had gotten in, one was dead, his husband bleeding, unconscious, barely hanging on to life.

And with number three, the same MO, in just as many days, matters were getting more intense.

The mayor wanted answers.

So wanted the lieutenant.

Well, and Lizzie herself.

Her partner was as always fascinated by it all.

Currently, the desk opposite her own was stacked with the files from all three cases. A laptop peeked out among the folders, running a screen saver. She looked up from her own computer where she had been running through the statements once more, stretching her cramping back a little. Her eyes fell on her 'study partner', who was pouring over a stack of printed pages, brows lightly furrowed behind his black-rimmed, round glasses. He was deeply immersed, absolutely in his element.

And he was still one of the most puzzling, aggravating, invested and downright loyal partners she had ever had. Everything about him was one contradiction after another. Every time she thought she had him, the man threw her again.

Dr. Dylan Reinhart was as enigmatic as he was absolutely open when it came to personal information sometimes. He had readily confirmed her guess about his past career as a CIA agent and voluntarily told her he had been paramilitary. He hadn't hidden being gay; about being married. She knew his academic career inside out. He had an impressive resume that filled pages. She had had lunches and dinners, once even breakfast, with him and his husband Andy. She found them an extremely cute couple, clearly connected on so many levels, very much newly-weds in a million tiny ways, and seasoned partners in another million more.

But there was another side, too. Mostly connected to his past. He kept secrets, though he never lied. He obfuscated, guided her line of thought and questions away from something too close to home. Or he simply didn't answer – in words, but his expression said it all. Not to mention that he had that super special secret friend who helped out on cases.

Physically he didn't strike anyone as a tough as nails ex-soldier. He was very much the odd ball college professor type, right down to the Harry Potter glasses and sense of dress. She had seen him empathetic, caring, very much involved, taking things personally, memories triggered by small snippets from a victim's or perpetrator's past.

She had become accustomed to him being her consultant, her partner. Lizzie couldn't think of working a case without him and his input.

Dylan Reinhart might not be a police officer, but he was everything she needed, and more. As unorthodox as he operated, as aggravating and aberrant in his behavior he sometimes was on a case, their results spoke for themselves. And their personal relationship was closer to her than many of the ones she had with her work colleagues.

"Thoughts?" she asked.

Dylan looked up, blinking at her as if she had startled him out of his own deep thoughts.

She probably had.

The case was bizarre.

"Too many. Our victims, and the perp's targets, are all happily married couples. None have ever been involved in any illegal or criminal activities, had hardly a parking ticket, and there have never been any threats against any of them. Only one partner or spouse is killed; the other left alive, though seriously injured."

She nodded. There had been updates from the hospitals. One had lost an arm. Another surviving partner was now blind in one eye.

"All have been together for a minimum of twenty-eight years," Dylan went on. "All have no children. No divorcees either. All have known their spouse since high school or college."

Lizzie knew from the questions asked among neighbors and friends that the couples had each married their first love.

"I don't think it's a hate crime of any sort. Our suspect is trying to destroy what he perceives as absolute happiness and perfection," Dylan mused. "He leaves one partner behind to suffer from the loss. Alone, because there are no children. To feel the loss even more." His fingers drummed on the case files.

Lizzie nodded slowly. "You think he punishes them for something?"

"Three victims, three similar, apparently happy lives. He might punish them for the happiness they had."

She frowned. "But they're not connected in any way we could find. That means it was random. And that makes it close to impossible to find him."

The fingers stilled and he met her eyes.

"Maybe they weren't picked randomly. Maybe there is a commonality our victims aren't aware of."

Lizzie looked at the mountain of paper and groaned silently. All the interviews were there, all the collected statements from family, friends and neighbors. So far there had been absolutely nothing for anyone to go on. Even their bank statements didn't help. Only two had used the same bank in the past. Two were using online services. One was spreading his savings among several investment plans, two were regular savers.

This was one of those cases. So much information and they needed to thin out the non-apparent commonalities. Like a doctor they had all once gone to. A clinic they had been treated in. Maybe just a supermarket or a park they frequented. Maybe just an event they had all been to.

It was crazy.

She would have to spread out the work among her colleagues if they wanted to have at least a chance to handle this.

"Any ideas?" she asked.

Dylan let his eyes roam over all the files they had already gathered. "I wish."

Great.

"Not even a hunch?"

He grimaced, looking apologetic. "I know. It's new for me. But these families share nothing at all. Destroying perceived perfect happiness is a theme. Our perpetrator might have killed before. We should be looking into past cases, probably cold cases."

"You know how to brighten my day," she muttered, quite aware how much work that would put on top of the already dangerously high mountain.

He grinned. "I aim to please."

Lizzie was very close to just sticking out her tongue, but she was too professional to give in to the childish notion. There was a teasing light in Dylan's dark eyes and she knew he was perfectly well reading her.

The downside of working with a psychologist and trained professional in behavior analysis and apparently mind-reading.

"Any idea why he might target them, aside from the perfect life? Not that there is anything as simple as a perfect life."

"It could be the only reason why he targets them," Dylan told her. "These people have known each other for all their lives. Some were high school sweet hearts. They had their ups and downs in life, but they never experienced loss or anything dramatic. There was never any monetary problem, an overdrawn credit line they couldn't manage or a foreclosure. None of their relatives have died. Their parents are alive and well. They are all childless, but not unhappy."

"And he destroys it."

He nodded. "Probably to punish. Most likely because he wants someone else to experience what he went through."

"We're looking for someone with a similar background who lost their significant other. That's still a needle in a haystack, if that's the correct profile."

Another nod.

She blew out a breath.

Her phone startled her out of her thoughts and she felt dread rise inside her at the caller ID. As she listened to her colleague she caught Dylan's eyes. His expression had grown alert and slightly apprehensive.

"Another one," she told her partner as she hung up grabbed her coat. "Langley Ross, insurance sales manager, found dead in his home office. His wife Grace is in critical condition on her way to the hospital."

Dylan was already on his feet, coat in hand.

Outside it had gone dark, the clouds threatening another shower. The wind was as cold as it had been all day.

Lizzie flipped up her collar and hurried to her car, Dylan in tow.

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The atmosphere at Rafter's was as always warm and inviting, the mix of stone walls, the wooden bar and furniture just the right kind of business and home feel. It was shelter from the bad weather that had come in late last night and hadn't let up the whole day. Dylan had had the displeasure of driving to an early morning lecture in the rain, after spending most of the evening before looking at the Ross crime scene, listening to the few witness statements – no one really saw anything – and then going over Lizzie's notes again.

There was still no lead.

It was… aggravating.

The moment he stepped into the bar, part of him relaxed completely, at home, soaking up the warmth of Andy's home away from home. He was cheerfully greeted by the waitresses and nodded his hello in return.

Dylan took a spot at the bar, out of the way of paying customers, and let himself just… be.

"Bad case?"

He met the warm, brown eyes of his husband as a drink was put in front of him. Part of him had been acutely aware of the other man's approach, his very presence, and he hadn't been startled by the drink and the words.

"Well…" he hedged.

Andy gave him that quirky half-smile, open and inviting, just like his whole body language. He would have an open ear should Dylan want to use him as a sounding board or just to ramble about something that went completely over the former lawyer's head. The compassion and empathy was real; it had always been real.

Dylan had had to learn that Andrew Wilson was exactly what he presented to the outside world, that nothing was a cover or smoke and mirrors. He was this grounding, down-to-earth person, made friends easily, felt right at home among people he hadn't even met before, and he was soft-hearted. It was why he hadn't pursued his career. He was a damn good lawyer, he didn't shy away from challenges, knew all the lingo, had a head for these kind of things, but he was also a warm human being. He wasn't a shark. A predator. He wanted to help people, not destroy lives by finding loop holes for wealthy clients.

Opening the bar hadn't just been a long-time dream and his way out of a cut-throat environment, it was also his calling. Rafter's was only successful because of the man who ran it.

Andy loved people.

He wanted them around himself.

His whole persona, his very energy, was inviting, drawing the regulars back with new clients.

Dylan… well, he had been taught not to trust, to always analyze the situation, be wary, not make friends, stay at the fringe and observe.

Andy squeezed one wrist and Dylan smiled, focusing on the sole point of contact and the thoughts about his past dissipated into nothingness.

"Bad case," Andy just stated knowingly, lips twitching as he answered his own question, since Dylan had apparently taken too long to get out of his own head.

"No. Yes. In a way. Frustrating, mostly. There are no leads, no commonalities between the victims, their spouses or their families, and only new victims. He destroys lives, through both a violent death and the suffering of the surviving partner."

"And you can't figure out why."

"The why is not the problem. I have a few theories about the why."

"Not surprising." Andy grinned at his look, slinging a towel over one shoulder. He leaned forward, palms on the bar top. "That big brain of yours isn't happy with just one theory. When you run on all cylinders, it's like fireworks inside your head. You want to immerse yourself. It's what you do. It's what you need to do. You curbed that instinct long enough."

"Curbed?" he echoed mildly.

Andy's face reflected nothing but fondness mixed with amusement. "I know you, Dylan. You can't lock it all up forever. You need this." He pointedly raised his eyebrows.

"No."

"Riiight. Uh-huh. Nah. Nope." Andy actually popped the 'p'. "Not believing it."

He barely suppressed a sigh.

"And it's good that you don't. It's your nature," his husband went on. "It's you. It's Dylan. Not one of the many other hats you wear."

He gazed into the well of calmness reflected in Andy's eyes. Yes, that was him. Just Dylan. Not his former training, his old profession, his old life, or even his new one. It was what he had always been good at.

"I made you a promise."

"I know. And you're keeping it. Working with the NYPD? It's done wonders for you. You're really happy with it, you want it, you look forward to it. Letting part of your nature finally peek out from behind the locked doors?" Andy squeezed his hand. "That's the Dylan I married. That's you."

Dylan squeezed back, the turmoil inside him lessening a little more now.

They had talked about his consultant work and Andy was on board with it, but taking it a step closer to what he had been, what he had always been and couldn't deny, was something else.

"Stop holding back," Andy advised calmly. "It doesn't mean you're back in the old game. I know you won't ever go back."

No, he wouldn't. Julian's offer to freelance aside, there was nothing for him back in his old life. And freelancing would definitely take him back there. He might be working three jobs at the moment, but those were jobs he enjoyed; some days more, some days less, especially when it came to writer's block.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Andy beamed at him. "So, bad case?" he prompted.

"I can't figure out how he chooses his victims," Dylan sighed, trying to ignore the feelings of aggravation and frustration inside him, and sounding as annoyed as he felt. "How he can know so much about each couple? It makes no sense! I can't wrap my head around it. You don't get this kind of information through random conversations or just watching someone. You need more. Access to their homes, asking them detailed, intimate question, and so on. They share no friends or doctors, some don't even use social media, while others only have random conversations through not so common apps or websites. Only one couple shared their whole life, every moment of it, on various websites."

"Frustrating about sums it up," Andy said, exchanging his empty glass for one with simply water with a slice of lime.

"Yeah."

"You want a bite to eat before we head home?"

"Here or…?"

"Your choice." Andy raised his eyebrows.

Dylan glanced at the menu board and found too many things that appealed to him. Andy chuckled and plonked cutlery wrapped in a napkin on the bar.

"I'll get you the special."

"Mind-reader."

"Hey, that's what we barmen are for. Listen to your sorrows as we wipe the counter, nodding sagely and giving you a way to unload. I might even have a few wise words for you."

Dylan laughed, soaking in the bright smile, enjoying the banter. "You have found your calling."

It got him one of those sweet smiles, then his husband was off to serve more drinks and take food orders, too.

Dylan opened his notebook, jotting down ideas, working out a chapter of his next book while another part of his brain was turning the case over and over. It helped to distract himself. It helped the book, it helped the cases. Joan was more than happy that he was finally getting back into the groove, as she put it, and Dylan was happy to have overcome his writer's block.

Well, it wasn't really a block. He had written a book that Joan had called all kinds of names, so it was now gathering dust on his hard drive.

The new premise was better, she said. So much more exciting, and right now it was almost writing itself. Two chapters had already been turned in and number three was almost finished.

A plate appeared in front of him and Andy grinned knowingly, nodding at the pages he had outlaid.

"Back in the flow?"

Dylan gave him a quirky little smile of his own. "Apparently."

"Joan will be ecstatic."

"Hopefully. She keeps getting new and more and more outrageous ideas."

"You're her prized author, Dylan."

He grimaced.

Andy's smile grew. "Told you. You have more than one book in you. More than two or three. That mind of yours is a bottomless well."

'A worthy effort'. That was all his father had had to say about his book. Like Dylan had been a worthy effort. An investment. Not a human being.

He pushed those thoughts away. Andy's brows had lowered a little, probably too aware of what was on his mind. It was one of his many talents when it came to Dylan Reinhart. He knew, like reading his mind, or just his emotions; he simply knew.

"Don't let him in," the younger man said softly. "Never again. Eat. Work. I'll have a little while longer until shift end, then I'm free for the night."

So he did just that.

And thoughts of his father stayed outside.

tbc...