Chapter Text
Louis Tomlinson had absolutely no business being here.
Technically, he was supposed to be bartending. Technically. But the thing about bartending at an exclusive, invite-only, A-list party in the Hollywood Hills was that no one really cared if their drinks were made correctly, as long as they were made by someone good-looking enough to serve them.
And Louis? Well. Louis was very fucking good-looking. Which was exactly why he’d spent the last hour Snapchatting instead of making drinks. The bass thumped so hard it rattled the shelves behind him, but Louis wasn’t worried about toppling thousand-dollar bottles of tequila. His focus was on his phone, held strategically low as he swiped through filters. This was a golden opportunity.
He turned the camera toward the bar, where Dwayne “D-Money” Carter—one of the biggest rappers in the world—was currently arguing over whether or not he could get Cristal in a pint glass.
Snap.
The screen showed D-Money’s face transformed—huge, blinking anime eyes, a glittering tiara balanced on his head. Louis grinned, adding a caption:
"D-Money says he wants Cristal in a pint glass. Someone help him."
He fired it off to the group chat, "Whiskey Dick Wednesdays," before immediately opening the camera again. He swung to the other side of the bar, where NFL star Troy Mackenzie—built like a Greek god, expression of someone who’d eat a brick if you dared him to—was downing his fourth whiskey sour.
Snap.
Filter applied: Rainbow unicorn with sparkles. Caption: "NFL but make it fabulous." He posted it to his Snap Map, because of course he did. A sharp tapping on the bar yanked his attention away.
“Excuse me?”
Louis barely looked up. “One sec, love.” He tapped his screen again, swiping through filters for his next target. Vanessa Leclerc, Emmy-winning actress, sipping champagne with the air of someone who’d rather be anywhere else.
Snap.
Her perfectly sculpted face was now overshadowed by giant, blinking, bug-eyed horror. Caption: "Hollywood glamour x"
He was about to post it when his phone buzzed violently in his hand.
WHISKEY DICK WEDNESDAYS:
Freddie: "Ur gonna get fired m8."
Stan: "Tell D-Money to drop his album already u coward."
Greg: "STOP POSTING ON SNAP YOU’RE AT WORK."
Freddie: "Deadass tho, how are you there. Did they not check references??"
Stan: "Lemme know if Dua Lipa shows up. I’m tryna wife her."
Greg: "For the love of God, make a drink and DO YOUR JOB."
He did not, in any measurable way, care about this job.
He wasn’t even on the official payroll. His friend from uni had forwarded him a cryptic text that said “wear black and don’t be annoying” and thirty minutes later, he was behind a marble bar worth more than his entire existence. He’d lied on the security waiver. Gave them a fake last name. Pretty sure he put his emergency contact down as Greg’s cat.
And yet, here he was. Making drinks for L.A. royalty and live-updating his group chat like this was some kind of interactive performance art.
Mariah, the actual bartender and resident goddess of efficiency, gave him another look like she wanted to staple him to the wall.
“Do something useful,” she hissed, hands moving so fast they blurred. “You’ve been stirring that empty glass for ten minutes.”
Louis stirred it again for emphasis. “It’s called ambiance, babe.”
“You’re called unemployed in about five minutes.”
He smirked and clinked the spoon dramatically.
So far tonight, he had:
- Forgotten three drink orders.
- Made up a cocktail called “The Beverly Hillbilly” (vodka, elderflower, Monster Energy).
- Told someone their martini looked too heterosexual and handed them a cosmo instead.
- And flat-out refused to serve a man who asked for “whatever tequila girls like.”
He was doing God’s work, really.
His whole thing—the bit, the vibe, the brand—was coasting. Coast long enough, smile just right, pretend to be important, and eventually someone would buy you a drink or offer you a modeling gig or tell you you had “great energy” and invite you to a boat party. Which was where the real money was.
Louis didn’t want a career. He wanted passive income and mysterious deposits in his bank account that he never had to ask about. He was born to be kept. Unfortunately, no one had kept him yet.
Until then, he was stuck here. Pretending to bartend. Waiting for someone rich enough to mistake sarcasm for charm.
He scanned the room like a raccoon looking for snacks. Not a single person here looked emotionally available or fiscally reckless. Tragic.
“Louis!” Mariah snapped. “Glassware!”
He blinked. “Oh my god, are we out?”
She groaned so loudly it vibrated the shelves. “No. Get the champagne flutes from the cart before I commit a felony.”
He made a show of saluting her. “Aye aye, bar captain.”
“You’re the reason I drink.”
“And I love being someone’s villain origin story,” he called over his shoulder, finally grabbing a tray. This job would absolutely kill him. Probably. Hopefully not tonight.
Louis rolled his eyes. They were all haters. Another impatient tap on the counter had him finally looking up. Oh. Fit. Long dark hair, sharp cheekbones, legs for days. “Sorry, darlin’.” He flashed a slow, easy grin, turning on the charm. “What can I get you?”
The woman tilted her head, clearly unimpressed. “A vodka soda. Like, five minutes ago.”
Oh. A challenge. Louis grabbed a glass, smirking as he poured. “You got a name, or should I call you ‘angel’?”
She blinked. “You should call me ‘waiting for my drink.’”
Greg, watching from the other side of the bar, was already shaking his head.
Louis didn’t care. “Oh, so you’re a heartbreaker, yeah?” He slid the glass across to her. “Tragic. We could’ve been something.”
She snorted, unimpressed, but her lips twitched. Progress.
“So, listen,” he continued, leaning against the counter like he wasn’t supposed to be working. “You reckon I could buy you a drink after my shift? Not from here, obviously—overpriced and shit, yeah?”
She stared at him, unimpressed. “So, let me get this straight—you want to buy me a drink… using the money you earned serving drinks?”
Louis paused. “Okay, yeah, I hear it now.”
Greg groaned so loudly that Louis heard it over the music.
Louis shot him a glare before turning back to the woman. She was smirking. A good sign.
“You’re persistent, aren’t you?” she asked.
“You have no idea, love.”
She opened her mouth—maybe to reject him, maybe to humor him—but then it happened. A sound that didn’t belong in the haze of bass and champagne clinks. Gunshot. Screaming. Glass shattering. Instinct kicked in. Louis ducked behind the bar, phone still clutched in his hand.
His heart hammered as he pressed himself to the floor, eyes darting toward the source of the chaos. People were running, shouting, and knocking over tables. Security swarmed, but the damage was already done. D-Money was on the ground. Blood spreading beneath him.
Louis barely had time to process before his phone vibrated—still recording. His Snapchat, camera flipped to the back, had captured everything. The killer stood above the body, gun disappearing into his jacket. He turned, sharp eyes scanning the room.
His gaze landed directly on Louis. Louis froze. The killer’s head tilted slightly. Louis’ Snapchat filter—the fucking leprechaun filter, complete with a stupid green hat and a four-leaf clover bobbing beside his head—did the same. It would have been funny.
If it wasn’t the moment his life ended.
The man didn’t move at first. Just stared. Unreadable, calculating. The weight of his gaze was enough to pin Louis in place. Then, slowly, methodically, he took a single step forward.
Louis’ pulse spiked.
A second step. Measured. Unhurried.
Louis’ entire body screamed at him to run, but he was stuck, heart hammering, hands clammy on his phone.
Then— Something shifted in the crowd. Security closing in. Sirens, distant but approaching. The killer hesitated. A flicker of irritation crossed his face, then vanished just as fast. He took one more step forward. Not close enough to reach Louis—but close enough to make a point. And then, still staring him down, he raised his hand. Made his fingers into a gun. Pointed it straight at Louis’ chest. And mimed pulling the trigger. A slow, casual squeeze.
Louis’ breath caught in his throat. There was nothing dramatic about it. No smirk, no sneer, no final words. Just a silent, unmistakable promise.
You’re next.
And then, as smoothly as he had stepped toward him, the killer turned on his heel and jogged away, disappearing into the crowd.
Louis didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t do anything except sit there, heart hammering against his ribs, ears ringing.
His phone buzzed violently in his hand.
A new message.
WHISKEY DICK WEDNESDAYS:
Freddie: "Bro… what the fuck did you just post?"
Louis barely had time to process that before another message came in.
Stan: "Lads. LADS. Turn on the news. Is Louis fucking dead???"
His stomach plummeted. He looked back at his screen. His Snapchat was still open. His finger had slipped on the send button. And there it was. Posted. Public. On his story, and worse, on the map,
The last thing he had sent before his brain had caught up to reality:
Blurry. Shaky hands. The camera zoomed, almost like an accident, onto a man in a dark suit, standing over the body. Blood pooling beneath his feet. A gun disappearing into his jacket. The man turning. His head tilting. His eyes locking onto Louis.
And there, in the top-right corner of the screen, was Louis’ own face— Wide-eyed. Mouth parted. Frozen in horror. With the fucking leprechaun filter still on.
His heart stopped. Then— His phone was ripped from his hands. A heavy hand yanked him up from behind the bar. Someone shouted. A badge flashed. Security swarmed. Louis barely had time to breathe before he was being dragged out and pushed into a car.
The ride to the station was a blur. One minute, Louis was behind the bar, watching his own stupid, stupid Snapchat post go viral in real-time. The next, a badge was in his face, a hand was on his arm, and he was being hauled out of the club by men who were entirely too serious for three in the morning.
The car was unmarked. Plain black, government-issue, the kind that screamed “we do shady shit for a living.”
They shoved him into the backseat, slammed the door, and took off. No sirens, no explanation, no "Hey, mate, you’re not about to get thrown in a cell for the rest of your life, don’t worry." They didn’t even try to comfort him, which seemed pretty rude, given the fact that he had just witnessed a fucking murder.
His leg bounced aggressively. Should he say something? Ask what was happening? He glanced at the two men up front—stony-faced, bulletproof-vest types, radio chatter buzzing in their ears—and immediately decided against it.
Louis stared out the window as the neon-lit chaos of Hollywood blurred past, his heart hammering in his ribs. This was bad. Really fucking bad. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. What the hell was happening? D-Money was dead. Shot. Murdered. Right in front of him.
And he’d posted it to Snapchat.
His stomach twisted violently. His phone had been taken, which meant he couldn’t even text Greg or Freddie for moral support—or to make sure his Snapchat hadn’t completely ruined his life. What if the killer had screenshotted it before the cops took it down? What if his group chat idiots were making memes about it already? What if—
The car lurched to a stop. Louis’ breath caught as the doors unlocked with a quiet click. The guy in the passenger seat—built like a tank, shaved head, an expression that had probably never once known joy—opened his door, stepping out. Then he turned, staring Louis down through the window, and jerked his head toward the station.
Showtime.
The Beverly Hills police station was cold, sterile, and way too bright.
Louis was ushered through the halls at double speed, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum as he struggled to keep up. Every now and then, they’d pass a cop who clearly recognized him as the dumbass who filmed a murder and posted it online. Someone whispered, “Snapchat guy.” Fantastic. This was exactly how he wanted to be famous.
They shoved him into a room, one of those small, dimly lit ones with a single table, two chairs, and a giant, menacing one-way mirror. The kind of room where bad things happened to people who looked suspicious.
“Sit,” one of the agents barked.
Louis sat. The door slammed shut behind him. And then—silence. No one told him anything. No “Hey mate, you’re in trouble but not, like, the electric chair kind.” No “We know you didn’t do it, don’t worry.” No fucking water.
Just him, his racing heartbeat, and the sound of distant footsteps outside the door.
Louis ran his hands through his hair, leg bouncing under the table. He had no idea if he was a suspect, a witness, or next in line for a bullet. His breath hitched. Shit. He was actually freaking out.
The door creaked open. A man stepped in, tall, clean-cut, wearing a suit so crisp it probably had an FBI badge stitched into the lining. His jaw was sharp, his expression unreadable, and his entire vibe screamed federal agent.
He pulled out the chair opposite Louis and sat down with the patience of a man who had been forced to deal with idiots for far too long. The door clicked shut.
Louis sat up straighter. Swallowed hard.
The agent folded his hands on the table. "Louis Tomlinson," he said, voice cool and professional. "I’m Special Agent Liam Payne with the FBI."
Louis blinked. Right. That was—that was a lot. His brain raced through several reactions at once:
- Oh my god. The actual FBI.
- Oh my god, I’m actually going to jail.
- Wait, do they let you have Snap in prison?
- Focus, dickhead. FBI. Murder. Focus.
- Liam has really nice hands. Does he moisturise, or,,,”
- FUCK, focus.
Liam raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Are you aware of why you’re here?”
Louis let out a strangled noise. “Mate, I barely know where I am, let alone why.”
Liam exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like he had already reached his daily limit of bullshit and it was barely three in the morning.
He slid a phone across the table, enclosed in a ziplock bag, “EVIDENCE” written in black on a yellow background emblazoned across the top. Louis glanced at it. His own Snapchat post was frozen on the screen. The little leprechaun hat bounced above his head. Louis closed his eyes and wished for death.
“Let’s start simple,” Liam said, voice even and calm. “What exactly did you see tonight?”
Louis let out a hysterical laugh. “Oh, I dunno, mate. I saw a bloke get shot in the fucking head. That was pretty memorable.”
Liam did not look amused. “And you posted it to Snapchat?”
“Okay, in my defense,” Louis started, pointing aggressively, “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Liam tilted his head, giving him the ‘explain yourself before I arrest you’ look.
Louis exhaled. “Look, I was just taking the piss, yeah? Filming stupid shit for my mates. I had no idea I was filming a murder.”
Liam’s gaze was unreadable. “But you were.”
Louis dragged his hands down his face. “Unfortunately, yeah.”
“Are you aware,” Liam said, leaning forward slightly, “that you are the only known witness to a premeditated, high-profile murder?”
Louis blinked.
Liam kept talking. “And that the man who pulled the trigger is already looking for you?”
Louis’ stomach dropped. “What?” he croaked.
Liam sat back in his chair. “The man you filmed is an international hitman.”
A long pause. Louis stared at him. “…I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard that correctly.”
Liam’s expression didn’t change. “You did.”
International. Hitman. Louis’ lungs stopped working. “Right.” He forced a swallow. “And. Um. What does that mean for me?”
Liam’s face remained blank. “It means, Mr. Tomlinson, that your life is now in extreme danger.”
Louis let out a weak, choked laugh. Then, because his brain was broken and he was at maximum stress capacity, he blurted out: "Okay, but like, how famous am I now?"
Liam stared. The vein in his forehead twitched.
Louis smiled weakly. “Sorry, stress response.”
Liam took a slow inhale through his nose, clearly questioning every life decision that had led him to this moment.
“Mr. Tomlinson,” he said, voice tight, controlled, deeply tired, “you’re being placed in Witness Protection.”
Louis’ entire world tilted. “I—what?”
Liam didn’t blink. “You’re being placed in Witness Protection.”
The words hung in the air, crisp and heavy, like Liam had just handed him a legally binding eviction notice from his own goddamn life. Louis opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally croaked, “Mate, I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
Liam arched an eyebrow. “Did you, or did you not, post footage of an active murder investigation to Snapchat?”
Louis shifted in his seat. “I mean. That makes it sound bad.”
Liam slid the phone across the table again. “Your face is clearly visible.”
Louis’ soul left his body. "Okay," he started, shoving the phone away, "but I—look, I can just—leave LA for a bit, yeah? Crash with my mate Greg in San Diego. Real low-key."
Liam’s expression remained stone-cold. "You have 300,000 new followers and counting. Your group chat is already making memes. The internet is currently debating whether you’re a fearless whistleblower or a dumbass who recorded a murder by accident."
Louis grimaced. “The second one’s technically correct.”
Liam exhaled, slow and pained. “Mr. Tomlinson—”
“Louis.”
Liam ignored that. “Mr. Tomlinson, the man you filmed is a professional hitman. Your name is already circulating in places you don’t want it to be. You cannot stay here.”
Louis clutched the edge of the table. “Alright, but let’s consider my counteroffer, which is a firm ‘fuck that.’”
Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered.
“I am extremely serious!” Louis hissed his pointer finger hitting the table to drive the message home. “You’re talking about relocating me. New name, new city, no phone—” His voice cracked. “No social media.”
“That is how Witness Protection works, yes.”
Louis’ chest tightened. “And what if I say no?”
Liam just stared at him. A long, tense silence. Then: "Mr. Tomlinson," Liam said, calm and even, "if you don’t comply, you will be dead in approximately forty-eight hours."
Louis blinked.
Liam’s face was unreadable.
Louis swallowed. “Okay,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “But what if—”
Liam pushed back his chair. “We’re leaving.”
Louis did not move.
"Wait. Now?"
"Yes."
"But—" Louis gestured wildly. "I haven’t even called my mum—”
“No time.”
“I don’t have any of my shit—”
"You won’t need it."
"I don’t have any money!"
Liam’s eyes narrowed. “You have twenty-four dollars in your bank account.”
Louis’ jaw dropped. “Fucking hell, you FBI lot don’t waste time, do you?”
“We don’t.” Liam yanked open the door, gesturing for him to move.
Louis planted himself in his chair like a child about to be dragged out of a toy store. "Mate, I don’t think you understand. I can’t just go into Witness Protection. I have a life."
Liam folded his arms. “Do you?”
Louis opened his mouth. Paused. Considered. He had a shit bartending job. He had exactly $24.72 in his bank account. His last romantic interaction was a failed attempt at pulling a model with a vodka soda.
At this moment, his phone buzzed inside the evidence bag on the table.
Freddie: "Hey, if ur dead, can I have your PlayStation?"
…Right. Louis exhaled. "Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”
Liam didn’t care. “Noted,” he said briskly, and with zero hesitation, he grabbed Louis’ arm and hauled him out the door.
Louis grumbled the entire way down the hall. And then he refused to get on the lift.
Liam stepped inside first, pressing the button to take them down to the garage. He turned, fully expecting Louis to follow.
But Louis? He planted his feet, folded his arms, and stayed right where he was.
Liam blinked at him.
Louis lifted his chin defiantly. “I’m not getting in that box.”
Liam sighed through his nose. "It's an elevator, not a box."
"It’s a death trap," Louis shot back. "Suspended by a few cables? In a building full of cops, any one of which could be a dirty bastard about to cut the power and leave me trapped? Absolutely not.”
Liam stared at him like he was reconsidering every career choice that had led him to this moment. "Mr. Tomlinson—"
"Louis."
"Mr. Tomlinson," Liam repeated, slower this time, tension rising in his voice, "you just witnessed a murder, your face is all over the internet, and there is currently a professional hitman looking for you. The safest place for you to be right now is not standing in the hallway arguing with me."
Louis did not budge.
Liam exhaled sharply. “Fine. What do you want?”
Louis’ eyes lit up with pure mischief.
“Oh, so we’re negotiating now?”
“We are not.”
“Sounds like we are.”
Liam’s nostrils flared. “I am not bribing you to get on an elevator, Mr. Tomlinson.”
Louis squinted. "Could’ve just said yes and saved us both a lot of time, mate."
Liam clenched his jaw. "Fine. What do you want?"
Louis thought for a second. Then he grinned. "I want my phone back."
Liam’s expression flattened. “No.”
Louis huffed. “You’re terrible at bribing.”
“I’m not bribing you,” Liam said through gritted teeth.
“Sure you’re not,” Louis muttered, still refusing to move.
Liam looked at his watch, visibly losing patience. "Fine," Liam finally said. "You get in this elevator, and I’ll get you a coffee."
Louis eyed him suspiciously. “Like… good coffee? Or government-issued sludge?”
"Good coffee," Liam ground out.
Louis tilted his head, considering. "From a café?"
"Yes."
"With almond milk?"
"Yes."
Louis narrowed his eyes. "And one of those little brownie squares?"
Liam’s jaw twitched. “Fine.”
Louis crossed his arms. "Alright, but I’m also gonna need a new phone."
Liam’s entire body went still.
Then, slowly, he turned to face Louis full-on, expression unreadable. "A new phone?"
"Yeah, mate," Louis said, acting as if this were a completely reasonable request and not something that would make an FBI agent homicidal. "You lot confiscated mine, and I’m assuming I’ll never see it again, so, like… makes sense, doesn’t it?"
Liam stared at him for a long moment. Then, after what was clearly an internal war with himself, he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine," he bit out. "You’ll get a new phone."
Louis brightened instantly. "Oh, legend! Now we’re talking."
Liam’s hand shot up. "BUT—"
Louis froze mid-celebration.
Liam leaned in slightly, voice low and firm. "It’ll be locked down so hard you’ll barely be able to use it. Our tech guy is the best, and he will make sure the only thing you can do is play Tetris. So, don’t get excited."
Louis’ eyes narrowed. "Snake?"
"No."
Louis pressed his lips together. "Solitaire?"
"Absolutely not."
Louis squinted. "Minesweeper?"
Liam clenched his jaw. "Tetris, Tomlinson. Take it or leave it."
Louis huffed, crossing his arms. “Fine. But I want the one with the good colors. None of that off-brand pixelated bullshit.”
Liam looked like he was actively restraining himself from committing violence.
"Get. In. The. Elevator," he growled.
Louis grinned, stepping inside like he’d just closed a million-dollar deal.
"Y’know," he mused as Liam stabbed the button for the garage, "if you’d just offered a coffee and a phone from the start, we could’ve avoided all this."
Liam’s eye twitched violently.
Louis rocked on his heels, completely pleased with himself.
It was going to be a fun ride.