Chapter Text
It’s just an interview. Simple. You’re going to walk up to that door and do your best to act normal.
Will Graham knew that shouldn’t be a tall order, but lately even simple things had become challenging.
And since when has acting ‘normal’ ever been a simple thing?
He sat in his car, heavy rain on the windshield beating an impatient staccato, obscuring his view of the stately Baltimore office building that loomed in his peripheral vision.
You can’t even look the building in the eye.
‘Just focus on the typing. You know how to type.’
...and fight, and bleed, and kill… and have a complete nervous breakdown… and talk to yourself, apparently...
Will let out a heavy sigh, fogging up the windshield, blurring stark reality just enough for him to take stock. He slowly pried his fingers from the steering wheel, flexing his hands, watching as blood flowed back into his pale knuckles. His brows knit together in a scowl as he catalogued their network of bruises and scabs. Accusatory constellations. The ones on his face had cleared at least, but he had hoped they would all have healed by the time this interview rolled around, or at least be less obvious. He had even made sure to stay out of the bars in the last week… just in case… just to remove the temptation.
Since quitting the FBI… all that ugly business with Hobbs and everything that had happened since… he just didn’t trust himself out there.
But you never could entirely trust yourself, could you? Always teetering on the edge. At least Jack and the entire FBI aren’t pushing you from behind anymore. And there’s nothing about a secretary gig that should send you over a cliff.
Will’s sigh threatened to turn into an audible grumble this time. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, scrubbing at his face with both hands.
Enough. You need this.You can’t hide in Wolf Trap forever. You need some… direction… some order.
But first you have to get out of the car.
He sat up straighter, tugging at his tie in the rearview mirror. He did his best to set a pleasant smile on his face, but even to him it looked suspiciously like a grimace. His hands pushed and prodded at his hair, trying to force some obedience into curls that had gotten just a bit too long; a haircut having been that one thing too many leading up to this.
Just getting ready for this interview had been overwhelming. The world was insinuating itself once again, everything spinning just a bit too fast, a few too many decisions to be made, doubts to squash, impulses to smother. Will knew that work, real work, was what he needed to pull him out of this tailspin, but trying to claw himself out of this downward spiral, to get back at least the semblance of a life, he found that every single step was like fighting against a current. Even the idea of getting a haircut. Will felt like his feet were mired in a streambed that had once given him at least the illusion of place and purpose.
He wanted to work; he had always felt purpose in being of service, craved it even. That sacrifice of self at the altar of something bigger than himself; a kind of necessary penance, paid in light of all those dark compulsions he’d tried to keep buried. That was what the FBI had given him. But it had also given him madness, and twisted indulgence, and it had taken more from him than he could bear to lose.
Will gave himself a hard look in the mirror. He certainly didn’t look like a killer. Regardless of whether or not Jack had called it justified. He didn’t look like a violent man.
Probably why they always look so surprised when you land that first punch.
He’d done his best to pretend he could just leave that world behind; be the captain of his little house in Wolf Trap, cast adrift on a lonely but manageable sea. But the world had crept up on him once again.
Or have you been creeping up on it? Stalking from the shadows?
He knew this was closer to the truth.
The truth was Will Graham had been fighting. For months. Since quitting the FBI, he’d been frequenting the worst bars in Wolf Trap, just to find someone volatile and dumb enough to take his bait. He wasn’t proud of it, but that hadn’t been enough to stop him.
You don’t feel guilty because you always lose.
He knew this was also true, or at least part of the truth. Will didn’t fight to win. He fought to let loose that vicious thing inside him just long enough for it to take the edge off, only to go down in a haze of cleansing pain and blood as he purposely let the tables turn. It was in those final moments, the taste of his own blood in his mouth, the sharp thud as someone’s flesh impacted his own… Will knew he was going off the rails, but still he felt it helped him somehow. The pain cleared out the chaos of his thoughts in a way nothing else could. It left him feeling dirty, but clean, spent but refreshed, shameful but ecstatic all at once.
You can’t keep it up though. This isn’t sustainable. You have to find something else, something… better. Something healthier.
These same thoughts had been rattling around his head as he’d stumbled from the bar a week ago, still reeling from his last fight; the music from inside muffled and tinny as he’d eased his way down to the curb.
Better that than fall.
It had been a semi-satisfying interaction; the other guy had been quick to turn things around on him, bloodying his nose and getting in a few good kicks when he went down. But as usual, it had been over too quickly, leaving Will chasing a feeling he didn’t fully understand but knew he needed; one he had no idea how to satisfy or why he even wanted to.
He’d bled all over the sleeve of his shirt before fishing a newspaper out from the top of a garbage can to wipe his face.
Not your finest moment.
At least he had forced himself to go for the middle part of the paper - cleaner he hoped - fishing for the classifieds since no one ever looked at those anymore. Wiping the blood from his face, he’d sat down heavily on the curb once again, completely at a loss for what to do next, only sure that he had to do something. Something more than this. Some kind of direction.
Is this rock bottom?
He still couldn’t be sure why he’d bothered to uncrumple that bloody newspaper - probably just hoping to distract himself from the despair that had hovered around that thought - but there, in stark, classic lettering swimming under bright crimson, had been something that had felt surprisingly like a possible answer...
Secretary Wanted.
Dr. H. Lecter. Psychiatric private practice.
Typing and good manners essential.
Must follow direction.
Will let his gaze drift away from the rearview to eye the front door of the office one last time. It had all seemed so simple there on the curb. Something to focus on. Something to drown out the endless buzz and whir of his traitorous and overactive mind. Something… normal.
Must follow direction.
He’d balked at that, of course; he’d always been one to buck at authority… salty with his superiors and sullen when forced to work with others… it had always stood directly at odds with his desire to be useful; but there was something about that simple line that had resonated with him in some way, something that hinted at that quiet calm he had associated with the taste of blood in his mouth.
Direction.
Secretary.
It had felt right, somehow. It still did.
So get out of the car.
It was almost a relief to step out into the lashing rain. Will slammed the door decisively, locked the car and scowled up at the gothic facade.
Time to fish or cut bait.
There was no list of names on the steel plate screwed into cream stone. Just one: Dr H Lecter. And only one buzzer.
He owns the fucking building?
A couple of deep breaths, a hand passed over gleaming wet hair in another sorry attempt to tame it, and he pushed the button. A few seconds and he was buzzed in.
He’s not going to check who I am?
Curiosity shouldered aside his natural caution and he stepped into a cool, tiled vestibule. Before him, a second door, leading presumably to the doctor’s office. Will had barely enough time to wipe his shoes on the mat before the sound of footsteps, and the inner door swung open, and he found himself face to face with the most striking man he had ever laid eyes on. Immaculate side swept hair, tawny, clipped to frame an angular face. Enigmatic eyes and a polite, professional smile. A tall, athletic frame hugged by a suit in various shades of red, patterns clashing madly, the whole effect at once daring and quaint. Confidence exuded in the tilt of his head, his economy of movement.
Sharp. Precise. He’s all edges.
Bizarrely, the thought calmed him.
‘Mr Graham.’ His voice was deep and mellow. Granular. Sweet.
Fuck.
‘Doctor Lecter?’
‘Indeed. And thank you for being punctual. Please, come in.’
Said the spider to the fly.
Cursing his wayward thoughts, Will followed the doctor inside, and found himself in a small but well-appointed outer office.
‘This is where you would work.’
Wooden desk, typewriter (typewriter? For show, surely...), maroon rug, a couple of antique chairs, some kind of spiky plant growing halfway up one grey wall. Off to the right, a narrow corridor opened out into what was clearly a waiting area.
‘And this is the main entrance to my office.’ Doctor Lecter nodded towards a frost-panelled wooden door in front of them and gestured for Will to precede him. ‘I have a separate exit for patients.’
He’s so economical. Eloquent. With his body. With his words. Bet his office is a monument to minimalism: whitewashed walls and a sleek glass desk.
He opened the door and stepped inside. His eyes widened. Three grey walls and one red.
Really red.
Floor-to-ceiling red and grey-striped drapes.
Bold colours for a psychiatrist’s office.
Galleried, colonnaded, filled with artifacts, books, paintings, cabinets, a rosewood desk. A mishmash of styles. And yet somehow it worked. Something about a clarity of taste.
He makes art out of chaos.
Taking a seat behind his undeniably solid desk - upon which Will spotted a copy of his resume that he had emailed over the previous week - Doctor Lecter indicated a chair set just in front.
‘Please, sit down.’
Will did so, uncomfortably aware of that cataloguing, calculating gaze. He sees everything. The doctor’s eyes flicked to Will’s hands, pressed tightly together, the criss-cross of scars on his knuckles telling their own sordid story. He sees too much. It made him feel vulnerable. Exposed. Instantly he wanted to shove his hands between his knees. Hide the evidence. No, stay still. But it was an effort. And he felt with a sting the aesthetic differences between them.
Shabby versus chic.
‘Tell me a little about yourself.’
Hands clasped before him, elbows resting on the polished wood, Doctor Lecter smiled politely, eyes fixed on Will’s face. Immediately, Will felt pinned in place.
Trapped in amber.
When he failed to reply, the doctor’s eyebrows lifted fractionally.
He’s not used to being kept waiting. Interesting.
‘How did you get here this morning?’
‘Car.’
‘Is it your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you live in an apartment?’
‘House.’
‘In Wolf Trap, Virginia.’
‘Uh huh.’
That earned him a raised eyebrow.
Why am I testing him? Why do I want to?
‘Not an inconsiderable distance.’
‘An hour and a half drive.’ Will shrugged, noting how the doctor pursed his lips at the gesture.
And at the closed answers?
The idea that he might be sassing himself out of the job gave him pause. When had he gotten so defensive? He forced himself to unfold arms he hadn’t even realised he’d crossed.
Maybe it’s time to give a little.
‘I like long commutes. Gives me time to think. And I worked in the city before… before…’
‘Yes, I am aware,’ Doctor Lecter cut in smoothly.
With eyes still intent on him, the doctor picked up a slim remote device and pressed a button. Instantly, pinpricks of light drew Will’s attention to a mossy diorama of exotic flowers showcased on a tall plinth within a delicate hoop of gold. Another click released a mist of water, highlighted in swathes of silver, fine droplets kissing the surface of the delicately bowed petals.
‘Nice black orchids. Unusual.’
‘Thank you. Baker’s Dark Angel. A particularly fine species. Of course, their appearance is deceptive. The only truly black orchids are found in the jungles of Papua, New Guinea, but it is illegal to remove them from the island.’
Will took a breath, collecting himself. Fascinated by the doctor’s sudden animation. Grateful for the segue.
Almost as if he knew I needed a moment.
‘I imagine your clients find them soothing.’
‘Yes, I suppose they would.’
A short pause and the interrogation began anew. ‘Do you live alone?’
Will cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. That is, I have dogs, but yeah...yes.’
‘How many dogs?’
A stain of colour rose to his cheeks. ‘Seven. I have a habit of collecting strays,’ he added, a trifle defensively.
‘Admirable.’ The doctor’s tone gave nothing away, but there followed a sensual almost-smile.
Sensual? Where the hell did that come from?
Will lowered his gaze.
‘Not fond of eye contact, are you?’
‘Eyes are distracting.’
As, it turns out, are downturned, sculpted lips. And cultured, accented voices. And loud check suits teamed with floral ties.
‘Do you have a significant other?’
Will looked up, bristling again. ‘May I ask how that’s relevant?’
The doctor stared back at him, unblinking. ‘My previous secretary was predisposed to romantic whims. Followed her heart to the United Kingdom. I am looking for reliability.’
‘Okay,’ Will answered slowly, arrested by sudden realisation.
I can’t anticipate his train of thought. Perhaps that’s why I find him so compelling.
Will eyed the man in front of him before formulating an answer. The doctor's eyes seemed to support and challenge him in equal measure, an almost imperceptible smile flirting across full lips, betraying a sort of amused curiosity. It sent a strange jolt through his stomach.
Perhaps that's not all I find compelling.
‘I guess that’s fair. And the answer’s no. It’s just me, and that’s the way I like it.’
It wasn’t bravado. Being gifted with empathy was anything but a gift when it meant being able to see right through the most watertight of date-cancelling excuses. Or knowing instantly when someone you were attempting to flirt with started zoning out. Thinking about their ex. Or their dinner. Or the weather.
‘Hm. Have you ever won an award?’
Finally, an easy one.
‘Yes.’
Although...
‘For what did you win the award?’
‘Typing.’ He tried not to spit the word out.
‘I see.’ Doctor Lecter tilted his head fractionally, assessing. ‘You distinguished yourself as a police officer in New Orleans before going on to study forensic science at George Washington University; your subsequent work for the FBI’s Violent Crimes division was so outstanding, it earned you teacher tenure at the FBI Academy; yet it is your award for typing that you choose to speak of.’
‘It’s my award for typing that will get me the job, isn’t it?’
Again the slight smile. ‘You don’t wish to discuss your past career?’
‘I don’t wish to be psychoanalysed.’
Please don’t get boring.
‘I’m sorry, Will. Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off, ex-FBI or not. It’s ingrained in both of us.’
Will. We. Us. Unexpectedly intimate and unsettlingly pleasant. Nope, definitely not boring.
The doctor pulled towards him a leather bound notebook and plucked from it a handwritten sheet of paper.
‘Would you take this through to the outer office and type it up, please?’
Slightly taken aback, Will hesitated, before reminding himself wryly that this was, after all, a big part of the job for which he was applying.
‘Of course.’ A hint of mischief prompted him to add, ‘Sir.’
Doctor Lecter paused, hand outstretched, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Will was entirely unprepared for the consequent kick of arousal that caused him to blush for the second time, and he almost grabbed the sheet from the doctor’s grasp in his hurry to absent himself.
Well, that came back around to bite you on the ass. Nice one.
Closing the office door behind him with a soft click, he leaned against it momentarily before remembering that his outline would still be visible, frosted glass or not. He jerked away, cursing beneath his breath, and his eyes fell to the page he was gripping.
Fine paper. Oyster. Textured. Sloping handwriting. Extravagant. He’s used a fountain pen. A fucking expensive one.
He headed for the desk, placed the paper down and smoothed out the creases. Looked around for a computer, laptop, tablet. Anything remotely electronic. Nothing. Just the blue Selectric II typewriter (again, fucking expensive) that he’d sneered at on his way in.
Joke’s on you.
A quick recce of the desk drawers revealed paper and ribbon. One part of him seethed at the associations. What’s next? Coffee with sugar, Sugar? But another part - the part that had brought him here in the first place - drew comfort from the utter simplicity of the task.
Thread the ribbon, insert the paper, clackety clack. Job done. Order followed. Mind quiet.
It was a short piece, and he was almost finished before he registered what he was typing.
Poi la svegliava, e d’esto core ardendo
Lei paventosa umilmente pascea:
Appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.
Is he a romantic or a satirist?
Amused, he walked back through to the main office with an unaccustomed spring in his step, brow quirked.
‘You’re not about to ask me to eat a burning heart out of your hand are you, Doctor?’
He handed over both sheets to his prospective employer, who responded without missing a beat.
‘Not until I have checked your references thoroughly.’
Touche.
He sat back down. Doctor Lecter leaned forward, eyes intent. Will found himself mirroring the gesture. It was hypnotic, this pull.
‘Do you really wish to be my secretary, Will?’
My secretary. A hop, skip and a jump from my to mine.
A jolt of warmth spread through his belly. He licked his lips. Dark eyes followed the movement.
Do I want this?
‘I really do.’
‘You scored more highly than anyone I have ever interviewed, although given your background that is hardly surprising. You must know that you are overqualified for this position.’
Will swallowed, an unpleasant thought curdling in his belly.
Is he going to reject me? After all this?
‘Yet you chose to interview me anyway,’ he shot back, resenting how unsettled even the prospect of rejection made him feel.
Vulnerable. Abandoned. (Abandoned? When did I start expecting something from this?)
‘I was curious.’
‘And now?’
Hanging on for a favourable verdict. Hating how much it mattered.
‘I am still curious. This is a long way from the FBI, Will. In my considered opinion, you would be bored to death.’
‘I want to be bored.’ He spat it out; couldn’t prevent the emphatic tone. No longer a game. No longer a case of idle curiosity or something to get him out of the house, out of his toxic headspace, out of his mind...
Fuck. I really want this job.
Their eyes locked. A gleam turned the doctor’s gaze to warm honey. Inviting and comforting.
Rewarding.
‘You intrigue me, Will. At the risk of being accused once again of psychoanalysing you, I would say that you are very - closed off.’
Will took a slow, deep breath. The finishing line was tantalisingly close.
Don’t blow it now. Be honest. Give a little.
‘I build forts. Old habit.’
The gleam intensified. ‘Then let’s see if we can’t break it, Mr Graham.’
They shared a smile. It tasted sweet.
One final thought.
This could get addictive.