Work Text:
He looks sad and lonely and you want to approach him - that's it, that’s the end.
You don’t stand a chance. Temptation has heartbreak blue eyes and that you should know better is the curse curse curse - but you don’t stand a chance against the urge to help a stray.
You don’t stand a chance against Will Graham.
See, when you go to the park you usually find faces you recognize—not always matched up with human names, but certainly to their dogs' names. You've seen his face before, but never here, in this park. His is a rare face with a name and no dog: Mr. Graham in a conversation. Will Graham in a signature. Will, but only in your head.
He has a dog today.
His expressions shuffle—startled-annoyed-contemplative—as you politely introduce yourself as a volunteer at the no-kill animal shelter where he occasionally brings in strays. Cute dogs with good turnover time for adoption, you've noticed. More than once, he's examined a holding-period animal in a crate, and indicated a dog is merely lost rather than abandoned (by owners who will search for their pet, anyway). He has good intuition. There's shelter gossip about him, something about a blog... you don't follow most of it. What you hear isn't kind.
You point out your dog. Whistle. Your silly puppy reluctantly turns away from sniffing and roaming to trot over to you. You ask who is this, stalwart by Will Graham's side?
Winston. Winston went to the vet today for the first time, and they're stopping in the park just to give them both a bit of rest and a... "positive experience." Will bares his teeth around the idea.
The dogs sniff each other and wag their tails.
Will has the diverted stare of a wounded animal, and your lizard brain intuition whispers to tread softly.
You make idle chatter - about the dogs he's brought in, every one placed in, hopefully, forever-homes. You don't mention Winston is bigger than they prefer to take at the shelter - it's not a big house, very Mom and Pop - but he's cute in a scrappy way (like his owner, you don’t say, you don’t say). The shelter would probably make an exception, but it doesn't matter. Winston and Mr. Graham ("just Will is fine") are clearly bonded.
You're glad. You used to wonder if he was allowed to keep dogs wherever he lived.
He smiles, sharp and tense, and shares how he's got a pack and property out in Wolf Trap.
(Wonder if he's single. Wonder if he's ever been married. Not out loud.)
You ask: how many dogs does he have, then?
Several. Winston makes seven.
Seven dogs is either a recommendation or a warning flag. You take the gamble. You ask: would he like to get coffee sometime?
This time he takes a steady glance over you, meets your eyes, and the intensity in that gaze prickles the skin of your arms. He breaks away like glass, and nods at the ground.
You might prefer something more creative, but scripts, routines, and etiquette all have their uses. You don't want to be too sudden or abrupt. Softly, softly.
You'd text him, but Will's phone doesn't have text. It's a battered flip-open antique he's clearly had for ages.
Are you brave enough to tease him about it? Smile, and notice that he blushes even as his mouth curves down petulant and little-boy-sulking?
You've got a date with the prettiest boy you've ever met. He might be older than you, but he’s the prettiest... and the saddest, you can tell, and those traits are never entwined without a reason.
You know that. It doesn't help.
The place you pick - Will doesn't have an opinion about coffee except, "hot?" and a shrug - is a small place not far from the park. It wants to be a hole in the wall, but the front windows are too beautiful; the building is very old.
The furniture is just old. They are weary, threadbare creatures with stories more sordid and banal than the building itself and without the solid endurance to bear them down.
You step on pale bamboo laminate, and your eyes look over walls and a ceiling painted red, broken up by bursts of work by local artists— huge canvasses of bleached and freckled abstract pieces that look like wastelands, moonscapes, aerial views of pyramids in a desert, and limestone ruins. Across these oxidized realms are rusty red splotches and drips and streaks that look like lakes and rivers and coppery seas. Blood and chlorine and salt. Fantasy worlds of bone and flecks of skin.
Will isn’t here yet.
You take the two sour yellow stuffed chairs in the front corner. The chairs are set against the stately windows to obstruct the outside view of the rusty bar stools at the counter, and have a Lite Brite coffee table between them to fiddle with. Your jacket saves your chair - your bag, the chair for Will.
The best part about this place is what should be the best: the selection is impressive, the drinks very good.
Big black chalkboards hang over the counter, covered in scrawling, crowded script. It takes time to read them. New customers are obvious here, because there's something unnerving about having too many choices.
The coffee shop keeps some special with a seasonal rotating variety of hot and cool special drinks, like pumpkin spice and mint chocolate chip lattes. Iced chai tea and hot peppermint tea and salted caramel coffee are available all year. Half of one chalkboard is dedicated to bubble tea flavors, banana and sour plum and almond and more, chalky and clear, and made with black or green tea. You can substitute the gooey tapioca balls for crayon-colored gummy chips, if you prefer. Or choose between energy drinks with immature names, fizzy concoctions in glass bottles, and hot chocolate in milk, dark, and white flavors.
On the counter are barber pole candy sticks and crystalline rock candy on wooden stirrers set between jars of biscotti and cookies. This is the place with the pads of ice cream covered in chewy, flavored mochi, too, remember?
You make your decision. Sit in your chair again, and wait. You feel the cold snapping fear of being stood up that happens when you arrive first. When you arrive just a bit early. Too eager. You approached him first, too.
The chime rings, and Will steps in, looking flushed and harried. He's got his glasses on. His clothes make him look like a grad student, maybe a teacher's assistant. No tie. He runs a hand through his hair —shaking— and looks around. The twitch of his mouth when he sees you is clumsy.
You grab your bag and step near with light feet.
Will glances at the wall of paintings. "Interesting place. The blood red walls are...uh, soothing."
A hole in the wall of a heart. You joke that looks like a serial killer designed the interior, but at least the drinks are good. Killer, even.
Will lets that hang in the air a moment before he says, "Yeah. It does." He orders something simple.
The cups, when they are ready, are printed with flowers and bubbly undersea scenes. Will's cup is lotus and goldfish, while you get poppies.
The conversation peters around and sticks to dogs, at first.
You knew – saw it the first time you met, and you were warned, too, by whispered rumors - about the broken glass he's got inside. He's flushed and he's just a bit too sharp, oh Will, too cutting. You make him nervous. Bristling.
Aside from some teens in the back, hunched over sketchbooks and not very loud, the only other thing you can hear in your pauses is music - which must come off some CD mix made for coffee houses; soothing and vague, a dreamy singer repeating "do do do" over and over.
You feel the pinning sensation of his gaze, even as he keeps his head slightly ducked so his glasses can subtly block you out. You also feel the squirming, parasitic suspicion that he can read your history, written like a crime scene. You might hope you look like one of those lurid, absurd murders that make the news, perhaps— but maybe you're just a mess. (What's your personal carnage?)
Ridiculous, you think, but you put a pin in that suspicious feeling.
Will tells you he’s a teacher. Nothing more.
You talk about painting, and around working in a restaurant to make ends meet– about how many years you've worked at the shelter and how satisfying it is, even if it makes you trust people a bit less at times.
Will laughs – it sounds like a cough he can’t manage to smother, but he smiles as he agrees. His job makes it hard to trust people, too.
All seven of Will’s dogs are rescues — “That number is illegal in some states,” “I know, I know,” — and mutts of various sizes. He tries to find homes for the dogs he thinks have a good shot at it–
“Is that a way of saying you keep the ugly ones? Because Winston’s a cutie, so I know that can’t be right.”
“No, Winston is… kind of an exception.” He rubs a hand over his stubble.
He doesn't have photos of his dogs, and isn't that heartbreaking? You make up for it by showing your own pics.
Before the date concludes, you've left the coffee shop to show Will a nearby pet boutique. It only takes a few minutes to walk there. Will holds the door when you leave the coffee shop, and then again when you enter the boutique.
The second time, he catches your expression. “Do you mind?”
You shake your head. “Only if you feel obligated.”
“I don’t. I want to.” Will gestures with a hand, trailing off and trailing behind you.
The pet boutique is not as nice as the coffee shop: small, crowded, and skewed towards novelty over practicality in merchandise, but it stocks your chosen brand of dog food and the owners are friendly.
You help Will pick out a new collar for Winston. Will says it’s a thank you gift, with a tiny smile.
Will carries the heavy bag of dog food with surprising ease and walks you back to your car.
It is a pleasant date, overall. The experience feels like a bubble in a daydream – delicate, buoyant, and not even close to being real.
Your apartment in Baltimore is about the size of a shoebox, but at least it's your shoebox, and you don't have to share it with anyone except your dog. Within walking distance is a grocer, which is helpful when your little stove riots and strikes, and you're muddling between the aisles when you catch sight a very familiar face.
Will looks ashen, pale, his skin almost waxy with the slick shine it has. His hair is damp, like he's been in the rain.
For a moment, you see Will standing in a field of antlers and red poppies. The tines pierce his feet as he walks toward you, and his legs are torn apart. Blood drains until he's ghostly pale and empty in his skin.
You blink. The vision passes. The wet pallor doesn't.
He sways in front of you and his eyes are overcast.
"Will?"
"...I'm fine." He looks tired, with his head drooping and the bags under his eyelids dark and heavy. His eyes briefly flicker up to your face, at the perfect angle for puppy-dog eyes. He's got the saddest face you've ever seen on a human being.
You rattle off the title of your favorite film like it's not a big deal, asking if he's seen it.
Will shakes his head. "I don't really watch movies. Or television." You've suspected this for a while, but he’s always avoided saying so directly.
You ask why. Suspect Will’s noticeably intense empathy might be the reason.
He pauses just long enough to suggest a yes to your unspoken suspicions, but then he shrugs. "I don't have many opportunities." His hands twitch by his sides. "I don't think they're bad. But I don't have a TV."
You tap your chin. "Don’t you have a laptop?"
"Not at home."
Some of the horror must show on your face, because his begins to look darkly self-deprecating with a crooked smile.
By now, you've been on several dates - restaurants, outings at the dog park, an art gallery, to one new and two used bookstores to purchase books for each other, and to the movies only once (Will’s face mirrored every expression onscreen until he fell asleep halfway) - but neither of you have been to each other’s home yet.
The soft pace you've had so far makes this an unusually awkward step forward, but you invite him to dinner and a movie at your place, if he'd care to join you tonight. You shake your basket and explain the state of things: you were planning to do this regardless, but your stove has gone on strike and you're here for supplies. (You don't mention the unclean state of Shoebox Place, but you have a mental list of what can be tidied up in a hurry.)
You figure his place might have a working kitchen, but then there's no movie... unless he'd rather not join you?
"No, it's fine." Will blinks, and his hands twitch like he wants to grab someone. "Dinner and a movie sounds...fine. It sounds normal." His mouth swerves through a turn. "Normal's good."
You stuff your free hand into the pockets of your coat. It keeps you from reaching out, and you're not certain if Will would be tangible if you tried to touch right now.
Instead, you tell him you’ll grab more groceries since he’s coming along to help carry. It’s a soft almost-joke— because, despite how Will looks like he’d fall over from a breeze, he’s still going to try to carry things for you. He always does, or at least he always tries.
Once inside your apartment, Will offers to inspect your stove, but…the pallor of his face makes the bags under his eyes look like bruises. Another time. You do brush fingertips against his arm, then, and you can feel solid fabric.
Will takes a shower while you make a no-cook dinner and feed your silly dog, who ramps up in excitement at seeing Will. The meal is a subdued affair, though, because Will keeps getting lost mid-sentence.
You take a quick shower after. You notice the lingering humidity in the air—bad ventilation— and the bottom of the tub is wet under your toes, and the drops on the shower curtain make it stick a little before you turn on the spray. You live alone, after all, so it's uncommon to step into these reminders of another person.
When you come back into the room, you find Will sitting on the bed instead of the couch. He looks drained and bloodless again in the weak light.
You arrange a blanket around his shoulders.
His eyes are round and dark when he looks up. “Your paintings are beautiful, but sad...”
There are canvases, some finished and some work-in-progress, taking over one wall of your shabby apartment. You glance over, even though you know each one well enough. “I suppose so. Do you want to start the movie?” You settle in near him—but not too close—remote in hand, and press play.
At some point, you both shift closer. He starts to lean against you, and his hair is still damp from the shower. He dozes on your shoulder. He starts to sweat again, but you don't make him move. Will doesn't look happy or peaceful, even in sleep.
You take the risk and stroke his rough cheek.
He flinches but doesn't wake.
You stay curled up together and let the credits roll over you. Close your eyes and drift a little yourself. You feel the movement when he withdraws.
"Hey." Will lifts his head and swallows. There’s a new sheen of sweat on his skin.
You greet him and check the time rather than stare at him. Spare him the eye contact, until you can’t.
"This feels normal." He looks like a lost little boy. "It's nice."
"Yeah." You wait, and there's a buzzing in your ear like cicadas or maybe a fire al-
His smile is a breaking thing. "What time did you get here?"
You bite your lip, and slowly reach out. The look in his eyes is not precisely timid, or feral, but a thing with fear biting. You adjust where the blanket is slipping. Ask if he's okay. Ask what he means, and where he thinks he is?
His jaw sets, and he doesn't answer properly. He reads a story through the lines: your face, the room, your position. Will stands up and paces in front of the door. His arms are crossed and his voice is wretched: "I lost time."
Again, you hear.
Your dog watches with the light curiosity animals often have.
"I don't remember how we got here. I can figure out the context, and I know who you are, of course I do, but the last thing I can remember is—I was in therapy, and now I'm in…your house? I don't know what happened between then and now, or when you arrived, or how long we've been, uh-" Will jerkily waves a hand down his form and at the blanket. Cuddling?
"Should I call someone?"
"No, no. What for?" The expressions on his face shutter—thoughtful-skeptical-alarmed-peevish, before he tamps them down into something neutral and slack. He shakes his head. "No. I just need to, uh. Get my bearings. I'm not sure I'm actually awake."
You keep what you want to reply about that to yourself and don't say much, except to assure Will he is awake.
He smiles bitter lines carved into his face. "Yeah, I might be." Too-bright blue eyes roam the room. "Nothing is melting, so that's a sign that I might be awake." He tosses a hand up and tucks it across his chest, still too quick and off-kilter. Shutter-clicks. Angry-upset-bitter-pained-
"Okay." You pick at a thread in the fabric and pick through your side of today: you and Will arrived at this apartment at the same time; he drove you home. You met him at the grocery store, and invited him to dinner. He didn't mention therapy and he didn't buy anything at the store.
"I drove today?"
You look up to see Will pacing again, with more agitation than before.
"And why a groce—oh, no..." He halts, and his hunch becomes pronounced. "You know, I'd understand if you want me to leave right now.”
“You live an hour away, Will. Are you going to a hospital?”
“No. I’ll make an appointment with a doctor soon. Don’t worry. It’s okay. You don't have to feel bad about sending me away." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm serious, this is not me trying to make you feel guilty."
"Do you want to go?"
Will faces a window. Arms cross across his chest again. He looks like a scolded child, like a conviction sentence—guilty. "Don't you want me to leave? I just admitted I'm… unstable."
This is unexpected, you flippantly admit. (His laugh sounds like a bark. It's black like coffee, steeped 'til bitter. He shakes like there’s too much caffeine in his system.) It's a pity he can't remember being such nice company, or the plot of your favorite movie. He'll have to watch it again. Maybe another time, though.
He stares at about your forehead like he expects aliens to burst from it. "You're okay with this?"
Sure, even if you are worried about Will. Losing time…seems like a symptom of something serious.
His devil blue eyes are wild and fearful. Why, why do you…?
You shrug. "I like you, Will Graham." You reach out and stoke his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble with your thumb.
The tension in his form wilts a little. He stares, unfocused, like he's rooting around in his own head (or maybe your head) and finds nothing (that makes sense to him). He frowns. "Will you say that again if I don't remember it tomorrow?"
You promise, but you hope there will be no need to hold you to it.
This is what Will does not tell you until much, much later: why was he standing in that particular store? It's not close to his psychiatrist's office, nor anyone he knows…except you.
He's known exactly where you live for a while. He figured the entire area out between a few searches, your name, the proximity to the shelter and the home number you gave him once. He worked out how to get to your place from several starting points. Only when he had the information (and the apartment complex up on Google Earth) did Will realize that was a fucking creepy thing to do.
Maybe there was a normal thing inside that, of wanting to see the home of someone you like, but he could have asked- no, waited to be given the information instead of taking... Even after being invited over and vice versa, the things he can't turn off in his head made it feel like casing for a murder, and his actions that day?
In the time he lost, but he can reasonably guess about: after not-therapy with Dr. Lecter, Will drove to your apartment, watched you walk down to the store, and followed you inside after a few minutes.
(He thinks, he hopes, he's fairly sure he didn't break in and mess up your stove beforehand.)
He’s been to your home, so it’s only fair that you visit his, too.
Will lives out in Wolf Trap, which is not a cheap place to settle. You drive out on a Saturday. You're not sure what you were expecting, but when the car stops, before the engine turns off, you unbuckle your seatbelt and dart out. You inform him of the ridiculous cuteness of his little house.
Will abruptly laughs, surprised—a rusty sound. "If you say so." He rubs a hand over his jaw. "It's... a house."
A lovely little two-story farmhouse. White, with shutters so cute they look (almost?) impractical.
Your dog was pretty good in the backseat of Will's Volvo while moving, but clamors at the window at the sight of you both outside. (And there's so much dog hair on the seat that the towel you brought is completely unnecessary. That's a relief, isn't it?)
You say wait and continue looking over the front—like a fairy tale cottage, dogs instead of dwarves—while Will fiddles with his keys at the door.
"Ready?" he tosses over his shoulder. He pushes his glasses up.
Then comes scampering sound of paws. A lot of paws, as it turns out.
"One, two, three...four, five...six, and- seven! You really do have seven dogs, Mr. Graham." They crowd around you and you spin in circles to count them all. You drop to a crouch and show the back of your hand for curious noses to sniff. "That's amazing. Can you tell me all their names again? Except for Winston, of course."
Winston head-butts your hand, and his tail whirls like a helicopter when you pet him.
Will rallies off the names of each mutt (and they are mutts, completely) as they introduce themselves to your offered hand, from the brave Buster to the charming Winston you know very well.
After letting them sniff around, Will gets them in line (quickly, efficiently, impressive to watch) and you let your dog out before someone dies of excitement. On a leash, just in case. Your dog is perfectly okay with other dogs, and the introduction goes over well. There's a good ten minutes of mutual sniffing in the yard.
Will holds the door open, and the dogs trot in at their leisurely follower’s pace after you. “I said I haven’t cleaned up yet, and… I haven’t.” You know little about his work, but enough to know that he’s been wound tight over some extra project he’s doing.
“I told you I wanted to see the authentic version,” you remind him.
You notice the bed in the room almost immediately and wonder aloud if he only uses this one room in a house this big? (What's was your upbringing like? A two story house is big, right? Compared to the tiny apartment you now have in Baltimore, this place is a palace.)
Will nods, eyes averted. "I only really need this much room... I grew up living in trailers down south, myself."
(Biloxi. He mutters something about a damn yankee mispronunciation, and do you know how to say the name, or does Will need to coach you with a smothered grin?)
The other things you notice are—
it's sour—it smells—you insist on opening all the windows in his pretty boat-house and there's a grateful breeze
fishing rods on the walls like bars and glittering bits of color on the desk and jars and bottles on the one side
a boat motor, a piano, dog beds around an electric heater and a fireplace on the other side
pieces remind you of certain homes and shops, like the coffee shop from your first date, where the furniture and rugs are all worn and second-hand with fabric that's rough on bare skin, but as seats they're not uncomfortable, and if it's ugly, it's intentional. This doesn't feel intentional. You're tempted to touch, see if his things are what those places try to look like: worn in a way that takes off an edge, soft and comfortable.
It’s too late to ask, but you do: "Can I look around?"
"You can, if that's what you want." Will tosses his bag and his coat. He once said he doesn't take work home, so the bag lands softly. "There's not much to see."
You don't see a TV or a computer, but there are a lot of books on his shelves, and piles near his bed. Various topics, fiction and non-fiction. There are figurines of dogs on the windowsill, and he startles you, when you pick one up, with a mock-accusing, What are you doing? over your shoulder. You don't let him off about them, and he tries to spin around six and a half different origin stories to explain why he has them. You try to pick out what sounds most reasonable (the answer: probably none of them). He distracts you with a hand on the small of your back and guides you away.
He shows you his pretty lures— he doesn't fish too regularly but there's a stream he likes not too far from here actually, and plans for another day are made.
You talk about the dog beds and whether or not he lets them sleep with him ever —yes, on cold nights, there's not much better than a pile of quilts and warm dogs— and snow and ice and subjects normal and domestic.
There are more books on his kitchen table among a scattering of unfinished mugs (quickly collected) and various metal parts with no obvious origin (brushed aside). Greasy smears suggest the boat motor has been on the table once or twice, though. Will makes instant coffee and looks on-edge, but doesn't apologize for the quality – but you drink and placate him anyway.
Will has something to do (says it’s not work for the school, but shies around what, exactly, it is), so you and Buster investigate upstairs. The rooms are empty and unswept, with dust everywhere. There's peeling yellow wallpaper in a few rooms. It looks almost abandoned. Mysterious. Ghosts could live in these rooms.
There's one room that looks more recently ransacked. There's an open closet and a chest of drawers and no bed, only dust like the chalk outline of a body where one once rested. It's probably the one downstairs.
You peep through the window and across a field. You open it and notice how you could step out onto the roof.
Imagine doing so on a clear night with the stars overhead. Out here, there's probably a lot.
You call down how it’s official: you love his house. Also, does he know anything about stars?
You were warned about night sweats and nightmares, when you decided to stay over. You were warned about Will Graham, long before you reached out.
Will sweats in his sleep and his nightmares boil over. He jerks awake, drowning and gasping, and it takes a minute for his head to clear enough to see the room. He looks at you, and your eyes, wide, look back.
You were warned, but he won't try to make you stay away. Can't. Can't.
You sit up. Peel off the sweat soaked shirt, lifting from the bottom hem, different from how he'd pull it off—Have to half-cajole, half-drag him away from the bed ("there's no point, I'll just keep sweating") and into the shower.
He's not sure he isn't still dreaming when water hits his face. It feels like I’m fading.
You bring in clothes and a towel. He struggles to answer ("I feel lost") when you ask— so, you pull back the curtain and step in. You tug on his hair to get him to tip his head down. You sweep away the curls from his face, and Will sways into your hand. You cup his cheek and Will trembles and won’t meet your eyes.
A dollop of dollar store shampoo foams and removes the acrid sweat, and his curls squeak when you’re done rinsing them. His eyes closed sometime during washing his hair and stayed closed until a light touch in the climb of his neck startles him awake. He exhales quickly, a un-gasp.
Where his matted curls reminded you of washing a dog, brusque and impersonal, touching skin flushes you both with the intimacy of the situation. You let your hands linger around his shoulder bones and it's slightly a relief when he finally moves and takes up a bar of soap. You do help with his back, his shoulders, his arms. He's doesn't have conditioner for his hair.
"Is this normal?" He peels you with a glance. (He's not talking about products.)
Somehow, you are not bleeding, but your voice is raw: "I don't know."
Under the spray, your nightshirt has gotten wet. It makes his touch feel strange, hands trailing up your slimy cloth-coated side before he plucks at the fabric, (Will smiles crookedly, at both of you) before he drags down the t-shirt collar, below the bones, to put suck marks on your skin.
"I dreamt about you." His mouth is wet.
"Bad dream?"
"Nightmare." He crushes you against the tile when he holds on.
Will, from what you've seen, is like a nerve, scraped of skin and covered in sand—pain pain pain. If only you could wash away the filth clinging to his wounded mind. You must settle for a gentle towel gathering droplets of water.
Will is pliant like a doll you can move around and dress up. He trembles when you hook an arm around his waist to help him get back to the bedroom.
You borrow some clothes for sleepwear (your soaked attire goes into the washing machine) and fetch fresh sheets while Will sits on the edge of his bed. The towel rests like a blanket over his hunched shoulders, and his head lolls, unsupported. His hair isn’t dry yet, and drips on his thighs.
Some of the dogs are curiously milling around, making you step over them.
You decide not to ask about the dream; Will hasn't volunteered more details, making it clear he doesn't want to talk about it anymore.
You touch the damp curls at his forehead and notice how his skin is warm. "Let’s take your temperature."
He's an adult-size little boy with those round eyes, shaking his head quickly to avoid trouble. "I'm fine. It's just a nightmare." He pauses. "And a headache."
"Will…"
"If I still don't feel well tomorrow, you can do… whatever you want." he gestures vaguely.
You press your hand to his forehead again. Warm, but not overly so. You sigh. “Take something, at least.” He’s got aspirin by his alarm clock, and you sigh again. “You want to go back to bed?”
He nods.
In the newly-made bed, you sit with Will's head in your lap, petting his drying hair. You convinced him: “I'm not sleepy. I'll watch for nightmares," and after a pause, during which Will folded his bottom lip under his top and looked boyish again and yearning, he tentatively obeyed. He put the towel down before he stiffly rested his head, and then shudder-sighed when your hand slid into his hair and thumbed his earlobe.
Softly spoken against your thigh: "Do you think I'm broken?"
Might be. Maybe.
You might know a little bit about being broken. You're filled with blood and most people are afraid of that.
Without an answer, he continues. "Too broken to date?" The question should be sour, but instead Will sounds lonely and sad.
You wind a strand of his hair around your finger and release it. "I don't accept the idea that only people who are… whole, or fixed, are allowed to have relationships. Everyone has something."
His wry smile is pressed into your leg.
You hum and stroke the back of his neck. Light fingertips against his nape makes Will shudder and squirm, so you play with his curls instead. They're dry, now, and noticeably more unruly than usual. You wonder if they'll get cut soon, and mourn the thought.
You have to stretch to make it, but you reach your bag without jostling Will too much. You slide it over and pull out a sketchpad. You've got a few sketches and some photos saved on your phone of Will, but dogs are far more agreeable (apathetic) subjects. He’s not smiling in any of them.
Initially, you thought Will simply didn't smile a lot, but, no, that was wrong. Will certainly does smile, but not for good reasons; he smiles with sarcasm, in bitter knowledge, when there's nothing else he can do (except cry), and even, on occasion, as a polite, tense thing. Will has so many types of unhappy smiles.
Red flowers and white bone and Will baring his teeth, fragile and trembling-
You exorcise the images burned into your mind as you sketch.
Will feels better in the morning. He thinks he slept well, and you decide to keep quiet about the multiple times he woke you up by tossing and moaning. A hand through his hair or stroking his cheek and a soft “shh” every so often made his dark, unseeing eyes crack open for a second before he’d drop back into sleep that refused to stay gentle.
If you did tell him, rather than go to the hospital or speak to a professional, Will would likely avoid letting you take care of him again. You don’t know if you could bear it.
Around Will’s property and the surrounding properties are trails for running and hiking. All the dogs run loose ahead while you and Will walk hand in hand under live pine and over dead needles.
He leads you to the stream nearby, and—maybe you're not the fishing kind of patient, or maybe you're just distracted today, but you sit up on the riverbank with a book (one of those new books they design to look like old ones, a hardback classic) and watch Will fish.
By the tilt and manner he holds his head, Will watches you back.
It's fun, in a high school sort of way, to steal glances and pretend you're both not looking.
Later, you two go running with the dogs and at the end you race. You outrun him. He's lean, he's wiry muscle, but you've got faster legs. You can outrun him. Will is relieved. He's so relieved about this fact and his smile is less black until it breaks.
The dogs find it first.
It's a body. It's a corpse, or what’s left of one, strung from the trees like a doll or some modern art piece. The decomposing head is dusted white and sagging with blood and gravity - enough to expose the bone of one cheek. Their eyes were gouged out cleanly, and a flower rests between the lips.
Below the neck, there’s more skeleton than flesh. The ribs, in particular, are prominent: scraped clean and bleached to brightness; they removed everything inside their upper cavity and filled it with blooming red flowers, instead.
Will covers your eyes with his hands and tells you don't look, please, don't look. His voice sounds like someone sanded the inside of his throat, or like flowers suddenly grew wild inside him, too. He says you need to leave and holds on tight.
He makes the call with one hand, your face tucked against flannel - close up it's easy to see why he wears it. He's warm. You can hear his heart, the beat well over 100 per minute; it's hard to count with flowers blooming behind your eyelids.
A roiling pulse—tachycardia—shock—or a ventricular septal defect—that is, a hole in the heart—
Will walks you back through the trees, glancing around for shadows and lurking figures. It's like the place is haunted (and maybe it is). He keeps an arm around your shoulders in a poor copy of draped loose and easy; your side stays tucked against his, and his hand twitches to pull you closer still.
The police arrive, along with a few men in suits and other people in white lab coats. Will starts talking to a man he calls Jack. Something in his face has shut down; shaky fright paved over for a mirror of the irritation rolling off this Jack.
An ambulance comes next. It's for you.
You don’t get inside. They give you a blanket.
You want to curl up in a hole in the wall separating the spaces of a heart. You want to sit in that warm wet pulsing alcove and read the world away.
Like this, with the smell of a corpse in your nose and questions in your mouth, you learn that Will Graham works for the FBI.
Please don’t leave me is what you don’t say. Your throat is sealed.
They don’t take you away with the ambulance, so you wait while Will goes back and… looks at the dead body. The dogs mill around you in a protective furry circle. Winston puts his head on your knee.
Will paces and takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes in front of the morbid tableaux. For once, he’s not immediately engaged by the corpse. Regardless of whether he’s fine china or an old mug, the jagged pieces of his mind are still trying to take you away from this mess, and worrying about what someone might tell you with him gone.
The sooner I get this over with… He grudgingly pushes himself into freefall.
To Jack: “There’ll be others, but this one’s for show.”
“Who’s the show for, Will?”
A bitter chuckle. “Themselves, mostly. But also me, and anyone else who’ll pay attention. This being near my property isn’t an accident. They put it here because they wanted the attention I could give them.”
“They wanted to read about themselves on Tattlecrime.com and know the FBI is looking for them.” Jack crosses his arms. It makes him look bigger. Puffed up.
Will hesitates, and shrugs. “They wanted to demonstrate their skills. It's also a trial run. They think they’re an artist, and this is a rough draft.”
“You think this is a Ripper copycat?”
“Well, they’re using the Ripper as inspiration. I don’t know if I’d call it a copycat. Different motives, at least. They like their subjects.”
"I see. So is this a preview of what’s to come, or a review of a previous kill?"
“They’re pleased enough to show this one off, but the process needs to be perfect before they do their big finale." He points to the white, chalky residue over the victim’s remaining skin. "They tried to embalm the head, but they’re not a professional. The makeup is both aesthetic and functional, to hide the effects of decay.”
"We'll find out everything used, and identify the body. In the meantime, the person you were with..."
"Yeah, Jack?"
"Don't get defensive. A friend? A date?"
"Not any of your business. Don't worry about it. That person wasn't part of the target audience like I am, Jack. Today was just a coincidence."
Jack's brows draw together. He looks like a bulldog, rolling his jaw. "All right."
Will's mind is gorgeous and useful, you learn. It's his job to be useful. His job is to look.
There are dark things skittering between souls, and he can see them all, and he lets them all inside. Some say it's just his brain chemistry, some say he does on purpose, some say— and this woman looks like a queen, like a witch, when she whispers— that he likes it, he's the same as the monsters he catches. You didn't know the apple was poison until you bit into it. You can’t stop listening to her speak, but as she does, you think—
There are werewolf stories, old versions, about men who are wolves on every day of the year except the days they're not. Except the days they're scruffy men with wild hair and awkward, biting smiles.
Love makes the werewolf stories so tragic. They are so rarely men and not wolves.
"Lounds," Will spits her majesty’s name. His arm around your shoulders pulls you away before the woman can finish extending a business card. Once you're safe, he takes your hand and squeezes.
"Who is she?"
"She writes garbage for an online tabloid."
It's vaguely familiar. (Do you remember the blog the older volunteers at the shelter read as they spread anxious gossip about Will?)
The acid fury on Will's face is yet another new sight. "She has some very developed opinions about me. She's written about me a lot." Will's grip on your hand is tight. "She spoke to you?"
"About your job. You're not just a teacher."
"No, I'm not. But I'm not what she says I am." He stops, and squeezes your hand again. His eyes hold yours for longer than he’s ever managed before.
You realize: Will is begging you to ignore or dismiss whatever Lounds might have said.
Will doesn't say sorry for leaving you to wait. He checks over your shoulder as he explains: “They needed me to look right away… There have been fights between us and the local police about who gets the collar. It’s a petty rivalry." Get the collar, get the arrest. Will is the kind of guy to put a collar on, and he knows it, too. Which kind of collar, though? Even he's not too sure.
I'm fine and everything will be alright, he doesn't say.
If only we could live inside a heart and never be cold again, you don’t say.
Will tells someone else there’s no point in positioning guards outside his house, and his word is taken without much question.
After he gets his pack situated inside, Will says he’ll drive you and your dog to your apartment. He hesitates, but he does allow you to stay when you ask, your hands buried in the fur of two dogs. Please.
“I don’t mind.” He smiles crookedly. “You being here makes me feel better, but I thought you wouldn't want to stay.”
You pick at the ragged threads of a borrowed blanket (you left the shock blanket behind) as he tells you about the monsters that aren't only in dreams. He has to stay hollow, or as he puts it: he has to keep in the right mindset, or he'll lose the "it" that makes him so valuable. Helps save lives.
Hollowed out and fluid inside. He's dripping darkness, blood and sadism, catching madmen because he can think like they do, you recall.
Madness could be contagious. You couldn't care less.
(There might be something mad in saying that.)
When there aren't any words left, you sit close together and touch wrists. His blunt fingers run over your wrist first, then yours over his, turning his hand palm up. His skin is pallid and there are veins you can see below, blue cords under white film. His wrists are heavier and thicker than yours, his hands rough, his arms strong. He's not fragile in flesh and bones.
Something black lingers around his fingernails today. Fishing and boat motors and seven dogs. Guns and whiskey, a gentle southern drawl that creeps in when he's had too much—Too much drink or too much blood and darkness? It's all in his system.
Will wants to keep you safe. Wants to keep you away from the other side of... his work, and himself. Wants to keep you. But you want to know him.
Will's psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter, does an impression of an amicable person. He's got a flattened affect, however, a blandness to his face and his micro-expressions that sits poorly under your skin. His dark eyes seem to devour light.
Perhaps he's just one of those people who bulldoze others with their good intentions.
"I told him about our first date. He said it could be considered a, ‘a clutch for balance’, but I don't think he disapproves..." Will’s lips press into a straight line.
There aren't many psychiatrists who make it a priority (or goal, psychiatrists like goals) to meet their off-the-books patient's...whatever... but Will says Dr. Hannibal Lecter is a little unorthodox in his methods. An unusual therapist for an unusual patient, though Will does do an impression, says and how does that make you feel? and talks about the funny little couch no one sits upon and the ways Dr. Lecter does fit the stereotypes. You laugh because the accent is strange in his mouth, but when you meet Dr. Lecter you discover that Will's impression of him is pitch-perfect.
So, in some ways Dr. Lecter is perfectly normal, but... His grand, imposing office makes you feel like you're trapped on a stage. Something inside deep whispers bad things and flames-
Will is like an oil spill, he says. (Slipping, slipping, no hold no purchase no grip—)
He cautions you about Will's state (slipping) and about your own safety.
By the time you leave, your eyes are full of tears.
At home, you run terms through the search engine, words like: mentally or emotionally unstable which tangents into Borderline Personality Disorder and unstable self-image, unstable emotional functioning, social instability, the antagonistic cluster of personality disorders. Hostile and impulsive. Highly changeable moods. Intense anger. Disinhibition. Little psychological insight into own motives or behavior and impaired Cognitive Empathy...? no, no that's wrong. It's a relief that there's no way that could be Will. Hyper-emotional Empathy, perhaps, though.
There's still too many cracks in this image. The reflection doesn't look—clear, especially not when paired with that other detail you know about Will, from the short chat you had with his unique psychiatrist: Empathy disorder.
Can empathy be a disorder?
Maybe the conversation with Dr. Lecter spooked you. Maybe you do need to step back, away from Will. But it's hard, isn't it? Breaking whatever it is you have with Will would feel like abandonment.
He's not a stray. You can't rescue him.
Dr. Lecter implied as much in a kind way, and Will would say the same if it came up, but part of you kicks and fights. Isn't it better for Will to be less isolated?
You haven’t been avoiding Will, but you’ve been letting him call you. Will uses an unknown number during your day off. You were using the time for painting, and you lay down a few strokes while Will explains:
"I need a favor. It’s kind of big, but I'll pay you back. I have to… I'm not going to be home for a few days, so can you…"
"Drop by and take care of the dogs?" You guess, and grin when he sighs and asks if you wouldn't mind, please, for the next few days? "No problem. I'll bring over my dog, too. Do you need me over there tonight?”
You picture his tilted smile, but his voice is surprisingly absent. “Yeah, probably…”
"Are you alright?" You hold the phone in the crook of your neck and shoulder while you start to clear things away.
“It’s work.” The word comes out rough. He clears his throat. “Can you think of how you want me to pay you back?”
“I think I want some stars.”
Will pauses. “Did you say stars?”
The soft slope of Will's roof means there's no danger in using it to stargaze. You're sure you won't slip and fall, and when you tell Will the second time (he... doesn’t quite remember your conversation or his promise), he smiles like a sickle. “I know. I’ve been up there before.”
You take a pair of blankets up to the roof, with a thermos of hot chocolate and two sizes of marshmallows. Will dresses warmly, but it's still getting colder as fall fades. He curls around you and shows you some things about navigation he’d picked up in boat yards as a boy.
The dogs wandered off once they realize they’re not allowed to come out, so it’s only you and Will.
You sit up there for some time, absorbed in the night sky. You hope to see a shooting star, and think over how you've heard we're all made of atoms from the stars. You almost share this with Will, whose chin rests on your shoulder, when he speaks in soft, slow voice.
“I've been going over the victims.”
Plural?
Will’s cheek twitches. He tells you that about a year ago, three bodies were found that share a relatively similar age, weight, and appearance to the body that was displayed. He evades sharing what happened to them specifically, just: “They were found in garbage cans with wilted poppy flowers between their lips, like discarded sketches.”
“He’s got a type. That’s good, right?" You imagine that would make the investigation easier.
Will doesn’t answer for a moment. “There’s more to go on when they have a type – part of what makes the Chesapeake Ripper so difficult to catch is the way he targets people across the spectrum of society.” A deep breath. “But in this killer's case, it’s not only a physical profile. They’re all aspiring artist types: sculpting, writing, acting. Vaguely bohemian, some political, but it varies... We’re looking into cafes, bookstores, the local theaters, and places like that.”
You think about promising to be careful, or to keep an eye out, but before you can, Will draws himself up and away from the blanket warmth.
His back and shoulders are stiffly straight, and he speaks with a tight jaw. "But I haven’t told you about the physical profile. The other victims were artists like you, and they also looked like you before he got to them. His type is you." Will puts his hand on your ankle. "And dating someone who perfectly fits the victim profile is probably in the definition of 'too close' for me."
“Oh. What happens if you get too close?”
Will swallows. “Last time I got too close, I shot a man ten times.” He licks his lips. “I mean Garret Jacob Hobbs. The Minnesota Shrike.”
"I remember. He was abducting girls and, uh, consuming them.” Will shared vague details about Garret Jacob Hobbs—he had a type, too—and his golden ticket, Abigail, but never what happened to them in the end. Will pointed to finding articles online (to Tattlecrime, you wonder?) if you wanted to know more details.
“He killed eight girls, and I killed him.” Will smiles in a crooked way and looks at you directly, unwavering. Will, with his fanatic bright eyes, wants to know if you think he's a sinner. A murderer.
You bite your lip.
It's too late. By the time you climb down from the stars, it's too late for you to be driving, and your home is too far away.
"You're trapped," he jokes, and looks away.
Will’s kisses always start soft, a gentle press of lips like a question, and you coax open his mouth as an answer.
You push him on his back. He looks gorgeous, laid out like a murder victim. Will gasps and moans like a dying man, and kisses like he's using his last breath. You taste copper in his mouth. He’ll drown, you think.
“Breathe, Will.” Under that filthy bedsheet, dog hair and sweat damp, you share breath and pretend there's enough oxygen, pretend you can live forever like this and will never die.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. His eyes are wet.
When it happens—well, you’re not exactly ready, but you feel more aware of the circumstances.
The words (“you’re trapped”) come back to you later, as remnants from a dream you lost the memory of upon waking. You crawl out of bed and stumble your way into the kitchen for a glass of water for your parched throat. Before you can find a glass, an arm hooks around your waist, pulling you back a half-step. A hand rests on your neck, just a finger's touch on your pulse where a knife ought to be. Grainy stubble scrapes across your cheek before Will whispers in your ear, presses his mouth against cartilage and tells you-
“I don't know why you're still here.” He lets you go, and your turn to see his face. He's beautiful and feverish again. He’s hotter than before and slick with sweat.
Will thinks he's a monster who hasn't fully started yet. Will shot a man ten times in the chest because he liked it, because he felt powerful, felt like justice—righteousness, bloodbaths and crusades—
"Am I scaring you?" Something in Will is infected—his eyes are red with lost sleep and the hot angry red resembles an infection. Will's eyes are infected with the sickness of this world. The color looks like cobalt glass.
"No." It might be a lie. “Should I be scared?”
Will shudders and pitches into a stumble that you catch with your side.
You slide a hand across his forehead. Fever is the body's way of fighting off infection. His job exposes him to pathogens of the mind and perhaps that's why he burns up at night.
You're going to risk getting burned by what’s inside Will, too.
He's not okay, so you don't ask. You ask him to tell you what's happening. Will?
Stumbles over the words and moves his jaw like he's prying them from clenched teeth while he explains the onset of the newer symptoms: sleepwalking, hallucinations, blackouts. "Those symptoms are new. The way I think, that part... isn't. I've always had this grotesque mindset, but…" He shakes his head.
It might be a tumor, a seizure, a blood clot. That's not something you can sew back together or soothe away.
Those glass eyes see through you. "I had a brain scan." He sneers. "Didn't find anything, but they're going to run more tests." He winds a story around you both about a girl who got sick enough to believe she was dead—to really, truly believe, and the strength of her belief took hold of her bones and made her skin rot.
"Did anyone tell her she was alive?"
Will told her.
“Did that help?”
Will doesn’t answer, but he does let you take his temperature.
You gather up a change of clothes.
“I’m not going to the emergency room for a temperature.” One thing you've known about growing up poor is how people learn to put off going to the doctor as much as possible; that upbringing combined a natural aversion to people poking at him—mind or body—means Will’s head could be on fire and he’d insist on using a shower and some aspirin to treat it.
You put your hands on your hips and stare him down.
Will stares at the floor.
When you move to continue packing the bag, Will stops you with a hand on your wrist. “I don’t understand you.” His voice splits between accusing and pleading. “You like taking care of me…?” He rubs the delicate skin with his thumb.
You kiss him on the cheek before you break away. “Would you feel better if I said I did?”
“I might.” He doesn’t meet your eyes again, but his features relax. “But I’m not entirely sure you aren’t an elaborate hallucination I’ve invented to comfort myself.”
You run a hand through his damp hair to change the way his bangs fall.
There are watery-eyed children and their guardians in the ER’s waiting room, and candy wrappers on the speckled linoleum floor. Stacks of old magazines are laid out to browse, but nothing looks interesting. You’re glad you brought a novel.
You and Will sit as far away from other people as you can manage. “I wish there was room for you to lie down.” The rows of connected chairs all have wooden armrests.
Will fiddles with the button on his cuff. “The time I put my head on your lap was nice. It helped my headache, too.”
You smile.
He rests his head on your shoulder, instead. Will is too bleary to read the book you brought for him. He floats between states of consciousness and sporadically mumbles words you can’t make out.
Finally, they put Will in a room and set up an IV. He’s dehydrated. It seems like you’ll waiting for a while.
You step in from the hall and pocket your cell. “I called Dr. Lecter, like you wanted. He said he’ll be here soon.”
Will nods. His oracle eyes are cloudy.
“Do you want a story?” You lift your book.
“I’d rather talk.”
“Okay.” You check to see your page is saved before you rest the book on your lap. “About what?”
“About us.”
You run a finger along the spine of your book.
Will hesitates before speaking. "I thought you should know: I've been hearing things since the day we met.” He stares at his hands. They clench into fists. “When you approached me, you didn't know about the FBI or my gift. All you could see was this guy who helps lost dogs and adopts strays. I wanted to be that person, if only temporarily.”
A person that wasn’t a killer, he doesn’t say. A person who isn't crazy.
"Don't pretend you didn't think of me as the quiet dog guy when you asked me out." His laugh has jagged edges and his lingering smile is a bloodied thing.
You hold the quiet for a moment before dropping: “I also liked your face.”
He laughs with less bloodshed this time. “I know. I've been told it's fraudulent. This isn't the first time someone built a flattering image in their head about me based on attraction." The flash of humor burns away. There's something of a Glasgow smile about his face without a single cut. “I thought you’d see through me, and you'd stop seeing me once you realized I'm unstable."
You lean forward and touch his forearm, the arm without the IV. “Will…”
He flinches. “I’m getting worse, but the brain scan found nothing. The tests they’re going to run here might find nothing, and if that happens, if… what if I have a mental illness?”
He says that strangely, you think. “So what if it is?”
Will’s hands twitch.
You weave your fingers with his. “I can’t make you ‘normal,’ like you probably wanted, but you asked me earlier if I liked…” You gesture around the room. “I don’t know about that, but I want to help you, because I care about you.”
The unflattering florescent lighting brings out sad shadows and the shine of sweat against Will’s pale skin. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I think: what if I lose time and wake up with my hands inside your dead body? I think about that a lot.”
“Okay.” You breathe deep. “Well, I’d like to avoid that ending, too. So, we’ll work out a plan, if we need to. We’ll find something.”
Will’s eyebrows rise, and it makes his forehead wrinkle. “You think so?”
“I think so.”
He settles into the pillow and doesn’t reply for such a long time that you’ve picked up with your book again when he speaks. "…You’re the first person who hasn't tried to run after seeing what’s going on underneath my surface." His voice is soft and low. "I don't know if that's good, but I want to keep you." His expression shifts, after that – a rising need to backtrack. "Sorry. That wasn't... sorry." He cuts off: that was what he meant. It's true.
You're the only good dream he’s ever had.
You run a thumb over his jaw. “I’m sorry, too.”
Will’s returning smile is frail.
After Will gets discharged from the hospital—given fluids and a prescription for medication you could acquire over-the-counter, test results pending, Dr. Lecter looking on with sympathy—you don't see Will for two and a half weeks. It's not the first time he's been close to silent and unable to meet because he's busy with work, but you now know how little that work has to do with teaching. It’s difficult to reign in your imagination.
Will calls at night, raven feathers in his throat, and asks please, can we talk?
It's not a bad time. He didn't even wake you. You put aside the novel you were reading and reach out to pet the dog curled against your legs, twitching with a dream.
"What about?"
"Anything. About anything." Will sounds out of breath. You picture his twitchy face on the other end of the line.
You confess to stealing single flowers: from grocery store pots, from yards where the blooms are close enough to grab from the street, from the park and the empty grassy lots you pass on your way to work. You've got a bouquet going in your kitchenette.
Will doesn't reply much - "mm" and "uh-huh" - but his breathing slows and evens out.
You tell him about what you've been reading lately (perhaps not in full detail) and that your dog is sleep-running on top of you. You talk about annoyances with this new painting, and about work.
When you have nothing left to say, he thanks you.
You smile where no one can see. "Can I see you?"
He doesn't sound eager when he agrees. You're pretty sure his work has been messing with his head, but you feel a shot of nerves anyway.
The day of your date, you linger in front of the wardrobe. It's a heavy wooden piece; like most of the furniture in your apartment, it's a second-hand, flea market-slash-antique store find.
Inside, there are oversized sweaters with wooden buttons and pearl buttons, a flight jacket and an old trench, and floral skirts and lace shorts and jeans with ragged holes at the knees, ankle boots, combat boots and ballet flats, leggings, thigh-high socks and many other pieces. There's an eclectic mix of color: baby-soft pastels, muted, faded colors and shades of cream, rich autumn hues, and summer brights and dark neutrals for you to pick and choose from.
You try to pick something that looks nice and also suits your personality perfectly - enough for Will to pick up on. He can be surprisingly perceptive about such details.
You nearly laugh at yourself: I’m feeling insecure, so I want a compliment.
The meetup spot is the coffee shop near the dog park, the location of your first date. Will is there when you arrive, but he's not waiting by the mustard yellow window chairs.
“You didn’t tell me these paintings were yours.”
You hook your arm around his. “Some of them.”
Fingers hovering an inch over the paint, he traces a flaky scale-like pattern. Common feedback said it looks like a bird’s eye view of a stone temple or some other structure, but it also resembles the inside of a cell; you went for something lofty like that in your artist's statement, anyway.
You grin, and tug his hand down. “Back then, I worried I might put you off. I didn’t realize how morbid they could look until they were hanging up here.”
Will smiles crookedly.
You order a drink for yourself (Will isn’t interested) and return to Will’s side. He’s still looking over the paintings, and you tell him, “that one’s not mine” about the ivory-toned abstract piece he’s staring at.
“I know. Uh, you sign your work.” Smiling worse than before, he wraps an arm around your waist and compliments you – on your attire, and your paintings too, of course, and he asks if you’d like to visit the boutique again, to reenact your first date.
He walks up to the counter with you and guides you out with a hand on your back.
It’s windy and crisp on the street, and Will leans even closer, enough to smell his aftershave, as the wind hits your backs and hurries along your steps. You’re walking in the opposite direction of the pet store, though.
As soon as you’re out of sight from the coffee shop, Will discards your coffee in the nearest trash can. He lifts a finger at your distress before he draws his phone and dials. “Jack, you need to check on something.” He gives the address of the coffee shop.
You freeze.
“I had another unexplained leap,” Will lies, adjusting his glasses. His hand falls as he hears whatever Jack replies back. “Or I met the artist of some of the paintings there. Fits the profile... Yes... I'm sure. Bye.” He snaps the phone shut and pockets it.
You suppose you’re not going to that pet store, now.
“No. We’re going to my place. It’s marginally safer.”
You raise your eyebrows.
Will’s eyes slide away. “Another body was found. A poet, this time. Same MO. I didn't say because I didn't want to worry you. We weren't sure if—but the new body isn't the main reason we’re headed to Wolf Trap.”
“No?”
Will’s eyes are bright above dark bags. The bruised coloring looks like he hasn't slept in the weeks you've missed him. “Do you remember what you said about the décor the first time we visited that shop? You said it looked like it was decorated by a serial killer. Today you called it morbid.”
You stare at Will, waiting for the punchline of a joke. He doesn't give one. “So, he’s picking victims through my favorite coffee shop?”
“Yeah. And they all look like you. I thought I was being paranoid, but I kept imagining…" He grimaces. “Now I know why.”
“Why?”
“Because you are at risk. You might even be the one he’s been working up to.” Will scoffs, “His opus.”
If you still had your coffee, you think you might’ve dropped it. “Oh. Okay.”
Will slows down. “We don’t have to go to my place, though.”
“I live not too far from here.” Who you’re reminding, you’re not sure. “Your place sounds better.”
In the car, you press your cheek to the window glass. Your dog is sprawled over the back seat with the overnight bag you don’t quite remember packing at your shoebox apartment.
Will breaks the silence with: “I’ll show you where I hide a few guns, just in case. Do you have any experience with shooting one?”
“You mean the gun under your desk and the one in your suitcase upstairs? I did explore your house.”
“Yeah, those. Plus the others.” Will grins with teeth.
This conversation becomes firing practice in Wolf Trap, which takes over the rest of the evening until the fading dusk sends you both inside. The skies are clouded over, and far off light makes the horizon purple and the dark blotches of trees and homes look like silhouettes.
No word from Jack Crawford.
When you wake up in the pale blue morning, Will’s side of the bed is empty. You stretch out an arm, and the sheet is cool to the touch and only slightly damp.
The dogs aren't in the room with you, either. Probably outside. The front door is open but the screen door is shut; it’s making the room drafty.
Will’s living room/bedroom combination doesn't have curtains on the windows; the better to look out from, and likely for the same reason his bed is on the first floor (paranoia). Looking out, you can see light frost: enough to wet the ground and melt before ten.
You wander into the kitchen, hoping to find Will at the stove. His cooking skills aren't precisely limited, but he does his best with breakfast foods and fish. The last time you stayed over, he put on an over-the-top drawl and offered, “Anything you want, sweetheart.” Then he explained, “But they revoked my accent because I made fairly shitty grits. I won’t try my luck again. They might come after me.”
Then you stood behind him, peering over his shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around his waist, and he made pumpkin waffles with real maple syrup, whipped cream, and a crumbly cinnamon and brown sugar topping. It tasted and looked like a dessert.
Will isn’t in his yellow kitchen this morning. The wallpaper looks unripe green in the blue early morning light, and the cold tile leeches heat through your feet. You rub your arms before you grab a glass from a cabinet and reach for the fridge. Will keeps iced tea and coffee around; it’s sugary and not the best, but he clearly buys it for you, because it’s always new and unopened.
What hits you next is a sense memory: fetching a glass, the press against your back as someone grabs you from behind, an arm around your torso…but where Will touched your neck that night, this time a hand clamps over your mouth to choke your shriek.
They force a rag to your face and it smells foul. You elbow your assailant and the blow makes them grunt, but you can’t twist out of their grip. Your limbs start to feel numb and heavy, and your vision swims away from you.
You don’t see your attacker’s face before you pass out.
You wake up in a dark box – the trunk of a car, perhaps, but you can’t see - with rough hard carpet that scrapes your cheek. Your wrists are bound tightly behind you, but they don’t hurt yet. In time, the angle will start to ache. Right now, all you feel is a vague sense of nausea. You fight it down - there’s a gag in your mouth, and you’d rather not choke on your own vomit.
You hope and hope Will is not dead.
There’s nothing to see in the trunk, but you soon notice a faint thumping sound coming from outside. You listen intently and hear the dogs barking. The sound spikes terror in your gut.
Not the dogs, you think. Please don’t do anything to the dogs.
Someone calls your name.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The trunk pops open.
Will hauls you out. He’s panting like the dogs and his hands (and bare feet) are filthy with dirt and something slippery. It’s hard for him to untie the ropes.
Your stomach doesn't appreciate the motion. You lean against Will despite the sickness rising in your throat, and you notice he’s in sleep clothes: a gray cotton shirt and boxers. “Were you sleepwalking?”
“Yeah.” Will is half-gasping. He hasn't let go of your rope-free wrists, and his palms are sticky. “I was. I’m sorry. I was supposed to protect you, but I left you alone and he took you.”
“Is he…?” You look around. The car is parked away from Will’s house. You wonder how long you've been passed out.
“He’s dead.” There are flecks of blood on Will’s face. “I found him packing the car, and he wouldn't say where you were, so I...”
“I thought you were dead.” You swallow. “You weren't there when I woke up.”
Near the front of the car rests the corpse of the killer. There’s sign of a scuffle in the muddy grass. The man’s face is bloody, nose broken, and there’s slight bruising on his neck. You don’t know who he is… or, rather, was. (Later, you will learn he was an interior designer, and the brother of the coffee shop’s owner. Later, you will learn he’s been stalking you.)
Will steps into your field of vision, blocking the body.
You look at Will, with his waxy pale complexion and bruises forming under the blood speckle, his wild eyes and filthy hands, and you think: I was warned about you. Nothing you can say, so you kiss him.
Will pulls back, shivering. “You've got blood on your cheek.”
“Not as much as you do.”
“Oh.” Will turns away, but doesn't wipe his face. He is still shaking.
Winston sits down close to your leg. You cross your arms. “Come on, let’s go back to the house. Aren't you freezing? I'm freezing.” You're wearing night clothes, too.
Will nods, expression blank. He assures you the police will take care of the body.
When you get back to the house, the door is still open, and isn't that reassuring? You maneuver Will into the chair near the space heater and haul blankets from the bed. The dogs seem to appreciate the overflow of extra padding, or perhaps they’re simply reading the mood when they lie close.
You’re not ready to go into the kitchen for anything, so you go to the bathroom and gulp tap water. Your face feels gross, so you splash cold water on it. Then you turn the faucet to hot and wet a washcloth when the water heats.
Screw this extra piece of evidence. It’s not a murder mystery.
Back in the living room, Will is slumped in the chair. You slide into his lap, sitting sideways across his thighs. Will doesn't look at you but he puts a hand on the small of your back. The washcloth brushes his face and cleans away the blood and dried sweat. It’s old terrycloth, rough and bristly in your hand. Will doesn't flinch.
His skin is so pale, and it shows the bruising in sharp relief. You touch the freckles above his eyebrow with your thumb.
You kind of want to put him in the bath.
“Yeah, maybe later. I’ll be leaning on Jack enough as it is.” He smiles unhappily. “I need to call Jack Crawford. He’ll want to be here before the local PD, and he’ll want to bring Dr. Lecter.”
Instead of getting the phone, Will watches your hands fiddle with the edge of a blanket. He asks if you want to move to the bed.
You blink.
Will yawns. “There’s going to be a wait, and I’ve got a headache.” His sleepy eyes go round and fixate on your shoulder. “…but if you don’t want to wait there, that’s okay, too.” He frowns.
You nod and stand up, pulling on Will’s hand and at the blanket over his shoulders.
Will’s eyes stay lowered. “I should call Jack.”
Will helps bring the blankets back to the bed in a messy heap before he grabs his cell and walks in the kitchen to call Crawford. You roll your eyes and make the bed tidy, and then hesitate in the doorway.
You can hear Will’s low murmur in the other room. The tone isn’t angry or excited, and you imagine Will matter-of-factly reporting the incident. Explaining how he killed another man. Last time, he used a gun. What will rumors say about him this time?
After the sound dies, Will appears in the connecting hallway with two glasses of water. He notices your face and his shoulders stiffen. “The kitchen is where he grabbed you.” Will spills and nearly drops one glass in haste to put them down, and, after another scanning flicker over your expression, he wraps his arms around you and holds you close.
The collar of his shirt is spotted damp; he must have already had a glass of water in the kitchen and dribbled some on himself. You wonder if he was shaking. He’s steady, now.
“I don’t understand why…” You say, and you’re not even sure what you’re referring to.
Will nods, though, and rubs your back with hands he never cleaned off and murmurs little reassurances.
The spray of blood hit his collar too, and moisture releases the distinct odor. Will’s neck smells like blood and the sweat you associate with nightmares, fear, and fever dark eyes. Your arms feel like wishbones and your knuckles ache from how tightly you've gripped his shirt. It still takes several minutes for you to let go.
You step back, and Will moves his unclean hands to your upper arms, as if holding you at a distance. You can feel dirt under his palms on your skin. It hits you that you didn’t realize you were cold until Will started to warm you up.
You tug on his shirt, and he follows you down onto the mattress. There will be FBI and police all over this house soon, and then perhaps another trip to the hospital, and what will happen after–- there’re a hundred things you could be worrying about, and maybe you’ll sink into the miasma later, but you postpone those shadowy thoughts for now. You can’t think about it. You can only think about what’s available to you.
Will rests his head on your lap and his hand on your knee. You rub his temples and map the warm (hot) scalp beneath half-dry curls with your fingertips.
“How do you feel?”
“Bad.” There’s probably a hundred things loaded into Will’s tone and he fires: “Not because I killed someone, but because my head hurts.”
“I was asking about your head.” You stroke the nape of his neck to make Will squirm.
He makes a muffled sound and turns his head slightly. His lips brush against your leg. “That feels… nice, but I think you better not do that. It’s not a good idea.”
Your mouth twists wryly. Still nipping at the back of your mind are fears and uncertainty about what happened and what will happen, but you can outrun them for now.
“I wish this mess was already over,” you sigh. You resume petting his hair.
Will curls his knees up to his chest. “Me too.”