Chapter Text
Jack Crawford was in his classroom, and Will wondered what fate had in store for him this time. He could nearly feel the hands of destiny wrapping around his throat, ready to choke the life out of him and make it stick like it hadn’t the last time. More like eight times, Will mused as Jack introduced himself.
“We’ve met,” Will interrupted, hoping to drive the man away by sheer rudeness. It wasn’t hard to do - he had a lot of unresolved issues when it came to authority figures.
Jack was apparently made of sterner stuff, or just more stubborn. Really, it was ridiculous how easily some men in the FBI ran from Will when he scowled. “We had a disagreement about the exhibit.”
“I disagreed with what you named it,” Will corrected.
“The Evil Minds Research Museum,” Jack clarified.
Will had seen evil - had seen it breathe and laugh and slaughter and crush bone in order to walk again. He had stared it in its cold, pale face and felt its rage boil his brain from the inside out. The twisted souls in Jack’s museum held no ability to even fathom the face of true evil.
He went for the simple explanation, not wanting to waste his time with an answer the man would never understand. “It’s a little hammy, Jack.”
The conversation moved to teaching and horses and posts, Will’s social cocktail making an appearance. It was easier to let people assume Autism and Aspergers than it was to fake emotions and concerns and social graces he simply didn’t have enough care in him to put the effort into developing. He’d spent his whole life not knowing how to affect the ways normal people lived and interacted, too focused on staying alive to care.
“I can empathize with anybody,” Will protested for the thousandth time, nearly rushing through the age-old explanation. He tried to finish gathering his papers, wanting this sudden ambush to either be over or get to the bloody point already. “It has less to do with a personality disorder than an active imagination.”
The hand reaching for his glasses was lucky his response was no more than a clenched jaw and an obvious jerk backward, given the train of his thoughts. Jack paused his ill-advised condescending motion but pressed on in his mission. “Can I... borrow your imagination?”
He never could refuse the urge to save someone - even if he knew it was a trap.
It was increasingly feeling like one, Will unable to turn his brain off and simply walk away even though he knew it was the smart thing to do. His mind was already picking up the trail as Jack gave it to him, tidbits and facts falling into place in his mind like dementedly-edged puzzle pieces. “Then they weren’t taken from where you think they were taken,” Will stated, resigning himself to his fate even as Jack questioned him on the true location. He refused to be anything he wasn’t, however, no seer or diviner of the wind. “I don’t know. Someplace else.”
He always had been terrible at Divination.
Will stared at the happy picture given to him and felt that old resolve harden his heart against the sorrow he was about to dive into. “One through seven are dead, don’t you think?” he found himself asking almost without conscious thought, eyes flitting about the photograph to soak in all he could. “He’s not keeping them around, he got himself a new one.” And didn’t that just bring back memories he’d tried so hard to bury? Snatchers and their love of toys - only found broken and discarded once the novelty wore off.
Toy didn’t seem to sit right for this description, heavy like the wrong sauce in a dish, so Will pinned poor Elise back to the board to view the group as a whole. “They’re all very... Mall of America. Lots of wind-chafed skin.”
“Same hair color,” Jack agreed. “Same eye color. Roughly the same age, same height, same weight. So, what is it about all these girls?”
Like templates of dolls. Or, not templates, but the dolls themselves. Fresh off the manufacturing floor, drawn straight from the template. “It’s not about all of them, it’s about one of them,” Will observed, the taste of truth heavy and unpleasant in his mouth. “He’s like Willy Wonka - all these girls are chocolate bars and hidden among them is the one, true intended victim. Which, if we follow through on our metaphor,” Will continued, uncertain if he’d ever watch that particular movie again now that the comparison was locked and lodged in the back of his skull - just another rotting bone lining the walls of his forts, “is your golden ticket.”
Jack at least took his words seriously, believing and expanding upon the train of thought instead of brushing him off as so many of Will’s superiors had in the days before he made investigator. “So is he warming up to his golden ticket or just reliving whatever it is he did to her?”
“Oh she wouldn’t be the first,” Will interjected. “Wouldn’t be the last. He would, um, hide how special she was. I mean, I would. Wouldn’t you?”
That might have been something on the list of “things you shouldn’t state aloud,” but Will was tired and could already feel the strain of his gift beginning to itch at the back of his consciousness and so took the opportunity to retreat even as Jack stated, “I want you to get closer to this.”
“No.” Will cut him off. There had been a reason he’d stopped being a cop, and it wasn’t because he’d been stabbed. “You have Heimlich at Harvard and Bloom at Georgetown. They do the same thing I do.”
“That’s not exactly true, is it?” Jack pressed. “You have a very specific way of thinking about things.”
Will couldn’t help the unamused laugh as his gut turned sour. Somehow or another, it always came back to this. “Has there been a lot of discussion about the uh, specific way I think?” His smile lacked the hangman’s humor that formed it. Felt stretched and flimsy over his upper row of teeth.
Jack’s countenance was far less dominating than was probably usual for him, his voice almost gentle and comforting (as if it was a matter that warranted consoling) as he said, “You make jumps you can’t explain, Will.”
“The evidence explains,” he interjected, tired of this argument. He’d had it far too many times already. He wasn’t a psychic, wasn’t a seer. Just... broken.
“Then help me find some evidence.”
This was a man staking it all on his last hope, no matter how much or how little it helped. Will was more affected by his quiet desperation than he wanted to be, and knew he should say no. He knew it wouldn’t be good for him, wouldn’t be smart - he’d already given his all to war and blood and death, how much more could fate demand of him?
In looking anywhere but Crawford, Will caught sight of eight smiling girls who would never again know the feel of the sun. Would never live to legally drink. To feel the wind in their hair, be annoyed by others, to learn to stand on their own as adults in an ever damning world. Would never live to see all of that vibrant potential fulfilled.
With a sigh that caved in his very lungs, he gave in. “That may require me to be sociable.”
Will tried to remember that sense of wanting to help gain justice as he stood in Elise Nichols' house doing his best to ignore the parents. There was despair here, heavy like a thick, weighted blanket. Even worse was the despaired hope of a desperate father, cloying the back of his throat and making Will resist the urge to throw up.
It’d been too long, Will thought as he revealed to Jack that the girl had been taken here. He didn’t even need his gifts for that, death hanging about the house as if to welcome him with open arms. Fingers twitched as he put on blue gloves, refusing to reach for the stone that sat heavy in his pocket or make a motion for a wand he could never again use. No matter how many times he destroyed them, however far he chucked the offending items away, they always returned to him.
He’d been too long out of practice at this human interaction thing, it seemed. Will found himself handling the father with short and clipped instructions, offering the holding of the cat as an ill boon in place of comfort he didn’t know how to offer. It came not to matter, as the man dropped the cat once the room was revealed.
Will held the father back as annoyance settled in his chest. It had been far too long since he’d interacted with people in this way. He was just grateful Hermione wasn’t here to see him. Or Ron, since the teasing from him would be worse than the chastising from the man’s wife.
The grieving father nearly collapsed, and Will fought the urge to sigh.
Something was wrong. He didn’t try to think about his days in the minds of killers, but he remembered enough to know that something here was amiss. There was no surge of power, or lust, or joy. Quiet desperation seeped into his skin, clogging his pores with tears. But what, why?
Because he -
“Are you Will Graham?”
Will lurched from one man’s mind back into his own, the separation as painful as the knife wound in his shoulder had been. He gasped, and sputtered, and attempted to right himself in the center of who he, Will Graham, was. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Her mention of his monograph helped center him, as did the stone’s heavy presence in his pocket (loathe as he was to admit it). Despite himself and his desperate attempts to throw off the conversation, Will found himself liking this agent even as she boldly asked if he was unstable. She reminded him of Susan Bones.
Jack came in then, allowing Will to draw away and retreat to the relative safety of the window. Others were there, chatting, and the mention of antlers finally made that odd emotion fall into place. He interrupted the conversation with bits of herbology and potions lore he had certainly never learned in class. “Antler velvet is rich in nutrients it actually helps promote healing. He may have put it in there on purpose.”
He wasn’t fond of Jack’s look as the man asked, “You think he wanted to heal her?”
At least the weird headspace had an answer now. “He wanted to undo as much as he could,” Will replied, trying not to let the feeling resonate with his own sentiments from memories best left forgotten, “given that he’d already killed her.”
“He put her back where he found her,” Jack bounced the theory back, at least taking it seriously. Granted, what else could it have been?
“Whatever he did to the others he couldn’t do to her,” Will stated. His eyes remained glued to the innocent face of the girl who could have been sleeping. She was a much more peaceful corpse than most he’d seen, and Will fought to keep the phantom ache in his heart separate from himself. He’d been out of practice too long - he needed to strengthen his forts.
“Is this his golden ticket?”
“No, no,” Will mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. “This is an apology.”
Oh great, now they were all looking at him. And his head hurt. Fantastic.
“Does anyone have any aspirin?”
The late hour meant Will was around to see the poor dog running about with a leash and no owner. It was a sight Will couldn’t abide, his own abandonment already close to his thoughts thanks to the old memories this case brought up. He spent more time than most would, luring the dog close, but as he saw the newly named Winston safe and clean and fed, it made his whole day seem worth it. Will was happy his new companion had a proper, good sleep. Even if he was denied the same.
He’d thought it was her spirit come to haunt him. Will reached out to her, to try and clean her and comfort her, send her into the next life better than she’d parted the last, but it was no use. The corpse refused to be gentled, floating away and refusing his touch.
Will awoke in a heavy sweat. Cursing but too tired to care more than that, he laid out towels and stripped before attempting to get more rest. Rest was key - sleep was his friend. It was the only way he’d get out of this with sanity intact. Years of nightmares and the harsh nature of war had taught him that much.
It hurt. He ached - his brain, his eyes, his bones. There were no answers or leads to be found. No answers made men frustrated. Frustrated men turned to their oracles. Oracles, Will though sardonically, get shoved and pushed and prodded until they explode. It had happened before.
So Will was hiding in the bathroom. It was a sound, trial and error proven method - there was no shame in self-preservation. Only the dead held the luxury of that thought. Which didn’t keep him from flirting with the dead, holding his head under water in a filled and stoppered sink to wash out the killer taking up residence behind his ears.
The water was suddenly thick, heavy, and copper swarmed his nose, and Will forced himself to breathe out harshly instead of the scream waiting for release, holding himself there a moment more before emerging from his impromptu bath.
The filtered air hit his wet face, cooling him. Will luxuriated in the feel for only a moment before drying his face.
Anger, rage, frustration. A storm cloud of emotions was billowing into the room, and Will fought the urge to sigh.
It was Jack, no surprise there, who revealed himself by demanding, “What are you doing in here?”
“I enjoy the smell of urinal cake.” Will was far too tired to curb his tongue - Jack would have to learn to deal with it.
“Me too,” ah, so Jack was choosing to ignore it. “We need to talk.” Those words never boded well, and Will’s increasingly horrible mood was only reinforced by Jack’s sudden hollering when another agent walked in. “Use the ladies room!”
Will leaned against the sink and looked away, face locking back into the tightness he’d come in here to remove. It was going to be one of those conversations - joy.
Jack was pacing, always a good sign. “Do you respect my judgement?”
Yay. Will just barely nodded before realizing Jack was probably the kind of man who needed vocal confirmation. The noise of agreement was all he was willing to give at the moment. At least the pacing had stopped.
“Good. Because we will stand a better chance of catching this guy with you in the saddle.”
Only the desperation still peeking out at the edges of Jack’s face kept Will from launching an attack of his own. He knew people were depending on him, damnit - he also bloody well knew how to do his damn job. “I’m in the saddle, just um - confused as to which way I’m pointing,” Will admitted. This would probably go smoother if he threw the man a bone. “I’ve never dealt with this kind of psychopath - I’m not even sure he is a psychopath, he’s not insensitive he’s not - shallow!”
“You know something,” Jack accused, not letting him off by even an inch, “or else you wouldn’t have said it was an apology.”
Oh, like that bit wasn’t bugging Will just as much as it bugged everyone else. He gave into the need for motion, pacing a bit as he blurted out everything that bothered him, because it just didn’t make sense. “He couldn’t honor her - he feels bad.”
“That sort of defeats the point of being a psychopath,” Jack pointed out, as if Will hadn’t known that already.
Annoyed, he snapped back, “Yes, it does!”
Jack yelled back, apparently not one to ever just allow someone else to be the alpha dog for even a moment. “Then what kind of crazy is he?”
Will’s sigh was trapped behind a clenched jaw, and once loosened escaped in a statement. “He couldn’t show her he loved her, and so he put her corpse back where he killed it - whatever crazy that is.” Oh, and didn’t the knowledge itch under his skin, urging Will to move and pace again. He kept stopping, or, kept trying to stop. To lean against the sink as he might normally and to not allow this killer any more hold over his blood than he already had.
But the restlessness was there - itching, twitching, longing. Their killer was deeply upset by the child he’d been unable to properly show his love for, and the need to express that love to it’s fullest potential was all the stronger for the knowledge of failure.
“You think he loves these girls?”
“I think he loves one of them,” Will countered. His face was probably twitching, given Jack’s odd look, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at that moment.
“And-and-and yes, by association I think he has some form of love for the others.”
“There was no semen, there was no saliva,” Jack droned on, voice hard and unforgiving. “Elise Nichols died a virgin and she remained that way.”
Rage. It flooded his vision and only the fact that the world turned harsher and brighter with it instead of cold and dead let Will realize it wasn’t his own even as he spat, “That’s not how he’s loving them! He wouldn’t disrespect them that way! He doesn’t want these girls to suffer he kills them quickly, and -” Will breathed deeply, forcing his finger away from it’s accusatory positioning inching into Jack’s space and made himself drop the rage that didn’t belong to him. It did no good to be so fully trapped in the thoughts of those who believe themselves in rightful suit with death. “To his thinking, with mercy.” Will turned away then, hoping beyond hope he wouldn’t be provoked any further today.
Jack was having his revelation quietly at least, and oh how Will had always hated this tedious business of everyone cluing in to the facts that have only been screaming at him for days or even weeks before anyone else even knows there is a fact to be learned. “A sensitive psychopath. Risked getting caught to tuck Elise Nichols back into bed.”
“He has to take the next one soon,” Will said. He refused to turn around, hands gripping the cold edges of the gleaming white sink. He won’t give into the urge to look at himself in the mirror - doesn’t want to acknowledge that it might not be him staring back. “He knows he’s gonna get caught. One way or another.”
There was warmth under his hands. Will doesn’t look. Doesn’t have to. It is a warmth all too familiar and he knows it isn’t real. The sensation is too much a recurrence for him to believe there truly is blood under his hands. Not anymore. It is merely the ghost of blood long shed and dried.
Jack, despite appearances and assurances and confidence in his own ability, was getting slightly worried. And so he turned to the most obvious answer, albeit more subtly than he dealt with most people. “Graham likes you - thinks you won’t play mind games on him.”
“That’s because I don’t,” Alana replied instantly. She was looking as impeccable as ever, and her stride never paused, never wavered from its strength, never faltered. It was one of the things he liked about her, difficult though she might be. “I’ve been as honest with him as I’d be with a patient.”
“You’ve been observing him while you guest lecture here at the academy, yes?” Jack countered, setting up the hook. Everyone wanted to get into Will’s head - he’d learned that much at least.
Alana tried to deflect. “I’ve never been in a room alone with Will.”
“Why not?”
Alana didn’t look too impressed with him, but was still cordial. “Because I want to be his friend - and I am.”
“Oh,” Jack baited, casually putting his hands in his pockets, “seems a shame not to take advantage. Academically speaking.”
“You already asked me to do a study on him Jack,” Alana reminded him, coming to a stop to make her point more emphatic, “I said no. Anything scholarly on Will Graham would have to be published posthumously.”
“So,” Jack tried, unwilling to back down, “you’ve never been alone with him because you have a professional curiosity?”
Alana’s sigh and accompanying half-aborted eye-roll informed Jack she was coming to the limits of her ability to humor him. Jack had always held respect for her - that didn’t mean they got along. “Normally I wouldn’t even broach this, but what do you think one of Will’s strongest drives is?”
She was beginning to use the tone of voice that signaled her therapist side was in full force. Jack crossed his arms and gave the matter serious thought. The only answer he could find, however, refused to be a comfort. “Fear.” Alana nodded at him, which was even less reassuring. “Will Graham deals with huge amounts of fear. Comes with the imagination.”
“It’s the price of imagination,” Alana interjected. The small difference in word choice was a point too important for her to quietly ignore.
“Alana, I wouldn’t put him out there if I didn’t think I could cover him,” Jack objected. The smaller woman crossed her arms and gave him an incredulous look. She never had been intimidated by him - unfortunately that was one of the reasons they worked well together. “Alright - if I didn’t think I couldn’t cover him eighty percent.”
“I wouldn’t put him out there!” Alana insisted yet again. She’d only been saying the same thing since this whole mess began.
“He’s out there,” Jack pointed out. “I need him out there. Should he get too far out there I need you to make sure he’s not out there alone.”
Alana wasn’t impressed any more this time than she had been any other time. “Promise me something Jack. Promise you won’t let him get too close.”
“He won’t,” Jack promised. “Get too close.”
Alana looked as if she didn’t believe him, but let the matter drop.
Later that day Jack hung around on the edges of the exam room as his team discussed the body. He was watching Will more than the others, admittedly. Something that proved needed as Will suddenly went still, ceasing all of his nervous back and forth glances and finger twitching to focus on the body with a blank gaze that looked like he was zoning out.
Will came back to himself nearly five whole minutes later with an interjected, “She was mounted. Like hooks. She may have been bled.”
“Her liver was removed,” Zeller commented, as if Will hadn’t spoken. Jack tried not to notice how out of all of them, Katz was handling Will’s oddity the best.
“Took it out, and then - yep, he put it back in.”
“Huh,” Price gave voice to what all of them were wondering. “Why would he do that? Cut it out if he was just gonna sew it back in again?”
Will twitched - just a blink of his eyes, but a twitch all the same - before speaking as if the words were tearing themselves from his mouth, “There’s something wrong with the meat.”
Everyone turned to stare at him. “She has liver cancer,” Zeller stated in shock.
Will nodded, almost as if he wasn’t surprised. “He’s um. He’s - he’s eating them.”
As Will turned and fled the room, Jack had to admit that perhaps Alana was right. Will needed an anchor. And Alana had given him just the man for the job.
It was time to pay a visit to Hannibal Lecter.