Archive of Our Own ^beta

An ambulance zooms down the street, sirens blaring and horn honking when cars refuse to move out of the way.

“Alright sir, I need you to stay with us,” says one of the doctors within the ambulance.

There's three of them in there if you include the driver. One is sitting on the bench to the right, her hands busy with the gurney. The other one sits in the lone seat on the left busying themself with getting stuff from the nearby compartments.

Will Graham lays on the gurney, his eyes are clouded and not focusing on anything, mind anywhere but the present. Blood seeps through spots in his plaid shirt that has not yet been cut away and matts the tangles in his hair. Not the best way to die, but there isn’t much he can do to change that fact. His eyes start to close, slowly as if a kid fighting sleep to stay up for just five more minutes.

The lady speaks up again, “keep your eyes open, stay with us.”

But he doesn’t listen; he doesn’t have to.

-

The overhead fluorescent lights buzz noiselessly, so loud the people talking on the nearby TV can’t be made out. Will’s eyes open, able to see the multiple squares of plasterboard and lights that make up the ceiling. From his peripherals a curtain can be seen to his right and a window to his left, he closes his eyes again hoping that this is just some kind of last minute hallucination before his brain completely shuts down.

“Will,” Alana’s voice cracks from his right.

He sighs internally, a small huff of air coming out his nose. This hallucination is one funny guy. Opening his eyes, he looks down without moving his head or neck. Alana sits on a nearby chair, hands folded in prayer on the crisp white sheets. Tears stain down her cheeks and gloss her eyes.

“Oh thank goodness, Will,” she chokes back a small sob and rushes up to give him a hug, not worrying about the various IV’s coming out of his body. Despite her probably accidentally pulling one out, he has to admit that it feels good to be held for even a short moment.

She pulls back, “stay right here I’ve got to tell the nurse.”

After Alana leaves, Will rests his eyes, bringing his entire focus onto how his body feels. How the sheets make his body too hot but his arms can’t move to take it off, the sound of his blood traveling through his veins, the ringing of nearby technology that makes his ears ring ever so slightly. He wonders how long this vision will last, how detailed it will get. People always said that once you die you relive your whole life and maybe this is some form of that.

Barely a second later there's a light tap on his arm to which he opens his eyes lazily. A nurse with tan skin and shoulder length curly black hair watches his vitals and scribbles on her clipboard. She smiles at Will once she notices his eyes watching her.

“Hello Will, my name is [REDACTED] and I’m your nurse. It’s nice to finally see you awake. I’m just going to do a few short tests then go grab the doctor for you okay,” she asks.

And it’s not really a question, not when she would have done it no matter what Will says, but it’s a nice gesture. So Will wants to say something, maybe a ‘thank you’ or just a simple ‘okay’, but he finds he can’t. His mouth gaping like a fish out of water which would probably make some people freak out, but as someone who has selective mutism he’s not too worried.

Her smile is sad, pitying, as she walks away. Alana doesn’t come back in, possibly escorted out because visiting hours are over. Outside is dark but from where he’s lying it’s hard to make out the exact time. His ears are ringing and he wiggles his fingers as much as he can, getting restless. The TV is playing some stupid reality show that Will doesn’t have to try hard to completely block out.

The doctor walks in clad in a slightly wrinkled coat, there’s circles under his eyes, but Will can tell just how present his mind is, not letting his tiredness get to the best of him. He’s an older gent with more salt than pepper in his hair and modest wrinkles mostly around his eyes and on his forehead. The name tag on his right pocket is crooked and reads ‘Dr. Parren’. Wil sympathises, hopefully the doctor will be able to get to rest soon.

“Hello Mr. Graham, I apologize for all these switch ups and people coming in and out of your room. I promise we’ll leave you alone soon enough,” he scoots over the chair that Alana was sitting on and moves it to sit closer to Will, “now you’ve probably noticed that something isn’t exactly correct here and you probably have a lot of questions. There’s no easy way to say this and I'm not going to bore you with all the technical terms,” he lets out a hollow chuckle.

“You’ve suffered some major injuries during the incident, most of which we were able to stick up and get back into working order but umm well you won’t be able to speak anymore and I’m very sorry for that we-”

Will blocks him out after that point. He’s thankful for the bluntness, god knows how Alana would have done it. More so, evidently this is not a vision nor a hallucination like he might have first thought. Even though his mind can often get so descriptive it’s impossible to know dream from reality, this right here he has no doubt is real life.

Once Dr. Parren realizes Will is no longer listening; he leaves wearing the same smile as the nurse. Will lays for a moment, not like there's much else he can do, thinking. His brain doesn’t seem to be catching up to the present, feeling like he’s adrift at sea. Maybe he should have stuck with those ASL classes in high school.

-

It’s three days later when Alana comes back to visit. She walks in to see Will sitting up straight in the bed, his hospital gown draped around his waist showing off bandages that are wrapped around his abdomen. His hair is a rats nest of tangles and a tray of uneaten food rests on his lap.

“Hey Will, how are you doing?”

His gaze shifts over from the window to her, quizzically almost judgemental. Obviously, he doesn’t say anything.

“Right sorry,” she sits down, pulling his hand into hers, “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. Everyone is so worried for you. Beverly says your dogs won’t stop harassing her every time she goes over to take care of them, hoping you’ll be standing there behind her.”

Will rolls his eyes, taking his hand out of her grasp. Disbelieving. Too worried to stop by.

She sighs, “please just let me help you. You’re struggling and if you have someone by your side that can help you it might make things easier.”

‘No,’ Will signs. It’s one of the maybe ten signs he can actually remember.

“Come on Will, there’s only so much you can do yourself. You’ve got to let people help you, you’re not alone.”

Will turns, looking back out the window. The floor they are on is too high up to see any ground or people, but the tips of trees, clouds, and birds can be located with ease. He picks off a tiny piece of a rice cake on his tray, slowly lifting his hand to feed it to himself.

“Alright I’ll be back, I won’t give up on you Will,” her heels clack loudly on the linoleum as she walks away.

-

Will stands on shaky feet. The tiles are cold to the touch on his bare skin. It’s been about a week since he’s been here and he thinks if he goes another day he might actually go crazy.

His days have consisted of waking up, eating their shitty soft breakfast, daydreaming, eating another round of the shitty breakfast but this time it’s for lunch, more daydreaming, and going back to sleep. They had tried to get him in speech therapy, to exercise his vocal cords, but he had seen no point so they didn’t push it.

Pulling out the few of the IV’s left, Will looks around the room one last time. It’s not much and it’s not like he’s going to miss the place, but it lifts his mood. Gives him a sense of finality almost.

He’s dressed in one of his old band t-shirts and loose shorts. After Alana had left she came back the next day with a few clothes from his house so he didn’t have to keep wearing the hospital gown. He was thankful and let her know as much but otherwise kept to his own thoughts.

As he walks his hands lightly touch the bed and walls for a bit of extra stability. Staff, patients and visitors all walk by him, most of whom don’t spare him a second glance. Will wonders if he even has to be discharged. Could he not just walk out the front door only for them to notice he’s gone hours later? Perhaps they would just extend his medical bills and make it more of a hassle for him in the long run.

The elevator dings once it arrives. The doors open to reveal two others standing inside, one is a middle aged man with brown hair down to his shoulders and glasses perched on the tip of his nose, the other is a girl maybe 20 years old with her long black hair covering her eyes as she taps away on her phone. The former exits the elevator as Will steps on.

The ride down to the first floor is in no way awkward. Both of them just exist near each other, aware of the other but entrapped in their own little bubble.

The elevator dings as it reaches the ground level; both of them step out into the lobby at the same time. Not many people are up and walking around, except for a few staff, most are sitting or sleeping in the plethora of uncomfy seats in the waiting area.

Him and the girl split ways, Will walking to the receptionist and her going down the closest hallway. The person behind the desk looks up as he gets closer, using what little signs he’s retained in these short few days to try and get himself out of here.

“I’m sorry sir I,” she looks around the room frantically, “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

Will sighs, looking around himself. He flattens his left hand palm up, takes his right hand and acts as if he’s writing.

“Oh oh yes of course,” she fumbles through the top draw of the desk for a small notepad and the cup on the desk for a pen.

‘I need to sign myself out,’ he writes on the notepad crookedly in his somewhat legible handwriting.

“Of course sir, name?”

‘Will Graham.’

“Thank you, please take a seat and I’ll get you your paperwork as quickly as I can,” her smile is nice and genuine as she walks into one of the back rooms.

Will pads over to the nearest seat. The amount of blue and white surrounding him is starting to make his head hurt. As he waits, he tilts his head to the ceiling, blurring his eyes and thinks about finally being able to go home and see his dogs.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been but nothing has happened, the receptionist hasn’t called his name nor walked up to him to get his attention, no commotion to suggest she fell and cracked her skull open, not even just one of the other workers handing the paperwork to him. It could have just been one minute or it could have been ten, but the point is Will is way too tired to wait any longer.

So Will stands up, not paying attention to anyone else around him, and walks out.

The air outside is cool and refreshing, the sky bright and blue. Tiny rocks and twigs poke the bottom of his feet, it’s a sharp contrast from the linoleum tiles and he welcomes it with a smile. The shoes Alana had brought him were not the correct kind; they were the ones that hugged and stretched in all the wrong places, even just thinking about them makes him curl his toes.

Birds chirp from nearby trees and bounce across the dying grass. As far as hospitals go, the entrance to this one has got to be the best he’s ever seen. Reminds him of a courtyard of some retirement home which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Once he gets further down the street to where the main road and street signs are he realizes he recognizes both of the names. A bit farther from his house than he would like, but he knows the way. If only he had his phone to text someone to come drive him back, but the thought of being alone in the car with another human who won’t stop pitying him is definitely the worst option.

-

By the time he gets home the sky is completely dark and he has no doubt his feet have multiple upon multiple scrapes and he’s sweating through all his clothing. The gravel driveway makes his feet sting where they’re cut but the excited sounds coming from his dogs urge him on.

Will’s not too surprised when he finds the door locked. Luckily he’s not opposed to breaking into his own house. He walks around until he finds a window that the dogs can’t get to, the last thing he wants right now is to have stitch up multiple paw pads. Plus he doesn’t know if he could stand to hear them in pain.

The glass cuts his elbow as it breaks. Most of it goes inwards, straight into the empty bathtub below. He places his hands on the ledge lined with shards and hoists himself up. Glass digs into his palms and as he jumps over the smell of rust and dust are potent. It’s a good thing he’s been out in the dark for awhile so his eyes are adjusted, not to mention he’s pretty sure he could walk all around his house for days with a blindfold on.

His dogs bark and scratch at the door like a hurricane is on his front porch. He flips the light switch, not opening the door just yet. The light is harsh and burns his eyes, but he makes sure to keep them open. Under the light he inspects his palms, taking out as much glass as he can with tweezers found on the side of the sink.

Howling starts up and Will thinks he can hear a few growls. Putting down the tweezers he's sure there's still a few pieces he’s missed, but he wants to get to his dogs.

He opens the door and the dogs come flooding in, barking and yapping and jumping on his legs. He crouches down allowing the dogs to crowd around and lick his face. Winston leads the pack, wriggling and wapping Will with his tail; Elle isn’t too far behind, small enough to squeeze through the others.

After a few minutes of mingling Will stands up, shuffling through the herd to get to the front door. It’s obvious someone has been in his house, books and papers rearranged, some things broken on the floor. Hopefully nothing that was dangerous to the dogs.

When he opens the front door, most run out to the grass to do their business. Winston is the only one to stay by his side as he sits on the porch steps. The air is cool if a bit windy and Will can’t help but shiver. Winston curls up close to him, pressing his nose to his arm.

‘Yes,’ Will signs, ‘I know.’

-

A loud pounding wakes Will up from his restless sleep. The sudden sound takes him back to his police years, stuck with rounding up the few people who are behind on their house payments. The sound comes again and Will startles into a sitting position. He’s laying in the middle of his bed, dogs surrounding him on all sides; they all have their head perked up towards the door, too protective of their owner to do much else. Sunlight streams in through the windows, highlighting just how much dust is actually in this place.

Before another knock can happen, Will wiggles himself free from the dog pile and walks to the door, dogs right on his heels. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his hair still a mess, he hasn’t taken a shower since before he was admitted to the hospital.

Upon opening the door he’s met with none other than Jack Crawford. His posture perfect, chest puffed out and an almost pitiful look on his face. The dogs step forward, sniffing the air and slightly wagging their tails.

“I got a call from the hospital,” he says.

Will rolls his eyes, stepping back into the house but leaving the door open. Jack follows him into the kitchen. Dogs scamper towards him but know not to jump, a few have their ears back but everyone has their tail going. The clanking of metal bowls gets most of them to scamper under Will’s feet.

“You should have filled out the paperwork before leaving.”

‘Sorry,’ Will signs.

Jack sighs, “you know Will, you’re really just making this harder on yourself. The doctors recommended you stay for a few more days.”

Will doesn’t answer, busying himself with making the dogs breakfast. An awkward silence settles between the two of them, the dogs breaking it with feet on the ground or small barking sounds.

Once all the bowls are laid out on the ground and the dogs are all happily munching away Jack takes out a stack of envelopes and other papers onto the counter, “I brought in the mail.”

‘Thank you,’ signs Will, fighting the urge to move his hand down just a little bit lower.

“Make sure you answer Alana’s texts, she’s worried. We all are,” Jack says to Will’s back as he looks out the window, “text me when you think you’re ready to start working again.”

Will doesn’t move until he hears Jack’s car pulling out of the driveway.

-

It’s later in the day as Will sits on the front porch once again. His dogs resting in what sunlight is left as sunset gets closer. By his side is the full stack of papers Jack had brought in, probably about an inch and a half tall. He holds one in his hand, the most recent one from the hospital. In his other hand is one of his gutting knives.

He still hasn’t taken a shower or tried to tame his curls, but he has changed out of his previous clothes and into better, more comfortable ones.

Taking his knife he cuts along the fold of the envelope. There is more than one piece of paper inside, stapled together. He skims around most of the words before coming to the last page and focusing on the number “$684,735.98”

Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw, Will thinks. Even with the bit of insurance the FBI gave him for his teaching job, it still apparently wasn’t good enough. Aren’t they supposed to ask consent before doing anything to a patient?

Not like it matters now anyway.

-

The attic is more dusty than the rest of his house. He hardly even goes to the second story so he probably hasn’t been in the attic in years. Boxes stacked on top of more boxes cover the floor and Will’s lucky there's a light built into the ceiling of this thing that still works.

He sits down on the floor, going through every box to see if there's anything of value that he can sell. Anything to help the overwhelming medical debt he has. And sure, he already has enough money stacked away in his bank account to help, but it seems to hardly make a dent. Perhaps he’ll just have to sell his house, though he doesn’t think it would be easy to find another place that has enough yard for his dogs to run freely.

After going through every box he only finds a collective five things that he thinks could possibly be worth more than one hundred dollars each if he found the right person. But again that’s if he found the right person and who knows how long that would take. Not to mention that that definitely would make the smallest scrap in the amount he owes.

-

Will 1347
any news on the interpreter??

Jack Crawford 1351
You can get one for $40 an hour

Will 1352
alright thats perfect then

Jack Crawford 1359
Are you sure? Even with how much money you owe the hospital?

Will 1401
wait...id be paying for it???

Jack Crawford 1410
Well yes, we don’t have the funds for it. Plus the interpreter is for you.

Will 1413
yes it is FOR me but it’s also FOR you guys and my students
you understand that right?

Jack Crawford 1416
Of course I understand, but I just don’t see why you couldn’t just text me what you’re
thinking or write it out on paper.
Sorry I've got to go, I’ll text back as soon as I’m given an opening.

Will 1420
are you serious????
you can’t be serious right now

Will 1500
fuck you
tell bev i say hi

Jack Crawford 1748
Will?
*message can not be delivered*

-

“So, why should we hire you?”

Will sits on one side of a small wooden desk inside a reasonably sized office. There’s not much on the walls, a few simple papers and paintings, most are of boats or the sea. On the desk is a simple computer, two stacks of paper, and a simple white cup full of pencils. Sitting on the other side of the desk is a bald middle aged man in a striped blue polo shirt and small silver glasses on the ridge of his nose.

Will flips the page of his small legal pad and picks up the pencil laying next to it on the desk. ‘I have years of experience, I won’t bother anyone and won’t need any training. I just want to do my work and get paid,’ turning the paper around so the other man can read it.

He straightens his glasses, “thank you for thinking of us for a place to work at, however I will have to think about it as I have a lot of people to choose from so please wait for our call.”

And right there is when Will knows he didn’t get the job.

-

One day, after a small fishing trip, still in his full fishing attire, he pulls into his driveway to find a car already there. It’s one he doesn’t recognize. A grey Subaru Impreza with the license plate from Oklahoma, seemingly with no occupants inside.

He doesn’t think until he’s already reaching for the gun in his glove compartment. Will brings the gun as he exits the car, leaving the car door open in hopes of not alerting whoever is on his property.

The wood boards are slightly creaky as he walks up the porch, but he hopes it isn't too loud to whoever is inside. Once he gets closer he notices the door left ajar, the strike plate and surrounding parts of the frame are busted with what was probably a crowbar. He can’t hear any clacking of dog paws on the ground nor barks or any kinds of yipps.

Gently pushing the door all the way open with the barrel of his gun. Inside is ransacked. Books and papers thrown over the floor, glass from who knows what smashed, plus chairs, desks and even a bookshelf are on their sides. If the light wasn’t on it’d be easy to miss the small spatters of blood and the few muddy shoe tracks. Luckily even through all the mess he knows where to step so the floor doesn’t make any sound.

As he reaches the kitchen he also notices the back door fully open, though no signs of forced entry through here, most likely just opened from the inside once they got in. Cabinets are left open seemingly at random, a few glasses and plates either left on the counter or smashed.

Now might be a bad time to wonder if the insurance he has covers this and if he could use that money for his medical debt.

Stepping further into the kitchen he can hear a shout and muffled voice come from upstairs. There’s got to be at least three of them, young men probably no older than 30 by the sound of it. He can’t tell exactly what they are saying, but from the tone it’s possible they’re arguing.

Holding his gun straight out in front of him, Will ascends the stairs. It’s nearly impossible to cover his sounds on them and he just hopes they’re too into their conversation to notice. Once he gets upstairs it is easy to figure out they’re all hanging out in the abandoned master bedroom. Last he checked there wasn’t much in there except for a few dusty pieces of furniture.

It’s hard for him to know what to do, the door is open but not enough to see what they look like or what weapons they could have. At least he can’t smell any gun powder residue so it’s unlikely that they have a gun, but without proper confirmation he shouldn’t rule anything out.

“Hey someone’s here!” One of the boys says, the door bangs open, flexing once it hits the wall. They’re all raising their separate weapons. One has a crowbar, another is holding a knife from the kitchen like they’re in a slasher movie. And the other, probably the leader, has a gun.

None of them are especially special. Looking around the average height and weight for a male in his mid 20s. They’re all wearing all black, some have small signs of distinct brands or wording.

Will raises his hands, taking his finger off the trigger. He knows when to make himself look harmless. If he can take out the one with the gun then he should be fine against the rest, but he really wants to lead them to a more open spot beforehand.

“You said no one would be home,” the one on the far right, the one with the crowbar, speaks up. His voice shakes ever so slightly that it’s almost hard to notice.

Will’s not surprised. This is probably his first burglary, probably everyone’s first burglary. If they had more experience then they would know that he doesn’t have much of value in his home when they first cased it. Although he will agree that if something were to go wrong this is the best house for it, with no one around for miles. Now that he’s thinking about it maybe that’s what the leader intended.

The leader rolls his eyes, “well obviously I didn’t expect this.” he says it so casually perhaps he really did mean for this to happen, or he’s just that confident in his group's ability to take Will down.

“What should we do,” asks the one of the left.

As they’re talking amongst themselves, Will starts taking small steps backwards. Going as slow as he can so they hopefully won’t notice.

“Well we can’t just let him go and give him the chance to tell the police about us, he’s seen our faces for fuck’s sake.”

A gunshot goes off, right next to Will’s feet. He shuts his eyes closed but for the most part stays still. The ringing in his ears crescendos.

“Stay where you are. Now you’ll tell us where your most valuable items are or we’ll make sure this house goes down with you.”

It’s suddenly hitting Will just how absurd this whole situation is. How after years and years of working to catch killers and how he’s come to them or they’ve come to him and now that he’s out of it, he will seemingly never truly be free. It’s a bit funny, or maybe just very depressing, either way it makes Will want to laugh, so he does.

It’s a small laugh but a laugh all the same. No sound comes out except for a slight coughing scraping sound that he’s sure only he can hear. His hands lower slightly and he almost wishes he had taken off his chunky fishing vest beforehand.

“What’s so funny,” his voice raises in anger and all of them raise up their weapons and grip them a bit tighter.

Taking his free hand, Will waves them off and rides out the last of his giggles. At which point the leader gets fed up, ‘why is he acting this way? He should be cowering in fear at just the mere sight of us.’ He raises his gun and steadies it for just a second before pulling the trigger.

Will’s arm flares up in pain and his gun clatters to the ground. He wonders how the three of them can stand around as if nothing happened. How are their ears not ringing without any kind of protection, though they might have ears buds or plugs but he knows those don’t work as well.

The bullet goes straight through his forearm, creating an entry and exit wound. It’s not too big, a regular 9mm and he’s had worse in other times of his career, but it sure does hurt like one crazy son of a bitch. Will grits his teeth, brings his other hand to wrap around his wound. Through the ringing in his ears he can hear blood drop to the wooden floor.

“We’re not going to ask again. Where are all your valuables?”

Weakly, he lifts a finger to point towards the attic entrance at the end of the hallway. All three of them have some sort of glee and pride contorted on their face, though it’s not hard to see the elements of worry and fear hidden beneath.

The leader smiles, “thanks a bunch.” he shoots his gun once more into Will’s contralateral shin. Both his legs give out as the intruders scramble to get up into the attic. He’s not sure what to do with his hands. Should he hold his arm wound, his leg wound, or his stomach where it feels like he’s about to throw up everything he’s ever eaten.

Will slumps against the wall behind him, his bleeding leg left out straight while the other is brought up to his chest and his arms are resting in his lap. His vision starts to go blurry and he’s sure he can see another person he doesn’t recognize towering over him.

The figure is wearing a fancy three piece suit made of a dark red. It’s hard for him to tell if there is some sort of pattern on the fabric but he thinks he can see a few lines of black and possibly yellow. For a while he just stands there and Will doesn’t question it.

As Will’s vision clears up he can better see every detail, the wrinkles on the man’s face around his mouth and eyes, his gray hair slicked back, slightly crooked nose, and to his distaste he can see he was right about the colours on the suit.

The man lowers himself effortlessly next to Will, sitting criss-cross applesauce. It looks out of place for someone as dressed to the tens as he is. Will does his best to focus more on the strange man rather than the blistering pain stemming from his leg and arm.

Reaching inside his suit jacket, the man pulls out a small pack of Newport cigarettes. Now Will doesn’t know a whole lot about cigarettes or if different brands make a difference. Having only smoked whatever cigarettes his dad bought in the middle of the night while his dad was out getting drunk somewhere.

Suit (as Will’s taken to dubbing the man, reminded of FBI shows he’d watch on TV early in the morning) tilts the pack towards him, an offering of sorts.

Will slowly nods his head. If these truly are his last moments of life why not. It’s not like he’s on a swear of celibacy anyways.

He taps the box against the palm of his hand a few times before taking two of them out. Putting the pack back in his jacket and instead pulling out a plain silver zippo lighter. Suit lights them both, putting one in his own mouth before putting the other in Will’s mouth for him.

The paper of the cigarette instantly moistens as it touches his lips. Inhaling burns his throat and lungs and he gets the urge to cough, it’s been so long since he’s smoked. Weakly he raises his uninjured arm, ready to remove the cigarette and exhale, but Suit stops him, holding his hand in his own. A second later he takes it out of Will’s mouth for him.

Will coughs, his chest heaving and wounds aching even more. When he’s done Suit puts it back into his mouth with no protest from him, but he has yet to let go of Will’s hand. The man’s hand is calloused around the phalanges though his palm is mostly soft. What kind of work would one have to do to keep their hands in that shape, some kind of manual work Will supposes.

As he takes another drag his mind almost wanders. Leaving the horrors of the present and drifting to some random lifeless void of dark. Yet he still tunes into his body's feelings and senses. Feelings of blood rushing through his veins only to gush out of his orifices. The feeling of the man in the suit’s slightly bigger, slightly cold, hand cradling his.

It’s almost weird, an unusual tenderness, that this is the first sort of intimate contact for approximately three years. The last time was when Alana had tried to kiss him, tried to initiate a romantic relationship between the two of them and he turned her down. And now he’s sitting side by side, holding hands with a random stranger who hasn’t yet spoken a word to him. Like Will’s one to talk.

The next time Suit takes out Will’s cigarette for him it’s a little bit past the halfway point and he can’t help but silently laugh through the cloud of smoke. The smell of cigarette smoke isn’t seen as a bad one in his eyes. Almost reminding him of better times of when he was happy in his younger years. The smell mingles nicely with the dust and old wood not well taken care of.

Not a second later the three robbers descend the ladder from the attic, carrying a few boxes full of stuff that they deemed worthy enough to take back with them. As they pass the two of them sitting on the floor they hardly give them any attention aside from a few short second looks, they don’t once look at the man in the suit at all.

Only when the intruders clear out of the house does Will’s laughing turn into sobs. They are short and he hiccups through them, decidedly not holding himself back anymore. It’s therapeutic, lifting an invisible weight off of his chest. The finality of the end of his life makes him realize he doesn’t have to worry about anything anymore. He’s finally free.

The man in the suit stubs out his own cigarette. He brings up his free hand to move away some of the curls resting over Will’s forehead, brushing his lips against the exposed skin. His lips are cold upon his skin, acting as some sort of magical ice pack and works in subsiding his fever growing underneath.

Suddenly Will’s eyes have a hard time staying open, as if a child trying to just stay up for five more minutes and he almost wonders if the tiny kiss Suit gave him has something to do with it. The idea sounds a bit absurd, but last he checked no one was around to judge him for his thoughts.

Before his eyes can close for good he looks straight into Suit’s eyes and Suit smiles, bringing his hand to cradle Will’s face before everything goes black.