Archive of Our Own ^beta

Years of fishing on a near weekly basis takes on a physical form. Some hobbies leave their mark in differing ways, where traditional forms of art finds personification in tender bumps on the fourth finger. Will Graham's form of artistry can be detailed in the excess layers of thickened dermis between his hands.

The string dig deep into his skin. Seated in a creaking boat, floating in an endlessly dark lake day after night, spinning line over nail and tying knots to the ship: etching the burden of creation onto the tips of his fingers, and labelling him as a creator. His body, its own form of art, had adapted to every minute change, from weaving together tissue to support a tightly strung string, to creating so many excess neurons to support such a rapidly growing mind.

"Well, perhaps the mind is capable of making mistakes. Contrary to the trust we put into the perfect man made machine, the brain is wholly capable of mistaking one impulse for another. Our bodies are proof - protecting us from activities that are otherwise harmless."

Trauma, for instance, Will mused. "How should we predict the unpredictability of the mind when even we are capable of disassociating into individual fragments. When we naturally have dormant escape codes that Houdini would be envious of. Such genius that we aren't even consciously aware of."

"Such a form of prodigal creativity acts as a veil, hiding a debilitating disability beneath. The fear of commonality is a wretched disease that bears it's teeth of envy into the world, and it is that same green eyed monster that casts such judgement on gifts. The human desire to be better than one's own limitations, to match otherworldly standards, bears the true weight on the outstanding. To be outstanding, is among the childish labels of 'freak', 'monster' and 'stupid' - describing a different characteristic while rippling the same effect. Far too many instances in history do we find the outstanding to be isolated, the different cast aside and left to be torn apart by rabid beasts. Animals have developed their own chemical formulas to survive - from camouflage to mimicking, adaptation is crucial towards the survival of every living species."

A final sharp tap signaled the end of a paragraph, echoing around the single room that made up Wolf Trap. The room was dark with night. A glance around the hoven would permit an odd assortment of furniture. A fireplace, right next to a kitchen, parallel to a bed with haphazardly unmade covers that strew itself in a chaotic splash.

No effort was put into maintaining a guise of cleanliness, and there was especially little effort into organizing the mismatched furniture into aesthetically pleasing settings. Every visible surface was covered in miscellaneous items, from small trinkets that were soon to be disposed of, to papers that blatantly revealed sensitive information; either of the dead or political variety.

The singular, open curtain cast light on a long desk. One half was designated towards creating delicate fishing bait, and the other haphazardly cleared out with a single laptop with its screens blaring loud light. Will Graham, disgruntled by the late hour, heavily leaned back in his chair earning a elongated creak that seemed to echo off of each wall.

He sighed, rolling his head from one side "crack!" to another, hand raving over his unkempt scruff to massage tender temples. Eyes were red with exhaustion, the bags looking more like day-old bruises mottled with blue and black, than minor indications of unrest.

"It's been a while since I've stayed up so late." he muttered into the empty room, finally made aware of the hour. He had begun his work before the birds have even awoken, and now, the moon was the brightest light in the sky, casting a shameful glow into the room. 

Hyperfixation, it's a term so recently popularized that utilization seems almost juvenile - yet it was perhaps the most fitting term to forgive Will's actions. Beginning the binge-fest that was putting his chaotic thoughts into legible words was almost addicting in it's own right, and living miles away from the nearest living soul, well human soul, has provided its expected consequences, where no living creature would bear concern over his habits.

Well, they were benefits in his eyes. He wasn't a man of many words.

His quaint home was a blessing, providing a safe haven away from what he deemed as unnecessary conversations and small talk expected in common residences.

Years prior, when he had been looking for a new place to stay, his introversion had been a driving factor behind crossing off any homes in suburban neighbourhoods or apartments. God forbid he had neighbours.

Will's first home was considerably less welcoming for somebody of his distinct personality: unashamed in his rudeness. Perhaps it was his unique conditions speaking, but it was quite obvious that paid no heed towards bending to any social contract. As such, his presence was rather unaccepted within traditionally perfect neighbourhoods, fitted with cozy parks surrounded by lush greens and well respected institutions - not to mention the abominably high average tax bracket. Imagining himself fitting in with such a picturesque crowd was almost laughable.

He had laughed - cackled, when he pulled in with his moving truck, throwing the greatest middle finger to his brother's gift.

It comes as quite a surprise that the American atomic family model is seen as less neurotic than he was - being expected to be not only physically, but emotionally present for every terribly dull homeowners meeting.

Snorting, Will caught himself in his own thoughts, "Dull? How familiar." A hand covered his eyes, hiding a cheekily smile creased face from nobody in particular.

Learning from his mistakes, he had made it a priority to find the most secluded home - Wolf Trap was proof of his genius. Of course, passing the bill onto the far wealthier half of his family.

Now he was living his own, perfect, life. Albeit far from the traditionalist model of the American family, Will found more than enough satisfaction in his routine. His schedule, besides the responsibilities of his work with the FBI, left a hefty amount of time for his own extracurricular activities. While fishing still took a large percentage of his time, the recent inclusion of article writing had found itself rather high on his priorities.

Updating regularly wasn't an issue - Will Graham, excuse his French, gave zero shits about satisfying his readers. Instead, it was the physical limitations of his fingers not quite moving quick enough to keep up with his thoughts that was his biggest hurdle. Far too many ideas, criminally too little time.

It was because of this that he'd churn out articles like a madman. Whenever there was enough free time - and plentiful fish in his freezer, his mind was set on conveying his thoughts onto screen. His turnover rate, especially in the low tide season of homicide, was to be marvelled at. With enough time and caffeine, of course, he'd be producing several articles a day, 19 was his record. The timestamps on each of his published works was proof of his insanity.

There was no limitation on what the subject of his fixation, his obsession would cover. From the impacts of atmospheric pressure on the rate of decay in the human body, to the implications of psychological trauma of adolescent growth, these were never just simple topics.

Obsession and prodigus, Will thought. That could be another article. Creativity seriously loved to hit him like a truck in the middle of the night.

As a new idea raced through his mind, the irritatingly familiar sound of buzzing came from the right. Erratically jumping from side to side in a cruel dance, his cellphone called out for attention. It would be so easy to just ignore it, he thought for just a second, before resigning to his own curiosity and taking the device in hand with a sigh, pressing down onto the answer button without a glance at the ID.

"Will Graham."

"Wilhelm, what a wondrously pleasant surprise this is." came a dry greeting. He had sighed far too many times and even more leaning would find him permanently engrained into the seat of his chair. A petulant eye roll would have to do.

Running a hand through his hair, "You too, Sherlock." he replied, sarcastically remarking, "What an utterly wondrous pleasant cup of tea it is to hear your voice."

"No need for such hostility, brother dear."

"Well unless there's a good reason for calling, there's no good reason for me to hear your voice at this hour either."

A chortle, "Such venom. Although I'd find myself more surprised than yourself to have received a answer at this time."

Here we go.

"Given the time and hour in London being approximately 8, no, 8 o' 4 in the morning, it'd obviously be around 4 in the morning in Virginia where you reside."

It'd be impossible to sink further into the chair correct? Maybe he could switch to the ground. Tearing out the floorboards isn't a bad idea.

"This gives us two viable possibilities. Either you're up spry and early for a delightful morning jog, or you are once again awake for several hours on end. Given a lack of such a distinct morning voice, your fully awake wit and the irritating digital humming I can hear in the background, all evidence points towards our second option."

Groaning and sitting up fully, "Are you expecting me to give you a medal?", Will accused lazily, with eyes more focused on his work rather than listen to such familiar rambles about 'self-care'. He could already imagine Sherlock with his chest puffed out, floundering like a peacock in mating season. It was rather hypocritical for Sherlock: undernourished, drug addicted and trigger-happy Sherlock to be critiquing his quality of life.

The stagnant pause following felt worse than strangulation.

"No, I just wanted to congratulate you on your latest article." Came the unexpected statement.

"That's what John wanted to say. Splendid work on the data collection of the key weather metrics, although the standard deviation was rather high wouldn't you think? Perhaps a reduction of the sixth and fourteenth outliers would have been beneficial towards your procedure."

A huff came out of Will, almost surprising himself with the suddenness. What else could he have expected from his own flesh and blood. Empathy? Politeness? Slipping into banter was almost second nature, and the ease never stopped to surprise him. The Holmes brothers uncannily tunneled themselves into his life, and frankly? Will never wanted to pull them out. "Tell John I said thanks and hi."

"I'll be sure."

"Well now to think of it, hadn't you left, what was it, three misspellings on your recent article on the eleven types of cigarette ash?"

A choked sound came out of the speaker, "It was twelve types of ash." Sherlock defended childishly. The image in his head of Sherlock with both hands raised and a fixated glare against his mobile device was rather funny. Will smiled.

"Whatever, no way this is just a courtesy call. What did you really call for, Sherlock?" Will tapped his finger impatiently against the desk, glancing towards the series of files that were awaiting pick-up. It was unlike him to call without a purpose, and while favours over the sea were rather difficult to fulfill, it hadn't been rare to find a request to acquire sensitive pieces of information. Even with the breadth of Mycroft's control over international politics, sometimes it was simply faster to ask from the source.

Not to mention their requests were always rather bold in nature, from simple conversations with key figures to sway some odd vote, to straight up stealing classified files. Will Graham, at least in another universe, would've never stooped so low, yet his newfound siblings may have had a larger impact on his life than he previously thought.

"If you want something, just say it." Will chuckled, "Not like you haven't done worse before."

A snicker came from the other line, "The alligator?"

"The alligator." He affirmed with a wry smile. That was a story for another time.

He ran his eyes over the words one final time. It was good, but not quite up to his standards. Not yet.

"Hurry up with whatever you want to say."

"Oh? Such a hurry, brother? Are you publishing your next article? I hear your finger sliding over the pad - you ought to moisturize, my goodness, I'm sure our dearest My will recommend you few brands." Sherlock was rather similar to a dog, whereas the second he caught smell of something of interest, it would take a hellfire to wrench his nose away. This had been one of the precious few times when Sherlock had finally caught Will between articles - in his defense, his turnaround rate was disturbing.

"May I have a read? I'd be thrilled to correct any mishaps - God knows that you'd need it."

Biting his lip, Will contemplated over sending it over in an email. His input would be, no doubt, stellar, but the thought of sending it off to Sherlock gave an unsavoury feeling in the pit of his stomach. As much as the notion of having a trusted compadre to read over his work served as nothing but a benefit in the quality of his writing, Will's trust was difficult to come by.

His rough drafts were raw, real, and completely true to what his mind truly believed in. Like a fresh wound - no knitted skin or clotted blood to protect the sensitive tissue underneath. Being given the privilege to step into his world, his lonely, bloody world required a certain degree of intimate connection. Censoring was a necessary process in his work. Just as how his articles bore no name - no signature linking the FBI consultant to written evidence of his art, Will needed to ensure that the content itself bore no marks of his true character.

The isolation of Wolf Trap was a wondrous physical representation of his code - having the same blood running through their veins didn't dignify such a level of trust.

"Yeah, thanks, but no, thanks. God knows that you'll just critique it to hell's end."

A sigh from Sherlock bore his genuine disappointment, "A pity. You never cease to keep your walls up."

"Like you can say you do any better." He replied dryly. They all had their walls - Sherlock was no different. A Holmes' signature, perhaps. "Are you seriously planning on going through with your plan?"

It was a surprise just a few weeks back, hearing from Mycroft on his plan to falsify his death. As unexpected as the announcement was, it didn't come as a true shock. The Holmes all knew that they were better off alone, as all prodigies are - destined to a desolate and lonely world where nobody, perhaps except each other, could truly understand them. And even they, were leagues away from understanding one another.

Sherlock still isolated himself from John, flourishing under the heady haze of addictive opioids and skipping meals till days blur into one. Mycroft was just, to put it simply, alone. Utterly, and completely alone - and as much as he claimed satisfaction in being the centrepiece within the British Government, acting as a bridge between every region of political importance, it'd be foolish to forget that he hadn't had a woman since his teen years. The younger Holmes' couldn't even tell if it was out of physiological curiosity - looking to explore another human, no, specimen's body out of a professional interest, rather than a rare instance of genuine connection. With all likelihood, they'll never find out the truth.

They all had secrets in that nature, where the answer would only be whispered within memory palaces and found six feet beneath their tombs. Something about that ached something deep inside of his cold, cold chest.

Connection came at limited supply. They all knew their own faults - far too clever for their own goods, following the same mantra against emotional attachment. Mycroft made sure of it.

"Yes." Said Sherlock in a with a tired drawl. He sounded almost resigned to the fact, "It may be difficult for comparably short period of time, although after My and I had toiled over our future endeavours, it is the choice with the least complications."

Will bit back a snark retort, wholeheartedly aware of the unsaid complications that poor John Watson would be implicated in - particularly the ones that Sherlock didn't have the necessary empathetic traits to understand. Their reunion, no matter in how many years, was to be a chaotic one, between the frigid brother of 'Iceman' and a man who has too much heart for his own good.

It'd only be made worse by the fact that Sherlock wouldn't even comprehend his own wrongdoing.

"I seriously hope you know what you're doing, if not for John's sake." He said instead, almost pitying the man. But Will wasn't to meddle into their troubles. Sherlock was clever, he'll learn, and well, and Will isn't supposed to mother him. He was the youngest for Christ’s sake, if he wasn't to watch his brothers flounder and make mistakes, how else would he contribute towards traditional family dynamics?

It's a good enough excuse. He thought.

"It's going to be alright. I was under the impression only Mycroft would pester me with such dramatics." said Sherlock, "John is a big boy. He can surely take care of himself regardless of my presence."

Will snorted, "Yeah, he'll probably be better off without seeing you in your bare ass and nighties every time you step out for 'a walk'"

"I'll have you know that my stairway strolls are an ineluctable part of my routine."

"Truly, I bet you'd wake up with a nasty temper - perhaps in need of a changed nappy if you don't walk up and down the stairs a few times a night."

An audible harrumph came from the other line, "Whatever."

His head shot back with a wide mouthed cackle, "Come on, I know you're smarter than that. At least have a little fight in you - or did John take all of the wit for the night?" Will sneered with little heat.

"Oh shut it. I have a matter of importance to talk to you about - and take my John's name out of your mouth."

Ignoring the following: "My John! Oh my~", Sherlock continued: "I wanted to provide you with an advanced warning regarding Moriarity."

There was a unfounded graveness in his voice, the earlier light-hearted bantering mood being shifted towards a topic of severe importance. But Will knew it was an excuse to escape from his bantering. "Mycroft had discovered a series of agents within America, particularly situated around the East Coast. Each of which are likely to share connections to his network deep in Serbia."

"He advises your caution. While I will certainly arrive to dismantle their network in due time, activities in the middle east are much more prominent and thus - will be higher in priority."

Leaning his chin heavily into his hand, Will tentatively contemplated the consequences of his brother's impending suicide. Recent times held no significant plans or adventures such as this, although it seemed that something big was going to restructure the rigidity of his routine.

"Do you have any particular names that I should keep out for, Sherlock?"

A pause in contemplation - perhaps searching through his own notes. Will waited patiently, receiving a pen and notepad from a drawer beneath his table.

"Regrettably, nobody in particular. Other than Moriarity himself and his key alias: Richard Brooke."

Quickly scribbling the name down for later research, Will hummed in thought, the pathways within his mind imaging the multifaceted possibilities that each held equal possibility in influencing the next few months - or years. Well, Mycroft would surely find deviation in one or another direction, although Will's strengths weren't particularly keen on being a "Data Scientist Nerd" as he lovingly coined.

"When do you think you'll be doing... well you know, the deed? Dancing with the devil? Wringing the old towel?"

He could hear the smile through his voice, "Whenever our dearest Moriarity decides that he'd like to play with my toys; or perhaps when he comes prancing when he finally manages to pull the heinously large stick out of his arse."

"Sherlock, don't even attempt to lie. I heard about your trip two weeks ago, and there's no way in hell that you're unaware of at least the approximate timeline. Fuck off and tell me the truth."

A pregnant pause.

"I have the right to know. Or I'm taking away your crashing privileges."

Sherlock made an audible keening sound over the phone. Will didn't understand what about the damp and coldness of Wolf Trap attracted his brother, but it is against the point.

Finally: "This week."

"This week? Seriously that soon?" he openly balked.

A quiet, affirming hum was all he needed as confirmation.

"Shit..."

Will cast a gaze around his home: single roomed and unwelcoming towards visitors. While he enjoyed the extracurricular activity of allowing his siblings suffer under their own poor judgement; the decision to room with yours truly of course, utter sadism wasn't quite his poison of choice. Homing a sibling that he had never even met in person, that, was a big pill to swallow.

Standing up from his desk he pushed his chair back into it's place beneath the desk, leaning the full weight of his body against the solid surface in reassurance. The array of weapons within his home had never felt so comforting before. God bless America and it's lax gun laws.

"It'll be alright, brother." Came Sherlock's hesitant comfort. The idea of sharing space was difficult for both of them, although it was surely to hit Will quite a bit harder than others.

Suddenly, the familiar tone of his phone rung out once again, this time buzzing against his ear.

"Sorry Sherlock, my cell is ringing again."

A quick glace told him that Jack Crawford - the head of the Behavioural Science unit, was once against asking for his consult. The pit in his stomach that formed was almost instinctual - not out of fear, but rather unbridled, inadmissible, pure irritation. Complaining about his position was one of his favourite pastimes, and one of the few ways he found connection with John in particular.

"They literally act as if they are children."

"Don't we know a certain somebody who acts similarly?"

Good times.

Sherlock and Mycroft, of course, has heard their fair share of snide comments and complaints - and of course, both had an exaggerated opinion on the matter. Each sibling had interpreted the desperate nature of the FBI in different, albeit equally negative manners. Sherlock in particular saw them as "worse than the Scotland Yard if you could possibly comprehend."

The sound of a tired huff was enough to trigger Sherlock's sensitive senses, "Ah, is that the sound of incompetence calling?" he inquired with familiar acerbic cheek. "They're practically admitting to their own incompetence with each call they make. Scotland yard can barely holds a candle to their lack of a nerve." he sniggered.

"Yeah, well incompetent or not, I'll have to go now. Tell Mycroft thanks for the heads up."

"Obviously, Wilhelm. I'll send him your most prodigious blessings."

"Yup nope, bye."

Quickly ending the call with Sherlock and pulling his phone down to beneath his navel, his finger hovered before the answer button, foot impatiently tapping against the ground - do I really need to?, the budding thought in his head whispered. It's not like he gains any significant gain from consulting for them, rather it is just a crude past time to have. Who need hobbies when you can act as the resident empathetic psycho of the FBI?

Giving into more sensible thoughts, he made contact with the screen. Will brought the phone back up against his ear, pressing it tightly between his shoulder to allow more mobility as he shuffled around looking for profession wear. With hurried movements, he slide on the baggy sleeve of one of his many plaid tops through his arm and hobbled around the room to find pants. He knew what this call was going to lead to - inevitable legwork as Mycroft would call. They were similar in that regard. He hated legwork.

"Will Graham speaking."

He brought heavily framed glasses to sit atop the bridge of his nose and let out a final, resigned, sigh.

Jack hadn't been having the greatest day in the world.

It had begun relatively within expectations: wake up before dawn breaks, engage in typical bathroom activities, put on a suit meticulously ironed and pressed by his wife the night prior - then kiss same wife as he walked out the door. His ride towards the office was routinely interrupted by a drive by a Starbucks, or some cheap local chain, emphasis on the cheap. Family breakfasts were as real as magma was cold, where the lack of young children tunneling through the house had left the walls bleak and empty. Even more chilling with the modern aesthetic that Bella had been so unreasonably attracted to: "It makes the house feel cleaner without even cleaning!" she'd claim, coughing up a lung between words, raising a thin, too thin, finger towards the listed advertisement.

At one point in their lives, they had desperately wanted children. A son that he'd be proud of, watching him grow up into a fine young man - ensuring to attend each and every pep rally and game. Showing the love that his father had rarely given him.

A daughter. A sweet little thing he could spoil with princess dresses with fairy tail trains, beautiful sweets and expensive gifts that every child would only dream of. To be spoiled would be nothing more than an expectation of whomever was blessed to be his child. Attending every dance that she'd request him to go to, watching her cling on the hem of his shirt crying "Daddy!" would've been the highlight of his life.

The best father in the world, that was his own take of the American dream. Whereas his ancestors had worked hard to give him opportunities to immigrate to America, living through the historically difficult years and persevering through it all to allow him to attend university and gain a spectacular position. Jack could think of no better way of giving back to his family - strict and emotionally withholding or otherwise, other than allowing that prideful lineage to live through another generation of Crawford's.

It was during his undergraduate years when he had met Bella: Beautiful Bella, Breathtaking Bella, Born-to-be-my-wife Bella - and whatever ridiculous nickname the younger Jack had conjured up in both sober and inebriated hours.

She was the love of his life. His young, bleeding heart would weep at the mere sight of her, and sob tears of white hot lava when she was absent. Living without her presence on the same plane of land was an implausible possibility, to the same degree as wizards and unicorns. As juvenile and silly as these thoughts may be to a emotionally constipated adult, he had written in his diary: I wish nothing more than to feel the same joy as the first moment I met her.

That feeling had rekindled when he had the honour of slipping a ring through her delicate hands, feeling the warmth of his girlfriend - no, his wife between his palms. The roughness of his own hands contrasting with the femininity of hers reflect in their personalities - a strong, headstrong and explosive individual only held back by the kindness of his perfect wife.

But then came the cancer.

Cold air with perspired mist as breath. Sullen hospital rooms with cheap abstract art to distract from the sheer nothingness in it's walls. Chilling revelations - words that would subject frost that reaches so deep that it creeps between the creaky joints and freezes capillaries into any husband:

"Stage 4 Lung Cancer", her doctor would reveal.

It was the beginning of lost dreams, and an ongoing battle against hope.

Terminal, was a key trait that was attributed to these illnesses. Jack wasn't particularly an optimist, nor was Bella. A trait that the polar opposites managed to share was a driving force behind the life that they lead today.

No children. No hopes. No dreams.

Just pure, utter, primal survival.

This morning. Jack had kissed his wife goodbye, holding her frail hands with little to no insulating fat between the digits - almost tight enough to make it hurt. She didn't say it hurt. He could bet she just didn't tell him.

His drive towards the office was decorated with irritating, frustrating bright colours advertising "Back to school!", or "Want to treat your kids right!" and "You wish you had children to treat, huh!"

Alright, maybe the last one was conjured out of self-hatred but it had made his day that much worse.

All the more to weigh on him throughout the time spent restless at his desk. Listening to the grating sound of rookies attempting to sway his opinions by mode of weak compliments and offered coffees., and hearing the praise over his position: Head of the BAU.

He'd scoff. What even mattered if his wife wouldn't live any more than a year?

The crime scene was a prime outlet. A space outside of stuffy offices and four-walled rooms. A place where he could demonstrate the power, and the real meaning of his position over his team. Show them who was in control - who was fully in control of every element. Where the unpredictability of human physiology hadn't bore the strain that he experiences, he is reminded on a daily. Every roll of fat, the smiling faces and existing child was evidence of his poor luck - his lack of the complete, utter control that he was promised from one abusive father to his son.

Crime scenes were his therapy. Loud voices and heapings of responsibility - his drug of choice.

There had been a brand new call into a local home in the headache inducing early hours, where reports detailed the homicide of a well respected wife and husband. God, work had to encroach far too close to home sometimes.

The sky was dark, only the warm lights of suburban neighbours providing visual information, showing a cozy neighbourhood that held nothing but great potential and happy homes. The same welcoming lights that was cast onto the cold corpse and bloodied floor of the middle aged couple.

Everything that he had ever wanted - good health and opportunity, snuffed out by a cold hearted killer.

It brought a fresh sense of rage.

Accompanying the busy sounds of work, between forensic specialists to his own team - he could hear the distant sound of a car rolling up to the site of the crime. A full body turn would give him the familiar sight of Will Graham stepping out of his dingy vehicle, providing a new, source of unadulterated anger.

Will Graham. A man with all the opportunity: a degree, a generous position and unbridled genius - yet zero motivation to find true, patriotic joy.

Jack hated him.

"Will Graham!" He barked out, the name vibrating from the deepest point in his gut, energized by booming emotion. "Where the hell have you been for the last half-hour? Get to work."

Turning his attention towards the buzz of activity swarming around the body like bees to sugar.

"Clear out!" he holler, watching as the wave of people abided to his command, standing up and halting their tasks immediately to step out. That, was control. He wouldn't allow himself the privilege of a smile - Bella deserved that, not him. Not the unhelpful husband that did nothing but yell as her health deteriorated.

He himself, took a few steps away, watching as the unimposing man stalked towards the house, pulling off the lenses that seemed to be almost glued to his face. Will would close his eyes, hands closing and opening rhythmically against his sides as is preparing himself to fight against an untold force. It always looked like some gung-ho mediation bullshit was happening every time he stepped onto a crime scene - something like the blatantly false psychological daily magazines he'd read on the benefits of "sitting in a room with burning incense" would have. It'd be easier to convince him to sit in a burning building.

Minute creaked by like hours, his locked legs aching in stillness as Will did nothing but stand. The scene was silent, but impossibly tense, with every available worker's eyes watching the rare sight before them.

Will's frame was comparably slight to his own, whereas Jack was all bulk and muscle, he was all waif and lean. Such contrast made it all the more difficult to hold back from dark impulses that begged him to just beat the shit out of him whenever his lame drawls got too annoying. The attention got too visible.

Crossing his arms and tapping his foot impatiently, Jack stood, waiting with the other tens of department workers as Will did nothing more than stand.

Suddenly, he took a step forward. And then another, before stepping fully into the house, crossing the threshold between frame and wall. His movements were hesitant - but not nervous, rather as if he was reliving the experiences of whatever sicko murderer did in complete slow motion. From the footprints, down to the bottom of each finger-tip: every movement was precise and retelling of a non-fiction story that had occurred just hours prior.

His lips moved rapidly, while the lids of his eyes had drawn up to allow a half-sliver of vision to peek through. As if he was chanting a spell - or a curse, it was a terrifying sight to watch.

"Shit, how does he do it." A female voice murmured in a impressed inflection behind him.

Mutters of conflicting statements followed, "It's fucking cool." coinciding with: "It's fucking creepy."

He'd have to agree with the latter.

Will was not unlike a television casting an ongoing game in a bar, where the crowd would all have to hold their breath and watch the events unfolding before them. Admire him as if he was a reigning athlete.

A presence came up behind him, nearly startling Jack in it's silence. The velvety tone of one Hannibal Lector spoke just behind him: "That is the elusive Will Graham." he stated without question, gaze firmly cast on Will, "His gift is rather peculiar, isn't it?"

Hannibal Lecter. The definition of the renaissance man: in scholar, artistry and culinary expertise. A man that Jack had all the reason to respect. His dress was immaculate - even without a wife at home to lovingly press each wrinkle. Each time he had seen the Lithuanian man, he appeared to be nothing less than spotless in all aspects. Face carved as sharp as a Greek statue that historians could only drool over, and a charming smile barely obstructed by a few crooked teeth that only made him seem even more elusive to a stranger's eye.

Envy was a ugly emotion, Jack knew. He had Bella, and he was winning in his own books. But Hannibal was far too good to be contested, too amiable to be hated.

"He's got a unique mojo. Empathy, he claims. Pretty much gets into the head of the perp, and breaks down the scene from inside out." Jack stated in response to an unasked question, "Although I couldn't give much of a shit what kind of mental games he plays with the killer to get into their heads, as long as he gets the job done."

"And he get's the job done?"

A pause, "He does his job."

A satisfied sound came from behind him.

A cocktail of different emotions ran over Hannibal's face, appearing for only a flash before being quickly buried beneath his mask of elegant indifference. From morbid curiosity, to familiar understanding, then finally: interest.

Feeling an imposing hand settle onto Jack's shoulder, "You have a smart man working under you, Jack." A glint in his eyes made it almost seem maroon under the skyline. The contact made him uneasy. "I'd like to meet with him."

He looked to Hannibal at the edge of his vision. He was a man who got whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted - that smirk on his face told him no less. Gaining favour of Hannibal Lector meant a continued mutually beneficial relationship between the two of them. The idea of a simple psychologist holding that much power within the most elusive police force in America was disturbing - yet the benefits simply outweighed the cons from ten to one.

"Then it's done. I'll set up a meeting early tomorrow."

A self-satisfied Cheshire grin settled onto Hannibal's face, telling nothing of what was going on behind his cool demeanor.

Fuck, he had no clue what he could possibly be thinking.

As if a spell had been broken, Will suddenly halted his movements, instead turning around and making his way directly towards the nearest worker in sight. An arm gestured towards the telephone poles with unfamiliar confidence, and his mouth moved between actual audible sounds, rather than muttered nothings, breaking the trance that had weighed on the team and setting off a cascading increase in activity.

Suddenly, the man who stepped onto the scene moments before, lacking any primary contexts on blood splatter or preliminary evidence had become the most knowledgeable man on site - and everybody in that vicinity was aware of that fact, buzzing around in response to his comparably quiet orders.

The remaining evening was a flurry of pressed orders and declarations based on conclusions Jack would've only been able to draw with hours upon hours of toiling over files.

Or perhaps he would've never reached the conclusions in the first place

Christ, he really hated this guy.

Will really hated crime scenes. It was bloody, messy, and simply put: terrible for his mental health.

He had gleaned plentiful self awareness, although much of the credit may be attributed to the reunion between a man raised in a trailer park, and brothers born with silver spoons and unbridled egos. It wouldn't be an incorrect statement to say that Will had gained his own ego, as difficult as it may be to comprehend.

Although it was for the betterment of his own life. His new founded individualism had proved to improve his own self awareness. Instead of drowning in the aura of pain and misery of the people impacted by the scene, it was the first time he could truly stand back, and recognize his own struggles. To reconcile with the part of himself that cries out in agony whenever he gazes into the mind of familicide perpetrators. Identifying his unique markers that coaxes raw wounds to re-emerge.

Leaning his fevered head against the cool faux leather of the steering wheel, he slowly reigned in the racing of his own traitorous thoughts, reabsorbing the necessary pieces of himself that he had lost, and sorting out the other that he had taken in. It was like sorting through a pile of pills - so similar in size and shape as one another, yet differentiable at a closer look.

Squeezing his hands tightly around the textured wheel grounded him. Thinking beyond the stage of the killer and the dead couple pulled him back to reality.

The crime scene was still well populated, he noted, looking at the scene before him, now lit alive with increased activity after his suggestions. Jack had been especially angry in both his audible hollers and minor body language indicators.

The small team of forensic experts working under his department had jumped into action soon after his departure, working diligently around the cooling bodies and collected sample.

He watched as the young Asian woman had attempted, and failed to pull prints from the alarm. I told you, he was wearing gloves, Will tutted, watching in guilty amusement.

Crime scene hadn't been his particular focus in the past few weeks. Actually, he hadn't attended one in a couple of months, really - and even prior to his time of absence, his expertise was called on in limited capacity. He mused over his thoughts, it was on a shockingly short notice that he was asked to come in today, especially onto a relatively simple crime scene.

Something had changed to call upon him back onto the field - he was going to find out why.

Looking into the crowd, a new face had stood out to Will. Standing tall and passively looking at the crime scene - almost dissecting each person with his eyes.

European descent, by the looks of his clothing and bodily mannerism. Exceptionally wealthy by the new suit - worn to a crime scene of all places. The impressive stillness even in sight of a body demonstrated experience in the medical field, not to mention the smoothness of his hands and skin, only kept by religious maintenance. Although he had undergone a major career change, as seen on the clear sheen of polish over his nails - no doctor could perform surgery with product on their hands, could they?

Realizing what he was doing, Will mentally beat himself up. Picking apart people had become a familiar past-time: God dammit Sherlock, he fussed. Picking up habits through blood was an unfamiliar experience. Unfamiliar is unwelcomed.

Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly locked eyes with the man. Will averted his gaze.

A short buzz came from his phone. He wrestled with his jacket pocket before pulling it out, and opening to a familiar messaging application. One of the most secure on the market; barely even on the market I bet.

The interface would show a little notification beside a contact that just said Mycroft, and pressing ahead would find a short and sweet message: "Excellent work on your paper. I thoroughly enjoyed the read. Keep up the good work, brother dear."

A genuine smile stretched across his face. Mycroft, for all his pomp and circumstance, had far too large of a guilty conscious to even attempt to criticize him. He'd noticed the exaggerated praise from his eldest brother - at least exaggerated for the hoity toity Mycroft, as Sherlock would lament.

He only criticizes me. he'd whine. John would do nothing but cackle at his words. Will would never admit he does the same.

A polite, double-knuckled rap on the window pulled him out of his thoughts, pointedly ignored as he immediately sent off a quick: "Thanks, Mycroft." He wasn't one to bite the mouth that fed him. Pushing the lens back against his face, safely hidden from scrutiny, he looked up towards the figure.

It was the man from earlier, hovering and smiling expectantly besides the driver-side window.

With a narrowed brow, he pressed down on the button to pull down the glass, eyes never leaving the man. A piece of him begged to dissect him further. Unmarried. Aristocratic lineage. Emotionally distant. Person suit. Fake.

"Do I know you?" He asked, all impoliteness.

He was undeterred from his attitude, holding the same crooked smile and an outstretched hand. A smirk that told nothing. Interesting.

"Hannibal Lecter. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Mycroft advises your caution, dear brother.

He took his hand.

"Will Graham."

"Will Graham. A pleasure."

The weight of a the distinctly Baltic tongue accentuated the vowels, making his own name sound nearly as pretentious as Wilhelm.

His hand is quite soft, Will noted.

While he'd half-heartedly raised his hand to meet Hannibal's in a very Will way, instead of being deterred as many others are by his refusal to abide by social code – the man before him was clearly, cut from a different cloth - a very eccentrically patterned cloth to be exact. He had tightly gripped his hand, supporting the entire weight of his slagging arm in response to the slightest experience of weakness, refusing to allow a single moment of awkward uncertainty.

It’s rather difficult to withhold interest.

While it's a bit of a stretch to assume a man's life story based off a single handshake – it isn't too far fetched to make connections between key social indicators and their method of upbringing.

See, take two different samples of people in different social circles and hold out your hand – see how they react. While a charismatic and social man may grasp on with gusto, shaking with great enthusiasm – perhaps with another hand gripping the outermost face in an intimate form of support that makes any woman irresistible to that special feeling, they'd be expected to quickly bounce from one place to another. Moving from one hand to the next, sharing the same, intimate, touches: equally manipulative and impersonal.

Shyer, and more withdrawn personalities like Will may react with a distinct uncertainty that can be felt even within a short squeeze. A wavering pressure, increasing moisture and dampness that builds between palms, and a habit of holding on until it seems alright by some arbitrary standard to let go.

Although Hannibal. He was a rather interesting case. He'd take on the brunt of responsibility between the interaction of two polar opposite personalities – but not out of a need to uphold social status: who was around to watch them anyways? Instead, he held on for no clear reason, looking directly into his eyes with a strange intrigue, almost challenging him to let go.

Who would take on that role? To pull away. Isn't that rather rude?

Does Will really care?

He pulled away, eyes staggering over the edge of his glasses to avoid looking at the maroon – almost red eyes. It was almost like looking into a mirror of himself, although he wouldn't dare to look closer. The mirrors that reflected one mind into another didn't need to be stuck in an endless transmission loop. Who knows what he'd find in there.

"I'm rather intrigued by your background, Will." The velvety voice was back, beckoning him to interact. God, this is why he hated going outside. At least dogs didn't talk.

"So what's it to you." He grunted, wholly uninterested.

The toothy grin was back. "Your gift, it's rather a fascinating case, isn't it." His eyes seemed to rove up and down him, picking his every micro gesture apart for his own amusement, his own interest. It took effort as to hold his limbs still, withdrawing his physical manifestations of nervousness in the sight of a predator.

"You find it fascinating, do you?"

"Quite. I'd find it rather challenging to believe that you don't share the same sentiment." He noted verbally, "You had rather the crowd back there."

Will allowed the unbidden smirk to settle on his face, "Well you seem to quite preen at the attention back there, don't you? The head of the BAU bowing to your word is a rather unsightly sight, although you seem to take great pleasure from the unusual power dynamic. Don't you wonder why they seem to share the same sentiment of interest, while I don't?"

The eloquent, lengthy words felt foreign over his tongue, imposing a unfamiliar mouthfeel. Hannibal noticeably shifted with the accusation – head tilting a fraction of a inch downwards, and poise adjusting to the pointed accusation.

As he watched Hannibal physically cross the barrier between passive and aggressive, Will moved in tandem – hand grasping onto the wheel and posture mimicking the man before him. Absorbing the minute movements of his stiff shoulders, and steady posture that spoke of years of childhood lessons that taught little kids how to pretend.

He stood there for just a second, posturing: "My own gifts are a mutually beneficial pathway between the FBI and myself, not unlike your own involvement." Hannibal duelled, the silent judgement blatant in the air, "Although, your position is one that is too, unofficial, isn't it?"

"At least I was an agent – what are you, a surgeon turned shrink? Some European noble sent to meddle in our affairs?" He shot back, the heat of the moment getting the better of himself. Mycroft had detailed the importance of recognizing the pathways between one subject and the other – that was practically what he was being paid to do anyways.

A European aristocrat fancying himself with the commonwealth of the American people – that was an unquestionably odd turn of events that Will wasn't quite expecting on a Thursday night.

Although Hannibal's face vaguely lit up as if it was the 25th of December, eyes widening in a fraction of surprise and the corner of his lip coiling up in a mock-smile. Fuck. Impulse control.

"You seem to find me far from disinteresting."

"And you seem to delude yourself into thinking so. Haven't you met a single person whom hadn't found you to be special?"

"Deflection is a weak shield, Will Graham."

"So is egocentrism."

"Two polar opposites colliding in a shared space, however must we respond?" Hannibal mused, enjoying himself far too much for Will's own taste. Posing up against this guy was supposed to deter him from future collisions – not magnify his interest.

"I'd prefer deflection. I'll go in this direction," Will gestured towards the stretch of empty road ahead of himself with a dismissive hand, glaring right past his frames and pointedly into the eyes of Hannibal, "And you fuck off to whatever hole you crawled out of."

The man before him visibly bristled at the foul mouth, yet something inside him betrayed his own instinctive thoughts.

"And yet I prefer attraction. Opposites seem to attract in nature, don't they? A natural defense mechanism built to defend each other's weak spots." he said instead with an unforgiving smirk.

"Guess we must be more alike than we thought. Two peas in a pod, aren't we, Hannibal Lecter."

"I have no doubt we have other sentiments that we share, William."

A huff escaped from his lips without his own control, sounding more like a sneeze than anything. A weak attempt was made to pass it off as a cough with a folded arm, but the ever elusive eye of Hannibal would never fall for such trickery, a frown quickly taking form over his sharp features – his brows furrowing and head inching sideways, not unlike a curious dog.

Before he could get a single word out, Will admitted, "William isn't my real name. Perhaps I've overestimated your omnipotence." he challenged. His bored mind buzzed in the heat of the moment, and engaging in the art of playful banter was far too attractive of a lure – Will was rather weak to vices. "Don't get your pride get to you now, your memory may not be as eidetic as it seems."

"I find it rather difficult to disagree on that front. The ability of recollection is frighteningly weak to manipulation." He looked almost amused, eyes crinkled with enjoyment. Whereas just moments before, his posture was all spiked hedgehog and angered lion – Will's second analysis would reveal relaxed shoulders and a lack of tension pinching his face.

Oh, that's quite a good article topic. Will noted. Far too many ideas and too little time. His fingers itched for his keyboard.

"Well it seems we've come to a standstill."

It seemed like Hannibal was on the verge of saying something, but the bright sound of a phone ringing would catch them both by surprise. The ringtone was light and airy, far from the default settings. The tone was reminiscent of some old classical pianist that Will honestly wasn't bothered to remember the names of. He liked art – but only to a certain extent.

Hannibal seemed surprised himself, although no sense of it showed in his demeanor. With eyes trained on Will, his quickly retrieved his cell and pressed it against his ear, only breaking eye contact – well, one sided eye contact, when he started speaking.

"Hannibal Lecter. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

A plastic cordial smile was plastered on his expression, almost as if he was speaking to somebody in person. His instinct to portray a default image of himself was immediate. And Sherlock says we have our walls up, Will thought in mild amusement.

After a pause and a short "Excuse me." into the phone, Hannibal was look up at Will with an almost pathetically apologetic expression, almost looking bizarre on his features.

"My deepest apologies, Will, I have to take this." Came the downtrodden statement, "I'll see you soon."

With a curt smile and nod, he pulled away from his vehicle, returning his phone to his ear and stepping away with a quiet fury that could be only found underneath masked intentions. Hannibal had a odd air to him – never seeming to be truly genuine in his greetings, and yet exhibiting a sense of meaningful connection in each of his words. Elegance in his expensive suits, accented words and mindful actions acted almost as a shield to whatever was hiding underneath the surface.

Seeing that the man was far gone, Will heaved an exhausted sigh and heavily leaned his heat against his seat, body physically relaxing limb by limb after the adrenaline that he'd experienced. Hearing that knock had been like an injection, pumping him full of awareness and hypersensitivity towards the world around him.

The analytical side of his mind lit up like a Christmas tree, and he'd bet that if he had been under an MRI machine – the images would've been blinding to any watcher. It was as if his nerves had been lit aflame, where every detail: from the impressive heft of muscle hidden under the suit, to the minute increase of tension in his fist when Hannibal had listened to the call. Nothing escaped from the eyes of a Holmes.

Hannibal was tense – on edge, when he was speaking to Will, even though he was the very person to initiate the conversation. Either the elusive man was so curious, found Will so interesting, that he made the great sacrifice as to subject himself under his analysis, or he had something to gain from speaking to him.

On the other hand, what about Will's own reaction?

Under his scrutiny, he had immediately retreated to the position of prey under the watchful eye of a predator – an invisible frog receding it's blood into a tightly compressed core, waiting, for the slithering beast to move on.

He had lashed out, both in dangerous banter and showing far too many of his cards. A fight or flight instinct. How could a man like Hannibal impact him so deeply that his body would respond as if he was dealing with matters of life and death.

Was I frightened?

Will mused. It was a feeling he hadn't felt since he was a young child, crawling under the kitchen table as plates and bowls shattered near and few over his head.

It was a worthless pursuit to ponder over every response he had, although worthiness was never a good indicator on whether or not he should do something.

His head was overheating, temples pulsating with hot blood. The stiff wheel provided the cool relief that he needed, as he leaned forwards heavily.

Pulling his phone out of it's abandoned place on the passenger's seat, Will contemplated the thought of finally giving in and requesting for Mycroft's help – as the breadth of his intelligence reached far further corners of the globe than Will could fathom. Hannibal's unknown intentions would be rapidly dismantled with a single call, and all his worries involving the FBI would be a relative ease.

Chewing on the plump of his bottom lip in contemplation, he scrolled through the other contacts in his list:

Sherlock Holmes John Watson Greg Lestrade

All simple names with no flair of any meaningless nickname. The few people in the world that he'd trusted – well, cross off Greg. He was only in his contacts as an informant on Sherlock's health since, well, the similarly closed off Mycroft wasn't one to be as frivolous as to worry Will their aptly named "Problem Brother's" wellbeing. He'd made his mistake once before, only hearing about death defying overdoses days after hospitalization, where more often than not, John had been the only one to reach out with a he bloody nearly died, you didn't know?

And with all his promises, Will knew that John was far too kind to reach out as first priority when shit hit the fan. He'd have to rely on a more calculating and cold Lestrade for that.

Relying on his own connections, wealth and strength was a constant throughout his childhood – even after he had met the Holmes. Just as emotional attachments is a chore to Mycroft, reliance was among the names of arsenic and mercury. Poison towards the solid strength of his own mind and body.

And frankly, his growing hot-headedness was becoming a similar poison.

But yet again... Mycroft would be an incredible help in this particular scenario. Sherlock, even, for his superior analytical skills – not that Will's was voluntarily admitting that he was lacking in that field. No, rather he simply knew where his own weaknesses stood.

Eyes, as important as they are in determining truth from falsehood and revealing the little secrets that hide far behind little tells and scuffs, was something that Will just didn't like to deal with. Distracting, and otherwise horrible to lose himself in.

While Sherlock excelled in pure cold analytical genius, Will had the great misfortune of being gifted; or cursed, with unfiltered excessive empathy. The self-identity as weak as a soggy chocolate éclair – and even that is quite the stretch. The ability to simply let go the restricting limits of personalization and individuality and to just simply lose himself in the void that was other people.

To look at a man right between his eyes, and feel the tension and burden to self-actualize drip out from between his palms.

That was his 'gift'

As much as he wished to be as heartlessly capable as his elder brothers – he just wasn't born from the right blood. Inheriting far too little from one, and far too much from the other.

Genetics were seriously nothing more than a roll of a dice.

Groaning and throwing his phone right back to where he had placed it, Will buried his heads in his hand and letting out a heaved sigh. He didn't want to deal with Mycroft's probing questions right now, nor did he want to dive headfirst back into dangerous waters of overthinking and lost trains of thought.

It was too easy to recess back into self-destructive habits, Will had realised that many moons ago.

He just wanted to go home. See his dogs. Take a quick nap. Update an article, who knows – whatever he can do to get his mind away from the gore of slaughterers and the mystique of the people around him. And of course, the utter stupidity of the FBI itself. Fuck them.

Muscle memory tugged the leather gear stick into manual, and the ratty old car spurred back into life, swiftly making it's way out of the stuffy neighbourhood with little more than a groan. Everything that he stood against personified into a intimidatingly cozy street.

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed one Jack Crawford watching the vehicle sputter away with an indeterminate look on his face.

As much as he'd love to commit all forms of heresy against the glorious church that was the FBI, the weight of responsibilities of living in a 'civil society' had taught him to be better than that.

Well not by that much, but I digress

Acting as petulant as a ill raised fetus was a temptation that he must ignore. As much as it begged to rise up to the surface, itching to just say fuck it all, living in abandoned woodland with leaves as pants and shitting in the trees – his siblings would have his head if he ever dared to say, waste his talent or something among those lines.

Talent was a stretch.

His empathy was among vampires and monsters, more fairy tale than reality. Something that can be taken out as easily with a stake and a handful of garlic. An identity that he could never fully wash out of his skin, no matter how hard he scrubbed – as pink as his dermis got.

It wasn't a talent. It wasn't a gift. It was a excessively projecting limb that waved for attention no matter where he went.

Heightened senses, overactive neurons far too trigger-happy for their own good, and the overwhelming experiences of everything all at once bombarding his mind with unnecessary input.

Although, at least it could be used what can be loosely defined as positive ways. From being stepped on by Jack Crawford and run over for as much as his appendage could possible squeeze out, to writing the most outlandish articles on otherwise unknown topics. At the very least, Will enjoyed the second one.

But, for as much as he enjoyed writing as an activity to relieve his overactive mind, paperwork, doesn't deserve the dignity of being considered writing in the first place.

He'd been there for well over an hour, working on the same paper that he had begun with. Detailing everything that he possibly had thought, witnessed, or even smelled during the short 15 minute time period he spent at the crime scene.

This paper wasn't even the only thing holding him from the glorious hour long drive it'd take to reach Wolf Trap. Among the many hurdles included the very paper, along a scheduled body examination, along with another paper to fill out regarding an upcoming crime scene that he rejected to see, only to be shoved with gory photos and barked orders.

"Woah there Graham, you'll get an aneurysm by 30 if you keep up that pace. Or carpel tunnel at the very least." The voice of a familiar Beverly came dryly, the woman rolled around a swivelling chair to reach the edge of his desk.

Their office didn't beg for much privacy, where desks were lined up in a fashion similar to cooking competitions, each lined with their own sets of monitors along a transparent glass divider that separated hallway from Behavioural Science unit.

Seated closest to the door with all the contents of his screen blared to every person sitting behind him was Will, turning around and looking at Beverly with a bemused sigh, fingers not stopping in it's blurry movement when he replied.

"I'd rather that than work overtime."

"Ditto." Beverly chuckled, leaning up close against his personal space. He hadn't seen her in a while – namely a couple of months if he was to seriously think about it. Every since the BAU stopped calling him up, there wasn't a real reason as to why they'd meet up. As much as Beverly was good company in the office, their relationship never extended beyond purely business.

Will didn't quite find her interesting either. As much as he wished to make genuine connection, perhaps frolic in a field of flowers and poppies with a real human friend, the weight of commitment and the intruding feeling of closeness had kept him far away from that line of thought. While Sherlock had John Watson as his pet – as Mycroft would proclaim, Will and Mycroft were rather similar in the aspect that they had no interest in finding a companion.

Whether they had no interest, or just lacked the necessary components to form such a relationship was as much as a mystery as the lives of the Inca.

Her kleptomatic hands wandered over his desk lamely, searching for anything to fill up the comfortable silence. The well worn ball-pen purchased from a dingy corner store was lightly scratched and scuffed from the years of use, never replaced unless it was absolutely necessary.

His eyes, for a fraction of a second, wavered towards her hands, lingering on the digits.

Lightly manicured, not taken care of on a regular basis – but definitely cared for. Nails: Around 2 milometers in length with a rounded almond tip, decorated with a clean painted bold maroon. No ring on her finger, but the slight roughness of callous on her hands spoke of a wild life outside of the FBI, possibly rock climbing or loud screaming in square latex rings.

Probably the former. He tapped in another sentence.

"Hey Willy-boy, what's this?"

A shift of his glasses and a tilted head saw his attention. She was holding up the item that starkly stood out between the worn out stationary and boring sheets of paper that wore his illegible scribe.

Straight out of a television show of myths and legends was what looked to be a miniature sword in it's hilt. The helm shone in the glaring LED lights, intricate with what looked to be a twisted dragon coiling around a fleur-de-lis – the jaws spread wide open.

She pulled the blade out to inspect it: A slim blade that was sharp as paper on all edges.

"Woah shit, that's sick." She awed, raising it into the light to be admired. The edges of her mouth coiled up in a smirk, eyes leering at Will dangerously, "This ain't your style, where did you get this from?"

Will barely turned his head to face her, taking only a hand off of the keyboard to snatch it quickly from her hand and placing it back on the desk, pushing the blade back into it's holster and punctuating his act with an amused side-eye.

"My brother is fancy with his toys like that."

"What's the use for a letter-opener with such..." She balked, tracing her hand over the intricate detailing that decorated the base of the handle all the way to the tip of the blade, "Garish squiggles? Is that even a term?"

"Well he's the type go to auctions for antique French desks. For irony or something – always references the Hundred Years' war."

She snorted, "What? To sit at or to like, actually do work like us peasants."

Allowing a faint smile on his face, "He does his fair share of paperwork."

"Paperwork is truly a shared enmity among all of us." she said with a forlorn hum, eyes tracking the words as they appeared in the screen.

"That's speaking the fuckin' truth now Bev."

Jimmy was slouched over his own desk in the far corner of the room, legs wildly splayed across nearby furnishing, mouth full with god knows whatever was in his Tupperware. All Will knew is that he could smell and hear it.

In the warmth of the room, the sickeningly strong scent of something steaming had made it's way around the room, permeating into everything, sure to leave it's mark within the fibres of Will's jacket. The slightest widening of the mouth would prelude a gut-wrenchingly disgusting sound of maxillary meeting mandibular, connecting with saliva emulsified bolus all the way through.

Not many things bristled animalistic urges of violence from Will Graham – yet this was one of the few that begged for his attention.

Working in public, away from the blissful silence of his home always begged to give him a massive, aching headache. The sounds, the utter nerve of people to physically show signs that they exist was irritating enough. How much did it truly cost to just close your mouth while you're eating? Will would never know.

"Well it's not like you're doing nearly as much as you claim you are buddy," her voice taking on a taunting hilt, standing up in a clear challenge. The man's face recoiled in objection, with Brian simply letting out a low snicker beneath his breath at the sight.

"Now Bev, don't talk like you're all the shit now..." Jimmy began lowly, "Your back-pile of bodies are stinking up the morgue as we speak."

An affronted look took over her face, "What, is that suddenly a crime now? What happened to the land of the free?" she raised her arms far in the air with great dramatic flourish, "Why do us mortals have to suffer under the duress of class and divide."

At the declaration, Brian groaned and with a slap, slammed the screen of his laptop closed. "Don't even get me started on my fucking tax payouts..."

"That's where the real hell begins – adulthood. Adolescence is the true thief of all that is good in this world~" Beverly sang – clearly having a little bit too much fun at the loss of Will Graham's precious attention.

His eyes remained trained on the screen, watching the word count increase with each compounded tap on the keys as the sound of mundane conversation persisted around him. The clicking allowed him to drown out the external input that came from working in an office with three other people. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

"We ought to divide the suffering, y'know." Jimmy chimed in, "Give a lil hell to the higher ups. Wet their old whistles"

His one and only goal here is to complete his paperwork – nothing more, nothing less. As soon as he could get out of here, the better.

"Seriously, Jack isn't even spared from hell too."

Well, perhaps a little conversation wouldn't hurt.

A bark of laughter came from Brian, "I'd pay good fucking money to see Jack suffer as much as a nth of as much we do." Quickly swivelling the chair into the inner circle from his place behind Will, he almost catapulted into conversation at the first whiff of gossip. In these hushed conversations within the transparent walls of the office, Will sometimes had to wonder what divided Brian: the thirty some year old FBI professional, from a catty high-school-esque mean girl.

"The shit he puts us through, especially when we're at a crime scene has got to be defying some sort of regulation out there." he sneered, kicking at Jimmy's feet, initiating a childish battle for dominance between the two.

"Moral code, at the very least." Jimmy chimed in with a crooked grin, scoring a solid kick to Brian's knee.

"I'd be surprised if he even had one." came the retort. And a hard shoe to the shin. Will let out a the slightest huff of air at that.

Beverly chuckled from her place next to Will, losing interest in whatever trinket she had managed to squander and placing it back onto it's rightful place – although slightly crooked. She leaned back against her chair in thought, turning towards the huddle: "Well as much as I hate his guts and all..."

A meaty finger was jabbed accusingly against her direction, "Don't you dare defend him now. No white knighting in our abode, I hereby decree." Jimmy interrupted with a mouth full of food, glaring at her with minimal heat. Will winced at the sound, the smell and now the sight as he glanced in interest.

As much as his oversensitivity despised the sacrifice, the conversation at hand had peaked his interest.

Beverly raised both her hands in an appeasing manner, placating the playful hostility that had been directed at her, "Nothing like that I swear, cross my fingers all that." She did just that making her intentions crystal clear.

"But seriously, I've been hearing some pretty screwed up stuff about Jack lately, and it's probably a better idea than not to stay outta his way for the time being."

The slight change in air was palpable, as the lighthearted banter had devolved into genuine sharing of secrets. Instead of the volleyed jabs and surface level gossip, Beverly had inadvertently changed the genre at hand.

The circle physically closed in – the bodies of the four listeners physically leaning forwards to hear the hushed voice – even Will had inched closer. Jimmy had settled his Tupperware onto the table and planted both feet on the floor to properly join the huddle.

Beverly hesitated, wringing her fingers together and looking up at the plaster ceiling, "Ok, so essentially I was out at HR just last night, just chattin' with Lumen and everything right?"

She received crowd of enthusiastic nods of encouragement, beckoning her to continue.

"Well, while we were talking, we saw Jack being called into Prunell's office for a solid half an hour."

"Woah woah woah." Jimmy abruptly cut in, features scrunched up against each other, "Prunell? You mean the golden boy Jack Crawford was called in to the big ol' office for once?"

It was a pretty reasonable question to raise. Jack had a record of being one of the best of the best – a solid leader with a history that would put most seasoned veterans to shame. Not only was he geared with a long list of Marine accolades for his discipline, resilience and grit, his success rate when it came to clearing cases was damn near impressive.

That no-nonsense attitude had been easily transition towards the position of power that he had today. Although many of the recruits and workers were the greatest fans of the bellowing voice and blunt words – it clearly worked in getting him to the elusive position of Head of BAU.

Prunell herself had been one to personally hand him a series of award for his work within the FBI. It seemed damn near impossible for him to genuinely get into any trouble, at least within his professional life.

Brian let out a mocking scoff, "Nah man, Jack was clearly going to go down for some shady shit he'd do one day. For all the shit he spews and the rookies he leave pissing, a man's anger can only be hidden in plain sight for that long."

A disagreeing shake of the head came from Beverly, "Yeah no, he was definitely in trouble, like, guaranteed."

Well, now that was interesting.

"They were yelling so damn loud that we could hear it all the way from down the hall. Like initially we thought there was probably some rookie in there that was being torn apart, but apparently it was all Jack."

"He came out pissed, like, slamming the door so hard I bet something in there seriously broke. From what I've heard, he apparently was forced to do some remedial classes of some sort. Hella sketch, right?" Her hands gestured in the growing degrees of extremity, waving around like a traffic director in intensities that followed the cadence of her voice, a perplexed look settling over her softly mature features. Almost like she herself couldn't quite believe it.

Beverly and Jack never had any poor relationship. Even when they were a bit younger – slightly less stress wrinkles along their brow, they've always seemed to hold themselves with a professional courtesy when around each other. Never a jest raised in either direction, but never any passive aggressive remarks.

Beverly in particular was quite a bit smarter than he initially took her to be, being intently aware about her social surrounding, and clearly understanding the importance of holding her sharp ass tongue when it was important: and that was a surprising skill that many people seemed to lack. But her self awareness always seemed to repay her tenfold, being the source of the hottest gossip and the woman that anybody would go to if they needed any advice.

A frown creased Brian's face, "What kind of remedial classes? It's not like his habit of scaring the shit out of every new recruit hasn't been well documented or anything?" It was true, more often than not there would be a stray fresh-out-of-university recruit found either hiding away in a stall or crouched behind some odd corner.

Any curious employee, oftentimes Beverly or an especially empathetic lab assistant would gently probe with offered tissues, revealing a well worn story of Jack dishing out insulting lectures that leaned heavily on demeaning rather than educational. Hearing these stories, Will had genuinely felt bad for the recruits, although he wasn't quite a good enough person to offer a shoulder for some snotty student to cry on.

Beverly gave a vague half-hearted shrug, "Not sure yet, but there has been rumors going around."

A grave pause hung heavily in the air, almost as if she was contemplating whether or not she should even speak of man in question. Jimmy shuffled impatiently and Will leaned back, fully taking his hands off of his keys to cross them.

She sighed, "You didn't hear it from me, but all I know is I've been hearing whispers about Jack being reprimanded for violence in the field." came the admission, she leaned forwards, minutely beckoning the crowd to close in even more intimately, the warm breaths of each other's lips meeting in the middle.

"Somebody died."

Jaws dropped wide enough to catch a family of flies, and a sullen silence hovered with menace over the office. The tension, previously high, had managed to reached a whole other level. Will leaned back in quiet contemplation, taking in the gravity of what had been said, furrowing his brow at the implications of such a statement.

"Are you fucking serious?" Came a quiet Jimmy, mouth still gaped open. A hand hurriedly gestured out to hush him, swatting indiscriminately at his face in which he returned with indignant sputters. His reaction was rather fitting – if this was serious, there'd be a serious change in how things ran around the office. Jack was already a stubborn man with an overwhelming ego to fit, impossible to argue with and capable of pushing buttons until he got what he wanted. Add on a rumoured penchant for violence: that was never a good combination for anybody.

"What do you mean by violence?" Brian balked openly. His demeanor turned stiff and he looked at Beverly with an intensity that Will had seen in desperate cops and lawyers. For all his suspicions in Jack's sanity, morality and otherwise, he seemed to be by far the most heated out of the rest.

"As in fuck all ran over a puppy as he got to the scene or some actually serious agent?"

A grim smile and complicated look came over Beverly. She almost seemed like she was going to say something, perhaps reveal another key piece of the puzzle before–

"Now why in God's name are you talking about puppies? Next thing I know I'll walk off and you folk are going to be discussing cats for all I know."

The full booming voice and loud presence of Jack shot through the room like a bullet – sending a shockwave through the group. The glass door was ever-so slightly cracked open, and his hulking figure still managed to loom through with all it's intimidating bearing.

"Get back to work you three – Will, I need to speak to you."

At the sharp order and jabbed finger, they knew when to cut their losses, pulling themselves out of shock at their own respective paces – Jimmy being the slowest of them all, before hurriedly returning to their desks to display a weak mime of efficiency. Fingers flied randomly over keys and empty screens were pulled open with little care.

Beverly shot him a quick, concerned glance before turning towards her screen; not seriously reading the text.

Will looked up towards Jack tiredly, eyes locked onto the frame of his glasses and mimicking the appearance of locking eyes. "Will I at least have the great privilege of knowing what for?" The sarcasm almost unavoidable in it's delivery.

The man remained as stoic as he begun, looking at him with the dry gaze of a disappointed parent. Expecting.

No way in hell he was going to back down, not when disrespect is being shoved so blatantly in his face. Especially when he wasn't quite sure whether or not he had been listening to their unprofessional speculations over his body count. Taking passive-aggressive hits in the form of verbal aggression had been a card he'd been dealt with far too many times – and he had been given far too much shit to have not learned a few shields of his own.

Pressing a thumb against his weary temple, he returned the same steely gaze that he'd seen a million times over from the same man. Jack Crawford, who always called him in the middle of the night; expecting the loyalty of a desperate mutt looking for scraps. The man who's character and profile was thoroughly chewed and spat out by everybody he actually gave a damn about.

The man who had once looked so invincible, stripped down to bones and colours.

A gloomy blue. Seasonal depression, exacerbated by external circumstances. Angry. Tired. Sickness.

Will looked closer.

Pathetic.

A sigh. "I'm not getting up until you tell me what's going on. Not anymore, Jack." Will punctuated the last syllable with a harsh consonant, levelling his sight right between brows that seemed perpetually frozen in stress. Tension choked the air, but the need to speak up overpowered the instinct of shutting the fuck up – squeezing past closed throats and escaping through newly formed scaffolds of pride.

Freshly built, and armed to the teeth.

Minute signs revealed Jack's bewilderment – chin tilted a fraction upwards, boxy shoulders tensing, and military-trained strategic eyes scanning over him, posturing him with a fresh glint.

Apparently satisfied with whatever he was searching for, he turned away with a curt, "Meeting. My office." before the sound of glass met rubber in a heavy huff of air.

Fuck