Halloween Bonding

by Kendra Luehr

After Abigail decides to be Joan of Arc for Halloween, and somehow convinces Will to be a priest, the two develop an unorthodox bond while costume shopping.

A/N: This is arguably the prequel to "Better Days Ahead," because that ficlet follows the events of what you're about to read. However, you don't need to read both to understand what's happening, so this works well as a stand-alone for Halloween. I wrote for Will, and my super talented friend wrote for Abigail. Hope you all enjoy! :)

"Halloween Bonding"

The situation was unexpected, to say the least. Will had never been certain if Abigail trusted him, let alone even liked him, yet after he'd stopped by her hospital for a visit, she'd asked if he would take her costume shopping. Bitterly, he wondered if the orderlies would be throwing some type of dreary, less than ideal party to lift the patients' spirits. No other reason for why she'd ask seemed logical.

Nevertheless, Will had been (selfishly) pleased by the thought of her needing his help, so he'd escorted her out to his car with much fanfare. "I wasn't aware you liked Halloween," he said with a smile. "Then again, I suppose there's a lot I don't know about you, seeing how we've only been acquainted for…" He trailed off, realizing the dangerous line he was treading. He doubted Abigail would appreciate the candor and joviality on such a subject. He waved a hand. "Nevermind. What kind of costume are you hoping for? I'll admit I love Halloween, but not the dressing up part. Just…the feeling it brings, I guess." As a boy, it had been his father's favorite holiday, so the two had spent many pleasant Halloweens together. Celebrating nowadays brought both connection and loneliness.

Abigail slid into the car with a guarded expression. "I like Halloween because I can pretend I'm someone else. You certainly seem to be a different person each time we meet, so I'm not surprised you're a fan of the holiday… That, and according to Freddie Lounds' blog, you get to be someone new each time you look at a killer."

Will grimaced at her barb. "Not willingly," he said. "There can be an appeal in being somebody else. Sometimes you get newfound confidence or drive – but at the end of the day, the main difference between you and I is that I don't get to choose who I become. Not in those instances." His hands tensed as he hooked his seatbelt. He really didn't want to talk about this. Admittedly, he had used to daydream about being somebody else as a boy, but once his gift had manifested and taken root like overgrown weeds, it had become difficult to remove. Each new persona had left a piece inside of him, poisoning his bloodstream and making him increasingly ill.

Abigail hadn't expected her words to elicit such an emotional reaction. Her tone had been teasing. Or maybe it hadn't.

You're wrong, she wanted to say. I'm Abigail Hobbs, the Minnesota Shrike's daughter, and I'll never get to be anything else now. All that's left is pretend.

But as long as she had pretend, she could pretend to be a normal girl tonight, and she really needed to.

"I guess I could always go as 'sexy SpongeBob,'" she quipped. "Though I think the point of this adventure is to not attract attention for once. Anyway, where are we going?"

When he realized that Abigail had made a joke (or at least, he assumed so), Will breathed an uneasy laugh. It almost sounded like a soft, choking sound in his throat. "I've never seen SpongeBob, 'sexy' or otherwise. But you're right, I doubt that would be a good fit for you." Had that been an unintentional insult? Not wishing to backtrack, he gratefully latched onto her question and shrugged. "Not really sure. I'm not from around here, but I guess I could always plug it into my GPS." In truth, Will hated the infernal contraption and much preferred maps, but he highly doubted he could find a shop on the array of maps he kept in his glove compartment. So instead, he grudgingly typed in "costume shops" and waited for his phone to respond. "Looks like there's one about three miles from here," he said. "I hope to God they don't have any overly friendly salesclerks. You'd be able to get away with it, but my being there just seems…odd."

Abigail arched a brow. "Why odd? Lots of adults dress up every year. That's why they have adult-sized costumes." She rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter if other people know who you are. The important thing is that the costume makes you feel like someone you'd like to be. When you were a kid, who did you want to be? A cowboy or something?"

She could picture Will as a cowboy somehow.

"Me?" Will breathed a soft, uneasy laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't dressed up since…well…a really long time ago, and I'd feel utterly ridiculous doing so now. Besides…" He shrugged. "I don't have anything in mind. I don't tend to delve into pop culture or modern films, so I wouldn't even know who to be. And given my tastes, it's doubtful anyone would know who I was attempting to be, either."

Abigail snorted. "Hmph, definitely not. You don't even know who SpongeBob is. He's a sponge and he lives in an underwater pineapple house with his best friend, Patrick, who's a starfish and they have a pet snail named Gary. He's also a fry cook – SpongeBob, not Gary. That would just be silly."

Will snorted, increasingly bemused. "The guy lives in a pineapple house, and yet his pet snail being a fry cook is what you find 'silly?' I can honestly say this isn't a conversation I ever expected to have."

Abigail began messing with the radio, but Will didn't stop her. His only sign of displeasure was the low, even exhale he released whenever the station landed on a nasal, less than pleasant tune. He much preferred his classic rock station. His radio still had a cassette player, and he was very much tempted to push in his Jim Croce tape.

Will drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, realizing that Abigail's point from earlier made sense. "Alright," he relented, "then it's just odd for me. I'm not the dressing up type. I just…I never really partook in that part of the festivities. My father and I would get the house – or the apartment, in most cases – ready for the trick-or-treaters, but we never bothered with dressing up ourselves."

"Maybe we could do that. Hand out candy together?" Abigail asked carefully. She felt a little pathetic asking, but not as pathetic as she would spending one of her favorite holidays locked up in that depressing hospital. "We could watch scary movies or something. Or SpongeBob," she added with a mischievous little smile. "And maybe we could carve jack-o-lanterns. I mean, you know, if you wanted to. Unless you already have plans."

It might be weird carving up pumpkins with someone other than her father, but she still wanted to do it.

"If you'd like." Will turned his head and offered her a small smile. "I admittedly don't get too many trick-or-treaters out my way, but on occasion, I'll get a straggler. If it's the sense of community you're searching for, I actually know about some tail-gating trick-or-treat parties. Not that I ever attend, of course, but Dr. Bloom hosts one of them. I'd love to take you, if you're interested." He chuckled under his breath. "Maybe that way, I won't have to hear about what a stick in the mud I am."

Realizing that he'd neglected to answer Abigail's question from earlier, Will felt oddly hollow as he pulled out of his parking space. "I wanted to be a vet at some point, and an astronaut – though I think everyone has an astronaut phase? – and then I wanted to be a policeman. I was very left-brained, so I didn't delve much into monsters or creative fantasy. Perhaps something will jump out at me at the shop."

That was a very big if.

"I didn't have an astronaut phase," Abigail pondered. "I did think about becoming a pirate, though. Also, it is a Halloween store, so something very well might jump out at you there! Like one of the employees might dress up as a ghoul or something," she teased. "I've been to a lot of these stores, so I can protect you this time." She poked his arm playfully. She was feeling in a rare good mood.

Abigail's declaration made Will chuckle. "A pirate? Complete with one eye? Excuse me, incomplete. I can't say I've ever fantasized about being a pirate, but I've always daydreamed about being out at sea. For a long while, I'd contemplated buying a houseboat. Have you ever been sailing?" Abigail poked his arm then and he looked over at her, almost startled by her jovial nature. She normally delighted in ignoring him all together – perhaps she'd even spare him a cold, dismissive glance on occasion – but now she was warm and smiling, and something tugged in his chest at the sight. His lips lifted and he resisted the urge to curl his hand over hers. "Sure," he agreed. "You can save me if you wish." Perhaps she already had.

Abigail grinned at his response. Sweet Will. He was too easy to wrap around her little finger, but why did she even care? It felt nice to be adored, even if part of it was guilt-induced. He was cute like puppy dogs were cute. You could only kick a puppy for so long before you started to feel shitty about it. Or maybe it was because he was just as alone as she was. But when she thought about who she wanted to spend the holiday with, he was the one she'd thought of first, even if it didn't totally make sense to her.

"I don't want to be around a lot of people," she assured him. "Someone might recognize me. I guess I could wear a mask, but I'd rather do something just us." Chewing her lip, she added, "We could maybe watch horror movies, like Friday the Thirteenth? I wonder if it will be weird watching those kinds of movies now... I know it's just corn syrup and everything, obviously, but – well, I guess we'll find out." She gave half a-hearted laugh.

Admittedly, theatrical blood and violence easily made Will uncomfortable these days, and most especially with Abigail present. He could still feel her warm blood on his fingertips – could still hear her raspy gasps for air. "It's…definitely not as scary as it used to be," he softly agreed. For her sake, he forced a smile.

Sometimes when Will looked at her, Abigail still wondered if he was seeing her through her father's eyes and what he saw there. How strange that he had gotten closer to someone she had spent her entire life with than she ever could.

"They say on Halloween, the veil between the worlds is the thinnest," she said, staring out the window, watching trees whir by. "I wonder if I'll be able to feel them." She wasn't much of a believer, but the thought managed to be at once both terrifying and comforting, as were most things concerning her father's memory.

Will peered at her curiously before looking ahead again. "Do you mean the spirit world?" he asked. "I admittedly don't know anything about that, but whenever my 'gift' first started, I thought I was being haunted. It terrified me to see the lives of other people – of strangers – who had nothing to do with me or my father. In a way, I guess it is like being haunted by spirits, so I can't very well say the idea of ghosts being real is ridiculous." His expression softened. "If you're worried about your father, I don't think he'll be able to contact you. From what I've gathered from those reality shows, unless you have a connection with the spirit world, you can't actually hear them. Maybe feel them, but…that's about it. I've never heard my father, though there have been times when I felt him. Namely when I'm out at sea."

Abigail smiled. "For wanting to be a pirate when I was little, I guess I'd be a pretty lousy one since I can't even sail…"

With a soft chuckle, Will shrugged and spared her a disarming smile. "Well, I could always teach you to sail. Uh…if you'd like. That way you'd be the best pirate on the east coast."

"…Okay," Abigail agreed after a slight hesitation. "I guess it would be nice to learn to sail. I'd probably be the only pirate on the east coast. Unless you're talking about illegal downloads."

She was immediately hit by a wave of guilt. What if her father could see her now, agreeing to something like that? Will teaching her to sail was … it was kind of a father/daughter thing, like teaching her to hunt. How would her dad feel, knowing she was letting the man who killed him take his place? It made her sick how, after everything he'd done, she still craved his approval. Approval from a dead man. Maybe she really was crazy.

She had a sudden sinking feeling. Of course she'd wanted to spend Halloween with Will Graham. He might still have a part of her father in him. One last Halloween with Dad. How funny. The one who'd taken him from her for good was her only way left to feel close to him.

Desperate to change the subject, Abigail asked, "Do they stick around? The people you lived through? Are they all still in your head?"

Her question immediately wiped the smile from Will's face. Drumming his hand against the steering wheel, he exhaled and shook his head. "Honestly, it's difficult to say… One moment, I'll feel as if I'm my own person, and then the next, I'll do something that makes me question just who the quirk belongs to. It's never anything dangerous, mind you…just something innocent, like a choice in clothing or the way I prepare my meals. The presences aren't constantly hovering, if that's what you're asking, but sometimes I do feel as if they're all there, waiting to be found like an old coat in a closet."

"I'm not scared of ghosts," Abigail countered. "It's the living who are the dangerous ones."

Abigail's words brought a chill to his spine. She was right. The dead weren't dangerous, but the living sure as hell were. Will saw firsthand just what sorts of evil the human race was capable of.

"What was your father like?" she continued to prod. Abigail hadn't ever considered that Will Graham might have a father, but, of course, everyone had a father and if he stuck around, he shaped you, for better or worse. "Was he like you with the whole empath thing?"

Despite the innocent question, Will felt a heaviness in his chest and he released a breath. "Well…no, my dad wasn't like me in that respect. Nobody was," he mumbled. "In truth, he was my best friend. My mom left when I was six, and she…well, my dad stepped in and we moved from place to place, trying to make a living off his skills in mechanics. He taught me everything I know, so if you ever need anything fixed – boats, especially – I'm your man." The light in his eyes faded, if only for a moment. "My dad passed away 13 years ago. I was 23 when he died."

Will's admission hurt Abigail more than it should have. Her dad had been her best friend too. Until he wasn't. And then he was gone. Because of Will. So it was completely gross that she felt a flicker of compassion then, an urge to reach out and touch his arm, some sort of expression of comfort. She didn't, of course.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Abigail's apology admittedly took Will off-guard. He glanced in her direction, startled, before shaking his head and looking back toward the road. "It was a long time ago," he said. "Nevertheless, if you ever need someone to talk to…" He waved a hand, seemingly picking at something in the air. "…I understand. Or rather, I'm capable of it. And not just because of my empathy."

"Thanks," Abigail said softly, expression hard to read. "I'll keep that in mind."

She considered the sailing thing. It was time away from the hospital, from the tedium of routine, one day spilling into the next with no way of distinguishing them. Being on the water sounded nice. It didn't matter what her father would have thought – he was the same man who killed her mother in front of her, who tried to kill her. Hadn't he forfeited any loyalty then, sick or not?

"I would like for you to teach me to sail," she said, feeling defiant, imagining a part of herself separate from her father's creation.

The assurance pleased Will. He had long since wanted to bond with Abigail, whether it be over fishing or his dogs, but until now, he hadn't been certain of how to best broach the subject.

Finally, they drove by a row of stores and fast food chains. "That's it!" Abigail exclaimed. "Spirit of Halloween." Her face lit up for probably the first time since her life had gone completely to Hell.

In spite of Abigail's clear excitement, Will felt a dip of dread in his stomach. The thought of trying on costumes – of concealing his inner monster with an outer monster – made the acid build up in his stomach.

After parking the car and paying for a meter, Will escorted Abigail into the shop. A bell tinkled overhead, and a bored-looking teenager glanced up once from her magazine, only to instantly return her gaze to the sordid gossip at her fingertips.

"Well…" Will awkwardly gestured in front of him. "Lead the way. In case you're forgetting, I'm new to this."

Abigail did flash Will an actual grin once they were inside, her spirits lifted from somber subjects by "The Monster Mash" playing, and all the costumes and decorations ranging from cute to creepy.

She led Will down an aisle featuring superhero (and villain) costumes. It seemed like a good place to start.

"Let's see…Harley Quinn….Deadpool…Captain America…" None of those seemed right. "What comic book heroes did you like when you were a kid? Unless you'd rather be a villain?" She looked at a Joker costume. "Sometimes, it can be more fun to be a villain. It's like they make them more interesting on purpose. And they don't have to worry about doing the right thing all the time, so it's freeing."

Abigail stopped talking when she realized how inappropriate her words were… How easy it was to forget circumstances in certain settings. There were still people out there who believed the worst of her, and while the worst wasn't true, it was close enough. Waxing philosophical about how great it must be to exist without a moral compass was a pretty stupid move. Especially around someone who was known for reading people.

She panicked, trying to find a way to change the subject and grabbed a sexy nurse costume from the other side of the aisle. "But nurses are the real heroes," she babbled. "They save lives every day, but doctors still get all the credit. And then they have to deal with costumes like this, which are completely degrading to the profession. How do you think I would look in it though?" She held it up against herself, complete with a lace bustier and short skirt, her cheeks coloring slightly.

Will's eyes immediately rolled toward the ceiling. "Well…" From his peripheral, he could still see Abigail holding it flat against herself. Suddenly pretending to be interested in a cowboy costume, he fiddled with the sleeves and cleared his throat. "There are quite a few degrading costumes," he hesitantly began, "but they can also raise confidence and make the wearer feel good about themselves. I see no harm in it for that reason, but…" He flushed beneath her gaze. "…I'm really not the best person to ask. You're young and quite pretty, so naturally, you've got that working to your advantage. Maybe the girl at the register could give a better opinion."

"You think I'm pretty?" Abigail asked incredulously, her voice trembling. That was a fucking joke. She'd been a plain kind of pretty, maybe, before everything had gone wrong, but now she was gross and disfigured and there weren't enough scarves in the world to prevent her from feeling the mark. Aside from which, she didn't imagine Will Graham was capable of seeing her that way. To him, she was some pathetic orphan child whom he felt guilt over, and then developed some fixation with taking care of her, like a small child. Was it possible that he saw her as an actual woman? Did he want to see her in a costume like that? The thought made her whole body flush.

Abigail's astonishment made Will falter. "Is it really so surprising?" he asked, keeping his gaze low as he pretended to search. "If you're referring to your injury, that doesn't make up who you are – not unless you allow it to, of course. It can be rather easy to fall into that sort of mindset. But I can assure you, you're a far cry from unsightly. Whenever we first walked in here, those teenage boys in the corner could barely take their eyes off you. Congratulations." His lips quirked weakly and he waited for her to catch up. Her fingers accidentally brushed his and he tensed, startled by the sudden contact. And despite his first instinct being to reach back, Will pressed onward so that he was at least two steps ahead.

A far cry from unsightly. Well, that was…something. Abigail was pretty sure Will was making up the thing about the teenage boys. She hadn't even noticed them. Still, it was kind to try and make her feel better, even if it was a lie.

"I don't care about teenage boys." She ran her fingers over a red velvet cape, savoring the lush fabric. "I'll be twenty soon." Soon was a pretty large overstatement. "After everything I've been through, I feel mentally into vampire years, anyway. Maybe I'll date a vampire."

Twenty. Somehow, the realization was surprising. Abigail was wise beyond her years, thanks entirely to circumstance and cruelty of fate, but she still had a very young, girlish quality to her face that instilled the yearning to protect. Idly, Will wondered if his affections were like a platonic version of Helen of Troy. Abigail had a face he would go into battle for. Perhaps not literally, but he very much wanted to fight for her honor.

When their fingertips accidentally brushed for a second time, Will tensed and pulled away, and Abigail felt stung, like someone had suddenly knocked the breath from her. It was just nice thinking for a moment that someone she respected, who might actually be capable of understanding her, might be attracted to her. After everything she'd been through… it would have just been a nice thing. It wasn't like she actually thought they'd have a relationship or anything. No one was crazy enough to want to date the daughter of Garret Jacob Hobbs, not even Will Graham, who Freddie Lounds maintained might very well be a psychopath.

A thought suddenly occurred to Abigail, and she blurted, "Isn't it interesting how fictional villains always have a tragic backstory? Um…most of the time. But it isn't like that in real life, is it? Sometimes people have perfectly good lives and they just go wrong and no one knows why."

Then it hit her. She had been talking about her father in abstractions only – but she didn't really know he'd had a perfectly good life, did she? Everything she knew about her father was what he had wanted her to know. She had known his parents, her grandparents, and they had been good people and she trusted that, but it didn't have to be them. A lot of things could go wrong over the course of a life.

Did it even matter? she wondered as she idly ran her fingers over the plastic containing the costumes. If her father had some tragic history somewhere along the lines that she didn't know about, it didn't excuse his actions, but she desperately wanted to know all the same... She wanted to know if the life he'd sold her and her mother was just as fake as the life they had sold all their neighbors. She wanted to know her dad, for real. She wanted to understand why things had happened the way they did.

Chewing his lip, Will sensed the veiled meaning behind Abigail's words and decided to tread lightly. "It's not," he agreed, "and perhaps as a society, we just want to believe that something awful must have happened. The notion that someone could snap, and without any negative influence, is both unsettling and unrelatable for most. No one wants to believe people like that exist, so we don't acknowledge it. Or at least, not openly."

Abigail was relieved that he didn't find her train of thought alarming, but her mind was whirring all of a sudden. "But you can't know everything about anybody," she countered. "Just because it seems like they had normal lives on the surface…maybe some secrets never come out. People die and no one ever knows." She could hear the desperation in her own voice and it sounded pathetic, her wide blue eyes pricking with tears. This wasn't the time or place for this, if there was one at all.

"Of course not," Will agreed, disliking the shrill tone Abigail's voice had taken. Had he caused that unrest?

Of course you did, he grudgingly reminded himself. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "Sometimes it can be unsettling to realize that the only person who will ever really, truly know you is yourself. There's no possible way to see everyone's hopes, dreams and desires, save for what we present on the surface. We often show our best possible self to the world. That's how it can be so 'shocking' to those who knew serial killers. Those people only displayed to the world what they wanted to."

"Except you," Abigail said quietly. "You know them. You know my dad better than I ever did."

It was a strange jealousy. She shouldn't have wanted anything to do with that part of Hobbs, but she had too many unanswered questions. Had everything been a complete lie? Had he ever really loved her? Not in the sick way, but the way fathers were meant to love children? Or had he been sick all along and just kept it hidden until it spiraled? She wanted to keep her good memories, but then again, maybe she didn't. Maybe they just kept her stuck with her thoughts going in circles. Two men – the one she grew up with who made her feel like the most special person in the world, who made her laugh and spelled out her name in pancakes on her birthday, each letter perfectly shaped, and the one who killed her mother right in front of her and…all the rest. Impossible to reconcile.

She was starting to feel slightly dizzy, off-kilter, hot. She counted out her breaths like they'd taught her at the hospital, while pretending to be keenly interested in some zombie costumes. She could be the little girl zombie with the stuffed bunny from The Walking Dead…

"What have you always wanted to be?" Will's tone had taken on a softer, much more secretive timbre. "Who do you dream of when you're lost? Perhaps that's the kind of costume you should aim for."

Abigail wondered if Will wanted her to say him, that she dreamed of him when she was lost, but she couldn't say the most tragic thing: that it had always been her father. That he had been her hero, her safe place and she'd thought he could fix anything. That it was still a hard habit to unlearn, even after everything.

"I've always had a bit of a thing about Joan of Arc," she confessed. "We learned about her in history in junior high, and she just wasn't like any of the other women we learned about. She was driven and fearless and probably insane, but she didn't take any shit from anyone. I mean, she led an army. A woman, at that time. Jeanne D'Arc," she said almost reverently, the French version much prettier.

Will paused, slowing down his pace. The respect was eerily fitting. He only hoped and prayed that Abigail, too, wouldn't be burned at the stake for her beliefs. It was no secret that the victims were calling for vengeance, and that Abigail was the one they wished to burn in Hobbs' place.

"You're fearless," Will softly offered. "You may not have an army, but you have me." Remembering himself, he quickly added, "And Dr. Bloom and Dr. Lecter, respectively. We're all here for whatever you might need…including ridiculous costumes."

"You have me too," Abigail said back, before she could stop herself. "And I think I'd make a good army, should you ever need one." She could feel her face burning.

Will's smile grew genuine then and he shrugged, sheepish as he drifted his touch along the racks. "I think I'm going to need your help with this. I occasionally get guff about looking like a lumberjack, so maybe I should just get an ax and be done with it."

"No, the idea is to dress differently." Abigail laughed. "You'd be a good Spidey… Or maybe Iron Man. You could be him," she smirked a little, seeing the resemblance.

Will huffed. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," he countered. "Unless you're trying to imply that I'm a hopeless, brainy teenager? I've got enough problems without adding those to the list, thank you very much." His lips lifted slightly, but only because he detected the amusement in Abigail's voice. Iron Man? Not likely. Will didn't intend to wear much of a costume if he could help it.

"Jeez, if you don't want to wear a unitard, just say so." Abigail rolled her eyes. How did Will manage to take everything she said and turn it into an insult, even the grudging compliments?

"So your turn – same questions you asked me." Hands on her hips, she faced him, quirking up the side of her mouth just a little.

Will appeared discomforted at the thought of having to answer the same question. In truth, his initial response was the same as Abigail's: his father. Henry Graham was everything Will had ever wanted to be in life, and then some, but he couldn't very well dress up as his father for Halloween. That was too entirely morbid and bizarre, even for a man of his inclinations.

"I don't know… Clint Eastwood?" Will laughed then, self-conscious as he mulled over his random, complete cop-out of an answer. "I used to watch westerns with my father. I don't want to be a cowboy, mind you, but I always enjoyed those films."

"My dad liked those too," Abigail mused. "The westerns... Maybe everyone's dad does. Some lost dream of America." With a smile, she added, "You remind me of those characters, though. You would have made a great cowboy, Will. Maybe you missed your calling." She gave him a teasing smile.

"Maybe," Will carefully allowed, now softly mirroring her smile. "It does admittedly feel like a cliché. I'm not entirely sure what draws men to westerns, but after my mother left, my father and I would always make sure to watch Gunsmoke. There were other westerns and films, of course, but that was our favorite. Maybe it's also the sense of justice…killing an unarmed man is of the highest offense, and the underdogs are avenged. That sort of setting is appealing when we're stuck in such a cruel, unforgiving world."

"It is cruel and unforgiving, isn't it?" Abigail replied, her voice gone soft and wispy, eyes wide and sad. She didn't know Gunsmoke very well – her dad had mostly liked films, but it sounded like a better world. Only she wasn't sure if she was the underdog or the villain anymore.

She could picture Will happy outdoors somewhere with just a horse and his six million dogs doing whatever cowboys did. Herding cattle? She held onto the image of Will somewhere out west without murderers in his head, away from the job that was clearly making him miserable, with just the land stretching out in all directions, room enough for all his frenzied thoughts to breathe.

"You save the day and then you ride off into the sunset alone, all mysterious and people talk about you in hushed tones, like something larger than life. Sometimes, you get lonely but you have to keep moving, because that's just your way. It's always lonely anyway, because no one really understands you, and sometimes it's easier to be lonely alone." Abigail's tone was deadpan, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I've got you all figured out, cowboy," she teased.

Will's expression grew melancholy, though there was a wistful quality to his eyes. "You make it sound much more pleasing than it should be," he softly agreed. "I've often wondered if I was born in the wrong time…perhaps even the wrong world. There isn't much here for me, I've found. And like you've said, it's far easier to be alone sometimes. They say that mankind isn't meant to be alone, but I don't entirely believe that."

How utterly depressing. If Abigail didn't think he was odd before, she certainly would now. He offered a shy smile at her teasing remark, then shook his head. He didn't think anyone would ever figure him out. Somehow, the notion was not as comforting as it had once been.

"We're all alone, I guess. Everything else is a comforting lie. We think we know people or that people can know us, but…I don't know if that's even possible." Abigail shrugged. "Still, I'm glad you're in this world, crappy as it is. I mean, you're not totally terrible company. Guess that's pretty selfish, huh?"

"We're technically not alone when we're born, for the most part, but most of us certainly are when we die. Companionship is just a romanticized form of connection." Will winced. "Sorry… I suppose that was a bit bleak. I guess it's obvious now why I'm low on the party invites."

"Then there's a pair of us," Abigail said softly, her eyes twinkling. "Although, not to get your hopes up or anything, but there are some pretty cool parties at the psych ward sometimes. If crepe paper and apple juice are your scene, I might just have an in."

"Really? So it's not 'too cool' that I could actually be invited?" Will quipped, deciding to play along. He enjoyed the warm, infectious sparkle in Abigail's eyes whenever she wasn't thinking about therapy, the future, or worse yet, her father. "I've been known to drink apple juice on occasion, but I'm not so sure about the crepe paper." He chuckled under his breath. "Truth be told, this all feels a bit like a confessional… Perhaps I should just dress up as a priest. At least that way, people might leave me alone and I'll scare off small children."

Abigail tried to picture a priest. The image strangely fit and she grinned. "Yes, you should be a priest and I'll be Joan of Arc, and we'll both be holy and Catholic and I'll tell you all my sins so you can redeem me."

She had no intention of ever telling Will any of her sins, of course, but it was a nice fantasy. The hopeless dream of redemption.

Will couldn't help but laugh. His hand fell to the small of her back – a light, thoughtless gesture given with fondness – before he withdrew. It was only a moment, but it felt warm, a warmth that spread throughout Abigail's body, and she felt the absence when he pulled away. She was just starved for human contact, of course. It was normal, considering her situation.

"I'm not entirely sure what the Catholic faith would think, given the parody-driven properties of that idea, but I'm not averse to it. I actually have some old prayer beads…my mother used to practice," Will said.

His mouth twitched and his smile grew tight. He didn't know why he'd held onto those goddamn beads. Whenever she'd taken off in the night, it was one of the only things she'd left behind, and in some backwards sort of way, Will had believed she would come back for them. She never had, and they were currently collecting dust in his attic.

"My mother was Catholic too," Abigail replied. "Being in a cathedral feels like Halloween, kind of. This haunted, awestruck feeling… Like you're somewhere in between worlds."

"I've never thought of it that way before," Will said. "I haven't set foot in a cathedral since I was very young, but it did have a cinematic sort of appeal."

"My dad thinks Catholics are all heathens." Abigail realized that she had spoken in the present tense, and probably insulted Will's dead mother. "My dad thought that, I mean. He was just very critical. Of my mom's family in general – the Catholicism was just another thing to pick at."

"You're lucky your father didn't use religion as another form of control," Will muttered. "I know it's a small consolation, but at least you had a reprieve in that manner." He didn't take offense to the "heathen" implication toward his mother. If anything, he would agree with it.

Will's comment knocked Abigail off center for a moment. "My father…kind of had his own religion," she replied after a small hesitation.

Abigail's amusement faltered then, and so did his. For the sake of not further damaging her demeanor, Will decided not to address her religion comment. Fortunately, this seemed to pay off. After a moment she smiled again, almost miraculous with her ability to bounce back. He wondered how much of that was merely a defense mechanism.

"So you really want to be Joan?" he asked, idly brushing his fingers against a display of tacky wigs. "I'm sure we could ask the cashier for help, if you need to find a specific look."

Abigail nodded. "I think I can figure out most of the costume myself. You find your priest costume, and I'll meet you up front."

Somehow, the thought of searching for a costume on his own seemed daunting. Even though they'd narrowed everything down to a theme, Will still felt dismayed whenever Abigail ducked into a neighboring row. He exhaled before continuing his search.

With the help of the cashier, he managed to find a decent costume and waited for Abigail to join him. He shifted from side to side, disquieted since the clerk was just as shy and disinterested in conversation as he was. But before long, he thought he saw Abigail coming their way and perked up, curious if she finally had everything she needed.

Abigail found what she needed quickly enough – some armor made of plastic, along with a plastic shield and a sword and wig. She had pants and boots at the hospital.

She smiled and waved, spotting Will by the register.

"So, Father Graham, got everything you need?" she teased. "Perhaps your first act as priest could be to perform an act of charity? See, this stuff ended up adding up to a little more than I thought it would…" She looked up and batted her eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Please, Father. I can mull the hell – er, heck – out of some spiced cider. It's a good deal, trust me."

Will laughed then, startled into amusement. "I don't find paying to be charity work, 'Joan,' but I'd be more than happy to pay for your costume. After all, how are you supposed to ride into battle without a decent set of armor?" He smiled then, fondness bleeding into his eyes as he pulled out his wallet. It wasn't as if he splurged terribly often. Between himself and his dogs, the payments tended to only be necessity-based.

The clerk rattled off the price in a bored, monotone deadpan, her eyes passing only somewhat curiously between the odd pair before she accepted Will's cash. She rang up the amount, handed back his change, and then Will grabbed their bags before escorting Abigail toward the exit.

Abigail briefly noted that she didn't feel the clerk actually had the "Spirit of Halloween" at all, which was kind of a bummer.

"I suppose you intend to make me dress this way in public?" Will asked, good-natured despite his comment.

"No," she said with a small smirk as they made their way out to the parking lot. "I intend to make you dress that way just for me."

"Just for you?" Will echoed the sentiment in disbelief, not quite sure what to make of Abigail's remark. His mind raced with a million quips, but all of them seemed inappropriate, given the tenuous nature of their relationship. Finally, he settled on a soft, "You make it sound as if I've lost a bet. Not that I want to dress this way in public, mind you, but I'm also hoping it's not as shameful as you make it seem."

"Depends what you were betting on." Abigail shot him a mischievous smile. It was strange how easy it was to be with him, considering the horror of their history. She almost felt like herself again.

"For what it's worth," she said seriously, as they approached Will's car, "I think you'll make a very handsome priest. There's no shame in that."

"Well, I don't believe priests are supposed to be handsome…" Oh wait, that was a compliment. Will flushed around the ears, ducking his head as he opened up the car. Nothing seemed appropriate to say, so he fell into his typical silent acquiescence.

"True. A handsome priest could cause all kinds of problems," Abigail agreed with a slight smirk. "Unless you're a future saint on a holy mission, of course. No time for that kind of distraction."

She couldn't help herself. She was finding Will's awkwardness increasingly endearing, and the temptation to make him squirm a little was hard to pass up, even if he was being above and beyond nice to her. Nicer than she deserved, by far.

"I'll admit I didn't plan a backstory for this event," Will said, "holy or otherwise. You seem to be doing quite well without my input." The flush in his face had subsided, though his knuckles were still tight as he hooked his seatbelt.

"You should probably keep my stuff for now," Abigail said. "I imagine that plastic sword would be confiscated in no time."

As soon as she selected a radio station, Will eased the car back into the street and continued on toward the hospital. "Ah…you're right," he agreed. "I'll have to keep your bag in my closet, because otherwise that sword might get chewed up. Every now and then, Buster takes a liking to destroying my belongings." Absently, he opened and closed his hands around the wheel. "I suppose this means I'll be driving out here the day of Halloween? I mean, I could always call Dr. Bloom, if you'd prefer…"

If Abigail had any decency at all, she would leave Will alone. She was toxic, unsafe, a crime scene that couldn't be contained. But she was long past decency and she needed…comfort? Reassurance? Someone who wouldn't fuck her over? A friend.

However, her confidence was slightly shaken when Will brought up Dr. Bloom again. Her eyes narrowed. "Why would Dr. Bloom want to drive me out to your house? Isn't she busy with that party thing?"

She frowned. Unless he meant-

"Do you…not want to…?"

What had she done wrong? He had seemed pleased with the idea of spending the holiday with her before.

She felt her lower lip tremble as a chill ran through her body. It was like when he pulled his hand away from hers all over again, like he knew what she was and it disgusted him.

"No, uh…I meant she could drive your costume out to the hospital. You mentioned a party, so I just assumed…" Will swallowed back the words, suddenly feeling the pall he'd inadvertently created. Though when Abigail continued to prod, he felt a spark of panic. "No, no, I never meant…that is to say, I do want to celebrate Halloween with you. Very much. If I didn't, God only knows I wouldn't have subjected myself to the humiliation of choosing a costume. It's just…I know I'm not the best company, and given our situation, I suppose I was merely giving you an out, should you desire it. I don't want you feeling obligated just because I asked."

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed and Will exhaled, soft and even. "This isn't charity for me, in case you were wondering. I'm here because I want to be."

He didn't know why, exactly. In a way, he saw himself in her – soft and fragile on the inside, but with walls of steel on the exterior. It was much easier to keep others away if he didn't feel for them, but somehow, Abigail wasn't someone he wanted to banish from his orbit.

"…Oh." Well, this was certainly embarrassing. Still, Will's words made her feel like throwing her arms up in the air in sheer frustration. Was he really so oblivious? For someone who was supposed to be an expert at getting inside people's heads, he always managed to read her wrong.

"I'm the one who asked you to come take me shopping," she reminded him. "I'm the one who suggested we spend Halloween together. I like being around you. It's the only time I feel like…not totally fucked up. Maybe it's because of our 'situation,' as you put it. Doesn't make a lot of sense, but what really does anymore? That was the worst day of my life, but it's also the day you saved my life."

The words hung in the air and she realized she was breathing hard, a catch in her throat.

Abigail's retort came out akin to a battering ram. Will drew back against his seat, tensing as if being reprimanded like a small child. She was right. It might not make a lot of sense, but there was comfort and normalcy in spending time with her. Perhaps not for any logical reasons, but rather because he knew she understood, and whenever they were together, there was no need to explain his situation. She already knew. And that was comforting.

"I'm sorry," Will apologized. The words lodged in his throat and he swallowed. "It was presumptuous of me, and…I'll try to avoid that in the future. From now on, I'll just…I'll let you dictate all the terms." He could sense her agitation, but he didn't feel it appropriate to reach over and touch her hand. Instead, he kept his fingers wound tightly around the wheel.

"You don't need to be sorry," Abigail sighed. "You're not horrible company, Will. You're… probably the only person left who cares about me at all. And even if you weren't, you're … you." Her hands trembled in her lap and she wasn't sure if she was laughing or crying or both. "You're kind of who I want to be when I grow up. Just someone brave and smartand good, you know?"

Of course she couldn't stop picking at Will. He was everything she would never be. He wanted so badly to save her, and he couldn't even let himself see how far beyond saving she was. And she couldn't even let him save himself from her.

"Me?" Will gave a soft, incredulous laugh. It was the first time anyone had ever told him such a thing. "You've over-estimated me," he softly said. "I'm not brave or good, though my ego will allow you the 'smart' accolade." He chuckled in spite of himself. "We're all flawed. No matter what anyone looks like on the outside, that is not how we are on the inside. And I can assure you, Abigail, I'm not worth modeling yourself after. There's only one of you, so why waste that? You can use this pain for good – channel it into helping others, perhaps, if that's what you'd like to do. Maybe give some talks at abuse shelters."

Abigail considered his words. Could she really do some good in the world? It wouldn't make up for her wrongs, but that didn't mean it wasn't worth doing.

"Maybe I should," she said softly, although the idea was a little scary. Just reliving that again and again.

"Is it weird that it makes me sad to think that's the only thing my dad will be remembered for? He was a good father before all that. It's so strange how someone's whole life could come down to the worst things they ever did, like nothing else ever happened at all."

Will glanced her way. "No," he assured her. "No, it's not weird. It's natural for us as a species to focus on the negative, so even if someone has a comeback of sorts, all anyone will ever focus on are their past faults. And your father…" Will exhaled evenly. "Well…it's not my place to judge, though I believe you when you say he was a good man. He had to have been. You're living, breathing proof of the fact that he did one thing right."

Abigail's breath caught in her chest at Will's words. She wanted to believe it, wanted it to actually be true – for there to be some goodness still left in her, buried deep, for her father's legacy to be something other than just horror and death. If Will really could see inside people, maybe he could see the truth of her and she, too, was more than the awful things she'd done. Maybe she really could help other girls in similar situations. (Somewhat similar at any rate, hers was pretty unique.)

She smiled softly, at a loss for words. Will really did make her want to be a better person. She didn't want to let him down.

They pulled up at a stoplight, and Abigail impulsively reached for his hand, giving it a tight squeeze and then holding fast to it, resting her head against his shoulder. Will balked. When having a passenger on board, stoplights often felt like waiting in an elevator – awkward, uncomfortable, and with the need for constant distraction – so whenever Abigail's hand came over his, he nearly jerked back in alarm. Though when he finally realized her intent, he relaxed into a posture of submission. Her head laid down on his shoulder and he swallowed. Physical contact was not something he typically sought, and he hadn't realized until she'd curled against him that yes – yes, he did want to hold her and help her and see that she never hurt again.

Abigail saw the initial tension in Will's posture and almost grabbed her hand back. Was she a masochist? Who kept reaching for someone who always pulled away? But then she saw his expression soften, his stiff posture ease. He was like a timid animal, she thought, shy of people, but yielding once he realized they meant no harm. She wanted to assure him she didn't, even if she was an awful person overall. All she felt was a desire to hold him, soothe out all his twitches and nervous energy, kiss the tired from his eyes and bring him peace – let him know that she forgave him, even if she did miss her dad, and that maybe everything could be okay for the both of them. It was a sudden overwhelming ache and it floored her. She hadn't thought she had any tenderness left.

"You can touch me," Abigail said softly, studying his eyes as the flicker of passing lights cast shadows across his face. "I promise I won't break. I'm a holy warrior, remember?" She shot him a tentative smile.

A holy warrior. Absently, Will's lips lifted into a fond smile. She'd fought for her life and won. He didn't know why she looked to him as the brave one when all he'd done was shoot aimlessly in a panicked, blinded fog. Abigail, however, had lived with her father's terror for years. If anyone was a hero in this instance, it was her.

"Of course you won't," he softly agreed. "I'm not terribly physical by nature, so please don't interpret my lack of contact as an aversion. If you need a hug, I can…uh…" He awkwardly waved a hand. "I suppose I'm trying to say that I'm here, should you need someone."

"What about you? Don't you ever need…?" Abigail fumbled over her words. "I mean, everyone needs human contact sometimes, don't they?" Maybe not everyone did. What did she know? But he looked like someone who could use a hug. And she knew she could. She missed the easy affection of her family before everything went sour.

Though perhaps unsurprising, the question still made Will tense. "I suppose we do," he hesitantly allowed, "but we all seek comfort in different ways. Perhaps it's natural to crave contact at some point or another, but there are others who're content to be alone most days. I suppose I fall under that category."

Liar. Sometimes he was stricken by crippling, bone-chilling loneliness, but he'd rather take off his own hand than subject himself to the pains of the past. And contact, as much as he yearned for it, was a part of that ache.

Abigail wasn't quite sure she believed that, but what difference did it make? And yes, she knew he was in therapy. With the voice on the phone. For the first time, she thought maybe she should mention that. Like maybe that was her business somehow. Will Graham was her business. But she was just some crazy girl – why would anyone take her seriously?

Finally, Will assured her, "I don't need anything. For the time being, we're focused on your recovery. I'm receiving therapy of my own, so you don't have to worry." But she did. Oh God, she did. The thought of her pressed against him, a knife perched beneath her chin and his sour breath in her ear, left him breathless with nausea.

"Well, I hope you still think I'm a good person when I eat all our candy," Abigail teased. "I've never been good with sharing. Sometimes, it didn't last long enough for the trick-or-treaters, and we had to send Mom out to get more. It's actually probably good you don't get very many."

Abigail's light joke brought Will back to reality, if only for a moment. He chuckled weakly. "Well, who says I'm not a candy caper?" he retorted. "I've been known to pack away some Snickers in my day." With his good humor restored, however slight, he eased the car up the driveway to the Port Haven Psychiatric Hospital. "I guess this is the moment where I should say 'God bless high metabolism,' because you certainly don't look like you're storing years' worth of candy in there."

"Well, thank you," Abigail responded to the high metabolism comment. Which meant he had been looking at her body. The thought made her blush slightly.

With the familiar grounds rolling into view, Will took note of the various patients strolling around in the courtyard, each distant and some almost catatonic as they sat or moved. With a sinking feeling, he finally understood why Abigail didn't wish to be here. It almost felt suffocating just from sight alone.

Parking in the designated lot, Will cleared his throat and turned to his passenger. "Well, uh…I'll keep your costume, as promised, and…I guess I'll come back for you in a few weeks? Is that the plan?"

Abigail's mood dropped and she nodded in agreement. She didn't want to wait that long to see him again, but she was wasting enough of his time, and obviously he had more important things to do than hang out with troubled young women. And you don't deserve his kindness anyway. Sometimes when she had thoughts like that, she half-imagined it was the girls talking to her. She could almost see them, pointing their bony, withered fingers at her. You don't deserve anything. You don't deserve to live. A chorus of voices descending upon her. And maybe she really didn't, but she had fought too hard for her life to give it up now. Still, she shivered.

"Will?" she asked softly, avoiding his eyes. "You said before that if I needed…a hug or something, you could…?" Fuck, she was pathetic! She made herself look up at him. "Could I maybe have one now? A hug?"

Will swallowed. "I said I'd be whatever you needed," he agreed. "I don't believe I'm a liar, so yes… Of course you can have a hug." Awkwardly, he unfastened his seatbelt before turning toward Abigail's side of the car. With his hands lingering in his lap, he finally raised his arms and coaxed her into curling against his chest. With firm, yet careful passes of his fingers through her hair, he pressed his cheek into her crown and ignored the exhilaration of being close to another human being.

At first Abigail held back slightly, worried she would frighten Will again and he would pull away, but when he started running his fingers through her hair, she squeezed tight, clinging to him. She hadn't totally realized how much she needed this – no one had taken her in their arms since all of this had happened to her. It was like taking a sip of water, only to find you're completely parched.

She buried her face into Will's neck and breathed him in – he smelled like aftershave and skin and safe. He spoke soothing words and rubbed her back and she trembled, biting down on her lip to keep from crying from relief as much as anything else.

"I've got you," Will murmured. "When you're here by yourself and feeling lost, you just pick up your phone and call me. I'll always answer."

He didn't bother explaining that he, too, was plagued with nightmares and hallucinogenic demons, so the likelihood of his needing to speak just as much as her was quite high.

Gently, he rubbed along the curve of her back. "I should probably go," he whispered. "I've taken up enough of your time as it is, and I'm pretty sure you have a therapy session in twenty minutes." He was guilty of having peeked at her itinerary.

When Abigail pulled away, she could feel her eyes watering up as she nodded that yes, she did have a therapy session in twenty minutes.

"Thanks, Will. For everything," she said, then impulsively pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Then she was out of the car and walking to the hospital entrance, slightly light-headed, her heart beating fast, but with a smile on her face.

Will remained frozen with shock after she'd opened her door. Even after she'd headed out into the parking lot, never once looking back at him, he stayed stock-still and breathing only when necessity commanded it.

It wasn't until Abigail entered the hospital and shut the door behind her that he finally moved. With a shy little smile, he turned the key into the ignition and prepared to return home.

A/N: If you managed to read this huge character study, that's some major dedication! :P If you would like to follow either me or my writing partner on Tumblr, our URLs are musicboxmemories and grimmsfairytalegirl. :) Comments are love and appreciated!