CHAPTER TWO: GOBLIN GOULASH: PART ONE.
Will Graham's P.O.V
To say Will Graham's line of work left a somewhat acrid taste in his palate would be under-exaggerating. Since the Minnesota Shrike's death, at his own hands at that, everything had turned a repugnant shade of sour. Abigail Hobbs's survival, left comatose in John Hopkins hospital, malformed to something acidic in the light of Will's involvement in leaving the poor girl orphaned. His own dreams, now normally haunted by the pallid, bloated and rotten face of Garret Jacob Hobbs became bitter reminders of just how easy it was, for him, to pull that trigger and unleash ten bullets into the man. Jack Crawford's continual push of him, the lack of respite from his ever-churning mind became nothing but a tart reflection of entrapment. There was no rest for him, no escape, no haven to hide in. Will couldn't run from his own mind, and really, that was where his true demons slumbered.
Or perhaps, and more hopefully, this new case had simply worn him thin. Nine shallow graves, victims buried alive and, of course, the highlight of such a gruesome discovery, the cultivation of fungi upon the victims as their heart still beat. Like many times, Crawford had called him in, let him inspect the site and as Jack would call it, do his thing. However, half way through doing his 'thing', a vision of Hobbs hit him. One moment he was alone, in control, going through those sick motions, recreating the killers design and then, Hobbs was there, staring at him from the sunken pit and there was so much noise, running, steps…
A victim was alive, face half rotten, flesh peeling and falling and teeth gnashing in silent screams and pleas, but still breathing and Will had been lost to his imagination. The poor bastard had been carted away in an ambulance and died an hour later, from what Will had heard. Luckily, Will's panic had been written off as a reaction to the suddenly very mobile and loud corpse, and not to what it truly was, facing his own phantom victim staring up at him with a milky gaze.
Still, Will had planned to retreat, to contact Dr. Lecter and request another psych eval, he shouldn't be out on the field, not like this, not when he heard gunshots every time he closed his eyes, when, of all people, Jack beat him to the punch line. Jack rang Dr. Lecter, requested for the man to meet him in his office back at the BAU, hung up pretty quickly, made another clipped phone call to someone else, and soon, was herding Will to his car like he was a sheep dog.
So, here Will Graham was. Sitting in a chair. Tired. Slightly aggravated. Missing the simplicity of his dogs or a good fishing trip. Hannibal had arrived at Jack's office not five minutes ago, and still, Jack sat behind his desk, twiddled his thumbs and arranged a few files upon his desk. Maybe it would have been more bearable, this silence and stagnation in leather plush, if Crawford deemed it wise to inform either of them of exactly what they were doing and why.
"Are we actually going to work at any point today jack? Or can I go home?"
Will needed some Tylenol, a blanket, the soft padding of his dog's feet on hardwood and sleep. Dreamless sleep. Jack was in no mood to offer any sanctuary to Will today though, as he cut him a sharp glance.
"We are waiting for a guest."
Once again, the room lapsed into crushing silence. For all Will knew, he was never one to be good at keeping time, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes could have passed before there was a rattling knock on Crawford's door before the tell-tale jingle of the handle turned, tempting the three inhabitants to turn their gazes towards the frosted glass.
Alana Bloom walked in, heels clacking against the linoleum, back straight and stiff. Jack smiled, Will stared, and always the polite gentleman, Hannibal stood, nodding his greeting off as he spoke.
"Dr. Bloom, I didn't expect to see you here."
Will knew straight away something wasn't quite right with Alana. Her joints were more locked then normal, her stride stronger, her shoulders held further back and her sight never strayed from Jack's smiling face, even though she was being spoken to. This wasn't a friendly visit, that much was clear. Alana had been the other person Jack had called, and by her heavily drawn down brows, she wished to be anywhere but here. Will knew the feeling, although, normally Alana never followed his suit. Jack, as always, missed all these signs, or perhaps willfully ignored them as he was often to do when faced with something that didn't factor into his plans and amicably airbrushed over the tension.
"That is because I invited her to our little meeting of the minds today."
Alana made it to Jack's desk, skirting around the vacant seats. Ah. She didn't plan to stay for long then. Not if she wasn't about to sit. Still, something had lured her here and Will highly doubted it was the percolated coffee on offer that tasted like socks and green beans. It was only as she stopped that Will realized she wasn't, and hadn't, been staring at Jack like he first assumed.
Her gaze was too low, dropping more with each step until, so close to the desk, she was looking down her nose. Following the trail, Will found what had caught her attention. A file. Thick. More chunky than most. Curled at the edges, well read, but looked after. Some paper, yellow, old, others new in their pristine whiteness. An ongoing file. On the front was two words stamped, ink black and fresh.
Hemlock Potter.
Another killer? No. Reactions didn't fit. Tension was too tight. Too personal. Alana scoffed, waving a lazy hand in the files direction, finally turning her hot scrutiny to the boss man himself, Jack.
"Or was it really me you were inviting Jack? You do not waist time, do you?"
Will had never heard Alana sound quite like she did then. Concealed rage. Slight hurt. Anxious but… Professionally cold. Frigid. This time, Jack did pick up on the current whirling around them and looked slightly uncomfortable.
"Well, I see you are alone, so I doubt my invitation was extended as I hoped it would be."
Like Winston with his lamb bone, Jack could not drop it, whatever that it turned out to be. With more force than necessary, a testament to the climbing emotions within her, Alana ripped her handbag free from her shoulder, carelessly throwing it into an empty chair as she braced her hands against Jack's desk, fingers splayed, palms flat, cocking a hip as she bared over the rosewood, shadow looming, invading Jack's space. Crawford didn't back down or away.
"I should have left her at home. I should have never answered your phone call. What are you thinking Jack? Are you even thinking? You know what she has been through and not two weeks have passed before you are trying to haggle her into your world! Have you no decency?"
Jack tilted his head and daringly popped a brow imperiously high.
"Should have?"
Alana huffed, pushing away from the desk as she seemingly debated whether to storm away or towards Jack, lost in a whirlpool, trapped in a defence or offense instinct. By her side, her fist clenched, her jaw locked, and she hissed through clamped teeth.
"Is that really what you are taking away from this?"
It was too much. All of it. The dreams. The visions. The murders, Jack and Alana butting heads… Just some quiet, that was all Will was asking for and not for one day, one measly day, could he ever gain that tranquillity. If he wasn't being disgusted by his own mind, his imagination as Hannibal called it, he was being tormented by other's emotions, invaded by spectral horrors.
Enough was enough. If Jack wasn't going to put him to work, instead choosing to bicker over a topic Will knew nothing about, then he wanted to go home. Breathing in heavily from his nostrils, Will clenched his own fist, raised it to his lips and coughed none too gently or subtly. The respectful reminder that the two weren't alone was enough to break them apart from their battle of wills as their locked gazes fled from each other. Defeatedly, Alana slumped into a chair and spoke in the direction of a bookcase.
"She's getting a cup of tea from the breakroom. She'll be here soon."
Before the silence could really form a tangible mass around them, a safety blanket, Hannibal broke it.
"She?"
The smile was back on Jack's face, teeth almost blinding as he regarded Dr. Lecter, folding his hands onto his desk, right by the file that Alana had once again taken to staring at.
"Dr. Bloom here has a remarkable young niece. She-"
Alana's voice sliced through Jacks like a hot knife through sizzling butter. Unrepentant and smoothly.
"I have a traumatized young niece who you are planning to take advantage of. I really should leave. This has been a horrible mistake on my part."
Alana went to stand but Jack was far from finished. He wouldn't be. Not until he won. It was what Will liked about the man, as well as concurrently loathing that stubborn trait too.
"Alana… Please. Your niece can help save lives."
Alana's voice grew incredulous.
"At what cost? Her own? No Jack. No."
Jack looked ready to yell, all pulsing blood vessels and straining vocal cords but, with an equally levelled head and placid, calming voice, Hannibal stepped into the invisible arena.
"As a close colleague of yours Alana, and dare I say friend if it isn't too presumptuous, I should hope my opinion on a matter would be in some form valid in your eyes. Perhaps if you fill us in on the matter, we can assess the situation."
Alana looked torn, like crinkled, moist paper, threatening to tear at its corners and wrinkles. Jack took this momentary bout of compliance to, uncharacteristically, tenderly try and goad Alana into folding. Picking up the thick file, Jack pointedly looked at Alana and jostled the stacked papers wrapped in card.
"Do you mind?"
Alana slid back into her seat, crossed one leg over the other and resolutely gazed at the far wall, nodding eventually. Will could see Crawford visibly deflate and sigh in relief as he held out the file for Hannibal to take. Hannibal made short work of taking the file and beginning to scan its contents, flickering eyes taking a steady pace across the pieces of paper as he absorbed the contents. From the corner of his eye, Will watched.
Hannibal's face remained impressively neutral. Open plains and unblinking eyes. However, there was… Something there. A shadow. A keen glint, like a knife reflecting in a darkened room of an abandoned home. A flare of… Something unnameable right there, in the very far corner of his eye, the recess, squirreled away. Hidden. Ahead of Will trying to dissect that little pop of light, or contour of darkness, Hannibal was folding the file shut and handing it towards him. Wearily, casting a quick glance to Alana to see her still absorbed into that wall, Will took it and began his own research as Hannibal spoke to Jack.
"What was this Voldemort's eventual tally?"
The first thing to greet Will was a simple photo. Black and white. Old. It was of a young man, barely reaching the cusp of adulthood. He was a handsome man, Will would admit. His features were nothing short of regal. His hair was perfectly coiled and slicked to the side, shining a shade of ebony even the monochrome photo couldn't hide. He was dressed in a uniform of sorts… A school uniform, with a crest upon his breast, something wrapping in a shield… A snake. He was unrepentantly, almost daringly, staring straight back at the camera, right at the beholder and his eyes were… Dead. No spark. No life. Nothing. Dead and dust and utterly chilling. Other than that, there was nothing to be had. No name. No date. It was as desolate as the man in the photo's eyes.
Behind that photo was another. Newer. In colour. This one was of a young woman. For a moment, Will thought he was looking at the previous one's sister or daughter perhaps. They had the same eye shape, sleek and cattish. Their noses fell straight and thinly proud. They both lacked cupid bows too, leaving an almost doll like presence to their features, if it weren't for all the sharp angles their other features took. However, the differences between the two suddenly became very clear. This one was smiling, widely, sharp, white teeth and dimples on full show. Her hair was more… Independent, spiralling around her like smoke. She wore the same uniform as the man, but her crest was red and gold and had a lion imprinted upon the shield, and while the mans had been pristinely layered upon him, this woman's were hardly wrangled on, wrinkled around the neck of her sweater, oxford shirt unbuttoned and collar curling at the edges.
Mainly, it was the eyes that splintered the two apart better than even their genders could. Her eyes were a very unusual shade of green. So bright Will thought the photo might have been doctored. But no. They were real. You couldn't fake that sort of bright life. That almost unholy spirit shining true and unashamedly. It was jacks voice which brought Will out of the photo and turned him to flicking through the rest of the documents.
"Officially? Eighteen. Unofficially? We begin to climb into the high triple digits. That, of course, is not counting the actions of his so-called followers."
The case started out innocuous enough. An orphan being left with her aunt and uncle after the callous slaughter of her parents… But the longer Will read, the larger the disbelief came. Quests for immortality. Assassinations. Obsessions. Bombings. Spies. Attempted murder. Actual murder. Cults. Espionage. Death. Lots of death. So much so, Will could almost smell that sickly scent of bloated corpses whiffing from the paper he was holding. All centring around a child. A young girl. Like she had gone super-nova and the world around her, all jarring shards of insanity, death and loss was being pulled into her decaying orbit. Wills hands shook almost violently as he snapped the file closed and pushed it onto the table. Away. Far away.
"And you want to dump her back into that world, Jack. Do you understand why I find this repugnant?"
Alana finally spoke as her stare drifted its way back to Jack, who in turn, sighed.
"And you must see why this is a course of action I must take. The girl has skills Alana. Valuable skills. Skills our team could use."
Will didn't need to ask or wonder what that bone was that Jack was slobbering over now. It was the girl. Alana's niece. Hemlock Potter. The fact that the girl had skills was unarguable. She had taken on a very prolific, very intelligent, very charming psychopath along with his likely armoured and indoctrinated followers. Even at twelve, when she was telling others of his arrival, his plans, pointing out his followers from crowds of bodies, they had ignored her, even when what she had warned them of became horrible truth. Somehow, a child had done what many fully-grown men and women couldn't. What special agents couldn't. She saw. And that alone was a very terrifying gift to have. Will knew that all too well.
For a heartbeat, Will wanted to tell Alana to get her niece and run. Just run. Don't look back. Jack Crawford had said the same thing about him once, and look where he had ended up? Constant headaches, restless horror-struck dreams, a mind that couldn't turn off and blood… Real, warm, coppery blood upon his hands, crusting underneath his fingernails. Of course, Jack hadn't forced him to kill the Minnesota Shrike, that had been all Will, terrible, lonely Will, but it was undisputable that without Jack Crawford, Will would have never landed on the path he had. Yet, when he spoke, voice cracking, none of this came out.
"How old is she?"
Alana looked so sad then as she turned to face him and Will saw. He saw wilted fields. Crooked trees. Muddy bogs. Dead lands for dead things and thoughts.
"She's sixteen Will. Sixteen."
Will winced, eyes crinkling tight as he took off his glasses, roughly scrubbing at his eyes. As Jack had done to him, he didn't give in. He wouldn't, Will knew now. No matter what, Jack Crawford got what he wanted and currently, he wanted the girl.
"Nearly seventeen and holding a good track record in finding serial killers. Come on people, we know Alana's opinion on the matter, what are yours? Will, what do you think?"
What did he think? He thought Jack was a good man. A great man. But he always looked at the bigger picture. He couldn't focus on the characters of the grand play, just the ending and that… That was dangerous. The road to hell was pathed with good intentions and more than once, Jack Crawford had laid a shiny, golden brick down on his yellow path to oz. Perhaps Alana would be ignored. Perhaps Jack wouldn't let go of this. But Will… Will could try and divert the path. He might not have been able to save himself from this dismal life of solitude and nightmares, but he could save this girl.
"I think she's a very young person who has been through a lot. I think it is highly unnecessary for any of us to add more to that already high pile weighting her down."
That would be if Jack didn't have a white knight in his corner, going by the name of Hannibal.
"On the contrary wise, I believe this could be just what she needs. Up until a very recent point, this sort of work has been all she has known. To completely cut her off from that routine, that knowledge, could and would likely be detrimental in her overarching process of healing and closure."
Will shook his head, curls fluttering.
"Or we could be adding the last bag onto the donkey that breaks its back. She's not a buckaroo toy to mess around with. She's a human being."
How many more bags and sticks and little carrots could Will take before he too buckled and kicked? Will didn't know, and it scared him. Petrified him. Did this girl feel the same fear? Hannibal pressed forward, balancing elbows on knees and interlaced his hands. Will found his eyes trailing to his, locking in, like the twist of a jail cell key.
"We have to look at this subjectively Will. The world outside this building, this line of work, what most would call normality, could possibly be a very foreign and very difficult climate for this Hemlock to accustomize herself to. This could add stability for her."
Perhaps he was right. If the girl was anything like him, well, the outside world was a confusing place indeed. What did Will have outside this building? Outside this work? Outside the tracking and puzzles and emotional leakage? His dogs and fishing. Nothing else. Nothing more. Still, she could be different. There was hope for her.
Just as he opened his mouth to argue, a voice from the corner, just behind Hannibal by the filing cabinets piped up. It was a new voice, British accent strong and fluid and Will jumped. So did Alana and Jack and even Hannibal's head cocked as he turned around slowly, surprised by the newcomer none of them had heard enter, nor saw walk to the other side of the room.
"Or, you know, the answer to this little dilemma could be that it is, after all, my choice and my choice alone to do or not do what is offered."
In the flesh, She was so utterly different to her photo. She was unbound. Free. Intense. For a split moment, he saw her in crystalline form. Reflective, transparent, and yet, she held so many remarkable colours trapped inside of her prism. So many. Too many to count. All of them. He saw the world in white, snow, clean, sharp and she was there, leaving a trail of colour through the dreary winter abode. Everywhere she touched, a rainbow was left behind. Everywhere she stepped, Van Gogh's florescent colour pallet prevailed. However… Something was wrong. She was chipped and shattered, little cracks splintering over her. A hole, wide, cutting, had been dug out from her chest, just wide enough to fit a fist through the crystal being and it wept. It seeped. It bled. There was no colour to be found in that wound or blood, just black. Oozing, thick, boiling oil slick that ate away at everything. Anything. He blinked and the image was gone.
"Sorry, I couldn't help it. You were all so caught up in arguing over a hypothetical morality of a what if situation, I felt it hard to disrupt that. Debate is the backbone of democracy, they say."
She smiled, that same wolfish smile her photo counterpart housed, and took a sip at the Styrofoam cup she was holding. Alana turned stern.
"Harry, I told you to get a cup of tea while I had a quick chat."
Hemlock, or Harry as Alana called her, grinned further and wiggled the cup in her hands clearly.
"I got my cup of tea and you've had a chat. I was taught it was rude to speak of others if they're not present. Especially if that conversation is dictated to questioning their mental stability."
Will Grimaced and turned away from Harry. He knew that feeling all to well. The scrutiny. Are you breaking Will? God. He was sick of that question. Harry likely was too. Jack stood from his desk and walked over to the small woman, offering his hand.
"You're correct, it is. My name is Jack Crawford, these are my associates, Dr. Lecter and Will Graham. It is a pleasure to meet you Hemlock, or is it Harry?"
Harry shook his hand. Just twice. Sharply. Strong grip. She was used to having a leadership role Will would guess.
"Harry is preferred."
Hannibal interjected himself fluently.
"And what is it you wish to do?"
Harry shrugged noncommittally.
"I wish for an endless amount of treacle tarts, whiskey and a tranquil cottage near a beach somewhere. However, I'll settle for getting a serial killer off the streets."
Alana hustled her way to Harry, shouldering Jack back and away from her niece as she laid a palm on the younger's shoulder. Will saw the reaction, as minute as it was. There was hardly anything he didn't see. She tensed. There was a twitch in her jaw. The lid of her right eye spasmed just a fraction and Will knew, just knew, she was fighting not to yank that hand off her. She didn't like unsolicited touch. Another thing Will could relate to.
"You don't have to do this Harry."
Hannibal stood, taking the time to rebutton his suit jacket. His voice, as always, was polite, deep and steady, but there it was. Whatever it had been Will had momentarily saw within his eye was now lurking in his voice.
"If this situation worries you so Alana, I can offer my assistance?"
Will chuckled dryly and was cut a few glances for his effort. He knew where this was heading. Harry, like him, didn't look to be the type to enjoy therapy either. Alana, though, turned out to be as stubborn as Jack on certain topics.
"If you agree to this Harry, I want you to at least try Therapy. That's the deal. I am still your guardian."
In response to the threat of forced therapy, Harry did shirk off the hand, pulling at the hem of her knitted blue jumper in an act, Will saw, to calm herself. To most eyes, she likely looked nervous. But not to him. She was angry. Still, Will didn't blame her agitation. Talking about his feelings wasn't on top of his to-do list either and yet, he too had been hooked into weekly sessions. He almost felt sorry for the girl. Almost.
"One session."
Alana huffed and went to touch Harry again at her proclamation, but the small woman was detaching herself from the corner, passed Alana and the others, gliding over to a chair furthest away and sitting. Hannibal followed her example and sat back down as Alana began to bargain.
"Three."
Harry snapped her gaze to Alana.
"One."
Alana jaw's clenched.
"One, but if you get comfortable enough, you promise me you'll agree to further sessions."
Harry tapped her finger against her steaming cup of tea. Tap. Tap. Tap. Finally, she nodded. Good. At least the girl knew when to pick her battles. It would make this a whole lot easier for her.
"Agreed. Now are we actually going to get to work or not?"
Alana blinked, walked back to her deserted chair and picked up her handback, slinging it over her shoulder.
"I do not wish to be here for this. I'll wait for you in the car Harry, okay?"
Will couldn't be the only one who didn't miss the fact that Harry didn't even look in Alana's direction as the psychiatrist went to leave. Strained relationship? No. Arguments? Nope. New? Yes. Their relationship was new. Neither Harry nor Alana knew exactly how to navigate those waters and they were struggling to connect in a way either of them could understand. Before Alana could leave, Hannibal addressed her one last time.
"I have an open space for an appointment this Friday. I'll give Hemlock the details later, before she leaves."
Harry grimaced at the use of her actual name, flinching in within herself at the mere mention of it. It reminded her of something or someone. Perhaps her parents. Either way, she didn't like her name and Will mentally reminded himself to call her Harry. When the clack of the office door proclaimed Alana's retreat, Jack became animated. Retrieving a file from his desk, he handed the file over to Harry who took to leisurely flicking through it as Jack debriefed her.
"Some kids, while hiking, stumbled across a rather grizzly find. Nine bodies, all laid perfectly straight, were later exhumed from the site. From our forensic tests completed so far, we can say they were buried alive, kept so as long as possible, Intravenous drips were used, in what we currently believe in what was an attempt to keep them sedated. As you can see from the pictures you're currently holding, our killer was using these people as fertilizer for his little mushroom garden."
Harry stopped at one particular photo, held it up and tilted her head at it, whistling lowly.
"Well, I bet he's a Fungi to be around. Fungi… Fun-guy… No takers? Alright."
Unwillingly, a little half choking half chuckle noise broke free through Will's nose as Harry flipped the photo back into the folder and closed it. He didn't know whether he was more surprised over Harry's reaction to seeing corpses littered with mushrooms or whether the joke was so bad it was sort of good, in that sore, cringing way.
"Do you normally make jokes in the light of such circumstances?"
Harry glanced at Hannibal an cocked a defiant brow.
"If you're asking whether I prefer to laugh at death rather than weep and cry at the very sight of it, when I've already seen so many faces of that beast, then yes. I prefer the former. I've heard humour is just another coping mechanism people use."
People use. Not her. Other people. There was a clear line she had drawn then, hidden between vowels and consonants. Me and them. Different. Slyly, she was trying to prod Hannibal into arguing with her, goading him into disputing it, disputing her, and in so, labelling her unstable and therefore not fit for either this case nor therapy. How… Interesting. Underhanded, but intelligent. She was used to playing war games with words. Now it was Jacks turn to cough and try and get everything back on track.
"Do you… See anything? Feel anything?"
Harry broke stare with Hannibal and unceremoniously threw the file back onto Jack's desk. Will watched as it skid, barely hanging onto the ledge as it teetered off, balancing precariously.
"I think you don't quite understand what it is I do. Corpses… Forensic data… None of it means anything to me. I can't magically look at a photo and know a person's emotional state. However…"
Harry leant forwards, still tapping on her cup in sets of two beats, like a heart monitor, spiking up and up and up.
"Give me motive, tell me the driving force pushing this person, give me a hint of why he's doing what he's doing and well… I can tell you what he plans to do next. Where he'll do it. Where he's likely stationed himself. What his job is and how often he needs to… Express his emotions."
Hannibal smiled and leant back in his own chair.
"Like the limbic system."
Jack scowled, eyes dark and slightly confused.
"Excuse me Dr?"
Hannibal, however, was more interested in scanning not only Harry, but Will too and Will couldn't stop the slight uncomfortable shift he gave in his own seat.
"The limbic system is a part of our brains, Jack. It manages a variety of functions including emotion, behaviour, motivation, long-term memory, and olfaction. Will here, due to his empathic nature and imagination, can reconstruct a persons emotional and motivational state. Harry, I believe, draws from those emotions and motivations and can conclude it all into their behavioural pattern. That would take a highly pragmatic, analytical and survivalist mind to accomplish. The emotions all people hold drive us, even in killing. Behaviour is normally used as a valve to express those emotions, and yet restrain them enough to ensure survival. It is why people do not jump off buildings because they wish to feel how it feels to fly. There are two stages to emotional outlets. Stage one is the feeling itself, thought upon acting it out, expressing it. Stage two is the action, the how, the where, the when and if need be, if the expression of the emotion is detrimental, the restraint of it. Will undoubtedly maps out stage one. Hemlock, I believe, specializes in stage two. Together, they recreate the limbic system in human form. Very impressive and decisively recherché."
Jack rubbed at his forehead, one hand pressing into his hip.
"So, let me get this straight. With Wills help, he and Harry can what? Reconstruct this person so vividly, they can tell me where to find him?"
There was a twitch to Hannibal's lips, a tightening and Will wanted nothing more than to scour it off with sandpaper. It was alright from the other side, looking in, analysing, but here, from where he was sitting… Harry now, too, it felt invasive. To be whittled down so thoroughly, to your base components… Why not just lock them up in a zoo and be done with it? Perhaps Will could have more peace that way.
"I wouldn't be surprised if they could both come to say what colour shoes he or she prefers."
Jack smelt blood in the water, a trail, and then he was zeroing in on Will.
"Well, what are we waiting for? Care to fill in Harry of your own findings?"
Will swallowed. It was never easy sharing, opening up that part of himself, laying it out for others to see. Still, like always, he would grin and bear it.
"Connection. The killer is after connection."
Those feelings he felt back at the crime scene came flooding back, like they had never really left. He had to remind himself they weren't his. That wasn't his design. He didn't have designs. He wasn't a killer… Well, that was only partially true, wasn't it? Will killed Garret Jacob Hobbs, but that was different… Wasn't it? Distance. He knew who he was. He wasn't like them.
"How long has this killer been looking for a connection? Recently? Due to a loss of some sort?"
Like a track on repeat, it was Harry's soft voice that lulled him out of his visions, his imagination, and back into the room. Will, however, refused to look at her as he composed himself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Simple.
"From an early age. The… Need has always been there for him. He needs it like air."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Harry's rebellious onyx curls bounce as she nodded.
"Right. We're the killer."
She clapped and stood, gaining energy as she began to pace around in swerving paths around the small office. She began to shine then. Like a comet, fast, unpredictable, blazing an icy trail in the night as something familiar came back to her. It was sort of… Beautiful. In a chaotic way, but beautiful none the less.
"You're his emotions, I'm his behaviour. We're young. Unexperienced. Raw. We want connection, but we don't know how. So… We experiment."
Yes… Yes. Will stood too, leaning against his chair, propped by his hip, crossing his arms over his chest, solid and still.
"Yes. Simple things at first. Failed friendships. Short relationships. Fragmented and disjointed meetings. Nothing works. The need turns sour but still fascinating. How does it all work? How do people connect so easily? Why are we excluded?"
She swung towards him, darting over with swift and quiet steps, leaning in, pausing momentarily as she spoke. Her hands became a blur of motion, fluidity, physically manifesting the swirling thoughts raining in her mind.
"So, connection to people have failed us, but we witness it happen every day. Connection isn't just a human trait. So we look elsewhere. Botany obviously. Root systems, ecosystems, anything that has connections within. That's where our little fungi obsession begins. It's never been about the victims, but the fungi and what they represent. To them, it's so natural. If we understand how the Fungi connect, we can perhaps begin to understand how humans do it."
Then she was off again, circling, spiralling and perhaps, really, it was Will who was going super-nova and Harry was now caught in his doomed orbit. Will waved his hand, as if he was flapping away a bad smell.
"Invalid data. We can't see the correlation. There's something there, but it's not enough. It doesn't fill the void or need for establishing our own connections. The feeling of being alone in this vast universe only gets worse. More repugnant. We need to fix that."
It was like the room had been hallowed out, Jack, Hannibal, the chairs and files disintegrating right around him. There was only the super-nova sun, the chaotic asteroid and endless movement. Nothing was stagnant. Nothing was still. All felt that thrum and pulse of the magnetic energy fluctuating. Harry, the comet, picked up speed.
"But we haven't quite lost it yet. No. We branch out further. However, we stick to science-based subjects. That's where the facts are. That's where we're going to find our truth. If anywhere at all we will learn how to connect, it will be in a factual, undisputed setting so there can be no doubt. Biology. Anatomy. Chemistry…"
Bang. Sudden stillness. Tranquillity. Silence. Utter calm. Finally, Will looked into Harry's eyes directly and he knew, knew, she came to the same secluded conclusion he had and as one, they spoke.
"Pharmacology."
Jack waded in, watching on with slightly widened eyed.
"Did I miss something?"
Will jumped slightly, just a little jerk, as he remembered he wasn't alone with Harry, was not in an endless sky, there was no comets or stars. Pulling his glasses free once more, he used the hem of his shirt to clean them as he answered a bewildered Jack.
"He's a pharmacist. For one, it factures into his obsession into connections and reactions. Two, It's how he's been finding his victims. They're diabetic Jack. He fiddles with their insulin."
Harry stepped in as he fell silent.
"He wouldn't just stay at one establishment. It's too dangerous. Too risky in being caught. However, I'll bet he hasn't gone further than ten miles from his garden. Check the pharmacies within that radius, whittle it down by employees who have shifts at a variety."
Like a game of tennis, they batted back and forth. It was Will's turn to serve.
"Yes, do that. He can't be too far from his precious garden. The… Mulch needs to be fresh for his fungi. Especially when he believes that fungi is what is connecting his victims. In his mind, he's not a killer, he's a unifier."
Harry went and spiked an ace into his court.
"He believes he is gifting them something that has been denied to him. He'll be proud of his work. Protective… And you've gone and trampled all over his little haven, dug up his pansies and spat in his pond. That's just rude."
Will's eyes slid shut and he couldn't tell you whether it was himself or Harry that spoke the dire warning. Perhaps, again, it was both of them.
"He's going to start replanting soon."
Yay or Nay?
For those of you wondering, magic as we know it from Potterverse will be coming into play soon. I know there hasn't been much of it on display yet, none actually, but trust me on this, Harry hasn't been going muggle completely, and there has been little signs here and there a few individuals have picked up on, like Harry seemingly knowing what Alana was thinking last chapter before she said so, and in this chapter, how she managed to sneak into a room with Hannibal... Hannibal of all people inside without alerting him. I've done this because, in my eyes, the wizarding world flirts with danger. Witches and wizards almost get a little jolt of satisfaction when they do outlandish things around muggles without being caught. It's almost like a game to some, and even Harry isn't exempt from this.
I'm real iffy of my portrayal of Will Graham here, more so than I was Alana, but I'm still hoping I can get them right with time. I don't think there's too much off with him, just that I haven't fully pinned his character down yet, especially his character in early season one which this fic is beginning in. He's unstable at this point, sure, but he isn't completely cracked like we see later on and getting that balance right is harder to achieve than I first thought. Having said that, I really am not ready to tackle a Hannibal P.O.V yet lmao. Hannibal, I've come to find, is one of the worst characters I've ever come across to try and write from their perspective and to keep it accurate to his fundamental character traits and personality. And Hannibal being, well, Hannibal, I really do want to get him right before I bring in his P.O.V, so I'm hoping writing about him from others P.O.V will help situate his character enough for me to delve into. Despite this, Hannibal's P.O.V will come, I promise you that much, but not quite yet.
A HUGE THANK YOU for everyone who followed, favourited and reviewed! This whopping 7k chapter is for you guys and I really do wish that you've enjoyed it!
As always, drop a review if you have a spare moment. They keep the fingers typing ;)
