He was going to see Joe to ask him about Arthur Strauss. Ryan was glad to have an excuse. That was perfectly logical. Strauss had escaped and was incredibly elusive. The only person who would have any idea how his sick mind worked — and was at the FBI's disposal — was Joe Carroll. Ryan wondered whether physically seeing Joe would mean not hallucinating him for a while. Or maybe it would make it worse. Maybe he was enabling his own delusions. God, he needed help. At the same time, with Strauss on the loose, nothing was more important than looking for him. He might have faith that most of Joe's following was gone, but Strauss had caused a resurgence. They also still needed to find Mark. Unfortunately, from his years of experience, he had learned that if they wanted to catch sickos, they had to think like sickos. And, try as he might, no matter how much Joe might insist, he wasn't like him. Not like that, at least.

As he walked into the cell and saw Joe sitting there with an expectant smile, he felt his gut churn. Every time he looked at Joe, he saw the dozens of bloodied bodies, he heard the chilling screams, and he smelt the stench of rotting flesh. It was impossible not to. His hatred for this man could not be put into words — although the version of Joe he hallucinated often liked to try. He wasn't seeing double, at least. The only thing worse than one Joe was two Joes, Ryan supposed.

"What took you so long?" Joe asked cheerily, like he was meeting a friend for coffee. "You're looking very well, Ryan. The suit, the grooming, and you're back with the Bureau full-time, yes, and you haven't fallen off the wagon. Good for you." He smiled, scrutinising him, and Ryan had to remind himself that there were cameras in this room. "Yet there's something else about you. There's a... there's a lightness to you. Are you in love? Someone new?" He wished he could say yes. He wished it was all true, that Gwen had changed him, heart and soul, and he could finally say he was on the right path and he was sticking to it. But really, the only change had been the security of Joe's execution date and the hope that that might finally help him move on. It wasn't going to happen. He doubted it. He was beyond salvation. And he couldn't let Joe screw with his head.

"Enough," he said, but Joe brushed right past his terseness.

"You'll share. Eventually. What are you doing here, Ryan?"

What was he thinking? Was he really about to entertain this? Joe had a habit of making everything a Shakespearean monologue. Who was to say he wouldn't do that now and prevent the FBI from obtaining any useful information?

Ryan scoffed, trying to look like he was here by his own volition and not because the FBI was desperate. Then again, Joe would probably have a field day with that. The idea of him wanting to be here. He didn't. For God's sake, it was taking everything in him not to throw up. Joe eyed the files like they were somehow amusing to him. This wasn't going to go anywhere. Joe had been in prison for months. How could he possibly know where Strauss was?

"This was a mistake. You can't help me." He stood and turned to leave, not even wanting to give Joe eye contact.

As usual, Joe saw right through him. "Oh, please, spare me the theatrics. What's in the folder?"

He stilled. He did seem to be genuinely asking. He remembered how desperate the FBI was. He didn't want to see another body wash up in the Potomac.

Ryan opened the folder so Joe could see and resumed his seat. "Arthur Strauss is missing," he answered.

"Phew. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. You are in…" Joe chuckled, "such trouble."

"He's got no money, no ID. He can't have travelled far. He was last seen in the vicinity of Red Hook in Brooklyn," Ryan went on. "Where do you think he'd go?"

"Why would I help you?"

Ryan squared his jaw. Of course, it had to be a fucking game.

"What are you offering?"

Not immunity. No fucking way. But maybe a small accommodation. Something that wouldn't attract media attention and certainly not something that could risk being used as an escape tool. Ryan could live with that. Hopefully, the FBI, too.

"What do you want?" Ryan asked, still very wary.

"You know, I've made my peace with my... predicament."

Ryan squinted at him.

"But I'm concerned for you. I wonder if you are quite as prepared."

He laughed derisively. "For what?"

"Do I need to remind you, Ryan? When I die, you die."

That made Ryan question whether he was looking at the real Joe, not the one in his head. Only the Joe in his head would say something like that… right? He attempted a smug expression, like he wasn't downright terrified by the thought of them being so connected. "Don't worry about me, Joe. I'm going to be just fine once you're gone."

Joe hummed. "So you say."

"What do you want?" Ryan repeated slowly. There was no point debating this.

"I want us back."

Ryan squinted at him. "Us? What us?"

"Well, you and me, bantering, laughing, shedding a few tears." Ryan rolled his eyes. "I'd like for you to come and visit me every day until D-Day. I think I deserve that much, at least."

Was he actually serious? God, it was hard enough to have to see the figment of his imagination, but now he had to agree to see the real deal? This was ludicrous. At the same time… he could at least try to make the most of the visits. He could ask Joe about the case since he would take any classified intel to his grave — literally. Joe kept looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to say the words, and Ryan hated the satisfaction he would get out of this.

"You give me something on Strauss, and if it pays off... I'll come back," he conceded.

Joe made a noise of approval. "Well, what did I do when all hope was lost? I reached out to the good doctor. He was my mentor and my ally, so one can only assume that he might do the same thing." Ryan studied his face to see if there was any tell, but there wasn't. This really did seem to be honest advice. "Oh, he touched a great many lives. I suspect that he would lean on... a friend in the neighbourhood in his hour of need."

That was a conclusion the FBI could have come to, and now he would lose credibility for having gone to Joe to 'get intel' only to come back with basic advice. Not that he had a lot of credibility left anyway. They kept him around because he, unfortunately, was the only one who understood Joe and could be trusted. Still, Joe made a good point. They should look into any of Strauss' known associates to find someone under the radar that the FBI hadn't caught yet, and they needed to do it covertly so Strauss wouldn't flee. He stood and made to leave. He'd had enough Joe for one day — at least until the Joe in his mind resurfaced.

"Tell me something, Ryan. Your dreams... am I in them?"

How in the fuck did he know that? Was he hearing things now instead of seeing them? Was this just a very accurate stab in the dark? — pun not intended. He tried not to react too strongly, knowing Joe would very much like to see him squirm, but he ultimately failed and watched the fucker smile at him. It felt like one of those dreams where he was naked, and everybody else was clothed, except it was more like someone had cut open his forehead and revealed his brain for all to see. For Joe to see. He wondered whether Joe enjoyed that, making him crack, the way a voyeur enjoyed watching two people in the act. God, now he was trying to psychoanalyse Joe. Again. He needed to get out of here. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He knocked on the door urgently, waited for the buzzer, and left swiftly. He hoped to let the feeling of intense paranoia pass, but it only seemed to build.

"Hang on just one second," he called to the guard.

He walked purposefully to the bathroom, grateful to find it vacant, before he emptied the contents of his stomach. He felt like Joe was under his skin. He felt like he needed to scrub every inch of his body with boiling water and bleach. He shut his eyes and saw Joe staring back at him. He dreaded knowing that Joe might start to appear in his delusions any second now that he wasn't in front of him. He flushed the toilet and took a few deep breaths, desperately trying to gain some control.

Ryan almost hoped that Joe's advice would turn up nothing, so he had no obligation to visit him anymore. The date of his execution was always at the forefront of his mind. Everything was a countdown. Not just to stop Joe but also anyone related to him. He wanted this to be over. He wanted the killings, the cults, the paranoia, all of it, to die with Joe. It wouldn't happen. He was sure copycat cults might come and go, but so long as none were as big as Joe, then maybe Ryan could live with it.

But what Ryan wouldn't live with was that, true to Joe's word, a part of his own soul would die with Joe, too. Because, like it or not, they were connected.