#i asked blue who in dc would be a streamer and they said “the flash��� “which one?” “both”

[andstuffsketches]

[mulderist]

Wicked Game

Historical AU | Multi-Chapter | read on Ao3 

Washington, D.C - 1948. Fox Mulder is a detective on the top vice unit; scandal, corruption, and lies come with the territory. He is forced to investigate a fellow officer and finds the lies go much deeper than the truth.

@today-in-fic

CHAPTER 1

Spring 1948 Adams Morgan, Washington, DC 2:47 A.M.

My nose burned with each inhale of fumes from the stale booze marinating in the hardwood floor. The room was dim but through the glow of red and blue neon I could make out shapes of furniture; chair legs, a few overturned barstools. It was a step up from a dive but not by much. There was a ringing in my ear like a schoolbell. I forced myself upright and felt a white-hot wave of pain crash into my right shoulder. “Shit.” I exhaled through my teeth and pressed my palm against a sticky wound. For an instant, I was back in that bombed-out jungle in the South Pacific, where an overworked medic from our company feverishly repaired shrapnel damage to my arm.

My fingertips found the bullet hole that punctured the thread count of one of my better dress shirts. Can’t wait to explain this one to my dry cleaner. The round might have gone through cleanly but all I knew was it hurt like a son of a bitch. My holster felt light and I found my gun about three feet away under a table in a puddle of what I hoped was discarded beer. I leaned over to retrieve it then I attempted to stand. Once I got my feet under me I found I was not alone. The bartender had a .38 aimed at my chest and a shaky trigger hand.  

“Don’t move!” he shouted. 

“Easy now,” I began as I put away my weapon and held up my hand, “I’m just reaching for my badge.” As I flipped open the billfold he saw the flash of gold then lowered his gun.

“Jesus detective, I’m sorry I pointed that at you. I’m just a little jittery considering what happened tonight”  I nodded and moved closer towards the bar. “Holy hell, looks like you took a hit,” he continued then splashed a bar rag with some water and handed it to me.   

“Can I get a whiskey?” I asked as I slid on to an empty barstool, trying to clean off my hand. Wouldn’t be nice to get fresh blood on a glass, he’s had enough to deal with tonight. The bartender grabbed a dark bottle and a short glass then gave it a hearty pour. I raised it with my good hand and tipped it back, letting the liquid fire coat the back of my throat. The throb in my shoulder started to dull.

“I called the police as quick as I could,” the bartender told me, “it all happened so fast.”  He poured me another and one for himself. 

“Did you see if anyone else was injured?”

“No. Anyone who was here ran outside. I ducked behind the bar and grabbed my gun. I suppose I should be grateful it happened close to last call.” I sat there thinking for a moment, trying to remember what I was doing there in the first place. A pulsing pain returned to my shoulder. The bartender’s voice entered my ear.

“You should probably get to a hospital, that shoulder looks pretty bad.”

“I’ll manage,” I replied before I finished my second round. I turned to look over my shoulder at the row of small leather booths behind me. Something about it seemed familiar. I could feel my wound oozing again so I pressed the damp rag against it and excused myself to clean up. When I entered the bathroom I was met with an unpleasant discovery.

Detective Jeffrey Spender was dead.  

Thick ribbons of burgundy and cherry red graced the wooden stall door like streamers from some morbid party.  The edge of the sink had a similar splatter pattern staining the porcelain. His body was face down in a puddle that was spreading like the Red Sea, an arm akimbo on the floor, at least one fresh hole in his back. His weapon was kicked across the tile.

When Spender returned from the war with a couple of shiny new medals on his chest, nepotism resulted in his quick promotion to a detective position at the precinct.  I knew Spender’s old man had connections with local law enforcement, not to mention his fellow representatives on The Hill.  And now the golden boy was dead. Tragically killed in the line of duty; that’s how the papers would spin it.

 I bent down to check his gun, one shot fired one in the chamber. It was quick. I moved the bar rag in my hand and gripped Spender’s shoulder, pulling him onto his side. I counted two shots, maybe a third. The acrid smell of iron was weaving its way into my nostrils as I crouched down and leaned closer. First round hit Spender in the right lower abdomen, appeared to be a close range shot based on the size. The gut shot wouldn’t have killed him instantly so the second ripped into the left upper chest to make sure he was taken care of. A third might have conveniently nicked an artery, causing more of the splatter. I craned my neck and saw deep red at Spender’s shirt collar.

It was very sloppy.  

If I heard gunfire I would have gone to investigate and perhaps the assailant ran into me as he exited the bathroom. Did he use a silencer? Why can’t I remember his face?  I shook my head and eased Spender’s body back down on the tile floor. Slowly I rose and caught my reflection in the small mirror over the sink. I looked like hell. As I reentered the main bar the front door gave way to three flatfoots and Captain Walter Skinner.  He advanced and holstered his sidearm.

“Detective Mulder.”

“Sir,” I said wearily with a nod.  He briefly noticed my injury then jumped right into the interrogation.

“What happened?”

“I’m a little foggy on the details but I remember following Detective Spender here.”

“And where exactly is Spender?” Skinner asked. I leaned against a booth and placed a hand on my neck.

“You’ll find him on the bathroom floor.” I saw the captain’s eyes narrow and he brushed past me. He nudged the door open with his elbow and surveyed the fresh crime scene, he then motioned for a uniform and gave instructions. The young cop hastily scratched everything down on a small notepad, tipped his cap, and left through the front door. 

“Did he tell you to meet him?” Skinner asked as he moved in front of me.

“No.”

“How did you know he’d be here?” 

I thought for a moment. Certain details were coming back to me.

“I believe Detective Spender was following up on a lead from a mutual informant. We agreed on a meeting to get info about one of Vincenti’s heroin drops. Spender was impatient and wanted to meet tonight. I wasn’t too keen on the idea.” I winced as I shifted my right arm. The whiskey I had was wearing off. 

“The commissioner is going to demand answers when he finds out Spender was murdered,” Skinner said as he adjusted his glasses.

“Well I’m sure he’s more than eager to crucify me,” I said.  

“Cut the melodrama.” Skinner responded. “I’ll finish up here. Go find Officer Pendrell outside and have him take you over to the hospital. Get patched up, get some sleep, then I want to see you back at the precinct.”

I held up my hands in acceptance and walked to the door, making sure to thank the bartender for the nightcap on my way out.  

Officer Pendrell took a long drag off his cigarette then let it drop on the sidewalk, stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe. I cleared my throat and said, “Captain said you could give me a ride.”

“Jesus Mulder--” he exclaimed with a plume of smoke into the night air.

“I just need some repairs.” I said with a nod to my right arm. “Skinner said you could give me a lift to Washington General.”

“Yeah sure,” Pendrell opened the passenger door for me and as I got situated he entered from the driver’s side. “What happened in there, Mulder?”

“Spender’s dead.” It was blunt but I was exhausted. “Not much else to say, though I’m sure the precinct will hear about it in a few hours.” I could feel Pendrell tense up as we drove. I flexed and opened the fingers on my right hand.  The slight tingling sensation was reassuring that the nerve damage wasn’t permanent. At least that’s what I was telling myself.  

Washington General Hospital

3:55am

Pendrell pulled the squad car up to the emergency department and practically shoved me out the door. Guess he didn’t want me bleeding on government upholstery. I made my way inside and squinted against the harsh lighting.  I spied the petite nurse behind the desk.

“Ma’am,” I began as I fished out my badge and approached, “I’m Detective Fox Mulder and I could use some help.” She rose and quickly walked around then gave me the once over, her fingers delicately reached for my good arm. 

“Let’s get you back, detective. My name is Dana,” she said as she ushered me down a short hallway and into an open room with several beds. I could feel my chest tighten at the sight of the drawn white curtains. Too many bad memories hidden behind those white curtains. A moan came from a shadow on one of the beds and thankfully she sat me down a few beds over. 

“You’ve lost a fair amount of blood. Do you feel dizzy or nauseous?” Dana asked as she pulled out a notepad. I shook my head. “Detective Mulder can I get your date of birth?”

“October 13, 1914.”

I watched her write the numbers down with what I presumed was immaculate handwriting, unlike the doctors she worked under. 

“What happened tonight, detective?”

“I took a hit to the right shoulder, not sure if it was a clean shot. The assailant got away.”

Two fingertips with red nail varnish touched the underside of my wrist and she glanced at a small watch fob, calculating my pulse. I saw her note the result on her notepad before pocketing it. She placed a hand on my shoulder as she reached for a nearby medical tray. It had an array of metal instruments, a basin, some bottles, and what looked like bandages. She slid it closer to the bedside and I straightened my posture. I could feel the fabric of my shirt sticking to the clotted blood on my shoulder. Dana turned to pick up a small stool and place it in front of me. She took a white cloth from the tray and splashed it with a liquid from a brown bottle. 

“Can you remove your shirt?” she asked

“Yeah I can try,” I replied. My left fingers fumbled with the buttons and I forced my right hand to finish the job. I winced then exhaled sharply. 

“Here, let me help.” She said as she placed the cloth down on the tray.

“Usually I’m offered a drink first,” I quiped weakly.

“Well from what I can tell, someone beat me to it.” the redhead said with a grin as she peeled open my shirt. I freed my left arm but hesitated with the right. It looked like I had a few too many and tried to get dressed; sitting there in my white sleeveless shirt with my dress shirt hanging on one arm. Dana reached for the damp cloth and held it on my shoulder, attempting to soften the skin. It was a nice gesture. Any other medic would have just ripped the damn thing off taking a layer of skin with it. I could feel her eyes sweep over my chest like a searchlight looking for damage. She gently stripped down the sleeve and placed the bloody shirt beside me on the bed. Dana leaned me slightly forward.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day Detective. The bullet passed right through.” 

Her bedside manor had won me over. I felt the cool cloth on the back of my shoulder as she cleaned the exit wound.

“You can call me Mulder.”

She playfully inquired, “Why not Fox?” as she sat on the stool in front of me.

“Even though it’s my first name I rarely use it. The Marines made quick work of that.” I saw a hint of a smile as she readied her suture tools. 

“And what’s your last name?” I asked in a feeble attempt at small talk. With a squint she quickly pierced the eye of the needle with a dark thread. 

“Scully,” she said, humoring me. “This will sting a little,” she cautioned. I failed in containing a wince from the all too familiar sensation of thread pulling flesh. Battlefield to back alley, I have scars laid out like a roadmap of my career. She worked quickly, weaving the filament like she was darning socks. I felt a sharp tug as she finished her last stitch. She covered her handiwork with a white bandage.

“Halfway there,” she stated as she stood to fix the back of my shoulder. She might have said something to me but I couldn’t make it out. I hated to admit it but I was transfixed. Her presence was like an anesthetic and I was numb in the best possible way. The final pull for the final stitch. She recited care instructions to me the same way a professor would read from a textbook. I pretended to listen as I opened and closed my right hand once again. She slid the tray aside and I rose to my feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, holding up a hand in case I toppled over.

“I’m going back to the precinct.”  I said as I folded my dress shirt over my arm.

“That’s against medical advice. Advice I just gave you. Will you please sit back down?”

“I can’t stay here tonight.”

She folded her arms.

“Is there someone I can call?” she asked. I thought if there was a favor I could collect but no one came to mind. It was probably best for me to sleep it off at my apartment.

“A cab. I’m going home.”  Scully shook her head and led me back down the corridor towards the nurse’s desk. I readjusted my holster across my chest and stretched my left arm. She dialed the operator with one pull on the rotary.  

“Hello, I’d like to request a taxi to Washington General for one of our discharged patients. Thank you.” She hung up the receiver and told me the cab would be here soon. “Be careful out there, Mulder.” 

I smiled and slipped back into my shirt, leaving it unbuttoned.

“Thank you, Scully.” 

She shook her head.

“I don’t know if I’d ever get used to that.” 

I watched her walk down the hall, graceful fingertips smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. She left me with the echo of heels on the hard floor.

I stepped outside the emergency room doors and inhaled an unexpected cloud of tobacco. As I coughed I looked for the source and saw a man, possibly a wino in a white jacket holding a cigarette. He gave me a puzzled look then said in a gravelly voice,

“Hey, are you a cop?”

“A detective actually.” I responded with an annoyed exhale.

“Oh. Well, you look like a cop.”

“Are you a doctor?” I countered. He took a drag.

“No. I found this jacket in the garbage out back.” Before I could respond the vagrant laughed loudly then took off down the alley. On any other night I would have given chase, but I was too tired for additional bullshit. Let the beat cops have him. 

Finally my taxi arrived and I was on my way home.

[elfnerdherder]

The Fault in My Code: Ch. 7

You can read chapter 7 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 7: Two Baby Blues

           Freddie Lounds was waiting outside for him when he descended the steps. He knew because a camera was shoved unceremoniously in his face, the flash blinding him for several seconds.

           “Will Graham, out of retirement in order to catch a killer,” she said, lowering her camera. In the bright light of the day, he knew she’d used the flash in order to disorient him, give herself a few moments to try and get control of the situation. She had two stunning, matching baby blues that were wide-eyed, like she'd miss something if she blinked. He pushed past her and kept walking, pawing at his pocket for his phone to call Beverly and have her look up references to a Great Red Dragon. His skin still tingled from the close proximity to Lecter, and he resisted the urge to touch fingers to his lips.

           “I won’t talk to you, Freddie,” he snapped.

           “It must be bad for Crawford to hunt you down and ask for help, huh? They even have you going after another one for insight.” She kept pace, and he lengthened his stride, glancing up to the fat, puffy clouds that witnessed his struggles with silent mockery.

           “Lounds, you’re a lying sack of shit, and your newspaper is trash,” he said, and his voice spiked, jumped.

           “Is this the first killer they’ve had you profile since-”

           “Lounds.” Will rounded on her and glared, from her paisley tights to her plaid skirt and her hideous chiffon shirt. “Get out of my face.”

           “Just one conversation,” she urged him, unheeding of the way his hands curled to fists. “Come on, let me get the first story out there, and we can tell them whatever it is you want the public to know.”

           “I want them to know you’re a two-bit hack that couldn’t cut it at a real job, so you fell into shit editorials writing bad advertising for miracle cream until they let you get a small spread on the back page because you had a penchant for lying. Then, desperate to catch a break, you snuck into the hospital I was staying at, and you took a fucking photo of me in a hospital bed while I was sleeping so that you could get the scoop on the case to up sales. You gonna tell them that, Freddie? Huh?”

           Freddie stared at him, and the wind tousled her hair, the scent of Suave Watermelon shampoo strong. Her baby blue eyes widened, then narrowed. She had a way of pursing her lips like she was a fox, nose turned to the scent. She laughed, a gentle huff of breath and she tilted her head, tucking a strand behind her ear.

           “You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, pocketing her camera. It wasn’t a compliment. “I’ll see you around.”

           “The hell you will,” he growled, and he stowed away in his car once she was gone, gripping the steering wheel tightly in an effort to ground himself and calm down.

           He hated Freddie Lounds –an understatement. After Garrett Jacob Hobbs, his stint in a psychiatric hospital had been kept quiet, respected. Not for Freddie. She’d climbed the fence, picked the lock to a side door, and found her way into his room where he slept, photos of his gaunt face and the scar along his neck in stark relief to the gloom. Tattler had boasted record sales after that spread, and Freddie Lounds went from back page, six inch column to front page work.

           That was after she’d snuck into his hospital room to get a good photo of his colostomy bag and stomach scar, courtesy of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. She had a penchant for unwanted flash photography.

           He called Jack for the distraction, and to relay news. Jack picked up on the first ring.

           “It’s not Budge, but we brought Budge in,” he said by way of greeting.

           “Freddie Lounds is –what?”

           “I went with a couple of Baltimore cops to question the bastard, and when I stepped outside to take a call, I came back to one of them dead on the floor, and the basement door open. Found the other officer dead, and Budge tried to get me with some violin wire.”

           Will chewed on his bottom lip, mouth working. Outside, he watched a man smoking on the bench, and the couple beside him resented it. Their misery and refusal to speak up ruminated in the smoke overhead. All three of them were troubled with unsaid words. So was he, but at least he had a car as a barrier.

           “I was only gone three hours,” he told Jack quietly.

           “Three is enough,” Jack replied.

           “You okay?”

           “He didn’t get me,” Jack assured him. “He’s missing an ear now, though.”

           “A true punishment for a musician.”

           “There’s human remains here, but it’s all intestines, and not just from two people. We’ve got him in custody and we’ve got fingerprints, saliva, you name it. He’s killed people, but he’s not the one. Looks like he was making strings out of human remains. Katz called it cat gut strings.”

           “Rather than kill a cat, he harvested from man,” Will said.

           “Well, we’ve got him and a whole basement full of enough to lock him up good.” Jack would have sounded triumphant if he didn’t sound so tired. Two dead cops for one living killer. A bad trade, no matter who was concerned.

           “He’s not the one,” Will echoed, and he drummed fingers on the steering wheel. “But he is one.”

           “Good eye, Will. You found a killer without even really looking.”

           “I only looked because he sounded like a killer,” Will said. “He had the knack for it, in Lecter’s notes.”

           “Either way, next stop is tracking down Francis Dolarhyde. Bastard better behave a bit better.”

           “About the dragon; can you have someone look into historical references to a red dragon? I have something that I think I can use.”

           “Lecter give you a –what’d you call it? A bone?”

           “Of a sort,” Will said distractedly. He turned the car over and pulled away, heading towards the hotel. He left behind the smoker and the unhappy couple, although he couldn’t leave behind Lounds’ words and her knowing sneer. He took those with him to wrestle with later. “He’s transforming, Jack. He’s not killing, he’s becoming.”

           “Becoming what?”

           “The Red Dragon.”

-

           He sent a message to Jack to forgo someone finding the ties to different red dragons because a quick search on google gave him exactly what he needed:

           The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun

           William Blake was the artist, and Will stared at the photos online for a long time, something funny twisting and constricting in his chest. He chewed on the pen cap he’d absconded with from the FBI. He thought of Freddie and slopped coffee all over the saucer by his laptop, flickers of angry embers occasionally lighting up at the thought of her smug, unruffled face.

           “And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars: and she being with child cried, travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered. And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven, and did cast them to the earth: and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born,” he murmured. He blew on the coffee, took a sip, and grimaced; he’d added too many coffee grounds. Some got through the filter and stuck to his tongue.

           Soul Stealer probably didn’t like his name written like that in the news, seeing as how he saw himself as the Great Red Dragon instead. Rather, that he was Becoming the Great Red Dragon.

           He needed to see it in person. He needed to walk in Soul Stealer’s shoes, see what he first saw that made him think as he did. Another quick search showed that one of the watercolors was held at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, while two were in DC and another in Pennsylvania.

           He called Jack to make sure they’d let him in to see it privately, then paced in the room, rocking from heel to toe when he reached the wall before turning and pacing back. He considered calling Molly, but after his close brush with Lecter earlier in the day, he felt that it was best if he didn’t. She didn’t deserve that. What had he told Beverly? It was a choice to choose the soulmate? What a load of shit. That, or he was weak.

           Better yet, he was weak. If Saul left Beverly, it was because he was an ass hole. If Will kept lying to Molly, it as because he was an ass hole. Fair was fair. There was no one better at self deprecation than Will Graham.

           He lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the woman clothed in sun. He wondered if Soul Stealer thought that the women he ‘changed’ were being elevated to a place in heaven much like that, or if in his Becoming, they were being stolen away to hell.

-

           Brooklyn Museum of Art boasted a glorious fan of stairs where people liked to pose for wedding photos, homecoming photos, and apparently soulmate bonding photos. The last was made painfully obvious when just inside the doors, satin streamers lined floor to ceiling with ‘One Hundred Years of Souls’ emblazoned along their fronts. At the desk, a cheery receptionist greeted him with two baby blues, one of them two shades lighter than the other.

           “Are you here for One Hundred Years of Souls?” she asked happily. Just behind her, a tour guide was herding a small group of couples across the rich marbled floor, each one paired off with their matching eyes, and mouths wide with anticipation. He grimaced at the display, making money off of chemical pairings. It was about as sickening as Valentine’s Day to him, taking something that was, at best, a cringe-inducing attempt at romance and mass marketing it for the sake of profit.

           “I’m Dr. Will Graham,” he said, forcing himself to look away from the group, “and I’m here to see-”

           “Oh, right, right; I have a note here for you. Let me just-” she rolled about behind the desk, gathering a pamphlet and a visitor’s pass up in a neat bundle, passing it back to him. “There we are. Mr. Wessler will see you downstairs.”

           “Thank you.”

           “If you have time after, Dr. Graham, you should really see the exhibit. It just launched last week, and it’s amazing. They even study soulmate violence depicted in the art, and it’s just…wow. Wow. Donna Smith’s work from the 60’s is featured, and so is the Burning Times for soulmates in Europe. It's just...wow.”

           “Wow,” Will echoed.

           It was cooler going into the basement, and if Mr. Wessler was a fan of One Hundred Years of Souls, he said nothing about it. For that, Will was glad. When the door dinged and opened to a room of muted colors and low lights, he stepped out and looked around for the director that told Jack they’d discuss the artwork with him.

           The back of his neck prickled at the silence. Uneasily, he walked around the corner to rows upon rows of tables, but there was no director; just a measly binder laid out with a bare page.

           Will stared down at the bare page, the notation at the bottom boasting The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun, William Blake, watercolors. There was no watercolor there, though; it was a blank page with a dour light on it, and when there was the distinct sound of a body hitting the floor, he turned and ran to the elevator, pulse spasming.

           He never reached it.

           Strong, capable hands lifted Will and launched him back, sending him flying into one of the tables where he flipped and fell to the other side on his hands and knees, wheezing out a breath. He had the disorienting feeling of being lifted by the back of his jacket, and he was thrown again, slamming into the pole in the center of the room, cracking the back of his head against it. It felt much like an egg cracking against the crown of his skull –a warm pain oozed and slithered down his neck and spine, dots dancing before his eyes. When the spots cleared, the visage of a man stuttered towards him, first to one side, then another. Out of the corner of his eye, Will dazedly noted the security guard slumped to the floor.

           “Who-” he managed to slur, but the man’s hands were around his neck, squeezing. In his entire life, Will Graham had only been choked once before, much against his will. It’d been unpleasant then, and when thumbs dug into his windpipe, he decided that it was just as unpleasant now. He gasped in a short breath and swung his arms around, letting momentum slam his forearms into the man’s elbows, releasing his throat. He didn’t hesitate, rearing forward and head-butting him, a snarl of anger rippling past his lips.

           At the sound and the assault, the man stumbled back, surprised. He had short, cropped blonde hair, and two dazed brown eyes blinked wildly, panicked. Cornered. An animal that didn’t know where to go. When Will’s watering eyes fell to the barely noticeable cleft pallet, blood trickling at the corner of his lip, the man bolted, racing towards the elevator. When the ringing in Will’s ears faded, he followed, elbows pumping and breath ripping from him. He had the dragon.

           He slammed into the elevator as it closed, and he rolled with the force of his momentum, making his way to the stairs and climbing them, every inch of him screaming to go, go, go, that there wasn’t time to pause, wasn’t time to think, because Soul Stealer was right there and he’d taken the fucking painting with him.

           When he reached the top, he kicked the door open and raced towards the elevator. His heart stopped, stuttered, then started again. The elevator sat wide open, and the man was nowhere in sight.

           “Sir? Is everything okay?” The front desk woman hurried over to him, concerned, and she reached to his collar, wiping at it. Fingers came away red, and he stared down at her hand, stained with his failure.

           “Call the police,” he demanded hoarsely, fat fingers fumbling for his phone. “Tell them the Soul Stealer was here.”

-

           One Hundred Years of Souls was closed for the day, and Jack Crawford had the place on lockdown. The receptionist hadn’t recalled the man running from the elevators, but enough cameras were there to give them a good shot of just how he’d gotten away. He’d come out of the elevator, calm, then booked through the crowd the moment he was outside, using shoulders as ways to propel himself far ahead of Will. He’d had the unfortunate advantage of not having his head knocked in with a dizzying effect. They did get his spit, though; they also got his blood.

           Will sat at the back of an ambulance, letting them get a good look at his head for the umpteenth time. It was a flesh wound, but it was tender to the touch, and he resisted the urge to snap and grumble as they cleaned the blood out of his hair.

           “I really urge you to go and get a scan,” the paramedic said.

           “It’s fine,” Will retorted.

           “He was here,” Jack ground out, ignoring the exasperated glance the paramedic sent his way. “He was here, and he got away.”

           His pacing made Will want to pace. His toe tapped in time with Jack’s about-faces as he said, “He ate the picture.”

           “He ate it?”

           “Wessler was only out for a minute, but he got the footage pulled up before you got here. He knocked out the director, Mrs. Stunpike, and he ate the painting.”

           “I wonder how much that dinner cost?” Beverly asked. She hovered in front of Will, dabbing at the place on his head that’d made contact with the killer’s mouth. When he realized that it was wet from spit and a bit of blood, having gotten a good crack at him, he left it well enough alone until she could get her hands on it. Once they confirmed the DNA match, the only thing left would be to catch the bastard.

           “Enough that he didn’t leave a tip,” Zeller quipped.

           “The tip was not to get in his way when he’s trying to make a getaway,” Price said brightly. A pause. “Sorry, Graham.”

           “Did you look up Dolarhyde?” Will asked, ignoring Price.

           “See, now that’s the problem,” Beverly began, and Jack swore under his breath. He walked back over to Will and planted his hands on his hips. Will peeked up at his subtly mismatched eyes expectantly, then focused on the grey by his temple.

           “He was dead,” Jack said curtly.

           “Dead.” Will rolled his bottom lip in, wet it, and shook his head. The words didn’t sit right. Dead was too easy a failure. People like Soul Stealer didn’t just die. Dying was easy. Dying was the easy way out. He resisted the urge to rub the aching scar tissue to the side of his neck.

           “Dead, deceased in a fire a year or so ago. We found his wife, Reba, and she said he had some kind of psychotic break, shot himself in the head, and burnt the house down with her in it.”

           “No,” Will said, and he shook his head.

           “Well, yes, then we looked up his photo to confirm, and you know what we saw, Will?”

           Ah, there it was. When the paramedic left him with a pain killer and a bandaged head, he rolled the plastic bottle about in his hands and nodded, already knowing.

           “You saw the man that ate the painting.”

           “We saw the man that ate the painting,” Jack affirmed. His lips sucked in tight, like he’d tasted a bad lemon. “He faked his death.”

           “The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun is a revelations reference,” Beverly said, and Will bobbed his head, agreeing with that too.

           “He should have referenced Lazarus instead,” Price joked.

           “I wonder why he didn’t take her eyes,” said Will thoughtfully. After a thought, it dawned on him. “A one-sided soulmate?”

           “She’s blind, so we’d have to run tests to tell,” Beverly said. “Even with a soulmate connection, a blind eye doesn’t change color.”

           “She’d have known he was alive if it was a full connection. We should test it to see if she’s helping him at all.” Even saying it, though, it didn’t sit right with Will. He took a long gulp of water, crushing the plastic in his hand as he did. He capped it and let it keep a distorted, crumpled shape and sloshed the water around idly. “He loves her.”

           “Bad way of showing it,” Jack snapped.

           “Good way of showing it,” Will disagreed. “He thought they were meant to be, but he didn’t feel her. He connected to her, but his tasteless thoughts didn’t resonate in her. He knew she was too good, so he left to save her from him. That’s why he longed for a soulmate, even though he was listed as having a soulmate.”

           “You know that just by getting smacked around by him?” Zeller wondered.

           “He went to Lecter for therapy for a short while. He wanted a connection, and he wondered what it’d take for someone to see him the way he wanted to be seen. Great. Powerful. Capable.” Will cast Zeller a dark look. His head hurt too damn bad for him to have to explain himself. “He’s got a cleft pallet and he’s been presumed dead for a few years.”

           “So he’s going to be hard to find,” Jack mused. “He knows how to hide. Why’d he eat the painting?”

           “Maybe to take its power?” Beverly suggested. “Some people believe ingesting something you long for will bring it to you. Power, intelligence, perseverance…”

           “He’s pumping himself up for the next attack,” Will said. “I don’t know if he’s going to last the month until he strikes again.” As an afterthought, “He’ll look me up to see who he was throwing around down there. He’ll know we’re close.”

           “I want to know how you were able to time that so well, Will,” Jack said. “I’m trying to keep you out of the frontlines, and somehow you find your way back in all over again. You’re a psychiatrist, not an FBI agent.”

           “It’s a flesh wound,” Will assured him. The throbbing in his skull disagreed, but he didn’t want to worry anyone. He thought about Molly fussing over it, cotton swab mopping up the worst of it. She’d try and ice it, and he’d complain about the cold.

           Reba would have probably done the same for Francis Dolarhyde. In the end, he left because he loved her. Maybe he was a better man than Will. Dolarhyde would leave for love, Beverly would stay for love, and Will wasn’t quite sure what the hell he was going to do.

           “He’s not Francis Dolarhyde anymore,” Will realized after a moment, drumming fingers on the water bottle. “He killed him in the house as it burned down. In his head, he’s the Red Dragon now.”

           “If this is giving you flashbacks to-”

           “It’s fine,” he snapped, and he stood up from the ambulance, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He’d let the paramedic recycle the bottle rather than he waste it in a rubbish bin. In his guts, a kernel of concern flickered distractingly, and he gritted his teeth. Hannibal had felt his wound as it happened, felt the pain as though it were his own. Good. “I’m going to drive back to Baltimore. Now that we know who it is, I think Lecter will open up a bit more.”

           “I think you should take the rest of the day off,” Jack said, and Will brushed past him, shaking his head.

           “Red Dragon doesn’t sleep, neither do I,” he said.

-

          "You feeling okay, Dr. Graham?" Matthew asked when he arrived at the BSHCI. Will nodded, fumbling with his keys and stuffing them into his jacket. Another round of painkillers and water left his head a minor nuisance rather than a true pain.

           "Peachy."

           Matthew Brown nodded, leading him down the steps towards maximum, his eyes shifting to the side every now and again to note the bandage on his head. Will felt his concern like a bristle brush on a sunburn. "You look like you should be in a hospital."

           "After this, I'll probably head to one," Will lied. He'd probably go to the hotel, in truth. Rage a little. Try not to drink. Maybe call Molly. Maybe not.

           "You do that," Matthew urged, and he waved the security guard to open the doors. "We wouldn't want anything to happen to you, if you don't mind my saying so."

           Will minded him saying so, but he wouldn't say that. Matthew was only speaking out of concern, and a polite concern as that.

           Lecter was pretending to nap when Will sat down in the chair, and he took that time to take a breath. The pain killers took most of the throbbing ache away, but standing left him feeling dizzy, woozy. He hadn’t been handled like that in a long time, and he didn’t like how slow he’d been to react. The last time he’d gotten physical with a psychopath, he’d been far more limber.

           “You should have your brain scanned to ensure that everything is alright,” Lecter drawled, eyes closed. His hands were clasped behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. It was a casual, comfortable state, and the suddenness of his voice made Will jump slightly, looking up from the table leg that he’d been focusing on rather than the feeling of Red Dragon throwing him across a table.

           “It’s fine.”

           “Who handled you so roughly, Will?”

           “You know exactly who,” he snapped, rubbing his eye. He looked from Lecter’s elegant repose to the drawings on the wall.

           “The Great Red Dragon,” Lecter murmured, and he sat up, turning on the cot to face the wall rather than look at Will. Will watched his hands grip the edge of the bed, tight. “You saw him, then.”

           “He saw me first.”

           “Do you know what he’s referencing when he calls himself that?” Lecter looked at him, the edges of his lips curled ever-so-slightly.

           “It was a three hour drive there, and a three hour drive back from Blake’s artwork” Will said, ignoring the expression of subtle delight. “Three hours back, and I thought to myself, ‘that timing was too good. Somehow, he knew I’d be there, and Soul Stealer tried to be there first, before me. To size me up. To eat me.’”

           “Does it still hurt?” Lecter wondered.

           “Then I thought, ‘I bet Dr. Lecter found a way to warn him, and he wanted to see what I’d do when I saw him face-to-face.’”

           “And what did you do?”

           “I thought, ‘he set me up to potentially get killed.’”

           “Did you look into his eyes and see your own reflected back?” Lecter stood and crossed to the bars, head cocked to the side.

           “I wondered, ‘why in the hell would he do that?’” Will ignored him, biting his thumb idly as he stared at the hip of his jumpsuit. “Then I thought, ‘because he wanted to see what would happen. He was curious.’”

           “Are you very angry with me, Will?” Hannibal asked kindly.

           “…No,” Will admitted. “But I’d been wondering about us before; I thought about Molly, and I thought about her forgiving me for being connected to you. She would because she’s better than me.”

           “That lends itself the thought that perhaps that’s why you’re not soulmates,” said Hannibal gravely.

           “Yeah,” Will agreed, nodding. He looked to the slip-on shoes Hannibal wore because no one was stupid enough to give him Velcro, what with the plastic tabs. “Yeah, she’s better than me. But I thought, maybe I can make the soulmate connection work because separation is cruel and unusual punishment in some states, and I didn’t want to give you a leg up in the justice system. I visit regularly, and it keeps things calm. I thought, maybe this will work.

           “I don’t think I care much about that anymore. Baltimore doesn’t have the Cruel and Unusual Punishment Clause that most other states have for soulmates whose partner refuses to visit them in prison. It was overturned four years ago.”

           Will spoke with a flat, toneless voice, like he’d recited the words several times until the sting fell out of them. Somehow, the lack of emotion was more fitting, since he saw the subtle ways that it took effect on Hannibal’s face. His lips thinned, compressed tightly. The fine lines near his eyes deepened, the expression stiffening. It wasn’t Jack Crawford’s puckered face at the thought of Soul Stealer getting away, but it was the exact reaction Will had been hoping for as he drove back from Brooklyn, white-knuckled as he gripped the steering wheel and took deep, calming breaths.

           “You plan on catching your killer and returning to your Molly as a white knight?” Hannibal asked, a dark expression crossing his face.

           “I plan on going back to Molly and leaving you behind,” Will said amiably.

           “A dangerous threat, Will,” Hannibal warned him.

           “See, I was thinking about you, and you’re right, Hannibal. We have a lot in common.” Clearly. Will gritted his teeth. “The difference between you and me is our willingness to commit violence.”

           “Do you think you’re above that curiosity, dear Will?” Hannibal asked lightly. The tone didn’t match the expression on his face. When Will shifted in his chair, his predatory eyes tracked the movement.

           “No, not at all. I’m curious to see just how my absence affects you. I’m curious what you’ll do.”

           “Don’t you fear how I’ll find a way to hurt you again?”

           “No.” Will shrugged. “You knew I’d come here. You knew, so you endured feeling my pain because you’d see me and be reassured. Soulmate connections receive emotional comfort in a variety of ways: auditory, visually, and tactilely mainly. Any of these have the capacity to release endorphins, and that’s how you could handle the feeling of the back of your head cracking against concrete.

           “What happens when I don’t come back, though? As wonderful as the feeling of endorphins released can be, there are other chemicals released when the feeling of pain is not eased through any of those three senses. Just like endorphins can cause pleasure, the chemical imbalance of serotonin, dopamine, and epinephrine are just as potent.”

           “You think you’re going to give me anxiety if I hurt you at a distance?” Hannibal’s lip curled derisively.

           “No, I know that. Simple science.” Will shrugged, drumming his fingers along his leg. “You think, ‘I’ll get used to it’. But unlike endorphins, which create a rush that you crave as it abates, the imbalance that causes the anxiety doesn’t abate. Time doesn’t take away the sting. If anything, it grows.”

           “Then what is our difference in our willingness to commit violence, dear Will?”

           “I’ve had to reconcile myself with the feeling I get in hurting people, my ability to understand and commit violence,” Will said, standing up. He walked over to the bars, just far enough away that if Lecter reached, he couldn’t get a hold of him. “I know the dark parts of myself, which is why I don’t want anyone else digging around in my mind.”

           “And?”

           “I’ve come to the understanding that doing something bad to bad people feels really, really good,” Will whispered to him. “While you see the world as a slaughterhouse, I see people like you, and I relish in just how good it’d be to hurt you.”

           Silence. In the distance between them, something curled and twisted, unpleasant but wonderful in of itself. Will looked up to Lecter’s mismatched eyes, and he grinned, a snarling, nasty expression that made his eyes narrow wolfishly. Hannibal looked a breath away from throwing himself against the bars to haul Will close. He looked a breath away from eating him. He looked a breath away from fucking him.

           Will moved, and he was right against the bars, hand reaching to grasp Hannibal’s chin tightly, tugging him closer. Hannibal didn’t fight the motion, and there was a small thread of surprise when he instead took a deliberate step to Will, allowing him to grip his face so roughly, so unkindly. His eyes flashed with something akin to pleasure.

           “You’re so sly, but so am I,” Will murmured, taunting. “Don't mistake my kindness up to this point as weakness. Don’t ever fuck with me like that again, Hannibal.” His thumb dragged against Hannibal’s bottom lip roughly, fingers curling along the stubble of his jaw. “Like I said before: I’d kill myself if it meant you suffered.”

           “In this moment, I find you at your most beautiful,” Hannibal murmured, and he nipped the tip of his finger, almost hard enough to break skin. If Will didn’t know any better, he’d have called it flirtatious, playful. “I wonder how Molly would see you.”

           Will didn’t answer, leaving the statement suspended in the air like the clouds of smoke he’d watched the man puff away at the day before, the discontent ruminating and spreading. The difference was, when the heavy door slammed shut behind him, the poison stayed on the other side of the door.

           More or less.