Chapter Text
There was security all over the university campus now. A special hotline was set up for those who were uncomfortable walking alone at night and would prefer a police escort.
Will was never tempted to use it, and he found the increased security pointless, to be very polite about it—but he never really cared about being polite, so in fact he found it all useless and impractical; if the Ripper truly wanted another go at the campus, then he would certainly find a way.
Each of these thoughts was in his mind as he prepared to walk out of the computer lab and back home, back on campus for the first time after a closure of one week and three days, which Will personally felt was not long enough to conduct an absolutely thorough walkthrough, but he supposed he wasn't exactly in a position where he could give full thoughts on the matter.
As of right now, Will had his heads in hands, skewing his glasses slightly while letting out a sigh at the oncoming headache. The final student had just left his "office" hours, and Will was left drained and exhausted.
He hated being a teacher's assistant, f*cking loathed it. It was bad enough trying to help students who would admit to skipping lectures for no reason, but everyone that came in was like an open sore to hisstupidlysensitive mind, and he often left his office hours with the voices of a thousand different feelings yelling in his head and talking over one another. Today wasn't nearly as bad—not many seemed to want to risk the trip to the campus—but that didn't mean it was by any meansgood.
Still, he had to remind himself, it was worth it.
Will was working under Alana Bloom not only as an undergraduate teaching assistant, but as a research assistant, too. She was soon to graduate with her PhD and the semester was her last semester teaching this general education psychology course. Until then, he could hold a few office hours a week for the extra cash, and for Alana, the only (to-be) psychiatrist he let get within two feet of him.
He finally sat up, finishing packing up. He took his glasses off and placed them on the white plastic of the desk, rubbing his eyes, then tried to remember a time he wasn't tired and couldn't find one. Randomly, suddenly, he missed his dad.
Just as he was about to start packing his papers and pens, the door opened. Where Will was expecting a student he would have to turn away, he instead saw two familiar faces. A burly man with greying stubble closely followed by a shorter woman with sharp features. He would have assumed they were professors if he hadn't seen them flash their FBI badges what was now a week ago.
Wrong room, he assumed. They must have had the wrong room. He refused to have a repeat of three years ago.
"I was just leaving," Will muttered, placing his glasses back on and messily shoving his items in his bag. Only, when he walked to the entrance, the man's frame was blocking the only way in and out.
"Actually," the man's voice was firm, rough, as though shaped by time. It was almost intimidating directed towards Will, "we're here for you."
Will waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't.
This was happening, then.
Will stayed where he was, hoping the exhaustion was clear on his face as he looked towards the door just hardly a few feet away, barely a few steps from freedom, and kept his eyes there. He couldn't deal with having to put a pretense of polite etiquette with these two now. He needed quiet, silent alone time to pour out the remnants of everyone he spoke to today.
"Okay. What do you want?" Maybe if he pretended he didn't know who they were, they would leave.
If they were unimpressed, Will didn't bother to learn. He kept his gaze fixated on the door. If only he'd left a few minutes earlier.
"I'm Jack Crawford of the FBI, an agent at the BAU. This is Miriam Lass, my partner. I'm guessing you're William Graham?"
"It's Will."
He couldn't recall having done anything, but if they were here, he must've donesomething. It wasn't about the article, was it? He knew it had gained a fair amount of traction, but who cared about a student newspaper? Beside, Freddie wouldn't give out his name, would she?
She would,he answered immediately, and a little bubble of anger rose in his chest. He pushed it down with ease.
"Don't worry, you're not in trouble," the woman, Miriam Lass, with this Jack Crawford man spoke up. Her voice sounded like a bird might have if it could talk, but that didn't take away the intelligence that seemed to burrow itself within it. "We're actually here because we were hoping to get your help."
The sentence was surprising enough for Will to meet Lass' eyes, finding them wide-eyed and sincere. He quickly refocused back to the door. "My help?"
It could have only been Lounds. Did they like his profile? The thought sparked some excitement, a rare emotion that he pushed down as easily as his anger.
It was Crawford who spoke next. "Yes, your help. I spoke with some officers at the Baltimore PD, and they had some riveting things to say about you, Graham."
Oh. That's what this was about. So, he had been somehwat right, that this was like all those years ago. His few days at the police department three years ago was not something he enjoyed to relive. Being detained then released, all those interested coming in to watch the freak at work.
Will paused, recalling what the BAU stood for.BehavioralUnit. They probably wanted to study him. This time, when the anger bubbled, he did not bother suppressing it. It was in this one area he would not budge. He pinned his efforts on his glasses as he clenched his jaw. "I'm not interested. Now, if you could move. I have a bus to catch."
"It won't take long." Purposeful silence. Crawford asserting himself. "You know," he let out a humorless laugh, dry and empty, "I do have to admit that I'm actually bit curious on as to why you've hitched your horse to a teaching post, when you have so many options as a senior with your grades and publications."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't grasp why this is what you choose, thistalkingposition. From what I understand, it's difficult for you to be social."
Disdain spilled over Will's chest and he allowed every ounce of it to spill unto his face, too. Once, just once, Will would like someone to interrupt his work and have them maybe ask about his day (he might have hated small talk, but he would take it over this) or blab about their life, maybe even a pretty girl who would flirt with him that he had the social prowess to flirt back with. So why—why—was it always a question about his social inadequacies or mental state?
From the ass of a man Dr Chilton to curious professors from his many criminology and forensics and psychology courses, to graduate students wanting to write a dissertation, and the stupid f*cking officers all those years ago. It'd gotten better under Alana, but it seemed the crows were back to peck.
"Because Dr Bloom scares the psychiatrists away with a broom. That's her guarantee," he replied, sardonic. "And it pays well enough. It's worth the troubles, to have achannelwith which people have to pass through before they come to me."
Will paired the words with a glare, hoping Crawford got the hint, but if he did, he did nothing with it.
"If I may ask—"
"You may not."
"—where do you fall on the spectrum?"
Christ. "You don't have to worry—I'm closer to being autistic than being a narcissist or sociopath." He hated having to justify himself, and he hated the f*cking question, and he was beginning to resent the burly frame that he couldn't f*cking get past.
"But you can empathize with narcissists and sociopaths. You have a unique ability that allows you access to their perspective."
Will's eyes flitted back-and-forth between the man, the woman, and the door, overwhelmed with the feeling of being trapped every second he spent with them, and they ultimately landed on the door.
"It doesn'tallowme access, like some sort of add-on to your build-a-character. It's just... understanding." Will looked around again with what he knew was a look that fell somewhere between angry and uncomfortable. "So, yeah, I can empathize with them, because I can empathize with anybody. I could empathize with you if I wanted to, but I don't. It's less to do with empathy and more to do with an active imagination."
That's what no one really seemed to understand. He could extrapolate from the girl sitting a few seats away from him at lunch, or from crime scenes where the murder was unintentional. He did not only empathize with psychopaths because he felt a kinship to them, despite what a certain Freddie Lounds seemed to think. He simply preferred the narcissist and sociopaths because it provided an outlet without addressing his own deeply disturbing thoughts—which was a conversation for another day (or perhaps never at all).
Jack seemed to hesitate for the slightest second before pushing onward. "Yes, an active imagination, so I've heard—can I...borrowthat imagination?"
"To study? No. Surprisingly, that remains my answer despite being asked by every high-assed psychiatrist in Baltimore."
"Will," Lass finally spoke up again, interrupting the rising tensions. Will preferred her to Jack for the simple fact that she wasn't Jack. "You're actually misunderstanding. We know you've been prodded a lot, but we're not here with another stick. We were hoping to get your help on a case."
Oh.
It was quiet for three and a half seconds. They should have led with that, but Will figured Crawford had decided to test him out.
"About the recent Ripper kill?"
From his peripheral vision, he saw Crawford nod. "That's all we can say, at least, unless you agree to help."
"Like... like a consultant?"
"Yes, but just not publically."
"'Course not."It doesn't seem entirely legal, does it?But he kept that part silent. "What would I do?"
"You'd consult. We'd give you access to whatever you need and pray to whoever's the hell's in charge that you can give us something from it."
They were desperate, more than, and Jack Crawford already proved himself many times within this conversation to be a man that would not respect boundaries, if his blatant blocking of the door to trap Will in the room was anything to go by. Though this was likely an excellent character trait to hold onto as an FBI agent, it wasn't an environment that Will would ever be comfortable existing in.
But was that really worth turning down this opportunity? Sure, Freddie could get him a report or two, but to have unlimited access toeverything? Anything? Just the thought itself sped Will's heart up.
Excited him.
Will paused. There was one other thing that Freddie simply could not ever get him.
"Could I see the crime scene, if it hasn't been cleaned yet?"
Jack and Miriam shared a look Will didn't look too closely at.
"It has, but the building is still closed off to the public. We can get you in with all the confidential crime scene photos and reports, but the body's been moved, of course. Will you be able to work with that?"
It wouldn't be the same. But confidential photos and reports in the very same room barely a week after the murder was closer than he'd ever been to a Ripper murder.
And that did it for Will.
(—also, of course, potentially catching the killer terrorizing the state, he supposed.)
