Like Fire and Powder

06. Envenomate

Men in rage strike those that wish them best.

-- Shakespeare, Othello

〇〇〇

After your and Connor's tense briefing with Fowler, Connor said he'd ask Gavin for a change of clothes. Connor was already walking over to Gavin's desk when Fowler called out -- to have you stay behind for a "small talk."

"What's going on?" You asked, sitting in front of his desk once again. "Something wrong?"

"Not exactly," Fowler said, sitting back down as well. "Thing is, I've forwarded some documents to Connor about White's biocomponents and internal systems. But I thought I'd take the liberty of explaining the situation to you . . . personally."

You raised a brow, confused. "Why?"

"It's a bit sensitive," Fowler said, frowning. "To start off, the autopsy, if you can call it that, revealed that White was injected with some sort of . . . virus."

"What?"

"They said he was stabbed in between the shoulder blades with a hollow weapon," Fowler said, grimacing. "It was like, for all intents and purposes, a snake bite. Like, if a snake bit into a computer and put a virus inside of it."

"Huh. Like venom." You shifted in your seat, expecting him to continue. When he paused for longer than you expected, you cleared your throat. "Anything else, sir?"

"The message they left you and Connor," Fowler said, "is disturbing, to say the least. And it makes sense now, given the nature of this so-called virus."

You nodded, remembering that he'd just briefed you and Connor on the painting of a decapitated snake on a wall over the most recent victim's body. You'd immediately connected the decapitated snake to Maxim White's gruesome but swift death in the interrogation room.

"What else, sir?" You prompted, starting to get slightly annoyed. "I feel like you have more to say."

"What I'm trying to say--" Fowler sat up straight "--is that I don't trust this. Not one bit. It doesn't . . . make sense. The murders are too close to one another. And the suspect, whoever they are, purposefully established this abnormal relationship with Connor."

He stared at you, then, and you deliberated on what he'd just said.

"So you think Connor is susceptible to this virus," you said slowly. "That the suspect . . . could even be targeting Connor." You didn't want Fowler to agree with you -- you wanted him to shake his head and tease you for thinking about such a thing.

But he nodded gravely. "I didn't want to bring this up with Connor presently because I feel like . . . I don't know." Fowler inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just don't wanna lose two of my best detectives. I'd shut this down, but--"

"No, sir, please," you said, spreading your hands. "Connor and I can do this."

"I'll . . . need to see results," Fowler said sternly. "In at least a week. And if these murders continue at this pace, then we might have to get the big guys involved."

The "big guys" -- as in the FBI. You scrunched your nose at the thought. "Understood, sir. We won't let you down."

You both stood up, and you turned around to walk away.

"Oh, (Y/n)?" Fowler asked.

You turned back around.

Fowler sighed, wiping a hand over his face. "Just-- Be careful. Look out for each other, you got that?"