Mind Games (Hannigram)

8

He rested his head against his lover's chest, gazing up fondly. It wasn't love, not by any means, but it was the sort of affection one had for a well-known friend. His fingertips grazed his companion's face.

He felt sated, momentarily. His orgasm was not an overwhelming sensation, but it had tired him out enough that 3 hours of sleep could be achieved.

His lover purred, lacing thin fingers through his curls. For a moment, he felt the ghost of fingers against his windpipe, a thumb against his stubble, a paisley tie and sharp eyes with hips inches away from his.

He pushed it back. Not now.

"I have no interest in field kabuki." Will Graham folded his arms against his chest. The field was warm, a sure sign of spring. The scene was not.

A girl, forever frozen as a young adult, was splayed out on top of an alter of antlers. Pale, too pale, yet there was a twisted sort of beauty in her death. The blood, wine-like in its consistency, had dried in streams against her ribs. The flies buzzing eccentrically around her did little to distract from the theatrics of her tableau. She herself was not stunning. What this killer made her into was. She was a tool, used and discarded.

"Is this our guy?" Crawford asked. He had some striking similarities to the insects in the scene before them.

Will scoffed. "No." It was annoyingly obvious. There was none of the love, the gentle coddling that the previous girl had. "This killer saw the victim as a... a pig. Nothing more. There was no care for the victim." He was frustratingly close to something.

"So there's two of them?"

"I don't know," he frowned, "this isn't our killer, though." There was something. He just had to look harder.

"Great." Will didn't pay attention to Jack's huff, too busy scolding at the ground.

There was something. There had to be. The director of this kabuki was a stark contrast to the Minnesota Shrike. He was ruthless and brilliant and apathetic to the victim.

"He loves them." Will said aloud. "He loves them and he wants to honor them." He laughed breathlessly.

"Who?"

"The Shrike." He felt like he could finally breathe. "There's someone in his life, someone who he wants to honor just as much as his victims. A daughter. He's a hunter, Jack." Will's mouth stretched into a grin, despite his grim statement.

He turned, walking back to his car with pride. He did it. He figured it out.

"What about this killer?" Crawford called. Will had forgotten all about him.

He didn't turn. "Ask Doctor Lecter. You seemed very impressed by his opinion."

~time skip~

There was blood everywhere.

It seeped into Will's very being, into the pores of his skin. He felt the weight of the gun, felt the recoil as he pulled the trigger, but it was all distant. All he was aware of was the blood.

The omnipresent blood.

The girl was the source of the blood. Pretty and plain. Abigail Hobbs. She gasped and choked and stared into Will's soul. Like she could see the dark euphoria that brewed there.

He fumbled for her neck, a gaping void.

See? See?

He did. And he hated it.

There was too much blood. His hands trembled, unable to grasp her neck firmly. He was choking on air, panicking, drowning in the scarlet.

She gaped like a fish on land. Her eyes never left his, seeking safety in them but never finding them. His fingers slipped again. No no no nonononononono.