[OS] ONCE YOU KNOW
Summary: You work for BAU. Even though you are hyper empathetic person like Will, you choose to hide it behind your facade. Will helps you face and overcome crises.
Words: 3k
The pine wood house built facing East materialized before you. The morning sun, rising at dawn, caused your eyelids to reflexively squint.
The smell of the room hit your nostrils before your eyes could even adapt to the dim light. It was the distinct odor of rusted iron laced with the sickeningly sweet taste of clotted blood, a fluid evaporating beneath the high powered halogen lamps set up by the forensic technical team. You clasped your hands together, feeling the rough texture of the medical latex gloves clinging tightly to your skin. A small physical anchor to remind yourself that you were still standing in an abandoned warehouse in Baltimore, not inside the mind of a monster.
Before you, the man sat upon a rotting oak throne. The skin of his abdomen had been flayed away, exposing deep red muscle fibers meticulously rearranged, woven together like the cords of an unfinished tapestry. His head was tilted back dramatically, empty eye sockets staring up at the ceiling where dark droplets of blood still lazily dripped, striking the concrete floor with a rhythmic plink.
Jack Crawford was saying something to a forensic technician in the corner of the room. His voice was gravelly, echoing in the vast space but quickly swallowed by the dead silence of the corpse.
You took a step closer, your shoes crunching on a pile of broken glass.
The invisible pendulum in your mind began to swing. You closed your eyes, relaxed your breathing, and allowed the darkness to consume your consciousness.
You opened your eyes, but your perspective had shifted. You were no longer looking at the corpse. You were looking at this man while he was still alive, trembling beneath your sharp blade. You felt the resistance of flesh as the tip sliced through, the warmth of blood spray hitting the back of your hand, seeping between your fingers. You felt no revulsion. You felt a strange satisfaction, a religious catharsis. You were purifying him. You were turning him into art.
The sound of the pendulum abruptly stopped. But the darkness did not recede.
You recoiled a step back, your breath instantly catching in your throat. You looked down at your hands. The blue medical latex suddenly blurred, replaced by a sticky, slick crimson. You tried to rub your palms together, but the tacky sensation wouldn't wash away. The dripping of blood from the ceiling morphed into a hammering heartbeat in your eardrums.
You are saving people, or you are learning how to become the ultimate killer?
The question drove into the nape of your neck like a rusted nail. The surrounding space caved in around you, the warehouse walls pressing tight against your chest until you couldn't draw breath. You forgot how to control your own muscles. The professional facade you had painstakingly constructed over the years cracked wide open.
A rough, ice cold, yet extraordinarily steady hand suddenly grabbed your wrist, jerking you back.
"Out."
Will Graham spoke, his voice so low it was almost a whisper, yet strong enough to shatter the chaos inside your head. "Now. Get to the car."
He did not wait for your answer. His iron grip tightened, dragging you across the pool of blood toward the emergency exit where pale daylight flickered behind a haze of mist.
———
The tapping of Jack’s fingers on the glass tabletop sounded like a slow burst of automatic gunfire. The autopsy report lay deserted between the three of you, close up photos of the Baltimore corpse exposing the helplessness of an entire system. Jack didn't look at the images. He stared at you, then turned his gaze to Will.
"We’ve lost another forty eight hours." Jack said impatiently. "He moved again. I don't need you two telling me what kind of knife he used. I need to know what he's thinking. Right now."
Will sat beside you, fingers tightly interlaced, eyes fixed on the plain floor as if searching for an escape route. He said nothing, a heavy breath escaping through gritted teeth.
Jack hoisted himself out of his chair. "You two are the only ones who can see him. Don't turn off that light until I have his name."
———
You sat in the leather armchair, feeling as though you were sinking into a tomb lined with opulent velvet. The room was steeped in the quiet scent of aged oak, leather bound antique European volumes, and pure lemongrass tea steaming from the polished mahogany desk. Charcoal sketches of Florence hung along the slate grey wall, rendered in precise perspective.
Hannibal Lecter’s office.
Hannibal sat opposite you, the epitome of composure. Back straight, one leg draped casually over his knee, his custom olive three piece suit without a single wrinkle. His hands, with long and ruthlessly immaculate fingers, were loosely entwined.
The antique bronze clock on the mantelpiece ticked delicate beats. Every chime acted like a drop of acid corroding the professional armor you desperately clung to.
"You are breathing very shallowly." Hannibal spoke, his voice deep and smooth as thick honey, yet carrying the chill of a scalpel stored in a basement. "Your chest moves like a creature flinching from an impending blow. What are you trying to resist?"
You dug your fingertips into the leather armrests, feeling the padding give way. "I'm just exhausted from the case, Doctor. The pressure from Jack Crawford... He wants results."
Hannibal tilted his head slightly, a subtle, deliberate gesture like a hawk observing exhausted prey. A faint smile touched his lips, yet his deep set maroon eyes remained still, cold, and filled with penetrating curiosity.
"Jack Crawford views the world through boxes." Hannibal stood up, stepping slowly toward an antique bookcase. The sound of his leather shoes was entirely swallowed by the plush Persian rug. "He draws one box labeled 'Justice,' another labeled 'Crime.' He places you in the middle, demanding you stand on the line to drag the others back. But Jack fails to understand that this boundary is not a straight line. It is a marshland."
He paused before an antique ceramic vase, his index finger absently trailing over its rim.
"When you stood in that warehouse in Baltimore, when you saw the muscle fibers of that man reassembled like a tapestry... you did not see a crime, did you?"
His question was so piercing it caused your heart to skip a beat. You averted your face, fixing your gaze on the Florence sketch to escape his eyes. "I saw a brutal serial murder."
"You are speaking Jack's language.: Hannibal whispered. He had glided behind your chair without a sound. You heard no footsteps, only felt an invisible weight pressing upon the back of your neck. The scent of rosewood and fine bespoke fabric enveloped you.
"You did not see brutality," Hannibal continued, his voice resonating right beside your ear, warm, yet razor sharp. "You saw a spiritual release. You felt the killer’s satisfaction in cleansing the victim, transforming a rotting, mortal coil into an enduring piece of art. You are afraid, not because you are disgusted by him, but because you realized that in that moment, you and he were one."
You felt like a naked soul standing in a blizzard; all your darkest secrets, the thoughts you dared not admit to yourself, laid bare by this man with terrifying casualness.
"That isn't me." You gasped out, your voice losing its composure, shattering in helpless desperation. "I am a BAU agent. I save people."
Hannibal rounded back to the front, leaning down slightly to meet your eyes directly. The lingering late afternoon light filtered through the large window, bisecting his angular face: one half lit by the refined elegance of a psychiatrist, the other submerged in the profound darkness of a monster.
"Normalcy is merely a suffocating jacket society forces you to wear. Death is the only authenticity that cannot be forged. When you stop denying it, when you surrender to that empathy and let it dissolve your sense of self... only then will you be reborn. Isn't becoming the truest version of yourself the most extraordinary thing?"
The ticking of the clock suddenly amplified in your eardrums. Hannibal's words were no longer mere advice; they were a hammer striking the final crack in your mask, shattering it into a thousand shards.
The thought of returning to your apartment in Quantico choked your lungs, a bitter bile rising in your throat. That place was too sterile, too neat, a desperate, fraudulent attempt to mimic the life of a normal human being. If you went back, you would have to look into the mirror. And you knew that under the cold neon light of the bathroom, the reflection would not be yours anymore. It would bear the hollow eyes of the man on the wooden throne, or worse, the lingering smile of Hannibal Lecter. When left alone with emptiness, the void begins to fill itself with the voices of killers.
You bolted from Hannibal's office just as the season's first blizzard swept across Virginia. Your beaten up sedan sped through the night, wipers frantically sloshing heavy, wet snow off the windshield. You didn't know where you were driving, hands gripping the wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. The heater was broken, blowing freezing air, yet cold sweat drenched your back, sticking to your thin dress shirt. Headlights cut through barren oak trees along the deserted road; the darkness sat like a primordial creature swallowing the car whole.
Your identity was dissolving. You could no longer feel gravity, no longer knew if your foot was pressing the accelerator. The questions looped in cadence with the windshield wipers, relentless and suffocating.
By the time you registered your surroundings, the car had stalled at the edge of the woods in Wolf Trap. A few hundred yards away, the warm yellow glow of Will's cabin flickered through the thick snowfall.
You shoved the car door open and stumbled forward. Snow swallowed your ankles, the cold biting through thin leather shoes, but you felt no pain. You did not knock. You simply collapsed your weight against the rough oak door, and it swung open beneath the burden of a broken soul.
Will's dogs barked loudly, but quickly quieted as they caught a familiar scent. You collapsed onto the floor right at the threshold. The floorboards were cold, rough, heavy with the scent of wet fur and aged pine. Your chest seized, a violent spasm racking your body, catching your breath in a silent sob. You gasped, but the air felt like shards of glass tearing into your lungs. The serene, professional facade you had painstakingly constructed over the years shattered completely, crumbling into dust.
"Hey! Look at me!" Will Graham’s voice cut through from above, urgent and frantic. He dropped to his knees beside you, rough, calloused hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you hard.
You could not look at him. Your eyes were unseeing, fixed on the void. Pure terror seized every cell in your body. Numbed, you felt like a formless shade, devoid of good, devoid of evil, just a hollow abyss consuming itself. You clawed at the wooden floorboards, desperate for a physical anchor to keep from being swallowed by the pull of madness.
"I don't know... who I am anymore, Will..." You rasped out, words breaking apart on your tongue. Hot tears finally spilled over, blurring into the dust on the floorboards. "I saw him slice open his stomach... and I felt satisfied. Will... is there even any good in this world? We're all just waiting to become monsters, aren't we?"
"Shut up!" Will snapped, his voice a low growl like a cornered beast. He didn't offer cheap psychological platitudes like the doctors in air-conditioned offices. He knew this demon intimately. He fought it every night.
Will seized your collar, pulling you up, pressing your back against his warm chest. A large golden dog bounded over, resting its snow drenched head on your lap. Will grabbed your twitching hand and pressed it firmly into the dog's thick, damp, warm fur.
"Feel it." He said, hot breath fanning against your ear, his stubble scraping uncomfortably against your cheek. "This is Winston. He's a dog. You are in Wolf Trap, Virginia. His fur is wet from the snow. Can you feel it?"
You tightened your grip on Winston's scruff. The dog nudged you gently, licking your icy fingers.
"You aren't the man in Baltimore." Will continued, his voice dropping low, steady as an anchor dropped into a raging sea. "He's dead. You're here, with me. I know who you are. I see you."
The constriction in your chest loosened. The warmth of Will behind you and the living presence of the dogs around you tethered your senses back to reality. You closed your eyes and rested your head against his shoulder, letting overdue tears spill over your lashes onto the weathered floor.
Night in Wolf Trap lacked the hum of civilization. The Virginia blizzard howled through the gaps in the timber walls, a desolate, hungry sound, like the cries of forgotten souls wandering the wilderness. Yet right now, inside the dim, golden lit cabin, your ears filled with a different rhythm. Will's heartbeat. Thumping fiercely and authentically behind you, passing through his thick wool jacket, penetrating your damp shirt, thudding against your shoulder blade as an ultimate affirmation of life.
You remained huddled, ten fingers clawing into Winston's sodden coat so hard your nails pressed into his skin. The dog let out a low whimper, yet he did not pull away; he stood firm, lending the weight of his massive body and the heat of a gentle creature to shelter your trembling hands.
"Breathe." Will growled softly near your ear. His hand slid from your shoulder down across your chest, squeezing firmly. "I said breathe. In through your nose. Right now."
You tried to comply, but your lungs felt like a rusted piston.
"I... I smell blood, Will... On my hands. In my throat. Hannibal was right... I cut open that man's belly. I stood there watching him die and I felt... I felt like a god. I'm insane. I can't go back to the BAU. I can't look at Jack... I can't..."
"Look at me!"
He forced you to turn and face him, knees knocking against each other on the wooden floor. Will cupped your cheeks in his hands,.the calluses from winter ice fishing abrasive against your skin, painful yet grounding. He compelled you to look directly into his blue eyes, clouded with exhaustion yet piercingly sharp.
You were so close you could see the bloodshot veins in his eyes, the small scar running through his furrowed brow, and smell the melting snow clinging to his hair.
"Look closely." Will said, his voice no longer shouting, dropping into a raspy timber weighed down with immense gravity. "Do you see anything in my eyes?"
You stared into his eyes, and for a split second, the blizzard outside faded away. You saw your own reflection: a shattered soul, hair disheveled, pale face streaked with tears and dust. But more importantly, you saw something else. You saw the same darkness, the same existential dread swirling within Will's eyes. He didn't look at you the way Jack Crawford looked at an instrument, nor the way Hannibal viewed a curious specimen. He looked at you like his only surviving kin on Earth.
"I see what you see." Will whispered, his warm, bitter breath fanning against your lips. "Every night. I see myself crushing the hunter's skull with a hammer. I see myself tearing Freddie Lounds' throat out. I feel the appetite, too. I feel like a god, too. But look at me. Am I a monster?"
You froze. "No..." you breathed out, your trembling hands instinctively clinging to his wrists. "You're Will."
"Right. I'm Will. And you are you." Will said firmly. He released your face, stood up, and pulled you up with him. He guided you three steps toward the worn armchair by the fireplace, eased you into it, then grabbed a dark navy sweater draped over the chair's back.
He pulled the oversized garment over your head, tugging your arms into the long sleeves. The sweater smelled intensely of Will, cheap bar soap, pine wood, and woodsmoke. It was strangely comforting, wrapping around you like a protective suit of armor.
Will crouched, picking up a few dry oak logs and tossing them into the dying fire. Flames flared, licking the wood with cheerful crackles, casting a warm orange glow across his sharp features. The dogs gathered around your feet one by one, a few resting their heads against your legs, forming a living wall of warmth.
Will turned back and handed you a chipped ceramic mug steaming with clear liquid. "Drink. It's just warm water. It'll soothe your throat."
You took the mug, the heat radiating from the ceramic anchoring your frayed nerves back to reality. You took a sip, the warmth soothing the fire inside you.
Will did not sit in a chair. He pulled up a small wooden stool, sitting on the floor right beside the fireplace, opposite you, though his eyes remained fixed on the dancing flames.
"Hannibal likes to play with minds like ours." His voice was flat as a frozen lake, yet his hands gripped tightly around the wood splitting axe resting beside his foot. "He wants us to believe the darkness is our only true nature. He wants you to think you are alone. But he's wrong."
Will turned his head, looking at you through the rising steam. This time, his gaze was no longer wild; it had softened into the quiet gentleness of someone who had learned how to survive the storm.
"You aren't alone. Tonight you're here. Tomorrow you'll be here, too. If your pendulum won't stop swinging, I'll be the one to hold it still for you."
