Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Malbec
“So you’re firing me?”
“I really wish I didn’t have to do this, Will, but we promote a fun, friendly atmosphere, and even after our conversation last month I haven’t seen any improvement.”
“I’ve become far more sociable with the customers,” Will protested.
“You’re using full sentences, but I don’t see much of a smile at all when you’re taking orders, I don’t hear people walk out of here feeling like you really made an impression, and when I have you at the bar you don’t make any sort of small talk –as I said before, that’s crucial. You still can’t make eye contact with any of them, and you haven’t looked me in the eye once since walking in my office.”
Will glanced up to his boss’s face, but when their eyes met he found himself decidedly looking over his shoulder.
“Yeah, see? We just…we can’t have that, here. You’re a nice kid, but I think you’re better suited for a job that puts you out of a public, stressful environment.” His boss leaned back in his chair, the squeak of it cutting through the tension. Will glanced to the armrests of the chair, and he nodded, fingers drumming on his pant legs.
“I’m sorry,” he said, like that somehow helped at all.
“Put me down as a reference, and I’ll make sure you can get a job somewhere else. Unfortunately, you’re just not what we’re looking for here.” Will was presented with a paper to sign as a notice of his termination, as well as an envelope housing his final check. His motions were dull, robotic as he signed and accepted the last of his pay, and he saw himself to the door, head ducked morosely.
“And Will?” his boss called out to him. Will turned expectantly, glancing to his neck. “Just…take care of yourself, alright?”
“Right,” he agreed, and he walked out of the office and down the hall where his locker was, quickly changing from the starched white shirt and tie to his normal clothes. He left them in the locker, although he kept the pants since he’d had to pay for those, and he headed towards the bar to grab his cell phone that’d been charging underneath until his boss had pulled him into the office to, in the nicest way possible, fire him.
“You out of here?” Bryan asked. Will glanced at him and nodded, unplugging the phone and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
“Yeah.”
“Was he an ass about it, or did he tell you why?” Bryan, the dad of the staff, had a tinge of defensiveness to his voice at the potential embarrassment of Will’s termination.
“It was pretty professional,” Will said, shrugging. He grabbed a cherry from the small bowl of them and rolled it around in his hand before popping it into his mouth. It’s not like they’d fire him over it.
“That’s super shitty, man. Teresa over there hasn’t checked up on her people in over twenty minutes, but she’s been getting the best tables for over two weeks,” Bryan groused, and Will laughed a little.
“She can have them…I’ll find a new job.”
“Did you hear the cooks talking? They all knew about it before you even got here.”
“It’s fine, I’m just…” Will gestured towards the phone, then glanced around. While the bar of the restaurant Belle Bleu wasn’t overcrowded, there were regular patrons that sat there after a long day of work. He nodded to one such regular, then grabbed the charger from the outlet.
“Do you have an idea of a new job?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Will assured him, and he headed out from around the bar, patting his pocket to make sure he had his wallet.
“Were you let go, Will?” Will glanced to one of the patrons that sat at a small, two-person table in the bar, and he nodded politely, glancing to the knee of the man’s impressively loud plaid trousers.
“Sorry that you had to hear that,” he said awkwardly. Belle Bleu’s reputation was such that no matter the hassle and stress of working as the wait-staff, the customers were to never know. He looked to the man’s face and recognized him as one that visited every evening from Monday through Friday.
“On the contrary, I’m sad to see you go,” he said, and he lifted his glass of wine, taking a small sip of it. “Who will recommend such fine wines or inform me when something new has arrived?”
“Bryan trained me, so he’ll know just as much as I do, if not more, Dr. Lecter,” Will promised. Dr. Lecter had been going to the restaurant for as long as he could remember, always a polite and well-mannered man that it’d become somewhat of a relief when he was the only one in the bar. He didn’t press overmuch for conversation, but when the bar was empty he asked Will often about his studies, his schooling, and his work. He was an odd, reclusive man, always choosing one of the upholstered, velvet seats to take his drink, and he never ordered food with his wine. Dr. Lecter slid his fingers along the delicate stem of the wine glass, and he nodded.
“I will have to rely upon your word of his expertise, then,” he said, and his gaze flickered from toe to head, eyes settling on his face. Will intently studied his careful grip on the glass. “Will you be looking for another job, then? One without the strains of…social obligations?”
“That’s what was recommended,” Will said wryly, and Dr. Lecter laughed.
“I’d imagine it’s difficult for someone going to school to find such a job. The foundation of the customer service industry was forged by students such as yourself, as they’re the only ones to tolerate the sometimes taxing needs of the general population.” Will didn’t find it fitting to tell the doctor that it was because college students were poor and desperate, although he laughed a little and scuffed his shoe.
“We do our best,” he said –a much better reply. If his ex-boss had witnessed it, maybe he’d have given him his job back. Probably not.
“Will you be able to find one soon? You’d mentioned paying for classes out of pocket.” How had he remembered? Will nodded, fingers tapping lazily on the leg of his trousers.
“I’ll be able to manage, Dr. Lecter, don’t you worry about me.”
“Perhaps it is the occupation, but it is in my job description to worry,” Dr. Lecter replied, smiling. It was an odd smile, but it somehow suited him. On another person, it’d seem more like the faintest of twitches of his lip, but Will had served him enough to recognize the expression.
“Well I’m not your patient,” Will replied.
“That’s true,” he agreed, and his smile grew somewhat. “Well, if you attain such a job where you work in a place much like this, do let me know. I am particular about just who pours my drink, and you’ve never disappointed.” It was an innocent enough statement. Will knew diners that only ate what one specific cook made, or drank from one specific place at the bar. When people frequented the many places of fine dining, one saw all types –the heavy tippers, the runners, the drunks and the habitual. When Dr. Lecter said it, though, there was something in the suggestive manner of his tone that made Will look up from the edge of the tablecloth to stare at him. Dr. Lecter had always been a refined man, from his three-piece suit to his wing-tip oxfords, but at the edges of his lips there was a mild twist, something mischievous and not at all innocent.
“Thank you, Dr. Lecter,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry.
“I’m sure if you inform your acquaintance, Bryan, he’ll pass along the message,” Dr. Lecter added. Will didn’t dare ask how it was the doctor knew he only saw Bryan as just that –an acquaintance.
“I’ll…be sure to do that,” he said slowly, and Dr. Lecter nodded.
“Please do.” He turned to his wine and swirled it gently, and Will excused himself, nodding to a few more of his co-workers before he went out the side door into the ally, an odd sensation in his chest. While Dr. Lecter had never outwardly shown that much consideration or interest in him before, he’d always been known to watch people with an intense expression, like he could peel back the layers of their skin and see them. It made sense, since he was a psychiatrist. Will grabbed his bike and undid the chain, sliding it over his shoulder and pedaling towards the road, confused. Maybe he saw the aspects of Will Graham that Will Graham didn’t want to be seen, and he was finally saying something about it because of professional curiosity.
It wasn’t like it mattered, though. He’d just lost his job, and he’d probably never see the good doctor again.
Despite getting fired, his old boss was good to his word. Amidst term papers, homework, lab studies, and class, he managed to find another job as a bartender in an arguably better place, Sangre. Although his Spanish speaking skills were mediocre at best, he was well enough aware that the macabre name for the place was a play on the drinks they offered. The standard uniform was black, white, and a blood red vest and bowtie. The training was simple: serve drinks, appear as dour or aloof as possible while doing it.
Thankfully for Will, it was a pretty easy task to accomplish.
“So does this mean you’re going to start wearing fake fangs to work now?” Beverly asked as they walked along campus. George Washington boasted a gorgeous, sprawling campus, but it did mean you had to walk for a bit in order to get to anywhere.
“It’s not Hot Topic.”
“Or will they make you wear a cloak on Halloween?”
“I hope not,” Will replied. “It just seemed like a lot of businessmen and some new age kids that have an affinity for chamber music.”
“And they’re not going to ask you for the specials on Pipin’ Hot Wings n’ Things?”
“At most, they’ll serve a couple of appetizers like ‘lady fingers’, or cheese and crackers.”
“Lady fingers? What are they, 1800’s England?” Beverly laughed.
“I think they called it ‘steampunk’,” Will said thoughtfully. “It’s not the worst job either one of us has had.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back to Chikn’Biscuit with my head held high,” Beverly agreed. They rounded a corner, the quad stretched ahead of them. Normally, it was a bustling, busy area on a Thursday, but surprisingly the main area was roped off, police officers milling about as they held back curious, eager onlookers.
“Campus prank?” Beverly asked.
“Campus assault, more like,” Will said, pausing. The police tape roped off the statue at the center, and although it was far away, he could see that there was something strung up in front of it.
“We should get a closer look,” Beverly said, walking down the small incline.
“We shouldn’t,” Will urged, but Beverly didn’t seem to hear him or care, her pace quickening to work through the crowd. Will considered not following, but when he saw a couple of FBI agents, he also worked through the gaggle of students.
“It’s so gross.”
“Can you believe someone would do something like that?”
“I’m going to hurl,”
“If the FBI is here, do you think this has happened before?”
“Oh my god, I knew that lady.”
They got as close to the police tape as they could, and at the sight, Will froze. Officers and agents alike milled in front of the statue, but it wasn’t the statue that mesmerized him. A woman was strung up before the statue, hands clasped around a large, elegant bouquet of flowers. The dress was white and flowing, lace and silk that trailed to the bottom of the statue and rippled across the concrete. It would have been delicate and demure, had she not been dead.
“Oh, shit,” Beverly murmured, and Will nodded in agreement. Blood coated the entire back of the dress, dripping down to the ground with slow, deliberate drops.
“Back, come on, back, back,” a hassled officer groused, motioning some students back. Throughout the crowd, a few reporters lurked, trying to get closer without drawing attention to themselves.
“Is that Mrs. Marney?” someone asked.
“Right now we’re just trying to get things taken care of, and we’d appreciate it if you would give us the space and privacy to do that,” another officer snapped. “Come on, move along.”
“Man, the stuff you’d find in the fibers of that dress would be unreal,” Beverly said, nudging Will. “Wedding dresses with lace and silk tends to grab onto everything.”
“You should do a report on it for your forensics class,” Will suggested quietly. His eyes were glued to the face of the corpse –rather, the veil over it.
“I probably will,” Beverly said, and she tore her eyes away to look at Will. “What’s with that face? Don’t like dead bodies?”
“Normal people don’t like dead bodies,” he muttered.
“Don’t you study stuff like this? We have the same criminology class, as well as the same psychology class.”
“It’s not the body, it’s…” Will shook his head and motioned vaguely. “Those flowers are courtship flowers. Iris, roses, carnations, dianthus, freesia, amaranth, forget-me-not, and verbena.”
“You take a botany class or something?” Beverly asked. Although sarcastic, it was clear that she was impressed.
“The lady next door in middle school had a garden,” Will replied distantly. “If the police weren’t here, I’d say Professor Brown was trying to quiz us.”
“Why?”
“This is not a casual murder,” Will observed. "This was methodical."
“Come on, get to class, come on,” a cop coaxed, and he stood in front of Beverly and Will, blocking the view. “Come on, guys, it’s a crime scene.”
“Sorry,” Will mumbled, and he led Beverly slowly through the grumbling crowd to get away. Out of the folds of too many bodies, he glanced back to the woman strung up, unable to shake the feeling that behind the veil, she was staring at him.
Homework eluded him after that. Every time he opened a textbook, he saw the woman’s body, her hands clasped around a romantic declaration. With the FBI agents there, it couldn’t be a simple case. Granted, Quantico wasn’t exactly too far away, but for them to be on the scene so quickly was an indication of something, and something big. It wasn’t as though it mattered; Beverly wanted to go into the FBI, but he had his sights on something a little easier than the psychology test he’d heard terrified whispers of.
He made a simple meal and flipped through the channels on the TV, desperately seeking a distraction. Of course, at the sight of the woman’s corpse on the local news, Will found himself pausing, hovering on the channel despite his brain demanding he move on.
“Authorities are horrified to find, right on George Washington University’s campus, another body from what is suspected to be another of the Chesapeake Ripper’s victims. The woman was brutalized, and various organs were missing, removed while the woman was presumably still alive. In their normal, archaic fashion, the ripper left behind a form of symbolism, the corpse draped in a wedding dress with a bouquet. While they are leery to label things, one of the agents was willing to explain the situation we are dealing with right now.
“They inform us to stay in groups, try not to go out too late at night, and to be smart about your surroundings. If this is the Chesapeake Ripper, the best way to ensure your safety is to not engage with strangers and to remember the buddy system. They claim that we are as safe as we want to be, but is that necessarily true? I have a psychiatric specialist, Dr. Chilton here with me to weigh in.”
“To be sure, this is a message,” the doctor said, turning from the anchorwoman to the screen. Will studied his hawkish nose and opportunistic eyes, lip curling. “Having worked with the FBI closely in the past, what we know of this particular serial killer is that he is dangerous, cultured, and far too careful to be caught easily.”
“He is sending a message, then?” the anchorwoman pressed.
“Oh, yes. The wedding dress symbolizes a union and longevity, while the flowers emphasize courtship and romance. Whoever the Chesapeake Ripper is, they’re certainly trying to get someone’s attention.”
“Could a serial killer be in love?” She laughed at the idea, and Dr. Chilton’s mouth twitched.
“To be sure, it’s possible. What the concern is, is that whoever they are trying to reach may or may not realize the target that they’ve become. No intelligent psychopath can love and love well. They lack the empathy to try.”
“You see this in a lot of cult cases, don’t you?”
“Certainly, and lonely hearts sending their letters to patients at institutions who feign attachment to gain leeway to the outside world. Why, just with Charles Manson…”
Will grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the freezer and sat it down, pouring himself a drink. The longer they analyzed cult cases and serial killers, the sleepier he became, until his eyes closed involuntarily and he slept, dreams of women in ripped wedding dresses smothering him with bouquets of oleander and wolfsbane.
-
He woke up for school at approximately 6:30 A.M., and like normal he left the house by 7:00. Will Graham’s routine consisted of a quick shower, a quick breakfast, and a quick glance over of his scruff before he deemed himself worthy of the public. No matter how much Beverly sighed over him, he couldn’t bring himself to care too much about what people saw when they looked at him.
That was probably one of the reasons he’d gotten fired, now that he thought about it.
There was one small blip in his routine, though, as he went to step out of the door. A cream colored letter rested where he normally placed his foot, and he stopped to pick it up, confused. Elegant, curled writing spelled his name out with a flourish, and he leaned his bike against the wall so that he could open it, brows furrowed.
The paper was thick, expensive with an intriguing scent of something entirely masculine and sharp. Cologne? Lotion? He unfolded the paper and automatically reached out to catch the flower petals that slid from the folding, fingers curling over the soft velvet of them instinctively. They were not the wrinkled, crunchy petals of something long dead, but the bruised petals of something recently mishandled and broken. His throat went dry as he stared at fairly familiar colors, and when he looked to the writing on the paper, he had to lean against the wall to catch himself as his knees buckled.
“To William Graham,
It is not often I make the acquaintance of one so interesting as you, but I find myself tarrying far longer in this place as a result. You may not know it, but there is something vastly appealing about a mind that can assume the realities and worlds of another so completely, and I hope to have a face-to-face discussion with you about it sometime in the near future. In the meantime, do take care of yourself. There is a killer about, or so I’m told.
I hope you like your gift,
-C.R.