Chapter Text
Will prefers the local general store in Wolf Trap to the supermarket just a ten-minute drive away. The bell that chimes as the door opens holds a fond childhood memory, and he likes the selection of local produce. He likes the smell, and he likes that he has to relate to less people. He likes that there are fewer choices, and therefore easier to choose. Sometimes there's no choice at all, and it relaxes him.
Tom, the owner, is welcoming without being intrusive, and Will can choose how much he wants to share about his everyday. He usually doesn't want say much, but sometimes when he feels social he asks Tom about his wife and children, and the conversation that follows usually leaves Will satisfied.
Today, he's being asked if he's met the new guy. A Scandinavian, apparently.
"Can't say I have, no."
"He's scary looking," Tom says while placing his food in a thin plastic bag with no logo, "tall and tattooed. But don't worry: when you talk to him, he's real nice. Got a small boy."
Will pays and gets his stuff, tells Tom to have a good weekend. The bell rings as he leaves.
---
It's Thursday, and Will is out of eggs. As per law of grocery-shopping, he ends up buying more than just eggs, and while he's waiting in line, he hears the soft sounds of a baby somewhere behind him. He turns to find one of the hand-held carts on the floor a few steps behind him, containing apples, butter, egg, and a baby. Will assumes it's a boy, cause he's dressed in blue. He seems happy.
"Hey there, little guy," Will says, almost to himself, and leans down towards him. "I wonder what shelf you were on." He offers his hand to the boy, who grabs one of his fingers and squeezes it. A large shape approaches quickly, and Will rises.
The man seems flustered, and excuses himself. His English is good, but he's got an accent. European, Will thinks. He stumbles over a few sentences about how he forgot the bread and it's been one of those days, you know?
"Don't worry," Will says, trying to project calm and reason. He extends his hand, and the man shakes it. He's got big hands and a firm grip. Will introduces himself, and the other man does the same, but the name is lost to Will as he hears it, like most other names. It's just a word that hangs in the air for a moment before it bursts like a bubble. Must be the Scandinavian Tom mentioned, cause no one else around there has tattooed hands, Will thinks, and as he finds the eyes of the tall stranger to give the elementary, one-second eye contact that people requires not to find him rude, two things strikes him.
The first thing is that he resembles Dr. Lecter. Not in style or attitude: this is not someone who appreciates fine dining and wine. Everything from the way he carries himself to the quality of his skin indicates a long and hard life lived. But his facial features, like cheekbones and nose, are similar. And the color of his eyes, spot on. He's wearing a black beanie, so Will can't tell about his hair. He's younger, though, by maybe five to ten years. And slimmer. His cheeks are slightly hollowed.
The other thing, and this strikes Will like lightening, is the pain in his eyes. The one second that Will has granted to politeness turns into two, three, four, and suddenly he sinks into a well of emotions hidden behind the dark eyes.
He can see lifelong, all-consuming disappointment. Directed inwards, towards himself, and outward, to almost everyone around him. You're no one. You're nothing. You can't do anything right. You're a fuckup. Why are you such a fuckup?! Get out of here!
He can see hatred. Deceit. Loss. But above all, he sees a sadness so profound it hurts to just get a glimpse of it. Can't trust anyone. No one cares.
Will struggles to look away, needs to get out of the situation, and thank God, Tom calls his name, it's his turn. He does everything awkwardly fast and out of his ordinary rhythm, so much that Tom asks him if okay, and Will forces a smile and nods. As he grabs his bag after paying he turns towards the Scandinavian and says: "Good to meet you, see you around," and ruins the statement by saying it all wrong. He can't help it though, he just needs to get out.
The guy seems confused, but echoes Will's words.
Will rushes to his car, his heart beating like a hammer in his chest and head, tosses his shopping in the backseat and finds his place behind the wheel. He breathes for while. A minute, maybe. Then he turns the key in the ignition and drives off.
---
Will doesn't shop for seven days. He's got plenty of canned goods. During his weekly session, Dr. Lecter asks him what's wrong.
"Nothing," Will answers.
"It's better to say you don't want to talk about it," Dr. Lecter says. "Then you don't have to lie."
"I don't want to talk about it," Will says dryly.
Sometimes he hears an angry voice in his head that doesn't belong to anyone Will knows. It speaks a foreign language.
---
It's Friday night, and Will is on his way back from a crime-scene. Two dead in an apartment that looked like it had been through a tornado: blood and broken furniture all around, the stench of metal and piss so strong Will could barely think. Luckily, he didn't have to. Before anyone could really get to anything Beverly found a single strand of red hair that for some reason, they all knew didn't belong.
It's getting close to midnight and Will is almost home when a he sees a shadow walking by the side of the road. Will recognizes him instantly. He's hunched forward, shoulders tense, hands in his pockets. It's cold, Will can tell he's freezing. He slows down the car, opens the door at the passenger seat.
"Hey, you want a ride? It's too cold for a long walk."
"Hey. That'd be great. I - yeah, it's colder than what I thought it would be."
"Yeah," Will says, eyes on the road. "I know how it is. Get in. I'll drive you home."
He's not drunk, but Will can tell he's had a few beers. He explains that it's his first night out since he came here, the girl next-door from him is watching his boy, Nicholas. He's been to the local bar to have a few beers and he's promised Melissa that he'll be home by twelve, so he's really glad Will came by just now.
"I got a ride there and I miscalculated the distance," he says sheepishly. "I feel like I've been walking for ages.”
---
The house of the stranger is similar to Will’s, but it’s smaller. It could use some fresh paint. That also applies to the scruffy-looking truck parked up front. The light is on in the living room. Since the last five minutes went by in complete silence Will stops the car, but doesn’t turn off the engine, expecting his passenger to just say bye and head off. And that suits Will fine, really, long day and all that. Instead he takes his belt off, clears his throat like he wants to say something, but then just sits there. Looking straight ahead into the darkness that surrounds the house. Will turns off the car, thinking maybe that’s what he’s waiting for, but nothing.
Will asks him cautiously if he’s okay, and then he snaps out of of it like he wasn’t even aware he was someplace else, looks straight at Will and says thanks, great man, thank you so much. Will averts his eyes, no problem, he says back.
Then, it sounds like he has to force the words out of his mouth, the passenger says: "Hey, listen, I'm sorry if I scared you the other day, at the store. I didn't mean to. I… I know I... look different than most people here. With the tattoos and stuff. But I'm not a bad guy or anything.”
Will knows, so very, very well, that he should just keep his mouth shut, and he’s not sure why he chooses not to. Maybe he feels some kind of outsider kinship, or maybe it’s Dr. Lecter’s “unconventional” therapy that has started to work. Or maybe he’s just offended that the other man thinks he might be afraid of him because of his tattooed knuckles.
“It’s not the tattoos,” he says. He regrets it immediately, of course. Mostly because it leads to his passenger, who was well on his way out of the car, to get back in, and turn to Will.
“No?” he asks. “Then what is it?”
Dr. Lecter has told Will he should be more honest, that he might be surprised about how well people actually deals with the truth. He’s pretty certain that depends on what kind of truth it is.
"Listen, Will - it’s Will, right?" the other voice is hushed, "I just wanna fit in. I don't wanna freak out anyone, so if there something you can tell me... I'd be grateful, you know?"
It sounds like he really means it. Maybe Dr. Lecter is right. Maybe they can deal with truth.
"It's your eyes," Will says quietly in case they both need to pretend afterward that it didn't happen. "Most people around here leads uneventful, dull lives. The worst thing that’s gonna happen to them is that their parents die of natural causes, or that their children drops out of school for a year. When you look in their eyes, you can see that they're content. Happy.” He stops for a bit, sighs. He’s not sure if he’s envious of their normality, or if he takes pride in his lack of. A little bit of both, maybe.
“You’re different,” he continues. “You have pain in your eyes. I can see that you carry sorrow, and it just overwhelmed me for a second."
Will is half-prepared for a fist coming his way, but when that doesn’t happen, he looks over at his passenger. He seems transfixed by Will, eyes wide and blank. The air thickens in the long silence that follows.
“Can everyone can see that?” The broken quality of his voice makes Will shrink with regret.
“Uh, no,” Will answers quickly, “I don’t think so. I just… I’ve… I tend to notice things that others don’t, so probably not. I’m not good with people.” He pauses. “And by that I mean that maybe I shouldn’t have said that. It was inappropriate. I’m sorry.”
“Oh - no, you don’t have to apologize. It’s… I asked you. It’s okay.” He offers Will a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he looks down again. “It’s been really bad for a long time,” he says.
“People have treated you badly.”
“Yeah. And I’ve treated people badly.”
“It’s a downward spiral.”
“I wanted to break it by moving here,” he says, “it’s just difficult to start all over again. It takes time to rebuild yourself and your life, you know?” It’s the first time Will can trace some optimism in his eyes and it feels like such a relief. It’s not all bad.
“Well, you should know that people here are good people. Great, actually. So just be nice to them and you’ll fit right in.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, I’m the odd man out around here. And they treat me very well, even if I’m strange.” Will’s short laughter is laced with self-contempt.
“Well, maybe you’re a bit strange, but you’re a good person.”
Will instinctively wants to reject the compliment, but hears himself saying thank you instead, probably cause the passenger is on his way out of the car again. Before he closes the door, he lowers his head so he’s in line with Wills, and says: “By the way, my name is Tonny.” He says it with a thin T. It sounds different than the name that drifted by Will in the store. Tonny makes a grimace like he’s displeased with himself and adds: “The others here calls me Kim, but Tonny is my real name. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thank you,” Will says, genuinely appreciative of the gesture. “I won’t tell anybody.”
Tonny smiles a strange smile, like he’s a not sure if he’s pleased or uncomfortable, before he says goodnight. Will watches him walk towards the house, turn once and raise his arm in a greeting, before he drives off.
When Will brushes his teeth that night, he hears a familiar voice speak a short word in a foreign language.
Tak.
Will spits in his sink and tries to replicate the sound of the T.
---