#dognerd

⋆ spencer calls will “sir” less out of deference and more like a liturgy. the word sits on his tongue like a relic, like something half-sacred and half-shameful. will never asks him to stop.

⋆ will’s house smells like wet pine and dog fur and something older—burnt coffee, blood in the drain, cedar smoke. spencer comes over once and never quite leaves. his books appear slowly. his coat on a hook. then one day, the silence is different.

⋆ they study murder like scripture. late nights, cheap whiskey, files strewn across the table like communion wafers. “you see it too,” will murmurs. spencer does. it’s what scares him.

⋆ spencer is too young and too brilliant and too willing to follow him anywhere. will knows this, and it wrecks him. he watches spencer sleep on the porch swing once and thinks, i should send him home. he doesn’t.

⋆ will wakes up from nightmares saying spencer’s name. soft, like a benediction. like a warning.

⋆ spencer never believed in god, but he believes in will graham. that’s the more dangerous faith, anyway.

⋆ they argue quietly. never yelling. like old priests disagreeing on doctrine. it’s always about ethics, morality, mercy. they never solve it. they never want to.

⋆ will has a crucifix in his drawer, dusty with disuse. spencer finds it one day while looking for a pen. he holds it in his palm like it burns. will says, “i was raised catholic.” spencer nods. “i can tell.”

⋆ spencer dreams in equations and dead languages. but after will, the dreams change. antlers. water. teeth. dog tags and bullet holes that don’t bleed.

⋆ they once spent a whole night in silence after a case. spencer sat on the floor beside will’s chair, reading aloud from paradise lost. will listened like it was a confession.

⋆ the first time will touches spencer’s face, it’s because he’s bleeding. just a cut, a graze, but will’s thumb lingers near his temple. spencer leans into it like he’s starving.

⋆ they go to church once. a little roadside chapel in mississippi, abandoned and half-rotted. will lights a candle. spencer watches him and says, “who’s that for?” will replies, “someone i used to be.”

⋆ spencer once said, “i think empathy is a weapon.” will looked at him too long. neither of them spoke for the rest of the drive.

⋆ will teaches spencer how to clean a wound, how to gut a deer, how to spot a lie in the shape of a man’s smile. “you’re not making me better,” spencer says. “just sharper.” will doesn’t argue.

⋆ sometimes, they sit on the porch together and say nothing for hours. cicadas scream. the air is too thick. spencer’s hand brushes will’s once. neither moves it away.

⋆ will thinks spencer deserves more. a quieter life. a gentler love. he thinks it while watching spencer put a bullet through a killer’s skull without blinking.

⋆ spencer once whispered, “do you think we’re good men?” will replied, “no. but we might still be necessary.”