#unstableempathy

below   their   feet   lied   a   GRUESOME     shred   of   limbs    placed    in   an   odd   fashion   (  some   placed  at  random  compared  to  others   )   as   if   revealing   some   story.   but   many   weren’t   aware   it   was   HER   story.    one   limb,    possessing   a   foot   of   the   male   sat    in   the   mouth   of   the   deceased.   a   simple:   ‘ put  your  foot  in  your  mouth ‘   was   a   perfect   representation   of   the   embarrassment   and   disgust   he   should’ve   felt   from   the   unforgivable   murders   he    committed   to   harmless   children.  

❝   what do you think, mr. graham? an act of violence or something more?   ❞     she   wanted   to   hear   his    insight.   it   was   almost   like   a   veiled    request   for   acceptance?    as   strange  as   it   was,   something   about   will’s   psyche   intrigued   her.   the   troubled   male   needed    a   steady   hand   in   his   life   and   maybe,   despite   how   troubling   she   could   be   for   him,   SHE   could   be   that   person.

giving   the   individual   a    space   at   a   respectful   distance,    she    stood    to   herself,    palms   held   together   and   settled   against   her   stomach   as   she   observed.     

Arrangements had been made, a flight had been endured, and Abigail was now unpacking her small duffel bag into a dresser drawer, the harsh, neon glow of the hotel sign bathing her slight frame as she moved.

“It’s so weird,” she softly said. “Bloomington was my home, and yet nothing feels right anymore. It’s almost like this place is a burial ground.” With a shiver, she closed the drawer and glanced at Will over her shoulder. “Maybe we shouldn’t have stayed so close to home...we could’ve opted for someplace near Eagle Mountain.”

Nevertheless, she was grateful to be near her old stomping grounds, because right now, there was comfort in familiarity. As odd and out of place as she felt, this was her home, and she was desperate to rekindle that sensation like before.

Zeller hated this. He hated this case where the killer gets off by carving geometric designs into people’s skin like they were clay, starving and cutting them and bleeding them till their body shuts down and they expire. There’s been three deaths in less than two months time, and presumably a fourth was being cut up as they breathed. He hated that the only real lead they had was some debris that was recovered from two of the three victims’ bodies. It was clay mixed with animal hair, which took longer to explain than to identify. It turns out that some very old houses and buildings were made of that mixture, the animal hair holding the clay together.

And most of all, Zeller hated that he was on the road with Will fucking Graham to visit the several sites within the one hundred mile radius. It was the least fun road trip he had in recent memory. Not even the blare of classic music from the radio could distract him from the depressing presence of the other man. It was like sharing a car with a living shadow, aggravatingly noticeable and discomforting. They’d already visited two of the four designated sites with nothing to show for it, and Zeller had a sinking feeling that they’d come up with nothing in these next two except a high gas bill and a headache.

It was usually his rule that he wouldn’t smoke in front of others, especially not colleagues. It was a nasty vice that he picked up in college and has been on and off ever since. But it had been a long ass morning and it was turning into a long ass afternoon and his companion wasn’t doing anything to make it go by faster, so he took out a crumpled pack---one he’d proudly made last almost two weeks---and pulled out the second to last cigarette with his lips. He blindly searched for the lighter in the middle compartment between the driver and passenger seat until he found it and lit his cigarette.

“Hold on. I’ve got you.”

She allowed him to lean as much weight against her as she could handle, gently lowering him to the couch in her apartment. She gently placed her fingers underneath his chin, peering at his eyes, hoping he wasn’t going to pass out - at least not yet.

“I guess you’ve…had a rough night.” She brought him the last of the tea brewing on the stove, placing it on the small table beside him. She grimaced at his weakened state, wishing there were times she could see him when he wasn’t falling apart. Her mental picture of Will Graham was always that of him bloodied and bruised in some way or another.

Now, he just looked exhausted.

Hannibal carefully listened to all Will had to say, noticing the gruesome details he went into sometime yet also tended to leave out half of the time, like his mind had focused on specific details and the rest was more or less a blur to him, Hannibal had expected this to be the case, after being told about the sleep-walking he fell some form of worry that was overwhelmed by intrigue for the ‘special investigator’.

He folded his hands, Will finished. “You’re describing all your experiences rather distantly, like a story instead of something you have witnessed yourself,” He pointed out, watching Will frown slightly.

“You feel afraid and are trying to distance yourself from what you witness,” He observed. “What are you afraid of Will? Is it the close proximity you share with these horrible people? Or is it something rooted deeper inside of yourself, a demon you’re afraid of?”

            “Yes.” The word is barely more than a whisper. She wants to tell him it was self defense, that she didn’t mean it, but the words get caught in her throat like blood. You butchered him, Abigail. She didn’t mean for things to happen this way, she never wanted to be a killer - like her father. But maybe it was inevitable, just like it was inevitable that Will would find out.  

           Her hands are shaking, she wrings them nervously, turning pale skin red. Sometimes she can still feel his blood on her hands, no matter how hard she scrubs. She keeps eye contact with him, even though she wants to look away, to hide from the blame. She opened this door, and she has to face what comes through it.

moving this post over with @unstableempathy 

Will gave Winston a gentle scratch behind the ears and the dog yawned in response. Buster ran off into the snow and the empath could only sigh in slight annoyance. Every time, there was snow and the door was opened, the little dog would always find a way to get past him to go play within the layer of white. It was amusing to watch Buster and it reminded Will of porpoises jumping out of the salty ocean. That tiny dog thought he could rule the world.All of this dogs had their own personalities and each one had their characteristics that made them unique. Zoey, a small white scrawny dog, had a bizarre underbite, but it was what made her special. Even though she was one of the smallest dogs of his pack, she could be quite feisty at times. His pack looked up to him and he took his time when it came to taking care of his furry companions. If anything ever happened to anyone of them, he would most likely never forgive himself. They were the only family that he’s ever had since he lived on his own. As soon as he got out of the police force in New Orleans and moved to Wolf Trap, he started collecting strays. It didn’t feel like a habit, but more of a trait that he had adapted.Will smiled softly at her as she made acquaintances with his companions and laughed slightly at her comment. “No, they can’t.” He was highly humored by her sense of humor and it was something that he could enjoy. Maybe having her as a friend wasn’t too bad of an idea. The thought circled his mind, but he pushed it aside and chose to give this a little more time before he made a decision on the possibility of friendship. “Buster!” He called and the little Boston Terrier came running back, dashing through the snow and returning to the safety of the pack. As soon as he opened the door, the dogs flooded through into the warmth of the house before he could stop them, and glanced at her. “After you.” He said lightly with a gentle smile crossing his features.

”And of course they all have their own agendas, too...” Alana said with a laugh as the various dogs ran past them, conducting their business. She was glad to see Will’s amusement at her comment, she did enjoy being cleverly sarcastic when it made people laugh. But, she liked using her sharp wit when it did the opposite, too. Alana never shied away from scolding Jack or Hannibal, yet she rarely found herself holding that temperament with Will. Something about him was more...peaceful, despite his darkness. 

“Harper, we found someone….like you.”

Someone like her usually meant another mutant, occasionally, one with a physical mutation, never before had it meant someone with her specific mutation, w i n g s. Gemma didn’t know how to exist in a world where she wasn’t fucking miserably alone. Yet, there she was, looking over the photos on the holopad of a bloodied man with great appendages at his back much like her own. Different enough, however, they came and went as he willed them, which was strange. She felt a longing tendril of envy pull in her ribs for such an ability, to simply even pass as human.

Still, here she was, her own great wingspan, bound tightly against her back with heavy, leather straps, and a cloaking device over them to appear to the passing glance, as human. Send her, the one who would most understand, who could help, could heal to garner his trust, to make their organization known.

She speaks with his surgeon, a flurry of medical jargon between them, a quiet, subdued flash of her credentials. She reviews medical records, and appears in the doorway of the room. She certainly doesn’t look like a government agent with her small stature, pixie cut and black motorcycle jacket.