Chapter Text
The cold night air seeped through the ventilation ducts of the conference building, though he couldn't feel it; his protective suit allowed him to maintain a steady body temperature.
He moved nimbly through the dark hallways, guided solely by his acute sense of smell. He was not worried about being recorded; from his many visits there, he knew exactly which spots were blind spots in the surveillance system.
When he stepped inside, the man had his back turned, oblivious to his surroundings. It was well known that betas lacked the survival instinct that alphas and omegas possessed. He was not even surprised to have breached so effortlessly into a place where, ironically, federal security was the priority.
Turning his attention back to the man standing before him, he had already decided to dispose of him. It was the same man who, during his guest lectures at the FBI, never stopped asking stupid questions and who, on one occasion, had given him his contact information to guide him on the subject, believing he possessed a superior understanding than he did.
But this was not even about that despicable man. It was about that invigorating mint scent with hints of sandalwood that he had smelled years ago and that had slipped out of his reach. Someone who, with the force of an unstoppable train, had awakened his instincts after decades of lethargy and strict self-control.
From the moment their paths crossed, he devoted his time to silently tracking his trail, devouring without judgment every mention of his name and every photograph in local newspapers, fueling an obsession that distance only served to intensify.
It was the scent of a being who matched him in bearing and nature, strong and tenacious, and he realized that now he had the chance to savor it once more. Without much hesitation, he decided to reach out to that person in the best way he knew how; a way he was certain would be understood, conveying his interest with respect and dedication. Of course, he had not planned for it to happen here; despite the mediocre security system, it was like playing with fire bare-handed, but the risk was well worth it.
By the next morning, everyone had already seen his introductory letter on 'Tattle Crime'.
Only he knew who the recipient was.
・・・・・
Every time he woke up was the same. He’d wake up with a fever, drenched in sweat, shivering, and with a racing heartbeat. Not even the weather helped his body stay cool, with his T-shirt clinging to him like another layer of skin.
Fed up with the same old routine, he sat up quickly on the edge of the bed and took a moment to calm himself; when he opened his eyes, his pack was already there, watching over him. Winston was the most loyal, always attentive to the signals from his wolf in constant agony.
“Come here, guys.” He opened his arms, and they all came closer, offering him inner comfort. Will stroked them tenderly, knowing full well that they were his only anchor to reality. He thanked them with the little he had, it wasn’t much, but it was sincere.
He got up with difficulty as his dogs followed him around the house, waiting to receive their food and clean water as they did every morning. Once he’d checked that off his list and cleaned up after Buster, he made his way to the upstairs bathroom with a tense back and legs that were still weak.
Knowing exactly what to do, he recklessly pulled out the box of scent suppressants he had hidden inside the laundry basket. He took two tablets every three days, and it had been that way for the past 18 years. Although he almost always stuck to the recommended dosage, he had been feeling the consequences of constant use for several years. He was supposed to take at least a week off from the suppressants between every two boxes to avoid damaging his system; however, he was so dependent on them that the mere thought of stopping made his stomach churn.
As a result of the irresponsible behavior Will refused to admit to, he suffered from constant fevers, chronic migraines, extreme thirst, and his ruts—which lasted five days and occurred every three months—reached a ten on a pain scale, when they were supposed to be moderately pleasurable. Living like this was pushing him to his limit. His body and his inner wolf were begging him for help that he couldn’t give them.
Ever since he left Louisiana to try to join the police force, he had decided to start wearing the beta suit. That was the most appropriate thing for a damaged person like him. At first, it was uncomfortable, too tight in certain places, and it chafed his skin with every slight movement. But then he began to see the benefits almost immediately: he went unnoticed even in places with few people, and if he was emotionally or socially weak, they couldn’t make fun of him because there was no point in doing so. What’s so special about a beta? Will would think every time someone tried to comment on him, but in the end, they just left him alone.
After a hot shower and a cup of coffee, he dressed carelessly, putting together an outfit he knew wasn’t appropriate for his job, but nobody seemed to care. He picked up his briefcase from the floor, reluctantly ready to set out on his hour-long drive to Quantico for his first presentation of the day. He said goodbye to the guys with another wave of affection, and after closing the door, he headed to his car.
The drive helped him mentally prepare. He’d only been at his new job for a week, after spending a year on leave at the behest of his superiors. They were the ones who recommended him for a teaching position at the FBI Academy. According to the evaluations, he wasn’t stable for field work, but stable enough to teach classes on homicide and psychoanalysis.
One of the many problems with Will Graham was that no matter how many suppressants and medications he took, his empathy and imagination never took a break. Every time he analyzed a crime, he ended up drained, more vulnerable, and exposed to the theater curtains opening during the scene change.
Although that was precisely why the FBI had accepted him in the first place. He was able to interpret every piece of evidence, piece it together like a puzzle, and immerse himself in it as if it were his own mind. However, his body also suffered as a result. By constantly suppressing his wolfish nature with medication, his instincts and senses were dulled, and he had to work three times as hard to use them. Unprotected, Will absorbed every emotion and intention as if they were his own. That was the price he paid for living the lie of being a beta.
Luckily, everyone at the academy already knew not to speak to him at all, not even to say hello. Over the years, he’d made a point of cultivating a reputation as an antisocial beta. So far, he hadn’t run into any major problems beyond invitations to work dinners he never attended or flirtations from female coworkers that ended in awkward silences.
He sighed as he gazed at the horizon. Driving in silence was his only respite. An hour on the open road surrounded by nature, where the only thoughts were his own. It was his daily session of self-therapy, as he sometimes called it.
He parked in front of a tree with dry leaves and counted to three. He put on his glasses as he got out of the car and gripped the handle of his briefcase tightly as he crossed the parking lot. Just as he was about to enter the conference building, a burly man in a suit abruptly stopped him, blocking his path.
“Mr. Graham. I’m Special Agent Jack Crawford, in charge of the Behavioral Sciences Unit.”
He already knew him from ‘The Evil Minds Research Museum’, a name he found exaggerated, almost theatrical. He was an alpha who exuded dominance whenever he wanted. Although at that moment he was behaving politely, perhaps even friendly. It was so incredibly suspicious that it put Will into survival mode.
He decided not to respond and to keep his gaze away from the other man’s eyes; it was easier that way.
“I understand you have trouble socializing, or so I've heard.”
Of course everyone knew, but this man seemed to be toying with him. Jack Crawford was the hunting cat, and Will was just a mouse trying to escape the kitchen unscathed.
“May I?” He slowly reached out and adjusted Will’s glasses. Will stood still, afraid of giving himself away. “Are you on the spectrum?”
Will had memorized what to say every time he was asked; he didn’t even think twice about it anymore, as he used to when he was a child. He’d never actually been diagnosed, but it was easier to say that was the case. That way, he avoided a barrage of intrusive questions about his past, the source of his instability, and why he was still this way even as an adult.
“I know you can empathize with narcissists and sociopaths.”
“I can empathize with anyone,” he added, fed up with the alpha’s interruption and impertinence. “It’s less about my personality and more a matter of active imagination.”
It was partly true, but he instantly regretted opening his mouth. As he well knew, his father always said, 'a fish wouldn't get caught if it kept its mouth shut'.
Jack Crawford stared at him, leaning in close. “Can I borrow your imagination?”
・・・・・
As he opened the wooden double door, he was instantly struck by camera flashes and murmurs amid the solemn silence. In front of him, seated in the middle of the room behind the desk, was a man staring at him with lifeless eyes, yet, his gaze was attentive and fixed on him. It was as if he could see right through the disguise.
He instantly recognized him as Agent Adams from the Violent Crimes Against Children Section. He hadn’t had the misfortune of meeting him in person, but he knew he was a pretentious and reckless beta who thought of himself as a walking encyclopedia. He’d even heard him giving orders as if he were Louis XIV. A thoroughly unpleasant individual. Many colleagues and trainees spoke ill of him under their breath in the hallways. Just because Will was antisocial didn’t mean he was deaf, he was still an alpha at heart.
“Agent Adams was found this morning by a janitor,” Crawford explained. “He was supposed to go home last night after attending an emergency meeting, but he never made it. His car is still here.”
Will approached the lifeless body as closely as he could, being careful not to contaminate the crime scene. He already knew the protocol; he’d spent a long time working closely on cases like this and even worse ones.
He carefully examined the lines drawn with precision on the skin. It was similar to the restoration of a Renaissance painting, with the difference that this man was not a work of art, much less deserving of a restoration carried out with such dedication. His throat had been slit right down the center, the folds spread open like a book that hides nothing; his vocal cords had been removed and replaced with thin, transparent threads. Furthermore, his eyes had been sewn from his eyelids to his eyebrows, to ensure they remained open. The cuts and stitches looked professional, and there appeared to be no signs of violence. It was so neat that it sent a chill down his spine.
“This killer is paying attention to presentation. He has surgical knowledge; he made sure to keep things clean,” he said, noting that there wasn’t a single bloodstain in sight, neither on the floor nor on the agent’s clothes.
“Did he respect the victim, or was he trying to purify him?”
“No,” Will said, shaking his head. “This is a message. He's trying to connect with someone else.”
He looked at the bouquet of herbs that had been placed in the victim's hands. He wasn't as knowledgeable about plants as he was about fish, but he couldn't mistake this particular one for anything else. It was a bouquet of mint, exactly the scent he’d been trying to erase from himself for nearly two decades. His stomach churned, and he could almost feel his morning coffee rising into his throat, causing a burning sensation.
His inner wolf clawed painfully at his chest, forcing him to stagger two steps backward, as if it had been summoned to emerge from the corner where Will had confined it. This was the killer leaving his calling card, ready for them to come looking for him, and it turned out that Will had been called out right at that moment. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but this felt slightly personal.
“We found something inside his mouth,” a woman interrupted, addressing Jack.
Will looked up, recognizing the voice instantly, and found himself face-to-face with the only person he could call a friend.
“Hey, Will.” She approached him without a care, without fear, and without restraint, patting his arm several times with affection disguised as feigned aggression.
Will smiled at her with genuine happiness, but the corners of his mouth barely lifted. He was still reeling from the mint in agent Adams’s hands.
“Beverly, I didn’t know you worked here now.” And it was true; his friend had never told him where she’d been transferred once he’d left the police force to retreat far from civilization.
“You know, we have to sign up stuff to be accepted onto the team.”
“Katz, I was not aware you were close to Will Graham,” Jack interrupted, feeling left out and slightly confused by the way Will had let the woman touch him.
Instead of getting an answer, the beta looked at him with respect—because he was her boss—but also with disapproval.
“He shouldn't be here, should he?” she asked Jack with a hint of reproach.
During the time they worked together on the police force, Beverly acted as both a bodyguard and a champion of the benefits of his imagination in equal measure. She understood the toll this took on Will, she’d seen him suffer because of it dozens of times, but she also saw the positive side when justice could be served to the victims and their families by solving crimes and catching the killers. That was perhaps what he liked most about her, she didn’t feel pity or sorrow for him. Instead, she saw his potential and understood that even in suffering, gifts can be found.
“Anyway, we found tree bark in his mouth,” she remarked, raising her left hand, in which she held the pieces of wood. “I’m no expert, but it looks like sandalwood.”
Will stepped back immediately, leaving them to talk among themselves. He felt doubly cornered, and his breathing began to falter. It was impossible for something like this to be happening, there was no way. In the nearly twenty years he’d been wearing his suit, it had remained in good condition, perhaps not excellent, but fine enough for him. Now he was beginning to see small threads at the seams start to fray, though they still didn’t reveal what lay beneath.
In a corner where there were no officers, he took the suppressants out of his coat pocket and took an extra tablet, swallowing it with difficulty since he had no water. Now the fear that someone might have noticed him, even just a little, would haunt him for the rest of the day.
This seemed to be a more complicated case than he’d expected, and he didn’t plan on staying to find out.
He looked around, searching for the most discreet way to leave the place and head back to Wolf Trap. He hadn’t even made it to his first class yet, but he decided he could send an email saying he was sick, which wouldn’t be a lie, but a half-truth. He didn’t want to get too close to this unknown thing that was calling him by his name.
He strode with his head down, his briefcase bumping against his knee as he made his way across the FBI grounds. In the distance, he could hear the trainees and other employees murmuring, mourning the death and fearing that it reached the heart of their headquarters so easily. Most of them were betas; their fear was natural. But he, being an alpha, also felt fear, a different kind, but fear nonetheless.
With trembling hands, he fished the keys out of his coat, trying to find them and take refuge inside the car as soon as possible.
“Will!” A soft but firm voice made him look up.
A few meters away stood Dr. Alana Bloom, a psychiatrist and his colleague for the past few years, walking quickly while trying to hold her coat in place with both arms against the wind.
“Dr. Bloom,” Will whispered.
The woman stopped abruptly on the sidewalk, maintaining the distance Will always kept from everyone.
“Jack Crawford called me. Did he ask you to do something for him?”
Will didn't answer; he simply nodded in agreement, his face still contorted.
“I saw you leaving the building; you shouldn't have agreed to it,” the beta looked at him disapprovingly. “Look at yourself, you're drenched in sweat in the middle of winter.”
Will felt the weight of the suppressant in his empty stomach. If he didn’t get out of there soon, a disaster from which there would be no turning back could happen. This happened every time he exceeded his dose.
“As a colleague, I suggest you don’t get too close to the case.”
Alana was always like that; she never stayed alone with him for even a moment, perhaps out of fear, but she always treated him like a wounded animal abandoned in the middle of the road. She was the first to advocate for him to stop working in Homicide until her request was granted, and she used to visit him every so often, always waiting on the porch; she never came inside and preferred to play with his dogs rather than speak to him directly.
“I’ll tell Crawford that—”
“No!” he said, the word tearing out as a growl before he could stop it. His wolf was trying to take control. “Don’t stick your neck out for me. My stability isn’t your responsibility.”
Without another word, Will got into his car and slammed the door shut. Without waiting for the engine to warm up, he hurried out of the parking lot, leaving Alana surprised and offended.
・・・・・
Slamming open the doors to the Behavioral Sciences Unit’s office, Alana stormed over to Jack Crawford’s desk, where he was already holding the first photographs from the crime scene.
“Good morning, Dr. Bloom.”
She was about to speak when she noticed another presence in the room. It was Beverly Katz, standing by the corkboard; they weren’t close, but they had worked together before. The two exchanged glances, knowing full well they were there for the same reason.
“We’ve already talked about this,” she protested angrily, now feeling more confident because she wasn’t alone. “You asked me to evaluate him, and I said no, and now you’re calling him in to do your job for you.”
This time, Beverly settled into one of the chairs across from Jack Crawford. She let her boss and the doctor exchange a competitive glance before interrupting.
“I’m not against Will joining; he’s a good addition to the team. But you have no idea what his gift does to him, Jack.”
The man rose slowly from his seat, standing tall with the imposing presence typical of an alpha. He let his body emanate a wave of pheromones that would have caused anyone else to fall into terror and submission, but Alana and Beverly, protected by their beta nature, didn’t even flinch.
As far as he was concerned, this killer had easily infiltrated his own home, striking at the heart of the FBI without a shred of remorse. He wasn’t going to let his people live in fear of being hunted down on their own turf. And if he had to use Will Graham to catch this criminal, he’d do it without a second thought.
They looked at each other, their faces serious and their brows furrowed. Neither wanting to lose to the other. Unwilling to back down, Alana continued speaking.
“He lives in fear of what his ability might do to him,” Alana warned, lowering her voice but maintaining the same intensity. “You can’t pressure him, Jack; he’s a bomb hidden in the ground waiting to be detonated.”
“If I weren’t sure I could protect him, I wouldn’t have called him,” he sighed heavily, rubbing his face in frustration. Then, pointing his index finger at them, he said “you two are going to help me keep him safe.”
Despite being so different biologically, Alana and Jack were cut from the same cloth: stubborn and proud. Always wanting to be in control of the situation.
“I’ll look after him, then. I’ll help him not get lost in the current you’re chaining him to. And he’d better not find out,” she declared, crossing her arms.
Beverly remained silent, neither accepting nor rejecting anything. She didn’t know how Will would react to the deal those two had made and agreed to behind his back.