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Entry tags:
Chapter 2: A Promise I'll Keep
Title: Listen Close to Me
Fandom: Hannibal (TV series)
Pairing/Characters: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs, Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz, Garrett Jacob Hobbs (in espiritu)
Word count: TBA (total), 2600 (chapter)
Rating: M
Warnings: Gore, maybe violence, improper use of beloved children's literature
Summary: Will Graham takes control of his life. Or someone does, anyway.
Read from the beginning
Chapter 2: A Promise I'll Keep
Katz, Will has discovered, grew up in a big family who all live just out of easy visiting reach, and now she is trying to make due in a small, one-room flat with neighbours who peer at her suspiciously when they cross one another in the halls, but who never make contact or respond to overtures of friendliness. Her idiosyncrasies and morbid sense of humour make it difficult for her to make friends away from the context she’d grown up in.
It doesn’t take much for Will to read between the lines and see that she is deeply, inconsolably lonely.
He wonders if he is taking advantage of her by asking her to stay with him through this. He suspects the answer is a hard and resounding yes, but when he brings up the subject as delicately as he can manage, she simply looks at him blearily over her morning coffee and says, “Sure, Graham. You doing laundry today? Don’t forget to press my slacks,” and he rolls his eyes, dropping the subject.
A week and a half into his treatment, a week after leaving the hospital, and things already seem a little clearer than they had before. He has fewer headaches, fewer nightmares, more sleep. He feels… better.
Garrett Jacob Hobbs isn’t haunting his kitchen anymore, and the ravenstag no longer follows him on his walks outside. He is aware enough to know that this is a good thing.
He hasn’t forgotten his promise, though.
In an ongoing pattern of unprofessionalism from Jack, Will still has his copies of the Minnesota Shrike case files, and he takes to spending his mornings at home flipping through them again thoughtfully. Every day, the files look slightly different. He thinks of the accusations Nicholas Boyle had flung at Abigail, the expression on her face at his confrontation, Jack’s suspicion. He fiddles with one of his fishing lures in one hand as he looks from Abigail to her look-a-like victims.
So that’s how it was.
I’ll protect her, he promised Garrett Jacob Hobbs, or the spectre of him, or the memory of him.
He grips the lure in his hand until its little hook stabs into his flesh.
--
“It seems like you’re doing better,” Alana observes, eyeing him as she wrestles with a joyful Buster. “You’re getting more sleep?”
They’re out behind the house, Will sitting on the porch steps with a water, Alana down in the grass. The sun is bright and warm, and there are dogs milling around them. Not so long ago, this would have been a dream come true.
“Yeah,” he says absently. “It’s been nice. It feels like I just sleep from the moment Katz drives away right up until she gets back, and then again at night.”
Alana’s lips thin. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you get Beverly to agree to stay with you? That’s some commitment.”
“It is, yeah,” he agrees quietly. “And I have no idea. I asked, and she said yes. I’m still surprised.”
“She always did seem to admire your work,” says Alana, tone carefully neutral.
“I suppose,” he replies. He hesitates before deciding to simply face her allusions head-on. “I didn’t think there was anything sexual in how she viewed me when I asked, but I’ve been watching more closely since she agreed so easily. Everything still seems completely platonic.”
Alana studies his expression carefully before nodding slowly.
She needs more, he suspects. “And anyway,” he continues, aiming for cavalier and probably missing it by a mile. “I told her about Dr. Lecter.”
Alana’s eyebrows shoot up, and her mouth twitches. Will flushes at her amusement. Abigail, he thinks, you have no idea what I’m going through for you.
“Did you hear about Abigail?” Alana asks, and he starts, worrying that he’d spoken aloud. But no, Alana seems to be simply changing the subject.
He clears his throat. “No, I haven’t heard anything. Has something happened?”
Her mouth twists. It is not a happy expression. “Hannibal has filed for adoption. Abigail seems inclined to accept.”
Will shoots up, fists clenching at his sides, forgetting to seem calm and responsible. “He what?” he snaps before he can stop himself.
Alana doesn’t seem surprised at his sudden vehemence. “Yes,” she says. “That’s basically how I reacted, too. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking or where this came from.”
How dare he, Will seethes.
“Will? Are you alright?”
With great effort, Will sits back down, limbs still stiff. “I’m fine. I’m just… surprised.”
“You and me both,” says Alana drily. “And he did all this over my direct objection, I might add.”
Will sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looks, expecting to see Hobbs or the ravenstag. It’s only Winston, taking off to chase after a grasshopper.
“How will this even work?” he asks.
Alana leans back into the grass, staring up at the sky. “Honestly? I have no idea.”
Will watches the dogs. What am I going to do now? he wants to ask.
But there’s no one to answer, now. The pills have taken away his only allies.
--
Will checks his phone. There are no new messages from Dr. Lecter, just the same calm acknowledgements to Will’s awkward cancellations that had already filled their texting history.
Will tells himself that he doesn’t feel hurt or abandoned.
--
The dogs’ barking announces the visitor. It’s too early in the day for it to be Katz back from work, and Alana has already checked in. There aren’t many options remaining.
Will glances at his reflection in a mirror quickly, but manages to stop himself before he attempts to smooth out his tangle of curls or run to change his frayed shirt. Dr. Lecter has seen him before, after all, and already knows what a mess of a person Will is. Will has almost reached his front door before he remembers that he doesn’t care what Dr. Lecter thinks of him, because the crush that he has been confessing to isn’t even real.
He swings the door open with more force than necessary, already scowling at the man waiting on his doorstep.
The man who is not Dr. Lecter.
“Jack,” says Will, swallowing his surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you here. I thought Alana already warned you off.”
Jack shrugs his broad shoulders. “Can’t a man visit his sick friend?”
Will shoots him an unimpressed look, but moves away from the door, waving Jack inside. “Water? Lemonade? Tea? Alana has already impounded anything that even pretends to have alcohol in it.”
“Water is fine,” says Jack, looking around the inside of the house in surprise. “You…” Will can see Jack struggling for a tactful way to speak his mind. “You… redecorated.”
Will snorts and hands Jack a glass of water, gesturing for him to sit down on the couch. “Not exactly. I couldn’t make Katz sleep on a bed in the living room, though, so we moved the furniture around a little. Added some.”
Jack hums thoughtfully, studying Will as he takes a sip of water. “So you’re feeling better? What was it you had?”
“Encephalitis. An inflammation of the brain.” Will considers Jack’s other question for a moment. “I do think I’m feeling better. Steadier. Anyway, my head’s not killing me twenty-four seven, and I’m not running a constant temperature of 102.” Will sees Jack wince slightly. He wonders how it feels, to know that he was trusting the insight of someone who was living in a fever dream. He glances at the heavy stack of folders in Jack’s arms and suspects it isn’t bothering Jack as much as it should be.
“Are you going to tell me what you brought for me, or am I going to have to guess?” asks Will, gulping his own water.
“You know I wouldn’t bother you while you’re recovering if it wasn’t something important,” Jack begins, and Will has to force himself not to roll his eyes. “Will,” says Jack seriously. “I think it might be the Ripper.”
Will’s eyebrows rise despite himself. He hadn’t expected that. “Show me,” he says, and he doesn’t need to tell Jack twice.
It is not the Ripper.
Will can see that immediately, barely needing to glance at the photos of former Ripper kills before he is certain. This recent tableau is vivid and gruesome, but comparing this murder to those of the Ripper would be like, would be like--
Will seizes the first analogy that comes to mind.
--Would be like comparing Dr. Sutcliffe and his greasy, smug mannerisms to Dr. Lecter, with his precision and his elegance.
As these images form, Will has to clamp down on the desire to burst out laughing. He closes his eyes until he’s certain there will be no glimmer of amusement for Jack to see.
Dr. Sutcliffe and Dr. Lecter, competitive serial killers instead of doctors. Slimy as he is, the idea of Dr. Sutcliffe slicing people open and displaying them as morbid art is hilariously absurd, and as for Dr. Lecter--
As for Dr. Lecter.
Will’s stomach clenches. Somehow, the Dr. Lecter metaphor doesn’t seem nearly as ridiculous as it should.
Something must show on his face, because Jack asks, “Will? What do you see?”
Do you see? Garrett Jacob Hobbs had asked him.
Abigail, Will thinks, panicked.
“I’m not sure,” Will says finally. His voice is shaking, but there’s only so much he can do about that. “I just have this weird feeling.”
“A feeling,” says Jack, voice unreadable.
Will stares down at the photos. “Leave these with me. I think I noticed something, but I’m not sure what. If that makes any sense. I’ll figure it out. Just give me some time.”
Jack nods his head slowly. “If it is the Ripper, he’ll kill twice more before he goes under again. We need to catch him before that happens.”
It’s not the Ripper, Will should say.
He doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything.
“Well,” says Jack finally. “I’ll let myself out, then.” He stands, setting his water glass down on the coffee table. “Will, I’m sorry to ask this of you, but I would appreciate it if you would forget to mention my visit to Dr. Bloom.”
Will waves his acquiescence without looking up. He doesn’t want Jack to see the expression on his face.
For long moments after the door has closed behind Jack, Will stares down at the rows of photos of past victims of the Chesapeake Ripper.
Like so many things viewed in hindsight, now that he knows the answer, it all seems so obvious.
He thinks, Dr. Lecter. He thinks of macabre artwork and dark humour and killing bad people makes us feel good, that unsubtle bastard.
He should call Jack. He should have told Jack immediately. He picks up his phone, unlocks it, scrolls through his contacts, stares.
He thinks, Abigail. He thinks of her past and her future, and what having a serial killing father did to the one, and what having a second serial killing father would do to the other.
He puts his phone down.
When he picks it up again, Jack’s number isn’t the one he dials.
“Will,” says Dr. Lecter, his voice deep and warm. “I’ve been hoping you’d call.”
Sparks of heat burn through Will’s stomach and curl down to his toes. Something is really, seriously wrong with him, and he can’t even blame the encephalitis anymore.
“Well,” says Will. “Here I am.”
--
It’s late in the evening when Katz gets back to the house. At some point, Will had managed to shake himself from his stupour long enough to throw together a quick meal and take care of the dogs, but his attention has continued to drift to the crime scene photos all day.
A normal roommate would likely have been at best put off their dinner by the sight of the gruesome images that seemed to cover ever flat surface in the house, but Katz only says things like, “Wow, I see Jack stopped by,” and “Oh, that one’s my favourite. You get a great view of the way the skin and muscle were carved away from her femur,” as she washes the fish down with lemonade.
“I called Dr. Lecter today,” Will says. He’s worried his tone or his expression will give his emotions away, which is all the more frightening given that he’s not even sure what he’s feeling.
“Oh yeah?” replies Katz. “What’d he say? What’d you say?”
“Not a lot. But you’re on your own for dinner on Friday.”
Katz straightens up from her casual slump in the kitchen chair. “Wait, what? Are you serious?”
Will nods, flushing slightly.
“So, is this a date? Where are you having dinner?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t think so. Probably not. No.” Will clears his throat. “Dinner will be at his house. Assuming I can figure out a way to get there.”
“His house?” Katz seems impressed. “Sounds like a third-date kind of dinner to me.”
“Katz,” groans Will, letting his face fall into his hands. He spares a moment to wonder if she’s right. Is he frightened at the idea, or excited?
“I can take you in to work on Friday and drop you off at a train station when I leave if the Love Doctor can’t pick you up from Quantico,” Katz offers.
“Please don’t call him that,” Will mutters into his hands. And then he remembers, “But thank you. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” says Katz, and she looks as though she even means it. “But you know what the real problem is now, right?”
Will tries not to tense. There are so many problems. He just hopes she hasn’t cottoned on to any of the same ones he has.
“No?” he tries.
She leans forward on her elbows, staring at him seriously across the small kitchen table until he hesitantly meets her eyes. “Graham. You have nothing to wear.”
They look at each other solemnly for a long moment, and then they burst out laughing together.
“But no, seriously,” Katz manages through her sniggering. “We need to take you shopping so that you have at least one outfit that isn’t covered in dog fur and paw prints.”
Will throws his paper napkin at her, still smiling. “Are you actually volunteering to take me clothes shopping, Katz?”
Katz casts a disdainful look across Will’s current clothing. “Someone has to, Graham. It might as well be me.”
Will taps his fingers against the table nervously. “You’re alright with all of this, right?”
“With what?”
“Well,” Will says, “Alana thinks I’m taking advantage of your deep-seated desire to bear my children.”
Katz chokes on her lemonade. “What?!”
“I mean,” Will allows, straight-faced. “She didn’t exactly phrase it that way.”
Katz laughed. “Oh my god,” she says. “I kind of wish she had.” She manages to calm down enough to consider his question seriously. “I know it must seem like I’m going way out of my way for you, and I guess I am, but…” She shrugs. “It’s good for me, too, you know? I just… I was getting really tired of being alone all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want to stay here forever. I like having my own space, and I like living alone. But still,” she smiles at him wryly, “it’s nice to have a friend. Isn’t it?”
She’s looking at him hesitantly, like it’s a confession and she’s not sure how he’ll respond.
His smile is genuine when he says, “Yeah, it really is.”
--
Fandom: Hannibal (TV series)
Pairing/Characters: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs, Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz, Garrett Jacob Hobbs (in espiritu)
Word count: TBA (total), 2600 (chapter)
Rating: M
Warnings: Gore, maybe violence, improper use of beloved children's literature
Summary: Will Graham takes control of his life. Or someone does, anyway.
Read from the beginning
Chapter 2: A Promise I'll Keep
Katz, Will has discovered, grew up in a big family who all live just out of easy visiting reach, and now she is trying to make due in a small, one-room flat with neighbours who peer at her suspiciously when they cross one another in the halls, but who never make contact or respond to overtures of friendliness. Her idiosyncrasies and morbid sense of humour make it difficult for her to make friends away from the context she’d grown up in.
It doesn’t take much for Will to read between the lines and see that she is deeply, inconsolably lonely.
He wonders if he is taking advantage of her by asking her to stay with him through this. He suspects the answer is a hard and resounding yes, but when he brings up the subject as delicately as he can manage, she simply looks at him blearily over her morning coffee and says, “Sure, Graham. You doing laundry today? Don’t forget to press my slacks,” and he rolls his eyes, dropping the subject.
A week and a half into his treatment, a week after leaving the hospital, and things already seem a little clearer than they had before. He has fewer headaches, fewer nightmares, more sleep. He feels… better.
Garrett Jacob Hobbs isn’t haunting his kitchen anymore, and the ravenstag no longer follows him on his walks outside. He is aware enough to know that this is a good thing.
He hasn’t forgotten his promise, though.
In an ongoing pattern of unprofessionalism from Jack, Will still has his copies of the Minnesota Shrike case files, and he takes to spending his mornings at home flipping through them again thoughtfully. Every day, the files look slightly different. He thinks of the accusations Nicholas Boyle had flung at Abigail, the expression on her face at his confrontation, Jack’s suspicion. He fiddles with one of his fishing lures in one hand as he looks from Abigail to her look-a-like victims.
So that’s how it was.
I’ll protect her, he promised Garrett Jacob Hobbs, or the spectre of him, or the memory of him.
He grips the lure in his hand until its little hook stabs into his flesh.
--
“It seems like you’re doing better,” Alana observes, eyeing him as she wrestles with a joyful Buster. “You’re getting more sleep?”
They’re out behind the house, Will sitting on the porch steps with a water, Alana down in the grass. The sun is bright and warm, and there are dogs milling around them. Not so long ago, this would have been a dream come true.
“Yeah,” he says absently. “It’s been nice. It feels like I just sleep from the moment Katz drives away right up until she gets back, and then again at night.”
Alana’s lips thin. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you get Beverly to agree to stay with you? That’s some commitment.”
“It is, yeah,” he agrees quietly. “And I have no idea. I asked, and she said yes. I’m still surprised.”
“She always did seem to admire your work,” says Alana, tone carefully neutral.
“I suppose,” he replies. He hesitates before deciding to simply face her allusions head-on. “I didn’t think there was anything sexual in how she viewed me when I asked, but I’ve been watching more closely since she agreed so easily. Everything still seems completely platonic.”
Alana studies his expression carefully before nodding slowly.
She needs more, he suspects. “And anyway,” he continues, aiming for cavalier and probably missing it by a mile. “I told her about Dr. Lecter.”
Alana’s eyebrows shoot up, and her mouth twitches. Will flushes at her amusement. Abigail, he thinks, you have no idea what I’m going through for you.
“Did you hear about Abigail?” Alana asks, and he starts, worrying that he’d spoken aloud. But no, Alana seems to be simply changing the subject.
He clears his throat. “No, I haven’t heard anything. Has something happened?”
Her mouth twists. It is not a happy expression. “Hannibal has filed for adoption. Abigail seems inclined to accept.”
Will shoots up, fists clenching at his sides, forgetting to seem calm and responsible. “He what?” he snaps before he can stop himself.
Alana doesn’t seem surprised at his sudden vehemence. “Yes,” she says. “That’s basically how I reacted, too. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking or where this came from.”
How dare he, Will seethes.
“Will? Are you alright?”
With great effort, Will sits back down, limbs still stiff. “I’m fine. I’m just… surprised.”
“You and me both,” says Alana drily. “And he did all this over my direct objection, I might add.”
Will sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looks, expecting to see Hobbs or the ravenstag. It’s only Winston, taking off to chase after a grasshopper.
“How will this even work?” he asks.
Alana leans back into the grass, staring up at the sky. “Honestly? I have no idea.”
Will watches the dogs. What am I going to do now? he wants to ask.
But there’s no one to answer, now. The pills have taken away his only allies.
--
Will checks his phone. There are no new messages from Dr. Lecter, just the same calm acknowledgements to Will’s awkward cancellations that had already filled their texting history.
Will tells himself that he doesn’t feel hurt or abandoned.
--
The dogs’ barking announces the visitor. It’s too early in the day for it to be Katz back from work, and Alana has already checked in. There aren’t many options remaining.
Will glances at his reflection in a mirror quickly, but manages to stop himself before he attempts to smooth out his tangle of curls or run to change his frayed shirt. Dr. Lecter has seen him before, after all, and already knows what a mess of a person Will is. Will has almost reached his front door before he remembers that he doesn’t care what Dr. Lecter thinks of him, because the crush that he has been confessing to isn’t even real.
He swings the door open with more force than necessary, already scowling at the man waiting on his doorstep.
The man who is not Dr. Lecter.
“Jack,” says Will, swallowing his surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you here. I thought Alana already warned you off.”
Jack shrugs his broad shoulders. “Can’t a man visit his sick friend?”
Will shoots him an unimpressed look, but moves away from the door, waving Jack inside. “Water? Lemonade? Tea? Alana has already impounded anything that even pretends to have alcohol in it.”
“Water is fine,” says Jack, looking around the inside of the house in surprise. “You…” Will can see Jack struggling for a tactful way to speak his mind. “You… redecorated.”
Will snorts and hands Jack a glass of water, gesturing for him to sit down on the couch. “Not exactly. I couldn’t make Katz sleep on a bed in the living room, though, so we moved the furniture around a little. Added some.”
Jack hums thoughtfully, studying Will as he takes a sip of water. “So you’re feeling better? What was it you had?”
“Encephalitis. An inflammation of the brain.” Will considers Jack’s other question for a moment. “I do think I’m feeling better. Steadier. Anyway, my head’s not killing me twenty-four seven, and I’m not running a constant temperature of 102.” Will sees Jack wince slightly. He wonders how it feels, to know that he was trusting the insight of someone who was living in a fever dream. He glances at the heavy stack of folders in Jack’s arms and suspects it isn’t bothering Jack as much as it should be.
“Are you going to tell me what you brought for me, or am I going to have to guess?” asks Will, gulping his own water.
“You know I wouldn’t bother you while you’re recovering if it wasn’t something important,” Jack begins, and Will has to force himself not to roll his eyes. “Will,” says Jack seriously. “I think it might be the Ripper.”
Will’s eyebrows rise despite himself. He hadn’t expected that. “Show me,” he says, and he doesn’t need to tell Jack twice.
It is not the Ripper.
Will can see that immediately, barely needing to glance at the photos of former Ripper kills before he is certain. This recent tableau is vivid and gruesome, but comparing this murder to those of the Ripper would be like, would be like--
Will seizes the first analogy that comes to mind.
--Would be like comparing Dr. Sutcliffe and his greasy, smug mannerisms to Dr. Lecter, with his precision and his elegance.
As these images form, Will has to clamp down on the desire to burst out laughing. He closes his eyes until he’s certain there will be no glimmer of amusement for Jack to see.
Dr. Sutcliffe and Dr. Lecter, competitive serial killers instead of doctors. Slimy as he is, the idea of Dr. Sutcliffe slicing people open and displaying them as morbid art is hilariously absurd, and as for Dr. Lecter--
As for Dr. Lecter.
Will’s stomach clenches. Somehow, the Dr. Lecter metaphor doesn’t seem nearly as ridiculous as it should.
Something must show on his face, because Jack asks, “Will? What do you see?”
Do you see? Garrett Jacob Hobbs had asked him.
Abigail, Will thinks, panicked.
“I’m not sure,” Will says finally. His voice is shaking, but there’s only so much he can do about that. “I just have this weird feeling.”
“A feeling,” says Jack, voice unreadable.
Will stares down at the photos. “Leave these with me. I think I noticed something, but I’m not sure what. If that makes any sense. I’ll figure it out. Just give me some time.”
Jack nods his head slowly. “If it is the Ripper, he’ll kill twice more before he goes under again. We need to catch him before that happens.”
It’s not the Ripper, Will should say.
He doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything.
“Well,” says Jack finally. “I’ll let myself out, then.” He stands, setting his water glass down on the coffee table. “Will, I’m sorry to ask this of you, but I would appreciate it if you would forget to mention my visit to Dr. Bloom.”
Will waves his acquiescence without looking up. He doesn’t want Jack to see the expression on his face.
For long moments after the door has closed behind Jack, Will stares down at the rows of photos of past victims of the Chesapeake Ripper.
Like so many things viewed in hindsight, now that he knows the answer, it all seems so obvious.
He thinks, Dr. Lecter. He thinks of macabre artwork and dark humour and killing bad people makes us feel good, that unsubtle bastard.
He should call Jack. He should have told Jack immediately. He picks up his phone, unlocks it, scrolls through his contacts, stares.
He thinks, Abigail. He thinks of her past and her future, and what having a serial killing father did to the one, and what having a second serial killing father would do to the other.
He puts his phone down.
When he picks it up again, Jack’s number isn’t the one he dials.
“Will,” says Dr. Lecter, his voice deep and warm. “I’ve been hoping you’d call.”
Sparks of heat burn through Will’s stomach and curl down to his toes. Something is really, seriously wrong with him, and he can’t even blame the encephalitis anymore.
“Well,” says Will. “Here I am.”
--
It’s late in the evening when Katz gets back to the house. At some point, Will had managed to shake himself from his stupour long enough to throw together a quick meal and take care of the dogs, but his attention has continued to drift to the crime scene photos all day.
A normal roommate would likely have been at best put off their dinner by the sight of the gruesome images that seemed to cover ever flat surface in the house, but Katz only says things like, “Wow, I see Jack stopped by,” and “Oh, that one’s my favourite. You get a great view of the way the skin and muscle were carved away from her femur,” as she washes the fish down with lemonade.
“I called Dr. Lecter today,” Will says. He’s worried his tone or his expression will give his emotions away, which is all the more frightening given that he’s not even sure what he’s feeling.
“Oh yeah?” replies Katz. “What’d he say? What’d you say?”
“Not a lot. But you’re on your own for dinner on Friday.”
Katz straightens up from her casual slump in the kitchen chair. “Wait, what? Are you serious?”
Will nods, flushing slightly.
“So, is this a date? Where are you having dinner?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t think so. Probably not. No.” Will clears his throat. “Dinner will be at his house. Assuming I can figure out a way to get there.”
“His house?” Katz seems impressed. “Sounds like a third-date kind of dinner to me.”
“Katz,” groans Will, letting his face fall into his hands. He spares a moment to wonder if she’s right. Is he frightened at the idea, or excited?
“I can take you in to work on Friday and drop you off at a train station when I leave if the Love Doctor can’t pick you up from Quantico,” Katz offers.
“Please don’t call him that,” Will mutters into his hands. And then he remembers, “But thank you. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” says Katz, and she looks as though she even means it. “But you know what the real problem is now, right?”
Will tries not to tense. There are so many problems. He just hopes she hasn’t cottoned on to any of the same ones he has.
“No?” he tries.
She leans forward on her elbows, staring at him seriously across the small kitchen table until he hesitantly meets her eyes. “Graham. You have nothing to wear.”
They look at each other solemnly for a long moment, and then they burst out laughing together.
“But no, seriously,” Katz manages through her sniggering. “We need to take you shopping so that you have at least one outfit that isn’t covered in dog fur and paw prints.”
Will throws his paper napkin at her, still smiling. “Are you actually volunteering to take me clothes shopping, Katz?”
Katz casts a disdainful look across Will’s current clothing. “Someone has to, Graham. It might as well be me.”
Will taps his fingers against the table nervously. “You’re alright with all of this, right?”
“With what?”
“Well,” Will says, “Alana thinks I’m taking advantage of your deep-seated desire to bear my children.”
Katz chokes on her lemonade. “What?!”
“I mean,” Will allows, straight-faced. “She didn’t exactly phrase it that way.”
Katz laughed. “Oh my god,” she says. “I kind of wish she had.” She manages to calm down enough to consider his question seriously. “I know it must seem like I’m going way out of my way for you, and I guess I am, but…” She shrugs. “It’s good for me, too, you know? I just… I was getting really tired of being alone all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want to stay here forever. I like having my own space, and I like living alone. But still,” she smiles at him wryly, “it’s nice to have a friend. Isn’t it?”
She’s looking at him hesitantly, like it’s a confession and she’s not sure how he’ll respond.
His smile is genuine when he says, “Yeah, it really is.”
--