The Season of Antlers

8

I don't know why, but Will wanted me to draw a sketch of the pole of corpses that was found a week ago. He says seeing it without color, and just as for it is, will help him understand it better. Color or no color, I see just the same. 

His voice isn't as terrible as I remember, and his eyes feel softer. "You're drawing is very detailed, even in connected lines and scribbles I can see the blending and personalization of each body." Will's fingers trace the top of the pole, where my dull pencil last touched.

"Should I say thank you or stay quiet?" I mutter, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the paper below me. Cologne is stuck in my throat, and it's his. I enjoy his hands being in frame of my sketch, because it's an excuse to analyze his hands. 

"You don't have to say anything, I know what your response is just by how you stare." Maybe the reason why I couldn't bare Will Graham was because I didn't know him outside of work, and knew he would see through my skin and bones as soon as he got to know me.

At this I do look up at him, and him leaned against my desk with his right hand on the paper and his other on his lap, I notice how he would be the perfect muse. "You haven't made eye contact with me the whole time. How can you know what I want to say?" I fidget with the pencil in my hand, semi-calm. 

I can tell that he's chewing on the inside of his lip, but I don't know what he's going to say. "Body language." Will shrugs. "I think the sketch is complete, yeah?" I watch him slide my paper off of my desk, and bring it up to his face. His eyes squint behind his glasses, and he nods.

"Yeah." I nod my head, and turn back to my desk. I set my pencil in place, and stand up while stretching my back.

Will pushes away from my desk, paper in hand. "Thank you, ( y/n )." 

I don't look at him.

"No problem."