Exquisitely Ensanguined

Sangriento

The ice in Jack's drink clinks against the glass as he raises it to lips chapped by dehydration. He, like me, hasn't been taking care of himself. At least we're not drinking alone. If one of us passes out the other can call for a stomach pump. Not that either of us ever gets drunk enough to feel much more than a buzz, like bees at the base of our skulls. Even that is never enough to even numb the pain we're both feeling.

A shrill ring cuts through our companionable misery, shattering the silence. Sound waves through silence like bullets through glass. Heaving a heavy sigh, Jack rummages in bottomless pockets, fishing for his phone. I watch, wondering if I should leave the room. Wondering if he cares.

"Hello?" Two gruff syllables, the first voice I've heard all day. My ears ring. But he doesn't tell me to go, so I stay. Too tired and too apathetic to stand up and leave of my own accord.

Indistinct voices garble from the phone in Jack's dark hand, sounding like yelling. Everyone's always yelling about something or other at the FBI. It doesn't do anything to me, anymore, the sound of agents yelling. No adrenaline rush, no excitement, no fear. Just numb, an emotional flatline. Then again, these days everything feels that way. A black and white photograph, absent of color.

Even when Jack says, "Oh fuck," under his breath, I don't so much as raise my head. Instead, I tip back the dregs of my whiskey, fingers of one hand buried deep in Winston's fur. It's not until Jack says my name several times that I actually start to listen.

"Sonofabitch," he says, and I wonder if he's still referring to me, "I'll tell him." The phone lowers from his ear, the screen grows dark. Jack Crawford looks at me with an intensity I haven't seen since Bella.

"Something concerning me, I gather?" I ask, sounding bored even to my own ears. Fingers picking mindlessly at the fabric of my chair. Jack is upset, and I know that should warrant some emotional response from me, but there isn't one. I haven't got any emotion to spare; I've been wrung out and left to dry.

"Someone's got a bead on your house, Will," replies my friend. Boss. Ex-Boss. Whatever. I lean back in my chair, looking over my smudged glasses at him with one eyebrow raised.

"Someone's always got a bead on me, Jack. I'm not exactly popular." Jack is silent for a moment, rough hand rubbing a broad forehead wearily. I have never known Jack to look as old as he does now.

"Will..." He says, no direction to the sentence. He doesn't know what he's about to say any more than I do. "Will, you've got to get away for a few days. This is serious."

I huff, closing my eyes. A dog at my feet whines, tugging at one of my socks. I raise my feet, tucking them beneath me before the animal can run away with it.

"As long as they don't hurt the dogs, I'll be fine," I mutter. I am being contrary and contentious, and I'm not sure if it's me or the whiskey speaking. Maybe that should scare me, but it doesn't.

A chair creaks, air shifts. Without opening my eyes I know that Jack has leaned towards me, probably with a concerned, fatherly expression on that craggy old face.

"This is a serious threat, Will," he repeats, more conviction this time. I stare into my empty glass, debating whether or not I want another drink.

"Nothing's serious with enough apathy, Jack," I inform him sagely, deciding against the drink. Glass clinks against wood as I set the empty container down. Winston sniffs the glass, sneezes, and walks away, nails click-clacking, reminding me of the shells of bullets. I don't hear what Jack says next. Probably because I've stopped listening. Again. I do that a lot, nowadays.

"Did you hear what I said?" One eyebrow raises again, eyes stay trained on the furry back of the receding dog.

"Sorry, what?" Jack groans slightly, a sound he doesn't often make. I suppose I should listen, if he's really this upset about it. If he's sunk to the point of groaning.

"Will," he's saying my name too often. The sound of it grates against my eardrums. "Please do this for me. Just get out of the house for a few days; I'll swing by to feed the dogs. It'll do you good." Tipping back my head, I huff a sigh through my nose. He isn't going to give this argument up. I know that slow, insistent burn behind those dark eyes all too well. Hell, it's how I got roped back into the field. Twice.

God dammit, Jack.

"Fine." The monosyllabic word grates and scrapes at my throat. "I'll leave tomorrow." Light, dim but there, returns to the familiar, wide face.

"Thank you," He returns, relief obvious in his very being. It's an effort not to roll my eyes. "Want the FBI to find you a hotel?" A laugh catches at the back of my throat. No, Jack, I want nothing to do with the FBI, thanks very much.

"I'll find one myself," I assure him. Bedbugs of a short-notice motel room are preferable to dealing with my old team. I haven't seen them since Jack decided I was too depressed to continue teaching, after Hannibal got away. After... Abigail.

Shit, I'm a mess.

The silence feels all wrong now, like we've broken some sort of unspoken pact by talking to one another. My throat burns from too much use after so long of selective mutism. Laryngeal atrophy in its very beginning, after only a few weeks, making talking as painful as working a little-used muscle. Damn, I was making such good progress on my journey to permanently losing my ability to speak. That was the one thing I had left to look forward to.

I show Jack to the door, waiting by it while he grabs his hat. Eyes trained on his broad back. I decide to strain my tired, misused voice one last time before he leaves.

"You're not my father, Jack." The words sound more like those of an angst-ridden teen than those of a regret-ridden adult. I watch for his reaction. Spine stiffens, doesn't turn. He isn't angry, then.

"I know, Will." Weary voice, saying my name for the thousandth time tonight. "I know."