Will Graham

BAU LECTURE HALL—GRAHAM—19:00

The lecture hall is deserted, fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. Will Graham perches on the edge of the desk, glass of dark liquid in hand. He gestures toward the chair opposite him.

He had asked you to join him after hours and you said yes, having a morbid curiosity in the man, how could you not? So here you are.

“Sit,” he says quietly. “I poured you something. Whiskey. Strong.”

You slide into the chair, moving slowly, deliberately. “Thank you,” you reply, voice measured, you liked this... Being invited into his world of brooding.

Will tilts his head slightly, watching, noting the serenity with which you carry yourself. “How was the Thompson case?” he asks casually, though the undercurrent of his tone is sharper than it should be.

“I completed the autopsy yesterday,” you reply evenly, hands folded on the table. “It was... exquisite.”

“Exquisite?” His brow lifts, "You always say that."

You nod, tilting your head in faint amusement. “The marks, the carvings, the bruising... It was different this time.”

Will leans forward slightly, drinking in your words. “Go on.”

“The bruising around the neck,” you continue, monotone but fond, “It was perfectly symmetrical. Fingers pressed firmly, yet... caring. The victim’s breathing was restricted... controlled."

"There wasn't much struggle at all.”

Will swallows hard, gripping his glass. He doesn’t speak. He lets you continue, and the air thickens.

“The carvings into the flesh,” you say slowly, eyes steady on him, “letters, words... executed with a delicate hand."

"They were ritualistic. Loving."

"Each incision is precise."

"One would need patience... reverence... an intimate knowledge of anatomy to perform such work and preserve the victim’s... dignity.”

You pause, letting your words linger, then lean slightly forward. “There is... art in the technique. A dialogue between one who gives and one who consents."

"I could almost hear it. The unspoken agreement.”

Will shifts in his seat, silent, internally comparing your description to the notes and observations he made at the scene. Almost everything matches — the rhythm, the pressure, the exact placement of each mark. He feels a flicker of awe at your precision and an unsettling undercurrent of... intimacy.

He clears his throat softly. “You... find this beautiful?”

“I do,” you say, serene taking a deep breath and soaking it in. “Ceremony will always be beautiful. I ponder...why Ms. Thompson consented to kiss death.”

A silence falls. Will can feel the weight of it. Not threatening, not fearful. But unnervingly precise. You don’t speak immediately; your eyes watch him, calm, measured, like a cat observing a mouse it doesn’t intend to eat.

“So you do believe it was consensual?” he asks slowly, trying to appear professional. He almost finds you... Interesting.

“Yes,” You reply shortly, not feeling you needed to explain much further, as you keep your gaze on his features.

He shifts in his chair. The stillness of your demeanor, the serenity with which you describe mutilation as an art form, sends a small shiver down his spine. He can’t look away.

“Do you... Imagine the person performing it?” he asks carefully. “Their intent?”

“I do,” You answer, monotone. "Some imagine nothing, some imagine the people... I imagine... Someone close to me as the perp and myself as the victim."

Will exhales softly, fingertips tapping his knees. He doesn’t speak, letting the words wash over him, comparing his own observations — the rhythm of death, the precision, the signs of consent — to yours. Almost every deduction matches. Your mind interprets the scene as he would, with almost surgical clarity... yet without fear.

“Does it ever... unsettle you?” he asks, voice low. “Seeing someone you are fond of kill you?”

“No,” You say simply. “It is... instructive. Beautiful... Even necessary. Does your empathy, being the killer ever unsettle you?”

"...no," He says matter-of-factly and leans back, silent for a long moment, letting your calm, deliberate fascination settle in the air between you. You’ve revealed more than you intend — or perhaps exactly what you intend — through your precision and serenity. Will senses the depth of your mind without needing you to speak more.

“Do you... understand people in this way?” he asks softly. “Being the victim? Or do you simply just... appreciate the art of it?”

“both, maybe,” You answer, tilting your head, you smirk ever so slightly, taking his line of questioning as interest “Isn't appreciation and respect for it more than enough?"

Another pause. Your eyes hold his, calm, almost challenging. You remain serene. You do not need to answer every question. He realizes that it is part of the game. And it... endears you to him. He doesn’t need more.

He studies you in silence, internalizing what he’s learned — not just about the autopsy, not just about the case, but about you. How you approach the world: detached, aristocratic, fascinated by the macabre, and entirely at ease with it.

For the first time in years, Will Graham, the profiler who can step into any mind, who can reconstruct the dead and the killers in his own imagination, feels... unsettled. And accomplished.

He doesn’t speak for several moments. The tension lingers, thick and intimate. Especially with the flush of your ears when you speak of such things. Then he finally murmurs: “You’re... strange and unusual.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Thank you,” you say, monotone, almost fond.

He lets a faint smile touch his lips, glass resting idle on his knee. Not fear, not horror.

Understanding.

Reverence.

Accomplishment because at least he learned something about you.

He lived his life in the shadows of killers and you so easily fit into the shadows of the victim. Like the other half of a puzzle. To reenact, to empathize with them, no longer was he alone, nor should he feel bad when you imagine such things too. He feels it. That kinship.

And a quiet, creeping unease that he doesn’t think will fade anytime soon. "Who do you see above you when you imagine yourself in Ms. Thompson's shoes? Who's your strangulating reaper?"

You give him a long look of consideration before curtly saying,

"You,"