Chapter Text
"Mom worked dispatch at the station in town. She loved it, called it directing traffic, not that there was much. But she got to boss the boys around when there was, and she got a kick out of it."
"Was she popular?"
"Oh yeah. The guys at the station came around when they were off. Always loud laughter and good times, poker games, and enough beer and food to go around back then."
Will nodded and reeled his line back in. She didn't know what the hell he caught. The fish was ugly as fuck and looked as mean as a damn snake. He threw it back and winked at her. "No need to keep them all. Just what we need. Keep going."
"She… Daddy was a veteran."
"Army?"
"Yeah."
"Vietnam."
"Are you a psychic or something?" There was a tug on her line, and she reeled it in. This fish looked friendly, and she looked to Will for guidance. "Keeper?"
"Throw him in the chest."
She did that, though she hoped she wouldn't have to eat that one. "You didn't answer me."
"Not psychic. I know how to pay attention like you do. The way your routines are set out lets me know that someone in your house was in the military, but your mouth lets me know someone cursed like general infantry. With everything… Vietnam fits. Did he ever go to the VA?"
"At least once, I think. Momma said he wouldn't go back, probably because he was sick of being told what to do."
Will raised a brow and sat on the cooler, cracking open a beer. "So she took care of him."
"Yep."
"And you learned from watching her do it."
Fucking psychic.
Fucking profiler.
Just like her, before all the bad shit happened to both of them.
"She was good with him. Knew how to talk sweet and talk right, not get on his bad side. I could never do it. I was born with a smart mouth. Probably two weeks old the first time I got in trouble. But she could mediate it, made sure the spankings weren't too harsh and made sure I stayed in line. Took care of him, took care of me, took care of all her boys at the station, even the ones half her age. She was pretty darn perfect, Will. Daddy sure thought so, too."
"What was her name?"
"Joanie. My dad's name was Jim. I was born a little late for them; Momma didn't think they could have kids. She was five months pregnant before she realized I was there."
"I bet she didn't ignore you after that."
"Hell no," Clarice said. Her arm was sore, and instead of pretending that he wasn't watching her, she reeled in the line and sat down her pole, sitting next to him on the cooler when he scooted over. "Mom sewed all my clothes. Made sure my hair was combed and neat. Did homework with me, read with me before bed or when I got up depending on what shift she worked that week."
"Apple of her eyes."
"Center of her world," she agreed. "Well, off-center. Dad came first, but it was a close tie."
"I had a mother, but I never knew her. You were lucky to feel that kind of love."
"Maybe. I don't know if it's harder never to know or to have it disappear on you."
He was quiet for a while, quiet and thinking hard before he scooted closer to her and took a sip from his can. "What happened the day she died?"
"She stopped off at the gas station after work. She and the guys were going to play poker with dad, and we were out of beer. The attendant was already dead when she walked inside with her wallet. Daddy made her carry a gun outside the house, but it was in the front seat at the bottom of her purse. The unsub shot her in the head and took off."
"Did they catch him?"
"No. The security camera wasn't working… no one living saw a thing. I didn't even get to see her before they buried her; she was too messed up. Just a box with roses on the top and a lot of men in uniforms trying not to cry. Half the station had to walk out before the service was over. They couldn't handle it."
"They thought a lot about her."
"She was everybody's mom," Clarice said. "Not just mine."
"Did your dad walk out, too?"
"No, but he held my hand so hard that it was bruised for a few weeks. I've never seen him cry, not even when I was…"
"What?"
Taken away by the men who had been his friends.
Given to the state to raise up right.
"Off-limits."
Will patted her back and rubbed the spot between her shoulders that was aching from keeping the rest of it in. She wondered how he knew, realizing that he must hurt there too, especially on days when he checked the mail. Her feet in the warm sand, hair catching the warm breeze, and Will's warm hand on her back… if they hadn't been talking about a dead woman, it would have looked a lot like a vacation.
She'd have to write a report about what she saw today. She'd do it tomorrow morning and send it to Jack with a wicked smile on her face, needling Dad again to see what kind of trouble she could make.
But not really working, not with the sand on her feet and the ocean in front of her.
Not really a vacation, with the files of the dead women in the non-living room, filling up the space Will called his home.
His hand on her back, inching down to her waist, holding her close. Offering support in the best way he knew.
She was hungry and tired but not too lonely or angry to make bad choices. But Will felt so good by her side, warm skin and the warm waves rolling in front of them.
His fingers on her waist, tightening enough to make her heart race. Testing the waters, searching for boundaries, seeing what might happen.
"Why were you going to stay here on your personal time, Clarice?"
His hand on her hip, their hips pressed together on the cooler.
"You could go anywhere. Why here with me?"
"Because I've never been to the beach," she said. She opened her mouth again, wanting to add something more profound, but it was a simple truth.
Clarice Starling was thirty-five years old, had worked on an island for five years and lived within driving distance of the ocean for three, but she had never taken the time to look at the sea. Looking for who Fredrica was what brought her here. It was the last stop of her odyssey to discover who the dead women had been, Jack's way of getting her out of Washington and Quantico until the firestorm ended. And she'd stayed at the cheapest, tackiest hotel in Will's town because she wanted to know what walking on the beach felt like without everyone staring at her.
The Death Angel.
"I'm glad you decided to stay."
Her hand on his knee, feeling muscle over bone as her fingers traced an old scar.
As thin as he was now, there was a wiry strength about him, similar to her own. She had hauled him to his bathroom even though he was a foot taller than her, and she could take him down if needed.
Would she ever need to?
Would he hurt her if he had a chance?
Those girls had trusted someone enough to get close to them. Close, closer, so close that he could cut up their shirts and whisk them away.
Her hand on his thigh, wondering where the scar ended and almost too afraid to find the answer.
His hand on her hip, possessively pressing his fingertips into her warm skin.
His lips in her hair, gently placing a kiss on her temple.
Her hand on his thigh, sliding higher, an inch away from something warm and terrifying and wonderful.
"We need to stop," Will said, his lips still on her temple.
"We've only known each other three days," Clarice said, her hand a breath away.
The wall between them rising back up, though with enough spaces between the bricks that they could see each other through the cracks.
"I'll fry the fish. What we have is enough."
"I'll make some tea. I saw some yesterday."
"I own tea?"
"Yep."
"Will you put some sugar in it?"
"Not a chance in hell."
Her hand on his knee. His cheek on her temple.
He laughed again, and she memorized the sound. "I'll have beer. Do I own rice?"
She laughed, and it scared her because it had been so long since she'd heard its genuine sound. "Actually, you do."
"And milk. I can make rice pudding if I still remember how."
Her mom used to make that. They made it together on Sundays after church, leaving out the raisins because Daddy hated them. Poor folk's food, easy to make but not easy to make in a tasty way.
Wanting to know what Will would taste like, warm and sweet in her mouth.
"I'd like that. What can I make?"
"Tea."
"And?"
His hand on her hip, shaking as he squeezed it tighter.
"Nothing. Sit on the counter by the stove while I cook for you."
The cracks getting wider, vibrating until a hand could reach through.
"I can do that," she said.
Her hand on his wrist, bringing a scarred palm to her mouth so she could kiss it.
His hand against her lips, trembling as she slid it to her neck.
Her hand over his, holding it to her breast as his thumb grazed over a tight nipple.
"Promise?" he asked in a husky voice that made her melt.
"Promise," she moaned, wanting something that she'd never thought to ask from anyone else. Because good girls didn't, but then again, she wasn't a very good girl at all now that Johnny was dead.
She closed her eyes.
Don't think.
Will sensed the change in her, kissing her temple before he stood and walked to the waves. Now she watched him, letting her eyes move over the man she'd thought was an old scarecrow.
But he wasn't.
Will was stronger than he ever knew, especially now that his demon had been buried in a cell deep within the earth.
But Clarice was weaker than she'd ever been, now that her hero was buried in a coffin at Arlington National Cemetery.
Don't think.
Clarice stood, walking eleven steps to stand behind him. She placed her arms around Will's waist and pressed a kiss to the center of his back.
"Do I own wine?"
"There's some in the back of the pantry."
"White?"
"Red, I think. It's in a box, so it was hard to tell."
"I'll drink that instead. Better for the heart, and… other things."
"We could go for a walk after dinner. That's good for the heart, too."
He put his hands over hers and squeezed. "I've heard. And if I can't keep up?"
"I'll slow down, but only for you."
When he chuckled, she could feel it vibrate against her cheek. "Then we'll take a walk in the dark. Do I own a flashlight?"
"I saw a few."
"Batteries?"
"Those too."
"Good," he said. "We can go snipe hunting while we're out there."
Clarice laughed again, the giggles pressing her chest snug against his back. He smelled like the fabric softener she used on his clothes yesterday, off-brand and a lot like home. "I may have been out of the country for a while, but not long enough to fall for that shit."
They carried the cooler back to the house, and he sat outside, cleaning the fish while she found what he needed to cook dinner. When she walked outside to check on him, the sun was gone, leaving a blue-black sky studded with a million stars. Wonder crossed over her when she realized their stars had been the same more often than not. But in the city, she'd never taken the time to stare up at the smoggy, light-polluted sky to notice.
Buffalo Bill's stars might be the same too.
She closed her eyes, trying to see life through his lenses, trying to see the sky that was darkening over his house.
Do you look at the sky at night, hoping your next victim is as lonely as you are?
Visions passed before her, visions of women who were dead and alive and frozen in time. Bright and ambitious, who longed and ached for something outside of their reach. An emotion they pushed back, a relationship that they didn't want to waste precious time in developing, except on their own terms.
Connection.
You want a connection too, don't you? But your terms change the moment you get close enough to slice open their shirts, demeaning them to the only thing you are capable of understanding about them.
Skin. Flesh. Warmth. Need.
Fish blood and guts were in the bag that Will carried back to the sea, giving back to the water the remnants of what they had taken. Warm blood and flesh that would feed the shark they didn't catch.
She sat on the counter by the stove, noticing that his hand rested on her thigh as he watched the rice simmer. A juice glass of red wine was in his other hand, making his breath sweet as he spoke to her about the dogs he'd left with Wally.
A boy needed his dogs so much more than a man who was dead inside.
A man deprived of touch could be so cold and cruel, almost as cruel as a man touched with a cold hand. But Will's hand was warm, and she put her hand over his, wanting to continue the connection as she squeezed his thumb between her fingers.
Fish frying that had been wriggling through the waves an hour ago. Sweet, sticky rice cooking in a kettle on the back burner. A man with a hand on her thigh and a glass of wine in the other, shyly smiling at her like she was the only thing that mattered, and it almost felt like a vacation.