Chapter Text
Will shouldn’t have offered to talk to Abigail outside of training. He stalks towards her apartment building anyway, walking slightly hunched. It’s already dark, just after 5 p.m., and the investigator can see his breath in the sharp, chilly air.
Abigail had asked him one day, after a lecture, if he could explain something in more detail.
“You tell us, in so much detail, how to get inside the mind of a killer,” she said. “Shouldn’t we spend just as much time looking at the scene from a victim’s perspective?”
The earnestness in her wide, blue eyes made Will pause. Abigail was undeniably one of the academy’s brightest agents-in-training, but Will had never spoken to her, individually, until that moment.
He had long observed her with some curiosity, naturally. Years prior, Will had unraveled the truth behind the gruesome crimes of her father, Garrett Jacob Hobbs. It only made sense that there was something different about the way Abigail connected to her cases — or the way she wanted to connect.
So when she approached Will, he bit his tongue against his immediate response (which might have been, because the victim is, most likely, dead). Instead, he did something that he would not normally do. He entered a conversation.
And for weeks, after his lectures, Abigail lingered while her peers filed out of the room. Asking Will questions about homicides he’d solved in the deep south. It was clear that she was reading up on his past cases in her own time, banking her curiosity for the few minutes she would be able to hold the investigator’s attention.
Today, Will had already started packing up his bag when Abigail made it to his desk. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, as always,” he said, tightly. “But I’m a bit pressed for time.”
It hadn’t exactly been a lie — Will was desperate to take a leak, having been so busy that day he hadn’t even had a minute to use the bathroom. Abigail was undaunted by his terse demeanor, as always.
“Can we talk later?” she asked.
“Sure.”
He meant later as in another day. He was halfway out the door to the lecture hall, but Abigail followed him. “I live in the Greenbriar building off Montclair,” she said to his back. “In apartment C18. Meet me after work.”
Will turned and nodded before leaving the room. He hadn’t even fully processed what she said. Why didn’t he just say no?
He’s looking down at the weathered welcome mat in her doorway. Scattered bits of brown leaves are strewn all over the concrete. Will is thinking about leaving. It would be rude. Normally, he doesn’t think too much about being seen as rude. But he doesn’t want to hurt the young trainee’s feelings.
Plus, he wants to talk to her. Enjoys listening to her think aloud. Feels curious to see what kind of home she’s made for herself in a little one-bedroom here in Quantico. This is unprofessional, he chides himself, shifting on his feet.
He knows, because he is skilled at reading others’ emotions, that Abigail is at least a little attracted to him. It isn’t extremely rare for someone, even one of the agents-in-training, to find Will attractive. He rarely ever thinks about it, beyond recognizing the signs and behavior. Most people are quickly put off by his tartness.
Abigail is not most people. She has developed, clearly, a fascination with Will. Perhaps she imagines that she could become close to him. This is indulging her fantasy. The investigator’s feet shift again, weighing his options. Just then, the door swings open.
Will nearly jumps out of his skin. The young woman looks equally surprised — then she smiles, innocently. “You’re here!” she says. “I was just about to go for a quick walk. Come inside!”