Fill: Through A Glass Darkly; J2; serial killer!Jensen, FBI!Jared; implied bottom!Jared; mild gore
This is the beginning.
There’s no kiss, there’s no grasping of words for a first meeting, there’s no buildup. It’s not the first time coffee becomes his savior, too much cream, too much sugar and caffeine pulsing in veins and the edges blur under sleep deprivation. He’s just going, going, going, he’s gotta work, he’s gotta do something.
There is no beginning, not from the first meeting with, hey, darlin’, you’ll see me sometime, clutched in fingers smeared read with a dead body attached.
--
There’s a car somewhere on a nowhere-from-here back road with a clear blue sky and green surrounding and something smells like death and it’s in the car and there’s blood, crusts to everything and the inside is no different. There’s a sticky note, pasted to the steering wheel.
Left you a present, sweetheart.
It’s the first of many cars in the middle of nowhere.
--
Paper liters a cluttered desk smeared with ink and too little room for anything else, messy and jumbled and too much for proper organization. There’s too many reports to go through, too many nameless faces staring back him, too many families crying for help, for closure and he’s breathing, hand in his hair and tugs on it in frustration.
“Jared, you should calm down, just take it easy,” and he’s looking up, Jared, another coffee in hand, removes his hand and breathes, nostrils flaring. He’s been pushing, spends less time sleeping, spends less time doing anything, really, too focused on his job of catching a person that’s like air and dissipates whenever he gets close.
Sandy worries about him, tells him he needs to get out, go downtown, get a drink, take a boy out (or girl) and just relax. It’s the same with Jared, tells her, “when I catch him, then I can lose the sudden chastity I’ve developed,” and Sandy sighs, grasps his hand and takes the coffee, a calm, “you’re gonna be the first person to overdose on caffeine,” and tries futilely to get him to leave the office, go take a breather first.
--
Police report one: August 9, 2005: two bodies found, Shelby Lancaster, 27, and Rosanne McCoy, 24, disappeared outside nightclub in Chattanooga, TN, missing for three days. Evidence of unknown cocktail in systems, assault on bodies, ligatures around abdominal area, blunt head force trauma. Evidence concludes brief struggle, weapon used to subdue both victims, bodies drained mostly of blood. Small sticky note found curled in one vic’s hand, note as followed, this is just the first.
--
Jared’s got his head in his hands, the colors blur around his eyes, it gets harder to tell what’s not there as he suffers through another three day period of no sleep, working, working, working, has to do something to keep himself awake, keep himself alert. There’s five cups of coffee, empty, and he’s itching for another, he’s itching for anything.
“What is the pattern?” falls from his lips like ice breakers in a room of loud silence, thick and stifling and in need of something to break the space. Jared’s rising, his chair squeaks in protest and he’s striding to the board, looks over the scenery of pins with colored codes that speak of murders in all areas they pin to. “What is the pattern?”
Jared’s going over every detail, thinks of girls with tall limbs, with dark hair, with hazel eyes with blues and greens. He can’t find a pattern-they’re all ages, they’re all different body builds-it seems like he has something, he knows this killers type but it doesn’t make sense, why go after women of able-bodied builds that are very capable of defending themselves? Jared guesses for power, for control, seeing a woman that might have rejected him in the past and now dishes out revenge against her.
But there’s nothing sexual about these kills, there’s no forced breach of their genitals, there’s-nothing. Jared s floored by this, finds himself rethinking and rethinking and huffing in frustration when the next body shows up for him to deduce.
--
Police report two: September 15, 2005: body found, Lana Kramer, 22, missing for two days, disappeared from parking lot in Yorktown, VA. Evidence concludes form of tranquilizer in system, multiple cuts and ligatures to arms, upper torso and neck, bruises around neck area, body drained of blood. Sticky note found in hand, thought you were gettin’ lonely without me, decided to give you a shout out.
--
Jared’s collapsing into his seat, another day of tireless work, another day of someone dying, another fucking day at the office. He’s lost so much time trying to figure out what happens next, what he’s supposed to do, what he’s doing wrong. He’s no closer to catching this killer and Jared’s frustrated. The pattern has changed, not keeping the killings local or focused on one particular spot.
There’s also the change in body types-no longer is this person targeting dark-haired girls, but blond, blue-eyed.
There’s a knock on his door, Sandy poking her head in, “hey, Jare, you doin’ alright? Y’haven’t come out in over two hours, was wonderin’ if you actually overdosed on caffeine.”
Jared appreciates the effort she puts in checking up on him, turns away from his board with, “’m fine, Sandy, just the MO’s changed,” and he can hear her sigh without her needing to, knows that she’s thinking that he’s going to go another few nights without sleeping.
He tacks up another photo, another victim because some person thinks they can play god.
--
From the sheer amount of coffee he’s consumed, Jared thinks it’s possible he could get type two diabetes from this.
That can be worried about later, when a killer that he’s been tracking is behind bars and when another body was found not twenty minutes ago.
--
Police report three: October 12, 2005: body found, Laura Gallagher, 29, disappeared from gas station parking lot in Macon, GA, missing for four days. Evidence concludes low dose of morphine in system, multiple bruises, hyper extension of joints from attempted escape, rope marks found on wrists and neck, bruising of neck suggest strangulation, multiple cuts found around the stomach but death by strangulation. Sticky note found in mouth of victim, note follows as, hey, sweetheart, hope you got my reason why I haven’t talked to you lately.
--
Jared’s reached a point where he knows this killer is taunting him, is making him a fool, so obviously caught in making this personal. He rereads over the three notes, reads how personal they’ve become, the use of sweetheart like this person thinks he’s giving gifts, may already see this as something intimate. Jared’s sick of it, sick of losing people to this monster that thinks this is a game.
--
She’s doing muffled screaming, blood smeared across her mouth under some black gag, fighting against her bonds and what a pain, she’s being more difficult than the others. If only she’d realize this wasn’t a choice, she’d realize her place. She’s the last one, though, before he has to move on, before he starts with a new person.
He coos as he approaches her, “shhh, it’s gonna be fine, we’re gonna be fine, we’re jus’ havin’ some quality bonding time, wouldn’t you say?” and it’s so disappointing when she sobs, dark hair plastered in ribbons to liquid red drying on her face. He doesn’t expect her to know why he’s doing this, he just wants the attention of a nice little policeman with dimples and what way is he gonna get it?
“We’re playing hide and seek right now, darlin’ and he’s very determined to seek me out-gotta give him the next clue where I am.”
And he’s whistling some Tim McGraw tune as he cuts her throat slowly.
--
It’s an itch he can’t scratch, whispers of touch under his skin and maybe that’s the saturation of caffeine in his system but Jared couldn’t care less, he’s got a serial killer to catch.
Chad’s come in, lounging in his chair, flicking paper balls at the back of his head, “come on, Jay, you gotta sleep sometime, one day away from work isn’t gonna kill you,” and Jared’s not looking at him when, “but it does someone else,” and Chad winces.
“Right, wrong wording on that one. What I mean is you need to rest, you need to recharge ‘cause you look like you’re gonna pass out any minute.”
“I can sleep when I catch this fucker.”
“And this is why your social life suffers.”
Jared doesn’t care about sleeping, eating, anything, really, not as long as there’s someone out there taking lives.
--
Police report four: November 14, 2005: body found, Mark Bell, 25, disappeared from buss garage in Culter Bay, FL, missing for five days. Evidence conclude light tranquilizer in system, heavy contusions around neck area, internal ruptures around small intestine, multiple bruises around neck area, determined from strangle marks, death from internal bleeding. Another sticky note found in pocket of victim, reads as following, hope you like our anniversary gift, tried somethin’ different this time.
--
Jared’s tacking up more photos, more mutilated bodies, more faces past pleading for someone to help them. Jared puts his face in his hands, fingers curl into his hair, grips strands in frustration and distraction from sleep dully burning behind his eyes.
More families without closure flash behind his eyes, more questions, less answers than he can find and Jared’s trying, he really is, he’s been trying for so long. His phone vibrates, scares him from his trance and knocks his umpteenth cup of coffee off the desk.
“Alright, alright, alright,” comes low and husky-tired, more reluctant to pull away from trying to think about the next victim. He’s holding the phone to his ear, not really paying attention, the roar of the questions streaming across his brain.
“Tell me about your thoughts, when I put bodies in a lake, huh, Jared?” and what the fuck, what is this-
“Aw don’t tell me you weren’t waiting for a sign? You’d better be happy to hear my sweet voice,” and Jared can’t believe this, he actually didn’t think-
“You’ve got some nerve calling me, I’ll fucking find you, I’ll bring you in, drag you to the jail cell you deserve to rot in, you hear me?” and there’s a chuckle on the other side, a song based from how he plays it.
“Aw, Jared, I didn’t think you loved me that much,” and wait a moment, how-
“Oh, I know who you are, sweetheart, been wantin’ to get your attention for a long time. Took a lot of bodies, but you noticed.”
“What is this, some sick game to you?”
“Nah, just a friendly game of hide and go seek with my favorite police officer. You should smile more often, I like those dimples.”
There’s an ugly, festering feeling low in Jared’s stomach, a niche in his chest where something tells him it’s wrong and he thinks if he can try to figure it out; he’s not going to like it. He tries, “how… how do you know that?”
“Did you think there was ever a reason why I wanted to get your attention?” is like slick smoke, purred in a drip that’s like honey and Jared involuntarily reacts. He pulls himself together, gets himself to breathe, tries for a calm, “you could’a jus’ asked me out, no need to go through all that for me,” and he knows this person is looking for a reaction, for anything, to know he can assert some form of power over him, contacting him alone shows he’s cocky, he’s confident and possible escalating.
“Why would I go through that when this is so much easier?” and it’s much lower, grit and whiskey, and Jared’s losing his cool, losing from trying to keep himself under control. He wants to scream, to yell, anything.
“I want you focused on me, only me, I want to be the center of your world, and when you think you can’t do it anymore, I’ll come to you, I’ll come and I’ll make you see me and you know why, you know why I want you to?” and fuck, what is this, what is this kind of taunt, this talk and he’s swallowing, trying to not anticipate, not get riled.
“Because you belong to me, you belonged to me the first time I saw when I almost made you my first victim.”
That’s it, the light through a windowpane sheens across his eyes, fills them but he doesn’t notice, nothing matters as his world falls away and crumbles, cuts his body as it collapses around him.
“You… you what?”
A dark chuckle, something muffled in the background, “July 29, 2002, saw you walkin’ home from a bar, wanted to get my hands on you, wanted to get you in my car and in a secluded place, cut you, mark you, fuck you, make you know nothing but my name, make you mine, my perfect little pet.”
Jared’s not sure what he’s feeling, anger, pain, guilt, horrified at the slight arousal he feels but this man isn’t done, continues with, “wanted to pin you down, wanted to shove my cock so deep in that tight hole-knew it would be tight, so hot inside, knew you’d moan and beg, cut you up a little, make you want it so bad-you’d like that, huh, Jared? You like being held down, pin those arms down, fuck you so good? Get those long, skinny legs around my waist? Bet you’d want it.”
Jared can’t believe this, he can’t believe he’s getting off, hears the harsh flow of air through lungs straining to stay cool. Jared tries to get his breathing under control, hopes cracks don’t crawl through his voice, “you done there?”
“Yeah, done, bet you liked that, huh? Can hear it in your voice-you turned on there, Jay?” and that ruptures him, a snap of, “don’t you call me that,” because the killer is familiarizing him, making him a personal contact and Jared can’t have that.
“Before I go, I got somethin’ for you,” and there’s a rustle, a movement and a muffled voice comes into play, "someone here is very desperate for your help but I think they may have accidentally fallen on my knife-ten times, to be exact.”
Jared’s heart drops, his stomach gets nauseous-this means it’s new, this person has taken another but the voice isn’t female.
“Know why I chose those people, why I decided they’d be good for me?”
Jared doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t but he’s morbidly curious, he wants those answers.
“Because they were you.”
And that’s not-
“Think about it, Jay-brown hair, hazel eyes, dimples-they’re you, you’re what I want, what I’m going to have, it’s only a matter of time.”
Jared’s finger flex around his phone, the bangs in his face obscure his vision more than they should, goes dark around the edges.
“That’ll never happen, ever.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I think it will. Probably in a year, maybe a few years, but you will, you’ll be mine; you’ll be everything I thought you were. Can’t wait to smear blood along that pretty mouth of yours, my cock shoved so deep in you. You’ll be mine.”
Jared can tell this is about to end but, “and before I go, name’s Jensen, just to let you know when you’re screaming my name.”
There’s a click, and the line echoes static sound of an end and Jared stands still, breathes harshly, nostrils flaring and trying to keep himself under control.
--
He doesn’t remember throwing his phone; he doesn’t remember Chad coming in, asking if he’s fine, if he’s okay and he’s running and his sight twists, goes sideways and he’s in a chair, Chad with his hands on his shoulders.
“Jay, man, talk to me, what’s wrong?”
He can’t really get the words out, he can’t really breathe-is he breathing; is he thinking, is he alive? Chad’s hands are everywhere, on his face, forehead, trails down his shoulders and he’s snapping up, finally breaching a surface of noise and shallow vision.
“He contacted me.”
Chad makes a face. “Who?”
“Jensen.”
“Need a little more than that, Jay-“
“The killer, his name’s Jensen, he called me.”
Chad’s alert, his eyes harden, he’s getting closer, “talk you me, Jared, what did he say?”
“I’m his.”
“Could you stop being cryptic for a moment-”
And Jared is exploding, he can’t keep the hysteria out of his voice, “he fucking called me to tell me he’s coming after me, that I was gonna be his first victim two years ago-he’s been watching me for all this time, he’s been plotting to get to me!”
Chad looks ill; he looks everything but his chipper; slightly douche self with every tasteless crack he can make. His hands fall on Jared’s face, holds him to a lifeline and says, “Jay, listen to me, you’re not his, you never were, he’s just a sick psycho with illusions of affection he doesn’t feel, is fooling himself into thinking he can feel because he doesn’t. Listen, you’re his; you’re going to be his ever. If he comes after you, he comes after the whole team-I’m not gonna let him get you.”
Jared’s not sure if he can handle this, he’s not sure if he can make it through but Chad’s words make a sweet false illusion to him, one he can hold onto.
“We’ll be ready, Jay, we’ll catch him, we’ll get through it.”
As long as Chad repeats them with conviction, forces Jared to center himself on it, he can at least get himself through it.