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She would have thought it would cut the chatter. Yanked out of lecture mid-sentence by Jack Crawford himself, a good reminder that Alanna’s not some kind of kindly substitute to be half-listened to while the real deal is out in the field. It would help if Jack didn’t audibly ask for the real deal in question. Now she’s left with a hall full of whispers and the telltale lap-staring of surreptitious texting.
Nobody’s bold enough to come out and ask. A couple are bold enough to look her up and down. Always a couple here at Quantico. If they’re going to keep doing this - and they are, Jack’s aura of faint, defiant guilt was proof enough that he’ll keep throwing Will Graham in front of every case he can, and damn the consequences - then they’re going to have to give her a locker. Bad enough that she’s not Will Graham. They won’t mind her at all when she’s dressed to comfort patients, not to project authority. Not that it’ll do much, not in this place. Toxic masculinity central. It’s textbook, always has been.
A strange environment, for a man like Will Graham. Oh, she can see how he got from here to there, and it makes her heart hurt. The way he is, the way he’d been raised, poor and southern and mostly by his dad - no wonder he ran straight for the only helping profession still firmly coded as masculine. In another, kinder life, maybe he would have spent his days with kindergarten kids. Social work. Nah. The toll that would take would be almost as high as his work as a profiler. Suffering is not so very different from violence. Hard enough on her, some days.
Harder on Will, not that she’s got any more time to dwell on it. They’re rustling around, now. They think she’ll let them out early. Fat chance. She’ll take time to hurt for him later. Right now, she’ll settle for standing in his shoes.