Work Text:
Winnie hummed to herself as she catalogued evidence from the Mitchell house. She enjoyed the process of cross-referencing and indexing items, squirrelling them away in the evidence locker until needed again. It was calming, and she rarely had to deal with colleagues barging in to demand things.
She eyed the next item and frowned. Even under plastic, the distressed coat smelt – old leather, sweat and the coppery tang of blood. It made her vaguely uneasy. The edges were frayed and ragged as if it had been clawed at, or bitten by vermin over years of neglect. Who would want to wear something like that? Even before she knew it was the chosen apparel of a murderer, she would’ve nervously crossed the street in order to avoid anyone walking around in it.
Unlike its more deadly companion. Bizarrely, the former trophy was beautiful in its way; the elegant flair of the shaped wings with their swooping curves put to ingenious use as a kind of wrist and hand guard, the geometric form of the shaft gradually tapering into a wicked point, each side sharpened with care so that it could cut through potentially anything. Still a kind of trophy she supposed, from the female doctor’s home and slaughter, but weaponised and made part of the ongoing plan. There were things you could use to kill people just about everywhere – in her career she’d already seen some wild choices – but the killer chose to fashion a dagger over using what was to hand, or merely grabbing a carving knife to tote around. It spoke to the level of devotion to the act.
Winnie finished her notations and was about to secure all the items in their own box when she heard the sounds of conflict outside the room. Gunfire, shouting. Whatever or whoever was causing it, was coming this way. Instinctively, she scurried to hide.
Barely a minute later the keypad lock on the door sparked and burnt out, leaving a thin trail of smoke, and the door was kicked open.
She tried not to squeak with alarm as the figure marched in, hands held in fists by their sides. Her first impression was anger, the sharp heavy stride matched by the violent way they cursorily searched for – whatever it was they sought. Their movements were off, boxes being pushed about with their elbows – trying not to leave prints? Or something else. As the dark figure moved closer she could see blood on their hands – on one arm it was even up to the elbow in places. That didn’t bode well for her previously shouting colleagues, she realised.
Winnie happened to look up towards the figure’s head as they were turning and let out an involuntary gasp of horror. Behind the long hair, the face was a mess of blood and twisted features. Most people she saw who looked like that were usually cold and motionless at work. She caught herself quickly, but not before the figure had heard it. Sighting her hidden behind shelving racks, he – Winnie felt somehow that it was a he – growled and yanked the obstacles away. As soon as a path was cleared he was on her, hand to her throat and pushing her back against more unforgiving metal racking. The grip was vicelike.
“No, please! I’ll do anything!...” She could’ve cringed at how pathetic she sounded, the cliched phrases spilling out thoughtlessly. It was enough, however, and her mystery assailant retracted the hand slightly. He stared at her, and she stared at him, panting to regain her breath. Those eyes were pretty expressive despite their mismatched size.
The curious gaze hardened, and the left hand came closer again, but this time to jab a finger in the air at her. ‘You’, that was clearly inferred by the pointing. She nodded to signal that she understood.
It swept back to the side, the right arm also opening out slightly. That was less concrete. It kind of looked like he was opening his arms for a hug. Wait, was that it? Did he want to be hugged? It seemed ludicrous, but he did seem to be pretty upset. Hugging always made her feel better. And she had said anything.
Edging forward slowly, Winnie embraced the nightmarish being. At first contact he stiffened, tense. Unused to being touched, she assumed. She gently tightened her grip. Shortly, he huffed out a breath that ruffled strands of hair coming loose from her ponytail, and relaxed into it. Gingerly, his arms encircled her too. She leant her head against his shoulder to show she didn’t mind the reciprocation. He made a contented vocalisation.
They stayed like that for a moment or two, before he folded his arms back away from her. She released him and stepped back, looking to judge his reaction.
He met her eyes, and she saw confusion within. He slowly shook his head and mimed putting on a coat.
He wants his things! It was so blindingly obvious now, he’d been gesturing at the wider room because he didn’t know where to look. Win, you complete idiot. She blushed bright red and hurriedly grabbed the Mitchell house items from where she had left them, assuming that perhaps he was the perpetrator of those strange and vicious crimes. Her assumption was correct; the coat was snatched out of her grip, bag ripped open and dumped on the floor. She watched him awkwardly shrug it on and fasten it, cringing in embarrassment. Hugging a murderer. Great job.
A hand shot out to demand his gloves, again aggressively taken once offered. The careful way he ensured they were on properly made her feel something. Stop that. Just because the stupid hug felt good. All hugs feel good. It doesn’t mean anything.
Her inner monologue caused her to miss his gesture for the dagger, and he snapped his fingers impatiently to get her attention. She jumped, and almost threw the last bag at him. Once out, the blade was treated reverently. He looked at it like greeting an old friend, before running a leather-clad finger along the edge to ensure it hadn’t dulled or been damaged. The shaped hilt was then firmly grasped. She caught the look of satisfaction in the larger eye as his fingers settled into the ridges, testing the grip with a brief strike – thankfully not in her direction.
She expected him to immediately leave, goal now met. Instead, he turned back to her. Winnie felt certain in that moment that he was going to skewer her on that beautiful, weird thing because of what she’d done. She was so mortified that it almost felt justified. He reached out the arm not holding the weapon and gently patted her on the head. Then he stomped out of the room in a whirl of leather towards the next goal – the exit, probably.
She released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and tried not to sink to the floor from sheer relief.
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