The Exception

"Hannibal, not now. I told you, I don't feel like playing today."

"Come on, Mischa. Please. Just because you're twelve doesn't mean you can't play."

She finally gave in to her little brother, and tossed the tiny ball at her feet back to her brother ,who was patiently waiting across the room. He picked it up and laughed.

"Oh, Mischa. You always do what other people want you to do."

Mischa Lecter did not look like she was forty-two. On the contrary, she had the looks, physical strength, and mental function of someone half her age. Her appearance, mixed with her Lithuanian accent that most mistook for Russian, gave many people the idea that she was some sort of mail-order bride, not the accomplished psychiatrist, artist, and musician that she was. Her long black hair stayed true without the use of dye, and her unique eyes were without crow's feet. Her boyfriend of six years, Jack Crawford, often teased her about staying so young, and she always attributed her youthful appearance to a healthy diet and to the cold Baltic winters she endured as a child.

"Jack, dear, what would you like for dinner?" she called from her dressing room. She heard him shuffle the newspaper around, sit his coffee down on the table, as well as put his reading glasses down. He would be working late. He wouldn't be coming to explain in person if he would be on time.

"Actually, I think I may be at the office a little late tonight. We've got something that could be interesting that I want to follow up on," he explained while leaning on the door post. "I am very sorry."

She turned and gave a half smile. "That's the third time this week. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had another woman," she said with a cocked eyebrow. For a moment, he paled, but she smiled, letting him know that it was all in a joking manner. He crossed the room and knelt in front of her.

"I know this week is hard for you. It's been, what, thirty years since he died? But it's always hard when you lose someone you love. You were so close with your brother, and to watch him die-that must've been unbearable." Mischa stiffened, and Jack stood to put his arms around her. "I didn't mean to bring that back. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."

She lifted a hand and placed it on Jack's head. "It is perfectly alright. Like you said, it has been nearly thirty years. I found a way to deal with my grief a long time ago." She stood along with him, and after embracing for a moment, she broke free. "Hurry now. You'll be late to work," she kissed his cheek. "Go catch a psychopath for me."

He chuckled, but quickly fell serious. He grabbed her hand. "Mischa, what I do is dangerous. You knew that when you first met me. I see horrible things every day, and sometimes, I bring them home with me. It's hard to escape things like that. For years, you've dealt with the nightmares and the late hours and the ever so present risk of one of them coming after you to get to me. But you've never flinched. You've kept me sane all these years."

She was flattered, but taken aback. Jack was not the kind of person that spilled his feelings to anyone. His job working in the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI didn't allow room for displays of emotion. Working with psychopaths day in and day out, he ran too high of a risk of becoming compromised. After years, his way of hiding emotions had become a permanent trait. He had taken great precautions with their relationship to keep Mischa safe, even refusing marriage, a notion that she shared, but not on the grounds of her safety.

"Jack, what is this about? You never say things like this."

He kept his head down as he continued speaking, "I'm worried about this one, Mischa. This new one...he...to put it simply, we don't know what he is."

"Excuse me?"

"We don't know what kind of killer he is. Our profilers are placing him somewhere in the neighborhood of a psychopath, but he doesn't quite fit the mold," Crawford ran his hands through his hair, then removed his glasses to rub his eyes. After a week of putting in impressive amounts of overtime, he was exhausted and frustrated.

"He does not have to be a perfect psychopath to still be a psychopath, you know. I am a psychiatrist, dear. I know quite a bit about these things. You could bring me in and let me look-"

"No." Jack cut her off, "I am not bringing you on." He softened his tone, and took her by the hand once more. "I don't doubt your ability as a doctor. You're very good at what you do, one of the best in this part of the country. But I will not let you close to this sort of case. It's too dangerous. Now, that being said, I'm off. I'll see you when I get home this evening."

Mischa stared after him, not in a longing manner, but more in an inquisitive daze. He told her not to concern herself with this case, but she knew she had to do something about it. It was too dangerous for Jack. She took a deep breath, and pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail, her mind already spinning. It was time to get to work, because she knew how hard it would be to stop a train once it's already on the tracks.