The Sound of the Rising Sun

by audenwood

A fallen angel wages destruction of humankind because it knows no other way. But the fallen angel's present saga is reaching its end. Living in the now are two men, a psychiatrist and a retired FBI criminal profiler, and they must learn to construct after the pivotal downfall.

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I. Disorder of the Soul

A fallen angel wages destruction on humankind because it knows no other way.

He has lost his wings and cannot fly away to another, higher plane of existence. This is devastating for the celestial being. His heart breaks with each day. His soul struggles to stay intact.

Fragmentation is not instantaneous, it is a progression and it is the definition, the epitome, the very embodiment of pain and he cannot allow for it to happen to him.

And yet the fallen angel falls in love with the mortality that surrounds him, and it seduces him with its uncanny resilience that exists alongside its uncanny fragility. He becomes a conductor because he does not see satisfaction in creating – he finds pleasure in orchestrating. All his life, he searches for musicians to place on his stage and finds them everywhere, all around, identifying them by biting words or malicious stares or beautiful faces or beautiful words or this or that and so it goes.

As it happens, the fallen angel reaches his long awaited apogee when he meets a man, and the man fascinates him and excites him and he knows that this is how he will write the culminating point of his lifelong magnum opus –

He will help this man.

There are a multitude of people in the way and he gets rid of them, utilizing the best method he knows, and this method is desolation because killing feels good to God, too.

And he would know.

Later, so much later, all he can see are the four walls around him and the white-smocked chests, unkind faces, stern lips that mind him here.

It does not matter to the angel. He has finished his tour de force.

For those that felt his talons in their hearts –

This is not their ending.

II. Over the Counter, Over Their Heads

"It is a shame that in the end he did manage to leave his visible mark."

Two men sit on porch steps that lead up to a front door that belongs to a house that is placed in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere. Said house belongs to the man on the left – placid, dark eyes, brown curls, gaunt, bandages on his right cheek, hurting, aching, destroyed. To his right is another man – darker complexion, darker eyes, darker hair, square build, dead eyes, bullet-scarred face and mahogany cane still in hand, equally destroyed.

Will Graham does not reply to Frederick Chilton's statement.

And so Frederick continues, unperturbed. "I took a walk the other day. Somehow I found myself at my old workplace. It was a surreal experience. For a moment, I did not only believe that I could finally identify with one of my former patients, but in fact I felt that I was more than qualified to become a patient myself."

A pause, then resume. "Later on, I passed by a newspaper stand. As per usual, he was on the cover, still fresh news, of course. And as it happened, there was a story on Francis Dolarhyde, as well. In that moment, you see, everything felt acutely like reality, and—"

"—you felt the need to call on me," Will drones, "because you want to apologize."

Frown lines etch onto a face. "Yes. That is correct."

Will shakes his head slowly and the action is enough to lull Frederick into silence. "There's no need, Frederick."

Neither talks for a tedious span of five seconds and Frederick looks around the snow-covered landscape, rich in white ice. January has arrived, and the precedent to this new time of peace was a mess of chaos. They both think back to it in this moment, and like a rushed slideshow of gruesome crime scene visuals, the sequences that make up everything flash before their eyes.

"I feel as if I must."

"Consider us even," Will says. "We were pieces on his chessboard. That was established. What's done is done and everything that happened during that time should be forgotten."

"Will Graham," Frederick begins. "A very massive wrong does not create an excuse. Grander chaos or not, I still acted in a manner that can never be acceptable, and I apologize."

"I just told you – forget about it."

Frederick turns his very best analysis voice on without meaning to and without noticing that he has done so. "Perhaps I will eventually be able to, yes. But you, Mr. Graham, never will."

"And that doesn't mean that it isn't something that should be forgotten, anyway. Don't pull that tone on me, Chilton," Will says, and he is bitter. "I don't believe you came here for an apology, at any rate. It's something else that you're after."

"If you're suggesting that I still hold professional curiosity about you, then I must inform you that I no longer—"

"Lord forbid," Will shakes his head. "No, that isn't it."

"You're the one that can assume any viewpoint. Enlighten me about my true motives?"

"Only time can reveal now, doctor," Will pulls a grimace that almost looks like an amused smile. "Didn't you hear? I just retired."

III. "We must love one another or die."

Down the hallway of a place that holds an overwhelming tide of pain-tinted memories strides Frederick Chilton, impeccably dressed, holding his stance as if he is still the orchestrator of his facility.

Alana Bloom is behind him, Will Graham at her side. She is still beautiful and she has been deemed disabled after her back-breaking fall, if only just. A cane, not as expensive as the one in Frederick's hand, supports her. Her arm is linked with Will's. Frederick does not look at them, as he is too busy staring ahead, but he thinks, for a moment, that they must look like bride and groom, both of them sad and sick, walking to their doom at a hellish altar.

Once outside, Frederick winces at the gray skies that seem to be ceaseless in their dominance since the fateful incarceration of a reputable man – there were many fateful incarcerations in the fresh past, but this one was by far the most potent and it had rendered the skies ashy in its wake.

"Paperwork," Frederick says, because he knows that neither Will nor Alana will opt to utter anything, "Does it feel, to either of you, like he planned this out to the very last minute? Three months since January and they're still dragging us back for paperwork."

Two silent doves, eaten alive from the inside and clinging to each other although they know that they will never cling to each other in the way that they once wished to do so.

Freddie Lounds, able-bodied and pretty and curly-haired, wears a black leather jacket and her arms are crossed at the bottom of the steps. Immediately, she takes a few steps up, and with only a few words she is the one to support Alana Bloom.

"Thanks," Alana says, looking vaguely disinterested. Her voice, since the fall, has adopted a tone comparable to perhaps the likes of an iron tool.

Strange thing, these two. Since everything occurred, she has become Alana's guardian, always at her side, always driving her to things such as these, where Alana has to be reminded of her past tragedies. It is not that Alana requires a guardian; quite the contrary. She is capable despite her fragile body. Her broken bones do not constitute an equally broken mind. A few believe that Alana has developed a distrust of men that can be easily justified, considering, but in reality, the two unlikely souls found each other by miserable circumstance and have begun to settle, and it is for the best.

At the present moment, they are the only ones gifted with this.

"It's a pleasure to see you, Mr. Graham," Freddie says, glint in her eye long gone, forcibly buried with a little Hobbs girl and new lights shed upon a ruthless case. Her colored pupils flicker over to Frederick, shared experiences between them failing to be a reason for familiarity and anything more than pleasantries. "And you, Dr. Chilton."

"Hello, Freddie," Will says. Frederick nods as greeting. Alana leans on Freddie far more heavily than she dared to lean on Will in more than one sense, and the two men stop out of grace to allow the two women to walk down the small set of steps first, red nails belonging to Alana Bloom treading on the metal railing.

She used to be one for brighter conversation. It breaks both of their hearts, in varying degrees and ways.

Will fixes his gaze on Frederick for a moment; it seems to take him time to focus the picture. Frederick, in turn, avoids the gaze and begins the trek to his car, cane tapping persistently at his side. He is neither surprised nor expecting it when Will follows, almost directly next to him but really trailing behind, hands in pocket and eyes on the concrete. He takes it in stride.

Frederick fishes for his keys in his pocket, wraps his hold around them, and unlocks his car. Before getting in, he turns, opting for courtesy, and sees Will, a few feet away now, having stopped before reaching the other man's car.

"Sorry," Will says, and he upholds eye contact. It is a new skill that he has managed to learn, likely out of a growing apathy. "How are you doing?"

He wants to make sure that Frederick is not bothered by having to revisit Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It is a nice gesture. Frederick is almost touched, but Will is unnervingly unwavering in his new, developing countenance, and he is not sure why he cares.

The psychiatrist coughs again, thrice, and holds his hands in front of lips to avoid the spread of germs. Then he says, "It's alright. I dealt with the PTSD right after I was let out. I'm still quite capable, Will."

"I don't doubt that, Frederick." Will raises an eyebrow, then sighs. "I'd love to hold you further, but I have to go. It's important."

"I'll be seeing you," Frederick says as he takes his seat and places his cane on the place meant for a passenger to his right. "It's certain that they, the dreaded higher authorities, will find a reason to drag back key witnesses for something else."

With that, Will chuckles and walks away, and Frederick pulls out of the parking lot. A fraction of nostalgia tugs at his heart. He indulges it in feeling but chokes back a sob.

IV. The Tragedy of Beauty

Will Graham, buried under a wool sweater and a cargo green jacket in the unforgiving early April breeze, sees a plain-clothed Frederick Chilton contemplating over a bag of lettuce and a bag of spinach at the grocery store. It is a shocking and completely endearing visual that stops him on his journey to pay for his singular item.

"Hi."

Eyes widen and Frederick starts before shaking his head and huffing when he realizes that is it Will speaking.

"Goodness," he says, rather exaggerated. "Hello, Mr. Graham."

Will gestures towards the plastic-wrapped vegetables. "Seems like you were in the middle of a difficult decision."

"Yes, well," Frederick shrugs. "My esteemed colleague, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, is treating me to this week's groceries, so I think I'll just take both."

"That's right," Will nods. "You chose to sue."

"You didn't." A bland statement, not a question. Frederick's eyes wander over Will for a moment, as if he is trying to figure out what strange cosmic forces have aligned to allow them to stand in front of vegetables at a grocery store and engage in civilized small talk, then returns to the goods in his hands.

"It would have been too much trouble."

"To each their own," Frederick says. He finally yields to his internal conflict, and he places both of the packages in his shopping basket, a violet thing with a metal handle that he holds in the hand that is not grasping a wooden handle.

It takes longer than it should.

"Here." Will takes the basket before Frederick can raise a cry in protest, and he leaves the older man with an open jaw and stern eyes. But he chooses not to argue, and shakes his head and emits a tut before gesturing for the other man to follow.

"You're going to find me a hellish person to shop with," he tells him, because he owes Will that much. "I will admit that I take eternities to make my selections."

"That much is easy to figure out," Will says, falling in step with him, the unspoken even for me floating above their hands, mutually known. Their loafers tread on the linoleum flooring, shiny underneath the ugly yellow lights and stark white plaster on the ceiling. "But I'm very patient."

"We'll see," Frederick says, an omen in his voice. He turns at the aisle that has a bright red sign hanging over it, announcing that this is where customers can find COFFEE, PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY, and CEREAL. "We're a good distance from your home. What brings you here?"

Will offers his explanation and says, "Jack called me in to inform me of something very irrelevant to my current interests, and I was out of milk."

There is, indeed, a carton of milk in the hand that he raises to awkwardly tug at his cheek, heavily scarred from the stab it took from the Red Dragon. The bandages are newly off, and he is beginning to heal. This is a word thrown loosely when used in reference to Will Graham's face; yes, the wounds could have been definitely been much worse, he could have taken a knife to his entire face and ended up look like Pablo Picasso took a blood crimson paintbrush and used Will as the canvas for his new abstract masterpiece, but Francis Dolarhyde only managed to drag the knife across the right side of his face before his life was blown out of him by a deafening shot. The result is dramatic, true, but at the very least the injuries do not cover an extensive space. He was privileged to that point, and not very much fortunate beyond that.

Frederick's own face still suffers where he was struck by the bullet during a time that feels like it passed centuries ago. Together, they must be quite the sight. It is fortunate that the store, on this Wednesday afternoon, is only scarcely populated.

"I would ask what happened to come about," Frederick says, "but I am, after all, trying to eliminate this all from my life. At your offhand suggestion, no less. Miss Lounds proposed that we collaborate on a book, considering the fiasco with Abel Gideon, and she almost convinced me. I did, ultimately, come to conclude that despite it all, I would rather not see a testimony to Hannibal Lecter come about in the mass market written word on my account."

"You're a wise man, Dr. Chilton," Will tells him.

"At the very least we both still have that, don't we?"

"At the very least."

"Mild or bold?" Frederick holds up two heavy bags of ground coffee of the most expensive brand that this grocery branch carries.

"I'd go for mild," Will says.

"I'd have guessed the former would be your preference," Frederick says. "I do have a taste for bold, however – I find myself trusting your judgment as of late. I think I'll take both again."

He tosses them both into the shopping basket. Will's eyebrow raises and Frederick turns his attention to the jelly.

Frederick scans the variety and picks up a container of all-natural peach jelly. It is placed with his other items, and he then chooses a jar of strawberry preserves, holding it next to a jar of cherry preserves.

"I always purchase peach without question," he says, "but it is a struggle to choose what other flavor I should choose."

"I regret to inform you that I am not an authority on jelly," Will says. Hearing himself say the word jelly makes him uncomfortable. For a few moments, he is Will Graham from 'before' and he is in shocked awe that he is here, standing next to a psychiatrist that he once deemed immoral and indeed detested with passion, musing over what flavor of toast spreading should be chosen. But he resumes the role of Will Graham from 'after' and shakes his head. "Cherry?

More contemplation, and then Frederick gives a curt nod. "Very well."

He sets off in search of pasta and finds it three aisles over. It takes him ten minutes to choose between gluten-free penne and gluten-free rotini. It comes time to approach the question of what sauce: four cheese or classic marinara?

"I am trying to stay away from dairy," Frederick sighs, and then places the jar of marinara sauce next to the peach jelly.

The next thing he has his eye on is procuring bread – sourdough or wheat? – and then it is juice: apple or orange? Wheat and orange prevail and the two men stalk off to the cash registers, where there is no line to wait in and only one cashier on duty. She looks bored, twirling her black curls with thin fingers that are capped with long red nails, and she is staring into space with her brown eyes as Frederick throws in two packs of mints from the selection atop the fading conveyer belt that he begins to place his groceries on with one hand and help from Will.

"Sixty-eight dollars and ninety-five cents is your total," she says.

He produces a crisp hundred from his wallet, unflinching and unembarrassed, and hands it over. She places it where it belongs and hands him his change.

"Thank you."

Will pays for his carton of milk quickly, offers to help Frederick with his two loaded bags, and is refused – no, thank you, he can carry them himself, Will has already helped enough, it's fine.

"I'll walk you to your car," Will says.

"I walked," Frederick says, readjusting his hold on the wooden cane. "It's just a ten minute journey to my home. I've been walking a lot lately. It's good meditation."

Will is silent for a moment. "Well. Alright then."

Somehow it is not enough for either of them, and as they walk down the lanes of varying cars, Will speaks up again.

"Can I offer you a ride home?"

"I don't very much wish to go home, to be quite frank."

Again, silence; and again, it is not enough. "Come with me for a bit, and then I'll drive you home."

Frederick takes a deep breath and looks over in the direction of his home – newly purchased, scarcely furnished, smaller than the last, void of past tragedies, horribly unfamiliar. It would be ten minutes, that's all, and he's carried heavier bags home before. He doesn't understand why he is being so frank with Will Graham, but it must be because of the shared experiences, and it would, ultimately, be better for him to avoid entanglement with another veteran of the Lecter Experience.

So, naturally, he says, "That is a much better offer."

They waste no time in arriving at Will Graham's car, unimpressive and cozily warm, a nice change from the atmosphere outside. There is a modest bouquet of white carnations on the passenger seat. Frederick eyes them when he opens the door, placing his two bags on the floor in front of the seat.

"I'm not intruding on your evening plans, am I?" Frederick asks Will, who shakes his head in response to the question, already in his seat.

"They're not for anyone that you can intrude on," he says, and that is all he says, and Frederick feels a chill crawl up his spine before loading himself into the car and buckling his seat belt accordingly and then placing his hands on his lap.

"I have a, uh, stop to make," Will is blundering for the first time during this continuing exchange. "It'll be quick, I just – I was in the area, so."

He does not offer anything more, just that, and only because he notices Frederick regarding the flowers in the interior rear-view mirror, as they are now placed in the back passenger seats. Frederick says little, just voicing his okay, and the car tumbles down streets. For a while, there is the distinct smell of gasoline in the air, seeping through susceptible, small openings in the car, and it is coming from a horrendous gas-guzzler of a car that lugs in front of them for several blocks before they finally drive their separate ways. It is a relief.

Then they arrive at a cemetery.

Frederick leers, he cannot help it, but to his credit he does not say anything. Part of him knows, anyway.

"I'll be back," Will says, hiding his hurt in a formal tone. He exits, opens the back door, collects the flowers, and clumps off.

For all of thirty seconds, Frederick watches him falter over the carefully trimmed greenery, studying his unsteady posture, the tension in his shoulders. He ponders – how many times has Will Graham done this, alone and cold, flowers in hand and the definition of anguish written clear across his face for the entire world to see if anyone cared enough to glance at him for longer than a passing second for fear of insulting him and giving him the impression that they are ogling his marred cheek?

It is the inevitable answer that prompts him to pull a handle, stick his cane out and place it on the uneven gray, and carefully lower himself on the ground before stumbling after the man.

His destination is not far from the location of the car. It is a beautiful white marble stone, paid for by Will Graham and Alana Bloom and Freddie Lounds, a humble testament to someone who died before their time but would not have wanted statues in her name to rise to the sky.

Abigail Hobbs, it reads, and next to her is a murky gray slab: Louise Hobbs.

Will realizes that Frederick has joined him, but he does not acknowledge him nor does he think much of it. He simply removes the wilting gladioluses from the little vase encased partly in the ground that is meant for this exact purpose and replaces them with the fresh carnations.

He murmurs something, quietly, meant for him to know only in his heart, and it does not register in Frederick's mind what he has just said.

Several minutes pass by, fleeting as all time is, and it is here that time escapes Will Graham. Once, three months ago, he fell asleep crouched the way that he is now, and the sky was darkening when an employee shook him awake gently and politely asked if he would leave, please. Today he is not lacking in sleep, which is rare, but it allows him to consciously and totally feel the scope of his mourning. He cannot let Abigail Hobbs go, never, even if he knows that he must eventually let her rest in peace wherever she is now. For the time being, he does this, and there is no harm in it and it settles the storms in his heart for a bit.

Maybe he is selfish.

A funeral is taking place many paces over. It is small and unassuming. There is the faint sound of moderate sobbing. The party is dressed in black, as per usual. It stirs up memories of Abigail's procession. Will Graham, Alana Bloom, Freddie Lounds, Frederick Chilton, Brian Zeller, Jimmy Price, Jack Crawford – tears initially fell only from the face of Freddie Lounds, and she was still as silent in her grief as they all were. And later, when Will was left with only Alana and Freddie and Jack, he cried, and it was not as elegantly soundless as the journalist's act of deploring and afterwards he felt the beginnings of solace.

A young couple, arm in arm, pass by, both wearing street clothes. They have come to mourn someone long ago deceased, and they both look at peace. Will envies them, just a tad.

Frederick tries not to look at Will, on his knees in front of a stone and inexpensive flowers. Will was wrong, of course, he realizes this now.

The flowers were not, in fact, for someone he cannot intrude on. They were, in truth, for Will, and in this moment he is most certainly intruding and it feels acutely wrong, wrong, wrong.

To leave him would be a million infinities more fallacious.

Of course, he does find himself observing the man, and he feels sad. He has not felt sadness very abundantly in a long, long time. It has only been gnawing guilt and terrible emptiness that have victimized him.

Twenty minutes in, Will stands and straightens, flexing his arms, shaking them out of the sharp feeling that comes with being folded for stretches of time.

"I—"

That is all he gets in before Frederick shakes his head. "I understand. Don't explain."

Will is solemn. He stuffs his hands into their respective pockets, in his thick cargo jacket, and closes his eyes. Before beginning on his private, internal monologue, he nods. "Thank you, Frederick."

Two men stand in a cemetery and do not throw words into the open for fear of disturbing something already amiss in the air.

This place, Will thinks, is disconsolate and dismal, and those things wrap themselves around anyone who enters. But despite this, or because of this, it is so blatantly well-kept and alluring in appearance, with tall oak trees springing from the horribly alive blades of grass that raise their little frames off the ground to reach for the hiding sun, and daffodils grow in sporadic patches as if the essence of every soul did not dissipate but instead became this, this lovely scenery that belongs to a place where death lies. Juxtaposition at its highest peak. He visited Shiloh once, and standing in the thick of death's inhabitance he marveled at the sharpness of contrast.

This place parallels the essence at the core of Shiloh.

I miss her. Will could say that aloud, see what happens, observe if he spontaneously combusts at the weight of his admission. Or – She meant more to me than she knew. She meant more to me than even I knew. I stay up at night and wish that I will somehow return to that night, and I will be the one to have my throat slit and she will be the one to receive the non-fatal stab; he was a fan of odd gestures, why wasn't irony a favored concept of his, in the end? I do not crave death, I do not welcome death, but I would trade my life for hers because she deserves it and that is enough. And on top of everything, after a year of introspection –

"—I know I couldn't have saved you," he finishes. No questions are raised.

He signs off with a deep breath and a promise in his mind, projected towards Abigail wherever it is she resides now – be it in a decaying body underneath dirt or a heaven that exists after all – to return in a few days' time.

Goodbye until then, Abigail Hobbs.

They return to the car and Will clutches the gladioluses to his chest. The dying petals make faint crunching noises. Later he will throw them into the plains – sans the plastic and tissue paper wrappings that belong in a trash bin – surrounding his home that are becoming a graveyard for frail bouquets. Now, he places them at his feet and begins to drive.

V. Raw Nerves

Frederick makes a killer salad, in a different way than that of Hannibal Lecter.

Will tells him this, exactly, and at his old and used kitchen table in the dim light of a lamp in the corner they both laugh even though they find little humor in that after a moment's reverie. But they still chuckle, and Frederick moves his head in a gesture that says, I cannot believe.

It's like two discharged soldiers after a long, weary battle. They are in awe of domesticity, a concept that they had nearly forgotten. To live in serenity again, without gunshots in the air and the terrible stench of the dying, is remarkable. And when they think about the bullets that they somehow dodged, when they think of the odds that played in their favor, they laugh because they are still alive.

VI. Mime the feelings if you can't find words.

Three rings persist, and a fourth is ready to begin when it is stifled and the sounds of quiet human life make themselves heard on the other line.

"Hello, Will."

Jack Crawford rubs at his brow, and he wears dark circles underneath red eyes. Will can't see this, of course, but he knows that it is true.

"Hi, Jack," he says. "How are you?"

Then he slaps his forehead because he is so dumb and so terrible at expressing what is it he wants to express.

"Cut to the chase," Jack's voice is sharp. "And I don't want your condolences."

Will is silent. Then, even though Jack has made himself very clear, he says, "I'm sorry, Jack."

"So is the rest of the goddamn world."

He tugs at a thread in his aging plaid shirt, and one of his dogs trots up to him, red ball in mouth, ready to play. Will shakes his head because he always expects his dogs to understand him and often times they do. This is one of those times, and she scuttles off, nails clipping against the wooden flooring.

Her name is Applesauce. Alana moved to an apartment with Freddie a week and three days ago, on Thanksgiving Day, and could no longer keep her.

"I worry, Jack," Will says, cautiously, "because circumstances are different now, and I can allow myself to do that with free reign. And one of the things I worry about is how you insist on working when your wife died last night."

"The world of law enforcement doesn't pay mind to human sympathies, Will," Jack is biting and cold. "And we don't all retire early."

"Now, Jack…"

"I know it's not a fair card to play, but it's out there for just that," Jack says, "I understand your reasoning. We all do. It would just be appreciated if you offered at least general insight from time to time."

"That's not what I'm calling about," Will stands up from the armchair and roams around the living room, running his hand on his dusty mantle and peering at the grains of gray on his fingers. The wall above it is the newest fixture in the house.

"Of course it isn't," Jack says.

"I just," Will does a movement with his hand even though Jack cannot see him do this. "… care."

"Common knowledge."

"Jack," Will changes his tone so that he sounds insistent. "Take a day off."

But Jack can counter that tone any day. "I'll do what I feel is right."

Will is the one to rub at his brow now. He circles the room once, then continues with, "I've been thinking, since the formal end of this all. Alana has made her peace and I'm trying to make my own. You haven't tried to do that at all. It's your way of coping, but it won't work forever."

All Will can hear is muffled sounds for many seconds because Jack places the telephone, receiver facing down, on the desk and places his face in his hands. Someone comes up to his door, he sees their feet stopping some of the light in the space between the door and the ground, and they likely raise a fist to knock, but they decide against it and leave without bothering him.

Someone in the world still has some semblance of sense, he thinks, and then he picks up the phone again.

"I've got a job to do."

Suddenly his dogs start barking, and in the peak of the four o' clock sun that streams through the sitting room windows, Will has an incredulous thought – Hannibal Lecter has broken out of his prison cell, he has found his way here, this is how he will die after everything.

But it isn't Dr. Lecter. He can tell as soon as he strides out of the living room and pulls back, slightly, the curtains of a window that looks out onto his porch and into the December snow. It is a familiar car, and the driver's door opens, and before anything else he sees the end of a mahogany stick. This distracts him.

He opens his mouth, still peering out the window, and says, "One would assume—"

"When you assume, you make an ass out of 'u' and 'me' both."

With that, there is only a dial tone.

One can only do so much.

Will places the wireless phone where it belongs and opens the door before Frederick Chilton can knock. In fact, when he does this, the man is still clambering up the porch steps, holding a wide red bowl with a clear plastic covering. He is almost half-asleep, a zombie walking on two feet. He did not sleep last night. Nightmares, persistent thoughts, the usual onslaught that both of them know all too well.

"By all means, come in," Will says.

"Hello," Frederick does not flush, that would be unseemly, but he does concentrate his stare on the ground instead of meeting Will's eyes. "I thought to call but didn't. I brought a salad."

"This is bribery," Will says, meeting Frederick at the top of the steps and taking the salad. "You do realize this?"

"I'm a self-indulgent man," Frederick says in a drone.

A faint smile graces the curly-haired man's face, and he motions for Frederick to enter before him. He does, and Will closes the door behind him.

"Before you ask, because I am aware that you will," Will says, "no, you haven't interrupted anything."

"Good," Frederick says. "I can sleep with a clean conscience tonight, then, thank you."

"You would do so regardless."

"I would, assuming sleep allows me to participate in it tonight."

The salad bowl is placed in the center of Will's table, and they both stand in the kitchen and stare at it for a minute before raising their eyes and aligning them.

"What bid you to come today, then?" Will asks.

"Over the course of a year and as a result of several shared experiences that cannot be easily put out of one's mind," Frederick sighs, as if he is admitting to a terrible tragedy, "it seems that I have grown to enjoy your company."

"No," Will feigns shocked disbelief. "Unbelievable."

"Isn't it just?"

"Truly," Will steps forward, lets his raw emotions decide the next course of action, and presses his mouth against chapped lips that belong to Frederick Chilton, his old psychiatrist of all people. Their noses bump in the process. Frederick sucks in a deep breath when it happens, and it takes him three seconds to finally close his eyes. They pull apart mutually.

"I wasn't," Frederick blinks, "suggesting – I didn't mean—"

"I know."

Frederick's eyelashes meet the bottom of his eyes twice more, it's a nervous habit, he can't help it. He places a hand on the back of Will's head, feeling mussed curls twirl around his fingers, feels a potent thrill, feels a little nauseous, barely dares to breathe, doesn't do anything but that; and once again Will is the one to coax them together, and this time they move in sync and Will finds a place for his hands: left on the waist, careful for fear of brushing over acquired scars; right on a shoulder, firm in its grasp. Frederick is still at first – Will is the one to tilt his head for a better angle. But Frederick catches on, he always does, even if he doesn't quite get everything at the initial point, at its onset, and he begins to feel desperation, and Will feels him feel it and it is contagious.

The scent of Will is a result of a recent shower. Frederick inhales the subtle mint fragrance of his shampoo, the matching mint essence of his soap. It is intoxicating because of how simple it is to breathe and breathe that in – to breathe Will in. Will presses closer, plaid shirt to suit jacket and button-up top and gray tie to match it all. His beating heart, quick in pace and hard in intensity, comes to Frederick's attention and Will realizes this – he becomes embarrassed, and makes a move to distance himself enough so that his heartbeat will not betray him, and Frederick is not having that. He wraps his other arm around Will's back, keeping him close. His cane makes a loud clang on the floor and this calls on them to realize the full depth of the situation.

"I'm never forward," Will whispers against Frederick's mouth, moves his hand to press against his firm chest, making circles with this thumb, not yet too far gone to feel unsure.

"I'm never infatuated," Frederick retorts softly, but still biting in tone, and he gasps so quietly that it is hardly audible when Will kisses his cheek, kisses his chin, kisses his neck and settles there, a flurry of kisses.

In between this, he says, "I knew you were."

"Since when?" Frederick breathes.

"You asked me for my opinion on coffee." Will grants him this much, this crummy answer, this half-assed response; his mouth is occupied with making a painstakingly slow trek down the length of Frederick's neck.

This provokes Frederick enough to open his eyes, breaking out of the immersion. "I didn't even know, not then."

"I knew that too."

"Of course," Frederick closes his eyes, loses his hands in curls, gives himself to the man pressed full against him. "Of course you knew, even then."

Will moves his lips to the corner of Frederick's mouth. "Come on."

He wraps his right hand into Frederick's left and pulls him out of the kitchen, into the messy living room, up the stairs. As they enter the bedroom, Frederick's hand tightens in Will's hold. This is going too fast. He is going to tell him this. He can't go through with this. Not yet, not at this moment –

"You have to go to sleep," Will says.

"What?"

"Insomnia is a symptom of trauma," Will leads Frederick to the bed, clumsily made, and pulls the comforter out of its tucked position before pushing him down to sit with insignificant force: Frederick's exhaustion is enough to make him complacent. "You think too much. You have bad dreams."

"'Bad dreams,'" Frederick mumbles, "is an oxymoron."

Will smiles, and this time it is more than something almost akin to a smile that simply flashes for a moment before it is gone. "I'll get you something. Wait a minute."

He opens his chest of drawers and emerges with a t-shirt and plaid pants, both meant for sleeping. Frederick leers and the prospect of sleep is so beautiful that he takes the articles of clothing despite his better judgment.

"Thank you, Will," he says, looking at the clothes instead of Will. He is still reeling from the previous event.

"I won't look," Will says, a tease in his voice that Frederick has become accustomed to.

Frederick surprises himself and says, "I don't mind if you do."

But Will turns around anyway, and Frederick is smart enough to recognize that isn't because he doesn't want to see him, it is because Will Graham is an old-fashioned romantic and he's guarding this moment for the future.

The change is quick. Frederick voices his completion, and Will takes the elegant outfit that Frederick folded and places it on top of his drawers.

"I enjoyed," Frederick begins, many minutes later when they both lie side-by-side in Will's bed, "what we did."

Will responds by clasping his hand and placing them both in between them, and Will's hand in his is all that Frederick is aware of as the orange afternoon light streaming in fades away behind his eyelids and he falls asleep.

VII. And if change, of all things, defines permanence…

In the early morning light, Frederick strokes strands of brown hair.

He does this because he wants to – has, indeed, wanted to – and because he can and both of these things form something that can only be called a marvel.

Feelings are a curious bundle of things. They can only be met subjectively. In fact, they define a subjective point-of-view, and they muddle reasoning and confuse logic.

To remember past relationships, he has to strain his memory because they were all insignificant or fleeting or sexual.

In the early morning light, he doesn't care to remember. He only wishes to do this, to feel Will Graham in every way. It does not frighten him. It does not daunt him. It welcomes him with open arms and he knows now that if he was meant for something other than psychiatry, he was meant for this.

Will's eyes open and he slurs, only fractionally awake. "Sleep, nngh."

"If you wish."

VIII. … then what is the reasoning behind settling?

It takes two weeks for them to get to that point.

Will Graham is a man of old morals and Frederick Chilton practices patience like religion. They both want to be sure.

And two weeks after the first bomb that drops, assurance drapes over them.

In the evening they are seated on Will's couch. His home is the center of both of their lives now. Frederick's house is cold and not very much of a home. Here, there is familiarity.

("May I use your shower please?" A bloodied shirt, the deafening barks, two framed murderers, thick snow icing all around, the freezing air. A new low, a momentous happening. The unspoken agreement: Lecter pawns have to be allies in this battle. If not them, then who?)

It's A Wonderful Life is playing out on the television screen, although neither of them are invested. They're just tired, that's all, and it's getting late and they're not tired enough to sleep and they're occupying their time with idle doings. The house smells of tomato. Frederick made dinner, as he is wont to do nowadays, and he made the sauce from scratch. Will praised it. Frederick was flattered.

They are not seated too close to each other because it simply happened that way, not because they are nervous. Neither of them expects anything out of tonight. At this point, they have both accepted that whatever will happen will happen when it is meant to happen.

All the same, they do both feel that certain itch.

Halfway through the film, Will turns his head and pays attention to Frederick instead. This convinces him of several things, and he formulates his course of action right before Frederick turns his own head.

"What?" Frederick asks. "Do I have—"

"No." Will shakes his head. "Here, I'm going to…"

He trails off and slides closer to Frederick, then down to his knees right before him and they both realize and accept that this is going to happen.

"Oh," Frederick says, just like that: oh. It is a reaction to the feel of Will's fingers undoing the button on his trousers, carefully and slowly pulling a zipper down, meeting the elastic of boxer shorts with hesitation.

"I do not want to do this here," Will says.

They meet chest to chest when they both stand, and Frederick, for the first time, initiates a kiss by closing his eyes and trusting himself to successfully find Will's mouth by leaning forward deliberately. He does succeed, he is only a little off, and Will is enthusiastic and this is when Frederick becomes aroused and gives the wheel over to emotion and instinct.

"To the bedroom we go," Frederick says. It makes both of them smile, and Will shakes his head. But they heed Frederick's words and walk up the stairs, this time not holding on to each other because they know that they will have the opportunity to do plenty of that later.

"I'm rusty," Will admits as they face each other, standing at the foot of his bed.

"That makes a club," Frederick says, running his thumb over Will's scarred cheek.

Lips come into contact, again; tongue comes into play at Frederick's prompting, and everything is playing out in slow-motion, surreal and distinctly real. There are contradictions all around. Incongruities are beginning to construe them.

Will pulls away, dragging out the motion, and Frederick takes his place on the mattress. Then Will sidles up next to him, rubbing his chest, and undoes two top buttons on Frederick's now untucked shirt.

"Wait." Frederick takes Will's hand to halt the action, intertwining their fingers to erase any conceptions about there being hostility in his words.

"You don't have anything I haven't been witness to," Will says, carefully, aware of the treacherous lands that he should not tread on, "including scars."

"It's, that is – forgive me for babbling, but the whole thing isn't," he struggles for a word and then settles for the mundane by finishing with, "… pretty."

"An eye for an eye," Will says, taking a cross-legged position. Frederick follows suit, and now they are seated across from each other, unrelenting eye contact in action. "You can view me, first."

"Alright," Frederick says, uncertain, and he plays a hand over Will's torso first. He feels. He thinks. Will rests his forehead against Frederick's. And then Frederick begins to undo his shirt – dark plaid – with care for each one. It takes him more than a full minute, purposely. The fabric slides off over Will's shoulder at the command of Frederick's fingers. Will straightens himself and this movement is really a dare.

Look.

"You're beautiful," Frederick tells him, and he kisses Will's collarbone.

Stirred by the hushed and sincere syllables, Will moves with a new aggression and he fixes Frederick so that the older man lies underneath him, breathing ragged, hair flopping and dusting over Frederick's forehead as he kisses it, then the bridge between his eyes, and his nose and his mouth and his chin and his throat. His hands do not have the care that Frederick's did when they coaxed the buttons apart from the holes. He is far more deliberate. Frederick's white shirt splays open and Frederick closes his eyes and a soft feeling moves over the incision that Abel Gideon made. This is what Will Graham knows to do – he is nonverbal when in the middle of heated actions, phrases fail to do what he knows his mouth excels at doing. But –

"I'd rather you not," Frederick whispers. Will does not protest; he listens, he stops, he kisses Frederick chastely and then resumes the work on Frederick's trousers that he began before. This time he is not hesitant, because he knows that this, for sure, is where it is going to happen. They don't have assisting materials, they didn't plan ahead. They don't have condoms, or lube. This time, they are going to have to rely on crude contact. Perhaps tomorrow they will make a trip to a drug store. But right now, in this moment, he does not think about this. His mind beats out a drum, persistently: Frederick, Frederick, Frederick.

Trousers disappear, boxers disappear, and before he does anything else, Will gets rid of the rest of his clothing. He always found it awkward when one of his partners remained partly clothed while he was nude, donning nothing, bare and saying with his lack of clothing: This is me. This is all I had in the beginning. Take it, adore it, or send me away now.

He does something wonderful and Frederick flinches.

This is the moment of blooming intimacy; they've both been racing towards something, and they didn't know what that something is, and now they've found it and this is much more than it seems.

The bedroom window allows moonlight to trickle in by the gallons, and this is how they see each other: basked in the smooth light of the country moon. Frederick is soft in the belly area, just a bit; he has kept in shape with his new appreciation for walking despite the protests of his rendered weak body. He is tan, naturally, but still too pale to blatantly display his ethnicity. He is decently endowed, nothing spectacular, eager when Frederick is eager and sometimes when he isn't; there is hair on his legs and his thighs are strong from the walking and his calves have reaped the benefits of his ponderings as well. In his youth he was slightly muscular. It doesn't show all too much now. His hair is bouffant, against the white pillow sheet, and a few strands fix themselves over his eyes. He did not even realize that his hair had gotten that long.

Will is thin, with shock white skin underneath his clothes, bony knees akin to those of a preteen and he has never had impressive muscles to show off. It is the way that he was made, by nature and science or by a God above but he is not sure if he can believe in a God anymore knowing that Hannibal Lecter does. There is the beginnings of facial hair appearing on his face, a consequence of forgetting to pick up a razor for the past few weeks. He is pretty enough to to boast about it; he also has a soft chest, a sharp collarbone, he is just about as endowed as Frederick. He is enthusiastic, he is turned on, he is ready to excite. This is a rare momentum. He grasps onto while he can, almost ravenous, until he realizes that it is not temporary.

Sex has never been his forte.

Frederick Chilton, on the other hand, just might be becoming that.

And they are both clumsy, at first. They need to reacquaint themselves with this. But old skills do not dissipate; after a few minutes, they are steady on their feet, and they are doing magnificent things.

"Will," Frederick says, not a call, nothing but a moan. Uninhibited. Pure.

Le petit mort – the little death – it is called, and with good reason. Frederick will swear, later on, that his heart stopped in the moment that they finished with each other for the first time.

"If that's what you consider rusty, Will," Frederick breathes, and he places a hand on his rambling heart, "I look forward to seeing what you are like when you are practiced. Goodness."

It is a reflection.

Frederick gathers Will in his arms. It is incredibly easy to do so; the younger man is built smaller. They fit into each other's crevices and they taste each other on roofs of mouths and swollen lips.

IX. Pillow Talk

"I sometimes think," Will begins, "about what would happen if he were to break out. You, Alana, Freddie, Jack, others – he would target the bothersome obstacles in his path first. And I would be the grand finale of his symphony."

"Very romantic topic."

"I'm serious, Frederick."

They look at each other in the beginnings of the morning sun, a strange deep blue light, and Frederick runs a finger over Will's bare chest.

"I imagine that in between, he would feel hungry and take out a few extra people on the side to make lunch," he regrets his words immediately even though Will chuckles, "but all joking aside, I do fear that he is capable of escaping."

"His capabilities are far beyond anything that I am able to perceive," Will becomes solemn and closes his eyes and leans into Frederick, wrapping his arm around him. His words are fractionally muffled. "He's like an injected drug streaming through my veins, and I go through the events, over and over in my mind – what could I have picked up on? There is nothing, because he made sure of that. And still I go over the facts, the details, the big picture, and search for discrepancies."

"It's alright," Frederick assures him, stroking his hair. "I understand far too well."

A few minutes later, after silence as drifted upon them, lazily – Frederick raises his voice again, a drowsy undertone and slight drag to his words. "You mentioned that you retired. I've been meaning to ask. Can you do that? Can you – cease your empathy?"

"No," Will's tired voice says, puffs of air against Frederick's throat. "Not my empathy, just my services. It would be ideal and very convenient if I were able to 'cease' my empathy. However, it resembles… a very unpredictable… engine in a car… except that it never runs the risk of stopping, only of going too fast or far too fast… and the car has no brakes… no brakes… brakes…"

It is the most frank that he has been with Frederick, verbally, thus far. His voice fades away as his eyelids flutter and close and he falls asleep, still holding onto Frederick because this moment, belonging to both of them, is a valuable anchor.

X. Carve His Name in Glittering Gold

"I don't think it's fair," Frederick casually remarks, "that you have uncanny insight into my current state of mind and I know next to nothing about what you truly feel."

Two days and an embarrassing amount of sex typical of hormonal college students and newlyweds later, it is noon on a Sunday morning and they have finally mustered the courage to creep out from under the covers and crawl into the kitchen, hidden under layers of clothes. Frederick is living off of borrowed clothes from Will, and this means thick, moth-eaten sweaters that smell like Will and make him want to burrow in further.

Will places a bowl of oatmeal and a slice of toast in front of Frederick, his own breakfast in his other hand, and takes his own seat before replying with, "You're capable of evaluating my present emotional state."

"If I were capable of approaching it objectively, yes," Frederick sniffs. "But it's freezing and I've experienced high levels of ecstasy recently. Feelings do tend to complicate matters."

A grin plays at Will's mouth. "I would think that every ridiculous thing I said in the shower twenty minutes ago would be enough to give it away."

"Darling, I don't ask for much."

A spoonful of oatmeal finds its way into Will's mouth and goes down his throat. He doesn't appear to be contemplating, he is simply figuring out the right way to phrase something he already knows is solid. At last, he finds the words, and he looks at Frederick, straight in the eyes, blue on green.

"I'm happy, Frederick. That's all."

XI. Cue the Conclusion of Lament

"Frederick!"

"Will, open the door."

"I'm in the shower. Get the door!"

"Should have invited me… I don't want to get up…"

"Get the door!"

Frederick bemoans his life choices as he rolls out from under the thick blankets and pulls on, very mechanically and without much care, a t-shirt from Will's drawer and a pair of sweatpants. This is not how he expected to spend Christmas morning.

Rather, he thought that Will would wake him up with kisses and a blowjob. Sorry for overestimating him. But it hardly matters.

He walks downstairs without rush. The doorbell rings for the fifth time. Will, upstairs in the shower, bangs the porcelain wall to let Frederick know that he should hurry up.

Of course, he doesn't, and by the time that he reaches the door, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and yawning with the force of a wild cat, Will's shower has silenced. He flips the various locks open, the doorbell rings again, and he mumbles various obscenities before pulling the door open for Jack Crawford.

"Jack," Frederick says, becoming very aware of his mussed hair, the bruise on his neck, the clothes that he is wearing, the I had great sex last night pheromones that he is no doubt emitting like crazy. And he says, again, "Jack."

Then he slams the door shut.

For all of twenty seconds, he grips at his hair with his hands and shakes his head. There isn't any other option other than running upstairs to Will and blubbering some excuse and that wouldn't even do anything because Jack already seen him. He opens the door after Jack presses the doorbell again.

"Sorry," he says. "Hello, Jack."

Jack does him the favor of not scrutinizing his appearance or his reason for being at Will Graham's home. "Good morning, doctor."

"Have you still not gotten the door?" Will trots down the stairs as Frederick is greeting Jack, sheepish. Will stops in his tracks and says, "Oh."

"Well," Jack says, and it is the only acknowledgment that he gives of the situation. Then he steps in, two crisp envelopes in hand: one red, one white. "Merry Christmas."

"From?" Will asks, because he knows it is not from Jack.

"The government, for wrongful incarceration," Jack holds up the white envelope. "Generally this doesn't happen, but you caught the most wanted criminal in the history of a damn long time, so certain strings were put into place and then pulled."

"Oh." Once again, that measly syllable. Will is uncomfortable with any form of compensation related to Hannibal Lecter. It shows.

"And this," Jack clears his throat, holds up the red envelope and walks forward, "is the reason I came personally."

Frederick closes the door behind Jack, eyeing the two warily.

"It's from Hannibal," Will says.

"Yes."

"They're allowing him to send correspondence?" Frederick is aghast.

Jack grimaces. "He's reaping the benefits of good behavior for the entirety of the year that he's been imprisoned."

Will takes both of the envelopes. His curly hair is wet and dripping onto his shirt. He studies them – then he opens the red envelope, gingerly, and unfolds the white paper encased within. It takes him only a handful of seconds to scan over it, pick out what is important, and then he looks up slowly, and turns to walk into the living room.

"I'm going to start a fire," Will says, faintly.

Jack and Frederick sit side by side on Will's couch as he does just that, and none of them say anything when he tosses the red envelope and its letter into the fire.

The flames are starved and deprived, and they do not agree with the paper, they are glad to see it go. They dance over it, a sacrificial ritual, then they engulf it, they consume it. The ink of the black felt-tip pen melts away with the white and red, and three men watch them go and say nothing.

XII. Donde hay amor, hay dolor.

Where there is love, there is pain.

The late Mrs. Chilton, clambering and ungraceful and straight to the point in every aspect of her life, was very fond of chiding Frederick when he would show the slightest bit of contempt for the amount of schoolwork he had to do if he wanted to follow in both his mother and father's footsteps and go to medical school or for the tut tuts that she gave him or this or that and everything else. And when he would falter, she would tell him – she would put a hand on his head, stern lips flat and angular and determined, and she would tell him: "No pongas esa cara, hijo. Necesitas entender que donde hay amor, hay dolor."

Will was not fortunate enough to have a parent that cared, and grew up with the knowledge that his father was a cold and distant being, and often times was very provoked when witnessing affection between a parent and a child when he was young and unable to comprehend anything beyond his tiny world of minutiae details. To compensate for this lack of sentimentality in his surroundings was the largest paradox one might ever hear of: Will Graham, despite his upbringing, was – from the very moment that he came into existence – a sufferer of what some call an empathy disorder and others call unrestricted imagination.

With each other they share everything, because it is necessary for their endurance. No Secrets is the policy, and both Will and Frederick abide by it. Frederick learns of Will's youth, of his desires, of his weaknesses and strengths, his first dog when he was eight years old that he had to give up because his father packed their bags and threw them in their car and said fuck it, they were moving. In turn, Will learns of Frederick's large Cuban family that he rarely talks to, of his dreams for the future, of his falters in the past, of the dissatisfaction being a surgeon brought him and his lack of talent for the field, his subsequent love for psychiatry.

One night, a year and a half after the capture of the psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham leads Frederick Chilton all around his little farm house and turns the light switches in every room up. Frederick is silent, only following behind Will loyally because that is what Will asked him to do. Then Will exits the house, leaving from the back door, which he does not lock but Frederick makes sure to close. It is then that he takes Frederick's hand, loosely. The two men amble across the fields, free of elevation, all flat and basking in the summer evening heat. The moon and the stars are their companions besides one another. No cars pass by Will's house, only the occasional car in the middle of the morning or afternoon, nobody wants to drive on empty roads at night, not with news of Hannibal Lecter and Francis Dolarhyde and Mason Verger and everyone else still being shown on the news, because people have a difficult time forgetting.

In the white light of the heavenly bodies, Will stops, and he turns to look back at his house – it is now a floating speck of light in the distance, yellow and warm. Frederick peers at the house, squinting to focus the image, and Will presses against his shoulder. They look at each other.

"People look at stars and they see hope in burning specks of gas," Will says. "The dark is just as welcoming, if not more so, than light. I, once, was unable to understand the solace to be found in light. I have come to understand the value of being able to see. One can never see enough."

He gestures at the house and continues, "Out here, knowing that I have a lighted home in the distance, no matter how far away, I feel solace, and I am finally able to comprehend. It is comforting, and I do this every so often, to remind myself that I can feel safe if I just reach out with enough fervor."

"You are an enigma," Frederick tells him.

Will is still, he is quiet, and then he says, "I live in perpetual quandary."

"I'm licensed to deal with that," Frederick says.

This elicits a shake of Will's head, the up curve of lips, a nudge at Frederick's arm by an elbow. And he continues, because he has certain things that he has to say. "Morality is nothing if not a matter of opinion, and I once hated you for your unethical way of thinking. But in retrospect, Frederick Chilton, I pushed as many boundaries as you did. Guidelines are a human concept. Nature does not follow in the footsteps of humans, it only adapts or falls."

"This is an elaborate way of saying you love me."

"Would you expect anything less from me?"

"Never, not in this lifetime or any." Frederick puts an arm around Will, looks at the house, looks at the sky and the state that his life is in and both them think that it's pretty damn good. "You and I are going to have some sort of future together. I think we're soulmates."

"That's whimsical," Will says.

"Yes," Frederick says, and he removes his arm and adjusts himself to face Will and in the flat fields of Wolf Trap, Virginia, on a warm June night, they kiss and ponder and do the things that lovers do.

XIII. Dawn

When the prescribed method of forgetting does not succeed, do not be surprised.

Pouring metaphorical turpentine over memories and assuming that the chemicals are going to dissolve them away forever and manage to always keep them at bay is not an effective treatment. This is a mistake. Memories are not tangible. Experiences are subjective structures. These things are made of something that lies at the very core of humanity and it is foolish to believe that pills and therapy and anything else will heal the ache, in due time if not immediately. There is no way around them, they simply are.

Does nature ultimately dictate an individual's true state of being if experiences determine how predisposed traits will play out, how they will rear their ugly head or reap benefits? The concepts of nature and nurture are rudimentary and narrow, they suggest black and white options and imply that two forces cannot work in tandem. People are conundrums, they cannot be wholly defined.

And the fallen angel will not cry for humankind because it knows no other way.

But the fallen angel's present saga is reaching its end. In time to come, a starling will test its wings and fly to the fallen angel, and a new era will commence, because the fallen angel will have to die before the wreckage in his path comes to a full stop.

Living in the now are two men, a psychiatrist with a reissued license and a small private practice and a retired FBI criminal profiler. They are pure victims of circumstance, with matching scars on their navels and faces to show it, and neither of them feels the urge to complain about what circumstance has done because it has brought them odd looks on the street when they pass by, donning facial wounds from a bullet and a knife, but it has also brought them each other and it is enough to soften the force of the fall. The psychiatrist now realizes that his empathic companion never needed to be diagnosed, he needed to be allowed to settle himself; the empath forgives the psychiatrist's prior wrongs, the entire melee of wrongs, and they manage. They still visit the sight of a little girl's body from time, and sometimes two women with linked souls happen to be there and they all stand together and reflect on the absence of innocence and the fluctuating petals placed in a vase: amaryllis, cosmos chrysanthemum, stargazers, delphinium, wisteria, the occasional stars of Bethlehem.

They know they have future forthcomings. It is not clear what those future forthcomings are.

Only an old criminal profiler can predict with accuracy, but he never does so out loud.

Didn't you hear?

Will Graham retired.