How seldom we recognize the sound when the bolt of our fate slams home.

- Thomas Harris, Red Dragon Foreword

Will Graham doesn't expect to be mugged as he's leaving Hannibal's office after one of their evening sessions. His mind is on the case he has yet to solve as he pulls his keys from his pocket. He doesn't see the nervous teen who walks quickly up to him until the kid is in his face, demanding his wallet.

Will blinks at him with annoyance. The kid is new to crime, scared, and obvious about it. He hasn't bothered to cover his face nor does he hold the gun, a Glock 9 mm, like he should if he wants to threaten.

"What?" Will responds distractedly. "No, I'm not giving you my wallet."

The amateurism and pettiness of this kid irk him. Will attempts to shoo him away, knowing that the kid doesn't really want to hurt him. He'll give the kid a way out and the kid will run and he'll be on his way to Wolf Trap. He may not even report it – he's tired and doesn't want to sit through questioning about the incident with the Baltimore PD. He'll be sure to tell Hannibal, though. Though this is a crime of opportunity, Hannibal needs to know.

The kid backs away and Will thinks he's leaving. The report of the gun surprises him.

Pain explodes in his leg as he crumples to the pavement, the air forced out of his lungs. He gasps for breath around a white hot ball of agony. Noises of shock and pain prevent him from pulling in air.

They can't be his noises. But they are.

Training rises like instinct and he curls on his side to press shaking hands against the hot gush of blood. Arterial injury. Around the dart of fear-panic-bleeding-dying he hears someone running away.

Blood pools beneath him, warm and spreading, and for a moment he thinks he's wet himself because there's too much warmth and it's spreading too quickly. But his right arm is pressed against his crotch and it doesn't feel wet or warm. The material is soft against the skin of his forearm. He bought these slacks a year ago at JC Penny. The cashier was a middle aged woman – divorced, two kids – who, seeing no ring on his finger, flirted openly with him. He was awkward and fumbling and annoyed with her for bringing out his awkwardness. Later, he had to force himself to stop again to buy food, treats, and toys for the dogs.

A laugh escapes him. Here he is, lying on the pavement outside Hannibal's office, bleeding out, and all he can think about is one of the myriad indignities of daily life. Violent injury makes the mind fixate on the strangest things.

These slacks are ruined now, he thinks, as he detaches from the moment. He can feel the tear in them where the bullet hit. Beneath it is the ripped flesh and muscle and the bursts of hot blood his hands can't stop.

It's not his own leg pumping hot, bright arterial blood. It's not him who'll bleed out in minutes from this wound. He won't die. Someone else will. This isn't his reality.

But he's panting hard and the little noises of pain and distress are his. Though the cold winter's night gets colder around him, he feels like he's floating. Like he's already a ghost.

He has to concentrate to keep the pressure on the wound. His arms hurt and shake and soon feel boneless and wobbly like Jell-O. He never liked Jello-O. Especially not the Jell-O with fruit in it he got too often at school with his federally subsidized lunch.

Will tries to keep his hands pressed in place but they don't want to stay. He's weak now. Cold. His eyes want to fall shut. He lets them.

Sparks fly in the darkness like fireworks and it's the Fourth of July and he's lying on his back on the levee watching explosions in the sky over the barges and tug boats and lazy swim of river outside Greenville, Mississippi. Fireflies blink in the thick air as though they're trying to compete with the man-made spectacle. The close, sweet smell of honeysuckle makes him feel warm and safe and unafraid.

Will hears his name in the distance. Dad. Dad wants to leave early. But Will doesn't want to leave yet. He wants to watch the fireworks over the river. Their colors dazzle him, take his breath away. Perhaps one day he will escape the earth like they do, rising into the sky to burst into fantastic color.

"Will!"

Will breathes in deeply and gasps and he's back on the pavement in Baltimore. Bleeding out.

"Open your eyes, Will."

Hannibal sounds calm. That's good. Calm is good. Calm feels like peace.

But Hannibal is pressing down hard on his leg and it hurts and his eyes flutter open. Hannibal is kneeling next to him, his expensive trousers wet with blood. He'll have to apologize for ruining Hannibal's pants, too.

"Stay with me, Will."

Will sees determination in Hannibal's face. Concentration. He's looking his own hands and Will realizes that Hannibal is trying to save him. He remembers that Hannibal was a trauma surgeon, that a patient died and he felt like it was his fault, like he had killed the patient. Will hopes he won't feel like it's his fault this time. If anyone can save him, it's Hannibal, but there's too much blood.

He feels Hannibal's hand hot and wet on his neck. Checking his pulse. Won't do any good.

Will's eyes drift closed again. He wants to go back to the fireworks and the hot Mississippi summer and the honeysuckle and fireflies and lemonade, but memories slip through his mind like a sieve.

"Will! Stay with me."

No. That's too hard to do. He wants to apologize to Hannibal for dying like this. He hasn't thanked Hannibal for being a good friend and a good man, for giving him support, for challenging him, for being there when Will needed to talk.

Will summons all of his strength to lift his hand and rest it on Hannibal's warm, strong arm. Victory.

Hannibal's smell drifts to him, cutting the metallic stench of blood and fear with strong comfort. He realizes vaguely that Hannibal's jacket is covering him. Trying to keep him warm. Trying so hard to save him.

Will forces his eyes open and tries to form the words – thank you – but his mouth won't take the right shape and he has no breath to speak. Only fast, ragged, shallow breaths come out.

Will sees worry beneath Hannibal's calm mask. Will wants to tell him not to worry, that dying doesn't hurt, that it's like falling asleep on a hot night. Easy. Effortless.

Hot summer nights flood his memory and he can feel the sticky sheets clinging to him. Not a breath of air stirs in the house. Tree frogs sing a summer song outside his window. He wishes he could open the window so the air would move and he wouldn't feel so much like he's in an oven but there's no screen and the mosquitos will get in and dad will yell.

"Will!"

No, he wants to say, he didn't open the window. He isn't going to. Dad doesn't have to yell.

Will smells Hannibal again and knows he's in Baltimore. He wants to burrow into that good scent so it's the last thing he knows. When he does die, he hopes it happens in the ambulance and not here on the concrete. For Hannibal's sake. Hannibal doesn't deserve to have this violence delivered to his door.

Sirens breach his mind as if from the other end of a long tunnel. Hannibal gives orders Will doesn't understand apart from the tone. Hannibal's hand moves from his neck. His own hand drops uselessly to his chest. He feels Hannibal give his hand a quick squeeze.

That's all right, Will wants to say. I'm ready.

Everything goes fuzzy again and the wonder and awe of watching fireworks returns and Will feels warm and cared for. Hands touch him but he's too numb to feel what they're doing.

Hannibal is still near. That's all he needs.

Will forms of final thought of thanks and goodbye to Hannibal, searches for a last whiff of Hannibal's scent – there – and lets himself drift away.