He stalks around the office, continuing his work as if she weren't even there. If he doesn't look at her, perhaps it isn't true.
"Agent Mahone, if you would just look at me when I talk to you--"
"I have no need for a partner." His eyes never leave the file. He spins around to look at the mapped wall.
"It's been done." He stills, afraid to catch her gaze.
"I was assigned yesterday." She holds out her hand boldly, her face cold.
Mahone makes as if to take her hand, but abruptly sits down, clearing his throat.
"I suppose you should take a look at this file."
He stares at his plate, noticing how the green beans shiver as he saws his knife back and forth. He concentrates on the sharp screech as metal scrapes porcelain, the dull grind of his teeth working the over-cooked meat, anything to deafen the profound silence.
She looks up hesitantly, her eyes darting from her plate to his hand, knuckles white from gripping the knife. He feels her gaze yet will not divert his eyes from his meal. He doesn't even startle as her fork clanks rudely against their once-treasured wedding gift.
"Alex."
Feigning courtesy, he regards her with cold eyes and stills his hand.
Her eyes drop. "I've met someone."
He can smell the reek before ever passing through the door.
Blood is congealed along the wall, faithfully preserving the pattern of excited lust. The body on the floor has hardened and browned from dried gore.
Mahone kneels, examining the head, the neck, the chest, following each wound with meticulous eyes.
His hand begins to twitch, but he squeezes it as others file into the room.
"Do you think it was him?"
"With all due respect, sir, this is not something--"
"Yes, it is damn within my authority to mandate your attendance."
Mahone's face softens in surprise. The man before him stands intolerant and unyielding.
"Sir, I…" His voice drops, his eyes soon follow.
"You will schedule an appointment with a bureau therapist by tomorrow."
Mahone's eyes dart from maps to figures to facts, finally locking eyes with cold intense ones. He studies his Stoic face, this face that hides the genius and the puzzle.
He trails his fingers along pins, following the yet determined pattern across the map. Still, he locks eyes with mocking blue. Would the initial victory prove too much? How might such hubris react in the face of impending capture? Would there be blood congealed along the wall, tracing patterns not yet revealed?
A pin drops from the wall, dislodged by violent shakes of his hand. Mahone turns away, clutching his palm to his chest, willing his body to slow, to calm. Again he sees those eyes.
He fumbles for his breast pocket, fingers barely able to unscrew the pen, needing the release inside.