AN: For those who have read 'Red Dragon', I am trying to rework the story but also keep it true to the original. I hope it doesn't get bogged down in it too much, but I hope it'll make sense later on.
Also for those who know Hannibal's origin story, the fairy tale may make a lot of sense...

Chapter 4

The Mirror in her Eyes

Starling left them alone on the strict understanding that Will would not be reckless enough to go beyond the line again. He was beginning to wonder how much free reign Crawford had given her, or if he had simply told Starling to give Will the free reign (to a reasonable extent). Of course leaving them alone didn't seem reasonable, but then Will knew it was difficult for others to understand.

The black stripe upon the grey floor sat starkly, a good three feet from the bars. A two dimensional interpretation of a three dimensional barrier. It seemed entirely ineffectual. A line. When had a line ever stopped anyone determined to cross it? Will stared at it as he listened to the door boom closed. Bolt shut.

He could feel Hannibal watching him.

It was difficult not to relax under his gaze, even as his skin crawled. The air changed. Will thought he could still feel the latent humour emanating from Hannibal as he tipped his head and folded his hands in his lap.

Grass tickling the back of his neck as he laughed, laying half under Hannibal's reassuring weight, staring up at the clouds, the man whispering into his ear with humour lacing his voice, '...would you? How ravishing. I didn't know you appreciated such exhibitionism...'

Blinking shuttered the memory from view. The bars and the cell and the perfect sketches on the walls and the maroon eyes in the gloom and the walls of the Asylum phased back in. His heart was drumming in a peculiar pattern. Hannibal was somehow managing to look casual in his prison blues; a jumpsuit working as a three piece suit. Will was staring, he knew it. Hannibal swallowed attractively, looking down along his nose, the slim line of his eyes resting on Will's knees.

"Then it seems I should start," Hannibal said after another few moments of nothing but manoeuvring themselves while barely moving at all. He sat down next to his small desk. Will could see the clay there, wrapped carefully in a thick, plastic sheet and tied off with material strips. Beside it sat a small clay figure, half hidden, indistinguishable. Will's eyes didn't linger.

"I am glad you came," he continued, "And it's been what now, three years? My callers have been profusely professional for so long now. Banal clinical psychiatrists and grasping, second rate doctors of psychology from silo colleges somewhere. Pencil lickers trying to protect their tenure with articles in the journals."

Will forced himself to analyse Lecter's words, so as to avoid being riled by them. So many knives hidden in a simple few sentences. A stab at Will's want to leave the BAU to pursue an academic career. A blatant disregard for their connection and their history together. A refusal to seem in any way put out by the fact that he had been caught and sentenced and was never going to leave this facility for as long as he lived. Still arrogant, still charmingly aloof, still superior, still self-important, still starved for attention.

Will left a minute's silence before looking up from the floor, finding Hannibal's eyes. They were still trained on him intently.

Two could play at that game.

"Dr. Bloom emailed me your article on surgical addiction in The journal of Clinical Psychology."

"Ah yes, Alana," Hannibal moved into the change in conversation easily, sitting back and crossing his legs, "one of the few visitors I can stand. She is wonderfully intelligent, if somewhat naive. What did you think of it?"

"The article?" I wanted to hate myself for reading it, he thought, "Interesting. Probably for all the wrong reasons."

"You wound me. Or am I to take that as morbid curiosity on your part? Have you been having problems, Will?"

"No."

"Of course you haven't."

He had to keep control of the conversation, but with Lecter that was almost impossible. He'd had a hard enough time when they'd been a couple. Of course back then he hadn't realised it was such a competition, "I'm not here to reminisce. I'm sure you understand that."

"Uncle Jack," Hannibal said as if to himself, finding Will's eyes and holding them, "Such a clever little bloodhound."

"We need your help."

"You need my help."

"...I need your help. Yes. I need your help. I'm sure you've been reading the papers?"

"Atlanta and Birmingham. Two little nuclear families wiped from the face of the earth. You want to know how he's choosing them."

"Your insight would be invaluable."

"Of course. They won't let me take clippings, from the newspapers. No scissors, you understand."

"I could get you access, to the AMA film strip library."

"I'm not sure you'd be able to get the things I like."

A warm arm around his back as he lay against Hannibal's side, legs curled on the sofa, his left hand flowing over Hannibal's chest, rumpling the shirt there, 'You don't even like Kurosawa? Hannibal you're the snob's snob. I'm going to find a movie you like if it kills me'. A hand at the back of his neck, stroking down across the top of his spine, as Hannibal spoke with humour, 'And you are my cultural ambassador. Would you pass my wine?'

When times had been easier simply because they were true. Now that they were lies it was harder to swallow. It caused a strange disconnect; Will remembered so many things about Hannibal, his likes, his dislikes, his sense of humour, his habits, so many more, which he had to remind himself were not real.

Will brought it back to the reason he was there. Don't lose focus, he thought.

"He likes to make art. He thinks about it, plans it through, it's not just mindless. I thought you might appreciate each other. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Very tricky business he's dealing in, this particular tiger, wiping out the family lifestyle. Appreciate? Hmm. Perhaps not the right word," Hannibal didn't elaborate, "I can imagine it is something you do not appreciate."

The little girl swinging, holding tight to her mom and dad's hands as they lifted her from the ground. Will had watched them till they walked out of sight, his skin itching with sweat from his run, his throat sore from the slight chill in the air. It had been so sudden he wasn't sure if it was rational or not, so sudden and unexpected. That beautiful, effortless happiness. Never, he'd thought, he'd never wanted something so much in all his...

Now, back in the present, Will knew the fantasy was always able to shatter, no matter how perfect. The Leeds hadn't known that, nor had the Jacobis. They would understand now, if they weren't resting on cold slabs or buried in the ground. He'd seen what was left of their neat little family units.

The world slowly came back into view. Hannibal was watching him as if he were a mildly interesting program he'd turned onto by mistake and decided to watch, see what came of it, before inevitably turning off, "I thought you would have some ideas about him, can you tell me what they are?"

"I've just been given my favourite, do you remember?" Lecter ignored him smoothly, "I'm sure you do. You bought it for me, if I recall rightly, for my forty sixth birthday. Italian Poetry Since World War Two, November nineteen eighty nine. A double issue."

"He's progressing, slowly but surely getting his confidence up. The next one isn't going to be so pretty. I thought maybe you'd mind about that."

"You bought mine in a second hand store," Lecter continued, "The corners of the cover were curled. The effusive Agent Starling was good enough to include it in her bundle of tricks. I am enjoying it."

"He's not an artist like you are. I wouldn't teach classes on him. He won't be worth studying when he's caught," Will knew he was pushing it.

"I think...Primo Levi. Yes, he is what I'd had in mind for you. Twenty fifth of February, nineteen forty four. How does it go? I would like to believe in something..."

"Dr Lecter..."

"Something beyond the death that undid you," Hannibal said, tipping his head slightly to the right; the words stole Will's ability to think straight, cutting deeply into his skin like fishhooks, barbs sinking deep, "I would like to describe the intensity with which, already overwhelmed, we longed in those days to be able to walk together once again. Free beneath the sun."

The death that undid you. Will took a deep breath through his nose and held it, letting it out slowly as he stared at a particular bar with a black mark half way up its centre. The most cruel of taunts and the most distasteful, he thought, it was almost below Hannibal. It would have been, he was sure, if the man wasn't able to transmit it using the pretentious media of obscure poetry.

Or is it a consolation? His mind supplied unhelpfully. Will refused to think on it. Because believing that Hannibal would console him on Charlotte's death would lead to believing that he no longer deserved to be in that cell.

That he had no longer wished to kill while they were bonded.

That, on that sunny afternoon three years ago, he was putting the knife down.

Free beneath the sun. Part of him was rabid to believe it, the implication. The other was too jaded to Lecter's tricks to entertain the notion.

Will moved in his chair, sliding down slightly and crossing his legs at the ankles. With his right hand he absently trailed along the exposed edge of the pages in the folder Starling had left on the seat next to him. Then he linked his fingers together.

"You've been told then."

"She was my child. It would have been unlawful to keep it from me. Even Chilton, boor that he is, understands the laws which will inconvenience him."

Will imagined putting his arm around Chilton's neck, holding it as the man struggled and puffed and gasped, before snapping it. He licked his lips and allowed the thought its dark consolation. When he refocused on Hannibal the man was smiling.

"Where did you go Will? You looked a million miles away."

"It'll always be the case," Will's smile was thin.

"You are not far from me now."

"I think this is far enough," Will said, waving his hand forward to indicate the short distance between them.

"You were not so far earlier on," Hannibal pointed out with warm eyes. Will shivered involuntarily, "I had almost forgotten the feel of your skin. It is different to how I remember. It makes me wish to peruse you as I once had the right to. Is the scar still pink on your right thigh, I wonder? Such a wonderful blemish, it intrigued me."

"The way this man intrigues you?" Will tried to bring the conversation back to the killer he was hunting, but he knew it was clumsy. He was allowing Lecter to make him desperate to steer their interaction.

"Intrigue is such an umbrella term."

"You would be able to see the case notes, photographs, reports, everything."

"You are very tanned, Will."

The smile widened and Will felt his chest clench. It had been the clinch point, the moment he knew would come but hadn't known how to deal with. It could have been any time that the point hit home. The part of him that was purely overjoyed to be in Hannibal's presence curled in pain. The part that wished he were a thousand miles away, picking Ellie up from school, felt it too. He never felt a thing, all that time, he never felt a thing. He was waiting, just waiting, for a chance to see what it would be like to kill you...

Will couldn't reply, because his mouth had been sewn shut with grief.

"Your hands," Hannibal sat forwards, leaving his ankles crossed, "not an academic's hands any longer. Rough and weathered; a labourer's disposition. You were always fond of machinery. And that offensive smell! Something a child would choose, and something a parent couldn't decline. How is my daught..?"

"My daughter," Will interrupted on instinct, wishing that he had more control when Lecter held his stare, "and she's fine."

"I am sure she is, with you looking after her. May I see her?"

"I don't carry a picture."

"Removed from your wallet for my benefit?"

"I don't carry her picture," Will pressed, "are you going to tell me what you think or aren't you?"

"Not even some more pointless bargaining before you put your foot down? You're ruining the little fantasy. I have been waiting for this moment, the least you could do is play along. Did you get my letters? Only you never reply."

Waking up screaming in the dark, clutching his stomach as he hitched out breath, mouth open but no sound escaping, throat straining, eyes crushed shut. A broken moment in the night as a baby's cry began to ring out through the stillness. Hauling in breath was painful and loud, harsh and throaty. Enough breath in his lungs to scream again, curling inwards, closing down, the dream clawing, clinging, remembering the pain coloured by a calming hand as the doctor spoke calm and clear, 'the stress and hormone deficiency in your early pregnancy caused the uterus to deform. The second foetus was pushed out of the way, causing the high risk of complications. I'm so sorry, Mr Graham, if we'd realised sooner...' clawing at the sheets as he heard Eleanor crying in her cot, wishing and wishing that there was another crying beside her, wishing there were warm arms reaching from behind to pull him back, hold him close. Wishing nothing more than to die.

Somehow, in the minute that he was silent, Hannibal had begun to look distinctly familiar. Less the smug, aloof prisoner, more the same stoic face he would hold when something upset Will greatly. Impenetrable, and yet with a strangled warmth in the eyes that seemed to wish nothing more than to take that pain away, crush it from existence. Briefly, Will wondered how much the bond was affecting Hannibal at this close proximity to his mate, and how much was truly the man's intention.

Then he stopped thinking about it.

"You haven't been waiting for this moment," Will smiled, shark-like, his eyes remaining cold and hurt, "you god damned liar."

With that he stood up, retrieved the case-notes folder and walked off. Hannibal did not call after him.

"I'll lie on my, wait-no give me a second."

"I had thought this might be easier from behind."

"We're going to be like this for a while, so if you want to kneel for hours that's perfectly up to- not there, wrong one!"

"Apologies."

"Finally, I find something you're bad at and it's the one thing I need you to be good at."

"You wound my ego daily, dear Will. This is not something I have practiced. Oh, you are...I see. Then shall I..?"

"Yes, there, facing me I think...like this?"

"It seems acceptable. Give me your leg."

A laugh, "You're taking all the romance out of it."

A smile, "Then allow me to woo you. Like this, put your knee-yes, now..."

"Oh god," a hissed breath, "Shit, Hannibal..."

"You are already wet?"

"We've been rolling around on this bed naked for twenty minutes trying to get this right, of course I'm wet."

The smile widened, "Then you're making this easy for me," a kiss, "now look at me."

"Look at you? That's fucking embarrass-jesus! Ah. Ah! Wait!"

A frown, "Am I hurting you?"

"No, no. Wait," panted breath, "Please. Yes, yes it hurts. I'll be fine, just give a minute."

"A minute may be all I can bare."

A hand to smack his arm smartly, "who's the one getting the most out of this, huh? Oh, ah, don't move. You-you're," a half grin, half grimace, "going to suffer through this just as much as me."

"Time with you is never a sufferance."

"I hope you mean that in the archaic sense."

"Don't I always?"

"You can...you can move, if you want."

"You are sure?"

"I want you to, like...oh god, yes. Like that."

"Slow? I will do my best."

"Mmm. Hannibal? Touch me, can you-ah! There."

"So sensitive."

"Look w-who's talking."

The slip of a hand, "Oh. Well," panted breath, a groan, "I see you are devious."

"You knew that when you married me."

"Part of why I did so, yes," eyes on him, "look at you. If you could see yourself...show me your neck."

An aborted groan, "What?"

A hand in his hair, fingers tight, "Bare your neck to me."

"Fuck I love it when you get like this," a whine, a neck bared.

Teeth scraping sensitive flesh, "I would not hurt you. Not for all the world. You're mine. You belong to me."

"Christ," closed eyes, "oh Christ. Too fast, wait-"

"Quiet. Be quiet. Do not move or..."

"Shit. Sorry. I thought if we were facing you wouldn't slip."

"Here," a gasp, a fumbling hand, "is this right?"

"Jesus yes. Yes it's right. Deeper. God you're close."

"I will blame you for my performance issues," a silence broken only by panted breaths, "are you ready to..?"

"Been ready for hours. Do it. Fucking do it Hannibal, fuck, yes, yes..! Ah! Oh fuck, oh fuck. Bite me, do it!"

Blood, skin broken, the taste on both their tongues. The air filled with breathless gasps. A pause. A sound of disquiet.

"I have been warned it can be uncomfortable."

"Oh yeah? Who the hell were you-ah, no, ah. Yes, please, like that. Just stay still. What was I..? Right. Who the hell were you talking to about this?"

"A colleague. A surgeon. She said knotting wasn't as pleasant as the rest of the ordeal."

"If she called it an ordeal I doubt any of it was pleasant for her."

"And this?"

"Well it's...different," smothered into a neck, a tongue to lap the blood, "think I prefer it when you just do me, to be honest."

"Will."

"You asked," a pause, a groan, a strange feeling, a frown, "oh that's...now that's strange. Are you still, you know..?"

"I believe insemination takes up to four hours."

"Again, romance is dead."

"I am unsure as to how I could make that in the least romantic."

"Fair point," eyes closed, arms around his back, pulled close, "mmm. I can feel it."

"Feel what?"

"You making me alive. We're making a life together. Somehow that seems odd."

"Such a natural thing is odd to you?"

"I never thought I'd get the chance, or even want to," a hand pushed hair from a sweaty forehead, leaning back, eyes met, "did you?"

A long pause, "No. No I did not think it would be something I'd ever consider."

"Why not?"

"A conversation for another time, perhaps."

"Another time? I don't think you get much more intimate than this, Hannibal. You're going to be inside me for the next four hours. Might as well talk about something."

"It is not a happy topic."

"Oh. Ok. Sorry."

"No. You were not to know."

"Alright," a kiss, pulling back, another kiss, deeper, "then what would you like to talk about?"

"Hmm," a smile, "after all that preparation and we forgot to consider our options," a pause, a consideration, "...maybe I could tell you a story."

"Tell me a story?" a laugh.

"Inappropriate?"

"Only if it's a story about disastrous sex. Or botched surgery."

"It is not. Also I do not perform botched surgeries."

"I was kidding. Alright. You've intrigued me." huddled closer, a face pushed against a shoulder, a contented sigh.

"Then I shall endeavour to entertain you. Once upon a time..."

"This is a 'once upon a time' story? Now I do feel dirty."

"Will."

"Sorry," a chuckle, "keep going."

"Once upon a time there was a little boy, and he liked to run. He and his sister lived in a big house in the countryside with their mother and father and all their servants. The servants liked the boy and called him 'bėgikas', it means 'runner'. Beside them grew a great wood and, beyond that a tall mountain the locals called pasakų pilis..."

"Pas-what?"

"It means fairy castle. They called it so because it was tall and broad, flat topped with tall cliffs, knotted and pitted like thousands of windows. Now, every day the little boy ran. Through the forest, to the base of the mountain and through the foothills. Never up the mountain. His mother had warned, 'the fairys steal children who stray on the mountain' and their family must remain hidden from them. The little boy was afraid. He would not set foot upon it, though its top looked so lush and beautiful. He could see trees and waterfalls running down from above. His little sister said that it looked like it would be a paradise."

"Could you pass the water? Ah, careful."

A complicated stretch, "Here you are."

"Thank you."

"Where was I? Ah yes. Then, one day, his parents were pre-occupied and the little boy was fed up running in the woods and foothills. His father was a great architect and his mother a fine pianist. The little boy were to his father in his study as he drew on great sheets of paper. 'Father' he said, 'I have run through the woods and I have seen all it has to offer. I have seen the hollows and the animals and the glades. May I go upon the mountain?'. 'No' he was told, 'only foolish children stray upon the mountain. You will anger them and bring great evil here. No one must know where we are. Go and play in the garden with your good sister'."

"I can see this ending badly."

"You are astute. The boy was very angry. He went to his mother. 'Mother' he said, 'I have run through the foothills of the mountain. I have seen the deer in their herds and seen the eagles overhead and searched the gullies for mushrooms. May I go upon the mountain?'. 'No,' he was told, 'only foolish children stray upon the mountain. You will anger them and bring great evil upon us. No one must know where we are. Go and play in the garden with your good sister'.

"The boy was furious. His parents never had time for him. Always they expected him to be running free upon the land, but never was he allowed to go further than their estate. Never was he allowed to go upon the mountain and see the beautiful fairy land hidden on its top. The boy went to the garden and played with his dear sister. She was fair and innocent, and had no ambitions beyond their quiet life and the love of her family. Sometimes the little boy envied her, but he loved her more than life itself, so he forgave her naivety.

"Then, that night, the little boy slipped out of his bed. He took a torch, a map and some bread from the scullery. He stole from the house and he ran through the forest. He knew his way so well he was not scared of the dark. He ran through the foothills. He knew his way so well that he did not need to look at the map. He climbed and he scaled and he found his way onto the plateau. And when he reached the top..! Ah, what beauty.

"There were lights all through the sky, floating upon delicate strings above a great lake, flanked on three sides by wondrous cliffs. Inside the cliffs were millions of lights, tiny fairy homes lit up like stars. Upon the lake sat all manner of fairies, playing songs and eating berries, chasing each other to and fro. They danced and they played and they made wonderful music. The boy sneaked among them and listened and watched. He longed to play with them, but remembered his parent's warning. However, as with all children, after a time he could not resist. There were three fairies dancing in a ring and the boy, leaping from the bushes, began to dance with them.

A feeling of discomfort, "Hannibal..."

"And all of a sudden the lights went out and the fairies scattered and a terrible sound could be heard. A terrible, grumbling, roaring sound. And the little boy ran, all the way back down the mountain, through the foothills, through the forest."

A feeling of sickness, "Hannibal, are you alright?"

"But by then it was too late. The great evil had followed the boy back to his home, with his mother and his father and his good sister and all their servants. And it rolled on great treads and roared like a terrible troll. And it was filled with evil goblins who had lived on the mountain."

A feeling of great sorrow, "Wait..."

"And the little boy found his mother first. Dead on the floor of her music room, eyes like glass. His father next, nailed to the tree in the beautiful garden as an example. And the goblins rounded up all the servants and the boy and his good sister. And, one by one, they ate them. The boy and his good sister watched the group grow smaller and smaller, until only they remained. And when the goblins returned the boy threw himself at their feet and begged their forgiveness. But they were without hearts to feel his sorrow, without hearts with which to give pity. So they took his sister and locked the door behind them. And when the king's men finally arrived, they found the boy alone. The goblins were gone. All that remained were bones."

A sob.

"Will?"

"Oh god," another sob, "why are you..? You're upset. Why are you so upset?"

"I did not mean to..."

"No, I-I don't know why I'm...I'm sorry, it's just...I can feel it, like it's my own. You're hurt."

"I am fine."

"You can't lie to me. Please don't lie to me, not now."

"We will talk of it later."

"Damn it, why do you always do this?" sniffing, wiping angrily at eyes, "god, this is so strange. I'm not used to this."

"Shall I tell you how the boy took his revenge?"

"No. Please. No more goblins devouring children. Something happy. Tell me about something happy?"

"As you wish," a smile, a clearing of his throat, "Once upon a time, there was a morose young man who was determined to be alone. Then, one day, he met a dashing, handsome prince..."

A sob turned to a muted laugh, "Hannibal..."

"How else would you describe our first meeting?"

"You're a prick, you know that?"

"Maybe we should get some rest."

"Maybe," a pause, "hey."

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"What brought that on?"

"I just wanted to say it. I don't...say it often. In fact I'm not sure I've ever said it."

"You did not need to say it."

"It seemed like the right time. You're still upset. Why did you tell me that story if it upsets you so badly?"

"You wished to know."

"What?"

"Another time," a smile, "another time, remember? Let us talk of this another time."

"You want to go to Atlanta?" Starling asked the next day; she was using her blank mask once more, determined not to give away her feelings through her features.

"Yeah, I want to go to Atlanta," Will said as they sat outside the hotel in her rental car.

"What exactly do you plan to do there?"

"I need to see the Leeds crime scene. Photographs, reports, all that is fine but...I need to see it. If I'm going to help I need to walk through it. It's just...what I do."

The street was busy, cars passing slowly in a log jam of traffic, honked horns and people shouting. The smell of gasoline fumes floated through the window. Will wound it up and blew his nose on his handkerchief.

"So," Starling said, "you changed your mind."

"Yeah."

"Because you think you failed with Lecter, so now you're going to what? Catch this guy for us to make up for it?"

"Wow, pull your punches for all the new guys?" Will asked dryly.

"Sorry. It's been a stressful week."

"Don't mention it. I know exactly how you feel," Will rubbed at his forehead, "look, Hannibal was never going to be that much help. He won't help because he doesn't want to. He appreciates other killers, he likes their-how should I put it..?"

"Ingenuity?"

"Savagery. But ingenuity as well. There has to be an artistry to it. He wants this guy to keep killing. He won't help us, no matter what you offer him."

"Even when it's you?" she asked, dead pan.

"Even when it's me," Will admitted, "in fact I'm sure he's just happy that this is fucking me up. I'm sure he thinks that's damn amusing."

Starling didn't comment. Will felt awkward. He wasn't used to being around strangers. Milo was the only person he'd really had proper conversations with since he'd moved to Florida. His wife Susan was nice, though he knew she resented him a little. Milo was just an affable guy, enough that Will found he could tell him anything. After everything that had happened between them, Will felt he at least owed Milo that much.

"I can get you the two thirty flight with me. Priority. As far as your badge goes..."

"Jack can deal with that."

"Alright. Then I guess you should pack."

"Already done. I didn't unpack."

"Crawford was right," Starling said as Will made to leave the car.

"What?"

"You are efficient," it didn't sound like a compliment, even in Starling's pragmatic tone.

"So he did tell you about me," Will smiled dryly.

Calling home was the hardest part. Will didn't even bother with using the video phone. He'd rather not have to school his face as well as his voice. As he grabbed his bags and checked out he called Milo's mobile.

"Finished already? That was quick," the voice on the other end greeted, a grin in his tone; Will felt a lump in his throat.

"Hey Mi-Jeff. Sorry, uh, bad time?"

"No it's fine. We're just at the store. No Elle, let me speak to your dad for a minute ok?"

"Listen, I won't take long. I just needed to ask you a favour."

There was a pause. The sounds of squeaky shopping carts wheels and the background hubbub of voices. Will started to feel awkward.

"Hello?"

"I'm here," Milo said, though it was obvious he was angry, "you're not coming back."

"I...I have to stay a couple of extra days. Things didn't work out the way I thought they would. Lecter didn't play ball."

"You knew he wouldn't," Will thought he could hear Anthony's high pitched voice in the background, and perhaps Elle's too, "but that's not why you went right? You promised yourself you weren't going to get drawn into this."

"I know I did, I know but...he's taking families Jeff. Whole damn families and we don't even know how he's choosing them, let alone where he is, who he is. Crawford's got the bare minimum to go on and...shit," he looked up to see Starling picking up one of his bags, taking it to the car; her message was obvious, "I have to go."

"What? Will wait..."

"I have to go. Please, just watch her for a few more days. I'll be back real soon."

"Won't you say hi to her at least?"

"I have to go. Tell her I love her for me?"

"...Christ. This isn't ok, you know, this isn't alright."

"I know that too."

"Look, Will? Be safe. For her sake. Don't do anything stupid."

"I can't promise anything," he tried to joke; it fell flat.

"Hey honey?" Susan asked as she dried the dishes, "Have you had a chance to speak to Anthony's teacher yet?"

Standing on the back porch, Jeff Milo rubbed at his forehead and tried to ease the ache in his shoulders. It had been a long day, longer than usual, and he wasn't in the mood to have another argument. All day, back and forth, he'd been fighting with the Institute over funding for his latest project. Camille Nargo, the fiscal manager, was a god damned asshole as far as he was concerned. And now, at home, all he was getting was more strife.

"No, not yet," he called inside.

"Jeff," that tone made his hackles rise, "you promised you'd do it last week. If we don't get in quickly, all the best spots are going to be taken and Anthony's left out. This is our son's education we're talking about."

"I'll do it tomorrow, ok? I've had a lot on," Jeff took a long drink of his beer and stared at the ocean; the long, still slope of the water calmed him, even as the pain in his shoulders lanced.

"Yeah, well so have I. Don't make out this is my fault. You're not the only one being stonewalled at work. Jilly's omega team always get their funding first and I'm left in the dust."

"Don't be classist Susan," he berated.

"Oh that's rich," he heard her say as she walked to the back door; Jeff heard a sound and looked down the beach, seeing their new neighbour out on his porch. Jesus, guy looks drunk, Jeff thought derisively. He'd seen him move in a couple of weeks ago, alone but for some sparse furniture. Susan said she'd tried to go round and say hi but no one answered the door, "hey, don't try and get out of this by just keeping quiet."

"I'm not getting out of anything, why do you always say that?" Jeff bit back, frowning; in his peripheral vision he saw their neighbour lurch down to the beach, his stride long and determined, if somewhat unsteady.

"Because you always try and weasel out of shit, that's why," Susan said, irritated.

"Christ you like to over exaggerate."

"You know what Jeff?" she looked over her shoulder to make sure Anthony wasn't in earshot, "fuck you."

"Is that how it is? Well fuck me then, yeah? Because..." then his voice slid away to nothing. He heard Susan asking him what was wrong. All he had the time to breathe, in pure shock, was , "...oh Jesus Christ."

Because the shape of the man that he'd seen walk down onto the beach was in the water. Because the shape in the water didn't stop. Because as the shape of his head slipped under the calm, easy waves, Jeff knew it wasn't going to come back up. Then he was running, because it was all he could think to do. It was all he could comprehend. The sand was still warm from the sunny day, now filtering into late evening, and it puffed up in great clouds beneath his feet. He stumbled, rolled, got up, ran again.

He could hear Susan calling frantically after him. His muscles ached. When he ran into the water it was a shock how cold it was for the time of year. It dragged at him. He slowed. There was no sign of the man, no sign at all.

"Jeff. Oh my god Jeff!" he heard his wife calling.

Then he was under the water. The salt bit at his eyes but he had no choice. The evening light was no good beneath the water, murky and cloudy. He swept out with his arms and kicked with his legs. The water cooled the further he got. He looked about him. Nothing. He pulled to the right. Nothing there.

He was a strong swimmer, had always been a strong swimmer, but the sprint down the beach had stolen his breath. His chest burned. About to kick back to the surface he caught sight of something dark in the water.

Suspended as if in jelly, the figure of the man was gloomy, arms drooped out in front of him, clothes floating upon his frame, eyes closed; sinking. It was instinct to swim for him even though his body scream for air. Jeff grabbed him awkwardly around the torso and kicked his legs. The man was heavy in his clothes, t-shirt and jeans.

When they broke the surface Jeff gasped harshly, hauling air into his lungs. He could hear Susan on the shore as he swam backwards, dragging the man with him. When his feet hit the ground he felt it was worse. No longer suspended by the water the man was a dead weight. Jeff picked him up and carried him, difficult with his slippery skin and sodden clothes. The adrenaline running high in his bloodstream helped. He felt like he could lift a car, his heart going a mile a minute.

"Is he ok? Is he breathing?" Susan asked frantically as Jeff slumped to his knees, putting the man down as carefully as he could.

"Don't know," Jeff panted, "get a blanket. From the house, get a blanket."

"Ok," she ran off, slender feet sinking in the sand.

He checked his mouth; nothing. His pulse; nothing. Jeff panicked.

"Oh no, oh fuck no," he whispered, rolling the man onto his back; he was pale, whorls of brown hair plastered to his forehead. There was no time to think. He took a deep breath, pinched the man's nose and covered his mouth with his own. One long, steady breath in, move to the side to refill, then another long slow breath fillings still, unresponsive lungs. Then one, two, three, four savage pumps to the chest, palms flat. Nothing. Another breath, long and slow, then refill...

The spluttering of water logged lungs was a hideous relief. Jeff realised he was shaking when he rolled the man onto his side, watching as the water was vomited up in a pale choke, coughing and hacking, eyes wild. He patted the man's back, even though the action made him feel stupid and ineffectual. The man was shivering, curling in on himself.

"Hey," Jeff said, unsure, "hey. You ok? Hey, say something. You ok?"

The man mumbled something incoherent.

"What'd you say?"

Jeff leaned closer. The man sniffed loudly, his face crumpling.

"You fucking bastard," the man said as he began to cry, "you fucking, stupid bastard."

To this day Jeffrey Milo didn't know if Will Graham was talking to him or to himself.

He had taken him back to his house, a pigsty of a place, the bin overflowing, the air stale and foul and the table littered with empty bottles; scotch and bourbon. And he had demanded an answer, demanded to know. And Will had fought him and cursed him and demanded that he leave.

And no one would ever call Jeff Milo arrogant or belligerent but he stood by his principles and he waited until the man was ready to talk. And his prejudice had slowly receded as the tale poured out of Will's mouth in a reedy voice, ruined by the salt water, and words such as post-natal depression and social services and they took my kid filtered out. And Jeff had learned Will was an omega suffering and lost, and he'd felt surprised and shocked that an alpha would leave their mate in such dire circumstances. He assumed they might have died, only later learning the horrific truth.

Jeff had ended up spending the night sitting beside the man he had pulled from the water, rubbing his back because he felt lost and wasn't sure how to help, listening to his terrible story.

And Will Graham had let him.

Atlanta was suffering through a dry heat at this time of year. Shimmering waves rising from the asphalt, making the cars seem to shiver as they drove. The sky was a pale, baby blue without a cloud in sight. Vending machines whined oppressively and babies wailed in their prams. The city was dried out, stone baking and metal too hot to touch. The car's engine turned over noisily.

Will wondered, as he drove past the house where the Charles Leeds family had lived and died, what the hell he was doing here.

You saw it, Will told himself as he jerked the handbrake up. It was stiff, a crappy rental, some old Ford Mondeo well past its prime. He stayed in the car, air conditioning full blast. Will undid another button on his shirt and wiped at his forehead. You saw it and now you can't un-see it.

You've seen him and now he's in there, in your head, prowling around. The little Leeds girl flashed into his mind's eye as he blinked away the sweat. When he opened them again he stared at the house. He tried to think of Elle, smiling and alive, but the association only made it worse. He didn't want to imagine his little girl when he was trying to work. The thought made him sick.

You're already sick, Graham, he reminded himself. He sniffed in the dry air and swallowed. After the meeting with Lecter Will hadn't handled the situation well. He knew that. A night pumping himself full of self-loathing and strong spirits was a step on the slippery slope. Three times he'd started to call Milo only to stop, curse himself, and put down the phone before he got a chance to dial. It had only been the next morning, head splitting and tongue dry, he'd been able to face up to the fact.

He was back on the team.

As he sat and waited a few neighbours drove by, looking at the house and then looking away. A murder house was always an ugly house, like the face of someone who betrayed them. Only outsiders and children stared. And him.

The shades were up. That was a relief, it meant no relatives had been inside. Relatives always lowered the shades. Will walked around the side of the house, stopping twice to listen. The Atlanta PD knew he was here, Starling had called ahead to Crawford who had given the O-K. But that didn't mean the neighbours knew. He didn't want a bullet in the back from a twitchy trigger finger, desperate to protect their family from the Leeds' fate.

The door from the porch into the kitchen was patched with plywood where the police had taken out the glass. The thick, heavy yellow crime scene tape was laced over the door in two strands. A wide, red sticker was placed over the edge of the door and its frame. Will pulled out his Swiss army knife and slit through it, the plastic rupturing like an anemone touched, curling away. He unlocked the door with the key the police had given him.

It was a pull in his gut to turn on the lights, to make some noise, pull out a badge he didn't own and announce himself to the silent house where five people had died. He did none of that. Instead Will took a deep breath. He smelled furniture polish and apples. A hint of disinfectant.

Standing in the doorway, he could almost feel the shifting air, as if the madness that had walked into the house on size eleven feet was moving past him. It had been such a long time but the pattern was so familiar. A long time since he'd dipped his head into the tar and let it flow down his throat. A long time since he'd spoken for someone capable of unconscionable acts.

In the Georgia heat on a late Friday evening, Will Graham closed his eyes and let the pendulum swing.

Once.

I slip the hook on the outside screen door. Stand in the darkness of the porch (the light didn't work when he flicked the switch, but the pilot lights were on in the boiler. Will checked the light. The bulb was missing). So I'm hidden in the dark. I take something from my pocket. A suction-cup, maybe the base of a pencil sharpener designed to stick to a desk-top.

Crouching against the wooden lower half of the kitchen door, I raise my head to peer up through the glass. I put out my tongue and I lick the cup, press it to the glass, flick the lever to make it stick. A small glass-cutter was attached to the cup with string so that I can cut a circle.

The tiny squeal of the glass-cutter and one solid tap to break the glass. One hand to tap (my left? My right?), one hand to hold the suction cup. The glass must not fall. It is slightly egg shaped because the string wrapped around the shaft of the suction cup as I cut. There's a small grating noise as I pull the glass out. I wait, listen. Nothing.

My hand in the tight glove snakes in through the hole, finds the lock. The door opens silently. I am inside. In the light of the vent-hood I can see my body in this strange kitchen (size eleven feet, I am tall enough). It is pleasantly cool inside the house.

Will Graham popped two aspirin, dry. He'd bought them at the store on the way there. It was inevitable, he'd known it. Between the heat and what lay behind the pendulum's swing, he knew he'd be going through them like a kid through candy.

Upstairs he turned on the lights. The bloodstains shouted at him from the walls, from the mattress and the floor. The air had screams smeared on it, like dust on glass. It smelled of rust and urine. Will flinched at the sound of the air conditioning springing to life. The dead house seemed as if it were struggling to stay alive.

The splash patterns of the blood on the wall had confused Atlanta police. Now, with the benefit of the coroner's report and the ability to see, Will was able to let it take shape in his head. He closed his eyes, dragged in the smell.

Twice.

They're in bed, asleep. I can see them from the doorway (it hadn't squeaked on the hinges when Will had entered). I move silently on the carpet. I'm tall but I'm co-ordinated, fast. I reach down for Mr Leeds (a registered alpha, he would have been the logical choice for the first victim - take him out and the strongest link is gone) hand over his mouth, his eyes flick open in hazy fear. I cut his throat. Spurt! Up and over me, up and over the wall, creating an odd and difficult shadow pattern in the blood spatter. Then I walk over to the light switch and turn it on (there were hairs and oil from Mr Leeds' head left on the switch plate by a surgical glove).

I turn. She's sitting up, bleary, half asleep. She knows something's wrong. I put a bullet in her (the autopsy report showed the bullet had entered to the right of her naval and lodged itself in her lumbar spine, but she died of strangulation) and I watch her. I know I watch her because it gives Leeds time to stand, the wound won't keep this dog down, and run to his kids, spraying gouts of blood as he fought. I shove him to the floor in his daughter's room and finish him there. When I look up she is watching me, small eyes wide in the darkness...

A long steadying breath. Will sat down on the small bed and looked around the room. It was dark, the curtains still drawn. The daylight couldn't fight its way through from outside. He didn't want to turn on the light. This is how she would have seen it, he thought. He rubbed the sweat from his brow with the cuff of his jacket. It came away dark.

This is how she would have seen it. Will closed his eyes and rubbed at his neck with both hands. All the children had died quickly. It was the saving grace. Single gunshot wound to the head. Mrs Leeds had taken five minutes to die, or thereabouts. Mr Leeds bled to death with aspirated blood contributing. The Atlanta detectives had been thorough but there were still some unexplained aspects in their report, such as the profusion of bloodstains and matted sliding marks in the hall. One of the detectives had posited that the victims tried to crawl away from their killer. Will knew that wasn't the case – he never would have allowed it.

No, he moved them himself. Took them back to their parent's room, all of them (the blood stains on the mattress matched up, as did the blood stains on the opposite wall where he had sat the children one by one). Will returned to the master bedroom and stared at the scene. He could see the children there, like broken dolls on the floor facing the bed, Mrs Leeds spread out across the bottom, her husband trussed up to the headboard (there were post-mortem ligature marks around his torso – he'd been secured to the bed with something around his chest).

An audience. A dead audience. Brother, sister, big brother, Mr Leeds.

"You were making them watch," he said coldly, "weren't you."

What he had done to Mrs Leeds was obvious from the post mortem. The rape could only have taken place after she was dead. Will wondered what light would have been on in the room. Still the overhead? He looked around. Would he light a candle? He wondered, the flickering light would simulate expression on their faces. No candle had been found. Maybe he would think to do it next time...

The first small bond to the killer itched and stung like a leech. Will clenched his hands and licked his lips. Fucking bastard. Fucking stupid bastard you should be at home, watching cartoons on the TV with your kid, your kid. These kids are dead. You can't help these kids, what are you doing here huh?

What are you doing here?

Will bit at the inside of his lip and ignored the voice.

The third time.

Why do I move them again? Why don't I leave them the way they fall? There's something, something you don't want me to know about you. Something you're ashamed of? Or can you not afford for me to know.

The eyes of the little Leeds girl had seemed like glass. On closer inspection it showed slices of mirror placed into the eyes of each of the victims, creating horrifying reflections in place of the most expressive organ. The mirror in the bathroom had been smashed, according to the report, though no blood had been found. He'd used something heavy.

Why? I want to see myself when I look at them. See myself in them. See myself in their...

"Eyes," Will's voice was soft. His own blinked. He frowned.

Did I open their eyes?
Did you open their eyes?

Two voices seemed to say both questions at once.

Mrs Leeds is lovely, he's seen her before. Beautiful, blue eyes. I turned on the light after I cut Mr Leeds' throat so I could see her when she watched him flop. It was maddening to have to wear gloves when I touched her. Aching to feel that warm skin.

He checked the report in his shaking hands. There was talcum powder on her leg, her upper thigh. Will licked his lips, trying to taste the sweat. He hurried to the bathroom, raking through their cabinet. No talcum. He tried the vanity cabinet in the master bedroom, nothing. The list of evidence hadn't found any talcum.

I took off my gloves, didn't I? You took off your gloves, didn't you, you son of a bitch? The powder came out of my rubber glove as I snap it off, can't wait to touch, to touch her cooling skin. It spilled out as you took off your glove because you wanted to touch her with your bare hands and then you put the gloves back on and I wipe her down, so carefully, still feeling her soft hairs on my fingertips, but while the gloves were off did I open their eyes?

Did you open their eyes?

The phone was automatic in his hand, fingers moving without thinking. It was answered on the fifth ring.

"This is Crawford," it was odd to hear his voice after so long. It made all the time in between his leaving the BAU and now seem like nothing.

"Jack, it's Will."

A pause, not long but longer than he had ever expected from Jack. Then, "Will. Yes, what can I do for you?"

"Does Jimmy Price still work Latent Prints?"

"Yeah. He doesn't go out much anymore. He's working on the single-print index."

"I think he ought to come to Atlanta," Will knew he was pushing it. Not only was he barely back on the team after basically abandoning his post five years prior, but now he was ordering his alpha boss around as if he were his school teacher. There was a pause.

"Why? The guy down there is pretty damn good."

"He is good, but he's not Price."

"This had better be going somewhere. What do you want him for?" Jack was getting cranky.

"Mrs Leeds' fingernails and toenails. They were painted, it's a slick surface. And the corneas of all their eyes. I think he took his gloves off Jack. I think he had to touch her."

"Ok. Ok Will, I hear you. Jesus, Price'll have to gun it," Jack said with a sigh, "the funeral's tomorrow afternoon."

He hung up once the time and place was agreed for a meeting. Will ran his hand through his hair and felt sickeningly tired. The adrenaline had made him shaky, like a coming down from the afterglow. His head was swimming. Lying down on the bed seemed like a good idea at the time.

Lying where Mr Leeds had been placed, Will Graham slipped into a deep, fitful sleep, before the shadow of the dead audience against the wall.