"And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind."

- Pablo Neruda

Will doesn't smoke, having been witness to his father's slow demise from cancer, but tonight he stands on the porch and goes through one pack and then two. Inhales cigarette after cigarette until it hurts to swallow and he envisions everything he eats or drinks from this moment on will taste of ash. It's a strange comfort in times like these- the subtle art of taking yourself apart piece by piece, of killing yourself in some small controlled way. Slowly instead of all at once.

Odd that hurting yourself can make you feel so safe. That bringing yourself that much closer to death can make you feel that much more alive.

No doubt Hannibal would have something to say if he heard Will's distinct vein of thought. Some deep imparted wisdom, some twisted truth that makes perfect sense at the time, makes Will see clearly and then when he is alone, falls apart. The logic that only makes sense in Hannibal's presence and afterwards, goes so very cloudy.

The low grade fever festering beneath his skin hasn't gone away. If anything, it's climbing ever higher, leaving Will to wonder how the others don't see because surely there must be signs. Little things he lets slip during moments of weakness. Grimy smudges that linger like an oil spill after its container has shattered.

Losing time, flinching from hallucination, sweat curling the edges of his hair, hands trembling, the empty bottles of Tylenol and Advil and Asprin. But they don't see, so life continues much the same while Will goes to pieces as quietly as he can.

All except for Hannibal. Will still isn't sure what to make of his therapist other than the obvious clues he's been gifted. Strikingly wealthy, an aged sort of money and prestige that leaves Will slightly unbalanced. Highly intelligent to the point of becoming unnerving- a trait they both share. Will never understood why others responded to him as though intimidated, not until now. Being on the receiving end of that caliber intellect is a novel experience. But perhaps most baffling of all is that iron control that never slips, as if everything is a choreographed dance and Hannibal alone has memorized the steps.

Will has begun to fear his therapist seeing too much, that his initial steadfast defenses have begun to crumble. It's never been a problem before. If Will wanted to keep people out, they stayed out. Except for now.

Even amidst that concern, there is a dual split- the terror of being seen too clearly, all his secrets laid out bare and the buried desire to be understood. Jack and Alana and Beverly try. They accept the pieces of Will they can comprehend and concede the necessity of the pieces they don't. It's all dead ends and red herrings though. Try as they might, they will never grasp the complexity of Will's mind. But Hannibal...

Will stumbles, pulled away from his thoughts with a jerk. It's cold now, growing even colder as the night deepens but he can't go inside. The house is too small and once he steps within its walls, that space will only diminish until it's pressing the air out from his lungs. Until he feels like Alice who drunk the vial, who ate the cookies. Will walks, aimless. He can breathe easier in the open field, nothing around but his dogs and a heavy hush. He pauses only a moment and turns back to glance at his house, lit up in the darkness, pinpricks of light shining through grey windows. It's a blow to the chest, the realization that even this doesn't feel safe anymore, doesn't even offer the pretense of it.

Will rubs his hands over his face and swallows hard, trying to ignore the sting of tears behind his eyes. He clenches his fist until there are five bloody nail prints embedded in his skin. He will not cry. He can't, can't fall apart because who would put him back together?

Footsteps in the snow and Hobbs' tread is heavy for a dead man.

It's only natural that Will tries to avoid sleep. It's normal, he tells himself, thinking back to that morning when he chugged down three cups of coffee, pinched the side of his arm until a bruise was raised. Students do it during exam week. Lawyers and soldiers and new parents do it all the time. But Will has been wavering on this particular tight rope far too long and his imbalance is starting to show. The stains beneath his eyes have turned into bruises. He can't remember what day it is, what week. Sometimes he looks up expecting to see a field of green instead of one covered in powder.

When sleep does claim him, it digs its claws in and refuses to let go. The hours that fill each crime scene linger in a blurred place between nightmare and reality and Will no longer has the confidence to differentiate between the two.

In sleep, he dreams of them, mirrored thoughts and images casting reflections back at one another, twisting just so. All those victims, all the women who were mothers and daughters and wives. Who had jobs and hobbies and homes. He doesn't want to be a victim but lately it's been taking even longer to convince himself that he is not riddled with bullet wounds when he wakes, that his skin is not torn from the ragged edge of a hunting knife, that there are not fingers curling around his throat cutting off all air. It is not blood that stains the sheets but sweat.

He needs to think and since he can't think inside, can't afford to sleep, he keeps walking and tries to catalogue his condition like one might a virus. When did he last eat? But the mere thought of food pulls tight at his stomach, sickening. He tries to recall the last conversation he had, but it's a dizzying blur of faces and voices that look and sound interchangeable. Everything is bleeding into the next.

He doesn't so much as glance to the side where his shadow follows. Doesn't need to look to know that Hobb is still wearing that striped collared shirt, splatters of red, riddled with nine holes from nine bullets. That Hobbs is watching him make his way further from home, eyes points of heat pressing against his neck and shoulders. Will has long since accepted the fact that he will never be rid of the man.

Ghosts surround him, crowding closer. He feels them hovering on the fringe of his awareness, watching, waiting for him to succumb to sleep, where they can follow him down.

The moon glints across the snow like shards of glass, wander too close and you might bleed. Any light from the house has disappeared. Winston is the only one left at his side, emitting small whimpers. Every once in awhile, a wet nose presses against his leg. It's just Winston and Hobbs.

Will pulls his coat tighter, scant pockets of heat that he doesn't really miss. The cool air is more of a relief even though he knows that's only the fever talking. He can image it soothing his fevered mind just as easily as it does his skin. It's all trees and darkness, the moon above him and crunching snow below. And absolutely nothing in sight that is recognizable.

"He's coming for you." Hobbs says, a hiss like a cobra winding up before it strikes.

Will pauses, jolted from his thoughts and glances around. He opens his mouth to answer and then closes it again, reminds himself the Hobbs isn't really there. Instead he says, "My name is Will Graham…". And then trails off because he doesn't know what day it is or where he is.

It's never not disconcerting- the way his mind can snap so effortlessly away from his body, the ease at which he leaves it all behind. The panic when he is tossed back into awareness, a growing dread that something terrible happened when he was comatose. That maybe, just maybe, he committed terrible acts too.

He's shaking all over and the cold is no longer a balm. The jacket he has on is thick enough for the fall but hours out in the dead of wintery night might be pushing his luck. A buzzing grows between his ears, white static noise, so loud he doesn't hear the next approach.

And perhaps the worst part is, he's not even surprised.

Gideon's face is pale, two splashes of pink in his cheeks, a stark contrast to the void. He looks so ordinary. He looks alive.

"You're not here." Will sounds much more certain than he feels.

Gideon glances around and then finally spread his arms wide, an avenging angel or maybe a fallen one.

"Well one of us is wrong." He peers at Will for a long moment and there is the distinct sensation of being dissected, the surgical precision of being taken apart. "Maybe I'm not here either." A glint of silver in his hand, a smudge of color that Will blinks rapidly trying to clarify.

"Just like mine." Hobbs whispers in his ear, his breath burning the base of Will's spine.

Gideon holds the knife like one might a bomb that magically appeared in his hand, as if he's just as confounded as Will is by how it got there. It fades as he tightens his grip, knuckles fading to white. Will reminds himself that there is no reason to fear an apparition. It won't hurt if Gideon places that dagger inside him because it's not there to begin with. Just your imagination, wind up and see how it goes. But Gideon doesn't move towards Will. Instead, he brings the sharpened point down on the bare skin of his arm and then he starts to push.

A sound of pain that Will belatedly recognizes as his his own. Confused, eternally dizzy, he looks down. Red stains his forearm, just above the indentation of his elbow. Blood running down in rivulets.

"You might be even crazier than me." Gideon steps closer and Will scrambles back, tripping over his own feet because this can't be right. His mind is playing tricks again and that is to be expected, but Will doesn't know the rules to this new game.

"I'm Will Graham." He says over and over, almost a plea, as both Hobbs and Gideon hover over him, as he disappears in their shadow. "I know who I am."

Gideon's smile is as sharp as the knife's edge. He leans down close to Will, close enough to smell the man's aftershave, to feel the heat of him, to see the shards of color in his eyes. He doesn't stop until they're mere inches apart and Will braces himself for the impact. A knife slipped between his ribs or, if Hobb's hungry expression is anything to go by, one quick cut across the pale vulnerable skin at the base of his throat. Paralyzed, Will realizes how utterly defenseless he is, laid on the ground, prostrate, waiting for the killing blow, a wounded animal already.

And then, almost as if wearing the same skin, all three move at once.

No sane person would consider it morning when Jack finds himself surrounded by a group of caffeine-laced detectives sectioning off a body. The corpse hasn't had time to fully cool, tendrils of heat still lingering but already vultures from the newspapers have caught the scent. Their cameras flash bright against the dawn. A bad start to what promises to be a terrible day. A crime scene stuffed to the brim full of people and no Will.

Jack stomps around, calling out orders with a cellphone pressed against the side of his face, still unshaven from when he'd been been pulled out of bed at 4 am. Each and every time it goes straight to voicemail. Finally he curses and stuffs the phone back into his pocket before sliding into the driver's seat of the closest police cruiser. He slams the door shut, not bothering to try and conceal his bad temper. Cut off from the noise of outside, he takes a moment to revel in the silence before stepping hard on the gas.

He pulls up to Will's driveway an hour later, cursing at the man's propensity for solitude. And if he walks a little too quickly to the front door, it isn't because he's worried. No, while Will has been more fragile than usual lately, there's no indication of anything seriously wrong. Shards of doubt seep in when he finds the front door ajar and no Will inside. The dogs lay together in a heap in front of a bare fireplace. They perk up at his entrance, a few warning growls that go unheeded.

The house is small. It doesn't take long to search. He still calls Will's name as he goes from room to room even though everything tells him Will isn't there. Dusty stacks of books, a piano that looks in desperate need of tuning, fishing gear littered all around. A bed in the middle of the living room, tangled sheets thrown to the floor. Almost nothing in the kitchen. He doesn't think of this place like a crime scene. It isn't, he tells himself over and over. There are a hundred possibilities more likely than that. Will might be visiting family he doesn't have or friend he doesn't want. There could have been an emergency of the ordinary kind. A slip and fall that required a trip to the hospital perhaps. One of the dogs taken to the vet. Maybe he's out shopping for groceries because a brief scan of the fridge and cupboards find nothing that looks edible.

Those fall flat though, excuses if he's ever heard one. So he keeps looking.

It isn't difficult to locate the single trail of footsteps that lead away, still evident despite the light powdering of snow from that morning. Jack follows it with dogged determination, hand lingering at his side where his gun is holstered. The hairs on the back of his neck stand upright and if there's one thing Jack has learned from decades of putting away the worst their sorry world has to offer, it's to trust his instincts.

He breaks from the treeline and stops dead. Just ahead, perhaps a dozen paces, the snow is mixed with dirt, tossed around as if from the struggle of an animal cornered. The snow is darker, dirty, patches of frozen ground ripped up. Splashes of red mix in with the white and brown. Still only one set of tracks, leading both there and away. The implication isn't one that he likes. His own words echo back, the surefire conviction that Will could survive anything thrown his way. I won't break him. I won't break him.

The proof of that wreckage lies in the snow. A pressure building behind his chest and he has to clear his throat several times before his voice is clear enough to speak without the threat of breaking. The phone in his hand shakes when he dials.

Hannibal picks up after three rings. The sound of that accent tilt is grounding somehow. Strangely enough that is what gives him the strength to confess the truth, the one that he'd seen the very first day when Will refused to meet his eyes, the look that's grown with every crime scene. The one Jack needed to ignore because Will was doing what no one else could, seeing what no one else should. Will was helping people, saving lives.

Back then, yesterday, this morning even, that was all the validation he needed. It's hard to summon that assurance now, impossible to feel anything except a crushing responsibility.

He looks at the blood and thinks this is what you did to him.

A murder of crows take to the sky at the sound of his voice. "Dr Lecter, I think we have a problem with Will."