All rights to Hannibal (TV) belong to NBC.

FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia

He was starting to trust her. She knew that the second he asked her to watch his dogs while he was out. Although he didn't look happy about why he was leaving - she could only imagine the reasons behind him leaving - but she decided to accept all the same.

She didn't mind.

She switched to the day shift, and the amount of people still wasn't overwhelming, but it still shocked her to have to interact with more than the occasional one or two late night customers, looking for a place to grab a bite and take off again. She figured it was about time she started adjusting to a more normal routine. She knew there was nothing, technically, wrong with her life before. She kept her hands clean since she settled down in Virginia. She kept her eyes on the ground, never glancing up long enough to tempt herself before Will.

But he was the divide.

He was the cataclysmic event that shook her too the core.

Now, nothing seemed right. She couldn't function properly. She stayed up that night that she drank with him. She stayed up until beyond daylight, just lying down, hugging a pillow, staring at a wall, trying to figure out what she was going to do.

She felt like The Lady of Shalott, and he was her Lancelot.

She hadn't been happy. That was for certain. On the rare occasion that she smiled, it was always small, always forced, polite, but not warm. Yet, she was content. She had a simple life. Instead of being cursed to weave images on a loom, she found herself well practiced in reading the same stories over and over, sometimes drawing out scenes on napkins or scrap paper. Instead of looking out at the world through a shadowy mirror, she was staring through the caked glass of the diner. It wasn't as poetically beautiful as The Lady of Shalott, yet, her own knight caught her eye and tempted her to look directly out at the world, to go into it.

He could be her destruction.

"The curse is come upon me," Bella echoed, holding the pillow tighter that first night.

After two night shifts, she put in a formal request for a shift change. Her boss didn't ask why. He never did. He simply gave her a handwritten copy of her new schedule and told her to let him know when she wanted to start. She started not even twelve hours later. It probably was breaking a labor law, but neither would bring any attention to it. As far as anyone was concerned, there was nothing left to see. She simply continued as she did during the night. She offered to take inventory, to make sure everything was accounted, even to clean up his office every now and then as a thank you. She was given a quick "no" and was told to just do as she always did. And, she did just that. What she always did.

Will showed up the next morning after her initial shift. He told her that a coworker said that she'd switched. She asked for who told him, mainly because she doubted her coworkers even knew her name, and he told her that he just heard that schedules were shifted. She wanted to ask how he knew that she would take the morning shift instead of the afternoon one, but figured it wasn't important. What was important was that he knew when she was there. She was too taken with the events of that first night to ask for his phone number. Even a week into their new routine, which had her making omelets for breakfast, he didn't ask for hers. It wasn't until he asked her to stay and watch his dogs that he gave her his number. Although she was irritated with the circumstances that it took for him to exchange numbers with him, she was still happy to go back to his home, even when he was gone.

She felt safe there.

In the first few nights that she was there, she learned just how unbound he was.

He showed her around. He told her that she was free to use the kitchen, the bathroom, and that she could use the bedroom too. When he showed her the plain room, with bare walls with only two lamps and a phone on the dresser, he told her that the mattress was old, apologizing for it.

It didn't look old.

It looked like it would be on display in some store. It was worn enough to know that he probably lied on it from time to time, but when he said that it was almost a decade old, she knew it wasn't his bed. It wasn't where he slept. There was no indentations. There was not enough wear for it to be where he slept as often as a normal person would. This wasn't where he felt safe. She knew it because his bedroom looked like the section of her apartment that was the equivalent. Neither felt safe enough to linger.

She didn't stay there.

On her first night there, she tried sleeping in the bedroom. She lied down, on top of the covers, pulling up a small and thin blanket over her. She closed her eyes, but sleep never came. In the end, she wandered downstairs, where the dogs were so happily situated, and found a place for herself on the floor.

She liked being on the ground. The bed, despite its softness, didn't hold the same safety that came with being downstairs. She liked being close to the ground. It made her feel more secure. She liked being in the living room, but that was from being able to see anything, anyone, if need be, and the dogs. She found, that first night, that she only needed a sheet. His dogs situated themselves around her. She fell asleep with a hand over one - "Oscar," Will had called him - since she had been petting him. There was something calming around being around them. It was the protection. It was the feeling that if something were to happen, then she wouldn't be alone. Oscar, one of the biggest of the bunch, became her most faithful companion in those three nights. Winston being a close second. She liked to think that dog, Winston, took to her foreignness because he, too, was a stranger.

When he came back, he found her in the living room. She was lying on her back, reading a book from his shelf, situated between Buster and Winston. It was so normal. He almost felt as though he walked into a dream because of how effortless she fit into his vision of home. She lifted herself high enough to see who came in, a warm smile blooming onto her scarred face. In that moment, all the stress he felt before was gone. She gingerly set aside the book, welcoming him home. His dogs were at his feet, circling him, jumping, excited over his return. Even as he greeted his most loyal companions, his eyes wondered to her. There was a sadness to her eyes, one that only increased when she gathered her things. After two weeks of this system of her keeping his dogs - mostly him - company, he couldn't stop himself.

He invited her to stay.

He quickly told her that he had to prepare a lesson for his class the next day, and that if he wanted to get any of it done, he couldn't be distracted with his dogs. It was a weak reason, especially since they were all fairly behaved. Still, she took it. That night, he sat at the table, doing just as he planned, but, every so often, he would look into the living room, and he would see her, happily keeping his dogs company. He refused to ask her to stay the night, mostly because he was scared of the implications that would come with it, and chose to ask her for lunch.

She said yes.

So, here she was, waiting outside his classroom, watching as students filed out. She thanked the stars for having enough sense to dress somewhat nice.

Still, she felt wrong.

Usually, she didn't care what she wore, but this time she did. It wasn't because she had a desire for nicer things. She simply had a desire to fall under the radar of those that could harm her. If she could, she would have donned a uniform, for the sake of blending in. Instead, she was under-dressed, clearly an outsider. Dark jeans, dark boots, and a comfortable, yet ill fitting sweater. She would have fit in fine if they met in public, or even at his house. Here, she felt like an outsider. Here, she was the odd one out. Neither student, nor staff. That was what had her fidgeting like a restless child.

When the last of the FBI trainees were out, she moved inside, finding her roughly put together friend. He was actively avoiding eye contact, staring at a file on his desk. She knew he forgot about their plans when she saw the slight surprise in his eyes when he noticed her. She wore a smile on her face up until the moment she saw the picture on the projector.

It was of a girl. Dark hair, hanging limply from the head of a girl with ivory skin. She was naked, splayed across the rack of a stag. Her arms were outstretched, limp, legs crossed even while hanging. The way she was impaled had her head lower than the rest of her body, head thrown back, exposing a harshly bruised neck, the look of fear on her face, her last scream immortalized in a picture. She was a disrespected sacrifice.

"Head down, diving straight into hell," Bella whispered, a slight grimace on her face.

She felt guilty just looking at it.

But she couldn't look away.

She told herself that she didn't know the girl. She told herself that the girl could have been a terrible person, that there was no sense in mourning someone she would never know. She told herself that just being young didn't make a death a tragedy. At the same age, she, herself, would have been indifferent to death. She wouldn't have been overjoyed, but she would not have been wronged by it.

When she felt guilty to the point where she could no longer feel herself, she looked to Will, seeking solace in the blue eyes that blinded her to all things cruel and inhumane.

"So this is where you teach?" she asked, meeting him halfway.

She couldn't go fully into the classroom. She felt her legs tense with every step further into the foreign space. It was familiar, but like the face of a family member that one hadn't seen since they were children. It was a classroom, darker, yet more stylish than the ones she was in when she was still trapped in university life. She never liked the classrooms like this. There were no windows, only one clock. As someone who never had a good grasp on time, she was tormented by the lack of tools to find herself. She could still recall the torture that it was to feel like she was suspended, trapped in a room full of faceless people with only anxiety as her company. That anxiety was what lead her to counting exits. It's what had her being able to only go halfway into the classroom.

But Will was understanding.

"This is where I try to teach," he corrected her, visibly trying not to grimace. "What I do - what I see - is not something that is a science."

He looked weary.

He looked older.

The look he wore before her was the same one he wore after a long day doing, well, whatever he did. He always evaded her questions on what he did during the hours of the day. She never poked at him forcefully, only giving him opportunities to tell her. When he invited her to lunch, to drive together - he insulted her car and its ability to "safely transport" her from point A to point B - she assumed it was because he was ready to share, to open up. After seeing the image on the screen, she could understand why he didn't tell her fully before.

"What you see?" she echoed, raising a brow.

"Think of it as a combination of acute empathy combined with severe imagination in relation to psychopathic murderers," he answered in a sharp and bitter tone. There was an apology in his eyes the second he saw her eyes twitch, fighting a flinch.

"I can imagine why you don't want to bring your work home," she said, choosing to ignore the wound in her heart. "It doesn't sound like an exact art or science."

"It's not."

They stared at each other, neither knowing what exactly to say or do.

"I feel like that's something that a person has to learn on their own," she continued after she was met with silence. "It's myopia," she decided, looking to her scuffed boots, hiding from his gaze. She didn't need him to tell her that he had an acute sense of empathy to feel like he could see her, understand her. She felt naked since they first saw each other. "It comes in layers, with each layer peeling away to see more. Childhood was a thick layer, something everyone here has left behind. But, there are some things in life that give you a sense of clarity that you can't get through studying or muted experiences."

"Layers," he repeated, mulling her words over.

"Trainees can't just look at pictures, or crime scenes, and... see. And I don't mean any offense to what you teach," she added, glancing at him before returning her eyes to her boots.

"No offense taken," he promised. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a slight wave of the hand.

There was too much to worry about when it came to testing the waters.

She'd much rather dive in, even if it did risk drowning.

"What do you see?"

Her eyes snapped upwards, meeting his. Color drained from her face, the impulse to run fueling her.

She didn't run.

His eyes trapped her there.

He was looking at her, looking at her in a way she often saw him doing. He looked like he was trying to pick her apart as though she were a stained glass window that was shattered, picking up the pieces and trying to put it back together to see the image clearly. Only, the image was her, and she wasn't sure she wanted to be seen fully just yet.

But she couldn't simply stay silent.

He didn't deserve more silence.

With a deep breath, one where she tried to gather whatever strength she had left, she moved her eyes to the screen, once more taking in the awful sight. She stayed silent for a long time. She wasn't picking apart the image. She wasn't making sense of it. That long while was spent mourning, despite her reasoning.

If she took after her mother, she would have thought the girl to be a complete tragedy. She would have looked unto the girl and think her robbed of heaven or peace. Her mother was the kind to believe that spirits didn't rest easy if they died before they were ready to die, if they had something horrible to replay for an eternity, something to linger in instead of going onto whatever was next. Her mother was the kind of woman who took pride in putting on funerals almost as much as she took on weddings.

Bella was different.

'A beautiful funeral doesn't guarantee heaven,' she recalled.

"I don't see a murder," she whispered. "I mean, I don't just see a dead girl," she clarified quickly, looking to him, feeling as though she had said the worst thing imaginable. He simply gestured towards the screen, prompting her to continue. Swallowing, trying to keep the bile from rising in her throat when Will mentioned that whoever was responsible for the girl's death had taken her lungs, that the girl was still alive when he cut them.

She looked at the screen.

At the girl.

"I see a demonstration," she began, feeling as though the air was growing thinner with each breath. "The way she is impaled hides her nudity... This is not personal," she noted, inching forward as if to see better. The sight grew crueler. She was mounted like a table top on those antlers, the crows around her looking like guests at a dinner table, haply feasting on the girl.

She felt sick.

"This-" She wanted to look away. "This is not something they, the person who did this, needed to do in order to survive. This is... It's crude. It's brutal and clumsy, but..." It made no sense to a logical mind. "The brutality, the clumsiness, it was intentional." It was a mockery. "I can't tell what they're trying to say, but that's the point," she realized, both relieved and terrified because of it. "I'm not who they're talking to. I'm not the one that's meant to understand this."

When she looked back at him, there was a look in his eyes that she recognized as the one where he was picking her apart again.

Had she said too much?

"Count me as impressed, Ms. Bennet," he said, staring at her with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. This was their usual feelings for the other. Comforted, yet cautious.

Will said nothing more. He simply kept his whole body carefully still, looking her over. She didn't squirm. She didn't move an inch, giving nothing away. They would have stood there for hours, maybe, if a loud and booming voice didn't shatter the silence they sought solace in.

"Count me as well."

The man striding into the classroom was tall. He looked weathered, but nevertheless strong despite his greying hair. Like a monster in the flesh, the man grew in size the closer he got, and by the time he was standing before her, despite his smile, she felt as though a lion entered the den, and she were nothing but a small bird, trapped. Judging by how Will tensed at the sight of the man, she counted him as a danger. She didn't need Will to have this feeling, though. Looking at him, his size, physically or otherwise, she knew this man was a predator. He was the hunter, and people like Will and her were just tools to use to find his prey.

Things to be used haphazardly.

The man stopped before them. Bella looked to Will, seeing him reach into his bag and procuring a set of glasses. He put them on, setting them to where the rim of his glasses were blocking the man's face, preventing eye contact. Bella didn't have the luxury of a shield, and looked directly at him, hoping that he would be the one to look away. Instead, he stared on, proud, unashamed, no secrets to hide.

At least, not like the ones she hid.

The man smiled at her, but it was polite. It wasn't genuine, it had less than just intentions.

"I'm Special Agent Jack Crawford. I lead the Behavioral Science Unit," the man introduced himself as, offering a hand to shake.

Hesitantly, she took it, eyes flickering downward, catching a glimpse of the larger, calloused hands that closed around hers.

There was a firmness to the shake, an assertion of dominance. She would guess that this man, with how he so easily gave his title as if it were as natural as simply saying his name, was manipulative. Not in a malicious sense, but the kind of manipulation good people used to pay a foul price to sire more good. She wondered if he was aware of doing this. Some were so well versed in the art of manipulation to the point of fooling themselves into thinking they are the opposite.

She kept her hand steady, but didn't try to match his firmness.

She was a manipulator as well.

She knew the way she looked. She looked messy, rough, possibly fragile, given the moment. If she stood strong, with squared shoulders and a hard face, she would either draw eyes or draw expectations. Under the guise of a weary woman with weak hands incapable of wounding, she flew so easily under the radar. Though, if that guise were false, or some of the truth to what she was, she could not tell. She certainly felt weary.

"Bella," she introduced herself as. She didn't give a title, or her last name, as always.

Recognition flashed in his eyes at her name. That was the point of the shorter name. It wasn't that Bellamy was hard to say - It was long, but not impossible - or that she felt like a "Bella." It simply was that the name was entirely common. If searched, there would be her, along with thousands, if not more, with the same name as her. She didn't want to be found easy, and when treading through the FBI academy, she would use as much anonymity as she could. In the FBI Academy, she was the weakest.

Still, the weakest must go.

The Man, "Jack", looked at Will, who looked torn between exhausted, angry, and embarrassed.

She wondered if he wanted her to leave.

"How was class?"

The question brought a harsh scowl to Will's face. He was not going to dilute his feelings around this man.

"They applauded, it was inappropriate."

Bella looked away, trying to hide her contorting features, the disgust.

"Is there a problem, Ms.," Jack paused, expectantly waiting for her to fill in the blank.

"No, sir," she answered, not giving her name. There was a lingering skepticism in his eyes before he looked to Will. "Review board begs to differ. You're up for a commendation and they okayed active return to the field."

Field?

Her eyes flashed to Will. She knew that he only told her that he taught. Then again, he never said that he had duties outside of teaching. As much as she wanted to give into her anger and sense of betrayal on his part, she was gentle. Looking at the screen again, she wondered if looking at things like this were his job. Based on what he was trying to teach, that would imply that he knew the story behind the picture. How else would be be able to tell if the students were seeing clearly if he, himself, could not?

Eyes that see true.

"I want you to go back in the field, but I told the Board I'm recommending a psych evaluation."

The man did not ask if Will wanted to go "back in the field." No. Jack simply looked unto will like a demanding conqueror and gave out orders to follow. He gave a call, and Will, like the compassionate, yet yearning to do good, answered that call.

"I'm not going to be comfortable with anybody inside my head," Will said, looking up fully, glaring the man down. He said it as if it should have been a known fact.

This was no surprise to her. Given their first encounters, even up until now, she witnessed Will's apprehensive nature. He barely cracked the door open for her to catch a glimpse of him, and this man walks in, telling him that the door will be opened fully for someone to examine the exposed emotional wiring that kept him functioning.

The second Jack opened his mouth, drawing in a breath, Bella opened hers. She was quicker.

"I'll give you some privacy," she excused herself with, turning on her feet, expecting that the man was polite enough to not force her to stay.

It was a calculated decision, but not one without a margin of error.

"I heard what you said about Cassie Boyle's body," he said, calling her back. She didn't turn to look back at him. She looked to the girl. Cassie. It shouldn't have changed anything, but it did.

She had a name.

She had a life.

There would be someone out there to miss her, someone out there who would now have to feel the crushing blow of a chunk of their being missing, amputated without consent. There would be a void in their heart, shade in their soul. She could only hope that those people would not fall through the cracks, through the missing pieces that were once filled with Cassie Boyle. She could only hope that they weren't consumed by loss.

She of all people knew what it was like to drown in it.

The storm of emotions, feeling she buried so deep were rising, waking. Jack saw this, he saw the same urge to stop whatever was behind this as Will did.

It tempted him too much.

When she looked at him, she saw nothing except the predator, and she was now the prey.

"That was very similar to what Will said when he first looked at it."

"Jack, no," Will began, color draining from his face as he began to see where Jack was headed.

"We could use an extra pair of eyes."

That was it. That was the sales pitch.

She hadn't known when she crossed her arms, but the second he said that, her fingers dug into the sleeves of her shirt, grasping onto them, at the same time trying to use her arms to cover herself, as if to shield her vital organs from this hungry man.

Her eyes darted to the entrance to the classroom, wanting nothing more than to run back to the diner, back to the safety of a mundane routine.

Jack and Will were looking at her. Jack's eyes were impassively watching her, just waiting for her to fall for it. If he cared for the terror in her eyes one way or the other, he wasn't letting on. She was just a bird, flailing her wings, hopelessly trying to escape the cage that he trapped her in. He knew what she would say.

There was a massive stony weight crushing her. She felt as if she had been under the illusion of relief, but now there was a solid mountain was holding her down. Jack knew what he was doing. He was a good man. By the look in his eyes, by the unabashed ways he carried himself, she knew that he couldn't have cruel intentions. He wanted to do right. He simply wanted it more than the price that would come with that. In that moment, she knew what was following Will home like a haunting nightmare. It was Jack and all that he pushed onto Will. He was the man who would place the world on their shoulders, knowing full well that neither of them were an atlas.

Good intentions.

That was undeniable. His work was good. She could see it in his eyes, fire burning brightly to cast some light onto this dark world.

It was an understandable dream, to stop the wheel that brought ruins to innocent lives.

Yet, looking at him, looking at the fire in his eyes, the strength in which he held himself, she knew that he would have them all burned or crushed alive if it meant giving justice.

That was too far.

She knew it the moment she thought it, but even if he wouldn't let them be consumed by it - not without a fight, at least - he would let them get awfully close to that point. It was a point she had passed a long time ago, one that brought her to wallowing in her withering, resigning to ruins. It was Will who pulled her out, just enough to breathe, to feel what it was like to be alive, and since then, she did not want it. She did not want to go back under. That was the frightening fate that would be fathered by Jack's proposition. She didn't know if she could do it.

Where was her justice?

Where was Cassie Boyle's?

The voice in her head was a volatile one, caught in between self preservation and self annihilation. It was pulling her in two different directions, and she was feeling herself being ripped down the middle, half wanting to just tell him no, and to live out her days in guilty peace. The other wanted to say yes. After all, her justice was obsolete. She spent years trying to get it back, trying to take back just a shred of what was taken from her. There was none left. She hit rock bottom a long time ago, so long that it felt like it was centuries away when she just gave up, collapsing on the cold, dark asphalt of a road with no end.

There was nothing left for her when it came to justice.

But her? The girl on the screen? Cassie Boyle and those like her?

There was still something left for them.

Jack knew that.

"She'd not FBI. She's not training either," Will argued, as if that wasn't painfully obvious.

Jack wasn't phased. Her silence was enough for him. She was a prize fish in his net, and he was not going to let her go easy.

"Neither are you."

Bella was somewhat taken back by this. She saw enough of Will's personal life to know that he was not resting easy. She'd washed some of his sweat stained sheets, and knew that whatever was following him was eating him alive. As much as she tried to prolong it, trying to figure out a way out, he was busy experimenting cautiously with the same thing she was now: Justice.

It was an intoxicating idea. Everyone had something to be guilty of, but justice, doing right by someone or something was the medicine for it. It made one feel less like burning into the ashes of self sacrifice because maybe, just maybe, if one could help enough, their souls might hold some merit, that their lives might be easier to stomach. She remembered this feeling, the invigorating sensation of being as whole as they once were, despite knowing that wholesomeness only came with the innocence of childhood. And that was long ago and far away. Now, she was under no false pretenses. She knew that in the end, there might only be invisible monsters trailing behind her, waiting until she slowed down long enough to eat her alive, but if she could do just a little bit of good before...

If she could spare someone else...

Perhaps it would be worth it.

"She already has a job," Will said.

Bella felt her heart ache to give some relief to him. He was so good. He was the soldier in Jack's war, the innocent that would pay the price. Here he was, fighting for her, trying to spare her from the burden he carried.

He was the kind of man who would suffer alone and in silence if it meant that someone else didn't have to. She couldn't imagine what could have happened to make him this way. Perhaps he was always like this. That thought only made matters worse. How could she ever let him suffer alone when he was so impossibly selfless? How could she let him be all alone? It went against her nature. It went against their pact to avoid loneliness, to talk, to share, to enjoy what it was like to have company, and here it was, a perfect opportunity to rest on the same page. Seeing the same things, being chased by the same monsters. He wouldn't have a reason to hide from her, just as she would not have a reason to hide from him. It would be the quenching to her thirst to know him. Jack didn't know that, which made his offer all the more appealing.

It was selfless and selfish to accept.

"We'll do a trial run," Jack offered, switching his eyes back to her, singling her out. He would not tolerate Will fighting anymore. He wanted to hear from her. If she accepted, he would be able to issue mandates, given she was the one who willingly signed her life away to his war. "If all goes well, if you prove to be an asset, we can have you become a consultant as well. We'd pay handsomely," he added.

He should have been head of advertising with how well it was working on her.

"I would say yes," she began, taking in a deep breath.

It was a half commitment, showing she wanted to accept, but was held back. It gave Jack an opportunity to persuade her. She gave him that, and Will knew it. She knew he knew it by the scowl on his face.

She felt guilty for wanting to accept. It was clear that Will didn't want this for her. As much as he didn't want to be alone in what he did, he didn't want that for her.

All the more reason to accept.

"I have no experience," she admitted.

Will muttered something under his breath. She couldn't tell if he was thankful or not for her confession at first. When he moved closer to her, half shielding her with his own body when he turned to face Jack, she knew it was gratitude.

Jack only stepped to the side, getting a better look at her.

"If you can see as well as he does-"

"I can't."

"If you can see half as well as he does," Jack corrected himself, irritation quickly flashing in his brown eyes. "Then it doesn't matter. Will Graham has done a lot of good. He's helped put a lot of bad people behind bars. He saves a lot of lives, and with two, imagine how much more."

He was applying guilt. Guilt was a last ditch effort, and she knew it.

She wondered if he tried to guilt Will into examining crimes. She wondered if he felt guilty for using guilt on others.

Jack was pressuring her to give the most socially acceptable answer: "Yes."

Will looked so helpless. He looked like he was watching a tragedy. She held no doubt in her mind that he saw her as the lamb being lead into the lion's den, being drawn to the slaughter. All he could do was watch while it happened, all his efforts gone to waste. But he should have known. They were too much alike for her not to say yes. He'd seen enough of her to know that she was just as content with unraveling the fabric of her being just as much as he was. They were both the lamb, indifferent to the tears in their flesh as they were slowly swallowed, and neither knew how to prevent the other from becoming the next feast.

"Don't you have some requirements?" she asked, overwhelmed. It couldn't be that easy.

"Well, like I said, Will isn't an FBI agent either-"

"I was a homicide detective, which is vastly different than what she does."

Jack bristled at Will's protesting.

He would never admit it, but he was being set on edge.

He worried for Will.

Jack, as much as he pushed Will, cared for the man. He made a promise not to let Will "get too close", and with the idea of someone else being able to shoulder the load, it gave comfort. He was already losing sleep over the constant worry of breaking Will. He was already pushing it with how close Will came with the Hobbs case. That was the whole reason he came, seeking Will out to begin with, but that would have to wait.

"Do you have at least a bachaelor's degree?" Jack asked.

She didn't want to answer, but she did anyways, giving a nod.

"Are you older than twenty three?"

Again, she nodded.

Jack offered a supportive smile, and looked to Will, standing triumphantly as though he won a long debate. Perhaps he had in his own way, knowing full well that this wasn't the end of Will's resentment for even offering her a place in his line of work.

"There you have it Will. You were never an agent-" Jack paused, looking at her, a silent proposition resting on his tongue as he looked at the woman. She looked young, younger than thirty-seven. Taking in the scars on her face, he figured she knew how to make it out of tough situations. She was a fair looking recruit at first glance. Yet, as soon as he saw the slightest potential in her, he regretted it. An image of a pretty, young, blond woman with far more determination in her eyes this moment.

He wouldn't have a repeat of her.

He couldn't.

He couldn't do that to Will.

With the protectiveness that Will showed for this "Bella," Jack, although he would collect her, refused to put her in the line of danger that came with being an agent. She had enough scars to mar her face.

"We'll place her as an assistant to you. You've caught the attention of many in the psychology field that claim that no one comes close to your 'active imagination' and here you have someone who shows potential."

Jack didn't say it, but he was trying to give Will some control. Placing the girl under the title of "assistant" would mean he could tap - slam - on the breaks if need be.

But it wasn't his choice.

That was what made Will feel so helpless. Even if he said, "No," Jack would still come with sheers and cut the torn and thorny rose that was Bella from the safety of his grasp, and pluck at her petals until she wasn't recognizable. But, he could agree with what Jack was proposing. He made it this far, not unscathed, but still alive, still functioning. If he were there, if he were in some control, he could teach her how to navigate her way through a job like this. Like it or not, the idea of someone like him being there, or simply just someone like him, comforted him. This was what they wanted and even he couldn't deny that. What he could turn away was the image of her being cut into the same image that he was. He didn't want that from her, but it wasn't his choice. He could either choose to stand idle and let the river of trauma erode who she was, or he could participate and salvage what he could.

He was as lost as she was in Jack's proposal.

"Just one case, Will," Jack said, as if to sooth the uncertainties of a child. If it was meant to comfort him, it did the opposite. After all, it only took one case to ruin a person. "She's agreed to it." She never said it. She didn't have to. "She'll only continue if she's a good fit and if she wants to."

All three of them knew only one of those two conditions mattered to Jack. He would force her hand if she didn't want to. All that truly mattered was if she would be able to do the job, or "assist" in it.

Will took off his glasses, feeling too tired for it to only be around noon. He rubbed his eyes, as if he could get lost in the phosphenes. And, ever the reluctant, he nodded. He pretended as if he had a choice, and Jack pretended to take that into accountability.

And Bella?

Bella just watched, feeling as though there were water gushing into the classroom, slowly rising until it eventually drowned her. Once again, she was submitting herself to a dangerous fate, but this time, there might be good coming out of it.

This isn't like before.

That is what she told herself in order to remember to breathe. She retreated into her mind, finding the memory of being in the living room of Will's house, surrounded by dogs, by warmth, by safety.

She lingered there, staring forward with glassy and far away eyes until she felt a hand on her elbow, not grasping onto it, just gently placed, calling her attention. When her eyes came to focus, when she found herself back in the classroom, all there was before her was Will, staring with those same kind and gentle eyes with only just a hint of disappointment. He didn't give her any anger, any resentment, just as she gave him no apologies. Because, in the end, they were each other's reason for accepting Jack's offer.

"Let's go and get lunch," Will said airily, adjusting his jacket. Bella only nodded, letting him take her hand and lead her away. Far away. He was trying to put as much distance between them and Jack as he could, as if that would change what was to come.

He found them a quiet restaurant, dimly lit and quiet, save the soft sounds of music.

They said nothing, both trying to come to terms with the uncertain future that was headed their way. Both trying to hide behind indifference. In the end, when he drove her back to her apartment, when he walked her to her door, he couldn't stop himself. He caught her arm, her attention.

"What are you doing?"

He felt as though he shattered the peaceful beginning they created together, only to begin the real tragedy that began with 'What are you doing?' and ends with 'What have you done?'.

So, that's chapter three!

I cannot convey how happy I am that people are actually reading this! Special thanks to all who reviewed! I needed that encouragement.

Anyways, I'm hoping that the next chapter continues to pick up the pace. I will be introducing Hannibal (the character) in the next chapter, so I'm excited to explore that!

Once again, thank you for reading and I hope you stay.