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Two

The rain fell in quick, sharp bursts and collapsed against the car window. I arched my neck from side to side and it cracked audibly, I wanted to leave…drive away and disappear into a routine made up of whiskey and a sofa bed. Instead, I opened the car door and walked through the heavy rain and into the FBI quarters.

I'd only been in the building two minutes before the staring started, paranoia lit at my every nerve as I wondered to myself whether or not every person in this building had read the case file on the Kasapin Auteur . Realisation hit me just as I clambered into the elevator – they would have never needed to read the file, it had been all over the news, in newspapers and spread across television and radio. I tugged at my shirt, feeling ridiculous for thinking I could ever stand being inside these offices ever again. I pulled it off over my head and used it to fan myself, ignoring the other person stood beside me as the numbers lit up one by one.

"You seem nervous," The man said, although his eyes only glanced momentarily behind himself to spot me, I felt like he was examining every move I made.

"I'm not nervous, I'm just alert," I muttered in reply, tying my red hair back into a pony tail in an attempt to cool myself down. The elevator reached my floor and attempted to step out in a hurry, only for my shoulder to bump into the man sharing the lift with me. I laughed apologetically as he urged me to move forward first.

"Sorry, maybe I am nervous," I said light heartedly as we walked at a similar pace down the quiet hallway.

"No apologies necessary, I find the building rather intimidating myself," He replied, despite having been out of action for three months I was already running through a list of identifiable traits in my head. I took note of his strong posture – I analyzed the confidence in his tone of voice and the flair of a foreign accent. This man hid his strength behind an array of dark, expensive suits and professional smiles, he was a scholar, well spoken and appeared sensible and level headed yet clipped and urgent in chitchat. The manner in which he represented himself showed he took pride in everything he took part in, strived to gain control in all scenarios, no matter how blasé he may act in front of others – he took himself very, very seriously. Whilst I had been profiling the gentleman, I had failed to notice that he was headed for the same room that I was. Surprisingly, he seemed confused when I reached for the handle of Jack Crawford's office door. As I had expected, he flinched when I held the door open for him – it was so quick and slight, merely apparent at the corner of his dark eyes and the tip of his fingertips. Control – he needed to have control, needed to keep up with the gentlemanly façade he had built around himself.

Will Graham appeared as fragile as ever, perched on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped in his lap. His eyes widened with surprise when he noticed me and instantly he stood to greet me awkwardly from a distance.

"Grace," He said quietly and all of a sudden I wished I had suffered through the nervous heat in the elevator and kept my shirt on. Because the marks were still red and evident across my arms and chest and Will was searching them with his eyes, examining what was left of me.

"Doctors work wonders these days," I said jokingly, "I don't look too bad when I'm not in shackles," I laughed, instantly regretting it.

"Sorry," I added, moving towards Will and hugging him gently, "I'm nervous, as this guy here has already highlighted." I said, nodding towards the man I had profiled just moments ago.

"This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, I was hoping he could help ease Will back into the swing of things, make sure he's kept grounded," Jack stated, clearly having already been through this conversation earlier.

"This is Agent Grace Ryan," She's a profiler just returned from leave," He nodded towards me as if my rocky past with the FBI were some secret being kept between us.

"A pleasure to meet you Doctor," My hand wavered in front of me as I offered it to Doctor Lecter, he shook it politely and smiled – tight lipped and falsely honest yet charming all the same, an expression I was certain he had been perfecting for years.

"No offence, I'm sure you're a brilliant Doctor but…if he's here to keep Will in check…why am I here? I take notes, I lie on the floor, I don't understand why he can't do that if he's going to be hanging around Will 24/7."

"I would appreciate it if you people wouldn't talk about me like I'm some basket case, at least wait until I'm out of the room before you argue over who's baby sitting whom," Will argued, his voice strained.

"There is no babysitters, no one is looking after anyone else, I asked Dr Lecter to oversee a few cases," Jack added matter of factly.

"I would hate to be in a position where I'm intruding, Miss Ryan, that is not my intention," Dr Lecter said and I couldn't help but glance at his quickly – I felt as if his eyes were burying into me, judging me…most likely examining me in the same way I was examining him.

I stared at the pictures on the large wooden board, the room was too silent. I placed my hands on the table in front of me and closed my eyes, trying to think…but every little thing that popped into my head was either terrifying or nonsensical. I rested all my weight on my hands, forcing them into the wood in the hope of getting a splinter – a second of pain would be enough to distract me.

"It will get easier," A voice came from behind me, Dr Lecter appeared, balancing three cups of steaming coffee elegantly in his hands.

"What will?" I asked with a frown, taking one of the cups from him and muttering a thank you as I set it down on the table.

"Coming back to work, much the same as Will you just need to settle back into a routine, get back to normal."

I scoffed, rubbing my eyes and sighing, "I'm not sure I know what normal is anymore," I said as I swung around, only just catching sight of Dr Lecter as his arm nudged the coffee I had placed on the table, causing it to cascade over my hand. I let out a yelp as the liquid burned like acid into my skin and caused me to take a sharp intake of breath.

"I'm so sorry, are you alright?" Hannibal asked, putting the other two cups down and moving closer to examine my blotchy, red hand, stained and sticky with boiling black coffee.

I snatched my hand back from him and turned around towards the door.
"I'm fine," I managed to groan as I exited quickly, storming off down the hallway, not pausing as I passed Will.

As soon as I got to a quiet corner of the building I stopped, pulling my hand out in front of my eyes and finally letting out the overwhelming groan that had been bubbling up inside me. I clasped my burnt hand in the other and squeezed as tightly as I could, milking every ounce of pain from the tender skin. The relief caused me to collapse in a heap against the wall, my head lolling back as I breathed heavily in tune with the pulsing in my hand. The moment my eyes were closed, I was back there – bound and abandoned in the cool moist air. Every book they get you to study whilst you're training to become an FBI profiler fails to mention the feeling of being a captive…they fail to discuss what it's like to be the victim. What happens to victims when they are forced back into everyday, normal life? The throbbing in my hand had subsided and so had the relief it had brought, all that was left was a few forced tears running down my cheeks and a build up of shame low down in my abdomen. That shame only became more evident as I realised how badly I wanted the pain back, how badly I needed it to return.