Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Your reason and your passion are the rudder and
sails of your sea faring soul.

If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you
can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill
in midseas.

For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.

"THE PROPHET" Khalil Gibran 1923

Will Graham's hands moved swiftly, like those of a skilled surgeon. Long, sure fingers replaced gears, lubricating teeth as needed. Satisfied, he eyed the next problem, selecting appropriate parts. Rebuilding diesel engines was a poetry all its own. Precision, predictability, repetition; lovingly nuanced by his patient expertise. Considering for a moment, he chose his smallest wrench and began to tighten the joints. Muscle memory brought peace, letting him slip into the void. In that blackness without form or personality, he bathed in solace. If he was fortunate, after a day wrangling metal to his will, Fate might gift a few hours of dreamless sleep.

Monsoon season arrived with a flourish the week before. Another storm, the sixth in as many days, lashed the workshop skylight. A lifelong lover of southern rains, Graham closed his eyes, his senses shifting to the storm's rhythms. He'd missed these sounds. He'd missed many things: lazy summer afternoons that melted into muggy nights. The glow of dancing fireflies. Steel drawers filled with nuts and bolts instead of the victims of the latest madman.

Graham leaned back, his head resting against an exposed 4x 4. He reveled in any opportunity to simply be. Eidetic memory dominated his life. Rare. Typically found in children under the age of twelve. Many academics claimed eidetic memory was fiction, but then, they hadn’t tested him. His gifts were legendary in law enforcement circles. How ironic that of the two people who most appreciated his uniqueness, one was a now infamous F.B.I. supervisor and the other, an even more infamous sociopath.

Will Graham’s mind rarely skipped a beat, endlessly cataloging and evaluating the multitudes of data relentlessly streaming through every sense. Waking moments were frequently populated with nightmarish visions that forged pathways into his dreams. Months away from his Quantico classroom, his days peopled with healthcare professionals instead of corpses, had not changed his inner landscapes. Peace, with an imagination like Will Graham’s, was rare.

His chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm. Time slowed. Unguarded moments, however, were not without challenge. Graham shuddered involuntarily, suddenly chilled. Ah, tonight was to be one of those nights. Lack of focus, given all that lay unresolved, stirred memory.

Dark. Chaotic. Decidedly untasty and greedy for attention. By now, he knew the signs. Fine, let them come. A breath later, time bent.

“Will.” The all too familiar accent filled the workshop, as clearly as if Hannibal Lecter stood in the room. Larger than life, impossible to contain. Dominating space, even when starring in a memory. Hannibal made heads turn. Electrified lives. Created devoted admirers. Devastated futures. "We are just alike."

Even three fingers of Glenfiddich, failed to keep Lecter buried in his subconscious. “Are we?” Carefully constructed walls began to crumble as Will Graham opened his mind to the force before him. Hannibal's eyes. Cold. Dead. If he admitted the truth, Will suspected Lecter's true nature that first terse meeting in Jack Crawford's office. Graham's ire soared over what, to Jack's keen eyes, was a juvenile display of jealousy. In truth, Will's reaction was anything but an immature tantrum. His defensiveness stemmed from instinctual awareness of being in the presence of a predator. A knowing he tucked, barely acknowledged, into the darkest corners of his mind. Jack accepted the man and Crawford's assessment skills were legendary.

Water under the proverbial bridge. Graham was no slave to hindsight. One couldn't be and survive in law enforcement. Hannibal. Brilliantly gifted. Brilliantly flawed. Deadly if provoked. An appraisal that, on the surface, could be applied to himself. However, close inspection blew that theory apart: Lecter's motivations and his diverged wildly.

Hannibal stirred, three-piece suited to perfection and not a hair out of place. He would not be ignored. “You are alone because you are unique.”

“Touche, Dr. Lecter.” Projection at its finest. Loneliness was their shared albatross; the single characteristic that shaped the drama they authored. Each accepting of their Fate until meeting the other: one hungry to focus on the similarities that bridged the abyss separating the two, the other happy to cross for the sake of justice. And yes, at times, playing with the Devil had been worth the risk.
But the cost? Graham yawned. Guilt enough to last a lifetime. He lived in exhaustion’s shadow; sleep offered no relief for his brand of tired.

Rain continued to beat against the workshop’s hardy board. Hypnotically soothing.

Graham slid further, this time into another night, another storm. Visions washed over him. Rain pelted his face, his pace quickened as he recognized the dark form sprawled on the sidewalk. Alana’s azure eyes, the whites red with blood, her soul ever compassionate as she sent him to save Jack Crawford.

“Pleased with your design?” Hannibal’s voice taunted.

“Not my design. I save lives.” Graham clung to that truth, a flashing beacon in his sea of doubt and self-recrimination.

“Hubris, my friend.” Hannibal opened his arms and beckoned him to look once more.

The scene fast forwarded to Graham walking past a pool of blood spreading ominously from the other side of the pantry door. A slight left and the freckled face he’d never thought to see again, begged him to understand she’d had no choice. Graham's brain burned with truth, “You never had a chance, Abigail.” A young life ruled entirely by sociopaths; she left this earth knowing little else.

The dance began as it always did, the scene in Hannibal’s kitchen replaying in the slowest of slow motion. Will saw, felt and heard every detail. Then again, from each participant’s viewpoint. Followed, mercilessly, by every ‘what if’ his mind could conceive. His imagination, gifted with endless scenarios, could not alter the outcome: Lives lay shattered. There was no going back.

“Did you really think you could outmaneuver the Devil?”

“Enough!” Graham screamed hoarsely. He bolted upright and twisted, reaching for his heaviest spanner. Its weight would ground him in reality. The technique, one of Alana’s favorites, rarely failed. Anticipating relief made him incautious. Mid-reach, he groaned in agony as searing pain tore through his lower body.

His primary physician’s stern warning echoed, “At least a year. Maybe more. Your body has been through a hell few survive.”

Will broke into a sweat, his hands shaking as he waited for the misery to fade. Graham massaged his temples, impatient for his heart rate and respirations to return to normal. These episodes exhausted him more than the workouts he added to his daily routine. Life, more than 1100 miles south of Wolf Trap, Virginia, was about one thing: finding news norms. At least that’s the story he weaved for those who asked.

He realized, of course, that ‘normal’, per Will Graham standards, had little to do with normal as defined by those around him.

Chapter Text

Freddie Lounds fingers flew across the keyboard. Every few seconds, she glanced toward the wall clock. Time, her daily enemy, was edging toward deadline. Her latest column was due in twenty minutes and she was still creating content. At least four paragraphs remained before her point would be made. Always out for maximum impact. You bet, world! This expose should raise readership to the goal her editor set a month ago. And a week early: bonus territory! God, how she loved the challenge!

Her lips pursed at the sound of her cell phone. A moment of anger over poor timing was instantly replaced as she recognized the tone. That sound meant one person. Someone she’d come to admire. Someone who should be doing anything but calling her. She snagged her phone and tucked it into her chin, talking softly. “I thought we weren’t going to contact one another. Not until…”

“I was careful, Fred. How’s the grind?”

Will Graham's warm baritone made deadline fears fade. How far they'd come since those early days of mutual loathing. He'd saved her life at a time when she was sure he was the scum of the earth. She despised Graham the instant they met, treated him with barely concealed contempt and scorn during every encounter. Months of her frostiest bitch act and Graham had still put himself in danger to keep her alive. She shuddered, remembering how close she'd been to racing into Hannibal Lecter's waiting arms.

If not for Will Graham.

How do you replay someone for saving your life after you pointed a gun and pulled the trigger? During that turbulent week in protective custody, mutual barriers relaxed, trust sprouted, and she began to really see Will Graham. Enough to know he was one of the good guys, the sort other white hats admired. And secretly feared. Misunderstood should be his middle name. Which was just the way Graham wanted it.

She was no slouch when it came to seeing motivations and assessing character. But she'd been as wrong about Will Graham as humanly possible. And that's why Will was so good at what he did. Like a fine actor, he understood the best way to catch a criminal was never to let them know their nemesis. She learned more during that week in protective custody than she had in six profiling courses.

No one knew Will Graham unless he allowed you in. And even then, you might see a single facet. Perhaps, two. People thought Hannibal Lecter was complex?

They had not met Will Graham.

Freddie smiled in spite of herself. Graham certainly knew how to play nice when he chose. How was she? “Still smarting from the hate mail your hospital shoot rained down on my head.”

“Ah, but the perks," Will cooed.

"Ah, but the death threats," she countered.

"Tell me you weren't inundated with calendar requests."

"You called it, Graham. There are some sick fucks out there."

Laughter. It was good to hear Will laugh. There had been little to laugh about for an awfully long time.

At least one part of the plan to nab Hannibal that hadn’t fallen apart. During their conversations before that fateful night, Will asked Lounds two favors: one, to spare Abigail; the second, to stay the course, no matter what. She jumped at his offer. Damn if she couldn't smell the Pulitzer already.

They plotted into the wee hours. Should the worst case happen...(almost as if he'd known)…she'd set a second trap. If Graham survived. That was key. Lounds would scatter Tattle-Crime bait, posting articles and gut wrenching hospital photos, to be shot as Will lay unconscious and close to death. No one but the two of them would know he’d given full consent, both verbal and in writing. And no one would see her tears each time she snapped the Nikon's shutter. “Zeller probably won’t speak to me again, but I am on a first name basis with my personal banker.”

“Zeller will come around. He talks to me.”

Lounds, ever the gifted reporter, sensed urgency wafting through the phone. “Why are you really calling, Will.” She bit the inside of her lip, inwardly chanting, don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask.

“How many times, Fred?”

Too soon. Every instinct screamed too soon. Graham wasn’t well enough. He couldn’t be. But times had changed and Will Graham was not a man who deserved lies. She replied, reluctantly, “Four, since the first.”

“Did your guru triangulate?”

“Will, please.”

Silence.

She didn't have to see Graham's face to know he wasn’t in the mood to be put off. “Same area.”

“And Jack?”

Protective of everyone but himself. “In the dark, as agreed.”

"It's best, Fred. You heard about Bella."

“Will..." Lounds' spidey sense was tingling.

“The keys are in the same place.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Freddie replied, frustrated. His safety deposit box was the last thing on her mind.

“I know.” Strange how circumstance can change. “Remember our deal.”

"In my safety deposit box. In triplicate."

Graham paused. She could feel worry through her headset. “Fred, don't get complacent.”

“There’s no movement. I just told you…”

“That’s when he’s the most dangerous.”

Graham broke the connection.

Damn you, Will Graham. Damn you for making me care. Lounds glanced at her wall mounted nemesis. Ten minutes. Fuck. Hannibal Lecter would have to wait until after deadline. Lounds uttered a quick prayer for driven profilers and got to work.
~~*~~

Chapter Text

The crash came earlier some nights. And this week, both earlier and more frequently. The slamming door followed, right on cue. Ruth Wrzeasinski drew back the curtain and watched the young man trudge through the latest storm toward the dock. Wind and rain seemed the perfect metaphors for the turmoil she knew he kept bottled inside. She marveled as he fought the elements, expertly navigating the craft into waters experienced seaman would bypass. She observed Graham row against the tide, breaching the waves. Raging against the gods by the look of it.

How many nights had she watched the young man fight nature? Initially, it seemed as if walking to the dock was more than he could manage. He'd limp back to the duplex wearing anger like a second skin. A night or two might pass without an attempt, but then she'd hear the sound of heavy metal hitting the floor and knew he would make for the beach. The ritual had gone on since his arrival.

Her heart swelled as she reflected on his progress. Tenacious. The boy never gave up. Tonight, after many discouraging tries, was different. Tonight he'd won! Ruth looked away, suddenly ashamed by her observations. Her interest wasn't fueled by nosiness as much as recognizing a wounded spirit, alone in a very harsh world. Will Graham appeared to need someone on his side. Polite and quiet, he always avoided her eyes. And yet, she was fully aware he could see to her very core. There was something special about the lad. Something she felt compelled to champion. To nurture. One day, he'd tell her everything. She knew he'd come close.

Ruth maneuvered her walker toward the kitchen as she had many nights the last few months. The coffee should be ready by the time he returned to shore. She changed directions, this time to the bedroom to pick out a set of Bill's old clothes. Carefully, she folded a blanket over her arm, and headed toward the covered front porch. She turned on the light, laid the blanket across the rocker and headed inside to wait.
~~*~~

The squeak of the front door announced his arrival. Ruth listened as he removed his rain gear.

"What's your score now? God 18, Graham 1?" Ruth called through the door.

Will entered the living room, the blanket draped over his shoulders. Graham's shy smile was all the thanks she needed.
"How do you always know, Ruth?"

"You're not the only one who doesn't sleep, William."

He spied the dry clothes.

"Go on. Get out of those damp things. Coffee's been waiting for you."

Minutes later they were seated at her small kitchen table. Ruth waited, watching Graham stare into his coffee as if it held the secrets of the Universe. Hurrying this boy didn't work. After twenty minutes, her patience spent, she chanced an observation. "You made a decision out there tonight."

"And you would have made a great cop." Ruth nodded in agreement, quietly studying his face. She was one of the only people he'd met who didn't demand anything from him. Fine, she'd earned the truth. "I'm leaving."

"I know."

Will looked surprised. "Reading coffee grounds again, Ruth?"

She knew the moment he conquered the waves. He watched as she rose, slowly making her way to an early 19th century secretary. She motioned him over. "Open it, William."

Graham never expected what he saw next. The hardwood surface was covered with newspaper and internet articles, in multiple languages. Unsolved murders. Articles he recognized. He should. His spare room was papered with the same headlines. A manila folder labeled crime scene photos was neatly positioned on the left hand side.

"Librarian, eh?"

"A very good librarian, William."

"Retired, Ruth."

"Am I?" she asked, obviously proud to display current contacts. She ignored him, her eyes twinkling. "It's him, isn't it."

Will's eyes went wide. "You googled me." So much for laying low.

Ruth ignored him. "Your friend," she insisted.

Will gently closed the secretary. "Don't be curious about Hannibal Lecter, Ruth."

"My body needs a walker, not my mind, young man."

For the first time in their relationship, she began to ask questions. They flowed fast and furious. And for the first time, he answered them.
Storm spent, the sun was peeking over the horizon by the time they finished. Ruth took his hands in hers. "You have a plan."

He nodded toward her secretary. "He left enough breadcrumbs, don't you think?"

"Tell a concerned old lady where you're going."

"Following the evidence." Will Graham kissed her lined forehead, shot her an appreciative smile and headed into the light.

~~ * ~~

Chapter Text

Hannibal Lecter closed his eyes and let the breeze take him. He breathed in light. Bathed in freedom. Each felt more decadent than a carafe of Domaine Romanée-Conti. The Italian countryside, with its fertile land and brilliant wildflowers, lay beyond the patio. The view was breathtaking. He’d been lucky to find this villa and secure it in Carlo’s name, long before he entertained immigration to America.

The barest of grins graced his features as he detected the scent of lilac floating on the breeze. Hannibal returned to the present and looked down, appraising his sketch. Damian expected the complete portfolio by tomorrow. He would be pleased with the strong lines and contemporary design of the building’s facade. Art had regained a place of importance in Hannibal’s life, substituting for other talents he rarely indulged. Damian paid well and, as long as deadlines were met, politely asked no questions. The perfect partnership.

Exploring the world and all it had to offer. That’s who he was. Elevating raw ingredients to haute standards: cuisine, art, or threads of personality. He was a consummate creator.

Hannibal reached for a fresh sheet of paper and began the final sketch. A bird cawed in the distance. The sound of insects grew into a symphony. Nature’s music captivated his attention. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen. Ah, Bedelia. What a delightful discovery to find her to be a talented a baker. Look here, no there, random thoughts teased. Hannibal’s mind refused to be tamed.

Clearly, concentration eluded him at this moment. Perhaps a break might help. He began to doodle, allowing his muse to play freely. He knew why. Hours ahead, in another time zone, an anniversary waited to be born. Nine months ago, to the day, he had tossed aside his old life like an unwanted pair of shoes. A bracing rain baptized him anew as he closed the door on one reality, and opened to another. He rarely thought about Maryland. Those years were tucked tightly in his mind palace, a weighty padlock barring entry.

Hannibal shuddered as he sensed his mind reach toward the forbidden. He shook his head and mentally added another link to the chain. How close he came to losing everything. And for what? The illusion of friendship? He lived a predominantly solitary life by choice. By necessity. Ordinary human needs did not fit into his world view. Such recklessness. Him, of all people.

A man supremely in control of each nuance.

Every.

Single.

One.

Hannibal breathed deeply, resolving to complete the sketch this time. He glanced down at the sheet of paper. And froze. Gazing back at him, contorted in an agony that begged why, was a face he knew better than his own. Hannibal gasped. Emotion climbed his spine, rising hot and furious. Hannibal’s mind screamed, “Betrayer! Destroyer of what should have been!”

He forgot to breathe as he rushed to his feet, staggering from the table with such force the chair clattered to the floor behind him. Hannibal reached for the paper, furiously crumpling it into the tiniest ball possible. And again, for emphasis. He threw it forcefully to the ground, grabbed a walking stick and headed for the fields.

“Hannibal?” Bedelia called as she negotiated the final step onto the patio. She set the tray containing warm bread, butter and jam on his work table. Time for a snack in the land of make believe. She was still alive. That was real.

She looked beyond their fence line in time to see Hannibal walking, with purpose, toward their neighbor’s property. Bedelia picked up Hannibal’s chair, surprised by an uncharacteristic display of anger. Hannibal had been unusually pensive the last few days. Restless in his sleep. She knew because she’d not had a full night’s sleep since leaving Baltimore.

Time to tread most lightly if the beast was stirring.

A wad of paper caught her attention. Odd, Hannibal never cluttered. Her eyes grew wide with wonder. Could this be it? Finally?

Carefully she unfolded the paper. As its contents became visible a smile grew, relief pouring through her being. “Hello, Mr. Graham. I’ve been expecting you.” Bedelia made sure the paper was crumpled exactly as it had been and positioned in the identical spot. A kernel of hope began to form behind her massive defenses.

After all these months, Hannibal Lecter was beginning to fray.
~~ * ~~

Chapter Text

Traffic was surprisingly sparse for a Friday morning in the Big Easy. Lieutenant John McMillan appreciated the easy drive after a double. He drove into Poland's Scrap metal and parked near the main building. Strange place for Graham to pick for a meet: the site of the shooting that shifted Wiley Will's career trajectory. Maybe the kid was expunging ghosts. Who the hell ever knew with Graham.

McMillan sipped a venti dark roast from Blue Dot's as he scanned right, then left. Graham was here, somewhere. The man was pathologically early. Graham's brain never slept like those of common folk. Nothing escaped the man's scrutiny.

Always working.

Always seeing what others missed.

Securing the perimeter if McMillan cared to guess. Have at it, buddy. This place hasn't seen action since you decided Malcolm Leeland wasn’t a murderer and refused to take him down.

Graham had been right, of course. Leeland wasn't the droid they were looking for. In the confusion that rainy night, as Graham frantically defused a multiple agency cluster fuck, three paid the ultimate price. Two deserved their one way tickets to hell; one didn't. Rookie Keith Shapiro would never see another birthday. Father of a toddler with another due later that year. Damn shame.

Graham’s world imploded. As the boy lay in Tulane's ICU, recovering from a knife to the shoulder, critics charged he preferred to save a scumbag's life with little thought given to a young wife and two babies who would never remember daddy.

Journalistic fiction spun out of control as reporters scrambled to sell newspapers. Good thing that, initially, Graham had been too out of it to care. His jealousy inducing skill set and loner tendencies left him with few champions at a time when emotion overruled facts. Rivals took the opportunity to spread the rumor that Detective Graham lacked the balls to pull a trigger when it counted.

McMillian had done what he could but he was one against many. Never underestimate the phalanx of egos in a police department. Will's shoulder healed as the weeks dragged by, but his reputation was DOA. Mac wondered if Graham intimidated superiors to the point that they welcomed the incident. Honesty could be fatal in the Big Sleazy.

Graham, ever the crowd pleaser, offered his usual: silence.

McMillan could still hear the boy's voice during one of their after-hours visits, "Mac, doing the right thing because it's right should be justification enough."

Surprisingly, the right people agreed. The shooting board convened two days after Graham's hospital discharge. McMillan supposed the downtime gave Will too much time to think because less than eight hours after the board cleared him, adding a commendation for preventing something far worse than what had actually gone down, Will Graham resigned.

He shut the door on the department and their friendship. In late April of the following year, John found a note taped to the windshield of his unmarked unit. Graham assured Mac it was nothing personal: people simply wore him out. He needed time.

Time alone.

Time for scars to fade.

Time to decide if people were worth the price he paid. The currency might vary, but he always paid. And for the first time in quite a while, Mac knew Graham feared he might be permanently overdrawn.

Almost two years passed before McMillan heard rumors the F.B.I. had come calling. Not a surprise given Graham’s abilities, but damn if the kid didn’t seem to drag evil in his wake. Talent cops would sell their grandmothers for brought him nothing but grief. Leave it to Will to tangle with a perp riding the charts at numero uno on the F.B.I.'s most wanted. From the little McMillian knew, this Hannibal Lecter didn’t fit any DSM V diagnosis.

And he’d sent Will to hell. Again.

A tap on McMillan’s passenger window drove the past back to the black hole where it belonged. There he stood, Wiley Will. A light-speed assessment confirmed the worst: in spite of time setting lightly on Graham's shoulders, there were changes. The soulful blues his daughter adored dripped with unspeakable sadness. Graham shot the barest of grins as McMillan exited the car.

McMillan walked over to grab Will in his usual bear hug, but slowed when Will stiffened noticeably. God, Will. PTSD on top of everything else?

Will exhaled slowly and shook his head, visibly annoyed. "Sorry, Mac, it's got nothing to do with you." Graham crossed the distance to complete their greeting.

Mac held his tongue, startled to feel every rib through Graham's flannel shirt. “How long's it been?"

"Lifetimes." Will pulled a small package out of his coat pocket.

“What’s this?”

Graham shrugged. “I decided Amy was probably tired of your coming home with an empty net.” Therapy during his stint in rehab, Will neglected to add.

“I’ve missed that Graham charm.”

A bigger smile, but awkward, as if he was rusty. Mac doubted Will did much smiling these days. "You look good, considering." McMillan made the compliment believable. He’d worn a badge too long not to be a seasoned liar.

"You got coverage down here?"

"On every major network and cable outlet. Lecter was the news. You exceeded your 15 minutes of fame ten times over."

Graham shrugged. "I was out of touch for quite a while."

“Lounds kept us informed. What's that bitch got against you, anyway?"

"Unrequited love, Mac." John bought their ruse. Good job, Fred. He owed her. Time would tell how much.

“If that’s love…” McMillan looked down at the ground. "Will, I'm uh…I meant to..."

Graham exhaled, "Mac, don't."

At least that hadn't changed; Will never expected anything from anyone. A strength, in some ways. A lonely way to live. "So why all the James Bond?"

"Does Bill Poland still owe you?"

"Till he breathes his last."

"Is there still an empty office in the back?"

"As far as I know."

"I have a proposition. Can you give me an hour?"

John nodded, curious. The kid could have called, but that wasn't his style. He liked personal connections with the few he considered friends. John was relieved he still made the list.

McMillan owed Will Graham his career. If Leeland had died that night, area gangs would have started a war that would have cost the city more than it had to give. McMillan wondered if Will knew he would harvest the stars if this young pup asked.

~~ * ~~

Chapter Text

Traffic was surprisingly sparse for a Friday morning. Lieutenant John McMillan appreciated the easy drive after a double. He drove into Poland's Scrap Metal and parked near the main building. Strange place for Graham to pick for a meet: the site of the shooting that shifted Wiley Will's career trajectory. Maybe the kid was expunging ghosts. Who the hell ever knew with Graham.

McMillan sipped a venti Dazbog as he scanned right, then left. Graham was here, somewhere. The man was pathologically early. Graham's brain never slept like those of common folk. His eyes could appear at half-staff, focusing far from what others were mesmerized by, and he’d still have more to report by the end of the day. Nothing escaped the man's scrutiny.

Always working.

Always absorbing what others missed.

By default, making others look incompetent.

Securing the perimeter if McMillan cared to guess. Have at it, buddy. This place hasn't seen action since you decided Malcolm Leeland wasn’t a murderer and refused to take him down.

Graham had been right, of course. Leeland wasn't the droid they were looking for. In the confusion that rainy night, as Graham frantically defused a multiple agency cluster fuck, three paid the ultimate price. Two deserved their one way tickets to hell; one didn't. Rookie Keith Shapiro would never celebrate another birthday. Father of a toddler with another due later that year. Damn shame for the Shapiro family.

Devastating for Graham's career. As the boy lay in Tulane's ICU, recovering from a knife to the shoulder, critics charged he preferred to save a scumbag's life with little thought given to a young wife and the two babies who would never remember daddy. Journalistic fiction spun out of control as reporters scrambled to sell newspapers. Scumbags rose from the depths to weave theories that were blatantly untrue but read well.

Good thing that, initially, Graham had been too out of it to care. His jealousy inducing skill set and loner tendencies left him with few champions at a time when emotion overruled facts. Rivals took the opportunity to spread the rumor that Detective Graham lacked the balls to pull a trigger when it counted.

McMillian had done what he could, but he was one against many. Never underestimate the phalanx of egos in a police department. Will's shoulder healed as the weeks dragged by, but his reputation was DOA. Mac wondered if Graham intimidated superiors to the point that they welcomed the incident. Honesty could be fatal in the Big Sleazy.

Graham, ever the crowd pleaser, offered his usual: silence. McMillan could still hear the boy's voice during one of their after-hours visits, "Mac, doing the right thing because it's right should be justification enough."

Surprisingly, others agreed. The shooting board convened two days after Graham's hospital discharge. McMillan supposed the downtime gave Will too much time to think because less than an half a day after the board cleared him, adding a commendation for preventing something far worse than what had actually gone down, Will Graham resigned. He slammed the door on the department and their friendship. McMillan’s calls went unanswered. Two months later, John found a note taped to the windshield of his unit. Graham assured Mac it was nothing personal: people simply wore him out. He needed time.

Time alone.

Time to for scars to fade.

Time to decide if people were worth the price he paid.

The currency might vary, but McMillan knew Graham always paid. And for the first time in quite a while, Mac knew Graham feared he might be permanently overdrawn.

Almost two years passed before McMillan heard rumors the F.B.I. had come calling. Not a surprise given Graham’s abilities, but damn if the kid didn’t seem to drag evil in his wake. Talent cops would sell their grandmothers for brought him nothing but grief. Leave it to Will to tangle with a perp riding the charts at numero uno on the F.B.I.'s most wanted. From the little McMillian knew, this Hannibal Lecter didn’t fit any DSM V diagnosis. And he had sent Will to hell. Again.

A tap on McMillan’s passenger window sent the past back to the black hole where it belonged. There he stood, Wiley Will. A light-speed assessment confirmed the worst: time set lightly on Graham's shoulders, but so did change. The soulful blues his daughter adored dripped with unspeakable sadness. Graham shot the barest of grins as McMillan exited the car. McMillan walked over to grab Will in his usual bear hug, but slowed when Will stiffened noticeably. God, Will. PTSD on top of everything else?

Will exhaled slowly and shook his head, visibly annoyed at himself. "Sorry, Mac, it's ah..it’s not you." Graham crossed the distance to complete the greeting.

Mac held his tongue, startled to feel every rib through Graham's flannel shirt. “How long's it been?"

"Lifetimes." Will pulled a small acrylic box out of his coat pocket.

“What’s this?” A set of Will’s infamous flies. McMillian knew creating one, given Will's standard of perfection, could take months. The box held six. Therapy if Mac had to guess.

Graham shrugged. “I decided Amy was probably tired of your coming home with an empty net.”

“I’ve missed that Graham charm.”

A bigger smile, but awkward, as if Graham was rusty. Mac doubted Will did much smiling these days. "You look good, considering." McMillan made the compliment believable. He’d worn a badge too long not to be a seasoned liar.

"You got coverage down here?"

"On every major network and cable outlet. Lecter was the news. You exceeded your fifteen minutes ten times over."

Graham shrugged. "I was out of touch for quite a while."

McMillan ignored the understatement. He knew more about Will's medical roller coaster, including the number of times his friend almost died, than he would ever admit. “Lounds kept us informed. What's that bitch got against you, anyway?"

"Unrequited love, Mac." Graham watched his eyes. Good. If Mac bought the rouse; others would as well. Fred, I owe you. Only time would tell exactly how much.

“If that’s love…” McMillan looked down at the ground, "Will, I'm uh…I meant to..."

Graham exhaled, "Mac, don't."

At least that hadn't changed; Will never expected anything from anyone. A strength, in some ways. A lonely way to live. "Why all the James Bond?"

Graham deflected. "Does Bill Poland still owe you?"

"Till he breathes his last."

"Is that empty office still in the back?"

"As far as I know, but why…"

"I have a proposition. Can you give me an hour?"

John nodded, curious. The kid could have called, but that wasn't his style. He liked personal connections with the few he considered friends. John was pleased he remained on the list. Will Graham saved McMillian's career. If Leeland had died that night, area gangs would have started a war that would have cost the city more than it had to give. McMillan wondered if Will knew he would give this young pup the stars if he asked.

During the next hour ask, he did.
~~ * ~~