Archive of Our Own

"Suicide was Bloom's mortal enemy."

- Red Dragon, chapter seventeen

*

Aaron Bloom is worried about his sister.

He calls Alana twice a week, on Wednesdays and Sundays, always around the same time. It's an essential part of his routine. They all have different methods of dealing with Alana, and the guilt she provokes in them. Ben chose distance: he texts his sister on her birthday and exchanges small talk at Christmas, but other than that, their relationship is nonexistent. Max favors denial, playing the part of a normal brother in a normal family and avoiding any mention, no matter how innocuous, of the past.

And Aaron, well. Aaron overcompensates. He is a worrying, overprotective big brother, about twenty years too late.

For the last several months, at least, she's given him plenty of reason to worry. She talks to him about Will Graham, and Will Graham's upcoming trial, and Will's Graham's dogs. Alana would never say it, of course, but Aaron can hear the exhaustion, the desperation, and the fear that laces her voice, increasingly pronounced every phone call.

She has run out of other topics. Aaron reads between the lines and draws several conclusions: Alana's working herself ragged preparing for this trial; she's spending a disturbing amount of time visiting Will at the prison; she's terrified he's going to be found guilty.

And she's quite possibly in love with the guy.

"...just so difficult to find a precedent," Alana's saying now. Aaron thinks idly that he should have kept track of how many times she's said that phrase during their calls over the past two months. "It's the empathy thing. It's too rare. Especially considering his job..." There's a disconnect to her voice. Lately, Aaron feels like Alana isn't so much talking to him, but at him. Like she just needs to say her thoughts out loud, have someone else absorb it, no matter who that someone is. "Because obviously not everyone with encephalitis commits murder during their dissociative states, but most of them don't spend their working lives being forced to assume the mindset of serial killers."

"Right," Aaron says mechanically. He's heard this line of argument before.

"It's just hard to get people to wrap their minds around how literal that is for Will."

"You'll make 'em understand," he tells her reassuringly. "You explained it to me."

"He can't stay in that place," she mutters absently, like she didn't even hear Aaron. "It's breaking him already...so it's not just about proving that Will didn't know what he was doing, that he couldn't help it, but that it won't happen again. That's the only way they'll let him come home."

Something about her phrasing worries him, even as Aaron gives the automatic assurance, "The brain scans should do that, though, yeah?" He's quiet for a moment, debating how to broach the topic. "Al...if they do let him go home, free and clear...then what happens?"

"What do you mean?" Her tone's impatient.

He tries to be delicate. "Just...you visit him a lot, and you two have the whole...I'm just curious, if there's some sort of...expectation, or understanding about, you know. When he gets out."

There's a pause, and when she speaks again, Alana sounds truly engaged in the conversation for the first time. The barest hint of defensiveness in her voice, she says, "What exactly are you asking here?"

And before he can think it through, Aaron blurts out, "Look, Al, I need you to tell me you're not becoming one of those women who think they're in love with serial killers, okay?" He grimaces before he even finishes talking, and on the other end of the phone, his sister goes dangerously silent.

It takes a few moments before Alana responds. Her voice is quiet, but vibrating with barely contained anger. "You want to be really careful what you say right now, Aaron-"

"Al-"

"-because you don't know anything about him."

"I do, though! I do because you've told me. Hell, I could probably give your testimony at this point-"

"Didn't realize I've been boring you," she snaps icily.

"You're not, Al. I want to hear about it, really, I just...I'm worried about you."

"I don't need worrying about."

"Are you sure?" Aaron pauses, attempting to choose his words more carefully this time. "Look, I get it. I get that you're the guy's friend, and I get that he didn't know what he was doing. You should help him, it's great that you are. But...Al, it's obvious you have feelings for the guy. Is that really a good bet for a relationship?"

"I can make that judgement for myself, thanks," Alana replies. "I'm a psychiatrist, Aaron. If something to do with pre-algebra or geometry arises, maybe I'll be interested in your consultation."

"Real nice," he mutters, rolling his eyes. "I just thought you of all people would want to avoid something like that. Just think about Mom-"

"Hey," her voice, sharp and powerful, slams against his argument. "Do you really want to go there? You want to pretend to know anything about that?"

Everything freezes. They both go silent for a long, loaded moment, each equally shocked by Alana's rushed, angry words. Over twenty years, and the perpetually unspoken has finally been said out loud.

"I...I didn't mean..." Alana's stammering, flustered; she hadn't meant to say that, and now she's struggling for recovery, while still maintaining her defenses. "I've never blamed you. Any of you guys. You know I don't. But, just...you can't suddenly act like you know more about it than I do. That's bullshit, and you know it."

Aaron doesn't say anything, still too shocked to form a reply. They stay on the phone for several long moments, neither speaking, until finally Alana sighs sharply and says, "I gotta go, okay?"

There's a click, and then she's gone.

*

Three minutes after Alana hangs up on him, Aaron calls Ben.

He often does this, after his phone calls with their sister. As carefully as he avoids her, Alana would be shocked to hear the level of interest Ben has in her life.

"I...think I just had a fight with Al," Aaron says, by way of greeting.

"What?" Ben sounds genuinely shocked. "You guys don't fight."

"Apparently we do now."

"Hold on..." Aaron can hear Ben's voice, muffled, as he speaks to someone else, presumably his wife, then the shuffling of movement before he gets back on the phone. "Back. What'd you fight about? The Will guy?"

"Started out that way..."

"And ended up...?"

Still sounding like he can't quite believe it, Aaron says, "Ended up being about...Mom."

"What? Shit."

"I think...Alana finally said it."

Aaron gives Ben a quick recap of the conversation, and when he's finished, his younger brother lets out a low whistle.

"Damn."

"I know."

A beat passes, then Ben says, "In a way it's...kind of a relief."

Aaron laughs once, humorlessly. "How's that?"

"All this time, she never mentioned it. Never acted resentful. We've spent so long wondering if she even realizes how bad we screwed her over...and now we know."

Aaron processes that for a moment, then says, only half joking, "Does that mean you're going to talk to her now?"

Ben's tone darkens immediately. "Shut up."

"I don't get you."

"No, you don't. You forget I've got a whole extra year of guilt on you. I know you think college isn't a good enough excuse, either, but it's a hell of a lot better than I just couldn't be bothered."

Aaron knows better than to argue that point, so he just says, "Doesn't seem to bother Max."

Ben scoffs at the mention of his twin. "Nothing bothers Max. He came through town last week to see a client, so we had dinner. I was telling him about this whole trial thing, said you were worried about her. He just said, 'Oh, she'll be fine. Isn't it, like, her job?'"

Aaron groans out loud at that. "Jesus."

"Yeah. It's like he thinks if anything goes badly for her, even if it's totally unrelated, it'll somehow be our fault. So he insists she's perfect and her life is perfect and everything's fine."

"Typical."

They're quiet for a bit, each contemplating their family, until Ben asks, "So what are you gonna do?"

Exhaling heavily, Aaron answers, "I don't know. I guess I'll call her Wednesday as usual and hope she answers." He pauses, then adds, "And I won't mention Will again. Guess she's kinda right...don't have much right to be worrying about her now."

*

The first eight years of Alana Bloom's life were relatively normal and unsullied. She was the only girl in her family, as well as the youngest by a wide margin...a "happy surprise" late in a solid marriage. Her brothers teased her, of course, and it often felt like they lived in a world completely separate from her own, but for the most part Alana was happy with her world, and her life.

Then her oldest brother, Jamie, died and everything about her family began to slowly crumble away.

He was eighteen, in his last summer at home before going to college. Alana was eight. Aaron was sixteen. Max and Ben were fifteen.

Their mother shut down completely, withdrawing into herself, disengaging from the world around her. Their dad stayed five months: long enough to see the kids back to school and get his wife into therapy, and then one day he left for work and never came back. Whether it was fueled by grief, or frustration with grief's stench in his home, was impossible to say.

But Aaron had a golden ticket in the form of his driver's license and car. He and his brothers threw themselves into sports and social lives, going to the high school in the morning and often not returning until late in the evening, avoiding the house that reeked of a loss and the woman who barely resembled their mother.

But at eight years old, Alana didn't have that luxury. She rode the bus home from her elementary school every day, and more often than not, she was alone in the house with her mother...her mother who changed month to month based on whatever cocktail of drugs her therapist was testing.

It's over a year after Jamie died, seven months or so after their dad left. That's how long it takes Aaron to figure it out, and even then he gets lucky. It isn't shrewd observation, or brotherly instinct. He simply happens to be spending a rare hour in the house, getting ready for a date, when the phone rings, and the next thing he knows his little sister's voice is coming over the line, informing him she needed to be picked up.

"Where are you?" Aaron asks, confused. He'd only gotten home half an hour ago, and hadn't even realized Alana isn't in the house.

"I'm at Sarah's for a sleepover, but I'm not staying anymore."

He tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder, distracted, as he buttons his shirt. "How come? D'you get scared or something?"

"No," she insists, with all the indignity of a nine year old. "But I can't stay. Her mom doesn't want me to."

Aaron groans. "Why, what'd you do?"

"Nothing. Can you just come? Or tell Mom to?"

Their mother is asleep on the couch in the living room. She's been sleeping a lot lately, drowsiness an apparent side effect of the current combination of drugs. Either that, or it just isn't alleviating the depressive state. Sighing, Aaron asks, "You sure you can't stay?"

"Positive."

"Where's the house?"

Ten minutes later, he pulls up in front of the curb at a suburban split level a few neighborhoods away from theirs. Alana's sitting alone on the porch steps, hugging her knees, her backpack beside her. She practically runs to the car and hurls herself inside when Aaron stops.

Not moving right away, Aaron turns to look at his sister. "What the hell happened?"

"Nothing, just go."

"Something happened," he insists.

"Sarah's mom said she can't play with me anymore."

"But why?"

"I don't know."

"You gotta know."

"I don't, okay, she just said it." Alana's chewing on her lower lip, glaring straight ahead with a determinedly angry expression that means she's trying not to cry.

Aaron stares at her for a moment. Her dark hair's pulled into a clumsy braid that isn't quite holding, and he realizes she must have had to figure out how to do that herself.

Something about this realization pisses him off. He throws the car in park and tugs the keys out, opening his door. "Wait here."

Alana's eyes go huge. "Aaron, don't."

But he's already striding down the sidewalk, and soon knocking purposefully on the door.

It doesn't take long before a woman opens it, and something about the reality of confronting an adult immediately throws off Aaron's bravado. "Um. Hi. I'm Alana's brother."

"Oh." The woman sighs, casting her eyes over Aaron's shoulder toward the car. "Thank you for coming...I told Alana she didn't need to go home, but she was insistent."

"Did, uh. Did something happen?" It occurrs to Aaron that this is a parent talk. Their mother should be doing this.

"Well, she was perfectly well behaved all afternoon. But after what Sarah just informed me, I'm afraid I had to tell both girls this would be their last sleepover. And that Sarah probably shouldn't spend time with Alana in the future."

Aaron feels an instantaneous rush of distaste. He knows this mother; every kid knows this mother: the haughty one who thinks their precious child is inherently better than everyone else, and thus must be kept away from riffraff. "And what did Sarah inform you?," he asks tersely.

"She said Alana gets into fights quite frequently. I'm sorry, but that's not the sort of influence my daughter needs."

Aaron stares at the woman incredulously. "Fights? She's never been in a fight in her life."

"Sarah was quite insistent..."

Over her mother's shoulder, Aaron spots a wispy little blonde girl hovering in the back of the foyer. Following his gaze, the woman turns and tells her daughter, "Sarah, honey, go back upstairs."

"Have you ever seen Alana get in a fight?" Aaron asks the little girl loudly, earning him a glare from her mom.

"No..." Sarah glances nervously back and forth between Aaron and her mother. "Alana told me about them. Just now."

Aaron rolls his eyes, giving the woman a triumphant look. "She was probably just messing around. Al doesn't fight."

"She wasn't lying," Sarah protests. "We were changing into our pajamas and I saw how bruised up she is. That's when she told me."

"What?" Aaron stands stone still for a moment, frozen in his incomprehension, and then, without another word to Sarah or her mom, he turns on his heel and jogs back to the car.

"What did you say to them?" Alana demands as soon as he's back in the car.

Aaron looks at her, scrutinizing. It's July, and she's wearing long sleeves. Only now does that strike him as odd. In a single, quick motion, he reaches over and jerks up her shirt sleeve, eliciting a cry of protest.

"Hey, quit it."

Alana twists away, but too late; he's already seen a few scattered bruises, and one long, even row of welts on her forearm.

His stomach in knots, Aaron reaches for her again. Alana jerks away, pressing herself against the passenger side door, fisting her shirt in her hands.

"Stop it, Aaron, get offa me!"

But he's stronger than her, and easily manages to lift up the back of her shirt. There's a huge, ugly green and purple bruise at the base of her back, and a smattering of smaller contusions, at various stages of fading.

Alana slaps ineffectually at his arm before pulling her shirt back down, face red and furious.

"What the hell happened to you?" Aaron demands, his voice oddly strangled. "Have you been fighting?" Alana turns away from him, staring out the passenger window. "Did another kid do this to you?" No answer; Aaron swallows hard, then finally asks it, the terrifying suspicion that coiled around his spine the second Sarah mentioned the bruises. "Did Mom do this to you?"

Still no answer for a moment, but eventually Alana turns to look at him. "It's only when it gets bad."

Just like that, Aaron gets the same sinking feeling he had when his dad told him Jamie had been in a car accident: the sudden, paralyzing certainty that nothing in his life will ever be the same. In a hoarse voice, he echoes, "When it gets bad?"

"She gets confused," Alana informs him calmly, eyes wide and solemn. "She thinks Jamie's still here, and she gets mad when I don't see him. Or when I can't find him for her. Sometimes I pretend, but it doesn't always work. And sometimes she just gets mad for no reason." Aaron can only gape at her, unable to think of anything to say. So Alana continues, as though explaining something to a child, "She's on a lot of medication. The doctor keeps adjusting until they figure out what works. But it can make her act not like herself. She's sorry, though. She can't help it."

It feels like Aaron's chest is caving in. He knows that Alana's only parroting what she'd been hearing, presumably from their mother, but still, in that moment, his baby sister sounds so, so old.

*

Alana doesn't answer when Aaron calls Wednesday. Or the Sunday after that. Or the following Wednesday. Or one more Sunday.

Then, to his surprise, he gets a phone call from her on Tuesday night, unscheduled.

Her voice is brusque and unfriendly, and she's clearly not in the mood for catch up. "Hey, listen, I need a favor."

"Sure," he responds eagerly. Unaccustomed to fighting with her, Aaron has no precedence with how to make things right.

"You're still on break, right?"

"Yeah. Through August." He teaches math and coaches baseball at a local high school. Since an abrupt and bitter divorce - and subsequent move - three years ago, the summer vacations everyone envies have become one long stretch of boredom.

"Okay, good. So, Will's trial's next week. I need you to come." Alana sighs, as if hearing how demanding she sounds. Adjusting her tone, she adds, "Please. If you can. I know it's a drive, so you can stay at my place."

"Of course, yeah." Aaron doesn't even pause to think about it. "I'll totally be there for you. I know it'll be stressful-"

"Look, it's nothing like that," Alana tells him shortly. "I'm one of the last witnesses the defense is calling, so I'll be sequestered most of the trial. I need somebody to sit in the gallery every day and tell me how it's going."

"That I can do," he assures her.

"Great." Then, as an afterthought, she adds, "Thank you."

"Always." Aaron pauses, then hesitantly begins, "Al, listen. I'm sorry about-"

"Forget it," she cuts him off, voice suddenly weary. "It's okay. Just...don't talk to me about Will, alright?"

He smirks a little. "That'll kinda make it hard for me to give you daily trial reports."

To his relief, he can hear a hint of a smile, or at least an eyeroll, in her voice when she replies, "Okay, smartass, except for then."

"Got it."

*

"No way. There's no way."

"You really think she'd lie about something like that?"

"She isn't lying," Aaron firmly puts the twins' argument to rest. "You should see her back it's, like...really bad." Ben jerks to his feet, a fire in his eyes, but Aaron tugs him back down. "She won't show you. Didn't even want me to look."

"We gotta tell somebody."

Max shoots his twin a bug eyed look. "You want to send Mom to jail?"

"She's beating our little sister!" Ben retorts.

Max gives Aaron an uncertain look. "Is it really that serious?"

"I...I don't know." Aaron shifts slightly, feeling far too young and confused to be in the position of authority. He wonders fleetingly what Jamie would do. "I think it might be. But...I don't think she should go to jail. She needs help. She doesn't know what she's doing, she fucking thinks Jamie's still alive..."

"Well, yeah, we knew that..."

"She talks to him sometimes."

"She stopped for a few months, remember-"

"-depends on the medication."

"Yeah, that's what Alana said," Aaron says grimly. His brothers register that statement, and they all fall silent. Eventually, Aaron groans, raking his hands through his hair. "Maybe we should try to find Dad."

Max's face turns stony. "Fuck Dad. Like he'd care."

"How would we even find him, anyway?" Ben adds, looking like he half hopes Aaron has a suggestion.

"Got me."

Ben frowns, expression contemplative. "Look. I think we have to tell someone. Mom's in therapy and it's obviously not working. She needs more help than she thinks. We don't know enough to handle that."

Max shakes his head. "Except if you tell someone, what do you think happens to us?"

Ben glances at his twin, not getting it. But Aaron's face tightens in immediate understanding.

Their grandparents are all dead, save for a paternal grandfather in a nursing home somewhere in Florida. Their mother is an only child. They have no family around.

"I'm not eighteen for another ten months," Aaron says. "They'd send us all to foster homes."

Max turns to Ben with an appealing look. "Yeah, and we'd probably get split up...at least from Alana. More places want little kids than teenage guys. So we'd just be sending her off to maybe get slapped around by someone who isn't related to her."

Ben glances at Aaron expectantly, not looking convinced. "So...what do we do?"

"We...watch her," Aaron says firmly after a moment. "We stick around the house more...don't leave Al alone with Mom. Ever. And maybe...I can talk to her therapist. Make sure he knows that it's serious. That's she's delusional, talking to Jamie and all that."

"Just don't mention the hitting."

"No. None of us can mention that."

*

"So these are all his?"

"I suppose a few extra could have wandered in by now. Hard to keep track," Alana deadpans blithely. Aaron gives her a startled look, and she smirks at him. "No, they're all his. Will likes to take in strays."

Aaron refrains from commenting on that one, instead bending down and scratching one of the smaller pups behind the ears. "Nice of you to watch them," he says, tone carefully neutral, but even that provoke her defenses.

"Don't start," Alana warns.

Aaron glances up at her. It's been a couple months since he's seen his sister, and she looks older. She's lost weight, and she seems edgy and panicked, but he hopes that's simply because it's the night before the trial.

She catches him looking at her, and seems to guess what he's thinking, because the warning look only intensifies. Aaron lifts his hands in silent surrender.

Half of Alana's living room has been taken over by trial preparation. Aaron sits in the one chair not stacked with books or files and reads a novel while Alana works, sitting on the floor beside her coffee table, pouring over stacks of papers with an intense, laser focus.

Around eleven, Aaron slows his reading, watching Alana expectantly, assuming she'll wrap up soon. But she shows no signs of breaking concentration, and the more Aaron observes the more chaotic her energy seems.

It's after midnight when he ventures, "Uh. Al?"

Her head snaps up, face twisted into an instinctive look of annoyance at being interrupted. "Yeah?"

"I might turn in."

"Sure. The guest room's all made up for you." She's already turning back to her work.

He stands up and walks over to her, lightly nudging his foot against her leg. "Hey." She looks up. "Think you might be wrapping up soon? Trial's pretty early tomorrow."

"I'll be fine."

"Do you even have to go?" he asks. "I mean, no way you get called for at least a few days, right? So you'll just be sitting in some room."

Alana scowls at him. "I'm going."

After a moment, as gently as possible, Aaron says, "Al, he won't even know you're there-"

Alana gives him an irritated look. "Fuck, Aaron, are you going to be like this the whole time?"

"I'm just-"

"I need you to do one simple thing, okay? Sit in the courtroom, pay attention, and tell me how it's going. That's it. I can do without the running commentary."

"Fine." He hovers over her for another moment, then nudges his foot against her knee again. "Goodnight."

He's halfway to the stairs when her voice stops him. "Aaron." He turns. There's something determined in Alana's face, and when she speaks, it's clear she's been needing to say this since their disastrous phone call a few weeks ago. "Mom was bipolar. With delusional episodes. You know that, right?"

It feels so strange to be talking about this. Aaron nods jerkily. "Yeah. I know."

"With Will...it's completely different. It's a physical thing...his brain was swollen." Aaron doesn't mention that by now he can probably recite the symptoms of encephalitis in his sleep. "And it's not anymore. Period. That's it."

"Okay. I know."

*

It's easy for awhile.

For the rest of the summer, they look out for their sister. They take Alana to the town pool, to play dates with her friends, to movies and minigolf.

And when school starts back - Aaron in his senior year, the twins their junior - they coordinate their after school schedules. They make sure someone's home at all times. Aaron acts like a parent, signing Alana up for art classes and a soccer team. He speaks to his mother's therapist, and after a few months she finds something that resembles stability. She stops talking to Jamie, stops cleaning the house with manic obsession, stops sleeping so much. She's grounded, if a little dulled, like something's extinguished behind her eyes.

Normality returns. And they become complacent.

After six months of that, it's easy to let go of the urgency. Baseball season starts up, and Aaron, the school's star pitcher, has to secure a scholarship. Ben makes the move to varsity, too. Max gets a girlfriend and starts spending all his time with her.

In other words, their lives start moving again, with the typical teenage momentum.

So they miss things. Like the piles of packages that begin arriving to the house from their mother's online shopping sprees. Or how frequently the living room furniture gets rearranged. Or that Alana quits soccer after a few games in a row that no one remembered to take her to.

And it's February, and cold, so there's nothing unusual about her long sleeves.

It's not until April, when Aaron comes home to find his mother singing to herself and frosting a cake for Jamie's twentieth birthday, that he realizes she's gone off her meds. That night, he comes up behind Alana when she's brushing her teeth in the bathroom and makes out several long, finger length red marks against the back of her neck.

He has a full scholarship to play baseball at a division one school. In May, when his father calls, the first time they've heard from him since he left, to tell Aaron he'll make arrangements for his tuition, it is with poisonous pleasure that Aaron can say he doesn't need him. And the rage that wells up in him at the sound of his father's voice, his utter lack of apology, makes it impossible for Aaron to ask this man to come home.

That summer, his last summer, Aaron lets Alana become his shadow. He lavishes her with attention. Every day they go to the pool, or the movies, or the park. He lets Max and Ben have their summer all to themselves, as his mother once again cycles through cocktails of pills, and he never admits even to himself that he is only able to be so selfless because there is an end in sight.

He moves into his dorm room in August, a step his older brother never got to take. He tells Max and Ben to take care of Alana.

And he hates himself for the relief he feels when he watches his family drive away.

*

He isn't sure when - or if - Alana went to bed the previous night, but in any case she's up early, ushering him out of the house to get to court.

So he's early, and in spite of the relatively high profile of this trial, Aaron gets a decent seat just behind the defense table. He sits and watches as the gallery fills up with reporters.

There's a hum of activity when a side door opens, and Aaron looks over and gets his first glimpse of Will Graham.

He's been dressed in an ill fitting suit for the trial, and it hangs on him, like he's somehow gotten smaller since he last had occasion to wear it. The suit makes the handcuffs around his wrists seem bizarre and out of place.

Will's lawyer is already arguing, protesting the need for handcuffs, claiming it's ridiculous and prejudicial. The judge and the two lawyers disappear immediately into the judge's chambers, and before he realizes what he's doing, Aaron leans forward, toward the defense table, and says, "Will?"

Will turns around, looking startled and immediately wary. Aaron's momentarily taken aback by the closer look at the other man's face; he's never seen Will Graham before, but he can imagine he hasn't always looked so broken and beaten down.

"Um. I'm Aaron. Alana's brother?" Will's face changes at the mention of her name, and his eyes immediately dart the gallery, searching for her. "She's sequestered until she testifies, so she asked me to...let her know how it's going." Will's looks back at him. "But...she's here, man. Insisted on coming, even though she can't be in here. She's in one of the other rooms." He gives an awkward, uneasy half smile. "Just thought you should know."

The corner of Will's mouth lifts into the slightest fraction of a smile, relief sweeping over his face. "Thank you."

*

When he comes home from Christmas, his mother seems better than he's seen her in a long time, so Aaron doesn't want to question it. He doesn't want to check Alana for bruises, or read too much into the way the ten year old is constantly checking on their mother or talking her through stress, Alana's tone as patient and reassuring as the parent of a toddler.

But Jamie's stocking is still hung on the chimney, even though their dad's has long since been taken out of rotation. And on Christmas morning, when Max reaches inside it to extract the customary mix of fruit and candy, their mother screams at him that it's not his.

Everyone freezes. It's been an uneventful holiday, as blessedly normal as they get these days, right up to that moment.

Alana recovers first. "Mom, it's okay. They're always taking each other's stuff. Jamie woulda probably stolen Max's candy first." Aaron notes the careful change in tense; she's neither playing along with or dismissing the delusion.

Slowly, their mom's face relaxes. "You're right." She gives Max, then the others, an admonishing look. "You boys should grow out of that. Honestly."

Aaron pulls his little sister aside that night. "How's everything going?"

"Fine." It's an automatic answer.

"No, really, though."

"Really. She's mostly pretty okay."

He shouldn't accept that, but he does. It's too easy. Just like it's too easy to forget about the tiny, worrisome incidents and instead remember the overall feeling of stability. It's too easy to go back to college, to girls and baseball and parties and friends, and tell himself he's done his duty at home.

*

Aaron does what he's supposed to. On the first day, he summarizes the opening arguments and Jack Crawford's testimony. The prosecution is getting all the FBI witnesses done first, so on the second day Beverly Katz is a witness early on, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.

Alana's mentioned her; Aaron knows they became friends after Will's arrest. So after a break for lunch, when he returns to the courtroom and sees Beverly looking for a seat on the defense side of the gallery, he goes up to her. "Beverly? I'm Aaron. Alana's brother."

"Oh, right. Hi." Bev nods in recognition. "She told me you were here."

"Want to sit?"

"Thanks." She settles beside him on the bench, the same seat he had yesterday, right behind the defense table.

"How do you think it's going?" he asks after a moment.

Beverly shrugs a little, expression grim. "Too early to tell. This part was always going to be a shit show. The evidence is damning, nothing we can do about that. The question isn't really whether or not he did it, you know?"

"Right." Aaron goes quiet for a moment, then asks, "What about Alana?" Off Beverly's questioning look, he clarifies, "Do you think she'll be okay?"

Eyes clouding over, Beverly frowns. "Honestly? I think that's going to depend on the verdict." She shakes her head a little. "She's thrown herself into this trial. More than anyone else. She'll never forgive herself if he doesn't come home."

Aaron gives a short, humorless laugh. "Honestly, I probably won't be able to relax either way."

Bev looks at him sideways. "Why's that?" Before he can answer, though, understanding lights in her eyes. "Ah. Alana and Will."

"She's my little sister," he says, slightly defensive. "I think I'm allowed to be a little concerned about her possibly...getting involved with a guy who's in jail for murder.

Beverly considers him for a moment, then nods. "That's fair. But you should know...he's a good man. He's not sick anymore...and he'd die before he hurt her."

The conversation ends then, as a bailiff escorts Will back inside and court resumes.

He sits with Beverly again the next day, a day when the prosecutor begins parading out the family members of the murder victims. It's a tough one to get through, and at the end of the day, Aaron and Beverly are both drained when they go to meet Alana.

"So?" Alana asks him as soon as she emerges from the conference room where she spends each day.

"Marisa Shore's mother, Cassie Boyle's dad, and Georgia Madchen's mom." He rattles off the witnesses.

"And?"

Aaron shrugs, uncomfortable. "Oh, you know. They're kinda showy witnesses. Didn't say anything the FBI people hadn't already covered."

Alana's face relaxes just a little, but then Beverly interrupts, "Um, no, actually. It wasn't great." Alana looks at her, and Beverly continues grimly, "Marisa Shore's mother had half the jury in tears. The lawyer obviously coached them all to make a big thing out of their kids deserving justice." Alana's face is slowly draining of color. "And they're leaning hard on the Hobbs stuff. Claiming the fact that he was working with another person isn't consistent with a dissociative state...especially that phone call."

Alana whips her head to look at Aaron, expression accusatory. "You haven't told me any of that." When he has no response, she shakes her head a little, exhaling sharply. "You know what? Forget it. Beverly's not sequestered anymore, she can just tell me. You're not going to give me the truth, you can just go home." Upset, she pushes past them and heads out of the courthouse.

Aaron gives Beverly a look. "Thanks a lot."

She lifts an eyebrow, unapologetic. "She's not a fucking little kid, Aaron. You can't protect her from this."

He bristles immediately. "Believe me, I'm well aware what I can't protect Alana from."

Beverly looks at him for a moment, then sighs and moves past him, hurrying to catch up with Alana.

*

He finishes his first year of college, but stays on campus for most of the summer, still training with the baseball team and taking a few classes, hoping to lighten his load for the semesters when they're in season. Time passes quickly, often without him noticing.

Ben and Max start school. Ben wins a partial scholarship to a small college, but he and Max both have to reluctantly and ashamedly accept their father's tuition help after the second phone call they've gotten from him in three years.

Aaron calls Alana once a week, on Sunday nights. She doesn't give him much to go on, and he presses just hard enough to feel like he gave her a chance to. He talks to his mother less frequently, but each time he tells himself she sounds better.

Sophomore year ends. Junior begins. Aaron turns twenty-one and college gets even better. He lives in a house with three other baseball players. He'll be starting pitcher in the coming season. To his surprise, he falls for a girl and finds himself completely okay with a committed relationship.

It happens one night in January. He and Tracie, his girlfriend, are asleep in his bed when the light flips on and Jason, his catcher, bellows at him from the doorway, "Aaron, phone."

Aaron startles awake, disoriented. The light throws him off, and for a moment he has no idea what time of day it is. The digital clock at his bedside informs him it's nearly three a.m.

Jason tosses the cordless phone unceremoniously at him. It hits Tracie in the shoulder, and she yelps, hurling a pillow at the doorway. Jason dodges it easily, glaring at Aaron. "It's your sister. Maybe tell her some of us have early mid terms, yeah?"

Aaron's immediately alert, already feeling sick. He fumbles for the phone. "Al?"

"Aaron?" Her voice sounds tiny. For the last few years, he's gotten used to Alana sounding much, much older than she is, but right now she sounds about six years old instead of thirteen.

"Hey, kiddo, what's wrong?" His voice is shaking.

"Um. I..." Her voice catches. "Mom died. I mean. She's dead."

It feels like there's a block of ice sitting in his chest. "What?"

"I'm sorry." She's trying so hard not to cry. "I was asleep. And I woke up because I heard water running, but she'd already...she was in the bathroom. There was cleaning stuff everywhere, I think she'd been cleaning it but then there was all this blood...I called 911 and an ambulance came but they said she was already dead."

Tracie is staring up at him with bleary eyed concern. It's so bright in his room. This is some sort of dream. "Alana. Where are you?"

"The hospital."

"Is someone with you?"

"There's a social worker," she whispers, sounding terrified at the prospect.

"Okay." He's out of bed, pulling on, for some reason, socks. "Okay, Al, I'm coming home, alright? It'll take me a few hours, but I'm coming."

"Kay." She sniffles, then takes a long, shaky breath before saying, "I still gotta call Max and Ben and tell them."

For some reason, this is what nearly punctures Aaron, and tears spring to his eyes, his voice softening. "No, no. It's okay. I'll call them, Al. I'll take care of it, you just sit tight and wait for me."

Five hours later he gets to the hospital. She's in a waiting room with a social worker, and she sees him before he sees her. He hears his name, "Aaron!," from behind him, and as soon as he turns Alana barrels into him, sobbing. He bend down on his knees and her arms go around his neck like they used to when she was a little kid.

He finds out later that they tried to take her to a group home to spend the night, but Alana categorically refused to leave the hospital because that's where her brother was coming for her. In the months that follow, Aaron will think a lot of this moment, the way her voice nearly cracked in half when she said his name, how tightly she'd clung to him, like he was someone who could save her.

*

The prosecution's final day of witnesses is another bad one. Hannibal Lecter has been subpoenaed, to testify about Garret Jacob Hobbs, the moments when Will would have had to make that phone call, and how lucid he was before and after. There's also a neurologist who claims to be an expert on encephalitis, claiming that it isn't associated with violent acts.

Under Beverly's watchful eye, Aaron tells Alana everything.

It's a few days into the defense's case when Alana finally testifies. Aaron's eyes are on Will's back when they call her name, and he notes the way Will sits up straighter, life infused into his posture for the first time in days, his head whipping around, searching for her.

Aaron can't see Will's expression, so he looks at his sister's. Her eyes go straight to the defense table, even as she's walking to the witness stand, and immediately her whole face breaks open into a look of pained tenderness that's utterly unrecognizable to Aaron.

His stomach twists into knots, and he's suddenly incredibly nervous for her. Surely she's too close to this. "Oh, God, she's gonna lose it..." He mutters, sinking low in the bench.

Beverly hits him with the back of her hand. "Shut up, she's got this."

And she does. Aaron slowly relaxes as he watches his sister. She's sharp and focused, obviously prepared. She's sounds incredibly intelligent and professional, while still keeping her explanations basic enough for the laymen of the jury to understand. And if she glances at Will with more frequency than might be expected from a witness, it doesn't take away from what she's saying. Aaron feels oddly relieved, listening to her. He doesn't understand how anyone wouldn't believe her. She makes it all sound so irrefutable.

The cross-examination, though, is hard to watch.

The prosecutor starts out with simple yes or no questions, forcing Alana to admit, over and over, that it's possible the encephalitis wasn't the driving force. Aaron can hear the terseness in her voice, can practically see her baring her teeth as she struggles to keep her temper in check.

Then the laywer starts calling her whole testimony into question, asking if it's true that there were "romantic overtures" from Will Graham to herself.

Her eyes snap to Jack Crawford in the gallery, gaze shocked and accusatory, before answering. She maintains that they were friendly colleagues. Admits, with prompting, that Will kissed her once, but nothing happened beyond that. She allows that, yes, he did kill a serial killer that was coming after her once, but, no, her gratitude doesn't affect her professional opinion.

"I've given you medical, scientific facts on Will Graham's illness," Alana says coolly. "As well as an objective, psychologically supported explanation of his work, and nothing you can say will taint the facts."

"Fine, fine. Just tell me one thing, Dr. Bloom...do you have feelings for the defendant?"

Her eyes snap to Will even as the defense attorney loudly, angrily objects. It's sustained, and the prosecutor moves on, but the answer is all over Alana - and Will's - face.

*

It's crowded in the two bedroom apartment. Alana and her mom had moved there in the previous year, when they could no longer keep up the house payments.

No one wants to be in their mom's room, so Max sleeps on the couch, Ben takes an air mattress on the floor of the living room, and Aaron puts a sleeping bag on the floor of Alana's room. But in the days after their mother's suicide, as Aaron makes funeral arrangements and works desperately to track down their father, they're all on top of each other, the most togetherness the surviving Bloom siblings have had in years.

That's how Aaron accidentally bursts into Alana's bedroom when she's just come in from a shower. She's wrapped in a towel, but her shoulders, legs, and the top half of her back are bare, and Aaron sees more than enough evidence of their mother's episodes in the five seconds before his sister whips around and yelps at him, "Get out!"

He shoots her a helpless look. "Al. Why didn't you tell me?"

She tightens the towel, glancing down as though surveying her own injuries. Then she lifts her head to look at him, wrinkling her nose in a blatant, teenage girl "duh" look. "You knew."

There's nothing he can say to that. He did know. He's always known. He just hadn't done anything.

For a long moment they stand there, Alana dripping wet and self conscious, Aaron nearly breaking under the weight of his own guilt. Then she looks him the eyes, expression fierce. "It doesn't mean I'm not sad she's dead."

"Of course not."

"She didn't know what she was doing."

"I know." Aaron turns to go. "Sorry. I'll leave."

*

The night after the closing arguments, Beverly comes over to Alana's after court adjourns, and the three of them sit in her living room with Will's dogs and get drunk.

They are trying to forget that this is in no way a slam dunk case. The truth is it could go either way, and they don't want to spend the entire night obsessing over which.

But Alana gets progressively quieter as the night goes on, and the alcohol isn't making anyone feel better. Around midnight, Alana tells Bev she can stay over rather than bother with a cab. Aaron offers to give up the guest room and sleep on the couch, and she's too drunk to argue.

One bit of relief at least, is that the beer makes it easier to sleep.

But Aaron wakes up around 3:30 to the sound of a barking dog, immediately followed by his sister's voice, hissing, "Ssshhhh, Winston, it's okay, boy."

Aaron sits up, squinting at Alana's dim outline across the living room. "You okay?"

"Yeah, couldn't sleep." She waves a hand at him. "I'm just getting some water, go back to sleep."

"Nah, I'm awake now." Aaron makes a face; his mouth is dry and tastes of beer. "I could use some water, too, actually."

They go into the kitchen, leaving the lights off as Alana opens the fridge and passes him a bottle of water, takes one for herself, and then leans against the fridge. Aaron perches himself on the edge of a counter. For awhile they're quiet; Aaron's promised himself not to push her to talk, so after awhile of her silence, he's about to give up and go back to bed, when Alana says hesitantly, "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

The words are slow and halting, and she isn't looking at him even though he can barely see her face in the darkness anyway. "The night Mom died...I was awake. I...I heard the water running." Aaron doesn't say anything, just waits. "I mean, I didn't know what she was doing. But I knew it was pretty damn weird for her to be cleaning the bathroom, or even just taking a bath, in the middle of the night. She hadn't done anything that bizarre for awhile. And the water...it was left running for so long. But I didn't want to deal with her. So I just stayed in bed. For way longer than I should have." Finally, she lifts her face to look at him, eyes glowing in the dark of the kitchen. "If I'd checked sooner, they probably would've been able to save her. Cutting your wrists...it's a pretty imprecise suicide. But she had lots of time to bleed."

Aaron turns this over in his mind, absorbing this new bit of history, oddly ambivalent. Finally, he says, "You didn't know. And what she used to do to you...of course you didn't want to deal with it." He waits; Alana doesn't respond, so he adds, "It wasn't your fault."

"I know that," Alana says calmly. "I know that now. But it took me a really long time to stop blaming myself. High school and most of college, even. That was...a pretty bad time for me." Her voice softens. "I guess we were all blaming ourselves for things."

He looks away. This would be the moment, the time to apologize and hug and maybe cry. But he still can't do it. Even discussing this at all is too new.

After a stretch of silence, Alana changes the subject, voice suddenly small, "He might lose."

Aaron looks up at her. "I know."

Her face tightens, eyes glistening a little brighter.

"You did great," Aaron adds firmly. "You really did, you fought for him. If he loses, it's not because of you."

Alana's quiet for a moment, picking absently at the label on her water bottle. Finally, she says in a low voice, "When Will kissed me...I kissed back. And then I walked away, but I didn't want to." She purses her lips, voice tight. "I told him I had feelings for him, but that he was...unstable. And that nothing could happen until that changed. He was hallucinating, and I kept...I kept thinking of Mom, of how she'd sit there and talk to Jamie. But...it turns out, he's nothing like her. It was this physical, neurological thing. And I didn't catch it. I should have caught it..."

"Hey." Aaron jumps off the counter to stand in front of her, dead serious. "You're not his doctor. He didn't want you to be his doctor."

"I know."

"It's not your fault."

She doesn't answer. They don't go back to sleep.

*

It takes him a week after the funeral to find their dad.

Ben and Max are back at school already, glad to be gone. Aaron takes an extra week off, but he's getting nervous. Baseball practice has started. Any longer, and his week off will turn into a semester. Either that, or he'd have to stick Alana in a foster home. He doesn't want to ask himself what he'll do.

It's Max and Ben's tuition that does it. It finally occurs with him to get in touch with their schools and find out about the payments. It takes a lot of phone calls and a lot of groveling and playing to their sympathy, practically begging for pity, even, but he manages to track his father down.

He's blunt when he tells his dad about the suicide, and he has no patience for the subsequent shock and grief and apologies.

The next day, Aaron stands with Alana in the now nearly empty apartment, several suitcases stacked at her feet. It's quiet; she isn't talking much lately.

He's looking out the window when an unfamiliar car pulls up at the curb and their dad gets out. Aaron turns back to Alana.

"Listen. It's gonna be okay."

"Okay," she parrots listlessly.

"I'll call you every week, alright? Same as before." She doesn't answer, and he amends, "Twice a week."

"Okay."

"And if something happens, if you need anything, just tell me." He cracks a smile. "We could have a code word, if you want."

But she's not a little kid anymore, and she doesn't smile at that. "I can probably just tell you."

"Fair enough." He hugs her, then, hard.

After a moment the door opens, and their dad steps tentatively inside. He looks old and exhausted, but Aaron barely spares him a glance.

He seems to sense there's no point in bothering with his son, and instead shoots a small smile at Alana. "Hey, baby."

She looks away, hoisting a backpack over her shoulder and grabbing a suitcase without saying a word.

Mr. Bloom finally seems to accept there won't be a warm reunion. He reaches a hand toward his daughter, but stops short of resting it on her shoulder. "Ready to get going?"

Alana nods, and her dad grabs the rest of her bags. As they walk out of the room, she glances back to Aaron, the dull mask slipping from her face for just a second, something panicked and pleading taking its place instead.

It's another moment Aaron will think about a lot in the years that follow.

*

The jury files back into the courtroom and Aaron hears Alana make a soft, gasping sound beside him. He reaches for her hand, and her fingers instantly wrap around his in a viselike grip, but she doesn't take her eyes off Will, directly in front of her at the defense table.

"Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honor."

"And is that verdict unanimous?"

"It is."

A clerk of the court walks to the foreman to take a folded piece of paper. The walk to the juror, and then back to the judge to deliver the written verdict seems to last an eternity. Aaron can feel his sister shaking.

The judge looks down at the piece of paper then lifts his head, face blank. "Will the defendant please rise?"

Will's lawyer gets to his feet, but Will doesn't follow suit. The lawyer tugs on his elbow, and Will throws a look over his shoulder, meeting Alana's eyes, his expression terrified, before he's able to stand unsteadily.

The judge reads off the list of charges. "...and in these matters of murder in the first degree, how do you find the defendant?"

It's a long, leaden moment. So silent.

The foreman clears his throat. "Guilty, Your Honor."

"NO." Alana's hand rips from Aaron's, and she's on her feet in an instant, her instinctive protest the first note in a swell of reaction from the gallery.

Alana sways unsteadily on her feet, expression frozen in horror. Will hasn't moved. His name claws its way up her throat, swelling like a scream, but when it comes out it's a small, trembling mess, "Will..."

He turns to look at her, his face paper white, looking like a frightened little boy. A pleading note in his voice, he whispers, "Alana..."

She moves right against the divider between the gallery and the defense table, and Will nearly stumbles toward her, a crooked, gasping sound emerging from his throat.

Alana grabs the jacket of his suit, tugging him close. She weaves her other hand through his hair, and his forehead drops against hers, both of them clinging in desperate, dizzy panic.

"Time to go," the bailiff tugs Will away, but Alana keeps her hand on his jacket, tightening her grip like in a childish tug of war, as if she can keep him with her if she only wants it bad enough.

The bailiff grabs his wrists to reattach the handcuffs, and Will's finally forced to step out of her reach. Alana's throat closes up, everything inside her unraveling. Her words trip over each other as she tells him, "I'll fix this, Will, we'll appeal it, we'll find something, I promise, I'm gonna fix it..."

"Alana..." It's like her name is the only word he can manage, but his eyes are huge and full of so many things unspoken, too much to say now, and he can't even try as the bailiff tugs him away, leading him out of the courtroom.

The gallery's cleared out now, the reporters hurrying to try to get statements from the lawyers. Beverly's still sitting, her head tipped against the back of the bench, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. Aaron stands up, putting a hand gently on his sister's back.

"C'mon, Al," he murmurs quietly. "Let's go."

With sudden and surprising force, she shoves Aaron away from her, and he stumbles against the bench, nearly tripping, as Alana yells, the pitch of her voice edging rapidly toward hysteria, "Get off me, they can't do that, they can't just take him, they can't, it isn't right, he didn't...he didn't know what he was doing, h-he couldn't..." Her voice falls to pieces and she starts sobbing. Aaron straightens up and puts his arms around her, letting her collapse against his chest and cry into his shirt, once again comforting his sister in the aftermath of something he couldn't protect her from.