Mirrors & Stitches, Blood & Breath

--~MIRRORS & STITCHES~--
 

(For Will)

"Sleep, Puppy. Sleep."
It was impossible to take his hand away. His palm fitted so perfectly. It covered the thick welt on Will's side, and, gently exhaling his melancholy into rainy darkness, Francis wished he could send all his love and unearthly power throughout his hand to smoothen the injured skin, to heal this wound completely, to make this scar disappear. And to make things undone. All these things. All these years. All this pain... (Washed away by love and rain.) "I'm here to protect you."

One floor above the bedroom, upstairs in the moonlit attic, hidden behind the iron door of his antique Mustang safe, his giant scrapbook kept the memories of his entire life: snippets from his past, photographs, drawings, newspaper clippings... chapters filled with blood, sweat and tears. His collaged diary. The collected stations of his journey through hell. His survival. His becoming.

Breathing the bewitching melange of printers ink and graphite, glue and marker this book finally reflected his admiration for one single man: Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

But then... there has been someone else, someone reserved and emotionally unstable, someone the head of the B.A.U. Jack Crawford has lured out of privacy, out of the harmony of a little house close to a lake he used to live in with his wife and son and a pack of dogs. Someone whose empathy was large as the sky, but likewise fluctuating, someone who should be kept far away from any crime scene: Special Agent William Graham, the FBI profiler who nearly died by catching the Chesapeake Ripper, more than four years ago.

Francis shivered, nuzzling closer to the sleeping body. He dug his nose into Will's curly hair. Zoe whimpered in her snooze. Buster's paws tickled his back. A little smile curled the Dragon's lips. Rain drops softly pecked the windows.

The report on Tattle-Crime.com has been shameless and offensive, showing Will in his hospital room, pale and half naked, one hundred tubes and catheters attached to his body, 23 fresh stitches exposed to all hungry readers. He knew these photographs so perfectly well as if he has taken them himself, prints of them filling pages of his diary. He remembered that he has prayed Graham would perish for apprehending the Ripper, this adorable diabolic genius, who has received a new nickname in the meantime: Hannibal the Cannibal. Four years ago he longed to make Will suffer, but with time... rage has faded. Rage has changed. Things have changed. All things.

The tapping of the rain made him sleepy. Trees whispered with the breeze. He closed his lids to a recollection of Will's face, a close up taken by Freddie Lounds. He refused to recall the bulletin's sensational words, he just tried to remember why he has felt this weird kind of sympathy all of a sudden. His tired mind started to drift. Back to the house of the Leeds, back to 4 corpses with mirrors in their eyes. Back to the family staring at him. Back to the dying woman he has taken... Back to his own naked body, slick with blood, bathing in the silvery blue light of a silent full moon. He bit his lower lip and suppressed a moan. Abruptly he knew why.

"Don't look at it", he exhaled. Don't try to slip into my brain and think my thoughts. Don't see them with my eyes. Don't reconstruct the sacrifices by crawling under my skin. Don't do this, Will. Cause if you do and come too close I have to show you who I am. And I will hold your family's life between my jaws. I will devour you. All of you. And spit out the bones for your dogs.

But now... these dogs slept draped around them to keep them warm. Like he held Will tight to keep him from sleepwalking and meeting the stag. 

Francis shivered again. The hand covering Will's scar trembled slightly. How many stitches would it take to mend a fractured soul? No stitches at all. Still smiling he blew a kiss to Will's neck. Winston started to snore. Teacups and mirrors don't get unbroken. But the cracks can be filled with liquid gold. Inner wounds will never heal, but love embalms them. "I will protect you", he whispered again. The investigator turned in his sleep, and Francis wrapped both arms around him, his left hand slipping back underneath Will's shirt to cover the scar again. Hidden underneath his palm: the wound that Hannibal has inflicted. Lulled by the rain he fell asleep.

We're all safe. By now. Because I love you.

Because I love you both.

--~BLOOD & BREATH~--

Leaned against the whitewashed wall of the corridor Francis released a deep soulful sigh. Patience is a virtue, he thought and rubbed his eyes. He tried to listen to the dialog behind the door, but the acoustics were lousy, and the scraps of conversation he was able to overhear didn't make much sense. It didn't matter: he knew the script by heart, like he knew that Doctor Alana Bloom would leave the cell soon, in three, two, one... her perfume tickling his nostrils the moment she passed by, a touch of vanilla lingering in the air. It stirred his hunger, and absentmindedly he stared at her hips, swaying down the hall in a dark slack suit, her heels slightly clicking. With a blink he turned round and grabbed the door.

Noiselessly he sneaked up the transparent wall, pressing both of his palms against the glass, his widened blue eyes scanning the bleak surroundings for a moment, before they focused on the man standing in the middle of the empty room.
"Mmm, Hannibal, you're always so good with words. I deeply enjoy them every time."
Distracted by his own breath misting the glass his lips curled to a smile. With a low growl he leaned in and licked the cool surface, his eyes narrowed now, meeting the other man's glance. "I can't wait to befall you. Tomorrow night. In the glass house. On the cliffs."

The man on the other side of the crystalline veil did not move. Not even his eyes moved. He stared to a point somewhere in a far distance, and slowly but surely Francis asked himself if Hannibal was able to see him. Apparently not. Apparently he wasn't really here, though the presence of this spartanic cell felt real enough to him. Once again he pressed his palms against the glass, noticing his fingerprints and his breath, fogging the surface anew. With a smirk he drew a heart in the middle of the opaque circle the exhaled air of his lungs has left. A heart. And an arrow. Then he stepped back, tilting his head from side to side till his little humid drawing covered Hannibal's chest. "Blood and breath, saliva and skin, life and death and the whisper of sin", he murmured. Slowly the misty heart disappeared.

"You know this will be the end", the Doctor suddenly said, his voice emotionless. He turned his back on Francis.
The Dragon furrowed his brows. The end? The end of what? This episode? Slowly he shook his head. "Some glass will break. Well, lots of glass. And the ocean won't stop eroding the cliff. The sea is greedy. Like I'm greedy, you see? Greedy to see you transform. One time. Just one. All things start and end at the right place to the right time. Not now. Not tonight. And not tomorrow. Sure, we will fall. You will. I will. Even Will will." As if to underline his words Francis licked the scar on his upper lip, moistening his smile. "Some may think it's the end but it isn't. There will be pain. Incredible pain. And disappointment, maybe even more painful. And amounts of blood and breath. But we turn the page and start a new chapter. And wounds will heal and become scars."

His blue gaze still focused on the spot where the tiny heart has been Francis stepped back again, slowly drawing his gun, his silencer already adjusted. Likewise slowly he pulled the trigger. The glass broke into a million of shards. Blood and red wine bloomed on Hannibal's side.
Welcome to reality.