"Holy places are dark places.

It is life and strength, not knowledge and words,

that we get in them.

Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water,

but thick and dark like blood."

― C.S. Lewis

It begins with a body.

Another faceless corpse with a name that some detective will rattle out in a hurried breath along with age, color, height and a list of injuries that adorn the naked flesh. Usually a woman's name. Young enough to be sad. Pretty enough to make tragic. Such a waste, they tisk.

A name that the police will forget as soon as it's said, as soon as they catch sight of what comes next. They'll have to flip through their paperwork, locate the chart, trail one finger down the index to recall it like a serial number. Letters and numbers and a name that the girl inherited from her grandmother.

Then comes the evidence. The steps of the crime, staged like a dance and it is Will's job to turn splatters of blood into emotion, into motive. To see the intention behind another's art, the brushstrokes hidden beneath the paint. Bruises and lacerations. Speckles of blue and purple, black in the center, red shading along the edges. Almost like a sunset, Will muses. Missing organs. Livers and hearts and lungs. Some are removed with great care post mortem. They like to take their time, fascinated by the hidden facets inside the human body, the blood and muscle and bone tucked beneath that thin layer of skin.

Some are ripped away violently while the victim is alive, choking on air that won't come, like a fish floundering on dry land. Some people like to watch others squirm. A killer claiming the ultimate prize. Murder isn't enough anymore. A need to take and take and take even when there's nothing left.

There is anger in the depth of the cut, pure impact. A little regret in how quickly it was pulled out. Panic hidden among the worst of the bruising. Satisfaction in smears of red. It's overwhelming, no anchor in sight and Will steps into the eye of the hurricane each time.

Will always remembers the name. He doesn't have many rules but that is one he obeys like a sinner chasing forgiveness.

It always begins with a body, mangled in some new way but with the same exact shade of red for blood, same torn skin, same barbed hooks in Will's stomach that tighten. That drag his feet forward each time, just like it's his first. Will doesn't want to see but he looks.

Closes his eyes and clears his mind out so there's room enough for another.

No matter how many times he does it, the anger that radiates from the crime is always new and frightening. It doesn't matter how many times he tells himself that he cannot be hurt, there's still a sheen of sweat that covers his skin when he opens his eyes again.

He still has to remind himself that he's not dead. And then after, that he's not a murderer. Some days it takes longer than others.

Today they are staring, worse than usual at hiding it. He feels the stares on the back of his neck like pinpricks making him go hot and cold at once, until he glances up and then everyone is quick to look away. It's unnerving when Will is usually the one who avoids eye contact. He feels trapped, like a butterfly pinned to a board. Come closer and see the colors, the frail wings. Look but don't touch. Jack doesn't want him ruined. Will tells himself that he's just being paranoid. It echoes false inside his skull.

And while Will likes to think that he's seen everything humanity has to offer, realistically, he knows that's just a pipe dream. That people will continue to contrive new terrible ways of destroying each others, of inflicting pain and horror. That murderers will keep on inventing. And Will will keep on seeing.

When Will is done after the pendulum stills, he stumbles over towards Beverly, tries to control just how badly he is shaking. Knows that she sees but despite it, Beverly is the one able to ground Will the best. Maybe because she doesn't pester him like the others, doesn't remark how pale he is or how tired he looks or ask when the last time he slept was. Beverly doesn't say any of these things. She just stands closer to him than usual, letting a bit of her warmth seep through the space between. And Will is finally able to let out a breath. That's usually enough. But not today.

Because today is a bad day and Will's bad days are terrible enough that he has the sense to divide them in his mind, to recognize them for what they are, all quicksand and demons perched atop each shoulder. He's made the mistake of belittling them in the past, convinced himself that he could handle what he couldn't and paid the price. If he's lucky, he'll wake in a hospital, an IV jutting beneath his skin, the beep of machines and the stench of bleach around him. Bed rest for weeks. Will hasn't had a bad day in years and with the knowledge that this promises to be one, he's seized by the desire to run and lock himself away in his house with his dogs, to cover himself with blankets and not emerge until it's all over. Dog hairs and burnt coffee and no one around for miles and miles. Just Will and the silence.

Jack's voice breaks him from his meandering, a touch of impatience that means Will has missed something along the way. "I need you on this Will. I need you focused. Do I have that?" He doesn't sound overly concerned, nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Sit, stay, down, roll over.

"I don't want to do this." Will tells him and only feels a little like a sullen child. He doesn't want to do this. He wants to go home.

Jack doesn't react, doesn't even look up from the reports he's scanning. "But you will."

Will presses cold fingers to his burning forehead and says nothing.

The woman lays unmoving on the ground, naked limbs and pale skin, stiff as a board as rigor mortis begins to set in.

It always begins with a body. And Will can't look away.

Hannibal's presence leaves Will with the distinct impression that he is lacking in some way. Hannibal, per usual, is dressed in a three piece suit, no doubt one that costs more than Will's entire wardrobe put together. And while Dr. Lecter has not gone so far as to mention any disapproval towards Will's clothing choices, he still notices the sideways glances he gives the torn jeans and unraveling sweater. It's subtle, usually filled with amusement, softer than he looks at most others.

Will tries not to be pleased at that. It doesn't matter what people think about him, the range from brilliant to disturbed, that they write papers about minds like his. It hasn't mattered in such a long that Will is struck dumb by the foreign desire to please another person, to say the right things, to hide the dark stains of his psyche from Hannibal. Will doesn't let many people inside his head to the extent that he has allowed the doctor.

He has yet to see the man looking anything other than pristine. Meanwhile Will seems to exist in a constant state of dishevelment. Ruffled shirts that could use ironing if Will cared enough to do it, curly hair always falling in his face, dark circles under his eyes, dog hair clinging to his pants, scuffed shoes sprinkled with mud from crime scenes. He feels faintly foolish at his train of thought. Clothes have never been anything more to Will than a means for warmth and protection. They may mean something more to Hannibal but he knows the doctor doesn't judge him like others might. No, Doctor Lecter has a different set of criteria, ones that Will hasn't quite managed to untangle.

"Have you been eating?" The first thing Hannibal asks and Will knows it's no use lying. He doubts there's anything in his fridge besides beer and moldy bread.

So he shrugs. After all, they're not here to talk about Will's eating habits. "Do you ever get tired of being a therapist?" He asks instead.

"Can't say that I do. The human mind is constantly changing, evolving. Never a dull moment, as you well know."

Will doesn't say anything to that. It sounds like an echo of his thoughts earlier. Wonders if Hannibal said it first. He tends to confuse the two of them at his worst.

"And you Will? Are you tired of seeing?"

"This is what I am." This is what I am. This is what I do. Will chooses words carefully and Hannibal notices the difference.

His eyes sharpen at that and Will is convinced that he had said too much again. Hannibal manages to drudge up bits of secrets that Will would rather keep to himself.

"And the nightmares?"

Will is quiet for awhile, debating whether to tell the truth. Wondering if confession will help rid him of some of the poison. He clenches his jaw, tries to gather up his darkness, can't let it leak out. "I'm fine. It's fine. I can handle it."

Hannibal's eyes soften once more and Will takes a deep breath.

The headache is back in full vengeance and his stomach gives a burst of sharp pain. Will lifts his hand to his forehead, tries to rub away some of the pressure, make it look like he's brushing a strand of hair out of the way.

But Hannibal sees. Of course he does. It's annoying, constantly being on his toes around the man, being around someone who sees just as much as he does. The feeling is still novel enough, disconcerting at times when Will feels he's outmatched.

"I think I need...I need a sedative." It's easier than he thought it would be to admit. Will is so tired that he thinks anything would be easy now. "Do you-could you recommend-" he breaks off, leans back, feels his spine sink further into the leather.

"Why now?" Will's eyes fly open; he can't even remember closing them. He licks his lips, notices the glint of moonlight in the windowpane. The night is creeping, hovering over his shoulders. Images of the woman from the crime scene flash through his mind. A broken and bleeding body thrown out like trash. His mouth runs dry and no words come.

"I want to try an exercise if you'd indulge me." Hannibal begins, voice closer now. Will blinks up sleepily at him and Hannibal gives a small smile. "I want you to close your eyes."

Will tenses in reflex and then he forces himself to relax, the muscles to unfold, closes his eyes.

Hannibal's voice is deep and calming, "No one is going to hurt you Will. Not here." A faint rustle and then he goes on, "I want you to recall a memory. The last time you felt peace. Safety."

He gives Will a few moments to search through his memories until he latches onto one. The logs in the fireplace crackle and fall, sparks of red, shades of orange. Will doesn't see, doesn't hear.

"Where are you?" Hannibal's voices still finds him. The sky above threatens rain but Will doesn't care. He's up to his knees in clear water, life thrumming past, sweeping around him, cradling him.

"A lake. There was a lake." Will's voice is low and drowsy, a slurred edge as if he's been drugged. "I used to skip rocks on the shore."

"Are you alone?"

Will glances around, frozen wasteland, no one within sight. He could be the last person on earth. The thought doesn't trouble him like it might others.

"Yes, I-" His voice cuts off, momentarily distracted by a shadow in the forest. The ground quivers as something vital shifts. The water rises further and it feels angry. Will knows that doesn't make any sense. Water doesn't get angry, doesn't hold a grudge, but it's like walking through a crime scene, catching sight of things he isn't supposed to see, shards of emotions that aren't his own. A strong wave tears the rod from Will's hand. It sinks down past his feet and disappears from sight.

"What's wrong Will?" The voice is distant, coming from further and further away, a long tunnel with no light at the end. Will can barely hear him over the thunder. The world is shaking, trembling but Will holds himself still. The forest opens, naked limbs of trees pulled taut by some invisible string. The creature steps forward, closer and closer, but Will still can't see. The shadows darken, splotches of black dance across his vision.

"He's waiting for me. He won't show his face." The beginning of panic lacing his words, he begins to squirm in the seat. Don't want to see. Don't want to see. Antlers that stretch up and blot out the sun, stealing any semblance of warmth with it.

Amber eyes open and trap him where he stands. Stones roll atop his feet, pinning him. The water rises, rolling over his shoulders, past his nose, up over his eyes. Just before he is swept away, the creature reaches out one hand, razor sharp claws spread in invitation...There is a rush in his mind and the feeling of being pushed out from it.

Will comes back to himself feeling like all the strings that held him up have been cut. He slouches on the chair, vaguely aware of Hannibal's hand on the back of his neck, keeping his face between his knees. Hyperventilating.

"Breathe Will."

He struggles to obey, difficult when his body refuses to listen. Sweat drips down his forehead. The ice burns and his skin is on fire. There's something wrong with him down deep inside where no one can fix it.

Will doesn't realize he's spoken aloud until Hannibal's voice comes closer. "There's nothing wrong with you Will. You're just overwhelmed. Your mind is playing tricks."

Broken is a term Will would have chosen but he doesn't reply, not even when his heart ceases its frantic pace and settles. The shaking in his hands has gotten worse when he rubs at his eyes, tries to blink the brightness away. The windows show that night has fallen and Will wonders where the time has gone, has the sudden bizarre vision that he will wake up as an old man, wrinkled and grey and not recognize his own face staring back in the mirror. Losing time, the hours slipping away into nothing.

"You're pushing yourself too hard again." It comes out as a slight admonishment, laced with easy affection. Will wonders when he started being able to notice the subtle differences in Hannibal's tone. Or when Hannibal started letting him.

Will shivers. A fire roars across the room but he can't feel it. Can't feel anything but a deep sense of wrongness. His bones have turned to liquid in their casings.

"I'm tired." Is all he says, the truth plucked straight from deep inside him. Will can't ever remember being so tired. He wants to ask, beg Hannibal to fix him. Pick up the pieces and glue me back together. A listless doll, a broken teacup. He doesn't say any of this. Asking would be admitting. Step one, he thinks, a little hysterically.

Hannibal threads his fingers through Will's hair as a reward and despite his deep dislike of touch, Will finds himself leaning further in. A small sigh escapes his lips, unbidden. He hears more than sees Hannibal smile. "Just a little longer."