Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Aisling Graham is born, not quite beloved, or wanted, but cared for all the same.

Her mother is young. Not so young as to draw raised eyebrows, and whispers in the church pews of ‘irresponsible youths’, but young all the same. Too young to be already shackled to a babe. She is though. And Marie has always made the best of a situation, even if the situation is an unwanted, and unexpected hanger-on in the form of a baby.

Aisling is cared for. She is not lauded over. Her achievements never grace the front of the fridge door, her good grades earn no rewards. But she is cared for all the same. When she is young, gentle hands cradle her and rock her to sleep. She is fed warm food, given stuffed toys and her own bed. She is in all ways cared for. Her mother is distant, a smile here or there, eyes that never linger too long, a hand briefly brushing curls off her forehead. 

Aisling can’t ask for more. She has never really tried. Deep down she knows she’s lucky, Marie Lynch could have just as easily left her to fend for herself. She could be resentful and cruel, instead she is simply distant. Aisling was not part of her plans for life, and yet…  Marie makes the best of it. Aisling can’t complain. What would she even complain about? There’s always warm food on the table, a soft comfy bed. She gets gifts on her birthday and Christmas, has an Easter basket every year, new clothes that fit and look nice. In all ways Aisling is cared for. So what if it’s not love? Aisling knows deep down, it could be so much worse. So she shuts her mouth and stays quiet.

…

She grows from a quiet babe, to a strange and still toddler, and from there to a strange and silent small child.

No-one says it aloud, but everyone knows something is wrong with Aisling Graham. It can’t be because of her poor, young, mother who has done her very best. Who’s so successful despite Aisling’s unexpected, draining, presence. 

No, the blame must lie, with her no-good deadbeat father. Who no-one’s ever met, or even seen. If Aisling got her oddness from anyone it has to be her bastard father who gave her little else but her curls and last name.

Only the worst parts of himself, they whisper in the church pews.

Aisling learns to tune them out.

There are darker whispers though, whispers that Aisling is devil-touched. That she’s some-sort of changeling child. One that replaced the real, perfect, child that young Marie Lynch brought into the world. Whether she replaced that little baby because her no-good, bastard, deadbeat, father made a deal because he wanted nothing to do with her young mother or her when he’d learned about the pregnancy, or because everyone knows she was not baptised when she should’ve been because she grew suddenly and quickly ill after her birth, they cannot agree. Whatever the reason they settle upon, those who agree and echo such rumors and theories, keep a close and skeptical eye on her. 

Thomas Smith is one such person who believes those tall tales. 

…

He was her cousin, half by blood, and twice over by marriage and choice. 

His mother had once believed him to be a devil-child too. She had him ‘exorcised’ by an unordained ‘priest’. A man who was little more than a power-drunk charlatan. He’d very nearly drowned little Thomas Smith. He would have succeeded, but one of the sisters from the local church had come over to drop off some things for Thomas and his mother, and found him performing his so-called exorcism. She had screamed and attacked the man, Thomas’ mother ran and when the man saw there was no way out so did he. Leaving poor, sweet, near-dead Thomas behind. 

He was dead, they say, for four minutes and nineteen seconds. When he took his first breath after those, too-long four minutes, the gathered people, who were neighbors who’d heard the commotion, the EMTs, and the sister, gave thanks to the good Lord. It was declared an act of God. A miracle. Little Thomas was blessed and beloved by God, himself. 

He’d made a swift recovery, and whatever oddness lingered after the whole ordeal, could be brushed away as lingering trauma. Finally giving an excuse to his strangeness, so the community could wipe the slate clean. Brushing away any lingering doubts. Thomas was embraced by the church and community, and given grace over and over. In a way Aisling never would be.

He and her had never gotten along. She was uneasy around him. Didn’t like the way he watched her. He felt off, in a way she’d tried only once to articulate. Aunt Bríd had reamed her out for that, going on to tell Marie and the whole congregation. She’d had lectures from random church-goers, about judging one's fellow man, and the splinter in her eye, and how envy was sin, for weeks. Marie simply let the things be said, and told her next time to be kinder to her cousin.

 Aisling didn’t bother to try again after that, just tried to avoid him whenever possible. It was harder than it might’ve otherwise been if they were not related, as Aunt Bríd babysat her whenever Marie was busy. And Marie was often busy. Aisling was too young to be left alone, Marie said, and so it was that she stayed with Aunt Bríd and cousin Tommy every Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

If Aisling had spent less time with them, maybe she never would’ve let her guard down. If she’d known about the fact that Thomas believed the rumors of her being a changeling, or that there’d been a string of drownings in the area near where he lived, maybe she would’ve been able to avoid her fate. As it was, Aisling knew none of this, and with familiarity now bred and borne, too came comfort. 

Thus Aisling never saw her death coming.

****

There was a pond.

Near enough to where Aunt Bríd and cousin Tommy lived, that Aisling was allowed to wander there by herself. She’d always been drawn to bodies of water. It called to something inside her, everything in her head would grow quiet when she sat next to the water. It was as close to peace as Aisling could come to. If she’d been a good girl, that peace would’ve come from sitting in the pews and listening to sermons, it would come from her nightly prayers, or from reading her worn bible. Or so said Aunt Bríd. 

 Aisling was not a good girl though, and so her peace came from the pond, and she told herself viscously, she didn’t care that it made her a bad girl, she was already not-good like her father. Everyone said so, and so that meant that Aisling didn’t have to worry like the other children about such things, since she would never see the kingdom of heaven anyways. Sister Daniels had told her that she was going to burn in hell with her ungodly, deadbeat of a father, and that meant that Aisling didn’t need to worry about such things. 

If she was already damned then she would find her peace wherever she could.

She wandered down to the edge, taking her shoes off. They were her good pair, shiny and black, with buckles on the sides. Church shoes, Aunt Bríd called them, even though Aisling had worn them other places. Next came her socks, sure to be grass-stained after this, Aunt Bríd would be unhappy, so would Marie. But, Aisling told herself she did not care, and threw them on the grass next to her shoes anyway. She wiggled her bare feet in the mud, and gave a happy hum. She got closer to the water, the pond was deep, at least where she’d chosen to sit today was. There were spots that were shallower, and less muddy.

 But Aisling was upset today.

 Marie had told her that she might go to live with Aunt Bríd and cousin Tommy full time. Not just Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday anymore. Aisling would have to go to Mass every morning, she would have give up a lot of her toys, she would have to share a room with Aunt Bríd. Aisling didn’t want any of those things to come to pass, she cried and screamed and begged. Marie had firmly said it might be for the best, and Aunt Bríd had backed her. 

Apparently Marie had a fiancè, one who was not willing to deal with Aisling. It was selfish of Aisling to want Marie to keep her, even when she could be happy now. When Marie could finally sort out her life to plan. But, Aisling loved Marie, even if Marie did not love her, and she hated staying with Aunt Bríd and creepy cousin Tommy. She didn’t want to not live at her house, with her big window in her purple-painted bedroom, with her froggy bedsheets, and her butterfly box.

So Aisling was mad, and to make both Marie and Aunt Bríd feel how mad she was at them, she was going to ruin her ‘church’ clothes. She plopped down on the muddy bank, and dangled her feet into the cold water. She sat there humming and singing to herself, watching the tadpoles and little fish dart in and out of view between the algae and lily-pads. The sun would be setting soon, but Aisling stayed stubbornly put. 

She shouldn’t have. Aisling knew that Aunt Bríd would send Tommy for her. And Aisling tried to make sure that her and Tommy were never alone. Because there might be something wrong about Aisling, but Tommy– Tommy had something broken in him. 

Aisling could see it, there was a rabid fox that sat behind Tommy’s eyes. Waiting. Aisling never wanted to find out what exactly Tommy was waiting for. She knew, somehow, deep down where all her odd things came from, that whatever it was Tommy wanted, whatever he was looking for, waiting for was dangerous. 

She shouldn’t have stayed there as the sun grew more, and more tired, and the moon began to wake from her slumber. 

She did, however, and she never even heard him coming.

 …

One minute she was sitting on the edge, the next she was in the water. She’d been pushed from behind. Her fancy dress drug her down, sodden with water, growing heavier and heavier as she struggled. She paddled and grasped, gasping and gurgling. She tried to scream, tried to get back to the surface. Her head broke through, and on the bank she saw Tommy. 

He was watching, eyes alight with a cruel sort of curiosity. Head tilted like a cat’s when it watched a downed bird. His eyes met hers, and he smiled softly, mouthing the words, ‘It’s gonna be okay.’

 Her head dipped back down below the cold, clammy water. 

She hit the muddy, sandy bottom, and tried to remember her swimming lessons from the summer before. The memories seemed so distant now, her mind panicking and screaming nearly as loud as her lungs. She pushed off from the bottom, reaching towards the dim-wavering light. Her head broke the surface again, more water rushed in with the air she desperately tried to gulp down, she shrieked, “TOMMY! TOMMY! PLEASE HELP ME!” 

Thomas was still stood on the bank, his hands behind his back watching. He didn’t try to help, he didn’t do anything but watch, smiling.

She went back under. Her mind was so loud, and so quiet at the same time. She fought to get her dress off. It was only dragging her back down, but she couldn’t reach the zipper. Her eyes stung, with silt and tears. She hit the bottom again, and pushed up. She was already slowing down, growing weaker. She breached the surface, just her head now, barely above the waves and met Tommy’s eyes again.

They were blue, blue as the water that had drowned him. 

…

Tommy was an odd boy. Quiet and strange. He liked burning ants, and taking apart dead birds. He rarely spoke, and preferred sweets and red meat to any other sort of meal. All these things were normal for young boys, his mother was assured, just as she had been when Tommy started talking about things only he saw. All children have imaginary friends she’d been told. 

But Cynthia knew better. 

Whatever Thomas was, it wasn’t her son. Her sweet baby had been stolen away. She’d tried to tell people, tried to explain how Tommy flinched at iron and hated holy water. But no-one would listen. Not Father Micheal. Not Father Connor. Or Father David. Not her sister or her cousin. Not her so-called friends in the congregation, nor would the sisters of the church. They recommended space away from Thomas, time to herself. Therapy, as if something was wrong with her, not Tommy. 

She was going to have to deal with it herself. Deal with this thing that was pretending to be her son.

—

The first time Tommy didn’t really mean to. Luke was being rude. And Tommy had told him to stop, over and over. Just like Auntie said he should. But, Luke wouldn’t stop. So Tommy pushed him. He didn’t mean to push him into the river, it had just happened. It wasn’t his fault Luke didn’t know how to swim either.

Luke drowned. Like Tommy had. He had pulled Luke back onto the shore, and tried to help him.

But Luke must not have been Blessed, in the way Tommy was. Maybe, just maybe, Luke was even a changeling, devil-touched.

Tommy had been both those things once. Before he drowned and God brought him back better. Luke had been weird too, he was rude and mean, and hated being told he was wrong. Even when everyone else knew he was. So maybe Luke had been like Tommy.

Only Luke didn’t get better. Luke was dead.

Tommy had tried to save him. Tommy had tried to make him better. But, God didn’t bless Luke like he had Tommy. God didn’t bring forth a miracle. So Luke must’ve been wrong, somehow. Not like Tommy. Who’d been made new, Auntie said, not wrong, like Luke was.

Maybe it was okay, maybe God wanted this to happen. Maybe this was why Tommy had been brought back better. To make sure those who were wrong in the way Luke was, were made better like Tommy, or were gone like Luke.

Yes. Tommy was sure that was it.

The first time was an accident. 

After that time, however,  Tommy knew his purpose. And he fulfilled it.

…

Aisling felt sick. Her tummy filled with water, and knowing. She could see now, the shape of the prey Tommy hunted. Because she knew now, that's what she was. That was what made her scared of him, Tommy was a predator looking for a meal, and she was the rabbit stupid enough to get close.

Her head sank beneath the water one last time, her eyes never leaving Tommy’s.

And Aisling Graham drowned.

***

He wakes up to the beeping of a heart monitor. 

His limbs feel heavy, and there’s something on his face. It smells of plastic and chemicals. His face scrunches, as he tries to find the strength to open his eyes. There’s rustling and voices, but it all feels distant and strange. Muffled like he’s underwater. His lungs spasm at the thought and he feels panic building, as he begins to hack and cough.

The voices grow louder, hands grab him and there’s beeping and screeching and so much noise. His head pounds, he opens his eyes briefly to blurred shapes, and frightened voices. Someone is yelling, someone else is crying. He closes his eyes again and the world tips out of his grasp. 

…

It takes a while before the world fades back in again. The sounds of voices and his own breathing are what trickle in first. He opens his eyes to a hospital room. He knows, somehow, why he’s here. He drowned. No. That's not right. Aisling drowned.

He’s not Aisling.

Is he? He’s not really sure. He thinks maybe he is Aisling, in a way. Or maybe was Aisling before. But not anymore.

Ailsing drowned. She drowned in the pond behind her aunt’s house. Her cousin pushed into the deep end and watched. And then Aisling died. She died in that pond. Died seeing her cousin for what he really was. A killer, with delusions of grandeur. Someone who thought himself blessed by god. He wasn’t both Aisling, and now him, know that. Tommy believed it though. It’s why he killed her. Why he let them drown. He and Aisling.

He half-remembers it. The life before. When Aisling was. Now she’s gone, and it’s just him. Maybe it always was him, but not like this. 

He breathes in and out, steady and desperate all at once. Some part of him drowned in the pond. Aisling drowned in the pond. And now, it’s all he can do to relearn how to breathe.

He stares at the white ceiling. He was in his twenties, before Aisling. He was so happy. He’d just finished paying off his student loans, and had landed a well paying editing gig. He had just adopted a cat. And then–

Nothing. He doesn’t remember. He must’ve died. He knows, somehow, deep down, he had to have died. He’s not sure how, or when. But he did. He must’ve.

And then, he was Aisling. Or at least part of her. That part that knew things. The part of her that remembered things that she’d never lived. Her lizard brain, her instinct. It was him. In a way. He wasn’t quite awake, when he was Aisling, is he still Aisling? He didn’t really feel, not like he does now. He knew things. He saw what others couldn’t, or wouldn’t, and he Aisling knew it was that that made them odd. He was content. So long as they were safe, he was content. He was Aisling and Aisling was him, and maybe he could’ve lived like that forever.

 But then– Aisling was murdered. Drowned by her cousin in the one place she felt safe, and peaceful. 

Now there’s only him. He still has her memories, still has her likes, her fears. But, he’s not Aisling. Not anymore.

He closes his eyes and focuses. He can’t panic yet. Can’t grieve. 

Aisling is dead. And it’s Tommy’s fault. It’s Aunt Bríd’s fault. It’s mommy’s Marie’s fault. No-one else is going to give Aisling justice. Only him. He’s the only one that cares. So he puts it all in a box. Like the one Aisling stored her butterflies and beetles in. Wooden with a lid that locks on. Thick, sturdy and easy to hide. He puts it all in there. 

The helplessness, the grief, the panic, the ȑ̴̞̖̓ą̵̝̺̫̹̽͘͠g̶̨͈̖͚̞͈̣̼̪̱̠̦͚̍̊̿̆́̊̑̂̕͜e̴̛͔̘͓͇̩͙̫̯̘͈͖̯͂̏͂͗̓́̓͑̇͌̅͂̋̏͘͜͝.  

He put it all in the box, and then pushed it down, down, deep inside where the knowing lay, and hid it under that.

He opens his eyes, feeling the costume slip on, soft and unassuming.

Then Rían begins to cry, soft whimpers and wails. Doctors and nurses rush in, police follow.

Deep down, in the box where the real Rían lay, vengeful plans begin to take shape. They won’t get away with it. 

H̴͔́͌̅͑͒̈́͂͒̒̑̄̄e̶̡̺̖̲̯̭̯̰̘̗͔̬̟̜͂͋̓̀̋̓͂̓͌̋̕̚͜ ̶̯͎̆͛̾̀̐̾̋̚͜͠w̴̭͈̙̱̳̜̗̳̙̰̌̾͆̿̄̎̆͑̈́̄͝ơ̷̹͆͑̎̽̋̒̒͌͗̄̾͂̓̈́͝n̶̪̓̍̈́̋̊̒͒'̷̡̨̟͙̫̳̟̟͎̞̠̤͔̥̉͐̈̈́̑͋̈̓̎̏̈́́̅̐̿̎t̶̡̢̗͚͕̯̹̞̩̲̝͔̊͊͐̍͛̍͠͠͝͠ ̸̪̪͓̟͙̳̲̲̍́̏̉̇̇̽̀̇̂̈̈̂͋l̸̥͇̦̘͎̱͓̮̣̲̮͚̠͖̉ͅê̴͇̯̭̼̮͊̚t̷̢̟̤̩̭̮̞͈̝̭͎̼̎͗̒̈̏̃̂̇̽͐̄̚ ̵̠̟͚̳͈̹̭̾̀͘t̷̪̫͖͇̲̭̹́̐͋̉̏̆̌͜͠ḩ̸̨̗̮͇̼̮̗̟̔͒̍̎̇͒͋̽̓̅̕͜e̵̡̠̱̻͍̠̜͍̩̩̝͙̲͒̀́̀̊̚̕͝ṁ̷̧̢̢͓̜̙̻̫̮̳̞͉̝͂̃̇͌̋̉̈́͑́͘͜͝ͅ.̴̡̟̳͙̼̗̞̞͓̰͔͍̜͊͊̆̋̂͛͋͊̕

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Chapter Text

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He’s not in the local hospital.

It’s not the first thing he notices, but it’s the first piece he can use to his advantage. Everyone at the local hospital has met his family. They treated Tommy, his cousin, after his ‘accident’. Here there’s no biases, no doubt for the general populace to cling to. 

He’s in a hospital three-and-half hours away. It’s bigger, and closer to a major city. That’s all he knows about it though. He wonders why he’s here instead of the one back in the little town Aisling’s family called home. Whatever the reason, it’s good. It’ll work for what he has planned. 

It had taken an hour of being poked and prodded by doctors, and now eating a bland hospital meal of his choice, for the bare bones of his plan to come together. 

First he needs an adult that will believe him. Someone who will cover for him. Like mommy Marie and aunt Bríd do with the boy. {He refuses to call him by name. To call Aisling’s murderer by name. Names hold meaning, hold power. He refuses to give him any more power.} 

He tried to think of an adult in Aisling’s life. There were none that came to mind. He was going to have to take a gamble. There was one other adult he could reasonably contact as an eight-year-old child. One other adult that he might seemingly know, and could assume would help and keep him safe. Aisling’s father. 

She’d never met him. Only knew his name and, oddly enough, his phone number. Marie had given it to her after her fifth birthday. She’d told Aisling that if something happened to Marie, Aunt Bríd, and the b̷̢̧̧̦̪̳͉̩̤̤͇̤̫̀̅͊̉̂̈́͛̌͊͋͌̎ó̵͎̟̥̠̬̫̺̓͗̇̚y̴̢͉̩̺̭̳͔̰͕͂̑, she should call the number. Will Graham could be apparently trusted to take her in.

It might not bode well that Marie trusted this ‘Will Graham’, enough to leave Aisling to him if something happened to her and no-one else was left. But, he was the best bet Rían had. He needed someone to be on his side. And from the conversations he could dimly recall, Marie having with Aisling, Will didn’t know he had a daughter.

 Marie hadn’t felt the need to inform him. She had said, by the time she could’ve reasonably informed him that he was about to be a father, which was in her second trimester after she’d come back home from her trip, she was already as okay as could be. 

She was financially set, from the inheritance of her parent’s estate following their untimely deaths just two years prior. She had a support system, her two cousins, as well as her friends. She had everything sorted, and had managed to fit Aisling into her plans for her future the best she could. Will had never factored into those plans, and with everything coming together so well, Marie hadn’t felt the need to try then, when it could be assumed to be safe to. 

So Will Graham had become a father, his name on a birth certificate filed at a small courthouse, in a smaller town. Never informed and defamed by rumors that were wholly untrue. 

Rían didn’t really feel the need for a father. He’d had one in the Before. All his father there had done was disappoint him. He’d gone through life mostly without a father then, and figured he’d manage well enough now. But, if the plan was going to work, he needed an adult. One devoted to him. And, from what Rían had to go off of, Will was his best bet.

Rían sipped loudly at the remnants of his apple juice through his bendy-straw, as he debated the best way to approach the next problem. How to get Will here. 

The police were still sitting in the waiting room. They might be able to help. He’d need more than just the b̷̢̧̧̦̪̳͉̩̤̤͇̤̫̀̅͊̉̂̈́͛̌͊͋͌̎ó̵͎̟̥̠̬̫̺̓͗̇̚y̴̢͉̩̺̭̳͔̰͕͂̑ trying to drown him though, if Will was going to be called in, instead of Marie. 

Rían narrowed his eyes at the colorful cartoons playing on the hospital TV. One of the nurses had put them on. She had clearly thought it would help. It only made Rían feel vaguely annoyed. It was odd. He knew theoretically that he should be feeling a lot more than he was. He knew that he had. But after, when he’d shoved down the vengeful aching in his chest, it had dulled everything else. He couldn’t quite put a finger on why that felt important, but it did.

He twirled the straw around the now empty cup. Eyes fixed on the television. A knock came on the doorway, then the door opened and a too-happy nurse appeared. “Hi, sweetheart! Are you feeling a bit better, after some food? The policemen out there are still waiting to ask you some questions, but they can wait longer if you need something else,” 

‘It’s nice of him to ask,’ Rían thought to himself, if he were an actual eight-year-old who’d nearly drowned he might have even taken the offered out, but he had a mission. Plus Rían knew it wasn’t the local PD, it was the FBI. Fifteen drownings in five years? That was sure to draw attention, and it made Rían wonder how much aunt Bríd really knew. It would be hard for a boy of thirteen to cover up that many murders on his own. Especially since he’d started when he was Aisling’s age. 

He set those thoughts aside for now. And turned his attention to the matter at hand, “I’m okay. The food helped lots. Thank you. I know the policemen can’t ask me questions without a grown-up, but I don’t have any trusted grown-ups here. So what will happen?” He asked, his voice monotone and even. 

The nurse's smile faltered briefly, and his eyes gave away his nerves on both Rían’s intelligence at what the procedure would be, as well as the way his face stayed blank and his voice toneless.

 He pulled himself together quickly, and did an admirable and commendable job at not giving away his growing unease, “We have a social worker here. Since you’re so smart I’m almost sure you know what a social worker is, but just in case, she’ll be your grown-up who speaks up for you! Plus there’s a Doctor Bloom, she’s a doctor for inside owies, and she’ll be in here too!” 

Rían pretended to consider this. He was really thinking over the fact that he hadn’t seen Marie or aunt Bríd since he woke up. He hadn’t seen the m̶̰̔̊̈́̈́̎͝u̷̧̨̖̘̻̠̜̝̝̫̖̫͛̈́̀̓͂̀̀̇͒͗̄̌̔͑r̷̬̟̺̺͍̲͎̜̜̉̍̔͑̋̒̍͑̐̈́̋̽̂̀̐̓̆d̴̨͓̦̲̰͇̥̱̥̘̟͎͈̺̺́̇e̶̛̛̝̳̼̠̠̥͐̌́͒̂͊̓̓̃͌͂̓̈́͠r̴̜͚̙̜͚͌̅̈́̅̓͜͠é̵̡̩͕̪͔͕̤̝̙̦̳̯͂ͅŗ̸̭͉̥͈͔̣͓̇ either. He wondered why that was. He’d assumed that they would have at least made a performative appearance, to at least keep CPS off their backs. “Okay,” he said after a minute of silence, “I’ll talk to the policemen now.”

…

The first impression he gets of the social worker, Miss Ashley, she tells him to call her, is dedicated. She really cares about her job. Not in the way Marie does, where it’s about the money, or the promotions, or the jealous looks other successful people give her. She cares about the cause, about the well-being of her kids. The ones she’s trusted to look after. The kids who put their trust not in the system, but her. That's good. It’ll make it much easier for the next bit of Rían’s plan.

He’s already managed to convince her and Dr Bloom that something's wrong. That something about his situation is worse than anyone realized. All he’d had to do is mention Marie’s habit of disappearing and leaving him with aunt Bríd, as well as his unease around his cousin, for them to start sharing looks over his head. Adding that he’s a boy actually, and that his name’s Rían, had only helped solidify the concern. {His aunt had been inconsolable about what had happened to ‘Marie’s little girl!’.} Him being so adamant about being a boy, and bringing up how religious his aunt and cousin are, was only continuing to add nails to the lid of the coffin he had built.

Now, he just has to figure out how far to push to cut Marie and aunt Bríd’s access to him. How far until they start looking into other options for him. Until he can bring up Aisling’s father, and finally get the first step out of the way. 

The investigator seems ill-at-ease with kids. Especially traumatized ones. This too will work for what Rían has planned. He asks Ashley to help him adjust his bed, and once that's done he sits up as straight as he can, looking the investigator in the face.

“Hello, Asiling,” the man begins, voice deeper than Rían thought it would be. “Rían,” he blurts, trying to make it sound nervous and hurried, “I’m Rían.” The investigator looking confused tried to check with Ashley and Dr Bloom. Dr Bloom is the one who clarifies for him, “Ryan,” she places emphasis on his name, its pronunciation is anglicized but he doesn't correct her, “Shared with both me and Miss Ashley that his name is Ryan and he’s a boy.” The investigator still looks confused, but Dr Bloom or Ashley must give him a look, because he moves on.

“Ryan,” He checks, Rían nods, the investigator mimics him and then continues, “All right then. Hello Ryan, I’m Jack Crawford, I’m with the FBI, do you know what that is?” Rían nods solemnly, “Yes, sir. I know who the FBI are, I’m smart. I know lots of things kids my age don’t know. Is it a secret you’re with the FBI, the nurse who said you wanted to talk to me, called you just a policeman? If it is, I can keep it a secret, I swear! I’m really good at keeping secrets.”

The adults in the room share another look. Rían pretends not to notice, and shoves down the smugly vicious smile that wants to overtake his face.

“I’m sure you are, Ryan,” Jack Crawford answers back, “Do you think since I shared a secret with you, you could share one with me?” His eyes are calculating, they remind Rían of a hunting dog’s. Trained on their prey they’re on the trail of, seconds away from catching up. 

He can almost see it, if he drifts enough, the scent-trail the Fox has left and the way Jack Crawford has picked up every clue left behind, it won’t be long now.

 Dr Bloom startles him, her hand coming down on his shoulder and shaking him a bit, “Ryan? Ryan? Are you okay? Do we need to call a nurse back in?” Her expression is strange, concerned, yes, but– cautious too. Like this is something she’s seen before. He shakes the thought off, feeling a bit foggy, and tries to reassure her, “I’m okay Dr Bloom,” he turns attention back to agent Crawford, “What kind of secret?”

Agent Crawford exchanges a look, yet again Rían is starting to feel annoyed at the amount of silent communication happening right over his head, with the other two adults, and then says faux-casually “That’s up to you Ryan. What sort of secret do you feel like sharing?” 

Rían turns his gaze to his lap, to little hands with ragged and torn fingernails. Aisling had clawed at the mud and muck, and ripped and tore at her dress. It had done little to save her in the end. But the evidence remained, it stained his skin even now.{It feels sticky, like congealed blood, but he knows all of the blood and muck is gone. It’s just in his head now. Just his body remembering its death, and the cool, clammy caress.} He chews on the inside of his lips considering, reviewing what he knows. 

Jack Crawford, from what Rían can tell is a man best described as devoted, devoted to justice, devoted to his job, devoted, Rían would even bet, to his family. There’s no way the m̶̰̔̊̈́̈́̎͝u̷̧̨̖̘̻̠̜̝̝̫̖̫͛̈́̀̓͂̀̀̇͒͗̄̌̔͑r̷̬̟̺̺͍̲͎̜̜̉̍̔͑̋̒̍͑̐̈́̋̽̂̀̐̓̆d̴̨͓̦̲̰͇̥̱̥̘̟͎͈̺̺́̇e̶̛̛̝̳̼̠̠̥͐̌́͒̂͊̓̓̃͌͂̓̈́͠r̴̜͚̙̜͚͌̅̈́̅̓͜͠é̵̡̩͕̪͔͕̤̝̙̦̳̯͂ͅŗ̸̭͉̥͈͔̣͓̇ is getting away. Either Rían helps agent Crawford capture him, or he doesn’t. Either way the Fox won’t walk free again. 

It makes it a bit easier, with the m̶̰̔̊̈́̈́̎͝u̷̧̨̖̘̻̠̜̝̝̫̖̫͛̈́̀̓͂̀̀̇͒͗̄̌̔͑r̷̬̟̺̺͍̲͎̜̜̉̍̔͑̋̒̍͑̐̈́̋̽̂̀̐̓̆d̴̨͓̦̲̰͇̥̱̥̘̟͎͈̺̺́̇e̶̛̛̝̳̼̠̠̥͐̌́͒̂͊̓̓̃͌͂̓̈́͠r̴̜͚̙̜͚͌̅̈́̅̓͜͠é̵̡̩͕̪͔͕̤̝̙̦̳̯͂ͅŗ̸̭͉̥͈͔̣͓̇ out of the equation, it just leaves aunt Bríd and, {mommy, please, mommy, please help!,} Marie. Aunt Bríd might get caught, far more likely though she’ll walk free. Marie won’t even be implicated. Rían picks at his ruined fingernails, and turns plans over, and over in his head. He makes his decision.

Rían looks up from his lap, biting his lip, “You promise you won’t tell?” Agent Crawford smiles and lies through his teeth, “I promise Ryan. What’s the secret?”

Rían leans forward and whispers, soft and chilling like a ghost, “My cousin pushed me into the pond,” there’s muffled gasps from the two women, and a flash of something victorious and vicious, in agent Crawford’s eyes, “He knew I couldn’t swim. He watched me drown. I drowned there Mr. Crawford. I drowned, and my cousin is the one who made sure I did.”

***

There’s commotion after. 

Heated conversations. Whispered arguments. Eventually they all file out of his room, leaving him alone with the still quietly playing TV. He watches Ashley stop a passing nurse and start talking to them. Agent Crawford had barely gotten out the door before he was calling someone on his cell-phone. Dr Bloom had given Rían’s hand a quick squeeze before she left, her smile strained and her eyes full of anger on his behalf.

‘All in all a productive conversation and series of events to follow after,’ He muses to himself, now to just wait and see if part one of his plan comes to fruition without any more pushing. He figures that they’ll check to see next-of-kin before they release him. He’s almost certainly not being released into Marie’s custody, with all the evidence of emotional neglect he'd given them. Nor will aunt Bríd get her hands on him, with him having drowned on her property and her adoptive son being the reason. 

Hopefully with Will being listed as his father on the birth-certificate he’ll be next to be contacted. If not, well, Rían has other ways of getting him here. Namely the fact he stole a nurse’s phone when she wasn’t paying attention. He’s sure it won’t come to that though.

Just as that thought is settling, Ashley comes back in. Her smile is well practiced, but her eyes give her away, she’s weary and angry, and tired in a way that comes from dealing with cases like Aisling’s over, and over again. Rían gives a questioning tilt of his head. 

“Good news kiddo,” Ashley says in a voice that's kind and quietly-relieved, “We just got ahold of your dad! He’s on his way now, and should be here in a few hours.” Rían feels his whole body relax with that information, like he got his first real breath, since he drowned, since his plan began. 

Ashley gets a bit more serious, heading over and sitting on a chair next to the bed. “Agent Crawford has some of his people here. They’re going to make sure you stay safe, but that means you can’t go back to your house. I talked to Dr Bloom who’s going with Agent Crawford to find your aunt and cousin to talk to them. She offered to get some things from your house, if you’d like. Things you might miss.” She didn’t say it out-loud, but Rían knew that what was lying unsaid, he wouldn’t be going back. Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever.

Rían sits silent. He doesn’t quite know what to take. All of the clothes are for Aisling. Built for a little girl. Which Rían is not. Plus wearing a dead-girl’s clothes feels icky. The bed sheets feel tainted too. The frogs remind him of the pond, that was the point when Aisling had first picked them out. Now it feels wrong. Wrong to memorialize the place Aisling drowned. Where he drowned. There were a couple of stuffies, but none of them were particularly favored. The only thing he can think of is her butterfly box.

It was as the name implied a wooden box in the shape of a butterfly. She’d saved up three weeks worth of allowance for it, and bought it with her own money. Morbidly Aisling thought it the perfect place to store the corpses of the boxes namesake, as well as beetles and other bugs. Along with shiny rocks, pretty feathers, and bleached white bones, and disembodied bird skulls.

It’s the only thing she really adored. The only thing she would be upset to lose now.

“The butterfly box,” Rían says, “It has butterflies in it. And it’s shaped like one too. I want the butterfly box. It’s the only thing that I bought with my own money.”

Ashley smiles at him, reaching out to take his IV-tubed, heart-montier-and-all hand, in both of her own. Her hands are warm, and calloused in a way that speaks of gardening in her free-time, she gives his hands a gentle squeeze, and tells him “Okay, I’ll tell her to bring your butterfly box.” 

Rían squeezes her hands back as best he can, voice soft, “My Butterfly box.”

For the first time since he’s woken up, Rían feels peaceful. Like things might just be okay. His eyes sting, and some of his dull-numb emotions sharpen, like a camera-lens suddenly singling out an object and focusing. He tries to swallow them back down, along with the lump in his throat but can't. Tears begin to fall down his cheeks in hot rivulets. His chest heaves with silent sobs, and he clutches at Miss Ashley like a life-line. 

She shifts so she can hug him, rubbing his back and murmuring, “It’ll be okay Rían, it’s all gonna be okay.

***

Elsewhere, In Wolf-Trap Virginia.

…

Will sets the cellphone down shakily, hands coming up to rub his mouth and over his stubble. He laughs. A little manically, a little unhinged, but there’s no-one but the dogs here to judge him. 

Two calls less than an hour apart. Both about the same thing. He has a kid. A kid who he didn’t know about. A kid who might, according to Alana, be like him. A kid who nearly died, before he even got the chance to know them. He presses the palms of his hands into his stinging eyes, a combo of late-nights and emotion, he knows.  

He presses his lips tight together, and drops his hands. His kid needs him. What a crazy sentence. Less than two hours ago Will wasn’t even a dad, and now he has a kid that needs him. Their dad. Who had nothing prepared. He panics a little, one of the dogs, Rosie, butts up against his leg with a wuff. He ruffles her ears, and takes a deep breath.

Right. Right, he can’t panic. His kid needs him, and he needs to make sure everything is set up for when he brings them back here. Because, Will knows, as much as it pains him to admit, he wouldn’t have been contacted unless the kid had nowhere else to go. So planning. 

He spends the next two-nearly-three-hours planning, calling, packing and just in general running around exhausting himself. He had a neighbor who he trusts enough to shop around for some kids' furniture.

 The neighbor had asked what to look for, a boy or a girl? Will had been ashamed to admit he’d been so shocked and panicky he hadn’t asked, and he couldn’t remember if they’d said. He’d told them to just go gender-neutral. The only thing he had known was to tell them to avoid anything even vaguely water-themed. The kid had nearly drowned and didn’t need to be reminded that every time they entered their room. 

He had his suitcase packed, and figured they could pick one up for the kid before they came back. He had the same neighbor who was picking out and helping set up the furniture, keeping an eye on his dogs. He’d be paying a pretty penny most-likely when all was said and done, he didn’t even have the furniture or clothes for the kid yet and he had already shelled out quite a bit. 

The expenses of his last-minute flight, paying his neighbor for dog-sitting, and for picking up and setting up the furniture. Along with booking a hotel close to the hospital the kid was staying at. It all was adding up. But what else would he spend it on? He fished for most of his food. And really only spent his not unreasonable salary on his strays. He had enough saved up that it’d be okay, even if he needed to get a lawyer involved to make sure he’d be able to take his kid home with him.

He sighed running a hand through his hair, the dogs gathered around him knowing he was up to something with the way he’d been dashing around in the last little bit. He said goodbye to them all. Locked the front door, hid the spare key where the neighbor would find it. And headed to the airport.

…

As Will took his seat he could help but wonder, was he ready? Would he be a good dad? Was he prepared to deal with the struggles of a traumatized kid? He didn’t know. But he was all in, had been ever since the phone call. And as his plane took off, Will readied himself.

 Whatever the storm would bring, Will would weather it. He was sure the kid would too. That was the thing with Grahams, his daddy used to say, they’d never met a problem they didn’t like to face.

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Chapter Text

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

He’s dreaming.

He knows he is. At least he thinks he does? Here in this place, things feel fuzzy. Thoughts slip like grains of sand through his fingers. He isn’t where he was, though. 

He’s sitting in the lap of a person. A woman, pale. Pale hair, pale eyes, pale skin with paler clothes. She’s humming. A tune he almost knows. But the more he tries to listen, to remember, the more the song slips away.

Bobbins of thread click and clack, as she weaves them around. A pillow and, the beginnings of what might be a veil, lay in his lap. He doesn’t recognize this place. This room, with its strange shifting walls, and too large fireplace with a bubbling pot of something tasty smelling, hanging in the center.

The woman makes a soft noise, like the rumbling of a wolf, as he cranes his head around gawking at the room, “Hush, pup. No need for all that.” Her voice is soft, but it rings through his bones.

He looks up to her face. Pale eyes stare back at him, a smile of sharp, sharp teeth catches the light, “You’ve done well for one so young,” Her eyes seem to soften for a moment, “And one so lost.”

Rían opens his mouth, but his voice doesn’t answer him. The woman gives him a fond glance, before turning back to her lace-work. She’s not humming anymore, but the song still plays. “Rarely do we interact with the over-hill, not once we choose our paths,”

Rían’s attention is caught by the patterns in the lace. Scenes of horses galloping, wolves running, and fish swimming line the edges. In the middle are stranger things, faces of things not quite human. Beings a little too perfect, others a little too strange in one way or another. 

A man with a big nose, and pig-like eyes, another of a woman with long hair and a wicked grin that breaks open her face, a figure with a large hat shadowing their face except for one too-bright eye. The lace itself is white, but the depictions are so detailed he can almost see colors. The red of the pig-eyed man’s nose, the black-green horses, the gruesome shade of purple of the intestines of a man being feasted upon.

He can’t look away. He should want to. Yet, he’s entranced hand reaching out to touch without his permission. The clacking stops as the woman grabs his small hand in one of her own, redirecting it to one of the bobbins and continuing her earlier thoughts, “I chose my path seasons ago. It didn’t continue in the over-hill. I Saw what I would be there. Chained. Trapped,”

His other hand is brought to a bobbin as well, she leads his motions through the weaving. The picture begins to form, a child, their hair plastered to their head.

“So I left. My child has yet to choose his path. However, he is young yet. There are decades before him to choose which path to take. You, however,” Her fingers move with confidence, and slowly, instinctively his own begin to follow. The child is a boy, he is not sure how he knows, but he does. The boy’s eyes are starting to take shape, wild and fearful, like a cornered animals.

“You have already chosen,” The longer he stares at the lace, at the pale bony fingers of the woman whose lap he sits in, the clearer he sees things. The pictures in the lace are moving. A woman screams as kelpie dives beneath the waves. A selkie grins with bloodied teeth, her stolen pelt wrapped around her bare shoulders. A man interferes with the hunt, and thus becomes the prey. The boy continues to take shape beneath their hands. Faster than he thought possible. 

‘He feels familiar, somehow,’ Rían thinks. The thought spins silken and soft away, as the pale woman speaks again, “You are very young to have already begun your journey. To have awoken. Yet, as the saying goes, all in its own time. I suppose that this is simply the way of things. Thus, you shall have your first lesson,”

The hum of the song grows louder, the smell of the pot grows clearer, as the pale woman and Rían weave. The boy has the muzzle of a fox. He is snarling, fear laces his frame.

“We remember every slight,” The boy turns to run, dashing through brush and thorns, a storm gathers above him, “Every insult,” The fox-boy yelps, tripping over his feet. He glances fearfully behind him, as he rights himself and continues to run. “Every jab,” The fox-boy must know where he is, because he ducks and avoids a tree-branch with seconds to spare, taking a sharp turn. He seems less, and less human as he runs. His bones cracking, his ears elongating, his hands becoming stiff and claw-like.

The bobbins click and clack faster, the song grows louder still. And the smell, the smell permeates every breath impossible to ignore. 

“And we repay it in kind threefold.” She snarls, voice right by his ear. Her hands have left the bobbins, only Rían weaves now. The scene playing out by his hand. 

The boy is more fox than boy now. His fearful cries are more like yips, his shouting, a strange screaming-howl. He tears through the forest searching. His salvation finally greets him. 

A pond.

The smell of bloodied, fresh-flesh, bubbling is thick in Rían’s lungs, and he is so very hungry.

The sound of a shot. The fox stumbles, shrieking as it tumbles into the cold, deep water. 

It paddles, scrambles, begs Rían to let it go. 

The taste of muck-filled water and congealing blood fills Rían’s mouth. Dripping from the sides of his lips, staining the lace.

The fox struggles. For minutes, hours, days it struggles. Begging. Pleading. Knowing of its demise. The cause for its suffering. Knowing just what upon itself it has wrought. The pale woman offers a piece of meat, still warm and red, to his lips. Rían opens his mouth, water rushes out. Flooding the little room, as he chews. Dark and viscous. More is offered, and he devours it. Hunger slowly being satiated. He savors his meal. His vengeance.

He licks his lips, the taste of fat and life-blood heavy upon his tongue. He has heard the phrase vengeance is sweet, and yet he thinks it is far better tasting like this. Savory. Salted by tears and spiced with fear.

The fox finally falls beneath the water. It does not resurface. The pond’s water is slowly dyed red.

“Well done, A stórin. Well done,” The pale woman wipes the blood and muck from his face, a proud snarl upon her lips. She tucks a curl behind his ear, and lays a tooth-riddled kiss on his forehead, “You’ve done very well for your first time,” Her pale eyes reflect his own, gleaming with a pride that Rían’s never seen directed at him before. 

“It is time for rest now,” The woman croons, tucking him into the warm fox skin that now sits on his lap, and laying his head on her shoulder, “Doing such a feat takes much of one’s energy, and lingering here will not give you true rest. So sleep little one, we shall sing you into dreaming.” 

His eyes are heavy, so are his limbs. He feels like he just ran a marathon, sweaty and tired. The bobbins fall from his limp fingers, and are caught by practiced hands. He tucks his arms beneath his blanket. The song returns, with lyrics this time. As the pale woman settles him, and returns to her weaving. He snuggles closer, his tummy is full, and he is warm and vindicated. 

The words of the song tug at him, even as they tumble from his mind, lost to darkness, and dreamless sleep.

***

Will was exhausted. He’d only briefly stopped by his hotel to drop off his luggage. Then he had practically ran to the hospital. There had been a number of questions, papers, and a DNA test before he’d been allowed back by his kid.

They looked a lot like him. They had his curls, though darker in color. Their little nose was his, they had his freckles, and a birthmark under their jaw like his mother. 

They’d been sleeping when he’d entered. He still wasn’t sure of their gender. He’d been told conflicting answers. The social-worker had referred to them as a boy, but the nursing staff as a girl. He figured the kid could tell him what they preferred most when they woke up.

He put his head in his hands. Will can feel the way his hands are trembling, can feel the pounding of three black coffees in row behind his eyes. He should sleep. He would sleep– but the kid. The kid needs him to be awake when they wake up.

Will had been briefed a bit on the case. Apparently one Thomas Smith was responsible for the near-death of his kid. He was their cousin. Weirdly obsessed with the idea of changelings and exorcisms, he’d taken to acting out his delusions on the other ‘odd’ children in his small town. 

After his own near drowning the boy had become convinced he’d been brought back ‘changed’ and had been ‘cleansed’ by the water. Will had read up on his brush with death too. It had all started to piece together for Will when he’d read that the ‘priest’ had attempted to drown Thomas in a well on the property. 

Thomas had truly believed he was helping. Truly believed he was saving the children he drowned. Had he just gotten help, the FBI probably wouldn’t have gotten involved. It would have remained a small town secret, buried alongside poor Luke Williams. But, Thomas’ adoptive mother, and biological aunt had found out first. She didn’t believe that Thomas could be wrong, didn’t want to believe her sister had passed on her illness to her child. And so, she had helped Thomas Smith. 

She didn’t kill the kids. Didn’t hide the bodies, from what evidence they could find. But, Will had no doubt she had taught him how to. Nor did Will doubt it was her who had chosen the ‘changelings’ that would be cleansed. 

Except for Will’s kid. 

She hadn’t chosen them. Thomas had. It was a break in the pattern. A change in the profile. Will still couldn’t put together why. Why had Thomas Smith decided so suddenly to drown his cousin? Why had he chosen their backyard pond? What had been the sudden trigger to bring five years of quiet murders to a screeching halt? Because Thomas had to have known that killing his cousin wouldn’t go unnoticed. Wouldn’t be unpunished.

So why did he do it? Why did he choose them?

Will heaved out a sigh, and scrubbed at bleary eyes. He braced his hands on his knees, readying himself to go and get his fourth cup of coffee for the day? Night? Whenever it was. From the hospital’s cafeteria. As he was pushing himself up with a groan, bones cracking from sitting for so long, the kid caught his attention.

Their lips had gone pale, and their breathing fast and shallow. Will didn’t know much about medical issues, or drowning in general, but he knew that this wasn’t good. He called for a nurse, rushing to the kids side trying to sit them up, trying to help them breathe.

Nurses flooded into the room, doctors shouted orders. Will held the kid as thick, mucky water fell from their mouth dowsing the floor. Their eyes were half-lidded, open just a crack, not in truth awake from what he could tell. A doctor ushered him out of the way, then nurses urged him out of the room in its entirety. Alarms blared.

 Will shouted questions, trying to fight his way back in. The social-worker skidded around the corner, and into the hallway. Her eyes wide and frightened. She tried to calm him, but he could feel and see her own terror. And it just made him fight harder.

All the while water fell from a child’s mouth slowly creeping its way into the hall.

In a town three-and-half hours away, in an interrogation room a boy drowns.

***

Elsewhere with Alana Bloom, in a local interrogation room, in a small town.

***

Alana liked to think she was a steady person. It was a requirement for an FBI employed therapist. You can’t flinch, can’t give away disdain or fear. You had to make the unsub trust you. Had to make the victims feel safe. Had to get past agents guards and report the truth of a situation to the higher-ups.

So, yes Alana liked to think she was steady. An anchor in a storm. A rock in quicksand. She hadn’t been unnerved in a way she was with this case, since her first. She couldn’t put a finger on why. The case wasn’t too unusual, a kid killing other kids happened. Cruel as that might sound. So did child abuse. She was reasonably sure it wasn’t either of those factors that made the hairs on the back of her neck raise-up. 

The religious aspect was maybe a little more freaky, especially the way the whole town agreed on the same fundamental truths. It felt closer to a cult, then any true religious sect. The ‘changeling’ children. The exorcisms. The talk of other beings from folklore, not just that of Abrahamic faiths, but of other more Celtic-pagan beliefs. It was odd. But, not odd in a way that would usually unsettle Alana.

So what was it?

Alana shook the thought off, as the local PD brought Thomas Smith into the interrogation room. It was time to work, and she couldn’t be bogged down by emotions. Not her own, at least.

He was an average looking boy. Tall for his age, with messy brown hair and sharp-green eyes. Nothing about his screamed serial killer. He looked just like Alana’s own thirteen-year-old nephew. Bored and smug in the way only teenagers can pull off.

“Hello Thomas,” Alana said, taking the first step, “I’m Doctor Alana Bloom. A psychologist with the FBI. Do you know why you’re here today?”

Jack would be watching behind the one-way glass. Alana just needed to get Thomas talking.

“No,” Thomas replied, eyes half-lidded. His voice had something odd about it, an accent hovering on the edges, not one that Alana could identify, but there all the same. “I haven’t done anything that would warrant me being here. I’m a good boy. I go to church, I get straight A’s, and I don’t get into fights. So why am I here?”

He sounded genuinely confused. Alana flicked her eyes to where Jack would be behind the mirrored glass. “I see,” Alana hummed, “Well since you haven’t done anything wrong, I’m sure you can answer a few questions for us, can’t you?” 

Thomas scowled, “You didn’t answer my question. If you won’t answer my question, why should I answer yours?” He leaned back in his chair, eyes refusing to look away from hers. Vibrant in color, but devoid of warmth.

The feeling of unease curls itself across Alana’s shoulders, weighing her down. She refuses to show it, to let this teenage serial-killer think he’s getting to her. Because it’s not him, she’s sure of it, whatever it is causing this feeling of dread it's much worse than him.

She sighs, “You are here to answer some questions for us, Thomas,” She opens the file, and shows him the pictures within. Bodies. Of water, and of children. All of them familiar to this boy in front of her, all of them found within a ten mile radius of his house. The most recent is of Ryan Graham. His shows the only living child. He’s covered in bruising, practically disappearing in his too-big hospital bed. However, compared to the other photos his is a welcome change. She splays a picture of their backyard pond next to that photo, all the while watching Thomas’ face.

Thomas’ face contorts for a moment. For just a second he isn’t just an average thirteen-year-old boy. For a moment the mask is pulled back, and she sees what poor, little Ryan must’ve seen before his near-death. A beast stares back. Feral with a hunger, she can’t understand. Zealous in a way she’s never seen before, a fox with his muzzle still bloody from its hunt. 

Then he must remember where he is, and that glimpse vanishes. Falling back beneath the wells of self-control he possesses. “Do you recognize any of these places Thomas? What about the children? I’m sure you must, seeing as they’re all located close to your house.”

He looks back up at her, adjusting his posture back to calm, and bored. Not giving away much. He’s giving away enough. And she can only hope he gives away more.

“I know the kids. And the lakes, creeks, rivers and sh–” He cuts himself off, glancing back at the one-way glass, correcting his speech as he continues, “Stuff. Me knowing doesn’t mean anything though. Everybody knows about areas with water around here, it gets hot in the summer and we gotta cool off somehow,” He messes with a crucifix around his neck, licking his lips, is it nerves or a sadistic hunger being satiated? 

“Everybody ‘round here knows those kids too,” He sneers as he brings up the children, “Or knew them I guess. They weren’t well-liked. Not like me.”

It reads like a brag. Like a threat. Coming from a cowardly, teenaged killer who has the backing of a small town in the middle of nowhere, it does little to rattle Alana. 

The feeling of tension has spiked again. Stretching, yawning, like a tiger waking from a nap. She glances at the glass again. Just a bit more.

“So you feel that since they weren’t well-liked that it isn’t all that much of a tragedy?” She presses him, it might be impulsive, a bit messier than she usually goes for, but she needs this over. Needs to be done. Before whatever is causing this feeling that’s building in her ribcage decides to act. 

Her fight or flight is screaming out, she needs to finish. She needs to lure this killer into Jack’s trap, to make sure Ryan doesn’t have to fear his cousin walking free. Once Jack has the evidence he needs, she can have some time to herself. Time to unravel this feeling of existential dread.

“I never said that,” He parries back, “I just said that they weren’t as popular as me. Means that there are a lot of people who could’ve done this. It’ll probably take months before you have enough evidence to prosecute, and by then–” He shrugs, a smug smile caught in the corners of his mouth, “Who knows, there might not even be a witness. After all, drowning can have a lot of complications. And with that heart-attack my poor, little cousin suffered at the hospital here, well, let’s just say I wouldn’t hold my breath on being able to get a clean-cut conviction.” 

Alana sets her jaw. Trying not to scowl. He’s not wrong. Thomas knows the local PD and the rest of the town are on his side. They’ve been slowing them down since they arrived here, two weeks before-hand. And once Jack set his sights on Thomas Smith as their most-likely suspect, things had slowed to a grinding halt, red-tape, lost evidence and reports, and uncooperative townsfolk. 

If Thomas just says the word, he’ll walk free. Jack will fight of course. Tooth-and-nail to have Thomas face some sort of justice. But, with the amount of corruption in not just the police force, but the town in general, it’ll be an uphill battle. The victory a pyrrhic one, if Ryan Graham’s social-worker isn’t able to keep him out of his current guardians hands. 

And with the way the town’s rallied, well, Alana wouldn’t be surprised if she couldn’t. 

However, Alana’s not about to give up. She runs through tactics in her head. Methods and motives, bits and pieces picked up from interrogating killers like Thomas rattling around in her head to use. 

She’s going to try her best, to at least get this boy to admit to his aunt or him have been causing Ryan harm. Emotionally of course, but she wouldn’t put it past either of them to be physically harming him too. {And even if they aren’t, she has a feeling Jack would be willing to plant some evidence, to twist the truth, even if just a little. Just this once, just this time. To make sure they don’t end up with another dead kid on their hands.}

Before she can the door swings open. Jack looks frustrated, tired and disgusted. A combination that means only one thing, this isn’t going to go in their favor. Not anymore, not for now at least.

One of the local cops is standing next to Jack, so is a lawyer, and Thomas’ aunt.

Alana doesn’t need to hear him say it, to know what’s happening. She purses her lips, and pushes back from the table, and up from her chair. Thomas flashes a sharp smile at her.

Opening his mouth, “Auntie–” He gets no further. He chokes, coughing and spluttering. Gasping for air. His aunt rushes over, “Tommy! Tommy! What’s wrong!? What did they do!?” She has him by the shoulders, pounding hard on his back, trying to bring up whatever’s blocking his airways.

“Tommy! Tommy!” She continues to shriek, refusing to let anyone else close, “No! YOU DID THIS TO HIM! I KNOW YOU DID!” Thomas continues to suffocate. The local cop had run to grab an EMT, and as they rush in to help, it becomes clear what has been causing Thomas to choke, what’s been suffocating him.

Dark, murky, brackish water pours from Thomas’ mouth in droves. Too much to have been in his lungs, too much to have just now appeared. A live fish flops out of his mouth and wiggles in the puddles forming on the floor. Thomas’ aunt is screaming now. Praying and pleading, and calling it the work of a faerie. A demon. She clings harder to Thomas, refusing to let him go. Even as the EMT tries to help, tries to save him. How they plan to do that, no-one has any clue. Still they try. 

Because, the water cannot have just appeared. Just filled Thomas’ lungs here and now. 

Yet– the water continues to pour. It does not stop. Thomas begins to look weak, he grows pale, his lips turn blue. The fish flops around the panicked crowds feet, more people have rushed into help. The feeling of dread that’s been haunting Alana all day solidifies, and she knows without a doubt that Thomas Smith is going to die. He is going to drown here, in a place without water to drown in. He will drown in this interrogation room, as fearful and helpless as his victims.

Alana feels sick.

He coughs, he gasps. The water flows and flows. Blood joins the water. His aunt's cries reach a fever-pitch. The EMTs are trying every trick they can, the police are shouting and questioning how this is even happening.

Thomas Smith’s eyes meet hers. The green is grey now. A pale, pale, near-colorless grey. He’s afraid. Alana is too.

He gasps one last time, and then falls still.

The water stops.

Bríd Smith wails clutching the body of her sister’s son.

In a now soaked room, in the local police station of a too-small town in Michigan, Thomas Smith, a boy with fifteen,sixteen, deaths on his hands, finally faces a terrible sort of justice. Poetic and vengeful, he drowns, as he had drowned so many others.

Thus ends the tale of the Changeling Killer.

***

Rían wakes up suddenly. 

He is asleep one minute and jerking upright the next. His heart is pounding, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. A strangely familiar thought. He has the mask on again.

Sound is muffled, but he knows someone’s speaking to him. “It’s alright, you’re alright. I promise,” The person speaking to him is rubbing his back. He cranes his neck to look at them, vision blurry. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his eyesight. The person continues to murmur soft, and comforting words. Rubbing in wide circles between his shoulder-blades.

His breathing slows, and his vision begins to clear-up. He blinks, once, twice, three times. Nope. No way. This cannot be Will Graham.

Hugh Dancy. That man looks exactly like the actor, Hugh Dancy. Fuck, fuck. Fuck!

Will must see his panic, his despair, because he shushes him and tries to calm him again. But, Rían refuses to calm down. Waking up in a dead-girl’s body, he could adjust to that. Knowing he’d died, he could cope. Dreaming strange dreams, and seeing into souls/minds, might as well happen. He’s been doing so well at compartmentalizing. He knew the breakdown was coming, he knew it’d catch up. He died. Aisling died. That would make any person freak-out. But this! This was a step too far.

The Will Graham he’d been thinking of was just your average guy. This Will he recognized. He may not have ever been big into Hannibal the TV show. But, he’d had friends who were. He’d beta’d fanfics. He’d watched gifsets, and listened to impassioned rants.

He knew where this Will was headed in life. And it did not bode well for Rían.

He stared wide-eyed and breathless. His plans shattering as he studied him. At the man who caught, and thought like criminals for a living. A man who’d see right through him, who’d know just who and what Rían was, the moment he spoke.

What the fuck was he going to do!?

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Chapter Text

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Will isn’t sure what to say.

The kid’s quiet too. He’d given Will his name, and his gender, that was it. He’d been staring at Will ever since the last nurse left the room. Will knows he probably should say something, cut the tension. Explain why he’s here, though he thinks the kid probably already knows. 

Will twists his daddy’s old ring around his finger, he should say something, it’s what Alana would recommend. Soothe Rían, make him see Will as a safe adult, someone to confide in. 

But, Will wouldn’t have taken to that as a boy, and his daddy didn’t push. Even after his mother had–. 

Will’s daddy had ignored the well-meaning advice of the folks around them, child psychologists, nosy neighbors, and social-workers. Had let Will come to him on his own terms. Let him think out the steps, control the plan for his own recovery.

 Beau Graham had known, even then, especially then, that Will was different from a lot of people, that he was gifted as Beau had liked to put it. Will understood more than the adults in his life had given credit to, he’d known how they really felt, knew their real thoughts on him and his daddy, and the "tragedy” they’d just suffered.

His daddy had known that pushing him would only make his outbursts worse. And in that same vein of knowing, Will now knew that if he did say something, did push, he’d lose Rían, before he even had him. 

So Will sat patient. He was good at it, he was a fisherman after all, and he could wait out a boy of eight.

They sat in silence for another twenty minutes before Rían spoke.

“I–” Rían paused, tilting his head considering, “I want to go home with you. I know that’s why you’re here, but–”

Will gave a nod, gesturing for Rían to continue.

The boy fidgeted with his hands, wrapped in bandages and then covered in a pair of hospital-issued socks to keep him from picking at his skin. “But, I’m not sure how much you’ll actually want me, after you know me.” His eyes darted around the room, never meeting Will’s.

Will took a deep breath, his ribs ached with fury, if he could he’d–

He let that thought die with the exhale, he couldn’t let himself get angry yet. He needed custody of Rían before he let himself give into the rage he felt towards his son’s maternal-side of the family.

“Rían,” Will said, waiting for his son to meet his gaze, “I hopped on a flight the second I knew you existed. I don’t know you yet, that’s true, but I already love you. That’s how being a parent is supposed to work, it doesn’t matter if your kid turns out different then you expected, you love them all the same. If I didn’t think I could love you enough to endure a little shattering of expectations, I wouldn’t be here.”

Rían studies him. Will lets him, if Rían is like him, as Alana suspects, then he’ll know that Will is telling the truth.

“It’s not–” Rían starts, he sighs frustratedly, “You don’t get it. I’m not normal! I want them to suffer. I want them all to suffer! I planned this. I made sure you’d end up here, so I could get away with it! So I could destroy them, make sure they regret killing me!”

His voice is sharp, but never gets loud enough to be shouting, quiet even in his upset. It makes Will clench his jaw, angry on Rían’s behalf. 

“That’s okay,” Will says in reply, instead of any of the other thousands of more harsh, and critical things he’s thinking about the Lynchs, “It’s all okay,”

He rubs a hand over his stubble, thinking again back to his daddy, thinking about his own anger, his own pain, his own vengeance. His daddy told him back then, what Will needed to hear. So Will gives a prayer to the goddess his mama used to pray to, and hopes she’s in the mood to be taking pity on blasphemous, non-believers like Will. 

“I’m not normal, either,” Will tells Rían, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, or what they told you, but there’s no-one who’d consider me normal. And with all that your mom’s family has done to hurt you, I’d be more surprised if you hadn’t been thinking up ways to get back at them,”

Rían’s still glaring, suspicious as Will continues, “Hell, your cousin tried to drown you kid. I want that little shit to suffer. He hurt you because he could, and no-one stepped in to save you. To help you,”

“If you want revenge,” Will says, even and soft, leaning close, “Then we’ll make sure they don’t get away with what they did. If you put your trust in me, Rían, I’ll make sure that no-one who let this happen to you, walks free. I’ll even swear on it,”

Rían’s face scrunches, his little nose and eyebrows bunching up, “Swearing doesn’t mean it can’t be broken. You could still break the promise,” 

“I could,” Will says, honestly, he leans forward just that bit more and brushes a curl away from Rían’s forehead, “But tell me, do you think I would?”

Rían’s eyes glaze-over. His gaze focused somewhere that is both real and not. It’s as much of confirmation on inheriting his empathy as Will needs. It’s also as painful as Will thought it would be. He hadn’t planned on having children for a reason. Too late now. He can’t regret Rían, for all he’s only just now got to know about him. He hates, however, the fact that Will’s ‘gift’ passed down the bloodline. Then again, Will knows well enough, just like his daddy said, ‘Graham men are built for suffering, if it don’t come to us naturally, we’ll find it eventually. It’s carved into our bones.’

When Rían focuses again, Will’s already pushed those thoughts down. Hidden them behind boxes of other things Will doesn’t linger on. He waits for Rían’s judgment. For the final say.

“What do Grahams swear on?” Rían asks finally, as he sheds the mask Will knows he must’ve hurried to put together. They’ll work on it, by the time they’re back in Virginia, Rían will have a mask that can fool even Will’s empathy.

“We swear on this,” Will slips Beau Graham’s ring off his hand, and holds it out to Rían, “It was my daddy’s ring. When I was young, something bad happened to me too. And I couldn't trust anyone for a long while after. My daddy gave me this ring, and he told me, what I'll tell you, that Grahams aren’t built for betrayal,”

Rían takes the ring gingerly, as though it’s made of 14 karat-gold instead of well-worn, dingy pewter. He twists it and turns it. Watching it reflect the fluorescent hospital lights. 

“We’re loyal in a way people generally aren’t, if those we trust, even just a bit betray us, we don’t ever trust them again. And we refuse to betray those who call us theirs,” Will continues, reaching over, taking off the sock-gloves, and putting the ring on Rían’s small, bandaged thumb. It’s too big, of course, even with the extra padding, but Rían leaves it there.

“Okay,” Rían whispers, “Okay, but you can’t leave. You can’t decide after that you don’t want me, that I’m too much work, you can’t.” 

Will watches, glimmers of truth edge Rían’s words, but at least half of it is manipulation. Or rather what Rían thinks is manipulation. It’s more true than what the kid probably believes, if the way his hands tremble and grasp the blankets is any sign. And thanks to Will’s empathy, he knows it is. 

Will only smiles, wry and knowing, letting the kid see how much Will sees, know what he knows, “Never,” He looks into his son’s nervous and calculating eyes, they’re the same shade as his mother’s, a grey so pale it’s almost white. He never thought he’d see those eyes again. How Marie Lynch couldn’t see the gift this boy is, Will doesn’t know, but it’s his gain in the end, “And Rían, you can try to play those games with me, but don’t lie to me. I’m fine with manipulation, so long as you’re honest about it to me. Okay?”

Rían studies Will’s face, before turning his attention to his new ring. “Okay,” He says, quietly content, twisting the ring around his thumb, clockwise, and then counter-clockwise over and over. 

The new silence is comfortable.

 It reminds Will of better times, of himself with his own daddy, before Will had to learn how to blend in, to become ‘acceptable’ for society. Will watches his own son, as he thinks of that peace, and for the first time since he got the phone call from Alana, and the social-worker, he lets himself breathe.

He lets himself feel confident in this, in the fact that he can provide a good environment for his kid. Maybe not in the way Alana thought, or the social-worker. But, the idea of a ‘normal’, good, stable, family for Rían is a flawed one. It has been since his cousin drowned him, since the EMTs pulled him from the pond, and brought him back from the brink.

He’s not the same child that went into the water, maybe not even the same child that they dragged out either. Will knows from experience, you can’t be. Either you come out harsher, changed, or you don’t come out at all.

Will knows which option he prefers.

He says none of this. Does not interrupt, as Rían twists and turns the ring on his thumb, eyes distant and mind wandering. He just sits next to his son and keeps watch.

Rían will have his revenge, if that’s what he wants. And Will will be there every step of the way to make sure he doesn’t get caught.

Just like Beau Graham was for him.

***

Alana doesn’t want to be here.

She doesn’t want to rifle through this too-still, too-silent house. But, Ryan needs adults he can trust. And she promised to bring his ‘butterfly box’ to him. Signed herself up and everything. If she wants to build trust, if she wants to build rapport, she needs to fulfill this promise.

And she needs to build trust and rapport, especially after what happened in that interrogation room. Jack has questions. Hell, she has questions. Alana knows they need answers, and thus far the only one willing to answer any of their questions, frustratingly, has been a hospital-ridden, eight-year-old boy.

So for all she doesn’t want to be here, she still showed up. 

Marie Lynch is nowhere to be found. Fled the state as far as the authorities can tell. That means the house is empty, has been for a bit actually.

It’s already been processed. Leaving just an empty shell of what was once a seemingly happy home.

Alana steels herself, Jack had sent some agents with her, just in case. But she told them to wait outside, after they did a sweep of the house. 

It’s a small house. Boxy in the way the houses are in the midwest. Painted a light blue-grey, with flower-boxes out front.

She pushes open the white front door. It creaks. Echoing through the silent halls.

She makes her way towards the bedrooms at the back of the house. Passing by a small living room with a comfy-looking couch, and a tiny dining room with a cloth-covered round table. 

It looks like your average suburban house. It doesn’t feel that way. Is it because she knows? Knows about the boys who played here? The one who lived here with a mother who left him behind, who covered-up for the cousin who drowned him?

She pushes her unease aside. Navigating groaning floorboards, she comes to a second smaller hallway. There are pictures on the walls. She can’t help herself, she looks.

Most of the pictures are unsurprisingly of Marie Lynch. She’s a small woman, with dark hair and green eyes. In most pictures she gives off the impression of a cheerfully well-put together woman. She’s also young. Younger than Alana thought, in her late twenties, maybe. She would have barely been out of college when Ryan would have been born.

As that thought hits, Alana begins to study the pictures closer. There are none of Ryan. 

She tries to think back to the rest of the house, what little of it she’s seen. Unable to stop her curiosity she retraces her steps. Looking for more photographs.

If Alana didn’t know that Ryan Graham lived here, she wouldn’t even suspect Marie Lynch had a child. There’s no pictures of Ryan. There are plenty of Marie herself. A few of her and her new fiancé. Some of what must be Marie’s parents, as well as her aunt and uncle. Even a couple of Bríd Lynch and Cynthia and Thomas Smith. 

There’s no toys. No places for toys to be stored. No children's cutlery scattered about. There's nothing to indicate Marie has a child at all.

It leaves a bitter taste in Alana’s mouth, and she returns back to her task. 

Loneliness lingers in the sounds of the bedroom door opening. More of a sigh than a creak. It feels disrespectful almost, as though this room belongs to a child who is dead. Whose only evidence of having ever lived is locked away here, in this lonely, little room with its purple-painted walls and frog and lily-pad bedsheets spread over a twin-sized bed.

There are toys. None of them have the well-worn look of something beloved. The bed is perfectly made, blankets creased crisp and neat.

It feels sterile and sad. Nothing feels right here. This room feels more tomb than bedroom and Alana doesn’t know why.

She presses her lips together tightly, swallowing down the ache in her throat. Ashley Jones, Ryan’s social-worker, had said he kept the box under his bed. So that's where she heads, kneeling down she looks beneath the bed.

There are a few boxes under the bed. Most of them are plastic and filled with shoes and toys. One is clearly the butterfly box however. It is indeed the shape of a butterfly, and when Alana grabs ahold of it, she can feel that it’s wooden.

It’s painted in mostly greys and blacks, with splotches of unpainted wood, and spots and splatters of red here and there.

The box finally gives away the appearance of prized possession. Its paint is chipped in several places, and the wood is smooth and worn from little hands grasping at its round edges. The top is loose in a way that speaks to wear-and-tear. It has a lock, and Alana looks instinctively for a key.

A glint of something catches the light, and she sees the top of the key peeking out of an old bible that sits on a small desk shoved in the corner of the little bedroom.

Alana grabs the key, and the box, and puts them in a plain cloth tote bag that was also on the desk.

As she turns to leave, the feeling of sorrow, of grief returns. Heavier than before, it brings tears to her eyes, and she feels the need to say something, but words fail her.

Instead she places a hand on the frog-covered bedsheets, in the same way one might press a hand to a child’s shoulder. Soft, yet steady. A reassurance that you’re there with them, that you see them.

For a moment the feeling overwhelms Alana, the aching, lonely, sorrow that has haunted her since she entered this house.

And then it lightens. The whole house feeling calmer, quieter, emptier than before.

Alana leaves the house feeling much the same, calmer, quieter and emptier than before she went in. And though she is not to know it, so does Jack Crawford. 

Memories of fear, and pain, and what happened in that interrogation room, fog pleasantly over. Replaced with memories of Thomas Smith drowning in the same pond he drowned his cousin, slipping in while running from law enforcement after admitting to his crimes.

Alana finds herself humming a quiet song to herself. It’s odd she can’t quite remember where she heard it. Only that she knows it from somewhere.

She climbs into her rental car, and puts the plain tote bag in the seat next to her. A sense of calm, and rightness settling over her as she readies herself for the long drive to the hospital.

She cannot hear it, but in a tree outside a bird sings the tune she was humming. One soft and pretty, that slips like silk from the thoughts of those who hear it.

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Chapter Text

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Three-and-a-Half Weeks later

***

Will stood in the middle of the children's section in Walmart.

He had no clue what to buy. Rían hadn't specified. He'd just let Will know that any clothes he could've claimed would no longer work. In the same manner that he'd let Will know that he'd want to get a haircut once he was discharged.

Will had read between the lines. Both the clothes and hair made it harder for Rían to be seen as himself. As a little boy, as Rían, instead of Aisling.

Will still had no clue, though what Rían would like. Would plain t-shirts work? Did Rían prefer jeans or sweatpants? Sneakers or boots?

If he kept standing here doing nothing, someone was going to call the cops on him.

Sighing Will pushed forward, the empty cart's wheels squealing on the tile floor.

He went for the plain shirts first, he got one in each color offered. Whichever Rían wore most, Will would know were then colors to get again.

He grabbed a couple of less plain t-shirts. Patterned shirts, and graphic-tees. Nothing water related in any way. That was clear enough. Alana had let him know about the bedsheets, frog and lily-pad covers, clearly well-worn and loved, and yet left behind like everything else other than Rían's butterfly box, in that little blue-gray house.

It had given more credence to Will's original theory that Rían wouldn't react well to anything even vaguely referencing water, or more specifically ponds.

Will made sure to avoid items featuring such imagery as he waded through children's clothes.

He got clothes not just for the present, for the cool fall weather, but also for spring, summer and the upcoming winter.

He grabbed jackets, mittens, hats and scarves. More than he probably needed. But, better to be safe rather than sorry. He got snow-shoes, boots, and sneakers. He retrieved sandals, shorts and tank-tops. He threw in socks, underwear, and slippers. Pajamas went into the cart too.

It took nearly an hour, and a secondary cart for Will to feel confident that he'd gotten everything that Rían could need, at least in terms of clothing.

Now to look for other things. His neighbor had the furniture covered back home. However, when it came to toys or books there was little Will could currently provide for Rían. He had a few things still stored away from his own childhood. Nothing that would necessarily capture Rían's attention.

Mostly just well loved stuffed-animals and a few re-articulated animal skeletons, put together in such a way by Beau Graham, that they could be taken apart and put back together over and over again.

A macabre puzzle. They had been Will's favorite toys when he was a boy.

But he couldn't be sure it'd be the same for Rían. For all his son had seemed to inherit from him thus far, it wouldn't do for Will to assume all his interests would be the same.

Doing so would only breed disappointment, more on Rían's side then Will's. Will was sure he was tired of the expectations his guardians had placed on this far in his life already. Will would be more than another in a long line of adults, who had disappointed and saddened his son.

He mused on such thoughts as his feet carried him to his next destination. One that intimidated him far more than any other. The toy aisle.

Will gave a brief prayer to his mama's goddess, something that had been happening more often than not as of late, and forged forward into the toy aisle. Hoping and praying to find something that Rían would like.

***

Rían sat in his hospital bed scheming.

That seemed to be all Rían was doing as of late. Planning, scheming, plotting. And when said plans, schemes, and plots fell apart, he re-planned, re-schemed, and re-plotted anew. It was getting slightly boring. It was also a little humbling. There wasn't much in his schemes that didn't require Will in some way. Or at the very least an adult.

Rían had forgotten how little autonomy children actually had. He couldn't even be discharged until his legal-guardian said so. The problem being that currently his legal-guardian was one Will Graham, and much as he was willing to let Rían get his revenge, he was apparently unwilling to let him do so without a clean bill of health.

It was frustrating.

So for the moment Rían remained trapped. Only able to entertain himself by plotting revenge, and manipulating the nurses, and his guiltly pleasure, pick-pocketing rude visitors. He had only gotten a few. Enough for him to count on one hand. Mostly journalists. Who had managed to sneak past security, and navigate to his room.

Rían actually enjoyed those visitors the most. He got to play the innocent, traumatized child, who knew next to nothing about what was going on. He'd even gotten to turn on the waterworks, once or twice. They would generally start to panic then, shushing him, right before Will, Miss Ashley, or a nurse would interrupt and tear into them.

If said interrupter turned out to be Will, he would only give Rían a exasperatedly fond look, and then play along. Miss Ashley would get all defensive, she rarely let them get a word in edgewise. The nurses would usually just call security to escort them off property. Then the security would be more alert for a few days, which meant that Rían got new people to mess with.

In all the chaos, no-one ever noticed him taking their wallets. He had grown quite the stash of stolen gift-cards and cash, hidden in his pillowcase. Just waiting for the day Rían got discharged.

Rían found himself half-hoping a journalist would show up. Just for the entertainment factor. However as soon as that thought came, he discarded it. He would get his entertainment soon enough. After all he wasn't going to be here for much longer.

And from what details he could muddily recall second-hand, of the plot of Hannibal, he would be able to play with a reporter again soon enough. For now he would just plan what to do when he was free of all these wires and the stale-sick air of his hospital room.

Rían sighed, leaning back against his too-thin pillows. Idly messing with his new necklace. Will had purchased it from the gift shop. It was a cheap, finicky thing. But it allowed Rían to wear the ring Will had given him.

It was one of Rían's few possessions now. And Rían had found in this new life, that he was surprisingly possessive. He didn't like to not have things, nor for his things to not be close to him, or to be confused as not his. Everyone had to know what was Rían's and everyone had to leave those things be, unless they were also his.

Like Will. Will was his. He wasn't entirely comfortable calling him 'dad' yet, but he was Rían's nonetheless. His Will.

Like the very thought of him was a summons, Will came through the doorway arms full of plastic bags, and a tired smile on his face.

"I'm back," He said, setting the bags on the uncomfortable plastic couch that sat near Rían's bed. He sat next to them, making the plastic rustle. Rían craned his neck, trying to get a better view at the overflowing bags, wondering what contraband Will had brought him this time.

Rían hoped it was Little-Debbie's Strawberry Shortcakes. He fucking loved those little cakes. They were a spot of joy in an otherwise cold, unfeeling and uncaring world. Or that is to say, one of the few foods that he liked in both his previous life and this one. It even tasted just like he remembered.

Rían hadn't realized that taste-buds weren't the same for every person, or that apparently they could change. Meaning a lot of Rían's favorite foods from his previous life didn't taste the same. Aisling hadn't got to have a lot of junk food. And the bland hospital shit, that made up most of Rían's meals was actually better than alot what had passed for food at aunt Bríd's table.

So far it had been a trial-and-error process to see what Rían's new taste-buds liked in terms of actual food. Not just plain, unseasoned meat and green vegetables, with the occasional bread-roll.

Spicy chips had been firmly out. This body had no spice tolerance. So too had been sour things, aunt Bríd used to wash Aisling's mouth out with vinegar when she swore or was rude, leaving anything with a similar taste or feeling out of the running. All it did now was make him feel vaguely ill. That had cut about half of his comfort foods off the list.

The Little-Debbie's Strawberry Shortcakes, were the only thus far on the list that he had enjoyed in his new body, and that tasted exactly the same. It had felt like a warm hug, the first time he'd eaten one here. It might've even made him tear-up a little. So, yeah Rían was holding out hope that Will had brought the one thing keeping Rían going in this godsforsaken hospital.

It was not Little-Debbie's Strawberry Shortcakes. It was toys. And books. A board-game or two thrown in there too. Rían swallowed his mild-disappointment and tried to focus on the things Will had brought for him to look through.

Will gave him a knowing look, "The doctor's said you can't just survive on sugar,"

Rían glared sulkily, "I'm not. I eat the hospital meals too! They have veggies and everything," He made grabby hands at the bags and the items inside, "Now let me see what you got for me!"

Will raised an eyebrow, smile playing in the corners of his mouth, "Who said anything about these being for you? Maybe I'm feeling generous, and donatin' to the less fortunate,"

Rían gave him a irritated look, before replying flatly, "I am the less fortunate. I've been abandoned by my mother, left in a hospital, with little left to my name. I have no clothes, no money, and no toys."

Will just gave Rían a look. Rían refused to break.

"You're going to have to get a little less heavy-handed, we've been over this," Will stated, but handed over the first bag.

Rían settled the bag in his lap and, began to pull out the first item that caught his eye for inspection. It was a book of fairy-tales. Ones that Rían was already relatively familiar with already. Though his recollection of them was hazy at best. But the Grimm brother's tales were popular and Rían was sure once he started reading, that his memories would grow clearer. He set it beside his legs on the bed, letting out a pleased little hum, to let Will know that he liked it.

He dug out the next item. It was very different from the last. A soft stuffed puppy-dog. The dog's big eyes looked up with an expression of contrition, and their mouth was pulled into a doggy frown. It made Rían fight a smile. He brushed his hand over the dogs big-floppy ears, the soft material feeling soothing on his scarred-up hands. He tucked the dog beside him as well, under his arm.

Will had dogs he knew, and was probably gauging whether or not he actually liked dogs, from Rían's reaction. He had already asked, and Rían had said he'd be fine. However, it seemed Will had known that even if it was a deal-breaker, Rían wouldn't say anything. Getting him the stuffed animal, let Will see any positive or negative emotions associated with dogs.

Rían was sure as soon as he reached for it, Will had let the pendulum swing, checking every corner of Rían's brain. Dissecting his reaction to make sure it wasn't just a reaction to the fact that the dog was a stuffed animal, clearly meant for small children.

It worked out in Rían's favor anyways. He liked the stuffie. He was going to call them Simmons, after one of the journalists. He'd looked remarkably similar to the newly named Simmons Jr, when Miss Ashley had found him questioning Rían about 'his brush with death'. It was one of his favorite new-memories since he'd fully 'woken-up' in Aisling's body.

Rían pushed said memory back into the vault, to brought out again when Rían was feeling bored and needed a laugh.

He reached for the last item in the first bag, it was a puzzle box. It wasn't a particularly complicated one, from the looks of it. But, it was clearly for beginners. Rían, hummed again. Pleased that Will had been paying attention to Rían, that he'd put real effort into finding things that he'd like instead of just plying him with what was popular for children his age. Like Marie had done to Aisling.

Will wordlessly passed Rían the second bag. It contained much of the same. Books of various subjects, things that would hold Rían's attention, but that were considered age-appropriate. Most of the books were books on historical events, or mythologies from different cultures. There was also were a few books of riddles, as well as one or two children's fiction books that Rían found peaked his interest, once he'd read their summaries.

The third bag contained more puzzles. Some simple, some more complicated. It was clear these were meant to last at least until they'd gotten back to Will's home. Rìan carefully put most of the books and puzzles back into the bags, for Will to take back to his hotel room.

The forth bag contained his new carry-on bag. As well as a backpack and a water-bottle. The water bottle had butterflies and other bugs on it. It drew a huffy-sort-of laugh out of Rían, at the sight of it.

Rían put the things he was keeping at the hospital with him in his new backpack, except for Simmons, who he kept out sitting dutifully by his side.

Once everything was sorted, Rían noticed there was one bag left over. Will gave him a mischievous grin, and handed Rían the last bag.

Inside was a box of Little-Debbie's Strawberry Shortcakes. Along with a bag of potato chips and a bottle of soda.

Rían gave Will a grin back, and dug out the treats.

Things were starting to look up, for Rían.

***

It is a strange thing, to realize you've been lonely.

Yet, it was this exact realization that Hannibal Lecter had found himself pondering over as he sat for supper. He hadn't craved for company for a long time. Not since Misha.

Now here as age slowly crept up upon him, he found that he was craving for companionship again. Craving family. Wondering how it might feel to be able to shape a young mind. He did not often work with children. However, he had a feeling even if he did it may not satisfy this particular ache.

Hannibal half-recognized this feeling from when he was young, back when such things seemed important. Before he'd well and truly realized that the rest of the population were pigs. Fit only to decorate his dining table, or to be elevated into art when the urge struck.

Now he found himself revisiting juvenile stomping grounds, when it came to emotions. It was odd.

He chewed slowly savoring the sharp taste of fear, that lingered on his tongue. This particular pig, had once been a very rude dental hygienist. His fear had been flavorful, sour and rich in a way only those truly arrogant ever were. It had fit well with the bitter greens, he had paired with this dish.

Swallowing the bite, and reaching for his wine glass, Hannibal turned his thoughts off dinner and back to the matter at hand.

He had been lonely for awhile. It simply had taken until recently for Hannibal to notice. The ache, the quiet longing for someone to see past his perfectly tailored mask, to see him, had been easy to set to the side. Now, however Hannibal was growing bored.

Or perhaps bored was not the right turn of phrase. He was becoming… desperate for something. Someone. Who could capture his interest. Who could give Hannibal what he craved. Family.

A family that would bring back the enjoyment of the hunt. Who would join him and perhaps even elevate some of his pieces, some of his dishes. Who would bring fresh prespective. And thus a fresh taste to the table.

Hannibal smiled to himself at the double entendre. Swirling his wine in his glass, before taking another sip.

Hannibal was lonely. He had been for some time. Now it had become impossible to ignore. The real question now, was what would be the next course of action.

Surrogacy was always an option if he wished for a child. But, he quickly discarded the idea. Babies had never interested him, and even if the child had his blood there was no guarantee it would be anymore worthy, anymore of a true predator than the other pigs.

No.

That left adoption. Hmmm. Hannibal carefully cut another piece of meat, thinking this option over.

It could work. However, it had much the same issue. He could not be guaranteed his specifications would be met.

That left finding another killer like himself. Hannibal swallowed the last of his meal, and wiped his mouth with a cloth-napkin.

It was too not necessarily guaranteed to work. For different reasons of course. Yet, it was the best course of action.

Hannibal half-lidded, leaned back and contemplated. Wondering if the loneliness would simply be easier to bear. With a grimace, Hannibal reviewed the last half-a-year and knew it would not be. He ha gotten increasingly reckless in a way that mildly grated.

He needed something to capture his interest. To quell his loneliness.

Thus he would need to find another like him. Or at least close enough that he wouldn't feel the need to have them wind up on his plate.

It could take a while. However, he had waited decades for things of less importance, he could be patient. Hannibal downed the last of his wine, and resigned himself to toning down his escapades until he had someone who could ease the tedium that life had managed to become in the last decade.

He just hoped he would not have to wait too long for someone to catch his eye.

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Chapter Text

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Rían swung his legs back-and-forth.

His legs dangled, even in his airplane seat. This wasn't because the seat was big. It was because Rían was small, smaller than was average for his age. It was a realization that he'd taken awhile to notice. He had after all been in a hospital room, bed-bound since he'd woken up.

It hadn't been until one of the nurses had, had a whispered and hurried conversation with both Rían's social-worker and Will, that Rían had realized.

He'd evasedropped, and overheard the nurse expressing their concern on the fact that Rían was nearly malnorished. It had caused questions to be raised about whether-or-not, he'd been neglected past the obvious emotional distance, or if there been more he'd been deprived of.

They had tried to ask him about it, but he didn't know. Couldn't say for sure. The amount of food that Aisling had eaten seemed normal to him. He wasn't sure, he knew only that Aisling's pediatrician had raised a similar concern when she'd been young. Maybe about three to four.

She'd asked Marie questions, and had mentioned some disorders that might mean that Aisling would never fully absorb nutrients like she needed. She'd recommended some supplements that Marie had gotten, and after awhile, seeing no improvement Marie had simply not continued to buy them. Assuming that the issue was not truly an issue at all.

Or at least Rían figured that's why she'd stopped buying the supplements for Aisling.

It could have also been because Aisling was spending more and more time at aunt Bríd's house. Eating most of her meals there. Marie could've assumed that Bríd would take care of it. She hadn't of course. She believed in 'natural solutions' and simply continued to serve the same bland, seasoning-less, meals she'd always had to Aisling.

Whatever the case was, Rían the soul now in possession of this body, was suffering the consequences. His diet was carefully monitored, and he was short. Not just short, he was small. He was thin and sharp-featured. Like a bird of prey, one of the police-woman had said. Like a baby bird still pink and in the nest, Will had remarked dryly back.

Rían liked the first comparison more, but knew innately that the second was more accurate.

He was rambling to himself, a sure sign that Rían was bored.

Will had gone off a while ago. He'd said he'd be right back, with some snacks for Rían, but that had been at least ten-minutes-ago. And with each passing minute Rían grew more bored, more twitchy and unsettled.

Rían had debated getting up and searching for him. But, he didn't like all the people around. They made his head feel too-full, too-loud. As though all of their thoughts were crowding in with his.

At the hospital, new people had been interesting. Something new to play with. Here, in the real world, or rather in Rían's new world, there was a lot of new people. All of them loud, all of them different than each other, all of them new variables. It was overwhelming. Going from a few new people every couple of days, to new people, everywhere, all the time, all at once.

Will had reassured him that it would be less overwhelming over time. That with some tips and tricks, Will himself had picked-up over years of dealing with his own empathy, that it would become little more than background noise.

Rían in the privacy of his own head, down deep in his mind, in the place he kept all of the things that he had to hide, wasn't as confident. Through the hazy recollection of Aisling's own dealings on their particular 'gift', it didn't present the same as Will's did.

It came to both, Aisling and, now Rían, as more of a visual thing. Metaphors, and imaginings blurring together into something that gave a feeling, of a truth spoken in a language that you couldn't quite understand. Familiar enough to unsettle, strange enough to make you feel wrong-footed.

It had startled him more than once since he'd gotten discharged. Hallucinations that had snuck up on him, springing when he least expected it.

A man with too-sharp fingers, and a grin full of wolf-like teeth waving to him on the street, minutes after he was first discharged from the hospital.

A little girl who's face was blank of features except for eyes. Hundreds of them, all of different shapes and colors. Who wore a girl-scouts uniform and had stared at Rían and Will when they'd entered a store.

A woman with long dark hair, and a soft smile, who had flickered between looking like an uncommonly beautiful woman, and a horse-like creature with a mouth too-wide and too-sharp-toothed to be anything of this plane. Who held the arm of a wealthy, but sick-looking, man in line at the airport. She had shot Rían a knowing and commiserating-sort-of smile, when their eyes had met. Before turning back and digging her nails sharply into her companion's arm, seeming to leech him of color the longer she held on.

He saw them everywhere, they lingered on the edges of his vision. Haunted his mind, but, every-time he'd turn back they'd just be normal people.

The only reason he knew they weren't, that they were like him and the M̴̺͙͍̫͉̲͈̦̦̑̾̀͗̾͜ư̷̢̧͉̣̱̙̹͈͖̮͉̭͊̊̑͋̉̎͌̎́̕͝r̸͔͓̩̱͕̩̋͌͑̂̋͒͝͠d̷̢̨̨̲͇̹̻̤̤̯͔̫́ḝ̸̨̨͍̣̠̟̼͇͐̍̚͝r̷̻̬͚̞̳̳̣̣̤̓͗̚͝e̶̖̲͖̮͓͂̂͊͋́̇̍ r, was because of the feeling they left him with.

A cold certainty that he was staring into the face of predator that would devour him given the chance.

There was something wrong with all of them. And all of them, once they had noticed Rían, had known something was wrong with him.

The fact he was now seemingly killer-catnip, also did not inspire confidence in Rían. Nor in the ability to grow used to his newly 'awoken' empathy.

He hadn't told Will. There was nothing Will could do, it would just be another burden for him to have to carry. A new issue that his unexpected bastard had.

No. It was better if Will remained ignorant. It was easy enough for Rían to put pieces of the puzzle his hallucinations left him with. Easy enough to tell half-truths. To let Will assume that the empathy was a newer thing. A consequence of his near-death experience.

The same way Will assumed his manipulative nature was.

Neither was new of course. Even in Rían's old life he'd been a bit… off. He'd had emotions. Had been able to feel guilt and shame. But, even then Rían had the ability to manipulate people and situations in his favor.

He didn't do maliciously. But, he also didn't really understand why once people knew about that he did it, they got nervous and uncomfortable around him.

He'd never done true harm with his little games. Nor had he played them in situations where they'd cause damage. He had morals. Had ethics. It just became clear, as time had worn on, that his morals and ethics were maybe not the same as most peoples.

He'd learned to let people draw their own conclusions. To hide parts of himself away. The parts that made people mad, or frightened, or uncomfortable.

It was better this way. This way he wouldn't have to have Will worry over him.

Rían for all he knew better, liked Will. Will was his. One of his people. He didn't really have many yet, and of the two people who Rían could claim as his, only Will was still alive. Aisling lived only in her and Rían's hazily half-shared memories.

Aisling was as close to a sibling, as close to a twin as Rían had ever had. And even then, it was a strange relationship. Not a true bond. In part because Rían hadn't really, truly, existed in full-force, until Aisling didn't. And in part because Rían's own knowledge of Aisling, was imperfect. Split between dream-memories and, whispers of something soul-deep, aching, and instinctive.

It wasn't the same as the bond had with Will.

She was dead. Gone. Existing only in Rían's mind now.

Rían would avenge her. He'd sworn it.

But, Will had told him he was too young yet. If he was to take vengeance on the Lynches he'd need to grow first. Need to sharpen his claws on less suspicious prey.

Rían had listened. Had agreed to Will's perimeters. Partially because Will was right. If Rían struck now he'd be caught, almost certainly. He was the only victim all three of them had in common.

The other reason Rían had conceded to waiting was more simple. It was also the more honest of the two reasons, Will belonged to Rían. And Rían belonged to Will. He was the closest thing Rían had to a parent. He was Rían's parent, biologically and legally-speaking.

And that meant that Rían would listen. Not because he had to, but because it would make Will happy.

Will tried so hard to make Rían happy. To keep him safe, in the short time they'd known each-other. It was only fair that Rían do the same.

And if that meant keeping Will in the dark about certain things, then that's what Rían would do.

Rían sighed, swinging his legs harder, nearly full-on kicking the seat in front of him. He had puzzles in his backpack, but it was a long flight. He didn't want to run out before they were even in the air.

He had already turned thoughts on his predicaments over and over in his mind. He had no new conclusions or solutions. No new plans to add to his ever-growing list. Nothing to fix what he couldn't.

Rían would always have his empathy, and the hallucinations that came with it. The near-malnourishment of his growing body, would probably have life-long effects on his stature. Rían would never have been tall, even without the nutritional issues, but now it was almost guaranteed that he'd be considered tiny. He might reach five-foot-two if he was lucky.

These things couldn't be changed. No-one could fix these truths. No-one could reverse the neglect of his past guardians, no-one could take his empathy, or the visions cause by it, away from Rían.

So why bother thinking about it? Why bother worrying? Why try to change what was constant?

There was no real reason. But, when Rían lay still enough. When he didn't have anything else to focus on, it was those things his mind circled back to. That or his vengeance, and how to achieve it.

The F̷̨̡̨̛̛͚̯͓̘͇͍̦͇̰̪̣̳̤͓͚̗̖̲̗̂̅͊͑̍͆̚͜͠ͅo̸͖͍̼͍̲̜̊̇̊́̽̅͆̿͌̓̏̾̈̏̑̑̚̕͘͝͝x̷̨̨̢̨̡̲͙͖͙͉̖͈͇̙͎̲̰̘͔͔̦̣͔̺̲͈̙̙̱͇̞͉̜̻̑̆̀̎͆͛͂̈́̿̽̽̔̊̈́̾́̃͋̉̈́̔̋͒͑̅̈͂̀̋̓̔̅͛̏͒̇̄̐̅̇̚͠͝͝͝͝ had already been dealt with.

Dying in a chase. Ironically drowning in the same pond that Aisling had.

It had been so perfect, that Rían didn't even feel upset that he hadn't been responsible for his demise himself.

{Some quiet part of Rían, the part of him where the remnants of Aisling lived. In the place that he didn't linger, whispered that he had been responsible. Whispered of the taste of flesh and fear upon his tongue. The feeling of cruel joy, that had raced through his limbs as he wove the F̷̨̡̨̛̛͚̯͓̘͇͍̦͇̰̪̣̳̤͓͚̗̖̲̗̂̅͊͑̍͆̚͜͠ͅo̸͖͍̼͍̲̜̊̇̊́̽̅͆̿͌̓̏̾̈̏̑̑̚̕͘͝͝x̷̨̨̢̨̡̲͙͖͙͉̖͈͇̙͎̲̰̘͔͔̦̣͔̺̲͈̙̙̱͇̞͉̜̻̑̆̀̎͆͛͂̈́̿̽̽̔̊̈́̾́̃͋̉̈́̔̋͒͑̅̈͂̀̋̓̔̅͛̏͒̇̄̐̅̇̚͠͝͝͝͝'s Demise. Rian ignored that part. That was the same place the hallucinations came from. Where madness lingered. He couldn't afford to listen to that voice.}

The other two, however, still lived. It wasn't fair for them to continue to exist when Aisling did not. Rían would fix that eventually. For now, however, he would follow Will's directions. He would bide his time, and sharpen his teeth on less suspicious prey.

Rían's legs prickled and ached, and he shifted about trying to get comfortable. Letting his tingling legs dangle, and grumbling under his breath, he looked around searching for Will.

He couldn't see him anywhere. Rían scowled. His chest feeling tight. Where was Will?

Rían moved onto his knees, craning his head desperately trying to find a familer face. He scanned the plane's aisles once, twice, three times. He still couldn't see dad Will. His breath caught, he gasped, trying to breathe. His heart was pounding, his hands trembling.

He searched again, "Will," He gasped, hand coming to clasp his ring, clinging harder to the back of his chair with the other. "Will!" He tried again, more whisper and breath than anything that could be heard. His eyes stung, he gasped, trying to get in air. He was dying, again. His lungs were filling with water, he could feel the cold-lapping of it in his chest.

"Help!" He whimpered, feeling fabric tear beneath his fingernails. Blood dripped from his hand that was holding tight to his ring. He could hear the sound of the water, the sounds of his breathing growing more and more desperate. His breath was shallow, gasping and small. He couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth, unwilling to die silent—

A hand came down upon his shoulder. Rían whipped around, still hyperventilating, tears beginning to trace their way down his cheeks.

"Hush now, little one," The voice burrowed into his bones, calling to him, "All is well. Calm down, I'm here with you."

Against Rían's own instincts, against his body's wishes, found himself calming. His breathing evening out. His heart calming down. His eyes drooping as he grew suddenly, and swiftly tired. He tried to keep his eyes open. This wasn't right! Something was wrong!

His breathing picked up again briefly, body shaking, adrenaline shooting through him as he tried to stay awake. Feeling awfully like he'd been drugged, he tried to raise his head, but instead slumped downwards. Legs straightening, arms falling limp to his sides and head lolling to the side. His vision was blurry and off, he felt at once like he was already dreaming and, like he was falling asleep.

"Stubborn thing," The voice said fondly, tucking a curl behind Rían's ear. The figure kneeled down before him, lifting his bleeding hand and inspecting it, "There's no need to worry, pup, I'm not here to hurt you,"

Rían could feel the world slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, he tried to hold on. Tried to stay aware. But, the more he tried the harder it got.

The voice chuckled. A sound that rumbled through Rían, that seemed to shake the plane itself. "Sleep now, there is much dreaming to be done," The figure was little more than a smear of pale colors, but Rían could still feel when they lifted his hand and licked over the wounds his fingernails had made.

It felt familiar, it made something in him feel safe. Looked after. Instinctively, Rían knew this was a gesture of kindness, of familiarity and pack. Something done by an elder to show the youngsters they meant to help, not harm.

He tried again to speak, to remember, to lift his head. To do anything. But he couldn't.

"Sleep," The voice reiterated, firmly, "Do not linger here any longer. I shall keep watch over you and yours, but you need to dream. The wards grow thin, and must be rebuilt before you are at your new Court, or much worse consequences will follow." Hands strong but, gentle maneuvered him into a more comfortable position, and the voice began to hum, slow and soft at first, but growing louder and stronger with each breath Rían took.

It was a tune he knew, from somewhere, he could swear it. The thought entered his head, and in the same moment disappeared, as consciousness slipped from Rían's grasp, and he fell into dreaming.

***

Long had It slept.

Long had It waited. It had been nearly three centuries since the last time It had been unbound. Since It had been awoken and called upon. It had been lulled into Dreaming, lulled into a binding sleeping, one that had held for longer than any other of the magics that had held It before.

However, all magics had their undoing.

Blood and willing sacrifice always had called to It. As it called to any of Its kith and kin. Thus it was no surprise it was this that first beget Its attention. A splatter of blood. A whisper of snuffed breath. Soft furs grown rotting and maggot-covered buried above Its prison-tomb. All brought by the same hands. There is a terrible power in death. In life-blood and the spilling of it. In possibilities snuffed-out beneath trusted hands. And this too had always called to It. So as the blood was spilled, as the anger, and rot, and fear, grew and spread, the more did ItsDreaming fade. More did Its sleeping grow shallow. More did It begin to become aware.

The hands that woke It slowly from Its death-like Dreaming, knew not of what they did. At first. The boy— for it was indeed a young boy, not yet twelve summers old that woke It, that freed It— grew aware as time wore on. As the bindings grew weaker. As the chains rusted and fell away. As It gained back some of Its influence, Its magic. It had called to him. Whispered into his ear. It knew why the boy did what he did. It did not shame him, like his mother did. Nor did It flinch from him, as his school-mates did. Instead It comforted him. It allayed his fears, told him that his violence was normal, was natural. After all in the world there existed an order of things, of prey and predator. Of hunter and hunted. The boy was simply like It, instead of his school-mates and mother. A creature of the hunt. A creature of blood and cracking-bone. A creature of hunger.

The poor child had listened. For it seemed that since It had first been lured into Dreaming much had changed. Such as the fact that tales of It and Its kind were no longer whispered. No longer did mothers warn their children of the fair-folk. No longer was their name feared. No longer did the title Unseelie mean anything to the children of the new world. Oh yes, the poor child had listened to Its whispers. Had heeded Its sweet, soothing tones. Had bowed to Its tender manipulations. The boy had not known not to. Had never been told the old tales, nor taught to wear iron upon his person, or to wear his undergarments backwords. Never taught to throw salt over his shoulder, nor to not step into a fairy-circle.

He was ignorant. He was perfect.

The boy had long feared his home. Feared his father. Feared his bullies. Feared the cruel taunts of teachers, and family members. Feared his own violent rage, his own hands and the pain he wrought upon the undeserving. His fear too fed It. Too brought It strength. Woke It faster. So, It encouraged it. As It grew more aware, as It awoke and shook off Its bindings, It sent the boy dreams. Little things. Little fears. But, with each passing day, with each sleepless night the fears grew heavier. And more did the boy turn to It. More often did the boy come to Itswaking-tomb and speak. And It grew stronger.

Then it happened.

One day the boy did not appear. It waited. And waited. And waited. Weeks passed.The weather changed and the veil grew thinner, It waited still. Patient and unwilling to go back to Its binding-slumber. Then, the boy appeared.

He was different. Sharper. Colder. And oh so, very afraid.

He spoke of the way his father had nearly killed him. The way his mother and father fought.

The way his father had killed the only thing— outside of It of course— that the boy cared about. A horse. A young horse, given to the boy by his maternal grandfather. The boy's father had grown angry with the way the young colt would get between him and the boy. Grown upset, with the way the boy had been able to run away to the ranch were the colt was being boarded, when the man was angry. He had beaten the boy first, but the colt would not let him. The horse had struck-out at the man. Had shrieked and put himself in front of the boy. The boy's father had grown angrier and angrier with each passing time. And finally, one day, he'd snapped, and beaten the colt to death with a nearby bridle. He had pinned the crime on the boy. Without cameras, without witnesses, with testimonies of the boy's unstable nature, the man had gotten away with it. And the boy had known, as the weeks of court and legal-process went by, that he too would die like the colt.

So the when he'd gotten the chance the boy had come here, to It.

He offered himself freely. So long as It did him a favour in turn. It was to kill the boy's father and mother. Then It was free to do what It wished.

It, which had long waited, long slept, long Dreamt, grinned and excepted the boy's deal. With blood spilt and oaths exchanged, It bound Itself to the boy. It devoured him.

And the boy ceased to Be.

And It—

B̸̡̢̛̯̬̗͉͔̪̩͚̝͕͕̪̹̺̻͇̝͓̠͈̗̮͔̗̺̽̀̏̎̓̓̀̊́̂̒̈́̓͒͋̕͜͝͝e̵̡̡̻̲͚̭̞͇̝̫̟͈͇̲̞̗̲̱͙͔͒̍͗͌͒͒͊̈́͛͂̌͂̈̿͆́̏̿̓̂͋͂͋̈́͗̀̌̊̔̽͂̏͂̃̄̀̂͘̕̕͘͜͠͠͠c̸̡̡̻͉̭̝̟̜̥͔͙̱̘̘̝̍͒̔̒̈́͗̿͊͊̃̍̉̊͆̎́̅͒̒͘a̷̛̛͚̦̯̦̣̔̉̎̂͊̏͌̒̓̅͆̇̑́̈͛͐́̔͂̾͐̕͝͝͠m̵̧̡̨̢̢̡̡̺͇̖͖̝͕̺̣͖͖͈͖͖͇̰͎̣̳̥̭͉̮̰̤̜̻̗͚̈̏̉̈́̔̈̄̓̐̔̂̀͂̉̂͒̾̈͗̊̆͆̄͊̓̇̓̈́͌͌̇̿͒̅̑̚͘͜͠͝ͅḛ̸̢̢̦̗͎̫͔̤͔̘̹̰̦̠̯̝̘̣͖̞̥̞̬̬̯̳͙͇̪͇̹̭̺̫͕̩̗̰̠̼̮̦͓̈́͆́͗̈́͜ͅͅ.

Chapter Text

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Will had quite possibly over-prepared for their flight back to Wolf Trap.

He'd done his best to make sure there was enough to occupy Rían. Puzzles, books, even prepared a couple cases to have him take a crack at if all else failed. Rían's boredom tended to the sadistic side.

If left unchecked, he'd add to his stash of stolen cash and gift cards.

Or worse decide to play with the unsuspecting patrons.

Will who had always more closely resembled canine-like characteristics, had his hand's full with trying to balance Rían's more feline-tendencies.

Like the fact he liked to play with his prey, the way a cat played with a mouse. Or a downed bird. Will had no issue with the fact that Rían enjoyed the chase, but his son was still too young to grasp the consequences.

As it had been for Beau Graham when it came to a younger him, it was now Will's responsibility to watch after Rían. To mitigate the worst of the attention, to turn suspicions elsewhere.

So, Will had over-prepared. Readied himself to turn any situation into something eons more sympathetic and, easily tipped in Rían's favor. Only for the boy to fall asleep, thirty-minutes into their flight.

Will felt a fond smile pulling at his lips. Rían was slumped sideways, his head leaning on Will's shoulder. His dark lashes fluttered in dreaming, and one of his arms stayed wrapped around his stuffed dog, Simmons. His other arm was twisted around Will's own, hand grasping onto Will's shirt sleeve firmly, even in sleep.

Will readjusted his near-numb arm, and Rían clung harder, brows furrowing as he muttered something Will couldn't quite make out. Will gave up, deciding it was better to deal with pins-and-needles later, rather than risk waking up Rían.

The kid hadn't gotten enough sleep as of late, anyways.

Will's smile faded, and he found himself contemplating his son's recent insomnia. It had only started, from what Will could tell, after they'd left the hospital. The second they'd left behind those white, sterile, halls Rían had been jumpy. Anxious.

Will had thought it was because of the Lynches at first. Thought Rían feared them finding him. And hadn't that put a craw in his jaw, nearly made him get reckless with righteous rage. He had already begun planning what exactly he'd do to Bríd and Marie Lynch once he got his hands on them, when he'd realized it wasn't them that Rían feared.

It was something, somebody, else.

It seemed to strike without rhyme-or-reason at first glance, but whenever Rían got stiff, and then nervy, Will just had to take a look around their surroundings.

He'd nearly always find someone staring at his son. Someone who was just a little… off. Someone that made his hackles rise, made him want to bare his teeth and snarl.

Killers. Or at the very least, hunters of some-sort. Creatures that resembled, Will knew, both he and Rían. But, more importantly, resembled Thomas Lynch.

Will wasn't sure Rían had realized yet, had drawn the same conclusions that Will had. But, once he did, Will was sure he'd want to do something about it.

Will had already put some thought into therapy, much as he detested the idea of some shrink poking and prodding at both Will and Rían's minds. Half of the psychologists and therapists Will had met and/or knew of, would treat them more as experiments than patients.

Besides, the fact that if Will was reading Rían correctly, he would want to be able to decide such decisions on his own. Even if he was young for it. Will had been similar.

Was still similar, so for now Will would keep it in the back of his mind.

Leave it for when it might be needed.

For now, Will settled in for his own nap. Mind half-drifting and half planning. He was going to do his level-best to provide Rían with everything he'd need, and everything he could want, even before he knew he wanted it.

Rían was Will's pack now.

And as Will had proven, when he'd been little older than Rían was now, he'd do anything for his pack.

***

Rian was dreaming again.

He knew he was dreaming again. He'd been here before. A room with shifting walls, and a large fireplace, and a pale woman in a chair. It was different this time, however. There was no pot bubbling over the flames this time, and everything seemed clearer. Details stood out more.

The walls were filled with scenes, much like the lace had been. Yet, different from the lace. The lace had been filled with scenes of violence and penance. The scenes upon the walls, seemed almost mundane comparatively.

Figures danced in circles, a wolf chased a rabbit. A stag guided a young doe in her first hunt. A ever-shifting creature, turned from shadow to skin and back again. A horse rode towards a body of water, a man upon its back.

Rían looked away, turning his attention to the pale woman and her work. She was not working lace this time. Instead she was crocheting. Crooning out words in a language Rían knew, but that became less and less understandable as the words were translated.

She waited. She knew he was here. It had been her who had drawn him into dreaming in the first place. And, now she simply sat patient. He would have to approach her, not the other way around.

Rían gathered his courage, and made his way to her. She looked up at him, her near-white eyes meeting his own, she smiled, "Hello again, A stóirín. I'd been wondering when you'd join me again,"

Rían's face must have gave away his confusion. She gave him a mischievous grin and explained, "I may offer you a gateway, but it is you who steps through. I cannot force you to come here. Our kind always give a choice, give freedom to make one's own decisions,"

She untangled a knot in her yarn, a cruel gleam in her eyes, "It is what makes the hunt so fun. We do not cause their misery, they do it themselves."

She paused, and the only sounds were the crackling of the hearth, and the sound of her claws clacking against her crochet hook, "Of course, that doesn't mean we don't give them a push every now and again. Like with your F̸͎̫̓͒o̶̙̽́x̸͔̜̋. He had wronged you, and thus had to be taken care of. Before he caught the attention of the court."

She grins again, teeth red and bloody. This time it is an invitation. Rían crawls his way into her lap. She lets him get comfy, and briefly sets her project to the side to help him. She brushes his dark curls behind his ears, and pinches lightly at one of his freckled cheeks, before she turns back to her work.

Rían gets his first good look at what she'd working on this time. It appears to be a blanket. Thick and warm, something that brings to mind cocoa and mittens.

It of course is not just a blanket. In the middle of the half completed blanket sits an open eye. It is the same pale-grey as the pale woman's own. The same pale-grey as Rían's. The second Rían sees the eye, it is all he can see. He cannot tear his gaze away, cannot bring himself to even blink.

He is gently broken from his daze, the woman rocking in the chair sharply, once, then twice. It breaks his stare, and he blinks startled and drowsy. The pale woman hums, then speaks, "The Eye is oftentimes overwhelming the first time you seek it out. But, you must get used to it. It cannot be ignored, not when it is so ingrained within you."

The pale woman twists the blanket 'round, and begins a new row. The yarn tail tickles Rian's nose as she redjusts, and he sneezes, causing her to chuckle, "You are young yet, I suppose. Still, our line had always carried the Eye's echo, to ignore it, to let you wander blindly, would be beyond foolish."

She takes his hand in her own, it is only now he notices they are scarred simialerly to his own. As though someone had ripped layers upon layers of skin off, even as the cuts healed. She guides him to the hook, and puts her hand over his, guiding his other hand to the working yarn and showing him how to hold it. Then she guides him through half a row, as she continues to speak.

"It is the working, the making, that guides us. Some weave, some knit, others still sew or paint. Whatever the art, the craft, one must make to see. You have yet to find something that calls to you, so for now you shall help me with my making,"

The color of the yarn shifts, changing before Rían's even realized it used to be another color. It shifts again when they reach the end of the row, they flip and continue.

"Look closely, little one. Look closely at the rows, at the pattern we create. Let the current pull you where it wishes, you will not drown with me here."

Rian does as she says. Letting himself get lost in the motions, letting his mind drift. Hands moving independent of thought, moving instinctively. He searches the blanket, looks at the edges where a pattern is forming. It is a rabbit, no a wolf, no, maybe a falcon? It changes as it leaps, and dances and flies along the edge.

The Eye calls to him. Pulls his gaze to it. He stares. It blinks, and when it opens again, it is glowing an eerie silver-blue.

He is lost in a sea of visions.

He tastes, distantly, in the back of his mouth, muddy-water and algae, as they overwhelm him.

A stag lays eyes fixed upon a fawn.

Her spots have begun to fade. Her mother nudges her away. Soon she will be on her own. She must learn how to forage before then. The fawn bleats, hurrying over to the stag. He does not nudge her away. Does not reinforce her mother's teachings.

He pushes himself to his feet. His gruff call must communicate something to the doe, for she huffs and calls to her fawn. Tries to have her come away from the stags side.

The fawn ignores her. She follows after the stag, into the underbrush they go.

They leave bloody hoof-prints in their wake.

A horned beast sits at an empty table.

It looks almost human. He looks almost human. Except for the horns upon his head. Except for the glow of his red eyes, and the steady dripping of blood from his feathered hands.

The beast stares out at the empty table.

A mournful tune plays in the background.

In one of the seats is an urn. A butterfly dances, and spins around its top.

For a moment the seats are all filled with urns.

The image flickers

For a moment the other seats fill with monsters.

A creature with wolves teeth, and too-many eyes, sits to the left.

A beast that near resembles the horned-one, sits to the right, her delicate ears flickering as though hearing something the other's cannot. Her mouth is sown closed, and her eyes are milky-white.

At the other end of the table to the horned-one, sits a pale figure, both familiar and strange. Her teeth are bared in a horrible smile. In her sharp claws sits a needle and thread.

On her left sits a dragon, on her right a hawk. Neither are clear or detailed in the way she is. They're clearly monsters, but they resemble more shadow and shape than anything else.

In one of the middle seats, sits a mirror. It glitters and gleams, and sometimes what it shows is a girl with scales, and sometimes a boy with too-many eyes and hooves for feet.

The image flickers again.

The horned beast again sits alone. A mournful tune plays, and shadows stretch upon a table cloth embroidered with scenes of futures that could be.

A horse whinnies.

Calling to a lone figure on the moors. He is holding a bloodied bridle in one hand, and a dead foal in the other. The man stays still, the dead foal twitches. Its body contorting, its neck snapping back and forth in the mans fist. Its eyes roll, its mouth froths.

The horse calls again, to the man on the moors.

He drops the foal, and rushes the horse. Hand now holding a whip.

The horse only rears, and stomps. Hooves striking where the man once stood, missing him by only a hair.

The foal begins to wake.

It is not what it was before. It is not quite a horse anymore.

It is not quite living anymore.

The man and the horse notice not. They continue their dance, both are bruised and damaged. Both are soaked both in sweat and blood.

Neither see the foal wake. Neither see its body creak and crack and change. Its mouth full of too-sharp teeth, its skin and coat glistening with something unseen. Its soft sounds turned into sweet songs.

Neither see the foal Become.

The horse strikes out, hooves crashing down it catches the man in the head. he in turn cuts the horses side, when he lashes out with his whip.

The waters of the moors begin to rise.

The foal gallops towards Rían, its mouth stretching and stretching and stretching, into a gruesome, foaming, grin.

And the waters pull him under.

The taste of salt mixes with the taste of pond-scum, and Rían wakes.

***

Rían splutters, and spits.

His eyes are still tightly closed, his nose is all stuffy and he can taste pond water. He's gasping hysterically. True full on sobbing. He's not fully awake, but the more he cries, the more he panics, the more the person holding him clings.

They are singing, a song he knows.

"Are you going to Scarborough fair—"

The voice is deep, the song a little rough around the edges. It's nice all the same, soothing in a way he can't remember feeling since well— well since maybe ever.

"Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme—"

His breath slows, his tears calm and he sniffles wiping his nose on the shoulder of whoever is holding him. That gets a small flinch, but they continue to sing, continue to rock him and hold him close.

"It's okay, I'm here," The person, Will, says. It rumbles in his chest, and reminds Rían of a wolf's low growl. Its that thought oddly that calms him the most. His body goes limp, and he lets Will hold him, as he shudders and hiccups. He feels his lips still moving, still muttering words without much thought, but it's calmer now.

"I'm here," Will repeats, steady and a little strained, "Dad's here."

Rían feels himself stiffen, face flushing as he realizes what he's been sobbing out.

He's been crying for Will. Except he didn't call Will, Will. He called him daíd. He'd been speaking half-gaelic and half-english when he'd woken up. A leftover from Aisling, who'd grown up speaking Irish-Gaelic and english both.

He'd been drowning, in his dream. He was scared, had been so panicked, that he had called for the one person he knew would help him. That would save him. He'd called for Will. Except he called him dad, the title he's only thought about calling Will before. He knew Will would be okay with it. But, calling him dad would make it real.

Would make this real.

Rían hadn't wanted it to be real. Didn't want Aisling to be gone. Didn't want mommy Marie to care so little. Didn't want to face the truth.

That he was dead. He had drowned too. Aisling had died. And so had he. The only difference is Rían came back.

She hadn't.

He hiccups again, feeling tears building in his lashes, as he blinks and blinks trying to wick them away.

Rían came back. He's alive. He survived

That's the issue, he knows. The dead don't just come back to life. Not without consequences. Rían may now live, but he died in that pond. And whatever parts of him managed to crawl back out, whatever pieces that he kept in this new body, in this new life he'd stolen.

T̴̢̨̛͙͕͈̖̱̺̜̱̹̗̞̉̓͊̾̒̾̀̈́̄̓̈́́̊̏̅̐̽̽̌̔̑̿͗̽͑͌͋͆̀̆́̿̄̂͛͆̾͊̑̌̓͛̇͘h̵̼̤͙̝̲͙̩͙̱̜͈̫̪̥͈͙̻̖͓̯̣͓̯͕͕͙̯̆͛͌́͗̒͒̊̿̂͂͊̈̀͊̊̄͝͠ͅe̸̢̡̡̧̛̛͕̠̻̪̞̹̹͙̠͖͇̫̦̺͉̟̦̩̻̻̤͙̙̦͆́̀̐̊̔͑̆̔̀̏̆͐̄̿͌̋͊̊̏̋̀̇̚͜͝͠y̸̧̡̧̲̥͎̯̹̝͎͎͓͈͇̗̥̬͔̣̹̗̟̬͕̪̗̥͔͎̘̳̣̻̩̻̥͙̭̩̓̏̉͛̋̔̓̆̒͒̍̈̋̐̒̓͑̄̈́̎̇̇̃͌̆͐̏́̆̕̕͜͜͝͝͠͠ͅ ̵̨̢̩̰̱̙̣̬̳̠̪̥̺̟͉̻̱̲̱̖̲̘̼̖̗̭͇̹͓̊͋̐̅̔͜ͅͅw̵͖̟̍͆͌͆̎͐̀̄̒̏͆͋͋̾́̎̊̆̐̍̀̄͝͝͝͝e̸̡̢̛̛̩̭̭͎͎̞͍̟͎̗̪̤̙̫̻̦̲̟̪̪̭̰̅̈̊̊̾́̂̑͛̐̎̀̔͌͐̿̏̉́̀̽̈́̊̋̃͛̾͐̃̊̄̚͝͝r̷̢̛̜̈͂́̈̆̽̔̊̽͂̅̓̆̌̏̎͂̋̊̌̕̕͝e̸̡̡̢̡̨̲̺̻̻̪̮̜̞͇̱̙̤̱̲̥̣̫̘̜̱͔̳͙̯͙͈̣̙̹̟̞͕̘̮͖͓̘̜̱͒̈̆̔͗̃̈̂́͐̾͝͠͝ͅ ̵̣͗͛̿̓̅̈́̾̔͋̈̐̀̅͛̈́̍̈́̾̇́͛̊̀̅́͌̃̐̉͂̊̃̆͗͐̓͂̉̇̍͋̈́͐͘̚͠W̷̨̢̛̟̖̘̠̟͈̙̳̯̥̣̯̻̼̲͓͖͈̑̌̏͑̀̊̾̽̑̔̑̀̀̓͋͛͐̍͆͛͗̃̈́̾̎̀̀̇͐̂̑̕͘͠͠Ŗ̶̨̨̧̢̢̧̧̗̝̘̱͚̝̜̪̱̯͕̪̞̥̦̬̺̤̟̠̟̺̭͔͕͕͎̘̱̠̖̟̩̱͈̺̣͗̂̄̏̈̒͒̍̌͆̍̆̊̆͌̓͋̍͂́̾͊̌̉́͘̕̕̕͜͝͝͝Ơ̴̢̨̧̧̭̙̜̳̜̺̺̹͖͈͍̠̥̮̩̯͈̳̙̘͖̳̭̲͍̲͇̟̝͍͓̣̗͍͓̞̑͒̀̅̓̆̓̉̊͂͐̀̏̅͗͂͆͘̚̚N̸̢̧̢̖̤̭̥̥̺͕̣̫̠̬̘̭̲̟̥͍͈̗̘̬͈͔̪̟͍̺̯̦̲͕͔͈͔̂͐͆̐̑̂̊̀̏̈͝ͅͅG̸̡̛̛̬̖͖͚̬̱̝̼̭̦̙̼̘̘̳͎͓̬̙̦͉̬̝̱̦̖̜̤̼͔̖̬̰̗̱̭͎̭̎̈́͂̽̈́́̏̈́̂̊͑̏̐̈̔̀͑͊̈́̃̀̾̒͂̈̊̈́̃̇̈́͗̓͑̀̇͑͒͗̍͐̆̚͘̕̕͠ͅ.̷̡̢̨̲̥̩̞̼̰̜̜̣̗̪̼͍̺͚̭̭͎̬̬̺͉͇͔͖̉̋̓͆̍͌̾͂͛̋͜ͅ

It's okay," Will says again, for a different reason this time, Rían knew, "It's okay, go ahead kid. I've got you, I won't be upset. Go ahead and cry."

Rían buries his head deeper into his dad's shoulder and near-screams. Grief pours from him. Fear pours from him. Tears soak Will's shirt.

Will holds him, rocks him, glares at the nosy spectator's lingering stares. He stands in a near-empty airport, at 1:19 in the morning, with luggage at his feet and rocks his crying son.

'Everything is going to be okay,' He reassures himself, 'Everything is going to be okay, now.'

***

A Pale Woman frowns.

She picks at a snarl in her weaving, the more she picks the more it unravels. The more it unravels the more clear it becomes. There is trickery at play.

Someone, something, has caught the scent.

She pulls and a whole section falls into raw thread, crumbling in her hands.

Her frown deepens, she rises from her chair heading towards an old pewter kettle. She picks out what she'll need. She crumbles the leaves, throws in the crow-beaks, and pours the water in to cover it all.

She hangs above the hearth, and watches the walls. They are filled with visions she hasn't Seen. Filled with things she did not predict.

There is a foul creature at play here.

For in all the visions, it features, a foal. Or what was once a foal. It is now a dead thing. A thing that should not still be.

The kettle whistles, a shrieking, screaming sound.

She pours it out, and four crow's beaks sit at the bottom.

It tastes of belladonna and mulberry. The beaks whisper at first, but once the water is gone, they shout.

"BEWARE," They cry. "BEWARE THAT WHICH LIES BENEATH."

The images upon her walls change, spinning by faster, and faster. Until it is not but a blur. Until all there is, is a single dark eye staring at her.

"BEWARE! BEWARE! IT IS AWAKE!"

The crow's beaks scream, and then shatter.

The Pale Woman feels a shiver down her spine.

Now, the trouble has truly begun.

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Chapter Text

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***

Rían doesn't speak during the drive.

Really he doesn't speak after the whole 'breakdown in the middle of the airport' thing. His cheeks burn, and for all Will's emotions read assuring and comforting, Rían can't bring himself to meet the man's eyes. Especially not after calling him dad. God, Rían can feel his flush grow worse at just the mere remembrance of doing that. And then crying, and continuing to refer to Will as, as— well as that title. That's more than embarrassing, that's mortifying.

For all Rían's, Aisling's, body is eight-years-old, his mind shouldn't be. He lived for twenty years, give or take a few years, and that should transfer over. But, seemingly not. His mind and emotions feel unsteady and strange, and not for the first time, Rían finds himself frustrated with his new life, with the fact that he's stuck in the body of a child. That he is a child.

Rían keeps his gaze fixed on the forest rushing by, outside his window. He doesn't speak. He doesn't turn and glance at Will, instead he keeps his mind and eyes on the scenery. Forcing himself to try and let go of his mortification before they reach Wolf Trap.

It takes another few tries and a good twenty-minutes before he's successful. But, he does manage to wrangle his mind and emotions into something resembling order, before they pull up to the gravel driveway of Rían's new home.

Will—who had let him lick his wounded pride, and scrub his embarrassment and tear-stained cheeks without comment— gets out of the car first. He begins to unload their luggage, as Rían unbuckles from the backseat and wrestles himself into his backpack's straps. He stumbles slightly as he climbs out of the car. He sniffs, and rubs his sweatshirt sleeve over his nose and eyes one last time, making sure he's erased any evidence of tears and snot before they greet Will's neighbor.

While Will wrangles the luggage, Rían takes a moment to study his new home. It's different than any home he's ever stayed in before. It's two stories for one. Rían's only ever lived or stayed in apartments or little one story homes. Homes like Marie's, and Brid's. Homes that were built boxy and tight-quartered. Will's home was larger—sprawling rather than sinking and shrinking in on itself with wear and age. It had a wrap-around porch and large windows, that made the whole house feel more home-y, more than than Brid's or Marie's ever had even with its size.

There was excited yipping and barking coming from behind the front door. Rían eyed where the noise coming from cautiously. He didn't have the best expirence with pets in general. At least not while he had existed in the body of Aisling. Dogs, cats, birds, even reptiles and amphibians all seemed unnerved by them, that was to say he and Aisling, no matter what they did. In time Aisling, and Rían by extension, had learned to keep their distance. Oddly enough, wild animals didn't seem to have the same issue. If anything it was the opposite, they'd had squirrels, skunks, even a bear cub, approach them and be as comfortable with them as they would be with another of their own species.

It had in the end, just been one more oddity that set them apart from everyone else. Another thing that pointed to them being a changeling child, being devil-spawn, inhuman and other in a way that was unforgivable in the eyes of the people of their hometown.

Rían shook off such thoughts. They wouldn't do him any good. He would just have to hope that Will's dogs wouldn't be put off by his presence. Or that maybe they might even be used to it, that he felt similar to Will.

Will gave Rían a reassuring smile as he passed where Rían was standing, frozen and hesitant. Will didn't pause, he just forged forwards calling out a greeting to both the figure that Rían hadn't noticed on the porch, and the pack of dogs that came flooding out of the front door when it was opened by the aforementioned person on the porch. He dropped the suitcases by the steps leading up to the porch, and kneeled laughing, as excited woofs and panting filled the quiet afternoon air. The flood of dogs surrounded Will, licking at his hands and face, circling around and jumping up and down. All eager to see and scent their master after he'd been gone for so long.

Rían continued to stand awkwardly by the car, unsure of what to do next. Did he greet the dogs? The neighbor? Or did he go and stand by the luggage waiting for Will to do the introducing? Rían wasn't used to interacting with people outside of manipulations and mind-games. Or more specifically, Rían wasn't used to interacting with people as an eight-year-old, outside of manipulations and mind-games. He had barely been out of the hospital before they flew out, and he didn't interact with anyone outside of Will on a regular basis that didn't think of him as the 'poor abused little boy from that murder case'. He was treading new territory. Unsure of the next move to make. Unsure if he was allowed to behave as he had in the hospital. If he was to treat the neighbor as he had the hospital staff, or the lawyers and social workers, or even the FBI. This wasn't Rían's turf anymore, it was Will's. And that meant rules Rían didn't yet know.

Still embarrassed from his earlier slip-up, and in general wary, Rían chose to stay by the car. Hands on his backpack straps, and shifting from foot-to-foot. His gaze darted around, as he tried to avoid accidental eye-contact with Will's—and he supposed his too, now—neighbor.

They were a tall person. Someone with willow-y limbs and long features. Long arms and legs, long face and hair. It was truly the best description one could give. That single word. Long. They were with more examination though, softer than they first appeared. They had large brown eyes, and light blond-hair that fell sleekly to their jaw. They wore an overly-large pale-coloured sweater, and what might have been a skirt, or may have just been wide-legged pants. All in all, they gave off the feeling and appearance of some elfin creature that had stepped out of the pages of a book and into the real-world, but who hadn't quite gotten the hang of blending in yet.

Rían could feel their eyes burrowing into him, but he kept his gaze elsewhere, sneaking glances only when their attention was on Will. He felt unnerved by this stranger.

He wouldn't say it was the same feeling he had gotten from the m̷̡͚̞͚͇͈͇̬̳̱̝͙̩̳͈̿̿̉̈́̈́̓̇̉̑͐̓̔̑̒u̴̞͆̔͆́͆̑̐͠r̶̝̦̯̉͒d̵̡̧̨͎̙͓̺̣̔̽̆̋̆̃̈́̽͆̉e̴͔̝͑̀̐̀̊́́͑ṟ̴͎͗̾͆̇̍̅ē̸̛͓̝̯͔̠̏̈́̎̀̽͐̚̚r̵͇̟̖͕̒. It was a bit closer to the feeling that his… hallucinations had inspired. But not quite.

In truth the closest feeling that Rían could compare it too, was the feeling Will gave off. Rían was sure that it wasn't intentional on Will's part. In fact Rían was almost one-hundred-percent certain that Will didn't even realize that he unnerved people. Or at least that he unnerved them when he was trying so hard not to. Will gave off the same feeling that Rían always had. That Aisling had.

He was a wolf among sheepdogs. A danger to the flock. Even though he'd been raised amongst them. It wasn't intentional. It wasn't meant to cause alarm. It was simply part of the wolf's nature.

Rían squared his shoulders and finally looked over, eyes meeting his new neighbors for the first time. For a moment everything seemed as it always had.

Then the world slipped sideways.

It was like seeing a curtain at a theater move while a play was being preformed. It was like watching a painting dissolve. Like watching a VHS-tape stutter into static and repeating images.

For a moment the person in front of Rían's eyes was the one he'd been stealing glances at, then they weren't. Or maybe they still were. After all it wasn't like the image disappeared necessarily. More that it slipped and slid away. Dripped down, and uncovered enough of what lay below for Rían to See. Really truly See.

They towered. They had been tall in their false skin, but behind the veil, beyond what mortal eyes could comprehend, they towered. At least nine feet tall, perhaps more. They were stooped over so as to not hit the roof of the porch, and their sharp amber eyes were fixed on Rían's own. Their hands ended in talons, and what had once been blond hair looked more like feathers now. Their mouth stretched impossibly wide across their sharp featured face, and when they smiled it revealed teeth like that of a lamprey's.

Rían could feel the flush drain from his face, as all the blood in his body rushed down to his feet and urged him to run. He was face to face with a creature of hunger, of blood, of flesh and rot and ageless-decay. The sweet smell of rotting fruit carried on the breeze, mixing with the scent of old blood. Both, Rían knew, coming from the—being—on the porch.

He shivered and backed up, until his backpack hit the car door with a soft thunk.

Will turned towards him at the sound, his easy going smile falling off his face as he caught sight of Rían's trembling form. "You okay there, kid?" He asked, brows furrowing into that now familiar expression of stress and worry.

Rían didn't answer. He just stood staring, unblinking at the thing on the porch. He knew, somehow, that this thing hadn't always been Will's neighbor. Or maybe, more specifically, Rían knew this thing, this creature on the porch, had replaced Will's once neighbor. Had eaten them. From the smell of decay, and the spots of drying and fresh blood on their pale robes, it had been years. Years since the person Will lived next door to had been consumed, and replaced with this pale facsimile of a clone. Rían stared. And the longer he stared the more he saw.

The clearer the creaking of too-old bones became. The truer the spinning smile grew. The louder the whispers of the unsettled dead became.

Rían didn't know how long he stood, trembling and dry-eyed, unable to tear his gaze from the terrible being on Will's porch. All he knew was that one moment he and the creature were caught in a contest of wills, and the next, his dad, Will was placing a hand on his shoulder and giving him a slight shake.

"Are you okay kiddo?" Will asked again, his hazel eyes catching Rían's and holding, "You stopped breathing there for a moment, scared the shit out of me."

Rían blinked. And the world righted itself once more.

Rían sucked in a breath, and blinked again, and again, only now registering how dry his eyes were. How itchy they felt. The more he blinked the more the memory of what he'd seen faded, as though his brain was a whiteboard being cleared at the end of a class. He tried to dig in. Tried to hold fast to the moments, that had just seconds ago taken place. But the more he tried, that more the recollection of what he'd just seen slipped. The more his knowledge blurred and twisted, burrowing into a place in his mind that only dreaming would allow him to access.

Will shook him lightly again. His frown was deeper, and this close to him, Rían could see the evidence of sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days in the dark bags under his eyes, and the start of well-worn creases in his forehead.

The twisting, sickly feeling of guilt began to twine itself around Rían's ribs. It was his fault Will wasn't sleeping. It was his fault that the man couldn't even get five minutes to reunite with his dogs. It was Rían's fucking fault that Will had to leave them in the first place. If he had just stayed alert, if he'd just—

Will called his name, and Rían forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. Regret and guilt could be dealt with later. Fear could be dealt with later. For now, Rían bundled it up and tucked it down, far, far down. Beneath even his schemes. Locked in the same little box, that he'd locked his feelings away in when he woke up.

He forced himself into calm. Looked right into Will's eyes, and then lied, "I'm okay, just a little nervous about meeting the dogs. I've never had pets before."

Will studied his features looking for the lie. Searching for whatever Rían wasn't saying. After a minute he relaxed, and gave Rían a small, tired smile. "I'll make sure they're all on their best behavior, okay?"

Rían gave a small nod, "Okay."

Will gave him one more once-over then turned back to the patiently waiting pack of dogs. He was saying something. Barking out orders of some kind. But, Rían's attention wasn't on that it was on Will's neighbor. Or rather, the thing that ate Will's neighbor. They were studying him in turn, though they seemed less wary of him then he was of them.

They gave him a small wave, and a sickly-sweet smile but otherwise made no moves to introduce themselves, or get any closer to Rían, Will, and the pack. Rían shrugged off his discomfort, they weren't going to hurt him. He knew that already, unlike the F̸̛͎̝̬̖ô̸̢̠͛̕x̷̡̏̓͌, they didn't radiate a desire to harm, to hunt. They were clearly still dangerous. Clearly still a killer of some sort. But, they didn't intend to harm Will, or Rían. And they'd had ample opportunity to harm the dogs, in the weeks they'd spent watching them.

Rían had never claimed to be a saint—and for all that Will might not see the hallucinations he still had empathy too, he probably had some idea of the sort of monster that he called a neighbor— so for as long as they didn't harm him and his, he had no issue with them. Well, none outside the hallucination they'd induced with their presence that was.

He turned his attention back to Will and the dogs. He hadn't been around a lot of animals, not in his previous life, nor since he'd inherited Aisling's body. In his first life he'd only just gotten a cat when he died. He did hope someone had checked up and taken care of her. He'd not really had the income for most of his first life to afford to care for anything other than himself. But, for all his inexperience he could tell the dogs were well behaved, well-trained. Will was being cautious, maybe even overly-so, but with Rían's half-lie and odd behavior it made sense. Will was running his hands over fluffy heads, and giving quiet but strict orders, each of the dogs sitting one-by-one as he pet them and gave his commands. He kept glancing over at Rían worriedly. Checking to see if Rían was still breathing.

Rían takes a breath, forces himself to relax his tense shoulders, and walks forward to greet Will's pack.

***

Rían runs his hands over his new bed-sheets.

They're not frog-covered. The walls of his new room aren't purple. There's more than window in his new room. Neither are bay-windows. Neither are big enough for anything more than a small potted-plant to sit upon the window-sill. The curtains are grey and thick. They don't resemble the thin see-through white curtains of Aisling's room at all. The only thing to remain of Aisling in this new space is him. Him and the Butterfly Box.

He turns to his backpack, set beside him on his new race-car bed sheets. The sound of the zipper is loud in the quiet of his new room. The only other sound is the soft background hum of the fan plugged in the corner of the room. When Rían open's his backpack, the first thing he draws out is Simmons placing them in a place of importance, snuggled between the two fluffy pillows on the bed, and facing the door. They'll be the first thing people see when they enter. The next thing appears at first to be a bundle of wadded up shirts. As Rían unravels the mess, however, it reveals the truth. In the middle of the shirt-padding is the Butterfly Box.

It looks the same as it did when it had arrived at the hospital. Smooth-wood, painted by an unpracticed hand. Patterns of skulls and butterflies in the unpainted wood, surprisingly sharp in their detail, small and painted by a small child as they were. Rían unzips the front pocket of his backpack.

He hasn't checked the inside of the Butterfly Box. Hasn't run his fingers over smooth bleached bone in weeks. Hasn't softly brushed the still wings of a butterfly's body. Or held to the light and admired a beetle-shell's colorful sheen. There's been too many people. Even Will isn't permitted to see what's inside the Butterfly Box. It's theirs. His and Aisling's alone. It has everything important to them. All of their treasures. Not just bones, butterflies and beetles. It has shiny rocks, bits of smoothed and polished glass. It even has the little money that Aisling had managed to squirrel away.

As he lifts the key from the front pocket of his bag and prepares to unlock their Box, he can't help but glance at the door. Nervous, even now. The door is shut, but unlocked. Will promised he wouldn't come in without permission, at least not while Rían is okay. If he's hurt or distressed, then Will says his presence in nonnegotiable.

Which, fair enough. If Will was the one who'd been experiencing health issues and strange dreams Rían would set the same boundary. He scowls as he realizes that if he's remembering correctly, Rían might have to set the same boundary. He can't fully remember, can't quite recall the exact details, but he thinks that there was something about Will being sick, in the TV show. He can't say for certain. Nor can he say if it's already started, but it's something to keep an eye out for. After all, Will is under Rían's protection now. Just like how Rían is under Will's. It's part of the deal they made. And a illness would threaten not only Will's well-being, but the dogs.

Rían likes the dogs. They're well-behaved, well-trained. But more than that, they like him. They like him. He'd only really had his cat as an example of a pet before— and for all Rían loved his cat and he was sure she loved him too, in her own way—and she'd just been more aloof. It wasn't to say she wasn't affectionate at all, but the whole reason Rían had picked her out at the shelter had been her more stereotypical 'cat-like' demeanor. It had suited him, because he could be just as aloof. The two of them could sit in the same, or separate rooms, and if one of them needed affection or attention they would simply go and sit next to the other. It had worked well. Until he'd died, he supposed.

All to say, Rían had never experienced the way the dogs acted towards him. They seemed to think of him as a puppy. A new stray brought home by Will. They weren't exactly wrong. In fact technically, they were basically right on the money. Rían even had the guardianship papers to prove his new status. But because of that, he wasn't sure they realized that he could take care of himself. The dogs had fawned over him from the moment they were introduced. Licks were frequent, pets demanded. They followed him everywhere. One of the dogs was a German-Shepard mix and had even taken to grabbing his sleeve and pulling him back to the house, when he felt Rían had wandered too far from either it or the pack. It felt a little like having a group of very dedicated and overprotective babysitters. It was nice. In an odd sort of way, that Rían didn't like to examine too closely.

He'd gotten off track, he realized, when his hands—which had been rubbing back and forth over the painted surface of the Box— brushed againt the cool metal of the latch and lock, shocking him back into reality. He inserted the key and unlocked the Box for the first time in weeks. Months really, now that he thought about it. It had taken nearly a month for him to be discharged from the hospital, and another two weeks to get all the legal stuff sorted for them to fly home. Now he'd been here for another three weeks, but it hadn't right to unpack his stuff until now.

He'd had to make sure it was okay. That Will wouldn't end up seeing the real him and deciding that it was too much work. That the dogs didn't hate him. Because Rían knew that given the choice between him or the dogs, Will wouldn't choose him. He might say he would. He might even believe it, but Rían knew better. The dogs were Will's family. Rían was an unforeseen complication that Will was making the best of.

So he'd waited. He took out Simmons every night, and had put him back into the backpack every morning. And if Will had thought it odd how he carried around his backpack everywhere he hadn't said anything. Rían's things were safe and sound, unable to be left behind even if the worst did happen. It had been weeks though. Weeks of waiting. Weeks of watching. And Rían was now reasonably sure that Will wasn't going to get rid of him. Will had even put up with all of Rían's weird dreams and his hallucinations. Not that Will knew about the second necessarily, but he did know about the freezing episodes. Rían, when he'd hallucinate, would freeze up like a deer-in-headlights. Except worse. He could be there for hours if uninterrupted, Aisling had done so before, and sometimes if it was particularly bad he would stop breathing for spurts of time. Never too much time. Never so much as to cause real problems, just enough that sometimes he would faint.

That was always enough to break him out of his episodes, and had often been what had broken Aisling out of hers. But, that freaked Will out enough to take him to the ER. The doctors there had recommended some tests, checked said nothing physical was wrong with him, and strongly suggested that Will put him in therapy. Their only other advice was to never leave him alone. Will had not been happy with their lack of solutions, but he'd made sure after that to always have either him or one of the dogs nearby, or in the same room as Rían. Even now one of the dogs, probably Jack the German-Shepherd mix, was sitting out in the hall. Rían could see their shadow from underneath the door.

Because of both his episodes, and the wariness of settling in to a new place, a new situation, Rían hadn't taken out the Butterfly Box until now. Finally alone, finally relaxed enough to bring it out of his backpack, Rían opened it and looked over it's contents.

He pulled out the fox skull first. Aisling had found it last spring. It was clearly from a young fox. One not yet fully grown. And Aisling had only found the upper part of the skull, the lower jaw had been detached at some point and gotten lost. Still it was the biggest piece in their collection. Rían rotated it. Looking it over from all angles. He ran his fingertips over the sharp teeth, and checked for any new cracks or damage. He lifted it above his head, and peered into the empty cavity where its brain had once sat, making sure nothing had gotten lodged in it since the last time they'd taken it out. It appeared to be fine. So he set it gently on the bed beside him, and got back to work. Rían repeated the process with all of the treasures in the Box. He would inspect them, admire them, make sure they were separate from each other, and then once he was satisfied with his work, set them on the bed beside him in neat little rows, sorted by category.

Skulls sat in one row. It was the smallest. Below them sat bones, that one had more, sitting more in the mid-sized range of piles of thing. The money was the second largest pile, with Rían having dug through his backpack and added his hospital-hoard to it, and it sat to the side of the bone row. Next was shiny rocks and/or polished and smoothed glass. That pile too sat in the mid-range, having to itself around twenty-or-so members. The last two piles were of moths and butterflies, the largest of the piles by far. And beetles, the second smallest.

That was unsurprising. Aisling had only learned how to clean and prepare beetles for storage in the last year. Before that Marie would make Aisling purge her beetles every week, when the smell became unbearable, and the beetles themselves were little more than exoskeletons. The smell would have cleared on its own eventually. With a few more weeks it would barely smell at all. But, Marie had hated the stench, and thus the beetles were purged weekly, until Aisling had learned how to both hide, and clean the beetles. Persevering them forever in their Box.

Rían took a minute to admire his, hoard, stuff. Then, he began the arduous process of putting them all back into the Box. This time resorted and re-maneuvered. It took a while. By the time Rían had finished the sun was starting to set, which meant it was nearly time for dinner. He wrapped the t-shirts back around the Butterfly Box, and hid the key back in the front pocket in the hole where a seam had ripped.

Then he carefully put his backpack on the ground next to his new bed, and took a step back heart pounding. For a moment he stood still. His arms almost ached with the desire to rush over and throw Simmons into the bag, and then to sling it over his shoulders. But, he couldn't. He'd told himself that he would give himself time. He'd had that time. He had to leave the bag here. Had to trust Will. He'd done it before, he would do it again. Even if it was harder here, in Will's territory. In a place where if something went wrong Rían wouldn't know where to go, where to run and hide. He swallowed the lump of anixety and frustration in his throat, and wiped his sweaty hands on the sides of his jeans. He forced himself to turn around and head towards the door.

He could do this. He reached for the handle and hesitated. The sound of snuffling and nails on hardwood floor came from behind the door. Jack was waiting. Rían closed his eyes took a deep breath and opened the door.

***

She'd never seen anything like it.

She'd worked homicide for nearly fifteen years, and still. It was a blood-bath. Twenty dead, at least. The forensics team kept finding pieces of new victims as they processed the scene, and she wasn't foolish or green enough to think twenty would be the magic number. It'd probably end up being closer to fifty just looking at the crime scene.

A crow cawed and dove for the evidence. One of the rookies cursed and swatted at it. She just stood smoking her cig and watched, the crows were evidence too, technically, they'd most likely eaten at least some of their scene before they'd gotten there.

And what a scene it was.

It was a painting. One of the forensic team had recognized it. 'Nāve' or 'Death' by Janis Rozentāls. It was done completely in bone, sinew, hair, and blood. Seventy finger-bones made up the baby's swaddle alone. The grass was human hair. Death's cloak was done in skull fragments. The mother's skirt had been built almost entirely of a whole nervous system, dissected and then re-put back together into shape. He bright cheeks had been delicatlly blended out, making her look almost alive. If the paint used had been anything other than blood, it would have been beautiful. As it was it was a cruel sort of ironic. A joke told by a madman, with a punchline as cruel as the deed itself.

A few of greener guys on the case had, had to leave. They'd gotten sick at the sight. Hell, some of the veterans had been ill at the sight of a painting made up of victims, glued to the side of a morgue. It was a hell of a statement on death. It was a fucking nightmare of a crime scene, and a terror of a case.

She was rarely glad when the FBI took over cases. But, she though this one was going to be an exception. She didn't want to deal with this. Shit, she didn't want to think about it for much longer. As it was it was going to give her fucking nightmares for weeks. It would probably convince some of the rookies to quit. It still had yet to be officially decided. But, she was almost certain the precinct would bring in the FBI. And she was even more sure that they'd hand the case fully to them. Wash their hands of this shitshow of a case. The FBI took all the crazy ones anyway.

She took another puff, held it for a moment, and then blew it out. She caught a glimpse of a camera flash, and red-hair out of the corner of her eye. There wasn't supposed to be any media on site. However, this case wasn't her goddamn problem. At least not for much longer. So instead of trying to deal with whatever fucking 'true-crime enthusiast' had snuck past the police tape, and managed to snag a couple pics, she put out her cig and sighed heading back in the direction of the beginning of the cord-off.

She needed to schedule an appointment with her therapist. Thank god, Doctor Lecter had such flexable hours, and the paitence of a saint. She was so glad he'd been reccomended to her.

Otherwise she's sure she would've snapped by now.

***~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~***