Petit Four
At first all he could do was understand his surroundings and how they related to him. It was cold and he was wet, from the snow in his hair and the sweat under his shirt and jacket. The air around him erupted in milky clouds as he walked along the street, away from his hastily parked car, under the sallow glow of the street lamps. The condensation fell against his cheeks as he hurried through it. His legs felt oddly weak as he ascended the stairs and his fingers were numb when he reached out to press the doorbell. The action seemed like a formality or a practiced movement, considering he simply entered without waiting. He found himself subconsciously jiggling on his feet as he walked back and forth to keep the blood flowing in his body, keep his temperature up, removing his damp coat and barely noticing the warmth of the indoors as he waited. He was so busy focusing on not thinking about the problem that it was almost a surprise to him when the man he'd summoned walked around the corner. By the look on Dr. Lecter's face Will wasn't the only one feeling surprise.
"I kissed Alana Bloom," he said as if it were a perfect explanation as he walked inside, Lecter standing back to allow him entrance, patting down his coat with a strict and violent motion before throwing it onto a nearby chair; it seemed pointless to feel the small start of embarrassment that had welled up as the cold had melted away, realising that he had essentially barged in uninvited. As such, he continued inside and swallowed down the feeling, replacing it with purpose.
"Well," he heard Lecter say from behind him as he kept walking, "come in."
The words would have to offer the small consolation that Will was beginning to think he didn't deserve from Hannibal Lecter. He took it nonetheless. On entering the dining room Will's bare forearms prickled at the cold he had only just escaped. He looked at the open patio door and it at once confused and irritated him. The small patch of guilt, almost subsumed by his rising need to talk to a friend, just talk, was spilt again.
"You have a guest?" he asked, hoping the answer would be no.
"Colleague," Lecter corrected him, walking forwards to close the door smartly but with no real hurry, "you just missed him."
The words didn't seem to offer much of an excuse for Will's actions, but the guilt was drying up as the familiar setting calmed him and his need was greater, as far as he was concerned in that moment, than Hannibal Lecter's dislike of rudeness, "Didn't finish his dinner," Will observed, mainly just for something to say.
"An urgent call of some sort," Lecter continued to explain, smoothing down his well fit suit as he turned back to face him, "he had to leave suddenly." He spared Will a short glance before walking along the other side of the table, the soft light of the dining room setting him in an oddly harsh glow, "this benefits you, because I have desert for two."
There had been a sudden need to decline the offer, so much so that he even opened his mouth, 'I don't like desert' he would have said, if he hadn't felt it would only compound his rudeness to do so. You're already barging in on his evening, he thought, and the interrupted host only offers consolation. Will closed his mouth and smiled in a not wholly constructive manner as he followed the man to the kitchen. His thoughts were beginning to sound an awful lot like Hannibal's words these days. It was an oddly comforting thought to cling to as his mind raced, something substantial and anchoring; 'bedrock' as Jack Crawford put it.
Will walked into the kitchen with his arms folded and the rich smell of sweetness pouring from the open, humming oven as a dish of two exquisitely formed puddings of some sort (Will would never pretend to be as knowledgeable about food as Lecter was) were removed.
"Tell," Lecter said clinically as he placed the puddings onto the counter, "what was Alana's reaction?"
Will sighed as he spoke, knowing that even as he said the words "That she wouldn't be good for me and I wouldn't be good for her," that Lecter was probably expecting them. Will had expected them when Alana said them in his small living room next to the hole he'd dug into the wall, the hole that only seemed like a realisation of his mental state more than a real need to find the imaginary animal hiding there. He hadn't been surprised by her reaction to his kissing her, only more confused as to why she had let him in the first place.
"I don't disagree," Lecter said as he plated up the delicacies, entirely focused on keeping the unstable puddings upright as he transferred them to two already embellished plates, "she would have an obligation to her field of study to observe you, and you would resent her for it."
"I know," Will said with an oddly accepting tone of defeat, shrugging his shoulders lightly.
"Wondering then," Lecter continued without missing a beat, momentarily breaking his concentration on the pudding in order to glance at Will; the same focus was still there, however, and Will felt the need to cover his reaction to that sharpness by looking away, "why you kissed her, and felt compelled to drive an hour in the snow to tell me about it."
It was only as he stood there, watching Lecter close the oven and open the fridge, that he realised he'd never even asked himself that question. He'd been allowing the other, why did you kiss her, why did you, why did she let you, why, to roll around in his head over and over as he'd pressed his foot to the accelerator just enough and yet not too much to allow the car to slip on the impacted snow. Why I'm here is not important right now, Will told himself, anyway I don't have that many friends to turn to. Another thought he didn't wish to dwell on.
"Well, I wanted to kiss her since I met her," Will said, feeling the truth spill off of him like a weight from his shoulders, "she's very kissable."
He felt his lips turn up into a smile at his own words, unable to stop himself. The bright light from the fridge silhouetted Lecter's face until he closed it, allowing Will to see a returned smile upon normally stoic lips. It always felt like a triumph of sorts for Will, mainly subconscious, when Lecter smiled, he did it so rarely. Will tried to read the link between his curved lips and his eyes but the connection seemed broken somehow. Lips said one thing, eyes said another, but Will couldn't truly put the two together, like puzzle pieces that refused to fit. He shook the thought off. Can't turn it off for a second, can you, he thought, stop reading your friends and just listen.
"You waited a long time," Hannibal said, scooping something white and creamy from a bowl in his hand onto the plates, "which suggests you were kissing her for a reason, in addition to wanting to."
Could he truly blame himself for reading Lecter when Lecter was obviously reading him like an open book? Will was tempted to clam up, tempted to lie, divert, hide, but in truth he knew that it wouldn't make any difference. Lecter had already sensed something underlying and it would be foolish to try and subvert him. The man was too clever for that, Will knew by experience. He licked his lips and knew that his expression was giving him away from the small glint in Lecter's eyes as he continued to prepare the food; the same triumph Will knew he felt when he knew he had influenced the man in some way.
"I heard an animal trapped in my chimney," he said, afraid of his own words; he stumbled over completing the sentence, unable to stop the vulnerability seeping out, "uhm, broke through the wall to get it out, didn't find anything inside. Alana showed up, she looked at me...maybe her face changed, I don't know but she knew," take a breath, tell him, just tell him; understand me his words pleaded, help me.
"Knew what, Will?" Lecter kept his focus on his task, his tone even and professional, something that made Will feel simultaneously uncomfortable and safe. There was an odd pitch in his stomach at the sound but Will fought it down as nerves, as fear of saying the words aloud. Saying them made them true.
"There was no animal in the chimney," he said slowly, feeling as if the words were being forced from his mouth, "it was only in my head."
His mind felt like the flakes of chocolate that Lecter was lovingly placing atop his desert; shredded and liable to melt at the slightest pressure. He found he had unconsciously shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. The reflective surfaces of the kitchen were bright and clean, sharp lines and angles, perfect delineations between their respective realities. In opposition to that mocking display Will felt as if all his realities were blurring together, like running water seeping into a stream that ran into a river that flowed into the ocean. Where did one end and the other begin? He thought he heard the tap, tap, tap of dripping water as he walked but knew, he knew somewhere in his mind, that it was only his shoes against the floor as he slowly approached the counter where Lecter stirred a dark sauce with a large spoon.
"I sleepwalk, I get headaches, I am hearing things," he said. Drip drip drip, the sound spoke to him and Will did his best to ignore it, knowing that it made him feel as if he were about to break down, unsure when the sound had even started or if it had always been there, rush rush rush. He looked obsessively at the clock on the wall to check the time, "I feel unstable."
"That's why you kissed her?" Lecter asked, hauling Will back to the reality in which he stood, here in the kitchen. The effect was nauseating but Will shook it off even as he reeled from it. What is wrong with me, what is wrong with me, "a clutch for balance?"
Will shut his lips into a tight line and felt resentment at his obviousness. He sees everything because you want to show it to him or because he wants to get it out of you? he wondered of Lecter even as he tried to avoid the thought. When did this become about him? Will hated to ask himself, "You said yourself, what you do is not good for you," Lecter continued.
"Unfortunately," Will said as if in defeat, as he steered himself away from his own thoughts, "I am good for it."
The clink of the spoon against the bowl seemed to ring in his ears. He watched the syrupy substance spill out onto the plate at Lecter's action, dribbling the substance artistically and yet with purpose along the side of the dish. I felt fine on my way here, Will tried to rationalise to himself even though he knew it was futile, I felt fine in the car, what's happening to me, why now, why this? He took the plate when it was offered to him but put it down on the counter in front of him almost immediately. His face felt itchy, hot; he brought his hands up to rub at his cheeks, his eyes, trying to brush the feelings away. He was only dully aware of a voice underneath the scratching sound of the rough skin on his hands against the stubble on his face, louder and louder as everything else seemed drowned.
Drip, drop, rush.
"Will, can you hear me?"
He started in surprise as he felt a hand on his shoulder, jerking away from the contact, his hands falling down from his eyes to reveal Lecter standing next to him, hand still half raised from where it had previously rested on his shoulder. Will swallowed, eyes darting around the kitchen, falling inevitably on the clock to check the time. Nothing lost, he thought as he forced himself not to panic, nothing lost.
"I think you might need to sit down," Lecter suggested, his movement slow as he once more touched Will, placing his hand gently against the side of his arm and applying the smallest amount of pressure, "perhaps a small brandy would suffice rather than desert."
"No, no," Will shook his head and smiled, this one less genuine than the last, feeling suddenly exposed, "I can't, I still have to drive home."
"In my opinion that would be a foolish decision," Lecter said, tipping his head and pursing his full lips, "you appear to be in a highly emotional state, you have said yourself that you feel unstable and the weather is not suitable for driving."
"I got here without crashing, didn't I?" Will knew his tone was defensive and for the life of him he couldn't understand why.
"Yes, you did," Lecter agreed in a calm, supportive voice, "but that does not mean you will return home in the same fashion." His gaze appeared to soften momentarily, the smallest glimpse of something beyond the professional shell, or the friendly mask that Lecter normally wore around him, "please, it would give me great peace of mind if you were to wait until morning."
Something about Lecter's use of the adverb made Will question whether he was asking or demanding. Please. Everything the man did he did with purpose, Will thought, but for a moment he couldn't tell what that purpose was. Will shook his head and sighed, a rickety sound that stuttered out of his throat. It took a lot of convincing himself that this wasn't a bad idea in order to finally nod his head at his host, trying to keep the anxiousness to a minimum. Will hated that Lecter's words were right, that the concern he showed for Will only compounded the concern Will showed for himself.
"Thank you," Lecter said softly, the ignominious smile once more on his face; this time it reached his eyes, and Will wasn't sure what that meant, if anything. Trying to read Lecter was like trying to read a code with only half the cipher, all small movements of his face, eyes, hands, seemed to signal individual traits that Will was still trying to decipher. Through his scrambled, racing mind Will tried his best to go against his nature and not read the man at all. You need to relax, he thought he heard Jack's voice in his thoughts again and the lines seemed to blur and mix until he wasn't sure who was in his head anymore. He allowed himself to be led without conscious nature of where he was going, until he felt himself lowered into an exceptionally comfortable armchair facing a lambent fire. He watched the flames, feeling twitchy at their constantly changing form. They seemed trapped within the fireplace, neither too grand nor too understated, definitely pale marble but elegantly chiselled, small flourishes followed by solid angular lines that echoed outwards into the room. Will spared his surroundings a quick glance, taking in rich vermillion on the walls, compounded by further dark chocolate brown in the curtains and heavy mahogany wood furniture. He felt as if he were in a time out of time, somewhere else other than Baltimore, other than where he felt like a trapped animal in a wall clawing to get out.
Somehow it disturbed him how safe Lecter made him feel, he thought as he watched the man in question pour amber liquid into a heavy, cut crystal tumbler from an ornate bottle. The glass was delivered to him and he took it with a soft 'thank you'. Lecter sat in the mirroring armchair next to his own, relaxing back into the chair and crossing his legs. The firelight cast odd shadows onto his face, flickering, and bizarre shadows appeared to extend out onto the armchair's back from the man's finely parted hair. Will took a large sip of the drink in his hand without even sniffing it. It turned out not to be brandy, as advertised, but instead a whiskey, a smooth and heady variety which warmed as it sank down into his body and left a wonderfully tangy taste on his tongue, perfuming his mouth with the fumes. He let out a short cough and sniffed.
"No need to splash out the expensive stuff on me," he tried to joke, knowing it wasn't much of one, "I don't exactly have much of a palate."
"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," Lecter said as he swirled his own drink in a large snifter glass; assuredly brandy, Lecter would never be so crass as to drink out of the wrong glass, "most people who believe they have no palate for the finer things do not realise that their likes and dislikes make up said palate. You could tell it was expensive. Do you like it?"
"Yes," Will said, sinking back into his chair, feeling slightly awkward; it was at that moment that he realised he'd never truly had a conversation with Lecter outwith their unofficial sessions, talking about cases and the odd few sentences here and there where they had shared some odd moment of connection that was always swiftly cut off. He sniffed again and played with his glass, sliding his fingers over the sharp angles and feeling the hard edges with his fingertips.
"Then you underestimate your own potential," Lecter continued, looking away from Will into the fire, "something I have noticed in you since we met."
"Is that right," Will said wryly, "I'm more than privy to my own failings Dr. Lecter, and I'm quite sure that underestimating myself isn't one of them."
"Then we are in disagreement," Lecter said in an offhand manner which only made it sound as if Will was most certainly wrong even without saying it, "and please, Will, I'm quite sure we have been acquainted for long enough to be on a first name basis, don't you?"
"I, yes, I mean..." Will stopped himself from continuing in his flustered speech; there was a scratching at the back of his mind that was making itself felt as he watched the flickering light of the fireplace dance across Lecter's face. Every spark of light seemed to assault his eyes. He blinked rapidly and looked away, "sorry, I didn't mean to offend. Guess I just got into the habit."
"None taken," Lecter inclined his head before raising it once more and taking a long, appreciative sip of his brandy. They sat in silence, thankfully absent of unease, while the wood in the fire popped and cracked. Will took another long drink of his whiskey and blinked his eyes. It wasn't that he was unused to alcohol, but the drink was strong and it made his limbs feel heavy. Against his better nature Will appreciated the feeling. The tension that normally accompanied thoughts of falling asleep was absent from his body, dulled by the heady scent of whiskey in his blood. He didn't like to use any substances to impair his senses, too lax, too risky, but at that moment, considering his building neuroses and his sheer confusion as to his capacity to understand who was looking back at him from the mirror, the ability to not care for a few hours seemed like sheer bliss. He looked to his left and saw that the snow was once more falling past the window through a gap in the curtains.
"So, if you are attracted to Alana Bloom," Lecter said suddenly, forcing Will to take stock of the situation he was happily melting into, "why take so long to confess your attraction?"
"Uh, well, she's attractive, yes," Will said, feeling as if he had been ambushed even though he'd initially come to talk on that very subject, "but she's a little unapproachable at times, I mean she occasionally can't help treating me like a patient."
"Does that bother you?" Lecter asked, seeming to instantly change the subject once again, forcing Will to keep up even through his fogged mind; at least he felt more comfortable in this, the usual psychological patter Lecter used between them, "That all of your friends tend to psychoanalyse you?"
"Not all my friends psychoanalyse me," Will said with a shrug and a smile, "the dogs haven't started yet anyway."
"Ah yes," Lecter said with a smile of his own, which was a fleeting as the flames in the fire, "unrequited love. The relationship between a dog and its owner does have certain benefits over human interactions."
"Every time I sleepwalk I wake up to find Winston there, watching over me," again he'd moved back to the truly personal, licking his lips and taking another drink to stave off the intimate feeling, "looking after me. Seems sad, doesn't it, that the only true friendship I can claim is with a stray dog?"
"He is no longer stray if you are there to look after him," Lecter rationalised, placing his drink down onto a nearby occasional table. The man seemed to take a moment to think before continuing, watching Will closely as he spoke, "and I feel that it is not too much of an assumption to consider that my own friendship might be important to you."
The sleep in his mind, the eclectic light of the dancing fire and the whiskey in his system all made it difficult to process the conversation. Will floundered, opening his mouth once, twice, before finally finding any words. This evening was turning out to be inappreciably unpredictable, especially considering Will's unstable mental state.
"I didn't mean..." he stopped, feeling the words were wrong; he started again, clearing his throat before speaking, "sorry. I feel like all I've done tonight is turn up at your house and insult you."
"Not at all," Lecter shook his head delicately, "that you came here in the first place is more than enough for me to understand that you consider me a friend, Will. I just hoped you had made the connection yourself."
He bit the inside of his cheek and dragged the flesh through his teeth. It would be nice to have anything go well tonight, wouldn't it? he thought. He blinked again, finding it increasingly difficult to reopen his eyes once he had shut them. He sat in the chair, sunken into its confines, trying to think of a way to apologise, to say that he did consider him a friend, but nothing was forthcoming. It was after an indeterminate amount of time Will realised his world had gone black.
"You look tired, Will," he jumped, opening eyes that he didn't remember closing, looking to his right and blinking slowly, watching Lecter sit forwards and cradle his glass in both hands, "I have a spare room but the bed has not been made. Please wait here while I make it up for you."
"You don't have to," Will tried to counter, "I'll just sleep on the couch. Toss a blanket over me, I'm not fussy where I sleep."
"I would not hear of it," Lecter said, the minor change in his voice and stance almost transmitting the outrage that such a lack of courtesy to a guest brought out in him.
Lecter left the room softly, his movements purposeful and elegant as always. Will found himself staring at the empty chair left behind, the striped material, cream and then blue and then cream, leaving a space where Will's mind told him there should not be a space. Why did you take so long to tell Alana how you felt? he asked himself again and again, the question coming full circle in his mind. You've known her for a long time, she's your friend, you should be able to tell her without fearing her reaction, thinking she's judging you. Her emotions become my emotions, he thought, and she's so close to everything I'm scared of that it reflects back onto me. I need to be practical about this, not emotional. The more he tried to tell himself what he should do, the more he resented it. Why did I come here? he thought, wishing he was at home while also fearing the bed he slept in for the nightmares it brought.
The next thing he knew there was a soft touch against his face and he once more jerked awake, unable to recall having drifted off. The fire was still burning but appeared far lower than when he had last caught sight of it. He looked up blearily to find Lecter standing above him, surveying him.
"It will do you no good to sleep here," he said, "come, I have made your bed."
Walking was slightly difficult, more so than it should have been. Will found himself bumping against cabinets and tables as he followed Lecter through to the main staircase and up to the second floor. The house was mainly dark and Will felt it as an oppressive atmosphere, crowding in around him. There were things in his darkness that he didn't want to see. Instead he kept his tired eyes on the Lecter's well tailored back and followed him up the stairs towards a well lit hallway decked in a creamy yellow with two cabinets lining the walls, small curios atop their well polished surfaces, paintings upon the walls that Will didn't have the wherewithal to place. Lecter turned into the second door on the right, leaving two doors in the corridor unaccounted for, and held the door open for Will to pass inside.
"I am sure my nightclothes will not be the best fit," he said as Will took in the stylish room, large double bed with brocaded runner of chartreuse over an olive green bedspread, cream walls, a large ornate wardrobe and a twisting light fixture which made Will squint; Will turned to face the man and found himself being handed a well folded bundle of material, "but I think they will suffice."
"Thank you," he said automatically, forcing himself to qualify it further as Lecter looked at him curiously, "for all of this, everything I mean...thank you."
"You are most welcome," Lecter said, "if you wake before I do, feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. The bathroom is the first door on the right."
He left with an enigmatic look on his face that Will didn't have the wherewithal to analyse, catalogue or understand. Instead he spent an immeasurable amount of time getting out of his clothes and into the provided pyjamas which, only when he put them on, did he realise were silk. Lecter had been right, they were a little too baggy on his lithe frame, but they were comfortable and, at that moment, that was all he cared about. Will crawled under the heavy covers of the cold bed and didn't appreciate the odd silence of the room. Normally he fell asleep in a room full of warm bodies, snuffling in their sleep as they dreamt of chasing rabbits and swimming in the river. Here the environment seemed sterile by comparison, a room never used if the thin layer of dust on the dressing table was anything to go by. Lecter did not appear to tolerate dust in any of the other rooms, yet this one appeared more for show than actual use. Will wasn't sure if he should feel privileged or sad at that realisation.
Seems I'm not the only one with a lack of faith in friends, he thought as his eyes closed against the soft glow of the lamp. His heart beat slowly in his chest, thumping against the confines of his body and the heavy bedclothes.
It was with an odd but ineluctable feeling of emptiness that he opened his eyes again and found the room dark.
When did I turn off the light? he asked himself, even as he knew it was a futile question. The air felt heavy, syrupy, like the dark sauce poured from a spoon, drizzled over his body. He fought to lift his arms, the action seeming extended over an immeasurable period of time. Soft cloth against insistent hands. Considering he knew his duvet to be light he was confused as to why he was finding it so difficult to get out of bed. When he looked around for the clock, that familiar bright blue digital readout, he found nothing but an unfamiliar bedside table. Looking up gave him an unfamiliar ceiling and, for a moment, he panicked.
He forced his way out of the bed, his movements heavy and slightly fumbling. He could not feel the cold against his skin. The sound of the room seemed to come to life, breaking out of its quiet at the familiar clip, clip, clip of hooves against wood. Will turned his head to the now open bedroom door and watched as the stag, its raven fur barely discernible in the gloom, walk past. There was no question but to follow. His bare feet shuffled across the floorboards, leading him out into the corridor. The yellow seemed grey in the dark, all cheer gone. The paintings shone out dreary faces, sketched as if in repose. He followed the sound of the stag even as it led him down the staircase and out into the dining room, the organic curves of the walls and the dark indigo blue seeming like the ocean at night. The stag stood in the centre, where Will was sure there should be a table. Instead the animal turned and looked at him, like a centrepiece, as if to show what was hanging there. A spotlight that drew his eyes, making the rest of the room fade into a void. Will didn't want to see the grinning, lifeless, milky eyed corpse of Garett Jacob Hobbs but once he found himself staring it was impossible to imagine looking anywhere else. The man grinned at him even as his insides sat open to the air, around him in a gruesome display, set upon a circle of plates like appetisers. See? The man's dead voice hissed, You see. He stared and stared until the air around him seemed to vibrate, watched in detached horror and a niggling sense of conviction, as the stag came to stand beside him, its presence warm but dangerous, and Hobbs' already mutilated corpse was pierced by fine, white points turned red as they continued through his rotted flesh, branching out like a grotesque tree until his body opened up further in rivers of blood.
Drip, drip, drip, he heard, rush, rush, rush. A high pitched sound invaded his ears, building slowly, whirring and fading, whirring and fading. Will felt as if his tongue was swollen in his mouth and he could not call out. His arms and legs would not move. With a sense of all encompassing fear and anxiety he turned his head to the right and looked at the stag, it's great, round, black eye staring back at him. Will, he heard, he swore he heard, Will.
"Will," the voice became real, the surroundings became real, the air lifted into his lungs in a start of clear breath and Will found himself viewing the stag's clear stare in the dark one moment and then Hannibal Lecter's bright face in the light the next. He blinked rapidly and brought his arms up to coil around his torso, swallowing down the fear and trying to place himself in the reality of his situation. He looked around, taking in the now bright dining room, the lack of the corpse, the lack of blood and the lack of the interminable dripping. He found himself looking back to Lecter and licking his lips self consciously. The man simply watched him carefully, "yes, you are awake. At least, this time, your feet did not take you too far."
"I'm," he hesitated; rarely had his erratic sleepwalking inconvenienced anyone and he was always happier when there was no one there to witness his insanity except the dogs who wouldn't judge him for it, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
"Of course you didn't," Lecter said, placing his arm around his shoulders, something Will didn't feel entirely comfortable with in his conscious state that was so close to bleeding into his nightmares; he thought he could smell the heady scent of fur and the delicate brush of feathers against his neck. No, no, he said to himself as he was led back towards the stairs, this is real. He shivered, wanting nothing more than to escape the firm grasp on his person, leave the house and go home. The room was light again when he re-entered, the lamp never having been switched off as far as he could understand it. "Would you prefer something to help you sleep?" Lecter asked as he watched Will stand awkwardly next to the bed.
"No," Will said plainly, a slightly incredulous tone to his voice, "I don't think that would be a good idea."
"You are probably correct," Lecter said, not leaving the room as he continued to stand in a middling sense of space between the doorway and the bed, "then I will simply keep an ear out, as they say, in case you decide to continue your nightly wanderings."
No more wanderings came, even if the nightmares didn't cease. He was as used to them now as he was to feeling the sunshine in his eyes in the morning. Didn't make it pleasant or good for his health, but at least it was reliable. One of the few things he could rely on.
When he finally woke in the morning at a more reasonable time, eight forty by his watch, he set about putting on all the clothes he could find, folding his borrowed pyjamas as best he could and trying to make the bed look neat. It still seemed dishevelled amidst the confines of the orderly room, but Will would have to settle for that disparateness in he and Lecter's dispositions. He wandered out into the house, seeming yet another world when lit by sunshine filtered through glass, and descended the stairs once more. The smell of bacon and warm dough sprang to his nose as he reached the ground floor, leading him forwards through the house like a cat to catnip. On entering the kitchen the scene appeared too homely for him at first, an odd setting with the kitchen as seemingly more than just a functional room as Lecter, not looking up from his task of taking two neat rows of bacon from under a slow grill, dressed in a heavy, dark, green and blue dressing gown, expertly tied and worn as if it were an everyday suit, had not yet brushed his hair and appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. Will cleared his throat politely and smiled as Lecter looked up, his gaze unsurprised, making Will feel a little foolish for thinking the man did not know he was there.
"Good morning," Lecter said succinctly, using a pair of silver tongs to transfer the bacon from the grill onto two plates already sporting poached eggs atop a bed of what looked like spinach, a small square of black pudding, a slice of toasted seed bread and three thin slices of what appeared to be a dark red fruit, "I assume you are hungry, considering you appeared to have had no dinner last night."
"Uh, yeah," Will scratched the back of his neck and drew in a deep breath, "I suppose I wasn't in the best frame of mind. Thanks," he added as Lecter handed him the beautiful plate and watched him for a second too long.
Will followed as he led him through to the dining room, already laid out for two, and sat himself at the head of the table. Will took the seat to Lecter's left, glad for the sunshine that streamed in through the patio doors and seemed to chase the dark shadows from his mind. Lecter poured him a glass of orange juice from a large jug as he sat. Will picked up his knife and fork, cutting a strip of thin bacon in half and eating it. The flavour was exquisite, as was everything Lecter cooked, tangy and yet mild, with an indiscernible flavour he couldn't quite place. He knew Lecter was watching him, the man always did seem expectant of his guests' reactions to his cooking. Will couldn't say anything less than...
"It's delicious," he said in his usual monotone he reserved for compliments, "thank you."
"Protein is the best way to begin one's day," Lecter said, spearing a range of ingredients from the plate onto his fork before following suit; he appeared to savour the taste as Will had done, a small smile quirking his lips momentarily, "or so I have been told."
Will couldn't fault it, even if he would still insist he had no cultivated palate. The black pudding, something he didn't often get to enjoy, was crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, pungent, savoury and exceedingly fresh. The fruit, a blood orange if will wasn't mistaken, mixed a tangy sweetness to the dish which complemented the savoury bacon, the perfumed pudding and the creamy egg. It wasn't often Will allowed himself to be impressed, but Lecter's cooking always ended with that reaction. They ate in relative silence, Will trying to force his mind back to the case at hand and Lecter enigmatically quiet, as usual.
"I'd better get home and then head to the office and report in with Jack," Will said as he retrieved his jacket; putting on the padded item of clothing made him feel safer if nothing else, "the dogs are going to be hungry."
"Will," Lecter's tone stopped him more than the use of his name did; it was, dare he say it, hesitant, something he didn't hear often, if at all, from the man. Will looked at Lecter through the shield of his glasses which he had retrieved from his coat pocket, frowning slightly, "there is something I want to tell you, something which borders on breaking my patient doctor confidentiality in order to do so," Will nodded jerkily, feeling the odd, safe vibe he had become accustomed to invaded by this darker, sour note; he reached under his glasses with thumb and index finger to rub at the bridge of his nose, "one of my clients believes a friend of his may be involved with the killings at the symphony."
"You're bringing this up now," Will couldn't help but say, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
"Actually, I did try to tell you last night," Lecter said, tipping his head down and to the right, as if creating a softly spoken, private space in which to articulate his words, even though they were perfectly alone, "but you appeared not to hear me. Considering your state I surmised there was no benefit to informing you at the time, that it would be more prudent to wait until you felt more yourself."
There was nothing Will could say to that beneath the sting of guilt Lecter's admission brought. If you were more stable, it taunted him, if you were more sane. If what? Will wanted to fight back, but he already knew the answer to the questions in his own head. More people saved, less people dead. It seemed very cut and dry. Not a real FBI, the voice taunted, didn't pass the screening. It held a mocking lilt. Will let out a snorted breath. The last person he needed in his head right now was Freddie Lounds.
"I have to admit that my client appeared genuinely worried when he reported this to me," Lecter said, a slight frown on his forehead, "it seemed he feared for his own safety, not just that of others, as if he would be next on the list. This friend, he runs a music shop in Baltimore. I thought it might be worth your while to interview him."
"Yes," Will said before a long drawn in breath, "yes it would. Give me his details and I'll speak to Jack."
"Of course," Lecter said, turning away to walk back into the house, returning with a small, leather bound notebook; he unfastened the elastic strap holding it closed and produced a business card:
CHORDOPHONE STRING SHOP
72 West Mount Vernon Place
Baltimore, MARYLAND
Finest handmade string instruments, restoration
and restringing; lessons also available
Will turned the card over to be faced with a very Dickensian name if ever he saw one. TOBIAS BUDGE, in cursive black print, with a phone number beneath. He turned the card over once more, rereading the front.
"He plays?" Will asked, his mind already waking up as he felt the card between his fingers, thick and heavy duty, trying to gain a handle on an outline of the man he was looking at through the details.
"Cello," Lecter said significantly.
"If your client tells you anything further about his friend..." Will started.
"I understand the procedure of psychiatric conduct, Mr. Graham," Lecter said with a purse to his lips but a humorous glint to his eyes, "he comes in later today, I will inform you of any new intelligence."
"What happened to the first name basis?" Will joined in on the joke; Lecter merely smiled, arousing a small glint of triumph in Will as it always did.
He put the card into his pocket, looking off into the middle distance. It was a lead if nothing else, which was all that they had so far in the case other than Will's own perception of the killer's mind and a badly mutilated corpse. Will was so momentarily focused that he didn't see the hand reach up to his forehead until the cool skin touched his heated flesh. He surprised himself by not starting in surprise or backing away from the contact. He blinked and looked at Lecter as the man observed him through narrowed eyes.
"Are you sure you are alright?" Lecter asked, "Your temperature is still high."
"I tend to run hot," Will smiled self-effacingly, as he turned to leave, "it's nothing out of the ordinary."
"Do take better care of yourself, Will," Lecter said as Will opened the door, "your friends will worry about you."
Will let out a small laugh because he had no idea what else to say to the very out of place statement from Lecter. He closed the door behind him and frowned all the way to his car. He pulled out his phone and dialed as he buckled himself into the seat, turning on the motor to get the engine warm.
"Jack," he said as the phone was answered, "there's someone I want to check out, could be a lead. I know, I wasn't planning on going on my own. Here, I'll give you the details."
Everything had spiraled so quickly that all he could do was understand his surroundings and how they related to him. Will held the gun in shaking hands, partly from his inability to keep them stable and the other from the memory of the last time he was forced to shoot someone. The basement was dark, gloomy, punctuated by areas of fluorescent light and a pervasive, echoing sound of water hitting water.
Drip, drip, drip. An evolution of fine gut strings was displayed to him, growing fatter and fatter until they were recognisable as human intestines, laid out with loving care. Will took a steadying breath and tried not to jerk his gun around every corner.
He'd left for a minute, two at the very most. Something had been off about Budge, that much he would admit, but unfortunately something had been more off with Will. The shop had smelled headily of resin and wood and something else, something clinical that seemed out of place. Then the sound, a yelping cry for help as from a wounded animal, beating against his ears, resounding within his own skull. He had tried to seek it out, madly dashing across the busy road, only to realise too late how much his inability to differentiate between realities had cost him. The first officer face down in his own blood, the second garrotted through his lips and cheeks, dumped in one of the many tanks of deep water the basement held. The shake in his hands briefly steadied before worsening. That Budge's ambush managed to throw him off balance did not surprise Will, only made the blood rush through his veins doubly fast, rush rush rush. Budge was small and lithe like he was, not a powerful man, he thought rapidly as they struggled, Will desperately trying to keep hold of his gun. He would have to rely on his agility, not his brute strength. He tried to use the profile to keep his head clear, keep his mind set in this place, this reality, as he fought for his life.
Yet when he almost lost his hold on the gun the only thing he could think to do was fire. The sound was deafening but the small, wet spray of blood against his hand assured him that the bullet had made contact. Will reeled as Budge pushed him away, stumbling, and he tried to aim at his target again but the impact of sound had disoriented him. He held his hand to his ear, stumbling against the wall as he desperately tried to walk in a straight line. When he finally ascended into the shop once more Budge was already gone. Will blinked in the bright sunlight and tried to think past the steady, loud ringing in his ears.
Where would he go?
Budge was desperate but also angry, he had been found before he could finish his work. He knew he wouldn't be able to escape, not now, he would want to take others down with him before he went.
Where would he go?
He thought of himself as an artist, as a cultured individual, looking down on those he found vulgar or uncouth. People who had annoyed him even just by their association...
'it seemed he feared for his own safety, not just that of others, as if he would be next on the list'
Unfinished business, Will thought with a swallow and a quickening to his already absurdly rapid pulse, stumbling into a run as he headed for the one place he hoped he was wrong in predicting.
Hannibal Lecter's consulting room.
He didn't trust himself to drive but the urgency was too great, too much at risk, too much at stake. The tires squealed in protest as he harshly braked around corners, putting his foot down through two red lights and barely missing vehicles which came to a stop with a Doppler effect of honked horns and screeching tyres. By the time he'd pulled into the recognisable street and dumped his car haphazardly half on the pavement, Will felt as if his world had narrowed down to almost nothing but what was in front of him, as if he had reduced to tunnel vision. The pavement seemed like a causeway above a dark abyss. The doorway to Lecter's office, with its bright silver plaque, lying half open like a portent. Will rushed inside, gun drawn once more. Only this time his hands did not shake, and he rounded the corners silently, listening with hearing that was slowly returning to normal. Tunnel vision like a predator after its prey, eyes forwards, ears forwards, listening for the telltale sounds of a violent struggle which crashed and grunted in the next room. Will sped through the waiting room and bashed through the unlocked door, rush rush rush, and barely remembered to shout...
"Stop, FBI!" as the man raised the heavy figurine and prepared to bludgeon the man at his feet, curled away from him, arms raised.
Before he unconsciously adjusted his stance, pulling his foot and shoulder back as Beverly had taught him, aimed and squeezed the trigger. The recoil was not as harsh and the bullet ripped through cloth then flesh then exited the other side of Budge's throat sending a visceral spray of blood against the wall. The man seemed to fall in slow motion, dropping the figurine in his hands which the man beneath him only barely managed to roll out from under before it hit the wooden floor with a resounding bang. Will rushed forwards, holstering his gun as he did so, and quickly knelled down to check Budge's pulse. He knew the man was dead as soon as he saw his glazed eyes, wide and open as if in surprise. When he pulled his hand back his fingertips were stained red.
He heard coughing and heavy breathing, turning to his right to see Lecter sitting half splayed on the floor, propped against his desk. His single-mindedness, residual from his burst of adrenaline, made him waste no time in pulling out his phone and calling in the incident whilst moving to Lecter's side.
"And we need medics," Will said, realising only as he spoke to Jack Crawford that his voice was shaking, "Dr. Lecter is injured and...and there's another body," Will knew that he sounded surprised even as he stared at the undeniably dead man lying in the middle of the floor, someone he hadn't even noticed until now.
"My patient," Lecter said roughly, coughing as Will quickly put away his phone, "Budge killed him."
"Your arm," was all Will could say, taking in the injuries Lecter had sustained one by one and trying to figure out what to do; burst lip, heavily bruised throat, glazed eyes perhaps from concussion, a bleeding wound revealed under the severed cuff of his suit, a gory ring of blood around his forearm which appeared to be the worst of the trauma he could see.
Bizarrely, Will thought as he helped Lecter from the floor and into his desk chair, it was not entirely the cuts and bruises forming on Lecter's skin which created the traumatic picture of what had happened. Instead it was the sheer dishevelment of Lecter's person, tie askew, shirt ruffled, torn and dashed with blood, hair out of place and eyes glazed, that niggled at Will's world view. Lecter was always the aloof, perfect object of his defined reality, what little there was left of that; his blood showing and his aura of stoicism had been entirely tainted. For the first time since he had met the man Will thought Lecter looked positively human by comparison.
He reached out almost subconsciously and wiped the blood from Lecter's chin, all the while under the focus of that glazed stare. Will felt his hand shake as he brought it back, both amazed and appalled by his lack of control. It was like a scene from one of his dreams, the edges vibrating, the room blurring in a static fashion while Lecter remained perfectly still and intact. He smiled, watching Will just as Will was sure he himself had watched Budge. Distinct, predatory tunnel vision.
"Thank you, Will," he said softly, as the FBI arrived and swept the moment away under a sea of feet and questions.
