Beer
It was a bitter drink. With time, she had grown accustomed to it. If she was to claim she savored it, clarification would follow soon after. She hardly savored it for the flavor alone.
Beer had always been her go-to drink. It never changed. Briefly entertained thoughts of trying something new were quick to be dismissed; drowned out by the pop from the cap of a glass-rimmed bottle.
Hard liquor too hard.
Wine not hard enough.
A drink dating back to the Stone Age, she had learned a long while ago that it was the oldest fermented liquor to date. The malt was timeless, not only to the world but to her.
Relentless and able to withstand the test of tragedies, misfortune, and disappointment - it had an edge to it that Alana Bloom herself felt she could align with.
Hannibal Lecter was generous. Alana thought this, at least, as she watched him fill a tall Pilsner glass to the brim. He extended it to her with the curtest of nods, a fraction of a smile subtley hidden in the lines at the corner of his eyes as she indulged herself with a sip.
She thought she saw the flicker of a smirk hidden there, assumably gauging her reaction to her own set-aside brew. She reasoned he saw to hide it for her sake, as she certainly didn't feel the need to smile. Even with the distinct taste of an excellent ale playing at her tongue.
"Do you genuinely think that Will would've killed you, if Jack hadn't have stepped in?"
The tall, slender glass was cradled between her two frail hands. His broad ones were splayed over the sides of the chair he rested in beside her; he hesitated for only a moment.
"It is difficult to say. He was not in the right frame of mind," he paused, sending his gaze to the side before adding, "- and our good Will still isn't, for that matter."
Alana wanted to shake her head. She refrained, instead remembering the startling way Will shrugged her off, refusing to speak to her when she visited him in the hospital.
Cloth covered his wounded shoulder and she inquired as to the pain. He stiffened.
He had closed his eyes to her when she pushed him, asking softly for details – asking what was wrong and what had changed. No longer opening up to her, she felt hurt.
It wasn't the Will she knew. But she strived to convince herself twelve times over on the drive home from the hospital that he wouldn't be lost to her forever.
"He'll get better."
"With time. You cannot anticipate the extent of his illness, Alana."
"Don't say that."
The edge she allies herself with is present in her unwavering voice. For a moment she considers saying 'shut up' instead -as she did with Jack. But she takes another small sip of the beer, and remembers the level of civility she maintains with her colleuge. He is somber, and in contrast she can be hot headed. She quells her nature with a third sip.
Alana watched him sigh.
"You and I both care deeply for Will."
The woman watched him coax his bottom lip with his tongue, drawing it in with thought. Tilting her head, she couldn't repress her guilt-ridden tone.
"But we did this to him," she interjected, "We all did this to him – we let him get too close."
"Close enough to kill, unfortunately."
Her eyes widened by a fraction, and she had to bite her tongue to avoid tramping over his follow-up observation.
"You feel as though you've failed him. As do I."
At his words, Alana felt as bitter as the brew.
She is strong a woman, but she cannot help but notice the splash of a teardrop that merges into the bubbling, fermented drink below her. It dissipates – is lost as quickly and silently as the warm hand that rests upon her forearm for only a brief moment. Just a sliver of comfort is offered. That's all she really needs to get by; she'd feel ashamed if his touch lingered there for too long.
"I suspect that having broken him, it is our obligation to put him back together."
She nods. Forces the corner of her mouth up into a grim smile – he takes it, and speaks in a manner that she finds thoughtful.
"… I will do all that I can to help Will Graham realize who he is."
Brandy
A man slams a phone down and attempts to take a moment to collect himself. But the moment doesn't last long enough.
He drinks brandy with ice - and a lot of it, too. He buys it strong and doesn't dull it with coke or any sort of sparkling soda. The ice waters it down only a bit as it melts, but not enough to affect the flavor.
He peers down at the liquid in the rock-glass he swirls in hand and doesn't look up again until a knock sounds at the door much, much later. The woman he calls enters, heels clicking across the floor with a slow, heavy pace.
"Will Graham spent too much time in the minds of killers."
"Jack – "
"You see that crime scene, Alana? You see what he did to that orderly?"
He can see her breathing heavily, restraining herself from lashing out. Her eyes divert, fall to the floor, before catching his gaze once again.
"I heard."
Jack gruffs, shakes his head.
"Well hearing isn't seeing."
Jack Crawford worked in a unit that required him to look straight into the face of something terribly ugly on a daily basis. His drink of choice was strong, because much like all of those the countless, bloodied crime scenes, he could stomach it.
That's not to say that he wasn't perturbed by the crimson splattered, white walls of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Two nurses gutted, a janitor slashed from nose to naval, and an orderly whose face had nearly been ripped clean off – the last offense a particularly gory display.
Stomachs plummeted when Katz reluctantly pointed out that bite marks marred the disfigured flesh. Traces of Will Graham's saliva were left behind to dry upon the victim.
"Jack," Alana started up, "I just don't believe Will could do it."
"He did."
She scoffed loudly at his abruptness.
"He escaped before," Jack spoke as he inhaled, then exhaled deeply at the thought of a run-off-the-road ambulance, " - I should've considered him being able to manage it again."
Jack felt enormous responsibility. But looking at the crime scene that morning also made him feel as though he had created and released a monster.
The woman didn't want to hear it.
Alana turned on her heel, showing off her back to the man situated as his chair. It was quiet, and she could hear him swallow down the rest of his drink as she opened the door to leave.
"Stop thinking about protecting Will Graham. He's the one killing - we need to focus on protecting people from him."
Alana snapped the door shut hard enough to rattle the ice cubes of an empty glass.
Whisky
When Will Graham came through his senses rushed.
There was a sting plaguing his restrained arm. His eyes fluttered and he saw the not-so-good doctor there at his side, pouring a burning solution into a deep cut that brandished his elbow. In the wake of his clouded mind, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten it.
"Hello, Will."
It hurt like hell. Will wasn't positive whether he was referring entirely to the wound or not.
He felt his pulse quicken – his throat tighten. His voice lost.
Blue eyes shifted to something else besides that of the man at his side. He was flat on his back – secured at every appendage upon a bed. The heavy jumpsuit was gone and his usual bed-slept attire adorned in place of it. He caught a decent glance at the bottle and read it with uncertainty. He grimaced, and his unconventional psychiatrist offered a light smile in response.
"Whiskey was first used by pharmacists and monks for medical purposes. The origin of the word itself roughly translates to 'water of life'. An interesting anecdote, I think."
Its usage seemed strangely both in and out of character.
"I also recall that you are quite fond of it."
Will thought about drinking. Sleepwalking. Losing time.
The young agent shivered and began to tremble, though he didn't gasp or elicit a sound at the irregular form of treatment. Not for lack of trying. He felt and battled a fleeting urge in his throat that prompted him to growl, laugh, and sob all at once.
"Remain still."
The instruction was firm. Will felt the unconscious need to comply by that alone, and so he did. Hannibal dressed the gash in no time at all. Will thought those nimble fingers pressed too hard against the wounded flesh purposefully, as if to incite a vocal response he had yet to hear from the younger man. He bit his tongue.
Will tensed when those same fingers splayed across the unscathed, bare flesh up his upper arm after Hannibal finished. He felt a bead of sweat collect upon his brow. The abrupt switch in his mind of a clinical touch turning intimate made him still – made him feel apprehensive.
Will knew Hannibal could see it. Could see how he felt and probably could hear the dry swallow of his throat, were it not drowned out by that of a heart beating frantically in its cage.
Out of the emotions he felt that came together to define his hurt, Will led with anger.
"Don't touch me. You have no fucking right to touch me."
Hannibal paused at the uncouth demand, emitting a dark gaze. Will felt foreign eyes sweep over him. The doctor let his hand move to lie heavy across a cotton-covered chest. It rose and fell in quick succession.
"Do you truly find my touch so crass?"
Will stiffened, and the good doctor tilted his head by a mere fraction.
"A rude thing to say, I should think. I have mended your wounds."
"Yeah…" the younger man scoffed, not bothering to steal a glance at the stitched and bandaged skin "- these wounds."
Will kept his head turned away and off to the side, but he could sense the light smirk on the other man's lips even so, and at the thought of it he lashed out once more.
"You're a murderer."
"And you, Will?"
The young agent stilled.
He swallowed and his nose twitched. He had realized he couldn't be absolutely certain that he hadn't done something at some point – that he hadn't lost time and hurt someone. But in spite of that doubt, he was certain of the fact that Hannibal Lecter was the copycat; someone without a motive other than that of wanting to experience the thrill of screwing with an unstable agent. It was unsettling.
"I know what I am. I'm not like you."
Will delivered it with bite, wanting his words to sting. A part of him knew they wouldn't, of course. He sensed that words wouldn't sting the good doctor in the way they might normal people.
"I feel that you and I are astoundingly similar. You simply do not know it yet."
Will felt the sweep of a warm hand trace itself down his torso and back up again; fingers flicked themselves beneath thin material. A red flush stained him as a thumb and forefinger massaged minute circles upon the bare skin of his abdomen. His eyes didn't dare flick up to meet that of his captor's, but his breathing pattern quickened and hitched at the light touch. Hannibal's voice was as calm and precise as the trace of his hand.
"I wish only to calm you at the moment, my dear Will."
If truly meant to soothe, it didn't help. It just made him feel sick and bitter.
He remembered an accusation; fear makes you rude.
"Why don't you - why don't you kill me like you killed everyone else."
Hannibal was quiet; he then collected a reluctant chin in his grip and pulled a face into perfect view. He admired the way the young agent's blues danced around his features – avoiding eye contact at all costs.
"Will, I do not mean to kill you."
Of course he didn't.
"Why not?"
"You know why."
He couldn't help but shudder – tried to ignore the touch that traced his bottom lip and outlined the curve of his jaw.
Will Graham had always been able to get into the mind of a killer. He felt he had met his match, now having a killer penetrate his own mind with just as much ease.
It stung more than whisky to a wound.
Wine
Hannibal Lecter was meticulous when it came to his palate for wine and he selected a variety of favorites based on their richness in color, aroma, and flavor.
Every precise aspect counted.
Hannibal felt disheartened when Will intentionally shattered a glass at dinner. It was a crime in his eyes that rivaled tearing delicate petals from a rose.
Unnecessary. Cruel. Something that couldn't be justified.
He gathered up the shards and Will watched as he did so, bent down on one knee at his side. He didn't appear to lose an ounce of dominance in such a position, and as Will briefly entertained the idea of kicking him, he soon thought better of it.
"I have allowed you to sit at my dinner table to dine with me. Your behavior is… inappropriate, Will. "
Hannibal allowed him the audacity to laugh. Mostly because it was strained and laced with hurt, not one that held the rich tone of amusement over his choice to spill the expensive liquor.
"I think pinning murders on patients probably falls under the same category of inappropriate behavior."
Hannibal sighed at the sarcastic observation.
"If I pour you another glass, I trust you not to spill it."
"Then don't bother," was all the younger of the two scoffed in reply.
He was so full of angst. So heated. And it unconsciously stirred something inside of the man propped up on only one knee.
Hannibal tilted his head, smirked with his eyes, and didn't offer a reply. He could see Will's chest constrict, but Will didn't dare move nor say a thing.
When Will was left to himself behind a locked door, he collapsed on the bed of a fussily decorated room without a window.
He traced marks left on the soft tissue of his mouth by sharp canines as well as the split inflicted on his lower lip. He tasted Hannibal on his tongue.
To his psychiatrists' aim and satisfaction, the flavor of wine lingered there as well.