She had left the doors open and checked the clock anxiously. Expectantly. At 5:34 she heard the almost inaudible moan of the back door hinges, inhaled deeply, tapping the kitchen counter, and planted her feet further into the floor, if that were possible. She was thankful the dogs were in the front yard, under the supervision of the cops once again assigned to her now that a criminal (Alana shivered at its association to her friend) was on the loose.
She saw a bounce of dark curls and a flash of orange before Will solemnly, yet cautiously stepped out of the doorway. He wanted to give her space, to show that he was non-threatening and to keep away from the windows, where he knew the gaze of security personnel would be lingering. His eyes flickered to hers before surveying the floor. Alana remained at the sink, frozen, suddenly self-conscious of every bodily movement.
"Hi," she stated, and at once she wished she could retract it. The syllable flopped awkwardly like a child's toy in front of them, landing directionless and pathetic.
"I didn't kill anyone." It's a statement, solid and factual. As if it were that simple.
"I know, Will-"
"Do you?" He raised his eyebrows, clearly hurt by something she had done (or something he hallucinated she had done, she wasn't sure she could rule anything out anymore.)
"I know you didn't, but..." Alana grabs for the right words. "That doesn't mean you didn't-"
"You think I have multiple personalities?" His anger granted him a couples steps closer, the weight of his prison-issued boots on hardwood floors emboldening his words.
Alana weighed her words. "I think you've been disassociating and you can't say for sure what you did or didn't do."
Will's eyes move to the far corner in the room as his mouth is pulled into a mirthless, bitter smirk. He nods his head as if to say, You too. Her cellphone vibrated, and they both ignored it. Outside three playful barks emit from the restless dogs, and Will lowers his head. She could swear his eyes became glassy for a brief moment.
"Will," Alana starts, and he knows she said his name in efforts to make eye contact, but he can't force himself. Hannibal was his paddle, but she was the lighthouse, the indication for stable ground he'd been searching for, an end to his harrowing fluidity, and now her light had been snuffed out, leaving him drenched in the darkness.
She comes forward to rest her hand on the island, shortening the distance between them but still maintaining safety. It's this moment when her throat strained and her lower lip trembled. It was only a short while ago that she was concerned with Will and Will alone's safety. Don't let him get too close. And here she had the nerve to play with his emotions, leading him on like the Border Collie (she doesn't even know his name) that nudges the knotted rope in her lap every night and fights for it the second she gets her grip. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she and Will have more in common than she thought. Maybe they both like collecting strays.
"Will... there's something wrong with your brain. The clock you drew-"
But his rage had blurred his attention at "wrong." He was sick of hearing how uniquely demented his mind was. A fragile teacup, an old mug... these cases had broken his head and still Jack was examining shards of him for any useful information, that was until the second the tables had turned. His reputation was flawed, his file tarnished. Too unstable for the FBI, too broken for fieldwork. Whoever was doing this to him was certainly a masterful manipulator; his last string had just been cut.
"Yes, there's always been something wrong with me, hasn't there?" He spat, advancing towards her steadily. "Jack knew it, Hannibal's trying to hide it, and now you." His brows raised momentarily, still staring in the other direction, and took a step back, struck by his thought. Trembles wracked his body as his eyes moved to the space next to her. "Did you even h-have a r-romantic interest in me? O-or were you jus-just s-studying me like a lab rat-"
"I've never lied to you," her face contorted with the ugliness of the deceit she was accused of as tears sprung from her eyes, coating her face. She wasn't fucking Chilton, she made damn sure every move she made was in his interests as his friend, not his psychiatrist, not a journalist, not-
She took another conscious breath, divorcing herself from her excess emotions; this wasn't about their relationship, their non-relationship, whatever it was. Will needed help, and she wasn't going to let their complicated history get in the way of that.
Slowly, she placed her hand on his where it was resting on the counter. His head instinctively moved toward her, but he stopped short, let himself absorb the feeling of her hand on his. A tether to reality.
"What were you going to say about the clock I drew?"
"It- it wasn't- Will, your hand is very warm," she looked at him, concerned, and noticed for the first time the minuscule beads of sweat forming on his face. She could practically feel the heat radiating from his body. His fever was as undoubtable as when she ran to his collapsed body in her backyard. She had unzipped his jacket and mounded snow around his head to reduce his sky-rocketing temperature.
She turned toward the cabinet. "Why don't I get you some aspirin-"
"Don't," he ordered, and she stopped right there. He still didn't trust her.
She turned back towards him and raised her hands slightly. "Okay," she replied, in an un-offended tone. Looking to his coat pocket, she recognized the bulge of his handgun. "What can I do for you?"
"Find out who's doing this to me." It came out as more of a plea than he wanted it to. He massaged near his temple as the pain flared up again. Oh no, he thought. He couldn't have an episode while he was an escapee, and definitely not in front of Alana.
She glanced at him with concern. The longer he evaded the police, the weightier the argument that Will was a serial killer effortlessly able to cover up and profile his crimes as the works of another. She could almost read Tattlecrime's front page now. It was all such an easy story. Nearly gift-wrapped...
"We are, Will. We're working as hard as we can, I'll make sure you get the best defense lawyer in the country-"
"W-wait, you're not going to-" he interrupted, cradling his head while staring at her lips.
"You need help, Will! You're burning up, your head is clearly troubling you, and you're accusing someone else in the Bureau of murdering tens of innocent people. That clock that you drew, it- it wasn't normal. You neglected the entire left side of the clock, which means it's something neurological. The hallucinations, the fever, the clock- it's all because of whatever's going on inside you, and I'm scared for you." Tears, like old friends, greeted her once again. "It's only going to look worse, the long you're out of custody. You need to turn yourself in."
"You saw what Chilton did to Abel Gideon, you can only imagine what he's going to do to me!" Will's voice rose not only in response to this latest betrayal, but in fear. "You saw how he salivated over me in his office, and he would have unlimited access, Alana, he could do anything he wanted- ah!" He doubled over in pain, clutching hid head and breathing rapidly.
"Will!" Alana shrieked. She grabbed her set of keys on the counter and pressed the trunk-opening button before kneeling to Will's level. "I'm sorry," she breathed. The psychiatrist was torn into two, but she knew he couldn't stand suffering like this for much longer.
But even in this state, Will knew what she did. "No! I have to go-" He started to stumble towards the back door when two officers emerged from the front.
"Freeze!" A muscled officer commanded, his gun raised. Will continued but didn't even make it out of the kitchen before the second, shorter officer tackled the weakened prisoner to the floor, held him facedown as he continued to futilely struggle, his eyes shut tightly to combat the overwhelming pain in his head. He feared he'd look up and see a huffing, stamping stag where Alana should be. He had truly lost it.
The first officer ran over to secure his legs as his comrade handcuffed and shackled Will and patted him down for weapons, emerging with nothing but his handgun. Alana had a faint desire to ask for it, another thing to hold on to until... whenever. Two paramedics emerged from the shadows, assessing the situation, waiting.
"He's all clear," said the shorter officer, and the paramedics advanced, one with a basics kit.
The paramedic reached down with a gloved hand to check his pulse. "Good lord," she exclaimed, "He's on fire. We've got to go."
The two officers hoisted him up and held each arm in theirs. Still, the moment his feet were on the ground, he pushed with all his force against their grasp, suddenly claustrophobic of the imminent cell that awaited him. "No," he breathed, shaking his head. "No no no no no!" His whole body trembled with the scream that had been perched under his chin, now making his way into his throat, choking him with its enormity of repressed anger and fear at the innumerable injustices done to him. This was it, this was him getting too close, this was him being thrown into the fire. He was flaying, liquidating before everyone's eyes. The familiar yet distinct smell of lies like rotted meat flooded his nostrils and he wondered how many minutes he had until he went into convulsions.
Alana stood by helplessly, hands steepled over her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Will."
The psychiatrist followed the procession of officers and paramedics who half-dragged Will out of the house and down the steps towards the ambulance, where two other bulky paramedics waited for him. Clearly, they knew of his history.
"Get the dogs," an officer said to no one in particular as the herd of dogs trotted happily towards the group, barking as they recognized their caretaker. Alana buffered between them and Will until the gate was closed behind the paramedics. Releasing their collars, she look back to see that he had broken down in sobs and had to be carried the rest of the way to the ambulance.
She quickly caught up with them, closing the gate behind her, and watched as Will was led onto the gurney. He continued to struggle, but had worn himself out quite a bit. His curls clung to his forehead and a visible wet stain formed on the chest of the orange jumpsuit. Handcuffs and shackles were to be replaced by four-point restraints and a chest strap.
"T-tell the nurse he's FBI. As soon as you find out what it is, call me." She handed the paramedic her business card. "I can't come w-"
"No, as long as he's in custody, he cannot be escorted by anyone other than medical personnel or law enforcement officers."
She sighed defeatedly staring at his limp form; she realized this was the first time his body had been still in a long time. "Mr. Graham? Mr. Graham." Four seconds later the tremors started again, escalating quickly. His head snapped back, she heard gurgling from his mouth, and his arms locked at his sides. The paramedics yelled orders to each other, loosening the restraints.
"Is this the first time he's had a seizure?" The paramedic asked.
"No, he had one other about a week and a half ago."
"Alright, we need to go now." The last paramedic jumped onboard. She heard the driver radio dispatch as the paramedics shut the doors, turned on the siren, and raced down the long stretch of road. Though the law had restricted from doing anything else, she still felt as if she, like everyone else, had abandoned Will Graham.
The remaining officers had Alana recount the incident in as much detail as she could. They offered to move the conversation somewhere more private, but Alana had never cared what the neighbors had thought.
"We saw you talking from the kitchen window. When you didn't answer your cellphone, we figured it must be our guy. Your trunk confirmed it."
Alana sniffed. "Thank you for... not shooting him."
The officer nodded. "Agent Crawford gave us strict orders to avoid bullets at all costs due to his physical condition."
Alana nodded in understanding. She was beyond words at this point.
"You going to be okay here, ma'am?" The officer looked genuine. Alana wondered how much he knew, or how obvious it was that they were something more than friends. Thankfully, Jack hadn't mentioned a word about it.
"I'll be fine. Thank you for everything you've done." She gave him a forced smile and the last police car was off.
The silence consumed her, save for the occasional yip from one of the smaller dogs. What was it she was supposed to do with herself? It's funny how many times patients had confided their similar experiences of being left with nothing but your own guilty conscience. She couldn't gather herself to recall what she had told them.
The gate creaked as she let herself back in. Some of the dogs followed her to the steps, eager to get back inside. She held the door open until all of them were inside, locked the door behind her, and continued back to the kitchen. The emptiness overwhelmed her before she remembered that that's what it usually looked like. The grandfather clock in the corner read 7:49. She grabbed the jumbo bag of Purina from the pantry and filled the bowls. The dogs skittered over, their tails wagging contently. Alana slid down the wall beside them.
She'd get drunk tonight, skip the beer and open that bottle of Stranahan's her brother left last Thanksgiving. Whiskey seemed appropriate on a night like this. Then she'd wait for the phone call that wouldn't come from the hospital, ignore the falsely cordial voicemail from Jack she'd pretend she never got.
Alana wasn't aware she was crying until something brought her back to her reality. Winston was in front of her, staring at her purposefully. She pulled him to her side, her fingers splayed in his shaggy hair as sobs wracked her chest. He licked at her tears, and a watery smile broke out on her face.