Post-Savoureux
Warnings: Slight hints towards Hannigram if you squint.
Written from this prompt on hannibalkink: "Do you hate me, Will?"
"I want to."
"I understand. But, in time, that will change."
"Into what?"
[Deliberately vague. Do what ever you want with it. I just couldn't get their voices out of my head, so I had to put it up.]
AN: This is my first foray into Hannibal and I hope I didn't write utter crap. Sorry if I did. This was my 'practice fic'. I hope you enjoy it and I hope to write more!
There he sat in the folding chair, as if nothing had happened. His left leg was swung over his right, hands neatly folded in his lap and Will could almost see the background of Dr. Hannibal Lecter's office flicker behind him. But he wasn't there, he wasn't there sitting in that rather comfortable seat having a conversation with his psychiatrist, officially or not. No, he was standing behind the bars of a cell that separated him from the very reason he was in there in the first place.
Nobody would listen to him, nobody would humor him by at least listening to him when they told him he was being framed—framed by the very person who had been hired to help him, the very person he'd come to think of as something along the lines of a friend.
Friend. That was something Will had never had before. Maybe it should have stayed that way.
The mere thought of it sent him into a nearly blinding rage, and he didn't know if it was luckier for himself or for Dr. Lecter that there were bars separating them. For once, he wished he was just having a nightmare, but those were starting to retreat as his encephalitis started being treated. And yet, somehow, it seemed as if he was getting just as much restless sleep as he had before he'd been committed to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—not that he was insane.
No, he was perfectly sane. He knew exactly who he was and exactly how he had got here, and how he got here was sitting right in front of him, face blank except for a small spark of amusement in his dark eyes. How Will wished he had shot him when he had the chance, but no; it was better that he hadn't. He would prove to everyone exactly who Hannibal Lecter was and get himself freed in the process, and perhaps live a quiet life all on his own with his dogs he would take back from Alana, free from the burden of the FBI or anything having to do with them ever again.
"I came here to talk to you, Will, against the advice of my own psychiatrist and that of everyone we know, so I hope that you will talk to me. I am still your psychiatrist and I will continue to be unless you wish otherwise." Dr. Lecter's voice had something in it. It sounded like he was trying to give the hint of grief for a friend he'd lost, but Will could see through his masquerade now. He could hear the truth in his voice and he had to applaud this wonderful actor for being able to fool himself and everyone else so absolutely completely.
Will licked his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. A part of him wanted nothing more than to tell Hannibal Lecter to get the hell away from him, but that would be counter-productive. He was the only one who would listen to him when he said he knew who had framed him, and he knew that he was the only one who believed him, even if he pretended otherwise. He had to believe him; he had no other choice as he knew the truth. Both of them knew the truth—or at least a sliver of it—but only one of them spoke of it freely and the other pretended he didn't actually believe it.
It was maddening, but Will would put up with it. He had time. In fact, time was the only thing he had enough of.
"No," he shook his head, arms still crossed over his chest as he took a small step closer to the bars. "No, you're the only psychiatrist I need, Dr. Lecter." Will didn't like eye contact, but here he was, staring directly into the eyes of the Copy-Cat Killer.
But he wasn't just the Copy-Cat. He knew that. This man was something so much more, yet Will couldn't figure out what. He couldn't get a read on him, not him.
"I am happy to hear you say that, Will."
"Oh, I'm sure you're very happy to hear that, Doctor." He tore his eyes away from Dr. Lecter's, the feelings it invoked inside him starting to get a little too uncomfortable. "There's something that I don't understand about this though, so I would appreciate it if you could enlighten me."
"I will do my utmost to answer any questions that you have, Will, but I cannot promise that I know the answers to your questions." His response was professional and eloquent as always. It disgusted Will how absolutely polite he was and yet he could see the hidden nature glinting in his eyes whenever he glanced at them.
"What was the point of this? Setting me up for those murderers we both know that you committed. Cassie Boyle, the fishing lures…how long have you been setting this up? What was the point in killing Cassie Boyle? And Marissa Schurr?"
"Ah," Dr. Lecter let out a rather convincing sigh that made it seem as if the very thought of his 'dear friend' questioning him pained him to his very core. "It seems that I won't be able to answer your questions after all, Will."
Will scoffed and gave a wry grin. "No, of course you can't, Dr. Lecter."
The man sitting there, in that folding chair, tilts his head slightly to his right and peers at him. His eyes seem to be taking every bit of Will in, as if he's hoping he could just drink in the vast array of emotions he was making him feel. Curious. That's what Dr. Hannibal Lecter was; curious.
"Do you hate me, Will?"
His heart skipped uncomfortably in his chest and Will had to physically take a step back to escape the shock he felt at that question. Did he hate him? Was he seriously asking that? Of course he…. Of course he did.
Will bit down on his lip and clenched his hands, his nails digging into the palm heard enough that felt the skin break. Hate Hannibal Lecter? He was supposed to hate him. He wanted to hate him with every fiber of his being, but there was something stopping him. He thought maybe it was the Hannibal Lecter he had known before, or had thought he had known.
Had that person been all an act? A part of Will couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. Nobody was that good of an actor, not even Hannibal Lecter. Then again, he was spectacular at everything else, why wouldn't he be a wonderful actor as well?
Will took in a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes as he ran his fingers through his hair and down over his face and unshaven jaw. How was he supposed to answer that question?
"Will?" He could lie. He could tell him a lie. He was sure Hannibal would never believe it, but that didn't mean he couldn't tell him it. Will swiped his tongue over his lips again and dropped his arm, placing it on his waist. This was difficult, painful even. He didn't know what to say, he knew what he should say, but he still didn't know what to say.
Everything was so…complicated. Everything was so different than it was a month ago. A month ago his mind had been on fire while he sat in the very office of the man who would frame him for murder—and not one murder, but five murders. He's not sure which situation was worse, actually.
"Will, are you still present?" His voice broke his thought process and Will quickly, but shortly, shook his head and opened his eyes to stare at the bottom of the bars. He could see Hannibal's legs and shoes just past that and he let out a sharp breath. He had to answer, he had to say something, Hannibal Lecter would never let up until he did.
"I want to…" his voice was quiet, but hard. Most would mistake it for a soft whisper, but it was anything but soft. It was angry and hurt, but never soft, never gentle, not anymore.
"You want to?"
Will lifted his head and straight above Dr. Lecter's eyes at his hair-line. "I want nothing more than to hate you, Dr. Lecter."
"And I understand that, I do, Will. In fact, I would be worried if you didn't at least want to hate me." Will took a deep breath and turned away slight, preparing himself for the psychiatric 'help' that he was about to receive. "On one hand, I am the person you believe is responsible for your current situation. You believe that it is I who committed the murders as well as framed you and not yourself—"
"Not believe, Dr. Lecter," Will quickly interrupted. "I know you did those things and I will prove it to everyone and then you will be the one stuck in this cell for the rest of your life."
Hannibal merely continued on as if he had not heard him. "—but, on the other hand, I am also the person you came to trust the most. I like to think of us more as friends than doctor and patient, Will. I've tried to do nothing but help you and I failed and that hurts me more than words can ever say."
"Oh, bullshit," Will cursed, giving a cold laugh.
The good doctor flinched very slightly at the curse, almost unnoticeably. "And so, I understand. But, in time, that will change."
Will felt his eyebrows scrunch somewhat in confusion as he peered over at Hannibal's face—anywhere but his eyes. "Change? Into what?"
A small, slow smile spread over the face of the man across from him. Will tightened his own grip on his arms and shivered. There was something dark in that smile, but also something else. Will couldn't put his finger on just what it was, and a part of him didn't want to try. This criminal's mind, Hannibal Lecter's mind, the thought of putting himself into his head terrified the shit out of him. He didn't want to know, but he had to. He would have to if he ever wanted to be free of this place.
"Something so much more than hate, Will." The words were slow, deliberate. An outsider looking in would never notice, but Will noticed. Will could feel the cold chill those words sent down his spine. He could feel the secrets that were held in them. Those words told him everything he needed to know, but gave absolutely nothing away, and it frustrated him.
He took in a breath, mentally preparing himself for the answer he didn't want to know. "And what is 'more', Dr. Lecter?"
The miniscule smile widened. "Understanding, perhaps. After all, you can understand a great deal many people." His mask was slipping. He could see it; the shadow, his real face. It was mostly hidden, but it was there in the dark corners of the room, still mostly hidden from sight.
He was so careful about letting anyone see, but as Will looked at him, he knew something. He knew that he wanted to be seen, at least by one person, at least by him. Will knew why him, he didn't even need to ask, and he wasn't going to. A part of him still wanted to pretend he didn't know why. A part of him wanted to pretend he still didn't know why Hannibal Lecter had done this to him.
But 'understanding' told him everything he needed to know about his reasons, as screwed up as they were.
Will wondered, if there was a God, then what was the point of this? Or was there any point at all?
"Understanding? Is that what you're hoping for, Dr. Lecter? My understanding of why you killed these people?"
Hannibal relaxed his smile before it slips away altogether. "You know as well as I do, Will, that I did not kill them. I'm sorry I didn't see that you were ill soon enough to help you. This is my greatest failure as both a psychiatrist and as a friend, I hope you know that."
Will stood there, silent, for a moment. "Yes, of course I know that, Dr. Lecter. You terribly regret everything that has happened,"
"I do, even if you don't believe it."
He quickly turned away, fists once again clenching until small drops of blood broke free from under his skin. "I want to be alone now, doctor." Alone to figure out exactly who you are, because I know you can't just be the Copy-Cat.
"Yes, of course," there was rustling and the sound of a shoe lowering onto the floor. Will assumed he was standing. "I will visit you again, Will. I won't leave you alone here, even if everyone advises me against visiting you. You are my friend, Will. In fact, ah… I've come to think of you as the best friend I have ever had."
Will's jaw creaked in protest at how hard he was clenching it.
He responded not, and there was a sigh as Hannibal Lecter walked away from the cell and down the hall. Something ached inside of Will, something he couldn't place—something, even, that he didn't want to place, but it ached all the same.
He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He would figure this out. He was going to figure this out, and soon enough he would be free from this cell and from Hannibal Lecter's place in his life, a place that the doctor seemed to take great pride in.
And soon, that place would be nonexistent, as well as the person in it.