A/N: This is something I wrote for the Hannibal Exchange over on Dreamwidth. The request was for Psychological Manipulation and I struggled with this a little. It's hard to live up to the sophisticated level of psychological manipulation they have in the show but I'm hoping something in here hits the nail on the head.
Please Enjoy
Cobra Venom
Will had spent a week behind the bars of this new cell in the Baltimore state hospital for the Criminally Insane. He had been a believed murdered for two weeks, and he had spent the majority of that time trying to ignore the low hum of his brain.
After Hannibal's initial visit, Will had stated that he wanted no more people to see him, and he'd clung to that decision since.
They had turned their backs on him, believed he committed grotesque killings and cannibalism, so he had every right to turn his back on them, and refuse any contact.
It was petty, but he suspected petty was all he had left.
When the lights had turned on at six in the morning he had been informed that the hospital had finally drafted the schedule that would dictate his entire, indefinite stay with them.
Will didn't know what had taken two weeks to organize. He was under the impression there was not much for patients to do in a mental hospital. They weren't brought out for the cell for anything except for a small amount of exercise to prevent atrophy, or a counselling session, if he was assessed to be worth the time and money on a therapist.
Will waited patiently, lying on his cot, on his side, staring at and contemplating the wall with his head on the surprisingly springy pillow.
Breakfast was lying cold and forgotten on the floor, and Will was expecting someone to come and pick it up as the first task of his new timetable, whatever that may be.
However, when the door opened, the orderly was there to fetch him rather than his abandoned paper plate.
"Mr. Graham?" The man asked. He looked slightly older than Will, which was still far too old to be calling someone in a jumpsuit 'mister'. "I'm here to transport you through the facility." A few other helpers appeared behind the African-American man. "Please turn and put your hands on the wall."
Will found himself swallowing. He'd heard stories about what orderlies did in mental hospitals, things that no one believed because of the somewhat lacking credibility of the criminally insane. It struck Will now that he was one of the said incredible criminals.
A pair of strong arms circled his waist to attach a chain, and the appendages of the other people clasped the belt's extensions to his wrists and ankles. They managed to do this without touching or brushing against Will.
He stared at the grey, wall in front of him, not turning his head to look at the men on either side.
"My name's Barney, Mr. Graham. I know you're new here and this is probably all very weird, but I'm gonna help you as much as I can." He appeared in the side of Will's vision, looking at the other orderly's work. "Are these hurting?"
Will's mouth opened and closed silently for a moment, not being able to find the words, as he hadn't been sure whether he was allowed to speak. "N-No." He answered. "They're..." he was about to say 'fine'. It wasn't fine. "They don't hurt."
"Good." Barney said in an honestly satisfied way. "Please turn around and we'll escort you through the facility... Was there something wrong with your breakfast, Mr. Graham? I can ask if they have anything else, if you don't like what they're givin' you."
"I'm just... not hungry. Thank you for the offer, though."
One of the other orderlies grasped at Will's chain as they started guiding him out of the room, following a very narrow path between two painted lined on the floor.
Will kept his eyes on it, and his slippered feet, as they moved through the facility, occasionally brushing the line as the orderly who was not Barney pulled a little too hard. He would stumble slightly as he tried to right himself in the exact middle of the allotted space for him to walk.
At several intervals they would pause in their marching him so the third orderly could opened the doors.
He knew the upper floors, and part of the east wing from his previous visits, but Will suspected he had been placed in the lower south.
Even if he were in a familiar area, he wouldn't attempt a breakout. Everywhere he would go, everyone he would go to, would lead back to the mental hospital. So as he moved through the building he didn't bother trying to map out his path.
They entered a room which was much warmer than the rest of the hospital. It was almost a stifling heat, and Will looked up to see the man in front of him stop and turn while the two who were flanking him pulled his form into a very uncomfortable chair. They locked his chains to a metal loop in the floor and to the arms of the chair.
Barney clasped a hand on Will shoulder again.
"We're just going to be outside the door, and the doctor won't be long. Don't worry."
Will nodded, with his eyes on the dead space between him and the empty chair. "'Thank you, Barney."
"It's no problem, Mr. Graham."
The prisoner closed his eyes for a moment. He listened to the three men exit the room and slumped as much as he could in the stiff chair and shackles. He couldn't hear anything in the hallway, the room's walls being too thick, but there was a slight electrical hum from the security camera he knew was above him.
It was much more isolating than his small cell, which was starting to feel, in some minute way, like his space.
This room was clinical, with nothing designed for comfort.
Will sighed. Nothing good, he decided, could happen in this room.
Then the door opened and he looked up through tendrils of hair to the revealed corridor, expecting someone to be standing in the doorway to watch his reaction.
Instead he got a heartbeat of emptiness before someone stepped into the frame.
The lights within the interrogation room were far brighter than the ones outside in the hall, and the face of Dr. Chilton was illuminated in the harsh fluorescents. He looked pale and washed out and the skin around his eyes was dark and shallow.
He walked straight backed, with one hand pressing against his stomach and other lightly steadying himself against the wall as he moved into the room and towards the chair.
"Good Morning, Mr. Graham."
"Dr. Chilton." He responded, not as all surprised as how flat an unresponsive he sounded.
Undoing the buttons of his deep green suit jacket, Chilton sat, slowly, levering himself carefully into the chair. "I'm sorry about the delay in sorting everything out; I wanted manage your care personally."
"You weren't allowed to come back yet... after you were gutted."
That, Will decided, was a surprise. Not the hostility, but the sharp tone and general catty bluntness were not something he'd intended to come out of his mouth. He didn't feel guilty, as he was never the one to say the right thing and two weeks alone in a cell had not done wonderful things for his social skills.
"Yes." Chilton agreed, his demeanour bristled as he leant back in the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. It was clear that he would've rather been in his office's chair, with lumbar support and a footrest, so he didn't have to fold over where his stitches were.
Will felt a bit sorry for the administrator. It was clear that being there for Will was important, to the point where he was willing to put himself through discomfort and the possibility of prolonging his recovery time to be the one who documented Will's downward spiral.
His dedication to ambition was impressive, but contemptible.
"I thought," Chilton said, with an arrogant sharpness of his own, "You would appreciate the sentiment." He fiddled with his ring, "Better the devil you know, and all that."
Will looked away and down. He didn't think Chilton was the devil, but he didn't want the other man to know that.
The silence stretched for a moment, and Chilton took a deep breath before breaking it. "The truth is; I thought this is the least I could do. So many of the doctors here were salivating when they heard you'd be coming. The promise of finally getting into your head was almost impossible to resist."
"So, what, I'm in your debt for saving me from them?"
"No, Mr. Graham, I believe I still owe you a great deal. If not for your unique talents I would have been left to the wolves," he winced, "so to speak. A wolf that you managed to put down, even through a fevered haze. I was very impressed, and grateful, when I heard."
"I... don't remember it."
His eyes flickered up to the doctor, expecting some form of disappointment about not being able to dissect the progression of his encephalitis. Instead, Chilton was nodded and looked sympathetic.
"That must be difficult. Not being able to remember if you did or didn't do the things that brought you here."
Will tried not to hiss between his teeth. While it may be true that he couldn't remember much before either of his admittances into hospital, the first being after he killed Gideon and the second following his arrest, he knew he had not done the crimes he had been committed for.
"It doesn't matter." He mumbled.
"Doesn't it?"
He shook his head "No," He concluded, "it doesn't. Everyone was more than ready to believe I killed all those women." He took a deep breath in lieu of laughing hysterically. "I suppose it's my own fault; I laid the groundwork for their suspicions. I'd probably think I was guilty too."
"Except that you don't."
Will looked away again, not feeling the need to nod as he had defended his position enough.
"If it helps, at all, I don't think so either."
Snapping his head up, Will stared at Chilton. His eyes shone with the same agenda and arrogance as always, but there were lines around his face that spoke of 'once bitten, twice shy'. It was quite hard for Will to determine whether Chilton sincerely believed in the prisoner's innocence, or whether he had only convinced himself that Will was innocent for his own sake.
Perhaps, Chilton didn't want to believe that he thought Will guilty, because he didn't want to go down the same road as he had with Gideon.
Even if the doctor's belief in Will's innocence was false, it was still the most comforting thing Will had heard since the encephalitis diagnoses.
"Really?"
Chilton nodded with haughty graciousness.
"That doesn't mean I can release you, of course. One cannot simply override a jury. I heard the trial was quite the showcase, I'm sorry you had to bear witness to it."
"But you're not sorry about the result." Will stated.
Although it wasn't a question, and Chilton knew it to be so, his lips upturned and he shifted position to lean an elbow on the armrest. "No." He answered honestly. "The circumstances are regrettable, however. You've done so much for me and I can't imagine a better way to repay it than to be here with you."
Will felt like he was facing down a predator waiting to strike when his back was turned and, for the moment, the ex-profiler was willing to face the other way. He didn't have much to lose.
"That's... very thoughtful. I suppose."
"Well," Chilton's eyes flashed with the disappointment of a ten-year-old who failed to get the reaction they wanted, "You're welcome."
"I-I didn't mean..." Will slumped. "Thank you. For believing me, I mean, but I don't want any kind of therapy or... anything else for that matter. I'd like to just stay in my cell."
"I'm afraid you have no choice, Mr. Graham. Regular psychiatric evaluations are mandatory for all inmates, although, I suppose, I can't force you to cooperate."
"I would appreciate it if you didn't."
Chilton laughed dryly. "I suspect there aren't many people who could force you to do anything against your will. Your current predicament being the exception, of course-"
"Of course."
"-but we do have a daily routine here you're expected to follow. An important part of that is that you eat breakfast at 6:30 every morning. I have no compunctions about ordering a patient force-fed if it means keeping them alive. I've also decided that we should," he gestured slightly between them, "meet every second day," he almost winced, "or as often as I can manage."
"Right."
"You will have daily exercise time at approximately 8am. Supervised, of course, but you may take it in the exercise yard; not many get that privilege."
"Because you think I'm innocent." Will reiterated, trying, perhaps, to make himself believe.
Chilton cocked his head, and assessed Will for a moment. He shifted painfully in the chair before slowly rising. He managed to not make a noise of pain, but his breath choked.
He looked down at the tethered Will. "Yes, Mr. Graham, I do." He straightened as much as he could, "I realize you have some animosity towards me, but I hope we can find a mutual understanding. I would hate for your time here to be harder than necessary."
Will looked down at Chilton's shoes. "Right." He repeated, not having anything better to say.
"I heard that you're refusing visitors."
"I haven't been up to seeing everyone." He admitted to the floor, not liking the little bit of vulnerability he was showing while in such a vulnerable position to begin with.
"We've had several people demanding to see you. The temporary administrator called me in near hysterics after Jack Crawford threatened him and everyone who works here. I strongly recommend you allow visitors, for the sanity of the staff if not your own."
Will nodded, half-heartedly understanding that it wasn't a suggestion.
It took a few days before anyone was allowed to visit. Set days were assigned for visitors in each sector, and Will sat anxiously on his bed, blinking hard at the lights which had become more intensity angular for the occasion.
There was extra light shining from above the door in and out of the cell, illuminating the outside corridor and the small folding chair that Will recognized as the one Chilton usually sat on during their unproductive times together.
He had been told the day before that someone would be coming to visit him. From what he had heard about the staff's anxiety, Will was expecting Jack to be the first to come see how he was doing, and had been mentally running through safe options for conversation that didn't give too much away.
Will had never been one for conversation, and he had already learned from several sessions with Chilton how to not say too much, yet enough to satisfy the other's smug need to feel superior.
It was a method that would have to be adjusted for the concerns of Jack, but Will was determined to come across as put together and not homicidally insane as he possibly could.
There were several cells separating him and the other men similarly trapped inside the mental hospital, orchestrated so that the instability of the other inmates didn't bleed into Will's mind. Although the distance meant he couldn't understand what they were saying, their constant muttering provided a backdrop for most of the day.
At night, when he was half asleep, he could almost pretend it was the snuffling sound of his dogs trying to find the best place to settle.
Then, when they quieted down, Will knew someone new was coming down the hall. The orderlies weren't worth their silent attention and although the clipped sound of shoes were similar to the ones worn by Chilton they were moving far too quickly to be the still-recovering psychiatrist.
It wasn't until the sound was a few cells away, when he could hear the brushing of fabric as the man strode forward, that Will realized that it was most likely Hannibal as Jack wouldn't have stepped so lightly.
Will's eyes were downcast so he didn't see when the European moved in front of his window wall. He only heard the sound of footsteps settle, and the harsh creak of the foldaway chair as it supported weight.
He didn't want to initiate conversation, lest he seem desperate for someone to communicate with who wasn't Chilton. He was, indeed, craving some form of unstilted human sociableness.
But not with Hannibal. Not with anyone.
"Hello, Will."
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to shiver. He didn't rise to meet the man as he had when he had been in holding before his trial. The man no longer deserved that respect. "Dr. Lecter." He responded, still staring at the hard seamless floor.
"Have they treated you well, here?" He was seemingly undeterred by Will's unresponsiveness.
"Fine. For an Asylum."
There was a beat of silence.
"This is a hospital, Will, not an asylum, and as the name implies you are here to get better, not wither away. I won't allow it."
"You put me here."
"No." Hannibal said sharply, causing Will to startle and lay eyes on the man for the first time in weeks. "You are here because the crimes of Hobbs affected you so severely that you consumed him, and allowed him to consume you."
"Yes. Right." Will remembered that from his trial.
"You need to redefine yourself beyond Hobbs and, perhaps, any others who have infected you."
Will closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. He could have pointed out how it had only been the encephalitis which had infected him, but as his plea had continuously been rebutted he didn't feel the need to torture himself by going over it all again.
"Are you well?"
He sighed. "I have a headache." He answered honestly, "They won't give me my glasses back."
"I believe that is standard policy," Hannibal said, in a tone not without sympathy, "Anything that could be used as a weapon is removed."
Will laughed bitterly, "Yeah, I asked for them back yesterday. They're not worried I'll use them as a weapon so much as they think I'm a danger to myself."
He glanced up at Hannibal, who was looking at his with a stony expression but a slightly tilted head. "Dr. Chilton does not believe you're dangerous to others?"
The prisoner's face twitched as his teeth bore in a smile. "No. He doesn't think I killed those people." He said pointedly.
Hannibal frowned. "And you believe him?"
"Yes," Will lied.
With tight lips, Hannibal gave a small, doubting nod. Will felt something trickling from his mind and it sent a shiver down his neck, but couldn't recognize why.
"Do you think, perhaps, that Dr. Chilton only said that to you in order to gain trust? You have always been quite hostile towards him, and now he has power over you. One recalls him in a similar position, just recently, which led to his evisceration."
"You think he's pandering."
"I am certain of it."
Will felt a bubble of anger rise in his throat. It threatened to pop on a shard of fear, but Will had no idea where the sharp emotion had come from, or why it felt warranted, so he ignored it.
For now.
"And you're not? Chilton may not have as much reason to trust me as you, but he's not the one who testified at my trial and called me a deluded psychopath who had no control over my own mind."
"Those were not my words, Will."
"They may as well have been." He looked away, aware that he likely sounded like a petulant child and that Hannibal was closer to anger than Will could ever remember him being, but not much caring. "I have more reason to trust him than you right now." He said towards the padded wall. "At least I know what Chilton wants from me."
There was a moment of silence before a scraping of the chair as Hannibal rose. It was not a particularly sudden movement, as it was achieved with the same slinky motion which Hannibal always employed, yet it still caused Will to startle and flinch away.
"I just want you to get better, Will, and that is all I want."
Even after only a few sessions with Chilton, Will had gotten used to the route to the small interrogation room to the point where when they deviated from the usual pattern he felt his heart seize and his breath choke.
"B-Barney?"
"It's okay, Mr. Graham," came the comforting rumble behind him, "Dr. Chilton's just having a bad day, so he's going to see you in his office."
"Oh."
Will did remember that Gideon had spent his mandatory appointments with Chilton in the latter man's office. He supposed it was a show of trust that he was allowed into the sanctum where there were nothing to cuff him to the chair. It was a way to create the illusion of equality between them.
"Graham," Chilton greeted from his chair. "Please have a seat."
The man was leaning in his high-backed chair, sheen of sweat over his face. Will tried his best not to feel sorry for the man, but he knew that trying to get back to work and function as a human being after having your organs ripped out must be very difficult.
"You don't look well."
"They're adjusting my pain medication." He winced a smirk. "It's not going so well."
"I can see that."
"I heard you had a visitor yesterday."
Will nodded. Barney and the others had removed themselves from the room now that the prisoner was settled in the chair opposite Chilton. He thought it was strange, as he knew that security had been present in the room when the doctor had private, unrecorded sessions with Gideon.
It was risky to be alone with a patient, when the damage of their previous encounter was still close.
Maybe Hannibal was wrong.
"I assume you were behind it."
"I thought it best."
Will stiffened at the implication that he didn't know what was best for his own state of mind, when all evidence pointed to him being the only one who knew what was going on.
He tried to brush it off and continue. "You said Jack was harassing the staff to see me; so why Hannibal and not Jack as my first visitor?"
"Jack has a certain authority over you. I didn't think you would appreciate his presence as much as Dr. Lecter's." Chilton lip quirked up in a half-smirk. "Was I wrong to assume that?" he asked smugly.
"No," Will looked away, "You weren't wrong," he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to ignore the image of Alana his mind conjured, "But... I wasn't ready to face Hannibal. Someone else may have been better."
"The lovely Miss Bloom?"
"Doctor Bloom."
"Yes. Of course." Chilton leaned back. "She would have been a much more welcome sight for sore eyes, I'm sure. Given your previous relationship with Doctor Bloom, we thought it best to wait, for the benefit of both of you."
Will frowned slightly, but with his eyes downcast he couldn't be sure if Chilton noticed. He didn't miss the use of the plural, and he wondered who else could have had influence over Chilton's administrative decisions.
Possibly Jack, but definitely Hannibal.
If the sophisticated man was willing to spend time with and go through Chilton to help Will, maybe Hannibal really did care about his welfare. Perhaps, this really was the best place for him, and he should stop fighting the inevitable of his situation and embrace the help that was being offered.
Although he believed he was innocent of the crimes that put him in prison, he was not so naive to think he didn't need help.
He just didn't want it from Chilton.
"At least a visit from Hannibal was better than one from Freddy Lounds." Will conceded, "I'm sure she's chomping at the bit."
"She is indeed, and quite frustrated that I am bound by doctor-patient confidentiality." He tilted his head forward, the closest approximation he could make to the full body movement. "You can trust me, Will. I am responsible for your care and it's a duty I take very seriously."
"Right, but what happens if you're wrong? If I'm wrong and I'm not innocent; what happens then?"
"It's highly doubtful," Chilton said, with a small undercurrent of artificiality, "you may be..." damaged, "plagued by your disorder and various neurosis, but you have a good working knowledge of who you are. I see no reason to doubt that you are who you believe yourself to be."
Will nodded. He never thought he could be on the same page as Chilton about any of his patients in the asylum, but on this he could somewhat agree with the injured administrator.
He had enough of a grasp on himself to know that he did not kill all those people, especially in the ways he was accused of, but, if he were honest with himself, that was all he was sure of.
Even then, there was one... victim he wasn't quite sure died by someone else's hand.
Will's hand instinctively came up to brush his ear. He tried to play it off as a habit of adjusting his nonexistent glasses.
He didn't want the doctor opposite him to have any doubts. He seemed as confident and convinced in his belief of Will's innocence as Gideon had been about his own identity the first time the profile had met him.
Despite this, being believed was still such a nice, alien feeling that Will hadn't felt in many years.
So, Will didn't voice his doubts.
"Do you think Dr. Chilton will view you differently should you be honest with him?"
Will blinked at Hannibal on the other side of the bars. He had not told his former psychiatrist about the conversation with Chilton, but not his uncertainties regarding it. The question posed to him only served as confirmation that Hannibal and Chilton had been conversing and synchronizing behind his back.
"What?"
He would have berated himself for his ineloquence if it were not the only non-committal response he could think of.
"I sense that you are not being totally honest with Dr. Chilton. You are hesitant to voice your thoughts for fear of judgement. It is a common fear, one I have never associated with you before, Will. You have never been afraid to show you are yourself, or someone else."
"I've never been incarcerated for multiple homicide before."
"That is indeed true." He briefly looked at the surroundings, "You have never experienced a place like this before, but you have always feared it, yes?"
Will nodded.
"You do not deserve to be here."
It was a statement that should have shocked Will with its ridiculousness, but instead it seemed to fuse his body into a rigid, angry alertness. It was said with a casualness that was never used by Hannibal without poignancy, and, for a fleeting moment, Will thought he might be able to understand what he was trying to imply.
But it slipped from him.
"What?"
"You do not deserve to be here, Will."
"You testified against me at my trial. You think I'm guilty."
"I do." Hannibal uncrossed his legs from his elegant position and leaned forward, "But, Will, I do not think you are a bad person. Those actions were not your own, they were Hobbs's, but even so I do not feel that the act of killing means that one a bad person."
The prisoner barked a laughed. "I always thought one was indicative of the other."
Hannibal made a small gesture, "Is the ability to restrain oneself from killing others the defining characteristic of a good person?"
"...Well... No."
"No. When one thinks of how many people are vile, rude or obnoxious, it is clear that they are not good people. So could not the reverse be applicable to some? You may have killed, Will, but you have a good heart." The visitor stood and moved towards Will's window.
He stood so close to the glass that with his upright posture, his knuckles were nearly touching the barrier. "Your actions have not caused me to lose any respect for you. I still consider you a... friend, Will." His breath fogged the glass, even in the warm air. "I only hope you do the same."
Will hugged the case-less pillow tight. They had given him a pain killer for the constant headaches from not having his glasses, but it was making him groggy.
He hadn't had many nightmares since arriving in the mental hospital, which was surprising, but that didn't mean he got more sleep than he otherwise would have. The inmates always cried out in their sleep, startling Will and shattering his fragile rest.
Most nights Will was able to sleep for several hours and when he woke it was like being dragged slowly through gelatine. He knew each morning that he had dreamt, but couldn't remember about what.
It was almost disappointing. He would have liked to know what his brain occupied itself with when not filled by blood and stags.
There was something strange playing with mind that prevented him from getting to sleep. He couldn't quite put his finger on why Hannibal's words had disturbed him so, or why he always felt like the man had a second shadow that Will couldn't quite see.
Yet, despite the ominous feeling that had settled after the psychiatrist had left, the afternoon had provided a strange mirror for Will to contemplate himself in.
It did calm him slightly, but turned his mind over much too quickly to be productive.
He knew the words had meant something important to Hannibal, and should mean something important to Will, though he couldn't quite figure out what.
It didn't seem to be solely about the prisoner. It did appear to be based on a life observation and he shuddered to think what.
Will lay on his side with his eyes closed, trying to sink into the fog of pills.
He could understand, somewhat, how Hannibal could feel a sense of trust and respect for Will. The European had always had an odd bond and tolerance for him that other human beings seemed to lack. Perhaps, it was not a philosophical conundrum that had spurred Hannibal's words, but simply a personal connection to Will.
Perhaps Hannibal was simply trying to justify what Will had done. He was not the kind of man who would live in denial about his friend's accused crimes, but could try to justify his friendship.
It meant something important to Will that Hannibal was willing to think about it so much, and try and find a way to care while still thinking he was guilty.
Even though it still hurt that Hannibal didn't believe him, it did ease the mistrust that had stuck to the inside of Will's ribs.
Perhaps Will could cut the psychiatrist some slack.
..His friend, he corrected, not psychiatrist.
While he was inside, Chilton was his psychiatrist, Will realized, and Hannibal was his friend. One who didn't have to come into the hell-hole of a hospital to visit him and didn't have to make an effort to reassure Will that he was still cared about, but still did.
Although his initial reaction towards Chilton was not one of trust, Will had held some form of hope about that man. He was the one person who believed Will had not killed those women, even during his episodes of lost time. There was in implication that by thinking he was guilty, everyone who thought he was guilty must have thought he was morally capable of killing.
He had, after all, killed Hobbs.
Will could remember admitting in shame that the murder of the cannibal had made him feel powerful.
It was an admission he had made to Hannibal. The person who knew more about him than anyone else and had much more reason to think Will insane and capable of killing than anyone else in the ex-profiler's life.
Turning over, Will buried his face in the pillow and sighed.
"I'm sorry."
"No. No it's fine. I understand why you would want Doctor Lecter as your primary confidant. However, you will be aware that should the doctor agree, all session will be recorded and I will be reviewing them. Nothing will be approved without my say so... So, if this is an attempt to distance yourself from me and my thera-"
"No, it's not. I just... I just feel more comfortable with Doctor Lecter. He's my previous psychiatrist so we already have... a rapport."
"That's reasonable; as long as you're aware that I will still have a decisive hand in your recovery."
"Yes. I know."
Hannibal looked less comfortable, yet more collected in the tiny counselling room. He had glanced distastefully at the chains attached to Will, but had not said anything to the guards about their removal and lack of necessity.
"I was surprised," the Doctor opened, "that you were willing to initiate contact with me, Will, and in such an intimate manner."
Will glanced around the room, his attention on the camera above. "I wouldn't really call this 'intimate', Doctor."
"Are we not able to reach out and touch without the barrier of bars or plexiglass between us?"
Swallowing slightly, Will conceded the point.
"I take it from this step forward, that a measure of ease has returned between us, if not trust."
"No," he mumbled, "Not trust."
Hannibal nodded, accepting the mumbled statement with grace. He crossed his legs and leant back in the chair, his calf brushed against Will's and left a mark like static beneath his skin. Will did his best not to react, but the strange feeling of being touched by someone was almost hypnotic.
The profiler had never been one for human contact, a few brief partners being the exceptions, but just the small contact of high-class pants against prison jumpsuit was enough to make him want to reach out to the psychiatrist just because he could. It seemed strange now that for all the times Will sat opposite Hannibal he never attempted to touch him.
Hannibal always seemed so untouchable.
Will had assumed he was, too, but for different reasons.
"Shall we begin?"
Several sessions with Hannibal, and Will felt himself starting to fall back into familiar rhythms. He hadn't quite opened up like he usually did in sessions, but Will now only hesitated due to the painful reality of where he was and who, other than Hannibal, was listening.
This seemed to be obvious to Hannibal as well, as the psychiatrist had started to relax as much as he ever allowed himself too. When before he had allowed his voice to coax Will into talking, provoking him somehow, it seemed that Hannibal now was happy to simply talk with Will and allow him to, somewhat, lead the conversation. He only occasionally asked pointed questions, such as how he was being treated, was he having any more nightmares or if he would be willing to see either Jack or Alana.
Will's answers to all had been noncommittal, bar one.
He was still quite sure he did not want to face anyone from the other-side except Hannibal. He found the hospital dressed prison to be far too oppressive on its own without the presence of Jack's domination or the uncleared air of Alana.
Whoever had set Will up had gotten to them too easily and too completely for Will to feel like he trusted them anymore. They were both strong personalities who had been taken over by some dark shadow and allowed their minds to believe the lies they had been fed.
Hannibal was different, as he had gone through the crimes logically and calmly yet held fast to some form of clarity concerning who Will was.
Hannibal was stronger than whoever was twisting the people in Will's world.
There were faint voices off to the right.
They were more regulated than the tones of the other prisoners in Will's ward, and carried themselves along the hallway. It was, the ex-consultant deduced, a conversation drifting down the staircase, behind two sets of bared gates. They must have been talking loudly for Will to hear them at all, as the acoustics of the prison were not the best.
The two men quieted their discussion as they approached the bars, which slid out the way. Although the tones were hushed, Will was able to decipher who they belonged to. One was clearly Jack, and the one which was not quite as distinct was most likely Chilton.
The bars slid and clanged as they allowed the two men access to the corridor.
They had a sharp, low discussion before one of them men, Jack, started walking briskly towards Will cell.
Will moved and pushed himself up to the head of the bed, as far away from the transparent barrier as possible.
He wondered, briefly, if this had been Hannibal's doing. Although Will had told his psychiatrist that he was in no way ready for this kind of confrontation, Hannibal had sometimes gone out of his way to push Will into positions he was not strictly comfortable with but believed the profiler could handle.
After a moment, he dismissed the thought.
Hannibal wouldn't do that to him now, not when they were still tentatively rebuilding... whatever it was they were rebuilding. It was more likely that Chilton had been listening into their conversations and allowed Jack to come as a way of breaking Will down and asserting his dominance over Hannibal and Will's sessions.
He sighed.
Part of him had known that he would have to face Jack. He had thought that it would come a lot earlier than this and had braced himself before for the possibility of talking to Jack. In theory he should feel a lot more confident about it than when he'd first thought Jack was visiting him.
He didn't.
So Will closed his eyes until he heard the footsteps settle.
There was no scrape of the cheap folding chair, and Will couldn't remember one being put out. That meant, perhaps, that Jack's visit was not planned by anyone, but it was still Chilton who had final word about everyone who walked in front of Will's room.
"Will."
Not so much a greeting as a demand, with a hint of a hidden question.
The prisoner curled in on himself.
"Jack," he spoke to his knees.
"I need to ask you a few questions. Are you up for that?"
"Would it matter if I'm not?"
Jack sighed. "Not really. I suppose I could come back later, but you need to talk to me today."
"Fine. Talk."
"We found a body."
"And what?" Will looked up, anger singing through his hollowed bones, "You think I broke out and did it?"
"She could have been Abigail's twin."
"But she's not Abigail." He snapped. "You can't have reason to think I killed her. Besides," he made a sweeping gesture to his quarters, "I'm not exactly in a position to murder anybody."
"Time of death says she was murdered before you were arrested; just after you killed Abigail."
"I didn-"
"She was found lying on a pillow that had been stuffed with Abigail's hair and dressed in her clothes."
Will glanced away and down. It seemed, he thought, whoever was torturing him wasn't quite done. Of course, it could have been him, if the times matched and Abigail's remains were there.
It was true that he could have killed Abigail, and he had admitted that he could have believed her death was by his hand had it not been for all the other murders. If this recent murder had something to do with Abigail's then there was, of course, the possibility that he was involved.
However, even with the black-outs and the possibility of Hobbs sitting in the back of him mind, it wasn't right.
"It wasn't me, Jack." He curled in tighter, shaking with exhausted rage and trying not to scream at the larger man. "There're only so many times I can tell you that."
"I don't know what to tell you, Will. It's all been said before, but I need to know anything you might remember about this new girl."
There was the thump of something hitting a wall, and Will looked up, startled, to see Jack holding a picture of a dead girl up to the screen surface of his cell.
"You tell me what you remember and what you don't. Then we'll figure out what you know."
Hannibal studied the corpse's photo with a detached sort of interest. He had brought the picture into their session together but hadn't asked Will for any opinion about it. Only after a quiet moment had he had set it aside on the thin arm of the folding chair, balancing it expertly.
They had spoken about the same general, simple things they always spoke about until Will couldn't stand the sight of the photo anymore and made a motion to grab it. He was pulled back almost instantly by the chains he had almost forgotten.
Will swore, and flushed a little when he realized he'd probably made a fool of himself with the sharp movement.
Hannibal's eyes crinkled at the ends in amusement, as if he knew Will would be too distracted by the photo to let it slide. It had probably his plan all along, and Will felt no compunctions about falling for it. He'd known, really, that as soon as the photo had been placed to the side he would return to it.
"Here." The doctor handed the image over.
It was a different photo to the one Jack hadn't shown him. He could remember the face of the woman, the standard 'did you know this woman?' profile close-up designed to spare the family from the sight of a mutilated body.
This was a crime scene photo. It was of a decaying woman, lying on the bed with her and resting across her chest; each hand on the opposite shoulder in a stereotypical dead pose. Her stomach had been cut into a 'Y' as if she had already had an autopsy, but it had been folded closed.
"He's mocking her death." Will mumbled.
"It does seem that way."
"There's no respect for her at all. Before or after he killed her." He frowned at the picture for a moment, before reaching out as far as his arm could reach to pass the image back to Hannibal.
Hannibal cocked his head, but didn't make to reclaim the picture. "Would you like to see the others?"
Will hesitated and lowered his arm.
"Yes."
The other photos were pulled out of the slim briefcase without fanfare and passed over. Will almost dropped the collection when he felt the other man's skin against his hand, but he managed to keep some level of composure.
There were a few others of the crime scene, a close up of her missing ear, from the same side as the one he could still taste. There were several photos of the pillow next to a tape measure and then one that made him pause in his rapid-fire shuffling.
"Were there any organs left?"
"None. Just the paper you see there."
"Were they all from the tattler?"
"Yes, and all about you. Not worth the paper they're printed on."
"At least we know how this killer feels about Lounds's writing. He wouldn't use it as turkey stuffing if he respected it."
Hannibal nodded, as relaxed as he ever was. "All the papers are dated before your imprisonment. Quite palatable in comparison to what was written after."
Will nodded absentmindedly, his brain turning faster and with more direction than it had the entire time he had been inside. The timeline for the woman did not contradict his accused guilt; a publication from after his arrest would have cleared his name. He didn't, however, feel any contempt towards this woman, which was clearly displayed in the killing.
"It wasn't me." He tried to express once again. It sounded flat and not at all like his own voice, like someone else had spoken it using his own mouth. An involuntary reflex, perhaps, after so long of having to defend himself.
There was a creaking as Hannibal shifted forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in Will's direction.
"I know you didn't." he made a small hand gesture towards the photos. "Although there are elements of Hobbs in this murder, it does not sit within his modus operandi. The woman fits with the profile of his other victims, but Abigail was the focus of his psychosis."
"But I'm not Hobbs."
"You embody the killer to better understand them, and that is what produces your crimes. If this is not spurred by Hobbs, then who else?"
"Not me at all," Will suggested, with slightly more violence than necessary, "Not by my mind or hand."
Hannibal nodded. "That is precisely what I am meaning, Will. This murder has been done with Hobbs in mind. The victimology and the missing organs are typical of his work. However, there are too many inconsistencies. The contempt for the bodies and the conflict about Abigail's death do not speak of Hobbs."
Will turned that over in his head. "You... don't think I did it."
His voice may have broken slightly.
"I think," the doctor started slowly, "that you, or indeed any identity living through you, did not commit this crime."
Releasing a long breath, Will looked down at the ground, feeling his eyes prickle.
Jack had hounded him for nearly an hour, exasperated that Will couldn't remember anything during his blackouts and time when his encephalitis was bullying his brain. He was convinced that the head of the behavioural department had dismissed his innocence as soon as the woman was shown to be connected to Abigail's death.
"I'll probably regret asking this," he directed his words towards the tiles, but he had no doubt Hannibal was listening. "but does that mean you don't think I killed Abigail anymore?"
There was a silence, and Will shifted his gaze to Hannibal's feet, refusing to raise it. He didn't particularly want to hear the psychiatrist express his doubt. Will had only just started to feel as if there was a place in Hannibal's life for him again, as a prisoner if not yet a friend.
"Actually, I don't... Just don't answer. Please."
He glanced up to see Hannibal watching him as if he'd had no intention of answering anyway.
"As you wish." He took a moment to assess Will before speaking again. "Can you deduce anything else about the killer from these images?"
Blinking, Will looked back down at the slaughtered girl. His hand was shaking slightly, but he could not feel the strings of nerves that would cause such a response. Maybe it was just shock.
"It feels... familiar." He hesitated, "I don't know. Maybe that's because I think it's the guy who set me up. Everything else is fairly obvious though... Except why."
Will looked up at Hannibal, as if the man would have the answer. "Why do this? I'm already... stuck here, there's nothing left for him to gain by continuing this. It's just..." he felt his eyes prickle and he curled in on himself slightly, remembering Jack's tone and the disappointment in his eyes.
"It's just mean, and childish." He concluded, completely aware that he was pouting.
Hannibal exhaled sharply and drew Will's attention. He saw the psychiatrist's nostrils flared with emotion.
"Whatever this man's reasons for doing this to you, cruel or not, I believe it is beneficial. You are applying yourself to the crime, profiling the killer. Reconnecting you to who you are and what you used to do."
"Yeah," Will croaked, "Maybe."
"It feels good, does it not?"
He nodded. It did make him feel a little better, but not because he felt a particular connection to himself through profiling. After Jack's visit, it was just nice to have Hannibal want his opinion.
He felt valid. Relevant again somehow to the outside world that he couldn't reach from inside a box.
Hannibal indicated the photos. "Do you feel yourself?"
Will's breath caught when he tried to speak. "I thought you said I couldn't have committed this. As me or..."
"No, Will, you misunderstand. Do you feel yourself here, now? While looking at this scene, can you feel any connection to the killer's psyche, his psychosis while trying to deduce his motivation, like you once did?"
The prisoner frowned. "N-No. I can imagine... I can picture what he's like, but I can't feel him." He reached to hand the photos back. "But that's a good thing, right? I've always gotten too close to things. That's how I was able to be framed, that's why everyone believed I did it."
Hannibal took the photos off Will.
"If you believe it's a good thing, then perhaps it is, for now."
Will didn't want to cry. He didn't really compute his own emotions like normal people, often feeling his face contort into expressions that didn't match with what was going on within, like it was trying to figure out how it was supposed to react. Other times the emotions didn't feel like his, bubbling up inside but not bring about to reach the surface.
The strange hollowness of his cell seemed to permeate Will and he curled up in the corner of it all, fighting back what was probably the most normal reaction his body had ever had to an emotion.
Even if he didn't quite know why he was having it.
Barney had dropped in with a letter from Hannibal the morning after their last session. The psychiatrist had sent his apologies and said that he was going to be out of town for a few days, giving a lecture at a university about one of his papers.
He had also written that he had made a deal with Chilton to not have the man interfere while he was gone. It was an indication that perhaps Hannibal was still holding some harder feelings toward the administrator than Will seemed to.
It shouldn't have shocked Will that Hannibal had a life outside his practice, but it did.
Will knew that in order to come to hell every day, Hannibal would have had to rearrange a lot of his schedule and patients. For the past few weeks the psychiatrist had dedicated a lot of time to come and help Will. Perhaps the surprise at Hannibal's extended professional life was founded on more selfish, perhaps possessive, reasons.
He looked back down at the letter and the neat, decisive handwriting. It was on unlined paper, with no letter head or personalization of any kind. The language was, as all language Hannibal used, professionally crafted to be formally informative, but Will still held onto it as if it was a 'Dear John' from an ancient lover.
As requested, Chilton hadn't come around for the days after Hannibal had left. As such, Will was left feeling relatively lonely, with only Barney as regular company as he provided him with meals and let him to the exercise area.
It was almost torture, not knowing what was happening with the girl; whether they had found more evidence to implement him in the murder or whether they already had a suspect in for questioning.
He would have liked Chilton to drop in and tell him what was going on, but Hannibal had prevented that.
Will had kept rereading the short letter and decided that maybe it was for the best that Chilton didn't have the chance to influence him. While he hadn't felt overly stilted by the administrator, Will had been feeling a lot better, a lot more open since taking his sessions with Hannibal. He didn't know how he would feel should he have to try and sit with someone else.
So he tucked the paper under his pillow, and closed his eyes.
He would wait for Barney to come give him his next meal.
And then he would wait for Hannibal, because he had nothing else left to do.
Chilton's office hadn't changed since he had been there last, with the notable exception of who was occupying it. Will had to admit that Alana was an infinitely better sight than Chilton sitting behind the desk with her hands clasped professionally in front of her on the wooden surface.
She was looking at her interlocked digits with a careful expression on her face; contemplative and a little regretful. Even though she couldn't have missed the sounds of chains or three men entering the room, she didn't look up until they had settled Will in the opposite chair and she thanked the two guards politely.
Once Barney and the self-impersonalized guard left the prisoner behind, Will had expected Alana to ask him how he felt, if he was okay.
She remained silent.
Before, Will would have happily lived in the silence, but after several days without Hannibal, which he had spent walking around in circles under the supervision of Barney, he felt like the calm was going to swallow him whole.
So he broke it before it could break him.
"How have you been?"
She looked up at him, sharply, "It's been hard," and leant back into the chair and away from the desk to survey him. "Though, I probably don't have the right to complain. Not to you."
"I don't mind." He offered her peace.
"I mind. You don't deserve that... or this."
Although Will was inclined to agree with her assessment, he didn't feel the same hope in his stomach that had floated up with Hannibal's similar proclamation.
So he mustered the simplest, non-descript response he could, and shrugged.
"I'm sorry, Will." She continued. "I'm not sure what to think anymore with this new body, but it shouldn't reflect how I see you."
Alana straightened and set her shoulder back. Will wasn't quite sure what to make of what she was saying. She was on edge and trying to maintain a professional distance between them, trying to glance over their history. Perhaps that was why she had chosen Chilton's office for the place of their meeting.
Maybe she couldn't face him through the cell wall, but needed something solid between them, even if it was someone else's desk.
"And how do you see me?" He swallowed.
She shook her head and looked away briefly. Even though she had refused to testify at his trial, for either side due to personal bias, Will felt he knew where she stood on the matter. It was clear that she believed that he killed at least Abigail, but had been holding fast to the hope that the encephalitis had driven him to kill; hoping, instead, that Will couldn't have killed anyone in his right mind.
Will didn't have to hope. Not anymore, anyway.
He had Hannibal and somehow that made it better, so he didn't have to hope so hard.
"I think you look lost here." Alana answered, her voice quiet, like she wasn't sure how to articulate what she wanted to say in the way she wanted to say it. "I see you without meaning or purpose. You're used to helping people, for better or worse, and you're not yourself when you have no access to that."
She leant forward in the chair again and, mirroring a position he had seen Chilton in, rested an elbow on the desk.
"Hannibal gave us your insights about this new murder. I thought it was interesting."
"Jack didn't."
Alana smiled slightly. "Well, you know Jack. He acted like he didn't care, but everyone could tell he absorbed and respected it." She leant back, her smile feeling slightly more honest, "Hannibal made it clear that it was an important that we listen to him and you."
Will looked away for a moment. It didn't mean anything, really, as Hannibal was hard not to listen to. It didn't mean that they had any respect for Will, just Hannibal.
Although it was possible that if they all understood that Hannibal still valued Will, as a person, not just a profiler, then they would reconsider him. That may have been why Alana was there, trying to get an official evaluation off of him instead of the casual pass-by that Hannibal and his photo's had offered.
"Why are you here?"
She sighed. "I know you don't want to hear it, but Jack sent me." She picked up a folder before giving him a critical look, searching for a reaction. "He wanted to get a better sense of what you're thinking."
The papers opened up into the murder. All the details splayed in front of him, black on white with the official F.B.I. watermark behind them all. He hadn't missed the sight, but reached out and ran his hand over the words.
"I told Hannibal everything."
"Read the file, Will."
Alana pushed the papers closer to him, so that his hands, which were attached to his ankles rather than the chair, could pull it the extra distance.
It was not the case for the freshly slaughtered girl, but was a collection of the murders Will had supposably committed. He stared blankly at the text for a moment, as he didn't need to comprehend a single letter-stroke on the page to know what it said. They had never let him see the report, but he felt like he knew it by heart.
"What is this?"
"We're hearing you out; your theory about being framed. Walk me through it all."
Will looked up at her. She was being very careful with how much she was giving him, but he could see enough of her to know that there was something bigger than just Jack behind her asking. Perhaps Hannibal had said something to her privately.
"Is this because of the girl's body or something else?"
Alana looked like she was going to glance away from his steadied gaze, but she held contact. Something tugged at the corner of her mouth, but Will couldn't tell whether it was to smile or frown.
"It's something else," she admitted, "more or less."
Hannibal didn't return the day he'd said he would. He hadn't sent any other letters or messages to apologize for not returning when he had intended and Will tried not the feel too abandoned. He did concede that it was slightly rude, and thus wildly out of character for a man such as Hannibal.
Will had taken to pacing the room, close to the transparent wall and running his fingers along the surface. He had made a smudge along the plexiglass and the constant contact had made his fingers tingle.
There was a part of him that felt as if he should be out there doing something, although he didn't know what. He wouldn't have thought that sitting in an interrogation room would provoke such tense anticipation. Perhaps there was something else his unconscious knew he should be doing instead of hanging around in a cell.
Investigating the girl's killer, perhaps.
Something was happening beyond the walls of the state mental hospital that was being kept out of his reach. There were details about the dead girl that no one was telling him that was making everyone re-question where it was Will belonged.
He wanted to punch the walls, but supposed that sort of thing was frowned upon in a mental institution, even if it was probably expected from the slightly pillowed surface.
It wasn't worth it, Will decided. The padding would be too soft, it wouldn't be satisfying.
He contemplated the plexiglass.
Then jumped as Jack appeared from beyond his vision.
Will hadn't even heard him approach, lost in his own thoughts for a moment that startled him almost as much as the appearance of his former boss. It caused him to blink and he took a step away from the suddenly too-close human on the other side of the barrier, stumbling slightly on his slippered feet.
"Will."
"Jack." He crossed his arms and tried not to curl in on himself. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
The larger man sighed. "Will..." he looked awkwardly away from the prisoner, which caused them man inside the cell to think the worst. It took a lot to make Jack look as unsure as he did.
"Is Bella okay?"
Jack shook his head. "She isn't your concern for the moment." He looked at Will, trying to size something up in the captured man. "We've officially reopened your case. Alana has given me your statement, and, given recent evidence, we have reason to believe you might not have killed Abigail Hobbs."
"I heard that Hannibal gave you my profile of the person who killed the girl. Does this mean you believe me?"
"No, Will. This means we found Abigail's body."
Sitting in Chilton's office, Will jiggled his leg impatiently. He had been delivered to an empty office with only Barney for company. It seemed that even with doubt cast over his guilt they did not want to leave him alone in a room without a security camera.
Instead, Barney was standing next to him, patiently looking over the room.
"Have they told you anything?"
The temporary guard looked down at him with a simple smile. It seemed that everyone understood that Barney was the only guard whose presence wasn't oppressing. He had a simple nature that, while not exactly trusting, held a constant form of unbiased thinking and respect towards Will.
"No, Mr. Graham, they haven't."
Will sighed.
"Thanks anyway, Barney."
"No problem, Mr Graham." He rested a hand on the arm of the chair that Will sat in. He didn't touch the prisoner, but, somehow, he didn't have to in order to make the sitting man look up at the young features, still surveying the room.
"I have heard," he continued, "that they are cleaning your room, restocking the toilet paper and resetting the guard schedule. Now, they haven't told me nothing, but that usually happens when a patient dies."
Will frowned.
He hadn't heard anything about the newly opened case of Abigail Hobb's death. Jack had questioned him about the last time he saw her and their relationship prior to that. He had balked slightly when Jack asked whether there has been a sexual component to their interactions.
It honestly hadn't even occurred to him.
There hadn't been many details about her body in the discussion. Perhaps, Jack had wanted to see if what Will remembered matched up with what they had in the coroner's report.
It didn't.
What Will had said to Hannibal such a long time before still held true; if it was only Abigail he had been accused of killing, he might have believed he was guilty. While he was sure he hadn't murdered anyone else, there had always been a misting doubt in his mind about who could have killed Abigail.
He couldn't think of anyone else who would want to do her harm.
However, there was still something ringing in his ears, saying that there was someone out there who wanted to distroy him and that he should be very frightened of that person.
Maybe, he hoped, they'd caught him.
Maybe that was why they were letting him out.
It was a thought that stung him with its absurdity. Will knew that there was no chance that he would be so lucky, but he allowed himself a dizzying moment of hope and joy and he smiled.
He heard the door open but kept his head ducked, not wanting whomever it was to see the vulnerable expression on his face. He allowed them to move around and over to the other side of the desk before he raised his head to meet the eyes of Chilton, who had lowered himself into the expensive chair.
"Thank you for keeping an eye on him, Barney." Chilton said to dismiss the guard.
Barney addressed the doctor briefly before he left, but didn't leave a final comment with Will; just a smile and a nod before he closed the door and left the two other men alone in the lavishly decorated office.
"I assume Jack told you?"
Will nodded. "They found Abigail."
"Well, it's a bit more than that." Chilton gave a smug half smile, and assumed his usual haughty position with a much smoother movement than his body would have permitted at their last meeting.
Will dug his nails into the arm of the chair. The administrator was deliberately avoiding telling him what was happening. The hope that had tentatively spread through him moments before seemed to be dissolving in the face of Chilton's smugness.
The profiler silently berated himself for not steeling himself against the other man. He knew he should have known Chilton wouldn't allow him to indulge any moment of happiness, and, really, he shouldn't have opened that door to begin with. He was never the recipient of good luck, and it was clear the doctor knew that.
"What else is there?"
Chilton's smile didn't waver. "They found a variety of things on the poor girl's body."
Will tried not to bristle. Chilton had no right to address her with such a condescending title.
"It was clear that whoever killed her was harbouring somewhat of an obsession. Theories about you having an accomplice are ludicrous, of course, and Miss Bloom has expressed some concern for your safety."
Nodding, Will felt his stomach drop. Even though it seemed the FBI no longer thought he was a killer, they hadn't found the person who was framing him for murder, which meant whoever they were they could still infiltrate his life and make him believe he was capable of thing he should know he wasn't.
He didn't know if he wanted to be released from the confines of the mental hospital if it meant having his life and sanity torn apart again. At least within the padded walls he was safe from anyone trying to claw at him.
It was possible that they would be placing him in some kind of witness protection, somewhere away from the rest of the world. He didn't know if he would be able to handle that. Perhaps if they permitted his dogs to come with him then he could stand it, but he wouldn't be satisfied being shut off from everything.
Not anymore.
Even inside the asylum, his communication with Hannibal had become something to mark the days by. Will had looked forward to their sessions, and they had almost become the catalyst for meditation while he'd been alone in his cell. He had often replayed their sessions while trying to sleep; the tones of his accents and the subtle movements as he spoke.
He had also started remembering his dreams in a vague nonsensical way. The pictures of the dead woman seemed to have infiltrated his subconscious to a lesser degree than his usual, but she had been a reoccurring image.
There had also been a strange presence behind him in each dream, and no matter where he stood or turned he couldn't escape it. It was only the soft tones of Hannibal's voice, fluttering through the dreamscape and discussing the murder, that made him feel safe from the strange, malevolent being.
"Where are they taking me?"
"They've been debating the subject. However, Doctor Lecter has put forward a strong case that the transition out of my..." he made a small, immodest hand gesture "little hospital would disrupt your mind too much. Shock it, perhaps, into old habits."
"I'm not going to a different mental health hospital, am I?"
"No," Chilton smiled, and Will didn't know whether to be comforted by it or not, "We're placing you in private psychiatric care."
Will glanced briefly at the mediocre Baltimore weather. He had been dressed back in the clothes he had originally been arrested in. He could remember the feeling of Hannibal's hands on him as he helped to dress Will, who had been in a numb state at the time.
After so long in a jumpsuit, it felt odd to feel the different parts of his clothing moving independently of each other. He took a moment, standing in the dim sun and peering through glasses that didn't feel like they sat right on his face anymore, to adjust his t-shirt.
Chilton hadn't seen him out, but Barney had led him through the guard's locker room where he had gotten changed. He had been alarmed at how relaxed the other guards had been with their backs turned to him now that they knew he wasn't a killer.
However, he didn't know how comfortable he felt with himself just yet.
The old fashioned car out the front was unmistakable, but not overly familiar. Will didn't like riding in it because he felt like he was sullying it somehow, but as it was a means to be free to move and live, a symbol of trust, he founding himself almost jogging towards the metallic frame.
And, perhaps more importantly, to the man standing beside it.
Hannibal stood with his usual posture, one that Will knew had to be trained but came so naturally to the other man. He looked relieved and satisfied when his eyes fell on Will's form moving steadily towards him.
The ex-prisoner looked down at his shoes as he slowed his approach, coming still several yards away from the psychiatrist.
"Where have you been?"
Will cringed at the first words that had come from his mouth. As bitter as he had felt about Hannibal's unannounced and unwarranted absence for a few days, seeing the man outside the confines of their session room, and the hospital itself, had belayed that feeling.
By the question was the only thing his shifting mind could conjure as words. It surprised him how pressing a query it must have been to be the first thing that breached his lips.
"I've been helping the investigation," He opened the passenger door, "and arranging you new accommodations."
"I-I'm staying with you?"
Hannibal's smile grew soft. "Yes, Will. I've already moved a selection of your possessions to my house, both the inanimate and canine. You will have everything you need and, of course, more."
Will found he couldn't say anything else yet, so he shuffled himself in the car and collapsed in the passenger seat, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
As Hannibal circled around the car Will watched the lithe form. He didn't know the physical strength underneath the tailored suit first-hand, but he had no doubt that Hannibal would fight off anyone who tried to get at Will again.
Will's mind mightn't be strong enough to fend off the manipulations of whoever had killed Abigail, but he had no doubt that Hannibal's would be strong enough for both of them.
Hannibal settled in the driver's seat and Will looked down at the elegant wrist that rested on the gear stick, which was in no hurry to spur the car into movement.
"You're looking woefully underfed, Will. Perhaps an early dinner is in order."
At the thought of a Hannibal-cooked meal, Will smiled.
He looked over to the older man beside him and knew that as long as he was by Hannibal's side the killer who had slaughtered Abigail, made Will's insanity his obsession, wouldn't be able to touch him.
"That would be great. And thank you for this," he gestured vaguely, not able to control the upturned corners of his lips, "for everything."
The hand moved from the gears and became a weight-lifting presence on Will's shoulder.
"Believe me when I say: it is my pleasure."
Will nodded and looked down at his folded hands for a moment before moving one upwards and across his chest to rest on his opposite shoulder. On Hannibal's hand.
"Can you take me to your place now?"'
"It is your place as well. It is our home."
Will nodded, and shut his eyes against the pooling emotion.
"I will take good care of you, Will." The hand squeezed his shoulder, "That is my promise to you."