2
Bishop
Will paced along Hannibal's gallery, running his fingers over the books, turning his head as Hannibal spoke. "So you and Emmy, tell me more of your story." Will furrowed his brow, a hand gracing through his curls.
"Since when was this about Emmy, Hannibal – she is just a friend. A friend, whom I dated for a while in middle school, took her to prom, we stayed in touch, and now she's making use of my spare room. That's it. No more, no less." The Doctor laughed softly, settling at his desk and making a few choice notes on Will's speech patterns, and recalling the man's behaviour from their choice encounter.
"I have never seen you be so physically intimate with someone – you brushed her hair, an act of almost brotherly love Will, does she bring out the softer side in you?" Will sighed and climbed down the ladder, jumping the last few rungs. He looked at Hannibal directly, hands in his pockets, head angled down. He didn't answer Hannibal for a while, thinking over what he'd said. "I feel for her, what I feel for Abigale Hobbs, but on a more developed spectrum."
Hannibal nodded; "You feel fatherly protection? A need to care, to nurture?" Will nodded a little. He was uncomfortable talking about this – it brought up feelings he wasn't sure he wanted to explore. Their relationship as teenagers was fleeting, a whim, nothing serious, yet here he was. Will questioned how he felt about Emmy in that moment. It wasn't a pleasant sensation. He was pushed against his boundaries, crushed till he couldn't breathe. The investigator stumbled back, gripping onto the ladder for support. Hannibal simply watched him with an impassive expression.
"Something wrong Will?" The brunette laughed, the sound choked. "I am digging up the past, am I not?" Will shook his head, running a hand through his curls again and smiling shakily.
"Of course you are Hannibal – how is any of this related to my 'therapy'?" Hannibal laughed softly, scratching notes on his paper pad, pondering into the distance.
"It is all related Will, she is part of your life now. How does Emmy feel about your work?" Will smiled,
"Emmy has most likely seen worse than myself – she is a pathologist, part of the reason for her coming here was that she was offered a job at the academy. That's how we got back in touch. She heard of my move to Wolf Trap, and well..." He paused. Will was never quite so affluent with his words, about anybody. But it was a story, and a story he would happily tell. Emmy had worked hard for her career, and he was happy to support her.
"You speak about her with a warmth Will, please, continue." Hannibal settle back, clasping his hands together, watching Will's body language. The man was a little more open. One leg was still rested on his other, hands clasped over his stomach, but his eyes were bright, the corner of his mouth turned up in a little smile. Hannibal let the man talk for a while, before gently interrupting, their back and forth well stretched on the subject of Emmy. However, as Will sensed their conversation coming to an end, Hannibal saw the man become more anxious, more worried. Something was troubling him, deeper than having feelings for another human being.
"How have the headache's been, and the sleeping. Are you resting better with another person in your home?" Will nodded a little, "My headaches are...frequent." The Special Agent ran a hand through his hair, worrying his lip, his voice breaking a little in concern.
"The more Jack shows me, the more I feel like I can't process anything, I feel...unstable." Hannibal nodded sympathetically – "You are not unstable Will, we decided this. I have the paperwork to prove it." Will cut the Doctor off,
"It's a piece of paper Hannibal, a piece of paper doesn't know what's inside here," He tapped the side of his head; "Not even Emmy knows. She knows how I think about things – but nothing else..." Hannibal licked his lips, uncrossing his legs slowly.
"Emmy doesn't have to know everything Will – I don't have to know everything – I simply observe." The clock in Hannibal's office chimed quietly, marking nine in the evening. The Doctor tilted his head and studied Will, "Come now Will, we shall talk more next week." The investigator looked up, running a hand through his hair again, his nervous ticks returning. He dry swallowed two asprin and grabbed his satchel before walking to the door of Hannibal's office.
"Goodbye Doctor Lecter." With that Will left, and he took the drive back to Wolf Trap. The night drew in, clouds scudding across the sky, stars peeking through and decorating the inky blackness. Finally the city gave way to the forests Will knew well, industry fading and nature reclaiming its own turf. The forests of pine were thick, and the clouds seemed thinner here, the streetlights illuminating Will's face as he drove impassively. A small part of his heart leapt at the thought of Emmy at home, but other than that, he was tired, truly exhausted. His eyes grew heavy, head lolling but the violent shriek of an oncoming car's horn jolted Will awake.
He'd driven much further, time jumping a little, he was way past his turning for home, the road markings had vanished and so had the street lights. His headlights illuminated the winding road before him, the tarmac vanishing into dark shadows and tress twisted into grotesque forms. The sudden 8-bit tone of the Nokia tune penetrated his vision and thoughts, and Will slammed his foot on the breaks. He looked at the caller ID – it was Emmy.
Will didn't pick up; he just hit the red button, turned the car around and headed home. He arrived half an hour later, greeting his dogs and scratching their ears. Emmy was resting against the doorframe. Her arms were folded, brow furrowed. "Will, what are you doing back so late hon?"
The Investigator shook his head, "Got lost, m'drowsy – that's all." He walked towards her, trotted up the steps of his porch and stood in front of the blonde, his eyelids lowered, brow sweaty. Will would have stayed, spoke, explained, but he was so desperate for sleep and craved the darkness of his dreams that nothing seemed to process. Emmy let Will go, watching him stumble to his bedroom. She whispered a goodnight before flopping back on the sofa and drowning her sorrows in a glass of wine.
"Crawford will be the death of you Will."
