Welcome to the beast that wouldn't die. This chapter quickly got really out of hand, apologies in advance for the double length but I couldn't find a natural break. Also there was supposed to be a lot more in this chapter but, because it rolled on so long, certain things have been postponed (so Bella, Bedelia and Freddie will have to wait till next time I'm afraid). And as for those waiting for beginning of the kinkier fare...I hope you can wait until the end.
(Title translation: "Ask, Tell")
Chapter 4
Assertif Demandant, Assertif Affirmant
'You see them. The holes in your mind? You see them, sweet thing. You see them cause they ain't holes to you. They're treasure hoards, right? Places to keep the gritty thoughts. You put yourself in there and hide it away, lock and key. But now you got holes, real it terrifies you, don't it. That you can't remember what he was or why he was, or what he did to you. You don't remember laying eyes on his face but you remember having done it cause deep down inside you can feel that drop in your stomach. The one like going up over a speed bump with your foot too hard on the gas. You saw his face and it made you wanna curl up and forget. Jolt you out of your happy ignorance, does it? Or did you ever have 'ignorance'? You wouldn't, would you. Always know everything that's going on an' why it's happening. Well, then does it keep you guessing? He liked you, liked you a lot. Oh who're we kidding here, he likes you a lot. You worry that he might've killed for you. That boy with his tongue cut out and his blood leaking onto the books, something for you right? Might do it again too. Ha! You should see your face. And that's just the start of it, don't pretend to me. You've seen it, you imagine it, what he did, and it makes your heart beat like a virgin on her first date. Sliding his hands over you like you're his property. Who knows? With how much you think about him maybe he does own you. Imagined him fucking you yet? I know you have. Ain't got a face but you've imagined it. You're the only hunter I ever knew who stank of prey. Luring them in with your own bait, that's precious. You're a precious little secret, ain't you Will? You see it, you see...'
He woke to the sound of geese flying over the house, his own rasping breaths and the remnants of Garrett Jacob Hobbs' whispering voice. The voice and its words were enough to keep him lying on the mattress beneath the rumpled duvet watching the sun travel the sky, so numb that he didn't have the energy to be angry at the empty side of the bed. It was becoming too tiring to keep it up.
It was nine o'clock before he managed to force himself from the malaise he'd slipped into. He got up and moved around the kitchen by rote; dog food, open front door for scuffling paws, coffee, toast, couch, turn on the news.
Headless Bodies Found in Vineyard, Georgia – Katie Gideon reports...Read the text scrawl along the bottom of the screen.
Another reminder. Only this one wasn't as prickly as his dreams were. This one spoke of fitting back in to well worn grooves where at least he knew he fitted in. Will stared at the television screen and laced his fingers together, bringing them to his mouth. A diversion, a welcome, welcome diversion. Lose yourself for a little while? You should. You deserve it.
Two men this time, if the reporter was to be believed, standing at the scene as the bodies were wheeled out through the rain dimmed green of the vineyard to the waiting fleet of SUVs, ambulances and police cruisers. Lot of good an ambulance is going to do a headless man, Will thought as he watched the rain beat against the reporter, trussed up in a waterproof jacket.
He closed his eyes and tried to bring to mind the photographs Beverly had brought him, smelling faintly of evidence-box cardboard. The memory was tinted white with hospital glare. It appeared as vivid images overlaid with words. The first target had seemed random, a blitz attack; man in a car park next to his vehicle. Anger and hatred in the jagged flesh across his empty neck. The second had blown that theory from the water. It had taken planning, motive against the victim. A woman in her home, placed carefully on the couch, a gentle hand in the clean slice at the neck and the careful placement of the body, redressed for modesties sake, with her husband dead upstairs, throat slit from side to side, severe bruising on the body that showed he was beaten before death, again that rage in the ragged gash, hate and hate and hate...
Will opened his eyes and blinked. Deep breath, fingers pulled apart with difficulty when he realised he was crushing them too tightly. Now two more. He frowned. It wasn't enough.
The phone rang three times before it was answered. Will knew Beverly was still at the scene because of the beating sound of rain against an umbrella loud in his ear.
"Kind of a bad time," she said by way of greeting.
"I can see that. Actually I think I can see you. Red and black jacket?"
"Lemme guess. Katie Gideon, news reporter extraordinaire?"
"What can I say? She looks great in a mac."
"I can't believe this is what you do with your days off. No, wait. I take that back."
"I have a couple of questions. Mind filling me in?"
"Sure," she said, "I'm just going to get under the trees. Hang on."
The loud thumping stopped, replaced by the airy sound of a slight wind. He heard the rustle as Beverly shook out her umbrella.
"The one time I get to come to Georgia and it's tipping biblical proportions of rain," she said as she brought the phone back to her ear.
"Don't worry, you look great in a mac too."
"You better believe it," he heard the grin in her voice, "You were right, you know. This one was even more staged than the last."
"Tell me."
"Two men, late thirty to forty best guess from what's left of them. Headless, both this time. We found one sat against a rock in the vineyard, arms folded closed across his chest."
"Like at a funeral home?"
"Yeah, just like that. Redressed again, in clothes far too big for him. The other, not so much. Dumped in the barn where they do the wine pressing,in one of the wine presses. Not sure the owners are going to want to use it again."
A rock and a wine press. Something there rang a bell but it was faint. Will scratched at his face and wished he could be standing in the deluge with them. He needed to see. The smell of fresh rain was heavy. Cleansing. It rinsed the blood from sight. A flood to wash away all sins and anger that man could wrought upon the other. Two heads taken to appease God.
"Will?"
"Sorry," he cleared his throat, "I was thinking."
"Get anything out of it?"
"No, but...give me a second."
He was too deep down now to care that it wasn't appropriate; he put her on hold and quickly dialled the familiar number. It rang once and a half before it was answered.
"Good afternoon Will. Are you calling to cancel your appointment?"
"No," Will said, refusing to hesitate even as he rolled the word out of his mouth awkwardly, "Do a rock a winepress and decapitation mean anything to you?"
"It's what I love about our conversations," Hannibal said, "they are never dull."
"If you don't then..."
"Can you give me anything more to go on? Only each article is rather incongruous when taken in turn."
"I'm thinking bible."
"Mmm," a familiar hum that spoke of concentration; Will could see him in his mind's eye, staring straight ahead, almost sightless, eyes partly narrowed into the middle distance, "yes. The book of Judges if I'm not mistaken. The princes of the Midianites were slain upon a rock and a winepress. Their heads taken."
"Yeah," Will nodded though no one could see, "that's it. For revenge?"
"For freedom, if I remember correctly."
"You always do."
"Well, this is uncommonly civil."
"Don't ruin it."
"I will see you soon."
A rush of antagonistic realisation nagged at him. One that bit harder because he'd known already, on some level, that he was trying to ignore it. I'm not going to meet a therapist at the pool, Will thought irately, am I. But you'll go anyway. Will bit at the inside of his lip and quickly reconnected with Beverly.
"Sorry I was so long. It's from the bible. Book of Judges. We're looking for someone with a working knowledge of Christian doctrine."
"In Georgia? Well that's going to narrow it down."
"At least it's something."
"Yeah, it is. Ignore me. The rain makes me cranky."
A pause. Will imagined the scene and knew he was making it worse than it needed to be. Ripped muscle open to the air as the headless corpse was pushed down into the press. Mutilated beyond simple decapitation.
"It was brutal, wasn't it," he knew Beverly understood it wasn't a question.
This escalation in the kill was leading somewhere, Will could see it in the brutality as it increased, the location and the staging as it became more daring and more militant. Personal, so very personal. There was reason to the madness, even if it was still nothing but madness.
"Yeah, it was. Took his hands this time too. And his genitals. Still haven't found those. The hands were stuck on the gate posts, palms up. Cuts on the body were more rips than anything. Brian thinks they might be using a bone saw. Oh and he was naked."
"They? What do you mean they?"
"Jack thinks it's a double act. The kills are so diverse, one caring, one raging."
"No," Will said without hesitation.
"Really?"
"Yes, really. If it were two the more dominant would be imposing himself onto the other kill. The submissive would only be able to mop up what was left if they wanted to care for the bodies. And why only ever care for one of them if it was a partner with the vendetta? He's purely animalistic, the dominant, it's vicious how he kills them."
"You think this is just one guy? Then why such different M.O.'s?"
Why so different? Because he was doing this for a reason. The reason was righteous now but had been born out of shame and fear. That was why he took their heads, wasn't it? He didn't want them to live in the same indignity that he did. The dominant personality scared the submissive. It rebelled against him. Something had happened to him, something terrible. He was lashing out. Had been too weak to pick up the knife himself, he needed help. Motivation.
"I think he's humiliating one and saving the other," Will explained as the slots clicked together in his mind, "That amount of anger isn't contained, it's released. He doesn't seem like the type to share. The submissive personality is completely opposed. Like a negative. I don't think the first would tolerate the second without it being impossible not to."
"Then you think he has..?" Beverly stopped suddenly and Will frowned.
It went quiet enough that he checked his phone to make sure he hadn't been disconnected, then:
"You do phone consults now?"
"Hi Jack," Will said, rubbing his face with a tired hand.
"You know I shouldn't be letting you anywhere near this crime scene, what with the review board breathing down my neck."
"No one even has to know I was there," Will said, "mainly because I wasn't."
"Just in your head?" Jack asked wryly.
"Just in my head. Do you want what I've got or don't you?"
Hesitation. Will waited.
"I'll take what I can get," Jack sounded wary but resigned.
"It's not two killers, it's one."
"How'd you figure?"
"Because I think they're two sides of the same motive," he said, "he believes he's two angels, Jack: mercy and wrath. Wrath allows mercy to save one while avenging himself on the other. The wife in the second kill, she had old scarring, bruising, right?"
"We're pretty sure it was domestic violence," Jack conceded.
"It's all connected back," Will said, almost as if to himself, remembering, "something happened to him."
The man with the slit throat had been badly beaten, and not just in the conventional places. Photographs: a face scarred blue and purple, lacerations on the face without time to scab, blood half coagulated over bulging puff-eyes. Torso a patchwork of half formed punch-welts, legs pock marked with kicks. And in between his legs, his genitals purple and swollen with blood under tight skin, disfigured and bent, one testicle popped open and unravelled from sheer brutal force. The mutilation of the genitalia in the most recent double wasn't coincidence. Will didn't believe in coincidences.
"I think...I think you're going to find signs of sexual abuse on the guy in the wine press, pre-mortem."
"Think this was a revenge?"
"A bid for freedom."
"What?"
"I think he might have been abused as a kid, or may be a victim of rape."
"A bit of a jump."
"He took his hands and his genitals, Jack," Will said, "after the head they're the part he finds most offensive."
"Well, if it is rape then that'll be harder to track," Jack sighed, refusing to argue, "not many men report it."
"And if it's child abuse then you need to go back to the first kill and look closer at the guy in the parking lot. Children are more likely to be abused by people they know, and a killer's first tends to be someone they're familiar with. The first pair will be the key."
"There was only one victim in the first," Jack argued.
"Then you're missing a body," Will said, "and I think it's because he's ashamed of it. It was someone important to him."
"Beverly's right isn't she," Jack said incongruously, making Will frown.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"This is what you do with your days off."
Like a train derailed, everything fell through the air before landing. In that moment before the wheels leaving the tracks and the debris hitting the ground, that was where Will Graham found himself. Hanging in weightlessness, a soft limbo where reality seemed suspended just below him. He could see it, waiting for him to hit. Bright, sandy ground already dented with flotsam and jetsam, smoking and baking in the heat of the destruction. The train had jumped the tracks long ago but he'd never even felt the judder, never registered the screaming of metal or the cries of the passengers.
Jumping town to town, job to job, until he found one he could be ignored in but still make a difference. The FBI with its righteous fury and commanding respect, harbouring him like a fugitive from the rest of the world. Filled his home full of wandering paws because it fooled him into thinking it was enough to not need more than that. Enough clacking claws and he could fool his social senses into thinking of them as footsteps.Fill his head with murder and violence so he could use them as a coverall when the darker thoughts slipped through and leaked out like poison into a water supply, you're just reflecting, and not have to admit that he was so close to being a case himself that he sometimes became buried in the bottle just to ignore it, of all the times he'd imagined killing with his own hands he could name fifty times he'd imagined killing with another's.
And now, after everything that had happened, Will found himself back in the same routine. Only everything wasn't the same. Everything was different now. He just couldn't fall back to his old life without always remembering what he'd almost had. The soft smile and gentle hands had ruined him far more than he'd thought he'd ever allow.
"Actually I have to go," Will said softly, "I, uh, have somewhere I need to be soon."
"Ok, well I can call you if we find anything new," Jack said, "or confirm any of your suspicions."
"Mmm," Will hummed before hanging up.
He sat on the couch, looking at the muted television as the news headlines switched, colours flashed. He wondered when he'd become so unstuck, so unable to imagine himself being alone for the rest of his life. Before it had been easy. Now...
It wasn't his sort of place. Will should have known, or suspected, that Hannibal would suggest somewhere Will would feel uncomfortable. He had parked his old Volvo between a BMW and a Mercedes, hidden within a further slew of exotic European cars. It was ingrained into him to distrust gaudy shows of wealth. None were so present as at an elitist health club, he thought derisively as he navigated his way to the classical frontage, sporting brass plaques and immaculately bedecked doormen.
The lush lobby seemed to judge him as he limped in, all marble floors and tall pillars beneath the high, ornamented ceiling. His duffel bag thumped against his side with every arcing step. The concierge welcomed him politely, a young man with courtesy trained into him as if by a whip; blonde hair perfectly cropped over a face drawn thin.
"Just take the elevator to the top floor, sir," he said, voice high and strict, hands wringing each other almost out of sight beneath the busy countertop, a twitch at his left eye; Will knew the signs. He wondered how long it would be before the man had a complete nervous breakdown, "they're through the doors at the back there."
"Would you mind..?" Will asked frankly, indicating to his crutches.
"Of course," the man didn't react beyond that, accompanying Will to the door, his walk stiff.
Will thought he seemed glad to be away from his post; so much so that he accompanied Will to the elevator, called it and stepped inside when it arrived. Will watched the floors flit past in winking lights. Two floors from the top he could no longer stand the concierge's well shined heels bouncing on the elevator floor.
"Prozac or Sarafem?"
The young man threw a glance over his shoulder which smacked of insulted embarrassment. Will didn't have the energy to care.
"Let me guess," he said, "your legs are stiff, you've been drinking a lot of water and you've been having trouble in the bedroom."
"How did you..?" the man's voice wobbled out as the doors dinged open.
"My advice? Stop taking it," Will said, not looking at him as he spoke.
His eyes were on the smoothly revealed landscape of glass, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. A window out onto the sky; high, white clouds palate-scraped across deep blue. The silhouette of a man there; a hole in the spectacle which pulled in the light as if he had lived all his days in the shadow.
He approached steadily, his left ankle still particularly sore from his almost-fall the day before.
"I would say this is rather more than fashionably late."
"Sorry, I was busy," he said softly; the car journey had given him time to both remember his resentment, try and forget it and then, eventually, become resigned to it.
"Making new friends? I did not know it was polite to offer medical consults in elevators."
Hannibal did not turn to ask his question. Things had gone beyond the need to look at each other to understand how the face was pulled and contorted as he spoke. Staring out at the vestiges of the day Will refused to look down. Looking straight ahead he could believe he was anywhere he wished.
"I don't make friends," Will said, leaning heavily on his crutches and wincing at the pain in his shoulders.
"You make acquaintances?"
"Impressions."
"That must be tiring."
"Not as tiring as being lied to."
"I did not lie," Hannibal said, shifting his black clad form minutely towards him, "I offered you something to help you get better. I did not say someone else would be involved."
"Lying by omission," Will shrugged, "it still counts."
"If you do not wish to accept my help you just need to say."
"Don't play the passive aggressive card," Will sighed; the night before had drawn and quartered him with dreams of delusional wastelands, writhing with red dripping milky eyes and rabid thoughts; now the day had welcomed him with decapitated corpses. He was too exhausted to be angry, "anyway, it's Thursday. What happened to your two till five slot?"
"I cut my caseload drastically not long after you were taken," Hannibal admitted, "it was...taxing. I dislike giving advice when I'm only able to offer half an ear."
"I suppose I should thank you for that," Will said, unable to stop the begrudging tone, "without your help I'd still be in that cottage just...wasting away."
"Not necessary," Hannibal said; definitely smiling now, Will thought, "I feel responsible."
"Oh?"
"I introduced you to Donald," Hannibal said, "and I allowed his deceit to put you at such risk that, should it have progressed further than it did, I might have lost you altogether."
"You did lose me altogether," Will said, tone shutting down, "turns out you didn't need any help but your own for that."
A group of seagulls appeared, floating on the warm wind currents. There was nothing left to say and Will was more than aware that he'd stabbed the conversation in the back. An abrasive caw filtered muffled through the glass. As if mocking them for their flightless arms the gulls danced on the ethereal before sweeping down. When Will's eyes followed them he was greeted with the dirty grey and brown landscape of reality. It stole the last of the wonder he'd been clinging to, leaving him once more sagging and tired.
"Shall we?"
"I suppose I came all this way," Will murmured, "might as well."
Refusing to react was almost as rewarding as an angry, raging shout. He found catharsis in keeping the walls up, rebuffing any chances Hannibal might have had to make Will smile or frown or raise his eyebrows in surprise or even simply look at him with that subtle understanding they'd both shared. Still did, Will knew as he changed awkwardly in a stall, leaving it locked despite knowing no one would come in. It wasn't pleasant but then he knew Hannibal hadn't designed it to be pleasant. He'd designed it to get a reaction, one that Will wasn't willing to give him the satisfaction of.
The pool was small but big enough for them alone, starting at a sloping tiled floor down into the clear, under-lit waters until it became deep enough to swim. Hannibal helped him down, the water lapping against his feet, then ankles, then calves, warm and pleasant. Their touch was close, naked flesh against flesh, but no intimacy was shared. Will wouldn't allow it.
"I didn't know you did hydrotherapy," Will said as the water rose to his chest and he hesitantly chanced taking his wobbly feet from the base of the pool, bobbing gently as he swished his arms back and forth.
"I don't. Although I am perfectly capable."
"Figures. I don't know why I took you up on this in the first place. No, actually I do. Stupid really. I need to be more careful."
"Turn around and put out your arms," Hannibal instructed, ignoring him.
"Is it safe to put my back to you?" he asked sarcastically.
"As safe as expecting me to stop you from drowning."
"Wonderful."
Regardless of the hollow feeling he clung to, Hannibal was true to his word. Will couldn't say he felt entirely at ease with Hannibal constantly out of his sight, not completely, but the man was gentle and considerate, his large palms raised flat against Will's shoulder blades, holding him steady. Will could feel the water displaced behind him as he kicked his legs, moving them both back through the warm embrace.
After ten laps he could feel the strain in his legs. A sound of discomfort brought them to a halt. Will only knew Hannibal had stopped when he drifted into him, bumping his head lightly against the man's sternum. He righted himself easily, enjoying the freedom the water afforded him, and turned to look at Lecter. The man reached out to take Will's hands and hold him steady. Will gripped him tightly.
"You need to tell me when it becomes too much," Hannibal said.
"I can do more," Will protested.
"A little for a lot, Will. Do not overexert or this will be pointless."
"And if I don't push myself I'll be on crutches until Christmas."
"The point of this exercise is not to break you."
A sharp glance. Will wasn't able to stop the words.
"Are you sure?"
At first there was no reaction. Then a smile began. For Hannibal a smile did not simply happen, it always began. This one filtered up firstly with the vague curl at the mouth's edge, next registering in slim cheeks as a twitch, then up, tilting the mouth further, pulling his cupids bow wide and delineating the deep lines that ran between his nose and the corners of his lips; eventually the small trio of wrinkles by his eyes padded out like a crow's foot in the sand. Will swallowed and looked down at the rippling light on the surface of the water.
"Your arms next I think," Hannibal said.
It continued as it had started. A vague undercurrent of resentful tension, with Hannibal always touching him somewhere, lightly. Nothing more than a resting of fingers against his biceps, or palms against his chest, or a soft grip on his ankles. On his back, staring up at the ceiling as he kicked his legs, he allowed his ears to slip under the water and the echoing boom of his own heart to overtake the soft shush of water against skin. He closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of being momentarily at peace.
Will only registered that he was aching all over when he looked up to find the clock had ticked past by an hour.
"When do we need to be out by?" he asked as he felt Hannibal let go of his legs and place a hand against his chest, helping him to right himself.
"Another twenty minutes or so. How do you feel?"
"Tired," Will sighed; in more ways than one, he thought.
"Then this seems an appropriate place to stop."
He gave only a nod in return. Without talking he had been able to imagine himself alone. Now Hannibal was once more here in the pool with him, his hair half dried and half slicked to his skull. His maroon eyes intent. Will fumbled his way to the side of the pool without assistance, his feet bouncing on the bottom, and shuffled himself along to the shallows, his legs trembling with exertion as the pressure upon them increased.
In the end the attempted escape was futile. He was forced to wait for Hannibal to join him, wet hands clasping the damp skin of his left forearm and the sensitive skin of his right hip. Hannibal's thumb slipped upwards as they walked together slowly around the pool, making Will jerk at the sensation against his side. He did not comment.
"So did you find your executioner?" Lecter asked, gripping tighter as Will stumbled slightly.
"How did you know I was looking?"
"You called to ask me about an obscure biblical passage in relation to decapitation," Hannibal tipped his head, "it was not exactly a leap of faith."
"I'm not on a case."
"I think you appear to be on a case whether you want to be or not. Is it anything to do with the killings in Georgia?"
"You've been watching the news in the lobby," Will said dryly.
"I had to pass the time somehow while I waited for you."
It was telling, enough for Will to catch it before it ran off without him. A wonderful note of familiarity was singing on the string between them. Will winced at the sweet tone of the vibration and hated the bitter note it turned to as he reached forwards and strangled it into silence.
"Don't try and draw me in."
"I bed your pardon?"
"And don't act coy either," Will could hear the coldness in his tone.
"I feel it is you who are acting against the natural flow. I thought we were having a delightful time."
"There's something wrong with you."
It had been impossible to put any effort into sounding malicious. They stopped because Hannibal stopped and, without him, Will found he couldn't keep his balance. Will didn't mean to, but couldn't help looking up at the man at his side. Hannibal was staring straight ahead.
"Oh?" he asked blankly.
"Don't take it as an insult. There's something wrong with me too."
"You sound certain," Hannibal said.
"I am," Will said as they began to walk once more, "I'm here aren't I? That's enough proof for me."
Dried and dressed, they did not speak. Will sorted the collar of his jacket to sit tightly around his neck, stopping the still wet curls of hair from irritating the skin. He left his glasses off as they began to steam in the balmy air. When he looked up at the mirror Hannibal was standing behind him, eyes trained on his own reflection as he ran the knot smoothly up his tie. It appeared, for a sickening moment, distrustfully domestic. Will made to leave before he worried he wouldn't be able to, stopped only by Hannibal's smooth voice.
"Same time next week?"
Will shook his head; he turned to look over his shoulder. Hannibal was watching him in the mirror, hands continuing to untwist and perfect his immaculate shirt, "No, this won't happen again."
"You do not believe it will help?"
"Hannibal..."
Will waited until Hannibal turned from the mirror to watch him with his own eyes, not the reflected facsimiles. He was not angry, he was not calm. He tried to remember something he'd been told on his first homicide case, a mother and two kids gunned down on their front porch; focus on the facts, Graham, his partner had said as Will stood on the sidewalk, staring, If you focus on them being facts, you don't have to think about what they really are.
Only he'd never been able to follow good advice.
"It's funny, you know," he started, sitting down on the bench before the lockers heavily, placing his crutches to the side and clasping his hands, "before this all started I thought...no, you know I didn't even think. I just did. My life was just a series of doings and not doings. Get up, go to work, sleep, eat, try my very best to avoid people even though that little bit of me wanted desperately just to connect. Never worked, never does," he waved his hand in the air casually, dropping it back to rest on his knee, "got used to that. Inured. I just...it became easy, being alone. And the worst part?" looking up he caught Hannibal out the corner of his eye, watching him silently, "I think I could have gone on like that until I keeled over from a stroke at fifty, or heart attack at seventy, or went in my sleep. Whichever. I used to think about it a lot when I saw the old guys and gals out at the picture house I used to go to in the Old Quarter. Holding hands at the Sunday matinees. I would let myself get jealous and then I'd drive home with my foot hard on the gas. Get drunk and think about dying alone," Will looked down at his clasped hands and wished his legs would stop aching.
"And I could imagine it so clearly because I'd had cases before on homicide, some old man in his apartment, stinking out the building because no one had even noticed he was dead until the smell got out. Had to go and make sure he hadn't been bumped off. Only I knew that smell before I'd even get to the third floor; lonely death. So after a while I...I turned it off. I didn't let it be a part of my life because I knew I would imagine it every night, and I did, being the one on the stained mattress waiting for the state funeral. I kept my head down and I lost myself in my work and I turned up every day and let others into my head so I could ignore myself. It didn't matter that no one got too close because I kept the line pretty clear. Didn't let anyone across it. So it didn't matter, it didn't matter," he laughed without humour, "when Alana pushed me away because I already knewshe couldn't want me. It'd never work out. It never did. It was just part of the flow."
A pause because he knew it was something he didn't have to say, even though he wanted to; he cleared his throat and wondered why he was even bothering,
"Then you. You," Will shook his head, "Does it surprise you that I thought we'd hate each other on sight?" he chanced a look at Lecter and found steady eyes regarding him, expression unreadable, "Maybe it doesn't. Not a lot surprises you. Ha, I thought you were such a pompous egotist, so eager to tell me all about myself as if I didn't know. Prove how clever you are. I kept so focused on being in my own little bubble and ignoring you trying to pop it, that I didn't even realise I was in love with you until that day I came to your office after David was murdered. I don't think I've ever been so careless. I like control, I like knowing what's going to happen and what I can do about it. I like control because it means I don't get surprises. I don't have to deal with being yanked into the real world and being given a taste of what it's like for people that don't pull their hand away when another person reaches out. Because you understood me, and I don't think I've ever had that before. Stupid, right? I've met hundreds of people and you're the first one to really understand me. Enough to get my defences down and build yourself a bolt hole. I can't remember a time when I've been so carefree with just talking to someone who didn't shy away when I said something odd, or care that I can see into the dark places but can't always shake it off when I look away, or didn't mind that I don't always..."
A long, slow breath. Will made himself stop because talking was just forcing himself to stay hanging in that limbo, staring at the ground before the crash. He worked his jaw, straightening his back and wincing as it clicked. There had to be a time when the ground rushed up to meet him. It was inevitable.
"So maybe I was stupid to think it meant something to more than just me, having you and Abigail. I always thought I'd...make a good father, and you and me, we worked together. It was something I'd never given myself because I'd never lost that much control. Never given that much control away. You were good to me and now..." he rubbed at his face and hated the feeling of loss, "now I wish you'd never bothered. I wish you'd just left me where I was and carried on until you realised you were looking for something other than professional curiosity."
"Will..."
"Yeah, alright, I'm bitter about that. I am. But that doesn't change the fact that..." he talked over Lecter, clasped his fingers tighter, "...that I can't see you anymore. Because it's not fair, on either of us, or Alana," he added quickly to make his case seem stronger than it was, "and I need to go back to the way things were or...I don't know. I'll realise how truly awful my life was, and still is. I'll end up quitting, moving to Florida maybe. Fixing boat motors like my dad just to turn up dead in a motor home for three weeks before anyone calls the cops. You know he died not long after I left for good? No, I guess I don't talk about myself much. Anyway, that doesn't matter," he stood up, hauling his duffel bag up with difficulty and swinging it over his shoulder, shaking his head and setting his face derisively, "I guess this was the really long version of goodbye."
"That is not..."
"I'd rather you didn't add a coda," Will's voice was forced, eyes forward as he headed for the doors.
"William..."
"Don't. This was nice, seeing you. But I can't keep it up. I just...enough now ok? Enough."
It was a long journey home, taking rest stops by the side of the road when his legs threatened to give out or cramp up. On his return he was flooded by furry feet and wet tongues. Winston spent an inordinate amount of time sniffing the chlorine scent in his hair. He stayed on the floor beneath padding paws and inquiring noses; it was an easy escape from the anger-come-sadness-come-regret.
A week later the long hallway on the fifth floor that ran the length of the faculty was being re-carpeted. Will placed his crutches carefully out of the way of workmen, tool boxes, up and over piles of carpet tiles and, eventually managed to turn off into a subsidiary corridor differentiated by a brass plaque at eye level on the wall. Will was coming to detest screwed-in, brass plaques; they spoke of old tradition which valued being permanent.
Thomas Jourdan Ph.D
Professor of Forensic Sciences, Academy Institute
Head of Faculty
He knocked before opening and was greeted by an ante-room with a secretary behind a prim desk. She asked him to wait, so he did, outside on one of the two hard, plastic chairs set into a recess across from a dark, hardwood door. The faculty levels of the Academy Annexe were distinctly more pleasant and archaic than the teacher's quarters, as Will liked to think of his own and his colleagues offices on the third floor.
Eventually he heard voices approaching through the wood. As he stood, retrieving his crutches to keep him steady on legs still sore from his swim four days prior, Will was greeted briefly by an unfortunately familiar face. Heather MacPhillips spared him only a glance, a nod and a 'Mister Graham' before she walked unhurriedly down the corridor the way Will had come.
"Professor Jourdan is ready for you Mr. Graham," the secretary called out.
Forty three minutes later Will re-emerged, shoulders hunched. Another layer stripped away. Another hoop to jump through. Will wished he had the strength and the savvy to just run. Instead he clung to the last vestiges of his old life and gave in.
"Well, this is certainly a turn up for the books. I would have thought you'd at least try and make it look like you were forced here. I see your words before were nothing more than a brutum fulmen."
It had been an ultimatum. Will had taken it not because he was desperate to keep his job but because he was desperate to hold on to something familiar; fearing a loss of all civility and awareness might break him open and let the undesirable leak out. A set of walls were necessary to keep his world in order and, within that, a cage for the things which crawled and reached out their claws and smiled.
So he'd taken the ultimatum: Psychiatric sessions, three hours a week for six weeks, after which a further review would be issued and a return to work implemented if results were satisfactory. The only problem being that Will thought it was the biggest load of bullshit he'd ever heard, and that six weeks was going to do jack shit in the way of helping anyone as increasingly depressed, traumatised and detached as he was feeling. He knew what was wrong, he knew what was building like a scream in his chest unable to break free and he knew, he knew, that if he let it out into the open air then it would never stop, but be heard from every corner of the world and answered by thousands more.
He knew that what he wanted was something he couldn't have and, somewhere in his ravaged head, knew that he shouldn't want it at all. He just didn't know why, and it was the why that was rotting him from the inside out.
"Spare me," Will sighed, unable to sound facetious, "this is going to work out well for both of us. All you need to do is sign off to Professor Jourdan that I've been getting regular therapy and you can have the inside of my head at your disposal."
"That sounds like a very lucrative gesture."
"Don't provoke the hand that feeds, Fred."
"And here I thought I was doing you a favour," Chilton replied, his smile overly self-satisfied as he led Will along a high roofed, echoing corridor lined on both sides with offset wooden doors.
"Beneficium accipere libertatem est vendere," Will muttered.
"Mmm, well, regardless," Chilton hurried on; Will enjoyed the fact that Chilton obviously didn't understand his words, skipping over a witty retort as he opened the door, "I suppose I can at least take pleasure in knowing that you had nowhere else to run. You would not be here otherwise."
The room was small, warm and decked in white with a thick band of battleship grey painted strictly through the middle, like a ribbon around a gift box. A single table, laminate wood effect, sat in the centre; atop it a jug of water, two glasses and a digital audio recorder. Two chairs sat facing each other across the chipped surface, bolted to the floor; one plain, the other fitted with heavy duty Velcro straps sitting open and loose upon the arms. On the floor sat two sheets of metal, a foot square, with a hooped chain anchor at the centre of each. The room took on a new, rather chilling slant. Will was ushered inside and felt instantly ill at ease when he looked to his left to find a man in a white orderly's uniform setting up a bank of monitoring equipment along a low bench placed against the far wall. A blood pressure cuff, a heart monitor, a polygraph machine fitted with a screed of continuous-form paper, a closed box with a latch that looked like it could contain a syringe.
"I hope you don't mind but I thought it best to have someone here monitoring us, so to speak, for my own safety as much as yours you understand," Chilton said as he took the chair without cuffs, "Will Graham this is Matthew Brown, one of our orderlies."
Will stopped his approach to the other chair to find a set of familiar, sharp, brown eyes regarding him. He kept his eyes on Brown's chin, taking in his face through peripheral vision. The man seemed taller in the small room than he had by the door the few days before, but Will couldn't tell if it was just an illusion. Thin lips smiled and the eyes held a cool warmth. Will only caught them in passing, unwilling to hold the stare.
"We've already met," Matthew said in a pleasant drawl, "here, let me help you with those."
Will allowed the man to take his crutches, leaning them against the nearby wall. He stiffened when those same, long fingered hands reached out without permission and took hold of his forearm and elbow, helping him into the chair. Will murmured a 'thank you' before blinking rapidly, still able to feel those eyes against his back.
A white sheet of paper was pushed over the table towards him, a pen at its side. He looked up as he pulled it forwards, noting Chilton's smug countenance.
"What's this?"
"Just a nicety," Chilton shrugged, pouring himself a glass of water, "would you like some? It tends to remain very hot here, the boilers for the entire heating system are just through that wall there."
"No thanks," Will said absently while he read the starkly printed words carefully, unable to stop the puff of incredulous breath as he read the fifth clause, "volenti non fit injuria? For god's sakes: 'No wrong is done to one who consents'. How often do you enjoy putting that on a form someone's actually willing to sign?"
"I promise you that the procedure is quite safe, you can see here," Chilton reached over to point at the seventh clause, "that it has been clinically tested. Seven month period, seventy eight volunteers, three control groups. Minimal fallout. I ran the data myself. It's been tested."
"But not approved," Will amended the unsaid.
"Then see yourself as a pioneer, Mr Graham," Chilton said, sitting back and clasping his hands, "there are few who would take the risk to give vital data for crucial research."
"God, you know I'm going to be here for six weeks, the least you could do is cut the crap," Will finished inspecting the form and signed it with his messy signature, "I don't need to add terminal ennui to my list of neuroses."
"I assure you this will be most interesting," Chilton did not seem put off by Will's prickly attitude, "just a little set up and we can begin. Do you have any questions?" Chilton asked as he signalled to Brown.
"No but I have a request," Will said.
"Could you roll up your sleeve, please?" Brown asked him as he stood with the blood pressure cuff.
"No recordings," Will said as he unbuttoned his shirt cuff and pulled up the soft material, "I don't want anything on audio, visual. You take the results of the tests, a positive or negative, but you don't publish details."
"That's quite out of the question..." Chilton began, chuffing pompously.
"Then you can find yourself a new guinea pig," Will said, eyes narrowing, making to roll his sleeve back down, forcing Brown to back off and look to Chilton with raised eyebrows.
The man in question thinned his lips to a line, but when Will looked ready to ask for his crutches he spoke stiffly.
"Alright," he said, "alright. I suppose the results are enough to corroborate my findings. And you have confidentiality, of course, it's all in the waiver. My lips are sealed. Although I find it interesting that you're so concerned over this. Are we worried something incriminating will creep out?"
"Is that the royal we?" Will laughed, making Chilton's smirk fade, "Don't be so portentous. And anyway, I would have thought it all fell under doctor-patient confidentiality."
"Of course," Chilton said with a smile that barely reached his cheeks, never mind his eyes.
"Then don't worry," Will said as the blood pressure cuff was attached and began to tighten, "I can cooperate when it suits me. But," he added dryly, "try and pull any of your psychic driving bullshit and you risk having that really ugly tie pin rammed through your cornea, understand?"
"Do I need to apply the cuffs, Mr. Graham?" Chilton asked, clearing his throat and trying not to look intimidated.
"Shouldn't be necessary," he said as the cuff tightened further, further, became painful, too much, then released with a steady relief that had Will smiling, "as long as we both behave ourselves."
"Quite," Chilton agreed tightly.
It had been going smoothly, if Chilton was to be believed afterwards. It had been a bizarre screed of memories to live through, ranging far and wide and showcasing Chilton's incompetence at keeping Will's wandering mind from spanning decades instead of months.
'Keep your rod up, son. Higher than that. You won't get a bite if the fish can see you a mile off.'
'Dammit Graham, that's no way to shoot a gun. I want you back here Friday first thing and I'm gonna have you spelling your name in that silhouette from fifty yards!'
Then everything had gone south. He remembered, afterwards, feeling as if he had been walking along normally and then suddenly taken a step forwards to find nothing under his foot. He had fallen, tumbling weightless down into a place that wasn't his own.
He pulled at her white dressing gown and she fell to the floor with a scream. Crawling out from under the bed was only natural, gave him better leverage. His hands were shaking, excitement and fear, as he held her down, one hand around her throat and, in the other, the knife he had brought. She stared up at him wild eyed and terrified as he squeezed the life from her, fascinated by the way in which her jet black hair contrasted with her pale skin in the moonlight and her eyes dulled as she passed on. It resisted more than he expected it to, the knife, as it tore up through her cheek, spilling warm, fresh blood out onto the floorboards. He was pleased as the smile was brought out in her face, wide and gaping and utterly perfect.
It had only become apparent to Will that something was wrong when he felt as if his shoulders were being shaken. He looked up from his messy work, annoyed that someone had interrupted him, to find Matthew Brown close behind him, his hands tight around Will's arms and his mouth moving, voice calm.
"Let go, Will, I need you to let go now."
Will turned his head back to the front to find his hands in a different place and time. One fisted into Chilton's shirt, crumpling the fine material, the other wrapped around the man's throat, gasping lips and choking sounds trembling from above, with Chilton's own hands tight around his wrists trying desperately to break free. It had taken two whole seconds to shake his head and slip back into being truly horrified at what he saw.
"Jesus," he said, letting go and almost falling back against Brown, "jesus."
"You alright Boss?" Brown was asking, still holding Will close, as Chilton stood coughing and rubbing at his throat.
"I'll..." another rough cough and Chilton straightened his tie and shirt unsuccessfully, trying to hide the fear in his eyes and replace it with composure, "I'll be alright. I just...need some air and to think how this might...how this might affect things. We'll have to review this set up."
The door closed behind him with a snap and Will felt the shaking in his arms become an uncontrollable tremor. There were hands against his biceps and he was turned to sit with his legs off the side of the chair beneath the floating arm and its sinister restraint. Brown was hunkered there, like a gargoyle looming at the corner of a church roof, staring straight at him.
"Hey," he said, "you're ok."
"Don't touch me," Will knew he was whispering, barely audible.
"You want some water?"
"I said," he spoke up, voice shaking, "don't-touch-me."
Brown looked like he might insist and, truthfully, Will wouldn't blame him if he wanted to keep hold of his arms just in case. No control, he thought, you've got no control. Look what you did, look what you damn well did! Is this what you've got hidden up your sleeves at all times? Nothing but open wounds and being so ready to stick your hand inside that you can remember the feel of a wet heat you've never even experienced? Brown retreated but didn't back off, staying squatted down with his hands resting on his knees as he watched Will pull out his phone and try to dial.
"No reception in here," Brown said as Will cursed, "believe me, I've tried."
"I need to make a phone call," Will said, hearing a hysterical lilt to his voice and clearing his throat.
"I don't know," Brown said, frowning, "you look to me like you need a minute to yourself."
Will felt like telling him to fuck off and mind his own business. His fingers tried to call a number he knew he shouldn't even still have under contacts. Hannibal, was all it said, sitting incongruously between Halsey's Veterinary centre and Home. 'Hello Will' he would say calmly, invitingly, and everything would spill out in a rush because he knew Hannibal would understand, he always did.
Even when Will told him goodbye.
"Now I know why you didn't want the recorder on," Brown interrupted his thoughts, huffing out a short laugh that made Will frown. He put his phone away and tried to ignore his urgent need for acceptance.
"I was...I was talking?" he asked.
"Yeah," Brown nodded, "pretty graphic stuff. Did you really do that?"
"No, it's not mine," Will mumbled, "do you really think I'd be sitting here if I'd murdered Beth le..." he stopped himself, depersonalising it, "...murdered a woman?"
"I don't know," Brown shrugged, his eyes surprisingly open, Will thought, considering who he was sitting alone in a room with, "a lot of people walk around with secrets."
"I didn't kill her," Will muttered, "it's not mine, the memory. Christ," he closed his eyes and lifted a trembling hand to rub at his face, "this was a...a really bad idea. I need to go."
"That seems like the bad idea to me," Brown said frankly, making Will frown.
"I'm sorry, were we just in the same room?" Will asked facetiously.
"Ha, and a sense of humour too," Brown said as if to himself, rubbing at his jaw and looking to the left, pleased, "you'll be fine. And anyway, Chilton's right isn't he? You wouldn't be here if you had somewhere better to go."
"Advice of someone looking to get a handout from his Boss isn't something I'm inclined to listen to," Will said nastily.
"Oh, you're going for the pride there, Mister Graham," Brown said, looking faux wounded; Will felt his hackles rise as much as his senses fizzed, "but you've missed your mark. I don't care what the Boss wants. I just think you deserve to have a chance."
"How touching," Will said acidly, "What do you care?"
"I was given my chance. Still taking it and it's not done me any harm. You seem like a nice guy. Give yourself a break. Can't throw it away so soon. Who knows? Maybe you'll surprise yourself."
The honesty was surprising. Will couldn't find a fault in Brown's candour, his eyes open and sincere. It was refreshing whilst also simultaneously unnerving. Will licked his lips and looked down only to find his hands were no longer shaking. He opened his mouth once, closed, twice, closed. Then he nodded, barely a jerk of his head. Brown stood up and tentatively offered a small, consolatory pat on the shoulder. He left Will sitting alone, eyes staring down at the linoleum, hoping that he wasn't simply throwing himself into the hole he'd dug.
Three days later his phone rang. Exactly a week since Will had seen him last. That he didn't pick up, in the end, was inconsequential. The alert came through as he sat on the floor, sanding a long strip of wood with repetitive, powerful strokes. He'd wiped away the sweat beaded on his forehead, sniffed and then sneezed at the wood dust before picking it up.
1 new voicemail.
Persistent if nothing else, Will thought. He put it down and continued sanding.
A week and a half, and three sessions, later Will wasn't sure where he stood or, half the time, if he was standing at all. It had begun to run a familiar course and he'd fallen into it because Will coveted routines. It was calming; as empowering as it was restrictive. His memories flowed out of his mind just as paper flowed out of the polygraph he had insisted they use. He knew Chilton was glad Will had suggested it, made it easier than trying to force it upon him. Truthfully Will just wanted a little help separating the false memories from the real ones.
When he came round Chilton was always staring at Will's fingers, wrapped tightly around the ends of the chair's arm, beneath the heavy restraint of the Velcro cuffs. Will had implemented that further restriction, so as to avoid discomfort. Will knew that if he did anything irrevocable it would be difficult to explain as well as live with. This way, no matter how uncomfortable, was best. Chilton had relaxed considerably when Will had done up the first cuff himself and then waited patiently for Matthew Brown to close the second. Brown's was always tighter.
So far nothing had resurfaced that he could say was truly lost. The only odd memory which he could not place so far being one which was entirely banal and could have come from any time. Hannibal stood in the doorway, eyes soft but watching him intently. He looked immovable but calm, resting on the balls of his feet. Then there was an overwhelming drop in his stomach and Will's hand went to his pocket. Then nothing, nothing at all. That was all there was and it was frustrating to know there was more, that something was still missing.
Will was simply glad that, after every session when Chilton stepped outside, Brown spoke to him in his calm drawl which Will was beginning to appreciate. Normally only a few words, or a stilted conversation of two or three exchanges between them. Enough to bring Will back into himself, define his reality as sitting within that small, white and grey-striped box, and not with his hands lifting frozen bodies from the sand or burying them in the forest.
Distracted him from the voicemails sitting in his pocket; a slowly building collection. Will had refused to listen to any of them, for fear that he'd be too weak to resist whatever lay within. It was on the stormy afternoon after the fourth session that things changed.
"Son of a..."
Will stood by his Volvo, unlocking the door, and tried to tell himself he should ignore the muttered curses from behind him, get inside, and drive home. He managed to get the door part way open before he looked up at the grey-cast sky, darkening with a pregnant threat. Will swallowed and looked over his shoulder before pushing away from the car, using his crutches carefully on the gravel. Brown was facing away from him, hands putting his black helmet on the ground and then hunkering down beside his motorcycle, pulling the leather of his pants tight across his thighs.
"Need a hand?"
The eyes were slow to regard him, looking up to squint against the white glare of the clouds. The wind picked up and began tossing the autumn remnants about the car park in a flurry of red, orange and dirty brown.
"If you know someone that can fix it," Brown said, frustration lining his tone beneath the normal platitude as he knocked the gas tank with his knuckles, "I can't afford another call out."
"Actually I do," Will said, pulling eyes back to him, "me."
"You?"
"Mmm."
"...Alright," Brown nodded, eyes flicking down Will before bouncing back up again to his face, "wouldn't have tagged you for it, but hey I won't complain."
Twenty minutes later and the first sign of rain was spitting irregularly from the clouds as Will took the offered hand Matthew held out and was pulled to his feet.
"Try it now," Will said, wiping his hands on a spare rag from his tool box.
Purring like a kitten, Will thought with a small smile as the bike started without a hitch. He leaned to his side, resting on one crutch, and pocketed the rag. Matthew was sat, straddling the saddle, looking up at him with a closed lip smile.
"Well," he said turning off the engine, "I think you just earned yourself a drink."
"I...," Will hesitated, taken by surprise, looking down at the front wheel; unable to think of a good excuse he kept it vague, "I can't, sorry. I've got to get home."
"That right?"
The words 'Another time, maybe' had been half formed in his mind when the phone rang in his pocket. Will took a deep breath and smiled politely, reaching for the shrilling device. Not that he needed to look, already eighty percent certain who it was; it was simply vindicating to know Hannibal was still trying to keep contact. Or perhaps just keep himself as a constant in Will's life even without even being present.
I prefer you as a constant.
As do I.
"Actually, you know what?" Will said, cancelling the call to stop it reaching voicemail; he looked up, pushing down his agitation, catching Matthew's eye and holding it as best he could, "A drink sounds great."
"And then what?"
Will handed Beverly her coffee and then went back to hammering the base onto the dog bed he was building. The floor was littered with wood shavings, rolls of yellow foam, a pile of soft, fleece off-cuts and an open toolbox with its contents strewn. The mess was beginning to impinge on Will's calm, enough that he hadn't been able to stop building even when Beverly arrived. Thankfully, she didn't seem to mind.
"And then we had a drink," Will said, rolling his shoulders to shake out the stiffness.
"So far your story is sorely lacking."
"You're the one that asked."
"No need to get grouchy," she poked, grinning into her drink as she blew into the cup, "So, are you seeing him again?"
"I didn't say it was like that. It was just a drink. Why can't a drink just be friendly?"
"Because a drink is never friendly when the person offering clearly wants in your pants."
"For crying out loud," Will muttered under his breath, "it's not like that."
"Gees, you've been out of the job for a couple of months and already your profiling skills are suffering."
"If I'd known you were just coming over for a game of insults I would have phoned and saved you the journey."
"Ha, ha. Actually I just wanted to see how you were doing and, I don't know, it's my day off. We could go do normal people things. That's always a novelty. We could go to the movies or, oh go to the mall and just window shop. Come on, we'll can go experience the banality of pedestrian life and remind ourselves why we keep our awful jobs."
"Thanks, Bev, but I think my own life has enough banality for the both of us right now."
"...Did you just call me Bev?"
"Yeah," Will sighed, catching it too late, "sorry. It's a bad habit."
"No, that's ok. Just wasn't expecting it. Only my brother ever calls me Bev."
"Didn't know you had a brother."
"Yeah, a big brother. Three years older. Lives in Atlanta running a bakery. It's called Sweetie Pie. They make amazing brownies."
"Bet your mom visits him more than you," Will smiled as he pulled out a roll of thick foam and began cutting it to shape on the floor.
"Ha, you'd like to think that, but I'm a mama's girl so I get the attention. Plus I'm the one that got engaged. My brother hates when she visits, he always gets the Mom Inquisition. Anyway she loves hearing all about my work. She's worse than you."
"Didn't think that was possible. So did you visit when you were in Georgia?"
"Huh? Oh, no. I don't like to mix work with family vacation. Doesn't go down well when you're sitting round the dinner table and the news coughs up the case you're on. Makes my brother feel like a third wheel. Or something. Guy's crazy."
"Must run in the family."
"You're quite the comedian today. Or, wait...you're not weaselling out of time with me because your new squeeze is coming round are you?"
"How likely does that seem to you?"
"Hey, I work with the unlikely. It tends to jump out and surprise when you're not expecting it. So I prefer expecting it. Oh hey, look who it is, the baby mama."
Will turned at the sound of clicking claws against the floorboards to find Frank standing in the doorway between the kitchen diner and the living room. She had been walking about, or more waddling about, for hours now, unable to settle. Will could see she was uncomfortable but knew there was nothing that could be done. He reached out slowly and stroked along her sleek fur, scratching at her ruff. She tolerated it for a few seconds before letting out a low whine and walking towards Beverly, who had put down her coffee and squatted down onto the floor, holding out her hands.
"She prefers women," Will shrugged when Frank sat down heavily beside Beverly and basically leaned on her leg; Beverly laughed and rubbed the dog's head with both hands. Frank closed her eyes and panted happily.
"God she weighs a tonne," Beverly said, "do you know how many pups?"
"No, but the vet said maybe eight, nine, something like that. I've already mocked up the utility room as a nursery. Like hell I'm going to give them run of the house. I know puppies. They chew. Everything."
Talk shifted to work, as it always did. Neither of them would admit it, but talking shop was always a go to. Will was just glad that he wasn't the only one obsessed. Still working on a pattern, no new leads, Beverly shrugged as she passed on the frustration. They shared their distaste for the media's choice of nickname, the Angel of Mercy, after a local Georgia PD leaked the BAU's suspicions that there was a religious element to the killings. Jack was not happy about that one, Beverly told him. Will could only imagine.
When the phone rang Will just let it, so used to ignoring the tone that it was almost involuntary.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Beverly asked after the fourth ring while Will continued to speculate on their killer's motivations.
"Uh," Will blinked, picking up the phone, checking the caller ID, then putting it back down, "no."
"Ok," Beverly nodded slowly.
When it stopped they sat in silence for a moment. Beverly watched him, playing with her coffee cup and scratching Frank's ear with her free hand. Eventually Will rubbed at his mouth and chin and sat back.
"He leaves voicemails," he explained, feeling awkward at being the one to bring it up.
"Have you listened to any of them?"
"No."
"Then delete them."
"I...it's just," Will cut himself off, frowning, "it doesn't matter."
"Just spit it out," Beverly said, watching him patiently, "you obviously need to."
"I really don't want to go here, or there, or anywhere near it. I'm not picking up the phone and it can ring as much as it likes."
"So you still haven't seen him?"
"Oh, no, we met up," Will omitted the circumstances, though he wasn't sure why, "talked for a little while," or you talked and he listened, Will thought wryly.
"What did you say?"
"Goodbye," Will said, drumming his fingers on the table.
"Oh. Wow. Then definitely delete them."
"I will," he lied.
He lasted five minutes after Beverly left. The phone sat in his hand like an oracle. Fingers ran over its sleek surface, feeling for the commands like a cat burglar feeling out a lock's sweet spot. The thing itself was a bad memory. Will hated that it mocked him as it spoke with a voice he tried not to think was solely for him.
"You have twenty seven new messages," the automated voice said stiltedly, "first message, October twenty second..."
...The orioles have returned to the garden but there is no birdhouse. Perhaps it is hypocritical of me to say that it appears somewhat emblematic. I have left breadcrumbs on the windowsill. Perhaps they will feed. Goodnight, Will.
The first ran into the second ran into the third. Will found himself sitting, hands grasping the counter, staring at nothing and trying to tell himself he wasn't listening intently for an apology. Or that the words themselves only stabbed at his ability to keep himself defined.
...Good morning. I trust your pack returned safely. I do hope I have not spoiled them. I cannot account for all of the meat they enjoyed during their stay being of the regular fare. Winston missed you sorely and I was forced to concede to bribery. I hope you might return this call. Goodbye.
...Good afternoon Will. Things appear out of joint today. I hope it is not the same for you. I found myself baking two loaves instead of one this morning. I suppose it can be attributed to habit. Who knows? Perhaps the habit will become useful again one day. Goodbye.
...I hear you have accepted Chilton's treatment. He will not stop enthusing to me about your choice. I shan't forgive you for giving him good reason to be so conceited. Truthfully I feel that Frederick treating you is as preposterous as hiring a common decorator to restore the Sistine Chapel. However, it is your preference. Goodnight Will.
...I wonder, as I speak, whether these words shall ever be heard. I feel in a state of abjection more than on a quest for forgiveness. But then who should be so crass as to ask for forgiveness? I was once informed that forgiveness simply happens. I am in anticipation of your happening, Will.
The stilted, automated voice was silenced with fumbling fingers as it announced the next message. Will stared at it, unsure whether to be angry, unsurprised, upset, or none of the above. All he could hear was his heart beating and the ghost of fingers at his spine, settling firmly against the small of his back. Will shivered and was amazed at the visceral reaction. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply; warm cologne and the faint hint of fire from the sitting room. When he opened them again he felt numb, although not entirely. Nerves beneath his skin still believed the fantasy, it was a tricky achievement. One that would require help. He dialled quickly, biting the nail of his left thumb as he waited.
"Well, this is a surprise," Matthew said, sounding strangely vindicated; Will briefly considered hanging up, but the voice still echoing around his kitchen drove him to keep the line open.
"Hey," Will said for lack of a better greeting, "you free tonight?"
"Don't beat about the bush, do you?" a smile in the voice.
"It's not something I've ever been accused of, no."
"Not a problem. I kinda like that," Will felt his face heat and scratched at his neck, "So, same place as before, around eight?"
"Sounds good."
"I'll see you when you see me."
The room swam as he sat back. A slow and steady rinse of cold air drifted over his arms as the door opened and then closed, making him shiver. Will picked up his drink and finished the dregs, trying his best to ignore the multitude of warm bodies in the long, narrow bar, the heady scent of cheap perfume and beer and the low undercurrent of indefinable music. Somehow they'd managed to work their way from sociable small talk to Will's area of expertise. He hadn't stopped the progression because Will, at the very least, felt at home talking about his work. It smoothed the way for a pleasant evening.
"Seems like everyone's gone crazy recently," Matthew was saying, sitting forward with his elbows on the sticky table, eyes alight with something Will wasn't sure he could put his finger on, "I mean the Ripper gets taken down and then bam! In comes another guy to take his place."
"It's a power vacuum," Will shrugged, relaxing back into his chair; it was so easy to fall into the teaching mindset, his het up social neuroses drowning in a wash of, so far, bourbon and rum, "Chesapeake Ripper was an alpha, the sort others wait for to die rather than try to usurp. Now all the runts are rising up to test the waters," he leaned forwards again and shrugged his shoulders.
"You don't sound so enthusiastic," Matthew said, watching him closely; Will avoided his eyes, keeping his gaze firmly at shoulder level, "I would've thought you'd relish the challenge. Need another one of those by the way?" he asked, nodding to the empty glass.
"Uh, yeah, in a minute," Will said, "I'll get the next round. What're you drinking?"
"I'll take another Wild Goose," Matthew tilted his almost empty bottle, "but tell me first, you're really not enthusiastic about your job?"
"Do I have to be?" Will asked, licking his lips.
"No, I guess not. I mean I'm not a huge fan of mine, it brings in the money. Just seems like yours would be a hard one to keep up if you didn't at least like it."
"It's not really a case of liking or not liking. It's more...a necessary evil. Anyway, wasn't really a choice. I was roped back in. I prefer the academic side."
"You're a teacher? Thought you worked for the FBI?"
"I do work for the FBI," Will said, pulling out his wallet and standing up; he flipped his badge up into the air and Matthew caught it with a sure grip. Will left him to get the next round. By the time he returned Matthew was turning it continuously between long fingers, his face contemplative. Will held out his hand and exchanged the cold bottle of beer for his badge. Will took a large sip of his whiskey and savoured the burn.
"So it is true then."
"What?" Will looked up, passing his eyes over Matthew's before looking out of the window to their right; in his pocket his phone rang. Will fished it out, glanced at it, and cancelled the call. He looked back to Matthew's shoulder as he put the phone away.
"You can see people, right?" Matthew continued, "See all their little secrets, suss them out, just by looking. That's why your workin' cases for the BAU. You've got some sorta empathy thing, right? Echo-something?"
"Echopraxia," Will refused to react.
"Right, that's it."
"Enjoy listening at doors Matthew?"
"Passes the time," Brown shrugged, sitting back in his chair and taking a drink, unrepentant, "what the boss doesn't know won't hurt him. Or who knows," Matthew smiled, lifting his bottle, "maybe it will one of these days."
Will shivered as the door opened, a man and a woman walking in, arms linked, laughing. He swallowed down his unease and tried to focus. Matthew Brown was coming out of his shell even if he didn't know it, and through the cracks Will was beginning to see something deeper than the facade Brown kept up for appearance's sake. He waited for Brown to talk, keeping quiet and observing him in his peripheral vision.
"Don't worry, I didn't hear anything I shouldn't have. Anyway, have to pass the time somehow. It's long hours at the asylum watching the crazies, listening to their stories."
"And yet you invited one of them out for a drink."
"I don't think you're crazy," Matthew smiled, eyes sharp.
"Maybe you should."
"Believe me, I know crazy. I'd say you were more intriguing than crazy."
"I get that a lot."
"I can see why. You should hear the way the boss talks after your visits. Never heard him so animated. Was so smug when he got to tell his colleagues about treatin' you. Especially that Dr. Lecter. Sounded like all his Christmases had come at once."
It was difficult to restrain the reaction when he was nearing his limit. The alcohol numbed his senses, a bonus, but delayed his control. He felt his eyes blink rapidly on hearing the name, swallowing to take the bitter taste away. He washed it down with a sip of whiskey, feeling it puff up into his sinuses, tingling against the sensitive skin. He brought his eyes to the dark brown wood beneath his glass and kept them there.
"Hey, you ok?"
"Mmm."
"Hey, why don't you do me?"
"Excuse me?"
"Do your thing, you know, see me."
"I'd rather not."
"Oh come on. Maybe I want to see for myself, maybe I don't like to listen to rumours."
"You can't blame me for not believing that."
"Well your trick is the stuff of rumour."
"It's not a trick, it's just..." he searched for the word, taking a drink, "observation."
"Then observe me, Mr. Graham."
Eyes lifted from the table where they had fallen, finding the others which watched him. Matthew's eyes were dark, a darker brown than the table, than the beer in his bottle, the buttons on Will's shirt. Some would have said silent ones run deep; Will would have agreed, if Matthew had been the silent type. Only Will assumed it was safe to say Matthew kept his silences for something more than just flirtation and coy banter. It was when Will looked closer that he saw someone who he hadn't expected to meet; for a split second a flash of Hannibal stared back at him from dark eyes.
Tell me what you see, Will
"Oh I see you, it's just most people don't like to hear the truth," Will said slowly, rolling his glass in his hands. A tipped head and a raised brow was his encouragement. Will took a breath, silencing the bar in his mind, letting the pendulum wipe away, the people, the sound, the light, the distraction, until all that was left was the man in front of him, "You're a sphinx."
Matthew frowned while he smiled, eyes sharpening.
"You wear many skins so that no one will see just one. A veil, always shifting. You work to sculpt your body but wear baggy clothing; not that you don't want your endeavour to be seen, you just enjoy the act of deceiving them. You like people to think you're dumb because it puts their defences down, only you're really a very intelligent young man," Matthew raised a brow; Will qualified, "No matter how many 'g's you drop or fancy terms you pretend to misunderstand, I've yet to come across a hick who uses the word 'intriguing'. It's all smoke and mirrors, and it allows you to feel superior to everyone else in the room. Which is why you do that thing."
"What thing?"
"You walk too far ahead and hold the door open for Chilton so that he feels obligated to jog forwards and take it," Will said, "you enjoy seeing him obey you," Will could of sworn Matthew's eyes darkened a shade, his smile tick up a notch, "Also you're lying about how much you like your job. I see the way you look at me after Chilton leaves the room. You like walking past the cages, looking at the tigers. You're a manipulative, egotistical and mildly sadistic individual."
The spell broke as a hand appeared between them. Will blinked and looked left, the sound and smell and brightness sweeping back to engulf his senses, to find a barmaid collecting the empties from their table. She smiled at him and he looked away, unsure what to do with his hands now there was nothing to hold. Eventually the silence became too much and he looked up. To his relief Matthew Brown was wearing an impressed smile beneath curious eyes.
"Uncanny," Matthew said.
"That's not what most people say," Will said, his own smile far more restrained.
"Oh yeah? What do they say?"
"Fuck off," Will said, unable to help joining in when Matthew laughed; the whiskey was hitting and Will felt it in his balance, his hand slipping from the table. He righted himself quickly, still laughing mutedly.
"Hey, you wanna get out of here?"
"I've probably had enough," Will agreed.
"Come on."
The chill of the evening had turned to a frozen night. The pavements shone with earlier rain now turned to whorls of frost. The neighbourhood scintillated. Will, already unstable enough on his own feet besides alcohol and slippery sidewalks, was convinced to put his arm around Matthew's shoulders while his crutches were carried. Matthew used it as an excuse, Will knew, to put his own arm around Will's waist and hold him tightly.
"No way you're driving home. Crash at mine. I live just round the corner."
"Of course you do," Will laughed and shook his head, "been planning this long?"
"Well I am manipulative and egotistical," Matthew said.
"Sorry," Will knew he was drunk if he was apologising, hating the way the freezing air cut at his throat, "it's always a game of Russian roulette when I'm asked for my opinion."
"Don't worry about it. I like a man that can speak his mind."
He had reached the everything-is-funny stage of drunk by the time they exited the elevator in Matthew's apartment building. Will was impressed by the man's restraint, managing to wait a two block journey at a snail's pace, a long elevator ride, fiddling with keys and locks, and closing his front door behind them before he had Will up against the wall, tongue doing wicked things to the inside of his mouth.
"Too fast?" Matthew asked as they broke apart.
"Didn't think you'd care to ask."
"Been thinking about how you tasted since the first time I saw you."
A pause while Matthew kissed at his throat.
"That sounds creepier now that I say it out loud."
"It is a little."
"Enough to call you a cab?"
"No."
"Good."
Matthew's apartment revealed a fastidious nature. Will didn't think he'd ever seen a young, single man's apartment so clean, neat and yet still holding a lived in look. It wasn't sterile, it was just...unusual. Will found himself lowered onto a beige sofa facing a dark, dead television, while Matthew disappeared into the next room. Will fished his phone out of his pocket when it began digging into his hip and put it on the table. He put his coat on the arm of the sofa before observing his surroundings more closely.
The walls were an off cream, seeming yellower in the low light of a tall standing lamp in the corner. Following the room to the right Will found a cabinet full of dvds, a tall bookshelf in the far corner, a small frame containing what looked like a charcoal sketch. Will thought he recognised the amorphous cubic shapes, a name springing up without his consent Otto Dix. It unnerved him and he passed over he turned his head fully he was granted the view of a through arch in the wall that led to a small kitchen.
"You hungry?" the question came as Matthew reappeared.
"I'm a bit of a gremlin about time, it's better not to feed me after midnight," Will said, suppressing an instinctual laugh and shiver.
"Oh yeah? Then how about getting you wet?"
"I don't think it's worth the risk," Will raised a brow at the double entendre.
"Turn into a bit of an animal do you, Mr. Graham?"
"You really have to stop with the Mister crap, Matthew, you're making me sound like a teacher."
"You are a teacher," Matthew saw down next to him, close, touching, and Will couldn't find the impetus to move away.
"Making me sound like your teacher then. How old are you anyway?"
"Why's it matter?"
"I suppose it doesn't," Will said as Matthew slipped his hand across Will's shoulders.
"I'm twenty eight."
"Christ," Will said, covering his face with both hands and laughing into the cupped fingers as he listened to Matthew move about, the hand at his shoulders disappearing as swiftly as it appeared, "nearly a decade. Yup, I could be your teacher."
"Then maybe I'll learn something. You got a lesson in mind?"
"I've got a lot in my mind but no one wants it."
"Maybe you just haven't been askin' the right people."
"Maybe the right people to ask are also the wrong people," Will said; his hands opened up, fingers pushing up into his hair. He felt Matthew leave the couch but his voice stayed close.
"Well, sometimes you need wrong people for wrong things."
"We shouldn't be..."
"Why not?"
"I don't know," Will licked his lips and frowned, "No, I do know. We barely know each other, we're professionally involved, I'm really bad at this. Take your pick."
"How about I pick: you really turn me on."
"Didn't know that was a category," Will said, tensing.
"Yeah, that much is obvious. No offence but do you own a mirror?"
"What's that got to do with anything?" Will frowned, smiling drunkenly.
"You should take a look sometime," Matthew said; Will felt hands running up over his jean clad calves, then his knees, "maybe you'll figure it out."
Will opened his mouth to ask what? but stopped, his thighs clenching, as he felt hands at his zipper; one holding the material stiff as the other quickly pulled the metal teeth open. His breath caught in his throat, brain doing a confused twirl, stuttering as a warm hand delved inside. It was just lust, he told himself, just shameless lust. Or should that be shameful? Maybe it didn't need to be either. His eyes blinked and he sucked in a breath through his teeth as he was pulled free of his underwear, the air chill against his heated flesh.
He had words of protest ready, just no time with which to say them.
"No-ah..." Will began only to have it strangled out into a gasping moan as Matthew took the tip of his half-ready cock into his mouth and tongued the slit roughly.
Unsure where to put his hands, his drink addled mind chose to grip the back of the sofa, fingers curled into the soft material on either side of his head. His face craned to the left, cheek pressed flush against the underside of his bicep, eyes tightly closed. A whisper at his ear. Will ignored it. He shook as wet lips descended upon him, followed by a soft, sucking heat comprised of spongy flesh that undulated as it sank. Will let out a restrained cry through gritted teeth, more a growl than anything legible. When the descent stopped, tantalisingly half way, Will was unable to stop the involuntary spasm of his hips. Two hands reached up to grab them tightly, -there'll be bruises there tomorrow, the whisper said-, and the mouth retreated, dragging hollowed out cheeks up over the sensitive flesh.
He flopped out as Matthew straightened up, engorged prick bouncing up to lie flat against his abdomen. Will forced himself to crack open his eyes and look down through the narrow gap at the sight between his legs.
"I feel like maybe I'm teaching you something, Mister Graham," said to provoke, he knew, even through smiling lips, "don't tell me mine's the first mouth you've ever had."
"Would it matter if it was?"
"You kidding? Gorgeous guy like you hasn't ever had someone suck him off? What kind of world are we livin' in?"
"One where that injustice is apparently about to be corrected," Will couldn't help laughing at his own hackneyed line, "god, I sound like a...you. I sound like you."
"I'm thinking I should take that as a compliment," Matthew said casually as he began fisting the base of Will's hardening cock; yet Will could see it,the rigidity in the eyes that spoke of a predator provoked.
"Temper, temper," Will said sleekly, watching Matthew through one slit open eye.
A slight hitch, showing in Matthew's eyes as they jolted a little wider and in his hand as it momentarily faltered. Then, as Will thought he might have stepped too far, a wide smile split open the young man's face. A dark stripe broken up by hints of white teeth. Will blinked as he thought he saw a shadow there, antlers on porcelain. There was a tickle of breath by his ear and Will shook.
"Still so sharp," Matthew leaned in to lave at the thick vein running on the underside, making Will's cock jump in his hand, "even when you're half cut and half hard."
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Will sighed breathily, finding it difficult to think straight as Matthew enveloped him again; he felt oddly reluctant and inexperienced, "unh, can I...can I touch you?"
The hummed approval had Will starting up from his slouch against the sofa, puffing out a heady breath. His right hand found its way to Matthew's short, dark hair, rubbing through his fingers like raven fur. The detachment in his mind was wobbling loose, filling his hand with a phantom sensation of another's touch. Will couldn't stop staring at it, moving up and down languorously in time with the heightened ecstasy thrumming at his core. A long, low sound, like a bray at dusk. He thought it might have come from his own throat.
The stag was in the room.
Will closed his eyes, feeling Matthew let go of the base and slip his hand down to cup Will's testicles, caressing gently. The mouth slid lower. Will scrunched his eyes closed tighter and felt himself curl forwards. A sensation of fingers at the base of his spine, pressing there possessively. He leaned forwards as Matthew held still and did something down and dirty with a swirl of tongue and hollowing of cheeks. Will pushed his nose against the short, dark strands of ticklish hair and breathed in deeply. A heady musk, an animal in heat outweighed only by the rippling scent of menace. Will shivered, breathing out as the head slipped away from him, swallowing him whole. He unfurled, collapsing back against the couch, his hand rubbing downwards to grip forcefully at the exposed neck below carefully cropped hair. Will could feel eyes on him, watching, waiting. He could feel something in the corner of the room, studying him.
Ebony claws traced his shoulders, held him close. Will wasn't sure if the breath at his throat was real or imagined. The feeling made him weak at the knees.
"You're going to make me-ah," Will said tightly, "I'm..."
The mouth slid up and off with a soft sound, then there was a hand around him, rubbing slickly up over the saliva wet flesh. Will felt his abdominal muscles contract, tightening as the hand manipulated him relentlessly. The hands at his shoulders descended, wrapping across his chest, pulling him close. He bared his teeth, eyes tight-shut. He felt Matthew against him as the man leaned up, covered, pressed against him from the front while he felt the phantom hold him possessively from behind. Warm breath against his face, still turned from the scene as a hunter denies the head upon the plate. Will felt as if he were sitting upon the edge of his line of vision, staring in at his own debauchery.
"Cum for me baby," Matthew whispered against his lips.
Shh, the black lips whispered, you did so well
"Oh fuck," Will gritted out, hips jerking; spurts of pearlescent white shot up over his pale red shirt while Matthew slowed his pace, eyes rapt, massaging slowly as Will shook, panting. The stag smiled at his ear, antlers locking with Matthew's as they crowded Will against the couch. No, he thought, no. Will lunged forwards, the sensation almost too much, "ah, ah. Fuck me, Matthew, just fuck me."
"But you already..." Matthew started.
"Don't argue with me, just do it," Will growled, grabbing a fistful of Matthew's shirt.
"God damn," Matthew said in a low voice, right hand fumbling to his own fly, "you can't say things like that to me, makes me wanna do bad things to you."
And he did, only Will was the only one who knew they weren't alone while he did them. He was rocked back and forth under a lithe body, Matthew's sculpted chest flat against his back as he panted through his nose and Will tried his best to stay upright on shaking thighs and arms. He kept his eyes forwards, trained on the sofa arm, because he couldn't bring himself to look out into the room in case the stag stood there. He tried his best to keep control, but soon it slipped, too tired, too pleasantly hazy, too confused, too anxious, and the predator above him yanked the reigns from his fingers. Matthew rode him hard and fast, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud and stark in the small living room. Will grit his teeth and bore the rough friction, obeying without question when Matthew pulled free and demanded, "turn over baby, I want you where I can see you". He was pulled close as Matthew slipped back inside, a deft tongue working its way into his mouth. Will felt devoured. My, my, what an appetite you have. It wasn't much longer before everything came to a head.
"Shit," Matthew keened as if in pain, driving in hard, "so fucking good. Will, god dammit. Fuck."
Will grimaced at the feeling as Matthew finished inside of him. An odd memory was quick to leap on the disadvantage as it showed, and, too weak to fight it off, it spoke into his ear. Hannibal's words, over and over in their unknown tongue, even it was the stag-man who stared down at him over Matthew's heaving back, white eyes sightless as its mouth moved in a repetitious rhythm: neikada neikada neikada. What did you mean? Will wanted to ask, What did you want to say to me? Will felt coldly sober as he stared up at the ceiling, forcing the illusions to fade as reality sank back in.
It was difficult to stop the short gasp escaping his throat as Matthew pulled out, the younger man sitting up to straddle Will's hips. He peered up at him, shirt open to show sweat-shined skin, pants pulled low over his slim hips with his flaccid cock drooping over his undone fly. Will lay against the couch, trying to bring his breathing back to normal and ignore the uncomfortable feeling of semen leaking onto the sofa cushions. Matthew was watching him through lazy eyes but his stare was intent, curious. Will watched as a hand reached up to touch his exposed chest where his shirt had ridden up. Fine fingers traced over the raised, white scar tissue between Will's third and fourth ribs, below his heart.
"Who stabbed you?" he was asked, Matthew skipping the usual step of asking what had happened.
"A woman with nothing to lose," Will said, his own hand tracing up over Matthew's skin, stopping at a long, still-pink scar that travelled a straight road from his inner thigh to his left hip, "who cut you?"
"A guy in prison that didn't appreciate me not bending over when he said so," Matthew covered Will's hand with his own, looking at him and licking his lips, "that doesn't bother you, does it?"
"What were you in for?"
"Assault and battery."
"Well," Will took a long breath and let it out slowly, his left forearm coming up to lay across his forehead, "I'd be a hypocrite if I shoved you out in the cold for that."
"Don't tell me you've been inside," Matthew looked amusedly sceptical, "didn't think the FBI let felons in the door."
"No, I haven't," Will said, "but then...well, you work with Abel Gideon."
"Uh huh. Wait," an interested frown, "you did that?"
"He hurt a friend of mine."
"I don't doubt he deserved it," Matthew shrugged, "Least you stopped him talking. He used to never shut up. Anyway guy's a fraud. Couldn't stop going on about being the Chesapeake Ripper."
"And you knew he was a fraud how?"
"Like I said," Matthew shrugged, "he's all talk."
Will decided to let it slide, but filed the comment away for later.
"But then if you've been inside, how'd you end up working for Chilton? Thought he had strict policies."
"The Boss? Strict policies? Don't believe everything you hear. He's lenient on who he hires, as long as we're willing to do a little extra without grumbling and turn a blind eye when he wants it. Don't get me wrong, there's few and far between that respect him but, well, it's work. More than I'd get anywhere else. And..." the hand stopped flicking its fingers up and down over Will's scar to reach up and trace his cheek, "guess I shouldn't knock it considering it put you in my path, huh."
"Mmm," Will closed his eyes and wondered if it was the alcohol loosening his tongue or something more intimate, "that's reason enough to..."
A shrill ring interrupted him. Will reached out on instinct to silence it, only to have his hand stopped, long fingers wrapped about his wrist. He looked up at Matthew, watching him closely.
"That phone's been ringing since I met you, and all you do is ignore it. In fact you came out with me after you cancelled the call that day. Avoiding someone Will?"
"Maybe," Will said, feeling challenged somehow but not sure why; his drunken instincts flared and he retorted without thinking, "maybe you don't have me as all to yourself as you'd like."
Eyes narrowed but lips quirked minutely. He couldn't explain why he didn't stop Matthew when he reached for the phone and picked it up. Later he would blame it on the alcohol but know, deep down, it was an action born of spite.
"Yeah?" Matthew answered casually; Will closed his eyes and could only imagine how Hannibal might be reacting, head coming up straight, eyes narrowing, hands stilling in whatever action they had been performing, "this is Matthew, who's this? No, he's indisposed at the moment. A message? I don't think he wants to hear anything you have to say. Oh I know so. Mmm. Actually I think you're the one being rude here. Well, we'll just have to agree to disagree. You have a good night now."
By the time Matthew was done Will was laughing again, although unsure whether it was humorous or just plain miserable. He stayed still as he heard the phone clunked back onto the coffee table and felt Matthew lean down across him. He did not open his eyes as he felt a mouth against his, and couldn't be sure just whose lips he was imagining when he returned the kiss.
The Otto Dix drawing on Matthew's wall is this one:
www . ottodix index / catalog-item / 126 . 003 . html
Matthew seems like the kind of creepy, disturbed guy who'd have Otto's war sketches on his wall.
