Hannibal's smile grows as he thanks the attendant at the visitors check-in and enters the FBI Academy once again as an invited guest. How hospitable of Jack Crawford. Hannibal is not given to fantasy, but if he were, he might have woven a narrative much like the one he's living: confidant of the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the man who most wants to catch the Chesapeake Ripper; and of Will Graham, the man most likely to catch him.
The irony alone would make it worth the risk, but he's gotten so much more from them: access to their procedures, their knowledge, their thinking. While the trust of Will Graham and Jack Crawford, both of whom now see him often, is the real prize, everything else rounds out the package, like a fine wine with a fine meal.
He has seen neither Jack nor Will since Jack sat next to him by the fire in his living room and talked about Miriam Lass. The Ripper started a new streak of murders not long after Jack left. He's kept everyone busy; he's been quite busy himself. And now they have invited him into the inner sanctum to see the wild geese give chase.
Indeed, to collect the golden goose.
He smiles even more widely.
As he presses the button for the elevator, he recalls the worry in Alana Bloom's voice. Will is terribly ill at the worst possible time. He needs respite from stress and Jack – nothing but sleep and plenty of it. Well, that and support should his dreams trouble him. As they most certainly will.
A man of Will's gifts and temperament should be nothing but repulsed by the scenes Hannibal creates for him. But Will possesses the qualities of a killer, even if he chooses not to draw upon them. Though Will killed justly, the act exposed him to his own hidden madness. He has been unable to cope with the horror. He will wake terrified and Hannibal will be there to see the ghosts of his dreams.
But Hannibal intends to find out not just what Will sees when he dreams, but also what desires underlie those dreams. The opportunity to do so has been placed, gift-wrapped, in his lap.
How lucky for him that Will enjoys raw oysters, and that, even though it is winter, Will stumbled upon a tainted one. How serendipitous.
Not, of course, for Will. Alana thinks he should be in the hospital, but it's best for Will, Jack, and everyone (except the Ripper) if Hannibal can ease him through this illness and return him quickly to the field. Alana expects Will to have a very difficult time sleeping. Not only is he ill, he's also overstimulated. Too many hours at Quantico, too few in Wolf Trap – as Hannibal knows, having been given the task of feeding Will's dogs.
Will's dogs, he muses, as the elevator climbs to the Behavioral Analysis floor. Upon receiving the task, he had been sorely tempted for several moments to harvest some meat for the dogs. But the amusement was not worth the risk of changing the Ripper's patterns; he has been careful not to give Will anything with which to work. Instead, he filed that idea away for later when he can put the Ripper and his show aside and return to killing clandestinely.
He is enjoying himself, though. Not only does he get new canvases on which to compose his masterpieces, but his audience dances for him with such gusto. Their performances have been exemplary.
Will he is most interested in and Will he shall have.
Hannibal stops outside Jack's office and watches with interest as Alana bends over Will. She's giving him an injection of dimenhydrinate, as they discussed on the phone, to calm his stomach and help him sleep – and so Hannibal can take him home without additional stress to Will or damage to the leather interior of Hannibal's car. Hannibal will treat Will's abdominal pain once Will is settled and Hannibal has consulted with a pharmacist about the best treatment.
He watches until is Alana is finished. A brief glimpse of Will's bare hip arouses his interest. Quickly, he schools his face so he can smile briefly when she sees him, then shift his now-concerned gaze back to Will.
"Hannibal," she says once the door to Jack's office has closed behind her. "You got here quickly."
"I was visiting a patient in Alexandria," Hannibal says. It's only half a lie; he had been in Alexandria.
"I didn't know you made house calls," Alana replies, her tone conversational.
"I don't," Hannibal answers. "Agoraphobic. Suicide attempt. I'm sorry to say that I expected it; even more sorry that I could not prevent it."
"I'm sorry," she commiserates. "I hope I didn't take you away from your patient?"
"Not at all," Hannibal replies. "I received your call after our visit ended."
He nods toward Will inside the office. "How is he?"
"Not well," Alana answers, her tone brimming with concern. "Showing signs of dehydration. The stomach cramps are worse. But he should be feeling a little better now."
She pauses and smiles. "Thank you for doing this. He'll be more comfortable with you than he would with anyone else."
Hannibal returns her smile, his hand on the door. "That is precisely why I'm here."
When Will hears the door open again, he knows the noise is significant and that he's expecting someone, but he has to actively try to remember who it is.
Whatever Alana gave him has knocked him into orbit. Although his stomach still cramps fiercely, the omnipresent nausea has faded into the background. His head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, but the fuzziness is a welcome change. He can't bring himself to care much about anything.
It's nice, this drug, whatever it is. He'll have to remember to ask her later. She told him, but he'd been too busy trying not to dry heave on her at the time.
Now, on the other hand – now, he'll be able to sleep. He expects to be sound asleep – drooling on his shoulder, his head resting against the window – before they cross the river.
In his addled state, he imagines Hannibal's house beckoning to him like an ancient European fortress, offering impenetrable protection from the outside world. He adds to the image a moat with enormous alligators from the southern Louisiana swamps. The two styles clash terribly, but the scene amuses him. It feels so good to be amused.
A hand rests gently on his shoulder. Hannibal's hand. The scent he associates with Hannibal fills the air and for the first time since the Ripper murders started, Will relaxes.
"Will?"
"Mmm," Will replies, forcing his eyes open. Hannibal's noble face – high cheekbones, strong jaw, impeccable lips – awaits him.
Sympathy, care, concern: Will sees them in Hannibal's face but doesn't feel them strongly from the man. Will likes this best about Hannibal: he keeps his emotions to himself. Will doesn't have to worry about blocking him or cueing off him. Everyone else broadcasts too loudly all the time, but Hannibal is a pocket of quietude.
"Will?"
He blinks. Did he just space out?
Hannibal's bemused expression says he did.
Will rubs a hand across his eyes and locates Alana. "Whatever you gave me," he rasps, "it's working."
She smiles. Broadcasting happiness mixed with concern and pity. No.
Will turns his attention to Hannibal and sees but does not feel the same emotions.
Silence. Golden.
"Can you sit up?" Hannibal asks.
Will makes a wobbly, half-hearted attempt, too tired and drugged to move and too comfortable to want to try. He lets Hannibal help him up, hiding a wince as his unhappy knees, bruised from the bathroom floor and bent for too long, protest the movement. Habit compels him to put his glasses on – not just so he can see but because they are a small yet crucial barrier between him and everyone else. He fumbles with the button on his shirt pocket, his hands made stupid by the medicine.
A cramp pierces the haze and he grunts and grits his teeth. Dammit. His blood roars in his ears as he pants.
"Hannibal will give you something for that soon, Will," Alana says.
Will nods carefully.
"Yes," Hannibal adds. "As soon as you're able, we'll go."
Will tries to take a deep breath but can't manage it around the pain.
"It's not going to get better on its own," Will says tightly, extending a hand to Hannibal. "Let's go."
He hears Alana start to object, but Hannibal grasps his wrist and helps him up.
"Will is right," Hannibal says to her.
For a moment, as the world spins precariously and his stomach screams at the elongation of standing, Will isn't sure he agrees. He feels Hannibal's arm duck across his back and under his arm to help him stay upright as he grabs a handful of Hannibal's suit jacket.
It occurs to Will that he's never been this close to Hannibal before – and that Hannibal is much stronger than he looks. He's doing more to hold Will up than Will is doing to stand.
"Are you okay, Will?" Hannibal asks.
His voice is so close. Will can feel his chest rumble when he speaks. He wishes he weren't in such bad shape so he could enjoy this moment more.
"I'm good," Will lies before Alana can suggest a less dignified means of exiting the building.
His students are going to see him like this. Shit. He resolves to keep his eyes on his feet to avoid even the chance of eye contact with them.
He focuses on breathing and staying more or less upright as they move through the halls. He's vaguely aware that Alana is clearing a path for them toward the parking lot.
By the time Hannibal opens the passenger's side door, Will is drenched in sweat and ready to collapse – which he does, gratefully, into the seat. He ignores Alana as she encourages him to get some rest and wishes him a speedy recovery.
Instead, he closes his eyes and focuses his mind on the exotic, refined smell of Hannibal that pervades the car. He's asleep before they reach I-95.