AN: Apologies for not quite making it to the Party yet. Next chapter, I promise, Bedelia!
Chapter 7
Leur Font du Mal ou Leur Causent du Tort (la deuxième partie)
Do them Wrong (part 2)
The smell of pine nuts cooking, the roasted smell of seeds. It was so difficult to think about Marissa now because Hannibal...The box in her hands was still warm. The bread was thick and the butter soft. A container of hot, pumpkin soup. A small, unknown desert that smelled heavily of raspberries. She picked out the bread because it was filled with memories and resentment. It tore in her hands. For a moment she imagined scrunching it between her palms, lumps of dough between bitter fingers, throwing it at the wall to hear the satisfying thump, throwing the soup against the wall and watching it splatter, and then tearing up the clothes he'd given her and the..!
Sometimes she wondered why she stayed so placidly. There was enough money left in her purse to run. She would maybe even be able to get to her cousins if she could break out. Jimmy the latch on the door maybe. Just think about it, think about it, it would only take..! But she knew it wasn't a latch on the main door. Deadbolts. She had heard them when he left every time.
She thought of home. Two weeks after her fifteenth birthday, her dad had put deadbolts on her room door. He had heard that teenage girls liked to sneak out at night to meet boys. Not that Abigail ever had, it was just something he'd heard. She could remember watching him, carefully and quietly screwing the bolts into the thick wooden frame. When she asked what was going on he'd turned, put both his large hands across her ears and pulled her forwards, laying a kiss upon her forehead. Then he'd looked at her with a sadness in his eyes that she wouldn't understand for a long time, stroking her long hair with his hand.
She wondered how long ago Hannibal had left it, the food, sitting in the heater bag by the door. She hadn't woken when he did so. Must have been quiet. He was always so quiet these days. She wondered why he even did it. For a time, when he'd first brought her here, she imagined he would just leave her to rot. Trapped in the nightmare room: elegant chairs, a comfortable bed, bathroom; high walls and ceiling of corrugated iron. It had been dark when she was brought here. Wherever here was.
Instead he was careful and caring and, she didn't know if he was aware, his eyes had that same sadness; her father's sadness. The look of a person afraid, so afraid, that they were going to lose someone precious. An inevitable sadness. One or two times she'd thought of mentioning it to him but the words had stuck in her throat. If she asked one question she would have to ask them all. She knew she wouldn't be able to stop them pouring out.
Was Alana alright? How long are you going to keep me here? Are the FBI still looking for me? And those were some of the easy ones.
When can I come home? Was one of the worst, because she knew that deep down she could never run, never leave, because he would never let her go. She would go home to him because it was what she had always done.
What did you do to Will? And that was the hardest, the one which blew all others to the wall. The one she wanted to scream every time he came near her. Because she had heard Will shouting that night, the night Hannibal confessed. She had heard him in her room upstairs as she hid in the pantry. Had heard something hit the ground. Then watched through the crack in the door as feet descended the stairs. A side glimpse of someone carrying someone else in their arms, of Hannibal carrying Will in his arms, and she had felt like screaming and rushing out and beating her fists against him and demanding an answer because he loved him, he loved him, she knew he did and...
...and dad had loved her too, he had loved her mother and had cherished her and always protected her and then she had to watch, unwittinglywatch, as he put down the phone and picked up the carving knife from beside the chicken mom had roasted, walk up behind her, eyes hard, grab her by the hair and run the knife across her throat, and then turn, face filled with the sadness that was all his own, and come for her...
The stainless steel knife that Hannibal had left with the bread and butter never made its way to the door, never tried, even futilely, to escape. Never hid itself beneath her pillow, hoping to find and arm or a leg or anything soft and easy to stab at next time Hannibal appeared.
Abigail sat in the armchair by the space heater, chewing her fingernails and staring at the other chair across from her as the questions ran circles in her mind. They were always the most difficult to dispel, the most difficult to rid herself of once they were entrenched.
When can I come home?
What did you do to Will?
Knocking. Someone was knocking. Blinking his eyes open, Will squinted against the glare peeking in through half drawn curtains. He tipped his eyes down to find the alarm clock. Eight fifty stared back. Shit, he thought wearily.
"Mmm," came a half irritated, half asleep groan from next to him.
"Go back to sleep," Will muttered, clearing his throat as the words stuck and the cold air hit his chest; a sleepy hand made its way out from under the covers and ran blindly down his side. Will let out an involuntary shiver and flinched, before grabbing the wayward limb and pushing it away. He got up and dressed quickly in the first things that came to hand, knowing that a pair of brown eyes had emerged, watching him as he did so.
A soft, button down t-shirt covered the bruises he couldn't see; those he knew were at his shoulders. A pair of jeans up over those he could see; red and blue at his hips, like rusted dents in old steel.
It had been a mistake, he knew it had as soon as he'd done it. Showing Matthew the way to his house only allowed for the man to be impulsive; and Will knew he was impulsive. Had known it even before there were cracks in the shop-front glass and blood on Matthew's hands. So letting him take that step further had been a mistake. Only one he hadn't expected would be as destructive as it was.
The night before had been...tasteless wasn't the word he wanted. Distorted was perhaps closer to the truth. Unexpected? He would call it that. As he walked through the living room the sight assaulted his sense of order; misaligned, everything out of place. Papers and photographs still littered the coffee table, crime scenes and red ended limbs, a half drunk glass of whiskey on the floor by the couch where he had been lying, Matthew's jacket dropped on the floor by the back of the dining chair where he'd tried to hang it and missed.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Will snapped, standing on his porch.
He wouldn't have been so damn touchy if it weren't for the sawn limbs and thick, red virtuousness and blame and hurt and hurt and hurt which had been numbing his mind as he stared at the photographs and poured whiskey down his throat like water and let his imagination run free behind closed eyes. He wouldn't have stood like a guardian in the doorway if it hadn't been for the need to keep everything hidden, to keep everything locked away from prying eyes. He wouldn't have been so close to the edge if he hadn't been thinking, moments before, of the report of Lehrwood, nine years old, brought in by a concerned neighbour when he was found naked and bruised sitting in their driveway. Wouldn't have been so lost if he hadn't been considering whether it was more likely that Lehrwood had sexually assaulted the dead man in the wine press after he dismembered him rather than before; and what it meant if he had.
A mind full of sickness was a bad place to start from. No way to see the wildness in Matthew's eyes when Will was trying to ignore it eating him from the inside out.
The fact that he hadn't received much in the way of an answer further than hands at his face, holding him still as Matthew rushed in and kissed him, made things worse. Sloppy, fervent and somewhat of a fight as Will tried to back away. A harsh shove at a solid chest and Matthew stopped, stepping back a few paces, moving about on his feet as he stared at Will, arms loose at his sides. It had been difficult not to see the...man in the doorway, gentle and calm but for the fact Will could see he was resting on the balls of his feet, ready to...leap before it came. Will found himself in a mangle of limbs, pushed against the back of the sofa, hot breath against his neck.
Something in him wanted to bite back, while the other wanted to be alone, alone while the demons crawled up out of their cage and slipped out through his mouth.
"Didn't answer my damn question," he finally ground out, hearing a growling bark from the living room doorway.
"Do I need a reason to see you?" Matthew asked; no calm in his flushed face, but also too sincere as he leaned back and stared at him.
"Yeah, you do," Will replied succinctly, "I'm busy. Go home."
"Don't fuckin' order me around," there was no malice to the words, but the arms around him tightened.
"You don't want to be here right now," Will had said slowly, dangerously, "go home."
"Those god damn eyes," Matthew had smiled as if to himself, his stare high and glassy, "they'll be the fuckin' death of me."
It hadn't been a fight. Close to it, as close as Will thought he might have ever come without throwing punches. The thick, red virtue had turned to thick, red heat, and the lust in the way Matthew bit down at the junction of his shoulder and neck threw his world atilt against his wishes. Will had been barely aware of the thoughts flashing through his mind as Matthew struggled out of his jacket and tried to dump it on the chair. Had been barely aware of anything much except touches on his skin and feeling sick at the thought that he wasn't fully himself.
That he couldn't keep poor, frightened Graeme Lehrwood out of his head as Matthew jerked down his jeans and gripped his hips so hard that Will winced at the pain, didn't want this, please don't, as they grappled on the bed until Matthew had both his wrists in one hand and was pushing in slowly, muttering muffled cusses at his ear, I'll kill you, fucking kill you if you touch me again, as the pace increased and the momentary tenderness spiralled from sight while Matthew brought Will's captured hands up, held by the wrists, sliding the palms up across his torso as he fucked him, up to his collarbone,
"Don't you want your hands on me baby?" he had ground out as he clasped Will's shaking hands around his throat, "Don't you want to?"
The fact that it had been a stupid fucking question was what had made it difficult to fall asleep, made him lie awake, staring at the ceiling, with Matthew's arm across his chest and his sleepy breathing by his ear. The feeling of tender skin tensing beneath his fingers; rough, hot friction as he squeezed tighter, tighter, felt muscle and bone beneath, felt the squirming of a throat gasping for air against his palms, a struggle, the sound of choking and then...
It was almost nothing more than a fuzzy memory, outlined in black and white. He didn't know whose hands they were, those that reached out in front of him, his own or Lehrwood's or someone else's entirely. Somehow it didn't seem real. As he answered the door, the thought scared him.
"Good morning, Will."
Will was sure he might have stood there longer than he thought he did, blinking at Hannibal Lecter; mainly because, after a few moments, a small, familiar smile creased full lips. Will felt as if he must have seen more, too much, was ill at the thought of it. Not me, the thoughts came fast and confused, but if not me then who? How many? Why am I..? He only realised Hannibal was talking as he forced the calm upon himself, reigning everything back in tightly.
"If you would prefer..."
"Come in," Will interrupted on instinct; bad idea, he thought too late. He opened his mouth to try and correct it, "or has something come up? Do we need to go somewhere?"
"Something you need to see, down at Westhill, but I had thought breakfast might be in order first," he paused as Will stepped away from the door, "thank you."
Will cleared his throat and grabbed a thick cardigan he kept hanging by the door, slipping it on. The air was bitterly cold, nipping. The silence between them only made the sounds of the shower down the hall louder. Hannibal hesitated briefly by the couch but didn't say anything further.
"I was just making coffee," Will lied, heading towards the kitchen, "do we have time for one?"
"It would be a wonderful complement," Lecter's voice held the hint of amusement Will did not appreciate.
The kettle boiled and then the coffee percolated. Will took this time to feed the dogs. No point in asking yourself why he's here, he thought, just deal with the fact that he is. Maybe Jack has..? He stopped himself before he could get carried away. It would only lead darker places than he needed it to. Hannibal was inside now, back inside. Why did you let him in? Frightened? Can't always run as soon as things become close and real and more than you can handle.
Can't I? He bit back.
No need to make things difficult. He'd already done that to the best of his abilities before. Run, run, run, and then where do you find yourself? New territory, lost, starting all over again from scratch. Better to let the fly dangle a little longer in the water. They would leave for whatever nightmare Jack had in store, and Will could keep to the shadows lingering in his head because now they were useful, necessary, not just a jumble of someone else's traumas trying desperately to infect his own.
When he poured the coffee he realised he was shaking. The shower had stopped. He stared at the dark liquid and the reflection which greeted him was a face deformed, warped. Looking away did little to dispel it.
"Is that coffee?"
Everything was piling up, slowly but surely; a slow motion car wreck. Will didn't turn as he poured a third mug and pushed it along the counter towards Matthew. The man ignored it, walked up behind him and took a hold of his hips, warm lips tracing the curve of his neck. The smell of freshly washed skin and his own shampoo was out of place on another.
Hands twisting soft skin and a feeling of splitting away, of staring in at himself and wondering who he was looking at. Will blinked and spoke without tone.
"I have to go in a couple of minutes. Work. Drink your coffee."
A terse few seconds in which Will stood, mugs in hand, and waited for Matthew to retreat. Eventually it came, two paces back, enough to skirt around.
"Good mornin' to you too," Will heard Matthew mutter as he walked back into the corridor.
Returning to the place he had left him revealed no Lecter. A momentary spike of worry that he and Matthew would run into each other, passive fireworks he wasn't in the mood for, before he hurried back. Walking to the living room found him sat at his small dining table, shoved unceremoniously out of the way into a corner for most of its life. Two plates sat before him, onto which some sort of sandwich was being placed. For a moment he hesitated, felt displaced...a memory of chicken and pasta and wine, and warm hands and flushed cheeks and...before forcing his feet forwards. Lecter nodded his thanks for the steaming mug of pitch.
"Well remembered," Lecter said after his first sip.
"Not exactly difficult to remember to put nothing but coffee in the cup. What am I about to put in my mouth?"
"An American twist on a French classic."
"It's a croissant."
"The filling should make it acceptable enough."
"It's..." one mouthful, bacon, cream cheese, sour cream, chewed, swallowed, god that's..."delicious. Thank you."
"Not at all."
"Going to tell me what's at Westhill?"
"Something familiar," Lecter said between bites, "Jack is concerned that the Chesapeake Ripper has claimed another victim."
"Then why the hell didn't he call me?" Will frowned, his heartbeat quickening involuntarily.
"I believed this was the best course of action. Calm sails catch more wind. You must not become overly animated."
"So what are...is this some sort of welfare system now? For god's sakes Hannibal I'm not a china tea cup."
"Civility seems to have passed us by," Hannibal said as he sat back, wiping his hands on a thick napkin produced from his pocket, "it seems we have moved directly to friendly. Who would have known the two were so distinct."
"Just drink your coffee."
Finished in silence. Comfortable silence, shouldn't be, though it is. He left the table in disarray, all plates and mugs, and grabbed his coat. The smile, on catching Hannibal looking at the breakfast mess with a longing to rearrange, tidy, clean, was involuntary. A nice, easy morning with memories of...Don't you dare forget, don't you dare forget what he did to...
Will walked purposefully from the room.
"Front door key," he said, holding the keys up as he watched Matthew fish around for hastily discarded clothes in the bedroom, "back door key. If you let the dogs out then leave the back door open."
"Seen my shirt?"
"Uh..." Will scanned the room quickly, finding it behind the dresser; picked up and tossed quickly, Matthew caught it in the air. Will shook the keys before putting them on the side table, "they're spares, so just leave them under the mat."
"And here I was thinking you were giving me a set," said with sarcasm, layered with truth.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
Matthew was slowly nodding when Will found the wherewithal to look at him, his face set; a look of resignation, tinged with doubt. He hauled the shirt over his head, pulling it down over tattoos and skin. Fevered eyes and unexpected pain. Will hated that something inside of him leapt at the hanging treat of it, sinking its teeth in.
"Look, if last night was too much..."
"I don't have the time for this," Will muttered, sighing; he continued without thought for the lie in his words, "it's just...difficult when people show up unannounced."
"Oh but he gets to?"
"It's work, Matthew. We work together."
"You want me to call next time?"
"I'd rather you..." Will stopped, unsure where he had been going with it.
"What? Didn't?"
"Enjoy putting words in my mouth?"
"Not as much as you enjoyed breakfast."
"Still a magpie on the wire."
"Jesus, Will. Can't you just speak straight for one minute?"
"There's irony in there somewhere," Will frowned, scratching at his nose, eyes averted; he picked up the keys again before tossing them to Matthew, "front door, back door. I have to go to work."
The snow had frozen overnight. It crunched underfoot. Will thought he heard an echo, knowing somewhere in his mind that it was simply Hannibal's following tread.
"Shall we take my car?" Lecter suggested.
No. I don't think so. That's a bad...
"Alright," Will nodded; he pulled open the heavy door and sat down without questioning himself.
Questions would only demand answers. He was currently hiding from those as best he could.
The car purred into life, the heater turning on with a puff of hot air. Will shifted uncomfortably as he put on his seatbelt, unzipping the neck of his jacket and cardigan to stave off a sweat. When the car did not move Will looked to his left.
No words necessary. Will was beginning to think it was a habit between them. One he didn't want. He didn't need habits, or understandings, or mutuality. It was all he could do to swallow as Hannibal reached up with a gloved hand, peeling back the flopped down collar of his cardigan to show the skin beneath.
Maroon eyes watched. No reaction visible, but for a slight flutter of eyelashes. Will looked back to the windshield, lifting his hand to zip up his clothes to the chin. Heat and heat and heat. Hannibal retracted his hand when forced. The car's large wheels bounced comfortably over the uneven ground, out towards the highway.
"He is one who likes to leave his mark," Hannibal said once they were on even ground.
Fingers at his hips, bruisingly tight.
"He's not the only one," Will rejoined, wishing he had the strength of will to ignore the obvious opening.
Teeth at his neck, flesh pulled inside a willing mouth.
"That is unworthy of you. No mark of my own was necessary."
Remembrance of soft fingers against his face, stroking away the last of his thoughts as he fell, hitting something soft...
"Not all marks are visible."
How many?
Many more than...
"Christ," Will muttered, shaking.
"Will, are you alright?"
"Pull over."
"I am sorry..?"
"Pull over."
As the car slowed Will felt as if he were coming down from something...a high, a fall...unbuckling his seatbelt as Hannibal pulled smoothly onto the hard shoulder, hazard lights flicked on. Part of him did not wish to look, part of him was desperate to.
"Look at me," he said.
"You are flushed," Hannibal said by way of reply, turning in his seat to face Will; one un-gloved hand reached up to feel his forehead but was batted away, "are you unwell?"
"Did I see you?" Will forced the words through a tight throat. The question had seemed to slip from nowhere, suddenly becoming a reality in his mind, "the night I...was taken. Did I see you?"
"I do not know," Hannibal said, face open and honest, "did you see me?"
"I wouldn't have trusted my own eyes, not back then," Will said, shaking his head forcefully, "I just wondered if..."
"What is it that you want to know, Will?"
A rush of fear, followed swiftly by overwhelming want, a desire to feel that way he could remember he had, he had he was sure he had, almost as if Hannibal could run his palm down his back and make his world fall apart. He felt as if he were someone in another's skin, loose fitting and ragged.
I need you to be my anchor .
I am.
It took only a few unsteady movements to turn, pull himself up against the handbrake and grab.
The mouth beneath his was willing. Hannibal did not resist. The kiss was sweet and ruthless with an underlying violence that made his heart pound. Hands reached up to hold his elbows gently. Will screwed his eyes shut and pushed back. He fell against the seat, turning his face towards the window.
"Just...drive. Please."
Another demand met without comment or argument. Will almost wished Hannibal would resist him more than he did. It would make his life infinitely easier.
Thick, red lines. They wavered in his vision like barriers. He was trying to see the Ripper, trying to see his design, but the lines they were out of joint. Will did not look to the body as the thought entered his mind.
He held him down tightly, because the bruises at his wrists were from fingers, not restraints. He blinked. Soft lips, pressing his open. Eyes closed.Whose memory was it? Will was beginning to wonder. It was the first of many bad signs. Or he hoped it was the first.
Will hunkered down by the car, still sitting in the garage in Westhill where a couple had been attacked and killed in their home, and put his fingers against the blue painted door. Next to the bloody streak smeared across the handle. Breathe, he told himself, just breathe.
Pushed his head against the car because he was struggling so hard. Crack, blood, dizzy, subdued. Almost lost him a few times (seen in the cans knocked from the shelves) almost overpowered. It was sloppy, needed work. Yet in the end...
Looking up to the torso sat upon the workbench, arms and legs held in vice grips to the knotted wood, Will felt it drip. Drip, drip, drip. Slick blood that no longer flowed. A design half recognised because it was not his own.
"It's not..." he started strong as he stood up quickly, turning at the sound of feet against concrete; he found Hannibal already standing inside as the doorway opened, "how long?" he asked accusingly.
A gentle hand gripped his arm, held him steady. The familiar scent made Will feel weak. Hannibal slid his tongue into his mouth and kissed him for as long as Will was able to allow it. Eyes back open when he realised they'd slid shut. He cleared his throat. Shivered. Tried to listen.
"Long enough to supervise," Hannibal replied easily as Jack walked in, talking to Beverly.
"Get everything back to the lab ASAP," Jack was saying, "we have to push this through before Wilson gets his orders in."
"Got it," Beverly said, giving Will a quick yet reserved nod before she left.
Will couldn't find the wherewithal to reply. It was difficult to take his eyes from Hannibal, observed as he felt he was.
"I don't need you watching me while I'm working," Will said venomously, as if reigning each word back in.
"What do we have?" Jack asked, breaking through.
"Someone else," Will snapped, rubbing his hands together, "it's a fake."
"Meaning you think this isn't the Ripper?"
"Clumsy, badly planned, imprecise, lacking imagination and forethought," Will said his list with a lilt of sing-song, "take your pick of everything the Ripper isn't, and it's here."
"That's quite a conclusion."
"Do you really need it spelled out?"
"No," jack said precisely, "what I need is for you to calm the hell down and start from the beginning. And if you talk to me like that one more time, Will, we'll have problems."
"Problems," Will muttered, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets, "add them to the list Jack," a dark look from Crawford was offset by Hannibal's curious eyes in the background. Will blinked rapidly and turned away from the car, "from the beginning then."
Will walked them back through the house, back through the story he'd seen play over the carpets and the linoleum and against walls and doors. His movements were stiff, jerky. He rolled his shoulders when they reached the front hall, stepping around the body of the woman on the floor. At the front door Will looked up and stopped dead; the ghost of the stag stood beyond the threshold, white eyes watching. Tell us what you see, Will.
"He came in through the front door," he said quickly, gesturing vaguely to the open doorway, "No trauma on the wood. I think it was opened by Mrs. Fisher and she let him in, so he's someone who looks trustworthy, or maybe official. Then once she has her back turned to walk down the hallway he takes out a blunt instrument and hits her here," Will points to the matted blond hair and blood on the female corpse by the bottom of the stairs, "nothing in the hall that could have been used, nothing out of place, he had to bring it himself.
"And then carries on into the house. Blood trail leads straight to the garage. He knew Mr. Fisher was there. He took it with him, held it in his hand," Will let his fingers loosen, imagining, holding the...hammer perhaps? Holding it tight with the smell of blood in his nostrils and the sound of a man's voice on the air calling for the woman in the hallway, already dead, "until he tries to surprise Mr. Fisher.
"It doesn't work," Will said, pointing to the scattered cans and half knocked over bookshelf, "they wrestle, probably for whatever I have in my hands, and then I trip him or push him and I brain him against the car door," Will pointed to the first dent, "then take him by the hair and do it again," the second dent and scrape of blood; the splintering of glass, the sight of pale fingers in dark hair as Matthew pulled the man's head back and then..."then I grab his hands and get to work."
Tight fingers around his wrists, holding him still as he felt it, felt it all too close and white hot. Will closed his eyes and rubbed at his left elbow. Hannibal walked up to stand behind him and to his left. Don't you want to? Fuck, he thought as he felt eyes on his neck. Thought he could feel Hannibal's strong hand at his back but knew it was not there. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'm not allowed to let you. It's against, it'll rip. I hate that I can't forget you, what you did.
Silence. Will shook his head quickly, as if to toss away the clinging webs. Slipping, the lips whispered, you're doing it again. He knew. Slipping from 'he' to 'I', always slipping from one mind to his own. Don't be surprised. He'd told Jack. He felt like telling him again, only knew there would be too much anger in the words, too much venom in the voice. He kept quiet and waited.
"No ties?" Jack asked practically, "For his wrists."
"Where's Jimmy?"
"Price? He's dusting the doors."
"Get him in here."
Once Will had Price with him, they reconnoitred to the corpse and stood for ten minutes, discussing the bruises on Mr. Fisher's wrists. Will could feel Hannibal's eyes on him. No lapse, always there, always there. He felt his eye twitch and rubbed it away, careful of his gloves.
"I won't ask how you knew without looking," Jimmy nodded eventually, "but yes, no ties. And if you want my honest opinion," he said, standing up to look at Jack, "no gloves either."
"You're saying he didn't wear gloves?" Jack looked dubious.
"Not for this part," Will frowned, "and if he's following the..."
The Angel of Mercy, or the Chesapeake Ripper? Or neither? Who the fuck was this man? Will stood up, walking around the torso and its limbless stumps. Looking down at the crease between the man's buttocks it was difficult to miss the blood. A bitter taste in his mouth. Will shook his head and looked away.
"He wanted to..." he swallowed and cleared his throat, "I think he wanted to feel his skin."
"Then he's as stupid as you made him sound," Jack said, "we'll take swabs from wrists and any other extremities. Jimmy, get Brian in here," Jimmy left with a raise of his eyebrows as Jack continued without stopping, "any reason why, Will?"
"Yeah."
"Want to share with the class?"
"I think he might have raped Mr. Fisher," Will looked about him, feeling a little trapped, "not himself, not him, he isn't that stupid. He's young, this might be his first. Virgin white and now it's bloodied. He's hyped, red on his hands, and his adrenaline is pumping the blood through his veins so fast he can't think straight. It's mindless, not part of the motive; it's a consequence, a side effect. He just wants to...must have used something else, something...god."
The light turned on, and Will wished that it hadn't. You sick fuck, he thought suddenly, you used it, didn't you. Used it even as it had her blood, had her blood on it, you used it...
"You think he brought something with him."
"Could have used the murder weapon. Not sure. There's no...there's no detachment here. The Ripper he doesn't get involved. Clay, moulding clay, and base, slaughter worthy pigs. These two are neither of those. There's something here. He wants to be him, maybe, I'm not sure. Something else."
"Well, we won't get anything more from here just now," Jack said, brushing up the dust nice and neat, "best get everything back to the lab, where we can start tracking the rest of this bastard's mistakes."
When Will felt Hannibal's hand against his elbow he did not hesitate to follow him outside. They stood beyond the garden, staring out over the road. Will closed his eyes and hauled in the clean air. Harsh with cold against his nostrils, but at least no smell of rust and bone.
"I feel like...like the court jester," Will opened his eyes, staring at the sun dappled leaves of an acer tree in the garden across the street; peaceful suburbia, stained red, "bring me out for special occasions, but no one can stand it for longer than the second act. Just a big joke for someone, somewhere."
"I would hope not. Everyone has their place, Will. Your role contains little humour."
"I don't know," he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out as a milky cloud, "sometimes it's kind of funny."
"Oh?"
"He wasn't interested in Mrs. Fisher," Will said, face painted with hidden amusement as he jerked his thumb towards the house casually, "but he took the easy way in. Front door. Had to deal with her."
"I must admit I have missed the joke."
"That garage door," Will said, turning to point, "can be opened with a liftmaster and an oscilloscope. Or, if you want to be low tech, a wire hanger can reach through and hook the emergency release lever. What I'm trying to say," Will said, turning back to Hannibal, "is that the Chesapeake Ripper would have been able to do everything that was done without even touching a hair on Mrs. Fisher's head. She probably wouldn't even have known her husband was dead until he didn't come back from work. This guy?" Will shook his head, "Nauseating amateur."
"Quite amusing," Hannibal smiled, "you are right."
"Usually am."
They stood in the quiet until everyone had frittered away in their cars and vans. Will let Hannibal drive him to Quantico. He decided not to apologise for what his lips had done earlier.
He was sure he would have noticed the smell, if the actions themselves hadn't been so distracting.
One swift stroke, down through the muscle, pulling back was far more difficult, the saw caught on the bone.
"We would have had to be strong," he said to himself as he jerked the saw free of the solid, hard flesh, "and determined. No place for stopping and starting. The cuts were clean enough."
You need to know, he reminded himself, need to understand. Don't stop now. He started again on the other leg. Down, first stroke was the hardest, up, but the second would have brought the reality of resistance into play, the reality of what he was doing, down, easier on the third, up, half way through already, this was simpler perhaps than he had thought it might be.
He sat back on his haunches and stared at the saw, stuck deep. It sat there like a work of art waiting to be interpreted, the visible blade caught with torn skin and painted red. Bad idea, he thought. A slight smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
Will wiped his itchy nose against his bare forearm and looked up. The room was still empty. It felt isolated but exposed, as if at any moment someone would walk through the door and find him. A sting of exhilaration. A tongue nipped out to wet dry lips and a breath caught in his tight throat as he tasted stray blood there.
It wasn't difficult to reach down and pick up the knife from the range of utensils he had picked out for his work. None necessary beyond the bone saw, but he'd picked them out regardless. It wasn't a particularly deadly looking blade. Will felt the weight of it in his hand and remembered dicing onions with a similar knife, while Hannibal stood across from him and watched him through long eyelashes. The handle was solidly plastic, he could feel its smoothness even beyond the thin gloves he wore.
How many pounds per square inch? Will looked down at the prone, exposed flesh before him, laid out like a blank canvas. The wide expanse of no man's land. A laugh escaped, barely tempered before it became loud enough to carry. His fingers of his right hand curled tightly around the handle and soon the other hand joined them. He breathed in slowly as he raised the knife above his head, kneeling, a rush of endorphins flooding his system, flushing out any doubts or fears or...
The knife sank through skin then muscle with an almost imperceptible, soft sound which was followed by a more weighty, meaty thump. There was barely an inch of the blade still showing, the rest lost beneath pale skin. He stayed there for a moment, a few seconds too long, just holding the handle. Just breathe. Then he tried to pull, frowning at the resistance. Another few good hauls and he gave up the knife as lost. Even trying to move it down, to cut its way out, was a hopeless endeavour.
Not quite what you thought? Will wasn't sure he wanted to answer that. His muscles still felt flushed with nervous energy. He flexed his fingers and rolled his neck, sniffing loudly. Still there. He sat back and shook out his arms, blinking. No use. Another. Another then? Don't. What's the harm?
The second knife was smaller, stubby in comparison to the other. Still sharp. Would it feel the same? Would it feel like..?
Like warm butter, it slides in sweetly.
Will fidgeted, turning the handle in his grip, watching the knife spin slowly, catching the light. He looked back to the flank, the pale skin.
How many pounds per square inch..?
"Enjoying yourself?"
Will's hand stuttered and the knife dropped to the plastic beneath his knees. He slipped as he made to stand and caught himself against the hide of the pig, looking up to find Beverly standing at the edge of the wide plastic tarpaulin. She eyed him over the top of a clipboard as she flicked through the report he'd been writing. Or, he thought to himself, more accurately the notes he'd been taking.
"Enjoying might be a bit of a strong word," he said with a rigid smile that did not reach his eyes, "but someone has to do it."
"I think 'has' might also be a bit of a strong word. We're already running the samples, we've compared the cuts, it's definitely a different saw used, Jimmy thinks he might even be able to get prints from the skin around the wrists...so why are you down here cutting up a pig?"
"I..." don't really want to answer that, Will thought, "...I just want to be sure."
"Will, if the Ripper did this I'd concede defeat and sing naked in the cantina," Beverly shrugged, "I agree with you, we all agree with you."
"I just..." Will said, shrugging as he stood with difficulty, using the table to his left as leverage, wiping the blood onto his apron, "I just want to be sure."
"Ok," Beverly said, raising her eyebrows.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't say you weren't"
"Yeah but you were thinking it."
"Maybe. You do realise you look terrible right? Had a decent night's sleep this week?"
"Not really. I tend not to when we're working."
"Mmm. I guess I can't really argue with that," she said, looking back down at the pig, "just don't make a huge mess and piss off the CSI guys, or it'll be me who has to butter them up again. There're only so many pastries my fiancée can make."
It was difficult to watch her put the clipboard down and walk back out into the corridor. Tell her, his mind urged. Tell her what? Will fought back as he stared down at the gory mess at his feet, thick lacerations cut into joints and neck, the knife still imbedded deeply. For a split second he thought he saw Lehrwood there, sawn open, muscle steaming in the cold air, eyes wide, staring ahead at nothing, neck held on by a bare string of tendon. Will rubbed at his face and blinked rapidly. He let out a sigh and grimaced, realising he'd smeared the blood across his cheeks.
"Christ," he muttered; he pulled off his plastic shoe covers and apron, walking to the heavy duty sink in the corner to clean up.
"So I was walking down the stairs yesterday," Brian was saying as they walked towards the front door, "and someone had put little chalk handprints on every second step. All different colours too. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all damn day. I mean what kind of experiment is that, what the hell could it possibly be for?"
"Maybe it's to see if they can drive someone mad thinking about it," Beverly suggested, looking preoccupied.
"But how would they know if the subject was going insane?" Jimmy chipped in, shrugging and sticking out his bottom lip, "Inadequate data a good study does not make."
"You sound like Star Wars," Beverly muttered.
"You mean Yoda," Brian corrected conceitedly.
"You are such a damn nerd," Beverly said with fake cheer, "enjoy going home to your empty flat every night Zeller?"
"Heck yes," Brian said, adding, "only place I get peace and quiet."
The early evening was layered in dusky grey and the last remnants of magenta scarred cloud. The air had grown bitter, leaving room for a northerly wind to force jacket zips up and gloves pulled on. Will turned and looked over his shoulder as Jack walked out, pulling a thick scarf around his neck. The others continued down the steps, their voices growing quiet. Will wondered if this had ever been normal or if they'd always been nothing but a scramble of individuals all grasping for the same goal.
"After all that's happened and you're still driving that beat up piece of crap?" Jack asked as he approached, looking out into the car park.
"She keeps turning over in the morning," Will said, taking the small talk for the opening it was, "what can I say. Anyway, if you would like to lend me the thirty thousand to get a new car feel free."
"Do I get to name the interest rate? If so, yeah I could go for that."
A sudden gust of wind had Will shiver. Jack pulled on his gloves and they walked together. Will wondered if he should feel uncomfortable, but couldn't find it in him.
"Do you think it's strange?" he asked after a few moments.
"What?"
"That in there we're supposed to be one thing and then out here..." Will glanced at Jimmy and Brian, laughing at something Beverly had said, "out here we're supposed to be another?"
"I suppose separation is part of any profession."
"Most professions don't include dismemberment and necrophilia on their menu. What we do sticks to the skin more than a bad day at the office."
"Fair point," Jack gave him a sideways glance; his gaze was heavy, Will felt it, "but you have to keep everything compartmentalised. Only way to keep rolling."
"I've never been that good at tearing down the dot strips," Will shrugged, "the paper just rips. Anyway, as long as the job is done, it shouldn't matter, right?"
"Right," Jack was no longer hiding his scrutiny.
"You think that's a load of shit, don't you."
"I think it's a lapse in judgement."
"A lapse in judgement is misconduct. Would you say I'm sabotaging the department?"
"Please don't put Purnell's words on me," Jack gave him a withering look, "all I'm trying to work out is if I'm making a big mistake or not."
"Putting all your money on one horse? Yeah I'd say you're taking the risk."
"And what are your odds?"
"I don't like to gauge my chances of crossing the finish line. Makes me twitchy. And I wouldn't want the good Doctor to think I'm going off course."
"Hannibal is a good friend of mine Will, and until now I'd though he was a friend of yours. You've really taking a disliking to him, haven't you."
The need to tense up at the thought was outweighed by the need to keep everything locked away. The very last thing Will wanted was for Jack to figure out his problems with Hannibal.
"We had a difference of opinion."
"And yet today you were laughing together at a murder scene. Maybe I shouldn't ask."
"Seems like a good idea."
"So I shouldn't be asking if you can keep this all nice and, well, compartmentalised? For the sake of our image. Impossible?"
"Implausible."
They reached Will's car first. A terse moment in which Will could tell Jack's mind was elsewhere and Will's mind was clamouring to know something not entirely his business. The need to ask the question became strong, mainly because Will knew Jack would never bring it up.
"How's..." he was unsure what to call her, "how's Bella?"
"...Still critiquing my waking hours," Jack replied with a smile that didn't seem to know where to go, "been waiting long to ask?"
"Thought you might not want it brought up."
"She's doing...unpredictably well. Let's leave it at that."
"Ok."
"Actually she was asking after you, a couple of weeks ago. Wanted to know if you were alright."
"I'd rather you didn't tell her."
"I'll make up something palatable."
"I appreciate it."
"Will?"
"Yeah?" he replied as he opened the car door; Jack was watching him closely.
"We're gonna get this guy," he said seriously, "after that we can go back to life as we know it."
"Right," Will nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, "after."
"...hear me Graham? Will? He's gone awfully quiet," came Chilton's slightly worried voice from behind Will's closed eyelids, "perhaps you should alert the medical staff, just in case."
"All his readouts are fine," Matthew's voice, trying for calm but Will could hear the disquiet, "I don't know what..."
His eyes did not flicker, merely opened in one smooth motion. The real world slipped back into view and Will took a long breath through his nose.
The light on the ceiling flickered. A torch, he thought, it must be a torch; it must be the torch Hannibal had brought. The bulb switched on, off, on, off, reflected in his eyes until they rolled back inside of his head and he felt his neck go loose.
Vague memories of falling unconscious. Only now, now he saw. Continued to see. Saw as if he were a ring side spectator in his own bone-arena. Staring in at the cut-out theatre of the cabin where he had stayed for that long week, while Hannibal had tested and prodded and calmed his raging mind. The room was peaceful, seemingly normal but for the sight of Hannibal hooking an IV to his arm while he lay in the chair and trembled like a frightened child.
Seemingly normal but for Hannibal rummaging casually through his bag, pulling out minuscule bottle after bottle, before finding the one he wanted and filling a syringe Will had never seen before. Will watched, stared, as the Will-in-the-chair choked out a cough, made a sound of distress; watched as Hannibal straightened out Will's prone arm, found the exact puncture wound from the sedative he had previously administered, and injected the clear fluid into his body.
Maroon eyes were curious as they stared down at him, watching as the shivers became convulsions, the convulsions became worrying, the worrying became calmer, calmer, back to the quaking of skin and the twitching of lips. Will wanted to close his eyes as he watched Hannibal lean forwards, place his palms on either side of the face of the Will-in-the-chair and lift his eyelids with the pads of his thumbs. Nothing but whites stared back, stuttering breaths leaving parted, loose lips.
"...listening to me?"
Will looked up slowly, realising his eyes had fallen to the table. He moved his hands and was surprised to find the restraints already loose. When he finally raised his gaze and fixed it upon Chilton, then man stared at him as if he had peeled back the covers, leaned down and seen the monster under the bed. Will blinked. Chilton looked away and composed himself.
"Are we done?" Will asked, over annunciating.
"I would prefer if you let me..."
"Good. Then we're done."
"Will, you are exhibiting clear signs of PTSD," Chilton continued as Will stood, stiffly, "it is unwise for you to lock up these thoughts, these memories."
"Since when did you become an actual psychiatrist?" Will asked disdainfully.
"You are trying to deal with memories of severe psychological disassociation," Chilton said, only marginally bitter; Will wondered if he should listen closer but decided against it, "it is unhealthy not to ask for help."
"Just sign the damned sheet Chilton."
Running from one horror to the other was easier. Running from memories of Mr. Fisher struggling below him, screaming for help as he viciously raped him, to memories of placing heavily drugged bodies into the mulch of the forest floor where the fungus would consume and connect them, keep them together, to memories of Bressinden, alive and aware but paralysed, unable to cry out, only tears flowing from his eyes as Will sliced through soft flesh of his cheek carefully with the scalpel, so that now he was not sure if Hannibal and the cabin even existed or were simply a culmination of every vile piece of his ailing mind that had come before it.
He needed to take samples, blood samples, he tried to reassure himself as he walked quickly down the lengthy corridors of the Asylum, for the clozapine. He had to, Sutcliffe told him I was all clear, he didn't know that...
His hand missed the handle of the main door, ending up slammed palm first against the wood. Will leaned his forehead against the doorframe and took a long, calming breath, eyes closed. It wasn't possible, the memory. It would have to mean that Hannibal knew. That Hannibal knew. Will opened his eyes slowly, finding the dark wood before them shot with light. He heard footsteps echoing. His mind flowed back, to the memory he could not grasp, the plague of his waking and sleeping hours.
The man in the doorway stood tall and calm, but for the fact that he rested on the balls of his feet; blocking the only way out. Will felt his hand go to his pocket and pull something out, something round against his fingertips. (the present interrupted, footsteps echoing louder and louder, reverberating against the walls) It rattled as he pulled it free.
The book fell away from his hand, landing with a thump.
Will pushed away from the wood, frowning. Rattled. Will reached down into his coat pocket and found the habitual tube of aspirin there. He pulled it free and stared at it, shaking it slightly to hear the pills roll around inside. He stared at it. Simply stared at it.
Not possible.
The door was open and he was hurrying down the stairs before the footsteps could reach him. Or so he thought. The air was chill and crisp, though not much colder than the corridors of the Asylum itself. Matthew's hand, however, was very warm as it wrapped around his arm, stopping him in place.
"Hey," he said quietly, hushed, looking around conspiratorially to see if they were alone, "what happened back there?"
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit."
Pulling away was getting him nowhere. Will turned back, giving Matthew an even stare. The other man watched him warily, although Will knew it was nothing to do with his mental state.
Was it real? He couldn't help asking himself, Was it real or was it just a product of his own building hysteria? Of being back on the case, with one or two or even three different killers vying for his attention? Or, more pragmatically, was it a twisted memory due to Chilton's meddling?
Matthew was watching him closely. Will sighed, leaning back against his walking stick and running his left hand over his face. At least, he thought as he sniffed, the issue between himself and Matthew seemed paltry and almost normal by comparison.
"If there was any time to talk about the things you shouldn't ask me to do during sex," Will said bluntly and with little care for who might be listening, "this would be it."
"Considering you're not picking up your damn phone," Matthew said, not denying it, "are you surprised I seized the opportunity? Fuck Will, why don't you just see it?"
"See what?" he frowned.
"It's that look, those eyes," Matthew shook his head, raking his teeth across his bottom lip, "same as in there, same as made Chilton back off, because the man has the spine of a leach. Same as..."
"Don't bother."
"Well it's true. You're so curious about it."
"About what?"
"What it's like to..." Matthew looked around him like a kid discussing virginity, "to kill someone."
"Little late for that," Will tensed up.
"Fuck, what, with a gun?" a step closer, his voice lowered, "You don't seem to rate that though, huh. Not quite the same as with your hands, right?"
"You're thinking these things," Will said to himself, "all the time you look at me. Panther in its cage. What, you think I've a blank eyed stare because I'm waiting to be set loose? For god's sakes. And that doesn't worry you at all?"
"No," Matthew said without hesitation, hands stuffed in his pockets, "but it scares you though, doesn't it."
"What?"
"You're scared. You get scared when other people back away," Matthew took another two steps forwards, slow and cautious, until they were merely inches apart, "when they stare at you like you might have stared at, what was his name? Hobbs? Garrett Jacob Hobbs. You shot him, right? Did you stare at him like he was a monster before you killed him?"
As the words fell from Matthew's lips, so did Will feel the muscles in his body tighten, his hand clench around the head of his cane, his teeth grit against each other, a frightening and frightened rage flush open inside of him.
"You don't fucking know what you're talking about," he said coldly.
"Don't I? I'd say I'm pretty fuckin' qualified. I've seen your eyes change from grey to black, Will. Is that how you stared at Hobbs? Or did you see something there you liked, huh?"
The chilly, windblown steps before the Asylum seemed suddenly exposed and agoraphobically open. He blinked rapidly, trying to ignore Matthew's words. Exposed. As if his madness were no longer contained within that small white room with the one grey stripe around the middle. All his insanity, normally enclosed and shut away from prying eyes, was loose and free. Out here in the open world. Will's mind flashed on and off, on and off, like the torch that had stolen his consciousness away.
He felt Matthew's hand on his arm again, soft, comforting. This isn't like him, he thought. Or is it, and you just never noticed until now? Didn't want to notice. Wanted everything to be normal, so much so that you ignore the violence staring you in the face.
"You gotta stop fighting this," Matthew said softly, "you don't accept what's inside of you and you're gonna tear yourself in half trying to keep it all locked up."
Wait, he thought suddenly, wait.
"Tear myself in..?" he mumbled, looking up at Matthew with scornful disbelief, "Accept what's inside? Garret Jacob..? Jesus fucking Christ, you've been talking to him."
"What? I don't know what you..."
"Shut your mouth. Just don't say another god damn word. You two, fuck. Been watching me all this time, huh? Must think I'm thicker than shit in a bottle."
"Will you're not making any sense," Matthew frowned, quickly following as Will began walking down the rest of the stairway.
"Lecter," Will bit out, "you've been talking to Lecter. Don't," Will said, holding up his free hand as Matthew made to deny it, "just don't. I get enough lies from him, I don't need you chipping in too."
"Look, it isn't what you think!"
"Frankly, I don't even want to think what it is."
"I'm just trying to do what's right for-hey watch out..!"
This time it was both hands on both of his arms, pulling quickly and forcefully, enough that Will fell back against Matthew, scrabbling to hold onto him and stay upright. The car he had almost stormed out in front of jerked to a halt. Will stared into the driver's seat. Familiar red curls and a sharp face stared back for all of a few seconds before her foot was back on the gas and the car rushed to the automatic barrier. Will followed her with his eyes as Freddie Lounds drove off like a cat burglar caught with her hand in the jewellery box.
"You ok?" Matthew asked, still holding him tightly.
"No," Will said, his mind already skipping ahead to what would come, "not really."
It hadn't been difficult to drive there, find the long abandoned but familiar parking spot he'd always used, and then walk strictly and stiffly towards the man's office. It had begun to rain, setting the large church behind his office building into a morose and gloomy light. The crows perched upon the gargoyles cawed, fluttering their wings. The sky above seemed bloated with promise.
Entering, that was the harder part. More so than it should have been considering he wasn't even sure if why he was here was a viable reason. If itwas real, the memory, the idea, if it wasn't a fabrication, if the memory was truly a memory or just some...something he didn't want to examine too closely. For if he had concocted it, if he had, then he was sure Chilton shouldn't be letting him walk so blithely out of the doors after each session.
"Mr. Graham, well this is a surprise."
Having been staring at the brass plaque screwed into the grey stone by Lecter's doorway, Will found himself ambushed. Phyllis Crawford looked very different to the last time he had seen her, floor length dress, curled hair loose, champagne in her hand and sardonic look on her face. The change was startling. Her skin looked slightly slack, bags beneath her eyes. She looked tired, slightly ill beneath her makeup. Most noticeable was the delicate and tasteful headscarf she wore, covering the hair she obviously no longer had.
Will stood back to give her room, unsure what to say. She had always looked so resentfully full of life to him, as if she were fed up of wearing the skin of a person who was not slowly fading. Now she stepped out with a slow confidence, shut the door behind her, made to leave...but then hesitated. When she turned back to him she was smiling, the rain making soft pats against the umbrella she'd put up.
"You know, I think this might have been fate," she said, her voice just as rich as he remembered it; one of the few things which had not altered, "would you care to go for lunch? I know a great little place just two blocks from here, haven't been in years."
Will was under no illusion of himself. He knew, to an extent, how he appeared to those who existed outside his own skull. Strange, sinister, awkward, inappropriate. Offers of lunch? Not one of the many things he had to fend off in his day to day rigmarole. Although, he had to admit, Phyllis Crawford was far from the humdrum of normal people he encountered outside of work. There was something in her eyes that spoke of a need for company, that same silent desperation overlain with pride and confidence. Will felt it would be wrong to ignore her request.
"I..." he began trying to think of a reason to say no, as if on instinct. I need to see him, I need to see him now. But you're not sure, you're so unsure and you're confused and you just damn well rushed over here like a madman and what? You're going to run in there and ask him if he lied to you about Sutcliffe? Lied to you about everything? You're mad Graham, you're loose in the...
The whites of his eyes were all he could see as Hannibal stared down at him like a slide under a microscope.
"Sure," he said, hiding the shiver across his shoulders as he shrugged his coat up higher around his neck, "I can always come back later."
Later.
It was more of a bistro than a lunch venue, Will thought as they walked inside. Mainly empty but for a couple by the window, holding hands across the small table. They took a table towards the back, near the very small bar surrounded by cheap fairy lights and a small speaker that gave out tinny, barely discernible music. Will shrugged out of his jacket and realised he had no idea what he was doing here.
"You look well," was Phyllis's opening line.
He was unable to stop himself from laughing, soft and gentle and hidden mainly as he tipped his head down and to the left, hands coming together under the table. When he looked back up she was joining him, smiling widely and letting out a deep laugh which ended in a high, sighed, wistful sound.
"Considering," Will nodded as he looked back and forth across the table, "and you...you did it then."
"Mmm," Phyllis was the first to pick up her menu, raising her eyebrows, "my, my. The prices have certainly risen since I was here last. And in answer to your question Will, I did it for Jack at the expense of my own dignity. Only seemed right to pick one over the other."
"I didn't know you, uh, had the option."
"Chemotherapy? Oh yes. I just didn't think the pain and the misery would be worth a few more months. Seems that many things fall by the wayside when your own mortality is rushing up to meet you. By the way, if you like Mexican food they do wonderful enchiladas here."
The waiter took their order and they sat, drinks in hand, talking about anything that came into Phyllis's head. Will realised early on that she had wanted to talk, and had recognised that he did not wish to bring up anything himself. There was a hint of sadness as something moved her towards a childhood tale, something of her and her sister finding a grass snake in the garden. A slight tension as she spoke of nieces and nephews; Will thought he might have heard resentment for a child never had. Then wry humour as she spoke of the day Jack had proposed, and the mess he had made of every little thing.
"Oh, you must never tell him I told you this," she said as she pushed away her empty plate, only dotted with a few wilting lettuce leaves, "he would never forgive me."
"I don't know, it sounds like precious blackmail material," Will said, keeping up the high spirits they had fallen into.
"It certainly is," she agreed, sitting back in her chair, drink in one loose hand, "but instead I'd rather ask that you look out for him. He needs that more than he needs anything."
"Look out for him?" Will asked, soft frown with his smile, "Honestly, I think Jack might fire me for attempting it."
"He always was adamantly independent," she said, staring over Will's right shoulder, "stupidly so, sometimes. Most men are, I find. Never like to ask for help, or directions."
Laughing seemed appropriate, even if it wasn't truthful. He felt the need to tell her that he and Jack were tenuous friends at best, and that Will probably wasn't the best person to request watchman duties of. It translated to silence, on his part.
"You're doing the same thing," Phyllis said, shifting her eyes left to watch him.
"I...I'm sorry, I don't follow."
"I thought that perhaps one half would be happy with the situation and the other not. Though it seems you and Dr. Lecter are just as miserable as each other."
"That's..." Will stared, feeling the need to stand up and leave, "a little complicated."
"I think I remember you saying that to me before."
"Things haven't really changed," Will said wryly.
"And yet I found you standing on his doorstep."
"Yes," Will nodded, staying tightly shut, "I suppose you did."
"That's alright," she smiled, "if you don't want to talk about it. I just thought you might like to know that he missed you, while you were gone. It was really rather sad to watch. I do not think I have seen a human being as intrinsically lonely as Hannibal is."
Will found himself staring at the tattered beer mat at the edge of the table, glued to its curled and weathered edges as she spoke. Something sparked in his memory, sharp and cutting.
"I'm as alone as you are."
"If you followed the urges you kept down for so long, cultivated them as the inspirations they are, you would not be alone. Neither of us would."
"Why did you ask me here?" Will asked, clearing his throat when he realised his tone was terse.
"That's a good question," Phyllis said, putting down her glass but keeping a hold of it, "would it be wrong to say that I find you a very easy man to talk to? Easier than my psychiatrist?"
"Oh?"
"We're both hiding."
Will stayed quiet, avoiding her eyes. He clasped his hands on the table, fingers interlocking loosely. She sees you, like an oracle. Will wasn't sure how far the epithet went. He hoped not too far.
"Do you know the problem with a disguise, Will?" she waited until he responded with a shake of his head, "However hard we try, it is nothing but a self portrait. This makeup," she lifted her hand and stroked her knuckles over her cheek, "is a mask. This scarf, nothing but an obvious cover-up."
"And me?"
"You're just like I am," she said, "you've been though hell and now you want to be free of it."
"I didn't know that was an option."
"Oh, it's always an option."
"Rather final words," Will said, frowning, "if you don't mind my saying."
"An opportunity sounds final to you?"
"No. To you it might."
"I've begun to find the idea of death comforting," she said, shrugging slowly, "the thought that my life could end at any moment frees me to fully appreciate the beauty and art and horror of everything this world has to offer. After you woke up, Will, did you not feel the same?"
"No, although I'm beginning to think I was supposed to."
"Not quite the same circumstances," she nodded, "although you too are dying a slow death. You both are. One wounded animal can always scent out another."
"Don't take this the wrong way," Will said, "but you're worrying me."
"I would hate for you to worry for me Will. You seem to have so much to worry about already. Do you know that I owe you a great deal? Sounds odd, doesn't it. When you were missing Jack was away from home a lot. Yet when he was there it forced him to talk to me. It forced me to talk to him. And when he found you and Miriam, well, his world turned upside down. In a good way. I felt like I saw the spark in him again, the drive that kept him rushing to the top. Still does."
"I don't know if I'm the best person for Jack right now," Will said, unwilling to take the praise.
"I disagree," she said, "but then I suppose you'll just have to figure that out for yourself. Along with all those other troublesome things."
He wasn't truly sure why he was here, further than his previous resolve to see him and Phyllis's words sticking in the back of his mind. Standing on the front step of Lecter's house had been simple, but now he had the key in his hand; the key he still owned because every time he'd tried to throw it out he had hesitated. Each hesitation had cost him his chance, left an opening for a reason to sneak in. Just in case. He'd kept it, and now it was in his hand.
Will let himself in and felt time shift. Everything was the same, not a thing out of place, down to the soft, warm air, the smell of wood smoke, the dark, varnished teak of the umbrella stand, the smell of something spicy cooking. The shift did nothing for his instability. Will hung up his jacket and toed off his shoes. He closed his eyes against the outline of hands around tight muscles, red stained fingernails. It was difficult to do when he realised his hands were shaking.
It hadn't occurred to him that he might be interrupting until he walked into the kitchen.
She was the first to catch his eye, standing by the counter wearing a floral pattern dress and a wide smile. Turning to pick up a tall glass of beer from the table with one hand, knife in the other, she saw him. Will stopped, hands in his pockets, and watched her shock. Hannibal stood, back to them both, with a white apron around his middle, stirring something in a pot on the stove. Alana put down her glass.
"Will," she said, as if the word were foreign and strange.
Hannibal looked over his shoulder, stalling on finding Alana's statement to be factual and not ponderous. The wooden spoon in his hand was left in the saucepan as he turned, wiping his hands on the dishtowel at his waist. His eyes held none of Alana's surprise, although Will could tell he was perturbed. He realised he was staring when Alana spoke up.
"Are you ok? What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I need to speak to Hannibal," he said quickly, trying to hide the waver in his tone.
She turned to look at the man in question. Hannibal watched him closely. Eventually he nodded.
"Could you please make sure that doesn't stick?" Hannibal gestured to the pot, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder as he passed, "I'll only be a minute."
"Alright," she said levelly, face set, resolved.
They walked to the living room because it was easiest, and warm. Will knew it would be warm because he had smelled the firewood burning the moment he had entered the house. He walked to the grate and stared past it, watching the pokers of flame flit up and die as they tried to escape. He did not miss the door closing quietly behind him.
Closing, locking, no way out, no way to find, no way to have, no way to stop it. Will resisted the urge to place his hands over his ears, keeping them tightly in his pockets. He felt the room hum and then resolve; the sound of a stag calling in the black. The dreams were living, just behind his eyes, trying to creep out into the waking world.
"You've come just in time for dinner," Hannibal said, moving towards him slowly, "Portuguese pork. Hot enough to warm from the inside, if you are of a mind for it."
"If I've a mind for it," Will mumbled, refusing to look around, "I'm not sure my mind is much left of anything."
"Do you feel..?"
"I feel as if I might be losing touch again," he said it all at once because trying to take his time would have only lost him his nerve; when he looked to Lecter the man was watching him carefully, "what would you recommend?"
"That you see a psychiatrist."
"Funny, I thought I was looking at one now."
"An impartial psychiatrist would be closer to my mark. But if you feel I can help you then I am your friend Will, I will do what I can."
"Fucking Christ," Will huffed out, frowning as he dropped his gaze, "you already have my...have me. You know that, don't you. No, don't answer, it was rhetorical. Isn't that enough for you? What more do you want?"
"I'm not sure I follow your meaning."
"Liar."
"You appear to revel in labelling me as such recently."
"I like saying it. There's a ring to it somehow."
"That is very rude of you Will. Uncharacteristically."
"Maybe I'm beyond being polite. Maybe I don't have that left in me. Maybe my mind," he said, feeling his voice tighten and tighten with every word, turning to stare at the fire once more, "is only able to deal with so much."
"Yes. Although I think perhaps your mind is for something else. Or perhaps someone?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
Will couldn't help but look. He had to look, turn to find him there, right there, crowding his space. A person-smile hiding something black beneath, something Will thought might resonate with the dark things in their cage. He shifted forwards jerkily against Hannibal, comprised of a slow grace which belied the heat in his eyes, moved past him. The chair by the fire was warm and soft, cradling as he sat.
"Can I just sit here? Just for a moment," he asked; the moment passed and he grimaced out a smile, shook his head, "no, longer than that. Than this. Can I just...stay here for a while?"
"What kind of request should I take that as?"
"I'd be interested to know."
"Then I should ask you to leave," Hannibal said, tilting his head, "but I will not. May I ask why you felt the need to come here, of all the places you could have chosen?"
"I just wanted to feel safe ,for a time. Everywhere else seems alien right now. Like I don't fit."
"Not even home?"
"Home's problematic," he said carefully, "it wants me to be normal."
"And you do not feel normal."
"I've never felt normal," Will scoffed, looking at Hannibal with desperate humour, "what is there to feel normal about? My life? My life is my damned job; at the moment I can't imagine doing anything else, and that scares me. Going back to just teaching seems," he waved his hand and shrugged, "unviable. Settling down like an ordinary citizen? Even more unlikely. Leaving the FBI knowing what I do is necessary? Going to Florida and fixing boat motors for the rest of my life?"
Will shook his head and put his face in his hands, rubbing tiredly. He looked up, fingers still over his mouth. When Hannibal came to stand beside him he didn't resist the need to reach out and run the tips of his fingers lightly over the hand that hung loosely a foot or so from his head.
"I can't leave," he said, hating the way the hand responded, turning upwards and reaching over to run its fingers through his hair, barely there.
"No one is asking you to quit."
"That isn't what I meant and you know it."
"I know," Hannibal said, voice slightly gravelly, "and I am not asking you to leave either."
"Yeah. Somehow that makes it worse. I shouldn't even be saying these things. I'm supposed to be angry at you, furious. I thought I might have..."
I thought I might have remembered you watching me like a rat trapped in a cage when I trusted you to watch me like a friend.
"Have you spoken to Matthew?" was what emerged instead, said accusingly.
"He came to see me," Hannibal said frankly, "as a patient. Although I am sure his intentions were not entirely ingenuous on that front."
Why, he wanted to ask, why did he do it? Instead...
"Did you talk about me?"
"Yes."
"Do I want to know?"
"I know you do not like people talking about you without your knowledge," Hannibal said, sitting down in the chair beside Will's own, "so if it is any consolation he only did so for your benefit. From what I could gather, he truly appears to care for you."
"I know," Will said, biting at the inside of his cheek, "but one person's caring can be another person's hopelessness. I don't think I have what Matthew wants," saying it made it worse, made the guilt real, "Sometimes caring just isn't enough."
"That is true," Hannibal said, nodding, "everyone is searching for someone who understands them."
"I'm not going to apologise for earlier," Will said, careful of where their conversation was steering them, "in the car."
"To be frank it was surprisingly honest of you," Hannibal said, eyebrows raised, "I was unsure if I should pursue it."
"We can't."
"No?"
"We've pulled too many others in now. All planets and moons circling each other."
"When has that ever bothered you?"
"Since I realised how little they mean to you," Will said steadily, "and it makes me wonder how much I do."
"You are my very dearest friend," Lecter said, watching him as he would watch the light through a stain glass window, "and I care about you very much. It would defeat me to know I am being deprived of a chance to know more."
"So you find me interesting."
"Does that bother you?"
"Surprisingly no," Will said, standing, "although I'm sure it should."
"I remember once," Hannibal said as he followed Will, standing by him before the fire, "that you did not find me that interesting."
"And I was reassured that I would."
"And now?"
"Now..." Will frowned, hearing a knock at the closed door, "now I think I find you unsolved."
"You make me sound dangerous," Hannibal's mouth was quirked into a small, subtle smile as Will turned to meet it, "all claws and conspiracy."
"I don't know what to classify you as."
"Perhaps we are not meant to be classified, dear Will, you and I."
"Please," Will said softly, "don't call me that."
Said softly perhaps because it preceded the kiss, and Will did not want to be seen as a complete hypocrite. The knock came again. Will pulled away first with a soft sound of lips leaving lips, his hand against Hannibal's chest. It lingered there, Will staring down at his weathered fingers against the midnight blue material beneath. He sat down solidly as he heard the door open.
"Sorry, am I interrupting?" to Will, Alana sounded anything but sorry.
"Just some unresolved work issues," Hannibal lied smoothly; Will clasped his hands.
"Well dinner needs your attention, because I have no clue what goes where or when," she said, smiling convincingly, "or with what."
A telling pause. Alana did not move. The hint was terribly obvious but no one wanted to acknowledge it.
"Of course," Hannibal said eventually, inclining his head; he walked past Alana and pulled the door to behind him. Not closed.
Staring into the fire only got him so far. He heard Alana approach, stand, hesitate for a moment, then flop into the chair Hannibal had occupied minutes before. She crossed her ankles and leaned back, arms stretched out across the sides of the chair. The fire spat and cracked.
"How long have you had a key for the front door?"
Careful how you answer that, his conscience warned him. Will felt guilty that he was never able to truly forget Alana was a criminal psychologist, trained in the subtle art of interrogation which made the subject feel as if it were not truly being interrogated. That she could see through him like plate glass, and was just as sharp when cut on the shards. Because when Alana Bloom asked you how long you'd had a key, it was obvious to Will that she was asking how long you had been fucking the man she shared a bed with.
"Quite a while," he decided to be vague, "seemed easier."
"You came here a lot, huh."
"Didn't have many other places to go."
"Still don't?"
"...I'm not sure."
The sound of a blender whirring from the next room cut into the fire speckled silence. Will sat up and heard his back crack with the effort. You're such a selfish being, he thought, you and him both. Greedy children not ready to give up your toys.
"I won't sit in the middle like this," she said, sounding tired and exasperated, "you know I've thought something was wrong for weeks now. Always used to tell myself off for not going with my gut. I have a reliable gut, it tends to lead me in the right direction. But this time, nah. Guess I was blinded, just a little. God," she sighed, sitting up, running her hand through her thick, dark hair, "I can't believe we're sitting here talking about this."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't even know if that works in this situation," she said, shaking her head, "it makes sense. Oh it makes sense of so much, just...I don't even know who to blame. I'm not sure if there even is someone. I feel like blaming myself but that's too much right now. I just...I'm going home. "
She left without further explanation. Will didn't have the heart or the right, he thought, to stop her. She had been gentle with him and, in a perversely guilty way, he was thankful for that. She'd had every right to be cruel. Of course the sound of a raised voice from the next room, something hitting a counter top or perhaps the floor, then stern footsteps and a slammed door, insured Will that Alana hadn't been entirely truthful. She had known who she wanted to blame, or who she wished to blame.
After a further bout of silence the door opened and closed once more. Will looked up over his shoulder to find Hannibal, apron-less, looking utterly inscrutable. Will wondered if, on the day he had labelled Matthew as a sphinx he had been reading another in Matthew's eyes. If he hadn't seen more of Hannibal there than he'd realised. As Lecter sat down, casually relaxed, Will could see in him a man who would pose a riddle and, if not receiving the answer he wanted, would devour the victim alive and screaming. No remorse.
"Do you do it on purpose?" he asked, saying the words as soon as they slipped into mind.
"Pray tell?"
"Turn me into a horrible human being."
"It was my intention only to accept you for who you are."
"Liar. I know you are."
"Never at your expense," came the mantra.
"Only at the expense of others then, it seems."
"Perhaps."
"You hurt her. You made me hurt her."
"I made you do nothing. I had thought this was all to a plan."
"Fucking narcissist. You like to think you fool me. You like to think you fool us all. It makes you smile."
"Dear Will," another enigmatic smile, as if to prove Will's analysis correct, "I am afraid dinner is ruined. Not something that could be left unattended. Unless you would appreciate burnt parsley béchamel? I wouldn't recommend it."
Breathing in deeply Will caught the faint scent of cologne, bitter ashes and cloves, "It fits," he said, "I suppose this fits with us. Nightshade and cinders."
"How pessimistic," Hannibal said, "you are insatiable."
"You would know, I suppose."
"I think I would."
Will felt more than saw the hand extended towards him at first. Felt it as a premonition of what he would have done, if he were as confident and self assured as Hannibal appeared to be at all times. He looked to the right with his eyes alone, until the strain became too much. Staring back at the fire he blindly reached for long, elegant fingers. They found each other quickly, knotting together tightly and with purpose.
A purpose he was yet to find, but was determined to do so. Perhaps more than Hannibal was even aware.
The article came as he'd known it would. It was ineluctable, like fog after winter sun on the bay. Will stared at the gaudy laptop, sat in the dark, and sighed.
GRAHAM AS PAID CONSULTANT OR PATIENT? The headline sat above a photograph of Will leaving the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, only Freddie had managed to crop the picture to have 'Criminally Insane' be the only two words visible next to Will's head as he walked down the stairs.
That he had been asking himself the same question recently did not help. He perked up at the sound of a car pulling up outside. Will stood up to check through the crack in the dilapidated blinds, all skewed and twisted. Freddie Lounds stepped from her old Jeep, red hair seeming rusty in the sulphurous light form the street lamps.
Will sat down on the sofa and wondered if this was how Lehrwood felt as he had waited in the dark for the Chesapeake Ripper to find him. Probably not, he thought with a grim smile, considering he had no intentions of sacrificing himself.
The lock made a juddering, clacking noise. The sound of muffled swearing. Then the lock gave way, spilling light into the apartment. Will could just see the door from where he sat, the small living room and kitchenette at the head of an L-shape, facing the edge of the bed. Freddie walked in kicking off her shoes , her arm outstretched and ready drop her handbag onto the duvet.
"Long day?"
He had expected an overreaction, but the intake of breath was followed by something he had not thought would be in issue. The twin prongs of the tazer missed him by half a foot, imbedding themselves into the soft fabric of the couch. Will leapt up, wide eyed.
"Jesus Christ!" he called out.
"I have a gun," she warned with startling clarity, dropping the now useless tazer and thrashing a small pistol from her handbag.
"Don't you think that if I came here to kill you I would have been a little less overt about it?" Will asked, cocking his head and refusing to raise his hands.
"Then why are you here?" she asked, gun steady, still aimed.
"I have a proposition."
"Do you always start your propositions with breaking and entering?"
"Only when there's the chance of a little payback."
"Payback? What, the article?" Freddie scoffed, lowering her gun to half mast, "Gees Graham, I've written worse things about you."
"I'm glad you remember."
"So, proposition?" she asked as she sidled to the main light switch, flicking it; Will squinted against the light, "Because if you don't actually have anything more to say I'd like you to get the hell out."
"It's a nice place you've got here," Will muttered, one eyebrow raised as he looked around him, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Ok, get out."
"Hannibal Lecter."
"...Yes?"
"What do you know about him?"
"Why would you of all people be asking that of me? I thought you guys were best buddies."
"Even friends have secrets."
"This really doesn't sound like a proposition Will."
"How much revenue would you be looking at for exclusive rights to the Ripper once he's caught?"
Will thought he might have seen the moment his words registered in Freddie Lounds' eyes. They changed from cynical and caustic to pragmatically excited. The gun was forgotten on a nightstand. She began pulling off her gloves, watching him with a hint of suspicion.
"Chesapeake Ripper's dead, Graham. Everyone knows that."
"But you don't believe it," Will said confidently, watching Freddie shift her weight on her feet, back and forth, "because you're too smart to buy the bullshit."
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
"You know the Ripper isn't dead," Will said, "because you've already seen his latest victim, right? Surely you saw the similarities."
"Why would you even ask?" she asked, skipping over denying it, "I mean even if the Ripper was still at large, why would you ask me about rights?"
"Because if you help me catch him, Freddie, then that's what I'll give you."
"You'll give me unlimited access to the Chesapeake Ripper," she said, understandably incredulous, "and to write about him, interview him...interview you?"
"It can be arranged."
"Do you even have the authority to promise that?"
"If I catch him," Will thought, "yeah. I will."
"And if we don't?" she said; Will smiled, knowing he'd had her hooked as soon as she said 'we'. She frowned, shaking her head, "wait a minute, what on earth does this have to do with Hannibal Lecter? You think he's involved in this?"
"I don't know yet," Will said coldly, "but I want to find out."
Freddie's tongue darted out to wet her lips. She looked over to find her laptop already open, sitting on her most recent Tattlecrime article about Will. He was silently impressed and disgusted that she didn't even flinch, merely walked over and closed the tab, opening a new one. She typed quickly, eyes keen. Will stared at her, unable yet to fully voice his fears about Hannibal. The long fingers clasping his were nothing if not hopeful and seemingly innocent. He knew Hannibal cared for him, in the same way he knew that Matthew did. It didn't mean he did not suspect either of them of being capable of more than they seemed to be. He focused back onto Freddie. After a minute she looked up at him calculatingly.
"Exclusive," she said.
"Of course."
"And anything we do, anything a little more risky, I don't want to be prosecuted. This all falls under your umbrella, ok?"
"Right."
"You're being too agreeable. Making me nervous Graham. Couldn't you throw in a few female epithets just to make it believable."
"I would if I used them."
"Huh, nice guy yeah? I'm not sure I buy that."
Yet she walked forwards and the hand came up, red head tilted to let curls spill. Will looked at it for a second too long.
"Deal?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
"...Deal," he said, taking the hand and shaking it firmly.
Sudden and jarring. Not wanted and sickening. Hatred and fear. Love and sadness. I can't have this. A feeling of falling, hitting something soft.
Jerking awake, his chin slipping from his cupped hand. Will blinked, sitting back quickly and found himself in his office. He looked around quickly:paranoia, a feeling of being watched. Nothing there but the faint sound of clicking computer keys beyond the door and phones ringing down the hallway. The faint musty smell from his wet jacket hanging on the hook beside the doorway. His laptop screensaver shifting from one photograph to another, Lenny, then Sascha, then Buster, then...
Will sat back and told himself to calm down and wake up. A quick and trite ritual he'd fallen into since his days under Lecter's keen, watchful eye while the unknown encephalitis had crumbled him into the boiling water and watched him dissolve. Or was that Hannibal who had? He shook his head and looked at the clock.
"Three fifteen," he muttered, "you're here, in your office, and you're awake. And you don't remember a fucking thing."
He couldn't tell if his words were a show of dismay, or an order. You don't want to remember? he asked himself. Fool, of course you don't. What could possibly be worse than knowing the truth?
Yet still you pursue it, because it sits on the edge of your consciousness like a long sought for word on the tip of your tongue. If you could just recall it you could say it, stop the frustration, the longing. It will stop, won't it?
He wasn't truly sure if that were the case or not. After he had begun throwing himself into the Lehrwood case, headfirst, he had first of all come face to face with someone he did not expect: himself. He looked different, that was what Will thought. He felt different. The rush for one, the rush infesting his limbs and his fingers as he imagined the saw in his hands, the sanctity of his work, the dead blood leaking steadily out in a black pool, the rush did not leave now. It stayed and it festered. Will felt anxious after he looked, after he saw.
Thus the pig had been an excuse of sorts, a way to kill two birds with one stone. He would admit that to himself when he was feeling particularly honest. Yes Lehrwood had a shoulder injury, and yes Will needed to know if Lehrwood could slice through necks and shoulders and thighs on his own; he needed to know that Lehrwood hadn't had an accomplice or, worst of all, Lehrwood wasn't the man they were looking for and was, in fact, another victim.
Only there was another reason. You know there's another reason, the lips spoke up. Will licked at his own lips in response and began moving about the office, pulling out files from the filing cabinet and placing evidence boxes upon his desk. You wanted to feel it, feel it, with your own hands. 'Such a vivid imagination Graham, you should work for Hollywood', his professor had once told him as he had hypothesised what it would take for a mother to kill her own children, 'we're talking about Medea here, not Susan Eubanks'. Will had felt like telling him there was no difference between them other than one was allowed to be on stage while the other wasn't. Back then only his shy nature had stopped him.
Now he didn't know where that Will Graham had gone. The shy, retiring one who wouldn't have said boo to a goose. Now he was working with Freddie Lounds because he couldn't believe that if he walked up to Jack Crawford and said 'I think Hannibal Lecter isn't all he says he is' that Jack wouldn't laugh in his face. Or be angrier than a wet cat. In truth even he didn't know what the issue with Hannibal was, or if there even was one, but Alana's words from before stuck. I always used to go with my gut. Will thought that he should start.
In truth he was beginning to wonder what it would take to stop him these days. He closed that topic with a heavy swallow and a tight knit knot in his stomach and began unpacking the files one by one, pulling a box of tacks from his desk drawer.
No more rushing tension in his limbs, no more whispered words in his ear. Just nice, good, old fashioned deduction. Will stared at the large corkboard on his wall, now half filled with photographs of victims and crime scenes, scraps of notes, red tap marking possible routes for dumping the bodies (dumping, not dumping, it was so much more than that), phone numbers and folded reports. All placed atop a large map of Baltimore and the surrounding area. Those that lay outwith were placed on the periphery with the state's name tagged nearby the bustle of evidence.
Will picked up a picture of Andrew Caldwell, his pale body sliced neatly in two, and pinned him by the Dunbar High School bus parking lot.
Alive. Will stood back and looked at the board as it filled up. Alive. That was what it represented, more than anything. That was what it said. The Ripper was alive and well and watching them with great amusement. Will looked down at his desk, at the victims still waiting to take their places on his mortuary map. Graham Lehrwood would be the last, only not the last, to take his place among them.
How many?The words rang in his mind, echoed.
How many?
Many more than Garrett Jacob Hobbs.
Will blinked, closing his eyes, rubbing at the soft flesh of his eyelids. The voice whispered to him and he could not place it. The man in the doorway. Not Sutcliffe, not that amiable yet superior tone. Yet he already knew it was not Sutcliffe, was not a man already dead. Was not what he wanted, what he needed it to be. Something awful, something truly more than his mind could take. You don't remember?
The knock at his door made Will start, turning sharply. He took a moment to catch his breath before speaking.
"Come in."
Jack entered sedately, without his usual lack of courtesy. Will found it telling that Jack had not simply knocked and walked in, as he normally did. Am I someone to be cautious of now? he thought. Ah, who am I kidding? I always have been.
"Got a minute?" Jack asked, even as his eyes flicked automatically to the growing picture on Will's wall, "that's some mosaic. You been here all night?"
"I came in early."
"You have Wells up as a victim?"
"What was the final cause of death?"
"Myocardial infarction. You think he did that too?"
"I know he did that too. Lots of ways to cause a heart attack without leaving a trace. Succinylcholine, wouldn't be out of place in a hospital, it's used when inserting breathing tubes. Ethylene glycol, doesn't show up except if specifically checked. Plenty more, none of which were tested for because they weren't expected; were not expected because we wouldn't think the Ripper could have killed him. Thus it becomes that he wasn't killed, was he. He just died of a heart attack, nice and simple, and we lost the only person in custody that could have identified the Ripper in a line up."
Jack did not speak. Will realised, on reviewing his little spiel, that he must have sounded incredibly condescending. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.
"What do you need?"
"Just an update on protocol," Jack said, seemingly unfazed by Will's attitude, "for reports and the like. We're not to refer to him as the Chesapeake Ripper. For now he's just an unsub, like everyone else."
"Purnell?" Will guessed.
"No prizes for guessing, and right now I'd rather stay on her good side," Jack added with a slight shrug, "if she has one of those. Put it this way, we're going to play this close to the chest and careful as with a naked flame, alright? No slip ups."
"Any chance and she'll close the lid on our fingers?"
"Pretty much," Jack sighed, "and I...look, we've had our differences. We don't need any more of those. You've been through enough shit and so have I. Still are, not that anyone will know that. I want this one, Will. Do you understand what that means?" Jack leaned on Will's desk, staring ahead at the half shuttered window, "I want this guy."
"I know Jack," So do I, "like you said, we'll get him."
"Then we have to be clever. There's no room for stupid mistakes. I feel like maybe we've been playing up till now, like kids in a sandpit. You said once that he was laughing at us. Sometimes I feel he's had every right to. Treating this like it's just another case when..."
Will ran a thumb tack between his fingers, careful of the sharp point. He would have interrupted, would have corrected Jack, if he didn't think it would start a shouting match. The man was tight as a piano wire, vibrating with every note struck. And the Ripper was oh so expert a song-smith. He knew how to play them. And I know how to compose a reply, Will thought. He stayed quiet.
"Everything's buried and forgotten as soon as we've done it," Jack continued, "Not now, I won't let him brush away his tracks again, not again."
"Then we do the one thing that he won't be able to resist."
That had Jack's attention. He frowned at first, still staring at the wall, before turning his gaze to Will, questioning. Will did not falter beneath it.
"I'm listening," Jack said, taking a seat when Will offered it.
It was tempting to stay standing, because staying standing made this somehow less formal; less final. Will knew that Jack would agree to his plan even though he wouldn't like it, mainly because of the four words he'd spoken minutes before: 'I want this guy'. Failures aside, danger aside and, most importantly, morals aside, Jack would agree.
Which meant this would happen, as soon as he opened his mouth and suggested it. The control was momentarily heady, giving Will a warped sense of the room around him. Power and need. Something he couldn't hold onto for fear of its very nature. He liked the feel of it. Will shook his head and sat down in his uncomfortable office chair, leaning forwards onto the desk. He clasped his hands.
"Tracks," Will started simple, "Like you said, he's too careful to leave them and without them we have nothing."
"Right."
"Then we have to find a way of making him feel he has no need to wash them away."
"I..." Jack hesitated; Will imagined he was trying to decide whether to sideline Will before he got a chance to propose it, or simply seem as if he were conflicted but allow him to continue regardless, "...don't like where this is going."
The latter it was then, Will thought grimly.
"I know, but that doesn't mean there's anywhere else to take it."
"I won't risk any more of my people, he's too...he's too persistent for the odds to be fair."
"The odds will never be fair, Jack," Will said, sitting back and putting hand to his mouth; he rubbed at his lips before letting the hand gesture out towards the window, "he's a phantom only because he sees us as brash, inferior and shambling. Humans compared to his more-than-human. He...the only way to trap him is with a...a good lure. The right lure. Get close to him. Have him become acclimatised. Be able to stand beside him without him thinking it's a threat."
"We keep going," Jack shook his head vehemently, "we wear him down. He'll slip up at some point Will. You're not..."
"Slip up? Jack, please," Will shook his head and regarded his superior with as much condescension as he would dare, "We can't follow him into the woods, he'll smell the scent of us. The traps he'll set will be...vicious, irrevocable. You won't be able to live with them. Enough. It's enough that we've tried the conventional route; hunters sounding out the predator. We have to try something different, or we'll be stuck. Forever stuck in this game."
Silence told Will he had won before Jack could even voice it. The truth of the matter was in Jack himself: impatience, irritation, frustration, anger and hatred. Each was manageable when taken in turn. All at once they avalanched across morals and hang-ups and the thought of penalty it would bring, burying them in a pristine white reminiscent of blamelessness. Will would have his chance, and Jack would have to live with the consequences.
"You want him Jack?" Will asked, "I'm a good fisherman."
End Notes:
Points to anyone who can guess who killed Mr and Mrs Fisher. Or was it too obvious ;) ?
Extra points to anyone who might hazard a guess as to what Hannibal said to Matthew in their session together.
Super extra points to anyone who can guess where this is all going. Just kidding. I have a plan, I swear.
Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed or favourited or followed this story, honestly you all make my day every time :) I'm so happy you're all enjoying reading it as much as I enjoy writing it! HUGS FOR EVERYONE!
