Yo yo yo people. So I'm back after another long wait… hehehe, sorry 'bout that. Took me forever to write this chapter, but here ya guys go! Fresh and juicy chapter, just for you, you lucky ducks.
Chapter 7
"Please eat something, Will." The glass chimed as it came down beside Will's head. He barely turned his head, choosing to focus on the clear glass and particles in the water instead of Hannibal, whose head was turned to one side; his eyes evaluating. A therapist's eyes.
Will didn't want to see them. He closed his eyes and Winston whined pitifully, his nose wet underneath Will's hand. Two weeks. That's how long he'd been held in captivity, the hours dwindled away by his hallucinations and short visits by his former-psychiatrist, but as time went on more often than not Hannibal pulled up a chair beside Will's bed. Sometimes he gazed at Will, the curve of his cheek, the frayed edges of his hair, and Hannibal would run a single finger over his lip, endlessly tracing Will's body with his maroon eyes.
Other times he talked to Will, told him lightly about the things he'd done. In fact, the secrets seemed to spill out of him. Augustus Smith, the car mechanic. Lilian Daniels, the maid. Adam Peithrou, the homeless man who'd spat at him. He spoke in a lulling, melodic tone about the way he'd cut them up, the same way he spoke about cooking and about psychiatry. He talked to Will with a passion for what he did. It was nothing like the raving mad man he expected…
No… He knew the Ripper, because he'd gotten inside of his mind. The way he had always envisioned the Ripper was exactly like Hannibal. Sophisticated. Refined. Incomparable to any other human being. To say that he expected Hannibal to be a madman was only because he wanted him to be a madman, to confirm all the terrible things Will wanted to think about him. He wanted something to compare Hannibal to, to make sense of it all.
Despite what Jack and the rest of them seemed to think, his empathy did have its limits, and one of those was when his emotions interfered with the connections he normally made. He desperately didn't want to connect, not even to divine the purpose of his capture from Hannibal. He wasn't even sure if he could. Hannibal might be just strange enough that there'd be no way for Will to connect with him.
"I've made you miso soup, a light and tasteful dinner, I think you'll find quite satisfying, combined with rice and a light, sugary snack. I hope you'll eat something." Hannibal sat back, frowning at this predicament. Winston came forward and rested his wet nose underneath Will's palm. Hannibal knew if left to their own devises, Winston would end up with all of Will's food. He hoped with a light soup, Will might taste a bit for himself. He wanted Will to be clear and sharp for the day, since today he had a gift for him.
"I'm not interested," Will laid his head to the side. He heaved a deep sigh. He didn't want to die, by Hannibal's hands or starvation. He doubted he would have the willpower to do something like that anyway. He just lacked hunger, lack feeling, lacked… himself. He'd been torn apart, and now he couldn't even get the energy up to eat food.
Emotionally, he was drained.
But two weeks was enough for Will to recover, a little. Hannibal made good on his promise to keep away. Somedays it was so tempting to lean over just a bit, for a small kiss, but he resisted. He didn't think he'd enjoy Will this way anyway, with empty eyes and a far too thin figure. The only part about Will's new slenderness and fragile state of mind that he enjoyed were his fantasies of comforting Will, of rebuilding him. Wrapping his arms around that soft, skinny frame, feeding the finest cooking into his soft, red mouth… including human flesh. Kissing the head of dark curls, wrapping him up in blanket 'til he was warm.
What he didn't know was that behind the aching body and bruised psyche, Will's mind was not damaged, was not incomplete. If his emotions were shattered, if he felt like he was floating on a cloud most of the time, somehow the clinical part of his mind, separate from his empathy, kept it together. The part of his mind that had grown up in a poor family and worked hard to get into the FBI. True, they used him and found him useful for the select set of abilities he had, but he'd worked hard to put himself through school. All those classes, all the time spent in the firing range, working out solutions… Already his muscles were healing to the point where he could walk across the room all he wanted. Hannibal didn't seem to mind. Even his empathy would be useful if he could employ it when he needed it, use it to snoop out when Hannibal would be at his most vulnerable.
So, no, even though he was torn apart, he wasn't what Hannibal thought he was, expected him to be. Perhaps that was better, at least for Hannibal, because the mind he himself was developing as the result of his desire to escape was closer to what Hannibal wanted than what he saw. Hannibal was balanced on a knife's edge between wanting to a soft, gentle Will in his bed, to comfort and love, and wanting a predator to hunt with. While his desire was on the edge of going either way, so too was Will's psyche.
He could become the type of killer Hannibal always wanted him to be, and find a way to plunge a knife between the cracks in his armor for what he'd done to Will, or he could run far away, escape and maybe someday find peace with what happened to him.
But the day he'd decide was fast approaching.
It began when Hannibal decided he'd take a trip into town once more, to restock on food items that the exquisite cuisine he made couldn't exist without. Naturally, Will was told none of this, but when Hannibal was sitting with him he made the mistake of letting a small detail slip, and Will's perceptive mind picked up on it right away. Hannibal, of course, assumed Will was retaining none of the information he droned on about.
When he heard the faint, otherwise mundane sound of a door being closed, Winston whined as he sensed a change in his owner's demeanor. Sickly bright eyes snapped to attention, and he hauled himself out of bed easily, feet rustling on the floor where Winston lay anxiously. Honestly, Winston had been an invaluable companion for the weeks he'd been in the house, and now he hoped desperately he could return the favor by getting out with him, as well. As Will's hands fumbled with the door knob, Winston was on his heels. The door slide open sleekly.
Beyond it, a hallway as richly furnished as he vaguely remembered, but he caught details he hadn't last time. The rich gold framing of the tasteful oil painting, the roughness of the antique carpet, the walls well-smoothed and old. Wherever they where, Will had a grim insight that Hannibal had chosen it based on style than on practicality. He was used to living a rich and extravagant lifestyle, after all, it was in his nature. Now it'd get him killed.
Well, hopefully.
Will stumbled down the stairs, hit by a rush of excitement. If Hannibal had chosen a stylish home, a place for he and Will to live, above an isolated and practical cabin in the woods, it meant he still had a chance, whether the nearest home be twenty minutes to walk or only a few feet. They weren't in the middle of nowhere.
The kitchen was as he remembered it, and he could still taste flesh on his tongue. It made him shudder, and made his skin crawl. It was impeccably clean, tidy, and the stainless steel was a cold kind of force. Exactly like Hannibal Lector.
Will slammed open the patio door to the outside, ignoring the trembling strain in his legs, and took in deep breaths of cool air. Around him was forest, and for a moment he was terrified his hypothesis was wrong, that they were so deeply entrenched in the forest that it was impossible to escape, until he heard the quiet hum of a highway and the tension sagged out of him. It could have been miles away, in the quiet of the forest it was only vaguely recognizable. Will stiffened his resolve and marched back into the kitchen.
He'd need warmer clothes, shoes, a cellphone if he could find one would be ideal—
"Please!" The voice was scratchy, worn down and fainter than the noises of the high way in the distance. Will's head cocked to one side.
No. If Hannibal had kept a victim in the house— he'd assumed he'd already eaten her— he'd would've talked about it with Will. Unless he was saving her for a special occasion, like a fine wine or a particularly scrumptious roast. An event he couldn't predict, like if Will were to become his—
That would certainly be an event worth saving a victim for.
It was that thought that broke his paralyze, and sent him scrambling towards the pantry door, only to find a dead end of food supplies. The door would be around somewhere; perhaps the house used to have an old wine cellar he'd sealed off? He felt like he canvased every square inch, knowing that each second that ticked by was one where Hannibal came closer and closer to coming home.
By the time his fingers found a notch in the wood, he was almost sobbing with desperation. Knowing full well that he couldn't leave in good faith, and hating the idea of staying a second longer. In the end it was the girl and Winston that allowed for him to find the door, the girl's hoarse voice high-pitched as she responded to Will's calls, and Winston tipping his head in the direction of the strange sound.
Will burst downstairs, limbs shaking frailly, all the strength he'd built up almost spent. FBI! He almost wanted to shout, and the fact that he couldn't made a bubble of hysteria rise to his lips.
"I'm here," he said instead. "I'm here."
The girl was filthy. Clearly she had been taken care of— there was evidence of food, water, buckets, blankets—but like a pig she'd been left in a stall barely big enough to turn around in, with hardly any human concessions. Her hair and eyes were brown, and the dress she wore was once pretty. The grim on her and the terror in her eyes, as her eyes swiveled this way and that like a startled animal, made the dress look out of place on her. He fell to his knees in front of her, legs giving out and the relief at having found her that great.
"Please," she said. "Get me out of this— I just wanna go home, please. I won't tell anyone about this. I-I'll keep my mouth shut. I'll pretend I went to visit friends, okay? Just please don't take me like the other ones, oh please god please—"
"I'm with the FBI," He finally managed to say, wincing at the words as they resonated with him, though he didn't know why. "I was a captive, too. We're getting out, okay? Just stay calm. Can you tell me where the keys are?" She was mute, staring at him with gigantic eyes and a trembling frame. "Miss! Miss! Where are the keys?"
She held up a trembling hand, and Will scrambled with them, words rushing out of him suddenly. "I don't know how long we have until he comes back, I can hold him off if you can escape maybe—"
"You mean he's not locked up?" She wailed. "He'll come back and kill us!"
"Calm down. Calm down, and just cooperate with me. First, tell me your name, just talk to me until I can get you out of there, okay?"
She took a deep breath, clearly struggling with panic. "Ok. My name is Elizabeth Bryant, I work at the supermarket in town and I— um…"
"What town? Where are we, Elizabeth?" The keys finally clicked when he tried the fourth key, and she nearly pushed him down in her struggle to get out of the cage she'd been trapped in for who knows how many weeks. Her eyes and Will's locked for a moment as they mutually and silently agreed the time for calm and order was over, and the both bolted for the cellar stairs. Will was right behind her as they both burst into the pantry.
Winston gave them both a startled, wide eyed look and made a soft, whiny bark. Perhaps the only indication they had that something was off. Except then when they reached the kitchen— smooth white kitchen, Will's mind whispered, the taste of garlic and human flesh—there was a bag of groceries on the counter. It passed unnoticed by both in their desperation. Winston bringing up the rear, Will fumbled with the patio door, feeling cold sweat leak down his spine when he realized it hadn't been locked before.
"Will?" He heard from behind him. That accent, that timber, and a slight vulnerability and sadness in his tone. His eyes closed for a second in replacement for the tears that he wanted to shed.
Elizabeth screamed and Will's fingers finally found the lock, he shoved her, trembling and high on adrenaline, through the door before turning to face Hannibal. Hannibal, who had somehow managed to move across the room in the space of a few seconds, whose hands reached up gently to touch Will's face, before his grip tightened. He slammed Will's head against the wall with expert precision, just hard enough for Will's eyes to flutter closed, before he straightened and chased after the girl. Will was conscious just long enough to know that despite his efforts, the girl still didn't stand a chance.
