AN: Sorry this took so long, I've been really busy with RL at the moment and lots of stress from jobs and hospital and volunteering. This was a bit of a stressful chapter to write so unfortunately it took a lot longer just because I couldn't take the added stress of Will's character right now (yeeks how many times can I say the word stress?). So it's all been done in small chunks, sorry if that affects the flow of the chapter! It tried my best to make it work. Still, better late than never.
Also, what the hell NBC? What the actual hell cancelling Hannibal? Here's for the lovely Mr. Lecter being picked up by some deserving channel. Also, if you haven't seen this apparently there is a live twitter feed scheduled for the next episode (tonight), where you can voice your support and try and get the attention of possible backers: see this lovely person's twitter article for more info (as FF net hates links, search 'The Winnowing Wind' and 'Madslibs'). Bryan Fuller himself has supported it and hopefully it helps. I will personally be up at 2 in the morning joining in from the UK, because seriously, save this show.
Chapter 10
Nightingale
In Chicago, Freddie Lounds' funeral was already underway. The hired choir at the graveside gave full measure for their money while the Tattlerphotographers' motor-driven cameras whizzed. A radio evangelist went on and on in fulsome eulogy. Wendy, Lounds' girlfriend, stood by the open grave in a black, tailored suit, her blonde wig pulled up in a bun.
When the last hymn rose, Wendy walked forwards unsteadily and lay her head on the casket, arms outstretched, while strobe lights flashed. Will Graham thought it a tasteless spectacle. He was sure Freddie would have loved it.
Once the ceremony was over, Will walked Wendy over the spongy grass to the gates while the uninvited watched them from beyond the iron fence.
"Are you alright?" he asked, because he knew he was expected to.
"Better than you," she said, "got drunk, didn't you?"
"Good to know I'm predictable even to people I barely know," Will said; it made her smile, which he appreciated at least. It took the edge off. The edge that was getting dangerously close, "is someone keeping an eye on you?"
"The precinct sent some people over. They've got plain-clothes at my club. Lots of business now. More weirdos than usual."
"I'm sorry you had to..." Will faltered, sorry you had to be a living victim in this procession of corpses, "you had to go through this. You stayed by her, even after everything that happened. I admire that."
"Freddie was a sport," Wendy smiled, a little watery, "she shouldn't have to go out that hard. Thanks for getting me in to see her, at the hospital. Look, the Tattler are giving me money. You figured that, right? For an interview and the dive at the graveside. I don't think Freddie would mind."
"She'd have been mad if you passed it up," Will was aware of his obvious cynicism, though Wendy didn't seem to mind.
"That's what I thought. They're jerks, but they'll pay. Thing is, they tried to get me to say that you did it on purpose, you know, being friendly in that picture. To get her put in the ground," Wendy's words stung like a sharp cut, "I didn't say it. If they say I did, then I didn't. I just wanted you to know."
The sunlight filtered down through the leaves of the trees. Low voices traipsed about with ceremonial feet. But in the air a scent of death lingered. He thought he caught the sharp tang of sweat and burnt flesh. Will knew what would come, even as he tried his best to avoid it.
The memory of standing by the graveside while Hannibal watched the casket lowered, his eyes oddly calm before the morbid display. One of Hannibal's colleagues, dead of a heart attack at thirty two, a surgeon well on the way to becoming chief of the surgical unit. Will had met her once at one of Hannibal's dinners. She had been aloof but bearable. He thought he might have remembered her mentioning her pork tenderloin was a little too dry.
"Did you know her well?" Will had asked in a low voice; he had caught sight of her husband, staring blankly into space, as if the shock of it had just caught up with him.
"How well can anyone claim to know anyone else?" Hannibal had answered cryptically.
Hannibal had taken the position of Chief of Surgery. It had been a blessing in the disguise of a tragedy. His new promotion had allowed them to look into more expensive fertility treatments. Will remembered being happier; after two failed attempts to have children he knew he'd slipped. Had been verging on depression. Life had slowed to a crawl, but then...
Life had gone on.
Until it fell apart.
Now, as they trailed from Freddie's funeral, the old arguments were rising from their graves. The ones which had plagued him as he lay in the hospital and stared and stared and stared at the ceiling. Did Hannibal kill her? Did he kill her? Did he? And, perhaps more importantly, what had they eaten for dinner that evening?
With the silent hand of Judas the mark of the devil was cast upon her skin, Hannibal said as he looked up and caught Will's eye, allowing the hounds of hell to scent the one who had spoken such slander. The voice was soft, like the hissing of the wind through trees. Will listened restlessly.
When Wendy frowned Will realised she'd been speaking.
"Sorry," he said, clearing his throat, "I was..." hearing things, "I...what did you say?"
"You didn't like her," she said, face difficult to read but eyes lacking in accusation, "but I don't think you could have let it happen. Even if you hated Freddie's guts you still wouldn't have passed up an opportunity to get this guy."
"Yeah Wendy," Will said, trying to unclench his jaw, "I would have staked her out if I'd thought there was a chance."
"Do you have anything? I hear a lot of noise from the others, but nothing solid."
"A few things for the lab, some loose ends, but not much. They were clean sites he left us, and what we have doesn't take us far. He's lucky."
"Are you?"
"What?"
"Lucky."
"Me? Ha, well," Will realised he was grinning and knew it probably wasn't a reassuring sight, "I guess it depends who you ask."
"Seems we've both been through the mill."
"Maybe more than once."
"Well, I'm pretty sure I've got a drink for that."
"There's a drink for most things," Will said with a loose shrug and a raise of his eyebrows, "to remember, to forget. Maybe even to do both at once."
"Sounds like you've tried."
"Shouldn't I be consoling you here?" he asked with a frown and an awkward smile.
"I don't know," she said as they reached the gates, "somehow I feel like you've got the bigger loss on your shoulders."
The cut deepened, the stinging turned to lancing. Will put his hands in his pockets to hide the tremor he could feel there. Suddenly he wished he hadn't come. Everything was closer here, closer than the death he'd walked through, because he knew it was true, had seen it with his own eyes.
You marked her with a trail of fire, the voice was clearer, A chariot across the sky to please the gods.
It was inevitable that he would, eventually. Will turned. Past the procession of mourners, past Jack Crawford and Starling bringing up the rear, past the trees, past the headstone, past the upturned earth being shoveled with steady monotony, he stood by the graveside. Hands folded, head bowed, the smile an anathema of sorrow, Hannibal stood by the graveside and watched Will in return.
"I'll be fine," Will lied, unable to tear his eyes from the man who was not there.
"Well, just stay sober on the streets, ok?" Wendy said.
"I'll do that."
The drive back was difficult because Will knew it was coming. Stupid, petty crap, he thought, even though he knew it was justified. You were the one who couldn't control himself. Do you think this is for you? he asked himself, That this is all for you? The memory of it was still fuzzy and half-hearted, yet the heat it produced was enough to singe his self-control. The memory of the voice, Hannibal's voice, real and rich and utterly soothing through the receiver crushed to his ear.
He didn't regret it. He couldn't bring himself to.
The car stopped at a cross section. Will stared at the gloomy clouds above grey buildings, Chicago's granite and sandstone, glass and steel, stood outside. He tipped down the window, letting the warm, dry air inside. It smelled like a spent sky-rocket, hot and ticklish on the nostrils. When Will pulled himself back inside the car he felt like throwing up. The latent hangover was still cloying around his nervous system. The churning in his gut whenever he thought about Eleanor only compounded the nausea. Closing his eyes didn't help.
Eyes open, car moving, buildings filtering past like a parade. Starling was silent, her face unreadable. Too much so. Will knew she was Jack's spy, reporting back to Crawford with his every move. He wondered what she thought of him, beyond her duty and the rumours he knew she must have heard. He thought he might ask her one of these days, if they ever saw the other side of all this horror.
It was another three blocks before Will couldn't take anymore.
"Are you going to say something or aren't you?"
Jack, eyebrows raised, asked, "You want to do this here?"
"Does it really make a difference?"
"I guess not. You know," Jack sniffed, rubbing at his nose, "I was thinking, earlier, about this. About what I should ask you. Whether you thought it was a necessary gesture, or this was just another of your schemes. Or maybe just a flat out mistake. But then I realised it didn't matter, because you weren't planning on telling me what you said and what he said or why you even did it in the first place, were you?"
"I was drunk," Will shrugged; for a moment he was allowed the satisfaction of seeing Jack Crawford speechless. Starling's eyes were focused on him. She looked as if she thought he might be mad, "might still be. Not sure."
Are you happy? There was no answer. There was a need to laugh, gigglish and hysterical. He managed to resist, and instead found the peace of mind to catch Jack's eye. A steely mirror reflected his attempt.
"You think this is some sort of free ride, don't you."
"No, that's what you think of me," Will said, continuing on even as Jack opened his mouth to speak, "you want to use me and I'm letting you do it.I'm not blaming anyone. I honestly don't give a shit if you want to start now, but I'll admit it's pretty damn insulting."
"You..." Jack seemed to reign himself in, his lips twitching; Will raised his eyebrow to prompt the response he was sure Jack knew he shouldn't voice, "you really do, don't you."
"I really do what?"
"Forgive him," Jack's words made the nausea double.
"None of your fucking business," Will said steadily, "let me guess. Chilton records all incoming calls."
"He has all calls recorded, Will, outgoing too."
"Should have figured, really. Still none of your fucking business, though."
"You sure know how to push. Christ Graham," Jack rubbed at his eyes, his lips thinly pressed.
"Thought that was your job Jack?" Will pushed some more.
"Everything goes through me. No more wildcard tricks. Calls, travel, tests, sanctions, hunches, everything comes to me first," Jack said, no-nonsense, "understood?"
The need to say more than what he did was almost irresistible, but somehow Will managed to say "...Understood."
He returned his eyes to the city. Somewhere beyond the skyline, Will could feel the eyes of the hunter fixed and waiting. He remembered the feel upon his skin, of someone watching that he could not fully see, the rest waiting inside his head.
He closed his own eyes.
Eleanor's smiling face hid behind his eyelids. Will smiled in return, and imagined he could feel her in his arms. The fantasy did nothing to curb the festering inside.
The room was large and high-ceilinged, draped in fashionable tones of grey, mixed with unobtrusive teal and Eton blue. The wallpaper was festooned with curls in a disconcerting cream upon white, complete with flecks gilt in gold. The front door had opened into a relaxing huddle of white armchairs and sofa, clustered around a low glass coffee table sporting a bowl of fruit, freshly stocked. Behind sat an elegant writing desk silhouetted against the overly opulent quarter-fan arched windows, beyond which he could see the terrace. When he looked out he found himself looking down onto the Museums Quartier, the trailing beauty of Ostooandell and the Miroslav Čech. Trailing his eyes up to the ceiling opened a feast of angels in frolic, horses with riders fallen, swords and blood and ravaging conquerors; the bohemian palace of the renaissance masters. The Palais Coburg seemed to skimp on little, except perhaps excess. They had a lot of that, Will was finding out.
He walked slowly back into the room, placing his coat over the back of an armchair. Complete and utter boasting, he knew it was, even if Hannibal wouldn't admit such a thing in a million millennia. Their honeymoon had been set for Lake Tahoe, restricted by Will's tight package of days he could scrounge from work. After sorting someone to look after the dogs, getting the house locked up, making sure his caseload was taken care of at work, chasing up any late runners in the labs, packing, booking flights and general stress, Will had been ready to sit down for a few hours on the plane and sleep. Then, to compound his latent anxiety, they'd turned up at the airport and Hannibal had led him towards the international flights.
"Are we going the long way round?" Will had asked with an arched eyebrow.
"No," Hannibal had replied while handing him his boarding pass, a humour glinting in his eyes which only showed itself when mischief was afoot, "I do believe it is necessary to take an international flight to Vienna. Unless you know of a different route?"
Speechless would have probably been what Hannibal would have preferred. Instead Will, already anxious and worn thin by his most recent caseload, had told him, in depth, exactly why they were not going to Europe. Once he was done he had remembered where he was and had shut his lips to a tight line.
"Utterly beautiful," Hannibal had smiled fully, reaching up to tuck a neatly trimmed curl of hair back behind Will's ear, "if you had simply said yes it would have been predictable."
"You'll never let me see all of you," Will had said, surprised by his own sincerity, "not really."
"Then I would be dull. And where would be the fun in that?"
And now, Hannibal had made good on his promise. It was almost surreal. Almost. There was a dream-like quality in the air, as if he would wake up at any moment. Will looked to his left. A set of three stairs led to an open arch in the wall, beyond which he could see the corner of a four poster bed decked in subtle green. To the right he watched Hannibal open a closed door, revealing an extravaganza of cream and gold over sinks and taps and shower heads. Enough to make Will smile and frown, shaking his head. The action caught Hannibal's eye.
"You disapprove?"
"I think," he said, unable to hide the authenticity in his smile, "you've done this on purpose."
"Ah. Very droll. You will become accustomed to luxury. I have."
"Mmm, I'm not so sure. Think you'll just have to put up with me finding the idea of gold taps hilarious. Are we going down for a drink first?"
"If you'd like. Or we could order room service?"
He picked up his coat and hung it in the concealed cupboard by the doorway, watching Hannibal's shoulder's ease noticeably once the 'clutter' was removed from his line of sight. Will watched him closely.
"You know me so well."
Hannibal held his gaze a few moments longer than was necessary. Will knew he was understood, on numerous levels, and was unable to stop the thrill that it brought. Their newborn bond palpitated like a beating heart, ticking and ticking between them. Will licked his lips and looked away, finding their luggage by the doorway.
While Hannibal washed his face Will brought the suitcases to the low-lit bedroom, sitting down on the bed and rubbing at the back of his neck. The weight of the day rested there, in a noticeable knot. He kneaded it awkwardly with his knuckles before giving into the siren call of the incredibly comfortable mattress, laying back with a soft thump and closing his eyes. It was dark behind them, blessedly so. He thought he could still hear the church bells, tolling for him.
...to honour and obey, to love and cherish, to have and to hold...
It seemed like a lifetime ago. Perhaps even a previous life. Will was wondering if it had even happened to him, or more to the point how he had allowed it to happen. It was a blur of flowers, unknown faces, congratulations, champagne, avoiding Hannibal's relatives, being utterly terrified, regretting ever saying yes and feeling utterly elated when 'you may now kiss your beloved' and Hannibal had done so, claiming him before the crowd as if no one was watching. A maddening ritualistic farce, with a stunning truth resting at its core.
They belonged together now.
Two parts of a whole mess.
Will felt his skin itch. It was wrong, only on a subconscious level. The part of him he had trained over the years to resent the very idea of belonging to anyone ever again was not to be tamed. Will wished it would leave him alone for a few moments at least; the last few months of chasing the spectre of the Chesapeake Ripper had stripped the life right out of him. He'd appreciate it if this holiday would allow him the chance to earn it back.
Will felt the hairs raise on his forearms. When he opened his eyes Hannibal was stood above him, watching him with an analytical eye. His husband stood like a continuation of the frescoed ceiling; a regal figure from a distinguished past. What are you doing here, lying on that bed as if you belong in his world? Will swallowed and rubbed at his face with a lazy right hand, hiding any trace of anxiety. It was easy enough to do; practice made perfect.
As Hannibal opened his mouth to speak Will picked up the phone on the bedside table, "I'm calling downstairs. What would you like?"
His interruption had not been missed, "I will trust your judgement."
"Ok, don't do that, please."
"I am sorry?"
"Test me. I don't need that right now."
"You misunderstand."
"No, I don't. Just tell me what you want."
"I would appreciate it if, for an appetiser, you would please stop judging yourself by imagined standards."
"I'm pretty sure they're not imagined, or so your aunt and uncle would remind me every time we meet."
"This may sound redundant, darling, but I do not see you through their eyes. You are to me what you are to yourself. That is how I would have it."
A long slow breath did nothing to loosen the tension in his shoulders. Will felt the bed dip and put the phone back in its receiver. He looked up to find Hannibal sitting down beside him. In the low light his face seemed younger than it was, the lines by his eyes erased by shadow, the cares upon his shoulders hidden in the gloom. When he spoke Will couldn't stop himself staring at Hannibal's mouth, watching as the lips formed words.
"Would you, dearest?"
"Would I what?"
"Change yourself for me?"
"Not in a million years," Will said, eyes glinting.
"That's my boy," Hannibal said softly, smiling as he leaned in.
"Not testing me, huh?" Will murmured, yet he accepted the kiss.
When his mobile rang, gratingly in his trouser pocket, Will was tempted to leave it. Only the habitual action of rushing to answer in case of work had him picking up at all, "Graham," he said in a murmur as Hannibal trailed his throat with dusky lips.
"Will, hey," Jack's voice was a knee jerk of reality out of the fantasy he'd been falling into, "how was your flight?"
He had meant to reply, he really had. Only the antipathy of the people he'd found himself in between pulled his mind in two different directions,Hannibal pulling him into the fantasy while Jack Crawford pressed the knife of reality against the bubble and threatened to destroy it. Jack Crawford's voice against the background of this opulent suite made him feel like the bubble would pop at any second. Hannibal seemed to sense his unease, stopping with his nose pressed against Will's throat.
"Will?" Jack pressed.
"Uh, fine," he said, clearing his throat as he sat up, "it was fine."
"Not often I hear that about a flight out of BWI. So how's Nevada? Cold as you thought?"
"It's, um, not quite how I pictured it."
Will looked to his right as Hannibal touched his arm and mouthed one word: Jack. Will nodded. Hannibal stood and moved into the other room without a word. Will could hear him moving around, his voice speaking in low tones to someone, Will guessed on the hotel phone.
"I'll bet," Jack continued, "The pictures always look better."
"I don't mean to sound rude, Jack, but is there a reason you phoned?"
There was a short pause, "I should have known not to try the small talk angle," Crawford sighed.
"Was a bit of a giveaway, yeah."
"I wanted to soften the blow. There's been another."
"Another..." Will felt his mouth go dry, "from him?"
"Who else?" Jack said wryly, "It's got all the calling cards. Quite a sight really."
Will felt himself slip back into the slot on instinct, "What's missing this time?"
"Heart. She was, well, frozen by the looks of it. Been here for a couple of days it seems. Zeller can't give us an exact time of death, but he thinks she's been dead for quite some time."
"That's new," Will bit at his lips, "he's trying something new. Why? Was she someone special?"
"Not that we can tell, right now she's a Jane Doe. Jimmy's working her through his box of tricks. If not hopefully the press'll get her recognised."
"Do we..?" Will stopped.
He stopped and he swallowed and, after clearing his throat, he closed his eyes. The draw was like a drug in his system, swimming around his nerve endings like a familiar balm. All the stress and the anxiety he had felt from the wedding seemed to fade into a familiar fume of excitement. It made him ill to realise it. You can't keep holding onto the anchor as it pulls you to the bottom, he told himself. Everything has to have its limit.
It was with a sort of hazy amazement that he realised he was being forced to choose. Or, perhaps, that he had a choice at all.
"So I have flight times. You can be back in Baltimore by midnight and we can start fresh first thing."
"...I can't."
"I'm sorry, what?" Jack sounded far from sorry.
"I can't. I...we're not in Nevada."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Vienna. Hannibal took us to Vienna."
"Christ. Well that's going to add to the runtime."
"I'm not coming back for this."
"Will, I don't remember the part where I gave you a choice."
"And I don't remember the part where I gave you all of my choices and let you pick the one you liked best," Will replied, hearing the subtle shake in his voice, carrying on before Crawford could speak, "I need...I need some time away from this Jack. I can't keep going one after the other after...I'll burn out. You know I will. I need this."
"Put Hannibal on the phone," Jack said stoutly.
"Like hell," Will bristled, "and if you think-dammit I know what you think but I've made my decision. Fire me if you don't like it. I'll be back in a week. If you catch the Ripper before then," he could hear the facetious venom in his voice, "let me know."
The phone wasn't simply put down, but turned off completely. Will sat on the bed and bit at the inside of his lip until it hurt. He'd known what Jack wanted: to speak to his alpha. To speak to his own equal. Prejudice was a thing that floated around at work, but never seemed to fully solidify or show itself long enough to be dealt with. Now that Hannibal was in the picture, Jack seemed glad to have a reason to get it out in the open.
A woman is dead, his conscience tried to remind him. I know, Will thought, I know she is. I know. But I don't want to follow her, if I have the chance to save myself. You won't do anyone any good if you crack, he tried to console himself, not again. Not like last time.
When Will walked into the main room he was greeted by Hannibal tipping the bellboy as he left with an empty trolley. The table, which had previously held the fruit bowl, was now adorned with several covered plates and an ice bucket, out of which the top of a bottle of white wine could be seen jutting. Will walked over and lifted the silver domes covering the plates; the first revealed oysters, the second a rainbow selection of sliced fruits and the third one made him shake his head. Sliced filet mignon. Hannibal's favourite.
"You can't stop yourself," Will said as he lifted the wine part way from the bucket and saw the name and the year; he lifted his eyebrows and put it back, "can you."
"Nor can you it seems."
"I turned him down."
"Oh?"
"Alright, maybe 'turned down' is the tame version. I'm not going back, we're not going back, until we're ready."
A hand at the back of his neck had Will looking to his husband. Hannibal was watching him with an inscrutable eye. For a moment Will was reminded of the looks he was given as they stood by a scene, corpses freshly laid out in blood and misery. There was a smell to it, a smell left behind by the victims and the perpetrator. As they stood by like witnesses Hannibal always seemed to be tasting the smell for what it was, trying to unravel each individual ingredient, to understand it inside and out.
That same sheen was in his eyes now.
"Trying to pull me apart over there?" Will asked as he picked up a slice of kiwi fruit and bit into it.
"Sometimes I appreciate the enigma your present," Hannibal admitted.
"And here I thought little was a mystery to you," Will admonished; he swallowed the fruit and shivered lightly as Hannibal trailed the hand from the back of his neck down to the small of his back. The weight of expectation sat there with the pressure of sure fingers, "I don't want this to...look, I want to stay. I need to stay."
"I understand."
"Ok."
"How is your waltz?" Hannibal asked incongruously.
"Passable, but it makes me dizzy."
Hannibal leaned in, placing his lips against the shell of Will's ear, "Perhaps that is how I like you."
"Well," Will replied in a murmur, "I suppose I can't deny you the little pleasures."
He laughed as Hannibal took hold of him and spun him towards the bedroom, "Then I must dress you for the occasion. One must look the part if they are to last on the stage."
Section Chief Brian Zeller was sick to the back teeth of watching people screw up for the sake of a little diplomacy. Watching Jack Crawford try and deal with Will Graham was like watching a bull try and corral a dog that was foaming at the mouth. Instead of doing anything about the obvious break in sanity Will was struggling through, Jack just kept throwing his weight and expecting results. Brian was just waiting for the moment when Will sank his teeth in and the whole affair devolved into chaos. Just like it had with Hobbs.
As for himself, he felt stuck on the outside of the ring, watching the animals goad each other. And if he was going to be forced to treat Will like Jack did, as a commodity, then at least he felt he'd be able to get a handle on him. Will wasn't an easy ride, he made you work for your results. Brian was willing to try, if only he could get everything he needed to do it. Right now he felt as if he were trapped in a no win scenario.
They would catch this guy, Will always did, but what would be left of him by the end? Brian dreaded to think.
At that moment he was ferrying a courier's case that was showcasing the extent of what a mistake could cost them. Inside were the wheelchair wheels from Freddie Lounds' last stand. Chicago's labs weren't familiar, but at least the inmates were. At the mass spectrometer he dropped off the paint flecks from Lounds' car, where she'd been rammed, with Becky Weiss. Beverly Katz got the wheels to share with the others in the section. Jimmy Price got the tape from the chair where the fire hadn't had a chance to crisp it beyond use.
Finally he stopped off at Liza Lake in the hot room. She almost didn't notice him, bent over her gas chromatograph.
He opened with, "Tell me we've got something we can use," as he handed over the evidence.
"This from Freddie?"
"There's nothing else right now."
Watching her check the condition of the cans and the seal of the lids was meticulously calming. One contained ashes from the wheelchair, the other charred material from Lounds. Zeller enjoyed procedure and diligence; Liza had both in spades.
"How long has it been in the cans?"
"Eight hours at least. There've been some complications. Don't ask."
"Ok," Liza didn't ask, "I'll headspace it."
She pierced the lid with a heavy-duty syringe, extracted air that had been confined with the ashes and injected the air directly into the chromatograph. After some minute adjustments the sample began to move along the machine's five hundred foot column, the stylus juggling on the wide graph paper.
"Unleaded," Liza said as she read the readouts like most people read ingredients in a recipe, "It's gasohol, unleaded gasohol. Don't see much of that," she flipped quickly through a loose-leaf file of sample graphs, "I can't give you a brand yet. Let me do it with pentane and I'll get back to you."
"Good," Zeller replied, feeling marginally as if he'd accomplished something that would make a difference, "beep me first thing with the results."
By 5 p.m. Zeller had all he could get and Jack Crawford and Will Graham were back in the building after the funeral. Zeller had caught a vague glimpse of Will before he'd disappeared towards the projector suite, trailed by Starling, and Brian had been forced to take this rare chance to catch Crawford alone.
It had started as a relaying of information, Jack informed him that Will had found there were items missing from the Jacobi's house when compared to their lawyer's lists. A projector and some digitised films. The only ones they had of the Jacobi's so far were holiday movies. It seemed their lawyer, Byron Metcalf, was to check out their son, Niles Jacobi. Will had said the boy had been a real space cadet when he'd visited. He hoped the kid hadn't sold the stuff off.
Yet, as soon as they'd started talking about Will Graham, things had quickly devolved into this particular argument.
"That's crap, Jack, and you know it."
"Excuse me?" Jack said in a disbelieving tone, "You know Zeller, after all the shit I've been through I've had it just about up to hear with people sassing me today. If you want to join the line, maybe take a damn ticket."
He'd steered them into an unused boardroom and shut the door, because he wasn't that keen to lose his job just yet. The lights were overly bright against the cream walls and the air seemed stale with the smell of office furniture and hot weather.
"I'm not blind, even if you'd probably rather I was. What is this, Jack? Is he just there for you to throw on the tracks and see if he gnaws his way out of the ropes before the train comes? Graham is on the edge and he's doing no one any good while he's there."
"He can handle it. You've seen him handle it. He's handling it on his own, you know he won't let us help him any other way. And what's got you..?"
"You don't come between an omega and their pup," Zeller interrupted. There, I said it, was all he could think, even as Jack stared at him, "it's fucking with him in more ways than one. Don't they teach alphas that shit at school?"
"Yeah well it's mal practice to split up newly mated pairs as well, Brian," Jack replied, quietly intense, "but we did it anyway."
"Not exactly much we could do about it at the time," Zeller shook his head, "I mean what were we going to do? Put Will in the cell with him? Come on, you're being contentious."
"I'm being practical," Jack said, making Brian sigh through his nose and look away, hands on hips, "Will is our only chance at getting close to our guy, because our guy is getting close to Will. End of."
"Must be nice to live in such a black and white world."
"Yeah, it is. Takes out all the troublesome grey areas."
"He's..."
And there it was, he couldn't finish. He couldn't finish the sentence. The words tilted precariously on the back of his tongue, desperate to fall, and yet they never did. He's been vomiting blood in the men's toilets for the last two days. For all his raging and his righteous anger, he couldn't say it. In that moment Zeller knew he was the pot and Jack was the kettle and they were both just as black as each other.
'Come on Brian," Will had said to him facetiously as he stood by the sinks and wiped blood from his chin as if everything were perfectly fine, "don't let your conscience get the better of you now."
Zeller was beginning to wonder what his conscience was supposed to be warning him of in the first place.
"Bev's the only one he'll talk to. She said he won't even go and see his daughter because he's worried he'll lead this maniac right to her," Brian said in the end, and heaven help me for keeping my mouth shut, "it's tearing him apart and there'll be no one left to pick up the pieces."
"Do we look like we have a choice?"
"That's what we said last time."
Zeller knew he was treading the knife's edge when he brought up the botched capture of Hannibal Lecter. The fallout from Will's injury and subsequent mental and physical breakdown had been a bone of contention in their group for years. The blame game, it seemed, was still in full swing.
"Going to pull out that old chestnut, are you?" Jack asked stoutly.
"We fucked him over for an easy arrest," Zeller said, "and you can't get over that. Or at least that's what I thought, till you started doing the same old shit again."
"You want to bait me some more, Brian? I don't think I've got enough of a reason to make this interesting yet."
"I just don't like seeing history repeat itself," Brian heard the door handle turning, "come on Jack, be reasonable."
Starling poked her head around the door. Zeller wondered if she could feel the animosity in the room the way he could feel it. She was a difficult one to read. Zeller disliked the masks she wore for different people, but then couldn't bring himself to be that much of a hypocrite to voice it aloud.
"What is it?" Jack asked her when she didn't speak straight away.
"We've got a package," she said, "addressed to Will Graham. It just came in. Three guesses who from."
The seat was hard against his back, and the room was noisy in the way only a hospital waiting room could be. The people didn't make much noise, further than the rustle of paper as book pages were turned or subtle and awkward coughs were grunted out. No, it was the rumble of the hive-like building all around him, and the constancy of rubber soles on squeaking floors, trundling wheels and the beeps of multitudinous lifelines ticking away.
Oddly enough the working television, the only reason he'd dragged himself from his bed, was the one silent thing in the place, as the subtitles roved along the bottom in a screed of multicoloured text. His loose bed robe hid the fact that he was starting to show, his belly swollen to a telling bump of two months growth. Will sometimes found it difficult to look at, for a host of different reasons. He purposefully kept the robe loosely tied over his hospital issue shirt and trousers.
By the time Alana found him Will knew he was staring at the television blankly.
"You had the nurses worried again," she said; Will could hear the unsubtle subtext of her own worry in the words, "can't you just mention to someone when you're going for a stroll?"
He thought he should make a quip. Something sharp but just short of cutting. Something he would have been expected to say. Instead Will stayed silent and continued to watch the screed on the screen. Alana bowed her head a little and sighed before sitting down next to him on one of the uncomfortable, plastic chairs which did nothing for the constant pain of his shoulder wound. The waiting room continued to buzz with infectious tedium.
"I think it should be on the six o'clock news," she said as she checked her watch, "hell. Didn't realise it'd gotten that late."
Will felt his eyes blur from over-focussing. He blinked rapidly and tried to think of something else. It was a pointless venture. All he could think of, whenever he thought of the upcoming trial, were the scrolls of moments that sat like gargoyles, crouched on the corners of his past. The corners that zigged and zagged around his smooth life. The cutting points that had been mysteries to him at the time, and were now spotlighted for his convenience.
His life with Hannibal Lecter had seemed like a dream that he was being forced to wake from, everyone around desperate to take hold of him and force him to admit it for the nightmare it had been. Only...it hadn't. It hadn't been a nightmare. This, this was the nightmare. Until five days ago the doctors told him he'd been on the verge of slipping into a coma he'd probably never have awakened from. His skin crawled and his stomach rolled with constant nausea. His shoulder locked up in pain when he moved the wrong way. It had apparently been a 'damn miracle' he hadn't suffered a miscarriage.
All he could think of was what his body commanded him to. That he'd never been happier than when he was...
"...but I guess that would mean..." Alana was saying when he tuned back into reality.
"Have you seen him?"
She looked at him in surprise. Will wondered if he sounded odd. He was beyond the capability of rationalising himself anymore.
"Seen...Hannibal?" she offered carefully; when Will nodded she licked her lips and folded her arms, "yes. A week ago. Jack asked if I could do the psychological examination for the FBI profile before the trial starts..."
"How is he?" Will interrupted again, "They won't let me see him."
"He's..." she hesitated. She'd been doing that a lot with him recently. He was beginning to think everyone was expecting him to keel over at the slightest application of pressure. Will could tell she didn't want to upset him, but seemed instinctually appalled that he had even asked after his husband's welfare, "he's fine, considering. Calm even. When I asked him about whether he had ever considered himself to be in a disassociated mental state he managed to steer the conversation around to my holiday plans. He's...Hannibal," she said as if that was enough.
And in a way it was. Will knew what she meant, because now 'Hannibal' wasn't Hannibal anymore. He was the Chesapeake Ripper. He was the monster in the person suit who'd been playing house for the last two years while Will fell asleep in his bed and made him lunch and felt alive in his presence more than he had with any other.
"Do you think they'd let me?" Will asked after a moment of hospital silence, "Maybe if you pushed for it they'd let me."
"I don't think that's going to happen."
"I just want to..." Will stopped, closing his eyes. He took a breath, "I just want to see him."
"Will, the trial hasn't even started. We don't even know for sure yet what's going to happen."
"Yeah," he said as he shook his head, "yeah I do. I do. It's just a formality now. I...really miss him."
The non-silence descended. Will coughed, wincing at the choke in it, the rough, wet sound. His stomach hurt. On instinct he curled his arms around himself.
"You..." judge me, don't you, is what he wanted to say. But he couldn't. Because right now Alana Bloom was the only one capable of being with him in this limbo, and if he lost that he wasn't sure what he'd do. So instead, he said, "you know it's funny. Children, they don't blame the people that hurt them. Adults do. Adults like blame. It makes things nice and easy to deal with. Children are...more complicated in a simple way."
"Don't start with this again, Will. You can't put all your hopes on something like that. It's not fair."
"Do you think she'll blame me, when she's older? For not telling her about her father?"
"Will, please, I just wanted to come see that you were ok. I think I've had enough of Hannibal Lecter to last me a lifetime in the past few weeks."
"Lucky you," Will smirked, eyes cold.
"I didn't mean..."
"Why didn't I know? Huh?" he asked, as he always did, "Why couldn't I see it?"
"Because you're not a super hero, Will, for crying out loud you're just human like the rest of us."
"No," he shook his head, smiling weakly, "no, that's not it. I wish it was that. I wish I had something to exonerate me. Couldn't I just have been the blind leading the blind? Would have made life a whole hell of a lot easier. I think...I think I knew."
"Please," she said with the hurt frustration only a friend could offer, "I can't listen to this."
"I loved him. Love him," he said as he looked up at the television. It was difficult to say the words, "I'm so lost in this. Alana," he felt his voice fall to a hushed murmur, "I would have gone with him...you know I would have, if he'd asked."
"Jesus," Alana was shaking her head, "you're..." her phone rang, silent but vibrating in her pocket, "dammit. I shouldn't even have this on in here. Hang on, I need to take this."
That had been three hours before anyone had told him of Hannibal's short lived escape, and even then the information hadn't been given freely. He'd had to coerce it out of one of the FBI agents sent to sit outside his door on guard. Will had sat on his bed in the darkening room and felt trapped. Alone and trapped. He wondered if it was how Hannibal felt; kept apart from the life he'd lived, as if he were being punished for living it.
Killer. He's a killer. The most prolific killer you've ever hunted. You know the Ripper, probably better than anyone. You know him, his cold, callous nature, his humour, his artfulness, his high tastes, his single-mindedness, his taciturnity. He could have slaughtered you at any moment and it would have been nothing but a momentary pain that he would commit to memory but, ultimately, live with.
Yet if there had been one thing Will had ever been sure of in his profile of the Ripper, it had been the one thing that allowed him to continue in the madness that Alana would come to call his 'hateful love'.
His inconsistency with any profile that had ever been put to file. Hannibal was, as Alana said, 'Hannibal'. Unique in more than just his quirky nature. He was the only killer Will had ever had the unfortunate luck to encounter that was capable of the sort of connection they had shared.
Capable of a love so real it was enough to make him believe it utterly and completely.
Sometimes, back then, he had allowed himself to cling to that.
After Charlotte, Will found it was easier to survive if he blamed his shattered life on the man who had been forced to leave him with nothing.
Now, he wasn't sure if he could keep up the charade any longer.
He'd ended up in the Jury room, pacing as the recording played because it made him feel less trapped by the words as they spun in the cassette. The quality was low and sometimes he had to strain to hear it. Even if he wished he wasn't hearing it at all.
An odd thing to see these days, a cassette tape. Old, out of place, from a time gone by. That's where he saw the Dragon, a man out of his time, living in a past he probably wished he could escape but he never would. It had come in a jiffy bag, the handwriting a match to the envelope of the letter sent to Lecter. Blue biro, a woman's handwriting. Beverly hadn't had any luck with tracking the Amico products used, but it seemed good old Freddie was leaving them far more than they might need.
The tape stopped and Will walked over to click rewind. It whirred as he heard the door open. When he looked up Beverly Katz stood in the doorway, half in and half out. Will nodded to her and she seemed to make her decision.
"I came to get the tape. The girls in audio want to see if they can get anything from it."
"Sure," Will said, "I just need to hear it once more. You..." he hesitated, frowning, "might not want to listen."
"Don't worry," she said, "I'm sure I've heard it all before."
Will took her at her word. Still, he thought that no matter how many times you heard something like this, it never lessened in its ability to grab you by the core and squeeze. He clicked the button.
A technician's monotone started them off: "Case number 426238, item 814, tagged and logged, a tape cassette. This is a recording."
Then a shift, the quality lowered, the sound became airy and filled with a muffled background haze. Will took hold of the edge of the table and gripped his fingers across the smooth wood.
Freddie Lounds sounded tired and frightened. Will wished he could have heard this sooner.
"I have had a great privilege," she was saying, a shake to her voice, "I have seen...I have seen with wonder...wonder and awe...awe...the strength of the Great Red Dragon."
The original recording had been interrupted frequently as it was made. He could hear the clack of the stop key as it was pushed, and record as it was resumed. Freddie hadn't made it through in one go. He couldn't blame her. Would that have made him mad? Will wondered, Did it frustrate you? Stupid bitch couldn't get it right. Might as well take her lips.
"I lied about him," she continued, "All I wrote was lies from Will Graham. He made me write them. I have...I have blasphemed against the Dragon. Even so...the Dragon is merciful. Now I want to serve Him. He...had helped me understand...His splendour and I will praise Him. He...he knows you made me lie, Will Graham. Because I was forced to lie, He will be more...more merciful to me than he will be with you, Will Graham.
"Reach behind you, Will Graham...and feel for the small...knobs on the top of your pelvis. Feel your spine between them...that is the precise spot...where the Dragon will snap your spine."
Will kept his hands on the desk. Like hell, he thought, like hell I'll feel. Instead he wondered if the Dragon knew the nomenclature of the iliac spine; was he ignorant of it or did he just choose not to use it? They think I'm a fool, but I'll show them. I can show them with the power the Dragon brings. The way Lounds spoke of this Dragon, made it sound as if it were a divinity. Will wondered if the Dragon was something higher to their Tooth Fairy than even he could comprehend.
"There's much...for you to dread," Freddie was still saying; Will knew what was to come, but it still made him tense, "From...from my own lips you'll learn a little more to dread..."
Then a small pause. Will gripped the desk as tightly as he could before the awful screaming started. Worse, the blubbering, lipless cry that followed, "You goddanned astard! You romised!"
His hand was shaking badly when he reached out to fumble for the stop button. It took a couple of tries, as if Lounds refused to be silenced. When Will looked up and found Beverly standing beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, he was surprised. He'd almost forgotten she was even there.
"I know you won't want to hear this, but it wasn't your fault."
"Never said it was."
"You don't have to. I remember how long you blamed yourself for Abigail Hobbs. Hell, even Garrett Jacob Hobbs too. It wasn't something you could have planned for. Just bad timing."
"Not as bad a time as Freddie had by the sounds of it," Will said grimly; he hung his head for a moment and blinked away the stars that flashed into his vision when he thought about the tape. He felt his stomach flip over a few times before the burning started. The gastritis was getting worse, "you can take it. The tape. I don't want to hear it again."
"Ok," Beverly squeezed his shoulder before she let go and Will flinched, "also this came for you. It's been fluoroscoped by the Post Master. I told him I'd bring it up," The letter she handed him was instantly recognisable from the handwriting on the envelope, "I think, maybe you should get some air."
"I'll be alright. I need to phone for Elle. I told her I'd call at lunchtime yesterday but I forgot. I...need to call her."
Will waited until he was alone to tear it open gently along the top with his keys. The paper was heavy and well folded, the familiar beautiful script inside as anachronistic as it had ever been. Hannibal started,
Dear Will,
It seemed likely that a call would not suffice, nor be possible now that the rat and the bull are in cahoots. (Will assumed the rat to be Chilton, it seemed a fitting term. The bull could be a lot of people, but Will chose Jack)
You appeared upset last we spoke. It seems you have not yet learned to take credit where it is due. Dear Miss Lounds was a masterpiece, but I feel the Dragon (such a gauche name, is it not?) would be rude to take all of the credit. You did so much to expose her insides before he got his chance.
But it would be difficult and perhaps a little insensitive of me to labour the point. I wish for you to understand that you know where to find me, and that I know where to find you. I wish to help you Will, even if it can only be at your behest. Our time apart has made you as an oasis to a thirsty traveller. My wish to drink is rather overwhelming. Not man nor conscience could keep you from me. Or, of course, my darling daughter.
I hope that, when the time comes, you will remember as I do. The world would be bereft without us.
Yours,
Hannibal
Will folded the letter and put it carefully back into its envelope. The words folded up with it, contained and kept safe like precious little jewels. Will thought he might feel heavy; his arms were slumped and his legs did not wish to stand. He sat, head in his hands, for longer than he could keep track of. The worst thing was knowing he was right. Hannibal was generally right about him. Will had known what he was doing when he put his hand on Freddie's shoulder in the Tattler photographs. He wanted to put her at risk, just a little, but he wanted to put himself at risk too. Hannibal knew that. He knew what Will did to himself. He wanted himself as the target because, in the end, at least that exonerated him. Just a little.
Eventually he managed to stand and make his way to the projector room. He stopped off at the toilets on the way. The first two heaves were dry, until all he could hear were Freddie's screams again and again; that had the bile retching up in a stinging vomit. The paper came away red when he wiped. Need to lay off the spirits, Graham, he told himself. Not that it would help. The stress was enough to rot him from the inside out.
The darkness of the projector room would have been calming, if he had found it unoccupied. Instead the low level light illuminated the seats, showing Alana Bloom's long, dark hair as a spill over the chair back in the front row. Will didn't have the energy to stand. He walked in and sat down behind her and to the right.
"Someone give away my secret?" Will asked.
"Jack said you'd wind up here eventually," Alana replied, turning in her chair to lean one arm over the headrest; she looked tired, "I came in to listen to the tape."
"Get anything?"
"Nothing I'm sure you haven't already picked up on."
"He's paranoid, he uses religious terminology but this isn't a religious killing in the strict sense, he's more than likely a schizophrenic from the way he had Freddie talk about him."
"Snap," she said, "Now what else have you got?"
"He's intelligent but uneducated, he's more than likely from a poor background considering the affluent families he's targeting. Childhood was probably a mess, but he blames the adults. He kills the kids quick, but he takes his time with the parents. Especially the mothers, there's something about his mother. Abandoned perhaps. He's sexually repressed, he's quick to violence, he's probably shy but quick tempered, he might be ashamed of his appearance. Oh yeah, and apparently he wants to snap me in half."
Alana swallowed and looked angry. Will wondered if it was at him or Jack. Probably both.
"Sounds like you've gone right in there," she said.
"Shouldn't I have?"
"I think you're the only one who knows that Will."
"Sounds like you don't like it," he said rubbing at the back of his neck.
"It's not about what I like or don't like."
"Freddie left us a lot of evidence. He got sloppy with her because he was angry. The other crime scenes were clean, almost completely clean. This one has given us a host of particulars. The gasoline he used is unique, the wheelchair anachronistic, the cassette tape reveals him, the blue biro and the woman's handwriting. We'll catch him, Alana."
"I know you will. It's all the stuff you do before you catch him that worries me."
Will wasn't sure what to say to that. Eventually he managed, "I need to go. I need to call Elle."
"Didn't you come to watch the films?"
Will stalled. Alana watched him closely.
"Jack said you've been here every day. You watch them every day."
"I'm just...trying to understand who they were. His victims. Metcalf, he's the Jacobi's lawyer, he found the other discs, their home movies, he's having them shipped to us by courier."
"Every time. Every time you do this. Stop it, Will, please, for me."
"I'm not a fucking masochist, alright? It's my job."
"It's not your job," she said tightly, "you make the decision to take responsibility. These people are dead and there's nothing you can do about that. You need to focus on the now, on what we can do to stop the next one."
"Did you come here to preach?" Will asked as he put the letter down on the seat next to him and rubbed his face with his hands.
He should have known better. Alana was sharp and observant. She caught it before Will had a chance to realise his mistake.
"Been talking with your pen-pal?" she asked dryly.
"Not much I can do to stop him sending me a letter," Will said in his defence.
"You could try not replying."
"When have I ever replied?"
"You think I'm that out of the loop Will?"
"...Jack told you, huh. Look, I'd had a lot to drink, ok? I just needed..."
I just needed to hear his voice. It sounded so pathetic when he tried to say it out loud. He sniffed in a quick breath and let it out long and slow.Maybe you could start telling the truth. Will would have laughed, if it hadn't been so dire.
"I'm not going to rationalise it," he said, "there's no time to. I called him and that's that. It's never going to happen again."
"You used to say that about a lot of things."
"When are you going to realise," Will smiled acidly, "that I'm a really good liar, Alana."
"We're all good liars. It's what makes us so interesting to him."
"I'm not interesting to him," Will shrugged, "it's worse."
"Oh?"
"I'm amusing. I'm a...rarity. He likes to think I keep him artfully employed."
"Hannibal always did like keeping pretty things in cages."
"And now he's the pretty thing in the cage. Does that make me the monster, to be the one on the outside?"
"It makes you the survivor, Will," Alana said seriously; Will swallowed again and looked away, "I hoped you would be able to see that for yourself."
"To be a survivor you have to have been a victim," he said slowly, looking towards the big, blank screen before them, "I think that's what you see yourself as. Because he lied to you."
"He lied to you too."
"Are you...happy Alana?"
"What?"
"Happy. Are you happy?"
"Not right now I'm not."
"You know what I mean."
"Damn, you really know how to get under my skin, don't you? Yes, yes I'm happy."
"Got kids?"
"Not yet. Me and Gareth are thinking about it."
"Gareth Bates? The attorney from Washington?" Will asked; Alana nodded, "Last time we spoke you didn't have a good word to say about him. You got married?"
"Nope. We're just living together. I think you might have put me off marriage."
Will laughed, low and suspect.
"My marriage was fine, you know. It was everything that came before and after it that screwed me."
"And as long as you tell yourself that," Alana said as she stood, looking down at Will with frustrated pity, "then I can't help you."
She left him feeling like a shipwreck, with Crawford and Alana and Starling and Zeller and anyone else who wanted a piece all running down the shore to steal his insides for salvage. Bits here, bites there, hauling and pulling until everything he'd ever regretted was out in the open. As well as everything they wanted him to regret.
They wanted him to regret Hannibal, when all Will could bring himself to do was regret that Hannibal had been caught.
He would have killed you, the old argument gnawed at him, clawed at him, he wanted to kill you. Will couldn't say yes or no. Not anymore. Believing Hannibal had wanted him dead had been a simple way to believe he'd always known who the Chesapeake Ripper was, and that he had done the right thing in letting Hannibal go to the Asylum without a fight.
Now he had another killer on his mind, one with a far more direct sense of intimidation than Lecter favoured. The Dragon wanted him dead, and, if he tried hard enough, Will could feel that same hot hate for himself. He knows you made me lie, Will Graham. He will be more...merciful to me than he will be with you, Will Graham.
As merciful as I will be with you, Will thought, when I find you. I wish-I wish I could help you. There's been no-one there to help you, has there? Just hate. You grew up with that hate, and now it's in there. Festering inside. You resent it but you need it, this Great Red Dragon. You wish you could be rid of it but you just can't, because it's all you have left now and you don't know how to live without it. I wish I could help you, but you won't let yourself be helped.
Will wondered, as he blinked out of his reverie, if he was talking about the Dragon or himself. He chewed at the inside of his lip and picked up the remote control. When he pressed play, the Leeds' sprang into life onscreen. Will watched them and wished the same thing for himself, as he wished for the memories of the Leeds' and the Jacobi's, as he wished for Hannibal, as he wished for his sweet Ellie, and as he wished for the man who suffered under the yolk of the Dragon.
Help us.