Chapter 12
Raisonment Franchment Psychotique (première partie)
He knew it wasn't always healthy, and he knew it wasn't always entirely conscious, but Will's ability to mimic in order to smooth the way between himself and those he cared about was a natural instinct. Speech patterns were his first cue to rising attachment. He would begin to hear others in the lilt of his rhythm and the pronunciation of his vowels. Next came gestures, familiar movements which imprinted themselves onto his hands and face, followed by the sneaking idiosyncrasies of words and phrases.
It wasn't a perfect science and it didn't demean his own individuality. Only it made him less vulnerable, made it easier to blend in and, when done subtly enough, could put the other person entirely at ease without their even noticing it had happened.
Will knew when he'd gotten too close to someone, could read the signs, could see it in the mirror he held up between them. The only other sign more telling was when he realised he was being himself around someone he liked.
Until now Will hadn't realised there was another step, a further signal. Until now he hadn't realised he was capable of a trust so deep it allowed for a full adaptation. A silken stream trickled down into his core as he stood in Chilton's office, observed by peeved little eyes and a stern countenance. Will felt surprisingly giddy as he assimilated these new reactions, these new feelings and these new entertainments.
It was as he allowed himself to stand as Hannibal would, tall and effortlessly elegant, and speak as he would, with a becoming arrogance, that Will realised what it might be for him to be in love. Not how he had heard it described by others, nor in film nor written on the page, but his own idea of what it was to trust someone so completely that it actually felt foolish.
"Is there a good reason?" Will asked, hands in pockets, back to the light from the window; he enjoyed seeing Chilton squint, "Lawrence Wells surely gets a lot of visitors."
"Not as many as you would think," Chilton disagreed, "he's not much of a talker. Or a reactor, for that matter."
Will could tell Chilton was stalling. To what end he couldn't be entirely sure but Will had to remind himself that figuring that out wasn't his focus. As much as he was enjoying watching the man squirm his original purpose was far more worthy. He shirked up his eyebrows and shook his head, making Chilton frown.
"Really Fredrick, can I call you Fredrick?" Will asked, suppressing a smile when Chilton opened his mouth to reply only to be overruled as Will continued, "I didn't think you had it in you to be this blinded by egotism. I need to speak to him, it's important beyond the idea of simple academic study."
"Don't you think I would value any opinion on someone I was unable to...having trouble with?" Chilton corrected himself; Not on your life, Will wanted to say, "But right now Wells is in an unstable state for which I think an interrogation would be a serious miscalculation."
"Not an interrogation," Will clarified for the second time, "I just want to talk to him. He doesn't even have to reply."
The insinuation was clear. I don't have to hear his words to read him, Will was saying, unlike you. The sour twist to Chilton's mouth, which he smoothed out with a darting tongue to wet his lips, sent a positive warmth along Will's spine. For a moment he wondered to himself if this was how Hannibal felt on a daily basis; high on superiority. He knew he couldn't get a taste for it but, right now, it was an enjoyable distraction coupled with a useful tool.
"I don't like surprises, Mr. Graham," Chilton stood, pulling at his suit jacket.
"I did write ahead," Will said, "and you granted me an audience."
"Do you have to be so condescending?" Chilton snapped out before reigning himself back in; even he seemed surprised by his own snappish behaviour. Will knew Chilton would never have said as such to Lecter. Hannibal gave off a heady scent of power which Will knew he did not have. Still, it was fascinating to watch the man scrabble backwards in order to regain control, "apologies. I have had a stressful day and this suddenness isn't helping matters."
"Then why not get me out of your way," Will suggested, "and let me see Wells for, say, half an hour?"
"I can give you ten minutes," Chilton said.
"Do I really have to haggle with you? Now who's being condescending."
"You know I think I might have preferred you when you were unapproachable," Chilton muttered under his breath as he walked towards the door, "this is just uncivilised."
Will didn't push his luck, even if the thrill of his act was still hot in his veins. He followed Chilton out into the starkly shining corridor, hoping that his assumption was correct and that Chilton had given in. Perhaps the offer of leaving once I'm done cracked him, Will thought. If I were him I'd want rid of me too.
The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane had the feel of a well ordered madhouse, as it should Will thought. The elevator rode with a seamlessness that belied the reasoning behind his visit. The day watchman, an older black man with greying hair, clocked them with sharp eyes that softened slightly on recognising Chilton.
"Give Mr. Graham a temp pass, Billy," Chilton said stiffly, "and have a chair taken along to Wells."
Billy did not reply, merely nodded. Chilton refused to give Will any more of his breath, it seemed, and turned to leave as soon as his orders had been given. Back to his snooping perch, Will thought dismissively. It'll be better if Wells doesn't talk, he thought vindictively, make Chilton work for his damned reward.
The doors opened with a heavy, ringing buzz of the lock disengaging. They appeared as handles on a funeral casket, swinging closed with a clicking finality that Will did not enjoy. A seamless corridor, mockingly white he thought, with no loose threads visible. Billy, walking by his side, began to talk.
"I understand you've been here before," Billy said, "but I'd like to make the rules clear."
Will nodded, taking off his jacket and putting it over his arm as Billy rattled off the regulations (...do not hand him anything sharp, no metal or plastic. Paper is allowed but no staples or paperclips. Do not approach him under any circumstances...) and simultaneously revised his notes on Wells in his head. Another porter, tall and thin with a pockmarked face just as long as his lanky body, walked past them with a chair and entered the fourth door on the left. Billy stopped him outside as the other porter re-emerged.
"Do you understand what I have told you?" Billy asked.
"Yes," Will nodded.
"When you're done ring the buzzer by the door and I'll come let you out."
Come let you out. He stepped into Well's room and the door locked behind him. Will found it so frighteningly close to being trapped that it was almost funny. Almost.
Wells was sitting on a long bed that was riveted to the floor and wall. A small sink and toilet sat in the corner, above which was an empty shelf. The white walls spoke of impersonality. Will thought it screamed of a mind willing to hide until the end of all things.
Will took a seat on the folding plastic chair and set his folder on the small shelf to his right. He did not speak, just waited for Wells to acknowledge him. He was glad when his tactic bore fruit; Wells' eyes were deeply rimmed with purple when they finally looked at him. For a few minutes they sat in a simple silence, staring. Eventually Wells smiled. Will wished that he wouldn't.
"Here to gloat, Mr Graham?"
Well, a personal best at beating Chilton to the punch, Will thought. Wells had spoken in under five minutes. Will changed his mind; he hoped Chilton was listening.
"Not unless you'd like me to," Will said, sitting forwards with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.
"Oh," Wells laughed out roughly, "then you're here at my disposal?"
"To an extent," Will said, watching his step, "quid pro quo, Mr Wells."
"You want my help with something?" now the laugh was enough to have Wells slap his own thigh like an old man at a bar.
Probably how he drew his victims in, Will thought, with that indiscernible, affable quality. Watch them smile and flutter, eager to please, even when their eyes opened in pain and their mouths yawned like chasms; little butterflies, all together in a net. Will blinked when he realised he was looking in the wrong direction, but when he looked back Wells didn't seem discouraged or annoyed. He looked intrigued.
"Lost in thought?" Wells asked.
"Something like that," Will said, skirting the issue but not lying about it; he was worried Wells would be able to tell if he lied, "I have an itch I can't scratch about your case, Mr Wells."
"Oh?" Wells asked, eyes flicking to the folder at Will's side.
"Yes," Will said, "I can see your design. It's impressively built. Noticeable precision meted out with a sense of duty. A love in the way you tied the rope," Will could hear his voice changing, slowing; he cleared his throat, "you're a talented knotsmith."
Wells watched him silently, studying him. Will felt like getting up and leaving, while another part of him wished to stay and continue this dance. That part won out, as much as it scared him. He knew why Wells was able to appreciate what should have been obvious flattery; he knew Wells could hear the genuine respect in his words. He hoped that allowing for a slip would be enough to calm the man's standoffishness. Will didn't want to stay there too long, in his mind with the dark cage unlocked and open. He put his hand in and closed his eyes, feeling soft fur and feathers against his palm.
"You don't look rough enough to be a sailor," Wells said after a short pause, "navy?"
"Fly fisher," Will said with a smile.
"Ah," Wells nodded, "I should have seen that. You have patience, I can see it in your eyes."
"I guess it takes one to see one," Will said, hoping he wasn't pushing too far too quickly.
"The same could be said of anyone," Wells said.
"Only you didn't find just anyone to help you," Will said, "did you Mr Wells."
The pause was terse this time. Wells' eyes were naturally piercing, looking more through than at whatever they fell upon. But they fell upon Will, and they looked at him. They fell upon him and stayed there as if hoping to draw out what they wanted. Will refused to react. He'd had worse, even if that didn't make enduring it any more enjoyable. Will waited another minute before realising he might have gone too fast. The only way left was forwards as backtracking now seemed like a terrible idea. Will picked up his folder but did not open it, just held it as a peace offering would be held; with delicacy.
"Your design has a poetic streak," Will said, "a tower built to honour, a testament to the futility of the search. The futility of a legacy, Mr Wells?"
No reply, just that continued, piercing stare which Will refused to meet with his own. He took a deep breath in through his nose, hand flat out on the brown folder, and spoke softly.
"There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met to view the last of me, a living frame for one more picture," Will said with little poetic cadence, "in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all."
He knew it had worked as soon as the self satisfied smile returned to Wells' mouth. The older man's face crinkled like kid gloves, all soft folds. It hadn't taken Will long, on a second visit to Wells' house before the bailiff came to clean it out, to recognise the man's penchant for poetry. Browning had stood out. Four copies of the complete works and one of Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came in a slim, single copy. Will would have called it an educated guess, Jack would have called it his miracle working; but Will didn't want to think about that right now.
"You know your Browning," Wells said, "or did you rehearse that just for me?"
"I studied it at high school," Will explained vaguely.
"And yet you must be, what, early thirties?" Wells conjectured.
"Thirty six," Will corrected, taking a breath before explaining, "I have an eidetic memory. Makes it difficult to forget things learned by rote."
"Well, I would ask how you knew I appreciate his poetry but I'm beginning to think you actually look," Wells said, "unlike the others."
"I see," Will countered, sitting back in the uncomfortable chair, "sometimes that's better than just looking."
"Yes," Wells' smile was beginning to become disturbing and Will disliked it; it was trying to breed familiarity, "it certainly is. You are a very interesting young man, Mr Graham. Or Will, can I call you Will?"
"I don't see why not," Will said, even as he wanted to say no, not at all, not ever, "Lawrence?"
"Now I'm on a first name basis with the man who put me in here," Wells said, nodding his approval of Will's question, "what a predicament."
"But not just with me, surely," Will said, opening the folder and pulling out photographs of the totem, all angles and all heights, looking at them lazily, "Roland didn't walk to the dark tower alone after all. I've been wondering about that itch, wondering if you had a guide yourself."
Flat palms tapped out a rhythm on blue clad thighs. Will watched as Wells stared off into a distance past the wall which his eyes watched and flapped his hands once more in a tight flurry of slaps. He pulled in his lips and sighed through his nose. Eventually Wells stood up on shaky legs, walking to the slim white bars of the cell door. He took hold of them with gnarled hands that trembled lightly. Another silence brewed, only this one tellingly flavoured with something akin to resignation.
"My first thought was," Wells began slowly, "he lied in every word..."
"That hoary cripple," Will continued when it became apparent it was what the man expected, "with malicious eye askance to watch the working of his lie on mine, and mouth scarce able to afford suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored its edge, at one more victim gained thereby."
Wells seemed to enjoy the recitation, even if Will put no effort into its rhythm. Will was beginning to wonder if the man's early onset dementia was as bad as he had thought, or if the deeply ingrained poetry was simply stuck to Wells' mind, unable to crumble free. The man seemed far more lucid here in his cell than he had before. Will tried to analyse the lines heuristically as he spoke them, difficult to do while trying his best to recall the words flawlessly, lest he lost Wells' attention. The man was smiling once more when Will finally managed to meet his eyes. Will lasted all of five seconds before he had to look away, listening to a throaty chuckle.
"Such a shy boy," Wells said, "I think you might be a man to like Will."
"Then why don't you tell me who helped lead you to your grail, Lawrence?" Will asked.
"Because I'd hate to see you left mangled," Wells said, making Will swallow involuntarily at the sudden bluntness of the man's words, "or myself for that matter. One must be wicked to deserve such pain. Are you a wicked man, Will?"
"Can anyone really claim innocence anymore?" Will asked while he collected his thoughts.
"No," Wells said, nodding as his eyes slipped down to the open folder in Will's hands, the photographs there, "I suppose everyone is so petty yet so spiteful."
Will recognised the words from the twentieth stanza, wondering if Wells was trying to covertly put across some sort of meaning; the river which had done them all the wrong. A stream sunken with death, in which corpses lie. Will shook his head, refusing to get caught up in the man's mind games.
"Then you should know that I have no innocence left to take," Will said, knowing he was being reckless with the truth but needing to know, needing to know if he was right, if the smoky rabbit that danced in his vision was real or imagined, "would you give me a name then?"
"...May I see the photographs?" Wells said after a moment's hesitation.
Will stood and approached the bars, pulling out the large metal tray and placing the folder inside before pushing it closed. Wells picked it up, placing the photographs on the small bed and looking down at them with a loving gleam in his cold eyes. Will assumed he didn't want to hold them, probably couldn't in his shaking hands.
"And I'd like some books," Wells said, making Will's ears perk up further; he recognised a deal when he heard one, "maybe you could get those for me, Will?"
"I can speak to Chilton," Will said, staying vague.
"That seems like a bit of a lacklustre promise," the man said, "considering the juicy morsel I can give you in return. I don't like putting myself in danger Will. Quid pro quo."
Standing from the chair Will pressed the buzzer beside the door. Wells was watching him expectantly.
"You can keep those, just for now," Will said, hating the idea that he was giving the man something with which to keep the torture fresh, "I'll speak to Chilton."
Just as the door's electronic lock clicked Wells opened his mouth and spoke.
"The great black bird follows him," Wells said, his face blank, seeming suddenly years older than he had while smiling his sinister smile, "a guide, you said Will. Perhaps you might wish not to look this time, or see."
His footsteps seemed louder on the way back out, more pronounced. He felt cold and put on his jacket, covering the rising goose bumps on his arms. He recalled the line: A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom friend. Will recalled his father's bible, the name sticking. An ancient Hebrew name for Abbadon, an angel of destruction at the head of an army of locusts, or perhaps an avenging angel doing god's work. Either way the symbolism was secondary. As far as he was concerned he had been given the key to the puzzle: confirmation, no matter how cryptic. There was a second killer, a second pair of inimitable hands, a guide who saw the beauty in other's creations.
The Copycat, Will thought, let's start calling him what he is. He returned his temporary pass to Billy and thanked him before taking the elevator back up to the ground floor. There was no second killer because the Copycat was him and he was the Copycat. Someone who not only enjoyed the artistry but thought he was elevated above it, could surpass it or even bring it to new heights; closer to God, Will wondered. Wells had seemed to think of the man as that; Apollyon, an angel of destruction.
Will would find him, he always did in the end. A man that inspired loyalty, as Wells hadn't given him anything further than confirmation of his existence, and also fear, as Wells also seemed to think that he was in danger of the man's wrath even within this high security prison. The thought gave Will pause.
Just not enough to stop.
The cafeteria was bright and loud with a mixture of background chatter and cutlery hitting plates. It was a long room with a low feel to it, bright strip lights and faux wooden tables, with bright steel food displays and uncomfortable plastic chairs. Trainees and agents alike tended to gather here when the respective groups wanted away from their delineated areas. It made for an enjoyably incongruous mix, Will found, in which he was normally spared interaction.
Will wasn't hungry but he needed coffee and the break room had been out. He ordered, took his milky coffee back to one of the free tables and sat down, taking a sip and grimacing at the chalkiness. Too much milk. There always was.
"Hey."
Will looked up to find Beverly standing beside him, similar cup of milky coffee in her hand and a sandwich in the other.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked.
"No, of course not," Will shook his head, "help yourself."
"Thanks," she said, seeming relieved to be off of her feet, "damn I miss upstairs' coffee already."
"Yeah, we seem to be out a lot this past week," Will said just to pass the time.
"It's Brian," Beverly said tiredly, leaning her elbows on the table and sipping her coffee, "he guzzles the damn stuff. Surprised he can stay still with all that caffeine in him."
Will smiled. He took another drink before putting his mug down. It was quite difficult to ask, mainly because he knew how sharp Beverly was, but he gave in eventually. It had been four days since he'd seen Hannibal, what with conflicting work schedules, Will having to stay home with the dogs and Hannibal staying home with Abigail while she settled in. Will wouldn't have thought it was possible to miss someone in only four days, but he was finding out the hard way that it was.
"So," he said, "I hope Hannibal isn't stepping on too many toes."
"Actually no," Beverly said, shaking her head, "he's fine. He likes to correct Price, seems to revel in that actually, but other than that he's good. Different, but definitely a help. You were right, we needed his perspective."
"Jack said it was my idea?" Will asked in surprise.
"No," Beverly said, smiling, "but I guessed it wasn't his. He likes Lecter, sure, but his team is his team. He doesn't seem the type to actively look for interlopers."
"Mmm," Will agreed while he took another swallow of coffee, "I guess you're right. I'm just glad you didn't agree with Oversights."
"What, that you killed Bressinden because he said you cheated at a test?" Beverly said smiled, raising her eyebrows, "Will, you might say crazy things sometimes but that doesn't make you crazy."
"No?" Will asked.
"Really no," Beverly said, "I mean I'll admit you're a subject of a lot of speculation at the bureau."
"Speculation about what?" Will asked as if he didn't know.
"That Jack pushed you right up to the edge and now you're pushing yourself over," she said, "but I don't know, maybe you've found something to haul you back. You don't seem as fragile as before."
There was a moment's silence in which Beverly took a bite of her sandwich, looked disappointed but then chewed and swallowed anyway. Will drank his coffee and was glad for the reprieve when it didn't seem that she expected him to talk. His mind had been so very full lately, overrun with hooves and feathers, that he was beginning to think Jack's words were a universal truth: 'You've made it bad enough that people are willing to believe you could, without hesitation'.
He found himself actively anticipating his session with Hannibal the next day. There was a need to regurgitate, to spill out all of the inside thoughts clogging up his brain. Their last had been a week ago and had not been particularly successful as far as Will was concerned. Too much hesitation on his part.
He found he had been staring into the space just over Beverly's right shoulder as he thought. When he fazed back into reality she was watching him with a small, cunning smile. He frowned, reflexively returning the smile.
"Something on my face?" he asked, touching the skin next to his mouth.
"I was just wondering," Beverly said as she shook her head to answer his question, "who the lucky woman is."
"The lucky woman..?" Will asked, confused.
"Yeah," Beverly said, finishing her coffee, "the one who's obviously managed to haul you back from the edge."
Will nearly choked on his next mouthful, instead spitting most of it back into the cup. Beverly was laughing with a pleasant, surprised sound, her hand over her mouth as Will mopped at a stray splash on his trousers with a napkin.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her words elongated with laughter, "I didn't think you'd mind me-I'm sorry."
"It's alright," Will said, shaking his head and waving off her apology, "just...took me unawares."
"Honestly Will," she said, unable to smother her smile, "you've got it bad, huh?"
"I guess," Will agreed vaguely, thinking back to his earlier musings on he and Hannibal's growing closeness, "I would ask how you knew..." Will started but wasn't sure where the rest of the sentence should go.
"Oh come on," Beverly said, shaking her head, "you look like you're getting real sleep, you've swapped that nasty aftershave for something expensive and you actually smile without having it dragged out of you. I'd think I was slipping if I didn't realise you were getting laid."
Will ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. It was that obvious, was it? Hannibal had bought him the aftershave, insisted that if he was to kiss Will that his nostrils not be assaulted by the 'ship on a bottle' every time he wanted to do so. Only Will hadn't realised just how much he'd changed if others were picking him up on it. He swallowed, unsure how to reply. He wasn't built for these kinds of casual conversations about such intimate things. He hoped that he could wriggle out of it without making too much of a fool of himself.
"Well, I'm glad," she said, "seems you took my advice with someone at least."
"Found someone I can talk to you mean?" Will said with a half smile, "I suppose."
"Does she like food?" Beverly asked, seeming to realise how asinine her question sounded and elaborating, "Nice food, I mean. Fancy."
"Yes, I suppose," Will said cautiously, unsure where this was going.
"Then you should come round for dinner some night, bring her with you," she said, leaning back in her chair, "you've never met Nigel, have you? My fiancé? He's a chef. Always dying to try out new creations but I have terrible taste. He's always badgering me to bring someone from work, but Brian and Jimmy are always busy and Jack, well, I'd rather not bother the boss right now. So, what do you say?"
Will hoped he didn't look as much like a deer in the headlights as he felt. He wet his lips, took a deep breath and let it out silently as his eyes roamed the surrounding area, jittery. Fucking hell, he thought, when the heck did I become the sort of person that gets asked over for dinner? Will was used to being the shy, vaguely sinister man that people avoided being in a room with alone. Not the man people chose to introduce to their fiancés. What the heck had Hannibal done to him? he thought giddily.
Beverly was eating her sandwich when he looked at her again. He wasn't sure what to say, feeling out of his depth. As usual, his mouth ran away with him to inappropriate places in these sorts of situations.
"It's not a woman," he blurted out, feeling like an idiot when Beverly stopped chewing for a few seconds to stare at him before continuing.
"Really? Wow," she said, "I wouldn't have called that. Does he eat meat? Nigel makes a mean pork tenderloin."
"I..." Will hesitated, unsure how to react to Beverly's lack of reaction, "actually yeah, he does."
"Then come over on, umm," she looked up to the right as she counted off on her fingers, "Tuesday, yeah. Nigel's off, I'm on a half, we'll make a night of it and you can save me from his whining when I tell him the pork tastes like pork."
"Ok," Will said, feeling like a man tying himself to the tracks, "I'll ask him."
"Great," Beverly said, continuing her sandwich and looking pleased with herself.
When he pulled up to the house the front door was wide open and there was dirt on the steps. Will walked inside, carefully stepping around the trail of soil, and felt suddenly worried that something had happened. Hannibal would surely never tolerate such a messy display, and in his front hall no less.
"Hannibal?" he called out; no reply, "Abigail?"
"Yeah?" came a reply from behind him.
Will turned to find Abigail walking into the house with an armful of green, leafy vegetables dripping soil from their roots onto the immaculate floor. Will stared at her, blinking.
"Hi," he said, taking stock of the sight; she walked past him and into the kitchen, where he followed her; the counter offered a further display of cabbage, cauliflower and three sticks of rhubarb, "does Hannibal know you're doing this?" he asked cautiously.
"He asked me to get them," she said a touch defensively, "something about dinner for tonight."
"Ok," Will nodded, "did he also tell you where the broom was?"
"I'm going to clean it up," she said brusquely, "I just thought I should get everything in first."
"Yeah, of course," Will couldn't stop the smile, "sorry, it's just I can imagine his head exploding if he saw all this," Will gestured to the floor, the counter and then generally to Abigail's dirt covered clothes.
He was glad when she smiled a little sheepishly in return. For a moment he'd thought she wasn't happy to see him. Like he'd intruded. Will walked to the utility cupboard just outside the kitchen and found an array of ridiculously spotless and immaculate cleaning supplies.
"Is he in, by the way?" Will asked as Abigail washed her hands and face in the bathroom.
"No, he went out to get some ingredients," Abigail shouted through.
"Oh," Will said, feeling a little put out.
He looked down at his watch; ten past three. It wasn't like Hannibal to be late for an appointment. Still, he supposed the man was probably a little preoccupied, what with his new houseguest. Will set about sweeping the dirt back out of the door and down the steps and into the small hedgerows. He was glad to find that Abigail had made a decent job of cleaning up the kitchen, even if he knew Hannibal would still find some way to make it cleaner on his return.
Will had found himself helping Abigail wash and prepare vegetables. It was a pleasantly systematic thing to do and Will enjoyed the fresh, spritzing, green smell in the air as the vegetables were rent and washed. He and Abigail talked briefly but, and he was glad for it, they seemed to fall into a comfortable silence after a couple of minutes. Like she was glad he was there. The thought made Will feel a lot better than he realised it would.
They were almost done by the time they heard the sound of the Bentley crunching up the gravel driveway. The front door opened and closed softly and Will looked up to find Hannibal standing in the kitchen doorway holding three well wrapped greaseproof packets tied with string. The man appeared to enjoy watching the scene before him, as Will pulled the leaves off of the cabbage and put them into the food waste bin and Abigail separated the baby spinach leaves from the older, tougher ones. Will appraised his outfit, a light, sandy suit jacket over a faun sweater with shirt collar peeking out from beneath; his hair matched the casual feel, not swept back in its usual elegance, but left in a soft fall down over his left eyebrow. For a moment Will had to resist the habitual urge to greet the man with a touch considering Abigail was by the sink happily washing leaves. The feeling was almost worryingly instinctive.
"Hey," Will said instead with a small smile.
"Hello Will," Hannibal said, as he walked into kitchen, opening the fridge, placing his parcels inside, "apologies for my lateness, I was detained."
"Been to the butcher?" Will asked.
"He took his time getting me the right cut," Hannibal said, smiling at Will as he stood back up from the fridge, closing the door, "although I did appreciate the effort. The loin blade cut of pork is a particular art. Abigail, I hope you did not take too much from the garden?"
"No," she said, looking up eventually.
Now that Will could look at the situation obliquely, there was an odd air of tension in the kitchen, one that he hadn't noticed at first as it had been overridden by his own anticipation. Abigail moved over to allow Will to wash his hands, passing him the hand towel.
"Thanks," he said, suddenly feeling as if his comfortable silence had become a little prickly.
"Shall we adjourn, Will?" Hannibal said as he inspected the vegetables on the counter, running his finger over the worktop and frowning at the brown dirt he found there, "I do not want to keep you waiting too long, and the pork will need to roast. You are staying for dinner, yes?"
"Sure," Will nodded, hesitant on how familiar to be; of course Will was staying for dinner, when had Hannibal ever asked and not just assumed? The only factor he could think of causing this odd rift was the girl by the sink counting leaves. He put his hand on Abigail's shoulder as he walked past, her eyes looking up to his in surprise, "you'll be ok finishing this off on your own, kiddo?"
"Yeah," she said, her smile somewhat stronger than before, even as her eyes were drolly unimpressed, "and I'm eighteen in two months, Will, I'm not a kid."
"Right," he said, smiling, "sorry. You're all kids to us old timers."
She let out a short laugh as he walked over to join Hannibal, cut short he thought as she turned back to her task. By the time he entered Hannibal's consulting room he felt he was a thick mess of confusion, exhaustion and nerves. The room tended to have the effect of encouraging his inner secrets to spill out, only today he felt he had too many things weighing on his mind.
"Would you prefer to take a seat?" Hannibal asked as Will continued to stand at an indeterminate point, hovering between the door, the desk and his usual chair.
"I..." Will shook his head, "I just...has something happened between you and Abigail?"
"Nothing but a meeting of wills," Hannibal said after a short pause.
"Did you have a fight?" Will asked, unable to imagine what Hannibal Lecter having an argument would even look like; he was amazed that the thought actually scared him on some level.
"She is an obstinate child," Hannibal said, obviously unwilling to go into specifics, "and I feel that coddling her will only compound the issue. It is dealt with, Will. No need to worry yourself."
"Not worried," Will shrugged, "I just want to make sure she's alright. She's been through enough and...god, I don't know. I just want you both to be happy, I guess."
"And we will be," Hannibal said, walking over to Will when he seemed to realise that Will wasn't in the mood to sit, "all three of us."
Will felt his shoulders physically relax under Hannibal's touch, starting at his shoulder and trailing down his arm. Hannibal, he had found, did not like to mix business with pleasure, probably to do with his distaste for the unethical combination of patient and lover that Will presented to him, so the touch was a rare concession. Will thought he must look as tense as he felt if Hannibal was deigning to console him. Will allowed himself to lean into the touch.
"Is there something bothering you, Will?"
"Just a lot on my mind," Will said, keeping his eyes on Hannibal's chest.
"Then perhaps you would like to sit," Hannibal suggested, "and tell me about it."
The session was terse at first. Will felt clenched, like a fist holding something precious, unwilling to let go. It was only through endlessly patient and expert coaxing that Lecter was able to bring him down from his tightly wound state. Not that the topics chosen were designed to put him at ease.
"You must understand, Will," Hannibal said, "that if we are to get to the root of your psychosis, I need you to go places you do not wish to visit."
"I know," Will said, hands clasped before him, "not that it helps."
"One can only invite help if they are willing to share."
"Is it possible to share when you feel so...isolated?" Will chose the word and then felt bitter about being so truthful.
"There is nothing more isolating than a mental illness," Hannibal pointed out, watching Will for a reaction he did not give; Hannibal looked to his right for a moment, allowing Will a reprieve of eyes upon eyes, "perhaps staying in the frame of the present is unhelpful; maybe it would be prudent to regress."
"Going to ask me to tell you about my mother?" Will asked dryly.
"Actually I was thinking of something more relevant," Lecter said, making Will feel as if he should be raising hackles he didn't have for lost family, "a child's first becomings are always potent. When did you first realise it Will? Your unwanted gift?"
He knew what he was being asked, driven home by Lecter's previous warning of treading into dark areas. Will bit at the inside of his lip and ground the flesh between his teeth. Hannibal always knew where to look in order to gain the most luscious of traumas. Should he lie? Will wondered. What would be the point? He had sworn to himself he was going to get better. If he was going to be any sort of father to Abigail, he would have to face up to the worst parts of himself at some point, pacing in their cage.
"Ten," Will said, "I was ten," Hannibal did not comment, merely allowed Will to continue at his own pace; the courtesy was appreciated. Will cleared his throat, "I had to go into hospital for vaccinations because I was never in school long enough to catch them there. We ended up in North Carolina for a few months and dad got some money together. He was always worried about my health so...anyway. I was given all three over a course of four weeks, by a nurse. Her name was Irene Gettler."
"You have a good memory for names," Hannibal commented purposefully.
"She isn't exactly someone to forget easily."
The memory of that hospital smell, the white sheet hanging from the ceiling, and blood and shocked eyes was always clear and crisp when he looked for it. Not that he did, hadn't in a long time. Will wet his lips, desperate to get this over and done with.
"She was a bad nurse," Will said, lips twisting wryly, "didn't exactly have the caring cause in her personality. I think she enjoyed seeing pain. Turned out afterwards that she was a bit of a sadist, lots of patients complained."
"Did she hurt you, Will?" Hannibal's dispassionate voice only highlighted the rather disassociated state Will was forcing himself into in order to relate the story at all.
"Yes," Will said softly, "she liked to miss the vein. Three or four times. I felt like a pin cushion after every visit. One time she bruised my wrist holding me still."
"You did not tell anyone?" Hannibal asked.
"I didn't feel like it was..." Will took a deep breath, "dad said it was supposed to hurt, getting injections. I didn't think it was wrong, but I, well...I think I figured it out before I even knew I had. I felt myself wondering, after a while, what it would feel like to have that satisfaction. She always seemed so prim and proper but her eyes lit up whenever she saw me behind that white curtain. I think I was fascinated, even though she horrified me.
"The last visit I didn't give her the joy," Will said, rubbing at his wrist absently, "wouldn't react. She broke the needle off under my skin, accidentally she told the doctor."
A long silence. Will felt his wrist again, as if expecting the skin to hurt. Eventually Hannibal spoke up.
"What was your response?" he asked.
"I stabbed her in the face with a nine gauge hypodermic needle," Will said bluntly.
"You knew the gauge?" Hannibal asked, the smallest of quirks to the corner of his lips.
"It was a big needle."
"I see," Hannibal said, not reacting beyond his response.
"You think it was natural, don't you," Will shook his head, "a human response to pain and a need to fight back? That's what the doctor thought. What the social worker thought."
"But not what you thought," Hannibal surmised.
"No," Will said quietly; he took a deep breath, looking down at his hands, "I remember wanting to know how it would feel to cause that pain, and whether I would feel the same as she did."
"And did you, Will?"
"No," Will shook his head, "but then I'm not a sadist. What scared me most was that I understood it. I could see it. I could even feel it, if I allowed myself to."
"Would you allow such a thing?" Hannibal looked curious.
"No..." Will shook his head and swallowed, "...not really. Only a few times," he finally admitted, "But it was a powerful sort of fear that came with it. When I was in high school, we'd just moved to Georgia, one of the local meatheads took a disliking to me. I think his girlfriend liked me or something idiotic like that, not that I even knew, or cared. He came after me one night, got me behind the bike shed when I'd gone to cycle home. I broke his arm in three places.
"And the feeling, it came back. That thin, hot wiry feeling when he screamed, like pleasure only tighter. I think that's what scared me the most. At the time I didn't know it was just associated memory. At the time I thought maybe I was going mad."
"Did you tell anyone about these feelings?" Hannibal asked.
"I didn't want to be any more different than I already was," Will shook his head to answer Hannibal's question, "I've learned to compartmentalise, to stop my associations bleeding into my personal space. It's taken a long time but I have managed to stop one biting at the other."
"And do they bite, Will?"
"Yes," Will said, rubbing at his face, "association is feisty. It wants to share and I can't let it."
A short pause in which Will began to chew at his thumb nail then felt self conscious at the telling action and stopped. Hannibal wrote something down in his leather notebook and Will looked out of the window, wondering what it might be.
"Well," Hannibal said finally, "at least now I understand your fear of needles."
"Ha," Will let out a short laugh, smothering his derisive smile with incredulity, "that's all you have to say?"
"Would you like more?" Hannibal asked, "Would you like me to tell you that you appear to be resisting and suppressing natural urges and curiosities?"
"I really wouldn't," Will said, pressing his lips into a tight line, "no."
"Then, perhaps you would allow me to suggest something else instead?"
Will did not agree right away. At first he thought that Hannibal was being purposefully facetious, but once he'd tripped himself down from the angry reaction, he decided the man was probably trying to put him at ease. He nodded slowly, watching Hannibal's every move as he walked to his desk and opened a drawer. Will tensed when the man pulled out a plastic vial, tourniquet and needle pointed sheath.
"If association is all that drives these unwanted thoughts," Hannibal said as he walked to Will's chair, hunkering down next to him; Will watched him like a fly watches a spider crawl closer, "then it should be possible to overwrite them."
"What do you mean?" Will asked, feeling as if he should be shifting back in his chair.
"I need a fresh sample anyway," Hannibal said as he undid the tourniquet, "you're due for a test. Roll up your sleeve."
"Hannibal, that's not a good idea," Will said, irritated, "I think you're simplifying things that shouldn't be simplified. Again."
"It is only a needle, Will," Hannibal said, looking straight into his eyes, "and it is important that you understand that."
"Tell that to the last person who tried to take my blood," Will said icily.
"Oh?" Hannibal smiled, making Will want to push him away, "how many broken bones this time?"
"Just the one," Will said tightly.
"Jaw?"
"Nose."
"I see," Hannibal said, "well, then I will have to trust my reflexes, in case I am overestimating your ability to compartmentalise."
"Really, Hannibal, I don't want to do this. It's not going to help."
"Do you trust me Will?"
The question seemed incongruous but, on closer inspection, Will knew why he was being asked. He swallowed. The dream fluttered at the edge of his memory, do you trust me Will? It was one thing to tell himself how much he trusted Hannibal, quite another to tell the man himself. Will took a deep breath and looked straight forwards.
"Yes," he said, "but that's not the point."
"Or perhaps that is exactly the point," Hannibal said, watching with curiosity as Will began rolling up his sleeve regardless of his protests, "you associate your experience with someone you implicitly mistrusted, someone into whose twisted psyche you were able to dip your young fingers. Did the tar stick Will? I believe it did. I think, if I may posit a therapy, that a new association would benefit you greatly," Will lifted his arm as the tourniquet was fitted and tightened, flexing his hand from fist to palm, "Allow you to remove the need to compartmentalise at all."
Will frowned, watching Hannibal closely.
"I told you," he said, feeling as if he was somehow having to plead his case; sight of the needle was making him feel ill, "I didn't want the feeling it just...crept up on me. I was just a kid, Hannibal."
"The most delicate of developmental stages," Hannibal said, picking up the needle; Will tensed, both at the action and the implication of Hannibal's words, "I need you to keep your eyes on mine Will."
"This is a bad idea," Will shook his head, his breathing speeding up.
"Calm yourself, look at me," Hannibal said softly, scraping Will's hectic gaze back to his calm face, "I need you to look at me."
The old, familiar scratch of the needle was like an injection of adrenaline into his veins. Will could hear his heart thudding in his chest, feel his world crush smaller, whiter, smell the disinfectant and feel a cold hand around his wrist. Stay here with me, do not look back. He watched Hannibal's mouth move but could only just hear the words. Stop screaming, it's not that bad, another said, terse and annoyed, stupid brat. A white curtain and a jolt of feeling, sickening in his gut, twisting.
Just pull it out, just pull it out and see how she likes it, yeah, see how she likes it. Stupid bitch, stupid fucking bitch won't be so happy with a needle in her eye, will she. Likes it when they squirm, don't you, like it when they strain away but there's nowhere to go. They need you but you hate them, you hate them even though you need them. Will, look at me. Can feel the fluid going in, could feel the fluid rushing out, wanted nothing more than to scream, did nothing more than reach out and grab the nearest thing to hand and reach up, desperate to see...
The hand around his arm pulled him back to reality. Will blinked his eyes and found his face wet, his arm raised in a fist, shaking and straining under Hannibal's tight grip. The man barely seemed to register the tense, shaking arm in his grip as he held it with his left hand, keeping it at bay, while he filled the plastic vial through the ven-flow with the other. Will could feel himself shaking, his muscles taught, his breath sticking in his throat, unable to pull back from the need coursing through him.
"Don't fight against it Will," Hannibal's voice was so calm, so soothing, "don't fight against yourself," he detached the vial but left the needle inside, making Will shake, "you can't allow yourself to be two halves. Embrace what you need to be whole."
"Don't..." he whispered, breathless, "I can't."
"You can control it," Hannibal said, lowering the now weak arm in his grip as Will lost the impetus to fight, the vicious thoughts still coursing through his mind; Hannibal lifted his right hand and brushed the tears from Will's left cheek with his thumb, "I can show you how. No need to tear yourself apart. It is a piece of you as much as your eyes, you hands, your open heart. Accept yourself Will, it is the only way you will ever be free of this loathing you have for your associations."
"I have to keep the walls up," he shook his head, closing his eyes, his mind shaking with a heady cocktail of resentment and apprehension, "you don't understand..."
"You must allow yourself to be safe in your feelings," Hannibal said, taking his hand away from Will's face so as to tape a small puff of cotton wool over his abused vein, removing the needle with a quick pull, "if you continue to let them bite at each other, you will never be at peace. There must be a meeting point."
His shoulders shook. Will stared at Hannibal with hard eyes until the man frowned. He made to get up, a hand reaching out to stop him.
"Take your fucking hand off of me," Will said coldly, so much so that he barely recognised himself.
Hannibal did not stop him as he stood, walking stiffly from the study, wiping roughly at his face. He walked out into the hall and then realised he wasn't sure where he was going. A noise from above made him look up. Abigail looked down from the top of the stairs, over the banister, her face cautious. She pushed her hair behind her ear.
"Is everything ok?" she asked, "I heard you shouting."
"Everything's fine," he said looking back down, his eyes level; I was shouting? he thought, I don't remember.
He walked to the bathroom without another word, closing and locking the door behind him. The water was cold against his face, the skin heated and sensitive. Will rubbed his hands over the curves of his eyes, the length of his nose, down to trip off the stubble on his chin. He looked into the mirror and thought he saw a familiar stare there; only not his own. He leaned forwards, hands on the sides of the sink, and gazed into the blue there. Flat, mirror-like. Will wanted to see. You always see. His heart raced in his chest still, unable to slow its pace from the moment Hannibal had slid the needle into his skin.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there but the next he knew there was a knock on the door. Will stood silently, listening.
"Will?" Hannibal's voice, "Are you alright?"
"Yes," Will lied.
"May I come in?"
A surging want to hurt kiss savage touch had him flick the lock. Hannibal stepped inside smoothly, with no hurry, but with enough foresight to close the door. Will wondered absently, as he shoved the man roughly up against the wall and kissed him fiercely, if he had seen it in Will's eyes. Will thought he had been able to see it in them, that mirror slab reflecting everything and anything.
Hannibal held him lightly by his waist even when Will tasted blood. The flavour felt wrong, clashed with the action. He pulled back, wiping his mouth, and saw the small cut on Hannibal's curved upper lip. He stared, barely aware that his hands were shaking.
"Don't expect an apology," Will said, his voice rough, "you don't deserve it."
"No apology is necessary," Hannibal said, his grip on Will's waist tightening, "I do not do this for my own benefit."
"Could have fooled me," Will said, wanting to pull away but also wanting to remain close, pressed tightly against firm chest and thighs.
"I want only what is best for you Will," a hand appeared in Will's hair, brushing through the curls delicately; Will's mind wavered with every spiral pulled, "please understand I do not wish you any harm. Unlike Jack, I would push you higher rather than lower."
"But Jack doesn't know me like you do," Will said, "does he."
"No," Hannibal agreed, "he does not. Jack thinks of you as a fragile little teacup. To shatter at the slightest pressure, never to go back together again just right. I see you for what you are; the mongoose that goes beneath the stairs when the snake slithers by. You are no one's fool, dear Will."
For a moment he thought he might leave. Twinging in his fingers, a need to be alone. An instinct to be alone. Will closed his eyes. His instincts had always relied on being alone. Only he wasn't alone now. How to handle that? He wasn't sure.
Will rested on the knife's edge and felt himself tip, for better or for worse, forwards into Hannibal's arms. He rested his head against the man's neck, breathing in the faint scent of hot skin and musky cologne. Hands scoured deeply across his shirted back, up to his shoulder blades, holding him close.
"I won't be your fool either, Doctor Lecter," Will murmured.
"I would not dream of asking you to be so, Mister Graham," Hannibal replied, a smile in his voice.