Chapter 13
Le Plat Principal
The cold, hard lights of the city gave way to the encroaching darkness of the countryside. Buildings folded down, from high rises to suburban houses to industrial to nothing. At some point everything sank back into the wilderness, Will thought, enough that the untamed was never too far away. Civilisation seemed to be surrounded on all sides, constantly pushing back against its uncivilised borders. Building over the dust and dirt only seemed, to Will, like a coverall, concealer for irritated skin still itching underneath. He preferred the wilderness wild.
Will rested his head back against the car seat and licked at his lips, dried by the air conditioning. The headlights splayed out in front of them like ducks feet, jumping up over shadows and rocks as the wheels rolled.
"It seems you are not the only one with somewhere to hide away," Hannibal said as he slowed at an intersection, putting on his right indicator; it clicked softly as he checked the road.
"Some people just don't like city life," Will shrugged as Hannibal pulled out, "I know I don't. Too many voices all the time, too much noise and activity. It gets tiring."
"I understand the appeal of the countryside," Hannibal said, "but I myself enjoy the urban flow. I breathes life into that which otherwise would be nothing but a pretty backdrop."
"Yeah, but you like people," Will said as if the thought was distasteful, "take a left up here," Hannibal slowed, "no wait, the next one."
"I see it," Hannibal said, "and I do enjoy the fact that you wish to label me the socialite when it was you who accepted this invitation."
"I didn't mean to," Will said, realising how foolish that sounded and rephrasing, "it was an accident. She sprang it on me and I didn't want to turn her down."
"Really?" Hannibal asked with a small smile, seeming to enjoy watching Will when he was flustered, "you don't seem to have a problem doing so with anyone else."
"Yeah," Will rubbed at his face and sighed, "you're right, I know. I guess Beverly just...she's nice, and she doesn't care about gossip and rumours and, damn, any of that. She makes her own opinions. It's something to appreciate considering how everyone else behaves in that animal house."
"I agree, from my time working with her I find she is a most delightful and pragmatic woman," Hannibal said as they began driving up a long, narrow road with houses all along the left hand side, long low bungalows with a garden out front and driveways as delineating barriers, "do you have a number?"
"She's the one with the red door," Will said, scanning them, "she said it's the only one...there, second on the left."
There was already a car in the drive, Will recognised Beverly's blue sedan, so Hannibal parked on the street. It was an odd place, this tiny piece of society with its asphalt and its streetlights and its picket fences, placed in the centre of the vast, still darkness. There was no moon out but the flat expanse seemed visible to Will as he imagined it under the noonday sun; barren and brown, littered with scrub and foxes.
Comparatively, the house seemed like a Christmas tree beside a lump of coal; bright and gaudy. Yet Will enjoyed the welcoming package it presented. Something like a haven, only not as desperate.
"I understand that you have explained the situation, Will," Hannibal said as he looked up at the house and turned off the engine, "but I do hope it will not be a problem. I would hate to ruin the appetite."
"I told you, she knows now and that's enough," Will said, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching into the backseat for his coat and the bottle of wine Hannibal had chosen to bring; he remembered feeling incredibly embarrassed as Beverly had looked at him like he had two heads, "she said that she wouldn't say anything to Jack but if he asked..." he hesitated.
"I would not expect her to lie," Hannibal said.
"That's what I said," Will nodded stiffly.
A short, telling pause followed, which Will could tell Hannibal was analysing.
"I will not be offended," Hannibal said eventually, tipping his head slightly to the right, "if there is more."
Typical damn psychiatrist, Will thought wryly, always picking up on things left unsaid. He cleared his throat.
"Well," Will sat with his coat in his lap for a second, wondering how to phrase it, "she said she thought I was out of my mind because if Jack ever finds out we're both in serious shit, and that she never thought of me as the type to date my psychiatrist. Apparently it's tacky."
"An astute analysis," Hannibal said, even if he didn't seem entirely happy at Beverly's accuracy, "but I am not your psychiatrist."
"And I know that," Will said quickly when the other man looked, beneath his calm shell, as if he were searching for reasons to exonerate himself, "but it's not really that simple to everyone else."
He took a moment before deciding it was safe enough to lighten the mood. The last thing he wanted was to eat on a miserable stomach.
"She wasn't all negative," he said, opening the door and hating the chill that spilled in.
"Oh?" Hannibal enquired.
"She said that I was lucky to have bagged a man with manners who can cook and has a great ass," Will smirked, "apparently they tend not to go hand in hand."
"Ah," Hannibal's enigmatic smile returned, "then I am, as they say, quite a catch."
"As they say," Will said before getting out of the car, "and don't tell her I told you she said that."
It was chilly, the air crisp with the last of winter's grip, and Will pulled his coat on even though it was only a short walk to the front door. He scanned the street. The houses were neat in their row, long, dark tiled roofs and large bay windows facing a line of trees that blocked the view of the highway. They backed out onto what looked like a substantial forest of pines and alder, the leaves of the first row only just caught by the small pool of artificial light. A man made plantation of trees, Will thought as he looked at their regularity in the gloom, even as the branches reached out to create shaggy, wild shapes, distorting the neat order.
Hannibal waited for him before ringing the doorbell. Will jiggled on his feet, hands in his pockets.
"And you're not allowed to complain, alright?" Will said, hearing sounds from within.
"I beg your pardon?" Hannibal asked.
"If I like his food," Will said, "don't bring it up. I wasn't feeling well last week, alright."
"You appear to be under the misgiving that I resent you not eating the wonderful dinner I cooked for you on Wednesday," Hannibal said, making Will choke out a laugh, "something you appear to find amusing."
"Sorry," Will said, smiling broadly, "what can I say? You're so damn passive aggressive sometimes I can't help it."
As such, Beverly was greeted by a smiling Will and a colder than normal Hannibal Lecter when she opened the door.
Dinner was a stilted affair. The sting of the needle had stolen the appetite from his stomach. Will picked at his food, managing a few mouthfuls of spring greens in garlic and rosemary and a bite of his roasted cauliflower steak. He didn't touch his pork, something on which Lecter did not comment but Will could tell nettled the man.
"I saw orioles in the garden," Abigail said as the silence became pronounced.
"It is early for them," Lecter said, "good weather will surely follow."
"They're good luck," Will said, spearing a spinach leaf and biting the end off; he gave Abigail a small smile, "how many did you see?"
"Two," she said, "male and female. I think he was trying to dance but there wasn't much room on the fence. She didn't look impressed."
"Stubborn mates often aren't," Lecter said, slicing a thin strip of pork, "until they realise their folly."
The comment was so barbed that Will put his cutlery down and took a long drink of elderflower cordial to fill the need to snap a reply. Abigail looked a little confused but seemed to have picked up on the tension in the room. Will wished she wouldn't. The thought of her knowing about him, about Hannibal, about him and Hannibal and everything was enough to make his already sensitive stomach flip.
He placed his glass down. The sound of distant, running water tapped at his ears. He scratched at the back of his neck, the skin there irritated and slightly damp. The sound of cutlery kitting crockery nettled his ears. Will managed another mouthful before he had to excuse himself.
"I think someone left the tap on," Will said quietly before standing up and walking out of the room; he could feel Hannibal's eyes on him as he left.
The kitchen was silent and sterile, even with dirty dishes piled neatly waiting to be washed. Will walked to the sink and frowned. Not running, not even a drip. He reached out and tightened the faucets regardless, licking his lips and shaking his head. Must have been the hot water tank coming on, water running through the pipes. Will wiped his sweaty palms down the sides of his shirt and ignored his wayward thoughts.
"Are you feeling alright?"
He turned to find Hannibal walking into the kitchen, watching him calmly.
"Yeah," he lied, nodding even as his eyes slid away to the countertop, "just not hungry. Been feeling a little off since yesterday, my stomach..."
Will cleared his throat.
"Think I must be coming down with something," he said, rubbing at his jaw, "sorry about dinner. I'm not good company tonight. Think I'll just head home."
"You are warm," Hannibal said, after he closed the distance between them and touched the back of his hand to Will's forehead, "You are alright to drive?"
"Oh yeah," Will said, waving off the concern, "it's just a bug or something. Don't worry about it."
"I always do," Hannibal said, turning his hand to run his fingers down Will's face, taking the other man by surprise.
"Says the man who almost gave me a damn panic attack earlier today," Will countered, reaching up to removed Hannibal's hand.
'Panic attack', he knew, was a very understated description of the way he had felt an hour or so before. A full on dissociative state might have been closer to the truth. Remembering made his mind feel weak; Will stopped thinking about it. Still, despite his resentment of Hannibal's cruel-to-be-kind therapy, he continued to hold onto the man's wrist, unable to convince himself he didn't enjoy the feel of the smooth, even pulse under his fingertips. The rhythm was grounding.
"If you had informed me you were unwell, I would have revised such stressful treatment."
"Well..." Will was never sure what to say to Hannibal when he was so sincere, "I'll keep that in mind next time."
The wrist in his loose grasp twisted, pulling back until long, chill fingers slipped around his.
"Your hands are cold," Will said vaguely; he took a breath and looked up to find Hannibal watching him steadily, "I should get going. Your food will be freezing."
"Let me walk you to the door."
Will said a quick goodbye to Abigail, trying to smooth over the awkwardness his swift departure had left in its wake by keeping a smile on his face. He knew Abigail didn't buy it, not for a second, but he appreciated that she at least pretended to.
"I have your prescription," Hannibal said, handing him a small paper bag as they stood by the door.
"You don't need to keep getting these delivered you know," Will said, "I can just pick them up."
Hannibal did not grace the suggestion with a reply. Will shook his head fondly.
"I will see you tomorrow?" Hannibal asked as Will put the new pills into the briefcase he had brought with him.
"Yeah I...," Will said, running through his schedule quickly in his head, then stalling, "damn, wait, no I can't. It's assessment day tomorrow, shit how did I forget that? I'm down for running profile sims from twelve to five, then I'll need to go over the results with Greenway. He doesn't like leaving it, likes to get impressions while they're fresh."
"Perhaps another night then," Hannibal offered.
"I'd like that," Will said, licking his lips.
"And please do not stay working too late. If you are ill it will do you no good."
"Yes mother," Will couldn't help but tease, just to watch Hannibal's eyes narrow and chin lift with subtle indignance, "I have to go. Goodnight."
"Goodnight Will," Hannibal said.
It was habit more than anything, even if Will did take a small pleasure in the chaste press of lips on lips. They had fallen into it over the few weeks since their mutual attraction had been mutually acknowledged. Will would say goodnight and Hannibal would kiss him goodbye. A safe, foundational practice with a routine element which Will's obsessive mind appreciated; but only when the routine was undisturbed. It was the sound of cutlery hitting the hardwood floor that jerked them apart. Will turned to see Abigail hurriedly picking up her knife and fork and the few scraps of food that had slipped from her plate.
"Sorry," she said, flicking her eyes between them before hurrying to the kitchen.
Oh, Will thought, blinking rapidly, oh...fuck. Fucking god damn luck that never, ever lets up, does it. Will felt his insides knot up. He looked to Hannibal as the sounds of a sink being filled in the kitchen splashed against his calm. The man would have looked unconcerned to anyone else, but Will could see the small crinkle of annoyance at the edges of his eyes.
"It was inevitable," Hannibal said with a soft sigh, "I shall talk to her."
"This is just..." Will bit at his bottom lip before licking the abused flesh; he stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling unsure and the urge to leave increasingly urgent, "should I stay?"
"I believe it would be prudent to talk this through as a family," Hannibal said, "but not tonight. It will be simpler and less threatening if, initially, I talk to her alone."
"Threatening?" Will scoffed, even as he knew his worry was growing, "She won't resent this. She's nearly an adult, she knows how the world works. She's a smart kid, she wouldn't..." his words faded away.
"Everything will be well," Hannibal said, reaching out to place a steadying hand upon Will's shoulder.
"Right," Will swallowed; you have to trust someone, don't you? "ok, look just...just tell her I'm sorry."
"For what?" Hannibal frowned.
"For not telling her sooner," Will admitted, sighing deeply, "it was stupid. I..."
Another kiss silenced him. Will closed his eyes and allowed it for all of three seconds before fear of further reproach from Abigail pulled him away. He gave Hannibal an inscrutable stare.
"You know if I am ill," he said, needing to say anything but what he was thinking, "you're going to end up sick too."
"What can I say," Hannibal smiled, seeming glad that Will was not indulging in his neuroses, "four days is a long time to fast."
Will laughed softly, unable to stop his smile spreading. It was reassuring to know he hadn't been the only one counting days.
Light against water. Shining, curving. His father had taught him how to fish. Will had taught himself how to get away from his father's life. Scintillate: give off flashes of light; sparkle. Boatyard to boatyard, cleaning up after messes, doing the work when dad was too drunk to, then books and books and school and university and gone. Lambent: lit up or flickering with a soft glow. Two months after Will left Russell Graham was dead. Massive heart attack.
The river was a safe place, somewhere he could go to be at peace. Somewhere he could remember better times. Will smiled as he flicked the wire back, sailing up, over, curving through the air like a swan's neck.
"You have to do it like this," he said, showing her, "it's all in the wrist. Get the momentum going."
She stood with the flow rushing around her legs. The water broke into rivulets. She smiled, teeth flashing. The trees waved with her hair.
"It's different from hunting," she said, "but it's the same. You have to wait for the right moment, only here you don't get to choose."
"Choose what?" he asked as he stood behind her, looking down the river towards the bright sun, the water burbling and dancing; effervesce: 1. give off bubbles; fizzy 2. lively and enthusiastic. Abigail laughed and Will felt it as a thrill.
"Your target," another said.
Danger: the possibility of suffering harm or something unpleasant happening. Will turned to the bank. Hannibal stood, hands in pockets, looking downstream. Will stared at him.
"It's all the luck of the draw," Will said.
"I do not believe in luck," Hannibal replied, smiling.
The sound of water erupted: to break out suddenly, and Will turned to see: the act of understanding, Will, the act of knowing yourself. The fishing wire tensed as the victim thrashed. Birds gushed from the trees and the sky darkened with wings. As he watched the great stag reared from the water, struggling, braying with a scream, the wire tangled in its fine antlers.
"Abigail," Will said.
She grinned, tightening the reel, pulling in hooves and feathers closer as the stag thrashed and fought.
"Abigail," he said again, louder, panicking.
Closer, enough to feel the water against his skin, drip drip drip, and see the fear in the stag's eyes. It bleated out a cry, shifting to a deep, guttural groan.
"Let it go," he shouted, as the stag reared up before them, hooves pawing at the air over their heads, "no, don't!"
Everything fell still: moving 2. not fizzy 3. a state of deep calm. The stag snorted, its shaggy coat matted with water. Will stared into its eyes, dark, deeply black. It seemed to him, in that moment, inequitably sad.
He watched as Abigail reached up to feel the antlers, sliding her hands over the smooth, white bone. Will wanted her to stop, he couldn't stand to watch it as she looked to them both.
"Did I lure it right dad?" she asked hopefully.
"Yes Abigail," Will turned to see Hannibal smile, "you did."
Will wished, as he broke his way out from beneath his light duvet, that he'd managed to wake before the end of the dream. The image jarred against his mind, was there when he closed his eyes. He rushed them open, eyelids flickering fitfully. He knew he was breathing hard and reached up with his right hand, rubbing roughly at his chest, taking deep breaths to slow his convulsing lungs back to some state of normalcy.
The sound of a dog followed: yawning, then paws, then the softflump as one of his pack jumped onto the bed, obviously deciding it must be morning time if Will was awake. Will reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. When he turned back he was faced with Lenny, standing right in between his splayed legs, wagging his tail and sniffing at Will's knees. He checked the clock: five fourteen.
"Sorry Lenny," Will reached out with an unsteady hand and stroked the dog's head roughly, ruffling his ears, "it's too early bud. Go back to sleep. Come on, lie down."
He patted the bed to his left and Lenny instantly padded over, making the bed dip, and lay down on the empty side, curling up and then leaning heavily back against Will's side. Will ran his hand across his forehead and was almost confused, in his half awake state, to find a sheen of sweat there. Definitely coming down with something, he thought with a sigh. He lay back down, turned onto his side with the solid, warm weight of Lenny at his back.
Sleep did not come easy, no matter how long he lay there. Eventually, after another half an hour, Will struggled up and walked unsteadily to the shower. The spray was disconcerting against his face, hundreds of tiny needles against his skin. By the time he was dried and dressed, there was still another hour until his alarm even went off. Will scrubbed at the back of his neck and made himself a strong cup of coffee.
Will looked down at his palm and the small, white, round tablet stared back at him. It seemed alone without the usual host of others, the small 'five' stamped into its dusty surface was a hopeful number Will thought. I can deal with this, he told himself with an optimism he did not possess, I don't need it. It's just a crutch. Will stared at the pill and the pill stared back. As such, his optimism fell flat as he swallowed it and washed away the bitter taste from his tongue with hot coffee. The cup clacked at he put it down onto the side of the sink.
Looking up was difficult, more than it should have been. The mirror didn't mock him, it didn't point out the bags beneath his eyes or the slight slackness to his skin or the stubble that needed trimming. Instead it showed him the one thing he didn't want to see. Will wanted to lick his lips when he caught his own stare in the mirror but the action felt divorced, detached. The eyes stared back at him from the other side. He blinked but the feeling did not abate. The feeling that, even as he stared back down into the sink, those eyes still watched him.
Damn it, he thought. Damn it. Bring down the barriers, make peace with your demons, open the cage and let the prowling creatures out to paw around and slice open what they wished; Hannibal didn't know what he was asking of him. As brilliant as Will understood Lecter to be, he had seemed rather naive to him at that moment. Will didn't think the man truly understood what he was suggesting when he tried to put Will's 'association' and 'consciousness' in a room together. All Will knew, as he picked up his coffee, was that they couldn't stand side by side without blood being spilled between them. It was inevitable. It always was.
Drip drip drip.
Will checked the taps, tightening them even though no water flowed. He did not look to see if the eyes in the mirror were still watching him as he left the bathroom. He scratched the back of his neck, the skin itching, and purposefully ignored his problems. Right now, alone with all that dark fur brushing against his back and black feathers rubbing the edge of his vision, he knew he couldn't have dealt with them anyway.
The sound of dogs running around in the bedroom sounded far away as Will lay, staring upwards at the photograph he held above him. It didn't shake as he held it, didn't waver even as he tilted it away from the sunlight marring the shiny surface. He had known why he'd plucked it from the myriad of open cases on his coffee table, splayed out like insides ripped from the cases he was studying. He knew why but, in truth, knowing didn't help. In fact knowing made it worse.
Hannibal had told him to look. Will had resisted even though he knew it was a futile act. Then, sitting shaky in his living room as he poured over Wells and Budish just to take his mind away from the gloom he had found himself in, the Minnesota Shrike case had ended up in his hands. Then he'd opened it, then he'd fished out the crime scene photographs, then he'd been unable to look away. It was as he stared at the scene, vivid in red and grey, that he wished he hadn't brought it home at all.
Blood over linoleum, up over cabinets, down over table legs. A significant set of virulent sprays on the back wall, long spatter on the work surface. The scene of gore in the Hobbs' household looked sterile without the actors at their marks, without Abigail upon the floor gasping, without Garrett in the corner grinning through his last breaths.
Will bit at the inside of his lip and closed his eyes slowly; softly at first, then with greater force, the memory crept up on him. Steady hands, shouting of voices over pleading eyes, the hot, wet, metallic spray across his face and the hot, wet, metallic spurts through his shaking fingers.
Breathe in, breathe out, in, out, shaking, shaking breaths. Stronger, more experienced hands replaced his own. He stumbled back. See, hissed, you see. Triumph. Triumph as Hobbs' eyes dulled, his grinning jaw slackened while his daughter's blood widened and widened.
Triumph that she would live and he would die, and that Will would be the one to make it happen.
The phone rang, blurting out a shrill tone and vibrating against the wooden table. Will started badly, dropping the picture which fluttered down against his face. He batted it away frantically, thinking, for an absurd moment, that it would smear blood onto his cheeks. He sat up and pushed papers aside until he found the phone, moving across the table with every ring.
"Graham," he answered automatically.
"Hey Will," a low, feathery voice said, "it's Janet from the fifth floor."
'Janet from the fifth floor', Will's go to for information, had an unfortunate voice for someone who worked at the F.B.I. and spent most of her time phoning people. Will thought she sounded like a mimicry of a phone sex line.
"Janet, hey, yeah," Will said, trying to make his voice sound less robotic.
"Thought I'd call as you're not in today but something came up," she said, "you still after the info on Wells?"
"Yes, yes I am," scrabbling for an unused bit of paper on his messy coffee table, Will felt the stirrings of memory turn to hooves pawing in his chest, "what can you give me?"
"Well, all close family members are definitely deceased," Janet said, "wife, kids, first cousins, aunts...you get the picture. Took me a while to push through into the next layer, the records are sketchy, but it looks like Wells had a second cousin, Frank Thomas, who owns a garage and towing service out in Elkridge, not far from Montgomery Woods."
"You are," Will said slowly as he wrote, "an angel Janet Parker."
"Yeah, I get that a lot," Janet said, but Will could hear the smile in her voice, "here's the address. 6969 Montgomery Road, do you need the telephone?"
"No, the address is fine," Will said, scribbling, "thanks for calling me."
"Not a problem," Janet said before hanging up peremptorily as she always did.
The picture was face down on the floor when Will put the phone in his pocket, a white square against the golden floorboards. Will reached down and picked it up but didn't turn it over. Instead he stuffed it into the pile of papers on his desk and irrationally wiped his fingers on his trousers afterwards.
He showered, trimmed his stubble and tried to make himself look presentable. Will pulled at his hair as he dried it, making the curls extend out to hair that would've almost reached his chin if it had been straight. You need to keep on top of yourself Graham, he thought, shaking his head and letting the loose curl bounce back. No sinking down now.
Winston ran through the living room as Will sat eating a hasty lunch, chased by Pugsley, grunting out his breaths like an asthmatic steam train. He watched fondly as the small pug danced around Winston's legs while the other dog lifted his tail and ears and pawed back. He was glad Winston had opened up, become part of the pack. When he'd first brought the dog home he was reticent, shy and only seemed to want to follow Will around like a shadow. Now he was as boisterous as any dog ought to be, as far as Will was concerned.
"Guess we're both making progress, huh?" Will said as Winston danced past him on trotting paws.
Thoughts of progress led to thoughts of Abigail, the girl not far from his mind after reminiscences of Hobbs. Since her discovery of he and Hannibal's relationship Will had been unable to get the notion from his mind that he was going to be abandoned again. He knew it was mainly an irrational fear, one which Hannibal himself had pulled him up on what seemed like a long time ago now. Do you ever feel abandoned Will? Lecter had asked him. He hadn't known how to reply other than to deny it, even if the truth of his fear was obvious to anyone who looked closely enough, in his family past, in his nature, in his obsession with strays.
Abigail was an extension of that, he knew. A want to protect something he felt he had marred, caused to become an abandoned girl in a hostile world of eyes and accusations. When his phone had chimed two nights before and he had read the text Will wasn't able to deny his relief.
All is well. Hannibal had brevity with words, which Will appreciated. He didn't need to know how or why, all he needed to know was that Abigail didn't hate him, resent him or blame him. He'd done enough to her as it was, he thought, all he wanted to do now was be a positive influence. As much as that was possible.
He wondered how long it would take her wounded life to heal, sewing wounds back together and hiding scars. Will licked egg yolk from his lip, wiping at his chin with a piece of kitchen roll. He knew Jack was still on the hunt, still looking into Hobbs' journeys, where he had picked up his victims, his daughter's twisted doppelgangers. He hated that it was still a threat to his life, a threat to the stability he had created and the peace they were all slowly finding for themselves. Yet more than that he hated that, in the logical, strategic, blunt part of himself, he could follow Crawford's workings and see past them. See Abigail as the lure, see her as the fish sees the bobbing feathers on the water's surface.
No, he thought sternly, no. Abigail was a victim of Hobbs as much as he was. She needed his help, not his indictment. He doubted she had even been out of the house since she arrived at Hannibal's door, and for him the back garden didn't count.
He pulled out his phone, dialling quickly before he changed his mind.
"Doctor Lecter speaking," Hannibal answered, tone professionally cool.
"Hey, it's me," Will said.
"Ah, Will," an instant change, a warmth entering Lecter's tone which Will appreciated more than he'd ever let Hannibal know, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Actually, I'm just about to head out, got a lot to do today, and was wondering if Abigail would like to dog-sit," Will said, "if she wants to I mean."
"I don't see why not," Hannibal said, although Will could hear a very subtle note of resistance in the man's voice, "I will find her and you can ask her yourself."
The sound of the receiver clunking against wood. Hannibal must have been in his office, Will thought as he heard smart footsteps retreating across floorboards and a door opening. He scratched at his face while he waited for Abigail, the skin tingling slightly under his nails. After another minute he heard the phone being picked up.
"Hi," she said and Will, searching her tone desperately, could hear nothing in it.
"Hey squirt," he said because he knew she good naturedly disliked his pet names, "how's it going?"
"Alright," she said, "just reading."
"Been doing that a lot this week huh?" Will asked.
"I guess," Abigail sighed, "it's kind of cold here. Didn't feel like gardening."
"Well, it's cold here too but how'd you feel about watching the dogs for me while I'm out?" Will managed to get past the small talk and ask.
"Really?" it was difficult to miss her enthusiasm, "Yeah! I mean yes, I'd love to."
"Good, I'm glad," Will smiled, "they always give me the eyes whenever I leave them on their own. Think they'd like having someone around. Look, I have to go in about twenty minutes but I'll leave the key under the doormat ok?"
"Ok," she said, "I'll go ask Hannibal if he can take me."
"Put him back on for a second would you?"
"Right."
Will couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The edge of the upturned picture on the coffee table, nothing but a white corner sticking out like a knife point, didn't seem quite so vitriolic as before. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, with enough people around him willing to accept him for who he was, there would be a way for him to live with the cage open.
"I expect I am fetching my car keys," Hannibal said when he returned to the phone.
"Thanks," Will said softly, "you're doing us both a favour, really."
"You are a difficult man to refuse," Hannibal said.
"Takes one to know one," Will teased.
"Very true."
Again that warmth seeped through Hannibal's words, enough to have Will's somewhat loose mouth run away with him. After remembering and worrying and thinking and falling-back-into and pills and sweat and waking too early and everything...Will couldn't help but say it.
"You know I love you, right?"
"Of course," Hannibal with no hesitation, his tone devoid of surprise at Will's confession, "I would have been most disappointed if, by now, my feelings were not returned."
"Good," Will said, feeling a familiar flush creep up his neck, "just checking."
"I will see you soon."
"Actually I won't be here when you drop Abigail off," Will said, "but I'll see you when you come pick her up?"
"I look forward to it."
"Ah don't start," Will said diffidently, unable to stop the short laugh that escaped, "I have to go."
"Goodbye, dear Will."
"Bye."
Elkridge was a quiet neighbourhood, all lawns and sprinklers Will thought as he turned off of the I-95 and into suburbia. It was low down, no tall buildings marring the landscape, deciduous trees lining the smaller streets, their still bare branches now heavy with buds waiting to blossom.
Thomas and Son's Auto Repair blended in with the pleasantry as a surprisingly clean and well kept garage, unlike most Will had seen. He pulled up and parked to the side of the building, passing an open frontage showing two men working inside on a car jacked up off its wheels. Will took his glasses off before getting out of the car; he'd found, in his younger days, that labouring men had always responded better to him without them.
The grass was tall around the garage and there was a stack of tyres up the side with an upside-down lawnmower slotted inside. Will felt for his badge and then his gun on instinct. He shouldn't be here, but he was. Jack didn't need to know.
"Hey, what can I do you for?" a large man with ornery black hair looked up as Will approached; he was tall, about six ten Will calculated, and broad across the shoulders; Will couldn't help but feel small.
"I'm looking for Frank Thomas," Will said.
"Yeah?" the man said, "What for?"
"About hiring a tow truck."
"Frank doesn't hire out the truck," another man on the far side of the car stood up; a forgettable face, brown hair over pudgy cheeks, young but also old enough to know better.
"Get back to your work Earl," the tall man said sternly, making Earl duck back under the car, "sorry, we don't hire out the truck. One got totalled a few months back and now we only have one left. Can't spare it."
"I understand," Will said, fishing in his pocket; he pulled out his badge, opening it for the man to see, "but I'm afraid I still have to talk to him about hiring a tow truck."
The tall man didn't react, just took in a deep breath which he didn't noticeably expel. He turned to the younger boy. He flipped the large wrench in his hand as if it were nothing but a butter knife.
"Earl, go inside and tell Frank there's someone from the F.B.I. here to see him."
"The F.B.I?" Earl said in what Will could believe would be a voice that wore thin on your nerves rather quickly.
"How many times do I have to tell you to stop repeating everything I say?" the tall man bit out, making Earl hurry off; he turned back to Will, "I guess you should go inside."
He didn't give any directions so Will chose the door he had seen Earl go through. Inside offered up a corridor just as clean as the work floor but dated by its mint green paint and wiry grey carpet. A prefab office, smelling of engine oil and hot metal with an underlying current of desperate, sickly air freshener. There was a pin-board on the wall with receipts, sign-in sheets and torn out pictures of naked women; just bodies, no heads. Will walked around the corner to his right, following the sound of voices, and found a partly open door. He knocked and Earl appeared, looking flustered.
"Frank says to go in."
So Will did. Not that he got very far. Frank Thomas, Will found quickly as the tall, older, lanky man sat behind his chipped desk in his chipboard office, had the Wells family stare even if he was a second cousin. Will found he couldn't match it, his eyes staying firmly on the man's shoulder as he spoke and tried his best to read the man's stony facial expressions.
"I haven't seen Lawrence Wells since my aunt Josleen's funeral seven years ago," Frank said when Will pressed once more, "and even that was just to say condolences. We aren't close."
"You don't have to be close to lend someone a truck," Will said, "you just have to be family."
"I haven't seen him and I didn't give him my truck," Frank said a little louder, "I lost my last one to my son Benny, drove the damn thing into a tree four months ago. I have the paperwork. I don't have the option of giving the other one out, even if it is family who's asking."
"I'll need to take the paperwork for both trucks," Will said, knowing he was getting nowhere talking, "mandatory checks."
"You got a warrant?" Frank said instantly, not doing anything for Will's confidence in him; as far as Will was concerned the man was too blunt and tightly wound not to be hiding something.
"If you don't want to volunteer the information," Will said, "then I can come back with one. Only that tends to make judges a mite twitchy."
Silence. Frank rubbed his index fingers and thumbs together, staring at Will even as Will avoided it.
"You got a problem with eyes son?" he asked bluntly.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Will said, forcing his eyes to meet Frank's stare; Frank Thomas was obviously a confrontational man, Will knew he couldn't back down.
"Yeah," he said, standing up, seeming overly tall in the small office, "thought so. Here," he opened the top drawer of a grey filling cabinet, ruffling through the folders before he pulled out a heavily stuffed poly pocket, "will you send the original's back?"
"Of course," Will said, taking it when it was offered, "if everything checks out."
"Don't see why it wouldn't," Frank shrugged, "good day Agent Graham."
Will didn't correct him. He was just glad no one seemed to have noticed that his F.B.I. ID didn't say agent at all. He left with the packet under his arm. It wasn't much of a victory, that he knew. Having the details of the truck would only help if someone had seen it that night in the area where the totem had been raised. A weak lead but then with Frank Thomas's familial ties to Wells, and if they could match the tyres it was possible a judge would give them a warrant to impound the vehicle and test the paint.
Will had his hand on his car door when he was stopped.
"Hey," a low voice hissed; Will looked up, trying not to look as startled as he felt, to see a man in his early thirties, blue overalls stained with grease, beckoning him from the back of the garage; Will looked behind him to make sure he wasn't misunderstanding, but he was the only one there. He wasn't sure if it was a bad idea or not, more than aware that he'd come alone, but he walked to the man regardless.
"You're from the F.B.I.?," the man, on closer inspection, bore a heavy resemblance to Frank Thomas; same long, gaunt face, same tapered eyes. A son, Will assumed.
"I am," Will said.
"You were asking about the truck?" he asked.
"That's right" refusing to give too much.
"The old man said he didn't give it out, I guess," the man asked, letting out a sharp sound when Will nodded.
"Well he's a lying sack of shit," the man said, surprising Will with the sudden vitriol; he stopped, looking around them suspiciously before continuing, "about a month ago two men came to the shop late and dad handed over the keys."
"You're sure it was two men?" Will felt his blood race.
"Yeah," the man said, "I didn't get a good look at them but...yeah. One was older, walked a bit unsteady. The other was tall, looked out of place, you know."
"Out of place?"
"Yeah, like he was too refined to be behind the wheel of a tow truck."
"But you didn't see either of them, not clearly?"
"No," the man said, sounding less passionate than before, "just from the window of the office. It was late, dark, the front lights were off. Sorry."
"No, don't be," Will shook his head, his mind racing, "you've been a great help."
"Well, I ain't got no loyalty to him," the man shrugged down into his shoulders, looking solemn, "he told you Benny trashed the last truck?"
Will nodded, frowning. He guessed this son had been eavesdropping on their conversation.
"Yeah well Benny wasn't driving," he said, "but he died anyway. My dad's got a lot of shit on his plate that he needs to answer for. If you need anything, you ask me yeah? Harold Thomas."
"Right," Will said, not sure what to say other than, "thanks."
Closer and closer, Will thought as he pulled out of Thomas and Son's Auto Repair, and closer still. The shadow of the Copycat was taking shape for the first time since he had decided the kills Jack had brought him in to investigate weren't the Chesapeake Ripper. The thrill of the chase made him tap his fingers on the wheel as he drove.
It was half six by the time he arrived home, hoping Abigail had eaten the macaroni cheese he'd left her in the fridge in case he couldn't get back in time for dinner. He'd ended up at Quantico, passing over all the information to Beverly who, in turn, gave him some information back. She and Zeller had been looking into his investigation of the wounds on Budish and were almost ninety nine percent sure, as she put it, that the wounds on Bressinden were made by the same blade; a scalpel. He'd thanked her, even if the thought made Will uneasy.
A scalpel. The Ripper's territory. He turned up the long, uneven road to his house and drove carefully in the dark. Will didn't like coincidences and a scalpel wasn't a common choice of murder weapon. It took skill, finesse. The missing lungs of Cassie Boyle and theatrical staging of her body had been what drove Jack to seek him out; the Ripper's calling card. Only Will hadn't seen the Ripper in Cassie, or Marissa or any of the other unclaimed kills so far. Instead he had seen someone else, a copier, a cipher, who only recently had begun to take shape in his mind. Now, with the missing tongue of David Bressinden and the inclusion of the Ripper's signature scalpel, insinuating surgical training, Will was beginning to wonder if the Copycat was truly honouring the design of the killers he emulated, or if he was perhaps trying to catch the eye of one very specific man.
Will jerked up the handbrake and sat for a moment, looking at his well lit house in the growing darkness. It had been twenty one months since the Ripper had left them a corpse. A long time for a fan to go without something to worship, Will thought. Was that the Copycat's idea perhaps? Lure the Ripper out with tributes? Lure him out with curiosity? Will tapped his fingers against the steering wheel again and frowned. Something didn't sit well with that. What was it he had said to Hannibal of the Copycat honouring Hobbs' kills? That seems too servile. It was true. There was something in the Copycat which spoke of independence, the audacity of his kills and the only recently unearthed intimacy of their staging making it difficult for Will to see him as a man with something to prove.
The Copycat was a sleek shadow, now outlined in refinement and purpose. He didn't take orders from others and the only eye he was trying to catch, as far as Will could tell, was that of the F.B.I. and the media. He liked to be seen while not being seen, but his menageries were not for the delectation of another. They were too personal. He liked to share with others, Wells, Budish, but only in as much as he could elevate their base kills to something otherworldly.
Will walked to the house with his hands in his pockets, purposefully banishing the thoughts from his mind. The last thing he needed was to have the Copycat in his head while he talked to Abigail. The thought made him feel wrong.
"Hey!" she greeted him when he knocked on the door, surrounded by pawing feet and Winston's high pitched whines, "I was just going to take them out."
"It's a bit dark to go on your own," Will admonished, even when she rolled her eyes, "come on, I'll go with you."
He called Hannibal to let him know he was home.
"I am just finishing dinner with a colleague," Hannibal told him, "I will be an hour or so."
So he and Abigail took the dogs out around the house for a stint in the long grass while the last of the light paled from the sky. She didn't say much but Will felt she was more animated than he'd seen her in weeks. She seemed to feel a sense of freedom here that she hadn't had at Port haven, or even at Hannibal's home. Will thought it could perhaps just be the remembrance of her own youth, walking the wilds with her father, which perhaps made her feel a little more settled. It wasn't a comforting thought, with his dream slithering around in the background.
"You hungry?" he asked when they returned and she helped put out dinner for the dogs.
"Starving now," she said.
"You should have said," he shook his head, "I'll stick dinner on. I'm sure you're used to gourmet fare now, but I'm afraid all I can offer is mac and cheese."
"Suits me fine," she said, laughing as buster jumped up at the bowl she was holding.
They ate on the couch with the TV on. It had been ten minutes into Arsenic and Old Lace when Will had flicked on the set, so he left it. He enjoyed hearing Abigail laugh.
"Can't believe you've never seen this," Will said, laughing as Cary Grant did a double take at what was hiding in the window box, "it's a classic."
"Didn't watch many movies," Abigail said, "had lots of books though. There was never a shortage of books."
"Books are good too," Will said, "but it's difficult to share a book the way you share a movie. You must get on with Hannibal like a house on fire, I don't think he's ever seen a movie in his..."
"I don't mind about you and Hannibal," she said suddenly, making Will do a double take of his own; there was a pause while she fussed with the blanket in her lap and seemed to think about what she wanted to say, "I don't know if he told you but...I don't mind. I thought I should say."
"I..." Will hesitated, thrown by the drastic change in conversation, "well I'm glad. We...we didn't mean to hurt you, we were just a little unsure."
"I don't mind," she said again, looking at him determinedly, "you're lucky. I'm happy you've found someone who loves you."
"Oh," Will smiled involuntarily, feeling embarrassed and awkward, "well, thanks kiddo," there was an uncertain element left hanging in the air; Will wasn't sure but he thought it might be resentment, "there's someone for everyone I guess, huh?"
"Not for mom," she said offhandedly, making Will feel as if he'd been sucker punched.
He looked back to the television. The silence was broken as the TV speakers blared while Teddy blew his bugle and screamed 'charge!', bellowing up the stairs. A flash of memory: Mrs. Hobbs on the doorstep, dead eyes staring upwards, blood pooling around her cold hands. Will pushed his hands against the sofa cover.
"Sorry," Abigail said eventually, "I shouldn't have brought it up."
"No," Will shook his head, "you're right. I am lucky."
He sat forwards, clasping his hands, so he didn't have to see her while he thought. Blood and blood and the thick smell of gunpowder in the air, bang! bang! bang!, loud and down and gone. Maybe if you'd been there five minutes earlier she'd still have a mother. Fucking crazy, you're fucking crazy Graham, why do you always say the same stupid shit over and over again? You get love and she gets to watch on, but you keep her, keep her, keep her safe from yourself.
"Are you ok?" Abigail asked.
"...Yeah," he lied, blinking; Will rubbed at his eyes, "I'm sorry I couldn't be better at this."
"Don't be so hard on yourself," she said, bringing her feet up onto the sofa and curling up, her head moving down to the arm, "it's my fault anyway, isn't it?"
"What?" Will said, looking to her, "No, don't think that, don't ever think that, ok?"
"Dad did it because he couldn't let me go right?" she asked; he could see the sheen on her eyes from the light of the television.
"Your dad did what he did because he was insane, Abigail," Will said, reaching out to take her hand; she didn't pull away, "and you had nothing to do with that."
She didn't say anything, just closed her fingers around his. Her hand was warm.
"Is it easy?" she asked, "Being in love?"
"...I don't know," Will said after a pause, refusing to lie, "I wouldn't say I'm an expert. I guess you have to figure that out for yourself. But..." he said as she looked away, pulling her gaze back, "whatever happens, whatever comes, we're here for you, yeah? We're not going anywhere."
She smiled, barely but it was there. Will was counting it as a win. She swallowed conspicuously.
"Thanks," she said softly.
"Anytime, kiddo."
He got up to make some tea. When he returned he found Pugsley and Buster sitting to Abigail's left and right, curled up asleep. Will sat back down, careful of Buster's tail and felt his shoulders relax. The knock at the door only confused him because he hadn't heard the car approach.
"My apologies for making you wait," Hannibal said as Will ushered him in, "it is difficult to get Chilton to leave once he is entrenched."
"Don't worry about it, we've been fine," Will said, deciding to omit he and Abigail's talk, tagging on, "and you had Chilton for dinner again?"
"He was looking for guidance," Hannibal said, stripping off his heavy coat and lighter under jacket, "I am not one to refuse a person in need of help."
"Well, you're a better man than I am," Will said, which seemed to amuse Hannibal to no end, "want to join us? The film's still got half an hour."
"Will."
Lecter had a way with intonation in the same way he had a way with brevity. When he wished to be arresting, he was arresting. Will turned back from the door.
"What?" he asked quietly, "Is everything ok?"
"May we go somewhere a bit more private?" Hannibal asked, nodding to the open door that led through to the living room where Abigail could be heard laughing softly.
When the bedroom door shut it was with an audible snap. Will turned on the bedside lamp and Hannibal hovered by the window. There was an air of stillness in the room, juxtaposed to the constant noise of the evening, whether it had been the dogs barking, the oven whirring or the television chattering. The silence disquieted him.
"Are you going to tell me what's wrong or do I have to guess?" Will asked.
"The morning I found you in the snow," Hannibal began; Will thought it sounded like the start to a fairy tale, "you told me that if anything happened which deserved your attention, I was to tell you. No secrets, I suppose was your meaning."
"Yeah," Will said cautiously, "I remember."
"Two nights ago Abigail confessed to me that she was complicit in her father's crimes," Hannibal said so easily it was almost perfunctory.
The silence returned. Will looked at Hannibal, and Hannibal looked back, face calm. Will licked his lips and rubbed his fingers to the side of his mouth.
"Sorry..." he stopped, almost cutting the 'y' off the end, "two days ago? She told you..."
No. No, this wasn't it. This wasn't what he had wanted. Why did he ask? Why on earth had he asked, no told Hannibal tell him if anything important like this happened again? Dear god, why had he said it?
"Oh," he said, mainly because too many words were fighting in his throat but he couldn't let any of them out.
He felt the bed beneath him and then realised he'd sat down more than he'd made a conscious effort to. It seemed like the silence had taken on a surreal quality. Were they really here? Wasn't it too quiet here to be somewhere real? The bed dipped as Hannibal sat down next to him, cold fingers sliding against his own, curling, tightening.
"Your hands are cold," Will said; his voice was blank.
"Will," Hannibal said, this time his tone opting for comfort, "do not blame her."
"How can you ask me..." he stopped, unwilling to believe what was being said.
"She was not a killer then, she is not a killer now," Hannibal reaffirmed, "you know she is not. She did as she did to survive."
"Don't," Will said steadily, "god don't. She can't...you're sure?" Hannibal nodded once, "Fuck this is crazy. This is nuts. You're making them sound like sacrifices. Abigail couldn't, she's just a kid."
It's not the first time you've seen children kill, his conscience reminded him harshly.
"You see her as a victim," Hannibal rationalised, "that is how you cope with what she has done. She is still that victim, Will, she is still the product of Garrett Jacob Hobbs' obsession."
He heard the words but could not listen to them. Will felt suddenly lost, roughly opposed to the confidence he'd had only minutes before.
"She knew," Will said as, without his consent, his mind began placing all the pieces together, "Jesus she lured those girls," he felt his hand against his mouth, rubbing at his lips roughly, "fuck. Fuck. Did she cut them? Did she? Did she honour them Hannibal? Huh? Did she pull them apart and fix the damn plumbing with them?"
"Please, do not elaborate until I give you all the details," Hannibal said reasonably.
"Don't be reasonable," Will stood, feeling his nervous energy spilling out into his voice, "don't you dare be reasonable about this. Two days? Christ Hannibal, how could you keep this to yourself for...god. Oh god, Jack. Jack's going to figure this out."
"There is a threat," Hannibal agreed, seemingly glad Will had shifted his focus to something more pressing.
"If she was the lure then she'll have been with him," Will said, mind ticking over double time, "train tickets, bus tickets, cinema tickets; wherever they chose to hunt. People will have seen them together, Abigail and the girls and her father. She isn't safe. Jack'll figure this out, he's thorough and he smells it on her. He knew what she'd done even before..."
Even before I did. Will couldn't say it because, on some level, he knew that it was a lie. His intuition had tried to tell him. His intuition had tried to scream at him but he had ignored it because he hadn't wanted it, hadn't wanted to believe it. Hannibal was right, he wanted to see her as a victim of her father, just as he wanted to see himself in the same light. They were both products of Garret Jacob Hobbs' violence. He'd taken their innocence with a sick smile and a whispering voice.
And now they were just grubby children in the mud, parentless and squalling, marred. Will felt his hands shaking.
Oh god, Will thought, I didn't want her to be like me. If Hannibal had become his rock, Abigail had become his conscience. Will detested the thought of her being just as irreparably broken as he was.
A soft touch against the dip between his shoulder blades. Will didn't react. The touch travelled to a shoulder. Hannibal stood in his line of vision, fingers in Will's hair as he pulled him close. He couldn't help but lean into the touch, even as his spine resisted, remaining tersely straight. Hannibal seemed too calm next to Will's raging mind.
"What will you do?" Hannibal asked him.
"Don't ask me," Will said, his mind churning; his own words came back to him, said to Abigail with such conviction that he knew he'd meant them: whatever comes, we're here for you.
"I must," the hand at his shoulder snaked to the small of his back, while the hand in his hair slipped down to the nape of his neck, "both you and Abigail are most precious to me. I doubt I could stand to lose either of you."
"Yet you can stand our guilt," Will said, shifting himself out of the hold; he watched Hannibal, unable to calm himself at the thought, his skin itching, "no, not stand, you fucking revel in it."
"Will..." Hannibal's eyes had sharpened.
"Is that what this is?" he asked, voice raising; a dog started to bark from the next room, insistent and yapping, "We fall and then we fall further, and you're there waiting at the bottom? You can't forgive us, Hannibal, that's not how it works!"
"You are being difficult," Lecter said, "there is no need to be so."
"Difficult?" Will said in disbelief, the barking beginning to nip at his thin calm, "Fucking difficult, are you insane? You tell me 'all is well' while everything is falling apart and now you're trying to say it's my fault for flying off the handle? She's not innocent, neither of us are, we both deserve what we damn well get and you can't stop that."
"Would you even let me try?" Hannibal asked.
"What does that mean?" Will asked, shaking his head defiantly; scratching began to accompany the barking, claws against wood, "What are you talking about? Don't screw with me, I don't think I could take it. Christ! Would someone shut that dog up!"
The door was hauled open to reveal nothing but air. Will pushed his head out into the dim corridor but nothing was there. A scampering of paws pulled his eyes back to the right and Will walked out of the room before he could stop himself. The barking started up again outside.
"Did you let the dogs out?" Will asked, voice hard, as he walked through the living room.
"No," Abigail shook her head, looking pensive; Will wondered, guiltily, if she'd heard them shouting.
Will unlocked the front door, walked out and pulled it to behind him. The moon was only a half circle in the clear sky, small but bright amid hundreds of stars all jostling for space. The landscape looked bleak beneath its pale glow. He listened intently at first, then hopefully, then, as the sound refused to present itself, desolately.
Nothing. There was nothing there. Will hugged his arms around himself, feeling the bitter night air seep into his fingers, down the back of his shirt, cooling his heated skin. This isn't happening, he pleaded with himself. I don't need drugs, I'm not fucking mad, I don't need a psychiatrist, I don't need to be looked at like I've made it bad enough that people are willing to believe you could. Look at me like I think it's right, like I think the killing is right, that I could see the beauty in it, the detail, the painstaking art of it, god I can't think straight.
Will felt himself shaking as the door opened and closed behind him.
"Please, come inside."
"I can't," his voice was barely there.
"You can," Hannibal said, walking to his side but not touching; no comforting hands or warm words, just calm logic, "you merely need time to think."
"Why do you always ask too much of me?" Will reached up to run both his hands across his scalp, gripping his hair, unable to let go.
"Because I know you are capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for," Hannibal said.
"That's not true," Will said, tensing, "it's not. I'll break, won't I, just like Jack thinks. If you keep pushing me I'll snap, then what good will I be to anyone?"
"Perhaps you choose the wrong words," Hannibal said, looking at Will with that distant hunger, "perhaps you will not break. Perhaps you will, instead, be free."
"I don't know," Will shook his head, letting his hands fall, "god, I don't know."
The night let out a keening yowl. Will's head snapped up.
"You hear that?" he asked hopefully.
"Hear what?" Hannibal asked, looking out into the dark where Will's eyes searched.
"...nothing," Will breathed out, "it's nothing."
Silence slipped back. Hannibal shifted on his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. Will thought he saw the curtains move and wondered if Abigail was watching them.
"If you like, we can leave..." Hannibal said.
"No," Will said quickly, "I don't want you to."
"You are sure?"
"Yes I'm sure," Will said; the thought of being alone with the noises in his head was sickening, "I just...need time. I need to figure things out. I don't want you to go."
The hands returned. Will felt warm pulled against Hannibal's chest. Yet the feeling of strong arms around him chilled somewhere deep. Trapped. He let his head rest against a shoulder while warm words were poured into his ear.
"Then we will stay."
Morning did not roll around as a blinking alarm clock and a harsh beep. Instead morning rolled around as a pitching in his gut and stumbling feet, rushing half awake to the bathroom where he dropped to his knees by the toilet and vomited. Curling fingers clutched at his cramping stomach as he heaved. Nothing, nothing, then finally bile wretched up his oesophagus, burning.
Will sat back against the cold wall, shivering. He blinked his eyes and coughed. He pulled a swathe of toilet paper from the roll and blew his nose messily before crawling into the shower. He reached up and turned the faucet on slowly. It was bitterly cold as it began to pour, wetting his hair and night clothes. Will sat, arms around his knees, and breathed in, permeating his lungs with the smell of sick. He put his head back, catching the slowly warming water in his mouth, rinsing away the taste as much as he could. The bright light of the bathroom made him sneeze as he spat it out.
Getting up was tricky but he managed. He pushed up slowly, climbing the slippery, tiled wall, keeping his eyes on the water run floor. It was as he reached down to pull off his sodden t-shirt that strong hands appeared in his vision, gripping the hem and lifting it. Will allowed himself to be undressed and Hannibal to step into the shower beside him.
His boxers were slid down and kicked away. Will leaned against him as Hannibal lathered soap across his flushed skin and kneaded shampoo through his hair. Will stared down at the man's chest, the wet hair there flat against toned skin.
"Close your eyes," Hannibal said.
When Will complied Hannibal began rinsing the soap from his hair and skin, water pouring soap suds down over his face and neck. The night before, all heated words and insults and hate and confusion, seemed to have slid down the plughole with the rest. He tipped his head back down and breathed in. Hannibal held him upright without being asked to.
Will's hands moved almost of his own volition, reaching up to run slowly over Hannibal's sides, coming to rest against his hip bones. A hand returned to his hair, teasing the strands, shaking the shampoo loose before reaching down to touch his neck.
"This illness persists," Hannibal said softly, his words mixing with the rushing water.
Will didn't respond. He felt restless, his stomach empty but no longer twisting. He pressed his face against the wet nook of Hannibal's long neck, breathing in the faint hint of day old cologne. His hand slid around Lecter's hip, reaching through curled hair to press the flat of his palm against Hannibal's already half interested cock.
A short inhale of breath. Will slid his fingers around the flesh to grip while the hands on his skin moved down his back. Hannibal's lips bent down to kiss where his neck met his shoulder. Will let out a breath as he felt soap slicked fingers tease at him. He tightened his grip as Hannibal slid two fingers inside and crooked.
"God," he murmured, hissing as Hannibal pushed in further, twisting his hand.
"You are sure?"
"Yeah," Will murmured and tried to wake up, still half buried in a sleepy haze.
Hannibal kissed his forehead. Will muffled his moans against Hannibal's skin, twitching with every twist of fingers. When he felt ready he pressed their erections together and stroked the rigid flesh in tandem.
"Want me?" he asked breathily.
"An absurd question," Hannibal said, face flushed.
Will turned to press himself against the tiles, glad for the cold against his warm face even as the hot spray of water still beat against his back. He let Hannibal continue to prepare him, trying not to let it tip him over the precarious edge his fuzzed mind was wavering on. By the time he felt Lecter's rigid cock jerk inside of him he couldn't stop the grunt of pain or the sigh of pleasure.
"Shh," Hannibal soothed as he pulled Will tight against his chest, away from the tiled wall; a hand reached around to take hold of his erection, the other circled around the base of his neck just above his collarbone. Hannibal began to move slowly, pressing in fully before retreating, forcing Will's breaths out in strict huffs. Will stretched his head back, leaning against Hannibal's shoulder. Teeth found his exposed neck, scraping. Will shivered, his eyes closed.
"Fuck," he mumbled as Hannibal leaned in against him, pushing him forwards, and canted his hips; Will pressed his hands against the tiles and tried to push back against that hard heat but his control was slipping.
"Close?" Hannibal's voice was rough.
"Yes."
"Now?"
"Yes."
He came first, catching the cry in his throat, turning it into a guttural sigh. Long fingers continued to stroke as his shoulders shook, slow but persistent, until Will was forced to grab Hannibal's forearm and stop him before the sensation became unbearable, overwhelming.
"Don't," he breathed out as Hannibal continued to thrust, "it's too much."
"I like to see you lose control," Hannibal whispered, the jerking of his hips gaining momentum.
"Oh Christ," Will closed his eyes against the shapes dancing there; he felt Hannibal make to pull out, reaching back to grab his waist, "no, don't."
"I am..." Hannibal said urgently.
"I know," was all Will could say.
It wasn't something he'd ever experienced before, and he could not say that he found it entirely pleasant, but feeling Hannibal shiver against him, his muscles bunched tight as he crowded Will against the wall and came inside of him was something akin to a second ecstasy. Powerful arms held him bruisingly while a rush of words flowed past his ear, only one of which he caught: 'niekada' Hannibal said again and again as he buried his face in Will's sopping hair, until he became still.
Will bit back the sound of pain as Hannibal pulled away, hands still holding Will's hips. Hands washed him tenderly while Hannibal moved his nose through wet curls.
"Come back to bed?" Lecter asked.
"Yeah," Will mumbled, his head flinching up as he heard the phone ring from the next room, "just a minute."
The clock beside the phone read nine thirty. Will realised he'd slept through his alarm, picking up the phone and answering.
"Graham," he said, clearing his throat.
"We've got a situation," Jack's voice, hard, toneless.
"You need me in?" Will asked, catching Hannibal's stare.
"I need you to meet me on the road, I'll give you the location. Gideon's loose."
"What?"
"He was being transferred," Will could hear the sound of cars passing in the background, "apparently he was making to sue Chilton for bad therapy, making him think he was the Chesapeake Ripper. He killed two guards and the driver and left us a gift."
"I'm guessing it's something no-one wants," Will said.
"Not really," Jack sighed.
Will took down the address with a hand he realised was shaking slightly. He put down the pen as he put down the phone, clenching his fingers into a fist, out to a palm.
"I have to go," he said, picking up his towel to start drying himself vigorously.
"Something has happened?" Hannibal asked, moving to stand beside him.
"It's Gideon," Will said, "he escaped transfer. Fucking Chilton never takes damn security measures seriously," he added.
"I see," Hannibal nodded once, "then you must go."
"Yeah, he's already killed three of Chilton's staff," Will said; he looked at Hannibal, watching him as if it were simply a normal Sunday morning and Will was off to get the morning paper. Will put down his towel and reached up, pulling the man in for a soft kiss. Lecter opened his eyes slowly as they parted, "you'll take Abigail home and keep her inside, yeah?"
"Are we in danger?" Hannibal asked, though he seemed to find the concept amusing.
"The man thinks he's the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal," Will said with no trace of humour, "and he doesn't like psychiatrists."
"But he is not the Chesapeake Ripper," Hannibal said, "you said so yourself."
"He's not clever enough," Will shrugged, noting Hannibal's smile twitch higher, "but being and thinking are close enough for me. Just be careful alright?"
"As I have told you before," Hannibal said, "you are a difficult man to refuse, Will Graham."
"Can you feed the dogs for me?"
"Of course."
Will dried and dressed himself and, before he left, sneaked into the living room where he found Abigail asleep in the sleeping bag he had given her the night before. Pugsley was curled up by her knees, snoring. Will looked down at her face, half hidden beneath her hair and the puffy, red material. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss against her forehead before leaving.
The sleeping bag sat half unfurled from where Will had taken it from its bag. She had heard him shouting, she had known as soon as he tried to wish her goodnight. Words had flowed out of her like a river: he made me do it, he picked them and he made me. Mom never knew. They liked me, they trusted me and he killed them. Will held Abigail in his arms as she wept, her hands curled tightly into his jumper.
"I just wanted it to stop," she choked out around gulping tears, "I just wanted it to stop."
"It's alright," Will said, over and over again until he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Abigail or himself, "everything's going to be alright. I promise."
AN:
"niekada" translates out to 'never'
Also, if you haven't seen 'Arsenic and Old Lace' I highly recommend it, it's a hilarious film. And for those who have seen it you will understand why it is rather disturbing that Abigail could laugh at it at all...