The neon Coors sign flickers in and out on the wall above the booth, casting a blue-white glow over the three slightly hammered looking faces below.
"I heard he was was a product of human experimentation in the Soviet Union. Some kid they injected with snake DNA and tortured till he lost his mind."
"Nah, I heard he was ex-CIA, worked on MK-ULTRA."
"You're both barking up the wrong tree, gentlemen. He's some kind of Eastern European royalty."
"If he's so royal, why's he out there murdering chumps?"
"And if he's so Eastern European, what's he doing in America?"
"Had to flee the police over there, didn't he?"
"Well, I heard he was lost in the Amazon as a child, because he was on vacation with his parents and their plane crashed and he was the only survivor. I heard he was raised by a tribe of cannibals that had never even seen a white person before, and they taught him their ways."
"Then how come he speaks English?"
"He was rescued, obviously, but by then he'd already started liking the taste of humans."
"I heard he killed at least twenty more people than the FBI even knows about. Homeless guys, mainly, I heard. And get this - after he killed them he made them into soup and served it at a soup kitchen."
"That's a load of bull."
"Well anyway, I'm glad he's dead."
"Yeah, I'll believe it when I see a body. Till then he's just missing, and I don't know about you but that doesn't make me too comfortable. A guy wants to be able to have a drink and walk home without having to look over his shoulder too much."
"You really think he'd hang around here, if he did make it?"
"I've seen this guy, past few nights, wandering around down by the docks. Big tall guy, like he looks in the papers, always has his hood up, always skulking about down there."
"Probably just some bum."
"Well that's what I figured at first, too, but I caught a look at his face the other night as I was walking home from the bar. You know, last Tuesday when I beat Norm at pool three times?"
"You cheated on that last one. Don't think I didn't notice you nudging that eight-ball."
"Yeah, whatever, you owe me fifty bucks. Anyway, as I was saying, it was after that I was walking home, right? Passed the docks. And I see this guy, who's been lurking around for the past few days, and I figure he's some poor schmuck who found a safe place to sleep around there. But then he passes under a street light, and I see his face under the hood and it's him."
"No way."
"No I swear - he looked just like he does in the papers."
"You were drunk."
"Always are."
"If you want proof we can go down there right now. He's probably still creeping around, looking for his next victim."
"Uh, are you for real? You want us to go looking for the Chesapeake Ripper?"
"You too scared? Have you seen the reward for finding this guy."
"You could finally pay off all those gambling debts!"
"Hey, screw you, Norm. Do you guys want to go find him or what?"
"Well, I sure ain't chicken."
"I'll go, but just so I can watch you eat crow when this guy winds up being some poor homeless guy who spooked your drunk ass."
It's quiet by the docks, apart from the occasional soft slap of water on the hulls of the boats moored in the marina. The three men blunder drunkenly, too loud, too distractible. One stops to pee off the boardwalk with an exaggerated sigh of relief. Another shoves him, so that he stumbles against the railing and has to catch himself with his hands to avoid toppling over. He cusses, wheeling kill around. But the third man is shouting, pointing towards a tall shape, obscured by a dark cloak. Its moving towards them, and does not respond to their demands that it stop and reveal itself. Instead, it strides steadily on, growing closer, larger.
The three friends stand, frozen in place. Then one of the men moves, rushing to close the gap between them and the figure, fist drawn back. The other two grow bolder at the sight of their friend careening into danger, and hurry to help. Their fists rain blows, and it's over in a matter of minutes. The figure lies motionless, blood seeping, black and thick in the street light, in a pool around its grotesquely flattened hood. And all is still again.
Hannibal
Episode 2:
"Ghost of a Doubt"
Starring...
Mads Mikkelsen as Hannibal Lecter
Hugh Dancy as Will Graham
Caroline Dhavernas as Alana Bloom
Laurence Fishburne as Jack Crawford
Lara Jean Chorostecki as Freddie Lounds
Raul Esparza as Frederick Chilton
Recurring...
Gillian Anderson as Bedelia Du Maurier
Scott Thompson as Jimmy Price
Aaron Abrams as Brian Zeller
Nina Arianda as Molly Graham
And
Katharine Isabelle as Margot Verger
If Jack is surprised to see Alana walk through his office door, he's even more shocked when Molly enters the room behind her. For a moment he has a sinking feeling that they've come to pass judgment over him for his crimes, the two women who'd cared for Will and pleaded with Jack not to break him. Recklessly, Jack had ignored their entreaties, and driven Will right to the edge he flung himself off of.
Briefly, he sees the two women before him, not as they are, but robed and hooded, holding scales in one hand and swords in the other, preparing to weigh his heart against a feather and sentence him for the misdeeds he's orchestrated. Then he sees the pragmatic look in Alana's eyes, and knows that judgment isn't why they've come.
"I'm surprised to see you here," Jack says, speaking to both women at once. "Alana, are you sure it's...safe, for you to be here?"
"Jack," Alana greets him. "My safety, and my family's, is why I'm here." She looks at Molly, expression soft. "It's why we're both here."
"I'm so sorry," Jack says, looking to Molly but speaking to both of them again. "How you must hate me for putting him in this situation."
"I told him to go," Molly says. "I told him it was the right thing to do, to help you with the case. And beyond that, he made his own choices. But I do hate you, some, yeah."
"None of us currently have the luxury of giving into guilt or grudges," Alana says, before Jack can reply. "When this is over we can divvy out the blame, but for now we need to focus on fixing the mess, rather than on indicting someone for it."
He's grateful for the reprieve, even if the tone of Alana's voice tells him that some day they will sit down and talk out their sins. Both our sins, Jack thinks. She's contributed to the construction of their current predicament, even if Jack still holds himself primarily responsible.
"Very well," he answers. "How do you propose we go about fixing?"
Alana slips into the chair across from his desk, and Molly mirrors her. Jack, who's been looming over his desk, his weight resting on the knuckles of the closed fists he's placed on the desktop, sinks into his chair as well.
"We catch Will," Alana says, and he notes her verb choice. Not rescue, he thinks, not save. "If we have Will, Hannibal will come for him."
"If the FBI brings in Will Graham," Jack says, "he'll get the death penalty this time as a certainty. They both will." He pauses, watching a muscle in Molly's jaw work. "Hannibal weakened his insanity defense with that article he published refuting Chilton. Even if they can't retry him for his past crimes, he's committed enough in the twelve days since his escape for the court to hang him. And if we drag Will in kicking, screaming, biting - Alana, there's a real chance that Will could get killed, or kill an agent or police officer himself in a confrontation. He won't be able to claim coercion or abduction after that."
"We might find a psychoactive cocktail in his bloodstream," Alana notes.
"We might not."
"No," she agrees, "we probably won't. Capturing Will with a SWAT team would be tantamount to killing him ourselves, and probably a couple of innocent people besides. He can't be captured or held by any conventional methods without great risk to both himself and others. But that's not what I'm suggesting."
"What then?" Jack raises his eyebrows. He glances at Molly, already feeling dread creep up his spine.
"Hey," she says, raising her hand in a mocking half-wave, "that's where I come in."
"If you or I go to him, he'll run or fight. If we can catch Will off guard by presenting him with someone familiar but non-threatening, Jack," Alana rushes ahead, no doubt sensing his reluctance and hoping to quash it before it has time to fully develop into outright rejection, "we can get him unawares, sedate him, and take him back to the BSHCI without the FBI knowing until after we have him in custody." She smiles. "I know a top security cell that's currently available."
"And once we have him, we alert the FBI and call for guards, surround the place and wait for Hannibal to come running?"
"Exactly."
"You really expect him to do that? Rush right back into the cage he just escaped?"
"Under any other circumstances, probably not," Alana admits. "But I held him for three years, Jack. I watched him, studied him, learned him. For Will Graham, Hannibal will come rushing right back to the cage."
He sighs. "There are a lot of risks here. Not least to your safety and well being, Molly."
"I'm prepared for that," she says. "I'm not scared to take risks, when I choose them myself."
He doesn't tell her that she should be scared. "Have you thought about what will happen to Will once we have him in custody?"
Alana shifts in her seat, eyes and voice steady. "I believe he can be reasoned with," she says, "once we separate him from Hannibal."
This is something Jack desperately wants to believe, but he's not certain he trusts that Alana actually believes what she's saying. She's a shrewder person now than she was half a decade ago, and what she says doesn't always reveal the full truth of her mind anymore. Jack is certain Will's wife believes that he can still be saved, but she doesn't know him as well as Alana and Jack do. Still, he's willing to risk it. If they can trap Will, at the very least it may mean an end to the murders.
"We should act as soon as possible," Jack says. "They've killed once already, and it wasn't a random killing either. Will went for Clark Ingram - you remember, that guy we questioned after finding a dead woman sewn inside a horse?" Molly inhales sharply in alarm. He ignores her, pressing forward. "That was almost definitely Will's choice of prey. He was so upset when Ingram walked."
"The longer we leave him with Hannibal," Alana says, "the harder it will be to bring him back to himself."
"And there's another thing," Jack tells her. "The fear in this city is palpable, and growing daily, with the way Freddie Lounds is fanning the flames. She's got Chilton giving interviews and serving as a poorly disguised inside informant. People are scared, and scared people are foolish people. Last night, we responded to a report from three pickled vigilantes who claimed they'd apprehended Hannibal Lecter on the boardwalk by the docks. When law enforcement arrived they found these three halfwits posing for cellphone photos over a deaf homeless man they'd beaten to death."
"God," Molly breathes angrily.
"It's not the first false sighting," he continues, "we've been getting dozens of reports daily. Three people were injured this week in Ripper-related panics. One young man was sneaking back into his parents' house, after sneaking out to attend a party, and wound up with a bullet lodged in his left femur when his mother mistook him for Dr. Lecter arriving to harvest the family's entrails." Jack swallows, not liking what he's about to say. "And I worry about copy cats," he finally adds. "With the Ripper on the loose again, receiving this much media attention, the possibility is too high."
"It's not going to come to that," Alana assures him. "We can catch Will, if we can find him. And once we have him, we'll use him to draw Hannibal to us. And no one else will get hurt."
"That's uncharacteristically optimistic of you," Jack says. "It would seem the only thing left to put this plan into action is for me to find Will."
"Don't take too long," Alana says, rising. Molly stands as well, and moves for the door.
"Stay a moment, Alana," Jack calls after them. "I'd like a word with you alone."
A look passes between the two women, and then Alana shrugs, and Molly casts one confused and hurt look back at Jack before leaving. When the door has clicked closed behind her, Jack gets up and walks around the desk to stand closer to the doctor.
"We have got to stop using people as bait," he tells her, voice low. "Don't think it didn't occur to me to involve Molly Graham in this investigation. I just rejected the idea as unnecessarily cruel."
"Whereas I see her involvement as a necessary cruelty," Alana rejoins. "She's our best chance. You know it. You just don't want to get your hands any dirtier than they already are."
"I have enough blood on my hands," Jack agrees. "And so do you."
She shrugs again, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. He notices, sometimes, that she still isn't as steady as she was before her fall. She doesn't need a cane anymore, and the years of physical therapy have made her more than capable of performing the daily functions doctors had once warned her might never be possible again, due to the extent of her injuries. Still, despite the incredible extent of her recovery, he knows she's been wounded in ways that will never truly heal.
"You knew she was the way to go Jack," Alana says, meeting his eyes with a compassionless stare. "But you couldn't do what you knew you needed to in order to catch Will. That's why I came back, why I needed to come back. We need to catch him, Jack," she whispers, peering up at him imploringly.
He says nothing, because she's right, and there's nothing to say in response.
The news renders Fredrick Chilton momentarily speechless. The thought of Hannibal and Will arriving in her apartment while she slept, death in their hands, sends a cold stab of fear shooting through his body. That they left her alive sends him a different sort of thrill.
"They want us to keep talking," she says, voice fast and high with excitement. "They won't hurt me because they want the world to see the truth, now."
Fredrick would frown if he still had lips. His torso and limbs have begun to show improvement, thanks to the donor skin that's been grafted there. His body is stippled with latticed skin, flesh colored lace growing into the desiccated wreck he'd been when they wheeled him in. His face, however, is still a lipless, milky-eyed nightmare. Now that the medical staff attending to him believes he'll survive, they've brought in a plastic surgeon to begin reconstructing his face.
"And so we're playing right into their hands," he says, "doing exactly what they want us to."
"They're insane," Freddie points out, dismissing the accusation in his voice. "That they want to be exposed just gives further evidence to that fact. We'll help them reveal themselves, and they'll thank us by leaving us alive, and because of what we publish they'll be captured and brought to justice in due course." She sits back, looking satisfied. "Jack and his team can't defend Will Graham when he's leaving corpses covered in his fingerprints and DNA at a journalist's doorstop."
"Or in her living room," Fredrick says. "The thought of them lurking in your home while you sleep would give me hives if I still had enough of my own skin to produce them."
"Feeling protective?" She smiles, not unkindly. One upside to having been flayed: it's much more challenging to blush. "You don't need to worry about me."
"I suppose my worry would accomplish little, in any event," he concedes, "but let me serve as a living reminder to you, should you ever forget what they're capable of doing just for the hell of it."
She pats his hand, gently so as not to hurt the burned and patched skin. It's the first skin to skin touch he's felt since the Red Dragon clamped his hands over Fredrick's shoulders and his teeth over Fredrick's lips. No latex, no clinical physician's fingers, just casual human contact. She doesn't flinch at the smooth rawness of his flesh, either. He finds himself unable to speak.
"Your book," Freddie continues, her soft hand withdrawn now, resting in her lap again, "the one you wrote about Hannibal after he was captured, was instrumental in strengthening his insanity plea. I read it. It was an extremely compelling read."
"Thank you so much," he says.
"Yes, it conveyed to the public what a monster Hannibal is, convinced them of the need to contain him, even as it comforted them by giving to him a label that distances him from the rational and sane. It answered the question, How could anyone do what he's done? Only someone clinically insane would be capable."
"That was my intent," Fredrick answers.
"But I wonder," Freddie continues, carefully, "how much of it was true? I lived through the investigation. I was intimately involved in portions of it. And some of what I read in your account seemed...unfamiliar."
She is so clever and so good, Fredrick beams inwardly at her cunning. Beautiful, brazen girl, he thinks, nothing gets passed you. "Jack and Dr. Bloom encouraged certain factual inaccuracies," he confirms for her. "They felt it would be best if Hannibal Lecter was declared insane, and placed in their keeping."
"It's certainly worked out well for Dr. Bloom," Freddie says, "but what did Jack get out of it?"
"He got Will Graham," Fredrick answers with a clack. "He got a story that exonerated his pet psychopath. Something dark and sensational enough to drown out those murder husband headlines you were publishing."
"Good move," she smiles. "Want to tell the truth now?"
"If I expose myself as a fraud," he says, "why would anyone believe me a second time?"
"Because you willingly exposed yourself in order to expose the people who coerced you," she answers, "and because you're working with me now."
It's dark in the bedroom when Will wakes up, and the other side of the bed is empty. There's a thin slice of light leaking into the room from beneath the bathroom door and, on the other side of the door, the sound of water running. Will wakes to find himself curled on his side, one arm flung across the mattress, onto the cool sheets that still smell faintly of Hannibal.
Oh God. Back at the cabin he'd shared with Molly, Will had found it wasn't unusual for him to wake up with one arm around his wife, his chin nestled against her shoulder or against the top of her head. Please tell me I didn't unconsciously cuddle with the Chesapeake Ripper.
"Would you prefer to be awake for it?"
Will's head jerks upwards, eyes searching the darkness. He flicks on the lamp on the bedside table, blinking into the dim light until the figure sitting in the armchair he abandoned last night comes into focus.
"Shouldn't you be making yourself at home in some miserable corner of Hell?" Will rejoins, sneering at the ghost across from him.
"What makes you think that's not exactly what I'm doing right now?" Bedelia says.
"Doomed for all time to dispense counsel to the man who murdered you."
"You didn't murder me," she says, "Hannibal did. Do you feel guilty for the crimes he commits?"
Will always has, even before he knew it was Hannibal committing them. "You have no idea," he tells the memory of Bedelia he's imagining in the chair across from him.
"If you're going to feel guilty either way," she sighs, "you may as well participate. Not, I think, that you need any encouragement there." She raises one perfect pale eyebrow, and suddenly the eyes beneath them lose their blueness, becoming dark holes that Will still can't bear to meet for more than a second or two.
"I guess not," he agrees. "You practically told me to do it, in one of our last sessions. What else was that crushing baby birds analogy? There's no point feeling bitter that I bothered to take your advice."
"You are a bird I should have stepped on, instead of trying to help," she says. "The rest of us are sparrows and doves, gentle creatures, and he trains us to ignore our instincts to help rather than hurt. But you," her voice is low, full of emotion, "you are a different kind of bird."
"What am I, Bedelia?"
The ghost draws a deep breath, as if filling herself with the strength it will take to tell him. "You are a bird of prey who needs to be trained not to ignore its instinct to ravage and slay," she says, "a raptor whose natural inclination towards violence needs only to be honed, developed, and guided towards loyalty."
"Like a falconer would train his hawk," Will says, unsure how he feels about the metaphor. It's demeaning to be viewed as a belonging, as something dehumanized and trained to meet the needs of a master. But at the same time, there is something about the analogy that sends a subtle thrilling zipping along his spine.
"Like an austringer would train his hawk," Bedelia corrects. "Falconers train falcons."
The needless pedantry annoys him. "Whatever our relationship," he says, "I think we can both agree it's safer to be a hawk than a sparrow. Just look how all that gentleness and natural aversion to violence worked out for you."
"Do you think your fate will be so different?"
"You were a diversion," Will says. He lets the unspoken conclusion of his thought hang in the air between them. He doesn't have to say it out loud; she knows the difference between them. You were a diversion, but he loves me.
"You think you'll be able to live his lifestyle, then," she asks, after a brief silence. "You think you can become him?"
"Becoming him is what I've always feared," Will answers, "the fate against which I've fought so hard all these years. I thought I needed to save myself from it."
"You're not the one who needs saving anymore," she whispers, and her voice and image are lost, her ghost fleeing as the bathroom door opens and Hannibal enters the room. He's wearing a pair of fitted black slacks without a top, a few drops of water from the shower still clinging to the hair on his toned chest. He rubs a towel against his damp hair.
"Sleep well?" he asks.
"Great," Will says, trying to make sense of the conversation he'd just had with the ghost of their latest victim. He wondered if he had imagined it or if it had been real. Am I truly losing my mind? He looks away from Hannibal and stares at the painting of the Bridge of Sighs that hangs on the wall across from the bed. "You?"
"I always sleep well," Hannibal says. Will can hear the smirk in his voice, even if he's choosing not to look for visual confirmation. "There's a clean towel on the counter for you. I'll have breakfast ready when you're done."
Will hears a drawer being opened and shut, and the rustle of fabric. When Hannibal's steps lead him down the hallway and grow fainter, finally fading to nothing, Will at last dares to look away from the painting and looks back to the armchair that the ghost had been occupying. He releases the breath he's been holding once he sees that it's still empty.
He flips back the duvet, and the bedding releases Hannibal's scent in a burst of lavender and sage, with the sweet earthy scent of raw ambergris floating up last to flood his nostrils. Scent is tied to parts of the mind that access memories, and the memories that wash over Will now are as faceted and dark as the image of his face reflected in broken mirrors.
"Hey, Molly, got a minute?" Alana smiles a purposeful smile. She wills her face to express a casual, amicable warmth she hasn't felt in years. "How are you hanging in there?"
Molly breathes a shaky exhale, pausing in her mission to flatten out her dollar bill enough for the hot chocolate machine in the Quantico hallway to accept it and spit out a drink that will almost definitely be too hot and too sweet to drink more than half of. Alana can tell that the other woman likes her, and better than that, trusts her. She'll answer honestly. She hasn't yet learned to do anything else.
"I'm, you know...hanging," she says. "It's not easy."
"No, I imagine not," Alana replies. She hands Molly a crisp dollar bill and watches the other woman smile in thanks, then feed the dollar to the machine and punch a couple buttons. There's a chiming noise, and Molly reaches into her coat pocket to fish out her cell phone. Alana notices the lock screen is still a photo of Molly, Will, and Walter, the little family smiling big camera ready grins.
"I keep expecting it to be him, whenever my phone dings," Molly says, after reading the text and replacing her phone. "I suppose if it ever was him I'd need to tell you or Agent Crawford, wouldn't I? Or the police?"
"You would," Alana agrees. "That's probably one reason he hasn't texted you."
"He used to call me his pretty baseball wife," Molly says, voice and eyes distant. "When Wally's father passed, the grief was so huge I thought it would crush me for a time," Molly says, addressing the words to the flat circular surface of the styrofoam cup of hot chocolate now cradled in her hands. "We knew it was coming for a while, but even five months of warning isn't enough time to get used to the idea of losing the person you love, the person you built a life with, the father of your child. I met him on the school bus," she says, almost in a whisper.
"I'm so sorry," Alana says, her voice a careful study of compassion and sympathy, "you've had to endure so much."
"It taught me to value the days," Molly says, "gave me that hard-bought knowledge that time is luck. You relish every second of it. Then, when you lose something - someone - you don't have to worry about not having appreciated the moments you had with them; you know you were present and tuned in for every one."
"Does it make the loss easier?"
"Not really," Molly sighs, passing a hand over her face in a motion so similar to one of Will's that it unsettles Alana for an instant. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling."
"It's alright," Alana tells her, and means it. "You're mourning. It's natural."
"What about you? He was one of your close friends, wasn't he? How are you hanging in there? I feel selfish for not asking earlier."
"Don't," Alana tells her, smiling softly. She can see why Will was so drawn to this person, how he was able to find comfort with her. "I've mourned Will before. This isn't the first time. It gets a little easier."
"I only intend to do it once," Molly says. "And it's hard. With Wally's father," Alana notices that Molly never refers to her first husband by name, now, only as Wally's father; she wonders how the grieving widow will term Will in future conversations about her past, or if she'll own his presence in her life at all, "there was nothing anyone could do. He fought hard for a while, and then when the doctors told us it would be best to just make the most of the time left, we grieved together. I wasn't angry with him for leaving us. But Will," she sighs, "I've never felt this angry at a person before, and I don't like to feel angry. I thought, after Wally and I made it away from the cabin that horrible night, that I couldn't possibly be more angry - at Jack Crawford, at Will, at this person who'd never met me but sent someone to execute my son and I as casually as you might swat a fly. And now, I feel so much angrier than I did then."
"Anyone would be angry at being abandoned," Alana says, noting the way the word makes Molly flinch, "it's a hard thing to learn that the person you were willing to work for can just walk away from you without any preamble."
"And not just walk away without a word," Molly says, voice uncharacteristically bitter, "but walk away with the person who tried to kill Wally and me. Wally called him dad, for God's sake, and he can walk away with the person who sent a lunatic to murder his son."
"Hannibal promised to kill me," Alana finds herself saying, her voice lower as she confides. "He gave me the chance to walk away, once, and I didn't take it. I have a child, a family," she thinks of them, hiding in the house amongst the great green trees, "and like you I know that my time is luck. My life ended years ago, when I rejected his offer to run."
"No wonder you want to catch him so badly," Molly answers her.
"Will was one of my closest friends," Alana continues, choosing not to respond to Molly's observation about her motives. "Hannibal is only alive today because I made a bargain to save Will's life. By extension, the only reason my life continues to be in danger is that I felt compassion for Will. If Hannibal kills me," when?, "or my wife or son, it will be because I wanted to save Will." She swallows, and stares deeply at Molly as she speaks again. "Knowing this, Will still made the choice to go with him." She reaches across the space between them, placing her hand on Molly's shoulder. "You aren't the only one he betrayed."
"No," Molly says, shakily, "it seems not." She brushes her hand over her face again, massaging her temples for a moment. "I'm sorry. This is a lot to take. A month and a half ago if you'd told me what my husband was capable of doing I wouldn't have believed you."
"I know," Alana says. "I know it's a lot. I've been there, believe me. You aren't alone in this."
"Thank you," Molly says, and places the hand that isn't holding her hot chocolate over Alana's. Her easy kindness is difficult to accept, but Alana forces herself to smile back at the other woman. She knows what she's asking of Molly, even if Molly herself hasn't yet realized what her involvement in this case will mean for the safety of her mind, body, and soul.
I was like her once, Alana thinks, and squeezes the shoulder her hand rests on reflexively. I didn't know the danger I was in, either. She wishes someone would have warned her, then, apart from Will, whose warnings were so easy to write off. But she doesn't warn Molly, and she knows she never will. Knowledge will come, harsh and terrible, on its own.
It's a quarter past eleven pm when they sit down to breakfast at the thick oak dining table. Hannibal has laid a column of beeswax candles down the center of the table, and a pleasant aroma fills the air as the candles melt into one another and heat the wood beneath. The smell mingles with the taste of the scrambled eggs with shaved tongue Hannibal has prepared, imparting a sweetness to the dish that makes Will close his eyes in pleasure. He's not usually this sensitive to tastes, things usually tasted either good or bad, before. They didn't have nuances and shadows like they do now.
"Maybe we should try going to bed at a normal time tonight," Will says, sipping the coffee Hannibal pours for him. "I mean, unless there's a reason we're impersonating vampires."
"In that we are awake during the night and sleep during the day," Hannibal asks, "or in our predilection for human blood?"
Will shudders, suddenly far too aware of what - who - he's forking into his mouth. The vampire analogy is a little too on the nose, actually. "In that we are awake during the night," he says, voice dry. "Shouldn't we try, I don't know, repairing our circadian rhythms?"
"What would be the purpose?" Hannibal queries. "It's hardly as if we are operating under conventional circumstances at the present moment. We've no jobs to get up for, no appointments to keep. It's certainly safest for us to move around during the night."
"Those are...actually really good points."
"Although," Hannibal continues, "it may not be that safe for us to move around, regardless of the time of day." He sighs heavily, Will assumes for theatrical effect. "Our disappearance and the materialization of Clark Ingram's body in Miss Lounds' apartment have caused the public a harrowing degree of alarm, I'm afraid."
"What are you talking about?" Will asks. He pops another bite into his mouth, relishing the burst of flavor as his teeth sink into a crisp bite of bell pepper.
Hannibal plucks a tablet from the chair beside him, brings the screen to life and passes it to Will, who frowns abruptly at the headline. Ripper Madness: Drunks Kill Disabled Homeless Man in Case of Mistaken Identity. He scans the article quickly, his glower growing as he reads.
"Idiots," Will mutters, setting the tablet down a little harder than he'd intended. It clunks against the wood table as he lets it drop. "What a pack of fools, to think they could take you in the first place."
"I'm flattered by your confidence," Hannibal smiles.
"No you're not," Will says, "I'm not flattering you; I'm stating the facts. Three inebriated imbeciles with a hero complex are not a formidable threat to either of us."
"A fair point," Hannibal concedes, lifting his coffee in a conciliatory gesture, "though I still would have been out numbered."
Will snorts. "And because of these...these cretins, an innocent man is dead."
"Let's not make any assumptions about a stranger's innocence," Hannibal replies, smirking against his mug.
"You know what I meant," Will huffs, impatient.
"The damp floor of the internet is sprouting theories about the two of us like toadstools," Hannibal says, hiding his elation poorly. Which probably means he isn't really trying to hide anything, Will thinks. "More people have sighted me this week than have sighted Elvis all year."
"You sound very proud of yourself," Will accuses. There's a note of affection in his voice that surprises him, but Hannibal registers no astonishment at it.
"It's nice to know I'm inspiring the imagination of the common man," he replies.
Will scowls again. "These particular common men," he says, drawing the words out slowly and gesturing back at the tablet in reference to the article Hannibal had shared. "They've behaved rather appallingly, wouldn't you agree?"
Hannibal raises an eyebrow, countenance neutral but with a flicker of mirth dancing at the corner of his mouth. "Oh certainly," he concurs. "First, in taking their aggression out on entirely the wrong target, and second, in their hubristic belief that they would be any match for their intended target."
"Maybe we should test that second part," Will says. "They seemed eager enough to meet you when you were a helpless vagrant. Maybe we should let them take a crack at the real deal."
Hannibal smiles, and Will feels himself falling into that expression. He's not sure what he's doing, but it feels good, letting himself tilt into the gravitational pull of Hannibal. If I'm going to feel guilty anyway, he thinks, I may as well participate actively and earn that guilt. Who knew that the council of a therapist ghost could be so... therapeutic.
Will smiles, and meets Hannibal's eyes, feeling a curl of warmth ascending through the center of his body.
"What you're doing is dangerous," Margot says, voice tiny and far away as it comes through the phone, "and unethical. Have you given any thought to the position in which you're placing her?"
"I've given it lots of thought," Alana answers, her voice harsher than she intends it to be, "and this is the best chance we have of catching either of them." She closes her eyes, willing the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach to subside. Her guilt isn't strong enough to stop her, not when she knows that as long as Hannibal is free, her family will always be in danger. When she opens her eyes again, she's standing in their bedroom and Margot is there in front of her, face drawn with worry and love. "What would you have me do?"
"Come back," Margot says instantly, tilting her chin. Her eyes are wide and bright, exuding the strength she's had to learn over the course of her tortured lifetime. "Come home to us. You'd be safe here."
"I won't be safe anywhere till Hannibal is behind bars again," Alana disagrees, but Margot just scoffs.
"You'd be safer hiding with us than you are laying traps for Hannibal," she insists. "I know it's not ideal, not what either of us would want. But we could have a life together, the three of us. This is a safe place. It's good here. There's a beauty in the trees. We could rest here for a while, and then move somewhere else where no one knows us, change our names, keep a low profile."
"You could be happy like that," Alana questions, "spending our lives on the run?"
"I could be happy with you," Margot says, voice soft and younger than her years. "Please. I've lost so much; I don't want to lose you."
"That's why I'm doing this," Alana says. "I want to make this world safe for you, for us and Morgan. Trust me; I know Will well enough to know how to catch him."
"So you'll use Molly Graham as bait to catch Will, and then use Will to catch Hannibal," Margot says. "It's not just your life you're risking, Alana."
"You're safe where you are. If he manages to kill me," she swallows, meeting Margot's wide wet eyes, "he won't bother coming after you or our son. If I die there will be no point in injuring you; he'd only do it to hurt me."
"That's a noble sentiment, but I wasn't talking about Morgan or I. I, for one, feel very confident in our hideaway, and in the men we're paying to protect it. I mean, have you actually thought about what will happen to Molly - or Will, for that matter - if you manage to stage an encounter?"
Alana makes a face. "Will wouldn't hurt Molly."
"Wouldn't he?" Margot raises an eyebrow, tossing her head so that her copper curls swing around her face for a moment. She's taller than Alana, but so slight and delicate, her eyes so large and childlike in her heart shaped face that she seems much smaller than she is. Especially now, with fear written across her features, Alana can't help the wave of protectiveness she feels for the other woman. But there's more than just fear in Margot's wide gaze; Alana sees the accusation there, the disgust at what Alana is doing, at her increasing willingness to endanger another in order to protect herself and those that are hers.
"I won't let him," she says. "Molly knows the risks."
"Does she?"
"Well enough."
"Will kept her uninformed for years," Margot points out, "feeding her a version of events it benefitted him to have her believe. How is what you're doing any different?"
"My version is closer to the full truth," Alana says.
"Closer to, but I get the feeling you're leaving out a few very relevant details."
"You aren't seriously suggesting Will would kill his own wife," Alana retorts.
"A week ago you told me Will Graham would protect us from any attempt Hannibal would make on our lives," Margot says. "That's clearly not something you still believe, or you wouldn't bother trapping him. You can't predict him any better than I can. Don't pretend you're sending her into a controlled situation. He's as likely to gut her like a fish as he is to fall on his knees asking for forgiveness."
"I'm expecting a response somewhere between those extremes," Alana answers.
"But you don't know what to expect."
"No I don't," Alana finally admits, sounding more annoyed than she had realized she would. This conversation is getting to her more than she wants to confess to herself. "But I still think it's the best chance we have." She takes a step towards her wife, wanting so badly to enfold Margot's slender frame in her arms. "Our worlds have been dangerous since before we met," she says. "Let me do my best to protect us, please."
Margot reaches for her, but Alana abruptly finds herself back in her motel room, alone. Her right hand clutches her cell phone against her ear. "Please be careful," Margot says, voice small and distant.
Jim Barnes had considered himself lucky when the judge had set a reasonable bail. He had thanked his lucky stars that he'd get to spend the next month awaiting trial in his own home, rather than in jail. However, as the room swims back into view and the darkness in his head clears, Jim starts to question his good fortune.
"Good morning, Mr. Barnes," Will says to the man they'd bound and gagged in his own living room.
Hannibal had picked the lock easily, and they'd found Barnes inside, passed out on the couch in front of the weather channel. He'd woken briefly, but Will had cupped a chloroform soaked rag over his mouth and nose until he'd dropped back into unconsciousness. The hour he'd been knocked out had given the two men ample time to prepare.
Now, Barnes thrashes against his restraints ineffectively. His breaths are swift and shallow, his nostrils flaring. The gag in his mouth feels like it's choking him. His eyes water.
"I'm going to take the gag off, Mr. Barnes," Will says, using the same soothing tone he would to calm a stray dog, "and we're going to have a conversation about what happened the other night by the docks. If you scream for help, no one will hear you, but it will annoy me." He pauses, knife raised and resting between the fabric gag and Barnes' cheek. "You don't want to annoy me," he says, before cutting through the gag. Barnes heaves a set of deep, panicking breaths, until he's given himself hiccups.
"You could try holding your breath to inhibit diaphragm activity," Hannibal says with a smirk, "or we could try to scare them out of you."
"Now there's an idea," Will says, still looming over Barnes with his knife in hand. The blade is a wickedly sharp six inches, and shines brightly in the dim light of the muted television. Wordlessly, Will drags the blade across the bound man's arm, above the elbow, just firmly enough to draw a shallow thread of blood across the skin. Barnes heaves, still hiccuping violently with fear. "I want information," Will says, voice dark. "If you give it to me right away, this will be over very quickly. If, however, you choose to drag things out, I'll find some way of getting what I want."
Hannibal takes a step closer. "Please choose to drag things out," he entreats, pleasantly. Will smiles.
"What do you want to know?" Barnes manages to speak through his hiccups. "And what's with the suits?" he asks, eyeing the matching clear plastic jumpsuits the men are wearing. They give him an edgy feeling.
"I want to know the names and addresses of your two friends," Will says, "the men who helped you beat Murray Gibson to death. I want to know where I can find them, since, unlike you, they weren't obliging enough to give interviews to the Tattler that included revealing their identities."
Barnes splutters. "What do you want with them?"
"That's really not any of your concern, Mr. Barnes," Will says, kneeling down before the couch so he can make eye contact with the bound man. It's not as uncomfortable a thing to do, under the current circumstances, he finds. Barnes' eyes are bloodshot and dilated with terror. He reaches out to rest his left hand gently over Barnes' right one, stroking the top of his hand soothingly. "But, since you ask, we want with them exactly the same thing we want with you." Will's hand grips the fingers he's been soothing, holding them so tightly he can feel the bones straining in his grasp.
Barnes sucks in a lungful of air, but doesn't scream until Will's right hand reaches up, and drives the first half inch of his blade under the nail of Barnes' index finger. "I'm going to need those names, now," Will says, when the screaming becomes thin and brittle enough to be heard over.
Barnes gives up the information without a whole lot more persuasion. When he's given them what they want, Will smiles tightly, withdraws the knife and releases Barnes' hand. It stays where it is, fingers curled with pain. Three of his four remaining finger tips ooze blood. Will wipes the blade off on Barnes' shoulder, then hands it to Hannibal. "Your turn."
"Well Mr. Barnes," Hannibal says, "you wanted to meet me, and I certainly hope the experience is living up to your expectations, but now I'm afraid that we really must be on our way." Barnes breathes a shaky sigh of relief. "There's just one more thing we'll need before we go," Hannibal says, and drives the knife into the center of Barnes' chest, dragging it downwards to split him down the center of his body, from nipples to navel.
Barnes screams, flailing against the ropes holding him in place, but it's no use. Will can see the blood pouring out of him. He can smell it. Hannibal reaches into Barnes' chest cavity, burying his plastic clad arms in the man's body and cutting with careful movements. How he can tell what anything is through the veil of blood is beyond Will, but it's only a minute's work before Hannibal is withdrawing his hands, cradling a wet kidney.
He sets the organ in the waiting styrofoam ice chest, then beckons for Will to come closer. "Give me your hands," he says, voice rough, and Will does. Hannibal guides them inside the screaming man's gut. He steers Will's hands through the entrails and blood. Will can feel Barnes' hot heart beating in the tissue and veins around his arms. Barnes' screams and pleas are far away from him, as he digs deeper into the man. He feels his heart beat, steadier than the frantic pounding surrounding his hands.
"Here," Hannibal says, and Will feels him conducting his hands to clasp around the second kidney. Will withdraws it carefully. Barnes' screams have quieted into groans. Hannibal reaches back into Barnes' gut to tear the iliac arteries and release a hot stream of blood.
The groaning subsides rapidly after that, and soon they are alone in the hot, blood scented room. Will is breathing hard and ragged. His hands and vision are smeared with red, heart thudding thunderous but steady in his chest. Hannibal, covered in gore, appears far more composed. Calmly, Hannibal approaches him, walking closer until he's close enough for Will to feel his breath on his face. Blank-faced, he reaches one blood soaked hand out to skate across Will's cheekbone, leaving a streak of red in its wake.
"It would be impossible to know you, in any meaningful sense," Hannibal breathes, voice rough despite his cool demeanor, "without seeing you like this, Will."
Will exhales hard. "Without seeing me in a saran wrap murder suit?" he asks, smiling unsteadily. He knows he must look completely unhinged, but that's not exactly an unfair description.
"You make jokes when you want to distance yourself from the intensity of the moment," Hannibal reprimands. His voice is fond, though, his fingers traveling gently over Will's face again, painting him crimson. "Tell me honestly if you disagree. Would it be possible to know you, the real Will Graham, without knowing how this makes you feel?"
"I don't know," Will sighs, "I don't disagree."
"Which is it," Hannibal says, his thumb skirting Will's chin, "you don't know or you don't disagree?"
"I don't disagree."
Hannibal smiles, then. Will blinks rapidly, unable to look away from his face. "You've had to hide for so long, Will, even from yourself. What a sensation you must be experiencing now, as you finally meet yourself and shake off the disguises and masks. How victorious you are, Will, how wonderful to witness." He brings his other hand up, cupping Will's face between them. Will imagines how he will look when Hannibal moves away from him again, with twin red handprints across his cheeks like some sort of warpaint. "No one knows you but me," he breathes, voice low and burning, words lost in the space between them. "No one will ever know you but me. Our state cannot be severed."
"Did your parents never talk to you about respecting boundaries, Hannibal?" Will asks, amused.
"My parents were killed when I was quite young," Hannibal replies. "Consequently, we never had an opportunity to discuss respecting boundaries as a family."
"Well," Will says, and then stutters to a stop, unsure of what to say next. Hannibal removes his hands from Will's face, letting his thumb pet Will's stubbled cheek for a moment before he takes a step back. Will frowns, and then schools his face to look neutral when he notices the smug look on Hannibal's face at his evident disappointment. "We should get going," he finally says. He drags Hannibal's duffle bag onto the couch alongside Barnes' body and rifles through until he finds the bone saw.
They leave the body in the park across from Quantico, three hours later. With the hood pulled up like it is, it will be easy to mistake Barnes' for a bum who's decided to sleep upright on the park bench. Will wonders how long it will take for someone to notice there's something off about the presentation, or whether anyone will first try to peak inside the gift box resting in Barnes' lap.
Jack Crawford wishes he had a thousand eyes. He would scatter them throughout the city, unblinking as cameras but smarter, able to interpret information and relay it to his brain instantly. He wishes he could see everywhere, into the shadows and around the edges, able finally to discover. To see and understand, as he has been unable, so far, to do. Then again, it's hard to look out the world with just two eyes; if he had to gaze on it with a thousand, he just might lose his mind.
"This is bad, Jack," Alana says. She doesn't need to say anything.
The park is quiet in the early morning light. A couple of interested onlookers cling to the edges of the ring of crime scene tape, a jogger or dog walker stopping now and then to ask the stone-faced agents what's happening. They don't get any answers, and Jack hopes they aren't able to see around the screens he'd insisted the response team erect immediately around the display that's been left for them. For him. The last one was for Freddie Lounds, but this one was delivered to the park across from Quantico; he has no illusions about the intended recipient.
The corpse sits on the bench, hood pulled up but too flat and low to look normal. Brian Zeller flicks the hood back using a ballpoint pen so he won't have to stand any closer, and the fabric slides off to reveal a stump of flesh, vertebrae jutting from the tatters of skin and sinew. Jimmy Price raises an eyebrow, and Zeller curses. Alana inhales sharply. There's a box in the body's lap, a brightly colored gift box.
Jack gestures towards it. "Lift the lid," he orders, knowing someone will obey. After a second's pause Zeller does, reaching for the lid with a hesitant grimace. Jack is mindful of the hesitation, of the unusually tense atmosphere. They've all seen their share of murder scenes, of masticated, mutilated, leftovers, the wrappings the Ripper leaves for them. But it's different, now. Knowing, not suspecting or trying to accept, but really knowing that the body in front of them was left for them by Will. He knows they're all trying not to think about him. Jack, especially, finds it difficult not to imagine Will here with them, working with them as he's done so often in the past.
It's a large box, and Jack isn't completely surprised to see what looks like the top of the victim's missing head once Zeller has finished removing the lid. The crime scene is practically gift wrapped for us, Jack thinks. There's an itching sensation at the edges of his memory. Where had he heard those words before? The first copycat killing, the first time Hannibal tested the limits of Will's empathy. This is symmetry, this is returning to the beginning with new eyes. Will can see him clearly now, and wants to be seen in turn. They aren't hiding anymore. So why can't I find them?
"This is so bad."
"That's not helpful, Alana," Jack snaps. "Jimmy, any prints?"
"None so far," Price says, continuing to look at the bench, the body, the box, anywhere but at Jack. "This is much more of a traditional Ripper style case. No evidence." He doesn't say what they all are thinking, that they don't need prints to know who did this. Still, some evidence would have been good, some trace fiber that could have led Jack to them, helped him end the madness spreading, not only through himself but through the whole city. "There's a midline incision, a little crooked. This guy was opened while he was still awake and fighting."
"God," Alana breathes.
Jack shoots her a look of exasperation, but her expression is fearful and far away. He should feel sympathy for her, he knows. Knows too that she sees herself on this bench, sees her own head cradled in her hands. Still, his strongest emotion is annoyance. He needs them all to be level headed, needs them all at their best if they stand any chance of stopping this before another person dies.
"Victim is James Barnes," Price reads, leafing through the police report. "Hey, this guy is one of those three inebriates who tried to trade the wrong body for the reward on Hannibal Lecter."
"That's the connection, then," Jack says, looking to Alana. He wants to shake her when she doesn't jump in. I need that sharp mind, he thinks, don't get lost in your fear. "Lecter probably saw their violence as sloppy, and their assumption that they would have been able to apprehend him as vain." And Will? Did Will have a motive? Was this justice for the man Barnes and his friends killed? Or was that just an excuse for violence? Jack no longer questions whether Will had any involvement. Not since finding Ingram. It's simply not productive. He needs to prepare himself for what's coming, when they have Will in their custody and can begin to untether the hooks in his brain.
"We should assign a team to watch the other two," Alana says, finally. "They're likely the next targets."
"Make it happen," Jack snaps at a startled looking agent. "I want a vehicle staked outside Michael Barker and Frank Duffy's houses." He grips Alana's elbow and pulls her to the side. "Are you starting to question your plan yet?" he whispers, voice harsh but low enough that only she can hear. "I want to believe Will can be brought around as much as anyone - more - but this doesn't look like the work of someone who's just a little confused or lost in the moment, Alana."
"We'll see when we catch him," Alana says. "You have to find him first."
"If we can catch him," Jack corrects.
"What other choice do we have here, Jack? We're in this mess because you trusted Will's fake prison break plan. At least you know I'm not planning to double cross you. What, are we just going to wait until they tire themselves out? They don't look like they're slowing down to me. We have to catch them, and Molly is our best shot at Will."
"I hope you're right," Jack hisses, "because if this goes wrong, you're the one who's going to have to live with it on your conscience."
"I'll come to you for advice on dealing with the guilt," Alana snaps, and walks back towards where Price and Zeller are photographing the scene and trading barbs and bad jokes, before Jack has time to respond.
He can feel the blood pounding in his brain, hot rage running through him. He forces himself to breathe slower. He knows she's right - they have to stop this before more people die. He trusted Will, and he wants to believe that Will was telling him the truth, that it was all some horrible accident, but he knows that, where Hannibal is concerned, Will has never been able to exercise good judgement. And Jack had pushed him, goaded him along, encouraged him to seek Hannibal's aid, knowing the risks he was taking. He's always been willing to risk Will's well being to save lives, always been confident in his ability to snatch Will back from the edge of insanity at the last moment. He's covered Will's body and mind in scars over the years. How he must hate me, Jack thinks.
The kidneys, faded to a pinkish gray now that the blood has been washed off and they've been out of the body for a few hours, sit on the counter in a bowl of cold water, smelling slightly of vinegar and lemon juice. Will doesn't bother offering to help as Hannibal prepares the counter, laying out the ingredients and tools he'll use as efficiently and clinically as a surgeon would prepare an operating theater. He sits on the stool by the stainless steel counter, sipping the glass of wine Hannibal poured for him when he'd followed him into the kitchen.
Hannibal has never been one to press for needless talking; he's perfectly willing to let silence stretch between them. Since they spend what amounts to all of their time together, Will is grateful for the comfortable silences. They give him time to think. He wonders if his inclination - his need - to trail Hannibal from room to room would lessen if he wasn't able to do so without maintaining a constant conversation. Following the other man feels akin to being alone.
When Hannibal rises to leave one room, Will mirrors without thinking. It's as if they're one person, he thinks. He wonders, if he left a room, if Hannibal would follow him, too, drawn in the same way that Will is. He thinks he'll have to test the theory, when he gets a chance. After all, their codependency has never been one sided.
Will takes another mouthful of wine, letting the dry, oaky flavor coat his tongue and cheeks before he swallows. The taste and aroma ground him in the moment, in a way that feels both more and less solid than repeating his name and the time used to. He is grounded in sensations, in the experience of being alive. This is what Hannibal has always offered him, to feel his own existence through sensation, even (especially) when that sensation is pain.
"We will need to exercise more caution, going after the next two," Hannibal says, his casual voice interrupting Will's thoughts. "Uncle Jack will infer our intentions. He'll know where to watch for us now." Will frowns. Hannibal isn't looking at him, just laying out ingredients on the kitchen counter. His body and voice are relaxed, but there's an aura of tense expectation about him that makes Will nervous. "A greater degree of care will be necessary, to avoid capture. Provided, of course, eluding captivity is what you desire." His voice is almost expressionless, but Will is familiar with him enough to hear the nearly imperceptible upturn at the end of the sentence.
"Are you asking?" he says, letting a hint of annoyance sound in his voice.
"Do I need to ask, Will?"
"No, you don't."
Hannibal says nothing in response, just hums and attends to drying the kidneys. Will watches, surveying the carafe of cream, the amber bottle of Cognac, the tiny bowls of salt and pepper, the chopped rosemary. The scent of the herb wafts through the air, soothing Will's troubled thoughts. He takes another drink, keepings his eyes on the way Hannibal's careful hands handle the meat. He knows he should leave it alone, just let the matter drop and lapse back into comfortable silence, but that's never been the way things are between them. The urge to vex Hannibal is overwhelming, and Will surrenders to it after another sip of wine.
"What would you do if I did?" Will asks, letting his eyes flicker up to Hannibal's face, watching for a shift in the passive facade.
"If you did what?" Hannibal asks, voice even.
Will makes an exasperated sound. "You know," he says. Then, when Hannibal neither answers nor looks up from his work, "If I got us caught on purpose. If I turned you in."
"What an interesting question," Hannibal says, slicing through the first kidney. He bisects it with one smooth stroke, then begins chopping one inch cubes. "I have no intention of being captured, so you would get yourself caught on purpose, not the both of us."
"You're so sure I couldn't manage it?"
"You are very clever," Hannibal admits, voice like silk, "but not quite that clever, I think. You would be turning yourself in, nothing more. Is that something you think about? Do you feel such guilt that you crave punishment, Will? Do you find yourself yearning for someone to hold you accountable? Long to see justice done?"
Will shivers at the words, at the way Hannibal is saying them in that low, smooth voice. The sound feels as if it is stroking his skin, the way Hannibal had stroked his face red the night before. "No, of course not," he manages to say, voice irritated. "Of course that's not what I want. But what would you do if I did?" He can't help pushing. He's never been able to help himself. He licks his lips, which have gone dry rather abruptly. He can feel his heart speeding up as Hannibal finally looks up from the cutting board, eyes blazing.
"No prison cell could protect you," he promises, and his voice sounds adoring. "I would get to you, and dispense my own justice, before any court had the chance."
Will chuckles, "That would be a most unfortunate situation indeed. It would shatter the public's opinion of you and I being... how did the tabloids refer to it... Murder Husbands?"
"I assure you, I have no plans to propose to you."
"Well, good," Will says, deciding to continue drinking, despite the swimming feeling in his head he's suddenly become aware of. He pours himself another glass and takes a sip. "I'm already married, after all." He regrets the words, which he'd intended as lighthearted, the moment he says them and sees Hannibal's expression shift. It wouldn't be evident to anyone else, but to Will it's obvious, a dark thread of annoyance even Hannibal can't hide. The mood between them shifts abruptly, no longer playful or easy.
"I'm well aware," Hannibal says, voice carefully neutral. Still, Will hears a note of anger. "You are, after all, still wearing your wedding ring."
Oh. He'd forgotten about that. Will twists the silver band around on his finger, but doesn't take it off. What kind of gesture would that be? What would that mean, if I took it off just to please him? The ring means little to Will now, just a reminder of all the time he spent trying to convince himself he could be someone other than who he is, but he keeps it on, because removing it would symbolize too much now.
He wishes Hannibal hadn't said anything, that he could have remembered he was wearing it on his own, someday as he washed blood from his hands, maybe. He wishes he could have been afforded the opportunity to remove it with as little thought as someone brushes dirt from their clothes when they notice it there. It had become meaningless, until Hannibal imbued it with significance once more. Now the little band of metal means something again - the wrong thing - and it will have to mean something when Will chooses to remove it. I should leave it on forever, just for spite, Will thinks.
His voice is incredulous when he speaks. "Don't tell me you're feeling jealous."
"Don't worry, Will," Hannibal answers, his voice dangerously smooth. "I'm not planning to ask for any sacrifices like the one you requested I make of Bedelia. Your borrowed little family is of no interest to me."
Will swallows. He supposes Hannibal is right; of the two of them, he's the one who has demanded Hannibal dismember a former partner (friend? lover? Will still isn't sure what the correct word is, knows only that whatever she was, Hannibal intended her to act as a substitute for him, the way he'd tried to use Molly to fill the aching spaces left inside him when he'd told Hannibal he didn't want to chase him anymore). If Will is really honest with himself, he knows some (most) of the animosity he'd felt towards Bedelia was due to the fact that he viewed her, at some level, as competition.
Asking Hannibal to take her apart and cook her was asking for a display of loyalty, true, but it was also a way of eliminating a rival. Still, it hadn't occurred to him that Hannibal would ever ask the same in return, or that he was setting a precedent with Bedelia on how to handle former entanglements. He hasn't thought much about Molly, but the idea of hurting her, or of Hannibal hurting her, makes his lip curl in disgust.
"Were you jealous when you sent the Great Red Dragon to my house?" Will asks. He's unable to keep the irritation from his voice. "You certainly seemed interested in them then."
"It seemed like a good way to encourage you."
"Encourage me to do what, exactly?"
Hannibal's eyes blaze. "To do exactly what you've done since," he says. "Tell me Will, would you be here now if I hadn't seen to it there was no other home to which you could return?"
The anger scorches through him like a flame traversing an oil slick. The bottle of wine he's had with dinner lubricates the rage. Would I be here if you hadn't forced my hand, you mean, he thinks, would I have chosen you if you'd left me anyone else left to choose, if you hadn't worked so tirelessly from the beginning of our relationship to alienate me from everyone else in my life? Would I still have felt that magnetic pull to you, if you hadn't worked so hard? "I don't know. Maybe."
"Hmm," Hannibal hums, considering him from beneath heavy lids. "Are you pleased with your current situation, Will?"
Will snorts. "Pleased?" He arches an eyebrow, considering Hannibal across the table for a long moment. The other man is regarding him with an expression of intense curiosity. There's a cockiness in his voice, but Will senses hesitation as well. Almost, he thinks, unsure. "I suppose I feel a sense of relief," he says at last, sincerely.
"So you are happy with your decision, then," Hannibal presses, "happy to be here, with me, rather than there, with them."
Will's heart beat resonates within his aching chest. This is what it comes down to, he reckons. Am I happy with the choice I made? He isn't sure happy is the right word. He isn't sure he can put it into words at all, but he's had enough to drink that he's willing to try anyway. "I'd never have gotten here without you pulling and pushing me along," he says, "never would have come to you willingly. You guided us here, guided me. It hurt so much. But God only knows where I would be without you." His voice sounds wondering, awe-struck, and the sound surprises him.
Across the table, Hannibal wears an expression of complete enthrallment, eyes flickering in the low light. There's a long moment of silence before Hannibal answers, as if he is waiting for Will to say more.
"The worm that destroys you is the tendency to fight against your own instincts, Will, to agree with your critics, with the ones who would restrain the natural delight you are uniquely capable of experiencing. Not everyone has it in them to experience reality in the way that you and I can. What one cannot experience, one cannot understand, and suspicion follows as a natural consequence. You are not insane, Will, anymore more than I am insane. It is them, the common hordes, who suffer from insanity, from delusions, from dampened senses, an inability to register the world as it really is."
"I was so hesitant," Will breathes, "I expected to still waver, to feel strangled by the guilt." He chuckles. "To feel strangled by you."
"What do the means matter, Will," Hannibal asks, voice low and fervent. Will feels the sound like a caress over his warm skin, a touch he can't shrug away from. "If I led you here by ensuring there were no other paths left for you to take, what does it matter, if you're content with the results? You chose to engage in our old games when you asked for my help on the Red Dragon case. The moment you walked through the BSHCI doors - the moment you said yes to Jack Crawford, knowing that instant would lead you back to me - you put your family on the table."
Will can't answer. A part of him can't help but agree with Hannibal's words. He had known when he'd agreed to help Jack that it would lead him back to Hannibal, and that he wouldn't be able to return to his life as it had been after that. He had known there was a chance he wouldn't return to that life at all. Hannibal had warned him, after all, in the letter he'd sent; had Will honestly expected him to show any mercy, to him or his family?
"They don't really matter, Will," Hannibal breathes, "not the way I matter to you." And his voice is as cocksure and un-rebuffed as always, but Will can hear the question in his words, the desire in his voice, and knows that Hannibal is wanting, but not expecting, some sign of confirmation from him.
It would be a perfect moment to take off the ring, Will thinks, and lay it on the table between us. He imagines the way Hannibal's eyes would sparkle at all the latent meaning behind such a gesture, the way his long fingers might pluck the little band of metal off the table to slip it over his own digit. Assign it some entirely new but entirely familiar new meaning. Will leaves the ring, strangling his finger, where it is.
The scent of coffee fills the vehicle, masking other, less pleasant odors, that might otherwise have lingered there. Molly imagines she can still detect the hint of bitter sweat under the rich hot smell of the coffee Jack pours from his thermos into her styrofoam cup. She'd normally take milk or sugar, or just have tea or hot chocolate instead, but she doesn't ask for things she knows he can't provide her in this moment.
"Thanks," she says, instead, sipping the hot biting liquid. The heat brings a measure of comfort; the parked car is cold, and Molly's skin prickles under her layers of sweater and jacket. She huddles deeper into her bulky clothing, and quaffs the coffee despite the unpleasant taste and the way it scalds her tongue and clings to the inside of her mouth, welcoming the burn traveling down her throat and spreading through her belly.
Across from their car, the little house they've been watching for three and a half hours is as silent and still as it has been since they arrived. Inside the freezing car, they are silent and still, too. There's not a lot to do besides think, and periodically accept the coffee Jack offers from his seemingly bottomless thermos, as they stake out Frank Duffy's dark little bungalow. Molly feels like she's had too much time to think, lately, and far, far too much to occupy her thoughts. She wishes she could just turn it off for a while, the noise roaring in her mind like waves against a rocky shore. She lets her mind return to the thought she's been turning to for comfort with increasing frequency since the night she and Wally had run through the snow in their night clothes.
It's a big old house in southern Oregon, with a field of sun bleached grass for a yard. Her former in-laws sent a picture this morning, of Wally grinning atop a tawny coated pony in that yard. Soon, she tells herself, when this is all over, I'll go there, too. She and Wally had spent months in that house after her late husband passed. She'll go there now, to rebuild her heart again.
Molly tilts her head back, letting it relax against the headrest, and closes her eyes. She knows she can't fall asleep, but she's so tired. In the darkness behind her eyelids she lets herself remember the three of them, dozing against one another on the sofa one night after dinner. She lets herself remember the happiness she'd felt then, lets the warmth of the memory spread through her.
"Don't fall asleep on me," Jack says, pulling her from her thoughts. She blinks her eyes open, realizing that the cup of coffee in her hand has tilted dangerously close to spilling. "I'd let you take a nap," he says, voice carefully jovial, "but nothing knocks me out faster than hearing someone sleep breathe."
She laughs softly. "Yeah, I know just what you mean," she says. "Don't worry, I'm awake."
The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles back at her. "Good. Listen - " He stops abruptly, his entire body tensing, and Molly follows the line of his gaze.
Jack stares at the house they've been watching for hours, at the bright blue door that's remained closed until now. Now, there's a dark line widening between the door and the frame as someone pushes it open cautiously. Molly holds her breath, her heart hammering a sudden staccato against her ribs. Any second now, she thinks, bracing herself, every muscle and tendon in her body tensing, any second it'll open all the way, and he'll be there, Will will be there, back from the dead, looking back at me. And then -
She doesn't get to imagine what will happen next - couldn't imagine it anyway - because the door swings open further in that instant, and there's a blur of movement in the moonlight as an orange tabby escapes across the lawn. Molly releases the breath she's been holding. "It's just a cat," she laughs, but stops when she sees the look on Jack's face, and understands.
The cat is what pushed the door open, but the cat couldn't have unlocked or unhooked the door. Despite the hot coffee she feels herself growing colder.
"Wait here," Jack says, swinging his door open. He pauses, poised to spring out of the car, and turns back to her. "There's a gun in the glove box. Take it out." She does, the smooth weight of it foreign in her hands. "You know how to use it?"
It's too late now to teach her if she says no, she knows. She also knows she isn't going to shoot Will, no matter what he's done. "I think I can manage," she says. "I have the sedative, after all."
Jack nods, leaping from the driver's seat, his own weapon in hand. The door slams closed behind him, and Molly watches his back as he crosses the lawn and disappears through the front door.
It's dark inside the house. Jack keeps his gun raised in front of him, sweeping his eyes across the room. He steps through the kitchen, empty except for an overflowing garbage bin and a stack of dishes in the sink. There's a lamp glowing in the next room, and Jack moves cautiously towards the light.
"Mister Duffy?" Jack calls, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and surveying the dark corners of the room as best he can. There's a figure sitting on the chair in the far corner, shoulders slumped and face obscured by shadow. It doesn't move when Jack calls again. Jack steps closer, keeping his gun raised as he grabs the lamp with his other hand so he can drag it closer to the figure in the corner.
"My God," he breathes, gripping the neck of the lamp harder to keep from dropping it when he's close enough to see Frank Duffy's body, slouched against the wall, neck flayed to the bone.
Jack nudges the murder weapon with his foot, and the sharp edged, broken beer bottle rolls across the floor, leaving a red scrawl of blood behind. He sweeps his gun around the room, searching for them, but he finds nothing in the living room. The bedroom and bathroom are clear as well, and Jack, realizing he is alone in the house, thinks immediately of Molly.
Will Graham stumbles after Hannibal on heavy feet. He can feel the ground beneath them with each thudding footstep as he struggles to keep up. He knows Hannibal is saying something to him - likely it's a stern command to pull himself together - but the words are lost in the pound of blood in his ears. The night air smells like damp earth and motor oil. Will looks down at his hands. They should be stained and tacky with drying gore, but he finds them clean.
All the blood is contained in the plastic murder suit Hannibal provided for him, shoved into a plastic ziplock in his backpack. He'd scoffed when Hannibal had offered him the strange garment, but he has to concede its usefulness. His hands are clean and shaking as he holds them before his eyes. He wiggles his fingers in the cool air. He runs them through his hair. When he looks up, Hannibal is gazing back, his mouth moving over silent syllables.
Will blinks. Sharp edged reality shifts around him as his imagination consumes the fuel of sensation. Hannibal is dressed in bronze, with helmet, greaves, and panoply of some archaic Grecian warrior. The armor gleams in the streetlight, sending bursts of light sparking off his shoulders and chest. Will looks down to see himself in matching raiment. We could be soldiers, he thinks, his mind a fog of too much clarity, we could be members of the Sacred Band; no one could ever stop us. "Stay close to me," Hannibal says, his lips pressed against the shell of Will's ear and Will isn't sure whether he hears the words or feels the vibration, but he understands the message either way. He nods, blinking at Hannibal's strange clothing and strange expression. Of course he'll stay close; that's all he's tried to do since that night on the cliff. Separation is death. He shakes himself, shaking out his leaden feet in order to keep pace better.
But over Hannibal's shoulder, across the street, Will sees something that makes him stop. "Molly?" He sees her standing beside the black sedan, the hem of her gown trailing in the dirt, her shoulders bare in the cold.
She gazes back, face like a mask, and he resists the sudden urge to step closer to the dream of her and ask some questions. He finds there are things he wonders about her, suddenly, though perhaps they are more like things he wonders about himself. Did you ever see holes in the disguise I maintained so carefully? Are you going back and noticing some now, cursing yourself for not seeing sooner? His eyes flicker over her glowing shape, sees the net gripped tightly in her hand, the thick rope wound in her fist. He can imagine the way the coarse fiber would bite into his skin so vividly he feels a burn forming on the insides of his wrists. In her other hand she holds an axe, keeping it low to the ground, partially concealed by her shin, as if she half intends to hide it, is hoping maybe he won't see. Her hands aren't red yet either, but he knows that if he stays here long enough, or gets within the reach of her net, they soon will be.
Will watches her through wide, staring eyes, and allows Hannibal to take his hand and drag him towards safety, away from the mirages fading in the flickering street light.
The wind and scenery whip past, and Will digs his fingers tighter into Hannibal's leather clad waist as the Ducati careens fleetly over the curving off ramp. He can hear his heart and the sound of nighttime traffic pounding in his ears. The hum of the engine vibrating through the bike between his legs. The scent of Hannibal's body as he clings to his back, the sensation of tilting velocity as they speed back towards the penthouse - Will's head spins with the flood of sensation and awe rushing through him.
It's like a dream, he thinks, but it's not like the thick, heavy nightmares that wake him in a sweat. This is lighter, softer, as wide and omnipresent as the air surrounding him. It's like the air itself, something he's breathing, something he needs. It's like the blood burning through him, like the caress of air on his skin, blood through his veins. He closes his eyes and lets his cheek rest against Hannibal's back, unmindful of the tension in the other man's lean muscles.
I'm alive, I'm alive, he thinks, and it hits him that for a long time he was maybe a little less than certain. He feels giddy, forced to grasp at Hannibal in a way he normally wouldn't have the inclination (or is it courage he lacks?) to do. But it feels right, to be this close, in this circumstance. Something about it reminds him of the night they killed Dolarhyde, of the way he had reached for Hannibal, had clung to Hannibal's lean frame and surrendered to the moment and to the knowledge of what they would become. What we have become, Will thinks, and smiles against Hannibal's shoulder, his bared teeth pressing against soft leather.
The Ducati makes a sharp turn and then they're sliding into the parking garage beneath the apartment, and Hannibal kills the engine and stalks off the bike, breaking Will's grasp on him and leaving the younger man blinking dazedly after him as he walks at a clipped pace towards the elevator. He doesn't look back.
Will hurries to catch him, rushing into the private elevator just as the doors begin sliding shut. "What the hell, Hannibal," he starts, but finds himself at an abrupt loss for words and breath as Hannibal wheels on him and, moving too quickly for Will's eyes to track him, slams him against the steel wall of the elevator hard enough for the little box to shake on its wires. The escalating room sways around them, and Will gasps, even more confused by Hannibal's rapid shift in attitude than he had been a second before.
Hannibal's face is a placid mask of tranquility, but the look in his deep crimson eyes brings a whimper to Will's lips. He bites it back in the nick of time, but can't manage to slow his breathing as Hannibal presses him more firmly against the wall, eyes flashing fire behind his cold, impassive face.
"I'm done playing these games with you, Will," Hannibal says, voice a low rumble that Will can feel through his whole body, pressed flush against one another as they are.
He frowns, and opens his mouth to say that he isn't playing either anymore, but before he can speak the elevator doors have slid open and Hannibal is stalking quickly away from him and into the expansive apartment. "Hey," Will calls after him, stepping into the kitchen in time to see Hannibal's back slinking away from him, towards the bedroom, and, when he follows him, towards the bathroom. That final bastion of privacy. "Wait, dammit!"
"Sober up," Hannibal says, cooly, without turning around. The door clicks shut behind him, the small sound somehow conveying greater displeasure than a slam could, and in a few minutes Will hears the shower running, and lets himself breathe again as the cold feeling of abandonment settles over him.
"He looked confused," Molly says, accepting with a grateful smile the mug of tea Alana hands her. "Like he didn't know where he was."
"That's good," Agent Crawford says, too quickly. The look Molly gives him must be beyond annoyed, because he rushes to explain himself. "If he's confused, there's hope he isn't consenting to this in his right mind. Lecter could have him drugged with the same psychoactive cocktail he used on Miriam Lass. If that's the case, all we need to do is separate the two of them, let the drugs work their way out of Will's system."
Molly hears the hope in his voice, the part he's not saying. We'll have him back, it will all just have been a mistake. "I-I don't know," she says. "He saw me - he said my name, I think - but he still left with..."
"If Hannibal has him drugged, then he might not have known whether what he was seeing was real or not," Alana says, slowly. "He'd be highly susceptible to suggestion. Did it look like Hannibal was talking to him?"
Molly nods. She remembers them, standing across the street from her, moving from shadow to shadow, remembers Will's eyes, wide and startled like she'd never seen before, and the other man - Hannibal Lecter? - had leaned into him and brought their faces close to say something in his ear. The memory brings her no comfort, even if it does lend credence to the theory that Will is not acting of his own volition. The energy evident between them from the way they moved, the way they touched, couldn't have been induced by psychoactive drugs or hypnosis. Thinking of it, Molly wants to cry. She wonders how long it will be before she can go back to her motel room and crawl under the covers for a few hours.
"There you go," Crawford says, sounding like this is all the proof they need. "He reacted when he saw you, Molly, if we can get him to see you without Hannibal there to interfere you can get him to come to you."
"We know where they will go next," Alana says. "You'll need SWAT units around Michael Barker's house. Scatter them through the neighborhood, and you and Molly get as close as you can."
"We'll need to be somewhere with a clear view of the house," Agent Crawford agrees, "eyes on every entrance so we know as soon as they arrive. Then, Molly, you'll need to go in ahead on your own. We'll do our best to pinpoint Will's location, try to catch him when he's on his own, or draw him off somehow."
Molly just looks at him. It seems less and less like protecting Michael Barker is a priority for them. "His hands were clean," she says, finally. "Not a drop of blood on him." On either of them, she thinks, but pushes the thought away as quickly as it appears, anxious for anything that could exonerate her husband. The silence filling the office presses like a heavy stone on her chest. She can feel the air being pushed out of her. And she knows, bloodless or bloody, redhanded or with clean hands, Will is guilty, and even if they capture him, he'll never be the man she remembers, but he'll always be the man she loves.
Freddie Lounds speaks at a rapid clip, her glossy lips moving over the details of chapter titles and dust jacket photos. The latter topic she is carefully diplomatic in approaching, but her shrewd mind won't allow her not to broach the subject.
Frederick Chilton understands her immediately; using an outdated photo might be the more comfortable choice, but a photo of him after his accident will sell more books, and earn him both sympathy and trust. A man who'd show you his face looking like that surely wouldn't bother hiding anything else. Would I lie to you? Just look at this face! It's scintillating to have company he can match wits with. Her cleverness and beauty are unparalleled, in his experience, and her bravery makes him want to be brave, too. She is undaunted by fear. She isn't scared of what might happen to her - but then again, it hasn't happened to her yet. Frederick has lived through the worst three times now. If there is a worse worst than this one, he doesn't want to know. But he can't look at her, brazen and unassailable, and say no.
His skin grafts are progressing well, and the first meeting with the plastic surgeon ended on a hopeful note. The surgeon was optimistic about Frederick's face. In time, he would even be able to smile again. For now he settles for baring his toothy rictus at Freddie, and hopes she reads the smile in his cloudy eyes. Frederick has seen the powers of plastic surgery before, and they are truly impressive. He is feeling more optimistic himself these days. The Dragon flayed him to the bone, but even so he shall endure.
Already, he has suffered greatly, and toiled to recover from the pains and terrors of his myriad misfortunes; let this latest atrocity be added to those he already bears. No longer forlorn about his external beauty, Frederick turns his energy to considering strength. He's never been particularly tenacious. His body before the accident was acceptable but soft. He'd felt it in his thighs and chest when he'd climbed above two flights of stairs, and been unable to defend himself every time it could have made a difference. He is a prey animal, and he is tired of his position on the food chain.
He watches Freddie's mouth move, one part of his mind tracking what she is saying while the rest of his trauma fractured psyche wanders and seethes. They're starting him on physical therapy in a week, and he resolves now to leave the hospital walking, unaided by the cain he'd leaned on for both stability and fashion in his previous life. He will recover, and more than recover. He wants to be strong now, in a way he never has been before. By each bloody link in the food chain, Frederick intends to ascend.
Hannibal Lecter takes his time. When he does emerge from the bathroom at last, clad in soft grey pants and a cobalt sweater, his hair still soft and damp, Will is standing directly outside the door, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest and an expression somewhere between confusion, indignation, and pitiful sorrow. Ordinarily, Hannibal would find the combination delightfully diverting, but at present he remains unamused. Raking his gaze cooly over Will's exasperated frame,
Hannibal makes his way towards the study. He doesn't need to hear the footsteps behind him to know he's being followed. "Are you expecting me to know why you're so upset?" Will's voice comes from behind him. Hannibal makes himself busy stacking the papers on his desk into neat piles. "Because I really don't." This is a great deal to take, even from Will, who has shown himself capable of remarkable obtusity over the years, despite his empathic gifts and natural cunning.
Hannibal forces himself to continue the mundane task of organizing the desk as he replies, forces himself to divert his attention lest the rage swimming in him become uncontainable. "I don't appreciate whatever game you are playing, Will," he says, voice meticulously calm. He's certain Will can hear the anger buried within the words, though. "I refuse to believe you are that oblivious."
But Will's look is one of genuine and complete bafflement, and forces Hannibal to reconsider his conviction. "No, you aren't so indifferent as that, but you aren't lying either, are you?"
Will huffs at him, squeezing his eyes shut and then blinking in rapid exasperation, in that curious way Hannibal has come to cherish over the years. "I'm honestly at a complete loss," he says, running his hand over his face and looking piteously forlorn. "Everything seemed fine - better than fine - and then we got back here and..." he waves a hand, unable to articulate through his frustration.
Hannibal feels himself softening, slightly, cold rage partially replaced by curiosity. "So something else, then," he says, voice low. "An extreme difference in perspective, perhaps. Tell me, when we left Mr. Duffy's home, what did you see?"
Will blinks at him. He has his arms crossed over his chest again, his posture guarded and wary. "You," he says, "leading me away." He frowns. "Only you were dressed differently, and so was I. It was like I was moving through a dream. And," he pauses, his frown deepening.
"Go on," Hannibal urges, keeping his tone low to avoid startling Will. "Tell me what you saw."
"You were talking to me," Will whispers, voice scarcely more than a breath, and Hannibal steps closer to hear him better. "But I couldn't hear what you said. I knew I had to follow you though, even though my feet felt like they had concrete shoes on them. And then I looked across the street, and I saw Molly." He swallows, voice catching. "She was dressed strangely, too, all three of us like something from a different era." He chuckles mirthlessly, grimacing as he meets Hannibal's eyes. "I've always had an active imagination, you know."
Hannibal blinks back at him, a slow and conscious movement. "You believe you hallucinated while we were escaping," he states, after a long silence.
"Well, obviously," Will rasps gruffly. "I knew it couldn't be real, even when it was happening; I have an abnormally high amount of experience with hallucinations, after all." He gives another short, bitter laugh. "Unless you're about to tell me that we really were dressed like Athenian soldiers and Molly really was standing across the street dressed like Helen of Troy and hefting a hatchet and a net."
"You saw her holding an axe and a net?" Hannibal asks, fascination edging out anger bit by bit. "That would make her more accurately Clytemnestra, Helen's sister."
"Helen, Chlamydia, whatever," Will waves a dismissive hand in a gesture so rude Hannibal sucks an involuntarily breath past his teeth. "None of this explains why you are suddenly so irritated at me, Hannibal."
He stares at Will for a long moment, calculating what would be best to say next. Will clearly believes that they escaped the scene without being seen, and that he'd only imagined his wife staring at them from beneath the street light, and Hannibal is tempted to keep the truth to himself. But the inclination is borne more from habit than practicality, and eventually he speaks. "She wasn't wearing a chiton."
Will blinks back at him. For several seconds, his face is a mask of perplexed concern that Hannibal is tempted to term endearing. Finally, understanding settles over his features. "You mean - "
"You didn't hallucinate your wife, Will. It seems your loose ends have come looking for you. And you certainly gazed back with a convincing degree of heartfelt longing."
Will has the good sense to flush at the harshly uttered words. "I didn't - "
"Oh, let me assure you, you did."
"Well, I didn't mean to." Will fixes him with an affronted glare. "Feeling jealous again, are you?"
Rage wins out over Hannibal's fascination with the inner workings of Will's mind, at least for the present moment. "I do not envy your wife, anymore than I would envy any other piece of the disguise you've been wearing since I met you," he retorts, unable to keep some of the bite from his carefully steady voice. "I do not need to be some lovelorn rube to feel justifiably frustrated by your reaction to seeing her, whether you knew she was real or not."
"You aren't honestly still thinking I'm about to betray you, are you?" Will snaps testily.
"About to betray me, again," Hannibal corrects, voice smooth. "And you sound like you think that would be an utterly ludicrous concern."
"Well, it is."
"Let's examine our evidence, Agent Graham," Hannibal replies with unusual quickness, no longer devoting any time to previewing his words before speaking them. "You've made a career out of betraying me. You claim to have left all that to the past, but display an alarming preoccupation with the consideration of how I would react were you to betray me again. You are noticeably jittery when confronted with the subject of your family. You continue to wear on your finger a symbol of your lifelong dedication to a woman you've abandoned. And when challenged with the sudden and unexpected appearance of this woman your reaction is to walk towards her until dragged away." He pauses, unsure of his ability to keep his voice even much longer. Already, his voice sounds rough with growing intensity to his ears, and he can feel his pulse twitching rapidly in his throat and hands. He forces himself to be still, focussing on the length of each breath and the feeling of the floor beneath his shoes.
Will waits motionlessly, somehow aware that Hannibal isn't finished speaking, yet. At last, when he has let all expression bleed from his face and he's certain his words will come out unbroken, Hannibal says, "It's only rational that I be alarmed by this behavior, Will. Perhaps you would care to explain?" He takes a step towards the younger man, invading his space.
Will doesn't step back, just splutters inelegantly until Hannibal can't help but sneer. "Maybe you weren't ready," he says cruelly, and thrills privately at the broken look that streaks across Will's face, even as it turns his stomach to keep speaking. "I should have left you to her, instead of hauling you away."
Will's face is drawn, jaw and mouth tight and eyes tempestuous, as he turns and exits the study. It's the first time Hannibal can remember seeing him walk away since they entered the prison transfer vehicle. Hannibal doesn't follow.
Will Graham had known since they arrived that the penthouse had a room outfitted just for him, designed and curated years before, by a version of Hannibal who found it far easier to trust Will's good intentions. He'd taken a shower that first morning and found a suit cut to his measurements waiting on the bed for him when he was done, and he'd known that somewhere in the apartment there was another closet filled with things Hannibal had hoped to one day see Will wear. He'd certainly had to wait long enough.
He finds the room easily. He's been there once already, after all. It's a door down the hall from the master bedroom, and it's furnished very much like the one he'd found in the cliffside house two weeks before. Will notes the rank smell, the coppery stain on the sheets, remembering that they haven't yet gotten around to changing the bedclothes after their surgical forays with Bedelia. It hadn't felt like a pressing issue, after all. He doesn't bother exploring, just lobs himself onto the bloodstained bed and kicks off the rancid sheets.
He sprawls amongst the numerous pillows, his head spinning. For a minute or two, Will watches the door. He hadn't slammed it, hadn't even bothered to shut it completely. It rests ajar, a slice of hallway visible from where he lies on the bed. He waits, but won't admit to himself what it is he is waiting for. At last, when nothing happens and the hallway beyond the door remains empty and silent for too long, he sighs, and swings his legs so that he can sit up and rest against the headboard.
There's a lot to analyze in what's just transpired. Will closes his eyes and tries to think clearly through the buzz of bloodlust vibrating through his bones and sinews. It's strenuous to follow any thought for long, through the hum or energy pounding through him, the flood of sensations, smells, colors invading his senses. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, forcing himself to focus on the first image that comes into his mind.
Hannibal had stood so close, eyes like black mirrors showing him nothing but his own disappointment and trepidation, and his voice had shook with such passionate bitterness that for a moment Will had been frighteningly certain Hannibal was about to stab him again. He'd worn the same passionate but statue-like countenance right before exposing Will's intestines to the kitchen floor years before. He'd let Hannibal guide his body, pull him close, not expecting the rush of burning pain at being stabbed. He hadn't expected the pain that scorched through him days later, either, when he awoke from dreams of rivers of blood and found that Hannibal had gone, taking Bedelia with him.
You were supposed to leave, he'd thought to himself, over and over, as he failed to find sleep in his hospital bed. I could have followed, later. After I'd had time to think. After I'd decided. Will supposes he can't fault Hannibal for his jealousy without being a reproachable hypocrite himself. And he has to admit, if only to himself, that Hannibal has some right to his anger, apart from any jealousy he might also be experiencing. It looked suspicious, and over the years Will has certainly given him plenty of reasons to be cautious.
What was Molly doing there, anyway? Will wonders. They'd known Jack was watching the house - his car had been staked out across the street in a stunning display of conspicuousness - and they'd hurried through their work before rushing out the back door, hopping the fence and heading for the Ducati Hannibal had hidden behind a dumpster two blocks down. But there'd been no reason for Molly to be there, no explanation for her presence. Had she gone looking for him? She couldn't possibly be that foolish. Her presence must be connected to Jack, Will reasons, but he can't fathom why. It's getting easier to think, but the external world still floods him.
If he hadn't thought she was a figment of his imagination he never would have allowed himself to approach her. Whatever her presence at the crime scene means, it's not a good omen. His subconscious must have wanted to relay that information, outfitting her with weapons and snares as it did.
Will opens his eyes again at last, blinking until the dim room comes back into focus. He glances to the door before he can stop himself. He can't stop the rush of disappointment at seeing the empty slice of hallway beyond the half open door, either. Sliding off the bed, Will crosses the room and pulls the door the rest of the way open.
He finds Hannibal still in his study, seated behind his desk with an unopened book in his lap. His unflappably cool facade seems somewhat askew. "Hey," Will greets, stepping into the room. He knows he doesn't need to announce his presence for Hannibal the way he would for a normal person, but it helps dispel some of the awkward tension.
Hannibal regards him expressionlessly. "Was there something you wanted, Will?" Hannibal finally asks, when the silence has stretched for too long between them. His voice lacks the customary amalgamation of fondness and amusement it holds when addressing Will.
"Listen," Will tries again, "I need to apologize." Hannibal's pale eyebrows shoot up at that, and Will feels the hot brand of anger on his brain. He forces himself to ignore it and forge ahead. "I asked you to trust me, but I haven't done a decent job of earning that trust so far. I can't fault you for feeling frustrated." He spreads his hands in an open, conciliatory gesture. "But I need you to know, Hannibal, I didn't know she was really there. This isn't going to be a repeat of anything we've done before, of anything I've done to you before." He pauses to exhale noisily, struggling to continue meeting Hannibal's glowing red gaze without growing tongue tied. Hannibal waits. Will wets his lips. "I know, the things we've done to one another make it...challenging to trust completely. Believe me, I have my own fears about this situation."
"What is it you fear, Will?" Hannibal is predictably quick to pounce on that new bit of knowledge. "Do you worry you will lose yourself completely? That you are betraying yourself along with your precious morality? Or do you suspect you are already lost to the world of the decent and good?"
Will gives a rough burst of laughter. "You know I'm not afraid of that," he says, smiling with calculated vulnerability.
Hannibal smiles back, his posture losing some of its tense hostility. "I know." Will takes a step close to the desk Hannibal is still sitting behind, but does not touch him. "What are you afraid of, Will?"
He gives another huff of laughter. "You held me in your arms and tore my guts out, Hannibal," he answers, his smile a grimace. His tone is defensively jocular. "You tried to cut my skull open so you could eat my brain. It's hard to forget things like that."
"Those actions were regrettably impulsive," Hannibal concedes. "Though they did not occur without provocation, Will."
"Precisely," Will answers. He wants to drop his gaze, but he forces himself not to, and takes another step towards Hannibal, stopping when his thighs are almost touching the mahogany desk and Hannibal has to scoot his chair back and lean back to continue making eye contact. "You act impulsively when hurt. I'm done running from you, Hannibal. I'm done fighting. But I don't know what you planned for us in your mind beyond this moment, whether you envisioned us as allies, or as each other's ends." Hannibal's eyes rake his face with intense scrutiny.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," he continues, finding himself slightly breathless when he speaks, "but that doesn't mean I won't provoke you on occasion, whether I intend to or not. Case in point, tonight." He lifts an eyebrow. "How do I know you won't behave in a regrettably impulsive manner next time the hot hand of anger rests on you?"
Hannibal regards him cooly, his neck angled to gaze up at Will's face. At great length, he says, "I have no reason to hurt you anymore, either. Do I, Will?"
Will smiles. "No," he says, voice warm. "You really don't." He moves to stand on the same side of the table as where Hannibal is sitting, and, knowing the action will vex the other man, half sits upon the desk.
"You're here," Hannibal says, voice wondering and so quiet Will isn't sure Hannibal means him to hear. Perhaps he simply needs to say it out loud in order to make it real.
"Yes," he assures Hannibal. "I'm here to stay."
"Are you hallucinating frequently these days?" Hannibal asks, into the pooling silence of the moment. Will almost laughs at the question, seeming to come out of nowhere as it does, stealing in to invade the emotionally fraught moment.
"I've been," he shrugs, "overwhelmed. I'm sure you've noticed."
"Describe how it feels for me," Hannibal orders, typically imperious. "What is it, to be overwhelmed, Will?"
"You know," he sighs, "you of all people must surely know. It's a...heightened sensitivity to the world around me. As if I had previously experienced reality through a veil or filter, and, that barrier now removed, I find each sense strengthened and sharpened. It's as if the world is moving in slow motion, at times, and I can breathe in the space between my heartbeats." He breathes deeply, pausing in his words. Hannibal remains silent, waiting. Will studies him, then continues, "Every sound, every smell, every taste, touch, each color and line - all of it feels realer, more vibrant and intense. The world is," he thinks for a moment, "radiant."
Hannibal's eyes gleam across the slight distance, but he says nothing. Will smiles, faintly. "You asked me if I'm happy to be here," he continues, into the contemplative silence of the moment. "I don't know that happiness is quite the right word; euphoria, perhaps. I have never felt like this before, and I would never take it back or trade it for something safer or more prosaic again. Not now that I've seen fully what it is you've been offering me all this time." The look Hannibal gives him is dazzling. Will stumbles on, his voice growing rougher, unaccustomed to delivering so long a speech, with such emotion. "You told me to sober up before," he says, not quite a question.
"I did," Hannibal answers.
"You knew how I was feeling, how this energy overfills the body and brain."
"I know how it feels for me," Hannibal replies. "I suspected you experienced something similar, and were finding it difficult to control yourself in the face of it."
Will chuckles. "My lack of self control is most often to your advantage," he says. "Sober is a good word choice. I feel intoxicated."
Hannibal hums contemplatively. "It will grow easier to manage in time," he says. "You already know how to use that exuberance to gain dominance over your prey. It's beautiful to watch you work, Will. I am truly honored to witness it." Will says nothing, but feels his face engulfed in fire at the compliment. "Do you find the elation brings you any peace?" Hannibal asks.
"I suppose," Will says. "It settles things, at least, makes it impossible to hide what I want from myself. That in itself is peace. And," he pauses, brow furrowing as he reflects on his words, "the feeling is so large, so expansive, it drives out smaller emotions of distress."
"Yes," Hannibal breathes, voice low and adoring, "this is what I've wanted for you, Will, that you would choose to live that wonderful life that's within you, to be always seeking new sensations, and to fear nothing. You've agonized for so long," he smiles, not unkindly, across the small distance between them. "Nothing will cure your soul except abandoning yourself to sensation."
Will exhales loudly. "Right," he says, "well, it's a little...overpowering." He catches the glint in Hannibal's eyes, feels his mouth drying like clay in the sun. "It's as if the stimulation is glutting my imagination. It's only been that one time, I think, that I got confused." He swallows. "And I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for," Hannibal replies, voice devoid of anger now. "I should have remembered how easy it is to lose one's self to these new experiences. You're feeling for your limits. I shall strive to be better at helping you find them."
Will decides that he has vexed the older man sufficiently for one day. He selects a book at random from the nearest shelf, and settles into one of the armchairs by the fire, peering over the top of the book to examine Hannibal and smile.
A dead psychiatrist is better than none at all, Will figures. It's unlikely he'll get better help than this, after all.
"We spoil ourselves with scruples when things are going well," Bedelia's dark-eyed ghost whispers breathily to him as he sits, watching her over the pages of the book he's pretending to read. Hannibal is still at his desk, but has abandoned the pretense of reading in favor of his art. Will listens to the rasp of graphite over paper and tries not to wonder what the doctor is drawing, or whether it has anything to do with him, or them. "But laws and morals are not intended for the times when it is painless to follow them. Rules are for the times when we are tempted."
Will closes his eyes, answering the ghost. "Maybe they never mean anything." Somehow he can see her better with his eyes closed. Everything about her is true to life - her perfectly coifed blonde hair, her smooth and tailored dress suit, her missing limb, the empty sockets in her skull. "It's a little late to avoid temptation now, don't you think?" Will asks, considering her eyeless, lifeless, incomplete visage.
Her chest rises with her heavy inhalation, just as it would have in life. Though her eyes are hollow caverns, he can sense her gaze and it feels familiar. "What is it that holds you back, then?"
"I wasn't aware I was holding anything back anymore. I certainly didn't with you."
"Maybe not," she says, "but you are reluctant to let a part of yourself go, or perhaps more accurately, to acknowledge certain aspects of your personality. Even now, after all you've become," she tilts her head at the word, sighing, "there are pieces of yourself you still want to pretend aren't there."
Will knows this to be the truth. She wouldn't be here, continuing his therapy, if it wasn't. Of all the people his mind could conjure for this conversation, Bedelia Du Mauriermakes both the most and least sense. "Were there pieces of yourself you wished you could remove?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at her.
"You removed more of me than I would have wished," she breathes. "What part of yourself are you hoping to sever?"
"I think you know."
"Yes," the ghost moves in her seat, watching him through the blank black holes in her face. "Are you truly free if you can't admit to yourself what you want, though?"
"I'm not sure what I want," Will answers, but he's not sure that's true. "Are any of us free anyway? Was it free will that got me to this point?"
"What else would it be, but your own conscious choices? Unless you believe you were coerced or manipulated into this position."
"It wouldn't be a baseless fear," Will says, "but no. Only that perhaps something rides us - all of us, you, me, even him - maneuvers us into place."
"Fate."
"Something like that. Maybe our choices are ours to make, but the way we'll choose is never truly in our control. Too much conditioning, too many conditions. I made my choices, but were there ever any real options? We're shown two doors, but before the choice is presented our decision is already forgone."
He thinks of the dark twisting dread that escalated into terror, the sense of loss, of devastation, of the necessity and futility of resistance, as Hannibal had revealed him to himself. He'd known what he was in the instant he watched the life bleed from Garrett Jacob Hobbs' face. That stillness, that sway; he had known he could - he would - I did - rail against the truth of who he was, but all his choices would only lead him to himself.
Every door he opened would only take him deeper into his own darkness, guided by the force of predetermination towards the center of his own violent heart. Now he worries what else he may find there, at the heart of his being, and be unable to resist.
"Hannibal would say that the mind is no more free than is any other organ of the body. Do you believe our choices are all due to genetics and chemistry?"
"From the moment I was born," Will sighs, "maybe I was always walking to this place."
The End of Episode Three