Hey everyone! It's been a while since I've written anything. Well. Here we go. Just a one-chapter thing. I hope you like it. The characters before you are property of Thomas Harris…
This is sort of a broken timeline fic and one of those stories you have read to the very end. The VERY end.
Morb
"It's a scary time, because from what I remember from the eighth grade, this is how the Roman Empire fell. We're dancing as Rome burns."
- Julianne Moore (an interview)
He entered the hospital earlier than they had expected.
He's held his own as long a he could.
He's lasted more than a month.
There were several faces in the room as he was born again to light for the last time.
Don't leave, stay for a while, it's all he has.
The faces are blurred. He is wired to the hospital. He thought he'd rather not die here. He'd rather be shot. He'd rather die doing something. He'd never wanted to die in a hospital bed. This was disgusting.
Had he been shot? He couldn't remember.
He'd given a lot of thought about dying. In a selfish way and in the heroic way, and decided that peace could come with both. Religion didn't appear in these thoughts, and it didn't occur to him now, even though somewhere in the back where he kept his beliefs he was reminded that Christ would offer salvation if he showed faith in his heart.
Things were starting to come into focus. The company in the room was small; his family and another figure that stands out of his view.
His family came to him though his broken window sight. The child held his hand while his wife wept. God, she'd been good to him though all these years. She kisses his forehead. Behind her eyes he sees a small mechanical knot, knowing the necessary but unfortunate. He respects that, but feels a little sad seeing her swan song goodbye.
The child locks eyes with him. Saying goodbye, too? Be strong. I love you. He feels the icy pang of longing, wishing for more time, and not, because the pain is great for all parties. It's hailing in his chest. Slippery eyes, and a long look. I don't want you to think I rolled over and left life. I'm going to miss them.
He closes his eyes. He will not cry a single bloody teardrop for death.
Some soldiers, tired of war, will walk straight into no-man's land and wait. He is waiting, but not anxiously waiting.
The unknown figure is standing in the corner, out of vision.
He does not know who they could be. He opens his eyes and takes in sharply what he sees.
Now it is not a pang of longing.
It is a pang of fear.
He'd wanted to die fighting. He hadn't wanted his inner demon's to come back to haunt him in his last hours.
"Well hello Will..."
Standing before him is Dr. Hannibal Lecter, dressed in a lab coat, no doubt posing as a doctor in this hospital. They'd find the real Doctor Sanders tucked away in a storage freezer somewhere in a few days.
Will Graham's stomach drops. His heart rate increases. High over 85. This is not healthy for a man in his condition.
His family has left them alone in the room. Together. Alone in the room together. There is a lot of truth in that.
The good doctor has told them to go home and rest. This good doctor can function perfectly when he wants to.
Old enemies watch each other.
Will cannot call for help; Dr. Lecter has disabled the button for the nurse.
He cannot speak, cannot scream for help, the drugs are starting to kick in.
Maybe that's a good thing; maybe if he tortures me I'll feel it less.
Would he if he could? Probably. Fear is a very persuasive creature.
He is a lamb to the slaughter. He's powerless and knows it, which is the worst sort of fear. He's helpless.
Another degree of panic flushes though Will as Dr. Lecter smirks.
"Well, William, it's come to this." He tilts his head.
Do it, you soulless bastard. Just do it. Don't drag it out. Don't make me endure a farewell speech.
The good doctor produces a scalpel. He flicks it from side to side absently.
Will stops. He lets his panic settle, and considers.
And suddenly, like a six-year-old overcoming their fear of monsters under their bed, his fear breaks. Will isn't afraid. They've been here before, in a Baltimore clinic, after a revelation. His fear of a painful death at the end of the tunnel even vanishes. Not death, not any serial killer, not even his own ghosts could frighten him now.
Lecter steps closer to the hospital bed.
"You're a man of great courage, Will. Are you afraid now?"
Will's face does not change, and Lecter gives a mockingly considerate tone. He whispers, "Blink once for yes and twice for no."
Lecter understands Will's honest one blink.
A delightful comeback, Will, but I've got one for you...Dr. Lecter's expression states, playfully.
"Ahh well you should be, because after I slice you up, I may go on and make a fillet out of the lovely Molly and the young Josh..." the doctor said softly, and dangerously.
Don't you dare fucking hurt them, you goddamn psycho. Will's mind roared. Anger flashed in his eyes.
Pleased with what pain he could suck out of Will, "Don't worry, Will. I won't harm them, for ole times sake..." He winked. Dr. Lecter does not lie.
Dr. Lecter exhales. "I have the greatest respect for you, Will. You've been a worthy adversary. You've just proved what I told you, though."
Will stared Dr. Lecter in the face.
"About fear. I told you that I would help you bear it. It is the price of our instrument, and you just took up the cross. You and I are very much alike, even though you don't care to admit it."
Dr. Lecter was next to the bed now. He held the scalpel to Will's throat.
Maybe in that transfixed moment, as we observe the two, some glimmer of compassion or mercy sparked in the monster's complex mind, because he drew back suddenly, sucking in air.
He smiled at Will, and turned and took a step to the door.
Will breathed a sigh of relief.
We cannot see the monster's expression. Perhaps he let Will live knowing he'd have to suffer though the pain of his sickness, which would be much more drawn out and grand a torture than simply slicing him up. Maybe he just had compassion. We cannot judge.
All we can only state the facts. And when in that one moment when compassion shows, we must always remember what he is. And that he will not deny himself.
Dr. Lecter spun on his heels, and in one fluid motion, the scalpel had ripped across Will's throat. We'll withdrawal now peacefully, and observe their last exchange of words, but Will's are silent.
Dr. Lecter wipes blood off his face, and held his head to Will's ear and whispered, "That aftershave is atrocious."