Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4228659.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV), Hannibal_Lecter_Series_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter, Francis_Dolarhyde/Will_Graham, Will_Graham_&
      Abigail_Hobbs, Abigail_Hobbs_&_Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter, Francis_Dolarhyde, Jack_Crawford, Abigail
      Hobbs, Alana_Bloom, Beverly_Katz, Winston_(Hannibal), Matthew_Brown_
      (Hannibal)
  Additional Tags:
      Don't_Be_Fooled_by_the_Cutesy_Fluffy_Sounding_Title, This_is_Not_a_Cutesy
      Fluffy_Story, Spoiler_Alert:_The_Major_Character_Death_is_Francis
      Dolarhyde, You're_Welcome, dub-con, Kidnapping, Captivity, Captor
      Bonding, Stockholm_Syndrome, Manipulation, Abuse, references_to
      necrophilia, About_as_Much_as_in_Red_Dragon, Gore, Cannibalism, Alpha/
      Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha_Hannibal, Omega_Will, Alpha_Francis,
      Seduction, Dark_Will_Graham, This_Story_Has_it_All_Basically, Explicit
      Sexual_Content, No_mpreg, Forced_Bonding, Younger_Will, Age_Difference,
      Some_Implied_and/or_Imagined_Animal_Abuse, Autistic_Will_Graham, Asexual
      Abigail_Hobbs, Male_Omegas_are_Technically_Intersex, Some_Individuals
      Even_Identify_as_Intersex_or_Female_Instead_of_Male, Gender_is_as_Much_a
      Fluid_Spectrum_Here_as_in_Real_Life, Society_is_also_Just_as_Blunt_and
      Ham-Fisted_and_often_Phobic_in_How_it_Treats_that_Spectrum_as_IRL
  Collections:
      Fresh_Meat_Friday
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-28 Updated: 2018-03-13 Chapters: 18/? Words: 76426
****** The Fairy's Bride ******
by AGlassRoseNeverFades
Summary
     “I imagine no matter the circumstances, the loss of one’s mate must
     be a rather traumatizing experience, particularly after so many years
     bonded.”
     Will laughs, just once, a quick, dark, rich sound that causes the
     hairs at the back of Hannibal’s neck to stand pleasantly on end. He
     does not shy away from eye contact with Hannibal the way he does with
     so many others, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip, enough to tug
     it gently out of place as he considers his response.
     He curls his lip back into his mouth to wet it before asking, “Tell
     me, Doctor Lecter, have you ever been mated? Willingly or…otherwise.”
     But for the barest tightening of his smile and a flash of something
     once brittle, now hardened, behind storm-colored eyes, one would
     never suspect the sort of madness and past traumas that lurk behind
     the omega’s guarded cerulean gaze.
     Not unless one knows exactly what to look for.
Notes
     What. The. Hell, Brain! I thought we had a deal, man! No more new
     chaptered stories until I finished one of my other WIPs! And omg, did
     you have to come up with one like this??
      
     This story exists now because I am utter despicable trash, sorry not
     sorry.
      
     Please mind the tags and archive warnings before you proceed. Also,
     if you notice ANYTHING potentially triggering or worrisome that I
     neglected to tag, please, please let me know and I will fix it right
     away, I promise!!
See the end of the work for more notes
***** The Rape of Ganymede *****
                           I.  The Rape of Ganymede
 
Lying alone in his twin bed, Will Graham twists and squirms, aching and
feverish all over as if he has the flu. He wishes it were the flu. His fingers
dig into the heavy weighted blanket around his shoulders, torn between wanting
to pull it around himself tighter so he can burrow underneath and wanting to
throw it off entirely. His throat clicks as he swallows dryly, stifling a low
whimper behind sealed lips before it can escape entirely.
It has been a couple of hours since Mrs. Marlow came up to check on him. She
had told him before it started that he should come to her directly if he needed
anything at all, had been insistent on that point, stating with a sisterly wink
that she would understand better than Mr. Marlow what he was going through,
being an omega herself. She was lying. Will knows it has more to do with the
way her husband has been sniffing around him lately in the days leading up to
his heat than any real sense of omegan solidarity. As if Will would ever let
that slimy, boring, disgusting beta touch him anyway.
It’s hard not to resent his foster parents. Mrs. Marlow really means well, or
tries to at least. Mr. Marlow generally ignores him, heading straight for the
den when he gets home from work and flipping on the sports channel, barely
noticing the quiet, troubled sixteen-year-old who has taken up residence in
their guest room except for times such as these, when he is suddenly reminded
of the boy’s gender and leers at Will instead like he’s a hot piece of ass when
he thinks his wife isn’t looking.
This is the second heat Will has experienced since his father died, and the
first since he moved into the Marlow household. Will would never feel
embarrassed around his dad during his heats because there is nothing inherently
sexualabout them without a viable partner around to trigger those instincts. It
just feels...a lot like the flu.
He misses the way his dad used to sing him to sleep on the really bad nights,
bundling him up tighter in his blankets and wiping the sweat from his brow with
a cool washcloth until the worst of it was over. He misses his dad, period.
Will bites back another whimper, for a different reason this time, sniffling.
Will misses his dad most of time even under normal circumstances, but usually
he has a better handle on it, at least enough not to cry. He always gets more
emotional when he’s like this, however.
He can’t fault Mrs. Marlow for lack of trying. She did try at first to act
motherly, attempting to gentle him on his first night with careful pats on the
head before Will jerked away and practically hissed. She had given up rather
quickly on him after that, exasperated because it wasn’t supposed to be like
this, she had thought it would be so noble and romantic and fulfilling to take
in a foster child, another gold star to add to her shining reputation as pillar
of the community while also injecting some life back into her humdrum daily
routine and perhaps back into her marriage as well, granting her the family she
and Thomas had never tried to have without all the extra work of having to
raise a young child. She had expected some poor, sweet, tragic orphan with no
one else to go to, not this taciturn, snarling, ungrateful little hussy she
couldn’t dare leave her Thomas alone in the house with. And really,no wonder he
had no sense of stability or understanding what was good for him anyway what
with his father moving them around like that all the time, and then being
carelessenough to die in a boating accident of all things when hadn’t she heard
fishermen were supposed to be strong swimmers, and he a professional one at
that...?
Will had jerked away almost as much to shake her thoughts out of his head as to
avoid her touch. He wonders sometimes if the fear and disgust would win out
over her stubborn sense of pride and obsessive need to impress the other
members at Rotary Club with her “noble self-sacrifice” if she understood just
how well Will can see right through her.
“I know this must be so hard for you, sweetie,” she’d said with false sympathy
once his symptoms started this morning. “All the sweats and the pains and
discomfort with none of the reward,” she’d added, referencing his sterility as
a male omega in an obvious attempt to twist the knife and prove her own
superiority. Will couldn’t help himself then, had been too irritable already
since the day started not to point out that between the two of them, hewasn’t
the one desperate for something he could never have. The final nail in the
coffin though had been asking if she still tried to convince herself that it
was having a beta husband, and not early-onset menopause, that kept her from
conceiving now.
He regrets saying it now, and is annoyed with himself for regretting it,
because in that moment as her mask had slipped and her face had fallen just a
little bit, he had seen not the awful fake bitch who devised subtle ways to
punish her own foster son because she was jealous, and saw instead a lonely
woman with too many regrets of her own and so much fear of losing everything
she had while hiding it all behind a polished smile.
He’d barricaded himself in his own room all day after that before she could
recover enough to send him upstairs herself. Not that it matters much in the
end. Will suspects this is the last heat he’ll be spending here before the
Marlows kick him out and throw him back into the system. Even knowing that out
of all of the foster homes he could have ended up in, this is probably not the
worst of them, he nonetheless cannot bring himself to regret having to leave it
now.
Shifting uneasily between half-sleep and half-wakefulness, hungry now after
skipping both lunch and dinner but not wanting to go downstairs and have to
face either of them, Will buries his head under the pillow and tries to nestle
deeper into the center of the mattress instead. Time passes in a sick amorphous
sludge, neither too fast nor too slow. Will feels outside of it, almost feels
outside of himself, or at least he would if his nerve endings didn’t sing like
thrumming live wires with every offhand brush of fabric against his skin.
Even the soft cotton of his shirt and sweatpants itch uncomfortably and he
wants badly just to tear them off. He is considering whether or not he should
do just that when chaos breaks loose in the form of a terrible ear-splitting
screech as the house alarm goes off. Bang, bang!he hears even with his hands
pressed tightly against his ears, like a car backfiring only...not.
Bang!The sound echoes throughout the house one last time, until finally that
and the shrill sirens are gone leaving only ringing silence in their wake.
*
With nothing now but blood dripping onto the floor and Theresa Marlow’s sick
gasping gurgles for breath filling the silence of the room, Francis Dolarhyde
at last allows himself a small victorious smile, his heart thrumming in his
chest with adrenaline and excitement as he stalks toward his prey, taking his
time now because he can. There is no one here but him, a dead man, and this
woman,a rabid putrescent sickness disguising itself as beauty. He has all the
time in the world now to fix it, to make her truly beautiful, to—
He stills, heartrate picking up again as he carefully scents the air. This
is...something is not right. There is another scent in the house that should
not be, something he failed to notice right away after he kicked the door in,
failed to notice when he was scouting just a week ago, hiding in the treeline
across the street. It makes no sense,it makes no sense, the Marlows lived
childless and alone, he was sure of it...
And yet there is no mistaking it, the smell a warm fevered sweetness that
sticks to the back of his throat like honey, like sun-ripened peaches heavy on
his tongue. An omega. An omega in heat,and definitely not the one drowning in a
pool of her own blood at his feet.
A soft creak coming from the stairs, followed by a softer gasp, and Francis
Dolarhyde slowly unfurls from his crouch over the dying woman, back
straightening, before he turns fully and tilts his head upward to look.
What he sees is close enough to a waking dream that even Heperks up and takes
notice. What he sees is beauty.
What he sees is the Sun.
*
He shouldn’t. Oh, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t.
Will’s feet carry him halfway down the staircase anyway, silent and bare,
stopping only a step above the first dark splash of Mr. Marlow’s blood, still
several steps above where Mr. Marlow’s body is crumpled in a heap at almost the
very bottom. There is a smaller fleck of blood Will hadn’t noticed on the step
he is standing on now, right underneath his foot. He can feel it seeping damp
into the carpet, slick and warm against his skin. His muscles quiver and ache,
making him shiver harder than he had been in his cold room alone. This no
longer feels like the flu.
His shaking makes the steps creak and he gasps, knowing that he has now given
himself away. Still he does not run, not yet, waiting on bated breath as the
unknown alpha finally takes notice of him and turns around.
He looks strong and powerful, and the way he looks up at Will makes the boy
almost keen at the back of his throat as a line of slick dribbles down the back
of his leg.
The man’s nostrils flare and he stiffens. Mr. and Mrs. Marlow both lay
forgotten on the ground as he stalks past them and begins marching up the
stairs.
Will’s fight-or-flight instincts finally kick in and he stumbles backwards,
nearly tripping over himself in his haste to turn tail and run.
He only makes it as far as the top landing, doesn’t get more than a few steps
towards the hall before a hand clamps around his ankle and yanks him backwards.
Will falls facedown onto the carpeted floor with a pained yelp and tries to
kick the alpha away, digging his fingers into the carpet as he attempts to
lever himself forward. The alpha merely grabs that ankle as well and uses it as
leverage to pull Will closer to him.
Will’s fingertips burn as they lose their grip in the rough fibers and drag
across the carpet. He is pulled backwards until he is forced into a kneel back
on the stairs, surrounded on all sides by the figure crouched above and behind
him, hot hands grabbing, sliding, touching him everywhere. One rough hand
pushes his face back into the carpet while the other tears away his loose
clothing. Will whimpers at the feeling of blunt fingernails scraping against
his bare bottom even as a wave of fresh slick gushes from between his thighs.
A half-choked, snarling sound behind him, followed by the frantic rustle of
clothing, a belt buckle being loosened, undone, a fly unzipped. Will renews his
struggles, squirming, whether in fear or arousal it’s difficult for him to tell
now, but it seems to both delight and anger the alpha all at once as he twists
Will bodily around to face him and yank what’s left of the boy’s shirt off
around his head.
Gone is the careful control of the killer who broke into the house and shot Mr.
Marlow cleanly through the neck, killing him instantly, then shot Mrs. Marlow
with the same precision, aimed to paralyze rather kill so she could suffer. The
alpha’s eyes are wild and crazed. Will wonders if the man knows there is blood
spatter on his cheek.
Of course he knows, of course. “You wanted to feel it,” Will whispers hoarsely
all of a sudden. The man’s eyes widen, as if he had forgotten in the rut
overtaking him that he and Will were animals that could speak,or perhaps simply
in surprise because he had expected the boy’s first words to him would be ‘no’
or ‘please,’not...“You needed to be close enough to see her eyes as the bullet
ripped through her spine, needed to see her realize how much she was going to
suffer.”
Will licks his lips, barely conscious of his own actions or the effect they can
have as he lifts his hand to cradle the man’s cheek, smearing the sticky
droplets with his thumb as he speaks. “You needed to feel her blood and agony
against your skin while it was still warm.”
The alpha seizes Will’s wrist then, turning his head to suck Will’s thumb into
his mouth with a moan, before grabbing Will’s other wrist as well and pinning
them both above the boy’s head with one hand. Then with an exhalation of breath
that is both growl and sob, he takes hold of the omega’s knee and lifts it so
he can spread his legs wider, and at last lines himself up and sinks into the
wet, welcoming warmth that’s been driving him mad since he first smelled the
boy.
Will squeezes his eyes shut and screams, pain and pleasure intermingling as the
alpha takes him relentlessly without giving either of them a chance to adjust
or get used to it. Tears spring up and stick to his eyelashes as the alpha ruts
into him, occasionally brushing against the spot inside him that makes him
shiver and arch his back off the steps.
The alpha above him is equally noisy, groaning his pleasure and yet close to
crying himself, muttering words like ‘I can’t’ and ‘beautiful’ and ‘angel.’
 Will suddenly remembers Mrs. Marlow bleeding out onto the floorboards below.
He wonders if she is still alive at this moment, still conscious, listening to
the sounds of him being fucked and claimed and breathing in the smells of sex
and death. The thought of it makes him clench and cant his hips higher,
grunting and then purring as the alpha’s swollen knot finally breaches his
gaping hole fully and ties them together.
“Alpha!” he mewls desperately, clenching again harder, needy and unaware of
what he’s asking for.
The alpha makes a high keening sound, then releases Will’s hands at last to
pull his fingers tightly through Will’s curls instead and force the boy to tilt
his head back, exposing his lovely neck.
Will clutches the man’s shoulders tightly through his jacket. His world
shatters and burns and topples to the ground in smoldering, smoke-filled ruins
at the feeling of teeth setting against his throat, and as they clamp down
around his skin, he comes with a howl.
*
Later, much, much later, following a half-dazed stumble into an unmarked van
and an hours-long car ride that had both of them sitting with their teeth on
edge as his heat sweats had returned, after days of mindless rutting, mating,
fervent touches, and sloppy kisses that had started up again from the moment
Francis carried him into the drafty, creaking old house in the middle of
nowhere and hadn’t stopped since, Will Graham’s heat finally ends.
Will lays back against the pillows, sweaty and exhausted, and watches lazily as
the other man climbs out of bed. He watches the dark sprawling tattoo across
the man’s back shift and breathe like a living dragon with every movement of
the man’s muscles, until it disappears behind a dark blue silk kimono the man
pulls on over his shoulders.
Will wonders which one of them it is looking down at him at this moment as the
alpha turns around, the man or the dragon. Lingering vestiges of fear, longing,
confusion, arousal, and something which neither of them have had much
experience with before but both think might be contentment filters between
their tenuous new bond faintly on a feedback loop.
Francis leans down and strokes his fingers over his omega’s smooth, pale cheek,
expression calm and unyielding as still waters. “You remind me of a poem I read
once,” he says softly, the first words either of them have spoken in hours. “A
robin redbreast in a cage.”
Will flinches a little at that statement, more so the implications behind it,
and Francis withdraws his hand, brows drawn low almost in apology.
He takes a step back, awkward and shy now when he had been anything but just a
moment before, and throughout their mating. Will’s lips tug upwards at the
sight, already growing fond and hoping to see more of the same.
The alpha turns away again to rifle through a tall wardrobe in the corner, and
returns with another kimono, this one brightly patterned with splashes of
white, red, and black. He holds it open and Will gets up finally, turning
around so he can put his arms through the sleeves and let his alpha slide it on
over his shoulders. Will feels like he’s being swallowed up by it, the garment
obviously meant for a tall, well-built body like the one behind him rather than
his own short, skinny frame, but he luxuriates in the cool, whisper-soft feel
of it against his heated skin.
The alpha snares Will closer to cinch his robe up at the front, hands trembling
ever so slightly, then sniffs, hiding his face in Will’s curls although the boy
can feel wetness forming there, against his temple.
“I am sorry, little robin,”he whispers to keep his voice from quavering. “I’m
sorry, this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wasn’t, but you feltso good,and I—”
Will turns his head and stops him from talking with a gentle press of his lips
against the alpha’s own. “You felt good too,” he confesses softly against the
alpha’s mouth, raising his hands to hold onto the arms still wrapped tightly
around him.
The two of them remain like that for a very long while, as the room lightens
and turns pink with the rising of the sun outside.
 
*
 
                                Six Years Later
This is it,Jack thinks solemnly as the flower delivery van pulls along
carefully down the long, ambling backroad, the closest a man like him gets to
nervous excitement. If it’s him, this will all finally be over. They’ve got the
bastard by the shorthairs now. He won’t be getting away this time. No more
families will have to die.
The papers have taken to calling this “the summer of serial killers,” courtesy
of one very tasteless article by Freddie Lounds. It is, sadly, not all that
uncommon for multiple serial killers completely separate from one another to be
active at the same time, but Lounds loves to sensationalize whenever she can,
and as a result the higher-ups have been really riding Crawford’s ass on this
one. Seven missing girls in Minnesota over the last half-year. Three murdered
families in as many months. It has been an exhausting damn year so far for all
of them.
Lately, Prurnell has even taken to hinting that if something isn’t done about
either the abductions of the young omegan girls in Minnesota or the family
annihilations happening across multiple state lines very soon, his job could be
on the line.
The gruff alpha had politely refrained from pointing out that he and his team
have been doing everything they can, no matter how stretched thin they’ve been
since these wackos got started, and that it would be stupid of the bureau to
take him off of either case now. Nor does he tell her that he doesn’t give a
damn about his job as much as he does about the innocent lives that have been
lost. He won’t say it’s because he thinks a pushy bureaucrat like her wouldn’t
understand that but...well.
What he also won’t say, to anyone other than his wife and the most trusted
members on his team, is that what’s been keeping him up at night the most in
both cases are not the horrors that he’s seen, but the ones that have not been
seen—the victims they haven’t found yet. He hates the not knowing more than
anything.
“Honestly, boss, hate to disagree but I’d say in the Tooth Fairy’s case, it’s
knowing too much about this guy’s MO that’s gotta be the worst,” Zeller had
said, pulling a disgusted face, the last time they were in the lab going over
case files. “We know more than we could ever want to about what happens to his
victims.”
“Not all of them,” Jack had pointed out quietly.
It was Beverly who had pointed it out as they were processing the scene for the
first slaughtered family. “This clearly wasn’t his first rodeo,” were her exact
words as she stood photographing the detritus under Mrs. Jacobi’s fingernails
to be swabbed later.
They went through old unsolved cases involving similar MOs after that. They
hadn’t been difficult to find. This one had a...habit of leaving DNA evidence
behind. Usually he liked to pay special attention to the women, whether they be
betas or omegas. Usually when he killed children, he did it swiftly and
virtually painlessly, and paid no attention to their bodies whatsoever before
or after except to mutilate their eyes as he had done with all the victims over
the past three months. Usually he left every one of his victims’ bodies out in
some sort of grisly display inside the house. Usually.
Jack looks through the reports one last time as they near the long, winding
driveway to Dolarhyde Nursing Home, and finds himself once again staring down
at the one photo they have on file of the Tooth Fairy’s only exception.
The boy looks as if someone asked him to smile after they just made him swallow
glass. That had been Jack’s initial thought when he saw the photograph for the
first time. In a sea of pictures full of happy children and happy families, it
had stood out. The fact that he was no more than a footnote to Theresa and
Thomas Marlows’ murders in both the police report and news clippings from the
local paper at the time had riled Jack then, and still does now.
He has the stark conviction that if the local PD at the time had just done
their damn jobs and cared enough to look into what had happened to the boy
whose picture they had paperclipped to the back of the file and scrawled
underneath simply a name and a single line, ‘Marlow’s foster son, body not
found,’ they might have caught this bastard a long time ago and maybe, just
maybe,saved at least one life, not to mention the dozens of others that came
afterward.
They have him now, he has to remind himself as they pull up at last to the
imposing old manor, and not a moment too soon with less than a week before the
next full moon.
“What now, boss?” Zeller asks as he puts the van in park and straightens his
jacket, hoping it will help to disguise the fact that he’s wearing a
bulletproof vest underneath his plainclothes outfit. Jack is also in
plainclothes, while hidden in the back Price and Katz are in their FBI-issued
vests in full gear, both of them in charge of radio chatter. Unseen from the
house about half a mile back down the road are four other sedans full of armed
agents that have followed behind.
“Now we deliver this man some flowers,” Jack says, getting out of the van. He
lets Zeller carry the thin white box decorated with a bright red bow on it as
they walk together to the front door.
Jack rings the doorbell, making sure to plaster on a friendly smile as he waits
in view of the peephole.
After a few moments of silence and no answer to indicate anyone heard, he rings
it impatiently once again. “Coming!”he hears someone call through the door this
time. The voice seems younger somehow than he was expecting, but Jack puts that
thought aside for now as he hears the lock turning.
“Good afternoon,” he says pleasantly as the door starts to come open, preparing
to rattle off the mini-speech he had planned to go along with the pretense that
they are deliverymen from a florist company. The rest of his words die in his
throat, however, as the opening widens just enough for him to see who it is
that answers.
“Uh, good afternoon,” says Will Graham, all grown up and in the flesh, looking
up at the alphas on his doorstep from behind a pair of cheap plastic frames, a
bemused expression on his face. “Is that, um, is that a package for me?” he
asks awkwardly after a moment when Jack continues to stare and say nothing.
Jack realizes his lapse and recovers himself quickly. “Well, that depends,” he
says with his best salesman smile. “Are you Mr. Francis Dolarhyde?”
The boy’s eyes dart very briefly over to the right, looking somewhere neither
of them can see on the other side of the still partially open door, and that is
enough to tell Jack that the boy’s awkward behavior is more than simple omegan
shyness or submissiveness.
He nods rapidly, refusing to meet Crawford’s eyes as he says, “Yup. Yeah,
that’s me.” And then there it is, the smile that’s weighed so heavily on Jack
Crawford’s mind since he first noticed it all those months ago, the one that
looks like it doesn’t know how to fit properly on the boy’s delicate features.
That’s the moment Jack Crawford decides he’s had enough of this charade.
With a nod from his boss, Zeller quickly pulls the shotgun out of the box,
letting the flimsy cardboard shell fall to the ground as he kicks the door open
the rest of the way, causing the omega to jump back with a startled yelp, hands
raised.
The alpha that steps into view from behind, however, seems anything but
frightened by the situation as he grabs the omega in front of him and holds up
a switchblade near the boy’s face.
“Drop the knife!” Jack bellows, pulling out his own sidearm.
“You have been privy to a great revelation, witness to my Becoming, and yet you
see nothing!” the alpha says in answer, eyes cold with madness and hate. He
presses the knife blade against Will’s cheek, the omega whimpering in response
and clutching tightly to the alpha’s arms holding him in place, more as a
clutch for balance than any real attempt to get away. It makes something in
Jack’s chest clench to see it.
“Will Graham,” Jack says, deliberately gentling his voice as much as he can
manage in this tense situation. “Will, look at me.” The boy does, seeming as
much perplexed by the man’s use of his name as he is by everything else that’s
been happening. “Everything’s going to be just fine,” Jack tells him. “You’ll
get through this.”
He turns his gaze back to the alpha holding the omega hostage and says in the
same reasonable tone, “Francis, lower your weapon and we can talk about this
like civilized men. You don’t want to hurt Will, Francis, come on, we all know
you don’t want that.” Jack hopes he’s right about that. The man had already
kept the omega around for this long after all, hadn’t he? The tightness in his
chest worsens as all the implications of that fact hit home, but he brushes it
all aside, having no time to think about that right now.
Francis ducks his head behind Will’s, whispering something only the omega can
hear. The omega starts shaking then, tears springing to his eyes, and Francis
tightens his grip, pressing the knife further. “Francis,”the boy sobs.
“Frankie, please, please.”
Dolarhyde locks gazes with Jack once more, despair and resolve intermingled
with all that rage and insanity now, and Jack understands exactly what the man
intends to do.
He takes the shot, just as a bead of blood wells up from the tip of the blade
pressing into the boy’s cheek. The bullet enters cleanly through the center of
Francis Dolarhyde’s forehead, and the knife veers off-course as the alpha falls
backwards, streaking a long scratch down the omega’s face before it clatters to
the floor. Better that than embedding itself deep into the boy’s cheekbone as
Francis had intended.
There is a long moment in which time seems to stretch before them, as Will
Graham stumbles sideways and clutches dazedly at the side of his face. Jack
sees the look that flickers behind blue eyes even before the boy turns to look
behind him, the same look that Jack knows will be in his own expression someday
when his Bella finally gives up the good fight, that dim haunted recognition of
a connection being forever severed.
He is therefore unsurprised when the omega suddenly launches himself at him,
snarling and violent as his mate had been only moments before.
It takes a surprising amount of strength for him to hold the omega back,
keeping teeth and fingernails from getting too close to his face. “Don’t shoot,
just get him restrained!” Jack yells when he hears several pairs of boots run
into the house in force. It takes three of them to subdue Graham, wrestling him
to the floor and pinning him down.
The fight goes out of him finally, the crazed expression on his face crumpling
into one of distress and sorrow that’s much harder for Jack to look at. The boy
squeezes his eyes shut then and parts his lips to let out a low, anguished
wail. Every alpha in the room and some of the betas immediately wince.
“Will somebody shut him up?” one of the other agents yells out as the howl
continues, stretching and reverberating loudly enough to set Jack’s teeth on
edge. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Zee approaching the boy, turning
the shotgun as if preparing to hit him with the butt of it.
“Zeller, get ahold of yourself!” Jack commands, and the man stops mid-stride,
lowering his weapon with a chastened expression as he realizes what he was
about to do. Every alpha tends to have a different instinctive reaction to the
sound of an omegan cry, some worse than others, and Jack can’t help thinking to
himself that paramedics better get in here quick before somebody else tries
something stupid. He doesn’t want to have to beat down one of his own men into
submission.
Fortunately the EMTs arrive before things can get more out of hand, and one of
them slides a needle into the boy’s arm to sedate him before lifting him up and
putting him on a stretcher.
“Jack,” Beverly says from beside him, a soft frown on her face as she takes in
the whole scene of a boy they thought long dead being loaded into an ambulance,
while the man they’ve been hunting for months gets zipped up into a body bag
and wheeled out shortly after.
“I know.” He turns to her then and says, “Go ride with him. We’ll need someone
to break the news to him and question him when he comes to, and it...it
shouldn’t be the man he just saw shoot his mate in the head.” He frowns,
uncomfortable and annoyed with himself for letting it show how much this
situation has gotten to him.
Katz smiles, daring enough to pat him comfortingly once on the shoulder before
turning away and obeying the order.
This is a good day, Jack Crawford reminds himself. They put down the bad guy.
They saved a life, one none of them had thought there had been any hope of
saving. One whose innocence may have been irrevocably lost, true, but still one
with a chance of one day picking up the pieces and becoming whole again. This
is a good day.
He watches as the ambulance disappears down the drive, and wills himself to
believe it.
 
***** The Angel of Revelation *****
Chapter Notes
     By the way, since I forgot to mention this before, every chapter of
     this story will be named after a different painting or artwork that I
     consider in some way emotionally or thematically relevant to that
     chapter. There are a lot of pieces called "The Rape of Ganymede" that
     the first chapter can be said to be inspired by, so take your pick
     there, but my personal_favorite is the one by Damiano Mazza.
     The title for this chapter is based on a work_by_William_Blake. Seems
     fitting, wouldn't you say?
     Also, no Hannibal as of yet this chapter (sorry!), but don't worry,
     he'll be making his entrance soon, as will a certain someone else I
     hope you'll all be happy to see. ^_~
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                          II. The Angel of Revelation
                                        
“...alone were on key. Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces
that even their virtues were being burned away.”
Will blinks his eyes open slowly, stretching out a bit as he breathes in deeply
through his nose. The steady, gentle voice that had been with him as he lay
there in the liminal space between dream and reality, and most likely for
longer besides, tapers off now, the soft thump of a book being closed the only
sound in the room now aside from the beeping of the heart monitor.
The woman sitting next to his bed is no one he has ever seen before, certainly
not the same one from the FBI who rode with him to the hospital and has stopped
by to check on him a couple of times since, though Will was mostly very out of
it and not really up for visitors on any of those occasions. The last he
remembers seeing of her is just a glimpse of her frame in the open doorway,
blurred and out of focus because of the sedative the doctors had given him
after they caught him trying to tear off the bandage over his neck so he could
dig his nails into the old claiming bite and try to open it up again.
That was several days ago though. Will is more himself again now, more lucid
and rational, and not so inclined towards self-harm. It’s still probably for
the best that they sent someone else this time, so he doesn’t have to face the
embarrassment of talking with someone who’s seen him at his worst.
The beta woman folds her hands in her lap, over the book she was reading from,
and seems to be waiting politely to let Will speak first whenever he’s ready.
She has a very pretty smile. He hasn’t decided yet if that makes him want to
trust her more or less.
“Isn’t Flannery O’Connor a little bleak to be reading at somebody’s bedside?”
he asks finally, voice still rough from sleep. He snorts when her eyebrows lift
up in mild surprise. “Louisiana and Georgia are only a stone’s throw away from
each other, miss. I’m very familiar with her particular brand of Southern
grotesque.”
“You caught me,” she says, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Flannery O’Connor is a
personal favorite of mine. I even tried to raise peacocks once because she
raised them. They were very stupid birds.”
He snorts once again, partly genuine, partly because he knows it’s the response
she’s aiming for. Put him at ease before the difficult questions come. He knows
she’s about to get to the real purpose of her visit when she straightens up
slightly in her seat.
“My name is Doctor Alana Bloom,” she tells him. “I’m a psychiatrist, though I
also teach and consult at the FBI Academy at Quantico.”
Will doesn’t mean to groan aloud, he honestly doesn’t, but the sound escapes
past his lips anyway as he sits up in bed. He tries to pass that off as the
reason but knows he probably isn’t fooling her. He turns his head to look at
her better, his eyes going no higher than her chin, and feels the bandage on
his neck pull a bit as he does so. The medical tape over the cut on his cheek
pulls as well as he forces a smile. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need
therapy, Doctor Bloom.”
“You just came out of a very difficult ordeal, Will,” she reminds him gently.
As if a reminder is what he needs.
‘Did I come out of it?’ he almost wants to ask but doesn’t, finding it too
melodramatic and not helpful to his case besides. “I’m guessing by your tone I
don’t get much choice in this, do I?” he asks, trying not to sound too bitter
and probably failing at that too.
“I want to help you, Will. I understand it may be too much to ask you to trust
me just yet, but I’d like us to at least try.” It may be the sincerity of her
words, the soothing beta tone and attitude, or just his weariness with the
whole situation, but Will can’t find it in himself to argue with her further.
In a couple of days he is released from the general hospital, no longer deemed
an immediate threat to himself or others, only to be admitted at Port Haven
Psychiatric Facility, a care facility in Baltimore catered specifically to
troubled and traumatized omegas. It goes without saying that he will not be
returning to the defunct nursing home that spanned the whole of his life for
the past six years, and good riddance. He never cared much for the creepy place
honestly, though he does find it more than a little ironic that he seems to
keep flitting from one gilded cage to another since no one will let him fly
free.
The whole facility is done in calm, soothing colors with decorative flourishes
designed to give it a warm, homey feel, the walls painted beige and teal or
wallpapered with bland patterns of dusty pink flowers that blend into the
background. Even the door to his room is paneled with windows of colored
textured glass that allow him to see the shadows of people passing by while
still obscuring enough to keep some semblance of privacy.
Everything about the place is perfectly planned and calculated to make it feel
like a place of comfort and relaxation rather than isolation and captivity. The
fact that it doesn’t work very well on him is not the fault of the interior
designers. Will is already well-versed in making the connection between even
the coziest of houses and the reality of how easily they can still function as
an effective prison. Even as a relatively happy kid, he and his dad would move
around so much that no place ever really felt like home to him anyway, so it
means nothing to know that this place will be no exception.
He stands in front of the mirror in his tiny personal bathroom, gazing long at
the now fully uncovered marks of his time with Francis—the claiming bite still
a little pink from his recent clawing but already fading to almost invisible
again, and the thin, crooked crescent-shaped scar that starts from the point of
his cheekbone and curves back nearly to the corner of his mouth, only
millimeters away from his lips—both now the two most prominent features on the
left side of his face and neck.
He’s wearing the same clothes he was admitted to the hospital in. The collar of
his shirt is flecked brown, either from his own blood or…the thought makes him
ill, so he doesn’t finish it. He stops looking. This outfit—the glasses, the
shoes, the clothes on his back—is literally all that’s left of what he owns.
He’s already had it explained to him by a very bored-sounding lawyer that all
of Francis’s property—which is to say everything since Will has technically
been legally dead for six years and has no right to any of it—would be
auctioned off and sold, the profits divvied up evenly between the families of
the victims as reparations for their loss.
For all of about half a second, Will had thought about filing for reparations
as a victim himself, so he could at least get a little bit of something out of
it as well, maybe his clothes and his books at least, but he thought better of
it almost immediately. It feels disingenuous and dishonorable even to consider.
Until he can get out on his own, he’ll just have to make do with whatever he
can get from the welfare checks someone at the FBI, most likely Bloom herself,
applied for on his behalf while he was out of it and in the hospital. It’s
already more of an advantage than most people in similar or even worse
situations are likely to get, so he can’t be anything but grateful about that
much.
He straightens stiffly as he hears the door to his room being opened, relaxing
only minutely when he hears one of the nurses’ muffled voices through the
bathroom door, “Mr. Graham, visitor for you.” Calling out his thanks, he turns
the water on just to give himself a few seconds before he has to step out and
greet whoever is waiting for him on the other side.
“Will Graham, so good to finally meet you in the flesh,” says yet another
unfamiliar beta, her words overflowing with an effervescent charm that
immediately sets off red flags and puts him on edge. The redhead strides over
to him, holding out her hand for Will to take. “Freddie Lounds. I’m a
journalist with Tattle-Crime.com. It’s a pleasure.”
Will stares at her hand like he’d sooner cut off his own than touch it, and
very deliberately slides both of them into the front pockets of his jeans
instead.
“Not comfortable with physical contact?” she asks, dropping her own hand, her
words dripping with condescension and false sympathy for the pitiful little
omega she sees. Will says nothing. Better to let her think that’s the reason
than tell her it’s because he’s repulsed by her. There are a number of reasons
why it’s smarter not to let a tabloid pusher like Lounds know that. “After all
you’ve been through, who can blame you? Poor thing,” she continues blithely.
Will’s teeth ache from how hard he’s been grinding them together.
“What can I do you for, Ms. Lounds?” he asks, attempting to inject at least a
modicum of friendliness in his tone. He could ask her to leave, but he has to
admit part of him is curious to see her here, boldly standing in his room as
though her presence makes perfect sense in it. He’s curious to know what she’ll
say.
“It’s actually what I can do for you,” she replies, sitting now at the foot of
his bed without asking. “My readers are curious about you, Will. They want to
know more about the brave young man who survived the Tooth Fairy all these
years. Oh excuse me, the Great Red Dragon, I think that’s what my sources say
he was calling himself in his manifesto?” she phrases like it’s a question,
obviously fishing for a reaction. Will just keeps looking at her blankly, and
she powers on, unfazed by his lack of response.
“You’re like a fairytale to them. A pretty little thing stolen and locked away
in a tower, the best-kept secret and most carefully guarded treasure in the
Dragon’s hoard,” she says, eyes flashing as if she’s smugly proud of that
particular pun. Will clenches his hands tighter in his pockets, unseen, and
thinks about how smug her smile would look if he smashed his fist right through
her teeth.
“Francis was good at keeping lots of secrets actually,” he points out with a
tight-lipped smile.
“True. And of course, we both know the reality of what happened to you isn’t
something that can be summed up so simply or neatly either,” she adds, her
expression softening into one so surprisingly sincere for a moment that he
almost, almost wants to believe in it. It’s an interesting brand of
ruthlessness made all the more cunning by the glimpses of real humanity she
allows to shine through it. If she wasn’t so good at pissing him off already,
Will thinks he would find her fascinating.
“So that’s why I’m here,” she says finally, leaning forward where she sits. “I
want to tell your side of the story, Will.”
“You want to interview me for an article?” he asks. Before she can answer, the
distinctly recognizable sound of someone approaching swiftly down the hall on
heels catches both of their attentions, and she quickly gets up from where she
was sitting and straightens into a seemingly relaxed but wary stance.
If a knock on the door can sound curt yet carefully controlled so as not to
seem too demanding, this one would be it. Right away Will knows exactly who it
must be even before he calls out for them to come in.
“Hello, Will,” says Alana as she walks in, still managing to be warm and
friendly for his sake though he can see the fire burning in her eyes. “And
hello, Freddie Lounds,” she adds, turning to face her. Though she keeps a
professional smile on her face, her tone is distinctly cooler as she addresses
the other beta woman.
“Doctor Bloom,” says Freddie politely. “I know we haven’t met before, but I’ve
heard nothing but good things about you. I see my reputation precedes me as
well.”
“It does,” Alana says shortly. “I wish I could say the same about it, Ms.
Lounds.” She turns her head to face the omega once more. “Is this woman
bothering you, Will?”
Will glances between them both but is saved from the awkwardness of having to
reply by Lounds herself. “We were just finishing up here anyway,” she says. She
pulls out a business card from her purse and holds it out for Will to take.
“Call me whenever you’re ready to talk,” she says. Will accepts it politely and
Lounds leaves without another word to either of them.
“I’m so sorry about this, Will,” says Bloom as soon as the door closes behind
her and Lounds’ own heels click steadily down the hall. “I don’t know how she
found out you were here already, but I’ll put in a word at the front desk not
to admit her as a visitor again unless you specifically ask for her.”
Will nods his thanks, curling his hands into fists at his sides, crumpling the
card in his hand in the process. “So good to meet you finally,”he says through
gritted teeth, speaking up for the first time since Alana entered the room.
“That’s what she said to me, like she thought I didn’t know...” He sits down
heavily on the bed, scowling. “One of the nurses told me what happened and
showed me the article, you know the one I’m talking about?”
She nods solemnly. “I saw it. That’s why I was very unhappy to learn she was
here when I arrived.”
“It wasn’t the most flattering picture she could have taken of me,” he says
wryly. Lounds had snuck in early on the second day of his stay at the hospital,
while he was sedated, and snapped a photo of him lying there thin and frail-
looking, bandages over the side of his face and neck, a tube sticking out of
his arm and one wrist handcuffed to the bed because they weren’t sure yet that
he wouldn’t try to attack one of the doctors when he awoke. “Bride of the
Fairy,”he intones gravely, quoting from the lurid headline of the article in
question. He smirks up at her, though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “The
irony of it is we weren’t even married.”
“Well, one thing no one’s ever accused any story with her name on the byline of
is accuracy,” she says, moving closer to the bed and setting down the load of
shopping bags she’s been carrying this whole time on the floor.
Will looks down at the bags apprehensively. “What is all that?”
“Clothes,” she answers. “I hope you don’t mind, I wasn’t completely sure about
sizes or what style you would prefer, so there’s a lot to choose from.
Everything still has its tags so you can return anything that doesn’t fit or
that you don’t like, or do whatever you want with it. I, uh, also brought
these,” she says, pulling out a stack of gift cards, many of them for iTunes,
or Barnes & Noble, or stores he’s either never heard of or never set foot in
before.
“I-I can’t,” he says, looking away, swallowing. “I appreciate what you’re
trying to do but I’m not...” Not a charity case, he thinks, wondering if he can
say it without sounding offended or hurting her feelings.
“You need clothes, Will,” she tells him gently. “And really, you’d be doing me
a favor by taking these,” she says, setting the cards aside on the bedside
table. “I had a whole stack of them I never used at home. People give them to
me but I never get around to spending them.” She’s lying, he realizes, and part
of him bristles at that, knowing that she’s saying it so he can save face and
accept them without being embarrassed. For one heated moment, he thinks
childishly about sweeping them up and literally throwing them in her face, but
he resists it, a little ashamed of the thought because he knows she’s only
trying to be nice.
“So what now?” he asks, knowing he doesn’t sound as grateful as he probably
should and hasn’t even thanked her, but he doesn’t amend his tone or correct
himself. “Is this the part where we have a long heart-to-heart and you ask me
about my feelings?”
“Actually, and I don’t like this because I don’t agree with it or think you’re
ready for this yet, but...” she sighs. “Jack Crawford has asked to see you. I’m
supposed to bring you to Quantico for the interview. I thought it would be
better than having him come here,” she adds with a small frown, giving Will the
impression that she objects very strongly to the idea of the alpha showing up
at the place she’s obviously trying to set up as a ‘safe space’ and sanctuary
for Will. He doesn’t bother telling her that was already an impossibility even
before Freddie made her appearance.
“Alright, let’s go then,” he says and stands, brisk and determined as if to
disprove her belief that he’s not ‘ready’ for it. Her eyes seem to linger on
the stain on his shirt collar, and she opens her mouth to speak, only to think
better of it and let it close gently again.
“You want me to go change first, don’t you,” he says, making it more of a
statement than a question.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry if I seemed...I wasn’t going to suggest it if
you didn’t want to. The important thing is that you’recomfortable. My opinion
and Jack Crawford’s opinion don’t matter.” He analyzes her face carefully and
sees that she means it and isn’t just trying to maneuver him into doing what
she wants. That’s what makes him decide to pick up the bags and carry them into
the bathroom with him.
*
The short-sleeved plaid button-up and blue jeans he picked out are a close
enough fit that he suspects she actually checked the tags on his clothes in the
hospital room drawer when he was asleep, but if so he doesn’t call her out on
it during the drive over.
‘Invasive and overprotective, but well-intentioned’ would be the phrase he
would use to describe both Bloom and Crawford, though he keeps that opinion to
himself as the three of them sit in Agent Crawford’s office. He can tell by the
tight, thin-lipped smile Bloom directs at the alpha, not so dissimilar from the
one she directed at Freddie Lounds, that she would likely be more offended by
the comparison than anything else, and that alone is enough to keep him at
least mildly entertained as he imagines how that conversation would go in the
safety and privacy of his own mind.
“Must be a relief to be out of the hospital finally,” says Crawford. “You’re
looking good, Will. I’m glad to see you doing so well.”
“Better than when you saw me last, you mean,” says Will, and he has the
distinct satisfaction of getting to see Crawford not squirm exactly, but
definitely appear more uncomfortable for a moment before the man pushes past it
and moves the conversation forward.
“There are some questions I need to ask you,” Crawford explains. “Standard
procedure stuff mostly. I understand some of it may be difficult, but I need
you to be as honest with me as you can. Doctor Bloom is here to be your
stability and support, and of course to kick me in the shin if she thinks I’m
overstepping or pushing you too hard,” he says, directing a good-natured smirk
in her direction.
“Don’t think I won’t do it either,” she says, smiling as well but with flinty
determination in her gaze that tells them she means it.
It goes almost exactly as he expected it would. Most of the question are, in
fact, awkward or uncomfortable in some way and he doesn’t want to answer them,
but does his best anyway to tell them what he thinks they want to hear, though
not too much or they’ll suspect that’s what he’s doing. The alpha is
inquisitive like a bloodhound, which is probably a good trait for an FBI
profiler to have, all things considered. Doctor Bloom carefully chides Crawford
more than once for straying into territory she considers too intrusive or not
relevant to what the man needs to wrap up the investigation for good. It amuses
Will to think of them as two bulls locking horns with one another every time
they reach a point of disagreement.
They’re at it with each other again—politely and professionally, of course—when
Will decides to let his attention wander for a bit. He’s already taken
inventory of the objects and placement of the furniture within the room as soon
as he entered it, so this time he lets himself focus on the few pieces of bland
art and plaques on the walls instead. That’s when he notices the bulletin board
on the far wall to the right.
He gets up almost without thinking about it to take a closer look, the movement
drawing their focus back to him again. “Ah, Will...” Bloom says, awkwardly
trailing off as if uncertain how she should finish that sentence.
“Oh hell, I forgot to cover that up,” Crawford tells them apologetically. “I
should have done that before you both got here.”
“Yes, you should have,” Alana tells him sharply.
Will ignores them both, staring hard at the board covered with sprawling
patterns over a large map and eight smiling faces of sad dead girls. Crawford
walks up behind him and places a paternalistic hand on his shoulder that Will
is too distracted to shrug off. He says something to try and get Will to come
back to where they were sitting, but Will ignores that too.
“He has a daughter,” Will says suddenly, cutting the other man off mid-
sentence.
“He...what?” Crawford blinks, glancing back and forth between Will and the
board with keen interest now. “What makes you say that?”
“Same hair color, same weight, same age, same pretty, wind-chafed Mall of
America looks,” Will lists off for him. “Do I really need to go on? I mean it’s
obvious, isn’t it?”
“It really wasn’t until just now,” Crawford admits baldly. “What else do you
see?”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Alana interrupts, striding over to place her hand on
Will’s other arm as if she means to physically tug him away from Jack, though
she does no more than let it rest there. Will nonetheless feels like they are
no longer bulls but territorial wolves, and he the slab of fresh meat caught
between them both. He hunches his shoulders in and withdraws from both of them,
Alana looking contritely after him as she lets her hand drop while Jack clears
his throat and stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“I think you’ve done enough questioning for one day, seeing as we’re now well
off-track from the original reason we came here,” Alana says, steely once again
as she addresses Jack. “I’m taking Will back to Port Haven now.”
Jack looks as though he wants to argue with her, but knowing she won’t be
swayed, he merely nods in acquiescence instead.
“Thank you both for your time,” he says as he walks with them back to the door
to his office. “And Will,” he adds. The young man turns to look at him once
more. “I’ll take what you said into consideration,” he says, causing Alana to
frown disapprovingly at him, clearly conveying the message of, ‘I know what
you’re doing, and don’t even think about it.’
“She’s leaving home soon,” Will tells him by way of reply. Alana closes her
eyes, temporarily defeated. “He can’t stand to lose her.” The boy’s gaze shifts
up and actually meets Crawford’s dead on for the first time since they’ve met.
“I suggest you catch him before that happens,” he adds darkly.
Jack is skewered by the look. He nods, and it feels like more than a simple
agreement, seeming more instead like a tacit promise.
Alana looks as though she wants to wrap herself protectively around the omega’s
shoulders, but she refrains from touching him again, and guides him only with a
gentle, “Come on, Will,” away from the building and back to her car.
Chapter End Notes
     The quote at the very beginning is from the story "Revelation" in
     Flannery O'Connor's anthology Everything That Rises Must Converge.
***** Amor Carving His Bow *****
Chapter Notes
     At long last, a new chapter! I still have all monsters and dust to
     finish up, but once that's done I'll finally be able to devote myself
     more fully to working on this and Bonfire Night plus any assorted
     one-shots I think up or get prompted to write, ha ha, god help me.
     Title is based on a painting_by_Parmigianino.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                           III. Amor Carving His Bow
                                        
“Thank you so much for inviting me over, Hannibal, and for letting me help,”
she says, carefully mincing the vegetables as he instructed while she speaks.
“You are welcome here anytime, Alana,” he says as he finishes arranging the
last of the tomato roses. “It is always a pleasure to have a friend for
dinner.”
She pauses a moment in her chopping to take a sip of her beer. “I forgot how
relaxing it is to stand in this kitchen and watch you work. With the week I’ve
been having, I really needed this.”
“On the phone, you mentioned a new patient whose therapy has proven to be quite
challenging.” He looks up at her then and smiles. “Coming from you, I know that
is a statement to be taken much more seriously than most. Would you care to
discuss it? I could offer you my insights, or simply listen if you would
prefer. A friendly ear can go a long way in helping one gain some perspective,
especially in our line of work.”
She smiles a bit wearily. “Meaning in other words you’ll be analyzing me based
on how I analyze him?” Hannibal huffs out a short laugh and lifts his hands in
a vague ‘you caught me’ sort of gesture.
“I apologize in advance if that turns out to be the case. I can no more shut
mine off than you can yours, I’m afraid.”
She hums thoughtfully, considering his offer. “Alright, colleague to colleague
then,” she says, knowing she needn’t remind him to keep what is said between
them in the strictest confidence. “He’s an omega, very bright and clearly
somewhere on the autistic spectrum, though that’s honestly the least
fascinating thing so far about his mind.”
Hannibal simply raises his eyebrows to show his intrigue, encouraging her to
continue. “I believe he suffers from an acute empathy disorder,” she says. “As
if that weren’t enough, he’s had to deal with some rather severe emotional
trauma and abuse for a number of years.” Hannibal continues to keep his
silence, allowing her to go on after a brief pause. “The worst of it is I’m not
sure how much I can help him if he won’t let me in. He shuts everyone out and
keeps himself very closed off from others.”
“Understandable, given the sort of history I suspect he’s had based on what
you’ve told me,” Hannibal speaks up finally. He pauses, showing clear
hesitation before he delicately asks, “Alana, would I be correct in assuming
we’re talking about the young man who was found in the Red Dragon’s home?”
“Damn, I thought I was being vague enough,” she answers with another tired
smile. “What gave it away?”
“My immediate thought after I read that tasteless article was that the FBI
would surely wish to assign a therapist to this boy as soon as possible to
assess his mental state. I can think of no finer person for the job,” he
compliments.
“Well, you may want to hold onto that praise for now and save it for someone
else. This ‘fine therapist’ is stumped.”
“I’m sure he’s not the first patient you’ve ever had who has shown some
reluctance to accepting your therapy.”
“Maybe not, but there’s something more to it in this case,” she says. “No one
but Will knows what life was like for him in that house for the past six years.
He won’t talk about it, and all the rest any of us can do is guess. I feel like
I’m fumbling around in the dark.”
Here, Hannibal might normally take a more reassuring tack simply out of
boredom, perhaps by offering some friendly platitude about how she need only
give the boy time and sooner or later he will open up to her as she wants, so
they can move on to the next topic of conversation. This time, however, he must
admit that his intrigue has not wavered. Indeed, he has been curious about this
melancholy-looking creature he saw depicted on the front page of Tattle-Crime,
this Will Graham, from the moment he learned of his existence. What a
fascinating individual he must be to have survived cohabitation with the shy
pilgrim for so long and come out of it relatively unscathed.
“The worst is Jack Crawford has taken a keen interest in him now,” she adds
with a disapproving frown, piquing Hannibal’s own interest even more.
“Is that not normal for an enforcer of the law to become more personally
invested in a victim’s recovery after rescuing them?” he asks, deliberately
being obtuse to her meaning so she will elaborate further.
“It is a bit of that I think, but I’m more concerned about his less altruistic
reasons.” She sighs. “During the interview at Quantico, Will…said some things
about the other investigation.”
“The disappearances in Minnesota,” Hannibal clarifies. Alana nods.
“Jack’s really taken his words to heart. He’s actually changing the course of
the entire investigation based on the profile Will gave him.”
Hannibal allows some of his very real surprise at this pronouncement to shine
through in his expression. “He must have been extraordinarily convincing when
he gave it then, for Jack to take such a risk that could damage his own career
if he’s wrong.”
“I don’t think he is wrong,” Alana tells him. Hannibal suspects she has no idea
the level of excitement she’s allowing to shine through in her eyes and her
voice as she speaks. “He figured out in a matter of minutes what it’s taken a
whole team of professionals months to see.”
“You are concerned Jack Crawford will take further advantage of Will’s insights
should his assertions prove correct then,” he says, watching with hidden
amusement as the fascinated psychiatrist in her fades at these words and the
worried therapist comes to the forefront once more. She nods. “Surely there are
regulations in place that will prevent him from doing so,” he adds.
Alana’s expression seems skeptical at best. “Justice matters to Jack Crawford
far more than protocol ever will,” she says dryly. “He’ll do whatever it takes
to get the job done, even if it means making a few shortcuts.”
“Then you will need to keep a sharp eye out should their interactions continue
any further,” he says, happily sowing the seeds of further distrust and discord
between them.
A dangerous thought enters his mind as their conversation switches gears after
that, more a curiosity really. How much might this boy be able to see, he
wonders, if they were ever to meet? As he and his guest continue preparing
tonight’s dinner, Hannibal begins planning a few arrangements of his own.
*
His first step a few days later is to make a surprise visit to the Port Haven
Psychiatric Facility on a day he knows Alana is working there with a basket of
dishes on hand, making sure to arrive at least forty minutes before her usual
lunch hour.
“I’m sorry, she’s still in session with a patient at the moment,” the
receptionist tells him, exactly as he had hoped.
“No matter. I will relish the opportunity to stretch my legs for a bit and take
a turn about the grounds while I wait,” he says. “Would it be an imposition to
leave this here with you for now?” he asks, proffering the basket in his hand.
“Not at all,” she says, accepting the basket and setting it on the desk beside
her. “Wow, smells really good!”
“You are welcome to take a few bites if you wish. It’ll be our little secret,”
he tells her with a wink. She giggles and waves him off.
Outside, he enjoys the sights and smells of the meticulously cared for grounds.
There are a few patients and nurses out in the garden, none of them the one he
hopes to glimpse. Hannibal feels no disappointment in this. If he is unable to
orchestrate a chance meeting today, there are always other opportunities and he
will still enjoy visiting with his colleague and friend.
He is prepared to accept that this will not be the lucky day and return inside,
perhaps taking a circuitous route through the halls to try his search there as
well before returning to the reception desk, when he notices a lone figure
skipping rocks over the artificial pond further out. Hannibal turns on his
heels then and steps out onto the lawn.
*
There is a part of Will that will always feel comforted and more at ease out by
the water, no matter what the circumstances. He holds no resentment against the
ocean, after all, for taking away his father. That would be beyond foolish, and
his dad knew all the risks, knew that he was taking his own life in his hands
every time he went out on the boats. Will likes to think he made his peace with
his father’s passing a long time ago anyway.
What he thinks about instead as he gazes out at the placid surface of the pond
are the trips he and his dad used to take when it would become too dull and
routine to sit on the pier with their long poles like always. He remembers the
quiet companionship of sitting side-by-side in a rented little boat and seeing
his own reflection staring up at him from the clear, still surface of the lake,
enjoying the sights, smells, and sounds of fresh water and forest instead of
salt and sea for once. There were other trips too, ones where they had to put
on waders and stand in the middle of a constantly moving stream, casting their
lines out long and far into the distance.
The sparkling goldfish and speckled koi of the artificial pond are very pretty
but certainly not for fishing. They barely even react as Will skips one small
stone over the surface after another, their movements sluggish and slow as
though captivity has dulled all of their senses, emptied them of fear or any
ability to care. They’re not real fish at all, he thinks, and furiously hurls
another stone, then another, no longer skipping them over the smooth surface
but rather trying to hit one of the stupid creatures, hoping to get one of them
to dart out of the way, move in another direction, do something. He throws
until his hands are empty and there are no rocks left around, then seats
himself angrily on the ground with his knees drawn up, uncaring about the grass
stains that will likely seep into his new jeans.
“I imagine it must be frustrating, don’t you?” Will is up again in an instant,
spinning around to face the newcomer he hadn’t heard approaching.
“What?” he asks, refraining from putting to words the far more pertinent
questions. Who the hell are you? What do you want? How long have you been
standing there?
“To be a fish,” the stranger answers. “More specifically, one of those fish,”
he clarifies, gesturing minutely towards the pond. “Imagine being caught like
that, unable to break away from your current surroundings or hide from any
onlookers who come to gawk. Especially the ones who choose to throw stones,” he
adds with an almost imperceptible smile.
Will narrows his eyes at the man. “Another shrink, huh?” he mutters, then
scoffs and rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. “At least Doctor Bloom
is subtle with her metaphors. Care to lay a few more on me, get them out of
your system? No, wait, let me guess,” Will says, gesturing with his hand for
the man to halt though he had made no attempt to speak yet.
“Bird in a cage maybe, but no, that’s too cliché and similar to the one you
just made about the fish in the pond. You’re better than that, aren’t you?
Don’t want to be too boring and predictable right out the gate.” Will taps his
chin with his finger as though considering it thoughtfully, taking in
everything about the man’s appearance from his three-piece suit and tie to the
pretentious fucking pocket square in his jacket. “You know, you strike me as
someone who knows more about fine china and fancy tea party etiquette than
anyone on this side of the Atlantic has a right to, so... maybe something like
‘tiny teacup on a precariously high shelf,’ how’s that one sound? Am I getting
warmer at least?”
Curiously, the other man seems neither offended nor put off by Will’s attitude,
eyes glimmering with amusement rather than irritation. “Is that how you see
yourself, or how you believe others perceive you? A fragile little teacup?”
“Oh, liable to crack at any minute,” Will quips lightly, hands in his pockets,
lips pulling into a tight, fierce smile. “Did Bloom send you out here to talk
to me, Doctor…?”
“Hannibal Lecter,” the man answers, stepping closer now and extending his hand.
The wind picks up a little as he approaches, allowing Will to catch his scent
for the first time. The omega straightens his spine automatically, holding his
ground and leveling an even steelier gaze at the man than before as he grasps
his hand in a firm shake.
“Not too many alphas are permitted on the grounds, Doctor Lecter,” he says
without letting go. “They make some of the girls here nervous.”
“But not you, I take it?” Lecter asks. Not too sympathetic for a
psychiatrist,Will notes and files away for later.
“You don’t scare me, Doctor,” he says with another sharp smile. “You’re also
avoiding my question,” he adds, tilting his head curiously. “Now why is that?”
Lecter’s smile widens ever so slightly. “If I were to tell you I was notsent by
Doctor Bloom to speak with you, Mister Graham, what would you think of me
then?” he asks, his grasp tightening minutely around the boy’s hand in what
might be taken for a reflexive gesture by anyone else. Will gets the feeling
this guy is trying to unnerve him now, especially considering he never gave the
man his name, and he wonders why that would be. It’s almost as if he’s being
tested somehow.
“I’d have to assume you were another onlooker come to gawk then,” he answers
simply. “And call me Will.”
“Will,” Lecter corrects himself softly. Hearing his own name pass the man’s
lips sends a prickle of unease creeping along the back of his neck, and he
tightens his own grip unconsciously as well, before loosening it and pulling
his hand away finally. Both hands return to his pockets after that as if to
fend off any attempt to take hold of them again.
“I’m afraid I have no sinister ulterior motive to confess,” Lecter tells him,
hands now in his jacket pockets to mirror Will’s stance, the perfect picture of
charm and ease. He seems harmless as a fly like this, and that more than
anything convinces Will that this man is dangerous. The only question really is
how. “Alana Bloom is a former student of mine. I am simply paying a visit to
her place of work, as a colleague and a friend.”
“So naturally you thought the fish pond was the logical place to look for her,”
says Will dryly. He takes one step closer, gazing coldly up into the other
man’s eyes. “I don’t appreciate being lied to, Doctor.”
Lecter blinks once slowly, apparently surprised by the younger man’s reaction.
“No, I can see why you wouldn’t,” he responds gently. “It shan’t happen again.”
He seems to mean it, though Will obviously can’t be sure.
“Thank you,” he says just as quietly, stepping back again. He turns to face the
pond and stares out at the water once more, an obvious dismissal.
Lecter seems about to say more, until one of the nurses steps outside and waves
at him from the doorway, clearly trying to get his attention. With a gracious
bow of his head, he states simply, “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Will
Graham.” Will merely nods without saying anything. Lecter turns on his heel
then and leaves.
Will watches him go out of the corner of his eye without making it obvious,
wary and curious all at once. This won’t be the last time he sees Lecter, of
that he is undoubtedly certain. He tries to tell himself he isn’t excited by
the prospect, but who is he kidding? Every day here is so monotonous and
routine. Talking with the alpha had provided an interesting diversion, a
challenging puzzle to solve. What exactly is it about this guy that makes him
so difficult for Will to read? What is it that makes him tick?
This could be a fun way to pass the time, Will decides, already thinking of how
he might probe further next time in an attempt to figure the man out. He only
hopes it’ll be worth his time and the man doesn’t prove to be just as boring
and predictable as everyone else. He has a sneaking suspicion the alpha won’t
disappoint.
Only one certainty has arisen out of this so far—there is definitely something
about the man he can’t quite put his finger on just yet, and for that reason
alone Will Graham finds Hannibal Lecter very interesting indeed.
*
How unexpectedly exhilarating that was. He had known from the start that Will
Graham must be a truly fascinating individual to pique the FBI’s curiosity so,
but he had not expected himself to be so taken in by their conversation that he
actually lost track of the time.
Having a much finer appreciation for aesthetics than most, Hannibal’s initial
thought upon meeting Will had actually been that the photographs on Tattle-
Crime did not do this creature justice. Seeing the boy up close for the first
time had been like looking upon Caravaggio’s David come to life, with the
addition of those two prominent scars along the side of his face and neck.
Rather than diminish his beauty in any way, those features rather seem to draw
it out more, not unlike the way kintsugienhances the beauty of a once-shattered
teacup, putting it back together stronger than before and lacing it with
threads of gold. Hannibal smiles at the analogy and imagines sharing it with
the younger man one day, when he is not so leery of the alpha and seemingly of
metaphors in general.
Graham’s reaction to Hannibal as an alpha was also quite something. Whereas
most omegas would instinctively try to make themselves appear smaller and
nonthreatening in an unfamiliar alpha’s presence, this boy had stood tall and
bordered on nearly defiant if not even a little aggressive. He had expected a
chastened lamb and found himself instead looking into the eyes of a fellow
wolf. 
The urge to discover more and claw deeper into Will Graham’s mind tugs at him
irresistibly. He knows it would be wiser not to engage any further with the one
person he has met in a very long time who seems capable of understanding him
and seeing through his person suit, but he cannot bring himself to care, not
when he has finally found someone who so readily holds his full attention.
He thinks about this as he eats lunch with Alana, who is already aware of his
“accidental” introduction to the omega courtesy of one of the nurses who saw
them together, and sees opportunity when she teases that he is really only here
to poach one of her patients.
“Now that I’ve met him, I wonder if it wouldn’t do Mister Graham some good to
occasionally speak with someone who is not associated with the FBI or this
facility.”
Her eyes widen a bit in surprise. “You arehere to steal my patient! I see how
it is now.” He chuckles lightly, pleased to hear her approach the idea with
levity rather than take offense. His argument will be that much more persuasive
if she is not suspicious or on the defensive.
“Nothing of the sort, Alana,” he assures. “I merely believe he would benefit
from having another confidant, one whom he doesn’t associate with bad memories
or institutional obligation. Officially, he would still be your patient. We
would simply be having conversations.”
“I don’t know, Hannibal,” she says, still smiling but clearly reluctant to
agree. “I appreciate the offer. It’s very thoughtful of you, but even if I were
comfortable with imposing on your time like that, I’m not sure it would be the
best thing for Will.”
“It would be no imposition at all.” He leans forward in his chair, schooling
his features into a more grave and serious expression. “He is starved for some
form of contact with the outside world, Alana. Six years is a long time to be
confined to one house and one very unstable individual for company, and to his
mind being here can hardly seem like much of an improvement.” She frowns
thoughtfully at that, acknowledging the truth to his words. “Allowing him to
leave here once in a while would go a long way towards building trust between
the two of you, and my office would be both a safe environment and a step in
the right direction, providing him with an opportunity to see more than these
four walls without pushing him too far before he’s ready.”
And now the final push to knock down what remains of her wavering resolve. “As
I am not officially his psychiatrist, he may be more comfortable sharing
certain things with me, and since I do not have the same legal obligation as
you do to keep everything that is said between us in the strictest confidence,
I would be free to share my insights with you if anything he says seems
troubling.” Not that he will, of course.
“You’d really be willing to do this? It’s basically taking on an extra patient
without the extra pay,” she says, sounding hopeful nonetheless. Good-hearted
Alana, always so willing to do whatever it takes to help those under her care.
Hannibal is nothing if not good at exploiting the best in people as well as the
worst, and using that gift to bring them over to his way of thinking.
“This isn’t about money for me, Alana, any more than I imagine it is for you,”
he says, drawing a smile from her. “I believe I can help good Will see past
everything that has happened in his life up until now and move beyond it.” Move
to where, he can’t say yet, but part of the fun of the journey is not knowing
the destination until one has already arrived there. It should be interesting
to say the least.
“Will you let me talk to him about it later today and see what he thinks now
that he’s met you?” she asks.
“Of course,” he says, standing up to take his leave. He throws her one more
disarming smile at the door. “I’ll be waiting by the phone for your call.”
Chapter End Notes
     Rewriting the circumstances so Alana is basically playing Jack's role
     while still remaining in character is so weirdly fun, omg! (Although
     I don't think doing the reverse would really be possible. D:)
     Coming up next chapter: We introduce one more super important
     character! I'll give you three guesses who. ;)
***** Saturn Devouring His Children *****
Chapter Notes
     Fair warning, the first part of this chapter in italics gets pretty
     f-ed up and cray about halfway through, and is totally skippable if
     you think it'll make you squeamish. It's nothing that I haven't
     already tagged or made mention of before, but I thought I should give
     you a heads-up all the same.
     Title (slightly altered) from one_of_Francisco_Goya's_most_infamous
     Black_Paintings.
                       IV. Saturn Devouring His Children
                                        
Warm familiar hands sliding under his shirt, hot breath against the nape of his
neck. Will stirs, blinking sleep away from his eyes blearily in the darkness.
“Frankie?” he mumbles, still tired, so tired. The hands become more insistent,
rucking his shirt up over his stomach and chest, a deep growl rumbling from his
alpha’s throat above him.
One large hand splays out over Will’s chest, directly over the beat of his
heart. “My robin,” the alpha growls, covering the omega’s lips with his own
before he can respond and forcing his tongue between them, effectively
swallowing any words Will might have offered up to him whole. There are no
words when it is the Dragon come to take His due.
His alpha always gets like this when he comes home fresh from a hunt, gone his
sweet-tempered gentle Francis for at least the next few days after, here only
the Dragon hath dominion, and Will is so fortunate,so, so fortunate,that the
Dragon loves him just as much as the man, and that he loves the Dragon in
return. How can he not? It was the Dragon who took him first, and the sweet man
who came after.
Will twines his arms around the alpha’s back and his legs around the alpha’s
waist, panting and squirming under all the attention, as the Dragon sucks livid
bruises over his neck, laving and nipping over his old claiming bite. Will
twists and turns his head to allow him better access.
Mrs. Jacobi and Mrs. Leeds lie in the bed beside him, naked and riddled with
deep slashes and harsh aggressive bites, propped up and watching them rut with
their bleeding reflective eyes.
Not there, they’re not really there, he reminds himself, squeezing his eyes
shut tightly to block them out. He gasps, head thrown back, as the alpha
breaches him, kisses turning wetter and sloppier and hands gripping him tight
enough to bruise as the Dragon slams into him forcefully over and over and over
and over…
The Dragon sucks harder over the claiming bite, teeth poised against the old
familiar notches as if considering whether or not to tear them open again—like
they tore into Mrs. Leeds’ left breast—fingernails trailing burning scratches
over Will’s sides—deep, oozing, claw-like lacerations down Mrs. Jacobi’s
torso—the swell of his alpha’s knot growing inside him—“Watch carefully during
this scene, robin, do you see how she changes? See? Do you see?”
Tears spill hotly down his cheeks but he’s not sure if the alpha notices. If
so, they only spur the Dragon on. The smell of blood, faint when his alpha
first slipped into bed with him, grows steadily stronger now. Will opens his
eyes again, blinking away the lingering moisture clouding his vision.
His alpha looks down at him, sweat dripping over his face. Mrs. Leeds and Mrs.
Jacobi crouch over the man from behind, hands on his shoulders and back to
encourage him to push harder, thrust faster, all the while leering down at
Will, blood still squeezing out of their eyes and their mouths and their gaping
wounds like thick black ooze—
Will shoots up out of bed fast enough to be dizzy from it, sweat plastering his
hair to his forehead and his shirt to his back. He stumbles across the cold
wooden floor and makes it to the tiny bathroom just in time, bringing up the
contents of his dinner the night before and barely managing to get most of it
into the toilet bowl.
Panting, he wipes his lips with the back of his hand and rests his forehead
against the back of the lid for a moment, letting the cool porcelain soothe his
flushed skin. When his stomach is settled enough and he feels like he can move
without shaking, he cleans up the part of the floor where his aim had missed,
peels off his damp clothing, and all but throws himself into the shower to let
searing hot water scour away every last goosebump and drop of sweat still
clinging to him. He won’t be getting back to sleep before one of the nurses
shows up to tell him to come down for breakfast anyway.
With a soft internal sigh, he remembers that he has a one-on-one session with
Doctor Bloom in her office later this afternoon, and then he’s supposed to go
on a little field trip into town to meet up with the enigmatic Doctor Lecter on
his own turf for the first time. He puts in the extra effort to make his mind
go blank, to empty it of all images of the troubling dream he just woke from,
determined to give them no tools with which they can work to chip away at his
thoughts and crack open his skull.
Let there be no one who holds power over Will Graham beyond what he allows them
to, no dominion over his mind or his soul save his own.
*
They’re in the middle of their session, making the usual amount of
progress—dismal, that is to say—when Doctor Bloom gets the call. Will rather
unsubtly breathes out a sigh of relief when the receptionist interrupts to let
her know, grateful to have a break from Bloom’s well-meant coaxing to try to
get him to speak and having to give vague answers in reply just to be polite.
“I’m so sorry, you know I wouldn’t normally barge in like this,” the beta
girl—Grace, he thinks that’s her name—says as she tentatively walks in, one
hand still curved around the doorknob. “But there’s a Jack Crawford on the line
and he says it’s urgent. I tried to tell him you were in a session and, well…”
she trails off, eyes straying to look over at Will now with a puzzled
expression. “Well, he asked if it was with Mr. Graham and said it would be fine
to interrupt if it was, because he apparently wants to talk to you both anyway.
Was…was that wrong?” she asks uncertainly, noticing the now hardened expression
on Alana’s face.
“No, it’s fine, Grace. You were right to come in with this.” Will can tell that
she doesn’t really mean it and is just saying that to be reassuring, her ire
being with the alpha who called and not the messenger. Will, on the other hand,
feels a curious tingle of excitement mixed with mild trepidation.
He’s found her,Will thinks. He’s found the daughter.Where the daughter is, the
father will be as well; Will is apprehensive about what that could mean and
anxious suddenly to find out.
“I’ll take the call in here. That’ll be all, Grace, thank you.” The
receptionist nods and leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Bloom goes around to her desk then, and with an apologetic smile at Will, picks
up the receiver. “Hello, Jack,” she answers stiffly.
“Put it on speaker,” Will interjects. He can just barely make out Crawford’s
gruff voice rumbling on the other end of the line at the same time, and guesses
by the exasperated look she shoots across the room at him that he must have
said something similar. Heaving a heavy sigh, she does as asked and hangs the
receiver back on the hook.
“Alright, you’re on speaker now, Jack. Just please be mindful of what you say,”
she tells him, and for one brief flash of an instant, Will hates her for it. He
doesn’t need to be coddled, he needs to know what happened.
Jack clears his throat, the sound of it surprisingly clear and echoing in the
silence of Bloom’s office. “I just wanted to let you both know that we got the
Shrike. A construction worker named Garrett Jacob Hobbs. And that you were
right, Will. He had a daughter, Abigail.”
“Had?” Will asks, voice sharp.
“She’s fine,”Jack reassures, and Will feels the tensed strain of his muscles
relax. Strange, to have such a visceral reaction over a girl he’s never even
met or seen. It’s been a long time since Will has felt so much toward anyone,
aside from his jumbled-up feelings for Francis. “Suffered a laceration to the
neck, but we had paramedics on the scene who patched her right up, so she’s
stable now. The hospital wants to keep her under observation for a few days and
I’ll need her still for questioning, but after that I’m sending her your way,
Doctor Bloom.”
“Thank you, Jack. It was good of you to call with this,” she tells him
diplomatically.
“What about Hobbs?” Will asks, and Alana frowns disapprovingly down at her
desk, as though Will were a delicate flower who would wilt it if she were to
aim it at him directly.
“I’m sure there’s a lot Agent Crawford can’t disclose to the public yet, Will,”
she says.
“No, no, it’s fine, Alana. It’ll be all over the news soon enough, and I trust
Will with this information,”Jack says. Bloom’s mouth appears to thin even
further if that were possible. Will wonders privately if every FBI-referred
patient turns into the battleground for a power struggle between Bloom and
Crawford or if he’s just special. Perhaps he should warn Abigail Hobbs when she
arrives to expect the same treatment. “Garrett Jacob Hobbs is dead,”Crawford
announces gravely. Will stills.
“Is this standard procedure for you, Agent Crawford?” he asks with some bite.
“Too much work to bring them in in cuffs, so you come down on them dealing
judgment the Old Testament way instead?” Bloom closes her eyes solemnly, but
Will thinks maybe some small part of her is secretly gleeful that Crawford
would make such a huge misstep where Will is concerned.
There is a clicking sound on the other end of the line, as if Crawford has
started to speak only to stop himself, carefully reconsidering his words. “It
is when a hostage’s life is on the line,”he answers finally. “I tried disabling
him first, Will. When that didn’t work, and he still kept trying to drag the
knife across his own daughter’s throat, yes, I reacted. Would you have done
differently?”
“Jack!” Bloom chastises, indignant and shocked.
“No,” Will lies. Well, half-lies. Will tries to reconstruct the situation in
his mind and put himself in Crawford’s shoes—he thinks once he started pulling
the trigger, he would not have stopped until the clip was empty, just to be
sure.
Jack clears his throat again. “I’m sorry, Will. That was unworthy of me.”
Will shrugs, knowing Crawford can’t see it. “I like that you’re honest, at
least,” he says.
Crawford sighs. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”There is a pause, and then
he adds, “A lot more lives could have been lost if we didn’t catch this guy
when we did. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you, Will.” 
“Does that mean the FBI will cut me a check?” Will quips. “Kidding,” he adds
quickly before Crawford can try to answer. “I’m…happy to help.”
“Alright, Jack, Will and I really need to get back to our session,” Bloom pipes
up again, almost as if this conversation couldn’t be over soon enough for her
liking. “You and I will talk more about this later,” she says, and Will senses
another scathing lecture in Jack Crawford’s future.
Crawford agrees and finally ends the call. Will sinks back into his chair,
resigned to finishing out the hour as Bloom wants and counting the minutes
until it’s over. One session down, another still to go, and then this day will
finally be over. At least he will have new thoughts to turn over in his head
for the evening when everyone finally leaves him alone.
*
Rarely is anyone who enters Hannibal’s office bold enough to ask if they may
climb the ladder and peruse the bookshelves upstairs, though Hannibal has no
objections to allowing anyone access so long as they remain courteous and
considerate of his things. The books up there, while some of his favorites, are
no more valuable than the ones on the shelves below, and the notes he keeps on
his patients upstairs are all coded.
Will’s request barely borders on polite, one foot already on the bottom rung
and both hands grasping another before he thinks to tilt his head in Hannibal’s
direction and raise a single questioning brow, yet Hannibal is unwilling to
deny the youth and finds himself vaguely charmed that Will bothers even that
much at all. As he watches the omega climb, he muses over the conflicting
drives of deliberate insolence and respectful deference that seem to inform the
boy’s choices, wondering if there is a pattern to which one will usually win
out and in what measure.
“I have to tell you, Doctor Lecter, I’m beginning to feel a lot more like that
goldfish who can’t get out of the pond. It’s like you’re all waiting to see
whose hook will snare in my lip first so you can reel me up and take a peek
under my gills.” Hannibal smiles, for Will’s sharp assessment paints a vivid
image and poses within it a double-edged meaning that cannot be ignored.
“I would apologize for my analytical ambush the other day, but I know I will
soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to
consider using apologies sparingly.” Gazing up at the young man whose own
attention has not strayed from the contents of his shelves, he continues, “I
must also take into consideration your own expressed distaste for dishonesty.”
Will does turn around to look down upon him finally, resting his arms casually
over the rail with a wide smirk. “Sorry, not really sorry at all?” he asks in a
wry tone.
“Precisely so,” Hannibal agrees openly, reflecting his own smile back up at
Will.
“You want to study me, dissect me and open me up to see what you can find
inside.”
“What is it you fear will be found if someone peeks behind the curtain too
closely?”
“Really, going in for the kill right in the first sesh, Doc?” Will shakes his
head in mock disappointment. “I can’t tell if that’s a sloppy move or a
brilliant one. Does it work on all your other patients?”
“You would have to ask one of them,” Hannibal replies. “And you are not one of
my patients, Will. Doctor Bloom is your psychiatrist, not I. You and I are
merely having conversations.”
“Right, conversations,” Will says, putting the last word in air quotes. “Which,
conveniently, means you can tell Bloom as much as you want about whatever I
say,” he adds, meandering over to the ladder again now to head back down.
“Perhaps,” Hannibal allows, coming to stand directly below to hold the ladder
steady for Will’s descent. “But convenient for whom?”
Low enough now to be of a height with the older man, Will twists his head and
shoots him a look over his shoulder. Hannibal offers a hand to help him down
the rest of the way. After directing a narrow-eyed, considering frown down at
that hand for a moment, Will accepts it and hops down from the second-to-last
rung, Hannibal’s other hand hovering just near enough to offer steady support
to his back should he need it before falling away and releasing him entirely.
From this close, Hannibal can see the hint of shadowy bags under Will’s eyes,
mostly obscured by his glasses when far enough away, and smell the faintest
traces of worn nerves and the generic shampoo Will used to wash his hair this
morning. Underneath that is the spicy-sweet scent of Will himself, and Hannibal
is struck suddenly by the need to make his breaths shallower in order to resist
the urge to sniff more openly and deeply.
He turns his own reaction over in his mind as he steps away, ostensibly to
allow Will his own space, setting it aside as something that warrants further
study later. “A well-rested mind is a healthy one,” he says as he makes his way
to his chair. “Are you getting enough rest, Will?”
The tense-set of Will’s shoulders before he visibly forces them to relax lets
Hannibal know he has struck one of those nerves with his probing question. “I
manage,” he answers in a tone close enough to casual that it should be
applauded. Hannibal decides he will not probe beyond it today, not wishing to
push Will too far too soon. “How well do you sleep, Doctor Lecter?” he asks,
turning the question back on his pursuer as he sits finally in the chair across
from him.
“As peacefully as the lamb before the slaughter,” he answers, enjoying the view
as he watches Will internalize that statement, etch it into his mind so he can
look at it from multiple angles and try to suss out its meaning.
“So what should we talk about?” Will asks finally, leaning back in his chair,
one hand on each of the armrests and an ankle perched on the opposite knee,
whether in deliberate or unconscious mirroring of Hannibal’s own relaxed
position the alpha can’t yet determine.
“Whatever you like,” Hannibal says. “We can keep it simple if that’s what you’d
prefer. How was your day?” he asks with a thin smile.
“How was my day?” Will repeats, leaning forward, an eyebrow raised and a smirk
on his lips. “It was…interesting.” He considers for a moment, and then decides
to tell him about the conversation with Bloom and Crawford about Abigail Hobbs
and her father.
“I have yet to meet Jack Crawford myself in person, but from what I understand,
he is not a man who generally sees his own actions as beholden to another’s
opinion. That he would choose to defend them here, and even apologized to you
afterwards, speaks volumes to me about the impression you must have made.”
Will appears surprised, as if he had not thought to look at it that way, or had
not considered that Hannibal would choose to steer their conversation in this
direction. After a few seconds of silence, he says, “Sitting between the two of
them—Bloom and Crawford, I mean—it feels sometimes like being the kid at the
center of a custody dispute after an ugly divorce.”
“They each see you as something fragile, delicate, to be protected at all
costs, but disagree as to the manner in which it should be done. Alana Bloom
chooses to nurture, and hovers, as any new mother might do,” says Hannibal.
“Jack Crawford sees in you the potential to pass down his own legacy, a
flowering young mind to soak up any wisdom he might wish to impart.”
A vein appears to twitch almost imperceptibly in Will’s jaw. “I’ve spent my
whole life without a mother and gotten along without her just fine,” he says.
“And I couldn’t ask for a better dad than the one who raised me, so...” He
slouches back in his seat again. “They can take those fuzzy paternal feelings
and foist them onto someone else, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Feelings of any nature are always a tricky subject,” Hannibal replies. “Your
mother is absent. Your father is dead.” Here he pauses, briefly, and seeing no
visible reaction, either because Will doesn’t have one or because he hides it
very well, moves on. “In this, Alana and Jack view those roles as vacant, and
whether it is in their conscious intent or not, they seek to fill those roles
themselves in your parents’ perceived absence.”
“And what role are you trying to fill exactly?” Will snaps.
Hannibal blinks, not expecting to have the question pointed back on him so
suddenly. What role does he wish to fulfill in Will’s life? He has not decided
upon an adequate answer to that for himself just yet, still teasing the
boundaries of it in carefully measured increments. But Will needs an answer
now, so Hannibal must give him the most accurate and sincere one he can find
within himself in this critical moment between them.
“I wish to be your friend,” he says.
It is Will’s turn to blink, as though not quite sure what to do with that
information. He does not question Hannibal’s veracity, merely seems blankly
perplexed by it.
“Well, we’ll see about that,” he says finally, answer almost petulant as if he
had hoped Hannibal would give him some reason to doubt or mistrust.
The alpha smiles, feeling strangely victorious. Every word exchanged between
them seems to present its own unique challenge, one which both of them must
overcome without misstep in order to peel away the next layer and figure out
what the other is trying to hide. It is quite possibly the most fun and
intellectually stimulating game Hannibal has participated in in a very long
time.
And he has many more conversations with Will Graham to look forward to in the
days to come.
*
In the hospital there is a girl, a pretty, wind-chafed omega with clear blue
eyes and freckled skin. For the moment, she sleeps, and in sleeping can forget
for awhile that when she wakes she will still be an orphan, still be the
daughter of a now deceased alpha who used to kill pretty, wind-chafed omegas
that looked just like her, still be a girl who remembers the taste of her
breakfast that morning before everything went to hell—eggs and orange juice and
sausages that were neither venison nor pork.
There are no handcuffs to encircle her wrists and keep her chained to the
bedframe, and when she wakes she will think that perhaps there should be. That
if the people here were smart, perhaps there would be.
A red-haired woman will try to find a way to gain visitation access to her
room, and be summarily rejected. The hospital staff knows her face. Their
security personnel have posted pictures of her at every receptionist desk on
every floor to make sure of it after what happened at that other hospital the
last time. The FBI agent who escorted the girl’s ambulance here gave them that
picture. The same mistake will not be made in this facility. The girl is lucky
in that much, at least.
Asleep, her dreams are colored by the light of the morning sun filtered through
autumn foliage. It is a good memory she dreams about, one of her first hunting
trips with her father, but already there is an uneasy tinge to it now that she
doesn’t remember from back then, knowledge she did not have at the time
painting the shadows under her father’s eyes darker, the proud wistful looks he
gives her sadder. Her father is already thinking ahead to a time when he will
not have this anymore, and in that moment she wants to hug him and call him
Daddy like she used to and reassure her father that she will never leave his
side, but in that moment she is also afraid of him.
The dream changes. They are in the cabin now and her father is showing her how
to skin the deer she shot. She tries to protest and something in him almost
seems to lash out, before he collects himself, hand curved around hers curved
around the handle of the knife currently sunk into the animal’s gut. And he
looks into her eyes and says, “We must honor every part of her, or else it’s
just murder. Do you understand?”
In the too-bright light of the too-white walls of the hospital room, Abigail
Hobbs sits upright too fast in bed, her long, tangled hair askew and eyes
popped open wide.
***** Apollo and Diana *****
Chapter Notes
     In which the author seems to forget temporarily that he is not, in
     fact, writing a Girl, Interrupted AU with Abigail as Winona Ryder and
     Will as Angelina Jolie. At least that's kinda the vibe they were
     giving me this chapter. xD
     Title inspired by painting_of_same_name by Lucas Cranach the Elder.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                              V. Apollo and Diana
 
It’s barely been a few hours since she got settled in, but already Abigail
hates it here.
She hates the hospital bed they expect her to sleep in, in the room they call
“hers” even though it’s nothing like her bedroom back home and never will be.
She hates the looks the nurses give her, pitying on some and wary on others,
like they don’t know what to make of her yet but are on the lookout for signs
that she’ll be a troublemaker for them. Abigail has always been the good girl,
the obedient daughter and the serious honor roll student, so she has never been
on the receiving end of that look before and wants to be offended by it. She
would be offended by it, if a little voice didn’t whisper in her head that
maybe the look is warranted.
Above all else, she thinks she probably hates most of the other omegas here,
and that makes her feel a bit guilty. She knows she shouldn’t, knows that
they’re here for reasons that, once boiled down, likely aren’t all that
different from hers, knows that they can’t help the way they seem to broadcast
their victimhood for everyone to see, but still she can’t help the way she has
to hold back the little grimace her face wants to make when the girl sitting
next to her keeps going on and on in her little babyish voice that wouldn’t
sound out of place if she heard it at a kiddie table surrounded by dolls with
plastic, floral-patterned cups of fake tea.
Unfortunately, she has to sit through it and listen, since her first day here
happens to coincide with the day for weekly mandatory group sessions. They’ve
only just started, but already she knows for the rest of her stay that she’s
going to hate group most of all.
Only one thing makes up for it really, even if it’s only a little bit. Not a
thing actually. A person. Another person sitting directly across from her in
their sad little circle, one who obviously doesn’t feel like he belongs there
any more than Abigail does. One who casts surreptitious glances at her now and
then but tries politely not to stare, which is fair since she’s been doing the
same thing right back at him this whole time. She probably started it actually,
now that she thinks about it, though she can’t really be sure. She didn’t
really expect him to know who she is, though she supposes the scarf carefully
covering up the stitches along the side of her neck kind of gives it away.
She knows exactly who he is, of course. Recognizes him from the news and
pictures on the internet. The last thing she ever expected since her world was
rendered upside down was that she would end up in the same omega hospital as
Will Graham. If she’s being honest, it’s because she never expected someone
like him to end up in a place like this, no more than she expected herself to
end up here. There’s something almost reassuring about that, at least.
*
He knows exactly who she is the moment she takes the empty chair across from
him at group, of course. Difficult to miss, even if he hasn’t seen any photos
of her directly—she looks so much like the girls on Crawford’s bulletin board
that it would be uncanny if he didn’t know that’s how her father was picking
them.
And what kind of special hell she must be in, he thinks, to start her first day
here and already have to sit through her first round of introductions in
fucking group. If there’s anything he hates here more than group, he’s been
fortunate enough not to have come across it yet. What’s worse, he can’t exactly
warn her that their group leader Martha is saving her turn for last because
she’s new, or that they’re going to tell her she has to introduce herself and
share a little because it’s her first session. It’s the only time they’re not
given a choice; they can sit in silence and just listen during every session
thereafter if they want, as Will does, but they have to sit through every
session and they have to speak up during their first meeting.
In theory, it’s a nice way to ensure everyone has to overcome any shyness or
reticence they may feel to open up at least once. In practice, he thinks it’s a
real shitty way to introduce anyone to the concept, shittier still that they
have to keep going every week even if they never feel like talking again, and a
small wonder to him that anyone participates willingly at all after that first
time, even less so with the combination of relish and relief that some of them
seem to feel as they spill about their secrets and the things that have
happened to them in front of a captive audience. Group therapy, Will decides,
is simply not meant for everyone. Try telling that to the administration at
Port Haven though. Will has yet to convince Doctor Bloom that he really doesn’t
need to be a part of this, and only succeeds in earning yet another
“disappointed mom look” each week every time Martha reports his continued
silence back to her.
He shifts almost unconsciously in his seat as Nina wraps up and the buck passes
to Abigail next. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly when Martha tells her to
introduce herself and state why she’s here, but past that and a tiny swallow
mostly hidden by the scarf around her throat, she handles it admirably well.
“My name is Abigail,” she says, softly but clearly. “I’m here because my dad
killed omegan girls that looked just like me.”
*
“And how does that make you feel, Abigail?” the nurse presses gently. Abigail
wants to scoff because really, that’s the question they want her to answer
right out of the gate? What a fucking cliché.
“Not good,” she answers tightly, aware that her lips want to pull into a sharp
smile that could puncture glass and willing them as best as she can not to.
Peripherally, because she can’t help but continue to be aware of him at the
edge of her vision, she notices that Will Graham’s fingers have curled just a
fraction tighter around the edge of his own plastic chair. She doesn’t look in
his direction to see if he’s wearing the smile that she tries to hide, but it’s
a very near thing. It feels vindicating.
“Were you and your dad doing it?” another girl asks, snide and practically
leering at her. Abigail turns in her seat to face her, mouth slightly agape in
shock, too stunned to say anything in reply.
“Now, Cassie,” says the nurse in a chiding schoolmarm tone.
“Bet you were daddy’s perfect little girl, weren’t you?” Cassie continues,
blithely ignoring the nurse’s weak cautioning reprimand.
“You’ll have to excuse Cassandra.” Abigail’s eyes snap to Will, a tiny smirk
now playing on his lips. This is the first she’s heard him speak since they
started. “She thinks about fucking her brother all day long and assumes
everyone else’s fantasies are just as pedestrianly Freudian as hers.”
“Will!” the nurse admonishes much more sharply. The girl, Cassandra, stands at
the same time, pushing her chair back with a loud scrape.
“I-I do not!” she says, face blotchy and red. “Who the fuck told you I—it-it’s
not true! Why don’t you come say that to my face, you ugly, scar-faced bitch?”
 she yells, her flustered attitude shifting quickly into anger instead.
Will merely looks up at her from where he sits with a single raised brow and
doesn’t say anything else. A couple of the other girls start rocking in their
seats or crying softly at all the noise she’s making, and one of them clamps
her hands over her ears and starts shouting wordlessly, which agitates the rest
that are already upset and sets them off even worse.
“Girls, girls, please,” the nurse says as she now stands as well, walking over
to Cassie to try to calm her down while also attempting to figure out how to
soothe the others at the same time, clearly overwhelmed and not at all up to
task.
Abigail keeps her attention fixed on Will the whole time, and after a long
moment of quietly, almost blandly, seeming to watch the scene unfold before
them, he turns his head to face her directly. The barely-there smirk returns
for only a second, and then with an equally blink-and-you-miss-it wink in her
direction, he stands and walks calmly out of the room while the nurse’s back is
turned.
Abigail follows his lead, careful not to jump out of her seat too eagerly and
draw attention to herself as more nurses start to file in to help.
She doesn’t call out his name, just follows from a few paces behind, nearly
bumping into him when she rounds the next corner only to find him slouched back
against the wall in an empty hallway, glasses off as he rubs his eyes wearily
with one hand. It’s such a different attitude from the cool, easy vibe he
seemed to project only a minute ago that she lowers her gaze, embarrassed that
she might have seen something she wasn’t meant to and not sure whether to act
like she did or not.
“Hey.” She looks up to find him smiling at her again, this time kindly and with
still a touch of that weariness, and feels herself smiling almost unconsciously
back. His eyes don’t quite meet hers, but they come close, landing somewhere
roughly near her ear, so she counts that as good enough.
“Hey,” she says back. “So…I know you might get in trouble for it later, or
whatever, but what you just did back there was fucking awesome.” Here, he lets
out a snort of laughter and smiles wider. She grins victoriously in return. “So
yeah, I just wanted to say that, and you know, say thanks.”
He shrugs lightly. “No problem,” he says, wiping the lenses of his glasses on
his shirt before sliding them back on.
 She wonders for a minute if that’s all he’s going to say, and fidgets
nervously as she considers whether she should just leave now. She doesn’t
particularly want to go back to her own room, and she can’t go back to face all
those other people again right now, but she doesn’t want to overstay her
welcome around the closest person she’s made to a friend either.
“She shouldn’t have said what she did,” he says so quietly after a moment that
she almost doesn’t catch it.
“I should probably get used to it,” she replies, smile wavering a bit now. She
shifts her stance to lean against the wall beside him, now that she’s confident
enough he’s not going to tell her to buzz off and give him some space. “I’m
sure she won’t be the last to say stuff like that and worse.”
“You don’t deserve it,” he says with such calm conviction, she doesn’t even
question it the way she does with everyone else. “Neither does your father for
that matter. He had his issues, but everything he did was because he loved you.
He would never have done something like...like that.”
Her breath stills in her throat, and she worries for a second that she’s going
to start crying before she gets herself under control. “I-I know what you just
said is true,” she says softly once she has a rein on her emotions, “but I’m
wondering how you know that, exactly.”
He sighs, and runs a hand over his face again. “It’s this thing I can do. I can
empathize with anyone. And look,” he says, now the one clearing his throat and
fidgeting nervously. “There’s something else you should know, before anyone
else tells you about it.” He forces himself to look her directly in the eye
before he continues. “I’m the reason the FBI knew how to find you. The reason
they tracked down your dad was because I told them the guy they were looking
for had a daughter.”
This...this is not something she expected. Before she is consciously aware of
it, her knees are bent as she slides slowly and carefully down the wall to sit
on the floor against it. Beside her, Will follows suit in the same stilted
motion, as if he can’t help but mimic her body language. She supposes with what
he just said, that’s true.
She turns her head to look at him and finds him pointedly not looking at her,
staring down and ahead at the patch of carpet between their shoes instead. She
wonders suddenly if he blames himself for her parents dying. The only person
she blames is the agent who shot her father. And yes, she blames her father too
for cutting her mother’s throat like he was going to cut hers before Crawford
shot him. She does not, however, blame Will simply for noticing what apparently
no one else had, and is trying to come up with a way to tell him that while
still dealing with the emotional fallout of the loss she’s been reminded of
again now, which has not gone away no matter how she tries to push it down or
ignore it.
“How did you figure it out?” she asks to buy herself some time.
“I just looked at the evidence,” he says. He half-shrugs and grimaces,
realizing how much that sounds like a brush-off. “It’s weird to try and
explain, but that’s really all there is to it. I looked.” He turns his head,
finally able to meet her gaze with his own again. “I looked, and I saw you.”
Abigail feels whatever words she might have tried to say get stuck in her
throat. Her vision blurs. That’s twice she’s come close to tears already in the
same conversation, but she blinks them back again before they can try to
escape.
Will sits up uncomfortably, one elbow pushed against the carpet to support
himself, and she realizes that he thinks he’s upset her and is about to get up
and leave. She doesn’t want that, and so blurts out the first thing that comes
to mind.
“I saw you too!” He pauses in motion, lowering himself back slowly to the
ground after a still half-second and looking at her with a puzzled pull to his
brows.
“Not during, um, not while your mate was still killing people,” she says,
embarrassed now for letting her panicked brain do the talking and not running
her words through some kind of filter first. “After, I mean. When that article
about you came out.”
“Ah,” he says, understanding drawing a wry smile to his lips. “Yeah, it
generated quite a lot of buzz from what I hear,” he adds dryly.
She tugs on a strand of her hair and sighs, frustrated that she’s not making
herself clear and is possibly only making things worse. “Look, I know most of
what it said is just conjecture and bullshit. It’s not the article that’s
important, it’s…” She bites her lip, annoyed for digging herself into a hole,
because now it means she has to admit to something that she probably should
have just kept to herself. “I kept the picture, alright?” she huffs, defensive.
“I printed it out at the school library and tucked it into the pages of my
Biology notebook.”
After a brief silence in which Will apparently has nothing to respond with, she
snorts loudly and shakes her head. “God, now that I’ve said it aloud, it sounds
creepy as hell.” She chances a look at him and is relieved to see him valiantly
trying to hold back an amused smirk. “I know what else it sounds like too, but
believe me, it wasn’t for the usual reason teen girls like to clip pictures of
boys out of magazines either.”
The smile breaks free completely now, accompanied by mostly silent laughter she
can nonetheless detect hints of in his voice when he assures her, “I know it’s
not. I believe you.” He presses a hand dramatically over his heart and says, “I
don’t know if my poor self-esteem can take the hit though.”
“Ugh, shut up. You’ll live,” she says, grinning. “I guess that’s kind of the
point I was making really,” she continues, smile still present but smaller now
as her tone turns serious once again. “You’ll live. You lived. In spite of
everything that happened, everything that you had to…” She trails off, clearing
her throat. Both of them look away from each other and stare vaguely ahead at
the wall, thoughts on each of their respective ‘had-tos.’
“It was starting to get really bad at home, you know, right there at the end,
in those last few weeks leading up to it,” she continues quietly, voice almost
a whisper. “It was getting harder and harder to convince myself that-that I
wasn’t going to die,” she forces herself to say louder, voice harsher and
almost clipped as she pushes the words out. She glances over at Will again,
says, “So yeah, maybe it’s silly, or weird, or whatever, but keeping a reminder
around that someone else out there had survived, after going through something
similar to what I was dealing with, or maybe worse,” here Will swallows,
turning his head away briefly. “It helped when nothing else did,” she finishes.
After another beat, however, she decides to add, “Gotta be honest though, I
didn’t expect it to suck this much.” That earns another amused snort from him.
“To tell you the truth,” he says, leaning sideways to whisper conspiratorially
to her, “me neither.” Both of them share wry smirks over that, as though it
were a casual admission over something simple like not liking coffee. “But here
we are. We walked through the flames and made it out on the other side, while
everything else behind us burned away.”
“We’re gonna be fucked up for the rest of our lives, aren’t we?” she asks.
“Oh, most definitely,” Will answers.
They look at each other again, and this time neither of them can hold it in,
both of them clutching their sides as they double over breathlessly in
laughter, brushing shoulders as they lean on one another for support. This is
how Martha finds them shortly afterward, hands on her hips and expression
stern, which only leads to them laughing all the harder, even as she directs
them both to go see Bloom like a pair of unruly kids getting sent to the
principal’s office for ditching class.
Each of them thinks the same thing as they walk down the corridor together, the
nurse following closely behind as if they can’t be trusted to go where she
instructed on their own—that at least one good thing came out of going to group
today.
Chapter End Notes
     I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
***** No Movement, No Object *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter fought me tooth and nail. Like, named it for the last
     two lines of Ad_Reinhardt's_Twelve_Rules, that's how hard this thing
     fought me. It was either post what I have now to get over the hurdle,
     or make you guys wait another month for an update. I think we can all
     agree I chose wisely. ;)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                          VI. No Movement, No Object
                                        
From that day forward, Will and Abigail are nearly inseparable. They sit
together at meals and hang out in the rec room or the gardens during the day.
The only times they’re really apart aside from lights out is when one or both
of them decides they need some downtime to be on their own; both of them are
introverted enough that they often require space from other people to relax and
recharge, even occasional space from each other.
Alana tells Hannibal all of this during their next informal chat about Will’s
progress, concern clearly etched on her features. While she’s glad on the one
hand that both of her patients seem happier and healthier for having one
another as a confidant and ally, she worries about the risks of co-dependency.
Neither of them makes any effort to socialize with the other omegas at all, and
their progress in therapy is still stagnant at best.
“I’m reluctant to take any steps towards forced separation, however,” she
admits with a gentle frown.
“Indeed. You would be setting yourself up as the antagonist if you tried,”
Lecter tells her. “Which would foster more co-dependency, not less. Us vs.
them.” The corners of his own lips quirk downward into a moue of displeasure.
It is not wholeheartedly an act. He is displeased.
“Exactly,” Bloom agrees. “I’m kind of stuck at the moment between a rock and a
hard place.”
As she sips at her beer and carries their conversation on to their mutual love
of the arts and other less work-oriented territory, Hannibal diverts what small
amount of attention he can politely spare without notice to self-reflection
upon his own reaction to the news she has brought him.
It is only natural, he decides, that he would experience some annoyance at the
thought of this Hobbs girl slotting herself so neatly at Will’s side with
hardly any effort on her part while Hannibal himself must still be so careful
as to how he chips away at the young man’s defenses in order to earn his status
as a confidant of equal importance. Most frustrating of all, if they are truly
as close already as his colleague claims, it hedges in his options for how to
proceed. It is immediately apparent that if he is to succeed in gaining Will’s
trust, he must either win over Miss Hobbs to his side as well, or devise a way
to eliminate her altogether.
In his mind’s eye he can picture it clearly—a clean slice along her throat, in
the kitchen in her old house, just as her father had tried to do. It would be
poetic, neat, her life and death come full circle.
It is entirely too satisfying to imagine, so much so that Hannibal puts the
thought away to analyze more deeply after Alana leaves, and diverts his
attention back to being the gracious host for the rest of the evening.
He returns to the thought once Bloom is gone, his sleeves rolled up neatly to
his elbows as he scrubs each platter and dish from their meal meticulously by
hand. Again, he enjoys it far more than he would expect. He has not met this
girl, knows nothing about her beyond what little information Bloom has
provided, yet his every impulse screams at him to get rid of this distraction
that has entered Will’s life without his permission as quickly as possible.
While Hannibal feels no guilt and generally very little desire to ignore his
own whims, it is disconcerting in this instance to feel so strongly about the
issue, so alpha in his reaction.
I am jealous, he understands suddenly with perfect clarity. How utterly
peculiar. Who is Will Graham to him, that he should feel this way?
He must not be hasty in this decision merely because of some showy, primal
instinct. He will wait until he has spoken with Will again and met Abigail
Hobbs for himself, in order to gauge whether she is truly a hindrance to his
goals or of some possible use instead.
*
“Tell me about Abigail Hobbs.”
Will huffs out a cynical laugh. “Bloom got to you already, huh?” When all
Lecter responds with is a curious tilt of his head, Will continues. “She thinks
we’re a bad influence on each other,” he says, leaning forward in his seat, a
tiny smirk playing on his lips as though it were some conspiratorial secret,
“but she doesn’t quite want to say as much. She asking you to play bad cop now
in her stead?”
“Not in so many words,” Lecter responds with the barest hint of a smile
himself. “You know our dear Doctor Bloom. She would never be so gauche as to
make the request directly.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Will mutters with a roll of his eyes. He settles back
against his chair again. “First I don’t socialize enough, now I socialize too
much, but I’m what? Too picky about who I make nice with? If she thinks either
Abigail or I are the types to start linking hands with all the other sad little
omegas and sing Kumbaya, she’s fucking delusional.”
He has never cursed in front of Lecter before. The man certainly cultivates the
appearance of someone fastidious enough about language to take offense to
profanity, especially when it is pointed deliberately at punctuating an insult
against a supposed friend. Will constructs his statement this way simply to see
if he can get the man to twinge.
The reaction he gets is far better than what he expected. The man actually
laughs, a singular, sharp, half-surprised sound as if he no more expected it
than Will had. Will’s own face goes blank as he processes this unforeseen
outcome, then stays that way even as his ears start to burn red, resisting the
urge to squirm or smile, astonishingly pleased with himself. This is not the
reaction he was going for, but he’ll take it.
The only evidence of Lecter’s amusement by the time Will gets a grip on his own
reaction to it is a faint smile, ever so slightly wider than the usual
microexpression he wears. “Ever the optimist though Alana Bloom may be, never
before have I heard anyone posit that it may be the result of delusions.” Will
is only mildly disappointed that he didn’t call them ‘fucking’ delusions.
Perhaps his next goal should be to determine under what circumstances he can
push the man into swearing himself.
“Bit much?” Will asks cheekily. “Fine, not delusional then, just…naively
hopeful.” He slouches further back in his seat. “What do you think?”
“About you and Abigail Hobbs, or about Alana Bloom’s hopeful delusions?” Will
shrugs as if to say, both, either, it doesn’t matter. “I think it would be a
touch unfair of me to make a snap judgment regarding an individual I have not
had the pleasure of meeting yet, wouldn’t you agree?”
It is Will’s turn to laugh sharply at that. “Now that’s how you make a subtle,
not-so-subtle suggestion,” he says. Their smiles match as they gaze at one
another across the short distance between their chairs. “I’m surprised you
didn’t already spring that idea on Bloom first,” he adds, his look one of
shrewdness now to subtly, not-so-subtly suggest he knows exactly whose idea it
was he attend these sessions with Hannibal in the first place.
“I considered it. I am, however, far more interested in your feelings on the
matter and aware that your good opinion, once lost, would be a privilege
difficult to regain. Alana Bloom is easier to persuade.” Well. Will didn’t
expect him to be quite so…blatant.
“Implying in one fell swoop not only that my good opinion is a prize to be
desired, but that I’m somehow more difficult to manipulate than an esteemed
colleague professionally trained to recognize said manipulation,” Will says,
breaking out into a full-blown grin when the other man doesn’t so much as
flinch at the accusation. “Flatterer.”
“I did promise I would not lie to you, Will.”
“That you did,” Will agrees. Both are aware, of course, that sins of omission
have not been similarly removed from the table, and that there are dozens of
those still scattered between them. But then, that’s part of the fun. The trick
is not only in finding the right questions to ask, but also in discerning how
much of the answers to offer up in return without giving away the whole game.
“You know, I think I would be interested in seeing what would happen should the
two of you meet,” Will says, arms folded across his chest in an air of
challenge. “I wonder how you will assess each other.”
“Should I be nervous?” Hannibal asks, coyly, but Will is curious whether or not
it might also be partly sincere.
“Guess that all depends on what she thinks of you,” he responds sweetly. He’s
aware they’re treading on dangerous ground now, however. Regardless of where
his curiosity leadshim ultimately, he has no intention of letting Abigail get
hurt as a result of whatever weird game this is they’re playing. “And on what
happens after that,” he adds more gravely. Let the alpha make of that what he
will. It’s not a threat, unless a threat is what it has to be.
Hannibal nods once, in silent acknowledgment of the ultimatum Will has laid
out, murky though its boundaries may be at the moment. “You value Miss Hobbs
and her opinions highly, despite having only recently made her acquaintance.”
“Well, we have so much in common,” Will comments dryly. He almost teases that
the alpha sounds close to jealous, but knowing that can’t be it, chooses not to
waste his breath on the remark. Deciding to go for honesty instead in this
case, he says, “I’m a little surprised about it myself actually. I never really
made friends in school. I’m not even sure if this is what it’s supposed to be
like. Sometimes I think it’s more like…” He pauses to breathe out a silent,
self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s a cliché to even say it, but it’s more like
she’s the sister I never got to have.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he imagines he sees almost a flicker of something
behind the other man’s impassive gaze, but when he turns his head fully to
look, it’s not there. Curious.
“You reject the familial bonds Jack and Alana would tie to you subliminally,
yet freely and openly make that very same connection back to Abigail.”
“Neither of us is trying to be the other one’s parent,” Will points out wryly.
“Don’t think for a second we wouldn’t resent the hell out of each other if
either of us tried it.”
“You want a peer, not a guiding hand that assumes it knows best.”
“Now, if only Bloom and Crawford were as understanding of that as you,” Will
replies, but the tone and meaning of his statement are loaded. A warning.
Don’t you fucking dare try to 'guide' me or tell me what to do.
“If only,” Hannibal replies in kind, the micro change to his expression almost
as blatant as a wink.
Wouldn’t dream of it, dear Will.
*
 “Beverly Katz. You’re on Crawford’s team, right?” Alana asks, greeting the
visitor Grace waved her over for in the lobby the next morning.
“Yes, ma’am,” the other beta says, warm and casual as she shakes Alana’s hand,
though with just a hint of discomfort as if she’s less than thrilled about
being here. The thick manila folder tucked under her other arm gives the
psychiatrist a clue as to why.
“And what is that exactly?” Bloom asks, gesturing to it with a tilt of her
head. She tries to keep the irritation out of her voice, knowing the other
woman probably wants to be doing this about as much as Alana wants it, which is
not at all.
Katz sighs. “Look, I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever this beef
between you and Jack is, but he said this was something that couldn’t be done
over the phone, and he knows you don’t want him showing up here, so…” She
shrugs. “He sent me instead.”
“Sent you for what though?”
Ducking her head almost guiltily, Katz looks back up only a moment later, the
file clutched loosely in both hands now and presented outward in front of her
for the other woman to take. Alana does, her eyes widening as she flips through
the first couple of pictures placed at the top of the stack.
“Jack wants me to ask Will Graham what he knows about gardening.”
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Forever mourning the beautiful connection Abigail could have had with
     Hannibal and Will if they hadn't been trying so hard to be her dads
     on the show. D':
***** Swans Reflecting Elephants *****
Chapter Notes
     In which another look-back to dolargram days mirrors aspects of
     stories such as Bluebeard's Wife and Beauty and the Beast, and serves
     to remind us that there are some hard truths in the subtexts those
     fairy tales don't want us to examine too closely. Just ignore the
     fact that the author adores Beauty and the Beast and wrote a
     hannigram AU based on it forever ago, shhhh.
     Title from the painting_by_Salvador_Dalí.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                        VII. Swans Reflecting Elephants
                                        
Much as he loved nature as a boy, Will never had much of an interest in
gardening growing up, and his dad would always joke that the Graham men had
black thumbs because of all the engine grease anyway. They never stayed still
in one place long enough even to raise a single houseplant to maturity, so Will
never got to find out if that old adage held true for him as well or not.
Six years of house arrest on one large, sprawling, overgrown property is more
than enough time for any individual to learn though. Turns out that Will is a
natural at it, in fact.
It started a few months after he moved in, when he found some wild berries
growing along the fence line and began to wonder what other plants he could
coax into growing there, once Francis trusted him enough not to run off at the
first opportunity and let him wander around outside on his own—while Francis
watched discreetly through the gaps in the curtains, of course.
It would be a longer while yet after that before the alpha started working from
home less and stopped locking the house up tightly to keep Will inside every
time he left. The locked and chained wrought-iron gate separating their high
fenced-in property from the long, winding road that spanned miles between them
and the nearest town was enough of a deterrent to anyone getting in or out
anyway, he eventually decided.
That meant Will needed something to do during those long hours on his own, and
there was only so much exploring he could do before he ran out of new spaces to
discover, so much reading he could do before his eyes started to droop (and if
he didn’t pace himself he’d run out of books in the long run anyway), so much
cleaning he could do like afucking housewifeuntil every surface in the house
was spotless except for that one nasty room his mate’s late grandmother used to
sleep in that Will was told to leave exactly as it was and never, ever enter if
he could help it.
He’d had plans and ambitions for what he wanted to do after high school, goals
that had gotten shunted and put on the back burner not long after his dad’s
passing anyway, and which were easy, too easy, to keep putting aside and bury
somewhere deep because he already had his purpose, here, at home, where Frankie
needed him the most. Sweet, fragile, loving Frankie who needed an escape from
all the ugly and petty foibles of the world but couldn’t have that as long as
his home remained an empty, dilapidated, echoing ruin of his grandmother’s
legacy. The Dragon, who needed someone whounderstood his Becoming and didn’t
turn away from it out of fear or disgust. Francis Dolarhyde, a man so broken by
the world he couldn’t help but latch his claws deeply into the one bright, good
thing he had in his life and refuse to let up or let go even for one second,
lest it slip from his grasp and fly away never to return.
So, Will took up gardening, and tookto it far more enthusiastically than he
would have expected of himself in a previous life. There was something oh-so-
satisfying about clearing out the weeds and tilling up the land, to stepping
out in the yard in the early morning light to find those first sprouts growing
out of the ground and know thathe had done that.
Once he fully figured out what he was doing, he graduated fairly quickly from a
few simple herbs and flower pots to actual crops, adding squash and tomato
seeds and saplings to the regular shopping list underneath other requests like
books and painting supplies and new strings for the piano.
The piano was another hobby Will would generally only indulge in alone, his
mate having an aversion to the instrument and preferring to listen to the pop
and crackle of old records instead. Bad memories,he would say, and on the rare
occasions Will would make a mistake and hit a wrong note, the older man would
reflexively flinch and curl his fingers in sharply as though they stung him,
often quickly excusing himself from the room afterwards, if Will hadn’t already
stopped at that point.
But the gardening was something his alpha never minded. Overtime it took over
enough of Will’s daily routine that he could almost stylize himself a smalltime
farmer, and that was when his design suddenly became much more grandiose.
Because why not? Why shouldn’t he throw himself wholeheartedly into this? It
wasn’t like he had anything better to do.
The next day he flipped open a small journal and started sketching a plan for
where they could build a chicken coop, maybe also a fenced-in pen for some pigs
or a goat, and perhaps most optimistically of all, a little doghouse they could
set out right at the edge of the back porch. He presented it to the other man
as soon as he got home from work, flushed and pleased with himself, barely
giving the man time to settle with a glass of scotch in his hand before he
excitedly began to rattle off a list of supplies they would need, the most
cost-effective ways they could build it all together, what types of feed would
be best suited for the hens…
“No.” Cold and weighted, the word didn’t even register in Will’s brain at
first, not until the journal in the alpha’s hand was just as abruptly flipped
closed with the same air of finality.
“No?” he’d asked, voice flat at first, still not quite parsing the word
correctly in his head. Then, “No? What do you mean no? You didn’t even really
look…is it the cost? Because I told you, it’s actually not all that expensive,
and we don’t have to do it all at once, Frank—”
The glass tumbler slammed loudly down onto the side table, the sudden noise
sharp enough to make Will flinch and his ears twitch, cutting him off mid-rant.
“There will be no animals in this house,” Francis quietly rasped. “I cannot
abide their…their squawking, their filth, their stench. I will not.”
“But they wouldn’t be in the house,” Will protested, silently squashing the
secret hopes he’d had of being woken in the mornings to happy yipping and
little paws scrabbling across the wooden floors. “They’d be outside.”
“The answer is no, Will. Do not ask me again.”
“But…” Will had trailed off, his eyes landing on the alpha’s fingers, knuckles
white from how tightly they were still wrapped around the glass, and the tense
set of the alpha’s jaw. Then he imagined it for the first time, the two of them
wrapped around one another in bed, pre-dawn light filtering in through the
curtains, until the rooster started crowing outside or worse, the barks and
howls of a puppy just wanting some attention started up at two in the morning.
He imagined the contained rage in Francis’s muscles as he climbed out of bed
and stalked out of the room, the barks ending abruptly a few seconds later with
a high-pitched yelp, followed by utter silence.
He hadn’t noticed the man standing, his eyes burning and too blurred to see,
until with a gentle kiss against his temple, Francis whispered imploringly
against Will’s ear that he not stay angry with him for too long, then padded as
softly as one could in booted feet out of the room. Will had stood there,
frozen and unmoving, until the ice from Frank’s glass had sweated a deep ring
of moisture into the antique wooden table.
He never asked again.
*
“So, know anything about gardening?” Agent Katz quips as they take their seats
across from each other in Bloom’s office. Will shrugs off-handedly.
He takes the file when she offers it to him, eyes widening a bit when he opens
it because whatever he thought she might have meant by asking that question,
this is not exactly it.
What he sees in front of him is stark, vivid lifespringing up from the dead.
Perhaps this killer’s reasons for growing a garden aren’t quite the same as
Will’s own, here a beige and brown landscape of mushrooms and fungi sprouting
from rotting human bodies as opposed to lush green leaves and budding flowers
and vegetables. But then again, perhaps they’re not so different, for did Will
not occasionally chatter about nothing and everything in particular and scratch
secret messages in the earth before brushing them away, even though he’d always
been fairly certain the concept of talking to one’s plants to make them happier
and healthier was little more than a silly old wives’ tale?
“Connection,” he murmurs aloud for the agent’s benefit. “That’s what he’s
looking for.”
“Oh-kay. Maybe someone should’ve told him burying people alive in the dirt
isn’t exactly the best way to go about making new friends.”
“Alive?” Will asks, and Katz nods, explaining that one of the victims had in
fact still been breathing when they investigated the crime scene, though he
died on the way to the hospital. Will looks down at the pictures again and
frowns. The victims are all covered under barely a few inches of dirt and
unrestrained. That meant not only that they must have all been unconscious at
the time of burial, but that their gardener was confident none of them would
ever wake up again. What would give him that level of confidence? Something
medical perhaps, like a concussion or…
“Um,” Will says, sucking in his bottom lip as he thinks. “I don’t know much
about diseases, but aren’t there some that could induce comas? Like narcolepsy,
or even something more common, like a diabetic with dangerously imbalanced
sugar levels?”
Katz looks taken aback for a moment, then her eyes light up in epiphany.
“Diabetic ketoacidosis,” she breathes. “Hot damn, kid. Jack said you were good.
He didn’t tell me you were an absolute freaking genius.” She sweeps the
pictures back into the file folder and picks it up, already standing to leave.
“You ever think about going into forensics or criminology, let me know. You’ll
get a glowing recommendation letter from me.”
“Thanks,” he replies, a bit bashful from the amount of praise he’s getting
after only giving his input in a barely five-minute conversation.
Doctor Bloom stands a little straighter when they exit the room, immediately
coming over to ask if everything is alright. Will is honestly half-surprised
she wasn’t listening at the door, almost as surprised as he was that she agreed
to letting him talk to the agent alone in the first place, after stressing to
him over and over again that he didn’t have to do this if he didn’t want to,
that he could stop at any time if he felt uncomfortable continuing, and that
she would be right outside if he needed her for anything.
She seems relieved to find there’s nothing wrong and that their talk simply
ended sooner than expected, though a hint of wariness mars it when Beverly
talks him up again and expresses to her how much of a help he was to the
investigation. Will doesn’t need to be a supposed “genius” to guess the doctor
is thinking about what this will mean for future visits.
Katz and Bloom both had him swear to secrecy about what he learned today since
it’s all part of an ongoing investigation, so naturally he waits until he and
Abigail are utterly alone in the enclosed greenhouse later to tell her
everything. The ever–changing expressions of mild disgust, intrigue, horror,
and curious delight that cross over her face as he regales her are more than
worth it.
“I still don’t get what you mean about the whole ‘connection’ thing. Explain
that to me more.”
“Okay, it’s like, the way mushrooms branch out from each other, the patterns
they grow in, it sort of looks like neurons in a nervous system, right?” he
says. Abigail nods tentatively, scrunches up her nose and mouth as she tilts
her head and tries to picture it, then nods again more firmly. “It’s sort of…a
representation of that made literal,” he continues. “I think in a way maybe he
does see it literally. This guy, there’s a barrier he can’t cross between him
and other people, a disconnect. He wants to bridge that gap. He wants,” Will
spreads his hands wide. “To be understood.”
“Wow.” Abigail sits silently for a moment, absorbing it all. “I get it now, I
think. When you describe it that way I get these hazy images, kind of like an
outline in charcoal. I imagine for you it’s more like a huge, vivid painting,
huh?”
“Very, very vivid,” Will agrees. “And in full Technicolor.”
“That must be pretty useful, even if it does suck sometimes.”
Will laughs loudly. “The agent, she uh, implied pretty heavily that I should
make a career out of it. Profiling criminals, I mean.”
“Not gonna lie, that sounds totally badass.” Both of them snort laughter at
that one. “Is it something you’d be interested in doing though?”
Will shrugs. “I don’t know. Is it bad if I say I haven’t really thought that
far ahead yet?”
“You haven’t? I think about it all the time,” she says.
“Oh, really? Pray tell what your plans are, Miss I-Already-Have-All-My-Shit-
Together.”
Abigail shrugs as well. “It changes about every week,” she admits. Will rolls
his eyes and smirks. “At first, I thought maybe I’d like to try getting into
the FBI, but I kind of doubt they’d let me in, given the family history.” Her
fingers reach up, nearly tugging at where her scarf would be if she were
wearing one. She doesn’t bother with them as much when she and Will are alone,
emboldened perhaps by solidarity since Will does nothing to hide his own scars.
“Lately I’ve been thinking about psychiatry too, but I’m not sure yet. It’s
kind of a moot point for right now anyway,” she adds wryly. “Dad killing girls
at every college I applied for sort of puts me off wanting to go for awhile.”
“At least you have your diploma,” Will points out just as dryly. Despite
everything going down when she still had a few months of school left, the
administration had ‘thoughtfully’ decided to issue her diploma early in light
of ‘extenuating circumstances,’ citing that she already had enough credits as
an honors student to graduate on at least the minimum plan anyway. Abigail
believed they just didn’t want to risk the possibility of the ‘murder girl’
coming back to reenroll later and told Will as much when she got her diploma in
the mail.
She side-eyes him now almost guiltily. “I forgot you don’t have the same
luxury,” she says honestly. “Are you gonna go back to high school after you get
out of here?”
“Oh, fuck no,” Will scoffs. “Two more years of that living nightmare all over
again? I think I’ll pass. Besides, I think they’d be just as freaked out by the
creepy, damaged old guy on campus.”
“Early twenties is not old,” Abigail protests.
“It is in high school years,” he retorts, and Abigail has no response for that,
because of course he’s right. “I guess what I’ll do is get my GED eventually.
Figure out the rest after that, or make it up as I go. Or win the lottery and
become a multimillionaire, whichever comes first.”
It’s Abigail’s turn to roll her eyes this time. “Sounds like you’ve got more
figured out than you thought.”
“Guess so,” he says. They stop speaking abruptly as one of the nurses pokes her
head in through the door and tells them to come inside for dinner.
“Think there’ll be any mushrooms on the menu?” Abigail whispers as they head
inside. It takes Will quite a bit of fortitude to keep from cracking a smile.
*
The next morning starts out slow and lazy like molasses. Will doesn’t feel up
for hanging out much with Abigail today. Maybe it’s just everything he learned
yesterday sinking in and dredging up old memories, but he feels more
contemplative and reserved, like he just wants to be alone for now. He lets
Abigail know and heads outside on his own while most of the other omegas make
their way sleepily to group sessions or the rec room.
The sky still has that soft morning brightness, the smell of dew on the grass
and rich, warm earth lifting up to meet his nostrils as he wends a lazy path to
the koi pond. He stares at the fish and thinks idly about how pissed off Bloom
would be if he snuck in a fishing pole somehow and started stirring them up,
but the idea holds little amusement for him.
An odd flash of movement out of the corner of his eye draws his attention, and
what he sees when he looks up makes him tilt his head curiously.
There is a man hopping the fence to get inside, tall, pale, and a bit
uncoordinated as he lands on his feet. The man pushes his glasses back up the
bridge of his nose and starts walking quickly toward Will as soon as he spots
him. There is a gun in his other hand, yet Will feels unafraid, standing up and
brushing the dirt off his knees with a calm and easy demeanor.
“Hi there,” he greets softly as the man comes close enough to hear.
“Are you Will Graham?” the stranger, a beta he scents now, asks. His voice is
loud with a warbling sense of urgency to it.
Will nods. “I am. What’s your name?” he asks, hands dangling loose at his
sides, though not in his pockets as they normally would be. He doesn’t want the
man to feel paranoid or startle. He doesn’t raise them above his head either as
most people would do in this situation. This is just a conversation, until one
of them changes the script.
“Eldon Stammets,” the beta answers without hesitation, as if it doesn’t occur
to him that there would be any reason to lie. Will supposes there really
wouldn’t be at this point.
“It’s nice to meet you, Eldon,” Will says, offering a small smile. “Are you the
man who’s been burying people?” Again, the man nods without a hint of
hesitation.
“She said you could help me. She said you would understand.”
“She?” Will asks, genuinely perplexed.
“The red-headed reporter.” Freddie Lounds. Of course. Will wonders what the
hell made Lounds say that and send Stammets here, but that’s not important at
the moment.
“What can I help you with, Eldon? No offense, but if it’s burying more people,
you’ve got the wrong guy.” The way the man’s face crumples in distress when he
says this makes Will’s heart clench.
“Sh-she said you would understand!” he repeats. The gun in his hand wavers and
raises, but it’s pointed aimlessly off to the side, not at Will, so he takes a
cautious step forward. “She said you would help me—”
“To be understood?” Will finishes. He takes a deep breath and another step
forward. “To see. It’s harder to do that sometimes. Your horse is hitched to a
post somewhere along Asperger’s and autism, right?” he asks. Eldon blinks, and
Will smiles in return. “Mine too. We just got hit with opposite ends of the
empathy stick, I think,” he continues. “I see too much, you see too little...”
He shrugs. “Our experiences may differ a little, but I can tell you it’s not
any easier from where I’m standing than from where you are.”
“It’s too much, it’s too little,” Eldon agrees. “Thought, human thoughts, the
exchange of ideas, it’s a wonderful thing! Thoughts leap from brain to brain.
They mutate. They evolve.”
“Like the fungi,” Will says.
“Exactly like the fungi!” says Stammets ecstatically. “Walk into a field of
mycelium, they know you are there! Their spores reach for you when you pass
by.”
Will nods along, seeing it. He hears sirens in the distance now and steps
closer. “Eldon, can you give me your gun?”
Stammets looks at him in confusion, then seems to understand as the sirens grow
louder. “I was...I was going to—”
“Bury me, I know,” Will says. “And at first, that’s all they’ll understand. But
I see it, Eldon. I understand. You don’t have to bury me for that, and I’ll
make sure they see it too.” He outstretches his hand, palm upward. “Please give
me the gun.”
Eldon hands it over, and Will tosses it over the pond, flinging it far enough
to land on the other side in the grass instead of in the water. He hears the
facility doors flinging open behind him and positions himself strategically so
that he’s in the way of anyone trying to take a crack shot at Stammets, then
rests a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder when he sees that he’s begun shaking.
“It’s okay, Eldon. Everything’s going to be fine,” he reassures. The agents are
shouting for Stammets to stand down and get on the ground. Will tilts his head
enough to shout back. “He’s unarmed! The gun’s there!”he points. “Come on,
Eldon,” he says, voice quiet again, and tugs lightly on the older man’s arm to
get him to kneel down in the grass with him.
The poor man seems on the verge of tears and ready to shake out of his own skin
as one of the agents frisks him and cuffs his hands behind his back, only
managing to keep calm because of Will’s continued reassurances and refusal to
be pushed out of the way.
Will walks with them and watches them put the beta into a car and drive away, a
little bit sad, a little bit relieved, a little bit hopeful that things really
will be fine and Stammets will get the help that he needs. The windows of the
facility are crowded by omegan faces and those of the nurses, the front lawn
packed with too many dark sedans and SUVs and lingering FBI agents milling
around all over the place.
He smells Crawford before he sees him, picking out the alpha’s scent among the
others, and turns his head sideways to look in rough approximation at the man’s
shirt collar as he approaches.
“You did good today, son,” Jack says, and claps him once on the shoulder before
stepping away again to get back to ordering his men around.
Will rolls his shoulders back, twinges his jaw a bit, and hopes the follow-up
interviews won’t last too long. He thinks probably no one will begrudge him if
he retires to his room afterwards and goes back to bed for the rest of the day.
Chapter End Notes
     I always felt that if Stammets didn't make the mistake of going after
     Abigail in s1, Will would have been a lot more sympathetic towards
     him when he caught him. I've also 100% always headcanoned him as
     autistic just like Will, though now as much as I hate that there's a
     need for it at all, I feel I should make a quick PSA. *clears throat*
     In no way, shape, or form do I want people taking away from this that
     there is any sort of link between autism and violence. There is NOT.
     These characters happen to be autistic because I read them as such,
     that's all. Eldon does NOT kill people because he is autistic. Will
     is NOT a dark character capable of violence because he is autistic.
     Those are separate and unrelated things. If I see anyone implying
     otherwise in the comments or elsewhere, we're gonna have words, son,
     and it's not gonna be pretty. Thank you and have an awesome day, this
     has been a PSA! :D
***** Galatea of the Spheres *****
Chapter Notes
     Two Dalí-inspired chapter names in a row! Holy bananas, Batman, if
     I'm not careful, my chapter titles might start to seem like they make
     actual cohesive sense!
     Here's chapter eight a whole month later than I wanted to make it
     happen. :P One of these days, guys, I'm gonna set myself on an
     updating schedule that actually sticks. One of these days...
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                         VIII. Galatea of the Spheres
 
“Of all the reckless, idiotic, irresponsible decisions you could have made—”
“Doctor Bloom, I can assure you I had no idea that Eldon Stammets would come
here,” says Crawford.
“Oh, really? That certainly explains the half dozen FBI vehicles currently
parked in my front lawn,” Alana sneers.
“My team and I came as soon as we learned where he was headed—”
“And it didn’t even occur to you to maybe call ahead and warn us?” Alana snaps.
“Warning you ahead of time would have caused an unnecessary panic,” Crawford
explains. “I couldn’t risk Stammets figuring out we had a bead on him and
acting out rashly. Our goal was to bring him in peacefully if we could, and
that’s exactly what we did.”
“No, that’s exactly what Will Graham did for you. Just as you were hoping he
would.” The accusation hangs heavily in the air. Crawford says nothing to
refute it.
“He could have been killed, Jack,” she says, voice quiet and steely where it
had been loud and impassioned a moment before, though no less thick with
emotion now. “Stammets was armed when he got here. Any one of my patients or
staff could have been hurt if they’d gotten in his way.”
Jack sighs. “I’ll have the bureau set up a security detail here for the next
few weeks, just until all this craziness has died down a bit.”
“A bunch of alphas with guns patrolling the fence line? That’s sure to make a
facility full of omegas traumatized by past violence and abuse feel safe,” she
notes sarcastically.
“What else do you want me to do?” Crawford bites back.
“I want some assurance that this isn’t going to happen again, Jack! For the
sake of everyone here and especially for Will. You’ve done enough damage to him
already.”
“How? How have I damaged him exactly? By giving him a chance most people don’t
get to do something for the greater good and save lives? By saving his own life
before that?”
“How about by shooting his mate in the face in front of him and then continuing
to expose him to more trauma afterwards!”
Jack winces slightly and turns his head away for a moment. He is almost
relieved when Zeller pokes his head in the door and asks for a word. Almost.
He follows the younger alpha outside, away from the cars and other agents where
they can have some semblance of privacy. Jack does his best to channel some of
that “Guru” Zen the students know him for at the Academy, rather than get mad
and let his anger build up into a lot of yelling that might rile the omegas
inside up and that Alana would almost certainly chastise him some more over. He
suspects he already knows what’s coming, having figured it out on his own hours
ago after interrogating a visibly rattled Freddie Lounds earlier, and simply
hasn’t had the time or patience to deal with it himself just yet.
“I fucked up, boss,” Zeller admits, swallowing nervously. “Freddie Lounds knew
to tell Stammets about Graham because I told her about him.”
“I know,” Jack tells him. “Zee, I’m not an idiot,” he says when the younger man
has the gall to look surprised about it. “Three people besides myself knew we
were consulting with Will Graham, only one of whom came in late to work
recently smelling of ladies’ perfume, and it wasn’t Katz or Price,” Crawford
snipes. “The only reason I can imagine she didn’t publish an article about it
first was she didn’t want to risk outing her source this soon.”
Zeller grimaces, head bowed in submission to the superior alpha and rubbing the
back of his neck guiltily. “I told her it was off the record but…even if she
wasn’t going to write about it, I know it was stupid to tell her anything. It
won’t happen again, I swear.”
“You’re damn right it won’t happen again,” Jack growls. Zeller winces.
“Am…am I fired? Sir?” Crawford relents a bit, reigning his temper back in.
“You’re not fired, Zeller. Not this time,” he warns. “But if you put a single
toe out of line again—”
“I promise, sir, that won’t happen.”
“Did I ask you to interrupt me?” Crawford barks. “No. Now you will stand there
and listen quietly until I’m through speaking. Nod if you understand.” Zee
does. It’s another one of Crawford’s unique talents; to get where Jack has
gotten in life, one must carry a certain level of presence and authority to
make other alphas, particularly younger, hot-headed ones like Brian Zeller,
willing to obey and submit without challenge or resentment. “I just got my ass
chewed out in there by Alana Bloom over this whole fiasco. The BSU will be
lucky if she doesn’t lodge a formal complaint with the bureau, which she has
every damn right to do considering the circumstances,” he continues, gesturing
to the crowd of agents and cars that haven’t left yet.
“You failed in your duties when you revealed sensitive information to an
outsider. That meansI failed because you’re my responsibility as a member of my
team. I don’t like failing at my job, Zee. Nod again if you understand.” Zeller
nods again, looking as if he’s waiting for the ground under his feet to swallow
him whole. Crawford sighs, anger slowly draining as he finishes saying his
piece.
With one hand clapped on the younger man’s shoulder, he says, “Look, Brian, I
don’t give a damn what you do or who you spend time with outside of work, just
keep it outside of work from now on. This doesn’t have to go to the review
board. It stays between you and me, alright?” He’s already decided when
Prurnell asks him why Stammets chose to come here, he’ll claim the man must
have read about Will in Lounds’ previous articles and sought a connection
through that, leaving out the details of Will’s involvement with the current
investigation. It might even be partly true for all that he knows at the
moment.
“Thank you, boss,” says Zeller with gratitude.
“Don’t thank me just yet. I expect twice the usual effort from you on the job
until you drop, Zee. Prove to me that you still deserve my trust.” Zeller
agrees readily to do just that, and Jack sends him off to tell the rest of the
agents to finish up and get ready to head back to Quantico. He’ll be glad to
get out of here before Bloom finds another reason to bite his head off.
*
Hannibal closes his briefcase, preparing to close up the office and go home for
a long lunch break as it won’t be until late afternoon that he has to return
for another appointment. A call from Alana Bloom just as he is about to lock up
puts a halt to those particular plans.
“It’s Will,” she tells him as soon as the initial greetings are exchanged. This
is not a surprise. There is little else she would be likely to call him about
with such urgency in her voice. “Jack’s really done it this time. He roped Will
into helping him with another case, and the killer…he camehere,Hannibal. For
Will.”
“Is Will alright?” Hannibal asks, already walking toward his car now not to go
home, but to make the drive to Port Haven immediately. His accelerated
heartrate is not something he dismisses out of hand either. Curious as he is
about what happened, this news is genuinely alarming to him.
“Physically, he’s fine. I don’t know how, but he talked Stammets down from
whatever he was planning and convinced him to toss his gun.”Instantly, the
tension dissipates and Hannibal’s muscles loosen and relax. The omega is alive
and uninjured; that is all that matters to him. Any psychological damage he may
have suffered will just make him all the more interesting and add another
fascinating layer to unravel later, after all.
“When I think about what might have happened if he hadn’t...” she continues
before stopping herself and taking a breath. “Now that the FBI have gone
though, Will won’t come out of his room or talk to anyone. He says he needs
space, but I don’t like the idea of just leaving him alone like this after what
he’s been through. I’m sorry, I know you have your own patients, but calling
you seemed like the best solution for everyone.”
“I’m glad you did. As it happens, I am free for the afternoon and on my way to
you now.” He will call and cancel his later appointment with deepest apologies
as soon as he is off the phone with Alana, never mind his own 24-hour
cancellation policy. It does not extend to true emergencies, which he can
certainly claim this is.
“I can’t thank you enough, Hannibal,”Alana says. With a steelier edge, she
adds, “I could kill Jack Crawford for this.”
Delightful as it is to picture a scenario in which Alana could truly be pushed
to do exactly that, he is not altogether certain the man will still be alive by
the time she reaches that tipping point. He has already been flipping through
potential recipes in his mind from the moment Alana informed him of the reason
Will was put in harm’s way in the first place. It is past time he meets this
Jack Crawford for himself. A pity the man will no longer be on the scene when
Hannibal gets there, but he can always arrange for Alana to introduce them
later.
Many of the omegas, he is informed once he arrives, are huddled together in the
rec room or ensconced away in group sessions to sort through their feelings
over the day’s excitement. He is therefore most intrigued when a perfectly
clear-eyed girl with a ponytail approaches him, on naturally silent hunter’s
footsteps, just as he is about to reach Will’s door.
“Will doesn’t want to be disturbed right now,” she tells him straight off. Even
her voice, low and quiet as a deer’s and pleasantly feminine, has that
underlying warning rumble of the predator within. Already, Hannibal can see why
Will likes her. He chooses to play along and get to know this young woman
better while he has an opportunity to do so without interference.
“So I have been informed. Has he appointed you his faithful lookout for would-
be intruders?” Hannibal asks with a playful and disarming smile.
“I appointed myself,” she says with a grim little smile of her own that does
not reach her eyes. “He would do the same for me.”
“You must be Abigail Hobbs,” he says then, as though he had not already deduced
as much. Her stance shifts, eyes darting to more thoroughly analyze his
appearance as she quietly and quickly reassesses this stranger who knows her
name.
“You’re that other doctor Bloom has him seeing,” she correctly guesses.
“Hannibal Lecter,” he introduces himself properly. It is peculiarly gratifying
to know Will must have mentioned him, even if perhaps only in passing.
“What makes you think he’ll want to talk to you any more than he wants to see
Bloom or anybody else?” she asks, probing yet also genuinely curious.
“Perhaps he will not,” Hannibal answers. “Perhaps he will turn me away and slam
the door the moment he sees my face,” he adds, attitude still playful, enough
so that it draws a sincerer smirk out of her this time.
“I doubt that,” she says. “He says you may be a bullshitter like all the rest,
but you’re smarter about it and that makes you more fun.”
Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “I am surprised he would speak at such length about
me, though I am flattered by the compliment.”
“Do you like Will, Doctor Lecter?” she asks, switching gears abruptly. She
shares the other omega’s penchant for bluntness; he understands better now how
the two could well indeed pass for brother and sister.
“Very much so,” Lecter replies. “I wish to be his friend.”
She has a thoughtful air about her as she considers that statement, seemingly
trying to suss out some hidden meaning to it just as Will had done when given
the very same answer. They are very much alike in that regard, though this girl
is not quite so adept at covering her own responses and disguising them as
something else. At least, not yet. Given enough time around the slightly older
omega, Hannibal is sure Abigail will prove to be a quick learner herself.
“Okay,” she says at last, having seemingly made up her mind to trust Hannibal
at his word, at least for the moment. She steps aside in invitation, a clear
signifier that he has passed her first test. She might be amateurish still at
the game of manipulation, but at least she is not boring. “Just don’t do
anything that might warrant me having to practice some of my sick bouncer moves
on you. I used to watch pro wrestling with my mom on TV, so I know a lot of
good ones.”
“I promise to be on my very best behavior with him,” he tells her with a wink.
Her eyes narrow, though it is not entirely clear whether in amusement,
suspicion, or deliberation upon something else altogether before she
courteously takes her leave, leaving him standing alone in the hallway outside
of Will’s door.
He knocks, and waits patiently for Will’s soft but steadily voiced, “Come in,”
before turning the knob and entering.
*
“You know I could hear the two of you talking about me from in here,” Will
tells the alpha, apropos of nothing, as soon as the man shuts the door behind
him.
“Then I hope you did not hear anything that made your ears burn too redly,”
Lecter responds. Will snorts and scoots to one side to make room for Lecter to
sit beside him on the bed.
“Maybe I should have slammed that door right in your face,” he murmurs, almost
as much to himself as to the older man.
“There’s still time. I could step back outside and knock again, allowing you
the chance to have a do-over if you wish.”
Will looks sidelong at his companion, sitting so innocently and demurely with
his hands clasped casually together in his lap. “You’re weird, you know that?”
“I’m just as weird as you are,” says Hannibal.
“Well, I don’t know if you’re that weird.” Frowning thoughtfully, Will stands
and paces a bit in front of the window, Lecter’s eyes tracing his movements
with a politely interested air. The omega looks down at his own hands,
carefully considering his next words before settling on the simplest
confession, “I…feel bad for Eldon Stammets.”
“Do you pity him for his compulsions? Or is it that you’re thinking of him now
being in the hands of those who would not understand them?”
“It’s not pity,” Will defends, the last word coming out jagged and barbed on
his tongue. For a moment, he is reminded of Francis and the stillness of his
face, even as his mouth had twisted around a similar statement. ‘I have no
pity,’ he had said once, as though pity were something weak to be reviled. His
jaw twinges at the memory.
Will feels pity all the time, oodles of it, for himself, for his dead mate, for
the sad little omegas who have to live here—even sometimes for Crawford and
Bloom, who both try so hard but just never quite seem to get it. He feels it
often enough to know the difference between that and what he feels now.
“They dug up his mushroom garden,” he continues quietly and then, absurdly,
he’s thinking of his own little garden patch, overgrown and untended now, the
fruits rotting off the vine and choked with weeds and thorn, human hands
covered by spores and a myriad of other fungal growths sprouting up amongst
them. “They dug it up and now he’ll never get to grow another one,” he mutters
darkly.
“That is a pity.” Will blinks, not sure if he heard that right, and slowly
lifts his gaze to find the other man gazing steadily back at him. “There is a
beautiful sort of symmetry to it,” Hannibal continues. “The labors of death
giving birth to the fruits of life.” He gives a half-smile, almost wry. “Merely
giving voice to the unmentionable.”
The younger man tilts his head at that, curious. “Isn’t the unmentionable by
its very name something that shouldn’t be voiced?”
“Shouldn’t? I don’t know about that.” Lecter stands, and Will, although aware
that they have stood this close on multiple occasions before, really notices
for the first time that while the alpha has a very distinct presence in the way
he carries himself, he doesn’t loom, at least not in a way that would raise
Will’s hackles. He’s not sure what that really means yet.
“Will, would you mind if I came to visit here again? We would still be
continuing our regular sessions at my office, of course.”
“What, once a week isn’t enough for you now?” Will rolls his eyes. “Need to
come to check on the princess at his tower?”
“You are no princess, Will Graham,” says Hannibal with so straight a face that
Will has to laugh, cracking up into an unexpected fit of giggles within
seconds. Hannibal breaks his detached façade to smirk victoriously at him in
return.
*
He will revisit this moment later, alone in his house on Chandler Square,
recreating the notes of Will’s laughter perfectly in his mind palace and
carrying them down its echoing corridors to a room filled with teacups and
feathers, the silver flash of fish scales caught in the sunlight, coy smirks
pulling at jagged scars and troubled, wobbling smiles. There he will release
them to mingle with the rest in jumbled, disorganized, beautiful chaos.
When he draws himself back into the present moment to carry out his remaining
nightly errands before retiring to bed, he will note that since he visited it
last, the room has gotten larger.
Chapter End Notes
     Goddamn but seriously, writing a version of Hannibal that has at
     least like an ounce of chill around Will should not be this hard.
***** Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting *****
Chapter Summary
     Hannibal has a revelation.
Chapter Notes
     Apologies for the inexcusably long hiatus! If you follow me on
     tumblr, you're probably at least peripherally aware it's been a
     strange past few months for me irl, so it's been difficult for me to
     focus on my longer WIPs and my attention has shifted mostly onto
     quick and sweet spideypool prompts lately. But I'm back now, baby,
     and raring to go! ^_~
     This chapter, fluff happens because I'm still in the holiday spirit,
     y'all. You're welcome.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                 IX. Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting
 
The online auction is, understandably, quite the frenzied affair. Beneath the
thin veneer of civility among the curious and the rich is an insatiable hunger
for just a taste of something morbid or taboo, and nowhere is that more
apparent than in the ludicrous bids and “polite inquiries” within the comments
section of nearly every item from the Dragon’s home put up for sale.
Hannibal imagines a scenario in which he, too, is one day caught, every scrap
of furniture he has carefully procured for his house over the years virtually
salivated over in the same gauche manner, and while he attaches no strong
sentiment to anything he owns, the thought nonetheless makes his lip curl in
mild distaste. Yet it is curiosity that brought him to this page on his tablet
as well, though not curiosity over the Dragon except in the most abstract
sense.
It is while he browses, looking for anything that might offer some new sliver
of insight into his now favorite puzzle, that he makes an interesting
discovery, one that appears to have surprisingly garnered less attention than
most of Dolarhyde’s peculiar knickknacks and antique curios. Littered among
priceless heirlooms and other curiosities, the collection of seemingly bland
nature landscapes must appear quite dull to most of the bidders in comparison.
Certainly they are painted by a somewhat amateurish, if clearly gifted, hand,
but what they lack in technique they more than make up for in raw emotion. A
solitary stag upon a snowy hilltop, a bloodied fox paw caught by bramble and
thorn, a quiet stream, and others besides. No matter the subject, each painting
conveys a sense of profound longing and loneliness that draws almost a sigh
from the alpha, particularly when he brushes his finger over strokes in the
stag’s fur which blend seamlessly into fantastical feathers, only to feel a
cold glass screen beneath.
Without a second thought, he places his own bid on the entire collection, then
closes the tablet cover with a soft thump.
He spends more time carefully admiring each work once he has them all in his
possession, wondering with a mixture of curiosity and amusement how Will would
react if he were to hang one up in his office in plain view for the omega to
see. Ultimately, he decides it would be for the best for now to keep them in
his private study near some of his own favorite drawings, away from the prying
eyes of others until he has a clearer understanding of where he and Will stand
with one another.
Although he chooses not to reveal yet his knowledge of Graham’s surprising
hidden talent, that is no reason not to use other discoveries he has made
concerning certain common themes running throughout the boy’s art to his own
advantage, and so it is with this particular card hidden up his sleeve that he
decides to pick Will up himself and drive him into town the following week when
it is time for their next appointment.
“This…isn’t the way to your office,” Will says, straightening warily from his
slouch in the passenger seat as they pull down a road unfamiliar to him instead
of taking the usual turn.
“No, it is not,” Hannibal agrees. “I thought a change of scenery would do us
both some good, and you can help me with a task I’ve been putting off for some
time.” As he says it, even he is not sure which words ring true and which are
false, having allowed them to flow naturally in a manner that feels right as he
has learned is often the best way to speak with Will and get the younger man to
open up to him.
“So, where are we really going?” the omega asks. Hannibal only smiles and keeps
his eyes forward on the road.
“I have noticed my thoughts taking a turn for the nostalgic more often of
late,” Hannibal confesses, turning now from the busier main streets of the city
to less well-maintained, graveled backroads. “To simpler times at my childhood
home. The soft smell of snow broken by the sharper scents of ancient pine and
our horses corralled safely inside the stables. My father’s favorite hunting
hounds baying up at the moon.”
“Tch, I knew you were always rich. Everything about you screams not just old
world, but old money.” Despite his tone, Will’s grimace holds the additional
bite of frustrated envy which he quickly hides, though not soon enough.
Hannibal sees it and takes satisfaction from it, knowing its cause comes from
something deeper and more wistful within Will than a desire for Hannibal’s
implied material wealth. It solidifies Hannibal’s already firm resolve that
this tack he has chosen is the correct one.
“It came upon me quite suddenly that I have perhaps allowed myself to fall into
too sterile and rigid of an existence,” he continues. “I have decided on a whim
to correct that today and hoped I might be able to solicit your assistance.”
“You realize how incredibly not an answer that is to my question, right?” Will
huffs. “And just tossing it out there, I amnot helping you bury a body in the
woods if that’s what this is about. I already turned Eldon Stammets down on
that one.” Sometimes his mouth forms words without him really thinking about
how someone else might take them; jokes like that which are okay when someone
normalmakes them are apparently not quite so dismissible when coming from a
serial killer’s widow. He darts his eyes quickly up at the older man’s face to
see if he can find any trace of unease or suspicion, or even possibly disgust,
nervous about what he might discover there.
“I beg of you to grant more credit to my imagination than that, Will, please.
There are certainly more creative means to approach corpse disposal as a
hobby,” the alpha tells him with a wink.
“You’re right, my mistake,” Will giggles, only a touch more hysterically than
he means to out of relief. He should have known this alpha wouldn’t be scared
off so easily. “Perish the thought. My sincerest apologies for assuming your
M.O. would be anything so bland and unoriginal.”
“You are forgiven,” Hannibal assures him, putting his Bentley into park in an
unassuming dirt driveway in front of a squat brick building with an enclosed
backyard. “So long as you come inside and help me make a selection.”
“Selection,” says Will flatly. Hannibal smirks and steps out of the car. Will
follows suit, about to make some dry remark on how maybe he isn’t the best
candidate to help the man pick out groceries for his next dinner party or
whatever this is, but then the smells hit his nose and the sound of several
different yips and barks from inside the tall fence line reaches his ears. He
turns his head to really look at the building for the first time and reads the
Baltimore Animal Sanctuary sign emblazoned in gold lettering on the frosted
glass door.
“You’re getting a dog?!” he exclaims, either unnoticing or uncaring of the fact
that he’s completely forgotten for once to modulate the tone and volume of his
voice in his excitement, unconsciously rocking on the balls of his feet and
twitching his hands in short, rapid taps against his thighs in lieu of outright
flapping them, a habit he thought he had long since left behind in his early
childhood years.
“I am,” says Hannibal, using Will’s distraction to his advantage, drinking in
the expression of stupefied amazement on the omega’s face greedily. “I
considered the possibility of a cat instead, but while a feline may require
less constant attention, I’m told it is more difficult and time-consuming to
properly train one.”
Will snorts, his intense focus on trying to get a peek at some of the canines
over the fence from where he stands somewhat tempered now into a more
manageable good humor. “There’s the control freak I’m used to seeing,” he
teases. Hannibal puts a hand to his own chest and looks around over both his
shoulders as though uncertain who Will could be referring to, making the
younger man roll his eyes.
“Come on, what are we waiting for?” he asks the doctor impatiently. Hannibal
waves him forward with a gracious ‘after you’ gesture, following behind with a
charmed grin he does not bother hiding as Will bounds ahead at almost a run.
“Well, hello there,” Will greets the lone ‘attendant’ at the register, an
enormously fat grey cat lazily curled up on the countertop. Will extends his
hand to let the cat sniff, but the creature only turns its nose up and flicks
its tail once as if displeased. “Asshole,” Will drops his hand and smirks
affectionately.
“That’s Mick and you’re right, he is an asshole,” says a girl with gelled hair
spikes and a nose piercing as she steps in from a side room, removing a dirtied
apron from around her waist and hanging it onto a hook on the wall behind her.
“Throws a hissy fit anytime someone tries to shoo him off the counter, so we
let him stay as sort of the company mascot now.” She turns back to face them
with her hands on her hips. “I’m Angela, by the way. Is one of you the guy who
called ahead a little while ago?”
“That would be me,” says Hannibal, taking a step forward to stand beside Will.
“Awesome. Well, you gentlemen aren’t here to see me obviously, so let’s not
waste any more time. Follow me.”
She leads them around back to the kennels outside and leaves them to it without
hovering, an act which Hannibal is grateful to her for since it allows him to
observe Will and his reactions unimpeded.
And what a sight there is to behold. Hannibal is almost positive Will is
unconscious of the adorably omegan noises coming out of the back of his throat
as soon as he spots the animals playing in the open pen together—for Hannibal
had called to ask the helpful omega on duty to gather their best-behaved
canines most in need of a home so he could observe for himself how well they
got along with each other as well as humans, just in case. The delighted
whimper and almost-whine Will unashamedly makes as he joins them in the pen is
echolalic of the noises the dogs are making, and calls many of them to
attention right away as they take notice of the new potential playmate entering
their sanctuary.
Hannibal stands at the gate to watch for the next several minutes while the
omega immediately acquaints himself with each dog individually before joining
in on the playful tussling. The layers of hardship, mistrust, and cynicism that
normally grace the young man’s features melt away more and more with each happy
bark, lick, and pet, and the difference to Hannibal is striking. He had thought
the omega beautiful before, but this ecstatic, unmasked creature in front of
him now is pure radiance. Will Graham, unfiltered and at the zenith of feeling,
is temptation itself, and Hannibal believes he understands completely now how
this boy, eyes wet with terror for his own life, could have sparked within
Francis Dolarhyde’s breast the undeniable pull of deep, agonizing want all
those years ago.
The alpha is nudged gently out of this train of thought by a cold nose at the
back of his hand. He looks down into the deep brown eyes of the mostly tan
retriever mix which had seemed most content with receiving the omega’s
affections out of all the pack, not as playful as the others though certainly
energetic enough. This close, he sees now that she has dark patches in her fur
which he had mistaken for dirt from a distance.
She sits without prompting at Hannibal’s side, for which the alpha rewards her
with a good scratch behind the ears, curious that she would come to him when
the others had mostly avoided the alpha and preferred to continue playing with
their fellows and the young omega who had chosen to join in.
“She likes you,” Will says with a crooked grin, having left the rest of the
pack to their own devices to rejoin the psychiatrist, and bends now to
affectionately rub the regal mutt down with both hands. “Don’t tell the others,
but you’re also my favorite,” he whispers conspiratorially to her. She licks
him on the nose in answer, drawing a cheerful giggle out of him.
“It would seem my decision has been made for me then,” says Hannibal.
“Looks like you didn’t need me after all.” With a low whistle, Will convinces
the dog to follow him back to the entrance, a neat trick for someone who has
never owned a pet before. Hannibal smiles in wonder at all the little surprises
the omega continues to throw at him without even seemingly trying.
*
Hannibal observes quietly whilst the girl up front draws up their paperwork,
bemused by the thoughtful staring contest that seems to be happening between
Will and the dog that will soon become Hannibal’s first pet in several decades.
Though his glance returns to them both often, he does listen attentively while
Angela explains all of the animal’s needs—unnecessary as Hannibal has already
done his own research and prepared accordingly, but it would be impolite to
dismiss her words—and nods agreeably when she informs him that since the canine
is spayed and has already had all of her shots, she will only need a bath
before she can leave with them once the forms are filled out.
“All that’s left now is to give her a name,” Angela tells him brightly as they
near the bottom of the final page.
“Winston,” says Will immediately in a clear tone that brooks no argument. To
Angela’s credit, she does no more than mildly raise her eyebrows in surprise
and snort once in amusement before scrawling the name in neat, blocky print in
the appropriate field.
“Give me just a moment to make a copy of this in the back,” she murmurs, and
disappears briefly into the office directly behind her.
“Uh...sorry about that,” Will mutters to Hannibal sheepishly once the three of
them are alone. “I should’ve asked before up and naming your dog for you. It’s
just, um, I was sort of calling her Winston already in my head when we were
playing outside, before I saw that she was a she. I’d been wracking my brain
ever since trying to come up with another one, but...” He shrugs, clearly
trying to play down his embarrassment regarding the situation. “Winston just
suits her.”
“I was thinking myself that such a noble beast requires an equally dignified
name. Thank you for choosing it, Will. It would seem I could not have done this
without you after all,” the alpha replies, smirking.
Will rolls his eyes, but Hannibal is proud to note the pleased flush to his
cheeks has returned as well. “Yeah well, you can always call her Winnie in
front of other people if you want to avoid getting funny looks.”
The other omega returns before Hannibal can voice another response, this time
to announce that all is now in order and everything needed is ready to give
Winston her bath.
“Can I help?” Will asks eagerly.
“Absolutely!” she answers, pleased with Will’s enthusiasm. Her gaze shifts for
a moment back to Hannibal before she addresses Will again. “Will your alpha be
joining in too?”
“He’s...” not, Will starts to answer, then appears to decide it’s not worth
bothering, shooting a wry smirk at the older man that conveys as much.
“...sure, whatever,” he mutters, apparently to himself. “Are you?” he asks.
“I should be getting the backseat ready for Winston to ride comfortably with us
actually. You two go ahead.” Hannibal waits until Will and Winston are
cheerfully guided to another room in the back before he steps outside to follow
through on his task.
Before even that, however, he first slides back into the front seat of his car
and shuts the door softly so none will be able to see him through its tinted
windows. He requires a moment to reflect on the flurry of feeling that had
swept through him after the simple phrase “your alpha,” and the one that had
followed after from Will’s unconcerned reaction to it.
“Ah,” he breathes privately to himself, gripping the steering wheel in front of
him tightly with both hands. So that is what this is, he thinks. And what’s to
be done about that?
After another slow breath and quiet moment of self-reflection, Hannibal steps
out of the car to fetch from his trunk the worn linen bedsheet that will
protect the leather upholstery of the backseat and keep Winston comfortable for
the ride home.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Ah yes, almost forgot the obligatory credit for the chapter title!
     This one I attribute to my absolute_fave,_Artemisia_Gentileschi.
***** Militant and Triumphant *****
Chapter Notes
     In which Will and Abigail get into a bar fight. :D
     Title this time is from "The_Church_Militant_and_Triumphant" by
     Firenze which I know means something completely different in that
     context than those adjectives usually mean on their own, I just like
     how it sounds as a phrase, I'm sorry
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                          X. Militant and Triumphant
 
“Actually, mind if I sit in the back with Winston?” asks Will after Hannibal
has already pulled out of the shelter’s driveway. The dog in question perks her
ears, either already starting to recognize her unusual name or simply rising to
attention as Will twists half his body around in the front passenger seat to
look at her.
“You would be without a seatbelt,” Hannibal points out neutrally. The buckles
are all tucked away now underneath the sheet Hannibal spread out for her.
“I trust you not to jostle us too much,” Will returns dryly. “And I’ll duck
down if there are any patrol cars around looking for someone to ticket.”
Hannibal sighs, more for effect than genuine resignation, indulgence for
indulgence’s sake. He does it to see the quick, victorious smile that settles
upon the omega’s lips. “Very well. When the road is less narrow, I will find us
somewhere to pull over.”
“No need,” Will assures him, unbuckling from his seat. “I can fit.” Before the
older man can ask what he means by that, Will is already climbing lithely over
the center console, laughing at the way this seems to excite Winston into
rising up and licking his face as soon as he’s near enough. His right foot
comes dangerously close to kicking Hannibal in the face as he sprawls forward,
stopped only by Hannibal’s gloved hand coming to stop Will’s sneaker from
making impact at the last moment.
He sighs again, perhaps a bit less indulgently this time. Only Will could
manage to get away with something like this without having his name elegantly
scrawled onto an index card and put away neatly in Hannibal’s recipe box.
Will has enough shame to look mildly embarrassed and at the very least relieved
when he looks back to see that it is the man’s palm rather than his cheek he
just clipped with his ankle, though the look dissolves into a grin once fifty
pounds of fur eagerly settle into his lap to lick and sniff at everything
within reach.
“Good girl! Who’s a good girl?” the omega croons. Hannibal chooses not to
resist the upward tug of his own lips, an occurrence that crops up more and
more in Will’s presence and would astonish many of his acquaintances were any
of them around to witness it.
Now and again he glances back at his traveling companions in the rearview
mirror, and actually laughs under his breath when he sees that Will is play-
biting with Winston just like he were one of her own species, capturing one
fluffy ear loosely between his teeth until she twists her head and nips just as
gently back at his scarred cheek.
Will Graham is a wild thing, impossible to fully tame no matter how his
deceased mate must have tried, to hold him in check and keep him locked away in
his gilded cage. Hannibal’s thoughts linger for the rest of the drive on a
particular scene his mind palace had conjured up once, of the younger man
running ecstatic and breathless through an impenetrable forest, naked and
nymph-like with loose twigs and leaves caught carelessly in his curls, his feet
bloodied by the thorns he trampled through to make his escape, a fierce grin
pulling at the cut on his cheek, which is still fresh and dripping crimson that
pools at the hollow of his throat and streaks further down his chest.
Hannibal would be a fool not to acknowledge how dangerous this endeavor is
going to be, more dangerous than ever it was when he first began probing at
Will’s mind out of curiosity. Yet he feels no fear or trepidation about his own
intentions now that they have finally become clear to him.
He must have Will Graham for his own, even if doing so kills him. It just might
at that, yet even that possibility is not enough to deter him from the path he
has chosen. It does make him contemplative, as he would of course prefer to
avoid that outcome if possible. To do so, he will need to gain a better
understanding of his prey and all the variables of this game they are playing.
Not for the first time, Hannibal wonders about all of the missing moments in
the Dolarhyde household that have not yet been told, leading up to the one
which culminated at last in the FBI showing up at Francis and Will’s front
door.
“Time for me to go, Win,” says Will none too happily when they pull up to the
main entrance at Port Haven.
“I strongly suspect the two of you will be seeing each other again before
long,” Hannibal hints with a loud wink.
Will laughs. “Figured you had an ulterior motive for bringing me along. As
manipulation goes, I’ve never met someone as blatant and unashamed about it as
you.” Still in the backseat, he scoots forward to the edge so he can place a
hand on the crook of Hannibal’s arm. “Seriously though, thanks for being way
better at it than most.”
“That has always been my aim,” the alpha concurs immodestly, drawing another
amused snort from the omega behind him. It serves as distraction enough for the
younger not to notice that Hannibal’s eyes no longer meet his in the mirror,
the alpha finding himself for once the one incapable of making eye contact
while the other’s slender fingers still rest casually at his elbow. He is
certain looking at the omega now would give far too much away.
How blind Hannibal has been until today, to have only recently become aware of
the effect a simple touch could have over him.
Will waves from the front entrance and Hannibal waves back before pulling away,
determined not to linger and watch as he heads inside. Winston is not so
reserved, and stares out the window where her playmate was just standing. The
only sounds in the car until they merge onto the highway are her low, sad whine
and the click and scrape of her claws against the glass and leather upholstery
of the door. Hannibal does not have the heart to tell her to lie back down.
*
“I have something super awesome to tell you now that you’re back, sit down!”
Abigail tells him as soon as he finds her at ‘their spot’ inside the
greenhouse. “Oh hey, you seem like you’re already in a good mood even though I
haven’t told you yet. Things went well with Lecter, I presume?” she follows up
with in almost the same breath. Will is a little surprised she noticed given
her own obvious excitement about the news she wants to share.
“Yeah. He got a dog today and took me with him to pick her up! She is so
freaking fluffy and cute.” Abigail awwsat the mere mention of a dog, and it’s
just one of the many reasons why he loves her. They chat just about that for a
few minutes before she sets them back on track.
“So even aside from getting loved to death by a whole kennel full of puppies,
you’d say you enjoyed getting out and seeing the sights for a bit, wouldn’t
you?” she asks leadingly, and he nods in the affirmative. “How’d you like to go
out on the town and do that again, say, tonight after curfew?”
“I’d say that goes against the rules, young lady, and that perhaps someone
ought to inform Doctor Bloom of your illicit intentions,” he answers in prim
imitation of Nurse Martha. He smirks. “You telling me you found a way to bust
out of here without our wardens being any the wiser?”
Her wide grin, crookedly parallel with the wicked smile stretched immortally
across her neck, is the only response needed.
*
They hop over the garden wall together around midnight, in a place where the
ground is a bit lower and the hollows and cracks in the wall are a bit better
spaced for using as handholds. It’s close to the same spot where Stammets
climbed in, Will notices. When he points this out to her, she snorts and
wonders aloud how they expect the patients to feel safe here with this many
glaring oversights in their security.
From there, it’s a quiet, companionable trek through part of the woods until
they see streetlamps through the trees and know that they’ve reached the bus
stop. The bus runs until four-thirty and doesn’t start up again until seven,
Abigail informs him, so they need to be sure they’re back on it by four if they
want to get back before the morning staff start coming in to relieve the night
nurses from their shifts.
“Where are we going first?” he asks after they’re seated and the bus starts
pulling forward again.
She shrugs. “I figure we stay on until one of us sees something interesting and
pulls on the rope.”
For all her supposed contentment with watching the city pass them by through
the bus windows, Abigail is the first one to pull the rope not long into their
journey. Will looks at her almost aghast when he sees the small queue lined up
outside a dilapidated old gothic building with multicolored lights flashing
through its windows to the beat of the loud bass they can hear even from their
seats.
“What?” she asks innocently, silently daring him to refuse her this. “I always
wondered what it’s like to be in a nightclub. Marissa used to promise she’d
take me to one before that bitch stopped taking my calls,” she says,
referencing her beta neighbor who had been the closest thing to a friend she’d
had before she met Will.
“You’re not subtle,” he tells her with narrowed eyes, calling her out on the
blatant manipulation tactic even as he follows her readily off the bus.
“At least I didn’t buy you a puppy only to take it home with me,” she responds
cheekily, practically skipping in her eagerness to join the line. Will has to
laugh and concede that one to her.
They don’t have to wait long outside. One of the bouncers walks up and down the
line, clipboard in hand, and stops at certain people now and again to wave them
inside ahead of the rest. Most of them are women and omegas, so it isn’t much
of a surprise when he pauses his rounds at Will and Abigail next. Will can tell
by the slight tightening of her smile when the man asks for their IDs that
Abigail is a bit nervous now, but her hands are perfectly steady as she hands
him her license.
The bouncer hands their cards back after hardly a glance, taking a moment only
to stamp the back of Abigail’s hand with shiny ink to denote that she is too
young to order anything at the bar—as if that will stop her from getting her
hands on some alcohol if she wants, Will thinks snidely—before waving them both
inside as well.
Predictably, the bar is exactly where Abigail makes a beeline for, thankfully
bypassing the writhing crowd centered on the dancefloor, at least for now.
He’ll need a lot more liquid courage before he can be convinced to start
dancing; in all honesty, Abigail probably will as well, despite this being her
idea. She may not have Will’s problems, but she’s still not much better than he
is with crowds.
Will fishes his wallet back out, having no problem ordering for the both of
them. Abigail is as much an adult as he is, arbitrary numbers aside, and he’s
sure as hell not gonna tell her no like some overbearing parent. To his
surprise though, she puts her hand over his and lowers it back down, shaking
her head with another mischievous smirk on her lips.
“We’re omegas, Will,” she reminds him. “We don’t buy our own drinks. Come on,
watch this!” Without waiting for him, she sidles up to the first gap at the bar
she can find and immediately starts batting eyelashes at the lone alpha waiting
there beside her.
“Hi,” she says simply but with a coy smirk. The guy stares at her like he can’t
believe his luck for a minute before belatedly blurting out ‘hey’ back. Will
almost feels sorry for the poor bastard.
“Buy me and my friend here a drink?” she asks. The man tears his eyes away from
her to look Will up and down. Will forces himself not to scowl at the
lascivious way the alpha’s gaze lingers over both their asses and Abigail’s
chest before finally making its way back to her face, all of his shock replaced
by the over-cocky swagger of an alpha who thinks he’s bagged himself two omegas
for the night. Will no longer feels sorry for him in the least.
“Sure thing, doll, what can I get you both?” Will gruffly tells the man to get
him a bourbon—if this is a preview of what the rest of their evening here will
be like, he’s gonna need to jump straight for the hard liquor tonight—while
Abigail requests a Cosmopolitan.
At Will’s curious askance look, she shrugs and tells him while the alpha is
distracted with the bartender, “I saw a woman have one in a movie once and
wanted to try it.” Will snorts and shakes his head at her.
“Here you are,” says the alpha once the bartender comes back, handing each of
them their drinks as soon as they hit the counter.
“Thanks, bye now!” Abigail calls out brightly, grabbing Will’s free arm and
heading off with him at almost a run before the guy has a chance to actually
register that he’s been dumped.
The two of them are practically out of breath by the time they stop next to a
not-too-crowded wall at the other end of the room, though not as much from the
exertion as from the fact that neither of them can quite seem to get ahold of
their giggling. “I can’t believe we just did that!” Will breathes out between
pants of laughter.
“Me either!” agrees Abigail, all but cackling in her glee. “I know I made it
sound like I knew what I was doing when I was all, ‘hey, watch this,’ but I’m
not gonna lie, I did not think that would actually work!!”Both of them laugh
all the more, looking for all the world like they’re already drunk when they
haven’t even tried their drinks yet, so great is their shared mirth.
“Something else you saw on TV and wanted to try out?” Abigail nods and giggles
shamelessly once more.
“Well, here’s to life lessons learned from Hollywood then. Cheers,” Will says
once they’ve both regained enough composure, clinking their miraculously
unspilled glasses together in a toast before each taking a sip of their ill-won
gains.
The burn is a little stronger than Will remembers, having not touched the stuff
often except at dinner on occasion with Francis. He sputters a bit, though not
from the drink, nearly choking on laughter when he glimpses the twisted moue of
disgust on Abigail’s face.
“Ugh, what is in this?” she rasps, holding her cocktail above her head and
peering up at it from below as though the angle will give her a better view as
to its contents.
“Well, considering I can smell the vodka from here,” Will snarks. He accepts
the glass in solidarity nonetheless when she passes it to him in silent
encouragement for him to try it. The look on his face is similar to her own
when he pulls the glass away, stretching his left arm out to keep it as far
away from his face as possible as if the beverage has personally offended him.
“And triple sec,” he shudders, and immediately follows it up with a fortifying
gulp of his bourbon to wash out the taste.
“Can I have some of that?” she asks. He passes his own drink to her wordlessly.
Abigail takes the glass with both hands and drinks from it with her eyes
closed, wincing a little at the burn yet still looking relieved to get rid of
the overwhelming taste of fake orange and orange peel. “Have you ever had
whiskey before?” Will asks her. Abigail nods.
“My dad kept scotch in his liquor cabinet. Marissa and I used to sneak some
during sleepovers.”
“There goes that name drop again. You trying to make me jealous, Hobbs?”
“Shut up,” she says, elbowing him in the arm not holding a nearly full glass.
“She had to spend time with me because we were neighbors and our parents were
friends. It was circumstance, not choice. She made that very clear to the
reporters who showed up at our school. I saw it on the news when I was still
recouping at the general hospital.”
“What a bitch,” Will grouses. Abigail makes a noise of agreement with a bitter
twist of her lips while she swigs down the rest of the bourbon.
“Shit, I didn’t mean to finish your drink! Sorry,” she says, handing the glass
of half-melted ice back to him guiltily.
“S’okay, it was free anyway,” he reminds her with a wink. He leans far enough
to set both glasses down on a nearby standing table.  “Two more bourbons?” he
asks her.
Abigail shakes her head. “I think I’d better limit myself to be careful. Beer
tastes better anyway.” At Will’s mildly inquisitive look, she adds, “My parents
used to let me try some of theirs at barbeques and chili cook-offs, stuff like
that.”
“Mine too,” says Will, fondly remembering he and his dad going to all the local
fairs and free events they could every time they moved. The Grahams were never
ones to skip an opportunity for free food. “Two beers then,” he amends. “Wait
here so I’ll know where to find you.”
“You should try my method,” she says, a little louder since he’s already turned
and walking away.
“Not a chance!” he calls back just as cheerfully. He’s in no mood to stomach
the sustained eye contact it would take to successfully flirt with someone.
It takes a little longer than he’d like to find another gap at the bar to
squeeze into, and longer still he has to wait his turn to get the bartender’s
attention. Long enough unfortunately for another stranger to sidle in a bit
closer than necessary to his right.
“Hey there,” he pretends not to hear at first, until the stranger takes this as
reason enough to lean that much further into his personal space so there can be
no mistaking who he’s talking to, close enough for him to be able to scent that
the man is a beta. That makes him no less reluctant to eventually turn his head
and face his unwanted companion, already formulating a firm but (mostly)
tactful brush-off in his head by the time he looks at him.
Pale, sharp eyes and almost militarily short brown hair atop a long, hawk-like
face. Staring mainly at the man’s collar, Will imagines he can even see a hint
of dark ink peeking over the edge of it on his skin.
For a second, the man’s image swims and Francis’s face becomes superimposed
over it. Will’s back straightens and he swallows unconsciously, blinking to
make the image go away. When he opens his eyes again, his dead lover is gone,
leaving behind only the other man still staring intently at him, a thin, toothy
smile on his face that Will immediately dislikes.
“Can I buy you a drink?” the man asks.
“I’m with someone,” Will says more snappishly than he originally intended.
“Sorry,” he adds automatically to sooth the sting. He regrets it instantly,
wishing he hadn’t given the other man the impression he felt he had anything to
apologize for.
Disappointment flickers briefly over the beta’s features, but barely a
millisecond later he is all smiles again. “It’s cool,” he says. “Let me buy you
both a drink then, for taking up your time. My treat.” He signals the bartender
over before Will can tell him no or ask him what the hell he thinks he’ll gain
from this. It’s easier then just to let the guy pay and hope he can ditch him
fast.
Will orders two of some random brand he remembers his dad liking, and taps his
foot impatiently against the stool legs beneath him, waiting for the bartender
to come back.
“I’m Matthew by the way,” says Frank’s eerie doppelganger.
Will debates the pros and cons of giving a false name before deciding that just
his first name ought to be safe enough. “Will.”
The bartender returns, but unfortunately Matthew seems to already have an
inkling of what Will planned to do and easily grabs both bottles by the necks
with one hand, holding his own drink in his other hand and gesturing with it
for Will to lead the way. The omega considers telling the other man to keep
them and doing a runner anyway, but he’d just have to slink back to order again
and hope he doesn’t bump into the man a second time, plus he’s already been
gone from Abigail for awhile and doesn’t want her to start worrying. With a
pinched smile, he turns and heads back the way he came.
“Welcome back, loser, what took so long—oh. Hi,” says Abigail, dropping from
chipper to awkward in an instant upon noticing the beta trailing behind Will.
She shoots her friend a confused glance, and the other omega gives her a tight-
lipped smile he hopes that she’ll be able to interpret correctly, but will look
normal to anyone else looking. He has no idea if he’s succeeded or not,
however, facial expressions not being one of his strongest suits, least of all
his own.
“Name’s Matthew, hi,” says the beta, giving the girl a crooked grin that would
be near-impossible not to find charming and offering the beers in lieu of a
handshake. “You must be the friend Will was telling me about.” There goes the
ruse Will had been hoping might hold of the ‘someone’ he was with being a
romantic partner. He can’t exactly hint that she should play along with a lie
she wasn’t there to see him imply earlier, and he sort of suspects it wouldn’t
be enough of a deterrent with this guy anyway.
“Uh, yeah, I’m Abigail,” she says, grabbing one of the beers. Will may not
trust his own judgement of faces all the time, but he’s positive the smirk
Matthew is giving him now as he offers the other beer to Will is meant to
loudly and clearly read, ‘Gotcha.’ Will makes certain to grasp the bottle low
at its base and avoid touching the other man’s fingers.
No shit, take the hint, asshole! he wants to scream, but Abigail, bless her,
rescues him from having to make a scene by latching herself onto him and half-
dragging him towards the crowd, insisting that they should dance now that he’s
back.
“You guys have a great night!” the beta calls out cheerfully with a wave, not
looking the least bit perturbed by their abrupt departure. “See you around,” he
continues, eyes firmly affixed to Will as he says it as if Abigail does not
exist.
“Jesus, I wasn’t totally sure before, but now I’m positive that guy’s a mega-
creep,” she says as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Are you sure these are
safe?” she asks, holding up the bottle in her hand.
“Yeah, I watched him handle them. His hands never went near the lip.”
“Good,” she answers, and takes a long pull from it like she needs it after what
just happened. Come to think of it, she’s not the only one. Will mirrors her
motions almost exactly, neither of them stopping for air until the bottles are
nearly halfway empty.
“Weaugh,” Abigail half-breathes/half-belches out. Will would laugh if he didn’t
think it would come out much the same way. “Okay, I’m ready now, let’s dance,”
she says, and slowly starts swaying with the music.
“Are we really doing this?” Will asks even as he sways along with her.
“If there’s even a chance Mr. Creepy McCreepface is still watching, the last
thing we want is for him to see how miserable you look right now and take that
as his cue to swoop back in to the rescue.” Will immediately bares his teeth
into the biggest smile he can manage without his face twitching.
“There!” she compliments with a grin of her own. “Terrible and also kind of
terrifying to be honest, but y’know, ‘A’ for effort.” He laughs, which helps to
reshape his smile into a more natural one.
They keep dancing for awhile, eventually getting into it enough to find a
rhythm and actually enjoy themselves, even if Abigail tells him he moves “like
one of those dorky characters from LazyTown.” When Will rejoins by telling her
she watches too much TV, she admits that she’s never actually seen the show and
only knows of it from the memes. Then she gasps.
“What?” he asks wide-eyed, immediately stopping in place.
“I just realized,” she says solemnly, laying one hand against his cheek. “You
poor, sweet, sheltered summer child. There’s six years of meme history you’ve
completely missed out on.”
Will has to clutch onto her for balance and lay his head on her shoulder from
how hard he starts laughing. It’s only when she starts stumbling in place from
how much she’s laughing as well that they decide they need to sit somewhere
before they both fall down.
Will rests his hip against the first empty booth table they find and Abigail
hops onto it, neither of them interested in sitting on the sticky vinyl seats
stained with god knows what. Both of them relax, trying to catch their breaths
and wind down. Abigail pulls the scrunchie out of her hair so she can redo the
messy bun it’s all but fallen out of by now. She takes her mini-scarf off next,
no longer caring if anyone here notices her scar and stares at it, just wanting
the uncomfortable damn thing off her sweaty skin, and ties it off instead
around her bun as well.
“Well, there you vixens are!” says an uncomfortably close voice from their
left.
“Oh, brother,” Abigail groans aloud tiredly, recognizing the alpha they got
their first drinks from earlier in the evening. Will, on the hand, straightens
his spine rigidly, immediately noticing that the man is not only much drunker
than he was before, but is also now flanked by two other males of similar size
who are obviously his friends.
“That’s not how I want to be greeted by you,” the alpha pouts, stumbling
forward.
“Steve,” the friend on his right says worriedly in warning, yet does nothing to
actually stop him. The other one is too busy alternating between laughing at
his drunk buddy and leering at the two omegas like his friend had done earlier
to help. “Are you two twins?” he asks with a disgusting shine to his eyes.
“I was hoping to find you again, angel,” the first man slurs, hovering closer
to Abigail inch by inch.
“Sorry, but we were just leaving,” Abigail tells him, sliding off of the table.
“Oh no, I think you owe me at least a dance first,” he says, surging forward to
grab her by the arm before she can back away.
Will springs into action by slamming into the alpha with the full force of his
weight, using the man’s shock to immediately pin him onto the table with both
hands clamped tightly around his throat. “You. Do Not. Touch Her!” he snarls,
flecks of spittle landing on the already red-faced, choking man’s cheek.
“The fuck—get off him, you crazy bitch!” the douchey friend yells, making to
take a swing at Will while the other one also rushes forward, presumably to
help.
Abigail slams her empty beer bottle into the table’s edge, splintering it in
two and brandishing her makeshift shiv like a sword as she steps between them
and Will before they can get any closer to her friend. “Back up! Back the fuck
up!” Both men stumble backwards with their hands up. By this point, they’ve
begun to draw a few onlookers even with the dim lights and general noise of the
club mostly drowning them out.
“You’re both crazy-ass bitches!” says douche-bro.
“You’re goddamn right,” Abigail tells him, a wild, elated grin spreading across
her face.
“Please,” the other man pipes up again. “Just make your friend stop!”
She doesn’t need to. Will has already been loosening his grip by steady
increments since the man’s face slowly started going purple, not wanting to let
the bastard pass out and miss a moment of what’s been happening to him. He lets
go entirely once the pleading starts and steps back, allowing the two men to
rush over and help up their coughing, sputtering friend.
“Let’s get out of here,” he mutters to Abigail. With barely a nod of
acknowledgement, she lowers her weapon but doesn’t drop it, the two of them
quickly making their way through the sea of people and slinking out the
backdoor before the bouncers have even made it over to the other three to see
what the commotion is.
The two of them breathe a joint sigh of relief when they make it out into the
cool night air without being stopped.
“Not so great a night then, I take it?” Will and Abigail huddle into each other
even closer and turn almost as one to the sound of the all-too-familiar voice.
Matthew stands a few feet away from them, sucking on a cigarette that looks
like it’s only just been lit. Will wonders how much he saw and whether he beat
them out here on purpose as soon as he figured out which exit they were heading
for.
“You both seem pretty shaken up,” the man carries on blithely. “I could walk
you home if you like.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Will drawls. “We’ll manage on our own.” Abigail says
nothing, though she rubs a finger over the mostly intact label on her broken
bottle tellingly.
“Suit yourselves,” Matthew shrugs as if it makes no difference to him and takes
another slow drag of his cigarette. He smiles then and bids them both, “Good
night.”
Will nods wordlessly and guides them back onto the street, listening the entire
time for footsteps following behind them and hearing nothing. Neither of them
lets their guard down anyway until they are already several blocks away.
“I’m sorry,” Abigail mutters quietly after a few minutes have passed. Will
stops both of them on the sidewalk and turns to look her in the eye.
“None of this is your fault,” he tells her fiercely.
“It was my idea to go in there—”
“—and we had an awesome time until those drunk assholes ruined it,” Will
interrupts. “Well, they’re not going to ruin the rest of our night. Come on,”
he tells her, tugging her hand to lead them past the bus stop they had been
heading towards with new determination.
“You mean we’re not going back yet?” she asks. Will hates that she sounds so
timid now that the adrenaline’s worn off, but he takes heart in the hopeful
tinge he can also detect in her voice. It reassures him that this is the right
call, that he’s on the right path to making them both forget about the mess
they just went through.
“It’s not even past two yet,” he says after a quick glance at his watch. “We
have a couple more hours to kill.”
Together they walk hand-in-hand, already a little more cheered than they were
since leaving the nightclub.  
 
Chapter End Notes
     Oh my, look who else decided to show up 10 chapters in. Not that it
     could possibly mean anything, of course. ;)
     And yes, next chapter includes part 2 of Will and Abigail's Crazy
     Night Out! I can promise there'll be a little less emphasis on the
     crazy though. I think. Mostly. I dunno. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
***** Leda Atomica *****
Chapter Summary
     Hannibal gets cuddles. Will gets a clue. Abigail gets the popcorn.
Chapter Notes
     Leda_Atomica is a painting by Salvador Dalí. Remind you of another
     familiar painting? ;) and what do you mean i play favorites with my
     artists, hush
     Things that happen this chapter:
     HL: I want to cuddle with the dog.
     Me: You...what?
     HL: *micro-smiles patiently* I'm going to cuddle the dog.
     Me: *sputtering* B-but you...you're Hannibal fucking LECTER.
     HL: *steely and unimpressed with my reasoning* I am cuddling the dog.
     I bought her for Will. Therefore her presence reminds me of him. Your
     opinions on the nature of my character hold no sway here. You are
     not, as your generation is so fond of saying, the boss of me.
     Me: *giggles under the weight of a brain snapped in fucking two like
     a twig* Of fucking course not. My mistake. Enjoy your doggy cuddles,
     sir.
     HL: I will. *he does. he somehow makes it feel canon af*
     Me: What in holy hell have I done.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                               XI. Leda Atomica
 
Hannibal has not retired to bed yet. Though the hour is late, or early perhaps
depending on one’s perspective, he has no interest in sleep and sits in
contemplation in front of the fireplace, taking occasional sips of a warm
brandy that works well as a nightcap on most other evenings. Winston is laid
out on the couch beside him, her head resting on his lap. Every now and again,
she willfully reminds him of her presence by perking her ears and gazing
morosely up at him each time he pauses too long in petting her.
He had briefly toyed with the thought of forbidding her from jumping onto the
furniture, even of possibly confining her to the backyard rather than get used
to the idea of spending too much time indoors, but had ultimately discarded the
idea once he’d ushered her inside and allowed her to sniff around and get
acquainted with the house first. The dog is either highly intelligent or has
already been well-trained by a previous owner to be mindful of her surroundings
and not rampage about with disregard for the fragility of human belongings. It
would be unjust to treat her as though she has less of a right to comfort and
ease within her own home than her master simply because she is more prone to
shedding than he.
He will need to speak with a contractor soon about installing a dog flap on the
backdoor so she has even freer access. She is big enough that it will need to
be an electronic flap that only opens when it detects the chip embedded in her
collar, despite the fact that it would be unlikely for any passers-by to see
the doggy door unless they tiptoed high enough to peek into his yard over the
fence. Of course, intelligent or no, he suspects it may take a bit of coaxing
and training to convince the animal it is safe for use. Perhaps if it comes to
that, Will, with his smaller stature, will find amusement rather than offense
at being asked to assist in that matter.
The imagery this conjures is so comical and inappropriate that the usually
poised and dignified alpha very nearly comes close to choking on his own drink,
thankful as he sets his glass aside that it at least did not elicit a less
humorous response from him. The idea of Will collared and crawling on the floor
like a pet is too absurd and unlikely for him to find it arousing, and it
additionally would be rather embarrassing at Hannibal’s age to discover sexual
proclivities he was not hitherto already aware of possessing.
Winston apparently misreads his jollity as distress, and sits up on her hind
legs to offer comfort by licking the lower half of his face. Hannibal accepts
this as graciously as the gesture deserves and waits until she is suitably
distracted by vigorous rubs to the back of her ears before he discreetly turns
his head to dab the excess moisture from his nose and mouth with his
nightshirt-covered shoulder. It would be inconsiderate to wipe away the
lingering evidence of her affections too noticeably instead of simply allowing
them to dry there.
“Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary,” he informs her. He does not mind
overly much that the sound of his voice earns one final lick to the tip of his
nose before the dog finally settles in again. Though anyone acquainted with the
knowledge of his unusually sharp nose would assume otherwise, the scent of her
hot canine breath does not bother him. It is wasting sickness and the unnatural
cloying of antiseptic chemicals he can abide the least. For this reason, he
only cleans his house and his office with organic materials such as apple cider
vinegar or certain types of citrus zest.
While this means his home is already quite comfortable and not noxiously
sterile like most other households, he can honestly admit to finding the smell
of another warm, clean, and happy creature within it a welcome addition. It is
one of the subtler and usually less conscious reasons that many people find it
so comforting and therapeutic to keep pets. Humanity is a largely social
species by nature after all, and while Hannibal has always preferred his
solitude before meeting a certain omega, he knows that evolutionarily he is no
exception.
He puts both of his arms around her, drink forgotten for the moment, and gives
his left hand a rest so he can pet her with the other. Winston basks in the
attention with a happy thumping of her tail against the couch cushions. Just
enough of Will Graham’s scent still clings to her fur from earlier this
afternoon that if he closes his eyes, he can imagine the omega sitting on the
other side of her and gazing at both man and dog with fondness in his eyes.
*
“Hannibal Lec-ter,” Abigail enunciates clearly right up until the end, the last
syllable slurring into an uncontainable belch which she covers delicately
behind her hand, though it’s the only courtesy she gives. They are both well
beyond bothering to say ‘excuse me’to each other by this point in the evening.
“What about him?” Will asks, crushing yet another beer can in his hand and
tossing it to join the rest of the growing pile on the other side of the
rooftop they are illegally lounging upon. Having mutually decided they’d had
enough excitement and being around other people for one night, Will had opted
to buy them a six-pack from a 24-hour convenience store while Abigail waited
outside and then hunted for a spot where they could drink and chat alone and
still have a decent view of the city.
Abigail twists bodily around to look at him with an expression that’s meant to
convey ‘seriously?!’ though she’s honestly not surprised and trying not to
laugh when all he really does is mirror it without comprehending. Their
discussion has ranged throughout the night from the deep and cuttingly
philosophical to the silly and absurd before drifting most recently onto the
surprisingly mundane subject of boys—namely how much they suck, especially the
ones they came across tonight, and whether or not Abigail might be ace because
she’s never found them or any girls interesting in that way or if it’s more a
matter of not meeting anyone who’s her type yet, and what, if anything, could
ever possibly persuade Will to give any guy a chance after Francis.
“Oh, nothing,” she responds airily once she realizes, with a feeling of relish
and delight that is sweetly akin to victory, that she, Abigail Hobbs, has
already figured something out about the alpha that Will-I-can-empathize-with-
anyone-fucking-Graham has not picked up on yet. “Just, y’know, wondering if
you’re gonna leave him hanging indefinitely or give some kind of answer to his
bid to court eventually,” she adds, deciding that she would be a bad friend if
she didn’t at least try to clue him in.
“Don’t be weird, Abby. He’s not...” He pauses, blinks steadily once for good
measure.
When he continues to sit there for too long with that eerily blank expression
that means he’s thinking way too fucking much, she decides to prod him along
more quickly by spelling aloud what he’s doubtlessly been circling around
dozens of times in his head already. Honestly, the boy is brilliant, but he’d
probably spin uselessly on his introspective wheels forever if he didn’t have
her around to shake him loose from the muddied divots of his own making once in
a while.
“He keeps trying to spend more and more time with you. You almost see him more
often than you see Bloom in a single week,” she states matter-of-factly. “And
that’s even though he insists he’s not your psychiatrist and doesn’t want you
to see him that way.” She pauses to let that sink in for a moment before
presenting the most damning evidence of all. “He got you a dog, Will.”
“He got himself a dog,” Will corrects automatically, though Abigail can tell by
the way he shifts his eyes rapidly from side to side without looking at
anything that he doesn’t fully buy it himself.
“Which you picked out and named,” she rejoins, not letting him off the hook
that easily. “Did he give even a token protest to either one?” she asks,
already guessing the answer.
“No,” he breathes out after giving it a moment of thought. “Fuck.” Covering one
hand over his eyes, Will wonders to himself how it’s possible for him to have
missed this.
“Hey, don’t leave me here!” she protests with a nudge of her elbow when Will
starts withdrawing into himself again.
“Where else would I go?” he asks dryly, dropping the hand back into his lap.
As if the nudge has shaken something else loose as well, Abigail watches with
fascination as something sharp-edged and cunning bleeds into his expression,
brightening his eyes and curling his mouth upwards into a wily smile like
rainbows in an oil spill.
Will Graham has an idea, she knows. A voice like the narrator’s from “How the
Grinch Stole Christmas” repeats it back to her for effect. Will Graham has a
wonderful, awful idea.
If Abigail Hobbs were anyone else, and not in fact the safest person on the
planet from her strange friend’s peculiar brand of wrath and justice, she
thinks that she would honestly be a little terrified of him right now.
“Doctor Lecter wants to court me,” he voices aloud at last. “It would be rude
not to acknowledge it in some way, don’t you think?”
“Ever hear the saying, ‘Don’t poke a sleeping bear with a stick’?” she asks,
uncertain whether the bear she just poked beside her by bringing this up or the
alpha Will is already mentally sharpening his own spear for is the one to be
most worried about.
Will seems not to hear her this time, too caught up in thinking of how best to
exploit the apparent weakness she pointed out to him in this weird little game
he and the good doctor have been playing.
“How about, ‘Those who play with fire are bound to get burnt’?” she tries
again.
“He should’ve thought of that before he decided he wanted to mate me,” he spits
more fiercely than she expects, as if wanting him is crime enough all on its
own to warrant punishment...oh. Because to Will,it is,and that should make her
feel sad for her friend, but she already knew he was just as fucked up as her
from the beginning, and they’ve vowed to own their fucked-up-ness together and
not pity each other as much as they can help it.
Besides, she understands. This isn’t just about Doctor Lecter anymore, if it
ever was. This is about taking a stand. It’s about not letting another alpha
have the control, and Abigail can definitely get behind that, enough to feel
some of her friend’s manic enthusiasm leeching into her as well. She almost
feels sorry for Doctor Lecter though. Almost.
He’s a smart man after all, she reasons. A brilliant psychiatrist, if Doctor
Bloom’s gushing is to be believed. If he truly has no inkling of what he’s
getting himself into, then he clearly doesn’t deserve Will anyhow.
And oddly, she thinks he might even stand a chance, if there’s anyone in the
world who does against a stubborn and determined Will Graham.
Not that she’s going to tell Will that, of course. Some things are better left
worked out on their own time.
Chapter End Notes
     I hope the absolute ludicrousness that is this chapter makes up for
     how short it was.
     Narrator Voice: It did not, in fact, make up for it, but his readers
     were kind enough to pretend otherwise.
***** The Dance of Albion *****
Chapter Notes
     Another William_Blake_work as the title. Tbh, don't read too much
     into the titles expecting them to actually reveal much about the
     chapters they're attached to. Think of them more as images I looked
     at while I was writing and thought to myself, "Heh, mood," and you'll
     have a much better sense of how the naming convention works at this
     point. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                           XII. The Dance of Albion
 
“Nnnng, make it stopppp…” Abigail groans, burying her face against Will’s chest
so she no longer has to squint to avoid the rising sun, though it does nothing
to block out the noise of cars passing by on their morning commute and
storefront grills slamming up as the shops below open for the day.
Her pillow of choice makes a similar grumble of discontent, one hand coming up
half-heartedly to hide very tired, red eyes from the light. Said pillow
stiffens not a moment later though and sits up abruptly, cursing the bit of
sense that returns to remind him exactly why awakening to a sunrise in this
instance is not at all a Good Thing.
“Shit. Abigail,” he says, swallowing against the dry, fuzzy feeling in his
mouth and throat to try and make it go away without much success. “Abigail,” he
says again more firmly when the girl barely stirs except to bury her face
further against the crook of his arm. “Come on, we need to go.”
“Nooooo, I wanna diiiiie.”
“I’m sure you’ll get your wish as soon as Bloom gets ahold of us,” Will
mutters, already far more sober than he wishes he were, the sudden awareness of
where they passed out together waking him like a cold shower, or a hard slap
across the face.
Turns out, it’s not so smart to sneak out of an institution that’s recently had
a security scare just to go out and get blind drunk, especially when one of the
side effects of said drunkenness is losing track of the time and napping in a
careless sprawl against your best friend’s shoulder on a rooftop until well
past the hour for the final evening bus’s departure. That and the nasty
hangovers they both appear to be nursing make for a rather unpleasant start to
the day already. They need to get back before Alana has time enough to really
freak out and start tearing the city apart looking for them.
Their drop down from the rickety set of metal stairs leading up to the roof
startles an employee taking trash out to the dumpster. Blinking past the
blurred vision and belated sense of vertigo that hits only after his feet touch
the ground, Will recognizes the familiar logo on the beta’s green apron and
realizes just what establishment they crashed on top of for the night.
He fishes his wallet out and after a bit of slow, careful sorting, selects one
of the dozens of gift cards Doctor Bloom gave him that he has yet to make use
of. “Here,” he says, holding it for the still somewhat shaken and thoroughly
confused-looking young man.
“Um, we’re technically not open yet…”
“Look, there’s fifty bucks on this thing. Just take it, or use it to ring up
some stupid espresso maker or other shit for yourself, I don’t fucking care,
just as long as you come back out with two giant ass cups of coffee for me and
my friend here.”
“Oh-kay. Be right back.” Will leans back against the wall for support as soon
as he’s gone and Abigail continues her pattern of leaning up against him
instead.
“Here are your two Ventis,” their caffeine-bearing savior returns a
surprisingly short while later, though it’s entirely possible both of them may
have dozed off once more while waiting for him and are perhaps not the best
judges of time at the moment.
“I brought sugar packets too,” the guy says once Will has both cups in hand and
doesn’t look in danger of spilling them, digging into the front pocket of his
apron to present them with a large handful of sweeteners. Abigail latches onto
his lightly clenched fist perhaps a little too eagerly with both hands and
sways forward a little into his space before regaining her balance.
“You are seriously a lightsaber, thank you so much!” she says, slurring a
little, clearly either still a little drunk or simply too tired to speak with
full clarity just yet.
“I think you mean life—um, I mean sure! Yeah. No problem,” the guy says, a bit
flustered and even stammering a little under the attention from the much nicer
and—in his opinion anyway—far prettier omega.
Several gulps of piping hot caffeine and one half-stumbling, arm-in-arm walk
back to the bus stop later, both of them are sufficiently coherent enough at
least to discuss their likely fates upon their return to the omega facility
with the calm of two resigned, long-time Death Rowers coolly discussing their
future dates of execution.
“We must be two of the dumbest assholes in history,” Abigail says after
plopping down in her seat on the bus. Will drops just as ungracefully next to
her and hums agreeably in response.
“Seriously, on a scale of one to ten, how pissed do you think she’s going to
be?” she asks. Will peers at her through the slit of one barely open eye over
his half-full paper cup.
“Eight?” he shrugs. “Probably depends on how concerned she is right now that we
went out and got ourselves murdered or raped or something.”
Abigail scrunches her face at the blunt choice of wording but doesn’t protest
it. It’s not her place to police Will’s language considering…well. Considering.
When they arrive, it’s to the sight of one all too familiar Bentley parked next
to Alana’s Prius in the parking lot. “Ffffuck,”Will groans aloud, hiding his
face behind one hand.
“Maybe we should try to get back in the way we got out?” Abigail suggests.
Waltzing in through the front door at this point does not seem somehow like the
greatest move.
“And give away how we did it so they can block it off for next time? I don’t
think so.”
Abigail shrugs. “Unless they plan to install barbed wire on top of a stone
wall, I don’t really see how they could manage that.” She starts guiding them
around to the side entrance meant for omegas not wishing to be seen going into
a mental hospital in hopes that it’ll be unlocked during daylight hours.
Fortunately it is. Unfortunately, they don’t make it far down the hall before
someone sees them walk in.
“Holy shit, did you guys just walk in?” Cassie Boyle asks them, sporting the
largest grin Abigail’s ever seen on the other girl’s face. It is not a nice
smile. “You two are so busted, bee-tee-dubs.”
“Glad we can provide the high school-level drama you’ve been missing in your
life, Boyle. Lord knows it’s the only excitement you’ll be getting since
‘darling Nicky’ is never gonna fill the empty space between your legs,” Will
tells her. “Now move.”
To Abigail’s surprise, instead of blowing up the way she did last time Will
brought up her brother, Cassie leans forward and scrutinizes both of them more
closely. “Are you fuckers hung over?” she asks, her grin only widening to
downright malicious proportions. “Oh my god, this is the best fucking day of my
life.”
Will opens his mouth to say something else snarky about how pathetic that is,
but his jaw slams closed on a wince at the incredibly loud, high-pitched noise
the girl in front of them makes that’s just shy of a real omegan wail and
honestly more annoying than anything else. Abigail’s expression is similarly
pained.
“OH MY GOD, DOCTOR BLOOM! DOCTOR BLOOM, THEY’RE OVER HERE, I FOUND THEM!!”
The footsteps are not long in approaching afterwards, yet Cassie continues,
clearly enjoying the pain her voice can inflict on both of them.
“DOCTOR BLOOM, THEY’RE HERE! THEY’VE BEEN OUT DRINKING!!” she screams, making
sure to put as much scandalized shock into her amplified voice as she can.
“You know, you should really go back to your indoor voice,” Abigail musters.
From behind Cassie, they can see Doctor Bloom and Doctor Lecter now both
approaching. “You’re gonna burn out your lungs that way.”
“DOCTOR BLOOM—”
“Yes, Cassie, I’m here. I can see that they’re back,” Alana informs the girl.
Even she seems annoyed by the ruckus the other omega is making, though that’s
nothing compared to the look she levels the two of them with. “You can go back
to your room now if you’re done with breakfast.”
“Hope you enjoy being on lockdown for the rest of your stay here, bitches.”
“Cassie, that is enough,” Alana tells her. Hannibal stands beside her,
curiously silent and stone-faced throughout.
Will opens his mouth yet a third time, presumably to make another pointed barb
about the girl’s incest fantasies, but Abigail quickly clamps a hand over his
mouth and urges him, “Don’t.”The last thing they need is to be in even more
trouble, and over Cassie fucking Boyle of all people.
“That’s right, dog, heel,” Cassie adds with an ugly sneer that’s just for Will.
She brushes past them when Alana says her name warningly again, making sure to
knock into Will’s shoulder hard with her own, and with minimal effort spent
towards making it look like an accident.
Hannibal reacts for the first time once she leaves, reaching over to pluck
invisible lint from Will’s shoulder. “Alana, perhaps we should move to your
office before another one of your patients shows up to sling abuse at them?”
“I agree,” she says and starts walking that way, an authority to her step that
signifies she expects to be followed without question. “I’ll call Jack when we
get there and let him know he can call off the search.”
“You got Agent Crawford involved?” Abigail asks the older woman, nearly running
in her hurry to catch up with her, aghast.
“I got anyone involved who might have the faintest clue where you two might
have gone.”
“And you thought Crawford made sense to be on that list?” Will remarks dryly,
he and Hannibal following behind at a more languid pace. He isn’t nearly as
bothered by Bloom’s bad cop routine, it having been too many years since he was
that awkward teen under his teachers’ and foster parents’ thumbs.
 Alana doesn’t respond and her expression doesn’t change, clearly in too foul
of a mood even to appreciate a good ribbing at the BSU director’s expense.
Hannibal has no such inhibitions and allows the tiniest smirk to grace his lips
briefly while Alana isn’t looking, a look passing between him and Will as
though they are sharing a secret. He must have finally met the man this morning
then and agreed that he didn’t exactly measure up to expectations.
Will blinks, remembering the revelation he had thanks to Abigail last night,
and analyzes the tightened, fluttery feeling in his own chest as the other man
looks away again. He puts it down to relief that the alpha doesn’t seem put off
or upset about the situation as Alana does, since that could mean losing the
advantage he has in this game almost as soon as he’s learned about it.
On the contrary, now that he’s paying attention, he sees that Hannibal is as
placid as ever while Alana exudes the kind of stern anger borne out of fear for
her charges and what could have happened while they were out unsupervised. It’s
oddly refreshing to know that at least one of them trusts Will and Abigail to
be out on their own without getting hurt. He just hopes neither of them finds
out about the bar fight or else Doctor Bloom really will be likely to put them
both under lock and key from now on.
“I am shocked,” she says quietly once they are safely cloistered in her office,
the call to Crawford being made by one of her receptionists so she can focus on
her patients unhindered. “Shocked and disappointed by you both, but especially
by you, Will. Did you really take Abigail out drinking last night?” she asks.
“It was my idea, Doctor Bloom,” Abigail interjects.
“That’s hardly the point, Abigail,” Alana adds wearily.
“Why? Just because I’m younger, I’m not capable of making my own decisions?”
“It’s not about that. You could have gotten yourselves in a lot of trouble if
the wrong authorities caught you. You could have gotten in a lot worse trouble
if someone other than the authorities found you in that state. After what just
happened with Eldon Stammets, I can’t believe you would put yourselves at risk
like this!”
“After what happened with Stammets, I can’t believe you think being stuck in
here is any safer than being out there,” Will points out, only a little
surprised at the venom in his own voice. It’s a low blow, one that he can see
land its mark behind Alana’s eyes though she’s able to keep from flinching.
“It is safer, and with better security measures being put in place, it’ll be
even more so.” Will scoffs and turns his head away, disgusted. Abigail’s
expression is less than impressed as well.
“If I may, security does not seem to truly be the issue at hand here,” Hannibal
suggests, and okay wow, Will had no idea Bloom was capable of looking at Lecter
with anything less than pure admiration and damn near hero worship in her eyes.
Clearly no one is safe from her ire today.
“If not, then pray tell, what is it about?” she asks.
Hannibal bows his head, demure and unassuming, deferential even, and Will
wonders not for the first time how he manages to make it look so convincing. “I
merely wish to suggest that as this situation arose from what I assume to be a
feeling of lack in their own personal agency and freedom, what would benefit
Abigail and Will most in their therapy is more leeway, not less.”
Alana stares ahead as if someone just stepped up from behind and dumped an
entire bucket of ice down the back of her dress. Abigail looks similarly
stunned but recovers more quickly to stammer, “Um, yeah. What…what he just
said. You need to let us out more, Doctor Bloom!”
Alana sighs and looks down, and Will knows in that moment that Lecter has
already won. It never ceases to amaze him how easy her own little crush on the
alpha makes it to manipulate her. It’s not even limited to just Hannibal
directly—all Will has to do half the time when he really wants something is
namedrop the other man and he’s pretty much set.
“It’s not that simple…” she tries her best to protest anyway.
“I will, of course, defer to your judgment on how well supervised these
excursions out should be,” Hannibal demurs.
Oh, Will thinks. So that’s his game. He should have known right away. Trust
Lecter not to play anything by half-measures.
“As a matter of fact, there is a performance by the Baltimore Symphony
Orchestra scheduled a few weeks from now. I imagine you would agree it’s a far
more culturally stimulating way to spend one’s evening out than simply
drunkenly carousing about town for a night,” he adds with an amused twinkle
behind his smirk. “Perhaps the four of us could attend together? Under the
right circumstances, it can be perfectly safe and even healthy for all of us to
let our hair down every once in a while.”
Were it not for the fact that it would ruin the carefully crafted illusion
Hannibal has been building up for his target audience of one, Will would slow
clap for the man’s own brilliantly executed performance. He wonders if
everything he’s told Abigail about Lecter up to this point is enough to allow
her to see through the veil as well.
“I’ll think about it,” Alana says, the only person in the room who remains
unaware that her answer is already as good as a yes.
After they are allowed back to their own rooms, Abigail corners Will in his
just so she can tell him, “I take back what I said last night. If these are the
kind of benefits having a psychiatrist with a massive crush on you brings, I am
so on board now.”
Will shoos her out so he can crash on his own bed in peace at last.
The last thing he thinks about before he succumbs to exhaustion is less about
what other benefits he can milk out of this, and more about how much more he
can get away with while pressing the other man’s buttons.
Chapter End Notes
     Just want to put it out there that despite how it may seem, I don't
     necessarily believe Alana is "easily taken in" or lacking in
     backbone. Remember that on the show even Will bought into a lot of
     Hannibal's bullshit in s1; the only ones who really had an inkling
     something was up with that guy were Bedelia and Abigail, two people
     who have already dealt with a lot of personal trauma beforehand, some
     of which they know for a fact Hannibal caused directly.
     Will's increased wariness in this fic is also a direct result of his
     own past trauma. He's not smarter than show!Will either, he's just
     more woke (and even he obviously still doesn't have this It-Fucking-
     Rhymes-With-Cannibal guy completely figured out yet either). Idk,
     just something I felt like mentioning because I know we all tend to
     give characters a lot of flak for their lack of situational awareness
     much of the time, myself included. :\
***** Two Beings (The Lonely Ones) *****
Chapter Notes
     From the work_by_Edvard_Munch. (And this one really does work
     thematically with the chapter, if you ask me.)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                      XIII. Two Beings (The Lonely Ones)
                                        
Abigail has to take back one of her previous assertions. There’s one thing she
hates about living at Port Haven more than group—it’s the fact that most of the
omegas have been here long enough for their cycles to sync up. A huge
percentage of the population here goes into heat all at once, leading to a few
extra tired bags under the eyes of the efficient beta nurses and orderlies who
now have to cater to a ward full of girls and boys all suffering under flu-like
symptoms, juggle paperwork and transports for the ones going home temporarily
or to special heat service facilities to ride it out there, and pry apart
hormonal patients seeking comfort in each other because apparently that’s
against the rules for some ridiculous reason Abigail doesn’t pretend to
understand, all while being understaffed as more than a couple of the omegan
workers have called in at the same time since their heats have hit as well.
She and Will are both immune as newer arrivals whose bodies are still used to
their old heat schedules, which is nice in that it means the staff pays less
attention to them than normal while their focus is elsewhere. She just hopes
neither of them ends up staying here long enough for their cycles to adapt and
match up with the others’ as well.
It does mean she has to field Bloom’s super awkward questions about what
accommodations she might need once it’s her turn, since the topic is somewhat
unavoidable these days. Abigail is normally adept at avoiding the conversation,
despite knowing that it’ll have to come up sooner or later, but the doctor
isn’t letting her off the hook that easily this time.
“I’ve never been mated, so I don’t need anything. Really.”
“Many of the girls here are unmated, Abigail,” Alana explains with a patient
smile on her face. “There’s no shame in requesting surrogacy services or
implements if you want them. This is about your comfort.”
“Well, I’m…not comfortable with the idea of a surrogate. I’ve never needed one
before either. Honestly, I’ll be fine!” Abigail says earnestly. At least Doctor
Bloom doesn’t look ready to argue, which is a huge relief.
“It’s not like it affects me the same as the rest anyway.” At this, Bloom’s
gaze shifts into something more curious and encouraging, but she doesn’t press
for the girl to say more than she’s ready to discuss. That’s one thing she
really likes about Doctor Bloom’s therapy style.
“I mean, I get the sweating and the shivers and all that gross annoying stuff,
but it doesn’t ever make me feel…” she shrugs.
“Arousal?” Bloom asks. Abigail blushes but nods anyway.
“I even went to school when the symptoms were light!” she adds, not sure why it
sounds like she’s trying to convince Alana or even what she’s trying to
convince her of. “Not that most of the teachers or administration liked it.
They thought I was too much of a ‘distraction’ to the alphas, but it’s not like
they could actually do anything about it. Anyway, none of them ever affected
me, and there were only one or two idiots who sniffed around me more than I was
comfortable, but even they weren’t dumb or out-of-control enough to actually
try anything either.”
“The systems we have in place often don’t give individuals enough credit for
their own agency or actions,” Alana agrees. “Especially where alphas and omegas
are concerned.”
“You don’t let many alphas except for Doctor Lecter wander around here on their
own either,” Abigail points out.
“That’s for the comfort of the patients here. Some of them can become quite
distressed at the mere presence of an alpha.”
“There aren’t a lot of guys on staff either, not even beta ones. I think there
are only like three omegan boys here too, including Will.”
“That’s true. While in the latter case, it’s simply a matter of there not being
as many male omegas as there are female ones, you’re right to point out that
it’s not a coincidence most of the staff here are women.”
“Because men are bastards?” Abigail asks.
Alana laughs with genuine mirth. “Sometimes.”
“But not Doctor Lecter, right?”
“He would be the exception,” Doctor Bloom agrees fondly. Abigail almost feels
guilty for bringing him up, considering what she knows, but certainly not
enough to say anything.
“We’ll have to take you and Will out shopping soon. You both need something to
wear for the symphony,” Bloom continues.
“Sounds like fun. Be a good way to use those gift cards you gave us.” The two
of them exchange a soft smile and then wrap up their session for lunch.
Will is far less enthused and actually pulls a face when she tells him about
the shopping trip Bloom has planned over their Salisbury steaks.
“Come on, you never went out and had a mall day with your friends from school?”
“I never had friends in school,” Will points out. “Dad and I bought most of our
clothes at thrift stores and K-Mart.”
“Well, you’ll have me there, so it won’t be all bad,” she promises. “By the
way, did Bloom ask about preparations for your heat too?”
“Yeah, it’s coming up but I told her I’d need to think about it. There’s still
time.”
“Mine’s a way’s off, but I’ve already decided I don’t want anything special.
Just to be left alone.”
Will nods along, not surprised. “My dad used to sing to me on the bad nights.”
“Really? That’s so sweet. My mom was similar. She’d stay up and watch movies
with me when I was too restless to sleep.” She pauses, the nostalgic smile
fading slowly from her face as she adds, “My dad would always leave.”
Will looks up from his plate at her. She swallows, despite not having taken
another bite. “He’d go on a hunting trip by himself and stay in the cabin.
Wouldn’t come home for at least a week, not til it was long over.” She doesn’t
realize she’s gripping her fork too tightly until Will strokes the back of her
hand to loosen it.
“What was your mate like during heats?” she blurts out, unthinking, just
needing some quid pro quo to latch onto to escape her own painful
reminiscences. She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth,
however, immediately aware that she’s overstepped.
The hand on hers stops stroking, not withdrawing right away, but it isn’t until
she dares look up and sees the curiously blank, hunted expression staring back
at her forehead that it occurs to her that had anyone else asked that question,
they would have likely gotten a fist through their teeth for the trouble.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Shit, I’m really sorry. That was way out of line. I
shouldn’t have—” He shushes her without making any noise, just a shake of his
head and a silencing gesture with the hand that was just on hers a second ago.
‘It’s fine,’he mouths, hand still raised and head tilted at the table between
them with closed eyes, a surer sign than anything else that it is definitely
not fine. Seeing it makes her want to cry.
He resumes eating after a minute, right as one of the nurses starts glancing
their way more, and she does the same. The nurse looks away again soon after,
but Will and Abigail continue to finish their meal in silence.
Afterwards, he grabs her by the hand and walks her back to his room. Once the
door shuts behind them, he pulls her into a fierce hug and whispers, “It really
is okay. I’m not mad at you, I promise. I just…I can’t talk about this stuff
out there.” He sits down at the foot of the bed and Abigail follows, sitting
beside him.
“Frank was…most of the time, he was really gentle. So gentle. I thought
sometimes if I touched him he would melt like sugar in rain. On sunny days,
we’d lay outside on the grass. I picked wildflowers and he’d…” He huffs a
little laugh to himself, an easy smile on his face at the memory. “He let me
put them in his hair sometimes, when it’d been too long since he’d cut it. If
not, I’d twist them into crowns and put them on his head anyway.” He smiles at
Abigail’s slightly disbelieving laugh. “I wish I had a picture of him like that
to show you. It was really adorable.”
His expression smooths out and becomes serious again once he continues. “When
my heats came, and his ruts, he was…very different. He was already too serious
all the time, but at those times he was serious and hard. It was like staring a
stone gargoyle in the face right before it broke open, and once it did break
open, the thing that came out with scrabbling talons and snapping jaws was
something primal. Ruthless.”
He keeps his eyes down, focused on his hands in his lap. “It was a lot like the
way he was when he came home from his long weekend trips.” He smirks wryly and
glances up to see Abigail focused on him intently.
“There’s more,” he tells her suddenly, feeling emboldened. “You see, he also
liked to record what he did on those trips so he could watch them again later.
He needed it sometimes to be able to…” he trails off, clears his throat. He
feels Abigail stiffen beside him slightly, already able to tell where he’s
going with this. “I couldn’t look away,” he finishes, swallowing.
She reaches over to grasp one of his hands with one of her own. It makes him
feel disingenuous, like he’s taking sympathy he doesn’t deserve, so he keeps
going. “They weren’t the only videos he made me watch.” He refuses to look up
now until he’s said it all, not wanting to lose his nerve. “There were other
videos. Before videos. Happy couples on vacation and happy families at home.”
The hand around his own tightens and doesn’t go anywhere. He starts talking
faster. “We’d watch and we’d discuss floor plans, yard visibility, proximity of
the neighbors. I’d point out weak spots he’d missed, faulty locks and windows,
that sort of thing.” He smiles fiercely, an ugly rictus of a grin. “Back when
it was still only couples who reminded me of the Marlowes, it was even sort
of…enjoyable.”
“I helped him pick them, Abigail,” he confesses to her entirely. “And plan
them.”
“Did he ever take you with him?” Abigail asks.
Will shakes his head rapidly. “I was never allowed to leave the property,” he
answers, deeply bitter about the fact still and not bothering to hide it. “Not
once.”
Abigail nods understandingly. “Dad wouldn’t take me along on the hunts either.”
Will looks up at her sharply. “I guess he was afraid of what he might do if I
was there for that part,” she carries on blithely. “I didn’t really want to go,
but I kind of resented that I wasn’t allowed to either. We used to do
everything together.” There’s bitterness in her tone as well. Will stares at
her, slightly awed.
She turns her head to gaze steadily back at him and says, “I was the bait. I’d
lure those girls, talk to them, find out where they were going and where they
lived, when they would be alone.” She blinks back a bit of mist in her eyes and
offers him a wobbly smile. “I knew he was feeding them to us too. So. Nice try,
but you’re not going to scare me off that easily. Because we’re just alike.”
If it wasn’t entirely too much physical contact for one day for him already,
Will would hug the daylights out of her again. Instead, he tightens his grip on
her hand even harder and she does the same, until they’re both at risk of
losing circulation and going purple.
They sit together like that for a long while, just holding hands, two peas in a
pod.
* 
Chapter End Notes
     More Will and Abigail interaction for you! They'll start branching
     out to talk to Hannibal and other characters more soon enough though.
     ;)
***** Sacred and Profane Love *****
Chapter Notes
     From_the_Titian_painting.
     Heads up for flashbacks to rape, abuse, and other traumas this
     chapter. I know you all know to expect it from this story by now, but
     I try to give a little warning whenever it gets heavy on those themes
     again all the same.
     My dudes, I started work on a completely different chapter before I
     got stuck on it and realized the reason was because I needed to
     change the order of certain events I had planned and push that one
     back. Then a certain sassy omega by the name of Will Graham saw what
     I had drafted for this one, laughed and said, "Yeah, no, I don't
     think so, have you MET me?" and proceeded to do what he wanted
     instead...some of which was almost the OPPOSITE of what I had planned
     and caused ripple effects on how I'm going to have to write future
     chapters! :0
     "I could never entirely predict you, Will. I could whisper into the
     chrysalis, but what emerges is something entirely beyond me." Damn, I
     know how you feel now, Hannibal. Me too. Me fucking too. xD
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                         XIV. Sacred and Profane Love
                                        
Will’s heat rolls in, slowly at first, then suddenly, all at once, an
unrecognizable force after more than half a decade of having an alpha at his
side to weather the storm with him. It hurts, meals lurching rebelliously in
his stomach, skin clammy and hair damp with sweat. He’d forgotten how awful it
felt like this, with nothing to distract from the jagged, squeezing cramps of a
torso screeching in impotent rage for the absence of a womb to fill.
Abigail visits and even tries awkwardly at times to soothe with little pats on
the head and scenting around the wrists, the door always open on orders from
the suspicious nurses who don’t believe her when she assures them there’s
nothing funny or in any way inappropriate going on when their backs are turned.
Will is grateful for her company but sometimes wishes she would leave him alone
more so that they would too.
It all comes to a head on his first night alone in full-blown sickness. The
shadows on the walls twist into thick, twining arms and hungry mouths. He
writhes and throws the covers off, his skin crawling with every brush of his
soft pajama pants as if they were leaving invisible scratches in their wake. It
is a thousand times worse than any flu. There’s screaming in his head,
screaming that gives way to the blaring siren of a home burglar alarm, to the
creak of a stair beneath an unsteady foot, to the howls of a creature more
alpha than man, more beastly, and the scent of blood, so much blood…
He drowns under the suffocating weight of nearly half a dozen pairs of arms,
the burn in his legs and his lungs the only indication given to his brain that
he’s been running, fast and hard, like there was a monster at his heels, and he
wants to cry because they’re too many and because they’re the wrong arms—thank
god, thank god they’re wrong, thank god they’re not wings—and then with the
sharp prick of a needle his entire body goes slack.
The last and only thing he sees clearly are a sea of white-clad shoulders,
above those a pair of almost motherly eyes and a worried frown, and he thinks
of how that’s wrong too, that Mrs. Marlow never looked at him that way while
she was alive and was certainly even less sympathetic after she died. Then the
haze of red shadows suspended on dust fades and everything tilts sharply into
black.
*
Alana is mostly silent as she sits across from him in her office, her only
words since their initial morning greetings a brief explanation to fill in the
gaps he doesn’t remember from the night before, how he had run through the
halls and tried to escape in only a semi-conscious state. She knows that Will
hears her but there is no reaction, barely a blip of recognition even as
phrases like “PTSD” and “flashback” pass tentatively between them. He is, if
anything, less responsive to her than ever before.
It’s understandable yet it still frustrates her to no end, and she hates
herself a little for it. Maybe more than just a little. Where does all her
patience go where Will is concerned, she wonders bitterly. It’s times like
these Will’s empathy seems almost to be a living, two-pronged entity of
fragility and spite, and the closer one gets the harder it is not to be
affected by it.
“Tell me what you need, Will.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be your job to figure that out,” he retorts, the words
themselves sharp but lacking the usual bite his voice would lend them, coming
out more tired than anything else. They sting nonetheless. More so, really, if
she’s being entirely honest with herself, because doesn’t that just highlight
how true they are?
The instinct is there to defend herself, to equivocate with a line that
wouldn’t be entirely off-base about it being her job to help him figure it out,
but what comes out instead is, “I honestly don’t know how helpful I can be to
you, Will.”
Will finally looks up at her, close enough to eye contact that she might have
inwardly crowed with victory in any other circumstance. “You giving up on me,
Doctor Bloom?” His expression is unreadable to her.
For someone who feels so much from everyone, whose emotions should bleed
messily and all over the place, he is oftentimes fairly inscrutable when he
wants to be. Some days it strikes her as a habit he picked up from Abigail,
other times it’s the other way around. It even reminds her in the smallest of
measures sometimes of Hannibal, and in the rarest tics of all she occasionally
sees herself. So many of Will’s quirks and tells, even cadences of speech, are
made up of a patchwork of others that it’s impossible to tell where he really
stands.
“Never,” she promises him firmly. She ducks her head. “As hard as it is for me
to admit though,” she breathes out on a sigh. “I’m considering whether it would
be best to refer you officially to Doctor Lecter.”
“Don’t do that,” he responds immediately.
“Why not?” Nothing in Will’s attitude suggests that she has reason to be
concerned, but she has to be sure, of course. “I thought you two had a good
rapport?” she ventures.
Will looks amused by that, likely because he understands where the question
comes from. “The rapport is that he doesn’t talk to me the way a psychiatrist
does.”
Her former mentor has always been fond of the more unorthodox methods, though
she respects and trusts him all the same even if she doesn’t follow in his
footsteps. There’s more however to Will’s statement that he’s silently asking
her to understand—there nearly always is, she’s learned, though she’s not sure
how aware of it he is himself, the quiet plea for someone to climb over his
walls and see.
She’s been trying desperately to do just that since they met, but each time she
stumbles, loses her footing, and curses her own ineptitude more and more with
every attempt. She wants so badly to see, but Will is just as determined to
keep others blind as he is hopeful that someone will survive the climb anyway.
“Are you saying you wish I’d talk to you less like a psychiatrist as well?” she
asks even though all of her training warns against it.
She wishes Will would look at her again, instead of glancing away at his hands
loosely clasped in his lap. “Well, it’d be an improvement to you trying to pry
my head open like an unruly can of tuna.” It’s meant as a joke, but she winces
all the same.
“It’s never my intention to make you feel like tuna,” she quips back, masking
it.
“I know,” he responds as seriously as the statement deserves, not-quite-
forgiveness for a not-quite-apology. “S’it okay if I go back to my room now?”
he asks, allowing his exhaustion to show as he stretches. At her nod he leaves,
skipping breakfast to find his head where he left it back on his pillow.
His stomach gurgles a few hours later to rebuke him for it, waking to the smell
of something rich, gamey, and…minty?
Will sits up, eyes half-slitted open, and makes a sound between a scoff and a
grumble at the sight of Hannibal Lecter busying himself over a heated bag and
setting the little table for two.
“I have been terribly remiss not to prepare a meal for us to share before now,”
Lecter says as casually as if Will hadn’t only just woken up and he were merely
picking up the thread mid-conversation, “but the opportunity has not presented
itself prior to today.” He waits for Will to stand and wobble groggily over to
the table before continuing. “Silkie chicken in a broth. A black boned bird
prized in China for its medicinal value since the seventh century. With
wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise.”
“You broke into my room to feed me chicken soup?” Will asks dryly, swallowing
down a bite without waiting for the other man to start. Damn. It’s good. Really
good. He should have expected, considering the hobby has come up in
conversation before and anyone else who brings up the subject of Lecter’s
cooking does nothing but rave about it. There’s meat besides chicken floating
in it as well—pork fat, he guesses. Whatever it is does an excellent job of
enhancing the flavor.
“I called ahead,” Hannibal refutes. “Alana was reluctant to allow me at first.
She mentioned only that you’d had a troubled night’s sleep.” He glances over at
Will pointedly as he pours tea for them both as well before starting on his own
soup. “The nurses say you’ve been wandering, Will,” he adds, revealing
unashamedly that he has other sources of gossip when Alana’s professional
decorum won’t allow her to speak freely.
“Is that what they’re calling it,” Will snorts. He spares a glance long enough
to note that the door has indeed been left ajar, though not as widely as it is
when Abigail drops in, and there are no nurses lingering outside it to breach
their privacy. He bets it annoys the other omega that they trust an alpha whose
intentions for Will really are less than innocent more than they do her. Which
prompts Will to wonder, just how is the alpha holding up in a mostly closed-off
room with an omega in heat, one he so happens to be attracted to no less?
The answer is apparent when he spots the barely-there sheen of mentholatum
ointment under the man’s nose and in places where his own scent would emanate
most strongly—at his wrists, behind his ears, and the pulse point along his
neck. That would explain the mint Will noticed. The omega rolls his eyes a bit.
He just bets the man would have taken care to season the soup with ingredients
that would complement it best instead of clashing, because of course he would.
“That their idea or yours?” he asks, tone snide, miming rubbing his finger
under his own nose.
“It has the effect of putting others with stricter points of view regarding
heat etiquette more at ease,” Hannibal confesses.
“Translation—you didn’t think they would let you through without it.”
“In truth, there is far less need for such measures than polite society has
trained itself to believe, much to its own detriment. Too many alphas use
biology as an excuse to justify actions they could easily have avoided had they
only been willing to exercise self-control, or at the least been held more
accountable for the lack of it.”
Will slurps his soup quietly for a few more minutes, until the silence becomes
almost too much to bear. “That meant as a jab?”
“I suspect lack of accountability was not one of the Dragon’s troubles.”
Hannibal calmly sips his tea.
“No,” Will agrees, thinking of long-ago nightmares not his own—“Do you want
Grandmother to cut it off, Francis? I swear to God, you little beast, I’ll cut
it right off!”—“Steps were…taken in his childhood to ensure that would never be
a problem. Though they may have had the opposite effect than what was
intended.”
“Have any problems yourself, Will?” Hannibal asks in what can only be called a
teasing manner.
Will puts a hand to his chest in a dramatic ‘Who, me?’ gesture.“No,” he drawls.
Perish the thought, surely.
“Of course not,” the older man agrees with a smirk. “You and I are just alike
in that regard. Problem free.” Will snorts some more at that utterly ridiculous
assertion. It should feel awful, shouldn’t it, to banter like this after
discussing his dead mate? Yet there is no topic too sacred or profane for one
of them to bring up, even for both of them to find humor in, it would seem.
Their conversation drifts naturally toward “safer” topics—subjects such as the
upcoming concert, how Winston is doing, that sort of thing—without the strain
of feeling forced or uninteresting. They could be discussing carpet patterns
and it would likely be much the same.
Hannibal leans forward to refill Will’s teacup. Some of the mentholatum must
have rubbed off on his sleeve while he was eating, because underneath Will can
detect a hint of the alpha’s natural musk now. Unconsciously, he leans in to
sniff, his foot tapping an uneven rhythm that makes his thigh jiggle, and lets
out a soft, barely audible purr.
He jerks back in his seat immediately upon realizing it, face flushed.
Hannibal’s own reaction is to widen his eyes slightly before slowly retracting
his arm, the only hint of emotionality he allows to pass through.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about, Will,” he reassures.
“Fuck you,” Will growls defensively in response, going from mortified to
furious in a split second, though more with himself than with Lecter. He
squirms, that scent lingering in his nose and activating centers in his brain
which had been dormant for this heat until now. Fuck. He breathes in shallowly.
He’d better not start producing slick just because of this or there will be
hell to pay. “I swear to god, if you did that on purpose…”
“I assure you, Will, I did not.” He sounds honestly contrite, and very good at
hiding the bit of smug pride that Will knows he must be feeling in spite of
that. After all, even if it is a far, far cry from actual explicit consent,
being able to trigger this particular response in an omega in heat is still a
decent indicator of the potential for good sexual compatibility and mutual
attraction.
It’s something to be taken as a compliment rather than consent, of course—no
one is such a slave to their heats or ruts that consent is implicit without a
clear and wholehearted yes, no matter what assholes may try to say otherwise.
(Will has never forgotten this. He remembers what his father and every teacher
worth their salt had told him since before he hit puberty. He knows. He knows
this as surely as he knows that he did love Francis, and that Francis loved
him.)
(It is a too-simple lie, to say that a man like Francis Dolarhyde is incapable
of love. He did love. His Love was terrible and burning. Consuming.
Unquenchable, and as unstable as the man himself was.)
(Will holds no delusions about this. He could never afford them. So he loved
back with all that he had, and he waited. If you don’t adapt, you’re breakfast.
If you don’t adapt, you are Changed.)
(Will adapted.)
“I do feel partially responsible, however unintentional,” Lecter says. There’s
the smugness, Will thinks, you bastard. “If there is anything I can do to
help…” he stops when Will looks up at him expectantly. It’s difficult to read
when the man emotes almost entirely in microexpressions, but Will thinks he
might actually be a little embarrassed. Well perhaps not quite that, but
nearly, or else trying to appear so. With Lecter it could easily be the latter.
“…My apologies, Will,” he backpedals a bit. “I did not think about how that
would sound.”
“What, so you weren’t offering your services?” Will snarks.
“It would be a little untoward, given our current relationship,” Lecter answers
in all seriousness.
“Well, now you’re just being a tease,” Will drawls lightly. Hannibal smirks as
much in amusement as he does, but Will is positive he spots something else
lurking behind the man’s eyes at his words.
Oh, I’ve got you, Will thinks, triumphant. He’s so glad Abigail helped him to
see it, though he would have caught on sooner or later. This is going to be
such fun.
“If you require it, it’s not too late to seek professional assistance. There
are a number of trusted heat service programs in the Baltimore area I’m certain
Doctor Bloom keeps on retainer for her patients.”
Okay, that suggestion Will does not expect, throwing him for a loop which
leaves him second-guessing. “You think I should?” he asks, watching the man’s
face carefully.
“Sex can be therapeutic and an excellent reliever of stress in ordinary
circumstances, far more so when that stress is in part due to the physical
discomfort and frustration caused by heats,” the alpha recites clinically, his
expression giving nothing away.
Will can’t be sure if Hannibal is issuing some kind of challenge, attempting
reverse psychology or a double bluff on him, or genuinely trying to help him by
offering practical medical advice. It’s entirely possible as well that he’s
gauging Will’s reaction to determine if he has hang-ups about the idea out of
lingering loyalty to Francis.
“Maybe I will give it a go then,” Will says with the air of a man admitting to
his opponent, ‘You win this round.’He’ll have to do better next time, perhaps
even figure out a way to spin this into an advantage that lets him regain the
upper hand. He already misses those quick peeks of insight into Hannibal’s
psyche from before, the man’s person suit too well-stitched once more by the
end of their lunch to reveal anything.
Although, it occurs to Will after Hannibal departs, that in itself might be a
tell all its own.
*
He second-guesses himself again, torn between morbid amusement and distaste,
when he goes to a heat clinic the next afternoon and the staff-person tasked to
help him select a partner from their pool of volunteers hands him a menu of
beta men to choose from. For one, it’s grossly sexist to accept applications
only from one very specific gender out of over a dozen. (There are clinics
which have started to hire genderless, genderfluid, and trans people on the
condition that they have penises, but that condition is yet another facet of
the systematic flaws that still exist in standard screening procedures.) For
another, it’s a fucking menu. A menu with handwritten answers next to a bunch
of generic questions because “some omegas like to get a feel for their
personalities that way” apparently, but a menu nonetheless.
Alright, they’d called the binder a “portrait catalog featuring profile
highlights on available volunteers,” but that’s not much better. Catalogs
should be how people without internet order themselves fancy winter coats, not
pick a person to sleep with in order to make a superfluous biological function
more bearable. He supposes it’s better than them throwing random guys at him
like darts until one of them makes him wet. Jesus, it’s embarrassing though.
He wonders now if the psychiatrist’s suggestion wasn’t a sadistic joke in
disguise. He had to know enough about the protocol as a doctor to realize that
Will would hate this. Maybe it’s a long game to chase Will eagerly into his
arms just to avoid ever going through it again.
At this point, Will’s only flipping through it and pretending to give each page
more than a passing glance to humor them for taking time out of their schedule
to help him, because he’s eighty percent sure he doesn’t want to do this
anymore. His brief flare of libido since yesterday has already faded back into
the usual grungy, tired feeling and, to be honest, he’s not really interested
in revving it up again. He can just go back to Port Haven and make dumb jokes
with Abigail about the whole situation, maybe even make a blanket nest to ride
the rest of it out in just for the hell of it.
He turns another page in the binder and freezes. Matthew Brown’s face smirks up
at him on the next one, and curiosity makes him linger long enough to actually
read the man’s profile. “Orderly at Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally
Insane” is written in neat, blocky writing next to “OCCUPATION.” He can’t
imagine that’s much of a turn-on for most omegas and wonders if Brown wrote it
out fully where an acronym or just “Orderly” would have sufficed on purpose,
effectively filtering out the ones who would be put off by it.
A curious move when most would spin their answers in the most positive light to
maximize their own appeal and put potential clients more at ease.
“You like that one?” the clinic rep asks kindly.
Like is a rather strong word, he wants to snark in response, but the rep has
done nothing to earn his sass, and contrary to the general opinion that Will
Graham doesn’t have a polite bone in his body, he does possess enough manners
not to harass an employee just trying to do their job. So instead, after a
moment’s consideration, he just nods.
*
Forty minutes later—after the representative verbally reads a lengthy
disclaimer to remind Will, among other things, that he and his heat partner
both have the right to end the session at any time for any reason, and that
they are required under penalty of law to use the protection provided as
failure to do so would result in a fine of no more than $5,000 against them
both—Will is led into a small room not unlike the ones doctors use for
consultation visits, but with a full size bed instead of a narrow exam table
and a door to the right which presumably houses the shower and toilet. After
another brief wait alone—this one only a few minutes—Matthew Brown enters the
room and shuts the door behind him.
No surprise registers on Brown’s face—which makes sense as he would obviously
have been briefed on who requested him before agreeing to the session in the
first place—but a lop-sided grin slowly unfurls as he takes the sight of Will
in. “Hey there,” he greets like an old familiar friend.
Will, sitting on one of the cheap, plastic cafeteria-style chairs fully clothed
and decidedly not in the pepto pink hospital gown still folded neatly at the
foot of the bed, returns a personable but less intimately voiced welcome. “Hi
Matthew.”
The silence drags on after that as Will realizes he has no fucking clue what to
say next, having not thought this through far enough ahead, though Matthew
seems not to mind. The purposeful way Matthew starts walking toward him,
however, is enough to make Will stiffen and find his words. “I didn’t actually
come here for that,”he says quickly.
The beta’s hand drops back to his side after coming only a hairsbreadth from
touching Will’s shoulder, and instead he grabs the chair next to Will’s and
pulls it around to sit across from him as if that was his intention all along.
He’s still close enough that their knees could almost be touching, and Will
makes a conscious effort to sit still and not scoot his own seat further back.
“What did you want to see me for then?”
There are a few approaches Will could take here. He could lie, say something
flirtatious to stroke his ego, but he decides instead to go with simple and
honest. “I was curious.”
The beta’s expression lights up, almost preening, letting Will know that he
made the right choice, that the simple, unfiltered fact of the omega’s
attention is more valuable to him than false flattery. “About?” he asks.
Will shrugs. “You. This,” he says, gesturing the room around them.
“My volunteer work?” Matthew leans back in his chair, smirking. “Can’t I just
be a humanitarian who likes helping people in need?”
“Definitely not,” Will retorts automatically.
The beta grins delightedly and Will watches, fascinated, as that morphs
flawlessly into a leer and Brown leans forward again, closer than before.
“Maybe I just like getting my pick of pretty little omegas to squirm around my
dick whenever I want,” he breathes, clearly trying to rile Will up.
“Come on, Matthew,” Will says with a coy smirk of his own, hoping nothing in
his face or his voice belies the way his stomach roils, “Don’t sell yourself so
short. We both know it’s not really about the sex.”
Will has never seen someone look so gleeful at being caught in a lie. Matthew
tilts his head, hawk-like. “Tell me what it is about then,” he says, the
breathiness in his voice no longer put-on.
“Power,” Will answers simply because, really, it’s obvious. “Power over them
which they give to you freely. You’d never hurt them, of course. That’s not the
point, and you know enough not to shit where you eat even if your urges ran
that way. No, they always leave after seeing you happy and satisfied,” Will
tells him sweetly. “But,” he pauses to lean away under the guise of relaxing
further in his seat, playful smile still affixed, “it can’t just be any old
sweet, weak-willed, pretty little thing because where’s the fun in that? You
need someone who wants to be held down, truly wants what you’re offering.
Someone to catch at least a glimpse of what’s lurking beneath and crave it.”
Of course, a run-of-the-mill dominance kink is not what makes Will’s spine
prickle with unease every time he looks at the man, nor does Will find anything
wrong with it in itself. The problem is that it’s a very good front for what
else the man is hiding, something the omegas he sleeps with never see and which
ultimately leaves Matthew unfulfilled and dissatisfied, eternally looking for
someone to match what he’s actually looking for and coming up empty.
Brown lets out another long breath and leans back in his own chair. “You know,
for someone who didn’t come here looking for that,” he parrots Will’s words
back with a mocking lilt, “you sure have a way with words that could make a man
forget himself if you’re not careful.”
For an instant, Will has a flash to the rough burn of carpeted stairs digging
into his back, crushing, heaving weight looming above, teeth dripping and red
with his own blood and the glean of fanatical adoration in his newly-formed
mate’s eyes. His fingers curl painfully around the uncomfortable armrests and
he looks away for a moment, swallowing. He unconsciously displays the scar of
his old claiming bite when he turns his head, bringing a sneer to the other
man’s lips, jealous and hungry.
Will turns back to the beta and narrows his eyes, remembering something. “You
sought me out at the bar, even though your usual MO is to let someone come to
you. Why?”
“Guess I just saw something in you that made me realize I knew exactly what you
were looking for.”
“No, you didn’t,” Will assures him, cynical and flat.
“Really, Will Graham?” Brown asks, sly, the too-familiar tone returning as he
says his name. “All anyone need do is look at you to figure out what you’ve
been missing,” he says, gaze flickering between the scars on Will’s face and
neck.
“You’ve been reading Freddie Lounds,” Will sneers, understanding prickling at
the back of his neck and causing the hairs to stand on end. Brown laughs,
expression caught. “You know, you really shouldn’t take anything she says to
heart. Most of what she writes is garbage.”
Brown glances at the floor, still smiling. “Ah…it wasn’t Lounds actually,” he
confesses, looking back up at Will. “It was my boss.”
Will’s brows furrow together in suspicion. “The…director? At BSHCI?” he asks
confusedly.
“He has not shut up about you since the FBI found you,” Brown informs him, lips
twisted in unkind amusement. It’s clear the man has little respect for his
employer. “Especially since that incident with the, um, the mushroom guy?”
“Eldon Stammets,” Will says. Matthew shrugs, the name obviously making no
difference to him one way or another.
“He was pissed when they gave you over to Bloom instead of him,” he carries on
gleefully. Will’s stomach drops, both at the revelation that the director of
the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane thinks he belongs there
more than at Port Haven, and the admittance that Matthew knows far more about
Will’s situation than he’d previously let on. “Thinks getting the chance to
study you would really make his career.”
All of this is too much new information to process right now. Will needs to get
home and have a chance to think and regroup. He still feels sick from his heat
as well, though it’s hard to separate out what’s caused by that or the rolling
nausea he’s felt since soon after Matthew walked in.
He jolts when fingers brush back one of his curls, no longer damp but a little
oily from earlier sweating. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, recoiling from Brown’s
hand.
“You’re awfully tense, omega. Sure you don’t want me to help you with that
before you go?” Matthew asks solicitously.
“More than sure,” Will snaps, destroying any remaining pretense the beta might
have been laboring under that Will could ever possibly want anything to do with
him.
Matthew takes it in stride, eyes dancing with mirth rather than the sting of
rejection. Will regrets ever setting up this little meeting, certain now that
it’s only fanned the flames of something he hadn’t known had already been
burning at Matthew’s core since before the two of them even met.
Will gets out of there as quickly as he can without causing a commotion at the
front desk soon after, the memory of Matthew’s smirking gaze as he walked out
following him. He wants a shower so he can scrub away all the grime just from
being in the same room with the creep. He wants fervently never to see Matthew
Brown again in this lifetime or the next.
He has the sinking suspicion that he should be so lucky. When has Will Graham’s
luck ever panned out how he wants it?
Chapter End Notes
     Honestly, Will, it's not like you made things any easier on yourself
     rewriting this damn chapter for me. Just sayin'.
***** The Swallow's Tail *****
Chapter Notes
     Another_Salvador_Dalí_painting_for_you.
     I've cleaned up the tags for this fic (since they were getting WAY
     out of hand) and added a few new ones which I'd forgotten to include
     before as they cover something that hasn't been specifically
     addressed in-fic so far (yep, astoundingly, not even in those
     otherwise rather explicit sex scenes. I checked! I know, it surprised
     me too :0).
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                            XV. The Swallow's Tail
                                        
“How about this one?” Abigail asks, twirling around to give Doctor Bloom a
better look.
“Oh, that’s adorable! In a very mature way, of course,” Alana amends with a
soft, amused clearing of her throat at the mock-annoyed look Abigail throws her
for the first comment. The dress is a deep wine shade of purple, like a smoky
Shiraz, with a mini Princess-cut skirt that brushes just past her knees and
puffy Queen Anne style sleeves. It really is a rather cute dress, with the
color doing most of the work to give a touch more mature elegance to its look.
“You don’t think it’s a little too casual? I wanted to pick something I could
wear again later, but most of the stuff here looks like it would be out of
place anywhere except at prom.”
“It’s actually the perfect cocktail dress for this kind of occasion. Most of
the ladies who’ll be attending will want to save their mermaid gowns for
opening night at the opera,” Alana assures her with a bare teasing smile.
“Plus, that color looks great on you.”
“Thanks,” says Abigail shyly. “I have a hard time telling what’s supposed to be
the ‘right’ level of classy for something like this.” She puts her hands on her
hips, looking down to think to herself for a moment, and then nods once
decisively. “Okay. This is the one. I’m going to change back now and meet up
with you at the cashier’s.”
“Alright. Afterwards, we can stop by the makeup counter if you want for tips.
They might even throw in a free makeover to demonstrate what goes best with
your dress if we buy something.”
“Sounds great, I’ll meet you over there!” Humming to herself a bit, she pops
back into the dressing room to change back into her blouse and skinny jeans.
This honestly has been more fun than she anticipated. Even though she wouldn’t
say she cares all that much about fashion most of the time, it’s nice to get to
be girly with someone once in a while.
Idly, she wonders if Will is at least wringing some fun out of looking at suits
with Doctor Lecter on the other side of the store.
*
At first, Will has trouble feeling anything but dour about the whole situation
when Abigail and Alana go off on their own and leave him alone with Lecter at
the men’s half of the department store…until he realizes this presents him with
the perfect opportunity to ruffle the alpha’s feathers without Bloom’s notice
or interference.
It helps too that Hannibal seems to enjoy being there about as much as Will
does. If anything, it makes him almost gleeful as he thinks about what he can
do while they’re there to make Hannibal feel even more put-upon.
“I’d’ve thought for sure you’d love this part,” Will needles, making a show of
holding up the sleeve of a truly hideous tweed jacket within reach as if
admiring it. “Finally, a chance to dress me up like you’ve always wanted.”
He realizes quickly the reason he isn’t getting the reaction he wants is
because Hannibal is too busy giving the exact expression he hoped for to a
display for a discount suit proudly proclaiming itself to be “40% off!!” in
bold red lettering. God forbid the man ever set foot inside a Wal-Mart if this
is the level of disdain he holds for the merchandise in a moderately well-kept
and put-together formal clothing store.
“I admit this is not the shop I would have chosen were it up to me. I would
have preferred to take you and Abigail to a proper tailor, but Doctor Bloom was
fairly insistent and gave this…establishment almost a glowing recommendation.”
Lecter’s tone says he is calling his colleague’s tastes into rather serious
doubt now. He might have known half of the man’s distaste would come from
buying anything for this affair directly off the rack.
“Well, this one’s not too bad,” Will says, reaching for the suit Hannibal had
been fixated on in such morbid disgust. The alpha’s fingers dart to catch
around his wrist urgently, as if Will were about to put his hand in toxic
sludge.
“While the quality here in general may leave a lot to be desired, we can still
do better than that,” Lecter intones seriously.
Will bites his lip to hold back a giggle, fairly certain it would be pushing
his luck a little too far if he were to laugh at the man outright, but quirks a
deeply amused brow and waggles his fingers when the alpha continues to hold on
for a moment longer than necessary without letting go. The man releases his
grip, but not without returning the look with one of his own which says there
will be consequences if Will dares try to pick that abomination again. Will is
tempted to find out just what those consequences may be, but he pulls his arm
back and allows himself instead to be steered in the direction of more suitable
attire hanging far, far away from any clearance racks.
“Just don’t forget, I am here on a budget,” he says, patting the pocket where
Bloom’s gift card, already separated out from the rest of the cards in his
wallet, resides. A crease comes between Hannibal’s brows; at first Will isn’t
sure what it means, but then decides he must be having an internal debate of
some kind.
“Trying to think of how you can offer to pay for mine and Abigail’s stuff
without stepping on Doctor Bloom’s toes?” he guesses. The slight smile Lecter
gives him borders just short of wry, telling him he’d guessed right.
“There is always next time,” the alpha concedes.
“You’re awfully damn sure there’ll be a next time,” Will mutters, accepting the
outfits Hannibal passes to him to try with a sardonic look of his own. “We
haven’t even gone yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself. For all you know, this
could be as much a disaster as your last big idea.” Too late, he realizes what
he let slip and his mouth thins into a narrow, self-reproving line, annoyed
with himself. He turns away and relaxes his face again before Lecter can see
it.
“My last big idea?” It doesn’t take long for the psychiatrist to figure out
what he means. “Did something happen at the clinic, Will?” he asks. He seems
genuinely concerned about this too, damn him.
“No. I suppose ‘disaster’ might have been a touch dramatic.” It’s not
technically a lie, he reasons. All he and Matthew did was talk for Pete’s sake.
This gives him an idea, however.
“The guy they paired me with was certainly intriguing,” Will tells him with a
vague smile, giving nothing away. “It’s just too bad he didn’t quite satisfy
that itch.” He deliberately doesn’t look at the other man as he adds, “Guess he
wasn’t what I was looking for in a bedmate after all.”
Hannibal makes a diffident sound of acknowledgement, having no apparent comment
to give otherwise. But Will, watching carefully out of the corner of his eye,
doesn’t miss the way his fingers tighten just minutely in the fabric of another
article of clothing before he continues browsing through the racks.
“Oh well,” Will exhales on a lofty sigh. He looks up, deliberate in the way he
does make eye contact this time, and says, “Next time, right?”
Smile just shy of coquettish, he slings the suits he’s been holding behind his
back, and while he doesn’t quite flounce—he can say with confidence that he has
likely never, not even once in his life, flounced—to the dressing rooms, he
does walk there with a sense of victory that threatens to transform his smirk
into a cruel grin as he feels the other man’s eyes burn a hole into his back.
*
Will Graham is toying with him.
He knows this with as much certainty as he knows that he is not the only one
who has sensed the potential of a true equal to partner with, whether Graham
acknowledges it yet or not. The omega he has chosen is a stubborn creature,
courting chase for the sake of their game but not with intent to be caught,
liable to turn around and bite the hand that reaches for him the moment it gets
too close. How fortunate then, that Hannibal does not mind the possibility of
gaining a few new scars. For what is he to do, other than to give the boy
exactly what he wants?
Hope is a cruel thing, and Will Graham infinitely crueler. It is part of his
equally infinite charm.
*
“Wow,” Will says when Abigail and Alana walk out of her office together later
that evening. “You guys look…wow.”
“You don’t clean up half bad yourself,” Abigail teases, poking him in the
center of his chest with her finger. Just for that, he reaches as if he intends
to pluck out one of the carefully placed black rhinestones in her loose bun.
“Quiiiiiit,” she warbles, dodging away from his hand at the last minute.
“You’ll mess it up!”
“Settle down, children,” Alana says, a light grin on her expertly colored lips
further brightening her already lovely face. Her own hair is down in gentle
waves around her face and her dress is a deep sapphire blue that catches and
sparkles in the light of her dangling earrings and her wide blue eyes. She is,
in a word, stunning, and Will suspects that had his proclivities run in that
direction he would not have been able to look away.
“No tie?” she asks him, lips still tilted upward so that it’s apparent there’s
no disapproval in her question. He shrugs.
“Y’all did say we wouldn’t have to be that formal.”
The three of them stand outside to wait, Hannibal driving up in his Bentley to
pick them up soon after. The alpha gets out of his car to hold the doors open
for them, backseat for Will and Abigail, front passenger side for Alana. Will
doesn’t fail to notice that his gaze lingers on Will’s open collar as he slides
in, eyes glittering almost as imperceptibly as the pearl-snap buttons of Will’s
shirt which Hannibal only regrets could not be actual pearls.
Will buries the thrum of pleasure that suggests relief that the other man’s
stare is not similarly beholden to Alana’s appearance.
“I almost wish Cassie were around just to see us so she could eat crow,”
Abigail says gleefully as they slip on their seatbelts and pull away. Alana
sighs a little but she looks like she’s trying to hide a smile of her own.
“Who?” Hannibal asks in a tone that suggests mild confusion without looking
away from the road.
“The girl who was so eager to inform me of Will and Abigail’s return after
their little escapade,” the older woman explains wryly.
“She hasn’t been back since she left during Hell Week,” Will adds, referring to
the unofficial title most of the nurses and patients use to describe that
window of time when most of the omegas with their synced-up cycles go into heat
at the same time, although they tend to be more careful about not using it
within Doctor Bloom’s earshot. The not-quite smile or frown Alana wears when
Will mentions it indicates she is already well-aware of the nickname anyway.
“Her parents were pleased with how well she seemed to handle herself at home
and decided to withdraw her permanently,” she responds neutrally, careful not
to reveal her own beliefs on the matter.
“You mean she managed to refrain from throwing herself at sweet Nicky boy?
They’re right, that is impressive,” Will drawls. “Unless, of course, he wasn’t
around for her heat, in which case they’ve just decided that’s a more elegant
solution than spending thousands of dollars keeping them apart all fifty-two
weeks of the year.”
“Can we please not talk about this?” Alana asks tightly, even as Abigail
snickers. “I swear, you two are more interested in gossiping about other
people’s therapies than you are in focusing on your own.”
“Alana,” Hannibal says with a light smile of his own as if to chide ‘let them
have their fun.’She relents with another wry grin, eyes all for him. To the
passive onlooker, they could be a married couple taking their 2.5 kids for a
pleasant evening out. Francis would think so, Will thinks, imagining it as if
his late alpha were in the dark of that car with them, looking on in jealous
lust and clenching his jaw like a hungry dog.
“You okay?” Abigail asks quietly while Bloom is distracted by something else
she and Hannibal are discussing. Will nods tacitly without looking forward at
either of them. Hannibal glances back at him through the rearview mirror before
returning his own response to Alana.
Hannibal slides smoothly out of his seat once they arrive at the concert hall
to pass his keys to the valet and opens the doors for them again. Alana and
Abigail both step out on the right side, but Will stubbornly opens his own door
to get out on the left, even if it means stepping out onto the road and taking
longer to go around to the sidewalk.
Hannibal meets him at the curb and offers his arm. Will nearly gapes at the
forwardness of the gesture. What would Bloom in all her wary concerns for Will
and shy, private hopes for Lecter make of it? He cranes a little to look and
realizes the man has cleverly gotten Alana to link similarly with Abigail and
walk on ahead—the two of them laughing and chatting in a way that again would
allow them to pass for mother and daughter—so to her it won’t look the same as
it will appear to everyone else when Hannibal Lecter, eligible alpha bachelor,
strolls proudly into the building with an omega at his side.
“Oh, you’re a talented fucker, I’ll grant you that,” Will mutters for his
benefit, the other man leaning his head intimately towards Will’s to listen. He
feels the other man’s quiet chuckling as puffs of warm, delighted breath
against his face and neck.
There isn’t much time to mingle before the show, for which Will is grateful;
he’s already noticed a few socialites around eyeing Lecter surreptitiously as
if they cannot wait to latch on and find out what he thinks of the performance
during intermission. Only one brave soul ventures close to him now, a striking
older brunette with a bob cut and a scintillatingly mauve cocktail dress that
makes her look like a more mature but no less marvelously frivolous version of
Gatsby’s Daisy.
“Hannibal!” she greets with warmth and brilliancy. There is an air of
cleverness to her that Daisy Buchanan certainly lacks in her depictions as
well. Hannibal releases Will’s arm only then to exchange air kisses with her.
The skin through his sleeve tingles at the loss.
“Will, this is Francine Komeda,” the doctor introduces them. “Mrs. Komeda, may
I introduce you to Will Graham, Abigail Hobbs, and I believe you already know
Alana Bloom here,” he continues as the latter two join them.
“Yes, how are you, dear?” Mrs. Komeda says, taking one of Alana’s hands with
both of her own and exchanging more air kisses. Will is glad he and Abigail are
spared the somewhat embarrassing gesture as new acquaintances.
“I must say, it is a bit curious,” here, her eyes seem to sparkle with an
almost mischievous glint which Hannibal returns with an indulgent smirk, “but
supremely delightful nonetheless to see you in attendance with company for
once.”
That word, company, appears to fill the whole of her mouth with its shape like
a rich dark chocolate, the crunch and pop of which against her teeth seems to
satisfy as fully as its smooth sweetness. She is careful in the way her gaze
sweeps across all three of Hannibal’s guests to include all of them in it, but
it rests last and longest on the infinitesimal gap of space between Will and
Hannibal, who have not moved to put further distance between them yet since
they stopped walking.
“Hannibal invited the three of us out,” Alana confirms. “It was a wonderful
suggestion. It really has been too long since any of us have been able to go
out for something fun and enjoy ourselves.”
“Some of us longer than others,” Abigail agrees with a significant glance at
Will, who resists the urge to do anything childish like lightly step on her
foot or stick his tongue out at her.
“I’m glad. The four of you out together though, why, it’s practically a party!
Although,” the older omega adds with a loaded glance at Hannibal, “I suspect he
won’t be cooking properly for you like one.”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Komeda,” Hannibal refutes. “I will certainly be
providing dinner for us at my home after the performance has ended.”
“I said properly, Hannibal,” Mrs. Komeda ripostes with both hands on her hips.
“As in dinner and a show. It’s a performance in its own right.”
“So, you’re really that great a chef, huh?” Abigail asks the man curiously.
“He is,” Will answers for him. “It’s pretty annoying actually.” Hannibal
appears shamelessly pleased by that comment while Alana huffs out a surprised
laugh and swats Will’s arm lightly with her program in chiding amusement.
Komeda’s own smirk glitters with hidden depths as she glances between Hannibal
and Will again. She seems about to say something but changes her mind on it at
the last second. “Alana darling, how long has it been since Hannibal put on one
of his dinner parties for us?” she turns to the other woman to ask instead as a
shift in topic.
“Too long,” Alana replies with an amused twinkle that suggests she’s giving
exactly the answer she knows Mrs. Komeda wants to hear.
“Far too long,” Komeda agrees with practiced elegance. It’s apparent she’s made
this particular opinion known more than once before in Hannibal’s presence.
“One must wait for inspiration to strike,” Hannibal retaliates, clearly
enjoying their verbal spar as much as she. “The feast must present itself. It
cannot be forced.”
“It’s dinner, Hannibal, not a unicorn. But I suppose I’ll forgive you,” she
says. Hannibal seems almost surprised. “As long as you promise this inspiration
you’re holding out for will be something magnificent worth celebrating.” Her
gaze flickers briefly to the gap between their arms again, so quickly Will
isn’t sure he’s not misinterpreting it.
“I assure you I won’t settle for anything less,” Hannibal promises. Will is
left with the disorienting impression that he’s missed something vital just
now.
The lights dim to signal the concert is starting soon. Mrs. Komeda excuses
herself then to allow the five of them to make their way to their seats.
*
The music is lovely, he’ll give it that, but Will also has to admit that he
simply doesn’t get it. His enjoyment of playing the piano does not translate
into a deeper appreciation for live symphony, it would seem.
He tries not to fidget much beyond the arrhythmic tapping of his fingers
against his knee—he gave up on stopping himself from doing that much maybe
twenty minutes in. He lets the orchestra play as the backdrop against which his
own thoughts shift and reorganize themselves, finding it useful for that much
at least but wondering if that’s what he’s supposed to be getting out of it or
if there’s something more he’s missing.
He tries looking to Alana and Abigail for clues, but he can’t find their faces
in the dark. When he turns to Hannibal instead, however, his breath catches in
his throat. He can see the man’s eyes gazing fixedly ahead at the musicians on
stage, though it takes him a few moments to realize this is because they are
glistening with unshed tears.
Hannibal is transfixed by the performance. Will is transfixed by Hannibal’s
reaction to it.
Both of their gazes remain firmly affixed without wavering, Will wondering if
it’s truly possible for Hannibal to not notice he’s being stared at and a
little awed by it. His fingers have ceased tapping, but they curl and fan
outward against his thigh in timing with every crest and swell of the symphonic
movement he’s forgotten entirely about.
They are among the first to stand and applaud once it’s over, though Will has
little idea what he’s applauding for other than the zinging energy that races
through his arms compelling him to do it. He is still staring when Hannibal
looks back at him finally and asks if he enjoyed the performance. Will nods.
Only when Hannibal breaks eye contact to usher them out to the lounge is Will
able to turn his head away finally, rolling his neck to work out the kink from
keeping it held to the side for so long.
Alana and Abigail excuse themselves to go powder their noses. Hannibal offers
to fetch them drinks and leaves Will to stand alone next to a pillar away from
the crowd, perhaps sensing that the omega would appreciate a quiet moment alone
to his thoughts. He feels curiously buoyant and empty all at once.
Another man makes his way out of the crowd to stand near the same wall, a sway
to his step which makes it apparent the flute of champagne in his hand is far
from his first, or likely even his second or third. The man doesn’t notice Will
right away, but once he realizes he’s not alone, he takes in the young omega’s
appearance with a long, slow blink and says apropos of nothing, “Well, you’re a
pretty one, aren’t you?”
Will doesn’t quite have his capacity for speech back yet after earlier, so he
keeps a disinterested gaze forward, somewhere vaguely within and above the
crowd, and pretends not to hear.
“Sure,” the man says in agreement with himself, conversationally as if quite
used to being met with silence and no longer bothered by it. “Sure. Pretty
enough. Still. Not so pretty you shouldn’t count yourself lucky not to have
been born back in the quote unquote good old days,”the man sneers. Will blinks,
brows furrowed, and shifts his head to watch the strange man finally out of the
corner of his eye. The other man is emboldened by this.
“They ever teach you what they used to do to, to pretty omega boys like you at
school?” he stutters and slurs more animatedly. They did, and now that Will’s
aware of where he’s going with this he’d rather not hear about it again, but he
doesn’t have his words back yet and is disinclined to move since he was here
first. “They’d have stuffed you into a dress, made you into something you’re
not.”
The man’s words are bubbling with indignant frustration, though not on behalf
of the omegas who went through this in the past, but rather against them as
though they were somehow complicit in their own misgendering. “Like one of, one
of those,” he says, pointing, and Will’s own anger and indignation is entirely
on behalf of whomever the rude pointing and ruder words are for even before he
sees that it’s Mrs. Komeda. In the absence of his voice, Will’s fingers curl
with the desire to tear into the man with his hands instead.
“Douglas, how are you? Enjoying the show, I trust.” The drunk man drops his
hand and pales, apparently surprised and visibly shaken to find that his
pointing has summoned the woman herself. “Cat got your tongue, dear?” she asks
solicitously. ‘Douglas’ only sputters and stares for a moment longer before
muttering a quick, flustered ‘excuse me’and quickly scampering off with his
tail between his legs. She watches him go with an arch smile.
“Douglas Wilson. He’s a trombonist for the orchestra, but his performances have
taken such a dive recently that he’s little more than a benchwarmer for them
these days,” she confides to Will. “You mustn’t take anything he says to heart.
He’s bitter and prone to all manner of stupidity when he’s been at his cups for
a while, which lately is always.”
“He…he said…” Will’s tongue is still a bit quiet and halting, which frustrates
him, but at least he is finding his voice again with a little effort.
“I know, darling. You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “He hasn’t been invited
to another Christmas party of mine in over twelve years. Not since my sweet
Albert, God rest him, threw him quite literally out into the snow for the same
misinformed ramblings,” she adds, her smile turning to one of fond
reminiscence, presumably at the mention of her late husband. “And they are
misinformed, let me assure you before you get it into your head to worry about
me for sillier reasons. It’s true, the name on my birth certificate used to be
‘Gerald’ and I’ve never seen a reason to hide that fact from anyone. But,” here
her grin widens and she throws in a wink for good measure. “No one ever shoved
me into a dress that wasn’t of my own design and choosing,” she says.
“I believe it,” Will tells her honestly.
Hannibal returns shortly with a greeting for Mrs. Komeda and a glass of
champagne for Will. “Was that a member of the orchestra you were speaking to
just now?” Typical that nothing like that would get past him even from the line
at the bar halfway across the room.
“Not one worth listening to,” Will notes snidely, and mimics Hannibal’s
movements in the way he sips his champagne.
“I must return to my own companions for the evening again,” Mrs. Komeda says
and gracefully takes her leave of them for the second time. Will and Hannibal
are left alone once more to await their remaining companions’ return from the
long queue at the powder room.
“You were very quiet earlier,” Hannibal remarks. So he had noticed.
“Mm. S’pose so. I do that sometimes,” Will deflects, not wanting to go into it
further and admit there might have been something particular behind his
withdrawal, something he doesn’t have a name for. He watches the bubbles
streaming upwards in his glass contemplatively.
“Don’t go inside again, Will.” Will blinks up at his companion, startled by the
unexpected urgency of the request. Something very subtle and indefinable has
begun to shift between the two of them tonight, here as they stand apart in
their own little bubble of reality amidst a sea of faces. “You’ll want to
retreat. I’m asking you not to.” The other man takes almost an imperceptibly
tiny step closer, and yet everything within Will screams at him to back up,
even as it demands just as loudly that he not, that he do anything but that.
“Stay with me.”
“Where else would I go?” he asks before he can hold the words back, an echo of
something he said to someone else not so long ago, but under wholly different
circumstances so that if feels like something entirely new to utter them now.
Lecter has no answer to that. The moment stretches between them, long and
uncomfortable, until Alana’s voice politely calls them to attention from some
small distance away. With hesitation in his eyes which only Will can see,
Hannibal turns away from him to welcome Alana and Abigail back upon their
timely return before the next curtain call.
As the lights begin to dim once more, Will downs the last of his champagne.
*
Lecter’s home is a curious mixture of the exotic and the familiar, old world
charm and expensive curios thrown in beside vibrant feathers and creeping
antlers which would not have looked out of place in Abigail’s old house in
Minnesota. She likes it, and she is unnerved by it. She thinks this must be
Will’s first visit too, and that they should compare notes on it later when
he’s not being so weird.
The clever thing about always being a little weird is that it’s harder for
others to tell the difference between the “usual” weird and the unusual, not
without knowing that person really, really well. Doctor Bloom doesn’t notice
anything especially weird about Will. Abigail does. She doesn’t know Doctor
Lecter as well, as perhaps no one does, but based on only her observations of
her best friend, she’d guess that something must have happened between them in
those few minutes she and Bloom were gone. She’d also guess that whatever is
going on, her friend will be, in true Will Graham fashion, as ridiculous and
impossible about it as he can be.
Abigail is unconcerned about this. Will will figure Will out on his own terms,
and he knows she’ll be around to act as a sounding board if need be. The depth
of their connection is one that has allowed her to get to know herself better
as well. For instance, she feels no pressure to poke or prod heedlessly, no
desire to do anything more than simply enjoy her night and make her own private
observations unhindered by obligation to do anything with them outside of
immediate needs, or what she wants, or what Will asks.
This is one reason, layered upon a multitude of many which make up the essence
of who Abigail Hobbs is, that she is able to ignore the automatic impulse to
seek eye contact when she takes a bite of their first course, a refreshing
spring salad topped with thick slices of glazed ham, and tastes that it is not
really ham at all.
She pauses mid-bite, unnoticed by the woman across from her or the boy beside
her still engaged in a conversation which no longer holds her attention. She
chews. Swallows. Only then does she allow herself to look up.
Doctor Lecter is looking right back. He smiles, a genuine smile with real
warmth and eye crinkles. It’s timed perfectly so that it coincides with some
witty observation Doctor Bloom is making about the event they attended, but
Abigail knows it’s for her. Abigail does not smile back, but neither does she
frown, or look back in disapproval or fear, or in anything other than blank
curiosity and quiet confirmation of her knowledge.
He looks away from her first, and everything about his posture is relaxed.
Content and pleased as a happy little duckling. Trusting. She relaxes too.
She looks back down at her own plate, and takes another bite.
Chapter End Notes
     Well, now things are finally starting to get interesting. ;)
***** The Wound Man *****
Chapter Notes
     Reasons for the chapter title should be rather obvious, I would
     think. :P There's a_lot_of_versions to choose from, so take your
     pick.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                              XVI. The Wound Man
 
It is one of Doctor Bloom’s busiest class days, when she will be at Quantico
for most of the morning and early afternoon. Jack Crawford is grateful for the
rather fortuitous coincidence—it means the beta won’t be around to rain steely
disapproval down on his head and try to stand in his way when he shows up at
Port Haven to do what he has to do. A quick flash of his badge and an ‘I won’t
brook any nonsense’ attitude at the receptionist’s desk are all that he needs
to get the job done.
“Let’s go, Graham,” he says the moment the boy is brought up front after he’s
done signing him out. “Taking you on a field trip.”
“Where to?” Graham asks, trailing after him unhesitatingly despite having no
idea what’s going on, sure footed. Crawford could use more like him out on the
field, people who don’t waste any of his time; his own agents can even try his
patience in situations such as these.
“Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.” At this, the boy does
hesitate briefly, one foot hovering uncertainly for a moment before he finishes
that step and keeps moving forward, a shadow passing over his face before it is
just as quickly gone. It is enough to make Jack feel an extra stab of guilt,
this reminder that not everyone is used to trudging through the dross of
humanity as he is, and Will is so young.
‘Too young,’ some would say, and ‘Hasn’t he been through enough?’ some others.
To which Jack would answer yes, and again yes, more than, but this has to be
done. He needs someone who can see in ways no one else can, and Jack knows he
is too close to this himself to be objective. He allows that knowledge to shore
up his resolve. This has to be done.
“Know anything about a killer called the Chesapeake Ripper?” he asks as they
get back into his car and buckle in. Will shakes his head. It’s just as well.
He can take an unbiased look and tell Jack what he thinks without any
preconceived notions clouding his view. Afterwards, Jack will let him look over
the Ripper’s file and build up the rest of his profile from there.
He fills him in on only the most pertinent details to the situation at hand.
“The Ripper killed some folks and displayed them in elaborate ways before he
went to ground about two years ago. This morning, I got a call from the chief
of staff at BSHCI that one of the inmates there murdered a nurse in a manner
that matches some of the hallmarks of one of those killings.”
“Don’t tell me anything more right now,” Will says, almost brusque. He’s had
the same thought that Jack has about keeping him free from bias until he’s seen
it for himself. Jack spares him an approving nod before returning his attention
to the road.
They don’t speak again until they pull into the parking lot outside of the
hospital. Once there, Jack pauses in cutting the engine and drops his hand away
from the ignition, turning partway in his seat toward the younger man sitting
beside him. “Doctor Bloom doesn’t want you looking at anything like this,” he
says. “No one can blame her for that. I certainly can’t. This kind of
thing…well, it can get under your skin if you let it. And you’ve already had
more than your fair share of dealing with this kind of ugliness before.” The
boy twitches at that but doesn’t say anything. “More than anyone has a right to
ask you to bear witness to again. But I am. Asking.”
Will turns his head in his direction, keeping a steady gaze on Jack’s shoulder.
“You look, you tell me what you see, and if you need to go, we’ll go,” the
alpha continues. “Doctor Bloom is worried I’ll break you, Will, but I think
you’re stronger than that. You’re tougher than anyone else realizes.”
Graham offers him eye contact then, briefly, before it flickers away again in a
rapid blink like the flutter of fairy’s wings, gone with a quivering smile and
a nod. He’s unbuckled from his seat and out of the car almost before the
engine’s rumble has reached its end when Jack cuts it.
Will stares up at the stone edifice of the entrance, imperious and slate grey
as a fortress, though one designed to keep prisoners in rather than invaders
out. Dramatic, he thinks, and isn’t sure if he means the building itself or the
slant of his own thoughts. Bit of both perhaps. He’s sure, however, that
Crawford has no intention of leaving him here. Not today, at least.
The bold, glossy letters spelling out “VISITOR” on the badges they pin to him
and Crawford at sign-in are possibly more reassuring than he cares to admit.
“Agent Crawford, so good to see you again. Unfortunate circumstances aside, of
course.” The man who steps forward to greet them is dressed in a sharp grey
suit, hair coiffed and beard carefully trimmed and groomed. Will thinks the
look he is trying to pull off is one of timeless sophistication, but what comes
more readily to mind is the oil-slick shine of a used car salesman.
The two exchange handshakes and a few polite words of familiarity, and then the
bearded man shifts his attention to Will in a way that is tempered to appear as
if he were only just now taking notice of the fact that he has another visitor,
an affectation that is ruined by the avid gleam of his gaze. “And this must be
the famous Will Graham I’ve heard so much about.” Will represses the shudder
that hearing his name come out of that spit-slicked mouth brings.
Jack introduces the beta man to him as Dr. Frederick Chilton, director and
chief of staff at the hospital, as if Will had not already gathered as much
quite easily by himself.
“Lots of talk about you in psychiatric circles of late, Mr. Graham,” the beta
says almost as if he expects Will to take that as a compliment.
“Oh yeah?” Will humors him with a sharp-edged smile.
“Yes,” Chilton reaffirms, clearly choosing to ignore the obvious sarcasm.
“Everyone is dying to know about the young omega who lived under the Tooth
Fairy’s thumb and stayed remarkably intact all those years, especially since
it’s come to light what a useful and fascinating talent you have.”
Will can feel and hear the click of his own teeth as he bites back the
automatic urge to correct, “the Great Red Dragon’s thumb,” not wanting to have
that particular impulse analyzed by either man present.
“He’s not here to be studied, Doctor,” Jack tells the other man pointedly.
“But that is why you’ve brought him here, is it not? To put his unique talent
to use,” Chilton counters, apparently past bothering to disguise his obvious
interest.
“Doctor Chilton,” Jack says, this time in warning. Will is almost surprised to
look inside himself and find a bit of gratitude there for it.
Dr. Chilton makes a show of dropping the subject, for now, and leads them to
the room where the crime took place. He puts on a grandiose speech about the
“gruesome” and “chilling” nature of the scene more with the air of a teleplay
narrator than that of a man mourning the loss of life of one of his own
employees. Will shoots Crawford a look behind the beta’s back, and Crawford
returns it, a tentative camaraderie between them in their shared disdain.
That look falls away when the door opens, and Will finds himself in the same
room as a corpse for the first time in six years. (He is not, in this moment,
taking into account the body that fell at his feet some months prior, brains
spattered on the wall behind him, which had only seconds before it fell been
his mate and the only human contact he had known throughout those long,
terrible years. Some days it seems a mercy that the abrupt dissolution of their
bond brought with it only one intense moment of noise and clarity before
everything blurred. Some days it feels like he was cheated.)
(Nor had there been time then, more than that single second to burn the image
into his retinas. There had been time with the Marlows. That was more
satisfying.)
The woman in front of him looks as if someone took the phrase ‘stuck pig’ to
its logical extreme. Other irreverent animal associations, this time with
porcupines and hedgehogs, follow soon after, and wow ok, brain, now is not the
time to play the Green Hills Zone theme from Sonic on a loop because he really
needs to be focused and not start laughing inappropriately here, thanks.
He suspects his brain is shoving absurd humor down his throat in order to
protect him from what he’s actually feeling in the deep, dark parts that are
wholly cognizant of the fact that there is a dead body right in front of him
and he is nowhere near as prepared for the reality of it as he thought. He’s
not sure if it’s a healthy response or not. That might depend on what those
feelings he’s trying not to acknowledge in front of Chilton and Crawford are.
His feet have carried him forward before he realizes it, pulling him closer to
examine the vivid red burst of her ravaged eye sockets. “This was done while
she was alive,” he points, finger hovering not quite near enough to touch,
though part of him wants to let the digit take a dip inside like a child
eagerly scooping from a jar of finger paint. He pulls away and closes his eyes.
I catch her by surprise, delighting in the astonished fear in her eyes, so
grand, I want to know what it feels like and I dig in, in, in, now she’ll never
look at anything ever again, all that fear spilling back into herself, oh this
is such fun, fun, fun!
I watch as she crawls away, blind as a slug, I could watch her like this for
hours but there’s no time and so much left to do. The stand pierces into her
back, digging in, grinding against all the lovely organs and viscera inside
like my thumbs dug into her eyes, but I know where everything is and how to
find the path of least resistance. Blood burbles up around the pole and from
her mouth as she dies and then…hmm….
His eyes open and he looks at the finished product once more, frowning. The
various tools and instruments stabbed into her like needles in a pincushion,
which at first glance had been the most astounding thing to see, now seem so
comparatively rote, each one placed meticulously with the same anxious desire
to get it right as someone labeling parts of a diagram for an important written
exam. The initial joy is gone. It feels forced.
“This isn’t his design. It’s a copy.”
He looks back to the other men in the room with him. Jack has a curious, flat
look to his face as he considers Will’s statement, carefully blank as a stone,
as bedrock.  
Chilton gawps and for a second seems almost afraid, but that vanishes quickly
as if he’s remembering something, the look becoming one of wonder for Will and
misplaced smugness again instead. “Oh! Jack, did you tell him before you got
here?” The alpha shakes his head and Chilton’s grin widens. “Simply marvelous,”
he says, gaze turned to Will again. “Will, you are absolutely correct. The
Ripper’s design here, as you put it, is based upon an illustration that
circulated in old medical texts from ancient medieval times. I might have a
textbook floating around in the office somewhere myself with a copy of that
illustration. Would you like to see it?” he asks in a manner that is somehow
both as lofty as a king offering to grant a magnanimous favor and giddily eager
to please as a schoolboy with a crush.
“Sure,” Will says, already turning away from him again. At least it means
Chilton scampers off in a hurry and leaves him and Jack some time to themselves
at the scene.
“Anything else grab your attention, Will?” Crawford asks, stepping around the
other side of the corpse opposite to where Will is standing to look at it
closer from that angle.
“I’m not trained for this, but most of the other wounds, they were almost all
done after she died, right?” he asks. Far less blood seems to have come from
all except for the eyes and the central killing blow, and far more sedately
than the vibrant gush and pop of her eyeballs.
“Yes. Forensics will confirm it later, but I can tell you now that nearly
everything occurred post-mortem.”
“Is it normal for the Ripper?” Will asks.
Jack looks at him over the corpse consideringly for a moment before giving a
short, firm negative shake of the head. They lock eyes for a whopping third
time that day and hold it for a second longer as both of them consider what
that might mean.
Chilton returns with the book and comes up beside Will, holding it open on the
page he wants him to see. He throws a wary glance at the body that demonstrates
an understandably normal human discomfort with being so near to one, yet still
holds his ground and hovers close at the omega’s side to point rather
unnecessarily to the scanned drawing in the center of the page. “You see?
Exactly the same wound patterns, right down to a T,” he says in what he clearly
believes to be a helpful tone.
Will takes the book from him and a considerable sidestep away so the man can no
longer crowd into his personal space. He looks back and forth from the book to
the body, circling it slowly as he goes, and confirms this assertion for every
last one. “What kind of people would know about this diagram?” he asks.
“Oh, anyone with a decent background in the history of modern medicine,” says
Chilton with a wave of his hand. He seems not to have taken offense to Will’s
quick skirting away from him, indeed may not even have recognized it as
intentional. “Doctors and surgeons especially. Which, incidentally, is a
component of the Ripper’s profile, and…” he pauses for dramatic effect before
finishing with self-satisfied relish, “Just so happens to have been Abel
Gideon’s chosen profession before he came into my care almost two years ago.”
Will glances to Jack, who nods in confirmation, apparently no longer interested
in withholding details of the Ripper case from him now that he’s already given
his first impression notes.
Is Chilton right after all? Is this why the nurse’s mutilation looks like such
a joyless imitation in comparison? But if that’s the case, why choose this
drawing in the first place? What is the significance of it that the murderer
would replicate it so dutifully? Will tries to understand but comes up empty,
as empty and devoid of meaning as the reproduction before him, a stark
departure from the earlier pleasure of the murder itself.
“The reason you couldn’t catch the Ripper two years ago, Jack, was that I
already had him,” Chilton announces, as proud as if he had been the one to make
the arrest himself.
“No,” Will declares suddenly. “This is a forgery,” he says, lips twisting
unconsciously into a moue of distaste.
Chilton squawks, indignant. Jack, on the other hand, scrutinizes the young man
and asks, “Are you sure, Will?”
Will thins his mouth, sucking his lips inward but not quite biting down on
them. “I can’t be a hundred percent until I get a crash course on previous
Ripper kills,” he admits.
Jack nods agreeably. “I’ll get you that file as soon as I can.”
“Please do,” Dr. Chilton interjects haughtily, not one to be left out of the
discussion even for a moment. “The sooner Will is properly educated on all
matters regarding the Chesapeake Ripper, the sooner this ridiculous notion can
be put to rest. Jack, you know for the fact the details of Olmstead’s murder
were never made public. I’m frankly shocked you would take this young man’s
word at face value so readily when you haven’t even given him the appropriate
tools he needs to make an informed judgment yet.” So apparently Will’s “talent”
is only marvelous and fascinating when it isn’t being used in a way that
indirectly bruises the beta’s fragile ego. That could come in handy the next
time the psychiatrist acts uncomfortably keen on him again.
Jack looks like he’s counting to ten in his head, reining in the urge to lob
something back in retaliation. As amusing as that would be to watch, if only
because Chilton gives him the impression of a man who could be knocked over by
a gentle breeze and Jack’s temper, he suspects, carries the howling force of a
hurricane gale, Will decides to help him out with a change of topic. “Can I
talk to this, um, Gideon person? Was that his name?”
Both men look to him in surprise, and both also seem oddly torn at this
request. Chilton, a curious combination of queasy and fascinated once more,
ugh, and Jack somewhere between guardedly hopeful and reluctant. “I…am not sure
that would be a good idea, Will,” he says, and Will understands this to mean he
wants to allow it to see what other insights the young man might glean but is
afraid it might be one push too far and put his teacup too close to the edge.
Will tries not to bristle at that. They both know he’s not really supposed to
be here after all.
“Well, he’s certainly not going anywhere if you change your mind,” Chilton
points out superciliously. “In the meantime, I’m sure you’d like to interview
him yourself now, wouldn’t you, Agent Crawford?” At Jack’s nod, Chilton invites
them back to his office where he can buzz one of his staff to make the
arrangements.
Will has the sudden, awful premonition as they follow him back toward the front
of the building that this means he’s about to be left alone with Dr. Frederick
Chilton and frantically tries to think up a means of escape.
“Uhm, Jack…” he says as they get to the office and Chilton fumbles with his
keys, putting into those two small words all the nervous tension of a kid who
just saw something shocking and is only just now beginning to process it. He
hopes this works.
“What is it, Will?” he asks. Even Chilton stops fumbling with the door to turn
and look at him with what, surprisingly, might be actual concern.
“I-I just…” Easy does it now. Don’t oversell it, Graham. “That body, I think
it’s, uh, I think it’s getting to me.  I’d really like to go home now,” he
says, voice breaking just the tiniest bit at home. Will refuses to look up from
his shoes, needing his distress to be apparent but not so dramatic that he
seems ready to spiral into a panic attack, which would most likely hinder his
goal and make them insist on him staying put until he’s suitably calm again.
Even without looking, he can feel the tension in Crawford, his sense of duty
and urgency to meet with the man who might be the Chesapeake Ripper warring
with the need to fulfill the promise he made that they could go anytime Will
asked.
“Agent Crawford has his responsibilities to the deceased, Will,” Chilton says
oversolicitously, “But I would be happy to host you here in my office until
he’s through. I was going to offer anyway.” No, no, no, that is exactly what
Will is trying to avoid. He shakes his head rapidly in genuine agitation and
hopes they interpret it still as anxiety about the murder.
Jack is still being annoyingly silent, obviously undecided. To his right, Will
hears a shuffle of feet rounding a corner and the white of an orderly uniform
in his peripheral as one starts to walk past them in the hallway.
“Ah! You there!” Chilton says before the poor soul can move on. “This FBI agent
needs to question Abel Gideon. See that he’s prepped and presentable for an
interview,” he orders, taking it upon himself to make Jack’s decision for him
so he can get his one-on-one time with Will, the bastard.
“Oh,” the man says and noticeably cringes, posture hunched in on itself and
feet shuffling self-consciously in place. “Geez, I’m really sorry, Doctor
Chilton, but I actually just clocked out.” His voice is earnest, apologetic,
and has just the faintest trace of a lisp. It is also, despite never carrying
the slightest hint of any of these traits when Will has heard it before,
dreadfully familiar.
Will drags his gaze upward. It’s Matthew Brown.
Chilton sighs long-sufferingly like a drama queen. “Never mind then,” he huffs,
turning back toward his door dismissively. “I’ll buzz Kimberly to get someone
to do it in a moment.”
“Um, if it’s okay…” Matthew says in an uncertain voice, still standing there
and fidgeting in place. Will very nearly forgets himself and gawks, the beta’s
awkward, subservient act so convincing even he would believe it if he’d never
met the man before and didn’t know it to be utter bullshit. “I heard you guys
talking and I don’t mind taking the other visitor home if, if that’s what he
wants,” he says, sounding achingly sincere and like he just wants to be helpful
since he can’t fill his boss’s request.
“What’s your name, son?” Jack asks him. Oh, hell no. No fucking way.
“Matthew Brown, sir,” says Matthew, and does an honest-to-god fucking head bob
in Jack’s direction like some geeky, pathetic parody of a bow, as if he doesn’t
know how to address the alpha except as one would a foreign king visiting at
court.
“Matthew is one of my orderlies, Jack,” says Chilton, stating the obvious. Will
is ninety percent sure he didn’t even know Matthew’s name himself until just
now, and is merely putting on a front of familiarity so he doesn’t look bad.
“I’d vouch for him as I would for any of my employees. Will would be in safe
hands,” he says, obviously from his posture and the grind of his teeth
reluctant to allow Will this “out” but feeling it would be improper to do
otherwise. “If he’s still heart-set on leaving, that is.”
“Will?” Jack says, turning back to him. “What’ll it be?” It’s clear from his
own posture and tone which answer he wants. He considers this to be a win-win
for both of them.
Stuck between cozying it up with Chilton in his office for what could
potentially be an hour if not longer, or with Matthew in his car for a ten
minute drive, at the end of which he can run straight to Abigail and tell her
all about this shitshow of a morning he’s had, or straight into the shower to
scrub the stink of this place from his skin, whichever is most appealing once
he gets there. It isn’t a choice at all really.
He mumbles through an acceptance of the offer and steps around Crawford and
Chilton to follow Matthew without a goodbye for either of them. Jack stops him
with a surprisingly gentle, “Will.”
Will turns in side-profile to Jack, barely looking at him. “You did really well
today,” the man tells him. It’s apparent that he’s not really used to doling
out praise, but he’s trying for Will’s sake, and he means it. Will wishes he
could appreciate it more, for the rareness of it and the tentative stirrings of
friendship that started to form today, but he now understands that Jack is a
man who delegates promises when they become inconvenient, and he can’t just
forget that. “I’m proud of you.”
Will gives no response, not even a nod, eyes flickering blankly to the wall. He
turns away again and keeps walking.
Matthew doesn’t try to speak to him directly for as long as they are still
inside the hospital, for which Will is grateful. He steps outside first and
shuffles aside to hold the door open like Will is a damn movie star. Will rolls
his eyes before stepping through it.
The digital shutter and beep of a camera goes off, and Will stares down into
the face of yet another one of his least favorite people standing at the bottom
of the stone steps. Because of course his luck is just that bad today. The
universe hates him.
“Fancy running into you here, Will Graham,” says Freddie Lounds, a casual smirk
on her face, no surprise in her voice at all.
“I’ll be at the car, Mr. Graham,” says Matthew, still in hospital persona. He
shuffles away, Will noting that where he had been standing just happens to be
out of frame of Freddie’s shot. The slippery asshole saw her there and narrowly
dodged an unwanted photograph without warning Will so he could do the same.
What a dick.
“Cute chauffeur,” Freddie says while barely glancing where Matthew had gone,
dismissing him as no one just as blithely as Chilton and Crawford had done.
“Jack must be pretty busy in there if you’re having to catch a ride with
someone else.”
“What are you doing out here, Freddie?” Will asks, stepping forward so he’s
away from the door but still on the stairs above her because he wants to be
petty. He scans over her head as if he expects more reporters to crawl out from
the bushes or behind the treeline.
“They won’t let me in to interview Gideon or take pictures,” she says,
shrugging in a rueful ‘What can you do?’ sort of gesture.
“How do you even know about that already?” he asks, having no reason to pretend
he has no idea what’s going on.
“Chilton called me. I know,” she says wryly when Will’s eyebrow goes up. “Kind
of a dick move to do that and then not even let me in to see. Pretty sure he
just wanted me to get a photo of you coming out,” she adds, lightly tapping a
finger on the camera still in her hands. Ugh, of course he would.
“Don’t give him what he wants, Freddie. He’ll just jerk you around like that
again if you do.”
“Oh, don’t worry about little old me,” she says. “My readers are going to eat
it up when I tell them all about the incompetence of the mental hospital
director who let one of his own nurses get butchered right under his nose.”
Will smirks, not liking that it feels like he’s sharing in a joke with Freddie,
but he can’t help it. It’s the least that guy deserves.
“You know, I might be inclined not to publish this pic anyway,” she carries on,
“if a certain someone would just agree to do an interview like I asked months
ago.”
“You still want that article about the Red Dragon? Or would this one just be
all about Magical Empath Will Graham?” he sneers, not hiding his dislike of her
as well as he did all those months ago and no longer caring. She’s smart enough
to have picked up on it already anyway.
“Actually, I’m thinking a book now.” Will laughs out loud at her sheer gall.
Freddie smiles back, though not in shared humor. “Not just about the Dragon,”
she continues. “But the Shrike as well. And their survivors.” Will is
definitely not laughing now.
“Now that’s a face that tells me exactly what I need to know,” Freddie says.
That makes one of them. Will has no idea what face he’s making right now.
“Heard a little rumor that you two have been thick as thieves from the moment
you met, had to be sure my source wasn’t bullshitting me. Throws a bit of
heartwarming in with the harrowing. It’s almost sweet. Readers will certainly
think so. Or they’ll wonder what’s really going on there, what makes two people
who spent their lives with monsters gravitate towards each other after their
old monsters are gone.” She shrugs again, far too casually. “It all depends on
the spin.”
“You are not writing about her,” Will snarls. “You are not writing about us.”
“I am. The question is, do you want it to be a book you and she get some
creative control over, or a couple of articles where you don’t?”
Wordlessly, Will takes a step down, and another step, and another until Freddie
has to back up to give him room. When he’s on ground level with her, he gets
right into her space and asks, voice deathly quiet, “You know what makes us
survivors so unpredictable?” He leans even closer, almost in cruel parody of
someone going in for a kiss, until she pulls back again, unsettled. “It’s that
we know we can do it again.”
He leaves her to make of that whatever the hell she wants.
The one upside is, after that? He no longer feels so anxious about his decision
to get in a car with Matthew.
“All set?” the man asks, back to his usual self now that it’s only Will around,
leaning casually against his car in just a dark T-shirt, the orderly coat
already tossed in the backseat.
“Just drive,” Will says, letting himself in on the passenger side without
waiting for the other man to get in. Matthew grins.
“You’re hot when you’re angry,” he says, sliding into his own seat.
“Hell of a performance you gave in there earlier,” Will says, ignoring the
comment.
 “Aww, thanks, babe. I could say the same about yours.” Will does not rise to
the bait, keeping his eyes forward on the road. “Any more compliments for me,
or is that all I get? I gotta say I think I’m owed more than that after
gallantly rescuing you from teatime with Chilty.”
“You certainly showed up right in the nick of time. One might say
conveniently,” Will points out. Convenient for Matthew, at any rate. Not so
convenient for Will, even if he is glad to be away from Chilton and his
fumbling attempts to paw at Will’s brain. “Were you following us around the
whole time?” he asks.
“Nah, Doc’s got cameras set up everywhere he’s not legally obligated to keep
surveillance-free.” Will shudders at the reveal of that bit of information. As
if that place and its director—and at least one of the employees—weren’t
already creepy and violating enough.
After a few seconds of quiet, Matthew then asks, “What did you think of her?”
Will is confused at first, not sure who he’s referring to, until it dawns on
him that he means the dead nurse.
“I take it she wasn’t a friend of yours,” he says, noting the peculiarity of
the question and lack of emotionality behind it.
Matthew shrugs. “I didn’t dislike her,” he says. “She was nice enough, I guess.
Now she’s a pincushion.” He makes a banal sweeping gesture with his hand. “So
it goes.”
“One bird said to Billy Pilgrim, ‘Poo-tee-weet?’”
Matthew looks over at him, a brief flare of excitement in his eyes, more
emotion there than when they were talking about the dead woman. “You read
Vonnegut?”
“I read a lot of things.” He’s had plenty of free time over the last six years
after all. Oodles of it. He decides to ask a question of his own. “Did someone
put Gideon up to killing her?” At the wide, delighted smile this gets, Will
rephrases, “Did you?”
“I wish I had now,” the other man answers, still grinning. “You’re on the right
track. I don’t think it was putting him up to actually killing per se, but poor
old Dr. Gideon, it’s almost as if he’s been of two minds about just who he is
lately.”
Will understands in an instant. “He actually thinks he is the Chesapeake
Ripper. Someone made him think he’s the Ripper.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Matthew says, but he’s still smiling. “Mr.
Boss Man mysteriously stopped recording the audio on all their sessions a
little while back. Didn’t even tell an orderly to cut the mics, just unplugged
them himself. Which was always a bitch to reset afterwards because he never did
it right, by the way.”
“Goddamn Chilton,” Will mutters. “He’s actually a moron, isn’t he?”
Matthew giggles and nods in response. “It’s so great,” he says. “Hands down,
best boss I’ve ever had.”
“Hm,” Will replies noncommittally. He imagines it’s not so great for the
inmates, all considered. The ride grows silent again as Matthew’s laughter dies
down. Will turns his focus back to the road.
His blood freezes. This is not the road to Port Haven. This is a highway
leading out of town.
“Matthew, I will remind you there is an FBI agent and a dozen other people who
saw us together on the way out and know I’m with you right now.” Silently, he
curses himself and the man beside him for his earlier distraction. He should
have realized much sooner they were going the wrong way.
“What exactly is it you think I’d do if that wasn’t the case?” Will doesn’t
have an answer for that.
“Relax,” Matthew says. A hand comes down on Will’s arm. Will immediately jerks
it away, lip curling upward into a silent snarl.
“Tell me where you are taking me,” he says once he regains some control over
his face and voice.
“D.C. Telling you anything more right now would spoil the surprise.” Will takes
a deep breath, whether in preparation to respond or just to calm himself, he
isn’t sure, but Matthew appears to take it as the former because he adds, “I
will give a hint. It has at least a bit to do with local history.”
That’s just appropriately vague enough to actually be somewhat intriguing. “You
don’t strike me as a national monuments buff,” he ventures.
“You’re right,” Matthew agrees. He looks over at Will, who is still sitting
tensely at his side, although the initial shock and fear are gone. “I’ll have
you back at the castle before nightfall, princess, don’t you worry. I just want
to spend more time with you. Think of this as our first real date.”
“I won’t,” Will promises him. Matthew, as per usual, is more amused by this
than put-off.
“Well, if it’s that bad you can always call that Crawford guy and tell him I
kidnapped you,” he says, and shifts a little in his seat so he can reach into
his pants pocket and pull out a cell phone. “Here you go.”
Will stares at the phone in his hand without reaching for it, suspicious and
wary while also wondering just what sort of game the man is playing.
He’s always had a habit of letting his curiosity get the better of him too.
“I will actually need to call someone,” he says after a moment. “Let them know
where I am.” If he doesn’t, Abigail might worry and Alana will most certainly
call a manhunt. Jack would call one of his own and probably end up shooting
someone. He doesn’t know how Hannibal would react, but that’s not a curiosity
he can indulge without risk of the first three.
He takes the phone, being careful to touch skin-to-skin as little as possible.
Matthew takes his hand back and keeps his gaze forward. He isn’t sporting one
of his usual smiles, but he does whistle. Nothing recognizable as a tune Will
knows, but something cheery and nonsensical. Like birdsong.
*
There is a knock at her door, not one she is familiar with. Abigail looks up
curiously, lowering the open book in her hands into her lap. “Come in.”
The door opens and Doctor Lecter steps in to greet her. Her confused, curious
look blanks into one of surprise.  
“Are you looking for Will?” she asks after initial greetings have passed
between them. “He’s not here right now. Agent Crawford signed him out this
morning.”
“Did he?” Lecter asks with a faint lift of his brows. “It’s just as well. I am
actually here to see you today, Abigail.”
“Huh.” That’s far from the most eloquent response she could have given, and
probably not the politest one either. She closes her book and sets it aside on
the windowsill, standing up to face him properly. At least if she can’t think
of anything interesting to say back straight away, she can give him her full
attention. He seems the sort who would appreciate such a gesture.
He does, if the microsmile he gives is anything to go by. It doesn’t hold the
same warmth as the one he gave her at dinner the other night, but it seems
sincere. Most of his smiles seem sincere.
Maybe they really are. Maybe Doctor Lecter is more honest than anyone realizes,
if not necessarily open. She doesn’t think he’s a faker.
Will wouldn’t like him so much if he thought so either.
“What is it you want to talk to me about?” she asks. Perhaps that’s a silly
question. Still worth asking though.
“You assume our conversation would have an agenda.”
“All conversations have agendas,” Abigail points out. She feels weirdly grown-
up for saying that, but also childish for thinking so. Does this guy make
everyone he talks to feel like their head is spinning just trying to keep up?
Of course Will would be weird enough to be into that.
She keeps putting him in that context, she realizes, only thinking of him in
terms of how he connects back to Will. She doesn’t know where he fits on his
own terms just yet, or in relation to her.
“Then let our agenda for today being getting to know one another better,” he
says, on the same wavelength as her. His smile turns playful as he asks with a
touch of whimsical formality, “Miss Hobbs, would you care to join me this
afternoon for lunch?”
Lunch. That ought to make her feel apprehensive, shouldn’t it? Considering what
she knows.
Abigail returns the smile in kind. “Doctor Lecter, I would be delighted,” she
answers, and picks up her jacket.
Chapter End Notes
     Whew. You guys. Will was such a whirlwind in this one, wasn't he?
     *wipes sweat off brow* This would've had more scene breaks instead of
     the long continuous shot if not for the fact that we couldn't look
     away from Will for a second without missing something. I swear he
     thrives on exhausting me.
***** The Burial of the Sardine *****
Chapter Summary
     “Dear Will, what will your date think of you spending this much time
     talking to another man on your excursion together?” 
     Will makes an even louder noise of disgust than the last one. “You’re
     the worst, you know that? I should’ve let you think that’s really
     what it was, then you wouldn’t be so…umm…” The younger man cuts
     himself off, realizing he’s come dangerously close to openly
     acknowledging what they both know but have been careful to maneuver
     around in conversation, alluding to it only vaguely up to this point.
     “Wouldn’t be so what, Will?” he asks, relentless in the pursuit of
     either trapping the omega into saying something he’d rather not or at
     least squirming a little as he wriggles free of the snare. “Is there
     a particular reaction you were hoping to get from this call?” 
     Hannigram flirting, on a brownham sort-of-but-sort-of-not date?
     Scandalous!
Chapter Notes
     For the first time in forever, a_Goya_work! Also, I've finally gone
     back and added the chapter titles to the Table of Contents directory
     and links in the notes to all of the art pieces referenced in each
     one.
     Fair warning, I just googled and clicked on the best looking versions
     I could find, so a number of the links are from actual museums' sites
     and therefore like to track cookies for some reason (seriously, why
     are museums ALL like that??) Remember to turn that off or clear your
     histories if you don't want to deal with it, yadda yadda, y'all know
     how the internet works. :P
     Alternatively, you could just continue googling them yourselves like
     always (y'all were TOTALLY doing that and not just ignoring my geeky
     little art blurbs in the notes, riiiiiiight guys? xD)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                        XVII. The Burial of the Sardine
 
Will dials the first number he had memorized since he got out of the general
hospital. It goes to Bloom’s voicemail, her soothing beta voice assuring the
listener she will return their call as soon as she is able and giving the
number to a standard emergency helpline if it’s for something that cannot wait
before signing off at the beep. “Hey, uh, it’s Will,” he says. “You’re probably
in class now. Umm, I’m sure Marcie’s left you a message too,” he adds,
namedropping the receptionist on duty this morning, “about me being with Jack.
I’m done with that now, just, uh, just needed to clear my head and happened to
bump into a…friend. So.” He clears his throat. “He’s gonna help me get my mind
off, um, you know, but I’ll be back soon so there’s nothing to worry about,
okay? Lo-let me know, if, uh, if you need me back sooner, you can just call
this number back, yeah? Yeah. Okay. Um. Bye.”
He ends the message quickly and turns away toward the window while he breathes
out through his nose, hoping his face isn’t red, though nowhere near as hopeful
that Matthew didn’t catch something odd about his reaction even if his eyes are
still on the road ahead in some fake semblance of good manners. Will needs the
quiet moment of reflection to himself—he can’t believe he almost just said,
“Love you,”with the same casual, familiar intimacy he once said the same at the
end of calls with his father. Yikes. With luck, Alana won’t catch that little
flub when he spoke and read into it too deeply. He’s so goddamned awkward on
the phone in general that it hopefully won’t stand out from the rest.
“So I’m your friend now. That’s progress at least,” Matthew quips, not so
polite to pretend like he didn’t listen in and reading into the younger man’s
words himself as they suit him best. Will considers flipping him the bird but
decides he’d rather not hear how the beta might deliberately misconstrue that
gesture as well. Matthew doesn’t reach to take his phone back, which is just as
well since Will has no intention of returning it to him until he’s being
dropped off at Port Haven later. He should think about investing some of that
little bit of money he has squirreled away thanks to Bloom on getting a mobile
plan for himself and Abigail.
He also has another call to make once they’re in D.C., assuming the card is
still in his wallet where he slid it out of sight months ago, not memorizing
that number since he never thought he would have a need for it. He needs to be
able to step away for a bit where Matthew can’t overhear first—no particular
reason why, other than finding it none of the other man’s business who else is
on Will’s short list of “Contacts Who Should Probably Have Some Clue to My
Whereabouts in Case I Turn Up Missing.” It’s gotten longer than it used to be
since the last time he really did “disappear” according to the rest of the
world, from zero names to at least three. Huh. How about that.
Abigail will forgive him for not calling Port Haven to have someone there tell
her too. He doesn’t know how long he’ll have when he does get his chance and
doesn’t want to waste it listening to a lecture from one of the nurses on duty
for not coming straight back as if it’s actually his fault—which, he realizes,
is exactly what it’ll seem like when Alana listens to his voicemail later. Her,
he’ll accept getting a talking to from, already resigned to it for making her
worry.
He slips the phone into his own pocket and then turns the car radio on without
asking, flipping through stations until some Top 40s one comes through with
good enough clarity to stop. Matthew thankfully takes the hint and doesn’t try
to strike up another conversation the rest of the trip, only looking at Will
once to laugh silently with his eyes before averting them politely back to the
road once more.
His curiosity and confusion are further piqued when they get to the capital and
he realizes based on the buildings passing them by that the street they’re on
is part of the city’s museum district. He hadn’t expected their destination
would be somewhere so…touristy. He looks to the man driving for a hint, but
Matthew’s expression gives nothing away, beyond the usual pleased demeanor from
just having Will’s attention in the first place.
It isn’t until they’ve parked next to a meter and walked for over a block,
after which Matthew begins to slow his pace and head with purpose to one
building in particular, a relatively newer and smaller one compared to the
surrounding ones, that Will realizes this definitely isn’t going to be the
“distraction” from the scene he saw earlier today that he implied to Alana it
would be.
“EVIL MINDS MUSEUM OF CRIMINAL PSYCHOPATHY” is emblazoned in sharp, stylized
red letters over the entryway. There are banners in the window displays which
show nothing more than horror movie style silhouettes of easily recognized
figures who have played particularly infamous roles in modern American
history—the shaggy long hair of Charles Manson’s mugshot, the iconic clown hat
from John Wayne Gacy’s wardrobe, to name just a couple, enough to let Will know
exactly what kind of people this place is memorializing.
“They built it just a little over a year ago,” Matthew tells him, watching Will
carefully for his reaction. Will does his best not to give him one, his own
gaze still on the façade in front of them. “Amidst tons of bad press and lots
of protesting, and yet,” he gestures to the crowd of tourists walking in ahead
of them, some of them craning their heads to gawk up at the sinister looking
sign and take pictures of it before heading inside as well, “it’s been one of
the most popular museums in the whole damn country since it opened up to the
public. Really tells you something about people, doesn’t it?”
“The name’s a little…hammy, isn’t it?” Will says. Matthew laughs like he’s just
told a joke.
Inside the lobby there’s a plaque describing the museum’s brief history and
academic goals. Ticket proceeds go to funding for the Criminal Justice and
Psychology departments at Georgetown University, who worked jointly on creating
it in the first place. The exhibits within were apparently inspired by the
similarly named “Evil Minds Research Museum,” based at Quantico and operated by
the FBI, which only scholars and professionals within relevant fields can visit
by appointment, as opposed to this one where laymen can come in anytime they
like during normal visiting hours. The plaque goes on to emphasize the fact
that all memorabilia sold at the gift shop and paraphernalia put on display are
mere replicas and recreations, not the actual real letters, weapons, or other
former possessions of convicted killers.
None of that alleviates the bad taste in Will’s mouth, especially when not ten
yards away is a line of people queuing up to take selfies with wax figures of
some of the killers silhouetted outside, many of them in jokingly scared or
mock-dead poses. It’s all very tacky. Tasteless. But what bugs him about it the
most isn’t the irreverence or the giggly excitement of groups here to indulge a
little morbid curiosity, at least not in itself. It’s more about the fact that
that’s all it is for most of them—a curiosity, a sideshow, a glimpse of the
“uglier,” darker side of humanity very few of them will ever come close to
being able to genuinely comprehend. They don’t seem to fully understand beyond
the surface level that these aren’t movie monsters like Frankenstein or
Dracula, not the way that Will understands—with heady, dreadful intimacy.
Will Graham is a murderer himself, after all, in all but the act itself. A
murderer’s accomplice and confidant, which is only a hairsbreadth away from
murderer in deed really, though not many people would understand that either,
he imagines. Only Abigail understands it as well as he does, because they are
just alike in that regard. He’s sure she wouldn’t enjoy this either.
I’m here, I’m standing right here, among you all, not a figure made of wax and
metal rods on a dais. I’m a real, living, breathing human, just like all of
you. Molecules of air are at this very moment being filtered out of my lungs
and into yours.
If these are Will’s thoughts as they wait in line to get their own tickets,
what are Matthew’s? He doesn’t want to ask. What is he hoping to accomplish or
trying to prove by bringing him here?
Will may not want to know the answer to that either. He hasn’t decided yet.
At the first opportunity, he breaks away from Matthew and heads into an omegan-
only bathroom near the front entrance with barely a word of explanation,
leaving the beta to wait patiently out in the hall for him. Let him think Will
needs the time to himself after the long car ride, or because of where they
are, either way is fine. Neither are wholly inaccurate reasons anyway, they’re
just not the main one.
He shuts himself into the furthest stall from the doorway, pulls out his
borrowed phone, and dials the number written on the back of Hannibal Lecter’s
business card.
*
Lecter is customarily in the habit of letting his personal cell go to voicemail
first if he is at work, especially when the number calling is an unknown one,
but as he only had morning sessions today and has just seen the last of his
patients out, he picks up after the first vibration goes off in his pocket. It
is fortunate that he does.
“Oh,” the voice on the other end greets back ineloquently. “You picked up. I
was just going to…well, whatever, it doesn’t matter. Okay, to be honest it’s
kind of awkward actually, I’m not good at this, but…yeah. Uh. This is Will, by
the way. Hi,” says his caller as if Hannibal would not recognize that voice
anywhere.
“Hello Will,” Hannibal returns warmly, settling back into his preferred
armchair. “You’re right, you don’t sound half as eloquent over the phone as you
do during our regular conversations.”
Surprised laughter can be heard through the speaker. There’s a slight echo to
it as if he were speaking in close quarters. “Asshole! You’re not supposed to
agree with me.” Will sounds much more relaxed already, exactly the effect he
intended.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice today, awkward or
otherwise? I don’t recognize this number you’re calling from.”
“Right, about that…” Will proceeds to tell Hannibal what he suspects is a much-
shortened account of the events of his own morning. The facts are related to
him simply and dryly, without an ounce of embellishment or distress in the
other’s voice, yet the more Hannibal listens, the more a curious thrum of
energy plays along his own nerves. There is quite a lot to unpack from it,
especially concerning the particulars of whatever this “scene” Jack Crawford
wanted him to examine at the BSHCI entails, but all of that is something that
can wait and not among the most pertinent questions at this precise moment in
time.
“You know this young man who drove you to D.C.?” Will had not directly stated
as much, but it was apparent in the way he spoke of him just now.
There is a pause, during which that energy thrums higher. “He’s the guy from
the heat clinic,” Will tells him finally. “I also met him once before. At the
bar that other night. I didn’t tell you that part.”
“The man you found intriguing.” There is no jealousy in Lecter’s tone. There is
a reason Will is choosing to relay this information to him now, and judging by
the distinct lack of teasing in his own tone, it is not a continuation of the
same game which led to him bringing the beta up in conversation at the mall
that first time.
Will makes a noise of disgust. “Intrigued is not the same asinterested,at least
not in the way this guy wants to think.”
“Do you feel this Matthew Brown is dangerous, Will?”
“He’s not going to hurt me.” It is not, precisely, an answer to Hannibal’s
question. Intriguing indeed.
He decides to let this line of inquiry go for the moment. He trusts Will’s
assessment of his own situation and will not beleaguer the point if the younger
man believes there is no reason to be concerned for his safety at this
juncture. The tension he felt earlier has passed.
This doesn’t mean he can’t get a bit of reckoning for last time with a little
teasing of his own. “Dear Will, what will your date think of you spending this
much time talking to another man on your excursion together?”
Will makes an even louder noise of disgust than the last one. “You’re the
worst, you know that? I should’ve let you think that’s really what it was, then
you wouldn’t be so…umm…” The younger man cuts himself off, realizing he’s come
dangerously close to openly acknowledging what they both know but have been
careful to maneuver around in conversation, alluding to it only vaguely up to
this point.
“Wouldn’t be so what, Will?” he asks, relentless in the pursuit of either
trapping the omega into saying something he’d rather not or at least squirming
a little as he wriggles free of the snare. “Is there a particular reaction you
were hoping to get from this call?”
“You prick. God, leave the fishing to me from now on, alright? You suck at it,”
Will says, a clear smile in his voice. “No subtlety at all.”
“Apologies, my good Will. I thought too much subtlety would be tantamount to a
lie, and you have already asked me not to lie to you.”
He hears a muttered aside which he may or may not be meant to overhear,
something about himself and his “ridiculous epithets.” Hannibal smiles and does
not remark upon it either way. “Yeah well, sins of omission are still fair
game,” Will says clearly, speaking to him more directly once more.
“So they are.” And oh, how many there are still littered on the board between
them. He wonders what will happen as more and more of them are slowly revealed.
Speaking of, there is at least one which Hannibal may be able to spin into his
own advantage yet, and it occurs to him that now would be an excellent time to
pursue that avenue whilst Will is out of town.
“By the way, don’t mention this to Abigail.” Hannibal blinks. Their thoughts
seem to run so nearly parallel at times that it’s almost uncanny. “It’s not a
secret, and I know you probably won’t see her or talk to her before I do
anyway,” Will adds, proving at least that he is not a psychic or a mind reader.
“But I wanted to throw it out there just in case. I’ll tell her about it myself
when I get back. If she knows before then, she’ll just overthink the whole time
I’m gone and worry.”
“I take it Abigail is not a fan of Mr. Brown either then?” Hannibal asks.
“Understatement,” Will informs him dryly. Hannibal would love to hear more
about this beta and their first run-in with him in Abigail’s own words, but he
will not be able to ask her without violating Will’s request, so he tables that
for another time.
The omega ends their call not long after, complaining lightheartedly that he
can’t hide out in the bathroom from his undesirable would-be suitor
indefinitely. Hannibal tries not to preen at the implication that his own
company is far more desired and welcomed even over long distance, sure that he
is meant to read as much into the statement, more honey being poured into his
own trap, true or not.
It is a simple matter then of collecting Abigail from Port Haven immediately
afterwards. Her ready acceptance makes him optimistic. He is glad he did not
resort to killing her after all. She is a fascinating and charming individual
within her own right, that much is becoming clear, worth keeping around for
more than just her usefulness to his goal of growing closer to Will.
That being said, he will not hesitate to remove her should things turn sour and
it proves more prudent to do so.
The assessing looks which she openly gives him across the island countertop in
his kitchen not half an hour later indicate her thinking is much along the same
lines. Atta girl.
“So,” she says as she sets to the task of chopping vegetables Hannibal has laid
out in front of her, designating her his sous chef for their early afternoon
brunch. “We gonna beat around the bush about this, or can I just be upfront?”
“We will pursue our chat in whichever manner you find most befitting,” he
assures her. She nods her appreciation.
“You eat people,” she says, as directly as she promised.
“You eat people,” he rejoins pleasantly. “Or, you did every time your father
brought more to the table from his lonely hunts.” The girl frowns. He is
curious which part of that statement it is that makes her unhappy. It would be
interesting, not to mention fortuitous, if it is the part which he thinks it
is. “You did not say anything to Will after our dinner the other evening.” It
is not a question, simply a statement of fact.
“He’s a big boy. He can handle figuring it out on his own.” That is not the
entirety of her reasoning, her nonchalance a partly feigned thing, hiding
uncertainty tinged with understandable traces of fear and what might be,
possibly, a sliver of hope. There marks another tick in the box of Hannibal’s
suspicions about her.
“Does Will know about your prior experiences with cannibalism?” he asks,
knowing she will appreciate the returned directness. She looks at him
assessingly again while giving nothing away herself, likely weighing the pros
and cons of which answer would be best to give and whether or not to lie about
it. He’s proud of her. She is a natural in the art of manipulation and will
learn to be a pro at it yet.
“He does,” she answers finally. He does not have Will’s talent for detecting
outright prevarication, but he believes she is telling the truth. How
interesting this makes things.
“Does he know that you enjoyed them?” he follows up when she is refocused on
cutting the carrots to the correct length. Her hands twitch into the quickest
of pauses before starting up again. It is answer enough.
There is silence in the kitchen save for the sounds of their prepwork for a
couple of minutes, not wholly uncomfortable. Only when she is finished with her
chopping does she say, “I’d ask if that’s pretty messed up of me, but
considering who I’m talking to I don’t think the answer I’d get would be
totally unbiased.” She watches with dark, rapt eyes as he starts slicing into
the “beef” for their meal.
“An abnormal response in the face of an abnormal situation is itself entirely
normal,” he assures her. “And in your case, entirely warranted as well. Each of
those girls was meant to represent you. With every bite, you were absorbing a
piece of them, of their life, and taking it into your own. Their deaths quite
literally sparked the fuel which sustained your own survival for another day.”
Having finished cubing the meat, he sets the knife down and looks up into her
eyes. “No headier feeling than finding yourself suddenly at the top of the food
chain amidst a sea of supposed peers.”
There is a sheen of wetness to her eyes, but not quite enough to gather and
fall as tears. “Shouldn’t I be feeling guilty though? Those girls died because
of me.”
“Never feel guilty for living, Abigail. I certainly don’t.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” she says with a tiny smile. “Why do you do it?” she
asks. “I can’t imagine it’s for the same reasons.”
“Whenever feasible, one should always endeavor to eat the rude,” he divulges
his personal philosophy to her. She seems almost shocked at first, then greatly
intrigued.
“That’s kind of…” She barks out a laugh. “Okay, you’re kind of living the dream
then, from the sounds of it.”
“Who hasn’t considered gutting the rude pig who cuts him off in the middle of
traffic, or spills a drink down her dress without apologizing for it?” he
agrees.
The familiar and subtle, warm scent of dog announces Winston’s arrival in the
kitchen to him even before the click of her nails against the tiled floor,
likely drawn in by the sound of Abigail’s laughter. “Heya, girl, how’s it
going?” Abigail asks, already immediately more cheerful than before. This is
the second time they have met, the dog being much doted upon by all three of
his guests both before and after their dinner on the night of the concert,
though understandably she had been most excited to see her previous playmate
and companion Will again. “I was wondering where you were.”
“She is not forbidden from entering the kitchen, but she knows not to get
underfoot and generally stays out of the way during cooking. She is a very
smart animal.”
“She sure is,” Abigail gushes, though she resists petting in case she is called
upon to help more with the meal prep. “Can I…?” She takes a cube of meat
between her fingers without picking it up from the cutting board, looking to
him questioningly first.
“Just the one,” he allows with an indulgent smile. “I will be giving her some
bones to gnaw on during our meal and make her food as well later on.”
Abigail takes the cube and holds it aloft. “Winston, sit.” The dog does not
listen right away, still standing and licking her chops eagerly now for the
treat dangled in front of her. “Sit,” Abigail repeats more firmly. Winston
does. “Good girl,” she praises and tosses the scrap lightly in her direction,
the dog catching it between her jaws easily. “Will’s gonna be so jealous I got
to see you today!”
“I have been taking Winston on longer walks to more crowded parks of late,”
Hannibal informs her conversationally. “Allowing her to meet more people to
assess how comfortably she handles different types of strangers. She has a good
nose for who to be friendly to and who to avoid, should they seem skittish or
put off by her presence. I’m thinking I may start bringing her to the office
with me on days I have appointments with patients who would be comforted rather
than alarmed by the presence of an animal.”
“Uh-huh. And those days would just happen to coincide with the ones when Will
shows up, am I right?” she asks a bit cheekily over her shoulder. “Or as he
would say, ‘You ain’t slick, Doc,’” she says, imitating the faint drawl Will
deliberately allows to creep back into his own voice for effect on occasion,
when the mood suits him, usually when he chooses to return to the “rougher”
regional vocabulary of his roots. Hannibal smirks and doesn’t say anything.
Abigail turns around fully then to see him combining the rest of the meat with
the vegetables she cut. He gestures to her that she can now start helping him
scoop the mixture onto the small pie crusts he has made if she wishes, and her
eyes alight with recognition as she takes in the sight of all the ingredients
together. “You’re making pasties!”
“We are,” he says lightly. She steps in beside him to help add in the filling.
“I thought for our first personal meal together you would appreciate a little
taste of home.” In more ways than one obviously, considering the meat’s source,
but that goes without saying at this point.
“You’re just trying to butter me up,” she says, blinks, and then giggles as she
realizes her own accidental pun. “Does this mean Will should expect some spicy
seafood and rice in his future too?” she asks, teasing again.
“It might,” he indulges with a bit of mock-annoyance as if he has been caught.
“Don’t suppose my meals are going to start including tater tot hotdishes or
salads with mayo too though, are they?” The moue of distaste his face makes is
only slightly exaggerated. Abigail snickers.
“Seriously though,” she adds a bit later once the pasties have been slid into
the oven, their hands washed and workspace cleaned and reorganized. “Don’t
think I don’t see what it is you’re doing here, trying to get on my good side
and all.” He merely looks at her with a questioning gaze. “If you wanna be my
lover, you gotta get with my friends,” she singsongs in a silly fashion,
causing Winston’s ears to perk up dubiously. “Sorry,” she snorts. “My mom was
secretly a Spice Girls fanatic. But the point stands so we might as well get to
Part Two of this conversation we’ve been needing to have.” She crosses her arms
over her chest. “What exactly are your intentions with our mutual acquaintance,
one Mr. Will Graham? Take care and choose your words wisely,” she says with
playful formality, trying to lighten the mood, but the sharp glint which has
taken up residence in her own gaze indicates the implied warning behind it is
quite serious.
“I think you already know,” he tells her, now carefully stirring the gravy
slowly simmering on the stovetop. “Judging by the pop song lyric you chose to
quote.”
“I want to hear you say it.” The playful act has vanished.
He waits until the gravy is ready before looking up again, turning off the
stove and removing it from the heat before answering. “I am courting with the
intent to mate and bond with him, if he will have me.” She watches his face
carefully for tells before nodding, his confession matching up with what she
has already surmised.
“And if he won’t?” she asks.
“I will be terribly disappointed,” he admits. What form that disappointment
might take, even he cannot predict at this moment, but one thing he does know
with certainty—he will not force the issue of a mating or a bond, as Francis
Dolarhyde had. He is neither so callous as to completely dismiss Will’s choice
in the matter nor so foolish as to believe such a course of action would end in
any way but badly for him. “I hope it won’t come to that.”
“Me too,” she says, somewhat surprisingly. “I like you, Doctor Lecter. I
think…I think you could be really good for him. You’d certainly better be,” she
adds viciously. “This isn’t a shovel talk. I’m not naïve enough to think you’re
the one who’d end up in the ground, or in the stew as it were, if it came down
to a real fight between you and me,” she says. “But know that if you ever hurt
him I will see to it that you bleed for it.”
“I believe you.” He does, and admires her all the more for it. There is little
Abigail Hobbs won’t do in the name of defending her family. He would be honored
to count himself as a part of it one day.
The easier, comfortable rapport returns to them later at the dining table, with
the onset of good food and good conversation to go with it.
“Oh my god, this is so good!” she says, trying to discreetly lick some of the
gravy from her fingers before using the napkin, which Hannibal politely
pretends not to notice. Some lapses in good manners can actually be considered
high compliments at the table. “You have to let me take one of these back to
Will! We never get to eat this good at the hospital.”
Hannibal looks to her consideringly. She seems not to have given thought to the
enormity of what she just asked. It is one thing to entrust her with the
knowledge of who his butcher is and another to allow her to leave with
potentially damning evidence of it.
And on the other hand, the ability to provide for Will in even this indirect
way is always tempting. More so, really, in knowing that Abigail Hobbs is
giving her endorsement and abetting his cause by being the one to give it to
him. It is another test in the trust and blooming friendship that has grown
between himself and Abigail today.
“I’ll make up a container of leftovers for you both before we leave,” he
promises.
*
Will really thinks this place could do without all the mood lighting set up
throughout the corridors and walkways in stark contrast to the brightly lit
displays—“bloodstained” letters and life-size models of old cars with “bullet
holes” drilled into the doors and such—but he can admit the purveyors of this
little attraction probably understand their target audience better than he
does, college kids about his age and bored middle-aged couples looking for
cheap thrills equivalent to entering a haunted house setup or going on a ghost
tour. At least it means he isn’t looking too closely at any of the other
museum-goers' faces and seeing their expressions, so that’s a plus.
Matthew has an on-again, off-again running commentary for him of “fun facts”
which don’t get mentioned in any of the brief descriptions that go along with
the displays. Will humors him with responses only every now and again, mostly
tuning him out when he can. Collecting serial killer trivia is by no means as
unusual of a hobby as people like to pretend it is, as the popularity of this
place can attest, but there’s a definite blend of amusement and reverence to
some of what Brown is saying that Will finds more offensive than the museum
itself and the more innocent curiosity of its other visitors.
One staged space is cordoned off with fake police tape and a giant banner
marked “Coming Soon!” He drifts closer to the sign in front of it demoing a
picture preview of what the open space “room” will be once it’s complete, and
is immediately thankful once again that Abigail isn’t here to see this.
“The Minnesota Shrike’s Den of Horrors!” is what the sign jauntily labels the
tabloid snapshot of a cabin room filled from top to bottom on every wall with a
variety of darkly stained antlers, credited in fine print on the bottom right
of the image to one Freddie Lounds, of course.
If this elaborate setup is being staged as a permanent installment in the
museum so soon after the investigation into Garret Jacob Hobbs has officially
wrapped up then…
Will rounds the next corner with a sick feeling in his gut, one that pinches
and roils as he finds exactly what he expected to see there.
He closes his eyes against the larger-than-life, door length poster of the
Great Red Dragon from Blake’s painting—much larger, in reality, than the actual
painting itself and blown up to reveal it in all its exquisite detail—so much
like the one that was once meticulously taped on the back to the door of
Frank’s workout room that he has to squint and look carefully for any fading or
crinkles from age to make sure the plaque up front was not lying about carrying
no originals. It is perfectly flat and vividly colored, most likely bought or
donated from the Brooklyn Museum directly and too new to be the same one he
remembers.
Backlit against the wall next to it is an image on an old-school projector loop
of Will’s former home and personal hell for the past half-decade, the wrought-
iron gate wedged into the high stone fence and “Dolarhyde Nursing Home” sign
looking more sinister than reality through the deliberate distorted pops and
flickers on the screen.
And chained at the spine to a dais in front of the rest of the display is a
laminated copy of the manifesto Will was never, ever allowed to touch or even
look at, freely open and available for anyone to peruse at their leisure.
There’s a gaggle of three standing around it doing just that in fact, pointing
and gasping at the pages, making faint noises of disgust and giggling nervously
at some.
Will has an impulse itching under his skin to grab one of them by the hair and
smash their head against the wall with enough brute force to leave behind
broken teeth and a sick red smear.
He waits and does not go anywhere near the book until the group moves on out of
reach. It’s been left open somewhere in the middle so he has to flip back to
the beginning. He only glimpses, not wanting to linger overlong on any
particular newspaper cutouts or hasty scrawlings, not wanting to get sucked in
by the pull of understanding a mind he already perfectly knows despite never
having the opportunity to read this diary of sorts before. There are pictures
that are clearly stills developed from his films, befores and afters, almost
innocuous looking images of Mrs. Leeds and Mrs. Jacobi and countless others
sleeping in their beds, in the moments before they awoke and realized their
world was about to be burned to the ground around them, then shown again almost
tastefully in post-transformations.
There is no mention of Will in it, not that he expected there to be. He thinks
he should be relieved yet feels curiously empty instead. He tells himself he is
not disappointed. Francis was quite good at compartmentalizing after all, too
good at it perhaps.
This is what he thinks, until he flips to a page where the picture in the
center has apparently been redacted, “to protect the living” the pasted-on
caption reads. There is no name or physical descriptor given, but phrases stick
out in the difficult-to-decipher handwriting—“the Sun in his glory,” “tastes
like honey and fire and pillars of salt,” “robin redbreast,” and “forgiveness.”
Not so good at compartmentalizing after all, it turns out. Not that this is
actually surprising either. His former mate was always an interesting study in
contradictions. Will is not disappointed anymore. He is not pleased either.
He is still looking at the black box where a picture used to be, not flipping
ahead to the rest of the book anymore nor wanting to, when he feels eyes and
the air shifts as a presence sidles up next to him. He doesn’t need to look up
but he does it anyway.
Matthew has been eerily silent since they got to this particular section,
watching him. Anyone else might assume it to be out of respect, but Will knows
it’s nothing more than simple uninterrupted observation. He is almost as much
on display here, in this moment, as all of the Dragon’s other valued
possessions, although as something much better than a mere copy or imitation.
He slams the book closed with as hard of a thump as its laminated pages will
allow and sidesteps around Matthew, not giving him a second glance, back teeth
grinding against each other in his jaw.
He does spare a second glance for the Dragon poster, familiar with the swirl of
mixed feelings just looking at it evokes. With something like a note of
finality and a silent goodbye in his head, Will turns softly on his heel away
from it and moves on.
His unguided tour through the mouth of madness is almost at an end. Matthew
trails further behind than before, knowing better than to crowd too closely or
try speaking to him again yet, whether because he thinks he’ll spook Will or
just doesn’t want to get his head bitten off Will neither knows nor cares.
The final exhibit is much larger than the rest, their best and biggest
attraction clearly saved for last, and like some, but not all, of the other
displays it features glossy, hi-res pictures of actual crime scenes. That and
some blocks of text on the wall are actually all there is, no paraphernalia to
be spoken of because there are none to be found. This wall is exclusively
dedicated to the one killer showcased in the entire museum who hasn’t been
caught yet—“Baltimore’s own infamous local legend, the as yet still at-large
Chesapeake Ripper.”
Will thinks whoever painted all the big titles and captions throughout the
building should have gotten a job yelling advertisements outside of circus
tents instead. Come one, come all!
Had it been anyone other than the killer Jack wants him to get to know, Will
honestly might have walked past without caring anymore, the last display still
too fresh on his mind. Instead he looks and he reads everything, wanting to
glean as much as he can without having the actual case file yet and at least
get something useful out of this terrible trip.
He reads and gleans little more than a skeleton of dry facts. He looks at the
pictures, however, and gets…something else.
Something very, very else.
One of these killers is not like the others, a voice singsongs in his head. He
suddenly has an understanding of why this one seems to get Jack Crawford’s goat
like no other.
If everyone else in this mausoleum of terror and sadness is the example of what
can happen to a mind driven by the extreme motives of rage, madness, grief, or
greed, this is the work of a mind altogether sane—or as sane as any mind can
be, which in Will’s opinion is subjective and debatable amongst even the
blandest and most boring of neurotypicals, which this individual is not—and not
driven so much as inspired. This killer doesn’t kill because he has to but
because he wants to, for the sheer delight of it, taking his victims’ organs
because to his thinking they don’t deserve them and elevating their deaths into
beautiful art.
All of this is something Will needs to be incredibly careful about the phrasing
of when he shares his observations with the agent later, lest he give the man
the wrong (right) sort of idea about just who he’s asking for help. Will is
aware that he’s never been altogether normal in his ways of thinking about
beauty and violence, even before his blood and slick and semen-soaked baptism
in the Red Dragon’s arms. A different Will Graham who didn’t come out on the
other side of that experience might have been more broken up about it. This one
has had years practically untouched by the rest of the world to reflect upon it
and accept who he is.
The artful posing of the Ripper’s pigs makes the Dragon’s “transformations”
look even more like broken, mistreated dolls by comparison, and that
description was already pretty apt to begin with. Will doesn’t feel guilty for
thinking this. It is a simple, unvarnished truth. He may have empathized with
Frank’s feelings and motivations, but he has never pretended to like what he
did with the bodies, especially the women’s. Also, at least the Ripper’s kill
list so far doesn’t fucking include children. Will sure as hell never approved
of that change as the Dragon’s methods evolved.
Not that he needs to go comparing murderers’ moralities now, glass houses and
all that.
Will steps in closer to one photograph of a man left in a church pew with his
own tongue being used as a bookmark in the Bible he’s holding, trying to read
the words on the page marked so that he might get an idea of what kind of
message the Ripper was trying to leave with this one. He reluctantly has to
take a step back, however, when a familiar unwanted presence makes its
appearance next to his shoulder again.
“I always liked this one too,” Matthew remarks casually. “Seems almost kind of
unfair though, doesn’t it, how much more attention he gets than everyone else
just ’cause they haven’t caught him yet. I mean, look at all this white space
they left like they expect it to grow even bigger,” he points out, gesturing
over the blank expanse of wall to the right. “It’ll be the end of an era when
they stop having anything new to add about him.” He half-twists to look away
from the wall and back at Will again. “Something all the others should have
aspired a little harder to get to, huh, don’t you think?”
Will rolls his eyes and starts walking away from him.
“Aw, come on, you’re not offended, are you? Just because I didn’t say that your
guy—”
“Finish that sentence and I’m hailing a cab home.” If they weren’t so
expensive, he fucking would anyway at this point. “Which, speaking of, is where
you’re taking me next. Now.”
“Bossy,” Brown mutters with a grin. “Can we at least stop somewhere to eat on
the way?”
I’d rather gag myself with a bouquet of rusted nails. “I’m not hungry.”
Matthew sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll just get myself something in a
McDonald’s drive-thru then.”
He doesn’t bring up anything else about the museum, or Francis, or the Ripper
for the rest of the trip back. Nor does he push his luck further by detouring
again, except to get fast food as stated. Matthew orders extra fries. “In case
you changed your mind,” he says.
Will has not. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, or that
he hasn’t had McDonald’s fries in years, he refuses to accept them on
principle. He wishes he hadn’t accepted that beer weeks ago either. Not that it
would have deterred Brown. It’s just that if he’d known as much then as he does
now, he wouldn’t have.
“I had a great time with you today,” the beta says when he pulls up to the
entrance at Port Haven. Will doesn’t deign that with a response and gets out,
slamming the door shut with a little more force than necessary. He doesn’t wait
for the car to start pulling away either before heading inside.
He stiffens as he is pulled into a hug almost immediately upon entering the
building, however, and not by the one person he honestly might have expected.
“I’m sorry,” Alana says and lets him go again immediately. “That was impulsive,
I’m sorry,” she apologizes again, clearly embarrassed. “I just—I was worried
about you.”
“It’s okay,” he says. If he reacted to these things the way any normal person
would he honestly thinks it would have felt…nice. “I told you not to worry.”
She smiles weakly at that. “Easier said than done,” she admits. She glances out
the window toward where Matthew’s car will by now have disappeared from view.
“Was that the friend you mentioned?”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t want to get into it further than that right now,
especially not as he looks past her shoulder and now sees Abigail standing
there as well, curiously wearing her jacket and an odd bag on her arm as if she
too has only just gotten back from somewhere. Going by the stony expression she
wears as she too looks out the window though, he has to guess she also saw who
just dropped him off.
“How did you even…?” Alana trails off as she connects the dots herself,
remembering the only other times Will has been out anywhere except with Doctor
Lecter and could have met anyone else. “Oh. Ah, never mind, that’s not my
business unless you want to tell me about it. You’re an adult,” she adds as if
needing to give herself that reminder. She’s also clearly gotten the wrong
impression about the nature of their supposed “friendship,” but he’s too tired
to correct her at this point and just wants to get back to his room as soon as
possible. “Just…please be careful and try to give us a little more warning next
time, alright?”
“You got it,” he says, not really sure he’ll be able to keep his word on that.
Abigail continues to watch their exchange without adding any input of her own.
“Um, please don’t think I’m brushing you off now, but it’s okay if I…?” he
gestures in the general direction of the hall where his room is.
“Of course,” she says understandingly. “Just one more thing,” she adds, getting
to the root of why she was worried in the first place. “I want you to know I’ve
arranged a meeting with Kade Prurnell of the Inspector General’s office this
week.” Will waits for her to explain what that means, but the hint of steel in
her voice gives him some clues. “What Jack Crawford put you through today is
unacceptable, Will, and I am so sorry I was not here to put a stop to it. I
promise you I will do everything in my power to keep it from happening again.”
Will thinks it’ll take more than a little bureaucracy to stop Jack from doing
whatever Jack thinks is best, and he’d rather make the choice of whether to
cooperate with him or not himself, but he appreciates what she’s trying to do
well enough not to argue. He nods to her respectfully and heads to his room,
Abigail following closely behind.
The hug she pulls him into is not surprising like the other one, nor is the
rough punch to his shoulder immediately afterwards. “Ow!” he yelps on reflex
anyway even though it wasn’t hard enough to actually hurt.
“What was that about? What the hell were you doing with that maniac?” she asks
now that they’re out of earshot of everyone else.
“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” he says dryly. “He took it upon himself to go
on a daytrip without asking me first.”
“Oh, well that’s relieving,” she responds sarcastically. “Not like you could’ve
called someone to tell them you were kidnapped, except you did call to tell
Doctor Bloom that you weren’t, because…?”
Will shrugs. “I wanted to know where he was taking me.” Now that he’s said it
aloud, he realizes how flimsy of an excuse it sounds even though it’s the
literal truth. Abigail definitely thinks so too.
“You know, for someone who’s so smart you are really dumb sometimes.” He shrugs
again, having no rational defense to give. “Just tell me you’re not gonna do
that again, dummy.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he informs her wryly. “Now tell me where you were
while I was gone.” He looks closer at her bag, some fancy one for insulating
food inside, and realizes he recognizes it. “No, actually you don’t have to.”
He chuckles and rakes a hand exasperatedly across his face. “That sneaky
bastard, I should have known he’d pull something like this.”
She returns a wry smile of her own. “Yeah, in hindsight I should have guessed
he knew what was going on with you as soon as he showed up here, but I didn’t
figure it out until he dropped me back off and was totally unconcerned that you
weren’t back yet. I can’t believe he didn’t say anything!”
Well, that’s at least one person who actually trusts his judgement. He’s not
sure how to feel about that. “I asked him not to,” he speaks up in Lecter’s
defense. “So. I assume you guys talked about me.”
“How conceited of you,” she smirks.
“Uh-huh.” He rolls his eyes. “Look, I don’t even care what y’all said to each
other. I already know you’re playing both sides for the scintillating banter
and free food anyway, Hobbs.”
She giggles. “I’m always on your side, Will.” She’s still smiling, but
something in her gaze turns serious now. “No matter what. You know that right?”
His own smile softens to match hers. “Of course I do. You know that goes both
ways, right?” he bounces back. She nods. There’s still a thread of something
else there, some expression of thought that both wants to bubble forth and
remain hidden, closely guarded against her chest. He doesn’t press her to tell
him what it is; she’s not the only one who still has a few secrets that aren’t
ready to be offered up just yet, pieces of themselves still being withheld from
the other’s scrutiny.
It’s a frightening thing, wanting someone to see all of you while also not
knowing what will happen once they do. No one wants to be seen in their
entirety only to be rejected for it. All anyone can do is continue to step
tentatively towards the light and hope that once they are fully exposed, the
ones they are reaching for will keep looking and reaching back without
flinching away.
“Anyway,” says Abigail, fidgeting a little before she catches it and forces
herself to stop. “Speaking of free food, I asked Doctor Lecter if I could bring
you leftovers.” She slips the bag from her shoulder and hands it to him.
“You didn’t have to do that.” He says that, but now that he’s back somewhere
comfortable and familiar and the events of the past few hours have finally
caught up with him, he realizes that he’s actually starving. Whatever is inside
is still fairly warm and smells heavenly when he opens the bag up enough to
take a peek.
“I helped a little. I mean, barely, just cutting vegetables and stuff, but it
was fun. Didn’t want to let the rest go to waste by not sharing.” Will is
already taking a bite of the first wrapped pastry, some sort of meat pie
apparently, before she’s finished speaking. Whatever it is, is so good he
actually needs to sit down and close his eyes to really savor it. He might just
demolish this whole bag over the next couple of hours if she leaves it alone
with him and ruin any chances of having an actual appetite for dinner later,
not that it matters.
“This is awesome, Abby, thank you.” She watches him take another bite with a
pleased smile before reminding him to take the bag back with him when he goes
to Lecter’s office next and leaving him to finish the rest of his late lunch in
peace.
Will realizes after she goes that there’s a lot he still needs to tell her
about today, like some of the things he saw at the museum, and the
confrontation with Lounds this morning. He’ll catch her up on it sometime later
in the evening after he’s had a little more time to unwind from this strange
and exhausting goddamn day.
He unwraps another pie after he finishes the first one and thinks about how
much the strange has become the new normal in his life, only more so since he
rejoined the world after his enforced seclusion from it. He had forgotten what
it was like not to live the same predictable day over and over and over again
until there was almost no point in keeping track as they passed.
Will has no regrets about anything he’s done to get here, or what he will do to
keep it this way. He would gladly take whatever else the universe has to throw
at him next than ever go back to that way of living again.
Chapter End Notes
     The museum in D.C. that Matt takes Will to is a total fabrication,
     so, uh, don't plan your next vacation around it or anything. The Evil
     Minds Research Museum at Quantico IS real though (and really not open
     to the public, so don't waste a trip for that either), and yes, it
     seriously is named that. Seriously. SERIOUSLY.
     #tfw you realize your showrunner really did just straight up call out
     the FBI like that in the pilot "I disagreed with what you named it.
     It's a little hammy, Jack." xD
***** Moonrise on the Banks of the River Oise *****
Chapter Summary
     The Ripper leaves a present, and another piece of the puzzle that is
     Will Graham comes to light.
Chapter Notes
     Moonrise_on_the_Banks_of_the_River_Oise by Charles-François Daubigny
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                XVIII. Moonrise on the Banks of the River Oise
 
“This is conduct unbefitting of a professional who represents a branch of the
United States government, especially one of your standing and influence, Agent
Crawford.” Prurnell’s take on this is not surprising, nor is Bloom making that
formal complaint against him at last. He expected it and respects her for it
more. She is only doing what she views as for the best after all, just like
him.
“I agree. It’s reckless and an abuse of your power, and I’ve yet to even begin
assessing the damage this might have done to Will’s emotional state. This could
be setting back months of his therapy.”
“I understand and appreciate where you both are coming from, though I would not
call it an abuse. The BSU has and will continue to use all available resources
in times of need during our ongoing investigations. Will Graham is hardly the
first unaffiliated outside consultant we’ve worked with.”
“Those ‘outside consultants’ are normally experts in their fields of study like
Dr. Bloom here, not unpaid high school dropouts who reside in mental
institutions,” Prurnell points out. Bloom clearly takes strong issue with her
wording but does not comment, choosing to stay on-topic rather than argue
something the OIG rep will simply dismiss as irrelevant.
“I brought Graham in on a volunteer status because I assumed the bureau would
balk at the lack of degree and deny the usual consulting fee, but I would be
more than happy to pay him a fair wage if you’re telling me that’s not the
case,” says Jack.
“You know perfectly well that’s not the issue here,” says Kade tersely.
“Will Graham has a unique skillset which makes him a highly qualified asset to
assist in suspect profiling even without formal training—”
“Will Graham has an empathy disorder exacerbated by his previously undiagnosed
autism and more than half a decade of deep psychological trauma,” Alana cuts
him off angrily.
“Enough. Will Graham’s supposed qualifications or lack thereof aside, the
public perception right now at best is that the FBI is bringing damaged
individuals to crime scenes because it can’t do its own damn job on its own
anymore, and at worst is that it’s inadvertently providing free pointers to
possible future killers in the making,” Prurnell throws in, unnecessarily
turning her computer screen to show them what they’ve both already seen, the
Freddie Lounds article which went up two days ago, shortly after the one hyping
up Abel Gideon as the possible Chesapeake Ripper. Their least favorite tabloid
reporter has been busy this week.
The headline reads, “It Takes One to Know One—Or Is That Two?” Juxtaposed with
eclectic shots of Gideon behind bars and Eldon Stammets’ mushroom-covered
victims is a picture of Will walking out of the BSHCI with a scowl on his face
and another, older one of Abigail Hobbs in hunting gear standing next to her
father. Alana glares at it in frustrated distaste which Jack wholeheartedly
empathizes with. This is low even for Freddie.
“That article is complete and utter garbage. You can’t believe a word of it,”
says Bloom.
“What I believe is not relevant to what the public eye perceives, Dr. Bloom,”
Kade tells her pragmatically. “And you can’t say every word of it is untrue
when you are the one who requested this meeting to argue against Mr. Graham’s
involvement with the BSU.”
“I’m against it because of the additional trauma this is inflicting on Will,
not because I believe Will is dangerous!” Alana refutes.
“I would like to state for the record that Abigail Hobbs has not been involved
in either the Stammets or Gideon investigations, despite Ms. Lounds’
insinuations otherwise,” Jack adds for good measure.
“I can confirm that much as well,” says Alana in wry agreement.
“Noted,” says Prurnell, disinterested. “Look, I’m just here to do damage
control and make this all go away as quickly and quietly as possible. Dr.
Bloom, would you be willing to withdraw your written complaint if I can
guarantee that Mr. Graham will no longer be asked in on these consultations?”
Alana appears reluctant, but eventually nods. “While I would prefer to have it
stay a matter of record, especially regarding my notes on the manipulative
tactics deployed in the ‘asking,’” she states, mouth a thin line and pointedly
not looking at Crawford, “I will concede to my patient’s wishes that this not
turn into a dragged out affair if it can be settled simply.”
Jack does not say what he is thinking, that Will did not ask for Bloom’s
interference at all, knowing it would make him a hypocrite. He did not ask Jack
to drag him into all of this to begin with either.
Crawford is not going to back down so easily, however, and disagrees with them
having this meeting without Will present in the first place. He wants to hear
the omega say for himself that he wishes to stop before he will agree to such
terms, and is about to state as much when his work phone rings, cutting sharply
into the tension of the room.
“Agent Crawford, will you kindly shut that off?” asks Kade, deeply annoyed with
the interruption.
“I’m sorry, but my team knows not to call me during a meeting unless it’s an
emergency. I have to take this.” He picks up before Kade gets a chance to
castigate him further. “Crawford speaking. This better be important, Jimmy.” He
listens a moment. “What?” He stands, the chair behind him scraping back harshly
against the rug underneath. “Say that again, slower this time.”
The two women in the room watch him now with more curiosity and concern than
annoyance. “You’re sure?” Jack asks the man on the other end of the line. His
eyes dart to Alana as the man speaks. “No, this is good, Jim. I’m glad you
called when you did.” He hangs up. “Alana, do you recall a former patient of
yours named Cassie Boyle?”
“I—yes, she was discharged fairly recently. Why? Has something happened?”
“She’s dead.” He allows her only a moment to process this before he asks,
“During her stay at Port Haven, did she ever come into contact with Abigail
Hobbs or Will Graham?”
“They were in group therapy together,” she says. “But I hope you’re not
implying they’re suspects, I’m sure I can vouch for them being at the hospital
at whatever time—”
“They’re not suspects,” he interrupts to reassure her. “But I think she must
have been Lounds’ unnamed source for information about Will and Hobbs.”
“Why do you say that, Agent Crawford?” asks Prurnell.
“Because the Ripper seems to believe she was.” Prurnell gazes at him with a
dispassionate frown while Alana looks shell-shocked and horrified. “I need Will
Graham on this.”
That snaps Alana out of whatever stupor she was in danger of falling into.
“What? No, absolutely not, that is completely unacceptable!”
“Have you forgotten so quickly what the purpose of this meeting was, Jack?”
Kade asks him.
“I have not, but this is clearly a message and I am not its intended recipient.
The Ripper wants us to know he’s not rotting away in a jail cell, that he’s
still out there, but the rest of whatever he wants to say is obviously meant
for Will Graham. I need Will to tell me what the rest of that message is.”
“This is all your fault!” Alana accuses, voice quavering. “You’ve painted a
target on Will’s back by dragging him into this, and possibly Abigail’s too!”
Jack says nothing, sick at heart even if he refuses to show it as openly. He
knows she’s not wrong.
“Dr. Bloom, do get ahold of yourself,” says Kade in that no-nonsense tone of
hers that almost comes across as bored, except for the sharpness of it. “Jack,
in light of these new circumstances, I’m going to have to let the report stand
after all and make further note of your possible role in this event coming
about.”
“I understand,” he tells her. “And I accept responsibility for the consequences
of my actions, then and now. But I need Will Graham on this,” he repeats.
Prurnell clenches her jaw tightly as she gives it thought. “Yes, I suppose now
you do.”
Bloom looks at her aghast. “You cannot be serious.”
“I will allow it for the time being, and for this investigation only,” Kade
continues, ignoring her. “Let me be clear, Jack, as soon as the Ripper is
caught, or slips through your grasp and leaves the trail cold again, Will
Graham’s involvement with the bureau ends and your own will be up for review. I
would suggest you tread very carefully from here on out if you still want to
keep your job by the end of this, and I can’t guarantee that you will even
then.” She turns back to Alana at last. “Dr. Bloom will also be present
whenever Graham is, however, and her say on when and if he should be removed
from the scene is final. That is assuming she can be objective and level-headed
in her decision making.”
The other woman bristles. “Of course I can.” The effect is not as strong as it
could be when her eyes are still wet with unshed tears. Prurnell merely raises
an unaffected brow at her and says nothing.
“Alana,” Jack tries to say as they leave Prurnell’s office and both head in the
same direction, towards their cars to head to Baltimore.
“Text me the address. We’ll meet you there,” she says with defeat in her eyes
and cold, bitter fury in her voice.
“Alana,” he tries again.
She quickens her pace and strides past him without another word. Jack sighs.
They’ve always had trouble seeing eye to eye, but he never meant to let it get
this bad. He lets her pull ahead, though he’s in a hurry to get to the body
himself.
He’s twisted himself into a position he may not be able to untwist from again
with his job or all of his relationships intact, but he can’t bring himself to
regret it entirely, not when he finally has the Ripper in his sights again
after years of nothing to go on. Nothing is more important than this, not his
colleagues’ opinions of him or even his own career. He has to see it through
and just hope he can one day earn forgiveness from the people who do matter,
like his Bella, and the lost boy with the brittle smile.
*
Her mouth says, “I’m sorry,” her eyes, “I failed,” and her grip on the steering
wheel, “I’m going to choke the life out of Crawford for making me do this.”
Will would be lying if he claimed not to be a bit overawed just being in the
car alone with Dr. Bloom right now, her emotions too thick and choking
themselves to allow room in his head to concentrate on anything else.
Interlaced with it all is a fear that threatens to eat her alive from within.
It’s her driving force at the moment and the biggest reason for all that anger
and frustration. All the self-recrimination too.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, responding to the one piece of communication
she’s given verbally and intentionally. “And it’s gonna be okay. I’m going to
be fine,” he adds in response to all the rest.
She glances briefly to him and huffs out a laugh that comes out more desperate
than she probably realizes. “I think I’m supposed to be the one offering you
that reassurance.”
“I’m not the one who needs it,” he tells her honestly. Long, long ago, fear was
the driving force of Will Graham as well, the only constant he ever knew since
he was old enough to understand and remember his dreams. The Dragon burned it
all but entirely away. There was nothing left to fear after that, after Him.
“Tell me to turn around and I will, right now,” she says. “To hell with what
Jack Crawford wants. They can’t force our hands if you don’t want to do this.”
Part of him wants to say it because she wants him to say it, but he can’t. It
has nothing to do with Jack Crawford either. It has everything to do with the
imagery that’s been seared into his brain since the museum, a man’s severed
tongue in his own bible, another impaled by his own tools to look like the
Wound Man—that one he hadn’t actually seen, but the Ripper display’s
generically worded “killed with implements in his own workshop” and his memory
of what Gideon had been trying to emulate were more than enough for his
imagination to go on.
A careless girl with her own thoughtless words shoved mercilessly back down her
throat, and those not crumpled but instead painstakingly folded into an origami
anatomical heart. That was how Crawford’s crew had been able to determine she
must have been Freddie’s informant even before questioning Lounds. The Ripper
has a very particular style in the messages he gives, one that makes it clear
his victims have brought this on themselves.
What strikes Will as uncanny about the whole affair isn’t that the victim is
Cassie, or the reason she was targeted—it’s that her killer got to her so fast,
wasted no time after the article went up to track its unverified “source” and
make a statement of his own about it. He knows what the FBI will think, that
the Ripper wanted to rebut Lounds’ claims about himself as brutally and quickly
as possible by casting doubt on her claims about others as well. They’ll be
hopeful this means he made a sloppy mistake somewhere. Will’s not so sure about
that.
Alana takes his lack of answer for the answer that it is. She’s disappointed
and worried, and still scared, but she doesn’t turn back. Before long they’re
there, and Will can see for himself just what kind of statement the Ripper is
making.
Katz waves, but the two men she’s with don’t appear to have noticed him and
Bloom yet, too focused on their own animated discussion bouncing back and
forth. Crawford shoos them all aside to make room for the new arrivals.
“Glad you could make it, Will,” he says. “How are you holding up?” Bloom glares
at the alpha like she hopes he’ll spontaneously combust if she concentrates
hard enough, but at least she doesn’t try to answer him on Will’s behalf.
“’M fine,” he mumbles. It’s an inane question, one he normally wouldn’t bother
responding to if he wasn’t trying to appease the man’s guilt just enough to
allow him to pass and see the body up close.
There’s the usual “tell us if this is too much or you need a breather” speech
from Bloom and Crawford, one of whom really means it and hopes he’ll take up
the offer, one who tries to mean it but hopes he won’t. Will tunes them both
out as much as he’s capable except to nod where it’s appropriate, impatient to
get on with it.
Jack ushers them past the makeshift privacy curtain that’s been thrown up to
keep passers-by on the road from rubbernecking. Alana makes an awful choked,
painful sound at the sight of Cassie before reining herself in. Will knows he
can’t afford to react even that much, lest his would-be protector seize it as a
chance to pull him back immediately, and focuses on keeping blank almost more
than he focuses on the corpse itself, at first.
Impossible not to think of Abigail at an initial glance. Cassie fits the
profile of her dad’s victims, which Will assumes is a happy coincidence and not
an intentional part of the Ripper’s design, but the artful way her body is
posed and impaled on the stag’s head is no coincidence. Nor are the carefully
cut shards of reflective glass inserted into her eye sockets, curiously inset
in a manner Will has never seen before.
“He took her eyes,” he notes aloud. “Francis would only fit the mirrors over
them. He wasn’t interested in trophies.” The killer took her lungs too, from
the looks of it. “He let her blood run to waste though, wasn’t collecting it
like Hobbs would have done. Didn’t honor every part of her either, he was, um,
choosy about which parts he wanted.” He circles carefully around the girl who
used to be so boisterous and obnoxious in life, now serenely beautiful and
haunting in death. “Now this, this is how you pay an homage,” he whispers.
“An homage?” Jack questions. “We thought it was mockery. Or some kind of
petulant statement about Gideon’s work copying his.”
“Oh, it is a mockery,” Will agrees. “Of you. Of them. Of her. But it’s also,
um…” How to explain? “There’s ripping off someone else’s work, and then there’s
elevating it. This is the latter. And despite being drawn from inspiration by
two very different killers, it’s far simpler in its elegance than what either
of them would have come up with on their own.” Cleaner. Bolder. Hobbs
obliterated girls from existence and Frank made gory messes of entire families
inside their own homes, but neither of them giftwrapped bodies out in the open
for someone to find. It’s almost considerate, from a certain point of view. Not
one Cassie or her family or even the poor, unlucky son of a bitch who found and
reported her would share, most likely.
“Elegance,” Jack repeats. Fuck. Will doesn’t turn around to see what
expressions either him or Alana are making.
“He thinks it’s elegant,” Will backpedals a bit. “I mean, that’s his entire MO,
right? ‘I’m better than everyone.’” These people, his victims, all debased
themselves in some fashion. The Ripper merely presents them as they truly are
and tries to make something beautiful out of it. Really, what’s so hard about
that to understand?
Cassie’s empty sockets reflect his own gaze back up at him, silently demanding
to be understood and telling him in turn, “I see you.” He swallows, not sure
how comfortable he is with the thought of being seen.
“What do you make of him paying ‘homage’ to both Dolarhyde and Garret Jacob
Hobbs, Will?” Crawford asks him. Alana makes a noise like she has her own
thoughts about that, but keeps them to herself. “Is he trying to tell you
something, or Abigail, or both of you?”
“Not Abigail,” Will answers that one easily enough. “If he reads Lounds’
articles regularly, which I’m sure he does, then he’s also familiar enough with
her particular, ah, writing style by now to be able to pick out the facts from
the spurious dross she words just differently and oh-so-carefully enough to
avoid getting sued for libel. He’d know that while Abigail would never see this
up close, I would.”
“Then why emulate her father at all?” It’s Alana’s voice that asks this time.
Because she is my twin, he thinks. “Because he knows she’s important to me.”
Because he sees us both, even if it’s only me he’s trying to impress. “He wants
me to know I have his attention now as much as he has mine, and that he’ll be
observing me just as I’m observing him. Who I’m connected with is something he
wouldn’t be able to help but notice.”
“So he might go after her to get to you, or just go for you directly. You’re
both still in just as much danger either way.” Will does turn to look at Alana
then. The worry and fear are still there, though so is a bit of intrigue and
fascination at getting to actually see Will in his new role even if she
disapproves of it.
Will shakes his head. “He won’t come after us. He’s not threatening us.”
“Will, he killed someone you knew, someone who once slept right down the hall
from you and Abigail,” the psychiatrist points out. “In the same manner…your
mate and Abigail’s father once claimed their own victims,” she adds after a
note of hesitation.
“He killed someone who spread lies about the both of us and did nothing to hide
her dislike of me,” he points out right back and just as pragmatically. Never
has Will been grateful for the fact that he’s almost never alone anymore, but
with his whereabouts constantly accounted for by someone, he can at least be
certain they won’t try to blame him for Cassie’s death. “He may even see it as
a courtesy. Think of this as his way of saying ‘hello,’ nothing more.”
There’s that desperate huff of laughter again. He hopes Alana won’t forget how
to laugh normally by the end of all this. She doesn’t deserve that.
“Will, I’m gonna need a little more than a ‘hello’ to work with,” Jack speaks
up again finally.
“I’ve already told you what little I can glean from this,” Will shrugs.
“Without seeing that file yet, without knowing him, I don’t have much else to
go on.”
“It’s in my car. I’ll get it to you before you leave.” Alana purses her lips
and again keeps whatever protests she’s dying to make to herself for Will’s
sake. She thinks them, however. Loudly. “Now, you seem pretty confident this
wasn’t a threat against you, Will,” Jack continues, either unknowing or
uncaring of Alana’s telepathic assaults being thrown in his general direction.
“But there’s a reason you believe that, and I need you to articulate for me
what that reason is.”
“Jack,” Alana voices sharply in warning. “Don’t push.”
“It’s okay.” Will rolls his bottom lip into his mouth, thinking. “I’m not sure
how to articulate it better. It’s not something I know, it’s just…a feeling.”
“We’re gonna need more than ‘just a feeling’ as well if we want to catch this
guy, son. Help me understand what you’re seeing here.” Will wonders, if he were
a little older and actually under Jack’s employ, how quickly the man would lose
the fatherly “accommodating” tone and really let the frustration he knows is
lurking just under the surface show.
“Starting to recognize the drawbacks of using empathy as a tool, Jack?” Alana
asks him archly.
“Look, I’m not a magic-eight ball you can shake until you get the answers you
want or a fluffy bunny in need of constant coddling,” Will snaps at both of
them, getting fed up himself. “Just give me the damn file already and I’ll tell
you what I think if something else jumps out at me.”
*
“And how did you respond to that?” Hannibal asks at what appears to be the
conclusion of the day’s recounted events.
“I gave him the damn file and shut up,” Jack chortles, spearing a bite of
tenderloin onto his fork and bringing it to his lips. “Mm, this is marvelous.”
Hannibal acknowledges the praise with a slight tip of his head. “You don’t
strike me as a man who would brook much backtalk from his employees. Why is
Will the exception?”
“Could be because he’s not my employee, for one. Anything Will does to help out
the cause is entirely his choice. I gotta respect that.”
“The cause of catching the Chesapeake Ripper,” Hannibal clarifies. How
fortuitous and timely this acquaintanceship he’s begun to cultivate with the
man has been. He did not even have to go the potentially suspect route of
seeking Crawford out himself; the FBI agent had sought him soon after they met
properly several weeks ago, on the morning Abigail and Will were discovered
missing on their little nighttime escapade.
He’d said at the time that he wanted to get to know the colleague Dr. Bloom
admired so much as to trust implicitly with the partial, if unofficial, care of
one of her own patients, though it had been obvious, of course, that the other
man would not have cared had that patient been anyone other than Will Graham.
He saw in Lecter the potential ally with an in to Will Graham he knew he could
not truly have in Dr. Bloom. Jack Crawford is nothing if not an excellent and
cunning opportunist. There have been many chats between them since then, though
this is only their second dinner.
This is not the first time conversation between them has cycled back to Will,
though Crawford does not give pertinent details of the cases the omega has
assisted on—not that he needs them when Will has no such compunctions about
divulging what he’s seen anyway—and Lecter does not reveal anything which Will
or even Bloom might view as a betrayal of trust.
After a bit of companionable silence as they eat, it is Crawford who picks up
the thread once more. “I really give you the impression of someone who’s a
hardass?” he asks with a little smirk before taking a sip of his wine. Hannibal
returns it in kind.
“You give me the impression of a man who is deeply driven, at times perhaps
singularly, on a particular plan of action and will see it through to its
bitterest end, either when the task has been finished, or it has finished with
you. Goal-oriented is the term I believe might best describe you.”
“Well hell, that’s the nicest way anybody’s ever said I’m a hardass. I may have
to borrow that from you when I’m polishing up my resume.”
“Would the FBI really let you go after so many years of dedicated service?”
Hannibal asks, curious.
“It’s not like they wouldn’t have cause,” Jack tells him fairly even in the
face of his own faults. “This isn’t even the first time I’ve skirted the rules
some to get results. It’s just that as long as those results were gotten, they
were willing to forgive more often than not. Now,” he shrugs. “I don’t know.
I’ve been thinking it might be time I retire anyway, what with Bella’s illness.
I just…” He pauses, takes another sip of his wine. “I hope that by the time
this is done, my name has at least enough clout left to mean something on the
recommendation letters I’m planning to leave with a few schools in the area and
the Academy. Some of them, they may not want to look twice at an older
applicant with a GED, but they will if I tell them he’s worth their
consideration.”
“I was not aware Will had expressed any interest in attending the FBI Academy
after finishing at university. Or indeed, in attending university.”
“You think I’m getting ahead of myself, counting the chicken before it’s
hatched yet,” Jack states in a wry tone.
“I think you see the end of your task drawing near. Now you are trying to
secure your legacy.”
“Aw hell, don’t psychoanalyze me over dinner, Doctor,” Jack chuckles. “No,
believe me, I’m well aware I’m the last person who could call himself an expert
on what’s going on inside Will Graham’s head. He could decide he wants to be a
baker or a florist for all I know! It would be such a waste though,” he
mutters, shaking his head.
“The world needs its bakers and florists as much as it needs its psychiatrists
and detectives, Jack,” the other alpha points out as he pours another glass for
the both of them. “And on that note,” he excuses himself briefly to collect
their finished plates and return afterwards with dessert.
“Thank you,” the other man accepts it graciously. “It’s not just his talent
that would be lost,” Jack continues. “It’s something in here,” he says, lightly
thumping against his own chest.
“Abigail Hobbs has expressed some interest in joining the FBI’s ranks. Perhaps
you should be mentoring her instead,” says Hannibal as he reseats himself. Jack
huffs a laugh as though there’s something funny about that. “You dislike
Abigail?”
“I have no opinion of Abigail Hobbs,” Jack corrects. He takes up a clean fork
and makes another appreciative noise for this course just as he had done for
the last one. “She’s done nothing to earn my trust or prove herself capable yet
though, that much I know.”
“You haven’t afforded her the same opportunities to do so that you have
afforded Will,” Hannibal points out before taking a bite from his own portion.
“Dr. Lecter, Alana Bloom told you how I happened to become aware of Will’s
gift, didn’t she?” Despite it being phrased almost like a rhetorical question,
Hannibal gives a short nod. “Good. Just checking, because it seems to me that
you and she both forget it was Will who came to me first with insight into the
Shrike. I didn’t ask. He offered.” He punctuates that with another bite. “I
haven’t strong-armed Will into anything he doesn’t want to do since then
either, no matter how much Dr. Bloom feels otherwise. It’s been his choice to
walk this path, every step of the way.”
“I agree. Will is not one to sit idly by when he could be doing something
useful with his time, but nor is he inclined to allow anyone else to dictate
the course of his life for him. His experiences could have shaped him into a
more permissive creature, prone to baring his neck for the larger animals in
the room and giving in to their whims out of some combination of habit and
fear. Instead they had quite the reverse effect. Now he is apt to snap his jaws
at any hand that appears to snake too close to the reins. That is why he lost
his temper with both you and Dr. Bloom earlier today.”
“He thought we were trying to jerk the controls out of his hands, and he
doesn’t want to feel that way ever again,” Jack says, nodding.
“Just so.” Hannibal takes another bite of his dessert. “You said it was more
than just Will’s talent the FBI would be losing if it failed to snatch him up,”
he continues, because it is not in his interests that Jack Crawford genuinely
learn from his foibles when it would be so much more fun to watch him dig his
heels in even deeper and see where that takes them. “What did you mean by
that?”
The other alpha looks to him consideringly. “Has anyone told you how the bureau
discovered Francis Dolarhyde was the Tooth Fairy?” he leads with a question of
his own.
Hannibal shakes his head lightly. “I assumed nothing more than anyone else
might have, that it was the result of good, old-fashioned police work and the
tireless gumption of the men and women working the case,” he answers.
“Heh, I wish that were true,” Crawford tells him, looking down at the table
between them with a small smile. “The reality of it was a little bit simpler,
and a little more complicated, than that I’m afraid.” He looks up then. “What
I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room, Dr. Lecter. No one aside from
select members of my own team and a couple of my higher-ups know about it, not
even Dr. Bloom. It was decided by folks above my paygrade that the public
didn’t need to know this victory was won by blind providence or luck more than
it was by police work and gumption, you understand?”
“Providence?” Hannibal questions with a tilt of his head.
Crawford sighs. “In the weeks following the discovery of the third murdered
family, leading up to what would have been the fourth by the next full moon,
Clarksville PD contacted the bureau.” Clarksville, Missouri, is the closest
town to Dolarhyde Nursing Home, though still some miles away, if Hannibal
remembers the reports correctly. He straightens attentively in his seat. “They
told us they had received a phone call from an anonymous tipper claiming to
have information relevant to the Tooth Fairy case.”
“Is there a recording of this phone call?” Hannibal asks. Crawford shakes his
head in the negative, yet he smirks as though the other man has unwittingly
stumbled upon the punchline to some joke.
“No, you see, that’s just it. Damnedest thing,” the smirk widens. “Whoever
their tipper was didn’t call 911 or the administrative line for the department.
They called the chief’s secretary directly. On her personal cell phone. During
her lunch break.”
“They sound resourceful.” Jack is clearly pleased to see he has piqued Lecter’s
sense of intrigue, and it is not even feigned on Hannibal’s part. “And like
they very much did not want their identity revealed, going out of their way to
call her when they knew she would be away from the officers and any recording
devices.”
“And more importantly, away from any means of tracing the call,” Jack counters.
“There are ways to record calls on a cell phone, of course, but this was an
older woman, about my age and not very tech-savvy. Now, to give credit where
it’s due, I believe you’re right in that the caller knew he could afford to
have some reasonable doubt in the secretary’s technical knowhow and trusted
that she wouldn’t be able to record him either. But I’ll get to that in just a
minute.” He pauses to take another sip of his wine.
Hannibal sees no reason to go through the same motions. It would be
disingenuous to pretend he is anything less than fully engrossed by this
revelation, and it only benefits him to be demonstrably so. The other alpha
clearly appreciates the chance to tell his story to someone visibly on
tenterhooks to hear the rest.
“So. The caller leaves no name, no address, no other means of contacting him
again. The only information he gives is functionally useless to the local
department as well. Without having all the details on the case that we did,
they had no way of following the lead themselves. I don’t know if he just
assumed the locals would botch the arrest, or if on some level maybe he was
trying to protect the small town officers who wouldn’t have the training to
know how to handle a monster like Dolarhyde, but he ensured they had no choice
but to come to us. Then he hung up.”
“Did they never figure out where he was calling from?” Hannibal asks.
“Oh, sure they did. That was easy once she got back to work. Turns out it was a
local number, very local in fact. Belonged to a payphone in the park directly
across the street from the restaurant she and her girlfriends were eating at.
Naturally, the tipper was gone by the time squad cars arrived on the scene, but
witnesses said they did notice the rather unusual sight of someone actually
using the payphone. No one got close enough to get a clear look or scent,
probably kept their distance assuming it was some down-on-his-luck junkie or
drifter, but they could tell it was a white male in a grey hoodie, of somewhat
smaller than average build like your typical omega or a very young adult, or
both. The secretary also confirmed that from what she could tell, the voice on
the line was both young and male.” Crawford spreads his hands in a sort of
“make of that what you will” gesture before clasping them on the table in front
of him. “Now ask me how he knew which restaurant this woman would be spending
her lunch break at.”
Hannibal simply smiles and tips his head forward in a “go on” gesture.
“Unsafe internet privacy practices,” the man carries on. “Which I’m sure their
department must have had a big meeting about after the fact, but I’m so glad
they didn’t before that day.”
“That was also a factor in how Francis Dolarhyde stalked some of his victims,”
Hannibal points out.
“It was,” Jack nods soberly. “It’s all too easy in this day and age
unfortunately. Hell, I could do it in much the same way probably and I’m barely
a few rungs above that woman in technical prowess myself. See, another funny
thing about that day,” the man continues with his story. “Not half an hour
before that call, the PD received one from a volunteer at the public library
which they all but rolled their eyes at and dismissed until they found out it
was related later. They said someone in a grey hoodie came in, made a beeline
for one of the computers but only sat there for a couple of minutes before they
got right up again, made another beeline for the tip jar for some local
barbecue fundraiser or whatever, I forget, stole a big handful of change from
it and walked right back out. Took none of the cash, mind you. Just change.”
“For the payphone.”
“For the payphone,” Crawford agrees. “And what did they find when they checked
the browser history for that computer? Only two tabs were opened at the
specific time the volunteer noted—one for the staff directory on the police
department’s website, which included names and pictures of everyone who worked
there, and the secretary’s Facebook page, which was openly visible to the
public and had personal details including the woman’s phone number and a recent
check-in at the restaurant she met her friends at for their weekly brunch.”
Crawford punctuates this final piece of the overall picture with an open-handed
slap against the table. “Now isn’t that just something? Someone went to a lot
of trouble, all to call one little old lady.”
“And you believe that someone was Will Graham.”
“At the time I thought it was nothing short of a damned miracle,” Crawford
tells him. “Theories ranged from it being a prank to one of the victim’s
relatives to one of the would-be future victim’s goddamn guardian angel. Until
I saw Will there, at that house, none of it made sense. Then, there he was
and…everything did.”
Hannibal swallows lightly, picks up his neglected wineglass and takes a small
sip from it. Yes. It does all add up perfectly. This conversation has been
enlightening and revelatory in more ways than even Crawford could realize. “Did
you ask him?”
“If it was him? No.” Crawford shakes his head. “What good would it do to dredge
up something like that? It must have been hard for him. Now that, that is what
I would call gumption, Dr. Lecter.” Jack drains the last of his glass. “I think
back on it sometimes and I…I mean, can you even imagine what that must have
been like?”
“Yes.” He can. The walk would have taken hours, to the town and back. Little
time to stop and rest, the risk of Dolarhyde coming home from work or whatever
business he was on early and discovering him missing too great. An entire day
on his feet. He wonders if they were sore and blistered by the time he got
back, and how he might have hidden that from his mate. Or if Will had thought
ahead and planned for that, spent long and tiring days in the weeks or even
months leading up to the journey walking the grounds under the guise of more
garden labor until his feet formed toughened calluses and the sun darkened his
skin enough that one extra day spent almost entirely outdoors would go
unnoticed.
He wonders which was harder—gathering the courage to squeeze through the bars
of the gate and leave, or the strength of will it took to turn around when it
was done and go back.
“See, now you get it too,” Crawford says with a nod. “You wanted to understand
why I admire that young man so much, doctor, and why I believe he’s destined
for greater things. That’s why.”
“On the contrary, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal informs him with a gracious smile.
“I always believed Will was meant for more than the lot he’s been given myself.
This is only one more confirmation of what I already knew.”
“It takes a certain kind of tenacity to do something like that.”
“That it does,” Hannibal agrees. He refills their glasses one last time before
raising his in a toast. “To tenacity,” he says.
“To tenacity.” Their glasses clink.
Chapter End Notes
     I wonder what Will will have to say for himself in the next chapter,
     hmm, don't you? ;)
End Notes
     Fear not, my darling fellow trash buddies, this is primarily a
     hannigram fic but there will be more dolargram in the form of
     flashbacks throughout, because I love to have my cake and eat it too.
     ;)
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