Chapter Text
Taxidermy holds a certain scent in the air. Perhaps it's because of the way an animal is mounted or the paint they use to color their eyes lifelike, it's all very striking. The very idea of having something eternal is the very equivalent of what nothing is. No one can explain it, but somehow, it supersedes the darkness and is often described as a phenomenon. The space between the stars and the planets, that darkness that only humans want to define because the thought of there being nothing, is too much to bear. Walking past nothing, or something that's always there, will feel like the space between the stars. It's always been, and it always will be.
Jack and Alana had not planned to continue this search, but concerning ethics of the FBI, they must. Wherever Will Graham had fled off too, is now connected to Jack, and thus, Alana. It's not like they don't want to find him, he is still their friend in their eyes. But now it's messy, complicated, and dangerous. Time and time again, Hannibal and Will have shown to be unpredictable. Now with one of them gone and the other mad, it's risky to even think of a future where they meet again. But Jack still has a suspicion between his ribs, a quiet whisper that is telling him Hannibal knows where Will is. If he hears this whisper, Jack knows something is blaring inside Will. Maybe that's why he left.
Hopeful thinking.
Bedelia's home is elegant, like her. A loft, where the roof has real wooden logs covering the land. It's very similar to the one she had before. There's walls that are made of glass, the movement of air here is smooth and pale. Everything smells like sandalwood and the floors are carpeted. White, maybe a cashmere color. Her silhouette spoke from another room, the kitchen. “Would you like a drink?” Jack crosses his arms, “No, thank you.” Alana shakes off her coat and folds it over her arm, "I'll have wine, Red.” A small hum is heard, then glass clinking. Jack inspects the room.
It's nice, again, elegant. There's a brown sofa that resembles the one Hnannibal had in his office. A gray statue of Marcus Arulieus stands proudly to the side of the room. “You’ve read meditations?” Bedilas holds two glasses, one white and one red, and she passes a glass to Alana. She accepts kindly and takes a sip, her lipstick smudging a bit on the rim. “The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane.” He holds an almost bashful glee as he recalls, “My mother had collected many of his works, said he was so wise for his time.” Bedelia returns a smile, "You the same." He nods in thanks.
Bedelia takes a sip of her wine before sitting on the sofa, adjusts her skirt and then rests her glass between her hands. Sighing as she asks, “What can I do for you, Agent Crawford?” Alana sips as she eyes Jack. He shifts a bit, then states, “Will Graham has left.” He looks at Bedila, who looks blank, then shocked, then irritated. She huffs, bringing her glass to her mouth and looks to the side while saying, “You want to know how he was during our sessions.” Alana sits down across from her, the navy blue cushions squeaking a bit. “Yes, anything you can tell us would be a great help.”
Long legs cross, her black heels shining in the Summer light. Bedelia sucks her teeth, “He was a bit aggressive, the last time I spoke to him." Jack turns a bit, his wool coat ruffling his sweater under. He runs cold anyway. “Agressive how?” She places her glass down and folds her hands together, “I had felt something had changed with him. When he spoke, he sounded angry, or confused. Possibly both. It wasn't until I asked about his family that I knew what had happened.”
Alana’s brows are knitted, an open hand rubbing her knee. “What did he say?”
She stated simply: “‘Hannibal got to them.’ Then asked if I was happy he did.” Jack huffs spinning around, facing the hallway. Alana leans forward, “What else?” They needed to get as much information as possible. Whatever Will had been feeling could've been an indicator on why he had left, maybe even give them a trail to where he had left. Bright reactions leave trails, and Will was always known to burn bright.
Bedelia continued, “I commented on how Hannibal likes claiming things. He's claimed you,” She stares at Alana. Her expression doesn't falter. “And you too. He takes a part of you, molds it to how he sees fit, and then forces it back.” Jack rubs his beard, then sits closer to where Alana sits. His hands close together, then gives his full attention to the older woman. She smirks quietly, reminiscing, then states, “He called me ‘Bluebeard's wife.’”
Alana closes her eyes in contempt. Jack asks flatly, “How did you respond?” Bedelia smiles, brings her glass close to her lips, then answers before taking a sip, “I said if I was, I would have preferred to be the last.”
Jack sighs then drops his head in exasperation. “Do you really think that is the best thing to say to your patient?”
“It doesn't matter anymore, Agent Crawford. Will Graham was Hannibal’s the moment he walked into his office all those years ago.”
“Yes, and that means encouraging the beast.”
Alana interjects, “Will psyche is like, malleable, but hardened when angry.” Bedelia makes a face, “Have I made the beast angry?” She turns to Jack, “Should I pack my bags?”
“You’ve made him harder to catch.” Jack snarks back.
“You speak of Will Graham like a ticking time bomb, anxiously waiting for him to implode.” She rises, her glass empty in her hand, “If this is the case, why have a bomb in the FBI? Pardon me, why bring it back?” Her heels clack as she walks to the kitchen. Alana and Jack follow.
“We needed him to catch Hannibal, you saw the murders, Dr. Du Maurier, you know what he has done.” Jack's voice seems reverberated in these walls. Her back is facing them. Then, she turns, her sleeves pushed to the crook of her arms. Somehow, her appearance always stands still, never a piece of hair out of place.
“You don't know where Hannibal Lecter is. Not even he knows where he is.”
Alana raises a brow at that, “What, you believe he's unwell?” Will had said that what he believes Hannibal is going through is some sort of illness. Mental, most likely. But the jumps he made were indescribable. He stated it as if he knew how Hannibal was feeling, as if he was in his mind with him. Of course, it's not crazy to say that since that is Will’s “superpower”, some may say. But when he had said it, his eyes went glassy, as if he was recalling a lost memory. As if it was nostalgic. Bedelia must know as well how he thinks of him. It makes sense though, Bedelia and Will have been the only people that they know of that have had Hannibal let them in. They both know him, both have experienced him.
Jack asks one more question, “If you were Hannibal Lecter, and you had been through whatever he has been through, where would you go now? Where would he want to go?”
Bedelia tucks a curl behind her ear before speaking, “If a man I had such a profound connection with, had left me, and moved on-” She pauses, “-I would feel broken. Impulsive. That sort of heartache would cause me to lash out and try to find what was between us.”
“He has been impulsive before.” Jack remarked.
“But not like this.” Alana adds, “I think he's regressing.” Jack turns, “Regressing? Like Age?” Alana nods, “As well as experience.
“I think something happened that night after escaping Muskrat Farm. Something triggered Hannibal and caused this. But Muskrat happened years ago.” She looks at Jack with worry in her eyes.
“So how long has his mind been damaged?”
Bedelia chimes in, “Probably as long as it's been since Will had left him.”
They look at her. The silence is deafening.
(CARMINE)
Jack and Alana pull up to a gravel driveway. The house in all honesty, looks in bad shape. How Will was supposedly living here is absurd. Zeller and Price had called them after they left Bedelia's home. They were just getting into the car when they got a phone call.
“Jack! We got traffic light footage of Will driving to Doe Hill. There aren't many properties there and even fewer people. We'll send you the directions now.”
The house smelled. Maybe it was mildew, perhaps mold, most likely a mixture of both. But the stench held its own atmosphere here. Almost like smoke, which is also very prominent in the air here. Was Will a smoker? Jack had never seen Will carry or even hold a box of cigarettes. Maybe this house was before he knew Will. When he was a cop? No, Will had said he was in New Orleans when he was a cop. Or was it New Jersey? He imagines Will to be the type of smoker that is similar to one’s you see after a funeral: quiet, solemn, rigid. Smoking not for the aesthetic or addiction, but to feel something akin to air, burn his lungs. Like how his mother smoked after a long shift in the Hospital. Will would be the same as her. He'd probably like her if they met. If she was still alive.
Inside the house was cold, muggy but cold. The stairs that were greeted immediately to them were made of worn wood that looked like termites had bitten into it already. Books were everywhere, on the couch, on the tables, on the stairs, on the floor. Books that look both in good and moderate condition. A thick layer of dust covers them. Life is evident, just because of its mere existence. But this home looks so worn down, so used. Life seems to cling onto the floor boards. They creek when they enter the kitchen.
“Oh my God.” Jack mutters. The kitchen smells disgusting. Some sort of cleaner was used here, and it smells like mold and death. The fridge is making some sort of sibilant sound, like a broken animal. No wonder Will thought there was one in his chimney. Pictures are turned; frigid, plastic numbers holding them up.
There seems to be metal scraps shaved all over the floor. Shavings that look as thin as leaves, as sharp as knives. However, it wasn't as concerning as what was spread over the counters. Orange bottles are opened, the white caps thrown over the floor. On the granite base, hundreds of pills are scattered. Colors of sage and white, gray and orange, they paint a mosaic of madness on this kitchen counter. Alana holds a tight expression, not surprised, but not comforted. Her leathered fingers grab a small grey pill, thumbing it. She holds it close to read what it says.
“Sertraline.”
“Zoloft? Will takes anti depressants?” The FBI has access to Will’s medical records. They can see if he needed medication, who prescribed them to him, when they did. Nothing had shown, and if it did, Zeller and Price would have told him. Alana purses her lips then drops the medication. “Will is prone to mental illness, similar to Hannibal. I have a feeling that the reason he left is because he's experiencing a depressive episode.” She picks up one of the bottles, then stills. Jack raises a brow, “Alana?”
She picks up another bottle, her hands slightly shaking. She mumbles something to herself. “Jack, the labels on these bottles aren't Will’s.” She hands them to him, eyes wide and wet. He reads them.
RX NO. 60998365
LECTER, HANNIBAL
STERTRALINE HCL
50MG TABLETS
TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH A DAY
He reads the next bottle.
RX NO. 873893732
LECTER, HANNIBAL
ARIPIPRAZOLE 30MG TABLETS
TAKE TWO BY MOUTH A DAY
Modern medicine is a gateway to become a God. The act of saving yourself before any at all, is perilous, righteous, magnanimous. Hannibal had an obsession with God. He saw God as a sort of overzealous cousin, flaunting his power over others. There were times where Jack would visit him after a most grueling case, needing a clear mind and a drink. There were times where Jack would retell the case, shaking from the discomfort, and he'd see Hannibal, enthralled. His eyes would become dark and fuzzy, as if he was reliving the crime. It wasn't that apparent over firelight, but during these times, he wondered if it was the light or the story that made his skin gleam.
As a psychiatrist, it's not looked down upon to need medication. As a psychopath, it's admitting something is wrong with you. To admit is to commit to a sort of narrative. A narrative that is told through tiny pills in an abandoned home. And Glory, or rather, winning, could be described in a sort of euphoric tale, satisfactory and fulfilling. It takes the shape of a warm meal on a chilly afternoon. You come home exhausted, and displace your indifference with virtue. As you sit at the dinner table, you are served a bleeding heart still pumping with life into unreadable air. The appetizers are familiar memories that come in flashes and disheartening truths. They hang around you like a darkroom, dripping grainy water and photographs. And as you finally pick one up, holding it in shaking hands and finally look, you become more than what you are.
Hannibal Lecter being unmedicated is dangerous. And his existence is the only evidence needed. But then again, the vision both Alana and Jack are used to is dead. Fine and refined in all its broken misery; Hannibal is gone, like Will had said. They should've listened to him sooner. They should've taken his analysis and made it into an encyclopedia that they could access at all times. Maybe then he wouldn't have gotten hurt. Can danger be known if it's not spread? How does one determine whether a belief is dead? Do you scout the Earth, trying to find the last person alive who believes?
Will Graham believes, he always has.
Do you know why? I know why.
“We need Zeller and Price here, Jack. This can be considered a crime scene.” Alana speaks into the frigid air. Has it become colder? Jack sighs and then decides to look at one more place before they go: Upstairs. Will had to be sleeping somewhere, everywhere else is blocked by literature and dust.
He stumbles up the stairs. They creek under him like a harpsichord symphony. He tries not to think of Hannibal.
The upstairs has a long hallway. Doors are shown both left and right but there’s one glowing with a sort of red tint. A light casted on the carpeted floor and Jack is pulled closer to it. Carpets don’t creak but his weight feels heavier here. He feels like oxygen is being stolen from his lungs. It doesn’t matter. He opens the door.
A sort of musky, sour smell fumes through the room. A window is covered by a ragged American Flag. Thin, since the light still shines through and colors it red and blue. A wooden dresser is on the left of the room, drawers half pulled out and clothes spilling in front them. On top of the dresser are more books. Names like Dante, Oliver Twist, Shakespeare, and Milton are presented. A worn bible right in the middle. There’s clothes all over the floor and on the bed, which looks…used? There’s clothes on there, yes. But they’re moved around, as if someone was laying on them. Jack walks towards it, and it becomes apparent that that sour smell is emanating from this particular place.
He leans closer, then immediately heaves. His nose scrunches at the putrid cleaning smell. Urine and Semen are sprayed on the clothes. Jack takes a closer look. Most of, if not all the clothes on the bed are bottoms. Pajamas or underwear. He covers his mouth and nose. “Alana!” He shouts. Footsteps come upstairs in a hurry, opening the door then coughs. “What is that smell?!” She covers her nose. Jack moves away from the bed and walks closer to her. “Someone was here, and they contaminated all those clothes.” He points to the pile.
“Oh my god.” She responds. Jack looks at her, disgust and concern falling over their faces. A connection. A red string now pulled apart. “Hannibal was here. I don’t know how long ago but he was here.”
Alana’s eyebrows are scrunched, a snarl quivering on her face. She turns and leaves. Jack stares at the room. A box of cigarettes is on the nightstand. A silver lighter accompanying it.
He exits the room.
(CARMINE)
There’s a liquid that consumes him. Maybe it’s golden, maybe it’s blue. He never looked at the label. It made him speak of the truth in some language he never knew. He knew resilience and anger. But to Jack, anger was passion, was passion for justice. But justice had a way of resembling the wicked fruit. The same fruit he swirled in his mouth now.
“How is Bella?”
Jack sighs, “Our room is starting to look like the Gardens back in Italy. So many flowers. It drowns out the medication that's placed by our bedside table." In all honesty, Jack is just trying to make Bella comfortable. That's all he ever wanted for her. He shares a thought aloud, “We're thinking of going to Italy. She could…” He pauses, “She could die there.”
“Jack, you cannot allow her death to be the end of you.”
He sighs, not in sadness or acceptance, but something distinctly in between.
Hannibal holds his glass with distinction. Something that Jack had noticed: Hannibal pauses before drinking, eating, doing. As if he’s experiencing everything before it even comes to him, he pauses. He brings the glass close to his lips, and closes his eyes in solace. His own quiet luxury. Like he knows exactly what’s in his drink. His palette names each fruit, the tobacco taste, the barrel it was stored in. The drink looks like liquid gold in his hands. Everything does.
“I have a tough time believing that you’re what Will says you are.” He confessed, gaping at the older man. Hannibal pauses, again, then takes a deep breath in. His eyes bright like embers, he stares forward. “What does he say I am?” Jack continues, “He says you’re a killer.”
“I find that Will is struggling with himself and still believes that I had killed all those people he is accused of.” Lecter says, solemnly.
“You say ‘accused’ of. You still believe he's innocent?”
Hannibal places his glass down, on the glass table that sits between them, listening to this conversation. “I want to. I’m not sure he is, anymore.”
There’s silence for a second, maybe two…
“But, I believe there might be some truth to what he is saying.” Hannibal looked, a small raise in his brow. “Will right now is grasping for any stick that is not the short one he was left with. He’s trying to know what he’s missing, not even realizing he had anything missing at all.”
“He’s compromising.”
“He’s bargaining.” Hannibal corrects. “Will knows who he is,” He takes a sip from his glass, “He’s just trying to figure out if everyone else knows too.”
“Will cannot afford given faith, Doctor. He has no followers right now.” Jack pleads, his hands open in desperation. Hannibal takes him in, truly. Then, he states, “There is no proof of a God, but still, during times of distress, who do you pray to, Jack? Who prays over you while you sleep?
“No one, and yet we get up every morning and show up for ourselves. There's no harm in religion, or faith. But there is harm in submission. Will is bargaining for what he has now.”
“And what does he have now, Doctor?” Jack asks
“Hope.” He looks ahead at the fire solemnly, “The Chesapeake Ripper has given Will”s case hope.” The look inside Hannibal's eyes are all knowing, like the Gods above them. Jack wasn't really a religious man.
He went to church every Sunday. Recalls the smell of sandalwood incense in the air after the service was over. The wet rain on gray pavement and the children harassing their mothers to be finished with the gossip. He remembers staying after the service and helping put the chairs away. Making it a competition on who could carry the most chairs without having to go back again. The guitar hymns that vibrated so profoundly, Jack could see them shake from where he sat.
He sang in the choir, but struggled since he didn't know how to read music. His mother would allow him to stay longer since he felt embarrassed about his lack of knowledge. And after every practice session, he promised he would sound better next Sunday. Some days he kept it, others days he didn't.
Hannibal didn't seem like a man who went to church. At least not the churches Jack went to. Hannibal seemed like a man who went to chapels that had murals of saints painted on the walls. A man who always wore a suit to church, and where he got his fashion inspiration from. Something about God and wealth, it went hand in hand, and religion was made there. Maybe he has Hannibal all wrong. Maybe he wasn't a man of God but knew him nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe.
He asked, “How do you see God, Hannibal?” And it was like here, at this moment, when his name fell upon his lips, Hannibal changed into someone he never saw before. The man straightened, then, with trembling lips, he spoke.
“I see God as one of those pitiful things that sometimes roam the Earth. He comes in different versions of shame. He is a sadist; not because he revels in pleasure, but because he finds pleasure in the banal. How awful it must be, to experience shame to this degree?”
And Jack turned towards the fire, with his molten drink in his hands, causing burns on his palms, and he wonders who Hannibal gives thanks to when good things happen.
(CARMINE)
Quantico is always sterile, like hand sanitizer and rubber gloves were built in the walls. The morgue even more so. He felt grateful that the men decided to show him the file in his office instead of the lab.
“Okay, look.” Zeller drops the folder on Jack's desk, some papers spilling out. Jimmy quickly tries to file them back into place. “The medication prescribed to Dr. Lecter was given almost a year ago. A doctor by the name Isaiah Brown prescribed them-“ Jimmy perks up, “-But, we tried to find this supposed Dr. Brown and found no link or license for him. We’re pretty sure he might’ve just been a pretend doctor.”
Alana steps in, “Why would Hannibal require a fake doctor to prescribe him Antidepressants? Much less Antipsychotics?” Jack sits in his chair, contemplating. He thinks of Hannibal, a man who has been doing this for a long time, and hasn't had a break. A man, who much like Will, has limits and knows them. A man like Will, who knows what's going on in his head. A man like Will, who would recoil at anything other than his own. A man like Will. A man like Will.
Jack snaps, everyone in the room goes quiet. “Will had developed encephalitis because of the treatment and care of Hannibal Lecter.” They nod, Zeller adding, “Yeah he basically induced seizures to cause hallucinations and stuff.” Jack nods, “So could you say that anyone with this knowledge, a way to induce stress into the brain, can do this to Hannibal?” Alana shakes her head, “Yes but it's like teaching a dog new tricks, Hannibal knows all of them. It'd be very hard to do so.” Jack interjects, “Yes Alana, but Hannibal is still human too.”
“Are you excusing Hannibal's actions because he might be unstable?”
“No, I'm providing an explanation; someone is inducing this sort of behavior, causing him to do those actions.”
“You believe someone's behind all this?” Brian asks. The older man nods. There is no other explanation. Decades of killing, moving around countries to continue this hobby that Hsannibal Lecter has, why start lashing out now? It is not just as simple as saying Will Graham is the reason behind this. He is acting this way because someone is regressing him, back into that savage boy he was back in Lithuania. A boy who knew what he was and knew it was not what was wanted from him. A boy who became a man, all the while becoming a murderer.
A glory, like spring flowers in the countryside. A way of movement that's apparent in the air. Contained in a tank that is made of glass. A sweet little heaven that is curated from a limited mind. The wild blackberry vines that cover the tank, asking again to be picked. And they seem so tempting, so he reaches for them, his veined hand curating each movement with power. But when he reaches, he falls. Jack falls, now he's in this purgatory of stillness. Of the unknowing.
Sometimes, he would be envious of Hannibal. How, a man can find his reflection in muddied water and still know what he is, even if the water is his only way of seeing who he is. Men like Hannibal Lecter, if there even is another like him, do with what they are, because they do not realize they are anything at all. Yes, society may put labels on men like him, and push them around from hospitals and jobs, but their nature stays present within them, like the organs they contain inside them. There's a fascination in our nature, because it's entirely our own. No one made us this way, we are what we are because we were meant to be it. Jack as God, Hannibal as the Devil, and somewhere, a Great Red dragon soaring over their skies. Lest we forget the Lamb.
But there's wolves in the forest, and they howl to the same moon the dragon kneels too. Even sometimes, the Devil needs to sleep.
We all do.