Chapter Text
The ring she wears on her left hand feels abnormally heavy today. Her hands are swollen from the flight, the band digging into her flesh, wrapped around her finger like a noose. Alana fiddles with it, contemplates pulling it off; tucking it into her purse for safe keeping. Instead she spins the stone upside-down, so that when she curls her hand into a fist it leaves a mark in her palm.
She knows it's a foolish thing to worry about, that ship having set sail a long time ago--it didn't even make it into the harbour--but this isn't the first time she's walked the long length of a hospital corridor on her way to Will Graham's bedside and, given the circumstances, it's hard not to ponder the what-ifs and could-have-beens. Mostly she wishes now she'd taken the chance, however much it would have ended in disaster.
That she's here now is proof of that.
It's late enough in the day that the hospital is quiet, the halls empty. Alana follows the signs for the ICU, the heels of her boots echoing off the linoleum. The signs lead her to a set of glass doors, inside a waiting room where Jack Crawford sits with his head between his hands. Alana pauses outside the glass; spends an idle minute watching him, trying to reconcile the twin flares of anger and relief warring in her breast. By the time she steps into the room, she's mostly decided on resignation.
Jack glances up at the sound of her footsteps. His complexion is ashen, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Alana doubts she looks any better, and yet she still adopts an expression of sympathy, her eyes soft as she approaches his side.
Jack rises; meets her halfway.
"Where is he?" she asks, no need for formalities. They both know why she came.
Jack exhales. "He's out of surgery. They're getting him settled and then they'll let us in to see him. I don't think he's conscious yet."
Alana nods: remembers then the last time she saw Will in hospital. He seemed so frail, so lifeless beneath the sheets. She's not entirely sure she's prepared to do this again.
"What happened?" she asks. She didn't get the chance earlier, Jack's call waking her in the dead of the night, Alana's only thought getting on a plane.
Now that she's here, she wishes she still had that journey before her.
Jack doesn't answer right away, deflating somewhat before gesturing them over to a line of chairs. Alana follows him, her legs wobbly, too much sitting and not enough food. She has to brace herself against the back of the chair--geometric patterns on the vinyl upholstery--to get into it. Seated, her right hand comes immediately to her left, fingers fiddling with her ring. She turns it right-way around, diamond on display.
"It sounds like Will went after Hannibal on his own," Jack says, pausing to let that sink in. Relief strikes Alana so hard had she not been sitting she might have collapsed.
"Idiot," she says, under her breath.
"Hannibal tried to disembowel him, but changed his mind before he could get all the way through Will's abdominal muscles."
Alana inhales sharply at that. She's already light-headed and dizzy. The mental picture does nothing to help. It frightens her sometimes, how close she once was to Hannibal, how completely oblivious she remained to his true nature. She will never forgive herself for setting Will in his path.
"What's his current condition?" she asks. She knows Will isn't dead--Jack would have told her if he was--but she doesn't know the extent of the damage.
"I don't know much more than that. He was in pretty bad shape when they brought him in, but from the sounds of it they managed to get him stitched back together. For the record, you were right. We shouldn't have brought him in on this.
She knew--Will didn't tell her, but she knew why he left; why he didn't come back. She spent the better part of six months wondering if there was anything she could have said or done differently, another six months coming to terms with guilt she didn't have any right to. When she finally let him go, decided to move on with her life, it was with the certainty that he was never coming back. Nowhere was this on her list of future plans.
"Would Hannibal have gone after him had we left him alone?" she asks, because she's starting to understand that they've never had control. Not where Will is concerned. Certainly not where Hannibal is concerned.
Jack's expression sours, answering the question long before he speaks.
"Probably," he still says.
Alana lets that settle around her, wonders if it would have been better leaving Will on his own turf, or if in bringing him into the investigation they did him a favour. She doubts they'll ever really know.
"And Hannibal? I'm assuming you have him in custody?"
Jack nods. "He's being held in a secure cell at the local detention centre. We should have extradition papers in the morning."
He pauses then, catching Alana's eye, gauging her reaction. Alana braces herself.
"He's being oddly cooperative," Jack says, still keeping her gaze. "And he's confessed to killing Abigail Hobbs."
She knew of course--came to terms with it years ago--but hearing Abigail's name still hits her harder than she was expecting. She supposes some small part of her was still clinging to hope, still half expecting to spot a familiar pair of eyes in the crowd. Having confirmation doesn't make it any easier to let go.
"Did he give you the location of her body?"
Jack shakes his head, open disgust warring with his need for professionalism. "He said, and I quote, I honoured every part of her."
Alana blanches, her stomach rolling at the thought. She wants to share in Jack's disgust, his rage, but the only thing she can bring herself to feel is sorrow. That and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. There's a scream building somewhere in the back of her throat, but she swallows it, half afraid it will emerge as a sob. Instead she runs her hands through her hair, fingers curling into fists, Alana tugging sharply until hat tears come to her eyes. She lets them spill onto her cheeks.
"How did I miss this?" she asks, not particularly wanting an answer.
"This isn't your fault, Alana," Jack says, impractical for once. He is comforting her, she realizes, the man beside her no longer an agent but a friend, someone whose life has been thoroughly altered by the devil hiding in their midst.
Alana offers a brief smile, grateful. She scrubs the back of her hand against her cheek, wiping away stray tears. Now that she's started, she can't seem to stop. Jack produces a travel pack of Kleenex from his breast pocket.
"I think maybe I should," she says, gesturing to the washroom sign near the back of the room. Jack nods; tucks the Kleenex away. Alana rises from her chair.
Her legs are still wobbly, but she manages to get one foot in front of the other. Exhaustion pulls at her limbs, a sharp reminder of how long it's been since she had a proper night's sleep; a proper meal. The bathroom is one of those single unisex units, a harsh fluorescent light bulb humming to life when she flicks on the switch. She closes and bolts the door behind her, moves to the sink and spends far too long staring at her reflection in the mirror, not quite recognizing what she's seeing.
She gives up after a minute; turns on the tap and then splashes her face with cold water. When she's done, she combs wet fingers through her hair, attempting to tame the mess. It doesn't particularly help, but she feels better for it, Alana more or less centered when she steps back out into the waiting room.
There is a doctor standing with Jack .
She's wearing a set of green scrubs, newly changed, and has a clipboard held in the crook of her elbow. She stops speaking when she spots Alana; glances briefly to Jack for verification. Jack offers a brief nod, and then gestures for her to continue.
The doctor glances briefly to her notes. Alana comes to stand at Jack's side.
"He's still unconscious," the doctor is saying, "but the surgery went well. We're monitoring for infection, but I would say his prognosis is good."
Alana nearly staggers with relief. She releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Can we see him?" she asks, unable to keep the desperation from her tone. The doctor glances up, expression apologetic.
It changes when she meets Alana's gaze, sympathy and something Alana thinks might be understanding flashing in her eyes. She glances once to her watch, then again to her clipboard.
"I can give you a few minutes," she says, a very obvious breach in the rules.
Alana accepts it readily.
Jack declines to join them, choosing instead to remain in the waiting room, leaving Alana to follow the woman from the room. She no longer feels dragged down by exhaustion, purpose driving her forward, her heart stuttering nervously in her chest. The ICU, when they arrive, is quiet, not the flurry of activity she was expecting. Will's doctor points Alana to a wash station, where Alana scrubs up to her elbows, now having an excuse to slip off the ring and tuck it in her pocket. When she's done, she's directed to one of the beds, it's curtain obscuring her view. Alana circles around it, her breath catching when she catches sight of Will.
He's paler than she was expecting, his skin almost translucent, thin blue veins visible even from the foot of the bed. She feels like she's been transported in time, like she's seeing him again after the first time, Hannibal's scar running along the length of his leg. It bothers her greatly that Hannibal has left another.
She moves gingerly, treading lightly to avoid waking him. He's sedated, a steady supply of pain killers pumping steadily into his vein, but buried beneath wires and sensors, he seems impossibly vulnerable; impossibly young. She has no idea what to do now that she's here, so she settles on approaching the side of the bed; reaching out to interlace their fingers together.
"It's over," she tells, squeezing his hand.
She has no idea if he's aware of her presence, if he's heard, Will lost to slumber, the steady rising and falling of his chest the only indication she has that he's alive. Alana remains where she's standing, watching him sleep until his doctor appears at her side; politely tells her it's time to leave.
~*~
He's pushing the other side of 50 and not for the first time considers what it would mean to retire. Perhaps not from the Bureau, but from active duty. He could take a desk job upstairs, no longer have to contend with the things he sees every day. He's more than earned it, but more importantly, he's starting to doubt his ability to do this job, his objectivity no longer what it was.
It's late when he makes it back to Virginia, and he should go home, crawl into bed and leave the details for morning. He's not sure why he finds himself wandering the darkened halls of Quantico, bypassing his office in favour of heading down to the labs.
He's clearly not the only night owl, the lights on downstairs, the security grid showing the lab occupied. He's not particularly surprised when he finds Beverly Katz inside, bent over a keyboard and looking about as wired as he feels. She glances over when she hears the door; offers the half smile of a fellow insomniac.
"How's Will?" she asks without moving.
"Good," Jack says, and then amends, "as well as can be expected, anyway. They're transferring him to John Hopkins in the morning. Alana Bloom is travelling with him."
Beverly nods and then pushes back her chair. She stands, taking a minute to stretch her spine before coming over to stand before him. It strikes him then how long he's been working with her, his team the closest thing he has to family these days. Retirement upstairs would mean giving up the last remaining human connections he has in his life. He was never meant to retire without Bella. They were going to travel the world together. Grow old together.
""Everything good on this end?" he asks. Beverly nods.
"Lecter's transfer proceeded without incidence. He's official back where he started," she says, sounding entirely too skeptical for someone on the far end of a successful case. Jack can't say he blames her.
There's a nagging sense of unease knotting his shoulders that he can't seem to shake. He feels like they've been here before--and technically they have--like he's still missing pieces of the puzzle. His picture is complete, but he can't make any sense of it.
"This feel a little too easy to you?" he asks, earning an arched eyebrow.
"A little?" she asks, sarcasm heavy on her tongue. Jack shakes his head.
"I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop," he admits.
It's probably exhaustion; the last few days blurring together, Jack needing time to process them, but no matter how hard he tries he can't figure out Hannibal's angle. Everything they know about the man, every profile he's had commissioned all say the same thing. Hannibal Lecter doesn't do anything unless it's in his best interest. Turning himself in, cooperating with the investigation, willingly returning to prison... Jack's having a hard time understanding how any of that could benefit Hannibal.
He refuses to believe Bedelia was right. Men like Hannibal Lecter don't love.
"Actually," Beverly says, "I'm not sure if I have your shoe, but I may be able to give you the size and style."
She give Jack a look that's both smug and mysterious, Jack undoubtedly looking a little puzzled, because she smiles and gestures him over to the monitor. He follows, slipping in behind her chair so that he can watch over her shoulder. Beverly brings up a pair of prints.
"What am I looking at?" Jack asks, because fingerprints are hardly uncommon in a forensics lab.
"We pulled prints from the knife used to assault Will," Beverly says. "Partials, but enough to run against our database."
She glances over her shoulder then, expression puckish, like this is the reason she's wired and at work in the middle of the night. Jack arches an eyebrow.
"I'm guessing they don't belong to Hannibal Lecter," he says. Beverly nods.
"Exactly. I ran the partials and didn't come up with a match, so they're not in the system, but using some inadmissible techniques, I was able to make some inferences."
"Inadmissible?" Jack asks, because he really doesn't like that word. Beverly shrugs, seeming unconcerned.
"It won't help us in court, or get us a warrant, but it's interesting anyway."
Jack considers that for a moment. He's gone the inadmissible route before--it's what got Miriam killed--and while he's not entirely sure he wants to go there again, he knows he's not going to be happy until he finishes putting this together. He nods for Beverly to proceed.
"You remember that guy in India who ran that study looking at gender disparities in fingerprints?"
Jack nods. "Yeah, someone gave a panel on it at the last conference I attended."
"Exactly. Basically, women have a higher ridge density than men, so you should be able to look at a set of prints and determine gender. The margin of error is too high for field work, but..."
"But."
"Best guess? We're looking at a female. Not a lot of callouses, so probably someone younger, and if their hand span is any indication, probably someone petite."
And just like that a piece of Jack's puzzle clicks into place.
"Someone like Abigail Hobbs?" he still asks.
Beverly inclines her head.
It feels right somehow, like it fits completely, and yet Hannibal's already confessed to her murder--confessed to knifing Will, too. Why would he lie? He asks as much. Beverly shrugs.
"Maybe he's protecting her? Or maybe he just likes playing with us. This," she gestures to the screen, "is all speculation anyway. Without Abigail Hobbs we can't move forward, and officially she's on the records as missing, presumed dead. I'm sorry, Jack, but I think this is just going to be one of those cases that doesn't tie up all its loose ends."
She's right, of course, but that doesn't mean Jack has to like it. He should be grateful--they all came out of this intact, including Will, and Hannibal is back where he belongs. It would be nice to find Abigail--to find their missing hospital worker--but life doesn't stay between the lines and neither does this job. Jack nods, reluctant and heavy, but he's long since come to terms with having to accept things he'd rather not accept.
"You should go home, get some sleep," he tells Beverly, who nods like she hadn't honestly considered the idea before then.
"You too. I'll lock up," she says, which Jack knows is code for I need a few more minutes. He gives them to her, heading out of the lab and up the elevator alone. He'll go to his car and drive the short distance to his house, then crawl into his empty bed and sleep, an entire life spent chasing demons and he's still not entirely sure what he has to show for it.
Days like today, the victory isn't enough. Days like today he thinks maybe it's time to put it all away. Days like today, he misses Bella.
~*~
She's unaccountably nervous, which is ridiculous because she knows she has nothing to be nervous about. She's been here before, gone through every procedure they are now forcing her to endure. She has relinquished her metals; her pen. She has endured a pat down, her crisp linen suit stained by the sweat of the female warden's hands. She has walked through their metal detectors, the soles of her shoes soiled by blackened concrete. The stink of this place has already permeated her skin and she knows a single shower will not remove it entirely. She is enduring nothing she isn't entirely prepared for, and yet still her stomach twists in knots.
The last time she saw Hannibal he was standing in her kitchen.
He has been back inside the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane for a little more than a week now, and though Jack had requested she visit him immediately, a dig for information she has no intention of sharing, today is the first day she could bring herself to make the drive. She was still so certain Hannibal intended to kill her. It is a wonder some days that she survived their association prior to his arrest. She still scrutinizes her reflection in an effort to understand what stayed his hand.
She is not, after all, Will Graham.
The warden, when she has passed their many trials, leads her down a long line of hall, then through a set of glass doors and into the cell block. The patients here are violent and dangerous, but relatively calm compared to some parts of the hospital. They come to stand against the glass when she enters the room, eyeing her as she passes, some with speculation, some with intent. She ignores them; the warden bringing her to the edge of Hannibal's cell.
He is lying on his cot, eyes trained on the ceiling, unmoved by her arrival.
"On your feet, Lecter," the warden says, anger in her tone. Bedelia remembers then that he stands accused of killing one of theirs. Funny how loyalty works.
Hannibal, when he moves, does so slowly and with a good deal of grace. His time outside as done wonders for him, his complexion even, his eyes bright and alive. He spots her immediately, a brief flash of disappointment appearing in his gaze, then disappearing just as quick. When he smiles, it with the same confidence he wore across a dinner table.
"Thank you, that will be all," Bedelia tells the warden. She waits for the woman to leave and then pulls the chair--left for her benefit--to the front of Hannibal's cell; sits upon it.
"Hello, Bedelia," Hannibal says. He sounds pleased, content.
"Hannibal." She's not entirely sure where to start. This isn't a session she expected to have with him. She cannot even rightly call herself his psychiatrist.
He doesn't make it any easier, watching her intently. There is no need for the veil anymore. She knows what he is and he knows she knows. He waits patiently for her to proceed.
"I am told," she begins, "you are cooperating fully with Jack's investigation. That you turned yourself in."
A soft smile tugs at the corner of Hannibal's lip. Bedelia knows it is not accidental. He wants her to see it.
"I am told you did so in order to save Will Graham's life, but that you were the one who injured him."
There is no outward change in Hannibal's countenance, and yet he undeniably reacts to Will Graham's name. She senses rather than sees his worry, his concern genuine. It gives her an avenue for exploration, at the very least, one she gladly exploits.
"I met him, you know, not long after your escape. He is an... interesting man," she says, choosing her words carefully. Hannibal cocks his head.
"They tell me he's recovering well, that he will be as good as new in a few weeks," Hannibal says. She divines nothing from his tone. They could be as easily discussing the weather.
"I find it difficult to understand what you have gained from this."
She has known Hannibal long enough now to recognize the dangers in prevaricating. He responds better to directness, his ability to manipulate rooted in subterfuge. That she gives him no handholds is perhaps the reason he continues to look upon her with admiration and respect. It is also undoubtedly the reason she is still alive.
"You are questioning my motives," Hannibal says, point blank accusation, and yet one she need not deny.
"I am finding it hard to understand how one man can mean so much to you. You for whom people are anomalies, puzzles, sport." She is not gauche enough to refer to his culinary activities. "I am finding it hard to understand what could possibly have made this a worthy trade."
She's not expecting Hannibal to answer--it would have surprised her if he had--but the smiles he offers tells her everything she needs to know. It is sly and amused, inordinately pleased. Jack Crawford has asked her to share the details of this meeting, and yet technically Hannibal has given nothing away. She has only her own inferences, a knowledge base that expands beyond Jack's understanding. If--when--he asks, she will tell him the truth as she sees it.
Where Hannibal is concerned, Will Graham is ample motivation.