Chapter Text
The scar across his stomach is livid red, his stitches stark black. He keeps expecting to look down and find the wound has opened up; imagines he can feel the contents of his stomach spilling onto the ground. He spends an ungodly amount of time staring at it in the mirror. It's a nice match to the scar on his leg.
Will runs his fingers along that one, feels the puckered ridge, the skin still sensitive to the touch. He can't bring himself to touch the one on his stomach. It feels too new, too vulnerable. Even pulling his shirt over it--cotton scratching against new skin--is enough to steal his breath. Will exhales shakily; runs a hand through his hair.
The clothes Alana bought for him don't quite fit. Will can't bring himself to tell her that, so he cinches his belt a little tighter, glad at least that it rests below his scar. He looks almost human when he's done, his shirt tidy, his pants freshly pressed. He spends an idle minute scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror, but with his scars covered there is nothing to indicate the past few weeks have been anything other than a nightmare. He doesn't quite recognize himself, the man staring back at him a stranger. Will blinks; tears his gaze from his reflection and then heads back into the room.
Alana is waiting for him perched on the edge of his hospital bed. She smiles when she sees him.
"Are you ready?" she asks. She doesn't sound particularly happy. Will nods.
"Ready as I'll ever be," he says.
Alana stands and moves to his side, bringing with her a duffle bag, inside more clothes and the few personal items he amassed during his stay. She settles it on her shoulder; catches his eye. He's never minded meeting hers.
"I spoke with your vet. Your dogs are fine," she says, then laughs. "She said she has them running with her every morning, though I have no idea how she manages it."
The thought of going home to his dogs relieves some of his anxiety, though his stomach still flutters nervously at the thought of leaving the hospital. He's overstayed his welcome, but that doesn't mean he's anywhere near ready to return to a normal life--for as much as his life has ever defined normal. Will can't bring himself to comment on it.
"We should go," he says, gesturing. Alana's expression falters; turns serious.
"I know you've made up your mind to do this, but I still think you should reconsider. What do you hope to accomplish by going?" she asks.
It's not a question Will can answer. He barely understands the impulse. The thought of explaining it to anyone--especially Alana--seems impossible. He can think of only person who might understand and that is the person he's going to see. What that says about him--about them--he's not prepared to examine. Not outside the confines of his head, anyway.
"I'll be fine," he says, hands coming automatically to his thighs. He runs his palms along their length, wiping away excess heat and moisture, shivering slightly when he brushes against Hannibal's scar. Alana clearly doesn't believe him, but she nods; accepts his decision.
She follows him patiently into the hall, waiting while he signs the necessary paperwork. He has additional paperwork tucked into duffle: instructions for follow-up; a psychiatric referral; a prescription for pain killers. Will lets the nurse cut off his patient band and then nods Alana towards the door. She doesn't speak until they're outside, en route to her car.
"Do you want to stop for lunch first? Get some real food?" she asks. Will shakes his head.
"I think I'm still digesting breakfast," he says. Eating is still awkward, Abigail's knife having nicked an intestine.
Alana doesn't comment, but he can tell she's disappointed.
It's cooler out than he was expecting, like someone flicked a switch, summer transitioning to autumn during his hospital stay. It's only early September, but it feels later somehow, like he's missed entire months instead of a few simple weeks. The sky above them is grey, threatening rain. Alana didn't think to bring him a jacket. Will rubs absently at his arms, thin layer of shirt not enough to keep out the chill. It's a relief when they reach her car.
Sitting is still painful, Will climbing awkwardly inside, wincing when the seatbelt pulls too tightly against his abdomen.
Alana waits until he's settled before starting the car, and while Will can tell she wants to say something--the question on the tip of her tongue--she refrains. Heavy silence settles between them, their conversations uneasy since Will woke in the hospital to find her sitting at the side of his bed. He appreciates her presence, her support, but this is beyond her understanding--beyond even his--and Will cannot help but want to escape her prying eyes.
He keeps his gaze focused out the front windshield. It takes him a few minutes to realize this isn't her Prius--that that car is undoubtedly being held in an evidence impound somewhere. He hopes the Bureau has reimbursed her.
"I'm sorry, by the way, for stealing your car," he tells her without glancing over. He lets his gaze drift out the passenger-side window, where Baltimore is laid out like a photograph, half memory, half residual image pulled from some recess in his mind.
"I can stay, you know," she says, not for the first time. Will shakes his head.
"I'd rather you not," he says, honest. He knows he's hurt her--more than just today--and yet cannot find it in him to retract the words. She accepts them begrudgingly; continues to weave them through the city. The car falls silent.
She doesn't speak again until Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane looms on the horizon. Framed against an overcast sky, the building is bleak, desolate. Will's stomach drops at the sight of it.
"I don't know if it makes a difference," she says, pulling up the lane, "but I'm here for you. If you ever need someone to talk to, or if you change your mind and want a ride, please call me. I know it's awkward, but I would very much like to be your friend."
She pulls the car to a stop in front of the main doors then, cutting the engine while the words settle between them. Will wonders if it's possible: if two people can maintain a friendship without the burden of their shared histories getting in the way. He doesn't think so, and while Alana has always been kind to him, supportive, he carries far too many secrets to allow her entirely into his heart. Still, he is grateful.
"Thank you, Alana. For everything." He wishes it didn't sound so much like goodbye. The softness of her smile suggests so does she.
He doesn't linger, half afraid he won't be able to leave her car if he doesn't do it now. He's terrified of what he'll find waiting inside, even though this is something he's needed to do since he woke up, bereft of Hannibal's presence. Alana doesn't leave right away, her car still there when he reaches the front doors; pushes his way inside.
At the administration desk, he hands over his identification.
They're expecting him, Jack having already made the necessary arrangements. They still make him check his duffle bag and personal items, leaving Will only in his borrowed clothes. Without his belt, his pants sit far too low on his hips.
They point him towards Chilton's office to wait, except Chilton isn't here anymore, not since Gideon. His replacement is no one Will recognizes. He comes in ten minutes into Will's wait--Will seriously considering climbing out the window--arching an eyebrow like he's genuinely surprised to find someone in his office. Will rises from his chair.
"Will Graham," he says, not quite making eye contact. The man nods.
"Dr. Delanco," he says. "Our patient has been asking about you. I'm not sure it's entirely wise to send you in there, but I've got orders from the FBI to allow it. Far be it from me to question our government. I've only been working with the criminally insane for twenty-three odd years now, so what do I know?"
He doesn't give Will a chance to respond, gesturing over his shoulder, Will left with the choice of either losing him or running to catch up. He runs. Delanco starts talking the second Will reaches his side.
"You've done this before, so you know the drill. You've got an hour, and I will be strict with that. Also, if at any point Lecter grows agitated, becomes unstable or a threat to himself or others, you will be removed."
He leads them swiftly from the administrative wing as he speaks, towards the cell block, where Will has to endure a pat down and metal scan before being allowed past the locked doors.
"Lecter has a preliminary hearing in two weeks to address his new charges. Anything pertaining to those charges and that hearing is off limits. We do have security footage in that area, and while we won't be recording you specifically, we will be monitoring your interactions to ensure the safety of Lecter, yourself and the surrounding population. Is that clear?"
Delanco stops then, turning to meet Will's gaze, something Will couldn't avoid even if he tried. He nods, a little overwhelmed, though completely aware of standard procedure. Delanco nods, seemingly content, though Will gets the impression he doesn't particularly care one way or another--that he's just doing his due diligence. He leaves Will with one of the wardens, gestures to a second set of locked doors.
"Lecter's through there. Your hour starts now."
The warden waits until Delanco is gone to open the doors. He gestures Will through.
He's surprisingly steady, despite the tension in his stomach, more painful than it ought to be. It's a short walk from the doors to Hannibal's cell, Hannibal's neighbours watching him pass with interest, though they are easily ignored. As far as Will is concerned, the only person in the block is Hannibal Lecter.
Hannibal is watching his approaching with open fondness, a pleased smile tugging at his mouth. Will is unprepared for the shock of seeing him, his legs staggering for the first time since he arrived. He keeps them under him; crosses the final few feet until he's standing before Hannibal's cell, the only thing separating them a piece of glass.
Somehow, when he imagined this, he thought the glass would make this easier, the additional barrier allowing Will to retain his composure. Instead he is acutely aware of just how little separates them; of just how much he still craves Hannibal's touch.
"Will," Hannibal says, sounding delighted.
"Dr..." Will begins, then changes his mind. "Hannibal."
It is as if he has handed Hannibal the sun, a wide smile breaking across his face. His eyes spark with pleasure and he steps forward, so close now were it not for the glass Will could easily reach out and touch. He goes so far as to stretch out his fingers, Hannibal undoubtedly noticing the gesture, his smile growing wider. Will twitches, lets his hand fall back against his side.
There are a million things he wants to ask, like why he let Abigail live, or why he sacrificed his freedom for Will's survival, and yet, standing here, staring at what Will can only assume is a genuine display of emotion, he finds he already has his answer.
"Was it worth it?" he asks, glancing briefly around Hannibal's cell. The space is tiny, Will remembering then what it felt like to sit inside it, to feel the press of its walls.
Hannibal cocks his head, amused. "I haven't decided yet," he says.
He gestures then, over Will's shoulder, Will following his gaze until he spots the folding chair propped in the corner. He has not requested it, but wonders now if Hannibal did. More curious than anything, he drags it forward; sets up before the glass. Hannibal retrieves a stool from his cell and mirrors Will's position. It is as if they are once again in Hobbs' attic: Hannibal's consulting room.
"The orderly, the one who helped you escape. He was tucking her notes inside your books," Will says. Hannibal practically grins at him. He is enjoying himself immensely.
"She initiated it, of course, much to my surprise. Our little fawn is quite resourceful. I'm glad you persuaded me to spare her life."
Will shakes his head. "But that's not why you did." If he is certain of anything, it is that.
Hannibal doesn't answer, but his smile grows mischievous.
"Did she kill him, or did you?"
He spares a brief glance to the camera above his head. It's trained on the hall, not Will specifically, and it lacks a microphone, so their conversation will go unrecorded. Still, he is aware of its presence.
"Do you believe him dead, then?" Hannibal asks. He chuckles when Will frowns. "I begin to believe you give me far more credit than is my due. I have no idea what she did with the man. She had a considerable sum of money. She might have funded his early retirement."
He offers the theory in the same way he used to offer theories on Will's cases, Will certain then that Hannibal knows, that this is now part of his game. For reasons Will doesn't want to examine, he has no objections to playing it.
"Tell me, Will, what hurt more, my wound or hers?" Hannibal asks.
It still strikes Will that this isn't sane--not by any definition of sanity. He should not be sitting here, engaging in play therapy with Hannibal Lecter. And yet, despite all of his common sense telling him to flee, to run back to Savannah and never look back, Will cannot quite suppress a smile. He would never admit it out loud--though he hardly needs to, Hannibal knows--but he has missed this, far more than he dares to admit.
"Tell me, Dr. Lecter, what hurt more, my leaving, or her?" he asks. Hannibal positively beams at him, as alive as Will has ever seen him.
"Most definitely yours, my dear Will, though I think I hardly need to worry about that now," he answers. Will finds himself breathless under the face of Hannibal's honesty.
"Same," he says, watching the way Hannibal's eyes alight with excitement, the heady thrill of the chase.
He stays the entire hour, time slipping inevitably away. Disappointment flares in his chest when the warden returns for him; the same disappointment flashing in Hannibal's gaze.
"And there is our hour, I'm afraid," Hannibal says, like this is another of their sessions, Hannibal his therapist, Will Hannibal's patient. He's not entirely sure that isn't close to the truth.
Will stands reluctantly; folds and puts away his chair.
"But I never answered your question," Hannibal says before he can leave. Will glances over, curious.
"What question was that?"
At his side, the warden glances briefly to his watch; then towards the doors, impatient. Hannibal seems unconcerned by the press of time. Will supposes he has plenty of it.
"You asked if it was worth it," Hannibal says, his words heavy with meaning. Will struggles to divine their secrets.
"And was it?"
Hannibal smiles.
"I suppose I'll decide that next week," he says, like this has all been a ploy to return Will to his consulting room chair, like Hannibal is perfectly content to rot in jail if it means getting access to Will's head.
Will knows the true answer is far, far more complicated than that.
"I'll think about it," he still says, unsurprised to find he means it.
He gestures then for the warden to lead them from the room, not looking back. He doesn't need to. The weight of Hannibal's gaze follows him from the room.
~*~
She waits, discreetly--though no one would recognize her under the pale silver of her new blonde tresses--until Alana Bloom's car pulls away. She lingered over-long, though Abigail can hardly say she blames her. Were she not affiliated with the FBI, Abigail might have approached her. Dr. Bloom was kind to her. Abigail cannot say that about very many people.
She doesn't pull her car forward until she's certain Dr. Bloom doesn't intend to return, and even then she feels skittish and exposed, coming a risk, and one she's not entirely sure she should have taken. Will keeps her waiting far longer than she would have liked.
She cannot remain cooped up inside the car, however dangerous, tight spaces making her feel like a caged animal, too long spent in an institution. Instead she cuts the engine, heads outside and sits on her hood, the day cool but she has her coat and her scarf and besides, the sky is beginning to clear, spots of blue emerging from the greyness.
The day has been miserable but she has high hopes for this evening.
Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane is a lonely, isolated place. No one comes in or out, and aside from the occasional shadow passing before a window, there is no evidence to suggest there is even anyone inside. It's hard not to imagine her father ending in a place like this. Abigail wonders if she would have been allowed to visit, or if they would have given her a cell next to his.
It's probably best not to think about.
When the doors do finally open, it is Will who emerges from behind them. He makes it down three sets of steps before he spots her, a strange smile upon his face. He freezes, gaze narrowing, his head tilting as he attempts to reconcile the change in hair colour. Abigail smiles.
"Hello, Will," she says.
It immediately starts him moving, Will swiftly closing the last few feet to her side. He glances nervously over his shoulder.
"Abigail, you shouldn't be here," he says, sounding panicked.
"I thought perhaps you might want a ride," she answers, ignoring his concern while gesturing to her car. Will glances towards it, then back to the hospital. When he glances back, he nods, still unaccountably nervous. She doesn't ask after Hannibal. It is obvious their meeting as gone well.
She'd forgotten, in the intervening weeks about his stomach, Abigail painfully reminded when he grimaces upon climbing into her car. She's half tempted to offer assistance, but before she can move towards him he is inside, still glancing nervously around, like Jack and his agents are about to sweep in from behind the hedges. Abigail crosses casually to the driver's side; climbs behind the wheel.
"Where am I taking you?" she says, wondering if she should offer up her apartment. Will could easily sleep in Hannibal's room.
"Um... The airport, actually. I have a flight," he says. Abigail nods; keys the ignition and then pulls them away from the curb.
She gets to the end of the lane before his curiosity turns to suspicion.
"Did you plan this? You and he? Is that why you're here?"
Abigail shakes her head. She makes a left hand turn. It's sunny enough now that her sunglasses no longer look misplaced. She thinks the day may turn warm after all.
"Hannibal doesn't know I'm here," she says, and then, because this was never a part of the plan, adds, "He has a hearing in two weeks. They're going to transfer him to the courthouse for it."
She sees the minute it hits him, some of Will's colour draining, the rest of his good mood vanishing. He glances nervously around the car, like Jack is hiding in the backseat. When he finds it empty, he turns to stare out the front windshield. She watches him bite his lower lip; then shake his head.
"You cannot seriously be suggesting what I think you're suggesting," he says. He sounds angry, and maybe--though she might be imagining it--a little hopeful.
Abigail changes lanes; starts following signs to the airport.
"I'm not suggesting anything," she says. "I just thought you should know. I also wanted to thank you, for saving my life, for protecting me."
She hates how small she sounds when she says it, her father still looming beside her, his expression soft, his eyes dark as he leans towards her, whispers in her ear,"I'm sorry. There's no other way."
From the passenger seat, still staring at her through her father's dead eyes, Will's features twist. She watches, fascinated as the last of his walls crumble, his defenses slipping away. She is as bound to him as she is Hannibal, and she would bind them both to her, as they are to each other. She thinks, for the first time since she set off down this path, since she contacted Hannibal in the hospital, that that might now be a distinct possibility. It banishes her father from the car, Will taking his place, his expression lost, but contemplative, her seed planted.
End.