Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Huge thanks to CrazyInLov3, Patties92, marlahanni, Lowrie and Lyceiad for the beautiful cover art.

"When my grave is broke up again, Some second guest to entertain...And he that digs it, spies a bracelet of bright hair about the bone…"

The Relic by John Donne

The interrogation room itself is surprisingly quiet. Just hushed held breath that’s sharp in the intake and whistles softly on the exhale, the staccato tick of the clock and the occasional rustle of papers as they’re turned over then held still again; all punctuated by the mournful whine of a tape recorder that’s recording nothing. Together the sounds swell and surge in a softly subdued whisper like feet swirling through dry leaves, but no one is actually speaking. It’s as if all the vigour and animation within their four little walls has been gently bled to death and left nothing behind but muteness as its life ebbs away and a state of suspended animation steals over the room in the same way gangrene creeps along a once healthy limb.

The real noise – noise as opposed to sounds – is coming from the corridor outside, and if the interrogation room has watched helplessly as its own soundtrack withers and dies then here there is volume in an abundance that borders on extravagant. There’s a choir of clamorous voices, the unmistakable clicking sound of several cameras, the pounding of footsteps as yet another person runs past the door and in the midst of it all, louder than the rest, a gratingly high-pitched jabbing noise as someone (almost certainly Freddie Lounds) shrilly demands their Press Rights before adding something needlessly self-righteous about the First Amendment. But the interrogation room itself is like a cocoon of silence: a little oasis of calm amid a sea of noisy chaos…if calm can reasonably be comprised of a metal ceiling and wipe-clean tiles with a two-way mirror and a panic button. Of course the opposite should rightfully be the case in that the corridor is the place that’s respectfully quiet while the interrogation room rings out with the noble noise of justice being done, but it’s not like the switch really matters. Besides, when did anything ever work out as it should?

Will supposes that the detectives are waiting for him to speak first but he doesn’t particularly have anything else to say so just stretches his legs out beneath the table and stares fixedly at his hands instead. They look rather pale and vulnerable against the dark wood of the table top, almost as if they don’t belong to him, and there’s a circlet of purple bruises blooming on his left wrist that he doesn’t remember getting. They seem so frail though; surely his hands ought to be more robust and capable than these slim useless-looking things? The handcuffs don’t help of course, even though they’re actually fairly discreet as handcuffs go: when he glances at them the flash of metal could almost be a bangle, a silver one to match the amethyst of the bruises. He supposes it would be easy enough to slip them if he really wanted to, although there hardly seems any point.

“The public has a right to know,” the voice is now insisting (it’s definitely Freddie Lounds). “The FBI always tries and covers these things up. How many times have I said he’s crazy…?”

The elder of the two detectives clears his throat awkwardly then exchanges a pointed look with his partner who gives a small nod in response and disappears through the door just as Will finally stops staring at the table and raises his head instead. His reflection in the mirror is also far too pale, just like his hands: he looks like a ghost of himself. Then there’s a renewed flurry of activity outside before everything goes quiet there too and the younger detective reappears a few seconds later and closes the door behind him, vigorously dusting his palms together as if he’s just engaged in something to make them unclean.

“Can I get you anything son?” the elder detective now says; and Will and the younger one glance at him with something like surprise as if he’s done something incredibly daring by finally breaking the silence. “Coffee? Cigarettes?”

Will shifts slightly in his chair and wonders if Jack’s watching through the two-way mirror. “No thank you,” he replies evenly. “I’m fine.” Breaking the silence…yet another thing that’s brittle and breakable, then. Just another thing to add to the all the bones and promises and pledges and hearts that are there in the world right now, poised to shatter and crumble and likewise refusing to endure. Not that it really matters; not really. Not in the grand scheme of things.

“You know you’d be better off just telling us what happened. You know that right?” The detective’s voice is pitched deliberately low, soft and inviting, and Will doesn’t need to look at him to know that his features will be arranged into an expression of carefully cultivated concern (eyes softly supplicating, mouth quirked into a hopeful smile…no doubt he practices it in the two-way mirror during his lunch breaks). “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us the truth.” 

Will tries not to sigh too audibly. It’s the classic routine, text-book in fact: a display of consideration and understanding that gently invites the suspect to unburden themselves until confessions start fluttering from their mouths like confetti. Despite the gravity of the situation Will can’t help feeling faintly insulted that they think he’d fall for something so obvious. Then he realises he’s started staring at his hands again, and that it’s getting boring, so shifts his gaze to the table top instead and begins to track along the eddying ink stains that billow and swirl across the surface amidst a clutter of pockmarks, scars and scratches that act as wordless testimony to years of other people’s frustration. There’s a particularly large mark to the left that looks like the outline of California…

“Why not just tell us how you did it?” the detective is now saying. “Start at the beginning. How’d that be?”

Why not let me punch that fake-concern right off your face? thinks Will irritably. How’d that be? “I didn’t,” is all he replies, and can’t help feeling proud of how steady he manages to make his voice sound.

“There were extenuating circumstances,” insists the detective as if Will hasn’t spoken. “You weren’t yourself at the time. People would understand; they wouldn’t judge you. They wouldn’t blame you for it.” Will quirks an eyebrow and the detective clears his throat again. “Well, yes, obviously there’d be consequences, but…you know what I mean. Let us help you Mr Graham. People here have got your back; they care about your wellbeing.”

“It’s probably a bit late for that,” replies Will in the same level tone as before. “I think that particular ship has sailed.” Yeah…sailed and sunk in the fucking harbour. “I told you – I didn’t do it. I know what it looks like but you need to believe me.” Then he pauses in spite of himself because of course they don’t need to believe him; and to be honest he wouldn’t believe it either if it was him on the other side of the desk and the detective with the fake smile was sat here with the handcuffs and the bracelet of bruises. Nevertheless he can’t stop himself adding: “You’ve got the wrong person.” Through some miraculous force of effort, he manages to stop the desperation leaking into his voice.

This time they don’t even bother dignifying the denial with a response and Will sees the blatant scepticism on their faces and feels like giving up. “You asked me if I wanted anything,” he says instead. “I do. I want my phone call.”

The older detective gives a heavy sigh at this then holds up his hands in a distinctly over-the-top imitation of someone who’s reached the end of their patience, rather as if Will’s being an impossible diva and demanding Cristal champagne and a basket of kittens as opposed to simply requesting his legal rights.

“Okay then,” he says wearily. “Okay Mr Graham. You want me to call your attorney?”

It’s a simple enough question – of course it is – but the response is complex, and so Will doesn’t answer immediately because now the time has come it’s difficult to commit to the decision. He isn’t even entirely sure what the source of the delay is. Shame, probably. Or maybe it’s more like pride: a reluctance to acknowledge a need for help or assistance, or to even acknowledge a need exists; as if naming it is going to confirm the nightmare is real and he’s not merely dreaming while he’s awake. But where else can he possibly go after all? And where else would he even want to…? Nevertheless for a few more seconds he still says nothing: just stares at the ink and the bruises and his too-pale hands and says nothing.

“Mr Graham?”

The abruptness of the tone makes Will jump and it’s then that he realises he’s not quite sure how long he’s been silent for: how long he’s been staring at the pock-marked desk and the swirling ink stains that look like California. But he has to do something now; it’s now or never. The time is now. Now, now. So he takes a deep breath before finally raising his head.

“No,” he says, calm yet firm. “Not my attorney.”

“Who then?”

For the first time Will looks the detective straight in the eye: pale, strained yet still oddly defiant. “No,” he repeats, slow and clear so there can be no mistake. “Not my attorney. I want to speak with Dr Hannibal Lecter.”

*****

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

FBI Training Academy; Quantico, VA.

The winter sun is starting to set, streaking the sky the same purple-vermillion as bruises and blood while the shadows lengthen and one by one the lights flicker on around the Academy building in an attempt to chase the darkness away. Outside the main auditorium a crowd swells and multiplies as assorted trainees begin to gather together: some casually nonchalant, others in a haze of intrigue and anticipation and a few more with barely concealed impatience. In fact the lecture was due to start ten minutes ago, but as of yet the doors haven’t even been unlocked and no one has appeared to explain the delay.

“Have you ever met him in person?” one of the trainees is asking her neighbour.

“No. I mean I’ve seen him around, but I wasn’t in his class last semester.”

“Me neither. I’m curious though, I’ll admit. They say he’s supposed to be some kind of genius.”

“Who says that?” demands the other trainee, who prides himself on being duly sceptical of other people’s good opinions.

The girl shrugs then shifts her gum to the other side of her cheek. “I don’t know…everyone.”

“Yeah but who exactly says it?”

“You talking about Will Graham?” asks a third, unashamedly eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Yeah,” confirms the male trainee. “Nina here seems to be getting a bit of a crush. Him being such a genius and all.”

“Oh shut up Andy, seriously. I do not.”

“Everyone has crushes on him,” replies the third student, leaning over to steal a piece of Nina’s gum. “And then they all get cured the same way.”

“What’s that?”

“They meet him.”

“That’s rather unkind,” says Andy, laughing heartily.

“Well it’s true. Let’s just say he lends himself a bit more to long-distance devotion.”

Nina gives a wry smile then turns and inspects Will’s photograph which, despite his relatively recent appointment, has already been added to the collection of prestigious staff members displayed along the foyer wall. Jack Crawford, two places to the right, glares back disapprovingly: his gaze, not unlike the Mona Lisa, seems to possess an uncanny ability to track the observers round the room. “Mr Graham’s certainly very easy on the eye,” she says in a thoughtful voice.

“And absolute hell on the ears,” replies the third trainee firmly. “You haven’t experienced true public humiliation until Will Graham has caught you passing notes in his class and chewed you out in front of 30 other students. Not that he even needs to say anything; that little bastard has a glare that could quell a lump of granite.”

“Passing notes? How old are you – 12?”

“I was trying to organise a ride,” says the third trainee, miming wounded dignity.

“To a seminar?”

“To a bar, as it happens. How many 12 years olds go to bars? Oh I forgot you’re from Detroit aren’t you? They probably all do.” Nina rolls her eyes and he grins before adding, much more seriously: “God knows we need the occasional bit of downtime. Especially at the moment.”

There’s an ominous pause as the three of them exchange glances. “This evening,” says Nina finally, deliberately lowering her voice. “Do you think Mr Graham’s going to talk about…him?”

“Assuming he turns up to talk about anything? No – no way. Jack Crawford is maintaining a blackout for as long as he can. No one’s talking about it.”

“Why? That makes no sense.”

“Because no one’s ever seen anything like this,” replies Andy bleakly. “They’ll be trying to prevent a public panic.”

“But that’s my point; if people are aware they can protect themselves.”

“But how? All they know is that he targets omegas. That’s it; there’s no other pattern at all. They don’t know how he picks them up, how he chooses them – even the location keeps changing. They won’t go public until they have a proper profile.”

“And how do you know so much about it?”

Andy clears his throat and suddenly looks awkward. “I was reading the roster near Mr Graham’s office,” he says after a pause. “The, um, the walls are pretty thin.”

“Oh my God, you’ve been listening at his door!” crows the third trainee triumphantly. “Now who’s crushing on Will Graham?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Been waiting to leap to his assistance have you? Hovering hopefully in the corridor for a chance to carry his briefcase?”

“It wasn’t like that at all…”

“Oh Mr Graham,” says the third trainee in an exaggeratedly falsetto voice. “Your angelically grumpy face undoes me Mr Graham. I’d swap my badge for the chance to polish your spectacles. The sight of your little beard…”

“All right, that’s enough,” snaps Andy in a pompous voice. “You’re being completely inappropriate. A serial killer is hardly a laughing matter.”

“Agreed; you’re the laughing matter. You and your Will Graham fetish.”

“For the last time, I have not…”

But the rest of sentence is lost amid the sudden swirl of activity at the back of the foyer as the doors swing open and Will and Jack Crawford walk in. Jack’s presence at a trainee lecture is unusual enough in itself to immediately provoke a buzz of intrigue, although it’s the sight of Will that creates the greatest stir: incredibly bleak and pale with a grim set around his eyes and mouth.

“Something’s happened,” says Nina, abruptly sobering up. “Look at his face.”

As if it’s something contagious, the ominous severity radiating from Will and Jack has a powerfully sedative effect on the assembled students who quickly grow silent and subdued until finally one, more daring than the rest, calls out: “Mr Graham!”

“There’ll be time for questions later,” replies Will tersely, neither slowing his pace or even turning round to look at the speaker. “Hurry up please. Take your seats.” Then for a few seconds he pauses, exchanging glances with Jack as beyond the window comes the unmistakable whine of sirens: high-pitched and wailing like something in pain. Simultaneously a new sound begins to break out in the foyer itself and which, unlike the sirens, is low and muffled with the same rhythmic quality of a metronome: the result of a group of human voices repeating the same thing over and over again in an undertone. Initially it seems as meaningless as the sirens themselves, yet listen carefully and the throb of syllables gradually clarifies and disconnects in order to form actual words: There’s been another one; there’s been another one. Will and Jack exchange another loaded glance then disappear into the cavernous black of the auditorium as one-by-one the trainees follow behind at a respectful distance, eyes all cast to the floor like pallbearers at a funeral.

*****

Will clears his throat for what feels like the twentieth time then stares out into the sea of faces, all of which are bleached eerily pale from the light of the projector while gazing up at him with glittering eyes and eager hopefulness as a possessor of knowledge that he might deign to share with them. He wishes he could tell them not to bother – not least because it’s the type of knowledge that no one in their right mind should want. And perhaps it’s an illusion created by the eerie light and the eagerness but somehow they all look so young, even though of course they’re not; not really. Maybe it’s just that he himself is starting to feel so old. ‘Careworn’ – that’s the word for it: like his assorted anxieties and apprehensions have begun to literally chip away at him and grind off slivers and fragments as they go. Although in this precise moment he doesn’t even feel old or worn as opposed to bizarrely absent, as if he’s watching a bad replication of himself that’s been unleashed into the world without any clear instructions about how to behave. A miswired robot perhaps…a malfunctioning android from one of those ridiculous sci-fi films that are always being advertised on late night television when only the insomniacs are awake to watch them.

Will blinks a few times, trying to focus as the sharp spike of a headache begins to pincer at the side of his skull. This evening’s scene was a particularly bad one – although aren’t they always? – and the afterimages of it keep flickering at the edge of his vision. Many more like this and Jack Crawford’s attempts to limit the press exposure will be blown to smithereens; though admittedly the idea of keeping it quiet is already a bit of joke because nearly everyone knows by now that a new serial killer is at large. The only thing that isn’t common knowledge is the extent of it, but his existence itself can no longer be plausibly denied. Even the nicknames have begun to circulate: all flashily alliterative and theatrical sounding as these things generally tend to be, rather as if it’s a thrash metal singer that’s seeking a nom-de-plume as opposed to a deranged and vicious thief of human life. The Baltimore Butcher. The Monster of Maryland. The Reaper. Freddie Lounds is clearly hoping that the Sculptor is going to gain traction and has been going to a great deal of trouble to adorn the home page of The TattleCrime to successfully advance the cause.

“I don’t get it,” Will had said to Jack regarding the last one.

“Well…I suppose it’s because he carves them up.”

“He doesn’t carve them,” Will had snapped irritably. “He hacks them.”

The image of the most recent victim now promptly veers into Will’s peripheral vision and he determinedly blinks again to try and banish her. “And so,” he says firmly, “you can clearly see that this is another critical distinction between organized and disorganized offenders. The former is more likely to be geographically and occupationally mobile, whereas the latter…” Oh Christ, someone’s trying to ask a question: he can see the arm waving determinedly in the air from side to side as if the stupid fucker thinks they’re brandishing a lighter at a rock concert. “Yes,” says Will with barely concealed impatience.

“Mr Graham, do you consider the Sculptor to be an example of the organized or disorganized type?”

The sound of the forbidden words prompt a sharp intake of breath amongst the audience, although whether it’s from admiration that someone has dared to speak the unspeakable or condemnation for the same is impossible to say. From the corner of his eye, Will can see Jack stiffen in his seat. “I’m sorry, I’m not prepared to discuss that,” he replies now, in the sort of voice that clearly indicates he’s not remotely sorry. “This isn’t a lecture concerning an individual case study.”

“But sir…”

This time Will doesn’t answer at all but merely glares at the offending questioner over the top of his glasses. “Lump of granite,” mutters the third trainee in an undertone to Nina.

Will irritably shuffles his notes then gives the PowerPoint slide a determined click. “The organized offender generally kills at one site and then disposes of the body at another,” he says tersely. “He’s likely to be in careful control of every aspect of the scene, and this includes leaving very minimal physical evidence behind.” He pauses then stares intensely into the sea of faces as if daring anyone else to interrupt him and in the resulting silence there’s a soft creaking sound as the door to the auditorium swings open. The shaft of light briefly illuminates Will’s face and shoulders as if he’s been granted his own personal spotlight, and those who are expecting him to explode at the interruption are surprised to see him glance up then give a small but undeniably sincere smile. A few of the more curious students swivel round in their seats to try and identify who the usually inscrutable Will Graham could have been gazing at so warmly, but by that time the tall dark figure has already discreetly vanished into the shadows and there’s nothing to see but blackness.

“Of course this all has major implications for how these individuals respond to police interview,” adds Will as the next slide appears on the screen. He pauses again then frowns, his eyes suddenly piercing and forceful within his pale face. “If the disorganized offender requires a more counselling-type approach the opposite is true of the organized type. Direct questions are preferable because he wants to affirm his personal sense of superiority.” For a few seconds he shifts position on the stage and the scenes of carnage from the projector are fleetingly imposed straight over him: stripes of scarlet and seared skin that give him the look of a sacrificial offering – a young martyr, preparing to be beatified. “This includes attempting to subvert investigators,” adds Will. He waits a few more moments, slowly tracking his gaze across the audience. “I hope I hardly need to remind you that your job is not to let him.”

*****

Once the lecture is over Will practically dives off the stage in order to do what he always does at this point in proceedings, which is to escape into one of the disused classrooms at the back of the auditorium and conceal himself there (and which is not hiding or, God forbid, lurking – definitely not) until the crowd has dispersed and he can emerge again and make his way to the carpark without getting swamped by overeager trainees. Will is extremely fond of this strategy as a general rule, because unless one or two trainees are particularly overeager and insist on breaking into his dark hiding place (not that it is hiding) it has an excellent track record for effectiveness. Nevertheless he knows it’s destined to be thwarted this evening, seeing that this evening also happens to be the date of a social event arranged by Jack in order for the newly assembled task force assigned to the Sculptor case to get to know each other. Will isn’t even sure how appropriate it is to stand around drinking warm wine and eating canapes given the circumstances, but Jack was determined. “It’s like team bonding,” he’d said, before remembering the double meaning of the word ‘bonding’ and looking faintly awkward. “It’s good for morale.”

“You got that from a government seminar,” Will had said accusingly. “Didn’t you Jack?”

“What difference does that make?” Jack had replied, visibly casting his mind back to whatever management training he’d been forced to attend in order to regurgitate this crap. “Occupational wellbeing is paramount. Mental and physical comfort is the key to a happy, successful workplace.”

Will had given up then, partly because Jack was coming treacherously close to sounding like a rambling old hippy that was going to stand over them all and make them sing Kum Ba Yah, but mostly because his own mental and physical comfort is such a rare intangible thing that it’s impossible to quantify in any meaningful way – beyond the fact that whatever there is that’s left of it is certainly destined to be crushed to death by being forced to wade through an evening of stilted small talk and social niceties. “Dr Lecter will be there,” Jack had added, obviously thinking this would be a point of reassurance. “You can talk to him if you start feeling uncomfortable.”

In fact this hadn’t been quite the consolation Jack was anticipating it to be. Admittedly Will is pleased that Hannibal’s going to be present, yet he’d simultaneously felt dismayed by it because he likes Hannibal to see him in environments where Will is reasonably competent and in control as opposed to ones in which he’ll be gauche and awkward and entirely out of his element: in other words, situations which serve to highlight the differences between them in a way that puts Will at an enormous disadvantage. Because Hannibal – of course – has impeccable social presence and indelible poise, all doubtlessly acquired from a privileged aristocratic upbringing, from medical school, and possibly from a courteously patrician father or resolutely well-bred mother…although somehow it’s hard to imagine Hannibal having something as commonplace as a mother and father, the same as anybody else. Not that any of this can change the fact that Will’s starting to feel his own social capacities should be renamed Schrödinger’s Social Skills on the grounds that there’s only a 50% chance of whether they’ll exist or not depending on whether Hannibal happens to be nearby.

Through the thin walls of the classroom Will can already hear a low hum of voices from where the guests have begun assembling, most of whom he knows will have also attended his lecture beforehand as a courtesy. Realms and realms of them no doubt, glassy-eyed and judgemental – and all waiting for him to appear. Will sighs unhappily into the dim silence then briefly pictures his own house, serene and solitary except for the pack of dogs, and has a sudden yearning to be there that’s so strong it’s almost physically painful. Only that it’s not the real source of the pain, which is in fact coming from his abdomen – and has been for several days now – and which he’s desperately trying to ignore out of a half-formed hope that if he doesn’t give it any attention it’ll give up and slink away in the manner of a schoolyard bully who loses interest when the hoped-for reaction fails to materialise. In an effort to dismiss it he tries to reorient his attention by focusing on the thrum of voices through the wall: and oh God, now he can definitely hear Jack booming something unfathomable about budgetary constraints, then shortly after the unmistakably smoky vowels of Hannibal’s voice which forms a rather rhythmic counterpoint to Jack’s in the manner of a double bass and a cello. They both sound so confident and assured, and Will feels a sudden surge of contempt for himself at his reluctance to leave the safeness of his own solitude and join them. Anyway, it’s surely better to get it over with because he has to go at some point – he can hardly stay here all evening (if only).

Will gives a final gloomy sigh for good measure then pushes the door open and emerges into the bright light, blinking like a cave dweller before realising that Hannibal will almost certainly have seen him doing it and that this is something which can be considered as Not Good. Then for a few awkward seconds he realises he has no idea where he’s supposed to go and is uncomfortably aware of several people staring at him before Jack materialises and begins to steer him towards the buffet table; kindly yet mindlessly officious in a way that reminds Will of those large alpine dogs that rescue hapless assholes that get lost on mountains. “Excellent lecture,” says Jack warmly. “Although they always are, aren’t they?” Will, unsure of whether a response is actually expected to this, just grunts non-committedly. “You’re very good at it,” Jack persists.

“Thanks,” replies Will, who really doesn’t care much one way or the other. Jack nods approvingly then glances over before hesitating in his task of pouring out a glass of wine. “What?” says Will with a hint of irritation.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? You look like a bag of nerves.”

Will grimaces slightly. A bag of nerves…it’s such a gruesome expression. If he thinks too hard he can almost imagine it: the nerves squirming wetly in their burlap wrapping like as many worms. “Honestly,” he says, more firmly this time. “I’m fine.” And then, because it’s actually quite nice to have someone show concern over him, even if it’s only Jack who’s pretty much paid to do so: “Thank you.”

“Well at least have some something to eat,” urges Jack. “You’re very pale.”

Will promptly feels the flare of irritation rekindling, not least because of the way Jack seems incapable of acknowledging his assurances and is sliding into protective alpha mode at a rather appalling rate (for God’s sake). Nevertheless it’s hardly worth arguing over so he just nods vaguely then picks up a nearby slice of quiche; not because he particularly wants it but in the hope that it might shut Jack up. The quiche is unpleasantly slippery and requires Will to hold it in both hands in order to nibble on it half-heartedly before becoming anxious that the gesture makes him look like a large rodent (and that Hannibal will have seen this too, which can likewise be considered as Not Good) so puts it down again. Jack’s now launched into some new anecdote about the budget for Behavioral Sciences – occasionally referring to the latter as BS and seemingly oblivious that this is also an acronym for bullshit – so Will pretends to listen whilst working equally hard not to eavesdrop too obviously on Hannibal’s conversation with one of the federal representatives, despite the fact it appears to be about wine and is not remotely interesting. “The decline of the malbecs,” Hannibal is saying in sonorous tones, rather as if The Malbecs are some doomed aristocrats or a branch of ruined royalty who’ve fallen on hard times. The woman he’s speaking with lowers her head in solemn agreement, and Will sighs to himself all over again and can’t help wondering how it’s possible that he can be so hopelessly drawn to a person who says ‘The decline of the malbecs’ in the course of a normal conversation as if it means something (quite easily, it would seem).

Jack’s speech about Behavioral Science, or budgets, or BS – or whatever – has now reached its agonised conclusion and there’s a brief pause before he suddenly announces “Will!” then falls silent again. From the tone it’s impossible to deduce whether he means ‘Will! We’re done here – fuck off!’ or ‘Will! Give me your opinion on BS budgetary’; or possibly both, or maybe neither, or most likely something else entirely – and the fact that Will wasn’t listening in the run-up does nothing at all to help rescue the situation. Fleetingly he catches Hannibal’s eye and for a few seconds finds it impossible to look away before Jack says “Will!” (recurring) and he forces himself to re-focus and reply “Yes, Jack?” in a carefully neutral way that can hopefully cater for whichever of the both/neither/none of the above scenarios is about to transpire.

“There’s some people I’d like you to meet,” Jack is now saying. “Or, more to the point, they want to meet you.”

So, option 3: something else entirely. “Yeah?” replies Will, trying not to sound too depressed about it.

“Yeah. They were at the lecture and they’ve read about you beforehand.” And then, when Will doesn’t reply: “You’re getting famous Will, whether you like it or not.”

Will frowns and then for want of anything better to do begins inspecting the tray of petit-fours spread out in front of him: the walnuts in the salad look like tiny, bisected brains. “It’s only a brief introduction,” urges Jack. “Anyway they’re attachés from DC so it’s in your interests to keep them happy.” The tone of the last part is unmistakably insinuating and Will sighs again for what feels like the fortieth time. “The tall one on the left is Denton Skinner and the little one next to him is Adam Siemens.”

“Skinner and Siemens?” repeats Will incredulously. “What sort of names are those?” Well apart from fucking stupid ones, obviously. Although while the former might get something of a pass on the grounds of being German (as well as on charitable grounds, given that its unfortunate bearer no doubt has to endure eternal sniggering every time he introduces himself) the former just sounds vaguely creepy. He takes a covert glance at where the two men are stood; Siemens actually waves at him. Christ. Will turns back to Jack and gives him a beseeching look that he intends to be translated as: Please don’t make me do this. Jack’s answering frown implies: Are you kidding me? Get over there right now – and be nice about it.

Will opens his eyes a bit wider: But look at them. They’re so lame.

To which Jack’s eyebrows respond with: Will Graham, I’ll count to three and then I’ll kick your ass.

Will defiantly knits his own eyebrows: Come on Jack. Don’t be a dick.

Jack takes a step forward: One…two…

“Okay, fine,” says Will. His tone comes out more petulant than intended; sometimes he thinks he’d make a good adolescent.

“That’s my boy,” replies Jack sardonically as if reading Will’s mind, before adding in an undertone: “And be nice.”

Will briefly fantasizes about sticking his arms and legs out like one of his dogs when it doesn’t want to go to the vet before ultimately conceding the inevitable and allowing Jack to shepherd him across the room to where the two men are waiting. Even Will, who doesn’t normally notice or care about people’s appearances, can’t help thinking that they look particularly unpromising. Skinner is as thin and gaunt as a tapeworm with the same raw bones, flaring nostrils and prominent teeth of a rocking horse whereas Siemens has a pouting pink mouth like a disappointed baby and, for all his small stature, manages to give the impression of possessing acres of shiny white skin that rolls around in waxy folds and seem to extend in hillocks and tufts for as far as the eye can see.

Will, remembering Jack’s remarks about ‘bonding’, now feels a strong rush of certainty that he’d rather gnaw off his own feet than approach anything resembling a bonded state with either of these two. He wouldn’t want to go within ten feet of them given the choice…in fact there’s an expression about that isn’t there? Price sometimes says it when confronted with an especially objectionable lab assistant: ‘I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.’ Will wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot shitty stick, unless it was to hit them over the…

“Mr Graham!” shrieks Siemens, charging towards Will like a small bull elephant.

Will knows that it’s probably rather rude to step aside so obviously, but the thought of being in close vicinity with all that oily skin (possibly even hugged) is too appalling to contemplate so he does it anyway; at which point Siemens misses the target and obligingly goes bouncing off one of the wall slats instead. Jack clears his throat irritably.

“So – Mr Graham,” says Skinner after a decidedly awkward pause. His skin is so thin that the veins in his temples are clearly visible, blue and livid as a biology diagram in a textbook, and contrary to Jack’s assurances he doesn’t look remotely pleased to meet Will; more as if he wants to punch him (although why not? Virtually everyone else does). After another pause he extends a hand, the fingers as gnarled and bony as some kind of prehistoric being and gives Will’s a fastidious shake. “You look rather different from your photographs.”

“A pleasure Mr Graham,” adds Siemens, who’s now rebounded from the wall like a true champion and is vigorously shaking Will’s other hand. His fingers are incredibly soft and limp, like balloons filled with tepid water. “A real pleasure.”

Will wants to reply that it’s a pleasure to meet them likewise but is concerned there’s no possible way of doing it that’ll sound sincere, so instead asks them how long they’re intending to stay in Virginia and then not look too dismayed by the response (several months apparently – fuck) while simultaneously trying not to bristle with irritation at the fussy way Skinner is smoothing down the lapels of his jacket and twitching his tie into place. In this respect he’s clearly the type of person who leads an incredibly methodical and well-ordered life, evident in everything from the impeccably starched shirt to the row of pens arranged in descending order of size in his breast pocket like some kind of bureaucratic medal (Christ). No doubt he packs his briefcase and lays his clothes out on a chair the night before for added efficiency. Will’s idea of efficiency is to sleep in his clothes.

“…very excited to meet you,” concludes Siemens. “Of course we read all about your work in Minnesota. Very impressive Mr Graham; very impressive indeed. No wonder they were so keen to get you here.”

Will repeats the same vague smile as before but doesn’t actually reply; not least because he suspects that saying ‘Mr Siemens’ out loud without being overcome with an urge to laugh requires a level of moral courage that he doesn’t actually possess. Jack, on the other hand, nods appreciatively then gives Will a hearty clap on the back that nearly sends him flying. “Will is certainly an asset,” he says cheerfully.

Will is now so delirious with boredom – and guiltily preoccupied with watching Hannibal from the corner of his eye and reassuring himself that he’s too busy lamenting The End of the Malbecs to be aware of Will being publicly bound in comradeship with these two stupid bastards – that he briefly mishears ‘asset’ as ‘ass’ and opens his mouth to protest before Skinner interrupts to ask Jack what contingencies he has in place for when the extent of the Sculptor case goes public. Will, who’s already heard this at length, promptly tunes out again and forces himself to stop gazing at Hannibal and pretend to listen instead; only to get distracted once more by the sight of Skinner’s prominent Adam’s apple, which seems to crawl up and down his throat like a large flesh coloured beetle every time he speaks.

“Are you all right Mr Graham?” says Skinner abruptly in his nasal voice. “You seem a little preoccupied.”

Seeing that he can’t admit ‘Yeah actually, I’m just transfixed by your repellent neck – sorry about that,’ Will apologises and explains that he has a slight headache. In fact the pain continues to be in his stomach rather than his head, but it’s still the wrong thing to say because Jack immediately reverts to the enormously irritating protective mode of before and which he’s recently been showing an alarming tendency to indulge in. It drives Will half insane with irritation: he hates being treated as if he’s delicate or fragile, even if in some ways it’s actually true. And of course Jack’s still looking dissatisfied with Will’s reply…oh Christ, any minute now he’s going to suggest fetching Hannibal over.

“You do look pale,” Jack says now, right on cue. “Dr Lecter’s just over there, maybe I could…”

Will makes an irritated noise that’s intended to sound assertively resolute, but out of alarm comes out more as a sort of screech (like an angry pterodactyl thinks Will with gloomy relish). “I’m fine,” he says, rather more sharply than intended. “Thank you. I’ll just take some aspirin when I get home and crash out.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” replies Jack uncertainly.

“I’m sure.” He has a fleeting image of Hannibal being summoned over to dispense medical advice as if Will is some sort of sickly feeble-minded creature that can’t be reliably trusted to act in its own interests. God, the idea. “So what are the autopsy arrangements going to be?” he says now in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

“Tuesday most likely. You’re going to attend yourself?”

“Of course.”

“And the profile? Any progress?”

This time Will hesitates before responding. “I’m not sure yet. There’re still some features that seem a bit…off. I don’t know. It’s the staging aspects; they’re almost too staged.”

“Then surely that’s an attribute for the profile?” says Skinner in an officious voice; Jack and Will turn round and look at him in vague surprise. “I know a little about this kind of stuff,” adds Skinner smugly. “Just because we focus on the legal side doesn’t mean we’re completely ignorant about forensics.”

With considerable effort Will subdues the contemptuous snorting sound he’s desperate to make and says: “Thank you, I’ll bear it in mind.” Then Skinner gives another self-important smile and it’s so grating he can’t stop himself adding: “But if the perpetrator is deliberately trying to make the scene look a certain way to mislead investigators then it has significant implications for his motive.”

“Isn’t there a possibility you’re overthinking it? The motive seems fairly clear – he hates omegas.”

“Well it’s hardly as simple as just that,” says Jack irritably before Will has a chance to respond. “The nature of the victims is only one aspect of his pathology.”

 “How much more complicated does it really need to be?”

“Considerably more,” says Will. “Since you asked.”

Skinner’s cheeks begin to inflate like an outraged bullfrog. “So you’re saying that the staging aspects are too simplistic yet the perpetrator himself is too complicated – and in the meantime we all just sit here instead of going public with a profile?  If you’ll excuse me saying so Mr Graham, you sound like someone who wants to have their cake and eat it.”

Will can feel his fragile patience about to snap entirely and is about to open his mouth to reply that he certainly does want to have his cake and eat it – and then have a portrait of the cake made, and then eat that as well – when Siemens reaches out with one of his little doughy hands and actually pats Will’s shoulder and announces “I’m sure Mr Graham has good reasons for thinking what he does,” before appearing to forget to remove the hand in the process and just standing there like Will’s a bench that he’s decided to lean on. Will doesn’t quite dare tell Siemens to fuck off with Jack standing right there so discreetly twists out the way instead; at which point a tall shadow suddenly falls over them and on turning round he sees that Hannibal has approached with the usual silent tread and is now standing directly opposite. He doesn’t actually say or do anything beyond regard the four of them with a typically inscrutable Sphinx-like smile; yet such is the force of his presence that everyone falls silent anyway.

“Ah, right on schedule,” says Jack, who recovers himself first. Only he doesn’t immediately clarify exactly what Hannibal’s supposed to be on schedule for, and Will promptly has a surge of terror that it’s going to relate to himself in some way. Possibly as in ‘Ah, Dr Lecter, Will is being more than unusually pale and feeble – take him away and sort him out’ or even some variant of ‘Gentlemen, you’re right on schedule to meet Mr Graham’s babysitter. It’s a shit job, God knows, but someone’s got to do it.’

Will catches Hannibal’s eye (again…in fact the number of eye meets are actually getting a bit ridiculous; what if someone notices?) and Jack proceeds to introduce Hannibal to Siemens and Skinner in excessively fulsome terms in which Will counts two uses of ‘expertise’ one of ‘renowned’ and an unspecified number of alternatives of grateful/happy/delighted to reflect the rapture of Behavioral Sciences (BS) to be in receipt of his medical and psychiatric input. Hannibal’s faint smile grows slightly broader in a way that Will suspects, but can’t confirm, might be rather derisive; but he still lets Jack run on, subtly flicking his eyes across both men’s faces the entire time, before holding out a hand and allowing them to take turns in shaking it. In this respect Will is secretly and rather childishly gratified to note that Skinner is shorter than Hannibal and therefore has to tilt his head back to make eye contact – and, even better, is obviously extremely annoyed about it. Hannibal, in turn, has somehow managed to position himself directly in between Will and Siemens, which means the latter is now bobbing about on the periphery with his pale little hands dangling forlornly at his sides.

“Dr Lecter,” says Skinner after a short pause. “Happy to meet you.”

He emphasises the last syllable with an odd clicking noise – Lec-ter – and just as before with Will he doesn’t sound remotely sincere about his professed happiness; although whether it stems from some personal animosity or is simply the result of a temperament that’s indiscriminately hostile with everyone is difficult to tell. Not that it matters of course: in fact Will half wants to advise Skinner to save his time and not to bother, seeing that as a general rule it’s actually pretty impossible to measure the amount of fucks Hannibal couldn’t give on the grounds that science has yet to invent a device capable of detecting such a miniscule amount.

“Your reputation precedes you, of course,” adds Skinner in the same flat voice, upon which Jack makes an approving noise and Will allows himself to begin gently tuning out again because he generally finds recitals of how incredibly impressive Hannibal is to be faintly demoralising and it’s not the sort of thing he’s currently got the energy for. Instead he stares at the vase of lilies on the table, which are of the white waxy variety that could be presented to either a bride in a chapel or a cadaver in a casket, and is only jolted back into the conversation when he hears Hannibal say his name and realises that he’s in the process of explaining how many new insights he feels he’s gained from working alongside Will. Will, in turn, can’t quite let himself believe that Hannibal genuinely means this, but thinks it’s nice of him to say it anyway so musters a smile in response that’s intended to be suitably modest yet appreciative.

“The art of the investigator,” Siemens is now announcing to no one in particular. “Or, indeed, the investigative art.”

“Although they do say that the purpose of Art is to convey the truth of a thing,” says Hannibal smoothly, looking straight at Will. “Not to be the truth itself.”

Will darts Hannibal a quick glance in response, uncertain whether or not he’s being made fun of. Probably he is…in fact almost certainly he is. It’s scarcely feasible, after all, that Hannibal could be genuinely proposing there to be anything artistic about him; although admittedly there’s no obvious trace of mockery in his expression. Skinner, in turn, is staring at Hannibal and now Hannibal is staring back – and Will strongly suspects that there’s something going on but is too tired to work out what it might be. In fact he suddenly feels exhausted. This often happens around Hannibal; they haven’t even exchanged a direct word with one another and yet it’s somehow as if they’ve been communicating in furtive silence the entire evening: a speechless language of no words that nobody beyond themselves could ever detect or decipher.

“I’ll leave you to it,” says Will abruptly. “I’m heading off.” Jack looks a little disapproving so Will adds “I hope you all have a nice evening,” even though he doesn’t really care if they do. Anyway, he’s done his duty here: he’s allowed Jack to patronise him with minimal complaint, he’s smiled and nodded at assorted dignitaries, answered questions and overall done a fairly convincing impression of being polite to Siemens and Skinner (S&S…shit and shite?); what more can anyone reasonably expect of him? Hannibal moves round at the same time as Will does then stares at him consideringly for a few seconds before raising a hand and very quickly – so quickly Will is barely even sure he’s done it – brushes his thumb against the edge of Will’s cheekbone. Will can feel his eyes widening with something like shock before taking an automatic step backwards and Hannibal’s inscrutable smile briefly reappears.

“You had something on your face,” he says in calm explanation as he holds up his hand for Will to inspect. “Pollen, I suppose. Those lilies are already dying.”

“Oh,” replies Will, aware of a bizarre combination of both relief and disappointment. “Right, yeah. Thanks.”

“I'm sorry I arrived so late to the lecture; I hope it wasn't distracting.”

“It's fine,” says Will. “I’m glad you could make it.” Then he has a sudden insane urge to enquire after the wellbeing of the Malbecs but manages to stop himself on the grounds that it’s the type of thing he’d be destined to wake up in the middle of the night cringing over. So in the end he just waits in silence because he’s expecting Hannibal to say something else anyway; only he doesn’t, merely continues to regard Will with a serenity that manages to be both alarmingly intense yet invitingly casual. Will, in turn, finds himself unhappily dwelling on the ever-sharper pain in his abdomen and the emergency doctor’s appointment it’s almost certainly going to require and so eventually blurts out: “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make my session tomorrow. I might have to rearrange. I’ll let you know though…I’ll let you know if I can’t make it.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry,” adds Will, even though he knows he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s your time Will, you should use it however you need to.” Hannibal pauses then smiles very faintly again as if reflecting on some private joke. “The so-called ‘therapeutic hour.’ It’s been so sanctified yet I’d be the first to admit  there’s more to wellbeing then merely sat in a room trading confidences with a psychiatrist.”

“Careful with that,” says Will lightly. “You’re going to end up talking yourself out of a job.”

“And yet my entire job is premised on talking.”

“Well, I look forward to talking my way towards wellbeing,” replies Will, completely deadpan.

“Very good,” says Hannibal with another small smile. “Although you really mean talking your way into it. Don’t you Will? I know you’re sceptical about the benefits; or at least the probability of benefit for someone as….singular as yourself.” Will shrugs irritably, suddenly defensive, and Hannibal smiles once more then takes a slow step closer. “A sleight of hand of the mind,” he adds, and there’s an undertone of gentleness to his voice that’s sufficiently unusual to make Will glance up. “The mind gives up so easily doesn’t it? It’s so persuadable and inconsistent – so susceptible to each passing influence.”

“Of course,” says Will, briefly looking pale and hollow-eyed all over again. “It’s like that expression: The mind’s its own place...”

“…and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven,” replies Hannibal, neatly completing the quotation. “I know. Every transgression, both literal and imagined, takes place in the mind. And yours gives you no respite at all, does it?” His dark eyes are now boring directly into Will’s: implacable, somewhat soulless, and in the shadow of the lamplight almost appearing to gleam as if his skull is lit up from within. “It is – merciless.”

“Yes,” replies Will in an odd mechanical voice that doesn’t sound entirely like his. He wants to turn away now but can’t, and decides that it’s because there’s something vaguely hypnotic about Hannibal’s gaze. Or maybe it’s his eyes themselves, so deep and fathomless as they are: bright-edged flints, the colour of dark amber…

“Because it understands that great cruelty requires great empathy,” says Hannibal caressingly without breaking the stare. But Will just darts his tongue over his lips and refuses to answer so Hannibal merely smiles again, abruptly casual once more as if the last few seconds didn’t happen. “At any rate I hope to see you tomorrow,” he says and for a few seconds Will thinks and even, perhaps, hopes that he’s about to touch him again. But in the end Hannibal just flicks his gaze up and down Will’s face as if committing his features to memory before turning round and leaving just as silently as he arrived.

Will watches him as he’s walking away until his entire body gives another stabbing scream of pain and he can feel himself go pale with the effort of trying not to wince too obviously. Oh God, don’t let it be that, he thinks rather wildly. Please, please. Please God.  Then he wonders, not for the first time, why he seems to spend so much time making increasingly desperate pleas with God when he doesn’t even believe in him.

*****

Will drives home afterwards in a state of unhappy preoccupation, barely noticing as the city lights grow sparser and finally give way to the tangled thickets and raw stretching solitude of the countryside where everything’s illuminated by a flinty slice of moon that bleaches the landscape varying shades of spectral silver and icy blue. As he pulls into the driveway he makes sure to check (as usual) that no one’s following him before quickly reassuring himself (also as usual) that it’s fine, and that if Andrew were going to turn up he would have done so by now. In this respect Will knows that living on your own in the middle of nowhere can’t be considered the smartest move if you’re concerned about being hunted down; but really, it would almost be a relief if Andrew followed him here. Here the situation is simplified: distillable into its simplest rawest edges and therefore resolvable the old-fashioned way in terms of a shotgun and a shovel, with no witnesses and therefore no problem.

Not that I’d really kill him, Will hastily amends. Or at least…only in self-defence. And that’s hardly a likely scenario either because Andrew, whilst undeniably cruel and vindictive, has never shown either a potential or appetite for lethal violence. Quite the opposite in fact: he wants to possess Will, not destroy him (even though, ironically, the two factors pretty much amount to the same) and which is why what’s scaring Will most of all is the idea of Andrew coming after him in the city. And it’s so very easy to imagine: ostensibly urbane and civilised, and somehow all the more primitive for acting in such modern surroundings, then pointing a long pale finger in Will’s direction (the tips yellowed with nicotine and the nails always a little too long) and shrieking for his property to be returned to him. Andrew…flanked by lawyers, shrouded in righteous indignation and with nothing that anyone can do to stop him as he shrilly evokes his rights. And what singular rights they are: not only in being utterly wrong but also fatally acid-like in their ability to completely neutralise Will’s. Not that Will really has any rights to speak of. The right to vote, the right to a fair trial, the right to own property (to an extent), the right to freedom of speech (also to an extent) – and which are all very well – but somehow become a whole lot less meaningful when you have virtually no rights over your own body and what happens to it.

Despite the internal reassurances Will still walks quicker than necessary from the car to the house, where he triple-locks the door before greeting the dogs and beginning the comforting routine of feeding them and letting them outside for a moonlit run. Only after they’ve been attended to does he finally remember to arrange some kind of meal for himself, and which he eats distracted and one-handed while propped up by the window. There’s nothing much to do now except go to bed, but Will’s well aware that as soon as his head touches the pillow his tiredness will evaporate and he’ll be wide awake again, so he eventually wanders over to his desk and roots around for a while until he finally finds what he’s looking for: a photograph clipped from the local paper that it’s somehow become his custom to gaze at occasionally when he wants to try and calm down. Will can’t even remember now how this odd tradition started, only that there’s never been any way of performing it which doesn’t make him feel impossibly guilty and self-conscious (and that therein, probably, lies the benefit because there’s something about the relief of giving into temptation that seems to exert a sort of sedative effect).

It’s not even a particularly good picture. Hannibal is surrounded by a group of  doctors and his face is too small to make out the features clearly; although it’s also true that even when rendered in grainy newsprint the dark eyes and sculptured cheekbones remain fully apparent. The other doctors look faintly feeble in comparison: pastel-clad and paunchy whereas Hannibal is dressed in dark clothes and is as lithe and statuesque as they are insipidly bland. It’s obvious that the photographer didn’t arrange them in a way to indicate greater status to any particular member, yet Hannibal still draws the eye and commands a share of attention that should rightfully have been more evenly distributed across the entire group. Hannibal who is glamorous and charismatic and clearly lives a full life: in stark contrast to Will, who merely endures his. He half wants to touch the black and white face but this seems like going a step too far and in the end he just does what he always does: which is to replace the paper in his desk (folded over into a small square and carelessly tossed amongst everything else) and which means he’ll struggle to locate it again when the times comes for another yearningly covert glance but – far more importantly – means it’s less likely that someone else will ever find it and guess. In this respect Will’s well aware how mournful and morbid it is to organise your living space with the idea of dying unexpectedly and someone sifting through all your belongings afterwards; but, like so many other things, it’s become a habit and not one he feels any particular motivation to break.

On this occasion the scrap of newspaper ends up hidden beneath a copy of the latest bestselling thriller which everyone at work has been reading and that Jack had finished then obligingly passed onto Will. “See if you can guess who the murderer is,” he’d said. “It drove me crazy. Thank God they’re not as clever as that in real life.” The novel received hysterically glowing reviews and is apparently being optioned for movie rights, yet it’s still unopened and destined to remain so because Will doesn’t particularly care for crime stories. Mostly because they imply that murders are like jigsaw puzzles, with each piece neatly marked out and just waiting for an enterprising detective (who’s inevitably lantern jawed and charismatic as opposed to sad and lonely and socially awkward) to saunter in and slot it into place. Bullshit, in other words, because in real life it’s more like a puzzle where most of the pieces are missing and the remaining ones have lost some of their edges or are printed on both sides – and even when you’ve assembled it there’s always a few left over that can't be made to fit. But mostly Will just doesn’t like novels, period, because they lie to their readers by presenting a deceptive version of life in which things finally finish and come to an end whereas the truth is that there are no endings, ever. Things like pain and fear and dread and doubt…they never end in a neat finale and they never go away. Just wear on incessantly with no release in sight.

As if on cue Will feels a twinge in his abdomen even shaper than the last one and gasps at the intensity of it before staggering to the kitchen and dry-swallowing some painkillers with hands that have begun to shake slightly. You’re fine, he mutters under his breath, you’re going to be fine. And he likes the way it sounds so says it again, reciting it over and over like it’s a mantra, an article of faith: as if by repeating it enough times he can conjure it into reality. Magical thinking. I’m fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine. Perhaps Hannibal would tell him that too if he were here and Will spends a few guilty seconds trying to imagine it: the dark eyes softening with sympathy and the angular face breaking into a faint smile.

Not that he can really imagine anything more than a display of consideration and kindness. He can't imagine any substantial intimacy…certainly he can’t imagine them as lovers (which is a stupid word anyway: vaguely courtly sounding and antiquated, like something people from the 18^th century ought to have). Will’s sole experience is that people either want to fuck you or fuck you over with nothing in between; impossible to envisage something as quaintly sentimental as a lover, even if he wanted one – which he doesn’t. But a friend would be nice. An ally, or a comrade, or whatever else you want to call it: those kinds of hearty terms with overtones of combat and camaraderie that men are supposed to show towards one another – even aloof, introverted, unlovable men like Will. For Hannibal to come wandering in now with his shirtsleeves rolled up, casual and fully at home amongst Will’s clutter, pouring out a glass of wine for them both before standing behind Will at the window and putting a hand on his shoulder and saying “It’s all right Will, everything’s going to be fine.”  Even though nothing is fine and it would be a huge, spectacular lie…but it would be so reassuring to hear it all the same.

But then how can it possibly be fine, either for Will himself or anyone else? Fleetingly he thinks about the Sculptor, dripping and gore-stained and lying in wait in some tenement or basement room with his collection of knives and cleavers gleaming wet with someone else’s blood. How can that ever be fine? The fear is so palpable now, although there’s still no guarantee it’ll spiral into a Major Incident. Most of these bastards never get the chance to grow truly notorious because they lose their nerve first, or they can’t access victims, or they get caught by people like Will. He’s hoping now, he knows he is, but it’s because he wants to hope – he wants it so badly, for so many things – even though he feels like he’s tempting fate in doing so. Even though hope is avoidant and escapist and complacent. Even though it lies to you. Because while none of these kinds of cases could ever be reasonably described as ‘good’, there’s something different about this one that promises it’s going to turn out to be more than unusually bad.

It’s so quiet now: serene and still in the moonlight with nothing to break the silence except the whining of one of the dogs as it rolls over in its sleep. Will turns back to the window again and gazes out wordlessly into the blackness. The stars are vaporous and indistinct courtesy of a ragged string of clouds although he can still see Orion, trudging through the night sky with his pack of dogs. Their presence has always made it Will’s favourite constellation so he fixes his eyes on it, fantasising that someone else – an ally, a comrade – is also staring at it now and that the mutual star gazing forms a point of symmetry between them as in those few moments their stars become the same. Jack, perhaps, or even Hannibal (unlikely). And then, oh God, there’s that pain again. Will takes a deep shuddering breath then presses his burning forehead against the cooling glass of the windowpane and tries to focus on the stars. Tomorrow…he knows he can’t put it off any longer. Tomorrow he’ll go and see the doctor.

*****

Unknown to Will Hannibal is, in fact, staring at the exact same stars at the exact same moment, and likewise from the window of his bedroom – although there the similarity ends, because Hannibal is not remotely fraught or anxious as opposed to coolly poised and contemplative. Neither is he concerned with brooding over the recent spate of murders (much as Jack Crawford is currently doing from his own bedroom window several miles away) for the simple fact that they aren’t particularly interesting in themselves. If he were to think about them at all it would be to dismiss them as graceless – or artless, or pointless; just as less – because they lack even the most elementary hint of flair or purpose as opposed to being mindlessly brutal and therefore boring. Hannibal’s mouth quirks very slightly: to be boring is a sin of almost unforgivably severe proportions. Almost as much as to be rude.

In this respect his mind is far more pleasantly engaged, and with a subject that’s recently begun to take up an increasing amount of time: the problem of What To Do About Will Graham. Or maybe not so much to do about Will as opposed to what should be done with him. Hannibal actually finds his preoccupation with this topic to be rather interesting, not least because of the way it seems to have prowled up on him and then, having established itself, refused to go away again until attention and nurturing have made it blossom into tenfold its original size. His initial reaction to this fascination was to deem it somewhat singular – amusing, even, like someone with an eccentric hobby – although lately it’s begun to take on far more sincere, serious overtones. Yet at no point has he experienced anything approaching guilt or self-consciousness about it; and likewise the awareness that Will would probably be uncomfortable if he knew the extent of Hannibal’s preoccupation with him has never been a source of concern either.

Because the simple truth is that Will is captivating; almost perfect, in fact, in his extreme and excessive imperfection. A volatile, questing collection of foibles and uncertainties and consequence and principles, with a boldness that’s tempered by timidity and a recklessness restrained by caution. A hint of luminously lethal beauty with a dark slender soul…and which taken together is both wild and wary and precious and audacious, and seemingly designed purely for Hannibal’s express enjoyment in terms of its breathless capacity to fascinate, intrigue and inspire. In a world that’s rankly rife and teeming with dull, blind, mechanical people, Will is a peerless specimen that’s imbued with a sublime kind of energy, sense and unconscious sensuality: a voltage that thrums and pulses, and which deserves (indeed – demands) to be wrestled and deconstructed before breathed in and savoured.

In turn, it’s now become Hannibal’s habit to spend these reflective sessions considering various aspects of Will – and there are so many to choose from – in which each fragment is inspected then turned over in his mind as if Will is a human puzzle box; a Pythagorean enigma comprised of warm breath and fragile bone and pale skin. There’s the moral, the intellectual, the emotional, the corporeal…all representing a different aspect of Will and all of whom speak and behave within Hannibal’s mind slightly differently from the others. A great composite of identities, none of them ever entirely capturing the whole (and this in itself is an interesting conundrum in terms of whether they would have any degree of understanding if they sat down together – all these versions of Will. Whether they would like each other; whether they’d even recognize each other if they met in the street?). So Hannibal tenderly curates them all and corrals them around within his Memory Palace, attempting to excise different slivers of information from each one whenever he can persuade it to allow itself to be held still long enough for him to stroke his palms across it – so skittish and spirited as all these versions are.

Tonight, after some consideration, he decides he’s going to opt for the aesthetic and so coils himself into the large chair by the window and spends some time re-envisaging the way Will appeared this evening, both during the lecture and after it. In this respect the fact that Will is physically beautiful undoubtedly adds to his appeal and Hannibal, who is an admirer and connoisseur of beauty in all its forms, has no difficulty in acknowledging to himself that if Will were less wide-eyed and  willowy then he could hardly be fascinating in quite the same way.

Meticulously he now begins to catalogue the various aspects which are especially deserving of appreciation and notice. Will’s face and Will’s figure: the way he moves and holds himself, the curve of his mouth with its full upper lip, the slim neck (distressingly easy to snap – mentally Hannibal runs a protective hand across the back of it) and his hair, which is very lustrous and soft-looking and has a silken quality to it that would probably feel extremely pleasing against one’s lips or forehead. Will’s eyes, in particular, are extremely striking and it’s rather a shame they’re so firmly and selfishly secured in his skull and therefore can’t be removed and cherished – folded neatly within the palm of the hand like pieces of opal or caressed in the manner of Rosary beads. If one were painting them it would require a blend of Delft blue and Payne’s grey to capture the precise tint, although their real appeal is less in the shape or shade, or even the excessively charming way his hair tumbles into them and tangles in his eyelashes, but rather in their expression. Will’s eyes are…what? Hannibal frowns slightly. English is such an ugly language; none of the dash or delicate nuance of the Roman tongues. Will’s eyes would be triste in French or luttuoso in Italian, whereas English would deem them something cumbersome and inelegant like ‘dismal’ or ‘gloomy’ – and yet there is such dark beauty in Will’s sadness. Which is exactly as it should be, of course, because beauty in distress is always more picturesque than any other kind.

At the memory of the lecture Hannibal’s face arranges itself into the faintest flicker of a smile because he’s been looking forward to reimagining Will’s response to being touched: something delectable was expected, and of course Will did not disappoint. How he’d quivered very slightly then gone still; how his breath had hitched, the faint dilation of his pupils; the way the long slender column of throat had swayed. It’s endlessly interesting how physical signs of desire and fear can be so similar: two entirely contrary states, yet eliciting such comparable responses. Likewise it’s irritating that Hannibal can’t identify the precise causes with any degree of reliability. Normally his talents for intuiting a reaction are flawless, yet Will is clearly incredibly skilled at dissembling and is therefore difficult to read in the same way. His responses are so rarely what one would anticipate as typical and virtually never conform to what would be expected for someone of his age, education, status or, for that matter, gender.

Omegas – because of course he is one, for all that he tries to hide it – are supposed to be tactile and passive. Hannibal now frowns very slightly as he tries to imagine Will in this unlikely role, because while there are aspects of it that are pleasing it hardly seems plausible: Will walking into the bedroom now, wearing the same expression of forlorn weariness from earlier in the evening, then curling his long slender limbs into the chair so he can nestle onto Hannibal’s lap and tuck his head against his chest. No, not really plausible at all – although it hardly matters because while Will would be undeniably charming when wan and needy, he’s infinitely more interesting when fiery and agile. Hannibal sighs with satisfaction at the thought of it. Will has so much restless energy, like a finely coiled spring. Beneath his clothes his body is no doubt covered in bruises from colliding with the planes and edges of various objects in a constant rush to be doing something other than what he’s currently engaged in. Bruises and scrapes and a lot of very pale skin – which would be soft to the touch, yet also firm and wiry from the muscles underneath – and delicate bones rather too near the surface from where Will forgets to feed himself…all currently hidden away beneath layers of plaid and denim and dog hairs.

Hannibal now frowns again for a third time, because he’s actually in the middle of conducting something of a love-hate relationship with Will’s clothes – which on one hand he despises for their disfiguring cheapness and ugliness whilst also (given that it’s Will’s beautiful body they happen to be covering) acknowledging there to be something about their simplicity and lack of pretentiousness that’s faintly endearing. Most likely the offensively dowdy garments are part of Will’s veneer of pretending to be a beta, much like that appalling pheromone spray he insists on smothering himself with. Presented with even half the chance Hannibal would like to lift Will into his arms (impervious to the inevitable wild struggling) then force him under a showerhead until it’s all been washed away before adorning him in suitably splendid articles specifically curated to Hannibal’s far superior taste.

Not that you would ever tolerate that, amends Hannibal ruefully as his mental version of Will begins to hiss with outrage at the idea. Smiling slightly to himself he reaches out to smooth away the frown line on its face with his thumb. So protective of yourself, he thinks with admiration; even though you have no idea of your true value. Although perhaps – one day – you might be persuaded. The imaginary Will looks unconvinced and Hannibal muses over how he would rather like to press his lips against the back of Will’s hand just to see how he would react. Needless to say most alphas would be horrified at the idea of this gesture on the grounds that it would be shameful and unbecoming to indicate such submission to an omega, irrespective of how captivating the omega in question might be. But of course to Hannibal that doesn’t signify in the slightest – what other alphas might do.

The chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall now sounds out as a reminder to Hannibal that the hour is extremely late – and that he has to begin next morning inconveniently early – so rather regretfully he prepares to stow away his mental versions of Will, gently yet firmly entrapping them within various rooms of his Memory Palace until such times as they’re required again in the future. There’s a certain frisson in the way he can hold them all captive while the true version roams around the world – wild and wary, yet ultimately free – and his feelings about this are somewhat mixed because it creates it an undeniable sense of ownership but also of obligation: that Will has somehow become his possession to influence, control and manoeuvre, yet also his responsibility to cultivate, protect and take care of. Just – his.

In turn, the awareness of this makes Hannibal realise how reluctant he is to relinquish Will quite yet, so finally decides to indulge himself by recalling the version that represent the most sensuous aspects – and which in real life is one of the hardest to detect, although it’s definitely there on occasion – so he can pull it close to him and spend some time caressing its face and hair until it’s grown pliant and responsive enough to be embraced and softly kissed along the jaw and cheekbone. Although even this version is rebellious and requires endless patience to win it over, so Hannibal concentrates on smoothing his palms across its back and shoulders, only very gradually allowing the touch to become a little more suggestive and a little less innocent and migrating lower and lower with each stroke until this ghost Will begins to quiver and rock its hips against Hannibal’s. My beautiful boy, thinks Hannibal with calm deliberation. How you overpower me. For now we must be patient, but I promise you that very soon I shall have you laid out underneath me: passionate and desperate and calling out my name. And that you are going to love every single moment of it.

The image of Will stares back – aloof and stunning and giving nothing away – and Hannibal smiles affectionately at its reserve before starting to reflect, by no means for the first time, on the different imperatives that merge together in this train of thought; and which appear to be a recurring motif where Will is concerned. Because on one hand there’s the wish to see what depths of dark artistry and depravity Will might be encouraged to descend to, yet on the other there’s simply a desire to take care of him. Possession one moment and protection the next.

Not, of course, that such aims couldn’t be occasionally combined. If Will were here now for example then Hannibal would wish to gather him into his arms and hold him close whilst simultaneously murmuring words of dark, hypnotic suggestion into his ear. It’s so easy to imagine it too: Will with crimson splashes of blood on his face, fiercely resilient and always resolute. Ecstasy and agony. Triumphant. ‘William,’ from the Old German Wilhelm…a war deity and warrior. And the name of artists and wordsmiths and kings – of Blake and Shakespeare and William the Conquerer – but most of all Hannibal’s own Will, who manages to be infinitely more fascinating on a day to day basis than any of the others.

Yet there’s also no denying that the fervent desire to discover another human being in this way – from a spirit of pleasure and appreciation rather than raw desecration or destruction – is deeply unfamiliar; and this in and of itself is…interesting. What’s even more interesting is that while Will has unknowingly subverted Hannibal’s expectations about himself, he finds that he can’t quite bring himself to resent Will for it, or even to begrudge him the success. This should be concerning. It is concerning. In fact it’s the type of speculation that he would normally avoid on the grounds that such entanglements are a hazardous waste of time; and squandering time is something to which Hannibal, on principle, is usually strongly opposed. Yet the situation exists as it is. It is irrefutable; elemental, even – to claim anything else would likewise be a waste of time. So despite being acutely aware that allowing himself to be so preoccupied with Will could have a whole range of unanticipated consequences, his deliberations still end as they always do: which is that it no longer feels feasible to simply relinquish Will and allow him to walk away into the life of someone else.

And in this respect the next few months are undoubtedly going to be very revealing, given that Will has grown increasingly wary and preoccupied in a way that indicates substantial inner turmoil and a corresponding desire to make himself untouchable – and completely unaware that it simply compels Hannibal to want to touch him even more. There’s even a certain pleasure in it, and if anything Will’s unobtainability enhances his value in the same way that jewellery preserved in glass cases is more desirable than the cheaper pieces that can be groped and fumbled over in trays on the counter. Even more interesting is that Will’s rather exquisite unhappiness has coincided with the appearance of a new and unusually vicious killer…whose sole target is omegas. Briefly Hannibal thinks of the festering panic that underlay every interaction at Jack Crawford’s otherwise tedious gathering. Undoubtedly there’s a genuine fear and apprehension over how extreme this particular reign of terror is going to become. A killer’s sovereignty: slicing and hacking his way to infamy as the world watches on in a simmering brew of terror and ignorance.  And then there’s Will, caught in the middle of it all with his sad eyes and anxious hands and stunningly dark mind; a reluctant actor in a story being slashed and carved by someone else.

Hannibal now leans back in the chair and steeples his fingers beneath his face, trying to imagine what sort of narrative Will tells about himself in the recesses of his own mind and what raw materials he might draw upon in doing so. Fiction so often makes a more convincing display of truth, but Hannibal doubts Will has fully discovered his own truth yet. He’s more like a fresh page begging to be written on: a beautiful blank slate. Will knows how he begun – the wifeless father with the motherless son, the boatyards in the simmering summers and stifling winters of the south and a mind too sharp and a soul too uncompromising  to be contained within them –  but what Will doesn’t know yet is how he’s going to end. But a life is itself a narrative and therefore an exercise in reconstruction wherein the beginning exists and the conclusion is waiting, and in between are all the fragments of all the stories.

So many possible stories, thinks Hannibal tenderly as he reflects on his ambitions for the two of them. And this, Agent Will Graham, is going to be one of ours.

Centre stage. Curtain up. Go.