Chapter Text
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND; THURSDAY, 08:35
The last few days have been long days for Hannibal Lecter. Unaccustomed to the feeling of unease, he spent his morning playing out his normal routine as if in a fog. He had awoken at his usual time but he had not felt alert. He had meticulously prepared himself his usual morning cup of French pressed coffee and had crafted a delicious, well presented, and healthy breakfast that he uncharacteristically left on his table, untouched after two bites. After showering and dressing, he gathered up his keys and drove to his office in a manner many had described to him in therapy sessions but until this day he had never experienced; one minute, he was backing out of his driveway and the next he was parking at work. Each red light would remain a mystery as to whether or not he had run them or stopped at them on learned instinct. He could not place where his mind had gone during his commute.
Hannibal had believed, wrongly, that he had gotten his emotions out during his talk with his therapist. Tears had flown freely in spite of his self-control, but he had lied to himself as much as he had lied to Dr. Du Maurier. Hannibal had become accustomed to having access to Will Graham and even he could not overcome one hundred thousand years’ worth of human yearning for connection.
He had to admit now that he missed Will and he regretted what he had done to drive him so far, so quickly, in a vain attempt to protect his own self from detection.
The wanted man--a special agent with the FBI, wanted for at least four murders in connection to cases he had helped solve--had been missing for only two days after his escape from a medical transport van after his arrest. The first day had been easily handled. Hannibal spent his time speaking with Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom, discussing Will’s altered state of mind, comparing clocks drawn, contemplating if the man had lied the entire time. Covering for himself, while helping to throw Will under the proverbial bus. He had relished the trust given to him by Jack and felt satisfied with the misdirection, the doubt in their star empathetic profiler and his findings that would hinder any future efforts to track him, hiding so snug under their nose.
The second day, Hannibal would describe as his own personal Hell.
Will had not come to him. Hannibal had believed that Will would have immediately come to see him after an escape. He had planned to convince Will that he was truly capable of the murders and that he alone could help him. He would break Will down, comfort him. He would then return him to Jack’s control, where he would be placed in solitary confinement in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane to await a trial already guaranteed to find him guilty. Hannibal would have to dispose of the director of the hospital, Frederick Chilton, and take his place eventually, but he would have Will to himself. No more field trips to Minnesota, to West Virginia, never again at the beck and call of another. No more threat of Will kissing Alana Bloom, of Alana choosing him over her professional integrity.
But Will is unpredictable. He had not come to him and during the separation, Hannibal realized that he could not face a world in which Will did not exist. Will, who could be shot in an attempt to escape arrest. Will, who could disappear into the woods until either his encephalitis or exposure to the elements claimed him. Will, who could choose to end his own life on his own terms, alone and afraid that he had done what he believed was inconceivable.
Hannibal let himself into his office. Autopilot allowed him to doff his coat and hang it, to move across the vast floor to his desk, to sit and pull out a book he would see but not read. It wasn’t until Hannibal came back to himself, out of his thoughts, that he realized he could smell blood, stress, anxiety, a sweet heat.
He could smell Will.
The man looked up from his book and turned, his gaze immediately landing on the figure of Will, seated on the floor of the upper landing and hunched over, sweat-doused curls clinging to his palid forehead. Beautiful Will.
“Hello, Will,” Hannibal said calmly. “How are you feeling?”
He watched as Will acknowledged him without looking down at him before the response came. “Self aware.”
“You frightened Dr. Bloom,” Hannibal said, choosing to appeal to Will’s emotional connection with her.
“She’s confused about who I am, which I can relate to,” Will’s words came out almost as measured as Hannibal’s, but thick with emotion. “Are you confused about who I am?”
“I’m not confused. I’m skeptical. Meaning I’m willing to change my mind should the evidence change.”
Will finally looked at Hannibal. Hannibal kept himself from reacting, something he found harder to do when it came to Will Graham, but it was not yet time for Will to discover anything new.
“Do you believe I killed Abigail?” Will asked.
“I believe it’s entirely possible, if not nearly indisputable based on how you discovered her ear,” Hannibal replied in a safe, non-judgmental way.
“If it was just Abigail, I would have believed. I would have believed I got so far inside Hobbs’ head, I couldn’t get out.” Will’s voice was firmer now. There was an edge to it that Hannibal wasn’t sure whether to read as rage or desperation.
“But it wasn’t just Abigail,” he replied after a few beats of silence. It would be in his best interest if Will were to have an episode, to lose time. Perhaps he could push him towards it by pushing the narrative--
“I know who I am.” Will interrupted Hannibal’s thoughts.
Nevertheless, “All sense of who you are has been distorted by your illness. You know who you are in this moment. That isn’t always the case.”
“I didn’t kill any of them,” the desperation Hannibal thought he heard wasn’t; it was rage. Cold, angry rage at whoever was putting him in this position. Unknown to Will, it was towards Hannibal. A hurdle Hannibal would have to overcome in due time. “Someone is making sure no one believes me.”
Will is an unpredictably smart boy. Hannibal let out a sigh. Stepping back to show he is nonthreatening, he held an arm out towards the ladder to indicate Will should come down. “If we’re to prove you didn’t commit these murders, perhaps we should consider how you could have. And then disprove that.”
Carefully, Will rose from his position. Hannibal noted that Will’s body seemed tense, as if he’d been there waiting for a very long time. He admonished himself for not noticing as soon as he came into his office but if anyone were to get the upper hand on him, he would be proud for it to be Will. The fevered man made his way down the ladder, carefully, stiffly. Hannibal stepped towards him and when Will did not move to back away, he reached out to take Will’s wounded hand.
“I uh, needed one free hand,” Will said sheepishly. Hannibal studied his face, then with practiced hands and without warning, he popped Will’s thumb back into place. The man gasped and pulled his hand away, stretching his thumb and hissing through the discomfort. Eventually, calmer, he said, “Thank you. It’s … better. Thank you.”
“Have a seat. Would you like something to drink, Will?” Hannibal briefly placed his hand to Will’s back, nudging him towards the chairs where they often speak during their weekly conversations. Will pliantly followed the suggestion, moving to sit in his normal seat. Hannibal watched him, amazed at how small he looked, how unsure he looked in the prison jumpsuit he had yet to replace.
“Y-yes,” Will said as he settled, then as an afterthought he added a please and thank you. Hannibal crossed his office to the globe minibar he keeps, his back to Will in what the other would view as a sign of trust but Hannibal used as a shield. Two fingers of whiskey were poured into a glass, and a fizzing pill was dissolving within moments. He poured himself his own then returned to the chair, holding Will’s glass out to him. Will took it and nearly downed the entirety of it with one gulp before he stopped himself.
“No need to be shy, Will. You have been through much these last few days. I will find no offense in you drinking your fill,” Hannibal encouraged as he seated himself. He tipped his glass in the air to Will and sipped, and Will drank the last of his. “If you are this killer, that identity runs through these events like a thread through pearls. Cassie Boyle would have been your first victim. You said her crime scene was practically gift wrapped.”
Will weakly nodded, his eyes drifting from where Hannibal sat to the corner of the room. Hannibal watched as his blue eyes studied something he himself could not see. He wondered if it were a hallucination, Will’s fatigue, or the drug he’d just unwittingly taken already having an effect.
“It told me everything I needed to know to catch Garret Jacob Hobbs,” the man said, softly, eyes still studying what was not there.
“You’d seen one of Hobbs’ victims, you know how he killed. You may have been exploring how he killed to better understand who he was,” Hannibal suggested. He watched as again, Will’s eyes trailed across the room, although at a much duller pace. He was focused now on a wall and Hannibal could see his pupils dilate, could smell his fear rising.
“I wasn’t in Minnesota when Cassie Boyle was murdered,” Will countered, his voice still soft. The bite of rage had faded.
“She disappeared on a Saturday. Found on a Monday. You would have had the weekend to do your work,” Hannibal pushed now, his voice firmer than it had been before.
“I know I didn’t kill her,” the other argued weakly, his gaze still fixed on some horror playing out on the office wall solely for Will.
“How do you know?”
Will stood up abruptly then. His empty whiskey glass fell to the floor with a loud thud, but did not shatter, and rolled under his chair. Hannibal watched curiously as Will reached up and took his own head in his hands, gripping his hair, a pained look crossing his face. He was making noise as if he were trying to speak, but it came out unintelligible. Scared. He was panicking, his brain knowing something else is wrong, something new, something it didn’t want to handle on top of whatever hallucinations Will had become accustomed to. Hannibal continued watching as blue eyes rolled up and back, and he wondered if Will were to suffer another seizure; it would make keeping Will more difficult, as he would feel obligated to take him to the hospital where he would ultimately face arrest for the second time in so many days and this time before Hannibal could decide what exactly he wanted.
“Stop,” Will commanded, loud and fierce, before he turned to leave the office. Not a seizure then. Hannibal rose from his chair, set his glass down gently upon a table, and he followed Will several steps behind. Will made it as far as the door to the waiting room before he fell to the floor, taking the coat rack down with him, apologies slipping from his lips as he stared at Hannibal but spoke to Abigail.
“She is safe,” Hannibal reassured him. He helped Will stand, leaning him against the door as he gathered up his own coat from the floor. He wrapped it around the shorter man’s shoulders, tucking the collar up tight to his face. “Will, you must listen to me now. We are going to go outside. It will be bright and hard for you to see, but you must follow me as best as you can.”
“I didn’t kill Abigail,” Will said before he reached up over Hannibal’s head and pulled his hand back hard, as if he had touched something sharp. “What are you trying to tell me..?”
“That we must be careful. Quickly, Will,” Hannibal ushered him out of the door, through the waiting room. Will allowed himself to be led by a hand on the small of his back, his eyes wild as they darted from the stairs, to the street, to things Hannibal knew were not there. They made it to the Bentley where Hannibal tucked Will into the passenger seat, leaning over him to buckle him in. He shut the door, careful not to harm the other, then made his way to the driver’s side and got himself in and buckled. He took a moment to study Will, who was now slumped against the window, his breaths slow and deep.
Hannibal had Will now. Will who knew he was being framed. Will who was piecing each crime together, who most likely already suspected someone close to each case. Will who could make the jump from a cop, to an FBI agent, to Jack, to Hannibal. Will, who he mourned the loss of a day prior, who made him think of his life beyond birth and death. Will who was forcing him now to adjust his plans to satisfy his curiosities rather than to protect himself.
He pulled away from the curb, much more aware now than he had been on his drive into the office. He had just enough time to get Will home and settled before returning to the office for his first patient of the day, whose appointment he would have to cancel on a last minute notice. He would leave Will’s glass overturned under his chair, leave the coat rack lain on its side, and he would call Jack to weave a tale of a sick man come to try and force his therapist to take him to Minnesota to prove his percieved innocence.
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND; THURSDAY, 09:52
The phone call had gone well. Jack Crawford had sounded relieved to learn of Hannibal’s safety and predictably angry to learn of Will’s supposed actions. Hannibal waited, patiently watching the clock as the hours passed before Jack and his team from the FBI could show up. When he knew their arrival drew near, he sat at his desk, much as he had while waiting to learn the fate of his dear Will after his trip to meet Tobias Budge, and looked mournfully at Jack’s stern mug as he entered the room without even a knock. His worker bees followed him in, a few Hannibal could recognize, even fewer he cared to mind.
“Jack,” Hannibal acknowledged him.
“Dr. Lecter,” Jack returned the gesture, crossing the room to meet him. “I’m only here briefly. You mentioned he spoke of Minnesota. Do you believe he is capable of making it that far?”
Hannibal paused and took a moment to look around the room. The man known as Price was taking photographs of the door, the overturned coat rack. The woman--Beverly--was motioning for him to meet her by the chairs, where she pointed out the glass. Pictures were taken, then she carefully packed the glass away in an evidence bag. Good. They would get clear prints of Will’s as soon as they went back to the lab.
“I believe he is and is not capable. He is slipping in and out of his episodes, and I fear he may be more capable than any of us have thought while he is lucid,” Hannibal said, turning his attention back to Jack.
“He spoke of the Hobbs’ home then?” Jack asked.
“Yes. He believes he is being framed. I believe that if Will is unable to find proof of his innocence there, he will move on to the other crimes he has been accused of. He may visit Boyles’ burial site, perhaps then he would even risk returning to Dr. Sutcliffe’s office, or where Georgia Madchen was murdered.”
“Did he attack you?” Jack had asked this over the phone, but he seemed to want to be sure of himself. Hannibal smiled at him. Jack is a man now doubting his own opinion, his own actions, and the answers he’s given.
“No. He merely wanted my help to prove his perceived innocence,” Hannibal offered. He frowned, then lowered his voice to speak again, “I did attempt to sedate him and they may find evidence of that in the glass he drank from. It was a desperate measure.”
Jack mulled Hannibal’s answer over as he turned to watch the crew work with what little there was. This would be a quick visit, as Hannibal had known. He would use this as an excuse to cancel with the rest of his patients for the day and return to Will.
“Do you think it’s possible that Will is correct?” Jack asked finally. He did not acknowledge the attempt to drug Will and Hannibal knew that meant it would not be mentioned officially either.
“If he were correct in his suspicion that he is being framed, rather than grasping at paranoid delusions to maintain his innocence, then it would have to be someone close to him. Or to you, Jack,” Hannibal said.
Jack frowned deeply. He turned and watched Hannibal for a moment with that calculating, cold look he often times had seen Jack giving Will. A man considering answers he doesn’t want to consider. “Will said the same thing. Even claimed it could be me framing him.”
“A man such as yourself could never do such a thing,” Hannibal reassured.
“Sir, we’re done here,” one of the crew said.
“Get back to the lab,” Jack began barking out. “Analyze everything as quickly and correctly as possible. Then prepare yourselves to ship out to Minnesota if I give the call.”
Hannibal watched as the controlled chaos of FBI agents in his personal space began to dissipate. One by one they were gone, leaving him alone with Jack. The man tapped his knuckle on Hannibal’s desk a few times as he let his own gaze drift over the office now familiar to so many in his circle.
“Do you want protection?” He asked finally.
“No. I don’t believe it is necessary. If Will wanted to harm me, he would have,” Hannibal said as he rose from his seat, his buttoning his suit jacket as he did. Jack reached out to shake his hand and Hannibal obliged. They walked silently together towards the office door. Hannibal enjoyed these moments, as rude as it was for Jack to barge in on him from time to time. A peaceful coexistence wherein Jack is ignorant of his true nature, trusting him. “Do be careful, Jack. If Will is in Minnesota it may trigger a violent episode, if he truly is acting as if he were Hobbs. I must ask for one favor though.”
Jack watched him, waiting. Hannibal took a deep, unsteady breath in. He had to show remorse, fear. He went so far as to clench and unclench a hand, before bringing it to his waist to touch the button of his jacket. He allowed himself to fidget.
“I do consider Will a friend, and I would like to ask that you try your best to bring him back alive. We have all done a disservice to him. I believe he is owed a chance to recover from whatever has triggered this.”
The agent nodded and heaved a deep sigh, then set about buttoning his coat and preparing himself to leave. He made for the door and Hannibal opened it for him, gentlemanly as ever.
Before leaving, Jack turned to face him. “I will do everything in my power to ensure his safe return, Dr. Lecter. You have my word.”
Hannibal smiled at him and gestured a goodbye as the man left. Jack felt guilty and Hannibal had no qualms about pointing out that he had done him a disservice. He knew he was sending the man on a wild goose hunt, to look for a man states away when he was quietly tucked away mere minutes from where they currently stood. Jack had been useful in pushing Will over the edge; he is a selfish man, concerned more for his career and closing cases than those who work for him. But selfish men find a way to blame themselves when those they push fail, and Will’s current public downfall has been spectacular.