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Bitterness. Will threw up this morning after hearing the news, and now bile clings to the back of his throat. His mind keeps trying to pull him into the realm of nightmares: Margot Verger strapped to a hospital bed, staring up at him under the stark light of the operating theatre, with mascara running down her cheeks. Will isn’t quite sure who he sees holding the scalpel: her shit-stained swine of a brother, Hannibal Lecter, or himself.
“Are you satisfied?” he asks his prim and proper companion stationed opposite. The sourness in Will’s mouth permeates every word. It tastes sharper in Hannibal’s—no, in Doctor Lecter’s—presence. Ironically, there is a jar of boiled sweets sitting on the desk directly in Will’s line of sight, reserved for child patients. A reward for good behaviour. Will is inevitably reminded of Mason Verger’s chocolate-coated torture. God help them.
“You would lay the blame for Mason Verger’s tasteless actions entirely at my feet?” The monster in the suit is seemingly unaffected. He regards Will with steady eyes the colour of blood and rust.
“Not entirely. More like ninety percent.”
A sombre silence falls. The slight lean forward in the chair betrays Doctor Lecter’s earnestness.
“It was Margot’s choices that led to this unfortunate turn of events, Will. Her path was not only one of creation, but destruction. She took something from you that was not hers to take."
Predictably, Will’s expression turns to thunder.
“So, what—she deserved what she got, is that it?”
Doctor Lecter doesn’t flinch in the face of Will’s ire, having expected this reaction. The masculine instinct to defend women is incredibly powerful, and Margot is a particularly sympathetic example: the seed of life inside her womb ruthlessly uprooted, extracted, and discarded; condemned by her ‘loving brother’ as biological waste, buried with used syringes and bloodied scrubs. Hannibal Lecter does not believe in ‘evil’ per se—but such vulgarity is a cardinal sin.
“I didn’t say that,” he points out curtly. A reckoning is coming for Mason Verger; hopefully by Will’s own hands, if everything plays out according to his design. However, Will’s palate is not yet fully refined. He sometimes misses the nuanced flavours of darkness that lurk within a man… or woman, as the case may be. “I’m sure it’s more comfortable for you, making me the object of your anger, than examining the full extent of the wrong done to you by Margot herself.”
Will glares at him, not understanding. Not wanting to understand. He just lost a child he never asked for, grieving for a life he never agreed to create. He knows the wrong that was done to him… or so he thinks. The monster’s tarnished eyes reflect something approximating kindness. “You’re usually so skilled at stepping into the shoes of others, I can’t help but think your blindness on this occasion is wilful… you were sick this morning, correct?” The question catches Will off guard, until he tastes the sour note on his tongue again. Doctor Lecter must have smelled it on him. Will grants him a single, curt nod. The bloody gaze sweeps him up and down. “You seem well enough physically… which means the cause can only be psychosomatic.”
“Is that surprising?” Will grinds out. His jittery right leg bounces in betrayal, clinging to the leather arm of the chair. “I… I keep seeing what was done to her. Like a doll in the hands of a malevolent toddler having its stuffing pulled out.”
“And your stomach reviles in sympathy,” the other surmises. “But perhaps your mind is trying to expel more than the ghost of a foetus.” The clinical phrasing makes Will want to punch him, but he doesn’t get the chance before the next question arrives: “Did these symptoms only start today?”
Will scratches his chin. Thinking about it, the nausea had visited him on-and-off for nearly a month. Most days he can grin and bear it, but not today. Likewise, his sleep quality had been steadily improving—slitting the good doctor’s wrists had done wonders in that regard—but he’s been regressing of late. Nine mornings out of ten, Will wakes to the sound of his pounding heart before the alarm, twisted bedsheets soaked in sweat.
“About three weeks ago,” he admits. Doctor Lecter studies him, completely unsurprised.
“Did you experience anything out of the ordinary around that time?” he prompts. Will licks his lips.
“Only… that night with Margot.”
Silence falls. The burden of expectation slowly crushing Will’s psyche. The Beast wants to see him break; to acknowledge the sin staring him in the face. But Will refuses. He averts his eyes, looking like he’s about to be sick right there on the Persian rug. At the risk of a hefty dry-cleaning bill, Doctor Lecter gives him a prod:
“What exactly were you seeking from the encounter?”
Will’s icy eyes snap across to rusty rouge, a sharp pain shooting down his neck at the sudden movement. Cold fury burns.
“Do you want me to be crass?” Lies couched in vulgarities coil on the tip of Will’s tongue, begging to be spat:
To fuck. Bang. Get laid. Screw. Get off.
“I want you to be honest,” Hannibal answers with a disapproving look; and God, Will hates how gentle and oh-so-fucking genuine he sounds.
‘Hannibal?’ Will frowns, after his mind has already betrayed him. Not ‘Doctor Lecter’? When did that happen?
He focusses on the man-monster’s garish tie (a white silk number with crimson flowers today), wishing for a moment that he could hide behind his spectacles like he used to. But that’s not an option now. Hannibal saw through his shield of glass and peered into his soul the very first time they met.
I wanted to be touched. To remind myself that I’m alive. Escape the dust jacket of death that clings to every other aspect of my life like old furniture in an abandoned house.
“I wanted… to feel wanted.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Will knows they are a mistake. His fingernails gouge deeper into the leather seat in regret, eyes glued to the floor. He shouldn’t have answered. He should have side-stepped the question; found a way to turn it back on Hannibal… but perhaps he’s not as good a fisherman as he thought. Will doesn’t need to look into those red-rusted eyes to feel their smothering sympathy. Real or constructed, he doesn’t want it.
Don’t fucking pity me.
“Were you aware that she is a lesbian?” The blunt question is a knife to the gut. If Will weren’t already sitting down, he might have doubled over. His upper lip curls in a humiliated snarl.
“Yes.”
“Then, perhaps you thought you were her exception?” The subtle note of derision screeches like an abused violin in Will’s ears. Please—he’s not that arrogant. His penis isn’t some magnificent, magical conversion tool. If he’d just applied a modicum of clear thought, he would have spotted the ulterior motive. But…
“‘Thinking’ didn’t really come into it, to be honest,” he answers with forced calm, raising his eyes at last. Hannibal regards him, former care now concealed behind the mask of neutrality.
“You were feeling,” he concludes.
Will doesn’t answer; he doesn’t have to. Feeling, after all, is all he does. Day-in, day-out; losing himself in the labyrinth of evil on Jack Crawford’s orders, never knowing if he’ll make it out again. Margot didn’t feel evil. She felt like safety—a chance to close his eyes, lay back, and lose himself in a way he could come back from.
He’d been wrong. Will just didn’t realise it until the next morning, when the unexpected, unwelcome pang hit him square in his chest, watching as Margot slipped out of bed and picked up her clothes in silence. She was out the door before the pillow was even cold.
‘Abandonment requires expectation.’
Will didn’t think he had any expectations… right up until the moment she walked out.
“Did she bring you whiskey?” Hannibal interjects. Will’s jaw works, the imagined burn sliding down his gullet.
“… Yes.”
Hannibal looks pointedly to the A4 black notebook sitting innocently on his desk, containing his patients’ notes. Will follows his gaze, mouth turning dry. They’d discussed the topic of substance abuse in their very first session; it was one of the standard questions on the health screening checklist. Will had informed Doctor Lecter curtly that he had no such vices… save for being partial to a finger of whiskey of an evening. The good doctor, diligent as always, had recorded each of his answers in sweeping cursive.
How difficult would it have been for Margot to sneak a peek at those notes?
“Alcohol is a social lubricant. Reduces anxiety. Lowers inhibitions… interferes with clarity of thought.” Hannibal’s smooth words scrape against the forts of Will’s mind. “You were presented with an imitation of connection and couldn’t help but reach for it. A starving man led before a feast.”
In the comforting familiarity of the doctor’s office, a fresh nightmare flashes before Will’s eyes: himself strapped to the operating table in Margot’s place, the tube in his arm flooding his veins with whiskey. Smoky green eyes pin him down, cold scalpel kissing his crotch, cutting into him with a tender smile. His stolen seed is bottled and corked, whisked away for future use. Margot abandons him leaking and exposed mid-procedure. Will is left counting down the drips in his IV bag, until his alcoholic painkiller runs out.
“It wasn’t like that,” he denies, snapping back to the present. Will’s shoulders are set, fists clenched, feet planted wide on the carpet. Hannibal tilts his head at the aggressive body language.
“You dislike thinking of yourself as a victim.”
The ‘v’ word makes Will recoil. Victims are things. Objects to be abused by the strong. Blood-soaked bodies bent and broken, showcased in a slideshow in his lecture hall. Victims are young girls like Abigail Hobbs who disappear into the mouths of monsters, never to be seen again.
You probably called her that too, Will rages at Hannibal. The Beast had undoubtedly whispered to Abigail just like him, stroking her long, dark hair, murmuring sympathies and promises of safety. ‘You’re a victim’, he would’ve told her. A coddling label to keep her clinging, until it was time to cut her throat.
“Because I’m not one,” he denies sharply. A fresh wave of nausea rolls in, but Will swallows it. He draws on the sensual silhouette of Margot’s body tucked away in the back of his mind, overlaid with Alana’s gentle countenance. Soft curves blur into each other, auburn hair turning raven, inviting lips indistinguishable. Will tries to ignore the invading white eyes leering at him from dark corners, the antlered shadow at his back creeping ever closer. He pushes down his doubt into the roiling pit of his stomach. “Trust me, I thoroughly enjoyed my time with her.”
The twitch of Hannibal’s jaw, and the flash of anger in his eyes, takes Will by surprise. A twisted sense of satisfaction swells inside. He can’t be a ‘victim’. Victims are powerless. He’s not powerless if he can make someone else hurt. Will is so absorbed in his victory, the counter knocks him sideways:
“Women may orgasm during an assault.” The quiet sense of power puffing his chest escapes Will in a violent rush. He folds into the chair, felled by the arrowpoint of Hanibal’s gaze. “The pleasure derived from physical stimulation is not always tied to our mental state,” the doctor continues calmly. “That incongruence can lead to misplaced feelings of guilt; the notion of somehow ‘inviting’ it.”
“I did invite it,” Will maintains, gripping the arm of the chair tighter for balance. He tactfully omits the qualifier that they both know makes all the difference: under false pretences. Will tugs at the choking collar of his shirt. His skin prickles, overcome by the irrational need to claw the clothes off his back. He can’t fucking breathe.
But that won’t stop Hannibal’s questioning.
“Really.” A pause. Then the anvil falls. “Tell me, Will—had you impregnated Margot by a combination of inebriation, emotional coercion and deception, how would you be perceived?”
Will’s skin turns clammy. Filthy labels batter his skull; words that men are taught to fear more than any punch:
Evil. Animal. Rapist.
His stomach revolts.
Hannibal snatches up the wastepaper basket in the nick of time before Will empties his meagre dinner into his lap. The Beast is good at playing doctor when it suits him. He massages Will’s back through the convulsions, maintaining proximity despite the acrid smell that must be offending his sensitive nose.
“Sorry,” Will gasps when it’s over. Grey-faced, he accepts the tissue box that Hannibal offers him, and wipes his mouth clean with shaking hands. The doctor lingers by his side, ready to provide… something. Something that Will is not yet prepared to accept.
Hunched over with his head in his hands, Will hopes that Hannibal can’t see the quiver of his bottom lip. The afterimage of the tissue box taunts him, sitting between them on the coffee table. Copper— a strange taste, but infinitely better than salt and mucus—fills his mouth. Will bites the inside of his cheek harder in determination. He’s not about to cry. He’s a fucking man.
… And then Hannibal leans across and lays a hand on his shoulder.
The gesture is innocent, reassuring, but Will still tenses at the strength running through those deadly digits.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Will.” The touch lingers a second too long, enough that Will notices, before withdrawing. Hannibal covers the slip with a diversion: “In fact, I should be the one apologising. Something urgent has some up; I need to step outside and make a phone call. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone… would you be okay to see yourself out when you’re ready?”
Will smiles wanly at the floor, hidden from view. He isn’t stupid. It’s Hannibal’s strict policy that cell phones must be switched off during sessions; that goes for both patient and therapist. There was no opportunity for him to receive any messages. This ‘urgent phone call’ is just an excuse to give Will some much-needed space.
Just this once, Will doesn’t mind being lied to.
“Yes. Thank you, Doctor Lecter,” he says hollowly.
Footsteps slink away; the door to Hannibal’s office closes with a quiet click, leaving Will alone in the armchair. As always, his appointment is the last one of the day. The dying rays of sunset soak the office in shades of blood. Appropriate. Will heaves himself out of the chair on wobbly legs and stumbles over to the window. He braces against the windowsill, bathed in the orange glow.
Minutes pass. Will knows because he’s counting. The clock on Hannibal’s desk ticks loudly, and with every passing second, the pressure in his chest grows.
Tick.
A stray droplet trickles down his cheek, landing on the back of his hand.
Tick.
A second follows.
Tick.
Then a third.
As the tall hand passes the quarter-hour, safely concealed behind closed doors, Will finally implodes.
It’s a quiet breaking; an unfit vessel crushed by the ocean’s depths. Will is bent double over the windowsill, knuckles shoved between his teeth to stop the scream. His father’s disappointed voice echoes from the chasm that has opened inside him, battering his ears: ‘Boys don’t cry, son.’
Will tries. God, he tries. Stifled sobs wrack his body, not quite silenced, blood pounding in his ears. If Hannibal were to walk in now, Will wouldn’t be able to hear him. He doesn’t know what would happen next. Would he fall from grace in the monster’s eyes; a broken bird kicked out of the nest? Or…
Would you cry with me? he pleads silently between heaving breaths, waiting for the click of an opening door which doesn’t come. Would you even know how?
Will perceives the hot streaks running down his cheeks are no longer salt and water, but rivulets of blood. He dares to imagine the Beast holding him, weeping into his hair, their faces stained red for the world to see. But in reality, Will is just a man—and the pain written on his cheeks will eventually dry clear. Margot must be crying too, somewhere.
What kind of world would it be, Will ponders as he wipes his eyes with spite, swiping a boiled sweet from the jar on Hannibal’s desk on the way out, if the truth of our damage was written conveniently on our faces?
Just as apathetic, probably. A world full of people politely averting their eyes, only more obvious in their avoidance. There's only one man who Will knows wouldn’t look away.
Sugar fills his mouth as he closes the door, and the phantom weight of Hannibal’s hand lingers on his shoulder.
The bitterness marginally eases.