Chapter Text
Will had admitted the nightmares, the trouble sleeping, the intrusive thoughts and flashbacks. He'd paced the office for most of the hour. Dr. Lecter was seated, a counterbalance opposite the empty chair meant for Will. Will felt his own meandering thrown into sharp relief, and sat.
"I liked killing Hobbs," he said. It came out in a whisper. Dr. Lecter seemed neither perturbed nor impressed.
"Of course you did. What was the alternative? To watch him slit the throats of his wife and child, and then turn his blade on us? I wouldn't have liked that."
"I didn't just like stopping him," said Will, insistent in digging his own tomb. "That was necessary, that was just. If it were only that, I wouldn't feel so..."
"So?"
"Guilty," said Will.
Dr. Lecter leaned back in his chair. He nodded, not with acceptance of the verdict, but consideration. His gaze turned briefly distant before returning to Will.
"You catch these killers by way of empathy. You assume their point of view, their thoughts and feelings, their understanding of what they do. Having done this with Hobbs, you're then obliged to destroy him. In destroying him perhaps for a moment you repudiate the part of yourself that's able to empathize with such a man. You revel in your triumph over it."
Will clung to the arms of the chair. He felt pinned to its frame, unable to move. "It didn't work," he said, hoarse again. "I feel closer now than I did before."
"Closer to a dead man?"
Will nodded.
"Perhaps killing isn't the way to lay to rest the part of yourself that takes satisfaction in it."
Prying his hands free, Will lifted them and rubbed his face. "I keep going in circles. Like a snake eating its own tail."
"Will," said Dr. Lecter, "you're not the serpent." Sternly, as if Will had tried his considerable patience. Will looked up at him, startled into meeting his eyes. "You may be uniquely equipped to hunt them, if only at expense to yourself."
He held Will's gaze with his own, dark and earnest. Will stilled as if to listen with his entire body, with every open pore.
"When most of us approach the act of killing, we suspend our empathy. Not you. You extend it. It's an act of profound compassion, in a way. But you leave yourself no buffer, no cushion between your psyche and the one you must destroy.
"Perhaps each time you're called upon to do this, you'll recover. Like the body, the mind is resilient. But there are limits to resilience." Dr. Lecter pursed his lips. "If you continue, I fear the damage will increase."
Will considered damage. It seemed churlish to feel riddled with holes when he was the one who'd fired the gun, but he remembered little of the hours after he'd shot Garret Jacob Hobbs. When memories came, they came in fits and starts, spotty as arterial spray. Between the vivid moments lay the negative space of the mind. He remembered flinching back to himself, over and over, to find Dr. Lecter near him, a steady and unobtrusive presence, each time.
He flexed his hands. "Even if that's true," he said, "even if there's a limit, shouldn't I--" He blinked. "If I can save people. Shouldn't I save as many as I can?"
"Before the collapse of your mind?" Dr. Lecter's face softened. "To ride a horse until he founders is cruelty, Will."
When Will said nothing, only sat staring at him, Dr. Lecter rose. He went to a cabinet across the room and produced from it a bottle of wine and two glasses. He didn't ask if Will wanted a drink. He opened the wine, filled both glasses with white, and offered one to Will.
"Standard protocol, I assure you," he said.
Will took the glass. He went on blinking with what felt like shell shock. The shock of a turtle at being yanked from its shell. Maybe he was having an out-of-shell experience, too dazed to crawl back inside, even when the man who'd dragged him out had unhanded him.
In too unsure a voice he asked, "What are you going to tell Jack?"
Dr. Lecter returned to his chair. "What I'd like to tell him is the truth. That you're suffering from acute stress in the aftermath of a trauma. The symptoms may resolve with time and treatment, or they may persist." He looked straight on at Will. "What would you like me to tell him?"
"I get a say in this?"
"It's your evaluation. Self-assessment can be a powerful tool."
Will wasn't sure he was qualified to self-assess, or that he wanted to try. "You think I shouldn't be in the field."
"I think if the wound in your mind were a wound of the body, no one would send you back into the field," said Dr. Lecter. "Not before you recovered."
Spoken like a surgeon in the trenches. But it was easier, almost a relief, to think that way--in terms of injury rather than disease. A wound might scar, might ache for years after the fact, but it would heal if he kept it clean. Will turned the glass in his hands.
"Jack won't like it," he said.
Dr. Lecter sat back, smoothing the drape of his suede jacket. "What Jack Crawford will or won't like is not my concern."
Will smiled, a little crookedly, into the wine.
*
They met again that week at Dr. Lecter's office. The doctor collected two letters from his desk and presented them to Will.
"First, your psychological evaluation. I wanted you to have the opportunity to read it before I deliver it to Agent Crawford. In this there should be no surprises."
Will took the letter as he might have the carcass of a muskrat dragged home by one of the dogs. He skimmed. Acute stress disorder. Strongly advise against exposure to risk of further trauma, including that incurred by agents in the field. Continued therapy to ameliorate ASD recommended. Nothing they hadn't talked about. Will passed the dead rat back to Dr. Lecter and wiped his palm on his pants. He frowned at the other sheet of paper.
"What's this?"
"It's a letter of referral to a colleague."
So much for no surprises. Will turned away, toward the bookshelves. He stared at the row of endless spines. "You're washing your hands of me."
"No. Quite the opposite. I would encourage you in the strongest possible terms to continue therapy. I'm more than willing to be your therapist, if you prefer. I offer an alternative only because I'd be glad to continue our conversations outside such strictures."
Will turned back to him, brow furrowed. "Strictures. Meaning?"
"Meaning, I'd like to invite you to dinner at my home."
Will stared. Dr. Lecter's expression was cordial and mild, and beyond that, opaque to him. "Dinner," Will said.
"Yes."
"At your place."
"Yes."
"Dinner, as in, as in a date?"
Dr. Lecter made a neutral gesture with his hands. "It would be whatever you choose it to be."
So not not a date. Maybe it would become either a date or not a date if by some miracle Will showed up. "I don't really date," he said. But he sounded uncertain even to himself. There was more to the uncertainty--more warnings to be issued--but to blurt them now seemed presumptuous, even if he'd wanted to.
Dr. Lecter hardly batted an eye. "Do you eat?"
"Yeah, I, I eat. On occasion."
That seemed to settle the matter in Dr. Lecter's mind. "Then come to dinner," he said.
*
Alana appeared in the lecture hall as Will's students were filing out. Will glanced warily behind her, but there was no sign of Jack. He eked out a smile as Alana approached the desk.
"Here to warn me about another ambush?"
"Chance of ambush later is fair," she said. "Fair to moderate. Not immediate. I just came from Jack's office. He and Hannibal are still going at it."
Will paused in putting away his notes. Dr. Lecter had said he meant to submit the evaluation today. "He's here?"
"I think he wanted to address any questions Jack might have in person."
"And they called you in, what, to referee?"
"Second opinion. Well, first opinion revisited. Hannibal's trying to talk Jack out of going for a third. The discussion was...animated." Alana seemed to think better of saying more. "How are you doing?"
Will made a sound that was neither a cough nor a laugh. "Who doesn't enjoy it when their mental state is a conversation piece?"
Alana's wince eased into a smile. "I'm glad you found someone to talk to, Will. You'll be in good hands."
"He gave me a referral, actually," said Will.
She blinked. "Hannibal did?"
"And invited me to dinner."
Her eyebrows climbed high enough to take wing.
Will glanced at her. "Does he--" Her eyebrows were still cleared for takeoff. "Never mind." He watched her struggling gamely not to ask the obvious question. Several questions, probably. "I told him I'd think about it."
After that she seemed to recover herself, though her smile had a watery tinge. "You might factor this into your thinking. He's an incredible chef. If his kitchen were a restaurant? Michelin three stars."
"That good, huh." Will didn't meet her eyes again. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what he might see there. "If I go, I'll make sure to go hungry."
He didn't have office hours after class. He went to his office anyway, empty of defined intention. The room was windowless, barely wide enough to hold his desk and two chairs. The ceiling light cast the space in a bluish tinge, as if the air suffered from cyanosis.
Will opened his laptop. There was no sense in staying. He could review the files he wanted to review at home. The longer he stayed, the more likely it was that Jack would come barreling in to blare dissatisfaction in his face. It wasn't hard to imagine what Jack had blared at Dr. Lecter. He's up for a commendation. He saved lives. He could save more. I don't have the luxury to mollycoddle when lives are on the line.
And the response: What about his life, Jack?
There was a knock at the frame of the door. Dr. Lecter stood in the doorway, suit and tie and not a single ruffled hair, even after going toe to toe with Jack. The suit was a tailored three-piece, steely blue, more formal than anything Will had seen him wear, either in Minnesota or at their appointments.
He offered a little smile to Will. "Is this where they hide you?"
The tone suggested sympathy, and a dim view of any Bureau of Investigation that put Will Graham in a closet. Will's hands curled on the desktop.
"I, ah, mostly work from home," he said. "Other than lectures." When Dr. Lecter lingered in the doorway, Will bobbed his head and gestured to the chair across from the desk, the one usually reserved for trainees impervious enough to brave his lair. "Come on in."
Dr. Lecter seated himself. "I believe I've managed to convince Agent Crawford not to toss you back into the fray, at least for the moment. I'm afraid in his mind the reprieve may be temporary."
"Thanks," said Will. "I think."
"He was, as you predicted, not happy, but he didn't seem taken aback."
"Jack thinks I don't have the stomach for pulling the trigger," said Will. His hands hooked like claws on the edge of the desk.
"When Jack pulls the trigger, I expect he doesn't feel as if he's firing the gun at himself." Dr. Lecter looked down his nose in the general direction of the door. His dim view of the Bureau seemed to extend, at least for the moment, to the head of the BAU. He resettled himself in the chair. "Have you given any thought to my invitation?"
Speaking of stomachs, thought Will. "Alana tells me you're not a bad cook."
"It's been a hobby for much of my life. At Johns Hopkins I made a habit of testing recipes on the residents and other guinea pigs who stumbled into my path. Dr. Bloom was among them."
Dr. Bloom, the guinea pig. Will wondered what Alana would say to that. It wasn't a pretty thing to wonder.
"Okay," he said. "I'll come to dinner."
Dr. Lecter looked pleased. "Do you have any stipulations for the chef?"
"I'm not picky."
"I like an adventurous palate. Would this weekend be too soon?"
Here was Will's chance to pretend he had something better to do on a Saturday night, like stay home and drink bourbon alone with the dogs, or don his scullion's kerchief and sweep up shed hair.
"Just tell me when," he said.
*
Dr. Lecter--or maybe it ought to be Hannibal, if they were on dinner terms--opened the door to his house the same way he opened the door to his office. He wore slacks and his fawn-colored sweater, the one that looked as if it would be velvety to touch.
"You found your way without difficulty, I hope," he said. "Please come in."
Will stepped into the foyer and glanced around. "Nice castle," he said.
"It was the closest I could get to one in Baltimore, yes."
Dr. Lecter led him down the hall. Someone had been playing Jenga with antlers and wine bottles on a console table. There were sconces, more horns. Some of the sconces were horns. Will didn't think Dr. Lecter actually hunted big game for sport. "It's a lot of house for one person."
"It is. But I like to entertain. There's plenty of room for guests."
They came to the kitchen, a bright, orderly space that could've doubled as a television studio. Dr. Lecter tied an apron around his waist and returned to his work.
"Is that what I'm here for?" asked Will. "Entertainment?"
"You are here to be fed," said Dr. Lecter. "Properly."
"You're assuming I don't feed myself properly?"
"Do you?"
Will glanced at the course Dr. Lecter was plating: fresh figs, rounds of goat cheese, a fussy smattering of herbs and greens. Dr. Lecter drizzled curls of honey over the goat cheese. The honey didn't come out of a plastic bottle in the shape of a bear.
"Probably not," Will said. Not even by more ordinary measures. "I do eat a lot of fish."
"That's a start."
"For a psychiatrist you're awfully interested in what I eat."
"I'm interested in what people eat generally," said Dr. Lecter, "and in how what they eat is prepared. Feed the body, feed the mind. I'm also interested in anything that furthers the cause of your well-being. We already know you're sleeping poorly. We can at least see to it you're not eating poorly, besides." He opened a bottle of white wine. "Something to drink?"
Will accepted the wine. He wandered the kitchen with a sense that he was moving through the heart-chambers of some tremendous beast. On one wall hung a painting: a blue-skinned man reclining on the belly of a serpent with many heads. The serpent floated like a coracle on a sea of cloud.
"The god Vishnu," said Dr. Lecter, "and Shesha, king of nagas. It was a gift from my sister after her travels in India. A bit of an in-joke, I'm afraid. There's a serpent on our family crest."
Will withheld comment on the existence of a Lecter family crest. He wondered whether there was a family estate to go with it. A family hunting lodge in some fairytale European forest, lit by sconces made of horn.
"Older or younger?" he asked. "Your sister."
"Younger. By several years."
Will thought of Alana, of the other fledgling doctors at Johns Hopkins, gathered under a sheltering wing. Or a sheltering hood. Being fed, as Will was about to be.
"She lives in France," continued Dr. Lecter, "but is something of a wanderer. I don't see her as often as I'd like." He removed his apron and unrolled his sleeves. "Do you have family in the area?"
Turning again to the painting, Will studied it. The god Vishnu seemed happy with his boat of giant snake. Will shook his head. "It's just me."
If the kitchen was a studio, the dining room was a stage, dim and curtained, oppressive in its formality. The nearer end of the table was set for two. For a minute Will stood fidgeting, wishing he'd worn his grey jacket, even if the weather didn't call for it.
Dr. Lecter paused, plates in hand. "Or would you prefer to eat in the kitchen?" He surveyed his own stage with a critical eye. "It suits a larger party, but can feel cavernous for two, I understand."
Abashed, Will went to his chair. "No, no. You've got everything set up in here."
Dr. Lecter's mouth pressed on a smile. "None of these are immovable objects."
"No really," said Will. "This is fine."
He sat. His glance strayed to the centerpiece: a low ceramic bowl that held stones--some fringed with moss--and still water. No flowers, no candles. Just water, moss, and stone. Like a faux Zen garden out of a William-Sonoma catalog. Will wanted to dislike it, but it kept drawing his eye. The bowl was dark, the stones striated, the water clear. The green moss gleamed like a riverside in midsummer. Will tried to remember if he'd told Dr. Lecter that he fished.
Dr. Lecter retrieved the wine from the kitchen and took his seat across from Will. There was a moment's spatial incongruity, and then something slotted into place. It was as if they sat in Dr. Lecter's office, in the mirrored chairs, facing one another. The strangeness of the room receded.
"Bon appétit," the doctor said.
Will collected some of everything on his fork: fig, honeyed goat cheese, herbs and greens. He lifted the fork to his lips.
In his mouth the fig was faintly warm, as if just gathered from a sunlit tree. It tasted of summer in a place Will had never been. He could see it: the guarded heart of a garden, the steepled walls. He heard the sound of running water, a fountain or stream. His eyelids shut without impetus from him.
When they opened he found Dr. Lecter watching, warmly, as if with pleasure too keen for speech.
*
Will stood in the firing range at Quantico, his SIG aimed not at a target but a mass of roiling dark. A buzzing reached his ears as the cloud approached. The mass resolved into a man-shaped swarm of flies.
Will's arms trembled. He fired.
The flies scattered. Their shape dissolved, only to reconvene and coalesce. Will fired again, and kept firing, until he'd emptied the magazine. The hum of wings drew closer, louder, grating like a saw on bone.
The flies condensed again into the shape of a man, as tall as Garret Jacob Hobbs, with pale larval eyes. Will lurched backward. He lost his hold on the empty gun. His foot slipped on the smooth surface of the floor, and he went down.
Under his hands and knees the floor heaved, then began to ripple. It curved upward. Above the buzz of flies Will heard a vast, transcendent hiss.
Something moved in his peripheral sight, some huge and shadowed undulation. Will found scales under his hands, behind him and above. His heart pounded as he spread his palms over the smooth dark gleaming. He looked up.
The massive hood flared. There was only one head. The great jaws opened to bare great scythe-like fangs, not at Will but at the figure made of flies. The serpent hissed again, and the figure made of flies burst and spattered.
The buzzing stopped.
A forked tongue flickered. The serpent's hood narrowed as its head curved to form a scaled arch over Will. Its body wound around him in a palisade of coils, encompassing, and tightened in.