Chapter Text
I'm worried about you, Will. You empathize so completely with the killers Jack Crawford has your mind wrapped around that you lose yourself to them. What if you lose time and hurt yourself? Or someone else? I don't want you to wake up and see a totem of your own making.
"Are you recreating her fantasies? Tell me about them," Hannibal said. He was standing in his office, one hand in his pocket and the other arched elegantly on his desk. Will stood a few yards away, the desk between them. Will felt somewhat uncomfortable under Hannibal's hawkish stare and showed it in his awkward posture. He took a hesitant step forward, deep in thought.
It was just past 7:30pm, and only a moment ago Will had come storming into the office with a haunted look, easily recognized. Dr. Lecter knew Will's mind was preoccupied with the newest murder. Their brief conversation so far had been solely about the case.
Will looked in Hannibal's direction as he pushed his hands into his pant's pockets, but his gaze wasn't focused on anything in particular. "She's... a he," he said.
Hannibal asked, "Are you certain about the sex?"
Will looked at him directly. There was a strange quirk to Hannibal's mouth, and his eyes were slanted, almost sensual. It was probably his imagination, but the way the good doctor said it was... distracting. He hesitated to reiterate, "The– the sex?", and his voice wavered. He cleared his throat. "No, we're pretty sure about that now. There was traces of– of semen– on the body, the latest one."
He continued sauntering around the room as he spoke. Hannibal, amused at Will's modesty, stayed still and watched. Will continued, "In the media they are already saying the killer is a misandrist, callously killing men and butchering them. By putting them in garbage bags the killer is telling the world they're trash. But the evidence points to something much different. This– This man is in denial about his sexuality. He's fulfilling his desire for men with the corpses."
The investigator stopped in front of the table covered with drawings, the least neat place in the impeccable office. The drawings were exquisite, with lots of detail. He focused on them, willing himself to keep distracted from thinking too much. His hand hovered over them without touching.
Hannibal let him be for the moment. Will was in no condition to be working, due to half his brain playing mind games with itself. Only partly aware of this fact, Will was trying to power through, keep himself occupied with work, with "saving lives". This case was furthering his agitated state, however. It seemed that blood and gore was the norm, but this case had lust and sex involved, and Will was confounded by this (to Hannibal's delight).
After a sufficient time had passed, Hannibal continued with more questions. "So, he's a necrophiliac. Do you believe they are murders motivated by lust?"
Will shook his head, his face scrunching in puzzled disapproval. "Not quite. I mean, yes, there is lust involved. The latest body proves that. But I still don't believe it's why he does it. I think... He kills them gently, like putting them to sleep. And when they're 'sleeping', he then becomes... aroused."
"A sentimental killer," Hannibal supplied.
Will agreed and said, "It was strange how clean the bodies were besides the gore from," he sliced his hand through the air once, with precision, "butchering them. Now we know why. He was washing away fluids. Before. This new evidence marks a change in behavior, means he's becoming frenzied, reckless."
There was another pause. Hannibal can tell he's thinking, and remained silent.
Will's breath hissed out, frustrated. He turned abruptly from the table of drawings, began walking around aimlessly again but with agitated steps. "He cares for these men, yet he throws them away like refuse. The victims are young; known partiers. These are people he meets on the street, at a bar or party... Yet he cherishes them...?" He stopped beside the patient's chair, but didn't sit.
Hannibal was relaxed, his hands in his pockets, as he moved to his chair across from Will and asked, "When was the last time you were with someone, Will?"
The question came as a surprise. He must be asking for a good reason, but Will did not like where that road led. With a barely audible sigh he sat down, slowly leaning back but not relaxing. His face was hard, his shoulders tense. Hannibal unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in the chair across from him.
At first Will had no intention to talk about this. When he saw Hannibal coolly staring at him, however, he got defensive. Agitated, he said, "Not that it's your business—not that it matters—but not in a long time. And I'm fine with that. Well, I mean, not a long time—" As he spoke he lost steam, becoming more disappointed than anything. "It's just– I don't ask girls on dates. Girls don't tend to, uh, invite me, either." His eyebrows rose and fell as if to shrug, oh well, as his hands ran along the arms of the chair. Nervously his eyes wandered along the walls of the office.
Hannibal smoothed down the front of his waistcoat and licked his lips ponderously. An uncomfortable silence settled before Hannibal suggested, "Perhaps it's difficult for you to imagine, then—but, why would the killer invite someone home from a bar, for example?"
Will thought for a moment and said, as if asking for permission, "Because he plans on killing them?"
"Is that what you think?"
"I don't know what I think," Will lamented, shaking his head. His eyes darted about, taking in everything and nothing. "It just doesn't seem to fit. This... man—he treats them reverently. He cuts carefully, preserving as much of them as possible. Like maybe he loves them. He doesn't want them dead..."
Hannibal crossed his legs and perched his clasped hands on his knee. His head cocked to the side as he asked, "Do you ever feel lonely, Will?"
Will frowned, sat forward slightly; he didn't understand how this question was relevant to the case. A hint of frustration in his voice, he requested with sarcastic politeness, "Can we please talk about the case." He shook his head.
The look in his eyes reminded Hannibal of a startled deer. The psychologist untangled his fingers and pointedly raised them as if he hadn't meant to offend. "I'm sorry, Will. We can. In a moment." He appraised Will with intense interest from behind a blank mask of professionalism. "It has been some time since you kissed Dr. Bloom."
Will collapsed within the chair, bent. As he thought about a response, he stared vacantly at the upper level, with its rows of books. "At home I have my dogs," he said, quietly. "They keep me company."
Hannibal said, without hesitation, "I doubt your dogs are a complete replacement for human company."
Will tensed, let a self-deprecating smirk mar his face. "I have you for company, don't I, doctor?" They both knew he didn't have anyone.
Dr. Lecter's chin rose slightly, his shoulders squared and proud. "Will," he said, gently. "I consider you a friend. But... you are also my patient."
"Are you—sad?" Will asked bitingly, having detected something like it in the other's voice.
The other man's eyes travelled to one of his sleeves as he abruptly fixed it, though there was nothing wrong with it in the first place; his version of fidgeting. He breathed out roughly and said, "I am sad." There was no feeling in his voice, however, and Will frowned more. His arms settled down and he grasped his knee loosely. "I am sad to see you like this, Will." He rose his gaze squarely onto Will and continued, "You sought stability in Alana Bloom. When she pushed you away, you seemed to get worse. Putting so much of yourself into work was just a way to ignore certain feelings. Am I wrong?"
Will angrily breathed out and pushed himself full throttle out of the chair. He moved deliberately away. As he spoke, one hand, tense and closed, lingered in the air, shaking, for emphasis. "I can't– I can't stop. You know this! What I'm doing saves lives!" He was fuming, halfway to raving. "You asked me if I feel lonely? I feel something way beyond lonely, but—" He stopped here, livid; embarrassed and angry, his hand coming to rest on his hip. His back was to Hannibal.
Sudden realization struck him. Will uttered, "And that's... that's exactly how this killer feels." He turned to look at Hannibal, who had his head bowed. Feeling the gaze, Hannibal shifted in his chair and rose his head but did not turn to him.
Will faced forward again but muttered, "He's searching for some connection. He brings them home, thinking they will—I don't know, connect. He's scared to be alone. And so his 'guests' never leave—alive, anyway."
The realization hung in the air; panic filled Will. Flashes of imagination pretending to be memory filled his vision. He saw a smallish living room, TV blaring, "his" bar buddy alive and well, sitting watching it. He saw his hands wrapping a cord around the man's neck; saw himself dragging the dead body to the bathtub.
For a brief moment, he felt like he was the killer. Had he lost time and didn't know it? Had he done this? He looked at his watch, willed himself to read the time. He whispered, "It's... 7:56pm. I'm in Baltimore, Maryland. My name is Will Graham."
"Will," Hannibal called to him. His voice was soothing. Will wiped his face with both hands and blinked, looking blearily toward his psychologist but not at him.
"You did not commit these murders."
Will laughed, though it was not a happy sound. "I know I didn't, doctor. It's just good to remind myself I didn't." He shook his head, putting his hands on his hips.
"Will, sit down," Dr. Lecter cajoled, putting his legs side-by-side and sitting forward with his elbows on his lap and his hands together. Will obeyed easily, coming over and slumping into the chair. Hannibal directed the conversation back to the case, and Will's doubt was briefly forgotten.