Chapter Text
He likes this particular doctor because of her candor, manners, and earthy smell. She walks into a room and brings with her the musky incense of comfortably settled and happily married. When she smiles, it is with confidence and crows feet. They get along and she doesn't sneer at his slim hips, ringless finger, and individual scent.
"How have your heats been?" she asks, opening to a new page in her notebook, adjusting her glasses. "You said they were petering off last time."
"They were," he says. "I looked through my calendar and I saw that I haven't had one in three months."
She looks over the rims of her glasses, gray eyebrows raising slightly. "Really?" She opens the small folder on her desk. "You are...47?"
"That is correct."
"Have you increased your sexual activity at all?"
He shakes his head. The last person he slept with has been dead for over a decade. He remembers the springy feel of his thinly sliced thigh. Delicious when crusted with toasted mustard seeds and left to broil in his own juices.
"Have you had any migraines or hot flashes or strange cravings recently?"
He leans back and thinks. "A few strange cravings," he says, "mostly for salt and fish. No migraines but I have been more sensitive to electric lights."
"What about night sweats?" she asks. "Or pain during urination or vaginal intercourse or masturbation?"
He doesn't remember the last time he masturbated. He thinks about his vibrator, the sole survival of his treasure trove of sex toys. He last saw it when he fished the batteries out of it for his radio. That was months ago, nearly an entire year. He's never been one for fingering himself outside of his heats, and his slim and unresponsive penis is the last thing on his mind when he wants to get off.
"I haven't had any night sweats or pain, but there has been a significant decrease in sexual appetite."
She makes notes as he speaks, nodding along. When he finishes, she places her pen down on the desk, hand flat on it with the stiffness of finality. "It is too early to congratulate you, but I do believe you are entering a new phase in your biological life."
"Menopause?"
"Perhaps," she says. "Or perimenopause, which is first stage of menopause. But you are the right age for it. Your heats were already lessening in strength, duration, and frequency.” She shrugs. “It's not improbable."
"Is there any way to find out?"
"I could take some blood and get it tested. A blood test would take a week at most," she says. "Otherwise you'd have to wait another eight months to know for sure."
He nods, considering. "If I am menopausal or postmenopausal, what should I be expecting?"
"Well," she says, fingers laced together and resting on her tummy, "Omegas who enter menopause normally experience the previously mentioned symptoms. You know, hot flashes, night sweats, that's fairly common knowledge. Sexual desires do change, but it's split pretty evenly between increases and decreases. If you do get aroused, you might find that you lubricate less and your lubrication may dry out sooner. Increasing the Omega-3 in your diet or a good lubricant would fix that with little side effects. There might be some weight gain.” She stares out the window and fiddles with her modest wedding band. “Postmenopausal Omegas do have a higher occurrence of ovarian, uterine, and breast cancers. Since you have never been pregnant or given birth, you would be at a very high risk.”
He crosses his legs. “Why is that?”
“Several reasons,” she says. “There have been a few studies that suggest the hormones that activate lactation also fortify the breast tissue. Other studies focusing on the uterus and ovaries draw heavily from the breast studies, but, excluding their sound statistics that do show a correlation between pregnancy and reduced cancer rates, they are largely inconclusive. Higher levels of estrogen are known to put Omegas at higher risk for uterine cancer. Some postmenopausal Omegas take estrogen therapy to lessen the impact and severity of their symptoms, which puts them at higher risk.”
He nods. “Would my hormone therapy continue to work after menopause?”
She nods. “Of course. You would be prescribed a smaller dose, but combined with your topical regimen you would be able to continue passing as a Beta.”
“Would continued use increase the possibilities of cancer?” he asks, eyes shifting momentarily to the gray parking lot outside of the window. There is a sun-powered dancing flower swaying and smiling on the window sill. A crayon drawing of two humanoid figures holding sausage arms is taped underneath the flower. In the corner, in blue, is an epigraph: ‘Monroe and Mommy.’
“Cancer is so dependent on so many factors,” she says softly. “It might, but you are a healthy and fit Omega, so does that mean you will get cancer?” She shrugs, offers empty hands. “Do you know your family’s medical history?”
He shakes his head.
“It’s entirely your decision,” she says. “I would recommend going off your pills, if only for financial reasons.”
“I am not in a difficult financial situation,” he says softly.
“I know,” she says, a kind and sad smirk tugging on the left side of her mouth, “but a wholly topical regimen would be a cheaper and equally effective alternative.”
He breathes deeply, lets it out slowly. “I would like to volunteer for a blood test. When those results return, I will make my decision.”
She nods. “Very reasonable,” she says. She opens his file again. “Before we take your blood, how are you on your medication?”
“I have enough for the rest of the month,” he says.
“Brilliant,” she says. She lets the file fall close. “Let’s go get some blood.”
~~~
“I went to the gynecologist the other day,” he says when he’s with Bedelia. Her cold blue eyes are settled on him. Unblinking. Untrusting. Her hands are clasped and tucked primly between her left thigh and the side of her chair. His legs are crossed and he is leaning back in his chair. “She suspects that I am experiencing menopause.”
“Do you suspect that as well?” she asks.
“I do,” he says. He sighs and runs his hands down his waistcoat. “She collected a sample of my blood to be tested. To be certain.”
“What do you expect this test to tell you?”
He sighs. His eyes crawl over the poplars that camouflage Bedelia’s house from the winding country road. It must be difficult to leave here when it snows, he thinks. “I expect it to affirm what I already believe. That I have ripened and fallen from the tree without being picked.”
“Does that bother you?”
Does it? He wiggles his foot as he considers the question. He is successful in all areas except his private life, but that has never upset him. His affairs are not for the faint of heart and he does not wish to involve those who would be unprepared. Those who hover too close endanger him and, by extension, themselves. “I feel a sense of missed opportunity,” he says. “But I do not fear loneliness. I have friends. I have never felt the desire to raise children until I met Abigail, and her tragedy has turned me back to my original feelings.”
“Most people would find that strange,” Bedelia says. He agrees. He has seen a fair share of childless Omegas. Some, like him, were career people who ignored the soft tick of their clocks. Others were infertile and struggling to accept that their bodies were broken. All of them, though, came with heads hanged in defeat. All of them, frightened, scared, and regretful, poured out to him stories of escaped loves, mapped out their guilt in blues and grays.
“I have been called strange before,” he says with a smirk.
Bedelia’s calm, smooth face cracks with a hint of amusement. “You said you feel like you’ve missed an opportunity. What opportunity have you missed?”
He shifts in his seat. “An opportunity for love,” he says. “I have had romances, but nothing nearly like the feeling of a lasting desire to bond. Many patients come to me and discuss that feeling. It seems unpleasant.”
“Commitments can be, sometimes,” she agrees.
“I am morbidly curious to understand an emotion that is meant to bring stability and comfort, and yet more often than not drives a person to irrational behaviors and thoughts,” he confesses.
“Do you think love is morbid?” she asks.
“It can be, sometimes,” he answers.
“I won’t deny that the social conception of love is a trying and confusing thing, Hannibal. In the popular mind, people like us are hopeless. What is important is that we don’t give in to that idea of fated doom. You could still experience love,” she says. “You are a successful and, objectively speaking, attractive man. Someone is bound to find their way into your heart.”
He smirks. “Objectively attractive,” he says, partly to himself, partly to irritate Bedelia. She doesn’t take his bait. She smiles at him, warm and clinical, and checks her watch. She stands and smooths her skirt before offering him wine.
~~~
It has been raining recently. Baltimore reverts slowly into the bog the Iroquois once knew it to be. The Chesapeake reaches out with white, crumbling fingers to take unlucky fishermen while winds have forced another car off of the Bay Bridge. It’s the third in as many years. The man inside survived the fall, but belligerent waves crushed his bones against the piers. He drowned, either on his blood or murky salt water no one knows. Both were in his deflated lungs.
Will Graham comes home with him for dinner after their night session. Hannibal has taken Will’s coat and instructed him to take off his shoes. His floors were just cleaned, he explains, as he slips off his muddy rain boots, and he would appreciate keeping them clean for longer than a week. Will understands. He nods and bends over to untie his laces.
Hannibal takes the wet jackets and hangs them on hangers in his wash room, careful to not let the two clothing items touch. He comes out and finds Will standing at the island, fingers tapping rhythmlessly on the top.
"Are you thirsty?" he asks. Will nods. "Would you prefer beer or wine?"
"Alana tells me that you make an amazing home-brewed beer," Will says. "She demands that I try it."
He smiles as he takes out a couple of glasses. "Alana is far too generous in her compliments," he says. He opens his fridge door and pulls out an unopened beer bottle. "But in this one arena I trust her expert palate." He pours the beer into a tall glass before handing it to Will. He takes an open bottle of Shiraz and pours himself a generous but not indecent amount.
Will smells the beer. "Was this brewed with blueberries?"
"I have friends at a local winery. Every so often they recycle their barrels so one year I took a few." Hannibal puts the cork back in the bottle. "The beer you are drinking was brewed for a year and a half in a barrel used for their sweet summer wine." He picks up his glass and holds it out to Will. "To recovery," he says.
Will smiles, slow and deep, crinkling the corners of his eyes and tightening the skin on his cheeks. He touches the lip of his glass to Hannibal's. "To recovery," he repeats. They sip simultaneously. Hannibal's eyes flutter shut as yeasty pepper gives way to a smooth sluice of dark grapes and wood. His lips spread into a pleased smile as he retreats from the glass. Will looks dazed. He licks absently at the foam on his lips.
"I have," he says, putting his wine glass on the marble countertop, "a shank of venison I have been saving for the right occasion."
Will can't hide his grimace. "I'm not much of a deer guy."
"Another time, then,” Hannibal says. “How do you feel about duck?"
Will raises his glass. “Sounds good,” he says. Hannibal smiles and turns to get the supplies from his fridge. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” Will asks.
“You can help me,” he answers, squatting down to pull kale and thyme out of the vegetable drawer, “by drinking your beer and enjoying your food.” He set his armful of ingredients on the island before closing the door and striding to hanging baskets of fruits. He pulls five clementines from a lower basket.
“Are you sure?” Will asks. Hannibal shoots him a teasing glare. Will smiles again. “If you say so. What are you making, anyway?”
“Duck breast with a clementine sauce and sautèed kale.” He turns on the stove and pulls a pan out of one of the surrounding cabinets. “Simple, but very delicious during this time of year.”
Distant thunder rolls over the house. Hannibal pulls out a few bowls, a cheese grater, olive oil, a sheet pan, and several other items. He is aware of Will’s static, boring eyes, catching the movements of his arms, the curve of his back. He is careful to look away when Hannibal has him in sight, and his arms are held close to his body.
“Jack wants me back soon,” Will says.
Hannibal is laying the thinly sliced pectorals of a male Alpha art dealer who once referred to a male and female Omega couple as a pair of wasted cunts. His entire chest cavity had been something to marvel over. He still has the ribs and is tempted to try his hand at traditional Carolina barbecue once the weather clears up.
“It’s understandable,” he says. “You have a remarkable record.” He looks up tepidly. “But you don’t want to?”
Will shrugs. “I’m not sure how much of what happened six months ago was me and how much was the encephalitis. If I go back, I’ll see what I see but I’ll be putting away some pretty bad people. If I don’t go back, I’ll be able to distance myself but unable to help.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Hannibal says. He is cutting his clementines, preparing them for juicing. “You would be helping to train a new generation of agents. One of them is sure to overpass even your own preternatural abilities.”
“Maybe...” Will sips from his glass. The fat of the pectorals is slowly being rendered. A smokey sweet scent floats up from the pan, shudders above it. “Do you think I should go back?”
He has moved on to the kale. Fresh and bitter and still wet from midday when he came home to clean it. He bundles the leaves and cuts off their stems. “Are you asking as my patient, or as my friend?”
Will draws out his answer. “Yes.”
Hannibal keeps his head bent and sucks lightly on the inside of his bottom lip. “As your doctor, I think you should take precaution before returning to Jack’s team. Perhaps speak to him, ask for only occasional cases. Then, once you understand your limits, you can start pushing them again, little by little.”
Will swallows. He looks into his glass. “And as my friend?”
Hannibal lets the air in his lungs pass through his nose. He can see them flatten, pink and wet, can see the oxygen slip into his bloodstream and settle in his right atrium. He can see the little nodule of flesh that controls his heart. It sparks twice a second, opening valves, closing them. He looks up, sees Will, whose face is no longer wane and pale, who no longer smells like burnt sugar and cloves. He smells, now, like lost opportunity.
“As your friend,” he says, “I want you to stay away from Jack. From the murders and the fear. I want you to remain healthy, and I think that means reduced exposure to Jack Crawford.”
They move on to a different subject. They move on to several different subjects. They move into the dining room. They eat and drink and laugh while the rain patters against the patio doors. Hannibal sighs into his first taste of soft, red meat and honeyed orange and dark wood. Will watches him closely. He can see color of Will's face darken when he exposes a wrist to check the time. "I have," he says, "a salted caramel ice cream that I have been meaning to eat." He smiles placidly at Will. "Would you like some?"
Will nods. Hannibal takes their plates into the kitchen. He pulls out a couple of ice cream bowls and opens the freezer door when he hears a distant jingling tune. He pauses and listens to it for a few moments before quietly closing the door. He treads lightly, hallway carpet and socks padding soft and quick steps, making him virtually silent as he follows the growing stream of tinny song into his laundry room. He stops in front of Will's jacket, where the ringtone is loudest, and reaches in to see the name on the screen. Jack Crawford. Of course. He puts the phone back and returns to the kitchen where he scoops the ice cream into the bowls. He carries them and a few jars of fruit syrups. He carries them into the dining room.
"That looks delicious," Will compliments when Hannibal returns with the ice cream. "Is it safe to assume that you made it yourself?"
Hannibal smirks. "Is my pattern that obvious?"
“You’re surprising easy to profile,” Will says with a hint of sarcasm. He spoons a large portion of his ice cream into his mouth. He holds his napkin to his lips. “Wow...” he mumbles.
Hannibal raises his chin, amused. He dips the tip of his spoon into the frozen beige cream. Uses the tip of his tongue to test the temperature. Laps at the confection just before the spoon enters his mouth. Though Will doesn’t visibly react, just bows his head to focus on his dessert, he can smell a sharp increase in his arousal.
A phone rings. This one is much louder, much closer. Hannibal excuses himself and rises to fetch his home phone. The ID lists a blocked number and he resigns himself to the loss of his Will. He answers. “Hannibal Lecter speaking.”
“Lecter,” Jack snaps, “do you know where Will is?”
“I do,” Hannibal answers. He leaves a moment of silence that urges Jack to ask, with no small amount of impatience, where, exactly, was Will at that moment?
“He is eating ice cream in my dining room,” Hannibal answers.
“At least he’s somewhere safe,” Jack mutters. “Can you put him on the line? I have something I need to discuss with him.”
“Certainly.” Hannibal returns to the dining room. Will is nearly done with his dessert and doesn’t look the least bit confused as to why Hannibal is delivering the phone to him. He looks disappointed, resigned, as he takes the offered phone. He listens, mostly, and speaks to Jack only with short, clipped words. Hannibal thinks he tries to say “no”, to create a boundary for Jack not to cross, but the attempt is quickly and firmly broken. Hannibal witnesses a solemn silence and a significant look in his direction. Then with a final “okay”, Will turns off the phone and places it face-down on the table.
“I’m sorry,” Will says. He rubs his hands across his eyes. “I’m sorry--I have to leave.”
“A case?”
“Yeah,” Will says, drawing it out. “An important one, according to Jack.”
“The Chesapeake Ripper?”
Will shakes his head. “Jack didn’t say much, but he did tell me that there is a trail of bodies that stretches from Detroit to Richmond. So that’s where I’m off to.”
Hannibal steps towards the door. “Let me get your coat.” Will smiles gratefully, shortly.
Their clothes are dry enough when Hannibal retrieves the threadbare all-weather coat that Will refuses to replace. He takes a moment to smell it. The intoxicating traces of encephalitis and fear cling to the collar. He looks over his shoulder and then quickly rubs the collar along his neck. He sniffs it again. He is there--not overwhelmingly, but enough so that on Will's long trek to Richmond he will be a guiding shade. He returns to Will, now moved to the mud room where he is putting on his rain boots. He helps him into his coat.
“I’m really sorry about having to leave,” Will says.
“Don’t be. It’s nothing you can control.” Hannibal squeezes his shoulder. “I can always have you over another night.”
Will nods. His eyes falter to Hannibal’s lips and then he leaves.
~~~
The phone rings during Hannibal’s lunch hour. He finishes chewing, wipes his mouth, and answers his work phone. “Doctor Lecter.”
“Hi Doctor Lecter, this is Doctor Rubin,” comes the calm, warm voice of the gynecologist. “We have the results of your blood test in the office. Would you like to hear them now or would you prefer to come into the office?”
“I am ready to hear them now,” he says.
“Okay.” She pauses as she shuffles through the folder. “Well...your estrogen and progesterone levels are low, but your omegarone levels are normal. Which, for you, would probably mean they’re pretty low. I do believe you are right smack dab in the middle of menopause.”
He flips his fork between his fingers. He watches it glint in the low light.
“Doctor Lecter?”
“I have been thinking about my regimens,” he says. “I want to cancel all of my prescriptions.”
There’s a charged moment of shocked silence. “Are you sure? Even the ointments?”
“Yes.”
“Well...if this is your decision then I feel it is my duty to inform you that because of this decision you might have a spike in your hormones. This might result in a heat or even pseudo-estrus, where you have the symptoms of a heat but you aren’t actually ovulating so you wouldn’t conceive.” She clicks her tongue. “I’d say that by the end of the month, others will start scenting you as an Omega.” She pauses again. “And, you can always start back on some of your prescriptions if you change your mind.”
He put his fork on his napkin. “I understand.”