Chapter Text
The lone neon nights and the ache of the ocean
And the fire that was starting to spark
I miss it all, from the love to the lightning
And the lack of it snaps me in two
He leaves on a Tuesday.
There's a U-Haul trailer attached to his car, since the backseat and passenger side are reserved for the dogs. He'd gone yesterday to the Bureau, his first time since everything - the attack and the arrest and the hospital and the trial - happened, to say goodbye to Beverly and Jack. He'd gone this morning, stupidly, to the animal shelter, and now he's sitting in his car outside her house, everything he owns in tow and a beagle puppy that doesn't belong to him perched on his lap, staring up at Will with baleful, expectant eyes.
He needs to get out of the car. Yet he can't make himself start this process...getting out of the car will only lead to the moment he has to say goodbye to her.
It's been two weeks since Will's seen Alana. Two weeks since he told her he is moving to Florida and she subsequently moved out of his house, returning to her own for the first time since Hannibal gutted him. Even while he was recovering, she'd stayed at his place - it was closer to the hospital, and it made it easier to care for the dogs.
Will had tried so damn hard.
Tried to make the break up seem like a side effect of the move, nothing more. Tried to tell himself it was best for both of them, especially for her. Tried to forget the look on Alana's face when she realized what he meant when he blurted out I'm going.
The thing is that he loves her. More than he's loved anything, his whole life, and though he isn't sure exactly why, Will knows Alana loves him, too.
They had six weeks together. Six weeks of pure happiness, untainted, and it had all felt like it was a long time coming.
But then Will had finally found proof of who and what Hannibal Lecter was, and after that the world fell out from beneath them.
Will stares through his windshield at Alana's still, silent house and he skims through the past seven months since Hannibal's arrest.
The months in the hospital, Alana by his side, his only source of strength and his only target for frustration. The nightmares. His inability to sleep, to eat properly, to forget the feeling of holding his own insides in tact. Alana's guilt over being the one to bring Hannibal into Will's life, of being the inadvertent catalyst to everything he went through. Will's suspicions that she was staying out of guilt. Her stoic acceptance of all his harsh words, his uncalled for rudeness, his taciturn silence, as if she was somehow grateful for the punishment.
How fucked up he is, how broken. How all evidence of that only makes Alana feel worse, because she can't seem to shake the conviction that it's all her fault.
He remembers the day he found her crying in the laundry room, her back against the dryer that was rumbling but empty of clothes, turned on solely so he wouldn't hear her sobbing. Will had gathered Alana in his arms, trying to soothe her, but his relief at finally being able to be there for her had been short lived as he'd realized she was only crying for him.
These are the moments Will tries to remember, the ones that nearly allow him to believe they will be better apart.
And yet other memories keep nudging their way forward.
Her hand, small and warm and assuring, intertwined with his own the night he'd wanted to walk across the field and look back at his house. She hadn't even questioned the task, just asked if he wanted company and pulled herself gamely from bed at three in the morning when Will assured her he did.
Crawling across the mattress and burying his face in the back of her neck, waiting for her to wake up and realize he's had a nightmare. The feel of her arms around him, her fingers' soothing ministrations against his curls, the quiet whispers of her reminding him You're safe now, I'm right here, everything's okay...
Her eyes never leaving his during his testimony at the trial. The lawyer getting annoyed with him - you have to look at me, or the jury, not just stare off into space, it makes you seem crazy - and Will not caring, just keeping his gaze fixated on Alana, the only way he could get through it.
The moments during sex when she is the only thing he can see and feel and think about. The strangled sound of her voice saying his name like it's the only word she knows. Her lips against his skin, every inch of it, as though she doesn't even notice his scar. The certainty of her voice falling against his ear: you're beautiful. God I love you.
Will stares at the house. She is so close, and he isn't even gone yet, but already he misses Alana so much it hurts to breathe.
He'll never know how long he would have sat there, unmoving, in his car putting off the inevitable. As it is, he's going on twenty minutes when Alana appears on the porch, squinting at him in confusion, her arms wrapped around herself, protectively, as if she suspects he's only here to further twist the knife.
The mere sight of her nearly undoes his resolve, and for a moment Will desperately wants to forget the whole thing, to unload the U-Haul and settle in right here.
Alana looks sad and exhausted and she's wearing a T-shirt that used to belong to him. For a long moment they stare at each other through the windshield, her hovering at the edge of her porch and him behind the wheel of his idle car.
But then the puppy on his lap whines, and Will remembers what he's here to do. He gathers the beagle against his chest and gets out of the car, crossing her yard.
Alana makes no move to meet him halfway, and Will slows to an awkward stop at the bottom of the steps.
"Hi." His voice is rough, his throat already pulling tight.
"What are you doing here, Will?" There's no anger in her voice. She never gets mad at him, not anymore, not even when he told her he was leaving her behind. In a way, that's the worst part. There's something so resigned in Alana's demeanor, like she thinks she deserves this, that it was somehow inevitable.
"I...I wanted to get you something." Dumbly, he holds up the puppy. "I got him at the shelter."
Alana's already shaking her head, vehemently, surprised and almost panicked by the gift. "Will, I can't..."
"But you're so good with the dogs." He sounds over eager, desperately trying for some hint of happiness, for some evidence that she's alright. "And I didn't want...I don't know." Will flushes, stopping just short of saying he doesn't want to leave her alone.
Because of course Alana isn't alone. She's close to Beverly. And Jack - apparently the weeks Will spent in a coma had worked wonders on mending their fractured relationship. Her oldest brother lives close.
"You should take him." She isn't looking at either of them. "It'll be better."
"Alana, please." His voice is straining under the weight of his desperation, and after a moment of silence Will climbs the steps of her porch, holding out the animal until Alana has no choice to reach out and take him.
She scratches the puppy behind the ears, ducking her head to look at him, but not before Will sees the tears glittering on her eyelashes. "Thanks," she whispers eventually, so soft he can't be sure of the tone.
They stand there for longer than necessary, Alana gently petting her new dog, Will watching silently. Finally, she turns around and heads back toward the half open door, and for a second Will's lungs shrink in panic, but Alana only deposits the puppy inside before turning back around to face Will.
She doesn't say anything, just waits for him to reveal why he's still standing there. With great, pained effort, Will slides his eyes to meet hers. The tears she's fighting make her eyes look overly bright and saturated. They make Will think of blue glass.
When he lets the silence hover for too long, Alana's shoulders sag, and she gives him a pleading, desperate look. "Will." Her voice is quiet. Begging. Like she wants him to just go, to put them both out of their misery and rip off the band aid.
"Please don't hate me," he blurts out in the high, quivering tone of a desperate little boy. "Alana, please."
Her face falls open, and in two seconds Alana's stepping into his arms, whispering assurances against his neck, telling him of course she doesn't hate him, that she never could. As tightly as Will clings to her, one would think he's only leaving Alana by extreme outside force.
They stay like that for a long time. There are tears on his face, and Will can hear the soft, stuttered breaths that mean she's crying, too. Then they both start talking at once, their words tripping over each other, overlapping and blurring together, an endless loop of apologies and unwanted forgiveness.
"I'm so sorry."
"No, I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
"No, you don't, you didn't do anything wrong."
"I did - "
"No, never."
"I love you - "
"I love you."
"- so much -"
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be, I'm sorry."
Alana's the one to pull away, when she's crying too hard to talk anymore, her forearm pressed against her lips. The sight rips him to shreds, and Will's a breath away from taking it all back, the break up and the move and all the rest of it, when she lowers her arm, presses her lips together, and chokes out, "Let me know when you make it there safe."
He doesn't even have time to agree before Alana's lips are on his, the kiss soft and fast and achingly final.
Alana pulls away in a rush and immediately turns her back on him, like she can't handle looking at Will for another second.
So that is the end, with a click of her door and a muffled sob, followed by barking, from the other side of it.
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I, uh. I guess that's it. I should get back on the road. Call me back, if you want. Or I'll just call you when I make it to Florida, like you asked.
Bye, Alana. Bye.
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Beverly calls around noon, but Alana doesn't answer because she's pretty sure she'd sound drunk. Bev thinks she drinks too much, these days, even though Alana's explained that sometimes it's the only way she can get to sleep.
That shouldn't be any more difficult now. After all, it's not as though she can't sleep without Will beside her. Over the past few months, she'd often wake up in the middle of night to find the spot beside her empty. Will would be aimlessly wandering the house, or sometimes just sitting in a chair across the bedroom, staring blankly out the window, lost to some deep, dark place that Alana could never reach.
But goddamn had she tried.
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I don't know why I'm telling you all that. I want to keep talking to you, I think. Sorry. Call me tomorrow? I want to hear how the new dog's working out. I hope you aren't mad about that.
Goodnight, Alana.
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All of which means there's no immediate pressure for Will to find work.
So he fishes. He works on his lures. He goes for walks on the beach with the dogs.
And he misses her, all the time.
The solitude - the loneliness - is hardly unfamiliar to Will, but it's like falling back in time, to the years before he met Alana. It all just serves as a reminder of how much Alana changed his life - though not in the way she thinks.
So Will wakes up every morning wishing she's there, and he has to remind himself that, together, there's no way either of them could get past what happened.
Alana will never be able to forgive herself for being the one to recommend Hannibal as his therapist, for setting all this in motion, if Will is right in front of her, broken and hurting, a constant reminder of the consequences of her mistake.
And he will never be able to put his trauma behind him if Alana always has that look in her eyes, a seemingly permanent expression of anguished self loathing that won't go away no matter how many times Will assured her she isn't to blame.
They stopped working, and he hadn't been able to see a way through it. All Will did was hurt her, and Alana took it and never fought back because she wanted the punishment.
But they loved - love - each other, fiercely and desperately, and Will fervently believes that if it wasn't for Hannibal Lecter, he and Alana would have just..stayed happy.
Some days, Will thinks that's the thing he hates Hannibal for the most.
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Alana! Hi.
Hey, Will.
I didn't know if you'd answer.
I know. I'm sorry I haven't called you back, I just...needed a few days.
No, it's okay. I know.
...
Where are you right now?
Um, I'm at home.
I mean specifically.
Oh. The porch.
Hold on.
...
...
What are you doing?
I went outside. I'm on my deck now.
So you're looking at the ocean?
Yeah.
I can kind of hear the waves.
What are you doing?
Just sitting here with Jude.
Oh. Um. Right. Who's -
The dog, Will.
Oh! Jude. I like that. How is he?
He's good. We've bonded. But don't tell Winston.
Oh, right, he'd be jealous. I think he misses you.
...
...
...
Alana?
Yeah?
Did you get my voicemails? From last week?
I did.
Okay. Good. I was just making sure.
...
...
So you're doing okay?
I think so, yeah.
Better?
I...don't know. It's all still new. And...I miss you a lot.
...
Alana?
Yeah, Will, I miss you, too. I should go, okay? I'm kinda tired.
Yeah. Yeah, okay. Me, too, actually.
You're sleeping okay?
Sometimes.
...
...
Bye, Will.
Bye, Alana. Goodnight.
______________________
She never went back to the latter.
Her class load is light for the summer, and with Will gone, Alana finds herself with much more free time than is good for her right now.
Filling the hours becomes important. Anything to avoid the silence and the thinking that comes along with it.
She takes up jogging. She logs an absurd amount of hours in the university library, starting a dozen different research papers with an almost manic focus before she loses the thread and starts over. She starts an ill advised project of repainting rooms in her house.
Then, after an offhanded comment from Jack, Alana offers to go with Bella Crawford to her latest Hail Mary round of chemotherapy when Jack's work schedule makes it impossible for him to take her.
Bella likes Alana because she doesn't discourage or wince at pessimism or gallows humor. Once, when Bella laments dryly that she's trying to avoid novels because she doesn't want to leave anything unfinished, Alana just nods as though that's perfectly reasonable, and shows up the next treatment day armed with anthologies of short stories, Flannery O'Connor and Raymond Carver and Joyce Carol Oates and Toni Morrison. Sometimes Jack comes home to find Bella asleep in their bedroom and Alana cooking or cleaning, and no amount of you don't have to do that makes an impact.
Sometimes, when Alana feels like she's losing it, she thinks about Bella and Jack and remind herself that she has no right to complain or hurt or feel sorry for herself. Not when they have it so much worse...and it's not even their fault.
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Hi.
Hey, Will. How are you?
Not so bad. You?
I'm fine.
...
...
I just wanted to check in.
Yeah, I...I'm glad you did. How are things down there?
Oh. You know. Hot. Humid.
Are you meeting people?
There are a few guys who fish on the same pier as I do. We exchange small talk. Compare catches.
That's good.
Yeah. Also commissioned a few motors to fix, so. I'm keeping busy.
That's really good, Will.
What about you?
Nothing new, really. Just class.
The Academy?
Sometimes. Not as much.
How is it?
It's. People are still talking. The trainees ask questions. I don't really hang around much after class anymore, but. It'll die down.
Yeah.
How is it there?
Someone mentioned him once. The trial. But no one's recognized my name yet...don't think the people here are the type to follow it too closely.
Good. I'm glad.
...
Well, it was good to talk to you.
Yeah, you, too. Do you have to go?
Yeah. Sorry. I'm taking Bella to chemo.
Oh, right. How's she doing?
Okay. Not great.
Right.
...
Well. Bye. Talk later?
Sure. Bye, Will. Bye.
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He overloads on coffee, surviving on fitful bursts of power naps throughout the day. The nightmares have gotten bad again, especially since he's waking up alone, and Will wonders how the hell he could have forgotten this crucial fact: that Alana had been the only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing him whole. She was the single beam of light he could see above the surface, the edge for his finger to tentatively hook onto to keep from plummeting through space.
Now there's nothing but her voice on the phone, and Will only lets himself call her a tiny fraction of the times he needs to.
Most nights he walks, sometimes finding himself miles down the beach with no real memory of getting there, a strange version of highway hypnosis. A few times he walks to a small, dingy bar in town and goes home with some blue eyed brunette after drinking enough that maybe he can pretend it's her. That never works, but he fucks them anyway, keeping his shirt on so they don't comment on his scar.
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Tell her hey from me, too. How is she?
She's good.
You hang out a lot?
Sort of. We meet for lunch a few times a week.
That's good.
Jack's trying to talk her into convincing me to come back. Work cases again, I mean.
That's because Jack knows he can't talk you into anything.
True.
Are you...thinking about it?
No. I'm done with that.
Alana...
Everyone knows I was mentored by a serial killer, Will. I knew him for years, and I didn't suspect anything until he...
...
I just shouldn't be profiling.
Alana.
Forget it, let's not talk about that, okay? What did you do today?
Oh, uh. Not much. Took a walk with a few of the dogs. Finished a lure. Quiet day.
Right. And you're okay?
Yeah.
...
You know you don't have to worry about me anymore.
I guess I'll have to work on that.
...
...
So tell me about Jude.
Oh, he's sweet. He's got some separation anxiety issues.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah, I can hear him whining behind the door every morning when I leave. And he follows me around the house. Which I kind of don't mind.
Kiley does that.
Oh, yeah, he's a little like Kiley.
Did I tell you Bear's afraid of the ocean?
No, you didn't. How does that work?
______________________
The sorrow a leaden weight in her bones, the guilt and self-loathing twined with her veins, the loss of him sewn into her skin.
Some days Alana can't see past it; the distractions stop working and it makes her feel crazy. She's sure everyone can see it, can see how aggressively not okay she is: Jack and Bella and Beverly and her students and anyone else she comes into contact with.
Those are the days that turn into nights where she drinks herself sick, searching for some form of physical pain, something beyond the intangible fucking mess of her brain and her heart.
She hates being drunk and she hates herself for doing it, but it's easier than everything else she's hating herself for.
______________________
Uh, yeah. Hey.
Will.
Alana? You okay?
I am all good.
You sound weird.
I may be a little bit drunk.
Oh. Are you out somewhere? I can call back.
No, no, stay on. I'm not anywhere. I mean, I'm at home.
...
...
Are you okay?
I just told you I'm good.
...
Are you okay?
Yeah, I am.
Would you tell me if you weren't?
Of course.
Mmmm. I don't know if you would. Sometimes you don't.
Well. You know why, though.
Why?
...
Because I know it's my fault?
Because you think it is.
You're not even here anymore, Will. And you still can't say it.
Because that's not what I think. You know it's not.
...
I'm not the one who has to forgive you, Alana.
But you're the one who left.
Not because of you.
You didn't...
...
...
What?
You didn't ask me to come with you.
...
...
You didn't ask me to stay.
Oh, fuck that, Will. Fuck everything about that.
I'm sorry.
...
...
...
I miss you all the time. If that helps, I...I lied before. I'm not okay. Not without you.
...
...
Goddamn it.
Maybe I made a mistake.
Don't.
I mean it.
You can't say stuff like that.
Maybe you could come here.
What?
You know, come visit. For a weekend or something. I want to see you.
...
...
...
Alana?
A weekend.
I just mean -
I'm gonna hang up now, Will.
Wait. Why?
Um. Because in a second I'm going to be crying. And it's bad enough I called you drunk. Drunk crying we don't need.
You, uh. You didn't call me. I called you.
Right.
You never call me.
Of course I don't. Those are the rules, Will. You left. You ended it. So you call.
...
...
Alana?
...
Alana? Shit.
______________________
He needs to get to her. To walk to his car and drive to Alana's house and see her. The strength of the need scares him, and for the first time the reality of the actual physical distance sinks in. And it's terrifying.
He screws his eyes shut. There's a pressure building in his chest, clawing toward his throat, begging to be screamed.
He calls her back, but she doesn't answer. He hadn't expected her to. So Will leaves the phone on the couch and leaves the house through his back door.
The thin sliver of moon casts a glinting sheen on the surface of the water, and Will moves to the edge of the shoreline, where the water hits, letting the low tide ebb icy cold water over his feet. He starts walking down the beach, his house on his right, the ocean on his left, his strides misleading in their purposefulness. He just wants to be moving, wants to be going somewhere even if it isn't where he needs to be.
It happens again, that thing where he disconnects and loses sense of how long and how far he's been walking.
He hasn't been sleeping enough lately, and it's the exhaustion that ultimately makes him stop. Will sits down hard on the wet sand. There's no one else around, and the few houses he can see, dotting the edge of the shore, are dark. He doesn't know what time it is, or how far he's gotten.
Will lies back, flat at the edge of the water. A shallow wave comes, making it halfway up his legs before retreating. Somehow he falls asleep without meaning to, for God knows how long, and when Will wakes up he's soaked and shivering. A wave rushes past, getting as far as his elbows now.
He turns his gaze upward, looking for stars against the inky blackness and finding none, suddenly feeling very small and very, very far away from home. From her.
Will thinks of Alana in her empty house and him alone on the beach, her drowning in vodka and him drowning in saltwater, and he wonders how this could possibly be better.
Eventually Will pulls himself to his feet. His clothes are soaked, and wet sand clings to his skin and the fabric. He feels impossibly heavy.
The sun's starting to rise by the time he makes it back to the rental house.
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Bella's asleep at the moment, two hours into treatment, with a blanket draped over her. Alana stands, moving to meet Jack halfway between the lobby door and the chairs.
"Thanks again," he says by way of greeting. "I got it from here."
Alana nods. "How's the case?"
"Pursuing a promising lead. But we're waiting on lab results, won't know anything until tomorrow." Jack frowns a little, squinting. "You alright?"
Alana is hungover and embarrassed and miserable, but the shame of being asked that question in the middle of a cancer ward turns her stomach. "You shouldn't be asking me that."
"What, because my wife is sick I give up all concern for other human beings?"
"That's your prerogative, yeah." Alana tries to smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jack."
______________________
______________________
He stops for a moment, letting them play and wiping the sweat off his brow. His phone's in his pocket, and he's trying to decide whether he should try Alana again - it's been more than a week since the disastrous phone call and her avoidance is starting to make him vaguely panicky.
When he glances over at the dogs, a young boy's joined them. Will hadn't spotted him before; he must've spaced out longer than he'd realized. He moves closer, wary; Winston and Bear are friendly, but Roxie isn't great with strangers.
The boy looks up as Will approaches. He's probably eight or nine. "Are they yours?"
"Yeah."
The kid reaches out and rubs Winston behind the ears, grinning with delight. "What're their names?"
"That guy's Winston. Over there's Bear, and Roxie," Will tells him, pointing accordingly.
As the boy continues to pet Winston, Will scans the beach. There's no one else in sight. "Are you lost?"
"No, I just live right there." The kid points to the closest house, set just off beach like Will's. "It's okay if I'm out here as long as Mom can see me from the window." The kid pauses, then looks at Will with interest. "Are you on vacation or do you live here?"
"I live here. Well. For now."
"Which house?"
"About a mile that way."
"Cool. Do you bring your dogs out a lot?"
Will smiles slightly. He's always liked talking to kids; their straightforwardness is refreshing. "We go on walks, most days. These guys, and the five others back at the house."
The boy's eyes go wide. "So, wait...you have eight dogs?"
"That's right."
"Awesome. I don't even get one." He looks down at Winston, eyes shining with envy. "You should bring them all down here sometime. I'd play with 'em, or take 'em on walks or whatever else, if you wanted."
"We could probably do that. What's your name?"
"Willy."
Surprised, Will laughs a little.
The boy's brow furrows. "What?"
"Nothing, just...I'm Will."
"For real?"
"For real."
"Cool."
The next day he brings a different combination of dogs with him on his walk. He spots Willy running down from his house when he's still a good way back, as if the kid had been waiting.
He sees him a few more times for the rest of the week, and always stops for thirty minutes or so to let the kid play with the dogs.
One day Willy, Winston, and Kiley are running around a cluster of tidepools, Will sitting on his own about a hundred feet back, half watching, when Willy calls out excitedly, "Hey, Will, come look!"
He dutifully gets to his feet and approaches the tidepool. The boy's crouched down, pointing at a starfish. "Look, it's moving!"
"Wow," Will says dimly, a dull pang of longing hitting him somewhere in the chest.
"I didn't even know it was a real fish. Like, a live one I mean."
Will wraps up the dogs' playdate quickly after that, and after he tells Willy goodbye, he pulls out of his phone and calls Alana.
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...
Will?
Sorry, I...you answered.
Yeah. I...I'm sorry about before. Can we just forget it?
If you want to.
I really do.
Okay.
...
...
So. What are you doing?
Walking on the beach. Winston and Kiley are with me.
You guys heading anywhere in particular?
Back to the house now. Actually, I called because...this is stupid.
What?
There was a starfish. In a tide pool. And I just...I thought about you, and that necklace you wear, and I just...I wanted to trying calling again.
...
...
I'm glad you did. I was...hoping you would.
You can call me, you know.
I...yeah, I know.
...
Will, last week, on the phone....
So...you do want to talk about it?
Just one part. You said that you'd lied, and that you weren't okay.
I just...I just meant that I miss you. Even more than I thought I would.
...
...
And everything else? Please don't lie.
I'm still not sleeping well. Or often.
Nightmares?
Yeah.
...
Fuck. This was supposed fix things.
It doesn't work like that. It won't all go away at once, Will. You know that.
Yeah.
I know you don't want to see someone, Will, and I get that, but...you know the signs of PTSD. If things get bad, you have to tell me.
I will.
Promise me.
I promise.
...
...
Tell me something.
What?
Anything. We haven't talked in almost two weeks.
Okay. Um. You know the regular semester started. So I've got a heavier class load again, which is a relief, honestly.
Still not working cases?
No. I was at the Academy the other day. Oh, get this, I ran into DePaulo...
Oh, God.
Still an asshole.
Of course he is.
He was prying about your 'recovery'. He actually suggested he and I cowrite something about it.
What?!
I know.
Doesn't he know that we're -
...
That, um. We were...
Probably. I, um, think he just thought that was a sneaky way to ask.
Right.
...
...
I better go. Gotta take Jude out before I meet Beverly and the guys for dinner.
The guys?
Jimmy and Z. Zeller.
Oh. Didn't know you were all friends.
Bev's trying to make it happen. Thinks I'm antisocial.
Ha.
Talk soon?
Yeah. Hey, Alana. Do me a favor?
Yeah?
You call me next time?
...
It's just...sometimes I worry I'm annoying you.
You're never annoying me.
If I called you every time I wanted to, I would be.
...
...
I'll call. Soon, okay?
Okay.
Bye, Will.
Bye, Alana.
______________________
It's not exactly a healthy habit, but it's a fair trade for her more destructive vices. Some nights she forgoes drinking just so she can make the drive. There's a For Sale sign in the yard, and sometimes when it's two in the morning and she isn't thinking straight Alana toys with the idea of buying it. In case he comes back.
It's getting cooler now, so she brings along a coat for the nights she gets out and walks across the field, Jude trotting along at her heels. She remembers the time Will woke her up in the middle of the night to make this walk, the way he'd held her hand and looked back at the lights of his house and explained why it calmed him.
But the house is dark now, less of a boat than an empty, desolate island.
Still, it is an odd sort of coping mechanism, in a time when Alana needs them. She can almost spin the house's eerie stillness into something positive: it's waiting for him. He is coming back.
Those are the only moments when she lets herself remember the six weeks they were together in the Before. When Will was out of jail and she was still unaware of the truth about what landed him there. She feels so detached from those memories, like they're some sepia toned montage, too happy to have ever been her life.
Of course, those days weren't perfect. She had already fucked up, had already made the fatal mistake that set everything in motion. Will had already suffered unspeakably for it.
Alana just hadn't known yet. Her ignorance had been her bliss, and for six weeks being in love with Will didn't hurt. She'd loved him for a long time before, and hasn't stopped loving him since, but that finite period was the only time it wasn't a heavy, bruising ache, deep in her chest.
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I know, Will. I saw the photo. My phone went off in the middle of a lecture and suddenly I was looking at a dead shark.
Your phone shouldn't be on during class. That's your mistake.
I didn't even know you knew how to text.
I just choose my moments. Carefully.
And dead shark, that felt like a worthy moment?
I guarantee that's the best picture on your phone.
I don't know. My phone has maybe fifty photos of Jude, and one photo of a dead shark.
So at least it adds variety.
True. Thanks for that.
You're welcome.
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He pulls up short and turns around, startled. He'd just passed the woman without a second glance, but now she's stopped her jog and is staring at him with interest.
"Um..."
"I'm Molly Foster. Willy's mom. Sorry, I just saw the dogs and assumed."
"Oh, right. Yes. That's me." He scans the area, as though expecting for the kid to appear, even though they're aren't actually close to his house. "Where is Willy?"
Molly quirks her lips slightly, amused. "It's nine a.m. He's in school." She steps forward, offering her hand. "It's good to finally meet you. I hope he hasn't been bothering you, he's just a little obsessed with dogs at the moment."
"Oh, no. They enjoy it," Will replies, his eyes flicking away. Molly is tall and tan and blonde and her eyes are green. Nothing like Alana. He knows it's a little ridiculous that he catalogues women in terms of similarities and differences, like it's a compare and contrast.
Molly waits a beat, then gives him the polite smile Will's used to, the one that says alright, I get it, you're not great company. "Well, nice to meet you, Will. Thanks for indulging him."
"Nice to meet you, too." Will gives a small nod before turning and continuing on his walk.
He doesn't give the encounter anymore thought, until three days later when he ends up near Willy's house for the usual, late afternoon playdate. After about fifteen minutes, Molly appears from the house and invites him inside for a drink.
"Will Graham...why does that sound familiar?"
When he reluctantly tells her, she remembers his role in Hannibal's nationally publicized trial. It makes Will feel like a character in a movie, introduced with a ready made backstory. It makes him more interesting to Molly, but the reality doesn't mean much to her. It's a story in a magazine, a summary narrative that doesn't begin to explain the instability, the anger, the trauma.
But he supposes it's the same with her, when she tells him about her husband who died a few years ago from cancer. Molly makes it sound quick and painless, but of course the difference is it's her telling her own story, not magazines or Inside Edition or Freddie Lounds.
The truth is, though, that Will sort of likes that she doesn't grasp it. It feels like the embodiment of what Florida was supposed to be: putting distance between himself and what happened. Turning it into a stage of his life that's no longer relevant.
He doesn't feel that way. But Molly acting like it is makes it easier for Will to pretend.
When Willy comes inside for a snack, Will goes outside to collect his dogs and leave, but not before Molly asks him to dinner that weekend. He accepts.
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Is that a trick question?
No, describe it. I've never seen your house, I want to be able to picture you.
I'm not in the house. I'm on the back deck. But okay, I'm sitting in one of the rocking chairs. There are two. Stripped wood, kind of splintery. Fitz is asleep in the other one, Winston's lying on the stairs.
Okay. Good. What else?
I don't know. The ocean.
You can do better than that, Will, you have a metaphor for everything.
Okay, okay. It's dark. The water looks black from here, and you can't quite see the point where water becomes sky. There's barely any moon. The air's got that heavy, salty smell.
Not a metaphor. But a little better.
Now you go.
You know what my house looks like.
No, but where are you in it?
Back porch.
You're outside? Isn't it freezing there?
A little. I just walked out. Wanted to see if you were right about the moon.
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Alana gives Beverly a look. "Yeah, about that. Shouldn't you be slightly less neutral?"
"Meaning I should be on your side?"
"Honestly, yes."
Beverly shrugs, unbothered. "I told Jack I wasn't going to try to talk you into anything. But in my completely unbiased opinion...it might be good for you."
Alana's eyes harden instantly. "Why would it?"
"Because you're fucking good at it, moron," Beverly tells her with a sigh, and an eyeroll for good measure. "Why do you think Jack wants you back so badly? You've got this idiotic idea that you somehow should have known about Hannibal, and the fact that you didn't means you're incompetent. The longer we let you operate under that assumption, the more ingrained it becomes. And that's unacceptable."
Alana blinks at her, surprised at Beverly's sternness after months of not bringing it up. For a long moment, she's quiet, then starts haltingly, "I'd almost..."
"What?"
"I'd almost be okay if...if it wasn't for Will." She pursed her lips and shakes her head, annoyed with herself. "If Hannibal was just killing people I didn't know, and I had missed it...I think I could forgive that. But what he did to Will...right in front of me. What he put Will through. What I gave him the chance to do. That's what I can't forgive myself for."
Beverly's face softens, but she doesn't say anything more on the subject. She's learned not to argue. "You still talking a lot?"
"Yeah. Once or twice a week."
"How's he seem?"
"It's hard to tell. Better, I think. But sometimes his voice gets this...panicked quality when we're about to hang up. He may just be faking his way through it. I can't always tell over the phone."
Beverly nods, expressionless.
After a beat, Alana sighs. "What?"
"I said nothing."
"What?"
"It's weird, Alana. You know I think it's weird."
"Yeah, it probably is."
"You don't care, though."
"Right," Alana confirms, taking a sip of her coffee. She doesn't tell Beverly that sometimes the sound of his voice cuts her to the quick. Or that the phone calls are like scratching poison ivy, so, so needed, and temporarily soothing, but ultimately just worsens the scar.
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What channel's that?
We don't have the same channel numbers, remember?
...
Look at your guide.
Found it, I think.
...
Oh, hey. We saw this.
You hated it.
I told you, I'm just not much for movies.
Which is fundamentally weird, Will. But this one seemed to be particularly offensive.
It just doesn't make sense.
Oh, believe me. I remember your thoughts on the matter.
That was almost a fight.
But not really.
No, not really.
...
...
...
Anyway, how's -
Ssssh. I'm trying to watch.
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It's good while it's happening; it takes Will out of himself, clearing his head of anything but basic, physical sensation.
But sex is a band aid over a bullet wound, and the adhesive is already peeling in the seconds after it's over. Almost immediately, he thinks of Alana, and he lays beside Molly in bed feeling guilty and incomplete. It was the same story with the women he went home with from the bar, except now Will can't make a hasty exit.
Molly studies him with an almost sympathetic look.
"So it's true. The woman at the trial, the one who testified for you the first time around. The psychiatrist? You...were together?"
His chest constricts and his mouth goes dry. "It wasn't all true. She...she was never with him." Will swallows hard. "But yeah. We were."
"And where is she?"
"Home." He frowns, quickly amending, "Virginia, I mean."
"You still love her?"
It's framed like a question, but Molly seems to know the answer. Will looks at the ceiling, not her, when he answers, "Yes." Silence wedges between them for awhile, then, "Sorry."
"Don't be," and she sounds like she means it. "I still love Daniel." Her late husband. "I don't think that will ever go away. He was the love of my life."
And that, it turns out, is what does it.
He and Molly fall together out of loneliness and understanding and a sort of simple, surface compatibility. But what holds them together is that it's clear from the beginning what they are and what they aren't for each other.
Will is not the love of Molly's life, and she isn't the love of his. Those positions have already been filled. They know not to try to fill the gaping holes someone else left behind, so they fit each other into the spaces between gaps.
They talk a lot about their respective losses, about Alana and Daniel. They refer to them only in pronouns, as though it's perfectly fine for other people to dominate their conversations as long as they don't say the names.
Strangely, this establishes an odd sort of intimacy. To know how much he loves Alana, how much he misses her...it's not an insignificant part of knowing Will.
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Will? What's...is everything okay?
I'm sorry. S-sorry, I know it's late, I know...
It's okay, don't be sorry. Tell me what's wrong.
I can't...I just had t-to call...
You have a nightmare?
I'm sorry, I'm sorry...
Sssshhhh, it's okay. Everything's okay. I need you to take a deep breath for me, okay?
Alana, he...it was you, he had you...
It's just a dream. Everything's okay, babe, I'm right here.
...
I'm going to count to ten okay. In and out, every number, remember?
Mmm.
Easy...1.....2.....3......4.....5.....6....7....8.....9....10.
...
Will?
I'm okay. I'm...I'm sorry, 's stupid.
It's not stupid. You feel better?
Yeah.
I need you to talk to me, okay? Tell me something.
I don't know what to...
Give me the dogs names. In order that you found them.
Bear, Kiley -
Slower.
Bear. Kiley. Fitz. Bailey. Zoey. Huck. Roxie. Winston.
Okay, good.
And Jude.
He doesn't count.
Honorary.
...
...
You okay?
Yes. I'm sorry for waking you.
Stop. No more apologizing. It's okay. I want you to call me.
...
Want to talk about it?
No.
Want me to stay on the phone?
Yes. Please.
Okay. I'm not going anywhere until you say so, okay? I'm right here.
Thanks.
...
...
...
...
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