Chapter Text
“No, I never saw myself wanting kids before… all this.”
The patient before me twisted his lips to the side as he answered my gentle inquiry—for him, usually a sign that we were broaching dangerous territory. Of course, I had known that it was a loaded question before it even left my mouth. I regarded him for a moment, scanning for any further signals of trouble he might leave me in a subtle fluttering of eyes, a sudden clenching of a fist, but he was gone again, the quick flicker of discomfort on his face smoothed almost as soon as he realized it was there. His eyes were gazing somewhere above my shoulder, vacant. As if he was somewhere else.
Still dissociating, I wrote, careful to keep my notepad out of his view.
“You talk about Abigail Hobbs frequently, and with affection,” I prompted, “What kind of role did you see yourself filling for her?”
He smirked, a quick little twitch of his mouth,
“She was the exception to the rule... or rather, she is what changed the rules. Before Abigail, I thought of children as kind of a package deal… birthday parties, soccer games, big housing developments... It wasn’t just having a kid, it was a whole lifestyle that I—I uh, didn’t fit into very well.”
He still wouldn’t meet my eyes, but now he finally broke contact with whatever distant scene he had been watching, and looked down over a grin.
“That’s just the thing though, it wasn’t a life that Abigail fit into either. When we met her, she was so lost. She asked for our help, and nothing could have prepared me for that feeling... of being needed by someone. And suddenly, I understood the appeal. I wanted to be that for her. H—he made me think that she needed that.”
Just the smallest stumble over a name that was rarely spoken, eyes narrowed sharply as his mouth reprimanded his mind, erased the slip before it happened. Now he looked up again, his expression hard to read. That small wry smile still lingered around the edges of his mouth, despite his far-away eyes.
“It’s a powerful feeling, isn’t it? Being needed?” I asked.
For the first time in our session, Will Graham’s eyes met mine. The vague, manic expression left his face, replaced by a clear, cold anger.
“It’s not about power,” he said quietly, “It’s never been about power for me.”
For me I noted. I knew all too well the significance of those two words. The name Hannibal weighed heavily in my mind, even though it had never left his lips.
Graham was every bit as aware as I of the presence he’d unwittingly brought into the room, judging by the sudden shift in his demeanor. He had been calm, if somewhat withdrawn, sitting straight-backed and stoic in the chair across from me (rather than the couch to the left of my desk as most of my patients did). Now, he seemed to shrink in defensively, shoulders pulling tightly, gaze flickering to the bookshelf, the window, anything so long as it didn’t rest in one place too long, as if the errant Doctor Lecter might be staring back at him from my seat if he did.
“He took all that from me, again and again,” he spat. I did not miss the way his hands curled on the armrests.
“Will,” I said, hoping that my voice sounded calm but not patronizing, “We’ve been over this. Abigail was not at Dr. Lecter’s house that night. There was no body, no physical evidence. You are the only one who saw her.”
“Dr. Bloom said—“
“Dr. Bloom has repeatedly stated that she has no memory of that night. You shouldn’t be projecting your recollections onto her.”
I paused, taking in the crease of distress in Graham’s brow, the flush of anger in his cheeks. My resolve softened.
“Will, I know that this is hard for you, but I can’t tell the court you’re making progress if you keep harboring delusions like this. I believe that you are not a killer, but what this looks like from the outside is three Federal agents ambushing a psychiatrist in his home, two of them armed. It looks bad for everyone involved.
“Now I would love nothing more than for the FBI to seriously investigate Dr. Lecter’s… convenient disappearance, but I have to know that it’s a man they’re looking for and not a body before I can tell anyone that you’re fit to enter the public sphere again.”
Neither of us spoke of the consequences he might face when that time came, both legal and personal.
Graham looked at me for the second time in our session, curiously blue eyes holding something back, something that was far beyond my pay grade to analyze. Eventually I looked down at my desk, embarrassed, both by his intense look and at the knowledge that he saw me break contact first.
“I suppose ‘Patient is recovering from trauma’ might be a little undermined by the footnote ‘still insists on dead girl’s presence at crime scene.’” He admitted, going for tongue-in-cheek and managing only bitterness. The effect was softened somewhat by the genuine, if small, smile he offered to combat his angry tone. I felt a quiet well of pity for the broken man before me, and buried it quickly beneath the professional detachment I adopted for all my patients. I smiled back, hoping that it came across as warm and not tired, which is all I felt.
“I suppose so.”
A hard rap at the office door shattered the peace that had settled lightly over us, and an orderly entered at my called invitation to take Graham back to his room. Our hour was up.
I rose, as always, when Graham struggled to his feet, the tight wince he fought to hide the only outward sign of his still-healing wounds. As always, he waved me away impatiently when I offered him help.
“Thank you, Dr. Hirsch,” Graham said before being nudged out the door. He offered me another quick smile, lopsided and not quite reaching his eyes.
“See you soon, Will.”
I felt ashamed when I realized that I was eager for him to leave.
When he was gone, the office felt smaller, but brighter; the corners not so sharp, I could breathe again. Will Graham was a tempest, full of anger and betrayal. Our sessions always left me drained, exhausted; as if I had been treading water the entire hour.
I sank into my desk chair with a heavy sigh, took my glasses off and wiped them with my shirt hem. The drawer by my right knee rattled when I pulled it open, grasping within for my pen, and I looked longingly at the flask that glinted enticingly from under several layers of office kipple. I had several more appointments that day, and so with a sigh, I slammed it shut and began my paperwork.