Chapter Text
As she drives into Frederick’s gated community, her phone starts ringing. She reaches for it and answers automatically.
“Hello?”
The prolonged silence on the other end makes her frown. “Hello?” She repeats before pulling the phone away to look at the screen, a disclosed number. Odd.
She never gets these kinds of calls. Bringing it close to her ear, she doesn’t hear anything else. Thinking nothing of it, she hangs up and drops the phone into her bag while taking the turn to Frederick’s street.
She spots the dark vans and ambulances immediately. Worry creeps and grips her from her chest to her neck. Driving closer she sees they’re in front of the house she shares with Frederick. “Oh my god.” Heart starts speeding as she notices the yellow tape over the front lawn, the FBI agents.
She parks haphazardly in the middle of the street. Dread sits like a boulder between her breasts as she hurries toward the house. Managing to evade an officer as he tries to stop her, she walks under the tape and up the walk way. “I live here.”
The tall, imposing man she met at the last dinner party exits the house. He’s followed by two men pulling a stretcher along. The sight of the dark body bag stops her on her tracks and makes her stomach churn. A knot forms in her throat.
Please, not Frederick. Not my darling.
Agent Crawford comes to stand before her, looking grave.
Her gaze remains on the stretcher as it’s pulled along the front lawn toward the ambulance.
“Is Frederick…is Frederick…” She trails off unable to finish such a terrible thought. Her voice sounds breathless and weak to her ears.
“You need to come with us, miss.” The underlining anger in Jack Crawford’s voice whips her gaze immediately to his face. Her brow furrows in confusion.
--
Waking up covered in blood to a butchered Abel Gideon and two freshly murdered agents in his house gave a speed to his legs they hadn’t taken in a years.
He has to run away.
He ran through the rooms in a frenzy looking for her. Not finding hair or hide, he grabbed two of the bags in the foyer to keep both hand occupied and hopped into his car. As he turned on the engine, he vaguely remembered she had a class in the afternoon.
He needs to run away and he can’t do it alone.
He directed his car toward her old apartment, his mind having automatically made the decision for him. His hands gripped the steering wheel with desperate strength. He couldn’t control his breathing. How had this happened? How had he let this happened?
That bastard, son of a bitch.
Fear racked through his body. Won’t her apartment be the first place to look after his house? Jack Crawford already knew they were together, it won’t take the FBI long to find their way to her place. He couldn’t wait for her there.
How had this happened to him? Lecter played him so well, like a marionette on a stage, placed the knife in his hand and their blood on his clothes.
No one would believe him now. Only her.
What was he to do?
He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe.
He needs to get out of here.
He took the turn to exit the city, opposite the direction of her apartment.
After driving through a panic attack he finally stops on the side of a desolate country road. He opens the car door and leans out to empty his stomach. He shuts the door and sits back wearily, breathing heavily and grimacing at the taste of vomit in his mouth. The stench of blood coming off his clothes, accentuated in the cramped interior of his car, makes him gag.
He pats his jacket for his phone. The realization that Hannibal Lecter could have done something to her had been the cherry topping the cheesecake of this last attack.
He has to hear her voice, he needs to talk to her, to know that she is well and sort out a way to explain that they have to leave the country.
He blocks his number at the last minute; he knows the FBI will trace his calls.
“Hello?”
He’s flooded with relief as he hears her voice and just as he opens his mouth to speak, whatever words he had to say die on his tongue. His vision blurs with tears. He couldn’t do it.
She remains the only aspect of his life not tainted by this wretched case. Even his house is now a crime scene.
He couldn’t drag her into this, beg her to flee with him, incriminate her in the very crimes he did not commit but that now surely hang above his head. He would be putting her in danger. She didn’t deserve any of it.
He slaps a hand over his mouth as he hears her repeat the greeting and soon the line falls dead.
He couldn’t bare prison; he couldn’t bare her confused, disappointed face if she ever saw him in that situation.
He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think with the smell of blood and the pain in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, the only other person to find themselves in the same situation could have some answers. He knows he doesn’t merit any kindness, but at least a shower.
He lets the tears that fall down his cheeks to dry on their own, not wanting to touch his face with bloodstained hands.
Frederick Chilton follows his panic to Wolftrap, Virginia.
--
Will Graham listens to Dr. Chilton’s rant with practice patience, his thumb hovering over the screen of his phone ready to call Jack Crawford.
He was going to call him earlier while Chilton used his shower, but something about the doctor’s sobs combined with Buster and Winston’s whining and scratching at the bathroom door stopped him.
Pity, that’s what it was. Even as it was exasperated by Chilton’s raised voice as he ranted, it was still there.
“Of course it would be me! Hannibal was never going to kill me. I’m his patsy!”
And Dr. Lecter’s games continue masterfully so.
Hm, it seems that his theatrical gestures were not just an act, he was genuinely dramatic. Will had never seen some one zip up a sweater so angrily.
Will has no appreciation for Chilton. He was too tired to hate, he just did not care for him. But he pitied him. The sad man carried his heart and ambitions on his sleeve and was fully aware of his own shortcomings, all the more reason to pretend there were none. He was easy to read. Will had entertained himself that way during their agonizing sessions.
But Will was too tired to resent. He bounces the phone in his hand slightly.
No one deserved to have their lives ruined by Hannibal Lecter’s whims.
“You did not run and you looked plenty guil-“
Chilton was cut off by the loud vibrating of his cellphone on the surface of the table where it sat beside his bag. Chilton took a step closer to look at the screen, not reaching to answer it, and his whole demeanor changed.
Will stood from his chair slowly. From his vantage point he could make out a woman’s face and her name. He remembers her faintly from a Saturday morning that feels a century ago when he stopped by on profiling business at the hospital.
He looks back at Chilton, who’s staring intensely at the phone as it continues vibrating, the sound flooding the house. He has gone pale, his eyes have watered, the heartbreak and hopelessness on his face sent another pang of pity through Will. He realizes that that is the only truly cherished thing Chilton has in his life and it’s been torn away from him. Dr. Chilton’s gone, there’s just a lost Frederick.
Maybe, just maybe, keeping the pieces of his game close and at hand would prove useful. Dr. Lecter couldn’t always get away with it.
Will tucks his phone away in his pants front pocket and takes a breath.
“I think it would be in your best interest to stay here.”