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Will Graham nodded to the bartender as he lifted his glass, downing the whiskey in one swift mouthful. Hidden behind the dark rim of his glasses, Will’s face remained blank as the liquor burned a path down the back of his throat. He sat on the last stool with his back to the wall, head bent low and cast into the shadows, unnoticed by the other patrons in the bar. He had never favoured attention.
As he debated whether to call it a night or the temptation of another round, a chill stirred around his feet. He glanced up with vacant eyes at the figure pushing his way through the heavy wooden doors. His indifference shifted to curiosity as he recognised that distinct profile, the proud nose and the upright strut, marred slightly by his dependence on a cane. What could Dr. Frederick Chilton possibly be doing in a dingy, out-of-the-way bar in Florida?
Evidently the same as me, Will thought wryly, as Chilton took the seat at the opposite end of the bar and raised a hand to the barman. His hair was greying, and he looked far less put together than he had years ago – back when Will knew him as the administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Did he still work there? Will couldn’t recall. After Hannibal Lecter’s capture he had decided to cut his losses and step back from his work with the FBI. He already had far too many wounds to show for it, not to mention plenty of others that couldn’t be seen.
Chilton looked around, attuned to the feeling that he was being watched. Instinctively he grasped the handle of his cane and shifted his body, like a gazelle sensing a predator. Will reached up to remove his glasses, catching Chilton’s green, sunken eyes. He held his gaze, allowing Chilton to take in his stained plaid shirt, the mop of matted, dark brown curls tangling at the nape of his neck and the stark, raised flesh of the scar that cut across his face, a trophy engraved into his flesh by the Tooth Fairy.
Chilton stood up, knocking back his glass as he moved with slow, contrived confidence towards the empty seat next to Will. Will wondered if his cautious movements were due to apprehension or his lasting injuries. He hadn’t seen Chilton since he’d been shot by Miriam Lass, but the mark branded into his cheek was a stark reminder of what he too had suffered at the hands of Hannibal Lecter.
“Well, Mr. Will Graham. It’s been a long time,” Dr. Chilton articulated carefully.
“How have you been Doctor?” Will said with a grimace.
“Please call me Frederick,” he replied with a dismissive wave, “God knows we have both been through enough to bother with titles. In fact, I think you would know better than anyone how I’ve been.”
Frederick leaned over with a wince, holding his stomach with one hand as he gestured to the bartender for another round. Will quirked an eyebrow at the movement.
“More of a reflex than anything else,” muttered Frederick offhandedly, glancing away. Will cast his gaze over the man’s appearance, looking down past the circular scar tissue etched into his face. His button-down shirt was wrinkled, his drab suit was dated, and his tie pin distinctly absent; nothing like the impeccable, polished suits he used to wear.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Will said, pointedly catching his gaze again.
Chilton held his stare for a few seconds, casting his eyes up and down the length of Will’s facial disfigurement before looking away with a cursory roll of the eyes, feigning disregard. He reached down with a seemingly casual hand to pull his shirt from his waistband, only the slight colour in his cheeks betraying his emotions.
Will swore he could almost see the blood pounding down through the veins in Frederick’s arm, flowing towards his hands as his fingers fumbled over the buttons, stopping when he reached the third from the top. Frederick pulled the cotton shirt folds aside to reveal the thin, pale slice that tracked its way from his diaphragm to his navel. Will wondered if the mental scars were still as raw as the physical evidence of what Abel Gideon had done all those years ago.
With a mock casual flick of his wrist, Frederick let his shirt drop back down, shielding the scar from view. Will felt strangely like he was underwater. He shook his head as though he were breaking the surface, and placed his glasses on the bar. He tentatively lifted up his own checked shirt and stared with aversion at the ugly wound. His scar was the reverse of Chilton’s; where Frederick’s was straight and almost elegant, Will’s was crooked, the gnarled, raised flesh crossing his stomach diagonally with complete disregard for symmetry.
As he began to lower his arm, Frederick reached out a hand to stop him. Will searched Frederick’s face to see his own apprehension mirrored back. He gave a reassuring quirk of his lips, encouraging Frederick with his eyes. Will closed his eyes as the soft hand wisped across the scar, barely touching him. He felt goose bumps dance along the skin of his arms, and he closed his eyelids instinctively.
The spell broke as Frederick pulled his hand away, both of them glancing around the bar self-consciously. No one was paying them any mind, or if they were they were subtle about it. All the same, Will thought it was about time they got out of there.
“So, Frederick, whereabouts are you planning to stay tonight?” Will asked expectantly, catching him unawares.
“I hadn’t intended to stay out this late,” he replied, dodging the question. He lowered his voice to a gravelly undertone, “Why? Are you perhaps... offering?”
“My place is close, and neither of us is about to drive in this state,” reasoned Will. “I’ve got a spare bed if you’d like it.”
The tension was palpable between them as Frederick waited a few beats before leaning closer.
“And what about your bed, Mr. Graham? Is it taken?”