Chapter Text
Will Graham lay in bed with a dog’s snout in the crook of his arm as the rain tapped incessantly at the window.
The only light in the room was the faint beam of the digital clock on the bedside table, and it hummed a cold and dead blue 23:23. He ran a tense hand in a loop over and back the faithful dog’s wiry fur and felt the clock’s artificial glow leek into the blackness of his eyelids. The weather whispered away outside, yet it couldn’t mask the scratching of the thing in the walls.
It had been consciously present for a few days, maybe a few weeks, but its intensity had been growing. Whatever it was, Will could feel bubbling anger building up behind every square inch, this ebbing desperation - something pushing the mortar and bending the bricks in the fireplace. Foolishly, he had thought of leaving food to tempt whatever it was out; a peace offering, perhaps. An icon for the dark shrine it had become over the passing of time. Every night, it scratched. He learned it wasn’t something that could be bribed. That was, if it was even physical, as none of the dogs had seemed to sense something sharing their home. No tilted heads, no whining, no growling. No mind to whatever seemingly was on Will’s.
It had started to leave an audible signature, an imprint, into his brain, like grooves etched into a record. It wouldn’t let up, that scuttling. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
When he peeled open his heavy lids, the hole he’d made above the fireplace loomed darkly at him from across the house. Pairs and pairs of soft dog eyes blinked up at him from their beds and waited for whatever move he made next. They could sense something was amiss with their master. The scent of illness had started to mottle the inside of the home, inside of his brain. This eerie stench, rising up like something was buried under the floorboards. The house felt like a crime scene, where he was doomed over and over to discover his own design.
Will’s breath shuddered in and out as he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes again. Max, next to him, was awake and he could feel his cold, wet nose pressed against his arm in concern. Beads of sweat chilled on his flesh like droplets of ice. He felt like he could be steaming almost, he was so hot to the touch. The sheets were like a wrung out sponge, damp with the remnants of previous nightmares.
Will swallowed thickly and scrunched up his face and tried to think of the lake. Took a deep breath in. Held. Released. In. Held. Released.
Flowing streams and fresh air. Somewhere behind him, birdsong. The glitter of his loom cast along the choppy current, the swish of the line and the wind singing against his ears. Pearlescent scales, like the surface of the sun under the water, gleamed back up at him.
Will cast his line far out into the bubble of the stream, still breathing; in for four, feeling it pause deep within his chest for seven seconds, and then breathing out for eight. Closing his eyes within this faraway place. Dreaming within a dream.
The brush of fish and life against his waders made his eyes flutter open. He looked down into the water and saw bodies swollen and mottled, with their flesh peeling away like rotten fruit. All yellow and baked from the sun, all bloated and eaten away, looked up at him. Bobbing on by. Grazing his legs, the feeling of dead hands and hectic fish touched him deep enough that he could feel it vibrating against his bones.
From the river bank, Will saw that familiar dark stag stood watching. It had a mouth full of struggling fish and a ratty chunk of decaying flesh snagged in one of the proud antlers it wore. Looked right at him, in this knowing way. It snorted hot, angry fog towards him, scraping a tense hoof. And then fell this sudden deep silence that cut through the frenzy of the water, and the wind, and the scratch, scratch, scratch.
Will was heaved into consciousness once again, gasping for breath. Max had scarpered away at the sudden jolt and was watching from the bedside, as were the other dogs. Those confused eyes stared up at him amid their whimpers.
He shook out a watery breath, and whispered to them, “S-Sorry.”
The rain raced down the windows and cast lines of teary shadow across the room. Will’s head was in his hands. He scrubbed at his eyes and temples in a cocktail of exhaustion and frustration, with a dash of head-splitting migraine for good measure. Thumping minutes passed, and he started squinting up at the dogs when the silhouetted lines of drizzle outlined onto the walls bled into some dark, intimidating configuration.
From what he could make out with his fuzzy vision, the shape snarled curls of warm, cloudy breath over the window. It slunk past with its large, regal head dragging tall antlers across the panes of glass. The screech made Will clasp his palms over his ears and screw his eyes shut again. He could hear it trudge; its heavy hooves churning against the wood of the porch with every booming step.
He could barely make out his own voice above the painful drag of the things horns against the front of his house. “No, no, no,” Will shuddered between ground teeth, “Please.”
His hands fumbled blindly to the edge of the mattress, finding purchase to pull himself up from the bed. The world was a vignette of dark, dizzy lines as he stumbled feverishly over to the desk where half-worked fishing lures and his tinkering’s lived. Clammy, numb fingers tethered themselves to the body of his hunting rifle and he cradled it, ever tighter the more that thing outside raged. Any second, he thought the windows could shatter. In a haze, Will loaded the gun, swung himself round, and staggered past barking dogs, like his body was motorised, like he was running out of fuel. Like he would shut down any minute. Desperately aiming at the Stag that pummelled furiously against the window, trembling and chattering with delirious heat; he closed his finger around the trigger.
Whether it was the Stag’s horns finally breaching through the window, or the gunshot that rung out like a death knell, the glass exploded spectacularly like a thousand fingers of lighting.
Time, for a moment, seemed to stand still. Will’s pulsing vision refocused among the fine mist of crystal that fluttered down into the room, and the murky smog rising from the rifle. The crescendo of terrible noise had made his pounding migraine worse, and he squinted out into the darkness desperately, expecting to see the heat from the Stag wading up from his porch. As the smoke cleared, he saw nothing.
Crackles of hot pain shot through his soles as he stepped to inspect the window, clambering dogs barking and yelping at the feet of their master. He swiped fervently at the beads of sweat rolling into his line of sight and peered over the sill, where a sea of glass was scattered onto the rainy porch. No blood, nor traces of hide nor fur. No sign of life, or death for that matter.
Will grabbed his keys and lumbered over to the front door. He threw it open, the autumnal night air and the rain a bitter greeting to his cold, sweaty skin. A few of the dogs scrambled outside, barking, and searched for whatever Will was trying to find. He could see the moonlight glint against the dewy grasslands that surrounded the house, swishing blades of wet silver. The heartbeat in his ears was carried away with the wind and the cloud of raining white noise that soaked through deep into his core.
His laboured breath stretched out in front, a ghostly hand reaching for whatever he could lean against as his eyesight continued to ricochet against the deep-set sockets buzzing with blistering migraine. Will blinked and found himself almost doubled over, his side pressed against the door of his car. Sweat and rain raked down his forehead endlessly. He sucked in damp air through his nose and pinned the rifle tight enough to his chest that it felt fused into him. Raised himself up, hot bile sloshing in the pit of his throat. Took another bleary look at the skyline.
Out in the fields, where the heavy moon was perched on the dark horizon, the silhouette of the Stag stood and watched Will shivering and panting in the rainy equinox. Will gazed back, breathless. His heartbeat warped away in his ears as he raised the barrel again. The logical part of his brain knew it was too far to hit the beast properly, but something gravelly and dark had told him to shoot, and now the idea of it wouldn’t let him go.
Another crack of the rifle bled into the cold night sky, and the birds that huddled in their trees erupted into flight. The Stag only moved to shake the rain from its hide. Its tall antlers were like dead trees in the moonlight’s cast. It took another long look at Will and turned to run into the night.
Will threw his gun into the car’s front seat and turned the key. The ignition roared to life.
~~~
The scotch skimmed around the sides of the crystal as Hannibal swirled it under his nose; aromatics of anise and clove, the memory of an old, toasted barrel lingered in the after-burn of the golden liquid.
Dr Lecter brought the sensation fully into his pallet with a deep and satisfying sniff. The warmth and the oak in his nostrils was comforting on a rainy night such as this one. He took a sip, and settled down into one of the plush, emerald armchairs in the lounge. Liszt tinkled away gently down the hall; echoes of romantic ivory harmonising with the restless weather outside.
It was sometime after midnight. Hannibal was an enjoyer of the evening hours. He found himself most active and inspired during the dusk and the junctures thereafter. There was something so liberating about being in the dark, where he could be so fully on show and yet still so hidden. Whilst the world had its eyes closed, he was free to watch the turnings of it many chose not to see.
He took another languid mouthful of whiskey and the faint spatter of Tobias’ blood speckled his cheeks as he began to reminisce. Bludgeoning seemed somewhat unbecoming compared to his usual methods, but there was something so authentic about watching the man’s skull yield to the sheer force that Hannibal used. It had made the pace of his heart quicken the smallest amount.
There had been a usual orchestration to his violence; he was a creature of habit, Hannibal could admit. He liked his house, and his wine, and the high thread counts on his sheets, and the watercolour of raw, animalistic panic and the misty acceptance of death that washed over someones eyes as he sliced them open. He derived pleasure from the sensory, and it could only be the best.
He supposed killing Tobias had been akin to Will Graham killing Hobbs.
There was an inelegance and a roughness that could be read as uncouth, yet it was also so pure. The raging ocean waves dragging a ship below the surface, coursing venom seizing up the muscles of the prey coiled in the snakes’ clutches, the lemmings plunging off of the cliff; all unrefined in their happenings, but all so unadulterated.
Hannibal surmised that is what drew him to Will so. While he indulged in the clinical understanding of emotion - a professional and somewhat macabre curiosity of despair and the umbrella of misery that life had to offer - he couldn’t remember the last time he had been truly touched by the sensation. Like he was looking through a fisheye lens, the circus of human experience would parade outside whilst he was entertained by the show. Where Will was his own personal Pierrot, rendered with such sorrow and rage and tumultuous empathy that he had started to wilt under his frilled collaret. There was true fascination, pure and tactile feeling in Will Graham’s unravelling, thought Hannibal, that he couldn’t bare to look away in case he missed the great equilibrium.
He sighed. The wound in his leg gave out a dull ache, exasperated by the rain. Hannibal thought about retiring to bed, nursing the last few dregs of his whiskey. He’d put away his glass, dimmed the lights in the corridors, and went to lift the needle from his record player when he’d heard the sharp yelp of a dog beyond the front door.
He paused and listened intently. The rain continued to pat down the steps leading out from the house, it still ran down the glass, and the canine barked again. It sounded like a small animal, perhaps a Terrier or a Schnauzer. Hannibal silently moved to the front door and pulled it open with a confident stiffness, ever alert for what could be waiting on the other side.
The first thing he noticed was a station wagon angled in front of the path, somewhat haphazardly. The engine was still on, the headlamps dim as if one of the lights damaged from a minor collision. He squinted out into the rain and saw the drivers side had been scratched. The window was open, the rain bouncing from the lip of the sill into the car and onto the pavement below.
A little, white dog, its fur wet and unkempt, sat at Hannibal’s feet with its jaw and teeth jutted. It gave another doleful yap and gazed upward.
“Hello, Zoe,” Hannibal greeted, “Something the matter with Will?”
He looked up again at the vehicle and watched for a few moments to see if Will would snap out of his daze. Then, he put on a coat and stepped out into the rain. Zoe’s small legs scurried alongside him.
The car was indeed a little beaten up. Nothing serious, but a few dings here and there were apparent on the front bumper and some minor damage to the body paint was instantly perceivable to Hannibal’s sharp eye. He stooped to look into the driver’s side window.
Hannibal tilted his head a little. “Will?”
The engine grumbled rhythmically between the man’s shallow gasps for breath. His stare was transfixed on the invisible landscape of wherever his mind had taken him. Hannibal was both vaguely impressed and a little dumbfounded how Will had not managed to kill himself driving in this psycho-catatonic state. His hands were still gripped, white-knuckled, to the steering wheel and his jaw was a tense, grinding line beneath the shabby scruff of facial hair he wore.
Hannibal took the liberty of reaching through the open window and shutting off the ignition. His wrist brushed Will’s taught arms as he took the key and then opened the side door.
Zoe whined and paced around Hannibal’s legs. When the door was cracked open, she hopped back in briefly, attempted to shake herself dry on Will’s lap, and licked at his blank face.
“Down, girl. Let’s get him inside.”
Hannibal found Will slightly awkward to move in his seated position. He saw Will was in his underwear, and barefoot. His legs were shaking slightly, mud raked up to the bottom of his calves. The t-shirt he wore held the scent of perspiration, the discharge of gunpowder, and a day’s old aftershave. Hannibal’s mind flashed to the image of a ship on the bottle.
An arm slung over his shoulder, Dr Lecter wrangled will gently out from the vehicle and, looking back over into the car, he noticed Will’s hunting rifle in the passenger seat. He looked over at Will, who was leaning heavily into him. His eyes were still a cloudy snow globe of lost time. His lips a chapped quivering, wordless shape.
Zoe jumped up at Will’s legs and yapped as they made their way up the path and into the house.
Hannibal briefly bristled at the mud that Will and his dog had tracked onto the floor as they stepped inside, and he also noticed now that the man had been bleeding slightly. In his haze, he’d stepped in something that had caused speckles of blood to smear into the polished marble of Hannibal’s house. Nevertheless, the doctor allowed him inside the reception area and made sure he was stable enough to stand on his own for a moment.
Dr Lecter ventured outside into the rain once again and pulled the gun from the station wagon.
When he’d returned to the house, and watched Will’s trembling, dripping form dance minutely from the haunting tricks that his brain played on him, he smoothed a dark ringlet out of his face and smiled briefly. Kept that smooth hand on Will’s bristly cheek for a moment and watched the whites of his eyes glisten with confused, unfocused tears. Zoe whined up at them both.
He placed the rifle in Will’s malleable hands and pressed it into his chest. Then, Hannibal went to the front door and slammed it with a crash loud enough to throw Will Graham back into the lush, expensive gild of Hannibal Lecter’s reality.