Chapter Text
Two months later, Will sat in Alana’s waiting room. He’d gone back to teaching a week ago. Jack hadn't called him out to a crime scene yet, but it would happen. He rubbed his hands restlessly along his thighs. The longer he waited, the worse an idea this appointment seemed.
Finally, the door opened. He looked up and found himself face to face with Chloe Bell. She was still wearing his hat.
“Agent Graham!” She beamed up at him. "Are you here to see Dr. Bloom, too?”
"Yeah. I guess your mom called her?"
“Not for a while, but then I started having a lot of nightmares, which was really stupid because it happened like forever ago.”
"Sometimes that's the way it goes.”
“Is that what happened to you?"
"Sort of. I have nightmares about a lot of things."
"Because of all the stuff you've seen?"
"Yeah."
“Does it help to talk to Dr. Bloom about it?"
"I don't know yet. This is my first appointment."
She dug in her pocket and pulled out a sticker in the form of a cheerful looking bee. She stuck it to his shirt. "Dr. Bloom gives me those at the end of every appointment and I usually give them to my brother because I'm too old for stickers, but you can have this one."
"I'm not too old for them?"
"You look really nervous," she said.
Will was saved from having to confirm or deny that by Alana’s arrival. Inside her office, with the door shut behind them, Will crossed his arms and looked at her. “Don’t try to tell me that was a coincidence,” he said.
She smiled at him. "Chloe talks about you a lot."
"Are you going to ask how that makes me feel?"
“I think ‘deeply uncomfortable’ is a pretty safe bet. Nice sticker.”
He peeled it off and walked over to the window. Alana’s office was nothing like Hannibal’s. Long and narrow, with a window at one end, particleboard desk in the corner, industrial-strength carpet. Like any other therapist’s office he’d ever seen, including the photos: mostly black and white, unremarkable renderings of snowy trees or cherry blossoms on the Mall. Not her taste at all. Designed to be a neutral space for her patients, while Hannibal’s personality sloshed around his office liked expensive wine in a crystal glass.
“Did a patient of yours take the pictures?”
“Several patients. Why? Do you have anything you'd like to contribute?"
"I don't own a camera."
“At least half of those were taken with a camera phone.”
"I don't take a lot of pictures." The last one had been of Hannibal, asleep by the stream. He remembered how inevitable an end had seemed for them then, how keenly he had felt that future pain.
Alana let his silence stand for a minute or two. "Is there something you want to show me, Will?"
"Ask me what you want to know. Don't pretend I want tell you."
“All right. Show me the picture you’re thinking about.”
Will thought of what Hannibal had said, that he found it easier to accept help when it was thrust upon him than when it was offered and he could refuse. He took his phone out and flipped through until he found the photo.
“Oh, my God. He's wearing jeans,” Alana said.
Will laughed, rusty and creaky, but genuine. “Did you see the grease stain?"
"Are you sure I can't hang this on the wall?"
“Only if you never invite him in here. He doesn't know I took it.”
"How are you two?"
He shook his head. "Ask what you really want to know."
She glanced at him and then settled her gaze on the neutral territory of the window. "The bruises," she said. “On your back in the hospital. And later on your wrists.”
"That's not a question."
"I don't know what the question should be."
"Do you think he's abusing me?”
“I’d believe you if you told me that," she said carefully.
"Of course you would. That's your job. But that's not what you think is going on. Give me a theory.”
“I’m hesitant to put a label on it. I don’t know what you’d prefer. The consensual infliction of pain within a sexual context.”
"No disapproval, Dr. Bloom?"
“You're happier right now than I've ever seen you.”
"That's not an answer."
“It is, actually.”
He turned away from the window and dropped down into a brown plaid chair. She joined him in its twin. They sat in silence. Will could hear her breath, faintly, and the sound of her shoe rubbing against the chair leg. The traffic outside. The tick of his watch.
“You really hate this, don’t you?” she said.
“I told you I don’t like traps.”
“You can leave whenever you want to, Will. Jack hasn’t made this mandatory. At some level, you’re here because you want to be here.”
He hunched forward in his chair. Somehow that just made it worse. “Maybe I got a taste for it.”
"What did you and Hannibal talk about?"
"Mostly cases."
"The Chesapeake Ripper?” she asked.
"Why do you ask about him specifically?"
"Because Jack keeps asking me about him specifically."
“Why hasn't he killed again, you mean."
Alana nodded. “He's one short of his— What did you call it?"
"Sounder.”
“First time that's happened, isn't it?"
“Maybe we just got lucky. Maybe he's done. Maybe he's dead.”
“Is that what you think?”
“No. I don't think he's dead. He's just done for now. Doesn’t mean he’ll never kill again.”
“Does that worry you?”
Will shrugged. "Jack wants to catch him. I just want people to stop dying. Mission accomplished. For the moment.”
“Did you send that message to TattleCrime? Doctor-patient privilege. I couldn't tell anyone even if I wanted to.”
"Jack knows anyway. Or he knows as much as I do. I don't have any clear memory of sending it, but it's possible." He shifted in the chair, weighing uncomfortable truths against necessary fictions. "I think I believed I could get him to stop."
She raised her eyebrows. “Looks like you were right. How did you do it?"
“No idea," he said, and that was the truth. He glanced at the clock, more than done with talking about himself, still a considerable amount of time to kill. “You know Beverley likes you, right?”
She blinked at him. “That was a jump.”
“You can keep up.”
“Implying that most people can’t.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t an intentional implication.”
“All right. Yes, I know she does.”
“And you like her.”
She gave him a wry look. "I feel I've lost control of this session. If you were anyone else I'd be thinking about giving you a referral right now."
"Very conscientious of you, Dr. Bloom, but you're stuck with me."
She paused for a few seconds. “Yes,” she said, finally. “I do.”
"So what's the problem?"
“Me and dating. I don't do it well. I overthink things."
“You worry about the end before you’ve even started.”
“Is that the voice of experience?”
“We’re not that different.”
"What did you worry about with Hannibal?"
He watched the sweep of the second hand on the clock. “I worried— I assumed that he’d get tired of me eventually. Of the way I am. I knew that was the initial attraction for him, and I didn't expect it to last.”
"You don't sound like you're worried anymore."
“He told me some things recently, things about his past. They let me rationalize his feelings for me."
“Attraction isn’t rational.”
“Obviously not.”
“Would you like to tell me what those things were?”
"Those are his secrets, not mine. Are you going to talk to Beverly?"
“It's not like you to be this interested in anyone’s private life."
"I like her. And I owe her.”
“Do we need to repeat the conversation where I tell you that friendship isn’t about debt?”
“You say that because it comes easily to you. I know how lucky I am to have people who put up with me.”
Alana sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Good.”
By the time the hour was up, Will felt as if his bones had locked into position. He stretched as he stood.
“Do you want to have lunch later this week?" Alana asked.
“You want to? I mean— Are we still going to be friends?"
"I hope so. Are you comfortable with that?"
“Yeah. I guess I haven’t been too much of a prick today then.”
"I'm not going to fault you for telling the truth, Will.”
"Most people do."
“You don't give most people the chance to do anything else.”
She hugged him and let him go. He drove to Hannibal’s house feeling as ungrounded as he had before the appointment.
Hannibal stood in the kitchen, knife in hand, frowning over three piles of herbs.
“I thought there was marjoram in this recipe,” Will said.
"The plant is dying. I'll have to acquire a replacement. How did things go with Alana?"
Will poked at the basil. "I hate therapy."
"I'm sure you told her no more than you wished her to know."
"I don't even know what I'm doing here. I should go home. Feed the dogs."
He started for the door, but Hannibal caught his wrist and pulled him in close against his side.
"You're here because you are unsettled and you trust me to settle you. To repair the damage that you and your life collude to inflict on your mind.”
Will wasn't even listening. His body relaxed automatically into Hannibal's touch and the soothing stream of his words. "Can I just—"
"No. You'll do as I say tonight, I think. I've given you too much freedom."
Will swallowed and ducked his head. His pride demanded an immediate denial, but he could feel the tension in his back and jaw unknotting already and the pull of something warm and yearning in his stomach. He leaned against Hannibal's shoulder. “What do you want me to do?"
Hannibal laid a hand on the back of his neck. He squeezed once and then pressed down. “Kneel,” he said.
Will folded himself stiffly down to the floor. The stone made his knees ache immediately, but it didn't matter. He placed his hands down flat and bent his head.
“Tell me when the position becomes too uncomfortable," Hannibal said.
"I wouldn't call it comfortable now."
"But it is tolerable. You have no real desire to move."
Will had to acknowledge that. It didn't feel good, but it felt right. Safe. Calming and uncomplicated.
“So you will tell me when that changes," Hannibal said.
He went back to his herbs, and Will stayed on the floor at his feet like one of his own dogs. He watched Hannibal move from the counter to the fridge and back, slicing leeks and carrots, dismantling some form of organ meat and packing it into a cooler. Planning to cook at Will’s house, then. Will shifted, knees sore, back starting to ache. He rubbed his palms against his thighs and sat up straighter.
"It's not an endurance contest, Will," Hannibal said.
"I'm fine."
Hannibal looked down at him. "I can smell her on you. I'm not accustomed to sharing the things that are most important to me.”
Will knew he should tell him to get used to it, but both the words and the necessary tone stuck in his throat. He did not want to have this conversation on his knees in Hannibal's kitchen. He wasn't even sure he could. He closed his eyes and ran a hand over his mouth as if he could draw the words out by physical contact.
"I apologize," Hannibal said quietly. He stroked Will’s hair and tugged him close to lean against his thigh. "Now is not the time."
"I can— Just, give me a few seconds, I can—”
“You don't need to. I know what you would tell me. I am aware that you have other people in your life. That you must. That it is unreasonable for me to want anything else. Not only unreasonable, but detrimental to your happiness." His fingers moved slowly against Will's scalp. “I won't say that it's an issue I can set aside and never think of again, but certainly we will not discuss it when I have you like this."
Will reached up for Hannibal's hand and gripped it tight, face pressed hard against his hip. "You're all I want," he said.
“Right now, that's true. And it's enough.”
Hannibal drove them both to Will’s house. He told Will to see to the dogs while he cooked, and Will took them out across the fields. Snow and mud had churned together into brown slush, and the sky had dulled to a flat gray, but Will felt his heart lift as he walked.
When he started back toward the house, he could see Hannibal’s silhouette in his kitchen window. He stood still and watched until the light had faded almost to nothing and the only color left in the world was the warm glow of his windows. Hannibal stepped out through the kitchen door and lifted a hand to call him home. Will fed the dogs on the porch and cleaned their feet before he let them inside.
“Don’t speak,” Hannibal told him, and they ate in silence. The dogs settled around the fireplace. Peace filtered down like dust all around them.
After dinner, Hannibal sat in Will’s armchair, and Will sat at his feet. Hannibal read on his tablet. Will drifted, nearly asleep until Hannibal’s hand tightened in his hair. “Another interesting article by Ms. Lounds,” Hannibal said.
Will cleared his throat. “I get to talk now?”
“I think you should, yes. He'll track the news reports of them as avidly as any second rate painter clipping reviews from the back of a city paper?”
Will winced. Thank you, Freddie Lounds. Again. “I was angry.”
“You’re still angry.”
“It comes and goes. I’m still here.”
Hannibal’s grip gentled. He set the tablet aside and stroked down the back of Will’s neck. “Yes. We both are.”
“Do you still think this won’t work?”
“I believe it’s worth making the attempt. I am committed if you are.”
That was probably as close as he’d ever get to a promise regarding the Ripper’s retirement. It was enough. Hannibal stroked through his hair again. Will listened to the dogs breathing, the shift and creak of the house. He watched the steady glow of the space heater.
“I told you, I’m not going anywhere,” he said.