Chapter Text
The Monday after Abigail told Will about helping her father, and about Nicholas Boyle, he didn't come to visiting hours. In his defense, he had warned her during the mostly silent car ride back to the hospital to drop her off that he needed a bit of time to process the new information.
It didn't make it hurt any less, but at least she wasn't as worried.
On Tuesday, she detailed Hannibal's delicious food, which she couldn't remember the taste of, but she had sat at his table enough to make a polite guess about the menu, to Doctor Bloom. She did mention that Will had been absent the previous day, but then brushed it off as him just being tired.
Abigal expected Doctor Bloom to just accept her explanation and continue on to her questions about how group therapy had gone yesterday. To her surprise, Doctor Bloom's face fell to something sadder, more somber instead.
"He has been very tired lately, hasn't he? I'm worried about him, I'm afraid he's getting sick."
Abigail was taken aback by the honesty, Doctor Bloom seldom let herself talk about personal concerns, which Abigail understood as her professionalism. If she was bringing it up, she must have been desperate to share said worries, to have someone listen.
That boded bad for Abigail. Doctor Bloom's genuine care for Will was an inconvenience at best, one she needed to curb as soon as possible. She also needed to deal with what was worrying Doctor Bloom, the encephalitis, but that plan was still a work in progress that would have to wait until Will was comfortable with her again. For now, she would have to act like she saw no reason to worry.
"The nightmares, I'm sure. They can be unforgiven, and Will doesn't strike me as the kind of person able to fall back asleep after a nasty nightmare," she placated the doctor, not even lying. Will was having nightmares, and he had told Abigail that he could never fall back asleep. In his own words, he was living on less sleep than he had when he was a college student.
The mention of nightmares seemed to shock Doctor Bloom out of her casualness, and Abigail could see her straighten her shoulders back, her expression closing off, her eyes showing no other emotion than compassion.
"Can you relate to that?" the doctor asked, turning the conversation to Abigail's problems once again.
"I don't think so. My nightmares are about dying, Will's are about killing. I would say we have quite different problems," she explained.
She liked it when she could tell the truth. Abigail didn't mind lying, but there was something empowering about saying the truth, knowing she could be herself without getting exposed. It was the exact reason she had decided to come back to this time, instead of before her father's first murder.
Doctor Bloom was much less content with her response, although Abigail couldn't point out why. She knew about her nightmares, after all.
"Do you talk to Will about his nightmares?" She sounded both put off and curious. Her professional curiosity about Will shone through, but also her refusal to see him as anything other than a man with a delicate mind.
"Sometimes, I guess, but he doesn't like to share much. I don't need him to, though. His problem is that he's good at getting inside killer's heads, not so good at getting out." She was paraphrasing what she had heard many times from Hannibal, minus the part where he said the reason Will had that problem was that his subconscious was sinking its claws into the rush it gave him to be in the head of the killer, to make up for the fact that he didn’t dare to do it himself.
She had thought back then that it was a bold assumption to make, but as Will kept working cases during and after jail, he indeed seemed to no longer have that problem. Of course, there was also the external factor of the encephalitis, but she had to agree that it hardly could have been affecting him that much that early. Probably.
Abigail could tell Doctor Bloom was getting increasingly uneasy about the conversation, and she thought about sidestepping the topic and shutting down the doctor's train of questioning, but Abigail could feel an opportunity there. An opportunity to push her away from Will, if she played her hand right.
"And that doesn't make you uncomfortable?" Questioned the Doctor.
"Why? Because one of his nightmares might be of him in my father's place? Maybe even slashing my own throat?" She looked at the doctor and waited until she nodded to answer. "No, it doesn't make me uncomfortable. I know some people see him as a time bomb about to go off, but I wouldn't do him the disservice of assuming he's anything other than in complete control of himself. Dreams are just that, dreams."
A bit of a stretch in some places, although Abigail did believe Will was currently sound enough of mind, and she didn't intend to let him get to a place where he wasn't. More importantly though, she could see the vague guilt on Doctor Bloom's face, they both knew she was included in those "some people".
Doctor Bloom sighted, and finally asked how group therapy went.
On Wednesday, Abigail made sure to keep her expectations low, and spent the entire morning waiting for the phone call where Will would cancel on her again, if she even got that. She also was prepared for him to just not come.
When the visitor's hour finally began, there was a knock on her door, and after she gave her permission, Will walked into her room.
He had a chessboard in his hands. Abigail thought it was quite mean to choose a game she had said she only knew the basics of, and the basics consisted of how to move each piece, but he was there instead of locked away in his house, so she gracefully accepted the passive aggressiveness.
One of her worst weaknesses at the time was that she depended on people coming to visit. If Will decided to stop, she couldn't do anything about it, and she lost all influence over him, so it was vital that he kept coming.
They set up the game without talking, and Abigail wondered if they would have a silent day. If so, she could deal with that, better to have Will processing his complicated feelings about her involvement in eight murders where she could see him than in private. She wondered what his session with Hannibal would be about.
Soon after they began the first game, Will spoke.
"You don't need to keep quiet so I don't get scared off, I get enough of other people walking on eggshells around me," he grunted. It was evident he wasn't in a good mood, which made Abigail want to keep quiet even more, but she forced herself to go against that instinct.
"Would I be wrong to assume Doctor Bloom is one guilty of that? She seemed worried about how tired you've been looking. She fears it may go beyond nightmares." Will's grimace is answer enough. Doctor Bloom is many things, but quiet about her concerns is not one of those.
"How are your nightmares going? I assume you were telling the truth about having them, you look tired enough," he asked, turning the conversation back to her.
So, he didn't want to quietly process this, at least not anymore. He came because he needed to reconstruct his idea of her, and the best way to do it was with her in front of him, answering all his questions now that she had no reason to lie. At least, no reason he would understand.
"They got worse after I came back on Sunday. The general idea was the same, me dying over and over again, but now I wasn't alone. It didn't make it better though, I felt they were watching, as if they had first-row seats to see me fail, see me die anyway after everything I did to escape that ending," she shared. She could still feel it when she closed her eyes, all those eyes on her. Waiting, ready to enjoy her failure.
"They haunt you," he summarized.
"Sure, if that's what you want to call it, although I would say what haunts me is the fear that I will end up like them. Or behind bars. They are just an easy reminder of both." She moved her knight, just for Will to move his rook and,
"Checkmate." Abigail cursed under her breath, a glance at the clock told her she lasted around five minutes. She reset the pieces while Will kept talking. "It's not that they are dead at all, or that you helped kill them, that bothers you then?"
"No, at least not anymore. I made peace with that. It was them or me, I chose myself, I can live with that." This time Will had the white pieces, so he made the first move. Abigail decides to just copy him, wondering if it would go better than whatever she had tried before. "What would your professional opinion about that be? A psychopath? You have plenty of experience with those."
She was baiting him, to see if he would admit to seeing her the same as all those other killers inside his head. He had no way of knowing she had had months already to, if not get over, put away the guilt, enough that it didn’t wear her down anymore. He chuckled and found something that made her angrier than she had expected.
"No, not a psychopath. A traumatized teenage girl groomed by her father and desperate to survive, who is also a bit too good at compartmentalizing. You, Abigail, are still a victim, even if not only a victim." He looked her in the eye, aware of how much she hated being reduced to a victim.
It was a low blow, but she had to admit it was not an inaccurate one.
"I don't think those six girls would agree with you," she retorted, knowing she was just being difficult.
"Just six?"
Abigail frowned, then remembered she had never actually told him about that first time. The girl that had died because of her, but that she never thought of as her as her victim.
"Maybe the first one would agree. I met her on the college tour, my dad insisted I should go talk to her and invite her for a coffee. I thought he was just worried about me being alone and wanted to help me make a friend, even if neither of us had decided on going there yet." If only she, and how horrible of Abigail it was that she couldn't even remember her name, and she refused to ask Will, had declined. Had told her she had other plans, but she seemed nice and hadn't been opposed to making a friend. "We walked out of the coffee shop; my dad offered her a ride to her hotel. Next thing I knew, the girl was dead in the trunk, and I was in the copilot seat. We drove all night until we got to the cabin. I was still in shock, made it easier to just follow whatever instruction my father gave me. And then when he dropped me back home and reminded me that I couldn't tell anyone because I helped him, I just kept quiet. I was afraid."
"You weren't an accomplice, most people would comply after seeing a murder in cold blood, it's a survival instinct," he pointed out, chess game mostly forgotten in front of them.
"Yes, that did occur to me after the third girl was dead. By then, it was too late. I think my dad was counting on that, I just needed to believe him for long enough." She moved her tower but was left waiting when Will didn't move any piece.
Abigail looked back at him, and he was looking straight at her. His sight didn't look focused though, so she assumed he was somewhere inside his mind.
"Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Stop trying to get into my father's head. He's dead, you caught him. If you want the details so you can sleep at night, I can give them to you, but I don't want you to keep trying to think like him," she demanded. While it was true that it didn't make her nervous or even uncomfortable, it was useless. She wanted Will to bond with her, the real Will, not whatever shadow of her father remained up there.
"I was not trying to get in his head," he assured her.
"Then what are you doing?"
"I'm trying to understand you. I maintain that you are traumatized, and I promise you meet next to no criteria of psychopathy, but your emotional removal from the situation is unusual. You are detached from some parts, and extremely sensitive about others, and I can't quite see the pattern." Abigail tried to catch his eyes, but he looked down at the chess chessboard. He still didn't make a move.
Abigail stomped the impulse of rolling her eyes. Will's reconstruction of someone's mental state heavily depended on him having enough context clues. Unless he somehow could read in her face the outlandish situation she found herself in, he would never have enough pieces to see the full picture. It must have been frustrating for him, being so much closer to her than to so many others he had read like a book, and still feeling blind half the time.
It gave her some twisted satisfaction.
"How can you be sure of that? You have let your fondness for me blind you for weeks, aren't you afraid you are making the same mistake?" She asked, because she needed to push more, she needed a confirmation of anything, and because sometimes even she doubted. She knew she was not Hannibal, but she also knew he was not a normal psychopath if he could even be categorized as one.
"Despite my previous shortcomings, I still have an empathy disorder. You can't fake a panic attack in front of me," he explained, putting her on check on the board.
She moved her king out of check, cringing on the inside about the reminder of her breakdown on Sunday.
"I was afraid of how you would take the truth; I spent days thinking of worse-case scenarios, I'm surprised I kept it together as much as I did," she confessed. And then, in a lower voice, not really wanting to verbalize it, she added, "I hate losing control of my feelings."
"I know," Will said with understanding. "But that wasn't the one I was talking about."
It took Abigail a second to understand what he was referring to, until she remembered finding Marissa in the cabin, how she had broken down at the evidence that she had let her best friend, her only friend, die because she was too afraid to risk it and save her.
Abigail made a daily effort not to think about that, just as she avoided so many other things, but this one was the most difficult. Abigail loved Marissa, she really did, her best friend was perfect. The first time around, Abigail had burrowed all her grief under the thousand other things she worried daily about, but back then she hadn't known much about her death, and she had even believed that Nicholas had killed her. By the time she found out it had been Hannibal, she had locked all her feelings away.
This time, however, after being close to her one last time, after having her defend Abigail and smile at her once more, and after she basically signed her death sentence, it was impossible to ignore. She had two whole days to at least try and think of an alternative, but it hadn't even occurred to her.
Abigail was aware she had started crying. Her breathing was steady, her voice firm, but she couldn't stop the flow of tears.
"Have you ever been afraid that you are in a nightmare you can never wake up from?" She asked but didn't wait for a response. Abigail still remembered her first time seeing the body, she plucked the words from that memory. "That's what seeing the body felt like. When I woke up from the coma, the nightmare was supposed to be over, my father was dead. And yet there it was, a new dead body.”
"And then you found out it was Marissa," Will prompted.
"And then I found out it was Marissa, and I realized I got my best friend killed because she wanted to see me." For a second, Abigail was afraid she had said too much, but then she remembered that, if she believed that it had been Nicholas Boyle, then he would've chosen Marissa for defending Abigail, and so it was not a suspicious statement. "I feel so guilty about her death, and I try not to think about it at all, but it still hurts."
She didn't know what she had expected from Will, he sucked at being reassuring, and he wasn't very happy with her either, so she doubted he would even try. She did know that she wouldn't have guessed his next words in a thousand years.
"Maybe you should try to talk about that in group therapy."
Abigail first assumed that Will was still just being bitchy, but his expression seemed honest.
"You think it would help?" She felt skeptical about it. Being vulnerable in front of others wasn't something she wanted.
"Maybe. I think at least more girls should be able to relate to the survivor's guilt, in a way they can't about the involuntary cannibalism." That made Abigail laugh, even if it wasn't funny at all. Will seemed satisfied with her reaction. "Worst case scenario, it just helps you win points with Doctor Bloom, she's not happy with your lack of openness in group therapy, even if you have been more of an active participant. Everyone is waiting for you to have a breakdown, so you can build from there."
"Do I need to have a breakdown? What happened to 'everyone's trauma presents in different ways, and they are all valid'?" She mocked, imitating the, at least in her opinion, condescending voice nurses and psychologists used.
"You are repressing too many emotions not to have a breakdown eventually, even if I can see it won't be this one. Maybe it will be about something you can't talk to them about, but right now it will make you look more normal to give them this." He stopped for a moment, weighing his words. Abigail wondered if he was just realizing he was helping her get out of the suspects list. "Also, we both need extra points with Doctor Bloom if we want her to let you come fish with me any time soon."
Abigail let a smile, the first one of the week, grow in her face. It must have looked strange, in between fresh and dry tears and probably red eyes, but it was the genuine happiness you can just feel when you get exactly what you wanted. The promise of a future where Will taught her how to fish, a reassurance that their relationship hadn't been destroyed by the ugly truth.
Her plan was still on track, she could do this, even if she had to have another hundred conversations as difficult as this one.
"Checkmate," announced Will, moving his queen.
She cursed again. Stupid game for smart people.
She knew Will was right, no matter how much she tried to be supportive and helpful to the other girls in her group, she still hadn’t opened. She sometimes shared her mild frustration, but nothing that she felt genuinely affected by.
She didn’t like people looking at her and seeing her weak spots, Abigail felt like it was asking for people to hit her there. Besides, showing weakness invited pity, once someone saw you cry, they never looked at you the same.
She lay awake all night, trying to remember the last time she was willingly vulnerable without any ulterior motives, just to realize she couldn’t remember. And it was not as if she thought she was doing something wrong, she was doing what was necessary, but thinking about Marissa made her think about all she had lost and…
“It has come to my attention I am struggling with feelings of regret,” she explained when it was her turn. All the girls looked surprised at her deviation from her usual mild complaints about nightmares and boredom. The psychologist who directed group therapy did a much better job at dissimulating, but Abigail could see the spark in her eyes.
Looking for a less annoying reaction, she glanced to her right, where Carmen was smiling warmly at her. Across the circle, Mary gave her the thumbs up. A bit too much excitement, made it harder to keep going than Will’s nonchalant attitude, but it was better than everyone else.
She took her time before continuing, knowing they wouldn’t push her.
“Ever since I woke from my comma, I have avoided showing too many emotions, especially when I think it could make me be perceived as weak or delicate. That means that when I was back in Minnesota and my best friend escaped from her house to see me, I didn’t ask her for a hug, even though she was the only person left from my old life, and even though I really wanted to hug her.” She kept her eyes on her hands, not wanting to see anyone’s reactions. She made sure her voice was still normal; she didn’t want anyone else to see her cry.
“Now she’s dead, and I will never hug her again, I lost that opportunity. And I can see how the moral of that story should be that I shouldn’t deprive myself of the comforts that being emotionally vulnerable can bring, but I can’t just do that because I’m still part of an active investigation of the FBI, and this tabloid reporter keeps bugging me about how I need to clean my image because everyone thinks I helped my father, and even in this hospital I feel eyes on me all day long, I don’t feel like I can be vulnerable.”
The last part had been a runoff, she knew it. She hadn’t sounded as neutral and meditative as she had intended, instead her more genuine fears had come out.
Carmen extended her left hand to her, an offer that Abigail rejected with a shake of her head. That was exactly what she didn’t want, people feeling like she needed comfort or to be handled as a fragile object.
Abigail wasn’t sure what more to expect, but one of the girls, the one that always did that little girl voice Abigail complained about so often to Doctor Bloom, was the first to break the silence.
“Regret is for when there was a better option you didn’t take, but if the way you were holding up, especially so soon after you woke up, was to put a strong front, then you did what you could to cope.” She had that tone they all acquired when repeating the same affirmations their psychiatrists reiterated all day long, but Abigail could tell she was genuine anyway. “I know usually when we talk about not blaming ourselves for the ways we naturally cope, we think about the ones of us that do it louder, but it applies to everyone.”
All the girls nodded, a safe agreement of things they heard daily. Abigail wasn’t sure why would she find that reassuring, since even though it was an automatic reaction, it was one she could override, she just hadn’t thought of it in time.
“How did it ‘come to your attention’?” Asked Mary. At Abigail’s evident confusion, she elaborated. “You don’t think much about your feelings, and this was quite the introspection.”
Almost involuntarily, she nodded in acknowledgment. Mary was quite right about that.
“I was talking with Will yesterday, Marissa came up, and he has a way to see through people. Once I stopped crying, he said that while he understood the impulse of closing up, I couldn't keep bottling up all of my feelings forever, and this was as good place as any to start,” she explained, more or less maintaining the original idea of that conversation, except for the part where they both agreed it would make Doctor Bloom more likely to be compliant.
“Sounds to me like there do is a place where you feel safe enough to be vulnerable,” concluded Mary, looking satisfied.
After a moment, Abigail nodded again. She could admit it was true; she felt safe to look weak in front of Will, knowing he wouldn't exploit it as Hannibal would, wouldn't turn against her as most of the world would, wouldn't even pity her, having too much first-hand experience on how enraging that was. It was to her benefit that he saw her like that, especially while their relationship was still in a tumultuous place, but when he had brought up Marissa, Abigail didn't have any angle or plan on how to use that conversation, she had just talked.
“I think it's wonderful you are finding moments where you can start working through your feelings,” added the therapist. “If you find it difficult to open up to other people, maybe you could try a diary? Some of the girls find it easier to process feelings on their own first too.”
Abigail knew that it was an immediate no. Writing down what she was thinking was leaving evidence of her crimes, one she would be hyperaware of. Paranoia of someone reading that diary would drive her mad.
She couldn't explain that, of course, but she would prefer to not have to maintain a facade of doing it.
“I don't think it would help, if I'm left to my own devices, I end up not thinking about my feelings at all.” While not the main reason, it was true that even without the paranoia, she wasn't sure she was the type to write down her feelings.
The therapist frowned a bit, maybe fearing that this session would be an anomaly in her progress and that she would go back to not talking about anything important if she couldn't find a tool to help her.
“Well, try it anyway. You don't have to necessarily write down your feelings, just whatever you feel like. I've met a few girls that have developed quite the passion for creative writing, especially poetry, while trying to keep a diary.”
Abigail nodded, knowing she would now have to do it. That's what she got for trying to be genuine in here, stupid homework that wouldn't take her anyway since she couldn't do it in any significant way. She was complaining about it to Will the next time she saw him, this was his fault.
The next morning when Doctor Bloom arrived, Abigail could immediately tell the woman was tense. Considering it was barely nine in the morning, it was quite impressive that it was obvious she was having a bad day, and Abigail said so.
“Having a bad day already? Did you even have breakfast yet?” She joked. Doctor Bloom gave a brief smile, probably not finding the joke funny but not wanting to inflict her bad mood onto Abigail.
“Yes, I had breakfast. While on the phone with Jack Crawford and Frederick Chilton, not my favorite way to start my morning,” shared the doctor. Abigail didn't know Agent Crawford beyond her place as his suspect, but she had the idea that he had a more friendly relationship with Doctor Bloom. Of course, if he was calling her so early... Abigail could imagine it wasn't to catch up.
“Who's Frederick Chilton?” Asked Abigail. She was sure she had heard the name, it was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't place it.
“A colleague of mine who works in the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He's an accomplished psychiatrist, but he can be a bit tiring, especially before six in the morning.”
Yes, she now remembered. Doctor Chilton was the psychiatrist in charge of Will when he was incarcerated. If Hannibal was to be believed, which in this case he was, the man was exactly the type of psychiatrist who gave Will plenty of reason to feel an instinctive rejection of anyone who worked on the field. And if Agent Crawford was involved, it was likely Will would be too, which augured a long week in his future.
“You had a long day already,” commiserated Abigail.
“Yes, but let's not waste time with that, how was group therapy?” Doctor Bloom changed her posture when she assumed her role as a psychiatrist, she sat with a straighter back, but just barely. Not enough to look unapproachable, just to have a more put-together aura. You could barely tell she looked tired now.
Instead of her usual complaining round, Abigail took the notebook, a pastel pink ugly thing she had been given by the group therapist after the session, and put it on the table of the room, one of the several rooms available for the patients' appointments with whatever professional they needed.
“I wasn't aware you were interested in journaling,” commented the doctor. Unlike the group therapist, she didn't show her eagerness for Abigail to finally do something other than act as if nothing was wrong with her.
“I'm not, but I was a bit too honest in group therapy, I'm afraid, and now I have homework. The therapist originally said I try to use it as a diary, but when I explained I wasn't the type to write down whatever I'm feeling, she suggested I just write whatever I want. I didn't have the heart to tell her I'm not into poetry either.” She ended with a joke, not wanting to look too put out by her new assignment, that could be counterproductive.
“Do you feel like telling me a bit more about that honesty? Maybe if I know why she felt you could benefit from a diary, I can help you brainstorm other things to do with it other than writing poetry,” prompted Doctor Bloom.
Abigail didn't feel like it, not really. The last two days had been too emotionally grating on her, and she half regretted having talked at all, but she was now in too deep, and if she had already gone through all of this, she would at least reap the benefits of the brownie points with Doctor Bloom.
“I acknowledged my unfortunate habit of being allergic to emotional vulnerability, which comes from my fear of being seen as weak. I explained I sometimes regret that it stops me from getting the comfort I want. The therapist said that if I have problems opening to people, it may be easier for me to process my feelings first writing them down for only myself to read,” she summarized. She had talked about her best friend two days in a row already, she refused to make it three days.
“What kind of comfort do you feel you are missing out on?” Asked Doctor Bloom, but Abigail shook her head. It was a rare occurrence where she outright refused to talk about something, instead of just touching the surface to then deflect the topic, but just the idea of saying her name again made her feel sick.
If Abigail had to guess, she would say the process of grieving had finally begun, and she didn't want to share that. Grieving, she knew how to do, she had grieved her own life several times before, she could grieve her best friend alone.
Doctor Bloom accepted that, knowing that if Abigail refused to talk about it, she wouldn't budge. She wrote it down though, just as she wrote down most of what Abigail said, so she would probably bring it up in the future. Maybe by then, Abigail would feel ready to talk about it again.
“Okay, can I ask then what brought your wish to share that? You have been very reticent to group therapy, and while I know that you have tried to be an active participant, the nurses have shared that with me, I know by your own account that you hadn't felt like you could share your feelings with them before.”
Abigail smiled at that.
“Mary asked the same thing, more or less.” Doctor Bloom smiled at that too.
“Well, you've told me that, even though you spent quite a bit of your free time with her and Carmen, you avoid emotional conversations with them, so she would be more aware of your patterns than other girls you only talk to twice a week.”
Abigail rolled her eyes playfully at that. Fine, her emotional repression was borderline pathological, and everyone could see it, she hadn't been subtle enough about it, she understood.
“Yeah, whatever. I was talking with Will about it on Wednesday, there was a bit of crying on my part, and in the end, he said it could be useful to talk about it in group therapy.” After a beat, since Doctor Bloom was receptive to their dark humor in a way the other girls weren't, she felt it safe enough to add, “He said that since my problem was that no one else could relate to the involuntary cannibalism, I could at least try with my other feelings, that it might be common ground with them.”
Abigail had expected a bit of reproach about the non-serious talk about cannibalism, something Doctor Bloom hadn't even tried to touch yet, maybe even an agreement of the overall idea. What she hadn't expected was the absolute disappointment on her face.
“So it was because of Will that you did it?”
Doctor Bloom honestly sounded like she would have preferred if Abigail had said she had just done it to test the reaction of her fellow patients at her showing actual symptoms of trauma, and Abigail was running out of patience for Doctor's Bloom reaction to anything Will-related.
“No, he suggested it, explained why he thought it could be good for me. I slept on it, decided he might be onto something, and tried it. It was not the first time he, or you or Hannibal for the matter, said something similar to me. I did it because this time I saw merit to the idea.” She knew she was being a bit aggressive, but she didn't appreciate the implication that she would do something she didn't think would help just because Will said it.
Abigail was way past going with other people's ideas just because. She was careful of everything she did, thought it over and only did it if she thought it was a good idea.
Doctor Bloom looked at her for a long minute. Abigail wondered if she would try to push, or if she would retreat and change the topic, as she often did.
“I know we had implicitly agreed to disagree on this, but I'm afraid I can't just keep not saying anything. Will is bad for your recovery. I think it would be for the better if you stopped seeing him.”
And so she took the first option. It was evident, though, that she hadn't planned to have this intervention today, she wasn't prepared to have this argument with someone as good at hitting where it hurt as Abigail was. And, to add to her disadvantage, she had already annoyed Abigail, who had been thinking just days ago that she needed to push Doctor Bloom away from Will.
The doctor didn't know it, but this was an argument that she had already lost.
“Everyone in the circle agreed that it was good that I had someone that I felt safe enough with to be vulnerable with, you know? You could try to be happy about my progress for a change,” she bit back, carefully picking words that would push Doctor Bloom into tricky territory she was even less prepared to fight in.
Her “professional” opinion about Will.
“They don't have the additional knowledge I do. You aren't being vulnerable with Will because you feel safe with him, it's just the effect he has on people,” the older woman argued. Abigail had to stop herself from smiling, that had been almost too easy, she had expected a bit more direction would be necessary.
“Wow, you really said that about him. Aren't you supposed to be his friend? You don't even talk about him like an actual human.” Abigail made her best offended expression, looking at the doctor as if she was just realizing what kind of person she was. “I mean, what is 'it's just the effect he has on people' even supposed to mean? He's a person beyond his empathy disorder, Doctor Bloom. A person perfectly capable of having normal human relationships. I can feel safe with him because he has shown to care about what happens to me as a person, no need to get his mental disorders into the mix.”
The doctor looked horrified at the accusation, but just as Abigail expected, she wasn't prepared to refute it, and so she tried to steer the conversation back to safer places.
“This is not about Will's condition; this is about your relationship with him. You are becoming dependent on him and his ability to understand you, you need to be able to connect with nor- with other people.” She did quite the save, but Abigail had been waiting for her to slip, so she hadn't missed it.
“To normal people, you wanted to say?” She didn't give Doctor Bloom time to deny it. “Well, I made wonderful progress with that yesterday, but you are more interested in my friendship with Will than in that, I fail to see how's that his fault.”
“Because you only talk about what is bothering you after you discuss it with him, you need to be able to take those steps by yourself.” Her arguments were becoming weaker, she couldn't keep up with Abigail's accusations, exactly as the girl wanted.
“Then why am I locked up in a hospital surrounded by nurses and psychologists and psychiatrists, supervised all day long? It doesn't feel like the steps I take to the bathroom are by myself.”
“You are here because you need a clean, neutral environment to heal, which Will is also disrupting, he's too closely related to your trauma, a constant reminder of what happened to you.”
“Only as closely related as Hannibal, and while, yes, you aren't a big fan of that relationship either, you are much less reticent there. You have gone as far as to give him permission to take me out for the evening, away from this clean, neutral environment that is oh, so necessary. Just admit that you have a problem with Will,” she provoked, knowing she was close to Doctor's Bloom wits' end.
“I don't have a problem with him, he's my friend, but he's also a man in a permanently difficult situation and, yes, I also think this is bad for him.”
There it was.
“You keep saying he's your friend, but you don't act as such. To me, it looks like you think you are his keeper, and he accepted it because he didn’t have any other friendly relationship. Except now he does, he has me and he has Hannibal, but he still allows you to treat him like a child because he doesn’t want to confront you about it.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He doesn’t have to, I can see it, as can anyone who knows you both and has seen you interact, even if they respect you too much to say anything about it.”
While a very general statement, she said it with a certainty that would make Doctor Bloom wonder who ‘anyone’ could she be talking about. And, since Abigail had a very limited social sphere, there was only one person she could have talked about that with.
Doctor Bloom looked genuinely upset, not just in the way when you get called out for something you did, but in a more personal way where Abigail could tell that the idea that Will just put up with her hurt. She also looked ashamed at the idea that more people could be thinking the same about her.
“I’m just trying to help you set healthier boundaries,” tried to refocus Doctor Bloom, knowing she had lost not only the battle but also her cool.
“I love the idea of healthy boundaries,” agreed Abigail. “Let’s start here: you are my psychiatrist; you are helping me because I went through a traumatic situation. I respect your opinion and make sure to always consider your advice, but ultimately you can’t tell me how to live my life, and I shouldn’t blindly follow whatever you say just because you think it’s the best for me.” She took another breath before concluding, “Therefore, I will continue accepting Will’s visits, because I appreciate the comfort he provides and I like to spend time with him. You are, of course, free to discuss your concerns with him, but you should consider you are the one overstepping boundaries.”
Abigail stood up, and after waiting for Doctor Bloom’s nod, she left the office, walking back to her bedroom. She doubted the Doctor would dare to approach Will, and so Abigail decided she could reward herself for a work well done with a nap.
Her Saturday passes without much notice. /Carmen/ got the origami book she promised from her mom, which gave her something to do in their free time. Despite Abigail’s slight but noticeable isolation the last few days, or at least as isolated as she could make herself without having the staff forcing an intervention, neither of her friends acknowledged any of her out-of-character behavior of the week, which Abigail very much appreciated.
Sunday came, and with that a visit from Hannibal. He wasn’t as constant as Will, at least not yet, but after the previous week, Abigail wasn’t surprised he had come. He and Will had their pseudo-therapy sessions on Thursday, so he must have already had a chance to see up-close how Will was dealing, he would now want to also check on her.
“Hello, Abigail, you look well rested,” he greeted her.
“Opposite to how I usually look dead on my feet? Maybe I’m finally getting better, do you think that means I will be out of here soon?” She joked. At least, she joked about getting out of here, since she knew she had long to go there.
She had never actually gotten out last time, but again, she had been a suspect in Nicholas Boyle’s murder, so perhaps Agent Crawford had wanted to keep a closer eye on her. Either way, she had at least a few months to go, that much she was certain of.
“Not yet, I’m afraid. And I meant more like you look relaxed, you usually look more tense,” he explained.
Abigail thought about it. She was still figuring out the best way to deal with Will’s encephalitis and, sadly, that was as far as a solid plan that she had. She knew he eventually would have to know about Hannibal being The Chesapeake Ripper and the Copy Cat if she wanted a chance at a good life, but she was nowhere near an idea of how to get that done without disastrous results.
However, Will knew about her, about all of her murders, and he was still next to her. She was sure that after feigning enough regret the next time she saw Doctor Bloom, she would have an easier time getting permission to go out of the hospital with Will, so deepening that relationship would be easier. And Hannibal had allowed such a deviation from his plans, without her or Will dying, so that front looked promising too.
She was in as good a position as possible at the time.
“I guess I am. Things have been going my way lately, that’s a foreign feeling, but I like it,” she accepted. “How are you doing?”
“Good, keeping myself busy. Our friends in the FBI are currently with a new case, so I suspect Will may require someone to bounce off his ideas with,” he explained. While it wasn’t unusual for the adults currently in her life to speak to her about FBI things she had no business knowing, the offered information was a bit suspicious.
She couldn’t put her finger on any particular emotion in Hannibal’s words, so she had to do a blind search on why he would tell her so.
“Oh, do you think Will might need to skip his visit tomorrow?” She still wasn’t sure that was what Hannibal wanted to get at, but she could already feel the disappointment setting in.
“I don’t think there’s a need, as the suspect is already in custody. In fact, he was already in prison.”
He brought out the tuppers with food he had and put the first one in front of Abigail. It was a wonderful stew, and she gave herself a moment to try to determine if it was lamb or human.
After the first taste, she came to the disappointing conclusion her paladar wasn’t developed enough yet to tell the difference.
“Then why do they need Will? Isn’t his whole thing catching the killers? Sounds to me like the work is already done there.” The conversation was reminiscent of the ones they had before when she was living in the house next to the cliff. He would tell her about Will’s current cases, but just piece by piece, forcing her to try and fit together the pieces, to ask the right questions.
It was curious. Hannibal had, at the moment, a long-term interest in her, especially since her relationship with Will was developing so quickly, but now that the cat was out of the bag with all of her murders, he didn’t have any short-term plans for her, so the only thing left for him to do was to push her to keep improving herself and her mind. It would be wasteful to let her wither in the not-very-stimulant environment of a psychiatric hospital.
“The patient, Abel Gideon, was arrested for murdering his wife in a crime of passion. On Thursday he killed a nurse, recreating the last confirmed murder of another serial killer. The wound patterns of this last murder were not released to the public, so his psychiatrist, Doctor Chilton, thinks he may be that serial killer after all.”
That’s when a light turned on in Abigail’s head. While she hadn’t been told much, she could remember Hannibal mentioning that an inmate had claimed to be the Chesapeake Ripper, a few months before she had faked her death. This must have been him.
Internally, Abigail smiled. While Hannibal gave no outward sign, she knew he must be pissed off. Offended, even. The fact that not only someone tried to take credit for his art, but that people believed it? His ego wouldn’t stand that. It was a nice reminder that Hannibal’s emotions were sometimes as predictable as anyone else’s.
Since Abigail didn’t know much about the case, except for the fact that Abel Gideon was not the Ripper, she still had to concentrate to try and find the small blanks in Hannibal’s explanation. She felt a bit like a dog performing a trick, but at least it was better than the monotony of the hospital.
“Since the wound pattern was never made public, I have to wonder how Doctor Chilton knew to flag the FBI about it. I doubt that a murder in a hospital for the criminally insane usually requires much investigation, and from Will in particular.”
“Two important points you touched. Doctor Chilton is also a colleague of Alana, so he has done the occasional consult for the FBI, in particular, he helped with the current profile of the Chesapeake Ripper and therefore had seen pictures of the murder. The fact that Will was called could be attributed to the fact that the Ripper is Jack’s white whale, as soon as he hears the name, he wants all hands on deck.”
Abigail nodded, digesting the information. If she knew Will, she was sure he had already determined that Gideon wasn’t the murderer, copycats won’t fool him, so she decided to pry somewhere else.
“And how has Will taken to be put on another’s psychiatrist orbit? Especially one specialized in crazy criminals, it sounds a bit like his personal hell.”
Hannibal looked funnily at her, taken aback at the change of topic, so Abigail went back to close the previous one.
“You said Will may need to bounce ideas with you and, since everything else fits so well, that must mean he doesn’t think Abel Gideon is the Ripper. From what I’ve heard, his rate of being right since he was recruited is pretty high, so I believe him. I’m more interested in how he is doing.” Almost a perfect rate, except for her. And maybe Hannibal, but it was possible that there just wasn’t any evidence pointing that way yet; despite what it sometimes looked like, Will couldn't do magic.
“I’m sure he hated it. Frederik is not a smooth man; he wouldn’t dissimulate his hopes to write about Will’s mind. I haven’t talked to him yet though,” he admitted. “I have plans to ask Alana and Frederick to join me for dinner on Tuesday, so I may ask her how it went when I call her.”
Abigail stopped with her spoon halfway to her mouth. She had to warn Hannibal about what she had implied the other day.
“Talking about Doctor Bloom,” she intervened, sounding every bit as reticent as she felt. “We had a bit of a discussion the other day, she might react strangely to being asked about Will. Especially if you ask her,” she explained.
Hannibal looked somewhat impressed at the revelation, but not necessarily surprised.
“Can I ask what did you say to provoke that?”
“I told her that anyone who knew her and Will, and had seen them interact, could tell she treated him more like a child and less like a friend and adult that could care for himself, even if they respect her too much to say so. That last part probably implied you thought so, since I don’t know that many people that know both of them.” She didn’t apologize, at least not yet. She first wanted to see if Hannibal thought she needed to apologize.
“Carefully chosen words to hurt her, which I assume was your intention,” evaluated Hannibal. “I can see Alana losing control of the conversation when Will was brought up, but you wouldn’t just say that in the heat of the moment. So, why did you tell her that?”
“Because it's true, and because I was annoyed that all she ever seems to want to talk about is how my relationship with Will is detrimental to my recovery. Her personal feelings are getting in the way of her role as my psychiatrist, I don’t think it was wrong of me to confront her,” she justified. To her immense relief, Hannibal nodded.
“I agree. Alana is very good at her job, and keeping it separated from her personal life, but it seems Will is the exception on both fronts. Hostility, however, is seldom the most effective path to achieving what you want.”
Abigail crossed her arms, defensive. Those were bold words from a man who reacted to rudeness with murder. Doctor Bloom was still alive, and Abigail intended for her to stay that way, so really a bit of hostility wasn’t too drastic in her book.
“I’ll apologize when I next see her,” she conceded. “But do you think it will work? She’s getting on my nerves.”
Hannibal took a moment to consider it.
“If Will doesn’t dismiss your words, then yes. Do you think she will bring it up with him?”
“No,” she answered without hesitation. “She’s too ashamed that she let the session escalate like that, and that it got so personal.”
“Then I believe you will get away with it. Do you plan to tell Will?” He asked.
Abigail wondered what would happen if she said no; if Hannibal would try to convince her otherwise, or if he would jump at the opportunity of another secret just between them. Or a third option she couldn’t visualize because Hannibal’s actions only made sense to him.
“Of course. I’m sure she’ll be avoiding him as much as possible for the next few days, the least I can do is tell him why.” She wasn’t even nervous about it. He would deny she was right, but Abigail remembered the bitterness in the accusation that she was now too walking on eggshells around him.
She realized Hannibal never actually denied or confirmed that he agreed with Abigail, and while she knew it was the latter, she wondered if she could get him to admit it.
“What would you tell Doctor Bloom if she confronted you about it?” She asked, not seeing a less direct way to get him to say it.
“I would tell her that I think Will is not a danger to you, and that you are right that she’s letting her personal feelings taint her professionalism.”
“Doctor Bloom is not a dumb woman, she would read between the lines,” pointed Abigail out with a smile. “She already knows I’m right about that last part, and by not addressing her real question, you may as well be confirming it.”
Hannibal smiled back, and took her now empty Tupper back, before pulling out the next one. He began a monologue about the history of the dish and the method of preparation.
Abigail paid the attention it deserved. After all, she had already gotten what she wanted about this conversation.
When Will came into her room the next day, he was angry. Not moody, not grumpy, not even in a bad mood, as he had been last visit, but genuinely pissed off.
He hadn’t even picked up a board game, he just let himself fall into the chair, running his hands all over his face.
For a moment, Abigail considered he could be mad at her, maybe she had miscalculated and Doctor Bloom had approached Will about their fight, but she discarded the idea when she saw his shoulder relaxed minimally as the seconds passed. Whatever had him so angry wasn’t in here, it was outside.
“Good afternoon to you too,” she greeted him, to which he only gave an answering hum. “Looks like you’ve had a shit day. Care to share what happened?”
“Freddie Lounds happened,” he gave as an answer.
“Really? I was betting on Doctor Chilton, he sounds like a nightmare, and I wasn’t even aware you were currently dealing with Freddie.” Abigail felt a bit bad for him, he had a very stressful past few days.
Will gave her a surprised look, but then let out a small smile. His mood was improving by the minute just by being there.
“Glad to see I’m not the only one running my mouth around you. What do you know of the current case? Wouldn’t want to bore you by telling you things you already know.”
“Abel Gideon is in jail for a crime of passion, but now he recreated the last murder of the Chesapeake Ripper, with details never revealed to the public. Doctor Chilton, who had worked as a consultant with the FBI for that case, sounded the alarm, but you don’t believe he’s the real deal,” she summarized. “Is your bad mood because they don’t believe you?”
Will shook his head.
“No, they believe me. Alana agrees with me, she was Gideon’s psychiatrist for a time. She suspects Chilton may have planted the idea on Gideon’s head; accidentally, of course.” His tone said everything needed about what he thought about the accidental part.
“Is Freddie publishing the story about him being the Ripper anyway? How did she even know that was a theory?” The journalist clearly had her sources, but for something that happened inside the BSHCI? One would think they would be able to keep that under wraps.
“Yes, she is publishing it, because Jack Crawford has decided that, if Gideon isn’t the Ripper, then he is an opportunity to bait the actual one into the open, since he’s been inactive for years.”
That made a lot more sense. Abigail couldn’t say it was a bad plan, certainly Hannibal wouldn’t just let someone take credit for his art. Will was visibly upset explaining it, though.
“And you don’t like the idea… why? You don’t think it’ll work?” She doubted that, Will wasn’t one to be so off the mark, but it was difficult to follow him at the moment.
“Not like Jack is expecting. The Ripper will come back, and he will kill again, but Jack is under the delusion that he will for some reason mess up. As if someone who spent years killing without leaving any evidence will become careless just because.” Abigail could recognize Will’s expression, it was the same one he wore when reading some of his student's assignments. The especially dumb ones. “He’s just going to make a fool out of us again.”
“You’ll look like fools twice. Once because Freddie will say the FBI does believe Gideon is the Ripper, and twice because you are just angering him without an actual plan to catch him.” Now she could understand why Will was mad. He was used to be the smartest person in the room. “Agent Crawford believes you can catch him?”
She placed an emphasis on you , talking about Will. As far as she could appreciate, he was the only significant difference between the last time Hannibal was active as the Ripper and now.
“He knows what I do isn’t magic tricks, I need evidence, and the Ripper doesn’t leave any. Most likely, he’s just not thinking clearly. He lost a trainee to the Ripper during his last cycle, it’s personal for him.”
Abigail took a moment to feel bad about Miriam Lass, who must currently be trapped in the house by the cliff, drugged out of her mind, like she was when Abigail met her.
“And now you’re stuck working with Freddie Lounds and getting the brunt of Agent Crawford’s frustration when this comes back to bite you in the ass,” she completed. “I imagine Doctor Bloom was concerned about the inevitable victims if the Ripper comes back.”
She didn’t point out that such concern hadn’t crossed Will’s mind, no need to remark on the obvious.
Will looked mildly chastised, until he looked up to her face and saw the lack of reproach. It must have been an automatic reaction, because she doubted Will would expect her to care. Either way, he nodded.
“Yes, it was nice to see someone else voicing this was not a good idea, but her concerns were also pushed aside.” A frown took over his face. “I think she might be avoiding me. She was acting strange around me, she felt uncomfortable.”
Abigail rolled her eyes. She knew Doctor Bloom wore her heart on her sleeve, but being that obvious?
“That’s on me. She had a problem with you pushing me to open up in group therapy, then the whole thing escalated.”
“I thought that was what she wanted.”
“It was, but not if you were involved, because that means it wasn’t me making progress, but you using your empathy disorder to make me talk about my feelings.”
“That’s… not how that works.”
“I know. I think she knows too, she said many things I’m sure she doesn’t mean, but she said them anyway because she doesn’t like that you keep coming. I told her off for treating you like an incompetent child, and I said the only reason you haven’t told her off for it was because for years she has been your only friend.”
“That’s also not true,” he tried to explain but Abigail just dismissed it with a hand gesture.
“I know that too, but she pissed me off, I wanted to hurt her. Besides, I wasn’t completely off the mark. You never told her because you care for her. After all, she’s one of the few people you actually like.” Will looked are her with skepticism, to which she shrugged. “Feel free to tell her I was wrong, and that you weren’t at all angry last week that she kept treating you like glass.”
Will’s face took a strange expression, one that Abigail had trouble reading. It wasn’t that he was too inside his head, but she could feel the gears turning either way. She decided next time she would tell him to pick up a puzzle to do, just to confirm her theory that he would have this same look in his eyes looking at it.
After that, she wasn’t sure what to expect from him.
“Are you trying to alienate me from Alana Bloom?” He chose his words in a funny way, as if he was repeating them. Abigail couldn’t remember him ever saying anything of the like, though.
It was almost enough to distract her from the fact that she was being called out. Almost. But she had known this was a risk with Will.
“I’m trying to help you, this way you can build a friendship with her where she sees you as a capable adult, an equal.” Abigail took a moment to ponder the risk of making Will close up, and decided it was worth it to make sure he didn’t dig further. “She was never going to date you either way, you know? I do think she likes you, but she also sees you as a patient.”
She mostly expected him to deny liking Doctor Bloom at all, saying they were just friends, but it seemed he knew it was useless.
“Yes, I am aware.” He sighted, before looking back at Abigail. She expected a more resigned look in his eyes, but he looked almost amused. “You know, the point of this was for you to get on Doctor Bloom’s good side, I don’t think you helped your case.”
Abigail’s jaw dropped at the accusation, she hadn’t expected that, much less the fact that Will seemed amused about it. He probably enjoyed that, at least for the moment, both were equally to blame for Doctor’s Bloom animosity.
Seeing as he was done complaining about his day, Abigail decided it was now her turn.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” she groaned. “Your dumb idea only got me the ugliest notebook where now I have to write down my feelings…”
The following day, Doctor Bloom asked Abigail to go on a walk for their session. Knowing that removing them from the room was a good choice to begin the conversation in a less hostile mood.
“I’m sorry for how I talked to you last time,” apologized Abigail as soon as they were out of earshot. “I got angry and said unnecessarily hurtful things. I know you are trying to help, and don’t deserve to be talked to like that.”
She had given ample time to decide how to word her apology. She wanted to sound genuine, but not to say or imply that the things she said weren’t true, just that she hadn’t adequately said them.
Doctor Bloom nodded, Abigail assumed she had heard the message loud and clear.
“Thank you. I also want to apologize, both for my unprofessional behavior last session and in general. You were right that my prejudices have tainted my opinions.” Her words, just like Abigail’s, sounded rehearsed, she had thought long about what to say, but they felt genuine just the same. “The truth is that Will hasn’t stopped your progress in any way, that was me projecting my fears. I promise I will do better.”
Abigail smiled. This had gone exactly as she had wanted. It seemed her good luck was still ongoing.
“Thank you,” echoed Abigail.
They walked around for two minutes in silence, allowing them to metaphorically walk away from the now-resolved problem.
“Did you bring your journal?” Asked Doctor Bloom, restarting their usual routine.
Abigail grunted.
“No. I haven’t written anything in it, it feels so awkward,” she explained. She knew she eventually had to write, give the therapist something so they would think she was getting better.
“I assumed as much. Don’t worry, I have some ideas for you to try, but first I must give you something.” From the pocket of her coat, she pulled out a notebook.
It had a hardcover, but what Abigail noticed first was the beautiful painting on the cover. It was a watercolor painting of a fawn drinking water from a river, its reflection visible too.
It took Abigail back to when his father taught her how to hunt. Actual animals, that is. Those were good enough memories, and the little fawn looked so peaceful.
“A peace offering?” She guessed.
“That wouldn’t have been a bad idea, but no. Will gave it to me this morning so I could give it to you, he went to a bookstore yesterday after he left here to find one to your tastes.” There was a soft smile on her face, and her voice was fond. Abigail was beyond impressed by the change of attitude; Doctor Bloom had truly done some self-reflection. “He said that it won’t help you to write if you feel offended by the ugliness of the journal every time you look at it.”
Abigail snorted. While it was true that the notebook they gave her was kinda ugly, she was mostly just frustrated by its existence. She couldn’t deny though, that this one was too pretty not to use it, it would be a waste.
“Thanks. I’ll thank him too when I see him,” she promised. “You said you had ideas on what I could do with it?”
The rest of the session was friendly in a way they hadn’t been in weeks.