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Chapter 1: Mischief of One Kind
Title: Listen Close to Me
Fandom: Hannibal (TV series)
Pairing/Characters: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs, Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz, Garrett Jacob Hobbs (in espiritu)
Word count: TBA (total), 3994 (chapter)
Rating: M
Warnings: Gore, maybe violence, improper use of beloved children's literature
Summary: Will Graham takes control of his life. Or someone does, anyway.
Chapter 1: Mischief of One Kind (and Another)
One moment, Will is leaning over his stove range, listening to the pop and sizzle of the butter as he slides the strips of trout into the skillet, and the next, he is standing before his small table, looking down at a tidily arranged plate of perfectly browned fish and microwaved beans. He lets out a shuddering breath, dizzy, and catches sight of the man seated in the chair opposite to him. Garrett Jacob Hobbs, blood splattered down his shirt and with the glazed eyes of death, smiles vacantly at Will and raises his glass--water--in a toast. His lips move, and although no sound comes out, Will recognises the familiar shapes--Do you see? Hobbs is asking.
This is a dream, Will realises suddenly. Well, that’s fine. Better than the alternative, anyway.
Do you see? Hobbs asks again, insistent now.
Will looks back down at his plate, which now bears the head of Abigail Hobbs, her long, dark hair spread in a halo around her. Her mouth has been pried open beyond the jaw’s capacity and is peeled outward to show her inner cheeks and tongue, all cleanly cooked and gently seasoned.
Do you see? asks Hobbs, the movements barely visible at the top edge of Will’s vision.
A dream, Will reminds himself. He stares at his full plate for a moment longer, and then shrugs and sits down. He picks up his fork and knife and tries a small slice of Abigail’s cheek. The flesh is tender, and he chews it thoughtfully.
“It’s good,” he tells Hobbs. “She’s good.” He picks up his glass. It is no longer a water glass drafted into service to hold whiskey, but is instead a wine glass. It is not made of crystal, but of some kind of glass, cheap but sturdy and not unlike the two wine glasses that are shoved to the back of one of his kitchen cabinets. The liquid inside is a rich, lively red. He swirls it gently and takes a sip. It is warm, almost hot, and it has a salty, coppery flavour. He swallows, and looks back at Hobbs. “I’ll take care of her,” he promises, solemn.
Hobbs smiles at him again, and between one blink and another, he is gone. Will looks back down at Abigail, lets his eyes caress the familiar features of his daughter fondly, and takes another bite.
--
“What do you mean,” Will asks, “that I’m not allowed to see her?” She’s my daughter, he wants to snarl, how dare you keep her from me? In the corner of his vision, Hobbs is nodding along, sharing his fury. Somewhere on the other side of the stabbing pain in his head, he knows that an excess of emotion will not help him here. He buries it as deeply as he can, masking the strain under his exhaustion and physical pain. It makes him look vacant, he suspects, empty and vulnerable.
Alana sighs, reaches across her desk to hold his hands in hers. “I’m worried about the reason for your attachment, Will. Given the circumstances, it may not be healthy. For either of you.”
Will can’t hide the curl of his lip, but with luck she’ll take it for wryness and not disdain. “My ‘circumstances’?”
“You killed her father, Will,” Alana reminds him gently, squeezing his hands briefly.
Her words jolt him, and he closes his eyes to hide that he wants to laugh, wants to scream. Killed her father? Hobbs’ hand grips his shoulder, a comforting presence.
“Will, are you alright?” Alana asks, staring at him in concern.
“Yeah, yeah,” he manages, swallowing his fury. Vulnerable but calm, he reminds himself. That’s what has been working the best. “Just, it’s been hard to get any sleep lately. Migraines, nightmares, you know.” He smiles weakly at her, inviting her to commiserate with him. The last few weeks have been difficult for everyone on the case; his confessed issues should be mundane enough in the circumstances to illicit just enough sympathy to smooth the path to his goal, but not enough to be of any real concern.
Alana is frowning, however, looking at his face seriously. “You seem a little flushed,” she says. “Have you been feverish? Any sleepwalking?”
Will isn’t fast enough to hide his surprise, and Alana takes it as confirmation. She isn’t wrong, but Will is furious with himself for the slip. She hesitates. “Will, have you ever considered that those symptoms may be due to more than stress? That they may have a physiological cause?”
Will’s breath catches in his chest. He has never been particularly… stable, but that might be excused, or even forgotten, if he suffers from a physiological illness, one that is serious enough to have implications on his recent behaviour, but which is mild enough to be easily treatable. Unlike with the psychological illnesses of which he has been so frequently accused, a physiological illness would be viewed in a serious light that never seems to stretch to the psychological. It would be considered to be an ailment separate from him as a person, something that could be cured and banished forever. A physiological illness could be his lifeboat off of this island of disrespect, disdain, disgust, fear. A physiological illness could be his bridge to Abigail.
But which illness? “I--” he says, stalling for time.
“I want to take you in for a brain scan,” says Alana firmly. Her tone allows no room for argument.
Alarm bells ring in Will’s mind. Not ideal! he protests. If they find nothing, I’ll be right back where I started. Worse, if they find something that isn’t treatable, something worse than what they already think of me-- “I’m not sure--” he tries.
“Actually, I’m going to call Hannibal.” Alana is reaching for her phone as she speaks, flipping through her contacts. “He’s your psychiatrist--it would be most appropriate if he were to refer you, and he has a number of close colleagues who are neurologists.”
Hobbs’ hand squeezes Will’s shoulder painfully. Will chances a glance back and can see that Hobbs is shaking his head.
“No, wait!” Will says desperately. Alana looks at him in surprise, her finger hovering above the call button.
Will’s mind races. Why would there be a problem with Dr. Lecter making the referral? Really, it seems preferable. If he finds himself diagnosed with a physiological issue that is… inconvenient, there is a chance that Dr. Lecter will be willing to let it slide. He is more flexible than Alana, more knowledgeable about the world and its flaws, its evil, the lengths to which one might need to go to find a balance. But Hobbs is adamant, and they are in this together now. He has to trust that Hobbs, that the part of Will’s mind that Hobbs occupies, is seeing something not yet visible to Will, just as he has before. “Not Dr. Lecter,” he says quietly. “Please.”
Alana toggles back to her main screen and pushes her phone away deliberately. “I would like to know why, Will,” she says. “I wasn’t aware that you were having any problems with Hannibal.”
How to navigate this? Will still might--probably will--need continued rubberstamping after this, and he isn’t interested in getting his conversations from anyone other than Dr. Lecter. His complaint has to be something that will justify him not being contacted for this, but which will be something that can be worked past in the future.
“Not problems, exactly…” Will trails off, searching his mind rapidly.
Hobbs’ nails dig into Will’s shoulders like talons.
Will looks at Alana, who under normal circumstances goes to such lengths to avoid being alone with him, and then he knows.
“Just, I--you know, he’s--” Will feels himself flush. It is because of the nerves, he knows, his anxiety over lying about something so directly, but it can only help his case.
Alana looks back at him steadily. “Yes, Will?”
“Very attractive,” Will blurts. He twitches, turning redder as Alana’s jaw drops open in shock. It reminds him of Abigail’s gaping mouth on his dinner plate, and he smiles fondly, absently. It is only after he’s done it that he realises it can help his play. He finds himself babbling whatever comes to mind. “And he treats me like I’m interesting, but like I’m more than just a brain to dissect--”
Is that true? With Hobbs’ iron grip anchoring him, Will thinks of Dr. Lecter and the way his sharp eyes follow Will around the room as his words poke and prod at Will’s insecurities, his morals. All at once, Will feels his resolve strengthen.
“--and it’s just, I don’t want that to change. I don’t want him to start looking at me like everyone else does, like I’m,” he drops his voice to a whisper deliberately, “crazy.”
Alana’s surprise has simmered down now, and she is looking at him with sympathy. “I understand, Will,” she says. “But you do realise that, given your feelings for him, it’s not appropriate to be seeing him as your therapist, don’t you?”
“It’s nothing that big,” Will hastens to argue, feeling the flush in his cheeks finally start to die down. “I’m sure I’ll get over it soon. And it’s not as though he,” he allows his voice to break slightly here, “reciprocates.”
Alana softens. She taps her fingers against her desk for a moment, then reaches for her phone again. “I still think you need to find a new psychiatrist,” she says, “but we’ll talk about that later. First, I’ll arrange an appointment with a neurologist for you.” She smiles at him conspiratorially. “Under the table, of course.”
Will stares down at his hands, clenched white in his lap. He gives her a weak smile in response, keeping his eyes downcast. He is near collapsing with relief--which she sees--held up only by the giddiness of his triumph--which she doesn’t.
While Alana speaks on the phone, Will glances over his left shoulder. Hobbs is nowhere to be seen, but that’s alright. He isn’t really gone, after all.
--
Will cancels his appointment with Dr. Lecter that week, to Alana’s obvious approval. Alana feels that he should avoid seeing Dr. Lecter in a professional setting again until they reach a conclusion to their earlier discussion, and Will simply doesn’t want to face Dr. Lecter again period, not until he has worked through his own embarrassment at his false confession, or perhaps convinced Alana not to share the information with anyone, ever. He is confident that she won’t tell Dr. Lecter about his crush until after she has a chance to talk it over with Will, and so there will be time to convince her that this has just been a brief affliction, perhaps something caused by the physiological illness that he still hasn’t selected.
He has, however, had a chance to research Dr. Donald Sutcliffe, the neurologist with whom Alana has scheduled his scan. His credentials are exemplary, but as Will scrolls through his pictures, his publications, his glowing reviews, he gets a sense of a slimy, slithery personality that he thinks might be amenable to some gentle persuasion, if he can find the right bribe. Not monetary, certainly, but the promise of the certain recovery from a fabricated rare illness due to a genius treatment might be sufficient. Will can stomach the thought of his brain being the subject of a paper only slightly more than his mind, but needs must, and Abigail, he knows, needs him. This sacrifice of pride is one that must be made.
Will scrolls through a list of diseases of the brain that manifest in the symptoms of migraines and nightmares, fevers and sleepwalking, and bites his lip thoughtfully. The feathered stag peers over his shoulder, its hot breath blowing into his neck, a promise of solidarity.
He can do this.
--
He can’t do this.
Alana takes her responsibilities seriously, and she waves him off when he says it might be easier to do this alone.
“I know what you’re doing, Will,” she says quietly. “This news could change your life.” She means, of course, that it could reveal a terminal illness. Will is less concerned. He had dismissed anything too serious from being an option, as it would likely not help him become Abigail’s legal guardian. “It’s like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, and you think that if you stumble, any audience will only be there to be afraid of you, or to mock you for falling. But I’m not here for that, Will. I’m here to catch you if you fall, to be afraid for you. To be your friend.”
Her words were sweet, had touched him, but her determination is nevertheless inconvenient. As the scan begins, Will seethes silently. With Alana standing next to Dr. Sutcliffe in the observation room, she will have first-hand knowledge of the results. He will have to find a way to meet with Dr. Sutcliffe privately at a later time, convince him to find an issue on re-evaluation.
When Will exits the chamber and reconvenes, once again fully dressed, with the doctors in Dr. Sutcliffe’s office, Alana looks tense and drawn. She doesn’t sit down, and instead remains standing, crossing and uncrossing her arms. Her eyes say, I’m so sorry, Will.
I can work with this, Will reminds himself. I’ll have him re-evaluate, or even do another scan. It’ll be fine.
Dr. Sutcliffe is sitting in his extravagant leather chair, appearing to be largely unbothered. “You have a moderate case of encephalitis, Mr. Graham,” he says. He seems somewhat buoyed at the idea, and searches Will’s face eagerly as though for further clues to Will’s condition. At the very least, Will had read Dr. Sutcliffe and his potential as a conspirator correctly.
Encephalitis is not an option Will had considered or researched. He isn’t sure he knows what it even is. “How severe is moderate?” he asks.
“It’s treatable,” Alana hurries to reassure. “Encephalitis is an inflammation of the brain--we’ll put together a full explanation for you. In your case, an ongoing cocktail of antivirals and anti-inflammatory medications should completely eliminate the problem. You’ll be fine.”
Will stares at her, his mind frozen. It sounds--ideal, really. Better even than what he’d had planned. “How long do I need to take the pills?”
Alana lets out a long breath. “A while, Will.” She looks at him sadly. “Months. And there’s more. We caught it fairly early on, but you’ll still need to spend some time in as an in-patient under observation. Even once you’re released, you’ll need to take it easy for the next few weeks. I’m recommending a long sabbatical from any work at all, and a much longer sabbatical from your consultations with Jack.”
Will stiffens and begins to protest. Alana cuts him off, “And it’s not a good idea for you to be staying by yourself, either, Will. Is there someone who can stay with you for a few weeks, once you’re out of the hospital? Not twenty-four seven, but someone who’ll be around?”
Will’s first, insane, peculiar thought is Dr. Lecter, and to his horror, Alana somehow manages to read it in his expression. “Not Hannibal,” she says sharply. At a surprised look from Dr. Sutcliffe, she softens her tone. “You know that his professional obligations come first, Will.” Her tone is too pointed to be subtle, and Dr. Sutcliffe’s eyebrows shoot up, intrigued.
Will can feel himself turning red. “I’ll ask around,” he mutters, furious and mortified. Alana looks slightly embarrassed as well as she glances at Dr. Sutcliffe uncomfortably.
As the conversation turns to cover his recovery plan in more detail, Hobbs touches his hand comfortingly to Will’s elbow and the ravenstag nuzzles at the back of his neck. Their presence reminds Will that, despite the inconveniences, he has gotten exactly what he wanted. Even before his recovery is entirely complete, he will likely be deemed restabilised, and will then be able to begin the process of adopting Abigail. He can even admit that a sabbatical from consulting might be beneficial for him and Abigail both.
Not feeling well, he texts Jack as an afterthought as Dr. Sutcliffe and Alana prepare for his trip to the hospital. He decides that vagueness is his best option. Can’t come in to work for the next little while.
Jack doesn’t reply.
--
On his first night in the hospital, the ravenstag visits him, its feathers drooping.
“Hey,” he tells it softly. “Don’t be sad. We’ll be alright.”
It plants its muzzle in the junction between his neck and his shoulder and exhales wetly. Will breathes out with it, and finally feels himself drift off to sleep.
--
The treatments go well. At least, that is what Will interprets from the pleased reactions of the doctors and nurses as they peer at the results of his tests. He closes his eyes and tries to prod at his own mind for changes, but other than a miraculous reduction of his headache, he feels the same weakness and exhaustion that has been haunting him for so long.
When his release date is set, Alana delicately suggests that driving will not be a good idea for some time. She offers to give him a ride home--she had driven him in anyway--but he declines as politely as he can manage, his mind already awhirl with plans. She gives him a ride back to Quantico instead, pointedly laying claim to his car keys, and he lets her without protest.
When she finally leaves him to go to her own office, he takes a detour down to the labs. He knows Alana is suspicious of his acquiescence and is even resigning herself to being his live-in guest for the near future. She still thinks he plans to either go without supervision, or turn to Dr. Lecter for it. He doesn’t, but those are his Plans B and C.
Plan A is in her lab, cleaning up and preparing to head out for the day. Perfect.
“Hi, Katz,” Will says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Whatever she has been working on is sensitive enough that she’s covered her face, but he can tell she’s smiling at him from the way her eyes crinkle beneath her goggles.
“Hey, Graham,” she replies easily.
Now he just has to hope that he hasn’t read her friendliness incorrectly. He knows he’s overstepping the boundaries of their acquaintanceship by leaps and bounds, but he’s depending on her natural appreciation for the absurd to get him through this conversation.
He clears his throat. “I just got out of the hospital today,” he begins, and her head jerks up in surprise, “I was admitted as an in-patient for a few days after I got my brain scanned. It turns out I’m the kind of crazy that needs live-in supervision while I go through the mountains of pills that are my treatment plan for the foreseeable future. Mind if I crash at your place for a while? Just two weeks or so.”
He can tell from the way the cloth mask stretches that Katz’s jaw has dropped. Her eyes are wide in shock.
He waits for a moment, and when she doesn’t seem likely to unfreeze, he prods, “Is that a no?”
Katz seems to jerk back into herself, and she shakes her head, laughing. “What are you even thinking, Graham,” she says. “Of course it’s a no!”
He nods, face blank. He’d expected that answer, of course, but now he’ll have to find a way to confront Alana. The question is, which of his back-up plans is B, and which is C?
“What would we even do with your million dogs in my flat? I’ll be crashing with you, obviously.”
Will stares at Katz, his mind at a complete standstill. His mouth moves soundlessly.
“This means you’ll be off work, doesn’t it? In that case, I also expect dinner hot on the table when I get home. Just so you know.” She winks at him outrageously.
Will’s eyes feel watery. He squints at her. “I kind of want to hug you right now,” he says.
“Please don’t,” she replies, grinning. “You don’t even want to know what that gunk on my lab coat is.”
Will fills out a long-term leave-of-absence form as he waits for Katz to finish clearing her space, and then he texts Alana a brief message--All taken care of. Except for Jack. He is not at all taken care of.
It only takes a moment for Alana to reply. Leave Jack to me.
Will fills Katz in with the gory details of his condition as she drives them both to her flat to grab a suitcase and snatch the perishables from her fridge. She is encouraging and shows no signs of judgement, even when he slips up and reveals that it was a relief to find that there was something wrong with him that can be treated with pills and not conversations.
As they head down to Wolf Trap, Katz finally asks the question that must have been weighing on her all evening. “You don’t--I mean, you didn’t ask me for this because you’re--” she stops herself, shakes her head, and asks bluntly, “You’re not into me, right?”
Will makes a face at her. “No, definitely not,” he says drily. “Sorry for the disappointment.”
There is no actual disappointment, he is relieved to see--that was a possibility, especially given her easy willingness to go out of her way to such a huge degree for him. She simply nods her head thoughtfully.
He senses that his denial wasn’t strong enough, but he struggles for a moment for a way to settle the matter without offending her. Of course, there is always the obvious solution.
“Actually,” he says quietly, “there’s a reason Alana was the one to take me for the scan and not, you know, my actual unofficial psychiatrist.”
Katz raises her eyebrows. “Oh? I sense a juicy scandal coming my way.”
Will snorts a laugh. It helps that he has already fed this to Alana. It makes the lie come more smoothly.
“No, not really. It’s just that Alana’s pushing me to ask for a referral to someone else.”
“What? No way! I thought she was the one who sent you his way in the first place.”
“Yes, well, she thought that we would make a good fit, that I could get to respect and like him enough to work with him. The problem is that I’m getting to like him a little too much.”
Katz is still laughing when she pulls into Will’s gravel driveway.
--
Katz helps him move the bed in his living room up into the master bedroom upstairs, and they make up the bed in the spare room together. She helps him with the dogs and with dinner, and it’s so nice, so companionable, in a way he hasn’t felt since he’d lived with his father, if even then.
As he lies down to sleep that night, exhaustion takes hold almost instantly, but he still has the chance to wonder how, over the course of a single day, this has become his life.
The ravenstag follows him through a maze in his dreams. When he finally reaches the exit, he finds himself in the darkened kitchen of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. They sit down at the table together, and Hobbs gestures at Will to serve himself.
Will selects the brain, carefully scooping a portion from the gaping hole in Abigail’s forehead and onto his plate. “You think I’ve gotten lost,” Will says, thinking of the maze he’s just navigated. He meets Hobbs’ glazed eyes. “I haven’t. I know what I’m doing, what I need to do. I’ll protect her. I’ll keep our daughter safe.”
Hobbs nods at him. You see, his lips confirm.
Fandom: Hannibal (TV series)
Pairing/Characters: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs, Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz, Garrett Jacob Hobbs (in espiritu)
Word count: TBA (total), 3994 (chapter)
Rating: M
Warnings: Gore, maybe violence, improper use of beloved children's literature
Summary: Will Graham takes control of his life. Or someone does, anyway.
Chapter 1: Mischief of One Kind (and Another)
One moment, Will is leaning over his stove range, listening to the pop and sizzle of the butter as he slides the strips of trout into the skillet, and the next, he is standing before his small table, looking down at a tidily arranged plate of perfectly browned fish and microwaved beans. He lets out a shuddering breath, dizzy, and catches sight of the man seated in the chair opposite to him. Garrett Jacob Hobbs, blood splattered down his shirt and with the glazed eyes of death, smiles vacantly at Will and raises his glass--water--in a toast. His lips move, and although no sound comes out, Will recognises the familiar shapes--Do you see? Hobbs is asking.
This is a dream, Will realises suddenly. Well, that’s fine. Better than the alternative, anyway.
Do you see? Hobbs asks again, insistent now.
Will looks back down at his plate, which now bears the head of Abigail Hobbs, her long, dark hair spread in a halo around her. Her mouth has been pried open beyond the jaw’s capacity and is peeled outward to show her inner cheeks and tongue, all cleanly cooked and gently seasoned.
Do you see? asks Hobbs, the movements barely visible at the top edge of Will’s vision.
A dream, Will reminds himself. He stares at his full plate for a moment longer, and then shrugs and sits down. He picks up his fork and knife and tries a small slice of Abigail’s cheek. The flesh is tender, and he chews it thoughtfully.
“It’s good,” he tells Hobbs. “She’s good.” He picks up his glass. It is no longer a water glass drafted into service to hold whiskey, but is instead a wine glass. It is not made of crystal, but of some kind of glass, cheap but sturdy and not unlike the two wine glasses that are shoved to the back of one of his kitchen cabinets. The liquid inside is a rich, lively red. He swirls it gently and takes a sip. It is warm, almost hot, and it has a salty, coppery flavour. He swallows, and looks back at Hobbs. “I’ll take care of her,” he promises, solemn.
Hobbs smiles at him again, and between one blink and another, he is gone. Will looks back down at Abigail, lets his eyes caress the familiar features of his daughter fondly, and takes another bite.
--
“What do you mean,” Will asks, “that I’m not allowed to see her?” She’s my daughter, he wants to snarl, how dare you keep her from me? In the corner of his vision, Hobbs is nodding along, sharing his fury. Somewhere on the other side of the stabbing pain in his head, he knows that an excess of emotion will not help him here. He buries it as deeply as he can, masking the strain under his exhaustion and physical pain. It makes him look vacant, he suspects, empty and vulnerable.
Alana sighs, reaches across her desk to hold his hands in hers. “I’m worried about the reason for your attachment, Will. Given the circumstances, it may not be healthy. For either of you.”
Will can’t hide the curl of his lip, but with luck she’ll take it for wryness and not disdain. “My ‘circumstances’?”
“You killed her father, Will,” Alana reminds him gently, squeezing his hands briefly.
Her words jolt him, and he closes his eyes to hide that he wants to laugh, wants to scream. Killed her father? Hobbs’ hand grips his shoulder, a comforting presence.
“Will, are you alright?” Alana asks, staring at him in concern.
“Yeah, yeah,” he manages, swallowing his fury. Vulnerable but calm, he reminds himself. That’s what has been working the best. “Just, it’s been hard to get any sleep lately. Migraines, nightmares, you know.” He smiles weakly at her, inviting her to commiserate with him. The last few weeks have been difficult for everyone on the case; his confessed issues should be mundane enough in the circumstances to illicit just enough sympathy to smooth the path to his goal, but not enough to be of any real concern.
Alana is frowning, however, looking at his face seriously. “You seem a little flushed,” she says. “Have you been feverish? Any sleepwalking?”
Will isn’t fast enough to hide his surprise, and Alana takes it as confirmation. She isn’t wrong, but Will is furious with himself for the slip. She hesitates. “Will, have you ever considered that those symptoms may be due to more than stress? That they may have a physiological cause?”
Will’s breath catches in his chest. He has never been particularly… stable, but that might be excused, or even forgotten, if he suffers from a physiological illness, one that is serious enough to have implications on his recent behaviour, but which is mild enough to be easily treatable. Unlike with the psychological illnesses of which he has been so frequently accused, a physiological illness would be viewed in a serious light that never seems to stretch to the psychological. It would be considered to be an ailment separate from him as a person, something that could be cured and banished forever. A physiological illness could be his lifeboat off of this island of disrespect, disdain, disgust, fear. A physiological illness could be his bridge to Abigail.
But which illness? “I--” he says, stalling for time.
“I want to take you in for a brain scan,” says Alana firmly. Her tone allows no room for argument.
Alarm bells ring in Will’s mind. Not ideal! he protests. If they find nothing, I’ll be right back where I started. Worse, if they find something that isn’t treatable, something worse than what they already think of me-- “I’m not sure--” he tries.
“Actually, I’m going to call Hannibal.” Alana is reaching for her phone as she speaks, flipping through her contacts. “He’s your psychiatrist--it would be most appropriate if he were to refer you, and he has a number of close colleagues who are neurologists.”
Hobbs’ hand squeezes Will’s shoulder painfully. Will chances a glance back and can see that Hobbs is shaking his head.
“No, wait!” Will says desperately. Alana looks at him in surprise, her finger hovering above the call button.
Will’s mind races. Why would there be a problem with Dr. Lecter making the referral? Really, it seems preferable. If he finds himself diagnosed with a physiological issue that is… inconvenient, there is a chance that Dr. Lecter will be willing to let it slide. He is more flexible than Alana, more knowledgeable about the world and its flaws, its evil, the lengths to which one might need to go to find a balance. But Hobbs is adamant, and they are in this together now. He has to trust that Hobbs, that the part of Will’s mind that Hobbs occupies, is seeing something not yet visible to Will, just as he has before. “Not Dr. Lecter,” he says quietly. “Please.”
Alana toggles back to her main screen and pushes her phone away deliberately. “I would like to know why, Will,” she says. “I wasn’t aware that you were having any problems with Hannibal.”
How to navigate this? Will still might--probably will--need continued rubberstamping after this, and he isn’t interested in getting his conversations from anyone other than Dr. Lecter. His complaint has to be something that will justify him not being contacted for this, but which will be something that can be worked past in the future.
“Not problems, exactly…” Will trails off, searching his mind rapidly.
Hobbs’ nails dig into Will’s shoulders like talons.
Will looks at Alana, who under normal circumstances goes to such lengths to avoid being alone with him, and then he knows.
“Just, I--you know, he’s--” Will feels himself flush. It is because of the nerves, he knows, his anxiety over lying about something so directly, but it can only help his case.
Alana looks back at him steadily. “Yes, Will?”
“Very attractive,” Will blurts. He twitches, turning redder as Alana’s jaw drops open in shock. It reminds him of Abigail’s gaping mouth on his dinner plate, and he smiles fondly, absently. It is only after he’s done it that he realises it can help his play. He finds himself babbling whatever comes to mind. “And he treats me like I’m interesting, but like I’m more than just a brain to dissect--”
Is that true? With Hobbs’ iron grip anchoring him, Will thinks of Dr. Lecter and the way his sharp eyes follow Will around the room as his words poke and prod at Will’s insecurities, his morals. All at once, Will feels his resolve strengthen.
“--and it’s just, I don’t want that to change. I don’t want him to start looking at me like everyone else does, like I’m,” he drops his voice to a whisper deliberately, “crazy.”
Alana’s surprise has simmered down now, and she is looking at him with sympathy. “I understand, Will,” she says. “But you do realise that, given your feelings for him, it’s not appropriate to be seeing him as your therapist, don’t you?”
“It’s nothing that big,” Will hastens to argue, feeling the flush in his cheeks finally start to die down. “I’m sure I’ll get over it soon. And it’s not as though he,” he allows his voice to break slightly here, “reciprocates.”
Alana softens. She taps her fingers against her desk for a moment, then reaches for her phone again. “I still think you need to find a new psychiatrist,” she says, “but we’ll talk about that later. First, I’ll arrange an appointment with a neurologist for you.” She smiles at him conspiratorially. “Under the table, of course.”
Will stares down at his hands, clenched white in his lap. He gives her a weak smile in response, keeping his eyes downcast. He is near collapsing with relief--which she sees--held up only by the giddiness of his triumph--which she doesn’t.
While Alana speaks on the phone, Will glances over his left shoulder. Hobbs is nowhere to be seen, but that’s alright. He isn’t really gone, after all.
--
Will cancels his appointment with Dr. Lecter that week, to Alana’s obvious approval. Alana feels that he should avoid seeing Dr. Lecter in a professional setting again until they reach a conclusion to their earlier discussion, and Will simply doesn’t want to face Dr. Lecter again period, not until he has worked through his own embarrassment at his false confession, or perhaps convinced Alana not to share the information with anyone, ever. He is confident that she won’t tell Dr. Lecter about his crush until after she has a chance to talk it over with Will, and so there will be time to convince her that this has just been a brief affliction, perhaps something caused by the physiological illness that he still hasn’t selected.
He has, however, had a chance to research Dr. Donald Sutcliffe, the neurologist with whom Alana has scheduled his scan. His credentials are exemplary, but as Will scrolls through his pictures, his publications, his glowing reviews, he gets a sense of a slimy, slithery personality that he thinks might be amenable to some gentle persuasion, if he can find the right bribe. Not monetary, certainly, but the promise of the certain recovery from a fabricated rare illness due to a genius treatment might be sufficient. Will can stomach the thought of his brain being the subject of a paper only slightly more than his mind, but needs must, and Abigail, he knows, needs him. This sacrifice of pride is one that must be made.
Will scrolls through a list of diseases of the brain that manifest in the symptoms of migraines and nightmares, fevers and sleepwalking, and bites his lip thoughtfully. The feathered stag peers over his shoulder, its hot breath blowing into his neck, a promise of solidarity.
He can do this.
--
He can’t do this.
Alana takes her responsibilities seriously, and she waves him off when he says it might be easier to do this alone.
“I know what you’re doing, Will,” she says quietly. “This news could change your life.” She means, of course, that it could reveal a terminal illness. Will is less concerned. He had dismissed anything too serious from being an option, as it would likely not help him become Abigail’s legal guardian. “It’s like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, and you think that if you stumble, any audience will only be there to be afraid of you, or to mock you for falling. But I’m not here for that, Will. I’m here to catch you if you fall, to be afraid for you. To be your friend.”
Her words were sweet, had touched him, but her determination is nevertheless inconvenient. As the scan begins, Will seethes silently. With Alana standing next to Dr. Sutcliffe in the observation room, she will have first-hand knowledge of the results. He will have to find a way to meet with Dr. Sutcliffe privately at a later time, convince him to find an issue on re-evaluation.
When Will exits the chamber and reconvenes, once again fully dressed, with the doctors in Dr. Sutcliffe’s office, Alana looks tense and drawn. She doesn’t sit down, and instead remains standing, crossing and uncrossing her arms. Her eyes say, I’m so sorry, Will.
I can work with this, Will reminds himself. I’ll have him re-evaluate, or even do another scan. It’ll be fine.
Dr. Sutcliffe is sitting in his extravagant leather chair, appearing to be largely unbothered. “You have a moderate case of encephalitis, Mr. Graham,” he says. He seems somewhat buoyed at the idea, and searches Will’s face eagerly as though for further clues to Will’s condition. At the very least, Will had read Dr. Sutcliffe and his potential as a conspirator correctly.
Encephalitis is not an option Will had considered or researched. He isn’t sure he knows what it even is. “How severe is moderate?” he asks.
“It’s treatable,” Alana hurries to reassure. “Encephalitis is an inflammation of the brain--we’ll put together a full explanation for you. In your case, an ongoing cocktail of antivirals and anti-inflammatory medications should completely eliminate the problem. You’ll be fine.”
Will stares at her, his mind frozen. It sounds--ideal, really. Better even than what he’d had planned. “How long do I need to take the pills?”
Alana lets out a long breath. “A while, Will.” She looks at him sadly. “Months. And there’s more. We caught it fairly early on, but you’ll still need to spend some time in as an in-patient under observation. Even once you’re released, you’ll need to take it easy for the next few weeks. I’m recommending a long sabbatical from any work at all, and a much longer sabbatical from your consultations with Jack.”
Will stiffens and begins to protest. Alana cuts him off, “And it’s not a good idea for you to be staying by yourself, either, Will. Is there someone who can stay with you for a few weeks, once you’re out of the hospital? Not twenty-four seven, but someone who’ll be around?”
Will’s first, insane, peculiar thought is Dr. Lecter, and to his horror, Alana somehow manages to read it in his expression. “Not Hannibal,” she says sharply. At a surprised look from Dr. Sutcliffe, she softens her tone. “You know that his professional obligations come first, Will.” Her tone is too pointed to be subtle, and Dr. Sutcliffe’s eyebrows shoot up, intrigued.
Will can feel himself turning red. “I’ll ask around,” he mutters, furious and mortified. Alana looks slightly embarrassed as well as she glances at Dr. Sutcliffe uncomfortably.
As the conversation turns to cover his recovery plan in more detail, Hobbs touches his hand comfortingly to Will’s elbow and the ravenstag nuzzles at the back of his neck. Their presence reminds Will that, despite the inconveniences, he has gotten exactly what he wanted. Even before his recovery is entirely complete, he will likely be deemed restabilised, and will then be able to begin the process of adopting Abigail. He can even admit that a sabbatical from consulting might be beneficial for him and Abigail both.
Not feeling well, he texts Jack as an afterthought as Dr. Sutcliffe and Alana prepare for his trip to the hospital. He decides that vagueness is his best option. Can’t come in to work for the next little while.
Jack doesn’t reply.
--
On his first night in the hospital, the ravenstag visits him, its feathers drooping.
“Hey,” he tells it softly. “Don’t be sad. We’ll be alright.”
It plants its muzzle in the junction between his neck and his shoulder and exhales wetly. Will breathes out with it, and finally feels himself drift off to sleep.
--
The treatments go well. At least, that is what Will interprets from the pleased reactions of the doctors and nurses as they peer at the results of his tests. He closes his eyes and tries to prod at his own mind for changes, but other than a miraculous reduction of his headache, he feels the same weakness and exhaustion that has been haunting him for so long.
When his release date is set, Alana delicately suggests that driving will not be a good idea for some time. She offers to give him a ride home--she had driven him in anyway--but he declines as politely as he can manage, his mind already awhirl with plans. She gives him a ride back to Quantico instead, pointedly laying claim to his car keys, and he lets her without protest.
When she finally leaves him to go to her own office, he takes a detour down to the labs. He knows Alana is suspicious of his acquiescence and is even resigning herself to being his live-in guest for the near future. She still thinks he plans to either go without supervision, or turn to Dr. Lecter for it. He doesn’t, but those are his Plans B and C.
Plan A is in her lab, cleaning up and preparing to head out for the day. Perfect.
“Hi, Katz,” Will says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Whatever she has been working on is sensitive enough that she’s covered her face, but he can tell she’s smiling at him from the way her eyes crinkle beneath her goggles.
“Hey, Graham,” she replies easily.
Now he just has to hope that he hasn’t read her friendliness incorrectly. He knows he’s overstepping the boundaries of their acquaintanceship by leaps and bounds, but he’s depending on her natural appreciation for the absurd to get him through this conversation.
He clears his throat. “I just got out of the hospital today,” he begins, and her head jerks up in surprise, “I was admitted as an in-patient for a few days after I got my brain scanned. It turns out I’m the kind of crazy that needs live-in supervision while I go through the mountains of pills that are my treatment plan for the foreseeable future. Mind if I crash at your place for a while? Just two weeks or so.”
He can tell from the way the cloth mask stretches that Katz’s jaw has dropped. Her eyes are wide in shock.
He waits for a moment, and when she doesn’t seem likely to unfreeze, he prods, “Is that a no?”
Katz seems to jerk back into herself, and she shakes her head, laughing. “What are you even thinking, Graham,” she says. “Of course it’s a no!”
He nods, face blank. He’d expected that answer, of course, but now he’ll have to find a way to confront Alana. The question is, which of his back-up plans is B, and which is C?
“What would we even do with your million dogs in my flat? I’ll be crashing with you, obviously.”
Will stares at Katz, his mind at a complete standstill. His mouth moves soundlessly.
“This means you’ll be off work, doesn’t it? In that case, I also expect dinner hot on the table when I get home. Just so you know.” She winks at him outrageously.
Will’s eyes feel watery. He squints at her. “I kind of want to hug you right now,” he says.
“Please don’t,” she replies, grinning. “You don’t even want to know what that gunk on my lab coat is.”
Will fills out a long-term leave-of-absence form as he waits for Katz to finish clearing her space, and then he texts Alana a brief message--All taken care of. Except for Jack. He is not at all taken care of.
It only takes a moment for Alana to reply. Leave Jack to me.
Will fills Katz in with the gory details of his condition as she drives them both to her flat to grab a suitcase and snatch the perishables from her fridge. She is encouraging and shows no signs of judgement, even when he slips up and reveals that it was a relief to find that there was something wrong with him that can be treated with pills and not conversations.
As they head down to Wolf Trap, Katz finally asks the question that must have been weighing on her all evening. “You don’t--I mean, you didn’t ask me for this because you’re--” she stops herself, shakes her head, and asks bluntly, “You’re not into me, right?”
Will makes a face at her. “No, definitely not,” he says drily. “Sorry for the disappointment.”
There is no actual disappointment, he is relieved to see--that was a possibility, especially given her easy willingness to go out of her way to such a huge degree for him. She simply nods her head thoughtfully.
He senses that his denial wasn’t strong enough, but he struggles for a moment for a way to settle the matter without offending her. Of course, there is always the obvious solution.
“Actually,” he says quietly, “there’s a reason Alana was the one to take me for the scan and not, you know, my actual unofficial psychiatrist.”
Katz raises her eyebrows. “Oh? I sense a juicy scandal coming my way.”
Will snorts a laugh. It helps that he has already fed this to Alana. It makes the lie come more smoothly.
“No, not really. It’s just that Alana’s pushing me to ask for a referral to someone else.”
“What? No way! I thought she was the one who sent you his way in the first place.”
“Yes, well, she thought that we would make a good fit, that I could get to respect and like him enough to work with him. The problem is that I’m getting to like him a little too much.”
Katz is still laughing when she pulls into Will’s gravel driveway.
--
Katz helps him move the bed in his living room up into the master bedroom upstairs, and they make up the bed in the spare room together. She helps him with the dogs and with dinner, and it’s so nice, so companionable, in a way he hasn’t felt since he’d lived with his father, if even then.
As he lies down to sleep that night, exhaustion takes hold almost instantly, but he still has the chance to wonder how, over the course of a single day, this has become his life.
The ravenstag follows him through a maze in his dreams. When he finally reaches the exit, he finds himself in the darkened kitchen of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. They sit down at the table together, and Hobbs gestures at Will to serve himself.
Will selects the brain, carefully scooping a portion from the gaping hole in Abigail’s forehead and onto his plate. “You think I’ve gotten lost,” Will says, thinking of the maze he’s just navigated. He meets Hobbs’ glazed eyes. “I haven’t. I know what I’m doing, what I need to do. I’ll protect her. I’ll keep our daughter safe.”
Hobbs nods at him. You see, his lips confirm.