Will Graham (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
collects_strays) wrote2014-04-12 12:59 pm
collects_strays) wrote2014-04-12 12:59 pm
[OOM] a farewell, of sorts
Graham had heard the attending call it "lucky." Through and through, one of the cleanest shots she'd ever seen. Nothing inside shattered or torn. Minimal care required, for a gunshot wound. Jack Crawford knew what he was doing.
The encephalitis was less "lucky," but just as treatable. At first, everything was so quiet, so still, Graham thought something was wrong with him again.
Then he realized he had forgotten what it was like to think clearly.
It didn't seem like very much time had passed before Jack came into the room, to tell him he had been deemed healthy enough for transfer. He entered the room with his hands his pockets. He didn't take off his hat, or his long coat. He didn't want to stay. Graham knew why, but it didn't stop him from saying exactly what he knew Jack didn't want to hear –
"We're following up on your allegations against Dr. Lecter, Will," Jack cuts across him, in a stern tone, managing to make Graham feel like a child who has spoken out of turn, but not to make him feel bad for it. "Now do yourself a favor and start thinking less about Hannibal Lecter, and more about yourself."
Transfer happened the next day. Unimpressed with his stealing the last ambulance he was in, the personnel from BSHCI take no chances this time.
At the new "hospital," there was a very different routine. Meals were passed through the food tray at 7:00 AM, 12:30 PM, and 6:30 PM; the tray and plastic cutlery were picked up no more than fifteen minutes later. He had recognized the jumpsuit – an off-putting, pale shade of dark blue – from interviewing Abel Gideon a few months ago. It's stamped with B1327-1. Unlike Gideon's cell, his own is painted bricks, a wall of bars separating it from the hall, a light above his cot that dims for eight hours, but never goes out entirely. Leaving the cell is another careful ordeal, but it hasn't happened very often yet. Graham was told his treatment with Dr. Chilton would begin on Monday.
He doesn't know what day it is. But then, he'll find out soon.
It's still not Monday, and he's sitting on the cot, leaning forward, hands folded between his knees. Or he's not, really – until the now familiar sound of the buzzer at the end of the hall cuts through his mind and pulls him back into the cell. The buzzer goes off when any door on the floor is unlocked. Graham can tell, as the heavy bolt slides back into place and slow footsteps follow, that it's the main door, and someone has entered the hall. Only one someone, not another inmate returning, likely not one leaving; not the food cart.
Graham can also hear that the footsteps have stopped outside his cell, but he doesn't move, and doesn't look up.
The encephalitis was less "lucky," but just as treatable. At first, everything was so quiet, so still, Graham thought something was wrong with him again.
Then he realized he had forgotten what it was like to think clearly.
It didn't seem like very much time had passed before Jack came into the room, to tell him he had been deemed healthy enough for transfer. He entered the room with his hands his pockets. He didn't take off his hat, or his long coat. He didn't want to stay. Graham knew why, but it didn't stop him from saying exactly what he knew Jack didn't want to hear –
"We're following up on your allegations against Dr. Lecter, Will," Jack cuts across him, in a stern tone, managing to make Graham feel like a child who has spoken out of turn, but not to make him feel bad for it. "Now do yourself a favor and start thinking less about Hannibal Lecter, and more about yourself."
Transfer happened the next day. Unimpressed with his stealing the last ambulance he was in, the personnel from BSHCI take no chances this time.
At the new "hospital," there was a very different routine. Meals were passed through the food tray at 7:00 AM, 12:30 PM, and 6:30 PM; the tray and plastic cutlery were picked up no more than fifteen minutes later. He had recognized the jumpsuit – an off-putting, pale shade of dark blue – from interviewing Abel Gideon a few months ago. It's stamped with B1327-1. Unlike Gideon's cell, his own is painted bricks, a wall of bars separating it from the hall, a light above his cot that dims for eight hours, but never goes out entirely. Leaving the cell is another careful ordeal, but it hasn't happened very often yet. Graham was told his treatment with Dr. Chilton would begin on Monday.
He doesn't know what day it is. But then, he'll find out soon.
It's still not Monday, and he's sitting on the cot, leaning forward, hands folded between his knees. Or he's not, really – until the now familiar sound of the buzzer at the end of the hall cuts through his mind and pulls him back into the cell. The buzzer goes off when any door on the floor is unlocked. Graham can tell, as the heavy bolt slides back into place and slow footsteps follow, that it's the main door, and someone has entered the hall. Only one someone, not another inmate returning, likely not one leaving; not the food cart.
Graham can also hear that the footsteps have stopped outside his cell, but he doesn't move, and doesn't look up.
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Then he takes one step closer to the bars. "You know, when I was sick, I started pushing chairs up against my doors. To stop myself from sleepwalking right through them."
He knows all he's doing is handing Dr. Lecter the lead with which to shoot him. He doesn't care. "I thought if I could contain myself - what was happening to me - I could stay whole.
"What, exactly, do you think I need to feel safe from, Dr. Lecter?"
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"These bars will keep some more wayward parts of you from escaping, won't they? You'll be safely whole inside them."
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"I only have you."
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"I'm not playing this game with you."
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Graham looks to the floor, and adds, much quieter, "How can I amuse you today?"
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"Please don't lie to me."
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It's still quiet, but his voice is starting to shake.
"I saw the thread that ran through those murders, Dr. Lecter, but it's not my thread. It's yours."
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He swallows, closing his eyes for a moment, his voice rising again.
"I told you I was connecting the copycat victims and I what, forced your hand?"
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Graham looks up, and meets his eyes again.
"That won't work anymore, Dr. Lecter. I know who I am, and I know what I saw in Minnesota."
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He glances down, and catches another flickering smile.
"I saw you."
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And then, he takes a deep breath, his fingers pressing into his palms.
"Are we gonna reenact the crime?"
The work is deliberate, nothing like the soft haze in which he'd echoed the words before. It's his voice, but the rhythm of the words, and the tremor in the last one, is unmistakably Abigail's.
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"If you're here to convince me of this - theater you've created, you can go now. You're wasting your time."
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"Sorry to disappoint," he mutters.
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Very quiet, "Oh, I'll do that."
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"I hope you find what you need."
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He's still for as long as he can stand it, then lowers his gaze. Graham takes another step away from the bars, but doesn't turn.
It's not until then that he realizes, even with the line of bars between them, he's unwilling to turn his back to Dr. Lecter.
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But he waits until he hears the buzzer, and the bolt slide back, before returning to his cot.