Graham looks to her, and the image fades into the blank expanse around them. For a moment, he looks like he wants to tell her something.
But before he speaks, there's another sound. No light, no image to go with it, but the noise of a door unlatching, and swinging open. There are no voices, only footsteps, before it swings shut again.
Then, strips of dark blue begin to streak along one side of them, thick stripes of cobalt blue and thin, lighter shades between them. On the other, there's dark stone, shelves forming against it and leafy plants blossoming up from them, like dark green water running over a stone fountain. At the end there's a sheen of light that forms into two glass doors, looking out onto the white winter evening beyond. They're standing in the corner of a large dining room, the sort of place that usually makes Graham feel like a weed that's cropped up in a rose garden. The long table is set only with a decorative plate in the center - it looks as though it were made from black feathers, and holds three large eggs. Abel Gideon is sitting at the end of the table, in front of the glass doors.
The other Graham is standing in front of the darkened fireplace, sweat glinting in the lamplight, shaking and breathing unevenly. "I'm having a hard time thinking," he tells Dr. Lecter, who watches him with patient concern, and considerable calm, given what's happening. "I feel like I'm losing my mind. I - I don't know what's real."
Dr. Lecter observes him for another moment, and then looks down at his watch. "It's 7:27 PM. You're in Baltimore, Maryland, and your name is Will Graham –"
"No, I don't care who I am," Graham snarls. He looks over to the man at the end of the table, and raises his gun toward him, shaking becoming more violent. "Just tell me … if he's real."
"Who do you see, Will?" asks Dr. Lecter, eyes on him. From this vantage point, the man at the end of the table remains sharp and distinct. His edges don't flicker, no glimpses of blood on his chest or blank film like dust over his eyes. Though the other man answers, "Garret Jacob Hobbs," Graham watching now only sees Abel Gideon, still in his seat, nervously eyeing the gun trained on him.
"Who do you see?" the other man asks.
Dr. Lecter looks to Gideon. "I don't see anyone."
Graham doesn't move this time, but the other man begins to panic. His shaking worsens, he breathes faster -
"No, no you're lying –"
"We're alone," Dr. Lecter insists. "You came here alone. Do you remember coming here?"
His voice rises, pleading – "No, please don't lie to me –"
"Garrett Jacob Hobbs is dead," Lecter reminds him. "You killed him. You watched him die."
"What's happening to me?" The other man presses his free hand against his face, lowering the gun to his side. Dr. Lecter calls his name, but he doesn't answer; he's shaking all over, and when he lowers his hand, his eyes have rolled back into his head.
no subject
But before he speaks, there's another sound. No light, no image to go with it, but the noise of a door unlatching, and swinging open. There are no voices, only footsteps, before it swings shut again.
Then, strips of dark blue begin to streak along one side of them, thick stripes of cobalt blue and thin, lighter shades between them. On the other, there's dark stone, shelves forming against it and leafy plants blossoming up from them, like dark green water running over a stone fountain. At the end there's a sheen of light that forms into two glass doors, looking out onto the white winter evening beyond. They're standing in the corner of a large dining room, the sort of place that usually makes Graham feel like a weed that's cropped up in a rose garden. The long table is set only with a decorative plate in the center - it looks as though it were made from black feathers, and holds three large eggs. Abel Gideon is sitting at the end of the table, in front of the glass doors.
The other Graham is standing in front of the darkened fireplace, sweat glinting in the lamplight, shaking and breathing unevenly. "I'm having a hard time thinking," he tells Dr. Lecter, who watches him with patient concern, and considerable calm, given what's happening. "I feel like I'm losing my mind. I - I don't know what's real."
Dr. Lecter observes him for another moment, and then looks down at his watch. "It's 7:27 PM. You're in Baltimore, Maryland, and your name is Will Graham –"
"No, I don't care who I am," Graham snarls. He looks over to the man at the end of the table, and raises his gun toward him, shaking becoming more violent. "Just tell me … if he's real."
"Who do you see, Will?" asks Dr. Lecter, eyes on him. From this vantage point, the man at the end of the table remains sharp and distinct. His edges don't flicker, no glimpses of blood on his chest or blank film like dust over his eyes. Though the other man answers, "Garret Jacob Hobbs," Graham watching now only sees Abel Gideon, still in his seat, nervously eyeing the gun trained on him.
"Who do you see?" the other man asks.
Dr. Lecter looks to Gideon. "I don't see anyone."
Graham doesn't move this time, but the other man begins to panic. His shaking worsens, he breathes faster -
"No, no you're lying –"
"We're alone," Dr. Lecter insists. "You came here alone. Do you remember coming here?"
His voice rises, pleading – "No, please don't lie to me –"
"Garrett Jacob Hobbs is dead," Lecter reminds him. "You killed him. You watched him die."
"What's happening to me?" The other man presses his free hand against his face, lowering the gun to his side. Dr. Lecter calls his name, but he doesn't answer; he's shaking all over, and when he lowers his hand, his eyes have rolled back into his head.