The Limitation

A tiny sigh escaped his lips, and he looked away.

He felt an enormous sense of obligation to this frightened, childlike creature — one that had little-to-nothing to do with the fact that he, Hannibal, had led the creature here, slowly gaining Will’s trust and coaxing him to the place he was, perched on these damp, dirty steps at the edge of insanity. 

It is more enjoyable to make a show of untangling a very difficult knot if you pretend you have not expertly tied it yourself.

Hannibal extended his hand for his friend to take. His palm was warm and dry.

He paused, blinked and shifted, pulling himself up, before falling to the side. It was lucky he had enough of his senses about him and caught himself on the support post of the porch. He looked at his hand—bloodless, angry red, dirt still under his nails—and then back at the space a few inches to Hannibal’s left.

He approached Will Graham’s home with a slow, purposeful stride. The sight of the special agent, filthy and barefoot, clutching at himself like a child, was far too rare and precious to rush.

The doctor’s mask as he approached the steps was one of dark disappointment. The grave expression on his face betrayed nothing of the grin in his heart, the water in his mouth.

There was, of course, no need to ask questions.

No need to offer the soft tell me what happened, Will that was settled patiently on the back of his tongue as he came to stand before the broken man on the steps.

“I went to Minnesota,” his voice was shaking, and Will didn’t know if it was from what he was saying or because of what he did. His hand tightened on his shoulder. A pause, think, “I took Abigail”. Was that a confession? Did he do something that warranted confession? He was a professor, he spoke undivided truths.

“We went to Minnesota” He clarified as his eyes started moving again and he didn’t know why but he suddenly couldn’t focus. His gaze drifted to the side, he blinked, his eyes huge as he struggled to imagine what he had done, drawing a void that terrified him.

It was like hearing a playback of piece of music he’d composed himself. These opening notes were promising; the cracks in Will’s voice, the strain, the confusion. 

I need help. 

The doctor’s eyes opened, half-lidded. He breathed in. 

Please.

His expression was now one of grave, but measured, concern. Brow creased into a subtle frown, he closed his eyes again. Searching.

Hannibal wanted to help.

He wanted to help Will Graham.

Please. Come here.

Lecter’s eyes were fully open now, and glittering.

(These thoughts didn't register—the hum of the nation's legislative system was something that he didn't think about, that he couldn't keep up with. Modern politics sickened him and the city overwhelmed him.)

I need you to come over. I need—I need help. Please. I’ve done something…

Though it was early morning, Dr. Lecter was fully-dressed. He sat, quite relaxed, in a leather armchair, hands folded in his lap. His expression was neutral — calm. Perfectly content. His shoes were polished to a shining gleam.

It would not be long, now.

He was sure in his certainty that Will Graham would call. That, as the special agent’s darkening world turned darker and darker and more monstrous still, he would cry for help from the shadows, and that this strangled cry would be to him.

The man was clinging to sanity by the edge of his nails, and the fingers of his psyche were breaking.

Hannibal Lecter had broken them himself. Bent and snapped them one by one, like twigs in the forest. Distorted, fragmented pieces of Will’s mind lay scattered, now — trails of it, in the farmlands of Wolf Trap, Virginia. Pieces, filed away neartly in the bookshelves of his trusted psychiatrist’s office, tucked under drawings on Lecter’s desk for safe-keeping. Pieces, left behind at gruesome crime scenes, pieces in the city morgues. Now, a particularly significant piece — missing, lost in Minnesota.

Potentially, unrecoverable. That remained to be seen.

In the silence, his breathing steady and even, barely even perceptible, Hannibal speculated. How might it feel, to be drowning, the way Will Graham was drowning now? The doctor could only hypothesise, of course. Imagination — a curious, wonderful gift of the human brain, and a terrible curse. Hannibal could not relieve Will Graham of his curse, but perhaps, at the end of all this, the boy would learn to take pleasure in it. Then, perhaps, he could stop starving himself of his desires. Perhaps he would even learn to indulge.

It was one of many theoretical outcomes of what had, overall, been a fascinating and enjoyable experiment.

He had turned onto his side and he slowly crawled over to the fridge, using the handles to pull himself up. It hurt to breathe. Thinking again—bloodless, pale, blue,—he dry heaved, his forehead against the refrigerator before he stumbled back, down the hall and into his bathroom. He turned on his shower and rubbed the dirt off his arms, snuffling against his shoulder.

A few minutes later, arms red, nails bitten bloody, he stumbled out to grab his phone, calling up the only person he felt would be able to comprehend what he had done. Hannibal would be the only person who would talk to him like a person, who would make him feel human.

Voicemail:

“I need you to come over. I need—” he paused, blinking, before taking a deep breath, looking around, “—I need help. Please. I’ve done something. . . I don’t know what I’ve done. But I don’t remember Abigail leaving with me. I don’t. . .” He made a noise something in between a cracked gasp and a choked word. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. Her ear is here. Please. Come here.”