Chapter Text
Matthew doesn’t have permission to supervise the ward for the most dangerous criminals. Chilton wouldn’t allow any nurse under thirty and without sociopathic traits to handle the cells farthest from his office. That being said, Chilton doesn’t have the authority to order anyone around.
His manager, a low-cognitive-activity brute with broad muscles and a surname starting with “S” or something similar, led the team of nurses and guards with the arrogance of someone who believes they’re indispensable. Matthew couldn’t be bothered to feel disdain for the man and his bully moves, a person who peaked in high school.
Matthew has this habit. He observes. He sees beyond people. He is cautious, though not shy. He enjoys deciphering other people’s lives through introverted silences, curious, genuine, innocent glances. What could Matthew want? He’s just bored. He’s a child, at least by the standard of the idiots around him, and children are like that. Incapable of taking things seriously, of understanding the importance of this job.
But the boss likes him. Men like that get a considerable ego boost just from a few questions and exclamations of admiration. Matthew figures the man now believes that Matt sees him as a role model or something. He’s not about to correct him—not until he gets what he wants.
It starts slowly. He begins asking questions about the high-security ward, about the precautions to take, the schedules, the meals. He expresses admiration for his boss’s bravery whenever he hears fabricated stories about former inmates attacking and threatening staff. He voices his disgust for despicable criminals and shares how he would deal with them if it were his job. Some of the older guards laugh, the chatter in the break room animated by his questions.
“If only you knew, kid.” One of them slapped his knee and chuckled, his whole body hunching forward. Matthew wondered what someone like that—a vulnerable target for any lunatic with a disposable plastic knife—was doing in this job. “Eventually, it becomes old news. Really boring. The crazies never react the way they should, you know?”
“But how? What do they do?”
The manager shrugged. “There are all kinds of crazies. There’s this one, the Ripper. Or the one they say is the Ripper, this time.”
Bingo. The topic Matthew was waiting for. He hadn’t even had to bring it up himself. He bit his lip to contain his excitement.
“Even if he’s not the Ripper,” a nurse chimed in, frowning as he set a can of Coke on the table. Matthew couldn’t help but think about the man’s health, considering he drank Coke every single day. “That bastard is creepy. Seriously.”
“Is he one of those who spits and pees everywhere?” Matthew had seen enough in the general wards. It would dampen his enthusiasm a bit if the guy turned out to be one of those.
The nurse shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve never even seen him open his mouth.”
“He doesn’t talk, doesn’t yell, doesn’t cry,” the manager joined in, and Matthew shifted his attention toward him, knowing he’d have the most information. “He doesn’t ask for anything, not even when Chilton comes down to talk to him. Hell, he stopped eating recently.”
“He just stares at you. Sometimes, I doubt he even sleeps. Really, he’s creepy. He’s not a maniac like the last suspect, Gideon. He’s just… unsettling.”
Of course, Matthew knew all of this and more.
Will Graham. Thirty-seven years old. Lives in Wolf Trap, Virginia, and teaches at the FBI Academy in Quantico. Formerly a police officer but discharged due to his inability to pull the trigger. Currently—or, well, before his incarceration—a consultant for the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. Matthew knew everything and had read enough to infer even more than what was explicit.
He had newspaper clippings and prints from websites, mostly Tattlecrime, but also from other amateur blogs that shared an overwhelming curiosity about the professor.
He could assume the man slept poorly, and God knew he’d zoomed in on those dark circles from his phone more than once. He guessed the encephalitis had begun sometime last year, judging by the increased sweating, the disorientation in his eyes, and the tremors visible in short YouTube clips of Will.
If this man was the Chesapeake Ripper, Matthew could believe it and follow him to the ends of the earth. If this man wasn’t the Chesapeake Ripper, Matthew could still believe it and do the same.
Honestly, it was hard to pinpoint when Matthew had become so attached, but he figured it was in his nature. Not that he was complaining.
Just a few weeks into the wild frenzy of gathering information about Will Graham, Matthew felt more alive than ever. A break from a merciless routine could do wonders, he supposed. Not that he was adopting healthier habits, though. But, at his core, he was changing.
Sleepless nights once filled with thoughts of finally killing, of how it would feel to plunge the knife in, of how he’d escape after the crime, had turned into nights spent browsing forums about Will Graham. Afternoons, apathetic after work due to a lack of stimulation, once bursting with violent impulses and dark thoughts, were now afternoons of field research. He knew Will Graham’s house inside and out and had secured a pass to see some of the confiscated dogs at the shelter. Others were with a woman named Alana Bloom. Matthew didn’t like her already, just based on the sound of her name.
The point was, Will Graham had become a central thought in his daily life, a beacon for his darkened mind. Matthew was growing tired of images on the internet. He wanted to meet the man.
Finally, the day came. And Matthew didn’t even have to intervene much.
Honestly, it was as if someone up there also wanted him to meet William. He never believed in deities or religions, but now he could allow himself to do so: the only way the world could have behaved in such way that he's meeting the epicenter of his life like this was with planning.
His boss was tired. He mentioned his shift was almost over, but he still needed to escort Graham to a meeting with Chilton, wait for him, bring him back to his cell, and give him his meal. Generously, Matthew offered to take care of it.
Things turned out extraordinarily lucky by sheer coincidence. Matthew’s tedious, long-term plan didn’t involve speaking to or even seeing Graham until the trial began. Not even a sideways glance. Matthew had taken it upon himself to offer books in case Graham ever spoke up to request one, but nothing had happened yet, and he wasn't optimistic about it.
He had to take a few deep breaths before approaching the cell. His palms were sweaty, and he felt ecstatic about everything. Will Graham, right in front of him, lying on a bed and staring at the wall. Did no one interest this man? That was fine; it would be fine if he just looked at Matthew for one second. He would savor it, use it, absorb it all.
Matthew smiled, even though Will wasn’t looking at him.
“Mr. Graham,” he called softly. The man barely gave a movement of acknowledgment, just enough to make Matthew suppress a shiver. “Dr. Chilton has requested a meeting with you, sir. Would you like to attend?”
Protocol dictated that nurses and guards escorting inmates ask these questions, especially in the psychiatric hospital, where the boundaries of legality were much thinner, and judicial intervention was always one misstep away. But exceptions were made for high-security prisoners. After all, they were more prisoners than patients.
Graham didn’t answer. Matthew fought the urge to rest his arms on the bars and stand there, staring at the object of his obsession. Such a unique demeanor. Matthew wanted to hear him speak.
“Mr. Graham, I’m going to enter the cell now.” He definitely shouldn’t be doing this. Without a response, he should call his boss and follow some intimidation or threat procedure. Entering the cell of someone as dangerous as Will—this time, he couldn’t suppress the shiver.
He placed the key in the door, about to turn it when Graham shifted and sat up. He looked at him—God, he looked at him—with those stormy blue eyes, those furrowed brows, those slightly parted lips. His hair was disheveled, his jumpsuit wrinkled.
'How would you look wearing something else, Will?' Matthew thought.
“You can’t come in if I’m still on the bed,” Graham said, his voice likely deepened by lack of use.
“Sorry,” Matthew replied, key still in the door, and thought that if Graham asked, he would unlock it right now and let him escape. “I don’t usually handle this kind of thing.”
Will got up slowly and moved to the back of his cell, leaning against the wall, turning his face to press his cheek against it. Matthew absolutely did not think about the implications of that position at another time because he was a good, decent man—not a hormonal teenager.
He repeated that affirmation to himself as he walked over, placed the cuffs on him, and brushed against the warm skin of his hands.
It was so easy. He was so close. Will had looked at him. Gently, he pushed him forward to lead the way, and Will let himself be guided.
Matthew couldn’t help but think how tragic it was that other people, without his own admiration, had the right to be in this god’s presence. Because Will was a god—Matthew decided in that moment. No one, staring into his eyes, living under his attention, could argue otherwise. Will was simply divine.
He left him in the meeting room, in his cage. There was something both bizarre and thrilling about seeing him there, trapped, yet feeling his most important strength still free. Like putting handcuffs on a snake, Matthew thought. Chilton was already on his way. He wanted to speak, to converse, to say something.
But the words escaped him.
Chilton made him wait outside. Begrudgingly, Matthew obeyed. When they were done, he resumed his task. Once again, he brushed against his hands, enamored with the sensation. If Graham noticed, he didn’t say anything.
Later, during the night shift, Matthew was almost done and was changing in the lockers when his boss, fully dressed, walked by and gave him a pat on the back.
Matthew couldn't avoid the slight jump and annoyed glance at the unwanted contact. His boss chuckled a little, then said: "Good job with Graham today, Brown. I thought he'd have you suffering for a longer time. He never listens to me. Maybe I'll send you more often to deal with him, what do you think?"
Controlling the impulse to nod frantically, Matthew shrugged: "I don't mind, man."
The man nodded approvingly at the behavior, and Matthew held back his smile until he managed to leave the Hospital.
•°•°•°•°•°•
This new guard was strange. Will, although spending most of his days submerged in a mental palace that was not very effective, was not that disconnected from reality.
Usually, the head of the security unit was the one who handled his transfers.
Will never heard the man arrive, deeply immersed in his mind and disinterested in the rough interaction. If the man was especially in a bad mood, he would put a muzzle on him. If not, he’d put the handcuffs on and drag him through the hallway. He was an aggressive, surly man. He hardly showed any interest in any part of life that didn't involve harshness. He always had tough days.
All he wanted, from time to time, was to get angry without a reason, hit things, do his act of being a superior and angry man.
But he wasn’t a monster. He didn’t have the heart to inflict real harm. Will didn’t know what he hated more: the empathy he couldn't stop feeling, or the cliché personality of the stupid bastard.
This new guard, on the other hand, was subtle. Something that Will hadn’t been able to figure out fully was brutally catching his attention.
Black hair, slightly big ears, small, dark, serpentine eyes. He had the build of a young adult, around 25 or a little older.
He wore a nurse's uniform, but it was obvious, from the roughness of his movements and the tasks he handled, that he didn’t have formal training.
Cheap labor, Will assumed, that Chilton had acquired with little thought.
Although the job didn’t usually appeal to psychopaths and sociopaths, being a nurse was a good choice for a functional cynic who wants power over someone but prefers to remain unnoticed. Will knew this; he had studied cases of nurse and doctor killers in the past. Hannibal, for instance, was a surgeon. He had more prestige, more admiration, but beyond the ego stroke, both jobs were similar: control over others' health.
Still, something about this man didn’t quite add up.
The chocolate bar that accompanied his lunch the next day was an unexpected surprise. Will could guess who the giver was with a sidelong glance, yet the guard didn’t linger on him more than two seconds.
He left it on the tray, distrustful. He could never quite believe in his luck. The guard could very well be a friend or relative of one of the Ripper's victims, trying to poison him. He figured it didn’t matter much anyway: it would be easier to poison the water. But, still, it sent a message. He didn’t like sweets.
When the guard passed by, he stopped at Will’s cell. The steady, fast pace he had been maintaining suddenly halted as he bent down to grab the tray and looked at it for a few seconds. Soon, Will heard him leave, while he stared at the wall.
He only turned around when he heard the hallway door close. He turned back and found the chocolate bar still there.
"Gideon," he called, trying to see if his neighbor was there.
"Mr. Graham," the man’s voice, deep, haughty, irritating, sounded in the hallway. Will could almost hear his raised eyebrows: "Was there something you wanted? I mean, since you finally deign to speak."
"Do you want my dessert?" Without ceremony, Will stretched out his hand through the bars and pushed the little package onto the floor.
Five seconds of silence before Abel's voice returned: "Chilton gives you dessert? He didn’t even give me a pillow when he thought I was the Ripper!"
Will shrugged, without responding. Enough interaction for one day. If there was one good thing about prison, it was not having to interact with other people.
This didn't discourage Gideon, who continued: "By the way, Graham! I don’t take your silence personally, of course, but it’s getting a little exhausting, you know? I’ve been without company for a while. I wouldn’t mind a good chat. They’ve told me you're an excellent conversationalist."
"Go screw yourself, Gideon."
"Ah, the sound of your voice is refreshing! I don’t usually get visitors. Chilton is, unfortunately, the only one I can interact with. You know what that does to your brain?"
Will sighed and rubbed his eyes. Gideon kept talking: "I was never a fan of psychiatrists. I imagine you’re not either, after all. Do you also have interviews with Chilton?"
Will stood up and dropped heavily onto the ground by his bed. He hated the texture of the sheets and god knew he wasn't getting any sleep that night.
Gideon kept babbling: "Well, well, go back to your perpetual silence. As you wish. Do me a favor, don’t scream when you have nightmares, Graham! And I’ll still be here tomorrow, in case Chilton keeps giving you dessert!"
Of course, Frederick wasn’t giving him desserts. But Abel Gideon didn’t need to know that. The only thing that bastard cynic would benefit from was shutting up.
From time to time, Will wondered if Hannibal’s plan was to keep him locked up for the rest of his life. That way, he assumed, he could switch alter egos and keep killing. It was an unconventional plan for someone so focused on getting all the credit and fame, but Will assumed Hannibal would find a way to make it work and look good in the process.
The prospect depressed him enormously. The rest of his life, trapped in a cell. He didn’t care about his reputation or his past. He wasn’t interested in the gossip or the articles Freddie Lounds was surely writing, the ones that were probably giving him fame everywhere. What mattered to him were his dogs and the decision he still hadn’t made: if he had to do it all again, would he still try to catch Hannibal, or would he choose a different life? Maybe married, with kids, living far away from here, denying those dark parts of himself.
Was Hannibal doing this for a reason? Will was smart, he used to see intentions behind every man with just a glance, a touch, a word. He had never fully understood Hannibal because he didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t want to be understood. He hid so many secrets, so many emotions so deeply inside himself that the slips Will caught were exhilarating. His relationship with the man kept him on edge, in a constant test. Will had always thought he was the kind of man who would prefer a peaceful life. Could it be that he was wrong?
Dr. Lecter still hadn’t visited him. Jack had gone, Alana had gone. Both had been told the same things, his thoughts, his concerns. Both occasions had been returned with worried looks, furrowed brows. He remembered his university days, performing experiments on rats. Those same looks were what he gave the little animals.
Those same looks appeared on Hannibal’s face, in his dreams, nightmares, some strange combination.
Is this what he wanted? He felt like he had two big decisions in front of him. Like one of them was to follow Hannibal’s path, and the other was to spend the rest of his days in that prison, locked up, praying that someone would listen to him for once. Was this all it had come down to, the respectable professor of the FBI Academy, with a stupid master’s degree and a damn house? Come on, he couldn’t fool himself. He had never been respectable, after all, right? Otherwise, no one would have allowed Will Graham to end up here.
But it was a ticking time bomb. In everyone’s eyes, at least, he had always been doomed. He could almost hear the anecdotes, "Yeah, I was in one of his classes. He was a weird guy. He’d lose focus, tremble, never answered questions. We always knew something was wrong with him."
At two in the morning, he was still awake. Something about that dessert and Gideon’s comments was bothering him, and, anyway, he had never had a good sleep schedule. Sitting, with his back against the wall, hugging his legs, in front of his bed, Will felt the cold floor on his feet. A squeak sounded from the door, and though he heard it, he didn’t react. Light steps in the wide hallway echoed.
The nurse peeked into his cell. Will looked at him, squinting. The swirling lights around him looked like wide, strong wings. The man extended a hand, looking like a raptor’s claw.
His outstretched hand held something. Will reached out his own hand and took it. The contact left his fingers trembling. The guard smiled. When he took a step, his wings disappeared. Slowly, he walked back to the exit and left.
Will looked at what they had left him. Benadryl. He took a pill from the tablet and swallowed it without water. He got up, feeling his body creak, his legs trembling.
He laid down on the bed and covered himself with the blanket.