Will Graham looked too hard. It was in his nature, and never something he could control. Perhaps Dr. Lecter allowed him to look hard enough in this particular instance because he had grown bored with simply watching as he figured his way through intellectual labyrinths. Perhaps, in this particular instance, Dr. Lecter had finally lost his patience with the waiting game and when Graham stumbled upon the outdoor hatch that lead down into the wine cellar, there was sweet little that could be done to avoid this inevitability. Honestly, Hannibal would spend many nights in his bed debating what it was that drove him to allow Will to continue pressing -- to continue snooping and prying.
He'd arrived early in the afternoon and let himself in through the door that fed into the dining room from the side of the house. Things were quiet and he perhaps was under the impression that because Hannibal's Bentley was not in the drive, that he was not home. No matter, though, as he seemed quite content to wait out the time between standing idly in the kitchen. But what is that? Blood on the floor. Tsk, tsk, tsk, William. This is why we are never early, nor are we late. This is why the courtesy of punctuality extends in both directions. Our dear doctor has not yet had the time to bleach the floors.
The trail of haphazard little droplets lead out through the glass door in the kitchen, onto the paved pathway that fed over to that hatch on the side of the house -- uncharacteristic of homes in New England, where tornados did not make necessity for underground cellars. But, oh, when that hatch came open, the empath breathed in the scent of fine wines and old wood and brick. Shelved were many bottles, some unlabeled, for Hannibal had either commissioned them, himself, or were so old that the names no longer carried any weight or repute, save to the finest connoisseur. But beyond the chess table and the oriental rug was a door upon which hung an unlatched padlock. Graham wondered briefly if it was Lecter who was wounded, or if suddenly things were just too convenient, that the Shrike's copycat should have such intimate knowledge of both the empath, himself, and the case material. Synapses connected, and just when he thought he should call Crawford for backup, he pushed the door open.
What he saw may have stayed with him for the rest of his days, long into the years spent in madhouses and drunk on the shores of Florida. But his dear, dear doctor would not allow him such profound heartbreak.
No, when Hannibal turned 'round to see who it was that had come through the door to his own private boucherie, a notable lead weight fell into the pit of his stomach and he mourned immediately what he would have to do in the ways a man mourns the ending of a great and well-played game. Wide blue eyes surveyed the scene, where a body hung from a meat hook mounted in the ceiling, inverted, that it might drain the blood into a grate on the floor just below. A towel rack for Lecter's hands was bolted to the wall just beside that little setup, and to the right, against the wall, he had a grindstone for his more cumbersome knives and bone saws.
Will Graham tried to make a sound. He went for his firearm.
But Hannibal Lecter moves like a predator in the dark and when he saw the flash of Graham's arm, he threw a knife from the table into the florescent bulb overhead and slipped close enough for their breaths to visibly mingle in the refrigerated room.
The gun went off -- got Lecter in the thigh. He didn't make a sound for the pain, but merely smiled into Graham's neck when the scalpel went in.
"I hate for it to come to this, Will -- " he coughed, twisting the blade and effectively gutting the man he'd come to know most intimately these past few months. "But all games must come to an end."
Graham made a low whining noise at the base of his throat, tried to get a solid grip on his pistol to shoot again. Lecter used his free hand to slam the boy's head against the tile wall and ensure the heavy metal thing fell from his hand in the daze. Three seconds. Blood hot down his leg.
He lowered Graham down to the floor in the dark and kept close, their blood mixing as if they were two permeable creatures in the dark.
"You'll feel light-headed. Then Drowsy. Ah-ah-ah -- " he held him down against the floor, relishing his anguished silence. " -- so gentle... Like slipping into a warm bath."
Dr. Lecter held his empath as the life faded out of him and the drain in the floor gurgled to taste his blood. The scent of Graham's insides was muted -- starved and empty -- as his large intestine peaked out of the gaping slit that had been carved into his abdomen.
When the life faded from the boy, Hannibal's clean white shirt and apron were stained red. He smelled like sweet, sweet fever. Like his William.
Sitting up in the dark, in the silence that reflected only the calm and serene pulse of one heart, he exhaled that lovely scent and murmured quietly to himself, "Remarkable boy, Will. I think I'll eat your heart."
