Chapter Text
The coming days gifted Will a pitiless return to the FBI. She was certain that the last thing Jack Crawford desired in the investigation was Garret Jacob Hobbs’ brutal end or that his only surviving victim became a surrogate daughter to her and Hannibal. Unwilling to admit it to herself, the two women grew fond of Abigail Hobbs. For all legal purposes, they were now her mothers.
Jack was dragging her along because she was already entrapped in the gut of the monster hiding under Wilhelmina’s bed. Wherever he went, she had to follow. As they devoured themselves into Footnotes of Garret’s life, nightmares taunted Will. The concerning aspect was that she was sometimes awake for them. After relieving the shooting of Garret in her dreamscape, Jack knocked on the passenger door window. She jolted, refraining herself from cursing.
They were now residing in Minnesota’s very own Evil Minds museum. As the antlers shadowed them overhead, Will scoured any surfaces in sight with her flashlight. She was cautious of her footing, avoiding the FBI evidence bags. Jack hovered in the corner, spewing what Will would call bullshit.
“Abigail Hobbs is a suspect?” she questioned, her tone faltering. To Jack, it sounded a lot like “Abigail Hobbs is not a suspect.”
“We've been conducting house-to-house interviews around the Hobbs residence and this property,” he explained to her. Will’s eyebrows furrowed, a bit of unsettlement in her stomach. “What’s the gossip?”
Jack continued, “Hobbs and his daughter spent a lot of time together. They spent a lot of time together here. She would be the ideal bait, wouldn't she?”
If Will wasn’t hyper-focused on an out-of-place hair on the floor, she would have considered rolling her eyes. “Hobbs killed alone,” she declared while collecting the hair fiber. She held it up to her face, examining it. A flicker of realization washed over Will. She squinted her eyes, L’Heure Bleue clouding her senses. “Someone else was here, Jack.”
A day later, Will was welcomed with approving applause from the students. It left an astringent taste on her tongue as she pleaded with them to stop. She began her lecture similarly to how Garret slit Abigail’s throat. She wasn’t yearning for the unnecessary admiration to linger.
She dimmed the lights and presented a slide of Hobbs’ resignation letter. “This is how I caught Garret Jacob Hobbs. It's his resignation letter. Anybody see the clue?” she bellowed. Will ignored the hands that instantly rose. “There isn’t one,” she started, noticing the puzzlement on her trainees’ faces. “He wrote a letter, and left his phone number but no address,” she added.
Will advanced to the next slide, showing a picture of Hobbs shot to death. “Bad bookkeeping and dumb luck,” she finished. The nagging voice in the back of her head scolded her as she glanced up at the screen. Will chewed on her lip, recalling it all. Before she remembered too much, she clicked on the next slide. a picture of Garret and Abigail, smiling in their hunting uniforms. They looked so normal.
Will cleared her throat. “Garret Jacob Hobbs is dead. The question now is how to stop those his story is going to inspire.” She studied the tainted picture of the man she killed and her foster daughter. Then she clicked on the picture of Cassie Boyle, butchered and mounted. “He’s already got one admirer.”
The class came and went. When it was over, Will was packing her things into her briefcase, eager to see her dogs. The trainees approached her but remained silent. She felt like an endangered animal at a zoo and avoided eye contact with them, glaring inwardly. While tucking a folder inside a compartment, Alana Bloom entered the classroom. Will sensed her immediately, worrying about what might come.
She glanced up at Alana when she reached the desk and couldn’t help but soften at the woman in front of her. “Hi,” she said. Alana smiled comfortably and spoke, “How are you?” Will tilted her head, hiding the fact that Alana’s endearment stirred something in her. “I have no idea,” she awkwardly chuckled. Alana shrugged, “That might change. I don’t intend to ambush you.”
Will became confused, arching her right eyebrow. “Is this an ambush?” she mumbled. The psychiatrist paused, “Ambush is later. Immediately later, soon to now. When Jack arrives, consider yourself ambushed.” Will frowned, eyeing Jack behind Alana, who was guiding the trainees out of the way. “Here’s Jack,” Will joked dryly, knowing her Shining reference wouldn’t be appreciated.
Jack stood next to Alana and asked, “How was class?” Will grabbed her briefcase, hoping Jack would get the hint. “They applauded; it was inappropriate,” she insisted. Brushing past both of them, Jack informed her, “Review board begs to differ. You’re up for a commendation, and they okayed an active return to the field.” Will took this in, feeling both pleased and apprehensive. She stood near them, clearly indicating that Jack or Alana understood the hint.
Alana then asked, “Do you want to go back to the field?” Before Will could even consider it, Jack interrupted her. “I want you to go back in the field, but I told the Board I’m recommending a psych evaluation,” he declared. Will peered over at Alana, who apologized with a look. “Are we starting now?” she wondered. Alana shook her head no. “Session won’t be with me,” she said. Will wanted to pout; she had hoped for Alana.
“Hannibal Lecter might be a better fit. Your relationship isn't as comfortable with Dr. Bloom-""I’m not going to be comfortable with anybody inside my head,” Will cut him off smoothly. Payback. Her gaze hardened, mostly focused on Jack. With the way Dr. Bloom was beholding her, it was impossible to remain angry. She was cooing towards her, “You never killed somebody before, Will. It’s a deadly force encounter. It’s a lot to digest.”
Will took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I used to work homicide. I’ve got a good metabolism.” Jack rolled his eyes, watching Will slide her glasses into her blazer’s pocket. He barked at her, “The reason you currently 'used to' work homicide is you couldn’t stomach pulling the trigger. You just pulled the trigger ten times.” She managed a strained smile, sighing dramatically. “So Psych Eval is not a formality?” she pondered.
Jack’s jaw clenched as he jerked his head slightly. Alana eyed him, praying he wouldn’t lose his temper. He began to explain, “It’s so I can sleep. I asked you to get close to Hobbs, and I need to know you didn’t get too close. How many nights did you spend in Abigail Hobbs’ hospital room?” Will’s eyes narrowed to slits, furrowing her eyebrows. Jack clearly struck a nerve.
“Therapy doesn’t work on me,” she grumbled. “'Cause you won’t let it,” he retorted. Will shrugged, challenging him, “‘Cause I know all the tricks.” Two can play at that game. Jack frowned at her, raising his eyebrows. He could sense her ire at his authority. “Un-learn some tricks,” he suggested. Will gritted her teeth, stifling her frustration. She doubted her headache would ease if she fought with Jack.
Alana spoke up again, “Why not have a conversation with Hannibal? She was there with you and knows what you’ve been through.” Jack turned to her, raising his eyebrows with a pleading expression. “Especially now since you both share a foster daughter,” he reminded her. Will scoffed as she began to walk away from them. She didn’t know how much more she could take. “Oh, how wonderful for us,” she scoffed.
Jack and Alana watched, surprised, as Will slipped away. As she exited her classroom, Jack decided to get the last word. “I need my beauty sleep, Will!”
That evening, Hannibal opened her door to find Will pouting in a chair with her arms crossed. Dr. Lecter thought her new patient resembled a puppy or a five-year-old in the principal’s office who had just gotten into trouble. She smirked at the sight. Will’s hair was flowing down to right above her chest. It had a slight frizz, but Hannibal found it more appealing.
“Good evening, Wilhelmina,” Hannibal greeted. Will gazed upward, her vexation reappearing. She loathed her name, especially when someone sophisticated like Hannibal used it. “Please come in,” Hannibal instructed. Will pushed past her, huffing and scowling. Trying to put distance between them, Will climbed up to the bookshelves. Hannibal noticed this and remained on the lower ground, watching Will like a hawk.
Will paced and continued to pout, clearly wanting to go home. After a while, she saw the doctor pull out a piece of paper. “What’s that?” she gestured towards it. Hannibal held the paper up to Will and smiled. “Your Psychological Evaluation. You’re totally functional and more or less sane. Well done.” She set the paper down on her desk, humming quietly to herself.
Will sneered in bewilderment. “Did you just rubber-stamp me?” As she quickly glanced over at Hannibal’s pretentious novels, she heard a chuckle. “Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn’t break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork,” Hannibal joked. Will snapped her head around and studied Hannibal for a moment.
“Jack thinks I need therapy,” she stated. Hannibal cocked her head with a sly smile. “I’m not sure therapy will work on you. Stealing into other minds has taught you how to fortify your own.” Will nodded, beginning to pace once more. “That’s what I said.”
Hannibal sighed, knowing her words might strike a chord with her patient. “What you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there,” she suggested. The simplicity of that struck Will. She throatily murmured, “Last time he sent me into a dark place, I brought something back.”
Hannibal stared at her side profile, noting she had an Apollonian quality. “A surrogate daughter?” she echoed. Will debated arguing the suggestion but then decided not to. “Not because I got too close to Hobbs,” she weakly claimed. They both could hear the truth in her voice.
Hannibal continued to psychoanalyze Will. “You saved Abigail Hobbs’ life. You also orphaned her. It comes with certain emotional obligations, regardless of empathy disorders.” Will had to hand it to the doctor; she was skilled. Nevertheless, she aspired not to have the doctor’s attention twenty-four-seven.
“You were there, saved her life too. Do you feel obligated?” Will asked, shifting the topic. Dr. Lecter suppressed her smugness, recognizing Will’s strategy as a hidden coping mechanism. She inclined her head. “I feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel responsibility. I’ve fantasized about scenarios where my actions might have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs.”
Will stopped in her tracks, feeling a sense of camaraderie. She didn’t want to tarnish Hannibal’s view of Abigail. “Jack thinks Abigail Hobbs might’ve helped her dad kill those girls,” she informed. Hannibal’s appearance remained unchanged and stoic. A long silence followed Will’s words.
“How does that make you feel?” Hannibal inquired. “How does that make you feel?” Will countered, her attitude rearing its ugly head. Most people would be annoyed by her consistent sass, but Hannibal was charmed. Being a psychiatrist, she understood the importance of Will’s behavior. “I find it vulgar,” she articulated.
Will started pacing again. “Me too.” “And entirely possible,” Hannibal added. Will shook her head. “It’s not what happened.” Dr. Lecter’s purrs rang in Will’s ears. “Jack will ask her when she wakes up or he’ll have one of us ask her.”
Will frowned, continuing to calm her bitterness. Maybe she needed some of the doctor’s kombucha. “Is this therapy or a support group?” she sarcastically quipped. Hannibal smoothly answered, “It’s whatever you need it to be. The mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself and not the worst of someone else.”
Will and Jack slipped under the yellow police tape, entering the crime scene. It was an orchard of corpses. a compelling sight. They walked side by side as Jack spoke. “Lecter gave you the 'all clear.' Maybe therapy does work on you.”
Will maintained her composed demeanor, taking in her surroundings. She licked her lips and tilted her head diagonally. “Therapy is an acquired taste I have yet to acquire, but it sure serves your purpose. I'm back in the field,” she corrected.
Jack glowered at Will, feeling the dismissal of the Psych Eval. He pointed to the arranged bodies above them, continuing to frown. “Local police found more small animal traps in the surrounding woods,” he alerted.
They inched closer to the flowerbeds, the stench overstimulating Will. “They even discovered a thirty-gallon drum of pesticide hidden in a hollow tree with a rusted Radio Flyer wagon,” Jack continued. Will hummed as she peered over everything. “Didn’t want his 'crop' disturbed.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “All that’s missing is a scarecrow.” They eventually approached Beverly, Jimmy, and Brain, who were already working. Will switched her detachment on, tuning out Jimmy’s jocular remarks. She only paid attention to Beverly, questioning occasionally, her stoic expression discomforting them.
Will stared at the corpses in the garden grave. Soon, she was ready for her design. Up ahead, behind the tape, a woman with curly ginger hair was observing the familiar special agent in the field. She recognized that seafoam green jacket and remembered how it scratched against her skin, covered in the scent and fur of dogs.
She hid her camera after taking a few shots of Will before talking to the nearest detective. She posed as a family member of one of the young boys who found the garden and pestered the detective about Will’s methods, eager to delve into the mind of her unknown former flame. As she was about to get more information, Will shot up when a hand gripped her tightly.
She pushed the high-quality letterhead bearing Hannibal Lecter’s Psych Eval back toward the doctor. “This may have been premature,” she said. Hannibal slid it back to Will. “They’ll revoke my rubber stamp,” she noted, raising her eyebrows. Will grimaced while holding her breath. “Maybe they should.”
Hannibal paused before pondering, “What did you see? Out in the field?” Will consider the question, debating how to answer it. She sighed, rubbing her neck. “I might have seen Garret Jacob Hobbs.” Her sarcasm was a front to keep the vulnerability hidden.
Doctor Lecter’s forehead creased. “You might have?” she replied. Will avoided her gaze and continued to rub her skin. “A hallucination, not an association,” she insisted. Hannibal nodded, taking it in. “Where did you see him?” she wondered.
Will gestured toward the carpet with her face scrunched. “In someone else’s grave.” She began to chew on her bottom lip, her bad habit. “Did you tell Jack what you saw?” Hannibal probed. Will kept her face scrunched as she looked up at the doctor. “No,” she mumbled. Will knew it wasn’t the smartest choice and believed Hannibal would scold her for it. Yet she didn’t, simply brushing it off as stress.
“You displaced the victim of another killer’s crime with what could arguably be considered your victim, dear,” Hannibal implied. Will creased her brow, not moving past the nickname. It made her think. She wondered if Hannibal used such affection with all her patients or just with her. Was it a tactic to butter her up? Her frown deepened. Dear? Was she though?
“I don’t consider Hobbs my victim,” she asserted. Hannibal monitored her, noticing her reaction to the endearment. “What do you consider him?” she interrogated. Will shrugged. “Dead.” Hannibal’s face fell slightly, wanting a different answer. “Is it harder imagining the thrill somebody else feels killing now that you’ve done it yourself?” she added. Will nodded. “Yeah.”
When Will’s session was completed, Hannibal had an upcoming patient. Freddie Lounds, the ginger woman from the crime scene earlier. Hannibal quickly identified her. Unwillingly, Freddie knew she had to cave in. She lets Hannibal humiliate her and deletes the recording of Will’s conversation. Hannibal even assessed that the unethical journalist had ulterior motives beyond her blog. She noticed the gleam in Freddie’s eyes when Will Graham was mentioned and thought about subtly bringing it up with Will later.
Meanwhile, a few hours later, Will and Jack Crawford were sprinting into a pharmacy after finding the killer’s workplace. Apparently, he was a floater within his profession. As they rushed, Jack explained everything to Will. They went behind the counter, with Jack holding up his badge to assert his authority. Will stood behind him as the six pharmacists anxiously held up their hands while Jack interrogated them. One pharmacist asked, “What’s happening?” Jack yelled, “One of your customers didn't go to work this morning after picking up a prescription here yesterday, filled by Eldon Stammets! We believe he has abducted her!”
Most of the pharmacists froze, looking at each other in fear. “Eldon was just here,” a second pharmacist stated. Jack signaled the FBI agents, who fanned out. Will then thundered, “Is his car still in the parking lot?” The pharmacist confirmed it was. They rushed out to the parking lot where Will smashed the driver-side window of Eldon’s car with a crowbar, reached in, and popped the trunk. She quickly ran to the trunk, lifting it open to reveal the missing woman buried in soil like the other victims.
There was a fleeting recoil as Will, Jack Crawford, and Brian Zeller were hit with the stench from the compartment. Will recovered quickly, shoveling arms full of dirt. She screamed, “She’s in here!” uncovering the naked woman while the EMS approached. Will stepped away from the trunk as the EMS moved in.
Back in the store, Will and Jack stood loosely behind the counter discussing the case until Jimmy Price interrupted them. “We just checked browser history at Stammets' workstation,” he informed Jack. Will watched as Jack placed his hands on his hips. “Do I want to hear this?” Jack asked. Jimmy shook his head, “No. And yes. But mostly no.”
Jack looked at Eldon’s browser and slammed his palms on the nearest surface. “Son of a bitch!” Will glanced down to see an article written by Freddie Lounds about her. She didn’t need to read it to know it was going to be bad. She knew more about Freddie Lounds than she would ever admit. Since none of the men wanted to read the article, Beverly stepped up to do so. If it weren’t about her, Will would have respected Beverly’s boldness.
To calm herself down, Will visited Abigail Hobbs. Eldon was roaming free, and she felt increasingly useless in the case. Seeing her surrogate daughter seemed like a good idea. She laid down on the couch, drifting off onto the stiff cushions. Soon, the stag from her previous dreams began to recede, becoming her shadow, no matter how much Aspirin or positive thinking she employed to push it away.
She was awoken by Alana’s soothing voice reading aloud. As Will opened her eyes, she realized she was covered with a blanket from Alana. She groaned quietly, rubbing her face. “What are you reading?” she asked. Alana turned around with a grin, eagerly beginning to talk about the book. Will nodded, studying Alana’s pretty face. She could listen to her for hours.
Unfortunately for Will, the conversation soon turned to Freddie’s article. Will dismissed it casually, knowing Freddie would eventually write something. She appreciated Alana’s sympathy, finding it cute. She was cute. At that moment, Freddie Lounds was being attended to by paramedics. The detective she had manipulated at the crime scene had been shot by Eldon Stammets. Freddie watched as the morgue workers took him away while Jack addressed her.
Before Jack could continue, Freddie cut him off. “Where’s Will?” she asked. Jack hesitated, raising his eyebrows. “Repeat yourself, Miss Lounds,” he demanded softly. Freddie licked her lips, “Your killer, Eldon Stammets, wants me to do another article. But he asked me about Will Graham. Where is she?” There was a surprising emotion in Freddie’s voice, a seldom sight to see.
Jack reassured her, “We have an eyewitness to the murder. We don't need Will Graham.” Freddie shook her head violently, “That's not why I'm asking.” Jack studied her, realizing the urgency before turning to a subordinate and yelling, “Find Will Graham!” He snapped back to Freddie, “This was about Will?”
Freddie began to discuss Eldon’s ramblings with her. “What does he want with Will Graham?” Jack cross-examined. Freddie sighed, “Someone who understands him. Will was right.” Jack’s eyes widened. “What did you tell him?” he asked. Freddie didn’t respond immediately, her eyes going distant. “I told him about the Hobbs girl,” she finally said.
“When you shot Eldon Stammets, who was it that you saw?” Hannibal inquired. Twenty-four hours had passed, and Will was still baffled. Not truly baffled; everything just seems foggy. As she stood near Hannibal, she only reminisced about having coffee with Alana in the cafeteria, saying goodbye to her, and then going back upstairs to stay with Abigail. Jack had called her about Eldon, finding him minutes after in a stolen doctor’s coat pushing Abigail’s bed, then finally shooting him in the arm.
“I didn’t see Hobbs,” Will stated.
Hannibal raised her shoulders. “Then it's not Hobbs' ghost that's haunting you, is it? It's the inevitability of there being a man so bad that killing him felt good.”
Will pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling and scoffing. “Killing Hobbs felt just,” she expressed.
Hannibal affirmed, “Which is why you're here. To prove that the sprig of zest you feel is from saving Abigail, not killing her dad.”
Will ran her hand down her lower face, shaking her head. “I didn't feel a sprig of zest when I shot Eldon Stammets,” she elucidated.
Hannibal arched her brows, watching Will fret over this moment. “You didn't kill Eldon Stammets,” she corrected.
Will shrugged. “I thought about killing him. I'm still not entirely sure that wasn't my intention when pulling the trigger.”
Hannibal eyed Will as she sat down in one of the chairs. She concluded, “If your intention was to kill him, it's because you understand why he did the things he did. It's beautiful in its own way. Giving voice to the unmentionable.”
Will rolled her eyes. Not at Hannibal, but at herself for multiple reasons. “I should have stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana,” she lamented.
Hannibal moved and sat down in front of her, mirroring her position. “A boat engine is a machine. A predictable problem, easy to solve. You fail, there's a paddle. Where was your paddle with Hobbs?”
Will clasped her hands together and pointed at Hannibal. “You're supposed to be my paddle.”
Hannibal nodded. “I am, dear.” She queried, “It wasn't the act of killing Hobbs that got you down, was it? Did you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good?”
Will weighed that statement, finally admitting to Hannibal, “I liked killing Hobbs.”
There was a pause. Hannibal knew it. “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?”
Will shrugged once more at Hannibal’s belief. She was personally an atheist. “Depends who you ask,” she muttered.
Hannibal perked up slightly, sensing Will’s own beliefs. She remarked, “God's terrific. He dropped a church roof on thirty-four of his worshippers last Wednesday night in Texas, while they sang a hymn.”
Will scrunched up her face. “Did God feel good about that?”
Hannibal smirked to herself. “He felt powerful.”