Chapter Text
They're introduced to each other by Freddie Lounds long before they actually met.
The focus on Graham's professional and eventual private life had been a near obsession for Ms. Lounds, after all he had been something of a spectacle. Not that Lounds could ever pin on anything substantial on Will's private life beyond his more public affair with Dr. Alana Bloom, but there was enough to read between the lines. She had all but pushed the boundaries uncomfortably close after Lecter had gutted him, after he shot ten rounds and struck Lecter twice. However, it was the Dolarhyde affair and the second subsequent scarring across his brow, cheek, and nose that brought Will Graham to a young University of Virginia graduate's attention during her time in the Forensic Fellowship.
Poor Ms. Lounds had lost her meal ticket, so the idea went. Sure, a million psychopaths were out there, but no more psychopaths were chasing after them for the FBI. Not until the Gumb incident came along with one of Freddie's informants. Agent Starling never quite so much rose to the occasion as Graham had verbally, but as was her style, Clarice Starling preferred action to words. Lounds had lost equipment on the night Starling found a head in the late Raspail's car and Lounds decided she would never let Starling forget.
Will Graham had been too drunk to give a shit.
Five months after Gumb's death, Graham would eventually read the archives of the Tattler on a borrowed Samsung tablet with his face behind bandages. A 'Dr. Tomas Fell' by his side, face changed just enough not to be recognizable but high cheek bones and maroon eyes just the same. They were both recovering from plastic surgery in Sao Paulo.
Graham and Starling wouldn't meet face to face for another three years.
**
Will heard the footsteps first, alien on the terracotta tiled floor in the villa.
They were slow, uncertain, and he suddenly became wary. Will carefully lowered his book to see a woman standing at the landing of the living room with her hand braced on the wall, head tipped and studying him with a bleary expression on her face. He was only self conscious for a moment, knowing the woman had been given a large dose of pain killers.
He hadn't gotten a good chance to see her the night before when she was brought home and into the guest room. She's tall and sickly pale, her deep auburn hair was elegantly braided.
"She shattered," Hannibal had explained later, after he had re-dressed the ballistic trauma wounds and tucked her into bed, "Not quite the way or how that I imagined. There was a considerable mess to clean up - both her and the bodies- but it was exquisite." The drugs, however, were not just for pain. They were simply to keep her disoriented until she had arrived at the villa that Will acquired some years back through various means; a wedding band and casket.
Will couldn't say he it had been the happiest few months of his life, but he imagined they were considerably worse for his aged bride. Pity, that. He imagined the next few weeks weren't going to be pleasant, either.
He only risked looking into her eyes to see if she was still drugged. Eyes were dilated but her breathing was relaxed and she was not in the state Hannibal assured she'd be in for the next day. She shouldn't be awake, much less walking. "Good morning," She slurred the words and and then she focused for a moment. She tilted her chip up and this time, her voice is clearer. "Where am I?"
The twang of her accent reminded Will of home, of the states, and he hardens himself. Towards her accent, towards the memories. "Europe," Will said in a tone as wary as her eyes are as he raised himself from the lounge, his book forgotten. "You're safe. Somewhere in Europe."
"Huh." The woman leaned against the wall, scrubbing her face with her right hand in an attempt to wake herself up. The short sleeves of her pajamas exposed medical tape and gauze on her left becip. "Dr. Lecter said... oh ... oh goddamn. Did I call him that during the air trip, I don't-" She teetered then braced herself against the wall, suddenly drawing herself up as Will approached her as legs shook with the effort. "I don't remember lots of things. But he said somewhere in South America... I think."
"Hannibal told me you were an angel on the trip. If you weren't asleep, you were staring out the window." Will found it easier to study vibrant ripples of her hair as he warily explored her. Her body posture is the strongest indicator of her current mood, she's weary, exhausted, but too curious and frightened to not fight the effects of the drugs despite the pain and exhaustion painting lines on her body. She'll find of all the drugs that could have been used on her, simple opiates are the least harmful.
The woman merely nodded slowly at this explanation. "Oh... Okay... Could I have a coke or coffee then?" The smile was polite and fake; not to offend but to disarm and diffuse anything unpleasant. "I'm sorta sleepy and I could use the caffeine."
It was then that Clarice Starling's knees finally gave way.
* * *
It's a dog that Clarice Starling first meets the next morning and she is so relieved to see a dog.
A normal dog.
An old dog with white hairs that spot along his muzzle and seems very content to be on his pillow to greet the sunrise. He lifted his head slowly as she approached him on bare feet before he allowed Clarice to pet his head and coo how handsome he was a kettle of water boils in the kitchen just beyond. It's the most normal gesture she recalled doing in a week.
It's been an eventful week.
Everything hangs by strings of memories in her head, even the times she wasn't drugged. Only a few moments stand out clear as day: Screaming of boars and her demanding to be given enough time to find Mason Verger and shoot him dead and too-dark eyes. She recalled other things, faint smudges of memory. The burn of the bullet through her arm, hot tears of fury, and lights. Light tinged with numb pain and soft murmuring and warmth.
That last part had been nice. Terribly fucked up if she bothered to think about it. But nice on the surface.
The dog suddenly became more alert when he heard footsteps on the villa's tile. Akin to a walking stick the dog scrambled out of the cushion and away from the stranger with kind hands. Clarice, meanwhile, attempted to reach for the gun set her holster to only remember neither are there.
Her reward for her quick thinking and muscle memory was pain that flared down her injured arm. A cool breath was drawn in and she tried to suck down the pain. She heard a gentle voice saying, “Halt,” before it was followed by, "Come on, Wintson."
Clarice had a vague notion this was Will Graham, but vague notions had been paired with soft numbing pain and soothing hands that brushed and braided her hair. She didn't like vague notions.
The man who appeared from the hallway blinked in the sunshine of the living room. He had dark sloppy curls, stubble, and hints of gray betrayed his otherwise youthful appearance. The scars weren't as prominent as the Tattler pictures had shown a few years back, but faded remains of the hypertrophic scars still across his the strong cheek, terrifyingly close to his eye, the handsome nose, and over his brow. His appearance reminded Clarice of a puzzle picture; beautiful and time consuming but could easily fall apart.
It was Will Graham. Nothing vague at all.
Save for a quiet glance up, the completely ignored her until he reached one of the glass doors of the south facing living room to open the door for the dog and watched the squirming creature bound out. His eyes were still upon his dog when he said, "Hi."
Tone unreadable.
"Good morning... again." Clarice found herself saying as she watched him with keener eyes than she did yesterday, accent carefully controlled. "I'm... Agent Clarice Starling."
It's only when the words pass her lips she realizes she's not an agent anymore.
"Will Graham." He doesn't turn to her, hand resting on the wood frame of the door that leads outside. His shoulders were straight and his posture remained steady and poised, "Are you still looking for the coffee? We don't have any coke."
"I'm braving the French Press you've got in the kitchen in trying to make some. I was told I could go to the kitchen yesterday if I felt better," Clarice scrubbed her face with the right and was thankful for small favors. She had been shot in her left arm. She was right handed. "I was hoping for a coke but that makes sense. We're in Europe and I get the feeling Dr. Lecter isn't-"
She sucked in her breath as she watched a faint expression cross the older man's face that darken his handsome, youthful features; as if speaking Dr. Lecter's name reminded him he's tolerating her presence. It's a feeling she knew rather well from others."No," Graham quietly agreed, "Hannibal's not a big fan of cornstarch."
He said Dr. Lecter's name so casually that Clarice couldn't help but think this is going to be fucking awkward. "No, I'd imagine not," She began, "It became our bread and butter up in the mountains, unfortunately. It was Coke and Red Bull that got me through my places of education."
Graham took a breath then and began to turn towards Clarice as Winston padded through the door with old tail wagging. Graham gestured to her to follow, eyes still not meeting with her own. Strange, he held himself with a relaxed ease that was only hampered by morning sleepiness. He was very different from the man that Crawford mentioned to her - a man utterly broken by life and Dr. Lecter.
After she glanced down the sunny halls, as if looking for shadows that she's not quite ready to face, she followed the former profiler into the kitchen.
Clarice was surprised to see him walk over to the kettle of water, took a sniff, and systematically poured the near boiling water down the drain of the sink, "Trust me, I know you're about to kill me, but trust me." He doesn't turn to confirm if she is or isn't trying to kill him but Clarice reasoned he doesn't have to. He's an empath.
Graham went to the industrial style fridge, which looked sharply out of place in the soft roseness of the classic style Tuscan style kitchen and Clarice froze as he began to open it. Despite the pain in her arm, she found her fingers cling desperately to the edge of a counter and her eyes were locked on the appliance. Fear bloomed icy and burned hot as it simply hit her what she has done.
She's agreed to run off with a cannibal she's been haunted by for the last three years out of desperate fear. Out of the frying pan into the fryer.
"Agent Starling?”
Clarice took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on Graham's glasses. “I'm only getting out rosewater. Rosewater eliminates the need for sugar." Graham said as if speaking to a child. "I made it myself." His eyes on are on her hands that slowly unclench and fall to her sides, the left arm throbbing with pain of the movement. "Hey... look. Do you want to be level, Agent Starling? You're tense."A smile mirrored over Will's face, "You're not afraid, you know. Just ... confused and tense. Can I ask what happened the past couple of days?"
She doesn't speak right away but he seemed content to give her time to stew in silence. It also explains why he began a conversation with her, why he's being suddenly sociable. It's more of a notion, but if the doctor had told him everything, he wouldn't ask her. Unless if he was trying to hear two sides of a story. Or trying to shake her up.
She should have just killed Mason Verger and been done with it.
There's only been two men who were reasonably accurate about the emotions she hides. Mr. Crawford was always reasonably accurate on a level that was comfortable, on a level that was fatherly until the Gumb case was over. And then that was it. So long, you're going to the CID to be a meat shield for two and a half years. Enjoy.
The other man had been Dr. Lecter. He tore a mind open and dragged out what he found interesting, relishing your denial or feeble attempt to explain what he found. The stories that Mr. Crawford and Beverly Katz had told her about Graham described him as accidentally tipping your soul over and reading the contents while you both wept on the inside.
Clarice watched Graham quietly measure out whole beans from a porcelain canister and crushed them with quiet, Zen-like meticulousness before placing them into the French press. She wasn't sure if the man before her would weep any more.
Winston yawned serenely from his pillow by the glass door, at peace with the world and not caring how out of place he looked. While Clarice could tell the villa was shared between the doctor and former instructor as well as a bed, this room clearly belonged to Dr. Lecter. Graham treated everything with a respect Clarice hadn't seen since in foster care with one of the more well behaved kids. Or the kids who pretended they behaved until the foster parents turned their backs.
Graham began to pour the nearly boiling rosewater into the press.
"Dissociative amnesia," She found herself saying.
"Hrm?" He looked up as soon as the kettle was set down and peered at her behind his glasses. Clarice thinks his eyes are blue.
" Dissociative amnesia." She explains, "When shi- something traumatic happens, you forget a lot of things."
"Huh," Even behind the glasses, his gaze was chilling and for a moment, Clarice was suddenly glad he was reluctant to look into her eyes. He knew what dissociative amnesia was. Graham had been Dr. Bloom's lover, too. She was filling in space in the air. "Was that anything like the Drumgo shooting? Shit happened there, I think."
A beat passed between them, the morning sunlight did so little to keep her warm. So he knew about that. Knew she was still shaken up over that. She wouldn't allow satisfaction, though. He was gifted and she was goddamn stubborn. Bring it on.
"Very much." Clarice said honestly and caught a tug of an amused smirk on Graham's lips, "I'm not quite sure how I drove home that night.”
"Well. I'm not too curious about that night. The Washington Times and the Tattler were all over that case. I dunno how to describe it but... I'm wondering what happened on the night Hannibal got captured. You do realize Hannibal was injured as well?" A soft warning disguised as a question.
Why on earth did Graham allow her here?
"No. I didn't, I didn't want him harmed. It was Mason Verger I wanted dead... and apparently Mr. Verger had a vendetta against Dr. Lecter."
"Yeah. He did a number of Verger, didn't he? We couldn't get anything out of him due to his condition for a few years." Graham hadn't been called upon that investigation, no one had died and the victim wasn't able to communicate until well after Lecter had gone to trial. "Lemme guess, he heard about your situation with Hannibal from three years ago, right? Only person who'd have some idea how to find him besides me. I'm either dead or on the run with him." The grin is so sharp.
"He... indicated that over Skpying with him. Just outside of his home, I was meeting with his sister, Margot Verger. I... was very unaware of Mr. Verger's past records at the time. And that was nearly five months ago." Despite all troubling signs of at Muskrat Farms connected to children. "Things... happened.”
“They often do.”
“The short story?” Clarice felt like she was dancing on Graham's wire. “I got shot at, saved the doctor, and I then passed out due to a massive amount of blood loss in my attempt to get to Verger. It's... fairly fuzzy after that. I just remembered we were supposed to head to Brazil once we got to Mexico... So, South America."
"South America to South-er America, then?"
" -- don't be a smart-ass, Mexico is apart of North America, I'm still right." She scolded, mildly surprised at Graham's smile, beautiful and white and full of sharp teeth, but it was a smile. But it was fleeting, "What's today?"
"The Eighth."
"... so it's... Been little over a week since all of this went down. God, whatever he gave me for the pain was a complete-" She paused and felt his gaze on her, quietly searching, silently judgmental. "I was shot at and when I woke up it hurt like a bitch. What he gave me stopped the pain."
"You trusted him?" Was Graham more upset with her or with Dr. Lecter?
"I do." She's shocked at her answer, "On many things. Giving me drugs shouldn't be one. I memorized his case profile. I memorized yours." The ghost of Abigail Hobbs, though she still breathes, floats between them. "But I trust him. I... know when he lies." It's silent then as they waited for the coffee to brew; it's served in an elegant glass coffee cup and when she asks for cream, Graham does his best not to roll his eyes. She's not an empath, but she knows someone who has become a coffee snob.
"D'you mind if I take this outside? I haven't... had a true moment to myself awake since arriving at Muskrat Farms." She needed to escape from Graham, she needed to think what the doctor wanted from her or what happened between the First and the Fourth. She wasn't going to tell Graham she had been somewhat aware on the Fourth, aware enough to be given the ultimatum of going with Lecter or staying to face 'justice'.
She wasn't very keen on justice was dealt by the FBI right now.
Graham is looked down into his own coffee cup - black - and took a long sip before he nodded. They both know she wouldn't escape, she was still too injured. She gave him a worn smile and she began to turn around with the intention of leaving the kitchen to the inviting patio outside.
"Agent Starling?"
She turned, head cocked; the tone of his voice had changed. Softer and warmer.
His quiet contemplating look seemed almost genuine. Perhaps it really was. "For what it's worth... I'm so sorry for all of this."
Her smile is tried as she bows her head, she can't offer a hand to shake. The left one hurts and the right one has her coffee. "Call me Clarice. I'm not an agent anymore."
"Call me Will."