cynoclept

f e a t h e r s t a g

It would be fair to call Will Graham a prairie dog wearily easing into and out of his den, far too attuned to danger for his own good. But prairie dogs didn’t drink themselves into early deaths, nor could they muster the degree of poise Will embodied when he was at his most crotchety. It would have been easy to give in to the urge to grin, to bare his teeth, to put the fear into Will’s sharp, guarded eyes.
Hannibal nearly praised the angle of Will’s hips before he caught himself. If he got ahead of his quarry, Will would disappear back into his warren with a flick of his tail and the loss of a priceless opportunity.
“I will do that regardless of whether you prefer walking barefoot or not,” Hannibal said instead, wondering just how embittered Will Graham had become. There was nothing in him of the seventeen-year-old prodigy at first glance, only cagey, betrayed eyes and the type of mouth angle that belonged on an octogenarian sailor at some drafty bar.
“I apologize for not calling, but your number was unlisted. I did bring an early lunch, if you would be willing to walk and eat? I thought that if I ended up wasting your time, I could at least compensate you in some small part with a good sandwich.”

Will looked like he was going to say something, a halting pause in his shoulders and mouth. This hadn’t gone the way all the previous visits had; this was off-script, missing too many of the pieces, and too early in the morning (even if the sun was good and high in the sky). He swallowed in a false gesture of decision, and glanced one more time between Lecter’s car and Lecter, snorting quietly.

“If you’re allowed a good sandwich."

Will had never gotten into the habit of ‘a good’ anything, and he didn’t think times had changed so very much. But he let the screen door swing shut, without waiting for a reply, and backed away into the cool certainty of the crumbling house.

A few minutes later, Will had splashed two rounds of cold water on his face, then given up and put his head under the faucet. He swapped out the slept-in t-shirt for a fresh one, and found something more substantial than boxers to deal with the wind which whipped up off the lake.

The dogs preceded him out of the front door when it pushed open, careening off towards the surrounding landscape on different length legs. Which, a couple of seconds later, only left the two men and the sound of animal play, standing in the awkward camaraderie of the front yard.

Will didn’t lock the house behind him. There was no-one out here, and nothing worth stealing in there – not even records. Hannibal Lecter had been back to his car, and something about that felt permanent and unsettling. Will refused to look at what he was carrying, fixing his gaze on the edge of the lake a mile away, and began to walk.