through his mind, each tremulous note a single word, repeated. Will. Eyes locked
on the doorway.
to be upset about the broken bodies and bloodstains on the carpet (although one
niggle - blood’s hellishly difficult to remove).
pretending - to yearn for the face he cherishes above all others to appear.
picks up shards of recent conversation, turns them over in his mind.
unfamiliar, pricks. Then relief, overwhelming. Will, alive. Will, concerned and
tender. Smiling. Hannibal sighs, eyes glistening surety.
Another crime scene; another body count. As always,
Will tunes out Jack’s grouching and the organised chaos of police, FBI, First
Responders. But no pendulum today; no urge to recreate Budge’s spiteful finale.
Will’s only thought is for the traumatised man whose relief-filled gaze snared
him the moment he walked in.
Everything else fades away as he perches on the
edge of the desk and notes with concern the blood streaks on Hannibal’s
forehead. Squashes the urge to grab a med-kit and clean him up a bit.