The Linoleum Twist

Comatose

A steady drizzle fell from angry clouds, rain drops caught in the silvery blonde hair of Dr. Lecter, as he crossed the driveway to get into the shelter of his car. He turned the collar of his coat against the chilling east wind, feeling a few wet drops slither their way down his neck.

Eager was the Doctor to go back to the hospital, his sleep interrupted by thoughts and questions after reading last night's report. This Will Graham was a peculiar man. It's unfortunate that the coma he was in would prevent Hannibal from dissecting the strange mind to get the answers he craved, although it was only a matter of time before he did awake; or die. That was also a possibility. And strangely enough, it actually seemed to bother him, for some reason or another. 'Not knowing' always had bothered him.
Finally he reached for the car door, feeling the cold leather beneath him. The smell of wet ground and jasmine followed him inside, a moment taken to appreciate such essence, before the ignition key turned and growled.

* * *
It was 12am at New Orleans East hospital, where in room 608 a coma patient Will Graham lay. Nothing but the sound of life support machines, forcing air into Will's lungs with the rythem of ticks and tocks of the clock above his door, a steady beep of his heart monitor joining in. Glancing at the tubes and wires attatched, Hannibal checked Will's chart at the foot of the bed. The night nurses had seemed to do most of the regular tasks, all that was left to do was check the wound for it's recovery. Putting the chart back, Dr. Lecter slide his hands into a pair of latex gloves and proceeded to lift Will's hospital gown till it exposed his stomach.
Observing with cold professional eyes, the wound he had stiched up the night before was healing well. Pressing gently around the cut proved no infection. The long, painful smile that was carved into Will's abdomen had colours of blue and purple around it. The check up was done, but Hannibal didn't want to leave the room just yet;
looking around Will's bed, he observed the lack of flowers or "Get well soon" cards, only exception being a cheap looking envelope that was clearly signed by another police officer; perhaps Graham's partner in the force. No chairs were pushed to Will's side, signaling the possibility he had no close visitors. Did no one care to visit the slashed up man infront of him? Surely with those relatively attractive looks he had some string of lovers at least, anyone of them perhaps written in as his emergancy contact? A look at the registration office's list for 608 visitors proved his assumptions to be right. So this man had isolated himself from human comfort. Interesting.

Hannibal didn't know why he was getting so caught up in Will Graham's case, but something about that man smelled like a hidden opportunity. Perhaps it was just boredom speaking, but a decision was silently made to visit Will's home in order to get to know more about the man with the carved inn smile. But Hannibal's hospital shift had only just begun, and after doing his mandatory tasks, all that was left to do was wait to be summoned by his team. So the rest of the night shift was spent illustrating medical anatomy of a man's torso in fine italian ink, with a resemblance to a familer face edged inn by the will of Hannibal's subconscious.

* * *
It was only a 30 minute drive from the Hannibal's place to Will's little house in the woods, the address being easy enough to find. Sunrays barely touched the horizon when Hannibal's stealthy car pulled up to the side of the house. He noted how paint was chipping from the once white exterior of the doorway, the steps on the porch creaking under his weight. The noise caused a rumble of scuffling paws and whines, freezing Hannibal on the spot; of course. The isolated man had made himself a family of his own, one with fur and paws. A dog flap lifted to present a stream of different dogs, sniffing at the foot of the tall stranger. Fur all over his trousers. Lovely.
After easily picking the lock of the front door, Hannibal took the time to fill up the food and water bowls of the starving animals; best to not let Will's furry friends die off.

After taking note to hire for someone to care for Will's dogs for the future, Hannibal started his snooping in Will's bedroom. The moth eaten blinds were drawn, illuminating white tangled bed covers. Sweet oder of sweat raidited from the sheets, making it obvious that the man must be a restless sleeper. Hannibal considered for the first time that Will could be suffering from mental illness: then he found that fact to be much too obvious. It would explain the constant need for companionship and yet the ruthless isolation from people, a method to protect vulnerability. Walking into the bathroom, empty aspirin bottles littered the floor. No other medication. Interesting. So no therapist to prescribe much needed antidepressants.
Moving into the living room, the clutter of books and fishing equipment claimed an old wooden desk. A closer look would show that the books and coffee stained papers were all based on psychology, criminology, law and behavioural sciences, impressive for a simple cop. Judging by the old papers written by Will, the man had a definite keen knowledge for criminal profiling. Strange hobby for someone of Will's nature. Someone who snuggles up at the fire place with his many dogs, drinking what smelt like scotch and crafted his own fishing lures seemed like the actions of a man with more passion for the simple life. Nothing in this damned house gave the answers Hannibal sought. The trip only spiked his curiosity even higher instead of curing it: there was no way around it. Dr. Lecter had to wait till Will awakens from his comatose, and finally speak to the man whom he found too fascinating to let go.