chimera of the chapel

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/37224562.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: Hannibal (TV)
Relationship: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Characters: Molly Graham, Jack Crawford, Freddie Lounds, Bedelia Du Maurier,
Lady Murasaki, Chiyoh, Alana Bloom, Margot Verger, Matthew Brown,
Dr. Frederick Chilton, Kade Purnell
Additional Tags: Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post Fall, Post-
Season/Series 03, Slow Burn, Character Study, Angst, Morally
Ambiguous Will Graham, Self-Destruction, Mystery, World Travel,
Pining, Medical Procedures, Developing Relationship, Sexual Tension,
Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sexual Content
Language: English
Collections: my favourite hannigram fics, My Hannigram library
Stats: Published: 2022-02-19 Completed: 2022-06-25 Words: 211,516
Chapters: 35/35
 chimera of the chapel
by bleakmidwinter

Summary

When Will Graham wakes up from a coma three months after the fall, Jack reveals that
Hannibal Lecter didn't survive. Outside the realm of Hannibal's influence, Will decides to
discover the full truth behind the world's sudden and seeming falsehood.

Everybody seems to hold their own opinion on Hannibal's fate, but Will knows better than
anyone that trust and honesty are as elusive as death.

Notes

Hey, it's been a while!

I have more to say in the end notes. A little bit of a spoiler if you're not sold on the
ambiguous and angsty summary <3

Please enjoy!
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The Norman Chapel is quiet in the morning hours.

Songbirds whistle beyond the ancient fenestella. Beams of yellow, warm light mute the
sharply molded architecture. The hard lines of Will’s face, awash in the sun, find themselves
softened.

Hannibal stands by the votive candles as he often does. Sometimes he sits beside Will in the
first row of chairs, both of them mirrors of each other; legs crossed, hair combed, eyes
closed. Even so, the seat beside Will has been growing colder as immeasurable time ticks on.
At random, the older man has taken to pinching out every flaming wick. It never seems to
matter; they’ll be alight again in no time.

They rarely speak here.

When they do, it’s unclear if they’re speaking directly to one another.

“How long?” Will asks, unsure of what the question means in the grand scheme of things.
How long have they been here? How long will they still be here?

How long have they shared this foyer of the mind?

“Not long now,” Hannibal murmurs thickly. The words echo off the walls. Will hears a
distant choir complementing the apparition’s charming accent. He can only imagine this
Hannibal is an apparition. Nothing more than a shadow. Or an ideal.

Neither of them are ideal, but a Hannibal who doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and doesn’t
dare to challenge God’s presumptuous reservation of their time here, is not the man he
knows.

The vision is stiff and in many ways cold. A comfort as effective as a thin bed sheet in the
midst of a deep, bleak winter.

No matter the introspection Will conjures (deference to the overactive imagination he can’t
seem to shed even in liminal spaces of his neural pathways), he cannot bring himself to
dwell.

It’s quiet here; he’s always appreciated the quiet.

When exactly the angels dressed as nuns appear, he can’t say. He doesn’t suddenly become
aware of them, but something shifts inside his mind as he registers himself analyzing the
familiar features of Beverly Katz, Bella Crawford, and Abigail Hobbs. Three of them,
floating above the altar, smiling down at him. Abigail is as beautiful as she was in life, if not
reflective of the personality-rooted sadness that derived from a fate she’d been subjected to
since birth. It mimics a sick joke he’d fabricate under the guise of worldly, unprovoked
atheism he used to entertain. Perhaps that’s the idea.

Abigail floats front and center. Abnormally, her skin is the color of a summer peach. She’s
glowing and reaching out a hand toward him.

The distance between them is as immeasurable as the passage of time here.

Will sighs and uncrosses his legs. He looks toward Hannibal. The man’s back is still turned to
him, but the votive candles are all blown out. He’s staring down at them as if they’ll offer
guidance.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself whisper.

It slides off the walls in the mockery of an echo.

Abigail looks resigned.

The ceiling above Will cracks and the floor shudders. He makes eye contact with the murals
above, watching as the angels and demons come to life, cawing and roaring in agonized birth.
Burning light seeps through the fractures above. He shuts his eyes, barricades himself from
the inevitable, and finds that the quiet of the stream bubbles with fury and without mercy.

Choking on it, the water weighs him down.

He cannot open his eyes, try as he might. He merely knows the chapel fills with liquid, black
and red simultaneously. The colors are vivid through his thin eyelids. Thick, mucousy texture
coats his tongue as the liquid invades him. It’s numbingly salty on the tip of his tongue,
reaching for his lungs like large spidery hands. Greedy hands. Itching, scratching, scraping
for the innermost part of him.

Will wakes up.

His heart is pounding louder than the noises he’s making, or been making; suffocating gasps
in his throat, shredding sounds of fabric and clanging of skin and bone (his hands, his hands
no longer feel as if they’re wading through water) against the metal hospital bed frame. The
metal is cold like the liquid was.

Nurses are holding him down, all women. Like the angels he narrowly escaped. One is
desperately attempting to readjust his oxygen, the other working to strap him down in pre-
existing Velcro restraints. Whoever put him in this specific ward expected he’d need them.

He’s not in the right state of mind to wonder about that now.
“Mr. Graham. Can you hear me?” a ginger woman yells.

He’s still gasping, thrashing, waiting to die.

The storm can’t be calming, can it? The peak of it continues crashing roiling waves inside his
chest. He feels as if he’s being repeatedly pounded by a vengeful tide.

Yet, his heart doesn’t stop. And oxygen neatly fills his lungs. It feels wrong, when his
adrenaline starts to abate, and color starts seeping into the gray of the world around him.
There is a film over his eyes making everything foggy and his throat has never felt drier
despite…despite the reason he woke.

“Mr. Graham,” the same woman repeats.

“Yes,” he croaks. He hacks up spittle and maybe an ounce of bile. It tastes rotten. The irony
of the first thought that comes to his mind isn’t lost on him. “Water?”

Two of the nurses scatter while the other wipes up his mess, one babbling something quickly
into the phone by the door. The ginger woman rushes to the sink for his desired water. It feels
like the closest thing to heaven when he downs it. “Slow sips,” she begs of him.

He doesn’t listen.

His second instinct is to ask for a toothbrush, but he feels too much like a fish out of water.
He needs his heart to calm down completely. He needs to remember who exactly he is. What
time it is. Why he’s here.

Soon enough, he’s left with just the ginger woman fiddling about in the room.

She mutters something about ‘calling your wife’ and ‘please rest here and don’t go
anywhere’ in a manner that reveals to him; he’s a prisoner for now, but they aren’t going to
tell him that outright. They must have clear instructions courtesy of the FBI.

With that sentiment in mind, the whole picture begins to come into focus.

“My name is Will Graham. It’s…” his voice keeps cracking at the edges. He hasn’t used it in
a few days, he imagines. Glancing at the clock across the room, he continues, “It’s 1:37 pm.
I’m in the hospital.”

It shouldn’t comfort him, but it does. Fractionally.

In his head, he continues to repeat these findings. Eventually, the pounding of his heart slows
to a crawl, and he can properly hear himself think. He continues, again and again, until the
ginger nurse returns.

“Your wife is on the way.”

Molly. She was in the hospital too; he’s aware of that much.
“How long?” he asks, trailing off. The same words he asked Hannibal in the chapel. This
time, he’s formed a solid reasoning. How long exactly has he been out?

He doesn’t need to clarify. The nurse shifts uncomfortably.

“Three months, sir.”

The ache in Will’s joints and muscles immediately makes itself known, as if to confirm a
reverse placebo effect. He winces as he attempts to sit up, realizing this must be the first time
in quite a while.

“Three months?” he repeats. “Was I…I was in a coma?”

“Yes. Frankly, Mr. Graham, it’s a miracle you’re alive. Even just yesterday your vitals were
in a critical state. No one should have survived a fall at that height, with that amount of blood
loss no less.”

Will’s heart begins to pound wildly. The memories swarm back, filling every nook and
cranny in his mind. He’s overwhelmed with the bloody images. The mutilation, the elevation,
the embrace.

He’s spent so long in the chapel at Hannibal’s side he hadn't thought to ask. Hadn’t thought to
imagine Hannibal could be elsewhere other than by his side.

Christ, three months.

“Hannibal.”

It’s all he can verbalize. The word sounds desperate in his mouth.

“Where’s Hannibal Lecter?” he demands, clearer, the heat in his chest intensifying. The
weight there inside him resembles anxiety, and he feels light-headed with it.

Nothing he’s spoken aloud has ever felt more important.

The nurse pales and she starts fidgeting. Her hand falls on the doorknob.

“I’ll, ehm, grab you some toiletries. Please stay put, sir!”

She evaded the inquiry as if it were plagued.

Will offered himself many long years to change, and change he has. He won’t sit here
passively and waste away like he did that first terrible stay at the hospital. He has questions
that need answers. Immediately. And he’s going to get them, no matter who stands in his
way.

The restraints are easy to wiggle out of. They’re just Velcro after all.

Thanks dad for all those Houdini how-he-did-it VHS rentals.

Carefully removing the oxygen tube and the IV taped to his arm, Will almost collapses when
his feet hit the tile floor. He hasn’t walked in months. Dizziness clouds his senses for a
moment until the blood in his body levels itself out, and he is convinced he won’t instantly
topple over.

The strides it takes for him to reach the dresser closest to his cot are more of an elongated
waddle, but he sticks to his path. One foot forward. Second foot.

Bingo.

His knees creak as he leans down to rummage through the two drawers. The contents are
sparse. A bundle of hospital manufactured socks and gowns, and a quaint assortment of his
belongings, all separated in plastic bags. He’s surprised to find his phone, dried blood
staining the minimally shattered casing. He supposes the FBI may have already extrapolated
all the evidence they needed from it and decided to return it to his care. Maybe Molly
haggled for his possessions like any loyal wife would.

The thought doesn’t sit well with him.

At first he thinks the phone is out of charge, but he holds the power button for a few seconds
and it dings to life gradually. When he can check the power, he’s relieved it’s at least in the
fifty percentile.

He scrolls through his contacts.

Alana (Home #)

Alana (Work #)

BSHCI

Dr. Strauss

Dr. Krelboyne

Jack

Molly

Eyes skittering over the first several contacts, he sucks in a deep breath and chooses. He
doesn’t know exactly what convinces him to call Alana’s home phone, but he waits patiently
as it rings once, then ‘this number is no longer in operation’ plays out like clockwork. Of
course.

Hannibal may have killed her and her family, or, she may have gotten the hell out of dodge.
The latter seems most likely. She’s smart enough not to linger with Lecter knowingly on the
loose.
Will bites his lip as he scrolls back through his contacts, trying desperately not to think about
the cliffside, the fall, the impact of the ocean blacking him out. He needs to know how he
arrived at the hospital. Who found him, where he was found.

He really needs to know where Hannibal was last sighted.

Reluctant, he calls Jack.

He’s almost surprised when Jack picks up. They both breathe heavily into the speaker for a
few stagnant moments, then Jack murmurs, “Will, is that you?”

“Yes. I’m awake now.”

“Christ, have you called Molly yet?”

“No. The hospital’s calling her.”

“They’re not supposed to call her before they call me,” Jack grumbles. Keys rattle over the
line. “Damn administration. Just…stay put. I’m on my way.”

That doesn’t matter, Will wants to shout.

“Jack.” Will’s breath catches at the same time the keys stop jangling. Jack’s morbidly silent.
“Jack, please, I-I need to understand how I got here. I need to know – ”

“He’s dead, Will,” Jack rasps, a sigh following.

Heat strikes between Will’s eyes. The phone slips out of his hand and clatters onto hard tile.
The protective casing cracks completely in two, but he doesn’t look at it. He stares at the wall
in front of him, focus going blurry. He can hear his name being called, but it doesn’t quite
reach him.

Dead. That somehow hadn’t crossed his mind.

The terms Hannibal Lecter and Dead fit together like water and oil.

The air is thick as he stands, gravity unforgiving. He drags his feet out into the hall, looking
for familiar signs of a dreamscape. There are no stags in the halls, no blood rushing through
the vents or windows. A bundle of nurses buzz around him when they notice him wandering,
all of them afraid to touch him.

They manage to corral him back into his cot somehow. He wasn’t exactly putting up a fight,
but he wasn’t helping either.

Will finds himself stuck on Jack’s words. Definitive. Unforgiving. He hadn’t sugar coated it.
Hannibal Lecter is dead. The world must be feeling safer for it; Will feels hollowed out.

He doesn’t realize he’s trembling until a nurse struggles putting the IV’s needle back into
place in his arm. A purple bruise swallows the puncture of it.
 The restraints are redone, with whispered apologies from coeds who have no business
apologizing for what they’re merely being ordered to do. One of them is more coddling than
the others. She finds a fluffier pillow and puts it under his head. Maybe he just looks
distressed.

He closes his eyes when they leave, and tries to visualize the Norman Chapel. It’s immensely
difficult. Everything feels distant, even his empathy. Or maybe he’s been separated from
Hannibal for so long, he no longer has the power to conjure up palaces belonging to the
man’s intricate mind. It used to be like that when he lived with Molly. After a time, he’d
stopped hearing the slice of flesh in his sleep. He stopped seeing Hannibal in every chapel he
drove by. He even stopped smelling him in the autumn winds.

When they collided again at the BSHCI, it had all come back.

As if it never left.

He opens his eyes, and grinds his teeth together at the sight of the dull gray ceiling.

Chapter End Notes

The summary for this fic is rather ambiguous (I will add more tags, warnings and
perhaps update the summary in future), but I do want to make it clear here that Hannibal
is not in fact dead. I know that would put a lot of people off not to know that right out
the gate. I won't spoil anything else. I'm excited to work on this, but I want to make this
a far more serious project than any of my other fics. I for once want to focus on a fic that
could truly act as a season four in my heart. That means angst and slow burn, I'm afraid,
but I think the gratification will be immense once we get to the juiciest plots. I also don't
have an updating schedule for this work, and I'm deciding on not stressing myself out by
committing to deadlines. I want this to be something I work on when I feel I need to. If
that's going to bother you, you should maybe wait until it's entirely finished. But I'm also
not sure when that's going to be. xoxo

I'm excited for this journey. I want it to be different from everything I've written before
and hopefully unique to most season four works for them on this site. Toodles~
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

At some point, he slipped into a dreamless sleep.

When he wakes, Jack and Molly are quite obviously arguing in the corridor right outside the
door. They’re being loud, let alone ignorant to potential eavesdroppers.

Who knows if there are flies on the wall with curly red hair.

Will hasn’t even spent twenty-four hours in the conscious world and he’s already starting to
feel himself shapeshift into that familiar old mug. Or maybe, he thinks with humor, he feels
more like the guy at the prom all the popular girls are pulling teeth to snag.

Three months he’s been left alone, but he must be a swift readjuster to old habits because he
really (in his heart of hearts) wants to be left alone even longer.

For all his practice of social posturing in recent years, he isn’t ready for either of these
encounters. There have been gaps in his memory before. He wasn’t fond of them then, and he
isn’t now. He’d appreciate being given personal time to reacquaint himself with the world
around him, without influence or judgment. Though, if he doesn’t talk to Jack, it’s unlikely
he’ll understand the full picture of what occurred that dark, fatal night.

His pulse skitters when the door creaks open. He isn’t even fully awake yet and a natural
born sense of social anxiety has every advantage over him at present.

Apparently Jack won the battle of wits with his wife because he’s closing the door behind just
him. Will catches a glimpse of Molly in the hall, subtly flipping the bird at Jack with both
hands. A smile tugs at Will’s lips, but his expression falls flat the moment the door clicks
shut.

Jack looks…old.

Not in age, not really. His beard is almost fully gray now, and he’s skinnier. If he didn’t know
any better, Will might gander there’s the beginnings of cheekbones shadowing his face.

The beard disguises it. Ever the obscurer of weaknesses, Agent Crawford.

He allows Will to sit up slowly and doesn’t help him as he paws for an extra pillow on the
sofa chair beside his cot. One of the nurses must have left it. The restraints hinder his
progress, restraints that the other man has no intention of undoing apparently. Finally, he gets
the pillow and stuffs it behind his back, letting his hands flutter into his lap. He doesn’t make
eye contact with Jack; he doesn’t feel safe making eye contact. The world as of now feels
untrustworthy to him, as foolish a notion that may sound.
Jack doesn’t sit on the sofa, or even the bedside. It’s offered to him non-verbally, but it seems
even he wants no business entering Will Graham’s personal bubble.

Not yet.

“Afraid I’ll bite?” Will asks, voice still sore from disuse.

“Funny.” Jack paces at the foot of the cot. Three paces exactly, like he practiced them. “I am
required by the bureau to let you know you’ve been pardoned on all charges for the
accomplishment of taking down both the Dragon and the Ripper. Off the record of course.
The public doesn’t know you were charged with anything to begin with. The public record
states that you acted in certified self defense.”

“I guess I prefer a pardon over a star-shaped sticker.”

Jack frowns. “You went off-script. You risked innocent lives.”

Right to business, then.

“Usually when someone comes out of a coma, their friends bring them flowers. Maybe
chocolate. Not even a good morning, how was near brain death?”

“Damn it, Will! This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m not laughing,” Will grits out. He really isn’t. He’s just simply reached his limit on how
much of Agent Crawford’s righteous rhetoric he can stomach. “You’re beginning to sound
like a broken record, Jack.”

Jack points a finger at him.

“So are you. The bureau can say whatever they please, but you used me. You used me to get
what you wanted, and you used Alana Bloom. And before that, you used Dr. Chilton.”

Will almost scoffs.

“You’re just now realizing I’m an unstable personality?”

“I’m just now realizing you’re not the good man I thought you were.”

It stings. Even after all his revelations and all those prior tribulations with the man, it hurts to
hear it. Will took his peers’ faith in him for granted. They had no right to have faith in him;
he’s always known that. But, they did, and it felt good to be believed in as someone he never
was. The perks of blind faith; it unfailingly benefits the receiver, but rarely the donor.

Now that the faith is gone, he’s both relieved and irked.

Jack won’t be trusting him with much from here on out.

That may hinder Will’s plans on understanding the new world order, and what it means to be
alone without his other half. The separation he’s feared for so long isn’t as immediately
devastating as he expected. That in and of itself tips off suspicions.

There is something about the atmosphere he awakened into that reflects the wrongness of the
dream he spent so long marinating in. Even Jack’s long-coming renunciation feels…
unearned.

Taking in Jack’s stiff body language, he tries to pinpoint what is not right.

He has to figure out what exactly tipped the scales of Jack’s wavering trust. He takes a long
moment to formulate the questions that have been flashing in and out of his subconscious
since he first opened his eyes.

“You might as well tell me everything that’s happened. Molly’s going to ask, hell, I’m asking.
Whatever you think of me, you must know it doesn’t matter anymore. Not now that he’s
dead.”

Jack sighs and asks, “Would you like some water first?”

“Please.”

Jack retrieves a cup from the sink and watches him drink it carefully. He chuckles when it
dribbles out of Will’s chapped lips. To the naked eye, they might even look like old friends.

“When we finally managed to track the cop cars, night had long since fallen. There was no
one to be seen on the property, except for the corpse of the Dragon.” Jack’s gaze turns glassy
and he belatedly moves to sit in the visitor’s chair, gripping the arms with both hands. “We
almost missed you both. A paramedic found both of you washed up on a small shore in
between the divot of a cliff.”

The sudden ache in Will’s chest feels worse than heartburn.

“He was dead. You weren’t.”

Will bargains with the tears he can feel starting as far down as the base of his throat. He begs
them not to ripple to the surface. If he starts, he’s afraid he won’t be able to stop.

So much for ‘I’m not going to miss you.’

“I rode the ambulance over with you. You had a seizure right before your vitals started going
haywire. We almost lost you that night.”

“Did they take him to a hospital too?”

Jack shifts strangely. It’s the most telling movement so far that confirms Will’s suspicions
that information is being withheld.

“Yes, but it was too late for him from the start. No pulse, no nothing.”

Will doesn’t respond. Jack doesn’t offer further explanation.

“Where’s Alana, Jack?”

Jack huffs, leaning into the cheap, firm cushions. “Beats me. She calls me occasionally,
always on a burner phone. She and her wife moved on with the kid. Can’t say I blame her.”

Will clenches his hands over the scratchy fabric of his hospital sheets. “She could have come
back to the mansion. What does she have to fear now?”

The smile that spreads across Jack’s face is conspicuous at best.

“Hey, if she wants to fly to the middle of Timbuktu and change her name, that’s not
something I’m going to challenge her on. Now if you wanna take it up with her, next time she
calls I – ”

“No, no.” For the first time, Will resists the restraints. They clang tellingly as he attempts to
harness leverage against them. Once again, Jack doesn’t move to release him. “Alana’s not
like that. She would want the best life she could possibly give to Morgan. She wouldn’t be
hiding. Not if – ”

“Will.” Jack’s bellow halts Will’s frantic gestures, and he continues once he’s positive he’s
snatched his attention. “There is no way in hell Hannibal Lecter is still alive. Let alone on the
loose.”

As of yet, Will hasn’t heard every detail, not the details he wants to hear. He hasn’t heard
where Hannibal’s body was sent, what became of it. If there was anyone watching its transfer
to a morgue. God help them if they had no backup plan for Hannibal’s potential backup
plans.

“How can you be certain?”

Jack surprises him by fishing out his cellphone. Will watches as the man scrolls through
several photos until he stops on a picture of the Chesapeake Bay. To the right of the frame, a
jar of ashes is being dumped by a man Will cannot name.

“Because that’s him.”

They cremated him.

The surrounding noise becomes white noise. All his senses blend into one, until he’s left
feeling tingly and pin-pricked by awareness of himself alone.

Alone.

A violent impulse to vomit rushes up his throat. He cranes his neck over the opposite side of
the cot, where a small trash bin lies, and tries to aim most of the fluid expelling from him,
into the bin. Some of it gets on the floor. He heaves and more bile is rejected out of his
quivering, tense stomach.

It tastes like bile and sea water melded.

The world comes back into perspective when he registers Jack’s hands on his forehead,
holding his hair out of his eyes. He hadn’t noticed until now; his hair is as shaggy as it was in
jail years ago, and his beard is fuller. Vomit sticks to it like paste.

Seemingly there is a God up above because Jack silently retrieves a bowl of water and a
toothbrush doused in toothpaste from the sink that looked about a mile away from where
Will’s lying, and helps him rinse the overwhelming taste of liquid death out of his mouth.
When he’s done, he tastes mint, but he doesn’t expect the newfound taste of ash will ever
quite leave him.

Furtively, Jack returns to the chair.

“My habit of throwing things up never seems to work out well for anyone does it,” Will
croaks. It’s ridiculous that he feels tired of all things, but he is. So extremely tired.

“Do you still think of her?”

A strange question. Jack rarely brings up his own failures.

Will’s throat works against him. The only thing he can emit as an answer is a deep, broken
hum. He doesn’t want to think about Abigail right now. Luckily, Jack seems incensed to
change the subject.

“I saw the tape.”

Baffled, Will stares at him until he elaborates.

“The Dragon’s tape, Will. The only tape.”

It takes him a moment. Then it’s all clear, clearer than anything else has been upon his
waking. The tape is unimportant if the angle of the Dragon’s camera hadn’t been altered.
Which, if conclusions are to be made, it most certainly was. It was originally facing the living
room floor, by the grand piano. The memory returns to Will in perfect detail – he can
practically smell the iron of spilt blood. Hannibal must have moved the camera before
dragging himself out onto the stone patio. He thrust himself into the role of co-director and
pointed the film directly at the final battle. The last mark of a self-obsessed maniac.

An insult to himself, to Will, to the Dragon.

A hole in one.

Hannibal wanted the world to see whatever unfolded.

Chance and all its consequences, he may have declared.

Will laughs. It’s hoarse and it sounds more like he’s having a fit, but he can’t stop. He makes
off-center eye contact with Jack who looks entirely unamused and laughs louder. Sinking into
the pillows, he tosses his head back and watches the boring ceiling as his humor runs down
before murmuring, “Now that’s funny.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t know.”

Will mouths the word ‘No’ with dramatic expression.

He can see it now. Freddie Lounds’ previous dozen headlines. The Chesapeake Ripper and
the Killer Fisherman: Fresh New Shakespearean Tale for the Ages. Or something even more
distasteful. Murder Husbands Confirmed.

There will be movies. Perhaps a docu-mini-series. Maybe he can pay back Hannibal for this
cosmic joke by agreeing to talk show deals.

“I wanted to tell you in person, Will, that not a single soul other than myself has watched that
tape.”

Will’s mordancy dries right up.

“What?”

“Call it my penance for the part I played in your mental deterioration,” Jack confesses,
looking anywhere but at Will. “I had a guy from video enhancement services help me make
sure the footage was viewable, but he didn’t watch beyond the ten second mark, and I’ve paid
him off better than Lounds ever could in her wildest dreams. Not a single word has gone out
into the public that isn’t praise for your valiant extermination of two of the most dangerous
men in America. You’re welcome.”

“How’d you get this past the bureau?”

“Relaying that the content was unwatchable due to technicalities was the easy part. The hard
part was convincing them to keep the existence of the ‘tape’ in general out of the press. They
folded when I reminded them just how vigilant conspiracy theorists get with the right talking
points.”

Will’s lips quirk into a half-frown.

“You’ve cleared my name and in the process tampered with the natural order.”

“You’re saying you want to be locked up for consorting with a criminal?”

Consorting. How reductive.

“It seems to me Jack, you have every reason to believe I should.”

Jack shrugs and clasps his hands over his knees. “A character flaw,” he cracks bitterly.
“Trusting you when you essentially told me over and over again not to.”

“In so little words,” Will finishes.

They enter a respectable silence before Jack slips his phone back into his jacket pocket and
stands in an abrupt gesture of departure.
“In no way do I understand, Will. In no way, will I ever. That much is true. But, I do know
there are men who can fall as hard as the next guy. And some of those guys can find a way to
pick themselves up. I’d say coming out of a coma like that is a good start.”

Finally, he unstraps Will’s wrists and ankles.

The last act of trust between them.

Will stretches his arms, cracking knuckles and sore bones. Jack reaches out a hand for him to
shake. Despite himself, Will does

Jack doesn’t immediately let go.

“If I knew you two…” he trails off, the words apparently unpracticed unlike the rest, curses
under his breath, and goes with, “I’m not sorry about him, but I’m sorry for you, Will.”

Will peels his hand back. He turns to face the ceiling again, and mutters, “Let Molly in, Jack.
You don’t want her on your bad side, trust me.”

Jack lets out a noise that almost resembles a laugh, and leaves Will’s sphere.

He’s barely given a moment to breathe.

It takes less than ten seconds for Molly to swoop in, and hurry to his side. A direct contrast to
Jack’s approach. Will is sprung into a constricting hug, and gifted a forehead kiss.

“Hey, Moll.”

“I can’t believe you’re awake.” She whispers like she’s in a library, pulling the sofa chair
closer to the edge of the bed so she can sit with one of his hands between both of hers. “The
doctors, they…fuck, they practically guaranteed brain death.”

He curls his fingers around one of her wrists, just for an instant, before letting his hand fall
limp again. “That’s what they all keep muttering about. How I should be dead. How I don’t
make sense.”

“It’s a miracle,” Molly assures, staring him directly in the eye. Still, he can’t find it within
himself to stare at anything higher than her soft, pink cheeks.

“Gone all religious on me while I was away?”

Will’s only half joking. There is something different in Molly’s voice. An inflection maybe,
or an overwrought omniscience.

Molly doesn’t respond to that directly, which is the first sign he’s not far off the track. She
squeezes his hand tighter, tight enough he’s forced to draw it back into his lap.

“Why didn’t you let them pull the plug on me, Molly?”
It offends her in a way he could never have expected. She flattens her hands against her
thighs, brow creased with bewilderment.

“Are you kidding me?”

“You have Wally to worry about,” Will begins lazily, sounding as if he’s haggling. “He can’t
be waiting for the rest of his life for another father to die.” He closes his eyes, realizing what
he just said. “Jesus, I’m sorry. My social cues are incredibly distorted right now. Not that
that’s an excuse for – ”

“No, you’re right,” Molly admits quietly, scraping her nails through her hair. It frazzles her
bun. “But three months, Will. Three months isn’t long. They were almost certain but never
fully certain you would die. I just – well, I guess I’ve always been an optimist. Foolishly
hopeful.”

There’s something stressing her out about the ‘three month’ designation that makes him delve
deep into his psyche to see if he’s forgotten something he should have remembered. There
doesn’t seem to be any significance.

“Hope isn’t foolish. It’s…” Will dwells on his ancient dreams of Florence. The nights he
spent alone in Wolf Trap waiting in limbo for his sessions with Hannibal, wondering if the
man miles from his home was dreaming of the same place, in another life. For other, alternate
people that could never be them, to experience. “It’s saccharine.”

“So are my grandmother’s lemon zest cookies, but there’s a reason nobody reaches for those
at the Christmas table,” Molly jokes awkwardly. He can tell she isn’t comfortable in this
setting. Hospitals have probably been a sore point for her as of late. Will is probably a sore
point too. He hates that he no longer harbors the ability to comfort her. She deserves it,
maybe more than anyone he knows.

“Have you been staying at home?”

She shakes her head. “No, Grandmas. It’s close enough to school. Wally hasn’t really shown
any interest in going home yet.”

Will surmises Wally’s been showing disinterest.

The weight of the next question he has fills him with a somber type of dread.

“The dogs?”

Molly grimaces. “I had to rehome a few of them. Just the newest ones, and Jack. There were
just too many. Uncle Leo’s taken Jack though. I knew you’d at least want to know where he
is.”

“Choosing the one named Jack wasn’t a coincidence was it?”

“It wasn’t that! Not, erm, not exactly.”

Will sighs, but before Molly can completely retract into her turtle shell, he grips her shoulder
with firm, consoling strength and says, “It’s okay, Molly. Please don’t feel bad.”

“I know,” she murmurs, tearing up. “Gosh, I know.”

After a moment, she blurts out, “You were so brave, Will.”

He flinches. She’s got it all wrong, of course. What brought him to the cliffside house wasn’t
bravery. What convinced him to hop into the cop car with Hannibal wasn’t bravery. Fighting
the Dragon, he didn’t feel brave. He felt carnal, protective, lustful, he felt it was the only
course of action left to him.

“It wasn’t bravery,” is all he offers her.

“Of course it was,” she soothes, her smile still as bright as the sun. She’s more resilient than
he’ll ever be. He feels as if he’s been tossed against a wall of rocks and came out with a
paralyzed spine.

“It was my own brand of foolishness,” he concedes.

Molly doesn’t respond. She lifts his hand from his lap again and places another kiss on his
knuckles. “Okay,” she says, flustered. “Okay let’s get your things.”

“You’re allowed to discharge me?”

“That’s what Jackass Crawford said.” Molly unzips her big purse. She obviously expected to
be able to bring him home today. “Said as long as he got to talk to you first, you were free to
go.” She burrows through the dresser. “Okay we got your phone and wallet. Anything else
you’re missing?”

Will ponders that. His wedding ring is the only possession that comes to mind. He’s not sure
why he’s even worried about it; it’s just a circle of metal after all. He remembers it glistening
in the moonlight, underneath the blood and viscera. He remembers the weight of it on his
finger before the fall.

It must have slid off then. He bites the inside of his cheek and casts a cursory glance at
Molly’s hands. She’s not wearing her ring either. Bizarrely, that relieves him.

“No. Nothing.”

“Come on then, I’m driving.”

“Well, I would hope so,” Will drones, wincing as he stretches his legs out and stands to walk.
These new aches and pains are going to take some getting used to. He limps over to Molly
whose proximity leaves him awash in feelings of sympathy and…pity. Never in their time
together has he ever felt pity from her.

It makes him grind his teeth.

 She helps him into a set of clothes. They feel scratchy on his sensitive skin, worse than the
Velcro.

Before Molly’s completely stepped foot into the hall, Will says her name rather loudly.

She turns, blinking back at him.

Steeling himself, he meets her eyes directly.

Triangular glass shards hover over them, bleeding profusely from all the open crevices.
Though she stands before him, dressed casually and standing tall, he can quite clearly picture
her splayed out on a gory bed, legs spread open, horror depicted in the shape of her mouth.

He can’t see past the mirage of his mind.

The imagery doesn’t disappear, either, but it’s not as devastating as it was when he first
admitted what he saw to Bedelia. Even Hannibal, that one time he asked him to recite what
he saw when he looked at her now.

The time seems to stretch on the longer he looks at her like this, and when he focuses, he’s
surprised to see the shadow of the Norman Chapel in the glass. It looks empty from here.

“Nothing,” he murmurs with a pan am smile.

Chapter End Notes

jack's finally done with will's shit! <3

 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

I haven't done this before, but there was a pretty vicious anonymous commenter who
was getting me down in the dumps and I don't really want to deal with that when this is
what I do to relax and be content, so I've turned off comments specifically for

🖤
guests/anonymous commenters. Thank you so much if you've left encouraging
comments anonymously and I'm sorry I've had to shut it off

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Molly doesn’t know what to do with him.

Will catches it in the obtrusive manner she carries herself around him now. The nervous hair
plucking; That was always an indicator she’d run out of things to say, and had no clue how to
proceed. Her anxiety tics, he’d once internally called them. He shares the habit: teeth
grinding, trembling, malapropos anger.

The night they return home, the only dog to greet him by the door is Winston. It doesn’t take
long to discover he’s the only dog on the entire property.

“Winston refused to go to Grandmas,” Molly chuckles. “Kept whining and acted like dead
weight when I tried to pick him up. I drive over here to feed him, but I haven’t truly been
back since…”

Since the Great Red Dragon.

Solemnly, Will watches Molly whiten like a sheet.

He wants to touch her and comfort her, or at least, there is a part of him now buried that
might have wanted to do that. There’s instead a tethered violence thrumming in his fingertips.
He fears what will happen if it interacts too often with the physical world. It could be holding
on by threads. Or one, singular.

Ingesting his surroundings, he rankles at familiar picture the household makes. An almost
identical feeling rises in him to that of the Dragon analyzing a polaroid of a family.. There is
a primal urge to burn away what is remaining of the nuclear familiarity, and consume the
ash.

Will attempts to abandon those emotions at the welcome mat. For now, the most he can
manage is to slow his heart rate. Seeing the markers of the attack shouldn’t set his blood on
fire, but they do: the skid marks of tires in the soil signifying a chase, the unique unlocking of
the cabin doors. The smell of gunpowder, perhaps figmetized by his own unique
imagination.

The house doesn’t feel like his own, not like it used to. Even before returning to catch the
Red Dragon, he felt more like a ghost than an owner of the property. Now, he just feels like a
guest.

Other than the Dolarhyde’s provisional leftovers, no one would be able to guess there was a
break in by a prolific killer just months prior. Dust has collected on the furniture, the mantel
in the living room, and even the kitchen countertops. Will can tell Molly hasn’t stayed here
long enough to make herself dinner.

How can he blame her for that?

That sickly feeling which rose in him the instant he heard Molly’s voice in the hospital wing
surges through him again, muted by time – Time and Circumstance.

“Molly, I can’t express how – ”

“Don’t.” She sounds strangely furious for an instant, her hand up in the air to halt whatever
half-assed apology he might have scrounged up. He can’t blame her for knowing better,
either. Her expression softens, and she clarifies, “I don’t really want to think about it
anymore. I’ve been thinking non-stop about it for months. I just – I can’t.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Will mutters, fondling the handle of the purse she’d
pushed into his hands after they parked. He used to know where to put it; where does she
want him to put it?

At present, he should be retreating upstairs to their bedroom, to unpack and take a shower. He
should be doing anything that isn’t lingering aimlessly in the center of the living room,
waiting for something to happen. It surprises him Hannibal never called him out on his
passiveness, or maybe he never needed to be passive in front of him. Hannibal Lecter’s death
is the only thing he hasn’t felt passive on so far.

That subject begs his attention, but he needs to face it alone.

Molly looks him over and curls her fingers over the keychain she hasn’t hung up. “Why don’t
you wash the hospital off of you?” she nudges, brushing off his inertia. “I’ll be right back.”

“Going to pick up Wally?”

“The mail.” She pauses and shuffles her weight on both feet. “Listen, Will, I’m not sure when
Wally will be coming back to the house. He’s going to be back, he just, needs more time. I-I
need more time.”

“Oh.” Will nods slowly. “Okay.”

“It’s not you,” Molly continues, as if he’s holding her at gunpoint for an excuse. Will suspects
there will be several more excuses to come, several more roadblocks to skid to a halt in front
of in the upcoming days. The exhaustion from the coma and the conversation with Jack still
holds a vice grip on him, so maybe that’s why he can’t exactly feel a standard sense of alarm
about any of this. “This house isn’t a good environment for him right now. He’s still so
young, and what he went through was more than traumatic. You get it, don’t you? I can’t
push anything on him right now that’ll trigger anything, not at this stage. And he feels so safe
with his grandparents right now.”

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Will surmises, perhaps cruelly.

It’s obvious Wally doesn’t, otherwise Molly would have brought Will back to the
grandparents’ house. Simple. Molly looks like she’s been caught, and he lets out a long sigh.

“Molly, seriously, I understand. Wally comes first.”

“He’ll get over it,” Molly whispers, plastering a smile over a natural frown. The pitch of her
voice betrays that she’s convincing herself alongside Will. “It’ll take time, but you two will
be fishing together in no time. He still wants you to teach him how to make that dog-friendly
pizza pie.”

Will hums, noncommittal.

“Okie dokie. I’m gonna go get the mail.” She gesticulates awkwardly at the front door and
scurries out of the house with a jingle.

Before heading upstairs, Will sits cross-legged in front of the unlit fireplace and allows
Winston to lick his face and nose his cheeks, whimpering all the while. A part of Will also
wants to whimper.

He feels so lost, so helpless. His life in theory could be back on track, budding and
blossoming again, and it should feel good to be home, to be in the arms of his wife, to be
anywhere but the bottom of the Atlantic. Instead, shades of obligation, forced civility, and
impassioned pretense rear their heads.

Winston trots up the stairs after him. Will shuts him out of the bathroom and tries to empty
his brain of conscious thought before he hops in the shower. The mirror above the sink is
shattered but lacking debris. Forensic teams picked up the scattered shards, and Molly
neglected to replace the mirror. It couldn’t have been a priority, of course. He lets out a deep
sigh, relieved he cannot see himself yet. He doesn’t yet want to look at the fresh history left
upon his skin. He’s not ready. He steps into the shower before he turns the water on, and
tenses when freezing liquid batters his raw chest, gradually becoming scalding. For once, the
heat isn’t a comfort. He scrunches up his face under the spray of the water and abruptly
experiences every emotion that correlates with heat; anger, frustration, hunger, anxiety,
arousal, bloodlust. Rather unwisely, he twists the temperature to cold again, and shivers from
the abrupt switch. But, after the initial impact, he closes his eyes and feels a sense of
belonging. It reminds him of encompassing ocean waves. Winter tides. He feels at home for
the first time stepping back into this rickety house.

He finishes his shower with a lulled, sated mind, and pointedly doesn’t look down at the scars
he knows litter his body. They throb in indignation.
After consuming more stunted silence than food at the dinner table, Molly leads Will
wordlessly up to their bedroom. The bedsheets appear as unfamiliar as he feels.

They lay down together, Molly turns off the lights with one flip of a switch, and they
gravitate towards the middle of the bed, an echo of a fabricated routine; the stitching pattern
is as it used to be, but the thread colors are all wrong, leaving knots inside Will the closer he
inches to Molly.

Will startles when she kisses his neck.

To his credit, he attempts to lie there and let his mind go blank, but the third kiss is placed on
his heart, over the thin stretch of his shirt, and it has him inelegantly shifting away.

“Molly, I’m sorry. I can’t. I just – can’t.”

He wishes he were the type to conjure up brilliant excuses. Anything to placate his lonely
wife’s feelings and affection for him, but he isn't. He can only sit here like a louse and tell her
he doesn’t want her.

Maybe if he had an explanation for himself, he’d be able to weave one together.

Mercilessly, she doesn’t look offended.

In the dim moonlight, she looks resigned.

“I understand,” she whispers. Her voice almost comes off grateful. “I get it.”

He nods through a nauseating wave of contempt for himself. He’d warned her before that
he’d be different once he returned. And she reminded him she wouldn’t be, but it seems
they’ve both changed. That was expected, in the end. Hindsight just serves to mock. It
doesn’t stop him wishing he were a stronger, less complex man. One that might have
recognized the end at the beginning.

Will is underwater, dragging himself through weightlessness and a cool, solvent atmosphere,
as if he’s been here for ages, curling arms and legs through the thick of it.

He’s not drowning. The air in his lungs hasn’t run out yet.

A voice is calling to him distantly, muted light shining beyond the seabed thousands of
leagues deeper than he is. He continues swimming downward, pulling himself closer, and
without warning, becomes consumed with progressively azure shadows the closer he treads
to the brightness. It doesn’t seem possible to touch, and that makes it more tempting to try.

The water tastes of brine and ash.

Here, it’s as cold as the eye of a blizzard.

Time stalls when he senses a hand brush up against his own. Though he cannot fully see it, he
intertwines his fingers with the hand, the relief compounding every sense, every probing
thought in his mind. In his mesmerized stupor, he doesn’t notice the texture of the hand to be
identical to seaweed. The fingers wrap around his wrist, elongate and curve over limb after
limb, as if he has more than four.

He feels the pull everywhere, and that’s when he starts to drown.

Past dark waters, it tugs him forward turbulently until he’s facing the source of the light head
on.

It takes the shape of Hannibal Lecter; dressed for a trip to the chapel. “Will,” he says, or
maybe Will wishes he would say it. “Gilus Miegas.”

The last speck of air in Will’s lungs is meted out, and he chokes, and burns, and thrashes in
the tight hold of the weeds dragging him ever closer to the form. The light consumes him and
though he fears it, the glow ripples through his body, thousands of echoes and tendrils of
peace he’s never known. His physical form remains in flight, but all he can feel inside is an
inherent calm, washing over him.

When Will wakes up, he almost expects to be in the hospital. There will be different, less
confusing answers for him when Jack emerges. Hannibal won’t be dead. Molly will hate
him.

Instead, he’s in the Maine cabin, and turns to find Molly gone from bed, though the smell of
pancakes wafting in from the kitchen below accompanies him.

Habitually, he tries to manually shake the dream off. He’s mostly successful, but the words
“Gilus Miegas” stick to his mind like molasses. In the dream, he’d passed them off as garbled
sounds of a sea creature unbeknownst to Earth and its land-dwelling inhabitants. He tries not
to imagine it means more.

Later that morning, Molly lets him know she’s going to spend half the day with Wally and
return home for dinner with groceries and supplies.

He wanders the grounds for hours after her departure, comforted by the chilling bite of winter
air. Spring is upon them, but in Maine, Spring doesn’t come until the rest of the country starts
to feel Summer.
Will can only spend so much time avoiding himself.

The canvas of his new self is calling to him, charcoal tipped pencil at the ready for him to
shade inside the extant outline, and though the steps back up to the house feel akin to a
funeral march, he doesn’t hesitate to head for Molly’s wardrobe. The inside of the left door
reveals a full-length mirror.

His first thought is; he looks more like himself than he expected.

Winter clothes swallow his weakened muscles and what little bulk he had clinging to his
frame, so his gaze naturally falls to the scar on his cheek. It healed well, most likely due to
the fact he wasn’t exerting any face muscles in the process. He touches it and hisses, more
out of shock that he can trace the line of it. The marred skin is slightly elevated, pale and
almost unnoticeable. Almost. It matches his forehead scar. He pushes his hair (in desperate
need of a trim) out of the way to see that old one again, too.

The sight doesn’t rattle him like it used to.

Hands instinctively fall to the one on his stomach, his hidden prize. He pushes layers of
fabric away to reveal it, and swallows hard. It’s more faded than it was even three months
ago.

That causes a gut reaction far more intense than what he felt seeing the facial scar. It doesn't
escape him that most of these new scars were not made by Hannibal Lecter. His emotional
attachment to them correlates more to his self-image than anything buried and psychological.

Stroking the scar on his stomach, he allows himself a moment of fondness before peeling his
shirt and jacket off to reveal what he came here for.

The rest are more obvious. Several stabbing scars on both his thighs and chest. There’s one
right in his pec he remembers the pain of the most. The Dragon manipulated his body like a
pawn with nothing but the handle of a dagger.

Bruises have long faded, along with stitches and soreness.

There are two types of aches he’s experienced so far; one, is a soreness from not having
moved his limbs for the past three months. The other is something dark and fathomous.
Metaphysical.

Avoiding himself not only means his physical self, but the inner self he’d been denying for
years. The one that was born on that cliffside after floating in limbo for so long. The one that
should have died in the turbulence of the Atlantic rather than die in vain in a world too cruel
to allow him answers he’d long sought and subsequently retrieved in Hannibal’s arms that
very same night.

Will, perhaps childishly, wraps his own arms around his torso. A phantom sensation of
Hannibal’s gentle hold complements the gesture, and he closes his eyes through a razor-sharp
shudder.
He needs to learn more about Hannibal’s death, the funeral if any, and cremation. The
suspicions he harbors may begin to sound more like conspiracy, if he does. Maybe then, after
he’s sure, it’ll stop feeling like he’s back to playing house for a tempting, unseen watcher.

His laptop is dusty but at full power when he turns it on.

He lugs it out to the shed where it's the absolute coldest while still sheltered. Winston follows
him there and lies down on his dog bed underneath the woodworking table. Will sits in front
of him on one of the handmade stools and types Tattlecrime.com into the search bar.

The South Carolina Reaper Kills Another!

It’s the first headline that graces his eyes. The website is of course, still themed an abrasive
red, and Freddie’s diction–garish, insensitive, and boringly bombastic. He scrolls through the
first several articles briefly, not all that interested in this Reaper, or any old killer the FBI
finds working at the nearest Donut Shop under an alias like ‘Baskin Robin.’ The universe has
a not-so-great sense of humor.

The most recent Chesapeake Ripper related article is logged from a month ago. It is a
meticulously detailed piece about a copycat killer. Even from the photos, Will can tell it is the
work of a copycat. The final victim was an alcoholic and the killer harvested their liver of all
things.

Will shakes his head, as if to dispel the killer’s stupidity.

There is something substantially wrong about Freddie’s writing in this article, however. A
level of coldness overwhelms the piece, let alone a detachment of bias Will would never in a
million years connect with the painting he’s created of Freddie Lounds in his mind.

Though an insult to the Ripper’s sidelined legacy, Laurier’s attitude in the face of his
appointed death sentence spares none of the mirth Hannibal the Cannibal was well known
for.

Will hunches closer to his laptop and rereads the last sentence three times. The word
‘sidelined’ is rubbing him the wrong way. Being sidelined implies a return of sorts, not a
permanent absence.

If Freddie’s anything, she’s straight to the point.

In no world would she dismiss an opportunity to share her opinion on the death of the Ripper,
even in a copycat column. Instead, her words seem to tell a tale of biding time.

To play Devil’s advocate, as he has always managed to do with wishy-washy finesse, he

remembers Freddie is a conspiracy theorist at heart. Taking solace in her subtextual
suspicions may not get him further than a headache, but even so, he finds himself scrolling
lower.

In the thick of it, he’s starting to feel the telltale signs of addiction.
Will has to do a double take when he finally finds the article about the fall of the Great Red
Dragon and Hannibal the Cannibal, because that’s all it is; the article. There isn’t a follow up,
or a live gossip forum where Freddie encourages her fans to conspire theories. There aren’t
even misleading clickbait articles about Hannibal being spotted in European countries or an
ill-timed exploitation on Reba McClane.

Anyone else would suspect a change of heart.

Will knows better.

He cross references the article with the more recent, unrelated columns. Lounds is still up to
her same old tricks: breaking and entering, suspiciously showing up at crime scenes earlier
than the authorities, and writing prolifically on a single topic to squeeze out not only the juice
of a story, but the core.

And yet, with that night (the night that is haunting Will incessantly), there’s a single article,
co-edited by some unknown individual. Freddie would have never allowed someone else to
co-write her story. This story, specifically. Will remembers her investment in it.

She too, personally knew Hannibal after all.

And she knew Will, in fact, she frequently slandered Will. Not that he’d be thrilled to read
articles mimicking those again, but it seems highly unlikely Miss Lounds would quietly put
up and shut up after the government declared Will an ‘American Hero.’

He reads the article, despite his hunch that there won’t be much girth to the thing. He’s right,
and no matter how many times he rereads it, or skims it, he can’t extrapolate anything of
value.

Former Special Agent Will Graham should be commended on his gutsy work. The Great Red
Dragon will never again tear an innocent family to shreds with his merciless claws, and
Hannibal the Cannibal may gradually evolve to be forgotten as a household name. Time will
tell if vicious copycats will grow inspired to wreak havoc in their honor.

It is the last paragraph of the article, and Will can’t help but overanalyze. The column up until
this point had expressly not been her. It had been severely tampered by editing, and altered by
a paid-off set of eyes. It was obvious, even to a layman of journalism. But this paragraph;
Will Graham may be a layman, but he’s still prone to empathy and deduction. Freddie
smartly veiled her subtext between the lines.

‘Their wake’ appears to be directly lumping Will in with the killers. The way she detailed the
paragraph was unavoidable. He knows Freddie’s style of writing by now, and she would have
included his conclusion in another paragraph if she hadn’t wanted him to be connected to
Lecter and Dolarhyde.

‘ Gutsy work.’ Cute, if not for the implication. Though it may amount to Freddie’s classic
play on words, Will can see the insult for what it is. He had equal play in the guts that were
spilled.
Equity in mentality.

And lastly, to infer that Hannibal the Cannibal’s legacy will ‘evolve’ rather than ‘devolve’
would in most cases run down to poor choice in words, or it may be hinting at suspicions
Will concurs with.

He needs to speak to her. Yesterday.

She’s no longer in his contacts, but he keeps a little black book on the mantle that contains
the names and addresses of several acquaintances he’s accumulated over the years. Having
them in a not so immediate reach used to help him distance himself from Hannibal and the
lifetime he wanted to shed.

Well, he’s done hiding behind layers of dead skin.

He’s flipping the pages of the book when Molly arrives home, carrying groceries. He nearly
doesn’t notice the young, attractive man helping her with bags, following at her heels.

They’re chit-chatting in the manner Hallmark characters do.

This usually means Will’s not the type to join said conversation.

He would have continued searching for Lounds’ number if not for Molly herding the
mysterious man into the living room and making a show of his presence. “Will, this is my
friend Kenneth, well, he goes by Kenny. Uh, I met him at the church when we were donating
for potluck. He’s been helping me drive groceries out to Grandma's house. I thought you
might like to meet him.”

Will’s gut reaction is to ask, “Why would I want to meet anybody?” but he reels himself back
at the last minute and awkwardly sticks out a hand to shake Kenneth’s.

The hand is slimy for some reason. Images of seaweed and cloying touch flash through his
mind and Will tears his own back rather abruptly, smiling excessively to make up for it.

“Hey.”

Kenneth exchanges glances with an oddly concerned looking Molly and echoes Will’s rather
succinct, “Hey.”

“Right,” Molly murmurs. “Kenny, would you help me unload?”

“Yeah. O’course,” the taller man (six foot three, at least) responds with an extremely thick
Kentucky accent. The two of them disappear into the kitchen and Will stares into the middle
distance after them.

For a second, he considers how beneficial it is for Molly to have found a friend in his
absence, then he’s back to business, hunting down Freddie’s number like his life depends on
it. To be respectful, he exits out the back door to dial her number. He paces around the firepit
and waits as it rings.
 Once, twice, three times.

Freddie doesn’t pick up, but at least it doesn’t say her number is out of order. He decides not
to leave a message and instead harass her with more calls, either in an hour, or maybe ten
minutes.

His teeth chatter from the cold, but in his defeat, he can’t find the wherewithal to return to the
comfort of the cabin. It takes a long time until Molly materializes at his side, rubbing her
gloved hands together.

“Kenneth just left.”

He doesn’t know why she imagines he cares.

He nods anyway.

“Are you…angry?” she whispers, blinking up at him the way Buster pouts up at him after
snatching bacon right off the pan. This time though, he isn’t sure what she could have done
that would bother him. She’s been accommodating, the appropriate levels of bitter and sweet,
and understanding to boot. Will doesn’t have a flawless gauge for just how perfect she’s
being, because all he’s been able to think about since he got back to Maine is how wrong it
feels to be here.

Maybe it’s showing on his face. In his body language. In the way he hasn’t looked her in the
eye since the hospital.

“Why would I be angry?” he asks, as sincerely as he can manage.

Molly blinks at him, stumped, and then her face brightens into an expression not entirely real,
but not entirely feigned. She shakes her head and slips her hands into her pockets.

“No reason, I guess.”

Chapter End Notes

i love will "everything flies over my head if it isn't something i care about" graham <3
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

There is an unintentional suicide attempt in this chapter, just pre-warning for any readers
who need it.

I'm not completely confident in this chapter, but I wasn't sure how else to tweak it, so I
hope it's progressed in a way you all enjoy <3 I have good things coming in future ;)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Days pass in a blur.

Will is abandoned in his own mind. Molly is absent so often, he cannot help but to plunge
deep into its recesses and relive past events. He’s been stuck in this state before, once. When
Hannibal discarded him in Baltimore with a fresh scar on his belly, and a gaping heart, turned
inside out for the world to see.

This is a different kind of stagnation though.

He’s sluggish. Unwilling to move much at all. He feels like one of those overfed lizards in
the pet stores that crawl under their hides for days and suffer through deafening bursts of
glass-tapping.

He frequents the rug in front of the sitting room’s fireplace, never bothering to search the
house for a match, opting instead to sit and stare into the jumble of ashen logs and blackened
brick.

Moments of clarity come most often during cold showers, where he finds temporary solace
from his despondency. The colder, the better. It blanks out his runny thoughts.

The quiet of the stream hasn’t comforted him since waking up in the hospital, nor has it been
feasible company in any sense. In such a state of suspension, he would normally reconcile his
emotional disorientation by retreating into either a stream of the mind, or a stream of nature.
The stream located by the Maine property is calmer than most, and no matter if he dresses in
his waders and sinks waist deep into it, or merely lies by the edge of the stream, he
unfailingly finds himself increasingly restless.

The stream in his mind is worse. The water ripples there, uncontrollably loud and abrasive,
and Will is instantly forced to tear the veil away and return to reality where the silence is
beginning to sound just as abrasive as the troubled tides.
When Molly does come around, it’s usually with her friend in tow, which is an honest-to-god
relief for Will who has officially exhausted his efforts of acting as proper husband material.
He knows Kenny may not be around forever to entertain Molly, but for now, it’s a welcome
bandage on a gushing wound in a series of wounds he’s constantly scrambling to patch up
and restitch.

Neither of them try to initiate sex with each other when she does spend the nights, and neither
of them converse much beyond the basic topics: weather, the kid, the dogs, even fishing.

Both of them are experts at ignoring an elephant in the room.

But, each time she leaves, the rope connecting them together in this life is pulled taut, and
fractional as it may be, fractions will lead up to an inevitable sum.

Will bides his time. Anyone lucky (or unlucky) enough to know him, knows he is not a
proprietor for the concept of change. He likes routine. He likes things to be familiar. Or else,
he’ll fall into conduct not suited for principled society.

As Hannibal might point out, he prefers the fit of his moral dignity pants despite the flaws in
their flimsy design. The man might have even called them cheap.

So, he drinks his coffee black every morning, takes Winston outside to relieve himself and
stretch his legs, and eats the omelets Molly cooks, kisses her cheek like a normal husband
with no baggage, and wishes her safe driving and well wishes to Wally on her path out the
door.

It’s fortuitous if he gets her to leave with a smile on her face.

Then, when he’s confident she’s gone until at least daybreak, he retreats into the backyard to
call Freddie again. This may be the sixth or seventh time, after six or seven days of
obsessively ruminating on what he’ll say when she picks up. It rings and rings fruitlessly, and
though today has been no different than any other day at home, he ends up kicking the pile of
logs by the firepit in a short burst of rage.

Will does what any average individual might do when someone they urgently need to call
isn’t picking up the damn phone; he spends an excruciating hour on the line with his cell
phone provider to change his area code. Just in case Freddie’s blocked any calls from Maine,
specifically.

He cannot fathom a reason beneficial to her that she would, but he has a hunch, considering
her voicemail recording still plays out each time he calls, and it does in fact ring the allotted
amount it should.

Her number hasn’t vanished like Alana’s.

It’s a painstaking process that takes four hours on top of a priorly lengthy conversation with
the phone company, but when it’s finished, he owns a fresh new area code to trick Lounds
with.
He resumes pacing around the firepit before he tries her again.

Hannibal may have called his present behavior ‘contrarily anxious.’

When Winston bounds off to chase a squirrel into the woods, Will bites the bullet and dials. It
rings once, twice, three times, and then low and behold, Freddie Lounds picks up the phone.

Finally.

“Freddie Lounds of Tattlecrime dot com speaking.” Stunned, Will almost forgets to speak.
After all this wasted time in limbo, he feels abruptly thrust back into a world he’s meant to
interact. “Hello?”

“Freddie! Long time no libel.”

There is a pressing silence before Freddie scoffs, uneasy.

“Will Graham! I swear your gift basket must have gotten lost in the mail – ”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Will conjects, settling into one of the camp chairs. It is blanketed in a
sheet of ice that clings to his pant legs. “You block my number, you hire a co-writer. Your
writing on the Ripper is severely lacking. What do you know?”

He hears the click of a pen.

“Well, you don't sugarcoat anything, do you? What do you suspect I know?”

“It’s more what I suspect we both suspect.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Mr. Graham. You know better than anyone else, I don’t offer a thing unless it’s
involved in an exchange of sorts. Tit for tat?”

Will releases a long-suffering sigh, which Freddie must hear because she proceeds with, “You
have nothing to hold over me. And I don’t have anything to hold over you. That being the
case, this is much more a conversation between old friends than it is business partners. How
was the coma?”

“Restful. I would accuse you of haggling for a statement, but as of late you seem averse to
the topic of me, Hannibal, or the Dragon.”

Her attempts at avoiding his line of questioning haven’t worked thus far, and she falls quiet
most likely out of convalescence. She is unsure of what her next move must be and it’s
becoming clear there is in fact (or was) a higher power dictating what she wrote and
produced on the subject.

Lounds isn’t the type to bow easily to order in her chaos.

“You don’t fool me,” he hisses, lips almost touching the speaker. “You haven’t stopped for a
second. If there's puzzle pieces missing, you find them, regardless of if you’re publishing
your findings or not. And if it’s an exchange you want, I haven’t learned much, but I know
enough to offer you something of importance.” If he’s forced to bargain with the knowledge
that a video tape existed at the scene of the crime, then so be it. He’s not loyal to Jack any
longer. “And you can do whatever you like with it, but in return, I want any information
you’ve gathered.”

“What kind of information?”

“You know what kind.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you, Will.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “The government
offered me an enormous sum to write only a bare minimum of articles on the Ripper-Dragon
showdown, fully edited. And what little information I could gather…I don’t know. Not a lot
of it adds up.”

“You’re the most shameless exploitative writer I know – ”

“Thank you.”

“ – And you’re telling me you haven’t been sniffing around for details?”

“Of course I have. But, what I’m trying to tell you, is that I only have one more article I’m
allowed to write about before I’m no longer allowed to talk about that night, the participants,
or the killings. And what I do have isn’t good enough for the grand finale I want. Get me?
I’m not sure how far it’ll get you.”

“What I have may appease you.”

“It better. They’ve got this Ripper stuff under lock and key.”

“Signing that contract might have been the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, Freddie,” Will
laments, grumbling as he rubs a hand over his face to soothe his irritation.

“They offered a lot of dough. You do realize I do this for the money, right?”

“Fine. I want to meet.”

“Awe, Will. I didn’t know you cared.”

“Jesus!” he exclaims, prodding hard at his throbbing temples. “Take this seriously for five
seconds.”

“I don’t want just the information you’re offering, whatever that is,” Freddie clarifies. “I
wouldn’t be much of a gambler if I didn’t account for the fact you may screw me over.”

“You do like your contingencies.”

“If I’m risking this, you’re giving me an exclusive.”

Will exhales through his nose and grinds his teeth.

“Fine,” he repeats, in a low snarl.

Freddie doesn’t respond for a moment, taken aback.

They exchange a location, a time. Alterable, if need be.

“I have a condition too,” he utters before he can change his mind. She hums, inquiring, and
he can hear her scribbling something down excitedly over the line, maybe their rendezvous
point. “Don’t use the phrase ‘murder husbands’ in the article you release.”

Laughter crows from Freddie, a sharp mocking noise.

“Oh, but you’re wounding my creative process!”

“You’ve never had a creative process. You’ve entertained blatant lies, exaggerations, and
hypocrisies riddled with bias, all lumped together under a blandishing umbrella of glittery
persuasions.”

“I should have hired you to be my editor,” Freddie croons dryly. “Hannibal was right. You do
have a way with words.”

“I was busy being unconscious – wait, when did he tell you that?”

Lounds chuckles and frustratingly refuses to answer.

All she says is, “See you Monday, Mr. Graham”

Will curses under his breath when he hears the line beep to a close. He pockets his phone and
strides with a purpose towards the house. Holding the back door open, he whistles and waits
until Winston is safely inside the cabin before he marches upstairs to hunt through the dresser
drawer he used to keep letters from Hannibal (courtesy of the BSHCI) in; the ones he never
opened. There isn’t an abundance of them, just enough to travel with when he arrives in
Freddie’s stomping ground, so to speak. Hannibal used to iterate the importance of a clever
backup plan. These, he can offer in case the information about the camera footage isn’t
enough for her to hand over a substantial amount of information in return. The public will say
he’s selling out, but he cares less what the world thinks about him, and more about getting to
the bottom of the neverending doubt he carries daily, swathed in his stomach lining like a
fetus.

“What are you doing?”

Molly’s voice startles him, and the papers slip out of his hands and scatter all over their
bedroom floor, at his feet. It’s fortunate he had the foresight to keep them in manila folders
many years ago, just in case she went looking. With a telling twinge in his bad shoulder, he
comes to a steady realization about all the sneaking around he was doing in their marriage,
even unintentionally. One more, of a thousand, reasons to feel guilty about how he’s affecting
Molly and her life.

He needn’t tell her he’s hoarding letters from Hannibal Lecter (if she knew there were letters
from a serial killer in the same house as her son, she may very well kill him). But, he owes
her the truth.

“I’m leaving town for a couple days.”

Molly looks floored. She crosses her arms.

“Were you going to tell me or were you just going to disappear and have me expect the
worst?”

As he’s gathering up the clustered folders on the floor, he can’t help but pause, not having
expected the rancor in her voice. Politely, he tucks the papers back into his private drawer so
he can give her his full attention.

“Of course I was going to tell you. I’m not leaving right this instant.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?” she retorts.

Will flinches and she drops her arms with a defeated huff.

“Listen, Moll,” he starts cautiously. “I know I haven’t been…ideal company. I know we

haven’t talked. And I know there’s a lot of things I could be doing that I’m not. I-I don’t have
an excuse.”

Her expression falls as limp as her arms.

“No, no, I’m being rotten. You just came out of a coma, for Christ’s sake!”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn't treat me the way you normally would.”

“I don’t normally snap at you. I-I don’t do the ‘yelling’ thing, Will. I don’t do ‘bitchy spouse’
or ‘claustrophobic housewife’.” She tugs at her loose hair and groans. “This isn’t me.”

Reaching out as he would to a skittish stray, Will touches her cheek, waiting a moment before
he rubs his thumb under her eye in circles, firm and assuring. “I’ve learned the hard way,
there’s never a ‘normal’ you can feasibly return to after experiencing a submersion of
violence, however brief. But even then, however wavy the ground feels beneath your feet, it
will stabilize.”

Though he suspected she would feel relieved, she instead looks as if she’s relinquishing
something dear to her. She pulls his hand down, away from her face, but holds it between
them.

“Where are you going?” Molly asks softly, and it’s obvious the last thing she wants to do is to
change the subject, but she doesn’t feel strong enough to face whatever revelations
illuminated her thoughts.

He sighs, eliminating the point of contact between them.

“Lounds. She has something I need. I agreed to an interview.”

Molly’s eyes flash up to meet his own and this time, he can’t look away. The glass shards are
loyally present; the chapel awaits in their reflective depths. He’s hypnotized by them, though
he knows Molly’s voice has once again roughened at the edges, and there is a hint of
accusation in her response.

“You’re giving that vulture what she wants?”

“She had stipulations,” Will murmurs, crossing the room to check the closet. He has to be
certain they have enough blankets for him to lay out in the back of his truck. He doesn’t feel
like checking into a hotel Sunday night. Especially not if he wants to bring Winston with
him.

“You didn’t have to agree to them.”

Will stares at her. “I told you. She has something I need.”

“Is she holding something over you?” Molly stammers, encroaching his space. Her body
language is gradually bordering on confrontational. “Because, I mean, the last person I want
you to call is Jack Crawford, but if he can help you get her off your back, then – ”

“I’m not being blackmailed,” he responds, disbelieving.

“What do you need from her, then?”

“I…can’t tell you that.”

Molly is stricken. Will realizes the truth has painted him into a corner. He shouldn’t have
begun telling it to her in the first place, when he knows he can only ever offer half truths,
never full.

For a tense period, they stand at an impasse.

Will can sense the end of a long road. He wants to navigate the road bumps just a little
longer, but both he and Molly are behind the wheels of two separate cars, approaching a
fork.

“I don’t want you to do that interview.”

“Molly,” he sighs, prepared to defend his stance as much as he can, but she raises her hands
between them, palms up, before she clenches them together with impressive restraint.

“You – You can’t be unaware how that would effect me. Wally.”

“I won’t mention you. Or him. You know that.”

“Do you know how often I was badgered for statements while you were out cold? I wasn’t
just at Grandmas because I didn’t want to even breathe the air in this house, but because I
literally couldn’t get two steps across the porch without paparazzi crowding me. I can’t face
that again, Will. I can’t make Wally wait any longer than he needs to in order to get his life
back on track again. This isn’t about you.”
Will sucks his lips between his teeth.

He hadn’t even considered that. All that was on his mind was learning more about Hannibal’s
fate. For all that he’s accomplishing in his name, he hasn’t thought too thoroughly of him.
He’s thought of the past, acted and spoken in ways he is aware mirrors the man, but he hasn’t
truly imagined him.

He’s not sure if it’s because he’s afraid to face harsh reality, or because he’s still convinced he
hasn’t woken up yet.

“Unless you want to tell me why in the hell this means so much to you that you’d risk all
that, then I don’t want you to go. I don’t…I don’t want to be ‘ultimatum’ girl either, but,
we’re not exactly in a normal situation anymore, like you said. I want you to heal, Will, but
not like this.”

“Okay,” Will murmurs. “Okay, I’ll um, call Jack. See if he can give me what I need.”

He doubts it. Jack was not, in any manner of speaking, forthcoming during his brief visit at
the hospital, but if this is Molly’s last straw, he figures he can try his best to take a different
approach.

“Okay,” Molly echoes, sounding unconvinced.

“Why are you back so early?” he asks, cringing inwardly at his inability to change a subject
without sounding like a complete prick. He can’t exactly rely on macho flirtation, here.

“I had to call Kenny. My car broke down on the road to Grandma’s house. He towed it back
for me.” She blinks erratically and adds hurriedly, “He’s got a cousin in the motor business.”

“That’s generous of him.”

Small talk has never felt so much like pulling teeth.

“Yeah.” Molly averts her eyes. “I just came up to grab a spare toothbrush, actually. I’m
probably going to be staying over with Wally tonight.” She hesitates, then notes, “Kenny’s
waiting outside to drive me back up there.”

“Tell him ‘thanks’ from me.” Will endeavors to be cordial, forcing his lips into a smile that
translates more as a grimace.

“Right. Okay,” Molly replies, her voice cracking slightly as she turns to leave. She ghosts
past the bathroom, either forgetting her toothbrush, or aiming to not spend another
millisecond in their bedroom. “I’ll do that,” she concludes with one last pleading glance
toward him. The door shuts with a quiet click.

Will slumps down on the bed, the springy contraption smelling consistently of dust and
disuse.

He shuts his eyes. He’s assaulted with the sensation of a cage downsizing around his body,
folding his limbs awkwardly to fit inside its negative spaces. It hurts and he wants nothing
more than to find the key and unlock the heavy padlock, but its existence eludes him.

Without a wife to wait for, Will doesn’t submit to sleep.

He wanders the barren woodland of Maine, underdressed for the weather, with nothing but
his uncharged phone in his pocket and a collar just in case Winston escapes the house and
wanders after him.

There are thousands of stars in the sky. It always reminded him the most of Wolf Trap. There
were times in those first couple years out here he felt so alone he had to look up. They also
remind him of someone.

Nights spent at sea, sailing to find Hannibal, he had looked up at the stars on the open ocean
and wondered. Then, he hadn’t known Hannibal was doing everything in his power to forget,
while Will was suffering nights of mental repetition. Reliving the pain of separation, dividing
his own mentality by debating incessantly with a ghost birthed from both his and Hannibal’s
implicit need to be seen.

He watched the glittering white specks in the sky and asked himself,

Are we watching them together?

Aware and unaware of each other, across a distant world.

Now, he looks up at them and understands with horror, how loneliness creates a world more
vast, more untenable than ever. He cannot yield to the actuality where he may have to
consume the sky and its stars alone now, forever uncertain on if there is a soul appreciating it
as he does.

He fondles the phone in his pocket and pulls it out into the chilled air.

He sits by a ravine, its borders raised far above the trickling water. He lets his legs swing
there before he reluctantly scrolls through his contacts to find Jack’s number.

Will runs down verbal options while the line rings.

He could say:

Hey, Jack. I think you’re a liar. Where’s Hannibal?

Or even;

I have plans to get you in trouble with the board of directors again. Want to stop me? All it
takes is one word of validation so that I know I’m not spiraling.
Instead, all those options fly out the window when Jack answers with a rough, “Hello, Will?
Are you alright?”

Will’s throat quivers, and he sucks in a series of shaky breaths.

“Jack,” he whispers, so softly the other man stops breathing just to hear him. “Jack…if I told
you I wasn’t going to run away with him. If I promised, would you tell me he’s alive?”

Will could be at peace if he knew. He planned to be locked up once, with just the knowledge
of Hannibal’s escape from America to comfort him on the quiet nights when everything aches
like a bruise.

Jack is silent enough that Will thinks he actually hung up.

“Will. I won’t be dishonest. Get help. Talk to someone, please. For your wife’s sake.”

The line beeps. Like one of those heart rate monitors at the hospital.

There is a moment where the answer finally cements itself in his mind, hardened enough that
he begins to feel out of body. Tingling all over, his body in need of something he’s not giving
it.

Will sets his phone down on the grass, and removes the collar from his pocket and places it
atop the phone. Not quite associating the acts of what he’s doing with his own hands, he
doesn’t bother folding his clothes as he peels them off. The winter bites at his skin, not as
cold as it could be, but adequately chilling.

He wades into the water of the ravine, his nude and warped skin sparkling all over under the
moonlight. He doesn’t know how far he wanders, but his feet start to feel numb after a while,
then his legs.

The water swishes around him, tickling his sides.

He reaches a point in the river where he’s submerged, waist deep.

It’s not as cold as the Atlantic, despite the peace that arrives with it. The cold showers were
one thing, but this is what he needed. The thoughts in his head coming to a freezing halt.
Though his body is fighting for survival outside his realm of understanding, his mind is
sending signals that his physical form is where it’s meant to be. Where it shouldn’t have been
exhumed. He sinks lower and observes the unfamiliar trees towering all around him. Maine
is so beautiful, macabre and mundane. He trembles violently enough that his view of the
world seems to shake with him. Like a bluff eroding under him, but this time he’s weightless,
and floating along, unsure what he’s seeking, but knowing he’ll find it now.

He’s completely out of it when he registers hands on his body, tugging at him, letting him
plop onto a scratchy patch of dry land. It’s grassy and smells like earth. He can hear
expletives ricocheting through the air around him from a gruff voice, but he’s somewhere far
away. Still cold enough to the touch to imagine he’s sitting on the floor of the ocean, waiting
for those hands to pull him back to that light. The light cutting through the dark sea hasn’t
left his dreams; he keeps seeing it. That must mean something, right?

The world blurs, and he passes out.

When he wakes, it’s with a shivering start, and (strangely clear-headed, more than he’s been
for weeks) he immediately jots down that he’s in a stranger’s house, naked, except for the
blankets wrapping him up, burrito-style. They’re all hideously patterned. He can barely
remove himself from them, but when he starts trying, the older man that saved him scurries
over with a soup bowl in his hands.

“Slow down, young man,” he warns coarsely. “You were damn near frostbit, you hear?”

Will nods, eventually sitting up and extricating both his arms so he can take the bowl. He’s
not sure when he ate last. Maybe Molly’s omelets. Either way, he’s starving.

“What the hell were you doing taking a dive in this weather, son?”

“Looking for something,” Will mutters, voice scratchy with a cold. That didn’t take long.
Getting sick usually arrives with a brain tumor and a half-assed apology from his
psychiatrist.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, you’re a moron.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, you ehm, need help of some sort? Mental help?”

Will blinks away the foggy film obstructing his eyesight and observes the man before him.
He’s got a long gray beard and is just an edge past overweight. Darting his eyes around the
room, he realizes he’s taking up the only bed. The whole house has four walls. Probably uses
an outhouse, also.

The words ‘mental help’ catch up to him, and Will laughs.

Hannibal, I wish you were here to hear this.

The man appears mortified and Will waves a hand.

“Sorry, thank you, but no.”

The man starts grumbling about stupidity and bad choices, and Will zones him out so he can
finish his soup in peace. He’ll thank the man properly when his legs stop tingling and he can
stand. Hopefully, he can borrow some clothes and trudge back to the cabin by himself. He has
no clue how long he was floating.
 Maybe less than a mile.

He’d woken up self-assured that the world is exactly as it’s meant to be and that means
Hannibal is truly alive. If he weren’t, the universe wouldn’t have allowed him to escape the
hands of fate a second time. Hannibal is alive, because Will is.

It’s simply a matter of how and where.

The most prudent thing on his mind is that he has no choice but to give Freddie her cherished
exclusive. Whatever that may mean for what’s left of his and Molly’s relationship, so be it.

Chapter End Notes

will graham is sadly not husband material. on loop, molly listens to never be me by
miley cyrus to cope with his dumb ass
 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

I'm going to be posting the next chapter right away. I wrote them together but I wanted
to separate them because together it was too long for the length I wanted, and they felt
narratively separate anyway. Hope you enjoy <3

There is no doubt Will is experiencing a fever.

He was once stuck in the severe grip of one for longer than a year; he recognizes the signs
like a child does the alphabet. Night sweats, cold sweats, any-time-of-the-day sweats. Nausea
pooling in his belly, worse than the symptoms of bad seafood. Stifling heat which clouds his
mind, his senses, and loosens his tongue to a dangerous extent. He already has problems with
filtering himself.

Knowing precisely what is happening to him, he doesn’t bother to take his temperature. He
falls back on old habits and chugs down two Tylenol every four hours. Prays they’ll be
enough to break it.

There are places he must drive over the weekend, let alone an urgent collaboration between
he and his old foe, Lounds. He won’t put it off because he’s feeling under the weather. He
used to teach, attend therapy, and care for seven dogs under the helm of a harsh fever, so he’s
more than positive he can handle it.

The dreams, though. Those are the kicker.

The first night back to the cabin was the worst.

The stranger who’d found him freezing to death in the ravine had been kind enough to drive
him home. They hadn’t spoken, but the man’s elderly Basset Hound ‘Maple’ sat atop Will’s
lap on the ride over, drooling all over borrowed pants and a microwavable heating pad.

Will offered the man drinks, money, but he’d simply shaken his hand and disappeared into
the night, dog trotting at his heels, and soon a car rolling noisily over dead leaves until Will
could no longer make out the difference between it, and the large boulders scattered along the
forest’s threshold.

After, Will had crawled upstairs and burrowed under his and Molly’s flimsy quilt. With
Winston whining and curling around his chilled body, he’d naively hoped to feel better by
morning.
Instead, he dreamed of antlers.

Rows and rows of antlers, and nearly everyone he’s ever known mounted upon them like a
hall of achievements. The scene was bloodless, and the numerous bodies were pale in death.
The imagery was more abstract than Will is used to, and when he stopped in front of Bedelia,
he found his feet stuck to the floor, sinking upward, a grainy weight moving, serpentine, up
his body, as if invisible quicksand were consuming him whole, as slow as possible, rising
around him rather than pulling him down. The dream allowed him time enough to deduce the
meaning, but he was utterly focused on the blonde temptress before him. How even in
sacrifice, she appeared pathetically blase. Indifferent to her karma. Bedelia had twitched and
stared up at him from under her golden waves. There was a row of six puncture wounds
decorating her chests, where the horns protruded. He remembers as soon as he began to
struggle against the constriction, her skin turned black as the wendigo’s, and her eyes
bottomless and white.

He’d woken up then.

He washed his face several times in cool water, and went about his day despite feeling
drained and dreary with sickness. All he could hope, was for the nightmare to be a fluke.

Instead, he dreams of Bedelia every night.

It’s irksome, to say the least. If he had jurisdiction over his subconscious, he wouldn’t be
dreaming of Bedelia at all, let alone these suffocating night terrors. He’s lucky to have
practice with visions of this nature, he supposes, if he were to look on the bright side.

He knows his mind is inciting him into action, and he’s unlikely to stop seeing these images
until he does what he knows he must.

He has to check in on Bluebeard’s ex-wife.

As much as he loathes the woman, their conversations the weeks prior to his coma were
perhaps the most enlightening talks he’s participated in years.

If anyone shares his opinion on Hannibal, it’ll be her.

Her house is located close to where Freddie wants to meet with him, so it won’t be out of his
way. A quick haunt of her not-so-humble abode and he’ll be on his way.

As he packs for his trip, his upper lip twitches at the mere thought of her. To have someone
know Hannibal like he knows him, deeper on some levels. To have been behind the veil and
to refuse to elaborate on what such a life entailed. She held those true memoirs close to her
breast, as if gatekeeping them. He’s read her book, none of it realer than her dye job. It
frustrated him no end.

If she’s smart, she’ll be long gone by now.

Part of him wants to walk in on her sitting in her reclusive living room, swirling a glass of
expensive wine over her beige rug. A part of him really wants her to be that stupid, because if
she is, that’ll mean Will is the sole individual in the world to understand Hannibal and the
elements of his infrastructure.

Perhaps the one man alive who knows Hannibal is alive too.

Zipping up his travel bag, he lugs it down to the truck to pack it underneath the passenger’s
seat. He’s not leaving quite yet. Not without tying up a few loose ends.

He’s decided he can’t take Winston.

The extra stops will confuse and stress the old dog out, and he can’t be certain what will
come of his journey to Baltimore in truth, so he’s called Molly to come pick him up. She
hasn’t returned to the house since she left a few days ago, an ultimatum left to hang in the air
like the dust that continues to collect.

He’s convinced she knows why he wants her to take Winston for the upcoming days. She
hadn’t texted anything damning, but he’s revving up for an argument the moment she steps
through the door.

When he eventually hears her car pulling up, he’s out by the shed, tinkering on his truck. The
air conditioner broke last summer, and he’s been roving around the property with nothing to
do but wait, so he figured it was about time to fix it. He replaced the mirrors in the house as
well, and the doors.

Now, all traces of a Dragon’s visit have vanished. It feels like closing a door he hadn’t
realized he left wide open. He’s not sure what Molly might think though.

Steeling himself, he sighs and drops his tools.

Molly buries her hands in her pockets as she marches through layers of sludge. For once, Will
tries initiating eye contact, but she’s looking everywhere but him.

“Where’s Winston?” Her breath puffs out visibly in the cold air.

“Molly – ”

“I’m not talking,” she tersely declares, which means she’s about to start talking. Profusely
and unstoppably.

“Sleeping,” he answers, gesturing toward the shed.

Molly bites her cheeks and pulls a collar out of her winter coat. She stalks past him,
disappears for a second too long, then returns with Winston collared and ready for travel.

Will waits patiently as she opens the back door to her car and lets him hop in and settle into
the dog bed they always keep in the trunk for veterinary emergencies or rare rides to the dog
park. The park isn’t usually required when the dogs have each other and several acres of land,
but occasionally it’s a nice treat.

Or was.
He doesn’t know how far Freddie’s supposed information will take him, or what he’ll find at
Bedelia’s house. It could take him far from here, and even further from Molly. It’s easier not
to focus on if every moment is the last chapter of a long, long journey, or one of the pages in
the middle of a book when you pry one open with both your thumbs. There have been
excessive chapters in his life and he cannot learn to dwell on the conclusions.

The car door slams shut.

Molly stomps up to him, face scrunched tighter.

“You have some nerve,” she grits out. “You really do.”

“I know.”

“You know? That’s it?”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me, but I’m not going to say no to this.”

Molly lets out a noise like a scoff and a laugh. “You’re really trying your best to keep this
marriage afloat, Will. I’m impressed.”

Though he planned this interaction intricately, so as to hurt Molly as little as possible, he is

suddenly hit with fatigue so taxing, it feels like his only option is to be as honest as possible.

“I’m not trying,” Will tells her honestly. Molly’s expression shutters with intense emotion.
The bafflement on her face is animated enough to elaborate without waiting for a response. “I
had a moment…of clarity a few days ago. I know what world I’m meant to be in, and it’s not
here. Not like this.”

He didn’t realize he’d been waiting to say that for years, not until right now.

Molly swallows several times, as if getting the taste of something terrible out of her mouth.
It’s called for. All of it. Shock at his candor, confusion at his apathy, and sadness that perhaps
resembles alleviation more than it does distress at the prospect of loss.

“I thought…I was so sure this was salvageable,” she murmurs, her tone heartbroken, but her
expression flat. “Gee. I’m pretty clueless, yeah?”

“No, you’re not. You’re perfect, Molly. I’m not.”

Now, she looks annoyed.

“Shut up,” she barks. “Don’t act like I have no part in this. I married you, I trusted you. I play
a role, damn it.”

“I told you when I got back, I’d be different – ”

“And I promised you I wouldn’t be,” Molly muses, smiling through a frown. “I run that
promise through my head everyday, you know. I don’t allow myself to forget.” The frown
champions for an instance, and she shuffles on her feet before adding, “I was breaking that
promise before you even woke up.”

“Me too,” he whispers. “But, I haven’t changed, Molly. I’m just standing in the natural light.
You can see me better than you ever have before, and it’s not what you want.”

“And I’m not what you want.”

“Molly, you’d be surprised by how much I want…this.” He vaguely gestures at their house.
“It meant the world to me at the time. It’s what I needed.”

“You’d throw that all away?” Molly questions, though not bargaining in any sense. She’s as
curious as Will is, as to why he bothered playing house in the first place if he knew he
couldn’t act the part indefinitely.

He doesn’t know the answer himself.

He thought he did, but seeing Hannibal in a cage…confused him more than ever.

“I need something else. I’ve needed it for a long time.”

“I won’t ask,” she assures, chuckling humorlessly. “You’re a secretive shit, always have been.
I wish you could have at least respected me enough to talk to me about your past. Who you
truly dealt with out on the field. You weren’t just a normal cop, or an agent, or whatever. You
could have – ”

“You’re sleeping with Kenneth.”

It barrels out of Will’s mouth before he has time to process it. The revelation was so quick, so
pertinent he couldn’t help it. It slipped out. Randomly, all the hints came together and showed
him the bigger picture.

Not so great timing, Will chastises himself.

He’s more surprised than he is angry, but Molly hears an accusation.

“I – ” She splutters, jaw dropped in dismay. Hardening all at once, she begins to ramble,
“Yes, I did. I have. Fuck, Will, what do you want me to say, huh? I know three months wasn’t
long enough, don’t you think I know that? Bully for me, I went and did it anyway. And I
hated myself for it, even though it was good, and he’s gentle, and Christ that made it even
worse.” Tears start to form in her eyes, and Will wants to stop her just to allow her the shreds
of dignity she’s so desperately grappling, but she seems to need this. “Jesus, it was never fair
to you because I promised you I wouldn’t change, and three months, Will. What kind of wife
doesn’t even wait three goddamn months?” Covering her face with her hands, she muffles a
sob. “It’s been eating me, because I just…I haven’t fallen in love like that since John.”

“Oh.”

“I haven’t again, not since you woke up, but I’ve wanted to, god I’m always wanting to and
that’s just as bad.”
Will is oddly content in the face of the confession.

“Molly, it’s okay.”

She blinks blurry eyes up at him.

“No, no it's not, what is wrong with you? You don’t deserve this.”

“I do, and more. Listen to me.” Molly sniffles and meets his eyes. For the first time, he
doesn’t see the glass shards, but her very human eyes blinking straight back at him. “You
were never really mine, and I was never really yours. I never could have made you feel like
he does.”

Like John did.

Not gentle, not in the way she wants.

Will is gentle the way a cub is gentle. Chiyoh’s words come to mind. A cub that grows up to
be one of the big cats. That’s how he’s been tailored.

And in no way is he good, even if he’s not all bad.

They both fit into the liminal spaces of each other’s lives when they met. The places where
ghosts inhabit. Never fully seeing each other was easier than facing the exorcism that would
soon become essential.

“I wanted you to,” she wheezes. Holding her face between his palms, he murmurs,

“You owe nothing to me.”

“We – Are we – ?”

“I think we are, yeah.”

He doesn’t regret marrying Molly, but he regrets the impending paperwork.

“Usually my husbands have to die to get out of a marriage with me,” she jokes dryly, wiping
her tears with the back of a hand. “I still don’t want you to do that interview, but I won’t stop
you.”

“Take whatever percentage Freddie offers me for Wally’s tuition.”

“Will, no, I can’t do that.”

“Take it as my apology,” he insists.

“Paying me off like a hooker. I see you, Graham.” Will laughs and strokes his fingers through
her yellow hair one last time before bestowing a parting kiss on her forehead. Almost
inaudible, she says to him, “You’re a sweet man, Will.”

In another life, he could have been.

“Tell Wally…” Hannibal was right. Will knows better than to breed; he’s an even worse
parent than he is husband. Abigail should have proved that. He has no gauge for what the
morally correct thing to say to him could be. Being called Dad feels like something that
happened to him in a dream, or a lifetime ago, when Abigail’s heart thrummed as loud as the
Norman Chapel's choir once did in his and Hannibal’s shared foyer. He misses that place, or
maybe he just misses the company.

“He knows,” Molly assures. “Maybe not for some time, but he’ll know.”

Will can’t say for certain what it is Wally knows, but if the kid decides to hate him forever, he
thinks that’s only fair. Hell knows what the news will say of him in ten years time, or twenty.

They finally part, and it's gawky and artless. Molly turns to face him only once, after she’s
padded along the gravelly path to the car. He nods at her reassuringly and she sighs, averting
her gaze to shimmy behind the wheel. Will ponders if either of them will spend time
mourning their marriage.

He watches her car undulate over rocky terrain and waits until it vanishes down the main
road, until the only striking visual before him is the orange-red hue of the sky.

“Goodbye, Winston,” he whispers to the wind.

For now, he has his own path to bear

 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will plans to rendezvous with Freddie on Monday evening.

Leaving dirt early Sunday morning allows ample time for him to make the necessary stops.

First; the cliff house.

Hannibal never bothered to blindfold Will in an effort to keep the location hidden, knowing
full-well he harbors an eidetic memory. He retains a near perfect sense of direction and
navigation thanks to the ability, so his truck is finally tweaked to full durability, he heads
down the necessary backroads, quietly rolling by the majestic white pines and butternut trees,
the butternuts barren of leaves for the winter.

The road steepens, and memories start to return with a sprinkling of rainfall.

They hadn’t spoken in the car ride, but Hannibal and Will rarely ever talked in cars. It was
like being chauffeured through purgatory. What else is there to say other than, see you at the
gates of Hell.

As the scent of the sea begins to waft through the window he’s cracked open, Will ponders
how the house is only a thirty minute drive from his and Molly’s cabin. Hannibal had no
indication of where Will was living before he crawled back into the sphere of his existence.
Let alone the fact it was purchased years in advance. Even years before Abigail, before Will.
For Miriam, for god knows who or what else. Be that as it may, it rankles Will in a way he
never expected. Maine of all places.

Hannibal hasn’t left him for a second.

He’s always there, always out of reach. A shadow of a shadow.

Though no more than a few months have passed, Will’s first impression of the bluff is that
it’s eroded to a much greater extent than he saw it last. Strolling up to the edge of the cliff, his
stomach flips from vertigo at the sight of the crashing waves and jagged rocks below.

How they dodged what felt prophetic, Will may never know.

Soon all of this will be lost to the sea, Hannibal had proclaimed.

“How right you were,” Will murmurs.

Will finds the spare key under the stone he recalls. The authorities must have done a rough
job combing the crime scene, otherwise it would have been confiscated.
At first glance, the cliffside house seems much the same, except the carpet’s been
haphazardly torn from the tack strips lining the walls, and impounded. Easier to discard
bloodied fabric than it is to scrub the evidence of violence away. He imagines it says
something about the state of the government in these matters. Hiding things will always be
simpler than dealing with them out in the open.

Will kneels beside the grand piano and touches the legs, expecting to see specks of
Hannibal’s blood the forensics team missed. There aren't any.

Hannibal is someone they no doubt wanted to wipe clean from the Earth, regardless if they
succeeded in his annihilation or not. I’ll take ‘Or not,’ Will thinks to himself.

The bedrooms are bare, stripped of all personality.

What must have been Abigail’s room, Will decidedly lingers in. He never bothered to tour the
place when he was first here with Hannibal. He showered, ate dinner, and then shared that
fateful nightcap with him.

It was remarkable how seldom they spoke to each other here, considering the thousands of
questions Will held about Abigail’s life, about Hannibal’s time in the BSHCI. Chilton, Alana,
Jack. He wanted to know everything, and he was certain Hannibal wanted to know
everything about Will, how he changed in those years away. If he still wanted, with every
molecule in his body, not to think about him anymore.

Will sends the thoughts packing with an ache-inducing shake of the head.

He scrutinizes Abigail’s sanctuary. Navy blue walls, dark floorboards which would benefit
from a light patterned rug. He imagines there was one, once, but they must have confiscated
that too. He grits his teeth through his observations, growing increasingly disconcerted from
the life he was locked out of. Blinded to.

Molly told him she wished he trusted her enough to open himself up entirely.

To gut himself, and display his entrails as it were.

He’s done that for one person and one person alone.

Will just wishes Hannibal had trusted him enough to do the same.

But that was a long time ago.

The visit to the house is subsequently an abortive effort at closure. He doesn’t feel better or
worse for having returned, and he’s no closer than he was yesterday to finding Hannibal, but
it was worth a shot.

As he wraps up his sojourn, he catches a glimpse of an individual watching him from outside
one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. When his eyes laser focus onto the cluster of trees just
beyond the patio, he can’t see even a whisper of a person. The sole thing he registered about
the figure was that it was most likely a woman. She vanished before any further details
translated. With quickening steps toward the front door, he paces out to the forest, but the
mysterious onlooker is gone, nothing but a rustle of leaves deriving from an unknown
direction to signify their corporeal existence.

He snarls and returns to his car.

He doesn’t like being spied on.

Yet, the wanderer of all things reminds him of his next stop. He collects himself for a much
longer ride and sets the coordinates to Baltimore into his phone. Turning the radio on doesn’t
halt the train of thought chugging furiously through his mind. What he’ll do with Bedelia if
she has remained in America is a question which hasn’t left his mind since the fever started,
forcing him into bizarre, unwanted nightmares starring the silver-tongued bitch herself. He
doesn’t know how else to describe her.

A few hours into afternoon traffic, his mind roams.

He decides Bedelia reminds him of that old nursery rhyme.

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.

While Will picks the lock of Bedelia’s backdoor (after knocking courteously of course), he
reconsiders his decision to visit her house in broad daylight. Evening is beginning to blend
into the blue sky with accents of plum and apricot, but if someone were observing the house,
he’s visually on full display.

Consideration isn’t enough to deter him.

He enters her house with a purpose, and can instantly tell she’s been gone for a long time.
She likely retreated as soon as Will warned her. He almost regrets doing so, because he would
have liked to…he’s not altogether clear on what he would do in her presence again, high and
mighty, and acting as the rest of society has in the face of Hannibal Lecter’s definite,
unchallenged, ‘death.’

Will smirks, tracing fingertips along the walls of her abandoned home.

Her absence does affirm his hunch.

Bedelia isn’t the type to succumb to a desultory lifestyle on nothing more than word of the
press. She knows as well as he does there is hardly a likelihood Hannibal didn’t survive the
fall if Will did.

Or maybe, even better; Bedelia thinks Will may come after her.

With or without the Ripper.

The scalpel in his pocket doesn’t disagree with the possibility, but he didn’t bring it to kill
her. He brought it…just in case. In this life he’s chosen to lead, there is no room for error
when it comes to defense, either for himself or what he’s set out to protect.

And anyway, the scalpel was originally intended for Freddie.

Just in case.

Will rummages through Bedelia’s house, purposefully with less finesse than his scouring of
the cliff house. To degrade her in any sense feels like a victory. Personal possessions have
been left behind, with no obvious intent of safekeeping. She left in a rush. A cleanly person,
it isn’t difficult to categorize the disarray in Bedelia’s bedroom which vouches for the
inference. Dresses hang off their hangers by a single strap, shoes are knocked over unevenly
along the underside of her bed. He has to wonder if she ran the day Will left her with a
promise-riddled warning. Shampoo oozes out of a fallen bottle in her adjoining bathroom. It
leaves the tile floor tacky.

He’s gotten what he came for.

An answer to if Bedelia was clever or foolish.

Unfortunately, she remains as clever as she always was.

Clever, but rash. She did run away to Europe with a serial killer after all; at least Will had
reasons beyond physical and material. He had obligations of family. Of instinct.

He realizes with unsteady hands and an erratic heart, he needs to know where exactly she
disappeared to. He’s not shortsighted enough to believe Hannibal could have returned to her
for help, and that they could’ve done what they did before. She would never. And Hannibal…

Will closes his eyes and exhales.

Hannibal almost certainly feels betrayed.

Why else would he refuse to send for Will?

But, he wouldn’t do that to him. Not again.

Not after –

He wraps his fingers around the scalpel in his pocket to ground himself and remind himself
he isn’t here to ruminate on Hannibal’s motivations and feelings. Historically, he’s played a
part in ruining several opportunities for clarity and understanding between them by acting in
a reactionary manner, wrought from overthinking and overanalyzing. In large, that was also
due to Hannibal alienating him, betraying him, and consistently showing his loyalty the way
a wild animal does, rather than verbally expressing himself.

He thinks it’s about time he and Hannibal communicate with their mouths rather than with
knives and hooks or whatever else can be found in a kitchen.
Will blushes and compels himself to leave Bedelia’s bedroom.

It’s been so long since he’s used his empathy for anything, he’s not even sure if it’ll work, but
he mosies on down to the living room and sits in the seat Bedelia used to sit in and offer him
‘unorthodox therapy.’

Here is where he can feel the strongest impressions of her decision-making.

A throne to promote her autonomy

Golden colors swish across the blank scape of his closed eyes.

As he steps into her shoes, that nursery rhyme comes back to mind.

There was an old lady who swallowed a dog.

She swallowed the dog to catch the cat.

She swallowed the cat to catch the bird.

She swallowed the bird to catch the spider.

She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.

Will’s eyes open and the expanse of her home is filtered in a yellow light. Morning beats
through the windows though night should currently be darkening the apertures.

Bedelia sabotages herself each time she makes a choice.

It’s not entirely her fault. It’s her nature, just as Will is ruled by his own.

She hasn’t yet swallowed a horse, but she’s getting there. And she knows it too. The ticking
clock must be growing louder, even piercing in her ears. Will can perceive the imprints of
wild commotion on the air, and a faint smell of alkaline that signifies anxiety in magnitudes.
She hadn’t been thinking rationally when she ran. Her first idea of safety was a choice, and in
the end, it will be her destruction.

Bedelia’s not hiding well, if she’s hiding at all.

He walks backward through the room, observing the symmetry of his vision with the vision
he sees in real life. She is just as anal about her organization as she is about her
compartmentalization. Not a thing is out of place, nothing except – her passport.

He used to see it on her desk occasionally when he arrived for therapy.

It could be a coincidence, but it doesn’t feel like one.

Before Will can arrive at a definitive conclusion, the ground shudders beneath him, and it’s
more tangible than his empathy should allow. An unknown force coerces him to look up and
he collapses to his knees at the sight of hundreds of antlers curling and pistoning out of the
ceiling. The texture of the ceiling has become something unsolid, but not altogether liquid.
Either way, the antlers are reaching for Will.

He scrambles back on his elbows, overcome with momentary fright.

A horn pierces his chest, right through his heart, and he snaps back into an unsaturated
reality.

He’s sprawled across the rug, in between two sofa chairs, and panting like he’s just run a
marathon. He has an urge to paw at his chest and feel for an entry wound, but by now he
knows there isn’t one.

He does have an answer to where Bedelia is though.

Death came from above. The end arrives at the beginning.

Bedelia has returned to Italy.

And Will has an inkling, her end will arrive where her mistakes started.

Fortunately for her, Will has more important things to do.

Will pulls into a motel very late.

He was hoping to sleep in the back of his truck, but his spine is killing him, and he doesn’t
much care for the weather at present.

After checking in, he parks in the far back. There’s only a few cars scattering the parking lot,
so at least there won’t be ruckus keeping him up. He has trouble enough getting to sleep
without any noise.

He doesn’t dare touch the shower, but takes a piss and plops down on the creaky mattress
after purely removing his shoes and socks. He’s more dozing than sleeping when three sharp
knocks wake him.

Will fingers the shape of the scalpel over his pocket, making sure it’s still there, and stumbles
over to the door, surprised to discover the manager standing there staring, discontented.

“Sorry to wake you sir, normally I wouldn’t even bother, but we gots the ‘otel inspector
coming early at some point tomorrow, and you parked pretty unevenly.”

“Oh.” Will doesn’t remember doing that. “Sorry, I’ll fix it.”

“Thanks, pal.”
Long after the manager vanished into the dimly lit lobby, Will scurries out into the cold of
midnight and glares at the car. It looks completely evenly parked to him.

He turns around in several directions, half expecting to be pranked.

He revs up the truck and parks it unevenly.

The manager doesn’t say a word when he checks out in the morning.

“Okay. You consent to being recorded, yes?”

“As if it matters to you.”

“Answer the question, Graham.”

Will impatiently waits for her to restart the recording on her phone before saying, “Yes. I
consent to the recording as long as my conditions are accommodated throughout.”

“Yeah, yeah. No talking about ‘murder husbands’ or, well, any of that.”

Will rolls his eyes, hoping to all things left in the universe that are holy, she won’t make a
point in her article about how defensive he is on the subject. Only Freddie would
accommodate his conditions conditionally.

Freddie leans forward and balances her elbows on her knees. Her eyes are fiery with passion.
He feels transported five years in the past. She’s even wearing the same clothes; red skirt, red
jacket, orange tights. All different shades of a singular hue. Immature. Irritating.

“So, Mr. Graham. You’re something of an American hero. Can you tell us how you feel about
that?”

“Really? This is the direction you’re going?”

“I don’t really feel up to starting a new recording, would you please – ?”

Will sighs dramatically, letting his eyes cruise around the Baltimore lounge. Magenta
couches. Tacky patterned-walls. Almost as ugly as Freddie’s entire persona.

“Fine. I didn’t feel good at all.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t feel I did enough to warrant worship from a nation.” I don’t feel as if I hated the act
of killing enough to be ruled a hero, he doesn’t say.
“You helped take down two of the most evil men this country has ever known. Surely that
counts for something.”

Freddie flatters the most when she’s trying to swindle unsolicited information out of
someone. Will has to smirk at that. At least some people never change.

“I took down Lecter. Lecter helped me take down Dolarhyde. If anything, Lecter should get
some credit, as well.” Freddie grimaces at that and he smiles wider. “Objectively speaking, of
course.”

“Forensics stated that you killed Dolarhyde in self defense. Is this true?”

Will raises a brow. What does she expect him to say?

“Yes.” No, not entirely.

“Did you kill Hannibal Lecter in self defense?”

He frowns. “Yes.” No, not at all.

“Can you describe the encounter as vividly as you can remember?” she asks, scribbling
something down in one of her journals. He doesn’t care what it is, psycho-analyzation or not.

He tells her every detail, without holding back, up until the part where Dolarhyde succumbs
to his wounds, and he’s left alone with Hannibal on the pinnacle of the bluff, nothing but
intimacy to saturate the blood, and the gore, and the fact it felt as if they were the only two
left breathing in the world.

“And then, when the attack turned on me, I attempted to push Hannibal off the cliff. At the
last moment, he dragged me down with him. I’m surprised I survived at all.”

It sounds exceedingly dull to the truth Will knows in his heart.

“I’d say. You both should have drowned.”

“You’re telling me,” he mutters, fiddling with his hands.

A couple sits down beside them. The lounge is populating fast. His heart strains from the
pressure. He wasn’t good with crowds then, and he isn’t good with them now.

“You’re coming to me today with unreleased information about the crime scene, yes? A
special tidbit to tide over those who don’t quite understand the full picture. What is it the
News neglected to tell us, Will?”

For a moment, he considers walking out.

“Francis Dolarhyde brought a camera to record Han – Lecter’s death. It was filming when the
fight started. I believe it was confiscated for evidence by the FBI. And apparently, the public
knows nothing about it.”
Freddie blinks, and then writes hastily in her notebook.

“How do you know it was impounded by the FBI?”

“A hunch,” he lies. It’s not as if he wants to rat Jack out. “But seeing as I was there, I can tell
you there was a recording camera at the scene. Currently, I have no clue where it is.”

“Well, Mr. Graham,” she announces chipperly, “I’m sure Tattlecrime and its readership will
be thanking you for such a compelling contribution to the Ripper-Dragon conversation. Now,
onto some more personal questions – ”

They are boring topics like where he sees himself in a few years time, and how the trauma of
being a special agent for the FBI has affected him. He pulls statements out of his ass, and he’s
sure Freddie knows he’s doing so. It doesn’t matter if both of them are aware this is
fabricated, as long as Tattlecrime’s readers desire to click on it. She wraps it up, jittery yet
satisfied. Will feels spent.

After the recording is shut off, Freddie claps her hands together.

“You’ve just opened up a whole new set of doors for me. Thank you, Will.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Freddie scoffs. “Obviously I know that. Trust me, I might not want you on my bad side, but I
really don’t want you on my good side either. I’d prefer it if you stay away from most of my
sides.”

“Now that, we can agree on.”

She flips through a separate notepad, and rips out a page with red lettering on it. It is a list of
addresses and crudely copied information about flight plans. She reads the confusion on his
face easily.

“This is what I’m giving you in return. Like I said, I haven’t found much, but I’ve discovered
that employees from these private hospitals have been regularly sent on paid excursions to
Lithuania. My sources have narrowed down that they’ve been specifically seen coming in
and out of the Lecter Estate.”

“Why would American private hospitals be sending anyone out there?”

“Beats me.” Freddie taps the paper over the addresses. “But, each of these facilities is
administrated or shareholded by Frederick Chilton. Thought it was interesting.”

Will’s brow creases. What business could Frederick have in Hannibal’s childhood home?
He’s gripped with a strange possessiveness. For anyone to enter that shimmering, fairytale-
like world other than him. Other than Hannibal or his family. It’s an erroneous sensation, not
bound by logic.

“This is useful.” Will glances up at Freddie’s expectant expression. “Uh, thank you.”
 “Attaboy.”

She packs up her things with a smug grin. A stray customer whistles at her as he struts by.
Her head snaps up and once she takes in the sight of him, she winks and continues packing.

Will is standing uncomfortably, ready to leave, and can’t help but to try to rein her in. Just for
old time’s sake, while he still has any influence whatsoever.

“Be easy on Crawford. He’s given up a lot.”

“If he wants to play nice, we’ll see.” Freddie's eyes narrow and she says, "You look white as
a sheet. You should think about getting some sun."

Will doesn't bother telling her about the fever.

He just sighs through his nose, and nods.

Will opts to leave without a farewell. She’ll do what she will with the information. He just
hopes her last article on the subject isn’t entirely damning.

For Jack’s sake.

The streets of Baltimore are as unfamiliar to him as they used to be. The wind is cold on his
cheeks as he struts out of the lounge, and he’s relieved to get into the stuffy silence of his
truck.

Will wonders what he would find if he drove by Hannibal’s old house.

Instead, he plans on if he should buy a plane ticket or a boat.

He has a long trip ahead of him.

Chapter End Notes

freddie is material girl <3

also: i told you guys it was going to be a slow burn lol, but i have insane plans for tying
loads of things together xoxo
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

secondo 2: the electric boogaloo

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Will attempts to purchase a plane ticket to Lithuania over the phone, he’s informed
he’s on a no-fly list. It doesn’t take further explanation to infer the restriction exists courtesy
of the FBI.

So much for a so-called American Hero.

Every step he takes beyond what is expected of him divulges another brushstroke, and the
painting is starting to make sense. The illusion of him as a dauntless protector doesn’t extend
past the government’s stupidity. That makes sense. To know the government has been clever
for once in the face of their repeated failures, finally disallowing Will the basic rights of a
citizen. They know better by now.

Nevertheless, he’s pissed off. Royally.

If they think tossing him on the no-fly list will stop him from getting where he needs to go,
the FBI (Jack Crawford, Kade Purnell, and whoever else is hiding behind the Wizard of Oz’s
secret curtain) have another thing coming.

The universe is on his side, because he has the numbers of several of his dad's old friends on
his phone. He calls the one that moved to New England to work at the marinas there, and he’s
able to sweet-talk his way into borrowing a boat. There isn’t time to go searching for a sturdy
one on sale. He knows how to flatter older men with a tobacco habit. He’s just grateful the
man happens to have a few boats stored close to Baltimore. Will has nowhere else to go, so
after hanging up, he leaves for the docks right away.

Once, he stops at a rest stop to piss and eat, and then heads over to the department store next
to it to buy new clothes. He changes out of his old clothes in a dingy bathroom — the light
above him swings like a pendulum for no sensible reason — throws them away, and washes
his face and extremities as best as he can with sink water and cheap soap. It reminds him
starkly of living in Louisiana.

The shower in the cabin he grew up in broke, unfailingly, each summer.

It persuaded him to pick up a nasty habit of forgetting to shower. But with his fever intact, he
knows he must smell slightly rancid, what with the perspiration and viscous fluids of
unknown origin and orifice. He shudders to think what Hannibal’s nose could pick up on him
if they ran into each other now. It encourages him to scrub a smidge harder with his
makeshift paper towel sponge.

Fresh in a new trench coat, he drives for hours and pulls into the Maryland Marina late in the
night. He greets a curious docking agent, and isn’t forced to tell more than half-truths to
them. There’s nothing nefarious about his intentions after all, and he did get the boat owner’s
permission.

The rhythm he succumbs to after unmooring the boat (much bigger than the one he traveled
to Italy with, as he’d silently and desperately prayed it would be) soothes his disquiet. Ever
since Freddie mentioned Chilton’s hand in this, his mind has been running through dozens of
theories, all equally probable.

It’s the fact he doesn’t feel like Hannibal would enlist Frederick’s help.

Or that Frederick would willingly give it without a backup plan. Despite who he is, Dr.
Chilton has occasionally been known to act clever.

And Will has been away for a few years. Hell knows what interactions the two of them
shared. He is aware Frederick often visited Hannibal, though the man was under Alana’s
whip. Will despises not knowing and feeling out of the loop like a schoolboy. He has more
right than anyone to be involved.

That’s why he needs to go back to the estate. He needs to see for himself what these supposed
sightings are all about, and if Hannibal has anything to do with them directly.

He starts the engine, and sets sail.

The boat seamlessly cuts through the peaceful waves, and Will watches as he fades into the
distance, the street lights lining the expanse of the marina dissipate into the starry night.

Will, an efficient sailor, is aware of several shortcuts to Europe. He isn’t planning on sailing
the full way through to Lithuania, but docking in the closest country possible, and taking a
train the rest of the trip.

It will cut the time it takes to arrive, in half.

This nonetheless means weeks on the ocean, which he’d be fine with under any other
circumstance. The restlessness he’s felt since waking from his coma has been festering to
stringent extents lately. Every day that goes by without word from Hannibal or anyone on the
subject of Hannibal has his stomach clenching tighter unease. It’s not that he’s doubtful
anymore, but he gets the sense of being stonewalled. He doesn’t want to be wasting all this
precious time, but apparently the government figures he has something to hide.
Like wanting to run off to Europe to seek a runaway killer.

Again.

Most of his time at sea is spent sleeping through the day or slouching by the controls at night.
He likes the cold air, dense with sea mist, in the earliest hours of morning.

All of that is preferable to the night terrors.

There is one night in the middle, a week into sailing, where the dream is for once, not riddled
with regrets, and rebarbative imagery. Instead of the litany of being dragged into the darkest
rifts of the sea, or to be impaled by larger than life antlers, he’s transported back to the
chapel.

In all of its glory.

He’d considered that he may never see it again.

Hannibal is there, by the altar, looking more himself than he did during Will’s time here in a
coma. He’s leaning up against sturdy marble railing, bequeathing Will with a bright, close-
lipped smile.

Without hesitating, Will strolls up to the stairs, halting at the first step.

Hannibal meets him there, no more than a step above him, gazing down at him without a
fraction of his smile having waned. The picture of a carefree Hannibal he’s come to find
comfort in. Will wants to reach out and touch him. Yet he doesn’t remember having much
autonomy the first time around.

“Can I touch you?” Will asks softly, raising a hand between them.

His voice echoes off the walls. Otherwise, it’s as silent as mornings in Wolf Trap. Hannibal’s
gaze softens further, if that’s at all possible.

“To draw a conclusion, you must test your hypothesis.”

Will nods, and watches his hand collide with Hannibal’s chest. It’s like touching a boulder
with how he expected it to drift through him, as if he were a trick of the light.

He doesn’t stop touching him. He traces his fingertips over the pattern of his suit jacket. A
black and white article, quite modern. It hasn’t changed since he saw him, but Will is in the
clothes he went to sleep in on the boat. Hannibal’s skin is hot to the touch when his hand
finds the hollow of his throat.

He turns into Will’s touch as he ghosts a palm over his cheek.

“How do I feel?” Hannibal rasps, golden eyes piercing through his own.

“Far away,” Will answers, and even gentler, “Where are you?”
“Conclusions often leave no stones unturned.”

“I will invert nature if I must, to find you.”

Hannibal bows his head lightly, solemn in the next breath.

“I look forward to your reckoning.”

Will’s fingertips pause at Hannibal’s lips. The skin there is criminally smooth, and tender. He
pulls his hand away and takes a step back. Instead of moving backward into the fathoms of
the chapel, he’s free-falling into the core of an abyss, abruptly spasming upward from bed.
The springs underneath him protest the commotion

He’s sweating all over, and his esophagus burns.

The water in the shower is cold and he registers too late that he’s stepped under the stream
with an undershirt and boxers on. Haphazardly, he decides today is a good day to do the
laundry, and peels the articles off himself, gathers the rest in the den, and returns to the top
deck to anchor the ship.

At present, he could care less if a patrol boat or cruise passes him and its passengers discover
him naked, washing his clothes in the ocean with a fishing net like a barbarian.

No matter how brutally he dunks his clothes in the sea with the morning sun hot on his bare
skin to encourage the intensity, he cannot get his mind off of how Hannibal looked, glowing
like a saint.

By the time Will pays the attendant at the marina he finally docks at, he is sleep deprived and
oversensitive to the world around him. Every rattling noise on the street costs a spike of sharp
pain in his ear, and every glimpse of glaring sunlight forces a full-bodied flinch out of him.

The train ride from Germany to Lithuania drags on, feeling longer than the sail despite the
fact he’s been on the water for weeks. The tracks are ancient, and he can sense every wear
and tear in the steel as he rides on through day, and night, and morning. At least when the
turbulence lulls him into much needed rest, the terrors he wishes to avoid don’t unearth
themselves.

He has an absurd notion Hannibal’s sat exactly where he’s sitting.

Perhaps that thought alone is what composes his mind.

He sleeps for eleven hours of the train ride, and wakes when the food trolley rolls by. The
worker is rough in the voice and face, and asks in German if he’d like anything to eat, or
that’s what Will assumes.
Will doesn’t speak German.

He shakes his head and waits. The train arrives at his stop an hour later.

There is an elderly woman just outside the station selling flowers. He asks her if she accepts
American dollars and miraculously, she does. He picks out a white rose in a plastic conical
container.

It easily fits in his travel bag.

After thanking the woman, he resumes his journey.

He can’t risk renting a car and hauling it up to the Lecter estate again. The stealthier he can
operate, the better. He visited the castle before Hannibal was a household name and now that
he is…Will has the disadvantage. The world understanding who Lecter was, having the veil
lifted from any person who bothered to read the paper, truly felt to Will like losing a special
secret to a bundle of unworthy postulants.

Now, it’s as if he’s stuck in a board game, navigating around dead ends and avoiding
obstacles. The universe has made it infinitely harder for him to find Hannibal, but that won’t
stop him.

He hitchhikes far enough from the southeastern property that it doesn’t come across
suspicious, and hikes on foot the rest of the way. He shouldn’t remember the winding paths
that lead up to the castle through the massive forest, but he does.

The trees that always appear to be suspended in autumn, and the dead grass which has
impossibly remained green — they’ve all remained untouched.

Will is operating on the assumption that whoever has been spotted coming in and out of the
castle is likely to be well-trained and more observant than Chiyoh was. She had been an easy
obstacle to navigate (for a time), to talk to, and reason with. He cannot let himself be seen for
now, for fear of news getting back to Jack and God knows who else in America, except he’s
not entirely sure what he’ll be capable of if he is seen.

Though he’s here on Hannibal’s behalf, he’s not being influenced by anyone or anything.

He still has the scalpel he brought to Baltimore.

It sleeps quietly, a gentle weight in his pocket.

The castle comes into view as sunset swells above.

Ancient spires peek over the tops of tall trees, as if welcoming him. To whichever deity is
listening, he commends them for spotlighting a clearer route to his destination. The first time
he visited these grounds, he’d been overwhelmed equally with curiosity and dissatisfaction.
He’d felt under the gun so to speak, and when he left, bereft of the chance to thoroughly
explore the estate in all its essences.

Now, it feels like coming home.

Hopping over the gate like before, he takes note that the estate appears untouched.
Lithuanians have dared not touch ground neither considered sacred nor cursed, but instead,
legendary. Most Europeans aren’t as cruelly tasteless in their interest in the macabre as
Americans, and thus it doesn’t shock him that this country has refrained from marketing off
its hereditary possession of a serial killer’s childhood home.

Will wanders the outskirts of the estate, weaving through the woods like a shark circling an
uninhabited island. If his house in Wolf Trap was a boat on the sea, then Hannibal’s home is
most certainly an island. In Hannibal’s eyes, returning here would be as good as marooning
oneself. There is nothing here to dissuade Will from entering, luckily.

Though something does tell him stepping foot into the castle before night breaks could be
considered sacrosanct. He wants to penetrate its passages at the time when the fireflies come
to wisp through the unpolluted air, and the wolves howl in yearning.

Traveling through familiar bramble, overgrown since he last saw, he finds the water fountain
where Mischa’s small handprints were once lain. He sits on the cement rim, and burrows into
his satchel. He brought along the letters Hannibal wrote and mailed to him in the BSHCI.

Three in total, not including the one he burned.

Freddie was thankfully satisfied with his knowing sacrifice of the video tape’s permanence,
and he didn’t need to bargain with his past any further. These belong to him now, and they
may be the closest thing to ‘help’ Hannibal can possibly offer him at present. Not that
Hannibal knew they’d be on the run back then, after a mad fall off a cliff and a shocking
survival from their wounds and the sea’s brutal impact.

But, Will doesn’t work with overt clues. He works in empathy, and understanding. If he can
feel Hannibal through the pages, it may become easier to constitute potential avenues of
escape.

He peels open the first one. It crimps dryly with age.

It’s dated from the first week of Hannibal’s incarceration.

Dear Will,

Brevity is the soul of wit, and there are few things between us left unsaid. I wish you a fruitful
life, in every respect, and will rest easy with the knowledge that you can always find me, if
need be.

You once asked me if I could be happy here. If you were I, could you be happy with memories
shaped like eternal dreams?
Sincerely, Hannibal

Will sighs, initially because of the uselessness of the letter, then because that conversation
they shared in Hannibal’s office comes barreling back to him, swift and precise as a barber’s
razor. Hannibal had been vulnerable then. How devastatingly Will had taken that for granted
at the time, but now as he thinks upon Hannibal’s warning; there are holes in the floor of the
mind — It is suddenly, dumbly obvious he meant this castle and all its abandoned halls. Part
of him was aware of the fact years ago, but now he fears the concept someone else could be
aware. Or becoming aware, of Hannibal’s fragility.

If Frederick is sending lackeys to find information about Hannibal’s possible whereabouts

and not just Hannibal himself hiding here, there’s almost no doubt in Will’s mind they’ve
succeeded. There are secrets in the corridors that even he is not privy to.

Thousands of hints on sensibilities and frail stitches Hannibal’s otherwise seamless person
suit.

Will may very well be too late.

He packs up the remaining two letters, and buries the one he’s read. It takes several minutes.
He doesn’t want the top layer of dirt to erode away to reveal it, but to instead have the note be
a part of the land, a synecdoche in the waiting. As fundamental to the memories here as any
other. It satiates a snapping beast in his breast he hadn’t heard baring its teeth until he started
digging.

More than before, he’s left an imprint on the Lecter estate.

The sky has turned a purplish black and he decides it an appropriate time to enter the castle.
He enters through the door of the servant’s quarters like Chiyoh used to, and is unsurprised to
be greeted with even colder air, alongside the stench of dust and corrosion.

Before anything else, he slinks down the halls with the purpose of descending to the cellar.
He must know what’s become of his firefly. The urge to witness its decay is irresistible.

The smell is even worse down there, but he powers through whiffs of dried blood, alcohol,
bone dust, to reach the shadowed expanse of yawning cobblestone that originally felt like the
perfect canvas for his design.

Patiently, Will lights the torches around him with a match.

The firefly and all its intricate components are gone.

Entirely. Without a trace. The ropes that he’d wrapped throughout the man’s limbs and bodily
crevices, more insect than man at that point, have been ripped from the steeples in the wall.
They’ve vanished, too.

There is a single fragment of Chiyoh’s broken wine bottle on the floor.

Will picks it up, and it glints red under firelight. Folding his fingers around it, he crushes it in
his palm until he begins to bleed, and the edges cut into his skin excruciatingly.
It forces him out of the cellar and off to the kitchen.

He balms his wound with ground-up turmeric as he’d seen Chiyoh do with a thorny cut on
her wrist. It stings in protest and he expertly ignores it as he tugs at a nearby curtain until he
rips a long strip of fabric away. He wraps up his wound and vows to himself he’ll do
something about the firefly’s absence.

He must.

For now, he’ll let the personal promise stew.

Will chooses to wander further into the castle than Chiyoh had priorly allowed. It takes a
while to find a door or entrance into the central wings, but when he does, he can see why she
boarded them up. It wasn’t to protect her from ghosts, but to protect the ghosts from a nomad
of any name.

Memories peel off the walls alongside unkempt paintings and portraits.

The impressions of a sinister brutality are still stark, as if Mischa had been lost yesterday. As
if the light in the Lecter family’s eyes had gone out with the torch fire.

The sheer intensity of it causes Will’s knees to buckle.

He paws at the nearest door, keeping himself steady with one hand on a rickety doorknob.
His eyes close against the onslaught of emotions and sensations and the absolute crushing
pain, a brand he’s never experienced so viscerally until now. He can visualize the marks in
the hall-length rug where children once ran and played, and skidded mud. He can hear the
laughter of familial connection, synched up with the screams of natural birth, and the
shuddering of pure unbridled terror that invasion wrought.

“Stop,” Will mutters into the back of his own hand. He’s leaning against a wall, shaking.
“Stop,” he keeps saying aimlessly.

It takes a moment for him to grasp a hold of his empathy, and channel it.

Everything still feels raw and fire-hot inside his head, his fever not helping, but he charges on
down the hall, passing dozens of empty rooms. Painting chambers, bathrooms, endless sitting
rooms, and spaces with just a fireplace and a window. All of which were once occupied by
catalysts.

That’s all that they are to Hannibal now. It’s less painful to think of them that way.

Will drifts up a spiral staircase to the second floor where he discovers the bedrooms.

It doesn’t take long to find Hannibal’s childhood room. An ‘H’ is engraved in the door, and
when he pushes inward, he’s struck with rage the moment his eyes absorb the wreckage.

It’s been ransacked.

Not by hungry Lithuanians, or by a greedy government, but by whomever Frederick Chilton
sent in his stead. The smarmy, intangible fingerprints could belong to no other. There is
nothing but disrespect for Hannibal Lecter in the art of the robbery, and everything from the
contents of his dresser to items in what seemed to be a personal chest are missing. The chest
had been left behind, to mock Hannibal perhaps, if he happened upon it.

“As if reading his diary will get you anywhere,” Will mumbles bitterly to the bedposts. If
Frederick were here, he’d tell him exactly that. Then he’d probably find a way to steal it.

Chilton’s playing a dangerous game, because in his mind, it’s a far more perilous mistake that
Will’s discovered the pillage. Hannibal plays long games and delayed mercy quite well.

Will doesn’t play.

He’s mad. On Hannibal’s behalf. On Mischa’s. On Chiyoh’s. For himself, as there is nothing
of value left for him to scrutinize. He’s back to square one, with absolutely nothing to show
for it.

Doubt swirling through him, he sits on Hannibal’s bed, touches the pillow and wonders
absently if it’s filled with duck feathers. His helpless mind strays to wonder if there were
stuffed animals here, or photographs hanging from the walls. What Chilton’s men confiscated
specifically, Will may never know. Opportunity for further understanding Hannibal and
finding him has been stolen from him.

The scalpel roars in his pocket. He doesn't reach for it.

Will abandons Hannibal’s bedroom and marches down the hall, shoving doors open, jiggling
the handle if the locks are intact. There remains nothing of note, not for another dozen doors,
until he reaches the end of the hall and attempts the last door. It creaks open to reveal a
lighter room, with a smaller bed.

There are more objects here suited for a child.

Mischa’s room.

It takes him a moment longer to realize this room has been ransacked as well, but not as
intently. He strokes the wardrobe and opens it to reveal untouched minidresses and skirts.
The lackeys must have assumed this was Hannibal’s room until they checked the clothing.
Then they gave up.

Foolish, but beneficial for Will.

They couldn’t have known how much Hannibal’s sister means to him. How if Will is going to
gain anything out of this stunted venture, it should be here.

There is an innocence to this space he didn’t pick up on in Hannibal’s room. He can almost
picture Mischa posing in the window bench, her brother sketching her for hours as she
watched the birds outside without a care in the world. She would want for nothing as long as
he devoted himself to looking after her. Simple unconditional love. There might have been a
cat, or a dog she entertained herself with. Will is having trouble compartmentalizing the pain
he senses in the walls. Like spilt blood runs through the house’s veins. The castle is a living,
breathing, thing, the same as an unforgettable memory.

There is a small bookshelf by her bedside he sits crisscrossed in front of.

People often underestimate books and how they can usually act as an intricate window to the
soul. There are hidden messages in the books that are gifted, and the array of genres you
indulge in can tell you the most about an individual. Even at a young age, her collection may
be integral to finding Hannibal, since he was the closest person to her. Will begins with the
first row and works his way down. He skims them, checking the bindings and inner covers
and pages for notes. There are several notes written in Lithuanian; those books, he stores
away in his satchel. A few in Italian, too. Finally, he finds a couple in English.

One is a Lithuanian-to-English dictionary.

The other has a girthy note written on the first, blank page. The book is Žemė dega by Jurgis
Savickis, translated to English. The title is almost impossible to make out on the faded cover.

Will reads the note inside, softening when he sees that it is directly from Hannibal, in his
ever-stunning cursive.

My dear sister,

You have been studying English as of late, and when I found a translated copy of Earth on
Fire at the bookstall, I could not resist purchasing it for you. Though you are young and may
not appreciate the meaning for some time, I hope that you will cherish this book until you do,
and make use of it for your studies. I will read it to you as often as you like, as I know you
enjoy stories more in repetition.

One day when you are fluent, and much older, I will introduce you to Brontë. You carry the
spunk of Charlotte and the wistful ambition of Emily. I only hope I am as devoted to you as
Anne.

From,

Your loving brother.

The handwriting is that of a child’s, despite the cursive, but of course Hannibal was already at
a stage where he understood the underlying meaning of tragedies and dramatic tales. Will
pointedly stuffs the book away, sensing he’ll need it later down the line. He’s taking care to
pack them away delicately, and not leave the room in disarray. But, he has a feeling Hannibal
would give him free reign in his deserted world.

There is suddenly a loud crash. It comes from the floor he’s on.

Will rushes out into the corridor. At first glance, the corridor is empty, but then he notices a
door that is pushed out toward the hall rather than in toward the room. He hadn’t left any as
such.
Calm and collected, Will doesn’t hesitate to fish the scalpel out of his pocket as he steadily
moves down the hall to the tainted room. Inside, he finds an average looking man scouring
the walls, in search for hiding places or safes perhaps. He doesn’t notice Will until Will is at
least three steps into the room. He reaches for a gun but Will is faster. He knocks the man out
with a hard blow to the back of the head.

The man crumbles at his feet.

The timing is impeccable, because Will was close to leaving.

At least he can depart with something to show for it.

The man, no doubt under Chilton’s pay, entered what seems to be a guest room. Obviously
there is nothing of significance inside, and he has to laugh quietly at how dimwitted the man
has to be not to see that. Apologizing silently to the untarnished state of the room, Will tugs
at the curtain, decorating the sole window, off its rungs. For a while, he works meticulously
on crafting one lengthy rope out of it, and ties one end around the man's ankle.

The difficult part is managing to push the window open. It’s stuck together as if someone
welded the metal frames together, but eventually Will is able to push both sections of the
window outward.

Surprised at his own strength, Will hauls the groaning man up and half out the window. Using
his fly fishing knowledge, he wraps the makeshift rope around an unlit torch bolted to the
wall.

Then, he pushes the guy out the window.

He wakes up in the midst of the fall, his scream getting cut off by the impact of the rope
stopping it, clenching painfully around his ankle. Leaning on his elbows, Will peers over the
windowsill to amuse himself. The man is thrashing and barking out curses and threats.

He lets the man rattle on until he exhausts himself, and then he pushes the sharp end of the
blade against the man’s Achilles tendon. He doesn’t break skin yet.

In awe, Will watches every muscle in the intruder’s body tense.

“Chilton sent you?”

The man scoffs and starts to struggle again.

“Go to hell!”

Will cuts shallowly. The man hollers like he severed his balls instead.

“I’ll ask you again,” Will says coolly. “Did Frederick Chilton send you?”

“Yes! I mean, not directly. Never seen the guy. I just know he’s in charge of it, really! I don’t
know nothing else, I swear it!”
“In charge of what? What does he want with the Lecter estate?”

“I just said I don’t know! Let me down, goddamn it!”

“You’ll be let down as soon as I remove your foot,” Will tells him, cutting a little deeper. The
man squirms and yelps, foot flexing so hard his heel pops out of his shoe. “Unless you stop
lying.”

“Jesus, okay, okay, they’re hiding something! There’s a medical facility he runs in Virginia,
they don’t let any of us near it. Treat it like it’s sacred ground or some shit. Whatever we
bring back to the states gets sent there!”

“What do they send you to look for?”

“Anything related to Hannibal the Cannibal, they don’t tell us what for, we just gotta take it,”
the man murmurs, as if he’s afraid of invoking Hannibal’s name. “We go to other places too,
not just here. The Cannibal’s got an aunt, lives in France. Our guys haven’t found her yet, but
he’s got us sniffing.”

Will had no idea Lady Murasaki was still alive.

Hannibal talks of her like she died decades ago.

“Where in Virginia is this facility?”

“I don’t know!”

Will cuts deeper and must hit something sensitive because the man starts bawling and
screaming and begging for help all at once. Will stops and waits for him to calm down.

“I swear,” he moans. “I swear I don’t know.”

That’s the truth, then. Will wipes the blood on his scalpel off on the man's sock. “If you
inform Chilton or anyone else working under him that you saw me, or that we talked, I will
find you.”

“Okay! Please, let me down, please it hurts.”

“I’ll call someone, but I’m not risking your following me.”

“What? Hey, punk, get me the fuck down!”

The man is fortunate Will isn’t looking to replace the firefly.

Just avenge the feelings its absence inspired in him.

He laughs humorlessly and hastily maneuvers out of the room. He can hear the man shouting
expletives and threats again. One always becomes brazen when a blade is taken from the
equation.
 The castle whispers farewells to him as he leaves. Outside, it is supernaturally quiet. Not a
sound of a cricket or a beast to discount the surreality. There is a sense of archaic familiarity
here on the castle’s doorstep, and he breathes in one last sensation of belonging before
gravitating beyond it.

Before hopping the fence, he treks across dead leaves and tall grass to reach the graveyard.
Mischa’s grave is as quiet and barren as ever. He kneels at the headstone and reaches into his
bag.

He removes the white rose from its container, and places it upon the dirt.

Will’s mouth crooks into a smile. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing a few of your books.
I may need them to find your brother.” The smile dissipates. “And I will find him, Mischa,”
he whispers. “I promise.”

At the train station, Will glances between the overhead timestamps of trips to Germany and
France.

He buys a ticket for France, and waits two hours for the early morning train to roll in.

Finding Hannibal is a priority, but warning Murasaki may be equitably essential. And Will
can’t claim not to be curious. He’s immensely curious, when he once would have been
circumspect.

Plus, he wouldn’t disagree to enlisted help, if given freely.

Chapter End Notes

will is gonna start gettin some answers next time, folks. it's about damn time.
 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

I'm currently pretty consistent about my updates which means I will suffer crippling
guilt when I start to get into a rut :c but for now enjoy <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Between sleeps on the train, Will reads the second letter.

It is dated an exact year following the last.

The thought of Hannibal counting down the days until it felt appropriate to send another
makes Will ache, ambiguous pain sprouting up in his gut.

Dear Will,

I spend countless days in places I have not only memorized, but realized. Mornings are spent
drinking tea on a veranda overlooking Tuscan hills, evenings strolling the upscale gardens
and palace courtyards in Versailles, and nights in Baltimore, relishing the bustle of the opera
crowd.

I have a wealth of knowledge when it comes to high-class entertainment, and I find it unlikely
I will run out of plays, opera, and songs to amuse myself within these four walls, so you need
not concern yourself with the monotony I face. I told you once, I would live as fully as I
could, no matter what size cage they deemed fit for a creature of my status.

I’m writing to you today, as a friend bereaved. When I emerge into lavish worlds warm with
prosperity, despite my satisfaction with their environment, my shoulder finds itself cold.

How cold have you found Maine?

Sincerely, Hannibal

Will huffs, keen on the prospect Hannibal was aware of the trick question.

Maine is always cold. The answer, regardless of the literal or metaphorical meaning, would
reveal Will equally deprived.

“Were you that lonely?” he grumbles, stroking the sharp edges of the paper. He nicks himself,
and sucks the blood from his finger, shutting his eyes against the obscene thought that
Hannibal could ‘kiss it better’ instead. He’s not a child, he tells himself, and shouldn’t think
like that.

To distract himself, Will reads the letter again, focusing intently on the first paragraph. It may
be by pure coincidence Hannibal mentioned France, but Will knows by now that he should
never mark down a suspicion to coincidence. Not conjoined with Hannibal in the manner that
he is.

The train is riding out to Chaville.

Fate has landed him close to his target; Versailles.

“Coincidences, coincidences." The words drum out of him as he settles into the seat cushions
for a deeper sleep. He tries to get the most of these train rides. He doesn’t seem to dream on
them.

Will thumbs down a cab at the station and is driven fifteen minutes out to Versailles. The cab
driver asks him in French where he wants to be dropped off. He points at a random street.

In Lithuania, he had a game plan.

Even in Italy all those years back, he’d conjured up a game plan. Here, he feels for the first
time in Europe, like a complete fish out of water.

He reads the top half of the letter again, as if somehow it’ll turn into a map, sighing at the
vague hints. Upscale gardens and palace courtyards. All places he knows nothing about. He
leans against a brick alley wall and fishes out his phone to do a bit of light research. He’s
startled out of his focus when he’s whistled at by a handsome blond man who looks insanely
interested.

The man has skidded to a stop on the street, eyeing him up and down with lecherous eyes and
a smarmy grin. Their eyes meet.

Will wants to ask the guy if he thinks a 102 degree fever is hot, but he knows the sarcasm
could fall fatally flat with the language barrier. He huffs, quick and agitated, when the man
winks and resumes sauntering down the sidewalk.

Blinking away his momentary confusion, Will hunches in on himself and warily returns to his
search. Apparently, there is a Palace of Versailles with gardens open to the public. He doesn’t
know where else Hannibal would be referring, so he packs his belongings away and heads
north.

Versailles is a metropolis of color and indulgence. The dominant overseer of Paris’ finer
contributions to Europe, and the superior landmark proprietor. Sturdy buildings shimmer in
golden and silver accents, yawning into pristine streets and parks, jewelry districts and
museums.

The palace is not far away, much the same as the Eiffel tower in the respect that it’s easily
visualized from almost anywhere in the city. Will feels like an ant scraping up a tree toward a
beehive, hoping that there will be some edible honey leftover for him in the honeycomb.

The gardens are extraordinary.

They expand around the property of the palace like in a fairy tale. Maze-like in its labyrinth
design but altogether accessible to natural born sightseers and nature-lovers.

Will is speechless when he arrives at the gate. Perhaps Hannibal once desired to take him
here personally, and that was the sole reason he mentioned it in his letter. No ulterior motive
other than Hannibal wishing to share this majestic sight with him. Will would have liked
that.

He’s content seeing it for himself, but he isn’t here to ooo-and-ahh. He’s here to hopefully
find Hannibal’s aunt, warn her about Chilton’s incoming troops, and daringly beseech her for
help.

It sounds like a fantastical plan, when Will thinks of it like that.

Surely not as fantastical as these gardens. Achievable, at least.

The sun is beginning to set again. It’s more of a reddish pink here than it is the strange,
otherworldly array of cooler colors in Lithuania. Will traces the symmetry of the garden,
winding in and around circular paths before the sun can shroud the view.

He plants his feet in front of a gigantic decorative pool, round and still as a tuckered
newborn.

The patterns of reflection in the water are enough to charm him for a time, keeping him under
a comforting spell. It prevents him from moving beyond this place despite his obvious
misfortune. But, after a long period, he is overcome with a sense that he is being watched.

Will raises his head, and catches the eye of a woman across the pool. It takes him a moment
to recognize her, as she’s dressed down in a flowing, feminine garb he doesn’t recognize.
Ivory and ebony hues compliment the floral modernized rendition of a kimono. Her hair is
loose, draped over her shoulder. In an almost mimicry of Hannibal, her hands are folded
behind her back.

Chiyoh.

At first, he believes he’s hallucinating.

The universe could not be so bold, certainly. Fate could not be so black and white as to
present him with his answers on a silver platter, without a price.
There is shock in her eyes that he catches perfectly, as far away as he is. Realizing the
distance between them, Will finally kicks into gear, rotating around the pool in expeditious
strides.

Chiyoh moves with him, in the opposite direction, countering.

Not thinking anything of it, he turns around and attempts circling to the other side. She
moves against him once more, as if they were two repelling magnets.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he calls out.

He earns a glare as she otherwise pretends not to hear him. She has the audacity to turn her
gaze back toward the water, to ogle at the nightly reflections.

Out of nowhere, an underground rumbling has Will taking a few steps back out of precaution.
A fountain gushes water from the center of the pool, shooting as high up as the palace itself.
Awed, it takes a second for Will to realize the spritzing water now blocks his view of
Chiyoh.

He runs, adrenaline pumping up.

His feverish body protests the exertion, but he needs to make sure he doesn’t lose her.

Circling the fountain, he finds she’s vanished out of thin air. He whips around, glancing in
each and every direction. She couldn’t have gone so far so fast, but every goddamn angle of
the grounds looks identical. The symmetry is all at once disadvantageous in the most
unfavorable manner possible.

Then, he catches a glimpse of a swishing black ribbon. It passes behind one of the brilliant
sized staircases. He darts off in that direction, abandoning the gardens and their
extravagance.

Chiyoh’s pace is more of a speed-walk than a run, but she remains elegant to match her
surroundings. Will imagines he must look affright in comparison, dashing after her in ruddy
clothes, sweating profusely.

She freezes and turns on her heel abruptly enough that he nearly bumps into her. He stops,
panting, lips parting to explain his presence but she beats him to the punch.

“Where I’m headed, there are many guns.”

Will’s face scrunches up. “There’s no right to bear arms in this country.”

“Do not underestimate a hunting license,” she retorts, crossing her arms. “Cease whatever it
is you are attempting to do, Will Graham. You will not find him here.”

“But you know where I can find him?” he prods, hope birthing wickedly in his belly so
potent he feels joyfully nauseous with it. “I don’t want him dead.”

Her arms uncross, her eyes hard and stern.

“I did not want him dead, either. You could not help yourself.”

Will blinks, registering that she viewed the cliffside fall as a murder attempt. Naturally, the
papers did state he pushed him off, with no nuance whatsoever. No feasible explanation.

“That wasn’t…” he sucks his lips between his teeth, unsure that he can defend himself
properly. Not to someone who is nearly as akin to a sister as Mischa was to Hannibal. “He’s
not dead.”

A sharpness twinges in Chiyoh’s gaze, but she doesn’t move.

"How do you know?"

"I know."

“Even so, what makes you believe he would want to see you?”

Will must remain speechless for too long, because Chiyoh inhales and swerves back in the
direction she’d been headed. He follows after her, half-heartedly ruminating on the question
as he’s led down several blocks.

It doesn’t matter if Hannibal doesn’t want to see him. He’s going to see Will one way or
another; he has no choice in the matter. But, he’d much prefer to be seen willingly.

Chiyoh stalls at a bus station and he lingers by her side, pondering how they get along the
most when neither of them are conversing, or attempting to converse. When the bus arrives
seven minutes later, she pays her bus fare and his, without question, and moves silently to the
back of the bus where he follows, sitting in the empty seat beside her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs.

“You would have found me, in a day’s time, or a week’s. I do not like suffering, not in the
way you and Hannibal like suffering. You should see there is nothing here for you to find
here, so you can be on your way sooner. I don’t like to delay the inevitable anymore.”

“You can’t tell me you haven’t been looking into it.”

The bus rolls over a few potholes as it turns down a gravelly road, out of the royal
municipality. Their shoulders brush as the vehicle charges forward, onward to an expensive
array of homes.

Chiyoh stays quiet, and her silence tips him off.

“You have,” Will whispers, sounding more validated than he feels. Then it hits him in the
way a second tidal wave hits, as he’s still recovering from the first. “You were there. At the
cliff house. That was you I saw in the woods, wasn’t it?”

“I visit now and again. I do not believe I will find him unless he wants to be found.”
Will wants to ask her where else she visits. How many safehouses Hannibal owns in
America, outside of America. Their addresses. But, he reminds himself he can’t bombard her.
Chiyoh is much like a skittish cat, and he needs to proceed with caution.

“What if he wants to be found, but doesn’t have the ability to contact us?”

Chiyoh scoffs, clutching her handbag in frustration.

“I have asked you this before,” she states, “but what will you do if you find him?”

“That question was once smoke and light to me. Something intangible until I could…solidify
it, reach out and touch its fringes. The answer to that question now, is very clear to me.”

“I watched him kneel for you, in the snow, and devote his life to waiting.” Her eyes flicker
outside the bus window, watching the street lights swish by like golden stars. “You brought
him to heel, Will Graham. There is not a thing on this Earth other than you that could do the
job. The life inside of him, he would grant you freely. You have tried to take it before. Do not
act as if you do not have the ability to ask that of him.”

Will exhales, and remembers that cold night. The apathy he’d felt walking away from the
sight of Hannibal emasculating himself before him, before Jack.

The pain he felt later, in his dreams, where Hannibal still lurked, scorned and hungry.

“I visited Mischa, before I came here,” he deflects.

Chiyoh meets his eyes, a vigilantly loyal edge to her rearing its head.

“I promised her I would find Hannibal. Gave her an offering." He fiddles with a frayed string
in his jacket. "When Hannibal was incarcerated, he declared that I was family.” Chiyoh’s
brow raises a fraction. Slowly, Will confesses, “I used to take the concept of family lightly.
But not anymore.”

If anything, Chiyoh appears more sore-sported about the admission than she does entirely
dismissive. That’s a start, at least.

“What exactly did you come to France for?” she questions as the bus rolls to a stop. Not
waiting for an answer, she wisps past him toward the anterior. Will rushes after her. They
have a ways to go as it seems, because beyond the bus stop, she starts winding down a long
cobble path into the woods. There are sculpted trees and lanterned trails to guide them.

“Lady Murasaki,” he eventually tells her.

Chiyoh laughs. An actual noisy, disbelieving chuckle.

“She and Hannibal have not spoken in nearly thirty years. You believe she would speak to
you?”

“I believe I have to try.”

“You have stalked me all this way,” Chiyoh concedes, gesturing to the path they’re on.
“Though if the Lady wishes you gone, I do remind you of her gun collection.”

“Not your collection?”

Chiyoh’s smile is stale. “I’m not the one with the hunting license.”

Will swallows. Another one of Hannibal’s family members with a penchant for gunfire.
Nothing there can possibly go wrong. All of his old wounds throb at the weak assurance.

The French Provincial house Chiyoh leads him to reminds Will of Hannibal’s home in
Baltimore, perhaps with more colonial influence than Greek.

But, square. In an attractive, but blocky kind of way.

There are three evident floors, the outer boarding of the home the same ivory as Chiyoh’s
dress, with identical black trim and outer décor. The front door is colossal, blockaded by a
padlocked gate. Chiyoh slips a delicate key out of her handbag, one that looks to not match
the locks, but does. Will waits beside her awkwardly as she opens the main door and silently
invites him in.

The interior design is of equal French and Japanese influence. There is samurai armor
mounted on mannequins in the foyer of the manor, and low-propped chairs and couches in a
distant sitting room. A pair of marble stairs face him and for a moment, he’s taken back by
the sheer wealth.

It is more than Hannibal paraded, and he was boastfully extravagant.

“Has the Lady always lived in a padlocked house?” Will asks mildly, mouth not having
caught up with his eyes.

Chiyoh gestures for his coat and boots and he stumbles out of them gracelessly. She hangs up
his coat for him on a tall rack and he thanks her with a bow of the head.

“She has for many years.”

“Right about thirty I take it.”

“The locks are not for Hannibal,” she corrects firmly, as if he’s supposed to know that. He
supposes he does know. Anytime Hannibal has spoken of Murasaki, he’s sounded unbearably
fond, though Will rarely learned more than a recipe about her.

Odd how Hannibal talked so much yet divulged so little.

That ache in Will’s gut has returned, weeds poking at his belly and hips until he feels he’ll
burst from having too much of the ache growing inside.

Chiyoh watches him. He watches back.

They stare at each other some more, and then Chiyoh is off. Up the stairs, without a word.
Will follows reluctantly, pausing after the first few steps. “I don’t-I don’t want to impose, b
—”

“Don’t you?” Chiyoh asks at the crest of the stairs. She nods down to the right hall on the
ground floor, leading into unlit, quiet corridors. “The Lady will be resting in the library until
ten.”

“Thank you.”

Chiyoh bites her cheeks and vanishes into a room on the second floor. He can hear the door
shut gently, but tellingly. She’s done with him for now. If he wants something, he’ll need to
help himself.

Will ponders how one of the most expensive looking houses in Versailles does not have a
wait staff at the ready to greet at the doors, but perhaps in this life even wait staff can’t be
trusted.

He sets off down the right hall, and discovers several doors, and dozens of archways. He’s
brought back to the dizzying extent of the Lecter castle. This time, he luckily has more of a
clue of where his destination lies. Candlelight illuminates from one of the arches down the
hall, and with that, he locates the entrance to the library with ease.

The Lady sits in an armchair half facing the arch to the hall, and half facing the fireplace. She
looks up from her book, and he’s shocked to find her around the same age as Hannibal. As
ethereal as Chiyoh, but as stoney as Hannibal in resolve. Just from a glance, he can tell.

At once, he’s struck with his inability to speak.

What does one say to the aunt of a friend closer than a friend? Especially when that friend
happens to be a notorious killer and psychopath. And triply when he’s not even here on
grounds of moral superiority but of personal appetite. He’d taken his familiarity with Chiyoh
for granted and wishes she were here. To at least put one word of worth into his mouth.

He doesn’t realize how much of a lunatic he’s acting, staring at her blankly and silently at the
entrance to her personal library, until the Lady clears her throat.

“May I help you?”

Shifting his weight, he murmurs, “I’m Will Graham.”

Recognition lights up in her eyes, and she closes her book, setting it down on a small coffee
table. “Sit please,” she offers softly, gesturing to the empty armchair by her side (there is not
a single indentation to prove its use). “Your scar has changed the face I am familiar with.”
So she watches the news. It alleviates the issue of explaining his rather complicated position
in Hannibal’s life. He just hopes she doesn’t read the tabloids.

“That bad?” He laughs uncomfortably, floundering for the pair of glasses he’s always sure to
lug along where he goes. “Some people, ehm, can’t recognize me without these.”

The Lady reaches over and stays his hand.

“If I may be so bold, it suits you not to wear them.”

“Oh.” Will has never been told that. He suspects people find the glasses comforting, as it acts
as a barricade not only for him but for them, to avoid his jittery, nervous, all-too-seeing gaze.
Jack had even pushed them up the bridge of his nose for him once, making it a point. “Thank
you. This…must be strange for you.”

Murasaki’s smile is mild.

“Why do you say that?”

“Chiyoh informed me you haven’t spoken to Hannibal Lecter in thirty years. The man who
killed him just showed up at your doorstep in the middle of the night. Most people would
consider that strange.”

Most people would consider that a threat, he neglects to say.

“Twenty eight to be exact,” she amends. Her eyes pierce through him; the intense personal
attention isn’t something that belongs solely to Hannibal in his family, then. “Did you kill
him?”

Will’s lips part, mesmerized like one of Medusa’s monuments. He hadn’t expected her to talk
to him kindly, or even accommodatingly. To imply that she knows he didn’t kill him.

He can’t look away.

“I thought I did,” he whispers, voice cracking. “For a juncture, the fear swallowed me whole.
To an extent I didn’t recognize the fear. I was being digested by it, and could only feel the
pain.”

He has no clue what plucked the honesty out of him like that. He exhales sharply when he
hears it said out loud like that. He truly had been terrified that Hannibal was gone.

“He is not dead, Will.” Murasaki’s eyes droop, and turn to watch the fire sadly. “You would
know for certain if he was. He wouldn’t let you forget.”

Devastating words have never given him so much relief.

“Where is he?”

For a time, she’s suspended in another world. The fire dances in her eyes, in shapes only she
can see. Will waits patiently, altogether calm and tenderized by her presence.
“I do not know,” she confesses at last, meeting his eyes with the same intensity as before. “If
Chiyoh has told you I have an inkling, I apologize, for I do not. I have told her as much.”

Will wants to ask her thousands of questions. What was Hannibal like as a boy? What was his
favorite color, his favorite bird, favorite song? Did he dance and play like other children?

Instead he mumbles, “It’s just me and the optimism I don’t know how to siphon.”

“It is not merely optimism. I know he is alive, the way you know he is alive. A man such as
him would rattle the world in his absence. The Earth would quake, as well as our bones.”

“I know the feeling,” he admits solemnly. He’d felt echoes of it when Hannibal abandoned
him in Baltimore to fly away to Florence, Bedelia at his beck and call.

“Chiyoh has been fretting,” the Lady tells him, her dress falling like liquid as she rises and
crosses the room to stand at the mantle of the fireplace. She toys with the frame of the mirror
above it. Her eyes are whitened-gold in the reflection, pupils embalmed in a milky gloss so
close to the fire. She reminds Will of an allegory. More metaphor than human. Something
inhuman hiding in the face of a glittery memory. “You and I could have closure, knowing that
he is alive. She does not know, because she does not harbor the senses we do for Hannibal.
No matter what I tell her, she needs to see for herself, what has become of him. She will not
achieve closure otherwise. I want that for her, more than I’ve wanted in a lifetime.”

Will’s unsure how to respond when Murasaki turns to him, and resumes,

“She has taken to acting stubborn, claiming he is dead when I know she suspects otherwise. I
hope I can be as bold as to ask you to help her find the closure she seeks.”

Will huffs out a laugh, suddenly nervous and on edge.

“I came here hoping to ask you for help.”

“Do not misunderstand,” she pleads gently, crossing arms behind her back. “I am aware of
your progress, that you have come here, perhaps looking for him. I am suggesting you bring
Chiyoh along, because she could be the help you need. And you could be the help she needs.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” Will says honestly. “We don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

“All the more reason. Two separate sets of eyes will hasten your journey.”

It’s not the answer Will wanted, but maybe she has a point.

“I do have a lead, actually. A medical facility in Virginia I suspect…” It dawns on him, he

doesn’t know what he suspects. Until it hits him; the obvious clue isn’t a clue at all but a
legitimate direction. He says what he now believes to be true out loud, “I believe he’s being
held there.”

Murasaki appears proud.

“You are as deductive as they claim in the papers. Your mind is constantly in high gear, yes?
No wonder Hannibal treasures you as he does.”

“That’s…a loaded sentiment.” Restless, he hauls himself up on his feet and examines the
dusty books on the shelves behind him. “You haven’t asked me what I plan to do if I find
him. Chiyoh seems extremely hell-bent on me baring my intentions.”

“I am no longer in Hannibal’s life. I do not decide his future for him.”

“Skillful deflection,” he partially accuses, casting a hard glance over his shoulder.

The older woman’s smile remains as gentle as her persona. She sits in her armchair again,
body relaxed and neck craned back to speak.

“You are both equally difficult men—”

Will sputters, smudging fingerprints into years old dust.

“—both of whom could benefit from each other. I am certain by now you have surmised I
have no qualms with what you’ve done, or what he’s done. The acts themselves yes, but I do
not extend my judgment further from that. I hold too much love for him, and for who he
needs to be. And he, well,” Murasaki eyes Will up and down, smiling wider. “He’s always
had a weakness for that brand of empathy. You have it in spades. He needs that. I would ask
if you need him, but you would not have mustered the determination to track down my
residence if you did not.”

Something in Will breaks.

“I just want to see him,” he whispers, faint as snowfall.

Murasaki watches him with sympathy, and reveals an object in her palm he hadn’t noticed
her take from the mantle. A compass of sorts, hundreds of years old by the state of it.

“In Tokugawa, Japan, in the 1600s or so, reverse compasses were used for a more dynamic
exploration of our world. Mariners of the time used them to conserve cognitive effort, as the
technology was proposed to do. Now their usage is mainly meant for history books.” She
fiddles with it, scraping off a stray shard of rust. “Hannibal acquired one for me when we first
met. He was mute still, from his time at the orphanage, but I talked endlessly to him on my
affection for artifacts. Gifting me this compass was the most selfless, human gesture I
experienced of him.”

Will looms over her, behind the chair, and observes where the compass has reversed the
directions of East and West.

“There are parts of Hannibal that point East, when the world points West,” Murasaki
murmurs, as if she’s inside Will’s head, hearing his most intimate thoughts. “But there are
those who swear by the unparalleled. Some who understand them, easier than most. Like the
Mariners.”

The Lady extends the compass, and allows Will to hold it.
“He was more than lucky to find you, Will.”

Will clutches the compass in his hands as tenderly as possible. It’s remarkably heavy, and the
rust tickles the sensitive skin of his palms.

“I wish I could use this to find him,” he mutters, lips quirking.

“Take it with you.”

“What?”

“It won’t lead you to him, of course,” she clarifies with a humor-filled grin. “But, I believe
strongly in luck and good fortune. It represents who Hannibal is, and having it on you may
inspire the universe to favor your purpose.”

“I can’t take this from you,” Will protests, though his fingers clasp the compass tightly,
hesitant. “It means something important to you.”

“It will go where I cannot follow. That’s important.”

“Thank you.” He pockets the compass, and the library spins for a minute. Swirling maroon
and firelight and black bookcases, warping out of shape. He steadies himself on the back of
her armchair and only returns to the present when he feels her fingers on his pulse. “Sorry.”

“My dear, are you ill?” she questions, reaching a hand up to press against his forehead. He
presses into it, plainly desperate to slow down and have someone offer him a cold glass of
water, but he has to keep moving. He can’t stop until he finds him.

“Jet lags a bitch,” he lies.

“Take care, please. You have a long road ahead.”

“I will,” he says, though with the way he’s feeling, he might be ready to admit he needs
something stronger than Tylenol. “Would you like me to pass along a message to him?”

Murasaki shakes her head. “The compass will be enough, if he sees it. He always used to
know what I was thinking before I could make a peep.” She wears an expression unbearably
fond, identical to how Hannibal looked eating recipes he once shared with her. “I doubt that’s
changed, even with oceans between us.”

Will idles, marveling at a life Hannibal shared with others that didn’t include him. He hadn’t
been lying when he claimed the past and the future were split into two; before Hannibal and
after Hannibal. The memories he has of a life before Hannibal are fuzzy, gray and dim. It’s
odd that Hannibal may not experience that same phenomenon.

Envy is perhaps the closest thing to the unnamable emotion he’s experiencing right now. He
outlines the shape of the compass in his pocket and sighs.

“I meant to tell you,” he starts and stops. Clearing his throat, he cautions her, “I ran into some
men sniffing around Hannibal’s home in Lithuania. They said they were looking for you.”
Murasaki’s expression doesn’t waver. She simply nods and tells him, “I can take care of it.
Don’t worry your beautiful mind, my boy. Have you told Chiyoh?”

“No.”

“Good. I would appreciate it if it stayed between us. Godspeed, Will.” She strokes the back of
his hand, as a silent gesture of farewell and he nods, hoping she’s correct in her stance that
she can take care of herself (though men Chilton hire aren’t especially dangerous), and leaves
the library.

Now he has to convince Chiyoh to come back to the States and help him find Hannibal. If
Hannibal isn’t in the facility, she’ll know where to look. And if he is—which he’s realizing
more and more is the meat of the problem he’s been looking for all along—she can be at his
aid.

Mid-way up the stairs, he takes pause.

Is he willing to break Hannibal out? What will he do if he’s too heavily guarded, which of
course he will be. These are questions he never considered, and it causes a panic to stir inside
of him; he chooses not to analyze his anxiety for now. Answers will come to him, as they
often do.

It’s all a matter of Chiyoh’s conviction.

“No.”

“Hear me out—”

“I’ve told you, no,” Chiyoh snaps, her voice raised in warning. Will backs down. Their
disagreement lasted fifteen minutes, and regardless of what he told her of Murasaki’s wishes
(her sacrifice) and his own, she seems to have no inclination of going back with him, or to the
States, anytime soon. Despite spilling the entire can of beans about his Virginia lead. Despite
his deductions which in the least, should be trusted because of who he is and what he’s
known for.

Maybe she doesn’t want this as badly as Murasaki seems to think she does.

She sits in a straight posture at the windowsill in her bedroom, petting squeaking baby birds
in a nest on the outer rim of the ledge. He watches her, and then turns to leave.

He’s played the game alone up until now. He doesn’t have to stop.

He halts in the doorway and can’t resist. “I understand why you don’t trust me. I wouldn’t
trust me either, but as far as I remember, you had an inviolable drive to protect him. Where he
is, he’s not safe. Not anymore, not like he was in that pretty little birdcage he spent three
years wasting away in. Whatever that means to you…” Will sighs, “I’ll be in Virginia in a
couple of weeks.”

A long boat ride across the sea sounds tortuous now that he’s sure he’s narrowed down
Hannibal’s location. Now that he knows Chilton could potentially have full reign over him.

Chiyoh doesn’t respond, and he takes his leave.

The journey feels longer than it is.

He’s sick, and tired, and melancholy has oversensitized him to the sun and its bright greeting
at the mouth of Maryland’s shores. He curses the sky, normally filled with obscuring clouds.

It’s foreign pulling into the driveway of his house in Wolf Trap. He still owns it though, and
he would feel worse pulling into Molly’s cabin and asking to stay a few nights. Or however
many nights it takes. He notes he should probably help her with divorce papers.

As he trots up to the desolate porch, he checks his phone. Several missed calls from Jack, and
a few texts from Molly, one asking if he’s okay, another asking about his availability. She
probably started thinking about the divorce papers too.

He considers, rather hysterically, telling her to file for abandonment. Less hassle on his part,
anyway.

When he opens the front door, he isn’t exactly surprised to see Chiyoh, but he’s amazed by
how pleased he feels. She is sitting at the out of tune piano, tickling the ivories.

“It’s about time,” she chastises.

Chiyoh’s dressed in army green, black boots, black gun strapped to her breast. She looks as
ready to fight as any wild animal would be when their territory is encroached.

She must have arrived by plane and spent weeks here, alone.

She didn’t try to go to the facility without him. He isn’t sensing that she’s progressed any
further than his front door, waiting for him, and his plan. But she’s angry. That’s ideal.

His face spreads into a genuine smile.

“Let’s get to work.”

Chapter End Notes

cue will and chiyoh in a 1980s montage (b-52s on full blast) hacking into the mainframe
to find the facility address

also we may or may not be seeing hannibal next chapter ;) maybe........................＼(＾O

＾)／
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“I just want to scope the place out,” Will reminds her. “We need to try our best not to get
caught, because there’s no telling what restrictions they’ll put on me if the FBI figures out
I’ve been snooping. And with you, our advantage is that nobody knows you and Hannibal are
connected.”

“Jack Crawford knows.”

Will drops his binoculars. He clenches his jaw and asks as charitably as possible,

“You didn’t think that was pertinent information?”

“I do not believe Crawford has spoken of me to anyone of worth,” she responds evenly, as if
she knows the FBI’s ins-and-outs more intricately than Will. It’s grating. “Did you not say
this is Dr. Frederick Chilton’s facility?”

For hours, they’ve been parked within viewing distance of their target. There is a multi-level
parking garage across the street from the boilerplate (in appearance) private medical facility
where they’ve holed up in. From the top floor of the garage, they can see the building and its
grounds the clearest, and honestly, it looks like an empty white building; the worker bees are
keeping their acts in check. They scutter around the rim of the property occasionally, with the
body language of highly trained private security. There is no apparent security which isn’t
undercover outside, so it's obvious Chilton is doing his best to tame suspicion, but through
the heavily tinted front doors, Will can occasionally catch glimpses of men with guns
strapped to their backs inside. They march in a memorized pace, rather than stand in limbo,
waiting for intruders. To Will’s subjective eye, he can tell they are guarding something
precious.

Something beastly. Just like Hannibal.

The guards change shifts every four hours; Chiyoh and Will’s stakeouts have previously
lasted twelve hours tops, so by now they’re attuned to the routine of these things. On the
evening of the first, he’d offered her a coffee which she turned up her nose at, and lamented
about the benefits of tea instead.

He didn’t buy her coffee after that.

“It’s Chilton’s facility,” Will concedes, “but there is a possibility he isn’t working alone. In
fact, I’d gander it’s highly plausible he’s not. The man is—to put it plainly—a coward. He
wouldn’t want to handle Hannibal Lecter alone.”
“I despise cowardice.”

“We have that in common.” Will reaches for his medical bag and assures he’s brought along
Mischa’s books, the compass, and the route of their elaborate escape plan if they need it.
Only if they need it, he’d told himself. He’s come here to talk to Hannibal. Beyond that, he’s
not sure.

Not yet.

Even if he knows deep down that this ambivalence is a facade and is in no way sustainable.
What he feels toward Hannibal has not felt ambivalent for a long time, and he can’t imagine
feeling ambivalent about him being locked away. Not again.

Chiyoh adjusts her wig. It is light blond; they had to purchase a rather expensive one for it to
appear believable, but she’s also applied heavy makeup to obscure her features. Will is going
to be wearing a mask, and dress like a nursing assistant. They’ve spent long enough on these
stakeouts to know what the orderlies dress like, what they act like to an extent, and how to
get in.

She will arrive at the back entrance with a laundry basket, and the men inside who are none
the wiser will open the door for her. He’s seen it many times. They’re simply gambling on
there being no password. He’ll wait a significant amount of time, and then Chiyoh will open
the door for him, casual as can be. The security shouldn’t be worried about someone getting
in, but rather someone getting out. They won’t be scrutinizing the ins-and-outs of janitorial
staff.

Chiyoh will search the branches of the unit without patients. She can get around those places
easier without the nurse-garb. Will will take to the private patient ward.

It’s a sound plan with many holes. For some reason, that doesn’t bother him.

He has a gut feeling he can get out of a sticky situation if he runs into one. His only goal is to
find Hannibal. He assumes no preparation to get caught.

“Are you ready?” he asks, as it nears 5 pm. The ‘wandering’ guards usually switch shifts near
this time. They need to start pulling in soon to maximize the stealth required to infiltrate.

Chiyoh revs up the truck, determination glowing in her eyes.

“More than.”

Will curls the mask strings over his ears.

They accessed the facility without a hitch.

Will’s on the hunt, now.

With the veneer of acute workplace ambition, he advances down the hall with a purpose,
scanning every closed door and every open one visually. No touching yet. Like most private
hospitals, there are one or two wings for patients. He suspects with the building's size, the
corridor he’s in acts as the only patient ward. That makes it easier for him to search for
evidence, or for Hannibal, despite the fact they may be patrolling this area the closest.

Though, in spite of everything theoretically working against him, the facility appears empty.
There is a receptionist at the front of the hospital, for show mostly. He can tell the person
behind the counter has no experience medically or secretarily. She doesn’t even notice him
pass and turn on his heel back down the hall he was exploring. Chilton hires abundantly, but
he doesn’t hire well.

Quality over quantity, Frederick.

Chiyoh by now is probably back at the car, just in case they need to jumpstart a get-away and
fast. He texts her the code that means he hasn’t found Hannibal yet and is still searching.

‘Traincar’ is the word they’re using for that.

Over the weekend, they’d created a list of them and memorized it. He learned that Hannibal,
when she was a child, taught her how to use a mind palace to emulate eidetic memory.

That brand of memory categorization was born into Will. He doesn’t remember a time he
didn’t have it. The kids at school used to make sport out of ridiculing him for his good
grades. He has to wonder if Hannibal experienced a typical childhood, would he eat his
bullies?

The thought, through such bleak circumstances, brings a small smile to his face.

Will knows rattling the handles of the closed and locked doors he’s passed would likely tip
off the guards in shrubs roving up and down the halls like mad ghosts, so he mentally checks
off the open rooms that he finds empty, skimming the fat of his suspicions. The sole
occupants inside are elderly, pale men and women at death’s door. Narrowing down the
rooms does make him feel as if he’s achieving real progress. He continues on, growing nearer
to a dead end, the limits of the hall containing a large window and two ugly potted plants.

It fuels the fire in his belly which has been at a low roar since his near death in the ravine.
Almost there, he promises himself. His heart shivers, and his rib cage seems to rattle with it.

When he sees the otherwise inconspicuous door at the very end of the hall, with only one
lock more than the regular, he knows in an instant it’s what he’s looking for.

The lock is military grade. Expensive, shiny silver, glinting in the blaring overhead hospital
lights that stretch the length of the corridor. He turns on his heel, scribbling absently in a
notepad. He’ll need to wait it out until a janitorial team or another nurse or Doctor heads
inside. It may take an hour. It may take two minutes. And if he lingers for too long, he may
be spotted.
He wants to claw at the wooden door until it crumbles to sawdust. It’s such a thin object in
retrospect, he contemplates as he heads for the bathroom to gather composure and a heftier
game plan. Just some commodity he can knock down with his weight.

Hannibal could be in there.

No, Hannibal is in there.

Despite his surety, there is doubt. There will always be doubt, even when faced with the most
probable. And he won’t be satisfied until he sees him. Until their eyes meet and they’re both
transported back to that cliff, where they knew each other, and felt each other, and became.

Will splashes his face with sink water and tells himself to pull it together.

His nerves are causing him to shake. Blush. Sweat. Or, maybe that’s just the fever.

He texts Chiyoh: Train tracks.

This word means ‘I think I’ve found him. Await updates.’

She reads it, but doesn’t reply.

Will replaces his mask and emerges into the hall again. There are more nurses this time,
likely between shifts. Two of them mingle in the hall, and Will listens closely as he passes.

“You’re needed at the desk,” the male nurse tells the female nurse.

“Can’t Sally just take one last call?” she complains.

Simple, boring conversation. Will ignores it and keeps moving, feet clapping down the hall at
a slug's pace. And by miraculous happenstance, an undercover officer emerges from the
double locked door. He is dressed like a Doctor, but Will has spent enough time in the field to
see behind the veil. The man glances at him, altogether too casual, and warns him that the
lock on the janitor's closet will definitely give him a lot of trouble if he doesn't brace one foot
against its twin door. He nods, marveling at the ease at which he's been dismissed. Janitor. He
can play that.

The door is left creaked open for him, and he swiftly enters, locking the door twice behind
him. Secluded and safe.

When he turns, his back hits the closed door in guttural reaction.

Hannibal.

Hannibal. Lying in a hospital bed, asleep. Dressed in a hospital gown, covered in a beige
blanket and strapped down with several leather restraints. Rigged to an IV and a heart
monitor machine.

Will rubs at his eyes with balled up hands, just to be positive this isn't the fever. A noise
crawls up the back of his throat when he’s assured it isn’t. Not quite a whimper, not quite a
gasp.

Hannibal; alive.

Will closes his eyes and bites his lips hard against a smile, though no one could see it behind
his mask. Even if there are security cameras (there have to be). Weight lifts away from him;
he had no clue his bones were being crushed to dust before, but now he can breathe.

If there are cameras, he's already acting out of character, so he takes the mask off. He doesn't
think, he just does it. He crosses the room to closer examine Hannibal's condition.

Hannibal’s head is turned slightly to one side, eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep

Will touches his bangs, brushing them an inch across his forehead just to affirm his
tangibility. It’s Hannibal alright, soft flesh concealing hard, versatile muscle.

He frowns, fingers lingering in Hannibal’s hair.

It’s all wrong —this is wrong. Hannibal isn’t supposed to be asleep, or strapped to a medical
cot. He’s supposed to be imprisoned, alert, at the ready to talk and tell Will without words,
what he needs. What is he supposed to do with Hannibal like this? The panic riles up in him
again.

But squeezing his shoulder doesn’t wake him up.

“Hannibal,” spoken aloud doesn’t rouse him.

Will is considering texting Chiyoh when the door begins to rattle. He rears up to fight if he
must, purely to get out of the FBI’s grip without being locked up, as his adrenaline is soaring
so high he doesn’t even think to hide.

His breath catches when he sees who opens the door.

“Why couldn’t you just stay home with your wife, Will?” Jack asks, expression forlorn in a
way Will hasn’t seen since Bella’s funeral. At the man’s sides stand two armed guards.

They aren’t hiding behind scrubs this time.

At the tip of his spine, Will is tickled with a hunch that they’ve known he’s been here all
along.

He creeps backward from Hannibal’s bed, just in case those men decide to shoot. At least
Hannibal won’t get caught up in the crossfire.

He puts his hands up and plays the good little boy.

His priorities are staying alive, and Hannibal. When he thinks about it like that, his priorities
haven’t changed for a great many years. He’s just been blind to them more often than not.
“You should have told me the truth, Jack,” Will says faintly, eyes dry from adrenaline
keeping them stretched wide open. “You knew I wouldn’t believe that ridiculous cremation
lie.”

“I hoped a part of you would. I hoped that part could rule out the other part of you.”

“And what part is that?” Will spits, gaze darting to Hannibal who hasn’t stirred. There’s still
something seriously wrong with this picture, with Hannibal so docile and put down.

Jack waves to the guards and they lower their guns for now. He paces closer to Will and
notes, “I read Freddie’s new article.” His face warps into deep rage. “You’ve got some
balls.”

“Had to let you know your lies matter.”

“You know as well as I do that some lies are necessary for the public to believe!” Jack argues,
gesturing to Hannibal. “Do you really think the public should know what’s going on here?”

“What is going on here?”

“You shared one fate, Will.” Jack turns to face Hannibal, scowling at his unconscious form.
“He’s in a coma, like you were, only he hasn’t risen from his yet. I thank Christ every day for
that much. The longer he’s under, the less likely it is that he’s going to wake up.”

Will’s mouth parts, gaping open in incredulity.

“You…the government could have sanctioned his death.” He hates saying it out loud, even
mentioning it hurts as blasphemy likely hurts angels. “They’ve never wanted anyone dead
like they want Lecter dead. Why the hell are they paying for his life support?”

“They aren’t. Chilton is.”

Will turns cold. “Jack, who else knows Hannibal is alive?”

Sternly, Jack meets his eyes. “Me, Frederick, Alana. And anyone under our employ here, all
paid handsomely to keep their mouths zipped.”

Christ. It’s not the government’s idiocy, funnily enough, but the enemies Hannibal massed in
the wake of his destruction. They’re planning to do something with Hannibal, or to his body.
Either when he wakes (if he does) or when the timing is right. Will frantically tries to imagine
what any of them want with Hannibal that has nothing to do with his immediate death.

Then, he vividly pictures what will happen to them all if Hannibal wakes up. If Alana thought
she was safe on the run, she better change attitudes and quick.

“So you see why I can’t arrest you.”

Will blinks, then comes to an understanding.

“Authority would come sniffing. You haven’t fooled them either.”

“Kade’s been on my back like a bloodhound,” Jack confirms. “Even more so than you.
Fortunately, this situation,” he looks at Hannibal, lips quirking humorlessly, “isn’t long-
term.”

Will grimaces, finger twitching at his sides. He feels out of control. Like he could bite the
throats out of everyone in the room and run as far as he can with Hannibal in hand.

Like he should.

“If you were going to kill me, you’d have ordered it by now.”

Jack sighs. “I’m not going to have you killed, Will.”

“Then what are you going to do with me?” Will asks petulantly. He’s come all this way to be
scolded like a pet, and what, sent on his merry way with a slap on his rear? He can’t imagine
himself simply walking out the exit now with nothing to show for his journey of revelations
and hardships. For those dark nights at sea he spent dreaming of a reunion with Hannibal,
whether they took place under the sea in the shape of monsters, or in a chapel, by a marble
altar.

“What I’m going to do is point some pretty big guns at you until you scram. And warn you
that the security will be much, much tighter from today going forward.”

“Jack, I—” Will stares at Hannibal, a sensitive man lost in his own treacherous subconscious.
If he truly never wakes, he’ll be as good as dead, regardless of what Jack and the others plan
to do with him. His face twists with familiar melancholy, but to Jack he suspects the
expression appears quite angry. “You lied to me, because you persistently refuse to learn what
is best for me. You should have told me from the beginning what happened to him, and
maybe I could have left well enough alone. But I didn’t, and it took more than a lot for me to
come here. It’s taking a lot for me to see him like that. You can’t spare me…one day, after
everything? I just—I want to sit with him. I need to. You’ll never see me again after that.”

Jack looks skeptical. He’s trusted Will before, to his detriment. He wonders if Jack has ever
taken him seriously or if he sees a scared, shivering, desperate man in the cold begging for
his enabler to enable him one last time.

The guards are exchanging befuddled glances as if Will gives a shit.

“Please,” he pleads, mouth quivering. “Jack.”

Jack groans into the palm of his hand and throws his hands up in the air. “If I could travel
back in time and not introduce the two of you, I’d experience a lot less stress.”

“I’ll have closure. It may not be ideal, but I’ll have it.”

It’s a lie. Will is certain that talking to an unconscious Hannibal and abandoning him to the
wolves won’t give him any form of closure, but he needs to buy more time.

However long he can stay, he will. Until he’s forcibly removed.

“Fine. Two security personnel with you at all times until midnight. If I see you here past
twelve, I’m dragging you out by your ears myself. Don’t you dare cross me, Will.”

“For years I used to think you lacked even a shred of empathy, but I think I was wrong,” Will
confesses to him, fiddling with an elbow. His skin is tingling, the same way his leg tingles
when it falls asleep. As long as Jack doesn’t pick up on his fever, he’ll be unassailable.

“I have a soft spot for you,” Jack concedes. “And you love to abuse it.”

“Sometimes,” Will snarks, forcing a smile.

Jack glances between him and Hannibal, shakes his head, and mutters something
unintelligible but undoubtedly disappointed. He leaves Will with the two guards, otherwise
alone. Will hastily returns to Hannibal’s side, and reminds himself he can’t text Chiyoh while
he’s under watch.

He needs to think. He can’t just sit here and stare at Hannibal, so he reaches into the
pharmaceutical bag he brought along, sighing when the men’s guns cluck at him. “I’m just
getting a book,” he elaborates, placidly waving Earth on Fire at them.

They huff and mingle with each other quietly.

Will turns to face Hannibal again, the sight of him—knowing where Hannibal is, and where
he can find him even just for a brief moment—calms him.

“You’d probably tell me coma patients can’t hear anything while they’re under anyway, but
maybe you’ll appreciate something a little closer to home. Worth a shot, yeah?”

Will opens the first page, and starts reading. He can multitask expertly, and divorces himself
from the words he’s reading aloud, instead brainstorming his next game plan.

Jack wasn’t lying when he said their security here would be tighter after Will leaves. He now
harbors zero doubts in his mind that they were aware of his invasion all along. They might as
well have let him in the front door, in that case. Jack knew he wasn’t going to stay away.

The question is; should he stay away now?

Will’s fingers tighten on the cover of the book. The binding creaks beneath his strength. All
of this is absurd to an extent he feels like a flailing fish, plopping brainlessly on land.

Even more absurd, he finds himself reaching down to wind his fingers over Hannibal’s hand,
through the blanket, holding him as tenderly as he can under the strain as he continues to
read. He can’t resist it, knowing there’s only several more hours he’s allowed in this room,
and subsequently not knowing what he’s going to do once he’s on the other side of these thin
walls.

What is he going to do with Hannibal if he frees him in the state he’s in? He can’t offer life
support indefinitely without tipping off Jack and whoever else will surely be hunting them.

He’s one man. He can’t do much of anything.

The weight of the world is crushing him, and his bones once more threaten to become dust.

Will’s hand spasms around the shape of Hannibal’s hand, gripping it as a lifeline. Hannibal
doesn’t twitch, or rouse, which makes it all the worse.

Static invades Will’s mind for a stretch of time, and the hours whip by callously, disallowing
him the chance to internally compromise with his situation.

Hannibal breathes deeply and evenly, and all Will can muster the energy to do now is match
his rhythm, and focus on the warmth in their point of contact.

Will’s mind has lapsed into the realm of theory again. The germane question being what
Hannibal’s fate is once Will walks out the facility’s doors.

The epiphany comes to him of course, as he’s ushered to the back, most discreet, entry to the
building; As Chilton is the overhead figure in all this, he clearly craves something personal.

The Doctor is a man of crude morale and thus, rudimentary uninventive revenge.

He wants Hannibal’s skin; he wants to graft it, and wear it, and try futilely to make what’s
ugly, presentable again. That’s why they’ve got Hannibal idling prone like that, bait dangling
from a hook. They’re biding their time until Chilton’s grafting surgeries are scheduled.

Hannibal would laugh.

Will isn’t laughing.

He didn’t laugh when Hannibal was being tortured at Muskrat Farm, and he didn’t laugh
when he stormed into the BSHCI to find Alana having stripped the last remaining material
possessions of Hannibal out of his grasp. Regardless of circumstance, these individuals
believed they had a right to manipulate Lecter, either physically or mentally. To act as if they
themselves exist as anything larger than ants in Hannibal’s own spherical vision of the world,
well, maybe that’s a little funny.

Will doesn’t notice Jack on his way out, and after a firm parting with the armed guards, he
strays off the path leading to the parking lot, lost in pure ire. The hoarse noise emitting from
his throat all of a sudden can only be registered as a laugh, despite sounding like a horse from
hell.

He forgot about Chiyoh.

In his haze, she completely slipped his mind.

He heads out toward the bordering trees, strewn around the property like a large hedge. Once
it's guaranteed he’s out of eye shot of security cameras, he fishes out his phone and texts her,
Gun.

It means; are you in a space that I can call you?

After three minutes, she texts him back,

Gunshot.

That means, yes, do it now.

Will calls her. She picks up before the first ring ends.

“Where are you?” he asks, keeping a lookout just in case Jack changes his mind about letting
him live. He heeded sincerity in Jack’s voice, but he can never be too confident in his
abilities these days. The headaches from the fever are becoming harder to ignore.

“The women’s restroom.” She inhales and clarifies, “I’m alone.”

“Listen, Hannibal is in there, he’s alive and I saw him but there’s not much we can do right
now. You need to be careful getting out, I think they’re going to be—”

“I am aware.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found the security office. You were not wrong about this Dr. Chilton’s intelligence. If he
were smart, he would not keep his secret cameras on site.”

Chiyoh isn’t wrong, but Chilton hasn’t surprised him with this.

“Where’s the security guard?”

“I knocked him out.”

“Jesus Christ.” Will runs a hand through his hair. “You don’t have a lot of time, then.”

“I saw you reading to Hannibal.”

The helpless tone is wrenched out of him when he grimaces and responds, “I didn’t know
what else to do. They knew I was coming and they knew they were going to throw me out. I
stayed as long as I could but…” This doesn’t matter, none of this matters. “Chiyoh, they
don’t know you’re in there yet. You can slip out without tipping Jack off, you just have to be
clever—”

“I have no intention of ‘slipping out’ without Hannibal.”

“What?” Will’s heart thuds savagely against his ribcage. He clutches the fabric of his pants
with the hand that’s not holding the phone. He’s aware he sounds hysterical when he
exclaims, “Chiyoh, you’re outnumbered, to say the least.”

“It does not matter. I will try, or I will fail.”

There’s that panic he’s so fond of again.

“This wasn’t the plan we agreed on,” Will warns her, though he knows he’s one to talk
against it. Playing Jack’s advocate (as well as the FBI’s) has been a failing trait he clung onto
in the past, and he can’t help but fall into the identical pattern of it once more when faced
with such disorientation. “He’s not under the state’s whip. They’re not…planning on killing
him. This situation has been taken out of our hands, maybe—yeah, maybe for the better.”

Chiyoh is silent for long enough Will guesses someone entered the bathroom.

Then, her voice curls with venom through the speaker of the phone.

“I do not know what he sees in you, Will Graham. You are as malleable as clay. Your
conviction weighs as much as the person’s whose hands find themselves molding you to their
benefit.”

Will flinches, flexing his fingers to grip the phone harder.

“I want him free just as much as you do,” he snarls. “I’ve never wanted anything more for
him than his freedom.” I would have given my own away so that he could keep his, he doesn’t
say.

“Then—”

“But even a fool can see you don’t stand a chance.”

“Alone, maybe I don’t. But I have to try.”

“It’s as simple to you as that?”

“Yes,” she declares. “Most decisions for me are.”

Sighing, Will commands himself to let go of indecision, fluctuation, hypothesis and

conspiracy, ambivalence, and Devil’s advocation. He allows himself to listen to his heart.

Listening to his own heart, he’s become increasingly aware over the last several years of his
life, is an awfully dangerous thing.

“Have it your way. Let’s make it simple. We’re doing this together.”

They don’t have time to do more than run over their game plan a single time on the line.
Then, he’s clicking off the call and trekking toward their parked truck.

It’s damnably lucky they planned for an escape route, worst case scenario. He supposes
creating the worst case scenario themselves means it's actually their best case scenario. They
wanted Hannibal, so they're going to take him.

He does a quick change into EMT garb and obscures his face as best he can with a mask and
some of Chiyoh’s leftover makeup. He isn’t worried about Jack and the others figuring out
who broke Hannibal from the coop, as he knows there will be no doubt in their minds, but he
needs to at least fool the orderlies for long enough that he can hotwire one of their private
ambulances and drive it up to the vestibule where patients get taken in, and removed.

On their stakeouts, he and Chiyoh had witnessed several patients (most of them covered by a
sheet, obviously dead) get removed from the premises in one of several large white vans.

He’s driving one of them now, rolling up to the front.

A human docking bay, he muses. Morgue Bus Transport.

Time is moving so fast, he fears his blood pressure will skyrocket. His father used to have
issues with blood pressure. It concerns him that his brain may not be able to stop catapulting
through several trains of thought by the time Chiyoh arrives with Hannibal.

If she arrives with Hannibal.

It’s going to take a hell of a lot of skill for her to transfer Hannibal to a gurney and exit his
room without being seen. There are short windows between shift changes. Yet there is one
thing he is certain about when it comes to her. Chiyoh’s strong suit is precision.

They’re fortunate this facility isn’t state operated, otherwise a break-out would be much
harder to achieve. All Chiyoh has to do is cover Hannibal’s body, and pray to the stars or
whatever else she worships that the hall-guards can be deceived.

If she were alone, she wouldn’t have made it beyond the parking lot. Murasaki was right
when she insinuated that they would need each other. Will should tell her how lost he would
have been without her help, at least if they both make it out of here alive and unchained.

Will waits for what feels like hours, then the muscles in his upper body contract all at once at
the sight of her, still in her blonde wig and mask, pushing a gurney out of the two front doors.

Without hesitation, he jumps into action as she takes over his role in the driver’s seat, loading
Hannibal into the back of the truck—he connects him to an IV once he’s inside, as promptly
as he can risk, uncovers his face to check he’s still breathing evenly—and signals to Chiyoh
they’re ready to ride. They don’t have long now until Hannibal is found ‘missing.’

Chiyoh drives the ambulance calmer than he would have if he were in her position, but he
tries not to focus on the ‘getaway’ part of their abduction, and instead focuses on Hannibal.

They managed the escape without injury.

Whoever is watching Hannibal from above is watching him well.

The vehicle jostles as they hit a bump in the road.

 Will takes steps to prevent himself from hyperventilating. He intertwines Hannibal’s hand
with his own again and is able to inhale and exhale without choking on nothing.

Not long now, the mantra plays in his head. Not long now.

It isn’t long until Chiyoh pulls up to the car (a cheap van) they’d hidden in the bramble
behind a mall complex. The location was one of the only places they found with minimal
CCTV footage, strangely enough, and it seemed optimal to hide a second getaway car to
confuse their pursuers. Chiyoh will continue to drive the ambulance west as Will drives the
new vehicle east. Jack will be searching for the ambulance, and he will certainly not be
expecting Chiyoh. Maybe Will’s slowly going insane, but it sounds like a better plan than the
Great Red Dragon setup.

Chiyoh quickly helps him load Hannibal into the tight space of the hidden car, and he swats
her away with a grumbled, “Go, go, I can handle the rest for now. Hurry.”

She observes them for a moment longer as Will tactfully hooks Hannibal back up to his IV.
The van was not built for this support system, but it’ll do until they reach the docks.

An act of trust in and of itself, Chiyoh offers a bowing nod, and hops back in the ambulance,
rolling it off towards the main road. She’ll hopefully be seen by as many cameras as possible
as she drives in the opposite direction they intend to escape. It’s a matter of if she’ll be able to
meet him at the docks by sunrise. He hopes he won’t have to leave without her.

He fears he’ll have the urge to rev the boat engine the second he boards.

As he’s moving to strap Hannibal in for what will assuredly be a bumpier ride, he nearly
collapses face first into the compact metal floor of the van when he sees Hannibal’s eyes are
peeled wide open. He looks wild.

Will opens his mouth, Hannibal’s name on the tip of his tongue.

He doesn’t get the chance to speak before Hannibal’s hand lurches out to enclose his throat
with brutal, violent pressure.

Chapter End Notes

honestly it's crazy how so many things change from what you write in your outlines, like
i planned to stretch the facility out much longer, and have will visit him under jack's
permission every so often until he decides to break him out, but i think my heart knew
the ball should get rolling with hannibal waking up. i also didn't plan for hannibal to
strangle will upon waking until i was actually writing the scene, but hey, ;)
you all have been so supportive of this story, and i can't wait to actually start writing
will/hannibal interactions for you <3
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

There is a catheter removal (not too explicit) later in the chapter, if you're squeamish to
that. Sorry not sorry?

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Will is transported back to the National Gallery of Art.

Francis Dolarhyde lifted him as if he were a paper doll, and thrust him with ruthless strength
into the shuddering wall of the gallery’s elevator. Then, he discarded him to the floor and
escaped. Will’s chase of him was half-hearted at best, and driven by frustration at worst.

It doesn’t even come close to the tension he’s experiencing now.

Hannibal hoisted him up by the throat, with near identical strength, and shoved him into the
wall of the van so hard the entire vehicle shook with it. Now he’s scrabbling at Hannibal’s
vice tight fingers and desperately attempting to call his name between short gasps.

The look in Hannibal’s eyes is absent and feral, and they appear to darken as he continues
strangling him, the singular goal on his mind to kill whatever he deems a threat.

Will was taken off guard, but he hasn’t become complacent.

He snarls and hurls a punch directly into Hannibal’s jaw. The older man must be feeling the
effects of his months-long coma because he crumbles easier than he should’ve. Will hacks up
spittle and stale air, heaving in long, delicious breaths of oxygen as Hannibal’s limbs contort
on the floor of the van, aimlessly stretching and flexing, in odd analytical, searching
gestures.

“We don’t have time for this,” Will bites out, an asphalt roughness to his voice. He bends
down and flips the gurney over laterally so he can wrap the restraints around Hannibal’s torso
and thighs. He doesn’t put up a fight as Will confines him, finally blinking out of his waking
haze.

“Will,” he murmurs, half a question, half a revelation. Momentarily, Will stops what he’s
doing with the buckles, and meets his eyes. Hannibal can’t seem to hold his gaze, eyes
flickering down to the bruise forming around the column of Will’s throat. His voice and
accent is like a balm after so long without it gracing his ears. “I pray you do not hold that
against me. I awoke to a sense of dying. I could taste only sea water in my lungs.”
Will remembers the feeling.

“I know. I hope you won’t hold this against me.” Will tightens the restraints one last time to
punctuate his meaning. Hannibal looks unbothered.

He smiles and it’s the greatest sight Will’s seen in years.

“I understand, Will.”

Frowning at the undignified position he’s placed Hannibal in, he considers undoing the
straps, but decides against it. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Hannibal. They really don't have the
time.

“May I ask where we’re going?” he asks as Will climbs over him to reach the driver’s seat.
He buckles himself in and revs up the car, moving as indiscreetly as he can muster along the
road ahead.

“If I tell you now, I’ll get distracted. Let’s just say we’re on the run.”

Will can practically hear Hannibal’s grin.

“How fun,” he purrs.

Will continues to pretend he isn’t falling apart at the seams.

At their fifth stoplight, Will begins to feel guilty for tying Hannibal up the way he did. One
can hardly blame him, but still. He remembers how disoriented and nauseous he felt waking
up from that coma.

There was a heavy cognitive dissonance in him when it came to his new surroundings, after
being torn from the chapel as if he were a single meaningless thread in a tapestry.

“I’d offer you takeout, but imagine how I’d explain what’s going on in the back seat if they
saw,” Will mutters to break the ice. They’ve both been silent for a nerve wracking amount of
time.

Hannibal’s quick with a reply regardless of the stunted conversation.

“You would be doing me a favor by not stopping for takeout.”

“It’s better than a feeding tube.”

“That is quite debatable, Will.”

Will chuckles, and he’s so unpracticed with feeling genuine humor, it comes out like a raspy
scoff. That may also have to do with the newfound soreness in his throat. Hannibal never
fails to offer agony alongside his arrivals and departures, whether it be bone-deep or surface
level.

They drive for an hour longer. Salt from the ocean starts to permeate through the air thanks to
the window Will’s kept cracked open. Hannibal picks up on it smoothly.

“Back to the water so soon?”

Will clears his throat.

“Not so soon, actually.”

“A do-over, I wonder?”

Will nearly slams the brakes.

“Jesus, no.”

“Forgive me for my skepticism, Will, but you must acknowledge the complexity of this
situation. I have awoken to crude medical conditions, and you have me trussed up on the
floor of your car.”

“You know why I tied you up,” Will grumbles, taking a left toward the docks. They’re
minutes away from their destination now, and Will’s heart is pounding distractingly at the
realization he won’t be able to avoid genuine conversation with Hannibal for long. He was in
no way prepared for the man to wake up mid-getaway.

He would have been wholly satisfied staring at the man’s sleeping body for a week or two, in
preparation for this reunion, but of course Hannibal is an expert in knowing when to turn up
out of the blue, uninvited.

“Yes, I do. I would suggest applying an ice pack to that when feasible.”

“We’ll work with whatever we’ve got on the boat,” he responds, short.

“Ah.” Will hears a metallic noise, Hannibal shifting against the gurney uncomfortably. “A
boat should be the best course of action if we are on the run as you say. I commend your
foresight.”

“It was Chiyoh’s idea. She had one of your uncle’s motor-yachts shipped over.”

There is a pleased lilt in Hannibal’s voice when he inquires, “Chiyoh has been helping you?”

“We are aiding and abetting each other, I think.”

“You sound unhappy, Will.”

It cuts him so cleanly to the core while also managing to come across offensively reductive.
Hannibal hasn’t lost his touch in effecting Will so thoroughly that his mind screeches to an
abrupt halt.

He holds his breath, hands slipping down the driving wheel. Three distinct street signs pass
by them before Will responds with sullen sarcasm,

“I’ve been under stress.”

Hannibal hums, a consoling noise Will knows shouldn’t comfort him as much as it does.

They pull into the Marina at 2 am in the morning. Will shoves the keys back in his pocket and
climbs into the back of the van to untie Hannibal.

Hannibal is balancing awkwardly on his left shoulder, long bangs cascading over his face.
They’ve grown out just as much as his own hair. Will brushes them out of the way without a
second thought and isn’t prepared for the fond smile Hannibal rewards him with in return.
“Promise you won’t kill me?” Will jokes even as he’s unbuckling the gurney’s straps.

“That ship has long since sailed, Will.”

Fingers fumbling over each other, Will doesn’t notice Hannibal reaching out with a newly
freed hand to touch the scar on his cheek. Will barely thinks about it anymore.

“It is a miracle this injury did not warp your facial features.”

“My body’s used to attaining new scars by now.”

Hannibal’s fingertips trail down to his neck, where Will is blossoming red and purple. Will
can’t help but flinch away from the touch on instinct, but sits still — blinking rapidly and
fidgeting as much as he is — once he’s recovered. Hannibal appears unbothered by what he’s
accomplished. It’s validating to learn he hasn’t changed.

It’s refreshing when so many other things in the past several months have been taxing — dare
he even claim societally predictable.

There are satchels he and Chiyoh packed away in the van for this eventuality, so he fishes out
a beanie and places it on Hannibal’s head, not that it makes much of a difference, but from a
distance it might. Will takes a baseball cap for himself, and opens the back doors of the van.

He expects Hannibal to follow right away, but Hannibal’s movements are sluggish. Will
returns to his side to offer his shoulder.

Hannibal refuses to take it at first, but nearly collapses face first into the pavement as he steps
out of the van.

“Whoa there.” Will clutches his arm. “Alright?”

The older man’s upper lip twitches as he glares down at his legs.
“It appears I’ve experienced severe muscle atrophy.” Hannibal huffs, imparting too much
weight on Will for the shorter man to properly balance, but Will focuses on transferring all
the weight he can to his upper body to keep them both steady and able. “I believe I know the
answer to how long I was out, now.”

“I was out for three months. You were out for about seven or eight.”

“Shorter than I expected.”

Hannibal looks rather pissed. Will assumes he was keeping a rigid regiment of exercise while
locked up, to combat against the junk food they were serving him. All of that fell out the
window once he was thrown into a coma, but for a man asleep for several months, he looks
more than okay to Will.

“Where they were keeping you, I doubt they were offering any type of physical therapy.”

“You have made me incredibly curious, Will,” Hannibal informs him as they waddle down
the docks like newborn ducks. Will would find it humorous if he didn’t feel like collapsing in
on himself.

“I swear to you, I’ll tell you anything you want. Just — ” Will wavers, feeling faint in the
head. He drowns out his fever until it’s nothing more than a low roar and ignores Hannibal’s
looming inquisition. They trudge on toward the small blue and brown yacht. “Just let me sit
down.”

“Anything you need, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, sounding so sincere Will’s heart starts to
ache worse than his sore, tired limbs. Actually, it’s beginning to really hurt.

Apparently he needs more than to simply sit down, because the moment he unlocks the
bottommost cabin on Robertus’ boat, he turns to Hannibal to offer him the key, and promptly
passes out on the rug.

Will dreams of the Norman Chapel.

Neither he nor Hannibal are present.

It is silent, and the yellow light from the windows has dimmed to a subtle morning glow. The
angels are missing, and the chairs are folded and stacked away.

There is serenity in its vacancy.

Slowly, his corporeal senses start to return to him. First, in the form of smell. The scent
surrounding him is Hannibal through and through, regardless of the shades of disinfectant,
sterility, and plastic. Rustically homey, black pepper, sweet cinnamon. Then comes touch.
There are fingers in his hair, scratching lightly over his scalp, and toying with his roots. It
gives him so much pleasure, he rotates into it, seeking out more. Then comes his awareness
in full.

Will opens his eyes and finds himself at an unusual angle.

His head is in Hannibal’s lap, and they’re lying adjacent; Hannibal, with his back up against
the headboard of the cabin’s bed, and Will sideways and horizontal.

They both look incredibly tired, he imagines, but Hannibal looks, for a moment to Will, as
beautiful as he did on the bluff, covered in blood. It’s a warm, untouchable moment between
them like it was then. Where he’s not thinking about anything but them, alone and together.

“Were you there with me?” Will asks softly when Hannibal doesn’t cease the petting.
Hannibal appears to have been watching him while he was out, looking entirely at peace in
the face of Will’s presence, conscious or not.

Hannibal inclines his head, his voice as soft as Will’s.

“I haven’t seen you in the Chapel for a long time. It felt like I spent years there in my
lonesome.”

Will doesn’t even question the surreal aspects of this — dream sharing? If they’ve shared
dreams as well as a mind palace, that’s hardly the strangest thing to happen between them.
And it suddenly makes his inability to adequately visit the chapel after his coma seem more
plausible.

He was ripped from that once in a lifetime wavelength.

“I saw Abigail,” Will murmurs, eyes glazing over from the memory. “She asked me, without
asking me, to go with her. I didn’t know if you would follow…I couldn’t go.”

Hannibal’s eyes droop, and his smile fades.

The hand in Will’s hair pauses its stroking.

“I saw Mischa.” Will blinks against welling tears as Hannibal confesses further, “No matter
how bright the sun blazed through the stained glass, it felt cold with your seat empty.”

“As cold as Maine?” Will cracks, lips quirking up when he sees Hannibal register the
reference.

At Will’s tease, Hannibal continues running his fingers across his scalp, and shakes his head
fondly. “I never knew you read those. I expected you not to.”

“I didn’t until recently.” Will pushes his forehead a smidge closer to Hannibal’s stomach.
Heat emanates from him like a radiator. In his meager house growing up, Will used to press
his little body to the radiator in the living room to get warm in the winter morning, and his
father would relentlessly scold him for it. “I should…tell you about…” Suddenly, he’s
exhausted again. Tired, because he remembers all too well where they are, what he should be
doing, and that he’s no longer dreaming. He stiffens and Hannibal’s hands pause again.

“Are we — tell me we’re on the water.”

“Chiyoh arrived shortly after we did,” Hannibal explains, helping Will up at the first sign of
resistance. Will scratches his neck and remembers his bruises when he feels pain flowering
beneath his fingertips.

“How long was I asleep for?”

“Several hours.” Hannibal frowns. “You frightened me.”

“That’s novel,” Will quips, rubbing at his eyes. Sleep hasn’t offered him any reprieve from
the headaches or the raw pangs in his muscles and bones. “Where’s Chiyoh?”

“Manning the helm.” There is an ounce of pride in Hannibal’s statement. He must be pleased
to see her again. And he likes to be protected and wanted just as much as the next guy.

“Sorry for falling asleep on you.”

Hannibal tilts his head patiently. “That was much more than falling asleep. I should ask if you
know you are experiencing a relapse of encephalitis.”

Oh. The sense that makes is embarrassingly blatant.

Though it explains numerous instances, the only memory that pops out in his mind is the
night he couldn't identify how unevenly he parked at that motel. He thought the manager was
insane; he should have known better.

“I was, uh, too busy to know.”

With great effort, Hannibal turns his whole body so he can place a palm flat across Will’s
forehead. Now that he knows, Will can feel the heat in his own head.

Flaming, angry, fire-hot.

“You will manage to survive the length of this trip, and then some. Do not fret. My aunt, as
far as I know, is still acquainted with several astute doctors, well known for their discretion.”

“Antivirals make me feel like shit.”

“Then I’m afraid it’s death or shit,” Hannibal replies curtly, patting him on the cheek before
telling him, “Go feed yourself. It won’t do to sail on an empty stomach.”

Will twists a brow at him.

“You’re acting like yourself again.”

“Simply content to be awake,” Hannibal answers with a tightness Will wouldn’t have
recognized if he didn’t know this man like the back of his hand. “Remind Chiyoh there is
more risk of exposure turning the navigation lights off than there is keeping them on.”

“Okay,” he caves. He is starving.

Will hesitates at the doorway to the cabin, sighing as he exits when Hannibal only offers him
a placating, yet impregnable smile.

He doesn’t head straight for the kitchen.

Will spends time on deck, letting the sea mist caress his overheated skin and thin, closed
eyelids. It’s dark out again, which tips Will off he’s been asleep longer than Hannibal claims.

The navigation lights are on; they glow red and green over the water, and he wonders briefly
what sea life must think of humanity. Are they aliens to them?

He catches a glimpse of Chiyoh, like a specter, sitting on the bridge just above him. It is
bordered by glass and rimmed in beautiful navy blue colors. The ship is gorgeous, despite its
meager size for a yacht. Will has never been on any yacht, so he isn’t complaining.

Chiyoh greets him with a bow of the head when he roams in. He nods back at her and scans
the navigation board. They’re on track for France.

He didn't know they would be stopping in Versailles. He left that part of the plan up to
Chiyoh, and he worries vaguely about the idea Chilton may have her home guarded by now.

“You’ve left me in a room alone with him. Do you think that’s wise?”

Will doesn’t know why he’s opting to taunt. He convinces himself he wasn’t always like this.
At least not before Hannibal.

Chiyoh crosses her arms, but doesn’t look away from the dark sea yawning before them just
beyond the faux protection of the bridge.

“Hannibal is awake. It is his decision to make.”

“It’s his jury to dictate,” Will agrees. “I won’t kill him.”

“I have been aware of that much since you agreed to help me,” she admits, though with a
reluctance born of protracted bitterness. “He is weak. As weak as you are.”

“Sorry to be a burden.”

Will isn’t particularly sorry at all.

“The burdens we bear, we bear because we love them.”

There is a complicated stretch of silence, the words dancing in limbo between them before
they seem to click for Will, and his face furrows together at every crease.

“Are you…accepting me?” As family, he doesn’t dare elaborate.

Chiyoh scowls at him.

“I prepared soup. Leave me and eat it.”

“How polite,” he jokes, huffing out a laugh as she turns back to face the ocean, arms hugging
her own body firmer now. “If you need me to take over, let me know. Hannibal also told me
to tell you that you should keep the navigation lights on.”

She doesn’t respond, and he abandons the bridge to find the kitchen.

The soup was more of a mushroom broth, but it was delicious.

Chiyoh apparently shares Hannibal’s talent for meal preparation.

When he returns to the cabin, he nearly careens forward to catch himself on the bed frame.
Hannibal is gone, nowhere in sight. Surely, he can’t be a hallucination too.

A crash from the bathroom settles him as much as it concerns.

“Hannibal,” he calls out, knocking on the closed door.

“All is well, Will.” Hannibal’s tone may be muffled by the door, but it is unmistakable that
everything is not ‘all well.’

Will persists, ambling by the door until he hears another crash and is persuaded inside. There,
he finds Hannibal on the tile floor, stark naked, with a towel clumsily tossed over his groin.

“Jesus.” Succinct, Graham, real succinct.

“You need not concern yourself — ” Hannibal bends one of his knees and it slips out from
under him in the next second, plopping gracelessly to the floor. He snarls indignantly.

“Let me help,” Will urges gently, kneeling down beside him.

“No.”

“Hannibal.”

“I was perfectly capable of maneuvering myself earlier, before you woke.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re perfectly capable right now,” Will expresses, looking him up and
down, disallowing his gaze from lingering. The only time he fails is when he catches sight of
the red scarred bullet wound in his gut. It looks fierce, untreated. “What happened?”

“I was struck with an intense wave of vertigo, which hasn’t quite…” Hannibal shuts his eyes,
swallowing hard as the room no doubt spins, “…abandoned me.”

“Okay,” Will says, clinically as he can muster. He’s freaking out a little, but he’s always been
capable of hiding his reactions to an extent. “Do you want to shower? I can…uh, help.”

Hannibal grimaces. Mutters, “That is not ideal.”

“Hannibal, you don’t exactly have the option to act all puritanical. You’re out of commission
for the moment, and I’m here whether you like it or not.”

“I was attempting a procedure only I am fit for, I’m afraid,” Hannibal replies dismissively, as
if he isn’t sprawled out naked on the floor of the small cabin bathroom. “Once the vertigo has
passed, I am quite positive I will manage on my own.”

The glower Will gives him tempers Hannibal’s protests.

“Will, I could not ask this of you.”

Will laughs at the ceiling. “This is the most ridiculous conversation we’ve ever entertained.
Do you realize how that sounds, after everything you’ve done to me? Whatever it is — ”

“I need to remove my catheter.”

Will’s statement catches in his throat.

He can sort of understand why Hannibal would be humiliated by that, not that he should be,
but Will is sure he’d be acting similarly.

“It is not an immediate need, but I’d prefer it to be immediate,” Hannibal confesses, twining
his hands together over his lap, as primly as one can manage in this state.

“Okay.” Will reaches into the cabinets by the sink and retrieves two sterile gloves. He snaps
them on and asks, “Where do you want to do this?”

Hannibal stares at him.

“Will, I do appreciate your dedication, truly, but — ”

“I have eidetic memory, and I’ve witnessed a catheter removal more than once.” Will doesn’t
mention it was his own, at the hospital where he spent time recovering from the gory cheshire
smile on his stomach. “You want it out, that’s no problem. Just tell me where.”

“The bed may offer better leverage,” Hannibal tells him slowly, as if Will is going to start
running at the smallest provocation. “If that does not revolt you.”
“You don’t know me at all if you think that revolts me,” Will cautions, helping him to his
feet. Hannibal refuses to relinquish his other hand which is holding up the towel in a flimsy
circle around his waist. It will be a pointless gesture of decency in a minute.

Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed, wavering with endless waves of dizziness as Will hunts
for a medical kit and a stool in the bathroom. Luckily, they’re stocked with both. He returns
and sets the stool between Hannibal’s slightly spread legs.

He detaches himself from the intimacy of the predicament, and instead focuses solely on
running through the steps of this procedure in his memory bank.

Hannibal looks as if he’s ready to spiel on how this isn’t ideal for them at all, and it isn’t. It’s
not pretty, or fun, but it’s Hannibal, and Will would frankly do anything for him at this point.

Will touches his bare knee with an open palm.

“Let me,” he insists.

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal postures affably.

Hannibal, after brief procrastination, clears away the towel and folds it under his thighs for
the impending mess. There should only be spillage from the water in the balloon port,
nothing more.

Hannibal’s cock is uncircumsized, and long even while flaccid.

That’s the only attention Will allows himself to give to it outside of the procedure. He
lubricates his gloved hands in the surgical lubricant he found in the kit and makes sure the
catheter is covered liberally in it, though he touches Hannibal as impersonally as possible.
Hannibal hisses quietly, averting his eyes more out of indignity than anything else, Will
assumes.

“Chiyoh’s soup was good,” Will distracts, finding the valve of the balloon port and snipping
the neck anterior to it. “Do you have a favorite soup to make?”

“Your attempts at diversion are charming,” Hannibal notes dryly.

The towel catches most of the water, and Will waits patiently (impatiently, if he’s allowing
his hindbrain to call the shots) until it’s empty before gradually, but steadily removing the
tube from Hannibal’s urethra. Will blushes at the sight of Hannibal’s fingers curling into the
sheets.

It slides out at last, an anticlimax if Will’s ever seen one.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

“Hmm.” Hannibal crosses his legs as a last ditch effort to conceal himself as Will folds up the
tubing and collection bag into the towel to throw it all away in one lump. They have enough
towels anyway. “I’m obligated to express my gratitude.”
 “But your pride can’t handle another blow, I get it,” Will responds with a smile in his voice,
but he knows his attempts at light humor leave much to be desired. He removes the gloves,
throws them out as well, and washes his hands. When he exits the bathroom, Hannibal is
already in a full set of pajamas.

“Forgive my discourtesy,” Hannibal says, standing rather distantly from him. Will gives him
space and begins to change into his own set. “This is merely not how I imagined our first day
together, on the lam as it were.”

“What, me kneeling between your legs didn’t cross your mind?”

Hannibal startles, and Will laughs.

“Joking,” he reassures, then frowns. “I didn’t take you as one for idealism. Not this much of
it, at least. I remember idealism has been both of our undoings in the past.”

Hannibal watches him button up his nightshirt.

“I spent too long as a chimera in our chapel. I must reacquaint myself with all the flavors this
world has to offer.” He meets Will’s eyes and confesses, “I am glad to have you with me for
it.”

Will is taken aback by the ardent sincerity.

He shocks himself when he answers,

“I’m glad too.”

Chapter End Notes

me: haha how do i torture hannibal more.

i was so excited to write this chapter so this is hella early lmao

 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will pulls out the chair next to Hannibal and slumps down into it with a loud sigh. As
Hannibal hands him a fork, Chiyoh begins setting three bowls across the table.

“Bibimbap,” Chiyoh explains. “A rice dish.”

Hannibal beams up at her and starts breaking into the several layers of the bowl. Will is too
busy attempting to categorize all the elements: a fried egg on top, sections of chopped carrots,
red peppers, dark beef, and cucumber petalling around and under it. Brown rice plumping the
base.

“Your palette has improved, my dear,” Hannibal compliments. “The bacon is seasoned
perfectly. What did you use?”

“Onion, black pepper, parsley.”

“There’s bacon?” Will muses absently, genuinely confounded. He sifts through the bowl’s
contents, unearthing glimpses of seemingly endless rice. He doesn’t realize how rude he
came across until he feels Hannibal’s foot tap his calf. “Uh, this looks delicious, thank you.”

A wry smile transforms Chiyoh’s face.

They eat quietly, with Will rising only to retrieve an extra napkin for Hannibal without being
asked to do so. They can sense each other’s needs. He doesn't want Hannibal exerting
himself, as he’s recently adopted a high-grade fever much like him. And his vertigo is on and
off, rather than dwindling. Just yesterday, Hannibal had stumbled out of bed, landing flat on
the floor like his limbs were made of a tender putty rather than ligaments, tendons, and bone.

Will folds the napkin into Hannibal’s hand, and observes as he uses it and nods his head in
thanks. It’s a rarity Hannibal does say ‘thank you’ but that mostly has to do with dignity. Will
doesn’t want empty gratitude anyway; he wants to go by instinct and not be praised for it.

Hannibal doesn’t look like he knows exactly what to do with these newfound developments
between them, though he gives as good as he gets. He is a gentleman after all.

“Take your medicine,” he murmurs, depositing two pills onto Will’s palm. Tylenol, naturally,
and it almost drags a belly laugh out of Will from how ridiculous that concept is. Over-the-
counter ‘medicine’ is pretty much all they have in stock; Will never considered it real
medicine.

It’s a gamble to be dispensing so many of them in a single day to Will, as their stash is
quickly running low and Hannibal’s fever is barreling towards something sinister. If Will’s
headache wasn’t so miserable, he’d surely reconsider consuming the rest of them.

He swallows them down anyway and catches Chiyoh’s eye over the table, or rather, her eyes
on his neck where he’s accumulated an array of new colors.

He feels the urge to clarify how he got the bruises, then glances at Hannibal and observes the
purpling bruise on his jaw, from where Will punched him.

Will keeps silent, eating his rice dish composedly.

“Chiyoh has told me of your journey across the seas,” Hannibal announces, making Will sift
faster through the dish’s components. “Though if you’re willing, I would like to hear the tale
from you,” Hannibal smiles mischievously, “You were the adventurer, after all.”

Will quarrels with a fat lump of rice in his mouth. He neglects to chew it up entirely before he
swallows and feels the phantom drag of it scraping down his sensitive throat.

“Maybe later,” he murmurs, conflicted.

There are two sets of eyes on him now, but they underestimate his expertise when it comes to
avoiding eye contact. In fact, that may be his one claim to unrivaled success.

Except for all the times he lost himself in Hannibal’s eyes.

It makes him ponder; can he blame hypnotism? There seemed to be a lot of that going on in
their early days of knowing each other, though the memories are still fuzzy. It could be that
Hannibal is an age-old vampire with strange abilities that cause forcible contact—it’s that last
thought that causes Will to realize he’s been avoiding the elephant in the room for far too
long now.

In depth, he hasn’t revealed the intricacies of his travels to Hannibal, of his separation from
Molly, or even why he’d gone looking for him in the first place after he was told resolutely
by everyone Hannibal was dead and gone. Chiyoh must have filled in several of the blanks,
much to Will’s chagrin, but Hannibal is apparently refusing to be kept in the dark any longer.

Which seems fair, considering their history.

But Will is selfish and he prefers to draw out the comfort of ignorance.

Hannibal is impatient, he always has been, even when he seems more patient than everyone.
Long drawn out plans of revenge and manipulative tampering may prove otherwise, but when
he doesn’t get what he wants in the end…he’ll be antsy. Will doesn’t want to spend any more
time with an antsy Hannibal than he has to. Even if he’s not showing it outwardly, Will can
feel the intensity of his hunger for knowledge emanating off of him in ravenous, heated
waves.

“You will not offend me by telling the truth,” Chiyoh says to Will, startling him out of his
head. Her lips close around her fork. She relishes a coiled sliver of pepper and bacon.

Will glares over at her, and can see Hannibal’s head tilt in his periphery.
“What truth is that?” Hannibal questions.

“Will does not wish to broach the subject in front of me,” she clarifies, raising a hand before
either of them can protest. To Will, she adds, “My relationship with you is not nearly as
intimate as the one you share with Hannibal. I understand your reasoning.”

He should have never told her he knew Hannibal intimately. This isn’t the first time an
unfiltered comment he’s made has backfired.

Hannibal is abnormally quiet, so Will spares a quick glance to find him smiling down at his
food, a tiny secret smile he can’t help but share, even if he doesn’t want to.

Slowly, Will calms down.

“I appreciate that, Chiyoh,” he responds. “The food’s good, by the way.”

Chiyoh smirks and eats another bite.

Will has been aiding Hannibal with physical therapy ever since they set sail. Every night,
they spend about thirty minutes together on the scratchy rug stretching Hannibal’s limbs, and
bending them routinely to regain his once supernaturally agile mobility and flexibility.

At present, Hannibal is flat on his back with one leg pointed up at the ceiling, topless and
wearing exercise pants that have simultaneously operated as pajamas. Will has one hand on
the back of his thigh, and the other gripping the front of his calf.

“Can you bend it yourself?” Will encourages, not letting go.

“I believe I’m getting there,” Hannibal replies, huffing triumphantly as he achieves the move.
Occasionally his leg will give out and collapse, but other times his muscles will lock up and
pull taut. Favorably, they’ve been making legitimate progress day-by-day. Occasionally,
Hannibal can walk like he used to. On his own, in long, purposeful strides. Other times, he
stumbles or limps.

“Good job,” Will commends, thumbing over his kneecap.

“You needn’t praise me like one of your strays, Will.”

His attitude fluctuates just as much as his mobility.

“You’ve been touchy lately.” Will carefully lets Hannibal’s leg fall flat, and helps him sit up.
“You’re not used to things going wrong for you.”

Hannibal purses his lips.

“I believe my three years institutionalized would disprove that theory.”

“You put yourself there,” Will counters.

“Did I?”

Will pulls Hannibal’s hand close to his chest and massages at his fingers, the movements a
tad harsh and acidic for what he’s attempting to accomplish.

“For the first time, I felt we were on the same page.”

“We’ve been on the same page for a long time,” Hannibal insists.

“Historically?” Will digs his knuckles into the rise of Hannibal’s palm, but the man doesn’t
tear it back, merely raising a brow at the intended pain, “or ideally?”

“We understand one another in a way no other can.”

Hannibal curls his fingers over Will’s tense hand, and against his volition, Will can feel
himself softening into the touch. He meets Hannibal’s eyes with practiced wariness and a
shroud of indifference. It’s often easier to let Hannibal’s affection bounce off of him than to
absorb it.

“I am quite used to things going wrong, Will. What I’m not used to is…obligation. I do not
want you to feel obligated to me.” A frown, then, “I could ask Chiyoh to take over the
physical therapy.”

"No. I know you don't want her doing this, and neither do I."

Hannibal falls silent and Will resumes the firm kneading of Hannibal’s hand and upper arm.

“You want very much for me to feel obligated to you. What you don’t like, is the guilt it’s
making you feel.”

“I’ve never felt guilty for anything—”

“—And for once, I’m not feeling any guilt. Not for pulling us off that cliff, not for letting you
rot for three years.” Will pauses as he murmurs, “Not for marrying Molly. The mistakes I’ve
made…maybe they should drudge up something terrible in me, but they don’t. I’m doing
what I want to be doing—for once, mind you—and what I want is to be right here with
you.”

“In sickness and in health?” It comes out of Hannibal’s mouth rhetorically.

Will doesn’t let it lie between them and collect dust.

“For better and worse,” he swears.

Hannibal’s fingers twitch and Will has to hold back a smile. He can only offer Hannibal so
many things at once. The man doesn’t deserve a bombardment of everything he’s ever
wanted.

After some time, and after Will’s moved onto Hannibal’s other leg, Hannibal sighs low and
contemplative before imploring,

“Tell me about your trip.”

The subject change is…endearing. Will finds he likes flustering Hannibal more than he
expected. They haven’t entertained many positive conversations, not since they first started
getting to know each other. They’re both out of practice being on the same page, even if
Hannibal claims they always have been. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on his part.

“Jack told me you were dead when I woke up,” Will grants, bending Hannibal’s leg forward
at the knee, marveling at the dormant power in the tendons and muscles in his grip. “I didn’t
believe him. I left for Lithuania because Freddie informed me there was activity there.
Thought it could be you. Got some answers to your whereabouts there, instead.”

Hannibal hums, staring at him with the ultra-focused intrigue Will had desperately missed.

“You’re skipping a few steps.”

Will glares. “Harder?” he questions before straightening Hannibal’s leg out so swiftly, the
bones click and Hannibal loses a chance to suppress his groan.

“You know to what I’m referring,” Hannibal grumbles, drawing slightly in on himself, and
his leg away from Will’s grip. Will leaves him there on the floor to pull himself to his feet.

He can’t play nice indefinitely, after all.

Hannibal corners him by the bureau where Will starts burrowing for a pair of socks. On and
off throughout the day his feet go from burning to freezing at a moment’s notice. The
encephalitis isn’t helping. He’s constantly transitioning between cold sweats and heat waves.

“Are there still barriers between us?”

“There will always be barriers between us,” Will retorts, plucking out a pair of maroon
colored ones. “Whether you like it or not. It’s not as if you don’t maintain your own.”

“Then I am knocking on a hingeless door.”

“More like I’m bolting it shut on one side while you actively work to remove the screws on
the other side. It’s a futile game we’re playing, endless. Always pushing, always pulling.”

Will doesn’t register Hannibal’s left his side until he hears the bed springs creak underneath
his weight. He sounds very tired when he speaks again.

“You don’t need to tell me what happened with your wife, Will.”

As if that’s the only reason he’s holding back. Hannibal is baiting.

Will bites, nevertheless.

“I don’t,” he agrees. “But what door am I opening with that decision? To reveal a room of
passive remarks, and vague threats. Weak insults targeted at my fears of solitude?”

“Do you think so little of me?”

“No, you’re very meticulous about these things. Smart, subtle.”

“And yet you don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Will closes his eyes, and fists the edge of the dresser.

“It’s you or nothing, Hannibal. And nothing tastes so much like death.”

Hannibal is quiet for a moment before he asks, “Are you stalling, Will?”

“Maybe,” Will mutters, turning to face him at last. Hannibal is looking at him with unbridled
fondness, all things considered. “Maybe I just don’t want you psychoanalyzing me.”

“If I promised not to?” Hannibal posits, almost playful.

Expectantly, his hands are folded primly in his lap.

It tugs at Will’s lips, as much as he fights it.

“What do I get if you break your promise?”

“I didn’t know you liked to bargain,” Hannibal muses, leaning back a little to rest his weight
on one of his elbows. “You could punch the other side of my face.”

Shocking himself, Will laughs, loud and bright.

“You’d enjoy it too much.”

“Perhaps I would enjoy the symmetry more,” Hannibal mumbles, faux displeasure furrowing
his expression dramatically. He rubs at the bruise Will left behind.

(Will isn’t thinking about what a bruise tastes like).

“Okay. I've got a good one."

Will sits on the bed adjacent to Hannibal, and as they gaze at opposite walls, he attempts to
formulate his idea in a way that won't make him sound bitterly hyper-fixated on Hannibal’s
past.

"We're going to France, yes? I'd like to drop in on Bedelia, in Italy, while we're in range."

"How do you know Bedelia is in Italy?" Hannibal asks carefully, though he can't hide the
intrigue in his tone.
Will turns to Hannibal, and softly tells him of his dreams.

Naturally, Hannibal psychoanalyzes.

However, this time, Will benefits.

Maybe he can get used to the psychology game if he's earning his keep. A reward system for
his torment rather than the bereft sensation he experiences in his chest from baring his soul so
often.

He skillfully avoids explaining that he and Molly separated because he was too focused on
finding Hannibal, and doing everything in his power (purposefully against her wishes) to
achieve that goal, rather elaborating on the fact Molly ‘technically’ cheated on him while he
was under, and that it was easier to part paths since she didn’t approve of his impending
travels and deal with Freddie, though he’s certain Hannibal picks up on the underlying
meaning of it all.

He’s been wearing a smug face all throughout the admission.

Will has half a mind to take him up on that punch.

After he tells Hannibal of Freddie’s interview—without mentioning the stipulation that she
could not use the term murder husbands, that’s not exactly something he wants to start a
conversation with Hannibal about—Hannibal’s smug aura shifts into one of immense
curiosity.

“I am thrilled by the prospect of reading Freddie Lounds’ new article.”

“It humiliated Jack more than the whole Miriam Lass ordeal,” Will supposes. They’ve
transitioned to lying down on their backs side by side, hands brushing occasionally. Will isn’t
pulling back on the physicality between them as much as he probably should.

They touch enough as it is, and it leaves Will feeling dizzy, and to be put bluntly, drugged.
It’s overwhelming and he’s already overwhelmed to add onto it.

“You speak of my moral omissions without dread, now,” Hannibal states.

“Murdering a Dragon will do that to you.”

“What beauty we made of him,” Hannibal whispers, and Will shudders, forced to close his
eyes, tempted to visualize the entire picture they painted together.

“Yes,” he whispers back.

After the proverbial clock ticks on silently, a fraction overtime, Will rolls onto his side and
frowns when he finds Hannibal’s expression vacant, eyes glazed over.

“What are you thinking?” he murmurs, usually direct.

Hannibal blinks and turns to mirror his position.

“I expected you to take it back.”

He expected Will to backtrack on every revelation that rocked him to his core and inspired
him to put a stopper in his and Hannibal’s story, because he knew it was more than either of
them deserved. To have that perfect moment of happiness, and simply…go on.

But now that they are here, regardless, well.

“No.” Will shakes his head. “I won’t lie to myself again.”

“Even to injure me, you won’t lie?”

Will’s brow creases downward. He sounds childishly cranky when he prys, “Why are you so
sure I want to hurt you?”

Hannibal frowns back, eyes growing distant and glossy again.

Without thinking, Will reaches his hand out and cups Hannibal’s cheek. “Don’t go inside,” he
pleads quietly. “I’m staying, even if you burn down the world around us.”

The shiver that runs through Hannibal is nearly imperceptible.

“You have hurt me like nothing I’ve ever felt before, Will.” Hannibal shifts his face closer to
Will’s palm, and Will tenses when he feels hot breath against his skin, warm and temptatious
in some indescribable, intangible manner. “I know I have done the same to you. I only fear
the hurt from the past, the impressions of it, even with the trust I hold for you now.”

It’s surprising, to say the least. For Hannibal to open up so freely, without lacing his words in
veils and allegories. And, for Hannibal to experience trauma in the way another individual
might. The way Will sometimes does. PTSD sounds reductive for what Will often
experiences; instinctive recoiling of the evolution he and Hannibal have reached together,
maddeningly. Backtracking of every want, desire, and need Hannibal wrings from inside of
him, just out of spite of the person he is now, when he finds himself back in the constrictive
shoes of a self he no longer recognizes. Hannibal has changed him, and vice versa, but their
past remains vibrant.

“I know the feeling,” he confesses, thumb swiping at Hannibal’s chin.

“I find that oddly comforting,” Hannibal murmurs, looking—frankly—high at the physical

contact, as well as stupefied.

“Communication is what normal people do.”

Hannibal smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re insane,” Will crows lightly, pulling his hand away before he becomes inclined to lean
closer and touch him more. It’s an unwelcome urge wrought from the intense affection
they’re both fostering right now, in that ever present wavelength that connects them beyond
the realm of the physical. Though it’s hard to quiet that urge when Hannibal reaches right
back out and touches Will’s temples, rubbing vaguely where he’s most sore.

“God,” he sighs. “I didn’t remember how badly encephalitis hurts.”

“Worse than the first time?”

“Not possible. I was practically on fire, then.”

“Sit up for me,” Hannibal says, doing so. “Please.”

Will rises slowly, so as to not aggravate his hellish headache. Instead of ordering him around,
Hannibal manhandles him (tugging at his waist, not that Will is focusing on that) so he’s
facing the headboard, crisscrossed with Hannibal behind him, reaching around with long
arms.

“Hold still.”

Will doesn’t question it. He doubts Hannibal would kill him after that revealing
conversation.

Suddenly Hannibal’s fingers are in his hair, but they’re not stroking him softly, they’re
kneading him, and rubbing tense, sore spots where his scalp feels hot and raw. He groans a
little, lurching away from the intense sensation, but Hannibal is stronger, dragging him back
into it.

It doesn’t feel great for a few, long minutes.

He’s wincing and whining low in his throat at every agony-inducing prod, but then
Hannibal’s knuckles brush firmly at both temples at once and he feels fierce pleasure burst in
his skull.

His limbs and posture droop as Hannibal continues, massaging the same spot until he feels
like playdough. He’ll gladly be a lump of mindless dough if it means Hannibal doesn’t stop.

“You don’t have to do this,” Will slurs, regretting talking instantly when he hears how airy
and gratified his voice sounds.

“I would be pleased if you’d let me,” Hannibal responds without pausing. Will certainly isn’t
going to protest twice. “You’re so attentive to my physical therapy.”

Will hums, feeling slightly impish in his newfound relief.

“You couldn’t have at least done this for me when you lied to me about my brain being on
fire that first time?”
There’s a puff of breath at his neck Will assumes is laughter.

“I doubt you would have allowed me to, Will.”

“If I was to allow anyone, it would have been you.”

Hannibal’s hands hesitate in Will’s hair, but Will isn’t in the mood for the man’s dramatized
contemplation, so he shimmies backward until his spine aligns with Hannibal’s sternum. The
hands resume their initial pressure, and Will sighs with heavy relief.

He’s aware Hannibal is sniffing the top of his head as he massages him there, but he doesn’t
honestly care. If it means he’ll continue, he can do whatever the hell he wants if the scent of
fever and brain disease floats his boat. The headache that’s been plaguing Will for days has
almost entirely vanished and he’s too close to bliss to shy away.

“You’ve been calmer than I’ve ever known you to be,” Hannibal asserts. “Is it perhaps
because you’ve found yourself another boat on the sea?”

It takes Will a moment to recall that conversation.

He told Hannibal he liked to watch his house in Wolf Trap from afar, as it was the only time
he ever felt safe. At the time, that was true. He fond solace in the brick cold winter bite of the
air that could only reach his home, no other. Way back in his beginning, a time without
Hannibal which feels strange to even reflect upon, he remembers meeting with the real estate
agent just once. A lithe older woman who talked up every perk the house possessed,
flabbergasted when Will asked about what needed to be fixed. And agreed on the high price
even with the list of necessary refurbishments. He wanted something he could build all his
own, tweak and tinker at. Until it felt like something he'd constructed around himself, a wall
or fortress, or however Hannibal put it when they first met. A boat, but even more than that, a
buoy on the sea when the fortress of the ocean began to thrash and moan and reject him. He
would never sink, as breathless as he felt in the four falls of his foyer, sitting room, and
bedroom.

It may have felt like a boat, but it wasn't.

Will plunges deep into the vein of full exposure when he replies,

“I think it’s because I have a firm grip on my paddle this time.”

He can hear Hannibal’s smile, and mimics it himself.

The massage goes on for an hour longer. It doesn’t need to, but both of them are indulging in
wordless proximity. Hannibal is undoubtedly rearing up to ask more questions about his
travels. Will tries to figure out how he’ll describe what he did to Chilton’s henchman’s ankle.

“How much longer till we reach France?” Will murmurs.

Hannibal’s lips touch his ear when he whispers, “Not long now.”
Chapter End Notes

much needed conversations ;) we may get into some action next chapter (not THAT kind
of action ;p...yet)
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

I edited a continuity error in the last chapter, because I originally claimed Bedelia was
back in Italy but last chapter they were like "she's in france" because i'm always tired
and even after editing my chapters twice, I miss shit lolllll. So she is in Italy, I just
changed the wording last chap ;D

Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“We should be docking in less than half an hour,” Chiyoh informs them. Will places a freshly
plated cut of seared tuna atop the flat surface of the helm, with an arugula salad and grilled
apricots to pair; Hannibal helped him with the finesse of the sides, and the fish’s spice rub,
after Will caught the tuna and segmented it. Chiyoh bows her head and begins digging in,
apparently quite hungry.

Will watches Hannibal cross the room and lean against the glass to behold the waves rippling
by as the shore gradually comes into view. The physical therapy’s been paying off big time,
and he’s finally been able to move around in a non-robotic manner. He’s also starting to look
more and more like himself.

Fresh meals have been pumping color to his face. The three of them lounge outside in the
afternoons to sunbathe, and it’s helped with their color too, though Will must always concede
to pale genetics. Hannibal is incredibly handsome with a tan, so much so that Will frequently
ponders why he didn’t originally decide to move to a sunnier, more southern country than
America.

Fishing out the dice cube they found in the storage closet their first few nights on the ship, he
rolls it by Chiyoh’s half empty plate, and they both call out numbers.

“Five,” Will says.

“Two,” Chiyoh says.

It lands on three. This means Chiyoh wins. Whoever calls out the number closest to
whichever one it lands on is the winner. Sometimes they tie. Sometimes, Will thinks they’re
all bored out of their skin.

However, Hannibal never plays the game with them.

When he’s in a room with Chiyoh, he acts more like a gentleman than Will has ever
witnessed. Will can’t tell if he’s falling into the old habit of playing the perfect role model for
her, or if it genuinely has to do with common chivalry. Either way, the demeanor is
endearing. Maybe because he is constantly aware that the second they’re in a room alone,
Hannibal opens up entirely for him, and they’ll be able to talk about the sunset to the seabed,
any topic whatsoever, no holds barred. And while they’ve mostly shared small talk, it has
been as riveting as ever.

As Hannibal said, they understand each other like no other could.

Will gravitates to Hannibal’s side as the boat sails on, and Hannibal looks like he wants to
ruffle his hair or something inanely childish in that same vein. Will cocks a brow at him, as
if to say don’t you dare.

“Shall I give you a haircut?” Hannibal asks instead.

“What, now?”

“Why not now?”

Will doesn’t have a good answer to that. He hates when that happens.

Hannibal offers Chiyoh advice on how to dock the boat accordingly, and herds Will down to
their cabin. Will is only moderately surprised to see a pair of scissors glinting in Hannibal’s
appointed bathroom drawer. He must have found it with his Uncle’s possessions. They look
clean at least.

“Don’t go too short.” At Hannibal’s smirk, Will regrets even speaking. “Hannibal, come on.”

“Long enough that you retain a few curls in the front,” Hannibal assures after circling Will’s
body with towels. They’re doing this on the floor, even though they won’t be using the bed
again for some time, if at all. Will crosses his legs, hands fumbling aimlessly into his lap.

“Fine by me.”

“It may be counterproductive to keep your shirt on.”

After Will peels it off, he turns astringent.

He can feel Hannibal’s gaze absorbing all the new scars, and the old. Unfortunately he’s
sitting right in front of him, so he’s getting a full view of the belly scar he himself created
once upon a time.

“I looked in the mirror when I got home,” Will confesses faintly, hands flexing over the
rough fabric of his jeans, “after I woke up from the coma. I…I hated what I saw.” His face
scrunches up at the pristine memory of the scars painting him. “H e cut me intermittently.
Nothing clean or meaningful.” He scrapes a thumb over the faded ridge of the gut wound,
and meets Hannibal’s eyes. “I spent three years, more, pretending this one didn’t exist, but
when I saw it again, I could only think about how beautiful it was.”
“You astound me, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, threading fingers through his hair in the guise of
consideration. He’s touching it indulgently, reminiscent. “You always have, and always
will.”

“Always is too promising a term,” Will mutters pessimistically.

“Not to me. I can no longer picture myself without you. I refuse to.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ll feel the same about me in twenty years.”

Hannibal begins snipping, passively avoiding Will's accusatory glower.

“It is more than faith. It is philosophy.”

“Our chase is over,” Will barbs. “Your philosophy might become blasé ”

The timing is so impeccable, Will immediately suspects Hannibal chose to do it on purpose;

he nicks Will’s ear by accident, to the point of bleeding. Will feels a droplet roll down the
lobe.

A sharp gasp escapes him as a warm tongue licks up the mess, Hannibal’s lips closing
delicately around the cut to collect from the source. When he pulls away, Will’s skin there is
wet and cold, deprived.

“When you do start to anticipate me, please do me the courtesy of letting me know.”

That promptly shuts Will up.

"What is this?" Hannibal inquires when Will hands him the compass, encased in terrycloth.
He wanted to keep it safe on the ride over, and this was all he had.

"Open it," Will encourages, watching Chiyoh talk with the French mariners several feet away.
She looks charismatic from afar; he shouldn't be surprised she's as good an actor as Hannibal,
but he is.

Hannibal's reactionary silence is more than telling.

"She wanted me to give it to you," Will explains, tonily sulking. "I could uh, never figure out
the right timing. I thought since we were going to see her…" He shifts his weight back and
forth, from one foot to another. "I assume you know what it means."

"That I do," Hannibal murmurs, stroking the rusted trim. "I'd like to restore it."

Will doesn't know when Hannibal imagines they'll find the time for that, but he nods in
mutual agreement. Lady Murasaki would approve.
"Up until I heard Chilton's men were looking for her, I thought she was long dead."

"No, merely displaced from my life.”

Will watches him when he’s sure Hannibal isn’t aware of it. It appears as if Hannibal’s got
one foot in memory lane, and the other glued to the pavement of reality.

“I haven’t told Chiyoh,” he discloses, cagily. “About the men looking for Murasaki, I mean. I
wish I could say it was because I didn’t want her to worry, but I needed her to come back to
America and help.”

He doesn’t have an excuse for keeping the information to himself on the voyage which just
ended.

Faced toward the sky, Hannibal inhales deeply.

Before he can respond, Will adds, “Your aunt said she would handle it.”

“She taught me everything I know about martial arts,” Hannibal reassures. “Did you know
that she also taught me to cook? Or, started me off. The rest I learned from fine dining
magazines.”

“She introduced you to a wealth of culture…you started weaving your person-suit then.”

“Yes. I was an irrational young man, and soon learned societal boundaries.”

“You learned you couldn’t slice your way through the streets in broad daylight,” Will posits,
persuading himself to stand in front of Hannibal. “How did you get away with those first few
murders?”

“I was suspected for my Uncle’s death, but fortunately all the evidence was there to prove
what he suffered from was a premature myocardial infarction.”

He shoots a sly glance at Hannibal, who has become increasingly alert of Will’s proximity.

“The evidence was there, but was it truthfully a heart attack?”

“Yes,” Hannibal asserts, cheeks raising with a smile. “The records say so after all, Will.”

“Uh huh.”

Chiyoh’s boots click down the docks in their direction. Will slings his new satchel over his
shoulder. Hannibal told him he could use it for travel; they found it in Robertus’ possessions
inside the yacht.

They found a lot of useful things there. It felt sanctimonious to steal from a dead man, but
they’re a sanctimonious bunch in the end.

Hannibal is carrying one himself, a larger gray bag that matches his suit. He’s not dressed as
ostentatiously as he’d probably like, but Will still thinks he looks appealingly dapper. The
suit jacket is patterned in dark gray plaid, and he’s wearing black pants with a maroon belt.
Hannibal had muttered mournfully about how all the suit combinations available to them
would end up unseemly mismatched. Will had opted for a navy blue shirt and brown pants.
He isn’t the show pony of the two.

“The path is cleared for us,” Chiyoh deadpans.

Their plan had no foundation other than; Chiyoh shows her passport and explains her two
friends lost theirs at sea during a storm. Charm them, and profit. Will hadn’t expected her
‘charm’ to work, but he supposes the mariners don’t harbor the memory of a painful bullet
wound in the shoulder.

Storing away the compass in his satchel, Hannibal gestures for Chiyoh to lead the way. They
follow her down the docks and to the nearest bus station. They board the third, headed for
Versailles.

It’s a stressful trip. Will hadn’t been prepared for the severe spotlight effect that arrives by
sitting next to a notorious serial killing cannibal on public transport. He tries to block out the
French mutterings, praying to no one in particular that none of it is gossip about who his
friend here reminds them off.

The bus ride lasts two and a half hours.

Will’s head starts to pound again in the last stretch, but he can’t ask Hannibal for a head
massage with all these people (tourists, possibly Americans) around without drawing
attention, so he drops his head on the soft padding of Hannibal’s shoulder, and tries to sleep it
off.

When he wakes up, Hannibal’s fingers are intertwined with his own.

He doesn’t remember initiating that, but he squeezes receptively.

His headache hasn’t disappeared, but he was thankfully knocked out for the rest of the trip’s
duration. Hannibal helps him up to his feet, sensing his dizziness and sense of direction, or
lack thereof.

“Did you dream of anything?” Hannibal whispers in his ear as they exit the bus. Chiyoh pays
the bus fare, and Will indolently starts to recognize his surroundings.

“No,” he answers, mouth thick with exhaustion. “The first time I was sick like this, I used to
dream standing up, eyes wide open. I haven’t had many dreams since Chiyoh and I broke you
out.”

“I’m troubled to suspect that may be more a response to stress than not.” Hannibal pushes his
palm against Will’s forehead, permitting him to lean into it needily. “You’re very hot.”

“Thanks, you’re not so bad yourself,” Will croaks out the jab regretfully, shivering as sweat
drizzles down his cheeks, his temples. He feels scalding.

“Is he alright?” Will distantly hears Chiyoh ask.

Her voice is muffled, like the engine of a car once you’re inside it.

“He’s burning up. He needs treatment as soon as possible,” Hannibal explains with a tonal
evenness that doesn’t align with the tremor in his hand where he’s touching Will.

“I can make it. Don’t either of you dare risk a hospital right now,” Will grumbles, pushing
Hannibal away. The world spins under his feet, but he’s used to that, experiencing something
similar when he met with Gideon in front of Alana’s house. He’d been at his worst, then.
Gideon had told him, in his own way, that they were birds of a feather, both too trapped in
their own minds to manage a relationship.

Will thinks he’s managing just fine.

“May I carry you?” Hannibal offers.

“Not on your life,” Will remarks, trekking forward, beyond them.

“I know where the Lady keeps her contacts. In her third checkbook drawer, there’s a small
book with phone numbers, and addresses. There’s a key to it somewhere in her library,”
Chiyoh says.

“Our visit should be brief,” Hannibal states. “You may stay with the Lady if you prefer, but I
must take Will to a doctor in the next few hours.”

Historically, Will’s sarcasm worsens with his health.

“We’re lucky her library’s so skimpy.”

Neither Hannibal or Chiyoh respond.

He’s not entirely wrong, though. If Chiyoh doesn’t know where the key is, they’re going to
have to tear up the whole room to find it. The Lady isn’t going to be pleased about that.

Will had been feeling so lively those last few days on the boat.

Now, he wishes he hadn’t finished off the Tylenol so hastily.

Chiyoh unlocks the giant doors to Murasaki’s estate, and Hannibal guides Will to the closest
chaise. There are two of them symmetrical to each other in the foyer, and Will has half a
mind to fall asleep on it.

“I wouldn’t recommend falling asleep right now,” Hannibal warns, as if reading his mind. “I
need you to keep awake until we can transfer you to hospice. Can you do that for me, Will?”

There are hands cupping Will’s face. Hannibal is eye-crossingly close.

“Yeah.” Shuddering hard, he repeats, “Yeah.”

He didn’t notice Chiyoh leave the room, and doesn’t know where she’s gone, not until they
both hear a shrill scream echoing from the closest corridor. Hannibal perks up, turning in the
direction of the library.

“Stay put,” Hannibal orders, rushing into the shadows. Will leans against the wall, his spine
feeling like it’s on fire. He doesn’t know why the wallpaper hasn’t caught aflame yet. It
should all be burning to ash.

Distantly, he can hear arguing and shouting. Mostly, a female voice. Hannibal doesn’t shout.
It clicks for Will in a burst of coherency that he needs to know what’s happening. He
stumbles to his feet, and follows.

The ancient hall seems endless. The light coming from the open door to the library is
flickering, like a dancing specter. He watches the light curl into the shape of a ghost, a
beautiful familiar woman, and then it dissipates like a thousand glowing fireflies. He walks
faster, nearly tripping over his own feet.

At first, he notices Chiyoh in near hysterics trembling in Hannibal’s arms, babbling quietly as
Hannibal strokes her back and appears pensive, and eerily calm.

Then, Will sees her.

Lady Murasaki has been murdered, brutally and without remorse. The dim light scarcely does
the invader’s design justice. Her body is splayed in front of the fireplace, impaled on a hearth
iron. Judging by the serrated aspects of the wound on her chest, it was glowing hot when it
sunk into her heart. What stands out to Will is the Lady’s eye. A knife cut was started at the
caruncle of her right eye, and carved down to a culminating swirl pattern. On the opposite
side of the under eye, a bloody sideways triangle.

Whoever killed her wanted the recipients to detect the symbol.

The Eye of Horus, an Egyptian motif that is meant to ward off evil.

Even if Chilton’s men found her, they weren’t the ones to kill her. This was someone
practiced in malevolence, and knowledgeable enough about the Ripper, it could never be a
layman.

Though he knows nobody offhand who could have done this, Will can’t help but sense he
recognizes the design. As if he harbors profound knowledge of the killer and his
sensibilities.

Before Will can speak, he’s being shoved up against a bookcase so hard, several books fly off
the shelves, scattering around them. Chiyoh’s eyes are penetrating his own, furious.

“You lied to me,” she accuses, accent heavy in her rage. “You knew she was being hunted!”

“I — ” Will gulps, short of breath. “I would have told you if I thought — ”

“I should kill you. She’s dead because of you,” Chiyoh spits, ignoring Hannibal’s subtle
gestures to get her to ease off. There are tears glittering in her eyes. “You and Hannibal are
the same selfish monster.”

She lets her vice grip on his shirt collar go — his feet flatten to the floor, as she’d displayed
enough strength to lift him until his toes strained from the leverage — and dashes out of the
room and down the hall. Hannibal progresses a single step into the hall before coming to a
reluctant standstill.

“You can go after her,” Will suggests, guilt yawning so wide in his chest he’s still finding
issues with filling his lungs. “I’ll stay put this time.”

“No, Chiyoh requires space at the moment,” Hannibal decides.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

Hannibal meets him with a glare. “If we want her respect, we must respect her boundaries.”

“Something you learned from your Aunt?” Will mutters, glancing again at the measly
tableau. They could have at least done something more other than carve a symbol into her eye
and cheek. Hannibal follows his gaze, lips downturned at the sight of the Lady, degraded.

“Something I’ve learned from you,” he counters solemnly.

Will sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, shakes his head.

“If this was Chilton, this wasn’t the man under his employ I ran into, or men like him. He
was…a coward. They all are. Chilton hires his own breed, and they wouldn’t be capable of
this. This is someone we know. Someone bad.”

“They way we are bad?” Hannibal presses.

“Not as self aware of his own nature.”

Meditative, Hannibal clasps his hands behind his back and paces.

“My Aunt was an expert in the martial arts, well-practiced. I doubt she would ever lose her
touch opposing anyone, unless they too were practiced or experienced in the art of killing.”

Sternly, he turns to Will.

“You’re sure this is someone we know?”

“Someone I know at the least,” Will offers, shrugging. “It’s like getting the scent of an old
high school friend. It’s changed, but it’s altogether the same. Except I can’t narrow down
which scent belongs to whom in this case. Whether the killer knows me, or I know him, I
don’t believe I’ve ever seen him kill.”

“He’s showing his design now,” Hannibal articulates, restraining a snarl. Will can picture the
rage permeating through his body, taunting the beast inside, rattling its loosely padlocked
cage.

“I’m sorry.” Will sucks in a jumpy series of breaths, and his face twists into a product of self
flagellation when he says, “Chiyoh is right. There was a risk, leaving her here alone, and I
did it out of selfishness.”

“You could not have anticipated Frederick’s next move.”

“I should’ve!” Will waves his hand toward Murasaki. “I should have known Chilton wouldn’t
be working alone, that he’d employ larger forces, better forces. He wanted to get personal,
well, this is personal.”

Will was fond of the Lady, truly. He is rarely fond of anyone after a first impression.

“I should’ve known when I found out Jack was working with him. I…should’ve told
Chiyoh.”

“We couldn’t have forced the boat to sail faster, and it was her decision in the end,” Hannibal
consoles, clasping Will’s neck with a gentle hand. The bruises have gradually faded, but
they’re still there. Aching under the surface. He slants into the touch either way, wanting
more. Hannibal rubs soothingly at his nape, not so subtly checking his pulse. “Chiyoh feels
for the Lady as I feel for my sister. I assure you, she will understand there is no blame to
place on you that she can’t blame on herself, but you must allow her to grieve.”

“Just when I thought Chiyoh and I were buddy-buddy,” Will scoffs humorlessly. “I know you
must have cared about Lady Murasaki,” he murmurs, touching the warm hand on his nape.
Hannibal didn’t care enough to kill her or revere his Aunt, but enough to disavow her from
himself, as a form of mercy. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“She did not cry a single tear when my Uncle died,” Hannibal conveys, retracting his hand to
kneel in front of her corpse, reflecting. “She respected his death in other ways. I will do the
same for her.”

“I’ll help you restore the compass,” Will promises. “I’d like to.”

Hannibal smiles up at him fervently.

“Thank you, Will.”

“My dad had a side job fixing antiques, restoring old historic machinery, the works. I’ll be a
bit rusty, but with the right tools, I can do it myself. It’s small enough, it should be simple.”

“You’re turning out to be quite the polymath,” Hannibal touts, carefully rising to his feet.
Even he’s been showing the wear of the day’s travels, knees stuttering as he straightens his
posture. “I’ll be delighted to watch you work.”

Bone dry, Will replies, “I’m looking forward to the performance anxiety.” His eyes flick over
the sight of the mangled Lady, and he sways on his feet, reaching out to grab the unstable
bookcase. Transitioning into Doctor mode, Hannibal sits him down in one of the armchairs
and begins searching for the key to Murasaki’s checkbook drawer. It could be anywhere,
inside one of a hundred books, in between them, behind them. It could be hidden in a secret
compartment on the mantle of the fireplace. It could be on the Lady’s person, even, but Will’s
head is throbbing too loud to continue studying the surface of the library.

He’s not at all surprised when Hannibal discovers the hiding place near instantaneously, in a
book located on the furthest bookcase from the entryway, and retrieves the key buried inside
after flushing out its pages. The title of the book reads: Introduction to Keyboard.

“She always did have a smart sense of humor,” Hannibal muses, pocketing the key. “I trust
you’ll stay put this time. I will narrow down an address for us. Somewhere fitting.”

Will nods, and watches him leave, as much as he can crane his neck toward the shadowed
hallway. He sits in waiting, staring at Lady Murasaki’s body, wondering again who could
have left them this message.

And it is a message.

The Eye of Horus’ protective powers come from warding off evil forces. It is a warning as
much as it is symbolism. Whoever left it here, is threatening Hannibal, the proverbial ‘evil.’
Perhaps they thought a gruesome message would reach his reasonable side, rather than a
pathetic plea for their lives.

All of a sudden, it clicks for Will.

Alana. A mother’s fear could conceive such violence. She wouldn’t have killed the Lady
herself, but she’s perfectly capable of enlisting a killer Will knows, or breeding someone Will
knows into being her assassin. He never thought she would go as far as this, even with
Margot potentially forcing her hand. But, seeing as Hannibal will be after her, and in turn her
family, warding him off would be their best bet.

He snarls and pushes his head into the back of the chair.

Alana is foolish if she thinks Hannibal will respect this, as if it’s some token of mutual
understanding or a peace treaty. Aside from the fact it’s an ugly, poorly thought out tableau,
it’s insulting.

She doesn’t understand Hannibal. She never did.

This isn’t compromise; it’s chickenhearted negotiation.

When Hannibal eventually comes rushing back without the book of addresses, but no doubt
with several of them memorized, he lifts Will up to his feet, and shepherds him out of the
library and back to the foyer.

Will decides he’ll keep the Alana information to himself for the time being, mostly because
he doesn’t feel well enough to be putting up with Hannibal’s dramatized reaction to it. And,
he hopes to deduce who specifically the killer she commissioned is before they take any leaps
to oppose her.
“I’ve called for a cab. I’m afraid we must separate from Chiyoh for now. She will follow if
she wishes, but we cannot force her,” Hannibal explains. Will hums in drowsy
acknowledgement.

When the cab pulls up to the curb beyond the hedges, Hannibal carries him — one arm
draped comfortably under his thighs, the other supporting his upper back — to the car and
deposits him into the backseat. He isn’t cognizant enough to protest, moaning as his nervous
system kicks into overdrive. The seizure he has in the backseat of the French cab is a quiet
one, but no-less an out of body experience than any other, even if he can vaguely feel
Hannibal petting his freezing, damp skin.

“Allez plus vite,” Hannibal growls at the driver, leaving zero room for argument. It’s the last
noise Will finds himself aware of before the world fades, becoming white, and barren.

The stench of chlorine and body sweat consumes him.

It’s peppered with the smell of iron; blood.

He opens his eyes to find himself in a vast locker room. It must belong to a public gym,
perhaps requiring expensive memberships if the scale of the place is anything to gauge.

It takes Will a moment to register the body he sees in front of him. It’s in the position of a
crucifix. Hannibal is bleeding from his arms in long red stripes, and he’s balancing on a
bucket as a noose holds him unstably upright. This is not a sight he ever had the privilege of
perceiving, nor was it one he bothered to recreate in his mind palace, even to bask in the brief
verisimilitude of power he held in the palm of his hand.

Though he knows obscurely that this isn’t presently real, it shocks him to find Hannibal
gleaming down at him, the smile abnormally large and predatory. His person suit, torn right
off.

“Do you like what you see?” he sneers, uncharacteristic. “Your work on display.”

“Not my work,” Will refutes breathily, staring at the stream of blood crawling toward a drain
in the dark tile flooring.

“The hand of God, but not God?”

“This was a seamless manifestation of my fury.” Will steps closer to Hannibal, admiring the
clean slices in inner arms. The symbolism behind them. “It was interrupted.”

“The Ripper was as elusive here as he was in his crimes. I should know.”

The voice coming out of Hannibal’s mouth isn’t his own.

There’s something Will is missing.

“Homage after homage,” Hannibal sighs. “Don’t devotees ever get bored?”

The blood in the room is suddenly boundless, crashing in waves all around Will as he
remains frozen in time, watching the indignation in Hannibal’s eyes become bright with the
ideality of being seen.

When the blood drowns Will’s vision and the cavern of his mouth, he wakes, panting and
sweating bullets. The real Hannibal is by his side, clutching his hand tight in response to
Will’s thrashing night terrors. Will doesn’t let him go. He can’t.

“Matthew,” he exhales in disbelief before taking in his environment.

Hannibal frowns. “Matthew Brown?”

Will’s head whips around, his dream transitioning into threadbare notions. Hannibal is sitting
on the edge of the hospital bed he’s in. A private one, with heavy ivory sheets rather than
cheap transparent ones. They’ve made it to the private doctor Hannibal was confident he’d
find, a trustworthy one hopefully.

“Yeah, he…” Will closes his eyes, runs through the imagery again. As if to test the world’s
tangibility, he paws for Hannibal’s forearm and rolls up the confused man’s sleeve. The scar
is there, pale as sun-kissed sand. Running his pointer finger along it, he rambles, “He’s the
one who did it. He…no, Alana got him to do it. She must have known, I mean. She was there
when it happened. Back in Baltimore.”

“My dear, you aren’t making any sense,” Hannibal tells him softly.

“It’s — ” Will is rapidly losing his grip on the vision. “Ehm.”

“Allow me to feed you, then you can explain.”

Will’s panting deflates to an unsteady breathing pattern. He lets go of Hannibal’s arm,

realizing he’d been holding him captive with how tight he was gripping. Hannibal merely
smiles, and pats his thigh before he departs from the room.

In his absence, Will memorizes everything he can about what he remembers. He understood
everything in his dream, but the necessary pieces to the puzzle are still workable. He just
needs to jot them down in a comprehensible manner for Hannibal. The fact that he can do this
much, confirms his good health.

When Hannibal returns to the small room ten minutes later with a tray of water, juice, and a
cloched plate of food, Will has completely calmed down, finding himself in a clearer
headspace than he’s been in for months. Though he feels weak, he knows his body is reviving
itself. The Antivirals are working.

It takes the first sip of water to understand how thirsty he is. The only obstacle preventing
him from chugging it down is Hannibal blanketing his hands over Will’s on the glass,
keeping it steady for him.
When the water is mostly gone, Hannibal sets it down and removes the cloche.

It is a plate of thick spaghetti, with a homemade vegetable marinara sauce sprinkled with a
rich looking cheese. It isn’t extravagant, but the smell causes Will’s stomach to rumble
loudly.

Hannibal lets him feed himself, smirking at his barbaric manners. Will doesn’t care that he’s
shoveling it down like a caveman. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this hungry.

“Encephalitis muffles appetite, I’m sure you remember.”

“Oh yeah,” Will mutters. “No chicken soup this time?”

A strange expression crosses Hannibal’s face.

“It is in all actuality healthier for you to stick to antioxidant foods in your condition,” he
mumbles, quiet enough that the hidden truth there almost flies over Will’s head. The chicken
soup was originally meant to make him worse.

He’s too wired to care about how much of an asshole Hannibal was, or is.

Instead, Will rewards him with a cold shoulder until he finishes his food. He then stares at the
juice until it’s handed to him, and he decides he quite likes Hannibal feeling obligated to
him.

“Now tell me, Will,” Hannibal sets the empty glass down. It’s stained purple just like Will’s
tongue. “What did you see?”

Will explains the dream in as vivid detail as he can muster, then elaborates, “I can’t justify
how I know other than relying on what my mind is obviously telling me, and it’s telling me
that he’s the killer behind it. Behind Murasaki’s ‘tableau.’ It — Alana wants to convince you
to leave her family alone, and must have felt like she could offer Matthew Brown a good deal
to do what was required for that. A visceral warning in exchange for his freedom from the
psych ward. But he took that offer because of me, because I-I lied to him. He wasn't leaving a
warning for her, but for us, or me. Not that Alana knows that. Matthew wants revenge, it’s so
clear to me now. At first I thought that design was the Eye of Horus, but the Horus symbol is
usually meant to represent the left eye, the right side indicating the Eye of Ra.”

“Which symbolizes Ra gaining his power from instilling fear of violence,” Hannibal
concludes, eyes darting back and forth as he takes all of it in. “He could have easily
convinced Alana it was Horus and received commission. His design was a warning, but
unlucky for her, fruitless, and beneficial only to Matthew.”

Will’s not in the right headspace to step into Matthew’s shoes, and he won’t try to, but he
deliberately trains his breathing and lets his skin cool from the blushing heat of adrenaline,
and attempts estimation.

It’s not difficult.

“He felt emasculated,” Will hisses, bordering on righteous indignity. He feels itchy from the
shades of Matthew’s scorn, and he can’t help but come across offended on his behalf even
though it's in direct opposition to how he’s compartmentalizing the situation himself. “He
thought he was fundamental to the Ripper’s legacy, and he found out he wasn’t even a
footnote, let alone a page, or a chapter. That design was sloppy because he’s fueled by
unhinged anger, and a hundred other emotions he doesn’t even understand. He just knows he
wants to claw his way out of the margins.”

“Does he want to kill you or me?” Hannibal questions seriously.

“Yes?” Will huffs a laugh. “No? It’s his pursuit.”

“You remain the most remarkable mind,” Hannibal murmurs, caressing Will’s legs over the
blanket. The sheets are so heavy, Will barely feels the touch, but it’s enough to break him out
of his empathetic haze. “I’ve missed your deductions. The drugs must be working fairly well
for you to be this coherent.”

“God,” Will groans into his hands, rubbing the stiffness out of his sleep-blotched face. He
brushes his hair back, momentarily shocked when he doesn't discover long, shoulder-length
locks. He hasn’t even had time to see how his new haircut looks. “How long have I been
out?”

“Six days,” Hannibal informs, extracting another frustrated groan from Will.

“At least I slept off half of my recovery.”

“You woke several times, enough to feed you, but you spoke disjointedly, and at one point,
lamented about your love for plum pudding.” The color flushes from Will’s cheeks, as he’s
slightly humiliated. Not that it’s a dirty secret, but to Hannibal maybe it is. Until he adds, “I’ll
be happy to bake you one.”

“Let’s just…put out the brain fire first,” Will sighs. “One step at a time.”

Hannibal bows his head in acquiescence.

The room looks more like a guest bedroom than anything else. There is a birchwood bureau
by the door, and a mini bathroom adjoined by a painting — two turtle doves flying high
together — and a clock ticks noisily throughout the room. He can’t see it, so he guesses it’s
right above him.

There is a reclining chair next to him Hannibal is pointedly avoiding.

“Where are we?” he asks, settling back into the pillows.

Hannibal abandons his side to retrieve a jacket. It is rather cold in the room, and Will
snatches it greedily, belatedly offering a murmured ‘thank you’ as he shucks it on.

“At an old colleague’s home in Rocquencourt. I was relieved to find him in my Aunt’s
contacts. I didn’t realize he still practiced. I can guarantee he won’t alert the authorities.”
Will hums. He doesn’t particularly care, as long as they’re safe.

“Chiyoh?” he utters after an appropriate interim.

“I did not feel comfortable leaving you, in case you woke up, so I have not checked on her.
And despite our asylum here, I would not risk a phone call directly to the estate.”

The news comes with a gutting level of melancholy. Will had started to authentically care for
Chiyoh, like a friend, or even a close cousin. Chiyoh wouldn’t tolerate him using the term
‘brother.’

“What do you plan to do,” Hannibal asks, folding his hands on his lap, “if we run into
Matthew Brown.”

“No offense, Hannibal, but I haven’t exactly thought far beyond my breakfast.” He thinks
about the dish itself and rephrases, “Lunch.” Catching Hannibal’s intense gaze, he asks,
“What do you plan to do?”

“Talk.”

“Hah.”

“I’ve told you before, words are living things. They have point of view, agenda.” Hannibal’s
lips purse in contemplation. “Occasionally, violent individuals merely want their point of
view to be heard.”

“What if his agenda is to murder you,” Will scoffs. “Or me?”

“Then I will kill him,” Hannibal responds honestly. “Ideally in the manner he attempted to
kill me.”

“That’s bordering on self defense.”

“I would have expected you to say ‘mercy’.”

“We make mercy,” Will reminds. “Self defense is compulsory.”

“I am well versed in self defense.” Hannibal’s tone is tight, unforgivingly punitive. “Or have
you forgotten so conveniently?”

Will doesn’t have a response to that, afraid to wrongly answer. The tribulations and trials of
Hannibal’s past are constantly on his own mind, like a film playing on loop over and over.
After a while it becomes frustrating, provoking. Though Hannibal may not regret anything
he’s done, he makes certain to remember every detail, every breath he took, and what it
meant to him in the grand scheme of his life. He kills for a reason, he hurts others for a
reason. He shattered Will’s entire sense of self because he wanted to be a part of it without
changing even a pinch of himself. He did change, though, just as Will changed. He wonders
sometimes if Hannibal regrets changing, or if he even recognizes himself anymore.
Hannibal reaches his hand out and pushes back the curls (desperately in need of a shower) off
Will’s forehead, revealing the healed scar there, a perfect radius.

All of a sudden, Will is embittered as if it were carved yesterday.

“Self defense. From what, me? I never stood a chance.”

“No, Will, I never stood a chance.” A thumb runs along the line of it, and even years old, it
stings with phantom pain. A muted sensation of the wound gaping wide. “I had fallen in
love.”

Will’s eyes widen, and his lips part as the confession sends him into a trance.

When Hannibal’s hand falls away, Will snaps out of it, averting his gaze so Hannibal doesn’t
see the tears swelling in his eyes. They sting and blur his vision. Hannibal is remarkably
patient, sitting beside him with his head lowered, waiting until Will regains his faculties.

“I thought I was prepared for how those words would make me feel,” he whispers, not
trusting his voice beyond that pitch. “To hear you say them.”

“This was not when I was prepared to say them,” Hannibal admits.

“What made you change your mind?” It confounds Will, that Hannibal had been so prone to
the act of ending him, and then so deterred from it after disruption. “Why keep me alive if I
scare you so much?”

“You misunderstand.” Hannibal extends his hand, palm up. Will settles his hand atop of it
after deliberation. Neurons are misfiring in his head. Awash with anger, devotion, a mixture
of deference and passivity, he can’t help but to be guided. Hannibal’s fingers encase his own,
and he raises them up to kiss the knuckles. A soft brush of close lips, reverent as a disciple.
“You made me experience emotions I hadn’t felt in decades, not since my sister. That’s what
frightened me, not you Will. Bedelia warped my perspective, but I blame only myself for
letting fear, and forgiveness, keep me from thinking.”

“Bedelia?” Will echoes back, the need to know more about her involvement temporarily
trumping his need for closure on the subject.

“She used my sister’s death against me. Crafted correlations between you and Mischa.
Foolish of me to expect otherwise, considering how much of myself I gave away in therapy.”

“You couldn’t have actually believed therapy with Dr. Du Maurier would help you,” Will
grits out, the mere concept of it festering something rotten inside.

“No, not entirely.” Hannibal tilts his head. “I viewed my sessions with her more as
equilibrium.”

“She would readjust the tie on your person-suit when it was called for.”

“Precisely.”
 “Why haven’t you killed her?”

The look on Hannibal’s face is disgruntled.

“I have been preoccupied, Will.”

The clock ticks on, and Will flex his fingers in Hannibal’s hold.

“What you feel for me, it — it doesn’t frighten you anymore.”

Hannibal lifts Will’s hand to hide his smile, but Will feels it all the same on his knuckles. He
swallows against a distracting wave of affection as Hannibal speaks.

“Love is a gift. Not the enemy.”

Listening to the inflections in Hannibal’s voice, Will observes how Hannibal’s face twists
into unbridled adulation when watching him in turn, and finds his disposition sincere. He
offers a soft smile and says,

“You owe me a trip to Bedelia’s sanctuary.”

“And what do you plan to do when you find her?”

A smirk spreads Will’s lips leisurely.

“Talk,” he challenges, using all his guile.

Hannibal grins, teeth jagged as ever. It’s animalistic; he’s perfect.

“In a week’s time, I promise you, we’ll do just that.”

Chapter End Notes

it's heatin up boisssss!

 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will wakes to a throbbing erection.

The phenomenon isn’t shocking so much as it is unwelcome. After countless days in and out
of hospitals and wards, Will has grown accustomed to the process of trauma recovery,
inevitably experiencing a surge in his libido over the days leading up to his release. He was
never an overly sexual person before these frequent hospital trips, but he never purposefully
kept away from sex if he could help it, nor masturbation. It was a satisfying pastime for him,
just like fishing or fixing boat motors. Nothing like analyzing dead bodies at their respective
crime scenes.

Lust is a mild problem, all things considered.

This instance is different though, because the man who confessed his love to him not three
days prior is asleep in the reclining chair, just to the left of him. Not traumatic—not at all—
just awkward.

Suppressing a groan as the sheets brush across his hot, sensitive skin, he peels them back to
plant socked feet on the paneled floor. Miraculously, Hannibal doesn’t wake as Will hobbles
off to the bathroom and clicks the door shut. There, he rips the stale clothes from his body
and turns the knob in the shower to the coldest setting.

He had forgotten how consuming arousal is.

Especially daunting when he knows he can’t offer himself relief without Hannibal somehow
knowing, and he would know, and it would be far more awkward than the ordeal is now.

The cold water stifles the overwhelming urge to take his engorged dick in hand, but he can
still feel the thrill of arousal buzzing under his skin, low and harmonious to the dying
migraine in his head.

After shampooing and washing up, erection narrowly avoided, Will braces his palms against
the tile wall, and squeezes his eyes shut against the frantic whirlwind of thoughts in his mind.
They are superfluous, never-ending. He wants some peace and quiet. Maybe that’s what his
body’s trying to reward him with.

His brain should get it by now; sex isn’t the answer.

Neither is fishing, or fixing boat motors. Or antique restoration, anything that has to do with
anything other than his fragile mental state. It needs to be stimulated beyond all that.
He towels himself off while keeping the water running. He’s acquired a habit over the past
few months of keeping the water on in his showers until the absolute last minute, because the
sound soothes his nerves.

As he’s rubbing mindlessly at his wet curls, he notices he left the door open a crack.
Succumbing to an unexpected urge, he pushes it open slightly further and catches sight of
Hannibal, fully awake, holding Will’s pillow to his face, and inhaling deeply through his
nose. He’s bent over the bed, eyes closed.

Without tipping off his presence, Will pulls the door back to its original position, the towel
drooping in his hands as he momentarily desists in all bodily function out of consternation.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, trying not to think about what he just saw.

He pads over to the shower and shuts the water off, then stands in front of the mirror for a
great time and ruminates over how unattractive he finds himself. Not ugly, but not perfect. He
shucks on the clothes he should likely be reserving for the laundry, and returns to the room.

Hannibal isn’t pretending to be asleep, at least, yet the pillow is back where it’s supposed to
be (suspiciously orderly), and he’s sitting up in his chair in a relaxed, accessible stance.

“Trouble sleeping?” he murmurs, quiet even though it’s just the two of them.

“You could say that,” Will answers ambiguously.

He climbs back under the covers, and Hannibal brushes Will’s damp curls out of his eyes,
observing him fondly. “I think I’ll get started on breakfast. Something big to sate your
appetite.”

There isn’t a window in the room. He’d have guessed it was around midnight.

Antivirals unfailingly make him feel unrested despite how long he sleeps.

Will rolls onto his stomach, letting his curls fall back over his face to annoy Hannibal, but it
only serves to draw a larger smile out of the man. He splays his limbs out to relish the chilly
embrace of the sheets.

“Is it that early already?”

It might be true that he's been spoiled lately, but Hannibal is relentlessly lavishing him.

“You can sleep for a while longer. It should take an hour and a half.”

“Your colleague doesn’t mind you using his kitchen?”

“Not at all,” Hannibal casually assures. “You may stay here. I will bring it in to you.”

“I’d say you were buttering me up for something, but considering the connotations of that…
” Will half shrugs, smirking up at him through lowered lashes. “Should I say thank you?”
The serious expression Hannibal delivers back is blatantly tongue-in-cheek.

“Feisty this morning, are we?”

Will knows he doesn’t mean it in that way, but his face gravely falls at the idea that Hannibal
did actually figure out what woke Will up this morning. He quickly buries the thought. If he’s
going to lose his cool this regularly, he’s going to need to start brainstorming a few clever
comebacks for when he’s totally unprepared for how a simple unprovocative statement might
make him feel; at present, provoked.

As it stands, his response when he’s flustered is to taunt.

“I’m wondering why we haven’t had your colleague for dinner.”

Coy, Hannibal shoots back with, “Who says we haven’t?”

“Please. You haven’t served me any meat yet.”

“The essence of man can be transmuted to any component of a dish, not just the meat. That’s
what makes a good chef.”

“And a psychopath,” Will grumps. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Hannibal purrs, moving from the recliner to the bedside so smoothly, Will
would have barely even realized he moved closer if not for the mattress dipping. He averts
his eyes.

“Like you’re okay with me saying that. You know you’re not crazy.”

“And you know it too, so where should my ire derive?”

Grumbling, Will muffles his answers; unintelligible remarks are deposited into the fluffy
fabric of his pillow, skin abruptly buzzing where Hannibal decides to touch him, two fingers
in a caress. Right at the sensitive spot on his neck which sends hot shivers throughout his
body. He pushes Hannibal away with a butt of the chin instead of succumbing to the urge to
lean into it, and grunts at him to start breakfast.

“I do so enjoy you in the mornings.”

“Shove it.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, but Will can hear his smile on his way out. The door closes, a not-
so-subtle hint warning Will to keep inside the room. He doesn’t have plans to go anywhere.

He isn’t that curious.

He dozes in and out, and perks up when just as Hannibal promised, a little over an hour later,
the scent of breakfast wafts in. Mouth watering, he doesn’t even attempt to hide his
anticipation at the dishes Hannibal is rolling in on a silver cart. You’d think this place was a
restaurant with all Hannibal has access to.
“A breakfast-themed hasselback sweet potato topped with a sunny side up duck egg, paired
with fresh salmon croquettes, hollandaise sauce, and a blended bitter gourd apple and lemon
smoothie. Bitter gourds are celebrated for their anti-inflammatory properties, and should be
highly beneficial in your recovery. I added a pinch of ginger to spice it up for you, and made
my own special blend of coffee on the side, of course.” Hannibal sets a pop-up tray over
Will’s lap, unwrapping a paper straw for the smoothie.

“If this is you working on a budget, I fear for my weight when you acquire better resources.”

“Bedelia may have a few meat products on hand," Hannibal considers.

Will moans around a slice of potato and creamy egg, taken aback by how good it is, though
he shouldn’t be at this stage. He smiles around his mouthful and waits until he can swallow
before responding.

“I’d be elated if she’s in possession of my favorite cut of meat.”

Hannibal’s gaze brightens, focus intensifying.

“And what is your favorite cut, Will?”

“The thigh,” he breathes. “I bet you make a damn good one.”

“I do.” Hannibal’s eyes flicker down to Will’s lap. There’s enough space for him to reach
under the tray and touch his legs, and he does, causing Will to slowly inhale and keep his
heartbeat in check. As Hannibal’s hand trails up his leg and stops right above the kneecap, at
the base of his thigh, and squeezes, he murmurs, “Thigh is one of the most tender cuts. Full
of protein, full of flavor.”

“Dark meat,” is all Will can manage to contribute.

“Dark meat for dark minds.”

“I’m certain Bedelia will have one on hand. Maybe two.”

Hannibal meets his eyes with a semi-serious expression and retracts his hand, breaking the
ice of their little game. “Bedelia did become a vegetarian after our foray to Florence, Will.”

Will doesn’t break contact as he rolls his head toward the opposite shoulder.

“All the more reason she won’t be needing it.”

If Hannibal was biding his time for confirmation, he just got it. Will knows what he’s
implying, and Hannibal knows what he’s implying. Without even discussing the finer details,
they’ve just scheduled a dinner reservation in Italy. Though Will is gorging himself on
delicious cuisine, he feels hunger.

Hannibal looks as if he means to say something more, but the door to the room creaks open.
Their attention is both torn to the visitor.
Chiyoh stands there, clutching a large gun with two hands, dressed for travel once more. Her
eyes are cloudy, dry from days of repleted tears. She meets Hannibal’s gaze, and then Will’s.

The tight line of her mouth refuses to waver.

“Chiyoh,” Hannibal greets. “I am relieved to find you well.”

“When can he travel?” she drones, knuckles whitening on her firearm.

“He can travel now,” Will declares, pushing his posture upward in case she feels the need to
accost him. He doesn’t want to bicker with her, not without dignity.

Hannibal sighs. “Will—”

“It’s been enough days, I can take my antivirals on the road,” Will interjects, turning to
Chiyoh who is unsubtly taking in the sight of the medical equipment, and his titanic stash of
pills on the dresser. Speaking to her directly, he asks for assurance, “You’re coming with us
to Italy then.”

“I have nothing left,” she elucidates. “Nothing for me here to cling onto.” Chiyoh looks down
at her feet. Boots she has worn often before, on her ventures through Europe. “Scarcely even
a memory.”

“There will be no turning back,” Hannibal warns lightly. “Not for quite some time. If we are
caught, it is likely you will be caught with us. Are you prepared for such a fate?”

“It is my moral duty,” Chiyoh answers, teeth gritted.

“Are we traveling by train?” Will asks Hannibal.

“Yes. That will be the most innocuous mode of transport.”

“I will go to the station and return with three tickets,” Chiyoh informs them. The indifference
in her voice is a barrier she’s erected in the face of her burgeoning resentment towards Will,
and in turn, Hannibal. “Be packed by sundown.” With that, the door is pulled shut, and her
boots click softly down the hall.

Though Hannibal’s coffee is perhaps one of the most delicious concoctions Will has ever had
the pleasure of tasting, he finds he can’t quite stomach it.

“She’s still pissed,” he surmises.

“Yes,” Hannibal agrees curtly. “Nevertheless, finding us on her own volition reveals steady
progress. Chiyoh finds herself caught up in the obstacle course of grief. It is difficult to see
redemption past a predisposed stretch of hurdles. Forgiveness will come to her as it comes to
us all. Unexpectedly.”

“I hope you’re right,” Will replies mildly.

Hannibal watches him pick at his food with a curious look.

“Why do you seek Chiyoh’s approval, Will?”

He didn’t sign up for therapy this early in the morning. There was a reason he used to
schedule sessions with Hannibal at 7 pm, and never anytime before the evening’s cusp.

“You’re the psychiatrist and you haven’t figured that much out?”

“I’d like to hear you say it,” Hannibal admits quietly.

“Of course you would.” Will closes his eyes, exhaling a morning’s worth of cynicism and
deflection. There’s no harm in baring his soul, he convinces himself. They can’t harm each
other more than they already have, and there’s no harm in admitting to something this base.
“She’s the closest thing you have to family. I—I can’t screw that up. I can’t come between
that.” At Hannibal’s bewildered expression, he elaborates, “I’m not you. I’m not willing to
alienate you from her, no matter how high the pedestal you’ve positioned me on is compared
to hers. She cares about you, Hannibal. Christ, she looks up to you.”

There is a pause between them, and Will can’t help but whisper,

“No matter the Hell you put her through. You have that effect on people.”

“You’re family, Will.”

“So you’ve said,” Will grumbles, picking at stray threads of cotton. He realizes Hannibal is
situated here on the bed, expectantly, waiting for reciprocation that he won’t hold against
Will if he decides not to give it freely. He doesn’t give it; not when it’s expected of him so
outright. But, he does confess, “Bedelia said something that compelled me, not so long ago.
Something about us. More about you.”

“Ah, again with these mysterious conversations you’ve shared with Dr. Du Maurier,”
Hannibal muses, doing a lackluster job at hiding how incensed his mystification on the
subject matter is.

“She told me you gave me three years to build a family and a life, confident you’d find a way
to take them from me. Which you did. That, I don’t believe you were even consciously aware
of, but you were not discouraged when you found out I had married,” Will catches himself,
nearly saying ‘remarried’ as if he’s ever been married before in his life. “When I’d taken in
her child. It excited you. The prospect of knowing you had the power to take it all away. To
watch it crumble, so I’d have nothing left but you.”

“Not altogether untrue,” Hannibal allows.

Will’s chest heaves as he swallows a deep breath. The sensation he experiences from repeated
honesty between them hurts as much as it satisfies. It’s hard to truly understand how much he
aches for a monster, but so fulfilling to be wanted in every way, all the ways. Any way that
matters, and ways that don’t.

Hannibal apparently isn’t done, though.

“You are wrong about one part of it.”

“What part is that?”

“To claim I was not discouraged in any instance would be a lie. When you told me…”
Hannibal’s mouth makes a clicking sound as he comes to a halt, mid-sentence. It’s costing
him a lot to admit this, whatever it is. Will watches him attentively, withholding the impulse
to reach out, but otherwise expressing that he won’t be deterred. “You told me it was not
good to see me. I felt it likely you would not return.”

“That’s funny. I thought you saw right through that.”

“It was a lie then.”

“A half truth,” Will sighs, exasperated. “How could seeing you again after three years of
separation be categorized as good, Hannibal? How could it not be black in white, utterly
obvious? A disaster and a revelation. Nirvana and purgatory. Bliss and agony. To name a
few.”

“My experience seeing you again was not as turbulent as yours, I’m afraid.”

Will meets his eyes and they gaze longingly for a moment before he asks,

“How did you feel?”

Hannibal holds the now lukewarm cup of coffee in his hands, takes in the scent of it as if to
remember a quiet morning in Baltimore, shared between only them and the city’s blurry
morning fog.

Eventually, he answers in a soft whisper.

“Happy.”

The house where Will has been hospitalized is more normal than he expected it to be. After
Chiyoh returns and leads them out across an array of halls, and a steep staircase, he’s left
lingering in a suburban living room, one he can picture the nuclear family living in just fine.
Peachy and content.

The owner of the house is named Milo.

That’s all Will learns of him, as Hannibal speaks to him across the room in fast-spitting
Lithuanian. Cordial and familiar. He looks to be the same age as Hannibal, with an identical
facial structure. Hard lines and soft cheeks. Silvering hair that looks blonde in sunlight, and
like brown sugar indoors.

The conversation is quick, and Hannibal shakes hands with Milo at the same time they nod to
each other. Will nods to him too when he makes eye contact, as it seems the polite thing to
do.

“How did you meet?” Will asks, after they’ve abandoned the quaint residence.

“At the orphanage.” Hannibal hesitates, then says, “I killed his father.”

Grateful for the honesty, Will brushes his shoulder against his, and walks ahead.

The train car reminds Will of the one he and Chiyoh shared years back.

There is a bunk bed, concerningly, until Chiyoh knocks her foot against a latch under the
frame of the bunk and a third bed extracts from underneath, about a foot lower to the floor
than the bottom bunk.

The sole train she managed to book on such notice will take just over seven hours with all the
stops along the track. Though Will is still not used to spending money where it’s not needed,
he can’t disagree that he’s quite tired and would love nothing more than to sleep the entire
trip off.

Wordlessly, Hannibal agrees to take the bottommost bunk, and Will takes the one right above,
Chiyoh claiming the bed that requires the latter. She wishes to be distanced from them, even
alongside her choice to tag along. Will isn’t going to encroach on her boundaries, just as he
suspects Hannibal will try not to.

As the sun sets in full, and the light dims from the cracks in the curtained window, Will and
Hannibal’s eyes are trained on each other, creating narratives in their own heads on what the
other is thinking about.

Hannibal’s lying flat on his back, hands crossed together.

Will is lying on his stomach, one hand dangling over the edge, probably swaying a bit too
close to Hannibal’s personal space, but that’s the last thing he’d reconsider.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, whispering low.

If he wakes Chiyoh, he’s not sure what she’ll do with her gun.

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers back. “Thank you, Will.”

Will cracks a smile. “You sound American when you whisper.”

Hannibal’s brow nearly reaches his hairline at that.

“A strange observation.”
“You’re a strange guy,” Will teases, feeling a tad reckless.

Luckily for him, Hannibal looks to be feeling similarly.

“You could say the same about yourself,” he murmurs back.

“Not as strange as you.”

“No?”

“I have four words for you. Leda and the Swan.”

“That tale represented the birth of Christianity, and the violence required of humanity to
fertilize a world capable of raising it,” Hannibal explains, as if Will’s point wasn’t that the
man hung a painting of a woman being sexually pleasured by a bird in the dining room which
he utilized for dinner parties.

Will takes the bait, though. He usually does.

“So do you believe Christianity was society’s seduction?”

“More the defilement it’s implied to represent.”

Humming, Will draws circles into Hannibal’s mattress.

“You always did hide your bolder, less attractive, opinions behind a veil of scholarly notions
and renaissance shielded allusions. The most conservative of your peers would have never
known they were agreeing to liberal, reformist ideals, if you were there to paint them a
picture.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yeah,” Will mutters. “Why not.”

“Quid pro quo. I must return the favor.”

“Oh this’ll be good,” Will slurs, eyes drooping as a wave of slumber tries to lull him into the
dream world. He never knows when violence will spring from his unconscious mind and he’d
much rather stay awake to hear Hannibal’s attempts at a ‘compliment’ that’ll somehow
refrain from lauding himself.

Hannibal hums, pretending to mull it over.

Will knows him well enough to know he’s already picked one.

But all of a sudden, Hannibal changes his mind on what he was about to say. On his face, a
shadow of doubt passes, and he murmurs slowly, as if he’s prepared to take it back in an
instant,

“May I tell you a story?”

He must take Will’s silence for reluctance because he appends,

“Chiyoh is a deep sleeper.”

“I want to hear it,” Will encourages. “Please.”

Hannibal’s Adam’s apple bobs, a blur of motion in the dark, and when he parts his lips to
speak, it’s an incredibly loud noise in the hush of their train car, but Will’s ears have always
been oversensitive.

“You told me you saw Abigail,” Hannibal recalls. “In the chapel. Much the same as when I
saw Mischa, luminous and dressed as an angel. The same age she was when she died.”

“Yes,” Will confirms, the pound of his own heart unruly.

“To me individually, dreams have often been elusive things. Deceptive, arbitrary perceptions
of light and color and air. A part of me which never interacted with the palace in my mind,
because the palace I could control. Holes in the floor of the mind could be evaded.” Will
curses the car for growing so dark, because he can’t tell if Hannibal is making eye contact
with him or not. He prays he is. Hannibal continues after a pause, “I am not certain I have
ever told you, I’ve trained my body to sleep only long enough for a singular REM cycle, and
to wake up in a stage outside of REM in order to limit the chance of my remembering a
dream.”

“You’ve never told me,” Will whispers.

Hannibal’s breath hitches, then levels out.

“While I was in a coma, I found myself incapable of controlling when my palace and my
dreams would meld. Months in the chapel felt like years to me, frequently disturbed by the
idea of being swallowed whole by my own mind, or to be faced with that I did not wish to
behold.”

“You—the you that was where I was—acted guarded with me. Unlike you.”

“I felt unlike myself,” Hannibal responds, tone reaching.

“I regret leaving without you.”

Not that Will had much choice. He’d refused Abigail’s hand, and then he found himself
drowning, a frantic enough tug of the sea to startle him to the waking world.

“When Mischa found me, I had been alone for so long, it was a relief, before it was a
nightmare. When she offered her hand to me, I gathered it was the same fate which had
become of you. You had moved on, and it was my turn. As simple as that. Just as Christians
recite in their whimsical tales of crossing death.”

Not without you, Will wants to say. I couldn’t have, not without you.
“Yet, Mischa did not visit me only once. She emerged several times, from thin air, arm
extended. Young and sweet. She was never desperate, never pleading. I could not count how
many times I refused her hand, and the pain it caused. I was…” Will’s chest contracts,
impotent momentum barreling inside him. “I do not confess this lightly, Will. It was intensely
real to me, in the manner my unconscious mind challenged me with all I’d ever sought, but
the lone element which kept me from taking it, was you.”

Will pushes wet eyes against his wrist.

“Even the possibility of you, Will, was enough. In the wake of my doubts and fears, held in
limbo, your whereabouts unknown to me, I would have always chosen you. Even trapped in
eternity.”

“That’s one hell of a compliment,” Will cracks. His throat feels raw from crying even though
he hasn’t been emitting any noise. Just reacting silently, to Hannibal’s impossible devotion.

“I did not intend to ‘one-up’ you,” Hannibal pokes back, though his tone is deadened by
reminiscence, and the sincerity of what they just shared. He doesn’t take offense to Will’s
deflection.

Except, Will isn’t deflecting this time.

“Can I touch you?” he discovers himself questioning aloud, finally pinpointing the harrowing
need inside him that moments ago, didn’t have a name.

For a minute, he thinks Hannibal is rearing up to deny him.

When he replies with recognizable words, his heart nearly comes to a stop.

“To draw a conclusion, you must test your hypothesis.”

It could be that Will’s mind had been honed to understand Hannibal in every capacity, that
even in his mind palace, he could predict exact responses. That this is all just a coincidence.

Or, it could be that what they shared in the chapel was beyond psychic.

Beyond ‘conjoined’ and its corporeal definitions.

Agile as a cat, but without the grace of one, Will shifts down off the side of his bed until he
feels Hannibal’s mattress sinking beneath their combined weight. It’s small, too much so for
comfort, but that isn’t Will’s priority presently. Hannibal’s arms are open and searching,
leaving zero room for deliberation.

Will burrows into the cocoon of him, chest shaking with uneven breathing. It’s overpowering,
mind-numbing, arousing in the sense that every single cell comes to life when he’s in his
arms—he meant to abstain from this, from what invited that fall from the cliff in the first
place—utter contentment.

It’s an insane notion, it really is.

That being held by someone could unearth the deepest yearnings.

How Will wants desperately, out of nowhere, to profess damning things. That he aches, that
he’s fulfilled, that he’d do anything for Hannibal, that he’d kill the world. That he loves.

Hannibal's arms are wrapped so tight around him that both their lungs should be compressed
to a fatal degree, but Will clutches tighter as well, burying his face in Hannibal's warm neck,
smelling of home, and hoping perilously that the contact won't end shortly.

"Don't ever go where I can't find you," Will rasps into his skin. "Don't you dare."

Not again.

Hannibal's hum echoes through them both.

Will doesn't ever want to relinquish how his whole body thrums in muted pleasure as
Hannibal speaks under his weight, a low reverberation.

"My dear, I wouldn't dream of it."

Falling asleep like that wasn't smart.

When Will starts to become aware of the world outside of the bittersweet blackness of sleep,
he realizes his cheek is smooshed into Hannibal's chest, and there is noise rattling the bed
frame behind him.

Instinctively, he startles, whipping his head around to face the cause. Chiyoh has crawled
halfway down the ladder rungs, and is staring absently at them.

Will blushes furiously, fumblingly extracting himself from a drowsy Hannibal who is
unhelpfully only waking up now.

"Good morning," Hannibal greets them both, the cat that ate the canary in every sense. No
shame to tarnish his unkempt morning exterior. "The train has stopped."

"Brilliant observation," Chiyoh mumbles, apparently as much a morning person as Will is.
She climbs down the rest of the way and begins replacing her armor. Military green coat,
strapping gun.

Currently, Will sits on his own bed, clutching his knees to his torso in an attempt to meditate
things off. It isn't working, and the world is still blaringly lively and bright, alerting him to
the reality of what he'd done the night prior, when his inhibitions were nonexistent, and he
was spurred on by spooled affections.
Hannibal lurches up like an Old Hollywood vampire fresh out of its coffin slumber,
stretching his arms above his head, and cracking his back in the process. Will pointedly
doesn't gawk.

Hannibal pointedly watches him with naked fondness.

Chiyoh is pointedly ignoring both of them.

“We have arrived in Florence,” she announces after slinging her travel bag over the opposite
shoulder of her gun which is skillfully hidden beneath several layers of clothing. “Get
dressed.”

Ditching them in the train car, Will assumes she’s deciding to wait by the platform for them
rather than deal with whatever they have to say on the subject of what she just saw. He rubs
his eyes tiredly.

“We may not get the chance to eat until tonight, so I packed these,” Hannibal says, a tinfoil
wrapped bundle of food materializing damn near out of nowhere. Will snatches it up.

“Somehow I’m never hungry until you’re feeding me.”

“That’s due to years of neglecting your stomach, Will.”

“Which is due to spending most of my youth having to hunt for my own food,” he mutters,
unwrapping the wax paper inside the foil to reveal an eggs benedict, which is remarkably in
perfect shape for travel. Portable, even. A real technician’s work.

“Ah. You’ve come full circle, then,” Hannibal toasts, raising his own sandwich in the air.

“You’re relentless,” Will remarks, mouth full just to piss him off.

“And we have a reservation to make.”

Hannibal finishes his sandwich before Will, waiting patiently with their bags by the door as
Will licks sauce off his thumb and deserts their trash in the garbage bin. They left the room
spotless otherwise.

Will takes his antivirals dry right outside the door to their abandoned train car.

“She can’t possibly be in the apartment the Polizia raided,” he deems.

“No, but I acquired several others respectively. I suspect she will be residing in one of
those.”

“She isn’t going to be happy to see us,” Will warns him as they trod down the hall, the scent
of steam heavy in the air, and work together to locate the exit doors of the locomotive. There
are dozens of sleepy passengers they must squeeze by to make haste.

“And yet hospitable she will have to be,” Hannibal responds, voice deeper than average.
There’s a threat hidden in the assertion. “We are old friends after all.”
 Will waits until Hannibal is fully out of earshot before murmuring,

“Or an old flame.”

Chapter End Notes

here's a little fluff chapter for you guys before i start my new job tomorrow! i'm not sure
what my updating schedule is gonna be like the next couple weeks because of that.
sending love <3
 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

I included a couple scenes with alternate perspectives separate from Will just for future
character motivation context. I won't be doing that more than a few times throughout
this story, because when I commit to a POV, I really wanna commit to just the one.
Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The townhouse apartment stands tall, miles from the terracotta-tiled cathedral which
accentuates Florence as Italy’s most notable tourist allure. It is stationed between identical
brimstone homes, with colorful brick steps leading up to an otherwise inoffensive residence,
refusing to call attention to itself.

It is the second apartment they are visiting. The previous home had been located more
centrally in Florence’s city square. Will wasn’t surprised to find the over extravagant golden
rooms vacant. Bedelia would not want to be close to the lights, cameras, and action so to
speak.

The townhouse is feasible; classy but clandestine.

They have arrived following the sunset. The street lights are just switching on, flickering to
life as the three of them walk up the steps to the large, vault-like doors.

Hannibal rests one hand over the small of Will’s back as he leans forward to press the
doorbell with the other. They can hear it ring like wind chimes, though the noise is muddled.

They haven’t spoken a word to each other, nor Chiyoh, nearly the entire jaunt through
Florence. There are not many things to be said that haven’t been, or can’t wait for privacy.
And Chiyoh doesn’t seem insistent on establishing closure between herself and Will, nor with
Hannibal despite having less of a quarrel with him at present. Will is focused solely on what
he’ll say to Bedelia when she shows her face.

He knows she will. He has no doubts she’s in Italy.

Nonetheless, it does astonish him when Bedelia opens the door not two minutes later, mellow
as ever, with merely a hint of curiosity in her expression as she makes eye contact with each
of them.

Her eyes flutter down the center of them, to Chiyoh’s gun.

“The cavalry has come at last,” she deadpans. “May I offer you three a drink?”

“Champagne if you will,” Hannibal heralds, smiling.

Bedelia looks them over, as if reevaluating, then moves hospitably out of the doorway so they
can maneuver themselves inward to her territory. Hannibal lightly pushes Will in first, the
gentleman at every turn, and Chiyoh follows behind them, not a coincidence that she’s
angling her gun slightly more now.

There is an alcohol cabinet in the foyer which seems fitting. She allows Hannibal to pour
them all glasses of champagne, with the exception of Chiyoh who refuses one. Will chugs his
too fast, Hannibal sips at his slowly, and they all analyze each other in a mild vein of
disbelief. This has been a long time coming.

“I’d offer to take your coats,” Bedelia expresses, already appearing dulled by their company,
“but I’d have to dispense with my wine.”

Will hadn’t even registered she was holding a glass. It is so common she carries one that he’s
begun to refer to it as a segment of her physical form.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Hannibal tells her, taking Will’s coat for him, then his own. Chiyoh
opts to keep hers on. “We did drop in rather unexpectedly, after all.”

“I wouldn’t claim altogether unexpected,” she replies stonily.

After he’s finished his champagne, Will slips his hands into his pockets and can’t help
himself. There is a fizzling, livening thing in his stomach spurring him on, begging him to
nip at her heels.

“Didn’t feel confident running out the backdoor, Dr. Du Maurier?”

“I see no point in dragging out a chase that will, inevitably, end,” she bites back, showing no
sign of flagging. “You would find me.” Her eyes bitterly dart to Will. “Meat’s back on the
menu, after all.”

“We would,” Hannibal confirms pleasantly, ushering all of them out of the foyer. Will swears
they’d never get anywhere without Hannibal to lead them. He always seems to have a plan,
even when he doesn’t.

They gather in the living room. Though she hasn’t been here long, it is decorated much like
her home in Maryland. Gray and beige color scheme, and designer furniture. It seems she
can’t live without her luxuries the way Hannibal couldn’t, or didn’t use to. Living in a cage
for three years, Will assumes despite Alana’s bestowed treats, gave him a newfound
appreciation for limiting himself.

“How will you kill me?” Bedelia asks, posturing indifference.

Will laughs, startling the whole group. He even startles himself.

“Please,” he scoffs. “We aren’t here to kill you.”

Ironically, this remark of all things wrenches trepidation out of Bedelia. Her face furrows
gravely at the prospect of this evening’s abrupt unpredictability.

“You’re not worth that much,” he concludes with taunting nonchalance, pushing past her to
scrutinize the dining room. There is an archway connecting it to the living room, and it’s just
as mediocre in size. It isn’t an overly large home despite its two floors. The living room and
dining room blend into one another, and there are two large Norman doors in the sitting area
which lead to what he suspects to be the kitchen.

“What then,” she murmurs, throat working with difficulty.

Hannibal and Will hadn’t discussed this, the parameters of what would happen once they
found her. Will didn’t specify if he wanted to kill her or maim her, but Hannibal doesn’t look
disappointed at the prospect they’ll be sparing her life. In fact, he looks enthused, perhaps
because he never expected this much commitment from Will, or perhaps because it's less
merciful to leave Bedelia alive.

“You’re going to play nice,” Will tells her, traipsing back over to her. “You’re going to sit,
and we’re going to give you a significant injection of ketamine. If you don’t cooperate, you
won’t get the sedative.”

She stares at him, nostrils flaring.

“I assume you’ll be supplying the drug.”

“Oh no. You will.” At her offense, he grins. “Don’t think I didn’t take note of your new drug
habit, Bedelia. I saw your home, I saw you. It started in Florence didn’t it, gradually
becoming worse over time. You started with the hard stuff. Do you even feel the buzz
anymore, or do you just take it out of routine?”

“You little—”

“Now Bedelia,” Hannibal chimes in. “You knew you could not outrun this.”

“I don’t see why not. The only reason you felt the need to let me marinate was because I
acted as an inadequate substitute for him,” Bedelia crosses her arms, facing Will. He can feel
his expression waver, but holds strong. “But a substitute, regardless. And you couldn’t stand
it. Neither of you could stand it. It shows. You’re chasing down phantoms in favor of
reconciliation.”

“Do you believe nothing you’ve done is deserving of consequence?” Will hisses. “You played
chess just as well as the rest of us. You just happened to blunder too early in the game.”

“Look at you,” she muses with contempt. “How did it feel to crush the bird?”

Will winces as Hannibal steps up beside him. His heat momentarily distracts Will from the
animosity baring teeth inside him. He’s one more insult away from slipping.

“My dear, if you will,” Hannibal nudges her, and she moves toward the couches without
inflection. They follow, Chiyoh trailing wordlessly behind the rest of them with her gun
armed.

“I did not expect security, I will say,” Bedelia notes.

“She’s a friend,” Will corrects.

Bedelia scans them, recognition in her eyes at the sight of Chiyoh. It catches Will off guard
enough that he doesn’t bite back at the responding scoff.

“The loyalty of thieves.”

“Wasn't it a brand of loyalty that brought you to Italy in the first place?" Chiyoh asks,
breaking her silence.

Bedelia raises a brow at her, lips quirking.

"I'd be wary, little bird," she tells her, her smile sickly. "They stomp out what you are. Sitting
in a gilded cage won't stop it. They'll crush that too, and then where will you be?"

Will shoves Bedelia down into one of the armchairs firmly by one of her shoulders (none of
the sofas look lived in and he wonders if she instead spends her days her wandering restlessly
through unfamiliar rooms) and she huffs indignantly. He grasps her chin between two
fingers.

“Will you play nice?” he asks in a low voice.

“The third shelf in my bedroom closet,” Bedelia answers, tearing her head from his grasp. He
doesn’t try to hold her still again. He’s displayed the dominance he intended. “In the white
case.”

“Good girl,” he jeers.

Her mouth hardens fiercely at the comment.

“Come along, Will,” Hannibal eases him away from her, perhaps for good reason, turning to
speak quietly to Chiyoh. “Would you keep our host company for us?”

It’s clear he’s asking her to keep watch.

Will is never entirely positive he understands Chiyoh and Hannibal’s relationship, because
she nods without quarrel. He would have suspected she would have no part in acting as a
placeholder for security, as Bedelia so eloquently worded it. Will assumed Chiyoh was
merely along for the ride, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He follows Hannibal
out of the room and to the stairwell.

There are no lights on in the second floor.

Hannibal doesn’t seek any out, and Will follows behind him in the muted darkness until they
reach a door at the end of the hall. He doesn’t question how Hannibal knows it’s the room
Bedelia sleeps in, as he obviously knows much more about this property than Will.
And much more about Bedelia, if there is much to learn.

The bedroom appears more lived-in than the living room.

It’s shocking to find the bed unmade, and perfumes disordered on the bedside dresser.
Hannibal immediately darts for the closet as Will takes in the rest of the space. The shoes
under her bed are orderly at least, but there is a dress hanging from the open closet door, and
wine droplets staining the floral rug.

“You were not wrong about our dear Bedelia’s drug habit,” Hannibal notes after a click of the
case’s lock. Will comes up behind him and inhales at the sight of several stashed drugs, all
hard stuff.

“I’m not sure I even know the names of some of these,” he admits.

“I’d be surprised if you did,” Hannibal responds. “Was Ketamine wishful thinking?”

“No. I might not know what it looks like, but I know the specific tells. There was a killer I
was chasing in the field back in Maryland that would inject his victims with it, and I’ve never
forgotten how an overdose looks. Bedelia was using when I saw her last, but I don’t think her
tolerance is actually bad enough that this won’t put her under. There’s a good amount here,
yeah?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Good, now—”

Hannibal clasps his wrist, jerking around so swiftly Will barely realizes he’s been caught. The
case is discarded on the shelf in favor of restraining Will temporarily. Hannibal’s eyes are
piercing, searching.

“It’s rude to keep a chef in the dark, Will. You haven’t told me what we’re making.”

That seems a diminutive defense for such suspicion.

“Haven’t I?” Will retorts.

“You have given me scraps,” Hannibal reminds him, voice calm to juxtapose the intensity of
his gaze. “I have had enough of relying on your implications, rather than your candor.”

“Okay, then,” Will responds, rivulets of anxiety pouring through him without his control. He
has no reason to fear Hannibal at this stage, but sometimes he recognizes echoes of that fear.
“I will tell you honestly then, that I want to take one of her legs. Just one. And I want it to be
cooked, and served.”

Hannibal’s grip loosens enough for Will to stroke lightly at his wrist. The man looks slightly
bewitched, but mostly still peeved that he hadn’t been wrong about Will pulling the rug out
from under him.

“I find I am unused to your being a step ahead of me,” Hannibal confesses.

Will gives an airy chuckle.

“I don’t see how. You seem to understand all of it, all the time. I’m…floundering.”

“Never,” Hannibal assures. “You are the picture of confidence and surety. It is a sight to
behold. I merely wish to do this your way, if that is what you wish as well.”

Will swallows, scraping a nail along with one of Hannibal’s veins.

“You know why this is necessary.”

“Would it ease your mind to enlighten me?”

Shaking his head, Will drops his hand from Hannibal’s and says, “I want you to want this as
much as me, but I can’t make you feel what I do. You couldn’t feel the way I do, without
having had…” His breath hitches as his statement comes to a halt, a realization dawning so
brightly on him that he nearly stumbles backward. Hannibal catches him by his elbows and
presses a hand to his forehead, as it must have looked like a sickly wave before a seizure.
But, Will isn’t hot. He isn’t feverish. It just made all the sense in the world to him; Hannibal
knows how this feels. Will left him and got married. Just like Hannibal left him and got
married. He couldn’t begin to compare the instances, but it happened that way nonetheless.

He can’t erase that part of history.

He had been so blinded by personal rage when Hannibal sent the Dragon after Molly, he
hadn’t even tried to understand where Hannibal was coming from. What sane person would
have? And Will had wanted so desperately to be sane. Little was he aware then how much he
mirrored Hannibal’s reaction to that betrayal. Years and years ago, Will wanted to kill him
after finding out about Bedelia’s role in Hannibal’s new life. Forgiveness that had felt so
close the days before felt lost. Hannibal had wanted to kill Will’s family because they react
differently to these predicaments. Will is reacting differently now.

To say he understands Hannibal is a testament to his new self.

Wrong or right, he can at least understand him. That’s all either of them ever wanted. Without
obfuscation, and without judgement.

“I want this…to be a stitch in our past wounds,” Will whispers, because it can’t be a remedy
for everything all at once. It’s all he can admit to at the present. He doesn’t want to tell
Hannibal he forgives him for hurting Molly and her son, but he also doesn’t want to claim
that he holds it against him. It’s a tricky mindset to nurture and it leaves a sick taste crawling
over the back of Will’s tongue.

“You once told me the teacup could never pick itself back up again,” Hannibal murmurs.

The hurt in his voice makes Will hurt right back.

These are the moments he despises the feedback loop in his brain.
“Teacups can’t gather themselves together again Hannibal,” Will tells him, and it feels like
breaking the sanctity of something irrevocably sacred, but Hannibal merely watches him with
inquisition. “But we could…gather it up together. Fix it.”

“It’s not ideal,” Hannibal replies softly, though he can’t hide the smile.

“No.” Will smiles back. “We could get cut along the way.”

“A few more scars could never take away from your radiance.”

Will blinks several times in his stupor, swaying as Hannibal leans forward and kisses him
chastely on the forehead. He can’t help but lift his hands between them and clutch onto his
shoulders, pushing into the contact. Hannibal pulls back to press his forehead against Will’s.
They prod at each other lightly, as if silently attempting to spur the other into action. Neither
of them moves forward or backward for a long time, and Will becomes hyper aware of how
warm he feels. Radiant under this attention. He opens his eyes to find Hannibal observing
him, and can’t help glancing down at his parted lips. Languidly, Will turns his head, breaking
their contact. His hands slip off Hannibal’s shoulders as they move inches apart.

His head is reeling, and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to analyze what just occurred, even
if he wants to with every fiber of his being.

“Will you prepare the meal with me?” Hannibal asks hoarsely.

It takes a moment to reboot his systems. Will feels drained of energy, from a mere instance of
tame contact. Spiraling fear settles in his belly for what that means for them in the long run.

Focusing on the task at hand, Will offers a firm nod. He owes him that much. Plus, it’s not as
if he hasn’t had a ball in the past preparing meals with Hannibal. It’s another one of the
games they play. A dalliance with puns and practice.

“Come then. The thigh will take nearly four hours to cook and rest.”

“Do you still think Will Graham is Hannibal Lecter’s biggest mistake?” Chiyoh asks Bedelia
when the footsteps leading up to the second floor fade. “Or am I still a contender.”

Bedelia crosses her legs, eyeing her up and down.

A snobbish smirk breaks her plastic expression.

“You don’t betray anything do you. Not your fears, nor even your emotions. You have loyalty
the way people have religion. What would it take for you to doubt?”

“You have not answered my question.”

“I was…mistaken,” Bedelia primly admits. “I saw Will Graham as nothing more than the
whim of a sociopath. He and I were never close. The violence I saw in Will was indecisive.”

“Indecision means little to you, and yet it defines you,” Chiyoh accuses.

“I am not indecisive,” Bedelia comments, curling a blonde strand of hair behind her ear,
glancing to the ceiling above, as if she can see beyond the plaster. “I’m divisive.”

“You have not changed from last I saw you.”

“Neither have you. The beast’s gunman.”

Chiyoh’s mouth stretches downward, a bitter curve.

“My presence does not dictate my approval.”

“It dictates you.”

Chiyoh turns from her, in a fit of revulsion. Bedelia Du Maurier would never claim to be a
poor psychiatrist. She’s clawed past the thickest hides and macheted through the thorniest
brambles of traumas to transform any situation into a benefit for herself. There is weakness in
Chiyoh and she intends to capitalize on it.

“What will you do, when they find no use for you?” Bedelia drones on, clicking her heels
together as she waits for the beasts to return to their pet birds’ cage. “Will you fly away?”

The footsteps return, a clambering noise down the wooden steps.

With one final glare, Chiyoh moves across the room to balance against the wall. She closes
her eyes, but can still feel a physical pang from Bedelia’s sharp witted gaze, relentlessly
watching. An abyss looking back into her, like most pairs of eyes happen to be.

Stubbornly, Bedelia doesn’t say a word as Hannibal and Will prep her.

She’s laid out on the couch and sedated strongly with the proper dose of Ketamine. She isn’t
fully out, but she’s not lucid enough to feel her leg being carved from her body. At least not
entirely. Will wanted her to be aware enough to remember it. He wants it to keep her up at
night alongside the taste of it.

When she’s sufficiently drugged, they move her to a large sturdy curtain Hannibal removed
from her bedroom. There wasn't a reason to waste time searching for a tarp, and since it’s
light gray, it’ll be interesting to watch the blood seep over it. A tapestry of another kind. This
doesn't feel like killing, but it’s serving Will a near-identical thrill.
“I will not stay for this,” Chiyoh announces as they’re lifting the fabric of Bedelia’s long
evening dress. Her voice has a tremor in it, but Will senses it's not due to the act of what’s
happening.

“There is a study upstairs,” Hannibal informs her gently, not bothering to egg her into
staying. There’s very sparse manipulation on his end when it comes to her. Perhaps the tenant
was enough to sate him for now, or he’s grown sentimental in his old age. “You may entertain
yourself there if it pleases you.”

She nods briskly, and disappears from the living room.

Will runs his fingers over Bedelia’s supple skin.

Her inner thigh is unblemished, freshly shaven. She takes care of her appearance if she
doesn’t take care of her body internally, and abnormally that small fact bothers him. He
wonders why she felt the need to keep herself appealing, cleansed, if she didn’t expect to
meet another soul for years to optimize not being found. He hates the idea that she did all this
because she expected Hannibal to come and find her. What did she expect other than to
become a meal on his ever spread out rolodex of recipes?

“It’ll cook well,” Hannibal purrs, as if reading his mind. Will swerves his head to face him
and allows a smile to stretch his own cheeks wide.

“I’d like to watch her eat…herself,” Will says, breathily, overcome with potential.

Hannibal takes him in, eyes flicking down to his lips before he turns away and exhales softly.
Will wants to nuzzle into him ravenously like he did the night on the train, but finds it to be a
ridiculous notion.

They have work to do.

And frankly, Will's impulses are beginning to become an unavoidable aberration. If he could
do away with them, he would, but it seems a portion of Hannibal's beastly nature has rubbed
off on him. There is a need for closeness, for snarling possession, for whatever the hell comes
with those concepts. He just knows he wants it. Bad.

Unclipping a scalpel from his inner cuff, Will decides that he can take stock of those rabid
thoughts later. This, for now, is enough of a distraction.

Hannibal shows him how to cut a limb off a person cleanly. Will follows the instructions with
the attention of an apt pupil. Though he’s not certain there will be a repeat of a night like this
in the future, he wants to master every step he can learn. He wants to know everything
Hannibal never desired to tell another living soul.

With an antithetic scalpel, Hannibal takes over when they reach bone. Will’s heart rate picks
up when he hears a tiny moan fall from Bedelia’s lips. Her neck rolls on the floor, delirious
and not fully asleep.

“Have you done this before?” Will asks, cringing at how stupid the question comes across.
He isn’t ridiculed for it. Hannibal merely looks fascinated.

“Are you asking if I’ve severed someone’s leg before, or if I’ve attempted this specific
recipe?” he questions, urging Will back to her body after he’s finished serrating the bone.

Will sucks in a shivering series of breaths, feeling hot under his collar as he cuts the rest of
the way through the ligaments and muscle. The limb comes off easily, and he’s hit with a
sensation of vertigo as Hannibal holds the long, limp leg over his arms, examining it with
interest.

“The recipe,” he forces out, mouth dry.

“Hmm. Yes.” Hannibal tilts forward and sniffs it. “I used Abel Gideon.”

“Right.”

“You look pale, Will. Are you positive you wish to continue?”

Hannibal knows the inquiry he’s posing is more of a challenge than it is a call for genuine
concern. He’s aware implying Will isn’t capable of handling these next steps, at this stage of
their long-wrought dynamic, is just as good as calling him a chicken and mimicking obscene
chirping noises.

“Do what you need to do in the kitchen. I’ll join you after I’m done wrapping the wound,”
Will responds with conviction, working overtime to train his voice and face to indifference.

With a courteous bow of the head, Hannibal presses one of the stray towels they brought
from upstairs to the bleeding end of the severed leg, and heads off toward the swinging
kitchen doors.

Will empties his mind as he attends Bedelia’s fresh nub.

He’s not scared, nor is he regretful. But there is anxiety internally that could perhaps be
marked down to an overwhelming fusillade of excitement. He’s behind the veil now. It’s
finally sinking in.

He can’t help it, after he’s stitched the gaping wound and is ready to bandage, he digs his
fingers harshly into the angry red blush around the gash. Bedelia’s body twitches rigorously,
and he does it again, closer to a nerve, and once more, until he pompously satisfied with the
agony he’s instilled. He fixes up the stitches that popped out as a result of his sudden
actuation of sadism.

Then, he wraps her and leaves her lying like a corpse above a pool of her own blood.

“I can’t carry her,” he admits to Hannibal once inside the kitchen.

“I will handle it,” Hannibal replies gingerly, not taking his eyes off his work.

Will shakes his head up and down jerkily, slumping down on a barstool. For a moment, he
buries his face in his hands and tries to get the sound of gushing blood to abandon his mind
so he can hear his own thoughts. When he looks up, Hannibal averts his eyes, keying him
into the fact he’s being inspected.

“Bedelia told me, extreme acts of cruelty require a high level of empathy,” Will mutters,
gnawing at a finger before he drops them into his lap and adds, “Do you hold that belief?”

Hannibal is just finishing draining the blood from Bedelia’s leg.

In the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, it looks incredibly clinical.

“I can see the truth in it,” Hannibal admits. “I can also see how high levels of empathy can
create extreme acts of mercy. The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“We make murder and mercy,” Will says, rhetorically.

“Did you once believe one could not exist while the other does?”

“I thought for me, they wouldn’t.”

“Does it surprise you,” Hannibal muses, voice rough as he works the meat in his hands. With
the parts he’s not going to utilize cut off, one would not guess it belonged to a human not half
an hour prior. “That you have experienced only a modicum of change, since you experienced
your becoming?”

“Maybe.”

Will doesn’t want to think about it now. He’s starving. He’s antsy.

“Can I help?” he asks, fidgeting in his seat.

“Of course,” Hannibal answers, sincere. “I store the cooking clay in the pantry on the bottom
shelf. Convenient for these spur of the moment decisions, wouldn’t you say? I’d like you to
work it with your hands and soften it for molding.”

“Okay.”

Will finds the clay, a series of rust-colored hardened blocks in the quaint pantry. He returns
with them and begins to work alongside Hannibal as the other man ties thin fabric to segment
the rolled thigh.

Though they don’t speak again until the meal is in the oven, it’s the first time all day Will has
felt at peace. In sync with Hannibal, like nothing compares. When Hannibal places his hand
high on Will’s back, thumb skimming his nape, he can comfortably assume Hannibal feels
much the same.
They set three places at the table.

Will won’t bother Chiyoh with this. He knows she would refuse to eat a person willingly, and
he doesn’t wish to offend her by pretending he doesn’t know that. Hannibal hasn’t checked
on her, either. It’s better to leave her to her own devices if they want to have a satisfying
parting-dinner with Bedelia.

Yet despite wanting this for so long, Will finds himself hurrying through dinner.

The possibilities of where they can go after this are numerous, endless even. That trumps
even his deeply-rooted greed to watch Bedelia degraded to the point of farce.

After Hannibal had carried her to the table, she’d begun to wake gradually.

Now she’s sitting up all on her own, watching them with a glossy look in her eyes. Not quite
absent, not quite there. Will wishes she were more alert so he could ask her where her
appetite ran off to, and if she is pleased by the smell of herself roasted to perfection.

While it’s not the tastiest meal he’s ever consumed at Hannibal’s expertise, that fact in and of
itself if satisfying. To know Bedelia’s meat is bitter due to the fact she gorged herself on
products that would only serve to poison the deliciousness of her parts, and yet it didn’t stop
them. Meat’s back on the menu as he’d told her, and as she’d recited as if the words haunted
her every night since.

“You’ve outdone yourself again,” Will compliments Hannibal.

Hannibal is slightly flustered by that, smiling down at his food secretively.

“I am glad to hear it,” he murmurs eventually after consuming another large bite of the clay-
roasted thigh, drawing his attention back to Bedelia who is now staring down at her cut with
unimaginable repulsion. “Your dish is growing cold, Bedelia. What’s to be done about that?”

“I—I need…” she rasps, words slurring.

One of her delicate hands grips the table, as the room no doubt spins.

“Spit it out,” Will urges softly. “We don’t intend to stay the night.”

“There’s, ehm,” Bedelia closes her eyes through either a wave of dizziness or disgust. Either
way, it extracts a malicious smirk from Will. “There’s a meat digestive enzyme I need to take
if I—please.”

Exchanging a glance with Hannibal, Will asks,

“Where is this?”

“My purse,” she stammers, breathing unsteadily. Fear has taken over her nervous system. It’s
remarkable to watch. “By the front door. It’s a small bottle…blue.”
Will wonders if she needs it because her body has adopted the habit of digesting only non-
meat products. Strange that she would have it lying down for emergencies unless she
expected something like this.

Hannibal nods at Will, so Will gets up to retrieve it.

He doesn’t see why they’re bothering to help her out medically if they’re forcing her to
participate in auto-cannibalism anyhow, but he can also see how it is the polite thing to do.

When he returns with her purse and the bottle in hand, Hannibal beckons him over. He asks
Will to open the averagely labeled bottle, then takes a whiff of its contents. There is a flicker
of recognition in his eyes, but he nods again and Will thinks nothing of it.

Bedelia appears more disturbed than before Will left. Her eyes are simultaneously blurry and
frenzied, watching Will carelessly pour the full contents into her wine. He hasn’t heard of a
form of liquid enzyme, but he knows there are some people that cannot take pills, and seeing
as Bedelia takes injections instead of pills for her drug kicks, nothing about this tips off his
suspicions, except—

Will tugs a fork from the hand Bedelia was hiding under the table. Her muscles immediately
grow lax, as she doesn’t have the strength to fight him for it. Hannibal’s brows soar upward,
and Will laughs.

“Is that what that whole fiasco was about? To distract us so you could what,” Will tosses the
fork onto the table with a clatter, knowing it’ll annoy Hannibal too. “Did you think it would
work?”

“I think that you think too highly of yourself,” she whispers with venom.

“No Bedelia,” he rasps. “You were the first of us guilty of that.”

In a whisper, she rears back with, “You and he are the ouroboros, Will Graham. You’re too
blind by righteousness to see he is the head and you are the tail.”

Will scoffs dismissively and returns to his seat.

Still looking caught, Bedelia immediately reaches for her wine and starts to drink. Half of it
is gone by the time he’s fully settled again. Hannibal is watching them both unreadably.

Only part of Will’s meal is finished, but he’s restless with simmering hatred. Hannibal
appears to register this more easily than even he does, because he sets his utensils down, and
folds his napkin. It is a early sign of withdrawal. It appears the dinner could never last long in
the end.

Bedelia has eaten one whole bite on her plate, with a grimace and a quiet sound in the back of
her throat which betrayed her misery. That’s all they came for in the end.

“We should never stay too long in one place,” Hannibal reminds the table. “There could be a
number of scenarios working against us, and we are not out of the woods as of yet. Isn’t that
right, Dr. Du Maurier?”
“Everyone and their grandmothers are searching for you,” Bedelia responds, sardonic as ever.
She picks up her thrown fork and pokes at her dinner without intent, gulping heavily. “I was
the sole participant attempting to avoid you at all costs.” Turning to Will, she includes with
ire, “Both of you.”

Will’s lips quirk, and he raises his glass for a one-man toast.

“Regardless, we must be on our way. I am sure I can speak for Will when I say how much we
appreciate your hospitality and cooperation. The best meals are served with marination.”

“Though I can’t say I’ll miss your company,” Will informs.

Bedelia glares at them both, and pointedly finishes her wine before saying,

“Leaving me alive could mean your demise.”

“I highly doubt that,” Will remarks with humor he doesn’t feel, though he truly doesn’t
believe Bedelia to be a threat beyond these walls. “Killing you would be—”

“Not worth your time,” Bedelia finishes for him, cocking a brow. “You would rather mutilate
me and watch me pick up the pieces. Or is the truth that you don’t believe I deserve
elevation?”

Automatically, Will’s palms dig into his kneecaps. She hit the nail on the head. The contempt
he’s harnessing is at the ready to riot, pulling at its reins with a vengeful rattle.

“You don’t want me to be the first,” she continues without remorse, sounding contemplative.
“It would destroy you to have the public eye refer to me as your first, true victim. Wouldn’t
it?”

“If you’re attempting to taunt me into killing you, it isn’t working,” he grumbles.

“No, I didn’t suppose it would.”

Will curses under his breath and copies Hannibal, but instead of folding his napkin, he tosses
it down atop his plate. He doesn’t want to look at the cut for another moment, despite how it
filled his stomach so well.

“Let’s go get Chiyoh. We’ve overstayed our welcome,” Will states evenly, standing and
waiting for Hannibal to shadow him. Hannibal shoots Bedelia a final, thoughtful look, and
follows after him.

Bedelia watches them desert her, and exhales her apprehension.

She stumbles out of the chair, falling flat on the floor with a grunt. The impressions of pain
are dulled as she drags herself in an undignified manner toward the purse Will brought in
from the foyer. Wincingly, and through a troublesome bout of heavy breathing, she fishes out
her phone and shakily enters a number into a fresh text message board. The number changes
every week. She prays she’s got it right.

Bedelia closes her eyes, and sends her exact location.

It takes no more than ten seconds for a significant wealth of money to be wired to her phone.
She won’t be needing it however, if her spiked wine kicks in sooner rather than later.

She closes the phone, and lies back on the rug, growing weary. Absently, she wishes that the
sun were out, as she would have liked the rays to warm her frigidly cold skin.

An ear is kept out for the quiet ambiance of her temporary home.

It won’t be quiet for much longer.

Will is struck with concern when they find the second floor study empty. Chiyoh is nowhere
to be seen, but Hannibal immediately locates a letter left to them in her handwriting.

I could not stay with what I intended to do. There is a boat waiting for us by the docks. You
will find me there - C

Underneath the message, there are directions to the nearest boatyard.

Will doesn’t know why it bothers him that she left on her own. Perhaps it was the tidbit about
her intentions. He can’t imagine what she would plan to do that she felt the need to intervene
on herself.

“I gotta ask her how she keeps acquiring all these boats,” Will mutters.

“Chiyoh always had her way with the impossible,” Hannibal responds, folding the letter into
his pocket. Before he can say another word, a loud crash sounds from below.

It takes a second for Will to recognize it as the sound of a door being kicked down.

“No,” he whispers. “No. It can’t be.”

Utterly calm somehow, Hannibal scans the room, eyes darting lastly on the window. He peels
it open as Will paces and closes the door to the study, locking it with shaky hands.

“How did she—they found us so quickly, how could they have—”

“Will, listen to me,” Hannibal commands, and Will’s mouth snaps shut at the hard grip of
hands on his waist, steadying him. “These are not police. Make your inferences if you must,
but we must go now.”

“Okay,” he grits out, putting his panic on the backburner. “Lead the way.”

“There is an arbor structured beneath the study window. We can use it as a makeshift ladder,”
Hannibal explains. “We must work quickly. I will go ahead. You will follow.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Good boy,” Hannibal praises softly, and Will locks himself into a state of soldiering. He will
do as Hannibal says because he trusts him to get them out of this alive, and uncaught.

Hannibal maneuvers himself out of the window, the action more fumbling than it normally
would be as he’s still on the backend of his recovery, but stealthy enough to count as an
accomplishment. Will waits impatiently for him to climb far enough down the arbor structure
and then slides out the window, closing it and locking the frame after he’s out to camouflage
their method of departure.

On the ground, Hannibal waits for him with extended arms. He lifts Will off the arbor by his
waist, and intertwines one of his hands with Will’s. Then, he starts running.

Will’s breath is taken away as they leave the property in the dust.

The city becomes a blur of light as they whisk down the street. Beige stone buildings and
dark skies blur together as Will trusts blindly in Hannibal’s sense of direction. He can hear
the distant clamber of footsteps marching after them. Whoever the servile followers are, their
hunt is all-consuming.

If he glances back, all he can see is a distant array of black uniforms.

Though far enough away, Will can taste their hostility.

Hannibal stops briefly only to arrange a sharp turn into an alleyway. Will’s hand burns from
the bruising grip Hannibal has on it, but he wouldn’t give it up for the world.

They enter another, more bustling, street at the end of the alley. There is a festival happening
where fruits and vegetables are being sold along the walkways in manmade carts. Residents
have brought their lovers to buy homemade trinkets, candles, you name it. A street fair of
sorts, but Will isn’t given time to relish the festive atmosphere. Not with the adrenaline
causing his heart to pump out of his chest, and not on Hannibal’s laser-focused path to safety.
He’s much like a shark currently. Baring his teeth as he cleverly considers directions,
swerving through groups of partiers and drunken college students as if they were nothing
more than inanimate obstacles. Will looks behind them and gasps at the sight of the men—
closer now, subtly armed to the teeth—emerging from the alley they abandoned not a few
minutes prior.
The lackeys haven’t caught sight of them yet, roaming and stalking wildly through the
gyrating crowds in search for them.

As if in a nightmare, Hannibal skids to a halt, abruptly hissing.

“What is it?” Will asks, tugging on his arm, frantic.

“My legs,” Hannibal growls, sounding angrier than Will’s ever heard him. “The damn
impotence of mortality,” he husks under his breath.

Will cannot allow them to stop in their tracks. They can’t afford a misstep right now. It’s fight
or flight. Taking the lead, he drags them to the closest alley, behind what looks to be a
miniature dance competition. There is a tide of Italian laughter and celebration, and even
though Will feels barriered behind it, he knows they must do something more than idle here
in wait. He looks to the right and sees a group of kids snorting coke, and to the right of them,
a man and woman making out and practically dry humping each other against the bricks
walls. When one hides in plain sight, one must become the background.

Something equally stupid and equally clever to throw off the chasers.

Cool acceptance permeates in Will.

Hannibal is panting, undoubtedly attempting to come up with a method of escape as they take
a forced rest, staring out into the crowds with serpentine eyes, waiting for a moment he may
need to strike. He doesn’t notice Will deliberately taking his own shirt off and tossing it on
the grimy cement alongside the Italian couple’s discarded clothes.

He moves in front of Hannibal so his back is facing the street. He suspects they’ll be looking
for Hannibal and not him after all (they certainly won’t be looking for a passionate display
like he’s planning) but he can feel it as he hunches in on himself just slightly, hesitation
growing fangs in its intensity, as he turns Hannibal’s face towards his own with a gentle push
of fingers on his chin.

Hannibal’s expression furrows, taking Will in with immense confusion.

“Will—”

Will captures his lips in his own, swallowing the sharp gasp Hannibal emits in response. It
takes him aback only briefly before he stones up and commits to it. He can’t allow it to
overwhelm him now, despite how hot his skin feels and how Hannibal’s body weight under
his hands is causing him to tremble. He attempts to heat it up, mirror their surroundings
more, but Hannibal’s hands are clasping at his cheeks with innocent tenderness, as if he
cannot believe the corporeality of this moment. Will whispers on his lips, with eyes squeezed
shut, “Just follow my lead.” He kisses him again, burying his hands in Hannibal’s hair and
shuddering as Hannibal scrapes his hands up Will’s back. They soon capture the energy of the
men and women around them, pawing and biting at each other with youthful ferocity.

It wouldn’t be a lie to claim Will gets a little lost in it.

 Hannibal’s lips are tantalizing in a manner Will never knew lips could be. He can’t help but
to suck on each of them through their kiss, gasping with each nip Hannibal rewards him with
in return.

When Hannibal buries his face in the crook of his neck, but refuses to do anything but nuzzle
there, Will know he’s signaling at him to check if the men are still surveying their location.
At just a glimpse of a man dressed in the authoritarian garb he recognizes from the
townhouse, Will pulls Hannibal’s face up by his cheeks and kisses him again, tongue slipping
into his mouth. Without protest, he’s kissed back.

Hannibal presses him closer to the hard line of his body, and Will goes, groaning low in his
throat at the sensation. He cannot afford to be aroused at the present, nor should he be.

“I can see them heading in the opposite direction,” Hannibal murmurs, kissing a line from
Will’s bottom lip along his jaw. Will mouths wordlessly at the air as he pants, overcome with
lust and breathlessness.

“They didn’t see us,” Will croaks, a reassurance to Hannibal and himself.

The kiss wanes, Hannibal’s hands sliding from his hips, leaving him cold. Will finds himself
swaying closer to Hannibal as the man pulls away, as if subconsciously chasing what
naturally had to break.

His mind clears swiftly, and he remembers their mission.

“Come on,” Will says, averting his eyes. “Chiyoh’s waiting.”

Chapter End Notes

thanks for all the well wishes for my new job! sending all the love to you guys, hope this
chapter was good. bedelia might be least favorite character to write for if i'm being
honest mostly because i never know how to do her properly or do her justice ;A;
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

By the time they reach the docks, Hannibal is limping and Will’s hair is flattened over his
forehead from sweating. With arms crossed, Chiyoh waits by the cleat to untie the boat from
the platform.

It is a small vessel and won’t bring them into deep waters.

Will deduces that they’ll use it to return to their boat in France.

“Why are you not wearing a shirt?” Chiyoh asks in a dry tone as they hastily approach.
Hannibal bends down and takes over the task of unmooring the ship as Will sputters.

“None of your business,” he remarks, hopping over the railing and sliding down the nearest
wall, the only mode of separation between them and the bridge. “Please start the engine,
Chiyoh,” he pleads, all luster lacking from his voice.

Mercifully, she drops the subject and vanishes from the deck.

Hannibal is finishing tying up the docking rope by the time the boat is hollering and pulling
out of the quaint marina. Much smaller than the last one they docked in, and with much less
security.

All Will is thinking about right now is how morbidly relieved he feels that they lost those
men back there. If they’d been caught, God knows where they’d be taken. They’d separate
him and Hannibal again, and he can’t even begin to theorize on his ferocity if that were to
happen. He’d be feral, unrecognizable.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice soothes his mild hysteria. As it always does. He lets his legs fall flat
as Hannibal kneels beside him and offers two pills from the palm of his hand.

“Oh.”

Will takes his antivirals dry, working his throat to gather up more saliva. The saliva which
doesn’t taste like bile is very sparse. He’s dehydrated, freezing, and needs never to use his
legs like that again. Hannibal caresses two fingers over Will’s bobbing throat, appearing just
as physically debauched.

“Who the hell were they?” Will grinds out, zipping his eyes shut against the urge to vomit.

“Think carefully,” Hannibal suggests knowingly.

Will does. He thinks of everyone who is out to get him, out to get Hannibal. Both of them as
a package deal. He thinks about how those men couldn’t have been real officers, but how
Chilton doesn’t have the funds to scatter trained men for hire all over the globe, at the ready
for wherever they go or hide.

The concept of ‘funds’ gives him his answer.

“Alana,” he snarls. “The fucking Vergers.”

“I believe Bedelia was in contact with her, or perhaps a middle-man to exchange information.
They both shared a promise made with me. They both understand the inevitable as well as
livestock does.”

“The contempt I have…it’s going to tear me to shreds,” Will whispers, nostrils flaring. He’s
flailing for stability, to be grounded. To understand why his hatred suddenly runs so deep.

“Not with me beside you,” Hannibal consoles. “I told you once, you were not alone in that
darkness.”

Tears brimming fast, Will bites at his cheeks and allows the statement to dance in limbo
between them. Sometimes, his emotions overwhelm him so grandly he can’t help but to
wallow.

If he looks out over the ocean, he can see the waves sparkling like fresh snow.

“You make a life of running look so easy,” Will muses after he regains his voice from the
shrill depths it was trapped in. “The universe spit us out of purgatory only to torment us with
every waking breath.”

“You must reconstruct these notions.”

“How?” he breathes. They’re all jumbled together in his head. Guilt, contempt, fear, self-
doubt, self-hatred, jealousy, possession, desire, aversion. All of it is opposing and appalling.

“I would like you to do an exercise with me, Will. It won’t take but a moment.”

“Okay,” Will agrees. “Yeah okay.”

“I would like you to tell me what you want,” Hannibal demands lightly.

Will finally focuses his eyes on Hannibal’s face, discomfited by the clinical eye he’s being
given. It takes a moment to pacify his reaction to the question and expression, and remember
whatever session-like conversation they’re entertaining will not end in blood, regardless of
what it makes him feel.

“Can you specify?” he asks quietly.

“What do you want, at this very moment?”

“I want — I want to be safe.”

“We are safe,” Hannibal confirms. “We are on open water and will be for the next few hours.
You are currently achieving your instinctive requirement for fulfillment.”

It shouldn’t relieve Will, as elementary as the answer is, but it does.

He nods in acknowledgement.

“Now, Will. What do you believe would intervene or stand in the way of this safety?”

“Um, Alana. Frederick Chilton. Jack, I guess,” he lists, a sense of calm washing over him in
increments. As it stands, the amount of impediments they face isn’t a large number. “Maybe
the fact we’re running, not hiding. I feel…exposed, like I can’t breathe until I’ve covered
myself up. And I’ve gone so long without breathing my lungs could practically burst at any
minute. Time. Time is a factor.”

“Alright,” Hannibal says, politely cutting off Will’s ramble. He folds his hands atop his own
lap and looks out at the water for a moment before facing him again, eyes maroon in the
moonlight.

“I want you to tell me now, Will, what do you want long term?”

“What?” he stammers.

“When we board my Uncle’s ship, and retreat from Europe, what is then that you want?”

Will doesn’t know. He doesn’t even care.

He just wants —

“You,” he murmurs. “I just want you.”

Hannibal’s smile is tender, beholden to Will alone.

“You have me,” Hannibal informs him, cupping his cheeks with both hands. “You have me
and you are safe, Will. I promise you those two things are achievable in perpetuity.”

“But I don’t know if I can do what needs to be done.” Will’s voice rattles like the stormy
winds gently rocking the boat. “If they try to stop us, I—I told you it was beautiful, Hannibal,
but I don’t know if I can kill like that again, if I’m even capable at all. I’m not…You’ll either
become disillusioned with me or I’ll end up getting us killed or caught because I can’t act on
the violence inside me. Not how you want, not in any way that protects us. Protects this.” His
head bows forward in the firm hold of Hannibal’s hands, but the man doesn’t release him. He
pulls Will’s face upright, staring him deep in the eyes.

Will doesn’t tell him where his fears originate.

That he will lose himself in killing; that he will repeat his mistake from the cliff.

“I have only ever wanted you to act as your nature dictates,” Hannibal reminds. “My boy,
your nature is constantly fluctuating. There is violence in you, yes, but you are much more
than that. I never expected you to become one thing over another. You needn’t concern
yourself with proving yourself to me.”

“I want to protect us,” Will argues. “I want to, and if I can’t it’ll torture me.”

“I believe you’ll be surprised at what you’re willing to do in the face of danger, Will.”
Hannibal’s hands slide down Will’s neck, cupping him lighter there. “You weren’t expecting
to hurt Francis like that.”

“No, no I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Allow yourself to attach to the moment, rather than the potential of what awaits.”

“Easier said than done,” Will grouses.

“I will be here to guide you,” Hannibal assures.

“My candle in a dark and haunted mansion,” Will drawls, forcing his lips into something
resembling a smile. Hannibal seems to like that metaphor, because he bares his teeth with a
flashing grin.

They sit together, basking in a loaded atmosphere. There is lingering tension between them,
from the chase, from the distraction Will created for them. From these reluctant late night
admissions.

Hannibal holds Will’s hands, examining the calloused pads of his fingertips. It brings Will
back to when he wrapped his knuckles in bandages, after he took down Randall with fists and
an dangerous sense of power. All he’d thought to do was deposit the body on Hannibal’s
dining table, and impose company.

Will watches him, heat stirring in his belly as Hannibal leans down to kiss the once bloody
knuckles, and then the back of his hand. Lazily, he moves on to Will’s palm, his inner wrist,
then his outer.

It’s a quiet moment between them, and Will goes motionless as Hannibal slowly (slower than
should be possible—the definition of savoring) kisses a path up his arm, worshiping every
divot, every freckle. The antivirals have Will feeling drowsy, out of place in his own body.
He can’t exactly register the tangibility of the phenomenon, not until Hannibal reaches his
shoulder and stalls there, inhaling sideways at the crook of his neck before placing a kiss
there too. Will blinks through the warm, intoxicated haze he’s in and tenses up as Hannibal
travels to his jaw, placing soft lips there too. Turning his head slightly in reaction to the
contact, Will inadvertently gives Hannibal easier access to his mouth. Their lips brush.

A surge of awareness ruptures through Will.

He gently pushes Hannibal away by his chest, shaking his head.

It inspires guilt in him, because he’d been so mindlessly beguiled as to let him get that far,
and to kiss him earlier as a part of an escape plan. It feels as if he should at least give
Hannibal this.
He just can’t.

“No,” Will mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

Hannibal doesn’t look disappointed. A veil curtains his face in a sleuthful fashion. He’s
compartmentalizing the emotions Will’s refusal is drawing out of him, and he’s not allowing
his face to betray it. Either out of respect for Will, or because his self-worth still hinges on his
dignity above all.

“You are an infinitely beautiful man, Will,” Hannibal tells him kindly, bestowing a chaste
kiss on his hairline before standing and giving him much needed space. “I will be with
Chiyoh at the helm.”

Will nods, barely holding himself together.

When Hannibal is out of sight, he allows his lips to quiver and his face to scrunch up in
turmoil. He digs his nails into the arm Hannibal peppered kisses on, scratching at the skin
where echoes of dampness remain. There are questions he can’t ask himself yet, not with all
these looming obstacles on his mind.

He shivers at the concept that he doesn’t know himself.

Not nearly as well as he thought he did.

Tucking his knees against his chest, he dwells on the nature of cracks in teacups.

“I will not travel any further,” Chiyoh announces when they reach the motor yacht. Will is
helping Hannibal onto the boat. After the chase, Hannibal’s muscles lost quite a bit of
progress.

“What?” is all Will can manage.

Her hair is loose, whipping in the harsh winds. He hasn’t been paying attention for the last
few hours. There is a look in her eyes that wasn’t there before. He wonders contritely what
Bedelia might have said.

“I trust that you are on the right path,” Chiyoh tells them, making heavy eye contact with
Hannibal. “It is purely not the right path for me. Not anymore.”

“I did not suspect you would be with us as long as you were,” Hannibal grants, extending his
hand over the side of the boat. She carefully places her palm atop his.

They speak quietly in Japanese for a few minutes. Will turns away to unmoor the ship, as he
can’t do much else to offer them privacy. Hannibal squeezes her hands one final time, and
releases her.
Once Will ties the rope down, he stands.

“Chiyoh, I’d like to—”

“I apologize, Will,” she cuts in, accompanied with the brightest smile he’s ever been
rewarded by her. “For my actions in Versailles. The Lady would have scolded me for casting
such a wide net of blame.”

“Well, ehm.” Will shrugs, slightly flustered. “She’s family. I understand.”

“Yes, you do understand,” Chiyoh answers, a coy twinkle in her eye.

While a comment remarking on his invasion of ‘family’ would normally come off
condescending, Will knows it is not meant that way now. Acceptance fills him to the brim.

“Where will you go?” Hannibal questions.

“North. I like the cold.”

“So do I,” Will comments, smiling up at her. He almost wishes she would stay, but he
understands more than anyone the appeal of distancing yourself from violence and
destruction. She intends to drive clear of the storm, and he can’t blame her for that despite the
fact he felt he was just getting to truly know her.

“Until we meet again,” Hannibal says in parting, bowing his head lightly..

Chiyoh bows back. There is an untouchable melancholy in her eyes.

“I pray not,” she whispers.

Hannibal sighs, but does not respond.

Amicably, Chiyoh turns on her heel and disappears into the morning fog of France. Will
considers if she will stay in Versailles a while, perhaps call in the death of Murasaki to the
authorities. Maybe she’ll take the first train going North and make a new name for herself.

“We must make haste,” Hannibal informs him, mouth close to his ear. “The marina guards
will be making their rounds soon. Which direction would you care to head?”

“South,” Will decides, without so much as deliberation.

Will borrows one of Hannibal’s Uncle’s fishing rods when they anchor down on nights. It’s
how he passes the time when their progress across the sea is stalled.
He sits under the stars and lies in wait for the telltale bob of the line. Rarely, he catches a fish,
but what he does catch he shares with Hannibal. They’ll eat in silence, exchanging fond yet
provident glances.

Will doesn’t refer to it as ‘avoiding’ but he does stay out on deck until the dawn begins to
creep in. Until he knows Hannibal cannot keep awake a moment longer, meaning he can
crawl under the covers beside him and fall asleep before he’s noticed. When he wakes in the
mornings, Hannibal is wandering on and off the bridge. Occasionally, Will catches him
staring up at the sun. It seems self-destructive, but Will doesn’t ask him why he does it. Nor
does he ask him to stop, even if he’s naggingly incentivized to.

The scarce times they spend together on their sail south are during meals, or before Hannibal
retires to bed. They will lie on their backs a few feet apart, a hand-knit blanket under them,
relishing the lively vibration of the engine and the constellations painting the sky blue and
purple. They burn like bruises instead of stars, and Will can’t help but to ruminate on his own
scars when he scrutinizes space.

The reddened ring around his neck has finally faded.

He nearly misses it.

It was at least a mark of…intimacy.

Though, he can’t see how he can complain at its absence with how he’s been acting on the
nature of intimacy. Volatile, if not a definitive term for his fluctuating demeanor.

Hannibal’s kisses, or attempts at a kiss. Whatever they truly shared on that hectic night—the
affection drawn meticulously on Will’s arm as if he were one of Hannibal’s prized canvases
—has driven a microscopic wedge between them.

Overall, Hannibal has been just as generous to him since, and just as polite. He continues to
touch him in inoffensive ways. A hand on the shoulder, stroking on his lower back, or a nose
at his temple. There isn’t a reason in Will’s eyes to refuse those gestures, as he desires them
as much as the man himself.

Will just—he doesn’t want to be expected to have an answer.

An answer for why he couldn’t kiss him back in that moment, and why he offered the vaguest
of rejections. It’s not an explanation he owes Hannibal, and it’s not even something he owes
himself.

If Will needs time, that’s his prerogative.

So, he doesn’t quite grasp why Hannibal acting in no way out of the ordinary is aggravating
him so much. Not a budge of resistance on the man’s part when it comes to Will’s rejection.
Not even disappointment. While he can’t claim a shift in Hannibal’s attitude, he can certainly
claim one in his own. At every turn, he rewards Hannibal with curt remarks, bitter low-brow
insults. The nicer Hannibal acts, the more frigid the response he doles out. Will is well aware
he’s unpredictable, seemingly out of nowhere. The attitude he’s been displaying could be
described as closer to when they first met, when he recoiled at touch and talk, and would
rattle off aversionary remarks to keep outsiders away. If Hannibal notices (which of course he
has) he hasn’t spoken up. Not even after Will opts to serve him cold shoulders at the barest of
offenses, like just the other day when Hannibal refused to let him help rolling the sushi.
There’s a warring cycle in Will that disallows him from rationalizing the defensive state he’s
in, even if he wants to.

He doesn’t understand himself and his out-of-the-blue actions, and Hannibal’s the person
under his line of fire, so he can’t very well ask him to help him understand it even if he’s the
only one that could. He’d probably get annoyed if Hannibal regarded him with psychological
theories anyway.

It all comes to a head their second week on the water.

Hannibal’s outburst, frankly, doesn’t surprise Will. It’s no secret he’s been non-negotiable,
edgy, tough as dough. Lighting up with irritation at all the wrong phrases, and dragging their
past out into the open at every pass. And Hannibal, though calm to a fault, has a long
(excruciatingly long) fuse, but a fuse nonetheless. And when it breaks, it’s quite often
explosive.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t confront Will.

Simply, one morning, Will finds the fishing rods missing.

All of them.

“Where are they?” he grits out over breakfast.

They haven’t spoken a word in a day and a half, and he’d spent the majority of their meal
scrounging up the courage to ask Hannibal, or rather, accuse him.

“Hmm?” Hannibal has a book open. He can’t exactly be blamed for avoiding conversation at
this point, but it scrapes at Will so sharply that he reaches over and snaps it shut.

Unimpressed, Hannibal tears his gaze from it.

“Where are the fishing rods,” Will clarifies icily.

The timing is almost comedic. Hannibal blinks, opens his book, and says,

“I dumped them in the ocean.”

“You dumped them in the ocean.”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Indeed.”
Hot breath shudders out of Will. He clenches and unclenches his fists.

“Why would you do that, Hannibal?” he asks evenly.

Hannibal closes his book again, though Will knows he wasn’t bothering to read it. He instead
begins clearing their half-empty dishes from the table, refusing to ask if Will has finished
with his. He wasn't finished, but he has enough dignity not to ask him to give it back.

Unresponsive, Hannibal starts to wash them at the sink, movements robotic.

Will taps his fingers on the table, tonguing at his cheek thoughtfully.

When the tap shuts off, Will almost expects Hannibal to leave the dining area without another
word. Instead, he watches as Hannibal grips the rim of the sink, inhaling and exhaling
calculatedly.

“Perhaps I was impulsive.”

Taken aback by the admission, Will forgets to reply.

“Apologies, Will.”

Will blinks like he’s in the midst of a sandstorm. Then, the absolute humor of the situation
hits and he can’t help but to laugh out loud. An extensive humored noise. He has to cover his
mouth with the back of his hand to muffle the giddy backend of it.

Hannibal’s glare is not good. He looks pissed.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Will clarifies through an amused huff, gnawing at his bottom lip.
“Jesus, sorry. Haven’t felt like laughing in a while, you just sounded so…”

“So?” Hannibal deadpans.

“Normal.” Will’s face drops into a frown. “I think that’s more insulting, actually.”

“Considering how you’ve been speaking to me for several days, I would take it as an
adulation.”

“Hey, listen,” Will starts, standing up to be level with him. He slips his hands into his pockets
when Hannibal turns to face him, leaning back against the stainless steel sink. “I’m, um,
sorry too.”

Hannibal cocks a brow, expression bemused.

“All it took was for me to destroy your sole source for pleasurable pastime. I’m beginning to
suspect you are a masochist, Will.”

“With our history, that’s a risky statement.”

“As your relentless barbs toward me have been this past week,” Hannibal responds, voice
low and eyes unforgiving. Will hadn’t realized the extent to which he was antagonizing
Hannibal, or maybe he would have eased off. Just a little. It feels like there’s a frog in his
throat with how fidgety the reply makes him.

“That’s fair.” Will takes a few steps closer, until he’s near enough in Hannibal’s space that
he’s eyed suspiciously up and down. He pauses when Hannibal’s eyes meet his own. Anxiety
dwindles from the proximity and verging on playful, he questions, “Do you forgive me?”

Hannibal exhales through his nose, cooling down.

“That was never a question,” he murmurs, rubbing the lobe of Will’s right ear between two
fingers. Will’s noticed Hannibal has taken a serious liking to his ears. He doesn’t get it, really,
as it was the body part most kids made fun of in school. They always stuck out like an
elephant’s.

Instead of explaining why he’s been acting the way he has, Will tucks his chin down and
says,

“I feel aimless. I spent so long looking for you, so long not knowing myself. Now that I’m
back to…understanding myself, even fractionally, I think it’s throwing me off kilter.”

“You chose a direction,” Hannibal reminds. “You chose to go south.”

“What does that even mean?” Will tosses his hands up in the air and paces back to the table.
He pushes his chair in and leans on the back of it. “I said that in the spur of the moment. I
have no clue what’s going to happen when we get there. I have no clue…what I want, what
you want even. It’s—”

Abruptly overwhelming again. His hackles raise at the stress rising in him.

“If you are worried about shelter, you needn’t be. I have properties scattered all around the
world. I might suggest Cuba, as we are likely to dock nearer to the villa I purchased there a
decade ago.”

“Somehow a ‘place to stay’ wasn’t my first priority,” Will admits lamely.

“You prefer to ruminate on the more dire of dilemmas.”

“There’s at least a dozen bounties on your head, Hannibal. God knows what’s being done
about me. What Freddie Lounds is saying about me, if the government’s bothered not to keep
the public in the dark.”

“We are far from shallow water,” Hannibal muses.

“That much is true,” scoffs Will.

“Will, I am only going to ask this once.” Will turns to face Hannibal as the man pads over to
him. There is an intense look in his eyes, and it lulls Will’s dread. “What would you like to do
about Alana?”
“Alana?” Will asks, breathless. “Who the hell knew I was ever going to be considering what I
should do about Alana Bloom in relation to our being on the run from her and everybody else
we know.”

“Because you underestimate her or because you loved her?” Hannibal prods.

“I didn’t love her Hannibal. I called her kissable,” Will corrects, skin itching again from
jitters running through his body. He circles the table, an instinctive method of distancing
himself.

“You cared for her, regardless.”

Will sighs, “Yes.”

“The Vergers have attained as much wealth as I have with my heritage and practice. If they
choose to pursue us, there will be no stopping them. Margot and Alana wish to insure the
safety of their child.”

“Can’t send ‘em a peace treaty over text?” Will jokes, scrubbing a hand over his face. There
are remnants of a broken deep sleep in his cheeks making him feel bogged down.

Hannibal tilts his head down admonishingly.

“Hey, worth a shot,” Will adds.

“I made a promise. I won’t disregard it,” Hannibal proclaims.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“Do you want to ask me?”

Will grimaces, “Before all—” he waves his hand in a vague gesticulation. Murasaki’s death,
Matthew’s commission as an assassin, the chase at Bedelia’s townhouse, “this, maybe.
Beyond that, I can’t say.”

Growing increasingly curious, Hannibal steps closer.

“Do you want to hurt her?”

“I want her to stop.”

“To what end?” Hannibal presses, implacable.

Will can’t do this again. He can’t offer Hannibal absolutely nothing without an explanation.
He doesn’t know what he wants. Metaphysically, he wants to sink into the hot spring, and
acknowledge the warmth in his veins when he’s actually there. Not imagine how it feels in
the cold, desolate winter of his mind.

“I’m not harming their son,” Will decides. “I’m not partial to any of this, but I’m partial to
stopping them dead in their tracks, whatever that means. I just…Morgan will stay out of it.”
“He will remain affected by his mother or mothers deaths. It will cling to him for the rest of
his life, and he will hear echoes of their mortality any time he speaks, anytime he breathes.”

“We’re all haunted by death,” Will reasons. “Whether it be the imminence of our own, or the
death of a stranger, or friend.”

“This is an enlightening conversation, Will,” Hannibal tells him sincerely. “I would rather
know beforehand, where your limitations lie. Where you trace your boundaries in the sand.”

“So you can cross them?”

Hannibal clicks his tongue, but he looks more amused now than insulted.

“Perhaps to show you how the grass is greener on the other side.”

“Sand isn’t green,” Will mutters, lips twitching up.

“Ah, my allegories have failed me.”

Will wants to joke around, he does, but he’s still stuck on their discussion about the Vergers.
The dubious implications of their fate, at his and Hannibal’s hands. Maybe just Hannibal’s—
Will is undecided.

“Will we go looking for them?” he questions.

“I believe they will come to us in due time. I suggest our destination should not digress from
Cuba. If we wish to track them, I am positive we will be given a clear sign by whoever they
send in their stead.”

“Wait to be slain in our bed, then we’ll get our answers?”

“You are aware I am a light sleeper.”

That comment fills Will with affection so randomly, he can’t suppress the blush that comes
with it. He turns his head away from Hannibal’s piercing gaze and nods.

“Yeah, you are. Alana will be aware of that too. She could make her assassins aware of it.”

“Alana was too much of a deep sleeper to notice, I’m afraid.”

Will hums absently, though the statement deflates the warm, airy feeling in his gut.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t believe you need to prime a question with that anymore, Will.”

Turning back around, Will grasps his own elbows and asks the question that’s been floating
around his mind since Baltimore. Since he believed he and Hannibal could have sustained a
life together.

“I want you to describe to me, what you imagined life would be like with me at your side.”
Lips pursing, Hannibal gives him a considering once over.

“That description has rapidly changed from year to year.”

Briefly, Will thinks for a minute, then decides;

“Reveal to me the most ideal of all your realities.”

“You may not deign to hear it, once I start.”

“Let me decide,” Will contends. “Just be honest with me.”

Hannibal acquiesces, but saunters over to the bread cabinet first. It’s empty aside from the
reverse compass, where it’s been stored the past few weeks. He takes it in his hands and
practically fidgets with it. Perhaps it’s easier to have a tether to the past in his grasp as he
opens himself up for scrutiny.

“When Abigail was alive, I imagined thousands of scenarios. All ideal in their own way.
There was one, however, that’s lingered with me for many years. Even now, I find it to be
mercilessly vivid.”

The hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand on end at the mention of Abigail. Usually, he
would not entertain a discussion of her, neigh even an acknowledgement. It is too painful, too
contemptuous to discuss her with the man who killed her. He declared he would not stop
Hannibal though, and doesn’t intend to.

“Though it may surprise you, Florence was not my ideal. The most feasible yes, and where I
would have brought you had you decided to come with me. But not my ultimate ideal
reality.” Hannibal scrapes rust off the rim of the compass with his thumb, picking away at its
wear. “I had clear visions of acquiring a home in Lithuania. Years perhaps, after we’d
traveled. Somewhere to settle down. A place I would not fit, but would slowly learn to again.
With a home that included you and Abigail, if she so happened to pass by on a journey of her
own. The you in this reality wished to encourage me to overcome everything I had ever
feared. My aversion to my home, the memories abandoned there. Over time, you were there
to lead me, like a horse to water, back to my origins. I could walk freely on that soil again,
and earn my proper farewell to Mischa. It is something I have never done, and I predict I will
never do. But you changed me—you change the course of nature as a caterpillar destroys
itself. Ruthlessly, but fundamentally.”

“You imagined settling down with me,” Will posits.

Whether it be years following massacres and worldly violence or not.

“In almost every fiction,” Hannibal confesses, placing the compass back in the breadbox. He
clicks the golden latch into place and turns to face Will, eyes distant.

“You imagined…I still desired to change you. Even in your ideal world.”

“For lack of a better term. It was less of a transformation, more remediation.”

“You asked me what I want long term,” Will reminds him. “I told you I wanted you. I
don’t…have ideals to reflect your own. There are not specific places I want to go, other than
vague concepts of rivers and trees.” He fondles the sleeves of his button-up. “If that’s your
ideal, then I want that too.”

Hannibal seems to have shut down, because he stares at Will plasticly for a moment too long.

“If that ideal hasn’t expired,” Will includes in a soft murmur.

“No,” Hannibal says, voice tight as the line of his mouth. “No, it hasn’t.”

Will walks over to him, cupping Hannibal’s arms the way he did his own. Hannibal looks
down at him with heavy fondness. It weighs a thousand anvils and a thousand feathers all at
once.

“One day,” Will promises. “When it’s all said and done.”

After what needs to be done. Even if it takes years. Whatever they have to do to thrive
without looking over their shoulders, and to be content.

“You must be a chimera of my own making,” says Hannibal, solemn.

“You whispered through the chrysalis, but I’m here because when I hatched and you weren’t
there, you were still all that I cared to find.”

Hannibal’s head shakes, a mesh of disbelief, humor, and ardor.

Stroking fingertips over Hannibal’s arms, Will extracts himself and exits the kitchen.

Late into the night, Will’s mind is running over the same thought.

He cannot sleep without saying it aloud, unsure of what’ll mean to Hannibal or even himself.
He thinks perhaps it is a reasoning while simultaneously acting as a buffer. He parts his lips,
knowing Hannibal is awake beside him.

“Back in Baltimore, in your kitchen…” he starts, hearing a quiet rustle of fabric. While his
eyes have adjusted to the dark, he doesn’t bother to glance at Hannibal. “I thought you would
kiss me then.”

Hannibal’s breathing starts and stops. Will sighs mournfully.

“Goodnight Hannibal,” he whispers before he can receive an answer.

Chapter End Notes

we headin to cuba babeyyy, some interesting things up ahead ;D

 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

They run out of food the day before they reach land, or rather they run out of the food which
isn’t the fish Will stored up from countless nights of angling.

“You’re damn lucky we aren’t going to starve out here,” Will mutters over dinner that night.

The shore had broken as the sun collapsed behind it. Relief had taken Hannibal over with an
imperceptible shift in his demeanor when it came into his line of sight, while all Will could
muster was a roll of his eyes. Without room for debate, Will had taken over the depleted
kitchen and created two scrumptious Mediterranean halibut dishes for them.

“You are the only person I would ever lend a kidney to, Will,” Hannibal responds chipperly.
He hasn’t said a word about the seasoning of the fish to Will, but it’s obvious been running
out of salt and pepper as well. The fish tastes more like the salt water from whence it came.

“Planning on operating on yourself were you?”

“I’ve done it countless times before.”

“I don’t know how you dismiss pain so easily.”

“Years of practice helps,” Hannibal says, then, “I could teach you.”

Flashbacks of a curved knife — glinting in the fluorescents — sinking deep into his stomach,
the bone saw cutting jaggedly and razor-sharp into his forehead, and months of headaches
hotter than hell rush back to him with enough clear definition it has him setting down his fork
and glaring up at Hannibal.

“Pain lets me hold onto my memories,” he replies, words clipped.

Hannibal doesn’t appear to have a response to that.

Will finishes his dinner hungrily with a temper bordering on inconsolable. Hannibal finishes
his dinner with pouchy, pleased cheeks and a series of mollified sighs. Will is glad for the
fact they won’t be spending another day on the yacht. Cabin fever is sinking in with a
vengeance; he would thrash himself against the walls if he had to spend a minute longer
without dry land to free his feet and his mind.

As always, Hannibal touches him after their meal.

Tonight, he brushes Will’s stubbly cheek with the palm of an all-encompassing hand. And as
anticipated, it soothes the bristling porcupine that consistently guards Will’s faculties.
Will steers the boat into the busy marina.

The sun is high in the sky, beating down on them brutally.

Hannibal changed into his coolest shirt before they began the process of docking, a long
sleeved white button-up while Will has opted to wear a grey undershirt. He doesn’t care to
appear decent in any respects, but he’s hankering for a good pair of shorts right about now.
The jeans he’s wearing stick to the skin of his thighs, and sweat curls under the bends of his
knees like hot tar.

It’s like fighting an invisible force, sitting in limbo under the Cuban sun.

Hannibal talks fast in Spanish to a fellow yacht-owner.

Will can pick out the marina guards from the boat owners easily. The guards are wearing
oddly shaped baseball hats, more bucket-hat now that Will considers them. They pace like
flies buzz circles around shit.

He sniffles at the humidity in the air, and waits restlessly by the cleat for Hannibal to return.
He can make out words from the conversation like ‘directions’ or ‘Varadero beach.’ Hannibal
told him to stay put once they moored, and hadn’t given him context other than the
knowledge they won’t be remaining at this marina. He doesn’t see why not, if they’re close
enough to their destination either way.

When Hannibal comes back, Will observes that he’s drenched in sweat. Though unlike most,
he looks hellishly attractive like that, probably because he’s the Devil himself, Will thinks
with layered sentimentality. His translucent shirt sticks to the outline of his abdomen and his
dusky nipples. Every line, every tanned coloring on display. His hair looks like salt and
pepper, glistening in the daylight.

Will licks his lips and glances down, unraveling the mooring rope.

“What’s the word?” he ask through gritted teeth.

“Our directions were slightly off. The villa is just down thataways.”

Hannibal points toward a long stretch of unoccupied beach. Too meager for the public, and
possibly too ridden with strange sea life or unsafe by government standards. It is the more
ominous direction.

“I’m not sure how much help I can be. You’re more familiar with this territory.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal croons. “You steer, I’ll lead. We won’t sail far from shore.”

“That gives people an ample view of the vessel’s title.”

“Hiding in plain sight is easier than you suspect, Will.”

Will cracks a grin. He can’t argue with that. Hannibal Lecter hid in plain sight for years,
when in reality most everyone around him should have seen the red flags and run screaming,
including him.

“Then by all means lead the way, Doctor,” he says, practically salacious. He can feel
Hannibal’s smirk directed toward the back of his neck as he saunters off to the helm.

The trip lasts another half an hour, mostly because Will is sailing the yacht extremely slow.
They’re burning the rest of their fuel, but neither of them wants to miss their stop, and they
can always supply the ship with what it needs later on.

When a one-story house comes into view, with a clay-shingled roof and a ivory exterior of
wood walls with bay and awning windows spaciously spread apart, Will doesn’t expect it to
be the residence Hannibal purchased. It doesn’t scream ‘Lecter’ and it doesn’t even scream
bourgeoisie despite it’s elegant, isolated location. There is a gazebo implemented into the
siding of the villa, hovering over the water. Will imagines if he were sitting on the balcony
flooring there his feet could touch the light waves beneath, but he’s more interested in the
private beach by the foundation of the home, with grey and beige pebbles scattering the
expanse of it and palm trees protruding in each and every direction for shade.

Hannibal sees Will enamored by the sight and smiles sweetly.

“This is home, Will. Do you like it?”

Hearing the confirmation have Will’s hands twitching on the steering wheel. He nods
sporadically, lining the yacht up at the dock obscured behind the bend of the shore and a
tropical coppice.

As Will shuts down the engine and resets the controls, Hannibal gathers their packed bags
and moors the ship for a final time. They won’t need to make two trips.

Will joins Hannibal on the dock once finished and they walk down the strip of stone fading
out into a path leading to the back entrance of the property. It looks as if the house hasn’t
been touched in years, which isn’t a shock. Overgrown and unsuspecting, an odd mirror of
themselves at the present. Will supposes he could attempt some hedging and weeding, maybe
even a flower garden. Perhaps in a more long-term situation, he can build furniture Hannibal
might approve of. He’s certain the home is furnished, but not to Will’s sensibilities. He’s
always liked to keep things around that he crafts himself. He has a feeling Hannibal would
like that too. The key to the backdoor is hidden under the plug of a bird bath fountain by the
back porch.

Hannibal ushers Will inside once the travel bags are placed beyond the entryway. Hesitantly,
Will crosses the threshold and marvels at the cobwebs and the dust from a first impression. It
is going to be a lot of work to get it back into tip-top shape. He likes that; he want the
housework to quiet his mind.
“Wait till you see the kitchen,” Hannibal murmurs, leading him down the carpeted hall and
past a dozen empty rooms. Living rooms, sitting rooms, a library-slash-study, and even what
seems to be a locked space full of tools and a high-end woodworking table. There is a glass
window placed in the door to that one, and Will lingers in the hall to examine the tremendous
contents inside. Hannibal indulges him, tugging him along after a few moments to provide
him the full tour.

He naturally leads them straight to the kitchen. There is a rectangular unglazed window
between it and the dining room. Barstools line up along it, in the mimicry of a bar. Hannibal
leaves Will at the six-person seat table to flutter around the kitchen. He takes no time
plugging in the fridge, though he hasn’t yet turned on the electricity or the water in the house
yet. Will imagines they should do that soon.

Give the place a chance to come alive again.

He strokes the glass dining table, and comes away with dust-tacky fingers.

“Not as large as I am accustomed to, but a chef must always make do,” Hannibal muses,
taking stock of the pots and pans. The utensils they’ll need to purchase and the tools they
already own.

“I would think after three years in a cage this would be heaven for you.”

“Alana did allow me a wide selection of gourmet meals,” Hannibal informs him, touching the
stove like its a priceless artifact. For all Will knows, maybe it is. “Though, no access to a
kitchen.”

“She probably thought you’d set the place on fire,” Will laughs.

“I’m no arsonist.”

“Hmm,” Will sits on the middle barstool leaning over the side of the window-bar to get a
better look at the kitchen. The sink is located directly in front of him. Hannibal stands parallel
to him, in front of it. With a smile, Will reveals, “I was.”

Hannibal tilts his head, intrigued.

“Will Graham, an arsonist?” he expresses, sly. “Were you young?”

“Very young,” Will answers, picking at the splinters jutting out of the walls. He’s not worried
about hurting the structure of the house as he plans to mend it, full-scale. Hannibal doesn’t
look concerned either. “There were some nasty kids at school. You know those kinda boys.
Irredeemable. Set fire to their tree house.”

Eyes lighting up, Hannibal leans forward.

“For someone who claims to have stayed out of trouble most of his life, you were seemingly
quite the delinquent before I met you.”
“Never claimed to stay out of trouble,” Will corrects. “Just that I tried to stay away from
violence. The murder-kind, anyway. All of that felt as if it would reach out and grab me, pull
me under.”

“Under where?”

“Somewhere I couldn’t breathe.”

“Is it easier to breathe now that we’re here?” Hannibal asks gently.

Will looks to him and lets his body relax with gradual ease. He can feel his expression
softening first, then the muscles in his arms and legs releasing a tightness he normally keeps
with him at all times.

“Yeah. Much easier.”

Hannibal reaches between them and taps Will’s chin.

“Chin up. We have work to do.”

“Yeah?”

“After I turn the water on, we can both shower, and then I expect you to accompany me into
town for a grocery trip. We are lacking the essentials, as it happens.”

Not that that’s under question.

As if on cue, Will’s stomach rumbles. Hannibal’s lips quirk.

“Right. Okay,” he grumbles. When Hannibal begins moving, traipsing off toward the front
door of the house, Will calls out, “Wait. Do we even have a car?”

Hannibal smirks.

“Not quite.”

After they both take showers (not with hot water or anything close to it — not a surprise
considering the home hasn’t been tampered with for nearly ten years and the pipes gave the
robotic equivalent of a bloodcurdling scream when the source lever was pulled) Hannibal
chaperones him down a trail winding apart from the house, in the opposite direction of their
private dock. There is a shed in the woods that looks to be manmade as they rear closer to the
structure. Will wonders if Hannibal commissioned such a thing or if it came with the place.
Inside lies their mode of transportation covered with a musty sheet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Will mutters.

In a whirlwind of blinding dust, Hannibal tears the sheet away to reveal a motorcycle. It is a
burnt orange color with deep gray accents, and will most definitely fit the both of them.

Hannibal on a motorcycle isn’t an image he can feasibly reconcile with reality.

“We may window-shop for a car at a later date, but our starvation is a much more imminent
dilemma. As are the other necessities we require.”

Can’t forget about Hannibal’s cologne and hair products.

Shakily, Will scoffs.

He’s about to ask how in the hell they’re meant to lug groceries back on this monstrous
contraption when he catches sight of the huge silver canister on the backend of the bike
which should fit more than several bags of materials. But he isn’t about to ask if Hannibal
ever got a proper license for this sort of thing.

He doesn’t suspect Hannibal would risk their lives on a motorbike.

“We’re leaving…now?”

“That would be prudent, yes,” Hannibal primly responds, wiping down one of three helmets
on the otherwise empty bench to the right of the bike. Will hadn’t noticed them.

He hands it to Will, then wipes down one for himself.

The inside of the helmet still smells of age, but it isn’t as bad as it could be. Clearing his
throat, he fastens the strap under his chin. It makes him feel incredibly stupid, but Hannibal
looks stupidly incredible.

He’d wondered why Hannibal emerged from the bathroom dressed in leathers, but he’d been
too flustered by the vision to question it or even allow his eyes to linger for a dubious amount
of time.

“Should I be wearing what you’re wearing?” Will forces out, averting his eyes from leather-
clad biceps when Hannibal glances his way.

“Technically yes, but it’s hot out and you can trust I will not crash.”

“That’s what they all say,” Will kids gruffly, picking at the threads of his brown plaid button-
up. He found it for himself inside one of the house’s wardrobes. It fit him perfectly.

“I have driven these often enough, I could likely do it blind,” Hannibal elaborates, manually
rolling the bike out onto the crunchy grass beyond the shed. Will follows, watching closely.
The girthy tires flatten the land it navigates. He lines it up with the path leading off to the
distant dirt road and then grins at Will. “I spent most of my youth getting around Florence on
a device similar to this.”

“I should accuse you of a mid-life crisis,” Will asserts, touching the posterior seat of the bike,
meant for him. “But I’m…captivated by this version of you. A version I haven’t seen.”
“I haven’t felt this young in years,” Hannibal confesses with delight, revving up the bike.
Will is shocked it hear it roar brightly to life, as if it was waiting for them. Full of fuel, not
yet broken in.

Will gasps quietly when he sees Hannibal swing his leg over the bike, mounting it with
confidence. “Come along, Will. I have the privilege of knowing you are in fact going my way
this time,” Hannibal persuades with a twinkle in his eye, reaching back and patting the seat
behind him.

The bike rumbles impatiently.

Will could saunter off to the house, leaving Hannibal to go it alone. He could refuse to turn
back or even consider hopping on such a raucous creature, and to trust the other creature
driving it.

Instead, he decisively swipes down the helmet’s facial protection and slides up right behind
Hannibal, kicking his feet into the designated rests right at Hannibal’s heels. His body aligns
with Hannibal’s directly, automatically kicking every system into high gear — fear, arousal, a
quiet sense of power that never fails to arrive with their contact — luckily unnoticeable
behind the growl of the engine and the humidity of the air around them. Will cautiously slides
his arms around Hannibal’s waist, and involuntarily squeezes when Hannibal revs the muffler
louder and takes off with a vicious crackle along nature’s path ahead.

Will is forced to close his eyes, as every tree looks like an obstacle they could collide with
and should duck away from. It’s out of his hands for the first time in weeks; the steering
wheel.

He never did like dodgeball.

Swiftly and expertly, no question about it, Hannibal drives past the perimetering forest
around their house, swerving sharply onto the two-lane dirt road. The technique is risky,
daring.

The adrenaline rush Will gets from it is addictive.

He can’t help it; Once they reach their first stoplight (the town not far at all from the
shoreline where their new house hides in plain view of outsiders), Will releases his arms from
Hannibal’s waist and unlatches his helmet. Craning backward, he stores it in the empty silver
compartment. Hannibal is diligently paying attention to the lights, but stiffens when Will
presses a bared cheek to his back and hugs him tighter.

When they take off again, Will feels sufficiently high.

The wind on his face, the warmth of Hannibal’s jacket, and the vibration under his legs that is
most reminiscent of the motor yacht’s engine but even better — It all adds up into an
experience he never knew he could enjoy. Some dormant daredevil inside him riles up to
scream for more.
Despite who Hannibal is, or perhaps because of it, he suddenly understands why the man
used to ride these in his youth, and why he feels young doing so now.

Will feels young. Even in his youth, Will never felt young.

Carefree, he laughs, the noise muffled by the wind as they loop out of the remaining coppices
and rural backroads of Cuba and enter into a more urban environment. There are restaurants,
gas stations, every sign of lived-in life. Will has no clue where they’re going and he doesn’t
care.

Lights and signs whip by, but he stares up at the clouds which stay unchanged.

Will succumbs to an abrupt, inherent urge to slide his hands under Hannibal’s shirt and feel
the heat of his skin rather than thrive on the echoes of it through thick clothes acting as a
hide. Hannibal’s stomach is soft under his fingertips, and he moves them around to feel every
hair, every divot. Brushing lightly over his inner belly button, he senses the man’s stomach
muscles quiver. Even at the speed they’re pushing.

Awareness dawns on him that what he’s doing could be dangerous, for an amalgamation of
reasons. But like before, he’s truly in too high of a headspace to care.

He stubbornly keeps his hands buried underneath Hannibal’s undershirt for the entirety of the
road trip, only slipping them out after the bike growls deeper and slows down at the edge of a
supermarket’s walkway. It looks to be an upscale market, filled with organic and pricey
brands. It doesn’t surprise him.

“You took a risk removing your helmet,” Hannibal cautions him plainly, directly after taking
off his own. He shakes his hair and it falls attractively over his eyes. A silver crown of gold
hues.

“The wind felt nice,” Will croaks out, hacking a little at the unexpected burn in his throat.
The wind apparently wasn’t beneficial for the chronic dryness his mouth faces daily.

There is color in Hannibal’s cheeks that Will suspects is from the cool air. He’s also
disinclined to meet Will’s eyes as he locks the bike into park and heads off toward the store,
skirting around bustling groups of teenagers headed for the bar district.

Will skids up to his side, holding back a grin.

The adrenaline is still rushing through him, making it easier to maneuver around the market
without panicking. If he were feeling more like himself, he’d be hiding in every deserted aisle
to avoid the scrutiny of Cuban citizens. God knows how much of his face has been put out
into the press by now. However, though the obviously more notorious of the two, Hannibal
leisurely strolls around the aisles with a hand-held cart. No shame or fear in sight.

Will simply follows his lead, reminding himself how the wind will feel on his face on their
drive home. How Hannibal’s body will feel tucked against his own.

Maybe they shouldn’t even consider a car if it makes him feel this alive.
“Read this off for me if you would,” Hannibal requests, handing Will a yellow notepad with
an attached pen. Will doesn’t know how he hid this massive shopping list from him for
weeks, but he starts reciting it, pausing when they have to locate the exact product in-store.
Fortunately, there are English translations on the aisle divisions so he can point them in the
right direction and have Hannibal work quicker through this trip. After nearly an hour of
meticulously sifting through expensive products to find the satisfactory kinds, Hannibal picks
a stray leaf out of Will’s hair and murmurs, “You may pick out anything you like before we
leave. Money is no issue.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t considered that. “I’m satisfied with whatever you want.”

“Surely there’s a taste of home you miss or predict you will miss,” Hannibal presses,
pleasantly reading over the label of a flour bag. He loads two of them into their stuffed cart,
both of them unbleached. “And before you suggest scotch, I have a wide variety of alcohol
waiting for us at home.”

“You know me so well,” Will grumbles humorlessly.

“I should hope so.”

Hannibal ambles off to the vegetables and Will follows. There are several they accumulate
he’s never even heard the name of. Distracted, he’s still attempting to come up with
something he wants.

“Venison,” he eventually decides.

There is a noise Hannibal emits that sounds similar to a purr. “An exquisite choice,” he
compliments. “I can do wonders with a good cut of venison. Anything else?”

Will thinks comfort food. He tries not to think about blood, radiance, and elevation.

“Cheese and crackers.”

Hannibal blinks a few times, then smiles placidly.

“Would you allow me to pick the class of each?”

Chuckling, Will holds out his arms in capitulation.

“Not picky.” He knew Hannibal wouldn’t cave entirely. It’s endearing when his immovability
is something expected. He’ll want to hunt down gourmet cheese, or perhaps bake the crackers
himself.

It doesn’t surprise Will when Hannibal elects an incredibly expensive wheel of camembert
cheese, larger than a basketball at least, but it does surprise him when he’s allowed to choose
the flavor of cracker, even if he can’t choose the brand. Brands never mattered to him
anyhow. He’d just go for cheaper because he’d grown up conscious of money. He goes for a
box of tomato basil flavor, a thrill lurching up from his stomach and out of his throat at the
praise Hannibal rewards him at the choice.
“Your palette is remarkable, Will, for someone who’s indulged so little in fine cuisine.”

“I like fine cuisine, I just rarely partake.”

“I intend to change that,” Hannibal whispers secretively, with all the confidence of a man
who believes he will spend many long and prosperous years with Will at his side. As if they
aren’t on the run. It doesn’t bother Will, in fact it makes him equally giddy, but it also
drudges up his concern of the proverbial ticking clock.

He wonders when Alana’s agency might come knocking.

“Might I suggest Normandy cider to pair with these?” Hannibal says, already strolling off
towards the beverage aisle. Will nods, forcing a placating smile, and weaves after him past
idling customers.

They remain unseen by the masses.

Will helps Hannibal put the groceries away in the kitchen, tuning out Hannibal’s attempts at
small talk. Most often, he doesn’t need to respond when it comes to what Hannibal prefers to
muse about. He knows it’s not important, not with how Hannibal flits around the space, aloof
in the act of nesting.

Then, he hears, “We must paint the boat whenever we find the time.”

“Hmm?”

If Hannibal is annoyed that Will wasn’t listening, he doesn’t show it. He smiles at him and
hands him the box of crackers along with two boxes of cereal and a loaf of bread to put away
in the closet-sized pantry.

“My Uncle’s yacht. It would do us well not to keep the name on display like that, lest we are
found quicker than we intend to be. I do wish for us to fully recover in peace, you know.”

“Right. Sure. Tomorrow?”

Hannibal shuts the fridge.

“You seem… absent, if you don’t mind my saying so, Will.”

Mirroring him, Will closes the pantry door and tucks his hands into his pockets, watching
him. Hannibal returns to his work avoidantly, finishes packing away the meats in their proper
freezer compartments.

“You don’t know what to do with me,” Will accuses plainly, without a hint of animosity.
Simple honesty, genuine. “And I don’t know what to do with you.”
Hannibal huffs, folding his hands behind his back.

“Is it not true that relationships are about discovering such things together?”

Will swallows and tests the phrase, “We are…in a relationship.”

“Of sorts. Most people are.”

Will’s lips twitch at the deflection.

“My relationship with you is far different than most.”

“Not untrue,” Hannibal says, pacing sloth-like as he fakely observes the tile floor and the
shelves that need cleaning and stocking. “However, I believe there is more normality between
us than you realize.”

“What you make me feel isn’t ordinary. It’s never been that.” Will tucks his arms over his
chest as if the heat in the house isn’t stifling. “You’re a divine vessel, imperfect, yet…
untouchable.”

“You’ve touched me before. And I know your opinions on divinity.”

“Maybe I’m going to have trouble figuring out how to co-exist with an ideal.”

“I’m an ideal?” Hannibal appears pleased at the concept, halting his perfunctory examination
of the kitchen. “Just me alone?”

“Co-existence itself is an ideal,” Will amends the statement with a shake of the head. “We all
create plantations in our minds, storybooks on what we’ll discover over a long co-dependent
journey, and at the end of it. For me, the grounds were drenched in blood, and at the outer
limits of it, an unmarked grave fit for two stood. That grave followed me everywhere, even to
the stream. Historical influence painted a version of our potential co-existence I couldn’t see
beyond. Can’t live with you, can’t live without you.”

“Your mind confirmed inevitability to be inescapable.”

“Hence the definition,” Will retorts.

“Your life will always begin and end with me, Will,” Hannibal tells him firmly, proximity
suddenly so near that Will automatically takes a step back. There is a light growl in the back
of Hannibal’s throat when he elucidates, “You said ‘before you’ and ‘after you’ but there is
no after. Not for us.”

“No,” Will soberly agrees. “No, there really isn’t.” Cautious, he places a hand on Hannibal’s
chest. It’s held high in front of him, self-confident. “I’m saying that I have no idea what I’m
doing. The concept of living with you, like something resembling normal, is entirely foreign
to me for what I see at our inevitable end.”

“And if I see a different end?”

Will looks up at him from beneath heavy lashes.

“You can’t erase the past. You can’t wash the blood from the plantation.”

“No, I would never intend to. But the past, we can redefine.”

Will strokes fingers over the hair peeking out from Hannibal’s undershirt. He’s dressed down
like a carpenter. Dark jeans and the undershirt from their drive before. Even this image is
hard to normalize.

“Recontextualize,” he supplements.

“Might I suggest we start with Lunch?”

“Lunch,” Will repeats, wry.

“Yes. You mustn't look as if I’ve suggested a massacre, Will. Much of our fundamental
history has been shared with food. For us, meals acted as initiation, consummation,
inhumation. Never just a dish.”

“Not even the first dish you served me.”

“Not even that,” Hannibal concedes, smug.

“It’s a good first step,” Will agrees, somewhat reluctantly. “Reacquainting myself with you
like that, this time without pretense. No more exaggeration of the truth, no more nebulous
acts of cannibalism.”

At Hannibal’s mild pout he adds,

“My only stipulation is honesty, Hannibal. Beyond that, I can’t say. You won’t force me to do
something I don’t want to do, not anymore. If you try your hand at that, this isn’t going to
work.”

He doesn’t know what would happen if they regressed, what he’d do.

“I have always wanted honesty between us,” Hannibal contends.

Will rolls his head on his shoulder, glowering.

“As an end goal, at the very least.”

“It’s a two-way street, Hannibal,” Will reminds him. “If you’re going to be honest with me,
I’m going to be honest with you. Can we hold each other to that above all?”

“Yes Will, we must,” Hannibal responds, brushing his thumb lightly over Will’s cheek scar.
Just once. “Tell me then, what would you honestly like to eat?”

Will could ask for a real course. He could lie.

The reply arrives with a coy smile.

“Cheese and Crackers.”

Hannibal submits to Will’s desires.

Without protest, without qualms. He merely insists that they bring along two jugs of the
appropriate cider, then they may dine on as many snacks as they please.

It’s surprising Hannibal is allowing them to eat crackers and melty cheese on the couch with
scarcely more than two napkins between them, but Will’s relishing the moment immensely.
The meaning of it more than the food itself. They’re consuming something together, and
there is no violence wrought and no manipulation at hand. Hannibal put on a record player to
emphasize the peace, just a few piano tracks playing on repeat.

The living room is gorgeous.

There are more windows here in this room than anywhere else in the villa. The light shines
through the curtainless glass, reflections bouncing off the sea-green waves beyond their
property. Will couldn’t have asked for a better stream, and even in the midst of mingling with
his fears of co-existence, he finds himself wholly tranquil.

Will jumps when a thumb swipes at the corner of his lips.

His jump seems to startle Hannibal slightly, whose cheeks pinken.

“You had camembert on your face,” Hannibal explains quietly, swallowing and turning back
to the box of crackers. Insecure, if Will didn’t know any better. Silently, Will watches him
delve into the task of carving a piece of their wheel over a tomato-basil seasoned cracker.
They’ve been indulging their stomachs for nearly half an hour and Will hasn’t even begun to
feel full.

“Feed me,” Will suggests, equally quiet.

He doesn’t know where that came from. He doesn’t take it back.

Gauging, Hannibal observes him for a minute and must find what he’s looking for because he
blithely extends the hand holding the snack, up to the seam of Will’s lips.

Will wraps fingers around Hannibal’s broad wrist, drawing him closer before taking the
cheese and cracker between his lips. The insides of the camembert slice drizzles lightly down
Hannibal’s index finger from Will’s beastly consumption, and he doesn’t think before he’s
holding the hand in place and wrapping lips and tongue around the finger, making eye contact
as he slowly sucks up the savory mess, until the digit pops lewdly from his mouth. Perhaps
overly lewd for the way Hannibal is staring at him.

Talk about normality, Will thinks to himself. That wasn’t normal.

 Heat rises to Will’s cheeks and he drops Hannibal’s hand which lingers briefly, awkwardly, in
the air between them before Hannibal steers it back into his lap and directs his attention to the
cracker box again, altogether unreadable. Will chews up what remains of the cracker he was
fed and stares vacantly in the opposite direction of Hannibal. He hadn’t exactly planned for
that to pan out the way it did.

He didn’t know what he planned for, in truth.

Perhaps Will was wrong about their meals lacking pretense from now on.

Chapter End Notes

the chapters with less plot always end up being way longer than i intend lmaoooo, more
plot next chapter ;D
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

They must have fallen asleep on the couch, or Will did.

He wakes to the weight of a thick comforter and Hannibal’s familiar body heat radiating to
the left of him. He cracks an eye open to find Hannibal asleep not more than a few inches
away; his face is serene, pressed into the silk pillow, hair attractively loose over his eyes. The
perfect picture of home, is Will’s first compulsory thought of the day. Then, because of the
correlations, he thinks of Molly.

It dampens everything good about the moment.

Will rolls over onto his back, putting space between them, and stares at the ceiling of their
new bedroom. The walls are paneled with Birchwood, and the furniture is a molten brown
that matches the area rug and the curtains, which as of now are only obscuring a fraction of
the morning light. The atmosphere seems like something he should fight. The warmth, the
familiarity, the assumption of it all.

Yet, he knows if Hannibal were to tuck him into bed in a separate room, he would have risen
with a vengeance and criticized him for treating him like a guest.

It’s just the proximity again. Drives him mad. He doesn’t know what to do with it, just like he
told Hannibal he doesn’t know what to do with him. If this is figuring things out, he needs a
copy of better instructions because he’s not sure where the hell the ball landed in their court.

He knows he wants to burrow under the covers and bask in the warmth. He knows he wants
to touch Hannibal even if he doesn’t know where or why. He knows he can’t have either of
those things right now.

Will waits for Hannibal to wake up.

It doesn’t take long. He probably began to stir when Will did, but he’s finally blinking his
golden-brown eyes open a few minutes later and there’s a fraction of a second where they’re
sharply alert, immediately taking in his surroundings to gauge the situation, then they
instantly melt like butter.

“The bedroom’s nice,” Will tells him because it’s true, then, “We need Wi-Fi.”

There’s a twitch between Hannibal’s brows before the man rolls over completely onto his
stomach, noise rumbling in his chest from the pleasure of the sunny morning. He lightly hugs
his pillow and responds,

“Man lived without the internet for thousands of centuries.”

Will’s brain is too sleep deprived to play games.

“Okay. I want Wi-Fi.” At Hannibal’s mildly sour expression, Will lays flat at his side again
and implores him gentler. “I’ll feel a lot safer. Just knowing what’s being said. Context is
important, Hannibal.”

“As is relaxation,” he grumbles fussily.

Involuntarily, a smile dawns on Will’s face. Apparently Hannibal is more of stubborn

personality in the morning when they’re no longer at sea. Perhaps being on the yacht had
Hannibal consistently on high alert. There were the coast guards to worry about, and Chiyoh.

“Who says we can’t have both,” Will tempts, humming as he bumps shoulder with
Hannibal’s and lets his body weight sink into the memory foam. One could get lost inside all
these comforts.

Hannibal doesn’t look like he wants to deny him, but there’s something holding him back
from enthusiastically handing internet access over to Will. It’s not that there’s an issue with
connection or he would have told him straight out the gate. No, there’s something deeper Will
needs to prod at.

“Tell me what’s going on in there,” Will whispers, putting a hand in Hannibal’s hair and
stroking over his scalp, the home of his mind. He’s holding a palace in the palm of his hand,
genius, beauty, dark radiance.

“We have made such progress together,” Hannibal admits slowly, turning his head to meet
Will’s eyes. Their proximity is maddening again. Will could slip and fall into him as easily as
he could breath, but tearing himself away is next to impossible. “You have been known to
regress when faced with reality.”

Will scoffs, the movements of his hand stilling. Hannibal's one to talk.

“Regression is such a reductive term. I rejected unearned realities.”

“Even so, you may find yourself rejecting this one. If old realities begin to seep into new.”

Will’s face twists with confusion. The insecurity is something he didn’t expect, no, it’s
something he never would have dreamed could happen to Hannibal Lecter. And normally, he
can’t feel within an inch of what Hannibal is feeling, but here in the raw hours of early
morning he can sense uncertainty roiling off him in waves. He moves his hand again, but to
gently push Hannibal until he shifts flat on his back.

“You’re afraid.”

“Am I?” Hannibal remarks, the threat in his voice flying over Will’s head.

“Of me?” Will asks, curiosity rampant. He’s scrutinizing the miniscule twitches in Hannibal’s
features, the sleepy glaze over his eyes, the slight downturn of his lips. “Of—”
With the agile momentum of a leopard, Hannibal whips them around, a hand clasping over
his mouth pinning him down to the middle of the bed while he balances above him on the
other hand. There’s a ghost of a snarl curling his lips and his eyes are alert in the way they
were before. Though his heart begins to race, Will finds himself calm under Hannibal’s vice
grip. Under his dangerous weight.

“Tread lightly, Will,” Hannibal murmurs quietly. “I won’t be mocked.”

Will raises a brow, because he can’t exactly say much with a hand pressing over his mouth.

Hannibal releases it, but climbs off of him and retreats from their bed. Words catch in Will’s
throat as he watches the muscles of his back stretch and flex. He finds his voice when
Hannibal starts dressing.

“That’s something we need to work on too,” he mutters.

Hannibal makes a non-committal noise as he buttons up a deep emerald shirt. It’s short
sleeved for the heat. Will watches him pull snugly tailored trousers over his hips.

“You assume meaning where it doesn’t belong,” Will elaborates, skin still buzzing. “It’s not
just that you put words in my mouth, but ideas in my head.”

Quietly violent, Hannibal harshly tugs a belt through its loops.

“Occasionally our history tastes fresh,” Hannibal explains plainly. “I overestimated how three
years apart might curb my reactions to you. I fear they’ve worsened them.”

“I’ve never desired to mock you, Hannibal,” Will asserts, sitting up against the headboard. He
plucks the sheets over his lap, and stares across the room at him. “Kill you, maybe. More
than once. Though that can be claimed on both sides. Equitable advances of malicious
intimacy. Even then, I respect you.”

“I respect you more than you know, Will.”

He huffs. “Then why are we fighting?”

“I took your natural born analyzation as something that it wasn’t,” Hannibal tells him with
objectivity that doesn’t align with the mild irritation in his tone.

“Can’t turn it off as much as you can’t turn your own off,” Will shoots back.

Hannibal combs his hair in the full length mirror by the wardrobe, and meets Will’s eyes in
the reflection. “Perhaps I deserve that,” he confesses.

“Hannibal.” Will relaxes against the headboard and nearly reconsiders the consolation he’s
about to give him. “Look at me and ask yourself if I look like a man who doesn’t want to be
here.”

Freezing up, Hannibal’s fingers tighten imperceptibly over the handle of his comb. Will hit
the nail on the head, as he usually does. Hannibal fears losing Will. After their past, Will
can’t blame him, but he won’t abide by stringing him along to a dried up source of water. He
intends to be here until both of them destroy each other or the world in the wake of their
coalescence. He made that choice when he decided to offer the universe a chance to speed
things up with a watery grave, and he affirmed that choice when he woke up finding
Hannibal lost and decided to search the world for him.

“Look at me, Hannibal,” he coaxes, softer.

Hannibal sets down his comb and turns to face him.

Will can tell that Hannibal sees the truth in his eyes. That Will wants to be here over
anywhere, and with him over anyone else. That this, in a sense, is both of their ideals
wrapped into one. But he also knows Hannibal is an obstinate, occasionally brittle man. It
may take some time for the truth to fully set in.

“You look like you could do with a shower,” Hannibal responds earnestly, an easy smile
breaking over a stern expression. Will laughs lightly at that. He doesn’t need full acceptance
as of yet.

“Maybe I deserve that too.”

Will tosses the sheets off himself and lingers on the edge of the bed. The mattress is springy
enough to creak and he blushes at the thought of an activity that could make it screech.

If he doesn’t jerk off in the shower, or literally anywhere else and soon, he’s going to regret
it. He represses the urge to palm the front of his boxers and quell the slow simmer.

“I have a question for you, Will,” Hannibal says suddenly, closing in on him. Posture
straightening, Will meets him head on, gazing up at him expectantly. “Did I frighten you?”

When he leapt atop him like a wild cat, Will assumes.

“You don’t frighten me, Hannibal.”

“I don’t?” Hannibal pries with a smirk. “Your pulse often skitters like a rabbit’s.”

Will blinks several times through a brief fluster of feelings, both good and bad, and decides to
reply honestly with a wry smirk of his own.

“You excite me. Is that what you want to hear?”

Inhaling deeply through his nose, Hannibal looks Will over in contemplation, then his head
tilts sideways, lips parting in wonder, “You are a curious creature.”

“Let’s just pretend I’m taking that as a compliment,” Will remarks lightly, and stands to walk
past Hannibal to the adjoining bathroom. The glass shower looks big, a showerhead attached
to the ceiling.

Before he can even step foot inside, he’s being tugged backwards against Hannibal. His
backside lines up completely with his front as Hannibal wraps a hand loosely around his
throat, keeping him captive and in place. Excitement was right, because Will can practically
hear the immediate rush of blood in reaction, and his breathing hitches over itself as he fights
to calm his heart. He gasps at the spreading heat a single squeeze of his throat causes, and
becomes laser-focused on the touch of the other hand on hip which is curling fast over his
stomach. Hannibal leans close to his ear, and whispers with gravel in his voice.

“If you left I would hunt you down, and I would find you. Remember that.”

The possession in that warning is direly insulting, but Will would be lying if he said it didn’t
burn up his lower body as if he were currently tied to a stake, waiting for the flames to engulf
him.

“You would try,” Will remarks, perhaps stupidly.

The hand around Will’s throat clenches and he grasps instinctively at the arm locked onto
him, and at the other arm snaked fiercely around his waist. Hannibal’s constricting him. His
arms have regained all their original muscle mass, from when he was acting as a prolific
serial killer in hiding.

Like prey in the wild, Will goes as limp as he can so that Hannibal might let up, even slightly.
It doesn’t do more than shift Hannibal’s demeanor. The man’s tone turns tender, wanton.

“I would not be able to control myself,” Hannibal elaborates, nose tracing the lobe of his
Will’s ear. Suddenly, it makes absurd sense why he’s telling him this. It’s a warning, but not
because he’s trying to prove something to Will. He doesn’t trust himself to stop if Will
provoked him into action the only way he would be, if Will left. Rejected him again. “The
compassion I feel for you is all-consuming.”

“You think I don’t feel the same?” Will spits, acidic. “Do you actually believe you weren’t on
my mind every single day of those three years? When have you ever been so blind?”

He pretended he didn’t. It was easier to pretend he didn’t wake up to thoughts of Baltimore,

silver hair, dinners past seven. He couldn’t erase Hannibal from his mind if he’d had a
goddamn lobotomy.

For a second, he thinks Hannibal will hurt him. Accusations like that serve only to get you
bitten in the Chesapeake Ripper’s territory. Instead of predictability, Hannibal’s hand drops
from Will’s throat, and he buries his face in Will’s neck as he holds him ever closer,
tightening his hold on him in desperation rather than in warning. Hannibal might be
trembling if he wasn’t holding on so ruthlessly.

Will stands still, allowing Hannibal’s breathing to calm before he lets his hands flutter down
to where Hannibal is now cupping the scar over his stomach. He wants to ease his mind
somehow, as empathetically he can feel the absolute anguish the man is going through. He’s
not sure Hannibal has ever experienced this much fear and vulnerability at once, at least not
since childhood. Hannibal doesn’t know what to do with it. That’s becoming a trend lately,
but this time Will knows what to do.

Just well enough.

Pushing his head back so he can press his cheek against Hannibal’s temple, he intertwines
their fingers and tells him tenderly, “I didn’t want to miss you, Hannibal. But I did.”

“You torture me,” Hannibal whispers, but not with animosity.

Hannibal is the most fickle man he’s ever met. Will thought Hannibal was sure of what he
wanted, but these conversations are proving he’s just as lost as he is. Maybe that’s a good
thing.

Maybe it’ll be easier to figure things out this way.

“I seem to do that best when I’m mostly unaware of it.”

“It’s no fault of yours, Will. Not anymore.” Hannibal releases him entirely and Will doesn’t
quite know where to go. He leans against the archway of the bathroom, watching Hannibal
collect himself, stone up. “There should be new soaps in there for you. Let me know if you
need anything. I’ll start breakfast.”

The sentences are clipped, forced off his tongue. Hannibal walks away stiffly, leaving the
room like he’d never been there. The side of his bed isn’t even messy compared to Will’s
which is tossed and turned into high heavens. It’s a fond sight, he thinks, observing the
juxtaposition.

He wants to go chase after Hannibal and not let that interaction hang in the air.

He doesn’t.

After he locks the door to the bathroom (a habit more than anything else) and removes his
boxers, he notices with vexation that his cock is semi hard. If Hannibal sensed it, he now
probably assumes Will is a freak that gets off on being choked. He sighs irritably, praying
Hannibal didn’t notice even when some part of him is morbidly curious what would happen if
he had spoken up. It twitches when he touches it, just cradling the tip gently in his hand. It’s
not something he even wants to avoid this time, so when he gets in the shower, he turns the
heat to scalding and lets the water pummel his sore back as he pumps his cock rapidly several
times until he can’t help but to pour out his release with a grunt and a stilted back step. The
orgasm wraps pleasure over and under him in a sweet caress. He doesn’t realize how hard
he’s panting until his hand is dripping white and the cold glass he’s been digging his forehead
into starts to steam up.

He needed that, or else he was going to embarrass himself.

He tries not to think about how great that felt in comparison to all the other times he’s
masturbated in his lifetime. With Hannibal’s handprints still echoing all over his body. He
shivers at an aftershock.

Living like this has him high-strung, and living with Hannibal, well, he did say it drives him
mad. If only he’d man-up and set legitimate boundaries, but he knows he’ll never be able to
do that. Not when he wakes up every day hoping Hannibal will touch him, in some new way,
in some way like he just did.
He washes the release off his hands, and awkwardly off the glass, and then cracks open the
shampoo and gets to work showering the sweat of a yesterday’s trip out of his curly hair.

Hannibal’s attitude has completely changed by the time he enters the kitchen. “Come sit,” he
greets when he sees Will, hair still damp from the shower. He gestures toward the barstools,
and Will goes, lax with warmth and cleanliness. He wishes he could constantly live in the
state of existing post-shower. He likes feeling clean, likes being naked to the world before
layers of dirt and dust build to obscure the real him again. Hannibal places a fancy looking
cheese Danish in front of him with a smile. An ice coffee waits next to it. “I just finished
up.”

“Thanks,” Will murmurs, wondering if he should be offering to help with meal preparation
more often now that they’ve temporarily settled. Now that they’re on land with no obstacles
in the way, he thinks it’d only be fair. Instead he says, “I’m thinking about painting the boat
today.”

“Would you like my help?” Hannibal asks, drying his hands with a dishtowel.

At the instant recoil inside his chest, he abruptly gets why Hannibal never wants help in the
kitchen.

“I’d like to work on it alone,” he replies, pausing. “If that’s alright.”

“That’s preferable,” Hannibal agrees chipperly. “I’m planning a big lunch and I’d like the
time to prepare. What color paint are you considering? We have several in the shed, or I can
take you back into the city to pick one out if none of them suit.”

The conversation is remarkably domestic compared to what just happened between them—
compared to who they are at their cores—that Will stumbles over his response.

“Uh, no. I mean, I’d like that. Not today, though.”

“Whenever it pleases you. We have all the time in the world.”

It sounds like a revelation. Will merely nods and enjoys his breakfast.

Afterward, Hannibal insists he apply sunscreen if he's to be going out at this hour. Will
receives the spray can he’s handed and covers all his bared skin in protective mist. He’s
wearing a white t-shirt and shorts, so he feels sticky after the fact, and considerably
uncomfortable. He gives Hannibal a muddled look when the man opens what looks to be a
chapstick and promptly rubs it against Will’s nose for him.

“What are you doing?” Will grumbles, not bothering to move away. The stick slides wetly all
over his cheeks, his forehead. Hannibal is careful maneuvering it around his lips and not on
them.
“Applying sunscreen to your face.”

“You have a chapstick for that?”

“Most people do, and it’s not a chapstick,” Hannibal replies with exasperation. “It’s a far less
abrasive method than the spray. You don’t want to consume it.”

“Most people don’t want to consume human flesh,” Will counters.

“I wasn’t claiming to be perfect,” Hannibal quips.

Will is struck with an impulse to kiss Hannibal until neither of them can properly breathe, so
he finally steps back and sips down the last of his iced coffee. He doesn’t look at Hannibal;
he can’t or he’ll do something now he’ll regret. Hannibal doesn’t appear to register his
internal conflict, purely patting him on the back and returning to work in the kitchen. A busy
little bee, as always.

Without a farewell, Will exits the house and heads off to the shed to grab the first can of paint
he lays eyes on. It’s a golden hue, and as he swings the bucket back and forth on the path to
their private dock, he tries valiantly not to think about all the reasons he shouldn’t give in and
let inevitability take its course.

The swipes of gold he paints for the boat’s first coat are visually frustrated.

More than a few hours later, Will returns to the villa.

Lunch is ready for him in a container on the butcher’s block. There are gorgeously hand-
written instructions on how to properly reheat it in the oven but Will plops it in the
microwave without a second thought. There is a small message at the bottom of the note that
informs him Hannibal is in town dealing with estate particulars, and that the internet should
be working. The password is listed as: theoihalioi

Theo Halioi as far as Will recalls translates to ‘sea gods.’

Grateful for Hannibal’s bestowal of Wi-Fi, he gathers his meal up and takes it to the study in
the back of the house. He’d noticed an old computer there. There’s a plug already attached to
the wall so he turns the power on and hopes for the best. There is no lock code on the
computer so he gets in without any trouble, typing in the Wi-Fi password to the only internet
source popping up in the right hand corner of the screen.

He holds his breath, exhaling when it connects.

Idling, he doesn’t open a tab or explore page yet. He eats his meal until there is nothing left to
scrape out of the container. It was a several layered lasagna and he feels ridiculously full
when he’s done, but completely sated. It’s just his mind now that’s not sated.
He can’t avoid it any longer; he searches up Tattlecrime.

The whiplash that hits him is phenomenal.

There are dozens upon dozens of articles about him, Hannibal, the getaway, how the FBI lied
to the public, how Hannibal is on the run with him. Freddie Lounds must have made a new
deal with the feds because there is no stopping her this time. Shaking with ferocity, he keeps
scrolling, reading and rereading the headlines. He isn’t prepared for the content of the
articles; he wasn’t prepared for the public to know everything. He didn’t expect the world to
know. Not yet.

He expected the FBI to favor covering their tracks over admitting to the public that they were
wrong about Hannibal Lecter’s death, that they failed innocent lives. He expected them not to
want the world to know Will ran away with him, to make matters worse. He expected too
little of bureaucracy.

He was relying on their artifice.

Scrolling frantically through the contents, he grows nauseous reading the titles of Freddie’s
infamous forums. There are threads drawing inferences about his and Hannibal’s sex life, and
threads brainstorming locations they could have disappeared to amongst long posts with
gruesome crime scene photos attached from all over the world, from individuals claiming
their guesswork is the most believable.

Will barely knows what he wants out of this new life, and here are thousands of individuals
deciding it for him. Theorizing on him, his life, his wants and needs.

He can’t pretend he doesn’t see the most recent article from Lounds.

Interview With Wife of Hannibal the Cannibal’s Partner in Crime and Love!

He’s starting to hyperventilate. There is a filter over his eyes and it’s as red as mercury
burning. Even brighter than the color scheme of Tattlecrime’s home page.

If Molly wanted to grant an interview, she wouldn’t have given one to Freddie Lounds of all
the reporters unless she was trying to get back at Will. One might consider this fair play, but
this isn’t something he can deem hunky-dory. Molly just isn’t like that. She was never like
that. Even if he—even if the title—

Will is furious. Furious at Freddie, at Molly, at the FBI.

Taking a deep breath, he reminds himself he’s presently separated from this world, that he cut
the cord himself and expected never to return to morally acceptable society, and that he did in
fact run away with Hannibal Lecter. He broke him out, after all, and these press releases were
a long time coming.

He clicks on the interview and reads.

The Tattlecrime team is delighted to finally earn this opportunity to sit down with Will
Graham’s soon to be ex-wife, preferring now to go by the name Molly Foster, in response to
 the recent news break on Hannibal the Cannibal’s shocking resurrection. Former Special
Agent Will Graham was discovered aiding and abetting the serial killer’s decampment and is
now suspected to be on the run alongside him. Their shared history is a turbulent storm of
friendship, betrayal, and escalating destructive attraction.

We reached out to Molly Foster in hopes of enlightening the public about the inner workings
of Will Graham, and see if there is anything of importance to garner from her intimate
knowledge of the once appraised man of the law. She has agreed to answering my
questionnaire on the subject.

Q: Now Mrs. Foster, you were married to Graham for a little over two years, yes?

A: Yes. We met when Will was attending Hannibal Lecter’s trial.

Q: How was your marriage like? Peaceful? Tense?

A: I thought it was peaceful. I can’t speak for him.

Q: Were you ever aware of his prior relationship with Hannibal Lecter?

A: I knew that Lecter had been his therapist, and that they’d been friends. I didn’t know there
was a romantic connection between them otherwise I might have reconsidered marrying him.
And I don’t believe that relationship had technically come to an end by the time he met me, if
recent news proves anything.

Q: Why are you allowing yourself to be interviewed after avoiding interviews for so
long?

A: Will Graham is not the man I knew, not in any respects. I wanted the public to understand
I do not condone what he’s done, and I do not stand by him. I am trying to separate myself
and my son from this horrible legacy, and if this gives the people who are curious, for
whatever sick reason, some closure on my point of view then so be it. I made a horrible
mistake that will follow me for the rest of my life.

Q: Do you think Will Graham will ever try to contact you?

A: No, and I hope to God he won’t.

Q: What do you believe Will Graham sees in Hannibal Lecter?

A: Will has an empathy disorder. I believe he can’t see past morality because of it sometimes.
I believe he’s not with Lecter because it’s what he wants, but because its what he feels he
wants because of what the other man has convinced him to think over the years. No sane man
or woman should see anything good in a cannibal.

Q: Do you imagine they’re in love?

A: I don’t care to imagine. But I don’t think psychopaths can love.

Q: In hindsight, do you think it was dangerous having Will Graham around your child?

A: You can’t judge a book by it’s cover all the time, but sometimes you should. I should have
seen the scars, both physical and mental, and left well enough alone.

Q: What would you say to Will if you could say anything?

A: Please turn yourself in, and get away from that psychopath. This isn’t what you want, not
really. You’re confused and you’re going to get more innocent people hurt.

Q: What would you say to Hannibal the Cannibal if you could?

A: You’re a monster.

Q: Do you believe it was Graham or Lecter who killed Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier?

A: I believe forensics. I believe it was Will who killed her.

Will’s fingers are pressing so firmly into the computer’s keyboard that the plastic creaks
under stress. Shaking all over, he rereads the last Q&A interaction twice, three times. Four.
Bedelia isn’t dead, he reminds himself. There is no possibility; they left her in tact, just
without a leg. She couldn’t have even died of blood loss; they patched up her thigh perfectly.
No room for error.

Without considering the incensing article he just read, he clicks backward from the page and
scrolls down as far as the newer articles go. The headline spits fire at him when he sees it.
 Hannibal the Cannibal and Former Special Agent Will Graham Starting a Killing Spree in
Italy? Bedelia Du Maurier, Prior Colleague and Therapist of Lecter’s, Found Poisoned in
Townhouse!

The scales have lifted from his eyes. This is why the FBI was forced to tell the truth.

They kept Hannibal’s escape under wraps up until this moment.

He reads the article, gathering all the necessary information.

Italian authority apparently discovered Bedelia’s corpse courtesy of an anonymous caller. She
had been poisoned with 4mg/L of cyanide and found dead beside the dining table. Will
vividly remembers the bottle she’d asked him to pour into her drink. It had his fingerprints all
over it. They would suspect that it was Will and Hannibal who orchestrated it, but Will who
proverbially pulled the trigger in the end.

Despite all their efforts to keep her alive. He never expected her next chess square to be
suicide. He supposes it was the only option left to her to put one over on Will.

It was Bedelia’s last ploy. And a good one at that.

He grits his teeth at the realization she’s become his first public victim. How he wanted quite
literally anyone else to fit that title. And now, she’s forever stained how the world views him.
She’ll forever be a part of his story even though he wanted to her to be as minor of a footnote
as goddamn Matthew Brown.

It sinks in, like quicksand swallowing him.

He’s a wanted killer, just like Hannibal.

And Hannibal smelled the cyanide in the bottle and let him do it.

Stewing feverishly, he reads the article thoroughly once more, stuck on the concept of an
‘anonymous’ caller. Bedelia’s body shouldn’t have been found for months, but this was
incredibly soon after her death. It wouldn’t make sense that anybody would call in
anonymously unless;

Chiyoh. It seems she was not just a component in observation but participation.

He can’t even be angry with her. She and Bedelia seemed to have a past of their own. He’s
more angry at Hannibal, at himself for being such a fool, and at Freddie for reporting on this
‘murder’ giddily.

By exchanging information with him, Freddie knew where he’d be led. What he’d do. She
winds him up just like everyone else, and watches him go.

Will returns to Molly’s interview and solemnly reads her responses again.

There’s a bitterness inside him that wishes she’d said nothing at all. If they ever crossed
paths, she could have told him to his face what she thinks of him. Not through Freddie of all
 people.

And all of these comments about Hannibal being his lover.

Nobody understands what they’re talking about.

The world is moronic.

These days it seems everyone wants to provoke Will or condemn him. No remorse from
either end. He’s become a toy. A story kids will tell at school. Nothing more than what he
feared he would become.

The front door opens and shuts with a loud jostle, causing Will to whip his head toward the
hall. He knows Hannibal will come looking for him. Glancing around, his eyes lock onto a
scalpel in a mug of pens and pencils. He takes it between two fingers and rises impassively
from the desk chair, heading out into the hall where he can hear heavy footsteps rising in
pitch.

Chapter End Notes

i was only halfway through my outline for this chapter and realized if i finished it i was
going to be like, a 14k word chapter lmAo so i'm gonna just post this for now. sorry for
that little uh...insinuation of impending violence at the end :D LOL
 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will looms at the end of the hall, haloed by the overhead lantern above him. When Hannibal
crosses into the hall from the dining room, his eyes instantly fall to the gleam of the scalpel.

Neither of them moves a muscle.

Until Will darkly greets, “Dr. Lecter.”

And Hannibal smiles so insidiously Will can’t help the knee-jerk reaction sending him
forward at a creeping pace, wielding the scalpel tighter in his fist.

“You are exquisite when you’re locked onto a target,” Hannibal murmurs, folding his hands
behind his back as if Will narrowing in on him with a sharp object in hand, padding closer
with obvious harmful intent. “Dare I ask, what is it this time?”

“What does cyanide smell like, Doctor?” Will breathily inquires. “I’m curious.”

The confusion on Hannibal’s face is genuine enough to stop Will in his tracks, a mere few
feet away. He’s well aware Hannibal is a renowned actor in his own right, but if he’s caught
red-handed in a lie he often doesn’t ham up the betrayal to this extent.

“Almonds, I’ve heard,” Hannibal tells him, eyes flitting around as he considers. “A sharper
scent, less sweetness to it I’d expect.”

“You’d expect?” Will snarls, surging another step.

“Cyanide is one of the few chemical compounds I can unfortunately not recognize by scent.
Not all cyanide compounds exude the same scents, or they more often than not have no scent
at all.” Hannibal inhales, lips pursing. “What has happened, Will?”

Will wants to believe him. He does.

It’s difficult to push himself off a track once he’s on it, however. He leans up on his toes, so
that he’s eye level with Hannibal, and balances one arm over Hannibal’s shoulder until he can
get thread fingers through the hair at his nape and tug. Hannibal’s head flings back harshly,
and Will’s lips twitch at the light hiss he’s rewarded as he presses the scalpel just under his
jawline.

Hannibal’s eyes glisten wildly, and he looks proud.

An unkind smile breaks over Will’s face, but he reins it back.

“You wouldn’t lie to me again, would you Doctor?” he whispers with imitative innocence,
not sure where his confidence is coming from, but all Will can fully understand is that he
likes it. Likes feeling this brand of power. Likes that Hannibal is giving it to him freely.

“I told you as much, Will,” Hannibal replies quietly, and maybe he’d sound offended if he
didn’t look alarmingly turned on. “Have I wronged you?”

Will stares into his eyes, studying him, and lets him go all in one swift movement. He tucks
the scalpel into one of his back pockets, sidestepping from the perilous contact.

“Not today,” he murmurs. “Come on. I’ll help with dinner.”

He isn’t asking and Hannibal isn’t debating. He’s smart not to, trailing after Will without a
whisper of protest so they can get started on an early dinner. Will only just ate, but he finds
himself ravenous when he’s full of rage. He can do with something savory, something with
meat.

“I am afraid I’ve not had the opportunity for even a quick web search yet,” Hannibal speaks
slowly, hovering as Will folds out some fresh slabs of venison on the butcher block. Will isn’t
meeting his eyes. “The news has upset you?”

“I’d say.”

“Then I believe it would do you well if we were to discuss it.”

Will smiles bitterly, deftly focused on his task at hand. “Therapy again, Hannibal? Where will
we hold our new sessions, our bedroom?”

“You referred to me as Doctor not moments ago,” Hannibal reminds him. “You tend to fall
into such a habit either when you are attempting to distance yourself from me, or when you
are in need of a paddle. Your paddle is not lost to you, not anymore.”

Hands stutter over the meat, slipping across wet skin.

Hannibal continues with the psychiatrist’s tone Will had not so secretly missed, “This life is
ours together, Will. Honesty, you claimed, would keep it afloat.”

“We can talk while we eat,” Will mutters, conceding gingerly.

“As long as we abide by table etiquette.”

Will scoffs, “As long as you abide by a code of ethics.”

“You like my ethics.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

“Ah, but you just did. I win,” Hannibal muses.

Will has to look up at that, about to bark at him for acting childish when he realizes what
Hannibal’s doing. It’s blatantly obvious even though it’s entirely out of character.

“You’re trying to make me laugh,” Will presumes.

“Apparently I’m a bit rusty.” Hannibal scratches the back of his own neck with one hand, not
so subtly scrutinizing Will’s handiwork with the meat. He would offer to let Hannibal take
over, but it’s dire he gets his hands dirty right now. Luckily Hannibal doesn’t pry. “Shall I
start on a pear salad?”

Will’s emotions are spiraling so high, in all sorts of directions, that the fondness he feels for
Hannibal’s gesture is likely more ferociously intense than it would be in any other situation.
He closes his eyes against hot tears, wrought merely from the intensity of how much he
wants.

“I’m sorry I threatened you with a scalpel,” he mumbles after an interim of stilted quiet. It
seems Hannibal has gotten started on the salad. He’s chopping at the island across from him.

“No need. You know I am thrilled to see you in your element.”

“Convincing myself, without even hearing you out, that you were manipulating me was
easier than facing how I felt about the news head on. I feel—I can’t even describe my anger
right now.”

“You asked about cyanide,” Hannibal notes. “How does it relate to us?”

“Bedelia’s meat digestives.”

Will hears the sound of tongs being set down atop marble. Hannibal replies, “I cannot say I
am unsurprised. I expected there was more than digestive medicine in that bottle, pain killers
perhaps, but I did not recognize cyanide. She knew well enough that it was one of the only
compounds I have found hardship deciphering, though I suppose that should have
encouraged me to make the inference.”

“We couldn’t have expected her to commit suicide,” Will grouses, slicing off the excess from
the cut of red meat. He searches the kitchen for a proper spice rub. “Has she finally earned
your disrespect?”

“For what, exactly?”

Will shoots him a gray look over his shoulder and remarks, “You declared suicide as the
enemy, didn’t you? We gifted Bedelia the privilege of life and she threw it back in our
faces.”

“If I were to condemn her, I would have to condemn you,” Hannibal contends. There isn’t an
ounce of resentment in his tone, but Will finds himself bristling anyhow.

“What I did on the cliff, it wasn’t suicide.”

“I suggest Bedelia feels much the same about her own strategy.”
“You won’t compare me to her.” Will aggressively rubs the grains into both sides of the meat,
moving fast enough that his palms burn. His teeth grind and ache behind tightly zipped lips.

Trying to explain why he did what he did on the bluff would be like trying to explain the
fabric of the universe to a caveman. Not that Hannibal has the intellect of a caveman, but
when it comes to how he could view such an act, their mental understandings are wildly
disparate. Will is incapable of weaving a comprehensible picture vast enough to cover every
intricacy, every meaning behind the impulse he succumbed to. It is a damning thing, what he
did. But it is also something he can never change, not even in what-if theory, not even in
hindsight.

Fortunately, Hannibal changes subjects for them.

“Bedelia got what she wanted in the end, and we got what we wanted in the end. The public
will say what they will, but trust me when I tell you their input is not fundamental to us, and
is in fact something you should discard as you would old clothes. You and I both know you
did not kill her, nor did I.”

“I don’t like to be rushed. They’re saying we’re on a killing spree.”

“And so we could be, in their eyes. We also could have joined the circus, and I’ve read
enough editorials in my lifetime to know that reality would be just as conceptually feasible to
the masses.”

Will pulls up to the stove beside Hannibal and starts to cook.

“I can juggle,” he murmurs after a short pause.

Hannibal chuckles. “I’m afraid clowning isn’t a talent I possess.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Rude, Will.” Hannibal sprinkles a handful of seemingly candied walnuts into the large bowl
of fresh greens and pears. “That must not have been all that distressed you.”

Will sways the pan back and forth over the burner so the oil douses across the dry spots. He
sighs heavily and turns the heat down to low before answering.

“Molly did an interview for Freddie Lounds.”

He’s wary of discussing Molly with Hannibal. He’s elaborated on their separation, mentioned
her, but he hasn’t completely opened up the floodgates to his ex-marriage. It’s not that he
assumes Hannibal will go after her, even if he has sent for her death before, but Will fears
he’ll say something to provoke it.

Hannibal never appears bothered when Will brings her up. It could be for a dozen reasons, all
unknown to him. Perhaps Hannibal’s wary too.

“What did she have to say?”

“I think…it might be better if you read it for yourself.”

“I see. Well, let me help you with the venison first, hm?” He slides in behind Will until
they’re tucked together, like puppeteer and puppet. Hannibal is holding a large silver spoon in
his hand that he wraps Will’s fingers around with tender finesse. “In order to harvest the most
flavor from your dish, you should be spooning the excess oil on top of the cut, like so.” With
his arm draped across Will’s, he helps him scoop up the bubbling oil in the spoon, seasoned
with the rub, and pours it tactfully over the top of the sizzling meat. The scent wafts up to
Will’s nose, making his mouth water. “There you are.”

Hannibal caresses the lobe of Will’s right ear and returns to the salad.

Despite the steam rising off the pan, Will is left cold.

Will indulges in the dish (mediocre as he can’t claim to be much of a chef, but of course the
salad blows him away as most of Hannibal’s meals manage to do) at the dining table with
Hannibal while he does the same, except for taking short breaks to scroll further into the
articles on Freddie’s website. It seems he’s reading all the relevant media, not just the one
Will asked him to read. He’s finished up Molly’s interview now, expression entirely
unreadable. He stops to sip at his wine, then shuts off the tablet.

“The United States have been busy.”

“We’re a hot topic,” Will agrees.

“In more ways than one.”

Will glares and outlasts Hannibal’s expectant pause. He won’t respond to that, no matter how
long Hannibal holds out. It’s not long, because after swallowing a bite of pear salad, Hannibal
glances at the black-screened tablet and states,

“I don’t quite understand what upset you about the interview.”

Will sets down his fork, skin itching in response.

“How could I not be upset?”

“You betrayed her trust,” Hannibal communicates flatly. “Whether or not you two were
separated by the time you did betray her, that bears no consequence. You projected a different
person than the man she thought she knew. Is this not then justified?”

It sounds eerily familiar. Will disregards the correlations.

“She gave me an ultimatum when I told her I was going to let Freddie Lounds write an article
about me. Molly was deadset on protecting her son from the press, and now she’s gone and
done this.”

“As she said, allowing the interview may finally derail the journalists, even slightly. Though
it may be difficult to stomach, she is protecting her interests.”

“Are you defending my ex-wife?” Will asks, dumbfounded.

Hannibal huffs, looking disappointed. “I am attempting to offer you insight on her headspace,
Will. You seem unnecessarily offended by the interview. Surely you understand her
objectives.”

“I think she wants to get back at me.”

“And why not? You spent nearly three years playing the doting husband, unproblematic in
every respect. Then several months after returning to your old life, you run off with a killer.”

“And become one,” Will mutters gravely.

“You were a killer long before you met your wife, Will,” Hannibal prompts him to
painstakingly recall. “Long before they dubbed you as Bedelia’s judge, jury, and executioner.
You may hide from the truth, but you cannot eradicate it.”

“I’m not hiding from it, Hannibal.”

“I suspected you might want to.”

Will’s face scrunches up, baffled.

“Why?”

“Forgive me for saying so, but you are gullible to sympathetic influence. I did not expect
your ire towards your wife, because I thought you would find yourself empathizing with her
righteous point of view.”

“Hell.” Will picks at his meal like a disheartened canine. There used to be a righteous drive in
him like that, maybe before the Dragon, maybe before Molly. “Maybe I should be, I don’t
know. I just—there’s so much anger condensing inside me, toward her, toward Bedelia. It’s
concocting into one overshadowing thing—a itching sensation I can’t seem to shake. Can’t
really separate my anger with Molly from my anger towards every Tom, Dick, and Harry
broadcasting their opinions on the state of my sex life.”

Hannibal clears his throat, piquing Will’s interest.

“Yes, well, there are more pertinent ordeals to direct our fury.”

“Alana,” Will sighs, voice sharpening when he bitingly adds, “Though if I see Freddie
Lounds’ orange mop ever again, I’ll rip the strands out of it one by one.”

“I quite enjoy Miss Lounds,” Hannibal admits, smirking.

“You would. Just a hair off from psychopathic, that one.”

“I did ask her to reconsider therapy with me once when she eavesdropped on us, but she told
me rather flagrantly to my face that she was in no need of it. Then she called me a hack.”

“You couldn’t have convinced her to kill,” Will voices.

“I was practicing legitimate therapy, Will. If she found no need for murder in her life, I would
be in no position to insinuate it where it doesn’t belong. However—”

“Do me a favor and drop the subject of Lounds, Hannibal.”

Hannibal does, looking miffed at the interruption.

They eat for a while, without as much animosity floating in limbo. Will is half-way through
finishing his salad when Hannibal sets down the wine he was busy nursing and curiously
says,

“How does it feel?”

Will frowns. “How does what feel?”

“No longer being married. The metaphorical ball and chain dissipated. Nothing left except to
revel in the luxuries of a bachelor?”

Will blinks. While Hannibal’s tone is playful, he means what he’s saying, or implying. For a
moment, it’s indescribable, the reactionary response he feels the need to shout, but he
persuades himself into at least acknowledging Hannibal’s potential perspective. It seems
impossible Hannibal would mistake Will’s affections for him, not this late in their journey.
He can’t believe they’re both…untethered.

“I was under the impression I was spoken for,” Will says quietly.

That response obviously wasn’t expected. Hannibal squirms in the singular manner Hannibal
can squirm. He averts his gaze briefly, blinks exactly three times, taps his fingers soundlessly
against the glass table, and meets Will’s eyes once more with an artificial display of mutual
understanding.

“Is that so,” Hannibal responds, safely flirtatious, like he wasn’t just implying that he didn’t
belong to Will and Will didn’t belong to him.

“You—” Will’s tongue seems to inflate in his mouth. “We—You thought we weren’t…”

Now Hannibal is the one opting for torture.

“Weren’t what, Will?”

“Together.” At Hannibal’s immovability, he exemplifies, “Like that.”

Sobering imperceptibly, Hannibal finally confesses, “You rejected my advances on the boat. I
do not know what it was you were expecting. Did that not mean you have no genuine
interest?”

Will stammers. “I thought I made it perfectly clear—”

“You recited a memory to me, Will.” Hannibal’s voice is hard now, bordering on stern. “I
don’t recognize that as a substitution for communication.”

The silence stretches between them. Will gulps down the taste of bile on the rear of his
tongue. He hadn’t known, he couldn’t have. That Hannibal viewed the rejection of a kiss as a
rejection of the rest of it.

“I couldn’t kiss you then,” Will discloses to him, circumspect about each individual syllable.
Nothing will be misconstrued. “That doesn’t mean we’re not together.”

Hannibal’s cheeks appear a deeper shade beneath dim lanterns, but Will tells himself it could
be a trick of the light. He doesn’t know what else to say, and the moment falters.

“Communication is ostensibly a necessity, so it happens,” Hannibal muses as if quoting

philosophy, a humorless laugh directly following the words.

“Guess so,” Will cracks back, turning fish-belly pale. “Listen, I can’t, uh, be whatever or
whoever you want me to be for you…physically, not presently speaking.” He swallows again,
throat drying up. “I’m still, ehm, having trouble figuring out what it is I want, from you, from
this new life.”

Even if he knows he wants more. More than what they have.

“I do not want anything more than you with me,” Hannibal declares suddenly, reaching a
hand across the table. Hesitantly, Will allows him to hold his own. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Will answers clearly. “Except…I want to know.”

“Know what?” Hannibal murmurs, not pulling his hand away.

Will squeezes his fingers, and tames the pitch of his voice.

“That you’re mine.”

“I was yours when I first laid eyes on you.”

“Christ,” Will mutters, involuntarily tearing his hand from Hannibal’s. The heat that crawls
up his spine makes him dizzy. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Groaning faintly in the back of his throat, Will desperately tries to gather his faculties so he
can at least say it back. The words fumble together in his mouth and all he can get across is,
“You know I'm yours too.”

Hannibal grins. “We belong to each other.”

Will is still dizzy, but he nods.

“It could be dangerous what you’re giving me.”

“Belonging to someone isn’t dangerous. I think it’s likely the most selfless thing that’s ever
happened to you. You want to love me, and take care of me.” He looks down at his salad,
huffing. “You want to feed me. You don’t know why, you just do, and when you see me it’s
nourishment, and oxygen, and a fire that burns in the coldest hearth. The compassion is
inconvenient but it’s also addicting, and impalpable.”

“How do you know all this?” Hannibal questions.

“Because that’s how I feel about you.”

Hannibal’s eyelids droop, and he looks as if he’s falling in love all over again. Will wants to
run away from it, like he wants to run away from all onslaughts of ardency, but he doesn’t.
He sits and allows their eyes to bore into one another, until Hannibal’s gaze drops to his lips,
and soon glisten with misery.

He wants to ask Will if he can kiss him now, but he doesn’t.

“May I draw you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Will replies hoarsely. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Outside.”

“Okay.”

Smiling, Hannibal finishes the rest of his wine and doesn’t take his eyes off of Will for the
rest of dinner. Will cannot claim to despise the attention, but he simply waits until its over.

“In the tree,” Will decides.

Hannibal ogles the tree dubiously. It stands tall against the backdropping moonlight, and a
flat crevice rests in the central nook of the trunk. It is overgrown with moss and profilgated
bark and branches, but illuminated beautifully in the night. They won’t find many other
opportunities for a perfect portrait.

“If you’re certain.”

“I used to climb trees all the time,” Will briefs him with a boy scout’s confidence. He
balances one foot on the lowest stem and grasps the whole trunk. “Didn’t I tell you about my
history with arson?”

“I assumed there was a ladder,” Hannibal dryly answers, watching Will scale the giant tree
with unease. Will can feel concern radiating off of him, but he keeps climbing. The nook is
getting closer.

“They always tied it over a plank,” Will calls out, out of breath as his fingers grip the edge of
the crevice. He looks over his shoulder. “They’d get it down with a big stick anytime they
convened. Didn’t seem worth the hassle, though.”

“And climbing a tree did?”

“I like the exercise.”

Will finally heaves himself up into the nook. It’s just wide enough for him to comfortably sit
there, and maybe even lie on his side. Which is exactly what Hannibal asks him to do.

He’s glad he doesn’t harbor any phobias about bugs and frogs. He can hear a meld of
croaking and buzzing by his ear, but he doesn’t hesitate to press his cheek against the
scratchy bark and relax.

“How’s this?”

“You look alluring at any angle, Will.”

Will hums, and zones out as Hannibal takes his seat (shockingly) on the dirt floor of the
forest. They went for a walk together after dinner with Hannibal’s sketchbook in hand, and
unspokenly searched for an appropriate location. The fresh air felt pristine in Will’s lungs,
and Hannibal’s proximity was no longer nerve-wracking. Will was jubilated when he saw the
giant tree he’s tucked away inside now.

About an hour later, there are noises from far into the coppice behind him starting to distract.
He looks over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes through the slivers of branches. Bushes rustle
in the manner they would if a large animal was afoot, and hunting. He perks up, watching the
bushes jostle closer and closer to where they’ve stopped. “Hannibal,” he mutters, turning
back around to see Hannibal gazing off in the direction of the wild noises. Stumbling upward,
Will hastily attempts to climb down the tree. He neglects to gauge the strength of the third
branch he grapples onto and it snaps, sending him flying backwards to the forest floor. A
patch of berry bushes breaks his fall only slightly and he grunts in agony.

“Will!”

Everything is steadfastly sore, but Hannibal is currently the priority. He has less experience
with wolves, or even possibly a bear, than Will does. He forces himself to roll over and gasps
when he registers the sight of an animal barreling towards him.

When a tongue frantically starts to lap at his face, he lets out a shaky sigh.
 It’s a dog.

“Thank fuck,” he grumbles, lightheaded, and proceeds to fall limp. Hannibal rushes to his
side then, hands fluttering everywhere. Checking Will’s wrists and ankles, and then the top of
his vertebrae. The dog is wagging, zany and energetic, out of the corner of Will’s eye.

“Nothing is broken,” Hannibal informs. “But you may have a sprain.”

Will groans again when he sits up, Hannibal’s hand on his lower back.

The dog’s unique coat is much clearer now, and its appearance ticks at the edge of Will’s
consciousness. A pang in his temple at first, and then thousands of lights erupting brightly.

“Applesauce?” he questions, paling as the dog’s tail wags faster.

“Alana’s mutt?”

Will looks at Hannibal in disbelief, nodding.

This can’t be happening, but it is. It appears their desired company has crossed their path
sooner than they expected. Applesauce licks Hannibal’s face this time, and dread fills Will’s
gut.

Chapter End Notes

that last cliffhanger was basically an april fools i guess lmaooo, this is short but next
chapters gonna be a doozy ;D that might take a while but it'll be worth it
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will runs water for the tub.

The bathroom nearest to the central living room contains a corner bath adjacent to four
ceiling-to-floor length windows spanning the acute bend of the bath’s frame. The view looks
out over an allocation of the forest, close to where Hannibal and Will retraced their path back
to the villa with Applesauce in tow. When she found them, she was dirty and unkempt. No
collar on her like Will remembers, but he doubts Alana would be as stupid as to keep contact
information on her dog if this is where the Vergers are hiding.

Cuba is most definitely where the Vergers are hiding. There is no other explanation for
Applesauce — for why he and Hannibal ended up here.

He smacks the inside of the tub rather loudly and Applesauce wiggles her butt like a cat
before pouncing inside, a noisy clamor of fluffy paws and bony limbs. It’s apparent she’s
been lost for a while and hasn’t been able to take care of herself. She was a rescue to begin
with, so luckily she harnessed enough skill to survive if all else failed. Will observes her
while he attentively washes her coat, making sure to use hypoallergenic body wash. It’s all
Hannibal had on hand for this situation.

Hannibal hangs back in the archway to the bathroom, arms crossed to his chest, remaining
strangely silent as Will washes the mutt.

“Were you planning on telling me?” Will asks coolly, rubbing the crust from the corners of
Applesauce’s eyes with lukewarm water. She licks his wrist, tail thwapping lightly against the
porcelain tub.

“I did not know for certain — ”

“Hannibal.”

“I was allowing us the time to settle in,” Hannibal responds, which is code for ‘only when it
was too late.’

“How did you know they were here in Cuba?” Will presses, neglecting to turn around. He can
see Hannibal’s reflection in the glass of the windows, but he doesn’t look head on at that
either.

“When I was seeing Alana, she often left me alone in her house. The few times that I stayed
over, I studied her home, read her journals, found passports and travel scrapbooks. There was
supreme focus on Cuba, as she had distant family from there, and was endowed with
enormous infatuation for the country.”

Will exhales through his nose.

“You snooped around her private stuff?”

“Surely you don’t think that's my ultimate transgression.”

“I’m just irritated you don’t think of it as a transgression.”

“I prefer to be prepared. And here we are, prepared.”

Will lets Applesauce bathe knee-deep in the water as he rises to his feet, still aching from the
fall from the tree, and turns to meet Hannibal with simmering passivity.

“No, you were prepared. You primed our decision for coming here as if Cuba wasn’t a
calculated tactic you made without me. Properties all over the world, you said.”

“That is true. I do own properties all over the world.”

“It seems honesty will take longer than I thought,” Will bites out, bending to pluck the hatch
out from the base of the tub to drain the water. He begins to wash away the lingering suds in
Applesauce’s fur. Hannibal uncrosses his arms, yet no less indignantly.

“You share my opinion about Alana’s trespasses.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to go behind my back.”

“I was confident you would agree upon my choice.”

“If you’re so confident, let me figure that out for myself,” Will snipes.

“I will endeavor to — ”

Will drops the cup he’s using to pour water with and swerves toward Hannibal, marching
right up to him. “There’s no endeavoring here, got it? The difference between a blatant lie
and concealing the truth is nothing more than semantics. You will ask me before you make a
choice of consequence, and you will act only when we arrive at a compromise.”

Hannibal inclines his head, analyzing Will with piercing eyes.

“I do wonder how you plan to enforce such rules.”

“Am I hollering into an abyss?” Will asks curtly.

“No, you are incredibly clear to me at the moment. Your agency is unequivocal.”

“Then let’s just say you don’t want to know how I’ll enforce this, but I have ideas.” Will
cracks his knuckles and tears his gaze from Hannibal to help a clean-coated Applesauce out
of the vastly alveolated tub. She shakes her pelt vigorously and Hannibal steps back with
unveiled discomfort on his face

As Will quietly dries her with a towel (Hannibal told him they wouldn’t be needing it for
themselves), Hannibal kneels down beside him, sacrificing the fabric of his pants in a puddle
of dog bathwater. It’s out of the ordinary enough for Will to glance at him pensively, but
open.

“I won’t apologize,” Hannibal tells him. Will didn’t expect him to, but that doesn’t stop the
acid from seeping into his expression. Hannibal pets Applesauce’s muzzle, smiling a little as
she wags her tail in excitement. “But, I do wish you to understand how new all of this is to
me. Adjusting my expectations, adjusting myself to benefit us both. I am overcoming
predisposed notions of coexistence. I am in constant metamorphosis when I’m with you,
Will. Altering myself, changing, and shifting. If I lapse into old habits, it does not always
mean that I am seeking to challenge or manipulate you, nor does it mean I am unmoved by
the distress it causes you.”

Will sucks in a deep breath and lets it go with an ounce of aged resentment.

“If the last twenty four hours have proven anything, it’s that we still royally suck at
communication. Both of us.”

“I have surprised myself with how dearly I relish honesty with you, Will. My reservations
have been swallowed by my compassion, as most things between us have been.”

“You make it sound like I’m eating you alive, slowly.”

“Would that be so horrendous?” Hannibal whispers, smiling at the flutter of Will’s eyes in
response. “The dog smell is heavily reduced to me now. You’ve done well.”

“Owning seven dogs will make you good at a lot of things.”

Applesauce abruptly pounces atop of Hannibal, knocking him off his knees and flat onto the
floor. Will cringes at the thunk sound Hannibal’s head makes as it impacts with the tile.

Will attempts to wrangle her back by her scruffy nape, but she’s licking and pawing intently
at Hannibal, not letting up, and barking cheerfully once directly in his face.

“She likes you.” Will grunts, just barely restraining her enough for Hannibal to sit up and
wipe the drool off his cheek with the back of a sleeve. “She remembers you, I’m guessing.”

Hannibal’s lips are pursed as if the incident sparked world-wide opprobrium. Applesauce
simmers down when Hannibal makes hardened eye contact with her, a glare Will wouldn’t
want to be met with in a million years. After her excited rumblings have drowned out to
whimpers, Hannibal straightens up, folding his hands in his lap mischievously.

“I would hope so,” he says. “I was the cause of her applesauce addiction, after all.”

“Why the hell would you have applesauce?”

“Unsweetened applesauce is a unique substitute for butter in many dishes. It adds a kick that
butter doesn’t consistently master. It’s not as if I was eating it out of the jar.”

Will smirks, stroking his fingers through the dog’s fur to placate her.

“God forbid,” he teases.

There is a moment of hesitation between them where it appears as if they are both about to
say something. Hannibal’s lips part but Will starts talking first.

“We need to take her to the vet.”

“Do you suspect she’s ill?”

Tiredly, Will reclines his head, rolling it over both shoulders. “I suspect since she’s not
collared, she’s probably got a tracker implanted in her. Somewhere.”

Though he should be agitated at the prospect of their location getting tracked at this very
minute, Hannibal instead appears thoughtful.

“Microchips, when scanned, will divulge the owner’s current information. Addresses, phone
number.” Guilelessly, Hannibal’s lips curl. “We require only an address.”

“The Vergers could have set up a fake address to attach to the microchip for all we know,”
Will mutters, because really they should be more worried about being found, not catapulting
into finding Alana and Margot. Yet he can’t help but to agree, “It would be our best bet,
though.”

“In that case, there is no need for a veterinarian. I will order a Microchip Reader online and
have it delivered to the post office.”

They both discussed earlier the risk of ordering packages straight to the door. Anyone could
walk up and see them, recognize them. There can be no room for mistakes in this new life.
Not while their names and faces are still fresh to the world’s readership.

Applesauce barks, as if in accord.

“I don’t…I won’t go to the Vergers with the intention of killing them.”

Hannibal readjusts the cuffs of his shirt, and tilts a brow at him.

“And if I do?”

“I’m not your keeper.”

“Whatever you think of me, Will, I am not planning on barging into their home and
massacring them the moment we arrive.” Hannibal looks off to the left, smiling to himself.
“Not until after supper.”

Will stares at him, unamused.

“What are your goals, then?” Hannibal continues, assessing. “How must we leave the Vergers
in order for you to be satisfied?”

“We leave on mutual ground,” Will explains. “We leave knowing they are not looking for us,
and we are not looking for them. Your promise, it can wait.”

“It can wait if they cease their hunt,” Hannibal compromises. Will won’t touch that
compromise with a ten-foot pole considering he’s lucky to be receiving one at all.

“No last minute surprises,” Will demands, with an inquiring lilt.

“None at all,” Hannibal confirms, frowning at Will’s blatant skepticism. “I would cross my
heart and hope to die, except I don’t imagine you would appreciate it.”

“You’re right.” Will stands, helping Hannibal off the floor. They sway into each other’s space
for a second, then Will is moving aside, releasing a long shaky breath. “Come on, we should
order that thing as soon as possible. The chip reader, or whatever.”

“I will do so, no need to worry yourself.”

Hannibal gleams gently, then departs from the bathroom. Will watches him, staring at the
design of the doorframe long after he’s gone. Kicking into action just several minutes later,
Will clicks his tongue for Applesauce to follow him out of the room. For now, all that he can
manage is to cook her some canine-friendly food, and wait.

The next evening, as they’re waiting for an update email regarding their package, Will
decides that pacing in the study as Hannibal searches precariously through every single
forum about them isn’t a pleasing activity, nor does he imagine Hannibal finds himself overly
zealous.

“It could arrive in the morning,” Will posits.

Hannibal doesn’t turn around, eyeing their hideous mugshots for a moment before scrolling
to read the comments on whatever digital rag-mag he’s found this time.

“It could,” he answers eventually, simple.

Well, then.

Will fidgets and says, “Watch a movie with me.”

That has Hannibal swerving in the desk chair. The man’s legs are crossed and the undeniable
intrigue on his face is blended with confusion and dubiety.

“A movie?”
“Yes. There is a TV on the property, no?”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he can’t quite believe Will wants to do
something so uncomplicated and without the barest of conditions. That he wants to do
something like that with Hannibal of all people. But he does. He’s restless and Will just wants
to spend time with him without thinking of the grand scheme of their terrible, no-good, very
bad lives on the run. The killings, the chase, the goddamned forums. As if reading his mind,
Hannibal murmurs an estimation of Will with honed tenderness, “Do you find yourself in
need of distraction from the cruelties of this world in the form of diving into a fabricated
world of less consequence?”

“I need mindless entertainment,” Will grumbles, wondering why Hannibal can’t agree on a
normal request without psychoanalyzing. Just once; something ordinary, bland.

For a moment, it seems like Hannibal is about to suggest Will watch a movie by himself, or
that they can easily find tasks more productive to do in their free time. Maybe the
concerningly unreadable expression on Hannibal’s face is instead something Will is
projecting his own insecurities on, because in the next instant, Hannibal perks up.

“Might I suggest a Film Noir?”

With a sigh, Will mutters, “Whatever you want.”

That’s how they find themselves on the couch in the living room, sitting a few feet apart,
scrolling through film options on the television. It is a small, box-shaped room with a
dismantled fireplace and dusty bookshelves. There is a television above the fireplace, an
older model that is fortunately functional. “See anything you like?” Hannibal questions,
clicking along.

Will isn’t sure. He doesn’t do this; he doesn’t watch films with other people, or barely
watches films at all. It’s just something he felt he wanted to do and he promised himself he
was done denying what he wants, even if what he wants is foreign to him. Unnervingly new.

Applesauce huffs in her sleep, curled up by the bookshelves, while Hannibal silently reads
the synopsis to Out of the Past. Will recognizes the actor on the poster.

“Kids used to say my dad looked like Robert Mitchum.”

“Really,” Hannibal muses. “I thought he looked rather like me.”

Will scoffs, the noise sounding offended.

“No way in hell.”

Hannibal’s throat works over a significant lump out of the corner of Will’s eye. He realizes
how that could be taken as an insult and elucidates, “Robert Mitchum isn’t that attractive.”

Tension drains from Hannibal. Will didn’t know he held so much stock in comparisons such
as these. It may be that he holds more stock in Will’s opinion of him than Will believes to be
true.
“And I am?”

The man has the audacity to sound serious in his stupor.

Will is too flabbergasted by the question to register that Hannibal is purposefully fishing for
flattery. Fervidly, and without thinking about the consequences of stroking the man’s ego, he
claims, “Christ, you could have been an A-List movie star, Hannibal.”

“Ah, but I’ve heard horror stories about Hollywood’s catering services.”

“You would be pampered. Worshiped.”

“I am already worshiped by some.”

“Psychopaths,” Will contends.

“If I am not crazy, it is not entirely impossible there are those in my fanbase who are far from
crazy as well.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to know ‘em.”

Hannibal lets out a soft harumph, and Will realizes that they’re bickering like a married
couple. He never happened to bicker with Molly, so this is as foreign to him as, well,
watching a movie with another person. He has to smile a little at it, and turns to find Hannibal
doing the same.

“Let’s just watch this one,” Will coaxes, peeling the remote from Hannibal’s fingers and
pressing play for Out of the Past. The musical roar of Old Hollywood overtures fills the
room.

The sun has just set, and their bellies are full from dinner.

Will is, for lack of a better term, cozy.

Sated, in all respects.

And yet, he remains unfulfilled, and unknowing of the reason. As the plot of the movie truly
starts, Will gets hung up upon the liminal space between his and Hannibal’s bodies. The
separation is so utterly noticeable and practically calling out for a physical force to challenge
its borders. Scooting closer, inch by inch, balms the ache in his chest, but it doesn’t get him
far. And they’re half an hour into the film by the time Will even manages one foot closer to
him.

“Jane Greer is a lovely woman,” Hannibal muses. His eyes haven’t left the screen for the
entirety of the runtime so far, and Will is mildly shocked to discover he’s treating the film as
he would an opera, or a high-end play. The synecdoche of art from dozens of individual
artists who worked on creating the film, and making it into something worthy and beautiful
of the silver screen, must astonish him at least nearly as much as the art he averagely indulges
in.
That notion chips away at an iciness inside Will.

“Yeah,” he agrees blindly, focusing instead on how Robert Mitchum is beginning to look
more and more like Hannibal to him with every passing frame. It’s the lips, he convinces
himself. Just the pouty, reptilian lips he can never seem to erase from memory.

It doesn’t help that Mitchum happens to be one of those actors that gradually becomes more
attractive the longer you look at him. There’s a handsome implication in his deep voice, the
high cheekbones. He moves with confidence, but not necessarily with angelic intent. The
man’s hands, god, they could cup a gorilla’s face and still look beastly. Not unlike —

Mere exposure effect is obviously a curse.

Then, the primary couple are kissing and collapsing atop the couch in an amorous rush, the
camera panning away to infer an intimate sequence of love making. Will is abruptly grateful
Hannibal decided on Old Hollywood, because he isn’t certain how well he’d handle watching
an explicit sex scene with him.

Just the thought drains the color from his face.

Hannibal is reaching for a hidden compartment underneath the flaps of the couch. Inside the
drawer, there are blankets and tissue boxes stored. Prepared for anything, as it always seems.

“Here you are,” Hannibal murmurs, draping a thick quilt over a freshly perplexed Will. “You
were shivering.”

Will didn’t know he was shivering. His body adjusts to the new warmth quickly though, his
bones crying out in relief louder than his responding sigh. He’s cold so often, he never knows
when to seek out heat. It’s odd wrapped up under something so big and puffy and to have
Hannibal sitting beside him with his legs crossed, not looking cold per-say, but lacking.

The music is swelling in the movie for a particularly dramatic confrontation. Will finally
scoots as close as he dares and doesn’t ask before he’s depositing half the blanket over
Hannibal.

Hannibal blinks, tugging his gaze from the screen to look at the quilt then at Will, smiling
indulgently. Will catches the gasp that threatens to escape him when he feels a large arm wrap
around his waist and tug him the rest of the way until he’s resting his body half-way atop
Hannibal’s. It’s bordering on ridiculous how perfectly their bodies slot together.

It’s the answer to the remaining dissatisfaction.

The part of Will that prefers to protest is drowned out by gratification. He shifts and lays his
head more comfortably on Hannibal’s shoulder, allowing his thigh to overlap Hannibal’s.

“Is this what you wanted?” Hannibal asks quietly, close to his ear. A kiss is planted
imperceptibly amid his curls before Hannibal faces the screen again, cheek resting on Will’s
head.
He’s not sure if Hannibal is referring to his restlessness earlier, or his failed attempts at
proximity in just the last half hour. He’s not sure it matters.

“It’s a start,” Will answers at an identical pitch.

His focus zones in and out of the film from then on. When Hannibal’s free hand (the one that
isn’t still loosely wrapped around his waist — occasionally petting him with folded knuckles)
finds one of his own under the blanket, he’s transported back to the real world. Will lets their
digits twine together, lets Hannibal tenderly scratch at the sensitive skin between his thumb
and index finger, and encourages him by nuzzling faintly against his side whenever he ceases.

When Will does muster up attention for the film, he’s taken aback by how closely the themes
of it align with their personal lives. The taste of regret, memories defining the future, betrayal
and forgiveness equating to love. The stark reality of the tale is almost too bitter to swallow,
but he endures it with Hannibal holding him and reminding him how far they’ve come.

The film ends tragically. Will didn’t expect anything more.

He’s struck with an impulse to stay exactly where he is until one or both of them fall asleep.
He tells Hannibal to put on another one, but another Noir is already queued up and ready to
go. It starts in ten seconds, and Hannibal doesn’t reach for the remote to shut it off.

“Bailey and Kathie could have found happiness,” Hannibal declares a few minutes into the
new film Detour’s opening credits. He isn't allowing the ending to linger.

“They didn’t want the same things,” Will responds passively.

“They wanted each other.”

Is wanting each other enough to survive running away together? Will doesn’t voice the
question, but he knows Hannibal is pondering over it in unison.

Will takes Hannibal’s hand from his waist and places it unsubtly in his own hair. He folds
into him more, permitting him complete access. There is a momentary pause before Hannibal
is scraping fingernails over Will’s scalp, petting him pleasurably enough to draw soft sighs
out of Will who has resorted to snaking both of his arms around Hannibal’s waist and using
him much like a heat lamp. It’s no exaggeration the man is an exquisite personal furnace.

Their physical intimacy though, that’s what has Will dazed out of his mind.

He could live forever in Hannibal’s arms, a truth he knows will haunt him later.

Detour isn’t nearly as well-made as Out of the Past, but it has its own charm. It just isn’t
evocative of anything Will could possibly wish to connect with. Hannibal doesn’t seem as
enthralled in the story or the visuals either, and Will can tell he’s narrowed his focus to the
sounds he can manipulate out of Will, finding the most luck stroking the nape of his neck
with three fingers, never all at the same time. It feels like Will’s skin is getting strummed like
an instrument, and it induces the most consistent shivers from him, as well as a few shocky
gasps.
Hannibal selfishly abuses that spot, but Will isn’t going to ask him to stop. He knows if he
even acknowledges the contact, something between them will…scatter, and become lost.

An hour later, when he’s dozing into a dreamy trance, Hannibal’s phone pings.

Will automatically tightens his hold around Hannibal, embarrassed the moment he does it,
but he can’t fathom how he’ll feel without Hannibal touching him as he’s been doing for
hours now.

Hannibal pulls away, far enough only to grab his phone.

They both read the notification with squinty eyes.

“The package arrived,” Hannibal notes aloud.

“It’s nearly ten.”

“A nighttime drive, then?”

“I’m about to fall asleep,” Will mumbles, muscles going lax as Hannibal continues to toy
with the weak spot on his neck. Sleep is often hard to come by. “Dunno. Stay with me.”

“I hardly have anywhere else to go,” Hannibal responds fondly, kissing his hairline again and
steeling an instance for his lips to linger. Will pushes up into the kiss, clutching tighter at his
waist. It’s so warm he can’t remember the reasons he needs to be wary of escalating things.

In spite of his repose, he grunts.

“The morning, then,” Hannibal concedes softly, long after Will’s eyes have closed and his
breathing evens out. Fingers uncurling from fabric, and body rolling instinctively closer.

It’s groggy when Will wakes.

Vertigo strikes him between the eyes when he registers his body is horizontal, unlike how he
dozed off. At some point in the night he and Hannibal must have shifted lengthwise across
the couch. Eyes fluttering open, he notices the soft plush he’s been resting on is Hannibal’s
sternum and not the mattress. Anxiety rages like a storm in his ears; he’s stiff all over, let
alone between the legs. It feels like he and Hannibal are a sole entity, and if he moves even a
muscle, he’ll disturb the sacred coalescence. Hannibal’s arms are draped loosely around
Will’s torso, and his head is resting on the hard surface of the sofa’s arm. The anxiety
dwindles, and his worries evaporate at a languid pace. All Will would like to do is crawl up
Hannibal’s body and kiss any bared skin he can find, sense with his lips how hot Hannibal
runs in the morning, and maybe grind the edge out of his own hard dick, but he can’t do any
of that without Hannibal waking, nor should he risk it. Hannibal shifts, hugging Will closer
with a low noise in the back of his throat.
A bird caws deafeningly just outside the window. The curtains are drawn, and the light
seeping through is minimal. Will can still visualize the peaceful expression on Hannibal’s
face tightening at the same time his eyes flit open sharp and alert.

As always, they melt instantaneously.

Drowsy, Hannibal turns to face Will, catching him watching.

“Good morning,” Will whispers, scratching his fingers lightly over Hannibal’s shirt as a sort
of ‘hello’ gesture. Hannibal’s smile is actually dopey.

He says something in another language, squeezing Will’s waist while he’s at it.

“Hmm?”

Hannibal blinks, and clarifies in a rough voice,

“Did I say that out loud?”

Will laughs lightly. “Yeah, I didn’t understand it though.”

“For the better,” Hannibal assures, but that makes Will want to know what was said even
more. He doesn’t ask, he just settles back down. Despite the fact they’re on the clock, and
despite the fact they might be walking into blood and destruction later tonight depending on
what the chip reader’s scan drudges out of the woodworks.

“Why didn’t we touch all those years ago?” Will asks into the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. He
shudders when Hannibal’s hands crawl up his spine under the blanket, rucking up his own
shirt.

“Touch is correlated with either familial or romantic origin.”

“We were both and neither.”

“And yet I did touch you,” Hannibal recalls.

“In the barn.” Will rubs the sleep out of his face with one hand, the other still needily
clutching Hannibal’s shoulder. “Now that I think about it…we must have looked bizarre to
Ingram.”

“I believe he was more focused on if you would shoot him.”

“I was never going to shoot him.”

Hannibal tenses up and Will knows instantly where he misspoke. That part of their past is
raw, and it might always be. Will’s ‘honeytrap’ as Jack sardonically called it once. “The rage
though, that was real. I wanted to aim the gun at his head and understand how it could feel, in
the seconds before I pulled the trigger. I was surprised you were willing to stop me.”

“There would be little I could do to protect you once news broke to Jack.”
“We could have hidden the body together,” Will mutters. “Or blamed it on Peter.”

“I knew you would never blame it on Peter.”

“I knew too well how being wrongly accused felt.”

“When you were incarcerated, I sat in my office every night of your appointment. I looked
upon your empty chair with an emotion in my chest I had not felt in over four decades. How
harrowing it is to miss someone,” he confesses guardedly.

Will snorts. “Poor you.”

Hannibal pinches his hip and Will yelps.

Will is inclined to bite Hannibal, but knows it won’t lead anywhere safe.

They embrace a while longer, relishing the morning body heat under their cocooning blanket.
Something they both share that doesn’t have to mean death. Something good.

“Sometimes, when I was in Maine, I would go downstairs in the middle of the night, stoke
the fire, sit down with a drink, and close my eyes. I pretended I was in your office.”

“Why my office?”

“It always comforted me, even when it didn't.”

“I have had patients claim it intimidated them,” Hannibal reports.

“Probably because you observed your other patients like a hawk and didn’t let them even so
much as inch across a chair without question. You’d have let me hang freely from the balcony
like a monkey at a playground, if I wanted.”

“Your body was often just as restless as your mind.”

“Less so without the encephalitis.”

Hannibal hums, then lets out a pained noise. It startles Will into lifting his cheek off of him.
“Apologies, my dear, but the position I’m in is rather unpleasant.”

“We need to get going anyway,” Will says, but presses down on Hannibal’s shoulder when
the man attempts to sit up. They stare at each other and Will leans in, until their breath
mingles. Hannibal’s eyes sparkle with longing. What he sees in Hannibal’s eyes, Will feels in
his heart, but there’s still momentum propelling him backward. Through a burst of skittish
uncertainty, he kisses Hannibal’s cheek and mutters, “Thanks for being unproductive with me
last night,” before peeling himself out of their cocoon and standing on wobbly, sleep-addled
legs.

Before he pulls himself together, Hannibal gives himself a second to be shell-shocked, then
follows suit, offering Will an unencumbered smile to hide his incertitude.
“Did we leave the door open?” Will asks, checking the spot where Applesauce fell asleep last
night. She’s gone, and the door is open. Either she grew hands or they forgot to close it.

Tongue clicking in a disquieted manner, Hannibal moves swiftly out of the sitting room and
down the hall. Will shadows him, but tosses a hand over his mouth when they enter the
dining room, and it is of course only to hide his burgeoning smile. Applesauce has chewed
through one of the dining table’s pegs. It’s moments from collapsing, as is Hannibal by the
looks of things.

“Hey, we can buy another one,” Will consoles, a grin still tugging at his lips. “Or you know,
eat like cavemen. It’s not important.”

“If you don’t believe a dining table is important, you don’t know me at all,” Hannibal utters,
the ire in his tone nothing more than endearing in the face of how they spent the night prior.

There is no traffic when they drive into the city.

The motorcycle is just as much a revelation as it was before, but Will is more eager to get
home with the chip reader than anything. When they arrive back, Applesauce greets them at
the front door with chipper barks, indicating her attachment issues. Hannibal scurries off into
the depths of the villa to check if she wreaked havoc anywhere beyond the dining room.

Hannibal’s expression is content when he returns to the foyer, proving that Applesauce is off
the hook for now. Will is on the floor playing with her and takes the proffered scanner when
its handed to him.

“I just installed the battery,” Hannibal explains.

“Here goes nothing,” Will answers, turning on the scanner and following along the structure
of Applesauce's body in a procedural zig-zag. He’s been to the Vet’s enough times to know
how it’s done. The sole difficulty of the task is getting Applesauce to ignore the bright red
light.

As he passes a thigh, the chip reader beeps.

Hannibal and Will glance at each other, Hannibal towering above the two of them with an
expression best described as a proprietor of divine intervention. Will swallows and reads the
information. There is an address, their current location, a phone number, and an ID code.

“Hell, I think we’ve got it.”

Hannibal’s grin is serpentine.

“In that case, I’ll pack us lunch for the road.”

Applesauce trots after Hannibal to the kitchen, knowing there will be food offered and
created. Even food trumps Will’s personability.

Will is left in the foyer with the address glaring back at him. He memorizes it with the
devotion of a disciple, and then reminds himself of his reservations and necessary
obstinance.

It somehow doesn’t ease the disquiet.

There isn’t a feasible method of allowing Applesauce to tag along. There isn’t room on the
motorcycle, and Will wouldn’t risk bringing her on it even if there were.

They leave her with enough food to last two nights, and Will hopes she isn’t so gluttonous
that she’ll eat it all in one sitting, even if he has a gut feeling she will. If all goes well, they
should be back sooner than that. If not, he’ll make sure somebody knows she’s there. He has
to make sure.

When he straddles the backend of the bike later that night, he knows the outcome of their
journey will not be pristine. Whatever they find at the address they uncovered, it won’t be
waiting for them non-judgmentally nor with open arms, but most likely with a bloody maw,
hungry and fiercely prepared. His concern derives from the cold fact he wants the Vergers to
hold resolve, to thwart their presence, because he knows his mercy could so smoothly
transform into vengeance. He wants them to destroy his resolve, even when he doesn’t want
them dead.

It’s a terrible thing, fluctuating so often.

Giving into Hannibal’s whims and acting as a conductor of them could be an answer, but it’s
one that he knows if he submits to, he’ll lose the part of himself he spent so long evolving.

He clutches Hannibal around the waist, finding his momentary comfort there. Hannibal revs
the bike, kicking his heels into the foot’s stirrups. With the vibration rocking Will to his core
and blanking out the rest of his senses, they take off down the dirt road.

The ride lasts an hour and twelve minutes. It should be alarming that their villa is apparently
so near to the Verger’s hideaway, if they have found the right location, but instead it feels as
if everything is falling into place. That coinciding with the Vergers again was a universal
truth.

Hannibal lets up on the bike’s muffler as they close in on the address. When the motorcycle
rolls to a stop, crunching along dead leaves and gravel, Will studies the presentation of the
home.
Ironically, the property appears from the bramble like a glorified treehouse, mostly because
the wooden exterior matches the color of the tree trunks scattered all around it, keeping it
obscured from plain sight. If they hadn’t had access to a GPS, they’d never have seen this off
the main road. There are two stories, each with porches and balconies alike. There are no
lights on in the house, but Will wonders if that has to do with hearing the bike from a mile
away or more because the occupants are sleeping. It doesn’t look abandoned so much as it
looks unkempt.

For a mere instance, he’s tugged with sadness.

Alana and Margot’s son growing up here, in these desolate backwoods, hidden from monsters
and creatures untamed. It’s not ideal for anybody, and Morgan will live a life of fear and
naivety.

However, the sadness soon vanishes upon hearing Hannibal sniff the air.

Hannibal’s about to state something, probably the obvious, but Will hops off the bike out of
instinct when he sees the front porch light turn on. Hannibal inhales and exhales, replacing
his bike helmet with the portable cooler containing all the pack lunches, and weapons,
naturally.

They approach the house wordlessly, like specters in the night.

Margot emerges from the front door. Wrapped in a silk red robe, she holds a pocket pistol
directly at them. Will stops in his tracks. Hannibal does the same, one step ahead of him.

It’s not unexpected. Margot is beautiful as ever, but worn.

“Good evening, Dr. Lecter,” Margot calls out over the harsh winds.

“Lovely to see you again, Margot.”

“Will,” she greets belatedly.

“Hi Margot.”

“Sincerest apologies for dropping in on you so late,” Hannibal persists, smug to the nth
degree. “Will and I were optimistic that we could chat. Catch up on old times.”

Will grits his teeth, and keeps his mouth shut.

“Um.” Where Margot looked tired before, she’s starting to look frightened. Her eye contact
trembles from the front door to the yard, and she turns to face them, raising the pistol slightly
higher. It becomes apparent she is attempting to stall when the click of a cane comes into
play.

Alana dawns the archway, leaning heavily on her cane.

Her leg must be acting up again, Will assumes, because he recalls her walking without one
quite often not even several months ago. Her face is far more stern, and intensely grave.
 Strangely, she doesn’t have a greeting ready for them.

Margot and Alana exchange tense glances, then Alana steps up to the front of the porch,
balancing her weight on the railing to glare at both Will and Hannibal, together. As surreal as
it gets. Nobody knew they would end up here like this, not years ago, not even days.

“Hannibal, Will,” Alana implores finally, her expression flinching through several emotions
too quickly for Will to read. “We need your help.”

Chapter End Notes

we're goin in a pretty different direction here ;) also someone tell will to just let his dick
get sucked jfc

(also any out of the past fans, tell me there isnt hannigram coded stuff in that film
sheesh)
 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“There is no need for the pistol, Margot,” Hannibal informs her politely, unclipping his black
suit jacket upon entering the living room. There is a semi-circle of long rectangular couches.
Will ignores Alana’s glare and sits down on the one closest to the fireplace. He stretches his
legs out on the coffee table, and perhaps the gesture is rude but he doubts the Vergers care
about that more than the current predicament.

Margot hasn’t lowered her pistol. Hannibal stands by the front door inches from it, eyes
flickering between the weapon and the deep-set apprehension in her expression.

“Your word,” Alana demands, stepping up beside her wife. “That you or Will won’t kill us
where we stand if we lower the gun.”

Hannibal smiles, but not with the intent of perjury. The man above all else will always keep
his word. Even if he’s postponing the underlying promise the room’s occupants are all
incredibly aware of.

“You have my word,” Hannibal promises her, then turns to Margot. “For now, we come in
peace and in good faith that you will abide by the same conditions.”

Alana whispers something to Margot whose eyes downcast, wilting to the floor where she
slowly lowers the aim of her pistol. Alana takes it from her hand and with near imperceptible
hesitance, places it in what looks to be a checkbook drawer in an otherwise barren desk
closest to the foyer.

“How about we sit,” Alana suggests, voice seizing with either fear or a worse emotion. Will
can’t imagine why the Vergers need their help, or believe they’ll willingly hand it over.

After Margot sparks a flame in the hearth and the dimly lit room brightens up from the glow
of fresh fire, heating to a tolerable warmth, the two pairs sit across from each other, the
couches positioned parallel.

The distance between them is comically broad.

Hannibal sighs as he settles beside Will and stretches his arm across the cushion behind him.
It’s a display of ownership, Will assumes, but Will’s not sure if it’s because he wants it to be.
The insinuation simultaneously annoys him, so there’s that. He does what he does best and
doesn’t acknowledge it.

Alana stores her cane on the slatted bottom shelf of the coffee table between the couches, and
turns to look at Margot once more before she mirrors her wife, folding her hands in her lap to
minimize her fidgeting. Will can still see where her fingers are twitching over one another,
alongside the sweat on her temple.

“Well then,” Hannibal muses, his voice sounding louder than normal in Will’s ear. He
observes Margot and how she appears more like a shell of the saucy, but benevolent, young
woman he knew years ago. She looks as if she’s aged ten years, and Alana doesn’t look much
different, frown lines and gray eye bags weighing her features down. Hannibal’s smile grows
fangs. “We cannot help you if you do not explain what trouble you have unshockingly found
yourselves in.”

“You’re loving this,” Alana mutters, breaking the awkward seal.

“Should I not?” Hannibal prods. “Do I not deserve even a slight victory?”

“As long as the victory isn’t slitting our throats,” Margot responds, her tone as dry as ever.
Will is glad to know the kick in her personality hasn’t completely been stamped out by
circumstance.

“We aren’t going to slit your throats,” Will speaks up, uncrossing his legs so he can offer a
visibly open stance. “I don’t know if we can help you, but it wasn’t our intention to kill you
when we came here.”

“Then what was the intention?” Alana questions with razor-sharp disbelief, her glare full of
indispensable contempt. She needs her hatred to feel vindicated about her trespasses.

Will doesn’t care.

“You’ve been sending your goons after us,” he replies. “We want peace as much as you do.
Instead we’re caught in a war where the generals are refusing to communicate with each
other.”

“Your version of peace is violence,” Alana remarks.

“But that isn’t why you’ve been hunting us, is it Alana?” Hannibal chimes in. “You live in
fear. You fear for your wife, your child. All because you know better than anyone else that I
keep my promises.”

Alana huffs, but can’t conjure an immediate response for that.

Eventually, after Margot descends a comforting hand to her thigh, Alana admits, “I was the
first person Jack called when he found Hannibal alive. We both knew it couldn’t go public,
not when it could so easily be covered up. The fool that I was suggested we use Chilton’s
resources to hide you.” She meets Hannibal’s eyes, looking as vulnerable as she once did in
front of Will’s decimated chimney. “I think we’ve underestimated that man one too many
times. I should have learned by now not to trust…”

The sentiment tapers off, and Margot rubs her leg.

Will exchanges a glance with Hannibal for the first time since they entered the Verger’s
hideout. Though skeptical in general, Will cannot sense that Alana is lying. Hannibal is
apparently gauging Will’s attitude to understand if his own skepticism is dignified.

The thing is, Will can’t see how this isn’t a trap, but he also can’t disagree with an
opportunity to veto this unwritten contract of theirs. Hannibal doesn’t need any more strings
attached in this new life.

“The three musketeers turn on each other,” Hannibal muses. “I imagine Will’s great escape
quaked through the whole ecosystem. Is Chilton blaming you for his own managerial
incompetence?”

“No,” Will interrupts. “It’s about Matthew, isn’t it.”

Both Margot and Hannibal look mildly surprised he nailed the matter on the head so
efficiently, though by now they shouldn't be. Alana lets out a faint noise of relief, however,
because she was apparently having an obvious issue working around the subject of getting
Hannibal’s aunt killed.

“It was my idea. To use him, and draw you out,” she says to Hannibal. “Chilton had access,
he had pull to get Matthew out of the institution. For the fallout, we should’ve just hired an
assassin and been done with it.”

“You dwell so dependently on regret Alana. It will not get you far in your life,” Hannibal
conveys, toying with a loose thread behind Will. That tips off to Will; Hannibal’s more
restless than expected.

Will wonders if it’s about caging his promise of a reckoning, or something else.

“Yeah well apparently I don’t know when to be blind,” Alana retorts, the anger in her tone
directed more at herself than anything else.

“No,” Hannibal responds darkly. “No, you don’t.”

“Listen,” Margot pipes up, meeting all of their eyes individually so that their attention is
harnessed. “We want the same thing. We want this to be over. None of us can afford looking
over our shoulders for a single gunman when we have the cavalry to worry about.”

“Matthew’s turned on you?” Will asks.

Margot shakes her head. “He’s going on a killing spree in Europe. He completely
disconnected from all communication with us. We expected that, but he somehow got the
tracker anklet off.”

“He would have had experience with that, in his previous profession,” Hannibal notes,
unhelpfully.

“Jack won’t help you?” Will questions further, dumbfounded by the notion. Jack was always
willing to help, even if he wasn’t willing to listen. His loyalty knew almost zero bounds.

“Chilton’s convinced the FBI that we’re to blame for the whole fiasco and they’ve, ehm,
reopened the case about my brother’s murder because of it,” Margot explains, face
scrunching up in a flash of contrition. “While Jack knows better than to trust Chilton, he
found out on his own that Hannibal wasn’t the one who killed Mason. He's…distrustful of us
now.”

“The hypocrisy of bureaucracy,” an amused Hannibal utters.

“Jack’s always been a hypocrite,” Will poses.

Fermented animosity weaves through Alana’s features. “You’re one to talk,” she whispers
pointedly, looking back and forth between him and Hannibal. “I thought you found what you
were looking for. I thought you’d reshaped yourself.”

“I could reshape myself ‘til the cows come home, Alana. That wasn't who I was. Hannibal
knew it. I knew it. It was a matter of time.”

“Who are you, then? His trophy?”

Hannibal's perpetual smile wavers, but he doesn’t falter apart from that.

One of Will’s hands curls into a fist.

“Watch your tongue,” Will murmurs in warning. Alana deflects the threat with a hardened
glare of her own, a familiar concoction of disappointment and glib duplicity.

“It may be prudent to set aside our differences in favor of a proverbial treaty,” Hannibal
suggests, administering a faint touch to Will’s shoulder. It calms him in an instant, but
Hannibal’s hand doesn’t linger. He sits closer to the edge of the couch cushion and balances
his elbows on his knees. “We could go all night bickering about moral dignity, is that what
you would like to do?”

“No,” Alana grumbles. “We’ll never understand each other.”

“Quite right.”

“If we kill Matthew, you think the authorities will stand down on your case?” Will asks the
ladies. "They'd likely ignore it and continue looking for you. I doubt they’d drop the
charges.”

“What choice do we have?” Margot presses, the most desperate Will's ever heard her get, and
he remembered conversions shared between them about Mason. Motherhood must have
changed her. “Matthew is bound to come after us when he gets tired of the routine, anyhow.”

“Ah. You are a popular pair aren’t you,” Hannibal quips. “If I’d known I would have to get in
line to dismantle your life, I might have reconsidered.”

“We are reconsidering,” Will reminds argumentatively, and Hannibal primly concedes with a
dainty bow of the head. Will faces Margot because it’s easier than looking at Alana, and adds,
“If we do this, you will stop sending your men after us. And we will stop looking for you.”
“It’s a deal,” Margot agrees without a second thought. Alana nods in slow motion, seeming
equally as circumspect as Hannibal.

Just like that, a reckoning is averted. A cage cannot leash a tornado, but there are also no
cages the size and shape of a tornado. They have to make do with what little restraint they
can muster.

Though by sight alone, Will can tell that whatever conversation Margot and Alana had prior
to the one they’re having with them, they didn’t compromise on the terms nearly as well. He
can sense a rift between them, stronger than a wall, but more fragile than brick and mortar.

Hannibal was weirdly willing to do this Will’s way.

Alana, Will isn’t positive. He doesn’t suspect this ‘way’ of doing things was number one on
her list. Killing Hannibal and turning Will in probably was. But she and Margot are on the
lam now too, and can’t afford to do anything but trust them.

“Do you have any clue where Matthew’s hiding?” Will starts off.

Margot stands, disrupting the stillness of the room. “We gathered as many clues as we could.
We have a room for it on the second floor. Shall we take a look?”

“Yeah. Why not.”

Hannibal and Will stand in unison, but Hannibal swiftly crosses the impregnable space
between the couches to extend a hand to Alana who glowers at the mocking gesture of
chivalry. Surprisingly though, she takes the hand and allows herself to be hauled to her feet.

“See?” Hannibal says. “A common interest goes a long way.”

He bends down and offers her the cane.

Alana tugs the cane free of his gentle grip, gown swishing as she turns out of the room. He
smirks and follows after the Vergers, down a slender unlit corridor. Will sidles up to him and
tells him only with his eyes and a touch at the wrist to cool it.

In the undecorated halls they slither though, they pass several rooms with doors vacant and
inviting, the various locks installed in each of them on full display.

They pass a room with a woodworking bench, but not just that. There seems to be hundreds
of supplies for antique restoration lined along the walls and at the bench. The tools are
calloused from use in longevity, but willing to be sharpened. He haunts the entryway to the
room and observes the buckle strap dangling from the top shelf of the bench. There are small
tools aligned by buckle, color-assorted and size-assorted. He reminds himself they brought
Murasaki’s compass.

“Will?” Margot questions, and Will realizes that by stopping, the whole group came to a halt.
Hannibal and Alana are staring at him with equal degrees of scrutiny and pardon.

He tries not to roll his eyes, but it’s a habit.

“I’ve been looking into restoration for an heirloom we have,” Will mutters, unable to take his
eyes off the gear. “Haven’t seen a workbench that chock-full of tools in a long time, that’s
all.”

“We bought the house from a free-lance engineer who died and left no will, so we sort of
inherited his hobbies,” Alana explains. “Not that we get much use out of them.”

The glance Will gives the restoration room must depict honest yearning because Margot
places her fingers on his shoulder, maneuvering him lightly to return to the work space.

“Here, I’ll show you what’s in there. They’ll catch us up later.”

Perhaps it’s also out of habit that he looks to Hannibal for guidance then, but Hannibal is
dubiously unchallenged. He knows as well as Will does that Margot is no threat to them, as it
seems. Not in the way Alana is. Hannibal hands him the travel cooler they lugged along.
They’ve unspokenly agreed upon traveling around with the compass, just in case they can’t
go back and retrieve it at any point in their journey. Will takes the cooler and nods at Margot.

“Good luck, Will,” Hannibal tells him.

Alana doesn’t say anything and Will can sense bitterness radiating off of her. He suspects the
last thing she wanted to do today was spend alone time with Hannibal Lecter.

Opportunely, Will gets along with Margot.

Once inside the room and separated from them, Will unlocks the cooler and avoids the
weapons, optimistic Margot isn’t peering over his shoulder. She isn’t a nosey personality,
unless she’s trying to steal someone’s sperm in which case she knows how to insinuate
herself. When he fishes the compass out of its travel bag, his eyes immediately fall on the
heavy duty screwdrivers, often used for removing glass from clocks or watches. Compasses,
in their case.

“This is a great collection,” Will murmurs, dancing his fingers over the array of metal
equipment, from prong to screwdriver.. He picks up a flat-edged tool he believes will be thin
enough to remove the yellowed glass from the compass’ face. Then he can shine it. Margot
moves like a shadow to stand right behind him, watching closely.

“Who’d it belong to?” she asks.

“Lady Murasaki,” Will answers curtly. “Hannibal’s aunt.”

Margot inhales, her crossed arms squeezing tight to her body for a moment before releasing
the tension. The guilt she’s experiencing is so strong Will might potentially throw up from it.

“Objectively, I’d call it fair play, Margot,” he bids.

“I was against it, Will,” Margot whispers. “All of what Alana was doing. I don’t know why
they couldn’t just kill Hannibal and be done with it when they had the chance to do it.” She
contemplates for a second then says, “Sorry.”
“No, I understand.”

“Even now…” she trails off and all the potential addendums to that statement evaporate like
dust particles.

Will looks up at her expectantly.

Margot doesn’t elaborate, picking absently at her nails.

Will sits down at the stool and gets to work. “Do you know if there’s any cleaning products
here?” There has to be, because no way in hell are there this many restoration tools without
any. Margot nods and opens the cabinet he didn’t notice in the cobwebbed corner of the
room.

Hydrochloric acid is amongst the bottles, and Will begins to set up a bath. The glass will need
to come out first however, so he really tries to pry at its rim with the gear he picked out. He
can feel the give at the first circumferencing pass he makes with the tool, and does it again.

“I think you’re the only reason me and my family are still alive,” Margot proposes after a
frigid silence. Will doesn’t look up this time, righteously focused on the compass.

He doesn’t sugarcoat it when he responds,

“Yeah, I probably am.”

“Does he mean it?” She prods, clearing her throat quietly before saying, “You know, is he
willing to stick to his word?”

“Are you?” Will shoots back, huffing and puffing with effort. He drops the tool off her look.
“You didn’t need to give me a tour of the workbench, Margot. You were trying to get me
alone so you could ask me that. Are you not afraid that Alana’s alone with him right now?”

Margot frowns tiredly.

“I’m worried for Morgan.”

Will scans her, stunned, and returns to his project.

“How is the kid, anyway?”

“Sick,” she mutters mournfully. “Very sick. All this moving about hasn’t helped. He’s, ehm,
upstairs, sleeping. That’s what he does most hours of the day.”

Will’s hands stutter over the metallic rim of the compass as he works to press the glass out of
its frame. He doesn’t stop, but he makes sure his next statement is sincere.

“I’m sorry, too. For him.”

“In my therapy, Hannibal told me something that stuck with me even now. It was about
spider webs. How — we weave our webs meticulously like the spider, not leaving the fate of
our survival to chance. After infinite patterns and symmetries of our own making, what we
catch in our webs still isn’t what we choose. It’s not always sustenance, sometimes it’s
poison.”

“Sometimes the webs are ruptured before the design truly begins,” Will alleges.

Margot hums, pouring out some choleric acid in the pan Will set up, once he gets the circular
glass piece out of the compass. It collapses to the bench in a muted clatter. The face beneath
it is removable, so he does so and settles the rusted metal inside the foul smelling pan.

The sizzling noise is stark in the quiet night.

There is no window in the room, as looking there would be Will’s first instinct in the
discomfort of silence between acquaintances. There’s nowhere to look except head on at
interaction.

“Crazy how things end up, isn’t it,” he cracks humorlessly, swerving slowly on the stool to
face Margot. She looks cross, but she did often exist with a perpetual frown.

With Mason as a brother, he can’t blame her.

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Hell knows where we’d be if Mason hadn’t ripped out my uterus.”

Will winces, digging his heel into the stool’s rungs.

A wound that hasn’t reopened in years, reopens.

“In this life, the ifs-and-whens are the poison stuck to the web more often than not.”

“I didn’t get to talk to you back at my brother’s mansion,” Margot comments, the smile on
her face born of remorse. “You were out cold when Hannibal saved you. He looked so…
smitten.”

Will swallows over a lump of heated shame in his throat.

“He carried me home,” Will says, examining the details of that night to a greater extent than
he ever has before. “He dressed me in comfortable clothes, patched me up. Let me sleep.”

“You broke his heart that day.”

Will’s eyes dart up to meet hers with sharpened suspicion.

“I saw it on the news,” she clarifies, scoffing. “You know it was all over the tabloids, yeah?
That he gave it all up for you. They didn’t mince words whatsoever.”

“I used to only see the power imbalance, where I felt crushed by the dominion held over me.
Took me a long while to figure out I was the one with the power, at least a big percentage of
it.”

“He loves you,” Margot murmurs.

He can’t deny that. Everyone seems to understand that fact like they understand primary
colors. Different shades yet rigid in their position on an ultimate spectrum. Hannibal’s love, if
it could be scaled, would be at the very peak of the spectrum. Past the point of standard, or
stable.

And Will, the sucker that he is, falls for the absolute heady rush that gives him.

“He used to stare off at his desk when I was having sessions with him,” she continues, almost
fond. “Ogling obsessively at his little appointment book like he could reverse time and bring
you back to where I was standing. I didn’t mind, though I suppose most patients would.”

“I was baiting him for an arrest back then, putting on a show,” Will replies, plucking out the
compass with thin prongs when the sizzling in the pan dulls to a fizzy whisper. “Being
obsessed with me was the result I was striving for.”

“And yet, even after all the years and lies — ”

“He’s still obsessed with me,” he concludes for her. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

“You two can relate to each other, in a way,” Margot comments.

“How do you mean?”

“You hurt one another incessantly. Regardless, you fell in love with each other.”

Clenching his jaw, Will wills himself not to respond. Whatever is threatening to voice itself
on the back of his tongue can’t be anything good. An undisguised agreement, maybe.

“I didn’t know your proclivities extended to those parts,” she then says, off his stubborn
silence. Will quickly turns a light shade of rose.

“They don’t.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, I don’t, they, um — ”

“It’s alright. I just thought — ”

“No, you thought — well I get why you thought. I’d think it too, I do.”

Margot blinks, then toys knowingly with the hem of her robe. Will succeeds in not making
eye contact with her, returning to tamper with the compass too early to be safe.

“So, you haven’t…” she trails off, insinuating.

Will’s resounding “No” is painfully clipped.

“Is it even on the cards?”

Her curiosity is bordering on interrogative.

“Why the hell is everyone fascinated with my sex life?” he grumbles, nearly bending the
softened metal of the compass’ handle in his frustration. Hissing, he grabs a different tool.

“Hannibal Lecter’s sex life. You have to admit, being the most notorious cannibal in the
world, it’s gonna raise questions about what’s going on in the bedroom. I just assumed — ”

“You assumed wrong.”

“Excuse me for assuming an air of familiarity with the man who impregnated me,” Margot
drawls, and it takes Will a fretful moment to identify the humor in her tone.

Grimacing, he utters, “Sex really isn’t my priority these days.”

“Nor mine,” Margot replies, sounding much less humored.

Will starts to diligently unscrew the two major components of the compass frame from each
other. He might as well freshen up the metals internally to prevent a swifter rot.

Suddenly, the soft sound of feet padding closer erupts into Will’s headspace.

Margot gasps as they both turn their heads to find Morgan peaking through the creaked open
door from the corridor. “Momma,” he croaks. “There’s noise.”

“Sorry, baby,” Margot croons, with a severe edge of anxiety coating her tone. For a moment,
Will feels bad about being the threat in this situation, but that’s quickly tabled when he
instead finds himself offended that Margot thinks he might hurt a child let alone the child that
they just contractually agreed not to hurt. Morgan is pale, and sickly looking just as they
claimed. There is a clamminess to his skin that resembles embalmed corpses more than a
young boy. Margot picks him up, though he seems to be getting too big for it and says, “Let’s
go back upstairs.”

“Does the stranger-man know where Applesauce is?” Morgan questions, scratching
nervously at his own blistery cheeks as a method to stealthily hide behind his own hand.
Social anxiety is naturally born out of persistent isolation, Will has discovered.

“I do,” Will informs, and Margot casts an admonitory look toward him. “We’ll bring her back
to you soon, alright?” He glances at Margot and repeats, “Alright?”

“That’s how you found us,” she whispers, instinctively placing a hand over Morgan’s ear to
press him into his shoulder and detach him audibly from the conversation.

Will nods.

“Gotta be wary about microchips too, if you’re trying to hide. Not just from us. I’d take it out
as soon as possible,” Will suggests. “How long has she been missing?”

“A month by now.”

“Miss her, mommy,” Morgan murmurs.

“I know sweetheart,” Margot says in his ear, kissing the boy on the forehead. Will swallows
and averts his eyes, coldly returning to his work. Historically, he’s not been great with kids.

At least, in the overarching sense.

“I’m going to put Morgan back to bed. Do me a favor and don’t let Alana in on the fact that
he found his way downstairs. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Will nods again, absently.

“And Will…” He forces himself to meet her eyes. Will’s lips tug into a frown. The profound
terror in her expression isn’t an emotion she was displaying before, and he’s immediately
taken aback by it. The awareness that there is something wrong about their rendezvous dawns
over him. She wants to tell him what’s wrong, she does. He can see it in her eyes whatever
Alana is planning, she doesn’t stand behind it. And then abruptly, the terror dissipates and
Margot is unreadable as ancient ruins. “Be careful with some of these tools. They’re
deceptively sharp.”

Will plans on asking her what she was about to truly profess, but she’s gone with Morgan in a
flash. Her slippers clap down the hall in a conflicted haste.

Returning to the compass, Will runs over theories in his head. It is entirely possible, if not
probable, that Margot and Alana are still planning on killing them. Though they set their
weapons aside, they may have another strategy to set into motion. Will can only hope that
they abide by their word as well as Hannibal means to, but hope isn’t something Will likes to
rely on.

The compass in his hand clicks metallically, and with the last minuscule screw removed, it
diverges into two separable pieces. Will’s mind goes blank at the sight of a folded piece of
paper hidden between the parts of the device. Hidden away for God knows how long.

He unfolds it warily and exhales when he reads exact numerical coordinates and a small note
beneath them signed by Lady Murasaki herself in red ink.

No stones unturned.

Under those words, five numbers that are separate from the coordinates are drawn in bold. He
pockets the paper and allows his heart to regain its average rhythm before standing and
abandoning the dismantled compass to the array of vintage machinery.

It seems Muraski’s intention wasn’t only to offer up an heirloom.

They’ll need to find wherever the coordinates lead them, and the significance.

But first, he needs to take Margot’s veiled warning at face value.

“You have acquired quite the taste for revenge,” Hannibal observes upon entering what Alana
just deemed aloud, her and Margot’s ‘Resources Den.’ If he were still a practicing
psychiatrist, he’d extend a referral to her for the visible manic scatterings of a paranoid
victim.

The room is a four-walled study, in the barest respects.

The walls are covered with news clippings, headshots segments by string, and online theory
boards printed out neatly in several rows. A rather significant portion of the gatherings are
torn from Tattlecrime, and Hannibal holds back a remark on how Alana knows better than to
turn to Freddie for instruction. It’s uncouth under her hospitality. There is, to his delight, a
wall covered in clippings about he and Will; Will’s great escape of the most prolific killer
America has ever known. There is security footage of the operation printed out in a
chronological timeline. He lingers before it, arms folded behind his back, smiling at the red
circles painted around Chiyoh.

“This isn’t revenge, this is insurance,” Alana retorts, the anger in her tone just as tidal as
earlier, when she first invited them across the threshold of her hideaway.

“Insurance would be letting others handle the dirty work for you,” Hannibal corrects. “I am
positive Margot refuses to agree on your version of insurance, or she would have experienced
no hardship entering this room. It’s your passion project, is it not?”

“Are you going to criticize me for protecting my family?”

Puffing his chest slightly with humor, Hannibal says,

“Merely wondering if you are what they need protecting from.”

“Shut up, Hannibal,” Alana mutters shakily, sitting at the sole desk. There are papers and
notepads cluttered across the surface. She opens her laptop and checks her emails as Hannibal
takes in all the findings the researched dwelling has to offer.

“For your information,” she begins, pushing the laptop to face him, “we do have people
working on the Matthew dilemma, as well as our situation with you. Our assets were frozen
after the bounty was turned on us, but we have enough money stashed away to fund our
quandaries.”

“Not enough, however, to reward Morgan a proper future.”

Alana freezes up, then fast-types up a response to one of her henchmen. Of course they’re not
technically henchmen, but Hannibal likes the drama of the diction.

“How is Margot, Alana?”

“I’m not going to talk to you about my personal life.”

“Oh, but this truly is the time to do it. We may never have a chance to talk again after
tonight,” Hannibal murmurs, knowing the statement comes off brutally ominous.
“She’s fine. Morgan’s fine.”

“Hmm.”

“I didn’t ask for your help because I wanted to, Hannibal. This doesn’t extend to familiarity.
We’re helping each other out, because it's in our best interests.”

“My best interests are far beyond the realm of your understanding, Alana.”

“Then why agree to help in the first place?” she asks, the chair creaking across the
floorboards so she’s facing him as a duel horse readies to charge. Brave, as always. “Why not
kill me now while you have me right out in the open? Will’s occupied, he can’t even stop
you. Do it.”

“You do realize I detest suicidal ideation.”

“I’m not suicidal,” she spits. “I’m smart enough to know when you’re playing games. You’re
not so domesticated that your promise to me will be left untouched.

Hannibal bares his teeth in an aporetic grin.

“Do you believe I am restrained because Will is with me?”

Alana doesn’t answer, and his smile stretches.

“My dear, you couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

“You want to torture me,” Alana states plainly, dropping her hands to her lap. “You excel in
sadistic taunts, and it’s a ploy, to have me looking over my shoulder the rest of my life.”

“Not entirely. I would pose that you aren’t ripe for the picking quite yet.”

Alana’s face pales, much to his continued delight. He pictures her face now looking much the
same all those years ago when he answered Pazzi’s phone. Hannibal crosses the room and
watches her stiffen with every step he takes. He balances on the desk and glances all along
the lines of her body. She’s gained weight, and her cheeks droop with the aging of
traumatization. The film over her eyes is as glossy as the sweat at her temples and neck make
her skin appear.

“You’re torturing yourself for me,” he says, low. “The part I play is tenuous, at best.”

Her face hardens, shifts to rock. “Will’s going to leave. There are limits, Hannibal. You know
there are, and you know you can’t resist. There will be a day where he can no longer
forgive.”

“Has Margot forgiven you?” Hannibal barrels over the conviction in that statement, racing for
the finish line. “For every nightmare?”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Alana bites back. “You’re the disease.”
“That’s the flaw in you, Alana. Enduring blindness.”

“It’s hard to see straight when you’re living on borrowed time,” she responds, scathingly.
Though her head bows in defeat, and she turns away from him as fully as she can despite his
looming proximity. He waltzes to the other side of the room, taking in the maps of Matthew’s
potential hideouts and common locations. Italy appears to still be a primary selection.

Oddly, the information on Matthew is far more sparse than expected. The intel on Will and
himself is alternatively enormous.

“You promised me once you’d save him. Is this saving Will?”

“He is where he wants to be.” Hannibal’s response is pure, to the point. “He told me as
much.”

“At no machinations of yours, I bet.”

“I was in a coma, if you recall. I hardly had any stock in what Will’s schemes were when it
came to my escape, and my freedom.”

“Will reflects and he mirrors. Whoever he is, that persona is still so deeply buried underneath
all the neurons and chaos that he doesn’t understand being with you is a death sentence.”

“He rejected me, and then he returned. We’ve overcome our discord.”

There is a silence filled soon with the buttery sounds of typing, and the whisper of wind just
beyond the grounds of the property. There is one window in the room, covered with papers.
What little of the forest Hannibal can see through the cracks, is shadowed black.

“You’re a monster,” Alana declares ultimately, though her voice is timidly soft. It doesn’t
match with her verbal verve. “But, the killing, it’s…something I’ve come to understand
better. I don’t understand you or your need for it, and I don’t understand why you do it when
it isn’t even pathological for you, but that aside, you’re selfish. You’ve destroyed him,
Hannibal. Will’s nothing of the man I first knew, quiet and unassuming. What you’ve torn out
of him is something ugly and vile, and you’ve forcibly molded him into a symmetrical
variant of your monster.”

Just like Alana, not to understand Will Graham even fractionally.

“Will would contend I aided his metamorphosis. The beast growing inside him had no grip on
its shell. Nature occasionally needs a push to survive in birth. That’s the singular hand I
dealt.”

Alana sways in her seat, a thousand ghosts in the whites of her eyes.

“You think you love him. What’s going to happen when he doesn’t love you back in the way
you love him?”

Hannibal’s expression falls involuntarily. Alana, however inadvertently, accomplished her

task of striking at a cord in him. Ache spreads in his chest, constricting the use of his lungs
and heart.

“Love is blindness,” she concludes.

Her advantage worked, if only for a moment. It shows in her demeanor, as she incrementally
relaxes in the face of Hannibal’s vitriol. Why she feels she’s safer now, he doesn’t know.

Hannibal parts his lips, a passive (dare he say, aggressive) response on the tip of his tongue,
when Will rushes up to the door of the study, chest heaving and heart racing.

Will reads the room. Aggression was being tossed between Alana and Hannibal not seconds
prior. Much like a volleyball, or he supposes, a dodgeball in their case. Exes and their scorn.
He knows he needs to tread lightly if he wants everyone to leave the room undamaged.

“We should go,” Will tells Hannibal, making sure his eye contact is intense with readable
warning. “We’ll have better luck finding him back at our place.”

Fear lights up in Alana’s eyes, confirming Will’s suspicions that there is an alternate plan
being weaved behind their backs. They have little time to waste now.

As anticipated, Hannibal is feeling impish, because he merely smirks.

“And refuse such easy access to all of this?” he purrs, gesturing to the mad-man string theory
mess on the wall. Alana’s psychiatry days are numbered, comes Will’s first thought.

“Now, Hannibal,” Will half-growls.

Hannibal cocks a brow, but moves closer to him. Retreat is imminent enough for Will to taste
it. They came away with whatever he found in the compass, that’s all that matters tonight.

“Wait,” Alana stands, wincing at a twinge in her leg. “We need to let Margot know you two
are leaving.”

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,” Will tells her flatly, curling a hand over the cusp of
Hannibal’s elbow as he leads him into the hall. He can feel in the cramped tension in his
body, that Hannibal is starting to suspect something as well. Alana’s insistence that they stay
is out of character.

“Though your assemblage is intriguing, I believe Will is correct. Should we find the need to
contact you, we will return,” Hannibal informs.

“No,” Alana blurts out, hobbling nearer, then pausing cautiously. There’s a battle inside her,
and she’s veritably bouncing from side to side, the front lines more emphatic than her
common sense.
“No?” Hannibal echoes, amusement fully drained from his tone.

“What did you do, Alana?” Will asks so quietly, he’s afraid she doesn’t hear him. Yet, she’s
merely neglecting to respond to him instead, gaze flickering everywhere but their eyes.

“Goddamn it.” Alana sucks her lips between her teeth and cranes her neck toward the ceiling,
as if pleading with the house itself. “Oh, goddamn it. Just run.”

Fight or flight kicks in.

It’s about time.

“Come on.” Will tugs at Hannibal, but the man is infuriatingly deciding now is a perfect time
to become an Easter Island stone head. “Hannibal.”

Hannibal waits patiently until Alana makes eye contact with him.

What she sees in the depths of them has her catapulting to the brink of asphyxiation. “This
was the only way I thought — ” Alana releases a sob, burying her hands in her hair. The cane
clatters to the floor with a noise that makes Will jump in his jittery state. “Just go, you’re
wasting time!”

Hannibal’s planted feet finally give, and Will clasps their hands together, rushing them down
the stairs to the ground floor. He doesn’t think about what he’s doing when he hastily dashes
back to Margot and Alana’s restoration room, then filches out the most portable pistol from
their stack of weapons. He shoves it in the back of his pants, not taking the time to check if
the safety is on or off. Hannibal is staring back towards the stairs, but Will doesn’t allow him
the time to reconsider their departure. Whatever’s coming, he can tell isn’t going to be pretty.

Sometimes, Will hates being right.

Hannibal is strapping into position on their motorcycle. Will is just hopping up behind him,
casting one last cursory glance toward the house. It looks haunted, and even sad.

The silhouette of a tiny boy watches from a second story window.

Frogs leap against the cavern of Will's throat.

Abruptly, the rev of a bike not their own resonates in the distance.

Even Hannibal looks bug-eyed by the noise when he glances at Will. Will sputters, feet
slipping out of the pedal straps. He anxiously realigns himself, patting Hannibal’s side to
signal that he’s ready, and looks back just once to catch the flash of headlights strobing
through the forest. A bike muffler similar to their own rumbles louder the longer they remain
stagnant.

“Drive!” he exclaims.

For once, Hannibal obeys without resistance.

It takes minutes before they’re back on a road. They would have changed route, went back
the way they came instead of following an unknown dirt path, but they don’t exactly have a
choice.

Hannibal’s going fast. Terrifyingly fast. Will feels as if his heart is going to lurch out of his
throat from the agonizing manner in which the wind is whipping across the skin of his face,
over his stinging eyes. Neither of them had time to put on their helmets, so Will hopes
Hannibal isn’t squeezing his eyes shut to avoid scratchy dryness like he’s doing right now.
The dirt the wheels are storming up behind them isn’t helping his sense of sight, smell,
feeling.

The environment scrapes at them. Will needs to scream.

He doesn’t.

Hannibal continues, the road lined with trees on either side.

Somehow, the noise of their motorcycle starts to become muted by a metallic crescendo
behind them. Will risks turning his head, tightening his hold on Hannibal so he doesn’t lose
his grip.

If they’re going fast, the man on the bike behind them is driving at the speed of light.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes widening. “Faster,” he shouts in Hannibal’s ear, arousal spiking
through him when Hannibal does exactly that, revving their bike deafeningly, swerving down
a woodier path to the right. A human cackle seeps into the robotic growl chasing them.

It’s fairly obvious; Matthew Brown got wind of where they were.

They would have had a better chance staying put with the Vergers, but that isn’t an option
now. Their only option is exactly what Will’s heart, mind, and body is telling him to do; Run.

It’s when Matthew’s bike starts to get closer, Will panics.

He whips out the gun, haphazardly turns off the safety, and cranes his body to shoot in a
random direction behind them. It echoes through the woods; crows flutter off. He hears a
responding yowl, and it takes him a second to realize it was an enthusiastic noise.

Will missed him.

“Don’t, Will!” Hannibal barks out.

Will doesn’t listen. He aims again, and fires.

This time round, their bike stumbles over a rock in unison with the gunshot, and the bullet
goes flying into the air. Will is panting, one hand barely grasping Hannibal’s jacket as he’s
jostled like cargo. His favored hand feels like it’s on fire with the kickback of the gun, but he
keeps a steady hold on it, white-knuckled and determined.
 Matthew is gaining on them, equally as expert as Hannibal in avoiding the unwieldy pattern
of the trees. The motorcycle he’s riding is all black, like a dark horse huffing and puffing,
ready to blow them down. Will has to defend them; his blood roars with animal impulse to
protect.

Stupidly, he releases his feet from the pedal straps so he can turn outright. Hannibal is
shouting, but he can’t hear a word of it over the whipping wind and the symphony of bike
motors.

Matthew’s grin flashes luminous in the moonlight.

Will growls, and aims for Matthew’s throat.

The trigger presses in, just —

Hannibal drives over a large rock and Will is effectively expelled from the back seat of the
bike with a howl. The gun lands first, far from here, explosively. His body collides hard with
the ground next, and he rolls at high speed feeling the impact in every single joint, finally
smashing his head on something blunt.

Vaguely, he has a sense of Hannibal swerving off in a different direction, distracted by the
fall. He hears the crash as he is forcibly stopped by the wilderness’ clandestine obstacles.

The scent of nature fills his lungs and nose. Acrid mud, humid unpolluted fog, and the dead
leaves blanketing under him, where damp amphibians burrow beneath. He groans, dizzy
enough for his mind to entirely blank out. White and black fade into his vision, and the world
spins. He arches away from the vertigo, as if it’ll stop if he just moves with the abnormal
bend of it.

The warped shape of Matthew’s face comes into view.

Just before Will blacks out, he sees a toothy grin, and hears,

“Oh, baby blue, we’re gonna have so much fun.”

Chapter End Notes

applesauce is going to be okay, just so you're all sure about that <3 but i guess we'll see
about our boys next time <333333333
 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The chapel is drenched in twilight.

Candlelight blooms in the darkness, but Will cannot visualize the magnificent paintings on
the ceiling even through the auroral shine on the walls, illuminating the sacred liminal
breadths. He’s flat on his back, uncomfortably aligned with two wooden boards. A
crucifixion as much as it is a resting stop. Hannibal towers over him, bent at the knee like
men are in prayer. He flattens Will’s hands to the precipice of the horizontal plank, and
presses the fine point of a slender nail to the middle of his palm.

“The divine punishment of a sinner mirrors the sin being punished,” Hannibal quotes, a
sentiment long forgotten in the chambers of Will’s mind.

He spoke them to Bedelia once, the words gnawing for escape inside him.

A hammer is materialized out of thin air.

“As the wings of starlings in winter bear them along in wide, crowded flocks, so does that
wind propel evil,” Will quotes in return, choking on a breath when Hannibal hits the nail in,
once, twice, three times until the rusted spiral sinks deep enough inside him to bond his limb
to the symbol. When Will finds his voice again, he asks with hoarse exhaustion, “I don’t see
an end to the dark storm, do you?”

“It drives us, with never any hope to comfort us,” Hannibal replies, scraping another nail
down the smooth wrist of his opposite arm until he reaches the center of that palm. He wields
the hammer. “Suffering is eternal, and we can only hope to suffer less. Not to rest.”

“The thing that distinguishes all love from lust—” Will cries out as the nail is driven deep
into his skin. Blood vessels pop, and Hannibal purses his lips at the arterial spray that
splatters up his cheek, “—is that it bears an impress of eternity.”

“We have not yet descended from the circle,” Hannibal advises fondly, stroking over the
gushing puncture in Will’s hand, causing him to gasp for air like a fish out of water.

“I don’t know how much longer I can bear the storm,” Will utters, arrested by dread.

With inhuman strength, Hannibal lifts the cross Will has been stapled upon, upward, and his
weight steadily sags with the force of gravity. Feet thrashing, he feels himself slipping until—

When awareness returns to him, jovial music envelops him first.

It’s a familiar tune; the Habanera aria from the opera Carmen.
The volume is abrasively loud, adequate to block out the war cries of his pain receptors for a
brief interim. The sensation of slipping doesn’t just overlap from his dream, but he’s slipping
now, balancing haphazardly on a bucket. Eyes shooting open with a gasp, all senses overload
with new information.

Will isn’t crucified, but his arms are strung around a girthy plank of wood, and his neck is
hung in a noose. The bucket under his feet is wet, threatening to slide out from under him if
he doesn’t focus all of his attention on keeping upright and balanced atop of it. But the pain;
a strangled noise erupts from the back of his throat when his eyes fall on the long slices from
his wrists down near to his elbows. He nearly slips at the shock of feeling them, blood oozing
down into collecting-barrels on either side of the life or death sentence underneath his feet,
the pounding in his temples from the concussion he most likely acquired in the woods, and
the ringing in his ears from the puerile music blasting through a nearby speaker. He knows he
was recently cut, if not a minute prior, from the quaint levels of blood in the barrels.

Yet he’s quite literally feeling the life draining out of him.

It takes significant effort not to just wobble here and take it. His mind is in a tizzy, lost in the
woods, refusing to acknowledge this is his best possible world, as Chilton once snarked.

Blurring in and out of focus, he compels his mind to center itself.

It’s a disturbing afterthought when he realizes he’s entirely naked, cock hanging limp
between his thighs and thrashing about like a pale worm every time he loses his grip on the
bucket with his toes.

It’s humiliating; it’s supposed to be.

The initial shock tabled, Will sees that he’s in a cellar. Lots of grays and blacks that make the
space look far more cramped than it probably is. It also makes it harder to see through the
shadows. He needs to know where Hannibal is, what Matthew’s done with him. In no time,
his own condition will be critical.

What he can detect in the dark, is his clothes in a bundle not two feet away from where he’s
hanging. Despite the pickle he’s in, he finds himself exhaling in relief. The concept of losing
the note Lady Murasaki imparted upon them is inconceivable.

The music crescendos, operatic staccatos crying out in triplets.

Will shuts his eyes against the onslaught, and shouts out, “Matthew!”

His voice emerges as no more than a broken croak from the blood loss and noose around his
throat. Fortunately, Matthew must hear him, because the lights above them flicker on.

The cellar is far more sterile than he priorly expected. There are silver tables in rows,
cabinets to line the walls, much like a military bunker if Will had to describe it. But, he isn’t
thinking about where he is. That doesn’t matter.
Will’s eyes adjust slowly to the fluorescent lights, then they descend upon Hannibal’s body
which is collapsed by the padlocked cellar door, splayed out strangely in his unconscious
state. “H-Hannibal,” Will calls out, coughing to clear the tightening itch encasing his throat.
“Hannibal.”

Matthew is spinning, humming ecstatically by the cabinets. Will glares at him furiously,
shakily heaving oxygen in and out in a manner that doesn’t shudder his whole body off the
bucket.

He remembers reading up on Matthew Brown when he had the time, hearing what he’d done
to Hannibal. The press didn’t neglect any aspect. He’s experiencing the Ripper’s near death
experience, down to the size of the inner arm cuts, and the torturous bucket idiom.

He wishes these killers would stop having a sense of humor.

Grinning, Matthew reaches for a small stereo (the size doesn’t convince Will the music is
actually coming out of that box alone) and spins the dials until the opera is replaced with
stark silence.

Now a chorus of dripping blood and heavy breathing fill the room.

“Will Graham,” Matthew purrs as he saunters up to him. “Imagine my shock when I saw your
face on the news. Running away with the man you asked so nicely of me to kill for you.”

“Hanging me up like this is fairly unoriginal,” Will wryly notes. “Unless…” He inhales and
exhales delicately. “Divine punishment?”

“You made me believe you were somebody else,” Matthew recalls, padding in oppressively
close. Will averts his eyes as the man tilts up on his tiptoes to inspect the wrist wounds,
humming low. “Stop,” he whispers desperately when Matthew licks at a singular red trail
from the peak of the cut.

Will shivers in disgust, detaching himself from the sharp pangs it draws out, like a series of
pin needles parading his arm, until Matthew’s had his fill.

“Well, you see I had this whole theory when I was sent back to the ward,” Matthew diverges
into a tangent, thankfully stepping off from his assault. While his back is turned, Will glances
between Matthew and Hannibal, who has remained knocked out cold. Will covertly rattles
the bucket beneath his feet, attempting to startle him awake. The cold weight of blood loss is
reaching for his warmest divisions and his headache is morphing into an unbearable
migraine. “About you, me, and the Ripper.”

“Lots of time to ponder in an institution,” Will concedes placidly.

“Lots of solitary,” Matthew argues, waving his hands for dramatic effect.

“They only keep you in solitary if you’re a threat to the other patients.”

“Yeah, well hawks are solitary, remember?” Matthew’s face warps into a humored scowl. He
taps the side of his own head with a finger, “Shoulda listened to you. You had the right idea,
that men like us, we don’t get to bask together in admiration. We admire alone, we hunt
alone, we thrive alone. The whole hero worship thing, well, let’s just say I got over that when
I saw you two lovebirds got hitched.”

“Beliefs evolve, adapt,” Will murmurs, flexing his hands to make sure he still has feeling in
them. They’re beginning to tingle under the anvil-weight of their new trauma.

Matthew chuckles. “Baby, you’re talking about religion. I’m not talkin’ about that. You’re
having trouble catching up, though. I get it. In your state, I’m shocked you’re even giving me
the stink eye.”

Will gulps down iron-tasting bile and straightens up.

“You like to watch your victims debase themselves, Matthew?” There is a sultry tone Will is
dressing his words with. He knows Matthew finds him attractive, more than purely physical,
has from the beginning. He was an attractive partner to any roaming killer, looking for a bite
of something real. “Do you like me so much?”

“That’s your thing, I think. I saw your work with the Dragon. Phew. If that’s what you do in
self defense, I’d love to see what you do for fun.”

“Fun.” Will’s upper lip twitches. “Is this your idea of fun?”

“This is my idea of revenge,” Matthew declares, admiring his work. “Cliché, I know. I like
clichés now and then. Where would men like us be without cliché?”

Will feels himself weakening, his eyelids droop.

“Revenge for what exactly?” he grits out, failing to flex his hands properly this time.

“Leaving me to rot. The rest was just the seasoning. You know, carving out a flock for
yourself with him, a demonstrative display of hypocritical mediocrity. So boring!” He
elongates the word, yelling into the quiet prison of stone walls. “We could have done
something different, you and me. Now you’re nothing.” He presses a boot to Hannibal’s side,
rolling the man onto his back. Hannibal’s head rolls dazedly, and for the first time, Will
worries he genuinely won’t wake in time. “So is he.”

“You were a pawn, Matthew,” Will admits to him. The results he’s currently striving for will
only be wrought from honesty. If Matthew knows his insignificance, he may be easier
manipulated. “When I sent you after him, I thought I was sending you to your death. I needed
him to know I was capable.”

Matthew’s eyes are sharp as darts. Will hears the swish of a blade between them but it merely
wasps against his skin, over Hannibal’s mark. Will snarls while he traces the line, then the
knife is lowered.

“You’re brazen. I like that.”

The blade halts in the fur of his pubic hair. Will’s hissing breath through gritted teeth,
attempting to remain calm in the face of the threat. Matthew presses in, just lightly, at the
base of his shaft.

“Such a pretty thing too. It’s a shame.” Matthew’s voice is eerily soft. The blade is curved,
and he swirls it under Will’s limp appendage so the weight of it rests on the cutting edge.
With one swipe, he could do some serious damage. Will closes his eyes, adapting to the
concept of unimaginable pain.

Instead, Matthew huffs, a bored sound, and pulls away.

Will slumps, staring up at him through damp lashes.

“The Vergers are the people you’re after,” Will persuades, syllables stressed. “I could help
you. I know them better than they know themselves. And Hannibal’s seen the intel Alana’s
gathered on you.”

Cawing with laughter, Matthew cuts himself off with a sigh,

“That’s disappointing. I wasn’t expecting you to grovel. Or maybe you’ve lost the hang of it,
delegating your pawns and all that entails. The blood’s draining from your head faster than
you can process.”

“What will this accomplish other than making you the FBI’s most wanted?”

Matthew scoffs. “If I’m good at something, I should let the world in on it, no? That’s how
celebrities become famous, that’s how legends are born, how they become myths!” Skidding
closer, he jumps in front of him, a quick leaping movement, causing Will to jolt and nearly
fall off the bucket. Hands are placed on his hips and Will has every impulse to go inside his
mind and remove himself from the equation of reality. “You think this is about you. It’s about
me. I’m meant for more, you knew it. He knew it.”

Will bares his teeth, shimmying away from Matthew’s intrusive grip. “You got yourself
locked up. Neither of us spared more than a moment’s thought on you in the aftermath.”

“Soon nobody’s gonna be thinking about you two either.”

“The showboating then, why?”

“To make it obvious to the idiots who work for the bureau that it was me who took down
Hannibal the Cannibal and his precious courtesan, nobody else,” Matthew whispers, trailing
his thumbs along the gory seams of his wrists. Will bites his tongue against the agonized
scream perched inside him.

If he weren’t in this state, he’d remark that he isn’t Hannibal’s prostitute of all things, but
frankly the implications about his sex life are tiringly persistent, and he’d worry much less if
he just ignored them and let people think what they want.

Dizziness flushes through Will and he oscillates.

The bucket squeaks greasily on the cellar floor.

In a final surge of stamina, Will spits on Matthew’s face. Though all Will can taste is blood,
his saliva is clear on Matthew’s cheek. The man doesn’t look nearly as revolted as he hoped.

He looks…pleased.

“No matter what you do, who you kill,” Will starts, eyes fluttering closed to envision the
beauty of a Ripper tableau. “You can never replicate what he replicates. Copycats have tried,
and they’re no more than a mimic. Homage will maim you, and your identity will drown in a
storm of amateur recreation.”

“You’re much more talkative than he was,” he tells Will, nodding back at Hannibal. “Don’t
try to alert him or anything, I can see those needy little fledgling glimpses of yours. I’ve
drugged him with a pretty hefty compound. He’s out of service for the next hour or so at
least, and by then there will be nothing left to revive, for either of you. I was thinking of
displaying you together, you deserve that much.”

Will’s heart falls into the pit of his stomach.

“Am I not merciful?” Matthew iterates, pressing two hands to his own heart.

“Here’s a cliché for you; You have delusions of grandeur.”

Gleaming, Matthew hums the tune of Carmen, hopping over Hannibal’s body, eyeing him up
and down like prized cattle. Will stares at them together, the sight inspiring enough to keep
him awake just a while longer. Underbite exposed, Matthew clicks his tongue indecisively
down at the Ripper.

Almost regretful. Perhaps that catching him was this uncomplicated.

“Told him I could be like the Iroquois. Make his murders be my murders. He didn’t seem as
enchanted by that notion as I was, but you were enchanted by playing roles. Do you play
roles for him?”

Unresponsive, Will focuses everything he’s got left on keeping alert.

Matthew circles around the cellar in a figure eight, a shark sifting through a corral field.
When his fingers return to Will’s arms, stroking lightly in awe at the bloodfall, the sensation
Will receives is terrifyingly muted. Fingertips leave his skin tingling the way his legs do
when they’re asleep, dissonant from the rest of his body. His blood is spewing from him fast,
and his zeal for life was never as grand as Hannibal’s.

Matthew must see him cascading deep inside himself because he plants a firm slap on Will’s
cheek, and the ringing in Will’s temples screeches from it. He groans, almost falling off the
bucket again.

The rope of the noose scratches at his throat with harsh insistence.

“Hannibal…” he croaks. “Are you going to elevate him?”

“I thought about doing the same,” Matthew muses, gesturing to Will. “But, you’re right. Too
much of this would have been typical. I decided on something more Machiavellian.” He
abandons Will’s side and moves to Hannibal’s body on the ground. Will is regretful he
asked.

It’s scary how uncomplicated it is for Matthew to lift Hannibal’s dead weight up and lean the
frame of his body against his own. Will thrashes unwittingly, pure reaction to the sight than
anything else. Matthew grins as he takes out a curved knife. It resembles none other than the
knife Will was gutted with once.

“Don’t doubt I haven’t been following your tales of woe, my friend,” Matthew informs with
an exuberant lilt. He rests the knife at Hannibal’s bared throat, but doesn’t do more than hold
it in limbo. “Read all about that girl you two played house with. Abigail, was it?”

Will sucks in a mouthful of acid, Abigail’s name floating in the air.

Careening forward with no concern for the violations he’s perpetuating, Matthew says, “I
couldn’t help but find myself curious. Why would the Ripper want you to see her murder like
that? Until I reread the case on Garett Jacob Hobbs. He loved you then, you know. That’s
why he knew it would hurt.”

Matthew is too close for comfort when it comes to his and Hannibal’s past.

“Tell me. Who played Mommy and who played Daddy?”

“Stop.” The words eject from Will, his mind blurred with unruly emotions he doesn’t have
the wherewithal to filter. “Matthew, don't. Just stop.”

“A part of me almost understands. He’s a beautiful monster.”

“Please.” Will’s voice is pleading, hurried. “No, no.”

The begging is also too close for comfort. It all is. He can’t go through this again. Can’t
watch the blood of the person he loves wash down a drain, can’t watch him die without the
ability to do anything about it.

Matthew grins, keeping his eyes on Will’s.

He presses harder with the knife and Will lets out an animalistic noise, the plank of wood
genuinely cracking under the reactionary jerk. Pain splits his sides and his temples, but
nothing matters beyond this clarity he’s facing; he wants to die with Hannibal, he wants to
live with Hannibal. He loves Hannibal Lecter more than he’s ever loved anything in his entire
life. Maybe it’s the only time he’s ever loved.

“You’re gonna watch how easy it is for a mortal to kill a God,” Matthew forewarns, shifting
so Hannibal’s head lolls back on his shoulder further. He sniffs the side of Hannibal’s face,
smirking against his cheek before he turns back to Will whose rage is leaking out faster than
it can spawn. “I wanna watch the light leave your eyes as you watch me end him, and it will,
won’t it? That’s what this is all about.”
Somehow, Will’s body summons tears.

The pain didn’t cause it. The predicament didn’t, either.

And though he doesn’t want to watch, he has to. Hannibal is vulnerable and threatened, and
—oh hell—Will loves him, and it’s impossible to reconcile that he’ll never know that.

“No, don't, no,” he stammers over the desperate whimpering denials, a plea tearing at his lips
when Matthew raises his hand to slit Hannibal’s throat. Yet with his eyes directly on Will, he
doesn’t notice Hannibal’s eyes fly open.

It happens in a flash; Matthew is coiled around him in a manner where Hannibal can’t move
his arms or legs, but Hannibal always thinks on his feet with expertise. Bowing his head, he
tugs the knife out of Matthew’s grip with his teeth and thrusts his head to the side, effectively
stabbing him in the mouth with it while Matthew recovers from the surprise of his
consciousness. At that angle, the knife curves upward into Matthew’s jaw, and the man
sputters blood, flinging himself backward from the fierce affliction.

Relief soars through Will before he succumbs to another wave of dizziness.

The bucket clambers on stone. His posture shudders.

Hannibal is swift as he spins around to curl fingers over the knife’s handle, driving the blade
deeper into the upper jaw with a singular push. Matthew cackles over a flood of red in his
mouth, eyes rolling up in his head when Hannibal twists the dagger once more, puncturing
through to his brain.

Matthew’s face is mangled and bloody, nearly unrecognizable.

Will’s never felt calmer in his entire life.

Hannibal leaves him there on the floor, twitching in his own pools of blood. There isn’t the
barest of scratches on Hannibal’s neck and Will grins at that, head drooping, giving himself a
view of the thick puddles of blood in the barrels beneath his feet. He moans when Hannibal
cuts his noose with the same bloody dagger he apparently tore back from Matthew’s mouth,
then lowers him off the bucket so he can disentangle the ruptured plank of wood tied to his
back. Will collapses on top of him, bloodying his clothes as he clutches for balance.
Everything is faint, the colors of their environment, Hannibal’s warmth.

The stench of death.

“How?” Will rasps, pawing at Hannibal as he’s carried to one of the metal desks. Hannibal
deposits him by his thighs atop the table and he nearly falls over, caught by encompassing
hands at the last minute.

He’s never seen Hannibal this focused.

Every movement is conducted towards Will’s survival.

He’d applaud him for shutting up for once if he wasn’t about to collapse.
Hannibal is virtually unresponsive; he’s stitching Will up now, bandaging him together with
the first aid supplies luckily stashed in the Verger’s basement. That’s where Will assumes
they are, anyway.

Time starts and stops as Will fades in and out of the present, Hannibal pinching at his sore
neck anytime he blanks. When the bandages crop up, Hannibal keeps him awake by
answering his question.

“I dabbled in various chemical compounds in my youth. Grew tolerances to several drugs to

avoid situations like this one occurring. I do not desire to be caught unaware.”

“You were awake the whole time?” Will slurs.

“The latter half of it. I am regrettably still human.”

“Hannibal,” Will softly murmurs, swaying toward him with purpose. He hugs his knees
around Hannibal’s waist, tender enough not to call attention to the clutch. As Hannibal’s
bandaging the other arm, he lifts the tended one up to touch Hannibal’s lips and his cheek. “I
love you.”

Hannibal drops the roll of bandage tape.

Quickly recovering, he primly plucks it back up and finishes the wrappings. “You’re
experiencing severe blood loss right now, Will. I must take you to a hospital, but you need
not worry about—’

“I love you.”

Hannibal’s eyes flicker up to meet his own, glancing away after a millisecond.

“I must order a CT scan for you also, as you likely retained a concussion from—”

The feeling in Will’s hands is absent for the time being, but he can project his body forward.
He places his numb arms on Hannibal’s chest and uses him as support when he topples into
him and kisses his lips.

It isn’t pretty. Their teeth click. Will’s mouth is open. Hannibal’s mouth closes at the initial
impact. Will pushes closer, seeking something he doesn’t understand but wanting more of it
regardless.

Hannibal inclines his head, separating their mouths. They stick together for a second, as Will
attempts to lean in again, sliding plush flesh together, but Hannibal keeps his distance,
pushing him away gently.

The conflict expressed on his face is pure misery.

“I love you,” Will confesses, mellowing. “I love you, Hannibal.”

“Will…” Hannibal’s resolve is fading, features growing taut with restraint. Will might be
delirious, and bordering on hysterical, but he knows for a fact he loves Hannibal back. He
does.

“Kiss me,” he urges. “Don’t let me go into the dark without you.”

There’s a switch in Hannibal when he says that.

He cups Will’s face, and kisses him like he means it. The Earth must shatter into microscopic
bits, because Will feels his bones turn to dust under the refined attention. It is a short kiss, but
sweet. Hannibal’s lips catch both his upper and lower, not in tandem, leaving him lastly with
a benign swipe of the tongue and a feathery peck.

“Never,” Hannibal declares, cradling Will’s injured arms with devotion. “We will follow each
other through every circle of hell, and beyond that.”

Will laughs, the noise light and helpless.

Hell. They deserve it.

With that thought, the world dims to a slumbering gray.

The stirring ambience of hospitals shouldn’t shock Will by now, but maybe he’s more
shocked by how many times he’s survived a traumatic experience and been left with new
scars rather than a ticket to the afterlife.

His arms ache, and they itch under their bandages, but it’s nothing compared to how it felt
strung up like Christ, dangling over the inanimate precipice of death. The pain he’s feeling
now is a sign of healing.

Will opens his eyes, the crust falling from them tickling his cheeks.

The room looks very similar to the one he was in hospice at near Versailles. Down to the
color grading of the interior design and the minimal equipment that speaks more of a guest
space than a medical facility. Will glances down to find a soft blanket draped over him, and
the bandages strapped around his arms up to his elbows.

He’s wearing clothes at least. Memories of thrashing nude on a bucket like a pathetic fish
aren’t going to abandon him anytime soon, but at least he didn’t die there.

At least Hannibal didn’t die there.

He expects Hannibal at the door when it creaks open not ten minutes later, but instead it’s
Milo from France. Confusion cinches Will’s brows together, and he whips his head to the left
to make sure he’s not actually in the same room as before. There’s a window, however. And a
different colored door.
“Is it you or me that he smuggled into a different country?“

“I work for Doctors Without Borders,” Milo informs Will, accent thick. He hands him a cup
of coffee he snatches gratefully, and sits down with gruff effort. “I can go anywhere I
please.”

Will nods, showing a socially acceptable level of respect for that.

“You are still in Cuba,” Milo answers eventually. He talks lackadaisically, but Will doesn’t
think it’s because he’s unfamiliar with the English language. He’s purely careful with his
word choice, wise enough to sift through a consideration of words before picking them.

“Where’s Hannibal?”

“Hannibal left two night ago,” Milo tells him, raising a placating hand at Will’s visible
distress. “He is waiting for you in Croatia, said that two of you traveling together would be
dangerous.”

Will relaxes incrementally, though there is an anxious well filling with murky water
whenever he and Hannibal are apart. It’s an unclean feeling he can’t seem to shed, regardless
of whether or not he knows he will reunite with him.

“Croatia?” he inquires, befuddled.

Milo stands on creaking knees and pads over to the singular dresser in the room. From the
first drawer, he removes a stack of envelopes. Will raises a brow when they’re deposited in
his lap.

“He tells me you must read this one first,” Milo explains, pointing at the totally conspicuous
red envelope standing out on top of a stack of ivory letters. “Shall I give you privacy?”

“Um, yes, please. If you would,” Will blunders, then sucks in air as Milo turns to leave
without protest. “Is…did he really kill your father?”

“Yes.” No reluctance, there. “Is that truly curious to you?”

“Not exactly. I just wonder how one favor enlists several favors from you.”

“Favors are not so scaled. My father was a demon, not a man.”

Will shakes his head in understanding. He just didn’t expect Milo to fly across seas at the
drop of a hat. He ponders how many people have Hannibal in their debt.

Then, he sidetracks into wondering about what was done with Matthew’s body.

The house, Applesauce, the Vergers.

The well yawns inside him. The contaminated water threatens to fill his lungs.
“Read the letter, kid,” Milo suggests, and Will can’t help his own wry glance. It’s been a hell
of a long time since someone referred to him as ‘kid’ and a man of Hannibal’s age at that.

The man departs, leaving Will alone in the quiet room. Charitable to the sting of his arms, he
delicately peels open the red letter with the enthusiasm of someone who expects a winning
lottery ticket to be stashed inside. A ticket does fall out from the folded center, but Will can
see that it’s a one-way train ticket to an airport. The letter isn’t lengthy. It reads;

Dearest Will,

You are undergoing a smooth recovery, and by the time you read this you will likely be well
enough to travel. I hope you can forgive me for taking my leave so soon, but I found the
coordinates Lady Murasaki left for us in your clothes from the basement. I did not want to
risk the expiration of whatever, and wherever, she is sending us. I will be waiting for you in
Croatia, regardless of what I discover there. Your travel plan is prepared for you in its
entirety. Each letter will elaborate on your next step.

I must ask you not to read these letters all at once, if only for the convenience of your mind. I
do not want the flight’s layovers to confuse you, and besides, anticipation is more delicious
than gluttony.

I would ask you also to open the second letter the moment you are settled on the train.

While you wait for your train ticket to come into effect, I suggest you check the news. I left
Matthew with a gift I am optimistic you will appreciate, and you too will find a gift if you look
closely enough.

There’s more than one way to take a life.

P.S. I had Milo check our beachside property. Applesauce is long gone. I suspect Alana and
Margot found her not soon after our capture, so you need not worry about the hound.

With ardent sincerity,

Hannibal

Will lets out a sigh when he reads the bit about Applesauce. It’s endearing that Hannibal
knows it would be the utmost concern on his mind, aside from where Hannibal is.

He’s slightly sour still that Hannibal left without him, but he also fathoms the meaning. If
there is something in Croatia the Lady needs attended, they shouldn’t be wasting time. Will is
perfectly capable of traveling on his own; he just doesn’t want to, and he’s already feeling
Hannibal’s loss like a severed limb.

Will checks the ticket and finds that the date is for tomorrow.
Either it’s luck, or Milo was instructed to inject him with a stimulant. He doesn’t much care
either way, and paws at the accent table by his bedside for the sole drawer. Hannibal’s tablet
is inside, which surprises him, but he knows Hannibal wants him to read the news, so he
doesn’t waste time searching up Tattlecrime.

Suddenly the words ‘There’s more than one way to take a life’ make all the sense in the
world.

Copy Cat Killer’s Face Cut Off By Millionaire Verger Dynasty Heads!

Evidence of Margot Verger and Wife’s DNA Found At Copy Cat Killer Crime Scene!

The Case of Mason Verger Reopened To The Court In Light Of Shocking New Evidence!

Not a single mention of his and Hannibal’s involvement.

Somehow, Hannibal managed to wipe their presence clean from the slate.

The man is an expert in these matters, Will recalls. It shouldn’t surprise him.

Hannibal cut off Matthew’s face to frame Alana and Margot. The ladies gave too much away
when they told them about Mason’s case being reopened. A death like this will prove nothing
of their innocence.

Will grins, knowing this is the gift Hannibal spoke of; it’s Hannibal’s way of telling him
Alana doesn’t have to die. That death can come in the form of separation from a loved one,
from a life sentence. Fleetingly, he hopes that Margot is smart enough to incriminate Alana
and defend herself.

It’s gratifying to know Matthew’s face was shorn off like a meat sack.

Will clicks the tablet off and leans back against a pyramid of pillows. He chuckles to himself,
because he considers this news uplifting and sweet of all things. He doesn’t know how he got
to this point in his life, but he can say without a doubt that Hannibal Lecter is the most
ineffable person he’s ever met.

Milo hugs him on his way out, which is odd, but Will doesn’t make it awkward, and pats his
back with one hand. He thinks the guy’s kind of lonely.

“Tell him thank you from me,” Milo says.

“What do you have to thank him for?” Will presses, genuinely bewildered .

“Everyday, I know the life I have without sorrow is due to him.”

Will exhales, noting that Hannibal can be a force for good when he wants to be. Or maybe the
world is still made up of shades of good and bad, and Hannibal simply leans on the side of
bad more often than not. Will doesn’t know what side he leans on, but he knows he’s learning
new things about Hannibal Lecter everyday. That he can be selfless as well as selfish. That
he’s potentially as gray as Will often feels.

“Thank you for taking care of me again,”

“Saugios kelionės,” Milo answers, with a peculiar smile.

Will leaves the Cuban townhouse early, trusting that he won’t run into extreme trouble
navigating his path to the train station. Fortunately, he underestimated how many locals know
English and are willing to point him in the right direction. So, he makes it to the station two
hours ahead of time.

Though Hannibal warned him to wait for the train, he decides to read the second letter now.

A plane ticket flutters from unraveling paper.

Dearest Will,

Though I spent three arduous years in a cage separated from you, I find myself struggling
with the fact I cannot speak to you. As you heal, you are near to me, but you are frustratingly
absent. When a thought comes to my mind that I desire to share, I turn in your direction, and
remember only at that moment you are not awake to hear what I have to say.

I would like to tell you of the trip I once took to Croatia.

I have traveled all over the world, but one of the loveliest spots I’ve ever had the good
fortune of seeing for myself is Krka National Park. The unyielding boulders in the waterfall’s
design is a sight to behold, and I have often wished to take you there myself. The water is
clean enough to sink your feet into, and many do. There are no buildings or man-made
structures in sight beyond the waterfall, and you would favor the fresh air and wildlife. When
I visited, I was on my own, and it was not nearly as magical as I suspect it will be with you.
Not to mention, I am looking forward to introducing you to Croatian cuisine.

I hope you have set afoot on your travels, as I can expect to be anticipating your every move
as you journey closer to me by the minute. I miss you, Will, in case you need to hear it
spoken as such.

Your flight to Europe will take a little under twenty-four hours, with a handful of layovers, so
I regret that you may have issue resting your eyes. I would suggest sleeping on the ten hour
flight, as I wrangled you a first class ticket. No need to worry about security either, you’re on
the express line for each boarding pass.

I ask you to read my third letter after you board your first flight.
 If you’re reading this letter specifically before I told you to, we’ll have to work on your
obedience, naughty boy.

Sincerest Regards,

Hannibal

Will blushes fiercely. Where does Hannibal get off calling him a ‘naughty boy’ and how will
he even figure out if Will read this letter prior to hopping on the train or not? Except, he
supposes he’s never been great at overt lying. Just, subverting expectations. He suppresses
the impulse to read the third letter immediately and tries not to think about Hannibal’s voice
shaping those final words in the note.

Croatia sounds beautiful. He’s never been.

Though he can’t say he’s excited for anything more than seeing Hannibal again

The train arrives thirty minutes late.

The airport isn’t as dreadful an ordeal as he expects.

When he arrives at the security gate, merely a perfunctory glance at his ticket has him being
ushered into a remote aisle where he passes no more than a metal detector before entering his
flight gate’s seating room. There are dozens of business men, and a prissy appearing woman
with a poodle. He sits down with his satchel in a row of empty chairs and removes his shoes
to rub at sore feet. Milo lent him sneakers but they’re far too small for him.

The ache in them has been enough to drown out the mental one.

Defiantly, he cracks open the third letter against Hannibal’s wishes.

The flight isn’t for another hour and a half.

Dearest Will,

I am sentimental tonight, as you’ve begun snoring and I consider the noise to be as beautiful
as a songbird’s chorus. I can hear your frown, so no need to chastise me for my foolish
correlations in person. I wonder if you’re dreaming. Will you tell me all about your dreams
when we reunite?
 I have been ruminating on my time in the BSHCI and how I may have given you a false
impression about a dilemma between us. To say that I wasn’t affected to learn about your
marriage would be a lie. To know another soul’s hands were on your skin, and that you
vowed and promised yourself to that soul, it instilled a slow death in me. I felt for the first
time in my months at the institution that I’d finally start to rot.

Even if your marriage to Molly did not wound my conviction that you would return to me, I
was inconsolable, obsessing every night on the nature of how much you were being touched
by her, and where.

Now I see the absurdity in my sentiments, but I was alone in a small box.

There was little I could do about trivial concerns.

Though I do not expect you to tell me the same about your marriage, I wish you to know that
every pleasure I indulged in, in Florence, was empty. Because they were not you.

Please wait until the second flight after this one to open your next letter.

Sincerely,

Hannibal

Clutching the new boarding pass hidden inside the envelope, Will swallows down the rising
bitterness on the back of his tongue. He isn’t angry at Hannibal for telling him the truth, but
he’s angry about Bedelia. About Florence. There will always be a place in him for this
practiced resentment. What makes matters worse is the fact that Will did manage to move on,
even for a short time, and ruined Molly’s life the way he did because all because he shouldn't
have been blind to the reality his and Hannibal’s lives will forever be intertwined.
Togetherness is the singular destination constructed for them.

He leans back and closes his eyes, going against Hannibal’s suggestion to sleep on the ten
hour flight instead.

The next flight passes in a drowsy blur. He sleeps it off much like the first one so by the time
the ten hour first class flight comes along, he’s ready to relish the spoils of luxury he’s never
experienced.

He receives a glass of champagne before he reads the letter.

Then he steels himself for whatever Hannibal has in store for him next, and pries open the
letter. The calligraphy looks to be more artistic in this one, perhaps Hannibal humoring
himself.

Dearest Will,
 By the time you read this letter, your journey to Europe will be quite underway, and we will
be seeing each other before dawn breaks over the horizon twice.

I hope your accommodations are to your liking. I know I will not be as comfortable waiting
for you in Croatian pastures.

At least I can think of you.

When I watch you sleep, as your body stitches itself together, I find my eyes falling to your
lips. Self control is a fickle friend, even more so since I've come to know you. Even now I take
pause after every sentence I write to gaze upon you.

Will smirks to himself. Hannibal admitting to falling victim to something so inconveniently

human is a rare occurrence. And to hear him so blatantly express physical attraction is almost
unheard of. To say Will is pleased by the turn this letter is taking, well, that would be a
critical understatement.

Yet the urge to hide from the attention as if it’ll pop out of the page and strangle him is as
strong as his pleasure. He’s never quite understood Hannibal’s idyllic perception of physical
form.

It’s not like he didn’t catch the occasional glimpse of a nude sketch.

He just—didn’t know what to think. He’s never been attracted to men.

He supposes the familiar pounding of his heart overpowering his apprehension should prove
to him that it’s been a long time since he wasn’t attracted to Hannibal.

You instilled in me the notion that honesty above all else is crucial to our union. With that, I
fear I must confess my state of mind as of late or I will worry for the dishonesty that could
bloom from my silence. The incident with our dearly departed Matthew sparked in me a
possessive hunger for you, one that I am familiar with in its fundamental context, but that
hunger has expanded upon its safety rails. Seeing the physical form of you is akin to setting
myself aflame, for I cannot beat out the fire you inspire in me.

I find relief in my imminent departure, because what I feel for you inside coils, rattles, and
pummels down on me like sleet. I look at your lips and remember our kiss. I cannot look at
your lips and remember anything else. I cannot look at you without looking at your lips. This
cycle consumes me.

Will's skin blooms with vivid heat. Face pinkening, he hides his twitching, traitorous smile
behind a shirt sleeve and continues reading.

He crosses his legs for good measure.

In truth, I yearn for you as Paris yearns for Helen. I face a myopia in my lust for you that will
certainly wound me if left unattended, though I would not trade it for even the finest things.
You are the finest thing, and beyond. A beautiful specter that haunts the halls of my
beginnings, and the distant doors of my end.

Forgive me for saying so, but I wish to worship your body. Every part I would care to lavish
with hours of attention, and in turn, map you out so I can hang the memories in every gallery
in my mind. I am aware your feelings for me may not extend past base physical pleasures,
fleeting kisses for instance. However, if you feel as I do, I have every hope you will accept my
love for what it is; consuming.

Would you let me taste you? All those places not even your most intimate partners have
touched? You must know I have touched every inch of your mind, as I know you feel me there
even now in your slumber.

The worst thing that could possibly happen, happens; Will gets hard on public transport.

Who knew reading such tame sentiments could make that happen?

He squeezes his thighs together tighter which doesn’t do anything other than add to the
insistent throb in his growing cock. He wishes he could tell Hannibal right this minute that
he’d let him do anything. He never thought he would think that way, but it’s true. Matthew
opened his eyes too, inspired a hunger.

He may not know what to give. How to act. But he knows he wants.

Would it offend you to learn I have dreamed of you before? Dreamed of us entangled under
silk sheets, your ecstasy, the heat of your skin under mine like an extension. In Florence, I’d
hoped to make love to you in the soft grass of the Tuscan Hills, though perhaps that would be
too promiscuous for your liking.

“Anything,” Will whispers aloud, snapping his mouth shut when he hears the notes of
desperation in his voice. He’s burdened by the act of controlling his reactions to this letter,
the hand he’s covering his mouth with curling into a frustrated fist. The throb in his crotch
becomes unbearable.

If you find yourself discomforted by these desires, you need not think on them again, and I
will not ask you to fulfill them. I will cease torturing you, and tell you only that I covet your
need in every manner.
 I need you, Will.

With most ardent regards,

Hannibal

Will discreetly pushes the palm of a hand to his dick, calming the heavy need pooling there.
He’d give anything to hear Hannibal tell him he needs him in person, and wonders if he can
truly draw that out.

“You bastard,” he mutters, all fondness.

He thanks the gods above he is wearing dark pants and has the quaint surface-desk to rotate
over his lower half and block the unseemly view from the flight attendants. Though when he
orders a turkey sandwich a few hours into the flight, he’s sure his blush still paints his face
bright, obscene colors.

The longer the flight lasts, the more impatient Will feels.

Croatia seems farther away than ever by the end of it, despite being so utterly close.

His fingers clutch the final letter all the way through the final flight, and then to the bus
station, a ticket for which he received in the most recent letter. Hannibal didn’t specify when
he should open the last, but Will decides to read it on the final stretch of the bus-ride to the
Istrian peninsula.

The sights he’s seen so far, even walking from the airport to the nearest bus station, have
been absolutely unreal. Ginormous cliffsides, natural hues so bright they could be considered
neon, architecture that resembles the more pristine and beautiful cities in Greece.

The air smells of smoke and salt, and an imitation of thyme.

Finally, when he’s on the cramped bus and urban habitats begin to bleed into rural, Will
whips out the fifth and final letter, and cuts it open with a stray paperclip he found in his
pocket.

Dearest Will,

I am leaving you this evening for Croatia. I do not know when you will wake, but I pray it is
soon. I have instructed Milo to forcibly wake you in case you are near to missing your travel
dates. I hope dearly that you do not resent me if that is the case. You do so value
uninterrupted rest.

I have found myself curious what my aunt has left for us at these coordinates. To hide them in
the compass implies a bigger meaning than I can estimate. I will wait for you in plain sight,
 so you do not lose yourself on the wide-open plains of the Istrian peninsula. I promise you
will not need to look far for me.

For now, would you like to hear about the day I first met my aunt?

I had been mute for nearly five years when my Uncle took me in. I ate their food without
giving thanks, and I disregarded the Lady as the lawful family she was to me in truth. I was
as cynical as any teenager, and as defiant. The Lady would interrogate me about my comings
and goings at all hours of the night, and I threatened her life on the third day under her and
my Uncle’s care. I slid a blade over her throat while she was sleeping beside him, and waited
for her to wake before I cut.

When she woke, she did not startle. She looked at me and asked, “is the pain you cling to
always this sharp?”

Unreasonably, I did not kill her. The reason remains elusive to me, even to this day.

The next morning, she made me an egg scramble, and I told her “thank you.”

I have never spoken in depth on my past, not with anyone. The inherent need to tell you
everything brims out of me, and I hope you can forgive me for an excess of admission and
confession. I would like you to understand me in every respect, one day, when the time comes.
I hope also to know you inside and out.

I look forward to seeing you again, my dear Will.

With ardency,

Hannibal

Will compartmentalizes the fresh information and pockets the letter. He is satisfied to
understand more about Hannibal, but his impatience has run thin. The Earth will quake
beneath his aching feet if their separation lasts one moment longer. Never has he felt so
pulled by a force, not even searching for Hannibal in Florence, or Lithuania. Not even
bloodily hobbling down train tracks at midnight.

Will’s stop is the last stop the bus takes, rolling up to a vast green cliffside.

He steps off the bus onto a rocky road, and watches as the vehicle drives off noisily into the
distance. He can barely see the cities from here, nor much life at all aside from cattle.

Will pads off through the fields, optimistic a sign will make itself known.

Sheep infest the isolated acres, beautiful splotchy chocolate brown and white milk sheep. He
pets one as he passes a herd and heads north, towards the highest hill. Soft bleating chatters
all around him.
He doesn’t register Hannibal at first, kneeling in a puffy mess of sheep, but then the man is
standing up, towering over the meek animals. Will observes that he’s dressed in deep brown
overalls with a denim button-up shirt underneath it. His hair looks peppery under the
Croatian sun, and his skin tanned a deeper shade if that's even possible in such a short period
of time apart. Will finds himself sighing at the peaceful image before him, dropping his
satchel in a grassy heap. He walks toward him.

Hannibal doesn’t notice him for a whole minute, sweetly distracted by the curious sheep who
are eating something out of his palm. He’s grinning down at them, petting one, while he
thinks no one is looking.

Then, he sees Will and his expression freezes.

Will stops walking. They’re several feet apart. The wind whips past them, shuddering
through their hair and baggy clothes. Will grins first, and then Hannibal.

They’re both alive. That’s the only thought in Will’s head.

He closes the distance between them, doesn’t hesitate, and drags Hannibal in by one of his
reaching hands to kiss him. Hannibal doesn’t hesitate either; he kisses back.

The kiss extensively. They have a lot of time to make up for, after all. Will lets Hannibal suck
on his bottom lip, teeth at it. He kisses the corners of Hannibal’s mouth, his gestures more
chaste from the soft affection simmering inside his heart. The sun dipping behind the hills
glows through them, the golden rays sparkle through the crevices of where their bodies don’t
cling, and whenever they break for air.

Hannibal kisses with his hands, angling Will’s face back to his lips gently each time they
separate, reveling in kissing Will in every manner available to him. He keeps one hand on
Will’s scarred cheek at all times, pressing hard and soft in intervals. Will’s hands merely
circle over Hannibal’s shoulders, clutching lightly at threads of hair, and the baggy shirt that
looks so unusually attractive on him.

This is Will’s best possible world. Chilton was wrong.

“I love you,” Will whispers. This time it isn’t blood loss, or delirium. It isn’t adrenaline, fear,
or confusion. He knows, and he isn’t worried about letting the words float up into the
stratosphere.

Hannibal butts his head into Will’s, a genuine smile plumping his cheeks.

“I love you as well,” Hannibal replies.

It is a pure, unabashed statement. Merciful in its simplicity.

Will grins and butts his forehead back. They embrace after an eyeful exchange of ardent
recognition, the hug is tighter than any they’ve shared before. Will buries the smile he can’t
seem to wash off his face into Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal pets over his head, whispering
unintelligible endearments into the fabric of his shirt. They hold each other until the sun fully
 sets, transitioning between playful, exploratory kisses, wordless embraces, and mutually met
gazes full of silent promises and burning devotion, wrought from a journey that’s lasted so
long, there wouldn’t be enough letters to fill the empty spaces.

Chapter End Notes

for anyone who experienced the trauma of the killing eve finale, i'm right there with
you. i haven't had more than 5 hours of sleep in the past two days, im so fucking sad
about it. the end of this chapter is way too sweet but let me have it i need it this week
 Chapter 22
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“Let me see you,” Hannibal murmurs, stroking calloused hands over the bandages covering
Will’s wrists. Will lets him hold them, petting over the uneven wrappings.

“We match,” he whispers, cupping Hannibal’s elbows.

“Like voodoo, these imply a transmutation of my pain reflected upon you.”

“Voodoo,” Will huffs. “And here I thought I’d escaped Louisiana.”

“I suspect these are ready to be undressed,” Hannibal states, pressing lightly on the cusp of
the bandages. Will only feels a base soreness, not anything resembling breakage or irritation.

“Do we have anywhere we can do that?” Will questions, eyeing the fields of sheep and
stargazer lilies. There doesn’t seem to be more than a barn or two for miles. The ocean
crashes mutedly at the base of the cliffs, an unbridled signal of nature’s bold presence. “Or
did your Aunt just really like sheep?”

Hannibal smirks. “It took me a little over a day’s time to find what she truly sent us here for.
She hides her secrets well. I’ll ask you to follow my lead, and simply remember steadforth, I
know nearly as little as you do.”

Will nods, allowing Hannibal to kiss his temple and trek beyond him, to the cliff face.

Skeptically, he follows, and startles when Hannibal steps off the bluff. It takes him a moment
to realize there is a stairwell, unseen from where he’s standing. Hannibal extends a hand to
help him down the steep, chiseled stairwell leading in an inconspicuous pattern down the
cliff’s rigid edges.

“Your family has a flair for the dramatic, don’t they?”

Hannibal laughs jovially.

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

Will descends at a snail’s pace, one hand wavering between them just in case Hannibal takes
a tumble. They can’t exactly afford another cliff dive so to speak, let alone his curiosity
tearing his mind to shreds by now.

He can’t imagine what they’ll find down here, on the side of a cliff.
By good luck, they make it to the end of the stairs, Hannibal stepping aside so Will can merge
through a carved-out aperture. It’s a large enough arch to walk through without ducking, but
inside the cave in the cliff, he instantly feels cramped. Hannibal squeezes in beside him when
he almost instantly hits a dead end. The scent of salt water overwhelms his nose, alongside
mossy undertones. The rocky ground inside sticks to his shoes with the brine covering it in a
thin, squelching layer. Befuddled, Will watches Hannibal fondle over the stone wall in front
of them. In no time, he pushes aside a spherical slab of stone that did not look like it was
about to budge a second ago. There’s a goddamn keypad behind it, glowing.

Hannibal dials the seemingly correct combination, and the stone wall rumbles loudly,
scraping across the floor as it opens to a vast chamber, glowing blue from the bioluminescent
water clustered in flowing ravines past the new threshold. Will is stunned into silence,
completely compliant when Hannibal pushes the slab back into place and draws him inside
before the stone wall quickly slides closed behind them.

It reminds him of old movies. Secret bookcase passageways and floor traps.

“I take it back. This isn’t dramatic. There isn’t a word for whatever this is.”

“Under the coordinates Murasaki left for us, she left a passcode. I inferred since there seemed
to be no architecture to speak of here, that the answer could be found beneath the surface.”

Will gapes at the sight of a rowboat tasseled to the rocks by the inception of the least narrow
ravine. The water appears to flow in an endless direction, but he’s clever enough to know
there must be more than an enclosed boat ride in a cave waiting for them, otherwise Hannibal
wouldn’t appear so calm.

The fact that they can barely see doesn’t bother Will more than the situation itself, but
Hannibal whips out a match to light the lantern in the rowboat which Will had missed upon
first glance. The cave lights up dimly, and can offer them a clear enough path to row past this
hidden quarry.

“Your arms are undoubtedly still sensitive,” Hannibal surmises, kissing Will gently on the
temple as he maneuvers him into a comfortable sitting position. Fractionally smug he says,
“My own were at this stage of recovery. I shall row for us, you needn’t strain yourself.”

“Okay,” Will answers, glad for the dark to hide his cheeky smile.

Hannibal sits in front of him, using two oars the boat came with to push them along the
ravine. There isn’t much room bordering the ravine to walk, so this is their safest option to
advance through the cave.

Will scoots up closer to Hannibal, touching the rough jean fabric of his overalls.

“How did you frame the Vergers? I saw what you did to Matthew’s face. That wouldn’t have
been enough for a conviction.”

Hannibal grunts with exertion before responding, “The Vergers retreated from their home. It
was a simple matter of going through all the belongings they neglected to bring. I found hair
samples, and saliva from a retainer. They were bold to hinge everything on Matthew killing
us. He failed before and he failed again.”

“You’re brilliant,” Will breathes, nosing at the nape of his neck.

“You’re being quite generous with admissions today, Will,” Hannibal observes, sounding
charmed if not a tad circumspect. “To hear that from you, of all mankind, is a gift I will
cherish.”

“The Chesapeake Ripper thinks he’s the smartest man in any room. No one ever bothers to
tell him he’s right.”

Hannibal casts an unreadable glance over his shoulder.

“Except you.”

“Except me.”

Will brushes Hannibal’s long hair aside, marveling at the length it’s grown out to. He kisses a
big freckle on his neck, simultaneously inhaling his scent.

“What do I smell like?” Hannibal rasps.

“Gunpowder,” Will murmurs, intrigued by why that is. The other scents are less enigmatic.
“Wet grass, cotton. The sweet and savory meld I usually correlate with you. Did you shoot a
gun?”

“Yes. I bought one off the black market for us.”

“Leave it to you to find the black markets in less than two days.”

The boat enters a circular pool, exiting the confined stream. Hannibal skillfully turns the
direction of the boat with his rows and heads down a wider corridor in the cave. Even with
the weeping falter of the flame in their lantern, Will can see the door at the end of this ravine.
Large, gray, cobble. With a knocking latch.

He feels as if he’s entering a new circle of Hell.

The deeper they go, the darker the cave becomes.

“I also made sure we’d be stocked with a wide variety of groceries. Almost anything you can
think of, I’ve sent for. If we do not wish to leave here for a year, we would be able. Two
years, is perhaps pushing things,” Hannibal eventually informs, as they pull closer to the
ominous door.

Will has shimmied back from Hannibal, attracted to the last vestiges of normality inside the
cavern. At least here, rocks are predictable. This situation is far too strange to tread towards
without surety.

“What exactly is here?” he mutters.

“I’ll show you. It will likely speak for itself.”

Hannibal docks the boat, tying it flimsily to the jutting post by the end of the steam. He
jumps out, helping Will across the small gap between the floating boat and the flat terrain
bordering the door.

It seems sacrilegious that the door merely opens, without effort.

Hannibal pushes it, and just like that, the interior is revealed to Will.

Immediately, it feels like he’s in someone else’s home. An aristocrat’s, or perhaps the fanciest
of psychopaths. Before today, Will had no idea there were houses in caves, that it could be
possible at all. Or homes built within the walls of them. The walls here are the only stretches
of property not painted or designed, cobbled unevenly down the corridors and yawning halls.
The floor in the foyer (a cave with a foyer, how very Hannibal) is checkered, leading off to a
glimpse of a gray-paneled sitting room. In the other direction, there’s likely the kitchen. Will
can already smell something in the air. A stew from hours ago, maybe. Hannibal has been
busy.

Apparently, Lady Murasaki has been busier.

“A note was left for me,” Hannibal explains, locking the door behind them. There are five
locks on it, ranging from heavy duty to paltry. “This has been my Aunt’s pet project for years.
I knew my Uncle Robertus was well involved in architecture, but I had no inkling she had
taken up the mantle. More so, that she had this dwelling built for me, explicitly in the vein of
my most prized aesthetics.”

Will sucks in a deep breath of air, shocked to find how fresh it tastes.

“There’s electricity in here,” is all he can manage.

“Yes. This is her will to us. Well me, of course, but what’s mine is yours. You know that,”
Hannibal says with a smile. “She was fabulously wealthy, and according to the letter, half of
that wealth is distributed to offshore bank outs that payout the bills this home accumulates.
We’re off the grid, as well.”

“The perfect hideout for the world’s most notorious killer.”

“She never forgot about me,” Hannibal utters, looking struck by sorrow for a flash before his
face purses with the customary diffidence he often carries himself with.

“This is…” Will huffs, dropping his satchel by the front door, “fantastical.”

“And we’re hardly scratching the surface. Come, I must show you the bath.”

Heat flushes through Will’s face, and he hopes it doesn’t show. He thinks Hannibal is too
excited about this new land of theirs to notice, which is fine by him. It’s a captivating look on
him.
They weave through the cave. The kitchen is no more than a nook, but large enough to sate
Hannibal’s appetites. Will can picture himself sitting at the barstool by the ninety degree
counter while Hannibal bakes him a plum pudding. Perhaps for the holidays, since autumn is
rearing up on them fast.

While fantastical, overall, Will feels relieved.

Murasaki is an angel, if there ever was one. To give them this, to give Hannibal this, as a
gesture of pure loyalty and devotion. It is convenient, yes, but Will thinks they’re owed
convenience by now.

Hannibal halts in front of two iron doors. He levers the handles and opens them inward. Will
steps aside, gasping when he’s hit with a misty wave of warmth.

Inside, there is a hot spring.

"Holy shit." Will's jaw all but drops. The expanse of the spring spreads out to at least the size
of Will's front room from his house in Wolf Trap. The heat is intoxicating. He wants to sink
into the water and never emerge again.

"I suggest we bathe after dinner. Divest ourselves of a day's worth of sweat and fatigue,"
Hannibal says.

Will can't look him in the eye when he asks,

"Together?"

"If you desire."

Will stares out onto the steaming surface of the hot spring and holds back a smile.

"I desire," he responds quietly.

Hannibal’s lips stretch wide, and he leans in to kiss Will’s temple. Will lurches back, playful.
Hannibal barely has time to cock a brow before Will is surging up to press his lips against his
own, a proper kiss.

When Hannibal doesn’t back away, instead winding an arm over his shoulder to grasp a
significant clump of his hair. Will clutches at his biceps, doing nothing more than allowing
those mesmerizing lips to pry him apart as he’s held in place. He’s discovering a proclivity
for being manhandled.

“We’re buried in the Earth,” Will whispers. “No one to hear us for miles. No one to find us
compromised.” He gasps into the kiss when Hannibal’s tongue slides salaciously over the
crowns of his teeth.

“Are you implying something?’ Hannibal asks gruffly, pulling Will’s head back to look him
in the eye. Will puts on his best ‘innocent’ face.

“Keep kissing me like that, and you’ll find out.”

For a single moment, it feels strange to flirt so brazenly with Hannibal, but then it hits Will;
their relationship has been a back and forth flirtation for years. A courtship full of tension and
attraction, even when the sexual tones were underlying. The last element of their dynamic to
surface is this, and there is sense to it, regardless of how alien it feels to skirt past these
borders of continence.

“We’ll see if your appetite holds out after dinner.”

Will swallows, turning his blush toward the water.

“I’ve never been in a hot spring,” he admits.

“A hot tub?” Hannibal inquires, letting the hand on Will’s cheek drop between them.

“No, actually.”

“A bath?”

Will swishes his jaw. “Okay, I’m not that squalid.”

“I am joking, Will.” Hannibal places a hand on his lower back, leading them out of the sauna-
esque chamber. He shuts the doors behind them and heads a march back to the kitchen. “I
was thinking lamb quiche.”

Lights flicker on when they enter rooms. It’s much like a poltergeist.

“Are we sacrificing something?” Will asks, only a tint of ire in his tone.

“Only our anxieties,” Hannibal informs, raising a bottle of sangria.

“I didn’t realize the Ripper had anxieties.”

“The barest of. I do want my time with you to be uninterrupted this time around, Will. I don’t
want anything to come between us, and now we have that chance.”

“This really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Will gestures to the kitchen's cave walls, inclined
in an inverse depression. It feels as if they’re crushing inward, but that’s all by design.
“This…I don’t even know if I can call this a house. A hobbit home, maybe.”

“I am unfamiliar with hobbit terminology, but this is our dwelling to do with as we see fit. No
worries about outsiders, no worries about external appearance.”

“I thought the Ripper didn’t like to hide.”

“Your assumptions of the Ripper are outdated. Besides, Will—” Hannibal opens the fridge,
revealing a quiche he’s had set for a while, Will suspects, “—the Ripper is dead. I’m
Hannibal the Cannibal, no?”

“I hate that moniker,” Will scoffs, peering over Hannibal’s shoulder as he peels off the saran
wrap. “So uniquely Frederick, don’t you think?”
“What would you call me, then?”

Will trails his fingers over one of Hannibal’s earlobes. He wants to bite them for their
softness. Instead, he traipses off to the barstool and props himself on it, keeping his eyes on
him.

“You defy classification.”

“As do you,” Hannibal posits, preparing the quiche for the oven. “Hiding myself away
indefinitely is not ideal to me. I doubt it would be to you. That is why this temporary rest-
stop is fundamental for us.”

“I’m not going to argue that we don't need a breather. We do.”

Will rubs over his bandages. His scars itch whenever he's thinking about them.

“Then let us enjoy it, hmm?”

Will chuckles. “I’m not stopping you, Hannibal.”

“As long as you’re not stopping yourself.”

“Enjoyment is usually as foreign to me as…a good night’s sleep,” Will mutters.

“Even with me?”

“It’s a personal failing. I enjoy relaxation. I enjoy…violence, to an extent. Those things have
never worked in tandem. If I kill, I’m not relaxed. If I’m relaxed, I can’t kill.”

“I find the two go hand-in-hand for me,” Hannibal notes chipperly, fiddling with the oven's
dials. The oven light flickers on inside. The quiche starts to cook.

“That’s your own personal failing.”

Hannibal pouts, but it’s not a serious reaction.

Will keeps his eyes locked on him, watching him work with intent. Hannibal is whipping up a
pan of sautéed mushrooms to pair with the quiche and his choice of sangria. By now, he
knows Will isn’t fussy and is open to eating anything he serves. Why should he debate the
process when he knows he’ll drool over just about all that Hannibal feeds him?

“There has to be a dining room somewhere in this place,” Will says.

“Yes.” Then exuberantly, “There’s a chandelier there.”

“Naturally.” Will lets loose a small grin. “You’re so…”

“Hmm?”

“In your element. I like it. Like seeing you like that.”
Hannibal masks the bashful look that flames across his face by retreating to the spice cabinet
for some additional seasoning. Will uses that opportunity to replace his spot by the sizzling
pan, forking around the mushrooms. Hannibal returns to the scene, mildly analytical.

“Teach me,” Will breathes, blinking fast.

Stalling only for a moment, Hannibal steps up behind him and drapes his arm over Will’s.
“We stir gently,” Hannibal murmurs in his ear. “Then we allow it to rest for a minute or two.
Add black pepper, garlic salt.” Hannibal reaches for the two open jars of seasoning, and Will
pushes back into him, sighing at the radiating heat. Hannibal stalls again, for a longer period
this time, before pinching the salt and pepper across the surface of the mushrooms. The
delicious scent wafts up to Will’s nose. “Now for a deglaze. The sherry, please.” Will hands
him the sherry an arm’s length away, and the stock for good measure. “You have done this
before, I take it.” Hannibal manages to sound only fractionally peeved.

“Not how you’ve done it,” Will insists, curling into the welcoming frame of him. He’s been
pressed up against him before, in the exact same position, but there the implication is erotic
now.

They’ve moved beyond courting. This is incitement.

“You like how I do it?” Hannibal asks, nose brushing his ear. There is a low reverberation in
his voice that Will knows he’s practiced, because it's demonstratively unreal.

“I like how you do a lot of things.”

“Then watch closely.”

Will exhales, doing as he’s told. That doesn’t mean he backs off; he stays put,
inconspicuously pushing his hips plush to Hannibal’s. Neither of them are hard, but heat
trembles through them like an electric current.

“Now we add the herbs and shallots,” Hannibal instructs, maneuvering both of their hands in
unison to the bowls he set out with various ingredients. They toss them in the pan, the steam
rushing up in a hot influx. Will jerks back instinctively, and Hannibal’s chest shakes with a
silent laugh before he’s kissing Will’s temple and whispering, “You’re doing well.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing most of the work.”

“Shall I leave you alone to finish the deed yourself?”

Will shakes his head and speaks before the question is fully out of Hannibal’s mouth. “You’re
staying right here until these shrooms are sautéed.”

“Yes sir,” Hannibal cracks, a smile in his tone.

Will tries not to smile in response. He fails.

"Knights of the round table much?"

Will stands staring at the circular dining table. There are several ivory-cloaked seats splayed
out sporadically around it. If there were movers Murasaki hired to transfer furniture, they
obviously didn't care about the intended symmetry. Hannibal fussily rearranges them; Will
finds himself curious why he didn't do so before he arrived in Croatia.

The table is set after Hannibal is done rearranging everything with a woodpecker’s obstinacy.
The quiche glistens underneath the sparkling chandelier. The walls in the dining room are
black, a darker rock than most of the other spaces they’ve passed. Even the corridors were
more of a deep gray.

The bedroom comes to mind as they sit. He wonders how spectacular it is. Not that he's
starstruck by luxury, but even Will succumbs to trivial pleasures now and then.

"Tell me what's on your mind," Hannibal implores, sitting across from him. The table isn't so
big that their seating arrangement is embarrassingly abroad, but Will still feels awkward
idling so far from him.

"Thinking about the bedroom. How does a hobbit home combat pests and leaks?"

Hannibal's expression is admonishing. He's not so keen on the hobbit home label.

"The rocky interior design is a smoke screen. Just for show. There are many architects who
are commissioned to build structurally sound lodgings inside caves and mountains. They are
usually more stable structurally than you'd imagine."

"What does the bedroom look like?" Will asks, lowering his voice.

"There are Italian cotton sateen sheets, hand-made pink ivory wood bed frame."

Will fights a smirk. "That's the bed."

"Yes." Hannibal manages not to look caught, but only slightly. "We also have an adjoining
bathroom. Two separate showers."

"What color are the sheets?"

"Nearly pitch black. A midnight blue sheen to them." Will can sense he means to say more so
he patiently waits to hear it, digging into his meal and keeping his eyes unwaveringly on
Hannibal while taking a large bite of quiche. “It will no doubt bring out the color of your
eyes.”

Ignoring the sentiment purposefully, Will changes the subject.

“What was done about Morgan?”

Hannibal cuts himself a portion, and takes a bite before answering.

“I imagine either he’ll enter the foster care system, or will be adopted by family.”

“Alana didn’t talk to her parents much. Margot, well, I doubt there’s many people left in the
Verger line she can trust,” says Will. He sips his sangria thoughtfully. “I hope he’ll be
alright.”

“A life in foster care will be more opportunistic than a life on the run.”

“That depends on the foster home.”

Hannibal hums over a mouthful. “In the very least, he won’t be sent to any traditional
orphanages.”

Will glances at him, reluctance encasing his tongue.

“Are orphanages really that bad?”

“Lonely children can be quite cruel,” Hannibal responds solemnly, eyes averted to his food.
His voice is even, but Will can feel the rigidity of the memories seeping through the frayed
seams.

They eat in silence for a bit. Will wants to ask him more about his time at the orphanage, but
he can’t narrow down the proper diction. Ironically, he doesn’t want to upset Hannibal
further.

“I must warn you, Will, we still have several players to worry about.”

Though the subject shifts drastically again, Will automatically picks up on where the
conversation’s leapt. They always know how to keep up with each other.

“Frederick and Jack.”

“Yes. I loathe to say it, but Chilton is likely the biggest hurdle we face. He is out for not just
blood, but the skin on our backs. Though, the revenge he’s engaging in is directed solely at
you.”

“I put my hand on his shoulder for that picture,” Will says blankly.

Hannibal smirks. “I saw right through that gesture.”

“You and Bedelia both did. I was the only one who didn’t.”

“While playing one role, you commit actions that a differing role would take. The conscious
and subconscious mind are rarely in sync. I am unsurprised your awareness wasn’t
involved.”

“We don’t have to worry about him here,” Will murmurs. “Or Jack.”

“No, not here.”

Will’s head feels hot. He fills his stomach quickly to combat it, ravenous from the journey he
took to get here, and tries to ignore the aching pound in his temples that speaks of
overexertion. Hannibal finishes his meal soon after, swallowing down the remainder of his
sangria.

“Would you kill me if I suggested we don’t clear the table right away?”

Hannibal inclines his head, blithe when he responds,

“I suppose we can be off the hook, just this once.”

Will smirks. “Do we have swimwear?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Show me.”

The dirty dishes are abandoned, the chandelier dimming with grace when they depart from
the dining room. Hannibal leads them in the opposite direction of the kitchen, down a flatter
corridor that leads to another cobble door. Hannibal pushes it open and the lights illuminate
their new bedroom.

A canopy bed lies in the center of the room, the sheets matching its drawn curtains. Will
pictures how safe he’ll feel sleeping with them blocking out the world around them, Hannibal
tucked against his body.

There’s that throb again, not just a warning in his temples.

There are two dressers, the open door to an adjoining bathroom, and a record player on an
accent table. There is space for them to contribute their own tastes and décor. Will isn’t
interested in all that right now.

Hannibal is padding over to one of the dressers, rifling through the contents of the first
drawer. As he’s sorting through which color trunks to offer him, Will comes up behind him
and lifts Hannibal’s shirt.

He wants to see the branding.

The surface of the mark has faded, but it’s still a light pink. Warped enough that the Verger
logo is completely unrecognizable. Will is thrilled by that. That it’s merely a mark of their
past tribulations now, and not a mockery of Mason’s making.

“Let me see you,” Will utters, pushing the shirt higher which causes the overall straps to fall
loosely down to his hips.

Hannibal removes the shirt without inflection, though his face is partially hidden to Will with
the way he’s angled. Will takes the discarded shirt and lightly tosses it a few feet away. He
prods at his shoulders until Hannibal spins around, the dresser left ajar and forgotten in the
face of this fresh intimacy.
Their eyes meet. Hannibal’s cheeks are a deeper shade. They have to be, or Will is
hallucinating again. He can feel the heat in his own cheeks reflecting them.

Will quickly drops his eyes from his in favor of mapping Hannibal’s chest. He strokes
through patchy hair, silvered from age, trails down to the bullet wound scar left by the
Dragon. Vividly, he remembers the thump of Hannibal collapsing like a newborn calf, losing
all sense of balance in the wake of the gunshot.

Tracing an invisible line across Hannibal’s navel, Will says quietly,

“If I had the surgical skill, I’d give you one to match mine.”

Hannibal’s breath catches, a nearly imperceptible noise.

“We are fortunate to have matching scars at all,” he hoarsely replies.

They sway into each other’s space, bowing on their heels, caught within a lazy, affectionate
magnetization. The magnetism is usually polarizing, but here Will can feel himself begin to
give.

“The stitches need to come out,” he remembers, gazing down at his coiled wrists. Hannibal
guides him to the bed, and Will has to suppress a moan at how the mattress sinks under him.
It’s the softest foam he’s ever encountered. Touching them with his hands, he can tell the
silky sheets feel liquidic.

Hannibal returns to his side with a medical kit.

Together, they slowly unravel the first wrist.

The line down Will’s arm is an angry red, tethered by the white spool of thread. Hannibal
uses tweezers to pluck gently at the stitches so he can snip them quickly straight down the
line. Will touches it when the arm’s finished, gasping when Hannibal bends forward to press
an open mouthed kiss to the wound.

It leaves him with a wet imprint, and a hot shiver.

They repeat with the second arm, and Hannibal kisses him there too.

It takes Will the entire length of the operation to register that Hannibal is shirtless, kneeling
on the floor between his legs. Hannibal’s voice distracts him from the stirring arousal in his
groin.

“You’ve healed magnificently.”

“You say that to all your handsome patients?” Will jokes.

“You should know by now, you’re the only one I would willingly flatter.”

Will gulps down blooming self-deprecation.

He wants to be good. He wants to feel good.

As Hannibal is setting aside the bloody scraps, Will kicks off his boots. Hannibal quirks a
brow at him for doing so, but Will’s fed up with horsing around. So, he grabs Hannibal by the
scruff of his neck and tugs upward so he can kiss him hard.

Hannibal’s hands flail for balance before smacking bluntly atop the bed sheets, but he’s
merely momentarily frazzled. With a growl, he lifts Will up by his under arms and throws
him up the length of the bed. Will lands with a gut-wrenched yelp, winded from the display
of dominance, and when he focuses on Hannibal again he finds the man has also discarded
his shoes, but he doesn’t know when that happened. He just knows Hannibal is blanketing
him and there’s heat, and fuck—a hard cock pressing into his pelvis.

He exhales harshly, immediately grasping for Hannibal’s hair.

Hannibal’s tongue slides into his mouth, but this isn’t like any of the other kisses they’ve
shared. This is claiming, starving, undeniable lust.

Will scrapes at Hannibal’s shoulder blades, squeezing his eyes shut from the onslaught of
pleasure. Hannibal kisses his neck, his cheek, his lips over and over, back to his neck.
Sucking bruises that encourage him to give in. He’s giving in. There’s no turning back from
this. Will’s legs instinctively fall open to frame Hannibal’s hips, and nothing about this is the
slow anticipation they’ve been entertaining. Nothing of the sweet, saccharine fantasies Will
dreamt and forgot in the early hours of morning.

Hannibal is biting at his throat. Will is losing his breath, bucking into the pressure of him.

“Hannibal,” he moans. “Oh Jesus.”

Their cocks grind together and Will sees visible sparks, eyes rolling up into the back of his
head. It’s escalating to an extent he’s terrified of, but there’s nothing to be done. They can’t
keep their hands off each other, they can’t stop rocking themselves to a higher state.
Passionate contact with Hannibal after so long of purely unattended longing that came in the
form of physical agony. It’s numbing to be released from it. It snaps together for him like a
final puzzle piece. It’s white hot—blinding.

It makes him come.

The ecstasy startles him, and he sinks nails into Hannibal’s waist with a shout, drawing blood
in the process. Hannibal gyrates with him through the heavy waves. Will’s being stupidly
loud, but he isn’t aware until he starts to come down. It was a hard orgasm, for what little it
was drawn from. He grimaces at the sensation of wetness in his pants. Utterly embarrassing;
there’s no other term for it.

When the heated fog fully dissipates, mind clear, he realizes Hannibal’s hips are twitching
into his. As uncontrollable as he just felt. Will pants, pushing Hannibal’s head back from his
neck to meet his eyes.

The glaze over them is unmistakable.

“We both just—”

“It would appear so,” Hannibal finishes quickly, throat bobbing.

“Fuck,” Will mutters, voice high-pitched as he drops his head onto a pillow. Hannibal lays
down next to him, panting just as heavily. “What the fuck.”

“That is humbly referred to in most circles as premature eja—”

“Don’t fucking say it.”

Unable to help his smile, Hannibal kisses his shoulder, where Will’s sweat through his shirt.
There are stains all over him from a run-of-the-mill make out session. Or what was supposed
to be a make out session. Not coming in his pants at the first minute of contact with the love
of his life. Will stares fretfully at the ceiling of the canopy bed. It’s a dark void up there
despite the sprighty wood color.

“Does it bother you?” Hannibal whispers, continuing his trail of kisses down to Will’s
collarbone, nuzzling him happily like there isn’t come drying on the insides of their pants.

“I knew I wanted you, but, hell.”

“Did you know?”

Will’s brow furrows and he faces Hannibal.

“What do you mean?”

“You have never taken interest in men. I assumed your physical impulses were born more of
a need to please me rather than a need to please yourself…with me.”

“Oh.” Will blinks, shaking his head after a short-lived contemplation. “It’s…I guess I can see
why you’d think that, but um, I want that. Want this. With you.”

“I can see that now,” Hannibal teases.

Maybe it’s not so embarrassing that it happened to both of them.

Will cups Hannibal’s cheek and kisses him properly now that the arousal has tapered off. He
feels filthy. He feels obscene. “That was indecent,” he murmurs, kissing that pouty top lip of
his. “I liked it.”

“I assure you, sex between us won’t be the same as that moving forward.”

“Sex is a broad term.” Will grins, rolling on top of him so he can kiss his sternum without
any awkward flexing. “I think we’ve been having sex for years.”

Glee glistens in Hannibal’s eyes.

“I suppose it is a matter of perspective,” he admits.

 “I want to know you inside and out,” Will confesses, plucking at the buttons of his overalls. It
wouldn’t take much to peel away the remaining layers.

Impossibly, he feels his spent dick harden.

Hannibal pets over Will’s sweat sparkling curls.

“My dear, we have all the time in the world.”

Chapter End Notes

AYYYYy i've read a lot of fics where one of them prematurely ejaculates cuz they're so
excited to just be fucking, but i couldn't not make that happen to both of them they're
both insanely in love losers. also not sure when the next one is coming out, but that ones
going to be the only E-rated chapter in this fic. just cuz i know a lot of you want some
sexy times and i also want to give it to u lol. for those of u who rly dont wanna stray
from the M tag, i'm making sure the next chapter is just filler so you won't be missing
anything other than smut LOL. have a happy easter guys!
 Chapter 23
Chapter Notes

TW: THIS CHAPTER IS JUST SEX. LIKE THE MOST **EXPLICIT** POSSIBLE
SEX. IF YOU DON'T WANT E-RATED SEX WAIT TILL THE NEXT CHAPTER. I
PROMISE THIS IS JUST 13K OF FILLER.

FOR WHORES LIKE ME, ENJOY!

(edit: sorry took me an hour to remember there are a couple moments where it can be

🖤
read as dubious consent initiating sex but they're both incredibly enthusiastic for it. just
lyk beforehand )

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There’s no graceful way of entering the water.

Will jumps in. Hannibal informed him ten minutes prior that the spring is not shallow, and
that he can feel as free as he likes to tread beneath its fathoms to discover its hidden secrets.
Will’s never been a fan of holding his breath, not even following the wildly successful scuba
diving trip he took with his father one time when he was still in the single digits. The
instructor had told him he was a natural born sea goer when it was time to test the waters
without the breathing snorkel. It had only been a matter of time before he’d panicked because
the wife of the married couple in their party started to panic.

That’s not to say he hates swimming. He loves it.

Doesn’t get to do it enough. He’s usually living somewhere cold, consistently busy fighting
the usual demons and the psychological paraphernalia they come with.

Will wades through the hot spring, his fully nude body absorbing the intense heat
appreciatively. Hannibal had suggested for him to go along ahead, that he’d catch up soon.
Will brought swimming trunks for the walk down the corridors, but he’d slipped them off
without hesitation upon entering the bath.

He doesn’t see why he has to hide from Hannibal anymore.

Plus, without restriction, he can feel every pore in his body relax. A cottony cloud forms in
his mind, blending down the harsh edges of his incessantly violent thoughts.

It takes him little time to swim to the far end of the spring. It’s an accomplishment after so
many pitfalls; scars, injuries, mental trauma. Nature is giving him the life he once thought
would forever be lost. He makes his way back to the front, a noisy breaststroke. There are
electric lanterns in the steamy room that illuminate his path, but the water itself has a glow to
it that the ravines at the cave’s entrance had as well. He feels submerged in fiction.

When he’s floating thoughtlessly on his back, the doors creak open.

Hannibal is dressed in a robe, and Will can tell he showered before arriving. He almost smiles
at that notion; Hannibal can’t stand to be left tacky with the evidence of their passion even
before entering a bath. Either he’s doing it out of respect for Will, as they’ll be sharing the
same waters, or he truly is that fussy.

“Hey,” Will murmurs, paddling over to the anterior siding of the spring.

“You look to be enjoying yourself,” Hannibal muses, hesitating with the silk belt of his robe.
The burgundy color strangely brings out his eyes. Off that sight, Will refuses to hesitate.

He pulls himself up and out of the spring, suppressing a shudder from the cool air smacking
into his skin, and in all his naked glory, walks right up to Hannibal.

It’s worth the internal embarrassment to see the wild flash in Hannibal’s eyes.

“You won’t be needing this,” he utters, tugging lightly at the belt until the robe falls loose.
Hannibal is wearing swim trunks, much like he was ten minutes prior. “Or these.”

“Are you certain?” Hannibal asks, even as Will fingers along the hem of his trunks,
purposefully dipping his fingers past it when he reaches the back end of them. “We need not
rush things.”

“That’s funny, coming from you.”

“Don’t test my patience, Will. Out of all the things I’ve done, and will do to you, it’s the
details of this that I cannot abide to be vague.”

“You should know by now, whatever you do to me, it leads me right back to you.”

“There is no need inside of you pleading for you to wait?”

There is. There’s a riot inside him that has his conscious thrashing against its hermetically
sealed prison. The color red paints the surrendering flags, Will’s common sense makes the
rebellion a roaring one.

And yet.

“We’ve been participating in a whole lot of waiting, Hannibal,” he replies saucily, resting his
palms on either side of Hannibal’s hips. His skin is hot to the touch, perhaps anticipatory.
“There are inches of you I haven’t seen. I don’t know how much longer I can live with that.”

Hannibal looks especially fond, planting a chaste kiss on Will’s lips before slipping the robe
off. There is a single second of reluctance after it’s set aside, but then he drops the trunks too,
bending to pick them up and fold them aside with the remaining discarded articles. Will tries
not to stare, despite what he just admitted to, but it’s almost impossible. Hannibal is lithe,
smooth, pert. And he’s in Will’s space again.

Nothing could have prepared him for a man as burly and stately as Hannibal to gather him up
in his arms and stroke over every sensitive part of him. Hannibal’s hands linger on his back,
moving with the rippling shivers dancing up and down his spine.

Will kisses him again, harder. Hard enough that Hannibal drags him even closer so that
they’re pressed together. “God this is worse,” Will mutters through a brief smirk. Hannibal
pulls back to stare at him inquisitively. Will shakes his head, impatient, and squeezes where
the flesh on Hannibal’s lower back curves to elevation. “You’re already all I think about. I’m
not going to be thinking about anything else but this now.”

“You flatter me, Will,” Hannibal says with pseudo-humbleness. He knows he’s an incredibly
attractive man. He knows it’s his ego who will benefit from these words. He knows without a
doubt Will has fallen head over heels for him, in more ways than one.

“I don’t suppose this is a good time to tell you I have no clue what I’m doing,” Will mutters,
glancing anxiously down at Hannibal’s uncut cock. He’s seen it before but not like this. Not
hard, and wanting. He’s felt Hannibal come, clothes walled up between their twitching,
oversensitive bodies. But he surmises that this takes the cake for sights that make him freeze
up. The head peaks out of the foreskin, pale, pink, and damp. The arousal is all for Will, and
that more than anything is what makes Will’s own dick harden.

“When we join with another, our experience does not always prove knowledge of the other
person’s inclinations. You need not worry about inexperience with me, Will. I’d much rather
we experience each other outside of past influence, and explore the novelty of our intimacy
together.”

Will blushes, stepping back a bit. “Well, when you put it like that — ”

“A swim first, hmm?”

Hannibal taps under Will’s chin, smiling cordially.

Will’s confidence standing naked in front of him is dwindling fast in the face of possibility,
so he agrees quickly with a jerk of the head. Hannibal swan dives into the spring. Will
follows less gracefully.

They find each other under the water.

Unbothered by lack of oxygen, Hannibal is exploring the crystalized claddings of the hot
spring. Will strokes through the weighted water, treading close beside him.

Instead of eyeing the crystals, Will gazes upon Hannibal’s bare body. He himself feels less
exposed underwater, and the act of ogling Hannibal seems less incriminating. Will forgets to
hold his breath as he compartmentalizes scars he’s never seen before, many on his rear or
above his rear. A lot of thin lines beneath his hip bones, on his thighs. Bubbles cascade before
Will's vision, and suddenly Hannibal shoots up like a sea creature, shooting from the spring.
Realizing he needs to fill his lungs fast, Will follows.

Will wants to tell Hannibal he thinks he’s beautiful.

They stare at each other, treading with gentle splashing sounds.

Instead, Will swims closer and kisses his slightly parted lips. Hannibal kisses back, gripping
Will’s ass cheeks with both hands which causes him to gasp, breaking the kiss.

He smiles back into the kiss once he’s recovered, and Hannibal mimics him, not letting his
grip on him falter even when Will snarls his fingers through his wet hair and pulls.

“How long have you wanted me?” he breathes, burning hotter than the water.

“Long enough for the relief from consummation to hurt.”

“God.” Will kisses his supple fresh-shaven cheeks, his tan neck, gnawing at loose skin like a
teething cub. Hannibal lets him, but more importantly, he encourages it. Slipping fingers
down the crevice of his ass, brushing over the deeply touch-starved part of him. “Oh.”

“No?”

“Not no — just, not yet.”

“I’ve always wanted to touch you here,” Hannibal whispers secretively, retracting his fingers
meagerly only to squeeze the plush of his rump again. “Your body is surreal, beautiful.”

“Really?” Will asks dryly.

He finds it unrealistic Hannibal wants to wax poetic on the nature of his ass, but then again,
now that he’s dwelling on the subject, of course he is.

It’s too late for him to take back the question. Hannibal’s eyes have taken on a ravenous
shade, and he’s pecking Will’s sternum like there’s treasure locked inside the cage of his
bones.

“I noticed your beauty first and foremost. You hid it well, under several distracting layers to
shy yourself from the world’s all-seeing eyes. I could imagine you as a young man, fresh
faced, gloriously elegant. Naivety bringing you to bear this tempting skin to the world. I
could not imagine a soul who would not consider you as such. Then to learn your mind
matched your physique…Will, you have poisoned me with temptation, from the very first
moment we met.”

Will wants to laugh, but doesn’t for Hannibal’s sake. The ladies usually compliment his
cheekbones. Sometimes his well-kept beard.

“You’re the only person to ever call me beautiful,” he murmurs, a tad sheepish.

“Then society is just as inferior as I believed it to be.”

“Or, you’re wearing rose-tinted glasses.”

“I am not an optimist. I am an idealist. You’re ideal to me,” Hannibal declares.

“Don’t ideals grow stale over time?”

“Not mine. Not yours, either. Ours are timeless. I have never been a slave to time, except
when I am entertaining regret. And I refuse to regret anything more if a change of time means
you would not have ended up here, in my arms as you are.”

It’s overwhelming. It’s a lot.

And frankly, Will is far too horny to respond appropriately.

“The heat’s driving me crazy,” Will rasps, nuzzling closer to him. He wraps his legs around
Hannibal’s waist, feeling weightless as the other man easily treads for the both of them.

“The hot spring?”

“That’s only half of it.”

“There’s a remedy for that,” Hannibal purrs in his ear, rolling his hips into the cradle of Will’s
legs. Will tightens them around his strong frame, sighing.

He doesn’t want to give in now, when his senses are so heightened he won’t be able to feel
any of it. Instead he says, “I used to have dreams about you.”

Off Hannibal’s unamused look (understandable really, Will’s history with dreams could never
be considered sexy), he chuckles, kisses the space between his brows and clarifies, “Often
when I fantasized about killing you. When I woke from the visions where I touched you with
my hands, I would wake up aroused, holding contempt for that fact it would happen. I think
— I sometimes wonder if I wasn’t just frustrated I couldn’t conjure up a dream where I didn’t
want to hurt you. That my…need to have you translated in my awareness only in the form of
violence.”

“No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them.”

Will’s eyes snap to his.

The exact same words from one of his bloodier dreams about killing Hannibal.

“I liked the idea of cutting you open,” Will whispers, the decision to admit that like a train
flinging off its tracks. “Feeling the arterial spray on my skin. Hot, red…staining.”

Hannibal’s pointed teeth stretch into a grin.

“Did you never picture us like this?”

If Will could blush subsumed in steam, he would.

“Jesus, I was barely aware of…loving you. I couldn’t conceive of wanting you. Not when I
have so little clue what wanting someone even means. Until now, I’d wager.”

Hannibal’s arms dip lower, under his thighs, as he rocks Will’s body into his. It’s too much
sensation too soon; Will’s eyelashes flutter and he loses the slippery grip he had on the back
of Hannibal’s neck. He chokes on a moan as the movement is repeated, a gauging action.

“You want me now?” Hannibal questions, voice low.

There is an animalistic hunger in Hannibal’s eyes that makes Will’s knees weak. He’s glad for
the perch of him. That he doesn’t just sink beneath the hot water and never resurface.

“Tell me you want me,” Hannibal persuades, the low rumble of his voice growing fangs.
Will’s eyes can’t decide whether or not they want to settle on his hungry gaze or his snarling
lips.

“I want you,” Will promises quietly, poking his erect cock against Hannibal’s stomach. He
can feel Hannibal’s stomach muscles clench and they both shudder, nuzzling closer
helplessly.

“How much?”

Will pants heavier when Hannibal’s fingers dig into his flesh firm enough to bruise. Will
holds his face to keep himself afloat, and whispers, “All the time.”

“May I — ”

“Anything, Hannibal.”

“Come, follow me back to our bedroom then. I would like to make love to you properly.”
Worry must show on Will’s face, because Hannibal’s lips curve devilishly before he explains,
“Nothing you told me you wished to wait for. Something else entirely. Does that assuage
you?”

“Consider me assuaged,” Will laughs, grunting in surprise when Hannibal kisses him again,
with tongue, his stiff cock pressing insistently up against his own. When their lips part with a
passionate smack, Will stammers, “Fuck, how does it feel this good with you?”

“You know why, my dear,” Hannibal answers, chastising.

Will guesses he does. Love. It pays you a visit or it doesn’t.

In retrospect, Will is unsure how they made it to the bedroom.

They’re making out between desperate gasps for air when they enter the chamber, frantically
( Will is frantic — Hannibal is impossibly delicate in his impatience) divesting themselves of
the clothes they hastily slapped on their bodies after the spring to avoid the chill of the cave.

They’re naked again in no time, moving towards the bed incrementally slow because of how
they’re glued to each other, stumbling over each other’s feet.

Hannibal gets frustrated with going through the general motions, not that Will can blame him
despite being quite literally incapable of stopping anytime soon. So, Hannibal grabs him by
his torso and shoves him up against one of the bed rails so roughly the entire frame rattles.

“Fuck,” is punched out of Will’s throat before his following whimper is swallowed by
Hannibal’s expert mouth. He’s being devoured; that’s the only term for it.

“Do you want me to be gentle?” Hannibal asks, infuriatingly even-toned.

“If you hold back, I’ll kill you,” Will hisses.

There is a ridiculously attractive growl in response to that before Hannibal snarls, “Good
boy,” and proceeds to suck a series of bruises into Will’s neck. Will smacks the back of his
head against the rail, unhinged jaw directed at the ceiling in a silent cry as his skin is
ravished. The hot water sensitized his body; he feels raw before they’ve even started.

After two minutes, Will is afraid he’s going to face another premature incident. Luckily for
him, Hannibal appears to be on the same track, so the man pulls back with a skin-tearing
scrape of his teeth on Will’s throat, and observes him with predator’s eyes, considering

“What do you want to do with me, Dr. Lecter?”

He speaks with an innocent lilt. He knows Hannibal likes it.

According to plan, Hannibal blinks through a rush of desire.

Then he’s back to business, and explains what he wants with the sternness of someone who
isn’t about to sexually consume his mate in all senses.

“I’d care to taste you once and for all.”

There’s zero reluctance. He knew what he wanted to do to Will before they got here; he just
wants to watch Will squirm.

“Lie on the bed. On your back,” Hannibal orders without waiting for an answer. Exhaling his
tension, Will goes, pulling back the rest of the canopy curtain to lie flat on his back. Though
he doesn’t sink into the mattress far, he feels as if he’s absorbed into a cloud. His heart
pounds as Hannibal climbs over him, pulling the curtain shut so it’s them alone, isolated from
the world.

Will softens. Hannibal’s looking at him like he’s a buffet; he can’t decide what to fill his
empty stomach with first. Cannibalism aside — it’s captivating as all hell. To be wanted so
wholly. Will reaches out to touch Hannibal’s face, stroking over hard lines until they soften as
well. Hannibal is on all fours above him, keeping a respectable distance between their bodies
despite how they were both acting on the way to the bedroom.

“I imagined you under me countless times,” Hannibal musters, allowing Will to tug him
closer so they can brush their noses together and peck each other’s lips in anticipation. Will
keeps interrupting his attempts to speak with light, chaste kisses until Hannibal gets the drift
and pulls away with a tolerating smirk. “None of those imaginations compares to the real
thing.”

A smile breaks over Will’s face, and he kisses Hannibal once more for that.

It’s getting easier to kiss him. Mundane, almost, which is somehow more thrilling than the
fresh sensation of wanton need. Even in such a short period of time connecting physically,
they know each other’s lips, taste, what it feels like when the other causes them to sigh.

“Have you…” Will waits until he can catch his breath before continuing, but Hannibal
doesn’t offer him reprieve. He kisses down his neck, leaving hickies in spots that will be
plainly obvious. It’s not as if they’re planning on leaving the cave anytime soon, but it makes
him blush a deep color from the thought of someone other than Hannibal seeing. “You’ve…
with a man.”

“Is that a serious question?” Hannibal murmurs playfully, circling an areola with his tongue
before flicking the hardening nipple with the tip of it.

Will gasps, body bumping up against his. Hannibal thumbs at it, continues to roll it under the
pad while he looks up to meet his eyes.

He nearly forgets to speak, so taken with him.

“The Chesapeake Ripper isn’t a sexual sadist. Aside from — ” Will bites his bottom lip when
Hannibal wraps slender fingers around his cock and strokes him dangerously slow, “ —Who I
know you’ve slept with I, ehm, can’t picture it as well as I’d like.”

“You’ve tried to think about it, me bedding another?” Hannibal whispers, rubbing his nipples
raw until Will is forced to squirm out of his touch with a whimper.

“Jesus, Hannibal,” he mutters. “Yeah.”

“I rarely say no to anything worthwhile.”

Hannibal pulls him down the bed, back under him, ignoring the skitter of Will’s pulse (a sign
of fear, but Will can’t tell the difference between that and arousal anymore), to capture his
left nipple in his mouth. Will cries out because Hannibal doesn’t hold back with his teeth.

After he’s satisfied with his work, Hannibal kisses the sore nipples lightly, then the space
between his pecs before replying in a tender, admonishing tone.

“If you think I have entertained sex before you for anything other than personal gain, you’d
be quite wrong. You are the only one worthy of worship, my dear Will.”
“Your worship is sharp,” Will nervously chuckles.

“You knew that already.”

Hannibal grins up at him, and from the sight of him bent over reddened nipples, pert from the
sucking, Will’s cock jerks up in the air like the limb of a marionette, smacking Hannibal on
the stomach.

Time pauses for a beat.

Will blink his eyes closed through a wave of humiliation, but Hannibal isn’t mocking him.
When he opens his eyes again, the mood of the scene has shifted. Hannibal’s eyes are freshly
predatory, piercing down towards the hard straining cock beneath him. In a maneuver that is
too sexy for its own good, he crawls down Will’s body with full intent to eat him as he
claimed, Will can’t bear to watch.

“Oh hell,” he utters, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Hannibal allows him that mercy for the time being, but keeping himself blind doesn’t subdue
the tsunami of sensation crashing into him in the next few seconds. Tight lips wrap around
the tip of his cock to suckle him, and he’s lost.

Will’s body spasms, and he just barely catches an obscene moan scratching at his throat to get
out.

He expected to feel a lot of things, see a lot of things experiencing this at Hannibal’s hand.
But the noises are what destroy him. Hannibal luxuriates on his cock, slurping messily while
his lips climb the shaft. It’s a relishing, more than it is a devouring. It has Will clutching at
the sheets with his free hand. And he’s thankful that Hannibal is going at a snail’s pace, likely
analyzing the taste of him, so he doesn’t shoot his load stupidly early. However, the mercy
only lasts so long.

Will gasps, arching lightly with the direction of Hannibal’s mouth as the man pops off.

“Watch,” Hannibal purrs.

Will shakes his head, red-faced and grimacing from the loss. “N-No, no. Too much.”

“Shall I tie you up and abandon you without relief?”

“God,” Will groans high-pitched, grappling at the base of his own cock to resist an orgasm.
The concept alone is enough to dangle the precipice of bliss over him. “Just — ”

Hannibal kisses him sloppily which is new. Molly never kissed him after a blowjob. Other
women he slept with never even blew him. Tasting his cock on his own tongue is
overwhelming, but serves to turn him on further, which lends to something he never knew
about himself.

Hannibal’s lips dominate his own until he’s gasping feebly for breath and pawing through
Hannibal’s chest hair, desperate for the man’s mouth to go lower.
“Look at me while I consume you.”

Will presses his lips together, fighting with every impulse to deny him. This seems like a step
too far. And yet, he wants Hannibal to take him apart, and why not capture the memory?

“Get on with it then,” he whispers, acquiescing.

Hannibal splits Will’s lip with a harsh bite that has him crying out, and jolting away. The
noise curtails into a loud, shocked moan as he watches his dick slide back between Hannibal's
glistening lips. One of his hands unconsciously flutters down to ground himself in the act by
grasping strands of silvered hair.

Their eye contact miraculously doesn't break as Hannibal sucks gently but firmly, sinking
lower after each delicious rise, mouth toying with the head before dropping. Will licks away
the droplet of blood pooling on his bottom lip, biting down on the open wound so the pain
distracts him from coming instantaneously.

Then, Hannibal takes him down to the root in a singular slick bob and hot pleasure sparks
over Will so swiftly he scarcely has the opportunity to cover his mouth with the hand that
isn't holding on for dear life in Hannibal's hair and muffle the embarrassing, needy noise he
emits.

Though Hannibal’s lips are stretched wide, Will can still detect the smile in his expression as
he continues expertly taking him in at an increasing pace.

Will’s eyes widen exponentially when Hannibal salaciously slides a slender index finger
alongside the suction of his mouth, tonguing over it against the shaft of his dick. Somehow
the pressure trapped around Will’s dick gets even more cramped from that and Will shakily
curls the hand in Hannibal’s hair into a fist. “Fuck,” he stutters helplessly.

All of a sudden, the finger pops out and locates his hole with precision. Will stiffens all over,
dreading the impending pain, but Hannibal’s finger is wet when it circles his sensitive rim,
and Will’s body is molten and welcoming as it slides in.

It’s a surprise for both of them, Will thinks.

“ Ah — you — guh,” Will hisses as Hannibal drags his fingertip against his prostate. His
thighs shiver, bend up away from him, muscles dissonant from every thought in his mind
begging for him to fuck down on the digit and grind himself closer. “Keep doing that, holy
shit.”

Hannibal apparently planned to, because he’s matching the curl of his index finger with the
tonguing of Will’s slit, humming around the tip to add to Will’s misery of climbing need.

He’s arching from the compounding sensations, moaning and grasping both hands in
Hannibal’s hair now as he rises to the very peak. It’s when his hips start humping damn near
uncontrollably into the tight, wet, heat, that he knows he’s done for. He tears his eyes away,
trying not to whine.
“I’m — Hannibal, oh fuck!”

At the first sign of teeth, Will comes viciously.

A howl is wrenched out of him, echoing when he throws his head back.

He spits volleys of his release over Hannibal’s waiting tongue, flattened now to successfully
catch all of it. Tears are punched out of Will’s eyes while he attempts not to break Hannibal’s
finger with the intense clench of his body. The pleasure he’s experiencing has elevated to new
heights. He’s not positive that it doesn’t last five minutes with how it keeps crashing into him
when he least expects it, causing him to choke on air from how good it makes him feel.

And of course because it’s Hannibal, he doesn’t let up when he should.

“Hannibal, please,” he gasps, thrashing when one of his elongated sucking pulls sends all the
wrong oversensitive signals to his neurons. “No, oh god, stop.”

Hannibal’s right hand wraps a crushing grip around his deflating shaft, causing tears to well
anew in Will’s eyes. He stares down at him, fear momentarily replacing the full-bodied relief
when Hannibal cruelly holds his cock in place so he can lick away a remaining bead of
come.

Will grimaces, shuddering violently.

He knows him well enough to know the look in Hannibal’s gaze is meant for punishment.
Yet, for punishment to be this, that’s a horse of an entirely different color.

When Hannibal lets go of his hips, and less enthusiastically, his dick, Will cups himself
protectively, collapsing limp on the sheets as he shivers through the delayed aftershocks.

Looking playful now rather than vindictive, Hannibal kisses up his glistening thighs, licking
him like a cat would clean itself, returning to the sweet, uncanny worship from before.

“You’re a dangerous man, Dr. Lecter,” Will claims hoarsely and trembling still, laughing
humorlessly as he gives his own cock one last sympathy squeeze before hesitantly allowing it
to face the bedroom’s cool air, and Hannibal’s still-hungry eyes. “I suppose I knew that too.”

“That you did,” Hannibal murmurs. Will is thrilled to hear coarseness coating his tone, from a
throat well-used. “You took your eyes off me when you came.”

Will scoffs. “Shouldn’t have made it so good.”

That shuts Hannibal’s indignance up. He averts his eyes bashfully, panting above Will’s body
and only just able to balance himself on shaking arms. That’s when Will realizes he’s also…
in a state of sorts.

Hannibal’s hard cock dangles between them, ruddy and purple.

Will’s eyes go half-lidded as his heart calms. He maintains a cool exterior as he lifts one of
his legs, foot brushing Hannibal’s hard cock. Their eyes meet again, Hannibal’s appearing
wild and yearning. Will finds he likes that look on him — likes this different brand of power.

Will’s murmurs a sultry taunt.

“So worked up from sucking another man’s cock?”

“Your cock,” Hannibal corrects.

Will hums, pleased at hearing that word come from Hannibal’s swollen mouth. He prods at
Hannibal’s dick with his foot a moment longer, waiting until Hannibal is caught off guard
before he lifts his leg higher and shoves him over with the foot shoving into the middle of his
chest.

He prowls atop Hannibal’s bouncing body, pushing his wrists against the bed so he takes the
hint to stay where he is. Hannibal is only temporarily peeved at being beaten, but Will knows
that they’re both men. The desperation to come, in moments like these at least, truly is
coercive.

“When I thought I’d be using my FBI training on you originally, this wasn’t precisely what I
had in mind,” Will confesses, smooching Hannibal’s bobbing throat with put-upon docility.

Hannibal quirks a brow, nudging into a genuine kiss Will pulls away from at the last minute.
He ignores the quick snarl he sees in reaction and continues pressing exploratory kisses all
over.

“I think you like it, though.”

“Of that, there’s no question,” Hannibal admits. “Your taste was immaculate.”

“Yeah?”

“You have me at your mercy,” he continues daringly, staring Will directly in the eye when he
says, “It is yours to make of it what you will.”

“I’d like to touch you,” Will whispers. “With my hands.”

They both understand why.

“I’m all yours.”

“I might not play nice, considering how you just treated me.”

Hannibal smiles. “Niceties are overrated.”

Wickedly, Will mirrors with a grin, sashaying backwards on his knees until he’s settled
comfortably atop Hannibal’s tense thighs. He scrapes his palms up and over the front of
Hannibal’s body repetitively, delighted to see him already half out of his mind with desire.
Will’s position is erotic in and of itself. He’s never been in the lap of anyone he’s slept with,
never truly felt as in control as he feels now. Hannibal’s eyes are darting all over Will’s form;
he’s painted in a glorious sheen of sweat, looking oily and perfect in the dim curtained glow.
His eyes glaze over and his stomach rises into the touch whenever Will brushes over the
endearing swell of it.

“You’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like, won’t you?”

“Will it convince you to stop?” Hannibal questions breezily.

“We’ll see,” Will smoothly replies.

Will is pretty swell at talk. And, it’s not that he’s all talk, but when he finally circles his right
hand around Hannibal’s rock hard dick, he’s automatically at a loss. He doesn’t let it show on
his face, pumping once, twice instinctively, until he works up a rhythm that doesn’t have his
nerves forcing an array of goosebumps. He pumps him how he pumps his own cock. Will
likes a rough touch when it comes to hands, so that’s what he gives him, and Hannibal
doesn’t appear disappointed in the slightest. His hands are resting on Will’s knees, gently as
if he’s fragile there.

Will keeps his left hand on Hannibal’s stomach, swerving his fingers there in a scrawling
circular motion that has his stomach quivering beneath Will’s touch alongside every pulse in
his cock.

To his own shock, Will likes what he’s doing.

If Hannibal’s shocked at Will’s excitement, it doesn’t show. His eyes jump languidly between
Will’s unreadable stare and the lewd act between his legs.

He learns what Hannibal likes from analyzing his facial expressions and nearly
incomprehensible reactions. When Will’s palm brushes over the head, Hannibal’s breath
catches twice in succession, so he repeats the action until there are nails digging into his
knees, drawing blood.

Will unconsciously rocks his weight on top of him, feeding off Hannibal’s desire as arousal
blooms fresh. He adds a second hand, pumping Hannibal’s cock now as fiercely as he dares.

“Will, you beautiful thing,” Hannibal rasps, hips jumping into the new pressure.

“You like that?” Will asks softly, but not so innocently, crimping one hand over the tip of his
cock while he strokes the base. “I could stop.”

Hannibal half laughs, half groans.

“I’d appreciate it, very,” he swallows pensively as Will thumbs a sensitive spot, “very much,
if you didn’t. But I understand the temptation.”

He’s still annoyingly put-together. They can work on that in the future.

“Yeah, I bet.” Will releases one hand so he can bend forward and balance himself on an
elbow, dip closer to Hannibal’s face and press a kiss to his cheek. “I wanna kiss you while
you come.”
Hannibal nods in equal want, pushing his cheek to Will’s.

“Faster.” Will goes faster. “That’s it, darling.”

Will’s hand fumbles when he’s called that, but he returns to his task with a vengeance. Who
knew Hannibal became a sweet-talker under this specific influence?

It tenderizes him, makes him less willing to sabotage.

Will pays acute attention to the leaking head of Hannibal’s cock since he’s jerking him off
with just one hand again. The tip slips through slippery fingers inadvertently. After Hannibal
shudders and gasps from that, he purposefully increases the clumsiness.

His lips tremble at Will’s ear. His voice is an abyss of ache.

“Now — ”

Will captures Hannibal’s thawed mouth with his own, gladly experiencing every nip of
desperation and need hidden inside it as Hannibal’s come splashes over his fist, wet hot. Will
groans with him, mindlessly turned on by the way Hannibal rolls his hips up against him,
smearing his release over his gut scar.

“Hell,” Will utters, dropping his head exhaustedly to Hannibal’s shoulder, unconsciously
wiping sticky lips off on his skin. “That was…something.”

The fraught heaving underneath Will subsides, and fingers travel to his damp mop of hair,
gripping curls with feverish possession. “Indeed.”

They accidentally make direct eye contact, Will glancing up from his resting spot and
Hannibal caught staring down at him like he’s a prized antique. Will has a sense there should
be a tension between them considering how long and arduous of a journey it was to get here,
how he played hard to get, how Hannibal played hard to love. But, the remaining tension
comes from the fact there is no tension. They’re seeing each other in a new light. Will just
fucked a man for the first time, and didn’t have a crisis over it, and Hannibal just had
meaningful sex for the first time in his life, and survived it. Like he never thought he could.
Mutual love, even after its existence was confirmed as reality, was not tarnished in the face of
their body’s physical union.

“Hannibal — ”

“Will — ”

They both blink, then huff, humored and endeared. Hannibal doesn’t try to continue. He leans
forward and presses searing lips to Will’s forehead, muttering something foreign.

“We can have this,” whispers Will.

It arrives as a revelation. They can love each other without tragedy.

“And to think I believed I would never come to understand Shakespeare’s infatuation with
sonnets,” Hannibal muses, petting Will’s scalp with undeniably shaky hands.

“The second either of us decides to write poetry for the other is the day Jack Crawford
retires,” Will grumbles.

Hannibal smiles into Will’s hair.

“You say that as if it's a poor idea when his schemes would be so easily thwarted.”

“I know you. You’d rather get down and dirty with Jack.”

Off Hannibal’s entertained look, Will shoves at him.

“Jesus, you really aren’t right in the head. I don’t need that image burned into my brain.”

“You really are too hard on Jack.”

“I’m not the one who tried to murder him several times.”

“In your dreams and your imagination. Isn’t that the same?”

Will sighs. “I don’t know anymore.”

“Then sleep, Will. Maybe you’ll find the answer in our chapel.” Hannibal maneuvers them so
they’re tucked under a thin layer of the sheets. Will’s not sure he could handle suffocating
underneath the thick velvet blanket folded at the edge of the bed, so he’s relieved for the
minimal covering. Just enough that he doesn’t have to shiver into his dreamscape. He shifts
closer and Hannibal doesn’t shy away from their bodies sticking together, tacky.

The proof of their pleasure acts as a glue.

It doesn’t disgust Will, not as it should

“When I’m away from the chapel, I know I’m closer to home,” Will debates after so much
time passes, the lights in the room have darkened completely from their lack of movement.
Hannibal doesn’t answer, but the tracing on his spine tells him he’s heard loud and clear.

Will wakes up to Hannibal mouthing his balls which is unexpected but entirely welcome after
his initial groggy confusion melts into pleasure. He blinks the film of sleep in his eyes away
and glances down to find Hannibal totally buried underneath the sheets, his body a mere
silken shape than anything. Like a specter or a poltergeist.

He expects if he rips the sheet away, he’d find an empty spot.

“Not so early,” Will pleads gently, against his body’s fervent demands. He snakes a hand
under the sheets to tug Hannibal upwards (by the lobe of his ear — as through his tired
pawing, it's the only grabbable piece of him he can find). Hannibal ascends willingly, the hair
sticking to his forehead proving just how long he was under there showcasing his devotion.

His balls are tingling, uncomfortably wet.

However, Will is hard enough not to care.

“You were begging me to in your sleep,” Hannibal whispers, gifting Will with a chaste kiss
tasting of salt and morning heat. “I could hardly resist.”

Will blushes, turning his head from the scrutiny.

“I don’t know how I escalated from lamenting the vices of plum pudding to cock sucking.”

Hannibal smirks, and his sleep ruffled hair looks better than it ever has. Will wants to ruffle it
even more, but his limbs are still waking up and require a stretch.

“Perhaps because I ‘made it so good’?”

Will covers his eyes with an elbow, groaning.

“Geez, I really said that, didn't I.”

“In your defense,” Hannibal kisses his neck, “it was a passionate night.”

“What are…what are the rules to this?” Will asks in a stupor even as the hickies that were
formed the night prior are being ravished once more. “Where do we go from here?”

“Physicality changes nothing except our day-to-day enjoyment. And there are no rules where
we’re concerned, Will. None other than the general rules of sex and love-making.”

“No rules at all, then.” Will grows mischievous. “I could take you apart.”

Hannibal’s eyes glisten at the prospects.

“You made a fair effort last night.”

“Nuh-uh. That was nothing.”

Hannibal’s grin matches the look in his eyes and Will can’t not touch him there, bend down
his bottom lip to examine those shark teeth again, all of them his whenever he wants them.

“I like this side of you, Will.”

“Good. I have a game I’d like to play with you.”

“Hmm?”

“Not now. After dinner tonight. If you cook something good, that is.”
“I’m certain I can deliver.”

“Don’t — ” The novelty of their new dynamic stumps him for a second, and he nearly loses
grasp of the confidence that’s driven him this far down the road, then recalls how hard
Hannibal was in his hands last night and knows he can’t refuse, “ — don’t touch yourself
today.”

Hannibal’s expression is amused, but not defiant.

“I defer to you.” He tilts his head, considering. “Would you care to shower with me?”

Will’s cheeks raise, and he jerkily nods.

“Let’s brush our teeth first.”

Knowing Hannibal is anal in every aspect of his existence should have tipped Will off that
committing acts of self care alongside him would be an exhaustively formidable task, but
somehow he’s still taken aback when Hannibal times how long Will rubs shampoo into his
own scalp.

“You’ve missed a spot,” Hannibal notes unhelpfully.

“Here?” Will mutters, hovering his hands over the same spot that he’s been rubbing just to
piss him off.

Hannibal tsks, raking three fingers over a big patch on the back of his head.

“All of this, here.”

It’s so big of a patch that Will takes it as an insult.

“This is decidedly unsexy compared to what I had in mind, Hannibal.” Will elbows him in
the hip to move him aside from the shower spray so he can wash the shampoo out of his hair.

The scent of sandalwood permeates the steam.

“Allow me to apply your conditioner,” Hannibal insists, looking practically heartbroken as

Will refuses to listen to his advice. He’s administering shampoo into that perfect hair of his
that appears black when wet.

“You’re going to use yours if I let you,” Will argues, reluctant.

“Your hair will thank you.”

“It’ll smell like…flowers.”

Hannibal’s head inclines, admonitory.

“Does that truly matter?” he asks, sounding incredibly irritated.

Will sighs exaggeratedly, and steps out of the spray and into Hannibal’s space, pressing the
front of his body fully against Hannibal. Their wet bodies slip on each other, and Hannibal’s
hair tickles.

He looks up at him under wet, slow-blinking lashes.

Hannibal’s prissy attitude reclines.

“I will not force you to use mine,” he concedes, patting Will’s back like his cock isn’t
blatantly responding to their proximity. “I am merely telling you it’s in your best interest.”

“There’s nothing you can do to stop my hairline from receding,” Will jokes into his
collarbone, kissing him lightly there and holding back a smile when he feels Hannibal tense.

“Perish the thought.”

“Well, wash me if you must.”

Hannibal picks up Will’s usual conditioner, scoffing mildly.

“You make it sound like torture.”

“You find lots of ways to turn normalcy to torture.”

“I’ve bathed you before,” Hannibal reminds. “In Florence, before our dinner with Jack.” Will
stiffens, the memory infusing through him sharper than the muted environment the morning
has brought. It causes him to stumble, but Hannibal’s hands in his hair are cold, and
grounding. “You were unconscious, but receptive to me. I was clinical, and washed every
blemish of the world’s wear off your skin.”

“I don’t remember the bath but…I remember being clean.”

“Pampering you has never been intended as torture. I enjoy it. I hoped you would enjoy it
too, but I understand if this is a hurdle you would rather not brave, even within the act’s
simplicity.”

Will shakes his head.

“I want every intimacy with you.”

He can hear the smile in Hannibal’s voice when he responds quietly behind him, “I feel very
much the same, Will.”

“What were you thinking for dinner?” Will asks, despite himself. He wants to stray from the
subject matter, not because it frightens him, but lately due to how he wants to focus on
nothing more than this. The physicality they share; it’s new, exciting yes, but it’s also
important. He’s fulfilling his heart’s deepest desires. Addressing something that’s been buried
for years, beneath a cascade of agony and ache.

“Scallops with blood orange gastrique,” Hannibal answers brightly.

“Fairly light.”

“Yes. You seem to have plans for later.”

Will smirks to himself, then moans a little, inadvertently, when Hannibal does that stupidly
pleasurable gesture with his fingers at his temples, massaging with pristine symmetry.

He scarcely notices when one of Hannibal’s hands descends over his naked body reaching
down beyond his pelvis to cup the hardness between his legs.

“Hannibal,” he chuckles and stutters out a gasp, automatically thrusting into the ghosting
fondle, almost ticklish for how trifling it is. “What did I tell you?”

“You asked me not to touch myself, not that I couldn’t touch you.”

“That sort of implies I’m off limits too. For now.”

“Mm.” Hannibal's fingers loosely glide down the shaft. Will swallows down a groan when he
feels his dick twitch. “Do you want me to stop?”

“You’re, ehm, very convincing.”

Hannibal catches his balls in his palm and squeezes, causing Will to push up on his toes and
balance most of his weight on him. Then, those hands are gone and he’s departing to pump
body wash onto a loofa.

“I think a taste is as gratifying as any meal.”

Will bites his lip and glares sideways at Hannibal who is gazing blithely over his shoulder at
Will as he soaps himself up. Will washes the conditioner from his hair and refuses to allow
Hannibal to soap him up after the fact, snatching the loofa from him. The one true nuisance
fished from a sea of killers.

They eat in comfortable silence after their shared shower, dressed in silk robes that
remarkably keep them warm from the cave’s chill. Hannibal tells him he’ll need to head into
town to acquire scallops, much to Will’s unease. He was under the impression they wouldn’t
be leaving the cave often, but Hannibal insists that since it’s to be a “special night” he make
equitably special arrangements.

Will can’t debate that.

It is a special night. Hannibal’s appeared to pick up on that.

Hannibal dresses in overalls and a straw, stringed hat before he takes his leave. Will walks
him to the foyer of the cave, clutching the soft cotton of his shirt to drag him in for a parting
kiss.

Hannibal looks over the moon. Will rolls his eyes fondly.

Then he’s gone, and the cave is horridly quiet.

Will walks the ground three times, memorizing every nook and cranny. This isn’t any old safe
house. He genuinely feels safe here, which hasn’t happened for him in an exponential period
of time. Now he’s nursing an anxiety in his chest at Hannibal’s absence, though he knows
Hannibal being caught in a town market in Croatia is incredibly unlikely. Margot and Alana
are officially incapable of tailing them now.

Chilton is too much of an idiot to find them here.

Jack is too tired.

Will wanders to the hot spring, unable to resist bathing in the heat again. Alone, he swims
until his limbs screech with resistance, tired also. Bones mellowed from the hot water, he is
forced to lie on his back on the stone when he’s out. The cave ceiling is jagged, pointing
down at him like a wall of spikes.

He ponders what would happen if they started to descend, aimed to puncture.

He spends the rest of his day in the living room, examining every book on the shelves
decorating the walls. He discovers a burgundy cardboard box on the shelves, out of place
amongst encyclopedias and philosophy non-fictions, that he pulls out, expecting to find even
dustier books, yet is pleasantly surprised to find rows of circular film reels instead. Searching
the rest of the small space, it isn’t a hassle to find the switch that lowers a projector from the
ceiling. Rich folks are quite insane, Will concludes.

He’d wondered why the wall anterior to the projector was painted white. He manually dims
the lights to near pitch blackness and inserts a random film reel into the reel projector.

It is an Italian film titled Rome Open City.

He doesn’t understand the language, but he watches it, moved by the performances and on-
location shooting. Through his empathy, he rarely needs subtitles to experience international
films properly.

When he’s finished and the screen repeats the same frame of staticy gray color, Hannibal still
hasn’t returned. That’s not necessarily bad. It’s a lengthy trip into the cave and back, and into
town.

Will takes a nap on the couch.

He’s woken up by a thumb on his cheek, caressing.

Hannibal is watching him with adoration, smelling of spices and nature. Will struggles to sit
up with the crick in his back, embarrassed to realize he’s still in the same robe from earlier
this morning. He’d only taken it off for the hot spring then replaced it on his trek to the living
room. The projector is off at least; Hannibal must have taken care of it. He takes care of
everything.

“Dinner is served,” Hannibal informs, smiling at Will’s frown.

“I couldn’t have been out that long.”

“I’m afraid you were.”

“Hold on, I’m recharging. I’ll be there in a minute,” he blunders, shutting his eyes through
the vertigo from leaning upwards too fast. “Jesus, I’m getting old.”

“With the right exercise regimen and a proper diet, your body would feel right as rain.”

“You of all people shouldn’t play nutritionist.”

“You may soon change your mind once you taste the scallops.”

“Lead the way to the bistro, then.”

Hannibal smiles wider, helping Will to his feet. The film reels are abandoned for now, but
Will would like to bring Hannibal back to watch something later. A reenactment of the day
they watched a film together for the first time, but perhaps with a more pleasing conclusion
for both parties involved.

The scallops are unbelievably delicious.

It annoys him in equal measure with satisfying him.

However, when they finish their meals and conversation dwindles down to a final few sips of
wine, Will sets his glass down and meets Hannibal’s eyes with mettle.

“I’ve been waiting all day for our game,” he murmurs.

He’s aiming for sultry. He might have hit ‘not nervous’ if he’s lucky.

Hannibal bows his head in a nod. “Do you wish to finally enlighten me?”

Will’s smirk is deadly.

“Oh yes.”
Hannibal doesn’t pry further. He allows Will to clear away the dishes to the sink, idling in his
chair as goes Will’s unspoken request. He inhales dramatically upon Will’s return to the
dining table.

“Stand.”

Hannibal stands, towering over Will. It doesn’t diminish the power Will feels collecting in his
fingertips. He clasps Hannibal’s shoulders and strokes down the length of his arms until their
fingers overlap, then he locks their hands together which draws a playful, yet curious look
out of Hannibal.

“I want you to chase me.”

The beat drops, in a sense.

“Chase you.”

“Yes. Not…” Will’s eyes frenetically fall down between them, searching for the right words.
All his mental practicing earlier is flying out the window in the face of his arousal, his
anticipation. “Not an outright chase. Do you remember the catacombs?”

Hannibal purses his lips. “Vividly.”

“I searched so long for you, tortured by knowing you were in the catacombs with me, but
managing to evade me at every turn. I’d like to…see if I can accomplish something similar.”

Though he hums agreeably, Hannibal appears circumspect.

“A game implies a prize.”

“I’ll give you thirty minutes to find me,” Will whispers, giving him a belated nod. “That’s
more than enough time for you. If you can find me before the thirty minutes are up…”

Hannibal’s eyes meet his own, and Will quirks a smile.

“You can fuck me.”

Hannibal is virtually unreadable when he asks low, “And if I don’t?”

“I get to fuck you.”

“Is there a catch?”

“Does there have to be a catch?”

Hannibal shakes his head, and caresses Will’s cheek scar with rare sincerity. “If you do not
want this of yourself, making a game of it won’t simply make your feelings on the matter go
away.”

“I know. This isn’t avoidance. I want it.”

“What is it then?”

“Flipping a coin,” Will retorts.

“And this isn’t simultaneously reenacting the crime?” Hannibal murmurs, kissing where he
just caressed. Will pushes into the contact, hissing at him in dissonance to the movement.

“I don’t remember a crime in the catacombs, do you?”

“The crime of forgiveness.”

“I never intended to stab you there. I just wanted to see you.”

When Hannibal doesn’t look convinced, Will swerves to retreat. “If you don’t want to play
the game, you could just tell me outright — ”

Hannibal’s hand clamps down around Will’s throat, dragging him back so that their bodies
are flush. With a gasp, Will registers the feeling of Hannibal’s furiously erect cock prodding
his backside.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

Will gulps coarsely, sure he can feel Hannibal's pulse in the unrelenting clench of his hand.

“I’ll give you sixty seconds to run. After that, it’s free range.”

The eroticism rushes through Will like adrenaline and he nods.

His throat is released and he stumbles over his feet only for a second before he’s glancing at
Hannibal, obviously counting to sixty in his head with a cool, dangerously unreasonable look
in his eye. Then Will’s darting off through the corridors of the cave, a goal in mind. His heart
pounds like he’s being chased by a killer. That’s what he wanted.

There are several quaint studies and sitting rooms beyond the main living room, so he heads
there to start. It’s not difficult to slip like a shadow into the study at the far end of the
corridor. It is adjoined to another hall that leads back to the hot spring, so if he hears
Hannibal coming he’ll be able to wind off in that direction.

He keeps his back splayed to a floral patterned room divider, his stillness blending in with the
samurai statue standing tall next to him. He presses a hand over his mouth to squash the
abrasive sound of his strained breathing.

The lights flickering off startle him, but he doesn’t lose track of counting in his head. He’s
almost at six minutes now, but he’ll only start to feel like he’s making progress at the fifteen
minute mark.

Footsteps clip down the corridor, growing louder now.

Will waits until the lights flicker on again from Hannibal’s oncoming route to where he is
before he’s maneuvering out the back door of the sitting room, entering the warmest hall in
the entire cave. He considers briefly hiding in the hot spring and holding his breath while he
plasters himself to the sidings if Hannibal were to enter, but he fears that’d be a childish
move in their overarching game of chess.

He quietly progresses down the hall while Hannibal no doubt searches the sitting room, and
he’s nearly at the level of self-confidence when he emerges into the central living room,
where the reel projector is still set up. Will’s looking over his shoulder as he saunters off to
the second door at the opposite end.

He opens it, then rams into a bouldering presence.

Hannibal smirks at the severe alarm on Will’s face.

Will tames his expression, brushing off the sleeve of his robe. “You’re fast,” he murmurs,
disappointed that he couldn’t last even eight minutes tops. “Didn’t even hear you.”

“You forgot how often I rely on my nose.”

It’s Will’s turn to smirk.

“Did I?” he remarks, tone inviting.

Hannibal’s blinks through the rare surprise before his smirk shifts into something hungry.
“You are a difficult man to read, Will Graham.”

It’s unreal how much he likes hearing his full name on Hannibal’s tongue.

“How do you intend to collect your prize, Dr. Lecter?”

Will’s legs are swept off the floor.

He’s been scooped up in large, burly arms. Every bone in his body begs for him to barrage
Hannibal with bitter requests to put him down, but the sliver of himself that wants to be
carried to their bedroom wins over, and he grasps Hannibal’s face in both hands to tilt him
forward for a kiss steeped in desire.

He laughs through the kiss and holds on tighter when Hannibal jumps over a lump in the
hallway carpet as they traverse faster through the rocky corridors.

The door to their bedroom is slammed shut with Hannibal’s foot as they devour each other’s
lips, the kiss becoming profoundly heated despite Will’s awkward position cradled in his
arms. He almost forgets to let go of his grip on Hannibal’s hair as he’s deposited to the bed
sheets once again.

They don’t waste time with pleasantries this time around. Will tears his robe off, tossing it far
from him some place on the bedroom floor. Hannibal leaves and returns in a flash, fully
bared, with a jar of what Will presumes to be lube. His heart rattles like a snake’s tail,
thousands of emotions screaming for release from him. The sight cements the reality of what
they’re doing, what they’re going to be doing.
What Will wants Hannibal to do to him.

“Never letting you carry me again,” he mutters when Hannibal has drawn the canopy curtains
closed around them, encapsulating their union. Hannibal shushes him softly, parting Will’s
thighs with his knees. “This is far preferable to how our rendezvous in the catacombs
ended.”

“Quite,” Hannibal rasps, kissing him with fragility.

“How much is this gonna hurt?” Will asks, for the sake of knowing.

“Trust in me, Will. There will be ache, but I do not want this experience,” Hannibal kisses up
his thighs, mouthing longingly over Will’s balls before Will oversensitively tugs at his hair,
“to be anything more than a manifestation of your most voracious sexual appetites resulting
in satiation.”

Will pets over Hannibal’s dry hair, marveling at the love he has for him.

“I trust you,” he responds with quiet certainty, and these words expose more about him than
his recent love confessions have, in truth.

“Turn over,” Hannibal urges, gently pushing at his hip. Will flips over, shifting pert nipples
over the silk sheets, grimacing from how the fabric flows over his stiff cock. “Beautiful.”

Hannibal lavishes his spine with kisses and pecks, a place he hasn’t had the opportunity to
express his desire nearly as much. He massages Will’s shoulders as he descends, scraping a
stubbly cheek over one ass cheek. Will tenses up, but convinces himself to relax as Hannibal
moves further south.

Relaxation flies out the window when Hannibal’s tongue flattens on his exposed hole.

“Wait,” Will stammers. “Hannibal, that’s — ugh.”

Hannibal doesn’t wait; he laps at his hole like it's the best thing he’s tasted all night, and
holds Will in place with strong hands bruising the jut of his hip bones. Will smacks his palms
against the sheets as Hannibal starts to point his tongue and jab it lightly against his
fluttering, confused opening.

“Y-You don’t need to — ” Will turns his whine into a pillow, “Fucking hell.”

How this feels like heaven, Will couldn’t say.

Last night, Hannibal proved that having fingers inside him is a wildly pleasurable act.
Tonight, apparently, Hannibal is teaching him something else entirely.

Hannibal growls at Will’s responsive noises, tightens his hands on him, and sloppily mouths
at his hole rather than keeping up with precision. Will gives up on the bare minimum
resistance he was doling out and just takes it, burying his hands in his own hair as Hannibal
eats him out.
He’s on the verge of tears when Hannibal adds the first finger. It fits in perfectly where he’s
now slightly gaping, body desperate for more intimate intrusion. Hannibal crooks the digit
just right, and Will feels the zap of pleasure string through his cock so fiercely he directly
leaks from it.

He paws at the sheets, grinding back on his tongue even amid his confusion. He wants more
of it, that’s the mantra he plays in his head. More, let Hannibal give you more.

“Deep breaths, Will.” Hannibal’s voice reverberates on the dip of his spine before he’s kissed
there and a second, slicked finger is sliding in beside the first. A numb aching sting pangs
through his rim, a throbbing that diminishes as quickly as his dignity as the two fingers pump
into him rather than prod.

“Guh.”

Will can really only manage grunts presently, though he wishes he could express how
Hannibal is revealing to him a whole new world of vices he never knew he could succumb
to.

The fingers scissor, press, pry. Pull at his resisting rim with come hither motions until he
loosens there and allows for a deeper thrust of them, once more seeking out his prostate.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Hannibal persuades, finger fucking him harder. There is
static in Will’s brain that fizzles louder when he does it, and makes it infinitely difficult to
come up with a response.

“Full,” Will utters, gasping when Hannibal grazes his prostate firmly, milking prostatic fluid
from him with expert ease. “Can’t think.”

“That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

A squelching sound causes Will to wince as the two skilled fingers are plucked from his sore
ass. He trembles through the rippling icy hot echoes of Hannibal’s touch as the lubricant jar is
reopened and more of its clear contents is scooped out and slathered on his hole. He flinches
away, sensitized.

“Are you close, Will?”

That’s hard to say. He’s not sure if he’ll orgasm from this, but what he feels when Hannibal is
inside him exceeds any parameters of bliss he’s familiar with. It’s nearly better than coming.

“I feel like I’m…balancing on the roof of a skyscraper. I don’t know how I haven’t fallen
yet,” he manages, turning his head to the left so he can heave in gusts of cool air.

Hannibal takes advantage of the position to kiss his lips chastely before returning between his
legs to settle. “This is the stage when you’ll feel the stretch the most,” he warns, working two
fingers back into Will’s ass before the knuckle of a third pushes up against his throbbing rim.
Will shudders as the third fingertip pries him open, and a bright burn spreads through his
lower half.
It isn’t bad. It’s nothing compared to what’s been done to him before.

“Fuck.” Will hisses into the pillow, tugging at his own curls again when Hannibal sinks all
three of them as deep as possible, and studies his inner walls with them.

“You’re doing so well.”

The praise seeps into Will like honey, softening the tension inside him.

It makes it easier for Hannibal to change from the tender scissoring to the consistent thrust of
three fingers in and out of his clenching hole. With each pass, his prostate is brushed, causing
him to whimper desperately and spill a steady stream. He fears the stain he’ll find underneath
when they’re finished.

“Please,” he begs, syllables elongated.

The wait is what is most agonizing. He can't stand it.

It’s worse than starvation. Worse than hurting an innocent.

“To hear you beg is to hear an angel sing.”

“You’re killing me,” Will complains, lower back arching as Hannibal splays the fingers
inside him taut and touches all the untapped fleshy divots. “God, just — ”

The fingers retract. He’s startled by the way his body flutters around nothing afterward, as if
waiting for the intrusion to return. But Will is aware Hannibal is through with stalling.

He can feel the man’s arousal like a winter tide.

It washes over him as Hannibal bends close, perky nipples greeting Will’s backside. The
shivers are threatening to shake Will out of his skin as Hannibal’s lubricated cock bumps
against the crease of his ass. Hannibal ruts, relishing to begin with, pleased by how the tip
catches on Will’s swollen rim.

Will isn’t so patient. He reaches back and haphazardly lines his dick up with his hole,
grunting when the tip effortlessly pops through the ring of muscle still unaccustomed to
penetration.

After that, it’s all instinct.

Hannibal blankets himself over Will, sinking deeper, consciously careful of not hurting Will.
Will muffles pleading moans into the sheets, grappling for purchase in the rumple of them.

A kiss is planted on his nape before Hannibal bottoms out, causing them both to gasp. They
pant in synchronization, Hannibal’s elbows lowering to border his own, hot lips still pressed
to his neck. Will is shaking so intensely, he can’t tell if Hannibal is too, but he suspects the
condition they suffer from is identical.

“Okay?” Hannibal asks, sounding afflicted by his humanity.

“Uh-huh,” comes Will’s high-pitched reply.

Hannibal begins to move, pulling his long cock out of Will in a slow, dreadful drag, before
pushing it back in. The thrust sparks behind Will’s closed eyes, and he’s almost positive he
sees new colors. Then, the next clinging tug of his rim isn’t so dreadful, and Will falls victim
to the pleasure of the act.

Once he gets over something being inside his ass of all places, it’s better than he could have
ever expected. If not better than any sex he’s committed to before in his life.

The speed of the thrusts increases once Hannibal seems certain Will isn’t going to run away,
or scream, though if he keeps hitting his prostate head on just a few more times, Will might
release a scream of a different kind. He finds himself pushing back against the rocking of
Hannibal’s hips.

A smile flashes on Will’s neck as Hannibal slaps into him with ferocity just as Will shifts
hard into the forward cant of his hips, causing an obscene moan to tear from Will’s throat.

“Harder?” Hannibal’s breath puffs against his ear. Will grimaces from how desperate he
becomes once Hannibal covers his fisted hands with own, outstretched hands. “Or slower,
perhaps?”

The pace slows to a crawl.

That goes on for a while, both of them luxuriating in the contact, the connection. Will whines
softly as Hannibal lathers the backside of him with wet, lippy adoration as all he can do is
emit noises into his pillow. The tip of his own dick brushing over silk is a sensation he never
knew he needed. And yet;

Will lets the inquiries hang in the air as he revels at being broken in. His knees have propped
up so he can arch closer to Hannibal's pummeling hips. When he assumed he’d be dominated
today, he didn’t realize how much of a team effort this would be. And of course it is; it’s
them, and they’ll always be coiled around each other, inescapable. “More, Hannibal, oh hell,
more,” Will babbles, sweat streaking the pillowcase as he’s jolted back and forth. The grunt
of Hannibal doing as he’s told is beautiful, and he wants to kiss him. See him.

“On my back,” Will pleads. “I wanna see you.”

He delights in the way Hannibal’s hips stutter, and he seems to forget how to stop, lost in him
as he is. He has to push his forehead against the top of Will’s spine and suck in a sharp breath
before decisively pulling out. He admires Will’s undoubtedly reddened rim and only then
does he allow him to turn himself over. If Will thought Hannibal was composed during their
copulation, he was wrong.

Hannibal is trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears. He averts his eyes, locating a pillow
to prop under Will’s hips likely because the angling can reap the most benefits.

Will’s lips pout from the sight of Hannibal bowing over him, looking far too overwhelmed to
be going at this alone, so he pulls Hannibal down atop top of him, scarcely an inch that isn’t
touching, then lines his cock back up to let Hannibal sink inside the hot clutch of his body.
Will’s eyes flutter, roll up for a moment before Hannibal kisses him back down to Earth and
starts to fuck him harder than before.

“Yes.” Tingles spread over Will, the new angle full of electricity.

Their scars align as Hannibal pulls Will’s hands above his head so that their inner arms brush
together while they make love. His are still fairly raw, so he can’t help but to quail, however
he doesn’t shy away from the sensation, intertwining their fingers as tight as he possibly can
so they continue nudging.

“You feel so fucking good,” Will moans as his prostate is ground against with more intensity.
That’s not why he wanted to have sex in this position, though. He wants to hold Hannibal in
his arms while he comes apart, while they both do.

Hannibal lets out a purr, kisses turning frantic, buzzing all over his upper body.

Will’s moans are punctuating, both of them chasing their peaks.

Hannibal latches onto his throat, which Will assumes foremost is out of a desire to mark him,
but soon understands it more as an animalistic trait of holding one’s mate down by the nape
until they’re sufficiently mounted. Will’s knees are bent in the crook of Hannibal’s elbows
but he moves them out of the support so that they hug Hannibal’s hips, widening his stance
for him to fuck him deeper, steadier.

One fierce thrust knocks them both a few inches up the bed.

Will groans, sinking nails into Hannibal’s back. Hannibal’s teeth dig in harder.

He reaches down to touch himself and Hannibal growls out an unintelligible warning before
balancing himself on one hand over Will and snaking a hand between them to jerk him off.

Leave it to Hannibal to master the art of a hand job because Will is coming in the next breath,
clenching hard around the cock fucking him as he spurts and cries out, and loses his grip on
Hannibal’s slippery shoulders. His body is vibrating as his orgasm crests, shaking and
thrashing through the throes.

All the while, Hannibal rides the waves with him, releasing into Will’s warm, fluttering hole.
Tears drop from his eyes, stinging the bleeding spot on Will’s neck he’d been gnawing on.

They twitch against each other.

Will’s muscles go completely lax, and Hannibal becomes more or less deadweight on top of
him.

“I love you,” Hannibal whispers, a tone of surprise at himself in his broken voice. “I’ve never
been more satisfied with anything else my entire life, Will. I want you to know that.”

Will grins lazily, clenching purposefully on Hannibal’s softening dick just to feel him squirm.
Their bodies disconnect, Hannibal’s wet dick plopping on Will’s thigh, a trail of come
following.

“You’re the love of my life, Hannibal,” he musters. “That much will always be true.”

“How was it for you?”

“Could you not hear my war cries?”

Hannibal chuckles, more indulgent after coitus than he ever is. “I suppose I could. You really
are quite loud, Will. I’ll have to remember to be delicate with you when we’re not home.”

“I’m sure you were just as loud the first time someone fucked your ass,” Will grumbles.

“Quite the contrary.”

Will raises a brow but Hannibal rewards him with a placating kiss.

“Another time,” he murmurs, changing subjects. “I enjoy when we climax together.”

“I’m way too sober for this conversation.”

“I’m not disagreeable towards plying you with drinks.” Hannibal smiles, eyes focusing on the
middle distance. “I wonder what I could get you to admit under the influence.”

Will shimmies upward until his head is fully settled on a pillow. Hannibal isn’t far behind,
nudging up beside him so they can share it, purring softly. Will strokes Hannibal’s face,
feeling warm and satiated. Truly empowered for having Hannibal, being with him. Knowing
what’s shrouded behind the veil.

“I told you I’d tell you anything. Even if it makes me uncomfortable,” Will affirms. “I’ll tell
you I love you, even when I am angry with you. I’ll tell you that was the best sex of my life,
if you need it to feed your ego.”

“Was it?” Hannibal teases, eyes glittering.

“You know it was,” Will mutters seriously. “It’s you.”

Hannibal modulates his amusement, raising one of Will’s hands between them so he can kiss
his knuckles and whisper back, “Always and forever, you.”

Will wakes up splayed over Hannibal’s nude body.

He shifts, cracking his neck, and blinks at the arousal impossibly pooling in his groin. He
shimmies around to get more comfortable, cautious not to wake Hannibal up, and gasps when
he discovers Hannibal’s cock half-erect under his thighs.
Will shoots a wry look at Hannibal’s peaceful sleeping face, eyes flickering under paper thin
eyelids and lips slightly parted to breathe deeply and evenly. Human. Will rolls so he’s
straddling him fully, and doesn't think about anything other than how his skin is strumming
with need by the time he starts to grind over Hannibal’s cock, inspiring it to harden.

He remembers the sex they had last night, how perfect that union was.

He balances his hands on the headboard, closing his eyes as his mind gives way to a cloud of
desire the longer he goes at it. He’s shocked Hannibal hasn’t woken up yet, but he will soon.
He’s even more shocked when the tip of Hannibal’s dick catches on his rim, and there isn’t an
ounce of pain.

Fractionally, he sinks lower, and gets turned on by the way Hannibal grimaces and huffs in
his sleep. It would seem Will’s still wet and open from last night. He remembers with a thrill,
he didn’t take a shower before they fell asleep, and Hannibal’s release is likely sloshing
inside him, easing the friction.

Will can’t hold back his noises (especially with inhibitions lowered so drastically) when it
comes to dropping himself down on Hannibal’s length, the bed frame creaking as it jerks it
incidentally.

That’s naturally when Hannibal’s muscles tense and his eyes fly open.

There is a fire in Hannibal’s gaze on impact, burning just for him, and Will throws his head
back and rides him harder, unable to suppress his open-mouthed grin when Hannibal clutches
at his hips.

“Couldn’t help it,” Will exhales into a moan. “I wanted you.”

“You can have me every second of every day, amore mio.”

The Italian endearment has him clenching and leaking all over Hannibal’s lap. Will collapses
forward, balancing unsteady arms on Hannibal’s sternum as he grinds back and forth on his
dick. Hannibal is fully erect inside him now, and there’s almost not enough lube to ease the
way, but the pleasure is too vast to fret about such things. If he’d been worried about the pain
of penetration before, it’ll become an afterthought after this morning. He doesn’t realize he’s
squeezing Hannibal’s pecs (like he would a woman’s breast) until he notices Hannibal
smiling fiendishly up at him, like the little know-it-all he is.

It’s not his fault Hannibal’s pecs are so squeezable.

“Are you just going to lie there and let me do all the work?’ Will barks out, dragging his
hands down to Hannibal’s stomach where he can push himself into short little bursts of
thrusts.

Hannibal licks his lips and watches him ride his cock for a minute longer before he surges up
like a beast and tackles Will’s mouth with his own. “Mmf!” Will is jolted, and somehow
manages not to get wasted flat on his back. Their position now has Will sitting in his lap as
Hannibal is vertically parallel to him, hands dipping down under his cheeks to hold him in
place before he ruthlessly pounds his ass.

Will falls into him, a series of dazed moans escaping him. He couldn’t hold them back if he
tried, too busy holding onto Hannibal for dear life as he’s used like nothing more than a hole.

He likes being held and manipulated like that.

Not that he’ll wax poetic on that truth to Hannibal.

They don’t come together this time, but Will comes without a hand on his cock, spurting with
an agonized wail between them. Hannibal continues grinding into him, snarling in his ear as
he relents.

“Come on, Hannibal,” Will bites at his ear. “I’ll give you a hand in the shower.”

It’s dinner time again, and Will convinces Hannibal to make a portable dinner (turkey
sandwiches on luxury bread with thinly sliced pepper jack cheese and banana peppers) they
can carry to the living room. He’s more amenable when Will mentions the films he found,
and how he’d like to watch another with him. Plus, Will has the traditional persuasion of sex
on his side now.

Hannibal is quite amenable to that.

They watch Mildred Pierce, which doesn’t have a plot either of them can royally relate to, but
Hannibal greatly enjoys Joan Crawford’s performance while Will admires the
cinematography.

It’s long after their lunches are finished and the film is nearing a close that Will can’t combat
the impulse to inch closer to him on the couch, under another one of their shared blankets.

Hannibal smirks at his sleuthing, opening up one arm to draw him in.

Will goes, kissing at his mottled neck gratefully. “This is a serious problem,” he posits,
sucking over a hickie he made earlier when they revisited the hot spring. “I can’t get enough
of you.”

“How is that a problem?” Hannibal asks, humored.

“Dunno. Feels like something has to snap. Like it’ll bite me on the ass in the future if I’m not
treading lightly.” Will entirely disregards the remainder of the film as he slips his leg over
Hannibal’s lap as a wordless request to be held close to his body as he makes out with him,
and continues necking him.

“I’m optimistic you will find ‘bites on your ass’ as it is, Will.”
Will pinches him for the sass, but Hannibal simply laughs and rubs his back.

The film is still going, which translates as a personal attack to Will who would much rather
progress with what he’s already getting up to. He supposes his own cock is having trouble
rising to the occasion after all the attention it's received over the last few passionate days, but
surprisingly, Hannibal’s cock twitches under his gyrating knee. He nudges him between the
legs a bit firmer, gauging and delighting in how he inhales, predictably patient.

“You’re insatiable,” Will whispers, nipping giddily at Hannibal’s lips.

Chastisingly, Hannibal turns to pierce him with a glare.

He doesn’t need to remind him he was locked up for three years. Will remembers it all too
well, just as he remembers the cold comforts he would participate in with Molly when all
he’d be doing was imagining Hannibal in his cell reading a book. It would be enough. It
would have always been enough, but it was never like what this is. Having Hannibal instead
of having him only in the shape of a memory.

He wants him all the time. He understands why Hannibal wants him as well.

“Want me to touch you?” Will asks, nudging harder.

Hannibal looks conflicted. He’s more invested in the movie than Will, but he’s more invested
in Will than anything else on the planet. Which, in theory, shouldn’t make it a hard decision,
but Will isn’t going to force him to decide.

“Keep watching the film,” he encourages, licking at his ear before he descends. He abandons
Hannibal with unanswered questions in the man’s eyes, burrowing under the quilt.

He’s wanted to try this since Hannibal did it to him.

There is trepidation, and generational hesitation. He was raised in a manner many young boys
are raised with. To believe cock sucking is demeaning, even if you accept homosexuality.
Over time, his beliefs gave way to revelations about societal influences and norms. This
doesn’t have to be demeaning.

This is about giving someone he loves pleasure, he tells himself, pulling the drawstring of
Hannibal’s pajama pants so he can freely fish out Hannibal’s cock from its confines.

Under the blanket, the musky scent is more concentrated than it would be outside of it, but
it’s not bad. Hannibal’s perfected his hygiene and diet, and he honestly smells similar to an
unsullied forest.

Using a single hand in the cramped space, he angles the cock to his mouth and licks the tip.
Hannibal isn’t a vocal man, so hearing the prolonged hissing groan it wrings out of him fills
Will’s belly with molten lava. He licks again, pleased to discover his taste is just a stronger
version of his scent. He moves his hand away so he can wrap lips around the tip and suck. It
feels like it takes up all the space in his mouth, which he logically knows it doesn’t, but fears
he won’t be able to take more. He prays this is enough.
Even in the dim light underneath the quilt, Will can see Hannibal’s thighs flexing.

He hums around his cock, feeling Hannibal’s responses since he can’t see him. He wraps his
hand around his cock again, pumping him up into his mouth, encouraging him closer to
release. The hips under him jump, and he almost chokes, pulling away briefly. One of
Hannibal’s arms glides under the blanket and finds his head, stroking apologetically at his
curls. Will wants to tell him he didn’t mind, not really, but he likes the speechless state
they’ve both found themselves in and returns to suckling the tip.

“Will…” Hannibal says, a whisper boarding on a sigh.

Will moans around him to let him know he hears, sinking down as far as he can. His throat
spasms but he holds his position stubbornly until he truly can’t stand it then sucks upward,
popping off with a hoarse cough. He sinks right back down, using his hand to jerk him again
as he sucks the head.

It takes no more than two minutes for Hannibal to attempt to pull Will off his cock. Will
swats him away, adding a second hand to pump his dick over his tongue harder — liking the
way his foreskin grows slicker with arousal — bobbing over the tip to demonstrate exactly
where he wants Hannibal to spill.

There’s a strangled emission followed by a grunt, and then a bitter-tasting release splashing
over the back of Will’s tongue. It isn’t the taste so much as the texture that has him gagging
slightly, but he swallows every drop. And there’s a lot of drops.

Will is also positive Hannibal tore strands of his hair out when he came.

He tucks him away with a smile, kissing the bulge in his pants before pushing the quilt off
himself, the air immediately harsh on his sweat-tacky skin. Hannibal’s neck is craned back on
the couch cushions, veins visible as he pants. Will licks his lips and across his teeth where
Hannibal’s taste lingers, smirking.

“How was the ending?” Will questions climbing over his lap for a kiss. Hannibal doesn’t
recoil from his own taste, penetrating Will’s mouth with wanton strokes of his tongue to
dredge up more of it.

They kiss ravenously for a bewitching interim, Will forgetting what he asked by the time
Hannibal answers, stroking the hair back from his eyes.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you.”

“I think we should watch movies more often.” Will shimmies his hips in Hannibal’s lap just
to watch him wince with oversensitivity. The twinge of his brow is enough to prove he can’t
take anymore of it.

One of Hannibal’s hands travels between Will’s legs but Will clicks his tongue and mutters,
“I can’t get it up for at least another twelve hours. Unless you’ve got Viagra on hand.”

“Well — ”
 “No way in hell, Hannibal.”

“You were quite good at that for a first timer,” Hannibal decides to tell him instead, looping
arms loosely around Will’s waist.

“I’m going to pretend that isn’t a backhanded compliment.”

Hannibal purses his lips. Will pecks them, a smile quirking his features.

“Let’s get a midnight snack.”

The next day, Will decides he needs to go into town for Wi-Fi. The only downside of the cave
is the fact that there is no Wi-Fi and Hannibal had next to no clue about how to set it up here,
but apparently knows of a café in town that offers free connection. Will chooses to go alone,
curious to explore the boroughs.

“Be careful,” Hannibal warns, tying the string of Will’s new, brown straw hat.

He had no clue until this morning Hannibal also bought him overalls. They fit him perfectly;
Hannibal never misses with his measurements, always adapting to his weight gains and losses
effortlessly.

Will is kissed where the row boat is docked.

Hannibal slips him the phone that hasn’t been connected for days and informs him of the
proper passwords. “And don’t forget,” he adds, a sinister tease, “if you never return, I will be
stranded here and entombed over the course of time’s cruel evolution. I dearly hope you
come back for me.”

“If you get entombed, don’t take it personally,” Will jokes.

They kiss again, Hannibal’s hands on his waist still capable of making his mind fizz to an
overflow, his own smile still capable of inspiring Hannibal’s own. One last peck, and Will’s
off.

Town isn’t far away. He’ll be back before the sun even sets.

Chapter End Notes

i've been insanely sick for the last several days so this is a little later than it would
normally be, also cuz this chapter was stupidly LONGGG LMAOOO. i hope you liked
my delirious porn ramblings, we're back to the plot next time i post lads, but i'm not sure
when that'll be, i'm honestly still sick :3
 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will hitch hikes to town after a lengthy jaunt through sheep-ridden fields. The gentleman
driving the pick-up truck is also a home-bodied fisherman and Will chats in broken English
with him about fish breeding and deboning methods for hefty salmon. The man, in turn, isn’t
suspicious of Will’s presence.

The drive isn’t a prolonged one, thankfully.

He’s dropped off by the outskirts of town, beside the raging river the driver had chewed over
in topic during the ride. Will watches him cast his lines before he follows a worn path to the
marketplace.

The town is bustling despite its modest population. It costs him a brief interlude of
eavesdropping on a clutter of French women (he knows enough baseline French to
understand them) to estimate there is a grocer’s convention taking place in the town square.
That bodes well for Will’s purpose.

He came here with the intention of connecting to the internet. That’s it, but he isn’t
disagreeable to the idea of looking around. Hannibal can survive a few more hours alone in
the cave.

With every step he takes down the brick walks, Hannibal remains on his mind.

To know he’s waiting for Will under the earth borders on supernatural. He could bury himself
away and no one would find him there. Hannibal would be entombed if abandoned, just like
he claimed. Will supposes if Hannibal were truly desperate to escape, he could swim out of
the cave, but he can’t seem to solidify that unseemly image. It causes Will to chuckle to
himself at the impossibility of Hannibal submitting to that over a dignified death.

“Only you would want to become a fossil,” Will mutters, scanning the window display of an
opulent clothing store. Hannibal slipped him a wad of kuna, with a risk-free debit card to
boot.

He could buy something for Hannibal.

He ponders that for a second.

Will goes inside without rethinking it.

Then, he very nearly regrets his actions because the store owner is speaking Croatian,
berating him with outcries of welcome and likely, haggling. Will decides he’s tired of making
a fool of himself so he gestures somberly at his throat and ears with a shrug, implying
muteness and deafness.

The store owner makes a defeated noise, chapfallen, then points him in the direction of the
sales racks. Will saunters over to the suits without considering the others. Hannibal doesn’t
have many suits on hand anymore. The clothes Murasaki supplied them with in the cave
dwelling are inspired by the man she knew in his youth. Hannibal has told him, in entirely
separate terms, that he was a bit of a hipster in his prime.

“Now, I prefer distinguished layers. An ensemble with a tie,” he’d mused.

Will can tell he’s missed it. The three-piece flair of it all.

There’s a specific suit that stands out to him; it screams Hannibal in color, fit, style. Slightly
out there even for a campy aristocrat, but elegant enough to pass as Avant Garde. The outer
suit is charcoal tweed, a fathomless gray Will can picture complementing Hannibal’s hair
color. The inner vest is an identical color, with a maroon red button up to piece it all together
under that, and a plaid maroon and beige tie.

Red may be Hannibal’s color, if Will had to pick one.

He can’t think of a color that wouldn’t look good on him.

Hannibal would parlay finesse even in vomit green.

Will was never much of a window shopper, so once his mind is made up on the suit, he goes
up to the front desk much to the shop owner’s glee. It seems to be pricey, which is no doubt
why he’s gleaming, but Will doesn’t care when it’s not his money to begin with. If Hannibal
tells him to be careful with money, then he’ll start being careful. Otherwise, Hannibal
ceaselessly nags him to treat himself, so why not?

He is treating himself. By treating Hannibal.

He walks out of there with a new suit and a new tote bag. Hannibal won’t be pleased about
the tote bag. It’s ugly, with teal flowers woven into it, but it was the safest method available
to him for carrying around such an expensive article. Will doesn’t mind swaying it back and
forth on his stroll through town.

Town square isn’t too far off. Luxury stores begin to blend into food stops and public
bathrooms. Museums and Town Hall. Perhaps it’s just the one large pillared building that
includes all of those things.

The scents in the air are savory.

Though there is a grocer’s convention happening, the food stalls all seem to be catering
kabobs and barbecued meats. Will passes up a toothpick with seared duck meat held out to
him by a dancing woman, give or say ten years younger than him. She winks and he finds,
with a bout of alleviation, that he isn’t tempted by her. He’s always been weak to the sight of
a beautiful woman, but things have changed.
Will has changed.

He feared once his brain chemistry wouldn’t allow it. He’s under no assumption that
sexuality cannot bend, though he knows himself , and he knows he is — was a man who
never looked twice at another man. Not like that. Not until Hannibal crawled under every
bolted door and pried it open with the seductive hands of a wendigo. Then, Will wanted those
hands to curl over him and press bruises bone deep.

“Do you fish?” the woman asks him, in clear English.

Will’s tossed out of his sultry trance. The crowd bustles around them, and she doesn’t waste
time waiting for him to come up with an excuse not to answer her, turning and offering the
residents, and perhaps a few out-of-town but not out-of-country tourists, the seasoned duck
meat.

“I can tell you’re an American,” she explains loudly over the ocean of voices and music,
flashing her seaglass-green eyes at him. “There’s an aura, almost. And I can tell you’re a
fisherman…” she saunters up to him, extending the duck again. He takes it and gnaws
through the gamey cube. Though the texture is aberrant, the taste is actually quite delicious,
“because of the way you tie the knot of your hat.”

She plucks at the string hanging under his chin.

He chuckles, caught off guard.

Will is forced to consider if Hannibal tied his hat like this for a reason; perhaps it’s a request
that he bring something freshwater home. He’s not sure if it’s presumptuous to consider
Halibut, at its usual price.

“I guess I’ve been called out,” he admits, with put-upon sheepishness. “My name’s Simon.
Visiting old family here, thought I’d stop by for some good old rubbernecking, maybe some
sport.”

“Vita,” she greets, arms crossed. “You won’t find a seafood supply ‘round these parts. I have
a friend who works by the fishing holes. The supply will be on sale today, because of the
convention.”

“Does he pay you for the promotion?” Will cracks, compelling himself to smile.

Vita roars with laughter.

“No, no, but he’ll pay for it in some other way if he doesn’t give back a little, yeah? How
‘bout it, Mr. America? I’ll even come with, to point you in the right direction.”

Will’s brow cinches together as he considers. Hannibal apparently wants him to bring home
fish, or seafood (why he couldn’t just communicate that outright, he’ll never understand) but
he’s fairly certain Vita is flirting with him, brazenly, and perhaps the fishing holes are a front
for something else entirely.
“I need to grab something at the café, actually,” he says, frowning at her evident
disappointment. “I might make my way back around town, though. If that’s the case, I’ll keep
a look out for you.”

“I’ll be here till the convention’s finished,” she informs, waving as he departs.

It isn’t until he’s in the café that he realizes how dangerous that interaction could have been.
If she recognized him as an American, it isn’t altogether unlikely that she could be apprised
on American breaking news. It hasn’t been long enough for America to stop talking about
him and Hannibal.

Not yet.

Trying to get the anxiety off his plate for the present, he orders a black coffee and a walnut
roll. There is a small booth in the corner that, while round, would only fit two average sized
individuals so he doesn’t feel as if he’s taking up valuable space. His toasted roll grows cold
and his coffee is left steaming up to the plastered ceiling as he turns on Hannibal’s tablet and
indiscreetly—frantically, however—connects to the internet.

The connection is slow and he takes a nervous sip of his coffee.

Will hisses through his teeth at the taste. Hannibal would ironically call the drink low-tar, or
something equally damning. He sets it down and pledges not to touch the rest.

The second the upside down segmented triangle goes blue, Will types in Tattlecrime’s URL.

He inhales deeply at the sight of the most recent news.

Apparently, Margot and Alana’s trial has been ongoing, but the outlook of the verdict looks to
be that Alana will face life in prison for her involvement in Mason’s murder, her involvement
in Matthew Brown’s breakout, and because of the evidence Hannibal planted against both her
and her wife that condemn them for his non-sanctioned murder. Margot, it seems is getting
more off the hook (through some technicalities of evidence found at Matthew Brown’s crime
scene—courtesy of Hannibal’s continual soft spot for her) but is still facing an exponential
chunk of time in prison for what happened to Mason.

Parole is likely for her, though, and that relieves Will mildly.

Freddie has wholly given up keeping her word over the ‘No Murder Husbands’ stipulation,
and he supposes she has the right not to keep that up despite how it grates on his nerves like
nothing else.

Not many individuals in their right mind would keep a promise to a killer.

Or to a man who ran away with a killer.

He clicks on an article that reads;

 Alana Bloom, Former CEO of BSHCI, Blames Heinous Crimes on Notorious Murder
Husbands!

There are various paragraphs on the trial he skips over, able to predict without a shadow of a
doubt the contents of the trial. He’s been in enough hectic court rooms in his lifetime to
understand their geometry.

Fidgeting with the agitation Freddie’s creative voice brings him, he rapidly scrolls to the
bottom where finally, he and Hannibal are mentioned in block quotes from Alana’s
testimonies.

Alana Bloom has been referred to as delirious and attention-seeking in the press for using the
most obviously biased scapegoat; the Murder Husbands themselves. In Bloom’s testimony
today, here’s what she had to say about her ex-lover and his potential new lover’s
involvement in Brown’s turmoil.

“At this point, I have no clue what to say to you…you’re sheep, all of you. Here we sit
time and time again, allowing Hannibal Lecter to lie to the world, and we believe it
because he’s the expert, we believe it because we’re the fools. You’re condemning a
woman who has dedicated her life to protecting her son and wife from that monster,
and you say I’m to blame when you all know it’s him. You know it, and I know it, and
yet we’re acting like Mason Verger’s death is worthy of ignoring the obvious. He’s out
there right now and he’s more dangerous than he’s ever been because he’s in love.
You don’t want to see a maniac in love. A part of me is relieved to be locked away safe,
because he’ll eat you all.”

Truly, the sentiments of a frightened sociopath fresh out of luck. There were no traces of
Hannibal Lecter nor Will Graham at the scene of the Matthew Brown crime, nor the property
the Vergers had been hiding in, in an effort to evade the authorities. The last time the
Husbands were heard of was Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier’s untimely death in Italy, where
Graham debuted his first ever tableau on the lam with Lecter. It is unknown where their
current whereabouts are, or if they plan to strike again.

More on the Verger trial next week.

Will sets down the tablet. Takes a bite of his walnut roll.

It’s cold, but at least it tastes okay.

Funny how things work out like this, he thinks.

He really had no other goal than to check Tattlecrime, and he’s achieved that. There isn’t
more information on the two of them. They’re safe, miraculously, and they’re emphatically
free to roam and reside here as long as they please. Will can go home, with an immense
weight off his shoulders.

Home. Croatia could be home.

A part of him is gleeful over Alana’s little speech. She’s scornful of the two of them, to a
scathing degree. All that hiding, and planning, and cowering for nothing. He read nothing of
blame towards Chilton or Crawford, not that he expected any. Nor will he expect to read them
coming forward to testify in favor of Alana’s testimonies. They likely all still worship some
immaculate version of their scheme to take down Hannibal Lecter and are too tenaciously set
on that end goal to get in each other’s way.

This is a necessary evil for them.

Doing bad things to take down bad men.

Frankly, Will doesn’t care. He tucks the tablet into his bag and finishes his roll. He doesn’t
think for another moment on the news, or Freddie, or even the silhouette of Morgan haunting
the back of his mind.

When Will returns to Vita’s stall, she looks genuinely surprised.

“America!” she calls out, handing out the last duck kabob in her hand. The customer mutters
grumpily on her dismissal of him. “You changed your mind?”

“My mind was never made up,” he corrects, smiling sincerely this time. Her happy-go-lucky
attitude is infectious and reminds him of the days he would consider moving to a small
suburb just to escape the loneliness of Wolf Trap, of so-called required isolation. But, in the
end, he always knew why he couldn’t.

Brief sensations of belonging are not belonging.

He could have never belonged. Vita is pretty, she’s nice.

She’s much like Molly.

Be that as it may, there isn’t a black and white worldview of ugliness and beauty. Not to him.
Not to Hannibal. There are beautiful things like her that don’t realize their own ugliness. And
there are ugly things, like he and Hannibal, that recognize they are beautiful synchronously,
and that they too can inspire beauty in other equally hideous things lurking in the night where
they all feel most comfortable.

He’s adapted. Evolved.

“Let me lock up real quick,” Vita says, wagging a finger.

“I don’t mean to take you away from your work.”

“Oh, I’m here all the time. Haven’t had a break since sun break.” She laughs, bubbly and
vibrant as she rolls the metal curtain down over her stall and churns a key in a noisy lock.
“Alright, all set.”

“How long of a walk am I in for?” Will asks wryly.

She struts ahead of him, headed towards the sunny horizon peaking over the Town Hall’s flat
roof. He doesn’t suspect they have far to go. Many Croatian communes, including this one,
are built around mountains and hills. There are parks and forests within suburbs and farms.
Fishing holes in backyards.

“Complaining already? I thought Americans covered the walking ground of big cities!”

“You’d be surprised how much nothingness there is there,” he grumbles.

“Not long, twenty minutes walking time, I guess.”

He sighs and nods, tossing the thin straps of his tote bag over his shoulder in preparation for a
long haul. Whenever people shout out a number, normally he multiplies that by two. The
world yearns to underestimate everything, especially the time it takes for things to happen.

He gazes down at the suit buried snug in the bag. He smiles while imagining Hannibal’s
reaction to it, then merely imagining Hannibal. Love flutters in his belly, deliriously clouded
with happiness.

Except, Will has never felt comfortable with happiness.

It doesn’t make sense to him. He isn’t the type of man to be happy. Neither is Hannibal, he
suspects. He ponders if he’ll ever reach a time when he isn’t glancing over the blinding
shoulder of happiness.

Perhaps that is underestimation.

“What’s in the bag, Mr. Mysterious?”

Will registers he hasn’t spoken the entire trip into the neighboring landscape. Town Hall is no
more than a blurb on a map at this point, and the trees swallow much of the light attempting
to peek through the brush.

“An outfit for my…” He stalls, panicking a bit. “Wife.”

He can’t remember if homosexuality is accepted in this country, and even if it is, how he’d
explain his relationship to Hannibal. Not on his life will he ever use the word boyfriend, and
husband—that’s just giving power to Freddie Lounds aside from the non-committal
mortification it sparks in his belly.

He’s committed to Hannibal for the rest of his life. He knows that.

He’s just not committed to commitment.

“Let me see!” Vita presses suddenly, skidding to a stop so fast the dirt under her sandals puffs
up into a dusty storm that has Will blinking rapidly through the stinging specks. He doesn’t
have the wherewithal to prevent her from looking.

“Your wife, she wears…suits?”

“Um.”

“Or—”

“It’s, ehm, I’m wearing it. For her. For, you know,” Will stammers.

“Oh!”

“Yeah.”

Vita snickers, humored by his bashful response. If only she knew he was desperately trying to
keep his cool so he doesn’t come off rightfully as a suspicious murdering felon.

“Whereabouts is your family held up? Or is it your wife’s family?”

“Wife’s. It’s on a farm, but I’m really bad with directions and names. Couldn’t say.”

“The farmland is great in Croatia,” Vita croons. “If your wife likes truffles, I’d suggest
buying some at the convention. Almost always perfect quality.”

Will’s lips purse as he picks at a loose string on his overalls. He doesn’t know if Hannibal
likes mushrooms, or really, what his favorite foods are at all. He knows Hannibal takes to
luxuries and fine cuisine, art and pottery. He adores opera and live performances as well as
galleries and all the gimmicks of socialite mingling.

But, Will doesn’t know his favorite food. Or color, or dance routine.

He nearly comes to a halt just as Vita begins moving ahead, struck by the pain that settles in
his chest at the notion. Hannibal feels held by him, yes, and he feels—well, Will hopes he
feels—loved.

But he’s not sure Hannibal feels appreciated in the trivial sense.

Triviality has as much to do with love as devotion, or worship.

Whatever it takes, he decides definitively that he’ll change his uncertainty to certainty when
he arrives home. Either tomorrow or the next day, he’ll focus a complete twenty-four hours
on Hannibal’s wants and needs. If he wants morning sex, he’ll give it to him energetically. If
he wants to wash Will’s hair with his lush, flowery shampoos, he’ll let him do that too. And
Will’s going to ask him as many non-intrusive questions as possible, and maybe again just for
the hell of it, he’ll remind him he loves him.

It’s not something he’s ever done for a partner before.

Will knows he can be selfish, absent.

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to let himself forget to live. Because Hannibal
makes life worth living. The way he feels now away from him, slightly adrift and alone,
proves as much.

“What are you smiling about?” Vita asks, appearing dumbfounded.

“Nothing,” he whispers, fondling the string of his hat. “Nothing at all.”

The gentle tide shifts when Will meets Vita’s friend.

He’s fishing with a few other men by the fishing hole, a quaint oblong lake that has benches
embedded into the surrounding soil, and a welcoming sign for visitors and tourists.

The tallest man comes bounding over, like an excited golden retriever. Will can’t help but to
grimace at their clashing personalities from his first empathetic impression. That’s what
happens, more or less, with any old stranger he meets. Vita was a needle in a haystack.

“This is Toma,” Vita introduces them.

Toma has dark blonde hair, and his eyes are bug-wide signaling the potential of drug
addiction, but the second Will’s hand falls into Toma’s in a general greeting, he knows
something is wrong.

There’s recognition in Toma’s eyes, and fear.

He knows he’s looking at Will Graham, murder husband, former special agent,
empathetically disordered psychopath. There’s nothing to mistake in that recognition.

Fantastic.

“I told my new friend Simon you know everything there is to know on Croatian fishing,
yeah? Have you and Peter sold a lot today?” she asks, butting into Toma’s shoulder with a
grin.
Toma can’t peel his eyes off Will.

Will is spiraling for an out—for what to do.

“Yeah, um, yeah. Very much so.” Toma’s accent is heavier, even though he’s apparently more
aware of America (at least their news) than Vita is. The look in his gaze promises as much.

“Okay, I leave you to it.”

Somewhere along the way, Vita gave up on flirting with Will and quenched her ideas for
something more. He knew it the moment he mentioned a wife, and he knows it now by the
way she quickly, with an air of resignation, retreats off to the town square to return to her
post at the food stall.

Will thanks her quietly while she can hear him, and Toma glances frantically after her. His
mouth opens without knowing what it is truly that he can say in front of Will. A cry for help
is what he needs, but it isn’t going to be what he gets.

If he were smart, he’d make a scene now, while Will's outnumbered.

“Is there a bathroom out here? I hate pissing on trees,” says Will, forcing a laugh.

The men still fishing glance over, but aren’t enthralled with the interaction. Their absence
won’t be missed for at least an hour, maybe two.

Toma appears to be reconsidering how he can handle the situation. If he plays along like he
doesn’t know who Will is to Will’s face, he believes he will survive.

Alana was right. The world is foolish.

Naïve.

“Yes, sorry. It’s been long time since Vita come with visitor.” He gestures for Will to follow,
trying to be discreet even as he continuously glances over his shoulder to check on him. Will
uses the down time to take stock of Toma’s height, weight, and stamina.

The man is heavier than him by a landslide, but not as muscled.

“You work around here for long?” Will asks to keep Toma’s mind occupied.

“Longer than I remember.”

“Hmm.”

There’s an outhouse not too far out from the lake. Yet, far enough.

“Here,” Toma tells him, gesticulating awkwardly to the half-moon crest on the door of the
outhouse. He backs away slowly, keeping his eyes glued to him, and subsequently giving
away all those hidden inner terrors. Will steps close to him and he jumps back, officially
confirming his awareness of Will’s status.
That’s when Will, without a hesitation, decides to kill him.

“I’m a fisherman too,” Will whispers, softly luring.

Toma calms down, accepting he’s safe.

That’s when Will pounces, knocking him to the muddy floor. Before the Toma has the chance
to scream, Will knees him in the gut to put a full stop to his squirming, then punches him
hard in the throat. Toma scrabbles for breath, pawing at his agonized throat as Will digs
fervently into the man’s pockets. Sure enough there are fly ties, and untied hooks. Will
strokes Toma’s face until the man’s sparkling wet eyes are locked on him, then he
painstakingly draws the largest hook to cut across his jugular, bathing himself in the arterial
spray as he slits his neck. Toma screams now, but it releases purely as a whinnying gurgle.

Will studies the light leaving Toma’s eyes.

He glances down only when he feels Toma’s hands go limp, where they’d originally been
ripping at his shirt and overalls. Shakily, Will stands to tower over the bloodied body of the
innocent man and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He digs and digs in until he sees
white speckled stars, following that with a drowning grasp for oxygen and stability as his
hands go rogue on his own face, blending the blood all over his neck and his hair until he’s
painted with it. He tastes it; iron and liquid sulfur.

There is a headache budding inside his brain. Usually, there is a location where it begins, but
it’s nestled deep in the labyrinth of his thoughts. He can’t get it out. Not if he cut into
himself.

Will’s clothes are stained and he knows he can’t go back the way he came.

He doesn’t know how to get back.

He doesn’t know how to get to Hannibal.

He doesn’t know what to do with Toma’s corpse.

“Is this the first time you can’t claim self defense?” a familiar voice asks by his ears, filled
with genuine curiosity. He whips around to see Beverly Katz clad in her signature leather
jacket, arms crossed and smarmy grin plastered to her undead face. “I mean, really, think
about it.”

“Why you?” Will murmurs. “God, why you.”

Beverly sniggers, not truly offended.

“Why do you think? Who the hell else would know how to clean up a crime scene, Zeller?
I’m all you’ve got. Hannibal Lecter isn’t who you want encouraging your decision making
right now, trust me.”

“I thought I knew what I was doing, Bev. I don’t,” he confesses, nearly trembling into
hysterics. Any one of those men could walk out here right now and catch him red-handed. He
would have to kill them too, and he doesn’t know if he’s capable. He doesn’t know how it
would feel to kill them all like livestock.

Despite—despite how necessary Toma felt.

How necessary this is.

“Well you’re in luck, kid. I was built for this stuff.”

Beverly Katz appears to be functioning as his mind’s ultimate defense mechanism.

His current condition is undeniable; instability. He wouldn’t have been able to figure out a
method of deleting evidence, hiding the body, or planning an escape route without her help.
None of what he accomplishes in the next hour will prevent this murder from being
discovered in the long run, but for a while, it will have to do. He has an inkling law
enforcement in this community won’t hold up to scrutiny.

Bev runs down all the steps. All the angles he misses consciously. The strategy of a perfect
killer getting away with a near-perfect murder. No judgment involved, just how she’d acted
in life.

Maybe that’s what stings the most.

The real Beverly Katz; how could she ever approve of what he’s become?

“I’ll never forgive myself for you,” Will admits when it’s all over, after he’s haphazardly
washed himself within a nearby stream. The blood still reddens him, but not as noticeably.
He’ll be able to pass wanderers or nomads from afar without tipping off suspicions, just well
enough to get home and escape.

Home. It had been so saccharine a concept not a few hours prior.

“Damn straight,” Bev replies, grinning at his frown. “Hey, keep your head up, Will. There are
some things that just can’t be forgiven. My mom never forgave me for accidentally setting
fire to her collections of erotica books.” At the helpless smile that quirk’s Will’s lips, she
adds, “So get over it.”

Will sucks in a breath and nods slowly.

At his next breath, she’s vanished.

While fractionally calmer, he’s still concerned about shaking out of his skin. So, he treks
down the path he decided upon with Beverly last minute and hopes the direction he’s headed
will bring him home.
Night falls by the time he returns to the cliffside.

The ocean crashes angrily against the bluff, and he limps towards the stone stairs that escort
him back inside the cave. Rowing the boat in the narrow ravine is harder than he remembers
it being. The ache in his joints—the arm he’s ruined time and again, that only ever seems to
act up if he’s stressed—makes itself known with ferocity as he lugs himself through glowing
caverns, oars scraping abrasively against rocky sidings. He’s desperately in need of a come
down.

His adrenaline hasn’t tapered. He still feels on the knife’s edge of killing.

Fortunately, he remembers the key codes.

Will’s knees buckle the moment he’s inside the foyer. The door clicks shut behind him as he
pushes his sweat slick spine up against the frame of it, panting as the familiar scents of dinner
and Hannibal and home-living waft over him. Safety is as foreign to him as anything else he
thought he knew, today.

He doesn’t know how long he sits like that, shivering by the front door.

Hannibal finds him, dressed in night robes and pajama pants. Will can’t register anything
about him other than the fact he appears soft, and beautiful.

“Will,” he breathes, with the most concern Will’s ever heard in his voice. He kneels before
Will, leveling with him, and cups his cheek, examining his eyes. Will would guess there’s a
vacancy in them that tells Hannibal everything he needs to know because his tongue clicks
before saying, “I was hoping I would be at your side when you strayed upon that path. Tell
me,” Hannibal’s crocodile eyes sharpen, and Will can see ragged teeth flash with delight,
cordially suppressed as much as possible, “How did it feel?”

“I remembered that feeling…when I killed Hobbs. You told me to remember it.”

“Did you feel powerful?”

Will meets his eyes, his own sharpening.

“Yes.”

Hannibal marvels at him, inhaling deep as his eyes droop to fully appreciate the deathly
scent. “Was he innocent?” he questions, no more than a whisper.

The horror that seeded in Will earlier blooms and dies all in one word.

“Yes.”
Hannibal brings up his other hand, cupping his face with both now. Will attempts not to cry,
but he can feel the tears spilling over already. He never knew he could kill like that so easily,
so impartially cold.

That he could do it again, for them.

Will’s lips part to blurt out something contrary to the confession, anything to assuage these
new weights crushing him like cinder blocks, but Hannibal is kissing him, reinforcing the
magnificence of what he did, alone and without the company of influence.

Whimpering into the kiss, Will remembers he owns hands and clutches Hannibal’s face back,
not letting him break it until he finds himself satisfied, mind numb. He rests his head on
Hannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal pets his back, shushing him sweetly.

“You’re home, Will,” he whispers, crudely close to his ear. “You’re home and I’ll take care of
you. I’ll provide you with anything you need.”

Will knows he’s being played. Just lightly, but he can’t help but to collapse under Hannibal’s
mothering wing and let himself be taken care of. Kisses in his bloodied hair, caressing where
he’s cold and shaking.

“Beautiful,” Will hears from Hannibal. “Kokia tu graži.”

Will doesn’t know what it means, but he knows if he has Hannibal speaking in his native
language, it’s likely something vastly appraising.

“What have you brought home for us?”

Will blinks out of his needy haze and nudges the tote bag forward with a foot. It feels silly
that he considered Hannibal would be bitter upon seeing the bag as its ugliness seems to be
the furthest thing from his mind while he opens it to peer inside.

“Did you buy me a suit, Will?” he purrs, beaming.

Will averts his eyes, nodding.

“Under that.”

Hannibal delicately pushes aside the expensive fabric, and his breath catches dramatically.
Will waits, gears in his brain lazily grinding along to the beat of Hannibal’s drum as the man
removes the second offering from the bag. It helped that Toma had been carrying plastic
wrappings in his backpack.

In his hands, Hannibal holds a liver, kidney, and heart.

Will couldn’t say why he took them.

 Maybe because even throughout all the havoc, alongside the self-flagellation he’d been
entertaining with the Beverly mirage, he’d still felt the overwhelming need to provide for
Hannibal.

“My dear,” Hannibal growls. “I should swoon.”

Chapter End Notes

this is very much a connective tissue chapter i think but also eheheheh. i'm gonna be so
sad when i can't work on this fic on my trip hopefully i'll be able to get out 1 more
before i leave. hope you all are well <33
 Chapter 25
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Cold water ambushes Will. He shudders until it warms.

Hannibal sidles up behind his naked body, nude all his own, with black towel cloth in hand to
help wash off the spots of blood Will missed in the stream by the fishing hole. The clothes
were tossed the moment they came off, figuratively set out for incineration. They aren’t
attempting to hide evidence forever so much as obscure the immediacy of it being
discovered. All Will can really focus on is the firm hand holding the side of his neck to
stabilize his balance and the towel rubbing soothing circles into his skin.

The water at his feet turns a sickly pink color.

There is clumping blood in his hair he hadn’t managed to wash away in the river. After
Hannibal is done scaling his entire body with the cloth, he begins pumping several dollops of
shampoo onto Will’s scalp and massaging it through his curls, pushing out every trickle of
Toma’s necrosis from his hair.

He’s still in a bit of shock.

He hasn’t spoken a word to Hannibal since Hannibal herded him off to the kitchen so they
could store away the organs together, before they headed straight to the shower.

“Are you going inside?” Hannibal gently inquires, splaying fingers over Will’s ear as he
meticulously caresses the dried blood from the crevices of them.

“I’m not…going inside, but I’m also not outside,” Will rasps.

“Balancing on the precipice between the two, I’d say. I would prefer you to grow more
comfortable on the outer layers, and become familiar with the way you feel after these finite
events.”

“I’m familiar with how I feel.”

“Tell me in certain terms, then.”

“Relieved. Terrified. Powerful. Broken.”

“These are contradictory traits,” Hannibal claims, turning Will around by the handles of his
hips. It takes every effort for Will not to crumble into him, those welcoming broad muscles
bared before him. “You will have to forgive me for suggesting this in the state you are in, but
I would recommend resuming your therapy with me, not so often that it will interfere with
your peace of mind, but to prevent these mental pauses amid your metamorphosis. You are
ever changing, Will, exhibiting new colors everyday.”

Will doesn’t respond, mostly because he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He’s implying Will might benefit from a return of his guidance, specifically. It’s not entirely
untrue that he should heed the warnings of a professional, but perhaps resuming their therapy
would be sacrilegious in the grand scheme of the relatively equitable homosocial bond
they’ve found to be their destination.

Hannibal continues to bathe him, paying no attention to himself and his own potential needs
under the shower spray. Will lets him do as he pleases, even after catching a damning whiff
of the vanilla chrysanthemum conditioner Hannibal uses on himself. It, of course, is
deposited in Will’s hair.

“You told me how you are feeling. What is it you would like to do?”

“What?”

“After a kill, my mind is a busy place. I like to transfer that busyness to my hands, my legs. I
go for a swim, or a run. I write or conduct poetry and music. Often, I cannot sleep it off, so to
speak.”

“Not because you’re feeling guilty,” Will states, knowing it’s the case. Hannibal’s murders
don’t keep the man up at night, so he finds it odd that the act of killing itself does the trick,
without the imposition of regret. Will glimpses a smile as Hannibal steps to the right of him,
working the conditioner into his hair.

“No, of course not. Because I’m satisfied.”

“I’m not…satisfied.”

“No?” A smile curls one side of Hannibal’s lips as he carefully starts coaxing soap under
Will’s darkened fingernails. “You looked quite satisfied to me when you presented your
harvest.”

Harvest. Will’s knees go weak, but he doesn’t sway.

“I’m wired,” he admits. “I don’t regret it, but I want my mind off it.”

“Too many neurons firing off signals in your brain all at once,” Hannibal decides. “A
distraction isn’t so far off from what I find myself doing after a kill. A necessary method of
compartmentalization. How would you like to distract yourself?”

Will meets his eyes, and grasps Hannibal’s wrist.

Aiming for sultry, he lowers it between their bodies until Hannibal’s knuckles are brushing
his limp dick. He doesn’t have an erection yet, but he’ll get one if inspired. He’d like to be
inspired.
Hannibal smirks, yet removes the touch.

“I would not impose myself on you while you are in this state.”

Will huffs, wanting to know exactly what kind of state Hannibal thinks he’s in.

“You can manipulate me into therapy while I’m pumped too full of adrenaline to make a fuss
about it, but you can’t have sex with me when I’m clearly asking for it?”

Hannibal’s smile doesn’t waver. He pushes Will lightly under the showerhead until the
conditioner is wiped clean from his curls. Will spits water from his mouth, the taste of the tap
drenching his tongue.

“Not the first time,” Hannibal whispers, dragging two fingers over the top vertebrae of his
spine before reaching around him to shut the water off.

It’s suddenly silent but Will’s mind is screaming.

Corralled out of the shower, the screaming quells to a dull roar as they go through the
motions. Will follows Hannibal's lead to their bed, allowing himself to be maneuvered into a
vulnerable position on his belly, head turned on his pillow, arms folded under his chin with
the rest of his body spread taut.

Hannibal startles him by climbing over him, straddling the back of his thighs, and cracking
his knuckles.

"Change your mind so quickly?" Will mutters breathlessly, shifting until he's comfortable
under Hannibal's weight.

"While I’m afraid sex is off the table for tonight, it would still please me to make you feel
good while your skin is warm from the shower."

"Ominous."

"Hardly."

Hannibal massages him foremost, for a brief period. His palms dig sufficiently into Will's
sore shoulder blades before his fingers zero in on the zones scattered around his rib cage he
didn't know could cause all his thoughts to shutter and evaporate. Will hums and grunts
through it, alleviated at least for this distraction if he's not allowed another more salacious
one. Hannibal prods at his stiff body for a few minutes longer until he loosens, and Will soon
realizes this gesture was purely the hors d'oeuvre.

Hannibal brushes the flats of his hands down the expanse of Will's bare back before tracing
upward in a ticklish motion and stopping at his neck again. Nails curl into his nape deep
enough to satisfy an itch before dragging down Will's spine to the lowest point of his spine.
Then, he repeats upward.

Will moans with the second scratch.

"I assume that feels good," Hannibal states, the chipperness in his voice absolutely flagrant.

"You know it does," Will murmurs, defeated.

Hannibal continues to scratch his back, hopping between intervals of long deep scrapes with
his manicured nails to short clustered scratches over and over in some random spot that
drives Will crazy. At a crucial point, he does a thing with both hands where he scribbles his
nails aimlessly across his lower back, and it has Will jolting so hard he has to catch himself
on the headboard with his forearm.

"Sensitive boy," murmurs Hannibal quietly.

Will grunts, lazily snapping his leg out in an not-so-serious attempt to kick him.

Hannibal grabs him by the flailing ankle and then scrapes his nails down Will's bare (still
damp, for Christ’s sake) leg which has him groaning into his pillow, just barely holding back
watering drool.

"Merciless," Will accuses when he's recovered from the pleasure shivering through the
unsung nerves in his tense thighs and calves.

"Generous," Hannibal debates primly, scratching over his hips and gloriously back over his
spine where he starts the routine over.

Will is no more than a puddle now.

After enough rounds of the scratching, his skin burns pleasantly and the novelty dies down.
He lies there contentedly allowing Hannibal to give him this, but he should have known all
gratification comes with a price when he hears the soft, telltale click of the older man’s
tongue.

“Tell me in detail, how you killed him.”

It’s inconsolable to Will that Hannibal could halt what he’s doing at any moment, so he rears
up to answer him as vaguely as possible, while also quenching his curiosity enough not to be
asked more questions.

“I met him at a fishing hole. A woman from town led me over there, and I think he would
have been hoping to sell me some of his stock if he hadn’t recognized me from the news.”

Hannibal’s hands skid over his back, palms down.

It’s a nice balm on his inflamed skin.

“Ah. I was doubtful anyone near here would recognize us.”

“There’s always a few who slip through the cracks,” Will mutters, arching up into Hannibal’s
fingertips which have started to merely trace again, rather than scratch. He’s too sensitive for
that right now.
“Walk me through it,” Hannibal requests, scraping lightly at his nape.

Will groans, half-pleasure and half-defiance.

“As much as I’d love to watch you writhe under me for another few hours, I do wish to know
as soon as possible the potential dangers we face now that there is a death under our belt on
Croatian grounds.”

“You’re right. I just — I saw someone after I killed him.”

“Who did you see?”

Will hesitates, turning his face completely into his folded arms. The response is muffled
when he tightly answers, “Beverly Katz.”

Hannibal’s hands come to a stop on his back, and Will is momentarily so angry with him that
he harbors no inclination to beg him to keep going, where he might have thirty seconds ago.
The minute Hannibal resumes his touch, slower and dithering, Will’s choleric emotions seep
out of him and he’s left feeling empty and without thought.

They don’t speak for several minutes.

Eventually, Hannibal presses forward in a murmur.

“Have you seen her before? After her death.”

“Yeah.” The admission feels like pulling teeth to Will. “At the scene of…at where — '' He
closes his eyes, pitting fingers into the malleable fabric of his pillow, “ — where you left her.
Then a few times after that while I was locked up.”

“Will — ”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Will bites out, bitterness grinding out in every syllable.

“You know me better than that,” Hannibal remarks.

Will exhales, feeling like one big hot air balloon. Hannibal is right, Will knows him better
than that. Knows he isn’t sorry, and maybe he’s not even remorseful for the severe emotional
pain it caused Will.

“I was going to say, it is a good sign you are not forgetful of the past.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes. Memory gives moments immortality. It helps us identify mistakes.”

It isn't an apology, but it feels targeted at the dilemma. Will turns his head slightly in his
direction, wondering if Hannibal is truly implying what happened with Beverly — even if not
the act of killing her but the conditions in which she ended up there in his basement on both
their parts — was a mistake.
“I used to believe it was good to forget,” Hannibal continues, solemn. “That memory was no
more than a detriment to the health of the mind. Yet every moment spent with you, torturous
or joyous, is deserving of immortality.”

Will isn’t certain there’s a part of Hannibal he hasn’t contaminated.

“She told me to get over it,” Will whispers, wincingly.

Hannibal hasn’t stopped his massage, but he slows the pace in increments.

“Your mind is reminding you of the inescapability of time. Our mind progresses as we do, a
burning, aging star in the galaxy all its own. Moments decay regardless of if we want them to
or not. To hoard a sliver of memory shrinking by the second is a clear sign of mental duress.”

“Are we starting therapy already?”

“Is that a yes to doing so?”

“It’s not a ‘right this very instant when we’re both naked in bed together’ yes,” Will
establishes, casting a fiery glare over his shoulder, glimpsing a smug looking Hannibal.

“Continue with your recollections, beloved.”

Will softens at the endearment and rests his cheek back on his folded arms. Hannibal has
advanced from light scratching to a deep tissue massage. It has Will’s brain short-circuiting
and it takes a significant while until he can remember where he was in the story.

“I-I used one of his large fishing hooks to slice his throat. Buried the bloodied dirt as much as
I could, hid the body, and washed myself in a nearby stream. We weren’t far from the fishing
hole, but I don’t think he’ll be found for a while. I hid him well. Bev, she — she reminded me
what to do.”

“I’m sure you’re aware of the consequences.”

“The woman who led me to him was also his friend. Her name’s Vita, a local I think. She’ll
probably guess I’m the cause of his disappearance, and the men he was with definitely can as
well,” Will notes.

Hannibal hums, considering.

“You cannot show your face in town again.”

It rankles at Will, but he knows it’s the best course of action.

“I couldn’t let him report us,” Will murmurs defensively, sighing at a particularly firm rub of
his shoulder blades. “The last thing I want is this place to be found. I won’t lose you.”

“You did the right thing, Will.”

The words are placating, almost goading.

Will scoffs, and fights it when Hannibal attempts to roll him over.

“You must rest now,” Hannibal persuades, achieving his goal. Will throws an arm over his
eyes to shield himself from the dim light. He was enjoying the void of the dark. “You’ve had
a long day.”

Hannibal draws the curtains around them, and gracefully climbs over and manipulates the
bedsheets beneath Will’s deadweight, drawing them up against his tingling, heavenly relaxed
body. Thankfully, Hannibal climbs in beside him, and extends an arm. A beat passes before
Will is curling into him.

“If you still desire me in the morning, I will give you my very best,” Hannibal whispers
secretively in his ear before Will drifts off to sleep. He nuzzles closer, and Hannibal’s hand
tightens on his hip.

Will still desires him in the morning.

He informs Hannibal by fingering himself rather noisily with the lube from their bedside and
delights in the way Hannibal growls to full wakefulness when he sees the display, then rolls
over and into him.

During, the headboard rattles as raucously as Will’s heart.

By the end, Will is panting open mouthed on Hannibal’s shoulder as Hannibal’s entire body,
burning hot against him, deflates and shudders. Will lets out the last of his hoarse gasps in the
aftershocks, pitched high from overuse of his voice box. He kisses Hannibal’s cheek as
Hannibal slips wetly from his body, quietly promising a warm face cloth and breakfast in
bed.

Thoughts of death and murder are far from Will’s mind.

Hannibal brings him freshly squeezed orange juice and gourmet sausage rolls. Their taste is
immaculate and savory but not as delicious as the spice-tinted kiss Hannibal rewards him
with after he’s filled his stomach. Hannibal must have eaten something while he cooked
instead, but Will doesn’t pry.

“I have a proposition for you,” Hannibal murmurs into his neck, scattering chaste kisses all
along its tendon. Will leans into the affection, overindulgent from the sex and good food.

“Is it something I want to hear?” he asks, playful.

“Conceivably.”

Will’s brow cinches together at that, but again, he doesn't pry. Hannibal intends to ask for his
permission or compliance for something after all, and that’s something that should be
encouraged not judged.

“Let me get dressed and I’m all yours,” Will says, stretching his arms over his head. Bones
crackle and pop. Hannibal pets over his curls once before departing from their sweaty,
rumpled sheets.

“You’re always mine,” Hannibal manages to respond before the mattress springs creak.

Will smirks innocently at him.

After the food tray is set aside and Will is dressed for a lazy day inside (really, where else
would he be going living in a cave, after all) Hannibal leads him down the hall and into the
living room. Awash in memories from the last movie they watched together and the intimacy
they participated in that night makes Will’s blush reach new fathoms, but he attempts to tone
it down when he registers the stern expression, a sedation of Hannibal’s normally confident
features.

“It is something I don’t want to hear,” Will deduces.

Hannibal sits on the couch, waiting expectantly.

Will sits next to him, resting on his side so they can face each other.

“You asked me to communicate with you, Will. This is me communicating.”

Dread settles in Will’s stomach like acid, but he can’t argue that. Hannibal is doing as he told
him and no matter what he has in store for him, Will promises himself he’ll attempt to keep
an open mind.

“I’m listening.”

Hannibal traces a thread pattern on the couch with his finger, eyes averted, before he starts
with, “There are unusual opportunities laid out for us now that there is a body awaiting
proper arrangement.”

Frowning, Will echoes, “Arrangement?”

“A tableau,” Hannibal suggests, for once refusing to elaborate further than these clipped,
undetailed notions Will can grasp nary even an edge of.

“I thought we wanted to stay here,” Will reminds warily. “Safe.”

“The tableau would not be displayed here. Someplace else entirely.”

“How would that even work, I — ”

“I’ve done it before,” Hannibal explains, “with a man named Antony Dimmond. I traveled
with his remains to the Norman Chapel where I broke him down into the shape I desired.”

“A broken heart,” Will reminisces softly.

Hannibal’s eyes cast down even further, after a fashion.

“I-I’m trying to understand why you want to do this,” he continues.

“Have you not connected the dots?” Hannibal questions, dubiety communicated in spades.
He meets Will’s eyes, but Will can’t read his intentions there. “I suppose I shall have to be
clear. We’ve harnessed an opportunity to send a message to our pursuers. They will not stop,
Will. Not for us, not for anything.”

“You said they wouldn’t find us here.”

“And so they won’t. But do you intend to live in hiding forever?”

“I intended to live here for at least a week before we even began entertaining the idea of this
conversation,” Will retorts in frustration, adjusting so he’s laying against the back of the
couch cushions, neck craned over the edge. “We’ll always live in hiding. That’s the crutch of
what we’re doing, who we are,” he glances between them, “what path we’ve chosen and who
we’ve chosen to walk it with.”

Hannibal’s smile is unkind, chastising his cynicism.

“Have you forgotten how easily Matthew captured us?”

Will’s expression drops. He remembers all too well how Matthew captured them. It was his
own foolishness with a gun that had Hannibal lose concentration on the motorcycle.
Constantly holding them back, constantly making a fool out of himself just because he has no
clue in Hell what he’s doing.

Emotions consume him. If only he could have a clear mind in perpetuity.

Like he had submerged in the act of killing Toma.

He closes his eyes against a rush of bloodlust inside him.

“I remember,” is all he murmurs.

“Surely you understand I want to eliminate as many baleful ties as possible in order to secure
a safer future for us,” says Hannibal. “Do you not?”

“I understand this approach isn’t as chivalrous as you’re making it out to be.” Off Hannibal’s
sour look, Will’s lips twitch up. “You act as if I don’t know you as well as you know me.”

“If it pleases you to be certain, you may profile me.”

Will’s brows elevate dramatically, as he hasn’t been asked to do as much since at least his
final meeting with Crawford. Not out loud anyway, and not in such definitive terminology.
You may profile me, well, it isn’t something that should endear him to Hannibal.

He profiles him. He asked nicely after all.

There is a vision of a man in Will’s mind. It appears with Toma’s face and structure, but for
their purposes it can be whoever they want it to be. Hannibal’s mind is open to him, reeling
with creativity. He grasps onto a sliver of it and his eyes burst open to a Hellenistic design
fittingly conjured for Chilton and Jack.

Laocoon and His Sons.

The priest Laocoon was struck down by Poseidon for daring to expose the calculated ruse of
the Trojan Horse. He and his sons, wrapped in snakes, died a searing, painful death at the
punishing stead of venom. The story changes depending on who or which tale tells it. Much
like their own story shapeshifts anew through the eyes of Chilton, or Jack. Will can see the
snakes they’ll create together, intestines wrapped around the nude limbs and torso of Toma’s
corpse, representing the inescapability of a God’s destruction, two Gods.

Two transgressors, as well. They’ll need another body.

Hannibal knows it, Will can sense that.

Two to represent the sons, to represent both Jack and Chilton separately. Out of body, Will
can hear himself sigh from the picture painted in his mind. Venomous fate coiled around the
bane of their existence. It’s beautiful, though he hadn’t expected to see it so clearly and relish
in the purpose of it.

It shines with holy light, sacrosanct to their perceptions of righteousness.

A warning, as every definition of the word entails.

“I can see it,” Will whispers. “Virgil or Sophocles?”

When his eyes flutter open, Hannibal is staring at him in awe.

“I prefer Virgil.”

“I suspected as much.”

“I’m not barred from compromise.”

Will smiles dangerously.

“I prefer Virgil too,” he murmurs. “Where?”

Hannibal is quiet as snowfall.

“You know where, no?”

Will does know, he just didn’t want to know. Hannibal desires their first dual tableau to be
created in the Norman Chapel, where their love was tragically brought to life and evaded as
the angels evade prayers.

“It’s…not going to be easy.”

Hannibal extends a hand to take a hold of Will’s, kissing his knuckles. “When has anything
between us ever been easy, my dear Will?”

There is the obstacle of Vita, and how they will find her and succeed in taking her out without
authorities stepping in the way and without being seen. He has no clue in Hell how they’ll
transport two corpses intact across state lines, but it is fortunate for them that Palermo is not
located far from here.

And they must, as Vita is just as good as a witness.

It’s easy to condemn innocence, when it comes to protecting Hannibal.

Protecting the life he’s waited for so long to thrive in.

“I’d like to watch,” Will consideringly murmurs, rotating his hand in Hannibal’s grasp so he
can hold it in return. “How you hunt, how you kill. What you — what you take.”

Lust glints in Hannibal’s gaze.

“Will you purely observe, or participate?”

“Am I allowed to be uncertain?” Will asks, mostly non-serious.

The heat in Hannibal’s eyes softens and he smiles through the tender response, “You are
autonomous, and utterly capable of deciding for yourself what you will or will not do on this
new path.”

“I’ve already decided, but every scenario is a new scenario. Vita is kind,” The bubbly echo of
her voice rings through Will’s head, the frills of an impression not so much a full impression
itself, enough for him to doubt. “I don’t trust myself to do what needs to be done, or not to
turn on a decision I make now.”

“Then decide only to accompany me, and together we will weave a tapestry more beautiful
than the last,” Hannibal implores, the pining aura surrounding him unavoidable to Will’s
overwhelmed senses.

Will replies what he knows to be true.

“I will follow wherever you go.”

Over the course of a few days, Hannibal takes several trips to town.

Each time he returns, he comes bearing discoveries. The whereabouts of Vita are as difficult
as Will expected they would be to find. She has no doubt fled Town Square in the face of
Toma’s disappearance, knowing full well she informed Will she could always be found there.
Besides this fact, Hannibal’s task isn’t a simple one. To ask around town for the location of
Vita who the locals would be remiss to be unaware of is risky business, seemingly because he
doesn’t want to come off as suspicious himself. If an investigation has started, the authorities
will sniff out abnormal activity like it's the second coming of Christ. Luckily for both Will
and Hannibal, Hannibal is adept at his job and finds Vita’s address in the span of two days.
On the third day, he arrives home apparently with a rental truck parked out on the bluff.

“I considered a train, but it is less likely the size of our luggage will be questioned if we are
driving ourselves to Sicily,” Hannibal explains.

Will, who’s been experimenting futilely in the kitchen all day, simply nods and resumes his
attempts at a Jerusalem artichoke risotto. He’s not in the mood to discuss what’s to be done
about Vita, a morbid reality quickly cementing in Will’s brain faster than he has the time to
process.

Hannibal hooks his chin sweetly over Will’s shoulder and loops his arms over his stomach,
effectively soothing Will’s bristling demeanor. “It smells delicious, Will, but are you sure you
wouldn’t like help?”

“You can just tell me it looks like pig slop.”

“Nothing of the sort, though I’m not positive it could be classified as a rice dish, let alone
risotto.”

Will’s brows fly up and he swats his wooden spoon at Hannibal who laughs with unusual
brightness and starts to fervently kiss down the column of his neck.

“Rude, Dr. Lecter,” he grumbles, turning off the burner. “Okay, work your magic then.”

“Might I suggest Ratatouille instead?”

“Is it really that unsalvageable?” Will questions, exhaling contentedly as Hannibal hugs him
closer. There’s physical heat between them, but nothing that needs to be rushed. It still
boggles Will that they can have this without blood and sacrifice, but he supposes the
sacrifices came along on the road here.

Hands brush over his stomach, slipping under his sweater to trace his scar.

Will turns his responsive smile into Hannibal’s cheek, admiring the vibrations that come with
his muted, accented speech.

“I merely wish to fill your eager stomach with haste.”

For a moment, Will can envision Hannibal’s hands wrapping around the squelching hot mass
of his stomach organ, squeezing the pouch in a fist to dispense with its respective bile and
acids. Could he then put the bloody cut of him up to his lips and tear a raw bite from the
slippery flesh?

He shudders, and Hannibal’s hands pause on his belly.

If the scent of burned risotto wasn’t permeating the kitchen, Will is positive the scent of his
arousal would overpower the space, and bring the two of them down to their knees in a
ravenous haze.

Instead, he murmurs, “Fill me up then, Hannibal.”

Hannibal pinches his stomach and pushes him aside, rescuing the food.

He proceeds to fill Will up during and after dinner.

Will goes to bed without sparing thought to Vita, Florence, or Laocoon and his untimely
death. Though in his dreams, he feels the shape of snakes wrapping around his ankles and
crawling up his thighs. The venom sinking deep into his sides, paralyzing his middle. He
wakes up sweating, a silent scream locking his jaw wide open.

The town is quiet in the early morning hours.

Hannibal and Will traveled an hour on foot to reach Vita’s apartment complex, a towering
beige building on the top of a looming hill, overlooking the square and its connecting main
streets.

“Have you decided?” Hannibal asks when they reach the crescendo of metal stairs leading up
to the second and third floor. He doesn’t need to specify for Will to know what he’s referring
to.

Though they hadn’t spoken the entire walk over, their conversation from the living room
lingered in the air and dried the rope of tension between them to the point of contentious
threads turning brittle.

Though he’s still uncertain, Will decides.

“Observing.”

Hannibal doesn’t express disappointment, but Will isn’t searching for that. He’s not sure what
he’d find if he decided to reattach himself to the situation — pour over the moral intricacies
and fallacies.

“Follow me, and do not make a sound.”

Saddling up to do as he’s ordered, Will follows Hannibal quietly up the stairs. The creaking is
by design unfortunately, but Hannibal doesn’t appear perturbed by it. They ghost down the
vacant balcony of the second floor, stopping at the third to last door, exhibiting a room
number Will cannot translate to English.

Hannibal picks the lock, letting himself in.

Will supposes it's a good thing the bedroom is not the first room they invade. There is a
quaint, rather empty living room attached by entry pillars to an even smaller kitchen. A long
hall intersects the space which likely leads to a bathroom and the bedroom they seek.
Surprisingly, Hannibal doesn’t immediately head for it; he calmly wades through the mess of
laundry and mail on the floor to scrutinize Vita’s apartment. Silently, Will shuts the door
behind them and leans up against the frame of it to watch him.

Gloved hands rifle through drawers, cabinet closets, and the fridge.

Will doesn’t move from his spot, growing more intrigued by Hannibal’s methods every
minute. Hannibal stops his efforts finally after searching the couch cushions. He’s searched
debatably every inch of the flat except for what’s beyond the darkened hall.

When Hannibal’s sharp eyes meet his, Will cocks a brow as if to say, Are you quite finished?

Hannibal’s little detour in the very least calmed Will’s nerves.

Taking strides closer, Hannibal waits until he’s no more than a foot away before choosing to
whisper, “You never know what someone may be hiding, or if it may pertain to you.”

Will nods, learning and realizing.

Hannibal gestures for him to follow and Will’s heart begins to pound frantically. The hall
beyond the living room is darker than it first appeared, and Hannibal rightfully doesn’t turn
on a light. Vita’s bedroom door is locked, but it seems to be just by a hook in a loop. Will
isn’t shocked to see Hannibal having brought along a thin square of cardboard to slip through
the crevice of the door and unlatch the hook.

Will takes two steps into the room and stops.

Vita is pretty under her peach sheets, sleeping soundly. Hannibal wanders further, observing
all that he can but knowing he can not scrutinize as he likes until the problem before them is
taken care of.

Kneeling beside the low-rise bed, Hannibal’s head inclines to observe her, but Will observes
him more closely. He has the look of a sentient animal fascinated by the complexities of a
human, components of another species that he can never truly understand, not in a million
years. He’s a different beast, pleading into the night sky with a suffering roar that will never
be answered in kind by darkness he surveys. Not even Will can give him all that he yearns
for, universally speaking.

Will doesn’t notice the syringe until Hannibal is kicking into action.

Vita startles awake as Hannibal’s fingers sink into her thick hair, holding her head steady
while he brings the needle to her neck and injects her fate directly into her bloodstream. She
thrashes, but he holds her steady, murmuring low, “Easy now, just like slipping into a warm
bath. That’s it.”
 The unknown drug works, causing her to twitch madly once, and then settle into a blanketing
drowsiness she won’t awaken from. The remaining desperation is all in her eyes when she
casts them over at the static shadow of Will, watching over her as she slips into death. Soon,
her eyes say nothing at all.

For once, Will couldn’t extrapolate the last emotion he saw in her.

It merely bore into him, until it was gone.

He feels worse because he feels nothing, which he isn’t sure was the effect either of them
were aiming for tonight. Hannibal doesn’t register Will’s deep rooted dejection, lowering
Vita’s lifeless body back onto her pillow so he can unfold the tarp from their travel bag and
set to work folding her up for transport.

They’re heading straight back to the cave after they round back to where Will hid Toma and
retrieve him too. The plan is to spend one more night in the cave, the bodies in the trunk of
their new car, before they head to Florence to create quite probably the most integral tableau
either of them have ever committed to.

The steps of this plan seem far away.

Sluggish, Will hobbles forward to help Hannibal.

“Beverly earned your mercy as well,” Will notes, holding one of Vita’s legs in place while
Hannibal wraps the tarp around her folded torso. “I could feel it when I profiled the scene —
you never wanted to kill her.”

Hannibal doesn’t halt what he’s doing, nor does he look up at Will when he responds evenly,

“She was a bright young woman.”

Slowly, Will nods, stroking over the non-existent pulse on Vita’s wrist.

“Yes, she was.”

That night, asleep in Hannibal’s arms, the snakes in Will’s dreams consume him whole.
Bones and all. He wakes up harnessing an impulse to swallow Hannibal, leaving nothing for
the Gods to punish.

Chapter End Notes

damn we got 10 chapters left boiissss, i finished the outline last night and i'm really
confident in where this is going. i hope you guys will all like the last act <3
 Chapter 26
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will hunkers down in the front passenger’s seat, glancing sideways at the muted noise of the
trunk slamming shut. Not thirty seconds later, Hannibal is climbing determinedly behind the
wheel.

“How long of a drive will this be?” Will asks, fiddling with his seatbelt.

“Nearly twenty hours,” Hannibal answers. “I cannot say I will be abiding by the speed limit
however, so I estimate it will take less than eighteen.”

“Just don’t get us pulled over.”

Hannibal inserts the keys in the ignition. Their new black car with shaded windows revs to
life. Will shuffles in his seat until his head is more comfortably laid on the leather headrest.

“If we do get pulled over, I will merely kill the officer in question.”

Sometimes, Hannibal still manages to shock him. Will glares over at Hannibal who is looking
rather pleased with himself and refusing to meet the judgment thrashing against him like an
invisible whip

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I must keep you on your toes, Will.”

“I don’t know what encouraged you to believe such a thing,” Will grumbles, sighing as the
car takes off towards town and flattens the wispy grass of the Croatian hills.

“You act as if we don’t have two corpses stashed in the trunk of our car,” Hannibal replies,
smiling at the road ahead. “I am surprised by how easily you are acquiescing to
circumstance.”

“It’s not easy. I’m having nightmares.”

“That’s to be expected with your unique mind. Tell me about the nightmares.”

Will’s bones still feel heavy from waking up so early, so he cranes his body to the side,
cracking all the bloated joints and stretching muscle tissue. He grunts at a particularly harsh
crick in his neck.

“Whenever I wake up from them, I see you watching me. For some reason, I always assume
you know exactly what was going on in my mind seconds before, so I never bother delving
into them.”

“Is it because I’ve inspired the most of your nightmares that you expect me to be intrinsically
aware of them?”

Will considers that, then shakes his head.

“The nightmares I used to have about you…they weren’t so much nightmares as they were
warnings. Occasionally memories. When I was locked up, I had visceral recollections of your
conversation with Abel Gideon.”

“I believe you’ve mentioned a ravenstag once, to me.”

“Yeah. It was you, or, it was the version of you I naively conceptualized.”

“A fictional creature,” Hannibal muses. “I’m almost flattered.”

“Almost?” scoffs Will.

Hannibal doesn’t elaborate for a long period of time, turning into the cobble roads of town,
heading to the square where a separate road will diverge towards a highway. They’ll be on
the go in no time.

Passing the store Will bought his suit in, Hannibal finally speaks.

“What became of this ravenstag, Will?”

Glancing at where Hannibal has one hand on the wheel, and one on the stick shift, eyes
coolly glued to the road he’s driving on, careful as any serial killer shouldn’t be, Will musters
a sigh, and averts his gaze.

“It died. In Baltimore, in your—your kitchen.”

“I see.”

“I saw it again,” Will interjects quickly, the memory reeling in like a razor sharp pendulum.
“When you left your valentine for me in Italy, the heart came to life and folded into the shape
of a living thing resembling a stag. It couldn’t walk, it was broken, or wounded. It came at
me like it intended to eat me.”

“Perhaps a warning for what was to come,” Hannibal suggests with baffling simplicity, like
nearly eating Will’s brain was nothing more detrimental than tripping on a banana peel.

Will no longer bristles over their past like a grudge-holding porcupine every time an
opportunity makes it convenient, though he’s tempted in this vivid instance.

“Like I said, warnings, not nightmares.”

“Your mind is a fluctuating field, a memento mori.”

“There was also—” Cutting himself off biting his lip, Will isn’t certain he should continue.
There are admissions in the recesses of these remembered mirages. Deeply rooted
implications even he hasn’t analyzed to their full extent, and he knows Hannibal will extract
every drop useful to him. He supposes it doesn’t matter anymore what Hannibal takes away
from these conversations, as Will has nowhere else to run but forward and into his waiting
maw. “A man, with your features. Looked black in the moonlight,” Will sighs and sucks in a
hissing breath. “I was becoming him through rebirth, that…monstrosity, and it frightened me.
It—Well, I’m unsure why I saw it then, but it showed up the night I spent with Margot.”

Hannibal needs to stop at a red light, but his foot presses a bit too hard on the breaks.

The car jerks and Will blinks from shock.

“Fascinating,” Hannibal states, composedly.

Will examines him. Hannibal appears composed, yes, but he's had practice appearing so even
under the most dire of duress. There’s something peeking out from behind the person-suit.
That humanity Will has caught only glimpses of under their bedsheets, when their bodies
speak for them and not their minds.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you and Alana together,” Will steers ahead, trying not to
visibly show his enjoyment at the way Hannibal’s eyes flutter agitatedly. Will doesn’t want to
agitate him, but he needs to set the stage so he can draw the curtains. “When Margot and I
were having sex, I was envisioning how you were—how you were fucking her.”

Hannibal’s eyes draw over him, unreadable, before returning to the road.

Waiting a moment, Will allows the admission to fester.

“For the longest time, I thought it was because of Alana. I had these idiotic notions that she
was the ‘one who got away,’ that she was right for me. Even though I knew she wasn’t, that
she was just what I wanted, not what I needed. You’d think I would have been mad at you for
taking my perceived place, but I was more angry with the general concept of her sleeping
with you. Couldn’t figure it out, why I was so incensed. Why I took it out all on her, hell, I
never let up. I just kept digging at her until she couldn’t take it. I convinced myself the anger
was good because I was convincing her I was a killer, but—”

The car jolts as Hannibal drives too fast over a speed bump.

The thump of bodies in the trunk causes them both to stall.

Hannibal looks even more unreadable than before, and Will proceeds.

“—I tried to fantasize about her, while I was with Margot. I couldn’t. I kept…kept picturing
things you were doing to her. Going down on her, or taking her from behind. I mimicked
those acts with Margot to get a better sense of the imagery I couldn’t stop obsessing over in
my head, and I felt like I was you. I-I felt closer to you than I ever had that night, just
channeling what your want must have felt like, but I couldn’t get there. Not until I saw you—
the stag, the—you in your most honest form—watching me.”
Hannibal’s voice is soft when he replies, “I have no words.”

“Did you…did you fantasize about me?” Will questions breathlessly, eyeing how Hannibal’s
throat bobs with arousal, dampened with the way he’s attempting to rein it in.

“I fantasized about you all the time, Will.”

“Sexually.”

Unable to hold back a smirk, Hannibal directs it at Will.

“I had no inkling Margot would make an advance towards you, so I’m afraid for that night
alone, I did not share in your fantasies. There were plenty of times elsewhere, conceptually or
in reality, I wished it was you under me. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you.”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear it.”

“You’ve read the letters I left you in Cuba,” Hannibal reminds playfully. “I told you of the
Tuscan hills, and what I’d hoped we could experience there, together.”

Will smirks back. “You can say it, you know.”

“Say what?”

“The word ‘sex’ isn’t so foreign to you is it?”

“I believe more crude language should be reserved for the proper moments. The diction loses
its appeal if overused.” Hannibal tilts his head thoughtfully. “But yes, I was implying sex.”

“Tuscany’s on the way to Sicily isn’t it?” Will murmurs.

Another stoplight with an overly harsh press of the breaks.

Hannibal’s voice is clipped when he answers, “Yes.”

Will slides his palm over Hannibal’s on the shift. He slips his fingers into the divots between
his, and waits until Hannibal makes vehement eye contact with him.

“On the way back home,” he persuades. “Something to look forward to.”

Hannibal’s eyes cast down to his lips and his own part, deliberately.

There's something off about his demeanor.

“Were you this forward with your previous partners?”

A pang of self-consciousness hits Will square in the chest but he doesn’t let it deter him. He
follows Hannibal’s gaze back to the road ahead now that they’re driving out of town and
along the busier streets.

“If I was?”
“Don’t mistake my curiosity for rejection, Will. I would make love to you on hot coals if you
requested it of me.” At that, Will chuckles and loosens up. Hannibal continues, “I merely
wonder, because of your inexperience with men. And your…libido’s more recent increase in
intensity.”

Will chuckles again, sardonic this time.

“What do you want me to say? I’m horny for you? I am, Hannibal, I thought that was clear. I
was…frequently horny with my other ‘bedmates’ as you'd probably refer to them, but you
know that doesn’t compare.”

“No need to be crass.”

Will bows his head lightly and mutters, “Pardon me.”

Hannibal curls his upper lip at him, but doesn’t respond.

A loaded beat passes, then Will grins.

“Oh. You’re jealous.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t act coy. You can’t stop dwelling on it, can you? That I’ve given my body to someone
other than you. That I’d even desire sex from someone else.”

Hannibal’s lips purse even tighter.

“This is the single aspect of competition I realize I lack in when it comes to you, Will.
Forgive me for feeling slighted by it, but my disadvantage has been more than apparent.”

“Disadvantage?” Will is lost. “What are you talking about?”

“Your disinterest in men. I harbor few of the physical traits that attract you.”

Will can’t believe what he’s hearing. Insecurity, loud and clear, from Hannibal Lecter. It’s not
that Hannibal sees himself as unattractive or undesirable, but that he could be all those things
to Will and adversely, more than those things. It inspires rage in him because it implies what
they’ve been sharing with each other sexually is either forced on Will’s part or unwanted, an
act of service more than an act of making love.

“I think this is the most I’ve ever wanted to punch you in the face.”

“That wouldn’t be true, considering you have actually punched me in the face before.”

“God, just—” Will blocks out the world, burying his face in his hands. He stares out the
window after a few seconds of stilted silence and rasps, “—just drive. Don’t talk to me.”

Hannibal drives without protest. An hour passes in silence.

The highway rages on, noise and clamor.

“I’ve upset you,” Hannibal poses, voice quiet and nearly drowned out by the beeping cars
around them. This road is a hectic one, nothing that Will is used to in America. It lumps onto
his anxiety.

“It’s your specialty.”

“Do you believe that’s quite fair?”

“I don’t know, is it?”

“You’re being fresh,” Hannibal accuses him outright. “I cannot read your mind, Will, no
matter what you think of me. If you have something to say, you’d better say it.”

Hannibal is usually patient with him, not short. Or, he’s in the very least understanding of
Will’s reactions to his own maladaptive idiosyncrasies, yet he’s showing barely a fraction of
his sympathies today.

“It hasn’t been good enough for you, then?” Will remarks, bitterness clouding his usual
prudence. “The sex we’ve been having obviously hasn’t meant more than unveiling the fact
I’m apparently repulsed by you.” He huffs, scratching over the fabric stapling the car door
ledge. “But why should I be upset?”

“I’m not to concern myself with the nature of your preferences?”

“Respect me enough to recognize that my preferences aren’t unmovable objects.”

“I do respect you.”

“But what, my investment in you somehow hasn’t been convincing enough to prove that I
want you as you are, so it isn’t worth the hassle to fuck me?” Will spits.

He yelps as Hannibal takes a sharp turn off the nearest exit.

The road leads into thick forest, and Will is momentarily arrested by the gargantuan size of
the trees subsumed by golden morning fog. He’s startled again when Hannibal pulls over on
the very edge of the road, half the car displaced in a muddy clearing within coppice. The keys
are taken from the ignition.

The car’s muffler dies, the quiet takes over.

Will is frozen, benign fear controlling his movements as he forces himself to look over at
Hannibal who—he’s reaching for the latch of Will’s seat—Will collapses backward as the
chair does, head thunking awkwardly and causing a burst of vertigo at the new horizontal
angle he’s at. Before he has a chance to gauge what exactly is happening, Hannibal has
pounced over him with feline expertise, looming on all fours from above.

Feeling himself go pale, Will tries not to move a muscle, keeping eye contact with him out of
a sense of self-preservation. He fears Hannibal may commit something rash if he doesn’t.
“I warned you to tread lightly,” Hannibal reminds him gruffly. “You told me I assume
meaning where it doesn’t belong, but what you’re doing is worse. You’re reducing what we
share.”

That’s rich.

“You’re reducing it,” Will argues, feeling ridiculous debating him from this position, but it
also emboldens him to speak louder, more expressively. “You’re the one daring to presume
orientation affects how I feel about you. That, what, I’ll never want you enough? Is that even
a question?”

“You mocked my envy of the women you’ve bedded.” Hannibal leans closer, eye-crossing
close. Will doesn’t release his gaze, glaring strong. “You claim orientation has nothing to do
with it?”

“There’s a difference between envy and jealousy, Hannibal.”

Hannibal snarls with his lips, thighs settling on either side of Will’s hips. It’s erotic, and that
perhaps isn’t precisely what should spotlighted on the tip of the iceberg when it comes to
Will’s present priorities.

“I won’t entertain an expectation I cannot meet for you.”

“Nobody’s asking you to do that,” Will fervently remarks, stupefied.

“The patterns you hold close to your chest imply it.”

Will huffs madly, “What does it matter if I—if women do it for me, or have done it for me
most of my life? You’re the only person I could even conceive of wanting now. I would have
thought that my…that the unprecedented attraction I have towards you would prove just how
truthful that sentiment is, but I guess…it bothers you.” His curiosity is suddenly unbearably
stark. “Why does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t bother me, Will. It petrifies me.”

“What?”

Hannibal’s head lowers until Will can feel his breath puff against his neck. Will fights the
urge to do anything but lie here like a dead fish, to brush his fingers through Hannibal’s hair
and just take forty steps back from this conversation. He doesn’t even know how they got
here, how Hannibal could believe such a thing.

That Will doesn’t want him as much as he’s wanted the women he’s been with, that possibly
that feeling he portrays of wanting him so badly will wash away over the stream of time,
because of proclivities.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say Will was being audacious, taunting him with the
concept of jealousy, but he never thought Hannibal ruminations could run through the most
base doubts.
“To consider everyday that you’ll wake up unable to feel for me what I feel for you. I am
never aware of when your empathy inspires something in you, if I am affecting the process
by merely existing in want of you,” comes the hushed explanation, Hannibal’s lips tickling
the surface of his skin. “I do not wish for you to arrive at the conclusion that I have taken
from you that which you never truly and willingly gave. My passion for you is veritable
enough for me to fear it has overlapped into your susceptible mind.”

Will’s chest is heaving, but he feels calmer than he's felt for an hour.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me that?” he stammers softly.

“Selfishness,” Hannibal mutters. “I wanted to dream a while longer.”

“Touch me,” Will coaxes, pushing one of Hannibal’s hands down between them. Hannibal
frowns, but he doesn’t halt the progress of his hand, resting it against the outline of Will’s
dick. It’s hard, not that Will’s been paying much attention to that, but Hannibal seems taken
aback by the heavy weight of it. “I can get so angry with you that I forget how to breathe, but
I’ll still want you, Hannibal. Through anything, against the tide of common sense, even.
Just…being near you does this to me.”

Unconvinced, Hannibal’s fingers curl idly over it through his pants.

Will represses a moan, reaching out to touch Hannibal’s face, fingertips dancing over every
feature within range. Hannibal looks out of his element, being worshiped in return for once,
but Will has to do this.

If Hannibal has a thousand fears, he means to placate them a thousand times.

“I don’t know when it happened,” Will confesses, with tender sheepishness. “I definitely
didn’t want you like that in the beginning…I didn’t even want you as a friend if I’m being
honest, but when you became my friend and even after, there was something about you I
couldn’t shake. Maybe it was over one of the dinners we shared in Baltimore, but I became
achingly aware of you physically, slowly, but surely.”

All Hannibal’s comments referencing attractive actors in films, nudging for Will’s opinion,
alongside in-depth discussions on Will’s past relationships, and with Hannibal’s rather distant
approach to sex even amid being a passionate, satisfying lover;

It makes sense.

And Hannibal’s expression now, pure misunderstanding, makes Will’s heart strain.

“With our history, I get why sex between us would make you…circumspect. But, that’s not
what this is. We’re not overlapping, not when it comes to this.”

Hannibal nods.

Will pushes his forehead against his, closing his eyes.

They stay in each other’s space, breathing patterns slowing to match.

“I didn't mean to imply you were inadequate,” Hannibal says after the thousand yard stare
languidly seeps out from his eyes. “In fact, your enthusiasm is sublime, but it is what
concerned me the most. I did not suspect you would come to me seeking such a thing, not so
soon, and certainly not so ravenously.”

A smile quirks Will’s face.

“I’ll inform you if my empathy is clouding my judgment. I’m usually aware of it happening,
you know. It’s not something I can turn off, but it’s something I can read the edges of. Like
braille.”

“You understand my ambivalence.”

“I think so.”

Nodding again, Hannibal visibly starts to relax.

Will allows himself to relax in turn.

“You have been giving me more than I could have ever dreamed, Will. More than I ever
thought feasible, and it eats at the heart of me because I know how easily it could slip away.”

“I understand that much,” Will agrees. “Like we’re strapped to a ticking time bomb.”

“I would rather be strapped to my death with you than alive without you at my side,”
Hannibal confesses near inaudibly, fondling the cock still in his hand, more as a warm gesture
from a devotee than a provocation. Will rolls into the touch, either way, clasping Hannibal’s
neck, leaning in for a kiss.

It’s chaste, but drawn out. With Hannibal draped over him, one hand sandwiched between
them to do nothing more than cradle his hardness as they kiss close-lipped, languishing, Will
promises himself he’ll remind Hannibal more often that he wants to be here, in his arms, that
he lusts after these moments of intimacy as much as he does.

Hannibal’s hand moves from Will’s dick and snakes under his sweater, spanning the creamy
skin covering his ribcage. Will lets him, sated from the conversation, compromise
harmonizing through them.

“You give me a run for my money, Will,” whispers Hannibal.

“How so?”

“Your appetite is voracious. I delight in it.”

“You’re very kissable, you know,” Will mutters, teasing.

Hannibal cocks a brow, lightening up.

“More than Alana?”

“Even if I wasn’t subjectively speaking, oh yes.”

Both of them yearn so deeply at an identical instance, Will can feel the sensation slice
through him like a knife through hot butter. He shudders and Hannibal leans down to plant a
kiss on his cheek scar.

“Though I would prefer to devour you, we were making good time.”

Hannibal hops off of him, unperturbed by the salacious state they’re mutually suffering. The
car revs up again and Will is left panting quietly, laid out on the planed seat.

He sits up eventually once the car begins rolling backward onto the road. He pulls the lever
of the chair into place so he can sit up straight again and shoots Hannibal with a wry but
affectionate glare. Hannibal appears relaxed, like he heard something he's needed to hear for
a long time. Will had no idea he needed assurances like he does, like any human does. He
learns things about Hannibal every single day.

Later that night, they pull over in an abandoned parking lot.

The back seats retract so they have a small space to lay out blankets for sleep, resembling a
twin size bed that barely fits either of them but will suffice for a night or two.

Hannibal gathers Will close and lavishes his neck with sloppy kisses, electrified with an edge
of desperation Will hadn’t known he was missing. Foreign mutterings are pressed into his
skin accented by teeth, bruises sucked all over him now that he apparently knows Will won’t
be deterred by the ferocity of his passion. Will kisses him back in more subtle, sweet
gestures. He strokes fingers over Hannibal’s scalp and occasionally nudges him into a full,
open-mouthed kiss. The car is too silent for a make out session without Will feeling
embarrassed, but Hannibal attempts it either way, causing him to whimper every time the lip
smacking gets to be a bit much.

“Don’t stop,” Will whispers when Hannibal’s worship winds down. It’s been at least a few
quiet hours of this, and he’s selfish for asking, but he feels like a final veil has lifted between
them and he can be selfish.

Hannibal doesn’t stop, eyes meeting his with fiery intent.

He lowers himself to Will’s nipples and lavishes those for another hour, by the end of it
drawing so many distressed gasps and heated groans out of Will that if someone were outside
to hear them, they might call the police. Worrying about the noise is the last thing on his
mind as Hannibal somehow draws a climax out of him just by groping his hips and flattening
his tongue over his nipples, lapping and flicking.

He’s vaguely aware of the kissing continuing, wet pecks all over his sticky stomach, lapping
up release and blowing on dried saliva to make him shiver, but Will’s too close to sleep,
drifting off soon after.
When he wakes up glued to Hannibal’s side, he groggily mumbles, “Love you,” while the
morning’s endorphins are running rapidly through him, leading him to reckless self-
destruction.

Hannibal was somehow awake, watching him without blinking.

His face softens at Will’s declaration, and he says,

“You beautiful thing.”

Will smiles dumbly at him, nudging up for a kiss.

Neither of them taste good, but that’s okay.

Will jolts at the sound of a morning bird cawing right above the car, likely trying to make a
nest on the metal surface of the roof. Hannibal smiles at his fright, soothing him in a hushing
monotone and peppering kisses along his sweaty hairline, looking much unlike the man he
was yesterday, incensed by the barest of perceived slights. Neither of them can condemn each
other for inspiring so many impassioned outbursts when this is how it feels to love. It’s
insanity in its most concentrated form.

Even so, Will speaks regretfully.

“That argument—whatever the hell it was—yesterday, was really stupid.”

Hannibal actually laughs, fingers twining through the hairs at Will’s nape.

“It was a conducive conversation,” he debates mildly.

“Ah, we’re just having conversations again,” Will remarks. “It’s funny how often our
conversations refuse to mirror how conversations are supposed to be had.”

“You once told me I don’t want anything in your life that isn’t me,” Hannibal recalls, and
Will gears up for their dialogue to take a knee-jerk level shift in tone, but it doesn’t. “I think
you were right.”

“No shit.”

Brow furrowed admonishingly, Hannibal continues, “But I believe the same goes for you.”

Will despises how he can’t dispute that. He’d gone to Florence once with varying intentions.
His choice to stab Hannibal had been motivated by meeting with Bedelia, seeing her shape in
his own displacement.

Sitting up, Will allows his curls to dangle in front of his eyes as he observes Hannibal who is
lying down, gazing up at him with trusting, adoring eyes. The eyes of a man who has
changed himself over and over like Will has for him. It is a miracle they recognize each other,
that their love bears fundamental priority.
“Eternity is in our lips and eyes,” Will quotes tenderly, brushing a thumb over Hannibal’s
bottom lip. Hannibal kisses the pad of his finger, eyes twinkling.

“Bliss in our brows bent,” Hannibal recites.

“Take me to Italy,” Will commands. “Show me the sights you wished for me to see with
you.”

The expression on Hannibal’s face looks like that of a man who has just been handed the
entire world on a silver spoon, no strings attached. They shouldn’t waste more time in Italy
than they should, not realistically, but it could mean a conclusion. Closure.

A vow, in a sense, to all in their relationship they hold sacred.

“I shall.”

Their drive cedes when the sun sets over the horizon.

“We are still far from Sicily, but I would like to take you to Stromboli. If we are lucky, we
will witness just why the island is considered the Lighthouse of the Mediterranean,” Hannibal
says, putting the car into park in a busy parking lot. Will’s anxiety soars to several higher
degrees than average, observing tourists.

Prim and proper as usual, Hannibal steps out of the front seat and moves to open the trunk,
causing Will’s heart rate to spike. “What the hell are you doing?” he calls out, swinging the
car door on his side open.

Hannibal grins at him through the shaded windows

The trunk of the car door slams shut and Hannibal circles over to where Will is half out of his
seat, one foot planted on the cement in case they need to start running.

“You’re drawing more attention by hollering at me than I was grabbing our bags.” Off Will’s
unamused look, he tells him additionally, “There are no security cameras on this side of the
lot. I wouldn’t have opened the trunk if there were onlookers. I needed to retrieve a change of
clothes for both of us."

Hannibal is often exceedingly confident for his own good.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Will inquires warily.

Tourist chatter echoes all around them, increasing in volume with the bellowing horn of the
incoming ferry. Hannibal hands him a tropical shirt (spattered with cartoon sun and yellow
flowers), expensive sunglasses, and a panama hat to match; Will has no clue how he snuck
these into their luggage. He begins to shimmy into all of them, bitter that Hannibal left him
out of yet another conversation. Though, a sick part of him enjoys Hannibal doing everything
for them, overseeing and caring for all of the technicalities.

“You asked me to show you the sights I have always wished to show you.”

“That doesn’t mean this is a good idea.”

“We will not be recognized, Will.”

“Tell that to the dead guy in our trunk,” Will mutters.

Hannibal glowers down at him impatiently and Will slides on the sunglasses to prevent
himself from glaring back. Occasionally, it feels more justifiable to dole out the cold
shoulder.

Hannibal slips his own shirt on, Will catching a glimpse of his furry chest and blushing. The
shadows his hat casts over his face help to hide it, but Hannibal smirks at him like he’s
caught it anyway.

They look like genuine tourists, Hannibal’s stubble helping him to blend in further.

Though a majority of the tourists are filing onto the boat with tickets printed out and
prepared, Hannibal juts out his elbow for Will to slip an arm through and chaperones him
over to the ticket booth where a brash Italian woman bickers with him about the prospects of
buying tickets in advance. Will isn’t altogether positive about how Hannibal manages to
purchase them, too distracted by how he’s being escorted like arm candy, but Hannibal
flashes either passports or fabricated IDs at the woman and her tune takes a nosedive. They
get a discount, Will notices, and Hannibal’s grip on him grows a little tighter.

He doesn’t let Will’s arm go until they’re on the ferry.

It’s bustling with couples, families, and nomads. They push past them all to a seemingly
undesirable spot on the outer rim of the boat, watching the water from just beyond the door of
the staff room.

Dubious, Will eyes him until Hannibal elaborates;

“The IDs I have registered to Italian residences are of an aristocratic heritage, fiancées to
each other, and surveying locations for a promising wedding spot. You need not worry about
memorizing the identity. We’re not staying long.”

Thoughtful, Will props himself up against the ferry’s outer rails.

Hannibal does the same, turning the opposite direction to fully face the water.

The ferry takes off not long after that, the salty wind whipping through their hair. Hannibal
looks beautiful in the sun, tan features glowing rather than flushing out in the exposing rays.

Will gazes at him until Hannibal meets his eyes, then asks,
“What’s my name?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, but hands Will his ID.

Matthew Udinesi.

It looks like a solid ID, with an oddly tampered photo of Will without his scar and beard, a
more ginger tint to his hair. It says his residence is located in Sicily, so Will assumes
Hannibal has a property there.

“How long have they been engaged?” Will murmurs.

Hannibal considers that, smirking to himself.

“I’d say over five years now.”

Will mirrors his smile.

“Wouldn’t you say they’ve waited long enough?”

It dawns on Hannibal what Will is asking of him, his expression taking on a unique caliber of
yearning. Will is glad to see he’s rendered him speechless, so he doesn’t let up.

“I’ve heard Stromboli is known for their churches. Surely they do walk-ins for tourists. I
know it probably wouldn’t be legal since you’d have to sign pa—”

Hannibal kisses him silent, a firm hand covering his cheek scar as he swallows down every
sound Will conjures in response. It’s devouring and untamable.

“Who’s drawing attention now?” Will whispers tauntingly when their lips smack apart. The
kiss resumes for only a moment, Hannibal pinching his teeth over Will’s plush bottom lip.

“The torture you daily put me through…” Hannibal growls into his mouth, a low and husky
whisper that has a full-body shiver wracking Will wholly.

“I’ll allow Freddie Lounds to be right, just this once.”

Will doesn’t need to elucidate what he means by that.

They both know.

Stromboli is gorgeous, a mixture of art deco and Greek influence.

The island reminds him of his childhood trips to Gloucester, secret homey beauty hidden
behind the impoverished stench of a fisherman’s lifestyle. The houses are arrayed in clustered
suburbs, boxy and ivory stoned abodes dotted in the mountainous distance. Will wobbles his
first step off the ferry and onto a large welcoming deck. Tourists point and coo, flocking to
their assigned tour guides.

Will’s tour guide is Hannibal, who fortunately appears to know exactly what he’s doing,
leading Will away from the crowds and off towards the rural settlements.

They’re bombarded with salesmen on the way through Stromboli, happy to accept Hannibal’s
generous tips to inform them where the nearest church lies.

Will bites his lip to hold back a grin as Hannibal takes his hand and rushes him off through
the island, leaving the final commoners behind. Whatever they’re experiencing, it feels like a
dream, the way the fresh air whips past them like they are water and the wind is oil. Nothing
prevents them from seeking out their destination, standing small at the corner of a curving
street, decaying brick and molded roof its singular structure. Hannibal doesn’t look bothered
by its quaint presence, and Will could care less.

“No killing them if they say no.”

“My dear, I wouldn’t dare ruin our chances elsewhere by doing so.”

Will rolls his eyes fondly, allowing himself to be led by the hand to the front door of the
chapel. Hannibal hasn’t let go of him physically since they departed from that helpful
merchant.

The chocolate brown door creaks open to a four-walled room, paint chipping off them,
folding chairs rearranged awkwardly and spanning most of the space. There is a pedestal to
act as an altar, but no priest.

The light seeping through the grimy window causes the chairs to seem lime colored.

“Maybe it’s abandoned,” Will suggests, mildly disappointed.

Before they decide to leave, the door creaks open again revealing an elderly man in the
proper holy uniform. He’s carrying several wooden boards, eyeing them suspiciously. Will
inches closer to Hannibal.

Hannibal speaks to him in Italian, respectfully hushed.

The man speaks back, voice implying cigarette abuse.

“He says people usually choose to get married down at the Chiesa di San Vincenzo,”
Hannibal translates, a smile curving his lips as he adds, “He hasn’t married anyone in years,
‘especially not our kind’.”

Before Will becomes furious, Hannibal elaborates,

“Non-Italians.”
Will scoffs, shooting a gawky smirk at the priest who huffs to himself, waving his hand
dramatically as he paws for the nearest bible. Its cover is dusty, splayed open on the folding
chair by the chapel’s entrance.

“He’s Italian on his mother’s side,” Will claims honestly, because it might help their case
with their fake IDs if asked, aside from the fact Hannibal’s Italian genes have always been
relatively blatant to him.

The priest waves his hand again, dismissively.

More back and forth between him and Hannibal, then Hannibal speaks to Will once more.

“He says he’ll do it as long as there’s no ceremony. I told him that was preferable.”

Will nods, heart rapping against his ribs. This is happening. He’s marrying Hannibal on a
whim like dimwitted brides and grooms marry each other on wild romps through Las Vegas.

And yet, he has to pause, and remind himself.

This isn't a whim. This is Hannibal Lecter.

“He warns the scripture will be in Italian,” Hannibal includes after the priest has planted
himself behind the altar, muttering grumpily in a way that comes across more comedic to
Will than anything else.

“I don’t need to hear God’s voice to know what this means.”

Hannibal beams down at him, and Will squeezes his hand.

No religion has sway in their union, but Will sees the appeal in houses of God and being
married in them. He hadn’t married Molly in a church, had signed the necessary papers and
promised to be as loyal of a father as he could be. That hadn’t meant anything more than a
promise, like this will.

Except this is a promise he consciously intends to keep.

Hannibal maneuvers Will in front of him by the pedestal when the priest pats a page of the
bible impatiently. Will doesn’t let his hand go, clasping the other one to hold between them.

If Hannibal is surprised again by his forwardness and surety to commit to this, he doesn’t
show it. He’s smiling up to his ears, adrift in the reality of what’s happening. Will can’t help
but to feel it all the same.

Their eyes meet, and Hannibal bites his tongue, looking amused.

Will’s brow tilts up, registering the silliness of this in unison with him.

They are killers taking holy vows of matrimony.

Just because they can get away with it.

After several minutes of wordy recitation from the priest, Hannibal whispers, “I do,” with
reverence. Will hadn’t even realized they were up to that point. That it’s happening all right
now.

For a brief instance, the Norman Chapel glitters around them. Bright and decadent, the muted
song of a choir chiming to accentuate how near the Chapel is to them. He knows Hannibal
can also see it.

Will waits, heart hammering, until Hannibal nods that it's his time.

“I do,” he echoes, a partial sigh.

“Bacio, bacio!” The priest grumbles, flapping his hand.

Will is confused until Hannibal draws him in for a kiss by the nape of his neck, short but
sweet. Will slides his hands down to Hannibal’s elbows, cupping them and smiling stupidly
through the lip lock at the otherworldly nature of this victorious moment in their shared
timeline.

I’ve discovered you there, victorious.

Hannibal had declared that years ago, and Will had admitted with defeat and a put-upon
degree of indifference, that there would be no victory for them, and silently sanctioned they
were a zero-sum game.

For once, Will finds himself on the advantageous side of the equation.

If they are a zero-sum game, their equivalent sum is the rest of the world.

They exit the chapel to the night having fallen, the only light in the distance being the thinly
crested moon and the orange glow of the titanic volcano. They did become lucky tonight, as
it happens.

“And for our honeymoon, Will?” Hannibal asks broadly, playful.

Will considers, drawing a ring in the sand beneath their feet.

“How about a little virgin sacrifice at the volcano?”

Abruptly, Hannibal laughs, a loud and boisterous noise Will has never heard come out of him.
Completely alleviated of any and all worries, as if they aren’t being hunted by individuals
with immense resources, and every authority with a focus on at-large killers. Will yelps,
swatting at him when Hannibal sweeps him off his feet into a bridal carry, spinning him
around once before capturing him in a kiss.

“Put me down!” Will barks, unable to keep the hiccup of a laugh from escaping his throat.
Hannibal kisses his threatening lips once more before setting him down into a wavering
stand. “I warned you I wasn’t going to let you carry me again. I decree, no more virgin
sacrifice for you.”
Hannibal tries to force a pout, but he can’t stop smiling.

Will shoves him with a push at the shoulder.

The tension is suddenly so thick, he could drown.

Hannibal doesn’t let it linger and consume them. He gestures at the smoke and magma,
illuminating the surmounting span of Stromboli, then whispers, “Shall we get as close as
possible?”

Will shakes his head yet answers, “Why not?”

They don’t get neighboringly close to the volcano with the tourist guide’s blockades
obstructing them, but they get near enough for Will to become awash with a haptic sensation
of heat. He can’t tell the difference between natural humidity and his desire for Hannibal,
however. Not anymore.

The reflection in Hannibal’s eyes blazes like fire at the next gush of hot molten earth bursting
from the volcano in the distance. Will doesn’t watch the natural occurrence, but Hannibal’s
eyes instead.

They wait for the morning ferry to take them back to Messina’s shore, neither of them
sleeping an inch amidst their admiration of the world and its miracles.

They don’t speak the whole ride to Sicily, but Will’s hand blankets Hannibal’s on the shift
again, and this time it feels unlike a gesture he needs to defend, nor does Hannibal consider
potential insincerity.

Hannibal finally rolls the car into a beachside commune in the evening, specifically the
driveway of a lonely home several hills apart from the crowded beach houses clustered
below.

Will had read the welcome sign for ‘Villabate’ upon arrival.

A town in Sicily, quite close to Palermo and the Norman Chapel.

“This residence has not been attended for years, so I apologize in advance for its disarray.”
Hannibal pockets the keys and bounds over to Will’s side, chivalrously opening his door.
Will’s never been a fan of chivalry, but he’s habitually been indulging Hannibal. It’s shaping
up to be more of an addiction, if he’s being honest.

“Are we not going straight through to Palermo?”

“I would prefer to work in the earliest possible morning hours, so we can depart at nightfall.
No need to fret, I have it all timed out in here,” Hannibal taps at his own temples. “I would
like to purchase a bottle of real Italian wine for you at one of my most favored wineries, if
you are amenable of course.”

“We have time to kill,” Will concedes, leeching off Hannibal’s elation to drown out the
dreadful anticipation of their plans tonight.

“Atta boy,” Hannibal muses, lifting him up by the hand.

They stop for a bathroom break inside the house, and a breather that allows for a glass of
water and a snack. Will hadn’t noticed how hungry he was on Stromboli, and finds that a
bowl of grits sates him as much as a bigger meal would’ve. It smells like palm trees and
strangely, aluminum inside the house.

Hannibal turns on the TV and is able to connect to local channels.

There is a single American news channel, but the anchors are discussing a DUI. Will ghosts
his hand over Hannibal’s shoulder, noticing the restless expression on his face, then exits to
pour himself more water.

The drive to a strip of opulent shops takes no time.

Hannibal chauffeurs him through a winery with a pretentious title, and Will feels more self-
conscious this time only because he is without his protective tropical shirt and hat, having
switched out for a black sweater in the cool swell of evening weather. Hannibal is wearing a
gray button down, making himself look tanner under the golden lamps indoors, and
incidentally more natively Italian.

Wandering off when Hannibal’s discussions with an employee delve into snobbish extents, he
greets a well-behaved dog behind the otherwise empty counter. It is a white Pomeranian of
sorts, bobblehead slanting to the right when Will softly begins speaking to it, asking her
rhetorical questions.

The name on the collar reads; Benedetta.

He ends up coaxing the dog into a prissy bark, earning a glare from the employee speaking
with Hannibal. Under any other circumstances, Hannibal might have considered killing him
for such a dirty look.

Instead, he narrows down a choice of wine and purchases it.

He and Will leave with one bottle of Pietradolce ‘Vigna Barbagalli’ 2010. Hannibal suggests
a quick dinner at a nearby café, and Will agrees though he should have reconsidered upon
seeing the line.
Even so, the spanakopita Will eats blows his mind.

Bellies full, they return to the beach house with little time to prepare. Hannibal dresses in the
darkest outfit he brought with him, a maroon button-up with black trousers. Will has an odd
urge to wear his glasses, but he persuades himself to keep them buried in his back pocket.
Another time, perhaps.

Will stashes a corkscrew into their belongings for the trip to Palermo, unknowing if they will
return to this property on their way back to Croatia. They’ll be headed home tonight, which
feels inconceivable now.

Hannibal had backed the car’s rear up to the house to avoid prying eyes so he could examine
the bodies in their trunk. They have begun to rot, stinking horribly, but more than ready to be
prepared.

“Laocoon had two sons, so it cannot be an identical rendition.”

“No,” Will agrees. “But, the message will remain. The snakes will still be venomous.”

Hannibal inclines his head, then retreats into the house for a brief period before returning
with a jar of an edible substance. It takes Will a moment to realize it is honey without a label.

“Might I suggest organic honey as a substitute for glue? It will create a unique sheen if we
lather the bodies in it fully, and honey with hemlock was used anciently for poison.”

Impressed, Will nods in accord.

Hannibal appears pleased with his agreeability.

“The intestines should be the snakes,” Will posits.

“Naturally.”

They shut the trunk and head off for Palermo. Night has encroached on them, shadows the
only obstacles on the road. Will anticipates a quiet night of success, as seconds drone by
without a hitch.

“I should hope whoever they hire to psychoanalyze the crime scene understands who the
message is for, and whom it is created by,” Hannibal poses not long into the drive.

“There’s no way in hell they’re going to miss that it’s us, but you’re right. This once we
might need to leave something more concrete than a Hellenistic model.” Thinking, Will
reaches for the glove compartment, chuffed to find a pad of sticky notes and pens amongst
other necessities. “Here.”

He couldn’t have predicted the level of disgust Hannibal would exude at the sight of the
sticky notes, fingers white-knuckled on the wheel.

“We will make a stop for better stationary,” Hannibal says tightly.
“You’re joking. You’re gonna risk our capture because a sticky note is too plebeian for
you?”

“We are risking our capture merely by entering the chapel tonight.”

“That’s not—”

“Please, Will. I promise it will be quick, and I know where I’m going.”

“Jesus.” Will tosses his hands up in the air. “Fine.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“If we get caught because of goddamn stationary, you’re dead.”

“Yes, of course.”

The streets of Palermo are a more rugged take on Florence, those streets that Will remembers
well on his daily journeys to the Norman Chapel. He recalls the valentine vividly, and
Abigail’s ghost.

The stationary shop (Will had no inkling society even entertained the idea of those anymore
—as extinct in his mind as video rental stores) is close by the chapel, but not close enough to
fully concern Will.

He stays inside the car, squinting past the shaded windows to watch Hannibal’s figure sift
through options. The fluorescents inside the shop help, but also aggravate him because
Hannibal is lounging not hurrying, and now he’s picking out an inkwell and feather pen to
match the paper pack he chose.

Due to the situation unfolding before him, Will considers sarcastically informing Hannibal he
doesn’t find him sexy anymore, but he knows the joke will land too rawly after their
encounter days prior.

And when Hannibal pops back in behind the wheel, carbonated like a gleeful child, Will
decides with a long-suffering sigh that he doesn’t even want to burst his bubble.

They drive as close as they can to the chapel, and Hannibal takes out his new stationary and
pen once parked, dips it into the ink he’s placed open in the cupholder and pierces his gaze
through Will.

“Anything you have to say to dear old Uncle Jack?”

Or Chilton, remains unsaid.

Will exhales through his nose.

“I have nothing to say,” he determines.

Hannibal bows his head and writes in swishing swirls of ink, a curt note. Will doesn’t read it
before it’s folded up into an envelope, yet heatedly follows the licking path of Hannibal’s
tongue to seal it.

He doesn’t care what’s written, as long as it’s clear.

“Shall we?” Hannibal asks, eyes consumed by a red hue.

When Will blinks, the hue vanishes.

He lowers his palm atop Hannibal’s proffered hand.

It’s no surprise Hannibal has knowledge of the back entrances, secret entrances, and plain old
entrances the Norman Chapel keeps hidden from even the most devoted of worshippers, but
Will is surprised that they find themselves winding back through the catacombs, wisping past
skeletons of the dead.

The rolling suitcases clatter loudly in the barren corridors.

The agonizing portion of the night results in the waiting. Waiting by the entry doors to the
catacombs for the proper moment. Waiting for the change in shift for the next night guard so
Will can swiftly but firmly knock him out using field expertise, the second the stranger passes
through the vast church doors.

They must set to work quickly after that.

Hannibal disappears as Will lays out the bodies before the stairs, but he doesn’t have the
opportunity to question where he’s gone before he’s returning with music stands, the best
object they can use for a prop.

“That will have to do,” says Will. “By the altar, come on.”

“I admire your assertion,” Hannibal answers, doing as he’s told.

The bodies of Vita and Toma are bare already, Vita looking more peaceful in her eternal
slumber without the stains of dirt and blood Toma carries. A perfect dichotomy of his and
Hannibal’s killing methods.

“Hold the music stand in place,” Will orders.

Hannibal does, and Will lifts Vita with a grunt, wincing in redundant sympathy as he crushes
her body down into the pointed protrusions of the music stand. He hears muscle tear, skin rip
from the pressure. He pushes onward until the music stand is mostly buried inside her, and
stale blood gushes grotesquely from the punctures. Hannibal observes his handiwork,
adjusting Vita’s position.
“Good?” Will doesn’t know what he’s fishing for with that question, but when Hannibal turns
to him and repeats with veracity, “Good,” he temporarily feels faint with pleasure.

The honey is broken out, and Hannibal slathers Vita entirely with the cloying substance. He
uses a paintbrush he prudently thought to purchase at the stationary shop. He was right too,
because when Vita is nearly subsumed by the honey, the candlelight makes her look like a
mythical creature, or a scorned Goddess drenched in her punishment.

Arranging Toma is a little more difficult, and Will startles when Hannibal’s hand joins his at
the man’s thighs, maneuvering the legs to cross over one another in the most vulnerable
manner applicable.

Their eyes meet, and Will noses Hannibal’s jawline when it nears.

They don’t kiss, but the cord invisibly connecting them coils taut.

“That’s good,” Will says with tenderness, allowing Hannibal to move Toma’s right arm with
him, sticking it flat just under Vita’s breast, as if reaching for the heavens and getting
nowhere.

Hannibal uses a nail from his pocket to assure its levitation.

Will smiles. “Where are you getting all these trinkets?”

“Designing is a spontaneous process,” Hannibal answers, voice soothing in the stark silence
of the chapel. “You must always be prepared for when inspiration strikes.”

“Are you inspired?”

“To do this with my muse results in more than inspiration.”

Will is tempted even more to kiss him then, but alternatively, he wields the curved blade he
brought along and whispers, “I’ll disembowel, you’ll arrange.”

Hannibal nods, desire, longing, and acceptance glistening all over his face. The flickering
candle light serves to display him as an wishful apparition as much as it likely does for Will.

Will comes up behind Toma’s body, begging in its posture for redemption. He reaches
around, digging the point of the blade into the space below his breast. His eyes flutter shut as
he sinks it in, clawing him open slowly. A rush of power flames through Will, identical to
how he felt killing Toma in the woods.

Guts spill over his bare hand, blood and mess alike.

Inhaling, Hannibal kneels closer to the spillage.

He picks out the colon foremost, stretching it flexibly between his fingers. Will forces his
eyes open so he can watch, eyelids heavy from the adrenaline high he was just rewarded. The
colon is then wrapped around Vita’s body, and with Hannibal’s artistry, it looks more like a
snake than the real thing might.
Will resumes staring as the remaining intestines are prepped.

Each earns a nail at the figurative head and tail, the honey helping keep the rest in place. The
stench is nearly unbearable, and Will shocks himself with how easily he’s able to stare up-
close at his bloodied hand. Hannibal admires the tableau they’ve created, bodies craned in
reminiscent angles to the original sculpture, and the snakes implying their message loud and
clear, along with the body count itself.

“This is our design,” Will murmurs to himself.

Their design is proof of them.

Hannibal lifts him to his feet and they maintain profound eye contact for longer than Will can
feasibly time. As the rush between them dwindles, Hannibal wipes off the blood from his
hands before placing the letter he wrote for Jack and Frederick at the base of the design,
balancing on Toma’s unblemished thigh.

“Let us not waste a second more,” Hannibal proclaims, zipping their bags shut, and heading
back the way they came in an air of accomplishment.

One last time, Will gazes at their design before following.

On the drive home, Hannibal pulls into a clearing for them to sleep.

Will suggests an after-midnight picnic first, with the food they packed from Croatia. They
also pop open their new wine with the corkscrew Will lugged along.

They pass the bottle between them, growing drunk as the moon travels through the sky.

“I feel so alive,” Will confesses upward.

His neck is craned back against a car door, staring up at the starry night. Hannibal parallels
him, but turns his head down whenever he moves to take a bite of his sandwich.

“You’re finally awake,” Hannibal responds.

There is a purity to the answer that has Will feeling like he’s on top of the world. Nothing can
touch him, or them. He’s as alive as the Earth is, and the rotation of the planet will never
cease.

They kiss, but Will couldn’t say which one of them initiated it.

It tapers off, and Hannibal eventually suggests they prepare for sleep.

Will shakes his head, and speaks gently.

 “Let’s stay here a while. While our stars are still the same.”

Chapter End Notes

i had a deadline for a thing that got hella extended so i've had more time to write for this
before my trip and man i did not expect this chapter to get away from me so much but
will and hannibal wanted to get married??? blame them idk i couldn't stop them LMAO
 Chapter 27
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It takes Will a significant amount of time to realize Hannibal has driven off track and is
ignoring the GPS altogether. Suspicious, he eyes the vast road ahead then glances at the doe-
eyed man beside him, peppy with (debatably over) confidence and a well-practiced air of
mystique.

"Hannibal," Will voices when Hannibal parks the car in an isolated gravel lot (with an
overhanging sign that welcomes them to a public hiking trail, the paint chipped from the
address) filled with only two other cars. It's a question and a statement, and it likely also
functions as a warning.

"You wanted to stop in Tuscany, Will."

It all clicks together. It should have an hour before if Will's being honest with himself.

He didn't want to get his hopes up.

Will smiles, and Hannibal mirrors the expression with a click of the car key.

Of all people, Hannibal insists they take significant time to narrow down the most desolate
spot from the assigned trails, leading out from the community parking lot, to prevent either of
them from being caught by tourists. Will grows so restless by the time they finally find a
clearing without any noticeable sign of recent activity that he aggressively tosses their travel
bag to the floor and drops his hands to Hannibal's belt.

If he was worried about coming up with a way to convince him this spot is good enough, he
shouldn't have been. Eyelids drooping, Hannibal immediately leans in and zippers their lips
together.

The brush of his tongue has him making noises already.

That’s not a good sign; Will can’t stop.

The sun is blaring hot in the sky and Will can sense the oncoming sunburn when they begin
to, with the zeal of new lovers, divest each other's clothing.
Will falls back onto his knees from an intense bite on his bottom lip, panting. Hannibal
follows, unrelenting as he ravishes him into the soft whispering grass that mostly hides their
bodies.

"God," he rasps on Hannibal's lips, stupefied by their impossible chemistry, frantically

clutching his face closer as Hannibal manually lifts one of his legs over his own hip.

They’re nude now and everything feels wrong, doing this in the wilderness, but it also feels
more than it has before. Like he’s never known himself as well as he does at this moment, in
the quiet wilderness.

"Let me be everything to you," Hannibal whispers in a low timbre. "Let me."

"I'll let you," Will responds earnestly, though he knows his dick might be doing most of the
talking in this instance.

Hannibal has him there in the tall, sweet smelling, grass of the Tuscan hills; he turns Will
over and, out of an average understanding of anal sex by this point, Will expects to be thrust
into from behind while he's on all fours until both of them are spent. He would have been
thrilled by that, but Hannibal shocks him as he—after he properly lubricates and feeds quite a
few fingers inside him to ease the way—slides inside and tugs Will backward so he's lying
horizontal on top of him, his back to Hannibal's chest. They're almost entirely obscured by
nature now, and Will is squinting from the blinding sun rays above.

The longest grass blades tickle his skin and the angle is causing a gnarly crick in his back.

He takes a deep breath and attempts to relax.

"Close your eyes and feel me," Hannibal whispers, further easing him, sliding a hand over
Will's throat. The other slings over his waist to keep him steady.

Never in his life would he have expected to be in this position

They feel like one entity.

Slowly, Will closes his eyes, then he’s choking on a moan as Hannibal begins grinding up
into him. His opening clenches anxiously around the intrusion. At this angle, barely any
pressure is applied to his prostate which isn’t so pleasant, but Hannibal's hands find both his
cock and his mouth, slipping fingers through sensitive crevices and gyrating with their
movements. Will's desperate noises are muffled by the fingers in his mouth, tracing and
prodding his tongue as if that’s not outlandishly strange.

Strangely, it feels good, and Will gnaws at them with each dragging press inside and out.

He gasps up at the sky, dribbling over Hannibal’s fingers, and squeezes his eyes shut even
tighter. At a thrust which jolts him forward, Will suddenly feels bliss so strongly he has to
throw an arm back through a yell and rip blades of grass from their roots—an attempt at
grappling for purchase.

"That's it," Hannibal murmurs, nibbling at his ear. "No one to find us. Just you and me."
At some point, Hannibal tosses his girthy legs over Will’s, locking him in. Will twitches but
can’t go far, body rigid as he’s held so firmly.

Despite the bare minimum of stimulation, Will catapults to orgasm much faster than he
normally would, feeling held more than just physically—emotionally, spiritually, cosmically
—as Hannibal's grip tightens painfully over his cock and mouth. The fingers caressing his
tongue slide out and wetly clasp over his lips, quieting him with an out of place harshness.
When Hannibal's fingers pinch his shivering nose shut, and his breathing pathway is cut off
temporarily, Will comes with a quieted wail, thrashing only once.

The sun is burning so bright on his skin, his release feels like hot wax.

Hannibal isn't far behind, rolling them over at the last moment (so fast that Will is wincing
from specks of dirt entering his mouth) so he can pull his long cock out of him and jerk off
over his trembling thighs. Some of it sinks into the earth, along with Will's saliva which he's
had little control over for the last minute and a half. The rest coats him between his legs, and
burns just the same as his own.

The fields don't tickle so much as they scrape against his very sensitive skin now, and
Hannibal's devouring kisses making a trail over his shoulder blades don't help him to come
down.

"That may have been the most adventurous thing I've ever done." Will reconsiders the
sentiment and elaborates, "Sexually, I mean."

Hannibal's teeth bare in a grin on his lower back. "I'll have to do better then."

Will huffs in disbelief, spitting out the earth that invaded his mouth back to its source. He
reaches for his button-up and says, “We’re both too old for this sort of thing you know.”

“I’ll never be too old for anything.”

“That’s because you don’t expect to live long enough to see a nursing home,” Will snaps
lightly, shocked at his own blunt retaliation in response to that. They both glance at each
other, Hannibal looking more intrigued than offended like Will thought he might be. He ends
up adding a quickly spoken, “Sorry.”

“Never apologize to me, Will.”

“I wonder if it’s the first time I ever have,” Will mutters.

“Sorriness is a waste of time,” Hannibal responds simply, standing now so he can slide on his
trousers and readjust his belt. He looks untouched, where Will feels destroyed.

Will stands with him, and the Earth tilts slightly.

“Have you really regretted nothing?”

Hannibal just barely pauses, continuing to avert his eyes.

“There is a difference between sorriness and regret.”

Will looks to the woods. The trees are short things, yet scattered in thick enough clusters to
shroud. Stout and green deeper than the most polluted lake. They block the view of
everything, even half the sky.

He’s overcome suddenly, and he steps in Hannibal’s line of view.

Hannibal watches him carefully as Will reaches out.

He cups his cheek, so soft it’s practically hovering in mid-air.

“I’m sorry,” Will whispers, matching the whispering of the winds. “For all of it.”

It’s targeted. He knows Hannibal won’t apologize for anything in return. Will has always
known the man isn’t capable of it. Not a proper apology, not a sincere one. Not something
that would mean anything to either of them if it were spoken aloud and manifested. He also
knows his own apology will eat at Hannibal. It will haunt him and worry at the soft muscle
tissue of his heart until he feels physical pains of it looming inside him at night, like a
spreading tumor.

He knows it’s an insult and a taunt.

And it’s all that and more, because Will means it.

He doesn’t bother to wait for Hannibal to respond. The silver flames which ignited in his eyes
the moment Will spoke the words—no other inflection having broken through the man’s tight
control—was enough.

Will is on the trail back to the car long before Hannibal begins to follow him. They don’t see
each other for another half hour when Hannibal finally winds back to the driver’s seat and
hops in beside Will who was sitting gazing at the parking lot ahead. There are no cars now.
They had no need to worry about peers.

The drive is silent.

Whenever Hannibal frigidly glances at him at a left turn, Will cocks his brow at him, glowing
from head to toe. There is obviously still an occasion where he cannot resist a win as
powerful as this.

Then, Hannibal says the damndest thing.

“Would you care for pizza tonight?”

Will snorts at the absurdity, though he’s positive Hannibal will make the pizza into a fine
cuisine once they’re home. He shrugs from the topic change, feeling victorious, and mutters,

“Sure.”
Will should have known Hannibal wouldn’t stand down quietly.

The pizza is served to the middle of their round table in the dining room (they only returned
an hour prior, and Will was shocked Hannibal finished the meal so quickly when he was
called in after his shower) on a wooden cutting slab. Hannibal looks smug in his freshly
bought three piece suit and that’s never good.

“How many pieces would you like?” Hannibal asks.

Dubious, Will eyes the pizza. There is nothing more than a few peppers and mushrooms
scattered over the top of cheese and sauce. Nothing out of the ordinary, and it certainly smells
like pizza.

“Uh. Three. I guess.”

The disk is huge after all.

Hannibal inclines his head in understanding and then, ludicrously, bends over one of the chair
seats and picks up a giant circular buzz saw that he rears towards the pizza.

Will is struck with something fiercely damaging. Close to PTSD, but not. Over a hundred
emotions crash into him so abruptly that he tastes bile and must grip the tablecloth when the
device turns on and makes the wretched buzzing sound that goes with it. It doesn’t have those
telltale spiraling blades, but Hannibal’s nonchalance as he handles it and slices up three large
pieces for Will (with languishing delay following each cut) is so offensively obvious.

Will doesn’t even know if he deserves this or not.

He might for all he knows. Their ideas of arguments and altercations and squabbles are so
hugely different from the average individual, and also so derivative of each other’s
understanding of what an acceptable jab is that he isn’t even sure he can blame Hannibal for
this despite how intentional it is.

“Stop,” he says loudly.

Hannibal stops. He isn’t finished.

“Two instead?”

“You’ve made your point,” Will iterates, knowing he looks as pale as the marble from their
kitchen. Hannibal scans him head to toe, the scrutiny unbearable while he’s handling a saw as
big as that. At the innocent expository pursing of Hannibal’s lips, Will continues rather
angrily, “Don’t play pretend.”

He doesn’t want him pretending he doesn’t know what he means by that.

“I’d prefer it if you weren’t playing pretend either,” Hannibal delineates.

“I wasn’t pretending in Tuscany.”

At Hannibal’s unresponsive stare, eyes black from the dim candlelight and the incidental
shadows they cast, Will speaks again in a calmer tone.

“You and I both know this is reactionary.”

“And your apology was in reaction to what?”

Will’s eyes raise, surprised at how openly Hannibal is referring to all this.

“In reaction to you. To us.”

Hannibal doesn’t like that answer, but he hands Will his pieces on a metal spatula and reaches
for a pair of kitchen snippers to cut the rest. Will doesn’t call him out on being an over
dramatic provocator and Hannibal doesn’t bring up the intimate moment they shared in
Tuscany that’s had Will on the knife’s edge since the afternoon.

The pizza is great. Unsurprisingly.

Will finishes his pieces long before Hannibal does his own. The majority of their time spent
in the dining room is in wait for Hannibal to finish his wine which he nurses for an
excruciating period, thoughtfully stagnant.

“I’d enjoy taking you to Krka National Park tomorrow,” he eventually mentions.

It feels like an order. Like Will can’t get out of it if he wants to.

Luckily, Will wants to go.

“If you think it’s a wise move.”

Hannibal doesn’t look at him.

“The property is colossal. Not a single eye will be on us.”

“Until we’re purchasing tickets.”

“I know another way in.”

Lips twitching into a smile, Will murmurs, “You were a bit of a delinquent in your youth
then, weren’t you. Other than the murder of course.”

It’s like seeing the sunset when Hannibal finally smiles back and answers,

“Follow me. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

Will follows him past the corridor which leads to the hot spring. There is a hidden door that
Will is shocked he didn't notice before, shaded in camouflage within the extravagant rocky
interior. Hannibal unlocks it and slides the door open with massive exertion. Lights flicker on
inside.
At first, Will believes he's witnessing a shrine before he notices the vertical row of katanas
lined up on rigid beams in the wall ahead.

It is still a shrine, he supposes, but he's not sure for what other than for something inanimate.
The room is otherwise decorated in a classic Japanese style, much like how Chiyoh kept her
common room in the Lecter castle during her occupancy there. Will had noticed the futons by
her mantel, in front of blurry photographs. This is more elaborate, a Samurai suit on either
side of the display, as if guarding the swords. He sucks in a breath at the majesty of it.

"Was this part of her will?"

"I never expected it would be," Hannibal explains. Abnormally, his hands are in his pockets
as he strolls over to the katanas to examine them up close. Will suspects these objects don't
all serve him with the company of kind memories.

"These were important to her," Will states, the scent of stale cloves on the air tipping him off
to a time when these may have needed upkeep she could no longer provide as intently in her
older age.

Hannibal nods, gaze turning glossy.

"Murasaki's ancestors were warriors nourished in the womb of war. They thrived on
bloodshed only beasts can bask in."

"Do you relate to that?" Will asks, mirroring him by sliding hands into his pockets. The room
is much colder than the rest of the cave.

Smirking, Hannibal responds with a put-off lilt, "Do you mean to say, do I believe I was born
in the wrong position, the wrong century? That I could have been a courier of violence on a
field fit for the act? No, my dear."

"It sounds freeing though, doesn't it," Will muses, not entirely serious. He doesn't like the
idea of barbarian-type violence. Has never cared for war or the military. It felt as far away to
him as it does to most Americans he assumes.

"You know many Americans who join the military do so out of desperation. Whether it be
poverty or another brand of governmental pressure, many do not wish to serve to begin with.
They simply have no other choice," Hannibal posits, still staring at the swords.

They glint brighter as Hannibal dials up the candlelight.

"I guess I was picturing it more…personally. If I remove government, and troops, and
soldiers, it's just you, me, and the others."

Curiosity ruptures through Hannibal's features.

"I asked you once how it would feel to tear a man apart with your bare hands."

"Yes, you did," Will replies unhelpfully.

"Do you imagine it still?"

Will gazes at the katanas. He can hear the screaming of Lady Murasaki's ancestors. They
require respect; the oil to be drawn over the blade, to kneel in front of them and remember.
They need not to be forgotten.

"Not specifics. Broad things. A field. Valleys of blood. Bits of skin on my fingers…"

"My aunt never saw her ancestors fight. They were too far separated in time. While I have no
interest in war, the ancient history of it fascinates me. We have upgraded our violence to its
mass production. Yet the world rebels at singular transformation,” notes Hannibal.

"When society feels personally targeted, they demand something be done about it," Will
reminds.

It's not as if either of them are entrenched in politics. The chatter always bothered Will. So
much rhetoric; nothing to say, so much being said. And obviously Hannibal's politics are null
and void in the face of his killing anybody he pleases at any moment.

Will thinks about his childhood, then.

"I thought about it…once."

Hannibal stares at him, willing him to elucidate the admission. Begrudgingly, Will does.

"During high school. My dad was sick. We had nearly nothing. It just seemed the right thing
to do. I knew jack shit about health care. But the idea of war, I couldn't stomach it enough to
even fill out the application."

Hannibal blinks, absorbing the new information, and says hesitantly,

"I, as well, considered it. Very long ago."

"That's hard to believe," Will mutters.

"Before Mischa died."

Will sighs, everything crashing over him all at once. The man who killed Mischa, who fed
her to him, who killed a royal family in 20th century Lithuania for no other reason than—

“He was a vet. The man who—”

“Yes.” Hannibal pauses, inhaling and exhaling. “They all were.”

Will’s lips part. He can feel his own eyes watering and despite how desperately he wants to
look Hannibal in the eyes, or draw closer to him, he can’t. The floor is dark, like an abyss
beneath his feet. He watches it, and waits.

“I never believed you killed her,” Will says softly, after the right amount of time passes. “Not
for a second. If I planted the seed in Chiyoh’s mind, it’s because I couldn’t tame my anger
towards you.”

“Even if you did, how could I blame you for assumption?”

“I know you better than that,” Will counters. “I always have.”

“I suppose it doesn’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things,” Hannibal murmurs,
arms folding behind his back. “But the world, and what little they know of her, believe I was
the reason for my sister’s death. It neither bothered or enraged me, not as you might have
expected it would. There is no worth in public opinion, so often society is polarized by each
other. They see a killer, they see guilt in every moment of destruction within my past, no
exception. I suppose I fostered that attitude myself, because I never deigned to deny it. Yet, to
know that you of all people never truly assumed that of me…”

“You know me better than that.”

Hannibal’s hard expression softens, and he draws his foot over the uneven cobble flooring.
There's vulnerability in his posture, almost childlike. When he speaks again, his voice has
taken on a whimsy Will has trouble reconciling with the man himself, “Of course I do, Will.”
A lengthy pause is drawn out. “She was a painter. More so than I. Mischa attempted to
capture many things, a nature lover as much as Van Gogh. If we had the access to his best
back then, she would have liked to see them. Whenever she attempted to paint me, my
fingers and legs would become beds of flowers. As if she could not help the transformation
of my physical form on paper. Those portraits are lost to time, to brush fire and smoke.”

“She saw what no one else could see,” Will replies quietly.

The flowers weren’t wish fulfillment. She could see a man who could love, impossibly.

“Something other than who I truly am.”

“Was she so talented at such a young age?”

Hannibal smiles through a frown. “Not entirely. I did end up looking more like a ghoul than a
man. But perhaps that was intentional too.”

“No,” Will interrupts. “No, I think she saw the best in you.”

The first katana in the rack is removed; Hannibal runs his fingers down the blade.

“Do you see the best in me, Will?”

Not threatened by the gesture, Will watches him touch the sword.

“I used to think it was a curse that I could.”

“What would you define as the best?”

“A man so afraid of love, he tried to consume it.”

Hannibal’s brow twitches, a rare moment of surprise from him. That Will would consider the
best aspects of him the most vile by society’s standards. But, despite Will’s ire of that day and
Hannibal’s incessant need to be maladaptive in every respect, the fact that he loved Will so
much he felt he had to consume him in order to keep him inside for the rest of time, no
escape applicable. Well, it’s nearly human.

Will’s always had a weakness for Hannibal’s brand of obsession.

“I suppose you’d say the best of me is my hunger for killing,” Will continues with haphazard
motivation, a poor attempt at lightening up the chilly mood.

“No, Will,” Hannibal replies firmly. “The best of you is the part which wants, in every fiber
of your being, peace for yourself. Even now. Despite the world, despite me.”

“Not despite you. Because of you.” Will touches the blade in Hannibal’s grip, feeling along
its edge, forcing a small smile. “You’ve given me peace of mind, and more. That’s not
untrue.”

Hannibal stares down at where their hands brush together and tells him, “There is a painting
Mischa created of these katanas. It is buried somewhere in my castle. One of the few relics
remaining of hers. I have always wished to find it, yet never found the chance.” He exhales
carefully. “Or the fortitude. There was supposedly a message she left for me on the canvas.
I’ve never read it.”

Slowly, Will nods.

One day, perhaps, they will find it together.

“Do you have to sharpen these?” Will questions, continuing to trace the dull blade.

“Polish them. It’s an intricate process.”

“Teach me.”

There is a harrowing expression on Hannibal’s face, briefly. Will wonders if his love for him
overwhelms him as much as Will’s love for Hannibal often does. If their stars are the same,
he can’t imagine it doesn’t.

Then he answers, “I shall.”

Hannibal ends up sidling up behind him while Will holds the sword in a double-fisted grip.
There are three oils by their right side, and only two microfiber cloths. Hannibal’s thighs hug
his hips.

It’s like cooking together, but more intimate somehow.

He explains how to polish the sword first with Changzhi oil by rubbing it densely across the
neglected blade until it properly shines, then a thin layering of choji oil, topping it off with
clove. Will is a meticulous man having fiddled with boat motors for a large chunk of his life,
so he follows directions easily. Hannibal shows he is pleased with his proficiency with a kiss
to his neck and a sweet whisper in his ear. “Take this,” Hannibal commands, handing him the
last cloth. “Wipe all the substances off.”

Will does. The blade is still shining when he’s finished.

He can’t imagine it’s any sharper than before.

Not until Hannibal murmurs, “Feel the tip.”

He does as he’s told again, as gently as possible, still nicking himself.

“Shit,” he huffs, helplessly baring his teeth in a laugh. “Well, then.”

Hannibal laughs quietly and says, "I’ll watch you tend to the rest."

"Don't think I can handle it?" Will pries, easygoing.

"I know you can handle it." Hannibal tries not to make a noise as he rises with his knees but
he can't help a small grunt. "I am not going to critique you. I want to watch."

There's a flutter within Will's rib cage that has him shifting in his spot on the floor and
blushing, so he's resultantly glad for the lights which are still low enough to obscure his
immature reaction.

Hannibal hands him each blade, one after the other, every time he's through with the proper
oiling, the technique he memorized thanks to his eidetic memory. On the last katana, Will
languishes in the polishing, making eye contact with half the shadow of Hannibal. He's
leaning by a samurai, an absurd distance of feet away from him, but Will knows he's staring
right back at him and the process.

It feels voyeuristic; it is.

Will is touching Hannibal’s things, nurturing them.

He doesn't get a third of the way through the first oiling when he decides to wrap his fingers
around the middle of the blade and squeeze sharply. He lets out a little gasp when he feels the
weapon break skin, but he doesn't stop gazing in Hannibal's direction. Lifting his injured
hand in mid-air, he's surprised at how much blood he conjured from the wound. It drips to the
floor repetitively.

He careens forward and licks a stripe through the blood, curious. All he can taste is iron, but
it signals a memory of pudding. Drinks. He can't tell if the correlations were inspired by
Hannibal's cooking or not.

Will doesn't care.

Hannibal has paced across the room in three bounds and Will startles when he registers him
abruptly kneeling in his space again, examining the bleeding cut. He twitches when Hannibal
drags a thumb over it, encouraging more to spill. The katana clatters out of Will’s
unblemished hand and to the stone.

"Hannibal," Will whispers softly, because sometimes he just likes hearing the man's name on
his tongue.

In a golden rush, Hannibal's now illuminated eyes flicker to his and then immediately return
to his palm. Will's hand is dragged to Hannibal's mouth, then tongued.

"Ah." Will jerks, but with Hannibal's grizzly strength, he's held in place while Hannibal sucks
and licks the pain to new heights. "Fuck."

He can feel himself snarling silently, even as he ceases his attempts to escape. A glimpse of
Hannibal's messy mouth, dripping a slimy red, has him growing hard again. Of all things.

Will experiences adrenaline like he’s in the middle of a dangerous sky-dive. He reaches out
and smears the redness coating Hannibal’s lips across his cheek. Hannibal doesn’t seem to
mind the mess, allowing Will to paint as he pleases. In the dim light, Hannibal matches the
ruby accents of the room’s interior.

He’s struck with an irresistible urge, one which may have translated as sickening to him a
mere hour prior, but he’s reaching for the blade before he can dwell on the notion, and then
Hannibal’s limp hand. Hannibal refuses to fight it, perhaps he had the same idea once or even
now. Will easily cuts Hannibal’s palm, opposite of his own. There is no inflection on
Hannibal’s face, but the man blinks several times as he gazes at the wound, unsurprised when
Will extends his own injured hand to press against his.

They both gasp, less from the pain, and more from the mingling of their open wounds. Their
blood mixing together, as it undoubtedly did on the night they killed the Great Red Dragon.

Hannibal’s wound is fresher, bleeding more, making vivid stripes down both their pale inner
arms, and twining through trails of Will’s browning blood. Leaning down in a haze of
thoughtless desire, Will licks up a thin rivulet, extracting his hand from Hannibal’s so he can
give his palm the same treatment he gave his own. Licking and prodding squirmingly inside
the gaping opening, lapping his iron taste up from its leaking source. Hannibal doesn’t wince,
or make even the barest of sounds, but gazes back at him with lust so potent Will nearly
topples over from the mirrored sensation, filling him with heat, head to toe.

His desperation grows metallic fangs.

Will shoves Hannibal to the stone ground, finally earning a small release of air, and surprises
himself when he’s able to harness the strength required to rip Hannibal’s shirt apart with his
bare hands.

“Will—”
Will presses two bloody fingers to Hannibal’s lips, muting him before straddling his waist.
He’s delighted to find Hannibal just as hard as him, and lazily grinds against his erection,
lurching down to kiss the blood away from Hannibal’s lips. They pant into each other’s
mouths and Hannibal starts to meet his gyrations.

He bends down until he's horizontal with him, circling his hips to Hannibal's responsive
thrusts, pressing his cheek to Hannibal's blood-stained one, inhaling the acrid scent
ravenously.

It doesn’t last long for either of them; Hannibal places his bloody hand over Will’s groin with
a silent snarl, squeezing him in time with their movements, and Will rubs his own all over
Hannibal’s chest, bloodying the hair there and tweaking his nipples to rigid, tortured peaks
whenever he passes them.

He comes screaming into Hannibal’s shoulder, arms trembling violently on Hannibal’s chest
as he’s held close through the rolling waves of it. He fears the intense bliss will get worse
every time they do this.

Hannibal’s murmuring the softest things in his ear, spent as well, not that Will realized he
became so during the act much to his sheepish understanding. Their hands find one another
again, in need of medical attention, but instead they lie on the floor of the room for a long
while, Hannibal’s whispers turning into violent ideation. Will dozing off between a world of
dreams and a world of stark, agonizing reality.

That night, in their bed, Will tries something different.

While Hannibal is folding his reading glasses away in the bedside drawer, Will turns on his
side, waiting for him to settle beneath the sheets. Hannibal barely has an inquiring syllable
off his tongue before Will is curling up behind him, heaving an arm across his waist, the
other snaking under his head so that his hand rests on Hannibal’s pillow. Usually it’s the other
way around; Will doesn’t want it that way tonight.

Strangely, it takes an enormous amount of time for Hannibal to stop fidgeting. Each
movement is calculatedly imperceptible, however: a jerk of the foot, rocking mildly back and
forth on his shoulder, stiffening every time Will’s breathing chest connects with his backside,
skin sticking to skin in their cocoon of heat. Will shimmies closer and holds him as tight as
possible.

He strokes his thumb over the plush of Hannibal’s naval.

This softens him, infinitesimally. At least he stops believing Will is going to turn away.

“Hannibal,” Will murmurs, where his neck is tender and smells like floral spice. “Has anyone
ever held you like this?”
Hannibal doesn’t answer. Will didn’t expect him to.

“You’re so warm,” Will whispers eventually, a mindless comment as he flattens his now
bandaged hand to Hannibal’s stomach, feeling the gentle rise and fall. The heat of his blood
still thriving beneath skin.

“And to think I once heard you call the Chesapeake Ripper cold-blooded,” Hannibal mutters.

“Okay, wise guy.”

Will kisses his shoulder through a huffy snort, nosing over the smooth skin there. Hannibal
smells like their shared shower here, and the flambeed food they made earlier.

After a while, Will speaks again. “You told me once, seeing me again in the hospital made
you feel happy. You—You make me happy too. I never thought that was possible until now.”

“What inspired your revelation?”

“I don’t know. Sentiment, maybe. Or perhaps I have gone crazy.”

Will didn’t think happiness could ever be inspired in either of them. Then again, he never
thought the Ripper could love, or that he himself would ever feel anything better received
than contentment.

Perhaps that is insanity, or perhaps he’s as awake as Hannibal claimed.

Hannibal doesn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation, oddly. He usually perks up at a
chance to validate Will’s feelings for him, even if it's out of a sense of ego or neediness. He
wants to be loved by Will, in a mimic of how he covets Will himself. Except now he’s falling
asleep, which might be a sign of genuine exhaustion more than anything else. Yet worry eats
away at Will’s insides so that he barely gets an hour of rest in return. He presses his face to
the middle of Hannibal’s back, and holds him till morning.

It feels like holding onto the string of a kite amidst a brutal storm.

“When will we have to leave Croatia?” Will questions early at breakfast the next morning.
He’d woken up without Hannibal in his arms, not that it’s an uncommon phenomenon, but
after his anxieties, he’d fretted about his disappearance until he found him with a
commodious expression before the operating stovetop.

Now they sit at the table, sharing eggs on sourdough bread.

“Anxious to move on?”

“No,” Will assures, shaking his head. “No, not at all. I actually really don’t want—I’d like to
stay here, I mean. If we can, for however long it’s feasible.”

A grin flashes on Hannibal’s face. “No need to feel guilty for enjoying our time here, Will. I
want to stay as much as you do. You’re right however that there will be a time when we will
have to move.”

Will nods jerkily.

He’s relieved to hear Hannibal wants to stay here as much as he does.

“Two disappearances won’t tip off the suspicions of any government outside of Croatia, so
there is no need to consider moving yet. I would suggest we wait for a sign. Believe me when
I say the press will make it obvious when there is a lead in our general direction and at that
point, we will have more than enough time to pack up and retreat.”

“Where would we go?” Will asks.

Hannibal’s smile reaches his ears, and finishes his eggs and toast before he speaks. “For
someone not anxious to leave this property, you seem uniquely curious about where our
travels will take us.”

“You’re more impulsive than me.”

More likely to officially decide, at the precise instance it happens, where they will be headed
next.

Will would like to know in advance, prepare for eventualities.

“Only because you cherish restraint,” Hannibal notes.

“Since when?”

“Since you decided not to kill me after your release from jail,” Hannibal reminds. “Do you
remember finding me in my kitchen, pointing a gun at my head?”

“Of course I remember. You were acting smug.”

“Just glad to see you again.”

“Happy?” Will questions, a slight taunt.

Hannibal inclines his head, thinking that over. “No, not entirely. I did fear you might kill me,
if only for a brief interlude. Though, I had my suspicions you wouldn’t want our story to end
there.”

“Abel Gideon, he told me I had to kill you. That it was the only way I could get you, so to
speak.”

Chuckling, Hannibal says, “He was wrong as it happens.” and sips his juice.
Will sips his own in turn. “Was he?”

“Mhm. I’d say you’ve “got” me without killing me. No?”

“You say it like I’ve…collared you.”

Hannibal’s smirk is salacious. Will ignores it.

“Nobody’s putting a collar on me, or you for that matter. Ownership, on the other hand, is
different than mastering someone. You own me in the sense that you are my destruction and
my creation.”

Will’s satisfied with that conclusive answer, eventually imitating the smirk. He finishes his
breakfast and tries in the aftermath to haggle Hannibal into allowing him to do the dishes for
once, but Hannibal kisses his cheek and sends him off to packing. They have a long day at
Krka Park up ahead, after all.

In their serenely silent room, Will glances at Hannibal’s tablet on the open bedside drawer. It
is unlikely the park will supply them with free Wi-fi especially if they’re to be breaking in as
Hannibal implied, but he submits to the urge to pack it anyway. He wants to check
Tattlecrime as much as possible. They need to be on the lookout for leads that will beckon
authorities to Croatia. Will won’t lose this home.

He doesn’t want Hannibal to lose it either.

Hannibal arrives in their room an hour later and brightens when he notices Will laid out an
outfit for him. There was a 50-50 chance he was going to be irritated by Will’s presumption
or endeared. Alleviation comes to Will as he watches the latter unfold. Hannibal is overjoyed,
placing each article on his body with reverence. Perhaps cheesily, Will laid out their matching
pairs of swim trunks and inverted color patterns for the summer weather they’ll be enmeshed
in. He wants to be recognized as intertwined.

If they’re recognized at all, that is. He’ll try to avoid it.

“Are we ready?” Hannibal asks after applying sunscreen to Will’s face.

Will hauls their travel bag over his shoulder.

He feels the distinctive weight of the tablet inside and nods.

“As we’ll ever be.”

Will shouldn’t have suspected they would be breaking into such a well-oiled machine of a
tourist attraction. Not when Hannibal depends on money as his go-to for these sorts of
invasions.
They end up on a private ferry rife with passengers of socialite to royal status, and Hannibal
chats with each of them (thankfully dressed obscuringly in sunglasses and an ostentatious
sunhat) about their respective businesses. From what Will can garner, he doesn’t give away
any information about themselves that Will may need to know for the sake of interaction, but
the moment the ferry docks, they are alone again anyway. This whole daring ride, just for an
easier, more luxurious, way in.

“And here I thought you’d be smarter doling out your fortune,” Will grumbles, handing
Hannibal their bag so he can make the leap across the threshold of the boat and the dock.

“This trip isn’t even a dent in my wealth, Will. You worry too much.”

“As you’ve said.”

Out of habit, Will attempts to follow the crowd who are currently sauntering down a path
towards the mansions. He originally saw them buried in the distant coppices as they sailed,
but Hannibal takes his hand and leads him in the opposite direction. “Minimal interaction is
as necessary as it is risky. We have done our part for today. There are more enthralling places
to explore than the private gardens of aristocrats. And I’d like to introduce you to a simpler
Croatian cuisine than nobility-concealed pigswill.”

“Ouch,” Will jests.

He still marvels at Hannibal’s ability to blend in with individuals he loathes.

For what seems like hours, they hike the trails of the islands until a ginormous waterfall
emerges from the humid encasement of the forest. Will is panting by the time they reach their
destination, but even he can’t help his expression emulating the brilliance of the sight.
Hannibal’s injured hand finds his own and he draws him closer to the water’s edge. A far way
down, where the lake winds into a river, hundreds of people enjoy the water like one would a
hotel pool. He hadn’t known Krka was this popular, otherwise he may have reconsidered.
Hannibal notices his increasing stress and begins unbuttoning Will’s shirt.

“Submerge yourself in the water, you’ll feel better.”

Will’s fallen expression doesn’t change so Hannibal cups and cheeks and informs,

“This side of the falls is never traversed. It is rockier than the rest, and tourists come here in
part to dive. Man will follow man. It is unlikely anyone will diverge from where the other
visitors are clustered.”

“Okay. If…We’ll leave then, if…”

“Yes, if a situation arises. For now, swim and exercise your muscles.”

As if on cue, Will feels a twinge in his backside begging for just that remedy. It’s been a
while since he bothered to exercise, so he gently pushes Hannibal’s hands away from his
shorts and unties the rest of his clothing aside from the swimming trunks he’s been wearing
underneath. Hannibal kisses his cheek and divests himself, wading into the water with an
elegance he’s regained since his recovery. Will takes the antivirals he forgot this morning,
knowing it’ll just be a few days more until he won’t need them.

Then, he follows Hannibal.

As man follows man.

The majesty of their surroundings is truly indescribable. The fact that Will is able to witness
such a place in person, and to experience it at Hannibal’s side no less, is as dizzying as it is
intoxicating. After rearing closer, he splashes Hannibal to see what shattering the serenity
will do, but when Hannibal disappears under the water with a shark-like glint in his eyes,
Will regrets ever initiating a game between them.

The water is much more motionless than it should be with three waterfalls crashing down
from up above, and when Will paddles over to the base of the middle one, searching in
increasing desperation for any sign of Hannibal, he can’t help the mousy yelp that escapes
him when he’s tugged underwater.

Even expecting retaliation.

He glimpses a flash of the broader man, but the water is a dark shade of green that veils
almost everything including his own air bubbles which shone more as a grey blurb before his
eyes. He swims underwater for a moment, on the lookout for Hannibal, before deciding to
break the surface again for oxygen.

A memory of his dream from long ago, before he found Hannibal in a coma, where Hannibal
whispered a different language of words to him from the depths of the ocean, appears in his
mindview.

He tries to shake it off, not wanting to think about it.

It distracts him as he takes large gulps of air, frowning when Hannibal isn’t in sight still.
Then he sees the shadow of abnormal movement from behind the waterfall and wades
between their intense charges. Hannibal is in the nook of a cave anterior to them, scrutinizing
tourists' carvings on the wall.

“If I had the time, I would have liked to carve a rendition of Achilles lamenting the death of
Patroclus,” Hannibal notes, sobering darkly. “Or perhaps the downfall of Icarus.”

“Or you could just carve our names in a cartoon heart like everyone else.”

Hannibal makes a face at that and Will laughs.

“If I was twenty years younger, I might’ve tried to scale these mountains,” Will confesses,
stroking the inside interior of nature’s rise. The stone crumbles under his fingertips, softer
than any other he’s felt.

“If I was twenty years younger, I’d attempt a dive.”

"What happened to never being too old for anything."

"Semantically, a person at any age could jump." Hannibal's expression is smug. "Doesn't
mean I will. But I would, if I was younger."

Will raises a brow. “Even with the rockier terrain?”

“That’s the challenge.”

“I’m glad we’re far beyond having any fun."

Knowingly, Hannibal smirks and wades closer to him, kissing the wet cheek he neglected on
shore. They can barely hear each other’s voices over the sound of the waterfall, but Will
thinks they don’t need to hear sometimes. They understand one another well enough to fill in
the subtitles.

Though, he hears it painfully clear when Hannibal suggestively squeezes Will’s thigh and
whispers,

“The fun hasn’t begun yet.”

Will hums and kisses him back for that, relishing their intimate diversion in this small,
forgotten cave. Hannibal appears jovial, and he himself feels much the same, though there’s
still a ticking suspicion in the back of his mind that something is off. That something hasn’t
been quite right since yesterday.

It translates like a countdown in his gut.

When they’re drying off in preparation to bathe in the sun with the towels they lugged along,
Will checks the Wi-fi on the tablet. He’s shocked he’s able to connect to a free network here,
and does.

Hannibal isn’t even acknowledging him as he reapplies his own sunscreen, a meticulous
process that will take at least ten minutes, so Will types in Tattlecrime and opens the page.

At first, he isn’t concerned when he reads the first article.

It’s about some pre-planned mass shooting in an American mall. He’s surprised Freddie
stooped as low as to cover mass killers instead of serial killers. It’s not what he came here to
find, however, looking instead for word of their creative Florence display. But scrolling to the
next piece doesn’t prove as simple as he expected. He nearly drops the device when he reads
the title of the following article. This is bad.

So bad he swiftly considers hiding the tablet while he still has a chance.

“What’s wrong, Will?” Hannibal asks then, ruining his chance. Will sputters, unable to find
the words to respond when Hannibal folds his legs to the side, sitting beside him and eyes
locking onto the headline.

Acquaintance Of Hannibal The Cannibal To Give Insider Knowledge About Hannibal’s

Escape!
It’s accompanied with a thumbnail picture of Chiyoh, a screen capture from the security
camera footage in the Virginia medical facility they rescued Hannibal from. It isn’t right. If
Chiyoh were coming forward of her own volition, they would have published updated
photographs. Something else. And a full interview would’ve been posted instead of
advertising for a potential interview. None of this adds up.

Hannibal instantly makes the connection as well because he says in a trained tone,

“They have Chiyoh hostage. This is bait.”

Will swallows, agreeing with that determination.

A part of him wishes it were real, just so that he knows Chiyoh might be alright. He wonders
if Hannibal feels the same, or if he would have felt betrayed by her. Not likely the former,
considering who he is.

When Will turns to meet his eyes, Hannibal looks angrier than he’s seen him in a while. Not
indignation, not insecurity. A deeply rooted rage that comes from a hierarchical view of who
Chiyoh is to him and his family. How he expects Jack and whoever else involved to
understand that she is off limits. It’s too late for all that, though.

The last thing Will wants is to abandon their safety here.

Or to endanger his life with Hannibal.

They could walk away and leave Chiyoh to the wolves.

But, hell knows what lengths Jack or Chilton will go to draw them out.

“We have to save her,” Will whispers. “Hannibal—”

“We’ll leave in three days,” Hannibal declares, packing up their belongings. Their excursion
is cut short, not that Will would have been able to stomach another second here. It’s not as if
he could relax.

“To America?”

Will knows it's America, he just needs to hear it verbally confirmed.

He needs to know, authentically, they’ll be retracing their steps in the lion’s den.

“Yes.” Hannibal stalls, stare wild. “We owe her this.”

“I know,” Will says, wavering. “I know.”

He wants to soothe Hannibal who appears spiraling in his disarray, but instead he sits there
and sluggishly rebuttons his shirt. The fabric sticks to his damp skin. The sounds of the
waterfall fade into a white noise that lulls him into a trance, imagining a world where this
isn't defined as a suicide mission.
Chapter End Notes

it's been so long guys sorry!!! i had such a good time on my cruise, and my brother's
been visiting so i've been super busy so this chapter might feel a little disjointed, but i
hope when im done with the next chapter the beats of the last act will start to come into
fruition. i've missed writing for this fic <3
 Chapter 28
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

If Will were in search of novel experiences, he’d at least be fulfilling those efforts by
awaiting their next change in plans. He’s never seen Hannibal angry over the phone, that’s
new. They slipped through the alley between the café and the drug store so Hannibal could
get a signal on the flip phone he carries for emergencies. From then on, to make plans to get
out of the country and to America has been tricky and exhaustive as on-the-run felons.
Hannibal’s patience is being tried, obvious with how he raises his voice.

Not yelling, never that.

It's a trait belonging to Hannibal Will has always found charming, even before he really got
to know him. There's a serene energy to him even now that grounds Will, keeps him sane
ironically.

Will doesn’t understand the language spoken on and off the phone. He’s hunching in on
himself in the alley, an unconscious attempt to make himself smaller despite nobody being
around. It’s a habit he picked up from a consistently bitter father. It’s easier to dissociate, and
then, refuse being seen by onlookers.

Hannibal does something much different than his father would’ve, however. Half way
through the impassioned negotiations, he sighs and reaches over to grip the side of Will’s
neck with two attentive fingers, rubbing him where a tendon flexes irregularly to soothe his
nerves. Will is struck with affection by that, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to
interrupt him during a tense situation.

When the phone call is over, Hannibal pockets the phone and looks no less frazzled than he
did while speaking to the other man on the line. Even so, he says quietly, “Apologies, darling.
I didn’t suspect it would take so long.”

“Don’t tell me you have a friend in airlines too,” Will mutters.

“Not a friend. A paid-out contact who has never seen my face or real name and never will.
We cannot take a flight since apparently the FBI is closely monitoring air waves and port
terminals. That means we’ll have to go the long way around, a transit train to Portugal
following up with a cruise to Florida.”

“Can we afford wasting that much time?”

“I’m afraid we have no other choice,” Hannibal responds curtly, adjusting Will’s sunglasses
preceding a discreet traversement out of the alleyway so they can return to their rental car
without drawing attention. “We have train tickets for tonight, so for now we must gather
anything at home you wish to bring.”

Will nods, though hysterically he wants to ask if that matters.

If taking a flight would even matter when they’re practically walking into capture anyway.

“Hannibal — ” Will startles himself to silence when he realizes he’s placed an open palm on
Hannibal’s chest in broad daylight, within town. He just needs to say something. Anything to
quell the anxiety inside.

“We will rescue her,” Hannibal reassures, rubbing his shoulder once before corralling him
into the shotgun seat of the car. Will sits, slumping against the leather cushion.

Selfishly, that isn’t what he wanted to hear.

He wants to hear that there’s no chance they will be separated. That visiting America won’t
reopen old wounds and regress progress they’ve made so far. He needs to hear, definitively,
that this isn’t the end.

Hannibal is reticent on the ride back home. Will is too.

Will allows Hannibal to pack both their suitcases. The smaller ones, with rolling wheels and a
metal retractable handle. He has nothing else to do but wait amid the process, so he takes a
shower and when that’s done, deciding to cook them both dinner since Hannibal seems
nowhere close to finishing his task.

Somehow, he lulls Hannibal away from packing with the lasagna he made.

There are candles he found in the drawer under the butcher block. They are black and smell
of wild berries and pine, so Will lit them for the table, not thinking about how romantic the
gesture appears.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Hannibal states, despite Will believing the opposite.

He doesn’t quarrel with him. He did try after all.

“Thought you could use a breather,” Will murmurs, cutting a square of lasagna for him. The
scent of tomatoes rises in the air. It flops awkwardly on Hannibal’s plate when he slides it off
the spatula. Will winces at how perfectly layered it’s turned out not to be yet Hannibal seems
either starving or blindly indulgent because he smiles widely and praises the food after only
his first bite.

“Our roles reversed,” Hannibal muses.

There is a vacancy to him Will doesn’t pick up on completely. He’s aware Hannibal isn’t
entirely present, but he himself is rarely that much, so he doesn’t overly focus on the
anomaly.

It’s rumination, deeply rooted in Hannibal’s mind. Somewhere Will can’t reach.
“One lasagna doesn’t reverse anything.”

“I believe I have adopted your chronic unease, however.”

Will swallows harshly, throat burning like he’s sucked in cold air too fast.

“That’s not a good sign.”

“No, it is not.”

“We’ve slayed dragons, Hannibal,” Will reminds, though the poise he wishes to emanate
translates more as a plea. “This…do you really think this ‘master plan’ of theirs can surpass
us, or our own?”

The smile on Hannibal’s face is genuine, but he’s holding himself too solemnly for it to be
anything other than a grieving postulation.

“The fact that there is a percentage of a chance we will succeed uneases me just so, because
our victory can be a window so easily missed. Whereas I normally see several options, I have
only seen one thus far.”

“That option being?”

“I pray of you, give me more time to arrive at another potential conclusion,” Hannibal
coerces, placing his fork down so he can cover Will’s twitching hand on the tabletop. “I
promise I will tell you, then.”

“Okay.”

“You’re stomaching this better than I expected.”

“I’m occasionally tolerant under severe pressure,” Will mutters, raising his glass of wine in a
toast before chugging it down.

“Not just that. You’re going inside.”

Irritation strikes Will between the eyes, but he holds strong.

“It’s hard not to.”

“Shutting yourself off from me and the situation will rope you into a worse aftermath if our
separation does indeed happen. I would suggest — ”

“We aren’t getting separated,” Will bites out. “I won’t let that happen.”

Hannibal glances down at Will’s cut of lasagna which has gone untouched, cold. “Beautiful
boy,” he whispers. “I would burn alive every man who got in the way of you, but we must
heed caution’s fine-tuned call.”

“Just let them take you then, is that it?”

“They aren’t taking me. That is worst case scenario.”

“Without Chiyoh’s help, I would have never gotten you out of that facility. I can’t spin lies to
Jack again, he’s done believing me. Let alone now. If something goes wrong, I’m useless.
You'll be stuck.”

“Let me worry about my capture,” Hannibal persuades. “And if it is a balm on the open
wound of your worries, I will worry about your capture as well. No need to put the weight of
any scenario on your shoulders. I have been doing this for decades. Even if just my mouth is
free, we are safe.”

Hannibal’s right about that. He is as convincing in speech as he is carnivorous in appetite. He

will bite and manipulate in the same breath, and beyond turning himself in, few men could
genuinely take him down without a swat team and several machine guns. But that’s what Will
is afraid their opponents will have in spades; prepared for anything, including two monsters
feeding off each other.

He’s struck with an image. Two wendigos, devouring one another, staring at the black
bleeding hearts in their clawed open chests. They both howl at the sky, Will’s cry releasing
more like a tortured scream.

Will blinks it away, tapping his fingers restlessly on the tabletop.

“Tell me why you’re feeling uneasy. The specifics,” he demands.

Hannibal contemplates, eyes scanning back and forth.

“They will have every authority posted wherever Chiyoh is being held. They will make it
remarkably simple to find her, no doubt. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jack sprinkled a few clues
referencing her location in Lounds’ article. This means to me we will need to create a
distraction of monstrous proportions in order to disperse a majority of the troops guarding
her, if not all of them.”

Will believes he knows where this could be going, and he doesn’t want to hear it.

That in mind, he shrugs and states,

“You never said this life wasn’t complicated.”

“No, I didn’t. But, it could certainly be more relaxing than it has been. I still have sights I
wish to show you, places I wish for us to share without overshadowing bounties. A world all
our own.”

“We’ll see them,” Will promises. “No matter where we are.”

Mind palace or otherwise, despite how rotten the notion of visiting the corporeal instead of
the physical location sounds. Anywhere with Hannibal would still be ideal.

Hannibal’s somber expression warps imperceptibly, lips thinning.

Will sleeps on the top bunk in their train car, curled up to the vibrating wall of the train. The
trip causes a ruckus throughout the night which keeps him dozing in and out. He is more used
to silence in his nightly repose but the rocking eventually lulls him into a deeper sleep than
he’s ever experienced.

He wakes groggily in Hannibal’s arms which he’s grateful for, rolling over so he can bury his
face in Hannibal’s sweet smelling chest. He’s bare except for his boxers, and so is Will.

Their skin feels heavenly, aligned and in contact.

Hannibal mumbles in another language, placing sensuous kisses on any skin he can reach.
Mostly, the pecks dampen Will’s hairline and temples.

“Tell me we aren’t at our stop yet,” Will grumbles, rubbing over Hannibal’s hip loosely with
his arm enough times to feel him shiver, sliding it then around his waist so they can both
settle back down.

He slides his thigh over Hannibal's.

Their dicks twitch from brushing together, but neither of them initiates anything.
Occasionally the intimacy of this, without sex, is more of a revelation than any intimacy
preceding it.

That doesn’t mean to say he isn’t getting ideas.

Pleasure instead of pain. Pain is all his mind is supplying him with these days. He’d prefer to
take matters into his own hands for once. Perhaps persuasion is on his to-do list today.

“Just a half hour more.”

Will hums contentedly, scraping his bearded cheek across Hannibal’s chest to feel the grainy
hairs catch on each other. Hannibal plants kisses over his skull, sniffing leisurely at his messy
hair.

Being awake is a curse because Will begins to dwell on their trip again alongside the fact that
they’ll be neck-deep in America’s welcoming pollution in no less than a few days. He
snuggles closer, the only remedy he’s found to work indefinitely being Hannibal’s body
against his own, like a lifeline.

“I asked you not to go where I couldn’t find you,” Will whispers, pushing his quivering lips
against Hannibal’s neck. “Promise me.”

There’s a short, sympathetic sigh.

“Will — ”
“Promise me, damn you.”

“I promise, Will. Though you may not like my solutions to our problems if I solidify this
promise. You will have to trust me.”

“As long as it’s a promise,” Will mutters absently. He doesn’t legitimately care what
Hannibal’s planned. He’s too far gone to care; if Hannibal is going to kill Jack, that’s not
ideal, but hell knows what they’ll need to do to thrive. He’s done away with that stubborn
attitude which would have forced him to stand up for any remnant of his prior reality. Not
anymore, not when Eden and all its heavenly fruit is within reach.

Where he cares to prosper now, is in dreams.

Preparation for a life where his dreams won’t have to be dreams.

They can just be.

He can’t search the world for Hannibal again with no inkling as to whether he’s alive or not.
He can’t go through that agony of separation again. The things it drove him to do; Will is
frightened of his own potential without Hannibal. The havoc he’d be incited to wreak on the
world without him at his side, in spite of their separation. It’s a chilling thought, because his
rage would be bloodstained and alive.

Hannibal takes Will’s face in his hands.

“Look at me.” Will doesn’t listen to the command because his eyes are watering. “Darling,”
he whispers, softer, and Will can’t help it. It’s similar to a magnet being drawn upward as he
cranes his head to look.

“You’re my beginning and my end,” Hannibal speaks quietly. “Not Jack, not the FBI. No
obstacle is too high or too treacherous to brave. Loving you is the most dangerous charge I
have ever been dealt.”

Will’s lips crack into a broken smile.

Normally he’d be frightened at how hard his heart pounds in response.

“I think you’ve ruined me,” he claims honestly.

Hannibal mirrors his smile. Closing the distance between them, he allows their lips to
connect in a tickling brush before murmuring with gentle vibration that has Will clutching his
hip.

“We are each other’s ruin.”

He kisses Will deeply before parting a few seconds later.

Will slides a hand down Hannibal’s leg, yearning to be closer, squeezing the plush rise of his
ass just to hear Hannibal’s small gasp that he swallows with a kiss he turns wet, engrossed.
“Can I have you, as you’ve had me?”

Flames spark in Hannibal’s eyes, but he shakes his head much to Will’s chagrin.

“Not on a train. When we’re in America.”

Will sighs and slides his hand up and up, until he’s resting his body weight in limbs on
Hannibal’s chest. The train jostles, and he bumps into the wooden boards of the walls which
reveals a hollow interior.

“It’s not my home, not anymore.”

“No, but it's our past. Theatrical, brilliant.”

“Left behind for a reason.”

Hannibal hums noncommittally while the train continues rolling through European pastures.

The cruise is the excruciating segment of their trip. They’re stuck in the quaint cabin
Hannibal is able to wrangle. Never risking showing their faces in the more tourist-ridden
areas except for food. There is free pizza, where Will discovers the gluten free is genuinely
better than the normal wheat bread.

“I’ve made better,” Hannibal swears every time they order it, which is nearly every night.
There’s merely a few free food stops on the ship after all. Will smiles, finally, on the fourth
time he claims it, because he can’t help to be endeared by how much of a show-off the man is
at every turn.

The rest of the trip is painfully dull.

Their room doesn’t even have a porthole.

And the rocking of the boat is somehow worse than the boat Will took to Europe. Even
Hannibal gets a little green-faced towards the end of the week, Will having caught him
clutching the sink in the bathroom for an extended period of time to dispense with his
nausea.

He’d rubbed his back and reminded him they’d be on land soon.

Hannibal hadn’t been happy, but he’d kissed Will back.

They spend most of their time in bed sucking each other’s cocks if Will’s being truly honest.
There isn’t much else to do, it’s not as if they packed novels or can connect to the Wi-fi. They
would have had to purchase it months back in a package deal; they’re not even supposed to
be in the ship to begin with.
So, the musty air in what often feels like a hermetically sealed room starts to stink of sex and
semen, and Will's almost positive the noises they're making are drawing the attention of their
up-deck neighbors. So, not altogether beneficial. The yeses and oh shits and not to mention
the pleasebabyhardermoreholyfucks are reckless giveaways that could get them caught.

They can't afford to draw attention.

They also can't keep their hands off each other.

Hannibal isn’t in the mood to be taken, however, despite Will believing in his own abilities of
temptation and persuasion. The man seems persistent on waiting till they’re back in America,
but Will has no clue why. He doesn’t raise the question because Hannibal is not only a show
off with food, but with sex.

He makes up for the lack thereof with supernatural skill.

The blow jobs (a unique opportunity for practice in learning what makes the other tick
between the legs) that are deeper, longer, and harder than any he’s ever been given blank out
his brain cells for the remainder of the trip. The wherewithal to seduce Hannibal into
submission is thrown out the window.

He’s a control freak after all, he wants events to happen his way.

The cruise ends after a few days when they reach Port Canaveral in Florida, disappearing off
the ship like unwanted ghosts. The passengers never perceived them, too busy indulging
themselves in luxury.

“Our living conditions will have to change from this point on,” Hannibal explains to Will
when they eventually find a taxi driver who looks to be the type that won’t ask questions for
a few extra twenties.

“Doesn’t bother me,” Will remarks.

He grew up in the bogs, on poor rural pastures, supplied barely more than a handful of meals
per week. He’s sure he can go without the luxuries he’s (unfortunately) become quite
accustomed to over the past several weeks.

The road out of Florida is long and expensive. By the afternoon, they end up in a crummy
motel on the outskirts of Georgia. The cab driver is paid handsomely, more than he’s owed,
but Will doesn’t question Hannibal. They can’t be making waves, or stirring any pots. They
must blend in.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to check us in,” Hannibal informs in an apologetic tone,
handing him a thick wad of cash. “It said on their website they take cash, but if they ask for a
card, I’ll be in the car.”
“Okay,” Will declares, both for himself and Hannibal. “Okay.”

It’ll be okay. A-Okay. Hannibal’s face is the recognizable one, not his own. Luckily, his cheek
scar has faded enough that it’s barely noticeable, though he should consider buying some
foundation just in case.

He carries the money to the front desk and never even makes eye contact with the motel
clerk. He’s older, on his phone playing a game while Will jots down a fake name on the
vacancy list. Will takes the metal key (not a card, oddly) flung at him and exits the staleness
of the office air which speaks of mold and chalk dust.

Hannibal perks up with a small smile when Will waves the key in the air.

Closing in on him, Will places his hands on Hannibal’s hips, slips the key in his back pocket
amidst a distracting kiss before murmuring, “You’re mine,” and applying a lazy swat on his
rear.

Hannibal purses his lips, a protest on his tongue.

“I get it. Drawing attention. Better get inside before I do something really stupid, hm?” Will
smirks at him and hauls his bag up by the strap so he can lug it up the flight of stairs, because
even though every room is empty, the clerk gave them the furthest room from the lobby.
Probably doesn’t want to be bothered.

“Don’t act precarious while we are in the United States, Will,” Hannibal warns him when
they’ve entered the room. The sheets look dusty and the stench of mold is even worse in this
room. There’s likely asbestos. “We are no longer across seas and can’t risk slipping up. That
being said — ”

Will kisses him so abruptly, they both collide into the rickety dresser which creaks and
whines under their combined weight. Hannibal is trying to say something more, but Will is
already pulling at his shirt, untucking it from Hannibal’s trousers. He’s been able to live
without this, impossibly, for weeks.

Maybe even longer than five years.

Now he feels like he’ll implode if he isn’t inside Hannibal.

The manner Hannibal’s been inside him.

“Please,” is the singular word, breathy and intent on being heard, that breaks through Will’s
aggressively aroused haze. He pulls back, curious and eager.

“Please what?”

“I must take a shower first, at the very least.”

Part of Will wants to drop to his knees and show Hannibal just how slow they shouldn’t be
taking things, and make him see the design that’s bursting in his mind, a laid out visual of
him desperate and writhing. The thought shocks him so much, he lets Hannibal’s belt go,
eyes fluttering in a separate direction, a sensation not unlike self-loathing worming into his
heart. He doesn’t understand why he’s experiencing so many highs and lows when it comes
to his emotions, his lust even. Hannibal must see it, as well.

Hannibal caresses Will’s cheek, presses his lips to his ear.

“Ten minutes,” he guarantees, undoing his shirt the rest of the way so he can toss it before his
shower. Will watches him go, plopping down on the bed. His hands are shaking.

Will has never felt this self-conscious this fast. Hannibal isn’t even doing anything to inspire
it, or is he? He can’t tell the difference between manipulation, kindness, and love anymore.
He can’t tell the difference between his dissonance and his devotion. Eyes going a bit fuzzy,
he stares at his hands for an extended period of time. The cut from the cave is still there, an
acidic red that begs for disinfectant.

He could dig around Hannibal’s travel bag for it, but he sits instead.

He can’t remember a time when he was this impulsive, this vulnerable. Or when Hannibal
was this…avoidant, or in narrower respects, absent.

By the time Hannibal emerges from the steamy shower, he has a salmon towel wrapped
around his strong waist, and is drying his hair with a facecloth. He pauses in the doorway
when he registers Will’s distress.

“Hannibal, I-I don’t know if I’m awake.”

He feels balanced and yet the world feels tilted.

Hannibal’s eyes immediately fall to Will’s suitcase and in a clinical voice, he inquires, “Did
you take your antivirals this morning?”

“No, but I thought — ”

“This prescription may require a longer dosage.”

His towel loosening as he bends, he arranges a cup of water and one pill for Will to down.
Will does as he’s told, and doesn’t feel better right away, but the illusion that he might broils
him to a melting point.

Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed, parallel to him, and takes his temperature. He doesn’t
show Will the number, but he informs him he has no fever. Then, he checks his pulse and
heart rate with two fingers.

“You are healthy. This is psychological. You seemed unperturbed before my shower. Have
you felt off for longer than our check-in here?”

Will ignores the question, barreling backwards.

“It’s always psychological, isn’t it?”

“Not always. You’ve had encephalitis twice and may still be experiencing effects from your
coma. Coma patients have often come forward to reveal their personally long-lasting
traumatic effects on the body.”

“I thought I…” Will closes his eyes and groans. His head pounds painfully before the pain
dissipates and gentles, almost like a warm song. “I thought I had a grasp on everything. I
thought I understood it all.”

His fierce thoughts are becoming blurry, harder to read.

Will almost feels his body is loosening as his mind does.

He doesn’t know what set him off in the first place now, but he can remember a singular issue
that has been crawling under his skin since their departure from Croatia.

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why are you avoiding me?”

Hannibal chuckles, the noise is dry and empty.

“I have been at your side nearly every second of every day. I wish to be nowhere else.”

“I know, I know that.” Will’s brow creases so firmly, his headache returns. “I don’t feel right.
I can’t explain it. Nothing’s fitting properly, like I’m in a dream but I know I’m awake. I
don’t know why I’m not hallucinating, or why I’m wrong when things are…right. I’m having
trouble reading you, your tells. I just…I don’t know. I think I might be using sex as a method
of feeling closer to you, I don’t mean to be.”

It’s a ramble he cringes at in delayed acknowledgement of his own words.

Will doesn’t know where the sex line came from. He hadn’t even had an inclination of sex
being a tainted tether between them, and he wants desperately for it not to be. But, Hannibal
is so far from him while being so close. He doesn’t know what else to do other than press
himself against him and want.

“People in relationships normally have sex to feel closer to one another.”

“Not like that…” Will wipes his hands across his face, red hot with humiliation. “Jesus, I just
haven’t been able to stabilize since Palermo. I’ve been leaning on you excessively.”

Not to mention he feels an on-and-off buzzing in his fingertips that signals there is more to
his body’s physical reactions than meets the eye. He’s hornier, he’s drowsier, he’s more
energetic, he’s absent, all in the same beats, in the same hours. It’s exhaustive; wavering
constantly like this.

He wants to ask flat out what’s wrong with him.

Regrettably, Hannibal is acting more elusive than ever.

“That is a natural response,” Hannibal replies tenderly. He lifts Will’s chin up with a knuckle.
“I asked you to let me be everything for you. That includes a crutch, a guide,” he smiles, “a
paddle.”

When Hannibal cups his cheek, Will tugs away, rising to his feet.

“Tell me you’re not lying to me about anything. Tell me.”

If Hannibal’s eyes are a shade darker now, Will didn’t notice it occurring.

“Will, if you’re not feeling well, I could order some supplies — ”

“Tell me.”

“I am not lying to you…” Hannibal crosses his legs. The towel stubbornly remains in place,
crimping around his waist and thighs. “The strategy I’m formulating isn’t detailed yet. I
asked you to wait.”

“You asked me to wait until you came up with a different plan. You're decided, though.
You’ve been decided.” Will crosses his arms, nodding frantically at Hannibal’s hardening
expression. “If you’re going to all this trouble for a twisted bout of obfuscation, your idea
better be worth it.”

Hannibal stands, and though his serious aura should come across silly in his towel, his back is
visibly curved like a leopard’s. Standing by the window in a rigid stance fit for prowling. Will
stares at him, waiting.

“Do you think about what could have been if we had not succumbed to the entrapment of our
minds,” Hannibal murmurs. “When you pulled us off the cliff in an attempt to rebirth us
elsewhere.”

Will’s answer is reasonably honest.

“Every day.”

“So do I.”

“Hannibal, where is this going?” he asks, exasperated.

“Do you believe we were meant to die, for a chance to be together in our chapel?”

“No, no this is our best possible future. You know that as well as I do,” Will counters. “Even
if we earned advantages that night, we’d have come across obstacles of an identical weight.”

“I was curious, I suppose.” Hannibal crosses his wrists behind his back. “America is so
different every time I step foot on its tempered soil. There is barely a resemblance of a place I
once knew.”

“We wouldn’t have stayed here long either, had we not succumbed to our minds, as you say.”
Will wanders over to Hannibal’s side and touches the round Verger branding on his backside.
It’s faded into his skin but Will can still trace a few letters, the sigil. “Do you wish we
hadn’t?”

“I don’t regret anything that has led me to this.”

“I know, but even so. A wish is just a wish.”

“I wish I could give you everything without taking anything away from you.”

“What?”

Hannibal turns to face him and Will sways closer, entranced by his figure. He loves him so
much it makes him drunk, but he knows he can’t have him just like that. Not after his all-
consuming break down.

“If you need to hear the plan now, I will tell you.”

“Good,” Will commends.

Where nervousness should be, cradled in the heart of his chest, instead fits a gentle golden
orb filled with confidence and voice of conscience which reminds him in warm pulses that
he’ll be alright. The wishy washy mood he’d found himself in has miraculously vanished. It
feels wrong, distantly, the way a plane flying too close to the ground when there’s no airports
in the general vicinity feels wrong.

That orb inside draws him away from these concerns.

Hannibal gets dressed.

Will sits down on their bed, awaiting him.

When Hannibal is in knee-length shorts and a beige button-up, he pulls the sofa chair in the
corner of the four-walled motel room up to the foot of the bed and sits in it, just a foot lower
than Will’s height.

“Will,” Hannibal starts off gently, taking both of Will’s hands in his own. “I meant it when I
warned you that you would not like my solutions. The plan I've come up with is drastic, but
effective.”

“Drastic,” Will repeats mildly.

“Yes.” Hannibal gazes down at their hands, stroking over Will’s limp knuckles. “Remember
when I told you they would be distributing their forces to guard Chiyoh? I’ve figured out a
method that would coerce them to cut those authorities in half, or more. Will, do not draw
conclusions yet, but I…”

Hannibal is rarely uncertain, but his expression is torn.

“You must be caught.”

The room sways into a horizontal position. Will blinks through the orange hue encroaching
his vision, sputtering over sentences, statements, outrages that can’t even come to fruition on
his tongue.

“Will,” Hannibal says, voice firm and resolute. “I would not be breaking my promise to you.
You will know exactly where I am and where you can find me. This isn’t a move Jack can
expect, and he would be forced to split his forces in order to keep you locked-up. Meanwhile,
I will break Chiyoh out.”

“And what about after?” Will manages to ask.

His throat is tightening at the concept.

“I will return for you. By that time, I will have murdered every officer who stood in my way.
They’ll be thinned out in numbers. Breaking you out from your capture will be child’s play
for me.”

Will squeezes Hannibal’s hands in intervals before dropping them altogether.

“No. Figure something else out.”

“Will — ”

“Any other plan but this.”

“If you believe I would leave you — ”

“You know I’m not scared of jail or being caught,” Will snaps. “You know that’s not why I
have hesitations against this. Don’t make this into something it’s not.”

Hannibal sighs, eyeing him gingerly.

“If I told you this may be our only option?”

“I’d tell you you’re wrong. There’s always another way.”

“None that will keep us safe.”

“Safe,” Will scoffs, pushing out of the space they’re cohabiting, hands falling to his hips as
he wanders over to the window. There is a gas station across the street attached to a drug
store.

Hannibal is muted long enough that Will chooses to grab the room key and his coat. He slips
it on and ignores Hannibal’s inquisitive glare.

“I’m going out for a walk.”

He holds back a comment to direct at Hannibal about using his free time without Will to
brainstorm, mostly because he doesn’t want to come back to an even worse plan. He doesn’t
say anything in the end. God knows what other cruelties Hannibal could spin just to spite
him.

Will slams the door on his way out, instinctively marching across the road just to have a
destination he can go to breathe. When he enters the drug store, he glances at the group of
teenagers argue-whispering on who looks old enough to buy a pack of beer. Seeing as the
cashier looks to be blind, he’s not positive it’ll matter. He buys a beer himself, ignoring the
bumbling stares of the kids as he squeezes past them.

The weather is colder when he steps back outside.

He takes one last glimpse at the motel across the street, the curtains of their window drawn
open. He doesn’t see Hannibal standing there, but he knows he’s likely watching every now
and then.

Will walks north, not stopping until he’s at least a couple miles away. Perhaps even a town or
two away. Traversing through suburbs, he finds the gated entrance to a public national park.
Canyons and forest trails, the faded wooden sign promises. He follows the first trail in, and
attempts to memorize each step.

He doesn’t want to get lost, not really.

At the sight of the canyon’s tapering, a fiery gradient of mineral shrouded in bright green
coppice, he sits on the ledge that appears the most stable and cracks open his beer on a rough
edge of rocky terrain.

He thinks about the plan, and then he discards the consideration.

An hour later, after taking in all the sights he could possibly see in this small, nature-ridden
area of Georgia, the plan returns to his mind. He prays to all Hell that the — acceptance —
he’s starting to gain related to it isn’t a product of his empathy for Hannibal. He’s far away
from him, so he knows it isn’t.

Though there are other methods of saving Chiyoh, Hannibal was correct when he claimed
this was the last thing Jack or Chilton would suspect from either of them. And, Hannibal
promised they wouldn’t be separated. He tries not to dwell on Alana and how she’s proof his
promises can take years to fulfill.

What set Will off more than anything is the underlying sensation that Hannibal isn’t revealing
everything. That there will be a catch he’s unaware of, and the plan will go awry because of
it.

He despises that he can’t trust Hannibal.

He thought distrust between them had been displaced, but apparently it hasn’t. He’s not
certain that’s a fault on Hannibal’s part or his own.

The sun begins to set, the colors of the canyon underneath him glowing more vibrant in the
dimming rays from the outer limits. The reds in the rock saturate, looking like blood patches
from war.

Will’s last thought before he leaves the park is questioning whether or not Hannibal trusts
him more than he trusts Hannibal. On his way out, these thoughts shift into an all-
encompassing nausea.

He vomits beside the entrance sign, unable to help it.

The expulsion is black, lumpy and liquified.

It tastes of rotted beer.

The trek back to the motel takes him an hour, and when he finally arrives, he’s darting
straight for the bathroom where he hacks up the remainder of foul spittle, washing out the
taste and brushing his teeth. He returns to their room to find Hannibal’s eyes wide, peering
over the edge of a half-finished book.

“Where’d you get that?” he mutters, overly loud.

Hannibal glances at the novel before locking his eyes back on Will who assumes he looks
more tired than he actually feels.

“The lobby had some interesting selections.”

Will closes his eyes, taming an incensed reaction.

“You’re not supposed to go in there. Hannibal the Cannibal, remember?”

“The employee was on his break.”

“I saw a canyon,” Will interrupts, changing the subject.

Hannibal shuts his book, humming in vague interest.

“How lovely. Why did you get sick?”

“Maybe the beer I drank was expired.”

There is a flash of something unreadable on Hannibal’s face. Concern maybe, but Will wasn’t
bothering to look in-depth.

“Beer?”

“From across the street.”

“Best to remember not to mingle your antivirals with alcohol,” Hannibal states, sliding the
book across the bedside counter along with a pair of his glasses. He reaches for the lamp.
“Coming to bed?”

Will sniffs, nodding. He forgot about the pills.

Despite agreeing to come to bed, Will doesn’t move, and Hannibal doesn’t shut the light out,
arm lingering in mid-air expectantly.

“I thought about the strategy you came up with,” Will begins warily. “I thought about it for
hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop thinking about Chiyoh either.”

“Ah.” Hannibal’s hands fall into his lap. “Perhaps you’d like to share your thoughts?”

“I think your plan’s all well and good,” Will doesn’t like the scheme, not at all, but he can
respect its veracity. “I do have a condition, however.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll turn myself in to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

There’s a gleam in Hannibal’s eyes. “Funny,” he admits. “That was what I was going to
suggest.”

Will raises a brow, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“For any reason?”

“What’s yours?”

“I know for a fact you would have studied every inch of that cell while you were
incarcerated. Three years is a long time. Every blueprint you learned from word of mouth, so
you know the layout of that building like the back of your hand. There’s a constant issue of
overcrowding so not only will Chilton find it fitting that I’m to be given your cell, but it’ll be
his only choice. They won’t want to transfer me yet. Too much effort, too much risk. I’m
operating under the assumption that whoever is pulling the strings there is Chilton and not
some random no-name. Either way, I think it’s our best shot,” says Will.

“I had a similar reason. Breaking you out of Baltimore State will not be hugely challenging,
unless Chiyoh is of course being held there. I did my research on Tattlecrime in your absence,
however. I suspect she’s being held at the Virginian facility she broke me out of with your
help.”

“Jack’s become poetic in his old age.”

“Or lazy,” Hannibal posits.

“Right. We’re doing this then?” Will questions.

Hannibal exhales, alleviated. “It would appear so. I am relieved you’ve come around, Will. In
truth, I was struggling to conjure a better solution. I hope you understand that I tried my
best.”

“I do,” Will mutters, though he’s not entirely sure he does.

“We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow,” Hannibal states, pulling back the sheets on Will’s side of the
bed. Will climbs in but he doesn’t pull the sheets back over them. He does reach for the light,
shutting it off.

“I’m not through with you.”

Will doesn’t elaborate, reaching for the draw of the bedside counter. He opens it to find their
personal stash of lubricant. “I thought you might’ve put it here,” he whispers to himself,
pleased.

“Ah,” Hannibal voices again.

Will asks, “Do you want to?” because he’s not a barbarian, and really he’d be perfectly happy
having sex the other way around. Except, he wants this with such passion he feels faint from
the desire.

In the dark, Hannibal finds his neck with a hand and cups him closer, kissing the arch of his
top lip so sweetly that Will makes a quiet wanton moan in the back of his throat.

Hannibal’s tone matches the sweetness.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t remember a time that I didn’t.”

Will smiles into the next kiss, popping the lube bottle open so he can coat his hand with the
substance and snake it between Hannibal’s legs. Hannibal is much less reluctant than he was,
likely having done this several times more than him. It’s easier for Will in the pitch black;
he’s able to be more cautious, and he’s able to disconnect himself from the newness of the act
which would normally make him nervous.

No overcompensation, no stalling.

Not like this, where their breaths and bodies talk for them.

It doesn’t feel like something he has to learn or wait for by the time he sinks inside and is
crushed by Hannibal’s molten heat. Instead, their connection feels like something that finally
fits.

Just like it had the other way around.

Lately, it’s the only thing that doesn’t have him spiraling apart from himself.

“Feels so good,” Will grinds out, baring his teeth on Hannibal’s firm breast. His chest is
heaving up and down underneath him, Hannibal debauched still from the elongated fingering
and initial penetration.

“Yes,” he responds in a winded voice.

Will spends the next hour fucking Hannibal into breathlessness, slowing down every instance
they near a peak. Hannibal tries valiantly to hold onto himself and his dignity, but by the end
of their union he’s gasping and clutching Will’s hair and shoulders like he’ll fly away from
him if he lets go. Will is surprised he’s able to hold himself together and calculate the pace
and intensity so perfectly, without faltering. Even so, the pleasure is knocking the breath out
of him, making him grunt. He deepens his thrusts into quick little grinds by the end of the
hour, which has Hannibal squeezing his eyes shut and choking on tiny sounds in the back of
his throat that Will works up a sweat attempting to draw out.

When he puts a hand on Hannibal’s erection, he feels the man stiffen into stone beneath him.

“Yeah?” Will strokes him painfully slow. “It’s okay, come on.”

One of Hannibal’s legs lock around his waist so tightly Will can feel the vein-deep tremble in
his thighs. He thrusts harder, giving himself over to the clutch of Hannibal’s body, and comes
inside him.

Will can’t help the long, gravelly groan he emits.

Hannibal pants into his shoulder, lips twitching through the aftershocks. Will’s hand is
covered in the other man’s release, sticky and acrid. He wipes it off on his own stomach, not
caring for the ill-manners.

When Hannibal’s eyes flutter open, Will’s own have adjusted to the dark enough that he can
watch the glossy redness in them flare. As if the veins which burst and bled, now meld with
tears of pleasure.

“Was that…” Will gulps at the sound of his roughened voice. “You liked that?”

“I — ” Hannibal pauses too out of necessity, and Will knows he’s victorious if he’s caused
Hannibal to be at a loss for words. “That was…exceptional. Thank you.”

“Jesus, don’t thank me,” Will teases, nuzzling down against his intensive heat, making no
move to clean up their tacky bodies. “You talk like you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Not since I was seventeen.”

Whipping his head up, Will finds Hannibal’s expression serene, infused with satisfaction. He
hadn’t known Hannibal had waited so long, or perhaps avoided it for an unknown reason,
until now.

Hannibal observes his concern and grins.

“Shut up,” Will mutters, curling his back to Hannibal so that he can be held from behind. He
doesn’t want to look him in the eye again tonight, but he still greedily wants their intimacy.

“You may have reawakened my taste for it,” Hannibal whispers in his ear, patting Will’s
stomach where bits of drying come stick to his fine body hairs.

Will huffs, voice dry with sarcasm when he replies,

“Oh no, whatever will I do?”

 “We have a few days before we reach Baltimore,” recalls Hannibal. “We’ll have to see won’t
we?”

Yes, they will have to.

And, hopefully, Will can discover what Hannibal’s been hiding.

Chapter End Notes

uh oh spaghettios <3
 Chapter 29
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Their drive in the morning takes them through South Carolina. Hannibal pulls over in an
attraction spot called South of the Border for authentic Mexican cuisine which Will isn’t
positive he can stomach, having woken up so early in the morning. He used to be better about
rising early but Hannibal got him riding on a lazy schedule in Croatia. If Will’s left to his
own devices, he wakes and stretches like a cat somewhere between 10 and 11 am. And that
means he doesn’t even leave the bed till noon.

The parking lot they roll into is towered over by an enormous statue of a man wearing a
sombrero. Will cocks his head at the oversaturated hues painting the buildings cyan, magenta,
yellow. The door to the men’s bathroom is off its hinges, broken in two planks on the floor
outside of it.

An elder man spits his tobacco on it while sauntering out.

Hannibal hands him a baseball cap and wears one himself which stops Will’s rising protest
dead in its tracks. If only Hannibal could understand how choice he looks in such plebeian
clothing.

“I hope they have refried beans,” Will says, stepping out of the car.

The air is still humid, tapering off in strength from Florida.

“Please do consider having mercy on my ever weakening heart, Will.”

The healthy options are limited in the restaurant they decide on, but Hannibal appears
satisfied as he orders a spiced black bean chicken soup with kale. Will orders barbequed
chicken fajita skewers with a side of refried beans. He prays for his stomach later, even
though he’s always had a strong gut. The smells and music inside the joint are turning him
impulsive. The waitress attending them is incredibly tired, but respectful all the same.
Hannibal slips out a fifty so he can later tip her well.

“Why don’t we just stick to drive-thrus?” Will mutters when she’s outside of auditory range.
He holds the dessert menu between them, making their conversation appear casual.

They’re taking a risk acting the role of tourists, overpaying, poking their recognizable toes at
the shoreline of North America’s underbelly.

“No one will recognize us here.”

“You always sound confident when you say that.”

“Trust me. We’ll be glad for the fresh food when we find we’ve reached our limits.” Hannibal
points out a sorbet. “Mangonada. I had a delicious dish of it when I visited Mexico myself.”

“Alright, ehm,” Will’s eyes flit around. “Do you wanna share?”

Hannibal has more than enough money that they can both have their own, but there’s a flicker
of understanding in his eyes acknowledging the true reason for Will’s asking.

“Why not,” he agreeably replies.

Their lunch is splendid, the time it took to get to their table allowing enough time for Will’s
appetite to replenish itself. The barbeque has a smoky taste to it one can’t get using spices
alone. Hannibal, while not nearly as enthused as he is, praises the dish and garners a
particular liking towards the kale topping.

Their mangonada sorbet arrives last, in a plastic cup with two straws.

Hannibal frowns. “We can’t have everything.”

Will assumes the dish it’s been placed in is more of an insult than the quality of the dessert
itself because Hannibal doesn’t hesitate to sip at what should be a thicker consistency, like ice
cream.

“It’s quite acceptable,” he determines.

Will leans forward at the same time Hannibal goes in for another sip and their heads bonk
against each other as they meet in the middle. Will laughs awkwardly, rubbing his forehead.

Hannibal blinks before letting a smile reach his ears.

“Hog,” Will kids, bending again to taste the dish.

It is good, but if he’s being honest, mangos were never his go-to fruit.

They arrive at the border to Virginia long after the sun has set and Hannibal is drowsy enough
to get them both killed on the road. They agree to pull over in a small motel stocked with
three shady cars and a broken pool. The light in the lobby is flickering; Will grabs the debit
card he’s handed and heads inside.

Like the last one, the clerk pays little attention to him.

Will waits, glancing out the glass door to watch Hannibal kick a pebble, hands in his pockets
to shield himself from the night winds. Fondly, he smiles to himself.

His expression falls when he hears a sharp gasp from the clerk.
“You’re—” Well, shit. “You’re him!”

Will shudders out a sigh, pocketing his card.

“You really shouldn’t have said that,” he murmurs.

He takes a step forward and the clerk yelps, stupidly reaching for the desk phone. No, police,
not yet. Will pounces, knocking the phone off the counter so it loudly clatters onto the tile
floor. It’s simple to transition from that to grabbing the lithe man by his neck and hauling him
over the low-set countertop.

The lights strobe intensely with the phone’s plug dangling out of its socket.

The man's pleas are lost to Will’s commitment.

There’s no turning back; this man would destroy their chances at freedom.

Without thinking, he grabs the service bell and slams it over the clerk’s head. Luckily, the
strike knocks him out cold. Will keeps going, falling to his knees and drawing his arm back
in a wide stance before thundering it downward on his skull, smashing it in over and over. He
yells on the last hit, panting as he watches bits of flesh splatter out from the gory mess of his
head. The bell drops and dings abrasively.

Overhead fluorescents continue to waver, dimming and brightening. The man’s body twitches
and the blood changes color as the light shifts on and off.

The room is so silent; it shouldn’t be this silent.

Will scrambles back on all fours, hyperventilating now.

At a certain point, Hannibal bounded across the parking lot. It must have taken Will seconds
to kill the clerk because Hannibal is only now bursting inside the lobby, eyes darting all over
the scene. First, he tears the phone’s plug from the wall and the lights steady themselves. He
grabs the welcome mat before the spilling blood seeps over it, tossing it across the room.
Easier cleanup, Will suspects.

“He knew,” Will rasps. “He knew me. I-I couldn’t—”

Hannibal bends down on one knee, every gesture computed, and kisses Will’s quivering lips.
His first repulsed instinct is to push back, rebel, and shoves at him, but Hannibal slides a
hand across the back of his skull and holds him in place, giving him a protracted kiss that
locks Will’s parted mouth closed.

Will need to breathe; he can’t breathe.

“Hush now,” Hannibal whispers, giving Will one moment of rest before he’s kissing him
quiet again. Will whimpers, his only choice to focus on calming his heart rate, not to gasp for
so much oxygen. “That’s it.”
The kiss isn't directly woven from passion, but Hannibal's intimate knowledge of how
flamboyantly Will reacts to these situations is stark, as well as how he can disturb the
inevitability of such reactions.

Will’s gasping again for a different reason.

His reaction has successfully inverted, focused now on wanting more of Hannibal. The
adrenaline rushing through him is telling him he doesn’t need to run, that he should be
collected by the force in front of him.

Their lips part, sticking to each other stubbornly. Hannibal checks Will's pulse and clicks his
tongue in satisfaction, then moves affectionately to kiss Will’s forehead before he turns to
face the body.

“Will, I want you to shut the lights out now, and then gather his keys and take stock of the
cleaning supplies. I’d like to know what we’re working with.”

In his haste to follow orders, Will’s knees slip on the tile when he attempts to stand. Hannibal
doesn’t judge him, waiting patiently at the corpse’s side. Will turns the lights out and the
lobby goes completely dark. It’s near impossible to see, but Hannibal is handing him a bundle
of keys and pushing him in a specific direction. Impossibly, Will finds the supply closet and
risks turning the light on in there.

Eyes adjust to the bubbly labeled bottles.

Laundry bleach, detergents, Lysol.

He huffs in frustration, grabbing the laundry bleach.

“This is a strong brand,” Hannibal informs, pleased when Will returns with it. Will doesn’t
know how he’s reading the fine print in the dark, but he mumbles out a few more orders and
Will sets off to do them.

Truly, it doesn’t take long at all for them to clean the floor and roll his tarped up body onto a
dolly. “We’ll leave him until tomorrow. I’m afraid we’re making a habit of storing waste in
our trunk.”

It’s not even their trunk. It’s a rental trunk.

“He isn’t waste,” Will asserts. “He was a man.”

Refusing to acknowledge Hannibal’s stare, he turns away and heads off to their new room. If
he’s to submit to a life of killing, he doesn’t need to submit to Hannibal’s ideology. He never
believed anyone was worse than him and that they could be considered unworthy of life, even
if Will kills them. The moment he loses himself is the moment he forgets his humanity. It
doesn’t matter if he’s entrenched in death and blood, he still has something that Hannibal
doesn’t. A realism that could keep them alive.

Hannibal enters their room a few minutes after him.

They help each other wash off the blood in the shower. Will holds Hannibal’s hands between
their naked bodies and spends far too long rubbing at the tips of his fingers, egging out bits of
blood from under nails.

Hannibal kisses him goodnight later in bed, underneath the sandpaper sheets.

Will lets him pull him close until his head rests on Hannibal’s shoulder.

His homey scent overpowers the hints of iron and rot.

“There’s something I must confess to you,” Hannibal reveals on the road several hours after
removing their check-in slip from the lobby desk. They’re ghosts in that state from this point
on, never came and never went. They dumped the clerk’s body in a remote lake. It’ll be found
but unlikely traced back to them until it is too late. By then, they will have fled from the
country with Chiyoh in tow.

“Wonderful,” sighs Will.

“I asked Chiyoh, before she took her leave, to keep tabs on Jack.”

A muscle in Will’s arm twitches fiercely enough to hurt. He rubs at his elbow, a frown
forming on his face. Chiyoh had mentioned going North, and nothing about aiding and
abetting.

“You’re the reason she left?”

“No, but I had an inkling she might. She’d discussed traveling with me, not while you were
in the room. Not that she didn’t trust you, Will, far from it. She spoke highly of you when we
were alone.”

“Imagine that.” Will scoffs. “So, did she agree?”

“It would appear so.”

“You think—” Will sees Hannibal nod firmly, twice. “Jack figured out she’d caught onto his
scent. He would've remembered her from Florence, she was probably easy to spot.”

Chiyoh would have considered opposing Hannibal’s sly request. It’s not her place to fetter in
the matters of madmen, but she did anyway. Perhaps she found no viable prospects where she
traveled.

“Yes,” Hannibal answers tightly. The red light from a beaming car wooshes by them,
illuminating Hannibal in neon briefly. He glares down the zooming vehicle, changing lanes.
“It is my cross to bear that she is captured, and that Jack will now do with her how he sees fit
in order to catch us.”
“It’s not your fault,” Will says, because it’s true, not because he’s trying to placate him. “She
didn’t have to do as you requested. She made it clear from the start she’s loyal to family, but
that loyalty doesn’t inspire participation. Observation is her thing, as it was Bedelia’s. She did
this because she wanted to.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, keeping his eyes on the road.

Will watches him, analyzing his ticks and twinges.

Hannibal is worried. A layman couldn’t see it, but Will is not only well-versed in everything
that has to do with Hannibal Lecter, but in some respects, he is him. He isn’t surprised when
Hannibal speaks again and doesn’t voice his anxieties, it’s not something that he does, or
perhaps will ever do properly.

He speaks in another vein altogether, solemn reminiscence drenching his tone.

“When I was young, I was prone to petty disturbances. Misdemeanors, but more often than
not, misbehavior throughout my residency. I teased Chiyoh quite a bit, especially when she
was enmeshed in her free time. She knitted quilts with the Lady, rather Victorian I know, but
they enjoyed it. She was much younger than me and respectfully I had no right to bother her
as I did but I often swiped away her knitting needles and hid them in the garden. After the
third or so occurrence, she knew where to look.”

Will starts to recognize Virginian surroundings and soundlessly signals to Hannibal that they
need to start taking the long route, the backroad where there is less of a chance of being
sighted by authority.

Hannibal takes the next turn, inhaling.

“Chiyoh was a scavenger, still is. She could find anything as long as she knew what to look
for, and it never took longer than six minutes for her to find both needles, even if I separated
them far apart. I recall once nearly losing them in the drain of the bird bath, but she found
them in the nick of time.”

“I can picture it,” Will murmurs, gazing into the middle distance. He can see the young cub
Chiyoh referred to, watching, and herself, a sprite of nature wisping through the blooming
estate to find what was hidden.

Hannibal offers a small, close-lipped smile.

“The last time I filched the needles, I considered killing her in the middle of the garden.” A
short pause as Hannibal recalls it. “The sky was a rare purple, and she would have looked
beautiful, destroyed just beyond where the vines grew over the veranda. It was the longest
she’d ever searched and I saw her growing frustrated. She ran up to me. I had the needles
hidden behind my back, and she demanded to know where they were. Otherwise, she warned
she would break one of my Aunt’s katanas and blame it on me. Chiyoh was the superstitious
of both of us, and I knew how much of a sacrifice that would have been for her even above
Murasaki. I found I couldn’t kill her, not that day, and not any other day after that.”
“No opportunity?” Will asks, mildly cold.

Chiyoh has meant a lot to him this past year.

“No, Will. I felt, inherently, I had to spare her.”

Will blinks, compartmentalizes that, and says, “This isn’t the first time you mentioned
sparing a life. You spoke of nearly slitting your aunt’s throat, of stopping yourself before you
could.”

“Then who do you suspect was the third life I spared?” Hannibal questions lightly, as if it
isn’t a devastating implication. “Or the fourth, or the fifth?”

Will Graham, naturally, who else?

Swallowing against the intangible rising tide inside him, Will tries not to think of all the
times Hannibal came close to killing him, let alone the times he doesn’t even know about.

Then it hits; he needs to know.

“When was the last time you thought of killing me?”

“Just thought? Or planned?”

“Thought,” he grits out.

“Nearly two minutes ago,” Hannibal admits without hesitation.

Will’s jaw flexes.

“Pull over.”

Hannibal all but pouts. “And here I thought you could handle a spoonful of concentrated
truth, but perhaps I was mistaken. I would suggest if you plan to go to dramatic lengths to
react that y—”

Grabbing hold of the wheel, Will stupidly spins it towards himself.

The car nearly hits a tree but Hannibal swerves in time. All traces of humor have been
completely wiped off his face, but instead of being stubborn, he finally pulls over properly
behind a shaded covering of trees. Will unbuckles his seatbelt while Hannibal, with the pace
of a sloth, takes the key from the ignition.

Hannibal doesn’t have a chance to admonish.

Will’s climbing into his lap and kissing him within an inch of his life.

Pawing for Hannibal’s seatbelt, he only manages to undo it alongside some awkward
maneuvering, but then there’s no space between them unsealed, bodies pressed tight.
Hannibal submits to whatever devilish creature crawled into Will’s soul, teeth gnashing
fervently into his own, growling like a motorbike revs to life. Will doesn’t delineate his
motivations. He just kisses him more, and rocks until he’s spent.

The world around them whiplashes back into existence.

Hannibal’s eyes are closed, Will’s are just fluttering open.

An hour has passed, Will thinks, or maybe two.

Hannibal’s head thunks back onto his upright seat. The space is cramped and Will’s thighs are
starting to hurt, straining in a persistent bend. He’s more uncomfortable with the come drying
inside his slacks. Hannibal’s face twists for a moment, likely another aftershock surging
through his nerves, before he sighs, hands slipping exhaustedly down Will's hips.

“I was not…expecting that.”

“Dramatic enough for you?” Will asks, in a cracklingly breathy voice. He pecks Hannibal’s
on the lips while the man is still soft and pliant. He likes him most like this, over-affectionate
and traitorously human.

“Disquieting,” Hannibal corrects lightly.

“Not satisfying?” Will mumbles, kissing Hannibal’s neck. “I really don’t like being in your
lap.”

Hannibal places a hand over Will’s soiled shorts, peeking out from the unzipped fly. Will
shudders as Hannibal locates where his release has accumulated and rubs. The feeling is
horrible; he wants more.

“This would beg to differ,” he supplies playfully.

“I mean that,” Will gasps, stuttering into the touch, “this isn’t a position a middle-aged man
should be in. Not with how many times I’ve been shot in the limbs at this stage of my life.”

“We should resume our trip anyhow,” Hannibal concedes, patting Will’s thigh. He’s fully
returned to himself now, offering support as Will climbs over the center console and plops
gracelessly in the passenger’s seat. “They’re sparse, but you may use the cleaning supplies in
the glove compartment.”

There’s germ-x and hand lotion as well as a package of tissues.

Hannibal backs the car out of the woods, and Will cleans himself as best as he can. He tosses
the dirty tissues in the cupholder, trying not to laugh at the curl of Hannibal’s lip every time
he does.

He wants to make a sweet comment about how picky Hannibal is when he’s the type of man
to have sex with Will anywhere he decides to instigate it.

Instead he opts for confession.

“I could tell you I’m attracted to your honesty, but that would be a lie. The fact that you still
think about killing me, even now, it’s um, exhilarating.” Hannibal freezes, Will watching his
eyes go icy in thought. The car turns onto the road. “So frequently, too. You’re the same as
you ever were, in most respects, and I think I liked hearing that. Liked that I could be the
center of that sort of attention when I thought…”

When he imagined Hannibal had gone soft, so to speak.

“It was a passing thought, Will, not a reality.”

“Of course I know that. That’s why I’m not offended.” Will smiles, disbelieving himself. He
sounds like a lunatic, but he likes the disparity of that. “I know why you think that way.
You’re designed like that, there’s no escaping it for you. Revealing that memory of Chiyoh
was personal for you, and it was easier to imagine killing me immediately after than it was to
stomach the idea that I am going to know that part of you forever, and I’ll likely know every
part of you at some undecipherable inevitable end.”

“If I was Jack, I’d say you’ve done your homework,” Hannibal says evenly.

“It’s how you compartmentalize.”

“In a way, yes.” Hannibal’s throat bobs, not even glancing at Will when his tone shifts,
turning tender. “Do you still imagine killing me? Just a passing thought, not an ideation.”

Will’s lips part, and he nods in reverence.

Hannibal catches it out of the corner of his eye, facing him at last.

“All the time,” Will quietly promises.

It takes a while. Hannibal’s grin is gradual, contagious to Will who mirrors it in response.
The drive goes on. Their hands meet on the stick shift, long fingers sliding over each other.

Will gets anxious when they enter Baltimore. Despite taking the lengthy route they’ve been
driving, they’re entering the lion’s den now. Haven't discussed specifics, not yet, but there
aren't many to address. Will knows what he'll be doing in a few hours, and it won't involve
breaking Chiyoh out with Hannibal.

Much of their plan hinges on dumb luck and the idea that their former peers are just as stupid
as they've always been, as well as unsuspecting. He hopes the powers at play are on their
side.

Slinking down in his seat, Will's hands twitch restlessly. He wants to turn the music on, open
the car door window, yell at Hannibal.
He doesn't want to say goodbye to him.

Not today.

He just wants one more day. Maybe that's the most human desire Will's ever felt. He's always
been disconnected to whimsy. Has never cared for day-dreaming like a rabbit never really
cares for grass. Dreams are all he's ever had, lurid hallucinations that rot him from the inside
out. He just wants one day more in reality before he's cast into something else; a hell of
heresy.

"Jack's going to interrogate me. Non-stop."

"I know," Hannibal replies. Will bitterly wants to nudge him for a better rendition of
emotional support. "You can handle it, can you not?"

Will exhales, straightening up.

"Yeah. I can handle it."

"Even when Jack knows you so well?"

"I have no issue talking with Jack. It's Chilton's prattle I'm worried about," mutters Will.

"With any luck, he'll be working remotely. You wouldn't have to see him."

"You think he wouldn't fly out from wherever the hell he is to get a load of this?"

Hannibal huffs, stopping at a red light. They're surrounded with more cars than they have
been before on this road trip and Will's heart starts to pump rapidly because of it.

"I think he's a coward."

Will smirks. "Now that, we can agree on." His expression falls when he remembers his time
under Chilton’s wing. The drugs, the one-sided courting. He rolls his eyes and adds, “He’s
going to remind me his book on you was a bestseller.”

“And he’ll probably warn you that you’re the star of his next,” Hannibal muses.

Will nearly puts his feet up on the console for that comment.

Their GPS crows, and Will winces at the update.

They have fifteen minutes until they reach the BSHCI. Exactly fifteen minutes before their
plan sets in motion and Hannibal leaves Will in a cell for an unspecified period of time.
Hannibal’s left him in a cell before without any sight of an exit and he’d rattled those bars
like a starving vulture.

“I will pull over in a parking lot five minutes down the road. It wouldn’t do for us both to get
caught. It would take much longer to achieve Chiyoh’s freedom.”
“So long as it’s my freedom at stake,” Will grumbles.

“Do not turn to animosity now, my dear. We don’t have much time left together. By now, I
understand that your negative attitudes are more often a response to fear than not.”

Scoffing, Will bites back a curse.

He’s right that they don’t have much time left together. Will is wasting it by acting hostile.
He doesn’t know what else to do, however, already floundering with the prospect of his
paddle being ripped from him.

“I can’t—” Will squeezes his eyes shut, tightening his hands over his knees. “The separation.
It’s always worse after I see you again. This time…I don’t know if I can handle the agony.”

“You can handle it, Will,” Hannibal promises. The surety in his voice almost convinces him.
“You’re the strongest creature I know. And this time, you know full well I will return.”

That does calm Will, just enough.

“It’s still going to suck.”

Primly, Hannibal answers, “Yes.”

“No more than a few days, right?” he reassures himself.

“Naturally.”

The answer is just as prim. Annoying as fuck, of course, but belonging to him.

“I’m gonna miss you like crazy,” Will finds himself admitting. He’s being spontaneous with
confession, perhaps overdoing it. He can’t help it; he feels mad. “Just—holding you, at night,
I’ve gotten used to that.”

Hannibal smiles, features softening.

“In turn, I’ve memorized the pattern of your breathing while you sleep. I have a challenging
time understanding how I will find sleep without hearing it.”

Will blushes, flexing his toes in his shoes.

“At least I’ll feel how hard that mattress in your cell was.”

“Ideally.”

“You want me to suffer,” Will observes. “A little.”

Hannibal’s smile sours, turning more into a smirk.

“Perhaps a little.”

“Can I…never mind.”

“Can you what?” Hannibal demands lightly.

“Can I ask you—” Will swallows, absolutely mortified and incensed in the same breath. He
wants this with every fiber of his being. “I don’t want you to touch yourself. While I’m away
from you.”

Hannibal’s brow lifts, intrigued.

“Acceptable. My taste for masturbation has fortunately gone stale over the years.”

“Too quotidian?”

Will almost earns a laugh.

“I’m afraid my affinity for fantasy faded when I met you.” Before Will can even think about
teasing him for not just giving in to primal fantasies, Hannibal stuns him with, “Just the sight
of you was enough.”

“Is it still?” he questions, quiet as snowfall.

“I believe it always will be.”

“Remember the promise you made me, Hannibal,” Will reminds, staring through his soul.
Hannibal must feel the intense gaze, because his lips part quiveringly before sealing shut.
“Please.”

Hannibal won’t leave him, but he needs to hear him say it anyway.

“I want what’s best for you, Will,” Hannibal says, and it feels like a statement unconnected to
anything they’re currently speaking of. Will doesn’t pay it much mind. “I’ll remember.”

The plan is simple.

Hannibal drops Will off. He turns right around and drives straight off towards the Virginian
facility to save Chiyoh. Will checks into the BSHCI and distracts the chess pieces long
enough for them to win the game. Hannibal, after the appropriate time has passed, will return
to Baltimore to break him out.

He hates how easy it sounds on paper.

“Are you ready?” Hannibal inquires when they’ve run over the plan for a third time. They
didn’t need to do so more than twice, but Will is dragging this out. Selfishly, needlessly.

“No,” Will responds honestly. “But I can pretend I am.”

“Believe me when I say I have no interest in sharing you with anyone other than myself.”
Hannibal cups Will’s cheek. They’ve located to the back of the truck and are facing each
other in the meager space. “Whatever they say to you while you’re in there, Will, remember
also that they don’t know you like I do.”

Will shifts to kiss his palm.

He covets Hannibal’s selfishness, feeds off it.

“How could I forget?”

Hannibal's pleased with that response, thumbing Will's bottom lip.

“Alright then, we’ve wasted enough time as it is. Don’t forget to take the trail through the
forest. You want the whole upper hand. It won’t benefit you to be caught before your
arrival.”

“Hannibal,” he whispers. “Kiss me.”

Hannibal swallows back something, either a protest or an admission of sorts. He looks just as
antsy as Will, unsurprisingly. But without hesitation, he leans in and does just as Will
requests.

Will overindulges in the kiss, tasting salt from his own eyes spilling over.

Hannibal isn’t deterred, and kisses him gentler than ever.

“Go, before I change my mind,” Hannibal murmurs, a growl rooted in the back of his throat
yet dormant. It won’t be for long if Will doesn’t obey.

He pecks Hannibal one last time before kicking the back doors to the truck open. The harsh
winds catapult over him, cooling his skin, rumpling his already raggedy clothes.

“I love you,” Will says.

“Aš tave myliu,” Hannibal replies.

Will resists running back into his arms, if only to feel his warmth one final time, and closes
the doors behind him. He stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, already affected by
Hannibal’s loss.

Then, he treks beyond the car and into the woods.

And he doesn’t look back.

In the distance, he hears a car swerving hastily down the road. He can picture Hannibal’s
stern face behind the wheel, driving over the speed limit in his ambition to finish the job
quickly and efficiently. He’s optimistic Hannibal isn’t so willing to rush that he spoils the
mission, but he also hopes to see him sooner than a few days. Twenty four hours would be
ideal, but that might be pushing things.
Hiking on through darker patches of trees, he heads off in a familiar direction. He feels
himself settling into an equally familiar mood when he sees the giant white building peeking
over the coppice.

Home sweet home, he thinks bitterly.

“Name,” the secretary boredly insists.

Will stands there, straggled from the travel and the heavy winds, clutching nothing but his
empty pockets as he waits for the woman at the front desk to glance up. When that seems
increasingly impossible, he clears his throat and murmurs, “Will Graham.”

“Appointment?” Her voice is robotic, accustomed to these formal responses, but he can see
the shift in her when she registers the name. Finally, she glances up and gasps.

“No appointment,” he clarifies. “Checking myself in.”

Frantically, she’s dialing a number on the desk phone and simultaneously trying to paw for an
emergency button. He doesn’t stop her. This is a much less invasive return to the BSHCI than
he thought it would be.

“Do you take room requests?” Will adds, lips quirking.

The guards do tackle him.

And they proceed to tie him up painfully. His cheek grazes into the floor as they kneel across
him, strapping him up. He hopes they cleaned the tile recently because it smells like dirt and
cooking oil.

He isn’t taken to a cell right away; he wasn’t expecting that.

He’s taken to an interrogation room and placed in a straight jacket and muzzle, which isn’t
shocking per se but it’s certainly a shock to his system. He hasn’t been muzzled in a long
time, or strapped to an upright gurney. He’s dollied to sit in front of the silver desk smack dab
in the center of the room.

Will’s glad he pissed before this, otherwise two hours in he’d be sorry.

Jack shows up eventually, clipboard in hand, teeth gritted.

He doesn’t make eye contact with him.

How the tables have turned. Will stares him down, feeling a bit smug.

“Hey there, Jack,” Will says, muffled behind the mask.

They’re always so sweat-inducing. He feels perspiration puffing up within the thick plastic.

“I’m not talking with you. Not yet. I’m having Price and Zeller come in to catalog you,” Jack
explains tightly. He writes something down on the clipboard. It looks like it's for show.
“You’re coming here of your own free will, then. Do you know how long the manhunt for
you and Hannibal has lasted?”

“I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“Oh, I’m talking to you, not with you.”

It reminds Will of the first time they met. He used to talk at his students, interacting with
them was another matter. He can empathize with Jack’s aversion to speaking with him at
present.

“I remember when Hannibal turned himself in,” Jack continues. “Don’t take me for a fool,
Will. Nothing’s going to slip by me, not this time. You better hope you have nothing
incriminating under those layers.” He points at the straight jacket. Will didn’t bring anything
with him except his determination.

“Tell Brian and Jimmy they can take the mask off,” says Will. He tries not to smile so wide
that it shows in his eyes when he adds, “I promise I won’t bite.”

“I know you won’t,” Jack states, proving just how little he actually knows Will. “But I think
the indignity suits you. It suited Hannibal too.”

He refuses to say anything else until Price and Zeller come bounding in. Luckily for Jack,
Will isn’t much of a talker anyway. At least not when the parties involved aren’t Hannibal
Lecter.

Some part of him enjoys seeing these men again.

Like an old habit that feels unusually good to fall back into every now and then, if only for
nostalgic purposes. He knows he won’t be feeling as light and jovial in a while. When it truly
sinks in how much of a trapped animal he is. And how Hannibal’s the only one with the cage
door’s key.

“Hi Will,” Jimmy greets awkwardly.

Zeller smacks his arm, grumbling something low and agitated.

They strip him down, which is more uncomfortable than anything else. It’s nothing they
haven’t seen before, since they helped Beverly with his initial cataloging. They check his
 nails for blood and he’s surprised there isn’t any. Hannibal must have really worked some
magic in their last shower.

“He’s, um, clean,” Zeller announces after they’re finished. “Nothing to mark down except his
homeless appearance and condition. These clothes look to be thrifted.”

Jimmy is awkwardly sliding the straight jacket back on Will who is being as cooperative as
possible. He has no qualms with Jimmy.

The clothes weren’t thrifted but bought in a Goodwill. Will curls his top lip up at Zeller’s
comments despite the fact he can’t see it.

Jack appears angrier at the useless diagnosis.

He wants there to be something he can grasp onto, even a needle in a haystack. He must be
desperate for anything, and Will’s incarceration isn’t going to help him get any sleep. Not
with Hannibal still out there.

Jimmy shuffles in front of him, eyes bulging and curious.

“So are you and Hannibal actually, you know, well—”

“Price,” Jack bellows. “Zeller you too, scram. Now.”

“Sorry,” Jimmy mutters, following an incredibly agitated Zeller out the interrogation room
door. Jack waits until they’re far down the hall, feet clapping against the tile, until he finally
meets Will’s eyes.

“If you think you’re ever stepping foot outside this facility again, aside from a goddamn court
case hearing and a consecutive death sentence, you’re gravely mistaken, Graham. And by the
end of this week, you’ll be begging to tell me where Lecter is.”

“Ay ay, Captain,” Will answers blankly.

After that, he’s rolled out of the room by two guards.

Relief washes over him when he’s directed down a marble hall that leads up to two giant,
decorated brown doors. They’re familiar; Will would occasionally open them and reveal the
chapel.

Chapter End Notes

jimmy + will bestie supremacy

 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Ducking over the rusted sink, Will splashes water across his face.

The mirror is smudged, something a swipe of the sleeve could fix, but he wants to keep his
jumpsuit as clean as possible for the upcoming days. He remembers the once-per-week
showers, how the hot water turned off after seven minutes on the button, three minutes more
before the water shut off altogether.

Hannibal’s cell is large, compared to most. He’s still relatively in shock over the reality of
being locked away inside it. He thought he would have to sweet talk his way into this cell,
but they seemed to be right.

Jack is predictable, even in the aftermath of an apocalypse.

Will has only been locked up for an hour, after the strip search Jimmy and Brian did on him,
taking any article of clothing that isn’t the itchy jumpsuit he’s wearing now, lacking a serial
number in the face of his spontaneous arrival. He imagines he’d go to a trial first, get
reassigned his original number if he was proven insane, and would be delivered right back
here. Or at least, to the same cell block. He’s under no illusion that Hannibal hasn’t somehow
delivered enough funds into his namesake for this to be possible.

However, it could actually be less expensive to deposit notorious killer-in-arms Will Graham
in their most high-tech containment facility room. Built conveniently for a mass murderer
with a silver tongue.

He doesn’t know if he has anything resembling Hannibal’s tongue, but he’s adept at
subverting conversation into something he can bend to his will. He’s done it with Jack,
Chilton, Matthew Brown.

But for now, with no sight of any visitor, he has time to kill.

He pores over the dimensions of the four-walled cell. Tests the weight of the glass to find it’s
been replaced since he last pressed his hand against it. Will isn’t an outstanding handyman
but he can still spot a reinstallment where the shoe fits. As if Hannibal’s escape had anything
to do with the walls themselves and not Will Graham himself, the catalyst to all of it. Yet the
world was so quick to call him a hero.

It’s a wonder the U.S. still believes its government.

He wonders if his stay here will be reported in the press or if Jack and the others will decide
the notion is too frightening for the public to be allowed to consider without Hannibal
uniformly captured in unison.

Will grips the edges of the sink and turns the water off.

If he thinks about Hannibal, he’ll start to spiral. He’s already been down brief rabbit holes,
imagining which towns he’s passing, if he’s taking the same route they took up to Baltimore
to get back to Virginia. He wonders how many people he’ll have to kill to save Chiyoh, and
thinks about the apathy he feels in response to that question. Will pictures Hannibal drenched
in blood and, more than anything, misses him.

There are cabinets in the back of the cell, which open to protracted hidey-holes of a sort,
something Will could honestly probably fit in if he tucked his legs together and squeezed
inside. Perhaps if the whole building decides to implode, he could crawl in there, and hope to
all hell that he wouldn’t get blown to bits. He’s not sure he’s inspired a society already so
entrenched in violence to blow up a hospital just to get at him, afterall, they care more about
politics than about serial murderers they’ll probably never meet.

There’s something Will needs; he can’t put his finger on it.

It isn’t just Hannibal. It’s a physical thing, nibbling at his bones and scraping at the underside
of his skin layers. A ticking time bomb, now that he’s thinking about bombs, and he can’t
shake the sound of it counting down. It makes him pace, cross his arms behind his back as an
unintentional mirror of Hannibal.

The sensation makes him want to crawl on the ceiling.

Scream, maybe, since it’s never helped him not to scream.

If he’s growing this restless after just over an hour, he really needs to manage his time better.
Relish the longer, drawn out moment of silence before the incoming bombardment.

As if on cue, the doors creak open.

Jack emerges, holding papers, appearing worn.

There’s an in-depth process where Jack marches across the room to the desk in the corner,
unlocks its wheels, and pushes it over so that when he sits, he’s facing Will. He spreads
papers out atop the surface.

“And now we talk,” Will states, voice low.

He sounds tired to his own ears, but Jack doesn’t sound much better.

“Yes.” His voice is taut with unspent emotion. “Yes, we do.”

“Where’s Chiyoh, Jack?” Will asks, to heighten the illusion neither he nor Hannibal know
where she is. That Will’s plan of turning himself in has only to do with figuring out where
she is rather than breaking her out of her confinement.

Always one step ahead, Hannibal wouldn’t have it any other way.
Jack’s throat works over the beginnings of a laugh, but it dies in his throat. “You have a lot of
nerve to come in here and demand answers.”

“You have a lot of nerves to involve someone uninvolved.”

“She’s involved,” Jack asserts, glaring at him through the reflective glass. Will is beginning
to understand why Hannibal enjoyed taunting everyone else from this perspective. There’s
quite literally nothing he can do that would risk him being in a worse situation. He’s been
caught, and he has the upper hand.

“If you truly believe Chiyoh has anything to do with this triangular little power play we have
going on here, Jack, you might be on the wrong side of the glass,” Will asseverates.

“Enough years ago and you would have told me she has everything to do with it.”

“You liked the sound of my voice when I told you lies,” murmurs Will, cocking his head
sideways. “I think you liked how you could frame each of my words, like photographs, a
gallery of memorabilia.”

Jack’s eyes harden. “I think you’re psychotic,” he declares.

Will sucks his lips between his teeth, nodding through a strong wave of amusement. It’s as if
Jack hadn’t spent any of those years learning all the reasons Will Graham isn’t insane.

He doesn’t respond, and Jack rounds back to the subject at hand.

“I met her in Florence,” he tells him. “I told her you two were identically different.”

“Chiyoh probably liked that. The flowery language.”

“Up until that point, I couldn’t have imagined a world where Hannibal had intertwined family
values with another person. A connection that would inspire them, no less, to go off half-
cocked to save his life.”

Chiyoh has eternally been willing to save Hannibal’s life. Like a guardian angel the man
doesn’t deserve, or worse, a fallen angel who has no one else to lead her but the Devil.

“You expected him to die at Muskrat farm,” Will extrapolates. “You also expected me to die.”

“There was nothing I could very well do about it,” Jack recalls. “Strapped to a goddamn chair
in the middle of a Florentine penthouse. The entire polizia against me. It…you were a price I
always assumed would need to be paid. After Chiyoh rescued me, I did my best, but I knew
your reaper was impatient.”

Will laughs up at the skylight, hypnotized by the moon for a moment. He hadn’t known it
was getting so late already, hours buzzing by like flies. Indistinguishable.

“I was always expendable,” he notes. “You and I both knew that.”

“One man happens to be expendable when it comes to hundreds of innocent lives,” Jack
affirms, holding his pen in a close-fisted grip. Will eyes it, and the veins bulging from near
his temple, smiling lightly.

“But what has that expense cost you? The courts will say I’m insane, and they’ll dig into
every nook and cranny as to why that is when I was so perfectly exonerated six years ago, or
has it been seven?” Will paces again, a more thoughtful tread across the length of the glass.
“Really Jack, driving me to insanity has cost you more than anything, if you really think
about it. What is it you said to me, when you recommended therapy with Hannibal Lecter?”
He pauses before the desk and looks Jack straight in the eye, unflinching when he concludes
the thinly veiled taunt, “Our relationship isn’t personal.”

“It wasn’t,” Jack strikes back, even-toned. “Not then.”

“But it became that, and you knew it did. You encouraged it.”

“You assured me you could handle it. When you told me you could fish, you never warned
me that he could fish just as well as you.”

“I don’t think Hannibal was ever great at fishing,” Will evades. “He never made me feel
expendable.”

Jack crosses his arms, pushing aside his pen for a minute. He hasn’t written anything down,
and Will wonders if the papers are for an interrogation. Nothing of this conversation feels
official or testimonial.

“So this is your version of revenge?” Jack questions, dry humor lining his words. “You’d
have preferred I used kids gloves on you like Alana suggested?”

Will bites his bottom lip, and shakes his head. He doesn’t acknowledge the comment though,
and doesn't want to open that whole can of worms. Not if he can avoid it.

“How is Alana?” he asks instead.

“You should know. You and Hannibal got her wrapped up in your endless hangman’s game,
did you not?” Jack is obviously angry with Alana for all the obfuscation still, but he’s having
a hard time balancing this anger with his much more acidic resentment towards Will and
Hannibal.

“I don’t know, Jack. What does the evidence say?”

“I’ve become wary of highly condemning evidence,” Jack posits. “That being said, the
evidence points undeniably towards Margot and Alana killing Matthew Brown, and Mason
Verger.”

“Then I’d listen to the evidence,” Will mutters, craning his head back to look upon the stars
again. He understands why Hannibal might’ve been able to stand it in here. It really is better
than his old jail cell.
“I don’t suppose you could tell me whereabouts you and Hannibal Lecter were at the time of
Matthew Brown’s murder.”

Will laughs. “Is this the interrogation?”

“There’s no interrogation. Not today.”

Will manages to tame his confusion at the last second. Instinctively, he glances at the large
entry doors. He can’t imagine what else Jack came to speak with him for. That is, until the
doors open.

“Great timing,” Jack greets, standing to meet the woman who just walked in.

Kade Purnell, in one of her many ugly pencil skirt-blazer sets.

It’s surprising she got here so fast considering her priority usually isn’t Will unless she deems
him fully useful, which she must if she’s come out all this way to the BSHCI. She exchanges
a few unintelligible words with Jack before clapping her heels up to the front of the glass.
Will could easily spit at her through the round holes. He doesn’t even greet her; he just stands
there with his arms at his sides, deadpan.

“Looking a little rough around the edges, Mr. Graham. I’m assuming a life of cannibalism
hasn’t been treating you well. The experts tell me it’s hard on the stomach lining,” voices
Kade.

“You were too much of a coward to talk to Hannibal when he was the one behind the glass,
am I really any less frightening?” Will questions bluntly, out of partial curiosity.

Kade refuses to flinch, whipping out a pen from her coat pocket.

“I haven’t come to discuss your transgressions I’m afraid.” She moves swiftly over to the
desk where Jack is holding out a chair for her to sit. Will wants to let him know he’s doing a
great job at kissing her ass. Maybe it’s the only reason he’s been allowed to keep his job after
the Matthew fiasco. Kade thinks she’s smarter than everyone else, more righteous. She’s just
as willing to dismiss bad behavior in the name of favoritism, or plain hubris. “I actually came
to sign away your rights. In some respects, anyway.”

Will frowns, baffled.

Kade smiles, a menacingly apathetic sort of smile he rarely even sees on Hannibal.

“You see, Mr. Graham, you more or less screwed yourself over by checking into the hospital
by yourself. Though that doesn’t act as a facilitation of involuntary commitment, your lawful
spouse has a concurrent say over what can be used in a treatment situation regarding your
hospice, especially if you’re deemed incompetent to enact consent, and trust me, your spouse
has given us more than enough free reign when it comes to your institutionalization.”

Molly must have agreed before he was even captured. She wouldn’t have the time to consider
in just under a few hours. He can picture her signing off any document the government felt
confident enough to run by her. There’s likely a weak dispute stipulation, and no immediate
way to stall the contract. Will knew there would be complications but not knowing what they
are going to include makes him tense.

“Why are you here, then?” he bites out.

Kade signs her name on a dotted line, handing the pen back to Jack who also signs.
Attempting to be discreet, Will strains to see even a singular word on the sheets but they’re
promptly folded away.

“Signing off for use of an illegal substance in a specialized case of severity,” she answers
simply. “We don’t expect you to talk of course, and you understand we have little time to
weasel it out of you. What did they call this stuff over in India, Jack? Truth serum? Sodium
Thiopental, actually. Specially shipped over for you.”

Will’s lips thin out, and his glare throws daggers.

He doesn’t have a fear of truth serums, has rarely thought of them if he’s being honest. He
doesn’t believe in them and thinks they’re a load of hocus pocus, quite literally. That being
said, he’s been a fool for alcohol enough times to know that if this stuff is any stronger than
that, he might reveal something damning. It’s a psychotic thought, to want to be so good for
Hannibal, that the fear of this being held over him is what actually gets to him. Will glances
at Jack who has been averting his eyes for minutes now.

“We used the stuff on Lecter,” Purnell informs. “Not that he was the personality type for it.
Fortunately, I think you are.”

“Try try again?” Will muses wryly. “What’d you get out of him?”

“He told us which Chianti pairs best with fava beans.”

That eases the ache in Will’s chest, right around where his heart is pumping louder than even
his anxieties. Chilton proved Will is more susceptible to drugs than the average individual.
This isn’t going to be pretty, especially if they’re risking bad results with a U.S. government
non-approved substance.

“I could’ve told you that for free,” Will says, forcing a smile.

“I’m positive you’ll be telling us a lot more than that,” Kade notes chipperly. Her confidence
grates on him like nothing he’s ever felt. He wants to bare his teeth and bite her until she dies
from bleeding out. He wants to make Jack watch just to gloat about his resistance to their
embarrassing farce. “That’s all. I’ll be returning tomorrow to oversee the injection, not that I
can’t trust Jack but, well, I can’t.”

Jack sighs, turning his head towards the skylight.

She nods at Will and leaves with the appropriate paperwork.

Will’s head lolls so he can look at Jack straight on.

“Nice operation you’ve got here,” he remarks. “Price and Zeller could get better results out of
me with a batarang and a pin cushion in an hour than Kade could with days of administering
your so-called truth serum.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Jack mentions. “I told her you had a bad history with…drugs.”

“No, I have a bad history with Hannibal.”

“It’s all the same to you, isn’t it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jack huffs, pushing himself out from behind the desk so he can pace. He’s a more aggressive
pacer, hands in his pockets, huffing and puffing like he’s about to start saying something
every few seconds.

“You told me you’d slip away with him, I should’ve listened.”

“We’ve been over this—”

Will is immediately interrupted. Jack bangs a fist on the glass.

There’s a look on Jack’s face he usually gets when he’s about to say something extremely
self-loathing. It used to make Will uncomfortable like wet socks do, not debilitating but
something he wanted to peel off whenever possible. The look is even deeper now, the lines of
Jack’s face darker and more emphatic.

“Maybe I was close-minded, I have no clue. It couldn't—” Jack turns his back to the glass,
able to speak easier without Will staring him down. “I couldn’t process the idea he could be
doing to you what he was doing to Alana. Didn’t think it was possible, didn’t think a lot of
things were possible. Manipulating you, gaining your friendship, yes, but Hannibal pulled out
even bigger stops when it came to you.”

“He didn’t manipulate me into loving him,” Will states matter-of-factly, close enough to see
the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand on end. “He manipulated me into seeing him.”

“You wanted to see him.”

“Eventually, when the rest of it wore off.” Will presses his back against the glass where Jack
is leaning. Neither of them are willing to watch the other. “I think love is just hatred without
all the hate.”

“That makes no damn sense,” Jack mutters, an almost-chuckle linked to the words.

“Hannibal has us all talking like scholars,” Will laughs back, the noise dying in his throat at
the recurring thought of him. “He’s the moral philosopher here, and we’re all just…flawed
peripatetics.”

“Hannibal implied you were the lamb of God,” Jack quietly comments. He sounds far away
even though Will knows without the glass, their backs would be touching. “Did you
transform into the lion?”

Will’s expression falls, and the sensation of need in his chest yawns wider.

“I didn’t transform into anything.”

Anything other than Hannibal.

Jack leaves him alone the rest of the day. Will attempts to sleep on the hard mattress in the
corner of the room but his tailbone throbs in ways he never even felt in his first jail cell. He
paces, sits, dozes, and repeats. He washes his face a lot, can’t seem to rid himself of the
increasing itch or burgeoning need inside him. It keeps him up the rest of the night, until the
sun burns brightly from the ceiling and fills the entire cell with a yellow hue he feels he can
practically taste. Stupidly, he thrusts his tongue into the air.

Consequently, he laughs to himself.

Maybe Hannibal went even crazier in here; that would explain a lot.

It’s only day two and twenty-four hours haven’t even passed. If separation with Hannibal
lasts any longer than three days, Hannibal’s going to get a tongue-lashing of the remarkably
non-erotic variety.

Breakfast comes in the form of potatoes, peas, and juice, which tastes blander than it should
considering his stomach has been growling for over two hours. He’s been spoiled by
Hannibal’s cooking. He can’t imagine Hannibal’s reaction to the food in this facility, but he
remembers word about blood pudding. Perhaps Alana allowed him to have his dignity when
it came to food, though he doesn’t know why.

When the heavy set woman who brought him his food informs him that he has a visitor today,
he prepares himself for the worst. Washes his face one more time, tries to settle his nerves
before the injection.

Rather than Kade, Molly walks through the doors.

Will was under the impression he’d never see her again.

He can’t help but say her name aloud, stunned.

“Molly.”

She appears different, the way a woman whose second husband has failed her in more ways
than one should appear. Molly never wore so many bright hues, but today she’s dressed in a
red-and-white plaid button-down and jeans. Drastically, he forgets himself, almost
complimenting her and likening her look to the Prairie Woman. It’s a cooking personality she
likes, a kind enough lady he always used to sit and watch with her and pointedly tried not to
imagine how much Hannibal would despise and criticize her.

Will mostly watched along for the Prairie Woman’s dogs, though.

“Hi Will.” Her voice is smaller than her entrance was. Jack follows quickly behind her,
probably out of design. He wants to hurt Will and this is a pretty good way of going about
that, let alone unexpected.

“Last I read, you wanted nothing to do with me,” he starts, because she isn’t giving off a vibe
that she’s aware of what she wants to say. If she came here of her own volition, she did so on
impulse.

“You listened to me, though,” Molly responds, thanking Jack silently when he holds out the
chair for her, but she doesn’t sit. He allows her to step closer to the glass, but she doesn’t
seem to have an interest in meeting Will’s gaze apart from that. He wishes she would, just to
understand he isn’t a completely detached sociopath. “You turned yourself in.”

It takes Will a second to remember her interview.

Freddie had asked her what she would say to Will if she had the chance. Molly told
Tattlecrime Will should turn himself in, because a life with Hannibal isn’t a life he apparently
wants.

Presumptuousness; the cause and effect of denial.

He wonders if her denial slowly tapered off over time.

“I did,” Will lies, because empathizing with what everyone wishes to see when they look at
the prized fish swimming back and forth mindlessly in his bowl should be the most effective
method of disorienting the focus on why he’s actually here. “You were right, Molly.
Psychopaths can’t love.”

Even that has Jack glancing up from the desk, exchanging a look with Molly before he writes
a note down in the journal he lugged along. Molly’s eyes settle on Will’s chin and she fondles
the strap of her purse.

“D-Did he torture you?”

Will shakes his head firmly.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Molly grits out. “You’re a bastard, by the way if you’re unaware.”

The only reason Will manages to hold back a smile is because he knows how deeply Molly is
hurting right now. She’s sometimes jovial when angry, often incapable of taming herself to a
stern talking-down.

He needs to give her as much of a chance to assert herself as he can.

If he uses her to construct a falsified story along the way, then so be it.

“I came here because I wanted to,” she tells him in between pauses where her jaw clamps
tight. “They asked me, but I decided if closure was even a possibility…I mean, my therapist
told me it would be good. Sorry, this isn’t making any sense. I’ve been seeing a therapist.”

“Oh. That’s good, Molly.”

“Is it?” She asks, gesturing to his cell. “Look where seeing a therapist got you.”

Will scoffs, swishing stale air around in his mouth.

“You’re going to hate yourself if you don’t say everything you want to say to me, Molls. I’ll
try my best to answer anything you want me to. Can’t really escape the conversation now,
can I?”

“I’m stalling,” Molly confirms snappily. “I’m stalling because I have so much…so much
hatred towards you, I don’t have a clue what to do with it, Will. It keeps me up at night, it
keeps Wally up at night. Just living with this, living with even a memory of you.” She
scratches her forehead, a nervous tick she used to have. “And now I’m talking to you and
you’re being even more of a bastard by being sweet and I have to acknowledge that the same
person I’ve been hating for months is the same person I used to love. You’re still the same,
and you still did all those horrible, fucking unimaginable things, goddamn it, Will.”

Will’s taken aback with how much he relates to the sentiment.

Hatred, again, rears its complicated head.

All he used to be capable of was hatred for Hannibal.

Either he’s changed, or the hatred’s changed, or the world and all its devices changed.

“Did—Did you kill Dr. Du Maurier?”

“No,” Will answers without hesitation.

Jack lets out a noise between a scoff and a laugh and Molly’s expression sours. He
understands why, but it bothers him that they can’t accept honesty under entrapment.

“I can tell you I’ve killed a man no longer than seventy two hours ago,” Will notes plainly. “I
can tell you that not so long ago, I killed a man somewhere in the southeast of Europe, and
helped Hannibal kill someone else in the same place. So, if I did kill Bedelia, trust me when I
say I would admit to that.”

Molly’s mouth hangs open and he can see a visible shudder rock through her.

Jack writes down the information as given.

Will isn’t admitting to Croatia, specifically, nor is he giving them the locations of the motels
they stayed in on the road to the hospital. That’s something Kade’s truth serum will have to
force out of him. He refuses to put Hannibal in danger.

Molly is crumbling, fast.

“Why?” she demands. “Jesus, why?”

Will shakes his head, empathizing with her unbandaged sorrow.

“I couldn’t make you see, even if I wanted to.”

“You were around my kid!” Molly shouts suddenly, purse jumping as her whole body jerks.
“God, how stupid could I have been!”

She swerves on her heel, hiding the tears brimming over her eyes, muttering unintelligibly
into her wrist. Will catches an odd expression on Jack’s face, an urgent desperation
burgeoning as he watches Molly bury her face in her hands. The revelation nearly knocks
Will off his feet where he stands.

“How are things with Kenneth?” Will asks, because it’s an appropriate method of
desescalation and there’s something he urgently needs to know.

Molly groans, tossing her hands up.

“Because now you care,” she musters. “Alrighty.” Then Will sees it, her quick cursory glance
cast in Jack’s direction. Finally, her eyes flutter away from Jack’s poignantly unreadable
expression. “Things sort of fell apart. Too immature to be a father figure, not that he would
have been any worse than you.”

That quaint exchange between them was all Will needed.

“You’re fucking my wife?” Will walks several steps until he’s centered in front of Jack’s
desk. “Oh, this is rich, Jack.”

“Watch your tongue,” Jack warns, rising to his feet.

Will grins up at the ceiling, letting all the details rush through him simultaneously. He can
hear himself snickering through the absolute mockery of the situation. Of course, they’re
fucking. Someone he fucks or wants to fuck always ends up fucking someone else who has
either fucked him too, or fucked him over.

It’s a whole wonder wheel of fucking.

“I’m not your wife,” Molly hisses. “Marital abandonment works wonders in a divorce
filing.”

“Good to know I haven’t committed bigamy,” Will mutters.

It takes a second for the statement to register for either Molly or Jack, but Jack gets it first.
He lets out a long-suffering sigh, crossing his arms as he comes idling over to stand beside
Molly.
“Who the hell would marry the two of you?”

“A really bitchy old Italian man, actually,” Will responds with a shrug, not feeling he needs
to offer the conversation respect. It doesn’t deserve any, not at this point.

“God, you really are psychotic,” Molly whispers.

Jack’s hand falling on Molly’s back for comfort nearly tears another round of boisterous
snickering from Will’s throat. He’s bordering on hysterical, on edge from the pit deep inside
his chest that feels like it’s eating him whole starting in his intestines. What is this? He wants
to lash out, beg for someone to fill it.

“Hence me being here,” Will remarks. “In the loony bin.”

Hyper from his body’s untimely atrophy, he taps his foot feverishly against the floor.

“Stop being smart,” Jack barks. “Where’s Hannibal?”

Will does laugh out loud this time.

“That was your lead up?” He wasn’t planning on being cruel in front of Molly; she hasn’t
seen this side of him, unforgiving, teeth bared to cross. “You come in here, pretend you’re not
fucking my ex-wife, think I what, won’t notice? It’s not like I’m Will Graham after all,” Will
paces a few steps, shakes his head, “You suspect I’ll feel guilty or remorseful, or well, I don’t
know what you suspected. And then ask me, without framing the question with even an ounce
of bureau-designated half-truths, where’s Hannibal?”

Molly glances at Jack, lips quivering to stay in tight line.

Jack isn’t deterred.

“You’ll be telling us one way or the other.”

Will huffs. “Hey, at this stage, Purnell’s plan is looking like Operation Barbarossa.”

“I’m done, Jack,” Molly says softly. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” Jack replies, rubbing her back. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Molly nods stiffly, glancing one last time at Will. She meets his eyes, and he can’t change
what reflects back. Himself, his truest self. The one that isn’t afraid to say what he wants, do
what he wants.

Her eyes skate over his features, back and forth.

“Who are you?”

Will frowns, fingers brushing the glass.

“Not your cross to bear,” he vows.

He never should have been in the first place.

That response makes her sigh, and she nods again, turning into the gentle lead of Jack’s hand.
Jack shoots a glare over his shoulder as he exits with Molly. He’ll be back after he sees her
off.

Will pushes his forehead against the glass, fogging it up with harsh panting. He scrapes his
sweaty palms down its length and lets his face twist into something undeniably hurting only
once before moderating it.

A clock ticks in the distance. He doesn’t think there’s one in the room.

He can feel himself sweating out every pore and harbors a light-headed sensation that signals
he’s seconds from collapsing. Inherent need inside him is crippling him, and he’s using the
wall for support.

Somehow, he held it together with Molly standing right there.

But now there’s no one and he needs more than cold water on his face.

If only he knew what. This doesn’t feel like encephalitis, it feels worse.

Jack returns shortly, with Kade Purnell in tow, and a handful of masked employees. In his
hysteria, Will lets out a cheerful laugh and licks his chops exaggeratedly, just to piss Purnell
off. Or scare her, maybe.

It’s not behavior he’d honestly display even under dire circumstances. He’s not feeling like
himself, that’s for damn certain, and from the stewing look Jack is giving him, he’s really not
coming across as himself. The employees, who must be guards with how strong they hold
him down after charging into his cell, strap him down to the cot in the corner of the room. He
thrashes violently, just to see what will happen. He succeeds in smacking one of the
employees in the face. He nearly manages to bite the female one. Jack has to help them,
holding the leg they can’t reach in their efforts to restrain him completely.

“Her first husband,” Will starts, voice sounding shattered from overexertion. He shouldn’t be
so out of breath with just a bit of struggle, “He had stage four cancer, you know. Cancer. Of.
The. Lung.”

Jack’s stare is lethal. Will smiles in the face of it.

He’s sufficiently strapped after a few more moments, and the worker bees disperse only for
several medical orderlies to take their place. He recognizes some of the older nurses from his
first visits here.

There’s a circus show in his peripheral.

A theatrical unboxing of the Sodium Thiopental. The box has a strange smell when opened,
not overly unique in any sense, but enough to turn his stomach.

Will promptly vomits on the floor.

The orderlies jump back like the expulsion is poison, as if worse than the shipment. Some
gets on the cot and on his jumpsuit. So much for keeping it clean.

He spits the rest of the rotten taste out of his mouth.

He hopes to God he doesn’t still need his antivirals. He thought it was over, the sickness, the
hallucinations. If he starts hallucinating stags again, he’ll make sure to tell Hannibal he’s a
shit Doctor.

Jack actually has the audacity to look concerned.

“Did she comfort you?” Will grinds out, words gravely and loud in volume despite how much
his throat is screaming for him to stay quiet. “Or did you comfort her? D-Did she come
asking questions first, about me, about Hannibal? Did you give her all the gory details or did
you hide as much from her as I did?”

“Quiet now, Will,” Jack instructs mildly.

Will talks to the ceiling now, nerves fraying.

“She probably thinks you’re a better father to Wally than I was. Probably even thinks you can
give him what I couldn’t,” Will cranes his neck, using the last of his strength to strain his
arms against the harnesses holding him down. He watches Purnell, standing behind a tall
orderly like a hawk as the orderly squirts a dollop of the ‘truth serum’ out of the needle, then
snarls. The sleeve of Will’s jumpsuit is torn with a meager pair of medical shears. He hisses
feeling the point of the needle dig into the tender skin of his underarm. It takes effort to turn
back to Jack, but he finishes with, “At least I wanted to be a father.”

Jack’s anger overshadows his humanity, and he lets Will’s leg go before storming off to the
center of the cell. Kade grumbles something damning in her pitchy voice, taking over his
spot.

The substance is injected straight into Will’s veins.

He sucks in a breath, and closes his eyes.

Will is awash in a wave of relief, so potent he nearly lets out a moan. And wouldn’t that be
embarrassing. It isn’t an overwhelming feeling, the relief, but a feeling of something being
fixed. The pit in his stomach shrinks to the size of a raisin and the turning of his stomach
lessens to a dull echo. His sight is clearer, his skin warmer. He flutters his eyes open and
realizes exactly what he’s been experiencing. Withdrawals.

More importantly, Hannibal has been drugging him with Sodium Thiopental. Hell knows
when Will could have stopped taking his antivirals. Hell knows how long this has been going
on.

Withdrawals.

All Will knows, currently, is he’s been doped up on exactly what he needed.
The Hannibal issue begs his unbridled attention, but Hannibal isn’t here right now. For now,
Will can use his built-up tolerance as an advantage. He stretches his muscles and lets out a
pleased sigh.

“The restraints should hold him in his condition,” one of the orderlies insists.

Kade releases her hands from his leg and wipes them off on her pencil skirt, much to his
satisfaction. He watches her, indulging her indignity. Like he would on average.

It’s unbelievable how stable he feels.

Like Hannibal dosed him with the perfect amount, every day, knowing exactly how much
they would give him in this situation, in this facility. Like he knew long before the idea felt
like Will’s own.

The interrogation starts soon after, when Kade ultimately has a chair and her clipboard pulled
up for scrutiny. There’s one orderly on either side of him, just in case, but he gives away the
first few answers without issue, purposefully building up a façade that their ridiculous notion
of a truth serum is actually working its magic. Why should Hannibal have all the fun?

“And you claim you didn’t kill Bedelia Du Maurier,” Kade questions.

“She killed herself,” Will answers with a glee he doesn’t have to fake.

“Right.” Kade shakes her head, disbelieving just like the others had. “And what is…Chiyoh’s
involvement with Hannibal Lecter? There are no apparent birth records of her, none that can
be found anyway.”

Good job, Chiyoh.

He doesn’t know what she did to erase herself from the grid, but it's worked.

Will decides now is a good time to rear off the track. “I think Hannibal’s wrong about pairing
Chianti with fava beans. It really requires something sweeter, wouldn’t you say? Tawny Port,
perhaps.”

Purnell blinks, exchanging glances with confused orderlies.

“It’s barbiturates Ma’am, not an exact science,” the female orderly says, her voice muffled
behind the mask. Kade retorts with a bitter comment, but Will’s stopped listening, growing
bored.

“Okay, we’ll try something different.” Kade slaps Will hard on the face. It causes his head to
jerk, to release a whistling hiss. “Where did you come from to get to Baltimore, Maryland
yesterday?”

Hannibal’s betrayal almost overpowers Will’s smugness at being absolutely untouched by

this substance. He does feel more sluggish, more in his limbs than anything else, but not
compromised.
“He never knew what to pair with fish,” Will informs her, slow enough to ease her in. “He’d
dole out the red wine, can you believe it? A renowned dinner host serving Chardonnay with
salmon.”

Kade snarls, and continues the interrogation.

It goes on like this for hours. Occasionally, he answers a non-incriminating question properly
just out of mercy. Her hair is growing frazzled, and when Jack steps in to continue the
questioning, Will completely ignores him, turning to face the wall of his cell. He says nothing
of the man and woman they left for Jack and the others in their chapel. He pictures the
chapel, and can instantly see the vivid textures and colors of the altarpieces painting the bland
wallpaper inside the BSHCI. Feeling featherlight, he forgets he’s tied up as he flexes his
fingers towards the illustrations, wanting to feel them against his buzzing skin.

“He’s useless!” Kade shouts, so loud Will can’t not hear it.

“Dr. Chilton has an unorthodox history with Will,” he hears Jack suggest while he’s still
listening. “With drugs mainly. Maybe if I call him—”

“I’m done, Crawford. This operation was a bust and we’re both screwed.” Kade hands Jack a
card Will rolls his head to look at. It appears to be a business card, but Jack must already
have Kade’s number. “I’ll see what I can do to rush his trial. We don’t want the taxpayers
worried about housing Will fucking Graham.”

“She seems confident my lawyers will be much worse than Hannibal’s,” Will murmurs when
she’s stormed out of the cell, stretching his limbs like a cat would. They’re beginning to ache,
but with the rush of Thiopental in his system, he’s better off than he was before: Vomiting,
sweating, shivering and humid.

“We shouldn’t have tried it this way,” Jack admits, hands on his hips.

A few orderlies sniff around the scene, casting puzzled looks to Jack who waves a hand.
They get to work cautiously untying Will, but Will doesn’t move right away. He folds his
elbows over his stomach and bends his knees forward towards his torso, making the most
minimal effort of easing his aches.

“Too little too late,” Will croons in a low mumble, staring into the middle distance.

When the orderlies are gone, and Jack abandons him to the other side of the glass, he lingers
by the empty desk. Will doesn’t acknowledge him and they stay in silence, in the same room,
for a long time.

“The thing with Molly,” Jack begins, “it wasn’t planned. God knows it wasn’t planned.”

Will’s relaxed lips drag down into a hard frown.

“When is it ever planned, Jack?”

“Why’d you turn yourself in, Will?” Jack pleads, though it doesn’t sound like a plea. Pleas
never do, coming out of that man’s mouth.
“Because I never learn my lesson,” Will sighs. “Because I trust Hannibal Lecter.” He decides
Hannibal can deal with a little danger, not that this vague confession will get Jack far in the
behavioral science department.

Will sits up when Jack doesn’t respond.

Jack is staring at him gravely, like he used to.

“You put your trust in the wrong people,” claims Jack. “Including me.”

With that, he leaves the room in a solemn march, head hung. Will watches him go and lays
back down when the coast is clear. He rolls his head across the mold scented pillow and
breathes deeply, contemptibly.

The rest of the day leaves him in further depths of restlessness than before despite his dosage
courtesy of Purnell. He’s aware that the effects of the drug will fade and that will slingshot
his withdrawal symptoms to the forefront of everything again, and now that he knows he’s
having them, they’ll be so much worse.

He also can’t stop thinking about Hannibal.

The betrayal, endless, morphing eternally.

He knows why Hannibal couldn’t have just asked him back then to grow a tolerance to this
drug. Will would have said no. A bad history with Hannibal, as he’d called it, but drugs were
definitely a part of it. And somehow he, in the omniscient way only Hannibal can know,
knew Will would end up here, receiving the so-called treatment of the government, the same
kind that he himself received while institutionalized.

Will paces the room. The orderlies don’t bring food.

He waits, paces, and waits.

The sun dances overhead in the skylight. It falls into a black night, and when the lights go
out, he has nothing to do but sleep. Will refuses sleep though; can’t give up a single second of
feeling clear-headed and intimate with his contempt towards Hannibal and the kind of man he
is, and will always be.

I envy you your hate, he’d told Peter.

Will wants the hatred; wants it like a withdrawal makes him want.

He gravitates to the minor cabinets in the back of the cell. He prefers to sit by them when he
tires of pacing, to proceed opening them one by one, look inside their shadowy depths, and
close their little doors like he’s shutting away premature omens.

Will discovers something new, fondling the door of the furthest cabinet to the right. There’s
markings carved into the floor inside the cabinet. It’s too dark to see the pattern, but the lines
in the wood paneling are deep enough for him to trace with the tip of his finger. A spiral, then
another, and another after that.
The circles grow larger, and they surround each other.

There are seven circles total, all suspiciously even.

Only a skilled artist could have drawn them so perfectly.

Hannibal.

Will has no clue who else it could have been regardless, but it does take him a minute to
interpret them. He casts a glance at the security camera. For now, he’s mostly hidden behind
the frame of the cot, so he decidedly continues to trace the design. Despite mixed feelings, he
feels closer to Hannibal tracing the circles, and can’t help it. Tracing the seventh circle for a
third time, he realizes at last it is meant to represent Dante and the seven circles of Hell.
Rather lacking in his usual outré visual presentations.

Scraping his nails along the indentations in the wood, he gasps when it catches on something.
At first, he worries he’s snagged a splinter, but realizes what he passed over was soft. For the
most part.

He scrapes over it again, and it makes a scratchy noise.

Will picks at it until it comes loose, a piece of paper slid completely inside the microscopic
crevice of the seventh circle. Will wouldn’t have guessed the carving had fathoms to it, let
alone enough hiding space for a relatively normal-sized printing paper. He unfolds it
discreetly, hiding it from the cameras with his body, and squints in the dark. The moonlight is
his friend in this case, illuminating where necessary.

It’s hand-crafted blueprints. Escape schematics and steps.

Hannibal’s comprehensively cultivated escape plan he never used because he was waiting for
Will. This paper proves Hannibal could have escaped whenever he damn well pleased. And
yet—

Just another instance where Hannibal makes Will feel like they’re the only two people in the
world.

He folds it away, tucking it down into his jumpsuit. It rests uncomfortably in his boxers, but
he has a feeling it might come in handy. He doesn’t know why, he just doesn’t want to leave
it here.

Will folds his knees to the side so he can get better leverage. He rests halfway inside the
cabinet, head crooked on his elbow, his free hand continuing to trace the circles. Rumination
sets in somewhere around two in the morning, he estimates. He wonders how many years it
would have taken for Hannibal to get bored. Imagines what the press would have done if
Hannibal had rotted in his cell with escape plans tucked neatly in the corner. He imagines
killing him the next time he sees him, then imagines kissing him.

He could live forever here, asking himself why he courts suffering.

 Red light spills through the room. Will’s eyes startle to a focus. A siren follows the light,
ringing repetitively on the overhead.

Faraway, he can hear a curdling scream.

Will won’t have to imagine for long, it seems.

Chapter End Notes

hannibal....what have you been up to <.<

 Chapter 31
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will waits for the ball to drop.

It does in the form of a body blundering through the two main doors leading into his cell.
Will immediately acknowledges the man was kicked full force, brutal enough to knock the
locked doors open. The corpse of the guard on the floor is bloodied, sliced up in a manner
Will hadn’t been expecting. He looks up to find Hannibal lowering his leg and wielding two
large katanas in his hands. With a prim smile, he meets Will’s eyes and bounds into the room,
sniffing the air of the room with distaste.

“I did often ask them to hang the occasional air freshener, but it seems the institution still
cares little about common decency,” Hannibal states like he isn’t covered head to toe in
blood.

The relief that comes from seeing Hannibal, victorious on the battlefield, nearly outweighs
Will’s brandishing vitriol. He crosses his arms behind his back and silently lets Hannibal
busy himself with the locks. He obviously knew where to find the combinations, or he’d
remembered them from before.

When the door is opened, Hannibal places both katana handles in one fist so he can reach out
towards Will with the other. Will comes to him willingly, but instead of falling into the
proffered embrace, he punches him square in the jaw as hard as he can.

Hannibal actually makes a noise this time, stumbling one step backward.

“There’s symmetry for you,” Will acidically spits out, marching beyond him to the open
doors. To his credit, Hannibal follows behind silently. Will is only briefly stumped while he
absorbs the corridor’s violent aftermath.

Dozens of bodies blanket the tile, such brutal slashings opening the floodgates for the blood
to spill out and appear like a carpet. “I’m afraid there was no avoiding it,” says Hannibal,
rubbing his jaw in Will’s peripheral vision. “It isn’t as bad as it looks. Most of the staff came
to stop me in this hall.”

“Did you kill Jack?” Will utters, finding he doesn’t care one way or the other even though it
would ruin Molly.

“No, but I did detain him.”

“Show me.” Will steps aside so Hannibal can lead the way.

Hannibal gives him a beaten look.

“If we were not pressed for time — ”

“Then you’d better pick up the pace,” Will remarks, stepping over the first round of bodies.
His cheap facility shoes slosh in the blood, but he isn’t faced with physical revulsion like he
might have been even a month ago. He’s changed, and he’s positive Hannibal knows it.

Hannibal doesn’t argue further, leading Will down the flashing corridor. The alarm lights are
unrelenting, and logically Will understands they don’t have time for a detour, but what he
needs won’t take long.

In thirty seconds, they rear up in front of a small office.

Inside, Jack is tied up sufficiently in industrial grade rope. There’s a red apple protruding
from his mouth. He groans angrily when he sees Will and Hannibal, and Will waits a moment
just to see him struggle.

“This won’t take but a moment, Jack,” Hannibal tells him, presumptuously, considering he
has no inclination as to the reason Will wanted to see Jack. Will doesn’t luxuriate in the
scenario, but when he snatches a pen and note paper from the desk between them, he makes
sure his words in the letter are clear.

He tucks the note into Jack’s shirt pocket and says,

“Do exactly as I ask and I’ll decide to spare Molly’s life.”

Jack can’t help the way his eyes bulge, rampant concern for his new lover’s life burning
bright in their depths. Will stands and brushes Hannibal’s elbow to signal he’s ready to go.

“We must make haste,” Hannibal warns. “Goodbye Jack. Thanks for the diversion.”

There are ground out protests from behind the obstruction of the apple. If Will were in a
normal mood, he’d ask Hannibal what he was thinking, trussing Jack up so childishly, but
honestly the predictability of the display grates on his nerves. He prays Hannibal sports a
sore-looking bruise in the upcoming days.

"You won't hurt Molly," Hannibal states matter-of-factly, once they're far from the office.

"Jack doesn't know that," Will answers.

Jack doesn’t know what Will’s capable of at all, anymore.

Will should be surprised but isn’t when they walk straight out the front door. There are sirens
sounding off in the distance which proves they don’t have a lot of time left. Will glances at
the BSHCI one last time before hopping in past the back seat car door Hannibal is holding
open. It’s a new car, shiny black with shaded windows though not too expensive as to draw
suspicions. He assumes Hannibal has another vehicle stashed nearby so they can’t be traced.
After depositing the bloody katanas on Will’s lap (really, it’s not like he’s the trash can),
Hannibal hops behind the wheel and takes off in a rush down the road.

Chiyoh is lying in the backseat, and Will registers her presence slowly.
“You should be resting,” he murmurs, observing the injury Chiyoh is nursing around her left
arm. It’s covered with a blanket, and she looks pale and cold.

Hannibal should have left her in a motel before he came back for Will.

“She insisted she come, in case I needed help,” Hannibal notes.

“For once, he’s right,” Chiyoh grumbles, wincing as the car takes a sharp turn off the
property. Will can hardly believe they’ve made it, and thinks worryingly that the tables still
have time to turn. “I couldn’t leave you there. Not like I left…not like I left Hannibal here.”

“What have they done to you?” Will whispers gently, brushing over the edge of the blanket
peaking atop her shoulder.

“What has your Chilton done to me,” she spits. “That worm.”

As if bartering with a skittish cat, Will hesitantly peels the blanket away from her arm,
glancing back and forth with her to assure it’s alright, to reveal a gory mess. It only looks
gory, but her arm is wrapped diligently in translucent bandages and netting. He can see
clearly, however, where Chilton cut her.

Grafted.

"He was taking your skin," Will rasps, disbelief lining his words. He knew Chilton wanted
skin; he knew, and yet this of all things is what has him in a stupor. "Christ."

"Did not have me long enough to take it all," Chiyoh responds, low.

No, just a wide draping patch of skin from her mid-shoulder down to where her forearm
begins. Will wonders if Chilton is wandering around wearing Chiyoh's skin this instant, a
stolen dermis that incidentally just painted one big red target over his body.

Oh, Will does feel violent.

He’d missed its righteousness.

"We were right," Hannibal mumbles, laser focused on matching the speed limit now that
they're mostly out of range of the hospital. Gas stations are coming into view, and drug
stores. "Their security had lessened due to your sudden institutionalization."

"You killed everyone in Virginia too?"

"Only those not smart enough to run. I could not find our dear Frederick. In time,
however…"

The car rolls to a stop at a red light.

Will lightly presses the pad of his thumb under the abnormally shaped rectangular cut. She
winces and he eases off, filled with more rage as the seconds tick on.
"Does it hurt?" he asks.

"So badly it's felt numb for days."

"We'll help you." He shoots a side-eyed glance at Hannibal. "Right?"

"Of course," Hannibal replies evenly.

It isn’t long until Hannibal pulls the car down a gravelly dirt road off a highway exit. There’s
a house he rolls up to that appears to be an abandoned shack. Hannibal parks the car next to a
green truck and exchanges money and keys with a man in a scraped up baseball cap. Will
stays at Chiyoh’s side until Hannibal smacks the side of the sleek black car twice, a muted
gesture to hurry them into the transfer.

The ball capped man hops into the driver’s seat of the black car and Will helps Chiyoh into
the back seat of the green truck. When Hannibal is pulling out of the shack’s driveway, Will
claims,

“I’m starting to think you don’t turn people into killers for fun but for insurance.”

“It certainly helps.”

Chiyoh rolls her eyes, but remains quiet.

The ride takes so long, Will’s fears about their eluded capture begin to transform. Take on
new heights. Every car they pass on the highway, he assumes, is an undercover police
vehicle. The more distance they put between themselves and the BSHCI, the more he
disbelieves their scheme didn’t actually work. In what world would the FBI lose another
highly sought after felon because they were too stupid to prepare for every eventuality?

Apparently, this one.

The morning sun is excruciatingly bright when Hannibal comes to a stop in front of a salmon
colored motel in West Virginia, trimmed with ruddy bricks, and parks their car before the
furthest door down. “Chiyoh will check in,” Hannibal explains, unbuckling. Will wants to
debate that decision, but he knows it's their safest course of action. Hannibal is soaked in
blood. “Will and I will wait for you here, my dear.” He hands Chiyoh one of his many
miraculous debit cards. “Ask for a room far from the lobby.”

Chiyoh rearranges the blanket so it blankets her shoulders and blocks the sight of her side
arm, then hops out of the van and heads across the lot. There’s an oversized waving lucky cat
in the lobby window.

“I do hope you’ve remembered, everything I do is in your favor.”

Will feels his own eyebrows shoot toward his hairline.

“Is that what drugging me behind my back is?”

Hannibal inclines his head. “But tell me, did you give up any pertinent information?”
Will oscillates his jaw before muttering, “No.”

“Then you must — ”

“Did it not cross your mind that drugging me was the last thing you should have lied to me
about?” Will voices, turning his glare at Hannibal’s (fortunately) purpling jaw. “The only
reason you stayed quiet was because you knew I wouldn’t agree to it. I’m starting to think
you’ve never compromised in your life.”

“I have compromised many times, for you,” Hannibal replies in sotto voce.

Chiyoh is wandering back towards the car, key in hand.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Will assures, ignoring Hannibal’s imploring gaze. “This is about
Chiyoh. Not you.”

Hannibal turns the key in the ignition and the air conditioning powers off. Will helps Chiyoh
by receiving the key and opening the creaky door three doors down from the outdoor
dumpster. Hannibal lugs medical supplies in one by one, a process more discreet than it
sounds, and sets it up at the foot of the bed closest to the window where Chiyoh has staked
her claim. Will kicks off his bloody shoes by the welcome mat and then peels off the iron-
smelling socks to tuck them against the soles before plopping down on the other bed in his
stuffy jumpsuit. He wants to be a gentleman and offer Chiyoh the first shower, but he’s not
sure if it would come off as an insult or if she’s even allowed to take a shower in her
condition.

“I must wash the blood off myself,” Hannibal states, answering the shower inquiries
circulating in Will’s mind. “If you would redress Chiyoh’s wounds, I’d be most grateful.”

“Alright,” Will answers, unable to help himself watch as Hannibal removes his stained shirt
to hang it on the hanger by the front door. There’s a spot on his trapezius where a bullet
nicked him. His lingering stare is cut off when the bathroom door is slammed closed, and
only the light underneath glows visible.

Will clicks on a lamp and draws the curtains.

He sits next to Chiyoh on the bed, after gathering the necessary medical products, and gets to
work. She hisses as the translucent bandages are peeled away from the meshing covering the
skin graft.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Whoever did this to you, their surgery is rudimentary.”

“I do not believe they were concerned for my wellbeing or comfort,” Chiyoh answers, the
pupils of her eyes like pin needles as they diligently follow every single calculated movement
Will makes. “I only saw Dr. Chilton once. Like he emerged from a nightmare, came hovering
over where I was strapped down to a table. Told me if he couldn’t have Hannibal’s skin, he’d
take it from someone precious to him.”

The latter half of the statement Chiyoh spits out bitterly.

Will wonders if he would have been the next subject.

“Frederick never used to be this bold,” he comments. “Hannibal affects everyone around him,
a slow-acting poison.” Will tries to be as gentle as possible, rewrapping her arm. “I used to
think he wasn’t capable of bringing out the worst in every organism, but now I think he could
touch anything inanimate or not and make it wilt.”

“Not wilt,” Chiyoh posits. “Burn. Cause its cells to expand and explode, a brittle and
damaging transmutation of every atom in the body, until human creation becomes more than
God’s ordeal.”

That’s a fantastical view of things, Will thinks.

“You don’t think Hannibal is God.”

“I think he lies,” Chiyoh starts, “when he says he doesn’t want to be him.”

Will isn’t sure about that. Hannibal has made it clear he has no intentions of being God,
rather inciting him, but he may be just as efficient in the act of metaphysical destruction.

“Why’d you agree to tail Jack?” he asks, changing subjects fractionally. They’re still on the
subject of Hannibal manipulating his pawns, though.

Chiyoh huffs, flexing her arm when Will is finished. He replaces the medical snippers and
bandage rolls in their rightful storage. Hannibal had brought in an IV drip, and Will ponders
if he should attach her for hydration. He decides to wait until Hannibal’s out of the shower.

“It was…not my place to save him from himself,” Chiyoh tells Will, deep reminiscence in
her confession, “all those years ago when he locked himself away. That didn’t stop guilt from
festering, like a bad disease, over time. I never want to feel that way again. Helping Hannibal,
I thought, could help me.”

“Jack’s smarter than the decisions he makes,” Will states.

“Next time, I’ll know better.”

“You think there’ll be a next time?”

Chiyoh purses her lips. “With Hannibal there is always next, never pause.”

“Do you — ” Will shuffles, standing up so he can manage to get the appropriate words out.
“The shower. Do you want help, or, can you actually shower with that bandage on?”

“I do not require your assistance,” she remarks curtly before softening. “Thank you.”

A wave of relief rocks through Will and he nods. He paces in front of her before
remembering to set the first aid kits aside on the bureau. He doesn’t want to suffocate her
with supplies.

He knows how much medicality grates on his own nerves.

The shower rages on, water pattering in echoes through the quaint motel room.

An idea curls into the forefront of Will’s mind.

“You want what’s best for Hannibal, don’t you Chiyoh?”

“Yes.”

Will waits another moment for the shower, just in case it shuts off. He drops to his knees in
front of Chiyoh and in a low, inducing voice, asks something sizable of her.

“I don’t want to ask this of you now, but I have to.”

Chiyoh’s eyes narrow, but she hears him out.

Every detail, every explanation, every demand.

After Will crops out of his own shower, Chiyoh heads inside with a cursory glance towards
him. Hannibal is already patched up, dry and dressed in a clean cut button-up and tailored
trousers. Will never understands how he manages it. He grabs a t-shirt from the bag Hannibal
lugged along, and pajama pants.

Hannibal doesn’t watch him as he dresses, but hands him a fresh toothbrush and travel tube
of paste for when Chiyoh is finished in the bathroom.

Will mumbles out a ‘thank-you.’

It will take her significantly longer to shower without getting her wound wet.

“Who shot you?” Will questions, threading fingers through his hair in the smudged mirror.

“A nameless orderly,” Hannibal answers. “I decapitated him.”

Will doesn’t say anything else. Hannibal rises to his feet again and digs into his personal
travel bag. After a few moments, he’s extending a pill to Will.

“A lower dosage,” Hannibal explains. “To ween you off.”

Like that’s any comfort.

It takes effort for Will to resist biting off his fingers.

“I’m not taking anymore pills from you,” Will remarks, pushing past Hannibal so he can steal
one of his hair brushes.

“Ah, cold turkey it is then.”

“At least my symptoms of withdrawal will be due to my own machinations.”

“Suit yourself.” Hannibal sounds irritated. Will couldn’t care less as he uses his brush to
comb through the snarls in his curls. They’ve been getting long again, and in a wave of
irrational restlessness, he is considering buzzing them all off. He knows he likely wouldn’t
survive that with Hannibal watching.

After a bout of silence, Will sets down the brush and turns to face Hannibal.

Hannibal is sitting on their bed, legs crossed, staring at the paintings on the walls. He meets
Will’s eyes, expectant that Will is going to break and give in.

“I don’t know what to do,” Will admits truthfully. He braces his hands behind him on the
surface of the dresser. “You’ll never compromise with me, and I’ll always stay the pawn that
accepts being lied to.”

“Do not act as if you have not been aware of my nature for years.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” Will straightens his posture. “I know what your nature entails.”

“And you fell in love with me anyway,” Hannibal responds, tilting his head.

And that’s the kicker, Will realizes. Hannibal feels untouchable. A long while back, Will
promised he wouldn’t leave him. That nothing Hannibal could do would turn him away, and
he’d been correct, nothing Hannibal does can possibly deter him. He is painfully in love with
him, mind-numbingly, and impossibly. Hannibal could burn the world, as he’d claimed, and
he would be helpless to prevent his own assent.

Hannibal is much like a dog in the manner he tempers his ears behind him and maintains a
façade of innocence, in the way he sits and pretends as if he didn’t just commit something
criminally animal. How he expects to get away with it because of what he offers and the
position he has under Will’s dominion.

Will knows how to deal with dogs.

“Do you love me Hannibal?”

“Yes, I do. You know I do.”

“If you love me, why can’t you stop hurting me?”

A glossy expression takes over Hannibal’s face, and the man averts his eyes, staring into the
middle distance long enough Will almost believes, somehow, he cracked his meticulously
constructed exterior.

“My aunt spoke those exact words to me once,” Hannibal muses faintly, surprise lining his
tone.

Will sighs, a shakingly unsteady sound.

“Is history repeating itself?” he dares to ask.

Hannibal’s eyes sharpen like the blades of katanas, and in the same breath, Will expects to be
run through with a sword. It’s a revolving implication that Will might not leave Hannibal but
could still force Hannibal to leave like Murasaki did. It strikes at the very core of Hannibal’s
rooted consternations.

“I dearly hope not,” Hannibal murmurs instead, nostrils flaring.

“I won’t let this betrayal mean nothing,” Will warns.

He says nothing more, refusing to elaborate on the foreshadowing warning. Setting

Hannibal’s comb aside, he reaches to pour a cup of water for himself. His hands are
trembling when he scoops ice into the complimentary cup, barely having enough wherewithal
to lift the drink to his lips and chug it properly.

It feels heavenly going down his throat. He was getting dehydrated.

“Will,” Hannibal says, in that enticing low timbre of his Will can’t resist even now. He looks
over his shoulder and finds Hannibal watching him with a torn expression, lips parted. Softly
he questions, “Can you see through the bars of my plight, the way I see through yours?”

Will watches him, unresponsive. The shower shuts off for the last time.

Not long after, Chiyoh steps out dressed in loose, flowing clothing. Hannibal makes room for
her to sit on the singular arm chair in the corner. He obviously isn’t expecting an answer from
Will now or anytime soon, having already moved on to ask Chiyoh if she’d like to play a
game of dice with him.

Hannibal never played it when they were all on the boat.

Chiyoh looks tired and appears thrilled that she won’t have to do anything more taxing than
basic math. They roll the dice for a while and Chiyoh only makes eye contact with Will once,
unforgivingly astute.

“I need fresh air,” Will mutters, grabbing a coat from the bag of fresh clothes. It’s leather and
is too big on him, but nobody tries to stop him. Even with their public status, Hannibal only
frowns when he leaves.

He wanders up and down the strip of motel doors.

There’s one light on in a room closer to the lobby. He heads up to the second floor, feet
clanging on the spiral metal steps, and paces the same length of the balcony. There’s a man at
the far end smoking a cigarette. Will stands close to him, but not close enough to bother or
intrude on his alone time. It takes Will a minute to realize it isn’t a cigarette, but a joint of
weed.

Then even longer to realize he’s staring.

“You want a hit, pal?”

Will glances fully at the man addressing him. He’s buff, with two sleeves of tattoos. He
smells like motor oil and the recognizable stench of weed. At least this person is asking him
if he wants a substance in his body. He has to laugh at that, a stranger having more courtesy
than his so-called ‘polite’ partner in life.

“Sure, why not,” Will utters, sliding his arms down the rail so he can take the offered joint
and suck out a few hits from it. He hasn’t smoked weed since college and it burns his lungs
as he coughs through the pungent waves. “Hell, that’s uh, strong.”

“Damn straight,” the man laughs, taking the joint back.

Will and the stranger stand in silence for a while longer. The sun beats down on Will’s skin
pleasantly, despite how hot it blazes. He thinks about humming. The man eventually heads
back inside his motel room with a nod in Will’s direction. Will doesn’t acknowledge him, not
out of a sense of rudeness but because he isn’t entirely focused, leaning over the rail as far as
he can without falling. It feels like he’s floating on air, and he stays like that for at least
fifteen minutes until he gets an intense urge to go back downstairs. There's a wad of money in
the pockets of his pants for some reason, and he uses the cash to get a few candy bars from
the vending machine by the lobby. There’s a bag of salty beef jerky in slot four. He gets that
too and eats it outside their motel room, leaning lazily against the window.

At one point, Hannibal comes out to greet him.

Will tries not to laugh when his nose scrunches up.

Neither of them need to speak to understand Will’s condition. Hannibal simply sighs and
holds out his hand. Will deposits the rest of the cash in his hand, having gotten what he
wanted anyway.

“You mustn’t stay out here long,” Hannibal alerts him. “I haven’t researched the surrounding
perimeter and do not know if there are security cameras lying in wait.”

“If they do catch us, at least we have one jumpsuit at the ready,” Will answers carelessly.

Hannibal stares at him, more agitated than before.

“We’re leaving in an hour once Chiyoh is sufficiently hydrated. Would you care to drive this
time?”

“Fine.”

“I trust you’ll be sober by then.”

Will hopes not. He hopes he’ll be high enough to crash them all into a tree and end this cycle
of madness once and for all. If it weren’t for Chiyoh, maybe he would. He cranes his head up
towards the sun and stares at it for a superfluous amount of time, knowing he’s hurting his
eyes, knowing yet heedless.
“Where are we going?” Will asks after they’d driven all day until night fell and they had to
pull into another motel in the outskirts of Alabama. They need to rest, Chiyoh especially.

“Florida,” Hannibal replies simply as Chiyoh prepares her bed for sleep. Will assumes they’ll
be shipped out from Florida’s docking ports again. This room is even smaller than the last
and Will tries not to think about how he’ll have to be sharing a bed with him tonight. “I have
my suspicions about something.”

Will sighs through a wry smile.

So, it’s not about docking ports.

Hannibal is being purposefully elusive, now that they’re having mutual dissent about trust,
lies, the whole familiar package. He’s not going to tell Will what he’s planning. That’s just
fine.

Chiyoh warily glances between them, settling down under the sheets. She only twitches from
the scratchy cotton against her arm a few times, and smiles when Hannibal flashes the cover
of a book at her. “Earth and Fire,” she muses, sounding younger than she ever has. Will
wonders how Hannibal traveled with that book all the way here without him noticing, but he
also knows questioning him is redundant.

For an hour or two, Hannibal reads Chiyoh passages from Earth and Fire. She looks utterly
content under the covers, and Will can picture the two of them at a much younger age,
outside of the garden where they used to clash. When Hannibal might have been sweet,
resembling an older brother, yet still spectral.

Will brushes his teeth and climbs into bed, squirming feverishly close to the wall where the
bed’s edge is pressed up against. When Hannibal finishes reading, Chiyoh has fallen asleep.
He turns the lamp on her side of the bed off and gets ready for bed. Will is still awake when
Hannibal climbs in next to him.

Will’s back is turned to him, and he doesn’t bother rolling over.

Hannibal doesn’t curl close to him, or try to touch him, which Will is thankful for because he
doesn’t know what his response would be. He wants to be touched, by Hannibal he always
does, but the rage bristling under his skin might set off a physical reaction akin to a brush
fire.

“Kade visited me several times,” Hannibal whispers to him, lying back to back. Will has to
remind himself not to give into the impulse to roll over and let Hannibal’s velvet voice speak
directly into his ear. “Used that substance on me, asked me questions. Did she tell you that?”

“Yes,” Will replies. “She told me you were unaffected. Tolerant to it.”

“I’ve told you, I am well-versed in most substances.”

Will sucks in a sharp breath and decides, dangerously, to roll over.

He’s faced with Hannibal’s back, which he places one palm flat against. Hannibal stiffens,
not from tension, but anticipation.

“Tell me about the orphanage, Hannibal.”

Will feels Hannibal heave in a deep breath and exhale it in increments, keeping his hand on
him as their sole point of connection. He might need it, to talk about what he always avoids
talking about.

“You’ve asked me about my first time with a man,” Hannibal recalls. “In truth, I do not
remember it, as I remember very little of my time in the orphanage. I spent my time learning
the ins-and-outs of barbiturates, the occasional shipment of opiates. There was a drug surge
in the final quarter of the 20th century when I was homed in Lithuania, and orphans could get
their hands on the worst of them. I saw it as an opportunity to hone my body, make it
resistant, and become physically intimate with the effects.”

“Is there a compound you haven’t tried?” Will murmurs through an empty chuckle.

“I’m not positive I could name any off the top of my head,” Hannibal informs, rather
seriously. “Though I never had a chance to familiarize myself with Methohexital. The last
time I used it, I ended up in bed with another boy my age. I don’t remember what we did,
even to this day, but I remember the pain. I wasn’t inspired to use it again in the face of the
infuriatingly confusing aftermath I found myself in.”

He apparently wasn’t inspired to be fucked by another man, either.

Will pulls lightly at Hannibal’s shoulder until the man concedes and rolls over. Even in the
dark, Will can make out the white globes of his eyes, the golden orbs within those. For the
briefest of moments, Will wonders how they would feel between his teeth, how slickly they
would gush under his clamping jaw.

He understands, with stark clarity, the reason why Hannibal drugged him. Not just because it
would help Will evade Kade Purnell’s interrogation, but because the act is an extension of his
ever-present need to enmesh Will in the pain he faces everyday. Any pain Hannibal’s
experienced, he wants Will to experience in kind. It’s his twisted version of showing love, by
sharing the sensations and effects of his own trauma.

That doesn’t make Will any less angry, but he understands.

“It’s me, Hannibal,” Will reminds, and places a hand over Hannibal’s heart. “You don’t need
to go out of your way to instill your experiences onto me, I can understand them just like this.
Hearing, knowing.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” Hannibal murmurs. Will remembers that exact same phraseology
spoken when he accused Hannibal of fostering codependency, though this time he says it with
a genuinely curious lilt.

“You’re proving yourself. I thought we were past that.”

“I thought we were past threats of rejection.”

“I never said I would reject you,” corrects Will. “I told you I would make this betrayal mean
something. I’m not powerless, and you know that. Even then, that doesn’t mean I’ll go back
on my promises.”

“I see.”

Hannibal can’t hide the alleviation; he relaxes under Will’s touch.

Will’s hand trails up from his heart and rests it against his throat, where Hannibal’s skin is
heated and bobbing and alive. He leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss on the
hollow of it.

Hannibal smells of himself, mint julep, and blood.

The floodgates burst open.

“God, I missed you,” Will rasps, peppering quiet kisses upward to Hannibal’s clenched jaw.
Hannibal’s resistance only lasts so long, his slim fingers finding Will’s waist with grappling
desperation.

“I dreamed purely of the impending slaughter,” Hannibal murmurs against Will’s temple,
“sleeping without you by my side. The blood I would spill in order to free you, it was
unfathomable.”

“I found your escape plan.”

In a quick puff of breath, Hannibal laughs.

“Did you now.”

“You could have escaped whenever you were in the mood to. Abducted me from my home,
family, drugged me also at that point, and make me wake up in another country altogether.”
Will brushes their lips together, but doesn’t kiss. “You wouldn’t have needed to use restraints.
I would have let you.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch into a snarl.

“You would hate me.”

“What’s the difference between that reality and this?”

“You’re walking a fine line,” Hannibal growls, so deeply Will scarcely recognizes his voice.
He maintains eye contact, scraping his bottom row of teeth over Hannibal’s top lip.

“Am I?”

“I believe there’s violence in you that you’re not allowing yourself to set free,” Hannibal
suddenly ascertains. He threads his fingers through Will’s and brings both hands up to his
 own throat. He lets Will’s fingertips clench around his trachea, cocking his head. “Why not,
when you know how good it feels?”

“Are you — ” Will’s eyes dart across Hannibal’s face. “Goading me…into killing you?”

“Not me, not necessarily.”

Lids drooping, Will digs his fingers into Hannibal’s neck just to hear the hitch in his breath.
Now he could, and it terrifies him that he could. He and Chiyoh could leave his body here to
rot, if she doesn’t kill him herself for committing the treason. And he could earn the privilege
of knowing what Hannibal’s eyes look like without life swimming effervescent inside.

“If I did, would you stop me?”

“Are you going to find out?”

“No,” Will whispers, shaking his head. “No, I’m not.”

Hannibal's mouth stretches into a cheshire grin, reaching over to tap Will’s chin with his
thumb. “Where will you dispel all this untethered rage, then? Who deserves your vengeance
if not me, if not a killer?”

He’s right about the untethered rage. Will feels it in his fingertips, itching, scrambling his
neurons. He sinks his nails into Hannibal’s skin, and narrowly resists the urge to bite the sore
bruise on Hannibal’s jaw.

“Who,” Hannibal murmurs further, rubbing Will’s hip. “Who can make it all go away?”

Will doesn’t know. He doesn’t, until he does.

Until Hannibal’s suspicions about Florida abruptly make sense.

“Frederick. We can’t —he can’t get away with this.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agrees, voice sharp as needles. Eyes, black as ice. “He’ll do.”

Chapter End Notes

some of these last few might be a bit small but i'm planning on the last chapter being
very long to round everything off nicely <3 thanks for all the support guys!! i wonder
what chiyoh and will are planning...
 Chapter 32
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It turns out Florida is less of a ‘suspicion’ and more a definitive.

“He referred to Freddie Lounds as an ‘indispensable’ contact,” Chiyoh informs as they pass
the Floridian border. She must have delineated this intelligence to Hannibal before Will was
even rescued. “She was to meet him in the Keys in a week’s time to write an exclusive on his
new book. How I Caught Hannibal The Cannibal’s Husband. That’s what I heard on my last
day in the facility, before Hannibal came.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Will.

“We of course have no method to directly trace Dr. Chilton,” Hannibal comments, focused
diligently on the road. From shotgun, Will watches palm trees begin to populate outside more
frequently.

He tries to keep his glances at Chiyoh to a minimum. He doesn’t want to stare, but he also
doesn't want Chiyoh in pain. There’s no telling if the painkillers are making an effect or if
she’s merely strong-willed.

“But?” Will prods, knowing Hannibal needs a push sometimes.

Hannibal smiles, turning off an exit towards the highway.

“But,” Hannibal allows, “Freddie Lounds is not nearly as adept as our dear Frederick at
burying leads. It was no trouble at all to discover her flight plans and current rental spot.”

“You’d think she’d be good at burying that stuff, considering her six libel suits.”

Will catches a tiny smile on Chiyoh’s face in the interior rearview mirror. Hannibal turns to
Will briefly just so he can clearly voice, “Or perhaps her laziness is a disguise for
opportunity.”

“You believe she wants people like us dropping in?” Will utters.

“Anything for a story. Do remember who we’re dealing with, Will.”

“I remember how she screeched like a freshly hatched barn owl when I threatened to kill
her.” And how good it felt to slice the ginger in the aftermath despite my insistent façade,
Will doesn’t say.

Hannibal clicks his tongue.

“At least your initial failure to kill her may make her more cooperative,” Hannibal murmurs.

It’s hard not to roll his eyes. Will stares harder at the palm trees out the window. They pass a
Waffle House and he’s suddenly more focused on disallowing his stomach to rumble.

“You bicker like indignant baboons,” Chiyoh voices.

Neither of them take the bait, but Will casts a disgruntled look over his shoulder.

“So the plan is to squeeze Freddie for Chilton’s location?” Will clarifies later, once they’ve
passed Panama City, for either Hannibal or Chiyoh to heed. They both seem to know a lot
more than him despite not having been locked up for that long.

“Yes,” Hannibal answers simply. “It should not arouse any issue.”

“Unless she recently retrieved her moral code from the lost and found.”

“I have faith in our fierce Miss Lounds.”

“You would.”

After another few, nearly unbearable, silent hours on the road, Will’s stomach gives up. “Can
we go through a drive-thru or something?” he asks timidly. Thankfully, Chiyoh seems in full
agreement.

“We are making good time,” Hannibal remarks.

“You just don’t believe any respectable establishment can co-exist with a drive-thru,” Will
accuses lightly. Chiyoh’s responding amusement stretches her face wider, but she doesn’t
dare agree with him aloud.

“I am positive you can find a credible sit-down restaurant on the map.” Hannibal pops the
GPS off the inner window and hands it to Will. “Nothing that reeks of grease and
formaldehyde.”

“We can’t take that risk, Hannibal.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, though Will can picture the cartoon thought bubbles above his
head painting a delicately dreamy picture of a fine dining eatery, packed full with a three
course meal and classical music.

Shockingly, Hannibal grants them this.

“If you must.”

Heart-warmed, Will rifles through the search engine on the GPS. They won’t be off the
highway for a little while so he pulls up fast food restaurants in a thirty mile radius. There are
some good options. Del Taco for one, which he can’t imagine Hannibal will cringe at too
dramatically.
“Do you like burritos, Chiyoh?” Will asks.

Will was wrong. Hannibal cringes, painstakingly.

“Alright, alright,” he yields, searching for more. “Five Guys?”

“Will — ”

“What, it’s not like you haven’t eaten five guys.”

Hannibal’s inhales, brandishing a thin patience.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” says Chiyoh with unfortunate sincerity.

Will sighs loudly and says goodbye to the potential grease pot burger that would have made
his mouth water and the rental car smell like dampened iron and salt.

The drive to Miami takes another several hours.

They aren’t far from the Keys now, but Hannibal reminds them that Freddie will be housed
within Miami for convenience. She doesn’t want to waste money on a Keys rental; Will can
understand that.

Finding a lowly motel southbound, especially in the World of Disney, is no hardship. Chiyoh
boards up in a dingy yet comfortable room in Coral Gables, right next to Medley where
Freddie is apparently residing.

After dropping Chiyoh off, Will made a crack about it crossing the municipality’s border.

“Medley’s meddlesome bitch,” Will muses.

“That’s quite crude, darling.”

“I will cook you something in her kitchen,” Hannibal informs Will when they pull into the lot
of a neighboring park. He informs him as if it’s a sweet, selfless gesture he’s offering, and not
an invasion of Freddie’s privacy and shelter. For a twisted reason, it works on Will and he
finds himself blushing.

“Let’s leave Freddie out of the harvest itself, alright?”

“And here I thought you regretted sparing her life.” Hannibal helps Will out of the car. Will’s
legs wobble dangerously, having been bent for over ten hours on the road. Hannibal rights
him and leads him down the quiet streets of Medley. Talk about gentrification; it’s a more
developed town than others they’d passed. The houses are richer and brighter, lit up by the
nearby city lights raging with the industry of night.
Will follows him, eyeing each neighborhood with unease.

The air is unforgivingly humid.

He can’t imagine Freddie would enjoy domestic life down here, though she’s not meant to
stay more than a week he imagines. He continues to wonder if their arrival will provide a
more interesting story than Chilton’s currently refutable book plans. Frederick jumped the
gun a smidge with that presuming title.

Hannibal slows his pace so Will syncs up with him.

He brushes their hands together and Will lets him curl fingers around his before he crosses
his arms and charges forward, at a fractionally quicker pace. It’s a part of their game after all;
push and pull.

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal starts with, which is never good, “do you feel a special relationship
with the moon much like the pilgrim we conquered once did?”

“If you’re asking if I’d like to stand under the moonlight nude and howl like a beast, the
answer would be no,” Will answers dryly, then concedes. “Despite how many times I’ve
dreamed of doing so.”

"Dreams are often wish fulfillment."

"Dreams tire me."

Smiling, Hannibal matches his pace again, but this time prevents himself from reaching out
to touch Will. “You told me I was right, that blood does look black in the moonlight.”

Will meets his eyes. Hannibal rarely talks about the cliff.

“I did,” he replies softly, hesitant.

“For a long time, I preferred to kill in the dark.” Hannibal’s eyes scan the houses they cross.
Their lime brick make-up and seminal designs grate on Will’s plain sensibilities. “Not out of
a sense of security, but because I felt intimate with the night as an abstraction, in the way
anything primal does. The darkness I believed was owed to me, because I gave so many
offerings of the same nature. I understood the Dragon’s allure towards the moon, but never
had I felt a special relationship to it until that night. Our night.”

Tugged from his apathy, Will can’t help his frown.

“Was the moon a hindrance for you?”

“It represented an unavoidable light. A constant that could not be changed.” Hannibal cups
Will’s elbow as a pothole necessitates he skip over a section of the sidewalk. “I value change
greatly. Metamorphosis."

“If there were no moon, the darkness would become constant.”

“Quite true. I suppose that’s why I was once more fond of eclipses.”

Will nearly pauses in his steps. “Was?”

“The moon gave me your glory, a full and unbridled visage I had yearned to know since our
paths crossed. I saw you in a manner no artificial light could replicate. I saw you, finally
glowing, candescent.”

“Candescence implies heat.”

“When you pressed against me, the blood that covered you was stifling hot and I could not
differentiate between my own and yours.” Hannibal’s smile warps his face strangely,
altogether too content. “We had truly begun to blur.”

Will does come to a stop then. He closes his eyes, memories rushing through him in
chronological, vivid order. Hannibal rounds up in front of him, not helping his dilemma as he
palms both sides of his neck.

“I need — ” He shakes his head despite his internal conviction. “I need that again. Killing
with you. There’s nothing else, nothing better than that feeling.”

Not sex, not conversation.

“We will,” Hannibal promises. “I swear it.”

There is no one worthy. No one is capable of taking on the majesty of their brutal
choreography. Francis Dolarhyde was a fluke; he came to them like a specter arrives in a
dream. From a distant, horrible place that sends out its worst clouds to storm the earth.
Hannibal and Will were given the gift of union, to bring down something as ginormous as the
Great Red Dragon. And Will came away from it bereft, because a fluke rarely happens twice.
No chances to experience such a thing again without a conclusive paroxysm.

A chain reaction racks through Will.

“To know…” Will isn’t even positive about what he needs to say, but he knows that somehow
the time has come to express any absolute reason why he threw them off that cliff. “To know
that what I’d been looking for my whole life was truthfully what I’d been running from all
my life. To know that, purely and without a doubt, it — it wasn’t something I felt I could
brave, Hannibal. Even with you.”

“Birth is never easy,” Hannibal comforts. “Even for the best of us.”

Face twisting, the words spawn on his lips.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, begging.

Those large hands pet the hollow of his throat, coaxing.

“There’s no fault to forgive,” assures Hannibal. “None.”

Will opens his eyes, surprised to find the world glossy. Tears brim within him, and Hannibal
strokes his hands up his face until he can swipe under his lids with both thumbs, collecting
the droplets.

Unsurprisingly, Hannibal licks over the pad of one thumb.

He compartmentalizes the taste and turns to meet Will’s eyes again.

“I didn’t know it was possible to want someone so much,” Will continues, haphazardly.
Admission is rolling off his tongue like a train off its tracks. “It aches even still, all
consuming. It'll eat me whole."

Hannibal's eyes pierce through him.

He cradles the lobe of Will's right ear between two fingers and leans in to whisper in the left.

"Not before I do." There's an unabashedly devoted endearment stapled to the end of the
promise, spoken in a foreign language Will has no clue how to decipher. He accepts it like he
accepts all things to do with Hannibal.

The sentiment settles in his stomach like sustenance, worming its way into the mouth of a
virus that will digest it rather than further starving his gullible body.

Will responds brazenly.

He threads his fingers through Hannibal's hair and keeps him frozen in place so he can lick
across the seam of his lips once, twice, before dipping inward and prying him open.

Hannibal's mouth is always plump and welcoming, warm and pillowy. Will gets a rise just
from kissing him. It always feels like the first time, a moment they wasted by pretending it
away. No more, he decides.

No more pretending.

He hopes Chiyoh remembers to retrieve what he asked of her. When he pulls away from
Hannibal and finds a blue vulnerability in his eyes, a solemn overtaking based on how deeply
Will affects him, he even silently prays she does.

Hannibal licks his own lips, cogitative. With a placating half-crested smile, Will kisses him
again while the organ is still exposed. Hannibal doesn't make a noise, but his fingers bruise
Will's ribs.

Hannibal got a bit handsier than Will expected.

He spends a majority of his time waiting on Freddie’s porch straightening his frazzled hair.
Naturally, Hannibal appears untouched and immaculate riddled with appropriate levels of
smug achievement to match.

When Freddie opens the door wielding what looks to be a pistol, Will moves on instinct.
Darting his fist out in an undercut, he knocks the gun from its aim so hard, the neck of the
gun smacks Freddie in the forehead and also fires up at the ceiling. Hannibal diligently pries
it from her fingers and hands it to Will so he can inspect her fresh wound. She isn’t bleeding,
but she’s whining like she is. It’ll definitely bruise.

“Noting the fiery sparks in the damaged ceiling, Will registers the orange hue of the gun. “Is
this a flare gun?” he questions, genuinely confounded.

Freddie swats Hannibal’s medical attention away.

“It’s all I had on me,” she argues crabbily, glaring up at the ceiling. “I knew I should have
paid the insurance fee.”

Will turns the safety back on and pockets the flare gun in his coat. He exchanges a glance
with Hannibal who is taking care to shut the door and adjust all three locks.

Though she appears busy cradling her injured cranium, Freddie is foremost attempting to
discreetly create distance between them either so she can run or retrieve another weapon.
Will finds himself grabbing her free arm, ignoring her immediately miffed struggle.

“Do you want us to tie you up?” Will threatens.

“Had you started your own killing spree back then, they’d have called you The Fisherman,”
Freddie spits, still attempting to escape his grip. “Always tying people up in knots.”

He’s regretting asking Hannibal to spare her again.

Will makes sure his nails dig into her skin.

“We do not wish to harm you this evening, Miss Lounds,” Hannibal tells her, bowing close to
her face. “However, we will, and have no qualms with doing so, if you do not cooperate.”

“Just because you’re polite doesn’t mean I should trust you.”

“Who else is there to trust? Trust a killer’s warnings, if not their promises.”

Finally, Freddie relaxes and Will risks letting her arm go.

She rubs at it, expression soured by her situation, but she can’t resist eyeing Will’s pocket
where he’s hidden her weapon. He wonders how much it cost her.

“I’ll return it to you when we’re finished,” he grumbles.

That promise, more than anything else, seems to fully ease her.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to pay for property damage,” she mutters in reply, taking a
few steps back to view the blackening hole in the pale ceiling. Undeniably destructive.
“Sheesh.”

“As we’ve heard, you have a profitable business venture coming up.”

Freddie scoffs, scanning over Will.

“Apparently not anymore.”

“In that case, seeing as we’re old acquaintances,” Hannibal settles an arm on her upper back,
leading her through the villa’s corridors so they can discuss things elsewhere, “we thought
we’d offer you a new story. For a price, of course, but nothing that you would deem
unacceptable I should guess.”

“First you break into my rental, bust the ceiling up, then expect me to help you?”

Hannibal tilts his head at her as they all emerge into the dining room. Will doesn’t know how
he found it so quickly, except that these rooms must magnetize to him.

Pulling out a chair for Freddie, Hannibal waits for her to sit before answering.

“I can see the glint of ambition in your eyes, Miss Lounds. Our arrival might not have been
expected but it is certainly welcome. Will, if you don’t mind, would you pour us all drinks?”

Will had assumed they wouldn’t be staying long, but apparently Hannibal believes Freddie
will need a bit more grooming before she agrees to give up Chilton’s location. Perhaps the
man just misses meddling.

Will leaves to wander through the villa.

Snooping around gets him nowhere. There’s no record of Chilton’s location in her personal
bedroom or files. He’s optimistic Freddie is anxious about what he’s rifling through in his
absence, so he takes even longer than necessary to find the kitchen. Fortunately, there’s a
wine cabinet stocked with not only wine but brandy and scotch. He pours himself a scotch,
Hannibal wine, and Freddie a small glass of Cognac.

When he returns to the dining room, Will blanches.

In the interim of his departure, Freddie had retrieved her laptop and Hannibal changed seats
so he could sit closer to her, hovering at her left shoulder specifically. She’s giddily
discussing the new article she’ll be writing and Hannibal is genially critiquing her ideas,
though not out of any sense of restraint. He’s commenting on the site’s font above all things
and suggesting a line about Jack that can only serve to humiliate the man further in the public
eye. Acerbically, Will clinks down each drink on the table.

He didn’t know they’d be acting as her personal scribes or he might have refused her help
altogether. Hannibal obviously isn’t seeing an issue with this, calmly chatting with her.
Will tries not to chug his scotch when he’s eventually sitting across from them. It’s half-gone
by the time Hannibal and Freddie’s conversation winds down enough for them to
acknowledge his presence.

“This wine leaves much to be desired,” Hannibal grouses.

Freddie snorts and says, “It's the homeowner's. I prefer gin.”

Will doesn’t care what she prefers. He’d prefer to get the show on the road.

“Didn’t think you’d go so low as to work with Frederick again,” Will notes.

Freddie grins at him, confidence restored.

“I go where my passion takes me. You should understand that.”

Will does. Doesn’t mean they have to get along.

“Tell me you’re not letting her interview you,” Will interrupts agitatedly, before the two of
them can start up another conversation, this time about her overly bombastic diction.

Hannibal gives him that look. The you should know better look.

Freddie rapidly types something into her open document.

“Proof of our existence is necessary, but no interviews. I’m guiding her on how she can type
up an engaging hostage recollection. Though of course my talents do not extend to creative
writing.”

“Journalism,” Freddie corrects. “Most of what I do is credible.”

“Key word, most,” retorts Will. He turns back to Hannibal after taking another indulgent
swig of his drink. “Did you enlighten her on our terms?”

“Yes.”

Freddie’s face falls a bit at the reminder of why she’s needed, but she appears less reluctant
than Will expected. It isn’t impossible Frederick has rubbed her the wrong way like he does
most people. He digs into the pocket that isn’t housing her gun and fishes out the escape
plans he’d found in Hannibal’s cell.

“To sweeten the deal,” he murmurs, tossing it gracelessly at her.

To her credit, she’s clever enough to catch onto what it means after she peels it open and
examines its contents. Hannibal seems peeved that they didn’t discuss Will releasing this vital
tidbit of lore, but if he thinks this is the payback Will spoke of in relation to his betrayal,
Hannibal’s got another thing coming.

“If I release this, there could be riots,” she posits blandly.

To reveal how fragile the detainment system is in the United States would surely cause a stir,
but more importantly, this offering will make Freddie Lounds much more pliable.

“Where is he, then?” Will pries.

“Not so fast,” Freddie responds, raising her hand up to quell the harsh twitch of his lip.
Hannibal doesn’t look nearly as offended as Will thinks he feasibly should. “I want one more
thing from you.”

“You’re the hostage Freddie, not us,” he reminds.

“Let us hear her out, yes?” Hannibal appeals.

Will glares viciously cool towards him. It’s a lot they’re asking of her, to enact Chilton’s
death sentence, but they could get out of this situation just by breaking one of her pretty
fingers. They have no need to give into demands that have no weight over them. Hannibal’s
just playing with him, letting Freddie play with him right back.

“You need me as much as I need you,” Freddie states. “I’m not asking for an interview. Heck,
I don’t even want to stay in a room with the two of you for that long. All I want is proof.”

“Proof?” Will echoes, bored.

Proof of their existence here, Hannibal had said.

However, this demand sounds like more.

“Proof that you’re together,” she boldly continues. Will stiffens up, and he watches
Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow. “You know, sexually, romantically, cosmically, whatever’s
currently floating your boat.”

At their collective silence, she sighs.

“The world is still denying it, you know. Don’t ask me how, but they are. It’s all the morning
and night news shows talk about. It would be huge to have real confirmation, stick it to the
assholes, and all that.”

“I’m not — ” Will stops himself from saying something idiotic, reductive. “I won’t let you
exploit that for your shitty column. I don’t care what the public knows or doesn’t know.”

Hannibal unhelpfully remains quiet.

“You want Frederick? I get this.”

“You want to live? You do what we say.”

One would assume she’d be grateful that they’ve even arrived with offerings. To ask for more
of people who could snap her neck in an instant, no remorse. Will is quite amused by the way
Freddie’s expression tightens at his reply, irritated. What he’s not amused by, however, is that
she’s still not taking him seriously.
“What would proof entail?” Hannibal asks then. “By your definition.”

Will’s head snaps to face him. Curiosity lines Hannibal’s posture.

When he realizes Hannibal is serious, hysterics drag out a single abrupt laugh before he’s
rising from his chair as if the seat itself is physically rejecting him, wandering over to the
dining room’s sole window. The curtains are drawn, but there’s a slit open overlooking the
street. He rests his hands on his hips.

“A kiss, a steamy embrace. Nothing wild,” Freddie discloses. “It’s not like I’m asking for a
photoshoot, just a picture or two. As if you don’t realize the camera is there. It’d be
groundbreaking press.”

Hannibal doesn’t immediately reply, appearing thoughtful

“Make use of me,” Freddie encourages them, her voice carrying to where Will is standing,
back turned. “This wouldn’t be just in my interest. Can you really say you don’t care what the
public thinks when just days ago you were willing to turn yourself in for him? Wouldn’t you
rather set the record straight?”

“What does the record say, Freddie?” Will badgers, swerving to meet her determined gaze. A
journalist, she’ll always be, if not a reputable one. “I’ve seen what they say. I’m the Ripper’s
courtesan, he’s my pimp, I’m fucking him in European back alleys, he’s fucking me. What’s
next? We were fucking Mason Verger, the Great Red Dragon, Garrett Jacob Hobbs? I won’t
allow us to become the regurgitated product of some perverted rag magazine that doesn’t
know the difference between a handshake and a hand job.”

Freddie isn’t deterred by his outburst.

Hannibal is, just slightly, hardly noticeable.

“That’s what they are already saying and will continue to!” Freddie exclaims. “You were a
professor for criminal psychology, you should know better than me that these theories don’t
change, they just mutate.”

When Will falters, averting his eyes, Freddie stands to be on his level.

“How many of your students needed answers spelled out for them? You helped them see,
that’s your whole deal. You can make people see what they normally can't. Don’t you want to
make the people see what this really is?”

“What is this, really?” Hannibal parrots the question back at her, proving to Will that he’s in
full therapist mode at the moment. Just what he needs, a journalist babbling in one ear and a
psychiatrist in the other.

Freddie makes a frustrated noise, glancing between them knowingly.

“I saw it before both of you,” Freddie reminds them. “This freakish little courtship you’ve
been fostering since you met. Albeit, sure, it’s because I spied on your sessions now and then,
but I think I deserve some credit for acknowledging that you two belong together before
either of you did. The proof’s in the pudding,” she taps at the screen of her laptop with a
slender, red nail. “Murder husbands, remember?”

“How could I forget?” muses a chipper Hannibal.

Will prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue. He blinks through a foolish wave of
understanding. It’s unavoidable; he understands where she’s coming from. Some sick part of
him even wants it too.

In the end, it's purely a price. And they can decide if it’s worth paying.

“One picture,” Will grants.

Freddie grins. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m optimistic this picture will serve as the proof you need to confirm our legitimate
presence here in your rental,” Hannibal suggests, a nearly invisible threat in the words.

She backs down from her chain of demands.

“Of course,” Freddie says, less steady.

Shaking his head, Will can’t help but let out a hoarse laugh.

“You are criminally lucrative, Freddie,” he asserts.

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

“Now,” Hannibal stands with them, buttoning his suit jacket. “I promised Will dinner, if you
do not mind a rather thorough overtaking of your kitchen. Just for tonight.”

Freddie blinks, and if dollar signs could appear in eyes —

“That would be a great location.” Both Will and Hannibal stare dubiously at her. She
clarifies, “For a photospot. A kitchen theme for two smitten cannibals is likely to ruffle the
feathers of enough Catholic moms in online circles for me to get lined up for a slot on the
The Late Show.”

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Will grumbles, pushing past Hannibal to the kitchen.
Hannibal, mildly amused, follows at his heels and lets Freddie utter grander ideas to herself
under her breath.

Despite the fact Freddie appears comfortable under her own roof again, even with their
tinkering of her kitchen, Will keeps a diligent eye on her while Hannibal cooks.

They have her sitting at a barstool by the arch entrance to the kitchen. She’s lugged her
camera along, though Will couldn’t have said when or where she picked it up. It hangs on a
lanyard around her neck.
Hannibal isn’t overdoing things at the stove, which can be marked down as a small miracle,
but he’s making something Will has never seen before regardless of its familiar waffle-y
smell.

“Æbleskiver. Or, Danish pancakes,” Hannibal elaborates, reading his mind once again. Will
chuckles lightly, balancing his hip on the counter so he can get a better view of them. They
almost look like meatballs, and smell of salt. “Served with a red cabbage slaw and a tart
blueberry jam. I would have made you a sausage if Freddie were not stocked only with the
general necessities of a loyal vegetarian.”

“Closest thing I have to meat in that fridge is tofu,” notes Freddie.

“Would you care for some? There’s enough batter.”

“No offense, well, actually I mean it with complete offense when I say I would never eat
anything you serve ever again.”

“You’re missing out,” Will says to be contrarian.

“I don’t even eat chickens. Why would I risk eating…” Nausea rolls through Freddie, as if
she’s suddenly remembering her company and her past with them. Awkwardly, she finishes
with, “People.”

“Cannibalism is as natural as any dietary practice,” Hannibal advocates. “But in actuality,

Miss Lounds, I have never served you human flesh. I do try to respect when my guests are
opposed to meat products.”

Freddie gawks at him, craning to face Will.

“I don’t know if I should be endeared or mortified.”

“He has that effect,” Will confirms.

Hannibal smiles over the steaming pan in front of him. He seasons the browning pancakes
and adds more butter to the pan. Freddie bought a honey butter earlier in the week that
Hannibal seems very pleased with.

“Okay.” Freddie hops off the barstool like a jumpy meerkat, causing Will to tense. “I think
you’d both prefer we get this over with.” She clicks on her camera. “Whenever you’re
ready.”

“Christ.” Will glances at Hannibal, a last ditch effort of getting Hannibal to protest. At least
once, for show. Hannibal just smiles, stabilizing in position as Freddie adjusts her own
stance. He continues cooking while unisonly waiting for Will to make a move. Will doesn’t
know why he has to be the one.

Skittishly, Will leans in and pecks Hannibal on the lips.

It’s so fast, Hannibal unconsciously chases it, head bowing forward.

He knows he screwed up when he hears the tiny shutter noise go off too late in the aftermath.
Freddie sighs and adjusts the focus of her camera again. Her response makes him wince.

“I’m not even going to dignify that attempt with an insult.”

“It will be over with sooner if we do as she suggests,” Hannibal says, as if Will doesn’t get
that.

Will waits until he sees Freddie ogling like a personification of every paparazzi that ever was
in the corner of the red-bricked kitchen, then leans in again while Hannibal is half turned
towards the stove.

When their lips touch, Will flinches away.

It’s so charged. So wrong.

“I can’t do it with you standing there,” he claims, desperate. He doesn’t know why this act of
all the things he’s committed to publicly is twisting him up inside. “I feel like fucking prize
cattle.”

“I can leave the room.” Freddie lowers her camera. “If you want to run the risk of me calling
the police, or running away.” A smirk covers her cheeks. “Promise I won’t.”

Oddly, Will believes her. This story is too big.

“That…might be better.”

“Just so long as you understand what we’ll do to you if you try either of those options,”
Hannibal adds with implicit violence.

Freddie nods, turning her camera on to a different setting before propping it up on the counter
by the archway. Will glares down the lens of it, feeling the most spite he’s ever felt for an
inanimate object.

“It should go off automatically in thirty seconds. Make it good.”

Hannibal huffs when she’s gone. Will strokes firmly at Hannibal’s bared elbow, trying to get
himself in the mood despite feeling completely like a fish out of water. He hates this,
whatever game Freddie is playing, and despises that he agreed to it. Despises that Hannibal
appears to have no qualms with it.

Maybe it is about the public. What they should know historically to be factual, instead of
what they think they can get away with obfuscating. This can’t be something deniable by
society.

He can’t be another footnote in Jack’s Evil Minds Museum.

It hits him; loving Hannibal isn’t something that makes him evil. At a certain point, he
convinced himself it did. Maybe that’s what Freddie is trying to get across to the world, in
her psychotic gestures of journalistic exaggeration. No, this thing between them is what
separates them from the rest of the monsters.

Without Freddie enacting voyeuristic justice, Will is able to bend forward and capture
Hannibal’s lips between his own. He kisses him intimately for a while, making sure he
doesn’t miss the camera’s mark. “All that trifling I believe has charred your pancakes quite a
bit,” Hannibal murmurs on his lips.

Will’s worries are drained. He shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he whispers back, kissing him deeper.

He peels away from him the second Freddie comes bounding back into the kitchen. They
took her phone earlier but Will isn’t sure if there’s a landline she could have used to call for
help. He’s not getting any blatant vibe that she’s betrayed them, even though he kind of
wishes an excuse to kill her might manifest.

Freddie reviews the picture, eyebrows jumping high.

“Oh wow,” she voices.

“Say a word and I might decide I’m hungry for meat,” Will remarks.

For the first, satisfying time, Freddie shows fear in density. Her eyes blink in a frenzied
manner for a few seconds before she silently nods in response, apparently just relieved to
have what she bargained for.

As Hannibal’s plating both his and Will’s dinner, Freddie moves across the kitchen to tamper
with her rolodex. She removes a blank index card from one of the rungs and writes
something down on it.

It’s an address for a villa in Sugarloaf Key.

“I’m supposed to meet Frederick here tomorrow morning. Though I just gained a good
excuse to miss that appointment thanks to you. Not that he could have cut me any deals as
dazzling as this”

Hannibal exhales, taking the proffered card.

“Do you know you’re ensuring his death with this?” he asks.

Freddie’s humanity writhes in her round eyes, yet she remains resolute. “Do I have a choice?”
she deflects. “Dr. Chilton’s mocked the validity of death’s door enough times as it is…”

“You can say we tortured you,” Will allows.

When Freddie rolls her eyes, Will decides he can offer her one more sliver of proof.

After Hannibal sets down their dishes on the dining table, Will moves across the space so he
can be the one to pull out Freddie’s chair. Before she can land in the seat, he shoves her down
 horizontally on the table and takes hold of her right arm, tearing it backwards so harshly the
bone immediately snaps.

She emits a shrill scream, squirming away from him.

“There,” Will deadpans, leaving her to flounder with one hand on the table, sputtering
through her shock and a wave of overwhelming pain. “Evidence for the FBI.”

Hannibal watches him with desire, fork dormant in his hand.

Will’s face softens, lips turning up at the sight of him.

Freddie’s groans have shifted into whimpers as she cradles her bent arm to her side. The rest
of dinner is quiet, because Freddie has finally realized keeping her mouth shut is the best
course of action when it comes to dealing directly with serial killers. Even then, she
aggravatingly still manages to look fulfilled by the day’s turnout.

“I would ask that you wait at least twelve hours before calling Jack, or the police,” Hannibal
reminds her. “Or else — ”

“Yeah, you make me into onion dip. I got the drill.”

Again, Will believes she won’t dare. Not now.

Freddie will need time to write up her article anyway, since it’ll take longer with one arm
operating. Will tries not to smirk to herself as he catches her shifting and grimacing in his
peripheral vision.

Hannibal stares at her, dangerously enthused.

“Onion wouldn’t compliment you. Avocado lime, perhaps.”

Will finishes his pancakes, trying not to smile.

While Hannibal washes the dishes, Will decides to give Freddie her flare gun back as a show
of trust. Also because she can't exactly utilize it now.

Their departure from her abode isn’t long after.

Chapter End Notes

sorry that freddie is a boss ass bitch, if you hate her idk what your damage is she's quite
literally always right <3 LOL
 Chapter 33
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“You mustn't take long,” Hannibal warns.

Impatience ticks against the console, Hannibal’s fingertips.

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, putting the car in park with a sharp exhale. Will hops out, shoes
hitting the pavement with a thud. He feels strict eyes on his back as he wanders up to the
motel door in Coral Gables. After knocking, Chiyoh takes only a short period to open the
door.

After leaving Freddie to her devices, he asked Hannibal to round back to the motel so he
could pick up their tablet. Will had forgotten to bring it on their trip to her villa, by his own
design, so he could have a real excuse to return to Chiyoh before the commencement of
Chilton’s demise.

There’s something else he has to pick up.

“Did you get it?” Will asks curtly, picking up the tablet on the nightstand. He powers it on
and tucks it back into its portable binder.

Sighing, Chiyoh hesitantly hands him what she promised to retrieve. It’s contained in a quaint
rectangular black container that can fit inside the tablet’s binder inconspicuously. Zipping it
open, he checks the contents, and hums in approval.

“Are you sure about this?” she murmurs.

“I don’t have time to reconsider,” answers Will, locking the binder back together with the
new cargo inside. He truly doesn't, because if he reconsiders, he may actually change his
mind.

What he’s set in motion has evolved too much to turn back time.

“He may not forgive you.”

“Don’t know about that,” Will debates lightly. “I’ve forgiven him for much worse.”

Chiyoh’s frown reaches her toes, but then she sighs in concession.

“In that case, the rest of your plan is go.”

Will grasps her shoulder tight, allowing her to tense in intervals before relaxing, and waits
until she meets his eyes. There’s fathoms of concern in her own, glistening black under the
dim motel lights.

“Thank you.” His sincerity isn’t put upon. “This is a sacrifice for you.”

“Not a sacrifice,” she assures. “A family investment.”

Will understands. He squeezes her shoulder once more and nods when her expression
transforms into a cautioning signal. She wants them to be careful; Chilton is stupid but he
isn’t without resources.

“No more chasing after his ghosts,” he urges.

Chiyoh nods too. An identical comprehension.

Hannibal isn’t suspicious necessarily, but the car ride south is silent for enough time that Will
begins to theorize he’s irritated that Will spent a protracted length of time inside the motel
room.

“Chiyoh’s worried,” Will explains. “We’re going off halfcocked.”

“Unless Miss Lounds warned our dear Frederick of our imminent arrival,” Hannibal begins,
turning onto the highway that leads directly to the keys, “we shall withhold the advantage and
arrive unexpectedly.”

Will taps at the tablet. He’s been researching Sugarloaf and its properties for nearly an hour.
Specifically, he’s discovered something fascinating about Chilton’s choice of leisure.

“I wouldn’t recognize it as any of their beneficiaries unless I’d seen the name before but,”
Will angles the screen at Hannibal who cocks a brow eccentrically at the listed property
ownership. “The deed to the Sugarloaf villa is designated under a financial account belonging
to the Vergers.”

“Our girls are still paying for his ventures,” Hannibal muses, smug.

“They could’ve promised him safety when he initially agreed to band with them.” Will flicks
through photographs of the home’s interior on Zillow to prepare for escape routes. “He took a
risk, joining Jack and the Vergers to implement our dissolution, and it’s not like he could
exactly afford taking more risks.”

“I’m merely surprised Alana and Margot’s accounts weren’t terminated upon their
incarceration,” Hannibal comments.

“You’re not the only one with offshore bank accounts.”

“Maybe I should reword,” Hannibal delineates, glancing once at Will with humor swimming
in his eyes, the curve of his mouth, “I can’t imagine the Vergers are happy continuously
paying his expenses.”

Will huffs, zooming into a picture of the veranda.

A long dock connects from the sandy front yard to the aqua blue ocean. He’d worried they’d
need to steal a boat or another mode of transport entirely to make it across to the villa, but
apparently they can drive up to the property without obstacle. He maybe should have
considered some unpopulated island by Africa.

“Do look up the latest news, if you don’t mind,” suggests Hannibal.

Will does. Types his name into the search bar and clicks the magnifying glass. Nearly a
hundred articles pop up under the news section of the engine, each hooking title ranging from
sensational to clinical.

“Head of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit Left In Shocking Lechón Display By Notorious
Serial Killer Hannibal Lecter,” Will quotes one of the first titles on the results page. “That’s
rather misleading, it’s not as if you roasted him and left him on a spit.” Just popped an apple
in his mouth for the humiliation.

“All for an identical sum.”

“You got what you wanted,” Will agrees. “Jack, the FBI’s laughing stock.”

“What else does the press say?”

Will refreshes the page and gasps. His fingers clench over the rim of the tablet. “Freddie
works fast,” he mutters, feeling Hannibal’s eyes fall piercingly on him and then the screen.

LEAKED PHOTOS: Hannibal the Cannibal and Former Special Agent Will Graham Locked
In A Romantic Embrace!

“Photos plural?” Hannibal inquires evenly.

In rapid succession, Will clicks the article link, waits for the page to load, and hastily scrolls
to the bottom where he knows she posts all her juicy paparazzi winnings. The result is worse
than they expected.

“The bitch set her camera to burst mode.” Will snarls scrolling through not one, or ten, but
nearly fifty photos of both he and Hannibal making out. If karmic justice were real, maybe
what they did to Jack —

The violence in him is spiraling. Morphing.

Will can’t allow it to fester. It’ll ruin his plans for tonight.

“Clever as always,” Hannibal utters, voice perilously low. “Under normal circumstances, I
would turn the car around and let her choose between a serving of Shepherd's pie or lomo
saltado.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate on what he means by that. It’s not as if Will is opposed.

“Should’ve broken both arms,” Will hisses.

“What’s done is done. That will keep the press busy, anyhow.”

“This isn’t a good thing. I didn’t want this.”

“What about the release of these pictures upsets you, Will?” asks Hannibal. A coolness has
spread over his features, and it’s apparent he’s returned to a level of calm Will can’t seem to
pinpoint.

Will shoots back with, “What upsets you about them?”

“It upsets me Freddie Lounds did not keep her word,” Hannibal explains simply, eyes
following an armadillo darting across the road several feet ahead, “It upsets me you’re upset.
Beyond that, it doesn’t.”

“It’s—” Will clicks on arguably the most demeaning photo. Will’s smiling into the kiss, their
tongues are touching in a soft intimate way that’s only captured in Hollywood romance films.
Hannibal’s hand is on his hip, and his body is respondingly open to the gesture. So much
exposé, in a single photo. “It’s false.”

“In what way is it false?”

Will stalls, fury bubbling steadfast.

“I agreed to one picture,” Will states firmly. “One, because I believed that was enough for
Freddie’s ideas of grandeur. This is her spiteful de trop signature, a strategy I should have
seen coming.”

“What difference is there that there are dozens of pictures rather than one?”

“I-It’s redundant.”

“Is that all?”

“It’s undeserved,” Will snaps. “They can’t have you!”

The jealousy in Will’s tone shocks him and he collapses into an anxious silence. Undeserved.
He hasn’t a barest inkling what that even means, but he said it aloud so it must mean it’s been
boiling up for a while. Hannibal’s eyeing him as a psychiatrist would, but with the undertones
of a lover’s finely tuned concern. Will doesn’t want his concern. At least with Hannibal it’s
never pity.

“They’ll presume to know you. These pictures will convince them they understand.”

“Who is them, Will?”

In a deep, unforgiving pitch, Will answers, “Anyone who’s not me.”

“While society is prone to glamorization, I doubt this illustration of intimacy will change
their opinions on our nature, or at least mine,” Hannibal contends, unaffected. “Take Bonnie
and Clyde — ”

“Bonnie and Clyde?” Will interrupts, voice soaring high in pitch to the level of absolute
absurdity Hannibal was about to spew. “Bonnie and Clyde didn’t even like to rob banks.
Their legend is glamor.”

“Not their love. Isn’t that all anyone really remembers?”

“Bonnie was married to another man, you know. Roy Thornton. Her high school sweetheart.
Never divorced him, never even got rid of the ring and wore it till the day she died. What
does that tell you?”

“It tells me you hold too much value in objects.”

“Don’t speak to me about objects,” Will remarks, cross. “From teacups, ancestral katanas, to
galleries upon galleries of catholic paintings, I’m drowning in objects of value.”

“Love is death,” Hannibal professes. “It’s dying together, killing together. It’s destroying the
worth of objects through the byproduct of reciprocity. It is a final breath, shared.”

Well, that’s far too fantastical for Will to argue with.

He slumps against the comfortable seat of the car and averts his eyes. Places fingertips
against the foggy window. The night is swallowing the world around them, leaving the murky
humidity in the air invisible.

“Freddie Lounds succeeded in making her point,” continues Hannibal, despite Will making it
clear he’s done with this spectacle of a conversation. “The public will know we belong to
each other. In a manner that prevents conventionalist protest. Is that not why you agreed to
the singular?”

“I don’t know why I agreed,” Will replies truthfully.

“The notion agreed with you. On a smaller scale, but nonetheless, you wanted what she
offered.”

“Sometimes…” Will slowly becomes aware of the stars in the sky. Normally, he can’t see
them in the passenger’s seat of a car. The design is always overly obstructive of the outside
world. “Sometimes, I wish that you and I weren’t in a world of our own making.
Unobstructed, unobstructing. That I could have you as you are, somehow, in a way that
wouldn’t hurt everything in our path, or outside of it. Just for once, to be fundamentally
understood for needing you. Maybe asking for that without pain is too much.”

“I understand, Will.”

“Yes.” Will turns to face him, resigned. “We’re the only ones who do.”
“Love cannot be understood by anyone not in it. It comes to us in different shapes, forms,
like humans are born with a face all their own. To have the world understand, would take
nothing short of a miracle.”

"God's due an interference."

Hannibal hums. Will rattles onward, brazen.

“They’ll look at those photos like teenage girls playing with those serial killer trading cards.
Pass ‘em around like they’re something to gawk at and cower to. Talking about how big
Dahmer’s cock must be.”

Hannibal’s teeth flash and he pulls down the road leading to Sugarloaf. The GPS tells them
the trip will take no longer than fifteen minutes from here. Will’s heart begins to pound
unsteadily.

“I’m sure they will,” Hannibal responds in blunt accord, impatience thinly veiled in the
admission. “To be completely honest with you, Will, I don’t give a damn.”

It’s so obscene for Hannibal, Will tuts.

Will isn’t going to be able to relax anytime soon, but hearing Hannibal grow agitated enough
to curse brashly is irresistible enough for him to act impulsively; Will leans over the console
and kisses Hannibal gently on the cheek. Twice, for good measure, before he swirls the tip of
his nose across soft flesh.

An apology for complaining, it is not, but he hopes it’s an official end to their dialogue.
Hannibal’s expression melts, and he reaches over to Will so he can rub circles into his upper
thigh with a firm thumb.

“Hannibal,” Will says, leading. “I’m not worried, because Chilton is still who he always was.
But, this might — I want you to know, I have no interest in living without you. Not
anymore.”

“What are you saying, Will?” Hannibal murmurs, glancing sideways at him. He’s overcome
with gentle affection still, so much so that he can’t see Will’s turmoil inside. He will.

“I’m saying, I love you. I’m asking you not to forget that.”

Apprehension coils through Hannibal’s eyes, but he grants Will the mercy of just nodding
back. Understanding, even though he can’t possibly understand. Not yet.

Will lowers a hand over Hannibal’s, on his lap.

He waits.
Will saunters through the back door of the villa. Past the thin, spidery pillars supported the
balconies above the veranda, near the sand. He takes in the darkness inside and attempts to
flick on a light switch.

The electricity isn’t working.

Taking extra precaution when entering a realm of shadows, he slips the knife within his
sleeve out of its sheath and holds it between a thumb and forefinger, stalking through the
anterior foyer and sitting rooms with revoltingly high ceilings. There’s not a peep of sound;
not even wind to knock palm trees against the windows, Florida’s ocean waves gently
crashing on the island’s shore all that there is to accompany him.

Will hopes Chilton isn’t upstairs.

He doesn’t feel like climbing three flights.

Struck with Deja vu, he soon happens upon a long black hallway with a light flickering in an
ajar room at the end of it. The path leading up to Lady Murasaki’s study looked much the
same.

Will doesn’t try to keep the noise of his feet clapping against the tile down. In fact, he
exaggerates the noise just slightly so whoever is inside the room at the end of the hall can
hear him.

He comes to a halt right before it.

He angles himself just enough so he can peek inside. It’s a wine cellar off a glimpse, cement
and wood smelted together to create dozens of columns and rows stacked to the gills with
dark wine.

Unraveling his shoe laces, he waits another beat before tossing his left shoe inside. Gunshots
sound off and Will strikes at that moment, rushing in to find Chilton crying out as he shoots
the shoe to smithereens. It takes seconds for him to see through his own adrenaline. By that
time, wine bottles are toppling off their shelves and creating purple pools at the foot of his
wheelchair. Will is also prying the gun out of his fingers, taking no effort at all to shove away
the weak-limbed Chilton who’s shakily reaching for the controls of his chair. Will pops open
the chamber and lets the bullets fall to the floor with the spilled wine.

They clank loudly.

Will feels blood soak his socks, and he’s glad he decided to wear black.

“Good evening, Frederick,” Will deadpans, setting the gun aside on a counter.

Now that he has a full view of the above-ground cellar, he registers that this room serves also
as a dining room of sorts. There is a fancy dining table stabilized in the middle, with
surrounding chairs, and a centerpiece vase ripe with lilies. A chandelier dangling and not
much space for Chilton to wheel around.

Will wonders what kind of guests he was expecting to have, if any.

“Expecting Freddie?” Will asks, when it appears Chilton won’t be answering his greeting in
kind. To boast his own nonchalance, Will slips his hands into his pockets and circulates the
room.

Chilton doesn’t dare reach for another weapon.

Not yet.

“Not after that sensationalism you three fabricated on Tattlecrime,” Chilton replies callously.
He’s bitter about the lost money, the stolen press, that’s apparent. “Would she have paid you
more to suck his cock?”

Will’s eyebrows cinch together, amused.

“I don’t need her money.”

He’d have been less inclined to accept her offer had she offered him money. He doesn’t need
more accusations about being Hannibal’s courtesan.

“You needed something. I do wonder what she has on you.”

Frederick looks better than he did on what Will thought would be his deathbed. Skin dark as
charcoal, peeling off in all the wrong places. But, he’s practically unrecognizable now. If not
for the glassy eyes and eternal sneering tilt of his jaw.

“You’re looking…not your best, Frederick. It’s no wonder you can’t keep her interest.” Will
lets Frederick sputter for a minute, analyzing the brands on the shelves. None of them are
aged well.

“Are you going to kill me?” Chilton asks, the words slurred together in a fast expulsion of air,
spittle, and noise, Will can scarcely register the question right away.

He avoids it, however.

“I’d like to know something,” Will tells him, shrugging slightly before he elaborates. “You
know, I can see a lot with my…so-called disorder. Too much, oftentimes, but seeing things
has never been a problem. Yet, here’s what I really can’t wrap my head around.” Chilton
makes a move to roll over to the desk with the various indiscreet drawers. Will steps in his
path, leans his hip against the surface of it. “What would possess you, after everything that’s
been done to you, to drag out this endless charade of revenge?”

Chilton gawks at him, baffled.

Will adds with guiling curiosity, “Is it because you want so badly to mean something, to be
coveted, that you’d willingly risk becoming Hannibal’s dinner?”

Dr. Chilton’s cowardly tone returns in his reply.

“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

Will chuckles, more a stuttering series of breaths, but still drawn from his amusement. “You
were doing so well,” he croons, concocted sympathy. “Don’t play coy now, not when we’re
just getting started.”

“Will — Please,” Chilton’s warped features contort even further, uncanny and unfamiliar.
“I’ll drop everything, I’ll call off all the men we’ve sent out. Just, just — ”

“You had a choice to kill Hannibal, and you didn’t.”

“I know! I know that! Christ, I know.”

“You think me putting my hand on your shoulder in that photo was worth all this?” Will
gesticulates to their predicament. He sighs, sliding closer. “I could have killed you for all
those drugs you pumped into me in the hospital years back, but I didn’t. Do you know why?”

Chilton’s eyes, with the way his skin has grown back, look as if they’re bulging out of his
cranium. Somehow, they widen even further.

“You weren’t worth it. You’re nothing to me.”

Will knows how much self-worth Chilton possesses.

He watches it crumble directly in front of him, Chilton’s reconstructed lips quivering bitterly.
He’s expressive for someone with fried nerve endings. It still shocks Will that he's alive.

Of all creatures to make immortal, it’s this one.

Will thinks, maybe Hannibal is right. Maybe God is real, because this joke takes the cake for
its cosmic irony.

“And yet you’ve come to kill me,” he spits back. “I must be worth something after all.”

“I didn’t come here for you. I came here, because you’ve taken something from my family
that can’t be given back. I’m here to take something from you. Anything I damn well please.”

Will pauses, then says further, “Or, he will, I suppose.”

Chilton’s emotions fluctuate like the Aurora Borealis, swishing and overlapping, various hues
of red and blue and gold. He pounces from fear to indignation to self-pity all the way to fury
in a mere breath.

Now, he’s afraid again.

“Where is he?” Chilton whispers.

Will hums. He doesn’t know exactly where Hannibal is.

He’ll be here soon enough.

“I do admire that you formulated a squad. Who was the leader in the end? There’s bound to
be trouble if you don’t appoint a leader. Jack would’ve been best, but he’s too humble to
speak over Alana. I’m sure you appointed yourself though, knowing you,” Will smirks, “and
after seeing how your plans unfolded.”

“If you kill me, those lackeys following you around Europe? They’ll never stop, never!”

Will shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“They will if we kill all of them,” Will responds bluntly. He can’t help but mimic one of
Hannibal’s smug, slow-cresting grins. “One by one, right down the line. I’m sure they’ll stop
at that point. Or when the Verger money runs out. I know for a fact most of their wealth is
going to Morgan, not you I’m afraid.”

Chilton isn’t deterred, rolling closer.

“Hannibal’s not here,” he declares wrongly. “If he were, I’d be dead already.”

“Maybe we should go check the kitchen,” Will suggests.

There’s a hard flinch at that. Will inhales the satisfaction greedily.

“Please, Will,” Chilton pleads once more, sounding more like a snot-nosed child this time,
which is his calling card. Pure and unadulterated self-castigation in the most embarrassing
form. “I know, deep inside, you don’t want to kill. H-He’s groomed you. Don’t you
remember Abigail? Abigail Hobbs?”

Perhaps the smartest thing Chilton’s ever said.

It throws Will off guard.

Chilton notices, and like a good little psychiatrist, digs the knife in deeper.

“He told me what he did to you. The family he offered, the one you rejected. Told me all
about how Abigail cried and begged, all with the most chipper veneer you can imagine. He
liked killing her.”

Will swings a punch. It knocks a tooth out.

He didn’t even know Chilton had teeth left.

Will shakes out the tingling sensation from his hand, Chilton’s whimpers echoing up to his
ears abrasively. He doesn’t continue on the path of Abigail, he knows better now.

That doesn’t keep Will from zoning out.

The blubbering makes him look uglier. Fat tears roll down his muddled cheeks. Will rolls his
eyes, losing his patience. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he can see a trap door slowly
opening behind the dining table. He trains his expression, knowing they’ll be better off
without Chilton observing Hannibal’s invasion.
“Tell me, Dr. Chilton,” implores Will, getting Frederick’s attention by calling him by his title
which he never does, “Do you know what an Australia Quokka is?”

“N-No?”

“It’s a type of wallaby, found in Western Australia, near the Bald or Rottnest islands. They’re
herbivores, graze only on plants really. Docile.” Hannibal’s shape is bloody and uneven. Will
knows he succeeded in killing every security guard. He continues not to acknowledge him.
“When a Quokka, often a mother, is threatened by a predator in the wild, practically anything
bigger than a house cat, it tosses its young by the wayside. Carelessly leaves it to be devoured
by whatever beast is pursuing it. It just…scatters.”

Chilton stammers a question, confused.

“It, uh,” Will laughs. “Reminds me of you. That’s all.”

Hannibal’s hands fall to the anterior handles of Chilton’s wheelchair and grip them tight.
When Chilton yelps and thrashes in his stilted position, Will deems it safe to gaze upon his
partner.

Covered head to toe in blood, dripping with it, he looks gorgeous. His hair is frazzled, his
coat soaked through with his efforts. Chilton is wriggling like a worm, and a firm palm of
Hannibal’s on his chest stays him.

“Now, no need to work up a sweat, Frederick.”

Chilton is about to say something, but Hannibal speaks again, jubilant.

“But if you’d like to, we should all go for a walk.”

Will moves out of the path leading to the doorway so Hannibal can wheel a frozen Dr.
Chilton out into the shaded hall and down to the cavernous space where the grand staircase
lies, golden and white marble.

“Anything, I’ll do anything,” Chilton exclaims, “I’ll tell you where Jack is!”

Hannibal and Will exchange glances.

“If I wanted Jack dead, I assure you, he would be,” Hannibal informs matter-of-factly.
Chilton cranes his neck up to face the ceiling, muttering prayers or curses. Will doesn’t care
to tune in.

Though, with all this groveling, killing him is going to feel a little less revolutionary. He
reminds himself, over and over in his mind, of what Chilton did to Chiyoh and what he
further planned to do to her.

It’s simpler after that, to relate to a beast.

When Hannibal rolls the chair to a stop in front of the staircase, Chilton roughly pulls at the
wheels so he’s facing them, rather than keeping his back turned.
“Which arm?” Will demands suddenly.

He’s overcome with a need to see it. Take it back.

It won’t do Chiyoh any good now. It doesn’t have to.

“No.” Chilton’s head shakes rapidly. “Please.”

Hannibal kneels in front of him, and Chilton’s tear ducts start working overtime. Hannibal is
quite the sight right now, Will might’ve been crying and begging too but for an entirely
different reason.

“I believe my husband asked you a question,” Hannibal states smoothly, taking one of
Chilton’s legs and propping it up on a bent knee. “I’m positive these are numb.” He bends it
upward, against the grain of his skeletal structure, just enough to make Chilton wince.
“Mostly.”

“Okay, okay, right arm.”

Will charges forward and cuts into the fabric of his sleeve so swiftly that Chilton screams like
he’s being torn into. Through his caterwauling, calling for help or otherwise, Will discovers
the healing graft.

He tries to imagine a time when this mutilation wouldn’t have been easy. He can’t conjure
any memory. The knife slips to where the skin is sewed off at the top edge. He cuts and the
caterwauling turns into something uniquely curdling, similar to an Aztec death whistle but
much less enthralling to Will’s ears.

The slab of skin comes apart from him finally. The bloody dermis revealed seems to bubble
up like bacon, but the swollen red patch couldn’t look less appetizing to Will.

Hannibal takes the slab from him without asking and tucks it away in a terry cloth he has on
hand for some reason. That cloth is folded into his coat pocket after he huffs once with
admiration.

Chilton’s half off his chair from the pain, splayed across the seat like a starfish. A whining,
pulsating starfish that unluckily never sees the light of day, trapped under a pair of ruthless
barnacles.

“I won’t do Chiyoh the disservice of sewing that back on her, not now that it’s been a part of
you,” Will comments. “Maybe she can use it as fertilizer. I’ll buy her seeds for a garden.”

“You’re psychotic!” Chilton snarls, attempting to move his chair backward. Hannibal stands
but makes no effort to stop him. He won’t get far with one hand fully operational and the two
of them looming.

“In this, I’m afraid, we are justified,” Hannibal contends.

“Since when do you care about payback?!” Chilton spits at Hannibal. The spittle must taste
like blood because Will can see the Doctor’s throat work around a subtle gag. “God, you’ve
become each other’s lap dogs. You call me pathetic.” He turns to Hannibal, glaring hard. “I
read your journals. All of them.”

Will remembers Chilton’s men rifling through the Lecter estate and feels a revived rush of
cold violence. He wields his bloody knife tighter, but Hannibal’s stillness beside him halts his
momentum.

He dares a glance, shocked to find Hannibal unreadable.

Chilton barrels onward, apparently realizing he has nothing to lose.

“Heard what those kids did to you at the orphanage.” For once in his life, Chilton’s face takes
on genuine malicious intent, not just an attempt at it. Abandoned to the temptation of
contempt. “Every vulgar detail. The au pairs and their, what was it you called it, that mallet
of sorts, an aluminum round — ”

The Doctor yelps as Hannibal darts forward, in a brisk movement Will barely catches
because he blinks, and is then wheeling the shouting man down the hall behind the stairs, no
ceremony. No explanation to Will or Chilton whose cries are echoing further away until
they’ve vanished. It’s not the wine cellar corridor, but somewhere Will hasn’t been. He’s so
stunned at the abrupt exit, he doesn’t follow them.

Stands in the center of the room, stagnant.

Chilton’s voice erupts again, somewhere above.

He can’t help his gasp when Hannibal appears at the top of the gargantuan stairs not a few
minutes later, his hands still clasped around the handles of the chair, and Chilton thrashing to
escape the inevitable. Will steps back, unconsciously clearing the way, mouth agape at the
heat exuding from Hannibal’s eyes.

He can see it, even from down here.

Feel it, scorching his skin.

“Do say hello to Mason for us,” Hannibal asks politely, voice paper thin. Will has to withhold
a laugh. Mason’s undeniably in Hell, if there is one. Their world is just a clone factory of
Masons.

“You’ll pay!” Chilton hollers as Hannibal rears back a few steps. “You’ll both pay! I’ll make
sure the world knows the truth about you Hannibal, and I’ll go down — !”

The stairs, apparently.

Will watches how Hannibal pushes him fiercely out of his chair so that he tumbles in vicious
thuds on every other step. Chilton scrambles at the first several steps, then must hit his head
because he becomes muted deadweight on the last few. The marble is hard, unforgiving.
Obviously fatal.

Yet when Will kneels beside him, he finds him alive.

Barely. Probably hanging on a thread.

It’s Will’s opportunity. To kill with Hannibal again.

He flicks out his knife, drags the tip across Chilton’s charred throat. It’s irresistible; he drops
the knife with a clatter and surges down to rip out his jugular with his teeth.

The life blood of an immortal, finally spilled by him.

At a point, the blood gurgling in Chilton’s mouth slips over his lipless maw. Will’s drenched
in the mess, but he rips more from his throat, elongating the act of taking a life.

Will must gnaw for a while because he only separates from the sour tasting skin and flesh
when he feels Hannibal’s hands curling in his hair, petting and praising him in soft whispers.
He doesn’t think to ask Hannibal more about the orphanage, not when it feels like he’s
swallowed a bundle of iron blocks.

They will have time soon, an endless spectrum.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal assures. “Beautiful creature.”

“Yours,” promises Will.

“Yes.”

“You smell good.”

Hannibal’s pink teeth flash.

“I smell of gore.”

“Yeah,” Will exhales, crawling closer. He feels bits of Chilton’s flesh fall from his own teeth.
Doesn’t allow it to stop him from winding arms around Hannibal’s shoulders to feel him
thrum beneath his touch. “On you it smells good.”

Hannibal’s reply is amused at Will’s overwhelmed state.

“Only me?”

“Mhm.”

“How did it feel killing him?” Hannibal whispers in his ear, pulling Will so closer he ends up
straddling his lap. He doesn't care, he burrows closer. “Did it feel how you wanted it to?”

“Better.” Will pulls back, gazes into Hannibal’s eyes, revering their mutual act of destruction.
“I thought it would never feel that good again.”

Really, he assumed Chilton would ruin any semblance of a high.

Hannibal leans in, prepared to kiss him. Will is prepared to let him. Hannibal’s nostrils flare
then, and he tips his head towards the extravagant front doors a few feet beyond them.
“What is it?”

“It would appear our company is not limited to Frederick.”

Will clambers off of Hannibal, slipping in pools of blood to retrieve his discarded knife. It
turns out he doesn’t need it, at least at present, when Jack Crawford emerges without a gun in
hand. He’s tucking a key into his pocket, then burying both hands in his coat, deeply rooted
resentment shining bright in his eyes.

“I had a feeling we would soon be seeing each other again,” Hannibal states, heaving himself
up to stand. Will rises with him, hovering by his arm with the intention to strike if need be.
“How are you faring under the whims of the press?”

“Humiliation doesn’t phase me by now,” Jack claims. “Nice try, though.”

“Why are you here, Jack?” Will intersects.

Jack glowers at him.

“Freddie called me. Not before I’d seen the — ” He mutters a curse under his breath, “ —
pictures.”

“Miss Lounds is incredibly persuasive,” Hannibal responds. “She was under the impression
that the world does not believe Will and I have transcended together. Though, I’d rather
accuse the bureau of fabricating cause for confusion, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s bad enough that a former FBI agent has gone rogue, we don’t need the world knowing
he’s also fallen in love with a serial killer.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” Will mutters, remembering the most explicit photos in that release.
Freddie was right; the world will never be able to forget the sight nor dismiss their
knowledge.

“Obviously,” Jack retorts. He takes in the sight of the lifeless body, cringing slightly at the
gushing open wound on Chilton’s throat. “I warned him,” he explains, “Warned him that
you’d get to him.”

“Shouldn’t have brought Chiyoh into it, Jack.” Will takes a calculated step closer and Jack
stiffens up, arms twitching, even though it appears he came without a firearm. “At any point
in time, you could have hung up your hat and said goodbye to me, and Hannibal. Left well
enough alone.”

“You think ignoring the killing spree in Europe is leaving well enough alone?” Jack remarks.
“You’re the ones who left that little display for me in Palermo. Got your letter by the way.”

Will had forgotten Hannibal left a letter.

He never even learnt what it said.

“How about it then?” Hannibal asks, the conversation veering off into a territory Will doesn’t
understand. “Just you and me, one last time?”

“Hannibal,” Will murmurs, cautioning him with two fingers against his wrist.

Jack cracks his knuckles.

“Why do you think I came here without a weapon?”

Hannibal smirks widely, dropping his own knife to the floor.

“I asked, very politely, for a rematch, Will.” Hannibal pushes at the small of Will’s back,
nudging him out of their path. “He’d like to finish where we left off in Florence. I’d like to
see him try.”

Presently, Jack’s rearing up for a fight.

Will remembers hearing about the fight in Hannibal’s kitchen in Baltimore, and even less
about the one in Florence. He’s never seen them fight before, and is inclined to snap at them
both to just knock it off.

This isn’t a rodeo.

That is, until it starts, and Will becomes witness to the ferocious choreography of a warrior.
In violence, Hannibal is agile and delicate. When he kills, he does so beautifully with artistic
intent. This isn’t delicate, but it’s equally beautiful. Shatteringly obstinate. Here, he’s opting
for a win over Jack in nothing more than a battle with fists and anything else in their anatomy
they can use to their advantage. Jack is more clever than Will could have imagined in a fight.
For every slick move Hannibal doles out, in order to get one over on a man undeniably
stronger than him, Jack is able to kick or knock the breath out of him.

“Does Molly know, Jack?” Hannibal is out of breath but still laughs as Jack misses a swing.
“Know that I haunt your dreams as much as I haunted Will’s? That she’s stuck in a cycle she
thought she escaped?”

Jack growls, a bellowing noise full of rage.

His next punch breaks the plaster of the wall by the door. With monstrous ease, Hannibal
picks up the coat hanger and uses it to knock Jack to the floor. He pounces, but Jack’s
shockingly ready, surging upward so that Hannibal’s spine hits the hard wood of the doors,
over and over again.

Will gains a stark sense of protectiveness, but he knows he can’t join this. Hannibal wouldn’t
forgive him, because this is neither his nor anyone else’s fight other than Jack’s.

Hannibal’s grip around Jack’s neck finally slips, so Jack proceeds to grapple onto his
shoulder to toss him, but going limp was apparently an obfuscation because Hannibal is
lurching forward with resurrected momentum and tearing off a considerable chunk of his ear.

A yell sounds off, echoing through the villa.

Distracted by the pain, Jack stumbles back.

As he clutches and traces the fresh wound, Hannibal spits the chunk into his own palm and
says with a devilish evenness, “I’ll send this to you in the post. Like I did the last one.”

Jack’s rage returns, brighter than ever.

While the two men are engrossed in this act of passion, Will can’t help but crack out the
container Chiyoh had given to him at the motel earlier. He extracts what he needs, hides it in
his sleeve, and waits.

Hannibal’s ready, falling to the floor in a move that Will didn’t even know he could commit
to as a middle aged man, slipping one leg out like a tripwire so Jack collapses to the ground
again. Before he can get up, Hannibal opens one of the large front doors inwards and knocks
Jack out cold with the frame of it.

He dusts off his hands and notes,

“I hope he realizes that it didn't take so long because I wasn’t holding back this time.”

“The other times were savoring?” Will murmurs, staring at the unconscious Jack.

Hannibal smiles and says, “Quite.”

“You’re…not going to kill him.”

“I enjoy Jack more alive than dead,” Hannibal answers primly. “We can’t leave the world
empty of consequence, or else we’ll have little to no fun in our future.”

Will wants to explain to him that it won’t be fun for him to face Jack’s opposition again, but
he doesn’t want Jack dead either. He can’t put his finger on why, but he just doesn’t.

Hannibal trots over to where Will has been standing motionless for several minutes, and
kisses his forehead. Will crumples into his arms, nuzzling where his neck emits the most
warmth.

“Was Chilton right? Are we still going to be hunted?” Will questions softly. Hannibal strokes
the tension out of his back, bringing him around to a state of tranquility.

“No. When I tortured a guard earlier, he told me those deployments stopped with the Vergers’
respective incarcerations. We are safe, free to go where we please. Back home to Croatia if
you like.”

Will exhales the rest of his trepidation, clutching Hannibal closer.

“Free,” Will echoes, kissing Hannibal on the lips.

Hannibal’s hands cradle his face. Will lets one of his hands on Hannibal’s waist fall. Drops
the syringe Chiyoh got for him out of his sleeve’s inner sheath, and injects him in a nimble
motion.
 The reaction is instantaneous.

It’s self-preservation when Hannibal shoves Will back from him, clutching the injection site,
legs immediately going weak as the Methohexital works its magic to subdue him.

“Will,” Hannibal breathes, stupefied. “Will, what…”

Hannibal appears torn between reaching out and retreating.

In a chilling calm, Will follows his body as it crumples to the floor, crouching beside him as
he slips into unconsciousness. He sets aside the empty syringe and strokes Hannibal’s hair,
with a whisper.

“A taste of your own medicine.”

Chapter End Notes

will promised a reckoning

 Chapter 34
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Will watches Hannibal’s eyes flutter open.

Earlier, Will noticed Hannibal’s chapped lips, so he retrieved a thermos of cool ice water for
when he woke. He pulls the stool closer to the bed and tilts the straw in the thermos close to
his lips. Hannibal’s eyes sharpen to complete focus, and he stares at Will unreadably before
leaning forward to sip.

“You haven’t even been out for twenty-four hours,” Will observes. “Around twenty, I’d
wager.”

Hannibal makes a hoarse sound after the water slicks his dry throat. Then, he takes in his
surroundings; he’s in a small bedroom, with quaint interior decoration and a single window
with a view of wilderness beyond. The walls are stripped in rows of cedar wood panels. A
log cabin, in the middle of the woods.

The bed is queen sized, fit just enough for two.

Will stays put and allows him to absorb.

Just when Hannibal appears to be at peace with his surroundings, and the fact that Will
drugged him to bring him seemingly to the middle of nowhere, Will lifts the final veil.

“We’re in Lithuania.”

Hannibal’s face falls at a molasses pace.

“About five miles up the road from your old estate.”

There isn’t a term for the expression Hannibal makes in response. It’s something torn
between sorrow, terror, resignation, and more importantly, contempt.

It’s less than Will expected. And better than having his neck snapped.

Will hesitates in reaching forward, swiping a thumb across the drop of water pooling in the
crease’s corner of Hannibal’s lips. He streaks it across his cheek before it can spill over.

“I remembered what you told me at sea. About your ideal reality, when it came to settling
down. How you wished you could walk on the soil you were bred on, without fear, or
challenge.”
As if he hadn’t thought of the recollection, shadows drape over Hannibal’s eyes. He’s
concealing himself inside, blocking every avenue for Will to snake down and uncover his
true feelings on this betrayal.

Will doesn’t consider it a betrayal, and he isn’t sorry.

But, he considers it payment for what Hannibal did.

Nobody likes to be rushed, after all.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” Will informs him. “But I know I used your past with drugs
against you. It was the only way to get you here without asking. You would’ve rejected my
suggestion.”

Hannibal has prevented himself from coming home all his life. Procrastinated it until he
forgot the shape of the trees and the taste of the air. No more is Will going to allow him to
stall his own progress.

“I understand you now, I think,” Will states brazenly, inclining his head to observe how
rigidly Hannibal is holding himself despite the comfortable horizontal angle he’s in. “Doing
what’s best for you is better if I’m the only one calling the shots.” It’s not as if you don’t feel
that way about me, he thinks bitterly.

While he’s not sorry, Will hates the pain intensifying in Hannibal. Wants to burrow it away
for later just to not face the immediate cold reflection of it constricting his own heart in
pulses of ache after ache.

“Talk to me,” Will urges gently.

Hannibal doesn’t. He shifts on the bed, glossy eyes flitting to the wall which lies flush to the
edge of the mattress. There’s a conflict inside him Will can’t exhume, but he realizes
Hannibal is purposefully remaining quiet. Burying the reactionary anger that peaks inside
him against what he could very well perceive as an insult, Will forces himself to look deeper.
Understanding, sluggishly for a history of empathy, that this isn’t Hannibal trying to spite
him, but falling deeply into a long lost defense mechanism that helped him get through
Mischa’s death. He’s deciding to be mute as an effect, not as punishment.

Will can be gentle, then. Hannibal doesn’t need cruelty right now.

He’s certain he owes him that.

“I’ll make tea,” Will says, brushing two fingers over the pulse of Hannibal’s throat. His heart
rate is jumping erratically, but Will’s aware it isn’t because he’s excited.

At the doorway, he stops and turns.

Hannibal isn’t looking at him, eyes scarcely focused on the room. Abandoned to whatever
holes in the floor of his mind he’s avoided up until now. It’s not exactly like Will gave him a
warning.
Avoiding a pang in his heart, Will speaks with finality.

“This is your best possible world, Hannibal. You’re not getting a better one.”

When Will enters the hall, he closes the bedroom door behind him and plasters himself to the
frame. Clasps a palm over his mouth so the sharp wheeze of air he takes in doesn’t sound so
much like a sob.

Quickly, he retreats through the tiny cabin to find the kitchenette. It’s a little bigger than its
definition but Will would feel odd referring to it as an actual kitchen. It’s intersected with a
half-wall where, anterior to the dining and cooking space, the living room and its meager TV
set lie.

He’d asked for a cabin as inconspicuously close to the estate as possible, as quaint but livable
as possible, with the most unnecessary request denoting nothing more than one study, at
least.

Will pours too much water into the kettle from the tap. He places it on the gas stove and turns
the dials high. Leans against the sole counter beside it and bites tamely at his knuckles.

He wouldn’t have been able to accomplish this if it weren’t for Milo, and of course, Chiyoh.
Milo, though, found the property, helped Will access Hannibal’s offshore bank accounts, and
snatched him a private flight to Lithuania without any problem, even with Hannibal’s
drugged body in tow.

All under the assumption it was Hannibal’s plan.

He’ll apologize to Milo at some point, and thank Chiyoh again for finding the proper dosage
of Methohexital. He recalls how she shirked from his request, but once he explained why—

Being in Lithuania again is something Hannibal wanted. But, Will knows why Hannibal is
resisting this course of reality. It all runs down to Hannibal's propension for complete and
utter control.

He can’t control any of this. Not his emotions, sensory memories, Will’s equally
impenetrable commitment to unwrapping the package holding his past together unbreakably.

When the kettle whistles, Will pours two cups of tea and brings them into their bedroom.
Hannibal hasn’t moved from his resting position, somehow appearing even more statuesque
than before.

Will sets Hannibal’s mug down on the bedside table. Sits back on the rickety stool to nurse
his own steaming cup. Hannibal’s nostrils flare, absorbing the potent scent of ginger and
lemon, which is the only signifier that he’s aware Will is in the room. Will gets the
impression Hannibal needs alone time.

After tea, Will persuades himself to lend him that.

He’s been selfishly yearning after Hannibal’s presence for nearly a day, and now that the
foreseeable future doesn’t hold the reunion he expected, well, he’s disappointed but not
distraught. But this ordeal will cede faster the more he cooperates with Hannibal. No matter
the cost to his own desires.

So, he stays just a while longer.

Doesn’t say a word to Hannibal, and doesn’t make round eyes to guilt Hannibal into speaking
when the man turns over on his back finally and ogles the tea. Will is finished with his own
by the time he sits up.

Will wants to remind him he loves him. Especially as Hannibal’s limbs float aimlessly
through the air to grasp ahold of the mug on the counter. Even more so when he brings the
lukewarm tea to his lips and inhales deeply and greedily lingers, resembling a child
abandoned in the snow.

He reminds himself that Hannibal knows.

This silence is an immovable object.

Will isn’t an unstoppable force. He’s fairly stoppable.

With a tender touch to Hannibal’s shoulder, Will departs from the room with two empty mugs
in hand and Hannibal’s eyes flickering everywhere but his passage out.

Something poignant stops Will at the door to their bedroom that night. Hannibal hadn’t come
out for dinner, nor had Will heard any noise from that side of the cabin in any respect. It took
everything for Will not to bust in there, if not to make certain his Ripper hadn’t flown the
coop, but he remained cogent.

Stayed in the study and read for hours, until morning bled into night.

It was at 1 am he decided he couldn’t procrastinate sleep much longer, but also couldn’t bring
himself to disrupt Hannibal’s alone time. So, for that night, he slept on the small couch by the
study’s bookshelves.

Little had he known it would become a pattern.

He takes to the scent of biscuits, but the sight of an empty kitchen greets him when he
optimistically wanders in ten minutes later. The sound of a door shutting loudly reverberates
through their home.

Will sighs and removes a pan from the cabinet to start his own breakfast.
For such a quaint cabin, Will is surprised at how seamlessly Hannibal avoids him. He must
smell him entering the general vicinity because Will feels as if he’s developed more of a
profound relationship with shutting doors, swishing curtains, and the vanishing echo of
footsteps over carpet than anything else.

When Will does catch sight of Hannibal, he’s usually outside, still beyond Will’s reach.
Pacing through the vibrant flower beds with his arms curled behind his back, or getting tactile
with the trees out of naturistic curiosity. Once, Will saw him crisscrossed in the dirt, oddly
tracing a stick through a patch of sand.

He never crosses the property line, similar to a specter in that way, tethered to the Earth here
until something frees him from his assigned purgatory. Unfortunately, Will doesn’t have any
bones to burn and rebury. And he doubts Hannibal would take fondly to chanting curses and
charms.

Out of sheer boredom in the repetitive droning days of wood-life, Will takes to building his
own fishing rods. Uses the card Hannibal gave him once for offshore purchases and buys the
ties he needs.

As well as a few other selfish purchases he doesn’t need now, but may in the future. Not that
Hannibal needs to be aware of any of that. He hides those acquisitions under his own bed (the
couch).

Hannibal, when he does collide with Will as is bound to happen every now and then, seems
overcome with the idea Will is planning on leaving the house after seeing his fishing project.
He never visits the study and must desire to retrieve a book and hadn’t expected to find Will
whittling sticks and reels.

He doesn’t need to say anything, Will can see it on his face.

It’s a microscopic flash of panic; either an encroaching fear of separation in the face of his
own regression or because still, even through his defensive avoidance, he wants to be the
center of all Will’s attention.

“Wanna come fishing with me?” Will asks, unsure.

Queerly, Hannibal looks like he’s going to say ‘yes.’ Open his mouth and actually spit the
syllable out, but instead he blinks fast, and retreats from the doorway without retrieving what
he came searching for.

Exhaling impatiently, Will gets a little rough with pairing the next reel to its rod.

Ignores that his disappointment is festering into resentment.

The thing Hannibal is annoyingly perfect at is leaving the kitchen spotless and empty when
Will is forced to intrude for sustenance. It’s supernatural how he seems to sense Will’s
imminent arrival, clean up, and scatter from the premises. The tell-tale click of the bedroom
door informing Will he’s only just left.

Smells are the clues signaling his presence.

Scents that Will can’t help but fixate on; the sharp peppery hint of creole seasoning for a
grilled vegetable omelet, wafts of freshly squeezed citrus, and most aggravatingly, the melded
smell of peaches and cream.

There's always leftovers in the fridge because even in this eschewing state Hannibal
apparently can’t let food go to waste. Will never touches them, because he feels they weren’t
made with him in mind.

Even if he misses Hannibal’s food like nothing else.

Misses Hannibal enough that he worries the leftover food settling in his belly might feel
enough like Hannibal’s warm embrace on a cold night to make him yearn even hard enough
to crumble.

The bedroom door is never locked. It’s left open for him to enter every night if he damn well
pleases, having tested it with Hannibal out of the room brushing his teeth in the single
bathroom. Will doesn’t, still can’t bring himself to, even after everything they’ve shared. He’s
not altogether positive Hannibal wouldn’t be utterly welcoming, because even though he
feels betrayed, their physicality may remain untampered by that. It was eternally separate
from everything else, the sole element that could outweigh their cosmic feuds with each
other. Will is so close to breaking, he can taste Hannibal’s skin on his lips.

As he’s been doing every night for a week (maybe two, he’s not counting, and he’s never
been good at keeping time), he returns to the study and spreads out on the couch.

And as always, his back aches in the morning.

The kitchen smells of blueberry and flour.

A door shuts distantly.

To call it peace would be false.

It isn’t peaceful. Peace would allow Will to sleep without sporadic breaks of wakefulness. It
wouldn’t make his hours of crafting rods so dull. He would feel as loved as he ever was by
Hannibal.

Not shunned by the only man who’s ever wanted him as he is. Will hasn’t felt this broken and
forgotten in a long time. Maybe not since Wolf Trap.
That being said, the noiselessness alongside this dawning loneliness is a return to normalcy
he hadn’t expected when he ultimately ran away with Hannibal. It’s silence so abrasive that it
shatters Will’s ears.

A mimicry of peace.

That peace breaks on the Sunday of their third week in Lithuania.

Will enters their (Hannibal’s) bedroom to look for the tablet they begrudgingly share. It’s
been a waltz with this thing; Will finds it left for him on the counter by the couch in the study
sometimes. In return, he leaves it atop the relatively meager-sized fridge in the kitchen.
Hannibal is tall enough to see it there, and has taken to the offering more often than not.
Luckily, the tablet is sitting right on the bureau today.

Right before Will leaves, he notices an open sketchpad on the desk by the window. Knowing
he shouldn’t peek, but too desperate for any change in their immortal routine, Will sidles up
to the desk to get a better look at the drawings.

Even now, Hannibal’s obsession stuns him.

They’re all of Will. Different variations, but of him in the same sleeping position. It’s fairly
apparent he’s been stalking into the study at night, during Will’s sleep, and sketching him in
real time. There is a hyper-realistic one of him on the couch alone, dim shadows contouring
him recognizably. There’s another of him as a fallen angel snoozing on a cloud, and another
more skeletal version of him in a graveyard.

The sight is hard to absorb, or understand.

The repetition in the imagery of Will’s slumber reminds him, hysterically, of Jack Torrance in
The Shining if just because he knows the offensive comparison would get under Hannibal’s
skin.

All work and no play makes Hannibal a dull boy, Will thinks to himself sarcastically.

As far as Will is, or now was, concerned, Hannibal wanted nothing to do with him for these
past few weeks. Absolutely zero. Zilch. Will was staying out of his way because he obviously
still needed time to process the betrayal, and because Hannibal purely didn’t want to see him.
It was too painful to set eyes on him, Will thought, and even understood, because he’s been in
that position himself several times in the past.

These drawings imply another explanation.

The emotion cementing in Will’s chest is a beneficial one, though he can’t name it. It quickly
turns to an adrenaline-boosted anxiety when he turns to find Hannibal watching him darkly
from the doorway.

Hannibal’s eyes are dark. Just enough shade in the hall to caress his fine bone structure and
make him resemble every nightmare Will stopped having of the creature with Hannibal’s
face.
“Tablet,” Will sputters. “Uh. I needed the tablet.”

God, what is this?

He hasn’t felt intimidated by Hannibal for a long time.

Naturally, Hannibal doesn’t say a word. However, this is the most eye contact he’s gotten out
of any of their interactions so far in Lithuania. He savors it, staring longingly until Hannibal
averts his eyes.

Hannibal’s feet drag over to the bed. He sits with a plated cheese Danish in hand. Will
remembers then, randomly, that they’re running out of Havarti and uses that realization to
escape this tense interaction.

“I think I’ll go out for groceries.”

Hannibal glances at him, the deadpan expression now visibly coming across more like a
sardonic inquiry. Will shouldn’t risk showing his face so often in town, but they do actually
need the groceries.

They’ve been living off what Milo delivered for them.

Will can’t help a final cursory glance towards the sketches before retreating from the room
with haste. He’s not sure if Hannibal watches him leave. Apparently Hannibal’s been
watching him more than he assumed. Will doesn’t know why that terrifies him in equal
measure with arousing him.

“Sick and twisted.” Will berates his intrusive thoughts while grabbing a coat from the hanger
by the door. Automatically, he scrapes the soles of his boots against the prickly welcome mat
and heads out.

Will is by the fridge, putting groceries away, when Hannibal enters the kitchen. It’s atypical,
there’s no point in convincing himself otherwise. Tomatoes in hand, he battles with himself
on whether he should turn around or not. His heart pounds raucously. He puts the fruit away
and shuts the refrigerator doors.

It’s not that he’s afraid of Hannibal, but he’s lately been dreaming more vivid recollections of
his worst and most transcendent memories. Numb belly aches from shadows of a Baltimore
kitchen. Sharp pangs from bullet removal in Florence. It’s put him on edge to remember the
unforgiving sharpness of a blade.

When Will turns and meets Hannibal’s eyes, he’s instantaneously aware of where this is
going. The tip of the knife presses up to the curve beneath his chin, where his neck begins.
Hannibal’s other hand is pressed against the surface of the fridge, a leg bent to surround his
other exit point. Caging him in.
In the act, Will is relieved.

He didn’t think he would be until right now. It took until Hannibal pressed another knife to
his skin to realize Hannibal won’t be able to kill him. And it’s not the fact that he won’t, but
that he can’t.

Hannibal’s eyes are separate abysses. Black or red or something rusted by time’s wear, rather.
Will inhales instinctively as the knife drags upward to the tip of his chin, the line painted by it
transitioning from hot white to aggressed pink in its wake.

There’s an inconceivable twitch on Hannibal’s face; a snarl and a disturbance of his chillingly
unaffected demeanor. Will’s heart swells with affection and acceptance. He wants to tell
Hannibal he’s missed him.

Instead, he smiles cruelly.

“Hypocrite,” he whispers.

Hannibal’s gaze sharpens. The moment where he might’ve slipped the knife deep into Will’s
skull and twisted until his mouth was a bloody mess of misfiring neurons arrives and passes
tellingly. Hannibal’s lips straighten into tortured line. With purpose, Will cuts his own bottom
lip on the knife as he’s drawing back with it. Going motionless, Hannibal’s eyes flicker down
to the blood pooling there, hungry again.

Will wants to egg him on, but remains still.

Though Hannibal’s pupils appear to consume every ounce of color left in his corneas, he
drops the knife in his hand with a distinct clatter and whisks out of the room, hiding from his
failure to kill or hurt Will irreparably.

Will lets out a sigh, adrenaline fading.

When he licks his lips, his split lip stings.

He rushes off to the bathroom after hearing Hannibal’s bedroom door slam shut. Peels all his
constricting clothes off and turns on the water to drown out his frenzied thoughts. Has to grab
hold of his dick when the hot spray of water hits him and lights a match to the fulgurating
hearth of his arousal. Oh, yeah, really sick and twisted; he jerks himself off until he reaches
the precipice of a climax and then lets himself go.

His erection bobs between his legs, rock hard, aching.

Will can’t help the distressed noise he emits.

It’s unclear to him why he decides to not finish himself off.

It takes until he’s shutting the water off to register that he’s shaking. He quickly turns the
spray back on and spins the dial to the coldest setting it can possibly go. It feels like ice on a
burn wound and he groans fitfully under the assault. “Jesus,” Will gasps, hands curling and
uncurling into fists against the tile wall.
Blood evacuates from between his thighs.

The fog of lust dissipates. Will can think again.

Oh shit, he thinks then. Hannibal.

There’s a sudden irrational fear worming its way into the pit of his gut. He shuts the water off
for a final time and haphazardly dries himself off with a towel, tossing it toward the hamper
without looking.

He dresses in his gray trousers from his shopping trip earlier, zipping them up in the hall in
his hurry. He knocks on Hannibal’s closed bedroom door and when he doesn’t receive an
answer, barges in.

Hannibal isn’t here. His morning coat is gone from the closet.

Will rushes through the cabin, checking every feasible place he could be. Goes outside to
hunt for him despite the fact he never does. It’s Hannibal’s territory outside, strange,
considering Will’s predilection for it. When he doesn’t find him in the woodier coppice or the
flower beds, that’s when Will starts to panic.

Hannibal crossed the property line.

It feels significant in the manner Eve eating an apple from the tree of knowledge does. He
could be anywhere, in town, at his estate (unlikely), or even on the next train ride out of
Lithuania.

Would he submit to failure like that?

Will doesn’t imagine so. He imagines the most comprehensible option is that Hannibal has
gone sniffing for the first sign of civilization so he can wreak havoc on a village, or more, of
innocents. Raging at his own dysfunction as the monster he’s always identified as.

The surfacing violence Will felt emanating from him earlier had only begun to bud, and he
had nowhere to dispense it. Just like Will had nowhere else but Chilton for a place to allow
his violence to seep out.

Will retraces his steps and scrutinizes the cabin once more as a method of comforting
himself. He can’t go into town without the car unless he wants to risk dying of heatstroke on
the path over. He paces the flower beds in a mirror of Hannibal, opens all the windows and
turns off the air conditioning. Lets himself swelter. Brews himself crappy coffee and cooks up
a microwaved meal of meatloaf that tastes like spam.

It feels like death. Like when Jack told him Hannibal had died because of that cliff
dive. Hollowed out by Hannibal’s disappearance, Will waits.
Hannibal returns a day and a half later.

Will had been preparing for bed, cozying up in the thick comforter of Hannibal’s bed, not
because he finally can but because the sheets smell of him so strongly that he can fall asleep
with illustrious ease.

The familiar sound of a car door tips him off.

Sweating in a wife beater and shorts, and donning an impulsive choppy haircut he gave
himself in front of the miniature bathroom mirror yesterday, Will runs out to the porch. He
skids to a stop at the first step.

Hannibal isn’t covered in blood, and that’s more suspicious than not. There’s a mitigation of
all things tense and festering in his expression, a lighter color pooling in his eyes under the
evening sunset.

Genuine fondness when he gazes upon him.

“Hey,” Will finds himself saying, testing the waters. Hannibal doesn’t respond, but his
expression doesn’t tighten up defensively and evade Will’s focus. As Hannibal walks over to
the porch, hands deep in his pockets, Will continues rambling, “Um, I’ve made dinner. If you
want any, I don’t know when you ate last.” It’s not like I was going to eat it in our — your —
my bed or anything. “It’s just soup though, ehm—”

When Hannibal is a single step below him, his left hand slips out of his coat pocket, a finger
curling around the only curl Will left behind in his uneven shearing.

It’s not a buzz cut or anything, but Hannibal seems to be mourning its prior length.

Will holds back a curt remark about being able to grow it all back. That’s what hair is for
after all, and Hannibal’s is getting a bit too long to be judgmental about his.

Though it’s not judgmental, it’s worshipful.

Hannibal’s melancholic poise is outshined by the emotion in eyes that seems to scream at
Will’s empathy that he missed him to fatal extents.

It diminishes Will’s eagerness to ask where he’s been.

The touch is entirely overwhelming, after so long without. Will merely leans in and closes his
eyes, letting Hannibal’s knuckles brush against his hairline. Exhales heavily, bereft, when
Hannibal keeps moving past him, bringing those dexterous hands with him, into their cabin.
At least he didn’t return bloody.

It strikes Will later that night, he should have accused Hannibal of breaking his promise.
Running off to a place Will doesn’t know of. Disappearing from his life without any sign of
return.

Hannibal does eat his soup, though. Sits with him quietly at the small dining table and even
watches Will finish his own portion. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t show any sign of approval, but
he isn’t shielding himself from sight or attention. Will doesn’t feel wrong, for once, following
him back to the bedroom.

There’s no protest when Will slips off his shorts and slides into bed. Hannibal does vanish
from the room, after a stunted interim of mutual staring, but Will relaxes once the air
conditioner kicks back on noisily. Hannibal returns soon to shut the window by the desk. He
organizes his sketches, setting them aside in the topmost drawer, then starts to rearrange his
pencils. Will has to rear up on his elbows to watch Hannibal grow more agitated as he
reorganizes everything capable of being assorted, cleared up, and grouped.

It takes Will a second to realize he’s being compulsory.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer than when he greeted him on the porch. “Hannibal, c’mere.”

Still in his morning coat of all things, Hannibal flexes his fingers over the stack of books on
the bureau he’s been rearranging for over five minutes, but ultimately leaves them be at
Will’s gentle command.

Will folds his legs over the edge of the bed so he can get leverage. He unbuttons Hannibal’s
coat and slips it off his shoulders. Pauses to give Hannibal time to undress himself if he
pleases but Hannibal continues to stand stiffly in front of him, eyes warm wherever they fall
on Will. And it's only Will he’s gazing at, nothing else. The sudden unbridled engrossment is
suffocating, but Will can’t say he wasn’t aching for it.

“Did you sleep yesterday?” Will asks, ticking apart the buttons of his shirt one by one.
Hannibal helps him this time, slipping it off when he’s finished, and folds it beside the coat
on the stool.

Afterward, Hannibal shakes his head.

It’s the most direct response Will has gotten from him so far.

He can’t be miffed with progress. Swifter, Will undoes Hannibal’s trousers and helps him
step out of them, ignoring the man’s girthy thighs he has a foolish impulse to pillow his cheek
on. Hannibal takes control to fold the articles separately before Will decides to scoot back
against the wall and pat the empty mattress space. It’s as if Hannibal abruptly remembers he’s
supposed to oppose intimacy. Eyes switch into a burning glare and Will can feel a thousand
emotions flare up in him, unwanted but habitual.

“Please,” Will urges. Don’t run.

Hannibal swallows subtly through a wave of uncertainty. Will never sees him uncertain, just
circumspect. When Hannibal chooses to lie down beside him, Will is forced to bite his lip to
hide his elation.

They gaze at each other, each closer to each other physically on their respective pillows than
they’ve been for days. After consideration, Hannibal turns his back to Will, unable to bear the
connection for longer than a few minutes. Will nearly pants from Hannibal being so close,
and unable to do anything but watch. With an open palm, he reaches a hand forward,
hovering it over the brand on Hannibal’s back. He drops his hand to his side, discovering he
can’t do it without knowing positively Hannibal wants to be touched.

It’s worse being in bed with him tonight.

Hannibal falls asleep quickly, or so Will believes, as Will tosses and turns beside him.
Flinching every time he accidentally brushes a foot or arm against his bare skin. Can’t rest
with a cascade of longing morphing and changing into untamable infatuations, making him
feel like a drug addict all over again.

Or maybe it really is the withdrawals.

He can’t tell the difference between that withdrawal, and this one.

It’s all agony.

The sight of the upside down Byzantine, Norman, and Fatimid architectural styles makes him
nauseous. Will sits up on the floor of the Norman Chapel, flush to the painting of the blood-
red skeleton praying.

“Do you enjoy these mosaics as much as me?” Hannibal asks, causing Will to whip around.
The man is knelt beside him, as if in prayer if Will didn’t know any better, gazing up at the
glowing muqarnas.

“You’re talking,” states Will dumbly.

Hannibal huffs, head inclining in a chastising tilt.

“I’ve told you, Will,” he begins, standing straight amongst the ivory pillars and columns,
“Words are living things. With personality, agenda, point of view. What can be said in this
place that hasn’t already been said? No danger in litany, except rudeness of course.”

Stumbling to his feet, Will feels off balance in a land that normally feels as familiar as home
to him. Walking up to Hannibal, he’s shocked he can get so far as to breath against his
padded shoulder.

“I hope you’re not here to accuse me of something,” Hannibal murmurs with his usual brand
of flirtation.

“Why would I do that?” Will questions, walking with him to the altar.

Hannibal has a skip in his step. He gains a yard from Will all in one leap. It’s ghostly, but
beautiful in its own way. Will watches him consider the question in depth before framing the
mosaics on the ceilings with a hand curved above his eyes, like he’s watching a moon
become full beyond a skylight.
“A good marriage is that in which each appoints the other the guardian of his solitude,”
Hannibal answers, the quotation obvious, “and shows him this confidence, the greatest in his
power to bestow.”

Irritated at the obfuscation, Will saunters up to the altar.

“Solitude is unsustainable, you’ve said it yourself.”

“So I have,” Hannibal answers vacantly. “Only because I met you.”

“I’m a consequence?”

“You’re a cause,” murmurs Hannibal with a tooth flash of affection. “Nothing wrong in that,
Will, other than the fact I’ve become an effect. It’s a matter of what consequences will come
of the effect’s result.”

Will gulps painfully, his throat inflamed with the contingencies of a decision he doesn’t
regret, but can’t predict. Not even Hannibal seems sure of his own potential now that he’s
returned to his origins.

“How do you know if you’ve done the wrong thing, Hannibal?”

The question is broken. Will’s running out of faith.

Hannibal tips his head towards Will, watching him like he’s been watching the ancient
fenestella. In a bright flowing shimmer, he’s in front of Will again. Bells are ringing. Will
wants to kiss him forever.

“No important decision has ever been made safely,” Hannibal promises him. “There’s no
point in regret, haven’t I told you that? Do not regret the agency you’ve imposed in the
world.”

“But—”

Hannibal’s hands cup his cheeks. He smiles.

“Sei il cuore mio,” he whispers to Will. Kisses him once to seal this instance forever in the
caverns of their mind palace and finalizes this fantasy with, “Right and wrong weren’t
designed for you and me.”

The white glow ruptures through the visage of the chapel. Will is absorbed in it, unable to
breath through the humid waves of their world being consumed by dormant cells in their
minds.

When he wakes, Hannibal is watching him.

They’re in bed. Will looks in Hannibal’s eyes, a question in his own, and Hannibal answers in
his own mysterious way. Turns to gaze at the ceiling as if he can still see the impressions of
the chapel paintings there. He leaves Will wanting under the sheets, left hung up on thoughts
of shared dreams and Palermo.
Approximately after two days of identical monotony, they get a visitor.

Unsurprisingly, Will and Hannibal are sharing breakfast in silent suspension. The clock ticks
on as they consume sustenance without a word passed between them. Hannibal is always
somewhere else, inside his mind, working overtime to lock every secret passage that keeps
creaking wide open to expose him to the harsh conditions of the outside world. Will is at least
satisfied to be eating Hannibal’s food again, if nothing else. Despite everything taking a turn
for the better, he chokes when someone knocks on the door.

Hannibal nonchalantly retrieves a meat tenderizer.

“Nope,” Will utters reactively, quickly following him to the front door. He tries to pry it from
Hannibal’s fingers because he’s not having them evicted so early in their stay here. If
Hannibal kills, it’s game over.

Hannibal swings the door open with the arm Will isn’t clinging on to, enacting a desperate
yet futile attempt to filch the weapon off of him, and appears genuinely surprised to see who
is at the door.

Chiyoh bows her head moderately.

Will lets Hannibal lower the tenderizer, panting from the overexertion. His efforts hadn’t
even made Hannibal budge. Whatever Chiyoh saw of that pathetic display, she doesn’t
acknowledge.

It takes Will until Hannibal’s eyes downcast, and express immense confusion, to realize he’s
staring too intently at Hannibal and not registering the leash Chiyoh has wrapped around her
fist.

Winston.

Winston’s tail wags when Will makes eye contact with him. Will grins and drops to his knees
to greet him with an array of kisses and high-pitched praises. Jack pulled through in the end,
who knew?

In the note he’d slipped into his pocket at the hospital, he’d asked only for Jack to drop
Winston off at a property Milo owned. Made sure Milo had evacuated at the date required so
not to incriminate him. Also assured Jack would leave well enough alone by threatening
Molly. He had further requested of Chiyoh to rendezvous with Milo and bring him Winston
whenever she deemed the road safe to travel. Apparently, it didn’t take long at all because
she’s here now in all her gear and glory, gun slung over her bosom.

Or maybe she wanted to get this exchange over with.

Either way, Will is overjoyed.

Winston places a paw on Hannibal’s slipper. Hannibal gawks at the older dog and glances at
Will questioningly, luckily, not admonishing. “I’ll explain later,” Will promises, giving
Winston’s rear a light slap so he bumbles off into the house. He won’t make a mess, he never
even needed to be potty trained.

“May I come in?” Chiyoh gauges, eyes fleeting between them.

“Yeah,” Will answers after an oafish beat, stepping aside. “Sorry.” He tries to figure out how
to explain Hannibal’s mute state without saying the word itself. It would feel almost profane
to title it that outright. “I can sense that he’s happy to see you, Chiyoh, but Hannibal hasn’t
been talking since we arrived.”

Will glances over to see if Hannibal is bothered by the description. He isn’t. In fact, in
Chiyoh’s direction he makes a gesture with his hands so strictly exaggerated Will doesn’t
realize that it's sign language.

Chiyoh nods at Hannibal, signing something brief back.

Hannibal marches off to the kitchen.

Feeling relatively impotent, Will lets out a bitter laugh.

“Should’ve been learning sign language the past couple weeks,” he mumbles. He can talk to
Chiyoh just fine apparently and hadn’t bothered to let Will know he could sign.

Hannibal isn’t spontaneously deaf, but that doesn’t mean Will wouldn’t be able to create a
simpler line of communication between them; he’s open to learning. He’ll do anything to talk
to him, at this stage.

“Sign was taught to me as a child,” Chiyoh explains. “He came to us with the knowledge of
many types. It wasn’t often he would slip back into a mute state, but we would communicate
that way when he did. I would not waste your time learning when he will likely fall out of his
dependence for it quite soon.”

“Do you know that for certain?”

“Does anyone know anything for certain?” she remarks.

“Right,” Will sighs, hands on his hips dropping defeatedly to his sides. “Thanks for bringing
Winston. You kept in mind that you didn’t have to, right? I didn’t want you to feel…”

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. He knows it was selfish to ask it of her.

“I wished to impart a final farewell,” Chiyoh tells him, elaborating on the reason why she
decided to come. “This will likely be the last time I see you, Will Graham. And him.”

He understands, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

He isn’t convinced Hannibal will respond positively to her leaving for good. He did well
without her all those years at Johns Hopkins, working as a psychiatrist in Baltimore. But this
permanence is resolute.

A cacophony of kitchen noises echo into the living room. Spices carry in the air and Will
scrunches his nose through an impulse to sneeze. Chiyoh tilts her head, watching him sift
through internal conflict after internal conflict. After placing her gun and travel bag on the
coat hanger, she faces his turmoil head-on.

“You are worried for him.”

Will half-way rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I’m worried for him. I don’t know what he needs.”

“Have you ever relied only on verbal response to extrapolate what you need?” she asks
knowingly. Sits in the secluded arm chair neither Will nor Hannibal have sat in yet.

He’s not sure he’s even lingered more than a few minutes in the living room. Just to tie his
boots, if anything. Dust has accumulated on the TV set and the couch is plump from its
underuse.

“No,” Will replies, tight. “But, he’s never been an open book to me.”

Quite possibly the most frustrating being to ever grace Will’s existence. Closed off when he
wants to be and incriminatingly ajar when Will doesn’t want to feel bombarded with
homicidal and mischievous needs.

“You have elsewhere to look, for imprints of him.”

Will’s brow furrows. Then it clicks; the estate.

He doesn’t know what he could find there following Chilton’s disembowelment of the
property. It would be inconceivable to go there also and reap nothing to bring back. Staring
off towards the kitchen, Will commits to a devastating and dangerous consideration.

The painting Mischa created of Murasaki’s katanas.

Hannibal wanted the note she left for him on the canvas. He’s always wanted to read it, too
frightened to step foot back in this world to find it. Will could do that for him, be the extra
pair of legs he wishes he had. Chiyoh seems to read the revelation on his face, relinquishing
her own reluctance in a subtle nod.

It takes everything for Will not to leave Chiyoh and the cabin now to find the canvas.

Somewhere fathomless, in the depths of the castle.

“Staying for lunch?” Will coerces, simultaneously wanting her company for a while longer.
He knows she isn’t refusing, so it feels like something he’s earned when she smiles through a
more blatant nod.

Breakfast is digesting in him and he isn’t hungry.

It doesn’t matter.

He’ll find room in his roiling stomach for whatever meal Hannibal decides to make.

Chiyoh and Hannibal don't sign that often over lunch.

Hannibal does sign for her to pass the salt, but Chiyoh sticks to speaking aloud mostly for
Will to hear. Sweetly, Hannibal doesn’t seem to want to leave Will out either, but he of course
remains speechless.

Will gets up after he’s finished with his dish to offer everyone drinks. He’s endeared that
Hannibal needs to show him just two fingers against his empty water glass to signal to Will
that he wants a small wine. Chiyoh asks for a beer. Will pours them their drinks but not
before he makes Winston a meaty meal.

He whispers in Winston’s ear that he’s thankful for his company.

Winston whines, shaking his pelt with excitement.

Will’s lips upturn and he brings the drinks out to the table. Hannibal circles his thumb lightly
over Will’s lower back and it takes every ounce of Will’s restraint not to lean in and kiss him
in front of Chiyoh.

It dawns slowly for Chiyoh that she’s not needed here, not that she isn’t wanted, but even she
doesn’t wish to encroach the subtle intimacy blossoming between their heated, stolen
glances, and gentle touches.

“I cannot say I’ll miss your lifestyle,” she notes, gathering her coat.

Will cradles his drink close to his chest, leaning against the wall. Hannibal stands idly by the
front door, waiting to offer a proper farewell. Oddly, he appears nervous. Or somber, and mad
because he is.

More at ease with herself and her impending journey than she’s ever appeared to be, she trots
close to Hannibal, smiling up at him with a soft whisper that sounds like ‘Oniisan’ before
wrapping him up in a hug. Hannibal laughs silently, a short puff of breath and disbelief,
hugging her back with firm arms.

Will’s throat works over a resilient lump.

He’s alone with Hannibal beyond the bounds of this present moment. That’s not new, but it’s
new that he has no clue where the horizon will bring him. If he must learn sign, he will
gladly, but he’s optimistic now with a plan in mind that he can help bring Hannibal back to
himself. One step at a time, if need be.
He’ll be there all along for the ride.

Chiyoh must know that.

She pulls back from Hannibal and says something else in Japanese, her tone sounding
assertive and reassuring in the same breath. Hannibal doesn’t reply in any obvious way,
inclining his head.

To Will’s surprise, Chiyoh walks up to him.

His arm stretches forward before stalling, uncertain if she wants a hug from him. She
awkwardly lowers her arms too, adopting the uncertainty, confirming that, yes, she was about
to hug him. Just as he’s reaching for a handshake instead, she attempts to go back in for an
embrace, his hand bumping against her stomach awkwardly. “Fuck it,” Will chuckles out of
mild frustration, setting his drink on the shelf beside him, tugging her in for a sturdy hug. He
can practically hear her rolling her eyes, but she squeezes his shoulders. She smells of vanilla
and cherries and fertile soil after rain. He takes it all in, and releases her.

“To a new life,” she tributes.

With a wavering smile, he nods.

“To a new life.”

The door closes behind her, the whipping wind past the threshold matching the immediacy of
her departure. Will stays frozen, aware of her scent dissipating in the air. As if she were never
here.

Eventually, he faces Hannibal.

The hearth of Hannibal’s eyes is dwindling. He appears tired, and despite the adoration in his
eyes when he meets Will’s gaze in kind, his body language tells Will that he needs to be alone
again.

Tears threaten Will’s ducts again.

He tries not to think about any of it. The avoidance, Hannibal unable to speak to him, the
dramatic gesture he’ll have to make for Hannibal to start healing. How dangerous of an
offering it could become.

Will retreats to the study.

Opens their tablet and orders a few relative necessities online.

Will escapes the house by explaining to Hannibal that he purchased something too big to be
delivered to their mailbox and that he’ll have to go to the post office to retrieve it. This is
true, if Hannibal happens upon their credit card’s purchase history. He bought a record player
on a whim, and some Elvis records.

It won’t tip off Hannibal’s suspicions.

Will sets the GPS for the Lecter estate, the drive taking him out ten minutes down the road.
He knew the estate was only five miles from their cabin, but he begins to get the full picture
as to why Hannibal is so affected by his surroundings. The cabin and its encompassing
environment are likely areas he saw as an explorative child, with Mischa or without. Long
overgrown or changed by man’s hand, yet emulative.

Passing Mischa’s grave, he sees the flower he left for her completely wilted atop the rise of
dirt. It’s miraculous to him that it didn’t blow away in the wind or wither to imperceptible
particles.

There’s a powerful draft inside the castle, but Will pushes forward.

Ignores the astonishingly stark voices of ghosts and trapped spirits winding in and around
him. It isn’t hard to see through the cataclysm of emotions assaulting him full force when
Hannibal is on his mind, waiting and wondering in some ideal image he holds of him at their
shared home in his head. He hopes he isn’t gone so long that Hannibal starts to fret, but a part
of him that always finds pleasure in holding grudges hopes he suffers just enough—enough
that Will can mirror the same effect Hannibal has on him.

The canvas isn’t in Mischa’s bedroom which has now been scooped clean.

That doesn’t leave him many options for the upstairs bedrooms and studies. He prays that
Chilton’s men didn’t confiscate the painting, but there’s also a hunch rooted within him
urging him to press on.

It isn’t on the third floor, or the fourth.

Will starts to believe the bedrooms hold nothing but impressions of family and no actual
physical tokens of his family’s existence. Not anymore, not unless—

The basement, Will conceives.

A place so utterly haunted, Chilton’s men were bound to pretend it didn’t exist. An area in the
castle that Chiyoh frequented everyday. He locates steps he never noticed before in his initial
scavenger’s hunt, a spiral staircase built by the service elevator that he rushes down, the
metal clinging against his boots, with a lit three-pronged candle tight in one fist, the other
ready to unsheath the knife in his sleeve.

There’s no one down here, didn’t expect there to be.

Nevertheless, he keeps his knife close and extends the hand holding candles to see every
murky nook and cranny of the cellar. The stench of death and rot is remarkably pungent even
still, and he jumps at a skittish rat.

He finds Chiyoh’s strings of braided garlic to combat the smell of bones and shit. He wonders
how glad she is that she’s been freed from the eternal prison of her own making.

That Will helped her give in to her temptation.

Wonders if this is what it’s like to be Hannibal.

Ever curious why no one is grateful for your bestowed foils.

There are shelves of wine bottles just out of reach of the prison cells, and beside that, two
dusty chests with bats chittering and bathing in the temporary firelight of Will’s candelabra.
He shoos them away from underneath the table where the chests lie and they scatter with
even more obnoxious squeaking. Will sighs at the sight of the chests’ individual padlocks.
Placing aside his candles, he picks up a nearby wrench.

There’s tools scattered all over the floor.

That much, he remembered.

It feels good to smash the padlock in two with just a few swings. Good to let out some of his
frustrations in this manner. He throws the wrench aside and accesses the first, more burgundy
chest. Coughs at the flurry of cobwebs and mini dust storm smoking out from the
containment. Waves away the must to discover portraits, many of which are signatured by
Hannibal, and then, exactly what he was looking for.

The katana painting is juvenile; Will doesn’t know why he expected any different from a
child just breaching out of toddler classification. He blows lightly on it, dust puffing off the
canvas in waves. A rotten emotion spirals upward from his stomach all the way to his
temples, and he feels sick from it.

The watercolors used for the swords must have been neon once but have faded with time.
When he turns it over, he finds a child’s scrawl and releases an alleviated sigh. At least her
message hasn’t faded.

It’s written in Lithuanian, but he would have tried not to read it even if it were in English.
This isn’t a part of his own past, as tethered to Hannibal as he is in truth. He’s just the
messenger.

He owes that much to both Mischa and Hannibal.

Will doesn’t linger in the castle this time around. There’s too much risk in being caught by
authority. He doesn’t think the U.S. government would waste money sending agents out here
for an unceasing watch, but he can’t risk that they will be checking the premises occasionally
to assure Hannibal doesn’t return.

He silently acknowledges Mischa’s grave as he passes the yard and is fragile, placing the
painting in the back of his trunk. Revving the car, he takes off speedily to town to pick up his
post office package.
Hannibal insists, quietly, to help Will set up the record player. He arrives outside, marching in
a straight line towards the car before Will can even come up with a believable excuse to stop
him in his tracks.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Will says, waving his hands.

He’s barely half-way out of the driver’s seat.

Hannibal comes to a halt next to the trunk of the car. His expression is guileless, wholly
unaltered by any malicious machinations. He’s willing to help, wanting to even. Will can’t lie
to him right now.

When did he become such a sap?

“I didn’t just go to the post office,” Will confesses. Hannibal cocks a brow, and at least he’s
regaining a semblance of sarcasm in his fresh demeanor. Will placates, “Just…stay.”

Will opens the trunk and picks up the canvas. He takes a deep breath before circling around
to face Hannibal. It doesn’t need to be explained, because Hannibal’s throat seizes at the sight
of it.

A vein looks as if it’s going to pop out of Hannibal’s forehead..

“Breathe,” Will pleads softly, “For me.” He hands Hannibal the canvas and is taken aback by
how delicately Hannibal receives it. Shuttering little gasps escape him as he strokes over the
worn paint.

Will doesn’t know how long they stand there, leaves blowing past them on the ground, the
trunk gaping open and neglected. He waits for Hannibal to move but the offering seems to
have paralyzed him.

That is, until Hannibal turns on his heel and drifts back inside the house like an apparition. It
happens so suddenly, Will is left winded. He tells himself this is good; Hannibal isn’t angry,
just oversensitized.

He swallows down the ounce of hope rearing up past his tongue. He cannot allow hope to
gain an advantage over him, infect him with its vices, not when Mischa is far more important
than his desires.

It doesn’t bother him.

That Mischa affects him this much, even now.

If it were anyone else in Hannibal’s life stealing so much of his mental vacancies, Will would
feel more than jealous, he’d feel violent. But Mischa is different. He loves Hannibal so
thoroughly that Will can see Mischa as akin to his own sister, a sibling that he’s never had. A
strange connection with a dead child he’ll never meet unless in death, in which case he will
thank her for taking care of Hannibal in her time.

Letting go of a trembling sigh, he starts to move the record player inside.

It takes a while to set up, since it’s a vintage model. He tests out one of the albums he bought
on it and winces when Hound Dog begins reverberating scratchily. So much for peace and
quiet.

He shuts it off and leaves the device for later, deciding that he’ll try the softer albums next
time he tampers with it. Maybe Hannibal won’t make a fuss in that case, unless he personally
finds Elvis rude.

To check up on Hannibal, he doesn’t consider the ramifications before seeking him out. It’s
fortunate for Will that Hannibal doesn’t notice him darkening the doorway of the study
because he finds him sitting on the bare wood floor in front of the empty fireplace, knees
tucked to his chest. Mischa’s painting has been set upon the mantle, symmetrically aligned to
stay there for the foreseeable future, but Hannibal is crying. Fully, uncontrollably. Not
dramatically, however, but worse than Will’s ever seen. Throat bobbing intermittently, tear
riddled eyes glazed over unrecognizably, and nostrils undulating.

Hannibal’s lips part in a shuddering intake of breath.

The impulse to hold him is so potent it feels dire.

Will forces himself to back away from the door, yet the image of Hannibal curled up in a ball
on the floor sobbing over Mischa is unfailingly going to be seared into his brain forever. If
Hannibal thought he was protecting Will from this level of introspection, that he couldn’t
possibly see Hannibal the same after seeing him in this state, he couldn’t be more wrong.
This proves why he fell in love with Hannibal.

All those years ago, what attracted him wasn’t just the dark mystique, but the hidden boy
inside aching desperately for someone to care and accept him. Will fell, because he’s afflicted
inside just the same.

Neither of them stood a chance.

Will is going to live with knowing Hannibal so intimately, he’ll begin to forget what the
difference between right and wrong is.

Maybe that’s just fine.

Will’s nursing a fourth scotch when Hannibal strays into their living room. The record player
is on, playing the softer, more crooning verses of Elvis Presley. He at least doesn’t seem
bothered by them.

Winston is sleeping by the TV, blinking wearily at Hannibal before drifting back off to sleep.
Snoring softly, yawning into a dream.

Will resists the urge to stand and gravitate to Hannibal. He watches him sit on the opposite
end of the couch Will is sitting on, and debates asking if he’d like a drink. Or maybe two.

Hannibal stares thoughtfully at the record player. I Need Somebody To Lean On is playing,
ironically. Will couldn’t think of a more fitting song for their situation which makes this all
the worse. He chugs down the rest of his drink and persuades himself not to pour another.
He’s already feeling buzzed.

They sit in comfortable silence for minutes or hours.

When Will has a chance to steal glances at Hannibal, he sees that his eyes are rimmed red,
despite how inconspicuously he's attempting to carry himself. A new song swells into its slot,
and Will determinedly looks away. If Hannibal wants to sit here and absorb life’s reticence,
he won't fuck that up.

Surprisingly, Hannibal stands.

He saunters closer to Will until their shoes are practically touching. He reaches out a hand,
palm up, and Will’s eyebrows soar upward. Hannibal is—he’s actually, no doubt about it—
smiling.

Functioning on instinct, Will takes his hand.

He’s lifted to his feet, their proximity immediately staggering for Will who is too speechless
to protest a dance. Even if he could get his wits about him, he doubts he would refuse. This is
Hannibal offering something he hasn’t in over a month. Prolonged physical touch, and a
regaining sense of lost intimacy.

“I-I don’t know how—”

Hannibal smiles wider, his ears stretching back from his amusement. He places a finger over
Will’s lips, shutting him up rightfully so, and adjusts Will’s hands, one on his hip and the
other holding his hand, moving them close enough for Will to trip over their shoes. He huffs
uncomfortably, nervous about ruining this, but the next song swells and they waltz into
motion. Extremely slow, a sluggish and amorous pace that has Will spiraling out his mind.
There’s no routine; they’re swaying, and Hannibal’s leading.

In increments of apprehensive motion, Will eventually lays his head on Hannibal’s

collarbone.

It feels like dying.

I will beg and steal just to feel your heart beating close to mine, Elvis sings. Once again,
Will’s overwhelmed by everything crushing in on him. Hannibal’s very real, resilient, love
 for him. The atmosphere of their hideaway from hell, a home all their own that belongs to
them and their world.

Hannibal presses a cheek to the crown of Will’s hair.

Will clutches tighter, lowering their entangled hands between them so he can push himself
closer. Hannibal sinks into him reciprocally, slowing their dance to a sultry crawl.

They’ve been fathers, lovers, and enemies.

Now Will doesn’t know where they begin and end.

There’s a thousand things unspoken.

A thousand apologies, a thousand lies. An injury, meticulously imposed, for each thousand,
and a kiss for another thousand more. All Will can do is bury himself in Hannibal’s embrace
and forget.

Far later, when the record player begins to play They Remind Me Too Much Of You, Hannibal
leans back just so they can gaze into each other’s eyes. There’s an apology in Hannibal’s eyes
that Will never wants to see the sight of again. He shakes his head, tensing up with choked up
emotion, and kisses him tenderly.

Will’s cheeks become wet.

Somehow, Hannibal is crying again.

Will shushes him lightly, not demeaning in the slightest, drawing them back into a swaying
hug. It’s less of a dance now and more of a tidal embrace. In an instance of severe
vulnerability, Hannibal buries his face, scrunched up and damp, in Will’s neck, hunching
close enough that Will can pet the full span of his spine. He’s mesmerized, watching himself
stroke patterns over the sheer fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. They breathe in unison.

There’s a pause, in everything but the music.

“I wasn’t ready,” Hannibal murmurs.

His voice croaks expectedly from disuse, yet sounds so thoroughly tormented.

Will winds his arms up so he can stroke his hair and hold him closer, still.

They’re suspended in time, no chapel in sight to obfuscate their admissions.

“I know,” Will replies in a whisper.

Chapter End Notes

weirdly this chapter was meant to be like 5k and the next 10k but i think i swapped them
accidentally ngl. next chapter will probs not be as long as i was hoping it would be, but i
think it'll be a good send off for this story. they're rearing up to a mutual resolution <3
 Chapter 35
Chapter Notes

They do kanoodle a bit, sorry in advance!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Hannibal doesn’t turn chatty overnight.

Will wakes up the day after their dance, tangled in Hannibal’s warm embrace, earning a smile
and a deep morning-tasting kiss that promises more, better things later down the line in their
evolution. Hannibal doesn’t say a word when he extracts himself. Will’s limbs are too hot,
eyelids too heavy, to move right away. He watches him go and wonders if he’ll speak again.
When he enters the kitchen not long after this encounter, Hannibal greets him with an
identical smile and inquires lightly, “Starfruit pancakes?”

He feels warmth spreading in his chest.

He’s never had a starfruit. He accepts.

They taste like the tang of a freshly dissected coconut, the citrus of lemon when it stings your
eyes, the saccharine pull of taffy, and golden dreams, whatever that means.

Will returns the kiss he was given upon waking, bestowing Hannibal with more silent
promises than even he was given. They survived this temporary excursion—honeymoon, trip,
sentencing—to Lithuania, more importantly, Hannibal has and will continue to survive. The
fervent bruises Hannibal digs into the flesh of Will’s arms assures as much, as well as the
tonguing press of lips Hannibal dons on Will’s jawline.

“Convince me I shouldn’t kiss you all day,” Will breathes across his lips, finding solace in the
little nook by the kitchen sink where they’re gripping each other with mild intent, salacious
yet sweet.

“That would be against my best interests,” Hannibal debates, smiling against the nipping kiss
Will punishes him with for acting difficult.

They don’t kiss all day. Damn near close, though.

Their next few days are packed full with reacquaintance. Hannibal doesn’t delve into horribly
deep conversations with Will, but his nitpicking returns with a vengeance. He chastises Will
for the socks he abandons in their study or dishes he neglects to wash. Still, he kisses him
after every admonishment.
Will kisses him back. Unfailingly.

He doesn’t care; Hannibal is speaking again.

Days pass in a blur, the type he imagines they were supposed to experience in Cuba before
Alana and Margot interrupted their tranquility. Before the rest of the world imposed. They
have the time now to read, rest, roll around on their backs and bellies and play dead like dogs
if they damn well please.

There’s no immediacy in the context of why Will brought them here. He finds no reason to
rush Hannibal despite Hannibal having rushed him in every instance of his metamorphosis.
Will has different methods than Hannibal when it comes to molding and manipulation.
Mercy, at the least.

Several days into quiet dinners and soft kisses, muted conversations in the dark that never
flourish into anything more than gauging questions about present feelings, desires, interests
—there’s a shift.

Hannibal buys a chess board.

Online, naturally. Will eyes the package suspiciously when it arrives at their doorstep, folded
up to look smaller than it is. Doesn’t even know how Hannibal got it delivered all the way out
here in the woods. Hannibal constructs it regardless of Will’s relentless insistence in favor of
being the handyman.

One of the legs is nailed slightly crooked, but Will doesn’t tip Hannibal off to that fact once
it's finished. Ignorance is bliss as they say, and sometimes, a white lie is healthy even
between the two of them.

Plus, he’s chuffed Hannibal isn’t good at everything.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had the honor,” Hannibal states coyly, sitting astride the two
maroon chairs he’d taken in from the storage closet. It’s a pretty giant closet, considering
their cabin’s size.

Hannibal gestures to their new, polished chess board. Will eyes the table again, in its final
assembly. He sits parallel to Hannibal and says, “I suppose we better get this out of the way.”

Hannibal moves a chess piece, initiating the game.

Will moves another.

“Is it really so tedious,” Hannibal muses, non-judgmentally. They continue making passes,
escalating their game from gentlemenry to savagery. Will hisses when Hannibal makes an
offensively clever move.

“Not tedious. Predictable.”

He once considered the back and forth they’d entertain in Hannibal’s office to be much like
chess. Without either player fully realizing who was winning. Blind chess, maybe.
And it’s as if Hannibal reads his mind, he can, what’s the point in pretending otherwise—

“You prefer our figurative chess.”

“Haven’t played real chess since I was living with my dad,” Will notes contentiously, feeling
as if he’s swallowed a thick wad of gum. He never wants to talk about his dad, not really.
Particularly, not in front of Hannibal for some reason. Not that Hannibal can even do
anything with the divulged information, he just has a deeply rooted urge not to talk about his
father to his face. A sacrilegious hunch. “Feels strange.”

“Things we’ve done only with ghosts feel strange.”

Will rolls his head on his shoulders and thinks about the nature of ghosts. He ponders telling
Hannibal about the river he nearly died in before coming to the conclusion Hannibal was
alive. How he wanted to die. Maybe he could have haunted the quiet stream, the way he
predicted Hannibal would haunt the sea.

He doesn’t tell him. Gulps away the impulse.

Chooses another variant of recklessness.

“Me playing chess isn’t the same as you entering your childhood home,” Will posits.
“Despite the ghosts.”

Hannibal freezes just a moment, his queen piece between two fingers.

“No,” he agrees eventually. Their game is progressing stiffly, Hannibal winning in another
four moves, as if he could have beaten Will all along and just now decided he wants out from
their conversation—game.

Will raises his hands in capitulation and changes the subject.

“You up for a movie?”

Inhaling, Hannibal blinks away his demons.

He smiles plainly and nods once.

Will, oddly, feels blessed to have this.

They migrate to the living room. Will dares to ask if they have any popcorn. Hannibal urges
Will to change his mind and allow him to make them roasted corn with manchego and lime.
The process takes long enough that Will ends up sweating alone on the living room couch,
stewing bitterly, a thick blanket draped over his thighs. It isn’t helping that Winston’s draped
his entire body over Will’s feet, furry belly scalding. The steam coming off the cobs Hannibal
brings in on plates roils Will’s stomach but he forces a smile and receives his plate gratefully.
He doesn't need to ask Hannibal to get under the blanket with him.

He just does.
“Have you picked something out?” Hannibal questions, placing a small tray between them.
He takes Will’s plate out of his hands and sets them both down on the tray. Sets a wad of
napkins there.

Will doesn’t think ‘movie night’ is supposed to be this complicated.

“Ehm, it’s called Gun Crazy.” Will’s eyes go a bit shifty. “It’s loosely based on Bonnie and
Clyde.” He kept with the Film Noir genre, just in case it’s the only style that’ll appease
Hannibal.

“I’m sure I’ll admire your choice,” Hannibal says.

Will turns it on and awkwardly reaches for his plate. He soon learns there’s no sexy way to
eat a corn cob, and delays actually finishing it out of shame. Hannibal somehow eats his
elegantly, though he gets a kernel of corn stuck on his lips and the subsequent expression of
regret stewing in the man’s face is absolutely priceless. The munching noises don’t help, but
at least those are more muffled.

The film’s characters talk loudly over their snacking.

A chuckle escapes Will as he attempts to bite into the cob again and the vegetable juices
squirt substance on his shirt. “Jesus Christ,” he voices. Off Hannibal’s wry look he asks,
“Was this your intention?”

“Not truly, no.”

Hannibal sounds honest, but he often does.

Gun Crazy escalates and deescalates in instances of bright romance and morbid realism Will
grows particularly fond of a pointless dancing scene between the two leads, though he can’t
narrow down why.

It worsens the yearning ailment he possesses, that one he hasn’t been able to shed since
meeting Hannibal. Hungry for more, always. Never satisfied, except for brief shuttering
moments of clarity between them.

Around when the movie begins to conclude, he finds that he’s curled up to Hannibal’s side.
He hadn’t even registered himself moving across the cushions, and Hannibal hadn't made a
move to touch him more than this. There’s a firm point of contact between them that’s left
Will more comfortable than he’s ever been in his life. The credits start to roll and he pushes a
beaming cheek into Hannibal’s bony shoulder.

“I missed you so much,” he murmurs.

It could mean that he missed Hannibal being intimate with him, talking with him. It could
mean the coma and all that entailed. It could mean the five years he left Hannibal alone in a
cell, only hurting himself.

It could mean he missed the side of Hannibal that he hates. The side he’d worried was gone
for good until he discovered Hannibal was drugging and prepping him for more
machinations. Always more.

Hannibal doesn’t respond, and that’s okay.

Tipping Will’s chin up with a finger, Hannibal captures his lips in a quiet, short-lived kiss.
Will realizes then and there, with the familiar taste of Hannibal permeating over his tongue,
that they’ve fallen into a domestic lifestyle. A routine, shared living, a real life that Will never
believed they could have together.

Can’t live with him, can’t live without him.

Could Bedelia have been so wrong?

They’ve settled. For now. Happiness pours through him, despite what lies ahead. Regardless
of the fact Hannibal will need to face his own horrors sooner or later. The fact that happiness
isn’t a unicorn term—is actually real and unchallengeable—humbles him.

They begin having sex again not long after that night. Hannibal initiates it, unsuspecting to
Will at first glance who is sinking deeply into the extravagant, girthy chapters of a historical
drama novel.

He doesn't set it aside when Hannibal strolls into the study. By now, he's used to Hannibal
arriving to sit with him in a comfortable, domesticated silence. Or, for him to arrive with
announcements of dinner, lunch, once breakfast for dinner which Will never would have
expected of Hannibal in a million years.

It had been a rendition of scrambled eggs, cheesy and vivid yellow. It melted in his mouth
like bone marrow does, not that he’d put it past Hannibal to include bone marrow in a
breakfast dish.

So, he smiles at Hannibal's silent greeting, scoots to the side to make more space for him if he
decides to sit, and returns to the enthralling pages of his book.

Hannibal sits beside him under an innocent guise of interest, brushing his shoulder as he
pretends to read along with Will. No sooner does he then reach down and caress slender
fingers over Will's kneecap, a subtle gesture of seduction. So subtle, Will doesn’t realize the
cells in his body are starting to buzz.

Will leans into him, comfortable using him as a back pillow, almost startling when he
registers Hannibal's arm looping around his neck, the hand there beginning to spin circles
across his shoulder.

It’s a ghostly touch and makes him shiver.

"What is it about?" Hannibal whispers the question too close for comfort, nose tickling the
lobe of his ear. Still ignorant to Hannibal’s scheme, Will becomes aware of his own arousal
and tames his uneven breathing.

"A princess. She, um," Hannibal moves the hand on Will's leg upward until he's toying with a
loose string in the crease of his crotch. It's a good bluff. Not great. Will's starting to get the
picture, but he doesn't want to get his hopes up. Without making eye contact, afraid of the
unabashed hunger he'll see that will cause him to tremble and blush, he continues. "Got bored
with her all-to-do life and decides to pursue a life of crime in rebellion. She…she's
discovering her father has ties to the—Hannibal, christ, what are you…?"

He doesn't know why he's prodding. He’s keyed in now. Hannibal is clearly lowering the
zipper of his jeans and not because he wants to know the plot of a novel.

Suddenly, the arm braced around his shoulder clinches him tighter and the hand hovering
there clasps over his mouth, silencing him. Taken aback, Will drops his book. It lands in a
thump on the rug. Hannibal’s other hand is reaching into his pants, squeezing him over his
boxers and sending a sharp tremor of red-hot fire up his spine. It’s been so long and Will
hasn’t even really touched himself. He forgets his line of questioning; Hannibal's punishing
hand muffles the shrill moan he releases.

His own hands paw at the one constricting his mouth, more an automatic instinct to regain his
breath again rather than genuinely wanting Hannibal to let him go.

Will’s cock is squeezed again and he’s forced to close his eyes against the headache-inducing
pleasure. He couldn’t remember the plot of his book if he tried. He loosens his grip on the
hand plastered to his mouth. Slumps a bit in Hannibal’s full-body lock.

"There's my boy," Hannibal growls in his ear, the attractive reverberation causing one of
Will's legs to twitch so intensely, it jostles Hannibal's grip on his dick. It's reestablished
instantly, much firmer this time. Almost overly so. "Be good for me, won't you?"

Will nods, faster when Hannibal's fingers dip beneath his waistband and tangle painfully in
the hair there. He arches up, squirming away, but is pushed bluntly back down to the couch
cushions.

"Stay quiet and still and I'll bake you something with the fresh peaches I acquired at the
market today," he whispers, grazing teeth across Will's ear. “You’ve needed this from me. I’d
wager you always did.”

Blinking several times, his brain catches up with his body when Hannibal begins stroking
him in earnest. He attempts to keep the pleasure fogging his brain dissipated enough to
remember to stay quiet.

It’s not the peaches so much as the act of being good for Hannibal.

In moments like these, the feasible answer is to let go.

It’s easier, better, a lot more satisfying when he does.

The likelihood that Hannibal plotted when the best time to resume their sexual activity would
be, considering Will’s desperation to be intimate with Hannibal in any shape or form, doesn’t
escape him.

Being toyed with isn’t so bad when it feels like this.

"It shouldn't be difficult," Hannibal murmurs further, in a deeper pitch, and Will could care
less that this pompous prick never learned—or will ever learn — to shut up because he needs
to keep hearing his voice. Anything he says sounds like dirty talk, demeaning in a way that
Will is well, quite horny for, thank you very much. As if to punctuate this stream of
consciousness, Hannibal rasps, "It's not as if you'll last long."

Will jerks against the restraints of Hannibal's hands and comes in volleys.

He's not even halfway finished climaxing when Hannibal's hand disappears from his over
mouth, Will’s moans suddenly echoing embarrassingly loud in the little room. Hannibal
bends down swiftly to mouth up the last of the release jetting out of him. Those lips caress
him to oversensitivity. Will cries out, weakly batting at him for more or less, he's never sure.
He just knows he has a hard time coming down in the aftermath. Hannibal licking his chops
like a satiated panther, Will panting like he’s having a stroke.

“A suitable appetizer for dinner,” Hannibal comments simply, a glistening smirk spreading
over his cheeks. Will stares at him, still in a haze. He can’t resist when he’s kissed deeply,
arduously.

Doesn’t notice Hannibal tucking his softening dick back into his trousers, patting him lightly
on the balls over the fabric enough to make Will wince and pull away with a grumble.

After that, Hannibal gets up to make dinner.

Will is left to writhe every so often on the couch, the cushions feeling irritatingly scratchy on
his hypersensitive skin in the aftermath. Hannibal didn’t even say goodbye, and Will couldn’t
catch if he was erect. He’s off his game, that’s for sure, but who can blame him after being
ambushed. Will can’t remember a time in his life where an orgasm debilitated him so much.
He can’t move for another half hour, grabbing pathetically for the book that was dropped on
the floor after he regains feeling in his arms.

When Hannibal appears in the doorway to ask whether or not he’d prefer his meat rare or
medium rare, Will glares at Hannibal for enjoying the act of ruining him so thoroughly he can
hardly find his voice.

Hannibal eyes Will up and down, grinning.

“Rare, I think.”

He’s gone again in a flash.

Though every ounce of him feels heavy, Will tosses his head back over the back of the couch
and realizes how absolutely screwed he is living with a cannibal who’s feeling more himself
everyday.

Over dinner, Hannibal scrutinizes him like he's extrapolating every dirty fantasy Will has
ever entertained right from his pores, locking it away for later when he decides it's high time
to strike.
"I'll get you back," Will mutters defeatedly, cutting savagely into a slab of venison. The
comment comes from nowhere.

Hannibal smirks wider, foot nudging into his under the table in a fake gesture of incident.

"I'm sure you will," he responds giddily.

He swallows a measure of wine and Will copies him.

That night, sex endorphins kick in for Will belatedly and he instinctively clings to Hannibal
like a child returned to a lost parent at the grocery store. There's no rhyme or reason for why
his grip is as tight as it is, why he finds himself murmuring devotion into the skin between
Hannibal's pecs, or why he cries.

The tears fortunately arrive without hyperventilation. He turns his head away from Hannibal
so the man won't feel them dropping atop his skin, branding and pitiful. Hannibal must sense
them at any rate.

"Don't hide from me, Will," he says pacifyingly, rubbing at Will's shoulder to urge him back
over. "We know each other better than we know ourselves. How is this expression different
from any other?"

Crying?

Will doesn't know. He sits up, further distancing himself from Hannibal, and stares blurry-
eyed at the shadowy cabin wall. He really doesn’t know why this expression of emotion is
any different.

It makes him think.

Recall all the times he’s cried. For Mischa, for Hannibal, for every situation that’s ever
fucked his existence over but never…

"You know what’s funny," Will starts, waiting for his throat to soothe. He doesn't want his
voice to strain over this confession. "For all my wallowing over my disorder, this whole
stigma I used to perpetuate about the way I was forced to empathize…I don't know if I've
ever…shed tears for myself."

Tears have always been an extension for him, never an expression. Something that happened
when he would see the world from another person’s eyes. When he would mirror pain but not
truly have it.

"Is that what they're for?" Hannibal questions, sitting up behind him. His voice is fabricated
of simple curiosity, regarding and inoffensive.

Will finds himself incapable of stopping the floodgates from releasing more. As if he's
become the stream he endlessly covets. An eternal melancholic flow.

He thinks hard about Hannibal's question.

"I think so," he replies, the words cementing in the atmosphere surrounding them.

Hannibal scoots up closer behind, legs wrapping around to frame his thighs and hips, a long
arm folding over him to press a hand against Will's heart. They inhale and exhale together.
With his other hand, Hannibal wipes Will's tears away. His Ripper neglects to taste them, this
time; this isn't a moment for that. Hannibal, for once, is exactly what Will needs him to be as
a human. A partner. A man.

"I'm happy for you," Hannibal whispers, so genuinely that Will predicts he's cracked up.

Shaking his head against the onslaught of emotions, Will nuzzles backwards into his
formidable frame and sighs when Hannibal squeezes him tighter, the veins in his biceps
bulging with hidden power.

"You make me so happy." Will grinds the words out so disbelievingly, and the statement itself
results to sound like an insult. Haphazardly, he continues. "This life, this Hell we've seat
belted ourselves into. I don't know how to process that I legitimately want this with you…just
this. Forever. Maybe longer."

It's horrible that he's happy. A curse, really. To be so utterly satisfied by the man who has
upended his soul, revealed his irredeemable nature.

It's not that Will doesn't care, either, but that he doesn't need to care. Not anymore.

"Longer," Hannibal promises darkly.

Will believes him.

He allows himself to be pulled back down into their disarray of sheets. He'd planned to get
Hannibal off in return for earlier but his lust has faded. Will feels more held with how he's
positioned, tangled in Hannibal's limbs, absorbing his heat. Relishing in the mediocre yet
revolutionary phenomenon of peace.

They sleep, dreamless.

Three Months Later

“Where did you go?” asks Will

The front door just closed. Winston is shaking his coat for a third time after Hannibal clips
off both his walking collar and harness, hanging them on the first prong of the coat rack.
Beside those, their morning coats and winter coats. Will has traveled out to the department
store several times to expand their respective wardrobes. Hannibal never goes with him, but
he always hands Will a detailed list of what he would like. Tilting his head at Will’s question,
Hannibal starts divesting his own articles, another heavy coat, and boots that forensics would
use to hunt down and capture them in an instant, when he answers.

“The same place I always go. The garden, the riverbend.”

“No, no.” Will shakes his head, hazily remembering the day Hannibal disappeared. When he
was still mute, still resistant to the power of Will’s unspoken suggestions. “You know when.”

He isn’t judged for asking three months late.

Hannibal’s posture straightens with an air of understanding. He hangs his coat up beside
Winston’s collar, and pads over to the living room couch in a saunter that matches Winston’s;
the sight draws Will out of his intangible trance enough to accept the greeting kiss laid on his
cheek with a wavering, crooked smile.

The couch sinks beside him.

Hannibal’s stance is casual, legs crossing sideways to face Will.

There’s reluctance, but no longer resistance.

“Home,” Hannibal admits in a low voice. “I could not proceed beyond the gate.”

Will has an image of him stalling the car every quarter mile down the road to the castle.
Uncertain if he should, certain he must try. A specter’s turmoil shadowing the gates of land
he can no longer haunt.

He doesn’t play stupid and ask if Hannibal means he couldn’t progress because the gate was
locked, cause there’s a ‘No Trespassing’ sign. God forbid Hannibal would ever listen to a
sign. There’s an obvious reason why he could not — cannot — get past the gate.

It’s not that he can’t face his past, but that he can’t face it alone.

Will’s been thinking for a few months now. Thinking a lot. He hasn’t rushed Hannibal, but
Hannibal hasn’t made progress beyond his physical self. He’s back to extravagant dinners
and fucking Will with the vigor of a devoted Greek God. He’s even back to lamenting about
the radiance of death, blood, murder.

He knows soon he won’t be able to keep the key to his beast’s cage in the palm of his hand.
Hannibal will unleash on whatever he pleases, whenever he pleases. Department store trips
will begin to pique Will’s interest and a few Lithuanian clerks and cashiers may start to go
missing. The meat, redder on their table.

That doesn’t matter to Will.

What matters is that Hannibal will be repelled from the Lecter Estate eternally unless Will
does something about it. Unless he treads, lightly in the least, and insinuates himself as a
guide.

Having traveled home by himself proves Hannibal wants closure as much as he originally
claimed he did. Will wonders if he’s ever even sat beside Mischa’s grave, or let the
gravediggers bestow her final prayer.

“I want to go there together,” Will suggests slowly. “You and me. Your home.”

Hannibal’s head sways away from watching him, automatic. The temptation to reject the idea
is too accessible for him, and Will knows he’s made it too easy. He hasn’t demanded they do
a thing. Hasn’t even asked for Hannibal to agree. He just stated his opinion; he would like to
bring Hannibal home.

He doesn’t outright say ‘no.’

Will knows then; the hook is in.

“We don’t have to go beyond the gate. Not today, or any day we choose to go.”

“Exposure therapy?” Hannibal muses, resoundingly amused on the surface except that his
tone is anything but moderate. His tone is the dimmest luminating element of dusk, necrotic
silver.

“You tell me.”

Hannibal swallows, hollowed out eyes casting down. “Sometimes, the boat you think you’ve
witnessed, floating in wait upon the sea, turns out to be a shipwreck.”

This is Hannibal telling Will plainly;

I am afraid.

Will scoots so close to him their breaths mingle, reaching his arms over, leisurely so that he
doesn't startle Hannibal, and presses fingers and palms tenderly on either side of his neck.
Cups him so that his thumbs rest in the divot of his throat and collar bone. A shadowy spot
that quivers under his touch, the only physical sign of distress where Hannibal's facial
expression remains unreadable and unpredictably even.

"It hasn't sunk to the bottom of the ocean yet. Don't you think it would if you were meant to
keep away?" Will gently questions.

Hannibal's eyes lower to Will's hands. His arms hover, as if meaning to push him away,
before hands enclose Will's wrists, circling skin softly. It doesn't take long for their physical
contact to break Hannibal down, for him to sway into the soothing gesture of Will's hands
and kiss a palm. His left one, since Will notices the skin there buzzes after. The sizzling
warmth reminds him of his plans for later in the evening.
"Will." Hannibal is at a loss for words again, which is a travesty only to the man himself
because Will finds him unbearably endearing in these moments. "I can't promise anything…”

Will squeezes him firmer.

"There's nothing you need to promise to me. This isn't for me, Hannibal."

Stiffly, Hannibal nods.

"But I'd like to be there," Will murmurs, eyes flitting all along Hannibal's plush features. “For
you.”

He knows his encouragement has worked when Hannibal nods again, more decisive. He
wants Will to be there, wants to feel as safe as he does right now in his arms. Unbearably
endeared is right, because Will can’t hold back from revealing just a fraction of his later
plans. There’s nothing wrong with preparation, anyhow. Will kisses him, deepening the kiss
at the first prod of Hannibal’s tongue, shifting the mood.

“Are you quite sure you didn’t have other intentions, luring me to this couch?” Hannibal
murmurs playfully, his sharp attitude slinking back into every overly tense crevice in his
body.

Will is more than happy to drop the subject for now.

“Remember when I bought the record player?" He asks on Hannibal’s lips, dragging his hand
down his chest so he can get a generous grip of his shirt, pulling him closer still. “I bought
something else then. Been meaning to use it for…” A toothy kiss on his Adam's apple
cruising up to the curve of his chin makes Will’s brain stutter, "for a while now. Haven’t
figured out the ideal… god, that’s nice…uh, time.”

Hannibal’s hand slides across his cheek scar, bringing their lips back together. The kiss starts
to get distractingly heated, so much so that Will has to pinch the back of Hannibal’s neck to
get him to ease off.

“Let me show you,” he insists.

Hannibal considers. It seems like he may flip Will on his stomach and tear down his pants in
retaliation, something he’s done before much to Will’s chagrin (they were in the kitchen, in
his defense—he didn’t think he’d ever have to be the one to insist that eating out someone
atop the cutting board isn’t sanitary). Instead, he smirks, one of his pointed teeth flashing.
Will leads him out of the living room with a nod towards the hall. Lets himself be kissed in
the doorway of the bedroom before Hannibal slams it shut.

He’s aware Hannibal’s eyes are predatorily tracking him as he crosses the room and digs
through his sock drawer. He’d hidden it well, tucked within a pair of plain blue socks
Hannibal would never dream of wearing.

A cock ring, still in its plastic packaging.

When Hannibal registers what it is, he looks intrigued, not appalled. That’s the cue Will
needs to open it. He shreds the plastic with his teeth and draws out the red, silicon ring. It’s
stretchy but not by much. He’s never used one, though he had a purpose in buying this. He
just hopes the fact they’re both hard won’t make this difficult to apply. Hannibal steps up
closer to him and slips a finger through and over it, testing.

“I miss being inside you,” Will mildly admits. “I knew whenever you allowed it again, I’d
wanna make it last.” He peppers kisses on Hannibal’s bare skin, where his collarbone
disappears under shirt fabric.

“If only I knew,” Hannibal snarks gently.

“Sex wouldn’t have been great for us, the first few weeks here.”

“I suppose not.”

“You gonna let me?” Will whispers into Hannibal’s ear before he nuzzles his scarred cheek
against Hannibal’s smooth one. He knows it riles Hannibal up even at the worst of times. "I
could say please."

"Not if you want this to last," Hannibal teases in a low, taken voice. Any lingering ounce of
hesitance has dissipated in the face of Will's coy seduction tactics.

For now, their earlier dissonance is tabled.

Will has to focus on his grip around the ring as he's hauled bodily across their springy
mattress, clothes shorn from him with hungry fingers. He's chuckling into the next kiss, their
teeth clicking off center, once, before Hannibal moves on to preexisting bruises on his neck.
It's going to be a long night, Will thinks warmly as he stares at the ceiling fan creaking in a
perpetual spin. His exhale shortly curtails into a gasp.

It's been approximately an hour and Will has grown only physically exhausted, nowhere near
mentally. He could keep running on low for hours more just because he can't get enough of
this.

Being inside Hannibal. Making his skin blush. His eyelids squeeze.

He's had Hannibal in every position. Every angle. Seen beauty in all its potential radiance and
glory. Right now, Will's on his knees, with Hannibal on his back looking flushed as Will
drives into him. One of Hannibal's legs is slung lazily over Will's shoulder where he
exhaustedly, but passionately, mouths at it. He's shocked he hasn't made Hannibal come yet,
but he knows the man is ten years older than him after all. He's savoring too, refusing to
reach between his legs and finish himself off.

Will doesn’t dare reach there, either.

"You're starting to smell like me, I think," Will murmurs into his knee cap, bucking his hips
extremely hard, just once, only to hear Hannibal’s grunt (a soft, nearly confused, sweet
noise). There's no scent at the sweaty crook of his leg, which tips Will off that they are
beginning to overlap even in this manner.

"Or you, me," Hannibal posits roughly. He strokes his fingers over Will's hipbone and rocks
his pelvis needily into the feathery thrusts. Will tries not to smile.

"What do you say?" Will breathes, hooking the leg on his elbow so he can bend forward and
roll his hips back and forth at a more uniform pace. They’ve had to stop and reapply lubricant
several times, each time more desperate than the last. The friction-filled tugging is signaling
they may need to again soon. Hannibal's eyes close, fluttering open and shut in stages of
intense arousal. "Was this a good investment?"

Will is surprised when Hannibal shakes his head and grumbles,

“Not yet.”

Will’s thrusts stutter, his heightened arousal tapering. “Why’s that?” he prods in a
purposefully sultry voice. If Hannibal isn’t enjoying their union, he’s going to have to do a
little more to convince him.

Turns out, he’s got nothing to worry about.

Hannibal’s eyes peel open, dark pools of black lust consuming the color there. He tilts his
head up, snarling as Will starts to grind rather than thrust. Instead of responding, Hannibal
pushes himself up the sheets enough for Will’s dick to come loose from the tight clutch of his
body. Will can’t describe the bereaved noise he emits, but he does let out a humiliating yelp
when he’s abruptly tossed on his back and kissed within an inch of his life. “I think it’s my
turn to be inside, darling,” he growls in an erotic whisper.

Will’s cock throbs weakly, restricted by the ring.

“Anything,” he whispers back, sinking into silk.

They somehow go at it for another hour, after Will is prepped and Hannibal is the one to
penetrate him. It’s heavenly, and inconceivable, that Will may have never known what it felt
like to be fucked directly after fucking someone else. The exhaustion from before works
towards his body’s lax acceptance of this.

It heightens everything. Oversensitizes every cell.

Hannibal’s hair is drenched with sweat by the end of it. Every single one of Will’s limbs is
screaming for a heating pad or massage. They’re shivering together, for at least forty minutes
in the glowing aftermath.
They’d switched the ring onto Hannibal’s cock before switching positions. Now, Hannibal’s
plucking it off with an inflection of distaste. It’s sticky, and Will feels sick for wanting to hold
it close to his heart. It’s just a piece of silicon, but it gave them the opportunity to be
connected for an extended period of time.

The orgasm he had was like nothing else once it finally erupted, though he can’t be too
certain he wasn’t empathizing with Hannibal’s as his happened. Not that he’ll ever complain
about that possibility.

Two are better than one.

“I wanted to be cremated once,” Will admits into Hannibal’s neck, being scooped closer to
Hannibal and away from the puddle of sweat, semen, and whatever else leaked from their
orifices onto the bed.

“Why’s that?” Hannibal asks, wonderfully one-note after sex.

Will hums, baring his neck for the little love bites Hannibal wants to scatter his pale skin
with. They’re sharp as pinpricks and hurt beautifully. He wants as many as Hannibal can
give.

“No traces of me.” Will nudges his nose against Hannibal’s nose, shuddering through a tardy
aftershock that would have had him on his knees were he standing. Hannibal runs tickling
fingers up his spine to get him to shudder again, greedy for it. It takes a minute to find his
voice again, explaining further, “No esoteric excuses to use my body for science, for me to be
replicated. Whatever it is…that I am.”

“You’re Will Graham,” Hannibal reminds firmly. His voice is wrecked, and Will likes
hearing it almost as much as he likes the sex itself. “There is no such thing as identical
duplication, not even when I’m in consideration.”

“Yeah, it was more of an irrational fear. That if I abandoned my body without disposing of it,
some way, somehow, the universe would continue to find a way to cause destruction with it.”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“Whatever traces of me there are, I need them to be with you.”

“Our ashes together?” Hannibal clarifies mildly.

“No, I don’t think you’d want that,” Will states, balancing himself on an elbow. Hannibal lays
on his side, gazing up at him. Tremors of immense power and violence underneath soft skin
and prickly hair. A human vessel that Will has grown to want in every way. He strokes down
his chest, biting nails into the soft skin of Hannibal’s belly before adding, “I think you want
to share a grave. Or our blood to transfuse.”

To die atop each other on the proverbial battlefield.

Their blood blurring as it did the night they killed the Dragon.
“While I have no qualms with the inevitability of death, I don’t often think of anything
physical about the afterlife. I would like to be with you, yes. As far as my preferences are
concerned—”

“I’m not asking for a compromise,” Will assures. “I don’t want to be cremated. Not anymore.
The likelihood that I’d be separated from you…” He shakes his head at the inconsolable idea.
“There’s something else I have in mind, if we live long enough. If we don’t die in a sea of
blood first.”

Hannibal waits, gaze burning into him.

“When we’re so old we can barely walk,” Will begins, each syllable languid as he pictures
the tentative scene in his mind. “When we know it’s time for us. I want to take a small boat
out onto the ocean. We can poison ourselves, whatever does the trick. Make sure we’re tied
together. Sink the boat. Wait for the sea to accept us for a final time. I had dreams about you
outside the chapel, when you were in a coma. You were underwater, speaking in tongues to
me. Our bodies were together, and that’s…all I wanted. I knew I’d made the right choice
when I did what I had to on the cliff, but it wasn’t at the right time in our lives.”

He doesn’t need to explain why to Hannibal. That they’ll become as bloated and
unrecognizable as any other eroding substance in the water. That their essences will merge
unrecognizably, their flesh eaten away by creatures unknown in the darkest, coldest, depths,
digested the way they’ve digested the Earth.

The sea means more to the two of them than it does in literature.

It represents rebirth, yes, but it also represents the peace Will’s been after all his life.

An ending. Their ending.

“Anything,” Hannibal promises.

He sounds so determined, and loyal, Will nearly tastes tears in the back of his throat. He
kisses him chastely, close-mouthed and grateful, and doesn’t realize when he’s started to drift
into a deep sleep.

Just before midnight, Will is stirred awake.

Hannibal is towering over their bed, coat, boots, and scarf adorned. Eagle-eyed and stern.
Waiting for Will to wake up as if they had some sort of itinerary set in stone. He blinks
groggily up at him, ignoring the ache in his tailbone from their rigorous love making earlier,
and says dumbly, “What.”

“I could not sleep,” Hannibal answers, as if it isn’t obvious. “Now may be a prudent time to
start.”

It takes Will a minute. He isn’t as fast as Hannibal in their game of connecting the elusive as-
all-hell dots. There’s no other explanation for this, though. And as tired as he feels, this may
be his only chance at getting Hannibal to initiate his own progress. Will waves a hand and
throws his feet flat on the floor.

“Two minutes,” he bargains.

He takes ten, but Hannibal is patient.

Winston is at the door with him, though he won’t be tagging along. They don’t need any
distractions. He senses something is awry, it seems, whining at Hannibal’s feet. Hannibal pets
him, soothing him by rubbing his ears between two fingers. It quiets Winston down, but Will
sees the concern in the flick of his tail when he’s ready and has marched his way up to the
door, in a knit hat and thick morning coat.

It isn’t that cold outside, but he’d been so toasty under the covers.

Hannibal insists that he drive. Will sits restlessly in shotgun, watching him inconspicuously
as they ride the lonely road down to his estate.

Moonlight illuminates the castle like a gothic dream.

Will hops out onto the crunchy soil the instant the car rolls to a stop. Hannibal takes longer,
as if in slow motion, turning the key lazily in the ignition, waiting for the vehicle’s rumble to
die out completely.

Will winds around, waiting by his car door but not offering to help. It would be a step too far,
and Hannibal must do this himself. Besides, it doesn’t take longer than a few minutes for
Hannibal to follow.

They wander over to the gate.

It feels surreal, being here with Hannibal.

His empathy is slightly muted from sleep, and Will tries to shake off the mental blanket
keeping him from understanding what Hannibal is going through. Maybe that’s the point of
all this though, he can be here for Hannibal, but he isn’t here to read him. That could come
later. For now, it’s about stepping stones.

One of Hannibal’s hands hovers in the air.

Will says nothing. He watches.

Hannibal almost touches the padlock on the gate, then lowers his hand. There’s a sliver of
disappointment in his eyes, and he has to tear his gaze from the estate and angle it towards
the shadowy woods beyond the property. Even out there, there seems to be ghostly memories.
His body is tightening up, curling inward.

Will touches him then, a palm on his arm.

“There’s tomorrow,” Will reminds.

Hannibal lets out a small, breathy sound of relief.

“Tomorrow,” he echoes.

There is, Will thinks as they huddle back into the car and prepare to drive back home.
Tomorrow, Hannibal might touch the gate. And a week from now, he may step beyond it.

“Tomorrow,” repeats Will when they’ve parked in front of their quiet cabin. He hadn’t asked
before climbing in behind the wheel. Hannibal hadn’t requested to drive.

Now, he simply nods.

A Half Year Later

Will fiddles with iris leaves, hunched on the front steps of the estate. It’s been an hour since
Hannibal disappeared inside. He said he’d wait, for however long Hannibal needs to spend
alone within its depths.

It’s fall.

Autumn colors paint the skies and the nature co-existing underneath it. Will had breathed in
the fresh air, musky with dead grass and molded stone, but still deliciously fresh as Mother
Earth’s immortal breath.

Hannibal has never gone inside alone. Will has served as an extra limb for every step of the
property they’ve explored, and even then, they’ve never gone far. They’ve gone to the broken
fountain, occasionally. He can’t imagine Hannibal is stepping far outside his comfort zone,
but he’s also optimistic.

When Hannibal emerges, Will drops the woven iris leaves at his feet and steadies himself a
step below him, smiling when he finds no encumbered or distressed inflection upon his face.
“Hey,” Will murmurs tenderly in greeting when Hannibal reaches out to caress where his
beard has grown in the fullest.

Hannibal’s skin is glowing olive and he’s never looked more vibrant. These trips have been
doing him well, physically and mentally, where in the beginning they seemed to be sucking
him dry. Hollowing him out until he appeared skeletal with his lack of appetite and Will had
to reconsider if this excursion to Lithuania was worth it. Days beyond that terrible interim,
something clicked, and Hannibal would become the first to suggest it was time for their daily
trips, even accompanied by his remaining hesitance.
Currently, Hannibal slips his free hand in a pocket.

He brings out a rosary, strung with plain pink stones that have faded to beige over time.

“My mother’s,” Hannibal explains, eyes cast down sadly to examine each bead. “The first
time I ever saw the Norman Chapel, I was a child and Mischa was still alive. My mother took
us on a trip to visit her family in Italy. She was very religious and went to the chapel to pray. I
only admired the paintings and the architecture, but my sister prayed too. She promised
Mischa she would own this one day.”

There's a vision in Will's mind of their chapel. A space Hannibal once could have only called
his own, after years listening to the echoes of voices who abandoned him alone to rage
through the fleshy weak spots of Earth's core. A boy too small to reach up and gaze into the
votive candles or light one for the contretemps of his childhood.

Hannibal hands the rosary to Will.

Will treats it like a priceless teacup, running fingertips gently over the delicate beads. It feels
like holding a baby, from the few times he has. Wrong in his hands, too fragile to feel safe.
It’s ethereal and wondrous, nevertheless. He can picture it around Simonetta Lecter’s slender
neck. He hands it back to him.

“Retrieve the shovel by the door of the servant’s quarters, will you?” Hannibal implores. Will
can at least connect those out-of-the-blue dots, blinking fast and taking a sideways step up,
closer to confront him.

“Are you—”

“Will,” Hannibal voices strongly, softening in an instant. “Please.”

Will gives a quick nod and does as he’s told. His heart pounds when he registers that
Hannibal is wisping off towards the graveyard. He hadn’t thought their progress included this
destination so soon, but maybe all it took was for something to click like last time. Hannibal’s
posture shouts that he’s ready, as do his heavy eyes. Will shadows him, from far enough away
not to be invasive, and stands over him as Hannibal kneels in front of Mischa’s grave. Wind
rushes past them, blowing leaves over the long-forgotten dirt.

“It isn’t deep,” informs Hannibal. “Would you—”

“Yes.”

Will digs and Hannibal appears to dissociate during the labor, staring so hard at Mischa’s
grave Will thinks he may glare a hole through it, but when a tiny steel box is revealed, he
fluctuates back into reality.

Will drops the shovel to the floor a few feet away, using the fabric of his jeans to rub the sting
out of his calloused hands. He kneels beside Hannibal in the grass and mud and asks vaguely,

“Do you want me to…?”

 “No,” Hannibal says suddenly. “No, Will. Thank you.”

Another few minutes of nothingness pass. Will’s become an expert at not rushing him, staring
at the rusted steel and brainstorming where it’s from, who buried it, when and in what
weather. He’s stirred from his trance when Hannibal, with shaking hands, lifts the box out of
the shallow grave and clicks it open.

Inside, there are eleven small teeth.

Pain strikes Will in the chest like a gunshot. He’s mortified to imagine what Hannibal must
be experiencing and feels cowardly for having to glance elsewhere. The looming trees mock
him in their relentless, distant sway.

“I dug them out of a pile of feces,” Hannibal admits evenly, offering a small touch to each of
them individually. “No act as vile has ever meant as much to me.”

When Will is able to look again, he finds Hannibal lowering his mother’s rosary inside the
box. Tears fall from his eyes, pattering against steel gently. The knots and beads make her
remains look beautiful.

Holy.

“Before I found you, I brought her a flower,” Will confesses.

A smile breaks through the tragedy on Hannibal’s face.

After taking in the sight before him for another few minutes, Hannibal closes the lid of the
box and tucks it away as snugly as they found it. He brushes a thin layer of muddy dirt over
the figurative coffin.

He bows his head towards the grave and closes his eyes.

“Mischa would’ve liked that.”

Will rests his forehead on Hannibal’s shoulder. He’s never been religious, never seen beyond
the aesthetics of church, holiness, and ideals of God.

Even then, he prays.

Chapter End Notes

first off, sorry this took a while. i was dealing with a hernia last week and it totally threw
me off. secondly, thank you so much for being on this journey with me. this started as a
shitty little 5-bullet concept in my docs and become more than 200k which is insane to
me, but it wouldn't have happened without all your support. thank you all so much, i
planned to say more, but just know i'm so happy i could share this story with all of you!
xoxo
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!