Chapter Text
The Paris apartment was shabby. A two bedroom in a dingy walk up in one of the least fashionable arrondissements on the outskirts of the city. It was private at least, and that seemed to be enough for Hannibal, because his face didn’t show a hint of disapproval as he took the place in. The walls were white, the sunken couch, beige, the other few items of furniture nondescript, as if someone had come through and scrubbed the place of any hint of character it may once have had. Scrubbed character, not grime, as the place clearly hadn’t been properly cleaned since its last tenant. Just a cursory glance around revealed food stains on the kitchen counters, rust coating the borders of the metal kitchen sink, the faint scent of mildew, which must have been overwhelming for Hannibal, and as soon as they switched on the harsh overhead, Will spotted dust motes dancing in the air. It was not somewhere Will would ever have imagined Hannibal coming by choice, but nothing about today was anything like Will would have predicted.
For starters, there was a distance between them that was utterly alien. As long as they’d known each other, Hannibal had always been pulling closer to Will, regardless of Will’s comfort with the concept. Reaching his curious fingers into the private spaces of Will’s mind, leaving indelible traces of himself on everything he touched, like the smudged fingerprints of an overfamiliar houseguest. But now that Will had finally chosen to reach back, Hannibal had withdrawn. He was wearing a mask. Not the mask of serenity or geniality that he wore for the world, but something more like the steely indifference and disdain he radiated when he wasn’t bothering to hide his otherness. It made Will feel strange in his company, and Hannibal himself was stranger still.
Will had expected Hannibal to escape in style; that he wouldn’t be able to help one last flamboyant display of his own invincibility and cleverness. In his mind’s eye, Will saw Hannibal, dressed to the nines, strolling through the airport; the two of them sharing a champagne toast on a first class flight to some decadent European destination. But this was nothing like that. Hannibal was dressed, incredibly, in dark wash jeans, a gray t-shirt, and an actual Orioles baseball cap that he’d unearthed from God knows where. Paris theoretically fit the bill for European excess, but they flew coach, jockeying for elbow space with a stranger snoring softly between them. Of course, Will knew Hannibal had the capacity for restraint, he couldn’t have killed undiscovered for so long without it. But even his caution had flair. It always felt as though the Ripper were teasing you, toeing the line of what he could get away with to sharpen the sting when he inevitably eluded capture yet again. And then there was Hannibal, a smirk on his lips and eyes twinkling with humor as he fed his kills to unsuspecting dinner guests with a heavy handed pun. Playing with his food and his guests in equal measure. Hannibal wasn’t playing now.
He was joyless and overly cautious as they navigated through the airport. For some reason, it made fleeing the country as a fugitive from justice feel even more surreal. Will was just reliving the unreality of watching Hannibal pull the film off his inflight meal and dig in with impressive vigor, as though he regularly stomached terrible plane food, when Hannibal finally broke the silence that had lingered since they boarded the plane.
“We’ll be here a week at most. It’s far too traceable, but Paris is a city I know well and I have resources here that will help us settle somewhere more permanently. Central or South America would be ideal.”
And the surprises just kept coming, apparently, “you want to leave Europe?”
Hannibal was picking through the kitchen cupboards taking stock as he responded, “I once had a notion of showing you and Abigail Florence. But she was well aware of that plan and will assist authorities however she can when she wakes, I’d imagine. In any case, you aren’t the only one who would expect me to head to Italy. Jack, Alana,” he paused for a moment, hand still on the open cabinet door, “risking our freedom to settle in Europe would be foolhardy. It’s not somewhere we could reasonably hide for any length of time,” with that he shut the cabinet and turned back to Will.
His expression was more impenetrable than Will could ever remember it being. It was an unsettling and, frankly, painful sight.
“You should rest. It’s been a trying day,” Hannibal said, looking away again.
The dismissal rankled, but Will was weary enough to allow it. He picked up his hastily packed duffle bag and made his way to one of the rooms at random, unease settling in his stomach like a stone. Collapsing into the lumpy bed did nothing to relieve his tension, but he was tired enough that fitful sleep eventually took him.
********
That morning…
Will’s car was parked a few doors down from Hannibal’s as he watched the wealthy enclave of Baltimore start its day. There was a duffle bag filled with clothes, cash, and his gun sitting on the passenger seat. Will had been up all night trying to erase the image of Hannibal’s face when they’d parted ways after dinner. Hannibal had been… transparently emotional, by his standards, and on anyone else, Will would have called what he saw in Hannibal’s usually impassive face heartbreak.
It wasn’t possible for Hannibal to know about Will’s plan with Jack, he kept telling himself that as the hours ticked by on his alarm clock. But so many things about Hannibal were impossible. And nothing else could explain the edge of pleading in his voice as he offered to leave with Will that night; the proposal spontaneous and merciful — nothing like Hannibal. And it was the only explanation for the almost funereal tone of the dinner after Will refused; the grief in Hannibal’s eyes as he watched Will as if trying to commit him to memory. Like Will was a ghost at his table, permanently beyond reach, and Hannibal was already mourning his loss.
But if Hannibal knew, then instead of demanding his pound of flesh as penance, as Will would have expected, he had dressed in one of his finest suits, prepared a feast and tacitly begged Will not to break them. And that realization had Will up at 4 a.m., packing his worn out duffle with whatever clothes he could find, setting out two days worth of food for his dogs, and writing a note for Alana with instructions for rehousing them, hoping against hope she wouldn’t hold Will’s actions against them. He bought two plane tickets for the next available first class, nonstop flight to Rome out of BWI for an astronomical price, and jumped in his car. He hadn’t been thinking when he did it. He just did it. And as he drove the hour to Baltimore, he still wasn’t certain how the relentless tug of war playing out inside of him would resolve itself or if it even could. He’d been parked there, a stone’s throw from Hannibal’s doorstep for almost an hour, staring at Hannibal’s driveway from his darkened car, considering, but no closer to an answer.
Then the front door opened and Hannibal emerged, still in his pajamas and robe, a glass mug of no doubt perfectly brewed coffee in hand. His hair was askew, and sleepiness clung to him, making him seem almost soft as he bent to grab his morning paper, waving at a neighbor as he made his way back inside. And just like that, Will decided.
He grabbed his bag and got out of the car, making his way to Hannibal’s door at a pace that wouldn’t attract attention. As soon as the front door shut behind him, he stalked through the foyer, heading straight for Hannibal’s kitchen, only to hear a tinkling laugh that made his blood run cold. He’d heard it so often in his daydreams and nightmares, he wasn’t sure at first that it was real. There was an unnatural hush in the house then, and when he looked down, Will realized that his heavy bag had slipped from his hand, alerting Hannibal and his guest to his presence. Will held his breath as he turned the corner to find Hannibal standing with his back to the stovetop, eyes locked on Will in the kitchen doorway, a skillet of thick cut bacon popping and sizzling behind him. And at the island in front of Hannibal was Abigail Hobbs, chef’s knife in hand, neat piles of red and green bell peppers on a cutting board before her, diced so evenly Hannibal couldn’t have done better himself. Her big blue eyes were wide and glossy with unshed tears, and she looked almost as shocked to see Will as Will felt. No one spoke for an uncomfortably long stretch, but unsurprisingly, Hannibal recovered first.
“Will. I’m afraid you’re quite early for dinner. Would you care for some coffee?” Hannibal was already moving towards the coffee setup as he spoke and Will felt something inside him snap.
“What the hell is this?” He said, his voice unrecognizable, “what is… what…?” There was a strange humming in Will’s ears and his vision was starting to darken around the edges. And he was shaking violently, he realized distantly, so much so that he was certain his legs were about to collapse from under him. But almost as soon as Will noticed it, Hannibal was at his side, guiding Will to one of the counter stools. He was also rubbing Will’s back in a motion that Will couldn’t help but find soothing.
Slowly, with his eyes shut tight and Hannibal’s touch grounding him, Will’s heart rate and breathing calmed and he managed to glance back up at Abigail, eyes running over her, noting all the little ways she differed now from the image of her he held in his mind. “You’re alive.” He rasped out eventually, unnecessarily, just to hear it said out loud, as if that would make it feel real.
Abigail’s tears were falling freely now. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t know what to do so I just did what he told me.”
Will was nodding before he’d even registered her words, some instinctive need to comfort her that he’d never quite managed to shake. “Shh shhh, I understand,” he said, arm outstretched between them in a soothing gesture borrowed from some construct of the kind of caring parent that Will never had himself.
Hannibal had stepped away from Will and was standing near Abigail once more, watching the scene unfold dispassionately. The fury Will felt when his eyes fell on Hannibal then was unlike anything he’d felt before, even when he’d been locked away, even after Beverly. He felt an urge so strong it was practically a compulsion to tear into Hannibal, watch him bleed. Make him hurt, if such a thing were possible. The feeling was so sudden and overwhelming that Will shivered from the strength of it. But Hannibal simply watched him, unfazed, expression stonier than Will could ever remember seeing it. So different from the last time they spoke of Abigail.
“I still think about her sometimes. More than sometimes. It’s like there’s a part of my mind that will always belong to her. The physical manifestation of my guilt and failure.”
Hannibal was watching him closely. If he was surprised that Will had brought Abigail up, he didn’t show it, “we’re all haunted by the ghosts of loved ones taken from us too soon.”
Will felt a hot lick of fury at that phrasing, fury he hadn’t felt in Hannibal’s company since they started this new dance. To speak so dismissively when Hannibal was the one who did the taking.
“Why did she have to die?” Will whispered.
Hannibal took a long sip, “there was no place in this world for Abigail, Will. Even she understood this. Her transgressions had been exposed and the world was poised to meet the revelation with all the cruelty and condemnation it couldn’t visit upon her father. Would you have her endure the world’s vitriol, end up in prison or worse?
Will took a long, considering swallow from his own glass. “Did she suffer?”
”She did not. You were not the only one who cared for Abigail, Will. I would not see her exposed to any more pain than the cruel hand of fate already dealt her.” Oddly enough, Will believed him. And just like that, some calloused, hardened part of Will that he turned to when the lines of what he was doing with Hannibal grew blurry, sloughed away, leaving something raw and tender in its place. Forgiveness, something that had seemed too painful to even consider before, was suddenly not only possible, but inevitable. He could forgive Hannibal this. Maybe he already had. Thinking of Abigail no longer filled him with rage. Just an ache that might never leave him, and the memory of that rage he held onto for so long, like a phantom pain. And with no small amount of trepidation, Will started to wonder if there were anything he couldn’t forgive Hannibal. He lifted his glass, aware that he was shaking faintly, and took a steadying sip. He told himself that there was a limit to what he’d let pass. That eventually Hannibal would force Will to bend his morality so far that it would break them. But when he tried to conjure some act that would put Hannibal beyond forgiveness, he came up blank. The thought left Will feeling cold.
“How could you keep this from me?” Will asked, whispering to keep from shouting, meeting Hannibal’s flinty gaze head on.
Hannibal held Will’s eyes for a silent moment, “I wanted to surprise you,” he said eventually, then his eyes grew impossibly colder, and the danger in his tone was unmistakable as he said, “and it seems you wanted to surprise me. What brings you here this morning, Will?”
And Will deflated at the question, remembering all at once what he was there to do. He had made a choice, the only one he could’ve made really, and as much as he resented Hannibal for this, for letting Will needlessly mourn, and hate, and become consumed with guilt, it changed nothing. He still wouldn’t leave him. Couldn’t let him leave. Will glanced down at his hands for a moment and took a shaky breath before training his gaze back on Hannibal defiantly.
“I booked us a flight to Rome that leaves in four hours.” And Hannibal’s cool detachment instantly gave way to utter shock. It was immensely satisfying to watch and was confirmation enough that Hannibal knew about Will’s deception. He scanned Will rapidly as if searching for the lie or trick, but when he found none, his face softened almost imperceptibly. Hannibal was never openly emotional without an agenda, but Will had spent enough time with him these past months to catch the wisps of genuine feeling that occasionally broke across his otherwise inscrutable face and Will didn’t think he was imagining the almost pained relief that he saw there now.
It took Hannibal an unusually long beat to recover, but when he did, he was all business. “We’ll need an hour to get everything in order here,” he said, as he crossed to the stove to remove the bacon from the heat and turn off the burner, “and we’ll need a ticket for Abigail, of course.”
“We won’t,” Will said, tone implacable as Hannibal turned to look at him. Hannibal was regarding Will thoughtfully and for a tense moment Will worried Hannibal might fight him on it. But after a few seconds, Hannibal tilted his head in assent.
“What? No, don’t be ridiculous,” Abigail laughed nervously, “I’m coming with you,” she insisted, frown deepening as her eyes flicked between Will and Hannibal. “You can’t be serious. I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she said, tone incredulous.
And as always, her distress softened Will, and alongside the softness was a staggering guilt. Will had failed her just as profoundly as her father had. His love had brought another killer to her doorstep. Had encouraged another monster to try to shape her in his image. He couldn’t give her back the normal life he’d helped rob her of, but he could damn well stop making things worse.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you’re so young, Abigail. You have your whole life ahead of you,” he wasn’t as practiced at encouraging platitudes as Alana and Hannibal, but he was trying his best. Still, as Will heard the words leave his lips, he winced at how cruel they seemed in context.
“No. I don’t,” she said, voice tipping towards hysterical, “I’ll have no one. I’ll be a pariah. I’m like you,” she said looking at Will and Hannibal both and the sight of her lumping herself in with them was sickening.
“You’re not,” Will insisted with confidence he didn’t fully feel, “not yet. And you don’t ever need to be if you stay here.”
“I helped my dad kill them,” she confessed in a whisper, eyes grave as she stared Will down, “and,” she swallowed, “I helped Hannibal frame you. I am a monster,” and no monster’s voice had ever cracked on the word like hers did.
“You’re a victim,” Will said with conviction, “and as soon as they find out what Hannibal is, that’s all you’ll ever be.”
“Will, please, I don’t want to be alone,” her voice was reedy and desperate, and Will felt his resolve waver.
“Abigail,” Hannibal interjected softly.
And as she turned to Hannibal, Will watched her face grow sterner, less emotive, as if automatically adjusting for a new audience who she knew would be unmoved by her tears. It was unsettling to see her so in command of her reactions. And Will couldn’t help wondering how much of what he’d seen that morning was really Abigail, how much was Hannibal’s influence, and how much was his own projection of an Abigail Hobbs that only ever existed in his mind.
Hannibal stepped towards her and the tension drained from her entirely as he placed a firm, but gentle hand on her shoulder. There was a familiarity between them that could read as familial, but she looked up at Hannibal with the guileless, blind faith of a parishioner awaiting direction. “Will and I are leaving, and you will stay behind. You may tell them I kept you in a similar state to Miriam Lass. No one will question it. If you’re pressed, you can rely on Alana Bloom’s guilt and attachment to you to keep yourself above suspicion.”
Tears were streaming from Abigail’s eyes again, but it wasn’t the teary eyed vulnerability from earlier. These were artless, ugly tears, and her face was ruddy and wet with frustration. “You can’t leave me here, Hannibal. You promised.”
”I made you no promises, Abigail. And we are leaving. Without you.”
The devastation on her face at those words was so gut-wrenching Will almost turned away, but Hannibal looked chillingly indifferent to her pain. She was sobbing now, breath heaving. “What about Florence? You said you wanted to show me the Uffizi Gallery, the Duomo. You said I could study there. That the three of us would see the world together.”
Hannibal tilted his head in acknowledgment, “in another life, perhaps. But Will wants you to remain here.”
“Why should Will decide for all of us? We could have gone without him,” she practically hissed, teenage petulance finally shining through.
Hannibal brushed a hand through her hair in a mockery of gentleness, “no. We never could have.”
And Will saw with clarity what could have been if Will hadn’t come that morning. A bloody, vengeful culling flashed briefly in his mind before he pushed the thought away with a shudder. And he felt so damned grateful he’d chosen a different path.
“I could call the police,” she threatened recklessly, her voice quavering, but her eyes held Hannibal’s with impressive bravery. And Will saw the exact moment Hannibal decided he’d kill her. His face barely shifted, but Will knew, and it was chilling to see how unaffected he was by the idea of killing the girl who’d been laughing in his kitchen moments before Will arrived; who he’d been raising, and molding, and treating as his daughter for the better part of a year.
“Hannibal,” Will broke in and Hannibal glanced up, “we’ll sedate her just like Miriam. It’ll help sell the idea that she’s a victim.” Will held his breath as he watched Hannibal consider, and exhaled shakily when Hannibal eventually dipped his chin in agreement.
Abigail turned to Will then, and her face was a picture of such indignation and bitterness that Will wondered briefly if he was making the right choice. If she could ever go back to anything approximating a normal life. Or if one day he might wake to find her standing above him, knife already at his throat, regarding Will with the same detached contempt Hannibal had for his victims. But it was clear that there was no other path forward. She understood her expendability now and resented it too much for them to play the happy family.
Before Will could say anything else, Hannibal had a syringe in hand and he slid it into Abigail’s throat without ceremony, knocking her unconscious almost instantly. He caught her as she slumped to the ground, guiding her to the floor and cushioning her head with a gentleness that belied his earlier willingness to kill her in cold blood. But Hannibal didn’t linger and as soon as she was down, he turned back to Will. “I can put her on an IV that will keep her sedated for several days,” he tossed Will a small key from his pocket, “I have to gather my things and adjust some arrangements. Carry her downstairs to the basement through the entrance in the pantry. There’s a hospital bed set up already.”
Will nodded numbly, eying the key as Hannibal headed upstairs. Will knelt down beside Abigail’s prone body. She looked younger now, and fragile in a way that brought Will’s protectiveness roaring back. He let himself stare at her for a minute, tucking stray strands of hair behind her remaining ear. He could hear Hannibal moving upstairs and Will said a silent goodbye to all his hopes for Abigail Hobbs and what it would have meant for him if he could have been good for her. Then he started dragging her limp body towards the pantry.
****************
Hannibal maintained his air of careful control as he climbed the stairs to his room, taking even, unhurried steps as he listened to the sounds of Will dragging Abigail’s body through to the basement. He hadn’t ever shown the basement to Will, and had been exceedingly grateful for that when he learned the truth about Freddie Lounds. Now he didn’t know how he felt about Will seeing it imminently. Couldn’t imagine how he’d react. For once in his life, he felt at a total loss as to how he should feel about any of this.
Once enclosed in the privacy of his room, he allowed himself an uncharacteristic, but much needed pause to regroup. He briefly imagined leaning back against his bedroom door, sliding to the ground. He didn’t doubt that the feelings coursing through him would warrant such dramatics in someone else. But the idea of such a display of vulnerability, even if entirely unwitnessed, was repellent. Instead, he made his way to his bed, smoothing out a wrinkle in the comforter as he sat, and let the implications of the past half hour settle.
Hannibal had spent the better part of last night shut away, plucking out every soft feeling Will had ever roused in him, and forcing each one to wither and die on the branch. Emotion, like many things, had always been…unique for Hannibal. He experienced most in a subdued way, almost as if they were brushing him through the veil Bedelia so aptly described long ago. They were akin to a pest or background noise for Hannibal. Never did they assert themselves into the foreground of Hannibal’s mind without his permission.
But his iron grip on himself vanished in the face of Will Graham. Where Will was concerned, even the pettiest and most maudlin of emotions prickled and stung at Hannibal and he was helpless to temper their effect. Loneliness, jealousy, obsession, he felt these things with an intensity that had previously been reserved for the savage delight he felt when bringing a pig to the slaughter. But Will engendered other, less familiar, and far more dangerous emotions as well: tenderness, affection, and a longing that gave color and clarity to the age-old description of love as an ache. And to his horror, these feelings started to influence his choices. They made him reckless and, on occasion, foolish. And as he slowly dismantled the life he’d built for decades at Will’s behest, for the chance of some kind of future with Will in it, he realized with ever growing alarm, that he would happily court his own destruction to bring Will close. To keep him there.
And the discovery of Will’s betrayal brought with it a whole new range of feeling, entirely unprecedented in Hannibal’s experience, even the parts of his early childhood where he had less mastery of himself. He would have found the entire thing fascinating in the abstract, if it weren’t so excruciating to endure. When he opened his front door to Will for dinner yesterday evening, and paused to take him in, as he often did, in his gray peacoat and scarf, his hair strewn with snowflakes already melting into his curls in the warmth of the doorway, the duality of feeling was remarkable. To look at someone and want to tear them apart with such intensity you can practically taste the coppery flavor of their blood, feel their torn flesh in the gaps of your teeth, while at the same time, not be able to countenance the thought of them not remaining well and whole. In that moment, as Will looked up at him with his typically subdued smile and dark eyes, Hannibal felt something as close to hate as he’d felt in longer than he could recall, and still he loved Will to distraction. Loved him in a broken, pitiful, desperate way that disgusted him, but disgust and shame didn’t stop Hannibal from practically begging Will to choose him. And now that he had, Hannibal had no idea what to make of it. His objectivity was shot; his instincts couldn’t be trusted.
The last thing Hannibal expected was to wake to a Will who’d had a change of heart. The relief was breathtaking, and on its heels came a new urgency: to keep, at all cost, this thing that he’d spent the previous night grieving; to cling to Will with claws and teeth. But that fundamental trust, their intimacy, remained perhaps permanently beyond reach. The idea of parting ways with Will now could not be borne, but neither could the notion of sharing confidences as he once did. Of exposing any more of himself to Will’s inconstancy.
For the first time his future felt murky. Hannibal had no confidence in what he should do next and the uncertainty, the fear that he might do the wrong thing, was so foreign as to rock his sense of self. He forced himself to focus on what he could control and what had to be done. They had to leave, and while Hannibal’s life and home were prepared for that exact eventuality, the plans he had would need to be thrown out. Italy was obvious. And dangerous for many reasons. No, the situation called for subtlety and unpredictability. Will had brought the teacup back together or tried to. Hannibal wouldn’t let needless ostentation and his impulse to mock be their undoing. But even as he searched through his wardrobe for the only clothes he had that could be deemed genuinely casual, he wondered if going back were even possible.
**********
Later that night…
Will woke just after midnight, immediately alert in a way that let him know he wouldn’t find sleep again any time soon. The room had gone from pleasantly cool to freezing in the hours he’d slept and he pulled on a sweater from his bag as he closed the windows, locking the frigid night air outside. He opened his door, and padded quietly down the hallway to the kitchen, hoping to find something readily edible in the fridge when he discovered that he wasn’t the only one awake. Hannibal sat in a chair by the window, a rocks glass in hand, having apparently exchanged his customary red wine for something stronger. Hannibal’s glass was filled to a respectable level, but Will could tell by how much was missing from the newly opened bottle that Hannibal had drank significantly more than he’d usually allow.
Will took another rocks glass down from the cabinet and settled into the armchair across from Hannibal, tipping out a large portion of whiskey and taking a grateful sip, letting the smooth, peaty flavor fill his mouth, burn gently as he swallowed. Will was surprised by the quality; it was nicer than anything Will usually kept around his own house, even as a faithful whiskey drinker. Will could almost smile at the image of Hannibal going out to purchase it, curling his lip at the prospect of drowning his sorrows with anything other than top shelf liquor.
Hannibal’s eyes were still on the skyline in the distance, and Will took advantage of his distraction to observe him. He’d thankfully changed from the almost unnervingly casual disguise he’d worn on the plane, but was still dressed down by Hannibal’s standards in a simple white dress shirt and slacks. His face was blank as it tended to be when he wasn’t putting any effort into expressing a particular emotion, but Will had gotten accustomed to seeing that face tinged with genuine warmth when they were alone together. It was more unsettling than he cared to admit to see the coldness there now. And Hannibal still hadn’t so much as looked at Will.
Will was reaching for something to say to break the silence when it occurred to him that this would be his and Hannibal’s first honest conversation. The first time their words wouldn’t be filtered through some deception. They could finally see each other clearly. It was a daunting prospect and it stilled Will’s tongue for a few minutes more. But as the silence between them stretched on with no end in sight, Will started to wonder if it would drag on interminably if Will didn’t end it. As if Hannibal, who’d taken the lead in every conversation they’d ever shared as far as Will could remember, finally had nothing left to say to him, “how much do you know?”
Hannibal was in no apparent hurry to speak to Will or to glance away from the twinkling city in the distance. Eventually, he took a measured sip of whiskey, and spoke. His answer made Will wish for the silence back. “I cannot know what more there may be, but I believe I know enough to guess the shape of your betrayal.”
Hannibal’s phrasing hit Will in the chest like a physical blow, “How?” He asked as steadily as he could manage.
”Ms. Lounds has always had a rather distinctive scent.”
Will had to close his eyes at that. He knew he shouldn’t have seen her again. Knew at the time, somehow, that it was a mistake. But he’d so wanted to do one good thing for Abigail. Protect her memory at least, since he’d failed so spectacularly to protect her. Needlessly, apparently, Will thought as some of the bitterness from earlier resurfaced. And at a cost he couldn’t yet fathom.
Hannibal went on, voice disturbingly neutral even as his words drew first blood, “I knew the risks in allowing you close, Will. You had the ability to deceive me because I gave you that power.”
”I never meant —“ Will stopped abruptly, realizing, absurdly, that he was about to say that he never meant to deceive him. But as real as their intimacy might have been for Will at the time, Will had been lying. And, Will also understood, with an agonizing jolt of regret, he did far worse than lie. He exploited Hannibal’s attachment to him — this tenuous human connection that Will knew to be singular in Hannibal’s experience — and he manufactured a fantasy around it to lull Hannibal into false security. It was no worse on paper than what Hannibal had done to him, but the deceit felt crueler somehow. To use the single tendril of human vulnerability that Hannibal allowed himself to manipulate him, rooting out any future growth in the process. The fact that Will himself got lost in the fantasy, discovered that he needed and wanted everything Hannibal was offering just as fiercely as Hannibal wanted Will, wouldn’t begin to make up for the treachery. And the implications of that realization made it hard for Will to breathe.
Hannibal had turned back to Will at his sudden silence, and his eyes were cold and remote as he seemingly watched those thoughts tumble through Will’s mind. Eventually Hannibal continued, face impassive as he twisted the knife again, “I allowed you to see me. Know me. A rare gift,” his eyes flitted across Will’s face before turning away with a finality that had Will’s heart thudding in sickening panic, “but you didn’t want it,” he finished without a shred of uncertainty.
“Didn’t I?” Will replied, voice practically shaking in his desperation to be believed, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Hannibal glanced up at Will at that, but his expression was still maddeningly distant, “so you are,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, before looking away once more, “for now,” he continued, taking another sip.
“Not just for now, Hannibal. I burned every damn bridge by leaving with you.”
”Of course,” Hannibal nodded again, but obviously not in agreement with what Will had said, “you couldn’t go back now even if you wanted to. Perhaps you should have just waited for Jack to hatch his plan. Or was it your plan?”
“I don’t want to go back,” Will said through gritted teeth, frustration and fear bleeding into irritation, “I would never have been able to go through with it, Hannibal,” Will put as much sincerity into his voice as he could muster, even as he wondered at the truth of his words. “And I’m not here with you because I have nowhere else to go. I’m here because I wouldn’t have been able to stand any other outcome.” And that at least was the truest thing Will could say.
Hannibal looked up, head cocked to the side as if in idle curiosity, “would you have killed Jack, then? Widowed poor Bella?”
Will had to look away at that. But he didn’t want any more lies between them. “No. I…wouldn’t have done that either.”
Hannibal nodded as if he’d already known that, as if it confirmed something, and unbidden the image of sand slipping through his fingers sprang to Will’s mind. He was starting to understand, with creeping dread, that he had no idea how to fix this. That this might not be fixable.
“What would have happened if I hadn’t showed up this morning?” Will wasn’t sure why he was asking, the question was a dangerous one, but he felt an irrational need to keep Hannibal talking. To keep him there for as long as he could hold his attention. If he was talking, engaging, then he wasn’t turning away. He wasn’t leaving, and just the thought of that very real possibility made Will’s chest clench like it was trapped in a vice.
Hannibal was still looking determinedly out the window as he spoke, as if even glancing at Will pained him or worse, wasn’t worth the energy, “I planned to leave, after tying up some loose ends.” Hannibal’s tone didn’t change in the slightest, but the violent promise of those words sent a shiver down Will’s spine.
“Then to Italy?”
Hannibal dipped his head, not quite a nod. He’d been right when he said that it was too obvious. That Jack and Alana would likely start there. It’s what Will would have done. Then Hannibal continued, his head tilted as if considering something, “but, traveling as a couple is always less likely to attract attention. I might have delayed my departure in order to acquire a new companion.”
A new companion. It had never occurred to Will that Hannibal would have gone on the lam with someone else. Given the circumstances, Will had no right to be resentful, but that fact did nothing to temper the reflexive swell of indignation and bitterness he felt at the thought of being so casually replaced at Hannibal’s side. Will was actually startled by how much it hurt to hear Hannibal describe what they shared in such fungible terms.
“Who was on the short list?” Will asked, voice dripping with spite.
Hannibal looked back at Will, unimpressed, and responded smoothly, “Bedelia would have been the best option.”
“Your psychiatrist?” And the infuriating thing was how easy it was to see Dr. Du Maurier fitting into Hannibal’s future. She was just as unflappable, self-possessed, and hideously pretentious, though the traits were nowhere near as charming on her as Hannibal managed to make them. But there was a darker likeness between them too that bothered Will even more. Bedelia, like Will, was capable of seeing Hannibal, in all his barbarity, and not flinching from the sight. For her, Will sensed, she was driven by a need to understand the incomprehensible, rather than Will’s own yearning for connection, but still Will suspected that Bedelia would be capable of great cruelty should the circumstances require it. They shared a ruthless practicality and unnatural coldness that Will himself lacked, and Will felt suddenly hot with a jealousy he wasn’t sure he had the right to, “exactly how unprofessional was that relationship, doctor?” Hannibal ignored the anger in Will’s voice.
“Hardly at all. But she was sufficiently curious that she would have come, I think.”
Will took an angry pull from his glass, “I’m not sure you could have sold her as Abigail’s mom. Not exactly the picture of motherly affection.”
“Abigail would not have survived your betrayal, Will,” Hannibal said almost casually. Will had guessed as much, but it was still sobering to hear it confirmed in the tone one might use to remark on the weather.
Hannibal pressed on as he took an artless swig from his glass, an unexpected bitterness in his tone, “It seems I’ve turned out to be quite the unreliable narrator of our circumstances, Will. I’m in the unfamiliar position of being unsure what parts of my reality to put faith in, which parts were a lie. As the author of this tale, you must tell me: how much of it was real?” He was looking right at Will now, but Will noticed that his eyes were glossy and slightly bloodshot. Hannibal must have been most of the way to drunk. And there was some powerful emotion shining there now, but Will couldn’t say what. For the first time since he found out what Hannibal was, he couldn’t read him at all. He wondered with fear clawing at his chest, if Hannibal would ever let his guard down with Will again.
Every second of it, Will wanted to say. But he couldn’t say that when he knew, none of it, was just as true an answer. Will had been split in half for months. But he could still give Hannibal the truth that made him get in his car and drive to Baltimore that morning, “I’ve never felt more myself than with you, Hannibal.”
“And yet, you plotted to take my life.”
Will flinched at the very thought, “no, no not that.”
“My freedom then? You’d see me in a prison cell.”
Will was shaking his head as Hannibal spoke, not wanting to face the truth of that, “No. No. I would have found a way to warn you.”
“How kind,” Hannibal said, tone dry as dirt, and eyes filled with icy recrimination, “and what then, Will? Would you have left with me or stayed behind and licked your wounds with Jack?”
Will couldn’t imagine letting Hannibal leave. But he was keenly aware that had this conversation happened only a few days earlier, Will wasn’t certain that any of his answers would have been the same. “I don’t know,” Will whispered and he watched helplessly as Hannibal’s expression closed off entirely. “But I did leave with you, Hannibal. I’m here. Now. I made my decision. That has to mean something.” And Will hated how close that sounded to begging.
Hannibal said nothing, unmoved and unreadable as his gaze ran over Will’s face.
Will took a breath and asked the question he’d been mulling for some time, “would you have killed me if I’d gone through with it?”
Hannibal blinked slowly then. It was more of a tell than he’d usually allow. He really was drunk, and he was still watching Will, as if deciding something. “No. I wouldn’t have.” He said eventually, “but I believe I would have hurt you rather exquisitely.” For some reason, the intensity in Hannibal’s eyes and those words ignited something in Will.
Will couldn’t speak for a long moment, unsure how to parse the strange tension that had suddenly bloomed between them or the unfamiliar desire surging through him. Eventually, he whispered, “is that something you still want to do?” His heart was racing now and Will couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anticipation.
Hannibal remained silent for a long stretch as he held Will’s eyes. They were on the edge of something here, something new and as terrifying as it was exhilarating. And Will was suddenly desperate for it, whatever shape it might take. It felt like the only path to forgiveness that Will had glimpsed all day.
But then Hannibal’s gaze broke away, dragging the tension away with it. He drained his glass, and started to rise, “we should get some rest,” and he did sound exhausted. The kind of worn down that lives in your bones and that sleep can’t fix. Will stayed behind as Hannibal made his way to his room with uncharacteristic slowness. The glass of whiskey Will was nursing became three before long as he reflected on his situation. He had gambled all his dreams for his future on Hannibal’s capacity for forgiveness and it was starting to feel like a losing bet. He passed out eventually, still slumped in the stiff chair as a gray predawn spread across the sky.
*********************
Hannibal avoided Will over the next few days, waking early enough that he had time to prepare a light breakfast and be out of the house before Will stirred. On the fifth day of this routine, Will appeared in the kitchen entryway just as Hannibal was cleaning his plate. Will had obviously just rolled out of bed in an effort to head Hannibal off. His eyes were still bleary with sleep and his sweat-damp shirt clung to his chest distractingly. He wore just a plain pair of gray briefs on the bottom, and as Hannibal eyed him, Will seemed to become suddenly aware of that fact, blushing instantly in a way that was both endearing and affecting. He brought a hand up and ran it self consciously through his already hopelessly sleep rumpled hair. The entire scene made the heaviness in Hannibal’s stomach that had been his constant companion since they left Baltimore swell into a searing ache. He turned away and towards the fridge, pulling it open needlessly, simply to allow himself a moment. His eyes fell shut as he took a steadying breath.
“You’re leaving again?” came Will’s voice, neutral, but with an edge of irritation that helped Hannibal regain his control.
“There’s much to do,” he said as he closed the fridge door, withdrawing a bottle of water and placing it on the counter. When he turned back to Will, Hannibal’s expression was, thankfully, blank once more.
Will was scanning Hannibal now, plainly displeased, but he didn’t fight him on it. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He said quietly, in what appeared to be an earnest offer.
Will’s assistance would be helpful. He was less distinctive in appearance than Hannibal, arguably less memorable, and was not, as far as Hannibal was aware, on any Most Wanted lists. Yet. That would likely change imminently, assuming that Abigail awoke yesterday as scheduled. But to let Will assist was to put his life in Will’s hands. There were too many opportunities for Will’s ambivalence to sow seeds that could eventually be their undoing. Some error or sloppiness, perhaps even unconsciously done, that would provide the essential bread crumb Jack needed to find them.
Hannibal turned away from Will to finish gathering everything he’d need for the day, “the best thing you can do is remain out of sight.”
Will gave an annoyed huff, but he didn’t argue. Hannibal could feel Will’s gaze on him as he placed the laptop and burner phone he’d purchased their first day in Paris into the bag, the bottom of which was already filled with enough cash to pay off the discrete forger Hannibal’s contacts had referred him to. “When will you be back?”
Hannibal looked up at Will then, unintentionally meeting his dark eyes. There was something desperately unhappy in them that made Hannibal feel a surge of guilt and unease. But it was swiftly swept away by resentment. That Will had this kind of hold on him, that he could lead Hannibal to irrationality with a simple look.
“I’ll be back when it’s finished,” Hannibal said, crossing to the front door and leaving without a backwards glance.
Despite his harshness that morning, his inconvenient compassion for Will won out, and he returned home earlier than usual only to find the apartment empty. He decided to properly cook for the first time since they’d arrived, hoping he could assuage some of his guilt simply by providing for Will. He recalled, with a pang, that this was Will’s first time out of the United States and he was in the culinary capital of the world. Yet Hannibal would not be able to risk taking Will out to enjoy it. The least he could do was let Will experience a bit of what Paris had to offer in the privacy that their situation demanded. So after a brief trip to a nearby market for ingredients beyond the pantry staples they’d been subsisting on until now, along with stops at the fromagerie and boulangerie, Hannibal set about preparing a plat du fromage, soupe a l’oignion and coq au vin. That had been four hours ago, and the various dishes lay strewn around the kitchen, the skillet of coq au vin cooling and congealing on the stove top. It was nearing nine p.m. and Will was still gone.
The first hour, Hannibal had thought nothing of it. Assuming Will had taken himself on some errand or other. The second hour, a sense of disquiet started to creep in. By the time three hours had passed, and reasonable explanations for Will’s absence started to lose any plausibility, Hannibal could no longer keep his suspicions at bay. He was reminded of the abruptness of Will’s change of heart. Perhaps here was finally an explanation. A longer play, let Hannibal make his preparations, forge documents, dozens of other tiny, but fully indictable, crimes in his effort to protect them and assure a clean escape. Give him all the rope he needed to hang himself with. Hannibal couldn’t help picturing Will returning with a swat team in tow. Or Jack Crawford himself.
And with that image firmly in mind as he moved into the fourth hour without any sign of Will, Hannibal poured himself a drink, took his customary seat by the window in the living room, and considered the best course. Briefly he imagined taking his things and leaving. He had made the necessary preparations at this point and Will knew nothing of the plan — he paused to congratulate himself for his foresight in that if nothing else. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it out of hand. Perhaps, if he ran, Will would chase him, but the possibility existed that he would not. That he would withdraw. And that thought left Hannibal feeling so inexplicably hollow that he realized, with something as close to dread as he’d ever experienced, that he might not be willing to accept a future without Will in it anymore. Their fates might be permanently bound now, for better or worse.
Which left only one option: wait and face whatever reckoning Will had chosen for him. But he would not go quietly. Will would bleed for this. Even if it meant Hannibal’s capture or death, Will would bleed. Just as that vengeful oath was crossing Hannibal’s mind, the door lock turned and a very harried, sweaty Will stumbled through. He looked grouchy, for lack of a better word, his face scrunched up in an almost comically exaggerated frown. And he barely even glanced at Hannibal as he all but slammed the door behind him and threw his jacket onto a nearby chair.
When he finally did look up, whatever he saw in Hannibal’s face had him doing a subtle double take before he stood up straighter, clearly sensing the danger in the room. His eyes were running over Hannibal assessingly, and Hannibal saw him swallow, noted how he shuffled his feet slightly, shifted his arms as if unsure what to do with them. Hannibal couldn’t tell whether it was guilt or nerves or both.
”Hannibal?”
Hannibal stood and advanced on Will in a few quick strides. And disturbingly, Will backed away automatically, matching him step for step until his back hit the wall, always keeping his eyes locked on Hannibal, as if anticipating a strike. Seeing fear in Will’s eyes wasn’t at all satisfying, even in light of his recent actions. In fact, it made Hannibal feel vaguely ill. He stopped short of boxing Will in, a few feet between them as he got a closer look at him. Will looked exhausted, the scent of other people’s body odor clung to all of his clothes, including his discarded jacket, and oddly, there was a thin layer of dust coating his shoes.
”It’s late, Will.”
Absurdly, Hannibal felt for a moment as though he were a parent scolding a teenager for getting home after curfew.
“I didn’t realize what time it was until I noticed the sun was setting,” Will responded evenly, not dropping his guard for a second.
”Sunset was hours ago.”
”And I was hours from the apartment when I noticed it,” Will responded, a hint of frustration entering his tone. Hannibal found it strangely reassuring.
Hannibal was still scanning the state of Will’s attire when he asked, voice deceptively calm, “where were you, Will?”
Will tread carefully as he answered, “I was going stir crazy sitting around this shitty apartment. I had to get out.”
“‘Get out’ where?”
Will’s eyes dropped to the floor before he responded, “I…decided to check out the Louvre and lost track of time. The place is a maze.”
Hannibal’s eyes jumped to Will’s face at that, and he couldn’t suppress his genuine surprise. Will seemed relieved to see it, ”the Louvre?” And glancing back at Will’s shoes, Hannibal had to admit the dust reminded him of the loose paving in the Tuileries.
”Yeah..” and Will looked slightly embarrassed now, “I don’t know how long we’re going to be here and I’ve never been to France. I wanted to see something.”
Hannibal considered this. Will didn’t sound like he was hiding anything, but, Hannibal acknowledged with a pang, he never had. Hannibal’s wariness and lingering doubt must have shown on his face because Will’s face was tightening with irritation, “where else would I go, Hannibal?”
Hannibal looked up at Will with a challenging gleam, ”You tell me, Will.”
”What, you think I stepped out for a couple of hours to call Jack? Or maybe I just went ahead and reported us to interpol?”
Hannibal didn’t consciously react, but his stare must have flickered because Will looked suddenly as if Hannibal had struck him. He said nothing for a beat, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion.
“You can’t actually believe I’d do that,” Will almost whispered, his indignation at the accusation obvious, but Hannibal was unrepentant.
”Recent events have made clear to me, Will, that I have no idea what you’re capable of. And I underestimate you at my own peril.”
”Jesus.” Will said, rubbing his face roughly and shouldering past Hannibal to pace the room. “No, Hannibal, I really was at the damn Louvre wandering by a bunch of wall-sized canvases of horses and ships and naked bodies fighting and imagining what obscure facts you’d be sharing about each of them if you’d been there.”
Hannibal had to quickly stifle a lurch of sadness hearing that. There was a time only a week ago, when Hannibal happily imagined acting as Will’s guide through the museums of Paris. But he would have started with the Musee D’Orsay instead of the Louvre. For all that Hannibal admired the technique of the neoclassical style, he suspected Will would prefer the bright and bold works of the impressionists. Sacrificing clarity and precision of form, yet capturing the world with even greater candor; subjects and nature depicted as they truly were, flaws and all. But that fantasy died as soon as he caught Freddie Lounds’s acerbic fragrance on Will’s collar.
“I’m curious why you would stay so long if you saw so little merit in it?” And Hannibal didn’t even try to hide his skepticism.
”Because I was looking for the Barque de Dante,” Will returned hotly.
And at that, Hannibal lost any capacity to wrangle his emotions, a fact Will clearly noticed, as his face softened as he took in Hannibal’s reaction.
Hannibal was late returning home and was quietly pleased to find his door unlocked, hallway lights leading a path to the study, where he could see the tell-tale flickering of the fireplace through the ajar door. A soft smile was already on his face knowing what — who — he’d find when he reached it. Alana would never let herself in like this.
As he pushed the door open, he found Will glass held loosely in one hand, standing across the room from the warmth of the fireplace, eyes locked on one of the few paintings Hannibal had in this room, and by far his favorite. Hannibal came up behind him soundlessly, letting Will’s scent and his presence wash over him. His eyes fell shut for a moment before Will broke the silence. Predictably, there was no greeting; no matter how long had passed since they’d seen each other, Will always spoke as if he were continuing a conversation they’d already been having. Hannibal liked to indulgently imagine it was because Will spoke to Hannibal in his mind as often as Hannibal did Will.
“A little grim compared to the rest of the decor, which is saying something.” Hannibal could hear the smile in Will’s voice. It was a novelty to be teased in this way and not feel even a hint of irritation. To have someone who knew him well enough to manage it.
“I select my art for its honesty, not its levity.”
”And this is honest? Looks like something out of someone’s nightmare.”
”The greatest nightmare of all. La Barque de Dante. Some credit it with ushering in the era of Romanticism. This work draws inspiration from the Divine Comedy. You’ve read it?”
Will nodded silently, eyes drifting from the painting to Hannibal.
”The grotesque tortured souls bookending the frame, seeking to sink the ship, any vestiges of their humanity forfeit to the eternity of turmoil they’ve endured. And in the foreground, the hopelessness of those fresh souls just beginning to comprehend their lot, searching wildly and futilely for deliverance. Above the ruckus, Dante looks on in terror, fearing he too will succumb to the hysteria and horror beneath. Virgil and Charon, his literal and metaphorical paddles, keeping his boat afloat and his mind sound, on the treacherous path to the Empyrean.”
Hannibal turned back to Will, finding his eyes had never wavered from Hannibal’s face as he spoke. When their eyes met, the moment felt charged in that peculiar way it had for weeks now. Will had become almost impossible for Hannibal to read, and far from trepidation, that fact filled Hannibal with a simmering kind of anticipation he’d never experienced before. They let the tension sit between them for a moment as they held each other’s gaze, then Will turned back to the painting, taking in the details Hannibal had mentioned.
“His paddle. Does that make you the Virgil to my Dante?” Will was wearing that almost mischievous smile he wore so often these days, and Hannibal couldn’t help smiling helplessly in return, but Will’s smile dimmed slightly when he turned to catch Hannibal’s eye, “guiding me through the darkest pits of human lamentation on the path to paradise?”
Hannibal met Will’s eyes and breathed through the now familiar ache he almost always felt in his presence. “You need no paddle or guide, Will. You are the master of your own fate, now perhaps more than ever. ‘If the present world go astray, the cause is in you, in you it is to be sought.’”
Oddly, Will’s face dropped at that, his expression suddenly, inexplicably, serious, as his eyes grew unfocused. Hannibal felt his own brow draw down in response. Then on a breath as if speaking to himself, Will whispered, “‘midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost,’” Will’s eyes were fixed on the painting as he spoke, and Hannibal felt for a moment as if he’d forgotten Hannibal’s presence entirely. Hannibal was at a loss to explain the shift in Will. But seconds later Will came back to himself with a small shake of his head and took a step closer to the frame, his hand outstretched, but not quite touching the glass covering the print. He was hovering over where Virgil’s hand reached out to Dante’s in an unmistakable gesture of reassurance.
When he spoke next, his voice was still soft, “still, must be nice to have a constant source of calm during the storm.”
Hannibal stepped forward until they were practically touching and placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “You may no longer need a paddle, Will. But we are pilgrims journeying together. Capable of being each other’s calm, each other’s shelter against rough seas.” It was the first time Hannibal had shared this gentle hope for his future with Will, for what they could be to one another. A hope that Hannibal had been privately nurturing for some time. He felt exposed saying it now. But the soft intimacy of the moment, of Will’s own strange vulnerability and uncertainty, had loosened Hannibal’s tongue.
And Will clearly caught the emotional significance because he met Hannibal’s eyes with an intensity that was unprecedented between them. It seemed for a long moment as if Will were going to say something, or do something, he hadn’t before, but then he visibly swallowed everything he was thinking and feeling down with another sip of his drink, eyes turning back to the painting. Hannibal stamped out a flare of disappointment as he returned to watching Will watch the painting, surprised to find his breathing less steady than usual.
When he returned from his reverie, Will was watching him intently. “It took me a while to find it, but once I did, I probably spent an hour or more just looking at it. Cataloging every brush stroke. I think the museum staff thought I was planning a heist,” Will gave a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Hannibal still found himself unable to speak, and Will’s face turned serious again. “I wanted to.. recapture that feeling in the study when I first saw it,” Will took a deep breath, “that sense of peace within the chaos. And not being alone.” His voice was slightly choked at the end, and he paused for a second, rubbing his face in frustration, “but that’s a hard thing to access when you’re surrounded by tourists and screaming children,” he finished wryly, pacing again now, “I couldn’t stomach the crush of humanity on the metro so I just started walking back. And this city is fucking huge apparently. Took forever.” He glanced back up then and whatever he saw in Hannibal’s expression had him stopping, his arms dropping, and his face going slack.
Hannibal saw Will work to gentle his voice and his stance as he offered, “I think it would have been different if you’d been there. We could go back. Together. Tomorrow,” and Hannibal didn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed or irritated that Will had read his yearning for exactly that. “Take a break from logistics and planning and enjoy the city for a minute.” Hannibal could see Will catch himself before he could say “enjoy each other.”
Hannibal had felt the strange sensation of his control starting to slip as Will described what he hoped to find when he saw the painting again, but with this gentle offer, Will’s face open and hopeful, his control collapsed entirely, like a shoddily built dam finally giving way to the current. The longing and sorrow he’d carefully suppressed up until now flowed through him in a painful rush. He had no idea what his face was showing. Had infuriatingly little control over it in that moment, but if the sudden devastation on Will’s face was anything to go by, Hannibal was hiding very little. Hannibal almost winced at the display of vulnerability. But Will was crossing to him now with determination and urgency, and Hannibal had no idea what he’d do when he reached him. The idea of Will touching him while he was feeling this raw, was intolerable. So he forced some version of his walls back into place, brutally leashing his expression and the feelings underlying it. And Will caught this change too, a flash of genuine anger and frustration crossing his face as his steps slowed.
“Hannibal—“
“The Louvre is the most visited museum in the world, Will. It was reckless for you to go there when our pictures have likely been running nonstop in the U.S. news cycle.”
Will deflated at that, and he didn’t argue. He simply looked defeated, his head hanging as he stared at the ground, his shoulders rounded in a hunch that Hannibal hadn’t seen in over a year, that he’d hoped he wouldn’t see again. And Hannibal felt a twinge of guilt and regret, for hurting Will and for not allowing the scene to play out in whatever way it would have if Will had come to him.
“You gonna tell me where we’re going, or am I too much of a liability?” Will’s tone was quiet and snide, the end clearly intended as a joke, but Hannibal stiffened in response, unintentionally broadcasting the fact that he’d been thinking that precise thing minutes earlier. Hannibal could practically see Will’s stomach sink to the floor, and his face flashed with something so close to anguish that Hannibal set aside his concerns and answered.
“I have a small property in Argentina and have been making arrangements for our arrival. We should be able to leave in a couple of days.”
Will nodded numbly, his face betraying no excitement or curiosity as if it made no difference to him where they went, and Hannibal knew that blankness was his fault. As surprisingly sickening as it was to see Will so diminished, something in him balked at saying anything to comfort him. And the meanest, cruelest part of him was pleased to watch Will share some measure of Hannibal’s own suffering. Still, he felt no satisfaction seeing Will’s eyes fixed on the floor, as if he were trying to hide his expression from Hannibal. And eventually Will nodded once more and walked away without a word or another glance in Hannibal’s direction, padding down the hall and into his room, shutting the door softly behind him.
As soon as Will was out of sight, a sense of loss overtook Hannibal. Not for Will’s current absence, but for all the potential that seemed to be slipping further away each day. He returned to his seat by the window and took another heavy pull from his drink, appreciating the burn and, after a second and third sip, the dulling effect. As the whiskey carried him gently towards inebriation, others of Dante’s words crossed his mind, these curiously, painfully apt: “lost are we, and are only so far punished, that without hope we live on in desire.”