Chapter Text
The sensation of truly falling was more overwhelming than Will had expected, and he ventured to believe his heart would expire in his chest before ever he hit the water. Suspended that way, wrapped around one another, Will thought wildly that if anyone could defy the punishment of gravity and keep them clutched as one forever, it would be Hannibal. He wondered if Hannibal thought the same thing, because the older man’s hands gripped at his waist, fingers grasped as though ravenous for Will’s ribs, and even as they spiraled downward, Hannibal’s eyes found his, and they were calm, no bright worry within as the water rushed up, up, its foamy threat increasing with every one of Will’s hurried heartbeats. Salty wind slapped at Will’s curls in the plummet, and he struggled to suck in a final breath, tucking his head into the nook of Hannibal’s shoulder, determined to have that man’s scent be the last to fill him. His lips pressed hungrily against the warmth, he raked his nails into Hannibal’s back, and he let his eyes close. And then they met the sea.
Will’s instinct moved his body to attempt separation from the pulling weight of the other man, but Hannibal’s instinct was to hold on tighter, and so, as Will surged away, determined fingers bruised his biceps, digging deep to yank him back. He floundered, floated, and then was secured between the crest of waves and the panting breaths above him, pulling him, swimming them both with a strength so impossible, Will wondered if he was already dead, if the strong arms delivering him from the water weren’t, instead, the enrapturing wings of an angel. But, of course, angels didn’t have wings.
With a labored grunt, Will felt his body leave its submersion, and his eyes fluttered skyward at the soaking figure leaning over him. Drops of ocean fell from Hannibal’s silver tips and sprinkled rapidly against the broken flesh of Will’s cheek, mingling in the wound to drip down his jaw, newly red. Hannibal’s eyes were calm as he loomed and pressed his fingers to the pulse at Will’s neck. Both let out a shuddering breath, and then Hannibal collapsed beside Will, head bouncing sharply against the slick rock of the seaside.
Will opened his mouth to speak, but bouts of coughed-up water replaced his words and he rolled to the side, hands clenching his stomach, and emptied himself until he could breathe again. His body felt heavy, but he bent his knee and leveraged himself, pushing to roll to his other side so he could face Hannibal. The man’s eyes were open and his head was lolled to the side. He was looking at Will. Always looking at Will.
“Hannibal,” was all Will could manage, his throat sore and his lungs still bubbling with sea foam.
Hannibal could scavenge no response at all save a pull at the corner of his lips. Will drank in the smile, letting his eyes roam the planes of Hannibal’s face, and that is when he saw the trickle of blood as it oozed slowly from Hannibal’s ear. Will’s eyes darted back to Hannibal’s. More blood leaked a trail from his nose, and with a moan of painful exertion, Will heaved himself to his knees. His hands traced over Hannibal’s face, his fingers wiping at the blood, and then he remembered the gunshot, the shattered bottle of wine, and ran his hand down Hannibal’s torso until he found the wound. He spread his palm flat and pressed against it. And all the while, his eyes never left Hannibal’s.
They were shivering, the both of them, and Will laid down close, wrapping his legs over Hannibal’s legs, trying to share his heat. He could feel the blood seeping between his fingers at Hannibal’s gut, and the eyes, still locked to his own, were beginning to haze.
“Hannibal,” Will rasped.
Hannibal blinked, and his eyes focused on Will beside him, but he did not, could not, speak. His lips remained frozen in a smile.
“Hannibal?” Will asked in a whisper, pushing up on his elbow to better assess the man by his side. “Hannibal?” His blood-soaked hand left the gun wound to cup Hannibal’s face. Maroon eyes were open and staring, but not at Will. Hannibal was looking beyond Will now, to some middle distance, far away. Will gave him a nudge, and Hannibal moved laxly beneath his hand. “No,” Will sighed, voice breaking as he thumbed over a sharp ridge of cheekbone. “No. Hannibal? Hannibal?” Will’s fingers flew to the man’s neck, feeling for a heartbeat, but his own was so deafening in his ears it was impossible to discern. He pressed his head against Hannibal’s chest, trying to listen for a beating heart. “I can’t hear you,” Will whimpered, and he rubbed his face against Hannibal’s chest. “I can’t hear you.”
Hannibal did not move, and he did not speak, and Will, on his knees with his bloodied hands running up and down Hannibal’s limp form, could not think, only feel. He felt with the pads of his roaming fingers the soft lobe of an ear, the smooth cheek that turned to rough stubble over a noble jaw, the collarbone that jutted delicately beneath damp skin. And then Will’s fingers brushed over lips, known so well but never touched, and he pressed gently against the lower lip, pushing it out of shape. His other hand he placed over empty eyes, his palm pushing shut the lids.
Will lowered himself over Hannibal’s shell, and pressed his lips against the forehead, already too cold. In the wake of his kisses was blood. He kissed over Hannibal’s closed eyes. The bridge of his nose, on the scar he’d so often found solace in when he had to escape a stare that had become too much. He kissed the fragile stretch of skin beneath each eye, where muscles would twitch involuntarily from time to time, and Will would always wonder whether or not Hannibal was aware of his facial tick. He kissed his mouth, soft and cool. Again. And again, as Will’s body shook and sobs tore from deep in his chest.
“Hannibal,” was all he could speak, and he whispered the name like a prayer, wrapping himself around the body, the waves crashing all around them on the sharp rocks. Will remained that way, drifting, clinging tight to Hannibal’s body, as if his clenching nails could keep the soul from escaping.
By the time the helicopters flew overhead, Will was blue with cold, and he didn’t hear the roar of the blades, for he was tucked safely away inside his mind. Hannibal was handing him a glass of wine, and Will was tugging at his tie and pulling him close, to kiss a mouth still warm from life. When the rescue team lifted his body from the rocks, it was Hannibal lifting him to carry up the stairs.
‘Allow me to draw a hot bath for you,’ he told Will. ‘Your body temperature is far too low for me to ignore. We must heat you up.’
Will nuzzled his head against Hannibal’s chest, so much hot blood coursing beneath the layers of fine cloth. ‘You want to take care of me?’ he asked, his words hardly more than a whisper against the checkered waistcoat.
Hannibal spared a glance down as they ascended the staircase, a piece of silver hair falling from its carefully smoothed home behind his ear. ‘That is all I have ever wanted, Will.’
“Somebody tell Crawford we’ve got ‘em,” a voice infiltrated through the ceiling, and Will looked past Hannibal’s crooked smile to a blurred, rushing light. Hannibal still held him, and they continued up the stairs, but around him, things were changing, sounds were altering.
“Blood loss, possible hypothermia, and a broken ankle. Christ, he’s lucky to be alive.”
“Hannibal?” Will asked amidst the chaos of sensations, and Hannibal squeezed him tight, but a woman was also leaning over him with a furrowed brow.
“He’s awake,” she said.
Will’s hands gripped at Hannibal’s lapels, but he could find no purchase there, and his fingers slipped away as if through empty air.
“Hannibal?!” he yelled, and suddenly he could not feel Hannibal’s arms at all, or the warmth of his body, only the digging fingers of the woman as she strapped something over Will’s chest. He bucked against the restraints until something sharp pinched his arm, and then he could feel nothing, and his mind fell to emptiness as the helicopter lifted from the broken shore.
--
Had he a choice, it would have been to never wake up. But there he was, tragically conscious, lying on a hospital bed, tubes and IVs feeding fluids in and out, and bandages sticking to his skin with dried blood the color of rust. Every ounce of him, bone and soul, felt ripped open, mockingly exposed to the faceless nurses that shuffled back and forth from his private room. Even his eyes hurt to shut. Not that he wished to close them; every time he did, he saw the same image behind his lids.
He felt intense thirst but could not speak. The side of his face stretched tight around its stitches, and even had he not refused the straw the attendant held to his lips, his swollen, aching cheek would never have been able to suck. And if he’d desired to speak, which he did not, he would not have been capable. Not with the horrific state of his sewn together face and rawness of his abused throat. Apparently, and this he overheard from the nurses flitting about him when he was supposed to be asleep, he had yelled a single name over and over during the helicopter ride.
“Even after he had been sedated,” they whispered to each other as they changed his bandages.
“What was he yelling?” one had asked, and Will’s body responded beneath her touch with a solitary spasm of deep-heart pain.
“Hannibal.”
--
Time must have passed. To Will, however, the recognition of time was a dead, pathetic thing that he tolerated only with the persistent give and take of his lungs. To Will, the hospital bed he lay in was, and had always been, the entirety of his existence. The scene on the slick rocks was from another life. The armchair he’d gripped with nervous fingers had been a falsity belonging to another man with Will’s face. The fluttering of his heart had been the lovelorn jitters of a different being. He had never taken a breath of Hannibal’s air. He had never clutched Hannibal’s shoulders and folded helplessly into him, bleeding pools on the ground between. He had never known Hannibal. Hannibal had never been his.
It was in the muck of that slow-moving, stunted dread that Jack Crawford came calling one rainy morning. It might have been the very day Will had been delivered to the hospital. It might have been weeks later. Whenever it was, Jack settled himself into a rickety chair, pulling it close to the bedside. The legs scraping against the linoleum floor created an irksome sound and Will’s eyes narrowed sharply, the only expression he could make with his face so numbed with painkillers.
Contrarily, Jack’s face looked as if it might burst from the conflicting emotions waging war across his worn features. Forlornness raged against astonishment, raged against rage, and when he opened his mouth to speak, his lips twisted into a gnarled, smiling grimace.
“It’s good to see you alive, Will,” were the first words he chose to string together.
Will did not answer externally, but within himself he was reeling, tearing down walls, ripping books from their shelves, shredding bespoke suits with his blunt nails. His voice shook the rooms in his mind as he laughed. ‘Alive,’ he shouted, and the word echoed. ‘Good to see me alive?’
‘Was it good to see me, Will?’ a welcome voice purred at his shoulder.
Jack was watching Will with a vast interest that could be interpreted as rude, or could be if anyone was present to take note of said rudeness, but it was devastatingly clear to Jack that Will was half-absent, even as he sat right there, right beside him, so close he could touch. The wide blue eyes Jack had become familiar with were dull inside their bruised cage as Will turned his head, like he was looking at someone over his shoulder. He did not speak, but his lips parted on a soft exhale.
‘Good?’ Will asked, and he didn’t need to turn around to know who stood behind him. He closed his eyes and breathed him in. He let his back lean against the sturdy chest. He felt Hannibal’s heart as it thumped, steady and living. ‘It is,’ he whispered, rummaging for the words he should have said, far away, in another world, ‘always good to see you.’
“Are you with me, Will?” Jack asked, and the sad little smile that thinned Will’s pale lips made the hair of his arms stand straight.
‘Where else would I go?’ Will answered, delighting in the nuzzle it earned him, Hannibal’s warm nose pressing into the crook of his neck.
Jack watched on as Will rested his head on his pillow, the eerie little smile still on his face.
--
Molly visited for twenty minutes. The first ten she spent holding Will’s hand and trying to joke while tears streamed down her cheeks. The second ten she spent mustering up the courage to hand him the divorce papers. He signed them and she left. It had only been twenty minutes, but to Will it had felt longer and shorter. However long, however short, he had not spoken a word the entire time.
--
The day before the lawyer arrived, Will tore out his IV and held the needle against the fragile skin of his throat.
‘Suicide is the enemy,’ Hannibal told him, and he closed his hand over Will’s.
‘You were my enemy,’ Will said after he dropped the needle. It landed with a tiny ping against the hospital floor, but Will only had ears for the steady breath against his throat and the lips that pressed lightly over his jugular.
‘Is that what you truly think?’ Hannibal asked.
In the suffocating world of the hospital, Will clenched his teeth in pain. In Hannibal’s arms, he breathed deeply and his response was muffled within the confines of autumnal plaid. ‘I’m not sure I know what’s true. Not anymore.’
Long, elegant fingers raked through his curls and pulled back Will’s head, tilting his face until their lips were lethally close. ‘Oh, but I do,’ Hannibal whispered. ‘My brilliant boy.’
Will allowed the nurses to replace his IV, and he didn’t tear it out again. And then, the next day, if one were inclined to count the rise and fall of the sun, the lawyer appeared.
The lawyer was a man, tall and sleek, and his suit was black on black on black. He strolled into Will’s hospital room and plopped his shiny leather briefcase on the foot of the narrow bed.
“Mr. Graham,” he said with a curt nod of his head. “I have had specific instructions that you do not wish to waste time with niceties, pleasantries, or talk of any kind, and that I should carry on with all the swiftness at my disposal.” Already he had his hand rifling through the piles of papers within the case. “So, in the spirit of swiftness and loyalty to the demands of the dearly departed, let us sally forth.”
Will licked his lips. They were dry, chapped, and split. Then he worked them to form the first words he’d said aloud in an indeterminate, inconsequential length of time. “Whose specific instructions are you following?” he croaked, throat so dry it itched as his voice crawled out.
The lawyer set a stack of papers in Will’s lap and snapped his briefcase shut, and then he slid his long, skinny body into a chair. “Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s, of course,” he said. “As his lawyer, I’m here to notify you of the specifics of his will. Specifically, you are the only one it concerns. He has left you everything. Lecter Castle is yours, as well as his myriad of other properties, including his former home in Baltimore.”
Will blinked. His index finger trailed along the edge of the paper on top of the stack. Suddenly, a paper cut. Blood bloomed. “Everything,” he repeated dumbly.
“Everything he owned is now yours, Mr. Graham, from Bentleys to boxer briefs,” the lawyer said. He paused, looking unsure of himself for an instant, and then reached a hand into his breast pocket. “And this is for you, as well,” he said, handing the item to Will.
It was a crisp white envelope with a familiar scrawl of script looped regally on its front: Will’s name, written in Hannibal’s hand. Will glanced at the lawyer, who was already standing, briefcase held aloft. “Thank you,” Will said. The letter shook between his fingers.
The lawyer bowed his head and ducked from the room, prompt, polite, swift.
Who knew how long Will stared at the envelope? Long enough for sweat from his fingers to dampen the paper, but short enough that, by the time the nurses came to check his bandages, he had already safely tucked it beneath his pillow. The other papers the lawyer had given him were on the bedside table. He had looked through them, the deeds and certificates and lists, proof that Hannibal had stamped himself all over the planet. But the only item Will yearned to lay his eyes on was the envelope, and whatever resided inside.
After the lights had gone out, Will took the envelope from under his pillow and traced the inked letters with an attentive fingertip. Hannibal had held the pen that wrote his name. He shut his eyes and imagined.
‘Will,’ he heard Hannibal say, and a rush of warmth swaddled his sorry body.
‘I’m not opening it in the hospital,’ Will said, leaning into the man behind him. He sighed when blood-hot arms wrapped around his waist.
‘You deny yourself pleasure,’ Hannibal said, pulling gently so Will’s bottom was flush with Hannibal’s groin.
‘I allow myself time,’ Will argued. ‘To enjoy what I have left of you.’
Hannibal’s hands tightened on Will’s hips and when he leaned forward, his even breaths tickled the back of his neck. ‘Tell me, Will,’ he sighed, ‘how will you enjoy me?’
Will considered before answering. ‘I will go to Baltimore and sit in your kitchen. Open a bottle of your wine and pour a glass. And then I’ll open your letter.’
In the hospital, he shifted uncomfortably on the bed, holding the envelope against his chest. Opening it now would lack elegance. He would wait until he could do it properly, however long it took to be released from care. In the end, the when mattered less than the where.
Besides, it was only time.
--
Jack Crawford came by a few more times, but Will had nothing to say to him. He answered his questions with minimal interest. No, they had not killed the officers transporting Hannibal. Yes, they had killed Dolarhyde together. No, Hannibal had not thrown Will off the side of the cliff. Yes, Hannibal had died in Will’s arms.
Will stopped answering questions after that, stopped looking at Jack altogether, ignoring him utterly until he sighed unhappily and, begrudgingly getting the hint, left.
Soon following Jack’s departure, a league of mental health specialists herded into the small hospital room to poke and prod at Will’s emotional and mental stability. Will, all too accustomed to such proceedings, answered the way he knew he must answer until they left him alone. The whole while, he grazed the surface of the crisp envelope hidden beneath the covers in his lap. When the specialists were gone, satisfied in their belief that Will Graham could be released safely upon the world once again, Will pulled out the envelope and clutched it eagerly. Soon, he would see what was inside.
It was the first time in a long time that Will took note of time’s passage, and he found its speed lacking.
--
Eventually, time did creep forward until Will found himself standing outside of Hannibal’s Baltimore home. He looked to the ground, to the spot where Alana had lain so many years ago. Another lifetime, he reminded himself. Another version of himself, of Hannibal, of them all.
He opened the door and stepped inside. Everything appeared much the same, save the items the FBI had taken away as evidence, but the air was different. It was empty, dusty. It echoed no warmth. It was like walking through the bowels of a ghost, Will mused, taking the necessary steps to reach the kitchen.
There. The spot where Hannibal had dropped him. Will sank down against the cabinets, remembering with an air of foggy sweetness. He looked up, half expecting to see Hannibal standing over him, eyes misty and nose bleeding and heart broken. But above him was only the memory, too painful to materialize.
The envelope burned in his pocket; he brandished it and set it on the floor in front of his feet. Now that the moment had arisen, a bolt of fear dragged his hands down, weighing them to his lap, and his fingertips tingled, and his heart beat uncomfortably in his chest. He stared at the envelope.
‘Red or white?’ Hannibal asked, and Will’s eyes widened as he recalled his plan.
He took unsteady steps to the wine cellar. It was dark inside, and his fingers danced softly over several dusty bottles before landing on one, which he pulled from the shelf and cradled in his arm for his trek back to the kitchen. He considered a glass, considered drinking straight from the bottle. The thought of the latter made him smile, but a phantom held him back from the savagery, and he pulled a wine glass, also dusty, from Hannibal’s cabinet. He knew where the corkscrew was kept and found it easily. The cork popped and Will tipped the bottle until its mouth bled dark liquid into the glass. Without thinking much about it, Will reached back into the cabinet and retrieved a second glass, which he filled and set beside his own on the floor. He joined the two glasses of wine and the envelope, knees cracking in the eerie silence of the kitchen as he folded his legs beneath him.
He hadn’t read the label on the wine, but when he wetted his lips it tasted bitter. Still, he swallowed a large sip and placed it beside Hannibal’s, because, of course, the other glass was meant for Hannibal. Will would have watched him lift it delicately by the stem. Now, he only stared at it while it sat, sadly motionless, on the floor.
With the bitter drink patiently sloshing in his stomach, Will extended his hand for the envelope. It was time. His fingers hovered only a moment before sweeping it up. Again, he inspected his name penned beautifully across the front. His heartbeat staggered and he glanced down at his watch. Softly, with only the idea of sound, he whispered, “My name is Will Graham. It is 5:45 pm, and I am,” he paused for a thoughtful second, “in your house.” Then he opened the envelope.
It read:
‘Dear Will,
Firstly, allow me to apologize for the morbidity of this letter. I am sitting in my study and writing to you by the light of the fire. You have only recently left, and I can still smell your aftershave permeating the air. Indeed, if I close my eyes it is easy to pretend you are still here. But you have gone, and I remain alone with my ink and imagination. I believe it will be easier for me to continue if I picture you sitting beside me. I hope you will forgive me this use of your image, but as I mentioned, the subject matter of this letter is morbid, and I find some comfort, however shallow, in the idea of your presence while I write it.
Though it pains me to ponder such things, if you are reading this letter, I am either dead or you have been very naughty. How I hope it is your mischievousness which has led you to this point, for it is hard for me to bear the thought of you without me. If you have been peeking through the dark corners of my home and stumbled upon this letter, I insist you put it down and return yourself to me at once. And if it is the former and my lawyer has delivered this unto you after the happenings of my death, please enjoy a glass of wine at my posthumous behest. You have been through a difficult time and a glass of wine will relax you.
It might bring you pleasure, Will, to know that death was not something I feared, and I can tell you with confidence that no matter how my death came to pass, no matter when or where or why, the last thing on my mind and the last thought in my mortal head was you. I know this even now, as I sit in the safety of my study, looking at the chair which you so recently occupied. I know your face will be the last I see, one way or another. What a human comfort it is to know such a thing.
And now I must broach the true nature of this letter. I have not only written to you out of love, but also selfishness. We are both selfish creatures, Will, are we not? Even in death, I long for you. Even in death, I have confidence in you. In this envelope is a key. It opens a trapdoor in my basement. I trust you to find it as you are exceptionally clever. Find the door, find the space beneath it, and find the box awaiting you there. The second half of my letter awaits you there, as well. But first, enjoy your wine and think of me.
Hannibal Lecter’
Will folded the letter and replaced it inside the envelope, but not before turning it over and letting the key fall heavy into his open palm. He pocketed the envelope and kept the key fisted in one hand, while his other hand fisted his wine glass. It took mere seconds for him to drain it. It took longer for him to finish Hannibal’s glass, but only because he imagined the way Hannibal would drink it, in tidy, proper sips. Any other way would be obscene, so Will sipped it, tidy and proper, until the glass was empty. Only then did he think on the letter. And of the one who wrote it.
His muscles burned to stand, and soon Will was walking back to the wine cellar, where he knew the basement to reside beneath. He had never been in Hannibal’s basement, not even following his arrest. Jack had told him about it. He had seen pictures. But he hadn’t wanted to go there himself. Not because he was afraid of what he would see. He had been afraid of what he would feel. That he would stand in the den of the monster and feel at home.
He stood there now and felt naught but a keen anxiety pressing on his lungs. The large subterranean space had been cleansed and emptied years ago, but its residue of horror lingered, and Will breathed it in, letting it marinate his bones. It was surreal, after all this time, to be standing in Hannibal’s secret space. Beverly had been strangled in the same space. Countless others had been wrecked in the trappings of walls and menace.
The key was warm in Will’s fist, and he sent his gaze to roaming round the room. He did not see a trap door, could not fathom where one would be hidden. There were no carefully placed rugs or discolored squares of floor to hint the way, and after so long on his feet, Will began to waver. His ankle had healed, but it ached, and with no motivation to remain upright, Will felt himself sink to the floor. He went to his back in the center of the basement and shut his eyes.
The pendulum swung.
He could feel the energy crackling through him as the room lit up with memory. Hannibal sauntered past him, and Will followed his image as he moved from washbasin to surgical tray, his body tamed within the stitches of a plastic suit. Hannibal picked up a saw from the tray, and Will shut his eyes again.
The pendulum swung.
A different time, the same plastic suit. Hannibal was wielding a meat cleaver. A spray of blood flew past his head.
The pendulum swung.
The difference was immediate. Hannibal was free of the plastic suit, and Will watched him from the floor as he sat barefoot beside him, a notebook balanced on his lap. Hannibal looked exhausted, and Will was instantly unnerved. The sight of Hannibal, unwatched and maskless, was an all-consuming one, and Will did not even dare to blink, in fear of missing a vulnerable, valuable second. Hannibal combed his hair back before his hand came down to gently rap against the pages of his leather-bound notebook. The look of it was familiar to Will, and he squinted, but his imagination could summon no lettering. He watched, and Hannibal remained, cross-legged on the floor. Along with his bare feet, which were finely arched and smooth, Hannibal wore soft-knit, grey pants and the red sweater. Will had seen him this way few times before, and the sight of it now, so casual, so unadorned, sent a shiver down his spine. When Hannibal finally did move, Will moved as well. He lurked like a shadow as Hannibal stood and walked to the far wall. Hannibal placed his hand on the wall and pushed. The wall slid open, and Hannibal stepped inside.
Will opened his eyes. He was still lying on the floor, motionless but for his quickening breath. He pushed himself up on his elbows and gripped the key in his hand and eyed the far wall. There were no seams, no tell-tale signs. He stood and copied Hannibal’s steps to the wall. He placed his empty hand against the surface and pushed. A section of wall slid away, and Will stepped through the opening. The secret door slid shut behind him.
Inside, it was utterly black. Will held his hands out in front of him and hit more wall. With a twinge of inspiration from the letter, he kneeled and touched his hand to the floor. It was smooth and cold until it wasn’t, until Will’s fingers fanned over a roughed section of wood, and then a metal lump. The keyhole. He held the key with both hands, and it shook in his nervous, twitching grip. He slid it in the hole, or forced it in, twisting it in the darkness until it slipped into position, and then, with held breath, Will turned the key.
A click and then a creak as Will lifted the trapdoor. A cloud of dust penetrated his nostrils, and he sneezed. His eyes were blurred as he hid the key safely in his pocket and felt for the stairs. He found the handles of a ladder, and as he lowered himself into the hidden room beneath the basement, a dim light presented itself, some sort of emergency light. By the time Will had climbed to the bottom of the ladder, his eyes had adjusted to the small, amber glow, and he was able to find a light switch on the wall just behind the ladder. He flipped it. The light flickered once, twice, and then remained, bright and white and accompanied by a slight buzzing. Will turned around slowly, and what he saw struck his heart.
The room was filled with mechanical equipment. Engines, motors, copper coils, metal shards, heaps and heaps of hardware. And in the very center of the room was an ornately carved, ebony box, not small, but not large. Will walked to it, stepping over a pile of rubber mats. He felt along the intricate carvings, imagining Hannibal’s fingers caressing it in a similar fashion, and then he slowly, cautiously, lifted the lid. Inside the box was a second envelope with Will’s name on it. Beneath it was a leather-bound notebook. Beneath that was a thick stack of folded papers. Will picked up the letter first and opened it, still standing.
‘My Will,
You are only the second person who has ever stood in this room. It has been my deepest secret, and it is the ultimate reason for which I have written to you from beyond my prison of bones and flesh. You may recognize the journal. You have seen it before. It is yours now, as well as every thought within its pages. I plead for you to read it in earnest, for it was with complete earnestness that I wrote the words and numbers held within.
This room, this box, this journal, contains my innermost wish, one which I have strived for nearly the entirety of my life. I would not burden you with such a task unless I was dead, as it is only upon my death in which the time will come to fulfill my wish. You must fulfill it for me, my dear Will. Follow my directions closely, for I have spent years perfecting them. The blueprints beneath the journal will lend assistance where I cannot.
I leave you now, knowing full well that I will see you again. Keep in your mind this sequence: 06-21-1990.
Paris is lovely this time of year.
Yours, Hannibal’
Will folded the letter, returned it to its envelope, and placed it gently back in the box. Out of the box, he gingerly took up the journal. Its secrets scalded his palms. His thumb ran up the worn spine before he opened it. Revealed were pages and pages of tightly scrawled formulas and side notes. Will sat before he collapsed, steadying himself on an overturned tire. His eyes remained steady on the pages, on Hannibal’s fevered sketches and raves. Calculations floated before his eyes and through his mind, until a rough rendering froze him completely and he absorbed the words written beneath with a pale, shocked face.
He exhaled sharply and closed the journal. He looked all around him at the pieces of hardware surrounding him, each item suddenly so specific. If he shut his eyes, he could picture Hannibal sitting in that very spot, scribbling madly in the journal, hair falling into his eyes. Will tried to calm his rapidly beating heart, but the words beneath the drawing clung to his brain, and he could do nothing but see the letters looping scarlet and sincere. It was madness. It was impossible. He opened the journal once more and flipped to the page, looking at the words again, making sure. They were still there, still the same.
It couldn’t be real. It made no sense. His fingers traced each letter. His pupils grew huge and black. He read it again.
‘Time Machine.’