Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“See? This is all I ever wanted for you Will. For both of us.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Will lay his head on Hannibal’s chest, taking in the scene around him.

He has reached the peak of his known self. Here at the top, he faces his own design, his own becoming.

All Hannibal has ever wanted. To recognise that the power Will craves is no different than his own. He wraps his arms around Hannibal’s body as hands grip tightly around his own. He has changed. Knocking his head against the thin walls of the chrysalis, needing to shed this old skin. This old life. This old denial wrapped in willful ignorance. He struggled, and is only held with more force. It’s time.

Will leans over the edge of this transformation, submitting himself to the process as Hannibal relaxes into the shift. They fall together, wind whipping around them, only these seconds feel more like one long, stretched out moment, moving through time at the speed of light. Everything slows within their cocoon, as the background continues to speed past them. Will leans his head back, staring into Hannibal’s eyes one last time, and he smiles. 

Hannibal returns a gentle smile, despite the world shaking around them, he touches his forehead to Will’s own. They brace for impact. 

There was a flash of blinding light before the world swiftly flipped on its horizon, as they passed through the frigid water line. With an iron embrace unable to let the other go, they remained conjoined at the root. What was upside down is now right side up and stinging needles from head to toe. They roll against the waves as one body, and gasp their breaths between short reprieves in the unstable sea. Nature, it seems, has somewhere she wants them to be, and they could only accept their fate.

As desperate as the tides tried to tear them apart, they held firm. When one went under, so did the other. Will’s lungs were filled to capacity and he held that crushing breath, sure they would rupture with the next crashing wave. Suddenly he felt lips overtake his own with a strong vacuum of pressure that sucked the very air from his chest. It wasn’t the strangest thing he felt tonight, but just as fast as his oxygen was stolen, it was returned to him seconds later. The shared breath was passed back and forth until he felt dizzy and his consciousness threatened to leave him. Maybe it did, for a little while. 

A sharp pain throbbed in his side, jerking him back into reality with a groan. Instinctively he grasped at the area, he felt a puncture wound bleeding hot around his fingers. There was gritty sand and tiny pebbles sticking to his body, and all over his face. It was one step beyond dark down here, and everything was beginning to blur. Sounds were muted, the taste of saltwater and blood coated his mouth, forcing him to spit on the ground beside him. His chest was heaving, struggling to take in enough air now that he was free from the tidal chains of the sea. He found himself vomiting water between short gasps, grasping his stomach as he started to make sense of the world around him. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to get out some of the grit, somehow making it worse. 

“Hann..ibal..” Will coughed the name into the brisk air, reaching out blindly to feel for his body, tapping his numbed hands along the ground. He was crawling on his hands and knees searching, while pain signals fired from places all over his body. New bruises, cuts, scrapes, some deeper than others but all of them stinging with salt. There! Only a few feet away, there is a lump.. a shadow within a shadow, curled up and slack against a large rock. 

Will crawled towards the body, whispering Hannibal’s name alongside pleas to the empty abyss around them, hoping that he was alive. Neither of them ought to be, none of this seemed possible. He felt his wet clothes clinging to his frame as he stretched his arm outward. 

He rolled Hannibal over, onto his back. Will pressed two fingers against his throat to feel for a pulse, and audibly sighed in relief when he found a steady one. Hannibal’s breathing was ragged, and raspy. The edges of a sturdy wave crept up the elevated shore, soaking Will’s socks once more. He needs to move them away from the water. Both sides were flanked with boulders and crashing cliffside water. What little patch of land lined the area they were in, had no way around without diving back into the sea to swim around the border. This was an unforgiving place wrapped in impossibility. 

Will was still fighting against the truth. How did they survive? Everything hurt to move, but he forced himself to look up. The moon was hiding over the ledge of that tall cliff, casting everything below in shadows. His heels were sinking into the gritty sand, the area that they washed up was becoming a shallow pool, with the water appearing to rise by the second. Soon, there wouldn’t even be this much to stand on. 

Will glanced back at Hannibal, the reflective water was already lapping past his ankles. They needed to find somewhere safe, at least for the next few hours. He felt along the jagged rock wall, hoping for anything to help keep them dry. He limped along, stepping over rocks and pebbles, tripping over the more forceful waves. His body was shivering, his teeth chattering so hard he wrapped his arms around his body for a little warmth. He slipped on a particularly slimy rock and fell sideways against the cliff, when his hands hit the wall he felt the edge of a recessed, concave area. It would be difficult to climb up into it, but it was better than freezing in the waters below. 

Will made his way back to the quickly disappearing coast, relieved to see the outline of Hannibal’s body was now sitting up, leaning against the wall, away from the encroaching tide. The moon has yet to cast its light on them, so he felt ahead with outstretched arms in the near pitch darkness. When his fingertips finally landed on Hannibal’s shoulder, he knelt beside him. The sound of crashing waves was overpowering, almost deafening, Will had to raise his voice to be heard. 

“Follow me!” He tugged at Hannibal’s wet shirt, encouraging him to follow. Will felt down his arm until he could clasp his fingers around Hannibal’s wrist. He carefully led the way to the small alcove. He needed to push a large rock on its side in order to climb up into the small area, laying on his stomach to reach down and pull Hannibal up. 

The sounds of the relentless sea were quieter up here, but still an ever present threat. They could only hope the tide wouldn’t reach this far. Will scrambled backwards as far as possible, feeling around in the dark for anything that could help them. Other than a few pieces of broken shells, and pebbles, there was nothing of use. He was out of breath, panting into the air, and confused. As his body temperature rose, he was reminded of the sharp ache in his side, putting pressure on the seeping wound with a groan. He felt out of sorts and Hannibal was being awfully quiet. 

“Are you alright, Hannibal?” 

Will heard a few deep breaths, some shuffling around, and then what sounded like a laugh. Hannibal cautiously inched closer, his hand blindly searching through the air until his fingers landed on Will’s face. The next couple of minutes were mostly Hannibal feeling his way over Will’s body. Taking inventory of the injuries? Will couldn’t make sense of anything right now, he felt dizzy and tired. Exhausted. Whatever Hannibal was playing at, he wasn’t in the mood for. 

“We should be dead, right? That was.. that was impossible.. we shouldn't be alive.” Will was muttering mostly to himself. 

Warm arms wrapped around his body, peeling the heavy wool fabric away from his cold, clammy skin. The shirt was rung out and returned to him, as a make-shift bandage, wrapping around his body tightly to stem some of the bleeding. He was too tired to keep talking, and fell against the back wall. It held some residual heat within its stone, and Will was happy to press as much of his body he could up against it. The world felt as cold, and unforgiving as ever. He tried to mumble his thoughts, but Hannibal shushed him quietly, sitting directly against his body before pulling him close. Out of habit, he ran his thumb over his ring finger.

The last thing Will thought, before the world went black, was how much shit he was going to get for losing his wedding ring again.

Chapter Text

Hannibal rested his body against the back wall of a meager cave, holding Will close to share his warmth. He was sound asleep, or unconscious, shivering against his chest with waves of goosebumps and whispered words. Nothing made any sense. 

Will was right in thinking they should have died, this must be some higher power at work. Hannibal spat another mouthful of blood against the far wall, away from where they lay. He inhaled sharply through the pain as his fingers reached to touch the cut on his face. Impossible, indeed. 

The proof was undeniable, what more could he ask for to believe this miracle? This curse? The moon was finally on their side of the cliff, shining its light in slivered increments. Hannibal held out his hand, the glint of a wedding band caught in the light. He smiled to himself. 

Chiyoh was an intelligent woman. She would find them, he knew she would. He has to trust her skills and expertise in the field. She would, at the very least, need to see their bodies for herself to know they were dead. All he had to do was wait. Wait, and speculate how this would all sort itself out. He settled in, hugging Will a little more, blinking heavily as he watched the tide lick the edges of their safe haven. Hannibal found himself free from worry, though, because what reason would they have been given to survive, if they were destined to die so soon? The universe had a plan and he was curious to see where it would lead them. 

It felt a little strange to run his fingers over the body laying against him, but with every caress, every detail memorised, it was further evidence that his mind needed to settle into this new reality. This new body. He wandered these same fingers along his own skin, feeling it a slight betrayal with the unfettered access. He crept a hand under his dress shirt, eyeing Will with something akin to guilt, as he dragged his finger across a long, thick scar. He chuckled as he felt the numbed sensation stretch into his gut. 

The water trickled in, and began to pool near his toes. Hannibal lifted Will more onto his lap, to keep him as dry as he could, holding him with one hand under his knees and the other on the back of his neck. Will settled his face into Hannibal’s neck and whimpered through the painful reposition. Hannibal stroked down his back with simple whispers of reassurance. The edge of his palm felt the Verger brand before he saw it, intimately familiar with the pattern, it was something he felt he earned. Now it was taken from him, and replaced with others. He took this opportunity to appreciate their story, written with bullets and knives across their skin. 

Hannibal felt the water up to his thighs now, closing his eyes with the cold shock, hoping his Memory Palace was intact. The rushing water was drowned out with every step he took towards the church doors. He could hear the music, something like the Spiritus Sanctus Vivificans playing sweetly in the background while he walked through the arch. It was glorious, and he sighed with relief that this was still his own. 

Up there, near the altar, he saw himself lighting a votive. He watched his very own lips blow the flame away from a match, while smoke rose through the sunrays casting their beams through stained glass. He wore a suit the colour of the sea, adorned with accompaniments to match the very boulders that spared their lives. He walked closely, reaching out a hand that did not belong to him, comfortably fitting into one that did.

The words from the choir sang praises to their Lord. “Living and life-giving, the life that’s all things moving, the root in all created being. Of filth and muck it washes all things clean, out-scrubbing guilty staining, its balm our wounds constraining, and so its life with praise is shining, rousing and reviving all.”

Hannibal hummed along with the tune, as they sang the words in Latin, his body constricting against the pressure of his frozen actuality. He was standing in the cave now, holding Will against his chest, keeping his head above the rising waters. Was he presumptuous to assume they were spared for a greater cause? The moment he wondered this thing, their cave and the pool they were in, lit up like a snow globe. Whether it was Chiyoh, or the FBI, it would be their only option besides death.

The light left, snapping Hannibal into making a decision. “We’re here!” He yelled as loudly as these lungs would allow him, then whistled a high pitch note to hopefully garner attention. 

The light came back, so bright Hannibal held a hand over his eyes to block it. 

“Mr. Graham?” It was Chiyoh’s voice. Hannibal carefully stepped forward, carrying Will against him, until his toes reached the edge. The boat was bobbing against the waves, the cliffside waters were splashing with vicious intent. 

“Chiyoh!” He didn’t know if she could hear him, but soon there was a life preserver thrown towards them. Letting go of Will was not possible, he would have to swim into the water to reach the boat. He caught the rope that was attached to the float and put it over Will’s head, dragging his arms through one at a time, he wrapped an arm around his chest and began to swim. Chiyoh pulled the rope in tandem with Hannibal’s efforts, and soon enough she was dragging them both on board. 

There was no small talk, or acknowledgements, she made sure they were safely aboard before immediately turning the vessel around, powering through the night with speed. Hannibal was quick to find a large first aid kit under one of the seats, inside containing a stack of vacuumed sealed thermal blankets, which he tore through with his teeth. He wrapped one around Will’s upper body, and another around his legs and feet. 

Attending to all the injuries would need to be done in a safer place, but that place may not exist quite yet. Quick and dirty, he rinsed and patched up the worst of their wounds, placing gauzed bandages to seal them. By the time he was finished, Chiyoh was docking the boat in a remote area with a dilapidated deck. Clearly this was a place abandoned by humanity, doubling as Chiyoh’s contingency plan. 

Her voice was a whisper in the night. “Hannibal..” She quickly rushed to the thermal wrapped body, lifting an edge and eyed over his face with concern. This was a unique feeling, to witness how someone would interact with an unconscious version of you. Hannibal held his tongue, not wanting to shatter her illusions anytime soon. 

“Help me get him inside.” Chiyoh wrapped her slender fingers around Will’s ankles, while Hannibal lifted under his armpits. They made slow and steady steps towards a small home, hidden amongst the trees. Chiyoh gently lowered his ankles, before unlocking the front door and picking them back up. They moved as one unit, into the dark room. Hannibal followed the lead, until they approached an old couch. Will was placed lengthwise, with Chiyoh quickly leaving the room to get a lantern. It soon flooded the small space with dim, electric lighting. 

Chiyoh kneeled before the couch, staring for quite some time at all those familiar features. She removed the thin metal blanket and checked the larger bandages on his sides. “He was shot?”

Hannibal only hummed in agreement. 

“He’ll need antibiotics and pain medicine. I will return in the morning, with both.”

Chiyoh stood, and made her way to the front door before turning back. “Take care of him. Please.”

Hannibal nodded. Watching the door close behind her and the lock latch from the outside. The boat engine revved before they were eventually left alone in the quiet. Will was mumbling, whining and clutching at his torso. Apparently pain tolerance was all in the mind. 

As he surveyed the home, he found that Chiyoh had stocked it with toiletries and linens. A few changes of clothes lay in the mostly empty dresser, he grabbed two of everything and returned to the living room. To call it a living room was generous. It was the only room in the house besides the bedroom in the back. Small, cozy. 

There was sweat already beading along Will’s forehead. Hannibal dabbed it away with a cloth. Staring at your own face, was backwards when you weren’t looking in a mirror. Everything felt a bit off, his eye being a little lower on the opposite side, his lips creating a face that was more appropriate to Will’s grimace of pain than his own. Of course it would be, but it was rather entertaining to witness. 

He began with the button on the slacks and pulled the zipper down. This shouldn’t feel invasive, it was his body after all. Still, there was a grey zone he felt they’d only just started to enter when he shimmied the trousers down. The briefs he chose to wear only hours ago, now lay wet and crumpled on the floor beside his dress socks. So much for the shoes, they both lost on the tumble over. 

There Will lay, naked, in all of Hannibal’s glory. If he knew Will would remain unconscious, he would possibly explore a little more, but at the risk of being caught in the act, he chose to quickly redress the man with fresh, dry clothes. All of which fit him perfectly. When he himself dressed in the same clothes, they were just one size too large. He walked to the toilet, and finally had a look at himself in the mirror. 

The same phenomenon occurred now, only Will’s face looked inverted staring back at him. This was the face Will saw everyday. Lived in, breathed in. Almost perfect, save for a bandaged scar running the length of his right cheek. The second work of art that Francis destroyed. Hannibal leaned close to the mirror, running a thumb over the scar he gave this forehead years ago, faded into obscurity. He could only hope this new wound would heal so well, he will have to ask Chiyoh to get some silicone tape. 

There was a groan, a thump, and then more groaning coming from the main room. Hannibal waited, wondering when Will would figure it all out, if he hasn’t already. 

“Hannibal?” It was Will’s accent coming through foreign chords, and it was as strange as it was delightful.

“Down the hall, Will. In the bath.” Hannibal waited, listening to what sounded like Will crawling along the floor. When he finally arrived, he was on his knees looking up at Hannibal with maroon eyes. His obvious confusion used muscles in his old face in a way Hannibal never had. 

"What the hell.." He rubbed his eyes again and blinked rapidly. 

Hannibal lowered himself down, to meet him at eye level. “Hello, Will.”

“No..” Will fell backwards on his rear, backing away from Hannibal with his arms out. “N-no, no!” He was shaking his head and breathing in short bursts, which only fascinated Hannibal more. These particular tics and frowns that Will made, were unique to him and yet they were painted across the wrong canvas. Hannibal needed Will to hurry along in his acceptance, not stew in this denial.

Hannibal supported his face between two hands. “Yes.”

“There’s no way.” His eyes were watering already. 

Hannibal took Will’s wrist now, urging him to stand, and pushed him in front of the mirror. “See?”

Will froze in his horrified state. The face staring back at him was that of Hannibal’s, not his own. He touched the glass, tracing all the different angles, before touching his own skin. The image moved in front of him, but he was having trouble connecting the two. 

Hannibal stood at his side, joining him in the reflection. Will darted his eyes over to watch the smile spread across what used to be his mouth. Only this was not the way Will smiled. Will cautiously lifted the side of his sweater, looking down at the bandage, reaching his fingertips around to the back. “This is where he shot you.” He looked back at Hannibal, down to the gauze on his cheek and peeled it away just enough to see the stab mark. “Where he cut me..”

Hannibal nodded his head. Tugging the neckline of his shirt to the side to show off the matching wound. Will needed his own proof. 

Will felt around the edges of the medical tape. Mirroring his own actions, he touched just under his own shoulder in the same spot. “I can feel the blade going in, I–I know it happened.” 

“It did.” Hannibal placed his hand over Will’s. “It all happened.”

Will staggered backwards, stumbling away from Hannibal and into the bedroom directly across. “Where are we?”

“Chiyoh brought us here from the cliffs. I’m not sure where exactly, but it is not far. We are still in the Chesapeake Bay.” Hannibal followed Will into the room, where he was searching for something. He frantically went through dresser drawers, the side table, and eventually went back to the living room to look through the cabinets in the modest kitchen. 

“Is there no phone? I need to call Jack.. or.. or Molly. Or someone.” 

Hannibal sat down in an old recliner that had clearly seen its day. It squeaked under his weight when he crossed a leg over. These new proportions would take some time getting used to, his leg wasn’t as comfortable in this position and opted to relax with his knees apart for now. 

“You shouldn’t be speaking to anyone. Take some time to process and Chiyoh will be back tomorrow with a phone. You may call whomever you like.”

Will sighed, bracing his hands on the counter before letting out a string of curse words under his breath. “You don’t get it. She’ll think I’m dead.”

“Perhaps that is for the best? For now, at least.”

Will shot him daggers. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” 

Hannibal tilted his head to the side and wondered. Was he? “What can we really do about it?” 

“I don’t know, Hannibal. Maybe we died. Maybe this is our penance?” His worried brows that were once so expressive, laid in a world devoid of such expression. 

“Feeling religious, are we?” Hannibal couldn't help but grin at the notion. 

Will walked up to him and held out his hand. Hannibal stared at it.

“Your hand.” 

Hannibal placed his hand on top, resting on Will’s palm. Will held his hand gently, while his fingers began to twist off the wedding band. He watched Will try to put the ring on his own finger, and fail. It was too tight a fit, so he settled for putting it on his pinky. Neither of them mentioned it. 

“I’ll take the couch, you can sleep in the room.” Will sat down on the lumpy sofa, leaning his head back on the stiff cushion. 

Hannibal rose from his seat, retrieving some sheets and blankets from the closet and shooed Will away while he made up a more comfortable place to rest. When he finished, Hannibal laid down on the makeshift bed. Will rolled his eyes and walked down the hallway, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Will needs time to work through all this, and Hannibal would be there waiting for him when he’s ready.

Chapter Text

Falling asleep wearing someone else’s skin was just as weird as waking up in it. Will had hoped, as he tossed and turned last night, that this was all a dream. Another hallucinogenic episode gone too far. A swollen brain, triggered by the impact. He’d wake up to find his own hands and feet moving around the world. When he peeked an eye open, he held up his fingers first and was disappointed to see all the little hairs and wrinkles that were not his own. The room was stuffy and smelled of dust. He could also smell body odour mixed with the smell of bacon. 

Will tucked his nose under his arm and inhaled. He could use a shower, but imagining these hands touching this body, in places he would need to wash, was off putting. He cracked open the window to let in some air. It was a beautiful day, which sort of pissed him off a little more. The world kept spinning, didn’t it? The sun was shining and the cool breeze was welcome. He leaned on the sill and wandered his eyes over the trees, finding everything was a little more.. intricate? Bright? Clear. That’s it. His vision was more clear. He inhaled the various scents the wilderness brought to him. Part of him wondered if it was all psychosomatic. 

Was Hannibal’s sense of smell or taste for certain things, privy to his physical makeup or was it all chemical? Will couldn’t deny that the scientist residing firmly inside his grey matter, reveled in the unique opportunity to test a few theories. When he straightened himself, the pain that was once a dull ache, became sharp again and he stifled a groan. Lifting the side of his sweater, he saw the bandages were bloody and would need changing. He’s been shot before, he can handle this. Did it count if he didn’t have the scars to prove it? He shook his head with wonder, and opened the door to the rest of the house. 

Will promptly ignored the bathroom, he couldn’t think about that right now, no matter how pressing the urge was. Instead, he crept down the short hallway, trying to get used to these legs. Coordination came relatively quickly the more he adjusted his stance. Hannibal was cooking breakfast in the kitchen, which was really just an old gas stove inside the main room. He leaned against the wood panelling and watched how well Hannibal was adjusting to the change. He seemed taller, which shouldn’t be possible, but maybe posture mattered a little more than he remembered. He was fresh, cleaned, and dressed well. Will didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Hannibal had seen him without any clothes. That information ought to be the least of his worries, but it was leading him down a road in his mind that he wanted desperately to abandon. 

“Hannibal?” Will felt his tongue glide through this mouth, and along these sharp teeth.

“Ah! Good morning, Will. It’s a bit late, I thought we could have a little breakfast with our lunch.”

“So, brunch?”

“Yes.”

Will shuffled over to the kitchen, peeking around Hannibal and into the pans. There were all sorts of things cooking and he suddenly felt light headed. He braced himself on Hannibal’s shoulders before taking a deep breath. Hannibal placed his spatula down and guided Will to an old wooden table, sitting him down in a wobbly chair. He kneeled in front of him before taking his chin and tilted it up to face him.

“Let me see your eyes.”

Will frowned against that idea. “They’re your eyes, not mine.” 

“Either way, let me see.” 

Will looked at him, staring into the blue green fields where he used to live. He couldn’t help his hand reaching out to touch Hannibal’s face. He ran his thumb over the skin of his unharmed cheek. “You shaved my beard.”

“It was hardly a beard.” 

Will huffed a laugh, continuing the exploration with trembling fingers. How did he manage to look like himself? “You somehow.. still look like you.”

Hannibal tapped a finger between Will’s eyes. “And I have never seen me so expressive. It’s a revelation, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t know what this is.” Will dropped his hand. Aware that the connection between them had not quite dissipated given the current dilemma. His throat bobbed with a heavy swallow. 

Hannibal relented, finally blinking away the intensity and returned to his stove. His accent sounded a little off, as if it were struggling in his throat. “You need prescription glasses, Will.” 

“It’s not that bad.” 

“Tell me with your new vision, it really isn’t?”

Will looked around the room. Sure things were a little more sharp, and maybe he could read labels from across the room. He was used to not wearing his glasses, even the ones he had were from a drugstore not a doctor. Hannibal plated their food on paper plates, and served Will before sitting across from him. 

“Chiyoh was already here, I take it?” Will nodded to the grocery bags. 

“Early this morning, she brought enough food for a few days and some medications.”

Will absently touched his side. “We need rules.”

Hannibal was biting into his sandwich, a few drops of bacon grease fell before he dabbed a napkin at his lips. Has he ever seen Hannibal eat a sandwich? Will figures he still hasn’t, given it was his own face chewing the meal down. He sipped at his water before replying.

“For our new selves?”

“Yeah.” Will continued to watch Hannibal eat, fascinated by all the similarities playing out in front of him, his posture straight as an arrow and his eyes narrowed with thoughts that ran through his mind. His cheek was clearly hindering him, as he continued to take much smaller bites. Did they switch actual brains or just memories? “Nothing permanent. Shave if you want, but don’t go getting a tattoo or something.”

Hannibal huffed a quiet laugh. “You think we’ll get our bodies back?”

“I don’t know? But just in case.”

“No tattoos. I don’t think that will be a problem. What else?”

Will thought about this. There were obvious things, but Hannibal lived in layered deception, and comfortably sat in vague opportunities. He’d have to be direct, leaving no room for sneaky omissions. “Don’t touch me. Any more than you need to, to clean and to dress. Nothing else, no funny business.”

“What if I already have?” Hannibal took another bite, eyeing Will with amusement.

Will sighed and rested his forehead on the table. “I can’t think about that, Hannibal. It’s too much.” It was easier to talk to him without looking. Will made a point to remember this. 

“I can be purely clinical, if you need me to be.”

Will nodded against the grain. “Thank you.”

“I, however, have no such restrictions to place on you. I am curious what you would do with my full blessing.”

Will winced at the floor. “I can be clinical too.”

“You don’t need to be. I encourage you to explore, to get familiar with your new residence. Inspect yourself as intimately as you’d like.”

Will finally looked up, feeling warmth come to his face. “I don’t. Like.”

Hannibal shrugged. “I would not blame you either way. It’s important to seek the bounds of your capabilities. You might find that you do, very much, like.” Hannibal was spooning some yogurt into his mouth, imbedded with various fruits and granola. One of those pre-made snacks from the grocery store. Will reached out for his own, it looked enticing. He popped the lid and began to eat.

It wasn’t three piece suits and three course meals, but there was a familiarity there that neither had experienced in quite some time. They ate the rest of the food in near-silence. Once in a while Hannibal would hum his delight when delving into something new, finding himself tasting with new buds. 

When they were finished, Will stood to help clean up, but Hannibal stopped him. “Go, rest.”

Will wasn’t going to argue, his body was healing and he felt the pull of sleep tugging at him once more. He laid on the couch, propped up with the pillow Hannibal used last night and turned his head in to smell it. It was bizarre to smell yourself with someone else's nose. 

Hannibal sat on the ground in front of him with a palmful of pills and a bottle of water. Will didn’t think twice before swallowing all of it. He welcomed whatever relief they offered and turned away from Hannibal. It was easier this way. He mumbled his thanks into the musky material of the couch.

He only jerked a little when he felt a hand reach out and touch his hair. Fingernails scraped along his scalp, brushing through the strands and repeating the path in different places. It felt a little too good, lulling him into a dreamless sleep. 

When Will opened his eyes, it was dark. A small lamp in the corner of the room was barely glowing. Hannibal was asleep in the recliner nearby, his chin resting on his chest. Will stretched his body, feeling less pain than earlier with a slightly numb feeling overall. He quickly realised the overwhelming urge to pee couldn’t be ignored any longer and sat up with a sigh. Another boundary lost to this.. thing whatever it was. He made his way to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of Hannibal’s face in the mirror as he walked by. He averted his stare to the peeling wallpaper. Faded blue flowers against a muted yellow background. He zeroed in on the repetitive print while his hands unfastened the pants, forcing his touch to remain clinical when he reached inside to pull himself out. It’s easier not to look. 

Will used his periphery to try and aim, missing a little at first. If he thought everything else had been strange so far, this was right at the top of the list of unexplainable sensations. The pressure in his bladder was different, more so than he thought it would be. He hadn't shut the door, he looked over to the open space before curiosity led him to look down. He was holding another man’s dick in his hand. Not just any man, Hannibal-the-fucking-Cannibal Lecter. His former friend and psychiatrist. Once upon a time, it was inside Alana. 

He forced the imagery away, wishing he hadn’t made the association so quickly. Build another fort around that particular string of thoughts and move on. Shake, tuck everything away and flush the toilet. Wash his hands. Focus on the soap and the bubbles and the temperature of the water, certainly not Hannibal’s dick. 

Will re-entered the main room, feeling a blush of guilt across his face. Hannibal was awake and staring at him. They both knew what just happened and Will was opting for the familiar course of pretending it never did, hoping Hannibal would be courteous enough to not poke at this fresh wound.

Only a slight smirk showed any acknowledgment, his gaze following Will around the room as he paced. Hannibal graciously prompted him with a question. “Something on your mind?”

“No. Yes.” Will opened the refrigerator. “No beer?”

“It wasn’t on the list of priorities. Though, we can add it on when Chiyoh returns.”

“When will that be?” Will leaned against the humming machine.

“The day after tomorrow.” 

“Does she know?” Will can’t imagine anyone believing them. 

Hannibal shook his head. “I wasn’t confident on how to approach the matter.”

“Do we just.. pretend? Until we figure out what happened and how to reverse it?”

“I have a few lines of thinking on the subject. One assuming we can, and one assuming we cannot.”

“That can’t happen. This,” Will motioned between their bodies. “It can't stay this way.” 

“Sit down, and we’ll talk candidly.” Hannibal moved himself to the couch, sitting comfortably on one end, gesturing to the seat next to him. Will followed suit and sat down with an exaggerated huff. 

“What do we need? A priest? A witch? I mean what the hell do we do?” 

Hannibal turned himself inward, bending a knee in the space between them before draping an arm over the back of the couch. “Figuring this out is no doubt an important thing. There are more pressing issues, I fear.”

“There is nothing more important than this, Hannibal.”

“There is. We have broken free from police escort, with a trail of dead officers in our wake. The body of a dragon was torn to shreds and our blood paved the way. Surely Uncle Jack is processing the scene as we speak, their top priority will be to find us. Dead or alive. Unless you want to be a guest at the Baltimore State Hospital for the rest of your life, it’s best you do not go outside wearing my face.”

“That hasn’t crossed your mind? Leaving me here and living my life as a free man?” Will questioned him with sincerity. 

“I doubt your contributions to last night’s theater would be so easily dismissed. I would not count on being a free man given the evidence.” Hannibal was tapping his fingers on the backrest, ruminating in his thoughts. “Did you agree to Jack’s plan with the intent to kill me?”

Will couldn’t look him in the eye. “I don’t know what I intended. Not until it happened.”

“This wavering between choice, and dancing on the line of accountability does not suit you.”

“I made a choice when I got in the car with you.” Will finally looked up at him.

“You did.” Will felt a warm hand enclose his own, playing with his knuckles in a gentle caress. They both stared at the touch for a while before Hannibal leaned in, inhaling the area behind his ear, and along his neck. The whispered words tickled the hairs in his ear. “You chose this then, all of this. All of its consequences.”

Will closed his eyes. This was easier. “Yes.”

He felt the softness of a kiss, a quick tongue darting out to taste his flesh. His breath was shallow and shuddered at the heat creeping across his chest and deep into his stomach, betraying his weak denials. There was a second kiss, longer this time. Lingering. He couldn’t give voice to whatever he was feeling, it was too much, too soon. He shifted away, the eyes staring back at him with hunger and prowling lust. 

Will held a hand between them, pushing him away. “I–I can’t.”

“You want to.” A statement. An observation. 

“Molly.. she..” Will was losing this battle with every beat of his racing heart. 

“She’ll think you’re dead, you said it yourself. Death absolves you of any holy union.” Hannibal covered his body with unavoidable weight, kissing a delicate line along the stretch of skin at the base of his neck, burying his tongue into places Will couldn’t allow himself to enjoy. Not really. Hannibal pressed his lower half into Will’s, letting him know exactly how he felt about all this. His mouth made its way back up, nipping and wetting a path to his ear. “Have we not died, and been reborn? Have our sins not been paid for?”

Both of them felt Will’s physical response, tight in his pants and aching against the strain. They locked eyes and though the landscape might have changed, the men had not. This undeniable thread that connects their souls, the one that was unable to survive separation. It was a persistent neon sign, flashing arrows and spotlights on this inevitability. Still, Will found himself hesitating. Not leaning forward, but back.

The weight was abruptly gone, Hannibal returned to the recliner, leaving Will a panting mess. He stared at the popcorn ceiling in disbelief, every nerve firing sickening signals throughout this body. He was disgusted with himself, and Hannibal. Titillated and thoroughly exposed. He swallowed through a dry mouth, licking his lips to calm some of the raw nerves.  

An irritatingly calm response from the other side of the room. “You have spent years architecting barriers, yet you keep returning to the one who knows how to unravel them. Tell me, what frightens you more? The unraveling.. or the relief it brings?" Will covered his eyes in shame, listening to Hannibal's deep voice splash around inside his head, painting the walls with undeniable truths. "There is no force but your own keeping you here. You could pretend this is captivity, rather than freedom. But you won't. The truth, once known, is a tide. And you, dear Will, have always been drawn to the water."

Chapter Text

Hannibal watched Will leave the room, locking himself in the bedroom. He waited to make sure he wouldn’t come back before opening the refrigerator. In the freezer section, there were a few ice packs. He grabbed one and held it to his groin, willing the erection to go down. Will’s cock was on a hair trigger, rising to the occasion with any passing lustful thought. Residual muscle memory? It was unnatural to be in this state so often, so easily. When he made the promise to remain clinically detached, he didn’t imagine this would be such an issue. 

Hannibal laid himself on the couch, diverting his physical annoyances into mental ones. He plucked the smartphone from under the couch cushion. Chiyoh had brought it, and Will failed to ask about it. He opened a web browser and began searching. Other than a few fantasy films and television shows, their situation didn’t seem to have any real credibility. As for the medical frontier, this was also an impossibility. Switching heads, or even a brain transplant has never been successfully accomplished. At least, for now. Maybe they would have to live this way until it was scientifically possible, or take Will up on his suggestion of seeing a priest. 

Finally, the blood in his genitals was banished into retreat with the cold compress. Though without a foreskin, he constantly felt a bit exposed. He returned the ice pack, and went to sit outside. The backdoor led to a very small set of cement steps. The stars were out in full force tonight, with clear skies and bright twinkling lights in all directions. Through the branches of barren trees, they shone. Small twigs would snap, and furry animals would scuttle under the moonlight. An owl sang her song, and a frog croaked his notes. He inhaled the fresh air. The freedom. 

Though he assured Will the evidence would damn them both, the crime scene could mostly be explained away with Jack Crawford submitting to, and forgiving, Will’s bleeding heart. The way a guilt-ridden parent enables a problematic child. Hannibal could perfect the accent, make it through whatever process they deem necessary, and he could very well live Will’s life as a free man.

However, he found himself more drawn to laying in a bed with Will as a fugitive, than laying in one with his wife. Both roles had their pros and cons, but he was tired of confinement. Assuming Will’s identity would only be another cell with different bars.

Hannibal was intrigued with the possibility they may stay like this forever. By fate or circumstance, they would always return to one another and he was happy to accept their destiny with open arms. Will’s initial hesitancy would fade. Acceptance would trickle in, and they could be happy together. Something close to happy, anyway. Content.

As if the Gods were listening, the door creaked open behind him and Will hobbled down a few steps before sitting on the one below Hannibal. He was wrapped in a thick blanket, seemingly quite worried about whatever was plaguing his mind. 

“It’s a really nice night.” Will looked to the stars and the moon. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, tasting the earth with all his senses. Though Hannibal saw his own profile on display, he did not see himself in the spine that hunched forward. The messy hair, the constant expression of doubt, and lack of overall confidence. He only saw Will. 

Hannibal shivered with the next gust of wind, the temperature was dropping quickly, it’s time to go back inside. When he started to leave, however, Will opened the left side of the blanket. “Come on in.”

Hannibal paused with his hand already on the handle. An invitation into Will’s personal space, he would be a fool to deny the closeness it offered. He lowered himself down to the step where Will sat and shimmied himself against his side. Will’s arm came across his shoulder and tugged him close, into the warmth they could now share. He whispered his appreciation after leaning his head on Will’s shoulder. 

Time passed in peace this way, over the next hour or so, listening to all the creatures of the night sing and dance under a blanket of stars. Hannibal felt his eyes heavy with each blink, tired but unwilling to leave this place. His drifting head was caught a few times, before Will chuckled. “Let’s go to bed.”

Hannibal was not looking forward to the lumpy couch, but nodded his head anyway. Will took his hand and guided him up the stairs and locked the door behind them. Hannibal was yawning into his hand, not quite realising they had passed the couch. They were already in the bedroom before he had a chance to say anything. Will crawled onto the far side of the bed, lifting the blanket in the same manner as before. Another invitation.

Hannibal swiftly slid under the covers. It was pleasant here and quite comfortable. Will turned to face the wall which left very little room between them. Hannibal tested his boundaries, slipping a hand over Will’s waist. Will settled into the touch, even wiggling himself back to lay flush against Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal held his breath, and pulled him even closer, resting his face sideways against his back. A leg found its way over another leg, and Will interlaced their fingers. 

This tightly confined position was freedom for Hannibal. A warm feeling bubbled to the surface of his eyeline and silently soaked into the pillow. He would not push his luck any further. Not tonight. He closed his eyes and let this feeling drown him in bliss.

The tossing and turning began a short time later. Not his own, of course. Hannibal was elbowed twice and smacked across the face with the back of Will’s hand one too many. This final time, Hannibal caught his wrist mid-air and convinced himself not to snap the bone. As exhausted as Hannibal felt, there was no way Will felt any better if this is how he spent his evenings. He had half a mind to tie him down. Eyeing the metal frame around the bed, it would work, but Will would likely be upset with him if he woke up that way.

Another option was to go back to the couch, which was far too small, and missing foam where some rodents must have taken bedding. He couldn’t stay here with Will flailing his limbs around. Maybe if he was swaddled, like a fussy infant, he’d relax into the peacefulness it provided. Hannibal removed the larger blanket and rolled the corners of the flat sheet around Will’s body, tucking them around and tying the corners in a knot. He got back in the bed and pulled the comforter over them, turning Will on his side so they could resume their initial position. It wasn’t quite the same, but it was close enough.

The rest of the night passed with little movement, Hannibal slept without dreams of any past to haunt him. It was colours and lights and feelings. Not the vivid nightmares he experienced in the hospital. His skin was a few degrees too warm, this body was hot blooded and he wasn’t used to the sweat. He found his toes seeking the air at the base of the blanket, it helped to cool him off. Eventually that wasn’t enough, so he removed his sweater and socks. It was much more tolerable, but still he opened the window to let in some fresh air. By the time the morning sun came around, Will was balled up against his chest and his arms were freely wrapped around Hannibal’s body. 

Will looked up at him, blinking the sleep away, with a curious expression. “It’s freezing in here. Why are my feet all wrapped up?”

“You are impossible to sleep with.”

Will turned on his back with a morning-rich laugh, stretching long limbs to their limit. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

Hannibal did not feel any jealousy, only pity for any partner that had to endure that sort of torture. “It’s no wonder you’re always in a mood, you aren’t getting adequate rest.”

“And you sweat like a faucet.”

“It’s you who sweats, and tosses and turns. I slept more soundly tied up in a pig pen.” 

They both caught eyes, narrowed slits of accusations and annoyances before breaking into shared laughter. It died down in increments and their reality, if you could call it that, was really setting in. Though Will had a fading smile on his face, he still managed to look sad. 

“This is really happening.” A man lost in depressive thought as he spoke to the ceiling. 

Hannibal propped his head up, resting on an elbow. He studied his facial features, resting on the pensive muscles that only Will could conjure. Yes, this was really happening. “Is it so bad?”

Will quickly darts his eyes over to Hannibal, the uncomfortable pill still too hard to swallow, so he turns back to the ceiling. Unable to look for too long, like squinting at the sun. You know it’s there, but it hurts to stare. Another heavy swallow, his throat bobs with insecurity. “It’s not good.”

“We’re alive, aren’t we? That has to count for something.” Hannibal reaches over to stroke the far side of Will’s face, gently encouraging him to face the sun. "It is far better to grasp the universe as it really is, than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring."

“I’m not delusional.” A few too many blinks, but to his credit, Will doesn’t look away.

“You want to close your eyes. You think it’s easier that way.”

“It is.”

“The truth is not cruel, it is indifferent. It does not care if you are ready to face it, only that you do."

“As if I have a choice?” An inch closer between their lips.

Hannibal gave him a soft smile, a curve of understanding at the edge of his mouth. “What do you see?”

Will’s eyeline dropped down to his lips for a moment before taking inventory. His brain reeling between the cogs and screeching their discomfort. “Not me.”

Hannibal only raised an eyebrow, wanting and waiting, to hear more. Will gently took hold of Hannibal’s wrist and lowered it down. Using the very tip of his fingernail, he scraped away the tape on Hannibal’s face, peeling away the protective layer. Underneath sat a fresh set of stitches and gelled ointment. 

He continued in a breathy whisper. “You’re wearing my skin, and you look nothing like me. This veil that you're used to? It doesn’t translate, it only highlights the darkness. I see everything you’re trying so hard to hide.”

Hannibal couldn’t stop the expression of joy spreading across his face, even if it hurt. “Tell me, Will. Does this darkness look familiar to you?”

He gave a subtle nod. His pupils dilate with the shared truth, at long last. Will leans in, closing the distance between them, pressing their lips together. Hannibal closes his eyes, fluttering away the visuals to enjoy the physical. It’s a thing of innocence, this gift Will is giving him. It’s acknowledgement, it’s acceptance, it’s inevitable. It lasts only a second.

It’s beautiful.

Chapter Text

Will stares into the dark eyes looking back, facing the mirror without flinching. He doesn’t avert his gaze, he doesn’t avoid the face looking back, he doesn’t close himself to the very real person staring back. For better or worse, this is who he is right now and he doesn’t blink. He was trying to make himself feel the guilt. He wanted so badly to believe he was the good guy, the reliable husband, the father who stepped up. Despite all the evidence to the contrary. 

Hannibal saw right through it, as he always has. The facade, the wall, the safe zone with bricks laid high to the sky. No matter how tall these walls went, or how thick the brick and mortar, they are persistently transparent to him. As if three years could really separate them. As if a ring meant anything. No, the bloody ritual they shared under the full moon meant more than any legal matrimony. Will’s eye trailed down the nude body reflecting back. He took stock of every fine hair, every slight variation in skin tone and every random freckle or mole. Places he never thought his eyes would wander, here they travelled through the coarse hair of his chest and through the trail that led to anything but clinical detachment.

He poked his stomach, the slight bulge a result of years of confinement and unhealthy meals. There was no scar decorating his abdomen, no smile to remind him of the night of shattered teacups. Smooth planes of skin, and yet when he dragged a knuckle over where it ought to be, he felt it. His brain let him know exactly how long and how deep this particular memory ran. He looked down, at his wrists, there were new scars to feel. To remember. 

Will practised his new smile in the mirror. To be more precise, he was practising Hannibal’s smile. Should he need to convince anyone one way or the other, he needs to know how to move these muscles. Some things couldn’t be helped, and it took real effort to not revert into habits. 

Stoic. Calm. Unmoving. Narrow the eyes, look pleased, but not too interested. Amused, and curious, but unaffected. Confident. Straighten your back. More.

Will finished drying his hair, then wrapped the towel around his waist before heading into the living room. Hannibal was sitting in the recliner again, reading a book that was yellowed and well used. The front cover was torn away, leaving only the words A Touch Too Far in plain sight. He seemed absorbed in the material, turning the page after a quick lick of a fingertip. Will leaned over his shoulder, reading some of the words in a slow and overly-sultry voice. “His fingers traced the curve of her spine, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.” Hannibal turned his head with a chuckle, watching Will twist open a new bottle of water before taking a long swallow. “I didn’t take you for a reader of romance novels.”

Hannibal only slightly shrugged. “My options are limited, and this is remarkably captivating.”

“I’m sure Fabio’s fingers are very captivating.” Will laughed in a playful tone, while stretching his torso left and right to crack his back. 

Hannibal returned his eyes to the book, “Shall I read for you?”

“Why not?” Will plopped himself down in the center of the couch, arms spread wide across the backrest, ready to experience this new frontier. Hannibal reading filth from a long-forgotten book, in a long-forgotten home.

Hannibal cleared his throat quite dramatically before he began to read out loud. “His hands were firm yet tender, mapping the landscape of her body as if committing it to memory. She shivered under his touch, her breath catching as he whispered her name like a prayer.”  

Will grinned when Hannibal peeked over the top of the book. He was a silent observer, nodding for Hannibal to continue. 

“The space between them was heated, wet with beads of sweat and dripping with carnal expectations. His lips finally collided with hers, and the world dissolved into desperate need. A need that only the other could fulfill, a need that rested deep inside their bodies scratching to get out.”

Will shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. The way Hannibal’s voice slowed down to recite the words with breathy passion was doing something for him. Something he wished he wasn’t wearing a towel for. 

“Please, she cried. Please! She gasped as his fist tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, closer, until there was no space left between them. His voice was a low growl in her ear, promising everything and nothing all at once. He slowly pressed his fingers into her–”

“Okay, Hannibal. I get it. You can stop.” When did his mouth get so dry?

Hannibal dropped the book on the side table, and started to narrate his own actions in the same provocative tone. “He dropped to his knees and crawled towards the couch with the grace of a predator stalking his prey. Licking his lips in anticipation of how his body would feel against his tongue.” Hannibal was crawling on all fours, licking his bottom lip as he approached the couch. “With only one thing on his mind, he was elated to see the man in front of him lower his towel, exposing the object of his affection.”

Will got the hint. He untucked the edge of the towel and opened it for Hannibal.

“He leaned forward, inhaling the sweet scent of his arousal.” Hannibal buried his face at the base of Will’s cock to inhale. Will was incredibly thankful that this was happening after his shower and not before. Hannibal continued their little game, his voice now muffled as he rubbed the good side of his face along the shaft. “He felt this pulsing need against his skin, overwhelmed with curiosity at how the other man would taste.” Hannibal licked the clear fluid that was pooling on Will's stomach, slowly and without breaking eye contact, humming his approval.

Will raked his fingers through the thick, curly hair on Hannibal’s head, to tilt his face up. “Is your curiosity sated?”

Hannibal shook his head. “Not entirely.”

To Will’s crushing disappointment, Hannibal took the edge of the towel and covered him up, tucking the corner back in. With that smug fuck grin on his face, he stood up and went back to the recliner, returning to his book. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Will was left staring at the popcorn ceiling with adrenaline pumping through his veins, at a loss for words. He felt a lot less disgust and a lot more.. willing. He would have let Hannibal do it. Will squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force the images into a lockbox. The look in his eyes when he had a taste. He not only would have allowed Hannibal to continue, he wanted him to. Damnit.

Will left the room, shutting and locking the bedroom door behind him with a silent string of curses. He rummaged through the drawers, gathering clothes for the day. He removed the towel, still hard. Ignore it. He pulled the sweatpants up over this glaring issue. It looked obscene, jutting out like that. Will leaned on the dresser, both hands in front of him while he inhaled through his nose and out through his mouth. He looked up and saw his reflection. It was one of those old oak dressers, with a large mirror attached to the back, so seeing himself was unavoidable. These eyes were dark, blown pupils, filled with all that willingness and nowhere to put it. He slammed the drawer shut and went over to the window to close the curtains. 

He fell onto the bed face first, aching, but the pressure felt sort of nice. It wasn’t the kind of relief he really wanted, but with a few short movements his hips found a pleasant enough rhythm to dull the overwhelming need. Oh fuck, that feels so good. The way everything would slide up and down the way nature intended, being fully intact certainly had its convenient pleasures. If they ever get their own bodies back, he would miss this ease. It’s not really something you think about when you don't have it, but now that he does, shouldn’t he at least experience it once? 

Will groaned into the comforter, turning onto his back in an exasperated huff. He pulled the sweatpants down under his balls and grabbed his cock with a relieved sigh. He’d only do it for a minute, just to feel what it’s like. It was unreal, how wet everything was, how soft the skin was and how hard he could get as he slid his hand up and down. He wasn’t going to go all the way, he just wanted a taste. He finally looked down, watching the head disappear and reappear in its sheath, he was leaking more than he thought possible. He slowed down, squeezed the tip, and watched more precum drip out and onto his belly. Just a taste. 

Will gathered enough to coat his thumb, and brought it to his mouth, licking it off with a silent moan. This is wrong. Worse than sleeping in the same bed, worse than a good morning kiss. Worse than a cliffside murder. Anything he was ever curious about was right here, in his vigorous grip. The things he was used to, the things he liked, didn't feel the same. He had to adjust to the girth and the length, he was sensitive in places he wasn’t before. Hannibal gave him permission to explore, didn’t he? 

Rationalisations come quickly when you’re thinking with your dick. Will’s back arched with a new found spot, so he focused on that a little more. He caught his body moving in the reflection of the mirror. He stopped everything he was doing, waiting for the shame to kick in. Instead, he saw Hannibal’s long, lithe body twist into a sculpture of eroticism. It was wrong, wasn’t it? He watched this body stretch, the muscles dance under the skin as his body tightened and heaved with pleasure. He couldn’t stop now. He also couldn’t take his eyes off what he was seeing. Will tasted the fruit and now he wanted more. He felt it in his toes first, the impending orgasm tickling his nerves with a promise, it built and built and built until suddenly his stomach hunched forward with a gasp as he emptied his body of the damned bliss. 

Will was floating, falling back onto the bed that might have been made of clouds. Soft, untethered, orgasmic ecstasy. Life was an empty blur, a fog of mixed feelings, but mostly he was just happy. High on this rush and deliriously giggling into the crux of his arm as quietly as possible. He couldn’t stop laughing, the delight was overpowering anything else. He basked in the euphoric glow while his heart thumped gleefully in his chest. 

He made a mess. Evidence. DNA. It was everywhere. Will sat up, looking around for something to clean up. Feeling like a horny teenager caught in the act, he used a sock to wipe everything down. He threw the sock out the window, because there wasn’t any way Hannibal needed to know about this. He looked himself over in the mirror while he pulled his pants back up and put on a long sleeve tee. His cheeks were a little flushed, but otherwise looked fine. His side was stinging with all the movement, maybe it was time for his medicine. 

Opening the door was the easy part, the hard part was pretending nothing happened behind it. He tried to play it cool, walking through the living room to grab his water from earlier. Hannibal took note, resting the open book on his chest with a tilt of his head, while he eyed Will’s body language. Under scrutiny, how would he hold up? Will smiled and Hannibal returned the gesture. Will bit his lip and looked away, pretending to be very interested in some of the medical shit laying on the table. Picking up random, unopened packages of gauze and reading the label on the ointment. 

When he spoke, his voice caught in his throat, he had to clear it before trying again. “You mind checking my bandages? They hurt a little.”

Hannibal carefully closed the book. He walked across the room, eerily silent, looking Will up and down. He grabbed the pill bottle from beside the sink, tapped one out and offered it to Will, who swallowed it without hesitation. Hannibal washed his hands before sitting in the chair across from him and began organising the things he’d need. He caught a foot under Will’s chair and yanked him forward, tugging the chair a few inches closer with a squeak. 

He roughly removed Will’s shirt, throwing it onto the floor. He peeled off the tape a little too quickly, it was still quite raw and painful, even though he was assured it wasn’t life threatening. Hannibal cleaned the area and reapplied everything with the cold professional touch of a doctor. When he was finished, he spread some arnica gel onto his fingers, working them into some of the deeper bruises. This was a little less doctor, and a little more sadistic in its application. Will could take it, even when Hannibal ground his thumb into a particularly deep bruise that Francis left him with. 

Will grabbed Hannibal’s wrist with a squeeze. “Something you want to say?”

Hannibal’s lip twitched, one of his own little tics transferred. “Is your curiosity sated?”

Will smiled. “Not entirely.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal knew his own body better than Will, even if Will now resided in it. He knew the telltale signs of climax written plainly across his forehead. The blush, the sheen, the loose wave of gratification that came with the release of pent-up urges. To see him so relaxed, and free from this burden was a lovely thing to witness, imagine if he was able to live like this all the time. The unfair predicament of their circumstance meant that Hannibal would continue to suffer with this burden, which was not so lovely a thought. 

After all the time they have spent together as colleagues, as comrades, as intertwined companions on a journey that was bound always to be intersected, they remain on the teetering edge of this line drawn invisibly in the sand. Each would tiptoe closer, until one of them retreated. Overtures that were not subtle, gawking glances that undressed the other from across the room. Swallowing their dinner and conversations with a bob of the throat. The underlying threat that soon, someday, they would tear each other to shreds. In one way or another.

Perhaps he did tease Will a little. He was playing awfully close to the fire today, hoping Will may finally take the plunge and ask for what he really wanted, or at least take it. Hannibal heard the quiet gasping from the other room, the metal frame of the bed tapping against the wall. This was not a well-insulated home. The rooms were small and close together, so this must have been Will’s way of teasing him right back. Showing off what he was able to do, when Hannibal’s hands were tied behind his back. They would have to revisit the rules of their arrangement.

Three years, he hasn’t had to worry about such things. There were cameras pointing at him from every angle in the hospital room, so the will to touch himself faded away. He found no pleasure in the animalistic nature of performing at the zoo he was kept in. An unpredictable morning erection would quickly dissipate when his surroundings materialised. He couldn’t even escape into the Mind Palace for things like this, for Alana was always watching. Pacing. Circling his cage, waiting for a reason to judge and berate. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of witnessing his earthly desires fulfilled. It’s not that he forgot how it felt, it just became easier to ignore, and over time it was no longer a concern. 

Then Will showed up. He was most tempted that first day, to reach into his jumpsuit and make a mess of the sheets. All those stifled feelings came rushing back, and the flirtatious push and pull was exactly where they left it. Intense. Heated. A dangerous game they would always roll the dice on. 

I need you, Hannibal.

Oh, he remembers the way every cell in his body lit up, craving his touch. He wished for Will to come closer, to breathe the same air, to feel their bodies collide. Or plunge into the sea, so long as they were together.

Please.

Begging looked really good on Will’s face. It suited him well, with those large eyes and knowing smirk. He would love to see how that translated in his new form. Until Hannibal was given permission, however, he could not partake in any of these fantasies. They would remain in his Palace, along with all the other depraved things he imagined Will doing. 

He is absentmindedly grinding his fingers into the bruise on Will’s neck, when his wrist is caught and pulled away.

“Something you want to say?” A taunt, of all things. They both know what’s really happening, and Will pretends otherwise.

It’s not anger Hannibal feels, but irritation. “Is your curiosity sated?”

“Not entirely.” Will was smiling, but not with his own toothy grin. No, he was smiling like Hannibal would. Subtle and amused. It was uncanny, and somehow perfect. He must have practised. 

“These rules,” Hannibal wrenched his arm free from Will’s grasp. “Need revising.”

Will leaned over, to grab his shirt from the floor. He stood up, pulling it over his head, with an entirely different posture. He was straight backed and staring down at Hannibal, his demeanor was confident and sure of himself. “What would you like to amend?”

Two can play at this game, dear Will. Hannibal used his brows more, clenched his jaw, widened his eyes. He changed the way he spoke, to match Will’s accent. “Nothing permanent, that rule remains.”

Will’s surprise broke through, for only a second, before he forced it down and returned to indifference. With a nod, he agreed. “Nothing permanent.” A rather good attempt at Hannibal’s accent. He slowly trailed a finger down the midline of his body. “Do I still have your blessing to inspect the boundaries of this body? Or would you like to revoke my permission?”

“Did you find yourself liking the exploration?” Hannibal licked his lips.

Will cupped Hannibal’s face, the side marred with the latest wound. Hannibal felt the pressure before the pain, Will’s thumb pressing hard and deliberate, digging under the material to reach the sutures. A sharp sting bloomed, and Hannibal’s tongue found the blood pooling inside his mouth. Will’s blood. The metallic tang was intoxicating, he lapped at the laceration, swallowing the coppery richness while the pain radiated in perfect harmony with the pleasure of Will’s touch. 

Will’s voice was low, reverent. “It was intimate.”

Will eyed at the blood trickling down with conflicting interest that was so achingly Will. This predator, curious and yet unsure of its own hunger. Hannibal’s lips curled into a faint smile, even though the motion was uncomfortable. Intimate, indeed. Hannibal’s gaze mapped Will’s face, tracing the familiar lines that were once his own. “You have always had a delicate touch, Will.” His voice was breathy and slow. “Even when you are trying to hurt me.”

Will’s eyes flicked up, meeting his. There was something in that look, a sliver of heat, of challenge. “You’ve always enjoyed it.” He was embracing this role, his thumb pressing deeper, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Hannibal. “Especially when you’re pretending not to.”

“Perhaps I enjoy the reminder that you’re capable of such perversions.” Though the pain teetered on the edge of unbearable, Hannibal found himself chasing the cause. He slowly rose to his feet, pushing himself further into the intrusion. Will’s hand stilled for a moment, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. Hannibal didn’t miss it, the way Will’s resolve wavered, just for a second. It was enough. He leaned in, whispering low enough that Will would have no choice but to pay attention to every word. “You could tear me to pieces, Will, and I would let you.”

The air between them was a familiar recall, heady and thick, a poignant reminder of that undeniable attraction. Will’s grip tightened, digging into the wound with renewed intensity. Hannibal’s breath was shallow, not from the pain, but from the thrill of it. The blood dripped down his neck, and Will leaned in to taste it. Hannibal sighed heavily into the air as the lines between them blurred a little further, he found himself savoring the inevitability of it all.

Will continued to force his way between the taut lines of the sutures with no perceivable rush. He was taking his time in this, and the torment was intense, precise, a symphony of sensation that Hannibal embraced with open arms. Hannibal could feel the threads straining, the wound threatening to split open anew. He would let it happen. He wanted it to happen. In this moment, they were both themselves and each other, a grotesque tapestry of shared memories and borrowed flesh.

Hannibal wondered if Will could feel it too, the ecstasy of the wound, the beauty in the violence. Or was he still fighting it, clinging to the fragile illusion of his own morality? Will’s lips appeared in his periphery, coated in bright red, and they fell wide open as he found a weak spot between the stitches, finally pushing through the barrier. “Fuck..” was the silent reaction with his eyes looking drunk, hazy and unfocused. 

Hannibal’s eyes fluttered shut, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. His shoulders fell relaxed with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He could feel the blood dripping down his cheek, down his chin, down his neck, in long rivulets of thick vital essence. Will’s tongue chased every line, washing away the display as quickly as it came. He worked his way up, until their lips crashed together in a sticky, foul collision that continued to make a sinfully delicious mess. 

They didn’t hear the jingle of keys, nor the latch of the door being unlocked, not when they were occupied and overwhelmed with their primal senses. They existed in that primitive part of the brain, where only carnal desire lives. The creak of the door and horrified whisper of concern cut through those instincts. 

“Hannibal..” Chiyoh raised a hand to cover her mouth, not able to make sense of what was going on. Her body moved quicker than her mind did, retrieving a gun and pointing it at Will’s head. “Get away from him!”

Hannibal licked his bloodied lips. He raised his hands in an offer of obedience, interlacing his finger behind his head and stepped away from Will. Chiyoh would shoot, and it would be a shame to die before truly exploring this new frontier in their friendship. 

Chiyoh darted her eyes quickly between both men, taking one step closer to who she believed to be Hannibal. She scanned his face, and body, to find where the blood was coming from, trying to discern where the danger currently resided. “Are you alright?”

Will nodded his head, stepping into the line of fire. Hannibal could see he was trying to decide how far to take this. Will reached out, placing his hand on the gun and lowered it to the floor. The accent wasn’t terrible, it was believable. “You’re early.”

Chiyoh returned her eyes to Hannibal, displaying her distrust in the man openly on her face. She tucked the gun in her waistband along her back and relaxed only a hair. “They've widened the search area. They have dogs. It won’t be long before they come here, you need to leave now.”

Will guided her to the front door. “Give us a moment.”

Chiyoh, still uncertain and full of skepticism for what her intuition was telling her, agreed with hesitancy. “Don’t be long. I’ll be right outside.”

The front door shut, and Will whipped around placing his back against it. “Jesus Christ!” He ran his hand over the itchy dried blood smeared across his lips. He looked at his palm, with horror, running to the kitchen sink to wash it away. He was scrubbing soap all over, rinsing his mouth with bubbles. Hannibal watched, captivated by his response, eliciting feelings of wonder and curiosity. To dash between such all-consuming need and straight into terrified panic was incredibly entertaining. Impressive, even.

“What are you just standing there for?” Will was drying his face with some paper towels. “Clean yourself up, go get changed.” 

Hannibal looked down at his shirt, stained to his sternum in dark crimson. He touched his cheek and came back with fresh blood. He removed his shirt as he walked down the hallway, tossing it in the bathtub. His face wouldn’t be so easy to fix. The bandage had fallen, somewhere, leaving sutures that needed to be removed and replaced. He wouldn’t be able to do it on a moving boat, without a mirror. He washed his hands and face in the sink, rubbing warm water and suds down his neck and chest. He was just about to ask Will to grab the medical supplies when a bag was suddenly hanging in the doorway. 

“Thank you.” Hannibal took the bag, working expeditiously to fix what Will ruined. He could hear Will frantically running around the house gathering their things and loading them into empty plastic bags. Chiyoh would only have to take one look at him now to see he wasn’t the man she thought him to be. It would make things easier to tell her, but there was a certain magic in this secret. Hannibal was resistant to share. It was theirs, this miraculous phenomenon, and though he trusted Chiyoh not to betray his confidence, he didn’t find the idea of her knowing very comforting.

He snipped the end off his new stitches, and was applying a fresh line of tape when Will came back. “If they have dogs, they’re going to know we were here. That we’re alive.” His eyes were pleading for help.

Hannibal read between the lines. Jack would know, Molly would know. Will’s matrimony would still exist on this plane. The perception of his death was paramount to his morality. “Tell Chiyoh, have her get rid of the evidence.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Not if you get rid of everything.”

Will nodded and left the room. Whatever conversation he had with Chiyoh, he soon smelled gasoline lining the walls. Hannibal wasn’t the one to light or throw the match, but he stood on the pier looking back at this little home glow and burn as flames licked the wood. He heard rumbling above his head, as the sky darkened. There would be a fight between the fire and the rain, and whichever won would determine their fate. 

As they loaded everything into the boat, Chiyoh avoided looking either of them in the eye. She had pieced it together, the part she walked in on. She ascribed their off-putting behaviours to that of embarrassing desire, caught in the act, and not that the Hannibal she knew was wearing a new person suit. One made of Will’s skin and bones. He couldn’t help licking his tongue along the swollen, inflamed slit along the inside of his mouth. The ache being a delightful reminder that Will was very capable of such depravity. They were becoming something new, something elevated. Hannibal, ever the connoisseur of transformation, could not wait to see what they would become.

Chapter Text

The trip was long, the boat’s motor a steady drone beneath their shared silence. Chiyoh steered with her usual calm, her occasional glances at them sharp with unasked questions. Will moved with Hannibal’s subtle reflexes, Hannibal spoke with Will’s cadence, and neither of them offered an explanation for what she’d seen. By the time the island appeared on the horizon, they were all ready to sleep in a warm bed, exhausted from the journey and from the constant performance.

There was this overarching feeling, ever present and ever threatening, that Chiyoh would point her finger at Will and scream ah ha! calling him out for being a fraud. Instead, she sensed the tension and avoided looking at either of them directly. After entering the port, Chiyoh had them wait in the boat while she found somewhere for them to stay, though their faces were not on the news, that wasn’t to say there wasn’t a nationwide bolo with law enforcement. Best to stay low, best not to have themselves noticed. 

Will watched Hannibal rapidly text back and forth with someone. There was a small part of him that wanted to ask to use the phone, but what good would come of it? Until they could figure out how to return to their own body, he couldn’t see anyone with this face. Who would believe it? Once in a while Hannibal would look up, they’d see each other staring and Will would look away first. Flashes of blood, how it tasted, how it felt. How good it looked dripping down his neck, staining their skin when his tongue smeared it around. He shuddered against the cool breeze, it wasn’t quite time for the sun to rise, but the air had that deadly quiet and foggy chill that neither of them were dressed for. 

Will had never been to Nantucket before, but he’s sure there was some sort of vulgar rhyme he heard as a kid. There once was a man from Nantucket.. a limerick that the older fisherman would recite to each other for laughs on a slow day. When Chiyoh finally returned, she was carrying two duffle bags. She handed one to Will and one to Hannibal. She pulled Will aside, lowering her voice. “Clothes, food, and enough money to get you anywhere you want, should something go wrong. I will drop you off on the north end of the island, there is a wildlife refuge with an old lighthouse. I need to go to the mainland to arrange your flights. Be ready in three days.” She placed a key in Will’s palm. 

Will nodded and thanked her. She reached forward to start the boat, whispering in his ear. “You are fine with him, alone?”

“I am.” Will risked looking her right in the eye. 

Chiyoh looked over at the other man, sitting more gracefully than Will ever has, and sighed. She knew they were lying to her, she just couldn’t figure out exactly what it was or why. The boat ride over wasn’t too long, the sky was lightening by the minute, the squawk of seagulls circling their breakfast got louder the closer they got. There was only one pier, which meant there were other boats tied up. Locals, hopefully still sleeping soundly in their homes. Chiyoh instructed them to get off the boat quickly, and when it was Will’s turn to climb out, Chiyoh tapped the side pocket of the duffle bag and gave him a look. Will gave a short nod, acknowledging he understood her, even though he didn’t. 

They both watched the boat disappear into the distance, turning to face the sandy coast. Hannibal seemed to know where he was going, so Will followed one step behind. There were a couple fishing boats scattered in the harbour, but mostly it was devoid of people. Nothing strange to see here. Just two men being dropped off with two very large duffle bags not dressed for the beach. 

It was a short walk to the gatehouse, and as Chiyoh mentioned, it was closed to the public this time of year. They stepped around the flimsy barricade and ventured deeper into the greenery. What was sandy and windy moments ago, now was quiet and cut off from the world. You could still smell the sea, the air quality was clear and fresh. The top of the lighthouse was glowing in the distance, a few miles ahead. They walked together in silence towards the imposing stone structure. Surrounding them were acres and acres of reservation preserve, and it took damn near an hour before they reached their target. When they finally arrived at the small building attached to the lighthouse, Hannibal pulled on the wooden door, finding it locked. Will grabbed the key from his pocket and handed it over. 

The door creaked absurdly loud, echoing in the empty confines of the old walls, but Hannibal didn’t seem to react. He gestured for Will to go ahead while he closed and locked the door behind them. Hannibal turned on his phone’s light to help guide the way. There was a massive stone spiral staircase that went all the way up. They were in a sort of entryway that was set up more like a visitor’s office with pamphlets and guides for the island. Will grabbed one that had information on all the different wildlife in the area, flicking it open before everything went dark again. Hannibal was already ascending the stairs so he quickly shuffled to keep up. There was another door at the top, locked, with a heavy chain draped in front that said “No One Permitted Beyond This Point” which did little to slow Hannibal down. 

This door needed a firm shove to open, it had clearly not been used in quite some time. This wasn’t part of the tour, but maybe it used to be a long time ago. It was staged in a way that showed how the lighthouse operator would have lived when it was still functioning as a residence. There was no need for the flashlight anymore, because there were windows on all sides of them and the sun was peeking over the horizon. There was an additional set of stairs that led to a trap door on the very top level, but they were already where they needed to be. 

“Cozy.” Will huffed, pointing at the ridiculously small bed. The long walk was finally catching up with him, and the now familiar aches were descending into sharp pains all over his body. 

Hannibal dropped his duffle bag, kneeling to rummage through it. Will wasn’t sure why he was so quiet, though it could be any number of things. Top of the list being that it’s been almost twenty four hours since they last slept and they were both exhausted. Hannibal began to unpack his things, using a dusty little three-drawer end table beside the bed. He laid their medical supplies on a simple wooden table and then sat on the edge of the bed with his face resting in his hands. 

Will took a moment to glance in the side pocket of his bag, there was a gun, ammo and a note. He zipped it shut and started to unpack his own things, quickly slipping a thick sweater over his shirt to combat the freezing air. The wind was so strong outside, you could feel the vibrations with every gust as it whipped against the windows. There was a plaque on the wall above the kitchen set up, with information about the lighthouse. He read it to himself, while watching the beautiful rays of pink and purple creep across the sky. Hannibal was suddenly behind him, as close as someone could get without touching. He was reading the sign as well, or so Will assumed. 

There were gentle hands on either side of his torso now, slowly dragging with just enough pressure before firmly gripping his waist. Will blinked rapidly against the touch, refusing to turn around. He focused on the clouds, outlined in shimmering light, complimenting the pastel colours with its own orangey glow. He could feel the warm puffs of air coming from Hannibal’s nose against the back of his neck before he rested his forehead with a heavy drop. Will stilled a moment before relaxing into the hold, pressing back as Hannibal wrapped his arms around his body. 

“Tell me to stop.” Hannibal whispered the words into the space behind him before laying a soft kiss on his neck. Will said nothing. Hannibal continued his touch, moving his hands under Will’s clothes to touch his skin, the contrast of cold fingers against his heated skin gave him goosebumps. Will shut his eyes with a sharp breath when he felt these seeking fingers dip into the front of his pants. Hannibal only brushed his fingertips along the waistband of his briefs, scratching his nails into the sensitive skin. Will silently begged for him to go lower, but he wouldn’t. 

His head fell backwards onto Hannibal’s shoulder, stretching his body and pushing his hips up, encouraging Hannibal physically. Hannibal slowly brought his hand further up, circling around his belly button before trailing his nails across the missing scar. The associations came quickly. The pain. The betrayal. The loss. Will involuntarily scrunched his belly inward, away from the source. He quickly turned around, pushing Hannibal away with both hands on his chest. 

Will shook his head. “Stop.” He could see the sunlight highlight the blues and greens in the eyes that looked back at him. The pupils were pinpoints against the light, squinting with the overwhelming brightness. 

“Have you not forgiven me?” Hannibal questioned him with an accusatory glare. 

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. My mind remembers, even if this body doesn’t bear the proof.”

“Forgiveness is not a selective erasure. It is an acknowledgment. I have acknowledged what I’ve done. Have you?” Hannibal reached out to grip the back of Will’s neck, closing the distance between them. 

“What am I guilty of?”

“You are certainly not innocent.” Hannibal leaned in with a smile, nudging their foreheads together. “I also remember, Will. I remember every cut. Every stitch. Every moment of you. It’s all burned into the back of my eyelids, I cannot help but see you every time I close them.”

Will tucked his face into Hannibal’s neck, breathing him in. He didn’t smell the same, not anymore. There were wars being waged in the part of his brain that screamed for him to stop and another that screamed for him to continue. Unless he was sure, unless he was solidly on one side, he couldn’t let this go any further. What he really needed right now was sleep. He took a step back.

Hannibal’s face flashed with anger, his lip twitching with rejection. “Must I bleed for you to touch me?” He took a step forward, as Will took another back. His heart rate was going up, beating strong against his ribs. Warning him, urging him to flee the imminent danger. Hannibal lowered his chin, his eyes narrowed and focused on the pulse of his neck. “Which part of me shall I carve and serve on a platter for you? What will it take?”

Will’s heel hit the edge of the wall, the back of his head flattening against the window as Hannibal moved with deliberate predation. His quick breaths fogged the glass when he turned away from Hannibal’s face. “That’s not what I want.”

“Liar.” Hannibal slotted his body right up against Will, leaving no space between them, no room for escape. His hands pressed against the window on either side of Will’s head, caging him in. “This body betrays you. Your pulse races, your breath quickens. You’re afraid, but not of me.” He licked the line of his jugular, tasting the sweat that beaded on his skin. “You taste of your own pungent denial.” 

Will whined at the intense sensation, his fingers going numb. He flexed them repeatedly, trying to regain some semblance of control. Hannibal’s lips lingered at the hollow of his throat, a mockery of tenderness. “What are you afraid of, dear Will? What is it that truly frightens you?”

Will could feel the tears brimming, threatening to fall. His lips trembled with his admission. “You already know.”

Hannibal grasped his chin, forcing him to see. “Tell me anyway.”

Will gulped the air, trying to steady his breathing. “I’m afraid.. afraid of what you make me feel. What you make me want.”

Hannibal lips, when he spoke, touched Will’s with a feather-light pressure. “..and what is it that you want?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. You want to stop running away, you want to stop fighting. You want to fall over the edge with me.” 

“I don’t know how.” He blinked, and a tear fell hot down his cheek. Hannibal eyed it the whole way down. 

Will wasn’t sure what he expected, maybe for Hannibal to bite him, bleed him, give him the pain they both know he deserves. What Hannibal did instead, was kiss him wherever the tear ended, working his way back up with soft, warm kisses. Gentle and soothing, all the way to the edge of his eye. It was worse this way, the softness of it all. Will’s heart prepared him to be consumed, not worshipped. 

Hannibal rested the side of his face against Will, tugging him close with a deep breath. It took quite some time for Will to relax into this, willing his body to calm down in increments, convincing himself that there was no active threat waiting to devour his soul. The fingers that raked through his hair, repeatedly petting him into a state of acceptance felt like everything else Hannibal was doing. Reverent. Loving.

When his heartbeat returned to normal, and his breath was even, Hannibal walked his fingers down to his hand and held it. He pulled him towards the bed without words. The quilt that covered the mattress had intricate designs woven by hand decades ago. Did the person who made it ever think it would be used to warm people like them? No, they couldn’t have. Hannibal was already laying underneath, lifting the edge with an expectation for Will to join him. Another choice, another decision towards this side of the line drawn in sand. 

Will felt every cell in his body weaken as the quilt draped over him, followed by a heavy arm pulling him in. Hannibal's chest tucked up close to his back, the warmth between them increasing by the minute. It felt natural, when he let it happen. Hannibal’s arm rested firmly over his chest, while his nose was tucked under Will’s ear. He found himself matching the deep, steady breaths, and exhaustion quickly took over. His eyes fell shut and he allowed himself to fall. 

The echoes of delicate voices singing hymns plagued his dreams. Their pitched harmonies bounced from one end of his mind to the other as he walked through the cathedral. There was a long nave between numerous pews that sat empty. No matter where he landed his sight, there was a new design. Vast moulded arches too high to touch. Painted walls that were centuries old and beautiful beyond compare. The rays of light that streamed in from the outside touched the floors through stained glass, creating patterns of colours ripe and vibrant. 

A giggling child caught his attention, and he spun around just in time to catch her. He lifted her high into the air while they both laughed. Her blonde curls were tied up into bows on either side of her head and her long white dress reflected the sunlight, almost as if she glowed. Will heard himself speaking a foreign language, though he understood it clearly as if it were his own. 

“You are not supposed to run in church, were you raised by wolves or something?”

The little girl laughed, kicking her legs. “Put me down!” 

Will smiled wide, gently placing her back on the ground, and she continued to run circles around him. “A little buzzing bee, that’s what you are!”

He started to chase her as she ran between the long wooden pews, growling while she screeched. He finally caught her, snarling his pretend bites into her neck as she giggled with tears. “Hannibal, no! It tickles! Stop!”

“Say the magic word!” He snorted in between the play-bites, reveling in her laughter.

“Okay, okay! Please!”

Will let her go, sitting her on the bench. He plopped a heavy bible in her lap. “Now read your scripture, papa will be cross if you don’t know all the words.”

She rolled her eyes and opened the book. “Will you help me?”

Hannibal sat down, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Of course, Mischa, I will always help you.” 

They looked at each other with smiles on their faces, and the feeling in his chest was tight. Too tight. It wrapped around and around his heart like barbed wire, the sharp points digging into the delicate tissue from within. He cursed loudly, clutching at his chest with clawed fingernails. His angry, betrayed eyes flick to the giant cross hanging above the altar. He dragged his feet towards the man nailed to the front, hanging limp and shriveled with his arms and feet hammered through. The crown of thorns pressed deep in this skull, a victim of the world. He opened his mouth to speak, when a sudden crash drew his attention away.

Mischa’s cries echoed through the empty church, and he watched helplessly as a pack of wolves descended on her small body, tearing the meat from her bones. He ran as fast as he could, horrified at the blood red stains on her once pristine dress. The beasts bowed their heads, backing away slowly with dripping canines. He kneeled before her, tears streaming down his face. He reached out, just as her eyes fluttered shut for the last time, and held her body close. He screamed into the air with frustration until his voice ran hoarse.

His teeth sunk deep into her neck, tearing the skin away more easily than he thought possible. Her body dropped to the floor, laid out with her arms wide, her hair fanning around her like a halo. He staggered backwards, grasping at anything to ground him. He heard deep, rumbling laughter coming from the cross. The carved wooden face turned to him with bloody tears in its eyes, dripping down the gaunt cheeks to splatter on the lectern below. It continued to laugh, to mock, as a warped curve of lips twisted into a knowing smile. 

Will spit her flesh from his mouth, landing directly below his hanging feet. It was bloody and raw, and tasted of sweet innocence. He licked his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Does this feel good to you?”

His cries reverberated throughout the room, shaking the earth in its wake. Will fell to his knees, clasping his fingers together in prayer. Mumbling memorised lines from an ancient religious text. “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate, I do.” Will hears the laughter continue, so loud it vibrates the stained glass panels all around him. “Why do you laugh, Lord? How could you mock the broken who kneels before You?”

This God smiled down on him, highlighting the area around his body in comforting light. The voice was deep, rich and coated in thick pleasure. “You amuse me, child. I laugh because you kneel for me, yet you already know the truth. You are not broken, this is your nature. Your burden to bear.”  

The light swirled around his body, lifting his face to the altar once more. There was the wooden deity, wrenching itself away from the crucifix to float above him, tall and formidable. The face is a carved replica of Will, reflecting Hannibal’s features in the marble eyes. It crooked a long wooden finger, dragging through a fresh tear streaming down his cheek. 

“You weep for her, yet you consumed her. You hate what you are, yet you revel in it. Do you not see the beauty in this contradiction? You are my creation. Every part of you, the light and the dark, is mine. Embrace it, and you will find peace.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal slept well enough, with his arms wrapped around Will’s body. He expected the twisting and turning, and so he made room for it. What he did not expect to find were the tears, streaming in perpetual motion, soaking the pillow under their head. 

Will was repeatedly sobbing the name “Mischa.. Mischa..” into the air, clawing at the fabric of his sweater.

The name stung to hear, renewing an ache that always resided in Hannibal’s heart. Why Will would be crying her name, was something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. Discussing the details of his little sister’s memory wasn’t a subject he was inclined towards exploring. His curiosity would always win, unfortunately for them both. 

“Will.” He shook Will’s shoulder, gently trying to lead him back into the world of the living. Will swayed his head from side to side, his words were mostly just mumbles of nonsense, but every other word sounded distantly familiar. Will was speaking Lithuanian. 

“Forgive me.” Hannibal whispered into his ear, as he dug a knuckle near the healing wound on his side, sharp enough to jolt Will from the hell he was reliving. 

Will shot straight up with a gasp, clutching his heart. The sudden movement disturbed the dust in the room, which floated in and out of the bright rays of sun. He was frantically searching the room for something familiar to help guide him from the nightmare. Hannibal watched, and waited to see what he would do.

Will stumbled out of the bed onto his knees, crawling over to the ceramic basin and spit into it repeatedly. He gagged and retched until watery bile started to heave from him in bouts of wheezing vomitus. He eventually slumped down on the ground with his back against the wall, breathing heavily as his glassy eyes darted all over the room. Eventually they landed on Hannibal, and a look of fear crossed his face well before recognition. 

Hannibal admired all this emotion, having not seen this depth of display painted across his features in quite some time. He was truly suffering, in a way Hannibal didn’t think his face could twist. He made his way over to Will slowly, lowering himself down to his knees to meet him at eye level. He reached out a soothing hand, and Will flinched when they made contact. He ignored the reaction and continued to touch him. He spoke in his mother tongue.

“Do you understand me?” 

Will scrunched his face, his eyebrows twisted into worry. He slowly nodded his head. 

“Tell me Will, what did you see?” 

Will looked confused, shaking his head continuously as if to forget the entire thing ever happened. He responded in English. “I– I was me, but I looked like you.” He looked down at his hands still shaking with adrenaline. “Like this.” He closed his eyes, rubbing his hands all over his face. “I was.. fuck– Hannibal it felt so real!”

“It was only a nightmare. A vivid one, I’m sure. But still, it cannot hurt you.” Hannibal sat down beside him, wrapping an arm over his shoulder, urging him to relax. “I heard you calling out a name.”

“Mischa.” Will whispered, as his body continuing to twitch and tremble no matter how tightly he hugged himself.

“What about her?”

Will began to describe his dream, though it made little sense. Religious symbolism and images his subconscious created with what little information he had on the subject. It was somewhat unnerving that he was able to describe Mischa in such detail, but Will had a way with recreating scenarios he has never lived. 

“Let me get you some water.” Hannibal dug around in his bag for a water bottle, uncapping it and handing it to Will. “Drink.”

After a few sips, and deep breaths. Will looked up to Hannibal. “It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a memory.” Will was still lost in thought, mostly whispering to himself. 

“I can assure you, from what you’ve described it was no memory of mine.” Hannibal smiled, reaching out his hand to help Will get up off the floor. “Let’s get some fresh air.” Hannibal led him to the base of the trapdoor, climbing the stairs and pushing against the wood panel above with his shoulder. As it creaked open, he flinched away from the bright sunlight. They entered the small room, wiping the dust from their clothes as they both took in their surroundings. It was a much smaller area, here at the top, with glass panes all around them and a fairly modern optic lens mechanism humming in the center. Hannibal found the door to the outside balcony and gave it a shove. The wind was instantly whipping around them, he tested the flooring with a few firm stomps. It seemed well enough intact to proceed.

Will rested his back against the structure, closing his eyes to the harsh winds while he took in a few deep breaths of sea air. Hannibal gripped the railing with both hands, leaning over the edge to look down. It was quite a way down, twenty meters at least. There were periodic solar panels tied to the rail all around. Therefore negating any reason for a keeper, another occupation lost to the technological times. 

“Would you stop that?” 

Hannibal turned on his heel with a smirk. He took a step forward, resting his hip against the wall next to Will. “Better?”

Will nodded, staring out at the sea. His eyes were following the waves picking out shapes of animals in the distance. Hannibal followed his gaze to a patch of black and grey seals at the curve of the island. They both watched as they called out to each other and flopped around in piles. Some would swim into the water, darting through the cold sea with effortless ease. Though most of what Hannibal saw, he had to assume the finer details as his vision couldn’t make out their individual features. He found himself jealous of Will’s newly inherited eyesight. 

Hannibal let the silence roll for quite some time, happy to see the fear and worry being swept away with the wind. Eventually, Will broke through the quiet wall they built around them, with his eyes still locked in the distance. “You are my creation. Every part of you, the light and the dark, is mine. Embrace it, and you will find peace.”

Hannibal could gather this had more to do with the lingering effects of his nightmare, then any spontaneous observation. “This is what God revealed to you?”

Will shakily jerked his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Revealed to me, about you.”

“About us all, no? Are we all not subjected to whatever nature assigns us?” Hannibal laid flat against the glass beside Will, listening to the seals bark at each other. When Will did not respond, Hannibal continued the thought. “Would you blame them for what their instincts tell them to do?”

Will finally looked over at Hannibal. “Does God?”

Hannibal shook his head. “Of course not. He can only blame himself.”

Will jutted his chin towards the shore. “So they have peace.”

“As does any creature who embraces their nature, Will.”

“Do you? Have peace?”

“Most days.” Hannibal sighed against the breeze. His stomach growled loud enough for both of them to look at it and huffed a short laugh. “Let’s see what Chiyoh packed for us? We haven’t eaten in far too long.” Hannibal reopened the heavy metal door, allowing Will to go ahead. Will was still hiding in the depths of his mind, no doubt replaying the images that recently haunted him. He was despondent in his actions and facial expressions, sluggish with his body while he descended the stairs. 

Hannibal opted to be a little cheery, hoping his actions would lure Will into feeling the same. Will dropped on the bed, crossed his legs, and stared at Hannibal with no real interest, while Hannibal retrieved some snacks from their bags. Crackers, beef jerky, trail mix and some granola. Not the best places to find nutrition, but calories were calories. He opened the beef jerky first, holding it out for Will who refused it. Hannibal sat down beside Will, understanding the pain he felt. As much as he wanted to avoid the subject, it wasn’t helping either of them to do so.

“So you’ve met Mischa.”

Will turned his body to face Hannibal with a soft nod and a worried frown. “Everything hurts without her.”

Resigning himself to the uncomfortable conversation, Hannibal reached out his arms to share this connection. Will was hesitant to accept, even backing himself against the wall. “It’s worse when you’re touching me.”

Hannibal tilted his head with concern. He was more than curious now, wondering what sort of connection they were privy to in this moment. “No one understands her loss more than I.” Hannibal held out his hand, palm up. “Indulge me?”

Will looked at his hand as if it were covered in muck. Hannibal pleaded with his eyes, until Will finally laid his trembling hand on top. Hannibal felt no change. “Do you feel any different?”

Will shook his head. 

Hannibal spoke to him in Lithuanian. “What did the church look like, the one in your dream?”

Without missing a beat, Will spoke the language fluently. “Tall, white marble arches. Every face of the columns had stone carved saints. Stained glass with angels flying high to the ceiling. Their colours would light up with the sun, casting their image to the floors below.”

While Hannibal listened to Will describe the church he attended as a child, he gently let go of Will’s hand. Will mumbled something before continuing his descriptions in English. “There was a cross hanging above the golden altar, it was massive. Everything was massive.”

Hannibal bore a sad smile, remembering the overwhelming beauty of this holy place as if it were only yesterday that he hummed the hymns within those walls. Hannibal opened the drawer next to the bed, to get the mobile. He navigated to a collection of photos from tourists around the world who visited this church to appreciate the beauty. He didn’t need to look at the pictures, he had them all memorised. Hannibal backed himself against the wall next to Will and handed him the phone. 

Will touched the main photo, with widened eyes. “This is it.”

Hannibal allowed him all the time he needed to swipe through the proof, while he foraged through halls of his mind. “The Church of St. John. Every Sunday, I sat somewhere around..” Hannibal pointed to the left side of pews. “There. With my family.” 

“With Mischa?”

Hannibal nodded once. “Yes.”

“It looks different in the pictures.” Will looked to be a man reminiscing. 

“Unless you visited this church when you visited my home, then you must understand what this means.”

Will turned off the phone, tossing it on the pillow. “Your memories are still living in my– this brain.” 

“Residual pieces have left some sort of imprint in the synapses. You are creating new scenarios from the bits and pieces left over. I was not lying when I said those were no memories of mine.” Hannibal took Will’s hand once more. “Mischa and I spent years attending that church before our parents were murdered. They are some of my fondest moments with her.”

“Bitė.” Will whispered, staring off in the distance again, a half-hearted smile on the edge of his lip. “A little buzzing bee.” 

Hannibal caught the sound in his throat, like an unexpected cough. A part of him felt deeply violated, this cherished nickname known only to himself and Mischa. Not a soul in the living world had the right to that intimacy. He swallowed the unintended transgression with a twitch of a snarled lip. It wasn’t Will’s fault, or so he told himself, in order to lessen the magnitude of the intrusion. 

Still, he snatched his hand away and left the bed. He rummaged around the snacks laid spread across the small table. He chose the trail mix and tossed it in Will’s lap. “Eat.” Will looked up at him, confused by the sudden change of demeanor. “Then I will change your bandages.” Hannibal sat in the chair and chewed through the spiced teriyaki jerky. Oversalted and terribly dry. The sooner they left this place, the better.

Hannibal felt himself unnaturally exposed. There was a nagging sense of uneven ground beneath his feet. If Will had the ability to remember such details, what was to stop Hannibal from remembering something from Will’s past? He closed his eyes and wandered through his Mind Palace. Today there were the echoes of laughter coming from the darkened stairs of a wing he cared not to visit. He shut that door, cutting off her giggles and whines. He ventured to the place where he kept all his memories of Will. His scent, his taste. The way he looked covered in blood and gore. Hannibal flipped through their conversations like a catalogue of memories. All the way back to when Will was a little shabby, a little less put together. He smelled the atrocious aftershave and heated sweat of encephalitis. 

There. He plucked out a conversation about low hanging fruit and ill-fitting suits. His unreachable mother and nomadic father. He followed the idea like an invisible string, tugging on it as it lead him closer to something not yet discovered. He opens the door to a memory, a young boy with a curly mop of hair, tangled and overdue for a trim. He’s wrestling on the dirt outside, with a dog almost as filthy as he is. He can feel the sun on his face, and his eyes are streaming with tears from all the laughing. Hannibal feels the happiness inside him. The joy of being so thoroughly loved by this animal, it fills him in all the places his parents left him empty. 

“William Thomas Graham, you get your ass inside! Your room ain’t even close to being packed up, and we leave at dawn.” The thin metal door slams shut on the small mobile home. 

Hannibal sits up, catching his breath. He pats the dog a few times. “It’s alright Buddy. I’ll come back later, I just have a few things to do.” Hannibal hugs the dog, and feels incredibly comforted. They both do. A quick scratch behind the ear and he’s back inside the home, carefully packing his books and magazines into a box. He organises his meager collection and writes on the outside of the box FRAGILE and hopes his dad will be careful with it. He puts it on top of the other box of his special rocks and knick-knacks he found in various streams. His father knocks on the wall outside of his room. 

“Will ?” His dad pops his head in, holding two cups of hot tea. “I put some honey in yours, just the way you like. You ‘bout finished?”

Hannibal nodded his head. “Yeah, dad. I just have my blanket and pillow, but I don’t want to pack those til morning.”

“Alright then.” His dad sits next to him on the bed and hands him the tea. They both sip in silence. Once in a while they look at each other and smile, but neither have much to say to the other. When they finish, his dad stands up and ruffles his hair. “You gotta do something ‘bout that hair, kid.” Then he’s gone, Hannibal can hear him loading boxes into the back of the truck, cursing when something annoys him. Hannibal feels heavy. Sleepy. He lays down and stares at the ceiling, blinking slowly. He tries to count all the little plastic stars he put up there in the shape of the constellation Canis Major. He blinks, he blinks, and his eyes fall shut. 

A sudden jerk of his body wakes him up. He’s lying curled up on the passenger seat of his dad’s truck. He’s confused and disorientated. He rubs his eyes and takes in the darkened sky outside. “What.. w-where are we?”

His father glances down at him, looking exhausted himself. “Oh, not far now. Maybe another hour? We’ll be in Toledo soon enough. You hungry?”

Hannibal sat straight up, trying to read the signs that were flying by. He’s suddenly frantic, looking behind the seat, but it was stuffed with bedding and clothes. He pushes it down and tries to look out the small back window. He only saw boxes and mattresses. “Where’s Buddy?” He felt desperate and anxious, his worried eyes were darting all over the truck. He even tried to look under the seat before his dad popped him on the butt. 

“Sit proper. Who’s Buddy?” His dad was trying to light a cigarette using the truck lighter, but it wouldn’t heat up. He was pissed off and this wasn’t a good time to start a fight. Hannibal couldn’t help but proceed with caution. He took a breath and lowered his voice.

“The dog? The one I play with everyday, you-" Hannibal bit his lip to hold in his building anger. He was trying really hard not to cry. "You didn’t leave him behind, did you?”

“That old mutt? Will, he was a flea-infested stray that only came by ‘cause you fed him.”

“He’s my best friend!”

His father held up the back of his hand, and Hannibal flinched, preparing his face to be slapped. The slap never came, instead his dad slammed his palm on the steering wheel and gripped it tight. “Goddamnit, Will. You need normal friends like a normal kid. Not mangy street dogs.”

“How? We never stay in any place long enough! Buddy loves me.” He couldn’t stop the cries bubbling out of him, imagining Buddy sitting patiently outside of their old trailer, waiting for Will to come play. “I love him. Please dad, please? Can we please go get him? He won’t understand why I’m gone. He–”

“That’s enough outta you. I don’t want to hear your whining. The answer is no, understood?”

Hannibal felt his heart drop into his stomach. He grabbed a pillow from behind the seat and buried his face into it to cry. Buddy didn’t deserve to be abandoned like that. It wasn’t fair! 

“Hannibal?” 

Hannibal opened his blurry eyes, and looked up at Will. He was staring down at him with concern etched into his skin. “Yes?”

Will kneeled, placing a gentle hand on his leg. “What’s wrong?” 

Hannibal took stock of his body. His heart was racing, his neck and chest were wet. His fingers followed the wet path up his neck to his cheeks, which were streaming with tears. He hiccuped a sound he was sure he'd never made before. “I feel..” Hannibal’s lip was trembling as he stared at his fingertips, marvelling in the aftermath. “Overwhelming sorrow.”

“Why? What happened?”

Hannibal didn’t know if he should share this particular revelation. At the moment there was a vague idea that Will’s nightmare was accidental, coming from some buried, residual memory of Hannibal’s young life. If he were to explain, this would open the door to more searching. Seeking. Will could potentially revisit things Hannibal had no intention of him ever knowing.  

“All this talk of Mischa. It brings up very painful memories.” It was harder than he wanted to acknowledge, lying to Will. 

Will didn’t look fooled, but he accepted the explanation nonetheless. “I won’t talk about her anymore. Not unless you want to.”

Hannibal nodded curtly. With a deep breath through his nose, he decided it was time to change the subject. “Let’s wash up and get to those bandages.”

Chapter Text

Will was walking along the shore alone, Hannibal needed some time alone and Will wanted to see how close he could get to the seals. It was freezing, despite the layers he wore, and the wind was relentless. It was the sort of weather that reminded you that the forces of nature should be respected. So should wildlife.

When he was a couple hundred feet away from the first seal, he stopped and sat in the grassy patch in the center of the point. He glanced back at the lighthouse, which wasn’t lit yet, that wouldn’t happen until dusk. Then it would glow brightly all night long. The machine was really quiet, comforting. It reminded Will of a white noise machine he had in college. The recent cleaning and dressing of his wounds sparked a dull ache that resided deep in his side. Hannibal suggested he take antibiotics as a precaution, even though their injuries looked pretty good, considering. 

The seals mostly ignored him. Once in a while, one would pop out of the water and settle close to its neighbour for warmth. They would bark at each other or kick sand around with their flippers, it was fascinating how large they were up close. He read the pamphlet about all the creatures on the refuge, trying now to spot the many different types of birds and of course the seals. There was a fog around him, though. Not the weather, that was more clear than ever. The fog that filled his brain and ran down his arms to the tips of his fingers. He was in this body, one that he’s only known for a couple days, but the fog remains. It clouds his judgement. 

There are things that should bother him, not the whole jumping off a cliff to certain death, no. Things like Molly and Walter. His dogs. Jack and the entirety of the FBI searching for their bodies. Those sorts of things, they should bother him. Why aren’t they bothering him? Has he shed a tear for this old life? For this new one?

When he thinks of his wife and son, he is.. irritated. Inconvenienced. Bored. That can’t be right. Molly is a beautiful person, inside and out, she has been nothing but kind to him given his history. She accepted him from tooth to toe without judgement. They settled into one another like.. like two people escaping their past who avoided any talk of their real feelings. Molly loved her husband. Not Will, her real husband. The one who died and left her a single mother. They both know, and they both don’t talk about it. This isn’t right. That’s justification wiggling its way into Will’s jar of excuses. Making up a reason to not call her. Let her think he’s dead. 

“They sure are cute, aren’t they?” Molly’s voice, gentle against the breeze. 

Will sees her in his periphery before he slowly turns his head to face her. “Molly?”

She smiles at him, that adorable smile filled with pleasant adoration. “Of course, silly. Who else would it be?” She reached out a soft hand, caressing the side of his face. “You look different.” 

Will covers her hand with his own, leans into the warmth, nuzzling his face into her palm. “I’m sorry.”

Molly lifts his chin, to make eye contact. “Don’t be sorry, Will. This isn’t your fault.” Her thumb rubs along his high cheekbone. “How could you have known this would happen?”

“I’m the one who jumped.” Will felt his eyes brimming with tears. 

“This isn’t my first rodeo. I know how to bury a husband. Life moves on, ya know? It moves on and we’ll be just fine without you. So dry your eyes, because those tears are wasted here.” She drops her hand away from him and returns her gaze to the blubbering seals. “Plus, we both know you aren’t really upset about all this. You got exactly what you wanted.”

“I did?”

Molly looked behind him, up at the lighthouse and nodded. “You both did.”

Will looked back at the lighthouse, to a figure standing on the catwalk, leaning on the rails. “I didn’t–” but she was gone when he looked back. He stared at the beach grass where she was sitting, swaying tall with the wind. 

The tears did dry up, as if they only needed to be told to do so. Not one of them threatened to fall as he wiggled the wedding band from his pinky finger. He held the weight of it heavy in his hand and gripped a tight first around the vows. He risked walking a little closer to the water, far enough away from the animals who watched him, judged him. The shame they wanted him to feel wouldn’t come, even as he wound his arm back and tossed the ring with all his might into the ocean ahead. He watched a small blip of water swallow the gold before disappearing forever. 

“Til death do us part.” Will whispered to no one. 

Will casually strolled back to the lighthouse, with a substantial weight off his shoulders. For something that wasn’t bothering him, he still felt the loss of a heavy burden. He glanced up, to see Hannibal watching him with squinting eyes. He could see every detail on his face, even from this far away, and huffed a laugh at Hannibal’s short end of the stick. He waved, and Hannibal waved back. He made his way back up the lighthouse, and when he opened the door to the keeper room, Hannibal was already inside sitting on the bed. 

“Enjoy your walk?”

Will nodded. “It’s freezing out there.” 

Hannibal outstretched his hand in waiting. Will still wasn’t sure about all the touching, but he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find some comfort in it. Less alone. It was something new to get used to, just like everything else. As their fingers intertwined, he was pulled down, sitting next to Hannibal to share a little warmth. His eyes fell to the table, where every bag was opened and half-eaten. Will chuckled to himself and gestured towards the packages. “You eating junk food was not something I thought I’d ever see.”

Hannibal tugged him a little closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder while he spoke. “Food is energy. For some, there is less than this or none to be had at all. When you’ve gone night after night without it, anything becomes suitable to eat.”

Will flinched, seeing Mischa’s torn throat behind his eyes and tasted her blood on his teeth. He promised Hannibal he wouldn’t talk about her, so he wondered about other unsuitable things while his tongue ran across the pungent memory. 

“You once said that there was a place made for us. Was this place built in reality?” 

“My reality, or yours?”

“Is there any difference?”

Hannibal was staring out of the large windows, his pupils pinpoint against the light. He was searching himself for the right thing to say, with a look that seemed foreign within the blues and greens that Will had come to know all his life. He was choosing his words very carefully, as they tiptoed on the edge of their tainted past.

“There was a place in my soul made for all of us, it pained me to be rid of it.”

Will studied Hannibal's face. His old face. It was unsettling how quickly he was getting used to the change. “Your soul?”

“There may have also been land, a lake, a cabin much like the one she grew up in.”

“In your Mind Palace?”

Hannibal finally looked Will in the eye, with a slow edge of a smile. “No.”

Will pushed himself away from Hannibal to make a little room between them. “A literal place was made for us?”

Hannibal squinted his eyes and cocked his head to the side. “Are you truly surprised?”

“I shouldn’t be.” Will stood up and paced back and forth with the information. Eventually, he sat down in the chair across the room, and crossed a long leg. Things like this were coming naturally, comfortably, from some place he couldn’t name. He straightened his back and the moment his eyes closed he could see a flash of a small home made from round logs, sitting peacefully against the plush forest around it. He could see Abigail balancing a rifle on her shoulder, pointing to something in the woods, while Hannibal urged her on.

“Somewhere to hunt?” Will opened his eyes and caught Hannibal’s unwavering stare.

“To hunt. To live. To be freely be ourselves with no interruptions.”

“No FBI.”

“Not so different from the life you chose after our visit to Muskrat Farms. Seclusion, and family.” 

“Neither of which are safe with you.” 

Hannibal licked the bottom of his lip as it curled under his tongue. “What is it you’re trying to say, Will?” 

“I want to know exactly where we’re going, when Chiyoh gets here. I want to know that Molly and Walter are safe. I need to know that you aren’t going to send someone after them because you’re having a bad day, or you're curious what I’d do.”

Hannibal leaned back on his hands with a sigh. “They are no more safe without you, than they were with you.”

“I’m not fucking around, you didn’t lose anything here. You got a get out of jail free card, and a face that would buy you ten steps into Quantico any day of the week. We both know Jack would buy any story you could come up with, evidence be damned. So I need your word, they are off limits. No matter what happens between us.”

“That implies anyone else isn’t. Are these your terms, then? Two lives spared and you are happy to run away with me?”

Will didn’t answer. Mostly because he didn’t have an answer. Freeing Hannibal meant unleashing his shadow on the world, with nowhere safe to hide. Will would be responsible for anything that came in the aftermath. Keeping his family, and the rest of humanity, free from his grasp meant welcoming the edge of any cliff. Present scenario excluded from any possibility that Will could have imagined, he found himself at a loss. He had only their history and truth to rely on. 

He cleared his throat, wanting to be anywhere else but in this moment. “All that work. Spending time with me, drugging me, ripping out pieces of me to replace them with bits of you. Giving me a daughter. Taking her away. Destroying my reputation, my career, my relationship with anyone who wasn’t you. You knew what would happen when you sent Mason after his sister. You took that child too, Hannibal. I can’t stand to have you take another.”

Hannibal said nothing, his face was frozen and stitched in a way that Will found unnerving. His new person suit has been carefully laid against the new foundation and he wasn’t allowing anything past the seams. Will continued, ignoring the stillness. “I need you to say it. Clearly, and without any room for interpretation.”

“Or else, what?”

Will kicked back the chair and walked over, blocking the sun to cast his own shadow on Hannibal’s body. “Or this won’t work.”

“This?” Hannibal sat up, gesturing between their bodies. “This thing you are so terrified to acknowledge? Only days ago, you were scheming, and conniving with Jack Crawford to feign a transport. I obliged. You were designing a plot to lure a dragon to his death. I obliged. You embraced me, and let us fall to certain death.” Hannibal stood abruptly, pressing his chest against Will’s. “And what did I do then, Will? Tell me. Clearly and without any room for interpretation.”

Will swallowed a heavy lump in his throat. Whatever power he thought he had in convincing Hannibal to spare his family was slipping through his fingers. “You obliged.”

“Yes. I died for you. Is that not proof enough of my dedication?”

“Then why not say it?”

“You’ve shared these sentiments before. That I have so much control over your life. Whether or not you are a father, whether or not you are responsible for my actions. What good is a promise of mine worth to you? If you need me to say it because you do not trust me otherwise, then my words are meaningless.”

“Not to me, they aren’t.”

“What you lost were ideas. The idea of an Abigail that lived in your mind was as strong as the love you had for Margot’s pregnancy. Both were figments in your elusive imagination. Do you miss your son, Will?”

Will clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth against the push back. “Of course I do.”

“When you decided to fall, whatever ties you had to this world were severed. He is no more your son, than Molly is your wife. How can I take from you, that which does not exist?”

Will took a step back, shaking his head. “That’s not true. I loved them!” 

“You love what they provided you with. But where are you choosing to be?”

Will raked his fingers through his hair, clenching the strands on the side of his head. “Stop it.” He walked a few more feet backward until his heel hit the leg of the table. “How could I have predicted this? That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, and it’s rarely predictable. You sacrificed your family well before you hit the water. Every moment before was a choice, and you chose me. Even in death, you chose to die with me.” Hannibal took a step forward, reaching his hands out to hold Will’s shoulders. “I will not accept these half-measures, and weak requests just to sate your grey morality.” 

Will fell back into the chair, sitting with his face in his hands. Hannibal did not relent. He tipped Will’s chin up, searching his eyes for something before continuing. “You could have called her. Your voice has not changed, you could warn her yourself.” Hannibal retrieved the cell phone, placing it next to Will on the table. He tapped the top twice. “Go on.” 

Will eyed the phone. He knew as well as Hannibal that the call would never happen. He couldn’t help the anger creeping through his body, down each and every limb. Hannibal was right, and Will was cornered. When enough time had passed, proving Hannibal’s words true with every passing second, he felt sick to his stomach. Saliva pooled under his tongue, as thick as the truth he needed to swallow. 

He could feel Hannibal staring, waiting for Will to speak. To admit defeat, or deny the claims. When he didn’t, Hannibal pulled the other chair away from the table and sat in it. His voice was low, and calm. “Please, look at me.”

Will turned his body, taking in a deep breath through his nose before he brought his eyes back up. Hannibal tilted his head sideways, his eyes seemed darker. The bags under his eyes pronounced, and maybe for the first time since they left the cliff house, Will really looked at him. He was hurting. In pain. Trying as hard as he could to hide it, but Will’s face was etched in lines that gave away the reality. Worry lines, from years of frowning, yet to be mastered by Hannibal’s tight control. Will relaxed his muscles, his posture falling forward. 

“You can’t take them, because they’re already gone.” Will whispered.

Hannibal nodded slowly. “I have only the power to take what you give me.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“When we accept our nature, there can only be peace. You struggle in a prison of your own making.” 

Will felt Hannibal’s hand cover his own. The nausea almost immediately went away, and something else filled the space it left. Something he could almost give a name to, something just within his grasp. Instead of reaching his hand into the cage of a lion, he was staring through the bars on the other side, snapping his jaws at the metal. Someone was speaking to him. A feminine voice filled the air, in a warbly, distorted way. 

“There are moments in time, moments that you see the world for what it really is. Not the pretty flowers, but the manure they flourished in. Not the sparkly gems, but the sweat and blood they were mined with. A grand cathedral, with bones lining its foundation. Everything is built on death and decay, on the backs of slaves and forgotten ancestors. Whichever lens you see through, grants you an alternate perspective. Do you only see the dirt? The sweat? The blood? Do you feel the bones crushed into the earth beneath your feet? ”  

Will blinked heavily against the fog. The words continued, the woman’s voice was unrecognisable to him but comforting all the same. The background was shifting between the lighthouse and a dark room covered in deep red tapestries. He couldn’t distinguish what was present or past, only that they were blurring together. The woman in front of him was sitting across the table, her hand covering his own. Her thumb idly making circles to soothe his mood, with concern edging her deep brown eyes.

“This is what it is to be human, Hannibal. To ignore the ugliness in favour of the beauty. To pretend the stench isn’t there, and wade through the fumes. We all suffer, some a great deal more than others, but we look the other way to enjoy our comforts when they come. Why do you choose violence when peace is an option?”

“I have no choice.” 

“We all have choices, child. Your uncle and I could have left you in that place, but we chose not to. We did not bring you here so your poison could spread.”

“Then you should have left me!”

The woman laughed, her hand quickly covering the sound. “Such passion you have for someone so young. If you would only direct this towards an outlet that served a greater purpose, you would be unstoppable.” She admired her young ward, Will felt her eyes moving all over him with judgement and wonder. “Do you wish to go back?”

“I will never go back there.”

“Then you will stop this obsession with revenge. You will stick to your studies, and find an appropriate way to channel all that impulsive rage. This is your weakness, not your strength, for its roots are infected with fear. You create a prison of your own making that you struggle within, and one day you will learn that only you hold the key to your freedom.”

Will was forced to witness the world shift once more, her face melting into the one that Hannibal now wore. Her eyes turned blue and round, her lips thinned and her hair disappeared into a bed of curls. He didn’t realise how badly he was shaking until his awareness settled in. His body felt cool with sweat under his layers of clothing, his heart was beating rapidly against his ribs, he pulled his hand away from Hannibal and dragged it across his face.

“Where did you go?” Hannibal leaned forward, riddled with curiosity.

“Somewhere far away.”

“Has it happened again?” Hannibal seemed a little more uneasy, the tightness of his voice was strained. Will noted the change, as minute as it was. This was clearly something Hannibal was anxious about, something he didn’t want Will to dissect too thoroughly. Will wondered how deep this connection ran, and just how many echoes were bouncing around the walls of his new brain. If they were echoes at all. 

Hannibal spoke again, wanting to coax Will into an explanation. “Describe what you saw.”

Will narrowed his eyes, focusing on the pulse at Hannibal’s throat. The way it fluttered excited him, knowing if he were to slice across it how far the arch of blood would reach. He licked his lips slowly, his own heart now steady and quieted with the visual. He could smell the copper when he closed his eyes, the warmth coating his hands as the thick heat ran down his fingertips, dripping onto the floor. He stood up, traced that same finger along Hannibal’s face, and down his throat to press on the vein. 

“You’re afraid of what I might say.”

Hannibal looked up to him, wide-eyed and genuinely nervous. “I am afraid of what this is doing to you.” 

“Liar.” Will felt a smile spreading across his face as he leaned in to whisper in Hannibal’s ear. “You’re not afraid for me, you’re afraid of me. Of what I might find in there.” He barely touched Hannibal’s temple, before a hand shot up and locked around Will’s wrist.

“Tsk tsk, Hannibal. All those lessons in restraint, and look at you! Your aunt would be so disappointed.”

Hannibal stood now, pushing Will towards the wall until the back of his head hit against it. Hannibal wrapped a hand around his throat, all the while Will was laughing. He sputtered out his words, wet spittle falling from his lips as he tried to speak with what little air Hannibal afforded him. “It’s.. different.. isn’t it?” Will gasped for a breath against the increased pressure. “H-having someone else dig around in your mind?” 

Hannibal’s eyes were slits of fury, his other arm pressing across Will’s chest to keep him still while his fingers left marks around his throat.

Will continued to taunt him, feeling a new sensation run through his body. He wheezed against the pressure, knowing he should stop antagonizing the man, but suddenly addicted to this turn of events. ”Or does it just... hurt more when it’s me?”

Hannibal snarled, speaking through gritted teeth. “You want me to lose control?” 

Will could only whisper two more words before his vision was swimming in black. “Too.. late.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal sat at the table alone. It was dark now, and their last night in the lighthouse before Chiyoh would come. The sudden turn in Will’s demeanor had a drastic edge to it, provoking him with his own past. He underestimated Will’s ability to quickly figure out how to use their connection to his advantage. He watched Will’s chest breathe steady and deep, rising and falling with repetitive motion. The hum of the mechanical light above was a constant reminder of their position above the sea. 

Hannibal walked to the window, placing his hand against the glass to watch the reflections of the moon atop the water. The calm waves would lap over the sand, bubbling and frothing white at its border. His tongue chased over the unfamiliar smoothness of teeth that did not belong to him. His fist balled up and he struck the pane in frustration. 

He quickly turned on his heel. Admonishing the other man under his breath, “You think I’m the one who lacks restraint?” He leaned over Will’s sleeping body, his mouth next to his ear and whispered. “You are a wonder. Stealing my life and my body, after you tossed yours aside so carelessly.” He kneeled on the floor, his body still aching from healing wounds and bruised skin. Both of his elbows rested on the bed, arms crossed while he continued his train of thought out loud.

“As if the choice to fall was not yours? As if living a life with me was unthinkable. You would rather die! You would rather drown than celebrate our freedom together?” Hannibal lowered his head, feeling the unwanted sting of budding tears, wishing them away with a deep breath. “You came to me, Will. You left me in there alone for years, and the moment you needed me I was there for you. I was happy to wait, if it meant you would eventually come around. And this is how you repay me? It could have been poetic, our love story. It could have been-” He blinked and the tear found its path down his face before he quickly wiped it away.

Hannibal reached out, running the back of his fingers along Will’s face. “It could have been beautiful.” He pulled on Will’s chin, to place a pill under his tongue, one that he hoped would give him a few more restful hours. Hannibal needed a head start, after all. 

“Sleep, my dear sweet Will. Sleep, and dream of all the things we will accomplish together, one day soon.” He pressed a kiss to Will’s forehead before standing up. 

His duffle bag was already packed, waiting for him by the door. He left all the medicine laid out on the table, along with the rest of the food. He kept only enough of the money to get him where he intended to go, leaving the rest in Will’s bag. The gun and ammo, Hannibal took. It would be quite a reprimandable thing to have Will caught with a firearm, wearing the face of a cannibalistic serial killer. So for the time being, it was packed safely in his own bag. He picked up the mobile, typing a message that Will would hopefully read when he awoke, and rested it next to the pillow. He looked at Will's face one more time, or rather, his old face. He wasn’t sure when it happened, but he looked so much older, paler. Hannibal may have lost a few of his highly trained senses, but he gained another ten years of virality in these new bones, and he did not intend to waste them.

Will clearly wasn’t ready. Whatever held him back, his ties to the old world, they were not severed when he woke up in this new reality. There were things Hannibal needed to do with this newfound freedom, and though he would have truly enjoyed his company, Will’s self-doubt and second-guessing would only get in the way. He could also not ignore the fact that anytime they touched, Will seemed to be thrown into the dark halls of his memory palace. It was a ticking time bomb, having Will root around in there. He would eventually stumble into something he ought not to know, and who knows what sort of reaction that would provoke. 

It was better this way. At least, that was what he was convincing himself of, as he leaned to pick up the bag. When his hand touched the door knob, he heard deep mumbling words. Something that sounded like his name, scratchy and breathless. He chose not to look back, not trusting himself to commit to his plan if he didn’t leave now. 

Quickly, he hurried down the spiral steps and found himself walking under the light of a crescent moon. His back was to the lighthouse, and his feet steadily walked the near-hour long trek back to the harbour. Along the way, he practised speaking with Will’s accent, which came more naturally than expected. Whether it was from reliving and replaying their conversations in his mind during his confinement, or he was dipping into Will’s inferior frontal gyrus, he could not know. When he arrived at the pier he chose a boat that appeared not to have been used in some time and headed north. 

The motor was shaky, and the fuel was not topped, but it was only a couple of hours to Cape Cod. The incessant tug at his heart would not quiet, no matter how many mental exercises he used to try and stop it. Leaving Will was certainly not handing him over to any immediate danger, he was a resilient man. He had enough resources to take him anywhere he wanted to be, and if it was not at Hannibal’s side then so be it. There were pressing issues that needed to be handled, and Will may not hold the space to forgive him so easily right now. 

When he arrived in the new port, Hannibal slept in the boat for a few hours, tied to a slip near the northern end of the bay. When the sun started to peak over the horizon, he changed his clothes into something more casual and loose fitting. He found a hat in the sleeping quarters and pulled it tight over his head. He chose a small, locally owned cafe to eat breakfast and sort his thoughts while sipping a dark roast. He allowed himself to bathe in the much-needed caffeine and appreciate the cook’s appropriate use of spices. Such simple food, but never to be taken for granted.

Becoming Will meant that frowning came easily, and his prickly temperament was not one that invited anyone to approach. His naturally grumpy face granted him solitude in this small town, and he was appreciative of that. He placed an appropriate tip on the table, and left before too many people filled the place. 

He picked a convenience store that wasn’t a chain, kept his head low, and bought a cheap mobile phone, snacks, a few scratch offs, and a six-pack of beer. Placing them on the counter, the man behind the register looked him up and down before ringing him up. 

“Not from around here, are you?”

Hannibal shook his head, avoiding the small talk. He slapped the money down, and left with a ding of a bell behind him. The walk back stretched his new legs in the most wonderful way, had he more time, he would walk the day away. His stay in the hospital was a pale comparison to the wind currently blowing across his face. The sun was shining beautifully, and brightly against his skin. He inhaled the fresh salty air through his nostrils and forced himself to relax his shoulders, lessening his posture a few degrees. Before long, he was refueling the boat and heading for the Boston shore. 

As he jumped from the boat onto the wobbling wooden deck of the Seaport Pier, he looked up at the Institute of Contemporary Art with a smile. The building was rectangular in shape and mostly glass. Art came in many forms, and being in the trade for some time, he made friends all across the globe buying and selling genuine pieces. When he tried to open the door, it was locked. He glanced at his phone, it wouldn’t open for another hour. He hoped to be inside before any visitors, so he rang the front office. 

“Institute of Contemporary Art, how may I direct your call?”

“Ah yes, hello. How are you this morning?” He leaned into a generally vague Scandinavian accent for this.

“I’m doing great, it’s a beautiful day for expanding minds, isn’t it?” The woman on the phone sounded happy to help. “How are you, sir?”

“I’m doing well, thank you for asking. I’m afraid I’m here a little early, I had a meeting with Dr. Vivienne Aldridge, and hoped she was available.”

“Hmm. She’s here, but she is processing inventory in the back. I can page her. What’s your name?”

“Tell her it’s Nikolaj Kødmand.”

“Oh! Certainly Mr. Kødmand. Hold, please.”

Hannibal waited, tucking the curly brown hair under his hat and pulling it down to cover his eyes. He heard the side door being opened, while a long, slender woman beckoned him forward. He ended the call and grabbed his duffle bag, making quick work of following the assistant inside. He looked all around at the mostly empty room. It seemed the art was meant to be digitally displayed on large white panels throughout the building. They weren’t powered on yet, which was a shame, it would have been nice to see them. He walked a few steps behind the woman, keeping his head down, until she opened a grey metal door and gestured for him to go in.

“If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.” She bowed towards him and left him alone to enter the much smaller room, shutting the door behind her. 

“Nikolaj Kødmand, eh?” Dr. Aldridge wiped away the wisps of hair sticking to her damp forehead, with the back of her wrist. 

“Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand. Where does the art need to go?” She rested a hand on her hip, emphasising the curve in her body. 

“Baltimore.”

The woman clicked through her phone, tapping the screen and scrolling down. She messaged back and forth with someone before replying to Hannibal without looking at him. “There’s a flight at four and one at ten. You can board either, just make sure you’re ready to go when the time comes. You can wait here, if you’d like.”

Hannibal nodded and sat down in one of the chairs. “Four o’clock works perfectly, thank you.”

The woman brushed her hair back over her shoulder, and returned to her work. She was opening large wooden boxes and unloading pieces to sort through, writing on a clipboard along the way. Every so often she would leave the room, and return with a sculpture or painting and pack it into a new box. 

Hannibal returned to his phone, wondering if Will was awake yet and what he would choose to do. Go with Chiyoh, keeping up the facade? Will he return to his family and beg for understanding? Go to Jack and try to explain the unexplainable. He smiled, thinking of Will forgoing all that to come straight to Hannibal instead. With intent, and purpose. He saved Will's number and debated sending a text. Maybe it’s too soon. 

He watched through his peripheral vision, as Dr. Aldridge lined the bottom of a box with velvet bags filled with precious stones, before covering it up with crinkled paper, and placing a single multi-coloured art sculpture on top. She nailed the corners down then approached Hannibal. She was staring down at him, nudging his shoe with hers. 

“Kødmand.” 

Hannibal looked up, accepting the grey jumpsuit that was placed in his arms. “Yes?”

“Put that on, you’re on crew. Your only job is to get that crate,” She pointed to the same wooden box. “Into the hands of the director of the Baltimore Museum of Art. His name is Henry Fairfax. No one else gets that package, except for him.” 

“Yes, madam.” He tipped his hat to her in acknowledgement. She smiled, and squinted her eyes. Finally looking him in the face, scanning each feature with some scrutiny. Ultimately there was no recognition of him. 

“You’re new?”

“New to Boston, I’m stationed in Maryland.” 

“I can’t keep up with all of you, I swear Henry changes his mind more than his socks. Though, he sure does have a type.” They both laughed while she attached a label to the outside of the crate. “My assistant Eloise will drive you to the airstrip, enjoy your flight.” 

Hannibal nodded, took the box, and turned towards the door he came in from. 

“Not that one. We prefer you guys go through the back door.” She pointed to the rear exit door. “You understand.”

“Of course.” 

The back door opened, with a waiting Eloise in the frame. “Right this way, Mr. Kødmand.” She picked up his duffle bag and led him outside, he followed her to a black town car. It was sleek, and appeared to have a dark tint on its bullet proof glass. He kept an eye on the city as it passed by and an eye in the rearview mirror at his driver. The shipment was sitting carefully at his feet, as he pulled the uniform over his clothes. 

The airport was like any other, with a small private jet waiting on the tarmac when they pulled up. Eloise opened his door, grabbed his bag, and gestured to the plane with unintelligible words. It was loud, too loud to understand her, but he followed her all the same. One of the stewards offered to take the box but he shook his head, intent on keeping his word. It rested on his lap the entire way, as he sat amongst a cabin filled with many that looked identical. 

It was a short flight, with periodic stares to his face with questioning eyes. They wondered about his disfigurement, but were too polite to ask. When the plane landed, he watched as they slowly and carefully unloaded the cargo. There were two guards at the exit door checking numbers off a list, and when it came time for him to stand, one of the men read the label to himself and pointed at Hannibal. “You, follow me.” 

Hannibal took pace behind the gentlemen, his eye lingering on the weapons around his belt. The sound of the bullet proof vest scratching beneath his shirt, the smell of sweat doused with cologne. Suddenly in a moment, in a flash, he saw himself in a mirror unknown to him as the present world around him faded away. 

He was wearing Will’s face, dressed in a similar uniform, complete with a gun and badge. His shirt was torn open, there was blood smeared on his skin and he was breathing heavily. Someone was knocking on the door, and his panicked face searched the room for somewhere to hide. His shoulder was burning with pain, he couldn’t move his left arm. He watched the blood drip from his fingers into a puddle on the floor. 

“Officer Graham! Open the door!” It was his sergeant's voice, pleading with him to come out. 

He met his reflection in the mirror, his eyes were bloodshot and pupils dilated. He almost did it. He almost shot the man, his finger was on the trigger. He felt the metal under his finger, and remembered squeezing down. It didn’t fire. He must have forgotten the safety. 

He almost killed a man. His heart was beating so hard in his head he couldn’t hear the door being pounded on, it was one and the same in the echoes of his mind. He should really open that door, and get some help.

Hannibal was caught in a dream, and the faces of three men were staring at him when he woke. Looks of concern plastered their faces, one of them holding the crate he was entrusted with. His eyes were glassy and his hands were shaking. Goosebumps riddled his skin and he tried to speak but no words were found. 

They were whispering amongst themselves, nudging each other with elbows and debating if he was on drugs. The bickering and suggestions with no follow through lasted long enough that Hannibal was able to snap out of it with a laugh, making a joke about the change in air pressure and altitudes. They returned his laugh with unease, accepting the poor excuse for his behaviour and Hannibal was left to regulate his nervous system alone. 

He retrieved the crate, stumbling forward into another transport van, now on his way to the museum. The seemingly unprovoked episode was still running through his veins, hot and unpleasant. A deliberately chosen moment was welcome, picking and choosing Will’s memories like reels to set in the projector of his mind, this random attack was quite uncalled for. If sounds and scents were to render him catatonic in public places, he would need to find a way to navigate himself out quickly and safely. 

Until this moment, he was led to believe Will was injured in the line of duty due to his inability to cross a certain line. That his empathy kept him from shooting, not a technical fault with his weapon. He closed his eyes while they drove, ignoring the bumps in the road to bring conversation between him and Jack Crawford to the forefront. Agent Crawford explained his worry, stemming from an understanding that the pressure he was applying to Will was the reason for Garret Jacob Hobbs being riddled full of bullets. This re-lived moment of Will’s past life differed from the scenario presented, he was content to let the people around him assume he could not pull the trigger, when he was chomping at the bit to do otherwise. 

Hannibal could not help the smile that seemed to find a permanent home on his face, even as the stitches pulled taut and uncomfortable. When the van came to a halt, and the side door was opened, he was ushered through a warehouse and guided to an empty room to wait. No more than sixty seconds passed before a door banged open and Henry Fairfax himself appeared in the frame, out of breath and sweaty. 

“Oh. I was expecting.. someone else.” His voice was shaky and he dabbed his pocket square against his damp forehead. “When Vivienne mentioned the name Nikolaj Kødmand, I- well it doesn’t matter now, does it? You have the package?” His eyes only held Hannibal’s stare for a half second at a time, mostly he looked anywhere but directly at Hannibal. 

Hannibal stood, he was shorter than the man in front of him, an issue he rarely faced in his old body. “Hannibal Lecter sent me in his stead.”

“So, he really is alive? That’s not what the news says. I thought, damn, I really thought he didn’t make it.” 

Hannibal was curious about this newfound information. “There is still a chance he may not. Regardless, he considers your debt paid for your help in the matter.”

“Right.” Henry was nodding, but not really paying any attention. Something was bothering him, but he waved it away. He took the crate from Hannibal and rested it on a nearby desk. He pried it open, and gently took out the sculpture, admiring it for a moment before setting it down outside the box. The pouches were lifted, weighed and opened briefly, before being loaded back in. While the lid was being re-secured, Henry flicked an eye to Hannibal and then back to the crate. His finger was tapping the corner, he was obviously unsure if this was a legitimate transaction. 

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Fairfax?” 

“After this, it’s over, right? I don’t ever hear from Lecter again? He leaves me and my family alone?” 

Hannibal nodded. “Rest assured, you and your family are perfectly safe. Your assistance and discretion are paid for with a pound of flesh.”

Henry let out a deep breath, possibly one that he has held off and on for many years. His hands rested on the desk while he lowered his head between his shoulders, breathing new air, finally free from constraints of perpetual anxiety. Hannibal had no real intent of cashing in this favour from the poor man, not everyone who slighted him ended up on his dinner table. Some would only stew, forever, in their own stink of fear and regret. 

“Be careful, man. Working for him? He isn’t someone you want to cross, not even a little bit.” He finally stood and stretched his upper body with an inhale that threatened to take all the oxygen from the small room. “God, I think I need a cigarette.”

“The key?”

“Oh right!” Henry patted his pocket, retrieving a silver car key and handed it to Hannibal. “It’s the black Mercedes in the VIP parking area, they had it detailed on your way here. I hope he’s satisfied with it, I had them go over the interior twice, just in case.” 

“I appreciate it, and so will he.” Hannibal held out his hand to offer a handshake.

Henry returned this gesture with warm, sticky palms. He finally looked up, staring a little too long at the scar across Hannibal’s cheek, a flash of recognition crossing his eyes. He knew better than to say anything else. He was home free, and nothing would interrupt his peace. He quickly looked back at the floor, digging his phone from his back pocket. 

“I’ve let Vivienne know everything’s settled. Drive safe!” Henry quickly turned on his heel and left the way Hannibal entered, back through the warehouse. 

Hannibal left the building, scoping the parking lot for his new ride. There it sat, freshly washed and dried, gleaming under the late sun. He unlocked it, appreciating that his duffle bag was already in the backseat, and let the cool air fill the space while he made a call. 

“Cecil Community Pharmacy, how may I help you?”

“Hello, I'm Doctor Reitzel, and I’m trying to refill a prescription but the address does not match on file. Could you please help me verify my patient’s information?”

“Sure thing, Dr. Reitzel. Let me have the last name, birthday and the current address you have.”

Hannibal gave the information required, alarmingly easy to deceive a small town pharmacy. He was sure his old colleague would not mind the use of his credentials just this once. He waited, listening to the clicking of keys through the receiver.

“I see where the confusion is, they only just changed the address on file a few days ago. You’re going to want the pharmacy on Gibson Island.” 

“Ah yes, that would explain it.” Hannibal entered the new address she supplied into the onboard GPS. Only thirty miles away. “I appreciate your help, I will update everything immediately.”

“Have a nice day.” The technician ended the call.

Hannibal smiled to himself, as he pulled out of the parking lot. He had only one thing on his mind, and that was to fulfill a long overdue promise. 

Chapter Text

Will blinked and rubbed his eyes, rereading the note Hannibal left on his phone for the second time.

“Do you miss your dogs, Will? Are you going to miss me? Will you try to find me this time, I wonder. Do you want to know where I am, and what I will do? If you choose to look for me, you may find me in some of the old places, surrounded by familiar faces. Until then, we shall only see each other in our dreams, and our reflections. I will be waiting, still, for when you need me again.”

Will looked around the room, wanting this to be a nightmare he would wake up from any second. He scrambled to the small wooden dresser, ripping the empty drawers out one by one and throwing them on the ground. 

“God damnit!” He stood up, kicking one of the drawers out of the way as he ran out of the room, and down the spiral steps. The door whipped open, and stayed open, held by the rushing winds. Will looked everywhere, with a hand over his eyes to block the bright light. Nothing for miles in any direction. He screamed into the air, frustrated and full of rage as the nearby gulls squawked and flew away, afraid of his sudden outburst. He plopped himself down on the cement steps outside and carried the weight of his head in his hands. 

Hannibal really left. Snuck out in the middle of the night, taking Will’s face and body with him. He wrapped his arms around himself and thought more about the message. Old places, and familiar faces. Would he go after Molly and Walter? Why risk letting the world know they escaped alive? Unless he wasn’t planning on leaving anyone alive to tell the tale. His stomach rumbled. 

“Shut up.” He cursed his hunger as it feuded with the creeping nausea.

Jack? Alana? Bedelia? Who would end up on the menu tonight? Will had no real leads, and Chiyoh would arrive sooner rather than later. He needed to figure out what he was going to do, and quickly. He couldn’t go to Jack, not now. It’s been too long to claim ignorance and wearing Hannibal’s face certainly didn’t do him any favours. So where, if there were any, could favours be found? What about wearing the skin of this man, could he use to his benefit? 

He ascended the lighthouse to gather his things, packing his clothes and medicine into the duffle with a sick feeling twisting his gut. He checked the side pocket, the gun was gone but most of the money was there. Hannibal wanted Will to choose. It would always come to this, wouldn’t it? Hannibal did nothing by half measures, and no stone would be left untouched if he had his way. Where would he go first?

Will caught his reflection in a small mirror above the basin, it was grimy and edged with years of dust, but he could see himself all the same. He walked towards it, rubbing the cuff of his sweater in small circles to clear a larger space. There was a fresh bruise forming around his neckline from their spat last night. He touched the edge of it with a finger, remembering the fear he inspired in Hannibal by visiting his memory palace uninvited. Could this be something to exploit, to pursue with purpose? 

Will zeroed in on a scar on Hannibal’s face. Right across his cheek, along the highest point of his cheekbone. He felt a sting when he pressed on it, not from present injury but from injured past. There was something there to touch, to feel, to taste. Will could smell blood, he could hear the glass crunching under his body. There was enough adrenaline to fight the pain, and for everything else, it was marvelous. He felt alive, truly. With this excitement crawling all over his body, not unlike the anticipation of opening the acceptance envelopes from prestigious schools all over the world.

Rossini played in the empty air, he could touch each and every note of the waltz. Each little turn, accompanied by a punch, a kick and a jab to his body. He danced with Jack in this beautiful place, La Gazza Ladra pushing them and pulling them into one another. A high note, as shards of glass cut his skin, a low note pushes the air from his lungs and it’s hard to breathe. Depriving oneself from the very basic necessities of life, only allows you to appreciate them more when they are returned to you. 

Gasps claw at the night as the string section builds their symphonic melody, only for the winds to chime their sharp flittering song into the back of his leg. Will fell, kneeling on the ground with the visceral feeling of dermis and fat skewered with metal. He found himself crawling on the lighthouse floor, every weak stretch of limb cheering in delight for this violent display. He feels the opportunities pass him by as he opts instead to allow Jack his penance. Would this be his end? It could be glorious if you view it from the right angle. To die in such a place as this, to bleed on these very floors. Pazzi, his final tableau.

What would Will think? Would he be proud? Would he stumble onto the scene, shaking hands with Jack Crawford to celebrate their victory? He wished he could have shown Florence to Will, taking him arm-in-arm to the places he frequented as a young man. To show him the finer things, and have the waters run red with their pilgrimage. There was so much yet to do, he wasn’t done here. He wasn’t done with Will Graham, not yet. 

He coughed when his body hit the stones of the Palazzo. He felt the sharp bend of his ankle, the swelling and pooling of blood in his socks. They squished and squirmed in his shoes when he limped away, not with any feeling of defeat, but rather a new found respect for an old friend. There was no justice pouring from the pupil of Jack’s eye, there was only determination to inflict as much terror as he was able. This was personal vengeance, and he witnessed with absolute pleasure. 

Will snapped his eyes open, to the present. He was laying flat on his back, laughing at the wooden ceiling above. Residual delight coursing through his veins as he acknowledged his conquering of the once untouchable morals of Jack Crawford. Taunted and torn from his place on that high horse, recognising he was no different in his quest for a thrill beyond retribution. Will felt something like a key form in his hand, made from bones and breath. A skeleton that unlocked all the closed and hidden recesses in Hannibal’s mind. What would anyone do if they were given this sort of access? Hannibal would use it without second thought, in fact, he most likely already had. 

Will remained there, on the floor, digging through memories and nightmares. Hopping from one room to the next, exploring the vast cobwebs of Hannibal’s past. He wept when Hannibal wept, his heart beating and bleeding from one tragedy to the next. Some places were easier to venture, and some were avoided altogether. The hours passed, the shadows across his body moved alongside the sun and these neon flashing places he did not want to go only became brighter as his peripheral was filled with screaming ghosts. 

Behind closed eyelids, Will could see the transparent glass door of one of these rooms. Abigail was pounding with both fists, her mouth hanging open with endless screams he could not hear, rather, he did not want to hear. It was more than difficult to force his feet to pass by her door, ignoring her hopeless blue eyes. Whatever secrets she held, whatever images he would subject himself to watching her die again and again, could be no better than the reality. He did not want to relive something that still haunted his dreams. Every step away held heavy with guilt and regret as he hung his head in shame. 

Will could feel the tears falling to the floor around him as he stifled the impending doom, stuffing it deep down where even sunlight couldn’t find it. Around the corner, at the end of a long hall, sat two chairs and a heavy wooden door. It’s been years since his knuckle rapped on this familiar place, but he found himself playing the part as he reached out to knock. 

“Will, please come in.” Hannibal gestured for Will to enter, and he saw himself cross the boundary. 

He watched the play, every cue like a stage manager directing the lights, the camera, the action. He watched himself sit in a chair opposite the good doctor and listened to their conversations. Words thrown at each other like a match of tennis, back and forth. Back and forth. It’s a funny thing watching your memories play out in front of you like a film, you see all the things you missed, you hear all the puns and euphemisms, intended or not. One moment they were speaking about Hobbs, in the next they were conniving in secrets and hidden meanings. What masqueraded as therapy, was dripping with curiosity and unbridled need.

It was beautiful. There is no other word for the way Hannibal laid his traps and pushed his agendas. Planning every possibility, and hoping Will would follow suit. Surviving, where others had so terribly failed. When Will would dodge, Hannibal would parry. It was their game, their design, and Will had no idea he was playing until after the game had already begun. The light above their heads shut off, and a spotlight formed brightly around another moment in time. Will followed the sounds, the gagging and choking as he watched Hannibal shove a plastic tube down his throat. He absently wrapped a hand around his neck, swallowing hard against the memory. 

All the details he could never know shone around him like beacons in a stormy night. Over there, he saw the needles. And on the table, the medications. Where before he had only flashes and grainy images that trickled through a foggy filter, this was clear as day. This was a maestro using his instruments to direct the flow of music. Gone were the feelings of betrayal and abuse, somehow they were replaced with pride and crystal clarity. 

Hannibal was by all accounts, a desperate man. Acting in wild and obscene ways, fighting against his own nature while he pinned Will like a butterfly under the glass. He wanted to dissect and fought his own urge to destroy. He was testing Will, in so many different ways that he believed Will may never recover from. He broke Will, shattered him every way a person could be shattered, and applauded when he gathered himself back up. For once in his miserable life, he was as impressed as he was terrified of his feelings.  

All the ones before, who he pushed and shoved and stabbed and led astray, they were lost to the black hole that was Hannibal’s endless suffering. All the nights he ate alone, all the single tickets he bought for the theatre. The cold side of the bed, which he refused to consciously fill with someone undeserving. Late nights in his office, clicking a pen that reminded him of the insignificance of his work. What good was this life, and all the depravities in it, if not to share the journey with a like-minded companion. 

The lights went out entirely, bathing the vast space around him in pitch black. Will could hear the echo of his shoes against the floor, bouncing off nothing and everything. He saw a soft glow forming around Hannibal through candlelight, standing alone at the end of a long table, a dozen empty seats around him with names written on folded cards. He poured wine into every glass, and placed a serving of food at each setting around the table, eventually returning to rest at the head. Will wandered over, running a fingertip along the top of every chair, until he reached Hannibal who was staring at his own, empty plate. When he finally looked up, Hannibal spoke directly to him, not as a memory but something else entirely. 

“How do I invite you to my table, Will?”

Will was unsure what was happening, whether he was supposed to speak or remain silent.

“Do you even want to be here?” Hannibal tilted his head, searching Will’s face for an answer. 

“I am here. Whether I want to be, or not.” Will replied, his voice felt unnaturally quiet, absorbed by the nothing around them. 

“We must be honest, truly honest, if we are to dine together.” Hannibal gestured to the empty seats. “Take your pick.”

Will looked around the table, focusing on the little placards in front of every plate. 

Rage. Betrayal. Ignorance. Regret. Hunger. Longing. Forgiveness. Trust. Jealousy. Contempt.

He paused at every setting, noticing the slight variations in the meal provided for each. Flowers of all colours, fruits of every kind, portions of meat all decorated and lavished on fine china. Tempting and savory morsels of art. All except for the meal placed at the far end of the table, directly across from where Hannibal sat. The food there was fetid and rotten, dripping with maggots and repulsive mold. Will read the card.

Love.

Will chose this seat, and Hannibal smiled with a short nod. Will lifted the shining silver utensils and cut a piece of decayed flesh, peeling it away to observe its greenish tint reflecting under the low light. He opened his mouth and lay the spoilt meat on his tongue. It dissolved into an acrid tang of putrid sludge, but he swallowed it all the same. When he looked up, Hannibal was leaning over his own empty plate, watching with morbid fascination. He began to climb onto the table, knocking over the pretty candles and delicate centerpieces. They smashed on the ground into glittering shards while Will continued to eat. With every bite, Hannibal crawled closer and closer. Little points of black grew from his head, into long and twisting antlers, coated in darkened blood, dripping as thick as oil. 

“How does it taste?” Hannibal was crouched over him, eyes flicking between Will’s mouth and eyes, licking his lips. 

Will consumed the final bite, chasing the corners of his mouth with a napkin and settled into the back of his chair, sated but uncomfortably full. 

“You tell me.”

Every tooth in Hannibal’s mouth shone from his mouth, and every point grew sharp and long as he crept to the edge of the table. This evolving creature placed a claw on either side of Will’s shoulders and his knees on either side of Will’s legs. His shadow overcast Will’s face in darkness as he straddled the man below. Will had to stretch his neck up and head back in order to catch Hannibal’s gaze, which had been overtaken with irides void of any colour. 

Will lifted his arms, his hands unsteady on their mission to hold Hannibal’s face. He could feel the cold, wet blood drip from his crown of antlers, down onto his warm skin. He leaned forward to offer his lips, and Hannibal met him with a growling hunger, biting and tearing into his mouth with the tongue of a snake and the teeth of a wild animal. Will could taste his sweet desperation, his endless need, his demanding want, his overwhelming urge to connect with Will no matter the risk. 

Above all, he tasted his love. Hannibal’s endless well of love and devotion, overfilling and spilling into Will’s throat. He could not contain the bursting dam, as it poured into Will, this once thin boney creature became fat and well nourished as Will let him feast. There was no pain, only pity. To be so empty inside, for so long. Will wished for him to take it all, and so his body began to wretch and gag, unable to contain the rot. It poured from his vessel and into Hannibal’s until he could give no more.

They slowly parted ways as the vile gore stretched between their lips. Breathing in sync with each other, they held a stare. For a moment Will was unsure if he was looking into Hannibal's eyes or his own. He could feel both perspectives at the same time, and neither was fully one nor the other. When he spoke, both of their mouths moved, their voices amalgamated into one. 

“Is this what love is supposed to feel like?” They eyed each other, the movements identical, when one blinked so did the other. 

“For us, it does.” Hannibal’s pleasure lay thick on his tongue, dripping with satisfaction and Will shuddered under the pressure, his body responding in like.

“Hannibal!”

“Yes?”

Will felt his body shake rather harshly. 

“Hannibal!”

Will opened his eyes, immediately locking onto Chiyoh's concerned face. The abrupt nature of his awakening unsettled him in this reality. Whatever place he was just torn from was no memory of his, nor Hannibal’s. It felt so real, he could still taste foul blood in the back of his throat. He reached for a water bottle, trying to push himself to sit up. Chiyoh noticed, and grabbed it for him, opening it and offering to his lips as he drank the entire thing down.

“Are you alright?” Chiyoh had him rest against the wall, tugging at the neck of his sweater and following the bruise around his throat with a questioning glare. When he did not answer, she prodded. “Will did this?”

Will shook his head, breathless as he spoke. “I did.” 

Chiyoh narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to the side. “Where is he?”

Will steadied himself as best he could, stretching his back and twisting his shoulders from side to side. Had he really spent the entire day laying on the floor, inside Hannibal’s mind? It was dark out, and he could hear the humming of the mechanical light above. 

“I don’t know. He left.” Will gestured to the empty drawers laying scattered on the floor. 

“Are you going after him?”

“There are more pressing issues.”

“Is that wise? He may go to the authorities.”

Will held up a hand. “I need you to find his family. Watch from a distance and contact me the moment you see anything out of the ordinary. If he gets anywhere near them, take him down.”

Chiyoh raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“Incapacitate him, don’t kill him.” 

She looked around the room, quietly judging the obvious disarray. “What if he does not go to them?”

Will had only a peek into the relationship between Chiyoh and Hannibal, mostly for curiosity's sake. Not enough to know her as deeply as he should, but enough to know that she would always listen to his command. She respected the Lecter family, making some sort of promise to Hannibal’s Aunt that she would always honour, and Will chose to capitalise on it. 

“Stay there anyway.” 

Chiyoh bowed her head in agreement, and began to put the drawers back in their place. Will attempted to help her, but she pushed him away, redirecting him towards the table, which now had a brown leather briefcase sitting on top. 

“Your cards, identification, and travel papers for each of you. More medicine and a list of safe houses.” She walked over to the bed, making it tidy and straight. Will watched her work for a moment, before opening the case. There, in his hands, he held illegal documents with their faces perfectly plastered all over each identity. It was so well done, he had trouble picking out any telltale signs that they were fake. Birth certificates and passports, credit cards and multiple licenses to drive in a handful of countries. How she was able to get all this done in a few days amazed Will. It also terrified him that Hannibal had these sorts of resources on hand at any given time. 

“Are they to your satisfaction?” He heard Chiyoh’s soft voice from over his left shoulder, and he turned to face her just a little, he was still unsure how to entirely convince anyone that he was Hannibal Lecter.

“Which account are these attached to?” Will wiggled one of the credit cards in the air.

“Are you doubting me?” She gave a half-smile and a playful scoff.

Will returned the smile, and tucked the card back in its proper place. “Of course not.” He would have to figure that out later, on his own. 

Chiyoh lifted a laptop from the briefcase and raised the slip cover under it. “Cash, if you would rather not use the card straight away.” She gently placed the laptop back inside and made sure everything was back in its proper place before locking it shut. She handed it to Will, and retrieved the duffle bag herself and started to leave the room.

“We don’t have all night, the boat is ready and our flight leaves at sunrise.”

Will was curious where they were going, but it didn’t feel like something Hannibal would ask, so instead he followed Chiyoh down the stairs and outside, locking the door behind them. She tucked the key in her jacket pocket and gestured to the car. 

“We will go to the docks first, sail to Montauk, get to the airport and take the first flight to the mainland.” She checked her watch. “We will make it if we leave now.”

Will sat in the passenger seat, appreciative that Chiyoh was focused on driving and keeping to her strict itinerary. It gave him time to think, and process everything that was going on. He closed his eyes and let his head fall against the headrest, he wasn’t sleeping, but he also wasn’t fully awake. Some in-between state, wondering where Hannibal is and what he is doing. He couldn’t help but think of the carnage he would inflict on all the people who kept him caged these past few years, even though it was he who put himself there. Anyone seemed fair game, and Hannibal was on the hunt.

“Will you ever tell me what is really going on?” Chiyoh’s pleasantly calm voice stirred him from his chain of thoughts.

“Not today.” Sounding like Hannibal came easy to Will. Knowing what to say, and what not to say, was much more difficult. 

“If you thought he was really going to his family, you would be the one stalking them, not me.”

Will ignored her statement, because it was true, but also because he didn’t want to give her any hints as to where he might go. Knowing exactly where Chiyoh would be, brought him comfort. Knowing that she wouldn’t let Hannibal anywhere near them, would be the only reason he would be able to sleep at night. If he slept at all.

Chiyoh took his silence as an answer, that he was done speaking about the subject and so she moved on from it. The rest of the drive was in silence, with neither of them attempting communication. They moved smoothly as a team, Will gathering their things, and unloading them onto the boat that Chiyoh was preparing. Will was proficient with almost any rig, so sailing under the night sky was a breeze. Chiyoh sat quiet and pensive, staring into the dark waters, watching the reflection of stars whip past them. 

Will felt something for her, maybe not with his own heart, but with the one beating in his chest. A certain kind of appreciation and admiration. A familial respect, with a need to protect her as much as she protected him. For a moment, he felt the pull, the tug, the string that connected them in Hannibal’s memory palace and he resisted the urge to follow it. The very air around him shimmered as if he would fall into another dreamstate, but he forced himself in the other direction. He started to clench his teeth, grinding tooth on tooth until he feared one may crack under the pressure. He needed to ground himself in the here and now, and it seemed to be working. That, and he was digging his nails into his palm, little half-circles of pain reminding him that he was here on earth. 

Part of him wondered if he imagined the click of a hammer, until he felt the cool tip of a revolver press against his temple. He slowly raised his hands in the air.

“I caution you not to move.” Chiyoh stated plainly. Her voice unwavering against the bob of their boat in the open water. “Now, tell me what really happened on that cliff, because you may look like him, but you are not him.”

Chapter Text

Hannibal slowed the car down, parking under the shade of a tall black locust tree. One of many. The trees lined the estate, acting as a sort of privacy wall around the multi-acre home. Though there was enough space between them, he could catch a glimpse of the stone mansion in all its magnificent glory. This was an unattainable home, for most. For a Verger, this was merely a safe place away from the pig farm estate. If he had any doubts that this was their hiding place, they were dashed when he noticed an abundance of bodyguards walking the perimeter. They were on a schedule it seemed, every fifteen minutes they would walk to their next station. Armed to the teeth with coiled earpieces to communicate with each other. Far too much security for your typical wealthy family. 

Hannibal waited, learning their routes and watching keenly, hoping for an opportunity. An hour passed, and then another. He wondered about Will and what choice he would ultimately make. There was a niggling feeling deep in his brain, wiggling around and poking holes in his conviction. These thoughts were foreign to him, and they ate away at his confidence as he waited. What if Will would not come after him? What if he left, never to be seen again? What if he chose his family? 

What if this was a step too far, something unforgivable?

These relentless thoughts spun in his mind like a broken record, blaring louder the harder he tried to ignore them, threatening his rationale entirely. He swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped his sweaty palms against his trousers. These were not his insecurities, they were remnants of an old life. They would move on, as all things in life do. He forced his feet, one in front of the other, toward the main gate. He was no more than ten steps away from the wrought-iron gates before he was crowded from all angles, guns drawn and pointed, while the men commanded him to put his hands on his head.

“My name is Will Graham! I’m here to see Alana Bloom.” Hannibal passively lowered his eyes to the ground. Believable, non-threatening Will Graham. 

They spoke into their radios, confirming his identity, and eventually they led him through the gates. Two remained behind, while another two escorted him up the stairs and into an impressive foyer. The floor was marbled tile, the walls were lined with arches and columns, embedded with glass to allow natural light inside. The angled wood that created the ceiling was expertly handcrafted. Every few feet there were wideset doors that opened to an inner courtyard, containing all types of plants and wildflowers. He took a moment to etch the blueprint of anything that he saw into his mind. One can never be too prepared. 

Will’s relationship with the Vergers was heavily reliant on his ability to contain or control Hannibal in some way. He knew that this was a thin and shaky bridge, without a solid foundation. One of the only ways across, was to plead for help, play the victim. Alana had a soft place in her heart for Will, which was ripe for the plucking. 

Hannibal was led to another room, a beautiful Persian rug protecting the floor, surrounded by French carved giltwood armchairs. Had he more time, he would love to survey the entire home. It seemed the furnishings were authentic from their time period. He could only imagine the art hidden deeper in the residence. 

“Oh my god! Will!” 

Hannibal heard her high heels tapping along the marble before he turned to greet her. One foot was heavier than the other, we all bore our scars in one way or another. She stopped short, laying her hand over her mouth with a gasp. “What happened to you? Where have you been? Jack hasn’t returned any of our calls, we’ve been in the dark all week. Does he know you’re alive? Should we–”

Hannibal held up his hand to stop her. One could imagine it was a rude gesture, but he wasn’t quite himself lately. “Please, let’s sit down and talk. I’m really tired.” He furrowed his sad brows and gave her large, teary eyes. He even trembled his lower lip a little for sympathy. 

Alana was nodding her head before he even finished his sentence. “Of course. I’m so sorry Will. I’m in a million different places today, and now this!” She immediately recoiled from her own words. “I don’t mean you, I mean this whole day has just been something else. I’m glad you’re here. Really.” She walked past the fancy chairs and into another room, waving her hand in the air. “That room is so formal, it gives me hives.”

Hannibal walked slowly behind her. He could make it quick, snap her neck and lay her across the chaise. It would be kind, and somewhat gentle. Will wouldn’t hate him for that, would he? Hannibal could make it out of the house, and back to the car before anyone noticed. 

Alana being a Verger, made her no pig. The idea of leaving her body to rot in the same home as her child made his stomach uneasy. She deserved something magnificent, something that would honour and pay homage to the woman she was. Plus, he would be denying himself a taste of her if he moved too quickly. He noticed a small vineyard in the gardens on the way in, he could string her up quite nicely there, on exhibit for her wife. Maybe Margot would complete the tableaux, their hands entwined on the vine. Something poignant, but romantic. 

As he debated the various ways to murder and subsequently display his former student, she was gesturing for him to sit on a much more comfortable looking couch. She sat opposite to him, crossing a leg over her knee and took a deep breath before staring at his cheek at length.

“We have a doctor. He comes to us, so we don’t have to go to him. He can be here in fifteen minutes, and take a look at that.” She nodded her head towards him with a sad smile. 

Would Will agree? No. He would turn away the help and power through any inconvenience. He would find it invasive and feel as though he were putting her out. He shook his head slowly, with a returned smile of his own. A pathetic one used to garner a little more power over the situation. 

“Thanks Alana, but no. It looks worse than it is.” He absently ran a light finger along the cut. Which would have been well on its way to being healed, had Will not desecrated the wound and reopened the recovering tissue. He licked his lips, remembering their bloody encounter in the woods. It was a shame it would heal at all.

Alana was tapping her foot in the air, she was impatient to some extent. Something on her mind, distracting her from being fully present. Still, she pushed through and politely asked again, what happened. Where had he been, why had he not contacted any of them. For all this, he needed to weave an intricate web of lies, without implicating Will in any way. 

And so he spoke, retelling a version of events that would mostly be believable and verifiable. Things were a little embellished, timelines were shortened and it was less that Will voluntarily got into the police car, and more so that Hannibal forced him at gunpoint. In less than five minutes, he had captured Alana’s full attention, she was leaning forward, hanging on every word. 

“So Hannibal killed Francis Dolarhyde while you watched?”

“He handcuffed me, there wasn’t much I could do.” 

Alana paused, her lips pulled inward with thought. She was reconstructing the scene in her mind, frame by frame. Wondering at the details, seeing if they fit together in a way that made sense. “Then he just left you there, unscathed, to fend for yourself?”

Hannibal rubbed his thumb along his opposite hand in a faux soothing motion, as if he were reliving the moment of escape. “There were words between us. An understanding that he knew why I was there. I wouldn’t entirely say I was left unscathed.” He looked up at her, widened his eyes and turned his head to show more of his cheek as he lowered the right side of his shirt to show the other bandage. 

“Hannibal did that to you?” This creeping doubt of hers was obvious and Hannibal needed to shut it down. 

“Francis attacked me, Hannibal pulled him off. He seemed irritated.” 

Alana was subtly nodding her head, there was more belief that Hannibal would save Will, rather than harm him. This is where he would plant his stake in the war. Hannibal continued. “I asked him to leave me there.” Hannibal hung his head in this supposed shame, all but admitting that Will’s feelings for Hannibal were reciprocated.

“Why?”

“I was bleeding, wounded. It’s not as if we would run off together, would we?” This hurts to admit out loud, the truth is always more convincing even when it hurts. His face naturally flushed with the pain, all but sealing the deal on his tall tale. “I think he likes the chase.”

“That was over a week ago, Will.” 

And now, the finale. “I felt like he was everywhere. Every time I moved forward, I would see his shadow right behind me. When I turned around, I could still feel him nearby. I’m so close, Alana. So close to really getting him this time.”

“So you led him to me? My family? If you knew the lengths we’ve gone to, in order to protect our son..” Her voice trailed off, her eyes were glassy, haunted by something only she could name. 

“I do know. I know you’d do anything to make sure Hannibal couldn’t hurt your family. We can draw him out, together. If I could find you this quickly, I’m sure he could.”

“I need a drink.” Alana let out a long held breath, leaning her body back on the couch and rubbing her eyes. She gathered her strength and stood, leaving the room for only a minute before returning with two glasses and a bottle of top-shelf bourbon. She handed Hannibal one glass, and set her own on the table between them. She popped the cork and poured enough whiskey to warm anyone to their bones. Hannibal nodded his head in appreciation and swirled the amber liquid around before inhaling the sweet aroma. 

Still, he waited for her to drink, to pour her own glass and sip at it. You could never be too sure. Hannibal took his own sip, and marveled at the taste. Truly a wonderful blend of oak and wood, worth its weight in gold. He allowed himself this reprieve, for it had been too long without something so exquisite. He closed his eyes and let his shoulders relax. When he opened his eyes again, Alana was picking at the seam of the couch. 

“You mean to use me as bait?”

“No matter where you go, he’ll find you. You might as well have the home team advantage.”

“Molly thinks you're dead. Do you know that? Your wife is sitting home alone, with your son, grieving you.” Alana took a long swig, not exactly accusing him of being a coward, but rather leaving him the option to defend himself.

“I couldn’t go home. For the same reason I couldn’t go to Jack. Hannibal is always one step ahead, and at least with you, we can play outside the rules. I don’t want-” He dropped his eyes to the floor and lowered his voice. “I don’t want Molly to see what I have to do. What we have to do.” 

“Mommy!” A little boy came running in the room, squealing loudly with his arms wide open. Alana made a pained grunt when he leapt into her lap, hugging her with a childish giggle. Alana’s entire demeanor changed, she smiled beautifully and squeezed him tightly.

“Motherhood looks good on you.” Hannibal complimented her, and found that he truly meant it. His stomach dropped another level into his body, acknowledging this familial bond. Right on his heel, Margot trotted in after her son, catching Hannibal's eye with a questioning glare.

“One of the guards told me you were here. I had to see it for myself.” She leaned over Alana, kissing her on the temple before picking up her unfinished glass and downing what was left. “Please tell me he’s dead.”

Alana chastised Margot with a click of her tongue. “Not in front of Morgan.” 

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at Margot but quickly shook his head. “Not yet.”

Margot sighed and slumped down next to her wife, running her fingers through their son’s hair. He looked to be a well rounded child, filled with love and adoration from both of his parents. Hannibal was having to physically shove the impending guilt aside, unused to this second guessing nature. Alana’s life was already bought and paid for, she knew and Hannibal knew it. Then why did his heart ache at the thought of collecting his due?

“I assume you’ll be staying here?” Margot interrupted his train of thought, taking Morgan from Alana’s lap and handing him her phone to play with before he ran out of the room. 

Hannibal hadn’t thought it to be this easy. “If you don’t mind.”

There was a silent conversation being spoken between the two women, their eyes narrowing with implications, with Alana eventually forcing a smile. “Of course, Will. You look like you could use a good night’s sleep. We’ll have a room made up for you.”

“Just point me in the right direction, you don’t need to make a fuss.” Will’s humble nature wore like a finely tailored suit, it was easier than he imagined to wear it. 

Margot rolled her eyes at the idea. “We employ people to make a fuss. Otherwise, what’s the point?” 

Hannibal stood, his presence was clearly coming between something that needed to be said in private. “I can wait outside, if you need a minute.”

Margot followed suit, gesturing Will towards a different door than they all entered, and down a long corridor. “There’s a deck out back, it overlooks the water. The guards know who you are, just don’t make any sudden moves.” She smiled at him, it was warm and pleasant. She lacked most of the concern that plagued Alana, her pupils were dilated wide. Narcotics maybe. Anti-anxiety medication most likely.

“You have a gorgeous home. I’d love a tour sometime.” Hannibal smiled back at her while slowing to admire the tasteful paintings along the way. 

“I’m sure you would. We won’t be long.” Margot opened the backdoor, allowing him to pass through before shutting it behind him, leaving Hannibal to his thoughts. Something he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to delve into at the moment, but could not afford to avoid. There was a heavy feeling in his chest, and he needed to work out the reasons why, so he could be rid of it. He closed his eyes, let the waves crashing against the shoreline drown out the world, and he stepped into his mind palace. 

The log cabin, the place he made for Abigail in Will’s world. There it sat, unused and cold in the distance, surrounded by trees who lost their leaves years ago. The nearby lake was frozen over, and all the fish within it. It was desolate, even in his mind. He walked towards the door, and pulled on it, it was either stuck or locked. Hannibal wiped a thick layer of frost from the window, breathing warm air onto the surface before finally revealing a space to peek through. 

There sat a young version of himself, shivering against the impossible cold. The embers of the fire had long since gone out. His arms wrapped tightly around the body of his little sister. Any tears that ran down his face would crystallize before they could even touch his chin. Hannibal could see young Mischa’s lips were turning blue and he bashed his fist against the window pane. 

“No!”

Hannibal rushed to the front door, banging on it, and tugging against the doorknob. It would not budge. He ran around the home, searching for something to break the glass and found an old axe sticking up from the snow. He grabbed it and returned to the window, smashing through it without taking any time to catch his breath. Glass shredded his palms and thighs as he hauled himself through the jagged frame. What he saw, had him falling backward against the wall, dropping the axe with a thud against the floorboards. 

There, in place of where he saw his younger self, was Morgan Verger. Tears streaked from his bloodshot eyes as he pointed at Hannibal. “You killed my mommies!” He ran to Hannibal, punching and kicking with all his might. “Why did you hurt them?” 

“How could you?” Will’s voice boomed through the room, Hannibal could only watch as he kneeled before the bloodied, broken bodies of Alana and Margot. Gently running the back of his hand against their lifeless faces, he shook his head in disbelief. “Why?”

“Will.. I-” Hannibal had no excuse. Nothing to offer as an explanation or justification for his behaviour. 

Will blinked away the tears as they came. His jaw clenched against his building anger, he stood up, grabbed Hannibal’s wrist and forcefully dragged him through the front door, and out into the cold. From there Hannibal stumbled to keep up, as Will led them through a patch of barren trees, stopping only once they came to a clearing.

His words were spat out, each syllable loaded with venom to inject into Hannibal’s conscience. “Is this all you ever wanted for us, Hannibal?” 

In front of them lay a cemetery. Rows and rows of headstones engraved with all of Hannibal’s victims. Far too many to count with ease, each name a vivid reminder of his mark on this world. Will wasn’t done with him, he tugged his arm, bringing him to the end of the first row where two empty graves lay in wait. 

Will pointed to their names. “This is the only place we’ll ever truly be together, forever.” 

Will crawled into the one marked with his own name, and suddenly Hannibal was shoveling dirt on him. They never parted eyes, not until the last mound of dirt and snow covered his face. Hannibal was screaming at himself to stop, but his hands were unable to listen. Every movement hurt, his cuts were bleeding through the wooden handle, dripping onto the fresh white snow. He couldn't stop his rapidly beating heart, nor his chest from heaving sorrow. 

“I am sorry, Will. I am so sorry.” Hannibal fell to his knees, sobbing. Weeping for every soul he stole from God. “I am so sorry.” His eyes flitted up toward the heavens but his pleas were unanswered. Unheard and ignored.

Hannibal collapsed backward, this swinging pendulum of light crossing over his face, as the sun peeked shadows through the branches above. His eyes followed the light, from this way to that and he could not contain the grand emotion of it all. This poison invaded his body through every pore and burrowed deep into the place where he once had a soul of his own. These sharp spikes of unwelcome sin and confusion were torturously filling his vessel to the bursting brim. He could not pray for help, nor did he believe he deserved it. 

Hannibal was the god of his own design. Now he is a supplicant before an altar of consequences. He could only mutter his apologies, and hope for death to come quickly.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t the first time someone pointed a gun at Will’s head. Hell, it wasn’t the second or third time either. Still, he felt slightly more offended than scared. Maybe even a little embarrassed that he was called out so quickly. There were only a limited number of choices in front of him. Either fess up and admit to it, or continue to play the game and convince Chiyoh she’s mistaken. In both scenarios he’d likely end up with a bullet in his body, and that’s not how he wants tonight to end. 

As he rapidly searched his brain for a third option, Chiyoh walked around to face him. She was studying his expressions, scrutinising his impending response to her accusation. He could see it clear as day in her eyes, her own doubt. She may be convinced there was something shady going on, but she cared deeply for Hannibal in her own way. She wouldn’t shoot him without real cause, and would hesitate to pull the trigger if confronted. That left only one thing to do, and that was to call her bluff. 

Will took a deep breath, steadying his core against the moving boat, and lunged forward. The moment his head hit her stomach, the gun went off and fell onto the deck. Chiyoh was a strong, and skilled woman when it came to a fight, but Hannibal’s body was stronger. Will relaxed into the muscle memory as best he could, allowing his height and power to outshine her. When she punched him, kicked him, jabbed her elbow into his gunshot wound he let the pain roll over him. He tapped into the part of Hannibal’s brain that allowed such brutality. He grit his teeth and focused on restraining her, rather than really hurting her. 

Out of breath and panting, she lay under him with fury in her eyes. He pressed her wrists above her head, straddling her stomach, trying to catch his own breath. 

“So it’s true.” She spat the words at him between breaths.

Will ignored her, eyeing the gun which reflected the moonlight under the nearby bench. He couldn’t even be sure that was the only weapon she brought. He patted her down with one hand, checking her waistline and ankles, and along her back. 

“I’m going to tie you to that chair.” He nodded to the captain’s seat. “And you’re not going to fight me anymore, are you?”

Chiyoh said nothing, turning her head to the side in silent defeat. Will had to drag her over, propping her body against the leather, using some loose rope to secure her arms before wrapping the rest around her body and legs. She wiggled against the bindings before he laid a hand on her shoulder to still her.

“It’ll only get tighter, the more you struggle.” Will kneeled down to look at her directly, and smiled. “I caution you not to move.” She relaxed into the seat, while Will kept one eye on her, making his way to the bench and reaching under it for the gun. It was a small silver revolver, he opened the barrel and dumped the bullets into one hand while making sure the chamber was empty. He clicked it a few times into the water before holstering it in his pants and sitting down on the bench, facing her with a sigh. 

“What am I supposed to do with you, now?” He dropped the accent. She didn’t believe it and he felt silly keeping up the charade. 

Chiyoh raised an eyebrow with a smirk of her own. “What have you done with the real Hannibal?”

Will leaned back a little, stretching his arms out on either side of the cushions, inhaling the breeze as it whipped around them. “I did what he wanted me to do. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

“It just so happens you want what he wants.”

Will nodded. “Something like that. What gave it away?”

“Your pulse. Your sweat. Your questions.” She dipped her chin down and to the side in thought. “Your eyes.”

Will laughed at her candid answer. “I’ll have to work on that. What else?”

“You want me to help you?”

Will opened his hands, gesturing to the open water. “We have plenty of time.”

“Tell me what happened, and I might.”

Will inched his way a little closer to her, leaning his face forward. “I think you’ll be disappointed.”

Chiyoh shrugged, as best she could given the circumstance, and kept her eyes focused on him. “I’m curious.”

“So am I.” Will met her stare, unblinking and licking his lips. Debating on where in the story he should begin. “He drove us up there, that much you must know. You couldn’t have been far behind us.”

“I saw what I could through a lens, it was too dark for any detail. I saw flashes of movement, and then nothing at all. I waited until I could no longer wait, and discovered what you left behind. There was nowhere else but down.”

“Where you found us.”

She nodded once, waiting on Will to fill in the blanks. He looked up to the moon, it wasn’t full tonight, but it was easy to let the memory resurface. He allowed the crashing waves around him to paint the picture once more. He could feel Francis stabbing him through the cheek, when he lifted a finger to his skin. Instead, there was stubble, and a cheekbone that was not his. “We fought him, tooth and nail. He put up an admirable fight.”

“He was butchered.”

“The Dragon was done with him.” Will whispered against the wind. He felt the burn of severed nerves firing all the wrong signals. Pain radiating from his face and his chest and his back. Bruises and gunshot wounds, adrenaline pumping through his veins while they bled their lives away. The way Hannibal looked at him. His heart was clenching in apprehension and anticipation. The way he felt when they held each other. The heated space and unspoken words between their bodies. There was nothing but this. Nothing but them, staking their claim over the conquered beast, together both a hero and villain-

“Then what?” Chiyoh jolted him out of his recollection. 

“We fell.” Will could barely speak for how short his breaths were, his lungs unable to breathe any deeper. His hands were shaking, grasping a man that was not there, while a tear slid down his cheek. “We died.”

Chiyoh remained silent for some time, the only sound between them were Will’s gasps and chattering teeth. When she chose to speak, Will’s heart beat had slowed down enough to hear her quiet words. 

“Maybe you did not. Have you heard of ikiryō?”

Will shook his head, using his arms for warmth as he wrapped them around his body. 

“Lady Murasaki taught us this, among other things. Hannibal was fascinated, of course. I found the idea vulgar. A soul that tears itself free, just to haunt others?” Chiyoh tried to look Will in the eye, but he was being pulled into Hannibal’s mind palace whether or not he liked it. The plastic bench he sat on was becoming a soft bed. He could run his palms along the silky sheets and feel the cool sheen. 

Chiyoh continued, unaware Will was being torn away from this plane. “..it can wear the face of the person it betrays..” Her voice was there, but dim, fading into a younger version of herself. Her body shrunk to that of a child, her hair was much shorter, with straight bangs across her forehead. 

“But how can a soul choose to leave one's body?” Will heard himself ask his aunt. She smiled, her beautiful, kind face lighting up. 

“Sometimes there are things in this world worse than death. Worse than life. And a body may ignore its needs for only so long, before the soul will reach out and snatch what it wants.” She was brushing young Chiyoh’s hair, while Hannibal watched. 

“Do you hear that, Chiyoh? If you don’t listen to me, I could tear out my soul and haunt you with it!” Hannibal provoked his aunt’s ward with a false threat.

Chiyoh shuddered and tucked her head behind Murasaki’s shoulder. “Make him stop, please!” 

Lady Murasaki lightly smacked Hannibal’s wrist with the handle of the comb, and shot him a glare strong enough to quiet him. “Ikiryō is not something to mock, nor tease about so lightly. It could choose to haunt, yes, but it's capable of so much more. We are human, and therefore subjected to the whims of our emotions. All these feelings, great and small, are opportunities to exploit. This is why we must have balance.”

She rose from the bed, her pearlescent robe tightened at the waist, flowing long around her. “Come, Chiyoh, you can prepare me for sleep. Hannibal will stay here and think about how awful that was to say to someone as sweet as you.”

Hannibal scoffed, and watched Chiyoh take the Lady’s hand to walk out of the room. Before the door closed, Chiyoh quickly turned her head towards him and stuck out her tongue. He laughed to himself and leaned back, the silk sheets were sticky with condensation and rubber. That wasn’t quite right.

Will saw the new world slowly take over the old one, his hands rubbing along the bench, gathering the mist from the sea and smearing it around. He licked his lips, they were dry. His mouth was dry, his eyes were dry. Had he not even blinked? He massaged his hands up and down his thighs while he took a few deep breaths. 

Chiyoh was studying his every move with fascination, though her eyes were wide with horror. 

“You think that’s what happened between Hannibal and I, this.. ikiryō?”

“There would be a name for this, in any culture. Any religion. Every tribe has their lore, and every story has some truth. If your souls reached out at the same time, only to possess the other, I know no other name for it.”

Will looked around, the horizon showed land not too far in the distance, lights shimmering along the coast, welcoming them back to land. He stood up, and manually took over the navigation unit. “There wouldn’t be anything in this lore, explaining how to reverse it, right?”

“There is a way, but neither of you are ready.” 

Will turned towards her with a half-smile. “Oh, we’re ready. I just have to find him first.”

Chiyoh gave a laugh, not a particularly friendly one. “I assure you, you are not. Total reconciliation is required. A complete fulfillment of one's emotional needs. Giving the other what they ultimately desire. To balance the scales of love and loss.” 

“We did it once, we can do it again.” Will clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the anxiety creeping cold down his neck and spine. He decided to change the subject. “I told you what happened. Now help me understand how to be a more convincing Hannibal.”

She thought for a moment, before speaking, “You seem to absorb the worries of those around you. You wear it like a duck wears its feathers. To protect you, to comfort you, to blend in. You feel the world's pain, you allow it in to gain their trust. Hannibal assumes he already has their trust. Anything else just rolls off his back.”

“Like water.”

Chiyoh nodded. “And blood, and guilt, and bones and death. They are not things to be burdened with, rather to be entertained by and encouraged. He revels in the suffering, just as he revels in the beauty. There is no difference for him.”

“These aren’t really things I don’t know. Are you telling me you see the difference when I look at you?”

“Shockingly so.” She watched the frustration tic on his face, he wasn’t learning anything new here. “You look at me as if you see yourself through my eyes. What I am thinking, what I am feeling, or how I may be judging you. You worry about all of it.”

“So what do I do?”

“Wear sunglasses.” 

They shared a subtle laugh as the boat docks came into view, he steered them far away from anyone else. Will packed the gun in the briefcase, avoiding the eyes that tracked his every move. He climbed onto the pier, and after unloading his bags beside him, he finally looked down at her. He didn’t know whether to thank her, or untie the mooring and let her drift away. He hopped back down into the deck, and stared at her briefly before scoping the area around them. It was just before sunrise, someone would eventually help her, or she would free herself. He needed enough time to get to the airport without her trailing him.

“I don’t want to run into you again.” Will hoped the vague threat would dissuade her from following him. “What do you need from me, to make sure that doesn’t happen?”

Chiyoh contemplated her options. “A promise.”

“What sort of promise?”

“That you will take care of him, so I no longer have to.”

Will studied her eyes, looking between them for some hidden truth, but saw only an earnest plea. He couldn’t help but see the child in her features, wishing for another life. Raised and betrothed in some way to Hannibal’s whims. He wondered what sort of life she had during Hannibal’s confinement, and whether she slept easier knowing he was the one imprisoned. Will reached out, as if his hand had a mind of its own, and held her cheek in his palm. 

“Whatever bound you to Hannibal, whatever obligations? They ended when he chose to fall with me.” Will reached for the end of the rope and tugged, loosening the knot to free her from the binds. “You’re free.”

Will could see a shimmer in her eyes just before she closed them, a weighted relief lifted from her body as she lowered her head. A single tear fell and her lip quivered in quiet reflection. He wanted to reach out again, to comfort her, to hold her. To tell her everything would be okay, but he wasn’t so sure it would be. He left her to her thoughts, and was already climbing back on the pier when he heard her voice behind him. 

“Will?” A soft, trembling whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I know where he would go.”

Chapter Text

“Mister?”

Hannibal felt the rapid tugging of his shirt, and heard muted yelling in the background. The world around him was fuzzy and his ears were ringing. He shook his head to clear the fog, but it seemed to only make things worse. He sat back on his heels and held his hands over his ears when the tugging began again. 

“Mister?”

“What!” He asked the child, a little too loudly perhaps. The boy took a step back, with wide frightened eyes, and bit his bottom lip. He lowered his head before quietly mumbling something under his breath. 

Hannibal could still feel the snow melting against his skin, he could see Will’s judgement searing holes through his skull and the weight of a thousand cursed souls dragging him to the hell he deserved to be in. The path in which his own tears fell, soaked through the bandage on his cheek, and into the material of his shirt. His lungs were wound tightly with thorns and strangled cries. His breath would not level and his heart could not fight against the destruction as it pounded in his chest. 

There was a small, soft hand petting his arm now. Running its little fingers along his goosebump riddled flesh, as he involuntarily rocked his body forward and back, sweating through his clothes. 

“You’ll be okay.” Came the comforting words of a child. “Sometimes mommy cries too.” 

Hannibal forced himself to meet the eye of the young man. His icy blue stare, a near identical copy of his father, sent shivers down his spine and rattled his teeth. The little one grinned, and leapt forward, wrapping his arms around Hannibal and held him tight around the neck. 

“You just need a hug.” His quiet voice muffled through the fabric. 

Hannibal froze in the embrace. His mind already broken and flayed, vulnerable to the vultures of this curse pecking at his insides, ripping and tearing at the meat of his wounds. There was an innate desire to push him away, an instinct to twist and crush at the delicate bones of his throat to save him from whatever misery this life would give him. He could smell the Verger blood in his veins, his teeth could almost taste it, if he only had the constitution to bite down. Maybe he would even save the world from history repeating what may inevitably happen, given his gene contribution. 

Something else happened though, on its own accord. He found himself relaxing. Every muscle in his body began to loosen and his arms weaved themselves around the boy as he lifted him into his lap. He buried his face into the crook of Morgan’s neck and tried to stifle the vivid images of his mothers corpses as they danced behind his eyelids. Was this the life Will lived? To be haunted by the emotion of death in such a way? To face his monsters like one faces a living nightmare? 

A moment passed, maybe two, the boy seemed starved for touch, or perhaps it was a projection. Hannibal leaned back enough to face him. Morgan looked at his cheek, then back to his eyes.

“What happened?”

Ah, the natural curiosity of children. Too many lose this particular trait as they venture into adulthood. Hannibal gave him a stern look before whispering, “A dragon sliced me open.”

“No way!” The astonishment was palpable. Young enough to believe in such things, just old enough for a healthy imagination. 

“Yes, way.” Hannibal smiled, he felt his heart rate steady as his pulse returned to normal. There were more bickering words being yelled from behind the closed doors, both Morgan and Hannibal glanced in that direction before returning their attention to each other. He settled himself on the floor of the wooden porch, with a toddler in his lap and rehashed the tale of the Great Red Dragon. He had a captive audience, an inquisitive listening ear, as they both watched the deep blue waves crash along the shore. He may have left a few details out, and embellished others, but the story at its heart remained true. 

Morgan turned in his lap, fidgeting with his fingers. “So the dragon lived inside the man?”

“Yes.”

“But he was a real dragon?”

“If you believe something is real, it gives it enough power to be true.”

“Hmm.. I can be anything I want?”

Hannibal nodded. “Of course, if it's what you believe.”

Morgan bounced onto the ground beside him, landing on all fours. He barked a few times before exaggeratingly sniffing Hannibal's shoulder. He then trotted over to the finely trimmed hedges and returned with a twig in his mouth. He brought it to Hannibal and nudged him with it. 

Hannibal held out his hand to take it and threw the small stick into the grassy part of the back yard, and Morgan took off running like a puppy after it. Hannibal was chuckling quietly at the display and clapped for him when he returned the prize. His arm was raised, about to throw it again when the door behind them opened. 

“Have you been teaching my son to play fetch?” Margot’s mouth hung open in disgust, as if he was offering the kid drugs and ammunition. 

“Mommy! Mommy! I am a doggy, look!” Morgan wiggled his butt and barked at her before propping himself up on his back legs to beg and pant. 

“I see, darling. Now get inside and clean up, we’re having an early dinner.” Morgan continued on all fours, crawling into the house, barking the whole way. 

Margot looked down at Will, eyeing the state he was in. No doubt seeing his dried tears, red rimmed eyes and sweaty clothes. She tapped one foot and crossed her arms, thinking of an appropriate thing to say. 

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

They looked at each other briefly before returning their gaze to the water. “If anything happens to my family, I’ll make certain the FBI never finds you.” 

“There aren’t any pigs here, Margot.” Hannibal gave her a half-smile. 

She raised a suspicious eyebrow, before taking a step closer and lowering her voice. “I don’t need the pigs, Will. Not when I have other, more entertaining, sources.” 

“I would be more surprised if you didn’t.” 

“You are welcome to have dinner with us. You can even sleep for a couple hours if you need to.” Margot kneeled down beside him, and reached for his hand. She tucked a roll of cash into his palm, and wrapped her other hand around both of theirs with a light squeeze. “Alana is going to offer for you to stay longer, but you will politely refuse.” Her eyes were set narrow and there was no room for argument. “Won’t you?”

Hannibal nodded once. He didn’t need the money, but then again, neither did she. She stood up, turned on her heel and left him to ruminate. He looked down at the money, fanning through the hundred dollar bills. He wondered what Will did with his small fortune. He retrieved his mobile, tapped Will’s contact and stared at the number. Where would he have gone first? The thrill he hoped would be there, was quickly fading. Will has proved in the past able to detach, able to walk away, able to live some other life void of Hannibal. His stomach twisted uncomfortably with the thought that he might have left the lighthouse in haste.

As the idea of fulfilling his promise to Alana grew less palatable, he felt more maniacal grasping at straws to defend his actions if he chose to collect his due. If his vision had any truth to it, and he had no reason to believe otherwise, then whatever future he envisioned with Will would be dead and buried alongside her corpse. 

Hannibal sighed as he stood up, dusting off his trousers and making his way back inside. He needed a hot shower and a change of clothes. Both were available with little effort, as the room they had for him was stocked with anything one could need. What was considered a guest bathroom would be opulent in any home, the size at least twice what his room was in the State Hospital. He undressed, and allowed the hot water to splash and fall over this body, taking care not to break any of Will’s rules, as benign as they seemed now. He remained entirely clinical while he wondered about promises, when it was alright to break them, and when it was wrong to ignore them. At least according to Will Graham.

If he were to break this one, allowing Alana her life, what allegiance did he have to any others he had made? Was this all some weak justification to claim every last inch of Will’s body? He touched his face, the side with the scar, it was free from the confines of any tape and the water stung when he massaged the tender muscle of his jaw. It was healing beautifully, considering the abuse it had suffered. His finger trailed through old scars, and fresh ones alike, touching and canvassing the terrain and memorising the topography. These were pieces of the puzzle that made Will who he was, scattered in pale flesh and healed bones. On occasion, he imagined laying in a bed with Will, touching these places with his own fingers. Asking questions, observing his shy avoidance or possibly the excited chance to explain each and every mark. 

Maybe it was the train of thought, or maybe it was being in Margot’s home, but flickers of something he did not wish to see were flashing through his mind. Margot’s blouse being unbuttoned, her lipstick slightly smearing with a passionate kiss. He saw her nude body glistening under the low lights. It seemed the more he tried to ignore it, the stronger and clearer the images became. He could smell her perfume, different then than it was today. Today she wore florals, back then it was tobacco and vanilla. He could feel the tapestry of her wounds, forced hypertrophic scars riddled in places she could mostly hide. 

His body was remembering, his body was reacting, and immediately he switched the water to cold. He rested a forearm against the cool tile, balancing his forehead on his wrist as took long, deep breaths. The abrupt change in temperature helped calm the initial response. Still, the hormones lingered, especially when he found himself replaying the memory, only to focus on a different angle. Hannibal could hear what Will sounded like, he could smell his sweat, watch his muscles ripple in a way that a pencil could not do justice with on paper. 

Hannibal’s breath quickened, huffs of recycled air where his lips parted to breathe wet against the wall in the heated alcove he created. He forced his arm to rest above the other, pinned to the wall, and away from the temptation throbbing between his legs. His body moved the way Will’s did that night, matching the pace in which Will set for himself. He could feel what it was to be inside of her, but for a curious moment, he imagined himself to be her. 

There was not enough cold water on this planet to halt the overwhelming reaction to this visual imagery, as he began to ejaculate untouched. Hannibal kept his eyes closed as his face melted into the wall, slowly sliding through his own saliva and down onto the floor of the shower, while his body released a seemingly endless supply of something that could only be described as bliss. This bliss he lived in, this unbelievable bliss coursing through every system of this human body.

“What is bliss but the body’s surrender to the mind’s unspoken hunger?” He was delirious, surely. Hannibal was speaking to the raging water above, unleashing its freezing waters upon his heated skin. He lay back entirely, smiling with a budding laugh creeping out of his lungs. His hand held his belly as he laughed through this unexpected, but delightful, euphoria. 

“Don’t worry, my dear sweet Will. Our covenant remains intact, I promise you. As for other promises I have made..” Hannibal put his head back, closed his eyes, and relaxed into the quiet of the stream above.

“It seems I will be made a liar today, one way or another.” 

Chapter Text

Will understood he couldn’t just walk onto the Verger estate wearing Hannibal’s face. But he had an address, and access to a lot of money. Chiyoh was long gone, but her information lay written on a piece of paper in his hand. He read it over a million times, and still he found himself no closer to a solution than he was when they parted ways.

The rock that sat in the bottom of his stomach, the one that held great bounds of guilt, felt a little heavier today. During these moments of reflection, the answer to whatever troubled him would usually come in the form of natural progression. There would be a lead, or several leads, and he’d follow them to a certain point. From that point there would be a domino effect of solutions you could choose from, but no matter what, they would all fall in line. With this situation, he found himself back at square one more often than not.

He could do nothing that brought attention to himself or Hannibal. Alerting his family or Jack? They all ended the same way, and he never wanted to see the inside of Baltimore State again. He played the scenario out in his mind, as if it happened to anyone else. What would he believe if one of the killers of the past approached him with a story as bogus as the one he was living. Would he even bat an eyelash before helping the FBI throw away the key? The world had rules. Science had repeatable and reproducible results. This fell outside the scope of what he knew to be true.

Will remembered the time before the fall, the conversations they shared with Francis. A man who truly believed there was a beast living inside his body, whispering words of transcendence through transformation of the self. Was this not exactly what he and Hannibal shared? What was schizophrenia last week, was reality today. Maybe this was the dragon’s wrath? Maybe he was real, and angry at them for destroying his vessel. Was this divine retribution?

Will looked down at his palm, and the quarter that laid in it. He wasted most of the day traveling and brooding. Now, he found himself parked in his old driveway in Wolf Trap. He never did have the heart to sell it, the idea someone else might tear it down or change it in some way made him uncomfortable. One could easily associate the horrors that happened here with trauma. He didn’t see the negatives though, instead he saw all the times he survived what the world put him through. What Hannibal put him through. He never brought Molly here, not even when they dated. She wasn’t one for prying, and he wasn’t one for sharing. They had an understanding, and he was desperate to bury certain aspects of himself. For a time, anyway. 

As with all good things, they must come to an end. The sun was starting to set a little earlier with the cooler weather, and a choice needed to be made. Which domino would fall, and which path he would take. It was only fair to let fate and circumstance pick the outcome. He clutched the coin tightly and rested his knuckles against his lips.

Heads, he would go to the address on the paper. He would find Hannibal, and deal with him, and whatever mess he made of Alana. He might even be able to stop him in time. 

Tails, he would find some place in the middle of nowhere. Some place like this. A new Wolf Trap. Hannibal would never find him, and he would spend the rest of his days half a bottle deep in some whiskey, living off the grid. 

He balanced the quarter under his thumb and held his breath while it flipped in the air. He caught it, and quickly turned it over on the top of his other hand. He peeked under the shadow and read his fate.

“Tails.” He whispered to himself.

Will swallowed the lump in his throat, which felt unnaturally dry. He licked his lips and stared at the coin a little longer. What else was he hoping for? He took a sip of water from the bottle in the cupholder. He nodded his head repeatedly, accepting the decision for what it was. Unbiased, and the push that he needed in order to move on. He didn’t need to waste any more time here. This life was over. 

He turned the ignition and watched the headlight flash on the shed. It still had the lock on it, unbroken and untouched in all these years. Safe. It took him another five minutes of doing nothing before he turned the lights off and shut down the car. If he wasn’t going anywhere, he wasn’t in any rush either. 

Will made his way to the back door of the house, and rummaged through the wildly overgrown grass to find a small terracotta pot, the plant inside of it was dead, even though the weeds around it grew tall and thick. He retrieved a key to the house and unlocked the back door. When he moved in with Molly, he didn’t bring much with him other than the dogs and their things. Still, there were empty boxes strewn around, and dusty knickknacks that he left behind. His books. There were cobwebs hanging from the corners of every room, stringing long and covered in debris. It was remarkably quiet. An absence of sound, of life, in a place that was once filled with panting breath and crackling fire. 

He flicked the light on in the kitchen, somewhat surprised the bulb still worked. Just above the fridge, there were bottles of liquor he never bothered to throw away. Years, they’ve been there, wasting away in a cupboard forgotten and discarded. The hinges creaked, echoing through the room as he coughed away the filth that swirled around his face when he reached for the bourbon. He popped the cork and took a long swig before spitting half of it down the drain. It hadn’t gone bad, but it surely didn’t taste good either. He closed his eyes and tried again. He swallowed it down, more than someone should take all at once, but he wasn’t drinking it for the pleasure of it. It burned, yet it made that weighted rock in his stomach feel a little smaller. 

The warmth quickly spread down to his toes as he walked into the next room. He stared at the empty bed and thought of all the lonely nights he spent in it. Maybe lonely wasn’t the right word. Alone. Solo. Solitary. Isolated. 

“This is what the rest of your life looks like.” Will spoke to the bed as he took a few steps closer, sitting on the edge of it. He felt the familiar springs give under his weight. He bounced a few times just to hear the noise. He braced himself and took another drink, coughing into his elbow afterwards. He imagined dying here, in this room, from liquor poisoning and how long it would take the creatures to come for his corpse. He set the bottle down on the ground and made eye contact with a certain book on his shelf before walking towards it.

“The blowflies would come first.” 

Will tugged on the corner of the book and tipped it down, removing it from the home it had for many years longer than he was gone. He blew the dust off of it, and wiped away anything remaining with his sleeve. Standard Monograph on Determining Time of Death by Insect Activity. He gave a little laugh while his finger trailed through the words. He opened the book to the good part, the pictures of the flies laying eggs on freshly dead flesh. 

“The maggots..” He turned the page and re-read what he already knew. “The beetles..” The photos were up close, high definition and in full colour. The next chapter was on insect regurgitation and defecation. The difference between blood stains and trajectory in crime versus insect activity. How the patterns could potentially change an investigation because the detective may not know the difference between legitimate blood spatter and bug excrements. 

He snapped the book closed and pushed it back on the shelf. What was left behind were a set of fingerprints in the spine where some dust had settled. Not his, though, were they? These were Hannibal Lecter’s fingerprints and for some reason that delighted him. As if some door unlocked in his mind, one that he hadn’t thought existed until now. He could do just about anything, and it wouldn’t be linked to Will Graham. That was somewhat of a depressing thought this morning, but now.. now it felt uniquely powerful. 

Will returned to the bed, and laid back to look at these fingertips up close. These little valleys and ridges were a free pass. Any decrepit thought, any deplorable act, or sickening fantasy he could think of? He could indulge in it. The idea of murdering his way through the country, sloppily, and leaving behind obvious evidence made him positively giddy. As long as he didn’t get physically caught, he was free to do anything his heart desired. Hell, even if he did get caught, the world already hated Dr. Lecter. He was certifiably insane. He could at least kill Hannibal’s preciously impeccable reputation for perfection. Give all those interviews that Hannibal previously refused and make a damned fool of himself on national television. 

“That would teach you for leaving me.” He spat the words at the ceiling. The irony was not lost on him, it only amplified the bubbling feeling in his chest. 

Will fumbled around the edge of the bed until these fingertips found the top of the bottle and dragged it up over to his side. He sighed, knowing he ought not to drink anymore, but found himself raising the bottle to his lips anyways. He watched the amber liquid drain from above and into his throat with every glug, glug, glug. There was something thick clinging to the inside edges of the bottle, slowly seeping like molasses. He decided to stop before that sludge reached his mouth. He dropped the bottle on the floor with a thud ten times too loud. 

He heard a noise, thinking for a moment it was one of the dogs. “Sorry guys, I’ll get that in a minute.” But he remained laying down, eyes closed to the world. The incessant noise continued until he realised his body was literally vibrating with it. It must be the cell phone. He patted his arms and jacket pocket till he found the right one, he wasn’t thinking much about who would be on the other end when he answered.

“Uhh, H-Hello?” His voice was a bit raspy, from the coughing and drinking. He tried to sit up, but gave up after the second failed attempt.

“Hello, Will.”

The third time really was a charm, because he immediately sat up after hearing that voice. “Hannibal?”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“Why are you calling me?” God it felt so good to hear his voice. 

“I needed to speak with you.”

“Did you miss me?” Will swore he heard someone laughing, albeit rather quietly. 

“I could look in the mirror, if I did. Couldn’t I?” 

The room was spinning, not around, but in a forward perpetual motion and he might be sick. Laying back was the best option, and he wanted off this ride. “Do whatever you want, that’s what you do.”

“Are you alright?” Hannibal seemed genuinely concerned. That made everything worse.

“Why do you care? You left me in a lighthouse on an island, with your murder jockey.”

“How is our dear Chiyoh?”

“You don’t need to worry about her anymore. I took care of it.” If Hannibal wants to play a game of ambiguity, then Will will meet him tit for tat.

There was a brief silence, some background talking, before Hannibal responded quietly. “I was really hoping to see you this evening, but I doubt you’ll make it in time for dinner.”

“You mean at Alana’s place on Gibson Island? Yeah I know exactly where you are Hannibal, I chose not to come after you.” Will hoped he struck a nerve. 

“Where did you go?”

“Somewhere you’ll never find me. Somewhere.. where no one will ever find me.” Will could feel the tears stinging the edges of eyes, creating a hot blurry mess of his vision. He blinked rapidly as they fell down the sides of his face, pooling around his ears. He wiped them away, but they were persistent. He sniffled loudly enough that there was no mistaking it for either of them that he was crying. 

“I should not have left you, Will.” He was whispering now. 

“Yeah, well you did.”

“I was afraid. I felt vulnerable and you were right. I did not appreciate having you relive my memories. It was only a matter of time before-”

“-before I went snooping around? The way you already were, with mine?” Will wasn’t entirely sure he had, but took an educated guess. 

“I admit I took a few, small glimpses, nothing too invasive.”

“Who are you to say what’s invasive?” Will rolled himself over onto his stomach, his face buried in the mattress. He hiccuped through the deep breath, trying to calm himself but somehow only made it worse. “I missed you.. so fucking much, and you just left me there. After everything, you finally had me all to yourself and you left me. Like it was nothing, like I was nothing.”

There was only silence, nothing Hannibal could say would justify his actions and they both knew it. 

Will couldn’t stop the words from coming out now. “I gave up m-my family? My son. My dogs, just, gone! My whole life, my house, my land, any semblance of a career. I went there with you, for you! Because.. because I.. Hannibal?” He couldn’t breathe. 

“Because?” He could barely hear Hannibal’s voice.

“Because I have all this.. this love for you inside of me. It’s poison to me, don’t you understand? It makes everything else pale in comparison. It’s all consuming, it’s all I ever think about, you- you are all I ever think about. It’s not fair, and I can’t turn it off, I’ve tried. God I’ve tried! I can’t.. I can’t..”

“Tell me where you are.” Hannibal was much louder now, jolting Will a little. 

“It doesn’t matter where I am. I’m dying. I’m dead inside. It’s all rotten and I-I have nothing left but your fingerprints.” His chest was so tight, he couldn’t take a deep enough breath to steady his panic, nor stem the tears.

“Will, tell me exactly where you are. Please.”

“You couldn’t let us be happy cause you don’t know how to be happy, you’d rather hurt people. So everyone is in just as much pain as you are. Well, I took a few small glimpses into your past, and you know I saw? I saw a little boy who was forgotten and abandoned. And this gaping hole where your parents ought to be, where Mischa should be, you fill it with things that will never ever give you back what you lost.”  

Silence.

“I’m just one of those things, aren’t I? Something that you tried to fill that emptiness with, and I’ll never be able to make you happy. To make anyone happy.” Will got up, stumbling into the wall. He felt really dizzy. His stomach heaved and contracted and he gagged against the wall. “Shit.”

“Will!” He heard Hannibal’s voice saying something in the distance, but he dropped the phone. He fell down on his ass before crawling towards the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before he vomited everything out. There was no water in the bottom of the bowl to catch it, just cobwebs and old lime stains. Out of habit he tried to flush it away, but the tank had nothing to drain and the smell was bothering him. He shut the lid and grabbed the edges of the counter to pull himself up. He saw this smug face staring back at him. Hannibal’s face.

Will punched the mirror and it cracked around the impact. The little shards multiplied his reflection by a thousand, every shard showing him the one person in the world he did not want to see right now. 

“Leave me alone!” Will punched the mirror again, and again and again until all the pieces shattered away. His knuckles were cut open, and raw, dripping blood all over the sink and floor. He couldn’t find it in himself to care, he couldn’t even feel the pain, just the warm, wet lines that trailed down his skin. It hurt much worse to hear himself admit the things he did. He shouldn’t have said all that, he shouldn’t have given Hannibal any more emotional ammunition. 

Will tripped over himself getting back into the living room, facing this empty space with more unshed tears. His eyes darted between the old memories of an old life. He fixated on the piano in the corner beside his fireplace. 

“I just want to feel safe.” His words echoed through the walls and bounced off the floors. 

Will dragged his feet forward, through the living room and unlocked the front door. Down the steps and through the yard towards the flat fields, until he came to an old, familiar tree stump. He had to cut it down himself, many years ago, it was rotten from the inside out. Just like him. He plopped down in front of it, and leaned his body back. He watched his little house from a distance, the dim lights glowing through the windows. His whole world swayed around him as the light bobbed in the center. 

Will thought of his father. His mother. He thought of a time before Hannibal Lecter, and struggled to remember what that felt like. There was something lingering in the back of his mind, not a memory, but a constant dull ache. A nagging idea that one day he would be normal, one day he would wake up and be just like everyone else. He would smile, and he would mean it. He would laugh because it was entertaining enough to do so. People would look at him and see their likeness, not an outsider. 

This constant, unrealistic hope. This painful, unending torture of walking the lines outside of social conformity. The tiresome, exhausting routine of playing pretend. 

The only moments Will could remember that gifted him reprieve from this theatre, were the moments he shared with Hannibal. He could speak the unspoken things that lay buried in his darkness. He allowed himself to stare into the eyes of the devil and see his own face reflected back, and it was beautiful. His lip trembled with understanding as he blinked away another tear. He was no better, he was no worse. What was he capable of, if he only gave himself permission?

Will looked down at his hands, the ones that stole more lives than he cared to know. Black lines crisscrossed along his knuckles, swollen and thick with coagulating blood. The same hands that slit Abigail’s throat. He held his palm to the side of his face and remembered the way it felt. Even in the depths of a nightmare, he felt more care in this gesture than he had in his entire life. His hand travelled down to his belly, cradling a scar he may never see or touch again. 

Will curled into himself, laying sideways on the cold earth, and wept until he had no more tears left to give.

Chapter Text

Hannibal was unsure if he has ever felt quite like this. He gripped the mobile in his hand, the call was still connected, and he could hear Will screaming on the other end. Things were being broken, and he was all alone. A distinctly unfamiliar feeling bubbled in his gut like a bad meal. There were times, of course, that he had this feeling, but it was a rare thing. A sort of.. remorse. A variant of regret. Where it concerned Will Graham, he seemed to have an unproportionate amount of regrets. Some may even call it guilt, if he were capable of such a thing. 

Hannibal had the volume maxed out and on speaker while he searched the room for something to write with.

“..just want to feel safe.” Or something of the like was said, and then there was only silence. 

Hannibal left the call going while he hurriedly wrote a note for Alana. He spoke the truth when he hoped Will would show up for dinner, but now it seems they will both miss the festivities. He mourned the lost opportunity to have this battle of wits over a shared meal, where Will would be forced to choose to live a life with him, no matter the blood it was coated in.

Dearest Alana, 

Thank you for your hospitality where it concerned Will. May he always find shelter in the places where he feels safe. I have to borrow him for a while, and I trust you will not have us followed. I offered you a deal once, a long time ago. Our contract is being rewritten, will you accept the new terms?

A trade then, a life for a life, where you live yours as freely as I do mine.
In return for you and your families safety, I ask that you forget you saw him. Forget he came to you, and forget that I came for him. 

Let us remember how it feels to be brave. Turn a blind eye, Alana, and go home.

-Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal folded the letter in half with her name scrawled across the front in a handwriting that she would instantly recognise. She would know how close he came to her. How he walked the halls of the safest place she could make for the people she loved the most. Alana would realise no matter where she went, he was able to reach her. Leaving her alive was a risk, but a far greater one was brewing on the other end of a silent phone call.

One more message to send before leaving this place for good. He listened at the door for any sounds, and found nothing. They were expecting him for dinner in enough time that he could slip away without being noticed. But he wanted to be noticed. 

Hannibal followed the distant sounds of a cartoon show, and a child’s laugh. He peeked around the corner, and with no one in sight, he proceeded to what could only be Morgan’s bedroom. The door was already cracked open and he saw the boy laying on a mat that had little roads woven into the pattern and a stockpile of tiny metal cars strewn about in various places. 

The television was blaring animated dogs solving some big mystery while Morgan drove the cars up and down on the playmat. The massive room contained anything a child could dream of, littered with wealth and overcompensation. There was a distant sting of jealousy for the childhood that was ripped away from him. One that any child of affluence would likely take for granted. In different circumstances, Hannibal could have lived a life very similar to the young Verger boy. He walked up behind him, thumbing the note before sitting down on the floor to join in.

“Hey!” The little one was elated to see someone, and immediately handed Hannibal a shiny red truck. “You can be this one, we can race!” 

Hannibal smiled and took the token. “I’ll have this race with you, if you do me a favour.”

“What’s a favour?” The bright blue eyes filled with curiosity.

“It means that I’ll do something for you, if you do something for me.”

“Like a promise?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Simple enough. Hannibal placed his truck next to Morgan’s silver sports car and watched the boy ready himself. There was a countdown and then they were off. Morgan made screeching tire sounds and honked for the cars that got in his way. Hannibal drove the truck around the long way, circling the roundabout a few times before joining the race again on the road beside him. It was a close one, but Morgan won with a triumphant cheer. Hannibal couldn’t help but laugh at his excitement. 

“You’re very fast.” Hannibal complimented him and he beamed with pride. 

“It’s cause this one is a racecar. Yours is slow, it’s not your fault.” 

Hannibal had some hope that the morbid fascinations of his father were merely a product of indulgence and greed, rather than any predisposition of evil. Still, he had a favour to collect on. He handed the note to Morgan and made sure he was listening.

“Take this to your mommy, and make sure she reads it. Don’t get lost on the way, go directly to her and nowhere else. Do you understand?”

“Uh huh.” Morgan jumped up and ran to the door, with the letter in hand before stopping himself at the exit and turning around. “Which mommy?”

Ah yes. “Alana.” The eyes that looked up at him seemed confused with the clarification. He tried again. “The one who is a doctor.”

His eyes lit up with recognition and off he went, running down the hall with purpose. Hannibal had little time now to leave unseen. He pocketed the little red truck and left down a separate hall towards the back porch doors. With the guard posts memorised and the perimeter drawn in his mind, he found his way back to the car with no fanfare. The problem with predictability was always that it was predictable. 

Hannibal quickly started the car and made his way to the only place where Will could go. The place where he would want to feel safe from all of this. He wouldn’t take the risk going to his family, and he wouldn’t be getting drunk with anyone from the FBI. Will went home. 

The directions indicated there were sixty two miles between Will and himself. For every mile he drove closer, he felt a budding sense of comfort, as if the string that bound them together was less inclined to snap. Though their phone call was troubling, and his words were meant to inflict pain, Hannibal was reluctant to admit that they left a particularly sharp mark in his heart. The fear that Will could walk the halls of his mind palace and pick up any object, read any book, sift through any dark shadowed corner was not gone. If anything it was slightly amplified with his confession. 

The roads were deafeningly quiet and empty, compared to the traffic he saw along the way. Out here, you trade city lights for stars in the sky and it was a welcome change. He could already see the glow from Will’s home down the road, and forced himself to drive the speed limit. Though they were the only two souls for miles in any direction, he needn’t draw undue attention to their position. The small fraction of worry that Will wouldn’t be here, left with a quick breath when he saw a car sitting in the driveway. He opted to pull in closely behind, and cut the engine as soon as possible. 

Hannibal approached the front door cautiously, as it stood wide open behind the screen. There were dark drops of blood splattered in a line up the wooden step and into the front room. He followed the trail to the bathroom, where shattered glass and blood coagulated in piles on the floor. The room smelled distinctly of vomit, he didn’t need to check the toilet to paint the picture of what happened here. 

“Will?” He called out to the once lively home. It was void of anything now, just dust and dirt, bouncing the echoes of memories around like marbles in a jar. Hannibal listened for anything, any movement or creaking floorboard, but there was nothing. 

“Will!” He yelled a little louder, the relief he was feeling by coming here was rapidly being replaced with the ache of distress. He couldn’t have gone far, not without his car. He squatted down, and ran a finger through some of the blood, smearing it in circles while he darted his eyes around the room. He saw the phone laying on its side near the bed and grabbed it. The call was still connected to the cell in his pocket, and he ended it before placing the phone back under the bed to continue his search. 

The blood originated from the bathroom, so he must have gone outside after the fact. Hannibal retraced the evidence back outside, and across the driveway. Little specks lead the way, bringing him towards the massive, overgrown fields. He squinted his eyes, trying to search the broken grass for anything out of the ordinary. The earth crunched beneath his shoes as he walked with little direction, calling out Will’s name periodically, hoping for a response.

The cool darkness engulfed him, with the moon as his only guide. The pale blue reflection of various sticks and rocks caught his eyes every few seconds. Croaking frogs and buzzing insects were all he heard in all directions. Frustration crept along his skin as time slowed to an agonising halt. A soft breeze brought with it the smell of sweat and spirits, Will was somewhere nearby. 

“Will! Answer me!” 

Eventually, he heard a grumble and groan and briskly followed it to a splintered tree stump. Will was curled around it like a snake and Hannibal felt an instant ease wash over him, knowing he was alright. Hannibal kneeled down and pushed his shoulder until he lay flat on his back. He was blinking rapidly and mumbling something incoherent. 

“Come on, now.” Hannibal lifted him from under his knees and back, the proportions of his old body much longer than he remembered. He steadied himself before trekking back to the house, focusing on the lights in the distance. 

“Do you see?”

Hannibal looked down at Will whose head was lolled backwards, his eyes unfocused on the light ahead. Hannibal looked back at the house, watching the horizon bob with every step. “I see. Do you feel safe?”

Will flicked his eyes up at Hannibal and squinted. “No.”

Hannibal swallowed a heavy lump in his throat and ignored the piercing stare of the man he was carrying. The walk back was much shorter than he remembered going, and soon enough they were back in the living room. Hannibal laid Will on the bed, noticing he had drifted back to his semi-conscious state. There was a chair right up against the wall that he dragged closer to the bed, and sat down with a heavy sigh. He had many things to say to Will, whether or not he was in a place to understand them, remained to be seen. 

“We have found ourselves struggling against the connection between us, yet again. We explore the caverns of the unknown abyss made of synapses, and we are alone in this journey. Our relationships with the world, and people we’ve known, paint a picture of our past and project what our future should be. We share the same stories, Will. We always have, no matter what we look like.”

Will rolled on his side to face him, his eyes bleary and red rimmed. “I don’t want to be alone, Hannibal.”

“Neither do I.”

They stared at each other with this confession, neither making an excuse for their behaviour nor giving an explanation for their resistance to the idea. Hannibal opened his mouth to speak when Will cut him off.

“Did you do it?”

Hannibal inferred what he meant, but wanted him to be more clear. “Do what?”

“Did you.. kill Alana?” His eyes were so full of hope. Hope that Hannibal didn’t abandon him for something so repulsive as taking a child’s mother away. 

Hannibal wanted greatly to fill that hope with validation, to explain how he could not bring himself to do it. That the very thought of harming her made his stomach sour, not for her demise, but for potentially pushing Will a step beyond forgiveness. He needed Will to love this part of him as any other. He needed the acceptance in its entirety, more than anything. Hannibal reached into his pocket, and retrieved the little red truck and placed it on the end table with a subtle nod. 

Will’s lip trembled when he saw the toy, his eyes quickly filling with tears. He inhaled with a shaky breath through his nose, and turned on his back to cover his eyes with his forearm. “She died thinking it was me?”

“Is that what hurts? The betrayal, not the act itself?”

Will peeked out from under his arm with narrowed eyes. “Two things can be true.”

Hannibal leaned back, and crossed a leg over his knee. “It had to happen.”

“No, it really didn’t.” Will scooted himself up, resting his back against the wall. He was picking at the dried blood on his knuckles until some of the smaller wounds reopened and started to bleed. They both watched him until he spoke again. “What sort of man does that make me, sitting here with you?”

“We have returned to this moment.” Hannibal whispered as he felt his throat close with the words he did not want to speak. He swallowed it down, the reminders of the past. In this very room, when Will banished him away the first time. “A crossroad of choice.”

“I said nothing permanent. It was a rule that you agreed with and then you broke it.” Will locked his eyes on Hannibal with a deep, pulsing fury. “Taking a life is as permanent as anything, isn’t it?”

“How long have you been here, Will?”

“What?”

“When did you arrive? Hours ago, I assume. You said you knew where I was, but did you come? Did you rush to save this family when you knew the danger they were in? You said you chose not to. That was permission.”

Will’s mouth dropped open, a twist of his lip snarled with the realisation and he quickly snapped it shut. “Don’t turn this around on me, you didn’t have to go there. All you had to do was stay with me and none of this would be happening!”

Hannibal stood now, towering over Will’s body, feeling a rush of defensiveness course through him. “It was always going to happen, you knew that.” 

Will jumped to his feet, now a solid inch above Hannibal’s shorter frame. He jabbed a finger into Hannibal’s chest. “Admit it! You ran away because you were scared, you don’t give two shits about some promise you made. This was never about Alana, it’s all just a distraction to avoid facing the fucked up things that happened to you as a kid.” His nostrils flared and his breath smelled sharp of alcohol. 

Will continued, “You’re not special, Hannibal. You’ve just convinced yourself that you're better than the rest of us.”

The silence dragged on between them. Hannibal felt his blood run cold, and his constitution waned. He dropped down, sitting in the chair below with defeat in his bones. “What else was I supposed to do?”

Will’s face changed, staring down at him with such pity. “It wasn’t fair, what you went through.”

Hannibal looked away, focusing on the toy truck. He reached for it, and rolled the wheels back and forth with his thumb. “The Verger boy will survive without a mother.” He looked up at Will’s face. “We did.”

Will lowered himself down, kneeling before Hannibal and watched him fiddle around with the toy before he covered his hands over it. “We shouldn’t have had to.”

Hannibal smiled a little, he could see the sadness in Will’s eye. Their eyes moved all over the other’s face, roaming from eyes to lips and from lips to eyes. There was deep breath and release though Will’s nose before his shoulders fell. He was finding a way through this. He was deciding.

Hannibal felt a hand on his cheek, the good one. Will’s thumb brushed along his cheekbone, caressing the smooth skin. “I need you to be honest with me. This is where it really matters. For both of us.” 

Hannibal stared, unable to blink, captivated by the spell that Will was casting and nodded his head. 

“Why did you really leave? What are you so afraid I’ll see?”

Hannibal felt the hot sting of tears filling his eyes, unwilling to blink them away. His vision slowly blurred as Will waited for him to answer. He debated another lie. He could flip through the many tragedies of his youth, and steal any one of them away to placate Will’s probing inquiry. Until a thought crossed his mind that maybe he should answer truthfully. That if there were anyone in this cursed world worthy of his story, it was the man boring holes through his skull. 

Hannibal’s throat bobbed with the venture, tasting the disgust in the pools of saliva under his tongue. He felt himself walking down a forgotten path in his Mind Palace, a place of twisted branches and cobwebbed carcasses, holding tightly to Will’s hand. He felt himself fall into a delirium when he dug around in his pocket for a key to this wrought iron cemetery, and offered it to Will. 

With a hand still attached to Hannibal’s face, and their fingers intertwined on his lap, they crossed the threshold of this horrible place, together.

“You are not supposed to run in church, were you raised by wolves or something?”

Mischa laughed, kicking her legs. “Put me down!” 

Hannibal smiled wide, gently placing her back on the ground, and she continued to run circles around him. “A little buzzing bee, that’s what you are!”

He started to chase her as she ran between the long wooden pews, growling while she screeched. He finally caught her, snarling his pretend bites into her neck as she giggled with tears. “Hannibal, no! It tickles! Stop!”

“Say the magic word!” He snorted in between the play-bites, reveling in her laughter.

“Okay, okay! Please!”

Hannibal let her go, sitting her on the bench. He plopped a heavy bible in her lap. “Now read your scripture, papa will be cross if you don’t know all the words.”

She rolled her eyes and opened the book. “Will you help me?”

Hannibal sat down, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Of course, Mischa, I will always help you.” 

There was a loud bang that seemed to shake the building, and they both ducked their heads in alarm. Someone was rattling at the doors of the church, drawing both of their attention. Hannibal scooped Mischa into his arms and held her protectively when the doors flew open. An older woman rushed inside, slamming the door closed behind her, and hiding behind one of the arches with heaving breaths. Her worried eyes spotted them and she whispered as loudly as she could.

“Run and hide, children! The defectors are here. Go home, go hide!”

Hannibal did not have to be told again. He rushed towards the doors when the woman stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Not that way. They are already in the streets. Take to the hills, take cover in the forest.” 

Hannibal ran back down the nave clutching Mischa close, catching a glimpse at the large wooden crucifix above. The way His eyes followed him as he ran into the priest’s quarters haunted him every step of the way. There was a door here that led to the outside and quick as a fox he jumped through it. There was gunfire echoing around them, and Mischa started to cry. Hannibal hushed her with a hand over her mouth while he darted through the trees.

“Shhh, don’t cry Mischa, we’re almost home.” He said quietly into her ear. She was so frightened, and it only made Hannibal run faster. His legs were working harder than they ever had, carrying his little sister up the hill towards their home. 

Out of breath and panting against the freezing air, he slipped and fell on the light snow covering the ground. There were soldiers everywhere, circling his home like animals. They carried rifles on their shoulders and spoke in his language with an accent foreign to him.

“Be quiet now Mischa and follow behind me, keep your head low.” He crawled towards an old smokehouse they had in the back of their property. It would be a good hiding place and would provide some warmth until they could be saved. 

There were large enough spaces in slats of wood, that he could keep an eye on his house in the distance, and another on his sister. It smelled of smoke and game in here, but it was far enough into winter that the preservation period had long since passed. The sky darkened and as tempting as it was to leave, they stayed hidden. It was harder to see what was happening when they heard noises, and the fear was palpable between their worried glances. Every thunderous boom, every scream, every shot of gunfire seemed to come from every direction. 

Mischa was tired, shivering, and eventually fell asleep with her head on Hannibal’s lap. He was brushing his fingers through her hair when he first heard the dogs barking. These weren’t normal dogs, these were growls and snaps with men commanding them in harsh voices. Hannibal’s heart raced in his chest, trying to peek outside, but it was so dark all he could make out were glowing fires, too far away to make shapes. 

His eyes were blinking heavily as the hours dragged on. He was sure their father would have found them by now, but that hope was fading. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the sound of a gun shot and the screams of his mother jolted him from sleep. 

“Mama!” He screamed, scaring Mischa back into tears. 

The sun was peeking over the horizon, giving them a better view of what was happening. Hannibal covered Mischa’s eyes, turning her away from the scene. Their father lay on his stomach, his red blood seeping into the snow around him. Their mother was on her knees shaking his body while crying, urging him to get up. The soldiers circled around her, laughing. One flicked a cigarette against her and she leapt towards him, smacking him across the face. Hannibal had to hold his own hand across his mouth to stem the sounds he was making. 

The man she struck grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm until she cried out. He spit on her face before throwing her back down. Another man kicked her in the stomach and Hannibal could not stand to watch anymore.

“Stay here. No matter what you do, do not make a sound. Do not leave this room, understand me?”

Mischa’s lip quivered with a shaky nod. She wiped her runny nose, and only then did Hannibal notice how blue her lips looked. He removed his church blazer, furious with himself for not thinking to give it to her sooner. He tucked her into the long arms and wrapped it tight around her with his belt. He shivered against the wind blowing through the flimsy shed.

“Where’s mama and papa?” She whimpered, now wiping her tears with the sleeve. 

“I’m going to get them, but it’s very dangerous. So stay put!” He hugged her tightly, breathing his warm air into her neck before kissing her on the cheek. “Stay, Bitė.” 

There was a double barrel flintlock pistol in the corner of the room, loaded and ready for protection from wild animals. These men were no better than a beast in Hannibal’s eyes and deserved worse. Still, he retrieved the gun and tried to remember everything his father taught him. He opened the door quietly, and shut it behind him. He placed a hand on the door and whispered a prayer to any god that was listening. “Please, please watch over her, keep her safe. I’ll do anything, just keep her safe.” 

Hannibal crawled along the edge of his property, hurrying from tree to tree. He could hear the beating of his mother, he could hear cries coming from her that he’s never heard before. He could hear her spitting blood and pleading for them to stop. She begged for death while they taunted her. 

Before, his heart raced with fear, now it steadied in anticipation. He could not feel the cold anymore, nor the cutting chill of the wind. There were six men around her, like buzzards ready to consume. He saw one apart from the crowd, walking along the side of the house before he stopped and unzipped his trousers. He started to piss against the stone when Hannibal cocked the trigger. It clicked, but nothing happened. He tried again, but it only served to alert attention to him.

The man whipped around, his eyes widened in surprise before he smiled. Hannibal took no time to think, he only reacted. He gripped the barrel and whipped the handle across his face. This dazed the man, and also broke his nose. The blood poured and Hannibal reveled in the sound it made. Before the man could scream, he reared back and hit him again in the same spot. He fell backwards into the snow, and Hannibal pounced on him, striking him again and again. Until his face was a pulpy mess of flesh and bone coughing and choking on his own bodily fluids. Hannibal stole his gun, checking the chamber and cocking it ready. He followed the path the soldier took until he was only yards away from his mother’s shaking body. 

There she lay on the cold ground, in her silk chemise, torn and bloodied between her thighs. He was too young to understand what it meant, but he knew she was dying. Her face was a portrait of bruises and swollen skin, unrecognisable in a way that fascinated him. He studied at all the vibrant colours, the reds and purples, the blackened areas under her eyes. Along one side of her lip it split at some point, the blood dried down her chin. Her hair was matted and there were prominent knots forming on her head where she was struck. 

In a moment, her eye caught his. She shook her head and mouthed “no” to him. She silently begged him to leave, but how could he walk away now? He was right here, he could save her. One of the soldiers caught her looking in his direction and she called out to divert his attention back. 

“You swine! You filthy fucking pigs! You will burn in hell for what you’ve done! Traitors!” 

All of the men descended on her, one after the other and Hannibal could only watch in horror. She was broken in a way that he would never quite remember what she looked like beforehand. The man she previously slapped, easily thrice her weight, straddled her stomach and wrapped his hands around her throat. She kicked out, she clawed at his wrists, she tried to scream.

Hannibal backed away, tripping over his own feet before falling on his rear. One of the men saw the movement and pointed his way. He yelled something and Hannibal heard the barking begin again. He quickly steadied himself on his feet and ran towards the smokehouse. The hounds were on his heels and there were men shouting after him.

He reached the hut, ripping the door open and saw Mischa crying in the corner, tucked into his oversized blazer with dirt smeared across her snotty face. He dropped the gun and reached out to grab her at the same time she reached up. There was a bright flashing light and blackness overtook his vision for more than a few seconds. He felt his body drop solidly on the ground beside his screaming sister, he could feel that the skin on his head split open. He scratched his nails into the dirt to pull himself closer, hoping to at least catch a fingernail on her tattered dress.

His arms were pulled behind his back, too fast for his mind to keep up. The metal handcuffs were tightened around his skinny wrists and he was sat up, and the urge to vomit rushed over him. Why did he come here? Why did he lead them straight to her? He didn’t realise he was pleading, crying, begging for them to spare her. 

One of the soldiers hushed the others, and leaned over Hannibal’s face and spoke with an accent so thick, it was hard to understand.

“This? Your sister?” He kicked Mischa’s foot.

Hannibal nodded, he felt the blood streaming down his face, and into one of his eyes, but he couldn’t feel the pain of it. “Please. Don’t hurt her.”

“Why?”

Hannibal didn’t understand. He shook his head. “Why would you?”

The man smiled and laughed, his teeth were rotten and some were missing. Yellowed with bad habits and stinking of rot with every huff of laughter he spat into Hannibal’s face. “Tell me where the money is, and we’ll be nice. Very nice.”

“There is a safe in my father’s study. Take anything! Take everything!”

The man licked his lips and cocked his head sideways. “We have. What else you got?”

Hannibal racked his brain, trying to think of anything of value. “There’s gold. Jewellry, in my mother’s drawer.”

“Like this?” The man reached into his pocket, and displayed a few pairs of gold earrings, with precious stones. Unmistakably he saw his mother’s wedding ring sitting alongside his father’s gold band. His face scrunched in disbelief and anger. He shot this look up at the man, all the while the men around him cackled, mocking his pain.

Hannibal flicked his eyes down to Mischa, who was sobbing uncontrollably into her hands. The man squatted down, interrupting his eyeline with greedy, filthy eyes. They were a shade of blue that was as icy as the air around them. He used a finger under Hannibal’s chin to force him to meet his eye. “What else, boy?”

Hannibal looked into the eyes of a man he knew, with every fiber of his being, he would kill. It was a certainty. He would rip his throat out with his own teeth, if he had to. He looked down to his throat and licked his lips before running his tongue over the sharpest point of his teeth. 

“I think we’ve upset the lad, gentlemen.” The roar of laughter filled the small room, and Hannibal didn’t care what happened anymore. His sole focus was on that pulsing vein, beating above his collar. He lunged forward and bit, digging his teeth in as hard as he could. The man stumbled backward, taking Hannibal with him, which only aided him in applying more pressure. The man screamed and swore, while another pulled him back, taking the mouthful of flesh with him. 

It was Hannibal’s turn to laugh, and he did. He laughed right in the face of the man now clutching his own neck, the blood dripping between his fingers and staining his uniform. The metallic taste in his mouth warmed his whole body, the thrill alone altering the chemistry of his brain when he swallowed it down.

“You are going to wish you never did that.” Said the soldier tugging him back, before another thud was felt in the back of his head and he dropped to the ground. 

Hannibal watched his younger self lay unconscious on the ground of that shed, frozen in time. Will was standing beside him, observing this all unfold with increasing panic. He couldn’t have imagined the horrors that happened here, not with all the empathy in the world. It was a shock coming back here after all these years, and the worst was yet to come.

“Hannibal?” Will turned him away from the sight, stepping between him and the truth of his childhood.

“He was right.” Hannibal didn’t notice how many tears had fallen from his eyes as this all played out. His whole body felt detached from his soul, even with Will blocking his view he knew what hid behind him. “I can not watch this anymore, Will.” 

Will took a step forward, and it was nice to see him with his own face again. His eyes were kind, and lacked the evil that he knew his own held. The devil was born right here, in this moment, and resided in Hannibal ever since. He reached out to touch Will, but dropped his hand half way and took a step back.

“If this is what matters to you, if this memory is what you need from me..” Hannibal shook his head in sorrow. “I do not have the strength to show you.”

Will took a step forward. “You did what you had to do, to survive. None of this is your fault.”

Hannibal almost smiled. It was ridiculous to blame himself, but who else was there? “You saw what happened. I brought her here, I led them straight to her. My mother, she-”

“Nothing you did changed anything that was going to happen.” Will took another step, he was cautious with his movements, but the shared torment was written plain across his features. “Whatever you did to them, they deserved it.”

“She didn’t!” The pressure in his chest increased, the creeping anxiety seared his nerves one by one. 

Will turned a little, to look back inside the smokehouse. He saw Mischa in a fixed position, her tears clearing a path through the dirt on her cheeks while hugging her knees to her chest. “Of course she didn’t.” 

Hannibal felt his lungs double take a sharp inward breath, as his heart filled to near bursting. “We have to stop.”

Will snapped his face back, his eyebrows bunched up and wore his sympathy like a mask over the many layers of compassion. He closed the short distance between them and wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s body. Hannibal stiffened in response, his body rejecting the touch and unwanted affection. He tried to pull away but Will only held him tighter. 

“It’s almost over, Hannibal. We’re almost there.” He held the back of Hannibal’s head drawing him closer. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Hannibal’s knees fell out from under him as they both crashed to the ground, and Hannibal gripped Will like he might float away. “I can’t do it, Will. I can’t do this to her, not again.” He backed his face away, pleading with Will to stop this, to end this torture. “Please.”

Will turned them, so Hannibal sat on the ground in front of him, wrapping one arm firmly around his waist. His other hand held Hannibal’s forehead up, and forced him to witness the atrocities that haunted his nightmares.

“Finish it.”

Chapter Text

Will could feel the sweat against his palm, as he held Hannibal firm against his body. There was a distant element to the circumstance in which they found themselves, knowing on some level, that they were sitting on the floor in his Wolf Trap home in similar positions. But that world, the one they lived in, it didn’t exist in here. In here, he could feel the snow lightly falling around them, he could feel the individual places on his skin where each flake would melt. Distinguishing between worlds became much harder to do, the longer they spent in Hannibal’s past. 

There was this, unexplainable knowing coursing through his veins. He knew everything that had happened today, as intimately as if he lived it himself. The stench of the soldiers that circled him, the blood blinding one of his eyes, the metal bracelets binding him from fighting back. It was all so real.  

This already lived life, displayed in front of him? It wasn’t a film that you could sit back and watch from afar, no this was entirely immersive. Hypnotic in a way that you could not force yourself to look away once it started. He needed to see what came next, even if on some level, he already knew.

“Finish it.” He whispered into Hannibal’s ear. Will ignored the uneven breaths, he ignored the tears, and he fought against the shrinking part of his heart that wanted to save Hannibal from this anguish. As if he could.

Hannibal only struggled a little, the war inside his mind knew it was a losing battle, but there were no winners here. This was the festering wound that lay deeply hidden in the psyche of a man that pretended otherwise. Hannibal had convinced himself over time that he was the monster in this story, but Will needed to show him the truth. He needed Hannibal to emerge from this self-contained prison, and fly them to their shared freedom. He felt Hannibal relax into his arms. 

“You are going to wish you never did that.”

“Hannibal!” Mischa shrieked when her brother was dragged backwards into the trees. She tried to scramble after him but was met with fingers gripping through her hair, cruelly holding her in place. Will watched her kick and fight back, and was proud of her for trying. 

He licked his lips again, and tasted the man's blood fresh on his tongue. His body was slammed against the bark of a tree and his hands were freed only long enough for them to be rebound, as they tied him down tight. His back was flush with the cold wood, his once even-pressed dress shirt was torn, bloodied, and beyond repair. His head was pounding with pressure, but his only focus was his little sister, who was being strung up on the beam that hung above the firepit. 

“Stop it! Leave her alone!” None of the men paid him any mind. 

The man he bit, came back from wherever he went, with a bandage wrapped snugly around his throat. He stared at Will for a few long minutes before pulling a cigarette from his pack. He struck a match and breathed in the tobacco with a short breath before blowing the smoke near his face. He threw the lit match into the pit below Mischa with a smirk. There was nothing to catch the small flame, but Will’s stomach dropped deep into his body with the recognised intent. 

He shook his head. “D-don’t! No- please, she’s just a child!”

The soldier squatted down, eyeing Hannibal’s face for a while. “Your name, boy?”

Will tried to see around him, to watch the pigs who tied her arms high above her head as she dangled from her wrists, kicking and screaming. The man grabbed his face and squeezed his cheeks inward, turning his face back at him. “Your name!”

“Hannibal.. Hannibal Lecter.” He growled through gritted teeth. 

“Lecter! That your name on the gates? That your fancy house on the hill? How many hot meals you eat in a day? In a week, huh?”

Will struggled against his binds, but it was useless, they were too tight for any give. He tried to pull his face out of the man’s grasp but it was impossible. “I don’t know.”

“More than one, I see.” The man poked Will’s stomach, where it had just a slight bulge of youth and fat. “You people don’t know about starving. You people play in your castle with your gold and your jewels and your food. You don’t think ‘bout the rest of us, huh?”

Will darted his eyes away, toward his house. He couldn’t see the bodies of his parents from this angle, but he knew they must lay freezing on the ground nearby. Was his mother still breathing? He wished her dead, if only to spare her from this reality. 

The man smiled an evil thing, following his line of vision to the house, his nose turned up in disgust. “Your mamyte says we are the traitors?” He took another long drag on his cigarette before putting it out on Will’s arm, burning a hole through the cloth before etching its pattern into his skin. Will suppressed the scream that pooled in his lungs, he didn’t want to frighten Mischa any further. 

“We will see how tough you are, Lecter.” He stood up, and slowly turned his back on him before unsheathing a knife from his belt and twisting it around to catch the light. “We will see what it is you must do to survive.” Then he disappeared into the smokehouse, and closed the door behind him. 

Will could not contain the emotion any longer, the fear, the hopelessness, the disgrace and shame. Not when he heard her screams. He turned his head towards the heavens and bellowed with every molecule of oxygen in his body. No matter how hard he pulled, and twisted, he could not loosen himself from against the tree. He felt the deep bruises forming, the cuts and burns forming around his wrists and arms. His shoulders were bent in a way that stretched beyond normal capacity. The snow was churned into slush around his feet, with upturned dirt and rotten leaves. 

Will could smell the smoke before he saw it, funneling out from the top of the shed and staining the sky above. He would continue to scream, only to drown out the sounds of her pain. Still, he could hear her choke on her own spit, and hiccup before coughing between laboured wails. Her voice was becoming weaker, hoarse, and he could not imagine what was happening to her. When silence finally overtook the shed, he was almost glad, for it meant she found some relief. Will hung his head forward, his chin against his chest, shaking and trembling. He began another prayer, much different from the one before.

“Take her into your arms, Lord. Please, take her. End her suffering, and if someone must have it, give it to me instead.” Drool fell from his lips, running cold down his body. “Please, I’m begging you.. I’m begging you..”

The door creaked open ahead of him, but he could not bring himself to look up. He heard the snow crunch under the soldier’s boots, this way and that. They were talking amongst themselves, smoking, laughing, and joking about as if it were any other day. Maybe, for them, it was. Footsteps receded towards his home, until only one remained hovering above. He vaguely felt the man kick his foot to get his attention. 

“You will understand what it is to starve.” And then he was gone. He was left alone with his warm breath puffing little clouds into the air ahead.

Whoever shut the door last, did not latch it, so there were a few centimeters where it remained open. Will slowly brought his eyes up, to stare at the handle. In his periphery, he could barely see the outline of a small, pale arm, and a little bit of her leg. He blinked a few times before centering the radiant glow of the crackling fire in his vision and clenched his jaw to stop himself from reacting. There were seconds that turned to minutes, and minutes that turned to hours as the sun began to set again. The long, red lines that streaked down her body dripped into the dirt and were swallowed whole, as if the earth were consuming her bit by bit, drop by drop. 

Will would hear, faintly, the sounds of the world passing by. Vehicles travelling up and down the long driveway, kicking gravel along the way. The home where he grew up was well lit from the inside, defectors pillaging whatever goods they could, with boisterous conversation shared over the quickly depleting spirits. Someone found his grandfather’s old gramophone and soon there was music. It drifted through the air, tickling the hairs in his ear with every note. The scratchy, distorted melody became a backdrop for his fading state of mind while Francesco Durante soared through the layers of this particular hell. 

His grandfather was an avid church goer, and lover of Christ. He was generally a quiet man, but where it concerned Durante, he would light up. He would exclaim his connection to God through this music, and how sacred the melody was for true believers. Tonight, the Lamentationes Jeremiae Prophetae filled the air, and his fingers twitched with the remembrance of the keys, watching his grandfather play the parts he knew on their piano. He would remind everyone that this music was not just to be played, but understood with intimate intention. This was an open conversation with God himself, so it must be recognised and respected as such. 

“Recordare, Domine, quid acciderit nobis, intuere, et respice opprobrium nostrum!”
Remember, O Lord, what has happened to us, look, and see our disgrace.

Will wondered if God was watching now? Listening through this medium and fascinated by its discovery. 

Mischa coughs, and cries herself awake. When she struggled against the leather straps that bound her wrists, the sound reminded him of an ancient wooden chair they used to play on at the cabin on the lake. 

“Haereditas nostra versa est ad alienos, domus nostrae ad extraneos.”
Our inheritance has been turned over to strangers, our houses to foreigners.

Will laughed at the thought, the irony. God was listening, wasn’t he? Always listening, always watching. He was up there, observing his creations make use of the free will he bestowed upon them. If he had the power to intervene, he chose not to. Therefore, it must be good for him, he must approve.

Mischa calls out for her mother. She pleads for help, and sobs a prayer through half-mumbled words. Why won’t anyone save her, what did she do to deserve this? 

“Pupilli facti sumus absque, patre.”
We have become orphans, fatherless. 

Orphan. What an irrelevant word, just hours ago. And now? He was one. Like the boys at the orphanage on the edge of the village. Was this his destiny? Somewhere, someone was shaking so much their teeth rattled, and their bones were freezing. Their body was shivering so violently you could hear it above the music. Footsteps approached, and the heel of a boot was placed on his forehead to force his head up. He could barely see anything, it was so dark now. 

“Are you hungry yet, Count Lecter?”

His stomach was indeed begging for food, but he would not acknowledge it. It was a distant ache, something he could ignore. There were so many other pressing issues, this one seemed the least important. He slowly shook his head.

“Ha! Well, give it time.” The soldier entered the shed before returning with a long-sliced cut of meat, smoked and dripping with juices. He wiggled the strip in front of Will’s face and a drop splattered high on his cheek. He turned away from it, with disgust. The man chuckled before opening his mouth wide and dropping it in. He slurped and chewed it up before licking along his teeth to pick out every morsel. He then stared into the boy’s eyes while he sucked each finger clean.

“Could use a little salt.” With another laugh that came deep from his belly, the man returned down the path in the snow he came from. “And a little more time to cook!”

Will leaned his head back with an involuntarily sharp inhale, staring at every new star sparkling above. It was a beautiful night, considering. The single, damned drop that fell on his cheek migrated down, tickling the edge of his lip and without thinking, his tongue lapped it away. His eyes fluttered with the sweetness and he cursed himself for admiring how perfectly delicate the balance was. How he wanted to try a piece before it became chewy and overdone. He banged his head against the tree, trying to focus on the part where he was hurt, hoping to redirect these evil thoughts. 

“Pellis nostra quasi clibanus exusta est, a facie tempestatum famis.”
Our skin is hot as an oven, scorched by the fever of famine.

Will was beginning to understand the lesson he was being taught. God was speaking to him through this composition, his grandfather was right all along. He lived in a world full of rich accompaniments, education and the like. He never wondered if there would be food on his table, it was always just there. He probably never noticed the looks between servants, or the longing in the eyes of the townsfolk. He was accustomed to it, wasn’t he? His tongue chased the taste as far as it would reach and his stomach growled for more. God wanted him to humble himself.

His eyes trailed toward her blurry figure, and he finally allowed himself to look. To really see her. Had the door always been so wide open? The fire glowed brightly under her, but not directly so. The skin on her legs was covered in soot and small burns from the floating embers. Lengthy strips of skin were missing from all over her body. Red, and oozing. Glistening against the flames, and for every piece of the puzzle that was her missing flesh, there was a matching counterpart hanging on the beams next to her. Dozens of them.

His senses were overloaded with the smokey smell, his mouth watered at the idea of having a real taste. Will’s head was leaning forward, the tendons along his neck stretched with need. His eyes were mapping her body, where the best cuts could potentially come from, having watched the family butcher process their top choice many times over. He remembered where the fat lay over the muscle, and where the muscle lay atop the bone. Even the marrow could be used on toast, much like a rich butter. He licked his lips in anticipation. 

“This is what you want, Lord, isn’t it? You would not let it happen otherwise.”

In response, the wispy clouds passed and the full moon shone brightly from where it hung in the clear skies above. Will smiled towards the heavens and chuckled under his breath. “I see you.” He closed his eyes as the melody he was humming faded into the silence, until the only sounds remaining were the ones in the early hours of any morning. An owl, an insect. The scream of a fox, or so he imagined it to be.

Mischa's pained cough tore him from the solace, her breaths were short in her chest. Her lower lip wobbled and she called for the only person who could hear her. 

“Hann.. Hannibal? Are you there?” Her voice was a ghost in the wind, it travelled through him, possessing his heart with their shared indignity. 

He could bring himself to say nothing. 

“Hannibal?” She sniffled, her eyes searching but blinded by the intense glow in front of her, unable to see beyond it. “Mama?” There was wheezing in lungs, likely the ash from the fire and crying for so long. “Papa?”

Will watched her try and twist, try to wiggle away from the heat with no luck. She was less his little sister in this moment, and more a.. something he could not quite name. In primary school he read a book by Mary Shelley, she described Frankenstein’s monster as having black lips and watery pale eyes, much like the girl had in front of him, dangling by her arms. The creature’s attributes were not entirely horrific in their parts, but as a sum? It was monstrous. This is what he saw when he looked at her now, a monstrous recreation of something that was once so pristine. How unnatural her features looked when you put it all together, like a patchwork doll sewn at the seams with immaculate suffering.

She was entirely beautiful. 

“I’m here, Mischa.” He whispered, hoping on some level she would not hear him. 

“It burns.. p-please.. make it stop..” Such an innocent plea for mercy, what else could he do?

“You know I will always help you.” Will dug the back of his skull into the sharpest part of the bark, finding a point to grind against. The pain was overwhelming, as he hoped it would be. He pulled with all the might he had remaining, against the ropes around the tree, sawing back and and forth. The bristles tore, as did his skin. The tether was breaking, as was his body. The blood made it slippery, and he was able to catch a little more skin each time he pushed and pulled. 

There was a sound, a pop. Something broke, something gave. Will tumbled forward, face first into the ground before his hands could brace his fall. He crawled the short distance between them, dragging his body towards her whimpering voice. The world was titled on an axis, and his vision was blurry, but he fought through the sick feeling in his stomach to reach her. He forced himself to stand, leaning against the wall to steady himself. As small as she was, the beam above the fire was taller than even he was, and he had to balance on his tiptoes to try and undo the knot around her wrists. The blood on his fingers was wet, and sticky, it was too hard to get a grip of anything and the more he tried the more frustrated he became. He cursed under his breath when she started to cry out. 

“Shh, shhh. Hush now, and it will all be alright.” His lip was trembling, and blinking away the denial. Her cheeks were so red, sweat was dripping down her temples and neck. Her pale skin was stained with soot, even the missing parts were no longer red, but blackened from the fire. 

“God damnit!” He seemed to only be making it worse. “God damn you!” He tried to lift her up, hoping to lessen the weight on her limbs, but she screeched from the sudden, sharp pain.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry.. I’ll fix it, I promise.” Will searched the room, praying to find anything that could cut through the leather cord. He kneeled before the pit, grabbing a smaller stone and smashing it on a larger one to create a sharp edge. He was finally getting somewhere when heard a high pitched whistle that stopped him in his tracks. 

“Now there’s something you don’t see everyday.”

Will closed his eyes. His back was to the door, and he could smell the man’s body odour wafting through the room with the breeze from outside. 

“Just go away.” He begged whoever was standing behind him. “Please, leave us alone. You’ve taken everything.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, young man. There is still so much you have, that we could take.” 

Will turned around, placing his body in front of Mischa's, to block her as best he could. He steadied his feet on the ground, rallying against the temptation to fall. This was someone new to him, though his face was oddly familiar. “There is nothing left here.”

The man smiled, uncaring of the horrific circumstances around them, as if immune to the depravities. He took a step forward, as Will took one back. He could feel the heat of the fire at his back, but if Mischa could endure it, so could he. The man reached out and touched his cheek, it was soft and gentle on his skin, but it stung with warning signals. The man advanced, Will retreated until his hair was snatched up in a fist. 

“My name is Antanas. You’re the late Count Lecter’s son, aren’t you?”

Will nodded.

“Hmm, I guess that makes you the new Count, huh?” The man licked his lips while his eyes narrowed on the boy. “You’ve met my brother, his name is Petras.”

Will darted his eyes over the uniform, trying to unravel the mystery until landing his sight on the barrel of his father’s flintlock sticking out of his trousers. Recognition flickered across his face, understanding only seconds before the man wound back his fist and punched him right in the stomach. Will heaved inward, unable to catch his breath, gasping on air that would not come to him.

“Was. His name was Petras.” The man lifted Will off the ground by his hair, bringing him face to face, watching him scrambling against his chest to push him away. The man eyed him, soaking in the sounds of his choking body before he dropped him like a lead weight.

“All this time, all these years, we survived our poverty together. We stole what we had to, thick as thieves we were, if one of us starved so did the other. We slept in the snow, we baked in the sun, we worked our asses off for pennies!” The man crouched over Will, as a breath finally came rushing into him and he coughed on it, spitting down his chin, clawing at his throat. “All you had to do was wait for your father to die, and you inherit a kingdom.” Antanas was circling around him, locked on to his prey like the predator he was.

“This country wanted us to fight for the likes of you? For scraps? They don’t care if we live or die, just as long as they are safe and warm in their beds, the Lords and the Ladies, the Counts and the Countesses. You have no idea what it’s like at the bottom of the hill. The bottom of the food chain. The bottom of society!” Antanas retrieved the pistol from where it was tucked and he held the barrel end, pointing the handle at Will.

“They didn’t even want to show me what you did to him.” His lip snarled and spoke through bared teeth. “I had trouble believing it was my little brother, at first.”

Will’s voice was quiet, exhausted, still trying to catch his breath while explaining himself. “They killed papa! They were hurting mama-”  

“And what loss is this? Two less aristocrats to flaunt their wealth in our faces? What good were either of your parents doing for this world, huh?” The man approached Mischa, running the side of the gun along her leg until she twitched away from the pressure. “Except creating more problems.”

“Don’t touch her!” Will tried to kick Antanas away, but he was ten times his weight and double his height. 

“I wonder what I should do, so you do not recognise her.” His laugh was maniacal and taunting, as he continued to poke at different parts of Mischa’s body, grinding the handle into the places where her skin had been cut away. “Ed, the one whose throat you bit, he says she tastes sweet.” He plucked one of the strips off the beam and sniffed it. “Smells like pork, wonder if it tastes the same?” Antanas eyed the meat before popping it into his mouth, his eyelids fluttering shut while he savoured the taste between his teeth. “Mmmm..”

Will seized the opportunity presented, while the man’s eyes were closed and he was not expecting an attack. The stone he dropped earlier was sharp enough to do some damage, and he had only seconds to make a decision. He gripped it tightly when he lunged towards Antanas, plunging the tip of the chipped stone into his gut. The man grunted in shock and made an almost laughing sound of disbelief.

“You little shit!” He tried to grab his hair again, but Will ducked out of the way. He may be half his height and ten times less in weight, but that made him faster and harder to catch. He quickly pulled the stone out and plunged it in again, before Antanas had the chance to react. This time, he hit something that really started to bleed. Antanas covered the wound, trying to stem the bleeding as he stumbled backwards away from the manic child who attempted to stab him a third time. 

“Back the fuck up!” Antanas shouted at him, before turning the gun to face the boy, cocking the hammer and aiming it at his face.

Will knew it wouldn’t shoot, it locked up before and it would lock up again. He ignored the command and held the stone in his fist, jabbing at his body to force him to back up. He advanced. Antanas retreated. 

Antanas pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. Will smiled. He wound his arm back and threw the stone at the man’s head. It hit his eye, and he reactively dropped the gun to cover the painful spot. Will did not relent, he did not rest on any assumptions that this would stop what was coming. Even with the soldier’s shirt quickly filling with blood, he did not know who would hear them, and who would come to investigate. 

He selected a larger stone from around the fire pit, one that was capable of much more damage, and he heaved it over his head and threw it at the man’s head. Antanas was able to avoid being hit, but he fell sideways into the fire, screaming when his clothing started to catch. The more he flailed and tried to get out of it, the worse it seemed to get, his hands were scrambling at the wood logs, and burning with every touch. 

Will stepped backward to block the exit, latched the door shut from the inside, and stood to watch. The man’s screams would surely alert someone now, and he wasn’t finished here. The stench of his melting boots filled the room with a deep black smoke, and Mischa was coughing from the exposure. Will held his hand over his mouth and waited to see what would happen. 

Antanas was choking on his own spit, or vomit, or something wet. He would inhale with a gargling sound, and retch from the heat of it all, even though he tumbled from the center of the flames, his body remained engulfed in fire. His uniform melted into multiple places on his body, and his skin was peeling from spots all over. His hair was singed away, and he looked like a real demon silently screaming while he reached out to Will with absolute fear in his eyes. He was dying, and they both knew it. 

“What loss is this?” Will couldn’t help but smirk at him while he mocked his words. “It is you who stinks like a cooked pig, Mister Antanas.” 

There was pink, bloody foam coming up the man’s throat now, and bubbling over his teeth. It seemed he was incapable of screaming anymore, only short quick gasps of crackling air. It was autonomous, his lungs desperately trying to get any oxygen they could, but failing faster than his life could keep up with. It ought to have been horrid and terrifying to witness this gruesome display, but at this moment? In this utterly hopeless place, it was a beacon of euphoria. 

Will had the urge to take a photo. He didn’t want to forget any of the details, not one single thing out of place. He studied the finer lines and memorised the places where blood became blackened coagulated marks on his skin. He lost time drawing the textures in his mind, forgetting where he was and how peril their situation really was. When he heard a weak whimpered exhale come from the girl hanging in the back of the room, he suddenly remembered everything and rushed to her side.

“Mischa!” Will grabbed the sharpened rock from where it fell, and began to desperately cut away the leather cords. When she dropped into his arms, he felt no movement from her. Her breaths were no longer coming, and neither did her pulse twitch on her neck. The cold sickness that crept along the back of his neck was feeling now like acid in his stomach. 

“Wake up! Please, Mischa!” He slapped her lightly on her cheek, which seemed so pale now and the hollows of her eyes filled with a darkness that held no life. He held her little body tight against his own and squeezed. “Breathe!”

Will gathered her up in his arms, and ran towards the house. He didn’t know exactly why, but he needed to get her safely to her bed and warm her body. He needed to clean her wounds and maybe then she’d wake up. With one arm wrapped around her waist and another trying to hold the back of her head upright, he used any remaining energy he had to force his feet up the snowy path to their home. He saw the hounds ahead, snarling and snapping at each other with bones in their mouths. They were fighting over the remains of their mother and father and he had no time to intervene. 

He followed the path around the back of the house, and up the side entrance. Wherever the soldiers were, they must be sleeping drunk in other places. If they didn’t hear Antanas screaming, maybe he would be lucky enough to pass by them unheard. He could hardly remember climbing the stairs, nor how he was already in her bedroom, but soon enough he was gently laying her down on her soft mattress. 

“Mischa..” He tried to fix her hair away from her face, the strands were plastered to her skin and hardened. Deep down he already knew what he did not want to admit, but still he laid his ear to her heart. There was nothing.

Will’s lip trembled, and he held his own breath, hoping for just one beat. Just one more moment to tell her how much he loved her. How sorry he was for failing her as a brother. How he failed their entire family. 

“My little bee.. what have I done?” He lifted his head and looked down at this lifeless form, this vessel that once held his baby sister. Her once white church dress was stained with blackened grime, her arms and legs were a field of wounds and he thought it a cruel thing to wish her to come back. What pain she must have felt, what fear in her final moments. His teeth were grinding top against bottom, and he clenched his jaw with the sober reality of her last memories in this cursed place. 

Will leaned forward and placed a kiss on her forehead. “Mama and papa are waiting for you in Heaven, find them and find the peace you deserve.” He found her favourite doll, a porcelain thing with curly hair, wearing a frivolous blue dress edged in lace, and he placed it against her side. He made his way to the cabinet and picked out a soft quilt, sewn by their grandmother and draped it over them both. He tucked her in for the very last time, with no tears left to shed. 

“Tell them I’m sorry.” Will backed out of the room, pausing in the doorway to look back at her, shocked at how small she appeared. 

“Tell them I won’t be joining you.”

Chapter Text

Will closed the door to Mischa’s room and leaned his back against it. There were all these roads that lay in front of him, all these paths that led to various outcomes. Each one would take him in wildly different directions. He pondered for a moment, wondering if he could take two at the very same time.

He tried to take a step down the hallway, but his feet felt glued to the floorboards. He fought against the seemingly magnetic pull to the ground, and could swear he felt the arms of an invisible beast wrapped around his chest. He looked down to see nothing in reality chaining him to place, but he struggled to free himself anyways. The dried blood that coated his body in various places itched and tugged when he shook his shoulders back and forth. For one terrifying second, he thought it was Mischa’s soul trying to stop him from enacting this hastily formed plan of revenge. 

“Let me go!” He whispered to the ghost he could not see. 

The invisible arms relented and he was suddenly freed, falling forward onto his hands and knees. He quickly looked behind him, still not convinced he was entirely alone up here. Though it left a strange feeling in his mind, he tried to ignore it for now, and began to crawl towards the top of the stairs. He peeked down through the banisters and listened for any movement. There was no telling what time it was now, only that it was either very late in the night or very early in the next morning. The house was, for better or worse, completely silent despite the evil creatures lurking within.

Will knew all the places on the wooden stairs that would creak, and avoided them. Plenty of times, he would sneak down here, against his parent’s wishes and rummage through books he was not yet allowed to read, or sip at the leftover wine from supper. He wished away the throbbing between his eyes, shoving the constant shivering to a corner of his mind to be dealt with later.

He couldn’t help but peer into the study first, noticing two defectors passed out on the floor in front of a dying fire, empty glass bottles surrounding them. The embers glowed weakly and without purpose, still a crackle and pop set his very nerves on edge. He tried not to think of Mischa. From here, he made his rounds, checking each room, taking inventory of all the traitors who resided in his home. It was his now, wasn’t it? Every inch of this house, every acre of the land outside, was his by rights. These were unwelcome guests, trespassers, and he had the right to defend himself and his land by law.

Will had to be smart about this. Wake one, and the rest could overtake him. He was not a particularly strong young man, but he had his wits, and what did he have to lose now? His parents were gone, his sister, gone. His home had been irreparably ravaged and the longer he spent looking around, the more he noticed what was missing.

Family heirlooms gone from their places on the shelves, paintings that once hung on the walls left only the mark of their outlines on the wall. His eyes fell on the hand-carved chess table that once sat proudly against the far wall. All the pieces were missing, once carved from marble and jade. He felt his eye twitch, there was a connection in his brain that fought the urge to scream. How dare they! 

Instead, he backed out of the room, with its sleeping inhabitants and tip toed back to his father’s study. Two in here, another five in the others, but the man he bit, Ed, was unaccounted for. Will opened the drawer on the large desk, anticipated the squeak that would come, and paused when he heard it. He kept one eye on the men snoring on the floor, and one on what he was doing. The drawer had clearly been searched, with any spare coins taken, but what remained was invaluable to him. He wrapped his fingers around a letter opener, one that his mother gifted to his father on his birthday a few years ago. Their family name was inscribed on one side, and a message from his mother on the other.

“For when the paper bites first.”

Will ran his thumb along the words and smiled, remembering how his parents shared a laugh and knowing looks between them. The way his father chuckled when he read it for the first time. He gripped the handle and locked eyes with his first target. 

The man’s collar was open, his sweat-stained undershirt yellowed from days without a hot bath or change of clothes. He had light hair and a patchy blonde beard. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old, possibly older but clearly stunted in growth. Skinny all over and underweight in the places it mattered. He had long, deep breaths, the kind of sleep only alcohol grants you. Will climbed on top of him, straddling his chest with knees on either side of his body. The man didn’t even register the danger he was in, which only slightly angered Will, wishing he could feel the fear before the pain. 

The sharp tip of the makeshift blade was already pointed at his throat, as he guided it to the area he saw throbbing the most. In and out. It was quick, and surprised both of them. The man gasped awake, immediately clutching at his throat, his eyes were frenzied and confused, unaware of what was truly happening. Will smiled down at him. 

The man tried to get up, maybe reflexively or instinctually, to get away from the threat. Will bore down, covering the man’s mouth with both hands to stop the gasping sounds. He didn’t want to wake the man sleeping next to them. The blood was coming out quickly, much more quickly than he imagined. It was pooling under his body, soaking the carpet under them and in his state of panic, the man’s heart was only pumping it out faster. The dim light of dying embers faintly lit the room, so everything appeared much darker than he thought it would. Something you don’t think very much about when someone bleeds this much is the smell. It was overwhelming in such a fascinating way, the metallic taste pooled under Will’s tongue and his mouth watered. 

As the man’s fluttering eyes looked to the heavens for a God that would not save him, he mumbled something under Will’s hand. He leaned over the man and whispered into his ear.

“Whatever you wish to say to Him, it will go unheard. Unspoken. You do not deserve peace, nor your last rites.” Will pressed his head to the unknown man’s temple and continued to speak quietly into his ear. “You are a traitor to your people, with no name. No one will know, nor care, that you are dead. No one will mourn your loss.” Will sat back up, the spark in the man’s eye was mostly gone, his arms were heavy on the floor at his side and the wound was no longer surging blood, but rather oozing its last few drops. 

“Only the devil will be happy to greet you at his gates.” 

Will picked up the letter opener and cut a piece of fabric from his shirt before crawling over to the soldier’s drinking companion. They looked nothing alike, for everywhere one man had white blonde hair, this man had a coat of black ones. Darker hair, darker skin, and presumably darker eyes. He also appeared taller, and a little older. Maybe they were friends once, or maybe circumstance forced them to share the same destiny. Either way, it did not matter, for they were about to meet again in a life beyond this one. 

This time, Will prepared a little better by having some cloth ready to stuff into his mouth when he inevitably opened it. He held the little knife at the same point on this man's neck, watching his vein pulse safely behind its skin barrier. It was mesmerising, the little thump-thump, thump-thump against the metal tip, he traced the pulse, pressing only slightly into the flesh with a satisfied smirk on his face. He held the power over this man’s life. If he died now, or if he died in a few minutes was entirely up to his choosing. He could be swift about it, or not. He could walk away and leave him to live his life, waking up next to his dead comrade’s blood. 

He imagined every scenario in vast detail, not realising he was mimicking the sleeping man’s slow and steady breath. This time, it was not in and out. It was not quick for either of them. He pushed the blade in as slowly as one could, and when the man cried out, he shoved the blood-soaked material down his throat to shut him up. This man was stronger, and almost pushed him off, but Will used all his leverage and weight to drop onto the man’s chest, still holding the letter opener that penetrated his throat to the hilt.

This man, in his sudden and rude awakening, seemed to realise more quickly what was happening. He tried to spit the cloth out, gagging on the taste, he fought to grab Will’s wrist and succeeded. Will stopped fighting against him, and let his wrist be pulled away and with it the sharp plug that was holding this man’s life together. 

By now, the scent of blood stained every breath he inhaled and he hardly noticed it. Some of it, from whom it did not matter, had coated his knees and soaked into his already bloodied clothes. How long since he had blinked? Since he had taken his eyes off the light fading from another man’s eyes. This one had more strength, pushing Will off his body as he scrambled backwards, into the corner. He held out his hand as if to stop the boy from following him, he finally spit the cloth away and choked on his words. When he tried to speak, his lips and mouth were coated in slimy red bubbles, spattering down his chin. 

Will slowly crawled towards him, transfixed on the sight. The light-headed dizziness from the pressures of the hell he was enduring, eased a little. It was entirely tolerable, this thing he did. There was no guilt, there was no wondering whether or not he was doing the right thing. This was the price of war, was it not? Some people lived, and others died, who was to say which side had God in their corner and which were the ones banished to some netherworld. 

A sudden crackle from the fire stole his attention away and he watched as a piece of ash floated up into the room. It crossed between himself and the dying man, eventually landing on the edge of his laced boot. There was one more, laboured exhale that came from the depths of his useless lungs before his face fell and his shoulder slumped inward. His arms fell to his side, and he was gone. What once existed, now ceased to do so.

On to the next. 

Will had to use the corner of the couch to help pull himself up, his recent burst of energy was rapidly depleting, but he could not stop now. He wasn’t finished. The blade was wiped along his trousers, but did little to clean it. He stumbled out of the room, unable to resist looking behind himself one last time to account for his part in all this. Just lumps of rotting meat, covered in their own filth. 

“What a waste..” He spit on the floor before turning away. 

“Will?”

Will quickly spun towards the sound, as it echoed above his head.

“Papa?” Was it his voice calling to him from the other side of the veil? 

“Will!” 

As it was outside Mischa’s room, he once again felt the arms wrapped around him, urging him to stop moving. He struggled against the weight of it, swearing he could hear the echoes of someone crying nearby. Was she truly dead? Had he even made sure of it? The cries came from down the long hallway, far away from her chamber upstairs. 

Will shook his head, ridding himself of the obvious delusions. He dragged the back of his wrist over his head, flinching from the sharp pain until he found the spot where he had been hit. How long ago that seemed now. His fingers touched the perimeter of the wound, which has grown a crusty seal over the worst of it. He was tempted to pick at it, to wash it out and make sure it was clean. Now was not the time, not when he was so close to the vengeance owed to him. To the entire Lecter family.

He broke free from this invisible hold on his body, taking one slow step at a time, having to rest against the wall along the way. He swayed on his feet, and his stomach clenched with an empty, gnawing ache. It grumbled and he heaved, bent over at the waist. Nothing came out but the sound, for there was nothing left inside of him. He could feel the cold sweat oozing from his pores, chilling his skin into goosebumps as the sickness came in waves. 

It wasn’t long before he was standing over the next group of men. They were sleeping, pitiful whimpers and smacking of their gums while they slept peacefully in the inevitability of their own graves. This room used to hold such joy, such life, and such memories. Between the beats of his heart, and the blinking of his eyes, he could see glimpses into the past. One of smiling, and beautiful music dancing in their shared laughter. He could see the places where these things happened, unknowing the disaster that would eventually replace them. 

It wasn’t fair. Why would they die in peace, when his father suffered? When his mother cried, and was beaten and pleaded for mercy? When his darling little sister was torn apart and hung above the torment of flames? There was no mercy from these men, not when they had the chance to give it. Will would only give to them what they so readily offered. 

He stepped close to the gramophone, and reset the needle. He cranked the handle on the side of it, much like he saw his grandfather do, too many times to count. If listening to Francesco Durante was a direct path to communicating with the almighty himself, then he hoped God was listening. 

And watching.

The first few notes were simple, but powerful in the darkness before morning light. It was a quiet composition that would build over time. Will took a deep breath through his nose and all the way down to his ribs until it hurt. He turned the letter opener in his palm, so the blade angled downward and approached his first victim. The power that coursed his veins was warm, and full of adrenaline, but his heart remained as steady as his constitution. He grabbed a pillow from the sitting chair, it was mostly for show, but was as soft as the velvet encasing it. 

He placed the pillow on one of the defector’s faces, uncaring what this one looked like, or what he might have been before all this. Right now, he owed his pathetic life to honour, and will die fighting for what he believed in. Will raised his arm high and came down fully with the metal point aimed for the man’s heart. And in it went, again and again and again. He stabbed and stabbed, holding with an iron grip the pillow on the screaming man’s face. And oh, he screamed, his arm vibrated with it, but it was drowned out by the stuffing of a pillow and the music of angels. 

Will did not wait to see the light fade from his eyes, he moved quickly to the next and the next. Not one awoke, before the other was already dying in a pool of the other’s blood. The familiar scent of copper filled his nostrils and his stomach grumbled with its vast emptiness, he could even see sparkles in his vision when he sat victorious in the armchair, watching the men scramble and crawl along the floor. They slipped and fell, they clutched at their hearts, and other places where the knife pricked them, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. He could not really hear their cries, but he could see it plastered on their faces. Their suffering was beautiful. 

Will smiled, crossing one leg over the other to watch the show. His head dipped a little, and his neck felt loose. He would blink and it was dark, and he would open his eyes and it was a little lighter. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t awake either. There was a numbness all over his body, and the record played in the background while the cries of a child lingered above. He heard the letter opener thump loudly against the wood, when it fell to the floor and it startled him enough to sit up straight and look around. 

He rubbed his eyes, which were blurry with things he did not want to name right now. He remembered the smirking, smug face of a soldier that was not counted amongst the bodies laying around him. Will tried to gather enough strength to stand, but his body was weighed down with a heavy exhaustion. He contemplated driving the makeshift weapon into his own heart, or maybe into his neck. It would be a quick death and it had to be better than living through this chapter in his life. Maybe he could turn a gun on himself, or hang from the bannister in the foyer. He was already damned to hell, what would one more sin matter?

With one more trembling rally, he lifted himself up and made his way back to Mischa’s room. The stairs creaked loudly with each step, alerting no one to his presence in an empty shell of a home. He took a moment to brace his forehead against her door, holding the handle for a few seconds before the crying returned. It did not come from within, it was behind him, coming from his parents room. Curious.

He turned the knob only a half-turn before letting it go, he could not move on from this life without knowing what was haunting him. He sighed, and turned to face the final mystery. He did not particularly want to go poking around in his parent’s room, it was something they were adamant about remaining closed to anyone but themselves. Still, the thread that pulled him closer landed one foot right in front of the other until he crossed the threshold. 

Will looked around, in the stillness of the vast room, and gasped. Their room was chaotic, and torn apart by the pigs that ravaged their most private of places. Drawers pulled out and thrown about with no care, papers littered the floor, and clothing torn to shreds.

“Animals!” He yelled into the quiet room.

He picked up the nearest discarded garment, his mother’s quilted dressing gown, it was something she always wore after bathing. He brought it to his nose and inhaled her flowery scent. Suddenly his brain was flooded with tragedy and death, seeing her bruised and battered face instead of the beauty he knew her to be. Will held the fabric to his mouth and screamed into it before throwing it back on the floor. Another sob, and hiccup, the crying swirled around him, leading him into the adjoining washroom.

When he approached the long mirror, he saw someone he did not recognise. The sun was creeping along the wall, shining a new day through the window. It reflected on the edge of the mirror and into eyes that were not his. He leaned closer, and let the ray of light beam into his iris and studied the blues and greens that shone back at him. He could not make sense of this phenomenon. His eyes were always dark, even in the bright light of day, he had his father’s eyes. He shook his head and backed away, only now noticing the coat of filth that layered his skin. His clothes. Everything from head to toe, was blackened and smeared with dried muck of some kind. The boy in the mirror reached out to him, as if to pull him through the glass. He was tempted to reach out, tempted to go some other place, it had to be better than this. 

“Who are you?” He whispered to the mirror.

“Please, come back to me, Will.” The voice was gravelly, and thick. That of a man, speaking through the lips of a child.

“My name is.. is Hannibal..” He took another step backwards.

“You are stuck in a dream. You have to wake up.” The boy had tears streaming down his face, clearing little paths through the blood. Will touched his finger to his face and felt the same clear lines on his cheek. Was it truly just a dream? A nightmare that he needed to wake from, and all would return to normal? Could he reverse time, and put all these little pieces back together?

“Are you God?” It was naive to wonder, but he must know.

The boy stepped closer, right through the reflective surface, joining him in the room. As he crossed over, his eyes shifted into dark, familiar pools and they stared at each other with fascination and awe. He answered in the same deep timbre. “I am not.”

Will lifted a hand, to touch him, he needed to know what was real and what wasn’t. He had been trapped in this hell for days, and if this was the only way out, he must take it. He closed the distance between them, and cradled the boy’s cheek with his palm. There was a moment where the boy sighed and seemed to resign himself to their fate. Will’s hand was gently taken, and held, before being tugged through the open doorway.

“Come with me.” The man’s voice beckoned him away from the washroom and they walked hand in hand through his parent’s room. They began the journey down the long hallway, when Will looked back, he noticed the room they left was now in pristine condition. Everything was where it ought to be, neat and tidy. 

Pictures were back on the wall as they passed by, the faces of distant relatives smiling down on them as they walked by Mischa’s open door. She was not in the bed as Will had left her, the bedroom was empty, but perfectly untouched. All her dollies and trinkets just as they were before they left for church on Sunday.

Down the stairs, and through the corridor that showed all his family’s belongings were returned to the shelves, and the smell of blood was replaced with his mother’s slow-cooked Sunday roast, ready for when they get back from town. Will frowned and wanted to investigate the changes, but his hand was being urged forward, not allowing him to stop. He was led down a small set of stairs and through the back door, before they walked through the snow and towards the smoke house where it all began. 

Will tried to dig his heels into the earth and slow them down, but he would slip on the snow and have to jog to keep up. The grip on his hand never faltered, even when the door to the shack was flung open and he was forced to see Mischa’s body hanging above a dying fire. 

“No!” He struggled again, trying to rip his hand away. “Don’t!”

The boy turned to face him, looking more like he remembered his own face to be, before speaking to him. “You cannot gather a shattered teacup together, without all the pieces. It would be incomplete.” The boy reached up, on the very tips of his toes, and retrieved a long strip of skin that was hanging over the beam. “You know what happens next, don’t you?”

Will’s lip was trembling and he slowly nodded his head. 

The boy held the dripping meat, still warm from the fire, and spoke softly. “What did we do, when no one could see us? When no one would know?”

Will took the offering and blinked a heavy tear from his eye. “We were curious what she tasted like.” Will opened his eyes to see a man standing tall above him. His suit was three pieces deep, tailored to his body, and starkly clean against the horrific background. The embers reflected red in his eyes while the glint of avidity shined through the dark room. 

“Are you the devil?” Will wondered out loud, overwhelmingly intrigued by the creature in front of him.

The man took for himself another piece of meat, and held it to lips before inhaling. “It’s just as I remember.” He smiled between his whispers and his tongue darted out to lick his fingers where it had dripped. Will’s mouth watered with empathetic anticipation. The man stared at Will, his eyes locked on without blinking. “I am much worse.” With that, he opened his jaw wide and let the entire piece fill his mouth to capacity, humming in delight while he chewed.

Will licked his lips, and looked at the flesh being pinched between his own fingers. He dared to glance at Mischa one last time, focused on her half-lidded eyes and greying skin, wondering if she was able to cast judgement. Her face disappeared as the man stood in front, blocking her from sight. He felt a hand wrap around his wrist as it was gently raised to his lips. 

“This is a rare gift, Will. Don’t you want it?”

Will opened his mouth, allowing his tongue to bathe in the saccharine taste of heaven. His eyes fluttered shut, and his involuntary moan filled the small space between them. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted. Soft, like her. Sweet, like her. It held all the properties of her youthful joy and he loathed to swallow it, knowing there would never be anything like it in all his life. When he did eventually have to concede, and allow the morsel to travel down his throat, he was filled with a divine nourishment. For a moment he swayed on his feet and let the weight of her soul settle in his stomach, and when he opened his eyes he was level with the man. They smiled at each other. 

“Hello, Will.”

“Hello, Hannibal.”