Chapter Text
In her life, Alana can say she's seen a lot. She's seen good men go bad, she's seen people she trusted commit horrendous acts of betrayal; she's seen liars, despair, tragedy. She's seen love and joy and worship; courtship and lust and passion and melancholy.
Most of the notable turning points in her life contained several of the same people. So it is not surprising, she supposes, that when the tides rise and she stands, once again, on the turn of something momentous, it takes her into the office of Jack Crawford.
Jack should have retired years ago; his hair has gone from salt and pepper, to only salt, to now bare wisps of ghost-like burrs sitting in a little ring around his head, above his ears. His already-deep frown lines have grown so much it's a wonder she cannot see his skull through his skin. Age has been as kind to him as any of them; places sagging now, joints more easily getting tired, complaints from bone and muscle that have grown weary from the weight of the world.
But his eyes are sharp as ever, when she enters and takes her seat. His lips thin out, gaze raking over her as if giving a similar assessment; the growing streaks of grey in her hair that she stopped bothering to dye once Margot had jokingly called them 'distinguished' and 'regal', the deeper lines around her mouth and eyes, the sagged weariness of her shoulders.
He sits forward, folded hands on his desk. The pale line around his ring finger is still there. "There's been another one," he tells her. She nods, looking down at her own hands, the raised lines of veins and slightly less elastic skin around her wrists and forearms. "Butchered and displayed, same as the others."
She nods again.
"I'd like you to try talking to Hannibal again."
She already knows that's what he asked her here to do. She had prepared for it, but hearing his name is like a sucker-punch to the gut, and takes her right back to the moment she crashed through the window and almost lost her life against the concrete, in the rain. Then the last time she'd actually seen him, before his escape. The promise he made to her.
She's only visited him once since they caught him again, just to see him, to confirm that it was real before she told Margot it was safe to bring Morgan back. He had looked exactly the same, except somehow different – brighter, maybe, like a fallen star glittering stubbornly against the blackness of the world.
He had not smiled at her, barely even glanced her way. Jack told her he spends most of his time reading, nowadays. When he's not reading, he's sleeping, or looking up through the ceiling at the stars. They, the all-knowing, blinded 'they', say he's gone mad, retreated into himself and is no longer dangerous. They are stupid for saying so.
She breathes in. Lets it out slowly, and says; "Surely there are other ways to catch this killer."
Jack's exhale, through his nose, is loud and impatient, like a snorting horse. "This killer has a certain way about him," he replies. "One that Hannibal will respond to."
She winces. "Do you think it's…Will?" She forces herself to say his name. It stings in a different way; not crushing weight and bleeding out, but something sharp that drags nails down her spine and makes her want to run.
"Not Will," Jack says. "But maybe someone like him enough to get Hannibal curious."
"You shouldn't want Hannibal curious," Alana spits. Her fingers curl and she glares at Jack. "You should want him dead."
"I do want him dead, but I can't have that, so I'll settle for helpful if I have to," Jack replies, and for all he's impatient and aggravated, his voice is cold and stern as unyielding rock. He is the barrier between evil and mortal men, after all. He holds the keys to Hannibal's jail cell. He's the one that visits every day to provide him food, and probably case files. All holed up in the deepest pit, he is the one who travels down there every time.
One day Orpheus will look back, and turn to salt.
"You were close to him, once," Jack reminds her. As if she needs reminding. She still has dreams about his hands on her, his mouth on her. Sometimes he turns to something clawed and monstrous and devours her whole. Sometimes it's good, it's a good dream, and she can't look at herself in the mirror come morning.
"Will was closer," she replies. "Look how that turned out."
"People are dying, Alana." She winces again, sucks in a breath, presses her lips together and turns her face away from him. There's a board on the wall, riddled with photographs from crime scenes, mug shots of suspects, though they are markedly few, red string tying location to victim in a macabre spiderweb. All centered around Baltimore and D.C. and all of them spanning the last two months, growing more vicious and brutal as time goes on. This killer has no cooling off period, it seems – he kills without hesitation, sometimes two or three in a single day, all of them arranged in a way she knows someone like Will or Hannibal would call artful. Would call beautiful.
She wishes, just for a moment, that she were blind.
"People die every day," she replies, her own voice sounding flat and lifeless. Maybe the moment Hannibal promised to take her life, she has been living on borrowed time, and with each passing second she can hear the hoofbeats of death, feel his chill in the room, sees him, lingering, in the corner of her eye.
"Did he ask for me?" Alana murmurs.
Jack shakes his head. "He only ever asks for one person these days."
She nods, and wonders what exactly happened that fateful day that saw Hannibal back in chains. She dared not ask when it was happening, for truthfully she hadn't believed it was real, until she'd seen it.
She hums quietly, leg jostling in place. "What happened, Jack?" she asks.
Jack rubs his hands over his face, ages ten years in a single breath, and sits back in his chair. His eyes follow her line of sight to the board, and darken.
"We found them in France," he tells her, his voice growing low, brooding like old men do when reliving war crimes. "There was a chase, and a car crash over a cliff. We fished Hannibal out of the car, but Will wasn't there. He'd been swept out to sea."
"They've survived that kind of thing before," Alana replies. "You're sure Will was with him during the crash?"
"Yes," Jack says, nodding. "Eyewitnesses have them both in the vehicle when it went over. We combed the entire shore, and out three miles into the ocean. Couldn't find his body, couldn't even find pieces of a body. But…" His head tilts. "Lecter barely survived. He was in the driver's seat. The passenger airbag had been deployed, there was blood on it. Will's. He was in the car, and then he wasn't."
"You should know better than to presume one of them dead until you have a body in the morgue," Alana says sharply.
"We have people looking for him," Jack replies, just as sharp. His eyes land on hers. "Will you go talk to him or not?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Of course." Jack blinks, as though surprised that she would ask. Maybe he doesn't remember the time when his word was law and he wielded his authority with all the confidence of God. Alana does, though – she remembers. She will never let herself be blinded, never let herself forget.
She should not be brave. There is Margot and Morgan to consider; Hannibal has proven that guards and barriers and things like the law of the world mean nothing to him. Even under lock and key and buried in the Earth, he's dangerous.
But she must concede that Jack is right – the quickest way to finding someone as violent and depraved as their newest killer would be to speak with the Devil himself, who birthed such things. She swallows, and draws her knees together, flattening her hands over her dress so that it falls around her ankles.
"Will you come with me?" she asks, and wonders if she sounds more like a child asking for her father to check under the bed for monsters, or someone who's smart enough to know she shouldn't go in alone.
Jack nods, and gives nothing away in his expression to tell her which person he thinks she is, to ask. "I'm going to be visiting him this evening," he tells her. "I can pick you up, or we can meet there."
"I'll meet you there," she says. She doesn't want Margot and Jack talking. "What time?"
His mind palace is vast, and has only grown in the recent years. Doubling the laborers meant he could expand it, fill it with golden light and giant arches, marble and filigree and the glistening pinkness of blood and life. Hannibal resides within a room etched deep in the mountains of his mind, unconquerable, undisturbed, except for a single brush of air along his cheek that feels like a kiss.
"You always did look most beautiful when you were miserable," a voice – his voice – says to him, low and soft and thick with adoration. His lips twitch in a smile, and he turns his head, sees the outline of Will, solid in the shadows. Will's eyes shine from a light that has no origin, maybe something burning inside himself.
"Did I?" he replies. His voice is hoarse from disuse. He rarely speaks these days, finding the effort of forcing his messy vocal cords and weak lungs to make noise too much for him. The crash had not been kind to him – a jagged piece of metal had found its way through his collar, almost slicing his throat clean open. His ribs had been broken, puncturing one of his lungs, filling it with saltwater to the point of drowning. He had been declared legally dead for almost two minutes.
Will smiles, and approaches him, flattens a hand along the back of his chair and leans down to share breath. He's warm in Hannibal's mind, and Hannibal's eyes close, blocking out the light, when Will's fingers grace over the raised scar tissue on his temple, marring his hairline and forcing him to wear his hair in a perma-flop across his forehead.
Will hums. "I liked it when you were miserable," he says, cheeks dimpled, lashes low. "I liked wiping that misery away. Knowing I was the only one who could."
Hannibal smiles, and opens his eyes to gaze at him.
Will kisses him, no more substantial than a brush of air, and yet Hannibal's memory is razor-sharp when it comes to Will, clinging savagely to the memory of his touch, his heat, the way he would move and breathe and prowl through the world. God above, he is beautiful, and untouchable as time; those that would seek to harness or control him met a swift end by their hand throughout the years. It is the most offensive thing of all.
"Even now," Hannibal murmurs, "you are the only solace I have."
Will smiles at him, feline and lovely, and his nails drag below Hannibal's chin, lift his head, and he kisses again – softly, to his forehead, nuzzling at his hair. In the part of his mind that is awake and aware, Hannibal presses his nose to his scratchy pillow and breathes in.
"Not much longer, baby, I promise," Will tells him. He started using pet names as Hannibal would, once they were settled into their aliases. First in Italy, then England, then Spain, and finally France. Before they were forced apart again. 'Baby's and 'Sweetheart's and, when he was feeling particularly happy and in a mood to tease, he would purr 'Doctor Lecter' as intimately as any sweet nothing, when the nights grew dark and he would draw Hannibal to their bed.
Hannibal wants to believe him. They share this palace, after all, and there's no reason he cannot believe Will is, somehow, actually with him, moving about this place they both inhabit where time and physics mean nothing. They are not men bound by the laws of nature, after all.
Hannibal reaches for him, and grips his wrist tender and tight. An encroaching fog is coming, smearing the gold like paint touched before it's dried. Will begins to blur as Hannibal's mind edges towards the land of the living.
He breathes in, and tastes gunpowder and perfume.
Will smiles. "Jack is here," he says, telling Hannibal what he already knew. The man reeks of decay these days, a body moving only through sheer force of will – admirable, for certain, but aggravating. He smells of gun oil and papers and pain. That perfume, though, it is new. Foreign.
His head tilts, and he looks over his shoulder to where the dawn is breaking. His own awareness, threatening to sweep away the shadows, and Will with them.
Will kisses him again, fierce and loving, and melts into nothingness before his very eyes. Every time Hannibal sleeps, it is the same, and yet every time that awful ache burgeons within him, makes him want to rise and rage and howl like a captive animal seeking its mate. What he would give, what he would do, to have Will in his arms again.
He sighs, and lets the fire die, and turns towards the light.
They did not put him back in the Criminally Insane Hospital. Chilton is in no condition to keep running it, after all, and when Alana fled she turned all her claim on that place over to the state. Now, Hannibal is kept in a facility much like an underground research lab. Every agent and orderly is doggedly, carefully screened. It's the hardest place to get a job, and a place where even one dip in the mandatory weekly psychiatric evaluations means a swift and permanent termination.
There are guards and gates upon guards and gates, claxon calls as each barrier seals behind them. Jack and Alana surrender their phones and go through a myriad of metal detectors, particle detectors, and then, finally, a single flight of stairs that look like they were carved into the mountain from days of old; a place for a wealthy king to hoard his treasure. A place where monsters sleep.
The air is violently cold, bracing, and she shivers and pulls her coat tighter around herself as she follows Jack down the stairs. It opens to a single room, flanked with two more guards, and a giant metal door that looks more like the vault of a bank than anything else. One of the guards rises with a nod, and opens the door by the pin pad, and it disengages. He opens it, and lets them through.
The room Hannibal is in is much like the one Alana kept him in. It's split in half, with a single, thick glass wall with holes too high to reach, to allow airflow and ventilation. It's furnished in a utilitarian fashion, only a bookshelf lined with worn books on one side, a bed on the other side, and a toilet in the back corner. From her understanding, Hannibal is allowed no correspondence with the outside world.
Hannibal is stirring, woken undoubtedly by the sound of the door opening and closing, the single guard coming in behind them and standing watch. Alana finds herself holding her breath, unwilling to step closer as Jack does.
Hannibal lifts his head, and he still, somehow, looks exactly the same. Age has touched Jack and Alana, and everyone else she knows, but not him. There is more grey in his hair, perhaps, and of course the marked scarring on his forehead and throat, but otherwise he looks whole. He looks alive, and she hates that about him.
He sits up with a soft grunt, rubbing his hands over his face, and looks up as Jack approaches. His face splits in a welcoming, indulgent smile, and he pushes himself to his feet, his grey-green prison clothes clinging to his thighs, his shoulders, his stomach. Much more flattering than the jumpsuit Alana put him in, but still hinting at no growing, weakening body. He looks just as strong and capable as when last she saw him.
"Good evening, Doctor Lecter," Jack greets.
Hannibal nods to him. He looks paler, robbed of sunlight. "Is it?" he replies, and Alana blinks at the sound of his voice. It's raspier, throaty. Her eyes fall to the knotted scar on his neck and she thinks of Abigail. "I'll have to take your word for it."
A flash of humor passes behind his eyes, cold enough to make her shiver. She doesn't want to know what he's thinking.
Hannibal's chin lifts, his nostrils flaring, and then his gaze slides to her, and sharpens. Oh, God, she would have happily lived the rest of her life without ever meeting his eyes again, but she forces herself to. She digs her hands into the pockets of her coat, swallows harshly, and comes to stand beside Jack.
"Doctor Bloom," he purrs, his smile like a wolf that has finally caught a limping animal separated from the herd. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Not so pleasant, for me," Alana replies.
Hannibal huffs a laugh, more like a growl around his ruined throat. He breathes in again. "You've changed your perfume," he murmurs, and steps closer, and it takes all her fortitude not to step back. Even with the wall between them, he feels too close. "It compliments your wife's scent, as I remember it."
"Don't you dare -." She forces herself to stop, breathes in slowly, and looks at Jack.
Hannibal's eyes are bright with mirth, reddened in the fake light, and he looks at Jack as well. "Am I to receive another plea for my assistance in catching your killer, Agent Crawford?" he murmurs. "You must be growing quite desperate. How many has he killed now? A dozen? Two?"
"The latest number is twenty-seven," Jack replies darkly. "Probably twenty-eight by morning."
"Our friend moves quickly," Hannibal says. "I wonder how long he's been waiting, to be able to act with such…efficiency."
The pride in his voice makes Alana's stomach turn.
Jack growls lowly, and holds up the file. "Do you want to look?"
"Jack," Alana warns.
Hannibal smiles. "I can certainly look," he replies.
Jack nods, ignoring Alana's discomforted sound. "If you look, you have to promise to help."
Hannibal laughs. "You severely overestimate my curiosity for your case, Agent Crawford. My conditions for assisting you remain the same as they always have." He tilts his head, and his gaze slides to Alana again. "Bring me Will, and I'll be the most eager little helper you can find."
Alana frowns. "Will is dead," she hisses.
Hannibal smiles at her, as if she is an adorable child throwing a tantrum. "No, he isn't." His mouth flattens, his eyes grow cold once again, and he looks back at Jack. "You're keeping him somewhere, away from me. If you want my help you will bring him to me immediately."
Jack huffs. "Will is missing, presumed dead," he says, like he has had to say this many times before. "We don't know where he is – I couldn't bring him to you even if I wanted to."
Hannibal sighs, looking rather put upon, and turns away. "Then I'm sorry, Agent Crawford, I cannot help you."
"Hannibal," Alana says before she can stop herself. Hannibal pauses, but does not turn back around. She wets her lips, and whispers, "Please."
He laughs at her. "Give my regards to your wife and son, Alana," he says, and then goes back to his bed. There's a book on his pillow, which he takes, and opens, determinedly dismissing them, resolutely ignoring them. Clearly his time with Will made him more inclined to be rude. Jack growls, and turns away, Alana close behind.
"Play him some music," he tells the guards once the doors are closed. "Loud, and constant. Something irritating." The guards nod, and Jack goes to the stairs. "We'll see if a little sleep deprivation makes him more cooperative."
Alana presses her lips together, unable to stop herself looking back as they ascend the stairs.
"It's not true, right?" she asks. "Will is dead. You don't have him holed up anywhere?"
"Of course not," Jack replies with a growl. "If I did, I'd be going to him instead. God knows he was always easier to work with."
Alana wants to believe him. She tries to put it out of her mind. She tries, she tries, but it follows her like something black and horned, a creature from her nightmares that does not gain ground, but does not relent, and is always watching.
It follows her home. It follows her to her office, and bids her look up the information for the best private eye Margot's inherited money can buy. The same one that followed Will and found Hannibal in Italy. If Will is alive, she will find him. What she does then, she has no idea, but if nothing else, confirming he's dead will put her mind at ease.
She tells herself that, as she ghosts her way through dinner and then to bed. The creature follows her there, too.
Chapter Text
Despite Hannibal being the one with years of knowledge and learning how not to be caught, to cover his tracks and relay blame away from himself during his hunts, he had come to concede that Will knew more than he did about how, exactly, to remain under the radar when one is actively hunted. Hannibal is prone to becoming a homebody, to find a place to settle and continue on his course, happy with the knowledge that he can keep the sheep blind and make a home for himself.
Will, though, knows what it's like on the other side of that coin. He is intimately familiar with the determination of a hunting dog, how to catch scents and keep them, what it feels like when the walls come closing in. He is more sensitive to lingering eyes, to hushed whispers, to shadows moving close to them that do not belong.
So, after their fall, when they had nursed each other back to relative health and docked in a small Italian port, Hannibal, through a combination of his own limitations and a keen sense of curiosity, had let Will take the reins when it came to keeping them safe and hidden. When Will said it was time to move, they moved. When they spent months out at sea, lawless and landless renegades, Hannibal obliged and kept the pantry stocked to the best of his ability. He grew sea legs. He learned every single kind of fishing lure and trap, every way to gut and prepare whatever bounty the sea had to offer, obeyed Will whenever Will set a course on the map and told him to steer towards their next destination.
He will admit, being in a prison cell is enjoyable in that novel kind of way, because he doesn't have to worry about packing up and moving in the middle of the night. He doesn't have to think about where his next meal is coming from. All he needs to do is remain strong, and focused, and try not to let that incessant, bothersome music affect him.
In his mind, Will winces, and looks up to the ceiling. "Does it ever stop?" he complains.
Hannibal smiles at him. He is used to pushing distractions and unwelcome sensations from his body. It came in handy more than once, from starvation to physical abuse to psychological strain. It made him a good surgeon, kept him alert and aware during long shifts, let him navigate the herds of sheep with nary a hair out of place. It taught him patience, and fortitude. But Will is a passionate creature, and not so easily calmed.
"No," he replies, and sips his drink of choice. Sweet, full-bodied. It has the same salty aftertaste as Will's sweat, because Hannibal is feeling nostalgic. "It's been playing since Jack visited me last. I imagine he means to weaken my resolve by depriving me of sleep."
Will laughs, at that. Loud and coming from his gut. He pets a hand over his neck and winces as, above them, the music continues to blare. It really is an unpleasant track – one of many that has been playing on repeat for the last four days. Syncopated tonal notes combined with an unignorable base thrum that rattles Hannibal's aching ribs. The singer is subtly off-key and prefers to shriek more than sing.
Will sighs. "Maybe you should just help him," he murmurs, and meets Hannibal's eyes. "It won't matter, in the end. I'm coming for you no matter what."
"Are you?" Hannibal replies, lowering his eyes to his drink. It's black in the firelight, clinging to the edges of its own redness. He wants to see the stain of it on Will's cheek. "It's been years. You know I am patient, but sometimes I have to remember that you are, in fact, a construction of my own design. Forged by my memories to give me someone to talk to."
Will frowns at him. For a moment, the shadows move in such a way to give him several silhouettes, all of them tense and snarling. "You don't really believe that," he replies. "Or you want to not believe it so badly that you might as well. I'm here. I'm real."
"Then tell me," Hannibal says, "what is your plan? I'm much better guarded than I was the first time, and I see no opportunity for transit in sight."
Will's eyes flash. "Whose fault is that?" he challenges, and pushes himself to his feet. He does not come to Hannibal, but paces away to his familiar corner of shadows. His shoulders rise like a threatening wolf's, he comes to a halt just on the edge of the carpet, then turns and fixes Hannibal with the full force of his glare. "If you helped, they might let you out."
Hannibal thinks on that, and gives a conceding nod. "I wouldn't want to ruin your plans," he says. "Whatever they may be. I'm sure you've thought of everything."
Will's head tilts. His eyes narrow, and he wets his lips, and his tongue is as red as fresh blood. Perhaps he's been hunting when Hannibal is awake; Hannibal wouldn't put it past him. His darling, beloved Will has a ravenous appetite in all things.
"Think of it this way," Will tells him. "You believe that I am coming to get you – otherwise you would not have me say it so often. And I am – I will. I'd rather die than let you rot away in this place, or exist in a world without you. But you're not making it easy by resigning yourself to life in a cell."
"And from my perspective," Hannibal returns, "this constant reminder may just be a trick of my own imagination, to prevent me from going mad." He sighs, and sips, and stares at the fire. "Maybe you did die. Truthfully, I don't know, only I think that if you had, the stars would tell me. I would feel it in the rotation of the Earth and the movement of the air."
"I am both dead and not dead," Will says, his smile wry and small. "Schrödinger's monster, hidden under the bed until the parent comes looking."
Hannibal huffs. "You talk more like me. That alone is reason to believe you are not real."
Will's eyes flash, his jaw clenches and bulges at the corners, and he breaks Hannibal's gaze, looking to the fire. He paces back to it, movements purposefully slow, measured, and rests his hand upon the flame-warm mantle. He sighs, his bearing like that of a General about to send his men to their deaths, and presses his lips together, hip cocked, free hand resting upon it, all his weight on one leg. The other kicks out, idly sending a spray of sparks as the logs collapse upon each other in a new roar of heat, making his skin and eyes reflect the orange light.
"What do you make of Alana coming here?" he asks.
Hannibal does not take his eyes away from Will's tense shoulders when he answers; "Jack must be truly desperate. Perhaps he seeks to weed out my better nature."
Will huffs.
"Or, even, to remind me of my own promise. Alana's presence brings with it more memories of pain and unpleasant things, than pleasant ones, nowadays."
"Your promise," Will murmurs, and lifts his head. There is no art, no ring of horns above this fireplace, for it is not the one he kept in his own dining room, but a new one, constructed of pieces from his many homes and many lifetimes. "I've made a few promises of my own."
Hannibal nods.
"Do you remember what happened?"
"No," Hannibal admits. "Most of that day has been wiped from my memory. I have searched for it, but there exists a large hole, between that morning, and waking up in chains, bound to a hospital bed with Jack's face looming over me."
Will's upper lip twitches back, angry for Hannibal's sake. "It's my fault," he murmurs. "I should have been the one driving. I knew the roads better. I knew where ice would have gathered, where we should have slowed down. But…" He sighs, and closes his eyes. "I prioritized distance. Between us and them."
He turns, and fixes Hannibal with a strangely wooden gaze. The dawn is breaking behind Hannibal's head, his own awareness rearing up and threatening to take Will away from him. In answer, he stands, drink forgotten, and goes to Will, cupping his face and finding his cheek warm from the fire.
Will meets his eyes, and touches his chest. "You must help them, Hannibal," he murmurs, and he sounds like Alana. "People are dying."
Hannibal's head tilts. "Why do you care?"
"It's not art unless it's you."
He cannot help smile, at that. Oh Will, with his golden eyes and silver tongue. Even if he is just a figment of Hannibal's imagination in this place, Hannibal feels the trueness of the original material, the transformation of his own mind doing nothing to hide Will's genuine core of fierceness and strength. "As you wish it," he says, and would laugh at himself for being so ridiculous as to conjure Will in his mind to argue his own internal thoughts.
Will's smile is wide and beautiful, twice dimpled on his right side where the dragon's blade cut him open, and he kisses Hannibal as the dawn of his own consciousness brings him back to the land of the living.
"Alana."
She wakes from dreams of blood and darkness, caked in sweat, and wonders if this is how Will felt whenever he had nightmares. There's a thrum in her neck and chest, her racing heart unable to be convinced, in the morning light, that she is safe, and there's nothing to fear.
Margot is at the doorway, a robe wrapped tight around her slim body, her glass-green eyes narrowed and sharp. "You have a visitor," she says, clipped as she gets when she's pissed off. She's a smart, keen-eyed woman, always has been. Behind her, the shadow of Morgan passes by, the boy laughing as he's caught in a game of chase with their bloodhound, Freesia. Alana insisted on having her, to protect her son, because animals so often see what people do not.
She nods, swallowing, and rises, her nightgown falling to her knees as she shakes out her sweat-damp hair. "Who?" she asks, and Margot follows her to the bathroom.
"A private eye." Their eyes meet in the wide mirror. Margot has let her hair grow long again, falling in soft rings around her face and down her shoulders, almost to her waist. She looks like she's been up for a while, despite her relative state of down-dress. She rises and beds early, a friend of the sun more than the moon. She's more afraid of the dark and what dwells within it than Alana is. "Or a detective, I'm not sure. She didn't use a title."
Alana pauses, and asks, "She?"
Margot nods. Alana frowns at her own reflection. The private eye she'd used before had been male, one of Mason's contacts. She nods again. "What are you up to?" Margot asks.
It's useless to try lying to her wife. Alana sighs, washes her face, and wets a brush as she begins to attempt neatening her hair. "I visited Jack the other day," she says, steadfastly keeping her gaze on her own reflection, but sees Margot's lips turn down. "He took me to go see Hannibal."
Margot goes still, and silent. "What?" It's shockingly loud, and Alana winces, sighing and setting her brush down. She rests her hands on the counter, shoulders tense as Margot huffs angrily, and turns and shuts the door behind her, sealing them in the bathroom. "What the fuck, Alana."
"I had to see," she says. "I had to see it to believe it."
Margot's laugh is short, high with scorn. "And what did you see?" she demands.
Alana looks to her wife, turning so that not even the mirror separates them. "A monster," she replies. Margot blinks, her arms folded tightly across her chest, and glares openly.
"Why did you go?" Margot hisses. "After everything he's done, everything he's tried to do." She pauses, and then asks, "Was Will there, with him?"
Alana shakes her head. "Will is dead," she replies. "Or presumed dead. That's why I hired the private eye. I have to be sure. If he's dead -." She reaches forward as Margot shakes her head, takes Margot's hands and holds them tight. "If he's dead, then he's dead, and that's the end of it. If he's not…. Margot, I owe it to us, to our family, to make sure."
"If he's not dead, he's made a damn good job of pretending," Margot replies. "Haven't you heard of letting sleeping dogs lie?"
"But if he isn't -."
"What do you think Hannibal will do, if he finds out?" she demands, tugging her hands back. "Damn it, Alana, can't you see he's already gotten into your head? He's got you digging around for him, finding out what happened to Will, and you're playing right along, and you can't even see it, can you?"
"There's another serial killer out there, Margot. One Jack says only Hannibal can catch, and I believe him. Hannibal won't help unless he speaks to Will – I owe it to the lives being lost, their families, to bring them justice and closure. Hannibal can catch the killer, but to do it, he wants Will."
Margot stares at her. "All this time," she whispers, "and you still just fall right back into it with them, don't you?"
"Not like you haven't done the same," Alana replies sharply. "You used them both, when it suited you. Why can't I?"
"It's not the same and you know it," Margot says. "Any influence Hannibal has on the world is dangerous, and if he can't use Will, he'll use whatever he must, including Jack. Including you. What happens if you find Will, huh? Will you go to him and say 'Hey, I know where Hannibal is', and think he'll just happily let you trap him as well? Or he might just be waiting, to find him, and break him out. You don't know."
"And I'll never know unless I find him," Alana finishes with a sharp nod. She sighs when Margot's jaw clenches, and she looks away. "If you want no part in it, I don't blame you."
"Your involvement means my involvement," Margot snaps. "Don't think I've forgotten what Hannibal promised you – what he promised all of us. If he gets out, we're the first on his list. I won't go into hiding again."
"Then we won't," Alana says. She holds her hands out in offering, and smiles. "Hannibal isn't what he used to be. Not physically, anyway. And Will, God knows what state he's in, but…" She breathes out heavily. "We've done what we had to, to ensure our family's survival. I'd do it again, in a heartbeat, if it came to that."
Margot's eyes widen, and meet hers. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I agree with you – Hannibal is dangerous, and Will is, too. The world would be better off without them." Margot presses her lips together. "But we can't get rid of them if we don't even know where one of them is."
Margot's eyes flash, and grow dark. She speaks slowly, soft with understanding. "Whether Will's alive or not," she murmurs, "you will tell Hannibal he's dead either way. And make it true."
"I learned the hard way not to make deals with the Devil," Alana agrees. "Or any of his friends. Believe me, I have no intention of letting Will ever see Hannibal again. If he's alive, he won't stay that way."
Margot stares at her, for a long time, and then she nods, her face pale and drawn, but decided. "Alright. I'm with you. How can I help?"
"You can start by making our guest at home, and I know Morgan let Freesia in without cleaning her paws. Have him take her and go play outside while I put my face on, and I'll join you in a moment."
Margot smiles, and leans in, to kiss Alana's cheek. "Alright. I'll see you in a second. I love you."
"I love you too," Alana replies, and smiles, squeezing Margot's hand and stealing one more kiss before they part. "I'll be out in a minute."
"It's creepy, how he just sits and stares at nothing."
Hannibal, inwardly, smiles.
"Crawford's coming back in an hour or so, right?"
His guards are remarkably chatty today. It's a pity they are under such strict orders not to engage with him. Hannibal sighs, closing his eyes, and rests his head back against the cold cement wall. The music is grating, and he is unable to achieve the serenity of sleep for now.
But Will has never needed serenity to appear to him.
"He's here now."
Hannibal opens his eyes as the door swings open, another claxon call heralding Jack's arrival. He stands, and in the shape of his silhouette, Will prowls and snarls at Jack as he approaches. Hannibal conditions his expression into one of haggard weariness. He forewent shaving and showering, so that he looks worse for wear than he feels, and sees no small glint of victory in Jack's eyes as he approaches with his normal tray of food.
Jack lets him eat, because he always does, and it would be impolite to break from routine. He stomachs the bland offering with weary gratefulness; the simple thanks of being fed, when they could rightfully starve him and receive no protest from the state. The bread is mealy and too dry, no butter to wet it. The water is tepid and tastes faintly of iron. The offering of meatloaf and mashed potatoes is bland and lifeless, almost all the same color, but he eats it without complaint.
"First rule as a prisoner of war," Will had told him, laughing around their shared meal; "Always eat what they give you."
They lower the volume of the music to allow conversation, but it is somehow more irritating when barely audible, as his ear tries to identify and recognize it despite wanting to tune it out. It is a persistent little earworm; one he would readily shake.
"No Doctor Bloom today?" he asks, when the meal is done, and the tray returned.
"She's busy," Jack replies.
"Ah." Hannibal smiles. "Yes. What is she up to, nowadays? Does she have her own practice? Or perhaps she has resigned herself to the life of a full-time mother while her wife runs the estate."
"I wouldn't know," Jack says. Liar. Falsehoods suit him like an ill-fitting cloak. Functional, but recognizable as out of place. "And you, Doctor Lecter? Are you resigned?"
"As much as any animal might be, when they are in a cage."
Jack is silent, and Hannibal lifts his head, stands, and comes to a stop in front of him. He thinks, if he looks closely, he can see Will's face just on the borders of his own, in the reflection of the glass. "But you did not come to be to speak of resignation." His head tilts. "You have that file, I presume?"
Jack's eyes are dark, his face heavy. "Three more bodies last night," he confirms. "Brings our boy's total up to thirty-five, now."
"My, my, he is a busy little bee, isn't he," Hannibal says.
"Will you look now?"
"Yes," Hannibal replies, smiling when Jack looks visibly relieved. "However, you will turn off that awful music you have playing, and allow me to rest before I view the file. I must have my full wits about me, you understand."
Jack huffs.
"And," Hannibal adds, "you will ask Doctor Bloom to accompany you, when you visit me next. I will not fault you if she refuses, but three minds are better than two, wouldn't you agree?"
Jack's eyes narrow, dark with suspicion, but Hannibal knows he is a desperate man, and even men who are not desperate will be more inclined to perform favors that do not specifically affect them. "I'll ask her," he promises, and Hannibal smiles, and nods. "I'll see you tomorrow, Doctor Lecter."
Jack nods, and turns to go, and as the music fades away, it is replaced with the sweet sound of Will's cutting, cruel laughter. He used to laugh like that when they would hunt, their prey cornered and beginning to bleat in fear. It was – it is – one of Hannibal's favorite sounds, and he is grateful to hear it again.
"Until then, Agent Crawford," Hannibal replies cheerily, to Jack's retreating back. "Have a good night."
Chapter Text
Soft fingers curl around the nape of his neck, gently squeezing, hair caught between knuckles and lightly twisted. Hannibal sighs, eyes closed, resting with his nose to Will's temple – scarred, just like his own, a little raised knot of skin that never quite healed right after the fall. He holds Will pressed close to him, both of them swaying in silence, as Hannibal is so glad to be rid of the incessant caterwauling Jack made him bear, he is in no mood to conjure new music.
Besides, Will is a symphony all on his own. His steady breaths are deep, slow and swelling things that match the staccato of his heart perfectly. The rush of his pulse, the gentle creaks and shifts of fabric as they dance, it is all something Hannibal can easily lose himself in. He tucks his nose into Will's hair as Will sighs, and kisses warmly over his jaw.
"You need a haircut," he murmurs, and Hannibal can tell he's smiling, though he makes no effort to pull back and confirm it. In answer, his hand slides from the natural resting place of Will's hip, farther back to find home in the slope of his spine, the inward curl as he presses closer, finds the little divots above his tailbone he has spent countless nights admiring, countless hours drawing, countless moments thinking about.
He smiles. "You had me keep my hair long, in England," he replies. Will's own curls are, satisfying an indulgence of his own, longer than when Hannibal left him. When they were separated, Will was just recovering from a buzzcut – a crime against nature, for sure, though it could do nothing to damage his beauty. They had to switch up hair styles and colors, and Hannibal had obeyed as much as his own sensibilities could tolerate. At Will's whim, they moved, and changed their faces, changed their names.
Will hums, in answer, and draws a lazy circle at the base of Hannibal's skull with his thumb. He rests his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder, just as he did when they met their first cliff after the dragon, and countless times after that. Will's body, Hannibal has thought it countless times, always seemed perfectly suited to slot against his.
Even now, they are pressed so close, knees between knees. Hannibal's outer toe nudges the arch of Will's foot to the side as Will's free hand slides from Hannibal's, up his arm, resting on his other shoulder. He nudges his nose to Hannibal's collarbone as he completes the step, finds his footing again, and they finish their spin with Will's thigh trapped between Hannibal's, and Will's breath warm on his neck.
"It had a certain aesthetic charm," he concedes after a while. The fire warms Hannibal's back as they turn again, chairs and tables easily pushed out of the way, or never imagined to begin with, to give them room. They dance close to the hearth and then away, easy as anything. "Wildness suits you as much as manicures, but in different ways."
Hannibal smiles. His other hand, now freed, settles lightly under Will's arm, cupping his shoulder blade. He turns his head and kisses what he can reach; hair, mostly, and a slip of forehead. His scent is still as sharp and clear in Hannibal's mind palace as it ever has been; easily conjured, and with it, a soft note of music swells in the air, a single breath like a huge sigh of relief.
Will sighs, soft and relaxed, no tension or bared teeth. He is so beautiful like this, for how difficult it is to get him here. Hannibal cannot remember the last time Will looked so calm; their years on the run had brought a white-eyed wildness to him, constantly looking over their shoulders, always some edge of franticness like he knew too well, at any moment, they could be discovered. It made him prickly, at times, but only served to highlight how passionate he is; how dedicated and loyal and savage.
Will lifts his head, after another moment, holding Hannibal still by the nape of his neck as he might grip one of his dogs – gently, relying on instinct and trust to keep Hannibal where he wants him. Will's forehead, his nose, his lips all follow the same path; across Hannibal's collarbone, nuzzling his shoulder, the edge of his shirt, the small patch of his neck that is bare above it. The hinge of his jaw, and then inward, grazing stubble. Finally, they align; foreheads and noses and mouths, and Will kisses him, sharp and lingering like a burn.
"I miss you," he says, and his voice echoes Hannibal's own internal ache. What he would give, to see Will again, to be able to touch him as more than a manifestation of his – admittedly, convincing – psyche. Try as he might, Will's unpredictability remains a mystery to him, a characteristic that is impossible to mimic. Will's inhale is shaky, and he buries it in Hannibal's neck. "I miss you so much I feel like I'm losing my Goddamn mind."
Hannibal can only cling to him, both hands running up Will's back as Will trembles, clutching back just as tightly. Hannibal closes his eyes against the dawn of his own awareness – no, no, let him linger here a while. Will sags, a puppet with his strings cut, and Hannibal cups Will's neck, lifts his head and kisses him as passionately as he can.
"I will do whatever it takes to touch you again," he vows. It's useless – Will isn't actually here, after all. If only he could send some kind of sign, some clue to Will to let him know where Hannibal is, or how to get to him.
Will smiles at him, though his eyes are dark with sorrow. "I know," he replies. "And I'll…. I'll think of something. I swear. It's been too long."
That it has. Far, far too long. Hannibal has never thought himself as an impatient man, but Will has a way of conjuring feelings and emotions in him that he cannot push aside; he hungers, raw and ravenous, for his beloved.
Hannibal kisses him, and the dawn breaks with the taste of Will in his mouth.
Alana emerges dressed in a pantsuit, something severe and sharp, her heels clicking on the marble floors as she leaves her bedroom and goes to the main living room where they typically greet guests. Margot is already inside, laughing about something the private eye has said, a tray of tea and finger food spread out in front of her. She looks up as Alana enters, and smiles, and Alana goes to her, squeezing her hand and taking a seat.
The woman sitting across from them is young, in her early twenties if Alana were to guess, fresh-faced and wide-eyed at the opulence that surrounds her. She has light brown hair cut into a bob, her eyes a bright blue, her features fine and delicate like that of a statue of a nymph. She's wearing clothes that, while cheap, are form-fitting; brown blazer and slacks and a pale champagne-colored blouse. Sensible shoes, a masculine watch sitting heavy on her wrist. There's a brown leather messenger bag sitting at her side, and she's fidgeting with the strap of it, nails digging into the thicker piece that sits across her shoulder.
"Alana," Margot says, patting her hand, "this is Clarice Starling."
"You took over for Harrison, then?" Alana says with a nod of greeting.
Clarice nods, and straightens. "He retired two years ago," she says. "He handed over the company to me, yes."
"You must be very capable," Alana notes, allowing surprise to color her voice.
Clarice neither nods in agreement nor tries to brush it off. She meets Alana's eyes, and for a very brief, but startling moment, she reminds Alana of Will. Or how Will might have been, she thinks, when he was her age. There's a hunting-dog intelligence there, some determined thing that begs for a target and relishes the thought of hunting that target down.
Then, Clarice blinks, and Alana shivers, brushing the thought away. "Have you read the files I gave you?" she asks.
Clarice nods. "And I brushed up on Lecter and Graham's history before accepting the job," she says. "It's rare that someone can be completely off the map for as long as Graham has. But everyone leaves a pattern, even when they're trying not to."
She reaches into her bag, and pulls out a notebook, opening it to halfway and setting it in her lap. The page she has opened to is already half full of scrawling notes, and Alana eyes it curiously. "As I understand it, you want me to focus on finding Will Graham only, is that right?"
"Yes," Alana replies with a nod. "We already know where Hannibal is, of course."
Clarice smiles. "Right, of course," she says lightly. She pauses, and sighs through her nose. "I think it would be a lot of help if I could get an interview with Lecter, but I imagine that's not in the cards."
"No," Alana says. "Even if I had the authority to make that happen, I wouldn't put anyone within a hundred feet of him."
Clarice gives an understanding nod. "Who would have the authority?" she asks, head tilted.
"Agent Jack Crawford is the one who's taking care of him," Margot supplies, and looks to Alana for confirmation. Internally, Alana winces, but nods as well. She would have preferred to keep that information a secret.
"Do you have his contact information?" Clarice asks. "I understand he probably won't let me see him either, but even arranging a phone call could be a big help."
"Why?" Alana murmurs, frowning.
"People tend to give away things without realizing they're doing it," Clarice says with another charming smile, the same kind that makes Alana think of the Mona Lisa – secretive, knowing, hiding something. She fights down another flicker of unease. "Even if he says 'No', too, I'd appreciate if you could give me a way to contact him."
"I'll give you that, but I want to warn you against trying to speak with Hannibal Lecter," Alana says. "He's smart, and he's cunning, and he'll find a way to get inside your head if you let him."
Clarice hums, and looks down at her notepad. She jots down another note but her handwriting is too small, the distance too great, for Alana to read it. "Thanks for the 'Heads up'," she says kindly. "I'll get started right away and keep you updated with anything I find."
"Good luck, Miss Starling," Alana says, and stands. "I'll get you Jack's card. One moment."
Once she leaves, Alana calls Morgan back inside, smiling when Freesia comes barreling in with a chorus of huffs, her tail wagging wildly. Morgan follows more slowly, and gives her a hug, pulling back when she pets through his hair.
"What's this?" she asks, when he thrusts a piece of paper into her hand.
"A man was hanging out by the stables," Morgan tells her. He crouches down, petting Freesia's head. Alana frowns. "He said his name was Agent Crawford, and I recognized the name. He asked me to give this to you and apologize that he couldn't come inside. He got a call and had to leave."
Alana's frown deepens. It's a single folded piece of paper, not at all what she would have expected Jack to send her – much less to be skulking around the stables and speak to her son. She's made it no secret she wants to keep Jack separate from their lives – that's why she met Jack at Hannibal's location instead of allowing him to come here – but Jack is not the kind of person to adhere to that unspoken agreement if he really needed to talk to her.
And she knows Jack's handwriting. This is not it.
With shaking hands, she opens the letter;
Alana,
It's been a long time. I trust this letter finds you well – forgive me for not making an appearance in person, but I think we can both agree that my reception would have been less than friendly.
I'm disappointed. The last time you outsourced your revenge it didn't work out well for most of the people involved. If you want something done right, you should do it yourself. I do hope your new friend knows what she's doing.
Give my regards to Margot and Morgan. I like that kid – he seems like a good one. You've done a good job raising him. The family resemblance is uncanny. Let's hope the similarities to his father stops there – someday your good nature might be the only thing he has to remember you by.
She reads it. And again, and again, her spine going cold and her breath catching, pure terror freezing her to the core. "Morgan," she rasps, "what did the man who gave this to you look like?"
Morgan shrugs, still petting his dog. "He was kinda tall. Scruffy-looking. His face was all cut up."
Oh God. Oh God.
"Go get your mother," she demands, sharp and harsh. He blinks up at her, but obeys, running inside. It takes all of Alana's willpower not to simply fall to her knees on the stone porch, but her hands are trembling and she's close to hyperventilating by the time Margot rushes outside.
"What's happening?" she asks, gripping Alana's shoulders. Wordlessly, Alana hands it over. While Margot is still reading it, she sets her sights on the stables, and sucks in a breath, marching towards them. "Alana!" Margot yells, and catches up to her swiftly.
Of course, the barn is empty except for the horses. She doesn't know why she expected him to still be here, waiting for her like a Bond villain ready to give his long-winded monologue. The absence of another person is more unsettling, she thinks, than if she were to walk into a room full of armed guards.
She wonders if someone like Hannibal would be able to smell him, lingering in the air.
"He was here," she hisses, glaring at the other end of the barn. The door is pushed open to allow in sunlight and airflow. Probably how he came in and got out. "He walked right up to our front fucking door."
"Do you think it was Will?" Margot whispers.
Alana nods. "Morgan told me. He used Jack's name, but the description…"
"Why didn't Freesia attack him?" Margot demands.
"Will's good with dogs," Alana says, cursing herself. Of course he is. He probably brought her a treat, just like anyone would do when trying to earn the favor of the guard dog. "Who was watching the side entrance?" she asks. "I want them fired."
Margot nods, her arms wrapped around her chest tightly. She has the air of a monarch who has just seen the gleam of the guillotine, ready to drop. "Why would he come here?" she asks, and Alana knows she's merely wondering aloud, but isn't that just the question of the day. Why here? Why now?
"I don't know," she answers anyway. "It's not…." It's not like Will to want to play with his food. That's always been Hannibal's game, but there have been years and immeasurable instances between the last time Alana saw Will, and now. Who knows how much a person can change when in the presence of such a monster.
A rustle of paper draws her attention again, and she turns to see Margot unfolding the letter and reading it over again. "There's something…almost polite about this," she notes slowly. "Genuine."
Alana frowns.
"If he wanted to scare us, I feel like he would have threatened us directly."
"Reread the last line," Alana hisses. "I take that as a threat."
Margot's lips purse. "There are three options," she says, folding the paper and meeting Alana's eyes. "We hole up and try and wait it out, we run away again, or we come out swinging." She lifts the paper. "Which do you think he thinks we'll do?"
"I have a history of aversion," Alana murmurs. "I fought, and almost died. I ran away, and now we're here. Now I'm holing up and trying to get others to do my dirty work. Again." She sighs and runs both hands through her hair, shakes her head sharply. "All roads lead to Rome."
Margot hums. "We can call Clarice and tell her Will was here," she suggests. "The scent is fresh. And we can alert Jack."
Alana nods. "I want double the guards at every entrance, test all the surveillance – let's see what he looks like these days, if he's in any kind of disguise. Then we'll forward it all to Jack and Clarice." She nods again, more determined now. "I'm not risking any of us for the sake of this bullshit. If Will wants to play, I'm not going to let him play with me."
Margot smiles, and takes her hand, and they hurry back to the house to check the guard roster and the video feeds. Behind them, with heavy footfalls, a horned monster follows in Alana's mind, and she tries not to think too hard on the idea that, despite what she might insist, she's already halfway through the game, and the only way out is to win.
She doesn't say that. Chokes and suffocates the thought. But it follows her anyway, with glowing eyes and sharp-tipped horns, and continues to breathe.
"Agent Crawford, thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice."
"You're welcome," Jack says gruffly, gesturing for Clarice to have a seat. "Starling, was it?"
"Yes, sir," she says, and takes her seat. "As I said on the phone, I wanted to see if you were amenable to arranging an interview for me. I want to talk to Hannibal Lecter."
"Out of the question," Jack replies. "No one is allowed in that place without proper clearance and screenings."
"Of course," Clarice murmurs, deflated, but perks up soon after. "Then maybe a phone call? Monitored, of course, and if you sense anything out of place we can end the call immediately." She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, earnest. She reminds Jack of someone else, from a long time ago. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "Doctor Bloom hired me to find Will Graham, and Lecter is the one who knew him best. I'm just trying to cover all my bases."
"And I understand that, Miss Starling, but the fact of the matter is that Hannibal Lecter is dangerous. Even declawed and kept underground, he has a way of getting in people's heads, a way of manipulating them even beyond what they think he's doing." His expression is stern, voice hard with warning; "You'll need to undergo a psychiatric evaluation, before and after, before I can even think about consenting to this."
She nods.
"We'll schedule it for tomorrow," Jack adds. "You'll need to be here at nine a.m. sharp for the eval."
"Whatever you need," Clarice says with another nod.
"I want to warn you, Miss Starling, Hannibal Lecter is going to be interested in you just because I let you talk to him. He's going to try and figure you out, and poke at your weaknesses. He's going to try to get in your head."
"Don't worry, Agent Crawford," Clarice murmurs. "He's not the one I'm here for."
Jack huffs. "I'm going to ask you to submit to a background check and fingerprinting as well. All procedure, you understand. Report to Agent Langford downstairs and he'll get you squared away."
"Thank you, Agent Crawford," Clarice says, standing with a wide smile. She shakes his hand and shoulders her bag. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Jack nods, and watches her leave. She didn't even look at the board of murders on the wall – in and out, quick and efficient. Focused, and determined. If anyone could find Will Graham, it would be someone like her.
Notes:
A few more notes:
1 - This is not going to become a Hannibal/Clarice story.
2 - I know I said there would be flashbacks but there will be fewer than I originally planned, so you don't have to worry about that at least lol.
3 - Buckle up because this is when shit's gonna start getting wild.
Chapter Text
Hannibal would be a fool not to know who, exactly, his beloved would want to go after first. Will's jealousy is a rabid and determined thing, his vengeance as relentless and focused as his killer instinct. Perhaps she is tired of running, or simply tired, but regardless, it is not difficult to find her. Hannibal goes in first, provides distraction. Will demanded to be the one to put his hand around her throat, to hold her still and administer the sedative. It didn't knock her out – he wanted her conscious. He watched her face as Hannibal took her leg, saying nothing, their eyes locked as she breathed through the oxygen mask that would keep her lungs from collapsing in on themselves from the force of the paralytic.
When it was done, and Hannibal bound her leg with the same expertise and care with which he had taken apart and preserved Gideon, Will had cupped her cheeks, kissed her hair, and said, "I guess you weren't the last, after all." Hannibal didn't know what he was referring to, then, and he resolved never to ask. It was a private moment between them, and one he felt no need to insert himself into.
They roasted her leg together, spare touches and lingering glances shared amidst the steaming clouds of meat, the scents of onions and garlic and rosemary. There was never a part of them not touching at some point – hands on shoulders, hips, backs as they passed each other. Fingers lingering on wrists, elbows, necks. Cheeks brushing cheeks, lips to lips, nuzzling each other like wolves. An intimate dance, as close-pressed as any waltz. Will always did have a unique rhythm in a room.
They dined with Bedelia, though she was still mostly out of it from the sedative, and proved to be a rather bland conversationalist. It didn't matter. Nor did it matter that, when Will was clearing her space, she took the long carving fork and lashed out with it, clumsily falling to her hands and remaining knee on the floor as Will effortlessly evaded her.
Hannibal moved, not to help, for Will needed no help, but to get a better view as Will kicked the fork from her hand and placed his foot between her shoulders, keeping her pinned down. He killed her slowly, both hands around her neck, his eyes on Hannibal as he watched, rapt, breathless. It did not hold the feral pack hunting energy of slaying the dragon, nor was it the careful, methodical slaughter of a pig that had struck their fancy between the fall and now. It was slow, intimate, sensual as she kicked and writhed beneath Will, trying to scream, trying to fight for air.
It was finished with a single twist, her neck snapped, body going limp. Will rose from her with an air of deep satisfaction, and took up the fork, setting it on her plate, and carried it to the kitchen. Like being led on a leash, Hannibal followed.
For all of Jack Crawford's faults, let it never be said that he is tardy, or one to break from routine. Hannibal is awake, and sits up from where he was lying, on his bed and staring at the ceiling. Jack always visits him between the hours of seven and eight in the evening, to give him food and, until recently, to beg for his help with his latest serial killer.
Tonight Hannibal owes him some assistance. Aggravating though it is, he must admire Jack's willingness to resort to less-accepted interrogation and information extraction techniques. The Jack Crawford of the past, before Hannibal's first arrest, would have wanted to rely on reason and manipulation, which goes against his nature. He is a bull, and bulls can be delicate, but it is not what they are known for.
Jack's expression, however, makes him pause. It is not the quietly vindicated, smug look of a man who won a small battle. Rather, he appears as though he has just been told he lost the war. His demeanor is black and thunderous, a scowl heavy on his face, and Hannibal's head tilts. In the reflection of the glass, Will mimics him, though Jack cannot see.
"You have the look of a man bearing terrible news," he says lightly. He cradles his hands behind his back and rocks on his heels. "No Doctor Bloom?"
"She was indisposed," Jack says tightly.
"A pity," Hannibal murmurs with a gracious nod. "But I did promise that my assistance did not hinge on her presence." He holds his hand out, gesturing towards the tray through which his food and documents can be passed. Jack doesn't move. Hannibal eyes him curiously, and Will begins to pace in the back of his mind. "Is something the matter, Jack?"
It is very clear that something is the matter – whether Jack tells him or not, well, that remains to be seen. After a moment, Jack's expression does not clear, but he moves to the tray and slides his folders in on his side, then secures his end of the box. Hannibal opens his side with a smile, and takes them out.
There is better lighting by his bed, and so he takes the folders over, and crouches down on the floor, knees tucked beneath the rungs of the bedframe, and opens the first folder, spreading out the pictures and autopsy reports. Jack has organized them by crime scene, so some have only one victim, some have up to four. There are so many, and he lets out a soft sigh of surprised appreciation.
"What a busy little bee," he murmurs, mostly to himself. Will's shadow leaps to the end of the bed and perches upon it, sitting like a hunched beast, helping him peer. "There are no obvious signs of escalation," Hannibal notes. "The violence and brutality of these murders are all similar. So, too, the number of victims is changing in a such a way that hints towards opportunity rather than planning."
"It's too clean for him not to have chosen them in advance," Jack tells him. He's standing by the cement wall where Hannibal's bed is, on the other side of the glass, turned so he can rest both shoulders against it. He folds his arms across his chest and blusters out a breath.
Will makes a noise, and drags his fingers along the page closest to him. His eyes are half-lidded, but bright. He always did take particular pleasure in the destruction of blondes.
"Have you been able to find any connection between them?" Hannibal asks.
Jack shakes his head. "Not even a zip code," he mutters darkly. He breathes in. "What did you two do, all those years?"
Hannibal blinks in surprise, and looks up. Will turns on his heels so he can peer, head cocked and crouching cat-like, at Jack as well.
Jack is glaring at the opposite wall. "What would people like you even do with each other for so much time?"
Hannibal laughs. "You were married, Jack," he says brightly. "Did you not take Bella to plays, to dinners, to the sunny shores of whatever country you were stationed in? Did you not go with her to her favorite landmarks, or drive with no direction, and make love every night you shared a bed?"
"We didn't kill and eat people," Jack growls.
"Yes, well." Hannibal shrugs. "Nobody's perfect."
Jack glares at him, his frown deepening. "So you were together," he says. "Like that."
Will laughs, and stands as Hannibal does. "Like any man might be with the love of his life," he replies with a nod. Jack's expression darkens. Hannibal doesn't think he believes for a second that they were capable of that kind of love. Perhaps, in other lives, they never would have been.
He steps closer to the glass. "Did you feel it, Jack? The moment Bella left the world? Did you feel it in your chest – a gaping chasm that hungered, and gnawed for her, but could not find her?"
"Careful, Lecter," Jack growls.
Hannibal bows his head. "Forgive me. But that's how I know Will is not dead. If he was, well…" Beside him, Will steps close to the glass as well, and rests both hands upon it. He will leave no mark in real life, but in Hannibal's mind the glass smears with his fingerprints, an off-clear drag of his nails.
Jack shifts his weight and lets out a discomfited sound.
"He knows," Will whispers, as he so often has. His beloved always had a faint hint of paranoia to him. They know, he would whisper, they're looking too closely. Hannibal is more honed to the senses of a crocodile, not a wolf – he benefits by staying hidden and lying low, making himself at home until it is time to strike. The wolf howls, and hunts in the open, surrounded by his friends. Will always knew when there were eyes on them.
Hannibal presses his lips together, and turns away, going back to peruse the files. Will does not follow – he remains in stasis, staring at Jack, dragging his nails down the glass like he might be able to cut his way through them. The sound is grating, and Hannibal grits his teeth as he sits, and pulls the most recently timestamped file into his lap.
It is a sounder of three, two men and a woman. All of them in their thirties, brown hair, brown eyes, Caucasian. Siblings, from their shared last name, if he were to guess – or perhaps two siblings and a marriage. The cause of death was exsanguination, their throats cut and their mouths split apart so wide that they were left with permanent smiles. They were left kneeling, facing each other, wire binding their hands together around the shared pile of their internal organs. The two men had been cut from the front, the woman behind, so that nothing marred her stomach. Her spine is exposed in one of the photographs, and one of the men's hands is touching it, wrapped around it to keep her upright. The second man is holding the first, one hand on his cheek, the other resting on his shoulder. The woman's hands are touching them both, on their torn-open chests, forming a bridge between the voids where their hearts should have been.
His head tilts. "There's a dichotomous nature to this kill," he murmurs, and closes the file, reaching for another. This one was a single man. Every single bone had been removed from his body and arranged like a piano, his femurs forming drumsticks that he could use to play them like a xylophone. He's smiling, too, the corners of his mouth stitched up high into his cheeks to expose all of his teeth, his eyes closed, lost to the music he's making. He had been kept upright with rope around his hips, his thighs, and his neck, attaching him to a single fencepost buried deep in the ground. "Are all of them so publicly displayed?"
"Yes," Jack says.
"So our friend doesn't fear getting caught," Hannibal says. "Either he's familiar with his surroundings, or he simply doesn't care."
Jack huffs, and rubs a hand over his face. His eyes linger on the part of the glass Will is touching, though Hannibal knows he doesn't see anything there. He smiles to himself, and looks to another folder. This kill was two women, one of them much older than the other. The younger woman was left on her belly, reaching frantically for the older one, clinging to her by her heel as the older one was left in a running pose, trying to get away. Hannibal's head tilts again – this one is almost gentle in comparison to the rest. The older woman was scalped, down to her brain, the top of her skull sawed open and removed. The younger one is wearing her hair, blood caked down her shoulders and arms.
"What about them is dichotomous?" Jack asks after a moment.
"…Well." Hannibal sighs, and shrugs. "There's unrepentant violence is most of them, but it feels…performative, almost. Instructional." He frowns, and eyes the pictures of the two women again. "There's some story being played out here, amidst all the murders. He's trying to tell us about his life, but there are elements that feel fabricated."
"What do you mean?"
"He's telling us a story," Hannibal says. "But it's not his story. Not all of it."
Jack moves, and Hannibal looks up at him, to find him looking very troubled. "So he has a friend, do you think?" he asks. "Someone helping him? It would make sense – his body count is unusually high, even for a spree killer. He can't be so many places at once."
"It's not impossible," Hannibal concedes. "But usually killers with such a specific flair don't play well with others."
Jack huffs. "You would know."
"Just as I would also know there are exceptions to the rule."
Jack hums, and looks away.
"I'm intrigued by the lack of eroticism in these kills," Hannibal continues, and looks down at the picture of the single man playing his music again. "It's rare to see such passion without it turning inherently sexual, acting out some kind of compulsion that he's not allowed to in his waking life. If our friend does have a playmate, they are uniquely and powerfully bonded, but they're not in a relationship."
"Are you sure?"
"If these victims were being a surrogate, then they would be more similar in some way. You'd be able to find a connection."
Jack gives no verbal answer to that, merely glares at the end of Hannibal's bed. Again, Hannibal's curiosity strikes him, and he says; "You seem to be in such a terrible mood, Jack. Is there something you'd like to talk about?"
Jack eyes him. "He knows," Will says again, insistently. "He knows something."
"You're getting a phone call tomorrow," Jack tells Hannibal, and Hannibal's head tilts. "At lunch time. I'll have your guards deliver your meal and the phone. You're to remain professional and not try any funny business."
"May I ask who you have allowed such a unique pleasure?" Hannibal asks, putting the photos back in the folders, sensing his time to look at them is coming to an end. "A reporter, perhaps? A psychology student?"
"It's a secret," Jack says, smirking as Hannibal sighs, and rises to put the folders back in the exchange box. He seals his side, and Jack takes them from his own. "If you want to continue to remain comfortable here, you'll be on your best behavior. I'll be monitoring the call from the other side as well."
"I'd expect no less," Hannibal murmurs, terribly intrigued. "Until tomorrow, then, Agent Crawford."
Jack nods, and leaves. Will snarls in his cage, pacing back and forth like a tiger awaiting mealtime, dragging his nails along the glass. Hannibal winces. "Would you mind, darling?" he murmurs. Will goes still, and looks to him, but lets his hand drop.
"Something's different," he says quietly, pacing over to Hannibal's bed. He perches above the pillow, resting on the back metal rung, feet on either side of it. Hannibal sighs, and lies down, closing his eyes as Will reaches between his feet to pet through his hair. "I wonder who Jack is talking about."
"There is certainly some part of this puzzle I am not aware of," Hannibal concedes. "And here I thought the week was due to be another boring stretch of time." He sighs, and Will laughs above him, nails scratching along his scalp pleasantly. "Perhaps it has something to do with you."
"You think so?"
"I can't think of any other reason for Jack to allow an outside presence to speak with me."
Will hums. "You must be careful," he warns.
Hannibal sighs, and pets over Will's foot. "Come join me in the study," he murmurs, and Will nods, his weight and his warmth leaving in preparation to greet Hannibal in their shared mind space. As awareness leaves him, and he slips into sleep, he is encased in the warm glow of firelight, and Will is there, beautiful and happy as ever, and greets him with a kiss.
"Tell me, darling," Hannibal murmurs, meeting Will's eyes over their wine. Bedelia has been dead for two days, now, relieved of the rest of her mortal flesh, filling their bellies with warm meat. "Is there anyone else to whom you feel a sense of justice ought to be carried out?"
Will's eyes flash, and he presses his lips together. Wine has stained them, making them a ruddy pink. He looks away for a moment, head cocked just so, mimicking Hannibal now as he so often does after a kill. For a moment, Hannibal knows Will is considering lying to him. He sees the exact moment that Will discards the idea.
"I'd like to find my mother," he says quietly. "I promised myself I would, one day, even if all I found was her grave."
Hannibal smiles. "An easy enough task," he replies. Will's eyes meet his, dark, prowling with monsters. "I inferred from our previous conversations that you had no desire to meet her."
"I don't, not really," Will says with a shrug. "She probably got married again. Had more kids. Maybe abandoned them too. I don't wish to form any connection with her…. I just think it would be nice to know, for certain."
"I will help you, if you want my help," Hannibal offers.
Will nods, and smiles at him, pleased to find that, as always, Hannibal is more than eager to do whatever it is his beloved asks of him. It is such a small price to pay, to see Will smile like that. "I think she's somewhere by the sea," he says.
"Oh?"
"How else would she have met my father? Shared hometown doesn't fit, otherwise someone else would have mentioned her when I was a kid. So they met somewhere – on the docks, probably, in some port before I was born."
"Do you know her maiden name?" Hannibal asks. "She likely took it back, after leaving your father."
Will hums. "No," he replies. "But I'm sure that's easy to find. Marriage licenses and birth certificates aren't as closely-guarded as you might think."
Hannibal laughs. "You would know." Will grins.
Lunch is brought along with a phone, as Jack promised. His guards remain in the room with him as Hannibal eats, and when he replaces his empty tray, his stomach heavy from the starchy offering of a plain over-breaded ham sandwich and a glass of water, one of the guards takes it, while the other taps out a message on her phone. A moment later, the phone in Hannibal's tray begins to ring.
He takes it, and settles on his bed, his back to the wall. "Good afternoon," he greets lightly.
"Put the phone on speaker." It's Jack's voice, and Hannibal huffs, but obeys, setting the phone down. "Doctor Lecter, you're speaking with me, and Miss Clarice Starling."
Beside him, Will perks up. A woman. Interesting.
"Good afternoon, Miss Starling," Hannibal greets. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"And yours, Doctor Lecter," Clarice replies. She sounds younger than Hannibal expected as well. Will rests his cheek on Hannibal's shoulder, sighing softly, absently taking one of Hannibal's hands and curling their fingers together. "I'm not sure how much Agent Crawford told you, but I appreciate you agreeing to speak with me."
Not exactly the situation, but Hannibal won't argue. He smiles. "The pleasure is all mine," he replies. "How can I be of assistance?"
"I wanted to talk to you about Will Graham."
Hannibal blinks, and huffs a laugh. "A vast subject, I'm sure Jack will agree," he says lightly. "How much time do you have?"
She laughs. "As much time as I need," she replies, and Hannibal smiles down at the phone.
"Perhaps I can help with narrowing it down. Would you like to know about his medical history? His psychology? His pathological need to adopt stray dogs?"
Will huffs, and nips at his shoulder. "Don't be an asshole," he says playfully.
"I'm more interested in the fact that he's been missing, presumed dead, for all the years you've been incarcerated. He must be very good at hiding. Did you teach him that?"
Hannibal's head tilts. He knows Jack is listening, but these questions do not feel like the kinds of questions Jack would want to know the answers to. "We were equally suited to covering our tracks, I suppose," he replies slowly. "Though I would argue Will has more practical knowledge of hiding from the law when it comes to being actively hunted."
She hums.
"Forgive me, Miss Starling, but I'm confused – I could not tell you Will's whereabouts. As you said, I've been imprisoned for many years. Any clues or ideas I might have would be as useless as old texts that depict the whereabouts of Atlantis. It is simply old information. Not useful." He pauses. "Were you asked to find him?"
"It's a professional curiosity."
Hannibal laughs. "Oh," he says. Of course. "Doctor Bloom hired you, didn't she?"
"Hannibal," Jack warns.
"I'm afraid I'm not used to speaking on the phone anymore, after so many years," Hannibal continues. "And it's difficult for me to speak into a phone – it strains the vocal cords. I wonder, Miss Starling, if we would benefit from a face-to-face interaction. I would very much like to meet someone in whom Jack and Alana have placed so much faith."
Clarice huffs a laugh, the sound low, almost familiar. Hannibal could swear he has heard it before. "I'm sorry, Doctor Lecter, but I don't find you that interesting."
Hannibal pauses, and tilts his head. Remembers a similar conversation, with pre-dawn glow painting Will in soft colors, a shared meal, their first, one of many, Will sleep-mussed and on the edge of sickness, a birddog without direction, an animal chained too tightly to breathe.
"You will," Hannibal promises, just as he promised before.
"That's enough," Jack says, breaking the spell. "If you're not going to be of any use then I'm ending the call right now."
"Do you like the sea, Miss Starling?" Hannibal asks. "The ocean?"
"I grew up on it," Clarice replies. "I like how vast and open it is. Full of potential."
"We're done here," Jack snaps. "Hand the phone back, Hannibal."
The call ends before Hannibal can reply, a double set of beeps letting him know Jack hung up. He considers the phone – it's a plain phone, one of the ones that sit on kitchen counters and can be picked up and taken about the house, with a tiny green screen to let him know the number that is calling. He looks to his guard, finds her watching him intently, her fingers flexing on the handle of her semiautomatic weapon. If we were to refuse and try to keep the phone, he's sure she would not hesitate in shooting him.
He sighs, and stands, sliding the phone back into the box, and waits until she takes it with a nod, and leaves. How interesting – so, Doctor Bloom hired someone to try and track Will down for her. And Jack met her, and allowed her a phone call. Which means he must believe there is some merit to Alana's quest.
He thinks back to Jack's demeanor the day before, how dark and aggressive he had been. How cagey and upset. Something must have happened, something drastic, more than what his latest serial killer has done. He cannot help feeling that it is all somehow connected, but is at a loss as to how.
For the first time in a while, the true impotent outrage at his situation rises up in him. If he were free, or able to speak to someone, he would be able to find more information, to connect the dots together. As he is, he only has what Jack chooses to tell him, and his own intuition. Within his mind, Will, as helpful as he can be.
"Do you think she likes dogs?" Will asks him from where he remains, lounging on Hannibal's cot. "I think she likes dogs."
Hannibal turns to him, frowning in his direction. "Is that relevant?"
Will laughs. "Do you even have to ask? Mutual interests are always relevant."
Hannibal's frown deepens. "She likes the ocean," he murmurs. Will smiles at him, sprawling out along the cot, one heel thrown up on the bottom rung, his arms above his head. He makes a delicious offering in Hannibal's mind, and Hannibal approaches him. "Could be coincidence."
"The universe is rarely ever so lazy," Will murmurs, blinking up at him with low-lidded eyes, his smile wide, off-kilter, showing his teeth.
Hannibal swallows, and thinks back to the crime scene photos. A pair of people, intimately joined, but not as lovers. A woman grasping for the heel of a mother figure. Siblings, bound together, the woman forming a bridge between the two men.
"Did you find your mother, Will?" Hannibal breathes.
Will grins up at him, and taps the side of his nose, and gives him a mischievous wink.
Clarice leaves after her post-interview psych eval. She gets into a car that is leased under a name that is not her own, and drives to a motel on the South side of D.C.. She makes sure she wasn't followed, and goes into her room on the ground floor, around the back.
Inside the room is a man. His hair is long enough to be braided, and the fringe at the front thick enough to hide his scarred forehead, his face clean-shaven, his body beaten and starved to a slenderness that he didn't have during his time in Europe. Clarice smiles at his reflection, and shrugs off her bag.
He breathes out. "How did he sound?"
"Just like you described," she replies, and sits. "I told him what you told me to say."
He nods.
"It was stupid, taunting the Vergers like that. They could have caught you."
His hands flex, and he looks down at them, at the remaining smear of blood embedded in his fingernails. "They didn't," he says. He's always been a little on the abrasive side of collected, like he's doing a constant performance piece, moving inside someone else's skin suit. He turns, and meets her eyes. They both have their mother's eyes. "Did you get the bug planted?"
"Easy as pie," Clarice says. She sighs. "He really seems to miss you, Will."
Will swallows. He never shows pain. She's seen him reset broken fingers and joints, stitch up his own scars, muscle his way through fights with people twice his size, even more with his enforced fasting, and he has never even made a sound of discomfort. But talking about Hannibal makes him look like a wounded man, stabbed straight through the heart. What must it be like, she wonders, to be so in love?
"We'll get him out soon," Will says, recovering quickly. He stands, and goes to her, and pulls her into a tight hug. "I put another recording device on the dog's collar – whatever they say when she's around, we'll know. We just have to be patient."
Patience. He doesn't strike her as a patient man, but perhaps this person he's wearing is more capable of it than he is. She hugs him back, smiling against his neck, and he pulls away from her after a moment, running his hands through his messy hair.
"You need a haircut," she tells him.
He laughs, though it must trigger some other memory in him, for there is a tightness around his eyes, another echo of that loss. He gives her an acquiescing nod, and sits back down in front of the mirror, eyeing his own reflection. "Yeah, I guess so," he mutters. "How are you with scissors?"
Chapter Text
"Will Graham was here?"
"I'd stake my life on it," Alana says tightly, her arms folded tight across her chest, fingers kneading restlessly at the innards of her elbows. She watches Margot outside, drinking some fruity concoction as she reads her book, taking advantage of the last autumn heat before the cold front moves in.
She turns, and fixes Jack with a sharp look. "I know it was him. He's here. He crawled right into my fucking house." She swallows. "He spoke to my son."
Jack nods, expression thunderous. "We'll have him speak to a sketch artist," he says.
"No," Alana snaps. "I don't want him getting involved in this."
"He's already involved, Alana. And we don't know what Will looks like these days. It'll help us." And Alana would fight tooth and nail to argue against it, but she cannot deny Jack has a point – for all they know, Will went blond, or shaved his head, or tattooed his face to draw attention away from the scar on his forehead. She doesn't know, and she hates that she wants to know.
Behind Jack, the demon of her dreams is standing, and smiles widely at her.
"He left me a note," she tells him. "He knows about Clarice, too."
Jack's expression darkens further, and he looks down at his feet. "Yes," he says, and the way he says it suggests she's not going to like what comes next; "I gave her a phone call with Hannibal."
Alana stares at him. "What?" she demands. "What on Earth were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that it could potentially give us an idea about where Will is," Jack replies. No repentance. She almost expected him to look guilty, but that's not an emotion people like Jack Crawford allow themselves to feel. "I was there the whole time, and she was evaluated before and after. Passed with flying colors."
"She's a professional spy, Jack," Alana hisses. "She might know a thing or two about passing a psych eval."
"And yet you hired her," Jack replies.
"I didn't hire her," Alana says. "I hired her boss, the man I hired the first time I wanted them found. She's the one who showed up."
Jack frowns, and tilts his head. "You didn't find that strange?"
"People retire," Alana says. She pauses, and adds; "What do you make of her?"
Jack shrugs. "Bright, tenacious. Would make a good agent given the chance," he says. Of course, he only thinks about people as resources. How they can benefit him in the short and long term. He's not unlike Hannibal, in that way. She resists the urge to say so. "The call itself was very short – I cut it off before he could get into her head." He huffs. "He tried."
"Of course he did," she says, and hates that she sounds almost fond.
"If Will knows you're back, and knows about her, it's only a matter of time before he figures out what she's here for," Jack says. "And finds her himself."
Alana swallows, and sighs, looking away. "She doesn't have any information that would help him. I didn't tell her where Hannibal is, after all. Did you?" Jack shakes his head, and she sucks in a slow breath. "That's good."
The door creaks, and Alana's eyes fall to Freesia as the dog trots in, panting and going to her little water dish in the corner. She laps at the water noisily, and Alana sighs, running both hands through her hair. "I've doubled our guards; he shouldn't be able to get back in. If he does, Jack, if I even think he's getting anywhere near us, I'm packing up my family and leaving. For good, this time."
Jack does nothing to acknowledge that. He probably doesn't care.
She breathes out, and looks to the window again. Jack sighs. "We'll find him, Alana."
"Honestly, Jack, at this point, maybe it's better that he's never found," she whispers, and unfocuses her vision, staring at her own reflection. How many of these worry lines and signs of fatigue were caused by looking over her shoulder for two shadows that, in the end, never came for her? Never, until she came back. Fortune favors the bold, it's said, but so does death.
"I'll put them both in the ground, one way or the other," Jack promises darkly. "Whether it's a cage or a coffin."
Alana swallows, and says nothing. Doesn't say that it doesn't matter, because cages and coffins have a habit of spitting Will and Hannibal back out. Even the ocean didn't want them, and isn't that just a terrifying thought?
"This is risky," Clarice murmurs. "If it doesn't work -."
"It'll work," Will says. He's acting more like himself, or at least, a version of himself that she thinks is probably more genuine. He's jittery and eager, alight with some anticipation she has only felt in his presence. It's easy, around a man like him, to see beauty and light in everything. She wonders who taught him to see the world like that – who taught him to teach others. Wonders, but knows.
Everything is set. The bug recorded Jack's voice, and hers, so that Will could get splices of their speech. Freesia has provided a lot more, as Will guessed she would; Alana called Jack immediately after Will left his note, and their conversation was short, but enough to get more of Jack's voice. Enough, Will assured her, for him to splice together what he needed.
And now, thanks to Clarice, they have the phone number of one of Hannibal's guards.
They sit together on one of the double beds in their hotel room. Will scratches absently at his recently-bared nape, his breaths even and slow. Even in his excitement, he doesn't let himself lose focus. He has her computer up with the soundbites they need. She holds a burner phone close to the laptop's speaker.
They call the guard.
"Monroe," comes the answer.
"It's me," Jack says as Will presses the first recording. "Bring the phone back to Lecter. I need to speak with him."
There's a moment of hesitation, and then an, "Of course, Sir."
They hang up, and Will smiles, rubbing his fingers from the corner of his mouth, over the scar on his cheek, down to his jaw. She never asked him how he got it, but he told her anyway; he told her, one stretch of unassuming road in the middle of the night rumbling beneath their stolen car in Italy. Told her how he used to slay dragons and hunt monsters. He told her of the most notorious and beautiful monster he has ever seen. He told her everything.
They wait, and then the burner phone vibrates with a message from Monroe saying that the phone is in place.
They wait another minute, and Clarice doesn't think she has ever seen someone so sick with anticipation, before they pull up that phone number Jack called in his office, and it rings. Once, twice, on speaker.
Then; "Good evening, Agent Crawford."
Will goes utterly still, to her surprise, his eyes brightening with unshed tears as he stifles a gasp to his own knuckles. Clarice swallows, and puts a hand on his knee, meeting his eyes, and gives him an encouraging nod.
Will swallows, and presses the next track; "Don't put the phone on speaker. Are you alone?"
A pause. Then; "No."
"Hannibal," Will breathes, and the line goes utterly silent. Will told her they would have to anticipate this; Hannibal would need a moment, after hearing his voice. Would need to control his expressions and his own voice so that he gave nothing away if someone was watching.
Will explained it, but she can see that his own justifications and reasoning is crumbling. He lets out a loud, shuddering breath, and whispers again, "Hannibal. Say something, please."
"It's quite a surprise to be hearing from you at this hour," Hannibal says, and Clarice must admit, he's doing a capable job of sounding aloof and cordial, to someone who does not know him. But she feels as though she does know him, at least a little, from all the stories she has been told. And Will is trembling, his shoulders tight and shaking, his smile so wide it must hurt.
"I know, I'm sorry," Will rasps, and clears his throat. "I'm sorry, I -."
"Will," she whispers. "We have to end the call and call back, in case it's traceable."
"Right," Will breathes. "Right." He swallows harshly. "I'm gonna call you right back, okay?"
"Of course; I'm always happy to help." And the way Hannibal's voice sounds is so unbearably intimate that Clarice feels she has encroached on something as sacred and secret as a wedding night. She ends the call and gives Will a soft smile, squeezing his knee again.
"I'll give you guys a moment alone," she says.
Will nods. Whatever person suit he's wearing now is one of a man so much in love it hurts to look at, but he wraps an arm around her shoulders and hugs her, whispering a soft 'Be safe' to her hair before he lets her go. "I'll come get you when I'm done."
She smiles, and gathers her coat and bag, and leaves as Will calls the phone again.
Hannibal answers much more quickly this time, scarcely daring to believe it's real. Part of his mind is in utter shock at hearing Will's voice, so shaken and soft but alive, oh God, he's alive, and suddenly the mimic in his mind is so lackluster and transparent, when he answers the phone again and hears Will's heavy, desperate sob of relief on the other end.
He closes his eyes, and sits on his bed. His guard did not leave; she is standing there and waiting for the calls to be over, eyeing him restlessly. "There's a pattern emerging," he says.
"I know," Will murmurs. "They won't fall for this shit twice, but I had to hear your voice. I just…fuck, I had to. It's been so long."
It has, it has, and suddenly it feels like it's been mere minutes. Hannibal could have left him that morning, sleepy and sweet in their bed, and run for morning coffee and scones. The years and wounds have melted from his psyche, healed by Will's determination and his fierce loyalty and his savage love. It's becoming very difficult to keep his voice even.
"Time is certainly of the essence. Your new friend is quite prolific. I wouldn't be surprised if there are more bodies dropping as we speak."
Will laughs on the other end of the line, and Hannibal's fist clenches tightly around the phone. Oh, Will's laugh. Some part of him, a part he kept starved and beaten but never quite able to kill, thought he would never hear it again. His eyes burn with the effort of trying to control himself.
"I'm coming for you," Will says, snarling the words like a beast. It sends a fierce flood of elation through Hannibal, and he smiles. "Do you know where they're keeping you?"
"I'm afraid I can't answer that."
Will hums. "I'll figure it out," he murmurs. "I imagine it's pretty well guarded, though. I'll…. I'll figure it out."
"I have the utmost faith."
Hannibal pauses, and looks up as he hears his guard's phone go off. She frowns down at it, and then her eyes flash, and she looks at Hannibal and raises her weapon. "Put the phone back in the box right now!" she demands.
Hannibal sighs, and stands. "I'm afraid it's time to go," he says, and aches at the soft, pained sound Will lets out. It's an ache he feels an echo of in his own chest. "Give my best to Miss Starling. She's quite a bright young thing, though I didn't speak to her for long. I daresay there's more to her than meets the eye."
"She was born for this," Will replies, and Hannibal smiles as his guard approaches the box quickly, gesturing for him to pass the phone back. "Hannibal, I -." He shivers, sighs. "I love you. I love you and I'm coming for you and you just need to wait a little while longer."
"I can do that," Hannibal promises, and then he must end the call, for his guard is looking closer and closer to shooting him just on principle. It pains him to part from the phone, and he makes a show of hanging up the call with a dramatic sigh, and opens up the call history under the pretense of toying with it.
"Really," he says, "this is unnecessary. Agent Crawford has asked for my assistance with the cases and -."
"We both know that wasn't Agent Crawford," she hisses.
Hannibal smiles, and clears the history of the phone, before he slides it into his side of the box. "Then why did you give it to me?" he asks, closing his side with a soft click. She glares at him, embarrassed and annoyed, and takes the phone, sealing her side and walking away. The big door opens with a claxon call and closes behind her, and Hannibal is thrust into darkness as the lights go out.
The room of his mind palace in which he often entertains Will is brilliantly lit, this time – no longer the soft shadow of golden firelight, but a flare of new sunrise, illuminating all the corners and driving away the darkness. No place for Will to hide, this time.
But Will does not hide – he comes to Hannibal and embraces him as Hannibal buries his face in Will's neck, calls to mind his scent and lets it soothe him. Will is shivering in his arms, and clenches his fingers tightly in Hannibal's shirt.
"I'll have to leave, soon," he says sadly. "You have no more use for me once I come get you for real."
Hannibal wants to deny it, but he can't. He owes this version of Will no loyalty, no affection, though of course he offers both in spades to the source of the inspiration. He pulls back and cups Will's face, resting their foreheads together, and smiles, gently tucking a curl of hair behind his ear.
"I wonder what you look like, now," he murmurs. Will smiles at him, and turns his head, nuzzling his wrist. "Did you finally dye your hair back from that awful blond?"
"You'll have to wait and see," Will replies with a mischievous smile. The scar on his cheek dimples it twice, makes him look impish – twice the mirth, twice the place to hide secrets. Will sighs, and touches his face, lashes going low, lifting his head so their foreheads brush. "I'll need your help."
"How?"
"Jack will probably fire your guard," Will murmurs. "He'll come down and ask you about what happened. You need to pretend you know more than you're letting on." Hannibal presses his lips together, nodding absently. That is certainly easy enough to do. He knows that Will is alive. He knows he's close. He can assume Clarice is related to him in some way, and therefore helping him. Which means Hannibal will need to be careful not to implicate her.
Will nuzzles him, and whispers; "He'll come for you soon. Demand to know what you spoke to me about."
"I can handle Jack," Hannibal promises him – promises himself. He has often wondered if, perhaps, there is some way that he and Will have been connected in this place, because laws like physics, and time, and reality seem to matter so little to men like them. Maybe this is Will, speaking to him, but maybe that's the first sign of madness. Hannibal cannot afford to follow that line of thinking, and so he doesn't.
Will smiles, and kisses him chastely. "I know you can, baby," he purrs, and curls his fingers beneath Hannibal's chin, gripping gently. "You're going to make me so proud."
Hannibal swallows, and sighs, dipping his head so he can embrace Will again, just as tightly as they did on the cliffs, and a thousand times after. After so long, he's sure to hold Will like this again will break whatever strength he has managed to keep a hold of. He will crumble, and only trust in Will's ability to keep him upright and moving until they're someplace far away, and safe from the rest of the world.
Will sighs, and kisses his hair. The room is so bright that the encroachment of the dawn of his awareness is not so abrupt and noticeable, but Hannibal can feel it coming. Will pulls back and kisses him, twice – once on the forehead, once on his lips, and then he takes a step back.
"Just a little longer," he promises, as the real Will did on the phone. Hannibal nods, his fingers curling, and turns towards the sunrise.
Will finds Clarice at a nearby diner, the kind that all look the same but have different names in an attempt to claim their individuality. It's been long enough that, of course, no one would recognize him on sight, and there's nothing to fear from newspapers or news stations that might inadvertently give him away. Most of the news is fraught with political drama, and no one has time for serial killers anymore.
He orders a coffee from the waitress and she leaves, and the two of them are alone in a little booth in the back corner. "How'd it go?" she asks, drumming her nails along her own water glass. He looks like he's shed a hundred years off his age, bright and reborn, though there is a lingering shadow of sadness in his eyes, a feral edge of anticipation that is only going to grow longer teeth the closer they get to their goal.
Will nods to her, pressing his lips together. The waitress comes back with water and his coffee and leaves when they have nothing more to order. Will liquidated one of the offshore accounts – Clarice knows he has money, probably more than either of them are really aware of, but they live close to the knife-edge of poverty because that draws less attention. Will told her once that all food tastes the same after eating at Hannibal's table – boring, lackluster, there's something to be said for flair and gravitas. She doesn't eat like he does, but she never ate much, even as a kid.
"Good," Will murmurs, soft, rasping. He clears his throat and drinks the scalding, steaming liquid, not even wincing at the heat. "The next part will happen quickly. You'll need to move fast."
"I can do that," Clarice says with a nod. Will smiles at her, proud and warm in that way she thinks only older siblings can really manage – not paternal, but nurturing all the same. He looks better with a haircut, she thinks; younger, more vibrant. Or maybe that's just because he got to hear Hannibal's voice. "How long do you think it'll be?"
Will laughs, warm and low. "Hours," he replies, and Clarice looks at her watch. It's in the middle of the afternoon. "Jack will move fast, once he knows what's up. He'll go through the bare minimum of procedure he has to." He hums. "You can probably expect a call from Alana soon, too."
"How should I play it?" Clarice asks with a lopsided smile. "Determined and cavalier? Doesn't know what she's getting herself into? Overconfident? Or should I heed her words of wisdom?"
Will laughs again, and shakes his head. "It'll depend," he admits. "Alana's the one, of all of them, who's going to be the least easy to predict, just because I haven't been around her for so long." He sighs, "And motherhood changes a person."
"I wouldn't know," Clarice says tightly.
"Yeah," he says, and shares another knowing smile with her. "Me neither. You'll have to rely on your own intuition, but I have every confidence in you."
Clarice nods, and sips at her water. Breathes out, and says; "Are you going hunting again tonight?"
"I have to," Will replies with a nod. "Jack's killer can't just go radio silent now that he knows, or suspects, I'm here. It'll be easier if we pretend we're two different people for now." He meets her eyes. "Do you want to come with me? We could act out another story."
She smiles. "You like telling stories," she murmurs.
"Someone I used to know told me that all sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story," Will replies with another smile. "Your stories – Hannibal can see them. I want him to know you as well as I do, when you guys finally meet."
She nods. "I can't wait to meet him."
Will finishes his coffee and throws a ten on the table, standing and holding his hand out to her. She takes it, and lets him pull her to her feet. They leave with Will's arm over her shoulders, looking for all the world like a pair of lovers – it's easier, Will told her, because people don't like staring at public displays of affection. The diner is walking distance from their motel, and though Will moves away from her so they're no longer embracing, they still walk close together, paces evenly matched.
"You don't have to keep coming with me, if you don't want to," he tells her, hesitating at the door. "I want to tell your stories, but I still have some of my own to get out."
She eyes him, and arches a brow. "How many are you going after this time?"
He shrugs. "Three, maybe four if daddy's home," he replies with a grin.
She rolls her eyes. "I'm coming with you," she declares, and pushes into the room as she unlocks the door. "We didn't come this far for you to get cocky and get yourself hurt or arrested at the final hurdle."
He laughs, and pats her shoulder affectionately as the door closes, and he kneels beneath his bed to retrieve his bag of tools, ropes, items of torture and manipulation she had never seen before him, and yet now knows intimately. A rush of anticipation fills her, the same thing she can see shining in Will's eyes.
"I admire your protective streak," he murmurs, in a cadence that she is sure is not his own. The other person suit is coming back, donned like a jacket. He gestures for the door. "Shall we?"
"After you."
His lips twitch, his eyes sharpen and grow dark, and he leads the way out.
Chapter Text
There is a man sitting at a bus stop across from the entry gates to Quantico. He has a vape box in his hand, breathing from it occasionally so that the water vapor blooms across his face and gathers under his low-drawn cap, hiding his face from view from all but the most discerning guard. His viewpoint gives him a look at the Quantico entrance, the first third of the parking lot drenched in a thick grey cloud above him.
He watches, heels tucked up, an arm slung over his knee. Beside him, a woman coughs and waves her hand through his thick clouds, giving him a half-hearted glare. "Can you not do that here?" Clarice demands. Hesitates, and adds; "You're not a smoker."
"Vaping isn't smoking," Will replies. "You get a lot more nicotine this way, and I prefer the flavor." He wets his lips and sends her a toothy, lopsided grin, right cheek dimpling twice. "It's keeping me calm."
"You don't seem uncalm," Clarice murmurs. Will lifts his box and gives her another smile.
"It hides my scent, too," Will says. "If Jack knows I'm in the area, he might get dogs sniffing you out, or me. God knows how much of my shit they confiscated after we took our nosedive." He breathes in, cheeks hollowing as the box in his hand heats, and he holds the vapor in his mouth for a while longer, before letting it eke out like ooze from a wound.
He nods at the door. "Here comes our friend."
And right on time, too – a bus is approaching. They stand together, and Will gives Clarice a hug for the sake of appearances, handing her the vape box with a wink when she rolls her eyes. He gives her a lighter too, and merely grins at her when she frowns.
"Knock 'em dead, tiger."
He gets on the bus when it stops for him, and she waves him off, before tucking his vape and lighter in her bag and hurrying down the steps cut into the steep slope between the bus stop and the entrance.
"Agent Monroe!" she calls. "Agent Monroe!"
The woman stops, and turns, her eyes narrowed in suspicion as Clarice hurries towards her. She stops, heaving a breath like she'd just sprinted from the bus stop, and wipes her hair from her face. "I'm so sorry to bother you. My name is Clarice Starling, I was hired to -. Well, it doesn't matter. I wanted to talk to you, if you have a moment."
"Starling," Monroe says, brow furrowing in recognition. "You were on the phone with Lecter."
Clarice blinks.
"With Agent Crawford," Monroe adds. "A few days ago."
"Oh, right, yes," Clarice says, breathing out a sigh of relief. Of course, she shouldn't think Monroe meant the other phone call, the one Will predicted would get her in trouble and summoned to Jack's office for a debriefing. Agent Monroe sighs, and pats down her jacket pocket, taking out a packet of cigarettes. She frowns, and feels around her pockets again, uttering a curse.
"Do you have a light?"
Clarice nods, and fishes out the lighter Will gave to her. Monroe smiles gratefully, lighting her cigarette, and puffs a plume out of the corner of her mouth, handing it back. "No, keep it," Clarice says, and shakes her head. "I'm trying to quit."
Monroe huffs, and takes another long drag. "I should quit too," she says. "But the fuck else am I gonna do, take up knitting?"
Clarice laughs. "There are worse hobbies," she says. Grins, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think you'd look cute all bundled up in a shawl you made. A green one, that matches your eyes."
Monroe pauses, a single brow lifting, and the smile she gives Clarice is a little more genuine, and a lot wider. She reminds Clarice, for a moment, of how she imagines Hannibal smiles at Will. "So, Miss Starling," she says, punctuating her name with another slow inhale, cherry of the cigarette burning bright. She cants her hip, rests her weight on one leg, and blows out her plume. "How can I help you?"
Clarice smiles, mirroring Monroe's body language like Will taught her how to do. 'Smile when they do; if they list left, you list right, so that you take up all their field of vision. Compliment a laugh with a flutter of lashes; pay attention to their pupils and the shape of their mouths.'
"And always," he told her, after a night in the pool hall when he emerged five hundred dollars richer in the wake of two dazed, hustled bikers who didn't expect him to do a lot more than thank them for a good game and turn tail, "always watch the eyes. Let gazes linger, let them break. It's a dance, Clarice, and you would do well to find your rhythm."
She meets Monroe's eyes under her lashes, takes a minute step in and sideways, so they're both leaning against the railing at the bottom of the steps, their eyes on the big grey building in front of them. "I was hired by the Vergers to find Will Graham," she says. Monroe hums. "He and Lecter were…close."
She snorts, and gives Clarice a conspiratorial grin. "They were closer than close," she says. "Damn, the way he'd cry out at night for him. 'Will, Will, Will…'." She shakes her head and takes another drag. "If I could wrap a man around my finger like that I'd still be married."
Clarice hums, drumming her fingernails lightly on the concrete pressed to the backs of her thighs, leaning back further. 'Tip your head up, Clarice, if they're taller than you. If you see a predator's teeth in their smile, show them your throat. Predators get stupid and hungry when they smell blood.'
"Miss Verger told me she believes Will's near," she says, watching the way Monroe is carefully not watching her. Of course, she'd be trained to be discreet. Clarice sighs, and brushes a hand over her neck to draw attention back to it, ruffles her hand through her short-cropped hair and lets it fall around her face.
Monroe tosses the first butt away, and lights a second cigarette.
After a moment, Monroe sighs. "He is," she says, and Clarice looks at her. Monroe's eyes are dark, still fixed outward. She presses her lips together and sighs through her nose. "Will managed to call him. No fuckin' idea how." She growls, and takes a vehement pull of her cigarette so it burns down to the butt. "But I've watched Lecter for years, and I know how he behaves. What he looks like when he's talking to Jack and I'd bet my life he wasn't talkin' to Jack."
"If Will managed to call him, that doesn't necessarily mean he's close," Clarice says slowly, faking concern, her brow creasing and her lips pulling down. Shoulders tensed, drawn up. Monroe looks at her and gives her a reassuring smile.
"There are plenty of monsters to worry about without adding Will Graham to your list," she says. "Besides, he's not the one you should be concerned about."
Clarice frowns.
"There's a new guy, killing people every night. Killed a family last night – don't you watch the news?"
"I've been busy," Clarice murmurs. "Doing my job."
"Well, you might want to pay more attention. Pretty little thing like you, I wouldn't be surprised if you caught the wrong kind of attention eventually." Monroe huffs, takes one last pull, and flicks the second butt away. She pushes herself from the wall and gives Clarice a wave. "Nice talking to you, Starling. I'll see you around. Thanks for the lighter."
Clarice nods, letting out a soft huff of frustration when Monroe turns the corner and disappears from sight. She had hoped to get more information, but apparently her interrogation-by-courtship skills still leave a lot to be desired.
She sighs, and pulls her hair back again, straightening from the wall. The next bus won't come for another twenty minutes, and she doesn't like the thought of standing outside in the cold for that long, so she enters the building, shivering as she's met with a wash of warm air. There are a few people like her, waiting for the bus, so she stands a little way away from them.
Her phone buzzes, and she blinks down at it, opening it to see it's a text from Alana, asking her to meet. She sighs, and replies with an agreement, saying she'll be at the estate in an hour or so.
She waits, until it's time to go to the bus, and then leaves with the rest of the crowd.
"I came here with a purpose, but driven by new excitement, alive at hearing the sound of his voice, I find my goal suddenly changing. I don't need to tell him a story, tonight, but want to give him a promise. It is a courtship, someone I once held dear said.
I bind the arms of his children to his torso. It's a shame that they had to die so young, but isn't it kinder, with the world in such a state? I kill them quickly, so they feel no pain; I slit their throats because that is how we kill our children. Mercifully, before they can see the slaughterhouse of the real world.
I make the mother watch. She is crying, because she knows exactly what I'm doing. I see no resemblance to the father in the children's eyes, in their faces. Perhaps he was a surrogate. Aren't you done, sweet mother, with pretending to be something you're not?
She rages against me, sobbing, screaming, begging me to stop. The same way one might cry at the wolf, at the shark, to deny their natures. Can I help it that your children, your mate, were so sweet? Can you blame me for offering them up on a silver platter?
You're the one who brought them home, mother dear. You're the one who made it so easy to find them.
I cut off her face and put it over the father's – he is unimportant, merely a pillar on which the family is resting. The children's arms rise up, towards the Heavens. Her hair is long, and thick, and works wonderfully as ties and knots, as I sew her into their flesh. She is part of them; she's part of all of this.
I take the man's heart and place it in what remains of her mouth. Maneater, devourer of hearts. She has taken from too many men and too many women; deceived and denied me my meal one too many times. She's blonde – at times I forget who she's meant to represent. She is a mother, a spinster, a snake, a newborn lamb. Whatever she is, I hate her.
I put the man in the kitchen where the heartbeat of the home has gone still. I throw the remains of her and her children within the dining room. The wolves will come and devour them, but the man in the kitchen with his children's limbs and his wife's face will remain untouched.
This is a monument to my love. I have given myself a deceiver's face, and taken so many hands to use for my own, to strengthen me and do what I need to do. I will use their hands, and I will use her face, and the world will pause for a moment of silence as I take my place at the head of the table to eat her heart.
This is my gift to you, my love. Even now, I am working. Even now, I am reaching for you. This is my design."
Hannibal's hands tremble, his fingers curling, as he looks upon the file of the newest kills.
"I'm sorry, Jack," he says, and stands, meeting Jack's glowering gaze evenly. "I don't know what this means." And inside his head, he sees Will smile.
Clarice nods to Alana in greeting as she's received at the door. Alana ushers her in and bids her sit in the same room they first met, looking harried, dark circles under her eyes and a restless disposition sitting heavily on her shoulders. Her eyes seem to dart to the corner of the room over and over again, wide and afraid. Clarice wonders what she's seeing.
"Doctor Bloom, are you alright?"
"No," Alana hisses, and sits. Fidgets with the hem of her dress, and shakes her head sharply. "No, Clarice. There's something I need to tell you."
Clarice sits forward, sets her expression into one of concerned attentiveness. Will's words echo again in her head; 'Alana is someone you can't be sly with. You cannot tell her an outright lie, cannot be aggressive, cannot be angry. She is suspicious and wary of anger, now. She will not disregard it as she did before.'
Alana breathes out, and runs both hands through her hair. "I believe Will Graham is back in town," she says. Clarice's brow creases, her head tilting. "Wherever he was, whatever he's been doing all these years, he's back. He's already been on the grounds; he knows where we are. Which means he might, eventually, find out about you. You need to be on your guard."
Clarice presses her lips together, takes that in with a slow nod. Assessing. Thinking. Alana isn't looking at her. "I'm confused," she says, after a moment. "I thought the goal was to find and make contact with him."
"Plans change," Alana says sharply. "Under no circumstances are you to make contact with Will."
Clarice's frown deepens.
"Will is smart," Alana continues. "He's one of the smartest people I've ever met, but in the same way a fox is. People like to talk about Hannibal's intelligence, and he's certainly that, but they talk about it like they're aware of it. They see Will like a dog; animal, untrained, unfocused. Someone who only comes to heel when told and is just waiting to be let off the leash."
Clarice's head tilts, and she fights a smile. She would never imagine Will having that kind of mindset.
"He used to be like that," Alana tells her. "He used to be like that. But now he's not. Not since Hannibal. Hannibal is…charming, sure, but so is Will. And Will…" Her eyes dart away again, to the corner of the room, and she swallows. "Will doesn't need to work to get inside your head. One day you'll just blink and he's there. You don't need to let him in, but you can't fight him out. He'll show up like some abused and beaten dog, and you let him in because you think he'll be grateful for the kindness and the warm place to sleep. But as soon as you do, it's already over."
"Alana," Clarice says, and reaches out to touch her hand gently. Alana's eyes snap to her. "I believe you," she murmurs. "You know Will Graham better than I ever could."
Alana's mouth twists, and she shakes her head, her fingers curling up tight enough to whiten her knuckles. "That's the thing," she replies. "I don't. I have no idea what he's capable of anymore. Hannibal had…rules, he had limits. Some kind of moral code that doesn't fit with the rest of society but once you knew it, you could be assured he would keep to it. Will doesn't have that."
Clarice tilts her head again. "What do you mean?" she asks, frowning.
"Will can understand anything, Clarice," Alana says. "He knows you, and me, and Hannibal, better than we know ourselves, because he can see things. He understands and he knows and so you have to promise me -." She stops, and leans forward, clasping Clarice's hand tightly in both of hers. "Promise me you won't try and talk to him. Don't let him get a word in. If you find him, you tell me straight away, or Agent Crawford, so that we can deal with him ourselves."
"Deal with him," Clarice echoes. "Like…?"
"Like however we need to," Alana says, and Clarice swallows, a fissure of outrage, of anger, swelling in her chest. How dare this woman, whom she has heard so much about, try to pretend like she is of a higher moral order than Will.
'Alana needs to pretend she's the good guy,' Will's voice whispers to her. 'It's the only way she can stay sane.'
Clarice swallows, and nods, squeezing Alana's hand. "I'll be careful, Doctor Bloom," she says. "I promise."
She arrives back to the motel room they're sharing – a new one, this time, though still some ratty and less-regarded place on the outskirts of the bad side of Baltimore. Will looks up, her laptop open in his lap, and gives her a wide, playful smile.
"Date went that well, huh?"
She rolls her eyes, and throws his vape box back to him. "I didn't get all the information I wanted," she says.
"You did perfectly," Will tells her, and gestures for her to come over. There's a map on his screen, with a little flashing red light in motion. "Our friend is on the move."
Clarice's eyes widen, and she sits on the bed, leaning against him. He smells like he's recently showered, the thick scent of tea tree oil in his air from the generic motel shampoo. "You planted a tracker on Monroe?" she asks. "How?"
"Not me," Will replies, shaking his head. "You did."
Clarice blinks, and then sighs in understanding. "The lighter." Will grins at her, and Clarice frowns. "But wasn't she fired?"
Will shakes his head. "Apparently not," he replies. "I saw she was still wearing her badge when she left Quantico. The bug in Jack's office is still live; he questioned her for ages on what happened, but in the end she didn't technically do anything wrong. And she ended the call once she realized what was happening."
"So…we're going to find out where he is," Clarice breathes.
Will nods. "I'm going to monitor her for a few days, figure out the pattern, and then we'll know," he says. After a moment, he sighs, and closes the laptop, setting it to one side. He looks at her. "I heard what Alana told you."
She frowns again, and looks down to where he's tapping against the vape box, and lets out another soft, understanding huff. "You've got bugs on top of bugs."
"I'm protective of you," Will replies, unapologetically. The ends always justify the means with men like him. "I wanted to make sure you weren't getting into the wrong kind of trouble." He sighs again. "Listen, the things she said…"
"I don't really care, to be perfectly honest," Clarice replies flippantly. "I know you, Will, not some version of you that you let her see, or you let Jack see, or whatever versions you had to become to do whatever you needed to do back then. I know my brother, who found me and showed me that the way I looked at the world wasn't wrong. I owe you my life."
Will regards her, and breathes out heavily, giving her a grateful smile. "Still," he says. "If you ever want to know, I'll tell you. Or Hannibal will, if you want a different outside source."
"Maybe," she teases. "Does he like to tell stories too?"
"He tells the best stories," Will replies with a soft, fond smile. He runs his hands through his hair, and sighs.
"Soon," she reminds him, and pats his hand. "We'll get him soon."
"Once we know where he is, that's a start," Will says with a nod. "You might have to make better friends with Monroe, though."
"Oh no, I have to spend more time with a pretty lady? I suffer so much for you!" Will laughs, and nudges her with his elbow. She smiles and playfully flicks his arm. "Now, I'm starving. I'm getting food and you're coming with me otherwise you'll spend all night cooped up in here, and I'm not having you get cabin fever. Come on."
"Yes ma'am," Will says, drawling the words. They rise from the bed, grab their coats, and leave for the nearest diner after making sure the room is sealed tight.
Chapter Text
Jack is frowning. Jack frowns a lot, nowadays. He squints down at his written report and debriefing, provided by Agent Monroe. Then, he stands, after a moment, doing a slow circle over to the corkboard with the latest string of victims strewn across it. The press haven't thought to name their new serial killer du jour, which he is grateful for. God knows giving names to things only gives them more power, especially when combined with fear.
Besides, this thing already has a name. It's been years, more than he cares to count but certainly less than it feels like, but he sees it. Sees the mark of shared union upon the corpses – sees, not one hand creating a singular design, but the inevitable conclusion of many, in the same way a robot can take every Shakespeare script and write its own in an odd parody of the bard.
He sees function; a means to an end. These kills are not done out of passion, though there is certainly passion there. They are not borne of anger – they are not chosen because of the wife's affair or the parents' divorce or the kid being a little asshole to the janitor of the school. Those things are easy. Those are the kinds of things people study.
No, this is….
He sighs, and tilts his head.
To call it malice would not be quite accurate, but he cannot deny there is a certain level of threat that hangs over these. The most recent; a family of four, two children, husband and wife. The husband had been made into a many-armed deity wearing his wife's face, her body and those of the children strewn around the dining room like the offerings of an overenthusiastic chef or butcher. Whimsical, almost.
But it is threatening; not directionless. This is not some nameless terrorist making promises over the airwaves, no bogeyman or War of the Worlds. Not even a phone call in the middle of the night, a 'You will die in seven days', a chitter or screech of a knife blade on the wrong side of the window.
This feels, resonates, like raised hair on the back of the neck. Like a dog growling at a shadow in the corner of the bedroom. Like a hand, reaching up from beneath the bed, or straight through the mattress.
It whispers; "I'm already here, and you let me in."
Agent Jack Crawford is not a blind man, nor a particularly foolish one. He does not willfully turn himself away from evidence, now that he knows the consequences. The issue comes from the source of that evidence. He will trust what he can see and perceive. That was where his relationship with Will Graham seemed so rocky; the man's empathy too pure, too unyielding. He saw things Jack only felt echoes of. He made leaps and bounds and muttered to himself when he thought no one could hear him, things a sane man would never say.
Jack has learned, the hard way, through fire and blood, that the word and conviction of an insane man is just as powerful as his own, if it's believed hard enough. Who is to say that, to someone, the color he might call red is the true color of the sky, they just both call it blue, while seeing two completely different colors? Who is to say that there is no malice in these photos, because the man who took them held no malice, but that does nothing to negate the original intention of the artist who made them.
Intention. Art. Jack's brow furrows, remembering what Hannibal said; these kills are passionate, but not erotic. Whoever this new friend of theirs is, he is bonded to his mentee, but not in a sexual relationship. Which is…tricky.
Sexual relationships are easy to exploit. You catch one, say the other is going to show its belly, the first usually breaks. Show them something that even hints at the green-eyed monster of jealousy and it will rage. They kill surrogates so they don't kill each other. That is what Jack always half-way assumed was between Hannibal and Will.
The idea that, even after all this time, Hannibal still hasn't rolled over and given up the ghost is not necessarily surprising, but Jack finds himself almost admiring it. How strange – if Bella, though he loved her dearly, had been proven to be a mass murderer, a serial killer as depraved and dangerous as Hannibal, Jack would not have hesitated to turn her in. Will tried. He was an insane man with an insane theory, and then a sound theory and an insane plan.
Then it all went to the dogs.
Jack sighs through his nose. There is malice, there. Jack took away Will's mate, his pack member. Dogs don't just let members of their pack be taken away. Little Will is finding his way home, and he's doing it with teeth and claws because that's how rabid animals know how to fight.
He turns away, going back to Monroe's report. She had told him that it was Jack's voice who'd given the order to put Lecter on the phone. That means Will is getting his voice, somehow. He frowns, and pets under the rim of his desk, lips pursed. He stands, and checks the wastepaper basket, lifting the plastic bag, and then checking underneath. Nothing there. He hums to himself, and goes to the corkboard, feeling around the edges. Then, under his own chair, under his desk phone. Nothing, nothing….
He looks to the chairs on the other side of his desk. Two, as always. Unbidden, a memory springs up, no doubt taunted by his recent revelations and the events of the last few months; a charming man with a wheat-colored suit and an angular smile. Another man, ruffled and ragged, curly-haired and sharp-eyed. Trading barbs to and fro, one hunched in, the other perfectly reclined in lounging repose; a sunning cat with its eye on an interesting mouse.
He should have seen it there; one of them hissing with malice, the other smiling and purring; "You've already let me in". He should have seen it.
Slowly, he approaches the chair Will took, all those years ago, and bends down, feeling curiously around the edges of the legs, underneath the seat, around the back. Nothing there. He stands, and goes to the chair Hannibal most often sat in, and kneels down again.
It is beneath that chair, so small and smooth he almost doesn't notice it, that he feels a bump, an extra screw head where there ought not to be one. He turns the chair on its side and smiles, seeing the little metal bug, no larger than a watch battery, with a single antenna poking out to transmit a signal.
He pries it carefully from the seat, and sets it on his desk. After a moment he empties one of his little plastic boxes of paperclips and puts the bug inside, so it's sealed up, and carries it down to tech to see if they can get a trace on the signal.
Miles away, too close for comfort but not so close as to be noticed, Will hums to himself, sipping at the shitty coffee Clarice got him from the gas station down the road. The noise draws her attention, and she looks at him in the mirror.
"Jack caught us," he murmurs, and immediately purges the bug's connected signal, downloads the audio data it did manage to transmit before being found, and orphans the connection so that it will only ping this location as their last one, but will not follow after they move. He rises, and shuts the laptop, stuffing it into a bag.
The car is already loaded, the next room paid for in advance for a week. He smiles at her, and slings an arm around her shoulders as they leave the motel and get in the car, driving away.
They track Agent Monroe for almost a week before Will is confident enough to pinpoint Hannibal's location. The bug gives them a very small radius, for once she enters the compound, there are signal scramblers and other radio signals that block everything, and the little bug can't fight against them all.
"Sometimes Goliath wins," he tells her, when she voices her concern.
They are keeping Hannibal somewhere in the mountains. This doesn't surprise him – they are easy to defend, remote should he ever actually escape, and allow only one point of ingress and egress. Unless one tries to walk, and at best they are difficult to navigate off the beaten track, at worst inhospitable and totally impassable.
"We should wait," Clarice advises him. "Hire people to scope out the territory."
Will shakes his head. "Pigs squeal," he says, in a tone of voice that betrays a deep, visceral anger, and lingering certainty. His homegrown accent gets thicker when he talks like that. He checks the sights on one of his pistols and disengages the empty magazine so he can load it. He does so with precise, trained efficiency – no finger out of place and no wasted time or energy trying to force the spring down.
Clarice huffs.
"Besides," Will adds, and gives her a wide, off-kilter smile, "we already have all the information we need. If Google maps doesn't do it, there are rangers in the mountains. Tours, the like. They'll have been told of a Government facility to avoid."
Clarice raises a brow. "So we're going to break into a Ranger cabin and steal a map?" she asks, and laughs. "This sounds very 'James Bond' to me."
Will laughs. "James Bond had a better car. Come on."
The place is called Bearfence Mountain. There is a camping store a few miles south of it, and Will drives them there, pulling up on a rustic single-floor cabin with wood grates for the front walls, a wide porch, and a veritable horde of hanging glass sculptures and wooden wind chimes.
Will kills the engine and gets out of the car. He has a cap pulled down low over his face, and the collar of his jacket pulled up high. Clarice wraps a scarf around her nose and mouth, shivering in the cold, and they go inside.
Inside is a little collection of shiny rocks and the standard brochure display depicting events and sights in the area. Will goes to it, first, absently perusing, giving the elderly woman behind the desk time to straighten from her book and greet them with a warm smile.
"Good afternoon, folks!" she greets cheerfully. "Can I help you with anything?"
Will gives her a smile. "My wife and I are new to the area," he says, gesturing to Clarice. She gives him a warm smile, squeezing his hand, and goes off to idly look at the rock collections, the deer head mounted over the bathrooms, the one framed display of the map of the various hiking trails dated in the late 1900s. "We were looking to rent a cabin for a few nights while we explored."
"Oh, of course!" the woman says. There's a pin on her lapel giving Will her name, 'Felicity'. "We have a number of cabins available. Are you interested in hiking, as well?"
"Absolutely," Will replies, smiling at her. "I swear, if it weren't for the kids we'd be doing the trail right now, wouldn't we Dana?"
"When they're in college, Stu," Clarice replies cheerfully, making Will laugh. Felicity titters behind her counter, giving them the warm smile of an elderly woman when looking upon young love. She nods to herself, and begins to gather a collection of hiking brochures and trail guides for them to peruse.
"It's a hundred dollars a night for our largest cabin, sixty for the smallest we have available," she tells him, and Will nods. She flattens a map of the cabins out for him, pointing to each one in turn. "This one leads right to a lovely trail up Bearfence; the view is spectacular."
"We'll take it," Will says with a nod, and Felicity smiles at him.
"I'll require an extra hundred for the security deposit, which you get back when you leave." Will nods again, and hands her a debit card with his stolen name on it. She rings them up for three nights and hands it back to him. "We also sell bundles of firewood, and starters, for the wood burning stove, though of course you're also welcome to forage as much as you're able if you need more."
"Thank you very much," Will says, and gathers the brochures she handed him, stuffing them into the large pocket of his coat. "I did want to ask; what are the facilities like on the trails? Are there any points of interest we should look out for?"
"Oh, yes, it's all in the brochures," Felicity tells him with a nod. Will presses his lips together, unfolding one and noticing that a large section has been blacked out. He tilts his head in question. "Oh, a few months ago there was a terrible rockslide there, it wiped out half the trail and landed three people in hospital, poor dears." She shakes her head, sighing in sympathy. "That entire loop is impassable at the moment."
Will hums, and smiles at her as she hands him the key. "Well, thank you, Felicity. You have a great day."
"You too, Stu! And you, Dana. Happy trails!" she replies, waving to them. Will grins at her, and takes Clarice's hand, heading back out to the car.
"You think they're holding Hannibal there?" she asks.
"Won't know until we look," Will replies, and hands her the maps. "Tonight, we'll scope out the trail, see if there's a good place we can get a vantage point from. We'll go tomorrow, and look at it in the daylight. But I'm willing to bet something's going on there – it doesn't take months to clear a trail."
She nods, pressing her lips together, and falls silent as they drive up to the cabin Will bought them for the weekend.
"The signal was traced to a motel in Annapolis, Sir, but we couldn't get any information on the room or residents. It's, ah, the kind of place most people pay for by the hour, if you catch my drift."
"Caught," Jack says, glowering down at the little bug. He drums his fingers along the edge of the table, ignoring the cowering tech behind it who is looking at him like a china shop owner might watch an approaching bull.
"Alright," Jack says again, and nods. He brings up the location in the file of the motel, and drives to it, approaching the desk clerk. He's a kid, barely old enough to look legally allowed to work, and the kid blinks at him as he flashes his badge. "Agent Jack Crawford. I need the names and length of stay for everyone in the place."
The kid nods nervously, and gestures to a book by his computer. "We, uh, have a sign-in book here," he says. "I can pull up the computer records. One second." Jack nods, and peruses the book as the kid types at his keyboard. He finds what the tech told him is correct; most of these people seem to have only used the place for a night, or less than that. His frown deepens.
"I want people who stayed here longer than a night," he says, and the kid nods, typing away to edit his filter. "Only in the last…two weeks."
"Okay, okay…." He nods to himself, tapping his nails against the space bar as the computer loads, and then he goes to print the report. Hesitates, and says; "Do you want them if they're still here, or if they've left?"
Jack raises a brow. "Anyone left recently that was staying here for a while?"
"There was a couple – married, I would guess. Same last name, at least, though they asked for a twin room," the kid says. "They checked out this morning."
Jack frowns. "Can you describe them?"
"Uh, the girl was pretty. Twenties, I'd guess. Brown hair, blue eyes. About my height. The man was older, brown hair and blue eyes too, kind of a fucked up face if you pardon me for saying so," he adds with a grimace. "All scarred up."
Jack blinks, his fingers curling. "I'm going to need you to come down to the station and speak to a sketch artist," he says flatly. The kid blinks at him, and then nods. "And I still want that list."
"Of course, Sir. Right away."
Alana is there, with Morgan, when Jack returns to Quantico with the nervous front desk kid in tow. She looks at him with a mix of apprehension and annoyance; she doesn't want Morgan here, she's made that perfectly clear.
"Has he already spoken to the artist?" Jack asks. She gives him a tight nod, and Jack waves the kid in. "Alright, Jared, come with me." He goes into one of the interrogation rooms to find the man packing away his art supplies, and has the kid sit. "I need you to look at these drawings and see if it matches the one you told me about."
Jared nods, and looks at the faces the sketch artist spread out. Jack frowns over his shoulder at them as well. He huffs to himself; he's sure that it was Will, because between the note he left and all the other signs, it's impossible that it would be anyone else, but he must admit Will did a good job of disguising himself to Morgan Verger. His hair is longer, colored blond by the artist, straightened flat and hanging down to his shoulders. His hair cut to hide the scar on his forehead, and a thick beard to cover his face. Even if Morgan did know the face of Will Graham, he wouldn't have recognized it.
Jared makes an uncomfortable sound. "Um, maybe?" he hazards, and looks up at Jack as though expecting to be yelled at. "If it's the same guy who left today, he dyed and cut his hair."
Jack huffs, pressing his lips together, and gestures for the artist to flip to a new piece of paper. "Describe the woman," he says, and leaves the room, meeting Alana outside. "Between that sketch, and a photo of Will from back then, and this woman he was with, we'll be able to at least get the public semi-aware."
Alana frowns at him. "And what are we going to tell them we want Will for?" she asks archly, absently and nervously petting over Morgan's hair, cupping his ears as though to stop him from overhearing their conversation. "A suspect in the spree killer case? Information on Hannibal? The first will cause a panic and the second, well, no one will care about."
Jack frowns, and then shakes his head. "We'll…call him a witness to the latest murder," he says. "Brother of the victim. Need him to answer some questions, if they had any enemies, you know." He gestures ahead of him, sighing again.
Alana presses her lips together, and pulls out a five dollar bill from her pocket, crouching and getting Morgan's attention. "Don't tell your mom," she says, and gives him a conspiratorial wink. Morgan grins and takes the money, scurrying off down the hall to the vending machines in the nearest break room. There was a time they all knew the layout of his place better than their own hand.
She folds her arms across her chest, leaning back against the wall opposite the interrogation room door. "If we put his face up, he might panic," she says lightly.
Jack huffs, and mirrors her. "Will doesn't panic," he replies.
"You're right," she says. "Panic is predictable. We don't know what he'll do. What he's already done." She pauses, and nods to the room. "What do you have this person in there describing?"
"I have reason to believe Will isn't working alone."
Alana frowns, and looks at him.
"Reason?" she repeats.
Jack nods. "I have no doubt Will is a capable killer, after all these years, but even so these murders, if they are him – and I'm more and more sure they are – are ambitious. One man doesn't just take down a family, no matter how capable and scary he is, without learning how to do so first. But there's no escalation, and…the way he's displaying them…"
Her brow creases, and she glares at him. "You showed Hannibal," she says.
Jack nods. "I did. He told me the same. I found a bug planted in my office, traced its last signal to a motel, the kid there," he nods to the room, "gave me a list of people who had been in the last two weeks. A couple checked out just this morning; a man fitting Will's description, and a woman."
Alana's frown deepens. "Will is with a woman?" she asks, incredulous. Almost…offended, like she's just found out a husband of her friend has been cheating on them. "Why would he team up with a woman, how…?" She shakes her head and breathes out a heavy sigh. "I don't understand."
Jack has no explanation, except what Hannibal told him, and what he is starting to believe himself; whatever Will and this woman are doing together, they have a very deep bond. He wonders if Hannibal would be distressed by that; wonders if, perhaps, jealousy can play a part after all. It makes as good a bait as meat.
Then, Alana presses her lips together, eyes dark with thought. "There was a bug in your office?" she whispers.
Jack nods.
"How did it get there?"
"I don't know. He could have paid off a janitor. I'll have to look over the security cameras and see who entered and left." He sighs. "I only found out because Will used a recording of my voice to trick one of Hannibal's guards into giving him a phone. He called it." Her shoulders stiffen. "They spoke."
Her head snaps to one side, eyes wide and fearful. She looks, suddenly, as young as she did when all this began; fear sheds the years from her, makes her look like a young doe in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
"Oh God, Jack," she whispers. "Don't you see? He's already won."
Jack doesn't believe that, but an insane man's testimony can be just as trustworthy if his conviction is strong enough.
The door opens, and the sketch artist gives them both a nod. "We're finished here," he says, and Jack goes inside. He frowns down at the pair of sketches laid out in front of Jared. Notes the wide-set eyes, low lids, the thin brows. The wide jaw, sharp chin. Same mouth, same point at the tip of her nose. The mousy-brown hair with just a hint of a curl at the end.
Alana gasps, and puts a hand to her mouth, her eyes brightening with horror.
"Is that…?" She can't finish the sentence.
Jack presses his lips together, and lifts one of the portraits, the one that he thinks matches her best. In this one, the sharpness of her eyes is a little more evocative, the down tilt of her mouth more obvious. He thinks of Hannibal's words; bonded, but not in a sexual nature. He looks to the sketch of Will as he appeared to Morgan.
They have the same mouth. Same low eyelids. Cousins, or siblings.
"You're free to go," he tells Jared, who nods and practically flees from the room. Alana is clutching her throat, trembling with fear. He looks into the eyes of Clarice Starling, and the eyes of Will Graham, and in his head, a voice that sounds very pleased, very low, and very much like Hannibal whispers;
"I'm already here, and you let me in."
Chapter Text
This time, it is not Hannibal who arrives in his mind palace to find Will waiting for him, but Will, arriving second. He finds Hannibal perched in one of his chairs, angled towards the fire, reading one of his books. His ribs feel so brittle, so dry inside his own chest. His fingers curl, wanting to touch, to claw.
He prowls to the fire until his silhouette casts Hannibal in shadow, and then a pace further, so he can see the angles of his monster in pure golden light. Hannibal looks up at him, and smiles in greeting. Will doesn't know what he looks like, nowadays, and so he conjures him from a memory that is deeply-rooted and thoroughly treasured.
Thin lashes of grey shining in his hair; he dyed it, periodically, mostly to alter his appearance enough to keep trackers off the scent but also out of vanity. Will always preferred the little ashen, greyish streaks. His face, ever-smooth, a little softer around the jaw and cheeks, deep smile lines set into the corners of his mouth and around his eyes.
Will is bringing him coffee, and sits down on the arm of his chair when Hannibal makes room, handing it over. Unlike he's sure Hannibal is able to, Will has no desire to force his psyche through situations he cannot control. He prefers the warm blanket of memory, to know how things play out. To know how this night plays out.
"Decaf," he promises, just as he promised that one night in Rome, in a room just like this, with Hannibal looking at him just like that. He leans down and kisses the part of Hannibal's hair, closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of his shampoo from the damp roots; cinnamon and spiced apples, just because Will got it for him.
"Thank you, darling," Hannibal replies, tilting his head up so his nose finds its favored spot below Will's jaw. Nuzzling, like a soft-hearted animal for him. Will smiles and curls his fingers around Hannibal's head, through his hair, as Hannibal rights himself and sips his coffee. The scent of the beans, the sweet cream, wafts up to Will, and he buries his nose in Hannibal's hair instead.
Hannibal sighs, after a moment, and Will shifts just enough that an arm can wrap around his waist, holding him steady. A wide hand spreads on his hip, Hannibal using his near thigh as a rest for his mug.
"Are we to move again soon?" he asks. He doesn't sound like this anymore, not if their brief phone call is any indication. Will has no idea how badly Hannibal was injured in the crash over the cliff, only knew that he was alive, and that he could not be rescued in time. He sounds far worse these days, but that's okay – Will did not fall in love with the sound of his voice as much as what he would say. What they could communicate to each other without saying anything at all.
Will smiles, just as he did that night, and nods. "They've doubled the patrols around our neighborhood," he murmurs, nails dragging Hannibal's longer hair from his face, long enough now to tuck it behind his ear. He kisses the exposed skin of his forehead. "Haven't you noticed?"
Hannibal shakes his head, because he has never been ashamed of admitting weakness or fault to Will. "No, my love, I confess I haven't," he replies mildly. The hand on Will's hip strokes up his side, easing the tension. "We can leave in the morning."
Will nods. He would rather leave now, but Hannibal looks so beautiful, so quiet and unassuming, he can't bring himself to look away. So he doesn't, merely leans in, cups Hannibal's face, and kisses him sweet and long. Outside, Will walks the world with raised hackles and sharp eyes, and it is only with Hannibal, in his arms, in their home, that he feels remotely safe. There's probably something dangerous in that, some awful codependency Hannibal always wanted and Will never quite resisted enough, but now it's here and iron-forged and Will has no fucking choice in the matter. He doesn't want one.
He kisses, tasting the coffee on Hannibal's tongue, bearing the bite of his teeth, and Hannibal sets the mug down on his side table, beside his book, and pulls Will into his lap. He shivers at the sudden loss of both light and heat from the fire, but Will soaks in all of it, and settles over his thighs, and grips the top of the back of the chair.
Hannibal's hands tighten on him, slide up, wide and warm, and Will can feel his heart racing so heavy it makes him lightheaded. Hannibal's touch throws him into the freefall of delirium, always has; intimacy and familiarity never made it stop feeling like the first time.
"Will," Hannibal breathes, just like he did that night. Looks up at Will with dark eyes, so black they're monstrous. Will ruts their foreheads together, nuzzles, noses brushing, swapping air between their mouths. But then Hannibal's hands grab his shoulders, and shake him. "Will."
Will frowns, pulling back. This isn't how that night went -.
"Will, wake up!"
Will groans, and in a blink, the firelight and warmth disappears, replaced by the balmy attempts of the woodstove as it fills the little cabin. One bed only, because they posed as a married couple, and Clarice is shaking him by the shoulders.
Will winces, rubbing a hand over his face. "Sorry," he rasps. "I -."
"It's fine," Clarice says, waving his apology away. Will rolls onto his back, staring at the dark wood ceiling. "That's not why I woke you, you weren't rutting up on me or anything." She holds out her phone, the screen bright enough to make Will wince, blinking to try and focus. "Alana messaged me."
"What?" At once, Will is alert, lingering promises of arousal forgotten, thankfully, and takes her phone from her. It's open to Alana's message chain, and he squints down at it.
All it says is 'We need to talk'. But the timestamp is five-oh-seven in the morning and no one sends a message like that without the topic of conversation being a bad one. He huffs, running a hand through his hair, and hands the phone back.
"They're moving faster than I anticipated," he murmurs, unable to stop the admiration coloring his voice. "We need to scout out Bearfence quickly. Come on."
She nods, and rises from the bed as Will does. Thankfully, waking up and hearing her voice went a long way to stymying his arousal, and he's able to move just fine without thinking about Hannibal. He shrugs off the lingering embarrassment – they don't have time for it.
They back a trail bag each, don their boots, and begin the track. Will has the maps, Clarice has her phone and camera to take pictures. The sky is still very dark, winter not letting the sun rise until almost seven, and it is very cold. Thankfully, there is no breeze, so Will is sure their exercise will warm them soon enough.
They walk in silence, mindful of the other campers, until they reach a sign at a fork in the trail. One of them goes downhill, and leads to a lake. The other sports a high-rise view, leading uphill, towards the tip of Bearfence. They take that one.
After a while, with nothing but their breathing and the skittering of dawn life to accompany them, Clarice speaks; "You were with Hannibal, weren't you?" Will nods. Another small beat of silence. "What's it like?" Will tilts his head. "A mind palace."
Will smiles. He told her about such things, just as Hannibal told him. He described his own to her, just as Hannibal explained his, and Will knows his is small and juvenile in comparison, but large enough to teach her. There are rooms, after all, where he doesn't think it impossible that their psyches could overlap. Some of them, he is sure, hold manifestations of himself as Hannibal saw him. Hannibal doesn't like to linger on memory like Will does.
"It is vast," he tells her. "When properly cared for, it holds every piece of information you have ever learned. Memories, to go back to and re-analyze. Books you can revisit, and emotions you can reclaim." He smiles to himself. "Hannibal's is more like a museum, I think; everything in its place, though the rooms are ever-changing, and growing."
"And yours?"
"Mine used to just be a stream," Will says. "That's all I needed, back then. Now, there's a house. My old house. And pieces of foreign countries where I was with him." He sighs. "Other rooms, heavily barred. Things I would rather not look at again until morbid curiosity strikes me."
"Oh?"
He nods. They pause for a moment, after a particularly steep stretch of path, and Will takes a drink of water. The beginnings of dawn are coloring the sky greyish, streaks of silver-blue parting the clouds. The sun rises on a new day, crisp and clear. It feels like renewal.
"I have versions of me that don't know the world as I see it now," he explains. "I keep them behind bars."
She hums, and fixes him with a strangely assessing gaze. "I've seen them, sometimes," she says, and Will meets her eyes. "You wear personalities like suits."
He smiles. "I've often thought the same," he replies with a nod. "Different facets of a personality are useful in certain situations. A charming conman for the nights, when one needs money, for a hustle. A sweet, nervous young thing caught in a storm that needs to get into someone's house to use their phone, and take advantage of the kindness of strangers."
She hums again. "And with Hannibal?"
Will's smile widens. "Whatever I wanted to be," he says with a shrug. "With him, you can be whoever you choose. He accepts, takes in, everyone he meets. He's a polite host like that."
Her brow creases, and they begin to walk again. He lets her dig her way deeper into her thoughts, and eventually, she breathes out, exhale misting in the cold morning air, cheeks flushed. "Do you think he'll like me?"
"I think he'll adore you," Will replies. He's sure of that. "You are my blood, after all, and my partner. A perfect dichotomy of nature versus nurture that I'm sure he'd be intrigued to explore. We share the same mother, after all, and the same unfortunate abandonment."
He remembers it well, when he found her. A little puppy with teeth too big. She'd been an orphan at age eight, lost to the wards through the years, desperate to find her place. He can sympathize. "You had the opportunity to be the person I could not be," he adds, after a while. "Someone who is…inherently good."
"I don't think I'm a bad person," Clarice says lightly. "Just one whose morality isn't dictated by society."
Will smiles. "In that, as well, we are the same." He stops, and turns to look at her fully. "Do you think there's a possibility, at any point, that you would turn your back on me? That you will see me, see both of us, for the monsters we are, and shrink back in horror?" She blinks at him, eyes wide. "It's not a test, Clarice; speak freely."
In her silence, he steps close to her, taking her hands. "I've killed children," he says, and she nods slowly. "Innocents. Men and women whose only crime was convenience. What do you make of that?"
She stares at him, eyes dark, and presses her lips together, before she shakes her head. "I don't think that was their only crime," she says, and Will has to admire her faith in him. To think that she just blindly believes, not in the way of the world, but in his view of it.
He smiles, and kisses her forehead. She sighs, looking less nervous, when he lets her go.
"I want you to trust me, Clarice," he tells her. "Even when it doesn't seem like you should. Can you do that for me?"
She huffs, and smiles at him. "I suppose that depends," she replies, and Will gives an acquiescing nod. "Are you going to turn me away after all this is said and done?"
"Never," he promises. "I swear."
"Then I trust you," Clarice says. "Though I'd like to remind you it's only people you shouldn't trust who ask you to trust them."
He laughs. "I can't argue with that. Come on."
Alana has been near the verge of a panic attack for the better part of an hour before Margot shows up to take Morgan. She takes one look at her wife and embraces Alana tightly, nose to her hair and clinging to her as Alana takes a deep, shuddering breath, and tries to get a Goddamn hold of herself.
"What happened?" Margot demands.
"You need to take Morgan home," Alana replies, and cups Margot's face to make sure she's paying attention. "Sweep the entire Goddamn house for any recording or listening devices. Don't let Morgan out of your sight." She turns, and levels a glare on Jack. "We're packing up and leaving as soon as possible."
"What's going on?" Margot says again, and looks to Jack. "Agent Crawford?"
Jack presses his lips together, and breathes out heavily. "We have reason to believe, Missus Verger, that Clarice Starling is not only aware of Will's whereabouts, but actively helping him in…" He gestures vaguely towards the interrogation room, "whatever his design is."
"Clarice…?" Margot blinks, and shakes her head. "No, that's impossible, isn't it? We're the ones who hired her. He couldn't have possibly gotten to her so quickly."
"He probably planted her," Alana hisses. Now that she can breathe again, she feels slightly calmer, but her eyes burn from trying to hold back frustrated, defeated tears. "We were so blind, he walked right in through the front fucking door!"
"Okay, okay," Margot says, hugging Alana tightly and shushing her. "Okay. I'll take Morgan home, I'll keep him close. We'll sweep the house for bugs and triple the patrol and guards. We'll get ready to leave."
Alana nods, and Jack shakes his head.
"I need you, Alana," he says, and she meets his eyes like she already knew. "We have to go talk to Hannibal."
"Why?" she demands.
"Because he knows something," Jack replies. "I know he does, and if he's spoken to Will, and Will didn't mention Clarice's involvement, that's something we can use." His smile is weak, and bitter. "Jealousy can do wonders for a man, even one like Hannibal."
"So, what? You want to goad him?" Alana asks, and shakes her head. "What will that do? He's in a cage, has been for years, and Will is out there with…whoever the fuck Clarice is to him, they're both out there. Murderers, plotting something."
"Exactly," Jack says evenly. "We have their names, their faces, and the identities they were using for the hotel. We have their last known location, and from there we can get camera feeds of the cars, license plates, maybe GPS tracking if we're lucky, if it's a rental."
"Clarice drove a rental," Margot says quietly. "I remember, because it was out of state. Came from Georgia." At Jack's raised eyebrow, she shakes her head. "I don't remember the plate number, but we have cameras too. Might be faster than going through the hotel and whatever tech services the FBI has since we already know when she came and left."
Jack nods, and looks to Alana. "They'll have slipped up somewhere," he says. "If they used a card anywhere nearby, no matter what the name was, I can run it and see when it was last used. We can find them, but I need to talk to Hannibal. I need to know exactly where he is, and exactly what he's thinking."
Alana swallows, and shakes her head.
"You know as well as I do that he's Will's final stop, Alana," Jack says. "He's going to come for him, or die trying. If he can't get to the facility, who do you think he'll turn to next?" She covers her mouth, closes her eyes. "He'll find you. Once he's done with me, of course," he adds with a wry smile.
Alana glares at him, for a long, long time. The lamb is supposed to trust the shepherd, but she can't help feeling she is looking at a coyote in disguise. "I didn't think it was possible to hate someone this much," she says, and she doesn't know if she means Will, or Jack, or Hannibal, the whole lot of them. Damn them all to the deepest pit of Hell and then a level deeper.
But if this is what it takes to rid them of the Ripper and his protégé once and for all, if she must walk through fire one last time, well, she would rather be the one to do it, not Margot, not Morgan, no one she loves.
She nods to Jack, and breathes out. "Let's go."
Will is vaping again, and Clarice eyes the puffy blueberry-scented clouds with distaste. He ignores her, squatting down at the peak of the path. There are roadblocks and signs a few yards away, saying that the rest of the path is dangerous and closed to the public. From here, she can see two grey towers with a mesh of wire between them. A gate.
"There?" she asks, and Will nods. His eyes have been on it for some time. He has binoculars in his bag, but has yet to pull them out. He draws in another long lungful of smoke from the vape and lets it trickle out of his nose.
"So," she continues, when it seems he has nothing to add to the conversation. "What's the plan?"
He blinks at her, as though coming out of a trance, and she plops down beside him and raises an expectant brow. He hums, lets the rest of his mouthful of smoke out, and casts his gaze back out to the gate. There are densely-packed trees all around in the valley, meaning line of sight is completely obscured, and they can see nothing except the very tip of a barbed wire fence, and even then, only ten feet or so from each side before it disappears into the canopy. There is a radio antenna on one tower, a bright floodlight on the other, guards circling both, heavily-armed.
Will's brow furrows, and he takes another long lungful. The wind is, thankfully, blowing it away from Clarice, but she still gives a performative wave of her hand that makes him smile.
"Jack knows we're close," he murmurs. His head tilts, like he wants to look at her but can't tear his eyes away. She haunts his periphery, and wonders, briefly, if she's the only one. "If he traced the bug's signal it'll lead him right to the hotel. He'll ask the clerk for names and descriptions." Another lungful, another plume of smoke. "He might even already have you pegged for who you are."
Clarice frowns, and looks down at her phone. "I still need to call Alana back," she says.
Will shrugs. "If it suits you."
She looks at him, eyes narrowed. "Why shouldn't I? She doesn't know I know she knows."
Will's lips twitch in an aborted smile. "Well…" He shrugs again. "Think about it. Logically. Talk me through it." Finally, his eyes move, and land on her. In the overcast light, they look grey as his gun. "What happens if you don't call Alana?"
Clarice frowns. "She might think I'm dead," she says slowly. "Assuming she doesn't know I'm working with you."
"Okay," Will says with an encouraging nod.
"If she doesn't know, and I don't call her, she'll probably go to the office of the guy she hired before. Try to find me; think I met you and you killed me. She'll find the mess we left of the guy's office, the spoofed email. She'll figure it out."
Will nods again.
"If she does know, and I don't call her, she'll assume it's because I know she knows. She'll grow suspicious. Careful."
Will takes another long pull from the vape, turning his face away out of deference to her so the vapor goes downwind. "If she doesn't know about you yet, she will soon. If you call her, anything you say, to steal the phrase, can and will be used against you. You can't rouse suspicion, but you also can't give anything away."
Clarice huffs. "And if she does know, she could…be anticipating the call. Use it to track my location. Find me, and therefore you if you're nearby."
Will hums. "She might be able to ping your phone anyway," he tells her. "Just with the phone number, if you didn't change it."
"Shit," Clarice hisses. She looks down at her phone, contemplating just opening it and crushing the SIM card right away, but they don't have a replacement, and she might need it to call Will. She turns it over and over in her hand, and then huffs another breath. "I'm gonna call her."
Will nods, and looks down at the vape box in his hand, giving a soft growl of complaint when the battery blinks with low life. "Come on," he says, standing. "I've got to go charge this thing, and the signal's shit up here. Let's go back; we're not going to get any more intel sitting up here."
She nods, and stands when he helps her up, and they begin the trek back down towards the cabin.
Hannibal blinks as the claxon sounds, and the main door opens, revealing Jack and Alana. He smiles at them in greeting, and gives them a bow of his head. "Agent Crawford," he says cheerily. "Doctor Bloom. What a pleasant surprise."
Jack glowers at him, but that's nothing new. It is Alana's behavior that intrigues him. She has the look of an animal caught in a trap, gnawing frantically at the metal and cords that bind her, trying to get free. He lets his lips turn down in a concerned frown, and steps closer to the glass. "Doctor Bloom, are you alright?"
"Shut up, Lecter," Jack growls. He approaches the glass, and takes a piece of paper from a file, plastering it to the surface. It is the sketch of a woman, and Hannibal blinks at it. "Recognize her?"
"Should I?" Hannibal asks.
"That's Clarice Starling," Jack says. Hannibal tilts his head.
Hannibal hums, pressing his lips together. In the back of his mind, Will stirs, and prowls to the forefront like he's trying to see as well. "Ah, Miss Starling," he says. "I spoke with her on the phone. Is she a new victim?"
"Oh, far from it," Jack says. There's a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, something smug and vindictive. He keeps the page plastered up. Hannibal's fingers curl behind his back. "I have reason to believe she and Will are working together to try and free you, isn't that nice?" His head tilts. "She's pretty, isn't she? And young. And free, which is more than I can say for you."
Hannibal regards him coolly, brows lifting. "Are you suggesting something?"
"We traced their last known location to a motel in Annapolis," Jack says, and lowers the page, back into his file. "They'd been staying there for quite some time. Married, one bed, so the clerk tells me."
Hannibal's frown, he will admit, is far more genuine this time.
"It seems your friendship with Will is not as unique as you would like to believe."
Will growls, in Hannibal's head. He resists the urge to hold up a hand for silence, gaze narrowed on Jack. He will admit, he has no concrete proof that Clarice and Will are related, just what he feels in his heart, and has thought in his head. It's not impossible, he supposes, that Will simply found someone who looked at the world a little like him, and molded her into what she is now, just as Hannibal did to Will.
But Will's words, the sound of his voice, echo in his chest, and he discards the notion with a shrug. Will loves him, he knows that. Whatever Clarice is to him, Hannibal knows it cannot possibly be a bond like theirs.
But he turns his face away, and lets Jack think the words have struck a nerve. "I've been in here a long time," he says, forcibly light, just enough hesitation to imply doubt; "It would not be impossible. Will is a passionate young man."
Alana strides forward, closer than she came, and fixes Hannibal with a dark look. "Passion makes a man stupid," she says. "And Clarice is going to get herself killed, mixed up with the likes of him." Hannibal presses his lips together, lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Is there no empathy in you? She's innocent."
"She can't be that innocent, if she's chosen to warm Will's bed," Hannibal replies lightly. "It is no matter," he continues, and meets her eyes. "You should know I don't take Will's attention wandering lightly. But neither does he. He will tire of her when it suits him."
Her eyes narrow. "He's not you," she hisses. "He has more compassion than that."
"Ah, there's the problem, isn't it?" he replies, smiling. "Sometimes it's more compassionate to kill the maimed animal than to nurse it back to health. He's not your Will anymore, Alana." He looks to Jack. "He doesn't belong to either of you."
"We know her face now, Hannibal," Jack says. "Within the hour she's going to be plastered up on every news station, in every evening edition of the papers. We'll find her, and when we find her, we're going to find Will. Do you really think he'll throw her to the wolves?"
"I suppose that depends," Hannibal replies. "If he still needs her, he may attempt to save her. If he doesn't…." He shrugs.
Alana opens her mouth to reply, but her phone begins to ring, and she stops, pulling it from her pocket. She frowns. "It's Clarice," she says to Jack.
Jack glowers at the phone. "You shouldn't have that here," he growls. Before she can say anything, he waves her away. "Take it outside, find Monroe and get a trace set up. Keep her on the phone as long as possible."
She nods, and leaves the room.
Hannibal smiles, once she and his guard are gone. "Jack," he says amiably, "if you're so concerned about Miss Starling, I can't help but wonder why you brought this information to me. I cannot help you, one way or the other, nor can I harm her from here."
Jack blows out a breath, and nods to himself. "I'm going to ask you some questions, Doctor Lecter," he says slowly. Hannibal blinks at him. "I hope, in the interest of professional courtesy, you will answer them honestly."
Hannibal tilts his head, and gestures for him to continue. In his mind, and in the ghost of his physical form, Will prowls up to Jack and puts his hand on the glass.
"I know Will managed to contact you," he says. "What did you talk about?"
"Nothing," Hannibal replies. Jack rolls his eyes, clearly not believing him. "Sincerely, Jack – he mentioned the killer whose victims you have been bringing to me, but said nothing to implicate himself. Then he told me that he was coming to rescue me."
Jack hums. "And do you think he'll be able to?" he asks. "Rescue you?"
"The defenses of this place are impregnable, I'm sure," Hannibal says.
"And yet, that's not a 'No'."
"No," Hannibal says, and smiles. "It isn't."
Jack's eyes narrow. "I'd like to make you a new deal, Hannibal," he says. Both Hannibal and Will, in his mind, perk up. "When we catch Will – and we will, don't you worry about that – I'll put him in a cell next to yours. Not the same one, you understand – we'll divide your space, and put you together, so you can rot in this place side by side."
How intriguing. Jack must be truly desperate. "…If?"
"If you help us catch him," Jack finishes. "And Clarice. The way it's going, a rain of bullets seems to be their fate, if they put up a fight. Maybe the death penalty since I doubt both of them can claim insanity like you did." Hannibal's upper lip twitches, and Jack smiles. "Gunfire and electric chairs is so inelegant, wouldn't you say? Wouldn't you like to see him one last time?"
Hannibal's eyes narrow. "If you're so sure you're going to catch him, then my help should be irrelevant."
"I tire of playing cat and mouse," Jack replies. "I'm tired of all of this; of looking over my shoulder expecting to see you two. Of chasing you all over the world. I'm tired of it, and I'm sure you're tired of being stuck in here all alone, with nothing but your thoughts for company."
Hannibal cocks his head to one side. "Even if I wanted to help you, Jack, I can't. What he does is beyond my control." He takes in a breath, and says; "I said he's not yours. He's not Alana's. He's not mine anymore, either. I have nothing I could offer you to help catch him, and I have no desire to."
"Even though it would mean seeing him again?" Jack presses.
Hannibal shakes his head. "Will has made his bed – and not alone, so you would have me believe. Perhaps Miss Starling gives him something I can't." He shrugs again. "Freedom, as you said, for one."
Jack presses his lips together. "Well," he murmurs, and sighs, Atlas with the weight of the world returning to his shoulders. "If that's your decision."
Then, he turns, and leaves. Hannibal's eyes narrow on his retreating back.
"Well, darling," he says to the shadow of Will, "you have certainly caused quite a fuss."
Will laughs, and grins at him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Good."
Jack smiles to himself, pulling out the tape recorder from his pocket. He finds Alana, no longer on the phone. Her face is very pale. "Did you get a trace?" he asks Monroe.
She shakes her head. "Narrowed it down to a ten-mile radius, but we should be able to ping the cell phone until she gets wise and turns it off."
Jack nods, and Alana looks to the recorder in his hand. "What's that?"
"Will's not the only one who can make a little remix," Jack says. "I told you – jealousy can do wonders for a man's disposition."
She blinks, and her eyes widen in understanding. "You're going to make Will jealous," she says. "Not Hannibal."
"After everything, do you think he'd take Hannibal discarding him that well? I don't think so." He sighs. "I don't know if it will work, and we have to find Starling first, but when we do, if he's not there, we'll leave him a little present. He'll do something stupid, get himself caught. Done and done."
Alana shakes her head. "I wish I had your confidence," she murmurs.
"You did your part," Jack replies. "Did she say anything interesting?"
"No," Alana replies. "I don't think she knows we know. She'll panic, once she figures it out."
"Good," Jack says. "We need her to panic." Will might not, because he's good at this sort of thing, but she's fresh-faced and new to the life, and if she has any doubts, if she is suffering from any clash of conscience, they will break her, once she's caught.
"They're here," Monroe says, gesturing to a wide circle on a satellite map. Mountains. Far too close for comfort. "There's a series of campsites all along this ridge."
Jack frowns. "How did they know to come here?"
Monroe pauses, and blinks, cursing to herself. She reaches into her pocket and takes out the lighter, and forcibly separates the metal head from the plastic casing. To the floor tumbles not just the little well of fluid, but a tracer much like the one in Jack's office.
Jack glares at her, and crushes it under his foot. "I'm sorry, Sir," Monroe says frantically. "I didn't know -."
"You're going to tell me everything you have ever said to Clarice," Jack tells her sternly, "and hand in your resignation at the same time while I order a sweep of the campsites. We don't have a moment to lose."
Clarice ends the call, and sighs, looking to Will. "They're going to find us," she says.
Will nods, looking to where the vape is charging.
He smiles. "Do you trust me?"
"You shouldn't ask me that."
Will blinks, and looks at her with another wide smile. "That's not a 'No'."
"No," she says, and smiles back. "It's not."
Notes:
I'm thinking two or three more chapters, if everyone behaves themselves.
Chapter 9
Notes:
You guys are all so sweet omg I didn't mean if /you/ behaved, I meant if the characters behaved there would be two or three more chapters left. I'm not going to hold fics hostage from my beloved fannibals <3
Chapter Text
The room is cold, and barren except for the single camera set up, the bright red light showing that it's recording. She shifts her weight, cuffs clinking around her wrists, and tries to remain calm. In her head, Will is there, as though he's standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder. The parent of a wayward child brought to the headmaster's office. The protective older brother making sure his sister doesn't get herself into any trouble.
The door opens, revealing Agent Jack Crawford. He has a thick stack of files in his hand, and greets her with a nod. She doesn't say anything, merely presses her lips together and folds her hands as he comes forward, and sets the files in front of her, all spread out.
He opens them, one by one. She sees the man they made into a xylophone player. The husband with his children's arms and his wife's face. The married couple and brother-in-law, all of them embracing. The hanging man with hooks in his eyes. The mother fleeing from her daughter, the daughter's hand wrapped around her ankle.
The last file, when he opens it, shows her her own face, and that of Will.
"Now, Miss Starling," Jack says, and sits. "Shall we get started?"
The day before;
Once the vape is charged, Will gives it to her, and since she knows there's a bug and recording device in the box, she takes it and packs it into the pocket of her coat without argument. He smiles at her, and shoulders his bag of hunting gear, as well as a rucksack where she knows he has more weapons, and food, and clothes.
She presses her lips together. "Are you going hunting again?"
Will nods. "I have to tell this story by myself," he replies. She nods, and looks down at her lap, fingers curling together. He sighs, after a moment, and comes to her, taking her hands and she looks up and meets his eyes. "Are you nervous?"
"A little," she admits. "I get the feeling you're not coming back for a while."
He tilts his head, and crouches down in front of her, reaching out to pet over her cheek. "Probably," he replies. "This story is going to take a lot of players, but I think you'll appreciate it, in the end." She presses her lips together, looking down again. "You trust me, right?"
"Yes," she sighs. "But I'm…"
Will sighs, when she trails off. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but I do have a plan," he assures her, and lightly squeezes her hands again. She nods, absently, and he tilts his head. "What's going on?"
She takes out her phone, pulling up a news station website, and shows it to him.
"They have our names and faces," she says. Will frowns, blinking at the phone, and takes it from her, scrolling through the article. "Stewart and Dana Roth. Apparently your brother is the many-armed man, and they're trying to find you as a potential witness."
Will huffs a laugh. "Encouraging people to find us without fear of betraying their fellow man," he murmurs. "Jack is becoming more conscientious." He shakes his head, and hands the phone back. "It's a common tactic, Clarice; people don't like turning other people in without knowing why, especially when they appear so unassuming." His voice, for a moment, goes low and bitter. "Making it seem like we're witnesses to a murder is a lot less scary than being the murderer."
"It's everywhere," Clarice says insistently. "At least three stations I saw have our names."
Will's mouth twists, and he stands, after a moment. He goes to his own phone and takes it, pulling up a website. Outrage flashes across his face, and he huffs out an angry breath. "Freddie fucking Lounds," he hisses. She tilts her head, watching the anger soak into his shoulders, tightening and lifting them. His knuckles go white around his phone and he tosses it down with an aggravated huff.
"Who's Freddie Lounds?" she asks.
"Someone who has been a thorn in my side for a very, very long time," he replies. "Useful, in some ways, and a huge pain in the ass in every other way." He sighs. "She knows my real name. She'll probably figure out who you are too soon enough, and have it plastered all over her stupid website. Thankfully her street cred has gone downhill since Hannibal and I disappeared."
"But she knows?" Clarice asks.
Will nods, running a hand through his hair. "Her tenacity is boundless. Admirable, almost. She has a way of getting to the truth while remaining completely oblivious to it."
Clarice frowns, and takes his phone. The headline, bright and bold at the top of the screen, reads; MURDER HUSBAND'S RETURN: WILL GRAHAM SIGHTED NEAR BALTIMORE. Her brows rise.
"She doesn't seem to have a high opinion of you," she notes.
Will laughs, though it's more of a cough of air than anything else. "That's one way to put it," he replies darkly. "It doesn't matter. She's already too late. They all are."
He goes back to his bags and lifts them again. "I have to go, and you have to stay here, do you understand me?"
She nods, and hands him his phone, but he waves it away. "They'll be able to track me with that. I can't let them."
She frowns, a dark kernel of understanding taking root in her stomach. "You're going to let them catch me," she says, and isn't sure if she's more disappointed or outraged at being so carelessly cast aside. Will's face holds no guilt, no apology, and she stands with a hissing breath. "After everything, you're just going to let them throw me behind bars?"
Will frowns, his expression one of genuine confusion. "Of course not," he replies, like that suggestion is insane. "I'm never going to abandon you. Ever."
"It seems like you are," Clarice says sharply.
Will sighs, and shakes his head. "I swear," he says, and takes her hands again. Her fingers curl within his palms, and she meets his eyes. "You promised me you would never turn away from me. I won't, either. You're part of my family, Clarice."
She swallows. "Like Hannibal is?"
He smiles, and nods, and cups her head to kiss her hair. "Yes," he says gently. "You, me, and Hannibal. We're going to get out of this, and we're going to find a place we can live freely. You just have to trust me. Can you do that?"
She presses her lips together, and closes her eyes, sighing in resignation. "Jack's going to find me if I stay here."
"Yes," Will agrees. "He is."
"And you're going to let him."
"Yes. I am."
She nods. "And you're going to get me out, after?"
"Yes," Will says with another nod, and pulls away from her, cupping her face. "I'm not going to abandon you, like our mother did. I'm not going to cast you aside." He smiles, and tucks her hair behind her ears. "I have to go now, while I still have daylight. Stay here. I have the utmost faith in you."
She smiles, breathing out shakily, and he kisses her forehead before releasing her. She follows him to the door. "Be safe," she says, a hand on his shoulder. "We didn't come all this way to fall at the final hurdle."
He nods, expression solemn. Serious. "Don't worry," he murmurs. He smiles at her, and tips her chin up. "I'll see you soon."
Then, he leaves, and she sighs, closing the door behind him.
There was a time where Will did not see the inevitable consequence of an unavoidable event. The train tracks of his mind were not as clean and clear as Hannibal's, and he was unable to follow them to their ends. Being on the run, soaking himself in Hannibal's mindset, has cured him of that.
He is not a foolish man. He is aware of every tripwire, every root he might stumble across, every barrier he will have to overcome. It is not the mindset of careful planning, but of paranoia. Overthinking, suspicion coloring every sight and sound.
If this happens, three events will potentially come out of it. He must prepare for the worst, plan for the best, and make fail safes for the third. When Jack comes for Clarice, he will sweep the room and the surrounding area in an attempt to find Will. He will bring dogs for his scent.
He dumps the oils for his vape all around the cabin, to confuse them, and rinses off in the river fully clothed so they cannot track him.
Alana will double, triple the guards in her home. They will be on high alert, they will be armed. She will prepare to pack up her family and leave. She has not yet found the bug on her dog's collar that he's aware of, but she will eventually. She knows how to go into hiding, but the Verger estate's affairs cannot grind to a halt. He will find her, eventually, but she is not his priority right now; he still needs her to play her part.
Jack will fall back into procedure, because he thinks he's winning. He will interrogate Clarice and hope she will give him something useful, but all Clarice knows is the plan day to day. He was very careful about that. But Jack will find the bug and tracking device in his vape, if he's clever. He will use it to find out where Will has gone. He will find the Bearfence outlook and know Will knows where his secret bunker is.
He will know Will intends to go there, sure that Will knows Hannibal is there. He will move him if he hasn't already, or increase the guard, or lock down the facility entirely. The most likely option is option three, but not the one he thinks Jack will choose.
Clarice will talk him out of moving, if she's clever. Alana will join him in the lockdown if she's paranoid enough. All the sheep clustered into one easy place to find. How simple. How predictable. That is why Jack will not choose it.
But Alana knows Will should not be anticipated. She will expect him to go to the bunker, just like Jack. She will know there are only so many places Hannibal can be moved to. She will know that there are news outlets looking for Will, that his location will be exposed eventually if he goes somewhere public.
Once they find Clarice, she will figure out her involvement. It's only a matter of time. Patience. Will has not had to be patient for a very long time, in the same way one is not hungry when there is always a feast. Instead, it has become an instinct he holds like hair dye, and will wash off when the moment is right.
He checks into a motel and slaughters every resident, one by one. One of them looks like Jack, another like Alana, a third like Freddie Lounds. He hangs them from the roof and positions the others like moviegoers watching an outside show.
He finds three people who look enough like him, Clarice, and Hannibal to pass, and stands them in the front of the crowd, their hands lifted to present their show. Come one, come all. Subtlety is for the patient, and Will gnaws at it like a dog with a bone, eager to get to the sweet marrow waiting within.
He abandons his tools, his bloody clothes, and Clarice's car. He leaves it all behind, and by the end of his shower in his rented room, by the time he emerges in the cold light of predawn and sneaks away, there are already onlookers and horrified spectators. They don't see him, amidst the crowd, because the sheep are too enthralled with the howling wolves to see the fox slipping quietly from the henhouse.
When he returns to the cabin, Clarice is gone. The place has been swept, and cleared. On the single bed they shared is a USB stick and a folded note. He raises his brows, and takes it, unfolding the piece of paper.
"Thought you might want to hear this. I would, if it were me."
His mouth twists, and he huffs. They left a laptop behind – not his. It will undoubtedly ping and send a notification when he opens it.
He takes the USB stick and the laptop when he leaves. He has no desire to read whatever message Jack left for him. At best it will only be some lame attempt at a joke, an offer to turn himself in. At worst it will be something that clouds his judgement and blinds him to his purpose.
The gallows are a good place to have the last word, and Will is not there yet.
He climbs the trail to the Bearfence outlook and opens the laptop, turning it so the camera faces away from him, towards the bunker. He doesn't look to see what the screen loads with, and doesn't let it see his face. He sets the laptop down in front of him, looking out to the trees. Then, down at the USB in his hand.
His fingers curl around it, and he sighs through his nose. He kneels down and inserts the USB into one of the ports, fits his fingers over the camera so it can't see him, laughing to himself when he recognizes that there isn't really any point, and loads the audio file.
The sound of Hannibal's voice, soft and rasping, robs him for breath, and he's glad he's already kneeling otherwise his legs might have collapsed right out from under him.
"I've been in here a long time. Will is a passionate young man. It would not be impossible."
Jack's voice follows; "We traced their last known location to a motel in Annapolis. They'd been staying there for quite some time. Married, one bed, so the clerk tells me. It seems your friendship with Will is not as unique as you would like to believe."
Will frowns down at the computer. No – no, Jack couldn't possibly…. There's no way Hannibal would fall for that. He knows Will loves him. Fuck, Will has killed people in scores, made so many careful plans, said himself that he loves Hannibal, that he's coming for him.
"She's innocent." That's Alana's voice.
"You should know I don't take Will's attention wandering lightly. I cannot help but wonder why you brought this information to me. I have no desire to catch him. He's not mine, anymore."
Will's fists clench, and he presses his knuckles to his teeth. No. No. He yanks the USB out and throws it as hard as he can, watching as it clatters its way through the trees and to the forest below. He can't believe it; he won't believe it.
But it's been over a week since Will managed to speak to him and Hannibal has no way of knowing what he's been up to. Will doesn't wander the shared halls of their mind palace anymore; he couldn't afford to for so long, afraid it would blind and weaken him. He hasn't contacted Hannibal again, but Hannibal can't possibly think that Will would just abandon him. Not after everything.
He leaves the laptop there to die or be recovered by someone else, and heads back down the trail.
Felicity is sitting outside the cabin, wringing her hands nervously, and stands when Will approaches. "Oh, Stu! Thank goodness you're here. A bunch of men from the FBI came, they were asking for you, about your brother…"
Will nods, and contemplates, briefly, killing her. But decides against it. "Dana called me and said she was going with them," he tells her, keeping his voice low and even. "Did any of the agents tell you where I could find them?"
She nods, and hands him Jack Crawford's card. "The man in charge said you'd know where to go."
Will sighs through his nose, and pockets the card with another performative nod of thanks. "I appreciate it, ma'am. I'll head over there right now." He pauses, and says; "Can I use your phone?"
"Of course!" She nods frantically, and walks with him down to the main office for the campsite. He goes inside and she leads him to a payphone hanging from the back that looks about as old as the established site must be. "It doesn't need any money, just press nine to dial out."
Will gives her another nod, smiles, and waits for her to leave. He takes Jack's card out, and calls his cell number listed.
"Agent Crawford," the man answers.
Will's knuckles tighten around the phone. Hearing the man's voice over the bug is vastly different, he is discovering, to hearing him on the phone. Greeting Will like that, like nothing has changed. How many times had he heard Jack answer his phone in just this way, prepared for news on a case, or a report from the commissioner, or even in answer to Will himself when he would wake, sweaty and shaken from his nightmare-ridden sleep, with some new nugget of insight to share?
His upper lip twitches back, and he makes his voice as smooth and even as he can. "Hello, Jack."
"Will." At once the man's voice changes, grows sharp. Will imagines him waving over a tech, setting up a trace. Will doesn't think it's necessary; between the laptop and the location from the phone, he is sure Jack knows where he is. "I wasn't expecting a call so soon."
"Mm."
"Did you get my message?"
Will's eyes narrow. "Yes," he says. "I'm not sure what you hoped to gain by sending me that."
"Just for you to know what the situation is, that's all," Jack replies coolly. "You're here for Hannibal, don't insult either of our intelligences or our actions by pretending you aren't. You found someone willing to help you, got shacked up with a new murder wife, and now you're on a spree."
Will laughs, coldly. "Right."
"I just got a briefing on the spectacle you left last night," Jack adds. "Kind of on the nose, wouldn't you agree?"
"I'm not here to mince words, Jack," Will snaps. "You left me a message because you wanted me to reach out. Well, I'm here. I'm reaching." With claws and teeth. He can't remember the last time he was this angry. "So what do you want?"
"I want to offer you a deal, Will," Jack says. Will blinks, frowning down at his feet. He anticipated this, but still finds it strange to hear; "I offered the same one to Hannibal, and now I'm giving it to you. Turn yourself in, put an end to this." Will huffs. "The way I see it, there's execution by firing squad in your future, not to mention what might happen to poor Clarice."
Will tilts his head.
"Turn yourself in and I'll bring you to him. Let you work out your marital problems the old-fashioned way."
Will blinks, and unbidden, all his breath leaves him. His free hand flexes, tightens, curls. To see Hannibal again….
"I know this isn't you, Will," Jack continues. "None of it is. I have no idea what he made you do while you were together. But you're free now. You can stop this." Will laughs, the sound bitter. "You can stop all of it. I can make sure you're comfortable, and with him. Isn't that what you want?"
"No animal is comfortable in a cage, Jack."
"You're not an animal, Will. You never have been." Will huffs, swallowing back his retort. Jack is so blind. Or maybe he really believes that. Who's to say. "You know where we've been keeping him; you did good work. Damn fine work, if I do say so myself. If you still want to see him, I can give you that."
Will swallows. Inside his chest, he feels a deep ache.
"He's been asking for you, too," Jack says, softer now. Coaxing. Will clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. "All these years, every time I went to see him, he'd ask after you. I know he wants to see you. Don't you want to see him?"
Yes. Yes, he does. Of course he does.
One thing, he knows for certain; he can't get into that compound on his own. Not without Jack. He can't leave now, when he's so close. He can't afford to wait longer, when Hannibal has this doubt in him. If he doubts Will's loyalty after everything then all of this will be for naught.
"We have Miss Starling in custody," Jack says. "She's going to turn on you."
"You're so sure of that," Will murmurs.
Jack huffs a laugh. "She doesn't have a bond like you and Hannibal have, does she? You should have seen her when we came for her; she was pissed at you. Cursing your name, trying to hide and call you. Where were you?"
"You saw my show," Will says. "You know where I was."
"It's only a matter of time, Will. You have no car, no phone, no partner. No friends or contacts. Nothing but your own wit and your plans, and it's all falling apart, isn't it? There's no cavalry coming this time, except what I bring." Jack pauses, for emphasis. "A cavalry I don't have to call, if you just come to the bunker, and turn yourself in."
Will presses his lips together. The fact that Jack is so insistent that he come to the bunker makes it the last place Will thinks he should go. Hannibal, he feels it with utmost certainty, is no longer there.
"I could always just give him Starling. I'm sure he has some choice words for her, too."
Will's fists clench. No, he can't let that happen. She doesn't know him like Will does. And Hannibal might be angry with her, might hate her for the lies Jack fed him. Hannibal has a habit of striking first and asking questions later.
"You moved faster than I thought," he admits. Jack hums, sounding pleased. Will swallows. "I want to see him, Jack. I need to know he's alive. I want to talk to him."
"You can talk to him, if you want," Jack says. "I can set it all up. Just tell me when and where."
He's so eager. So blind. Will looks down at his feet. "The compound," he murmurs, looking to the door. Jack hums in eager agreement. "How long would it take you to get there?"
"An hour."
Will nods. "I need more time," he says. Jack makes a short, aggravated sound. "I need more time, Jack. I have to get things in order."
"Will," Jack says sternly. "You are, in no uncertain terms, a murderer. A serial killer. You dragged Clarice into your crusade and you lost. You have two choices; stay where you are and let me come to you, or you walk up to the compound right now and turn yourself in." He sighs, sound so falsely sympathetic. "I can make sure the courts go lightly on Clarice, and keep her away from Hannibal's clutches, if I have you in custody in the next two hours."
Will growls to himself, pressing a hand over his eyes. He hasn't had a migraine in what feels like a lifetime. There are different versions of himself, all kept behind bars, but the walls are crumbling and he can hear them calling for freedom. In his head, in his chest, a beast that only desires the presence of its mate is howling, so loudly he can't think.
He has to remain in control. He has to remain calm.
"No," he finally says, hissing the word. "No. I'm not your puppet anymore, Jack. I don't belong to you and I'm not going to do what you want just because you're threatening me or my family."
Jack laughs. "You know, Hannibal said the same thing," he says lightly. "That you weren't mine. Thing is, you never were, and I knew that. I think I'm the only one who ever really did." Will huffs, rolling his eyes. "And the other thing is, something I don't think either you or him seem to realize, is I'm the one holding the keys. I'm the one who sees him. I'm the one who, maybe, could make sure he doesn't see a new day, for whatever reason."
Will frowns.
"Maybe he attacked one of his guards. Had to be put down. No one would mourn him."
Will snarls into the phone. "I swear to God -."
"Turn yourself in, Will, before you lose the chance to ever see him again."
Will bares his teeth, clenches his jaw so hard his eyes ache. There's so much noise inside his head. He needs to go back to the quiet, but nothing's been quiet since Hannibal was taken away from him. Nothing has been the same.
"I'm coming," he hisses, and slams the phone down onto its hook. He leaves the office without a word, ignoring Felicity's worried calls to his back. Her cries belong to a different man, and he is not that man. He can't afford to be Stewart Roth, or Will Graham, as he was, or as he is.
No. The creature that prowls into his head, black and horned and snarling with anticipation, feels more like Hannibal than anything else. Will greets it with a smile, with open arms, and lets the abyss consume him.
Now;
Clarice looks up from the files as Jack emerges, a triumphant smile on his face. "Good afternoon," he greets cheerily.
"Is it?" she replies coolly. "There are no windows in here."
"I apologize for keeping you waiting," Jack says, and sits. "Will was clever – there is, technically, nothing tying you to these crime scenes. No DNA, no motive, no shared location as far as we can see. Your car was always far away, your whereabouts always accounted for." He gives her an impressed nod. "He's careful, I'll give him that. But he got emotional, so…" He shrugs. "It's all over."
She frowns.
"He's going to turn himself in," Jack says, smiling.
"What?" she demands, forgetting to remain stoic. "Why?"
"I made him an offer he couldn't refuse," Jack replies, brows arching as though surprised by her outburst. She tries to control herself, but knows it's too late. She's flushed, anxious, her heart racing a mile a minute. "I'm about to go meet him at the compound, and he's going to go underground, and you'll be remanded to police custody to await trial."
"You just said you had nothing on me," she replies.
"Harboring a fugitive is enough to send you to prison, Miss Starling," Jack says. "And rest assured, we're going to keep digging. We'll find something connecting you to these crimes, or Will and Hannibal will give something away in exchange for shared confinement, and you'll go to jail."
Clarice glares at him. "If you think it's going to be that easy, you're sorely mistaken," she says. Her voice shakes, but from anger more than anything else. "Will is smarter than that. He's the smartest man I know."
"Yes, he thinks he's so clever, but he forgets that I know him. And more importantly, I know Hannibal." Her eyes narrow, and she looks at him in disbelief. The hubris of this man seems impossible to contain in one person. "You don't work with people like that as long as I have and not pick up a few things."
"Regardless," she says icily, "you think it's going to be that easy? That he'll just stroll into your compound and let you arrest him and keep him caged for the rest of his life?"
"I know it seems improbable," Jack concedes. "The things we do for love. Or whatever bastardized version of love those two have."
She glares at him openly, grinding her teeth together.
"You wanna know a dirty little secret?" Jack continues, sitting forward with a smile. "Hannibal isn't even at the compound." She blinks, eyes widening. "I had him moved as soon as we knew Will figured out his location. He's going to rot there, all alone, or at least until he stops being useful." He tilts his head when she lets out a soft, outraged growl. "He was always easier to work with, you understand, and I can't let someone with his gifts just waste away."
"You fucking asshole," Clarice hisses.
"Think of me what you want; I'm on the right side of the law, here." Jack stands, and shuts the recording off on the camera. "Now, are you going to ask for your phone call, or come quietly?"
Clarice presses her lips together, struck mute by the outrage bubbling in her chest. After all this time, for Will to just turn himself in like that, and then for Jack not to even keep his word and put them together? A terrible, impotent anger rises in her. She's going to be put in prison, abandoned and cast aside, her brother in a deep hole in the ground, all alone and -.
Trust me. The voice in her head sounds like Will's. The phantom hand tightens on her shoulder.
"I'd like a phone call," she says, and looks up at him. "And can I smoke?"
Jack's brows rise.
"My vape," she explains. If she's lucky, they won't have found the bug and tracker inside it. If she's really lucky, Will can still connect to it and listen. "I've been trying to quit smoking, can't quite kick the nicotine habit." She forces a shaky laugh. "I could really use it right now."
Jack huffs, but nods, and leaves the room. He returns with a cell phone, and the vape from her coat. She takes it with a grateful smile, and he leaves again. Thank God for the law that says everything between a lawyer and client has to be kept confidential.
She picks up the phone and turns on the vape at the same time, waiting for it to come on, as she fiddles with the phone and pretends to call a lawyer's number. She holds it to her ear and, with her other hand, lifts the vape, fits her lips around the mouthpiece and takes a shallow drag.
She coughs, wincing. "Will," she says, between spasms of her lungs. "Hannibal isn't in the compound. Jack moved him. I don't know where. You're walking into a trap." She wishes he had kept his fucking phone, wonders if this was part of his plan all along.
But no; he couldn't have anticipated Jack moving Hannibal. He couldn't have anticipated whatever Jack told him to make him turn himself in. Whatever Will's plan was, Clarice cannot believe that this was part of it.
"For fuck's sake, I hope you're listening," she whispers. "You're walking into a trap, Will. Hannibal isn't there. He's not in the compound. You have to stay as far away from that place as possible."
Will has trekked back up the mountain, to the laptop he left. The battery is still good, and he takes it back down to the cabin where there's Wi-Fi, and opens the account for the bugs he planted. There it is, perfect – Alana's dog's bug and the one Clarice has in the vape, still working perfectly.
He pulls up Clarice's one, first, and frowns when he hears her quiet message. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes. So, Jack did move him. Of course he did. There are only two places in the world he would put a man like Hannibal.
He purses his lips, and pulls up Alana's feed. It's going live, and comes with harsh rustling, her dog panting. She's packing.
"We should just kill him and be done with it." That's Margot's voice.
"No," Alana says, and he can see her shaking her head. Her hands, trembling. "Will is too close. We kill him and we're next on his list. I can't keep you safe from men like him."
"And you think Jack can?" Margot demands. "You think anyone can?"
"If Will finds him, then maybe they'll just leave. Either way, I don't intend to be here when he does."
Just like he predicted. There will be guards on top of guards. Jack is smart, Will cannot say he isn't, but he's not used to the kind of criminal Will and Hannibal are. Passion and patience are things men like them hold in their bones; it's impossible to make them break without ruining the entire self. It's impossible to make a man a slave to his passion when passion is all he's ever known.
Jack could have anticipated Will giving up, tired and bereft and weak with longing, just wanting to be home. He could have predicted Will throwing Clarice away when she was no longer useful, could have imagined he would catch Will in the act of killing and arrest him on the spot. He must think Will is broken, in mind and spirit, and thinks Jack stupid and reckless enough to kill Hannibal just to get Will where he wants him.
Jack thinks he is going to the compound. He might have thought Will would break into the facility where they're keeping Clarice to free her, first. No partner, must correct that. No phone, no vehicle; have to correct that too.
It must be quite a shock, an impossible thought, to imagine that Will might simply keep his word. Oh, he's coming. He's coming for all of them.
Will smiles, closes the laptop, and leaves. Just like all those years ago, home again home again. He thinks Hannibal would laugh if he knew. Felicity's car is easy to break into, the keys tucked into the driver visor. He starts it, and peels away in a circle of gravel, onto the main road, and towards the Verger estate.
Chapter Text
Clarice jumps, looking up as Will drops a large, hardback book in front of her with a loud thud. She glares at him out of principle, before turning her attention to the book he just forcibly pushed her attention towards. Her brows rise.
"What's this?" she asks. There is a picture of a car on the front of the book, the words 'GENERAL MOTORS THROUGH THE YEARS' printed in white bold font on the cover.
Will sits down opposite her. They're in a library in Georgia, and due to move North soon.
"This," Will says, and taps the book, "is the single most important piece of information I will ever teach you."
Clarice tilts her head.
"The Crown Victoria and the Impala used to be the go-to cars for police force throughout the years," he tells her. "They're old-fashioned, nowadays. The FBI has more money and more reason to invest in larger vehicles. Jack drives a Chevrolet Tahoe – or at least, he did, and I see no reason he would have switched cars."
She frowns down at the book, and opens it. In the index, she sees the Tahoe model listed, and turns to that page. It takes up six pages in total, detailing the models, pictures, and the various features and makings of the car.
"Why is this important?" she asks. Will has taught her many things in the last couple of years, since he found her and brought her into the fold. Because of him, she knows how to load a gun, how to use many different types, how to take care of them. She knows the basics of hand-to-hand combat. She knows every weak and vulnerable area of another person, and how to sail a boat, and how to transform stories into works of art.
"It's important," Will replies with a smile. "Study up; there's going to be a test next week." She huffs, rolling her eyes, but nods. He stands, pulling his coat tighter around his body and tugging his long, blond-colored hair from the collar. "I'm done gassing up. Ready where you are."
Will has only been to the Verger estate three times. The first, when he was forcibly taken there and almost killed. The second, when he came to see Hannibal prior to their fight with the Dragon and subsequent escape. The third time, when he snuck in to give Morgan his note and plant his bug.
Still, the gates, and the mansion beyond it, are as familiar as his old house in Wolf Trap. He was right; there are more guards at the front gate than he saw before, and cameras trained all down the long driveway leading up to the gate.
He doesn't go down that route. Even knowing he's coming, Will doesn't want them warned.
He drives around to the back entrance, pulling Felicity's car to a stop and killing the engine. He pulls out a lighter from his pocket, pops the hood, and exits the vehicle, shouldering his bag with what remains of his guns and food.
He had stopped at a gas station and filled two extra jugs half-full with gasoline, and he opens them now, pouring them over the interior of the car and around the wheels on the tarmac. He lifts the hood removes the cap for coolant, the oil cap, and for good measure, pours additional gasoline over the inside.
He opens the gas cap and flicks the lighter on, crouching down so that the ring of gas ignites around the car. He straightens, pockets the lighter, and begins to walk around the perimeter as the car goes up in flames.
He finds a cluster of trees that will provide good cover, and settles down to wait.
"Missus Verger, I must say this is a pleasant and welcome change of pace. You are a much more gracious host than Agent Crawford."
Margot lifts a brow, clenches her jaw, and looks away. She would have never thought, in a million years, she would be sitting down to tea with the Chesapeake Ripper. "I should kill you," she says lightly. "You've caused my family more pain than I can fathom."
"And yet," Hannibal murmurs, sipping his drink. "Am I perhaps due for one last therapy session, before I die?" he asks her. Her jaw clenches again. "You and I always had such pleasant conversations. You were one of my favorite patients." He pauses, to take another drink. "I only ever wanted what was best for you."
"You tried to get me to kill my brother."
"And you killed your brother," Hannibal counters. "A serial abuser. You fell deep into the pit and landed on a pile of money, with a loving wife and a sweet child. Not the child you planned for, but one you love dearly nonetheless, I imagine."
She hums. They put Hannibal in a room much like the one he had at the BSHCI. The walls are plain, lacking adornment, a thick pane of glass between him and the outside world. There is a bed, but nothing else – thankfully he has not had to relieve himself since he was moved. This is not going to be a long-term solution.
"You look tired," Hannibal murmurs, and her eyes snap to him, and narrow. "I mean no offense when I say it. Perhaps 'tired' isn’t the right word." He pauses, and takes another drink. "Rushed, I should say. Rather harried. Is everything alright?"
"Are you enjoying this?" she asks, and hates that she is genuinely curious. "How much do you know?"
Hannibal smiles. "I know Will is coming for me. I know he must be close, for Jack to be behaving as he is." He tilts his head back, closing his eyes. There is, at least, natural light in this room, cascading in from the windows on the other side of the glass. The window in his side of the room has been barred shut. "I know he's been working with someone – someone rather capable. He trained her well."
"Do you think they're sleeping together?" Margot asks. "Alana told me Jack thinks so."
Hannibal does not laugh, though inside his head, Will does. "No," he replies coolly. "I don't."
"Because he loves you?"
"Because Will's friendship with Miss Starling cannot and should not be reduced to something as plebian and primal as sex," he says. "Just as I would never dare to fetishize your marriage as such a thing, and the wise would not do so to myself and Will." He sighs, and sets his drink down. "It is a rare thing, Margot, to find someone with whom you can hide no parts of yourself. Rarer still, to want to share all those rough and broken edges. It is rare, but not impossible, to find people who almost fit, and almost align."
She narrows her eyes.
"When I first met Will, and even when you knew him, he was a delightful contradiction of repression and desire. I am not so vain as to think I am the only person he would share himself with, but to the extent, to the depths, that we know each other? I don't think it's possible."
Her head tilts.
"To that end, I ask you; if something unfortunate were to happen to Alana, would you take a second wife?"
Margot blinks. "Are you threatening her?" she demands, fingers curling around her glass.
"Not at all. I'm posing a hypothetical."
His smile holds far too many teeth for her liking.
"No," she finally confesses. "I wouldn't."
"You and Will are not dissimilar, in that respect," Hannibal finishes with a nod. "One thing I can say about him, and about you; you are both steadfastly, unceasingly loyal to those that have earned your loyalty."
"And you think you've earned his?" she asks with a raised brow.
"Yes." It is said simply, with no hesitation. She envies his lack of doubt.
She sighs, looking down at her glass, tapping her nails along the edge of it. "If Will succeeds," she says slowly, "and frees you, what's your next move?"
"I cannot possibly answer that. This is Will's design, his plan." He smiles, and huffs a short laugh, clearing his throat and wetting his sore mouth with more tea. "If he's thought that far ahead."
She presses her lips together, and nods. His head tilts, and she lifts her eyes. "I believe I have some straw leftover from the deal I made with your wife," he says quietly. "Enough to, perhaps, spin some more gold. Are you asking for a pardon?"
"I don't know," Margot replies. "If Will is caught, and both of you put in the ground, then I've sold my soul for nothing. But if he succeeds, then a desire for an insurance policy wouldn't be completely unfounded."
"Of course," Hannibal agrees. "But what would your wife think?"
"I have resources, Hannibal," Margot says quietly. "Places Alana doesn't even know about. I can get you both out of here and hide you away."
Hannibal's brows lift, and he hums, tilting his head to one side. "So that you are the only one who knows our location when the hangman comes knocking again?"
"If the hangman survives," she says, and smiles when Hannibal makes a curious sound.
"Come, Margot, I would hope you know better than to think I would trust you."
Before Margot can answer, there comes a knock on the door, and she turns to see a guard poking his head through. "Misses Verger, there's a fire on the border of the estate," he says breathlessly.
She blinks, and curses to herself. "It's him," she says, panic rabbiting her heart up to her throat. "Send everyone we have. No one gets in."
"Yes, ma'am," the guard replies, and disappears through the door.
"It appears you're running out of time," Hannibal says, and sounds delighted.
Margot shakes her head, hisses through her teeth. "If it weren't for Alana, Will would be dead," she says, cold and harsh. Hannibal's eyes flash, his lips turned down at the corners. "Either by your hand, or Mason's. You might be dead too, or at least alone." She sits forward. "I'm not asking for much. Mutual ignorance. Safety, for however long you want it, in return for mine and that of my family."
"A new deal with the Devil, to absolve yourself of the old one," Hannibal murmurs. "You should know two wrongs seldom make a right, Missus Verger."
She huffs a frustrated breath, and stands. "If Will comes here, he will die," she hisses. Hannibal's eyes narrow on her. "We have more guards, more gates, and I can lock this room down with a click of a button. He'll die right up against that door and the last thing you'll hear is him calling for you, the last thing you'll get of him is his blood."
Hannibal stands as well, levelling her with a chilling glare. "You would regret that decision," he says, with the kind of finality she doesn't imagine exists outside of gods. Certainty; what must that be like?
"He doesn't have to meet any resistance," Margot murmurs. "I can call them all off. Evacuate the premises, tell them to stand down." Hannibal's head tilts, and she straightens. "If you agree, in exchange, to leave us alone. Go far away and never come back."
Hannibal hums, pressing his lips together. "You are a better negotiator than Jack," he concedes. "No wonder your family have built an empire, and you are so capable of maintaining it."
She glares at him, clenching her jaw. "What's it gonna be, Hannibal?"
He folds his hands behind his back, and gives her a single acquiescing nod. "If Will and I make it out of this, then your family is safe," he promises. She nods, breathing out heavily, and runs a hand through her hair. "I would advise you act quickly. No doubt he's already on his way."
"I'll take care of it," she replies breathlessly. "I swear, I will."
Hannibal smiles, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "Good luck, Missus Verger. I only hope Will is just as forgiving as I am."
Jack insists on driving Clarice to the compound. She will be remanded into custody there until Will is captured, and then taken to a holding cell. Or put in one in the compound. She doesn't know which. He has her cuffed, sitting in the passenger seat.
She presses her lips together, her eyes on the dashboard, listening only to the whoosh of air as the trees sweep by them. Jack is driving quickly. He must feel the same urgency she does.
"Do we have eyes on him?" Jack asks into a walkie-talkie.
"Nothing yet, Sir," comes a male voice in answer.
"Keep an eye out. He'll be coming and we have to be ready."
"Yes, Sir."
She huffs, rolling her eyes. "He's not going to do what you think he is," she murmurs.
Jack glares forward, and doesn't look at her.
"He's smarter than you give him credit for. We've been planning this for years, Jack. Every decision, every move you could possibly make, he's already four steps ahead of you." She smiles. "We would play Chess together, you know. He taught me how. Kicked my ass every time."
"This isn't Chess," Jack replies darkly.
"You're right, it's not," she concedes. She presses her lips together, as they turn off the main road and go to a single paved way, barely large enough for a lane going each direction. Still, Jack does not slow. The trees rise up tall, robbing them of vision. A perfect place for an ambush.
"Sir, we're getting word from the Vergers," the walkie crackles. "There's been an incident."
Jack frowns. "What kind of incident?" he barks.
"We're not sure yet."
"Keep me updated," Jack says. He sets the walkie down and pulls out his cell phone, dialing a number and holding it to his ear. Going too fast, one hand on the wheel.
Clarice's fingers curl. She tenses.
"Relax," Will purrs in her ear. "We've gone over this."
She nods. The model of Chevrolet Tahoe Jack is driving. The lights were replaced with lighter material to help streamline the vehicle and remove some of the weight, but it's still front-heavy. It has anti-lock brakes, and power steering. It has airbags in the front and sides to protect passengers from a collision. The steering was adapted to allow the most maneuverability, tight corners, sharp turns.
The trees are close enough they won't roll, but it'll be a Hell of a crash.
"Don't tense," Will says. "The seatbelts will lock and keep you in place." She feels a hand on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze. "You've got this. I have faith."
"Damn it," Jack hisses, hanging up the phone. No answer.
"It's the perfect time, Clarice," Will whispers. "Do it. Now."
Clarice grits her teeth, and reaches across, yanking on the steering wheel and throwing her body back as far as she can. Jack gives a cry of alarm, trying to correct, but the Tahoe is large and doesn't return to course easily. The wheels screech as they turn, sliding along the damp ground, and Clarice lets go of the wheel as they spin out. Jack takes the brunt of the impact against the tree, every airbag deploying and knocking into her with enough force that her ears ring.
She gasps, and fumbles for her seatbelt. Jack's door is caved in, a bead of blood running from his forehead. He looks unconscious, but she doesn't trust that for a second. She lunges forward, unbuckles his seatbelt, and gets out of the car, opening the back seat so she can get at him from behind.
She wraps the belt around his neck and pulls with all her might, listening to him choke. Watches his hands twitch feebly, but still unconscious, he cannot fight. She tugs and tugs, giving a frantic yell when she hears his breath stutter, and go still. His body sags, limply, and she loosens the belt.
She reaches forward, patting down his pockets until she finds the handcuff keys, and unlocks them, before attaching one of his wrists to the wheel just in case he recovers.
She takes his phone and her bag from the backseat and stumbles from the vehicle, panting and gritting her teeth. She's not injured as far as she can see, though her neck is throbbing and she might be concussed from the airbags. Still, she's alive, and mobile, and that's all she can really ask for.
She turns tail and runs back towards the road, panting hard. The phone is useless since Will doesn't have his, she can't call him, but she checks and the vape is in her bag. She just has to keep moving and hope Will thinks to check the tracking on it.
Ears pricked and eyes focused for any enemy, she runs to the main road, slowing to a walk when her head starts to spin. She breathes in deeply and sees, in the distance, a thick plume of smoke.
She presses her lips together, keeps her grip tight on the phone, and starts walking.
The way is far too clear. Will frowns, standing when he sees a long row of SUVs driving from the back entrance of the Verger estate. From the very back one, a window rolls down and a note is flung from it, dropping to the ground in a splatter of mud. He narrows his eyes, and waits for the cars to turn the corner, before he approaches and unwraps the note.
Will,
He's all yours.
His head tilts, and he stands, looking back up to the house. He doesn't see any movement, but will not give them the benefit of the doubt and think it's honest. One man can drive a car and leave four behind. He is on his guard, pistol in his hand, as he walks up through the gate.
No one. There's nothing. The place is silent as the grave.
Until, suddenly, it isn't.
He tilts his head, hearing music, and gasps. Patience is no longer his friend, no; Hannibal is here, in his head, and Hannibal is a creature of gluttonous hunger. It stirs in his chest, makes him feel on fire and rabid. He rushes towards the source of the sound, ready for a fight, and pushes open a set of white doors, ornately wreathed in gold.
Music overcomes him, high strings and a deep, bass chorus of trumpets, like a clarion call welcoming the soldiers home.
And there, there. Behind glass, but real and alive and as whole as Will left him, he stands. He is turned away, head tilted up, eyes undoubtedly closed. Will doesn't know how his legs carry him forward, but they do, and he comes up, up, up, and presses his hand to the glass.
"Hannibal," he whispers, but doesn't know if he's heard beneath the crescendo.
He watches as Hannibal breathes in, deeply. Savoring his scent. Hannibal's shoulders tighten. Will watches as he turns, slowly, because he's always so fucking dramatic. Will's vision blurs with tears, his fingers curl and scrape down the glass, and he lets out his breath, halfway between a sob and a cry of relief, when he sees those eyes again. Sees that smile. It's as though no time has passed at all.
Hannibal smiles at him, and approaches.
He presses his hand on the other side of Will's, fingers perfectly spaced so that, if there was no barrier between them, they could lace. Will mirrors him, his lungs so dry, his heart so light. It's flying. He's flying, and sees before them all of God's creation, all of his designs swallowed by the abyss behind him.
Hannibal's other hand lifts, fingers touching the glass like he wants to touch Will's face. In his eyes shines similar relief, bright as blood, wet and wanting and happy as Will is. His smile is wide enough to show all his teeth.
The music goes quiet, and Will exhales harshly.
"Hello, Will," he rasps, throat sore, scarring thick on his neck. Will sobs, presses his pistol-wielding hand to his mouth, knuckles tight against his teeth. "I missed you, darling."
Will swallows hard enough his throat clicks. "I -." He can't say a damn thing. All these years he pictured this moment, dreamed of it, ached for it. All those years and all his careful planning and he can't say a damn thing.
Hannibal's expression is so tender, so relentlessly in love, Will is drowning in it. He bows his head and rests his forehead against the glass, breathing in as deeply as he dares.
"I'm here," he whispers.
"Yes," Hannibal replies, as raw and ready as Will is. Even though the glass separates them, Will can feel his heat, takes in his familiar scent. It feels like coming home, and the voices in his head clamoring for attention slowly suffocate, and go silent. "You are."
They exist like that, in a perfect moment of stasis, before an alarm goes off. The doors swing shut and seal behind Will. Heavy metal shutters come down to block out the light from the windows.
Will tenses, straightening with a snarl, and glares at the camera in the top corner of the room.
Hannibal sighs. "Fool's gold, I suppose," he murmurs.
"No," Will snaps, shaking his head. After everything, it cannot end like this. He shoots up at the camera, watches the lens shatter and the casing fall in halves from the ceiling. "What happened?"
"Margot said she would evacuate and clear the way for you, if we promised to leave her alone, after," Hannibal tells him. Will growls, rubbing the back of his wrist over his mouth. "I didn't believe she would hold to her word. Unfortunately, that doesn't help us now."
Will breathes out, his lips twitching.
"No," he murmurs. "It doesn't."
Hannibal's head tilts. "Then, my darling, why do you smile?"
Will turns to him, and presses his hand to the glass again. "Do you trust me?" he asks.
"With everything I am," Hannibal replies. He watches, rapt, and oh God, Will had forgotten how good it feels to hear his voice, to be the sole center of Hannibal's attention.
He steps back, and pulls the lighter from his pocket. There are curtains on the walls. Even in lockdown, if there was a fire, the security system would be compelled to open the doors and allow those within to escape. Alana would never risk her child being caught in an inferno.
Will kneels down, taking out the rest of his clothes and piling them below the curtains. He uses the note for kindling, as well the maps and tour guides he took from Bearfence. It takes a while, but the clothes light, and when he turns back he finds Hannibal has wrapped his pillowcase around his face. Will smiles at him, and presses his back to the glass. There are no holes at wrist height like before. Now, they are higher, so they cannot touch.
But that's alright. Will can be patient, now.
He watches as the clothes catch. Watches the flames lick at his belongings, every last piece of it. Out with the old, the last vestiges of everything that brought him here going up in smoke. He closes his eyes, tips his head back. He lifts his hand, like he might be able to touch Hannibal, cup his face and breathe him in. He opens his eyes, admiring the golden spray of fire, turns so he can see how it kisses Hannibal's skin.
"I promised I would come," he murmurs.
Hannibal breathes out heavily, and Will turns his head so that their foreheads can touch against the glass. "I'll probably pass out before you do," he says, and nods to Hannibal's barred window. "We're on the ground floor."
"I'll take care of it," Hannibal promises, and Will smiles.
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hannibal eyes the clouds of smoke as they gather at the top of the room. He presses his lips together, realizing that Will's plan has one flaw:
The smoke detector is on Hannibal's side of the wall.
The holes are towards the top of the glass, and even now he can see smoke curiously trickling its way through to the other side, but still, Will's side of the glass will be much fuller than his by the time the alarms trigger.
Will's eyes are closed, his breaths slow and even, and Hannibal taps on the glass to get his attention.
"Get low, darling," he murmurs. Will's eyes lift, undoubtedly seeing what Hannibal has already deduced. "And get to the window, if you can, so you can open it once the shutters lift. Otherwise I'll have to come in through the front."
Will huffs, but nods, sliding down to his haunches so he's below the thick-gathering cloud of smoke. The scent of burning paper and plastic and cloth burns Hannibal's nose, even through his pillowcase, and he winces as Will coughs, burying his face in his elbow to try and filter some of the smoke and keep his head clear.
"Fuck," Will growls, looking up again. He stands, ignoring Hannibal's warning noise, and takes the lighter in his hand. He steps back, eyes the holes, and throws it up. It misses, and clatters to the floor. Will curses again, takes it, coughing into his arm, covering his mouth. "You gotta -. You have to trigger it from your side."
He throws it again, and again, it misses. Hannibal steps up to the glass, looking to the hole Will is aiming for. It's too high for even him to reach, by design, so Will has no hope of feeding it through. Margot took her chair with her, and the desk by the curtains has begun to be devoured by the flames, so he can't move it.
Will staggers to his feet when he gets the lighter again. He breathes in deeply, his eyes watering as he tries to focus through the smoke. "Will," Hannibal whispers, "don't strain yourself."
"You need this," Will replies, his voice hoarse, eyes growing hazy. He steps up close to the glass and winces, trying to breathe through the smoke, that has now grown so thick it's obscuring Hannibal's vision of his face, and he doubts Will can see the hole. Still, Will stretches up, straining on his toes, a foot shy from the hole in the glass, and tries one more time.
It goes through, and clatters to the ground on Hannibal's side of the glass.
Will collapses to his knees, trying to breathe what little clean air remains. Hannibal gathers the lighter with a proud smile, and drags his bed to below the smoke detector, standing on it and setting the little flame as high up as he can by the detector.
An alarm blares, and the shutters to the window rise on both sides. Hannibal steps down and Will coughs, grunting, trying to crawl his way over to his own window. Hannibal goes to his, forcing it open with a grunt, and climbs out into the crisp, cold air. The sun is shining brightly and he sighs, the wind cutting into his cheeks and stinging his lungs.
He hurries to the next window and watches Will low-belly crawl over to his side, fumbling with the latch so that Hannibal can open the window. He shoves it up just an inch, before he goes limp, breathing shallowly, but that's all Hannibal needs.
He forces the window open as high as it can go, wincing when the smoke billows out and makes his eyes water. He bends in and reaches out, hauling Will up and out of the building, onto his back in the grass. His breathing is labored, he's just on the edge of consciousness, and Hannibal tenderly pets his hair from his face, leans down to hear his heart hammering against his chest.
"Stay with me, darling," he murmurs. Will shudders, body convulsing as it tries to clear itself out. He lays Will down and plugs his nose, pressing his mouth to Will and pushing air into his lungs, both hands forming a tight fist that he shoves against Will's diaphragm, coaxing his lungs to clear and his heart to keep beating. He does it again as Will goes limp.
He doesn't stop. Water tried to take Will away, and Hannibal did not let it. He will not let fire and smoke separate them either. He pushes air into Will's lungs and punches it out, until Will coughs, lashes fluttering, and heaves with a hoarse, raw, "Son of a -."
Will groans, clutching his stomach, grimacing at the bright sunlight shining down on them. He opens his eyes, turns his head and Hannibal cradles his face, helps him sit upright, one arm slung over Hannibal's shoulder.
"Just like old times," he rasps, and Hannibal smiles. He pulls the pillowcase down to around his neck and hugs Will tightly, mindful of his aching lungs but so, so glad to feel Will, warm and alive in his arms. The version of Will he conjured in his head seems so fake and transparent now, how could he have ever contented himself with such a falsehood.
Will rests against his shoulder, sucking in deep, long pulls of air until his heart calms and his lungs clear. Hannibal eyes the burning building, watches the smoke curl up around the open windows, choking the house. With all the doors and windows open, he's sure the fire will spread happily, consuming it all and burning it to the ground.
Will's fingers curl around the pillowcase, tugging it free and letting it drop. He touches Hannibal's chest, panting, and turns his head up to nuzzle the thick scarring coating the side of Hannibal's neck. His next exhale, when it comes, sounds like a sob. His face is wet with tears, shining and warm on his face, and Hannibal cups his jaw, leans down, and gives him a proper kiss.
It doesn't last long – Hannibal will not rob Will of his hard-won air, but it feels like coming home. Will's mouth, chapped and warm and so sweet against his, is like food to a starving man, heat on frozen skin. It burns Hannibal, consumes him, as Will parts his lips and lazily licks behind his teeth, clutching at his clothes, and gives a single, weak moan of relief.
"Hannibal," he whispers, and Hannibal closes his eyes, rests their foreheads together, noses brushing, sharing air as their lips just barely meet. His hands slide through Will's hair, relishing the thickness of it, the warmth, the familiar curls as they settle against his palm and around his fingers. The feeling of Will's hands on him has been one direly missed, and he's thirsty for it, eager to soak all of it up like a desert come rainfall.
But; "We're not quite out of the woods yet, darling," he murmurs. Will nods, and winces as Hannibal helps him to his feet. He clings to Hannibal, more out of emotional desire than true necessity, but Hannibal has never minded Will's need for touch, and can admit he's particularly starved for Will's attention himself.
"Come on," Will whispers, and forces himself to move, hand in Hannibal's as they circle the front of the house, and go towards the stables. There's an old station wagon parked by the stables, and Hannibal waits patiently as Will crouches down below the steering wheel, tearing out the console and wiring the car until it starts.
He stands, breathing out heavily, and meets Hannibal's eyes. "Can you drive?" he asks.
Hannibal nods, and kisses his hand. He helps Will to the passenger side and sets him into it, kissing his forehead as Will settles. Then, he circles around and gets into the driver-side, turns the car away from the stables, and heads towards the back entrance where there is another single plume of smoke, thick and grey from a dying fire.
He smiles. "I never figured you for an arsonist," he says mildly.
Will laughs, the sound hoarse. He rests a hand on Hannibal's thigh and Hannibal drops one of his own, their fingers lacing. Even the small press of Will's hand to his is the kindest, sweetest victory Hannibal could fathom. If this is a dream, he prays he never wakes.
"Fire is a useful ally," he replies. "Symbolic, someone told me once."
Hannibal smiles, and kisses Will's knuckles. Breathes him in. His mate smells like gasoline and oil and ash, smoked meat and bitter determination. He smelled like that after the fight with the Dragon, before the ocean tried to eat them alive.
"I need to get to a computer," Will tells him. "Or a phone. We need to find Clarice."
Hannibal nods. They can't go back, for the house is up in flames. He is not certain if the news will have gotten wind of Will's plan, but would be a fool to think anywhere populated is safe.
Will must mistake his silence for disapproval, for his hand tightens, and he fixes Hannibal with a stern look. "I'm not abandoning her, Hannibal. No matter what you might think -."
"Darling, I don't disagree with you. I'd like to meet her," Hannibal says mildly.
Will frowns. "You don't -." He clears his throat, wincing and petting over his neck with his free hand. "You know Jack lied to you, right? She and I aren't…." He stops, swallows. "It wasn't like that."
"I know," Hannibal replies, seeking to soothe. He turns and smiles at Will, and kisses his hand again. "I know, darling." Will nods, reassured, and tilts his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. Hannibal squeezes his hand. "You need to stay awake, until I'm sure your lungs and heart didn't take too much damage."
Will hums. "Okay," he breathes. He forces his eyes open, fixes them blearily forward. He wets his lips, and smiles. "Would you like to hear a story?"
Hannibal's heart flutters in his chest, and he lets Will's hand spread wide over his thigh again, Hannibal's hand on top of his, their fingers laced.
"I would love to."
They drive to a Starbucks that sits on its own in the middle of a parking lot, the kind that is ringed with various outlets and a large grocery store. Will goes in only long enough to pickpocket a smart phone, and sits back in the car just on the outer reach of the business' Wi-Fi. Hannibal sits, idly people-watching, absorbing all that Will has told him.
Will told him everything. How he learned the weaknesses of the make and model of their car, broke the passenger side window mid-plummet, unbuckled his seatbelt and shimmied free so that he didn't get caught. Listens to how Will had a boat stationed on the docks and set sail to lick his wounds. Learned that he found Clarice, his half-sister on his mother's side, a newly-vomited ward of the state that had been trying to make it on her own for five years before Will found her.
He learns that Will spent years molding and shaping her, teaching her everything Hannibal taught him, and then everything he learned; car models and weaknesses; gun use; how to kill and dissect and destroy. How to fish, and sail. He hears all the stories Will told her about Hannibal himself, learns that Will has been watching, and waiting, for so many years.
By the end of it, Hannibal is so full of pride that he might be sick with it. Will, his Will, is so astoundingly clever, and cunning. Hannibal cannot remember feeling so proud since Will took them over the edge of the cliffs and tried to kill them both.
"Will," he breathes, and can say nothing more.
"I'm only sorry it took so long," Will murmurs. "I had to wait. I had to make them feel safe again."
"I understand," Hannibal replies. And he does. It is not easy to predict Will, but to understand him – Hannibal has rarely had trouble with that since he was arrested the first time. If they had both been caught, that would have been the end of it. If Will had come any sooner, without help or without enough time passing, he would have been too reckless, too impatient, too predictable. Jack's cockiness was his downfall, in the end; Will has been watching, all this time.
Hannibal turns his head, watching as Will taps away on the phone, pulling up a website Hannibal doesn't recognize. He logs into it and Hannibal reaches out, flattening a hand on Will's arm. Will looks at him, gives him a wide, beautiful smile, and takes his hand, lifting it for a kiss.
"Are you angry with me?" he murmurs.
"Angry? No, darling; how could I possibly be angry?"
"I left you," Will replies. His eyes shine, bright water he will not let fall. His voice is rough, and Hannibal has heard him speak for long enough to know that can't be blamed on the fire anymore. "I left you all alone, just like before."
"I was never truly alone," Hannibal says with a smile. "You walked with me, in my mind. I knew you would come for me, eventually. I just needed to be patient." He turns his hand, cups Will's face, watches Will's lashes flutter and fall low, his head turn to nuzzle Hannibal's palm. "I didn't doubt you then, and I have never doubted you since."
Will draws in a shaky breath, his mouth twitching into a smile. Hannibal pets his thumb over his scarless cheek, slides his hand to Will's nape and squeezes gently, in a way he learned soothed him even in times of high stress. Will's shoulders fall lax, and he sighs, and turns forward when the phone beeps.
"I've got her," he breathes, and smiles.
Hannibal nods, and shifts the car into drive. "Let's go get our girl."
Clarice doesn't know how long she's been walking for, just idly towards the clouds of smoke. She watches as a second one rises, this one much larger and darker – fresh. She presses her lips together, trying to get her bearings to figure out where it's coming from.
She tenses, as she hears a car, and turns to see an old station wagon pulling up beside her. The window rolls down and she stops, prepared to fight if she has to, because she'll be damned if she gets arrested again and taken to prison for real.
She recognizes the face that greets her. Feels like she knows that smile better than her own. "Going our way?" Hannibal calls to her. Clarice blinks, and she sees Will in the passenger seat. She stares, and Hannibal laughs, and turns to Will. "She has the same put-upon expression you do, darling."
Will huffs, and looks very tired. Clarice approaches, circling the car, and gets in behind him. Will turns to her and gives her another tired smiled. "Hey," he says, and reaches out to pet her knee. "You okay? What happened?"
"I think I killed Jack," Clarice replies. Will blinks at her, and tilts his head. "We were driving to the compound since that's where Jack assumed you were going. I caused a wreck, choked him out on his own seatbelt. Handcuffed him there."
Will nods, his smile warm with pride, and sits back in his seat. Looks to Hannibal. "We should check it out."
Hannibal nods, and turns the car around, driving back down towards the compound. Clarice winces, holding her head. Will notices. "Are you okay?"
"Think I concussed myself," Clarice mutters.
He nods knowingly. "Side airbags," he says. "Keeping your head back would have lessened the effect."
She lets out a harsh, wry laugh. "I'll remember that in the future."
Hannibal laughs, and meets her eyes in the rearview mirror. "It is a pleasure to finally, officially, make your acquaintance, Miss Starling," he says politely. She smiles, and gives him a nod. "I have heard a lot about you."
"And me, about you," she replies, looking at Will. Gone are the jitters from him now; he no longer resembles a man wearing an ill-fitting suit. She can't remember any time she saw him so relaxed, so at peace with himself. Strange, to be in the presence of someone who makes him look so…settled. So contented. Like the world could end now and he would be perfectly happy to let it.
They drive up to the Tahoe, finding it unmoved and untouched, smoking gently. Will gets out first, approaching the driver-side door, and opens it. He stares, dispassionately, at Jack's unmoving body. Clarice and Hannibal get out so they can see, too; his lips are a subtle blue color.
Hannibal steps forward, and presses two fingers to his neck. He hums, and looks at Clarice. "Was this your first solo kill?" he asks.
She presses her lips together, and nods.
"Capably done," Hannibal says with a charming smile. "You show a keenness for opportunity. That will serve you well in the future." Will is still staring at Jack, and Clarice looks at him. Hannibal follows his gaze, and sighs, resting a gentle hand on Will's back.
Will shivers, like the touch reset him; a machine powering on. He presses a hand to his mouth, rubbing over his jaw, his neck. Lets his hand drop like a puppet with the strings cut.
"I never…" He swallows. "I could never fathom a world that didn't have Jack Crawford in it."
Hannibal nods, expression soft with understanding. "He was a timeless, absolute kind of man," he replies, his voice holding a respect Clarice didn't expect to hear. Hannibal wraps his arm around Will's waist. "Would you like to honor him, darling?"
Will blinks, once, twice, and then presses his lips together and nods. "Yes," he admits.
Hannibal smiles, and kisses his temple. "Very well. Clarice, would you mind assisting me? Will inhaled a lot of smoke and I don't wish to strain him."
Clarice nods, and comes forward, unwrapping the seatbelt and pushing the airbags from Jack's body. Hannibal uncuffs him and pulls him out, grunting as he flops to the floor in a heap of dead weight. Will leans in, once the way is clear, and pops the trunk of the car, going to the back and pulling out the standard-issue pistol, bolt cutters, and triage kit.
Inside the triage kit are small pieces of surgical equipment, and scissors to cut away clothing. Thread and needles and glue for immediate tactical medicine. "Jack started carrying this after he attacked you," Will murmurs, looking to Hannibal. "That night."
Neither Hannibal nor Clarice need to ask which night it was.
Will swallows, shoulders rolling, and grips the scissors open in his hand. He approaches Jack's body, and kneels down over his ankles. "I cut him three times," he murmurs, and pulls Jack's jacket and shirt apart, buttons deftly undone to expose his belly. "Three is a powerful number for me."
He drags the scissors in the first cut, below Jack's sternum. His skin splits, pulsing with released gas. No intestines; he didn't cut that low or that deep yet. "Not just because of my family of three," Will continues, barely more than a whisper; "Three times I almost died. Three times he struck against me.
The first." He cuts a few inches below, and Clarice winces at the cold, clean precision of it. It's so clinical it's almost insulting, but Clarice knows Will does not mean to insult. Can reverence go so far as to become apathy? "My own fault. I can admit that. I made two deals with two different Devils and one took the price from me himself."
Beside Clarice, Hannibal breathes out heavily. She steps close to him and takes his hand, and he blinks at her in surprise, but smiles, and squeezes her fingers gently.
"The second," Will says, and makes a final cut between the two he already left. He sets the scissors down and peels back Jack's skin, exposing his liver and intestines. They spill out with a slick noise, coloring Will's hands pink. "Your fault. You brought me back into the fold. You brought me to the Devil's doorstep and made me ring the bell. You threw me into the gates of Hell and left me there to drown."
Bitterness coats Will's voice like blood coats his hands. He stands, and works Jack's tie free, refashions it into a hangman's noose, and threads his organs through the loop, weaving them into the cloth. He yanks them free, grunting with effort, and Hannibal tenses beside Clarice. His eyes are dark with concern, watching Will exert himself, but he makes no move to intervene.
"The third time," Will says, sweating, hauling Jack's guts out and around him in a wide circle. He nudges them into place with his toe and leaves the noose sitting on Jack's unmarred chest. "You went after my family. You hurt them all. Isolated one, threatened the other, and almost -."
His hands curl, a fissure of anger making them shake.
"You thought you could see me," he hisses, and goes to the car. He wraps his hands within a wreath of broken glass and pulls a heavy shard free. "That you could see all of us."
He kneels by Jack's head, forces his eyes open, and presses the shard over his entire face, hard like he's trying to suffocate the man all over again. The glass doesn't fog; Jack isn't breathing. Of course he's not. Will smiles, and rubs his bloody fingers over the glass, clouding Jack's eyes.
He stands. "Clarice," he murmurs, and she straightens at attention. "Do you have your phone?"
She nods, and hands it to him. Will steps back, standing between Jack's feet, and takes a picture of it. He opens up a website and emails the picture, before he takes the SIM card out, crushes it under his foot, and throws the phone away. Throws the one he stole away. Throws it all away, breathing hard and basking in the final victory of standing over God's corpse and watching him rot.
She looks up to Hannibal, sees his eyes are wet, a great wave of emotion overcoming him as he stares at Will, like one might stare at a great work of art. It feels like she has encroached on something sacred and secret, and she lets his hand go. When he looks to her, she nods at Will and gives him an encouraging smile.
This is not for her. This is for them. Dues paid for slights she only knows the iceberg tips of.
"Will," Hannibal breathes, and Will turns as Hannibal approaches him. Hannibal cups his face and kisses Will, and she turns her face away, letting them have their moment.
They cannot go anywhere public. By the time they reach a port nestled high up on the Eastern Bay, Will is laughing. There's a boat left just abandoned enough for them to steal. Will disengages the tracking system and the navigational tools, and he and Clarice ready it and set sail as fast as they can, out to the ocean.
"We're going South," he tells her, and she nods, turning once they are out of the main part of the Bay. There are some supplies on the boat, including food and spare clothes that are far too big for her, and for Will, even for Hannibal, but they all change into them and dump their sullied clothes into the ocean.
"What did you do with the picture?" Clarice asks him.
Will grins at her. "I sent it to Alana," he replies. Beside him, Hannibal smiles. "The email address she used to hire you in the first place," he adds, nodding to Clarice.
She frowns. "If Alana knows we killed Jack -."
"Perhaps it will persuade her to leave us alone," Will finishes.
Hannibal hums. "Perhaps," he replies, though he doesn't sound convinced. He smiles, wide and amused; "I can't help but think you are hiding one more trick up your sleeve."
Will meets his eyes, and gently touches his face. "Fear," he whispers. "Fear makes people stupid, makes them behave recklessly. Alana will take her family and run as far away as she can."
"South?" Clarice asks, suddenly understanding why Will bid them set their course that way.
"To sunny Mexico," Will says with a laugh. Then, his expression sobers, his eyes become cold and steely. "I'm done playing games with her. We finish this, once and for all."
"You mean to kill her?" Clarice asks. "Margot and Morgan, too?"
Will looks at her, and then away. He sighs. "No," he finally admits. Hannibal's arm wraps around him, holding him close. "Maybe. I'm not sure yet."
Clarice presses her lips together, and reaches forward, taking his hand. He meets her eyes. "Whatever you decide," she says with a nod, and he smiles at her. She stands, shaking out her hair, rolling her shoulders. "I'm going to go up on deck. Give you guys some alone time."
Will laughs, and Hannibal gives her a gracious nod. She leaves, and Will watches her go, shivering when Hannibal's arm tightens around his shoulders. He turns his head and meets Hannibal for a kiss. The space is far too cramped to do anything here, but Hannibal's touch on his face, his heat, his scent, settles the creature in Will's chest that had been howling so loudly. Finally, his head is blissfully silent, empty, waiting to be filled.
Will pulls back with a gasp, rises to his feet and pulls Hannibal to him. He wraps his arms around him, bears Hannibal's teeth in his lower lip, his hands spread wide and warm on Will's flanks. Hannibal's eyes, when they part for air, are black and shining.
"Come," Hannibal growls, and leads him towards the back of the boat, where there is a bedroom, a tiny rickety bed that rocks with the chops of the ocean water. This time, it is Will who eagerly takes his monster's hand, and willingly follows him into the dark.
Notes:
Don't worry I'm not gonna fade to black the real reunion, we'll get that next chapter ;D
Opinion time: I'm genuinely on the fence about how they deal with Alana & co. I have a few different ideas but would love to hear your guys' opinions if you're willing to share them <3
Either way, the next chapter will be the last one (plus MAYBE a little epilogue depending on how it goes) so yeah. Murder family ftw.
Chapter Text
Will hasn't allowed himself to think of Hannibal like this since they were separated all those years ago. The few times he did indulge, it was in carnal memories, replayed for him like favorite home movies. The nights in Italy, Spain, England, France. The long drives where he would pull off in the middle of the night on the side of a near-abandoned road because the thought of going another moment without Hannibal's hands on him felt impossible.
He half expects it to be quick, dirty, ungraceful. One of those bodice-ripping, near-violent reunions; 'I missed you so much', 'It's been too long', 'Every night I thought of you' echoing in their chests and planted with hard bites and sucking kisses to necks, shoulders, chests, thighs. Ripped seams, creaking mattresses, pulled hair and raking nails.
It isn't like that. Hannibal touches him with reverence, wide-handed, petting through Will's hair and down his shoulders and wrapping strong arms around his body with almost unbearable tenderness. Will's throat is tight, his breathing labored, as he's herded back into the bedroom at the stern of the boat, where the walls are lined with wood and there's a single circular window letting in grey light, illuminating the side of Hannibal's face.
The room is cramped and small, a bed and a desk and a little square shower sectioned off in a corner. Hannibal kisses him, steals Will's air and presses him onto the bed, and Will sits, clinging back at Hannibal as Hannibal kicks the door shut.
He can taste saltwater on Hannibal's lip, and his own eyes are hardly dry. He rakes his nails through Hannibal's soft, fine hair, cups the back of his neck and draws Hannibal to him, like a vessel come to harbor; spreads his thighs to let Hannibal anchor him down and keep him from floating away.
Hannibal's clothes are easy to remove, whoever owned this boat was a big man and the clothing hangs off him just as much as Will. He pulls at Hannibal's shirt, hauls it over his head, his breath catching when he sees, in sharp relief, the huge line of scar tissue at the side of his neck, the subtle dip in the side of his ribcage where his bones cracked and splintered. The welted scar from Francis' gun.
Hannibal smiles at him, tilts his head into Will's hand as Will touches his face. "I knew you had survived," he murmurs, kissing Will's wrist. "The world would have stopped turning, the stars grown dull and lifeless, had the ocean swallowed you permanently."
Will swallows, the hard knot in his throat clogging his lungs. "I'm sorry," he whispers.
"I'm not," Hannibal replies. His voice is so soft, throaty, a raspy growl Will doesn't think will ever fade away. It makes him sound monstrous; truly, he has ascended, shed the last of his human skin and prowls like a demon in the dark. His hands flatten, wide and warm, on Will's flanks, and push his shirt up and over his head so both of them are bare from the waist up.
Will rears up, kisses him, feeds him air like he might have had they both washed to shore again unharmed. Hannibal meets him for it, his body solid and heavy as he grinds between Will's legs, takes his hands and flattens them to the bed, their fingers lacing. Will gasps, groaning weakly. The rocks of the boat help them with friction, grinding rhythm that lasts a little longer than if they were on solid ground.
Will fights his hands free, drags them down Hannibal's strong, broad back, pushes at the loose jeans they found for him as Hannibal fights Will's free as well, baring them both in the warm, humid darkness. The touch of Hannibal's skin against Will's, so alive and warm after so long without anything else, threatens to burn Will to ash, to consume him whole.
He wraps his arms around Hannibal, breathing hard against his shoulder as Hannibal grinds down on him, threatens to reduce him to sand and glass shards. Will gasps, moaning soft and low, kisses whatever spare skin he can reach as Hannibal's hands flatten on him, like he wants to remap all of Will's rises and valleys. There are mountains in Will's chest, dips in his flanks, around his hips. Furrows to dig and soft earth to plant and sow.
Hannibal pulls back, rearing up high, back arched and head lowered so he can kiss and mouth at Will's pulse, his collarbone, down the center of his chest. He finds the scarred smile he left on Will's belly and nuzzles it, as he grew so fond of doing during their time in Europe. Equal parts repentance and pride; he almost killed the man who tames monsters, and Will loves him anyway. He kisses at the edge of Will's scar, sucks soft skin between his savage teeth, and Will tilts his head back, lashes fluttering closed as he arches into Hannibal's mouth.
He paws at Hannibal's hair and cries out when Hannibal moves down further, presses his nose to Will's pubic hair and breathes in deeply, savoring his scent. His lips part, and he angles his head, sucking the tip of Will's erection into his mouth. His cheeks hollow and Will moans again, trembling as Hannibal sucks him down to the root – time and lack of practice have done nothing to temper Hannibal's skill or appetite. He sucks Will down with a throaty snarl of his own, eyes closing, lips spread taut and sealed tight as he tongues at the base of Will's cock, works his way up to the head, and back down again.
"Hannibal," Will whispers, spreading his legs wider as Hannibal coaxes his thighs apart, hands dark against Will's pale skin. He wraps his fingers in Hannibal's hair, gives a tiny, aborted thrust, and Hannibal growls, nostrils flaring, accepting him easily into the depth of his ruined throat.
He's so hot and wet on the inside, the roof of his mouth and his tongue providing delightful pressure on Will's cock, sucking him harshly, his exhale warm on Will's stomach. Will moans, hips giving another little thrust, seeking depth and tightness that Hannibal seems more than happy to provide. It's been so long, too long; Will doesn't have the strength in him to resist Hannibal, he never did.
He manages a single, weak growl of warning, his stomach tensing and thighs going tight, before the heat in his stomach coils and rushes out of him. Hannibal pulls back so he doesn't choke, his lips sealed tight around the head of Will's cock as he swallows his come, and Will cries out loudly, head thrown back, one fist flying to his mouth so he can bite down on his knuckles and stifle the sound for Clarice's sake.
Hannibal swallows all of him, and releases him with a somewhat petulant noise. "Your diet could stand some adjustment," he says, and Will laughs, breathless and dizzy. He sits up, pulling Hannibal upright, kisses him and tastes the bitter remnants of his come in his mate's mouth.
"I didn't have the patience for fine cuisine," he murmurs. Hannibal smiles at him, his eyes dark with adoration. He kisses Will, pushing him back onto the bed, his own hard, leaking cock grinding against Will's where he's growing soft, spent. Will shivers, arching up against him, clinging to him with his thighs and desperate hands. Hannibal is slick with sweat, stinks of ocean air and his natural musk. Will buries his nose in Hannibal's neck, over the scar tissue, and breathes him in raggedly.
He reaches down, wrapping a hand around Hannibal's cock, stroking him slow and tight. "I want you," he murmurs. A tremor runs down Hannibal's back at the words, his chest vibrating with a rumbling snarl. Will feels teeth at his neck, his heart racing like it's trying to beat out of his chest and find a home in Hannibal's hands.
Hannibal wraps his fingers in Will's hair, coaxes his head back so his neck is bared and Hannibal can lay his teeth against his pulse, sharp and sending another ricochet of arousal down Will's spine. He arches up, clinging, nails raking down Hannibal's back.
He takes Hannibal's free hand, wets his fingers, and guides them between his legs. Hannibal needs no further encouragement, or instruction; he knows Will's body better than anyone. Knows he can take whatever Hannibal gives him with minimal stretch and warning. The first push of Hannibal's wet finger inside him, spreading saliva, feels like the first few steps up a steep mountain. He's going to be forced to the very precipice and flung over it, Hannibal in his arms as he's always been.
Hannibal works a second finger inside him, pulls them out to wet them again and returns them to Will's ass, spreading him out on his fingers. Will continues to stroke Hannibal's cock, eyes closed, savoring Hannibal's labored breathing in his ear, the wide, warm kisses being placed to his neck and shoulder, the sharper, biting bruises being laid.
"Hannibal, please," he whispers, turning his head and kissing Hannibal's jaw. Hannibal rears up again, meeting his eyes, the soft light coming in through the window making him look monstrous. Will leans up, kisses him deeply, releasing his cock and coaxing Hannibal's fingers out of him. "You don't need to wait any longer. I'm here."
Hannibal's eyes brighten, and he swallows, dipping his gaze down. "Yes," he breathes, and swallows harshly. His voice is soft, confession-quiet, reverent. "You are."
Will smiles, the lump in his throat travelling down, choking his lungs. Hannibal lays over him, melts against him like an ocean wave, and Will kisses him deeply, angles his hips up, claws at Hannibal's thighs to bring him closer as Hannibal's cockhead catches on his rim, and sinks in.
He clutches at Hannibal's nape and clenches his eyes tightly shut, Hannibal grabs and lifts him and forces himself as deep into Will as he can go, both of them out of breath, hearts racing but in sync. The entry burns, but in a good way, muscles held tense and tight for far too long suddenly allowed to release. Hannibal is here, he's here, and that's all that matters to Will in this moment. No air, no food, no sunlight; it doesn't matter when he's in the darkness, kept warm and safe and held together by the monster he loves.
Hannibal is shaking harder than Will, overwhelmed, his hands sliding up and strong arms wrapping under Will's back, holding him close – so starved for him, Will can feel it in every shuddering inhale, hear it in every hitched breath. His skin chafes against Hannibal's, two creatures, two pieces of a puzzle finding each other's edges, as Hannibal moves inside him and Will cradles Hannibal in his arms.
Fingers curl in his wild hair, gripping and tugging Will's head back, Hannibal's face buried in his exposed throat. His skin grows wet, and not because of sweat; he says nothing about it, just lets Hannibal cling to him and find solace in him. Some grieving, deeply-buried part of him had been resigned to never feeling Hannibal like this again, had thought maybe, despite all his careful planning, something could go wrong, and if he was lucky he might only see Hannibal and hear him, but never touch him again. That part of him is choking now, drowning under the violent reality of their victory, and Will is glad to watch it die.
Hannibal lets out a quiet, unsteady breath, clings to Will and grows heavy and still, shivering as he finishes. Will's body aches as he feels Hannibal twitch and empty inside him, his eyes close, and he pulls Hannibal into a slow kiss that tastes of saltwater and relief.
Hannibal lets him uncurl, slowly, mindful of aching joints and sore muscles. Will plasters himself to Hannibal's chest as they separate, unwilling to let him go for a second, lets Hannibal push his nose into his hair and tremble with near-silent, breathless cries of relief. Will pets him, shushes him, utters whispered reassurance and comfort and praise. Hannibal has been flayed to the bone by Will's absence, alone except what he can conjure in his own mind; Will doesn't fault him for being overwhelmed by it all. He hasn't had time to prepare himself for it like Will has.
He closes his eyes, nose in Hannibal's chest, breathing in their mixed scents. It's settling, hearing his heartbeat, listening to his hitched, unsteady breathing. Hannibal's fingers curl and rake through his hair, one leg held between Will's, as intimately entwined as they can be on this tiny bed on a little rocking boat, so inconsequential. Will could laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Hannibal quiets, after a while, kisses Will's hair and lets out a heavy sigh. Will opens his eyes, tilts his head up, and gives Hannibal a warm smile. His eyes are red-rimmed, shining in the relative darkness, the flush on his face a lovely, soft pink. Will pushes himself up the bed to kiss him, cupping his face, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
"I missed you," he murmurs, and Hannibal gives him a wide, adoring smile. "I'm never letting them take you from me again."
"I can only think of a few people who would try," Hannibal replies. His voice is hoarse, like he's been screaming. Perhaps he has, across the vast expanse of time and space, from one end of their shared mind palace to the other. Will hears an echo of it throb in his own chest.
He sighs, pressing his lips together. "Alana," he murmurs.
Hannibal nods, and moves so that Will can use his arm as a pillow, both of them facing each other, Hannibal's free hand absently petting over Will's scarred cheek, through his hair, down his shoulder and bicep and back up. It's so warm in the little cabin that they don't need a blanket, but Will pulls one up over their waists anyway, resting his hand on Hannibal's hip below it.
"If we kill her," Will begins, meeting Hannibal's eyes, "we have to kill Margot, too. She wouldn't let us get away with it. And that means killing Morgan, or taking him, or leaving him to the state."
Hannibal nods. His eyes lift to Will's forehead, like he can physically see Will's mental wheels turning. His smile is small, but sharp. "Do you want to grow our family with the child of our enemy?"
Will hums. "I don't think of him like that," he replies. His head tilts when Hannibal nods. "And you don't either, do you?"
"Margot did exactly what I thought she would do," Hannibal says. "She looked at the cards in her hand, and noted the ones that had already been played. She had no reason to believe Jack was not in full control of his part of the situation, and therefore made a play that had the highest chance of success for her." He wets his lips, lifts his shoulder in a small shrug. "Truthfully, darling, I understand her completely. She assumed we would either be caught or die in her trap."
Will nods.
Hannibal sighs, brushing his knuckles gently down Will's cheek. "I harbor no ill will towards them," he confesses. Will blinks, opens his mouth to reply, but Hannibal shushes him with a gentle touch. "The promise I made to Alana is old; many years and many changes of circumstances have come and gone since then. When I made that promise, it was because she chose to be brave, and rise up against me. She has not chosen bravery, this time."
Will presses his lips together. "I got the in I needed, through her," he agrees. "She played her part."
"As did Margot," Hannibal finishes. "I have always regarded her with an absent admiration. Only wanting what was best for her, as I did for you, and as I do now, for your sister." He smiles. "Perhaps what is best for them is to be left alone."
Will considers him, for a long time, the only sounds being their breathing and the gentle creaks of the boat. "Then we'll go make that promise," he says. "A new covenant, like with Noah and the Arc."
Hannibal smiles, and brings him in for a kiss. "As you wish, my love."
It is on the sunny shores of Mexico that they find her, nursing an unnaturally pink drink that stinks of rum, sunglasses wide over her eyes, a large hat hiding much of her face. But Hannibal knows her scent. Near her, Margot is bathing in the sun, Morgan and their dog bounding along the white sand and playing in the spray.
She looks up as Clarice sits down next to her. She tenses, and takes a long sip of her drink. "You alone?"
"No," Clarice replies, and nods behind her. Hannibal has reclined next to Margot. By Morgan, Will has ingratiated himself to the dog with a new and exciting ball full of treats. He laughs with the boy, both of them taking turns playing fetch with the dog.
She swallows. "Nothing kills them, does it?" she mutters darkly.
"Apparently not," Clarice replies with a nod. "I take it you got our last message?"
"Who killed him?" Alana asks.
"I did," Clarice says, and she looks at her, removing her sunglasses so Clarice can see her wide, dark-shadowed eyes, her pale face. The beach is relatively uncrowded, but there are still far too many civilians to risk her making a scene. She watches Will playfully wrestle the ball from the dog, tossing it to Morgan. "We just wanted to make sure you got here safe. That you were comfortable."
"Why?" Alana spits.
"We're going to move on, after this," Clarice tells her. "And go far away. They thought you would be more receptive to hearing it, coming from me."
Alana's eyes narrow on Clarice. "They're murderers," she says roughly. "They'll turn on you as soon as you're no longer useful to them."
"Or as soon as I betray them, yes," Clarice replies. She shrugs. "But they haven't so far. And it's not like I don't know exactly where I stand with them." She smiles. "I think you know better than most the lengths people will go to for their family."
"So that's it?" Alana whispers. "You just came here to tell me it's over?"
"Merciful, wouldn't you agree?" Clarice asks with another shrug. "We could have just let you stew, grow bitter in your own fear, or get it into your head to try hunting all of us down. But your son deserves better than that, and I think we could all use a good rest. So, yes; it's over. Until you decide it isn't."
She turns on her seat, fixing Alana with a steely gaze that looks so much like Will Alana's breath catches. "You've spent a long time in the shadows, Alana," she says, almost gently. She reaches out and touches Alana's hand, gives her a warm smile when Alana stiffens. "It would be so easy to let them swallow you up. Will wanted me to make it very clear that you don't need to. You can pretend to be better than all of us, if you want. You can be the one who ends our blood feud. All you have to do is let us go, and let us remain hidden, and that's the end of it."
Alana presses her lips together, turns away, yanking her hand free and taking another long, long pull of her drink through her straw. Clarice sighs, and runs a hand through her hair, standing and leaving Alana be. She approaches Hannibal, who rises and gives Margot a cordial smile and a gracious nod of his head.
They hold hands as they approach Will and Morgan. Morgan grins up at them from his place in the sand, his dog panting and gnawing on her treat-filled ball as Will rises to his feet. "It was good seeing you again, Morgan," Will tells him with a kind smile. "Take good care of your mothers for me."
"Thanks, Agent Crawford!" Morgan replies brightly. Will laughs, and takes Hannibal's other hand, and Clarice releases them, walking by Will's side.
"Agent Crawford?" Hannibal repeats with an amused smile.
"It's an inside joke," Will replies, nudging his shoulder. He looks to Clarice. "How'd she take it?"
"About as well as you predicted," Clarice replies. She looks over her shoulder to see Alana approaching her wife, kneeling down and hugging her tightly. "They make a nice little family."
"I agree," Hannibal murmurs.
"Are you sure you want to leave them alive? We can follow them to where they're staying, end this once and for all."
Will hums, and after a moment, shakes his head. "Another important lesson for you, Clarice; having a Devil you know is more useful than not. There might come a time when we have need of each other again."
She frowns. "They might still come after us," she murmurs, soft with concern.
"And if they do, we'll be ready," Will replies. He squeezes Hannibal's hand and gives him a warm smile. They walk back to the port where they docked their little boat, and they board it, untying it from the dock and raising the anchor.
"Where to?" Clarice asks.
Will hums, watching Hannibal as he sits on the sun-warmed deck, comfortable as he has always been. "Somewhere warm," he suggests. "Where we can wait out the winter."
"Surprise me," Clarice says with a laugh, as Will goes to the engine, starts the boat, and pulls out of the harbor and sets his sights on the horizon.
There is a creature with horns and black skin, sitting beside her on the beach. It looks emaciated, limbs too long, eyes unblinking and staring at her. It smiles, widely, showing too many teeth.
"I can't believe they just agreed to leave us alone," Margot murmurs.
"I can," Alana replies, unable to tear her eyes away from the creature laid out beside them. "Death is a release. It's freedom. We're not even worth eating to them, anymore."
"You sound upset by that."
Is she? Alana presses her lips together, sighs through her nose, shakes her head. "It's their final payback, looking over our shoulders for the rest of time, fearing when they might return and end us once and for all."
"Hannibal told me they wouldn't, if we didn't."
Alana nods, frowning. "I guess that's all we can hope for, then," she says, heavy with resignation. She rubs a hand over her eyes, wincing at the bright sun, and yet, when she opens her eyes again, the beast is still there. Still smiling, still watching her. It will watch her, she thinks, for the rest of her life.
A final gift, a voice tells her, that sounds like Will, from me to you.
Margot takes her hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "It'll be okay," she says, and Alana looks at her, wondering how she can sound so sure. "We just have to leave them alone. You have to let it go." She pauses, tilts her head. "Can you do that?"
She wants to say 'No', she can't. But Jack didn't let it go either, and look where he ended up. She manages a weak smile, and squeezes Margot's hand in return. "Yes," she replies, and has to believe it. She has to, for as long as she possibly can. She can be patient, too, if she needs to be. Margot returns her smile, and kisses her, and they are left in the too-bright, overbearing sunlight, while the ocean's monsters ride out to sea.
Until next time. When she pulls away, the monster has risen, and walks out to the ocean. It leaves clawed footprints in the sand, and turns to her when it's up to its shoulders in the spray. Gives her one long wave, and smiles so, so widely, before it turns back, and walks until the waves swallow up its horns, and it disappears from sight.
Notes:
I was literally on the fence about how to deal with Alana until this chapter. Will logicked me out of it, and truthfully I don't think Hannibal would even be that mad about Margot's decisions because he gets why she did what she did, and I think he would still harbor some affection and pride for her at what she's managed to make of herself.
Anyway, that's the end of it! I hope you guys liked the journey. I may do a little epilogue of the murder family down the line, but for now it's all finished. Thank you to everyone who read and shared the fic, and left encouragement along the way. See you in the next fic! <3
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