CARMINE

by crazilyaylin

Summary:

After the incident that occurred in Muskrat Farm and the past of Florence that will forever taint both Will’s and Hannibal’s lives, they part ways. Life becomes a chore for Will as he starts to live a domestic life.

Years later, when Will finally believes he has survived Hannibal Lecter, Jack Crawford comes to Will’s home and asks again, for Will to help him catch Hannibal.

Everyone is back, not by choice, but by the matter. Hannibal the Cannibal has returned, and it seems he’s not alone anymore.

OR

an alternate universe where instead of Hannibal turning himself in, he runs away again, leaving Will alone.

Notes:

The fallout of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.

Chapter 1: NAVY

Notes:

Prologue

“I don’t want to think about you anymore”

 

The words left a serrated, rotten wound inside Will. He could feel his skin, the yellow thick fat, the muscles behind himself, tearing apart to show a carcass that was already swarmed with moths. He felt like a corpse. But it should go away eventually; become so frail, so dead, that it soon turns into dust and memory. If this is true, why does it feel like he’s stuck here? Why does Will feel like he’ll be in this bed forever?

 

As Will stares at Hannibal, his gaze turns softly to the windowsill. It’s chilly out, the trees don’t bear any leaves or berries anymore but the branches move suavely against the hum of the breeze. He glances down to his desk. It’s barren, with no fishing ties or scattered nuts on it. Only dead skin cells and dust. The shotgun sits temptingly low. He wonders if he should kill Hannibal, intimacy be damned.

 

The clock ticks by. It feels like hours, but maybe it was just a few seconds. Hannibal finally moves. His tall frame hovers over Will for only a moment before leaving, the old wooden floors creaking as he exits. The only sign that Hannibal Lecter was in Will Graham's home, was the loose fragrant smell of citrus and pine. He doesn’t wonder where Hannibal will go, he doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.

 

As he moves, he feels a pang of pain and guilt infecting his jawline. Now standing, Will walks to his washroom, finding his first aid kit being displayed on the counter. He looks up at his mirror and finds a stranger staring back. Will had grown more stubble, but on the right side of his face, there were ten small stitches scattered along his jawline. From his chin to his ear, there’s a slight tint of red that colors his face. He also notices his eyes. The eye bags that once hung on his face are gone, only puffy and pink. He looks refreshed, reborn.

 

The thought leaves an acrid taste in his mouth. How can he be reborn when he just tore his ribs apart? How can he be reborn when what he was, wasn’t alive yet? Images of the stag flood his brain. Abigail and black tar engulf his mind. That night comes again. The blood on Abigail is no longer thick and maroon but instead black and all-consuming. He sees the stag take its final breaths as Abigail dies. The tar burns his throat and eyes but the feeling is deserving. This was his payment, this was his confession of being forgiven. Judas pleads with Jesus as the punishment feels heavy on his shoulders. Is Hannibal God or Judas? Will huffs, pushing his thoughts away as his hands run over his hair. How long was he out? Leaving the room, Will paces towards the kitchen where a calendar is hung. It gives no helpful information; the calendar is off by a couple of months because of the sailing.

 

The sailing.

That must’ve taken a month right? No, it couldn’t be, he doesn’t remember any of it. Maybe the breeze of the tides, the moonlight illuminating the water. How appealing it looked.

 

He can’t think. The stovetop rattles three times before flames come from the stove. Will scoffs, almost surprised he still has everything on. A metal teakettle is placed on the stovetop, water soon bubbling and boiling inside. It works as a metronome for Will. Each pop reminds him he’s alive, and breathing, and how Hannibal isn’t here. He stares outside again, the atmosphere looks gloomy, as if he took all the color from the sky and kept it within himself when he left. It was quiet.

 

But only in this twitching silence did Will start to wander off. Memory is a powerful thing, it keeps what we love alive and its fixtures never become fiction. Yet, memory is also a choice. Anyone can try hard enough to forget, and they’d succeed. Some will lie and believe that even if they had a lobotomy, their memory would live on in their bones. Does Will believe that? Is he broken? Will he forever think that the idea of becoming again is just a distant possibility that he should forget? But memory is a choice, isn’t it? He can choose to close that distance; he can choose to heal.

 

The sound of loud whistling interrupts his thoughts. The kettle is vibrating, letting a bit of water spill out. Steam fills the room and now it smells like wet leather and gasoline. He rubs a hand over his eyes, causing red blood cells to appear, and turns off the stove. The kettle stops howling and stills. Will opens his cabinet to get a navy-colored mug. The bottom of the glass is chipped a bit but he doesn’t complain. He opens a box of Earl Gray and lets the tea bag float on the water until it sinks to the bottom.

 

Is this rock bottom? Is this how it will be? Surely not, he will find someone new, someone he can have a conversation with, someone he can laugh and be with. He won’t be broken forever, this is just temporary. As the aroma and steam waft on his face, Will grabs the mug and sits close to his fireplace. The wood is rotten and wet, no longer useful. Maybe going to the woods would help his mind. Will glances at his living room, the once colorful bookshelves he owned are now empty and depressing. The only tether of himself was gone; dogs that were once so alive and moving were now gone. They were the only thing that was holding Will together. They shared that sort of otherness he couldn’t have with anyone.

 

Will could only connect to animals, he realized.

 

How grotesque, to only find yourself in something that isn’t remotely close to the morality of humans.

 

He thinks of Hannibal.

 

Was he human? Can he be considered human? He could bleed and cry like any other person, but so can animals. He could feel; no that isn’t right. Hannibal Lecter is a psychopath. A psychopath who sees himself as superior and others as a pound of meat. What about Mischa? Did he care for her? He had to, that was his sister. What about Will? Did he care for Will?

 

As these thoughts pondered and pounded in his head, the tea went cold. Orange hues color his dim eyes and Will stares outside. If he’s being honest, he can’t tell the difference between a sunset and a sunrise. Both have significance: one being the beginning, the other being the end; but if this is true, why is it all the same? How come the very sun that decorates his being and home is the same sun he saw in Florence? In Baltimore? In Louisiana? The lines blur between the end and the beginning. The lines blurred with Hannibal.

 

It was disgusting. Him being alone, Will realized how close he was to the ugly, the darkness. The vicious, disastrous, disgusting part of Will Graham became so large, so hard to ignore, he could see it. He could want it. To let it consume him entirely would be easy. But isn’t that the part that’s the most dissatisfying? How easy it would be to fall in the arms of Hannibal and let himself ride the high in the old body that was once his. If he were to allow it, his body would no longer be his; it would be Hannibal’s. His ghost would be the only thing that’d remain.

 

No one ever talks about the ghosts that remain in one’s home when they grieve. Even now, Will can see all the people he’s touched, cared for, and loved, in the room. Their hearts all pump and beat the same, echoing inside Will’s head. Soon he will start to believe their heartbeats are his own. Each body, bludgeoned and bruised, he will start to wonder if those bruises are on himself as well. A phantom touch that threatens to become true.

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

 

Headlights flash close to Will’s window. Blue and red lights illuminate his patio and he knows who it is. Will puts his cold tea down on the wooden floor. He shuffles to grab his coat and steps outside.

 

“Hello, Jack”

 

Jack Crawford, and what seems to be a dozen men, crowd around his home. The only thing protecting Will from the sudden white snow is the awning of his porch. He stares, seeing footmarks all over his home. Almost as if someone was pacing around it, wanting to light it ablaze. “Where is he?” Crawford demands, his bass-filled voice striking the Earth’s floor. Countless men start searching the grounds, looking in the forest, and even breaking the lock to Will’s boat shack.

 

“He’s not here, Jack”

 

He can’t take no for an answer, “Yes he is.”

 

Will scoffed, his warm breath became a cloud in front of him. He turns back to Jack, “He’s not here, Jack.” He repeated. Half of Will almost expected Hannibal to walk out of nowhere, kneel, and ask Jack to arrest him. Minutes went by and nothing came. A sort of dissatisfaction came along too.

 

Jack snarled and his shoulders fell. He lowered his gun and stepped forward, in Will’s direction. He changed his expression, “Look, I understand why you won’t say anything Will, but I need you to tell me where he is.” Jack’s eyes were cold and heavy; he looked like he hadn’t slept for weeks. Will stepped forward, almost threateningly. “Hannibal Lecter is a murderer, a psychopath, and a liar,” he steps closer, somehow creating a misty image of himself, “and you think I have him in my home?” Will scoffs again, rubbing his forehead and then his chin, the feel of stitches being a reminder of what happened.

 

“Unless you have a warrant, Jack, I don’t want to see you here for more than five minutes.” As he walks towards the front door, Will looks back at Jack. He looks defeated. The tan trench coat he wears has specks of white snow on the shoulders. It glistens with light and ice; he resembles an ice sculpture. The men hover around him, like flies, buzzing and waving towards each other to try to find the supposed reputable Cannibal. Will steps inside. In a matter of seconds, he hears Jack yell at his men, telling them to spread out and leave. Rustling is heard and soon enough, silence.

 

The irrigation from the snow will surely grow weeds around his home. There will be animals dying in the cold tonight. They don’t have homes or places that are warm at night. How ungrateful Will should feel. How dare he continue life when there are broken, damaged animals out in the snow? Broken animals. Ruined animals.

 

Ruined. Such an easy word.

 

Can the ruined come together? Like pottery that’s gone to waste, can Will start over and replenish his once-worn being? The violence that’s consumed him, the one he’s convinced himself was care and friendship, can that transform into love? It felt good knowing what was happening to him, it felt good knowing the violence that was happening to him was exactly that. Violence. It’s comforting, connecting to that part of himself. Ultimately, that was the only way Will could be himself.

 

But did that violence happen to him, or did he allow it to happen? He actively encouraged destruction. Since the moment he slit Hannibal’s wrist in that Gymnasium pool, he invited violence in. The picture of Hannibal, hung with only his hands, the hands that created gorgeous art by ending life. Hannibal’s hands were destructive, and he allowed them to graze his cheek with adoration, with love.

 

Expressing love wasn’t something Will was unable to do. Growing up, his father wasn’t shy from showing love, he just showed it in different ways. Instead of saying ‘I love you’, he’d steal extra cans of food and give them to Will. He’d teach Will how to fix boat motors instead of letting him watch. He hit him to show him lessons, and isn’t that the way to raise a child? By showing them knowledge through your love? Being offered care and “conventional” love felt like proof that Will was already ruined; a wounded animal that had to be taken care of lightly or else he’d fall.

 

He knows Hannibal was part of him, he said so in Florence. He remembers the smell of 16th-century paintings and Hannibal. His citrus and pine scent seemed to come with him by nature. They had begun to blur, Will couldn’t tell the difference between himself and Hannibal.

 

Except he could. He wasn’t a murderer, but is that a lie he can afford?

 

It burned his throat, the lie. It burned and bruised but Will’s darkness has now gained a conscious, a thirst. Hannibal was his darkness, his pleasure. What does one do when that pleasure leaves? Can he experience pleasure without losing that darkness, that part of Will that is himself entirely?

 

The tea mug has lost its auburn color. It’s now mundane, lifeless, and cold. Hannibal believed color was proof that something was a fact, fixed, and true. It was a promise of life, color showed those whispers of fertility. As Will huddles close to his unlit fireplace, he’s besieged by the ghost of Abigail once again. She looks older now, much older. Her face has beautifully scattered freckles that appear over time. Her skin was cold.

 

“Why did you let him go?” She asks, her mouth doesn’t seem to move but her voice still vibrates through the walls. Her hair is shorter, highlighting her age. Her idiosyncratic aura is shown through her furrowed brow. There are no animals in this room except them.

 

“Why did you let the teacup shatter?”

 

Will studies her for a moment, then offers a broken smile. “You aren’t real.” He exasperates, not in sadness but in acceptance. Abigail Hobbs is dead. His Abigail is dead. The only version Will has is one that he has created, and that seems so much worse.

 

Abigail doesn’t look confused anymore. Her brows unfurl and the illusion of rouge covers her face. It seems she’s got her answer. Will can't see her anymore because the idea of Hannibal isn’t with him anymore. She can't be real because Hannibal and Will aren’t the reality anymore.

 

Abigail Hobbs is dead, and it’s because of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.

 

There are no animals in this room but himself

 

Chapter 2: MARIGOLD

Summary:

Its funny how time can move so fast, and a person can still stay in one place

The trite architecture of his decomposing house was nothing that truly bothered Will. He was a builder, a man who could break anything down and create it into something new. At least something that could be used. Unfortunately, that meant that Will became busy often, finding some rather uneventful things to remodel and fix. First, it was his carpet that was stained with the blood of Mason Verger. He never had the chance to remove the stain since he spent most of his days in Hannibal’s home, discussing literature and indirect threats of violence. It all was reeled in Will’s mind as a blur.

 

Then it was the chipping stone fireplace that started to grow some type of invasive moss, causing the house to gain a rather repugnant smell. Sheet moss usually doesn’t create a scent that isn’t earthy but thanks to the cracks in the stones, insects have created a home in said moss, causing stench. Everything was fine for Will, however. He became so invested in the damage to his home, that he didn’t notice how quickly things ran out.

 

Naturally, Will had to go out and buy supplies. Stores like Lowe’s and HomeDepot became increasingly useful the more this “episode” of Will’s continued. As he strolls around the aisles buying Calk and dozens of pieces of sandpaper, he doesn’t notice he bumped into someone

 

“Ow! Be careful man!” A woman's voice shrieks, dropping samples of yellow paint. Will sees this woman get down to pick up the colored paper and decides he should apologize. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking, are you okay?” He grabs the rest of the samples and both the woman’s hand and his brush against each other, Static shocking them both. The woman stares abruptly, and laughs, “You shocked me!” She jokes, now crouching up to Will’s eye level.

 

The woman seems no taller than 5’6, and with her blonde strands framing her youthful face, she’s adorable.

 

“My name is Will” he pours out, unsure if he even realized he’d introduced himself to her. The woman smiles and pulls one of her locks behind her ear, “I’m Molly.” As they gaze at each other, Will notices how beautiful Molly is. Her strong blue eyes and messy fringe are endearing and in all ways, cute. He imagines what type of life this woman lives. Children? Maybe just one. Husband? Perhaps but he’s definitely not present. The spell seems to break when a child’s voice interrupts. Next to Molly, a young boy stands close, holding two buckets of paint and a pack of amateur paintbrushes. He examines Will, seeing to evaluate him. “Mom,” the boy asks, “Who’s this?” He breaks contact with Will and now looks at his mother questioningly. She turns to the boy and smiles, “Wally, this is Will,” she then turns towards Will, “Will, this is my son, Wally.”

 

Will glances at Wally and gives an awkward smile. Wally’s eyes narrow and his mouth opens, “You can call me Walter, Mr. Will.” He yelps as Molly elbows his side, seemingly as a warning. Molly then turns back to Will and he notices that she’s thinking of something.

 

Suddenly, Molly grabs a pen out of her hair and one of the paint samples in her left hand. She writes what seems to be numbers and passes it to Will. As he takes it, their fingers once again brush and a shock soothes them both. A small recoil takes over Molly and she smiles kindly, “I know this might be abrupt but I wanted you to have it.” A light blush decorates her face and she glances back at Wally, or Walter it seems. She nods her head away and that’s a signal for both Molly and Walter to leave, leaving Will alone.

 

Glancing down at the paint sample, a phone number is listed on it. The black pen contrasts the marigold background and Will smiles, folding it and placing it in his wallet.

 

He forgot that he needed to buy gray paint that day.

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

Over the next few months, Molly and Will communicate and go on a couple of dates. Walter tags along since Molly “doesn’t trust him enough to leave him all alone.” Walter seems to roll his eyes at that excuse, but each time they go to dinner together, Walter seems to have an enjoyable time, smiling at his mother and even laughing at what Will says sometimes.

 

As the months turn into seasons, Will and Molly decide to make it official. Their relationship wasn’t a huge surprise since they’d been together all these months, but Will wasn’t sure to ask until Molly abruptly asked if she and Will were dating. To which Will replied, “I thought that was obvious since the first date.”

 

Still, these seasons didn’t come smoothly. There were times when Will and Molly would have arguments, to which Will would find Molly huddled up in a blanket watching baseball.

 

“I didn’t know you liked baseball.”

 

She’d sigh and wipe her face from the oil and agitation. “I don’t, but my ex-husband did.” This took Will by surprise. Of course, he knew that Molly had a past lover, he just didn’t know the man was dead. As he took sympathy for her, she firmly put her palm out. “You don’t need to feel sorry, it was a long time coming. He had stage three liver cancer, so we knew there was a chance of losing him.” She now sat up, her bun now falling into a lazy ponytail, strands sticking out like she’d been electrocuted. Her- or rather, Will’s shirt hangs off her, one shoulder exposed. She looks beautiful.

 

“I’m sorry, Mari.” Will would call Molly ‘Mari’ sometimes, after the color Marigold. He said it reminded him of her. Molly radiated that sort of hue, from her long blonde hair to her glowing skin during sunsets. She was Marigold, his Mari.

 

Molly languidly smiled at Will and playfully punched his shoulder. “Don’t stress my beautiful man, it’s okay.” And that’s how their arguments would resolve. One would apologize and the other would take them with open arms.

 

As beautifully and clearly a year went by, Will proposed on a Hill close to the sea, surrounded by all types of yellow flowers; Sunflowers and Tulips, Daisies and Daffodils, Carnations and Marigolds. The ocean tide calmed Will. Marriage was something he never thought of, too much of a privilege to even consider. The thought of being with someone for the rest of his life felt like prison, but one that was rightfully deserved.

 

How can someone love another for a lifetime? Love is hard work, it’s the closest type of insanity society sees as peace. Everyone wants love, does everyone deserve it? Does Will Graham deserve it?

 

There had been moments where Molly had brought up Will’s connection to the FBI, and how he was accused of murder. “I don’t want to create a life with someone that has these actuations, Will.” Her stern voice would echo in his membrane. Wally was all she cared for, and Will knew Molly wouldn’t hesitate to protect him.

 

He grabs her hand and looks at her in the eye, “They are just accusations Mari; accusations that were proven false, thanks to,” his voice threatens to stop, “thanks to the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

Will Graham didn’t want to think of Hannibal anymore. And he hadn’t, for a long time.

 

At least, that was until a voice that was taken from a past life returned.

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

His only real knowledge of Hannibal the Cannibal ( a name Fredrick Chilton decided to trademark after it broke that Hannibal escaped ) was when he saw those sacrilegious articles that depicted Dr. Lecter as some sort of lion, now departed from his den. Will didn’t understand what Hannibal’s “den” was. Thanks to Freddie Lounds, she clarified it for him, stating “Will Graham was Hannibal Lecter’s den. He was a man that could return to Will at any time and he’d be accepted, with open arms.” Though it was quite amusing reading theories and bounties set over the surgeon, Humorous even, Molly wasn’t as appreciative.

 

“They’re painting a target on your back, Will” she’d spit, angered at her husband’s infamous reputation being brought up. “Aren’t you bothered?” In truth, Will Graham didn’t care. His relationship with Hannibal Lecter was finished the moment he left the FBI courtroom after being asked to give any information or evidence he could provide. He was at peace with Hannibal Lecter, if peace meant being tormented by the scars he left, moving and burning hot. At times he’d wake up in the middle of the night, go to the bathroom, and spend hours staring at the smile he was given, wondering if it was actually moving or not. Once, Molly caught him.

 

“I can’t control what Freddie publishes, Mari.” He’d repeat, not expressing any other emotion besides contentment. Molly scoffed, shaking her head before turning off her phone and going to bed. Will found it amusing, seeing how even after three years, Freddie Lounds is still writing about them.

 

It was even more amusing when he saw Jack Crawford on his pavement, wearing a charcoal coat and that same insalubrious look on his face.
His hair is gray and no longer clean-shaven. Half-lidded eyes stare at him, asking him to do one more favor, one more thing; asking him once again to borrow his imagination. Will has built a strong life, domestic bliss. Although the relationship he’d built with Molly had begun to feel tepid, it was still giving. Walter is now a prepubescent boy who has no interest in Will but still shows respect, even calling him “dad”. It was tranquil, it’s all Will had wanted.

 

But when Jack came Will understood he wouldn’t have it anymore, those early Sundays where he would go to the stream and spend his time fishing and admiring. When winter came and the water froze, Will stayed in his home, teaching Wally how to create fish hooks and lures. And although Wally never seemed to show a particular interest in these moments, they meant something to Will. His routine of life had become inexplicably hackneyed and lazily fixed.

 

As he and Wally walked outside, taking in nature, Molly and Jack conversed. Apparently, it was enough for Molly to throw away everything she had said before and almost begged Will to go. Saying he’d regret it if he didn’t.

 

Would Will regret it? All he’s built these last few years had been standing because Hannibal Lecter hadn’t intervened. Sure, there were moments when Will wouldn’t stop thinking about Hannibal, where he was, or what he was doing. A man as wealthy as Hannibal Lecter surely had a few houses around different countries; that was proven thanks to his time in Florence. But how does one accrue to the permanent inadequacy Hannibal had branded in Will? He had given a taste of absolute power. A gluttonous being like Will should stay clean. Like a drug addict, even seeing a tinge of control can create a break.

 

He should stay clean.

 

Will he regret saying yes? A life with Hannibal Lecter was painful. He’d block the most precious moments of life if it meant life would never be boring. What was considered boring for him? Would he consider Will’s life banal?

 

Just to spite him, Will agreed to see Jack in the morning.

 

 

(CARMINE)

The drive to Quantico was quiet. Jack knows Will doesn’t do small talk and Will has no interest in speaking to Jack. Both had this agreement of keeping it professional, though, after all these years, that belief could be considered fruitless. As they arrived, Will noticed the halls were filled with new trainees, new faces that he couldn’t recognize. All of them were rather decorated with dark bags and fallen posture or a rowdy jovial look. He quietly snickers.

 

“I was not completely honest with you, Will” Jack confesses, slumping down in his chair. Will pays no regard to Jack and instead pays attention to the small figure standing next to him. “Dr. Bloom,” He says, eyebrows raised, “to what do I owe the visit?” Alana now has very short hair, resembling the Verger family picture. Her posture is straight, no longer leaning to one side, and her aura is nothing but opulent. She smiles, cheeky when she says, “You know exactly why I’m here, Will.” Jack switches his gaze from either of them and sighs, “Will have a seat.”

 

“I’d rather stand, Jack.”

 

It’s been far too long for Jack to reach out now, to ask again ‘Will you help me catch him?’ It’s been far too long for Will to show any care or concern. Yet, that doesn’t stop him from looking at Alana and Jack with disdain. “Are we all going to gaze at each other or are you going to tell me why I’m here?” His voice is cold and fickle, unsure of being angry or annoyed. Jack is about to answer before Alana interjects, “There have been countless murders around the area that depict the crimes of the Chesapeake Ripper. Some are messy, jagged, amateurish” she describes, her arms crossed, “but others are precise, show no traceable motive, and artistic.” It is now that Will realizes the murky look on her face. Jack has his hands close by his mouth, crossing them like he's praying.

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“Because,” Alana scoffs, her hands returning to her back, “You are the only man that has been able to recognize his crimes, Will” she points out, her left hand now stroking the air when speaking. Will gets flashes of Beverly, the reminders she’d give him, saying to interpret the evidence. “What, do you want me to see the crime scene?” He questioned, anger bubbling close to the surface.

 

She decides to jab Will, “God no, we both know you couldn’t control yourself the first time.” She ambles close and releases a sigh. “We just want to see if it’s him.”

 

Alana glances behind her, “Jack wanted to bring you to the actual crime scene but I decided against it. We brought you here for the simple gesture that is communication and sharing notes.” She picks up a folder off Jack's desk and hands it to Will. The folder is dark yellow. It reminds him of Molly.

 

The photos show different angles of what seems to be a replica of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.

 

Blood was extracted from the man, the body was pale and cold. The eyes are forced open, stitches tied with the eyelids and the brow bone. A sort of shadowy red color in the man’s eyes, giving the impression that the man had been crying. His face has three scars that were made antemortem. There’s one on the man's right cheek, the appearance looking like a skin graft. The other was close to his jaw; it was surgical, purposeful. Stitches accompany the wound.

 

There’s a large, jagged scar in proximity to the hairline. It looks like it’s been healing for months.

 

The hands are nailed down on a wooden cross, but the drops of blood that bleed from the man aren’t natural; it was placed there. A barbed crown lays on the man’s head, apparently made from tree branches. Something seems off

 

There’s a woman, lying on her knees, looking at the man. The expression is plangent and lambert. But the woman isn’t a woman, it’s a child. There are light freckles plastered on her face and her eyes; the same cerulean hue she had.

 

It’s so obvious to who it’s meant to be; Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs. Their beings were ethereal enough for Hannibal that he decided to let them live through a historical tragedy. From the scars on the man’s face to the girl’s youthful appearance and long chocolate hair; this is an offering to the truth. Can tragic truth be considered beautiful nonetheless?

 

“Were there any organs removed?”

 

“Yes, a heart for the young girl and the man’s brain” Alana confirmed. The girl looked no older than twenty.

 

Youth is highlighted by appearance. A woman who has lived and loved can have no wrinkles, no crow eyes, no veiny hands, and she would be considered young. How beautiful you are, how youthful.

 

Hannibal finds evidence of youth through the meat. Consider veal, before they are slaughtered, newborn male calves are stuck in small cages when they are born; the more they move, the more they age, the more the meat gets tender. Why would one want to chew when they could just swallow? How soft a baby's skin is, and how easy it can be to kill and consume.

 

Abigail had lived, not by years but by trauma, her mind was tender but not her flesh. Was her heart pure as well? Was the man’s brain hot and picked? Did it have gaps like Will’s did?

 

Will closed the file, now feeling the headache coming in. They know what he is about to say, yet it doesn’t change that apprehension that consumes all three of them.

 

Of course, it’s the Ripper, who else would it be?

 

The vent makes a sibilant noise that keeps Will steady. His breaths fill his head, replacing the sound with his heartbeat. Alana unfolds her arms and looks out into the Hallway. She should be home with her son right now, Margot is probably worried.

 

Jack stands and walks towards Will. “There’s one more thing I need to show you” Will shakes his head, “I can’t, Jack.”

 

“Please Will, just this”

 

How many times has he said that before? As they walk out of the office and go towards the morgue, Will sees two familiar faces laughing and smiling. “Zeller and Price had found two pieces of metal inside both the victims.” The metal table has two bodies that are uncovered. Both Price and Zeller are bickering about the type of metal it is. “Hey! There you are-“ Price jumps but then stills, noticing Will, Brian follows the same

 

“Welcome back.”

 

Will smirks politely and nods. As they fill Will in on the types of cuts and places the bodies were found, his mind starts to wander.

 

Metal? Why would there be metal in the body? That doesn’t make sense, the Ripper has never left anything in his victims before, not a feather or nail or anything. This isn’t his design.

 

“-Yet, it matches with BSHCI pipes, see? The rust has covered most of it but it’s there!”

 

Even chemicals contain some sort of humanity. Each negative has a positive. Each life only has one chance, there is no such thing as second chances; only to become reborn and replaced. Each human has a purpose. To stay close to purpose creates and allows humanity to be in its most vulnerable form. What happens when a person finds purpose in another?

 

What happens when Hannibal Lecter gains a shadow?

 

Notes:

WOAH! I didn’t expect people to like…actually read this so quickly! Thank you?!? COMMENTS ARE SOO APPRECIATED I LOVE HEARING PEKPLE TALK PLEASE TALK!!

I forgot to say that there will be some religious content mentioned here because well, I wasn’t raised catholic for NO reason ;)

I really liked the idea of Molly being seen as the color/flower that is Marigold. When I first watched season three and saw Molly, immediately I was like, yeah, that’s a marigold.

Also SHADOW?!? OoOooOoO what could that meannn?!?!

I’ll update regularly (??) I just updated today because Strangers by Ethel Cain hit too hard.

Chapter 3: CRIMSON

Summary:

Dreams mean everything, everything can mean nothing. Finding Hannibal can mean…?

On the wide and pasty land in West Virginia, he lays on the brown grass, hands maneuvering and twitching. Under the rusted Chevy, motor oil drips on his grey Henley, creating more stains. His hands were a midnight sky, specks of what were meant to be stars, shined through his apricot skin. The radio on the ground sang Harvest Moon by Neil Young and fruit flies were surrounding his truck. Freshly juiced peaches and mango nectar scented the industrial air as Will looked up. He saw Hannibal, carrying a tray that had a handful of fruits and nuts, meats and flowers, all arranged beautifully.

 

“Will, I have something for you.”

 

He slid from under the truck and adjusted to the sunlight, his hand covering his eyes instinctively. But when his eyes adjusted, he didn’t find Hannibal. Instead, he found a sort of dark animal, with black leather skin, long antlers that protruded from the animal's scalp, and dark soulless eyes. Will immediately stood up, his back leaning to the hot crimson hood. He was panting, shaking. The once beautiful countryside now was falling, pieces of the sky fell to the ground and burning stars set the forests ablaze. All that remained was the creature and himself. He looked down, noticing that the tray of fruit no longer held fruit, but instead rotted composts. The fruit was fake, it always had been. Will sneered. The utter want the fruit possessed; to become something so real, so animated, and yet be a fraud. That acceptable pass that it gained simply from looking like the others. All it needed was the right context to be considered needed.

 

But fruit is always attractive. The taste, the beauty, the juice running down your hand, its intoxicating nectar scenting your fingers. Why would anyone mistake it for anything else?

 

Flies swarmed the creature's head, peeling and biting off its skin, black turned into blue and suddenly, the night sky became its own monster. He reached for it but nothing grazed back. How desperately do animals love? How can we measure it when everything, every action they do is primitive? Their biological nature is their only nature, so how can they adapt to that human emotion called love ? Maybe it wasn’t love, maybe it was desire; except, isn’t that the same thing?

 

The creature is gone, and the silver tray is shattered, sparkling the grass with glitter and glass. The food is still there. Will hesitantly crouches down, not caring if the glass gets in his jeans. He questions the fruit, wondering, thinking, how would you taste? His hands reach for a fruit, a slice of mango. Maggots cover the fruit, now stained with brown filth. The bruises resemble his own and it’s mesmerizing. Why is it hypnotizing? As he’s about to place the mango in his mouth, time seems to move quickly, like days spread across a few moments, and the mango decomposes right in between his fingers.

 

Will panics, where is it? He desperately reaches for another, trying to regain that sense of euphoria he felt when he first reached. The sort of control, that adrenaline, that primitive wanting only an animal would feel. This time, he grabs a slice of a fig. The sea salt green contrasts the strawberry red, resembling a tunnel to another dimension. His shaky breaths break his trance. He doesn’t see it until he finally stops shaking. He sees the drops of precipitation that were from himself, coat the fruit in an iridescent glow. Each drop reacts like acid, breaking and destroying the fig with each drop. It lands on Will’s hand and it burns him. The meaty part of his palm is blistering, the bubbles form, and pus leaks from them. It smells like a fevered sweetness. He has an instinct to taste it. The seldom atmosphere calmed Will, even if his hand only got worse. The blisters now turned into painful sores and they leaked a combination of blood and urine. It wants to stay inside of me, it’s nothing without me. He scratched, not caring how much it caused him pain to remove. Get it out, get it out. The fear of becoming what Will worked so hard not to become had an anticipating chance of becoming true. Knowledge can create clarity, but what would happen when he finally knew?

 

 

What would Will do if he knew that Hannibal was close, even now?

 

(CARMINE)

 

Jack called in the morning to inform Will that they would be meeting back at Quantico. His eyes were heavy from lack of digestion and delirium. The early June heat brings discomfort to him, creating apparent sweat stains under his blue long sleeve. The stale coffee that he got from his motel left a bitter taste in his mouth. “What’s the situation?” When they enter, a small red-headed woman sits crossed, hands on her lap and staring intently at Jack and Will. “No,” he immediately spits, turning his heel towards the door. Jack’s hand stops Will, pressing his lower back. “I see no reason why I have to work with Freddie Lounds.” Will turns, eyeing her. She smiles, her short curly hair now holds loose ones, making her look older. “I do.” She advised. Lounds stood, her 1940’s clothing wrinkling as she paced toward Will. “You know he’s out there again. It’s been three years and he’s still here, Will.” Her expression was dour. He glanced at Jack, eyebrow raising as he asked “What does have to do with me?” Freddie sighed loudly, her forehead puckered  a line between her eyebrows, “If it’s concerning Dr. Lecter, it’s concerning you, Will.”

 

Will scoffed, “No, I have buried the hatchet with Hannibal. I have not seen him, I have not thought about him, and I don’t plan to now. The only reason I’m here,” he spat, “is to look at some evidence and give my opinion on it. I won’t agree to do anything else.” Jack closes the door behind him and his shoulders slump. “Will-“

 

“No Jack.” He objected. “Just tell me why she’s here,” he said, “before I leave.” Jack walks between Freddie and Will to walk to his desk. As he sits, he fixes some reports that are on his desk. “We brought Freddie Lounds here so we can conduct an interview.” Will observed Jack’s quiet demeanor, “Interview? For what” Freddie opens her purse to show a recorder, “For Hannibal Lecter. We know he’s still an avid reader of TattleCrime,” “Yes because all you write about is him and I.” Will interrupts, his arms crossing. Freddie smiles, “Don’t question my writing, Graham.” “I won’t question your writing when it doesn’t attract litigious readers.” Jack interjects, “Look, I don’t care about what Freddie writes, what I do care about is that what she’s writing, is being read by Hannibal. We need a way to communicate to him, a way to lure him close to us.” To that Will laughs, his eye crinkling. “Lure him? He hasn’t been caught for decades, Jack! He has been able to escape and not get caught time and time again, the thought of luring him would just be a big joke to him.” He takes a breath, “You can’t lure a hunter, Jack.”

 

“Tell me, Will, that night after you escaped Muskrat Farm, where was Hannibal?”

 

He turns to Freddie, the recorder is blinking red. “What?” Freddie sits again, her legs crossed. The dandelion lights illuminate her navy skirt. “According to FBI reports and your testimony, Hannibal Lecter was with you the night you escaped Muskrat Farm. Tell me, Will,” she uncrossed her legs, “Where was Hannibal Lecter?” Will knows where he was. He was there, stitching him up, cleaning off the blood, taking off his soiled clothes, and replacing them with his ordinary ones. He remembers Hannibal writing equations on a leather-bound, wondering what they meant. He remembers the fresh snow that coated Hannibal’s coat, and how repulsed he seemed touching it.

 

He remembers what he said.

 

“You delight in wickedness and then, berate yourself for the delight”

 

Did he enjoy it?

 

“I don't know where he was. He wasn’t at my home.” Will responded, some hair on the back of his neck lifting. Freddie didn’t crack, “So, how did you get there? At your home? Muskrat Farm and Wolf Trap are far from each other. It’d take hours, maybe even a day, to get to your house, no?” She grabbed a notepad and pen from her purse. Wills stands frozen, unsure how to respond. To the public, Will Graham is a good person; a man who was manipulated by a cannibalistic psychopath, that killed people just because he thought they were rude. Will Graham is a good person; a man who has tried to completely move on from that part of his life, to not let those few years dictate his future. Will Graham is a good person. “I was unconscious for a few days, my clothes were changed and the air was moist. I know I wasn’t alone but I never saw him.” He said, partly convinced himself.

 

Maybe Will Graham was alone. Maybe Hannibal wasn’t even there, maybe their conversation was parallel to that of a conversation with god. He can envision it now, seeing Hannibal sit close to him, like an Angel praying for his health. Staring and watching intently, as if Will were to disappear into thin air.

 

Now looking back, It felt like a part of him died in Florence. Somewhere, in stained glass cathedrals and broken prayers, he became a higher being. A soul, trapped in purgatory. As he came closer to home, he felt like an outcasted spirit. From the depths of hell, his soul was doomed to walk this Earth as a shell of himself. And as his sins were shown in front of him like a deck of cards, he couldn’t deny it anymore.

 

Will Graham is not a good person.

 

That sort of otherness, that darkness that Hannibal already had, had now festered inside Will. It filled his veins with black and it fueled him with cursed life. Each step he took, he had to repay tenfold.

 

“Hmm,” She turned her head toward Jack, hinting something that Will didn’t know, “and, do you believe he’s close by? Even now?” Will gently put his hands inside his pockets and let out a sigh, “I believe that if he was smart, he wouldn’t be here. The crimes that are shown now, they’re flawless but, they’re impulsive. This is an artist who has completely lost themselves in their own madness.” He walks towards a sofa that is facing Jack and sits. “Hannibal isn’t mad, he knows what he’s doing and how it will look to others. He is aware, and that is exactly why we could never catch him.”

 

But Will isn’t like the others. He knows what Hannibal is doing

 

He knows where to find him.

 

(CARMINE)

 

The Pine trees stand tall, gawking at any other presence than beneath them. The berries that they bear fall to the ground, making footsteps turn burgundy like blood. There were abandoned train tracks that used to lead to a river. There had been rumors that children, men, and women would drown themselves in that river. Their bodies would float up from the water and they’d gracefully swim to pale cold rocks by the creek.

 

Some guessed there was a serial killer close by, stalking and praying anyone would walk by so he could steal their bodies, and take them as his own. Others believed it was Satan himself, taking souls from anyone who walked the grounds. Water has always been a mystical thing. We come from dust, from foam, and we will return to it when we die. When he was younger, Will was told urban legends from the land around him, Skinwalkers, Devil's Toy Box, and The Devil Man especially scared him.

 

In Louisiana, way back before Will was born, his father stayed for his mother. At least, the idea of his mother. He had heard of his mother through friends and decided to meet in a bar close to a village. His father would describe the atmosphere as blithe and dreamy. When he walked in, he said he felt as if he walked into another dimension. Everyone was smiling, everyone was dancing. Just one woman was sitting at a violet barstool close to the bar and immediately, Will’s father knew that was his mother. When he approached her, he said that the once beautiful woman suddenly transformed into a devil, two horns pointing out of its forehead and curling, signifying age. But just as quickly as the devil came, it left, almost as if it wasn’t there at all. He found his mother sitting where it was.

 

Will never knew his mother, not even her name, not until he got older and checked his medical records. His father used to tell him that his mother's name was Eve, which was false, but his father would call his mother Eve out of endearment. How beautiful she was; her large doe eyes, long luminous auburn hair that looked like gold in the summer, her pale limbs that stretched so far, she looked like an angel. There were few pictures of his mother, they were scattered under mattresses, close to birth certificates and old drawings. It wasn’t until Will became a cop that he found out his mother’s name: Mary Graham. His mother died in childbirth. He was told many times by his father that he tried to tell the nurses that she couldn’t do a natural birth but, with their used latex gloves and bloody scrubs, they insisted. The blood she lost during parturition was far too much to be considered healthy and she died. Her last heartbeats were passed on to Will’s own. The placenta his mother had was said to be as dark as ink. Will’s father would say he was born rotten. Maybe he was.

 

As he walks the forest ground, branches crunch under him. The air smells like salt and fresh dirt. He knows he’s here. He can feel it. The Pines express dissatisfaction and resentment towards him, angry wind flushes his skin; all of nature is warning him. He shouldn’t be here.

 

A scream is heard across the river.

 

Will sprints, not away from the sound, but towards it. A siren sound rises from the water and he knows it’s for him. The branches snap louder, they match his heartbeat and his fingers tingle. His footsteps turn a color of crimson, fresh and new and so intoxicating. The smell of fear refreshes his pallet and his mouth starts to salivate again. What will the fruits bear? Flies swarm his ears and they feel like they’re inside him. Slowly, the buzzing becomes white noise, and then, it sounds like rushing water.

 

Across from him, he sees a man, standing over another. The man under him is holding his throat. His hands are painted red from an apparent cut and it falls beside him, tainting the water. His eyes are wide, and fear spelled across his expression. Confusion as well. Why should I kill someone close to me? What did he do? The man over him is panting, his chest rising and falling quickly. Silver hair covers his eyes and his hands, oh his hands, they are covered in blood. Finally, his head looks up.

 

It’s Hannibal.

 

It’s Hannibal.

 

He looks rabid, there’s blood all over his mouth and his eyes are hazy, as if he’s on something. There are scratches all over his neck and face, probably from the man under him. His hair has tints of wine and they fall dryly across his eyes. He wears an all-black suit, no tie, and he’s fully abandoned his mess-free plastic suit. There are no weapons in his hands. His mouth did the damage. He notices someone is watching, not recognizing the person yet. Not knowing its Will.

 

Will feels this white heat unfurling inside his gut; he feels alive. Unprompted, he steps out of the shadows. Hannibal is now staring at him, for the first time in almost four years.

 

He doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t say anything. He just watches.

 

Will watches back.

 

A glint of something he can’t quite place falls across Hannibal’s face. His eyes are glossy and they’re lidded. God, he looks like a mess.

 

Hannibal stares at something behind him. Will turns around, wondering what he’s staring at. When he finds nothing on the ground, in the trees, behind the shadows, he turns back.

 

Hannibal is gone.

 

And the disfigured body floats down the river, close to the cold pale rocks, down the water.

 

Will doesn’t know what to think.

 

He didn’t take any meat with him?

 

Why was his mouth red?

 

Something comes across his mind.

 

Is he eating them raw now?

Notes:

WOOAHH HES HERE!!! FINALLY!! I was thinking of introducing Hannibal next chapter but uhhh uhhh I wanted him now! Honestly, Freddie I love you so much you see right through these gays. I need to add a tag to let everyone know that Hannibal (in this fic) went crazy! Like off the rails!! Bro cannot catch a break!!!

Thank you for reading please leave comments if you’d like I love reading people’s opinions!!!BYE!

Chapter 4: ORCHID

Summary:

How close can one get before the taste of flesh becomes bitter?

The forest’s semblance changed shades after each step he took. Penumbras were cast around each tree, the shadows embodying the space Hannibal was shaped by. He felt he had to turn every few moments, feeling that eyes were on him, judging, disgusted by his actions. Still, after all these years, you’re working with him? The mud under his boots gushed and squelched like the lifeless body Will saw under him, hazy and worn.  Will doesn’t know if Hannibal is still here or not, nor can he tell if it was Hannibal or himself who killed the man.

 

He still sees it and smells the fresh copper that would warm anyone’s body. His fingernails gave the illusion of dried blood like he was eating cherries a few hours ago. The stain travels from his nails to his veins, each artery infected by that still unfamiliar rush.

 

It feels as if everyone knows how each thing, each substance could create pleasure. The modern society we live in has incredible knowledge of each feeling a person could have during anything. Specific drugs create specific symptoms; and pleasure that can become more comfortable than someone’s touch. It’s the same with killing. Absolute power, absolute control, absolute pleasure; all this can be felt by just taking a life. In that sense, all serial killers are addicts. But addicts have that sort of taboo that follows them, like killers. Facial expressions are held for everything; a person who finds out a friend has an ugly substance abuse issue or is a murderer, can have the interchangeable possibility of reacting the same: disdain, horror, worry, fear.

 

Unused wisdom and false philosophy, can create havoc in anyone’s life. It’s easy to manipulate, to become an addict. It’s difficult for one to stay sober.

 

He and Jack walk the same broken branches Will had crossed just hours ago. His mind is racing, unsure if Jack can detect Will’s apprehension. The daylight bleeds through ragged pine leaves and they cast a luminous glow on the wildlife around them. The water can be heard, even if they were more than a few miles away, rushing and pushing each other, fighting gravity. Jack is grilling Will for answers, asking every possible question and then some. “What were you doing out here walking out so late? Was anyone else around? What do you mean he was alone?”

 

Will had confessed that he did see Hannibal, towering over the victim. He had said that Hannibal’s hands and mouth were colored a vigorous red, clumps of skin and fat dangling off his fingers. “Like a rabid animal.” He’d say, his voice shaken. He and Jack finally made it to the crime scene. Almost as a makeshift dam, different types of rocks, branches, and trash were built close to the river. Where it became narrow, the stream was banished from continuous swoons since heavy rocks were found there, motionless. Those pale and cold stones were now just red and cold.

 

The man’s organs had seeped out of his body, intestines gushed out like informal pasta. His body was colorless, compared to the mosaic of art he created behind him. His blood splattered on the rocks, painting and decorating them in the most baroque style possible. What was vivid crimson had now become stale maroon. Jack’s expression didn’t change. Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price consulted the crime scene, picking off pieces of dirt and follicles off the victim. There was a tarp neatly arranged only a few steps away from them. It held bits and pieces of different organs that were plucked out.

 

“It looks as if he was torn open,” Brian said, his blood-soaked latex gloves pointing at the victim’s stomach, “His gut was completely eaten, the teeth marks confirm it. The small intestine was only half eaten and the large one…” Price trotted around with a disgusted look on his face, “It’s been completely removed, but not surgically. It was as if he quite literally, gnawed and pulled his guts out.” No one mentioned the suspicion that it was Hannibal who did it. If anything, they thought this was a wolf or a wildlife creature just finding an unlucky target.

 

Jack’s fedora was covered in small lint and impending dead leaves. His hands were in his pockets, analyzing the body, “Was there any evidence that it was Hannibal Lecter who did this?” Both Price and Zeller glanced at each other before coming to a conclusion, “Not that we know of, we’d need to go back to the lab and run some tests.” Zeller offered a hurried glance to Will, “Did you see him?” He looked terrified, and he couldn’t blame him. Will was incredibly shaken. Will had never actually seen Hannibal kill before. Not in person at least. Each time he was called upon, Will didn’t envision Hannibal when consulting the Chesapeake ripper case, he just saw darkness. An almost shadowy figure who causes pain and death, beauty and awe. He knew Hannibal was a murderer, a sort of apex predator or killer. But this, this was savage. Will yelped a small cough and guiltily turned his head. He mumbled, “Yeah, it was him.”

 

Everyone was silent. If this is true, Hannibal has evolved into something unlike himself. Not the smug, insatiable psychiatrist they all knew nor the psychopathic serial killer that roamed the streets.

 

No this was someone else, something else.

 

As the consultants wrapped up the crime scene, and all the investigators had taken all their notes, Jack pulled Will by his bicep, making sure no one was staring at them. “You do understand that if we find Hannibal, and this,” he points to the phantom crime, “was truly made by him, we have the order and the moral right to shoot him on sight?” Jack’s expression had numerous amounts of different meanings. Half a second he was stoic, the other was concern. Jack had seen what Hannibal could do, both intimately and objectively. He knew what type of monster they were dealing with.

 

At least, he thought he did. This murder changed everything. Not only because it showed that Hannibal still was in Virginia, but that he was no longer keen on the aesthetics of death. The artistic tableaus and beautiful depictions the Chesapeake Ripper- or rather, Hannibal created- weren’t something he was doing anymore. The one arguable thing Hannibal Lecter had, had now been stripped away, by himself. It wasn’t breathtaking anymore: just grotesque.

 

Will had glanced down at Jack’s hand. He let out an audible sigh and peered at the water.  It’s a never-ending tide, rushing and falling, continuous and benevolent. All memories that were considered precious or important to him had a connection to water. Those memories were he would envision teaching Abigail how to fish, when he taught Wally how to fish, when he saw Hannibal in his rarest form.  Water was the element of creation after all.

 

 

“Whatever happens, just make sure it’s quick. I have to see Molly and Walter soon.”

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

The lab results showed that it was Hannibal. “His saliva was plastered all over the victim’s body. Thanks to his medical records,” Brian pulled up an oral X-ray on the screen, “It confirms the teeth marks on the victim’s…stomach.” He gave a bug-eyed look to Jack. His arms were crossed and he was stroking his snow-colored beard. “Is it healthy? I mean, to eat human organs raw?”

 

The question itself was so foolish, that Will raised an eyebrow at it. Price intervened, “Well, no matter if it’s human or not, eating raw meat could lead to many bacterial diseases and body failures.” His tone was completely professional but a person could tell that he wanted to be humorous. Jack wasn’t laughing, “Hannibal Lecter was a doctor, a surgeon. Surely he knows that this is hazardous for him, no? He has to know it.” All of them glanced at each other, all equally confused and stuck on this. Except for Will, he simply looked away. Dissociating from the situation felt like the only thing he could do, besides wonder how it would feel like to be eaten alive. Ideas and theories were thrown around, Brian thinking out loud, “Maybe he’s on a suicide mission?” Will scoffed, making everyone in the room look at him. “Will?” Jack hummed, returning a questioning look.

 

“Hannibal isn’t suicidal. He wouldn’t kill himself like this.” Isn’t it obvious? Suicide was an easy way out. They should all know by now that Hannibal will go out with a bang, even if it leads to his death. Jack huffed, “Well then, how would you explain as to why he’s eating them?” Will gets whiplash from that question. Reminders of Garret Jacob Hobbs flood his brain again and suddenly, he’s in the washroom, being scolded and downright picked apart by Jack, being asked again, ‘Why is he eating them?’ To that, Will doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why Hannibal is eating them. It’s childish to assume that this is the first time Hannibal consumed someone like this. It’s been three years goddamit, anything could’ve changed. Still, that doesn’t answer the question of why . Is it because he simply got tired of cooking meals? Is it perhaps because devouring someone raw feels more satisfying? Is it for flavor, texture, or scent?

 

Will ignored Jack's question and redirected his attention to the two workers, “Check how many people have died in the past three years from gutted wounds or apparent wildlife attacks.” He turns to Jack abruptly, “If there’s a chance he’s done this spontaneously, there’s a chance he’s gotten bored or recently lost something. Maybe a person,” Will couldn’t bear the thought of believing Hannibal had gained a friend, “or perhaps he’d been caught?” He walks out of the room to take a breather.

 

The hallways are occupied by a few interns and workers, all somewhat gawking at Will for his distressed appearance. Jack walks out of the room as well, the glass door vibrating as he paces to Will. He doesn’t say anything directly, but he glances at Will and silently asks if he’d like to go into his office. Will just huffs and stares at the embedded wall, a golden eagle taunting him.

 

“I just don’t get it, Jack” he finally blurted. “It feels as if I’m looking through a broken glass, searching for anything, any little thing that will let me know what’s going on with him!” He rubs his face and then drops his hand, “This is a complete one-eighty from what he’s done before. The way he’s reacting, or to put it more clearly, the way he’s not reacting is what’s bugging me! He’s not there, Jack!” His hands moved obnoxiously around, emphasizing his stress. He quickly puts them down and out of habit, Will starts biting his nails, “It’s as if he was drugged. His eyes,” Will recalls the way Hannibal looked. Tired but not in the way that was natural, but instead, artificial. “they were dilated and foggy. He looked as if he wasn’t even there!” Jack took Will’s information as best as he could, “So you’re saying that someone is drugging him? Making it seem like he’s not in control?” Jack’s hands plead with Will, like he’s trying to calm down a rowdy child.

 

“No, no! God-, It’s almost as if, he doesn’t even know he’s killing…it’s like someone takes over.” Will finally concluded, dropping his arms indefinitely. Jack’s eyes widened and he rested a hand on his hip. “So what, you’re saying Hannibal has developed a sort of dissociative mental disorder? That- that he can’t think straight? That he might not even know he’s eating people alive?!”

Hannibal becoming ill is as likely as him dying. Both are unreliable and fickle. But Will knows what he saw, he knows.

 

Hannibal, however he is, isn’t himself.

 

He sighs, looking down before saying, “Make sure you know how far back that trail leaves you, Jack. I wouldn’t be surprised if you found reports that date back to that day .” He grumbles quietly, implying that whatever Hannibal is experiencing, there’s a good chance it fell between the months Will rejected him.

 

The month's Will tried collecting himself

 

How ironic would it be to know that Hannibal was losing himself all the same?

 

(CARMINE)

 

 

As he walks down the streets with his hands inside his pockets, chatter spills from wooden doors, attached to large intimidating buildings. The familiar scent of roses and bourbon fills the air and Will knows all too well to whom it belongs. He glances down at his watch, checking how late it was.

 

It was barely noon.

 

His oxfords scuffed the polished dark oak. He saw flyers all around him. Some advertised support groups and lectures, typical things that’d show in halls as the one Will’s in right now. He flipped through them, wondering where he’d find hers. Each had extremely low-quality material and pictures that weren’t particularly interesting or useful. They were small, colored brightly to attract attention. None were laminated, except one.

 

Its ridges were smooth and plain. Calligraphy adorned the flyer and orchids were decorating the sides. Directly in the middle, it said plainly: “Come and tune in to hear Bedelia Du Maurier speak on the incredulous serial killer, Hannibal the Cannibal!”

 

How desperate , Will thought. In the beginning, Bedelia was very adamant on keeping a low profile and for her connection to Hannibal to be shown to no one other than the authorities. Her shaken eyes and tense shoulders still haunt his memory, from the first time Will had an actual conversation with her in the questioning room. He recalls her siren words that still stuck with him, “It will be someone you love, and it will feel like the only option you have .” But surely, he remembers the drugged, loose body that fell against cushions. Her voice disregarding and blatantly ignoring his and Jack Crawford’s questions that pertained to her apparent husband. Now, seeing her advertise her trauma; well, at least she’s doing it shamelessly.

 

The flyer read that the lecture had started at 12:15, meaning that Will, luckily enough, was right on time. He saw it state that it was going to be held in room 347, a room that already had its doors opening, people swarming in to find a seat. He internally scoffed, reconsidering his actions, thinking it’d be foolish to sit in this lecture.

 

It’d probably be more of a Ted Talk than anything.

 

He readily gripped the flyer and walked inside.

 

The lights were low and dimmed to add to the flamboyant environment. People who sat in were close to wooden-like pews, as if they were about to witness a baptism; new and reborn. His anxieties took over his body. How would Will respond to seeing Bedelia again after all these years? If her presence and overall demeanor were not after in the slightest, what would it mean to Will? Sure, he and Hannibal had been together for only a few years but Bedelia was strictly under Hannibal’s care. She was alone, in a foreign country where she spoke the language, but couldn’t speak of her entrapment. Or perhaps, she wasn’t trapped, she just didn’t want to leave. It’s absurd to think that a person could see the manipulative, the awful, the dangerous part of another person, and still stay. Still want to stay.

 

But to Will’s knowledge, Bedelia left, shortly after he and Hannibal were caught by the Vergers. Maybe she didn’t want to stay, but maybe she didn’t want to leave. Had she ever loved Hannibal? Had she ever felt so connected to him, like they were the only people in the world? When she met him, was she disgusted by him first, and then after, she adapted? Like bitter rum that you buy when you’re young, did she give it- him, multiple tries and thoughts before she fully embraced him?

 

Perhaps she had.

 

A small figure ambles through the door, her blonde curls getting a bit longer through the years. They now fully resemble a 50’s look. The 50s are always a complicated era to remanence. People first think of the icons: Kennedy, Monroe, Hepburn. Then they think of the glamor, the enticing feeling of new war washing ashore. Battles being displayed on television, people now had found a new way to reduce or amplify empathy. The people’s feelings were manipulated. What a time it was to be alive

 

As her heels knock on the wooden floor, everyone turns their heads, spreading hushed squirms and animosity. The woman of the hour was here. Bedelia Du Maurier had finally come. That same condescending smirk fell against her lips, she gazed at the room, taking in every face and every expression. Her eyes fell on Will, momentarily stunned. For what for Will wasn’t sure, but before he could even decide to think of it, she turned, now behind a podium that was close to the front of the room. A projector turned abruptly, lighting the room aglow with a harsh white. It cast against her face, highlighting her age. Bedelia wasn’t a woman who looked like she let herself go, in fact, no matter the situation, she always seemed to have everything together. But here, under these undying lights, she was human. Quickly, she pressed a button that had changed the slide, now showing a full-sized version of her flyer that Will had picked up when he first came in. She finally spoke,

“Good afternoon, my name is Bedelia Du Maurier, and I’m here to speak on behalf of victims that were associated with Hannibal Lecter.” She presses the button again, showcasing a picture of Hannibal, one that had been taken by Freddie Lounds. This picture was taken on the day Hannibal had left BSHCI, after speaking with Chilton about his and Will’s therapy sessions.

 

His breath had stuttered when he saw the photo, when he saw Hannibal. He looked alive and controlled, completely discordant from what he saw just this morning. Bedelia had already done her introduction and even started her main piece but Will wasn’t there. His mind was racing in every memory he had with Hannibal. All those therapy sessions and tense conversations, wine tastings and death mediating. They came as waves that fought against him, each one coming stronger than before. The water flooded his ears, singing to him in a heartfelt tune, melodies that had afterthoughts of shouts. All of it was devouring him all over again. It became white noise. Her voice broke the whistling,

 

“ On man by him seduced, but on himself tremble confusion, wrath and vengeance poured .”

 

He had recognized the quote, a line taken from Milton’s Paradise Lost. He remembered the day he and Hannibal had spoken about it. The situation with Clark Ingram had certainly left a bitter taste in his mouth. He should’ve been dead now, he should’ve died.

 

Hannibal should’ve died.

(CARMINE)

As they both drove back, (not to Hannibal’s office, but to his home) they opened a bottle of whiskey and sat in silence. Usually, on nights like those when the moon was bright and the air was ardent, they settled for some elegant wine and sipped in petty debates. But that night, they sat at Hannibal’s dinner table, still and pensive. Their touches were always brief, a fleeting glimpse that Will could only recall in misty colors. But that night, Hannibal came so close, his hands grazing his face and praising his madness, his indecisiveness, and looking into him. It felt intimate, it felt powerful, it felt raw. Since his release, Will was nothing but resentful and angry about Hannibal. His one and only friend that he truly trusted not only incriminated him, but lied to him. He gave Hannibal no signs nor permission to do anything above what they’ve already done. Yet this was new territory, how could Will say he wanted Hannibal dead when nights like these existed?

 

“You cannot let the mortality of Clark Ingram distract you, Will,” Hannibal spoke, his cool voice vibrating the glass by his lips. Will’s gaze was struck by the fireplace. Each crackle and burn fused his every being with anger. It took everything in him to keep himself together. “His mortality isn’t the only one that is distracting me” Will had already discussed the issue with Jack, making sure he knew exactly what was happening with Hannibal. All was in the air, nothing was hidden.

 

Except for nights like these.

 

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at what Will had said. He looked down at his glass, a large ice cube sitting in the middle. Will specifically asked for no ice, wanting the drink to burn. “Ingram was a man who was a coward and was hiding who he was, letting him live allowed him the privilege to suffer.” He swiftly took a drink of the cold whisky. It was now Will who raised a confused look, “And you consider yourself different?”

 

Hannibal looked up and smiled, “ On man by him seduced, but on himself tremble confusion, wrath and vengeance poured. ” He placed his glass on the table before smoothing his opened waistcoat, “Ingram is nothing like me. His deaths are based on fickle reasons that could be solved if he weren’t so egotistical,” Will’s eyes examined the drink in his hand, getting warmer and warmer. “And yours aren’t?” Hannibal finally sighed, his bangs covering his forehead apathetically. Will sighed in return, his eyes blazed with determination. Finally, he’ll admit it. He’ll say it.

 

“What is evil? What is bad? Who decides?” Hannibal prompts, now staring at him. Will’s fixed expression stayed. “The people who create it.  The people who make the other believe it so.” His mind wanders, what is he trying to achieve? Hannibal smiles, all toothy and sharp. There had been very few moments where Hannibal had grinned with a full smile. His teeth were always catching for Will, sharp and crooked, almost the polar opposite of his apparent person.

 

“And isn’t that exactly what we all are? Innocent in our minds but evil in other's eyes?”

 

“I’m not delusional, Dr. Lecter.”

 

“And yet here we are, debating on life and death, good and evil, and deciding what it means. Delusion is an infectious disease that consumes the weak.”

 

Will’s ears twitch at his words, making full eye contact with Hannibal. He gushes, speaking again,

 

“Nothing is a delusion, just a possible reality, a universe.” Will droned on.

 

“A universe of death, which god by curse created evil, for evil only good, where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds.” Hannibal recited, his grin still adorned on his face.

 

Will felt heat rush to his ears, making them pink and heavy. He let those words sit on his tongue as he stared back into the fire. It was almost going out, only specks of sparks sprinkling.

 

 

Only from that small memory, Will noticed that Bedelia had been staring at him throughout the whole lecture. The projector had now been turned off, and she was not speaking of Hannibal anymore, more so herself.

 

She spoke of her innocence, and what she had to do to survive. She was the victim, and she made that very clear.

 

And suddenly, everyone stood and applauded, some even yelling out praises. She smiled humbly, sending that sort of image to everyone. Will didn't buy it. People started to dissipate and leave the room, making the crowd smaller and smaller, until it was just Bedelia and Will.

 

“Poor Dr. Du Maurier, swallowed whole, suffering inside Hannibal Lecter bowls for what must have felt like an eternity” Will slowly paced across the room, sneering at Bedelia as she closed a folder on the podium.

 

With his hands in his pockets, he slowly leans close to a wall that separates the seats and the main floor, “ You didn’t lose yourself, Bedelia, you just crawled so far up his ass you couldn’t be bothered.”

 

She deadpanned as she spoke, “Hello, Will.” The folder shuts with a small puff and Will turns back at her, “You hitched your star to a man commonly known as a monster,” he wobbled closer, his glasses slowly falling from his nose because of oil, “you’re the bride of Frankenstein.” Will held a cocky look on him. Bedelia analyzes him, then responds, “We’ve both been his bride.”

 

 

Only a few feet away, he took off his glasses and asked, “How’d you manage to walk away unscarred?” He raises an eyebrow and smiles, “I’m covered in scars.” Quickly, she quipped back, “I wasn’t myself,” Bedelia smiled, “You were.” She maintained her striking eyes on him, “Even when you weren’t, you were.”

 

Will’s expression falls, “I wasn’t wearing adequate armor.”

 

“No, you were naked”

 

She breaks the contact and looks at the clock, “Have you seen him?”

 

“You think he’s been captured?”

 

“No,” she responds, “but I don’t believe he hasn’t seen you.”

 

This bothers Will, because how would she know? “Has he seen you?”

 

“I’ve seen enough of him.”

 

He scoffs, looking to the side before responding, “I have seen him, only for a few moments.” Bedelia knows he isn’t talking about seeing Hannibal in his head, at stoplights, or in illuminated glass. She knows he’s being honest. She tenses from this.

 

“And, what did you do?”

 

Will smiled, showing that same toothy grin Hannibal had done years ago, “I did nothing. I watched.”

 

Bedelia immediately shuffled away, grabbed her folder, and began to walk. Will slowly, not deliberately, steps in front of her, “There’s some things we should talk about…”

 

Bedelia gawks at him, wondering why he’s still here, then a smirk falls on her face and she moves and continues to walk,

 

“You’ll have to make an appointment.”

Notes:

it’s finally here!! I’m sorry I took so long to post some crazy things were going on and this was my longest chapter yet!

I’m so excited how Bedelia will be woven into this intricate mess that is this story! We finally get to know more about Hannibal and who knows, maybe we’ll see him next chapter! (We will ;) )

Chapter 5: BURGUNDY

Summary:

Who do we thank when something good happens?

Who does Hannibal blame for his madness?

He gasps and gulps for air, falling gracelessly against an oak tree. Its bark breaks and falls off, sprinkling earth on his black suit. The moon is high, pine trees engulfing his vision, and he feels himself falling in and out of consciousness. Hannibal’s hands clumsily rub against his mouth, attempting to wipe his lips clean. Pieces of fat and skin still hung against his fingers, underneath his fingernails, and he had this sudden urge to lick them clean.

 

Usually, Hannibal isn’t like this.

 

Usually , he’s calm and pristine, and collected.

 

Unfortunately for Hannibal, nothing about this is usual; so forgive him for being a bit erratic.

 

The river still howls and grumbles, making the earth vibrate in a strange, relaxing way. His mind is racing, wondering how on earth he’ll be able to walk the area without being questioned. The state in which Hannibal is at in the moment is nothing but suspicious, bloodied bits of meat scattered on his body. And it is very clear that it’s not his. The feeling suddenly takes him back to that night at Muskrat farm, where he mercilessly slaughtered all workers, attendants, and guards that haunted the grounds. His only focus being Will.

 

Will

 

Will

 

A small miscalculation, a small mistake, something as minuscule as connection , and it would cost Hannibal his sanity. Each tree, every bark, somehow contains those same vibrations Will held by him, all humming in his voice. They calm him, Hannibal, and they remind him of those beautiful melodies his sister would sing in Whimsy. The cost of love was being imprinted, being branded by the person who broke you. The scars on Hannibal’s body weren’t nothing but reminders from his past life, where he saw Will, glorious and selfish. But that’s how he designed Will. To become selfish, to become godly; all of it was intentional. Words are just words but confessions, and beautiful proses, those are what create something.

 

As he was standing across the flowing river, Will had looked at Hannibal like he was seeing a celestial being, now revealing themself to a mere mortal.  Hannibal saw how his hair had grown, soft chocolate curls falling close to his face, but some sort of hair gel had held them back. His clothes were comfortable, a soft blue button-up that was tucked inside black dress pants. His shoes were scuffed, with mud and dead leaves sprinkled on them. The moonlight had made him look glorious, and almost like a smooth nymph.

 

He had gained a bit of weight, his cheeks looking fuller and his complexion brighter: glowing. And yet, his eyes were soulless. The cerulean color that set his body aglow had now disappeared, a steel blue taking place. His pupils were dilated, and even though the salty water, the rocks, dirt, and the fresh body that was under him, Hannibal could smell burning white .

 

He only smelled it once on Will; the day he and Will were at his home in Wolf Trap, with Mason Verger peeling his skin off with a hunting knife.

 

As the dogs eat around and slowly become accustomed to the taste of copper and human flesh, Will stands by him, falsely persuading Hannibal to kill Mason there. And sure, Hannibal should’ve seen the signs of betrayal hinted in Will’s eyes, but he was quietly distracted by the aroma that filled the air. Hannibal had scented a deep tang of sweet musk, colored white with fever. They came in repressing waves, intoxicating and as harsh as Will was. His body was completely still, his composed body language wouldn’t have given anything away. Similar to when Will had encephalitis, floods of heat rolled off Will. But Hannibal knew that Will wasn’t sick, he was in his right mind then. So, what was it? After a few moments of gazing at Will with Mason’s sticky flesh falling off his jaw and teeth, the lewd sounds being sung as a soundtrack behind the two, Hannibal could finally grasp what he was smelling.

 

It was arousal : strong, masculine, hot, and thick arousal. It consumed his nostrils, his brain, and it suddenly made him very dizzy. But Hannibal didn’t move, didn’t allow his arousal to bloom, and instead walked over to Mason, grabbed his jaw with both arms, (having his forearms neatly tucked under his bloody face), and twisted. Mason’s neck had now hung and he had passed out from the motion. Hannibal awkwardly wiped his hands on Mason’s shirt and slowly walked back to Will, smiling. He gave an amused look in return,

 

“Did you kill him” he questioned, almost sounding like an excited child. Hannibal shook his head, not sure if he could trust himself to speak. Mason then twitched slightly, confirming he was in fact alive. Will glanced at him, offering a pitiful look before turning back to Hannibal, “How come?”

 

People lose their identity or self-worth because nothing matters except their immediate and self-gratifying pleasure. Of course, not everyone is Hannibal. He knew how to control himself. He knew exactly what he needed, what doses those were measured in, and how to get them. Each smile and blink, the tone of his voice, and his touch are all tools for Hannibal to get what he wants. What was so frightening about him wasn’t that he was a murderer, but that he was a murderer that had no actual motive.

 

He could stop, if he wanted to.

 

“I believe Mason has been a pain, no? How much could he do when he is paralyzed and,” Hannibal turns to Mason's unconscious body, red honey still trickling from his gums, to his sides, all the way to the carpet floor, “Let’s be frank, very ugly.” Will breathes out, his arms still behind his back, “You don’t think he’ll come after you?” Amusement lined his voice; as if Mason would stop coming after them, after Hannibal.  He sighs, tension slowly leaving his beat body. Only a few hours ago, Hannibal was being hung,  cut, and planned to be eaten alive by pigs. How ironic.

 

He thinks out loud, “There is no significant reason as to why he wouldn’t, but that wouldn’t matter to me. It’ll take months, maybe years to come after me…to catch me” Will smiles at his confidence, eyebrows raised when he questions him, “You believe you are worth the chase?”

 

“You went after me”

 

“You let me.”

 

And suddenly, the air, their eyes, were nebulous. Now they were staring at each other. Both take in each other’s features. While Will seemed perfectly fine, just a small scratch close to his cheekbone, Hannibal had a small cut on his eyebrow and quite literally had some blood on his hands. Staring turned into gazing. Moonlight bled into the house, and it all felt romantic. At this time, at this moment, both Hannibal and Will look at each other, in their most primal and intimate way. All the love and desire and hate was palpable. In this new world, this act doesn’t end. Instead, it ravishes .

 

Is this what it feels to be known? The heat that blooms all over Hannibal’s cheeks, causes a tint of red rouge. Is this the same as staring into a mirror and finding your reflection not only standing there, but smiling back? The lantern of worry and excitement ignited inside Hannibal, as if he could explore any somber forest and find his and Will’s blood carved into each bare trunk. That sort of want , or as Bedelia put it, obsession , was addicting. It felt alive and wrong, like something you’d find sold under the counter, or in those absurd dark websites that marketed used women and fresh organs. It was absurd and sickening, and it was everything .

 

Sickness can be spread, Hannibal knew that.

 

Could it have been spread to Will?

 

(CARMINE)

Hannibal stumbles onto a damp tree trunk. The water still crushes his ears and his head, making him feel lightheaded. His cabin is miles away. He can’t make it there in time, especially with the cuts on his legs. He didn’t plan to kill anyone, he didn’t want to. But he could hear it , feel it warp around his mind like a lazy snake, speaking into him, biting its venom inside Hannibal. It promised nourishment and warmth.

 

Since he lost Will, Hannibal had done anything and everything to feel alive again. So he ran, ran far away, all to Spain. He witnessed couples fall in love, get married, and have children in only a few years; he felt himself imprinted in the stepping stones that he crossed every morning, to get his groceries and eyeful. At first, Hannibal felt that he could leave the country and create a new world again like he did with Bedelia. But that false comfort slowly crashed down, demolishing him.

 

On a rather rainy morning, he walked, admiring Malaga and all its attributes, Hannibal looked down. His left hand was carrying an umbrella and his right held a large paper bag full of produce. Suddenly feeling melancholic, he thought of his life.

 

Hannibal wasn’t sad, no . But something was pulling him away, away from everything. Visions and flashes of Will, Abigail, and even Bedelia, flooded him, and he dropped his umbrella. The rain then moistened his hair, once gold now silver. He noticed the bag get filled quickly with water, making his vegetables float. People around him gave confused looks and quickly moved out of his direction so they could avoid his stagnant figure. Hannibal’s eyes turn to his hands.

 

It is only then that he realizes that Hannibal would do inconceivable things if it meant he could feel buoyant and bright again.

 

If he could see Will again.

   (CARMINE)

 

After this revelation, it took only a few days to go back to the States, to Virginia. Hannibal had luckily been wealthy enough to own many acres of land and homes, substituting for any bothersome moment. So when he returned to the States, he wasn’t worried about not having a warm place to sleep. Hannibal’s taste had always been timeless, all of his things, objects he possessed, his interests, they were all still as magnificent as he left them. Which meant any of his properties would suffice.

 

Having his homes already furnished was a great benefit, allowing easy access for Hannibal to live anywhere, no matter what climate or environment. This place in particular was not in northern Virginia, but instead close to the South. Luckily for Hannibal, the population was less than 5,000 where he stayed, which meant many people wouldn’t notice or care who was living by since everyone was spread out.

 

Hannibal heaves as he stands, his sight turning white and he can hardly breathe. He must get home. It’s humorous, to see Hannibal hurt. He felt so put together for so long, stitched exactly how he envisioned and now, he sees his decaying flesh rip through the seams.

 

The sky has now turned into a luminous tangerine, spots of dandelion peaking through. He concludes that he’ll have to walk. It would’ve been smarter to have walked earlier but the thought of Will, seeing Will, had distracted him. Hannibal knows his way back to his cabin. Each tree has some sort of distinction, a golden-colored leaf, the smell of tainted salt, and hurried breaths that allow him to stay on his desired path. The main road is only a few meters from where Hannibal is. As he stumbles, he’s sort of hiding himself, trying to appear smaller so passersby won’t notice him. His back is hunched and curved, giving him the appearance of an old man.

 

He pants heavily. The heat plasters any blood onto Hannibal like it’s sticky syrup. The suit he was wearing was somehow drenched with a mixture of blood, sweat, and saltwater. It highlights his now malnourished figure. Even though his body isn’t the healthiest, Hannibal still carries that intimidating shadow, broad shoulders that feel like they grew longer, and long legs that are nimble but extremely uncomfortable.

 

Everything feels uncomfortable.

 

He sees his cabin close by, only a few feet away. The small creek gushes and waters all the plants close to the moist soil. The air is heavy and fresh, overwhelming Hannibal. He needs to eat something. He needs to eat.

 

The Cabin is surrounded by a lush forest, a river only a few miles down. The wood was dark oak, allowing the scenery to compliment the stones and vines that grew to the cabin. The porch was large enough to allow two single-sized sofas to be placed. The railing was also made of wood, but it was thick and could withstand heavy rainfall or snowstorms. There was a large window behind the sofas, giving a peak to the inside. Usually, Hannibal prefers artificial light, allowing him to be precise at any moment, but with the environment, this cabin was in, it wouldn’t make sense to have bright pearl lights fight against the persimmon orange sun rays. The outside lining of the walls was made of logs, but inside, there was a thin wall covering them, allowing things to be hung up or decorated more easily.

 

.

 

The door slammed open, bashing the wall so abruptly that, a few picture frames fell. Nothing was inside those picture frames, just scenery and a few diplomas Hannibal acquired over the years. Some from Italy, others from America. He shakily removes his blazer, it falls to the ground with a wet plop. The immediate feeling of frigid air burns his face. And while the heat outside is abundant, recently Hannibal has been running cold. He glances at the time shown on his wall. The Romanian numbers display that it is a bit past 10:00. By now, the crime scene should be swarming with workers and investigators.

 

And Will.

 

There was an industrial furnace that was placed right in the middle of the cabin. The cabin had two floors but the first floor had no walls, so everything was out in the open. This design was intentional since during the winter, the cabin would get so cold, that all you wanted to do was be close to any type of warmth. Since there were no walls dividing the floor, the heat radiated throughout the first half. Large stones were placed around each corner as pillars, giving a natural aesthetic to the place. There were intricately designed carpets placed across the floor, making the Cabin seem cozy. Leather chairs were set around the furnace and there were windows accompanying the walls, providing a beautiful view of the creek close by. There were only a few blankets around the cushions but Hannibal made sure he had a separate closet where all the towels, blankets, and other items were stored.

 

Hannibal shuffles off to his kitchen, grabbing a white washcloth to try to wipe any blood from his face. As he does so, pieces of wet flesh fall from his mouth. They fall obscenely to the sink and Hannibal stares at them. If you were to ask Hannibal to recount the murder he was a part of, the feeding he had just done, he’d say he couldn’t remember. He just remembers being so cold, so shaken, and then suddenly, he was outside, hearing the voice whisper to his ear, telling him to find it, to hold it, to taste it. Hannibal didn’t know what he needed to find, but he knew he was starving for it.

 

The kitchen was considered a kitchenette for how small it was compared to his own in Baltimore. The counters were polished and smooth, allowing no accidents to occur when cooking. His oven was small, only fitting one dish at a time. Four gas tops were accompanying the stove and Hannibal had made sure his spice rack was neatly cleaned and close by when he cooked. It was more often that when he visited the cabin, he baked instead of cooked. He had fresh French pastries made for the mornings, Korean pastries for lunch, and American rolls for dinner. It’s worth noting that during this time in the winter, he never went alone. A colleague or a lover was always invited to spend their holidays with Hannibal, even if he didn’t necessarily celebrate them.

 

As he harshly turns the sink handle, tepid water warms his hands and it drips onto him. He sees the blood flowing down into the drain, along with bits of bones and unknown organs. They fall all into the sink, the vibrant blood contrasting the pristine white. He turns his hand, and he notices a bite mark. The incisions are crooked, but he can tell that if he doesn’t care for that bite soon, it will become infected. Seems like the man bit Hannibal.

 

The man

 

The man?

 

He was large, a bit on the smaller side but he seemed strong enough to take down Hannibal. He looked around his late thirties, with brown curly hair, and large blue eyes. Hannibal can still see the man’s terrified look on his face. He recalls him having a sort of moonlight skin tone that glowed in the midnight sky under the heightened trees. His lips were pale because of the strangulation but there was still a pink tint blushing his mouth. Hannibal wanted to taste it. He then remembers pulling the man’s shirt up and coming face-to-face with his stomach.

 

For some reason, Hannibal saw a jagged line molded onto the skin.

 

He splashed his face with cold water, wanting to pull himself out of that dreamy delusion. He turns, admiring the wildlife outside. Birds chirp lovingly and he sees squirrels pacing across the tall grass. Here, Hannibal could fabricate any illusion, a kind of rickety swing set that he could sit with and consume. The wood would hold splinters of amorous memories and nefarious nightmares, reminding him that no matter how much he runs back to his mind palace, Will would be there, victorious. Hannibal never had nightmares, until Will left him.

 

Hannibal had visions of Will after he rejected him. The snowstorm came heavily that night, creating a silver glow around Hannibal, making him shiver and twitch. Will had left him to his devices, his mind. But Hannibal’s mind had already been irrevocably changed. The world that was once pale and prosaic had turned colored and vivid with Will. Suddenly, the future was made, the path was built, and he could see Will walking alongside him. But it was all a false hope. It wouldn’t be that way forever, because of Will's morality, he had destroyed all progress and connection while he created it. Nothing but conversation and breathless confessions could Hannibal hold close. Each atom in his body could sense Will, connect with his vibrations, and feel. And Hannibal, he was nothing but stupid.

 

He snaps back to reality. Pans are hung from diligent ropes that were tied to the kitchen’s ceiling. At first, Hannibal found them crass but he slowly adjusted to the look, even appreciating it. The fridge was small, only because Hannibal didn’t see a reason to have such a large one when his food during winter didn’t need refrigeration. His sink was an ivory white and it starkly stood out for how large it was. This was because Hannibal found many injured animals around pine trees and cold pavement. People who were staying with him encouraged him to pick up the animals and clean them, bathe them, and a home. Of course, Hannibal didn’t keep them. Shortly after, when those people left and he was alone, he’d release the animals back to where he found them, and never thought of them again. It was nice though, to see people picture Hannibal as some sort of kind-hearted lover of animals. It gave him a good look.

 

Will was pure-hearted in that way, which was something Hannibal admired. Where people saw pity, Will saw opportunity. He was someone who understood the abandoned, the forgotten, the wasted. He felt that sort of pity inside himself and he could recognize when others had that look in their eyes that said, ‘ You are broken, and you don’t even care.’ In reality, Will did care, and Hannibal knew. He cared so much that the only way he could control it was to foster it. He fostered exactly what he was. He cherished it, cared for it, loved it, and expected nothing in return.

 

Will was traditional in that sense. A man, who was a builder, a hard worker, and a giver, who expected nothing in return.

 

Because if you love someone, if you care for someone, you shouldn’t expect anything back, right? And with receiving love, he also received protection. Dogs are loyal animals, much like Will. They expect nothing in return.

 

You could feed a starved dog rotten meat and it’d lick your hand clean for it.

 

Hannibal found himself thinking again about his forced departure.

 

It all felt like a blur that day, with loud crimson and hazardous bodies, Hannibal hid behind trees, watching Jack and Will converse. And while Jack had a sturdy appearance, plastering his foot in the white snow, Will was calm. His stance was confident and buzzing, as if he was vibrating so quickly, he phased in and out of existence.

 

Hannibal recalls seeing Will say something to Jack, striding back inside his home, the porch door slamming, and shortly after, Jack recruiting his men back to Quantico.

 

How easily had they forgotten about him. How easy it was to leave him to freeze.

 

How different the mornings were after. Where Hannibal didn’t see anyone, didn’t hide himself; but then, to whom was he hiding himself from? Here in the wilderness, Hannibal was just another animal, whose feelings and history meant nothing. And maybe they never meant anything at all. To these animals, Hannibal is nothing special. He is nothing in comparison. Just flesh and blood. Hannibal was human on all accounts, yet his grotesque behavior, and his mindset, was rancid. Almost as if he was a virus, Hannibal Lecter attached himself to you, whispered into your ear, and let himself fester inside your belly. As a glorious Angel that was cast out, Hannibal was almighty. Because of his nature, he attracted the innocent, the weak. And hungry for connection, how could he refuse when they bared their neck?

 

A small crackle from outside brings Hannibal back. He sees a small bird landing on soiled grass and notices a small tabby cat close by, its hind end falling low. The tail is patterned with black strips, easily helping the cat to camouflage. As the bird (Hannibal now recognized as a robin) chirps and totters to the water stream, the cat attacks. It quickly bares its claws and plunges them into the bird. Blood spurts out in only small amounts, painting the peppery cat with scarlet. As quickly as it came, it ended, as the robin wasn’t alive anymore. Its limp body hung inside the victorious cat’s teeth, a few feathers airing the atmosphere. As it looks around the area, its ears perk up. And before Hannibal can register it, it runs off, in a different direction, into the woods.

 

He stands there, motionless.

 

Here in the wilderness, the circle of life continues, selfish and free of judgment. The killing was no more than an artistic want Hannibal held, exhibiting charisma through heinous death. Animals kill to survive, to feed, and to provide. It is no less and no more than a biological requirement. Animals do not hold shame for needing to survive. They hold no humiliation if their food is rejected, no shame or disdain.

This is why Hannibal cannot resist. Resistance is purgatory, purgatory is awaited punishment. Awaited punishment is selfish denial. So, if it’s needed, Hannibal will expunge every memory, every footnote of Will Graham, and all the shame that follows him. He will scrape the inside of his brain, each longing remnant of his past being, and replace it with borrowed flesh.

 

Like a hollowed papaya, he will allow the inside to rot, smell, and grow a whole new life, far from what he was before.

 

Hannibal Lecter will become clean again.

Notes:

Hello! IM BACK!! It took a bit to write for Hannibal because if I’m being honest, I had no clue how to write for him. Luckily, I won’t be writing Hannibal’s pov every chapter, only on “5” chapters (meaning since this is chapter 5, you’ll get Hannibal’s pov again chapter 10 and 15)

Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 6: IVORY

Summary:

rinse and repeat

“Would you like a drink?”

 

Will relaxed against the leather chair, his hands slightly scratching the armrest as a form of fidgeting. His hand rose, barely, to indicate his refusal. Bedelia took the rejection and served herself a glass of white wine. The glass was tall, lean, and delicate, much like Bedelia herself.  She sat with graceful movement and placed her glass on the table close by her right. She gave one last glance to her wine and finally turned to Will,

 

“So, how was it, seeing Hannibal?”

 

The interior of Bedelia’s office was a plain comfort. Modern furniture with a 70’s style, Bedelia’s practice gave that same sophisticated exterior Hannibal’s had exuded; without the pompous artworks that were auctioned off for a ridiculous amount of money, of course. Will was sure a single painting could purchase his house and land. At least Bedelia’s office was laid back, and far more simpler than Hannibal’s. She had a few picture frames up but other than that, the walls were empty. Tall windows had long linen curtains that still allowed soft sunshine to bleed through. An alcohol station was shown on the left of where Bedelia sat, with different brands and bottles scattered around. A bucket of ice under the cart, ever cold and ready. 

 

Both Hannibal and Bedelia had some sort of alcohol collection close by, Will noted. There were numerous times when he and Hannibal shared a bottle of Château Cheval Blanc (which was worth more than Hannibal liked to admit) and spoke in nonsensical blabber and rushed confessions. The wine still burned on his tongue, feeling the liquid swish in his mouth, through his teeth, and finally down his throat.

 

Bedelia seemed to have booze nearby not for the comfort of patients but really for herself. She gives the impression of a person who needs a glass of wine each session just to get by. Maybe liquor, to maintain that elegance while still getting that desired buzz. Will saw Bedelia under the influence once, and during that time, he was so angry he couldn’t even focus on her not being sober. All he was thinking when she was splayed restfully and languidly on that decorative sofa, was how she was with Hannibal all these months. Not him.

 

He just wanted to kill her right there.

 

Will’s eyes come back to Bedelia. He smiles, his fingers caressing the insipid plush that is an armrest, ghostly illustrating imaginary circles, 

 

“It felt as if, I lost years to my life.” He exasperated, “Tallies slowly being marked off each second my eyes stayed on him.” His fingers indicating each year flicking off. He stops after three.

 

Bedelia’s eye crinkles just a bit, readjusts herself, then tilts her head,  “Is this because you knew he was going to kill you?” Her voice is soft, yet horse, like she hasn’t spoken in days. Will notices her blonde curls again, seeing how they fall so lusciously against her shoulders. Assuming her age, Will believes maybe she gets it done. Highlights every few months, a trim here and there. 

 

How different would it be to see Bedelia doing regular errands? Does she do her laundry? She cooks everything, I’m sure. What about grocery shopping? Showers or baths? Has she ever tried fast food? Will remembers driving Molly and Wally to an obscure McDonald’s at seven thirty in the afternoon because Wally had aced his algebra test earlier that day. Will questioned why Wally was even learning that level of math when he had just turned eleven. Molly had to correct and inform him that Wally was actually twelve and just entered middle school.

 

It was shocking, to say the least.

 

When Will was Wally’s age, he was learning and teaching algebra. His father hadn’t been taught or received a proper education. Because of his class and most importantly, his financial status, Will’s father didn’t know anything past elementary level problems. Things like writing, practical grammar, history, and even fractions were practically nonexistent in his mind. Meaning that Will had to teach his father everything he learned at school. Some days he enjoyed it, feeling rewarded that not only was he getting an education, but his father now had an opportunity to learn from him. On other days he felt a massive amount of responsibility because if he didn’t make sense, if he stumbled on some words, or worse, if he didn’t know a certain subject, his father would hit him.

 

“What am I sending you to school for if you don’t learn shit?”

 

“He…” Will started, slowly breaking from his thought, “No, Hannibal wouldn’t have enough time to kill me then, there was a river separating us.” The twisted depiction of seeing Hannibal again, his body on top of Will’s, and feasting on his insides caused him to grimace. Their intestines and teeth became blurred, only blood coloring the lifeless creature that would be above him. The pink scar below his navel would no longer be there. It would be jagged and open, displaying himself mercilessly to Hannibal. How does it feel to be eaten? Can it be similar to being burned? Slow, agonizing pain rupturing through his nerves, the pain becoming overwhelming, to the point where he couldn’t even decipher if the pain was truly what it was, or worse

Will sat up a bit, crossing his legs in the process.

 

Bedelia notices his change in position before offering a small smile, “Distance has never been an issue for Hannibal; a river wouldn’t be any less convenient than a different continent.”  She rolls her neck to the side slightly, wanting to catch Will’s eyes, “And I wasn’t talking about then.” Her tone was hiding her clear intent on wanting to be crass. She was completely still, the only thing moving was her chest: up and down, up and down. Will then looked at Bedelia, his confusion shining through his sea-salt eyes. His mouth curled up as if the woman had said something humorous, “You think he wants to kill me?” 

 

“I believe you are living on borrowed time, Will. We all are.” 

 

The man huffs, his fingers now scratching the ultramarine surface. “Time,” he sneered, feeling how the perpetual burn flamed his tongue, “is a still and stagnant reminder of our own existence.” Bedelia shifted, her body now tense and shaded. Hands still folded on her lap, she leans back fully, the sea-colored cushions contrasting her ivory skin. She takes a quick breath and asks, 

 

“You don’t believe he will come for you?”

 

He thinks for a moment, then responds unevenly, “Mass graves often create morally corrupted, yet diligent, standings.” 

 

Bedelia’s demeanor hasn’t fallen, but the glint of confidence has. She’s confused, angry, but most of all, disgusted, by Will’s response. He feels no remorse for the deaths Hannibal has caused. He feels no shame, no compassion, or connection to victims. Will had let go of the burden that Hannibal held on his back so gracefully. It was apparent that Will just didn’t care anymore. In fact, Bedelia would go far as to say that he doesn’t even see himself as a victim. And perhaps this is true, somehow Hannibal has still managed and convinced Will that what they were partaking in wasn’t wrong. This would only be cannibalism if we’re equals. 

 

Or, Will decided to stop making excuses.

 

Both he and Bedelia know that Will’s innocence can only be dragged to a certain extent. Beyond that, it was murder. And they know it.

 

Still, He eyes her, noticing the imaginary bricks falling into place inside her mind. Her eyes flash, horror bleeding in her irises. Will sees whatever she concluded, whatever possible reality she constructed, and now, finds a threat.

 

Smoothly, he places a calm yet childlike smile across his face, sighing as he reassures, “If he does end up eating you, Bedelia, you’d have it coming.” That does nothing for her as she breaks eye contact with Will to look at the digital clock displayed close to a small coffee table, next to the only exit in the room. She turns back to Will, smiling as politely as she possibly can, “I’m afraid this will be it for today,” she stands, smoothing out her black pencil skirt and holding her hands close. They’re twitching.

 

 “Will I see you next week?”

 

He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with slow, delicate movements.

 

“You Will”

 

CARMINE

 

The dingy motel lights flicker and buzz when he enters the room. The silver tap drips tepid water into the sink. He removes his boots and drapes his coat off, hanging it next to the old coat hanger. 

 

With no new bodies and no new information, Jack hasn’t called nor talked to Will these past few days. Still, he insisted on Will staying a few more days, convincing Will Hannibal might strike again. Which Will didn’t need any convincing to believe. Hannibal is sick; his once strong and agile muscles are now extremely lean, even under his black skin. His flexibility had deteriorated; he moved like a rusty animatronic, sawed and gray. And his face was gaunt, resembling death itself.

 

Will can’t shake it. 

 

Still, he strides towards the rustic bed and tries to kick off his boots. The shoelaces are tight and he can’t seem to untie them so he aggressively kicks them off, tugging his ankle in the process. He groans, noting that the passive pull will most likely leave a bruise. There on the nightstand, a cheap bottle of whisky is bared, the glass more than half empty. Will used to have this habit of drinking two fingers of whisky every night to help him sleep. Back when he lived in Wolf Trap, he did it often, since no one was around to judge or mock him for it. When he married Molly and they started to live together, he had to repress the urges to drink. At first, he wouldn’t care, drinking a glass every night and then falling asleep.

 

But then one night, Will couldn’t find his bottle. The bottle he bought then was considerably expensive, since it was fifty dollars ( more than Will ever paid for booze) and it was Stellum Rye, a brand he bought once when he was in college. Looking for the bottle, and eventually giving up, he decided to just fall asleep without it. Will didn’t consider himself an alcoholic; finding himself needing or becoming addicted to something was considered tedious to him. He’d often bellow laughter just for the mere thought that someone could possibly be addicted to something as banal as alcohol. His father was an alcoholic, so Will always hated the smell and behavior that followed it. But that still didn’t stop him from having a drink or two. He wasn’t his father. He’s not susceptible to addiction like others are.

 

A few weeks after the missing bottle case, he and Molly were in the middle of having sex before asking Molly where the box of condoms he bought a few weeks ago was. She pointed to her side of the bed, the nightstand that had her copy of Twilight and her hand cream she’d lather ten minutes before bed. He half-crawled to the drawer and opened it, and to his surprise, he saw the bottle he’d lost weeks ago, tucked closely to Molly’s socks and panties. He knew that Molly knew Will saw the whisky, but they both didn’t mention it. Perhaps one day they’d actually discuss it…But instead, Will grabbed two packets of the golden aluminum and turned back to her. 

 

After that day, Will stopped drinking at night. This sort of celibacy convinced him that he wasn’t an alcoholic. But there were a few nights when Will would wake abruptly by Molly's side, panting in distress, not understanding where he was. Molly would comfort him and then, by the morning, they wouldn’t talk about it.

 

And he appreciated it.

 

He pours himself only a finger, swinging it as a shot. It trickles down his cheek and falls down his earlobe. He doesn’t wipe himself, he’s too tired. 

 

Loud buzzing reverberates around the room, causing Will to huff in overstimulation. When he reaches for it from his back pocket, he physically rolls his eyes, assuming that it’s Jack. To his surprise, it’s Molly. Though it isn’t that surprising since Molly has called him every night since he’s been away. He mentally facepalms before answering the phone. At first, it’s static; then, she speaks,

 

“Hello, my beautiful man.”

 

He smiles, teeth gleaming from the spicy liquid. Will never understood why Molly called him that. He knew he wasn’t ugly, but Will was never the type of man who was worried or focused on his looks. Close to the scars he has printed on his body, he didn’t pay much attention on his being. If anything, he did very little grooming: keeping his hair as tame as possible, and his stubble even. There were only a handful of times he tried to maintain a sort of appealing appearance. 

 

His fondest memory was when he and Molly went on a date together for the first time to a French restaurant. Will is hardly fluent in the language but he managed to order for both himself and Molly. Funnily enough, she was impressed by his accent and asked where he’d learn French. He explained how his father was from the rural south and often spoke in a string Cajun accent. Because of this, he found himself picking up the language quickly, though he acknowledged that it wasn’t true French. Lovingly, she was impressed. The outfit he wore that day was ordinary, black jeans and a white collared long sleeve. Molly had worn a beautiful sundress, the periwinkle shade complimenting her rosy lips and cheeks, her smile when she giggled at a comment Will made here and there. He recalls the dreamlike candlelight illuminating her, embellishing her as a golden Angel, his savior.

 

Will thought sometimes that maybe he could find out what sin he committed, and he’d praise and love tenfold for the knowledge of knowing. Maybe if he could find out how he had been forgiven, maybe he’d lay bare against the lowly figure that is pure. Molly's love had made him feel blissfully hopeless like a blind kitten sticking to its mother. The concept of healthy love with unknown to Will. Bad relationships, toxic affection, give and take: Love was as flimsy and hurtful as a rotted dock, splinters of rejection and indifference at every step, wondering when it would fall. Will was no stranger to love, but he wanted to be. For Will, love was naked. And why should he be granted a place of total entropy? 

 

But Molly was everything, peace and discomfort. She wasn’t pure because who wanted to be? She was herself; as lively and bold, as narrow and soft; delicate rubber. She was his guiding post, his pillar. Without Molly, Will would’ve lost himself. Never to suicide, he thought, because he found it as an easy way out, but more to a senseless pit. It called him, from time to time. Asked him if he truly enjoyed the life he had now, and asked if he wished for more, or rather less. Will had thought that love was something you had to sacrifice for, a thousand cuts, a thousand slashes. He was fine with that payment because if he could have Molly’s love forever, that would be enough. They would be enough.

 

The direction that was ‘the big act’, as Will likes to call it, moved him farther and farther away from himself. He had convinced himself that what he felt with Hannibal wasn't recognition, but instead projection, some sort of blue flame swirling him into an indefatigable hurricane. That night when he appeared at Hannibal’s office, hair freshly cut, clothes neatly ironed, he felt like he was going to have a date with the devil.

 

He actually had a date with the Chesapeake Ripper but in all honesty, who can tell which is which?

 

“Hello? Are you there?”

 

Molly’s voice was lined with worry, wondering if Will was upset with her or if he was spiraling again. Will cleared his throat and sighed, “Hi Mari, how are you and Wally?” Molly smiled through the phone, the silence filled with comfort. She says that she and Wally are doing well and they have a surprise for him. Will, not being fond of surprises, immediately asked what was the surprise. Molly brushed him off, saying he could wait until he comes back. Will admits that he won’t be back for a couple of days.

 

“What? What is Jack making you do?”

 

“It’s just procedure, in case Han-“ he cuts himself off, cringing on his slip. Will can hear Molly immediately sit up, a dog whining because of the movement. He doesn’t recognize it. “Hannibal? As in Hannibal the Cannibal?” Her voice is tinged with worry again, along with shock and anger. Will had informed Molly of his past; including his ‘relationship’ with his past psychiatrist. He didn’t tell her everything, just that he was wrongfully framed and imprisoned by Hannibal and that he was the infamous Chesapeake Ripper. Shocked by this information, Molly asked if he ever knew. He told her; I mean, I knew when everyone else knew. When it was too late. He tried his best to separate his past life from Molly. He didn’t want Hannibal to taint another good thing in his life. And for many reasons, Will holds a grudge against him. Not just for all the misfortune Hannibal brought, but also for all the happiness that accompanied it. Will’s forgiveness is far too great to allow Hannibal a taste. Once again, Will doesn’t have his appetite. Not anymore.

 

“Look,” he rubs his face with his calloused hand, making a mental note to shower, “We didn’t exactly expect him to be here but…” Will doesn’t know how he’ll tell Molly that, yes he knew, he knew as soon as he saw Alana in Jack’s office. He knew when way before Jack came to his door. He knew because he could feel that impending doom that always came when life concerned Hannibal. He can hear Molly sigh in disbelief, even envisioning her shake her head, “Expect him? Will, if I knew that Hannibal Lecter was the main suspect in the case you’re now working on, I wouldn’t have let you out of my sight!” He feels her rub her forehead, “I mean, he’s an actual psycho! And Jack knows how much you’ve been through with him!”

 

A loud bark interrupts Molly’s cries

 

“Molly?”

 

“…yes?”

 

“Who’s that dog?”

 

“What do you mean? There’s no dog…”

 

Bark Bark

 

“Molly.”

 

She deflates, “Okay, he’s your surprise. His name is Randy, Wally found him and got attached.” Inevitably, Will smiles, feeling that familiar domestic bliss he feels when he’s reminded of his family. 

 

The pure stress he had felt only minutes ago because he wasn’t as truthful to Molly as he should’ve been, had suddenly melted away, her playfulness working as a balm towards his tense blisters.  And as they slowly spoke of the new dog in silent love and whispers, Molly asked,

 

“If anything happens, please know it’s not your fault, okay? I know you worry time and time again about everything but,” she pauses to pet Randy, who now came back after she calmed, “not everything is on you, Will. Don’t make yourself believe you’re not trying your best, okay?”

 

And as the words dissolved inside Will's wet mind, tears formed in his eyes, glossy and still. They don’t fall, but they blur his vision. He clears his throat awkwardly, knowing he’s never been good with praises or any sort of positive validation, even after being married. He sits up on the bed, against the headrest and he gazes outside the window. Currently, it’s raining, the first rainfall this summer. He thinks of all the flowers, the soil, the life that is eternally grateful for the storm. He knows tomorrow morning, the earth will hold that fresh scent of nature Will so lovingly adores. He knows he has another chance tomorrow.

 

“I love you, Molly”

 

“I love you too, my beautiful man”

 

CARMINE

 

Will receives a call from Jack, stating that he needs Will at the BSHCI for questioning. He detests, asking why he needs to be questioned since he had already given his statement to the FBI. Jack had replied that this was a different type of questioning since it would be held by Alana. At that he furrows his brows, why would she need me? Why would she even need to talk to me? Alana collected her old foes like jewelry, wanting them close, and kept safe to inspect. He couldn’t feel like he was under the microscope when he was around Alana. She always had a way of knowing, even if it wasn’t for her own good.

 

Will reluctantly agreed.

 

CARMINE

 

Will’s primitive theosophy clashed with Alana’s savior’s complex. He could admit that he too also had a complex but Alana’s was much more rooted in her. From afar, you could see her pleading eyes, her pouty lip, and her shaking hands just itching to get a hold of the damaged. A part of him believes that’s her type, and with Margot, that theory just glows brighter and brighter. Now she is much more tame, but whenever he is near her, he can still see it. That hunger, that drooling taste she holds in her mind.

 

Even now, as they sit together, in a spare study, he sees it. 

 

The colors of the curtains paint the room in a bright white. Like the gates of any heaven, Will doesn’t know if he’s being allowed in, or if he’s being cast out. Perhaps it’s both. Alana had been kind enough to offer a drink, seeing Will’s apprehensive armor worn on him, but nothing could ever make Will reject a drink, so he accepted. Her abrasive two-piece suit stands out grudgingly, her pale skin only looking concerningly white by the second, as if she was a ghost and it was just her red lips moving like those old horror shows. As he took his first sip, Alana got comfortable on the sofa both she and Will were sitting on, and asked forwardly, “If Hannibal were to be caught, how would you react?” The question was jarring, not in the sense of how bold it was, because Alana was always bold, but more for the reason that Will wouldn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t know what to do if he was caught. In some other universe, Hannibal has been caught, and Will lives a peaceful life, not afraid of being hunted or his family being hunted.

 

Will realizes that at this moment, he’s always been waiting for Hannibal. Maybe not waiting for, but waiting for him. With each milestone he’s reached these past few years, Will felt Hannibal’s presence loom behind him, like a veil. He felt he couldn’t enjoy any moment that was worth celebrating because he knew Hannibal was still out there, alone. Alone? Will doesn’t know. The way Hannibal was when he saw him, there was no possible chance Hannibal had been alone all this time. He needs someone to see him, as selfish and green as he is.

 

“I wouldn’t react Alana, I’d just drop all the weight that’s been hanging off my shoulders.”

 

“You feel guilty for what he’s done?”

 

“You don’t?”

 

“I sleep perfectly fine.”

 

Of course she sleeps fine, she hasn’t killed. She hasn’t killed the same way Will has. She never sat at the same table as Hannibal Lecter, sipped wine, at a meal with him, knowing what it was made of. Who it was made of. She didn’t enjoy it, she never gazed into his eyes and saw her own movements flowing languidly like a blue flame. She’s never had to ask herself if she’s doing the right thing. She’s never been held so closely, with her eyes pleading a simple request, a simple want, and then be cast out of the personal hell he built himself? Does she hold the same scars he does? Does she feel that echo of animalistic cries inside her, as they vibrate so quickly, so thickly, she sometimes stares at it to know that it’s dead? No, of course, she doesn’t. She knows what it feels like to be seen. She has no reason to beg, to bargain, to forgive, to accept.

 

Alana stares at him, swaying her head to the side with a knowing smirk. Will stares back, seeing her emotions as clear as day. He raises his eyebrows, then shows confusion, before standing and gliding to the white rays cast close to the window. “I’m not letting him in Alana,” he blinks fast, swallows deeply, “Don’t worry about me.” He can hear Alana’s cogs turning, but not a second later, “How did it feel, seeing him?”

 

“Like…” he turns his body slightly, looking down, “Hannibal was looking through the back of my skull.” It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to Alana. He hears her breathe in, exasperated. “I felt like a fly flitting around back at the forest, unsure of what to do.” And how else could he have reacted? Besides fear and utter shock.

 

“I had the absurd feeling that he walked next to me when I came to Jack,” he lets out a shaky laugh, “Had to stop outside my car to look around, make sure I was alone, heh…”

 

And before Alana could even speak, Jack rushes into the room, his posture defeated.

 

“Will”

 

Both Will and Alana are startled, jostled as Jack’s eyes are lidded and bloodshot. Suddenly, Will feels as if he’s about to puke.

 

“What is it, Jack?”

 

Silence.

 

“Jack?”

 

“It’s your family, Will”

 

His heart falls to his stomach, tasting the arteries in his lining.

 

“What? What happened?” Is he shaking now?

 

Silence again.

 

“Jack!” 

 

“Hannibal…he-“

 

The realization sets in, “Oh my god, Will!” Alana yelps, standing abruptly, rushing towards Will.

 

“Will! Will, are you okay?”

 

Their voices all bleed out, becoming fuzzy and distorted. He doesn’t react, he doesn’t speak.

 

He stands, frozen.

 

No, No, No, this can’t be happening

 

This can’t be happening, again.

 

 

Notes:

So, so, so sorry for taking two weeks!! School has been a pain in the ass, so I believe I’ll start posting only twice a month :/ Still I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was such a roller coaster to write because my document kept leaving me!!! Please tell me your thoughts in the comments!!! Kudos and comments are so so so appreciated!!!!

Chapter 7: VERMILLION

Summary:

“And amidst this bitterness
If you'll just consider this
Even if it don't make sense
all the time
Give it time
And when the crowd becomes your burden And you've early closed your curtains
I'll wait by the backstage door”

- Fiona Apple, ‘I Know’

Notes:

Warning!!!! This chapter contains: mutilation, death, torture, child murder, graphic depictions of violence, and manipulation.

This is a warning because some people might not be into that, please know that it is for the plot so read at your own risk. :D

As gold and cool as the flames that dance before him, Will watches all the letters he withheld from Hannibal burn. There were nights where his anger would become so grand, Will found scraps of tea-stained paper and wrote. The pages were wrinkled with anger and each noteheld the weight of their burden, their sins. Some recalled how simple it was earlier on in their relationship. Others were just angry blabbering of what happened that night. Most were empty one-liners, repeating words like ‘You are horrible’, ‘Where did you go’, and ‘What happened to you?’ He kept them in a folder inside his top drawer. Sometimes Molly would ask about them, but most times she wouldn't mention them.

 

The cold water pelts the window surface with incongruity and shame. The clouds are angry with gray, unsure why they’re crying, but weeping nonetheless. It seems the Gods know someone died. The stone pathway Will had laid all those years ago was now bloodied, scraps of skin and hair against them. He requested to go in alone, but Jack insisted on accompanying him, mumbling something along the lines of not wanting Will to be alone.

 

And while Jack probably thought his presence would be a comfort, it was no use. Jack had not lived in this place. He didn't wake up early every Sunday because Molly’s favorite bakery only opened at six and closed at nine. He doesn’t know both Wally’s and Molly's McDonald's orders by heart; he wasn't there when Wally graduated elementary school or when Molly started community college. When the anniversary of Molly’s ex-husband's death passed they stayed up doing a Tigers marathon, “ they’re underrated, I swear.” He wasn't there with them. How could Jack think Will wasn't alone in this darkness? It angered him almost, Jack believing his existence gives some sort of comfort. If Jack hadn't asked- no, begged Will to come to Virginia, none of this would've happened. 

 

He would have met the new dog by now.

 

The coat rack that shows in the front of the door is made of deer antlers. Will had cut and shaved them down, molded them together, and created it. He even had enough to create coat hangers. The antlers have this nestled brown that compliments any coat that is laid against it. A long purple coat and puffer jacket sits neatly against it. Their coats are still here, untouched. He reaches to touch but Jack’s hand quickly goes to his, pausing his movement. “We shouldn’t touch anything, in case he left anything behind.”

 

This made him irate. Once again Hannibal tarnished something good, something that was all Will’s. The premise of family was foreign to Will, but he became akin to it, like soft plush. He would lay against the comfort of family and find himself surrounded by unconditional support. It was intoxicating and new; completely unsettling in a myriad of ways. In addition to finding family, he found weakness. There was always something someone could take away. His sleepless nights would taunt him now, how he’d stake out his cabin a few fortnights before. How the repetition of Molly’s breaths would become a metronome for Will, steadying him constantly.

 

And as soon as he felt it was respectable to sleep, a snap of a branch would echo around the cabin and he’d startle awake, grabbing his handgun close to the drawer. Of course, he never left it unguarded; there was a lock in the drawer that only Will had the key to. Molly would call him apprehensive or worrisome, but this wouldn’t matter to him. At least he had the chance to put up some sort of fight if anything were to happen.

 

As they walk in, there are bloody footprints leading to the master bedroom. They’re heavy combat boots, practical and select. “At least we know what he meant to wear…” Will mumbled, sighing as he walked beside the footprints, following where they led. Jack is right behind his tail. The shudder of cold lights created a sullen atmosphere that took Will’s breath away. 

 

The wooden hallways are plain and never-ending,  cascading with horrified screams. They create a vivid perspective for him. The room shines a bit brighter, and he can savor a taste of sinful bile beyond his taste buds: smoke, hard skin, zealous hatred. The sound of his steps becomes heavier and the room is dark when he enters.

 

Will sees now his beautiful Molly, sleeping blissfully. Her hair is down and spread against their pillow sheets. The hand cream she used every night is still there on the dresser. There are Bobby pins and a few trinkets placed carelessly on it. The window is open, linen curtains flowing ghostly as a cool breeze comes in. Everything in the image looks domestic. His skin shivers, but only for a moment. Then, he feels himself slipping into the murderer, into Hannibal. 

 

But before he can allow himself the illusion of the killing, he’s suddenly switched onto a bed. The flannel sheets are rough against his skin, creating a gooseskin texture along his back. He is shirtless, and as he lays there, unable to move, the wind howled searingly. It flushed his skin pink and he felt a powerful weight crush him. He suddenly was able to turn, shocked to find himself under Hannibal.

 

His scarred wrists glistened with blood as they held onto his throat, constricting his airway. He tried to push his hands away, but Hannibal's grip was so strong, there was no use. Black dots decorated his vision, static singing in his ears. Each breath he took held a cold flame against his churned lungs. The heated and rising heartbeat echoed between them, and as he could feel himself pass out, a warm mouth came close to his ear. "You don't get to die yet, Mari.” The room now came into full view as Hannibal's hands fell off his throat, swiftly picking him up and tossing him against the room. Will hit the dresser, groaning in pain as he heard a frightened voice behind them both.

 

“Mom?”

 

Wally stood there frozen. His eyes are wide with fear as they become glassy and unwanted.  The wind is still whistling behind them, corrupting the homely setting. Will can feel himself visibly shaking, twitching his head side to side, “No, no, please don't…” Hannibal turns, fixed on Wally as he slowly speaks, motioning his hand, “Come here, Wally.” The kid shows a confused look, wondering how this strange man knows his name. Reluctantly, he ambles into the room. His face was like a snow-covered angel, pure and colored with worry. His hands are an angry pink, from scratching and pulling on skin. All of Wally, his accomplishments, his fears, and his dreams, come to Will like a thrashing rainstorm. The room was cold but he could feel the rage boiling off of Hannibal, coloring him green. Stepping closer is Hannibal, Wally's eyes flash to Will, fear and confusion hidden behind them. The older man’s hand takes hold of Wally, swallowing him in comparison.

 

An instant before Will cried, he saw a glittering light shine against Hannibal's hand; a fruit knife. It was not unlike the feeling he felt all those years ago, but a certain pang rumbled in his heart as he saw the older man look at him in the eyes and hear him whisper, “See?” The weapon sits comfortably next to Wally's unblemished skin. Then, like a reflex, Hannibal slashes Wally's skin slowly, ensuring pain.

 

As Will hopelessly draped against the oak dresser, a familiar pain surged under his pelvis. Walter’s gold light becomes red as the sea, gushing and flowing from his own. It spreads against the floorboards, almost black in the moonlight. Will had turned away, far too afraid to watch another be taken away from him. But he could feel Walter around him, sticking to his leg, wetting him maroon. His gasps and the boy’s cries reverberate along the four walls, slowly changing into gurgles and intense moans. He can feel himself sobbing, wheezing for air as the grief and hurt wash over his body.

 

Unwillingly, he felt a strong bloodied hand grip his right arm, pulling him forward onto the mattress. The mattress squeaks with weight as he feels Hannibal pin his legs down with his own. He pants and struggles to break free before he feels his hands glide against his face. Hannibal's face is shockingly tame, with only a hint of madness behind them. His thumbs caress his cheekbones and Will can hear himself whimpering. “Now,” the man above him begins, continuing to touch his face, “I will not lie to you and tell you that this will only take a moment.” he pauses close to his eyes, “But Marigold, you will be beautiful”

 

The sensation of Hannibal's nails piercing his eyeballs, through his cornea, and straight to the ora serrata. The pain is numbing and feverish. He feels the older man's thumb probe further, pushing to the vitreous, feeling his veins and nerves. It's almost as if he finds it humorous, playing with his vision. Will’s blood cries fall, painting his ears wine-colored. Hannibal's hands have finally left his face, but it still feels like Hannibal is still inside him, protruding him. He feels himself scream in misery, moving blindly to the side.

 

Maybe he can still escape, maybe he can leave-

 

He feels a knife plunged into his chest, ripping him in half. His blood comes out of him in pints, overwhelming the blankets under him. And as if God would punish him anymore, his perspective is back to him, like he could see again. 

 

He wishes he couldn’t

 

 He could see the yellow fat showing, glistening like fat lard. His vocal cords are destroyed with how much pain he feels. His chest, whatever's left of it, moves up and down, stuttering. Will looks down and finds the knife not only going into him again, but it cuts deeper, to reveal his pink lungs. He sees Hannibal's hands touch them, amazed at the sight. He could see his own heart, pumping whatever life he held. And as he sees a tan hand go inside of him, reaching for his heart, Will’s vision goes black.

 

Will comes back to himself in a hearty gasp, clutching his heart with vigor. Jack is next to him, pulling him up as it seems Will had fallen earlier. The floorboards aren't sticky, but as Will takes a glance at them, they are still stained with blood. Is it Walter's blood, or Molly's? His vision returns to him, clearing again, and suddenly, everything is too much. He needs to get out . Will stumbles past Jack to the bathroom as he feels he is about to vomit. The smell of lavender-scented wax overwhelms him and reminds him of Molly. There were tremendous sounds that flooded his ears, inviting him back into the cancerous moment. He pushed them away.

 

Jack strolled in, a remorseful look on his face. “If you need time Will, we can wait however long you need-” Will returned a nasty look, his face furrowed with anger, “This could've been avoided, Crawford. All of this could've been avoided if you…if you never came back!” Without realizing it, his hands are already against Jack's coat, scrunching the cashmere, and pushing him against the bathroom mirror. Jack's eyes flashed with a hint of fear before subduing, “Will, I know you're upset but-” Will thrusted him further, “I don't give a damn about what you think right now” His snarl showed his teeth, glinting with spit and fury. His knuckles were white with pressure and slowly, they came back to their olive color. Jack sighed, eyes half-lidded. Before he could open his mouth, Will combed his curls with his fingers and straightened his shirt. A shirt Molly bought for him for his birthday.

 

“I'll be outside. I won't wait for you.”

 

CARMINE

Everything was mutilated.

Jack and Will hadn’t said anything during the autopsy. They stood, hearing what Zeller and Price were moronically monologuing, no emotional distress behind their voice. As intended though, Will had heard Jack say to them to keep it professional. Will appreciated it to an extent. 

 

Molly Graham’s heart was torn to shreds, bits of cartilage still twinging with bloody delight. Her ribs were pushed open, forcefully broken so her lungs were in full display. Ash was spread around them, patted on them, intentionally, to create the illusion of black lungs. Her eyes were completely ruined, swollen, and pink with fat and blood. The surroundings of what was essentially left of her eyes were a plum shade. Her ring finger was broken off, snapped to the point the bone showed, like a vice.

 

Price holds a pair of tweezers in one hand, stabbing his other on Molly’s stomach. He’s stitching her up, carefully covering up Hannibal’s artwork. Each stitch that’s sewn into her creates the impression of stitching up leather. The skin was now frigid and worn, almost 48 hours since her death. As the men speak quietly of what they see, he hears Zeller grab a clipboard with an extensive amount of words written on the page.

 

“The ash that was spread on her lungs wasn’t actual ash.”

 

Will’s breath gets caught in his throat.

 

“It was human ash; somehow he had fully incinerated a body and sprinkled it on her.” He pauses, bringing the clipboard down to look at Jack, “We’re unsure of who it is.”

 

The rubber gloves Will wears feel like they’re burning him alive. His arms are crossed, holding each side of his stomach, clutching almost. His eyes wander from the autopsy table to Molly’s chest. The gray smoke covers her lungs in a sort of sinful way; a repenting breath. He feels his throat close up.

 

“Did you do a DNA test on the ash?”

 

Everyone in the room turns to Will.

 

“No, we haven’t-“

 

“Run it with Walter’s.”

 

Jack's brows furrow, “You think the ash that's on your wife is Wally’s?” His finger pointed at the broken corpse in front of them. Her silence mocks them.

 

“ Yes. ”

 

As the duo look at each other, horrified, Jack pulls Will out of the lab. The hallways smell of death and strong blue, almost melodic. They sing to Will, holding him close and reminding him to keep it together. Both their Oxfords squeak against the polished floor and Jack holds an unreadable expression on his face. The analog clock up on the wall keeps ticking by, repeating the large hand over ‘six’. 

 

Tick tock, tick tock,

 

“I know you're very emotional right now, Will. But you can't suggest the idea that your stepson was burned alive!” His strong hands point out, pleading with Will. He couldn't be bothered, Will knows. The euphoria Hannibal must've felt when he burned a part of Molly, thus a part of Will. Was Molly a part of Will? The same way Hannibal was with Will? Can it be considered the same? It's too much for Will, all of it is too much.

 

 

“Jack, I'm tired. Let me go.” He rubs his face with a sweaty palm. The earth leaves its essence on his face. Jack shakes his head, opening his navy blazer, “No, Will. I know it's hard but We need you here. This case is connected to you!” Will raises his head, “Then assign me some security! Keep me safe! I have nothing else anymore, Jack” His shouts echo through the hallway. Zeller and Price quietly shuffle out of the lab, the glass door’s sound being the only thing to give them away. In their hand, they have what looks to be an autopsy report. They look awfully disturbed.

 

Tick tock, tick tock.

 

“Gentleman,” Jack began, his brow raising, “What did you find?”

 

“Jack…” Jimmy Price held himself closely, sparing a glance at Will before continuing, “The ash that was spread against the victim was a small boy. Around 87 pounds.” Brian suddenly became weary, cutting off Price, “There was a DNA match,” He looked at Will, almost shrinking as he stared at him in the eyes. “To Walter.”

 

And as if the world was spinning vigorously, Will felt a sudden bile rise in his throat. He couldn't tell if it was anger, or guilt, or relief. It was all a disgusting jumble of perfidious, ghostly hate. Good was never Wally's task, but he was the living embodiment. The innocence of a child was an enviable thing. No harm for the world, all life, and no death. But as death knocked on anyone's door, passive and green, the death Hannibal had given was not a choice by god, but by the devil himself. He has fully left a cocoon of past woe and has become entirely obdurate. That almost potent vigor that hung loosely against Will’s neck, flirting with him softly.

 

“This is my design”

 

And while their voices sparred helpless sorrows, Will heard none of it. He walked out to the main floor, down to the entrance, outside the crisp air. It's August now. The lawn was empty, as well as the trees and the sky. They became a sullen gray with gracious tears that became all too familiar. Heavy steps fell against the floor as if he was the only man in the world, and he walked to his rental, completely worn. How would the cabin be when he came back? What would he do with all the extra life Hannibal had forcefully given him? All their belongings are in the evidence unit, but it didn't hurt any less. In what way would a normal person handle grief? When will Will see hasty fictions of Molly roaming the world? When will the promise he made all those years ago to her come back to him?

 

When does grief finally pass? Does it become a burn mark that remarks all the experiences he viciously became out of spite? Will it be painful, as it was with Abigail? When do all the anecdotal memories become seafoam, roaming the deepest parts of his mind and only coming ashore when he's close to the tide? Is grief like the ocean waves, pushing and pulling until it becomes nothing but a known cycle that reminds you that change will never be finite? Is it soft like the bluest sky that gives life or the angry navy that guarantees death? Can it be everything all at once?

 

The white lilies glow with a pure white flame, entrancing and enticing.

 

Will picks it off and enters his vehicle, unready for his appointment.

 

CARMINE

 

As he drives rather recklessly to Bedelias Office, he notices a sort of ghostly figure that sits in the backseat. Her long benevolent hair shined with life, eyes all the same. She looked older now, but no less youthful than the last time he saw her all those years ago. The profound knowing of her all-existing gaze made him grip the steering wheel tighter. He spoke quietly, as if speaking to the gods,

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

In the rearview mirror, he sees her smile, crows feet bold and bright. When she opens her mouth, it feels like for just a moment, she's alive. “You know why I'm here.” Will looks back at the road, swallows thickly, and blinks. “I don’t.” And though he cannot see her, Abigail huffs a laugh, rolling her eyes in the process, “Why are you avoiding it?” She wears a brown jacket like she had at the Chapel, but it's stained with blood around the collar. His brows furrow, “Avoiding what?” The sound of a seatbelt clicks and now, as if she was really there, he sees Abigail leaning forward in the rearview mirror. “Why do you think of them so clinically?” Her big blue eyes fixed on Will's face. Her scar is shown proudly. He readjusts his grip, the leather becoming sweaty under his palms. 

 

“I don't know what you’re talking about-”

 

“Will, you didn't care for Molly or Walter. You don't care if they're dead-”

 

‘That's not true,” The leather squeaks boldly.

 

“Then why aren't you crying?”

 

Will felt like a deer in headlights. Had he not been crying? What does that mean? Does that mean anything? When Will was younger, he never saw his father cry, not even when his father died. If death creates tears, is he really living at all? He swallows this fact coldly, looking at the endless road ahead of him.

 

“Where will you go? You can't go back home.”

 

“I’ll figure it out.” He grits out.

 

“Why won't you see him?”

 

To this, Will looks at Abigail, a scolding heat in his eyes.

 

“He isn't an option anymore.”

 

“Because you don't want him to be.” She comes closer, her frigid air tensing Will. 

 

“He's gone now, Abigail. The part that you knew of him is gone. He is nothing but a rotten black hole.” His shoulders are close to his ears, becoming more and more fixed. She turns her head to the outside window to her right, “He would come back if you gave him a chance.”

 

“There are no second chances with Hannibal, only repeating mistakes. He holds grudges like he believes in god; Only when it's convenient.”

 

“His compassion for you is inconvenient.”

 

A long silence takes place.

 

“I want to feel something other than hate right now, Abigail.”

 

And as if he had said the most enticing thing in the world, Abigail’s eyes glittered, catching the gray sky into amorous blues. She said nothing, feeling what Will said was enough. As they drove silently, Abigail’s deific attitude suddenly wavered into small waves of nothingness. 

 

And before he stepped out of the car, he knew she was gone.

 

CARMINE

 

Her room was a place that sprung hate into his bones. It felt infinite, the sounds recoiling from the walls as he was sure many had confessed before. Bedila sat there, smug in her timeless smile. As though she was Hannibal, you could feel confidence wafting off her like a sly fox. She expected to see him; she didn't expect Will to be so rattled .

 

“You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

 

The irony became so humorous to Will, he chuckled. “You could say something like that.” His elbows were positioned on his knees. He is leaning forward, rubbing his palms together as a nervous tic. The day has felt so long, that Will is shocked to see the outside sun is still shining bright. He was torn with awful fragments of shame and guilt all day, he's unsure of how he is meant to feel. 

 

“A figure of death that is rooted into life can be considered mad. Are you mad, Will?” She tilted her head to the side, curiosity blooming through. His eyes fell to a plain wall, “Do you believe in the paranormal?” She smiled in return, “If there is bad, then there is good. And if both exist, then shameless ambition could be considered paranormal.” Every time Bedelia had ever talked about any sort of celestial reason, she spoke with sparkles in her eyes. It made Will believe she once was a believer. He spoke out this theory, “Do you believe in God?”

 

“I believe in senseless energy.”

 

“Sounds depressing”

 

“It can be, to people who are pragmatic.”

 

“It's not naive to believe in facts.” He bit back.

 

“You aren't a factual person, no? You create visions so close to being considered paranormal, you are a roaming ghost.” She responded calmly, crossing her legs in challenge.

 

“God and the Devil are the same. They create kingdoms, reserved and destined to be built as ferocious extensions of their own egos: ’ Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved.’”

 

“You don't believe paradise could be grand?”

 

“I don't believe in Paradise.”

 

She ends the debate with a small nod. The table that separates them both holds a glass of red wine. It is half-empty and flat. It reminds Will of Molly; his Marigold. He thinks back to almost a fortnight ago, when he was next to her, hearing her breathe. There were nights when Will wouldn't sleep. He’d stay awake, scared that Molly would vanish

. Some nights he stayed until sunrise. Molly wouldn't comment on his face and say that it'd look like he hadn't slept in a week. Sometimes, that was the truth. Will wouldn't admit he had separation anxiety. He'd consider it, a ‘Close Connection.’

 

 As if she was a mind reader, Bedlia asks, “How’s your family?”

 

He states plainly, “Hannibal got to them.” This was not the response Bedila expected, as her eyes went wide and her hand rose to her mouth. She looked almost sympathetic. Before she could say her condolences, Will’s anger snapped, “You’re probably glad. Huh? Hannibal finally got to them.”

 

“Was your wife aware of how intimately you and Hannial know each other?” Her tone was lined with curiosity and genuine concern. Perhaps if Molly knew that Will and Hannibal were intertwined in such a profound way, she would have dodged a bullet or a stab wound. Will couldn't believe she asked such a question, and yet-

 

 A small tear is stuck inside his eye when he mumbles, “She was aware enough.”

 

“Clearly not.”

 

He huffs in anger, turning to the side before he asks, “What's he going to take from you?”

 

“Is it important to you that he takes something from me?”

 

He has taken something from everyone. Alana for years had to walk with a cane until her lower back could finally handle her weight. Jack had gained scars all over his body; he even grew a beard to cover his scar from that night. Chiyo lost years of life to a man that might not have been who Hannibal said he was. He was a burning fire, that came in colors of red and blue, entrancing and calm until the boils on your skin resembled his eyes.

 

Bedilia takes this silence and comments, “He marks those he finds worthy. It excites him to know that you are marked in this particular way.”

 

His brows furrowed in confusion and conflicted emotion, “Why?”

 

“ Why do you think?”

 

He could feel the vitriol working up from his wrist into his veins, all the way to his heart. His eyes were cold and winter-ish. The sight of Bedia’s wet eyes angered him more, uncertain of anything she was saying, “Bluebeard’s Wife,” Bedelia let out a silent exasperation, taken aback, “Secrets you’re not to know yet sworn to keep.”

 

“If I am meant to be Bluebeard's wife” she pauses, “I would have preferred to be the last.”

 

A minute passes by, maybe two, and then Will speaks in haunted revelation,

 

“Is Hannibal… in love with me?”

 

The question marshed around his mind that edged to disgust and relief. The repressions and forced direction, the love-twinged looks and hearty comments. Was that how love felt? That inky feeling that spread all over his body with rot and darkness. A force that looks like love and sounds like love but isn't? A pattern that destroys and changes all over again, that creates life and undoubtedly emotion. Was change and love both on different sides of the same coin? 

 

“Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes.

 

A pause of silence

 

“But do you ache for him?” 

Notes:

Hello!!! IM BACK!!!

I noticed how much love this fic has gotten while I haven’t been updating and I just wanna say THANK YOU!!!! Hitting 700 hits is CRAZYY!!!

Anyway, yeah…Molly and Wally died. It had to be done I fear. And some might wondering how the fuck these two will end up together; It is a slow burn, so it will happen but with them, it will be as hurtful and cruel as possible!

See you next time!!

Chapter 8: SMOKE

Summary:

Internal monologues are just as important as external.

One must know that before they are read like a book.

Notes:

We are SO back

I’d like to dedicate this chapter to veev (guest). They left such kind and thoughtful messages on my last chapter that I just HAD to come back. Let me know how you feel about this chapter at the end!!!

Past discussions were embossed in the bloody walls inside his office. Each atom holds itself against one another, reminding each other who they are, what they represent, and what they are willing to lose. Every breath Will takes, the man across from his releases all the same. Any semblance of individuality falls apart when both are in the same room. They exhale as one, walk as one, become as one whole. Dust and ashes they are, but together they are an entity higher than the average man; higher than anyone at all. So many things are done instinctively; the way we yawn as we wake, how we wince when something hurts, how conversations go between them.

 

This is how "Therapy" goes between them; Hannibal asks where they left off, Will gives him a knowing glance, and they both finish a bottle of wine. 

 

"What do you think about when you think about killing?" He asks, the glass perched closely to his lips.

 

The older man glances to the side, his eyes fixed to the chair Mason Verger had cut into a few weeks ago. The man had been so kind to replace his outburst with this burgundy chair that resembles a cuckold seat. Nevertheless, Will stands behind it, his hand resting on top of the chair and staring at Hannibal, expecting. The man is more casual today, if that word can even be used to describe Hannibal Lecter. He wears a gray three piece suit, but the jacket had come off in between glasses. His vest has gold embroidery that lines his body perfectly, obviously tailored for him. His Italian loafers don't squeak under the waxed floor, but Will can hear him shuffle a bit. He turns towards Hannibal, an eyebrow raised.

 

Hannibal responds nonchalantly, "I think about God."

 

Will turns, intrigued, "Good and evil?"

 

"Good and Evil have nothing to do with God."

 

His nose scrunches at that, as if something rotten filled the air. Will has never been a man to believe in God, or religion. He has read the bible and has chapters memorized just by living in Louisiana for most of his youth, but he does not believe. Whatever faith is kept is worth being lost, and he would rather have nothing than to lose.The proof that God is real is strong, but the feelings one has for nature is stronger.  Perhaps this indifference he holds for God is rooted by fear. But everything looks the same with adrenaline, so it doesn't matter anyway. Will shoves his hands in his pockets and walks around the chair, towards Hannibal's desk. Each step he makes echoes around the office. His shoes are worn and incomplete, but that doesn't bother him. He turns and leans against the wooden desk, his hands placed next to him. Hannibal watches each move, entranced.

 

 "God scrambles at logistics" Will sighs, eyeing the man in front of him. The older man does not look at him, turning towards Will's empty seat. "Killing must feel good to God too, no?"

 

 His head turns to Will, a look that he cannot explain cover the older man's features. His eyes become almost lidded, heavy from... contemplation? Nostalgia? Hannibal's gaze darkens as he licks his lips. Will follows. "With good comes evil, they cannot become without one another. They are synonymous, walking in a parallel line that never ends. It's infinite. As for God…

 

"He is a mere entity that comes and goes as he pleases."

 

Will huffs, then ironically, drinks to that.

 

(CARMINE)

 

The cycle of good and evil is a straight line that shrinks and grows in size. A peripheral sight that will be there, but doesn't have to be if you chose. What was mercy anyway? Besides cruel and violent; evil if one were to word it correctly. Mercy is abandoned respect, only then revisited once it's truly pitiful. And believe all the God's above, this home was pitiful.

 

Different shades of gray and beige, charcoal and ash, cobwebs and dusty kilts, came from the attic windows. Will could see it from here. It seemed like the house held its own scent, for the sun casted its rays and unsheathed the flying dust and dead cells that swayed gently in its wind. Its walls were white but the porch was this dark oak, contrasting quite hauntingly against the molded panels. It seemed like if it wasn't summer, this home would be terrifying. But still, it was.

 

 Its air was unlike any other. Windows were open, and each one had linen curtains that swayed just as sparingly as the dust. Its lush greenery twisted with each of his steps, its soil squeaking under him. And the house was far, far from any gas station, any other home, anything at all. 

 

It was completely and utterly itself.

 

Reminds him of Wolf Trap.

 

Will sighed and ambled forward. The steps had this growing moss that seemed to be attracted to Will each time he took a step. They panted quietly under him, almost like it had never felt contact before. The way the stairs were creaking under him though, gave him the impression that perhaps no one had ever stepped foot into this place. Which would make sense, he hadn't been here since a bit after Hannibal left for good.

 

 

Will rattled the doorhandle before opening the door. Homes are one of the most intimate places on Earth, second to a human body. They are a reflection of what we are inside. The mere choice of having shoes, a tea set, or a coat rack close to the entrance does enough to show that the house is not just a place to you, but a home to others. This house did not have either of those things. This house had a mat that said “Welcome” in a fainted breath, laying against scratched wooden boards. Perhaps hospitality is unknown to Will, but who was going to be here anyway? 

 

The scent ran heavy in the damp air; one that smells like cigars and dank clothing that had dried outside a windowsill. Of course, smoke doesn't bother him, Will used to be a smoker. But he then found the addiction tasteless and barbaric and he found himself thinking that coming into work with nicotine on his lips and hands was becoming a bit unappealing and boring all together. Whatever that meant back then. He didn't know, nor did he care to think too much of it. He just recalls one day walking to his car after a particularly awful lecture, and tossing his cigarette box out before he drove off.

 

 

Will took in what he saw. As soon as he walked in, he was greeted with a labyrinth of stairs that lead up to the second floor. To his right, there was an open living room that had two couches, ragged with age. A sad excuse of a fireplace was there, interrupting the space with its loud humming. There were books all over the room. On the floor, on the couches, on the coffee table that was hiding ancient coffee ring stains from late night readings. To his left, there was a kitchen. The floors were cleaner here, freshly waxed with a decades old cleaner. The smell was oddly comforting to him, thinking fondly of those days back when he worked for the FBI and he had to mop every other day because his dogs kept pissing on the floor. Sooner or later the urine messed up the wood and he had to get new flooring. He did it with all his dogs by his side.

 

The atmosphere is aberrantly calm. It bothered Will. 

 

Quiet was known but uncommon in their household. Molly would say that a quiet house was an unhappy house. So, she would try family night, every other night when they all first moved in together. The first home they had wasn’t the cabin, it was a small apartment in Florida. The stagnant feeling of cordial behavior felt suffocating. Will could handle awkwardness, god knows he experienced that often with Jack, but he wished they skipped over that part and just got along. The entropy he had felt with Molly was stable; constant. It didn’t feel like it would slip and run away to Italy with his psychiatrist. 

 

Which he knows is not a common worry but…fool me once…

 

Wally was as stubborn and as awkward Will was when he was his age so it felt useless trying to get Wally to open up. But, that discomfort suddenly disappeared when a team was playing. They all bonded over sports; and while Will wasn’t extremely passionate as Molly or Wally, he enjoyed watching them yell at the television every Saturday when college baseball was back on.

 

He leans against the kitchen counter, finding his stash of old whisky in one of the cupboards. The glass had dust in it but in all transparency, Will didn't mind.

 

Death is definite but to Will, he can’t feel it is. His process of grief filters through screens that contain only two colors. A sort of overwhelming darkness that hinders his own being and stitches strings into his veins that hold him high as a deity. And then, he gets a sort of light that burns his face, erasing all shadows from the Cross and deem him the new replacement. They switch on and off constantly, simultaneously making his moods disappear then loudly reappear like a motion picture soundtrack. This soundtrack plays as the flashes of memories roll into film that is then stored away somewhere in his mind. 

 

But their death hasn’t hit him yet. He doesn’t feel anything besides the bile coming up in his throat. And it left a nasty taste in his mouth, simmering and boiling in his tastebuds. It tastes like a fallacy he’s unaware of. One he's convincing himself it’s been there all along. One he hopes will transform into grief instead of shame- instead of guilt. Their mirages are here, somehow. They run past him in quick flashes, bright and loud and familiar. The soundtrack plays again. But the feeling is gone. That paternity is gone, rotting away in a cold morgue that stays in his past. 

 

 

He takes a large swill from his cup, the dust resting firmly on his lips. Quiet humming is heard throughout the house and not a thing is on. How the property still has electricity, he’s not sure. His body doesn’t mind though, the floor is warm and it keeps him stable as the temperature rolls through the soles of his feet and into his knees and stomach. He shudders, feeling…comfortable? He feels he will never be able to clean a house again, something always settles on the floor. The glass feels hot against his skin, but he doesn’t put it down. It tastes like molten lava down his throat.

 

Perhaps in the morning he will feel better.

 

(CARMINE)

 

It’s cold in the morning. 

 

The wooden floor felt frigid as he dragged against it, trying to find coffee. What he had brought with him was a small bag that held toiletries and instant coffee. He took the coffee out last night before he fell asleep. When he walked in the kitchen, waiting for his water to boil, he looked outside. It looked sullen, like a filter was placed before he awoke. The house was surrounded by greenery, trees as tall as mountains and rocks as wide as boulders. Essentially, it was a forest, with an open river. The wildlife here was flourishing, as he saw small animals of all types squander around, unaware or undisturbed by Will’s presence. Back when he lived in Wolf Trap, Will liked to live so no one had any faults or issues with him. In doing so, he isolated himself, and found a family with strays. It was easier at that time to live with strays than animals. 

 

Time mixed with tragedy makes life dull. A stinging reminder of that memory. The traumatic event becomes uneventful and suddenly, one wonders why one ever lost sleep for it at all. After the tragedy, after the dullness, all there's left is boredom. Is that what guilt can become, a boring dullness that never leaves. But a person can't think of too much of the dullness because then it becomes apparent that they never cared at all. Or, that attention has left. How much disdain! To move on when the thought is still there.To denounce life all together. But then, how immoral it is to denounce oneself because of dullness. How evil it is to be anything at all! 

 

Quick spurts of fire shook him out of his thinking. The water was overflowing. He quickly went over and turned the stove off, moving the teakettle off of the stove and onto the counter. His hand felt torrid, aching from the heat since there were no rags around, but still, he made no face. Will used the same glass he drank from last night, and poured the water into it. The steam went over his face, opening his pores and mind all over again. Steam felt like a wet kiss, pushed lightly but erotically. It reminded him of when he went to Lithuania. Fog covered the land but it was clear in his mind where he was going. The steam- the grayness of the area- made everything feel more vibrant and alive, and the light emanating from the wine cellar felt like a path to home. Hannibal's home.

 

It's crazy how connected he had felt to Hannibal when he was there. Hannibal felt mystical, then. It's hard to imagine a refined man like him to ever be a child once. He felt constructed, sculpted exactly like how he wanted. One could argue, that was what he wanted all along. Hannibal Lecter had spent years tailoring the perfect person suit. Will has to remember that nothing could ever be a reason or an explanation as to why Hannibal is the way he is. Nothing had happened to him; he himself is why he is who he is. There is no understanding when understanding Hannibal. He flows freely, like steam on Lithuanian soul, like souls emanating from cemeteries. 

 

The fog outside his window calms him again. There's no reason why.

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

The halls of the FBI have never been more rampant than now. Shoes clack on freshly polished floors and cause vibrations that turn into shocks. Shocks that emanate through Jack’s bones. He has been trying to get a reach on Will for the last 48 hours but to no luck, he has not responded. Brian had suggested tapping his phone but Jack knows Will. If he doesn't want to be reached, he won't be at all. 

 

The feeling was there, but he buried it. He walked past it, and pretended it wasn't there. It was better that way. 

 

He's waiting in his office, pacing around  for the final report on Hannibal's last kill. During the time Will had not answered Jack's calls, a new body was found. A man who looked like Will Graham. This isn't a coincidence and everyone knows it. One could just be it, but two are boarding suspicions. Suspicion that turns into large glaring signs that are bright blood red and that all point to Will. When the body had arrived at the morgue, both Brian and Jimmy stared in shock at what was before them.

 

Alana walked into the office, holding a mustard colored folder that is filled with documents. Her eyes are glaring and dark, matching her short hair that sits against her cheek. “You know what I had to do just now, Jack?” Her tone is icy, causing guilt to immediately rise inside him. She slams the folder on his desk, “I had to fly my family out of the country, away from all this mess. Away from this!”   The glossed pictures reflect light so all Jack can see is white. He picks up the folder.

 

The body is mutilated. This has been present on both of the past victims. The man's face is contorted, the skin around his eyes is a bright color of carmine. Vessels were torn off with teeth marks, except the eyes, which were pulled out of the sockets but then placed outside, on the skin. His nose was completely bitten off, the bone being exposed in a raw view. The wounds have caused blood to drip down his neck causing a crown effect, spikes large and wide. His chest cavity was caved, opened not with a knife but with a different tool. It is unknown what it was. His ribs were pushed out of the chest cavity and peaked from the fat hanging wetly from the body. His pelvis was clean, except one single clean cut scar that resembled a smile. Further proving that this grotesque killing is a choice, an aesthetic one. A rabid animal wouldn't do this cut, a surgeon though…

 

The man’s gentiles were completely mutilated, the victim's penis was peeled, the foreskin being pulled back to create a sort of flower. One of the victims' testicles laid in between the flower. The color of skin didn't exist. Everything was red and shimmering. 

 

Jack drops the folder with a loud sigh. His head feels like it's reeling. Alana stares at him with  sort of hatred in her eyes. He chooses to ignore it. “We cannot ignore this Jack. We cannot have him terrorizing us again! I can't lose my child to this monster! Will-” He slams his hand against the oak desk, causing Alana to flinch back in shock. His voice rumbles, like ocean waves, “Will isn't here. He hasn't been answering my calls or my texts.” He raises his head slowly, watching a sort of confused expression cover Alana’s face. “What do you mean he's not here? Where could he be?” 

 

“If I knew, I would've sent a squad to get him."

 

His hand rests on his chin, calluses causing friction on his shaved face. He thinks, for a moment. He thinks about Will. He thinks about everything he couldn't see behind the scenes, the tension he felt by just being around the two. The way they moved, as if they were the same beings, operating on wires that they both shared. 

 

Every person wants to be understood. What was so grand about Will Graham wasn't just the fact that he had pure empathy, but that he had no other choice but empathize. He could relate to anyone, and thus, attract anyone. Since reason and apathy are what held Hannibal Lecter together, there was an unknown terrain both had seen and felt when they had met each other truly. That's why Hannibal is so interlinked with Will. They come from where the atoms' water and soil come from. They connect and become with each other. But both also recognized how men see each other as beasts, and thus, see everyone as such.Yet,  the pure adrenaline of experiencing something for the first time makes everything burn brighter and each choice primal. The simple fact that they were so aware of one another made any connection, any man,  in comparison seem laconic

 

 Oh..

 

Oh no.

 

“Will knows.” Jack's index finger points, almost muffling what he is saying.

 

“What?”

 

“Will knows that Hannibal is near and looking for him.”

 

“Hannibal is not in his right mind anymore. He can't think for himself, Jack. This- whatever it is- a clear sign of a psyche that's broken !”

 

“You still believe that?” He jumps from his chair and walks towards Alana. Her skin gleams under the fluorescent light, causing the tears in her eyes to be all apparent too. “Hannibal Lecter had us all fooled for years. He became and presented exactly who we wanted him to be.” Jack's eyebrows furrow in rage, “He is always ahead, and that's always been powered by ego and curiosity. Except now,” Jack leans back, “He is powered by Will.” Alana shakes her head in denial. She backs away, her heels rubbing against the carpet. She looks like she did all those years ago. It makes Jack feel guilty.

 

“That's why he killed Molly and Walter. He wants to see what Will will do now.

 

“He wants to see how Will will react.” He affirms, his arms crossing before speaking again, “And Will knows this. If you want to talk about a damaged psyche, you're betting on the wrong horse.”

 

Alana bites her lip, a growing habit since her days back teaching in Georgetown. Her hands lay still against her sides and she turns her head to the door. Jack doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say. He has a terrible feeling in his gut, like something will happen and it will not end well. There's a type of silence that overcomes the both of them. He knows Alana feels it too. “Why were you calling him in the first place?” She asks, her head still facing the window where students walk back and forth in. He thinks about the pictures that are on his desk, facing him with primitive values.

 

“He was going to be assigned Witness Security.”

 

Alana's head turns, an eyebrow raised. “Is there a case against Hannibal Lecter?” 

 

“Theres dozens of cases that are opened against Hannibal Lecter. Each one has Will, traced behind it. He is not safe, and when I found out this” His hand gestures to the folder, “I had no other choice.”

 

“ Do you think Hannibal can find Will?”

 

Jack pauses, staring ahead, barely moving, hardly thinking. Breathing in and out. 

 

“I think he already has”

 

 

 

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

At least he'll be somewhere with no memories. Nothing attached to it. 

 

The boat will do fine. The engine was messed up a few hours ago but after a bit of oiling and a new propeller, it's good as new. Good enough to sail across an ocean at least. Will usually preambles to goodbyes. The solitary guilt will consume him, he knows this. But at least that'll keep his appetite at bay. An appetite that is hot and passionate. An appetite that transforms into famine, and then to ache. An ache that wasn't here often but roared loudly when it was. An ache that's begging to be fed again, maybe it can be fed again.

 

“Your monologues are boarding narcissistic.”

 

His eyes darted up, looking around the property. Will had driven a few hours to the nearest dock to leave Virginia. A blanket of angry clouds are incoming from the West. The doc was cold and empty, no one was around. He looked to his left, then to his right. The wind was blowing against his face, a red flush covered his cheeks and nose. Why is it cold in July?

 

“Why are you leaving him again?” The cool voice of the young girl he had spoken to just yesterday came to him again. Each time he sees her, she seems more like a  woman. Her freckles are still bright as ever, constellations that connect against her skin. Her hair, longer and darker than ever. And her eyes, inhuman. She still wears that jacket from that night years ago.

 

“You’re not real.” He huffs with a smile. He bends down and unwraps the ropes that keep the boat at bay. He sees her feet close to the stump. “You say that, yet” She walks behind Will and the sail. The wind picks up during this time. He can hear the fabric flapping around. Will stands, finally untying the rope and turns around.

 

The sail covers her face, but he sees her mouth moving, "I'm still here. Do you know why?” Her smile shows all her teeth, looking ghostly and terrifying. Will doesn't say anything. She looks down and paddles around the post, “I know why.”

 

“Im leaving, Abigail. I'm leaving and I won't be coming back.”

 

“Wherever you are, he'll be there, y'know."

 

Will chuckles, his hand resting on his hips before he says, "He's not psychic. You think he's God or somethin'?"

 

“You do.”

 

The boat engine revs up, no smoke to be found. That's good. 

 

“I am more than what I am with Hannibal.”

 

“Then why are you sailing to him?”

 

“Im not sailing to him, I don't know where he is. This-” he wipes his mouth, “This isn't like how it was with Italy.” Abigail just stares, unconvinced. 

 

“I don't need to convince you, you're gone. You're just in my mind.”

 

“You tell yourself that all the time, and every time, I'm still here.”

 

He ambles closer, trying to feel her. Maybe she is real, maybe this has all finally gotten to him. Abigail doesn't disappear. She's there, staring at him with those doe eyes. His hands reach forward, and he swears that he can feel the heat radiating off her. He blinks, and she's gone. The birds around the post fly away, startled by his gasp. She had left a trail of sweetness.

 

It would be absurd for Will to deny what is happening to him. What fancied sins he had done, all from an awoken slumber that had again decided to show. Burned into his mind like citrus fruits, there's a sweetness and tenderness of memories. Memories that he left long ago. But somehow, they return, and they begin to fester in his mind like fungi. And these tops glow beautifully, hypnotizing Will. Where did good go in nature? Where oh where can one get their own flowers?

 

 There are no flowers following Abigail. They belong at her gravestone. They will stay there.

 

The water looks black from this height. And a part of him wants to jump in. To allow that salt to go inside his wounds and build a home there. Perhaps his family will come to him naturally, like bacteria hidden in our skin. The forces that are seen are evil but protect us. An ordinary deviation from real life. A free exploring mind that is singular in each cell, monogamous. There's no new rot within him. He doesn't have to look far if he wants to find it. It's eased in, placed there at birth, and grows. 

 

The water looks different now. He sets sail. 

 

Notes:

Kudos and comments are VERY appreciated.

Let me know how you feel about Will. Why is he sailing? Where is he going? Is he on the run? What about Hannibal?

I’ll try posting more often guys you deserve it!!!

Chapter 9: AMBERS

Summary:

He was my friend before anything. Can you spare me some hope, God?

(A chapter of Jacks perspective)

Taxidermy holds a certain scent in the air. Perhaps it's because of the way an animal is mounted or the paint they use to color their eyes lifelike, it's all very striking. The very idea of having something eternal is the very equivalent of what nothing is. No one can explain it, but somehow, it supersedes the darkness and is often described as a phenomenon. The space between the stars and the planets, that darkness that only humans want to define because the thought of there being nothing, is too much to bear. Walking past nothing, or something that's always there, will feel like the space between the stars. It's always been, and it always will be.

 

Jack and Alana had not planned to continue this search, but concerning ethics of the FBI, they must. Wherever Will Graham had fled off too, is now connected to Jack, and thus, Alana. It's not like they don't want to find him, he is still their friend in their eyes. But now it's messy, complicated, and dangerous. Time and time again, Hannibal and Will have shown to be unpredictable. Now with one of them gone and the other mad, it's risky to even think of a future where they meet again. But Jack still has a suspicion between his ribs, a quiet whisper that is telling him Hannibal knows where Will is. If he hears this whisper, Jack knows something is blaring inside Will. Maybe that's why he left.

 

Hopeful thinking.

 

Bedelia's home is elegant, like her. A loft, where the roof has real wooden logs covering the land. It's very similar to the one she had before. There's walls that are made of glass, the movement of air here is smooth and pale. Everything smells like sandalwood and the floors are carpeted. White, maybe a cashmere color. Her silhouette spoke from another room, the kitchen. “Would you like a drink?” Jack crosses his arms, “No, thank you.” Alana shakes off her coat and folds it over her arm, "I'll have wine, Red.” A small hum is heard, then glass clinking. Jack inspects the room.

 

It's nice, again, elegant. There's a brown sofa that resembles the one Hnannibal had in his office. A gray statue of Marcus Arulieus stands proudly to the side of the room. “You’ve read meditations?” Bedilas holds two glasses, one white and one red, and she passes a glass to Alana. She accepts kindly and takes a sip, her lipstick smudging a bit on the rim. “The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane.” He holds an almost bashful glee as he recalls, “My mother had collected many of his works, said he was so wise for his time.” Bedelia returns a smile, "You the same." He nods in thanks.

 

Bedelia takes a sip of her wine before sitting on the sofa, adjusts her skirt and then rests her glass between her hands. Sighing as she asks, “What can I do for you, Agent Crawford?” Alana sips as she eyes Jack. He shifts a bit, then states, “Will Graham has left.” He looks at Bedila, who looks blank, then shocked, then irritated. She huffs, bringing her glass to her mouth and looks to the side while saying, “You want to know how he was during our sessions.” Alana sits down across from her, the navy blue cushions squeaking a bit. “Yes, anything you can tell us would be a great help.”

 

Long legs cross, her black heels shining in the Summer light. Bedelia sucks her teeth, “He was a bit aggressive, the last time I spoke to him." Jack turns a bit, his wool coat ruffling his sweater under. He runs cold anyway. “Agressive how?” She places her glass down and folds her hands together, “I had felt something had changed with him. When he spoke, he sounded angry, or confused. Possibly both. It wasn't until I asked about his family that I knew what had happened.”

 

Alana’s brows are knitted, an open hand rubbing her knee. “What did he say?” 

 

She stated simply: “‘Hannibal got to them.’ Then asked if I was happy he did.” Jack huffs spinning around, facing the hallway. Alana leans forward, “What else?” They needed to get as much information as possible. Whatever Will had been feeling could've been an indicator on why he had left, maybe even give them a trail to where he had left. Bright reactions leave trails, and Will was always known to burn bright.

 

Bedelia continued, “I commented on how Hannibal likes claiming things. He's claimed you,” She stares at Alana. Her expression doesn't falter. “And you too. He takes a part of you, molds it to how he sees fit, and then forces it back.” Jack rubs his beard, then sits closer to where Alana sits. His hands close together, then gives his full attention to the older woman. She smirks quietly, reminiscing, then states, “He called me ‘Bluebeard's wife.’” 

 

Alana closes her eyes in contempt. Jack asks flatly, “How did you respond?” Bedelia smiles, brings her glass close to her lips, then answers before taking a sip, “I said if I was, I would have preferred to be the last.” 

 

Jack sighs then drops his head in exasperation. “Do you really think that is the best thing to say to your patient?”

 

“It doesn't matter anymore, Agent Crawford. Will Graham was Hannibal’s the moment he walked into his office all those years ago.”

 

“Yes, and that means encouraging the beast.”

 

Alana interjects, “Will psyche is like, malleable, but hardened when angry.” Bedelia makes a face, “Have I made the beast angry?” She turns to Jack, “Should I pack my bags?” 

 

“You’ve made him harder to catch.” Jack snarks back.

 

“You speak of Will Graham like a ticking time bomb, anxiously waiting for him to implode.” She rises, her glass empty in her hand, “If this is the case, why have a bomb in the FBI? Pardon me, why bring it back?” Her heels clack as she walks to the kitchen. Alana and Jack follow.

 

“We needed him to catch Hannibal, you saw the murders, Dr. Du Maurier, you know what he has done.” Jack's voice seems reverberated in these walls. Her back is facing them. Then, she turns, her sleeves pushed to the crook of her arms. Somehow, her appearance always stands still, never a piece of hair out of place. 

 

“You don't know where Hannibal Lecter is. Not even he knows where he is.”

 

Alana raises a brow at that, “What, you believe he's unwell?” Will had said that what he believes Hannibal is going through is some sort of illness. Mental, most likely. But the jumps he made were indescribable. He stated it as if he knew how Hannibal was feeling, as if he was in his mind with him. Of course, it's not crazy to say that since that is Will’s “superpower”, some may say. But when he had said it, his eyes went glassy, as if he was recalling a lost memory. As if it was nostalgic.  Bedelia must know as well how he thinks of him. It makes sense though, Bedelia and Will have been the only people that they know of that have had Hannibal let them in. They both know him, both have experienced him.

 

Jack asks one more question, “If you were Hannibal Lecter, and you had been through whatever he has been through, where would you go now? Where would he want to go?”

 

Bedelia tucks a curl behind her ear before speaking, “If a man I had such a profound connection with, had left me, and moved on-” She pauses,  “-I would feel broken. Impulsive. That sort of heartache would cause me to lash out and try to find what was between us.”

 

“He has been impulsive before.” Jack remarked.  

 

“But not like this.” Alana adds, “I think he's regressing.” Jack turns, “Regressing? Like Age?” Alana nods, “As well as experience.

 

 “I think something happened that night after escaping Muskrat Farm. Something triggered Hannibal and caused this. But Muskrat happened years ago.” She looks at Jack with worry in her eyes.

 

 

“So how long has his mind been damaged?” 

 

Bedelia chimes in, “Probably as long as it's been since Will had left him.”

 

They look at her. The silence is deafening.

 

 

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

 

 

 

Jack and Alana pull up to a gravel driveway. The house in all honesty, looks in bad shape. How Will was supposedly living here is absurd. Zeller and Price had called them after they left Bedelia's home. They were just getting into the car when they got a phone call. 

 

“Jack! We got traffic light footage of Will driving to Doe Hill. There aren't many properties there and even fewer people. We'll send you the directions now.”

 

The house smelled. Maybe it was mildew, perhaps mold, most likely a mixture of both. But the stench held its own atmosphere here. Almost like smoke, which is also very prominent in the air here. Was Will a smoker? Jack had never seen Will carry or even hold a box of cigarettes. Maybe this house was before he knew Will. When he was a cop? No, Will had said he was in New Orleans when he was a cop. Or was it New Jersey? He imagines Will to be the type of smoker that is similar to one’s you see after a funeral: quiet, solemn, rigid. Smoking not for the aesthetic or addiction, but to feel something akin to air, burn his lungs. Like how his mother smoked after a long shift in the Hospital. Will would be the same as her. He'd probably like her if they met. If she was still alive. 

 

Inside the house was cold, muggy but cold. The stairs that were greeted immediately to them were made of worn wood that looked like termites had bitten into it already. Books were everywhere, on the couch, on the tables, on the stairs, on the floor. Books that look both in good and moderate condition. A thick layer of dust covers them. Life is evident, just because of its mere existence. But this home looks so worn down, so used. Life seems to cling onto the floor boards. They creek when they enter the kitchen.

 

“Oh my God.” Jack mutters. The kitchen smells disgusting. Some sort of cleaner was used here, and it smells like mold and death. The fridge is making some sort of sibilant sound, like a broken animal. No wonder Will thought there was one in his chimney. Pictures are turned; frigid, plastic numbers holding them up. 

 

There seems to be metal scraps shaved all over the floor. Shavings that look as thin as leaves, as sharp as knives. However, it wasn't as concerning as what was spread over the counters. Orange bottles are opened, the white caps thrown over the floor. On the granite base, hundreds of pills are scattered. Colors of sage and white, gray and orange, they paint a mosaic of madness on this kitchen counter. Alana holds a tight expression, not surprised, but not comforted. Her leathered fingers grab a small grey pill, thumbing it. She holds it close to read what it says. 

 

“Sertraline.”

 

“Zoloft? Will takes anti depressants?” The FBI has access to Will’s medical records. They can see if he needed medication, who prescribed them to him, when they did. Nothing had shown, and if it did, Zeller and Price would have told him. Alana purses her lips then drops the medication. “Will is prone to mental illness, similar to Hannibal. I have a feeling that the reason  he left is because he's experiencing a depressive episode.” She picks up one of the bottles, then stills. Jack raises a brow, “Alana?”

 

She picks up another bottle, her hands slightly shaking. She mumbles something to herself. “Jack, the labels on these bottles aren't Will’s.” She hands them to him, eyes wide and wet. He reads them.

 

 

RX NO. 60998365

LECTER, HANNIBAL

STERTRALINE HCL

50MG TABLETS

TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH A DAY

 

 

He reads the next bottle.

 

 

 

RX NO. 873893732

LECTER, HANNIBAL

ARIPIPRAZOLE 30MG TABLETS

TAKE TWO BY MOUTH A DAY

 

 

 

 Modern medicine is a gateway to become a God. The act of saving yourself before any at all, is perilous, righteous, magnanimous. Hannibal had an obsession with God. He saw God as a sort of overzealous cousin, flaunting his power over others. There were times where Jack would visit him after a most grueling case, needing a  clear mind and a drink. There were times where Jack would retell the case, shaking from the discomfort, and he'd see Hannibal, enthralled. His eyes would become dark and fuzzy, as if he was reliving the crime. It wasn't that apparent over firelight, but during these times, he wondered if it was the light or the story that made his skin gleam. 

 

As a psychiatrist, it's not looked down upon to need medication. As a psychopath, it's admitting something is wrong with you. To admit is to commit to a sort of narrative. A narrative that is told through tiny pills in an abandoned home. And Glory, or rather, winning, could be described in a sort of euphoric tale, satisfactory and fulfilling. It takes the shape of a warm meal on a chilly afternoon. You come home exhausted, and displace your indifference with virtue. As you sit at the dinner table, you are served a bleeding heart still pumping with life into unreadable air. The appetizers are familiar memories that come in flashes and disheartening truths. They hang around you like a darkroom, dripping grainy water and photographs. And as you finally pick one up, holding it in shaking hands and finally look, you become more than what you are.

 

Hannibal Lecter being unmedicated is dangerous. And his existence is the only evidence needed. But then again, the vision both Alana and Jack are used to is dead. Fine and refined in all its broken misery; Hannibal is gone, like Will had said. They should've listened to him sooner. They should've taken his analysis and made it into an encyclopedia that they could access at all times. Maybe then he wouldn't have gotten hurt. Can danger be known if it's not spread? How does one determine whether a belief is dead? Do you scout the Earth, trying to find the last person alive who believes? 

 

Will Graham believes, he always has.

 

Do you know why? I know why.

 

“We need Zeller and Price here, Jack. This can be considered a crime scene.” Alana speaks into the frigid air. Has it become colder? Jack sighs and then decides to look at one more place before they go: Upstairs. Will had to be sleeping somewhere, everywhere else is blocked by literature and dust. 

 

He stumbles up the stairs. They creek under him like a harpsichord symphony. He tries not to think of Hannibal.

 

The upstairs has a long hallway. Doors are shown both left and right but there’s one glowing with a sort of red tint. A light casted on the carpeted floor and Jack is pulled closer to it. Carpets don’t creak but his weight feels heavier here. He feels like oxygen is being stolen from his lungs. It doesn’t matter. He opens the door.

 

 

A sort of musky, sour smell fumes through the room. A window is covered by a ragged American Flag. Thin, since the light still shines through and colors it red and blue. A wooden dresser is on the left of the room, drawers half pulled out and clothes spilling in front them. On top of the dresser are more books. Names like Dante, Oliver Twist, Shakespeare, and Milton are presented. A worn bible right in the middle. There’s clothes all over the floor and on the bed, which looks…used? There’s clothes on there, yes. But they’re moved around, as if someone was laying on them. Jack walks towards it, and it becomes apparent that that sour smell is emanating from this particular place.

 

He leans closer, then immediately heaves. His nose scrunches at the putrid cleaning smell. Urine and Semen are sprayed on the clothes. Jack takes a closer look. Most of, if not all the clothes on the bed are bottoms. Pajamas or underwear. He covers his mouth and nose. “Alana!” He shouts. Footsteps come upstairs in a hurry, opening the door then coughs. “What is that smell?!” She covers her nose. Jack moves away from the bed and walks closer to her. “Someone was here, and they contaminated all those clothes.” He points to the pile. 

 

“Oh my god.” She responds. Jack looks at her, disgust and concern falling over their faces. A connection. A red string now pulled apart. “Hannibal was here. I don’t know how long ago but he was here.” 

 

Alana’s eyebrows are scrunched, a snarl quivering on her face. She turns and leaves. Jack stares at the room. A box of cigarettes is on the nightstand. A silver lighter accompanying it. 

 

He exits the room.

 

 

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

 

 

 

There’s a liquid that consumes him. Maybe it’s golden, maybe it’s blue. He never looked at the label. It made him speak of the truth in some language he never knew. He knew resilience and anger. But to Jack, anger was passion, was passion for justice. But justice had a way of resembling the wicked fruit. The same fruit he swirled in his mouth now.

 

“How is Bella?”

 

Jack sighs, “Our room is starting to look like the Gardens back in Italy. So many flowers. It drowns out the medication that's placed by our bedside table." In all honesty, Jack is just trying to make Bella comfortable. That's all he ever wanted for her. He shares a thought aloud, “We're thinking of going to Italy. She could…” He pauses, “She could die there.”

 

“Jack, you cannot allow her death to be the end of you.”

 

He sighs, not in sadness or acceptance, but something distinctly in between. 

 

Hannibal holds his glass with distinction. Something that Jack had noticed: Hannibal pauses before drinking, eating, doing. As if he’s experiencing everything before it even comes to him, he pauses. He brings the glass close to his lips, and closes his eyes in solace. His own quiet luxury. Like he knows exactly what’s in his drink. His palette names each fruit, the tobacco taste, the barrel it was stored in. The drink looks like liquid gold in his hands. Everything does. 

 

“I have a tough time believing that you’re what Will says you are.” He confessed, gaping at the older man. Hannibal pauses, again, then takes a deep breath in. His eyes bright like embers, he stares forward. “What does he say I am?” Jack continues, “He says you’re a killer.” 

 

“I find that Will is struggling with himself and still believes that I had killed all those people he is accused of.” Lecter says, solemnly. 

 

“You say ‘accused’ of. You still believe he's innocent?” 

 

Hannibal places his glass down, on the glass table that sits between them, listening to this conversation. “I want to. I’m not sure he is, anymore.” 

 

There’s silence for a second, maybe two…

 

“But, I believe there might be some truth to what he is saying.” Hannibal looked, a small raise in his brow. “Will right now is grasping for any stick that is not the short one he was left with. He’s trying to know what he’s missing, not even realizing he had anything missing at all.”

 

“He’s compromising.”

 

“He’s bargaining.” Hannibal corrects. “Will knows who he is,” He takes a sip from his glass, “He’s just trying to figure out if everyone else knows too.”

 

“Will cannot afford given faith, Doctor. He has no followers right now.” Jack pleads, his hands open in desperation. Hannibal takes him in, truly. Then, he states, “There is no proof of a God, but still, during times of distress, who do you pray to, Jack? Who prays over you while you sleep?

 

“No one, and yet we get up every morning and show up for ourselves. There's no harm in religion, or faith. But there is harm in submission. Will is bargaining for what he has now.”

 

“And what does he have now, Doctor?” Jack asks

 

“Hope.” He looks ahead at the fire solemnly, “The Chesapeake Ripper has given Will”s case hope.” The look inside Hannibal's eyes are all knowing, like the Gods above them. Jack wasn't really a religious man.

 

He went to church every Sunday. Recalls the smell of sandalwood incense in the air after the service was over. The wet rain on gray pavement and the children harassing their mothers to be finished with the gossip. He remembers staying after the service and helping put the chairs away. Making it a competition on who could carry the most chairs without having to go back again. The guitar hymns that vibrated so profoundly, Jack could see them shake from where he sat.

 

He sang in the choir, but struggled since he didn't know how to read music. His mother would allow him to stay longer since he felt embarrassed about his lack of knowledge. And after every practice session, he promised he would sound better next Sunday. Some days he kept it, others days he didn't.

 

Hannibal didn't seem like a man who went to church. At least not the churches Jack went to. Hannibal seemed like a man who went to chapels that had murals of saints painted on the walls. A man who always wore a suit to church, and where he got his fashion inspiration from. Something about God and wealth, it went hand in hand, and religion was made there. Maybe he has Hannibal all wrong. Maybe he wasn't a man of God but knew him nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe. 

 

He asked, “How do you see God, Hannibal?” And it was like here, at this moment, when his name fell upon his lips, Hannibal changed into someone he never saw before. The man straightened, then, with trembling lips, he spoke.

 

“I see God as one of those pitiful things that sometimes roam the Earth. He comes in different versions of shame. He is a sadist; not because he revels in pleasure, but because he finds pleasure in the banal. How awful it must be, to experience shame to this degree?”

 

And Jack turned towards the fire, with his molten drink in his hands, causing burns on his palms, and he wonders who Hannibal gives thanks to when good things happen.

 

 

 

 

 

(CARMINE)

 

 

 

 

 

Quantico is always sterile, like hand sanitizer and rubber gloves were built in the walls. The morgue even more so. He felt grateful that the men decided to show him the file in his office instead of the lab.

 

“Okay, look.” Zeller drops the folder on Jack's desk, some papers spilling out. Jimmy quickly tries to file them back into place. “The medication prescribed to Dr. Lecter was given almost a year ago. A doctor by the name Isaiah Brown prescribed them-“ Jimmy perks up, “-But, we tried to find this supposed Dr. Brown and found no link or license for him. We’re pretty sure he might’ve just been a pretend doctor.”

 

Alana steps in, “Why would Hannibal require a fake doctor to prescribe him Antidepressants? Much less Antipsychotics?” Jack sits in his chair, contemplating. He thinks of Hannibal, a man who has been doing this for a long time, and hasn't had a break. A man, who much like Will, has limits and knows them. A man like Will, who knows what's going on in his head. A man like Will, who would recoil at anything other than his own. A man like Will. A man like Will.

 

Jack snaps, everyone in the room goes quiet. “Will had developed encephalitis because of the treatment and care of Hannibal Lecter.” They nod, Zeller adding, “Yeah he basically induced seizures to cause hallucinations and stuff.” Jack nods, “So could you say that anyone with this knowledge, a way to induce stress into the brain, can do this to Hannibal?” Alana shakes her head, “Yes but it's like teaching a dog new tricks, Hannibal knows all of them. It'd be very hard to do so.” Jack interjects, “Yes Alana, but Hannibal is still human too.”

 

“Are you excusing Hannibal's actions because he might be unstable?”

 

“No, I'm providing an explanation; someone is inducing this sort of behavior, causing him to do those actions.”

 

“You believe someone's behind all this?” Brian asks. The older man nods. There is no other explanation. Decades of killing, moving around countries to continue this hobby that Hsannibal Lecter has, why start lashing out now? It is not just as simple as saying Will Graham is the reason behind this. He is acting this way because someone is regressing him, back into that savage boy he was back in Lithuania. A boy who knew what he was and knew it was not what was wanted from him. A boy who became a man, all the while becoming a murderer. 

 

     

A glory, like spring flowers in the countryside. A way of movement that's apparent in the air. Contained in a tank that is made of glass. A sweet little heaven that is curated from a limited mind. The wild blackberry vines that cover the tank, asking again to be picked. And they seem so tempting, so he reaches for them, his veined hand curating each movement with power. But when he reaches, he falls. Jack falls, now he's in this purgatory of stillness. Of the unknowing.

 

Sometimes, he would be envious of Hannibal. How, a man can find his reflection in muddied water and still know what he is, even if the water is his only way of seeing who he is. Men like Hannibal Lecter, if there even is another like him, do with what they are, because they do not realize they are anything at all. Yes, society may put labels on men like him, and push them around from hospitals and jobs, but their nature stays present within them, like the organs they contain inside them. There's a fascination in our nature, because it's entirely our own. No one made us this way, we are what we are because we were meant to be it. Jack as God, Hannibal as the Devil, and somewhere, a Great Red dragon soaring over their skies. Lest we forget the Lamb.

But there's wolves in the forest, and they howl to the same moon the dragon kneels too. Even sometimes, the Devil needs to sleep.

 

We all do.

Notes:

Hello! I decided to write from Jack's perspective this chapter! It’s very often that one will come across writings of Hannibal or Will, maybe even Bedelia or Alana. But I wanted to write from Jacks perspective since we don't really see his mindset during this time in season three. i also think its important to humanize characters and sometimes i see a lot of discussion on jacks character and ethics. we need to be reminded that even people who think they are morally right, can have complex emotions. Jack is more than just an angry man who has a large sense of justice. hes is just as interesting and complex as the rest of the characters in the show.

Thank you for reading, and i appreciate the comments i got last chapter and enjoy hearing your feedback ! Till the next one!!