Once, when he is 9 years old, Will goes with his father to the butcher.
The family has gone down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, ostensibly to visit Daddy's sister that lives there. Even at his young age, though, Will knows that Daddy was drawn to the city more for all the liquor and prostituées he would find there. Will thinks on this while the two wander the French Quarter.
Will dutifully trudges alongside his Daddy, through the crowded streets and back alleyways, until they come to Robichaud's, reputed to be one of the finest butchers in the state (at least Tante Giselle says so.)
Will stands idly by while Daddy and Mr. Robichaud make small talk, slipping his hands in his jean pockets. It is the only pair of jeans he owns. He loves the soft feel of the denim against his legs, and loves the color, a similar blue-grey that just matched Mama's eyes.
It doesn't take long for him to get bored. Will is a bright child, but distractible.
His mind is always racing, always on overdrive, and he constantly peppered adults with questions. He wants to know how things work, and he wants to know badly.
Daddy's whippings only quiet him for a while, so he would be whipped again and again without ever 'getting it.' As exasperating as he is as much of an 'awkward, antisocial little shit', even Daddy can't argue with the neat columns of A's on his report cards. His teacher writes that he is 'a sweet boy, extremely intelligent and gifted, but a bit of a loner . . .'
Will doesn't realize he is daydreaming until he feels Daddy's hand on his shoulder. "Come on, boy. We're goin' in the back, get some beef." His hold on Will's shoulder is rough, painfully so, but Will knows better than to complain.
He follows Daddy and Mr. Robichaud around the counter, into the chilly backroom. It is cold and dark, and there's a terrible smell. And the sound – he will never forget the sound. Worse than anything is the sight: the pink and white flesh, the stomach flayed open, the entrails dangling in front of him, slick black blood. . .
Will wakes with a shake and a gasp, not quite remembering where he is. The swift agony mauls him, brutally reminds him of what exactly he's gotten himself into. His hand is pressed tight against his stomach, and he feels – God, he does not want to know what that is! Maybe his hand is the only thing keeping his intestines inside, and he will die as soon as he moves it.
He will die – of that, he is certain. It is only a matter of time. Will thinks perhaps an hour or less, depending on how long it takes the ambulance t come. (Surely, he thinks, surely they will come soon!) They will come – they will come for Alana, for Jack, for . . .
"Oh my G-God, Abigail!" Will feels a twinge of pain even as he shifts his eyes toward her frozen frame. She is not moving, not breathing. "Oh my God!" Will clenches his eyes shut and bites his lip, so hard that he bites through. He does not bother to stifle his sobs, and they wrack his body. He shivers so much that he begins to convulse. He knows that he needs to calm down, or he will die right here on the floor, like an animal. Like Abigail.
"You can make it all go away. Put your head back. Close your eyes, and wade into the quiet of the stream."
"No!" he sputters. "No . . ." And why not? He can't remember. Surely there must be someone to hold on for, some reason to struggle. But then, maybe there's not. The one reason he can think of, the one person he had wanted so desperately to hold onto, was the one who had been holding the knife all along.
Unless he somehow rigged the blow, turned the knife in such a way that it should not kill him. Yes, that must be it! Hannibal would never really hurt him so badly that it would kill him. Will wants to believe that, but the slick sensation of his blood and innards against his fingers tell him otherwise.
Will remembers learning in high school about medieval torture, styles of execution that could only have originated in the depths of hell. The English used what was perhaps the most horrific method: after being hanged by the neck until nearly dead, the condemned was cut down. He was laid out on a table, where he was 'drawn' – his stomach was slit and his organs pulled out before his eyes.
If the poor bastard wasn't dead at that point, his head was cut off, and the rest of his body quartered. Maybe his head would be placed on a pike, his arms, legs and torso left out to rot in some public place to deter any other would-be offenders.
Had Will's crime been so heinous? He found himself thankful that Hannibal hadn't given him the full treatment. Surely he was familiar with all manner of torture and execution. Will had no doubt that he had given others the same treatment, and more. God only knew how many corpses had been stuffed in the good doctor's freezer over the years.
Dear God . . . help me! Will hacked up a torrent of blood, the movement jarring his moribund body. The vestiges of his childhood faith came to the fore of his mind. "H-hail Mary, f-full of grace . . . the Lord is with thee . . ."
Will feels his eyelids grow heavy; he is so tired. Suddenly, a hand presses against his throat. "He's alive! Hurry up and help me!" An oxygen mask is placed over his nose and mouth. He takes one breath, and another, craving oblivion.
"H-Holy Mary, M-Mother of God, pray for us s-sinners now . . ."
". . . and at the hour of our death, Amen."
Hannibal looks across the aisle, watching with mild interest as a young woman makes the sign of the cross and closes her eyes. The majority of the flight has passed without incident. It is only now, in the final hour of the flight, that they are experiencing mild turbulence.
Hannibal feels a strange touch of nostalgia at the words, once as familiar to him as breathing. Mother would be grieved to learn that he had given up the Church. How fortunate, then, that there was no God, no state of consciousness after death. There was no need to worry or care about his dead mother's feelings.
He briefly wonders how Will is doing, if he managed to survive.
"Hannibal?" Bedelia murmurs and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"
He scowls, so severely that his companion gasps.
"Nothing at all," he replies brusquely. "Absolutely nothing that is any of your concern."
That settles that. Bedelia does not speak to him for the remainder of the flight.
The first time Will wakes, he is alone. The steady beeping of the heart monitor is a soothing melody. He feels as though he is in some sort of dream, dark and misty. The blinds are drawn and there is no light in the room. He does not know if it is day or night.
All he can think about is losing Abigail. Finding her, so briefly, only to have her cruelly taken away from him again. He wonders where she is, how and if her body has been disposed of. She would have wanted to be buried near her mother, poor girl.
Then again, maybe she wouldn't. Will hopes that she never even entertained the thought of death in general, much less where she would be buried. He shivers, seized by an icy terror as he replays the awful scene in his mind. For all he knows, Abigail could still be alive – not likely, of course, but it wasn't the first time she had had her throat slit.
Time passes. Will stares listlessly at the ceiling. He could call a nurse, he knows, but what would he say to her? I want to see Abigail, where is she? No one will expect him to be awake. He's not sure he's ready to handle all the questions yet, the scrutiny of the press. He doesn't want anyone to speak to him about what happened, doesn't even want to think about it. But thinking about it is all he can do.
Where is Jack, and what about Alana? He's not sure he wants to know. What good has knowledge ever done him? Knowledge only leads to sorrow.
His morphine drip has almost run out. Pain engulfs him, slow and steady as the tide. It leaves him stunned, gasping for breath. He closes his eyes.
. . .
When he opens his eyes again, Will thinks he must be dreaming. The room is bright, the fluorescent bulb complemented by the sunlight filtering in through the window. He feels no more pain – his I. V. has been replenished – but he is startled at the sight before him: there is Hannibal, sitting at his bedside, reading.
His hair has been dyed blond, and he is wearing contacts that make his eyes appear blue. In place of his usual formal attire, he is wearing blue jeans and a simple white T-shirt. But it is him.
Silence stretches between them. Will holds the stare until he is unnerved and casts his gaze to the wall. "You," he murmurs, his throat hoarse. "What are you doing here?"
Hannibal smiles coldly, baring his teeth like a savage beast. "William . . ." he leans forward to press his lips against Will's cheek. They are cool and dry.
Will shudders beneath the touch and begins to cry. "You bastard!" he whimpers, his tone laced with brittle bitterness. There is more that he wants to say, so much more. But he says nothing. Hannibal likewise seems content with the silence. He does not speak, but clasps Will's hand in his own, caressing the palm with his thumb.
It is his touch that hurts the most. Will stiffens and tries unsuccessfully to pull his hand free. Hannibal tightens his hold. He leans his forehead against Will's hand. His tone, when he speaks, is uncharacteristically strained:
"I understand that you are angry. I cannot fault you for that. I hope you can forgive me."
"Why should I? You took everything from me."
"I am inclined to disagree. I did not take your life."
"Not for lack of trying! Answer me: why are you here?"
Hannibal frowns, the corners of his mouth turn down in disgust. "I am here to assess you, see how you are recovering. Do you doubt my sincerity?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." Will takes a deep breath to calm himself and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he expects Hannibal to be gone, a figment of his feverish imagination. He is there, staring at him with a ruthless intensity. It is similar to the expression he wore as he stabbed the linoleum knife into his abdomen.
Will groans, a sound that snaps Hannibal out of his reverie. He reaches out to touch Will, threading pale fingers through his brown curls, pasted to his skull with sweat. "Dear Will," he murmurs. "You are in such pain."
"Oh, have you been eviscerated before?"
In response, Hannibal stands. He riffles Will's gown, probing with gentle fingers until he has pulled the blue material up. He exposes Will's stomach, the skin pale and supple – beautiful. There is a thick gauze bandage over the wound, slightly splotched red with blood. Will is distressed, and his stitches have torn. Hannibal traces his fingers around the gauze, a gesture that could be considered almost loving.
He thinks of the surgical process. The surgeon would first sanitize the wound and kill as much bacteria as he could, before meticulously sewing together the muscles and skin. He carved four inches across his skin, immutably marking Will for the rest of his life.
Hannibal comes closer, lowers his face so that his eyes are level with Will's. Slowly, lasciviously, Hannibal sticks out his tongue. He licks up and down the younger man's abdomen, flicking his tongue into his navel. He moves further, laving the soft gauze, kissing the surrounding skin. He smacks his lips as if he is savoring a delectable delicacy.
Will's moans urge him on. Hannibal presses a finger to the gauze, exerting pressure. Will elicits a choking sob, engulfed anew in agony. Mercifully, Hannibal moves away, trailing a line up from navel to neck. He presses gently against Will's pulse point, reveling in how the pulse accelerates under his touch.
He tightens his hold, squeezing until Will gasps and chokes. His blue eyes widen and his tongue protrudes. "P-please," he croaks. "Please d-don't!"
Hannibal complies, releasing his hold. Will's breath comes in starts and gasps. He coughs hoarsely, the movement wracking his body and exacerbating the pain in his stomach. He is low on morphine again.
Hannibal glances at his wrist watch. "Well, Will, I would love to stay longer, but I have another appointment." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a syringe. He uncaps it, and before Will can protest, sticks the needle into his shoulder. Will hisses, and Hannibal shushes him, pressing a finger to his lips.
Whatever was injected into him has a swift effect. Will feels himself growing lethargic instantly. "What did you do to me?" His voice is little more than a whisper. Hannibal leans down, kisses Will's forehead, brow, finishing with a soft kiss on his lips.
"Just a little something to help you sleep. When you wake, you will not remember any of this."
"W-wait –"
"Do not worry. This is not goodbye. I'll be seeing you."
The last thing Will sees before losing consciousness is Hannibal walking away. He is always walking away.
"Take care, dear William."