before
"Going my way?" he had asked, and Will had to admit he wanted to. Or, he had to admit he couldn't think of enough reasons not to anymore.
He knows he used to have several Very Good ones, rational reasons not to purposely forget his phone in the tumbled over transfer van, not to step over the body Hannibal shoves out to make room for him, not to slide into the blood-soaked bucket seat of a stolen cop car.
Maybe he does worry too much, but right now, this close to the edge - of the cliff, of the sea, of whatever this is with Hannibal finally being over in a burst of red - this close to so many edges, Will's mind is blurring, finding it more difficult to hold onto those worries. Those reasons not to climb into a stolen police vehicle with the Chesapeake Ripper.
"A change of clothes, I think, before dinner," Hannibal smiles at him benignly, and below them the Atlantic roars. "I've grown rather tired of this outfit over the past three years." He plucks at the sleeves of the white jumpsuit with an amused little smirk. "You have a wardrobe here, as well, if you would like to change. I'm afraid the poor officer's remains have stained your clothes."
"I have a wardrobe here." It isn't a question, is almost sarcasm, harsh, amused.
The older man's smile never wavers. "I took the liberty of procuring a few pieces I believed fit your taste at the time. It has been some years since, and I admit that some of them may have been bought more for my benefit than for yours, but they are blood free." His smile widens, eyes bright. "So far."
It doesn't truly surprise Will to learn that Hannibal has a room for him in the beach house, complete with a closet containing more than "a few pieces" and a bottle of aftershave that doesn't have a boat on it. It should surprise him, he reminds himself, this isn't normal.
Keep a hold of yourself, he repeats within his mind, but the voice is far away, muffled, unclear, like someone speaking underwater. Every moment of cogent thought is a triumph.
The room is furnished with a large bed, a desk and chair, an arm chair by the floor to ceiling window. There is a dog bed at the foot of the bed, and Will makes a strangled noise deep in his throat, not sure himself if it connotes heartache or revulsion. Perhaps it is both, or neither, or one in this world and one in another. Will's worlds are overlapping. Everything that can possibly be, has to be. This has to end well, and it has to end badly, and Will is overcome imagining the many endings but unable to follow one thread of imagination to conclusion.
He rifles through the closet Hannibal has prepared for him. There are a great deal more suits than he would have selected for himself, and no flannel, but there are also plenty of inoffensive button downs -compromise items, his inner voice says, from far, far away - and Will finds something to wear easily. He doesn't feel like a doll, like a doll in a dollhouse, and the thought is ridiculous.
When he's changed, Will splashes his face with cold water from the bathroom tap. It doesn't do a lot to clear his mind, but it feels good. He dries his face on one of the impossibly plush towels and heads for the living room. The sun is setting quickly. Outside the expansive windows the sky is turning pink and purple as a fresh wound.
Will finds Hannibal, who, having shed prison attire the way a snake sheds skin, appears fresher and younger in a grey sweater and slacks.
"Nice view," Will understates.
Hannibal turns from contemplating the bruised sky, a smile blossoming on his face at the sight of Will wearing the clothes he's picked for him. Of course, the sight of his control over you is the view he prefers, that drowning voice within Will intones.
"I am happy to share it with you, at last," Hannibal says, his voice uncharacteristically soft for the moment. "I'd hoped to bring you here, years ago. I often imagined the conversations we would have here, how they would span from sunset to sunrise. Sadly, I fear we will not have long to enjoy the view; the sun sets quickly here, and it is unlikely we will be here to see the sunrise."
"And what makes you say that?"
"Quite simply," Hannibal replies, taking a step towards him. Will resists the urge to step backwards. "Either you will watch the Red Dragon kill me, maybe even help him with the task, as I'm certain Jack and Alana have encouraged you to do, or you will find yourself unable to follow through with the plan you and Uncle Jack have put into place, and you will return me to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and our beloved Dr. Bloom's care. Where you'll always know where to find me." Hannibal smiles, a hint of melancholy in his voice. "I think this time you'll visit more often, don't you?"
He is close enough now to smell, and Will scents him on his next shaky inhalation, a clean, sharp smell of quarantine and captivity, and beneath that, very faintly, the dark, hot aroma of night blooming orchids. "Haven't you thought ahead, Will? What view do you imagine waking up to?"
His voice is unsteady when he answers. "You're assuming I imagine waking up again."
Hannibal's smile softens. "Do you imagine the Red Dragon will kill you when he's done with me? Or is it me you are afraid of?"
"I told you once," Will whispers, "I doubt that either of us could survive separation." He looks down, unable to meet those flashing eyes any longer. "I'm not sure I survived it last time."
"Do you feel you've been living half a life these past three years, Will? A marriage and a child were not enough to assure you of your own survival?" There's no malice, only amusement in his voice when he says, "You could have visited sooner, if you missed me so much."
Will lets his eyes flit back up to Hannibal's again, and he's lost, immediately lost. He should have known he would be; it has always been like this. Why should things be any different now? There is amusement in that gaze, but there is pain, too, and longing, and something Will might term regret if he did not know better.
It takes an effort to speak his next words, and they are scarcely audible when he does. "I hoped that they would be enough."
Hannibal steps closer, and Will feels the darkening room spin. "There are other ways forward, Will, other paths you might take. Perhaps you've already considered some of them."
Hannibal's presence is overwhelming, suddenly, like a black hole, drawing Will closer and radiating darkness and thrumming with energy. Just standing this close is making Will's head spin. It feels like Hannibal is growing, widening, taking up too much space in the room, like he's bigger than his physical body and there's no room left over for Will.
"You did not survive separation, because you did not experience it." His fingers spread over the breast pocket of Will's white dress shirt. Will's heart beats into his palm, trapped, held. "My hand is always on your heart."
Later he places his cheek against Hannibal's breast, hears the heart beating there, slow and regular as a clock as they tip into the sea.
Hannibal
Episode 1:
"The First Transformation"
Starring...
Mads Mikkelsen as Hannibal Lecter
Hugh Dancy as Will Graham
Caroline Dhavernas as Alana Bloom
Laurence Fishburne as Jack Crawford
Gillian Anderson as Bedelia Du Maurier
Lara Jean Chorostecki as Freddie Lounds
Raul Esparza as Frederick Chilton
Recurring...
Scott Thompson as Jimmy Price
Aaron Abrams as Brian Zeller
Nina Arianda as Molly Graham
Tao Okamoto as Chiyoh
And
Katharine Isabelle as Margot Verger
after
Strong winds batter the sleek black car as it whips its way up the winding mountain road. It is 9am, bright but cold in the West Virginia morning. In the distance, grey clouds augur coming rain. The car turns off the main road, onto a side road so unused and inconspicuous it is barely visible amongst the trees unless one knows exactly where to look.
The car moves quickly through the foliage, traversing the three mile driveway before coming to an abrupt halt in front of the massive lodge hidden within the dense wood.
Jack Crawford steps out of the car and removes his sunglasses, pinching the bridge of his nose to ease a growing headache. He's been on the move since 4pm the previous evening, and hasn't slept more than a few stolen minutes at a time in almost 48 hours.
When the man serving as both butler and bodyguard greets him at the front door and asks if he wants anything after his journey, Jack says, "Coffee, and a glass of water with an Alka Seltzer."
"Coffee and Alka Seltzer," Alana's voice chimes from the stairway, and Jack steps further into the foyer, removing his hat respectfully as he turns to face her. "Winning combination. What are you doing here, Jack? Is this an emergency, because I thought my request for privacy was clear."
"I'm not sure what this is," Jack replies, tone a little harsher than he'd intended it. He takes a breath, reminds himself why she's out here, why she made him memorize the directions instead of writing them, why she made him promise only to contact her in cases of extreme importance. He speaks again, more gently now, "I thought you would want to know this without delay. I came here as soon as I could be sure there was no one following."
"Can you be sure?" She lifts a graceful eyebrow. "What's happened?"
"We're not sure. They...disappeared."
"I'm going to need you to be a little less vague about the details, Jack," Alana says smoothly, accepting a cut glass tumbler of scotch from the guard, who has returned with their drinks on a tray. "My family's lives are at stake."
"And your own life," Jack reminds.
"And that," Alana agrees, in a voice that makes it clear that she never forgets. "Stop making me ask what's happened."
"Dolarhyde intercepted the transfer vehicles. Before we could stage the breakout, he staged one of his own. Overturned the transport, drove off in a police vehicle. We found no survivors. We didn't find Lecter. Or Will." Jack drops both white tablets into his glass, waits a moment, then knocks it back in one gulp and replaces the empty glass on the tray. He reaches for his coffee. "The vehicle Dolarhyde stole contained a police tracking device. We were able to monitor his movement. I told them not to close in on him right away. I thought," Jack sips his coffee. "I thought he might lead us to Will."
"And did he?" Alana asks, voice low.
"Yes and no. He switched the tracking device off, for a few hours, and then, for some reason, switched it back on just after dark. By then he was miles away, out by the ocean. We assembled a SWAT team and sent them in pursuit.
"When they arrived Dolarhyde was already dead. They found him gutted, with a ragged wound on his neck that Z reckons as a human bite mark. Looks like he was attacked by two people at once. The whole place was covered in blood. Three different types, and only one matches dragon blood."
"I think I'm getting the picture here," Alana interrupts. "They worked together. Will's betrayed you. Again."
"That's where things get tricky," Jack replies. "If they'd fled together, we'd have found blood elsewhere in the house. The amount we found in the backyard, there's no way they could have left without leaving us some kind of trail. But apart from a splatter in the living room from an apparent gunshot that also broke the windows, the blood bath is located entirely in the backyard. It stretches right up to the cliffside. We think," Jack swallows, "we think they jumped. Or fell fighting."
There's a long silence between them, as the reality of the situation unfolds within Alana's mind. She feels hope, fear, confusion, and a surprising stab of sorrow she did not guess herself still capable of. At last, she says, "You said they disappeared."
"We've been unable to find their bodies," Jack replies, swallowing the last of his coffee. "We're still looking. We have helicopters searching along the cliffside, and a team combing the beach."
Alana considers this for a moment, then walks to the bar and pours herself another drink. "Hannibal could never let Will go," her voice is low. "He turned himself in because he thought Will wouldn't chase him. If he'd kept running I think he would have finally been surprised; Will would have followed him before long. He wouldn't have been able to help himself. Tell me, Jack, do you think you'll find their bodies?"
"I'm not sure there are any bodies to find."
Alana takes a long drink. "Neither am I." She crosses the room to stare out the window at the rain that's begun to fall, bringing pine needles with it to the earth. "Thank you for coming, Jack. Please, don't visit again," she turns, face drawn. Her eyes focus on the quiet figure sitting at the top of the stairs, eyes wide, child clutched to her chest. "Unless it is absolutely necessary."
"Don't come here unless I'm coming to the rescue, you mean," Jack says. "It's possible we won't find bodies because there's just nothing left of them to find, Alana. The impact, plus their injuries, would almost definitely have rendered them unconscious, at least temporarily. It doesn't take long for those waves to pulverize a body against the rocks."
Alana fixes him with a cold stare. Jack can't help but think of one of their first meetings, when she'd warned him - begged him - not to let Will get too close.
It is a different voice than the one he remembers, when she finally speaks again: "Is that what you really believe? Or are you only hoping you've lost him to the sea, instead of to Hannibal?"
When Frederick Chilton awakens he experiences the best moment of his day. It is a moment that comes only ever just upon waking - a moment that shortens with each experience, so that he fears the morning when he will wake without it. For that first brief and blessed instant as his brain returns to consciousness, Frederick forgets what's been done to him.
The doctors have deemed his recovery, such as it is, miraculous. Frederick has heard that exact description before, too often to find any solace in it this time. He does not feel recovered. He feels flayed.
"Mr. Chilton?" Frederick swivels his eyes to the orderly standing in the doorway.
"Doctor," he corrects.
"Oh, I'm not a doctor," the idiot says. "There's someone here to see you."
Frederick raises what used to be an eyebrow. He'd had a few visitors in the first days after he came blazing like a comet into the parking garage, but not too many came back for a second look. Seeing Frederick was not a wholesome or popular experience. He is all the more surprised to see who comes walking through the door a moment later.
"Miss Lounds," Frederick greets. "What a pleasant surprise."
"I'm glad you feel that way, Dr. Chilton," the reporter smiles. "I'm sorry, for what's happened to you."
"For my accident, Miss Lounds? That's what one of the surgeons called it. An accident. Like falling down the stairs or being rear ended."
"Hannibal is an accident," Freddie replies succinctly.
"Hannibal didn't do this. Will Graham did." Frederick can still feel the weight of that hand on his shoulder. On what used to be his shoulder.
"I thought the Red Dragon did this."
It's not quite a question, but Frederick answers anyway. "Who do you think gave him the idea? I was set up. Will Graham knew exactly what he was doing. He was curious to see what would happen." Frederick cannot keep the disgust out of his voice.
He pauses to sip from the straw hovering a few inches from his mouth. His throat gets dry so easily; the doctors said he'd inhaled the fire till it scorched his esophagus. "Believe me, Miss Lounds, this is Will Graham's design."
"I don't suppose anyone has told you, yet," Freddie says, smoothing an imaginary crease from her blazer, "that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter vanished last night, leaving a blood soaked beach house for the FBI to find?"
Frederick doesn't bother asking for her source. As preposterous as Freddie Lounds' little publication is, he has to admit that, when it comes to Tattlecrime leads, Freddie's intel is usually accurate. He suddenly feels colder than he has since the accident. Through his fear, Frederick realizes the reporter is still speaking.
"The FBI will want to tell its version of this story," Freddie is saying. "One in which Will Graham is a hero, or a victim. It's up to the people who know better, who've suffered at their hands and because of the callousness, to make sure that's not the only story being told."
"People like us," Frederick says.
Freddie smiles, the first smile Frederick has seen in weeks. It is a luminous, dazzling beacon as she reaches into her purse and extracts a dictaphone.
"Exactly."
The fire is low, crackling coals, a red glow within the iron stove. A child's pale hand tosses a bundle of sticks into the flicker, and flames rise up, twisting with fragrant smoke. Beyond the sound of the fire devouring its fuel, Will can hear the gentle patter of rain, and although he cannot turn his head, he senses the vastness of the room at his back like a draft. The smoke curls like incense, and his nostrils flare at the aroma of forest and light.
"Apple," a little voice asserts, somewhere out of sight. It is a child's voice, a girl's he thinks, accented and familiar.
"Guess again."
Will hears a little sigh from the girl. A pause. "Hickory."
"There are holes in the floor of the mind," Hannibal says, the whisper warm against Will's ear, though he cannot turn to face it. Lips brush the shell of his ear, breath hot, breathing hot words that sink into his skull. "All chambers are not lovely, light, and high."
And then Will can turn his head, and instead of Hannibal he sees a girl kneeling by the fire - an expressionless little preteen with a black bob and a blindfold, and a certain firmness that he recognizes as Chiyoh's. And to her right, a boy, Wally's age, Will thinks, whose maroon eyes, drilling into Will with intense curiosity, can only be Hannibal's.
Will blinks, startled to meet those scrutinizing eyes in so young a face. He searches for anywhere else to look. There is a window behind the boy, Hannibal, and through it Will can see Wolf Trap, covered in snow. Chiyoh and Hannibal appear again, in more familiar visage, standing amongst the trees.
"Between iron and silver," Hannibal is saying to her. Will feels as if he has crept closer to the window, although he is certain he has not moved - cannot move. "Will you watch over me?"
"I will," Chiyoh's voice is only a whisper, as the snow laden trees around her begin to fade, and then she fades, too, and Will is left looking back at those singular red eyes, staring out of a face that darkens like night falling suddenly, like falling suddenly into a pool of ink, like pools of blood suddenly illuminated by moonlight.
"Will you watch over me? Will."
"Will . . . Will?"
Will is certain he is underwater, but Hannibal's voice is clear, and lacks the dreamlike quality it had a moment ago, coming out of that angular darkness.
Will turns his head and vomits water through his sudden coughing, and knows that he is on something like land.
"Hand me those blankets. Will, do you hear me?"
Will grunts, coughs again, and realizes his entire body is shaking violently. He feels utterly wretched. His lungs burn. His esophagus feels raw and scraped. His limbs ache. His eyes sting when he opens them, pricked by the salt crystals drying in his lashes. The knife wound in his side throbs, red hot beneath the frigid water that has, thankfully, slowed his blood flow.
He blinks rapidly, shakes his head to dislodge the water in his ears, and regrets the motion immediately as pain shoots through his jaw. He's never felt so alive.
Hannibal is in front of him, accepting coarse wool blankets from Chiyoh's dark-gloved hands. All Will can see of her is those hands, two dark shapes reaching out of the darkness.
This truly is the black of night, Will thinks nonsensically, shivering.
He can see Hannibal, though, clearly illumined by the light of the full moon. He looks to be faring little better than Will - he's just as soaked, just as blanched by cold. Will's eyes dart to the spot below Hannibal's ribs, where his shirt is torn and stained red.
Hannibal wraps the blankets around his shoulders, and Will can feel him rubbing warmth back into his arms, pressing hard to still his shivering. Gradually, it subsides, though Will still feels the cold clinging to him like a shroud. He grits his teeth to stop the chattering that ricochets like a bullet around his mouth. The wound in his cheek throbs, oozing blood slowed to sludge by the freezing water.
Will turns to his good side, and vomits onto the heaving deck of the sailboat a second time. Cold water rushes out of him. His mouth tastes of brine. Will retches and spits bile, with only a vague awareness of the hand stroking his back through the heavy blankets. A shudder breathes through him, and he tries to take stock of the situation.
It is night, still. He is on a boat. Hannibal is here, and Chiyoh. He is alive. And Hannibal, Hannibal is alive, and they're still free, and -
"Where are we?" his voice is a raspy whisper, a whistle of air through his torn cheek. "Hannibal-"
"On a boat in the Atlantic, a mile off shore," Hannibal answers, hand still petting Will's back. "You swam most of the way."
Will closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. He feels the weariness in his limbs and remembers kicking relentlessly, one arm under Hannibal's, Hannibal's voice in his ear telling him to swim forward, towards nothing he can see, into the dark swells.
Another fit of coughing hits him, and when it's over, Will laughs brokenly into the wooden deck. "We made it."
Hannibal pulls him to his feet, leaning into him, equally unsteady on the swaying deck. "It would seem that we, at least, are not to be lost to the roiling Atlantic," the older man says in a voice that does not betray the pain Will's certain he must feel. "Let's get below deck."
The boat sways, and Will can feel the hum of a motor working as he follows Hannibal down into the cabin. "Do we have a destination?"
"At the moment, Chiyoh is simply taking us someplace we'll be unlikely to attract attention," Hannibal answers.
He leads them past the kitchenette and dining area, into the mid-cabin sleeping quarters. The wood-paneled walls slope towards each other, so the room gets progressively narrower. There's a door in the far wall, to an en suite bathroom, Will guesses. It must be truly tiny. Set into either side of the wall is a narrow bed, sheets turned down with military neatness.
Will sways on his feet in a way that has nothing to do with the soft swells of the night sea, and Hannibal pushes him down to sit on one of the low twin beds, before vanishing into what Will has assumed is the adjoining bathroom. He is only out of sight for a minute or two, and realistically Will knows there is no means of escape through a sailboat's lavatory, but for those minutes Will feels a stab of anxiety which, coupled with the blood loss and the lingering chill of the Atlantic ocean, has him dizzy and faint. He's thankful he's no longer standing; he's certain he would fall.
When Hannibal returns a moment later with the first aid kit, Will sits silently and allows the doctor to tend to his injuries. His cheek hurts the worst. Hannibal saves it for last, pulling his shirt up over his head to patch the cut in his shoulder first. His hands move inquisitively over Will's chest, arms and legs, checking for broken bones but finding only bruises and shallow cuts, which he treats with antiseptic, applying bandages with quick, efficient fingers. The little sound he makes tells Will there's no serious damage, despite the pain that only intensifies the more his body thaws.
Hannibal finally makes it to his cheek, and holds his chin in place with one hand so he can prod at the gash in Will's face with the other. Will releases a noisy breath through his nose and the hands retreat. It's dark in the cabin, the only light a dying bulb in an unshaded lamp. Will thinks the edges of his vision may be getting even darker.
"I'm going to need to reach inside your mouth, Will," Hannibal tells him, sounding far away. "Will, are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Will rasps. "Shouldn't you take care of yourself?"
"I saw to my injuries in the bathroom. The bullet took some flesh, but it did not pierce anything vital."
Oh. Apparently he was gone more than a minute or two. Hannibal lowers his face to peer into Will's eyes. "Your pupils are dilated. Can you still see?"
"It's getting darker," Will admits.
Hannibal stands and walks back towards the kitchenette. Will follows, spurred by a second sudden wave of anxiety. He has to brace himself against the walls to stay upright; room is blurred and spinning around him, but he knows with piercing clarity that he cannot bear to let Hannibal out of his sight. Not yet. Clinging to the doorframe, he finds Hannibal turning towards him from the small refrigerator.
"You shouldn't try to stand."
"Stay where I can see you." He knows it must sound pathetic and crazy, but he's too worn to care. Hannibal just nods, leads him back into the sleeping quarters to his seat on one of the twin beds, and presses a carafe of orange juice into his hands. The juice stings the inside of his mouth, but Will drinks half of it anyway in one long swig. The citric acid burns his salt-stung throat. Will doesn't care about the pain, though. It's tolerable. Or maybe he's going into shock. He takes another, smaller slug of juice.
"Open your mouth," Hannibal says once he's swallowed, and Will obeys, closing his eyes against the spreading dark. He feels Hannibal's fingers pushing against the inside of his cheek, feeling at the edges of the cut with firm but gentle precision.
Will fights back a shiver at the intrusive touch. For a moment he envisions snapping his teeth shut, imagines hot blood filling his mouth and soothing the sting in his throat, wonders if he has the strength to bite through bone. Will remembers, as Hannibal stitches his cheek, the way the knife slid through his face, a sharp kiss, before his hand could commit to grasping his gun.
The knife had surprised him, but what surprised him more than the shock of pain was the Red Dragon's strength. He had known Dolarhyde was physically powerful, more than capable of following through on his promise to sever Will's spine with his bare hands, but knowing and experiencing were vastly different.
Will recalls the fleeting panic he'd experienced at the realization of Dolarhyde's capabilities, the jolt of fear as he, hooked and dangling like a trout, kicked uselessly at the air. The strength of the Dragon had been astonishing. So, too, had his own strength.
"Done," Hannibal murmurs, and Will releases his breath, suddenly aware he's been holding it. What strength he had seems vanished now, his mind and body heavy with exhaustion. He lets the other man press him back to lie on the bed, feels the blankets pulled up around him, scratching at his bare chest. He keeps his eyes open in small heavy slits, watches as Hannibal moves the medical equipment onto the bedside table and rises.
Will's body tenses as Hannibal walks towards the door, but he stops, one hand on the doorframe, seeming to reconsider, before turning back and climbing into the twin bed on the other side of the mid-cabin. Will lets his eyes close, lets a last rasping relieved breath escape his gritted teeth, before sinking into unconsciousness.
"Something you need to see." A little black rectangle thuds onto his desk, and Jack fixes his red rimmed eyes on Brian Zeller.
The younger man frowns. "Damn, Jack, when's the last time you got any sleep?"
Jack dismisses the question with one of his own. "What is this?"
"VHS tape found at the crime scene," Zeller answers. "There was a camcorder, huge, clunky old machine, set up on the bar, pointed out the busted window. I thought you'd want to see this before anyone else got a hold of it."
"You've seen it?"
"I - yeah," Zeller shuffles, pulling a flash drive from his pocket. "Just me, though. I copied it onto this, to make it easier. This is the only copy."
Jack takes the flash drive with fingers that feel too big and heavy to operate correctly. Sleep is in his near future, but he owes it to Will not to give in to weakness yet. If there's any hope of saving his protege, it's stronger now than it will be in a day or even a few hours.
He plugs the flash into his laptop and clicks the icon that pops up. There's just one file, and he selects it after the briefest hesitation. Zeller coughs, shifts his weight, remains standing where he can't see what only he has viewed already.
The video opens on Hannibal, crumpled against the bar, one hand cupping what looks like a gunshot wound in his side. The camera is steady, and from the angle Jack thinks it must be resting on the ground. Hannibal is the only person in the frame, and he's saying something, his eyes on someone behind the camera and to the right. There's no sound, but Jack can see the man's chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes flickering between something directly behind the camera and something slightly to the right.
On screen, Hannibal's eyes widen, as if in surprise. Jack's not sure he's ever seen Hannibal surprised before. The man on screen turns his face, intently watching something that is happening behind the camcorder. Then he rises, with more ease than Jack would have predicted considering the blood weeping through his shirt, and lifts the camera.
The room spins for a second, then stabilizes again. A new angle, as Hannibal places the camera on the bar, pointing it towards the darkness beyond the shattered window.
Jack can see movement beyond the broken glass, and then Hannibal's face fills the screen, his lips curled in a crooked smile. Jack jerks backwards in surprise, and Hannibal's mouth moves, silent but easy to read.
"Hello, Jack."
Jack can feel his molars grinding so hard he's certain they'll crack.
"I edited the video," Zeller says softly, "so you'll be able to see better through the dark. It's not my area of expertise, but..."
"I've seen enough," Jack answers, without moving his eyes from the screen.
Hannibal is staggering through the window, and Jack can see Dolarhyde roaring soundlessly over Will's kneeling form. Their battle is brief. Dolarhyde is strong, but it's obvious he doesn't stand a chance once Hannibal enters the fray. Jack watches, mouth dry. Their movements are so coordinated it's nearly impossible to believe they aren't planned out, choreographed and practiced.
Preordained, Jack thinks deliriously. He's beginning to question how well he knows Will, has ever known him, and whether the younger man needs saving at all. Jack pushes these traitorous thoughts to the back of his mind the moment they appear. He put Will in this situation; he can get him out again.
The video is short, not even five minutes, and difficult to make out despite Zeller's editing tricks. Still, Jack sees the embrace, and the drop off the edge of the cliff, their bodies disappearing mere moments before the scene is illuminated by the SWAT team, wielding flashlights and guns as they sweep the area for survivors and find none. He sees himself rushing into the frame, and he feels like he's been watching much longer than four and a half minutes.
It's quiet as he watches the mute home video, and quiet after the video ends. On the other side of the desk, Zeller stands, watching his shoes and waiting.
"These are the only copies."
Zeller nods.
"Let's keep it that way. And let's keep these out of the evidence locker for now."
Jack rises. His body is stiff, his eyes dry. He looks down at his desk, at the black rectangle he's not sure how to interpret. It's been a long time since he slept.
"I'm going home, Brian," he says. His voice sounds like it's a hundred years old. "I'll see you in the morning."
Zeller nods again. "I'm sorry."
Not as sorry as I am, Jack thinks, but he just says, "Thank you."
Freddie Lounds' pulls up to the beach house at a quarter past four in the morning. The scene is dark, and Freddie fishes a diminutive flashlight out of her glove box. There are no other cars parked outside the house. Freddie bypasses the police-taped front door to walk around back, where, after photographing the mess she finds, it is easy enough to crawl beneath the tarpaulin covering the broken window and into the still house.
At the top of the cliff, Will is gripping Hannibal so hard his fingers ache. Every part of him aches, every bone, every inch of skin, even his heart. His breath comes faster and faster, and he swallows the sob welling in his throat.
"It's beautiful."
Hannibal's body is firm and human against him, no demon, no beast, just warmth and solidity. It seems strange, in all this time, to never have embraced one another before. They've been so close he's forgotten who is who at times, has seen his own face staring back at him, has heard Hannibal's voice in his mouth and felt the presence of the other man's mind like a brand on his own, but they've never cuddled. It's almost a bigger shock than being gutted. It feels like the snap of a taut rubber band.
Years of tension break abruptly, like a teacup shattering or a body breaking. And by embracing Hannibal, Will knows, he is choosing at last to embrace himself, to acknowledge and accept those parts of himself he's so long denied. He could stand like this, thinking this way, for a long time.
But then. The sound of the helicopter, faint over the roar of the sea, and the flash of light reflecting on dimmed headlights. His face pressed against Hannibal's chest, Will can see the SWAT van jerking to a stop beside their stolen police car. Now he has no trouble imagining what will happen.
Hannibal will kneel, like he did on that night three years ago, when Will had walked away, unable or unwilling to watch, disgusted with Hannibal and Jack and with himself, most of all. This time he will watch. Hannibal will allow himself to be led away, back to his cage, where Will can always find him but never touch him.
Jack will congratulate him, tell him to go home to Molly, knowing full well he won't be able to go home. He won't ask why Will didn't stick to the plan, and if he happens to see this embrace he'll pretend he only believes it is Will attempting to apprehend Hannibal and keep him for escaping. Alana won't mention the plan either, and they'll all quietly agree to pretend that Will hasn't crossed any lines, that everything he did was above board, a dangerous and heroic ploy to bring down a violent killer.
And in time, there will be another monster like the Dragon, and Will will return, either on his own or because Jack comes for him, and he won't be able to resist. He'll spend his life staring through glass, speaking in riddles, stepping on his own throat. They'll both be in prison, then. Will has no intention of seeing either of them imprisoned a second time. And he recognizes the sound when the bolt of his fate slides home.
Hannibal is not in the room when Will wakes up. Will forces himself up, rolls his shoulder experimentally and then winces in pain. That anxious feeling is back, and Will heads for the door, in search of Hannibal.
He's impatient with his own concern; hadn't he once professed not to want to know where Hannibal was, or what he was doing, to have no connection whatsoever to the man who's been omnipresent in his mind for the past five years? Now it seems he can hardly stand to be one room apart. He wishes he had the decency to feel ashamed about it. He doesn't have to hunt for long. It's not a big boat, Will would guess thirty feet at most.
He finds Hannibal sitting at the table in the little kitchen and dining area, clean and relaxed and reading a book that looks like it was pillaged from a monastery. Will bets it's handwritten in some creaky old font, in a language no one's spoken for a thousand years but that Hannibal undoubtably knows how to speak. It figures that their rescue boat comes equipped with a medieval library.
Hannibal looks up in greeting. "Good morning, Will. There is coffee, if you'd like."
Will pours himself a mug. He feels steadier than he did last night. His vision has cleared, too. But the lightheaded fainting feeling he's had since going behind the veil is still there. The elation. The power. Will sits across from Hannibal, and wonders if his nerves will ever stop humming with electricity. He wonders how much longer his body can stand it. His hand on the mug shakes, barely.
"How are you feeling?" Hannibal asks.
Will snorts a laugh, because it's such an innocuous question - the kind that gets asked a million times in a lifetime - but the way he's feeling he can't even begin to describe. "I feel high. I feel like my brain is on fire again."
"Do you feel powerful?"
Will nods. "Yes. Oh, yes."
Hannibal smiles. "I am happy you chose a different path for us, Will."
Will laughs again, feeling it in his stitched up cheek. He must look like Frankenstein's monster, and in a way he supposes he is. "I don't know where this path is leading. I keep expecting you to disappear."
"I assure you, I have no intention of leaving, Will. I've waited too long for this not to see it out," Hannibal's dark eyes spark redly as he speaks. His voice is steady and calm, but there's an intensity to his words that Will can feel like a physical caress. "Your path leads wherever you choose it to. Tell me, do you finally know what it is you want?"
Will nods, once. "Revenge," he breathes. "And... this power. This feeling, this aliveness." He is practically hissing, unable to contain the words or the desire they signify. "I want this."
Hannibal exposes his crooked teeth in one of his rare grins. He's practically beaming. He reaches across the narrow table, and places his hands over Will's where they clasp the coffee mug. Will's skin prickles with heat.
"We will take your revenges, and let the world tremble to know we walk together at last," Hannibal promises, voice low, and Will feels the words in his blood and bones more than he hears them with his ears. All his nerves sing. Will is on fire at a cellular level. He feels reborn, a new being born of blood and salt and moonlight. He swallows, tensing and relaxing his jaw, holding Hannibal's gaze for impossible long moments.
The world will tremble, and he trembles with it, or perhaps it's a vibration of energy, a blood buzz building in his sinews and marrow. Perhaps it is not fear and anxiety humming within him, but excitement and appetite. The path they'll take will be of his design. And Will knows just where to begin.
Chiyoh maneuvers through the busy street market, dodging dog-walkers, tourists, and families obliviously devouring fresh ice cream, her black canvas tote bulging with fresh produce, jars of preserves, and other sundry items. Cinching her dark jacket tighter around her slender frame, she makes her way towards the butcher, her final stop before heading back to the marina.
On her way to the butcher's stand she stops, however, unexpectedly arrested by the sight of a glossy picture, printed beneath a headline in garish font. She approaches the newspaper stand, and makes her purchase. She's known Hannibal long enough to know the kind of thing that amuses him. It is always a good idea to keep him amused, lest he grow bored and go about seeing to his own entertainment.
Smiling softly to herself, Chiyoh continues on her way, unaware of the woman watching her from behind an elegant pair of tapered tortoise-shell sunglasses.
The corners of Bedelia's mouth twitch and her heart hammers like a bird dashing itself against a gilded cage. But she breathes a slow, heavy breath, and forces herself to be still. What she feels is an amalgam of excitement over the cleverness of her discovery, and fear over what it is she has discovered.
Fear is the logical reaction to this situation, she tells herself. But she's survived this far, and that's no small feat. She has every intention to carry on surviving. Bedelia trails at a safe distance, careful to keep to the shadows and behind groups of tourists.
She follows Chiyoh towards the marina, and watches from the sidewalk as Chiyoh descends to the dock and winds her way assuredly through the moorings. Undetected, Bedelia allows herself her own small smile.
The shower feels amazing. He'd been so exhausted the night before that he'd fallen asleep in his wet slacks, and woken up crusted with salt. He stepped into the hot shower still half-clothed, allowing the hot water to loosen the uncomfortable fabric until he could peel it off. Will scrubs at his salt caked hair, letting the water fall over his bruised and weary muscles and form little waterfalls in his curls. There's an unlabelled glass bottle of shampoo that Will is sure costs a fortune.
He pours a generous amount into his hands and works it through his curls, sighing at the feeling, the heat, the smell. Will does his best to lose himself in the myriad sensations; his mind is trying to go in too many directions at once, and he forces himself to focus on what he's experiencing physically rather than on the clamor in his brain. It's not hard to do; he's still experiencing the hypersensitivity he felt the night before, although the edge is starting to dull a little, and he can feel himself floating gently back to normalcy.
Will lets his thoughts flit past, regarding each before letting it pass by, until he finds one he wants to examine more closely. His thought is this: He supposes he has actually finally run away with Hannibal Lecter. Strangely, that thought is less interesting than the one that arises immediately after, which is that he has run away with himself, that running away with Hannibal will allow him - has already allowed him - to experience himself as a whole being at last. He breathes shakily, dipping his head to rinse the suds from his hair.
Even though the rush of hot water over his body feels like it's giving him new life, Will finds himself hurrying through his wash in the end, anxious to get Hannibal back into his line of vision. He can't begin to explain the surge of nervousness that swells in him any time the other man is out of his sight for too long, and he's thankful that Hannibal isn't making him try. He's graciously accepted that Will is going to follow him into and out of any room except this one, and their living situation is currently contained enough that it hardly matters, anyway.
Will dresses in the clothing he finds on the foot of the bed when he returns to it, towel slung about his waist. Trust Hannibal to always think ahead. He probably has a change of clothes for the two of them in every country on the planet.
Out in the main cabin it's obvious Chiyoh has been back at some point, though she's currently absent again. She seems determined to give them as much space as possible; possibly she is afraid of getting between them, unsure where their relationship currently stands.
Where does it stand, Will wonders.
Hannibal is elated over the ingredients he has spread out over the counter. Will can see his cogs turning as he surveys what Chiyoh has brought them. It's been three years since he's been able to indulge in this avocation, Will reminds himself. Of course he would be excited.
"Planning lunch?" Will asks, leaning against the counter.
Hannibal smiles warmly at him. "I find I am overwhelmed with options and ideas. Perhaps I will starve while I stand trying to make up my mind."
Will snorts. "I, on the other hand, know exactly what I want."
"Well, Will," Hannibal's smile brightens, "I hope you won't mind my saying, it's about time." He selects a few of the wrapped parcels on the counter, arranging them in small piles, then rearranging, completely ignoring the withering look Will shoots him. "What is it about which you are so certain?"
"I want-" Will begins, and then abruptly stops, noticing the paper on the counter for the first time. The Tattler's usual lurid font spells out the headline: Murder Husbands' Beach Home Hide Away Discovered! Below is a picture of the blood drenched cliffside, and an inset of both his and Hannibal's mugshots. Cannibal Consorts take on Tooth Fairy, a dramatic subheading reads. Will flips through the paper to find the rest of the article. He frowns.
"The Federal Bureau of Investigation mishandled justice again this week," Will reads, "when they sent former FBI Agent and behavioral analysis consultant Will Graham to oversee the transfer of renowned psychiatrist and serial killer Hannibal Lecter from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane to a Federal Institution in Maryland. Graham helped bring about the capture of Dr. Lecter, alias the Chesapeake Ripper, after a long association between the two that has often been questioned by journalists as well as officers of the law." He pauses to roll his eyes, continuing his reading with a sigh when Hannibal looks up, looking ridiculously expectant.
"The Bureau has released a formal statement admitting the escape of Lecter, as well as the disappearance of Graham and a police vehicle. It is unclear exactly how the escape was allowed to take place, but what is known is that Lecter, and presumably Graham, were the only ones to walk away alive from the scene of the escape. 'Will Graham is alive,' a source close to the case told this reporter. 'He is alive because Hannibal Lecter likes him that way. And Dr. Lecter is free because that's how Will Graham likes him.' Further evidence that the pair fled together was discovered when the FBI were finally able to track the whereabouts of the stolen police car to a remote house overlooking the Atlantic. The house shows signs of cohabitation," Will quirks an eyebrow, remembering the room that was so clearly meant to be his, "and police were shocked to discover the body of Francis Dolarhyde, alternatively known as the Tooth Fairy or Great Red Dragon."
Will carries on reading, deadpan. Freddie manages to heavily insinuate that he masterminded Hannibal's liberation and brought the armed guard and police escorts down on his own, without ever outright saying it's true. She's aided in her work by this mysterious source close to the case. The article ends with an appeal to the FBI to stop protecting their pet psychopath and come clean about the threat to the public he poses.
"Well, that didn't take long," he says, tossing the paper back onto the counter.
"The public will be in an uproar," Hannibal says merrily.
"They'll be looking for us, even if they half-believe we're dead."
"A good time to lay low," Hannibal suggests.
"I've no intention of laying low," Will growls, and Hannibal, considering a crimson Roma, smiles appreciatively. "We can stay ahead of them. At least until our work is done."
"And what work is that?" Hannibal asks.
"Judgment," Will says. "Cleansing. I have unfinished business before we can leave this place behind us. There are accounts to settle," Will frowns, "debts. There will be killing till the score is paid. And to begin? There's someone I've encountered in the past few years who deserves punishment, someone I've regretted sparing for several years."
"It's not me, is it?" Hannibal asks playfully.
Will looks down at the counter, unable to quash his smile. "Second guess?"
Hannibal hums. "Clark Ingram." It shouldn't surprise Will, anymore, that Hannibal can do this, read his mind like this sometimes. It still does, though. The expression on his face must be all the confirmation Hannibal needs, because he doesn't wait for a verbal response before asking, "You know where to find him?"
Will nods.
He thinks about the creased copy of Ingram's profile, home address and phone in the upper right, about the amount of times he had touched its folded edges in his wallet, not needing, any longer, to unfold it to read what it said. On nights when Molly fell asleep before him, leaving him to linger, sleepless in a sleeping world, on many nights, Will unfolded it anyway, and thought about the young man who had, as Peter had predicted, fooled all the right people in the end. "I know his address."
Hannibal puts down the bottle of wine he's been pretending to examine. He crosses the kitchenette in two steps, coming to stand beside Will. He's serious at this moment, the waggish jokes suspended for now.
"You know, Will, you've never pre-meditated a murder before, not in earnest."
Will swallows, and forces himself to meet Hannibal's eyes. "You're not including yours."
Hannibal blinks. "Alana once told me she worried a door in your mind had been opened and no one knew if it had shut again. If you open this door, Will, there will be no closing it. How does it feel?"
"Like it did then," Will says, voice low. "It feels righteous."
Freddie arrives shortly after visiting hours begin, coffee in hand. But none for him. Of course, it's not like he'd be able to drink it, he reminds himself. She reads him the article, and asks more questions, with her little microphone recording away.
Frederick's grafted skin itches. Her skin is rosy pale, smooth, supple. He envies her.
"So you'd say there's absolutely no way that Lecter would have killed Will Graham?" Freddie is asking.
Frederick forces himself back into the moment. "That's right. Hannibal saw Will as a friend, as his only friend. Even when he left him holding his intestines on the kitchen floor, he had no intention of letting Will die. Hannibal has proven time and again that what he wants Will Graham for."
"Would you describe their relationship as romantic?" Trust Freddie to ask those hard-hitting questions.
"I would describe it as passionate," Frederick answers. "And indecent."
"That's even better. Let readers draw their own conclusions. Makes them feel smart."
"Do you feel smart?" Frederick asks, through the clack of his teeth. "Have you considered what will happen to you, if they're alive? You've pestered and harassed Will Graham for five years, called him a lunatic, a murderer, a psychopath. What do you think he'll do to you, now that he's gotten in touch with his true self?"
Freddie smiles. "I don't think he'll do anything to me. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are too smart to draw attention to themselves, if they are alive. The world is half convinced they're dead; all they need to do to confirm the belief is simply not refute it."
"Those two," Frederick clatters, "are madder than they seem. I wouldn't count on their rational thinking saving you."
"The public deserves the truth," she says. "Jack Crawford is sure to do whatever he can to protect his man."
"Will's Hannibal's man," Frederick corrects. "They've drunk blood by moonlight, now. There's no sense in pretending Will's coming back from it this time. In the long run, I might consider myself as having gotten off lucky, knowing those two."
Freddie's smile brightens. "Can I quote you on that? I'd like permission to tell your story - a follow up to the interview that lured the Red Dragon out of hiding, a prelude to the story of Will Graham's own transformation."
Frederick would smile if he still could. "Is it too early to talk about co-authoring, Miss Lounds?"
"Please," she says. It might be the cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics they have him on, but Frederick can see flowers blossoming behind her copper curls, hummingbirds rising from the petals to flicker around her head like a halo. "Call me Freddie."
The candles are almost guttering. Soon, the room will face an abrupt darkness. Before that can happen, Alana traces her hand down Margot's back, illuminated in the warm light. Her fingers trace the scars there lovingly. Most nights, she looks at Margot and thinks how fortunate she is to be here with her, snatched from the jaws of death, as it were, and delivered into domestic bliss. But tonight, tonight she can't stop thinking how everything in her life is something Will Graham touched, too.
"I should be there," Alana mutters. "Jack will need me."
"No, I need you," Margot sighs, rolling over against Alana's hand, bare skin brushing against her palm. "You should be here. With us. Where it's safe." She arches her back, curving into Alana's touch, eyes peering up from beneath thick lashes and heavy lids. Alana thinks about how easily she could be broken, how easily she could lose everything she loves.
"Nowhere is safe," Alana tells her, bending to kiss the perfect sharp clavicle flickering in the candlelight. "Not until they catch him. I could help them catch him."
Margot frowns, sits up in bed to look Alana in the eyes. "You can't be serious," she says, furious at the determination in her wife's gaze.
"It's the only way I can protect you and Morgan."
"We aren't the ones who need protection, Alana, you are. You're the one he's after, and you propose to place yourself directly in his path."
Alana sighs, stands, walks to the decanter of scotch on the table and pours herself a drink. She can hear Margot wrapping her robe around herself and standing to follow her, but she does not turn around. She does not say what Hannibal told her, when last she saw him, when he was still held in her careful keeping - oh God, how had I been foolish enough to let him loose? He had even warned her - what he said about Alana's family belonging to him. She knows how easily they can be taken from her, how he could kill them just for getting in the way.
Would he kill Morgan, she wonders, would there be something - morality, pity, compassion, fondness, politeness - that would hold even him back from harming a child? When Margot's arms wrap around her waist, she releases a tense breath.
"Aren't you scared?" Margot whispers in her ear.
There is another version of Alana, an older model, and that Alana is scared. That Alana is so frightened she can barely speak above a whisper, or keep her body from quaking. The terror is a dark wave crashing over her, but she carries on being brave. The Alana she is now knows what that terror is, has drowned in and drunk from the sea of horror, filling her body with that thick, black fear.
"Yes," she breathes. She feels Margot's arms tighten. She squeezes back. "But I know Will. If he's alive, if he's with Hannibal, he won't let anything happen to us." To me, she thinks.
"That's a lot of ifs," Margot scoffs against her nape. "If he's alive, if he's with him, if he can control what Hannibal does. If he even wants to." Margot's hands force her around, turning her to face that concerned pout, those wide eyes. Poor Margot. "How much can you trust him, Alana?"
The answer is not at all. But Alana says, "Not entirely."
There's not much to do on a boat when it's not at sea, Will learns. When he's not sailing or fixing, being on a boat is a lot like being in any room or any cage. There's not a lot to do except plan Clark Ingram's murder. Fortunately, planning Clark Ingram's murder turns out to be something they can both enjoy.
"How will you do it?" Hannibal asks, sitting on his twin bed, back to the wall, legs apart, elbows on knees as he leans forward intently to hear Will's answer.
"I want to cut him," the admission is heavy, but unfettered by awkwardness. Hannibal's eyes gleam in the dim light. "I want to feel his blood flowing out of him, hot and fast. I want to see his eyes when he realizes..." Will trails off, licking his lips. A frisson of excitement travels down his spine, spooling at the base, at the place where the Red Dragon promised to snap him and then didn't. "I felt something, killing Dolarhyde with you."
"What did you feel?" The dark intensity dripping off Hannibal and hanging in the air around them feels cloying, suffocating.
"I-I don't know," Will shakes his head, trying to clear it. "I felt...alive?" Alive, abrupt, edgeless and vast.
"And you hope to recreate that feeling."
Will does. The buzz that had lingered through the morning of the following day is dissipating now. His nerves still vibrate with the lingering intoxication of the kill, and his brain is flooded with enough dopamine to dull the pain of the injuries he sustained fighting Dolarhyde and tumbling them both into the ocean. But that bright exultation that irradiated the landscape in the moment of Dolarhyde's transformation has faded.
"Oh, you noble thing," Hannibal breathes, appreciative of the look in Will's clouded eyes. "How long I've waited to see you at peace with yourself." Hannibal leans further towards Will, red eyes focussed steadily on the man in front of him. "It's beautiful to witness, Will." His voice is sincere, reverent, almost awed.
Will grunts, unsure of how to respond when Hannibal says things like this, things that send tendrils of warmth and elation/excitement/embarrassment/fear curling through his stomach. "You've seen me at what's either my best or my worst," he jokes to diffuse the tension.
Hannibal, naturally, refuses to let things dissipate so easily. "I have witnessed your becoming."
Will snorts. "I'd say you were an active participant, not a witness."
Hannibal's smile is small and self-congratulatory. "Do you think you will ever find it in your heart to be grateful for my participation?"
Will swallows the fury that crests within him at the audacity, the arrogance of the question. He knows that anger is what Hannibal expects. He is hoping to provoke.
Will forces his voice to sound calm. "We've done a number on one another," he says, slowly. "Still, we will let all this be a thing of the past. I am...making an end to my anger."
Hannibal smiles wider. "It does not become either of us, unrelentingly, to rage on," he says smoothly, "I trust you. Will you trust me?"
Will considers telling Hannibal he's an idiot for trusting him, but Will did just help him escape from federal custody, more or less. He wonders how far Hannibal knows he orchestrated their escape.
"I trust you aren't planning on eating me," Will says. It would be a start.
"Oh you can trust me further than that," Hannibal vows languorously. "I have your best interests at heart, Will, always have."
"Except that time you attempted to cut my skull open and eat my brain."
Hannibal's smile is sickeningly jubilant. "Except for that one small lapse in judgment."
This should be a serious conversation about forgiveness and the past injuries they have both inflicted. It's almost distressing how easily Hannibal is ready to forgive. But the knot of their mutual betrayals and abuses is too complex to untie, and maybe Hannibal has the right idea in just cutting straight through that messy past to make way for the glorious present.
Will can tell that prison has changed Hannibal, and not in the ways one might expect. The man's always known how to enjoy life to the fullest, but now there's no point in disguising that delight. It's a transformation Will could sense during his visits with Hannibal at the BSHCI, and now that they are both on the same side of the glass Will is even more struck by the change. Maybe, Will thinks, he really does just need to relax with himself.
"Have you thought about what you'll do after Ingram is dealt with?" Hannibal asks, pulling Will out of his revery and back into the moment. The question comes with the same flippant intensity Hannibal's been employing throughout their conversation, but Will knows what it is he's really asking.
"I have a moderate to-do list, after Ingram," Will says, side-stepping.
It's Hannibal's turn to feel annoyed at being kept in the dark, Will decides. But the other man just smiles beatifically. "Anyone who might surprise me?"
"Well you weren't surprised when I wasn't actually planning to watch you die," Will answers, "and you weren't surprised when I threw us both off a cliff. You weren't surprised when I lied to Jack and Alana, or when I helped Dolarhyde facilitate your escape," Will smiles, bitterly, "so I have to wonder if anything would surprise you."
"Your devotion has never surprised me," Hannibal says, with less jubilance now, "only your betrayals."
Will frowns. "Have you thought of what you'll do," he asks, "now that you're out? You must have given it a lot of thought over the past three years."
"I spent my incarceration in my memory palace, reliving the past, rather than planning for the uncertain future," Hannibal informs him.
Will wonders which of them will broach the subject of their alliance and what it may entail first. For now, he brings them back to the murder at hand. "Do you feel up to finding Ingram tonight?"
"Are you that eager, Will?"
Will licks his lips, not wanting to admit how desperately he wants to rekindle the fire that hummed through him, how scared he is that it won't feel the same. How scared he is that it will, and of what he'll become if it does. What he's already become, to be having this conversation at all.
"Our injuries from the Dragon shouldn't be enough to endanger us against Clark Ingram," Hannibal's voice holds disdain as he speaks the man's name, and Will sneers at the sound of it. "And we were fortunate to avoid the rocks when we fell. Thank heaven for erosion. Still, in taking Clark Ingram we will almost certainly be revealing to the FBI that we are alive, and that will pose a bigger risk than just one sadistic social worker. I recommend waiting another couple of days at least; it would really be best to wait longer, but I suppose it can't be helped."
Will huffs, impatient but acknowledging the truth of what Hannibal is saying. His body feels like it's healing at an accelerated rate, but he's still slower than he should be. A day or two will just give them more time to plan.
"If we catch him at home it will be best," Will says, watching the burn start again in Hannibal's eyes as he speaks. It's a heat like desire, and Will forces himself to look away. "He lives alone. It's a condo, shares one wall with the next unit. If we gag him, or do it quickly, the neighbors won't hear." He chances a look back at Hannibal's face, and is nearly undone by the expression he finds there.
"You've put some thought into this," Hannibal breathes, voice reverent and low.
"One of us had to spend the last three years planning," Will tells him, and looks away again before the fire rising in Hannibal's hungry eyes can consume him completely.
At first, Jack refuses to count Will's loss in anything larger than hours, and refuses to finish many of his thoughts on the case. It's been three hours since we lost contact with Will Graham; his cell phone was discovered near the wreckage of the transfer van, just outside the back doors, suggesting it fell or was removed from his pocket after he had exited the vehicle, involuntarily or...
It's been twelve hours since we lost contact with Will Graham; blood at the crime scene was a positive DNA match, and his finger prints were found throughout the house, including in a room containing a closet of clothes too small for Hannibal Lecter but not for...
It's been eighteen hours since we lost contact with Will Graham; Z. brings a video that shows Will falling into the sea, but they still haven't found a body.
It's been twenty-four hours and Jack finally calls Molly, irrationally irritated by the break in her voice but trying to be compassionate because he was her husband, after all.
It's been seventy-two hours and there've been numerous reports of people in and around Baltimore seeing Hannibal, or Will, or both of them, but none of the reports turn out to be true so far, and Jack puts a team of interns on sorting the incoming sightings into three categories: No, Definitely Not True, and Maybe.
He stops counting in hours when he reaches ninety-six. It's been four days since we lost contact with Will Graham, Jack thinks to himself.
He thinks about the tape often. It puzzles him for many reasons, not the least of which is the ending. All the evidence, celluloid and cellular, indicates that Will and Hannibal fell off the cliff. Still every instinct in him says that they're alive. It would be so easy to close the case - the pressure is already on him to have them both declared dead and ease the publics' fear - they stampeded, as predicted, the moment Freddie Lounds and the other journalists started reporting that the FBI had lost their pet cannibal.
If they were dead, he'd know. If Will were dead. They aren't dead. And if they aren't dead, that means that either Hannibal has abducted Will and is holding him somewhere against his will, or they've separated and Will is wounded or otherwise unable to contact him. Either way, he needs to keep searching. Will needs him. After all the times he's led Will into danger, all the times he's refused to believe him or respect his boundaries, Jack needs to do this for him. He needs to bring Will back.
There are...other possibilities. It's possible that Hannibal died, and Will lived. It's possible Will's fed up with everything and has just turned his back on them all, taking this opportunity to walk away while the world mourns his death. It's possible he's lost his memory - it's possible they've both lost their memories. Jack tries to imagine that - Hannibal and Will washing ashore and not knowing who they are. He wonders how they'd get along, if presented to one another as tabula rasa. Maybe they'd get along? They'd probably get along.
Look at them now, barely able to resist each other even after all the agony they've caused for themselves. They'd probably get along like a house on fire if they woke up with amnesia.
"I know you don't want to consider this," Price tells him, on the evening of the fourth day since they lost contact with Will Graham, "and God only knows why I'm the one who has to tell you, but they really might just have run off together. That is, if we're still refusing to accept that a fall from that height into the freezing cold Atlantic Ocean and a medieval dungeon pit's worth of jagged rocks, not even accounting for their previously sustained injuries, is almost 110% fatal."
Jack's nostrils flare. "Be careful, Jimmy," he warns.
Price scoffs, flicking one hand at him dismissively. "Come on, Jack. I'm the only one you can't scare. We've known each other too long for that gruff FBI badass routine to do any good." Jack glares. Price's voice softens, "I know, Jack, I do. I don't want to consider it any more than you do."
"Then don't consider it," Jack says. "We doubted him once, when he needed us to believe him, and look what it cost us. If we'd listened then we wouldn't be here now."
"Just because we should have listened then doesn't mean we ought to listen now," Price says, confusingly. "I'm headed to the cafeteria. You're coming with me. You've been here for nine hours and I haven't seen you eat."
Jack stumbles to his feet, not wanting to admit Price is right about anything right now, but knowing that he's at least right about this. Maybe after he's had something to eat he'll be able to examine the evidence with a renewed sense of clarity.
Price claps him on the shoulder and leads them towards the door. "Plus did you hear," he chirps, "they just installed a frozen yogurt machine!"
The days shuffle passed, and Will grows more restless with each passing one. There is little to do on board the boat besides heal. Periodically, Hannibal forces Will to stretch and exercise lightly with him, testing the progress of the wound in his side. Will suspects, secretly, that he may be fulfilling some type of samurai master fantasy, forcing Will to unlock his true self through the ancient mystic practice of light stretches and physical therapy.
Most of the time there is nothing to do except think, or talk, or watch Hannibal cook and lament the smallness and simplicity of their kitchen. He still manages to produce an impressively plated and wildly creative array of seafood dishes. Will eats each one ravenously, and nothing has ever tasted as good. The taste seems more vivid somehow than tastes used to. Will can taste the sunlight that nurtured each plant, the nutrients passed to them from the earth. He can taste the cold ice water quickness of the fish, the haze of the deep sea.
"This is delicious," Will says, savoring the taste of the fresh scallop Hannibal has served up, still in the shell and resting atop a bed of actual twigs from some kind of conifer, the modest kitchen clearly no deterrent to his craft.
Hannibal pours him a glass of white wine, unsmiling but plainly elated by the praise. Of course, he must have missed impressing people while incarcerated. Will's sure Hannibal had plenty of fan mail, somehow, but he supposes that would have been poor comfort, after the life Hannibal had once led, a life filled with constant praise and admiration. Now all he has is Will, the rest of the world having turned in horror - though, Will supposes, their horror is its own kind of admiration.
"You may notice a slight taste of juniper," he tells Will, "if your palate has developed far enough."
Will closes his eyes and imagines smoke drifting up from the little juniper branches, fragrant and thick. The bivalve has been cooked nestled against the low fire within the bunch of juniper, and if he imagines hard enough, Will can just about taste it.
"You are more aware of your physical body, of bodily sensation," Hannibal observes. "Tell me, can you feel the pressure of the air on your skin?"
Will frowns. "Are you about to give a lecture on the somatic sensory system, Dr. Lecter?"
"Certainly not," Hannibal replies, eyes twinkling redly. "That sounds like an excellent way to spoil an otherwise enjoyable meal."
"For once," Will smiles slightly, "we are in complete agreement."
"I find that we are in agreement with increasing frequency, these days," Hannibal says. Will takes another bite of his food, marveling silently at the flavors and textures running over his tongue. "Don't you?"
He licks his lips, considering the question. He hadn't considered it until now, but it should have been obvious; when has Hannibal ever before surrendered control of the circumstances so completely? Will hears Bedelia's voice, Alana's voice, warning, don't fool yourself into thinking Hannibal isn't in complete control of the situation.
"You've been very quick to acquiesce to all suggestions," Will replies carefully.
"And now that it's occurred to you, you're invariably worried what it must mean," Hannibal smiles at his plate - at his own damned cleverness. He looks up, locks eyes with Will, and leans across the narrow table with a conspiratorial grin. "Fear not," he whispers, voice mocking but fond, "it's mostly just that I find your suggestions utterly captivating."
"Mostly," Will presses, and Hannibal's smile broadens.
"Not entirely."
"No."
"No, I must confess," Hannibal says in the least contrite voice Will can imagine, "to a certain fascination in watching what you'll do."
"That's hardly a new development," Will points out. "Or is this more of a professional curiosity, Doctor?"
"I have always been curious about how you will react to stimuli set out for you to encounter," Hannibal says, voice pleasantly analytical, as if he is explaining the rules of a game or the life cycle of an aphid, rather than discussing casually the delight he derives from dissecting Will's mind and responses.
"However, what you are embarking on now is wholly different. In the past, you have acted on stimuli, and now, Will, see you are in the director's seat. You are setting up your own scenes, planning for yourself how they will play out. I sense a remarkable change in you - have sensed it since you stood before me and asked me to play along with your truly ludicrous plot to bait the Red Dragon. Oh yes," Hannibal breathes a soft laugh at Will's expression, "I suspected you had designs of your own, separate from our dear Jack and Alana's. I could smell it on you."
"Is there some kind of divination related to scent?" Will inquires sarcastically.
"Clairalience," Hannibal says, infuriatingly smug.
"Of course there's a word for it and of course you know it."
"Yes," Hannibal sighs, "but that's hardly what I meant. I merely meant that it was evident something had changed in you, to make you suddenly so possessed of a singular determination to fly in the face of rationality." Hannibal stares across at him, garnet eyes flashing. "What changed for you, Will?"
How is he supposed to answer that? Hannibal already knows that Will couldn't go back to his little pre-made family again - he had known that would be the best possible outcome when he gave Dolarhyde Will's home address. How is Will supposed to explain how it felt to leave Hannibal for what he'd thought would be the final time? How he walked out the front doors of the hospital glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, then regretting the empty space where he could have sworn someone was standing?
He couldn't go home, he couldn't stay, and there was nowhere to go and nothing left to do. How is he supposed to say that he'd stood on the sidewalk, suddenly unable to take a deep enough breath, and regretted not leaving with Hannibal years ago when he'd had the chance, knowing it was too late now, that all his chances had been spent long ago? How to tell how his heart had stuttered, how he had known he could not survive leaving one more time?
All the times he'd turned Hannibal away, each one harder than the last. How can he say what he can scarcely allow himself to feel? And then the Red Dragon had come back from the dead, and an opportunity had presented itself. He can't say all that.
So he just says, "It was too good a chance to pass up," and spares Hannibal a quick glance before returning to his plate. Hannibal is contemplative for a moment more, then from the corner of his eye Will sees him smile. They eat in companionable silence for the rest of the meal.
They wait for five days. It feels almost excruciating, but Will supposes that five days is not actually a very long recovery period, considering what they've been through. His body feels like it is healing at an accelerated rate, and by the morning of the fifth day he is ready.
He wakes up knowing it is finally time, and opens his eyes to see Hannibal, laying on his side on the opposite bunk and gazing back with an expression Will knows must mirror his own. He wonders briefly if the determination he woke up feeling was even his own, and then decides it hardly matters, because even if it didn't originate in him it is his now.
They spend the day like caged lions, pensive with anticipation. By the time the sun sets, Will feels close to panting. They leave the dock once it's dark, and flag down a cab. It's a Friday, and the streets are beginning to crowd. Will recites the address for their driver, and they move swiftly through the city.
As he'd expected, Ingram's condo is empty when they arrive. It's ten pm on a Friday night; he's probably out somewhere murdering some girl. And covering his tracks better, Will thinks bitterly, can't have anyone getting as close as they did the last time. It's easy to get inside - Hannibal picks the lock in a matter of seconds - and Will is happy to wait a little longer.
Clark Ingram certainly doesn't seem to sense anything amiss when he walks through the front door, throwing his jacket onto an arm chair as he walks through the living room and towards the kitchen. He's home later than Will had expected; it's almost two am.
When he flips on the light, Will is leaning against the kitchen island, looking right at him. Ingram's eyes widen as he recognizes Will, and Will can't help but smile.
"Hello, Mr. Ingram," Will greets, pushing himself fully upright and taking a step towards the terrified social worker. "I read about your acquittal. What a relief that must have been."
Ingram moves suddenly, darting towards the right, in the general direction of the front door, only to collide with Hannibal, whose right arm shoots out quickly to thrust the blade he's holding up and into the soft place below Ingram's right arm. Ingram draws in a breath to howl in pain, but Hannibal clamps a heavy hand over his mouth before sound can escape him, and wrenches him around to face Will again.
Will's heart is thudding, steady but calamitously loud. Ingram's eyes are wild, knowing, and Will feels like he's falling off the cliff again, all the air rushing out of him as he steps into the inevitable. There is a shivering energy building in his limbs, but his hand is steady when he lifts it and presses the knife he picked from the block on the counter firmly into Ingram's throat.
He draws a dark line from one corner of the jaw to the other, hearing the flesh rend like wet fabric being torn, and the wound gapes back at him like a grin. There's a gurgling sound coming from Ingram's throat. Hannibal's hand pulls back against his mouth, forcing Ingram's head back further, further. Ingram's body jolts, jerking frantic in Hannibal's merciless arms and showering Will in a hot fountain of blood.
Knowledge pours, drop by drop, into Will's heart, by the awful grace of God, pours and overwhelms the vessel of his mind. And I gave my heart to know wisdom, he thinks, mind racing, eyes wide. Will heaves, pitching forward to grip onto Ingram's collar. The fountain is beginning to taper, though an unexpectedly strong heartbeat sends a final jet of blood over his face. He can't think straight, senses flooding.
He locks eyes with Hannibal as the shudders begin to course through him, and his breath turns ragged, the dying man grasped tight between them as his life bleeds out in burning bursts and Hannibal's hand catches whatever final pleas he utters. Will can feel the body going slack against him, supported only by their gripping hands. He feels the moment running through and over him, like water overflowing a cistern, and he is lost in elation, in Hannibal's thirsty red gaze.
Will clutches at the corpse he has made, breathing so hard he feels himself begin to hyperventilate. He forces his eyes closed, unable to speak his distress in anything beyond a moan.
"Stay with me, Will," Hannibal's voice echoes through him, and between them Ingram's body drops to the floor as Hannibal lets him go. Will is too lost in the shattering sensation coursing through him to notice. He opens his eyes at the touch of Hannibal's fingers on his jaw. "Stay here, in this moment, don't hide from what you're feeling right now. Don't go inside."
Will tries to open himself to this moment fully, but he's breathing so hard he thinks he may swoon. It's too much, frightening in its intensity, maybe because it comes so soon after Dolarhyde, kill stacking on kill, or maybe because it is something he has thought of so often without ever admitting, an unfinished deed that hung over all those innocent moments with Molly.
Will puts a hand on Hannibal's forearm, gripping hard to keep himself upright. The room tilts, and Will bites his tongue to keep from screaming in fear and ecstasy. And then Hannibal's left hand slides into the hair at the back of his neck and tugs, hard enough to ground Will in the pain and pressure, and it's bearable, if just barely. He hisses, turning his attention to the pain and feeling the room steady beneath him again. Will holds his breath, head wrenched back by the hand in his hair, letting the shudders that wrack his body pass.
He can feel something unfurling within, and the sensation climbs through him, spreads throughout his nerves and blood and bones. When he can open his eyes again, Will sees only Hannibal, blurred by a sheen of tears that refuse to fall.
The transformation had begun as his becoming began to take form.
The End of Episode One