Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: When it's all over, there's intestines swirled on the cobblestones, and Will is suddenly appreciative of the fact that Hannibal gutted him on the ground floor.

Author's Notes: It's been a busy two weeks, but I finally have the next installment! Thank you so much to everyone who has been keeping up with the story and for the lovely comments encouraging me to continue. They really helped get me back into the habit of writing after my travel this week.

Enjoy!

Five

"They'll be looking for your car," Will says by way of a distraction. The quiet of the car is louder than the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Hannibal is prepared. Will doesn't know how, doesn't remember, the walk from Pazzi's house is a big, nauseating blur, but that just raises Hannibal's advantage exponentially. "I switched the plates," the doctor says, "That should buy us some time until we reach the border."

"We'll never make it out of the city."

"Still indulging in wishful thinking," Hannibal sighs.

Will defends himself, "Signora Pazzi's not dead." His wishful thinking has given him that at least.

Hannibal wastes no time disabusing him of his idealism, "No, but Inspector Pazzi is. I think it's time for you to embrace the reality of our situation."

"Your situation."

"Our situation."

"You manipulated me."

"I've manipulated you before. Why did you think I would do differently now, especially when threatened or cornered?"

"I didn't expect you to lie to me about the hospital."

"You're the FBI's finest profiler, and I'm an intelligent psychopath. Either one of us is lying about who we are, or you wanted to be manipulated."

"I didn't want to be manipulated," Will shudders from how sullen he sounds. And from the clawing pain in his back. He tries to adjust himself on the seat, but there's no position that doesn't strain his wound. "I wanted to bring you in."

"More wishful thinking."

"Evidently."

Hannibal hums - neutrally - reserving judgment for once. "How is your wound?"

"It's fine," Will says without his voice cracking. He suppresses the urge to move again, and, when he notices Hannibal looking, he deflects, "You're worried."

"You've lost a lot of blood."

"I lost a lot of blood on your kitchen floor."

"True, but I intended for you to lose a lot of blood then."

"So did Inspector Pazzi," and the thought prompts Will to ask. "Were you trying to kill me in Baltimore?"

The question has bothered him since waking up in the hospital. Disembowelment is a terrible way to die, as Will well knows, but he's also keenly aware of how wretched disembowelment is to survive.

Hannibal doesn't even have to consider his answer. He knew exactly what he was doing in Baltimore. "I was punishing you in Baltimore. My purpose was harm, as much as possible. Did I harm you sufficiently in Baltimore, Will?"

His bottom lip quivers. He doesn't mean for it to, tries to hide it by leaning his face against the window, but of course, Hannibal sees. Hannibal can probably hear the flap of his lip against the air. "How would you measure sufficient harm?" Will asks. "You committed so much harm that night."

"Comparatively, then: what hurt more? The cut to your gut-"

"Stop."

"-or the cut to Abigail's throat?"

Will tries not to see her lying there, blood geysering from her neck. Her hand fanning through the waves of red spilling over the floor. He tries not to think about the terror in her eyes when the blade first appeared.

He tries, but trying never was enough with Hannibal.

"She didn't know you were going to kill her."

"Neither do lambs brought to slaughter."

"Abigail wasn't a lamb."

"Does that make her death less cruel?"

"No," Will feels her fear fresh, new, like he's back there on the kitchen floor trying to hold the blood inside her body and his own. His eyelids flutter. The quiet of the car unnerves him. "No, that makes it crueller. You saved Abigail from her father only to take his place."

"I wasn't trying to kill Abigail."

Will forces himself to laugh without smiling. "Yes, you cut her neck to the bone just to harm."

"It harmed you," Hannibal looks at him.

The logic makes sense, at least for Hannibal, whose curiosity remains unsatisfied with absolutes. Killing Abigail meant he would never be able to exploit her suffering again, in the same way that killing Will would rob him of an equal.

Will breaks into a full-body shudder. Physically, he's too keyed up to sleep, but he can't bear to hold himself up in Hannibal's presence. "Did it harm you?"

Hannibal's nod is matter-of-fact. "Yes, though not as much as your betrayal."

Will is quiet for a long while after that. His breathing tells Hannibal that he's not asleep, merely avoiding further conversation. Talking about Abigail appears to have the same effect on Will as slitting her throat. Hannibal decides to keep that in mind.

He avoids the highways, keeping instead to the labyrinth of country roads weaving the Italian countryside. Moonlight illuminates the road just enough to see, but Hannibal is familiar with the area. Jack Crawford isn't. He doesn't dispose of human bodies as frequently as Hannibal.

"Where are we?"

Sleeps clings tightly to Will's voice. Between the darkness and the heat, his own weakness and exhaustion, he's starting to fade.

Hannibal dismisses the question – not because he doesn't want to answer, but because it is worth answering. Will is about to nod off, and they'll keep moving until Florence is a distant memory. "Go to sleep, Will," he urges.

Will grumbles and digs his fingers into his eyelids. "Where are we going?"

"I was going to ask you: north? West? East? We could make our way across all three, though I think for tonight, a quiet bed would serve our purposes."

Will shifts and winces in agreement. "You should get some rest," Hannibal reminds him. "You've lost blood, and I can't provide a transfusion."

"I don't want to sleep. Actually, I don't want to want to fall asleep. That's probably more accurate."

"Care to keep me company?"

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable in your company."

"I would not have stitched you up if I intended to take something out."

Will tosses his head, "Good point."

"Why the internal conflict about sleeping?"

"Minnesota."

Hannibal doesn't know what to make of the answer. He remembers several trips to Minnesota and can't be sure which one Will is referencing. Thankfully, the lad is cogent enough to explain, "You took me to Abigail's home in Minnesota: when I was a fugitive and you were the abetter. I slept most of the drive."

"You were exhausted," Hannibal doesn't see how this generates unease. "You had been arrested, processed, and interrogated; then transferred, escaped, and arrived at my office."

"With encephalitis," Will glares.

Hannibal ignores him. "Motion and heat are soothing. I fail to see your concern."

"I'm an insomniac. There's not a lot that guarantees my sleeping, but I barely remember getting into the car for that trip."

"Again," Hannibal notes, "not unusual for your physical state at the time."

Will sighs. His eye are closed, and his body has finally loosened to the point where his limbs no longer shudder. "I was starting to figure it out – in your office. What you are. Yet the second I got into a locked vehicle with you en route to an isolated area, I fell asleep."

"You slept nearly the whole way there."

"Yes. And now I know what you are, but I still desperately want to sleep. You just killed a man, and I'm comfortable sleeping in your presence. Probably more comfortable than outside of it…" Will winces from the tug in his back and on his heart. "I'm falling asleep because this feels safe."

Hannibal's smile is implied, "Fresh from a crime scene."

"Fresh from a crime scene," Will agrees, "I'm perfectly safe with you, right now, here, aren't I?"

"I'm glad you're with me, Will."

"That doesn't mean you're not out to cause more harm."

"No," and Hannibal would never promise otherwise. "But right now, here, yes, you are safe. From everyone."

Everyone except Hannibal Lecter.

And that thought cradles Will in the dark.

Happy reading!