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: Will has earned the right to kill Hannibal, especially after the good doctor goes grocery shopping.
Author's Notes: Readers, I am so, so sorry! I got caught up with a wedding, but now that I am happily married – and I don't have to worry about planning a fantastic party – I can devote myself to typical wifely things. Like penning fanfic and reminding my spouse about when Hannibal is set to return.
I have to thank everyone for their comments and reviews, for their kind support, for their reminders that this fic exists and people are reading it. Thank you! And now, please enjoy the next chapter!
Eight
The pendulum is already in motion: the man disappears from the bathtub, his accomplice vanishes from the floor, and Will lies on the bed, barely conscious.
The room is completely still.
A blade rattles in the lock. Will draws himself off the bed on shaking limbs, fighting nausea and dizziness. Help comes when two beefy hands wrap around his neck. That's when adrenaline surges, waking him up enough to fight himself free.
His memory – normally crystal clear – is hazy on the details. Will does remember taking a couple of hits from one of the men and fighting his way out of the other's grasp. He remembers grabbing the scalpel but not the decision to grab the scalpel. He didn't consciously make that decision, and further reflection reveals, horrifyingly, that it wasn't a decision after all. Killing Mason's men was a foregone conclusion the second they decided to break into the room.
"You assumed I would do it?"
The memory releases him. He stares into the ceiling of an unknown vehicle and is momentarily panicked at the thought that killing Mason's men was a dream. He was actually nabbed in the ensuing melee and has become captive to another psycho killer.
Will sits up, then hisses and lies back down. His movement, no matter how small, has pulled the trigger on the pain in his back. He breathes through the burning and takes his time to acclimate to consciousness. His senses gradually gather enough data to reassure him that he is still prisoner of the same psychopath. Hannibal Lecter is sitting next to him, driving to God-only-knows-where. Their vehicle is just luxurious enough that the doctor isn't entirely annoyed by its existence. The sun is shining (must be noonish), his head is pounding (from the drugs), and he's been redressed in comfortable clothes for travel.
His brain catches up with the conversation. "I assumed you would do what?"
"You were speaking about killing Mason's men and how it was a foregone conclusion," Hannibal replies. "Is that because you wanted to kill them or because you assumed that I would do it."
"You would have killed them."
"Of course I would. Which brings me back to my question: did you want to kill them, or did you want me to kill them?"
"I didn't want them to kill me."
"Is that all?"
"You want me to say that I didn't want them to kill you."
"I want you to tell me the truth."
And, as usual, Hannibal has beaten him to it, but Will still has to go through the motions of not-humouring him. The wound in his back demands it. The drugs demand it. The disorientation of falling asleep in Italy and then waking up on a long stretch of foreign highway, unable to translate the road signs when the chemical fog clears from his eyes: all that demands that he make Hannibal wait for satisfaction. The good doctor has to earn the truth.
"Why did you kill them?" the doctor wonders aloud. Again. When Will has been too quiet for too long.
Will plays coy. "You mean besides the fact that they were trying to kill me?"
"Yes, besides that."
"I need a better reason than that?"
"You killed Randall Tier because you knew that death was the only way to stop him, and – no doubt – out of retribution for your dog. These are thugs, Will. You could have incapacitated them. Better still, you could have sold me to them."
"I am not going to sell you to Mason Verger," Will is offended by the notion. Of course he wouldn't sell Hannibal to Mason Verger. "I'm not going to let his men kill you either."
"Why not? They would certainly make a good show of it. I'm sure Mason has something gratuitous planned."
"I'm not selling you to Mason Verger."
"As a matter of honour?"
"As a matter of personal retribution: Mason and his men haven't earned the right to kill you."
"And so, by definition, you have?"
"Yes. I think you owe me that much."
"The opportunity to end my life."
"Yes," the answer sounded better in his head. Will feels like justifying himself, even if the rest of the answer runs the risk of sounded just as childish. "I did give you the opportunity to end mine."
"You had to have known what I was going to do that night."
"I knew what you were going to do to me. I didn't think you could do that to her."
"And that's why you have the right to kill me? Abigail's murder?"
"That's part of it."
"What's the other part?"
"I haven't figured it out yet. It's not for me, I know that much."
The next few miles pass in silence. Will's back settles into a throb, and he risks adjusting his seat into a more vertical position. His head spins as he does though, and he has to settle for a better view of the dashboard. "Where are we?"
He doesn't actually think Hannibal will answer, and the good doctor does not disappoint. "Out of Italy. Uncle Jack far behind us."
It takes Will a moment to parse through the layers of Lecter-speak to figure out what he's really being told. "You don't have a plan, do you?"
"What makes you say that."
The lack of inflection in Hannibal's voice suggests that the doctor is not asking a question. He's playing with Will just as much as Will is playing with him. In the conversation, anyways. As a driver, Hannibal is playing with Will in all kinds of insidious ways.
"You're still just waiting to see how I go."
"You have one of the most compelling minds I've ever known, Will."
"So why all the secrecy? I'm disoriented. I'm at a loss for the language. You have all the advantages here, Hannibal."
Hannibal's smile fills the whole car yet barely registers on his face. "Disadvantage has only ever made you more compelling."
Will can't guarantee that: he nods off shortly after the conversation ends, and he does not wake up until the sun is low enough in the sky that evening is a more accurate term for the time of day.
He's alone in the car, parked at what looks to be a grocery store. Hannibal's acquiring provisions then, which is a good thing. Hunger and dehydration have tied his abdominals into a fierce knot. He hasn't eaten anything since yesterday. On the bright side, Hannibal seems to be purchasing food instead of hunting fresh game. The good doctor emerges with a bag of fresh ingredients in his arms.
He takes stock of his injuries. The bruising on his chest and arms from the fight in the warehouse has bloomed. His back is still bad. Not infected, at least not in the way that Hannibal's surgery intended to stop, but still. Will feels Lecter inside him like a poison. The good doctor has buried roots under his skin and grown into a great garden of wickedness.
The trunk opens. Hannibal speaks, followed by another man, both in a language Will can't place. He listens less to the words and more to the tone, but Hannibal's speaking with his usual, neutral tone and the man is brisk, a bit gruff.
Rude.
Will groans. He buries his face in his hands. Hears the soft thud of fist on flesh and feels the car dip from the weight. Tries to ignore the sound of restraints being drawn tight. The trunk door closes, and Hannibal heads to the driver's seat.
"I'm not eating that!" Will declares.
Hannibal checks the mirrors. No one has noticed the extra ingredient he's procured. "He, Will," the good doctor corrects him. "That's a he."
"I'm not eating him."
"No, I daresay you won't," Hannibal produces a bottle of orange juice and places it in the drink holder, along with something fresh from the bakery. Will can feel the heat of it against his leg. He accepts it, and the thought that he won't have to eat the man in the trunk.
Hannibal puts the car in drive and starts down the road again. He waits until Will has taken a bite before speaking again:
"I wouldn't want to eat him raw either."
Will damn near chokes, "God damn it, Hannibal."
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