The inside doorknob of the interrogation room is very well polished.
Hannibal had never really considered the differences between the two sides of the table before. From this side, he can see the door and the occasional dark shadow which crosses the frosted glass as the other officers bustle to and fro on the other side. He can also see all too clearly Jack's expression, softly sympathetic underneath his veneer of professionalism, not too severe but still visible circles sagging his eyes.
They tell him that they've confirmed his text as coming from Frederick Chilton's phone, and verified the prints on the knife from the same man's fingers. They inform him that they found copies of all of William Howle's drafts perfectly kept in his apartment including one that had only just come in, about a detective who gets stuck on the wrong suspect. It ends with the man's colleague bleeding out from his throat on a cold kitchen floor as he arrives just seconds too late.
They also assure Hannibal that his assumption was perfectly understandable, that Chilton was a murderer anyway and that no one could have guessed that he was only reaching at that time for a handkerchief. To try to close her neck, presumably, as Doctor Du Maurier had said in her assessment. To play himself off as a victim when he'd miscalculated just how quickly Hannibal would get to the third storey after his car pulled in, and had missed his chance to escape via the open window and easily accessible tree outside. She'd talked, apparently, of how he must have developed a strong obsession with Will Graham via his work through the years, a mixture of growing veneration and his personal anger for revenge colliding in his attempts to both frame the author using his own perfect tableaus and to be rid of his other privileged readers in jealousy.
And no one even hints at the possibility that the shot straight though the heart was anything but the easiest target and a lucky hit, suggests it could possibly have been an intent to kill. Everyone, in fact, is so cautious around his 'trauma' that they even gloss over the fact that he wasn't technically in the line of duty at the time. They're all oh so kind.
When his own questioning finishes, Hannibal stands without a word. Jack halts him with an unusual hand on his shoulder, then only manages to get out, "Get some rest." Hannibal nods, and leaves.
Alana is seated at her desk as he makes the short walk from one side of the station to the exit, no doubt already working on their next big case. She turns her head as he passes. He doesn't stop, and she doesn't greet, but their gazes wander and meet. She's a smart woman, really, a very good officer and the best of partners, Hannibal will acknowledge that with certainty. And so there's no pretence in that barest moment that they don't both know exactly where he's going.
He arrives at Will's house to find door already ajar, and steps inside to see the living room floor scattered with boxes in various stages of filling. One holds clothes, another books and a third crockery, the rest a jumble with no discernible categorisation. The man himself is crouched down in front of a low chest of drawers, emptying out the bottom ones. Hannibal clears his throat.
"You're leaving?"
Will stands, and turns to him slowly. "I heard what happened. I thought it might be best to move on."
"Where are you going?"
"Not sure yet."
Hannibal walks forward, weaving around the obstacles. He spots in one box, tangled up with a stack of loosely folded shirts, that leopard-print scarf. And in another he sees a clear case of tools, including one long Phillips head.
And it hits him suddenly that this is it. The end of the story, each of the pages now being pressed down and packed away as the book flips shut. The end of the case, the end of their tangled dance, and he still has no idea what it means. Yet, he has the marked feeling that someone has won.
So Hannibal steps up to Will Graham, former suspect and now official victim, and does the only thing he can think of to do. He kisses him.
It's different, this time.
They don't make it to the bedroom, clearing out a space by the short couch, the floor hard and the polished wood cool. They don't break for lubricant and Will lets Hannibal use saliva, hissing at the burn and gasping as he rides it out. It's not fast but it's hard, ardent, consuming.
And when it's over Hannibal lets Will curl against his side and slips one arm firmly around his narrow waist, sitting up against the side of the couch with the other man half on his lap. It's Will who speaks first, after a long while. His voice is a little muffled from where his mouth is pressed to Hannibal's collarbone.
"I finished my book."
Hannibal looks down at the tangle of curls beneath this nose, then back up. "Yes, I saw."
"Did you read the first version, then? What did you think?"
"Not all of it, forensics have had it." Then he pauses. "What do you mean, first version?"
"Oh, yes." Will lifts his head and shifts a little to look Hannibal in the eye. "I ended up rewriting it, changed the ending. Though I suppose I'll have to find another publisher now."
"The ending." Hannibal repeats, as his lips curl just a little. "What happens, then?"
And Will returns the smile freely. "The detective doesn't get the suspect wrong, he gets it completely right. And this time, they drive each other crazy."
He's looking at Hannibal very keenly, and something seems to settle over the room that could either be very cold or very hot. Because that line of Will's mouth is the one that Hannibal knows, the one that speaks of deadly chances and hunts that haven't quite ended yet. He doesn't move as Will pulls away and turns to lift something from a box.
"Here."
A manuscript is offered. Hannibal accepts it with a very long stare, and he knows that this is more than just an author's day job. He takes one breath, audibly, before turning to the end.
The survivor looks at him, her friend, the one who understood, and she wants to cry and scream but she can't. The knife she'd held herself only the previous night is now at her own neck, slicing just as easily as she'd cut that other man's throat. It'd all seemed so clear when he'd handed it to her with a smile and a whispered, "I need you to do something, for me?" and when she'd done it because she'd do anything and she'd already done it once, because something inside her is broken and never can be fixed. There's pain, but it's secondary, mostly she just feels the hot sluice of blood down her body as he says, "I'm sorry," and she knows he really means it.
The summoned man, the false doctor, widens his eyes in horror. His mouth opens, but her friend holds her up with one arm and pulls a gun with the other, gloved finger ready on the trigger.
"Don't scream," he says. "Take it." And holds out the knife.
The other man does, and then she's being pushed into a set of shocked arms as her friend disappears, off and away forever. She hears the heavy blade clatter to the ground as her head begins to spin, and her vision spots black. Consciousness slips away as footsteps sound, as it should be, and the survivor who shouldn't have survived dies knowing that, for someone at least, things went right.
The bulk-bought, home-printed pages feel very heavy in his hands as Hannibal slowly looks up. Three-hundred and seventy-eight of them, so the final footnote reads, and he can imagine each of them beautifully bound around their razor-sharp edges in scarlet leather.
"Everything," he says, softly, "all this time." And it's not a question.
Will isn't smiling anymore, and it's different. He's looking at Hannibal once more with that piercing gaze of his, the one that can see everything for what it is. The one that only Chilton recognised for just how deadly it could be.
Then he stands without speaking, and pads gently away. Hannibal follows, barely feeling the touch of the wood under his bare feet, as Will heads to the side of the room and opens the balcony doors. The air is cool over their naked skin as they step outside into the long, deserted stretch of yellow-blue shoreline.
"I didn't kill my mother."
Will's voice is quiet when he speaks, words wafting out to be swept up by the wind and carried away to be lost in the waves.
"She'd regretted leaving my father. Regretted a lot, for a long time. When she saw me again, she couldn't take it. There was nothing I could do." He whips around suddenly, eyes bright. "But then I wrote it out, and I changed it. I told you, didn't I, I can do anything as a writer. I can create a world where her death wasn't out of control, and a world where Abigail Hobbs can recover from something that breaks you forever."
And Hannibal realises, Will Graham isn't insane. In fact is mind is very, very clear, in a way that others will never comprehend. Hannibal's voice sounds hoarse to even his own ears when he replies. "And what was this, then, trying out a new style?"
He gets a small laugh, breathless. "Well that's the thing about writing the story, you don't get to be in it."
He lifts out a hand, and reaches towards Hannibal's chest. He doesn't move like he thinks Hannibal might flinch away, not even as Hannibal expects himself to do just that. But somehow he doesn't, and those deft fingers make contact, trialling from his collarbone down his pectoral.
"You don't get to see things as they happen," Will continues, close to a whisper. "You don't get to meet your characters, and appreciate what you've done with them." And then he begins to smile again, not impish or mischievous like before, but dark. "How did you like killing Chilton?" he breathes, words heavy in the air. "Was it as good as the others?"
And that darkness sings. Hannibal clenches his teeth as he feels something inside him rise to it, a part of himself he's tried to keep buried for so long. "I don't enjoy killing," he says, and it sounds rehearsed because it is, repeated countless times inside his own head.
Will laughs again. "I'm sure," he says, but then he lets the grim mirth slide away and his tone turn almost perplexed. "Except, actually I wasn't." There's a strange mix in his gaze, that looks very much like both disbelief and a kind of reverence. "That's the other thing, sometimes blood isn't as easy as ink. You were different, Hannibal, you were unexpected. You turned out to be interesting."
Will slips his hand around to Hannibal's back and steps forward, pressing their fronts together in one long warm touch. His other hand moves up to cup Hannibal's jaw, to stroke over his lips to his cheekbones, faces close enough that they're breathing the same breath. Their gazes are still locked, and it's more than just plain sight.
Hannibal looks, really looks, and he tries to imagine Will's world. Other lives so easy and small through the eyes of a man who understands everyone, nothing more or less than a canvas to paint and fold in his image. Creating meaning where there was only chaos, structure in the place of randomness. Beauty in slow but sure decay. He can feel it as Will parts his lips and whispers against his own, "Come with me."
A hunger roars in Hannibal mind, body still humming from the aftershocks of their pleasure, but it's one that he's gotten very good at beating down. "No."
Will closes the last hair's breadth to bring their lips together, then it's only the two of them cocooned in salty air above a world that's in their grasp, a promise carved out in sand. When he pulls back, it's only far enough to speak again.
"Liar."
fin.
.
Whew, and done! I actually had this entire thing written before I started posting (which admittedly took ages, I'm sorry my bad). I'm pretty proud of myself for getting out 21k in 13 days (although unedited). Call out again to my betas Mischa who helped whip my writing into shape, and Dana who sanity checked some truly baffling typos that had somehow made their way in and also was the bestest cheerleader :-D I don't usually use betas because I'm too impatient, but these guys were both very useful and really awesome in editing this writing storm.
This ended up being the plottiest thing I've written as well, which was a lot fun. I did take a lot of guidance from the Basic Instinct film though, which by the way is great and quite a bit more complex (as well as very sexy). I definitely recommend it, if mystery and manipulation is your thing :-)
This is also my first completed WIP. *sniff* My babies are growing up... any and all feedback will be very greatly appreciated and feedbackers enthusiastically glomped by the power of Hannigram and Sharon Stone's legs. Feel free to message, poke, and/or threaten to eat me over at my tumblr, and thank you very much for readin!