Work Text:
Will had been the one who usually got the mail. It was a long trek down to where the very private driveway met the road, but Will had always been out and about on the property and hadn’t minded the walk. (there were so many little things about him that she still missed.)
Molly minded the walk, especially in the snow. The mail often hadn’t run by the time she came back from town, so she’d developed a habit of driving down to the mailbox after dinner.
It was nearly dark by the time she drove down that night. She pulled out into the road and turned the car around, pointing it nose first into the driveway, before putting it park and getting out to walk across the road to the mailbox.
After collecting the mail, she got back in the car.
“Hello, Molly.”
She startled so badly that the envelopes in her hand went flying (even so, she knew that voice).
Will was in the backseat behind her. Will was leaning forward, his head even with hers (his body somehow uncomfortably close) as he reached around her and removed the keys from the ignition, holding them between his fingers as he moved away.
Molly slowly turned around to look at him. It was Will, right in front of her, but a Will she didn’t recognize. (he’d said he’d be different at the end of this, but she had never dreamed she could lose him like this, to this.)
It had been months. Months since Francis Dolarhyde’s body was discovered, months since Will and Hannibal bled out and went over a cliff. There had been no bodies, no evidence either way as to their fate. Jack Crawford (the bastard who’d dragged Will back, she could be angry at him now), had been regretful and official the few times she’d spoken to him, but hadn’t offered any opinions on whether Will was dead or alive. The media, on the other hand, had been rife with speculation. Everything at the scene pointed to death, and yet—death was almost too neat.
The days when she doubted everything she thought she knew, she felt like a traitor to Will. The days when she thought him dead were sad, but better. But sometimes the not knowing drove her mad.
Now, when it seemed like the most implausible possibility was the one that had occurred (how could he be alive and not come back? how could he leave with that man of his own free will? how could he be this?), she wondered if ignorance was bliss.
Will watched her work all of this out, and as he did so, he slid over so that he sat behind the passenger seat (the furthest point from her in the car, like he meant to put her at ease).
He looked different. She glimpsed a new scar on his face, but it was hard get a good look in the fading light. More than that, he looked… silent. Like all the thoughts that kept him spinning had finally stilled.
Molly swallowed. “I guess this means Freddie Lounds was right.”
“So it seems.” His voice was hollow of the man she knew. (she could get out of the car. but so could he, and Walter was in the house.)
“Why did you come here?”
Will took a slow breath, not looking at her. “You deserved more than our last conversation.”
Molly suddenly wanted to scream at him (yes, I deserved more! we deserved more! we deserved what we had before Jack Crawford and Hannibal Lecter took you away!), but she didn’t.
What she said was, “We were happy. We could have been happy.”
For a long moment, Will didn’t speak. Then he said, “The door to my life closed with a resounding slam, bolts firmly sliding into place. I lost the keys to that door in the depths of the ocean.”
“And now?”
His eyes meet hers, and they seemed nearly black. “I’ve unlocked something else.”
Molly had no reply to that (how could she even find one?). “What’s left to say, then?”
Will brought his hands together, slowly, like he was physically collecting the words he wanted. “I would… preserve something. You were the only person in my life that Hannibal didn’t alter.”
“He tried to kill me,” she said, rage building up behind her words. “He—”
“Yes,” Will said, cutting her off. “Because of me, not you.” A pause. “I had dreams where I killed you, over and over. That was him poisoning you for me. If I’d stayed, maybe it would have happened, but now there’s no need.”
Molly felt incredulous, even insolent (talking about killing her like it was a theoretical exercise). “Well, I guess you’ll be back when there is a need.”
“No,” Will said, and the finality of it gave her pause. “You’ll remain as you are. It’s true you were touched by Hannibal’s hand. But you never spoke to him, never dealt with him, never experienced his brand of cruelty. You never met him.” He leaned forward slightly, this version of Will, new but no less earnest than the one she had known. “And you never will. You or Walter. That’s a promise.”
Molly swallowed (she was irrelevant to Hannibal now, or was perhaps a courtesy from him to Will). “A promise from you or from him?”
“Both.” Will gave a little half-laugh, and looked almost amused as he said, “We’ve blurred.”
She didn’t know whether to feel horror or sadness (what she suddenly didn’t feel, at all, strangely, was fear). “And what’s your brand of cruelty?” It was wrong, but she asked the question anyway.
The barest hint of a cold smile darted across his features as he straightened in the seat once more. “It’s a work in progress.” It was like she was looking at a mirrored version of him, someone she had never known was even there. “Something I finely hone against a more experienced blade.”
“A blade that sharpens you to its liking.”
Will looked almost fond. “He tries. But my design is not his. It’s enough that I have one, and that at times we converge.”
“How could you go with him?” she couldn’t help but ask. “You told me what he did to you.”
“Yes. But I never told you what I did to him. It was an equal dance, in the end.” Then Will reached into the pocket of his jacket (his very nice jacket, like nothing she had ever seen him wear) and pulled out a fat envelope. He held it out to her.
After a moment, she took it, holding it uncertainly in her hand. “You know, with what you’re telling me, or not telling me, I’m not sure I want to open this.” (strange how easy it was to fall back to teasing, even now.)
Will actually laughed. “It’s cash.”
Molly pulled up the flap of the envelope, and saw that it was. “I don’t want your money.”
“It’s for the dogs. They’re expensive to take care of by yourself.” Will suddenly looked so much like his old self that her heart hurt. “Please, don’t get rid of them because of me.”
She hadn’t intended to get rid of the dogs, though she had wondered how she was supposed to manage. “The dogs are the only real part of you I have left,” she said plainly, putting the envelope in her purse. (she could use the money for anything—for her, for Walter—but she wouldn’t, because they were as much her dogs as Will’s, and she loved them all.)
“No one knows if you’re dead or alive,” Molly said in the silence that followed.
“Sometimes I feel like the ghost of Will Graham. It’s freeing: never a need to be social. (a familiar grimace at the mention of being social). Hannibal is social enough for both of us.”
“Is he here?” She had to know.
“No. But he knows I am.” After a pause, Will reached out to touch her face, just once. (even now, there was nothing in Will that wanted to harm her, but there was nothing left of Will that was hers). He dropped the car keys back in her hand. “You won’t see me again. This is our goodbye.”
With that, he opened the door and got out.
Molly watched him go. Will was a lone figure pulling up his long coat against the snow, slowly getting smaller as he walked along the road that connected to the highway.
Will had given her a clean break, an end to the questions that sometimes spun into nightmares. (was it over? were they safe? or would she one day find Hannibal Lecter at her door?)
It occurred to her that she should call the police, the FBI (anyone, everyone) and tell them that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter had survived and were at large. Her younger self would have said that she had a duty to report what she knew. But now, Molly could only think about keeping herself and her son safe, no matter what the cost.
Despite the assurances Will offered, she recognized that they were only good (that Hannibal’s in particular were only good) as long as her involvement with the two of them ended here, as long as she did nothing but accept Will’s farewell.
She knew that if Will never returned from calling on her, she would find herself entertaining a different visitor altogether.