Chapter Text
I lived alone but I was only
Coming back to you.
-- Coming back to you / Leonard Cohen
At last Will’s life had slipped into a daily grind, a self-imposed humdrum that would come natural to most. Jack still pestered him about cases occasionally, and every so often a blood-drenched dream bathed him in sweat, but most days he now spent in his own mind. Anarchy always lurked there regardless of his dormant empathy. Lingering traces of mad minds had an uncanny tendency to seep into his thoughts at random.
These days only one of Jack’s monsters dominated his thoughts, chasing other violent interferences to the periphery.
This Saturday morning, Will was braving lesser demons. Pushing back against gusts of wind and rain, he made his daily trip to his mailbox, ignoring the fact that he seldom got any mail to speak of. Regularity and exercise were key, according to his former physical therapist. Will still meekly followed his advice, even though months had passed and sometimes his surgical scar still throbbed.
He knew only too well his alternative. His exercises, his monthly check-ups at the hospital and his trips into civilization; he could give it all up in a heartbeat and slip through the cracks of society. If not for that persistent seed of unfulfillment that festered within him, he might have done so months ago.
But instead, he kept going. And he kept waiting.
Not for the first time he tortured himself by wondering if Hannibal spared him a thought on days like these. A November storm was brewing over the Patapsco river and the first ominous clouds had ventured landward to Wolf Trap. His scar, as good a weather forecast as any, stung something fierce as a result. As a former surgeon, Hannibal must be aware of this phenomenon. He had enjoyed leaving his signature on his victims, multi-layered puzzles for work-weary coroners. Perhaps the notion of having left a ruthless memento on Will, his very own permanent mark, would please him in a similar way.
The rain intensified. Unconsciously, Will balled his hands into fists. Once he reached his mailbox, he flexed his stiff fingers and pulled it open.
Shaking his head, he tried to shrug off the futile intensity of his thoughts. More probable was a scenario in which Hannibal had flawlessly blended in with the upper crust of some Southern European country, distracted by its rich history and his new acquaintances, and entirely oblivious of Wolf Trap's local weather conditions.
Will sighed. He had told Hannibal that he found him interesting, knowing perfectly well how inadequately the word described the extent of his “interest”. Hannibal had made him thrive with dark potential—he wouldn’t dismiss that uneasy truth anymore—then thrown and trampled him.
And now he threw Will again.
On top of a stack of advertisements in his mailbox sat an envelope that would have been inconspicuous if not for the old-world flamboyance of the handwritten address. He should hardly be surprised, knowing better than anyone never to exclude the boldest possibilities when it came to Hannibal. But at the sight of his name, Hannibal’s existence suddenly became so palpable that adrenaline surged. Sharply sucking in cold air, Will had to grasp the mailbox post for balance.
For several moments he stood there, waiting for his frenzied nerves to process the stimulant overdose and his wobbly legs to hold their own. Rain swept over him, soaking his curls flat against his skull and leaking into his eyes. He squinted at the envelope until the letters began to swim.
Winston, who had followed him outside, wagged his wet tail against his leg until he jerked. Wind had gotten hold of his scarf. Its chilly fingers wormed their way into his coat and underneath his sweater, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He plucked the tail of his scarf from the air and wiped it roughly across his wet face before wrapping it around his neck again. Then he gripped the shutter of the mailbox, ready to slam it closed.
Midway, his hand faltered.
“Goddammit!” He smashed his fist into the side of the mailbox.
The sense of futility that had started to gnaw at him when he’d lain bedridden in the hospital had grown into a sharp-toothed monster over the months, crippling his progress, whatever that might entail at this point. Winter was creeping up on Wolf Trap now. The days grew shorter and drearier, and with them Will’s inability to suppress his exasperation, a stealthy trespasser in his thoughts that whispered promises of a life consigned to oblivion.
If a feeling more debilitating than worthlessness existed, it presently eluded him.
He might as well face it. He was trapped. Consequently, justice didn’t seem as crucial anymore as it had when his sutures were still fresh.
And so he did not slam his mailbox shut. He did not call Jack and retreat into his house to lie low on the couch with a pile of dogs on top of him, waiting for the FBI to deal with the Chesapeake Ripper. With an eagerness that frightened him, he raked his mail into his arm.
***
Of course Hannibal had not sent him something as grotesque as a Get well soon! card. He may have leisurely tipped Will’s world off balance again, but he’d done so courteously. He requested the pleasure of Will’s company for canapés and dinner this upcoming Friday night. All guests were expected at 6.30 PM.
If he had ulterior motives, they didn't transfer onto the perfectly crisp dinner invitation that was every bit as offensively ordinary, except that there was no telephone number and the Baltimore address was unfamiliar. That was hardly remarkable. Hannibal’s old house had been overrun by the FBI and was likely still under surveillance.
“Just like old times, huh?” Will muttered, turning the card over and scrutinizing the blank back as if he expected a message to magically appear there. Bring your own knife.
So when he had just the other day waved away Alana’s concerns that he was making Wolf Trap into a voluntary prison, Hannibal had resumed throwing lavish dinner parties right under the FBI’s noses. If he had ever even stopped.
***
For the rest of the week, Will ran errands. Alana would be proud; he left his house. He went grocery shopping. He dutifully went through his daily series of exercises to keep his abdominal muscles strong. He walked the dogs until his breathing became labored and his shirt started to irritate his scar. He stuck to going to bed around midnight and taking a shower each morning. Twice, he accidentally toweled himself dry too roughly, rubbing puckered scar tissue raw before shooting pain could warn him off.
On Wednesday evening, he carried a boat engine into the living room and dismantled it just to see if he still had a knack for it. He then mulled over the feasibility of tinkering with boat parts for a living. It wouldn’t give him purpose, but he’d settle for the small kindness of distraction. Besides, making a buck would help him refuse doing gigs for the FBI. Since there was no incentive to clean up his mess, he left the reassembled engine and his equipment scattered around the living room floor, removing only the sharp tools so that his dogs wouldn’t hurt themselves.
If possible, he felt more restless than he had in months.
***
Thursday evening, while sitting on the couch with a microwave meal, he gave Jack a call and learned that the FBI were following a meager lead into Hannibal’s whereabouts in Italy. Jack was frustrated: the investigation was slow going. Will hung up before the man could make ill-disguised demands and their conversation would turn stale. He didn’t mention the invitation.
He dropped his phone on the couch and stared at his cooling food, then stood abruptly and paced into the kitchen with the plate, dumping the remainders of his meal into the trash. Picking up on his shifting mood, his dogs kept their distance. But when he ripped open a bag of dog food too rashly and its contents spilled over the kitchen tiles, their resolve dissipated instantly and they came running.
In the ensuing chaos of dogs yapping, barking and chasing food, Will leaned back against the countertop. He took in the spectacle unfolding before him with unfocused eyes and sighed. Sins of omission. A better man, a sane man, wouldn’t have withheld this from Jack.
***
Friday came and almost went. The storm clouds had blown East during the day and the rain had slacked off. A watery sun appeared just long enough to go down behind the Western slope of forest, streaking the sky with tentative shades of red. Will, who had felt agitated all day, soaked in a bath until his fingertips and toes wrinkled. The cooling water sloshed around him when he finally clenched the sides of the tub and pushed himself up.
“I give up,” he said to himself, grimacing. “Baltimore. It’s just too risky. Even for a bastard with a God Complex.”
Cautiously toweling himself dry, he eyed his dog hair-covered sweatpants and sweaty shirt, then walked naked to the bedroom closet to hunt for relatively clean clothes. He somehow still managed to startle himself when his eyes fell on his most decent outfit: a grey shirt and a pair of navy pants that he saved for “special occasions”, like the first FBI class he had taught. And Beverly’s funeral.
He lifted the shirt off the hanger, ordering Winston, who followed him with single-minded devotion ever since he’d come out of the hospital, to stay back. Having lost muscle, he would likely drown in it, but it was miraculously free of dog hair.
“I might as well wear it to another funeral,” he told Winston wryly.
***
Chasing the retreating clouds, the wind had died down only hours ago, now a bare whisper in the quiet uptown Baltimore street that Will parked on, just out of sight of Hannibal’s new hiding place. Dusk had fallen quite suddenly and he flicked on the interior light to collect his coat and the bottle of wine he’d picked up on his way over. In the rear-view mirror, he caught sight of himself. His eyes were too bright.
He flicked off the light, cut the engine and sat in the dark for a while. His heart was beating with a strange excitement. This, he thought, was what living on borrowed time should feel like.
It was overgrown with ivy and surrounded by an impenetrable hedge of conifers, but otherwise Hannibal’s new house was as impressive as his old one. It rose into the darkening sky, lights gleaming invitingly behind its windows. Will shook his head. If this was not a mouse trap, then what made Hannibal think he wouldn’t turn up with the entire Baltimore FBI squad in tow?
Peculiarly, revenge wasn’t first and foremost on his mind. He didn’t have a clear concept of why he presently found himself on Hannibal’s porch other than a persistent longing for an escape from his monotonous life.
If Hannibal were to be caught by the FBI in a world that was at his feet, Will didn’t think he’d be imprisoned like him: completely, body and mind robbed of stimuli. No, he would persuade his surroundings into complying with his desires. And his memory palace would be a rich substitute for what his prison lacked.
But, Will knew, Hannibal could get lonely too.
Part of him still sought to appease the man: he rang the doorbell at 6.30 PM sharp. He didn’t know what to expect, couldn’t for the life of him imagine Hannibal disguised as a blue-collar worker. But he was still taken aback when it turned out that Hannibal hadn’t even bothered.
Though the place might have been different, Hannibal opened the front door in his all too familiar European splendor, his frame highlighted by the light from a chandelier in the hallway. He wore a steel blue pinstripe suit and vest, and a white shirt with a spread collar that accentuated the matching jacquard paisley tie and pocket square. A charming smile completed his look. It struck Will that Hannibal appeared dressed for a grand finale.
“Will! I was not sure you would accept my invitation. I’m glad you did. It's good to see you.”
“Dr. Lecter.”
Hannibal didn’t attempt to grasp his hand or touch him in any way. Will thought he probably looked too tense, perhaps even unsettled, for that. But his eyes were warm and traveled over Will with concern and appreciation, before sliding subtly past him to search the darkness of the street.
“I’m alone.” Will thrust the bottle he’d bought into Hannibal’s hands.
“Ah, Casillero del Diablo.” Hannibal returned his gaze to him, easily assured, and with some chagrin Will concluded that so far his behavior had been perfectly predictable. “This will go splendidly with the meatier canapés, thank you.”
“Yes well, I could hardly turn up empty-handed after you so kindly spared my life.”
Inadvertently invited, Hannibal’s eyes sought out Will’s belly, where only a thin layer of fabric hid the marring scar from its inflictor. Will’s abdomen clenched in response, instinctively fearing a repeat performance of intestines tumbling out and christening the polished marble of Hannibal’s hallway. But he didn’t feel the urge to stumble out of the door and into the camouflaging darkness.
Will smirked to himself. If he had not evolved, he must be broken beyond repair. Imposing and naturally domineering, the man who had gutted him stood before him, and he wasn’t seized by fear.
If anything, he was thrilled.
Whatever he was here for, it wasn’t nugatory inquiries into his health and empty apologies. He cut in before Hannibal could speak. “Aren’t you going to show me around?”
After a moment of silence, Hannibal said, “Of course. Let me shut out the cold behind you,” and carefully side-stepped him. Will thought that Hannibal possibly feared that he might still run off into the night. He had no such plans, but when the lock slotted into place with an audible click, the spacious hallway immediately felt cramped. The feeling of being entombed in a mausoleum of marble crept up on him.
From somewhere inside the house a woman laughed. That was right; they weren’t alone. Will shrugged out of his coat before Hannibal had a chance to offer assistance and wordlessly walked into the living room. Hannibal’s leather Oxfords clacked on the floor as he followed closely behind.
***
A heady scent of leather clung to the cognac-colored Barcelona chair in which Will sat. The entire house was obviously newly-furnished, but even the fire crackling cozily in the hearth and the soft-looking furs in front of it could not hide the sterile atmosphere, like that of a showroom. Hannibal’s touch, his historical objects and trophies, his European antique ware and paintings were sorely missing. Only a fraction of his former book collection had survived the abrupt move, and now claimed the far wall of the room.
Besides Will, a middle-aged couple that radiated nouveau riche, the Van Dykes, had been invited. The woman sat in a fuchsia-colored suit and a cloud of lilies and jasmine that, Will thought with malicious delight, must secretly drive Hannibal insane. Next to her on the sofa, her husband was telling Will all about the businesses he owned in a tone of voice that betrayed that he’d shared this monologue many times before. Will studied the man instead of listening. All his hair had seemingly migrated from his now bald head to gather like a savage forest around the cave of his mouth.
Hannibal’s choice of guests was the only apparent sign of his fall from grace. They must have something to answer for if they chose to mingle with a wanted fugitive, but Will dismissed the Van Dykes as small players. He felt ill-at-ease regardless, as if he were part of an orchestrated play in which everyone performed their roles with gusto and he was the only one without a script.
Hannibal reappeared from the kitchen with more food. He was serving a plethora of intricate-looking miniature dishes. As he displayed them on silver platters and tiered dishes on the coffee table, he demonstrated that living the life of an outlaw hadn’t affected his creative debauchery in the slightest. Will idly wondered if he indulged the Chesapeake Ripper still.
He had rationed himself to two glasses of wine. Taking small sips, he let the chit-chat wash over him. Hannibal didn’t attempt to involve him. He noticed that Hannibal, too, ate and drank sparingly. Mr. Van Dyke had them covered. He was raking in canapés as if fearing a great famine. Will zeroed in on the specks of wood-smoked ham that nested in his beard, and discovered a third one in his mustache. It took him a moment to become aware of Hannibal speaking directly to him.
“I’m afraid it’s not much compared to my former one, but I could show you my Casillero del Diablo later, if that would please you?”
Raising his voice, Will said, “I’m sure we’d all look forward to seeing the Cellar of the Devil with our own eyes.” His smile sat phony on his face.
“Oh dear! We would have loved to unravel another of Hannibal’s dirty little secrets,” Mrs. Van Dyke winked at Will. “But I’m afraid we’re not staying for dinner, are we, George?”
“Amalia is right.” George picked up what looked like a roasted bird’s foot and eyed it skeptically, then shrugged. Around the bones crackling in his mouth he said, “We are leaving for the airport at 5 AM tomorrow to visit our son, who is studying at the University of Oxford. If it were anyone but Dr. Lecter, we would have declined the invitation.”
Will’s inelegant “Oh” was met with a moment of silence in the formal extravagance of the room.
“And I’m glad you and your lovely wife decided to join us for drinks and some bites,” Hannibal cut in smoothly, standing up to refill wine glasses. He briefly placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. Will went still under his touch. His every nerve tingled with apprehension, or anticipation; he couldn’t tell. When Hannibal pulled away, the phantom heat of his hand stayed with Will. He fought the impulse to brush it off.
“Well,” Hannibal said, smiling down on Will, “it seems that you and I will enjoy a private dinner, Will. More wine?”
“Please.” He held out his glass, ration be damned. There was no doubt in his mind that Hannibal had handpicked his guests for this evening based solely on their inability to stay for dinner. He took a large swig.
Conversation returned to inconsequential topics. The Van Dykes soon appeared to forget Will’s presence altogether, drawn instead to Hannibal’s natural charm.
A final canapé, a miniature dessert, arrived. Save for the edible violets sprinkled on the plate, at first glance it was an unexpectedly modest-looking dish. A single white chocolate egg that Will thought he'd be able to buy at his local supermarket around Easter. Maybe shopping for exclusive ingredients proved complicated when your mug was plastered all over Baltimore and beyond.
Then Hannibal poured a hot redcurrant and boysenberry sauce on top of it and the ball slowly unfolded like a flower. White chocolate petals collapsed onto the plate, revealing the egg’s inner core: a colorful entremet. The Van Dykes showered Hannibal in compliments while Will stared at his plate. The sauce’s resemblance to fresh blood was striking. And gorgeous.
***
While Hannibal said his goodbyes to the Van Dykes at the front door, Will wandered to the bookcase against the far wall, marveling at the fact that considering his precarious position, Hannibal had managed to secure a decent section of his former collection. Will mentally browsed through Hannibal’s list of acquaintances and realized that, depressingly, even the most upstanding citizen could be lured into misguided loyalty under the man’s flattering ministrations, and turn into an accomplice.
He selected a book at random and thumbed through it, feigning interest while from the corner of his eye he closely watched the door for Hannibal’s return. The scent of old, yellowed paper wafted from the pages and, looking down, he saw that it was a poetry collection and quite possibly, because Hannibal was particular like that, an early edition. He skimmed back to the colophon to confirm his hunch.
“Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis. Or C.P. Cavafy, a Nineteenth century Alexandrian Greek poet,” Hannibal said behind him, too close. Will swiveled around, nearly dropping the book.
“Pardon. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He had taken off his suit jacket and stood before Will in all his casual glory. White shirt sleeves neatly rolled to show smooth, muscled arms, he held a glass of wine in each hand. “Dinner does not require much preparation. So I thought we would enjoy another glass of wine first and catch up.”
Of course you didn’t mean to startle me, Will thought, sneaking up on people just comes with the job. He accepted the glass with only the slightest tremor of his fingers. To give himself something to do other than stare at Hannibal moodily, he turned a page, holding the book clumsily in one hand.
“Ah,” Hannibal said pleasantly, looking down at the pages spread in front of him. Closing what little distance there was between them, he slid a supportive hand under the book’s spine, only barely avoiding touching Will’s fingers.
“Alas, I have yet to discover a translation that does the original justice. If only Melville, who translated Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’ with spectacular freshness, would try his luck at Cavafy. But even inadequately translated, this poem is nevertheless one of his best-known works.”
Oblivious to Will’s discomfort, or uncaring, he began reciting the second verse, his voice dipping a fraction.
“You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.
This city will always pursue you. You will walk
the same streets, grow old in the same neighborhoods,
will turn gray in these same houses.
You will always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere:
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you’ve destroyed it everywhere else in the world.”
When he finished, it seemed that the air was heavy with foreboding, with the faint scent of Hannibal’s expensive aftershave mingled with woodsmoke and the hint of alcohol on his breath. Will parted his lips to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose, unprepared for the assault of Hannibal’s close proximity on his senses. Unprepared to linger on how deceptively good the man smelled.
Hannibal looked at him sideways, quirking an eyebrow.
“He didn’t seem like the most optimistic fellow.” Will closed the book and brusquely shoved it back into the bookcase.
“The beauty of poetry is that apart from its prosaic ostensible meaning, you can distill your own preferred meaning from its language. This poem, for example, you may treat as a gloomy story for a rainy day, or a warning to be content with what life offers. Possibly it holds the advice that you must cease resisting fate and open your eyes, or suffer the consequences.” Hannibal regarded him for a moment, then said: “Shall we sit by the fire?”
Will followed him back to their chairs, frowning at his words, while Hannibal continued to tell him, conversationally, that most of Cavafy’s nameless heroes had nothing to look forward to and everything to look back on, and that regret was the recurring theme in his work.
As they took their respective seats opposite each other, the sofa now blissfully empty, Will was reminded of the familiarity of their positions. Another place in time, another world. He let his eyes travel over the leftover canapés on the coffee table and wondered what Hannibal would bring to the table tonight.
“You may have my copy if you’re interested?”
“Hm? No, thanks.”
Hannibal lifted his glass and said, unsmiling, “To new beginnings?”
“To endings gone awry.”
Hannibal parted his lips, a hint of wistfulness, of pensiveness in his eyes. Then he merely inclined his head, slowly swirled the wine in his glass, inhaled, and took a heedful sip. They sat like that for a few moments, sipping wine and watching each other over the rim of their glasses.
Will glanced around. “Nice place,” he said nonchalantly.
“Thank you. It leaves something to be desired, but I suppose that for a holiday home it is quite sufficiently equipped.”
“You own it, then?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
He decided against asking if it was the Van Dykes’. Knowing would serve no purpose. In socializing by Hannibal’s fireplace he had already crossed a moral border into some strange, unknown land. If he came to regret his adventure and find his way back, he’d better have a damn convincing story ready to feed the civilized world.
He considered this, pondering that it may already be too late—he had been painfully disloyal to Jack—and found that loneliness had kneaded him into an opportunist: right now he didn’t give a damn.
They had lapsed into silence. Hannibal appeared content just to watch him. Softened by the glow of the fire, the left side of his face radiated calm, astute confidence. Shadows were cast on the other half, giving a cruel edge to his features. Will found it difficult to broach the harsh topics that smoldered inside him without divulging that these days, he felt the same as Hannibal now appeared, split into man and beast.
He turned his head to stare at the flames licking at Juniper logs and spiced pine cones. The soft popping sounds and fragrances evoked associations of holiday cheer. In combination with the classical notes playing somewhere in the background, the scent contributed to that companionable atmosphere that he had once enjoyed and now realized was likely carefully construed to have that very effect.
“This piece is called ‘Arrival of the Birds’ by The Cinematic Orchestra,” Hannibal remarked, to some extent following his train of thought.
“It’s a little upbeat for you.”
Hannibal smiled. “You think I have atrociously old-fashioned taste in music, but this piece is in fact much younger than you are. I find that it beautifully conveys that feeling of subtle hope swelling into significant promise.”
Will unconsciously placed a hand over his abdomen, catching himself as soon as warmth started seeping through the fabric and into his scar. He casually moved his hand to smooth his shirt instead.
“How does it make you feel?” Hannibal asked.
Marked as yours. Will shifted in his chair, wetting his lips. “If your choice in music matches your current mood: wary. I’ve learned that our interests rarely align.” Meeting Hannibal’s gaze, he continued, “Is my being alive promising to you, Doctor, or rather…the prospect of rectifying your mistake?”
“You becoming collateral damage was never my design.” There was a hint of regret in his voice. “However, you must be favorably disposed toward me, because I don’t think it’s fear that made you come.”
“Fear?” Will huffed out an unbelieving laugh. It sounded bitter to his own ears. “No, no it’s not that.”
“Post traumatic stress disorder can be a debilitating and chronic condition. It’s not unusual for a sufferer to either avoid triggering situations altogether or face them by means of a last resort. But I’d argue that PTSD is a rare occurrence in predators.”
Will stared back at him. Randall Tier was on both their minds.
Hannibal leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You came here because you want something. What is it that you want?” He tilted his head, the barest hint of mischief in his expression. “And how may I be of service?”
“Revenge?”
Will had counted on his intentions to slot into place upon seeing Hannibal, presenting themselves as a neatly gift-wrapped clear-cut plan. But here he sat, not unlike a puppy dog that waited for his master to feed him a cookie. It wouldn’t do.
Hannibal certainly seemed to suspect that he had a card up his sleeve. “You have become quite adept at setting parameters and measuring variables. I don’t underestimate you. So don't do me the discourtesy of beating around the bush.”
“Oh yes, I set parameters, measured variables and even planted a bunch of booby traps,” Will scoffed. “But in the end, you won all the same. Everyone is so confident that you fled the country. Hell, you even fooled me. Yet here you are, in the lion’s den, enjoying your food and your wine and your parties. But I can’t help but wonder…” he looked sharply at Hannibal, who remained expressionless save for a flicker of expectancy in his eyes. “Is you being here in Baltimore a result of reckless arrogance or brilliant strategism?”
“Perhaps a little bit of both. However, there’s a third possibility that you didn’t take into account.”
“And which one is that?”
“That I never won.” He didn’t elaborate, but his voice turned thoughtful. “I had anticipated it being difficult to persuade you into booking a flight to Europe to have dinner with me there. Hence,” he gestured at the room, “I took a calculated risk of exposure. I’m inclined to believe that may not have been necessary. You would have come for me, regardless of the distance.” Softly, he asked, “What has changed?”
Will thought that he knew what it felt like to be exposed, his social veneer already peeled off by Hannibal’s menacing skill, the revealed dark matter beneath his exterior tugged at and played like the strings of a violin. But now frustration gave way to something more potent: rage.
Jaw set, he glared at Hannibal. He wouldn’t have told a soul and no one would’ve been able to stop him. He’d have boarded that flight to follow Hannibal to the corners of the Earth.
And for that alone, he suddenly longed to pound his fist into that composed face, over and over again until he drew blood, snot and spit. Above all, though, he wanted to evoke a raw, real reaction. He wanted to grab Hannibal by his flashy silk tie, choke him, and devour his agony with his mouth to punish him for the unhinged, yearning creature that he had cultivated.
Will blinked. His eyes fell upon his hands, which were tightly gripping the chair. Breath coming in shallow puffs, he pried loose his fingers. His nails had left half moons in the leather. He was not ready to meet Hannibal’s gaze. Instead, he stared at the coffee table with unfocused eyes. In his mind he tried to sense the telltale trail of some past serial killer infiltrating his thoughts and staining them with violence. He found none. Even Hobbs had slunk into the shadows.
He could blame Hannibal for pulling his strings in merciless curiosity, and nearly destroying his mind in the process. But these last few strands of normalcy and decency, he was unraveling all by himself.
“So.” Jerking forward he grabbed his empty glass just to have something to hold onto and look at. “It’s safe to say that everything has changed. You and me included. The question is: where do we take it from here?”
“Frankly, the possibilities are endless, depending on our starting point. Do you miss me, Will?”
His eyes snapped back to Hannibal, who was observing him with an intensity that made Will wonder how much of his inner turmoil he had detected.
The sensation of having bitten off more than he could chew washed over him. This was the man who had, for starters, stood by and watched in fascination as his brain was being deep-fried. He was not gambling with the FBI’s reputation tonight, but with his life.
No, he was therefore on the verge of biting out, when his breath hitched. What had rarely been present during their former therapy sessions, or at least not so shockingly undisguised, was the brazen tenderness in Hannibal’s eyes, far surpassing professional concern. In fact, Will could only recall one time when Hannibal had looked at him like that, dark eyes spilling over with genuine emotion.
Memories came rushing in and, heart rate climbing, his eyes instantly sought out Hannibal’s hands. His breath shuddered out of him when he found them empty.
“I…” The self-preserving lie was lodged in his throat. He placed his glass on the coffee table and rose jerkily from his chair, too fast, so that black dots danced behind his eyelids and he had to grasp the leather back for support.
His scar nagged with phantom pain. He really should just go grab his coat and leave.
“Forgive me if I made you uncomfortable,” Hannibal provided soothingly. He followed Will’s example and stood too, but slowly, with his palms stretched out in an open gesture. “Why don’t you follow me? I’ll show you my wine collection and you can help me pick out a bottle for dinner.”
***
Behind the scenes, the house was a carcass. Hannibal led him through lifeless hallways and past rows of closed oak doors, concealing what Will assumed were empty rooms. Just around a third corner was a small, shadowy staircase leading into the cellar. As they descended, the sound of Hannibal’s Oxfords reverberated against the brick walls, echoing back at them.
Only after Hannibal opened the steel door at the end of the stairs, flicked on the fluorescent lights, and allowed him with a nod to go first did Will breathe easily. In the cellar the air was cool and silent, the scent of cork overwhelming. He gave the neatly stacked wine collection that covered all three walls an uninterested once-over.
“I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed that you brought me here,” he said. “No one died here.”
“Always so difficult to impress.” There was a smile in Hannibal’s voice. “Must one be a hedonist with a fondness for grand gestures to be worthy of your attention?”
“I’ll treat that as the rhetorical question I'm sure it was.”
“Actually, it’s only ever been a rumor that a devil lived in the cellar. It says so on the bottle.”
“This must be the only place in this house that's appropriate for your inclinations. So my guess is that you’re either not acclimatized to your new life yet or that this really is just a holiday home. But after tonight, after having me here, you’re not planning on coming back.” Will narrowed his eyes. “Why is that?”
“It will have served its purpose.” Hannibal leaned toward the wine rack, closing his thumb and index finger around the neck of a bottle of Sake. He pulled it forward to analyze its label. As he did his lips formed a pensive pout that Will found himself staring at.
Dismissing the bottle for the next, Hannibal spoke softly, without looking up. “Why did you pick that bottle, Will? Were you merely trying to goad me or does it serve a purpose, too? Do you,” he shifted his maroon colored eyes to him, “wish to rekindle our relationship?”
“Who knows?” But Hannibal’s frankness had startled him and he scrambled for words, deciding on sarcasm. “Maybe I was trying to provoke you because I miss your unconventional love declarations.”
The atmosphere changed then.
Hannibal straightened, his eyes fixated on Will. In the shifting mood and the tomb-like silence of the cellar, Will’s mocking words echoed with a terrifying authenticity. He would breathe them back and forcefully swallow them down if he could.
Attuned to Hannibal’s every movement, Will caught the twitch of muscle, the moment Hannibal decided against closing the distance and simply looked at him.
“Your death would have been unbearable.”
Will sucked in a breath. Every cell in his body thrilled into action. His old self urged him to abort whatever his destructive mission entailed. He hesitated only a few frantic heartbeats before he took what felt like a leap into the abyss: “Then my answer to your earlier question is ‘yes’.”
For several long seconds his words hung heavy between them, interspersed only by the sound of Will’s breathing, loud and ragged to his own ears.
“Me too.”
Hannibal stayed at the periphery of Will’s space, but in the small room his presence was domineering all the same. These days Will’s eyes no longer fled from his stare, but it was hard not to look away now. Hannibal’s eyes were vivid and flared with something wild. And they were drinking him in, searching his face for affirmation, lingering on what Will knew were the tense lines of his mouth, before finally settling on his eyes.
“Will,” he said.
There it is, Will thought, and he laughed. Another teacup on the verge of being remade, or his to shatter beyond repair. And he sensed that Hannibal knew it too.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked, turning toward the door.