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Chapter Text

Please note that this is a prequel/sequel to The Impossible Winner https://archiveofourown.org/works/43989802; I would recommend you read this first, Thanks xxx

                                                                                                                     ~~~~~~V~~~~~~

Now

The Cabin

Chiyoh delicately traces her leather-clad fingertips over the charred walls of the cabin, “A house once touched by death can never again be owned by the living; It can only be borrowed from the ghosts that dwell within.” 

“Compelled by an insatiable longing, they wander the rooms in search of a glimpse of their former selves,” her dark eyes trail the movement of her fingers as they glide across the blackened wood, “Memories, however, have a propensity for distortion, akin to peering through rain-streaked windows.”

She turns to face the woman tied to the chair, “Unable to gain clarity, they remain shackled by their yearning.”

"Hannibal Lecter did not die here." 

The statement hangs in the air, an almost tangible presence. As if the mere mention of his name has summoned him, his power persisting even in death.

"But Will Graham did, Ms. Lounds," Chiyoh retorts with a slow smile, her gaze returning to the scorched walls.

"Where there's a Will, there's a Hannibal," Freddie smirks, tugging at her restrained wrists. "So, what’s this? A séance? Will you be conjuring the gruesome twosome to torture me from beyond the grave?"

Chiyoh shakes her head and sighs softly before turning to face her again. "Why were you leaving the country?" she asks, clasping her hands.

Freddie's eyes shimmer with disdain while she crafts a syrupy smile. "I'm turning 36 next week," she declares casually, "I thought I would treat myself to a little getaway."

 "Oh, Ms. Lounds,” a dry chuckle escapes her captor, “you won't see 36."

A sudden surge of unease washes over Freddie, churning her stomach and making her heart race. She forces her lips into a broader smile. "Well, isn’t that a shame?” she says with mock dismay, “And I've ordered a cake, too. Is there any chance of a rain check on the whole 'getting murdered' thing?"

"How typical of you, Ms Lounds, to not only want your cake but the ability to consume it too," Chiyoh remarks, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“What’s the point of having cake if you can’t eat it?” Freddie's smile widens even further, lending her an almost deranged appearance.

“So true.” Chiyoh nods with a thoughtful frown, “Being unable to relish the fruits of your labour is a tragedy. All that wasted effort and -”

"Listen,” Freddie snaps, cutting her off, “what’s this all about? Miss emm…I'm sorry, I never did catch your name."

"You know exactly who I am, Ms. Lounds," Chiyoh states bluntly. "No need to play coy now, wasting time and breath when you have so little of both left."

Freddie narrows her gaze and runs her tongue over her bottom lip, "While I do enjoy a bit of passive-aggressive banter with a threat of violence. I can’t help but wonder why I’m still alive."

“I want to tell you a story, Ms Lounds.”

Freddie grins, baring her teeth. "I do like stories."

 "I know you do," Chiyoh says as she approaches her. "However, before we begin, we must make some preparations." She briefly disappears behind Freddie to re-emerge, clutching an IV stand.

"To insert the intravenous drip, I will require access to the sleeve of your blouse, Ms Lounds," Chiyoh explains, placing the stand beside her. Freddie's meticulously crafted mask falters momentarily, betrayed only by the subtle widening of her eyes.

Chiyoh gazes down at her, her hands hovering above Freddie's arm. "May I?"

Freddie camouflages her mounting terror with a dismissive snort. "Sure, go ahead. It's not like I have a choice, now, does it?"

“There is always a choice, Ms Lounds.” Chiyoh replies, rolling up her sleeve, “In this case, the choice is whether you handle yourself with dignity or not.”

Freddie grapples with her growing panic as she watches her gloved fingers delicately handle the fabric of her blouse.

"Are our lives not merely a sequence of choices?" Chiyoh asks, her voice soothing and warm against Freddie's neck, creating a paradox that leaves her disoriented. "We are continuously on the brink of an entirely different life with each decision we make." She tenderly cradles her face, tilting it until their lips almost touch. "Ms. Lounds, do you regret any of your choices?"

Freddie meets her eyes defiantly, "No, I can't say I do."

Anger flashes briefly in Chiyoh’s eyes before she releases her and moves away, "You are nothing but a charlatan, devoid of any sense of shame or remorse," she states, retrieving a small leather bag.

“That way, my other senses are enhanced.” Freddie quips wryly as her heart pummels against her ribcage.

Chiyoh shakes her head as she removes a cotton bud and a bottle of clear liquid, “When one has no moral compass, one can justify anything.”

“I have my own moral compass.”

“And it has led you here, Ms Lounds.” Chiyoh's gaze pierces Freddie, sending a chilling sensation through her as if her body is being slowly drained of blood. She swallows deeply and tightens her grip on the cold metal arms of the chair, her nails digging into the hard surface.

Chiyoh swabs the inside of her arm before inserting the needle. “My intention, Ms Lounds, is to gradually administer a low dosage of an arsenic-based compound to you over the coming hours.”

Fear coils within Freddie, her mouth gaping open as she struggles to find her voice and regain her composure.

“I’m sure the irony is not lost on you,” Chiyoh says simply as she tapes the needle in place. “You, too, being a poison.”

“Dr Lecter would be so proud of you.” Freddie’s lips twist at the edges, forming a disdainful grimace.

“Yes, I imagine he would be,” Chiyoh says flatly, repositioning the IV stand.

Freddie's eyes fixate on the needle, and then, in a sudden frenzy, she starts frantically jerking her arm as if hoping to dislodge it somehow. Chiyoh calmly reaches out and places her hand on her arm, halting her movements.

Freddie takes a deep breath and summons her former brashness. She looks up at Chiyoh and smiles, “Just between us girls. What was the deal with you and Hannibal? Friends? Lovers? Svengali?”

Chiyoh observes her for a moment. “That is a very personal question, Ms Lounds.”

“I have offended you.” Freddie coos, her mouth curling into a smirk, “I do apologise.”

“You didn't offend me,“ she retorts coolly. "Offence suggests familiarity or respect. You have neither."

Freddie tightly purses her lips and narrows her eyes as Chiyoh tenderly brushes the hair away from her forehead. "Hannibal and I go beyond such classifications," she explains as she trails the back of her hand down her cheek. "However, if you need to assign a label, we are family."

“Shame,” Freddie jerks her head away, “a love triangle would’ve been a marketing dream.” 

Chiyoh straightens her back and frowns, "Oh, yes, your book."

“Though incest would work just as well.”

Chiyoh's eyes shimmer with fascination as she gazes down at her. “Oh my, Ms Lounds, you are an abhorrent creature, aren’t you?”

Freddie shrugs, “It’s all a matter of opinion.” 

“It's quite extraordinary the lengths we would go to protect those we consider family.” Chiyoh says, looking directly at her, “To avenge them. Wouldn’t you agree, Ms Lounds?”

“I can’t say I know.” Freddie sneers and then, with a derisive chuckle, “So you seek revenge, huh?”

“I seek balance, but revenge will do.”

“Some say revenge is sweet and best served cold, like ice cream.”

“Revenge is a confession of pain, Ms. Lounds,” Chiyoh states evenly, circling the chair to stand behind her.

Freddie resists the urge to follow her movements, fixing her eyes on the wall in front of her, “It is said that once you embark on revenge, you dig two graves, one for them and one for yourself.”

Chiyoh gently places her hands on her shoulders, her thumbs caressing her upper back. “I will indeed be digging two graves, but I assure you none will be mine, Ms Lounds.”

“Wow…so two graves and there’s me thinking I was special,” Freddie quips, her voice dripping with disdain, “The Bible says to leave revenge to the Lord. Save you a lot of hassle to outsource it.” 

Chiyoh's hands linger on her shoulders briefly before gliding up to massage her scalp. "He has proven to be an unreliable and inconsistent authority figure in dispensing justified punishments. Countless individuals have historically evaded consequences for their actions."

Freddie leans into her hands, seduced by the touch of her nimble fingers. “What about you? Will you be punished for your actions?”

Chiyoh gathers her rebellious curls between her hands, losing her fingers within the tangles. "I expect I will, but I still intend to follow through with them."

Abruptly, Chiyoh jerks her head back, triggering a piercing pain that races down her spine and hampers her breathing. The room seems to flicker, transforming into a hazy blur as tears well up in her eyes. “Love can bring out a level of ruthlessness that hatred could never achieve. Don’t you find Ms Lounds?”

Freddie squints up at her. Her voice, raspy and coarse, "I don't... I don't….I-"

“Some of the most brutal acts find their roots in love. To love deeply and to have it taken from you forcibly leaves a deep void that will devour you…unless you fill it something else.”

As their eyes meet, a silent understanding is exchanged. Freddie suddenly feels stripped bare under the scrutiny of those dark eyes. "Like revenge?" she whispers, the words heavy on her tongue. 

“Yes.”

Chiyoh releases her grip, and Freddie’s head slumps forward onto her chest. Tears fall from her face, forming damp stains upon her skirt. "Revenge doesn't offer the catharsis you think it will," she mutters, a bitter edge to her hushed tone.

“You speak from experience.” It was not a question.

Freddie remains silent, her eyes fixed on her lap.

Chiyoh strokes her hair, her voice soft, “I fear you may be right, yet here we are.”

“You know,” Freddie sneers, never taking her eyes off her lap. “Killing me will be no substitute for killing Will Graham.”

“Oh, Ms. Lounds, you know better than that,” she scolds as she retrieves a chair and positions herself facing her captive. “How disappointing to find you resorting to such simplistic manipulations.”

Freddie looks up and opens her mouth to speak, but Chiyoh raises her hand, silencing her. “You know exactly why this is happening to you. You not only understand and expect it, but you respect it.”

Freddie pulls at her restraints, causing the front legs of her chair to rise off the floor and then slam back down again.

Chiyoh tuts as she elegantly crosses her legs. “There is no point in trying to escape. You will die here, Fredrica Lounds.” She considers her for a moment. “However, there is a silver lining.”

Freddie's lip twitches, “Lucky me.”

Chiyoh leans back in the chair, “Before you expire, you will receive the only currency you covet.”

Freddie clenches her jaw, deliberately displaying self-restraint,  “And what would that be?”

“Information,” Chiyoh states.

“What sort of information?”

“Knowledge. Insight into the relationship of those you so tediously labelled the “ Murder Husbands.” A glimpse behind the veil. I will tell you a story about the boy who lost his heart only to find it in another.”

“You hope to evoke sympathy for the devil.”

“I seek to elicit understanding.”

Freddie rolls her eyes and snorts. "What's there to understand? A narcissistic sadist gets distracted by an unstable, pretty boy. Big whoop!” Leaning forward, her voice takes on an exaggerated conspiratorial hush, “Not gonna lie. It's kinda comforting to know that even someone like the Ripper can be brought down by a cute piece of ass. It almost makes him seem human." She cocks an eyebrow, her eyes flashing, “Almost.”

Chiyoh shakes her head, dismissing her words. With a wry smile, she gazes through the damaged roof to contemplate the stars, her voice adopting a dreamlike quality. "Once upon a time, an angel and a devil fell in love."

Freddie chuckles, “You think of Will Graham as an angel.”

“I do not,” Chiyoh says flatly, looking at her. “I once shared your lack of trust in Will Graham. I found him crude and undeserving of such devotion, perceiving him as a deceitful creature—a knife disguised as a kiss.”

“What changed your mind?”

Chiyoh’s eyes return to the stars, “A tin with faded flowers...” she murmurs. 

"A tin, " Freddie echoes, “Will's tin?”

Chiyoh ignores the question as she continues, “A realisation that it is easy to judge from a distance. Consider your subscribers, Ms Lounds, so-called experts at the dissection of gesture and syllable, sneering self-righteously from behind the safety of their screens. They feel good about themselves there, validated that their flaws aren't as bad as others, unchallenged in their superiority.” Chiyoh returns her attention to her captive, “The moral high ground is a pleasant place from which to preach, though the view is rather limited.”

Freddie narrows her eyes, a cocktail of anger and fear bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She grips the arms of the chair to steady her trembling hands.

“The problem with claiming the moral high ground is that when we lose our footing, we plummet from a considerable height. Only to end up mired in the same muck as those we once judged so harshly.”

“Aren’t you judging me ?”

Chiyoh shrugs, “Difficult to avoid, I’m afraid.”

“What a bunch of hypocritics. You, your brother, and his boy toy!”

“Ms Lounds-”

“Your so-called brother was a fucking monster.” Freddie snaps.

“Hannibal wasn’t born a monster,” Chiyoh replies slowly and deliberately, struggling to maintain her composure as she clasps her hands tightly in her lap.

“That may be so, but he fucking died one. I admit Hannibal Lecter was brilliant and charismatic, but he was completely insane.” Freddie snorts and wrinkles her nose, “The poor bastard didn’t even fucking know it.”

Chiyoh flinches at the expletives and purses her lips. “At birth, we all have the potential to be good people. However, life and circumstances can shape the biases inherently ingrained in our genes, moulded by chance and circumstance. We turn into monsters without even realising it. That's how you wake up, thirty-six years into life, and find yourself tied to a chair, Ms Lounds.”

“Your feelings for Hannibal blind you; you don’t see him clearly or refuse to.”

“I don’t believe you know what feelings are, Ms Lounds. You have been lying for so long that it’s become your second nature. You even lie to yourself. You live in denial. You live in denial because you are afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Freddie whispers, her throat raw.

“You have been afraid for a long time, Ms Lounds.”

“And you’re not?” Freddie shakes her head, “I understand that you-”

“You understand nothing, Ms Lounds.” Chiyoh snaps, then tilts her head and smiles, “But you will.”

“Well fuck a doodle doo, isn’t that fucking peachy.”

Chiyoh grimaces, “Please refrain from using such language. “

Freddie emits a strained sound that claws its way out of her throat. It resonates with an unnaturally high-pitched tone that teeters on the brink of hysteria, “You kidnapped me, tied me to a chair, and are currently poisoning me, and you're concerned about my fucking language. Fuck me, you really are Hannibal the Cannibal’s sister, aren't ya?”

“Don't call him that!”

“Why not? It's true, isn't it? He did eat people? Didn’t he? He was a monster. A ghoul. A beast. He would have eaten you just like he ate his real sis-”.

In a swift motion, Chiyoh springs forward from her chair and slaps her across the face. The sound reverberates through the air, spiralling around them both as they lock eyes.

Stunned, Freddie is rendered momentarily speechless as Chiyoh raises her hand to her mouth in horror, the reality of what she has done crashing down around her.

Freddie exhales sharply, shaking her head,  “Wow, Dr Lecter did a number on you. There's me thinking Will Graham was his biggest fuck up…now I'm thinking it could be you.”

“I do apologise, Ms Lounds. I seem to have misplaced my manners.”

“You misplaced your manners when you kidnapped me at gunpoint, sweetheart!”

“It was not my intention to assault you. I didn’t…” she trails off, visibly taken aback by her impulsive outburst.

Freddie is delighted at the shift of power. “The truth hurts bitch. None so blind as those who refuse to fucking see.”

“I see Hannibal; I know him,” Chiyoh purposefully rebuts, regaining her composure. "We grew up together. As a trusted confidant, I was one of the few people he allowed behind the veil. You, Ms Lounds, have been staring into the dark for so long that you've started seeing things that are not there.”

Freddie's body shrinks back into the chair as her innards writhe with a blend of fear and fury, pulsating through her veins with an electrifying surge. 

Chiyoh looms over her, and when she moves to touch her reddened cheek, Freddie frantically thrashes against the restraints, causing the metal legs to scrape across the floor.

“Ms. Lounds,” Chiyoh sighs, irritated. "I suggest you take a moment to compose yourself.” She nods at the needle in her arm. "For all we can do now is wait and tell stories.”

As the weight of the situation settles heavily on her shoulders, Freddie releases a deep and defeated exhale.

Content, Chiyoh nods, settling back into her chair, "Many tales have been told of them; however, this particular one begins with an act of desperation and defiance. An attempt to elude fate by plunging into the merciless jaws of the ocean. Whether for reasons noble or selfish, it no longer matters. For this was not meant to be their end. The Gods, unable to resist the allure of such an extraordinary union, rejected their demise and expelled them back onto the rocky shore.”

Freddie groans, “Pretension runs deeper than genetics in the Lecter family tree, I see.”

Chiyoh smiles as she continues, “Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were as beautiful as they were doomed. The deities were curious to see what fate would befall these glorious creatures.” Chiyoh tilts her head and looks directly at Freddie, “Unbeknownst, the divine were not the only eyes watching..”

Freddie averts her gaze as she closes her eyes, causing tears to trickle through her lashes.

Chiyoh leans forward and touches her knee gently, “I must insist on your full attention, Ms Lounds.”

Freddie tilts her head, scowling defiantly as she redirects her gaze.

“In the end, we all become stories," Chiyoh says, smiling warmly at her. "The question is, will you be the hero, or will you be the villain?”

“Why not both?”

Chiyoh’s eyes flash with delight as she leans back, “Why not indeed, Ms Lounds? Now, let us begin…”

~^~

Chapter Text

Then

The Atlantic shore

Will Graham is jolted awake by a sudden surge of terror.

His skin shimmers in the moonlight, drenched in the savage sea and a fevered sweat.

With an increasing sense of urgency, he frantically scans his surroundings, his panic escalating. Finally, his gaze locks upon the figure he sought—him—his monster.

Exhaustion grips his body as the clouds shift, cloaking them in darkness and causing him to slump back onto the rocky sand. In a defiant whisper, he proclaims, "We will not die."

A voice, either from the depths of his mind or the body lying next to him, asks, "Then why cast us from a cliff?"

Despite his mutilated face, Will musters a crooked smile and gasps, "I thought we would fly."

“And we did, my love, we did.”

As he trembles and sways on the threshold of consciousness, the words float around him, offering a curious sense of comfort before he succumbs once again to the depths.

*******

The Safehouse

Chiyoh hands Will a glass of water with one hand and a straw with the other, "Hannibal has requested your presence," she states firmly.

Will accepts both objects in the same manner they were offered, one in each hand. “We all want things,” he scoffs, dropping the straw into the glass with a perplexed shake of his head. “I wanted to be left alone with my dogs and not on the run with a cannibal.”

“Your dogs but not your wife? Interesting.” Chiyoh quips, a sly smirk tugging her lips.

Will groans and shakes his head again as he sips the water.

Chiyoh lets out a soft chuckle before her voice takes on a serious tone, “He will require surgery if he hopes to survive his…” she pauses and sighs, quoting Hannibal with reluctance, “...unfortunate tumble into the ocean.”

Will snorts, “Come the apocalypse, there will only be cockroaches and Hannibal left.” He looks at Chiyoh’s solemn face, “Hannibal is not made of flesh but of stone.”

"Stone cracks, Will Graham," she states bluntly. "And once it does, it can never regain its former strength."

"Hannibal always persists; he will simply fill the crack with something stronger."

"He wished for you to fill his crack."

Will gags on the straw as a shocked laugh escapes him. "I will not be filling Hannibal's crack," he splutters, wincing as the movement pulls at the stitches in both his cheek and shoulder.

Chiyoh squints at him and tilts her head, “Are you feeling unwell? Perhaps succumbing again to madness?"

Will rolls his eyes and groans, “How the fuck did I end up here?” he mutters, taking a sip of water.

"You obviously chose the psycho-path.” Chiyoh raises an eyebrow at him and then, as she walks away, casually tosses over her shoulder, "I can make jokes too, Will Graham."

*********

The room is bathed in a soft, dim light, casting long shadows across the walls. The only indication of Hannibal's continued existence is his chest's measured rise and fall. His sleeping form is a stark contrast to the peculiar, vivid energy that typically surrounds him.

Will eases into a chair, the ancient wood of the floor emitting a creak that shatters the silence and causes Hanninal to stir in his slumber. Seizing the moment, he studies the intricate lines etched upon Hannibal's serene face. Lines that hint at a secret life that Will yearns to unravel—a life veiled in mystery. As Hannibal groans in his sleep, he wonders what dreams or nightmares occupy the mind of the man he has grown to understand yet still struggles to define.

Hannibal begins to mumble in what Will recognises as Lithuanian, laced with mentions of his own name.

Suddenly, he lets out a loud moan, his hands flailing wildly as though trying to clutch at something just beyond his reach. His words grow more agitated, blending into a perplexing cacophony of unintelligible sounds.

Hannibal's eyes snap open abruptly, scanning the room with urgency. Unfocused and disoriented, he raises a hand to wipe the sweat from his face.

“You’re awake.” Will drawls, tapping the armrest of the chair with his fingers.

“It would appear so.”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“Of sorts.”

“Was I in it?”

“Had I been dreaming of you, I would have endeavoured to prolong my slumber.”

Taken aback by the unexpected display of emotion, Will finds himself momentarily stunned, turning his head away to conceal his blush. "I struggle with sleep because it requires a state of peace."

“You slept well those days when we shared a bed.”

“I assure you it was the painkillers and the severe trauma, Dr Lecter.”

Hannibal smiles, his eyes glinting with amusement, “How are you, Will?”

"I’m in a safehouse with either the world's worst or the world's best serial killer; I can’t decide," Will shrugs. "On one hand, you are undoubtedly one of the most prolific serial killers who has managed to elude justice for years. This suggests that you are highly skilled and possibly the best in your field. However, your reign of terror is both horrifying and deeply disturbing, so one may conclude that you are the worst serial killer the world has ever seen. It's quite an intriguing idea. It's a shame that you’re on the verge of death, as I believe it is worthy of discussion."

‘You are rambling, my dear Will.” Hannibal grins, “I wonder what you are so desperately trying to avoid?”

Will shoots him a glare while plucking at the fabric of the armrest.

Hannibal chuckles, "I'm sure we will continue to dance around the matter, allowing it to fester until someone inevitably pulls a knife." 

Will bites his lip, attempting to suppress the smile that tugs at his cheeks.

“In the meantime,” Hannibal continues, “I remain very much alive.”

“Barely.” Will scoffs.

Hannibal's responding smile swiftly twists into a grimace of pain.

Instinctively, Will finds himself reaching out to him but quickly restrains himself and leans back in the chair. "We now have new scars to add to our collections," he says casually, as he tears a hole in the chair's upholstery.

“Our scars proclaim to the world who we are, what we have endured, what we have survived,” Hannibal says as he attempts to reposition himself, only to give up when the pain overwhelms him.

“I'm not one for proclaiming who I am.” Will huffs as he fidgets in his chair, watching Hannibal intently.

“Perhaps you should be.” Hannibal sighs, closing his eyes, surrendering to the pain as it ravages his body. “Find grace in your wounds, Will.”

Will exhales heavily, as a storm of conflicting forces rage within him. On one side, he feels an overwhelming urge to offer comfort and support. On the other, he clings stubbornly to his anger, gripping it desperately.

“Do you require pain relief, Will?” Hannibal asks, opening his eyes, “Are you in pain?”

“Every part of me aches,” he replies, looking away, trying to find a distraction in the barren room. “Feels like I fell off a cliff.” Will smirks, then grimaces when he pulls the stitches in his cheek.

Hannibal reaches out his hand, but swiftly pulls it back as a jolt of pain shoots through him. Will watches as Hannibal presses his hand to his side, the bandage stained with fresh blood.

Before he realises he is doing it, Will is on his feet, “I will get Chiyoh.”

Hannibal closes his eyes and shakes his head. "No, that won't be necessary. Please..." He extends his hand, touching Will's arm, gesturing for him to retake his seat.

Will watches silently as Hannibal writhes in pain, his hands twitching on his thighs as he resists the urge to reach out and touch the other man.

“Tell me, Will, how do you feel having defied death?” Hannibal asks, inhaling deeply, “Do you feel victorious?” 

“I was never one for victories, only defeats I have managed to survive.”

“You feel defeated?”

“I failed in killing us.”

Hannibal considers this for a moment, “Will you try again?”

His gaze fixates on the hole he has been persistently picking at, “Who knows?" he shrugs, "I have inherited both my father's rage and my mother's ability to walk away.”

“That is a lonely combination.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t have to be?”

Will shakes his head. “I can’t…I…just…”

The room falls quiet as Hannibal opens his eyes and fixes his gaze intently on Will, his mouth forming a taut line.

Even in silence, he holds a power that commands attention and leaves Will on edge, desperate to glimpse what lies hidden behind those inscrutable caramel eyes.

"Why me?" Will finally whispers, refusing to meet his eyes. "After everything I've..." He trails off, leaving the unspoken words hanging in the air between them.

Hannibal's expression softens, and his voice takes on a tender tone as he utters, "If I could grant you just one gift, it would be the ability to perceive yourself as I do."

With a forced chuckle, Will masks his racing heart and fluttering stomach, “I’m not an easy person to lov-...I’m not an easy person to be around.”

"Every rose has its thorns," Hannibal reaches out his hands. "I see your thorns. Now, see my hands, ready to bleed."

Will gazes down at his elegant hands, dismayed at the patchwork of bruises and lacerations that now mar their once flawless beauty. As he tightly grips the armrest, a lump forms in his throat as a surge of emotion washes over him, an emotion he refuses to acknowledge or name. His own hands begin to fidget wildly, longing to reach out, but he resolutely suppresses the urge.

“When I love, I love fiercely, even desperately.” Hannibal says, watching him intently, “This ferocity and desperation may be the means to my end, but so be it.”

Hannibal pulls his hands back, his sombre tone revealing the sting of yet another rejection. "There is love inside me that you cannot even begin to fathom," he murmurs, clasping his hands on his chest, “There is also rage within me. This you know intimately. I have denied myself one for a very long time, so I have indulged in the other.”

“And some,” Will scoffs derisively, with a forced smirk.

“If I was not to be loved.” Hannibal states softly, “Then I would be feared.” He looks directly at Will, “How this ends, only the Gods know…and you.”

“The only way it can. Our deaths, by the other’s hand.”

“You want to kill me, and yet you keep me from dying. What is that if it is not love?”

“Etiquette.” Will sneers, his lips curling around the word, “I want an even playing field.” I threw you off the cliff just so I could catch you at the bottom.

“You are quite the gentleman, my sweet William,” Hannibal says, a serene smile caressing his lips. ”As savage as you are beautiful, as ruthless as you are fair.”

Will shakes his head as he snaps, “What do you want from me, Dr Lecter?”

“For you to fully become.”

“Become what?”

“A beautiful, powerful creature without regret.”

“Is that what you want for me, Dr Lecter?” Will jeers, “To be without regret.”

“Yes.”

“What if all I have is my regret?”

“Why would you wish to carry that?”

“Why would you wish to take it from me? Haven’t you taken enough?”

“Is this about Abigail? Will, I didn’t-”

“Ah, but you did, Dr Lecter. You, who regrets nothing. You, who feels nothing. You who have taken so much and yet still have nothing.” Will’s face twists into a mocking grin, “You will forgive me if I deny you this.”

“We will not survive separation, you know this.”

“Oh, Dr Lecter, that unfortunate tumble into the ocean seems to have impaired your cognitive abilities.” Will leans forward, “Aren’t we already dead?”

*******

Doctor Daniels strides into the cabin with contrived determination shortly after 8 p.m., immediately filling the room with the overpowering stench of his cheap cologne.

Despite wearing designer clothing, his attire appears shabby and ill-fitting, as though he has worn it many times and has been poorly-tailored on several occasions. This contrasts sharply with his air of self-assurance, even more potent than his sordid musk.

It's clear that he has no interest in friendly conversation or casual chit-chat. With each passing moment, his scowl grows deeper, contributing to the already tense atmosphere permeating the cabin.

After examining Hannibal, he turns to no one in particular and declares, "We need to move him to the main living area. It has more space and better lighting." With a swift snap, he removes his gloves.

Will briefly glances at Hannibal before focusing on Dr. Daniels, studying him intently for a moment. Finally, he nods in agreement.

The cabin boasts a spacious open area that serves as both the living room and kitchen. Two additional rooms, a bedroom and a bathroom, are tucked away in the back.

After relocating Hannibal's bed, Chiyoh offers to assist Dr. Daniels in preparing him for surgery, a proposal he hesitantly agrees to.

As they arrange the required instruments and meticulously prepare Hannibal for surgery, Will observes in silence. His posture reveals a slight tension, yet he remains motionless, closely monitoring each movement and fleeting expression that crosses Hannibal's face.

Sensing Will's vigilant gaze upon him, Hannibal beckons him nearer with a subtle tilt of his head. “Will,” he whispers tenderly.

Will approaches cautiously, his gaze flitting about as he surveys the scene unfolding before him.

“Will,” Hannibal says again.

“What?”

“Will.”

"What is it?" Will asks, his voice barely a whisper as he nervously shifts and fidgets.

“Will. Will. Will. Will,” Hannibal softly murmurs like a prayer.

“Why do you keep saying my name?”

“I wish to say it as many times as I can before…” Hannibal's breathing becomes increasingly laboured, each inhalation and exhalation requiring a visible effort.

Will clutches the frame of the bed, “Hannibal-”

Dr Daniel tuts and dismisses him with a wave of his hand: “Please can you remove yourself from this area, Mr Graham? You are in the way.”

Will’s grip tightens as he feels his anger swell.

Hannibal utters "Will" once more, his tone is now that of a plea. With a slight nod of his head, Will moves away with reluctance and leans against a pillar.

As the doctor administers anaesthesia, a clinical scent permeates the room, prompting Will to massage his temple as the gravity of the situation churns his stomach. Meanwhile, the heart monitor's steady beat offers a sliver of solace. However, a nagging worry persists in the back of his mind. Something isn't right, here. What is it?

“So you're Will Graham.” Dr Daniel’s voice snaps Will out of his thoughts.

Will nods absently, his attention still fixed on determining the source of his unease.

The doctor looks him over and shakes his head.

“What?” Will snaps, irritated.

“Just not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I'm not sure, just not…this...” he swipes his hand through the air, gesturing the length of Will's frame. "You're rather ordinary, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I do apologise; what did you think? That I would have antlers and feathers?”

“What?!?” Dr. Daniels's face contorts into a perplexed and annoyed expression, “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Never mind,” Will dismisses him with a wave of his hand as he walks towards the couch.

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Dr Daniels says, nodding, “Forgot you were badshit crazy.” Then leaning forward, his voice hushed, “Guess you gotta be to let a cannibal suck your dick, am I right?” Throwing his head back, his booming laughter fills the room.

Will rolls his eyes and rubs the back of his neck. Glancing over at Chiyoh, he finds her studying him intently. Although she typically wears an expression of indifference, Will senses questions lurking in her gaze: What is wrong? What have you seen?

The doctor gestures towards the window where his car is visible, “I just need to get something from my car.”

Turning to the unconscious Hannibal, he pats his chest, “Now, don’t you go anywhere, Dr Cannibal.” He then laughs again, winking at Will as he passes him to leave the room.

Seizing the opportunity for a brief moment of privacy, Chiyoh grabs Will by his arm and asks, “What is it?”

“I don’t know. It could be nothing.”

“Or it could be something.”

“I just. I just need a moment.”

“A moment for what?” Dr Daniels is standing in the doorway with a leather bag in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

“To gather myself,” Will replies quickly, “I’m just worried about Hannibal.”

“Never fear, Mr Graham. Your sugar daddy is in the hands of the best surgeon in the state. The only other surgeon who would even come close is lying unconscious on that bed.”

Will nods while looking over Hannibal's prone form. He looks so small. Why does he look so small?

Dr Daniels slaps his shoulder as he pushes past him, “You will be bouncing on his cock for Rolexes and Happy Meals in no time, Mr Graham.” he quips, dropping the bag at his feet.

Will stretches his neck and flexes his fingers, casting a glance at Chiyoh. In response, she discreetly shakes her head, warning him to keep his composure.

Oblivious to the coiled danger that circles him, Dr Daniels casually scrolls through his messages before setting his phone to one side. “Ok, let's cut this fucker open,” he says, snapping on gloves.

Tension permeates the room as the doctor, assisted by Chiyoh, tends to Hannibal. His movements are precise and deliberate, his hands moving with a grace that belies his arrogant nature. Observing Chiyoh, Will wonders whether she has previously aided Hannibal in similar surgeries or if she has even participated when Hannibal was the one undergoing treatment. Her adept and fluid motions reveal an extensive background.

Will starts to twitch whenever the doctor makes an unexpected move or when his attention briefly shifts away from the patient. His heart races as the tension in the cabin escalates, creating a sense of something ominous looming... What is wrong with this picture? 

Suddenly, the doctor drops the instrument he is holding and grabs his phone. He types a message with agile fingers, and within moments, he gets a prompt reply.

“OK, here's the thing,” he says with a smirk, “I want five times the amount I was promised or Hannibal the Cannibal has eaten his last ManDonalds…” then looking directly at Will, “...or ass.”

With a hand, stained with Hannibal's blood, Chiyoh gestures for Will to remain calm and avoid impulsive actions. Rolling his shoulder, his jaw clenched, Will meets the doctor's eye, his gaze cutting through him, but remains firmly rooted in place.

“There will not be any negotiations. I have a friend close by, who I will text every 15 minutes. If he does not receive the scheduled text, he will contact the FBI and immobilise your vehicle.”

Turning, the doctor leans back on the bed. “So I suggest you just set up the transfer now, and I will finish stitching up the cannibal here, and we’re all good. Capisce?” He looks from Chiyoh to Will and back to Chiyoh. “You have one hour.”

“I need a laptop,” Chiyoh states evenly.

“You can use your phone; I know the deposit I received was sent via a phone. Please, Miss… Whogivesashit, this is no time to fuck around,” He claps his hands twice, “Chop! Chop!”

Chiyoh remains in place, expressionless, “I will need to move funds; it could take some time.”

“That’s why I have given you an hour, sweetheart!” he croons, a deranged grin splitting his face.

When Chiyoh and Will remain motionless, Dr Daniels groans and snaps, “Ok, let me break it down for the psychos and the weirdos at the back. Anything happens to me, and y’all will be balls-deep in the FBI within 20 minutes. " Then, shrugging, he adds, “It is your own fault for choosing a safehouse so close to that mess you left with that Dragon weirdo.”

Chiyoh and Will stand firm, their eyes locked on the doctor.

Dr Daniels, getting frustrated, throws his hands in the air, “You do realise if I leave him like that, he will die.” he says, gesturing towards Hannibal.

“Good,” Will says simply, “I've been trying to kill that bastard for years.”

Dr Daniels stalls a moment, temporarily thrown, then reclaiming his composure, he snides, “I'm not dick teasing here, Mr Graham. If I don’t get my money, he will die, and you will spend the rest of your life in the nuthouse.”

“It would almost be worth it to rid the world of this monster.” My monster.

“What’s happening here?” Dr Daniels laughs nervously, looking around, “Are you trying to confuse me?” He wags his finger at Will, “I’ve heard about you and your freaky mind fuck bullshit. Getting inside people's heads. You’re trying to trick me. It won’t work on me. I’m on to you.”

Will reaches for a scalpel and hands it to the doctor. “Why wait? Just finish it now.”

Dr Daniels gazes at the scalpel, his hand trembling slightly as he grasps it.

“Do it.” With a nod, Will gestures towards Hannibal's unconscious body.

“No, no…” The doctor murmurs, “I see how you look at him. This is a trick. This is bullshit.”

‘Maybe,” Will tilts his head and gazes directly at him. “But how can you be sure?”

Dr. Daniels stands frozen, gripping the scalpel tightly before him as if hypnotised. Abruptly, Will breaks into a smile, catching the doctor off guard. Dr Daniels instinctively steps back, colliding sharply with the bed frame.

“But you like a gamble, don't ya, Dr Daniels,” Will sneers, taking a step closer to him, “Being a gambler with a predilection for younger girls can be very expensive, can't it? What happened? You owe some loan shark? Being blackmailed?.”

Dr. Daniels appears visibly overwhelmed with a mix of astonishment and confusion, causing him to stammer, "What? How?" After a moment, he straightens his shoulders and retorts, "You fucking freak."

“Some girl savvy enough to film you before you drugged her,” Will mocks, taking another step closer. “Did the spider get trapped by the fly, Dr Daniels?"

Dr Daniels glares at Will briefly before shifting his gaze to the scalpel. Then, running his thumb along the blade, he says, "You know, Mr. Graham, I just..." Abruptly, he lunges forward, the scalpel aimed at Will’s chest. Chiyoh swiftly intervenes, snatching back his arm. The weapon clatters loudly as it hits the ground in the otherwise silent room.

Holding the doctor by the shoulders, Chiyoh says, “Please, Dr Daniels, finish the surgery. You will get your money.”

The doctor adjusts his clothing while keeping a watchful eye on Will. "Good," he huffs. Then, pointing his finger at him, he warns, "Just keep this bitch boy freak away from me."

"Of course, Dr. Daniels," Chiyoh says positioning herself between the two men.

“Okay, I will text my friend,” he says, backing away from them but keeping his eyes on Will.

When he receives a prompt reply, a satisfied smirk curls the corners of his lips. “Your hour starts now, bitches.”

As Chiyoh and Will's gazes meet, the same idea occurs to them both simultaneously. Will strolls over to the east window and leans on the frame, peering into the night. Meanwhile, Chiyoh takes her place by the west window, appearing deeply absorbed in her phone.

Meanwhile, Dr. Daniels returns to his position by the bed and resumes tending to his patient.

All three remain in these positions until a timer sounds, indicating that fifteen minutes have elapsed.

After wiping his gloved hands on his apron, the doctor lifts his phone and proceeds to send the text.

Will and Chiyoh gaze into the darkness, their eyes darting frantically as they hunt for any flicker of movement or sign of life in the inky blackness. Their shared determination is etched on their faces but hidden from the doctor focused on his phone.

The doctor's phone immediately beeps, and he smugly drops it onto the table before returning to his work.

Chiyoh and Will release a collective breath and exchange a glance before shaking their heads. Nothing.

After a few minutes, Chiyoh moves to the window facing north while Will seizes the opportunity to excuse himself and go to the bathroom.

Dr Daniels briefly glances up from his work. “Don’t be long, Mr Graham. You don’t want me to get nervous and nick a vital artery, now do you?” he says, chuckling to himself.

Will rolls his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. With one last look at Chiyoh, he walks to the bathroom.

Sitting on the tub's edge, he counts down the remaining minutes on his watch, then looks out the window. His piercing eyes scan the shadows, his sharp intuition guiding his search through the impenetrable void.

Then, among the trees, he sees a glow—a glow that looks like the screen of a cell phone.

**********

“What’s keeping him?” Dr Daniels asks Chiyoh, who shrugs, her eyes remaining on her phone.

He tilts his head back and shouts, “I hope you’re not jacking off in there, Mr Graham.” Then, turning back to Chiyoh, he says, “He probably is, crazy bastard, and with a lady in the next room too.”

Chiyoh furrows her brow and tightens her lips, conveying her contempt.

“Oh get over yourself, you’re not my type darling.”

“Yes, I imagine I'm rather mature and lucid for your tastes.”

“Ha fucking ha. How are you getting on with my money there, sweetheart?”

“It won’t be long before you get what you are due.”

“Nice!” He responds absentmindedly as he continues to work on Hannibal.

The timer signals the next fifteen minutes are up.

Dr Daniels lifts his phone and sends the text.

There is no response.

Frowning, he sends another text.

Still, no response.

Shaking his head, he hits a button and brings the phone to his ear.

The sound of buzzing catches his attention. He turns to see Will standing in the doorway, holding a leather bag.

“I’m afraid your friend can’t come to the phone right now, Dr Daniels,” Will says dully, opening the bag, “on account that he seems to be missing his head.” A man’s head and a cell phone drop out onto the floor between them.

Dr. Daniels gasps in terror as the severed head rolls towards him, finally coming to a stop at the toe of his shoe. His ashen face turns to meet Will's gaze, “I-I-” he starts to say, but the words get stuck in his throat as he stares wide-eyed at the blood-stained axe hanging idle at Will’s side.

Will flexes his hand around the axe's handle, his eyes never leaving the doctor.

“The surgery is not finished; if I die, he dies too.” Dr Daniels splutters desperately, retreating backwards till he hits the bed frame.

“I'm not going to kill you, Dr Daniels.” Will smiles sweetly as he steps closer, ”If you don’t finish what you started, I'm gonna start cutting off appendages.” He turns the axe in his hand, "Chop, Chop now."

Dr Daniels lets out a loud, high-pitched squeak and clings to the bed frame. His eyes dart around the cabin with a sense of frantic desperation, searching for anything that might offer him salvation.

“So here's the thing,” Will mocks, taking another step closer: "Do you want to spend the rest of your life with all your limbs intact, or can you spare a few?”

“He needs to be closed up, or he will die.”

“Then close him up, doctor.” Will gestures at Hannibal with the axe.

Dr Daniels turns to face his patient, his brow furrowed, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. His gaze briefly flickers towards Will, then back to his task, his hands trembling with a frantic urgency.

Chiyoh watches the doctor's every action with a calm and steady gaze. Sensing Will's need for reassurance, she meets his eyes and nods, signalling that all is well.

Finally, the doctor removes his gloves and drops them to the floor.

“Is it done?” Will asks, standing behind him, his breath hot on his neck.

“Yes,”

“Will he wake up?”

“Yes, of course, he will.”

Will watches as Chiyoh begins to examine the equipment and check Hannibal's vitals. “Chiyoh, what-”

"I've done what you wanted. Can I leave now?" Dr Daniels interjects with more than a touch of irritation. 

“Does everything look okay, Chiyoh?” Will asks, ignoring him, “Will he wake up?”

With her hand cupping Hannibal's cheek, she softly says, "His vitals are stable, at least for now." Pausing to look at both of them, she adds, "However, that doesn't necessarily mean he will regain consciousness."

“I can't…you expect me to stay here till he wakes up….could be fucking hours.” Dr Daniel whines, placing his hands on his waist and dropping his head back in frustration.

“Chiyoh, what do you think?” Will asks, rolling the shoulder of the arm holding the axe. Dr. Daniels recoils, accidentally toppling the table holding various medical equipment and Chiyoh's phone.

“I believe-”

The doctor snatches Chiyoh’s phone from the floor. Then with a bewildered and incredulous expression, he shrieks, “What the fuck is this?” Pivoting the screen to face them shows Chiyoh has been playing Sudoku all along.

“You fucking bitch.” He screams as he throws the phone across the room and turns to Will, “And you-”

Will swings the axe, landing a precise strike in the middle of his forehead. The doctor's body suspends momentarily mid-air as if held up by invisible strings. A rivulet of blood lazily trickles down the doctor's nose and chin before he collapses to the floor with a resounding thud.

**********

“Will you try and do it again?” Chiyoh asks him.

“Do what?”

Chiyoh stares at him.

“Kill both of us?” Will asks in a hushed tone.

“Kill Hannibal?”

Will stares back at her, then shaking his head, whispers, “I don’t know.”

“I see.”

A moment passes before Will asks, “If I do, will you kill me?”

“Yes.”

Will nods. “Good,” he murmurs, staring at his hands.

Chiyoh watches him for a moment, contemplating whether to reach out, but ultimately decides against it.

“I need…I want..” Will drags his hands down his face, “I need clarity….”

Chiyoh looks away, her face tense. “We don't always get what we want.”

“Save me the whole life isn't fair bullshit.”

“On the contrary, we don't always get what we want…simply because we deserve better.”

Will laughs, “So this is better than a secure life with a woman who loves me?”

Chiyoh smiles softly, “Yes,” she pauses and looks Will directly in the eye, “because you have found the person who completes you.”

“It's not as easy as that, it's complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be. It's not to Hannibal.”

“What we have...feels so right...it's infuriating.”

"You are both infuriating."

Will nods, then, after a few minutes of silence, smirks, “So just to clarify, I’m free to kill myself, but not Hannibal?”

Chiyoh shrugs, “I would prefer it if you resisted the urge to end your life.”

“Why?”

“You are important to Hannibal.”

Will raises his eyebrow, “So, I’m important to you?”

“You are important to Hannibal,” Chiyoh repeats, swallowing deeply.

“I prayed for him,"  Will voice is soft, and low, "I haven't prayed since I was a child.” 

“God is not taking that call, Will Graham,” Chiyoh states, pursing her lips.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

Chiyoh gently places her hand on his arm.

“It can't end like this,” he whispers, the words catching in his throat, “This is not how Hannibal Lecter dies.”

“Hannibal will never leave you, Will.”

Will nods, his lips trembling as the tears that had welled up finally spill over. “I-"

Suddenly, the room is filled with the jarring noise of machines bleeping.

Chiyoh leaps from her chair, and with intense urgency, she begins to work fervently, attempting to stabilize Hannibal.

Fear grips Will, rendering him incapable of thought or motion. The cabin sways back and forth, and screams echo all around him. Chiyoh's face blurs in and out of focus just inches away from his. Although her lips are moving, her words are lost to him. The screams spiral around him, and he feels his stomach lurch and tumble.

Chiyoh grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him vigorously while shouting, ”CALM DOWN WILL!”

Suddenly, the room snaps back into focus, and he realises that the screaming is coming from his own throat.

“Will, listen to me. Hannibal is stabilised. We just need to wait now,” she says, hair falling across her face. “Everything is going to be ok, Will. When this is over, we-”

Will shakes off her grip and starts to pace the room tugging his hands through his hair, “You don’t get it. Do you? There is no fucking “ when this is over” there is no tomorrow, no next week, no next month, no next year…there is nothing till he wakes up and I know he will live.”

Chiyoh stands there with her hands hanging by her sides, watching him. Will rubs the back of his neck as he stares at Hannibal sprawled out on the bed before him.

Suddenly, he throws himself at the bed, grabbing Hannibal by the shirt, “WAKE UP,” he screams, “WAKE UP YOU BASTARD! WAKE UP”

Chiyoh gently rests her hands on his shoulders. Instantly, his anger dissipates, and he slumps onto Hannibal's chest. "Please, don't leave me, Hannibal, don't go where I can't find you."

**********

“Hello, Will.”

“Hello, Dr Lecter.”

 “How are you, Will?”

“Still breathing.” Will cocks his eyebrow as he leans forward in the chair.

“Every breath that is in your lungs is a gift to me.” Hannibal's smile is faint as he reaches out, hesitating for a moment before Will grabs his hand. He begins to lift it towards his mouth but then catches Chiyoh watching and decides to cradle it in his hands instead.

With a teasing tone, he says, “The lengths some people will go to to avoid using an outhouse.”

Hannibal lets out a hoarse laugh that causes him to cough, Chiyoh appears with a glass of water and a straw which she hands Will. As he holds the straw for Hannibal to take a sip, Chiyoh places her hand on Will’s shoulder and squeezes it before she moves back to the kitchen.

“Dr Daniels is dead.” Will states bluntly.

“Deserved, I have no doubt.”

“He tried to extort more money using your survival as leverage,” Will sets the glass on the table and leans forward, “But you knew he would do that, didn’t you?”

Hannibal's eyes glint with amusement, a shadow of a smile caressing his lips.

“When you do die, Doctor, it will be at my hand. I will not have that moment taken from me by an opportunistic back alley surgeon.“

Hannibal's smile widens, “Our darkness and madness are in love. If they dance, so must we.”

~^~

Chapter Text

Now

The Cabin

“Daddy, please….please don't turn the TV up,” Freddie mumbles weakly, her head drooping as her consciousness flutters.

A cold, damp touch jolts her back into the present, a cloth gliding across her face. She writhes away from it and pulls at the restraints, only for her to discover that her strength has abandoned her.

Chiyoh's voice, a gentle whisper, floats above her. "Forgiveness is a nuanced and intricate concept," she says as she drags the rag across Freddie’s lips.

Freddie blinks at her, drowsiness weighing down her eyelids. Her dry mouth craves moisture, prompting her to follow the cloth with her tongue. With a raspy voice, she says, “Everyone's fans of forgiveness until they've something to forgive.”

Chiyoh nods, "People only contemplate injustice when it personally affects them."

"Have you forgiven Hannibal?" Freddie inhales deeply, then forcefully widens her eyes to sharpen her focus.

"Hannibal has never done anything to me to warrant forgiveness," Chiyoh calmly asserts as she squeezes the cloth into a basin.

”He abandoned you to babysit a murderer.”

“He had his reasons," she responds softly while gazing at the stars, “I miss him."

A sad smile slowly spreads across Freddie’s face. "So you did forgive him."

Chiyoh glances at her, her brows slightly furrowed, "Why do you say that?"

“You miss him.”

Chiyoh folds the cloth and sets it down to one side, “Can you forgive him, Ms Lounds?” she asks.

Freddie smirks, shaking her head slightly, “Forgive him for what? Making me rich?”

Chiyoh tilts her head, her gaze landing on her like a dead weight, "Pain wields immense influence,” she says, turning to face her directly, “It profoundly shapes who we are.” Then, stepping towards her, she continues, “Ms. Lounds, you now have an opportunity to liberate yourself from this heavy burden before your time comes to an end."

“I don’t know what you think you know, but I would question your sources.”

“I can assure you that my sources are reliable, Ms Lounds.”

Freddie narrows her eyes, a subtle sneer curling her lips, "Hannibal was a monster, a child killer. I cannot redeem the damned."

“A child killer?” Chiyoh murmurs under her breath, the hint of curiosity reflected in the subtle arch of her brow.

“He killed Morgan Verger.” Freddie stutters, her gaze darting anxiously across Chiyoh's stoic face.

“Did he?” Chiyoh's lips are pressed tightly as she stares at her, “Are you sure about that?”

Freddie averts her gaze and weakly tugs at her restraints, “How long will this take? Just increase the dose and get it over with.”

Chiyoh observes her for a moment with a blend of curiosity and ambivalence, then retrieves the chair and positions it directly across from her, "I've spent a considerable amount of time harbouring my anger, time that I can't regain.” She places her hand on Freddie’s knee, “But now, seeing you so consumed by your own, I feel compelled to share something with you. Holding onto your anger is akin to a harmful habit, much like smoking. You are poisoning yourself without even realising it."

Freddie’s hoarse laughter slices through the night air, "You say that as if you aren't literally poisoning me right now."

Chiyoh winces and closes her eyes as she takes her hand away, "That was a regrettable choice of words."

“Yeah, no shit!”

They share a fleeting smile that gives way to an uneasy silence tinged with melancholy.

After a few minutes, Freddie whispers, “Why is it so hard to forgive?'

"Pride and the need for accountability," Chiyoh says, glancing in her direction. "You were the one who was betrayed, yet it is you who must set aside your pride and make sacrifices to provide forgiveness."

Freddie nods, her eyes welling up with tears as she wrestles with the tempest brewing within her.

"Then there is the sadness," Chiyoh continues, "a sadness that demands acknowledgement and understanding. It is difficult to witness life moving forward when you are devastated. It feels unjust for others not to be suffering as well. It is unfathomable that life can continue as if nothing significant has occurred. That your anguish is overlooked, and those responsible are not held accountable taunts you. Pain insists on being attended to."

“Pain is a part of life,” Freddie says, the tears spilling over, cascading down her cheeks.

“It will slowly devour you. To hold onto it is a form of masochism.”

“If you think that, then why are you doing this?” Freddie asks, “You talk about letting go of anger, yet you seem intent on letting it dictate your actions.”

“Just because I am self-aware doesn’t mean I am impervious to the desire to hold accountable those who have wronged me. You, above all, can relate to that, Ms Lounds.”

Freddie dismisses the weighty implications embedded within that remark with an eye roll and a sigh.

"It's astonishing how complicated and contradictory human nature can be," Chiyoh muses, her eyes twinkling like two dark jewels under the moonlight.

Freddie finds herself momentarily captivated, causing her head to droop. With a sudden jerk, she forcefully snaps herself back to attention. “So all this is for Hannibal?” she says, licking her lips. "You are avenging the devil and his husband. Do you believe they are worthy of your vengeance?”

“Yes, I do,” Chiyoh replies with a sad smile. “There is nothing more powerful than someone knowing every horror that dwells in your soul, and they choose to love you anyway. What a mess they made in denying their love.”

“That was not love. It was obsession.”

“They saw themselves reflected in the other.”

“And just like Narcissus, they couldn't look away, and we all know what happened to him.”

“I did warn Hannibal he had become distracted.“

Freddie snorts, “Let me guess, he wouldn’t listen.”

Chiyoh settles back into her seat, her expression morphing into contemplation, her eyes focusing on a point in the distance. “They worshipped the other like a god.”

"Then betrayed the other like a man," Freddie sneers, the disdain in her voice staining the air.

“Man is the cruellest of all the animals, Ms Lounds,” she retorts coolly. "A monster resides within us all; its nature varies only in degree, not in kind." Then, leaning in, her voice conspiratorial, she adds, “I do find that Man is never so deliciously evil as when they claim to be acting upon religious conviction.”

Freddie's face twists with a slow, lopsided grimace, "From what I've learned, if someone's goodness is solely based on the promise of a supposed divine reward, then that person usually is a piece of shit."

“Spoken like a true lapsed Christian. I do wonder what caused you to lose your faith.” Chiyoh’s eyes lock Freddie’s in an intense gaze.

In this suspended moment, time seems to halt, filling the air with thick, unspoken tension. Until Freddie reluctantly surrenders, averting her gaze.

Chiyoh smiles, “Hannibal had a tendency to destroy what he loved. Like a cherished figurine, he would clasp it tightly, fearful he would lose it or it would fall, only for it to shatter within his own hands.”

“Are you telling me that Hannibal’s thirty-year killing spree across two continents was because he just loved too much?”

"Ms. Lounds," Chiyoh tilts her head towards Freddie. "Do you truly understand the pain of real loss? Do you know what it means to care for someone so profoundly that their well-being becomes more important to you than your own? Have you ever encountered a love like that?"

Freddie squirms in her chair, beads of sweat forming on her forehead.

Closing her eyes, Chiyoh savours Freddie's anguish like the most intoxicating wine. “In a way, Hannibal’s greatest flaw was his relentless pursuit of the picturesque, regardless of the consequences.” 

“Aesthetics over ethics” Freddie’s breath catches in her throat, and she coughs violently.

Chiyoh eyes her with interest. “Hannibal was always fair, Ms Lounds, by his standards anyhow. He was methodical, whereas Will was unpredictable. This is what drew them together, their differences as well as their similarities.

“How delightful, Willie Walmart and Hanni Hermès were the ultimate odd couple.”

“Their love defies conventional morality. It prioritises being seen rather than facing judgement. They understood that beauty and ugliness resided within them, creating a vital contradiction that is not without purpose. It is about finding both balance and symmetry. Do you see, Ms. Lounds?" Her gaze settles upon her, a tangible weight.

Freddie musters a weak smile, her eyes glassy, ”You think you’re going to convince me that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter were some misunderstood star-crossed lovers? You’re wasting your breath. Will was an asshole, and Hannibal was just…a monster.”

Chiyoh tilts her head, “Those who are considered the most righteous are not always consistent in their goodness - so why believe the worst are consistent in evil?”

Freddie forces herself to meet her gaze, and in an instant, an icy sweat envelops her, clinging to her body like sharp talons.

With a satisfied and defiant look, Chiyoh asks. “Are you ready to tell your tale, or should I continue with mine?”

With a slight shake of her head, Freddie looks away. “What makes you think I have one to tell?”

“We all have tales, Ms Lounds.” Chiyoh grins, “Like the tale of your father and the television set. What was the purpose of increasing its volume, and why did that distress you so?”

Freddie averts her eyes to her lap as Chiyoh shrugs, “Maybe later,” she murmurs. Then, leaning back in her chair, she asks, “So, where was I? Oh yes, the cottage…I had found an abandoned cottage fifty miles north that would serve them until I could arrange transport by sea. I remember them carefully choosing their seats in the car,” Chiyoh looks off with unfocused eyes, remembering, “Will Graham wanted to look out the window, Hannibal…he wanted to look at Will Graham."

**********

Then

Somewhere between the Safehouse and the Cottage

They stumble upon a cluster of shops on a desolate stretch of the highway. The parking lot is mostly empty, with only a handful of vehicles scattered beneath dim lights that provide only patchy illumination.

Purposely choosing a spot in a distant corner, they park the car beneath a flickering street light that lazily casts pockets of darkness. Will's attention is immediately drawn to one specific establishment—a fast-food restaurant.

“Is there something you will eat in there?” Will asks, nodding towards the diner.

“Perhaps the staff,” Hannibal says, dipping his head for a better look at the surrounding area.

“Was that a fucking joke?”

Hannibal smiles. “Perhaps.”

Will turns his head to hide his smile, “What about security cameras?” he asks, looking out across the black expanse towards the stores.

“I don’t see any,” Chiyoh says, undoing her seatbelt, “However, I believe I should go alone.”

“Yes, I agree.” Hannibal leans back into his seat, his gaze drawn to the curls grazing the nape of Will's neck as he stretches to peer into the darkness.

“What would you like?” Will asks, turning to face him with an amused and expectant smirk.

"What would you recommend, Will?" Hannibal asks, pretending to adjust his coat with calm precision, "I believe this is your area of expertise."

Will leans forward in his seat and gently rests his hand on Chiyoh's shoulder. The glint of his wedding ring catches the erratic light, causing Hannibal's mouth to tense and form a thin line. “Get him the Big Bad Billy Bozanna Burger meal with a Wyatt Burp soda.” Then, turning back to Hannibal, he asks, “Do you want a bucket of Yeehaw fries or Hoedown fries?”

A visible tremor of revulsion ripples through Hannibal’s body, "I don't understand the question, so I will not be responding," he declares.

“A bucket of Hoedown fries with extra rancher dressing, it is then.”

Hannibal suddenly jerks his head back, turning abruptly towards Will, “Surely you mean Ranch Dressing.”

“I do not.” Will smirks, winking at Chiyoh, who hides her smile behind her hand. “So two Big Bad Billy Bozanna Burger meals with Wyatt Burp sodas and a bucket of Hoedown fries with extra Rancher Dressing, Chiyoh, if you would be so kind.”

“I am unable to comprehend any of those words and do not wish to seek clarification as I fear it may permanently destroy my appetite, leading to my eventual starvation... which, now that I am considering it, may be preferable."

Chiyoh stifles a snigger and quickly covers her mouth with her hand.

“You’re such a snob.” Will leans back in the seat, laughing as he looks at Hannibal.

"Do you perceive me a snob because I am selective about what I consume?"

“Selective of what but not of whom .” Will arches an eyebrow.

“Indeed.”

“You’ve been in prison for three years. I was there too, remember? I know what the food was like. This is infinitely better.”

“Dr Bloom and I had an arrangement,” Hannibal says, defiantly tilting his chin.

Will shakes his head, “Why am I not surprised?”

“You are not surprised, for you know of my exceptional negotiation abilities and the debt owed to me by Dr. Bloom and Ms. Verger.”

Will groans and rolls his eyes, “It was rhetorical, Doctor.”

Hannibal shifts his gaze from Will to Chiyoh, who is valiantly struggling to hold back her laughter. “What is amusing you so? I suspect I am at a disadvantage here, for I have clearly missed something of great importance.”

Unable to contain it any longer, Will and Chiyoh's laughter floods the car, a bright and infectious sound that fills the small space. The looming danger momentarily forgotten as the former doctor looks on in bewilderment.

*****

“I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,” Will says as he watches Chiyoh make her way towards the diner.

“Like what?”

“Like you…like you could love… never mind.” Will waves his hand through the air before allowing it to drop heavily onto his lap.

“You obviously do mind, Will.”

“It will pass.”

A brief moment of silence envelops the car, creating a hushed stillness.

Hannibal sighs and shakes his head with a bemused smile playing on his lips.

Although Will initially resists acknowledging the movements, he eventually turns to look at him and snaps, “What?”

“It struck me how precarious it is to process once again something worth losing.”

Will bites his lip and turns his face away, gazing into the darkness, "Do you truly believe that you love me?"

“Yes.”

Hannibal's unfiltered and unabashed honesty takes him by surprise. In a swift motion, he turns toward him, his eyes widening and his heart racing in his chest. “You’re not capable…” he stutters. After taking a moment to compose himself, he dismisses him with a swipe of his hand: “Just words.”

Hannibal breathes slowly and deliberately, his chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm. “How odd that I have all this,” he clenches his fist over his heart, “inside of me and to you, it’s mere words, a dissonance emitted from my mouth.”

Will shifts his attention back to the carpark, his hands anxiously fidgeting on his knees, “Empty words,” he mutters, “Manipulations.”

“My love for you is my confession, Will,” Hannibal says solemnly to the back of his head, ”A pledge that though I have been devastated by you, I am prepared to be again.”

“Why waste your time when you know I can’t…..won't stay.”

“Don't we still love sunsets, knowing they always succumb to darkness?”

“Sunsets return,” Will whispers.

A tense silence descends as their eyes lock in the reflection of the car window, the weight of unspoken words and their underlying meanings hanging in the air.

“And I will be waiting,” Hannibal whispers, leaning closer. 

Will instinctively tilts his head towards him, “Hannibal-”

Hannibal closes his eyes and inhales his scent, “I want to be with you; it is as simple and complicated as that.”

“You can’t say things like that to me?”

“Why?”

Will shakes his head and drags his hands through his hair, “Since when did you stop talking in torturous metaphors.”

"Does my honesty make you uncomfortable, Will?"

Will groans, and his fidgeting intensifies. His foot taps incessantly while his restless fingers tug at the fabric of his jeans.

Hannibal leans closer still, his voice low but laced with amusement, “For the record, I have never tortured a metaphor; I have too much respect for prose.”

Will successfully suppresses the laugh bubbling up inside, although a smile still escapes him: “Oh, please. Your history of tortured metaphors would have you up before a tribunal in the Hague.”

“Among other things.” Hannibal cocks an eyebrow.

With a groan of frustration, Will throws open the car door and steps out.

Hannibal proceeds to follow him.

“I could just run,” Will says, his eyes darting about the car park.

“You could.” Hannibal nonchalantly slips his hands into his coat pockets, discreetly scanning the area. “You have.”

“Would you let me go?”

“If that is what you want. I will ask Chiyoh to help you get back to your…” A brief flicker of pain crosses Hannibal's face before settling back into his usual impassive facade. “I will ensure they believe you were taken against your will. I will protect you from prosecution, Will, so that you may return to your former existence.”

“I don't need you to protect me; I can look after myself.” Will snaps, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“I don’t protect you because I believe you are weak, Will,” Hannibal says gently, “I protect you because you are precious to me.”

Will turns away, running his hands through his hair.

Hannibal takes a few steps towards him, standing behind him, his breath hot on his neck, “I want you to stay with me, Will, but I will not beg.”

Will takes his hand out of his pocket and stretches it out before him. The dull light bounces off his wedding ring.

“Do you miss..” the rest of the words catch in Hannibal’s throat. He closes his eyes, releasing a tear that meanders down his cheek.

“She is a good person, I want…I mean, they don’t deserve-” Will drops his hand, “I can’t go back, not after what I have-.”

“So a life with me is your penance, Will?”

Will turns to face him, “No…I…” 

Hannibal raises his hand, dismissing his words, “Am I your punishment, Will?” Shadows fall across his face; for once, he avoids Will’s gaze. “I imagine I am your punishment as you are mine, but in completely different ways.”

“What do you mean by that?” A shiver courses through Will's body, overwhelming him with a sudden desire to reach out for Hannibal. Whether it is to hurt or embrace him remains uncertain.

"I no longer wish to play this game with you," Hannibal said firmly. "I have laid out all my cards on the table. Now, where are yours?"

Will stands frozen in the heavy silence. The weight of anticipation clings to him as his senses intensify, heightening the desire that surges through his veins. His hands tremble with an undeniable ache, craving to bridge the gap between them and connect with the man standing mere inches from him. The electric charge in the air prickles his skin, creating an invisible magnetic pull he can't escape. He never has. He never will.

“Are you keeping them close to your chest?” Hannibal asks, amusement now present in his voice.

Will smiles despite himself, “I've been dealt a bad hand, Dr Lecter. I suspect there may be a joker in the pack.”

“Are you keeping an Ace up your sleeve for such an occurrence?”

“Maybe I'm the one who holds the trump card.”

Hannibal places a hand on Will's shoulder, causing him to lean into the touch instinctively. They share an intense gaze before Will coughs awkwardly and checks his watch, “I pronounce this metaphor dead, time of death 8.45 pm.”

Hannibal laughs, and Will feels a sudden surge of warmth in his stomach. He leans forward and grips the lapel of Hannibal’s coat as if to pull him closer when Hannibal says, “Here she is, our dear Chiyoh with our feast,” before he moves away to help her with the bags.

After they have settled back into the car, Hannibal unpacks the bags and distributes the food to Will and Chiyoh.

“So, no commentary on the food, Dr Lecter?” Will smiles, wagging a floppy French fry at him.

“I believe it a misnomer to refer to this as food.”

Will closely observes Hannibal as he unwraps his burger, which he eyes with suspicion before finally taking a small, cautious bite.

“You are finding all this rather amusing, I can see,” Hannibal comments, keeping his eyes fixed on the dubious burger.

“Never thought I would see Dr Lecter eating a slab of reconstituted meat.”

“It’s not so much the suspect protein,” Hannibal says, removing a limp piece of lettuce from his burger with a look of disdain, “but lemonade with red meat, Will? What are we? Savages? Surely, a cola would have been a preferable choice.”

“Desperate times, Dr Lecter.”

“Desperate times indeed.”

Chapter Text

Then

The Cottage

The cottage is shrouded in darkness, shadows clinging to the corners like spiderwebs.

Chiyoh's flashlight sweeps across the room, revealing beams that groan and sag under the burden of time and nature. The once vibrant floral wallpaper now hangs limply as wilted petals drained of their former life and colour.

Remnants from a former life litter the space; torn pages are scattered across the floor, and an upturned rocking chair and a solitary boot defiantly stand in the centre of the room. 

Moonlight filters through the dirty windows, casting a haunting glow that flickers on the sturdy metal bed frame. Amidst the squalor, patches of unexpected beauty flourish, evident by the wildflowers pushing through the cracks and crevices.

Will drops the bags at his feet and looks around with his hands on his hips.

Hannibal ventures further into the room, slowly turning in a circle, his nose twitching as the musty smell assaults his nostrils.

They speak in unison, "This place is..."

Will grins, "Beautiful."

Hannibal scowls, "Dilapidated."

Charmed by the exchange, Chiyoh smiles softly as she gestures towards the back of the cottage: "Follow me. The fuse box is this way."

Hannibal lifts the bags and moves towards the small kitchen area. “I will leave that in your capable hands, William.”

With a nod, Will trails behind Chiyoh; his eyes filled with childlike curiosity and excitement as he takes in every detail of his surroundings.

Chiyoh inexplicitly produces a small, sturdy toolbox and places it on the table.

Will shakes his head in disbelief. "You never cease to amaze me," he comments as he opens it to reveal an assortment of meticulously arranged tools.

Holding the flashlight steady, Chiyoh watches as Will untwists the fuse box panel. The only sounds that can be heard are the continuous hum of the torch and the metallic clinks of the tools as Will goes about his work.

A few moments pass in silence before Will glances at her and asks, “How long do you think we will be here?”

“Depends,” she states evenly.

“On what?”

"On several factors,” she says cooly. Then, after a brief pause, “Are you planning to leave with Hannibal?"

Will remains silent, his attention focusing solely on the task at hand—replacing the defective fuse. Chiyoh's sharp gaze pierces the back of his skull as if she could somehow extract the answer from him.

"Chiyoh, would you be able to do me a favour?" He asks quietly, his hands momentarily pausing from their work.

Impassive and mute, Chiyoh remains fixed in place. The flickering lights create ever-changing shadows on her face, concealing her thoughts and emotions from scrutiny.

Will glances at her briefly and says, "Could you get me a few things from my old place?"

“What things?”

Will turns to face her and shrugs, “Some stuff that belonged to my dad,” then gesturing casually with the screwdriver as if it is an afterthought, “…and a tin.”

“A tin?”

"Yes," Will replies, diverting his attention to the fuse box. Suddenly, a gentle hum of electricity fills the cottage, bathing it in light. He carefully returns the screwdriver to its place in the box and closes the lid. "It belonged to my mum."

She tilts her head slightly, considering him before she speaks,  "I will require a map that details the layout and location of the property."

“Of course, everything I need is in my…the shed. There is also a bottle of Whiskey…it was the brand Hannibal had in his study….hard to get ....when I saw it….cost a fucking fortune, but I just had to get it. You know, just in case-” Will abruptly falls silent, his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment as he realises he has been rambling.

"I will do my best," Chiyoh says softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. With the toolbox in hand, she heads back into the cottage.

“Chiyoh.”

She suddenly stops, tilting her head slightly but keeping her back turned to him—her hand flexes around the toolbox handle.

“If you can only manage to bring one thing back," Will says, hesitantly biting his lip, "let it be the tin. The tin is the only thing that matters."

Chiyoh nods and continues on her way.

**********

Lying paralysed on the floor, Will gazes up at Hannibal, who towers above him. He attempts to speak, but only a weak, strangled sound emerges, blood filling his mouth, obstructing his throat. His eyes are drawn to the spike protruding from his chest as if he were a butterfly pinned to a board.

Hannibal paces slowly around him, watching Will struggle with a detached curiosity. Picking up an axe, Hannibal walks over to a wall where several people are hanging by chains–his father, mother, Molly, Walter, Beverley, and Abigail. With a deliberate and unhurried gait, he moves from one to the other, dismembering each with calculated brutality before discarding the parts casually aside, “You will have no one but me. There will only be me. You are me as I am you. There is only us. Everyone will die so that we may conquer the world alone.”

Will jolts awake, his body drenched in sweat and trembling so intensely that he struggles to free himself from the tangled blankets. Desperately, he attempts to tear them off, but his uncooperative hands hinder his efforts.

"Will?" Hannibal's voice floats around him, groggy with sleep.

Feeling Hannibal tug at the sheets and touch his arm, Will roughly pushes his hands away,  "Don't fucking touch me," he snaps.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hannibal asks, ignoring the fiery glare that Will directs towards him.

“What?”

“Your nightmare?”

“Why?”

“It may help.”

“Since when do you help ?” Will snides, dragging his hands through his hair.

Hannibal dips his head, seeking eye contact, “I’m your friend, Will, I-”

Will deliberately looks away, denying him. “You are not my friend,” he sneers, “you destroyed my life.”

“You would have destroyed mine,” Hannibal says, “It could be considered self-defence.”

“You knew I was close to catching you,” Will hisses through clenched teeth, “You feared for your freedom.”

Hannibal remains silent, only his clenched jaw revealing his inner tension. He subtly tilts his chin, hoping to conceal his unease.

Will intrigued by Hannibal's overt display of discomfort comes to a sudden realisation, “That’s not what you meant, is it?”

Hannibal clears his throat and says, “My feelings…they…it was becoming inconvenient.”

Will wearily drags his hands down his face. "Inconvenient," he mutters with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“The Fates have a mischievous nature and often find a way to disrupt our lives when we are least expecting it and least prepared.”

Will’s lips curl into a cruel smirk. "Disruptive and inconvenient," he sneers, enunciating each word as if bitter on his tongue.

“Delightfully so,” Hannibal says, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Will groans as he lets his head fall back and grimaces at the ceiling.

Hannibal can’t resist stealing a furtive look at him, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability flickering across his face.

"Why Bedelia?" Will asks abruptly.

Hannibal is caught off guard and takes a moment to answer, “I would have preferred it be you, Will,” looking off to the side, he adds, “However, you preferred me in a jail cell.”

“It wasn’t like that. I-” Will closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Did you fuck her?” he asks bluntly.

Hannibal tilts his head to look directly at him, “Did you fuck your wife?”

Will slumps back into the pillows, “Evasion, doctor.”

“Maieutics. Socrates believed the questioner already knows the answer; they wish to hear it spoken out loud.”

With a huff of frustration, Will roughly jams a pillow between his bent arm and cheek, his hand forming a fist beneath it. “Who gives a shit, anyway.”

“You.”

“I don’t.” Will shrugs, “I’ve actually reached a whole new level of not giving a fuck, and it’s honestly inspiring,” as he speaks, his mouth stretches into a deranged grin.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, “I’m seeing no evidence of that.”

Will groans as he clumsily readjusts his position, draping his free arm across his eyes, “Why didn’t you kill her?”

“Why would I want her dead? She is a friend."

“A friend with benefits.” Will’s voice drips with disdain.

“Yes, our friendship was mutually beneficial.”

“Did you fuck her?” Will asks again, his nails boring into his palms, almost breaking skin as he watches Hannibal intently from beneath his arm.

Hannibal pursues his lips, “I considered it.” Pausing momentarily, he catches Will's eye before adding, “However, regardless of her clear indication that she was amenable to such an arrangement, I declined her advancements.”

Will visibly relaxes and then, realising that Hannibal has noticed, tries to play it off with forced nonchalance: “You should have killed her.”

“Why?”

“She’s a bitch.”

“What did dear Bedelia do to warrant such a status, I wonder?” Hannibal inquires, his eyes sparkling with amusement as they rest upon Will.

“She…she’s a smug, arrogant…smartass..” Will turns his head onto the pillow, feeling suddenly self-conscious and exposed.

“So am I…apparently.”

“Well, I did try to kill you,” Will says with a shrug.

“And you failed. As I failed to kill you, and we both know why that was. However, we are speaking of Bedelia. Why does she, in particular, deserve such a fate?”

“She’s the reason…” Will rolls onto his back, “she’s the reason you got caught.”

Hannibal dips his head, concealing his sly smile, “Bedelia was always extremely resourceful.”

Will propels himself forward, his face twisted with irritation, “She set in motion the events that led to you going to prison, Hannibal! Why are you not angry?”

Leaning closer, Will continues, “She made sure the FBI found you in Florence, who helped Pazzi make the connection with Il Mostro and Dr Fell, who tipped off Mason, who…” Will waves his hand dismissively through the air, signalling that Hannibal is aware of the rest of the story.

“What a mischievous minx Dr Du Maurier is”, Hannibal remarks with a touch of jollity.

With a groan, Will falls back onto the bed, pulling the pillow over his face.

Hannibal gazes down at him, his expression softening, while his fingers slowly move closer to Will's prone form, “I surrendered because of you, Will, and for you.”

Will moves the pillow to one side and looks at him. “That was not…what I wanted.”

“How remiss of me, of course,” Hannibal frowns,” you followed me to Florence, intending to end my life.”

“I didn’t want to kill you; I wanted to mark you as you had marked me.” Will clutches the pillow firmly against his chest, his voice tinted with sadness, “I owed you a scar.”

Hannibal shifts his position to face him directly. His hands yearned to reach out and touch him. “Will you stay with me, Will?”

As they lock eyes, the intensity of Will's blue gaze causes Hannibal's pulse to quicken. Without breaking their eye contact, Will sits up and leans in until his lips graze his ear, "Make me stay." he purrs, "Say something sweet, tender, and untrue, and make me."

Hannibal's head droops, lulled by the soothing cadence of his voice, until their foreheads meet. "Will," he murmurs.

“Then plunge a knife into my gut and leave me for dead.” Will sneers as he launches himself to his feet, catching Hannibal violently in the chin with his shoulder.

“I'm sick of running head first into the same fucking brick wall…over and over again.” Will paces frantically, emanating erratic energy as his bare feet slap against the floorboards, ”I need clarity; I need to know what way I’m facing.”

Hannibal’s eyes track his movements, “While we must always seek the truth, we need to be prepared to face it when we find it.”

Will shakes his head distractedly and points his finger at Hannibal, “You killed Bev.”

“You sent her to me.”

Will pauses a moment to look at him, “No. I specifically told her to stay away from you.”

“You knew she would not listen.” Hannibal counters.

Will drags his hands through his hair while shaking his head.

Hannibal lowers his head, attempting to catch Will's gaze, “You knew Ms Katz would pursue me, Will.”

Suddenly, Will freezes in place, his gaze drifting away from his immediate surroundings and fixating on a point in the distance, “No, no, that's not true. It can’t be. Why are you saying that? You’re trying to…”

Hannibal shifts, as if he is about to rise, but ultimately decides against it, “For us to move past this, honesty is crucial. It is not my intention to subject you to torture.”

“This isn't torture,” Will spits out the words as if they were poison, “this is vivisection. I’m experiencing it from the perspective of a lab rat.”

“You knew Ms Katz would pursue me, didn’t you?”

“She was my friend; why would-” Will's hand awkwardly grazes his mouth as his eyes take on a distant, glazed look.

“Denial is often the preface to justification.”

“Are you saying I am complicit in your crimes?”

“As I yours. From the moment we met, the other has dictated our actions.”

“Not me.” Will's voice is low and broken, “I thought I had found a friend.”

Hannibal shifts again, desperate to reach out, but once again refrains, “You had-”

“You killed Abigail.” Will interrupts him, pointing a finger in his face., “Are you saying I am responsible…” Tears well in his eyes as his voice quivers, and his face crumples with agony.

“In a way.”

“How?” Will demands, lunging forward, spit and tears spilling onto Hannibal as he towers over him.

“You rejected us.”

“I didn’t know she was alive.”

“You did, but you refused to see it. You protected yourself by denying yourself.”

“You killed her because you are petty, selfish…and…and angry.”

“What is anger if not a reflection of our vanities and jealousies.”

“You didn’t have to kill her.”

“I know,” Hannibal says softly, “but despite my best efforts, I have been unable to find a way to undo it.”

Will’s eyes, brimming with tears, dart wildly about Hannibal’s face, looking for any indication of deception, “You regret it.”

“The line between sacrifice and slaughter has become blurred,” Hannibal says sadly.

“You’re fucking hopeless!” Will snaps, turning away and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I’m not without hope.”

Will suddenly comes to a halt, his back to Hannibal. With a hiss, he asks, "What are your hopes, Doctor ?"

“You. Us. Together”

“Just us.” Scenes from Will's nightmare flood his mind, compelling him to tightly squeeze his eyes shut in an attempt to banish them. “The lies we tell ourselves.” he scoffs, turning around to face Hannibal, “I find it interesting-”

“Do you want to know what I find interesting, Will?” Hannibal is suddenly on his feet, his eyes blazing, “That with all the rage, anger, and accusations you are laying at my feet, you have failed to mention that I sent a dragon to slay your wife.”

The room around Will starts to dip sideways, “I-”

“I would have thought that that would have been at the very top of your list of accusations, worthy of a mention at the very least.” Hannibal closes the distance in just two purposeful strides and looms over him, “You appear to be more interested in my sex life and whether I will kill a woman who pulled your pigtails.”

Will begins to speak, but Hannibal promptly raises his hand to silence him.

“Don't insult me with excuses of trauma-induced denial or the horror is still too distressing to discuss.”

Hannibal crowds Will against the table, his eyes flashing, “We both know why you have neglected to mention her, don‘t we, Will?”

Will nervously averts his gaze, anxiously biting his lip while gripping the table's edge for stability.

“You simply have not thought of her,“ Hannibal shrugs, his lips twisting into a snide smile, “not once since Uncle Jack landed on your doorstep clutching a folder full of dead families.”

“I wanted to help, I felt obligated to those families.”

“It was not an obligation, Will; it was an opportunity,” Hannibal leans closer,  their chests flush, “An opportunity you had been waiting on for a very long time.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s breath is hot on his neck, “You didn’t care about the consequences. You were very single-minded in what you wanted.”

“And what was that?”

“To see me and to brandish your weapon of choice,” Hannibal seizes Will's left hand and raises it to his face, “This!”

Will clenches his jaw, his eyes fixated on the gold band encircling his finger. The ring feels heavy and suffocating. Emotions surge through his body like an electric current, pulsating with an intense mixture of anger and frustration.

“If you had even a shred of respect for your placeholders, you would have removed that ring. Yet you continue to wear it, not as a symbol of your love and devotion but as a weapon to torture me.”

Hannibal lifts Will's hand to his face and gently caresses it with his nose, whispering, “I rather enjoyed  your slutty little performance when you visited me in prison, brandishing it like a knife, slicing away at me with each wave of your hand.”

“You weaponized her and her son the same way you have weaponized that piece of metal on your finger.” Hannibal lets his hand drop, “As a means to hurt me. That is your design.”

“You think…you actually think I got married and set up a home, a fucking life with Molly…just to hurt you?”

“Yes”

“The fucking arrogance,” Will shakes his head. “Is it so hard to believe I was happy? That I was content? I thought you said we needed to be honest.”

“Denial certainly has its allure, particularly for those skilled in the art of deception.”

“What do you want? Do you want me to say I hated every minute of it, that I felt nothing for Molly and Walter? That I felt like I was hollowed out, gutted. That a piece of me was missing? That I yearned for you every single fucking day. That the petty concerns and trivialities of those around me would drive me into such a rage I often fantasized about crushing their skulls.”

“Stop pretending you had moved on when we both know you were just standing in one place, waiting, just as I was.”

“This is bullshit. Your DA was right. You really are fucking crazy.”

“If you were so intent on having a normal life, moving on, cutting all ties. Tell me this: why did you send Dr Bloom your wedding photographs?”

“Alana is my friend.”

“Is she?” Hannibal's face twists into a snide frown, “A long time ago, maybe, but not now, not then.”

“Did she show them to you?”

“You know she did.”

“I take it you didn’t handle it well.”

“You know I didn’t.”

Will smirks. “Threw a diva-level shit-fit, so I believe.”

Hannibal tilts his head, “What an interesting reaction from the man who wanted a normal life. The man who wanted to save lives. The man who wanted to do what was right and to live a law-abiding dull existence with his ready-made family.” Hannibal circles him, “Is smugness and delight, considered the sane, healthy and normal,” Hannibal makes air quotes with his fingers, “response to finding out you are responsible for the maiming and death of innocents so that you can indulge your petty tendencies?”

Will closes his eyes and swallows deeply when Hannibal leans in closer still, the words pouring into his ear, “I wonder what the boys at the Auto shop or Hank and Barb from the Hardware store and his blinkered wife, would think of this Will Graham, the real Will Graham.”

Taking a deep breath, Hannibal noses his curls, “So I ask you this, husband of Molly Foster, stepfather of Walter Foster. What's the difference between me wanting Molly dead and you asking for Bedelia's head on a spike?”

Will pushes past him, increasing the distance between them. “Molly is a good person. It’s not her fault she…” Will places his head against the wall, cool against his skin. He knocks his head against the wall, comforted by the feel of it. Solid. Real.

“Is it not her fault she married a monster masquerading as a man? It's not her fault she couldn’t see the lies behind the smile you would fix on your face, like another item of clothing. Did you practise it in the mirror each morning, Will? Getting the right balance of devoted family man and personable, unassuming neighbour? Playing happy families, playing house whilst the monster lay dormant waiting and hungry. What petty creatures we are, with our self-imposed prisons, my cell, and your marriage.”

“Shut up,” he whispers, tears stinging his eyes.

“Tell me, Will, when you were intimate with your wife, did you think of me?”

Will punches the wall and snaps, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!.”

Hannibal grins as he takes a step closer, “You would have been disappointed if I hadn’t tried to kill her. You wanted a romantic gesture; how could I deny you?.”

“She doesn’t deserve to die.”

“Perhaps, but she took what wasn’t hers to take. Her lack of awareness of this fact is irrelevant.”

“It’s very fucking relevant, doctor.”

“I disagree.”

“She doesn’t deserve to die because this is not her fault. I destroyed someone good, someone decent. All she did was care for me. Now her life is in ruins because of me.”

“You feel guilt but not remorse, Will.” Hannibal states bluntly, “How did you expect it to end? You knew we would not survive separation, that we would somehow find our way back to the other, yet you still married her.”

“I wanted to be normal.”

"But you are not normal, Will," Hannibal says. "And why would you seek to be when you are so much more?"

"I make no apology for how I tried to repair what you broke" Will’s bloodied fingers trace the contours of the wall.

Hannibal reaches out as if to touch him but retracts his hand just as Will turns around.

Leaning against the wall, Will says, “She does not deserve to die, Hannibal.”

“But Bedelia does?”

“Yes,” Will snaps,” and I told you why.”

“You told me why I should want her dead. You did not tell me why you want her dead.”

Silence envelops them like a thick blanket.

“It was supposed to be me,” Will whispers, his shoulders slumping as his head falls back against the wall.

“It could have been, but you made your choice.” Hannibal takes a step towards him.

“I had no choice. I thought you had killed Abigail…and then… you did.”

“An eye for an eye. A heart for a heart. How the Gods exact their vengeance.”

“Did you ever care for Abigail, or was she just a lure to reel me in?” Will edges closer, watching him from beneath his eyelashes.

“In the beginning, she was a means to an end,” Hannibal sighs, clasping his hands behind his back, “but I did grow fond of her. However, as they say, I was determined to cut off my nose to spite my face.”

Will lets out a hollow, scornful laugh. “I guess I'm not surprised. You have the tenacity to destroy what you claim to love: me, Abigail, your sister.” Will grins as he sees Hannibal flinch, so he pushes further, “What would she think of her big brother? Her big brother, who failed to save her but ate her flesh. Was she just another casualty to your ego-”

He didn’t see Hannibal move. He only felt the grip on his shirt, the impact as his back hit the wall, and the length of Hannibal’s arm across his throat.

“You need to be more careful, William,” Hannibal says, his eyes burning, mostly rage but laced with something else. Pain.

A spark of arousal spikes in Will’s stomach, urging him to push harder. “You need to be more frightening, Doctor.” he leers. “You don’t scare me, I have seen behind the curtain you are nothing more than an old man hiding behind a bedtime story.”

They stare at each other, and then the pressure on Will’s throat lessens.

Hannibal pulls away, “You use my affection for you against me,” he whispers, then turning away he adds, “I think it would be wise if we both got some sleep.”

Hannibal reaches for his arm, and Will flinches with such violence he slams back into the wall. “Don't tell me what to do.”

“I will bring you some tea,” Hannibal says calmly.

“Planning on drugging me, doctor? You can’t stand the fact that someone got to be with me the only way that was denied to you. That’s the real reason you want Molly dead. Whereas I went to Molly willingly, you know you would have to drug me and take it by force-”

A stillness settles in the air around Hannibal. His mind an all-consuming blank void of white noise and freefalling emotions. His body takes on an uncanny and statuesque stillness—every muscle tenses, held in suspension, while his breathing becomes shallow and almost imperceptible.

Instantly regretting his words, Will attempts to reach out to him, but Hannibal brushes past him as if in a trance.

“Hannibal, I didn’t…” Will’s voice is pained, his face drained of colour.

Hannibal walks to the couch with rigid mechanical movements and retrieves his coat. After slipping it on, he sits down to put on his shoes.

“Hannibal, Please…”

Hannibal ignores him, refusing to even look in his direction. He smooths his hair back and walks towards the door. Will steps in front of him, blocking his way. Hannibal looks through him, his eyes cold and hard, both anger and hurt bubbling through his veins.

Will desperately grabs him by the arms, “Hannibal, please-”

“Remove your hands from me.” Hannibal's voice sends a chilling sensation down Will's spine, causing his stomach to churn.

As Will releases him, a wave of finality washes over him, sending a surge of panic coursing through his veins, “Please, Hannibal…”

Hannibal looks at him, and for a brief moment, his eyes soften, but that quickly dissipates and is replaced by a blazing rage. “Get out of my way, Will.”

Will steps away in defeat while Hannibal proceeds with determined strides. He pauses in the doorway, “Those blue eyes. They damned me forever.” he says softly, then disappears into the darkness letting the door slam behind him.

**********

The porch announces Hannibal's return with a subtle creak. As he steps into view, his form is bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, resembling an ethereal spotlight. The gentle radiance delicately outlines the contours of his silhouette but offers no indication of his mood.

Will watches him ascend the steps, his breath catching in his throat, before cautiously opening the door and stepping out onto the porch.

Hannibal is sitting on the bench with his hands in his pockets, gazing into the darkness. “I think I would have waited for you my entire life,” he says, without taking his eyes from the darkness before him, “and I believe you would have let me.”

Will tugs on his sleeves, suddenly aware of how exposed and vulnerable he feels, wearing nothing but boxers and an oversized sweater.

Hannibal swallows deeply, “There is so much cruelty in holding on.”

Fidgeting, Will places one bare foot over the other as he searches for something to say - something that will improve the situation rather than worsen it.

“You are a thief, Will Graham.” Hannibal says with defiance, “You have stolen everything from me: the air from my lungs, the heart in my chest, all the thoughts in my head.”

Tilting his head in his direction, he adds, “The entirety of what you have stolen is yours, and if I stay, I know I will beg you to take more until there is nothing left.”

“Hannibal-” Will approaches him but stops dead in his tracks when Hannibal swiftly raises his hand—a warning.

“I no longer delight in this game, Will,” Hannibal says quietly, his eyes glassy in the moonlight, “I refuse to tolerate another rejection; I have no stomach for it. My masochistic tendencies have a limit.”

Bowing his head, Hannibal continues, “You are the only person to have ever truly known me; now, you will not know me at all.”

“Hannibal, please…”

“I'm not going to miss you.”

Will feels his stomach churn. No, No, No.

“I'm not going to find you.”

The porch feels unstable beneath Will’s feet. as his stomach tightens. The dimly lit porch begins to spin, causing Will's heart to race with an eerie familiarity.

“I'm not going to look for you.”

"Please," Will is unsure if he spoke the word aloud. As his vision begins to fade, he feels a strange sensation as if his head might detach from his shoulders.

“I don't want to know where you are or what you do.”

Will’s heart begins to batter his rib cage. “No, no, please…”

“I don't want to think about you anymore, Will Graham.”

Hannibal stands, “I need to remember who I am; I am not merciful, I am not kind, and I am not afraid to make you wish I was. No one will see me again and live.”

Will grabs desperately at him, but Hannibal brushes him off with ease.

"I spare your life, Will, solely because I lack the desire to take it. However, I cannot guarantee that I will show the same mercy if we encounter each other in the future — a scenario I strongly advise against."

“This is not how it ends. It can’t be, Hannibal, please” Will falls to his knees.

Hannibal adjusts his coat, looking out into the darkness. “Chiyoh will return soon. She will leave you somewhere you will be found.”

“I didn’t mean it…I just wanted to hurt you.”

“You succeeded”

“Hannibal-”

“Goodbye, Will.”

Hannibal walks slowly away, gradually merging with the darkness until he vanishes completely.

In a panic, Will throws himself from the porch and follows him. His eyes are wild as they struggle to adjust to the darkness; his heart is pounding.

The absence of light and the dense tangle of trees and undergrowth make it challenging to maintain a clear sense of direction. Yet, he pushes on, stumbling blindly over obstacles that materialise out of the shadows.

The disorienting labyrinth of woods hinders his bearings. Each step becomes a gamble as the terrain beneath his feet transforms from solid ground to loose undergrowth.

The rustling of leaves amplifies the intense quiet, exasperating his sense of bewilderment, but he pushes on, desperate, until the ground beneath his feet suddenly gives way, and he finds himself plummeting into a sharp coldness that engulfs him—water.

The initial shock of the cold water snatches his breath from his body. Panic sets in as the weight of his drenched clothes and the snake-like foliage drags him down into the murky depths.

He grasps blindly for what feels like an eternity before a profound stillness descends upon him. His struggles cease as his body succumbs to the embrace of the water.

The boundaries between the natural world and the watery abyss blur, and the very fabric of his consciousness begins to unravel. Time becomes a nebulous concept in this ethereal state, slipping away from Will's grasp.

Chapter Text

Then

The Cottage

When Will’s eyes flutter open, he is greeted with a display of vibrant wildflowers at his bedside.

His gaze then falls on the slumbering figure of Hannibal - lying in a chair positioned so close to the bed that his knees are pressed against the edge.

Without moving or opening his eyes, Hannibal says, "I am often troubled by a dream where I attempt to embrace you, but in your frantic need to escape, you tear off your own arm." 

His words carry a vulnerability that suggests remnants of the nightmare still linger within him.

Will's stomach twists with a tangled mix of anticipation and anxiety. Uncertainty clings to him as he wonders whether this is an offer of redemption or if Hannibal is subtly implying he still wants Will to leave.

"I'm sorry," Will's voice emerges from his throat in a husky croak, tinging the air between them with an unspoken heaviness as he looks at Hannibal with wide eyes.

Hannibal responds with an almost imperceptible hum, his hand clutching the armrest tightly.

“I didn’t-” Will's voice trails off as he struggles to push the words from his dry and scratchy throat.

“Didn’t what, Will?” Hannibal asks wearily as he lets his head roll back against the chair.

“I didn’t mean it.”

"Do you often say things that you don't mean, Will?"

“I said it to hurt you,” Will whispers, his eyes welling up with tears.

“Why?”

“Because I knew you would let me.” The words slip from his lips before he can even consciously register what they mean.

Hannibal raises his hand and points a long, slender finger towards the ceiling, “And that is your power, Will.” Letting it drop back into his lap, he opens his eyes and leans forward, “Do you think me a monster?”

Will remains silent, his mind swirling with possible responses. My monster.

“I asked you a question, Will.”

Will tilts his chin, his voice firm, “Do you wish you had killed me that night in your kitchen?”

“Yes.” Hannibal answers without hesitation.

Will squeezes his eyes shut, a sharp pain in his heart jolting him with the realisation that he may have pushed Hannibal too far, now out of his reach.

“It occurred to me,” Hannibal casually rotates his hand through the air, “had I taken your life, I would be liberated from these persistent thoughts of you. Ending this turmoil that has been on the verge of consuming me. Choosing not to do so can only be described as an act of self-sadism.”

With a quivering fragility in his voice, Will reaches out for him and whispers, "Hannibal..."

Hannibal leans back in the chair, his gaze wandering towards the window. His hand gently cradles his chin.

As Will watched the morning sun delicately illuminate Hannibal's face, he found himself gripping the blanket tightly in his fist. His mind raced, wondering whether his attempt at contact had been purposefully ignored or simply missed.

"I thought the need to love was an illusion," Hannibal admits, his voice both vulnerable and uncertain, "that by rejecting it, I would attain true freedom."

Will nervously plucks at the blanket as every word uttered by Hannibal slowly chips away at his hope and pierces his heart.

Hannibal's lips lift at the corners, forming a wistful smile. "But then, you walked into Jack Crawford's office, and a wave of familiarity washed over me. At that moment, I was struck by a sudden and very human clarity: 'Ah, so it is you, the one I have been unknowingly seeking.'"

"You are more human than most." Will says softly,  "You feel everything so much deeper, and you don’t take it for granted."

Hannibal's gaze gently falls upon him, his eyes shimmering with a touch of sadness. “It had been a very long time since I thought of myself as human, but meeting you made me realise how achingly human I truly am.” Hannibal looks up at the ceiling for a moment and sighs deeply, “A poignant reminder that it hurts to love. To love is to allow yourself to be flayed alive and let the other walk off with your skin.”

As Will watches, a number of emotions flicker across his face - sadness, longing, and despair.

Taking a moment to compose himself, he continues in a soft, pensive tone, "Meeting you was a revelation. It stirred up emotions in me that I had long thought were buried. It made me question my own humanity and confront the vulnerability that comes with it."

Will clenches his hands at his sides, the need to touch Hannibal overwhelming him.

With a faint smile, Hannibal continues, "For you, I willingly placed a blade to my own throat... and told you where to cut."

Hannibal's gaze, once sharp and intense, now appears to drift into emptiness while his words linger in the space between them.

When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper, "In my devotion to you, I became both the executioner and the victim; I willingly surrendered my freedom for you."

He relives the moment with a trance-like intensity, the pain etched on his face. "I offered you my life, my heart, my soul. I gave you the power and the means to destroy me." His voice cracks and he takes a moment to gather himself. "I believed in the strength of our bond. I believed you would come to me. I believed we would be together."

Will's throat constricts with a sudden wave of emotion, creating an overwhelming tightness that renders him mute despite his desperate attempts to speak.

Hannibal sighs, “My love for you was intended to make you flourish not crush you, Will.”

“I know…I know that…now.” Will whispers. As Hannibal's shattered eyes meet his, Will's voice trembles and his heart pounds in his chest. “You were supposed to run, Hannibal…I would have followed…why didn't you run?”

Hannibal gazes at him, his sorrowful eyes tracing every contour of his face, “I needed to make a gesture. I needed to make sure you would never doubt how I feel for you again.”

Will shuts his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath, struggling to endure the agony coursing through his body. "What a mess we made trying to prove we didn’t need each other." Finally, he surrenders to the tears and allows them to flow, confessing, "So much pain. So much damage...the wounds are still gaping and raw."

“If we are to move on, we must deal with our wounds. The past has to be lived with, not in, Will.”

A quiet calm settles over the room, allowing both of them a brief moment to compose themselves and gather their thoughts.

“You were right, you know,” Wills says, turning onto his side.

“I often am,” Hannibal smiles, tilting his head, “I will need you to be more specific.”

“I was…am jealous of Bedelia.”

Hannibal nods his head. “In the end, all we want is for someone to choose us. Over everyone else. Under any circumstances. Just for once, I had hoped to be the poem and not the poet.”

“I chose you, Hannibal,” Will whispers.

“For now,” Hannibal says sadly, looking away, unable to bear the desperate look in Will’s eyes.

Chiyoh strides into the room, gracefully balancing a tray and a hefty tote bag slung across her shoulder.

Hannibal is immediately on his feet and reaches for the tray, but Chiyoh shakes her head and swerves out of his grasp, “Hannibal, would you be so kind as to make some tea?” she asks.

“Of course,” with a slight bow, Hannibal leaves the room.

With one eye on the open door, Will whispers, “Did you get the...stuff?”

"The tin?" Chiyoh says coolly as she arranges the tray on Will’s lap. Yes,” she states evenly, “I also managed to retrieve some of your father’s books, fishing equipment, and whiskey.”

“You are amazing, Chiyoh. Thank you.” Will watches as she places the bag on the floor at the side of the bed, within easy reach.

As he lifts his gaze, he is met with Chiyoh's piercing stare, causing him to flinch. "Will you be staying?" she asks abruptly.

With another glance at the bag, he says, “I don’t want to be apart from him.”

“Knowing what you don't want is sometimes more important than knowing what you do.” Chiyoh clasps her hands in front of her, watching as Will extends his hand towards the bag, hesitates for a moment, and then lifts the spoon to eat the oatmeal Chiyoh has brought him.

“Did you put those there?” Will asks, gesturing towards the flowers with the spoon.

“No,” Chiyoh says simply as she tilts her head at him, a small smile ghosting her lips. “Hannibal did; he has been by your side ever since he found you unconscious.”

“Do you know what happened?” Will asks, around a mouthful of oatmeal.

“Hannibal found you in the woods near the lake. It appears you must have somehow fallen in. What do you remember?”

"I remember," he says, as fragments of the night before resurface; of what he said, of Hannibal's anguished face of chasing Hannibal into the woods - all of it thrashing around in his mind, making his heart ache and his stomach dip. He releases the spoon, allowing it to clatter upon the tray, "I remember following Hannibal into the woods, then falling... the water..." He knits his brow in concentration, "I remember hands. The silhouette of a man. Hannibal must have dragged me from the lake."

“I don’t believe he did, Will.”

Will frowns, confused, “Then how did I get out?”

Chiyoh is silent for a moment, considering the situation, “You must have somehow pulled yourself out and passed out on the ground.”

Her gaze shifts abruptly as if struck by a sudden realisation. Her hands twitch at her sides, and her eyes roam the room, not focusing on anything in particular.

“No, I remember-” Will insists, only to be cut off as Hannibal enters the room with a silver tray containing a teapot and three cups.

“I made some Wild Rose and Birch tea,” Hannibal announces, “both excellent anti-inflammatory analgesic pain relievers. I foraged them just this morning.”

Pausing at the foot of the bed, he inquires, "Chiyoh, would you care to join us?"

Chiyoh, clearly preoccupied, shakes her head and says, "I need to remove the remaining supplies from the car. Please excuse me."

With a pensive look on his face, Hannibal observes her departure, placing the tray on the table alongside the flowers.

"Did you pull me out of the lake, Hannibal?" Will asks, his eyes following Hannibal's stare to the doorway.

“No, Will, I did not,” Hannibal responds absentmindedly, his gaze fixated on the closed door through which Chiyoh had just exited. “I discovered you lying by the lake.”

“I thought I had fallen in,” Will murmurs, his hand dropping instinctively and pulling the bag closer.

The movement immediately captures Hannibal's attention. "Perhaps you did," he mutters, as he observes the bag intently. "What have you got there?"

“Just some stuff that belonged to my dad,” Will says, trying to keep his voice casual, then adds, “I asked Chiyoh to get them for me.”

Hannibal, with a subtle nod of his head, carefully pours the fragrant tea into two delicate cups, his movements seemingly absentminded. After setting one of the cups within Will's easy reach, he smoothly settles back into his chair, his gaze fixed on the door.

Will watches him intently as he drinks his tea; he looks haggard as if he has not slept. He feels his chest tighten, fully aware that he is to blame. In a small, quiet voice, he asks, "Are we OK?"

“No, we're not,” Hannibal says wearily, then after a brief pause, adds tenderly, “But we will be.”

*********

“My dear Chiyoh, I can feel your disapproval piercing into the back of my skull,” Hannibal says as he stirs the soup.

“Not so much disapproval, but concern,” Chiyoh says, leaning back against the counter.

“He is my friend,” Hannibal states, tasting the soup.

“You are not friends.” Chiyoh huffs, folding her arms, “Friends respect each other's freedom; friendship is not processive.”

“I can not explain it to you, Chiyoh,“ Hannibal turns to face her, “for I can not explain it to myself.”

Adding a handful of chopped parsley to the soup, he muses, "Whether he is my salvation or my damnation, I do not know."

“A mistake repeated more than once is a decision, Hannibal,” Chiyoh touches his arm, “You hope for a different outcome this time, but hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it towards possibilities rather than probabilities.”

"I once believed there were only two kinds of love: one worth killing for and one worth dying for," Hannibal’s eyes settle on the simmering pot, his voice tender and sincere, "Our love is one I aspire to live for."

"Can you be certain of his love for you?" Chiyoh challenges, "After all, didn't he marry someone else?"

"Hannibal pauses in his stirring and, with a sigh, lets his head fall back: 'Chiyoh, are you being deliberately belligerent?'"

With a shake of her head, she places one hand on the counter and leans in close, "I know you are determined to engage in this battle, but you need to know whether you are fighting alongside a warrior or a deserter."

Tapping the spoon on the edge of the pot, Hannibal asserts, “When we run, we always end up running towards each other. We are conjoined.”

“You don’t deserve someone who comes back. You deserve someone who stays.” Chiyoh declares firmly, narrowing her eyes at the closed bedroom door, “He will be your undoing, Hannibal.”

“If he be the kiss of death, I'll happily dig my own grave.” Hannibal remarks simply as he wipes his hands on a cloth.

"Hannibal, there are pressing matters that demand your immediate attention," she declares, her hands firmly grasping the edge of the counter. "While I was at Will's home-"

Hannibal's shoulders stiffen as he abruptly halts his task of folding the tea towel.

Chiyoh rolls her eyes and rephrases, “When I was retrieving the items requested by Will, I saw Freddie Lounds.”

"That is to be expected. Ms. Lounds surely aims to secure an interview with Ms. Foster." Hannibal deftly places the tea towel back on its holder.

“No, Hannibal, there is something more to this.”

"If you believe it imperative, please monitor Ms. Lounds by all means. However, I propose another assignment for your consideration."

Chiyoh tilts her chin and purses her lips before asking, "Are you requesting that I keep an eye on Ms. Foster?"

“Indeed.”

“What are you anticipating, Hannibal?” Chiyoh asks, frowning. "I doubt she poses a threat.”

“I just want to make sure she,” Hannibal pauses, casting a glance towards the woods beyond the window, “is not in the family way.”

Chiyoh’s body stiffens, her eyes widening in disbelief, “And what if she is? What do you propose to do then?”

“I have not decided,” Hannibal says casually as he twists the faucet, assessing the temperature of the water.

She fiercely grabs Hannibal’s arm, hissing, “I will not participate in the killing of an infant.”

Hannibal glances at her grip on his arm, and she quickly releases it, “I hold no conviction that such an action shall be necessary, but I feel it is important to address any potential loose ends.”

"Loose ends," Chiyoh whispers incredulously. "What about Ms. Lounds? I suspect she has gained an accomplice."

“What if she has? I am not concerned with her nefarious activities.”

“It's not so much that you are blind as that you are deliberately refusing to see. Your infatuation with Will Graham is causing you to act recklessly and foolishly." Chiyoh firmly grasps his arm and, leaning close, forcefully whispers, "If you didn't pull Will from the lake, then who did?"

"My dearest Chiyoh, you worry far too much," Hannibal murmurs softly, his hand gently cradling her face.

"You need to worry more," she responds, placing a hand over his.

Hannibal dips his head, searching for her eyes, “If the threat you speak of comes to pass, then it will be duly handled.”

"This can only end in the spilling of blood, Hannibal; you must know this."

With a tender smile, he softly murmurs, "Isn't it simply exquisite, to know that Will and I are bound by an inescapable fate, poised for everlasting beauty? Our souls eternally intertwined."

“Hannibal, please-”

“On that day, I will follow my Will into the nether world.”

“Hannibal-”

Raising his hand, he interrupts her, "I will not entertain further discussion on this matter, Chiyoh." As he hands her the bowls, he politely requests, "Could you kindly set the table for lunch?"

*********

Now

The Cabin

Freddie's head hangs limp, swaying back and forth. She can sense the cold touch of something metallic against her chin. It is a container for her to vomit into - and that's precisely what she does.

"I find it odd that you seem to know a lot about events you didn't witness," she states, slurring her words.

Chiyoh looks down at her, a smirk on her face, “You, of all people, accusing me of being an unreliable narrator. You truly are beyond irony, Ms. Lounds.”

A grin spreads across Freddie's face before another violent bout of vomiting suddenly seizes her.

Leaning back to avoid any splash-back, Chiyoh quips, “I do wonder if you would say the same of Captain Robert Walton.”

Freddie blinks up at her with eyes struggling to focus. “What?”

“He is the narrator of Frankenstein,” Chiyoh states as she wipes her mouth with a damp cloth.

Freddie bursts into laughter, her head swaying, while vomit trickles down the corner of her mouth.

Chiyoh shakes her head in annoyance as she returns to her chair, "The time Hannibal and I kept vigil over Will Graham's corpse was spent exchanging stories."

Freddie flashes a grin, her eyes gleaming with glassy delight, "Rather fitting, wouldn't you agree?"

“On the contrary, sharing tales is customary at wakes.”

“Nooooo,” Freddie vehemently shakes her head, her curls sticking to her damp cheeks, “I mean the Frankenstein reference.”

“How so?”

“Man believing they are Gods and creating monsters.”

Chiyoh narrows her eyes and tilts her chin, “It also explores how we tend to judge others based on ultimately arbitrary parameters and…revenge.”

"Yeah?" Freddie sighs, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

“How in the end it is inevitably fruitless and often the prelude to self-destruction as it is often the last resort of those with nothing left to lose.”

“Bummer,” Freddie’s head droops onto her chest, “On the plus side when you are done, you will be the only one left alive, the winner. I wonder what your prize will be.”

“There are no victors in this fight. I will just be a survivor. No reward exists that can replace what I have lost.”

“I could write your story…make a fucking fortune.” Freddie throws her head back, blinking rapidly to regain her focus.

Chiyoh observes her with detached amusement, “I’m sorry, Ms Lounds, but you currently do not possess the time or the resources to undertake the endeavour of writing a book.”

“Why didn’t you tell Hannibal about the tin?” Freddie asks abruptly.

After carefully reflecting on the unexpected question, Chiyoh assertively remarks, "It was not my place to tell him."

“You could have eased Hannibal’s mind about Will’s feelings,” Freddie snides, raising an eyebrow as she adds, “but you chose not to.”

“What are you suggesting, Ms Lounds?”

“That you had your own agenda, you knew that together they were fucked, and you hoped to save Hannibal by splitting them up, didn’t you?”

“What do you know of the tin?” As Chiyoh glares at Freddie, a sudden realisation dawns on her, “Wait! You were there at Will's property the same day I was. To what purpose?”

Freddie smiles, “Avoiding the question, ha, typical.”

Chiyoh leans forward, a sly smile on her face, “Hannibal and I were not the only ones keeping vigil that night. There was a third. I didn't catch his name. He was in rather an unfortunate state, so he wouldn't have been able to tell me, even if I had been so inclined to ask.”

Freddie visibly flinches as Chiyoh’s eyes bore into her, “Maybe you would like to talk about him?”

Freddie shakes her head slightly as her gaze drops, suddenly she heaves again and vomits slowly oozes out of her mouth onto her chin and then her chest.

Chiyoh watches with a detached yet curious gaze as she vomits once more, this time onto her lap.

Finally, Chiyoh rises and retrieves a basin along with a cloth. “Tell me, Ms Lounds, what was the reason for your presence on Will Graham’s property?”

“After the trial, I kept tabs on Will,” Freddie says as Chiyoh gently tilts her chin with her finger, tending to the task of cleaning her face.

“You stalked him?”

“If you like,” Freddie groans, “Anyway, I didn’t buy the whole getting married and moving on bullshit. I knew there was something off about it. He was just going through the motions, PT meetings, football games, barbeques, fucking church fetes. Nah! I was not convinced.”

"Why not?" inquires Chiyoh as she wrings out the cloth.

After a brief pause, Freddie says, “His eyes…they were dead, empty. He was smiling…but he just wasn’t there. He was flesh and blood. You could touch him, see him, hear him…but he just wasn’t there.”

Chiyoh considers this and then asks, “What about the tin?”

Freddie smiles and leans forward, “When he was looking in that tin was when the real Will Graham showed himself. His mask would slip right off.”

Even though they are alone, Freddie instinctively scans her surroundings before continuing, “At least twice a week, he would go off fishing alone with only the dogs for company. But he didn’t fish, he would just sit there with that tin…looking through the contents and…”

"And what?" Chiyoh releases the cloth from her hand, letting it fall onto the table.

“He would cry, cry like a fucking baby.” Freddie laughs, “Lovesick fool.”

“I imagine you, unable to contain your curiosity, broke in and viewed the contents of the tin.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. He kept it under a loose floorboard in his shed.”

“Yes, I know,” Chiyoh murmurs.

“Yeah,” Freddie nods, then leaning in her voice conspiratorial, “That’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“The monster was merely biding its time, waiting for the moment when it would be reunited with its mate.”

Chiyoh nods in understanding as a smile graces her lips. "That's when you realised you could finally exact your revenge, isn't it, Ms. Lounds?"

“Revenge on Will Graham?” she scoffs, “Why would I waste my energy?”

“Revenge on Hannibal,” Chiyoh says defiantly. "And why would that be?"

Freddie's eyes widen in horror and distress as she stammers, "I...I..."

“Come now, Ms. Lounds. Time is a factor.” Chiyoh nods toward the IV.

Freddie, her voice barely a whisper,  “He killed my daddy.”

~v~

Chapter Text

Twenty-seven years ago

Talbot County

Beneath the blazing sun, the ancient gas pumps stand like silent sentinels, their weathered panels glimmering dully in the harsh light.

Each pump is a canvas of time, displaying a patchwork of faded, peeling colours—once vibrant reds and lush greens—now mere whispers of their former brilliance.

The air is thick and humid, filled with the scent of hot asphalt that mingles with the sharp, metallic aroma of sun-baked steel.

The car screeches to a sudden stop, its tyres skidding on the gravel and sending a spray of loose stones into the air. A cloud of dust billows outward, briefly enveloping the vehicle in a haze, while the engine's hum fades into silence.

A young girl with vibrant red curls leans out the passenger window, her cherubic face cradled in her folded arms. The warm breeze tousles her hair, making her fiery locks dance like flickering flames. She steals a glance at the woman in the driver’s seat—her aunt—whose grip on the steering wheel is tense and unwavering. The knuckles of her hand turn white as she engages in a heated conversation with her boyfriend on the phone, her brow furrowing with each word.

The girl tumbles clumsily out of the car, her small hands gripping a soft, knitted rabbit close to her chest. At the same moment, a man strides out of the gas station, each step confident and deliberate. The sun dips low behind him, casting an orange glow that shrouds him in shadow, revealing only the outline of his distinctive silhouette.

Squinting, she watches him approach until he finally comes to a stop in front of her.

As he leans in, she catches a glimpse of his amber eyes, which glow red under the savage sun. "What do you call this little fellow?" he asks, his accent rich and luxurious as his fingers gently graze the toy rabbit.

"Porkchop," she mumbles, her head tilting slightly, captivated by his voice's melodic and unusual quality.

Straightening up, he overtly scans the courtyard before asserting, "Pork originates from the pig."

"I know that," she huffs, narrowing her eyes at him, prompting him to chuckle softly.

His sharp, crooked teeth glint in the sun as he extends his hand, "Would Porkchop like a lollipop?"

Eagerly, she accepts the offered treat, "Thanks, mister," flashing him a bright smile.

With a slight bow, he says, "You are most welcome, little girl." With an effortless grace, he makes his way towards his car, his measured stride devoid of any sense of urgency or haste.

As she slides the lollipop into her mouth, her aunt breezes past, swinging her handbag onto her shoulder and inadvertently smacks her on the back of the head. Brushing the hair from her eyes, she watches as the stranger's car fades away, swallowed by the blazing sun.

Suddenly, the piercing screams of her aunt reverberate through the air. In a frenzy, she emerges from the kiosk, her hands drenched in blood. "Oh Frederica, sweet little Freddie, stay where you are, don't go in there, stay here, baby." Her aunt pulls her into a tight embrace, her bloodied hands staining her hair and neck.

Unfazed, Freddie sucks on her lollipop, observing with detached curiosity as droplets of blood from her aunt's hands fall onto her pretty gingham dress.

Her aunt fumbles to extract her phone from the depths of her bag. The device teeters precariously in her trembling grasp, threatening to slip through her fingers at any moment.

The cruel sun bears down upon her as she paces anxiously back and forth in the courtyard. Her hands, smeared crimson, grasp at her dishevelled hair, tugging at the strands as if to extract some semblance of clarity. Each laboured breath escapes her lips in desperate gasps as she struggles to find the words to articulate the unfathomable. 

With the lollipop tucked in her cheek, Freddie stares at the open gas station door. The allure of what lies beyond beckons her—like an invisible string pulling her forward. She starts to rock gently on the balls of her feet when her brother unexpectedly emerges from the depths of the shop.

His skin, an unsettling shade of ashen grey, clings to the contours of his skull, emphasizing the sharp angles of his sunken cheeks. Once vibrant and sparkling with life, his eyes now appear as dark, cavernous voids—gloomy recesses that gaze vacantly at nothing. The corners of his mouth, which once promised the possibility of a smile, now droop heavily to one side.

Droplets of deep crimson are splattered across his face and body, glistening like freshly spilt paint under the sun's relentless glare.

Freddie watches him and wonders whether the blood staining her aunt's hands belongs to her brother as she pops the lollipop out of her mouth.

He pauses briefly in the doorway, his arms hanging limply by his sides. Then, he shuffles forward, his mouth gaping open as if he has lost control of it. His stiff, sluggish movements create the impression that he is under the influence of a mysterious force.

Freddie sucks the candy back into her mouth, clutching her rabbit tighter against her chest, her gaze never leaving her brother as he staggers towards her.

As soon as her aunt catches sight of him, she rushes over, "I didn’t know you were there, sweetie. What happened? Who did this?" Grasping him by the shoulders, she gently shakes him, "What happened, honey? Say something, please."

His blank stare drifts slowly towards his distraught aunt, and he utters only two words: "Il mostro."

It will be many years before he speaks again.

*********

Then

The Cottage

Hannibal notices the absence of the flowers upon entering the bedroom.

A crushing sensation tightens around his chest as an uncomfortable truth sinks in. A cold clarity that Will must have disposed of them - any remnants of hope he had clung to now slip away like shadows at dusk as a wave of despair washes over him.

A subtle shift in the air catches his attention, and suddenly, his favourite scent surrounds him like a warm embrace. Will.

“With love comes strange currencies.” Hannibal says evenly, running his hand along the table's edge, “It is startling what we will tolerate because we fear losing someone."

Hannibal lifts the now-empty vase and cradles it delicately in his hands. "My love for you will ruin me, Will,” he whispers, “and I know I will let it.”

Will’s voice carries a hint of desperation, "You think I will hurt you again?"

“Undoubtedly, we will hurt each other intentionally or not. It is the very nature of existence itself." With a gentle hand, Hannibal returns the vase to the table and turns to face him. "However, we can choose who we allow to hurt us. I am content with my choice. Are you?”

Will leans against the wooden door frame, his arms folded across his chest. "I no longer feel the need to hurt you, Hannibal," he confesses. "I'm not entirely sure that I ever truly did.”

“If I could go back,” Hannibal says with a wistful sadness, “I would love you better, but I know I could not have loved you more.”

Will's heart races and a flush creeps up his cheeks as he struggles to find the words to respond. Instead, he says: "I found myself caught between my own needs and my dedication to my work."

Hannibal leans against the bed frame, “You yielded to societal standards, Will - standards defined by those who are only as good as the world permits them to be.”

Will's eyes trace Hannibal's face as he speaks, noting the angles of his cheekbones, the set of his jaw, and the softness of his eyes. Finally, they rest on the curl of his lips.

Hannibal tilts his chin, his voice steady and defiant. "On the surface, they may adhere to a strict moral code, yet they covertly only embrace those that allow them to indulge in their preferred vices."

Will nods, “They liked to inform me of my best interests so they could facilitate their own.”

With a sly grin, Hannibal declares, “And they dare to label us as monsters because our code is rooted in our truth, rather than being influenced by fleeting whims.”

As Will cautiously steps into the room, there is a subtle shift in the atmosphere as their gazes lock. Will, seemingly caught off guard, instinctively lowers his gaze, and a flush of bashfulness washes over him. Acting almost reflexively, he pushes his hands deep into his pockets to ground himself. “If we were to kill the other now, it would be tantamount to suicide.”

Hannibal nods, his eyes caressing the contours of Will’s frame, “That is true. We have imprinted on each other; no one will ever understand one unless they understand the other.”

“You brought meaning to my life by destroying it.” Will whispers, “What others may have considered a psychotic breakdown was more a cleansing moment of clarity.”

“People tend to settle for the level of despair they can tolerate and call it happiness.” Hannibal clasps his hands tightly in his lap and bows his head, adding, “This is because with great love comes the risk of great loss.”

Mirroring Hannibal, Will lowers his head as he shifts uneasily from foot to foot, “A husband of one of Molly’s friends once confronted me about the way I spoke to people.” Tilting his chin, he smirks, “especially his vapid wife. “What’s your fucking problem?” He screamed at me, and I, feeling particularly ballsy, said, “I’m an alcoholic with a predilection for painkillers.” And he just shook his head and said, “No, that’s how you’ve been dealing with your problem.””

Hannibal swallows deeply, “What was it, Will? Your problem.”

“I missed you,” he says, rocking on the balls of his feet. "I had sat with my anger for so long that it took me some time to realise it was grief.”

Overwhelmed by a strong desire to reach out, Hannibal deliberately looks away and directs his attention to the view outside the window.

"I should hate you," Will whispers, his voice barely audible. "I tried so hard to cultivate feelings of hatred towards you. I couldn’t do it. Instead, I just ended up hating my inability to hate you."

Hannibal remains perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the window. A flicker of anticipation stirs within him despite the lingering fear.

Will stares at the back of his head, his hands twitching in his pockets, eager to touch. "Your absence carries more weight than the presence of everyone else in my life."

Will absentmindedly scuffs the worn floorboards with the toe of his boot, "No matter the distance, Hannibal, I could always feel you."

“That’s because our souls are always touching.” Hannibal's voice is so low that Will almost misses it.

“We are conjoined.” Will takes another step closer. 

“Will you stay with me?” Hannibal asks abruptly.

“There are a million reasons I should leave…“

Hannibal drops his head again, taking a deep swallow as another twist of pain surges through his chest.

“...but I only need one to stay.”

Hannibal's voice is raspy as he asks, “What would be good enough?”

“You. Just you.”

Hannibal tilts his head in Will’s direction, “Is that enough?”

Will takes another step forward, now within touching distance of Hannibal’s shoulder. “All those years ago, just before you gutted me,” he instinctively places his hand on his scar over his shirt. “I thought you were going to kiss me.” Then, tipping slightly forward, he softly adds, “I wanted you to kiss me.'

Hannibal’s head turns sharply at the words, 'Do you still want me to kiss you?' Will's heart aches at the innocence with which he poses the question.

'You make it sound so simple,' Will sighs.

“It can be if you let it.”

“I want to, but-”

“Don’t, please don’t,” Hannibal raises his hand to silence him. "I can’t bear it. Hearts will never be practical until they are unbreakable.”

“You once left me your broken heart,” Will dips his head, searching for Hannibal’s eyes. “Who was he?”

Hannibal shrugs and bites his lip, “Just someone… someone who reminded me of you.”

“Did you sleep with him?” Will asks bluntly.

Hannibal licks his lips, “I was tempted. He was highly amenable to the idea…”

“But?”

“He was not you.”

In that fleeting moment, the room recedes into the background as their eyes lock. In this simple exchange, an unspoken understanding passes between them, offering them solace and validation.

To break the tension, Will forces out a laugh, “From where I was standing, he looked very amenable indeed.”

Hannibal's lips curl into a smile as he gazes down at his hands resting in his lap. An unexpected wave of shyness washes over him.

Will's expression then turns stern as a thought occurs to him. “Did she observe or participate? “

The abrupt change in tone catches Hannibal off-guard. He gazes up at him, his eyes initially wide with surprise, only for them to crinkle in delight once he sees the jealous snarl gracing Will's lips, “Observed. Does that trouble you?”

“I don't want anyone to know you as I do,” he confesses.

“Such a possessive boy.”

Will shrugs, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he meets Hannibal’s enraptured gaze.

“Bedelia only saw what I allowed her to see, Will. For you, I am stripped and skinned - laid bare.”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

Hannibal tilts his head and observes him for a moment, “After I left your gift in the church, Bedelia said to me, “You are in love.” and asked me what it felt like.”

“What did you say?”

Fixing him with an unwavering stare, he says, “I told her that when our eyes first met, my soul caught on fire. That we have a connection so rare the universe will never allow us to be apart. Our hearts speak with the same tongue, our souls with the same voice. I have become him and him I. No one hereafter can say I am someone and he someone else. We are one.”

Will's heart races, pounding like a drum in his chest as he feels the room tilt. The air grows thick with tension, his gaze is irresistibly locked on to Hannibal as if by an invisible force. A rush of hotness fills his eyes, and tears begin to form. Surrendering, he feels both exhilaration and fear coil around his heart.

“You never answered my question, Will.” Hannibal's voice abruptly breaks through his trance.

“Which one?” he murmurs, swaying slightly on his feet.

“Do you still want me to kiss you?”

“Yes.'

“I would very much like to kiss you, Will.”

Will takes a further step forward until he stands before Hannibal, who reaches for his hand and brings it to his lips.

Cradling his hand, he says, “However, we find ourselves in a very delicate phase of our recovery. When I finally kiss you, it will be when we have fully shredded the shackles of our old lives and are ready to face the future...together.”

****************

Later that Evening

Will stands silently at the water's edge, his gaze fixed upon the lake's calm surface.

Looking down at the ring in his hand, he utters, "She didn't deserve this. Marrying her was a profoundly selfish act."

Observing from a short distance, Hannibal pulls his coat tighter around himself. "Most human actions can be traced back to selfish motives. It's a trait we despise in others yet easily justify in ourselves."

“What I did to Molly was cruel. I feel guilty, but…”

Hannibal moves closer and places his hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t regret it," Will says, leaning into the touch, "I know if I had another chance, I would do it again. I regret dragging her into this, but I can’t regret leaving her to be with you now. How can I? There was no choice. I was slowly dying. I chose to live.”

Hannibal slides his arm around his waist and pulls him flush to his chest. “Humans are, by their very nature, inherently selfish.”

Letting his head fall back onto Hannibal’s shoulder, he says, “If I had been thinking clearly that day we met. I would have told her that I wrestle in the dark. That with all the minds I have inhabited, the darkest place I’ve ever been was inside my own. Monsters don’t sleep under my bed; they sleep within me. Only one other truly sees me, and I’m just biding my time till we are reunited. You would be temporary. I will leave you, and you deserve better.”

“And you deserve better, Will. You deserve to be happy, too.”

Will places his hand over Hannibal’s hand on his stomach. “You make me happy, Hannibal.”

Looking down at the ring, he tightly clenches his fist around it and propels his arm forward, sending it soaring through the air. It glimmers and streaks against the backdrop of the sun's golden rays before being swallowed by the murky waters of the lake.

A splash breaks the tranquil surface of the lake and instantly floods Will with profound relief. As the ripples slowly fade, a newfound determination wells inside him—a flicker of hope.

They stand in comfortable silence, enjoying the view of the lake as the sun retreats, bathing the water in soft shades of gold and orange. They savour both the beauty of the view and the moment.

Finally, Hannibal says, “We need to go back; it will be dark soon.”

As he moves to turn towards the cottage, Will grabs his hand and says, “Sleep with me tonight.”

“Will.”

“Just sleep. I need to feel you against me. I need you close.”

“I may not be able to control myself.”

“Then don't.”

“We haven't fully reconciled our past, Will; if we rush into intimacy, it could be detrimental to our progress. This is a fragile situation, and I am…I am not accustomed to succumbing to my emotions. I want this. I want us... if we are reckless…we could jeopardise-” Hannibal pauses and, taking a breath, adds, “I simply can not bear the thought of losing you again. It would truly be the end of me.”

Will tugs at his hand and pulls him closer, “I’m afraid too.”

“You never feared my rejection; rather, it was my acceptance that you were afraid of and all the implications it carried.”

“Yes, but not only that.”

Hannibal gently cups his cheek, “Tell me, Will.”

“You would look at me…You would look at me as if I was your entire universe, your everything. It was overwhelming, I…”

“I didn’t love you out of loneliness or the need for a companion, Will. I was content in the dark. I love you because your light made me want to step out from the shadows and be seen by you. Only you.”

Will avoids Hannibal’s eyes as he huffs out a weak laugh, “Excessively full of feelings, terribly short of words.”

“Take your time, my love; we now have it in abundance.”

Will closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. Gripping the front of Hannibal's coat, he tugs him closer, “You know, I once woke up in a panic because I thought I had forgotten the colour of your eyes. I hadn’t, but…”

Hannibal gently strokes his face.

“I kept my old phone so that I could hear your voice. I kept all your voice messages. You would always say your name at the end of each one,” he chuckles softly, “as if I wouldn’t know it was you.”

As it becomes evident that Will is veering off track to avoid voicing his true feelings, Hannibal places a finger under his chin and tilts his face upwards, “Of all hardships, there are none more punishing than the simple act of waiting. The level of importance we assign to something can be gauged by our willingness to wait for it.”

“Hannibal…”

Hannibal traces his lip with his thumb, “Why are you afraid, Will?”

Will's voice is low and fragile, "I fear I will not make you happy."

Hannibal's eyes sweep over Will's face while his finger casually traces the curves of his jaw, “There is neither happiness nor unhappiness; there is only the comparison of one with the other. Only by having felt despair are we capable of feeling bliss. Only when we face death do we value life.”

Will takes him by the wrists and gently removes his hands from his face. “I’m afraid I will disappoint you,” he says.

“Will..”

“No, listen,“ Will guides his hands to his chest, where he holds them in place. "I’m afraid I won’t live up to the version of me you have created. The foundation of our relationship has been built on drama—be it violence or manipulation. There is an old saying: "The chase is better than the catch." What if, having finally caught each other, we realise we have nowhere to go?"

“Will…”

Will moves away, dragging his hands through his hair, “What if one day you look at me and realise I'm just an unstable man who likes to fish and walk his dogs? A man who can go full days without uttering a single word. A man who has no time or desire for being sociable, extravagant dinner parties or attending operas.”

Will turns to look directly at him, his unshed tears now flowing down his face, “What if this sexual tension between us frizzles the moment we finally touch? What if I leave you unsatisfied and you must look elsewhere for….that? What if, after experiencing the high of a kill, we are thrown into the depths of the ordinary and routine? You will bore of me. I can’t live up to the fantasy of me you have crafted, Hannibal.” Then, with a trembling lip, he adds, “What if I’m not enough?”

Hannibal pulls him close, one hand holding his waist, the other cradling the back of his head. “My Will, my darling Will.”

“I was so afraid of it not working out that I was determined to make sure it didn’t get a chance.” Will whispers into Hannibal’s neck, “I kept drawing you in so that I could push you away. I was so afraid of losing something I loved, I refused to love anything.”

Hannibal pulls back and cups Will’s face in his hands, forcing him to look at him, “Will, it is true I have often fantasised about our life together. And while, many of my fantasies were, indeed, of a more erotic nature, full of savage, bloody carnal delights, as time went on, my fantasies took on a more quiet domesticity. I found myself thinking more of the simple things…holding your hand, sleeping with you in my arms, washing your hair, massaging your back, making you breakfast, spending evenings on a couch before a fire, or looking at the stars. I want you to see I am capable of tenderness, that our connection goes beyond the physical and the bloodlust; please allow me to care for you. That is what I desire more than anything, even the hunt. As much as I enjoyed them, I would choose to rub your feet over the games we have played to get here.”

Will smiles as Hannibal wipes his tears with his thumbs, “I no longer wish to play games, Hannibal. The only games I want to play are the ones we play together, where we are on the same side. I need to trust you; I need you to trust me.”

"I trust in us; I know it won't be easy, but I am committed to our relationship because I truly desire you and want every part of you, the mundane and the magnificent. It's just you and me, forever. Have you any idea the person I would become if you requested it?”

“I request you change nothing; I want you just as you are right now.”

“Then take my hand, Will, and let us not think what hands like ours are capable of.”

                                                       ~~~v~~~

Chapter Text

Now

The Cabin

“Home is not where you are born, but where your attempts to escape finally cease,” Chiyoh says gently, wiping Freddie's sweaty brow with a damp cloth.

The beads of sweat on Freddie's skin glisten in the dim light. “I never felt at home anywhere, always the person who didn’t belong. I guess that is why I am drawn to outsiders.”

“Do you mean killers?” Chiyoh raises an eyebrow.

Freddie stares up at her, her eyes murky and unfocused, “My father was obsessed with serial killers; it was his hobby.”

“Tell me about your father, Ms Lounds.” Chiyoh returns to her seat.

“He was a good man. ”

“I’m sure he was good to you, his darling daughter.” Chiyoh retorts cooly, crossing her legs.

“Oh fuck off! What do you know?” Freddie's face twists with rage even as her head hangs limply to one side. 

“You would be surprised, Ms. Lounds,” Chiyoh states as she casually smooths out the fabric of her trousers.

“He was a good God-fearing man.” Freddie insists.

Chiyoh tilts her head with a small smile. "A God-fearing man obsessed with serial killers? What an interesting combination."

“Don’t…just don’t. My dad was a good man.”

“We often judge a person by how they treat us rather than how they treat others. One reflects how they want us to perceive them, while their treatment of others reveals their true character.”

Freddie narrows her eyes, “You didn’t know him.”

“Daughters adore their fathers despite their actions. They will devote themselves to them, even foolishly, beyond explanation. Children strive to maintain the illusion of a loving relationship with their parents, even if it means sacrificing their mental well-being.”

"Did you have parents, or were you just raised by strangers who felt entitled to own someone?" Freddie snaps, her eyes wide with fury.

“A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort,” Chiyoh says, ignoring the question. “We raise predators by treating children as prey.”

“Is that what happened to Hannibal?” Freddie spits out

“Before the incident, Hannibal often prayed he wouldn’t turn out like his father - cold, indifferent and distant.”

“God was not taking that call,” Freddie scoffs.

Chiyoh flinches as the words echo those she had spoken to Will Graham on the night they waited for Hannibal to awaken from surgery. 

“Nothing is ever as pure as it first seems; there is always something indecorous to be found when you peel back the seemingly pristine surface of the righteous.”

Mustering her dwindling strength, Freddie thrusts forward as far as her restraints will allow her and hisses, “Hannibal killed him. Hannibal killed my father.”

“Why do you think that was, Ms Lounds?”

“Why do you think that was?” Freddie deflects with a twisted snarl.

“I can’t say I know.” Chiyoh's eyes flash defiantly, “I was hoping you could enlighten me.”

Freddie slumps back into her chair, looking away, biting her lip to prevent it from trembling.

“It seems we have reached an impasse, Ms Lounds,” Chiyoh remarks, “Perhaps you would like to discuss why your father would increase the volume on the television.”

Freddie slightly shakes her head, avoiding Chiyoh's gaze.

“What did your father do?”

“He owned a gas station. He went to church. He did charity work.”

“He sounds like a commendable man.”

“He was.”

“What sort of charity work?”

“He helped at-risk teens, victims of domestic abuse and the homeless.”

“The most vulnerable of society. " Chiyoh states, pursing her lips, "How did he help them?”

“Helped them to get jobs, shelter…some of them worked for a while in the gas station.

“A truly selfless man.” Chiyoh locks her in place with a piercing stare that feels like it penetrates her soul, sending shivers down her spine. “And he never expected anything in return?”

With wide eyes, Freddie gazes at her, her lip twitching.

“You never had children, Ms Lounds.” Chiyoh's unexpected words cause her to flinch.

“N-no.”

“I imagine you can only be a good daughter or a good mother; you can’t be both.”

“I-I…”

“The sins of the parent are often laid upon the children.” Chiyoh adds with a cool, clipped tone, “Often people blame God for man's atrocities but wouldn't dream of imprisoning a father for their child's crime. Is it fair to the child to be born with cruelty running through their veins? ”

“My daddy was a good man.”

“One believes what one has been conditioned to believe. That is love. Love is blindness. Love has nothing to do with reason; you love whomever you love. Against all reason.”

“My daddy was a good man,” Freddie repeats, now with tears streaming down her face.

“You believe it because you have to. You must. Otherwise, what is the alternative, Ms Lounds?”

**********

Then

The Cottage

Will is lying in the comforting embrace of the warm bathwater when a name bursts from his lips with unexpected urgency: "Hannibal.”

He appears in the doorway holding a book.

Will squints at him, “What are you reading?”

“Hamlet.” He gestures towards him with the book, “It was amongst your father’s belongings; I hope you don’t mind.”

Suddenly overcome with panic, Will bolts upright, his heart racing, “You were in my bag?”

Hannibal tilts his head and observes him momentarily before answering, “No, you left the books on the dining table.”

Will sinks back into the water as relief floods through him. "Oh, yes, of course."

Hannibal lingers in the doorway, watching as Will tilts his head back and closes his eyes, “You summoned me, Will, for what purpose?”

“Come,” he beckons with his hand, “keep me company.”

Hannibal assesses the small bathroom, looking for a suitable spot to sit.

“Just put the lid of the toilet down and sit; there ain't none of your fancy ass friends to see you on the john.”

Hannibal winces slightly, a hint of distaste on his face. However, he ultimately gives in and does as Will suggests.

Nodding at the book, Will says, “It was my mum’s; my dad wasn’t big on blank verse.”

Hannibal smiles, “I must say, I have enjoyed reacquainting myself with the tragic Dane.”

A cosy silence descends upon them, only disrupted when Will asks, “How many more are there like me out there?”

“There is no one like you. That is your power.”

Will grins, his cheeks flushing, “I mean, like me and Randall Tier. How many killers have you created?”

“I don’t create killers, Will,” Hannibal retorts with an edge to his voice, “I just aid those of a certain disposition in understanding and accepting what they are.”

“A mentor of the maniacal.”

“In a way.”

“There is nothing more powerful than being seen. I both craved and feared it. I craved the connection, but I feared the exposure. The great irony is that to be seen and accepted, I had first to reveal and surrender. Living in denial was easier.”

“We are the same. We donned disguises to blend in with the mundane and the monotonous. Our conscious adoption of costume and pageantry made us more aware of those roles and, thus, of their superficiality. Straddling the line between what was deemed acceptable and our true self."

Will leans on the edge of the bath, resting his chin on his arms, “Mine wasn’t so much a disguise than a barrier.”

“Your disguise was the Will Graham you presented to the world. The glasses, the bland clothing, the grumpy loner persona,” Hannibal flinches then laughs as Will splashes him with water, “That was your costume. Your costume to blend in, to go unnoticed. Character traits, chosen deliberately to keep people at a distance. They mirrored your contempt for those around you. I was the same with my suits; however, my personable demeanour and my etiquette's purpose was to draw people close, so close I began to blur, and they were unable to see me clearly.”

Will smiles. “Like Superman and Clark Kent.”

Hannibal considers this and nods, “Yes, in a way. We are superheroes.”

“Supervillains.”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that. Aren’t we all heroes of our own stories? It's subjective.”

“Oh, I want to hear you justifying the work of the Ripper as heroic.”

Hannibal shrugs, leaning forward, resting his arms on his crossed legs, “I find that if I talk for long enough, I can make anything right or wrong. So either I am God or truth is relative.”

Will chuckles softly, “You are fucking ridiculous.” He then leans back into the bath, the water sloshing over the sides. “Read to me, Hannibal,” he turns his head towards him and gives him that puppy dog look he gave him only months ago in the hospital, “please.”

Hannibal smiles and opens the book he has marked with his finger. Clearing his throat, he begins to read, his melodic, hypnotic voice floating over Will as he sinks deeper into the bath, “I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth. And indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the Earth, seems to me a sterile promontory…”

Will closes his eyes and lets the voice curl around him like an embrace.

Lying there in an ancient rusty bath in a dilapidated cottage hidden in the woods, on the run from the FBI, Will Graham has a moment of clarity.

He is happy.

*****

The next day

“Why didn't you shoot me that day in the kitchen? Did you realise we were in love?” Hannibal asks as he packs away their lunch containers.

“If I had, I would have shot you.” With an amused grin tugging his handsome features, Will gracefully casts his line into the lake.

“Will,” Hannibal says wearily but turns away to conceal a smile that threatens to undermine his feigned annoyance. “You are insufferable.”

Will chuckles and shoots him a glance. “And you are ridiculous.”

Hannibal leans back on his hands, his eyes trailing over Will's frame, “Did your father teach you how to fish, Will?”

“Yes. The only happy memories I have of him.”

“Tell me about your father, Will.”

“He was not a pleasant man. He would hold grudges.” Will raises his eyebrow and adds, “I will always hate him for that.”

Hannibal considers this momentarily, then shakes his head, “Oh yes, very drôle, Will.”

Will tosses him a wink and a grin before directing his attention back to the lake.

Hannibal's cheeks flush with a rosy hue, catching him completely off guard and causing him to become uncharacteristically self-conscious. To alleviate his unease, he begins to speak in a tangled flurry of ramblings. “The previous owners had a vegetable patch; I believe I may be able to scavenge some carrots. I've always been fond of root crops. Mischa and I had a vegetable patch when we were growing up. I happen to think the cauliflower more beautiful than the rose. Did you grow vegetables back at Wolf Trap?”

“The previous owner grew Geraniums. I kept them alive.”

“I believe the carrot is infinitely more fascinating than the geranium. The carrot has mystery. Flowers are essentially tarts.  Whores for the bees.”

“But you love flowers; your house in Baltimore was full of them. And you were always a bit of a tart.”

“I do love flowers. I do find vegetables more compelling.”

“Ok, I need to stop you right there.”

“Oh, you disagree?”

“No, I just need to stop you; this conversation is getting ridiculous,” Will smirks at him and quickly glances in his direction, only to double-take.

“Well, let's return to my original thought. You did look radiant that night, pointing a gun at my head.” Hannibal lets his head fall back, a blissful smile splitting his face.

Will squints at him, “Hannibal…”

“Your eyes dark with rage, your curls wild, your lips flush and twisted into this delicious snarl.”

Will gestures towards him, “What is that?… Hannibal?”

“Your musk, your untamed hair, the feral curve of your mouth, the fierce glint of your eyes got inside of me…contaminated the air around me; it was then I realised that you had become a physical necessity.”

“Sap!” Will exclaims, pointing his finger at him.

“Well, I must say that was a little harsh. I appreciate that I tend to be overly enthusiastic, but I assure you I meant every word.”

Will laughs and shakes his head, “No, your coat is covered in sap.”

Hannibal looks down and groans, “It is reassuring to know you were listening attentively as I expressed my admiration of how beautiful you are when you are threatening my life. It was rather a magnificent moment; I revisit it often.”

“I'll catch it again; I’m sure there will be an evening performance.” Will winks at him again.

“You are an insufferable menace, Will Graham.”

“Oh, you love it, you old tart”

“How very dare you? I am deeply offended.”

“C’mon Hannibal, you know you’re a bit of a tart.”

“Yes, but old, Will? Really?”

Will burst into laughter, his eyes sparkling with joy as his face lights up. The sheer delight on his animated face causes his eyes to crinkle at the corners, adding an extra layer of charm to his infectious merriment. Hannibal can't help but laugh, too, and think that in the last few days, Will Graham has laughed more than he has in the previous forty years.

“You were telling me about your father, Will.”

Will's mood turns brooding as he runs his tongue along his teeth, “He had an undiagnosed Bipolar disorder that he treated with alcohol. He used to call me Billy, and I hated it. How do you get Billy from William,” then after a moment he adds, “And how do you get Dick from Richard?”

“I imagine by asking him nicely, perhaps inviting him out for dinner.”

Will looks at him in disbelief, “Was that…was that a dick joke, Doctor?”

Hannibal momentarily stops cleaning his coat, tilting his head as he gazes thoughtfully into the distance, “Yes, I do believe it was.”

Will looks at his earnest face and bursts out laughing again. Hannibal grins up at him, feeling a warm, unfamiliar feeling in his stomach.

“You are so beautiful when you are happy. It suits you.”

His grin widens, and a blush creeps up Will's neck and onto his cheeks as he looks back to the lake.

******

A few nights later 

Hannibal and Will sit side by side on a worn, overstuffed couch, savouring their glasses of whiskey. The tantalizing aroma of fine whiskey mingles with the enchanting scent of the wood burning in the fireplace.

“There is a rat trapped in the wall, and I've no idea how we are going to get it out,” Will says casually, sipping his drink.

“Is that a metaphor?” Hannibal asks evenly, his eyes never leaving the fire.

“No,” Will pauses for a moment and then adds, “Maybe.”

“Any luck with the plumbing?”

“It’s fucked.” Will states bluntly as he rubs his neck.

“Is that the technical term?”

“Yep.”

Hannibal sighs deeply, “It is of no consequence; we can live off rainwater for another day.”

Will shifts uncomfortably in his seat and winces, immediately catching Hannibal's attention. “Is your neck still causing you discomfort?”

“Like a bitch. I have no idea what I did to it.”

“Is it possible it could be our…”

“...unfortunate tumble into the ocean?” Will finishes for him. “Nah, this has just come on in the last few days.”

Hannibal takes a slow drink as he considers this, “You must let me examine you; it could be referred pain.”

“Referred pain?”

“Referred pain is when you have an injury in one area of your body but feel pain elsewhere. The nerves in your body are part of a huge, connected network. Referred pain can occur anywhere, but it's most common in your neck, shoulders, and teeth. So your neck ache could indicate something more serious, cancer or a blocked vial, for example.”

Will drains his glass and looks at him with a smirk, “Oh, I get it…so the pain in my ass could be coming from across the couch.”

“I’m only trying to help, Will.”

“Yeah, that has always been your problem, being helpful with your unorthodox methods.”

“Unorthodox is not the same as ineffective,” Hannibal states as he lifts his phone.

“Who are you phoning? Chiyoh?”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, “I’m phoning the FBI to come and get me; I’ve had enough; I give up.”

Will laughs and shakes a finger at him, “You pull this surrendering shit again, and I’m shacking up with Chilton just to piss you off. He's getting a skin graft and will be walking around looking like the son of a Raggedy Ann doll and Frankenstein’s monster; I think I might be kinda into it.”

“Oh, Will, you wouldn’t, “ Hannibal exclaims with faux horror, “Hasn’t the poor man been through enough?”

Will leans forward, grabbing Hannibal’s arm to pull him closer. “You seem to forget, Dr. Lecter, “ he purrs, "You went to a lot of trouble to get with this.” He uses his hand to indicate the length of his body.

Following the movement with his eyes, Hannibal smiles, “Yes, and you seem to forget that I've been deemed clinically insane by the state of Maryland.”

Will laughs loudly, his entire body shaking with the motion. Hannibal observes him momentarily, feeling a warm sensation spreading through his body as he takes pleasure in the other man's joy.

“Another?” Will asks, lifting the bottle.

“Yes, thank you, Will.” Hannibal answers as he dials Chiyoh’s number.

A few drinks later…

“We moved around so much, I never really had time to make any real friends, but there was this guy called Tad…”

“Tad?” Hannibal draws the name out, “Who would bestow such a name?”

“Really? Count Hannibal Robertus Algimantas Lecter VIII MD,” Will glares at him.

“You have made your point; please proceed.”

“Anyway, Tad was great; we had so much in common, and he introduced me to Die Hard.”

“Die Hard. What is Die Hard?”

“What do you mean, “What is Die Hard?” It’s a film, a fucking awesome film.”

Hannibal looks blankly at him and shakes his head.

Will shifts forward until he is perched on the edge of the couch., “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I assure you, I do not kid; I have never kidded in my life, Will. What is it about?”

“It’s about… it's about…holy fuck,” Will grabs his hair and is on his feet, “We need to watch it.” Desperately, he scans the cottage, willing a smart TV and a WIFI connection to appear before him magically.

Hannibal watches him with quiet anticipation as he sips his drink.

“Okay,” Will spreads his fingers wide on both hands and raises his outstretched arms, signalling Hannibal to get comfortable and pay attention, “We open on a plane landing in LA; John McClane is sitting in a window seat and is relieved they have finally landed. The guy seated next to him says, “You don’t like flying, do you?”

Hannibal reclines on the couch, a broad smile stretching across his face, wholly enamoured as he watches Will.

A few moments later… 

“What employer holds an office party on Christmas Eve? Surely, these people would prefer to spend it with their loved ones.”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m acting out Die Hard, Dr Lecter.”

A few scenes of Die Hard later… 

“This supposed professional knows all this information about his target but didn’t know what he looked like; surely getting a photograph of the CEO of a large company would be straightforward?”

“There will be no Han Gruber slander in this …er….shack…cottage,” Will lets his head fall back in frustration, “Now listen-”

“On the contrary, I like this Han Gruber; he appreciates a good suit.”

“Yeah, so Mr Takagi won’t give up the code, so Hans just,” Will wields an imaginary gun and pulls the trigger, “Bam! Dead!”

A few moments later and another drink later as Will catches his breath… 

“What language is “Yippee-ki-yay "? Is that some dialect or slang? I’m not familiar with it. Where does it originate?”

“It doesn’t matter; it’s just a badass thing to say.”

“Surely it has an origin.”

“Not now, it’s all about to kick off. So John is in the vents.”

“Oh yes, the vents, I have a question about that.”

“Hannibal, ssshhh,” Will impatiently waves his hand at him. "Save them till the end; now listen!”

Another drink later… 

“Cause now John has a machine gun, ho ho ho.”

“Well, that was fortunate. However, I can't help but feel with all these people he has killed, surely he could have proffered a pair of shoes?”

“Shut up! You’re ruining Die Hard, Hannibal!”

And then finally… 

“As Holly moves, John grabs his gun that is taped to the back of his neck, “ Will shouts excitedly, acting out the scene with relish, “shoots Hans in the chest and shatters the window behind him; John spins,” Will spins, “takes down Eddie, then looks at Hans and says “You were right about Americans, “ Will blows smoke from his imaginary gun, “We are cowboys.”

Hannibal is perched on the edge of the couch, equally enchanted and bewildered by the tale but thoroughly enamoured with Will’s enthusiasm.

“Hans falls against the window frame and grabs Holly by the wrist and falls out the window,” Will leaps through the air, “but John manages to grab her by the elbow.”

So Will leans forward, arms outstretched, “So they are hanging out the window, Hans hanging onto Holly, Holly hanging onto John. Hans grabs Holly’s watch and raises his gun. John releases the latch of the watch, and Hans falls to his death.” Will falls backwards in slow motion, his arms failing, and he lands on the floor.

“I hope she completed the warranty for her watch,” Hannibal smirks.

“Get the fuck outta here, Hannibal, that’s what John McClane says…well, sort of.” Will laughs, pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead with both hands before getting up off the floor.

Hannibal tilts his head in thought, “Just one more question. How is Mr McClane not dead again?”

“Because he is awesome, Hannibal,” Will drops breathlessly onto the couch beside him, a broad grin on his face, “because he is fucking awesome.”

A little later… 

“Do you want another drink, truffle?”

Will, lying on the floor with his eyes closed, opens one of them and says, “What did you just call me?”

“Truffle, the chocolate, not the fungus…but you did grow on me, so both are appropriate.” Hannibal gestures with the bottle as he ponders it.

“Seriously, are we at that stage now?”

“What stage?”

“Pet names?”

Hannibal looks off into the distance, swaying slightly, then with a firm nod, says, “Yes, I believe we are. I’ve never been in a relationship that warrants pet names before. I have to say the concept entices me.”

Will rolls over on his side, “You may not still be in one if you insist on calling me truffle.”

“Work in progress, my cantankerous cucumber.”

Will groans as he struggles to stand up. He reaches out for the bottle, takes it from Hannibal, and pours another drink for them. “You know what we should do?”

“What should we do, Will?” Hannibal says, accepting the drink.

“You know whatshisname?”

“What about him?”

“Why don't you give him a call?”

“What for?”

“Ask him about his boat?”

“You want me to call whatshisname and ask him about his boat?”

“Why not?”

“All right. What's his number?”

“I've no idea. I've never met him.”

“Well, neither have I. What are you talking about?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Clearly.” Hannibal rolls his eyes, eliciting laughter from Will as he sinks back into the couch.

Hannibal's attention is suddenly drawn to something, prompting him to furrow his brow and approach the window for a closer look.

“What is it?” Will cranes his neck, trying to see without getting up.

“I thought I saw someone.”

“Whatshisname?”

“Perhaps, but I don't know what he looks like.” Hannibal murmurs as he gazes into the darkness.

“You're crazy “ Will slumps back into the cushions.

“Yes, state-approved.”

“Are you still intent on killing Alana?”

Hannibal returns to his seat beside Will, “I made a promise, and I always keep my promises.”

“They do say the best revenge is living well, Hanni-balls.”

“That may be so, but it doesn’t turn up in the plots of many operas.”

Will rolls his eyes and then rolls off the couch onto the floor.

Hannibal watches him and says, “And Will?”

“Yep?”

“Call me that again, and I will gut you… again.”

“Aye, Aye, Hanni-balls,” Will mutters into the floor.

A few drinks later… 

Hannibal returns from the bathroom to find Will eating something from a bowl, “You've got soup. Why didn't I get any soup?” he pouts, poking Will in the arm with his finger.

“It’s orange juice, Hannibal.”

Hannibal gurns and pokes him again, “Why don't you use a glass like any other human being?”

“Why don't you wash up like any other human being?” Will grins up at him.

“How dare you. How dare you call me inhumane!” Hannibal attempts to dramatically prance into the middle of the room but stumbles over Will’s abandoned boots. He scowls at them as if he is about to ask them for their business card.

“Alright! Calm down, princess!” Will places the bowl on the side table.

“That kitchen is no longer ours; it belongs to the rats,” Hannibal raises his arms above his head in a helpless gesture, “and I’ve been reliably informed by a very handsome plumbing expert our clean water situation is fucked.”

Will is standing beside him, staring forlornly at the empty whiskey bottle. " I have some extremely distressing news.”

“There’s another rat? There’s more rats.” Hannibal’s eyes dart wildly around the room as he clutches Will’s arm, “There is a whole army of rats living within our walls.”

“We've just run out of whiskey. What we gonna to do about it?”

“There is a blackberry bush outside; I could brew some Blackberry whiskey.”

“How long would that take?”

“With our limited resources, 20-30 days possibly.”

“Great! That’s that sorted.”

“Your sarcasm is not helpful, Will. And “princess” really?.”

“If the tiara fits.” Will slaps his ass as he walks to the kitchen to dispose of the empty bottle, leaving Hannibal frozen in place speechless until he remembers the rats and his eyes start to dart frantically around the room, "Will, about the rats..."

Sometime later… 

Hannibal and Will are lying in each other's arms on the couch.

“Do you think I am an elitist?” Hannibal inquires into Will’s curls.

“Of course I do; you needn't ever worry about that.”

Hannibal groans but smiles. Will feels it against his neck and smiles in response, “I find it both irritating and endearing; it's all very odd and confusing.”

“We cannot control with whom we fall in love,” Hannibal says.

“I know,” Will whispers, “It fucking sucks.”

Hannibal smiles. “It does. I believe we were created by the Gods just for each other.”

Will snuggles closer. " We just fit together..."

Hannibal smiles, running his hands through Will’s hair, “We do, my love.”

"Like lego pieces," Will nips his side.

Hannibal lets out a contented sigh, then as the words finally register, his eyes shoot open, “William-”

Will clumsily pushes his finger to Hannibal’s lips,“ Shhhhh, go to sleep, Truffle…the fungus, not the chocolate.”

The next morning 

“If you still harbour any desire to kill me, Hannibal,” Will mutters, “Could you do it now?”

“Only if you promise to somehow rise up after and kill me.”

“I need to be sick, but I’m only managing the dry heaves.”

“And that is why drinking whiskey on an empty stomach is not recommended. Well, one of the many reasons.”

“Did it all the time when I was at college, it was an easy way to get drunk on the least amount of alcohol. What about you?”

“I have a feeling our college experiences were vastly different.” Hannibal murmurs, closing his eyes.

Leaning his head against the pillar of the porch, Will says, “I remember one time, me and my three roommates were drinking whiskey on a bridge that crossed a bayou, which, as you know, is pretty disgusting, brown, swampy water. Then it all goes blank…I woke up in bed back at the dorm; however, my friends didn’t fare so well. One had decided to go swimming in the bayou and ended up hospitalised with a severe foot infection; he had cut his foot on a broken bottle. One other had made their way to a 24-hour gym where they ran on the treadmill till they vomited all over themselves and then passed out. For unclear reasons, the third guy decided to jump into a rock garden filled with cacti! His foot got lodged in the corner of the wall, and he passed out from the whiskey and the blood loss.”

With wide eyes, Hannibal looks at Will, astounded as he utters, “Why would…?” before giving up and waving his hand dismissively.

Will shakes his head and mutters, “Sometimes I don’t understand people.”

“Interesting take from an empath,” Hannibal smiles and then sighs, “Who knows why anyone does anything?”

“Interesting take from a psychiatrist.”

As the morning sun gently illuminates the porch, the air carries the lingering remnants of the previous night. The heaviness of their hangovers is visible on their faces as they sit in silence, silently yearning for the same remedies: cold, clean water and some much-needed painkillers.

“So today is the day,” Will says sadly.

“Yes,” Hannibal nods, “Chiyoh should be here in a few hours.”

“Do you know what kind of boat she got?”

“No, but I’m confident you can handle it.”

“How far is it?”

“Quite far, we will need to stay in a motel, but only one night.”

Will nods, then darts a glance at Hannibal, who is looking at him with a besotted expression.

“What?”

“When I wake, not a morning goes by that I wonder if I am dreaming.”

“I look and feel like shit.”

“I disagree, you look ravishing.”

Will sighs, “You don’t need to keep telling me I’m handsome. The fact you find this pleasing,” he gestures at his face, “has nothing to do with me. I would rather you tell me that my untidiness infuriates you, that my tactlessness hurts you, that my vulgar mouth offends you…tell me you think all this, and you want me anyway.”

“I take pleasure in both your flaws and your assets equally. However, I must confess that I am addicted to how you blush when I tell you how handsome you are.”

“I’m gonna be sick…”

“You can’t expect me to stop immediately, baby steps, Will.”

“No, I’m…” Will proceeds to vomit orange juice onto the porch step. “How do you find me now, doctor?”

“I swear I couldn’t love you more than I do right now, yet I know I will tomorrow.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“And you are handsome…and insufferable.”

*****

When Will returns from the bathroom, Hannibal asks, “Feeling any better?”

“Nope. You?”

“Not even in the slightest.” Hannibal pouts while wrapping his coat tightly around himself.

Looking at the surrounding woods, Will says, “This is the first place I can honestly say I was happy. Can we not stay here?”

Hannibal reaches for his hand, “I’m sorry, but we must move on.”

“I know, but this is the place we fell-” He stops as the words get stuck in his throat, suddenly overwhelmed.

“It always will be.” Hannibal squeezes his hand, “Once we are settled, I will find a way to purchase this place.”

With wide eyes, Will asks, “You would do that?”

“Of course.” Hannibal kisses his hand.

“So, will we return here?”

“Yes. I think years from now, when everyone has forgotten our names, we will return here and see out our final years.”

“I like the sound of that.” With a smile, Will gazes off into the woods once more.

“Returning here?”

Will looks directly at him, “Spending the rest of my life with you.”

Hannibal's heart soars as the final shackle falls away, “I would like to kiss you now, Will. If I may..”

Will smiles and leans forward.

**********

Now

The Cabin

“Sometimes we don't heal because our pain is the only link we have to what we lost,” Chiyoh says, giving Freddie a drink of water.

As her head droops onto her shoulder, she wearily says, “Once the heart becomes too heavy with pain, people don’t cry; they turn silent.”

Chiyoh places the glass on the table and clasps her hands before her, “Are you ready to break your silence, Ms. Lounds?”

Freddie simply stares at her with swollen eyes and quivering lips, tears streaking her face.

Leaning forward, Chiyoh gently cups her face, “Tell me, Ms Lounds, what happened to your brother?”

************

Then

A motel somewhere

Seeking refuge from the bustling lobby, Will retreats to the vast porch with its weatherworn pillars and loose floorboards.

In the stifling darkness, the air hangs heavy around him as a flickering glow emanates from the rusted lamps, casting an eerie quality upon the surrounding area.

Vibrant and pulsating, the ether is animated, resonating with a constant and insistent buzz as insects sway and soar in a hypnotic dance around the beckoning lights.

Breathing deeply, he inhales the night air and lets his head fall back. The scent of nicotine first catches his attention, revealing he is not alone. He looks over his shoulder towards a dark corner, where only the glowing tip of a cigarette is visible.

As he is about to move away, a voice addresses him from the shadows: "So the devil has taken a mate."

"I’m sorry. Are you talking to me?" Will squints into the darkness.

"I said: what brings you out so late?."

"I can't sleep." Will casually shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Sleep is denied to those who lay with the beast."

Will shakes his head and steps closer, “Sorry, what?”

“There is a storm coming in from the east.”

Will gazes into the humid, desolate wasteland shrouded in darkness with a perplexed frown, "Is there?"

“It brings your reckoning.”

“Sorry, what?” Will snips, getting increasingly annoyed.

“I can feel the air thickening as the storm approaches. Can you feel it? Can you smell it?” the stranger loudly sniffs the air.

Will shuffles in place for a moment before finally saying, "I guess I better be getting back," vaguely gesturing towards the door with his thumb.

“I’ll be seeing you.” The burning ember glows intensely as the man takes a deep toke.

Will frowns and, with a final glance, walks away.

“That is both a promise and a threat, Will Graham and Il Mostro.”

The man extinguishes his cigarette on the arm of the chair.

                                                                          ~~~v~~~

Chapter Text

Then

Twenty-seven years ago - one month before the incident at the gas station

When it arrives, the parcel looks the same as any other one sent by Luca: neatly wrapped with his address written in his familiar lopsided block capitals on the back.

Silas Cooper cradles the package, savouring its weight and texture—his usually stern expression softened by a small smile.

Entering the dimly lit den, he tears the packaging open and spills the contents onto the coffee table.

Catching his son loitering awkwardly in the doorway, he says, "Get me the phone, son." His eyes gleam as he looks over the photos and papers scattered before him, "I need to call the guys."

******

Silas, Bud, and Larry are gathered around the old, worn kitchen table; their eyes fixed attentively on the photographs and official reports laid out before them.

Cigarette smoke fills the air, mingling with the heady scent of beer and the pungent tang of sweat. The harsh, fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting deep shadows on their faces.

Larry pushes his glasses onto his forehead and squints at one of the many crime scene photographs. “I reckon he’s got a medical background; he knows how to cut them up.”

“Could be a butcher.” Bud shrugs as he flicks through a witness statement. “Or a taxidermist.”

“No, there's an elegance here; our guy’s an artist,” Silas says distractedly as he scans a police report.

“Lucas thinks the cops had their man, but they let him go,” Larry says as he pops open a bottle of beer. The cap shoots through the air and lands at the feet of Silas’s wife, Evelyn, who is at the sink washing the dishes from dinner. She glares at him before bending down to pick it up.

Silas rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Yeah, they messed up, that’s for sure," he declares, gazing at the black-and-white photograph of a man in his early twenties. "Boy! This Lecter guy, when I look into his eyes, my blood freezes. There's no humanity there. It’s him. I just know it. I feel it in my bones."

Bud nods in agreement as he lights a cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke. "The case fell apart due to “insufficient evidence," he quotes.

Silas shakes his head, “Our guy is smart. He won’t be leaving anything behind he doesn’t want the cops to find.”

Enveloped in a haze of cheap perfume, Marie Cooper strides into the kitchen, sighing deeply as she drops her handbag onto the floor. Observing Evelyn putting away dishes, she furrows her brow and asks, "Did I miss dinner?"

"I told you six; it’s now eight." Evelyn bluntly states without even turning to look at her.

Marie shrugs, her attention now drawn to the assortment of police reports and photos, "What’s all this, Si? It looks real."

“It looks real because it is real, Marie,” Silas huffs, irritated by her tone. “Well, copies of the real deal anyway.”

“How’d y’all get them?” she asks, leaning on her brother’s shoulder to get a closer look.

“Mind your business, Marie.” Silas dismisses her with a wave of his hand before opening a scrapbook full of newspaper clippings.

“We have friends, who have friends, who have friends who have ways of getting things,” Bud says, offering her a cigarette with flushed cheeks and a shy smile.

Marie’s brow furrows as she leans in for a light, "What do you mean?" she asks from the corner of her mouth.

“It’s kinda like a network of fellow Serial killer enthusiasts. We all share information. It’s fucking crazy the stuff we’ve gotten our hands on.” Larry says, taking a swig of his beer.

"Like creepy penpals," she chuckles, exhaling a cloud of smoke that swirls around her.

Larry and Bud's laughter fills the room while Silas shoots her a stern look, his anger simmering behind clenched teeth.

From the sink, Evelyn Cooper’s eyes flit over the graphic photographs displayed on her kitchen table before taking note of the shortness of Marie’s skirt and how Larry and Bud openly admire her legs when she leans over the table. She purses her lips as she watches Marie straighten her skirt with a flirtatious wiggle of her hips, much to the appreciation of the other two men.

She deliberately releases her grip on the pan, allowing it to crash loudly onto the counter. The abrupt noise captures the attention of everyone in the room, but she disregards their curious stares. Instead, she turns away from them, focusing intently on wiping the counter.

Marie exchanges a look with her brother before she shifts her attention to the photo he is holding. With a mischievous smile, she snatches it from his grasp. "Well, well, well," she says, "Who do we have here? Hello, handsome!"

Silas leans back in his chair, letting out a frustrated sigh. Extinguishing his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, he sneers, "Il Mostro di Firenze."

"Sounds exotic," she coos with a dreamy look.

Silas gives his sister a withering glare, "He's the devil, Marie."

"I might have to plan a little trip to Italy," Marie quips with a wink catching Bud's eye, making him blush and avert his gaze.

"Luca thinks he ain’t in Italy no more,” Larry remarks casually, grabbing a handful of nuts.

“Where did he go?”

"Fuck knows," Larry replies with a mouthful of nuts, sending a flurry of crumbs over the table. “Could be anywhere.”

“Could be dead,” Bud suggests, bringing his beer to his lips.

Marie frowns at the thought. “That would be a waste.”

"We will know when he starts killing again," Silas states firmly, lifting the photograph of Il Mostro’s last crime scene. “Which he will.”

“Maybe he will find love and become a changed man. I know I could fix him, given the chance.” Marie muses, tilting her head at his photograph.

"You’d only make him worse, Marie," Silas remarks with a smirk, sharing a knowing look with his friends before snatching the photograph from her hand.

Marie sticks her tongue out at her brother as her cell phone rings. She groans at the caller ID and answers with a sharp "What?" before hastily leaving the room.

Freddie passes her aunt in the doorway, her beloved Porkchop safely nestled under her arm.

Silas's face lights up with joy as soon as he sees her. "Here she is, my little princess," he proclaims as he scoops her up and places her on his knee.

Freddie gazes at the photographs on the table, which her father does not attempt to hide. Among them is a captivating image of a woman reclined on a bed of flowers, clutching her heart above the hollow cavity of her chest. She is so beautiful she must be a princess, Freddie thinks.

Her brother lingers in the doorway, shifting his weight nervously while his eyes dart across the scattered photographs.

“Would you like a beer, son?” Larry asks, gesturing at him with his bottle.

Evelyn turns sharply at the words, her eyes landing on Silas like a weight.

“No, thank you, Sir.” The boy mumbles, looking at his feet.

“Have a beer, boy!” his father says affably as he bounces his sister on his knee.

“He’s barely thirteen, Silas,” Evelyn steps forward, then quickly recoils as Silas glares at her.

“And what, Evelyn? The same age I was when I had me first beer with my old man. Are you saying he didn’t raise me right?”

Evelyn wrings the dishcloth in her hand. "No, Silas," she says before returning to the sink.

Silas grunts in satisfaction and then shifts his focus back to his daughter. He kisses her temple as she snuggles closer and asks, "Daddy, will you read me a story?"

“Sorry, pumpkin, but Daddy has to go help them poor kids who don’t have daddies to read them stories.”

“How come they don’t have daddies?”

“Some died, sweetie, and some just… went away.”

"Why?" she asks, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

“Cause they’re weak. Cause they’re selfish. Cause they don’t deserve what the Lord has given them. They’ve no right to call themselves men.”

“Is the Lord angry, daddy?”

“Yes, pumpkin, and they’ll be punished. Be it in this life or the next. They’ll feel the wrath of the Lord for abandoning their duties.” Silas plants one final kiss on her forehead before lifting her gently from his lap. Then, giving her a gentle pat on the bottom, he says, “Now go and get ready for bed; I’ll tuck you in before I go.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, pumpkin, and ya know ya can always rely on your daddy; now scoot!”

Silas watches with delight as his daughter, her curls bouncing, skips out of the kitchen. Then he points at his son, “You’re coming with us tonight.”

“I can’t…dad-...Sir!” he stammers, “I’ve homework. I need to….”

“It will keep. Ya need to learn what it means to be a man.”

“But-”

Silas raises his hand to silence him, “This is not open to discussion, boy!”

Evelyn approaches her husband, her eyes wide, “Silas, let him stay home and do his homework.”

Silas turns to look at his wife, “Evelyn, the boy can learn more doing the Lord’s work than from those damn books.”

“But Silas, he will fall behind…”

Silas rises slowly from his chair, his steps measured and controlled as he closes the distance between them. His wife tenses up, fear evident in her wide eyes as she instinctively shrinks back against the kitchen counter.

Gently, he cups her face with both hands and presses his lips to her forehead, causing her to flinch.

“Do ya trust me to know what's best for my son Evelyn?” he asks quietly against her skin.

Evelyn's eyes shift towards the two men, who pretend to carefully examine the police reports and scrutinise the photos spread across the kitchen table.

With a firm grip, Silas jerks her head towards him to redirect her focus. "I asked ya a question, Evelyn," he says calmly, sending a shiver of fear through his wife's spine.

“I-I...trust…y-you,” she whispers, the back of her eyes stinging with tears.

Silas stares at her for a moment, then nods and kisses her forehead. “Good girl,” he whispers as he traces a slow path down her jaw and neck with his hand, eventually coming to rest on her breast, which he covers with his large, calloused hand.

Evelyn looks away, closing her eyes, frozen in place. Her husband's gaze grows more intense as his hand roughly grips then kneads her breast, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

The room fills with a palpable tension, so thick that it seems to displace the oxygen and suck the breath from the inhabitants, who make a concerted effort to deliberately avoid engaging with or even acknowledging the situation unfolding before them.

Marie suddenly bursts into the room, dispelling the pressure. Anger radiates off her in waves as she snaps, “Go fuck yourself, Dave,” before hanging up and tossing the cell back into her bag.

Silas lets go of his wife, who quickly moves to the sink and grips its edge with trembling hands.

Marie surveys the room, oblivious to what has just transpired, as she groans, “Why are men such fucking assholes?”

"Not all men, Marie. Just the ones you attract," Silas states with a smirk as he sits back down.

“Fuck you too, Si.” Marie sneers.

Ignoring his sister, Silas’s gaze is drawn again to the picture of the man who once haunted Florence and has seemingly vanished. "Certainly isn’t a face you’d easily forget," he murmurs as he tidies up the photographs and reports, placing them neatly inside his scrapbook.

***********

Then

A motel somewhere

As the car grinds to a halt, Hannibal shifts his weight to get a clear view of the dilapidated motel. Peeling paint hangs off the walls like old skin while the neon sign flickers erratically, casting an eerie glow over the decaying façade. Apparent disdain twists his features as he releases a deep sigh.

“It’s only for one night, Hannibal,” Chiyoh says softly.

“I find myself growing weary of subpar lodgings.”

Will snorts from the back seat. “Do I need to remind you that you have just spent a week in a cottage with no running water and rats in the wall, not to mention the three years you spent in a mental asylum?”

"No, Will, there is no need for you to remind me as I possess the ability to retain information and recollect all events from my over fifty years of existence."

"Remember being born, huh?" Will teases as he leans on the back of Hannibal's seat.

Weary and lacking the energy to counter this obvious bait, Hannibal groans softly and says, "Yes, Will, I remember being born."

“So full of shit,” Will laughs, poking Hannibal’s shoulder before falling back into the seat.

Chiyoh starts to speak with an amused smirk, but Hannibal raises his hand to stop her. "Yes, he is quite exasperating. However, for reasons currently unclear, and despite my better judgement, I find it charming."

“I don’t think those reasons are unclear at all,” Chiyoh leans in and whispers with sparkling eyes.

Hannibal waves his hand dismissively and turns his head away to conceal the smile creeping across his face.

Chiyoh grins as she releases her seatbelt, “I'll acquire us some rooms.”

As she steps out of the car, Will leans forward, resting his arms on the front seats. He watches her intently, biting his lip.

Hannibal reaches out towards him, but Will abruptly exits the car, saying, "I'll go help Chiyoh," and slams the door.

"Will, I believe Chiyoh is more than capable of -" Hannibal begins to say, but Will is already gone, jogging to catch up with Chiyoh.

Hannibal feels the now familiar pang of fear, sending a jolt of anxiety through his veins. Thanks to the man currently crossing the pothole-ridden car park, he has become all too accustomed to the sensation once so foreign to him. His pulse quickens, and his mind becomes clouded with uncertainties. Please, not again.

"Hey," says Will, slightly out of breath from the short run, as he catches up with Chiyoh.

Chiyoh comes to a stop, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it returns to her usual stoic expression. "Is everything OK? Is Hannibal-?"

"No, everything..." Will says as he places his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "It's fine, I just...Wow! I'm really out of shape."

“You recently threw yourself off a cliff,” she states firmly, crossing her arms. “What is it, Will?”

“How…how many rooms are you getting?”

Chiyoh lets her head fall back, emitting a groan of frustration: “Do you want to stay in a different motel from Hannibal? Is that it?“

“Chiyoh…”

“Perhaps in another state? Would that suffice?”

“No, listen…”

“This is getting boring.”

“No, please, just…”

“When will you stop playing these tedious games-”

“Please, no-”

"He won't bite-" Chiyoh stops mid-sentence, stifling a giggle behind her hand at the unintended humour of her words.

Will raises his eyebrow at her and then shakes his head, “I just want-”

“You could always sleep in the car,” she sighs, placing her hands on her hips.

“Chiyoh, please listen.”

“But I warn you, the temperature drops drastically in these parts at night.”

“No…stop” Will raises his voice to a high-pitched whine, “Chiyoh, I’m sorry, but please just let me speak.”

Chiyoh's mouth snaps shut abruptly as she looks at him with wide eyes before regaining her composure. She gives him a nonchalant shrug as she crosses her arms and tilts her chin at him.

“I just want to ask you …” Will takes a breath as he looks back at the car, “I just wanted to let you know…we only need two rooms.”

Chiyoh narrows her eyes at him and purses her lips.

“That’s all,” Will adds quietly, averting his gaze.

“Oh, is that all?” Chiyoh narrows her eyes as she watches Will nervously shifting from foot to foot, his gaze fixed on the ground. “Well then,” Chiyoh says with a smirk, “It’s just as well Hannibal requested two rooms. Isn’t it?”

“He did, did he?” Will looks back at the car. “Well, that was kinda presumptuous,” he grins smugly as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and rolls back on the balls of his feet.

Chiyoh waves her hand at him as she stomps towards the motel's porch. “The sooner the two of you are on a boat in the middle of the ocean, the sooner I will get some peace,“ she mutters, leaving Will beaming at the car. Hannibal quickly dips his head in a feigned display of disinterest after failing to read their lips.

*****

In the cramped motel room, Hannibal and Chiyoh deftly handle telephone calls in various languages, their movements purposeful and coordinated despite the confined space.

The air is filled with a medley of different linguistic rhythms, causing Will's head to spin as he watches from the bed. His eyes dart back and forth between them, mainly focusing on Hannibal and how his lips curl around each word, regardless of the language he speaks.

An overwhelming feeling of helplessness and restlessness leads to his constant fidgeting, flicking on and off the nearby lamp, and picking at the patterns on the comforter.

When Hannibal passes by, he runs his fingers through Will's curls or gently caresses his jaw or shoulder. Will leans into these gestures, much like a needy puppy, chasing after them as Hannibal moves on.

When Hannibal’s gaze again falls on him, Will stands up and gestures energetically with his hands, signalling that he is going outside for some air.

Hannibal squints at him before uttering a short phrase into the phone and bringing it close to his chest, "What are you doing, Will?"

“I'm telling you, I'm going out to get some air.”

Arching an eyebrow, Hannibal remarks dryly, "I thought you were having a seizure."

With a mischievous lilt and a smirk, Will quips, “You haven’t been drugging me again, Dr Lecter, have you?”

Chiyoh, who also had paused her phone call to see what Will was doing, said, “That is not funny, Will Graham.”

“C’mon, it’s kinda funny-”

Hannibal, fighting a smile, points towards the door. "Just go! You are being particularly vexing today," he reprimands, trying to maintain a stern tone.

Pulling on a baseball cap, Will smiles and winks at him as he backs his way to the door.

The doctor blushes as the smile finally claims victory - bursting free on his face.

*****

Will takes a moment to observe the dimly lit, shabby motel lobby. His gaze drifts over the weary furnishings, noting the traces of wear and tear and the various unidentifiable stains, before settling on a chair tucked away in the corner.

Settling into the seat, he pulls out his phone and navigates to the "Tattlecrime" website.

There are several new articles, a detailed timeline of the “Murder Husbands” shared history, and an interview with Molly, “ I married a monster who abandoned me to break his sadist serial killing cannibal boyfriend out of a mental asylum .” Will sighs and rolls his eyes until a photo of a resolute Molly looking off into the distance appears, and a pang of guilt catches him unexpectedly in the gut. The caption reveals she is eager to move on with her life after filing for divorce in absentia, citing abandonment, fraud, adultery, and mental illness as grounds.

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Will mutters, "Adultery? With who?" As the realization dawns on him, a blush creeps up his cheeks as he thinks, "We didn't, we haven’t...not until after. That was just a kiss…but we will…soon…right?-"

He shakes his head, clearing his mind of thoughts he is not prepared to examine just yet, and continues to scroll.

Suddenly, he is confronted by a picture of Chilton pre-dragon, making him flinch and then grimace at his former acquaintance. It accompanies an announcement of a new book collaboration between Freddie Lounds and Dr. Frederick“ I knew this was going to happen” Chilton.

Will groans and rolls his eyes again before clicking through a collection of articles covering “The Courtship of the Murder Husbands.”

Scoffing at the ridiculous headlines like " Murder Husbands Enjoying a Moonlight Meal of Dragon at Their Secret Love Nest," Will finds himself fixating on the pictures. Specifically, images of Hannibal, from his early mug shot in Italy to his appearances in the society pages attending operas and fundraisers, culminating in his trial where he was restrained on an upright gurney with a muzzle.

Will meticulously studies every feature of his face and every contour of his body. He is truly striking, a living work of art. “If I were a painter, I’d paint him,” Will thinks, nibbling on his lower lip, “If I were a sculptor, I’d sculpt him.” There is a slight pause before the words “God, I really wanna fuck him .” echo loudly through his mind, startling him. He clutches the phone to his chest and looks around nervously as if he had accidentally said it out loud or the few people in the lobby could somehow read his mind.

Beads of sweat form on his brow, and he suddenly becomes acutely aware of the volume of the radio behind the reception desk and the hushed tones of the bickering couple by the vending machine. The sounds swell as if the walls were closing in, creating a thick layer of discordant noise. Seeking solace from the oppressive space, Will swiftly steps out onto the expansive porch.

Will tilts his head back and closes his eyes, immersing himself in the tranquillity of the night air. As he focuses on his breathing, the previous adrenaline rush begins to subside, and he slowly feels his heart rate steady, each beat becoming more controlled and even.

A hint of nicotine catches his attention, revealing the presence of someone else. He turns and observes a dimly lit corner where only the glowing tip of a cigarette is visible.

Just as he is on the verge of leaving, a voice pierces through the shadows for his attention.

"I’m sorry. Are you talking to me?" Will squints into the darkness, his eyes straining to adjust to the lack of light.

Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, the stranger's voice gains volume and clarity when he speaks again, "I said: what brings you out so late?"

"I can't sleep." Will casually shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets.

In the darkened corner, the person flicks ash onto the porch floorboards, accompanied by a low rumble of inaudible words.

Growing increasingly annoyed, Will shakes his head and takes a step closer, “Sorry, what?”

“There is a storm coming in from the east.”

With a perplexed frown, Will gazes into the barren wasteland surrounding the motel, "Is there?"

The flickering porch lamps and the relentless buzz of insects attracted by the light begin to grate on Will's nerves, their noise escalating to an unbearable pitch. A sense of discomfort descends upon him, making his skin feel too tight, suddenly unable to house his insides.

“Sorry?” Will asks again when the stranger mutters another incomprehensible string of sounds.

“I can feel the air thickening as the storm approaches,” he says, sucking the night air in through his teeth. “Can you feel it? Can you smell it?” the stranger loudly sniffs the air.

Will peers into the shadows, attempting to get a read on him, only to be confronted by a bewildering vortex of nothingness that triggers a sharp pain in his head.

Rubbing his temples, Will shuffles in place for a moment before finally saying, "I guess I better be getting back," vaguely gesturing towards the door with his thumb.

“I’ll be seeing you.” The burning ember glides through the air in an arc.

As Will glances back at the mysterious figure, a deep frown creases his brow, casting a shadow over his face. Despite his best efforts, a profound feeling of unease lingers within him, refusing to dissipate as he walks away.

*****

When Will returns to the room, he is greeted by the sight of Hannibal seated at the edge of the bed, clad only in his underwear, carefully removing the stitches from his stomach.

Will's cheeks flush with colour as he feels overwhelmed by the sight of so much exposed skin. Everything appears to slow down and swirl around him as he fixates on how the muscles in Hannibal's back ripple under the gentle glow of the lamp.

"You're next," Hannibal says, never breaking his focus from his work.

"W-what?" Will stutters, emitting a complicated sound that is both a nervous laugh and a whine.

Hannibal gestures at him with the tiny scissors, “Your stitches. They must be removed.”

“Do you need me…you know?” Will gestures vaguely in his direction.

Hannibal looks at him a moment before he shakes his head, “No, Chiyoh has removed the stitches from my back.”

Will nods, then stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. Suddenly unsure of what to do with his arms, he puts them in his pockets and sways on the balls of his feet.

Patting the bed, Hannibal says, “Please remove your shirt; I will start with your shoulder.”

With a slight tremor in his hands, Will takes off his shirt and sits on the edge of the bed. He presents his injured shoulder to Hannibal, who carefully examines it with gentle fingers.

The heavy silence between them is only broken by their breaths, which seem unusually loud in the quiet room.

Will's mouth is dry as he becomes acutely conscious of their exposed skin and proximity. Trying to divert his attention, he focuses on the opposite wall, only to glimpse their reflection in the dresser's mirror. The sight causes a searing heat to pool in his stomach. Clenching his fists, words crumble to dust on his parched tongue as the tension intensifies, crackling like electricity around them.

To alleviate the tension, Will chuckles and says, “I bet when I walked into Jack’s office, you thought you had hit the Crackpot.”

“How long have you been sitting on that one, William,” Hannibal says evenly, his focus never wavering from his task.

“A while.” With a smile, Will sighs as he feels the tension in his body unravel. “Since Florence…thought it up on the boat on the way there.” Then, with a slight frown adds, “Never got a chance to use it, though.”

Keeping his eyes on his work, Hannibal asks with a monotonous clinical tone, “And now that you have, how do you feel it went? Did it have the response you envisioned?”

Will glances at him from the corner of his eye and sees the small smile tugging at Hannibal’s lips.

“You're such an asshole,” Will snickers, “we all can’t be pun masters, you know.”

“It is quite the pun-dertaking.”

Will grin widens as he licks his lips, “You’re pun-bearable.”

The doctor's laughter washes over Will like a comforting balm, rich and velvety, stirring within him a deep yearning.

“A good pun is its own reword, Will.”

Caught completely by surprise, Will erupts into unrestrained laughter, his hand rising to cover his mouth.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Hide your laugh?”

“It’s not a laugh; it's the sound of an animal being gutted.”

“Well, this is going to be unfortunate.”

“What is?”

“When asked what my favourite sound is, I must describe it in such a way.”

“Who’s gonna ask you that “Serial Killer monthly”? Will scoffs.

“No, “Sexy Sadists.”” Hannibal quips with a smug upturn of his lips before returning to his work.

Laughter bursts forth from Will, prompting him to return his hand to his mouth. "Arrogant asshole."

Hannibal reaches out and gently lowers his hand, “Please don’t hide from me, Will.”

Will looks away, suddenly shy, “I don’t want to play hide-and-seek anymore.”

“My darling Will,” Hannibal brings his hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles, “We were always seeking, never hiding, even when we were manipulating each other or separated.”

“You were my constant thought,” Will whispers, his voice raspy and hoarse, “I hoarded your name in my mouth for years.”

“Having perfected our disguises, we seek the one we can’t fool. Soulmates always seek the other, for we hide in the same place.”

“Like us.” Will licks his lips, feeling his heart thumping rapidly in his chest.

“Like us,” Hannibal echoes.

As their eyes lock, a seminal, silent understanding passes between them. Unspoken truths are stripped naked between them, creating a tangible sense of anticipation.

“I-I,” Will's eyes fall to the hair adorning Hannibal’s chest, his fingers twitching to touch, “I read on Tattlecrime that Chilton is working with Freddie Lounds on a new book about…about us.”

Hannibal responds with a hum as he returns to his work.

“The Freds,” Will muses, watching Hannibal’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

As Hannibal tilts his head, Will considers raising his hand to gently brush aside a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Instead, he flexes his fingers as he murmurs, “Fred Squared. Sounds like a New Wave band or a Hipster Art Collective.”

“Indeed,” Hannibal says, gently plodding Will’s shoulder.

Then, with a mischievous smirk, Will says, “You know Chilton made fun of your suits. He compared you to an overstuffed 1970s sofa.”

Hannibal immediately straightens up, his eyes ablaze with indignation, “What would he know of such things? The closest he has come to fine tailoring is the stitching above his fucking appendix.”

“Whoa, Dr. Lecter,” Will exclaims with a giggle. “Kitty has claws.” The words escape him before he realises it, making him cringe inwardly.

Hannibal shrugs, “I'm not averse to the impact of a well-placed expletive.”

Will leans in with a smile and says, “For the record, I loved your suits.”

“No, you didn't.” Hannibal rebuts firmly.

“OK I didn’t, but I loved you in them, I can admit that now.”

Hannibal’s eyes flick up to look at him as he disinfects the scissors, a pinkish hue tinting his cheeks.

When he tilts his head to work on his cheek, Will closes his eyes, relishing the feel of his warm chest against his naked arm.

“We will reach the marina tomorrow night,” Hannibal says tentatively into Will’s curls, “this is your final-”

“Don’t! “ Will interrupts him, pulling away so he can look at him, “I'm with you. I'm going with you, like I should’ve all those years ago, instead of fucking Bedelia.”

“She was convenient, Will. She was not a replacement. How could she replace you?” Hannibal caresses his cheek with the back of his knuckles as Will's eyes drop to his lips and then flutter close at the tenderness of the touch, feeling dizzy on his scent.

Will feels Hannibal's hot breath on his ear, “Would you like me to kill her?”

Will’s eyes snap open.“Yes…Maybe..,” he says, then after a brief pause, adds, “I want her to know her place.”

Hannibal's eyes spark like glowing embers as Will continues, “I want her to know what we are to each other. I want her to know she only breathes because I allow it. I want her to know...”

“Know what, Will?” Hannibal tilts his chin with his finger, his thumb briefly caressing the plumpness of his bottom lip.

“That I am your equal. That you hold me in such high regard - you once considered me a threat. That you value my opinion and listen when I speak,” he whispers, closing the distance between them. “That I have the power to still your hand.”

Hannibal's eyes crinkle with delight as he cups his jaw. “Does it make you feel powerful to have this influence over me?”

A few tension-filled moments pass as the two men stare at one another. Will's eyes again drop to Hannibal’s lips, and he sways as if enchanted.

“Yes,” he finally says, his voice low and husky, “Does that feel manipulative?”

“It should,” Hannibal breathes, his eyes locking onto Will’s lips as he runs his tongue along his own. “But I find I want to encourage you to take what you desire.”

Will’s eyes darken at the words as a surge of desire floods his stomach; primal need pulses through his veins.

“You are in danger of becoming quite spoilt, Will,” Hannibal purrs, tracing his finger gently down his neck onto his chest, “as I cannot deny you anything.” His finger stops at the waistband of his jeans, lingering there. “The moment I laid eyes on you, a devastatingly divine craving consumed me, and I knew I would burn the world to ashes at your command.”

Will closes his eyes, his heart thudding like it is begging to be released. This is a fitting description of what they shared: a devastatingly divine craving, what he felt towards this man who both destroyed and restored him.

“I feared surrendering to you. I feared you would devour me entirely and still be left wanting. But this doesn't feel like consumption. It feels like liberation.”

“I once thought that a lack of obligation to anyone was freedom; I now understand it to be loneliness. The tendency to conflate these states is quite common.”

“It's the same with hatred and grief,“ Will whispers, “I thought I hated you for so long, but it was grief. It's so strange to grieve for someone still alive. I often wondered when I thought of you if you were thinking of me.”

Hannibal cradles his face with both his hands. Such a tender touch is almost too much for Will, overwhelming and pillaging his ability to form thoughts or words.

“If you are foolish to suppose I am ever not thinking of you, remember this,” Hannibal dips his head, seeking his eyes, “the moment before you walked into Jack Crawford’s office was the last time I wasn’t thinking of you.”

Hannibal's eyes reveal vulnerability, longing, and reverence. Despite being aware of his love for him, the intensity of this moment steals Will’s breath, his eyes swelling with unshed tears as the world around them fades away into insignificance.

Will takes Hannibal's hand, places it on his heart, and holds it there. He catches his gaze and holds it before speaking, “Do you feel that?”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s voice is no more than a whisper.

Will releases his hand. “That is because of you. For you.”

Hannibal doesn't withdraw his hand; instead, he spreads out his fingers, as if he could claw out his pounding heart.

Will smiles as he watches Hannibal's face soften in awe, feeling his heartbeat beneath his hand, “It is strange to me that someone can make my heart beat so fast when, for the longest time, I didn’t want it to beat at all.”

With glassy eyes, Hannibal looks up at him and says, “We have fallen into an intimacy from which we may never recover.”

“In all the time we have known each other, we have spent more time apart than together. Yet I feel like we have always been….” Will reaches for Hannibal’s hand, bringing the knuckles to his lips. He hears the sharp intake of breath and raises his eyes to meet pools of heated amber and maroon.

Hannibal drinks him in, his lips parted, his pupils blown, sending lightning down Will’s spine. “Love is not measured in time, but in transformation.” Hannibal says, “Sometimes the longest relationships yield very little growth. It is not the years but the connection, the heart seeks resonance, and when it finds it the transformation occurs.”

“You forced me to accept my darkness; it took me some time to realise it was a gift, not a curse.”

“How could that which houses the stars be a curse?”

“Our shared darkness is beautiful. Intimate.”

“People think that intimacy is about sex, but it is about truth. Nothing is more intimate than someone seeing your darkness and accepting it.”

Will’s breath hitches in his throat as he reaches out and lightly brushes the hair that has fallen across his eyes away, marvelling at the silky texture as he slides through his fingers. He gently traces down his temple to his jaw, where he lingers, relishing in the warm, scratchy texture of his stubble.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Will removes his hand, only for Hannibal to grab it and hold it against his cheek, “Your hands will always be a welcome indulgence, Will.”

“People love the idea of love,” Will says. "They love that flirty butterfly feeling but don’t truly love love." He jerks Hannibal's head roughly in his grip. "Love is sacrificial, ferocious, brutal, and fearless.

“They want the emotion without indemnity.”

“We have paid more than enough.” Will whispers, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. Hannibal leans into the touch, encouraging him. Will complies, massaging the muscles in his neck. Hannibal's groan sends a spasm of covetousness through his body, flooding his mind with salacious and dangerous images. He yearns to hear that sound again but in a different context. I want you to moan for me - because of me.

"Kiss me," Will urges, his voice dense with desire as he leans in, their breath mingling in the gap between them.

Hannibal’s pupils are blown with hunger as he shifts closer and tenderly takes his face in his hands. The first brush of lips evokes memories of their first kiss, just hours earlier on the porch of their beloved cottage-a gentle press of skin, unbearably, exquisitely fragile.

“This is why we close our eyes when we pray, cry, dream, and kiss,” Hannibal murmurs against his lips, “because the most beautiful things in life are not seen but felt.”

Will grips his hair, angling his head to deepen the kiss. The contact is incendiary, lips dragging, the fevered and intoxicating ebb and flow of urgency.

As Hannibal gasps, Will seizes the opportunity to run his tongue along his lower lip, seeking permission to enter. Their tongues touch, tasting each other for the first time. Hannibal grips the other man by the waist, pulling him closer, savouring and revelling in this new faucet of their intimacy, which makes Will's brain curl like wilted leaves. In response, Will runs his thumbnail across Hannibal’s erection through the fabric of his underwear, causing him to groan and shift in search of more contact.

Abruptly, Hannibal grips his hair and pulls his head back to look at him. Will trembles at the look in his eyes, which is both worshipful and feral. Hannibal then kisses Will hard, sliding his hands down Will’s back, grabbing his ass pulling him onto his lap, where the friction makes them both groan in unison, ignited with pleasure.

Will pulls back and rests his forehead against the other man’s. Their breaths are heavy and erratic, drunk from the euphoria of the kiss.

Hannibal watches him with hooded eyes and blown pupils as Will presses his finger to Hannibal’s bruised, swollen lips. “Do all lovers feel like they’re inventing something new?”

“Yes,” Hannibal breathes, “the only difference is that we are.”

Hannibal lunges forward, catching Will in a blistering kiss. Will plunges his hands into the doctor’s hair, pulling hard enough to draw a breathy gasp out of him. Hannibal grips his hips and holds him still, rocking his hips up with enough force for Will to feel the burgeoning, hot length of his erection. At that moment, Will’s senses zeroed in on the incredible feeling of Hannibal’s cock pressing into him, hard as iron against his own. It’s an odd sensation to have someone in your arms and still crave them.

“Can you feel that Will?” he growls, “Can you feel how I want you, how I love you?”

“Yes,” Will's voice is hoarse with lust as he sinks his teeth into Hannibal’s lower lip, bringing it into his mouth to suck. Hannibal’s hands spasm wildly at his hips, and a grunt is forced out from deep within his chest.

“Then,” Hannibal drops his hands back to Will’s thighs and kneads the soft flesh possessively. “All that remains is to show you.”

As they crash against each other on the soft surface of the mattress, they are a galaxy exploding into a million pieces, just as Hannibal predicted, creating a whole new world.

The overwhelming beauty and pressing urgency of their need fills Will until there is nothing but Hannibal.

All thoughts of the peculiar man on the porch - forgotten.

**********

Now

The Cabin

Chiyoh holds the kidney dish for Freddie as she vomits.

Freddie grins at her, brownish saliva dripping down her chin, “Enjoying yourself? Won’t be long before my bowels start to…let's say, let loose. Won’t that be fun for you? Starting to regret not putting a bullet in my head?”

Chiyoh swallows deeply, “Sometimes you must sink to the level of your environment.”

Freddie's laughter fills the air, unmistakably tinged with contempt yet hinting at a subtle undertone of fear.

Chiyoh observes her for a moment, “You are afraid,” she states.

Freddie glares at her, “Afraid of what?”

“Dying.”

When Freddie remains silent, Chiyoh says, "You are the architect of this end, Ms. Lounds. These are the consequences of your actions."

Freddie gazes at her with glazed and unfocused eyes.

“Do you hear me?” Chiyoh asks, taking her by the shoulders.

"Yes," she murmurs, her head falling to the side as she drags her tongue across her chapped lips.

“This end was brought upon you by your own means.”

“How can we be human without destroying ourselves?” Freddie sneers, her eyes rolling in her head as they try to focus on Chiyoh.

Chiyoh straightens up, looks down at her, and nods, indicating she understands what she means. “To err is human..”

“To forgive is divine.” Freddie finishes.

“Both of us struggle to forgive those who have wronged us.”

“Will and Hannibal were able to forgive,” Freddie whispers, tears streaming down her face.

Chiyoh nods, biting her lip. “We have somehow lost our way, Ms Lounds.”

“I get lost over and over, but I always claw my way back again... over and over… at the very core of my being, there is an urge…a desperate need to survive at any cost. I’m a survivor.”

Chiyoh eyes soften. “I know you are, but you will not survive this.”

Freddie's eyes widen as a shadow moves across the wall, prompting her to twist and jerk violently away from it. Her heart feels hot and swollen inside her chest as if her rib cage is too small, pressing in slowly, crushing her lungs.

“What do you see, Ms Lounds?” Chiyoh asks, cupping her cheek.

“Darkness.” she splutters, her sweat-drenched skin glistening in the moonlight.

“Do not fear it, embrace it, Ms Lounds.”

“It’s not the dark, but what hides in it.” 

“What lurks there?”

“Them.”

“It may be time to lay the dead to rest, Ms Lounds.”

“You want a confession?”

“Confession only unburdens the sinner. I seek penance.”

"Mine or yours?"

There is a moment of heavy silence as Chiyoh's stare bears down on Freddie like a weight before she says in a low, raspy voice, "Why can't it be both?"

Freddie's lips drop into a frown as she blinks rapidly as if trying to maintain her focus, “I have a meanness in me," her voice gravelly and raw, "as physical as any organ. My armour. It keeps me moving forward, persevering... but lately, I find my conscience has been tormenting me.”

“Conscience is the fear of getting caught.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Yet you are running.”

Freddie sucks in her bottom lip to contain the scream that is bubbling up from her gut. Her eyes are sodden with unshed tears. "I have done nothing that I regret."

“Finish your tale, Ms. Lounds,” Chiyoh whispers, taking her hand.

“Why? So you can pity me?” Freddie sneers, trying to shake off her touch.

“So I can understand your pain.”

“Despite what some people will have you believe. Pain doesn’t always build character or make you stronger. Sometimes it just fucking hurts. It wears you down until nothing is left but a hollow husk.”

“The irony of pain is that you often seek comfort from the one who harmed you.”

“Like you did with Hannibal?” Freddie smirks cruelly.

Chiyoh's lip trembles, but she keeps her voice steady. She says, “I often find it curious that we are taught to fear witches and not those who burn them alive.”

As tears stream down her face, Freddie look directly at her and says, “I see you, the wounded always recognise the wounded.”

 **********

Then

Twenty-seven years ago - one month before the incident at the gas station

Freddie can hear her parents' television through the wall.

It is a late-night talk show with muffled voices interspersed with laughter, an overly enthusiastic audience, and musical interludes.

She can hear the toilet flush as her father finishes in the bathroom, followed by running water, the click of the light, and then his heavy footsteps as he pads across the hall toward the bedroom he shares with her mother.

She can hear her father shut the door, and then, after a moment, the television's volume increases significantly.

Freddie lies on her back, listening to an actress talk about her latest movie. She tries to focus on the host's excitable, pandering voice, but she gets distracted by the creak of the bed springs and the thud of the bed frame as it intermittently hits the wall.

Then she hears it.

When she does, she does what she does every time she hears it.

She places her pillow over her head, desperately trying to drown out the single sound that is submerged in all the other sounds: the actress, the host, the studio audience, the creak of the springs and the bed frame hitting the wall…the soft sobbing of her mother.

~~~V~~~

Chapter Text

Now

The Cabin

“Did you move to Baltimore to be near Hannibal, Ms Lounds?”

"No," Freddie replies, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't make the connection between The Ripper and Il Mostro until Hannibal was discovered in Florence."

“So all the time you conspired with the FBI to capture Hannibal, you were unaware of his involvement in your father's death?”

“No fucking idea,” Freddie lets her head fall back, a droopy grin splitting her face.

Chiyoh considers her curiously as she dips the dishcloth into the basin and remarks, "Fascinating."

"Isn't it," Freddie sneers, her voice dripping with bitterness. “I had looked into the eye of the man who destroyed my family, had eaten at his home. I even got a scolding from him when he caught me trying to record one of his sessions with his little fuck boy.”

"Hannibal caught you eavesdropping?" Chiyoh asks incredulously, with an openly amused expression.

“Yeah.”

Chiyoh can't help but smirk, bringing her hand up to her mouth, “He would have perceived such behaviour as exceedingly discourteous.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Freddie grins, “Little did I know I was poking a fucking sadistic cannibal. I may have reconsidered my actions.”

Chiyoh runs the damp cloth across her sweat-laden forehead, “Would you have, Ms Lounds?”

“Probably not.” Then, getting serious, she adds, “I wish I had known; my brother might be…” Freddie shrugs as she bites her lip to stop it from trembling.

Chiyoh pauses in her work and, with her finger, tilts Freddie’s face towards her, “Did your brother ever speak of what happened that day at the gas station?”

“He never spoke again till…”

Chiyoh gazes down at her expectantly.

Freddie’s eyes glaze over, and she looks momentarily lost before she slowly shakes her head and says, “I managed to get a look at the police report, though.”

Chiyoh notes the deflection but chooses not to address it. Instead, she nods and lets Freddie's chin slip from her grip.

Freddie's eyes harden, the weight of her gaze unyielding. “Your darling brother crushed my father's skull with a hammer.”

“A hammer?” Chiyoh's eyes widen in surprise, “Hannibal would never-”

Freddie bulldozes over her, her tone thick with disdain, "What about Muskrat Farm?"

“That was survival,” Chiyoh’s face twists with irritation as she shakes her head slowly, “Hannibal was forced to use the resources available to him.”

Freddie's lips tremble as she drops her gaze, "My daddy…my dad was always fixing up the gas station; his tools were lying everywhere."

Chiyoh's movements are stilted, exuding an underlying tension as she drops the cloth into the basin, its descent punctuating the stillness with a resonating splash. “Hannibal must have found himself in a position where he had no choice.”

With glassy eyes, Freddie tracks her movements as she returns to her chair, “The report said there was a crater so deep in his skull, the killer was able to place the “Take a penny, leave a penny” jar in it, along with the sign.”

Chiyoh clenches her hand into a fist in her lap while softly murmuring. “A penny for your thoughts.”

Freddie's sneer deepens, “All in front of his thirteen-year-old son.”

Chiyoh is startled by the words yet swiftly regains her composure, "Hannibal would never harm a child."

“What about Morgan Verger?” Freddie snaps with a flicker of smugness.

Chiyoh offers a sly smile,  “Oh, come now, Ms Lounds. You know you were more complicit in the unfortunate death of Master Verger than Hannibal was.”

Freddie's eyes shift away as she nervously tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth. "They said my brother hid."

“You don’t believe that?”

"No," Freddie states firmly, fixing her gaze on Chiyoh. "Hannibal chose to spare him."

“He showed mercy.”

Freddie's face softens, her anger subsiding into sorrow. "It was an act of cruelty to let him live. If he wanted to show mercy, he would have killed him." Freddie's voice drops to a whisper, "Then maybe we would've been spared the consequences."

The weight of the words lingers in the air, and a few moments pass before Chiyoh speaks. "If Hannibal had inflicted such a horrific injury upon your father, surely there would have been evidence of it when he left the gas station that day."

Freddie closes her eyes, drifting back to that moment she first met Hannibal, her voice dreamlike and languid. “He was wiping his hands on…on…on something; his shirt had… spots of red…they twinkled in the sun…still wet.”

Chiyoh leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, “You took a lollipop from a stranger covered in blood, Ms Lounds.”

Freddie's shoulders sag, exhaustion and defeat seeping into her voice. “Yes, I did.”

Chiyoh studies her for a moment before speaking deliberately and in a measured tone. “Hannibal was not one to engage in random acts of violence. Something happened to prompt such a reaction.”

Freddie suddenly throws her head back and unleashes an unnerving cackle, startling Chiyoh, who flinches away in horror.

Smirking at her reaction, Freddie says, "Hannibal fucking Lecter walked into a random gas station and came face to face with the only person in America who would recognise him.”

With a deranged grin, Freddie states, “Il Mostro needed gas, and my life went to shit."

**********

Then

Twenty-seven years ago

Evelyn Cooper stalks down the corridor, clutching Freddie in one hand and a copy of the Old Testament in the other.

Patients glide noiselessly through the hallway like ghosts, seemingly oblivious to each other and their surroundings. The bright lights sting Freddie's eyes, casting distorted reflections of herself and her mother on the stainless steel panels that adorn the walls.

Coming to an abrupt stop in front of one of the many doors, Freddie's mother takes a deep breath. Worry clouds her face as she looks down at her daughter. Tentatively, she pushes the door open and steps into the room.

Her brother is sitting in a high-back chair facing the window. When he fails to acknowledge their presence, Evelyn clears her throat and gently says, “Sweetie, it’s Mama…and Fredrica.”

The boy sits in silence, his gaze unwavering as it rests upon the view beyond the window—an unremarkable red brick wall.

Evelyn reaches out a slender hand and touches his arm, her slight frame resembling a skin-purse of loose bones as she hovers over him.

The young boy meticulously rotates his head, uncannily reminiscent of a mechanical device. Once brimming with vitality and light, his eyes now resemble deep, dark voids within his skull.

Despite herself, Evelyn flinches and snaps back her hand. "It's Mama, honey," she whispers, managing a gentle smile. She grabs Freddie and pulls her close, “And Fredrica.”

Freddie, trembling slightly, musters a small, hesitant wave as she looks upon the derelict figure sitting before her. His sunken features appear suspended in a perpetual state of rigidity, accentuated by the sorrowful droop of his lips, giving him an almost ghostly presence.

Pushing Freddie to her knees, Evelyn joins her on the floor at her son's feet. She opens the book she is holding and begins reading aloud;

“In the land of Uz, there lived a man whose name was Job. This man was blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil. He had seven sons and three daughters….”

As muscle memory kicks in, Freddie automatically lowers her head and intertwines her fingers in a prayer-like gesture. Her mother's monotonous voice surrounds her, causing a dull ache to throb in her head.

“Early in the morning, he would sacrifice a burnt offering for each of them, thinking, “Perhaps my children have sinned and cursed God in their hearts.” This was Job’s regular custom…”

The familiar actions, set against the unfamiliar surroundings, create a disorienting blend of comfort and discomfort. Freddie opens her eyes, only to be confronted with her brother’s face. He has shifted in his chair, his stare fixed solely on his sister. He smacks his lips twice before running his tongue across his bottom lip. Startled, Freddie shuts her eyes tightly and edges closer to her mother.

“One day, the angels came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan also came with them. The Lord said to Satan, “Where have you come from?”...”

Feeling her daughter slouching against her, Evelyn gives her a quick, sharp elbow nudge, prompting her to straighten up.

“Satan answered the Lord, “From roaming throughout the earth, going back and forth on it.” Then the Lord said to Satan, “Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil.” “Does Job fear God for nothing?”...”

Freddie leans back on her heels and quietly observes her brother as her mother reads on. His attention drifts back to the window and the barren wall.

As time passes, his head slumps forward, and a thin stream of saliva slowly seeps from his partly open mouth, trickling down onto his lap.

“The Lord said to Satan, “Very well, then, everything he has is in your power, but on the man himself do not lay a finger.” Then Satan went out from the presence of the Lord. One day, when Job’s sons and daughters were feasting and drinking wine…”

Freddie is transfixed, swaying forward on her knees as if enchanted. She reaches out her hand and touches his hair, marvelling at its softness.

“While he was still speaking, another messenger came and said, “The fire of God fell from the heavens and burned up the sheep and the servants, and I am the only one who has escaped to tell you!”...”

As her brother's hand abruptly grips her wrist, the shock renders her voiceless, her mouth gaping open in a silent scream. Cruel eyes gleam fiercely through the tangled strands of hair that have fallen across his face at her, accompanied by a vicious grin that makes her stomach churn.

“It collapsed on them, and they are dead, and I am the only one who has escaped to tell you!” At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head…”

Freddie's heart pounds in her chest as she frantically tries to break free, but his strength overwhelms her. A surge of panic washes over her as she feels his fingers clench tighter around her delicate wrist; she feels the hot dampness of urine on the inside of her thighs.

“Then he fell to the ground in worship and said: “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.” In all this, Job did not sin by charging God with wrongdoing.”

After what feels like an eternity, she feels her mother unpeel her son's tight, claw-like fingers. “Stop bothering your brother, Fredrica. Have you? Dear God! Why didn’t you say you needed the restroom? What is wrong with you?”

Just then, a blood-curdling scream pierces the air, ripped from the young boy seated in the chair. His body is poker stiff, his mouth gaping open in a grotesque, oval shape, as his howl reverberates throughout the room. It is raw and visceral, his body thrashing with the effort of expelling such a soul-shaking sound.

Freddie quickly moves away from the horrifying scene, shutting her eyes and covering her ears with her hands. Her mother takes hold of her brother and desperately clutches him to her chest, crying out, “Why are you like this, Fredrica?”

As she stumbles backwards towards the door, her eyes catch her brother’s gaze over their mother’s shoulder. In a brief moment, she sees a sinister spark in his eyes before it disperses, and he becomes limp in their mother’s arms.

As she starts to say, "But Mama.." two nurses abruptly rush into the room in response to the screams.

While the nurses examine the boy, her mother turns to her and points towards the door with a bony finger, "Go clean yourself up; you're upsetting your brother."

“But Mama, he …”

“Fredrica, your brother, “ Evelyn glares at her, “is the Lord’s instrument, he….” Sighing deeply, she waves her hand dismissively at her, “You would never understand. Just go.”

As Freddie backs further out of the room, she sees her mother fall to her knees at her brother's feet. Leaning down, she cradles his bare foot and places her mouth on the exposed skin, uttering, “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

The two nurses satisfied that the episode has passed, try to speak to her unresponsive mother, who is still hunched over her son's foot. Giving up, they exchange a look and a shrug before ushering Freddie from the room.

As the door closes, she hears her mother say,  “This is my penance for asking the Lord to take my husband.”

*******

Then

The Boat

The boat sways gently as the moonlight shimmers on the ocean's surface, cradled by the sea's tranquil embrace. The rhythmic rocking motion of the anchored vessel creates a mesmerizing ambience, casting a spell of peace and tranquillity over its occupants. The gentle caress of the waves lulls the passengers into a dreamlike state, surrendering to the night.

Gazing up at the sky, cocooned between the warmth of a blanket and the warmth of Hanibal's body, Will's voice is wistful. "Just look at those stars; we wouldn't have gotten them to see them on a flight."

Hannibal weaves his slender fingers through his soft curls, captivated by the beauty surrounding him in all forms. The vast array of stars overhead twinkles in agreement as he says, "I concur entirely, mano meilė."

Resting his chin on Hannibal's chest, Will grins. "It also spares me the spectacle of the attendant asking what you wanted for dinner and you asking to see the passenger list," he says.

Hannibal’s soft laugh makes Will want to crawl into it and live there. "You're tucking that away for future use, aren't ya, doctor?"

"I will neither confirm nor deny that, my darling boy," Hannibal’s teasing smile sparks a fire within Will's chest.

After a moment of reflective silence, Will leans in and softly asks, "Is it how you imagined?"

“I could never have imagined this,” Hannibal says tenderly, opening his eyes. “Is it as you envisioned?”

Will reaches out and traces the curve of his jaw with his finger, “I expected it to be intense.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "Are you implying that our love lacks intensity? I'm uncertain whether to be offended or not."

Will chuckles as he shakes his head, “No, it's…it's good… it's great. I just expected more metaphor-dense conversations filled with intricate manipulations and mindfucks that would somehow escalate into knife fights …..I didn’t expect…”

Hannibal tilts his head, looking expectantly at Will, urging him to continue.

“I don’t know,” Will shrugs with a small smile, “To laugh so much. I don’t think I’ve laughed as much in all my forty-odd years as I have in the last few months. I keep forgetting I'm on the run with a serial killing cannibal.”

Hannibal cups his jaw, “You seem to forget that you too are a serial killing cannibal, Will,” and then adds with a smirk, “I suppose what they say is true.”

Will pulls himself onto his elbows, “What do they say?”

“That you are, indeed, what you eat.”

A startled chuckle escapes Will as he blurts out, “Who even are you? Rimming jokes doctor? Really? Though…” Will trails off, images of their recent encounters replaying in his mind like a vivid slideshow, causing his cheeks to flush red with a mixture of arousal and coyness.

Hannibal pulls him in for a soft kiss. The gentle touch of their lips leaves Will in a giddy daze. With a goofy smile, he quips, "What were we talking about again?"

Hannibal laughs and playfully pinches his cheek. "I didn't expect you to be so infuriating, but I find myself inexplicably charmed by it."

"Hey!" Will swats away his hand, "And you're a fucking delight, I suppose?"

"I believe so."

Will rolls his eyes and, with a grin, says, "Such an asshole." Then, with a slight frown, he adds, "I just wish…" His voice trails off, but the unspoken words hang heavy in the air.

Hannibal cradles the back of his head, savouring the curls at the nape of his neck, “Sometimes the person you fall for isn't ready to catch you. I acquired that lesson, as they say…the hard way.”

Will bows his head, the words stabbing his heart, “I loved you as dark things are to be loved,” he whispers, turning his face into Hannibal’s hand, where he places a kiss, “in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I denied it for so long...too long.”

Hannibal traces his thumb across his cheekbone. Leaning into the touch, Will asks, "You said you knew the moment you saw me... is that true?"

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers as he presses his forehead against Will’s, “and I felt the existence I had meticulously crafted dismantle and reassemble with just three vowels and seven consonants.”

Will's face twists with confusion before the realization dawns on him, prompting him to nudge Hannibal in the ribs playfully. "You are fucking ridiculous... “ he chuckles. "Ridiculously sappy," he adds, leaning in to meet Hannibal's lips in a gentle, chaste kiss.

"You are akin to coffee, Will Graham. Deliciously bitter, highly addictive, and essential for functioning."

Will feigns a pout, his brows furrowed in mock annoyance as he utters a dry, "Wow, thanks."

“You’re welcome.” Hannibal smirks.

“Do I need to point out too much coffee can give you the shits.”

“I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

Will tugs on one of his chest hairs, prompting the older man to cry out and swat his hand away. Laughing, Will gazes down at him, his eyes softening as he muses, "What's most unexpected is how easy this is. Getting here was so…..difficult, but only because we made it difficult. You with your Machiavellian bullshit and me with my skewed sense of justice. Our…well, my resistance to the truth denied us this for so long.”

“What is done can’t be undone. Let us not dwell on the past when we have our whole future ahead of us. One often talks about a love worth dying for; ours is a love I wish to live for…and live we shall.”

“Live we shall indeed,” Will smiles, curling his body around the other’s side and placing his head on his shoulder.

Pressing his face into the crook of his neck, Will mutters solemnly, “They don’t get it, do they?”

“Who are they, my love?”

“Everyone, Jack, Alana, Freddie…the whole fucking world.” Will sweeps his arm through the air. “They don’t see what we are to each other. They deem you incapable and me unstable and brainwashed. All the articles describe us as possessive, obsessive, deluded, controlling, manipulative and psychotic. They just don’t fucking get it.”

“Nor will they, and what does it matter?”

“You’re right,” Will agrees in a hushed tone as he snuggles in closer, “They don’t matter, only us, only we matter.”

As Hannibal nods, he rests his cheek on Will's head, basking in the familiar, soothing scent that fills his nostrils. Gazing upwards, his eyes meet the majestic radiance of the moon. "She knows," Hannibal murmurs, trailing his fingers down the length of Will's spine.

“Who?”

“The moon, she knows we're in love.”

Will smiles. She does.

*********

Two years ago

Baltimore

Freddie knows she is being followed as she walks briskly through the dark, dimly lit streets. Now and then, she catches a glimpse of a shadowy figure and feels the intensity of their attention.

Her heart races with a peculiar mix of fear and excitement as she quickens her pace, losing herself in the maze-like alleyways.

Taking a sudden turn, Freddie darts into a nearby doorway, holding her breath as she presses her back against the wall. Within moments, the shadowy figure emerges at the entrance to the alley, their silhouette outlined by the faint glow of a distant streetlight.

Freddie holds her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She watches intently as the figure hesitates momentarily, scanning the area, the tension thickening with each passing second.

As the figure moves closer, Freddie's mind races. With a surge of adrenaline, she pushes herself off the wall and sprints into the depths of the alley, her footsteps echoing through the deserted streets.

After what felt like an eternity of twists and turns, Freddie finally found herself back on the main street.

Clutching the gun in her bag tightly, she picks up her pace to weave through the crowd pouring out of the nightclub, striving to lose her pursuer.

Turning into another dimly lit alley, she catches sight of a shadow blending back into the darkness.

Maintaining her composure, Freddie’s fingers tighten around the comforting shape of her gun, refusing to pay heed to the panic creeping up her spine.

She turns to face her predator with determined steps, her hand still concealed within her bag. "Who are you? Why are you following me?" Freddie demands, her voice steady despite her racing pulse.

A slight shuffling can be heard, followed by a grunt. Soon after, a boot emerges at the corner of the alley wall. Freddie removes the gun from her bag, “Hey” she shouts, “Show yourself, I know you are there.”

Fingers grab at the corner of the wall. Then, with a loud grunt, a man, clearly in a state of extreme intoxication, propels himself forward and lurches into the spotlight of a nearby street lamp. The dim glow of the light illuminates his dishevelled appearance and unsteady movements. Upon seeing the gun, his body flinches violently backwards, resulting in an undignified fall onto his backside. Frantically, he attempts to distance himself and Freddie by shuffling backwards in a crab-like motion, “I-I'm just h-haavviing a p-pisss."

Freddie's heart hammers in her chest, relief washing over her. She retracts the gun and quickly conceals it once more, grateful that she didn't have to use it.

When Freddie arrives at her apartment building, she lets out an exasperated groan upon seeing that the elevator is still out of order. With a resigned sigh, she ascends the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.

As she searches for the keys in her bag. Familiar sounds surround her: her elderly neighbour's too-loud television set, the laughter and music from the students a few doors down, mixing with the distant arguments and crying baby from the floor above—an urban symphony.

Suddenly, she feels an arm circle her waist and a hand cover her mouth.

Instinctively, she bites the inside of the hand, and with a swift backward kick, she catches her attacker sharply in the shin. The assailant lets out a yelp of pain, momentarily loosening their grip on her.

Seizing the opportunity, she twists her body, forcefully breaking free from their hold. With adrenaline coursing through her veins, she swiftly turns around, ready to defend herself.

Her eyes meet those of a man she knows. He stumbles back, nursing his injured hand. “For fuck sake Red.”

“Fuck you, Joe” Freddie lets out a deep breath, followed by a soft chuckle of both relief and amusement, as her heartbeat begins to return to its normal rhythm.

Slowly, she withdraws her hand from her bag, the tension evaporating.

Joe laughs as he rubs his shin. “Your face, Red. You were fucking scared.”

Freddie groans and rolls her eyes. Finding her keys, she inserts them into the lock, turning it with a distinct click. The door swings open.

Joe limps exaggeratedly as he stumbles into her apartment. “Stop it,” Freddie shakes her head, “I didn’t kick you that hard,”

“Guess I should be glad you didn’t pull out the mace.”

“Or my gun,” Freddie quips, dropping her bag onto the couch. “Did you get the pictures?”

Joe laughs as he pats his chest, “Of course I did, Red. Have I ever let you down? ”

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“Probably best not to.” he smiles, taking an envelope from inside his coat.

“Yeah. No shit!” She mutters as she flicks through the photographs, “Nice work, Joe.”

With a slight bow, Joe approaches the fridge, “Beer?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at her.

“Sure,” Freddie drops the photos onto the coffee table as she removes her coat.

“A beer would be most delightful if you would be so kind.”

The moment the voice echoes through the air, Freddie is assaulted by an intense and immediate surge of emotion. The voice wraps around her like a shroud; it grips her heart like a fist, preventing it from beating.

A defiant click illuminates the lamp in the corner, unveiling a man dressed in a black suit. He sits elegantly in the armchair with his legs crossed and hands clasped in his lap.

Joe stops and looks from the man to Freddie and back again. “Hey, man,” he says. Then, with an amused lift of his brow, he looks at Freddie: “Who’s this, Red?”

The man inclines his head, "How curious. I was on the verge of inquiring the same of you."

Freddie stands frozen, feeling the room spin around her, white noise filling her head. Her coat slips from her hands and drops to the floor.

Frowning, the man gazes at the crumpled garment on the floor. "You haven't changed, my dear Fredrica. You were always the messy one, never showing respect for your belongings or anyone else's."

In one graceful motion, he stands up from the chair and delicately picks up her coat. Taking care to brush it off, he smoothly drapes it across the back of the couch.

Freddie watches him with wide eyes, who in turn watches her with mild amusement, their gaze locking. “How about those beers, Joe,” he says, never breaking eye contact.

“I-sure…okay,” Joe stutters as he awkwardly shuffles in place for a few moments before turning to the fridge.

The man reaches out and cups Freddie’s jaw, “It has been a while, has it not?” he says, leaning in. Closing his eyes, he traces his nose from the curls at her temple down her jaw to the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent.

Paralysed by panic, Freddie's breaths come in short, shallow bursts as her heart pounds erratically against her rib cage.

Joe places the beer bottles on the small dining table and takes a seat. "So, how do you know Freddie?"

The man's eyes snap open, and an impossibly wide smile stretches his face as he strides confidently over to Joe, "We are family."

“Oh,” Joe says, looking at Freddie with a perplexed expression.

Freddie takes a deep breath and turns to face him, “He’s my brother, Joe.”

“But you—” Joe starts then stops. Looking at the man, he smiles and extends his hand. "Nice to meet you. Freddie didn’t tell me she had a brother.”

“Is that so?” the man says dryly as he takes a sip of his beer with a wince, ignoring his outstretched hand.

Freddie hovers at the threshold of the kitchenette, twisting her hands. "It never came up," she finally utters.

Joe points at her with his beer bottle and says, "This one here is an enigma, a mystery wrapped in a riddle."

“I imagine that just adds to her charm.” The man glances at his sister with a raised eyebrow.

“I guess you could say that,” Joe laughs, “So what brings you to town?”

The man leans back in his chair and studies him briefly, before saying, “I’m on a mission from God.”

A tense moment of silence ensues before Joe suddenly bursts into laughter and points at him with his beer bottle, "Very good. I love the Blues Brothers too, man, great film."

A brief look of annoyance flashes across the man's face before he fashions it into an affable grin, “Tell me Joseph-”

“Joe,” he corrects as he lights a cigarette, “It’s Joe.”

The man's lip twitches slightly, but he maintains a smile as he subtly increases his grip on the bottle. “Tell me, Joe, what is the nature of your relationship with my sister?”

Freddie edges closer, exchanging a look with Joe, who frowns, “Listen, I -”

“Joe and I are friends,” Freddie says firmly.

The man smiles at Joe, “How nice. We all need friends.”

Joe finishes his beer and gets up. " Are you ready for another one, man?” he asks.

The man stares at Joe, his smile frozen in place. Joe shifts his gaze to Freddie, who shrugs and leans against the counter, crossing her arms.

“Wanna another one?” Joe asks again, leaning on the door of the open fridge.

After a moment, the man responds, “No, thank you.”

Joe nods, closes the door, and then, with a practised motion, uses the edge of the counter to remove the cap. With a disapproving grimace, the man watches the cap clatter to the floor where it remains. “So, how long are you in town?” Joe asks returning to his seat.

The man tears his eyes away from the abandoned cap and refocuses on Joe, “That is still to be determined.”

Leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, Joe asks, “Hey, you like to party?”

The man tilts his head and runs his finger through the condensation forming on his beer bottle, "Party?"

“You need anything? You come to me.” Joe gestures at himself with his drink. “And I mean anything,” he adds with a cocked eyebrow, ”Booze, drugs, women, men. All ages. All colours.”

The man narrows his eyes, “Good to know,” he mutters.

Freddie approaches her friend and grabs his arm, “Joe, don't you have somewhere you need to be?”

"I..." he looks at Freddie and seeing her pleading eyes, adds, "Yeah, I should be going."

Joe moves to get up when the man says, “You haven’t finished your beer, Joe.”

Joe looks at Freddie, who tugs at his arm and motions to the door with her head. “I think I should just-” he mutters.

“Finish your beer, Joe.” The man's eyes bore through him, pinning him in place,

When Freddie tugs his arm again, Joe shakes his head, “Nah, I best be-”

The man places his elbows on the table and leans forward, “Finish your beer, Joe.”

 Joe instinctively leans back in his chair and with a quick glance at Freddie, asks hesitantly, "So what do you do? Sorry, I've forgotten your name."

“You were never told my name.”

Joe looks at Freddie, giving her a baffled shake of his head. “Oookay…look, I have to go.”

“Where do you have to be, Joe?”

“Said I'd meet this guy… at a bar.”

“Ahhh, the man who peddles human flesh for money. Tell me, Joe. Do you provide the means?”

“What?”

“The means to ensure the meat remains compliant and manageable.”

“I..look, man.” Joe shakes his head and turns to Freddie. “Red, no offence, but your brother is fucking weird.”

As Joe stands up, the man suddenly pulls out a knife, seizes his wrist, and spears his hand to the table. ”I said...Finish your beer, Joe.”

Joe screams as he stares at his impaled hand. Terror and disbelief surge through his veins as he stares into the cold, dead eyes of his attacker, who licks his lips and asks, “Tell me Joe, what is the nature of your relationship with my sister?”

“What? I fucking told you…we're friends …”

“Yes, so you did.” the man says with a bored tone, “I do wonder, however, what I would find if I were to look at the contents of your pockets, Joe.”

“What?”

In a startling outburst of movement, the man savagely smashes a beer bottle. He seizes Joe by the neck and forcefully shoves the razor-sharp shards into his mouth.

As the jagged chunks of glass pierce Joe's inner cheeks and tongue, crimson blood trickles out of his mouth, through the man's fingers. His eyes glint with relish as he tightens his grip on Joe, pinching his nostrils shut with his thumb and index finger.

“So, my dear sister,” the man turns his head towards Freddie, as Joe convulses wildly within his grip, “ I see you have sunk to the level of your environment.”

Joe’s eyes are wild and bulging with terror as with each spasm, his free hand desperately grasping the hand clamped against his mouth. Tears now mix with the blood as he shallows more shards of glass, staining the white tablecloth. 

Finally, Joe's hand falls heavily onto the table, and the man lets his head fall onto his chest. His breathing comes in erratic bursts accompanied by low groans of pain gurgling up from his ravaged throat.

Grabbing a nearby dishcloth, the man idly wipes his hands as he takes in his surroundings, “It is rather drab-”

In a rapid motion, Joe grabs his arm, dragging him down. The man effortlessly shakes off his hand, looking mildly irritated, before snatching a handful of Joe's hair. Roughly jerking his head back, the man looks at his sister, his eyes flashing as he wrenches the knife free from Joe's hand and slices cleanly across his throat.

A geyser of crimson erupts from the wound, spraying the man's clothes and face in a gruesome display. Joe's body convulses before collapsing heavily onto the table, his blood pooling around him.

The man, unfazed, nonchalantly takes a seat beside the now-dead Joe. Leaning back, he casually rests his arm on the corpse as he lifts his beer to his lips. “For the record, I believe your friend's intentions this evening were not…” Pursing his lips, he concludes, “Admirable.”

Freddie's mouth falls open, and when she finds her voice, her brother waves his hand dismissively at her and says, “Never mind that now. We have more pressing matters.”

Pushing dead Joe onto the floor, he gestures towards the vacant seat, “Now, my dear sweet sister. Tell me everything you know about Hannibal Lecter.”

~~V~~

Chapter Text

Then

Somewhere in South America

Frederick Chilton's face dominates the screen, a tapestry of varied textures and hues. His left eye droops, giving him a perpetually lopsided expression marked by deep creases and lines from his extensive surgery. It serves as a cruel mockery, a reminder of his hubris and misfortune.

Babbling incoherently, his eyes dart wildly, his words a jumble of incoherent ramblings. Flustered, he taps his fingers on the table and fidgets in his seat.

"Well," Will says, quirking an eyebrow at Hannibal, "That has to be one of the most astonishingly idiotic things I've ever heard." His eyes return to Chilton, who scowls through the screen. "At no point in all your blabbering were you even close to anything that resembled a rational thought, Frederick."

A man, tightly bound at the hands and feet, suddenly pushes himself forward. "Lecter knew I was following him," he says with wide eyes and a face drenched in sweat. “He put on quite the show, faking a limp and an injured arm, dropping fruit, and struggling to get in and out of his car. I should have known it was a trap and gone for the headshot. Only Dickless here," he nods at the screen where Frederick is furiously fuming, "insisted I bring him back alive."

“Is that true, Hannibal?” Will asks, turning towards him.

“Yes, it is,” Hannibal says flatly with a shrug, “There is no quantifiable evidence that Dr Chilton processes a penis.”

Will's laughter fills the van, eliciting a grin of delight from Hannibal as Will reaches out and squeezes his arm.

Chilton leans in closer, his brow creasing with fascination. "I've never seen you laugh before, Will... it's quite alarming," he says, pursing his lips.

"I find I laugh a lot these days, Frederick," Will says, taking Hannibal's hand and gently grazing his knuckles with his lips.

Chilton groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation, "Oh, spare me the 'Psychopaths in Love' routine. I preferred it when you two were trying to kill each other. That, at least, was entertaining."

Leaning back in his chair, Frederick crosses his arms. "I thank the gods that you're both on the run," he declares. "I'm not sure I could stomach such a nauseating display in person. It's astonishing how two people whose main form of flirtation was violence could become so tediously dull and pathetic."

Hannibal flashes a cunning smile, his eyes crinkling with amusement, "Just as your body lacks the biological capability to metabolize protein, so too does your emotional capacity fail you when it comes to understanding the essence of true love, Frederick."

“And whose fault is that?” Chilton snaps, his eyes blazing.

"As you well know, Dr. Chilton, most emotional problems stem from childhood and -" Hannibal taunts with a widening grin.

"Cut the crap, Lecter," Frederick interrupts Hannibal, causing him to narrow his eyes at the rudeness. "Whose fault is it that I'm missing parts of my stomach and small intestine?"

"Come on, Frederick, we can't take all the credit," Will laughs. "Your arrogance and shitty personality did most of the heavy lifting."

Dr. Chilton snorts and shifts in his chair, "Yeah, well, as riveting as all this has been, I must take my leave. I have an acquaintance who will be eager to hear about these recent developments."

Will chuckles, shaking his head. "Are you going to rat us out to Jack, Frederick?"

Frederick leans closer; his eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint. His voice drops to an ominous whisper, "You know, my friend is someone who possesses the power to strike fear, even into the hearts of the FBI."

Will's face twists in confusion as Frederick leans back in his chair, sporting a smug grin. "Yes, Will, you and your Cunty Cannibal have attracted the attention of—"

"Wait, you have a friend?" Will exclaims with mock surprise, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“It is a Lupercalian miracle.” Hannibal quips.

Frederick's gaze turns steely as a low chuckle rumbles in his chest and twists his lips into a grotesque grin. "Go ahead and laugh it up while you can." Then, leaning forward on his elbows, his voice drops to a whisper: "But I promise you this: What is about to be unleashed upon you is beyond anything you can imagine, and I have been granted a front-row seat."

Will and Hannibal exchange an amused glance as Frederick leans back and smugly adjusts his tie over his stomach. "With that, I must bid you adieu... or should that be au revoir?"

The assassin, with a burst of desperation, lunges towards the screen. His eyes are wide with fear and panic, "What about me? What will happen to me?"

Frederick waves his hand dismissively, "I'm sorry, Roge, but there is nothing I can do now."

He turns his frenzied gaze towards Will, who responds with a casual shrug, "I'm afraid Dickless is right, Roge." He clasps him firmly by the shoulder and adds, "Don’t take it personally."

"It's hard not to," he exclaims with an increasingly high-pitched and whiny tone.

Will gives him a condescending frown and squeezes his shoulder as he says, "That’s a real shame, Roge," before returning his focus to the phone. “Not Au Revoir, Frederick, you’re too pathetic to hunt down and kill. This is a fuck off, and I hope I never see your tic-tac-toe face again.”

Frederick chuckles as he leans forward, "You fools, you-"

Will ends the call with a forceful tap of his finger, then carefully removes the SIM card. He snaps it in half with a satisfying crack before tossing it out the van's back door.

Carefully, he removes the battery from the phone before leaning over the front seat to hand it to Chiyoh. "Toss this into the next body of water we come across," he instructs.

Chiyoh takes the phone and nods while keeping her eyes on the road. "What did Dr. Chilton say about a friend?"

Will opens his mouth to respond when Roger's violent thrashing against the van's walls distracts him.

"You don't need to do this," Roger exclaims, his voice choking on each syllable.

"Oh, but we do, Roge," Will replies calmly, settling back into his seat with ease.

Hannibal's swift reflexes prevent the assassin from moving further as he firmly grips his arm. "Do not despair, my friend. Allow me to offer you solace by promising to elevate you to a state of apotheosis," he declares with a flourish, his eyes fixed on the assassin's.

Roger stares at Hannibal with terror-laced confusion before shaking his head. “Please, I will just disappear," he pleads. Please, I won’t tell anyone anything."

Will sighs wearily, “Hannibal, we talked about this. No theatrics. We’ll dump the body and move on.”

Roger's body starts to tremble uncontrollably as he pleads with his captors. "Please," he begs, his eyes wide with terror, "Just let me go."

Hannibal keeps his gaze fixed on his beloved, paying no attention to their captive as he speaks, “Mano širdis, I propose we utilise dear Roger to craft a gift for Uncle Jack, whose arrival, I believe, is imminent.”

“Hannibal…” Will groans, dragging his hands down his face.

With desperation, Roger thrusts himself between the men, falling to his knees, "No, please, don’t do this."

Will casually pushes Roger away with his arm, his eyes never leaving Hannibal. “We don’t have time, Cheekbones.”

“Come now, mano meilė, where is your sense of ceremony?”

Roger's heart pounds in his chest, echoing in his ears as panic tightens its grip on him. His eyes dart frantically between Hannibal and Will, who are so engrossed by each other that his desperate pleas go unheard.

“Hannibal…” Will drags his hand through his hair in frustration.

“Mano meilė,” Hannibal murmurs, taking his hand tenderly, “Mylimasis.” 

Hannibal leans forward and tenderly kisses Will's knuckles, gazing earnestly into stormy blue eyes.

Roger attempts to capture their attention again by leaning into the space between the two men, but he loses his balance and falls face down on the floor with a loud thud.

Hannibal and Will don't even flinch. Their gaze remains fixed on the other, their eyes locked in an ardent embrace.

Roger unleashes a piercing, guttural scream as he struggles to get up, only to find himself writhing on the floor of the van, helpless.

Will closes his eyes and sighs deeply as Hannibal continues, “Frederick will inevitably reveal our whereabouts; therefore, let us infuse a touch of drama.”

With a smirk, Will opens his eyes and says, “You already have a design in mind, don’t ya, Cheekbones?”

Hannibal's face erupts with an exuberant and innocent joy, akin to a child's: “I have, my love. I propose the motif of two hearts entwined in a single soul.” He purses his lips in thought: “Let us carve out Roger’s chest and place two hearts within, symbols of unified souls suspended in eternal harmony.”

Roger begins convulsing on the floor, his cries ricocheting off the walls of the cramped space, "No, please, no..."

Hannibal elaborates, ignoring the distressed man at his feet, "A complex tapestry symbolising the profound interrelation between two beings. This would serve as a potent visual manifestation of true love."

Will's lips gently parted, releasing a soft, barely audible breath, "A state of perpetual unity - macabre yet poetic."

Hannibal nods. “Naturally, it will be imperative to devise a method by which Roger can be suspended in mid-air, conceivably employing imperceptible wires to create the illusion of levitation.”

“Naturally,” Will echoes with a smile, then lowering his voice to an awed hush, “Forcing the viewer to confront their notions of love, life, and the fragility of the human body. It’s magnificent, Hannibal.”

Roger starts rolling around on the floor, repeatedly uttering, "No, No, No...please, no."

Will feels a surge of irritation and kicks him roughly. "Please stop that; it's annoying." He then shifts his attention to Hannibal and says, "We will need two hearts."

"I have someone in mind: the man who became rather belligerent when Chiyoh rejected his affections."

“Oh yes, we will see him later when we collect our papers.”

“Serendipity.”

Will smiles. “I do love it when a plan comes together.”

The man starts banging his head against the floor of the van, tears streaming down his face. "Please, please, please let me go," he pleads, his voice hoarse and brittle.

Will looks down at Roger and sighs heavily, “You tried to kidnap my…my…” He looks at Hannibal perplexed, “What are you? How should I refer to you? My boyfriend feels…wrong… like we're teenagers.”

"My dear Will, attempting to categorise our relationship with conventional labels is futile. We traverse the realms of friendship, companionship, the carnal, and the cerebral; we are something more intricate and profound altogether."

Will rolls his eyes, “But if you had to put a name on it, what would it be?”

"Paramour," Hannibal purrs.

Will twists his face in distaste, "No."

“Lover?”

Will grimaces, “Hell no!.”

Hannibal's irritation is visible in the taut, tense line of his tightly stretched lips.

Will takes his hand and kisses his wrist. "What about, partner?" he asks, pressing his palm to his cheek.

“Yes, I feel our Accountancy firm will be a thriving success.” Hannibal snips, pulling his hand away with a snort, “Beau?”

“Nope, my father’s name,” Will states with a defiant shake of his head, “and even if it wasn’t….still nope.”

“Suitor?”

“Hannibal, come on!”

“Bedmate?”

“What? Fuck no!” Will exclaims before leaning forward with a cheeky smirk, “Roommate?”

"Not amusing, William," Hannibal throws William a stern glance before continuing with an elegant flick of his wrist, "Soulmate?"

Will looks horrified, “I can’t go around introducing you as my Soulmate; that's ridiculous.”

With an air of petulance, Hannibal lifts his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. "Simply refer to me as your 'friend,'" he says, making air quotes with his fingers, "and be done with it."

“Hannibal, you’re being a brat,” Will huffs, then with a sly grin adds, “Besides, what we did last night…” his grin widens, “I’m pretty sure friends don’t do that.”

Chiyoh watches the two men bicker in the mirror, ignoring the man sprawled on the floor begging for mercy.

As she considers the scene, the irony is not lost on her. For some time, she sensed an impending danger looming over them, foreseeing their self-absorbed behaviour leading to their downfall.

Deciding it is time to intervene and disrupt this dynamic, Chiyoh’s apprehension transforms into a sense of solid determination as she locks eyes with the road ahead.

********

Three months later

Somewhere in Europe

From a distance, Chiyoh watches as Hannibal and Will share a passionate kiss.

For a brief moment, Will breaks free, only to be coaxed back into the embrace.

After further kisses and indulging in some thorough groping, Will makes his way to his truck. Once seated, he leans out the window and tenderly cradles Hannibal's face, pulling him into another lingering kiss.

Chiyoh emits a low, impatient groan as she shifts her weight, unimpressed by the two men's constant displays of affection.

Finally, Will drives off, leaving Hannibal on the driveway, watching as the vehicle vanishes into the surrounding woodland.

Chiyoh approaches Hannibal and stops beside him. Without shifting his gaze from the area in the trees where his beloved disappeared, he inquires, "Did they ever find our dear Roger?"

“No.”

“Is it possible they are withholding it?”

“No.”

“Most curious.”

Studying Hannibal's profile, Chiyoh takes a moment to collect her thoughts before carefully stating, "I must speak with you, Hannibal."

“And I you, mano brangioji sesuo.” Hannibal says, taking her gently by the elbow.

She allows herself to be guided into the house and led to the Sunroom, a bright and airy space decorated with plush furniture and large windows that flood the area with natural light.

Still preoccupied by the intimate moment she witnessed, Chiyoh gazes out at the vast garden. Even though her relationship with Hannibal is purely familial and devoid of romantic feelings, a hint of jealousy still stirs in her stomach.

Her eyes drift from the raised flower beds that Will crafted for Hannibal to cultivate his herbs and vegetables to the intricate wooden pergola he constructed as a charming setting for outdoor dining and the wrap-around porch he meticulously restored and stained, much to Hannibal's delight.

Typically, Chiyoh appreciates impressive workmanship, but in this particular instance, it stirs up a resentment that swiftly transforms into shame.

Hannibal enters the room, holding a tray adorned with a teapot, two dainty porcelain cups, and portions of Lemon and clotted cream cake - Chiyoh's favourite. This thoughtful gesture lifts her spirits, eliciting a smile as she takes a slice.

Hannibal prepares the tea with great care and precision, filling the room with the aroma of steeping leaves. He places one cup in front of Chiyoh and observes as she takes a sip, closing her eyes to relish the warmth that engulfs her body.

“This is Will’s favourite cake,” Hannibal states, sitting opposite her.

Chiyoh's hand freezes midway to her mouth as she frowns, glancing at the cake and then at Hannibal.

“I do enjoy indulging him.” Hannibal smiles as he places a napkin in his lap.

"Indeed," she mutters, taking a bite of the cake. The rich and moist sponge tastes bitter on her tongue, reigniting the resentment within her like a coiled snake twisting in her stomach.

With an elegant sweep of his hand, Hannibal gestures towards the garden, “Did you see the pergola? My Will is quite the craftsman, is he not?”

Chiyoh forces herself to swallow the cake, finding its soft texture like razor blades in her throat. "He certainly is talented," she remarks with a sharper tone than she intended, causing her to avert her eyes.

"He truly has a gift," Hannibal says, his eyes sparkling fondly as he looks out the window.

Seeing Hannibal's blissful expression and the tenderness in his eyes, Chiyoh feels a surge of anger inside her. She reminds herself that this anger is not aimed at Hannibal but at the precarious situation they find themselves in due to the former profiler's presence in their lives.

"Why am I here, Hannibal?" Chiyoh asks sternly, pushing the remains of her cake away.

Hannibal's gaze flickers to Chiyoh, the affection in his eyes momentarily clouded by confusion. He sets his teacup down delicately, his hands resting in his lap.

"I wanted to see you," he says softly. “I want you to spend some time with…”

“Mr Graham,” she snaps pointedly.

“It is important to me that you establish harmony. That you get along.”

Chiyoh leans back in her chair, "We do get along," she states dully. "He can be quite..." She pauses, her gaze wandering briefly to a random point above Hannibal's head, "...amusing."

She lifts the teacup to her lips as Hannibal closely observes her, noting the slight tremor in her hand. Instead of meeting his gaze, Chiyoh shifts her focus to the garden, allowing her unfocused eyes to wander.

“My overt affection for Will troubles you,” Hannibal states, sipping his tea.

Chiyoh, mid-sip, suddenly coughs. After a brief moment to recover, she sighs, "Hannibal," she says, her voice tinged with a hint of hesitation, "it is rather startling to see you exhibit such...libidinous practices."

Hannibal calmly drinks his tea, seemingly unfazed by the statement. "Love,” he states bluntly, “Love. That is what you have witnessed, Chiyoh."

Chiyoh furrows her brow, "It’s just so unlike you... such a display. You spent years meticulously crafting a facade of detachment."

"Will has awakened a part of me that I thought was long dormant. He sees me as I see him. It seems even the most carefully constructed walls can crumble in the presence of a genuine connection."

Defeated, Chiyoh shakes her head and adjusts her position in the chair, "You wanted to speak to me?"

“Yes, I did.” Hannibal crosses his slender legs as he leans back in his chair. “I would like to grant Will access to all my accounts, assets, and resources.”

Chiyoh's body suddenly jolts upright, her mouth falling open, her heart pounding. “Hannibal, are you insane?”

Hanibal’s cup pauses midair as he looks directly at her. “Yes, certified by the State of Maryland.”

Chiyoh raises her hand to her temple, pursing her lips. "Now is not the time for frivolous jests."

Hannibal reaches out for her trembling hand and gently squeezes it. His gaze is unwavering as he speaks softly, "Will is family now. Surely you understand the profound significance of this."

Chiyoh withdraws her hand and rises to her feet. As she looks down at Hannibal, her voice trembles with concern and conviction, "This is the man who has made numerous attempts on your life, Hannibal. How can you even consider trusting him? By doing this, you surrender yourself to his whims. Your fixation with him has blinded you to the dangers that he poses, as is evident by-"

Hannibal cuts her off, his eyes dark and defiant, "Do not assume my devotion to Will indicates ignorance of the risks. I am painfully aware of our treacherous past."

Chiyoh drops her head, her voice softer now. "Hannibal, you are my family. I only wish to protect you. Why must you crave what may destroy you?”

Hannibal’s eyes take on a distant look as, with a voice that is both fragile and tender says, “Is the sea any less beautiful when we know those who sail upon her may be smashed against the rocks?”

Chiyoh stares at him before shaking her head, “Red flags just look like flags when viewed through rose-coloured glasses, brother.”

Hannibal rises to his feet and gently takes her by the shoulders. "I understand your concern, and I appreciate it. However, giving Will access to my assets and resources is a gesture of trust and acceptance. If we are to build a future together, mutual trust is essential - and that includes you, my sweet sister."

Chiyoh's expression remains contemplative as he considers his words. She then nods, "Very well, Hannibal. If this is your decision, then I will honour it. However, if Will should prove himself unworthy, I assure you my actions will be swift and conclusive."

"I would anticipate no less from you, my dear Chiyoh. Just promise me this: you will afford my beloved a fair chance.”

Their eyes meet in intense silence, a wordless understanding passing between them. Then, finally, Chiyoh nods her head in agreement.

*****

A few days later

The autumn leaves beneath Chiyoh, and Will's feet create a gentle rustling sound as they stroll through the forest surrounding the house.

Botticelli, their furry companion, is investigating all the new scents a short distance ahead, occasionally tilting his head in their direction.

"Have there been many before me?" Will asks, his eyes fixed on the ground. The question hangs heavy in the air, laden with curiosity and more than a hint of apprehension.

Chiyoh glances briefly at him as she throws a stick for Botticelli, “What do you mean?”

“Has…Has Hannibal had many…mmm… long-term companions?”

“Do you mean lovers?” Chiyoh asks flatly, her eyes never leaving the dog as he bounds through the shrubbery.

A blush creeps across Will's cheeks as he nods.

Chiyoh's face shifts subtly, becoming inscrutable. She conceals any hint of her true emotions as she skillfully feigns deep interest in the dog's whereabouts.

"I'm sure he's had plenty," Will states with a sigh, his hand snatching at the long grass as he walks. "I mean, he's so cultured, charming, and... so... so," Will grins shyly, "hot."

Chiyoh watches him from the corner of her eye as she considers her response. "Hannibal does have a way of enchanting people,” she notes Will’s furrowed brow before adding with deliberate detachment, “especially those who share his refined tastes and intellect."

Will's steps falter, and he momentarily loses his balance. He quickly recovers by kicking at the dry leaves scattered on the trail, trying to hide any sign of his stumble. “Like that fucking Art Curator…” he mumbles with a frown as images of the previous evening flood his mind.

Throughout the evening, the art curator played the role of a persistent gooseberry with remarkable commitment, positioning himself between them at every opportunity.

The situation was further exacerbated as the man continually found excuses to place his hands upon various parts of Hannibal's body, casually yet deliberately allowing his fingers to linger longer than necessary on his arm or elbow and sometimes his lower back. While a seething Will trailed behind, his anger simmering as he resisted the overwhelming urge to rip the man’s arms out of their sockets.

“He’s only acting like that because he knows you have money,” Will taunted once they had returned to the car.

Hannibal's gaze briefly flickered to Will, a subtle smirk on his lips. "Perhaps," he murmured, his tone soft and deliberate, savouring each syllable. "Perhaps not."

Will released a resounding huff and slumped further into his seat. This only intensified Hannibal's self-satisfaction, fueling his smugness even further.

With a sharp eye, Chiyoh notices Will’s distracted state and seizes the opportunity to observe him more closely. She can feel the jealousy radiating from him.

This newfound insight triggers a rapid succession of thoughts and possibilities in Chiyoh's mind.

Will returns to the present with a shake of his head. “Anyone significant?” he asks, swallowing deeply.

"There was Murasaki.” Chiyoh casually shrugs, “She was Hannibal's aunt and my mistress; however, their relationship went far beyond mere familial ties.”

“Yes, Hannibal has mentioned her.” Will murmurs, his eyes dropping to his feet.

Chiyoh narrows her eyes in reflection, a small smile gracing her lips, “She was an exceptional woman. Hannibal still speaks of her often and with great reverence.”

"Does he?" Will's expression turns serious once more, his brows furrowing in thought.

Chiyoh bites her lip to suppress her smile before speaking in a controlled, even voice, "Oh yes, it's evident that she holds a special place in his heart."

“What happened to her?”

“She drowned.”

“Oh…”

“Hannibal was devastated.”

"He never-" Will stutters, the words catching in his throat. The air around him suddenly feels heavy and thick.

“And, of course, there was Antoine.”

Will abruptly comes to a halt, becoming frozen in place. He whispers the name "Antoine" so softly that it is barely audible, the syllables floating around him, tangible, like a physical presence.

“Yes, Antoine was special,” Chiyoh smiles softly. "He was a brilliant artist, but he also had a darkness in him that captivated Hannibal. They were like two sides of the same coin,” then, with a glance at Will, adds, “equals.”

As Will’s frown deepens, his lips are drawn into a tight line. Though she tries to maintain a sombre expression, a hint of a smile begins to curl at the corners of her mouth as she remarks, "Hannibal truly adored him."

“What happened to Antoine?” Will asks, his voice cracking on the words like they are glass in his mouth.

Chiyoh rearranges her face to portray sadness as she looks down at Botticelli, who has stopped to sniff at a patch of grass. “He…,” she starts, her voice trailing dramatically, “...they drifted apart.”

“Hannibal grew bored of him,” Will sneers, clenching his fists. Questions flood his mind, urging him to probe further. But a sense of unease prevents him, fear of discovering a truth he wasn't ready to confront.

Chiyoh licks her lips, “Hannibal has a capricious nature and is inclined towards ennui.”

“Antoine was disposable,” Will mutters.

Chiyoh glances at him, relishing his obvious distress. “You must understand, Will,” she says gently, “Hannibal has lived a long life filled with joy and pain. His relationships, be they romantic or otherwise, have shaped him into the man he is today.”

Will nods as he bites at his lip. “I know. It’s just...difficult sometimes. To know that he has loved before...I guess I thought what we have was as new to Hannibal as it is to me.”

Chiyoh reaches out and touches his arm; her voice is soft and reassuring. “Love is not a finite resource, Will. Hannibal has loved deeply, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t room in his heart for others.”

Will falters for a moment, his doubts and jealousy swirling like a tempest in his mind.

Chiyoh smiles, her hand falling back to her side. “Love is not a competition. Hannibal’s relationship with Antoine was significant, but It’s over…he’s with you now, and nothing that has come before or may come after can change that. Only you…or Hannibal has control over that.”

Will's smile is brittle as he stoops to retrieve the stick dropped by Botticelli at his feet. "Just thought I was the only one that...Hannibal told me…" he starts to say, but his words fade and dissipate into the air.

Chiyoh's lips curl into a small, satisfied smile as she watches Will struggle to digest all the information she has fed him. Taking the stick from his hand, she tosses it and gleefully watches Botticelli promptly run to retrieve it.

*****

A few weeks later

When Will returns from walking Botticelli, the sounds of laughter and the clink of glasses rush to meet him from the patio.

At the table, Hannibal and a stranger exude a sense of familiarity that surpasses mere acquaintance. Their ease of interaction alludes to a connection that could only have been forged through a shared history.

As Will gazes upon the scene, a whirlwind of conflicting surges through him. Jealousy emerges as the most persistent, gnawing at his stomach lining, a sharp ache that resonates deep within his chest.

"Ah, Will," Hannibal says when he finally decides to acknowledge him lingering in the doorway.

Meeting his eyes, Will can't help but feel a flicker of excitement amidst his anger and jealousy as the darkness within him stirs. Seduced by the dangerous game, Hannibal is presenting to him.

Gathering his resolve, Will steps purposely across the threshold into the patio, each step measured and deliberate—a predator.

Will's gaze lands on the dark-haired man, whose features embody masculinity and refinement. His jawline's sharp contours and olive skin's warmth create a striking combination. Draped in an impeccably tailored suit that skims his slender frame, the man exudes an air of confidence and sophistication that effortlessly commands the room—just like someone else he knows.

A sudden wave of self-consciousness washes over him, making him hyper-aware of the tear in his jeans and the grime on his windbreaker. The constant itch from the scar on his cheek seems to intensify, a reminder of his disfigurement.

Conflicting desires pull him in various directions. On the one hand, there is a strong urge to leave with generic excuses and a passable pretence of allowing the former lovers to reminisce- denying Hannibal his game. Yet, a darker impulse simmers beneath the surface - a desire to lash out at the stranger with the flawless beauty that taunts him. 

Hannibal's eyes flash with a ruthless delight. This is not a coincidence but a carefully orchestrated move.

Will's heart quickens, pounding against his ribcage—the fierce flames of anger and arousal flicker and flare within him. A grim revelation dawns on him– he is willingly stepping into a labyrinth of Hannibal's design, where truth is subjective and trust is reckless.

“You must be Antoine,” Will says dryly, not bothering to extend his hand in greeting.

Hannibal's dark eyes glint with mischief, "Yes, Antoine will be joining us for dinner."

The intensity in his gaze is undeniable as it meets Hannibal's. Gauntlet thrown down. Challenge accepted.

"Excellent." Will's lips twist into a vicious grin, "It has been quite a while since we've had anyone for dinner, and I am ravenous."

If Hannibal wants to play, Will thinks, let’s play.

~~V~~

Chapter Text

Two years ago

Baltimore Beach

Freddie and her brother stand side by side at the worn wooden railing, watching the waves crash against the shore.

The air is heavy with the briny scent of salt and the spicy tang of seaweed. Sporadic gusts of wind sweep in from the sea, tousling their hair and nipping at their cheeks.

A young family strolls along the water's edge with a lively Labrador. The father guides his young son by the hand, their steps cautious as they navigate the rugged, grainy shoreline.

As Freddie watches them, a warmth begins to kindle within her chest. Their laughter and radiant smiles paint a picturesque scene of idyllic happiness, reminiscent of greeting cards and adverts. However, a sudden surge of bitterness swiftly extinguishes this fleeting feeling and glancing at her brother, she quietly asks, "Did they ever bring us to the beach?"

Her brother's curt and flat voice punches the air, "No, I don’t believe they did, Frederica."

The sound of her full name hangs in the air, making her nauseous. She instinctively pulls her coat tighter around her, “Call me Freddie.

"Why?" Her brother asks dully, his eyes never leaving the family on the beach below. As the mother throws a ball, a gust of wind snatches it, propelling it toward the churning waves. Without hesitation, the dog leaps into the water and retrieves it, proudly bringing it back to shore.

"Frederica carries certain associations... ones I would rather forget.” Freddie's green eyes track the ball's path as it is again tossed into the air.

"The shortening of names is often perceived as a sign of affection," he says. "Whereas, the use of our full names tend to carry connotations of punishment and shame."

Freddie avoids his gaze, sidestepping the implication of his words while he continues: "However, a family name holds greater significance. It is more than a mere label. It represents your history and your legacy. It reflects your beginnings and your ancestry. When did you change it to Lounds?"

Her voice sharp yet brittle, Freddie scoffs, "The fact that you're asking when, rather than why, is interesting."

The man’s eyes crinkle with amusement, "Upon entering this world, we are born into families and cultures, not our choosing. Given names we had no say in. Expected to adhere to behaviours and values that do not align with our own. We find ourselves forced to live lives crafted by others, usually in their own image."

Freddie's fingers curl tightly into a fist as she hugs her coat across her chest. "I haven’t been a Cooper for a very long time.”

"You will always be a Cooper, Fredrica," her brother states flatly, his eyes locking onto hers. "You see it every time you look in the mirror. You have our mother’s eyes and our father’s lack of accountability," he adds before returning his gaze to the beach.

As they stand in silence, the wind whistles around them, carrying the haunting calls of seagulls as the birds gracefully swoop and soar in the distance.

The family watches their beloved pet frolic in the shallow waves, spraying water into the air. The child's fingers slip from their father's grip, and tinkling laughter bursts from their lips as they joyfully clap their hands. 

"Do you miss them?" Freddie whispers, her words almost lost to the wind.

“Who?”

"Them," Freddie utters dryly, a sudden throbbing in her temple causing her to close her eyes, "Dad and... mum."

“You can only feel someone's absence if you once felt their presence.”

Freddie hums as she considers his words, her gaze drifting back to the beach.

Once more, the mother tosses the ball high into the air. The wind snatches it and sends it soaring deeper into the churning waves. Like before, the eager dog leaps into the water, snatches the ball, and bounds back to the shore. He vigorously shakes off the lingering remnants of the sea, prompting further gleeful laughter from the toddler.

Freddie's voice quivers despite her defiance, "They did their best for us, you know... considering."

Her brother remains silent, his gaze locked on the frothy white foam of the waves as they crash against the rocks. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a raw, harsh intensity, “They did what was best for them."

“Our mother was broken; her brokenness would cut into us and made us bleed.” Freddie's eyes flicker momentarily towards her sibling, observing how he clenches his jaw, “She didn’t know how to love. I have much sympathy for our mother, but as her daughter, I have so much anger.”

With a subtle incline of his head, the man asks, "What of our Father?"

Freddie bites her lip, glancing at her brother before lifting her chin and declaring in a harsh whisper, "Daddy was a good man."

The man emits a derisive snort, his lips twisting into a smirk, "Yes, I suppose you would think that. You were, after all, his Princess ."

When she hears the familiar nickname, a bittersweet smile tugs at the corners of her lips, she quickly averts her gaze to avoid her brother's knowing stare. "You were his son, his heir. He took you everywhere." Feeling the sting of pending tears, she closes her eyes. "He never took me anywhere."

The man's sudden outburst of laughter shocks Freddie. She stares at him with wide eyes, bewildered by his reaction. "I trust it did appear that way to those who chose not to see," he shrugs.

Freddie's stomach churns, a knot of anxiety tightening in her gut as she struggles to form the words. "What... what do you mean?" she stammers.

The man stands motionless, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his long black coat. Though his eyes are fixed on the untamed, relentless sea, they are unseeing. Just as Freddie reaches out her hand to touch his arm, a sudden, piercing cry from the beach captures her attention.

The young child has stumbled and fallen to the ground, and the concerned father is leaning down to scoop them up into his arms. 

Freddie watches the heartwarming moment and reflects, "Children's bodies are remarkable in their ability to endure falls and tumbles. Our bones possess an impressive level of resilience."

"Resilient to tumbles but not hammers," he remarks casually, turning to catch the startled look on his sister's face. "It's quite astonishing how quickly the human skull gives way under the force of a hammer."

Freddie's eyes widen, her heart pounding in her chest. She stands, staring at her brother, her arms hanging limply at her sides. A dazed confusion overcomes her as she begins to sway in place.

He glances at her from the corner of his eye and says, "I know you've seen the police report."

Freddie takes a deep breath and nods distractedly as she attempts to regain her bearings.

On the beach, the mother continues to play with the dog. With each throw, the ball ventures deeper and deeper into the wild waves.

"The dog faces the capricious waves without fear," the man reflects nonchalantly as his sister clutches the railing for support, "It tenaciously follows its objective, focused, despite the obstacles and the risks."

Freddie shakes her head slowly, her lips curling into a sardonic smile, "Those who hunt monsters always forget the same thing."

The man inclines his head towards his sister, his eyes reflecting genuine interest.

“They forget that they are monsters.”

"I intend to collect my due," he declares firmly, his eyes flashing with a fierce glint of resolve.

As Freddie watches the joyful dog with its lolling tongue chase the ball, “Don’t let what happened define you; it will only devour you and what remains of your life.”

Her brother slowly pivots to meet her gaze, his eyes glinting with an unyielding menace. "It doesn't define me; I define me."

She squints at him, “If you intend to seek out Hannibal, then you are allowing it to define you and dictate your actions.”

They stand in silence, their gaze steadfast, broken only by the bitter wind as it swirls around them, plucking at their hair.

“There is power in letting go. We can’t change the past.” Freddie lifts her hand as if to reach out to her brother, but he moves away, turning his attention back to the sea.

"However, the future is something we can influence," he states, gripping the railing.

"What do you mean?"

“The law of the return: for whatsoever a man soweth, he shall reap.”

“So you are planning revenge.” Freddie shakes her head.

“I have a date with the devil.”

Freddie rolls her eyes and lets out a mocking snort, “C’mon, please…”

“We've had this date, Dr Lecter and I, from the day I allowed him to walk free.”

“Allowed?” Freddie echoes with a furrowed brow.

“I will have my pound of flesh, sister.”

“You intend to kill Lecter?”

A slow smile creeps across her brother’s face, “No,” he says, “I have no intentions of killing him....unless I have to, of course, if he proves himself unworthy.”

Freddie's gaze wanders back to the beach, where she lets out a heavy sigh of frustration and rolls her eyes. The father has stopped to soothe the fussy toddler while the mother strides ahead with the dog. “All this will not heal the damage of losing our father and being left with an unstable mother.”

The unexpected boom of her brother’s laugh causes her to flinch, “Oh my sweet, sweet sister, what a selective memory you have.”

“We lost our father in one of the worst ways possible; our mother was….”

“A drunk. A hypocrite. An enabler.”

“She was…she was so...” Freddie trails off as she watches the mother throw the ball again. This time, it ventures too far, and the dog struggles as a wave crashes, sweeping it further into the turbulent waters.

The man takes a step towards her and gently places his hands on her shoulders, “Children don’t stop loving their abusive parents; they stop loving themselves.”

Freddie's brother's voice gets lost amongst the crash of the waves and the howling wind. Her heart pounds in her chest as she struggles to rein in her emotions. Biting her lip, she watches the frantic mother rush towards the water's edge. Despite the waves' relentless taunting, the mother persists in her effort to reach the dog.

Her brother's firm grip on her shoulders jolts her back to him, “Our father, dear sister, was a bully, a rapist, and a murderer.”

Freddie suddenly feels dizzy, “He…never…did he?”

“He chipped away at me till there was nothing left. What is that if it is not murder?”

A desperate cry draws Freddie’s attention back to the beach as the father sprints towards the water’s edge, leaving a bewildered toddler behind on the shore.

Freddie gestures towards the abandoned child. However, before she can utter a word, her brother, seemingly oblivious or merely unconcerned, continues, “Silas Cooper had sadistic tendencies. What I witnessed him do to those girls. Even you and your followers of the macabre and the wicked would struggle to stomach it.”

Clutching the railing, she asks, "What girls?"

"Our Father appeared to embody charitable qualities, yet not all benevolent actions are devoid of underlying costs. He exploited humanity's fundamental need for survival."

The father arrives at the water's edge just as the harsh hues of the dying sun envelop the scene in a fiery glow, as the mother, now weighed down by the lifeless form of their cherished dog, battles against the relentless force of the surf.

"What did he do?" Freddie demands, her voice quivering, her knuckles bone-white as she clutches the wooden railing.

“Oh princess, you know,” her brother kneads her shoulders as he leans close to her ear and whispers, “You have always known.”

"Tell me," Freddie says through gritted teeth as she turns to face him.

“No.”

Freddie's eyes blaze with rage as she leans in and demands, "Tell me."

The man observes her with an enthused curiosity before slowly tracing the contours of her cheek with the back of his finger. Softly, in a melodious whisper, he utters, “It seems daddy's little girl ain't a girl no more." Cupping her jaw, he tilts her head, forcing her to meet his gaze, "Are you certain you want to know, sweet sister? Do you truly wish to know the truth about that man who tucked you in at night, kissed your forehead, and called you Princess?”

As the relentless waves pound against them, the couple desperately try to bridge the widening gap. However, the force of the sea proves too strong, and they are both knocked from their feet. The mother has no option but to release her grip on the dog and watch helplessly as the sea swallows it, only to be claimed moments later.

Freddie blinks at him, a surge of bile flooding her throat as she struggles to speak, “I would hear them…at night…he would turn the volume on the TV up…so…”

“...so his princess wouldn't hear him rape their mother.”

Freddie abruptly turns away, her hand flying to her throat as she attempts to steady herself. She watches with blind eyes the father’s efforts to make his way back to the shore and the abandoned child, only to be repeatedly knocked down by the uncompromising waves.

As her brother's arm envelops her trembling frame, she feels a wave of overwhelming emotion welling up inside her, releasing itself in the form of heart-wrenching sobs. Leaning her tear-streaked face against his shoulder, they stand in silence, bearing witness as the ocean mercilessly devours the father.

“His confidence in our mother’s weakness kept her safe.” The man says, resting his cheek on her head, “Kept her alive.”

The child's screams pierce the air, but his tiny voice is no match for the wild wind and crashing waves, and his cries are quickly lost.

“Our mother didn’t deserve what she went through.”

“Neither did we, sister.”

“I wish we could have loved her enough to save her.”

“I wish she could have loved us enough to save herself.”

The siblings watch as the lifeless forms of the mother and the dog bobs gently amidst the waves. The father's body then rises from the depths, uniting with them in a heart-wrenching scene of loss and despair.

“Did daddy….did he...did he touch you?”

The man pulls his sister closer, “No. And you?”

“No, never. He never lay a hand on me, ever.”

With a cruel smile tugging at his lips, he sneers, “It seems even Silas Cooper, in all his depravity, drew the line at incest.”

The child's distress intensifies, reaching a crescendo that pierces the air, only to be swiftly whisked away by the forceful gusts of wind.

In a moment of compassion, Freddie moves towards the orphan, but her brother firmly holds her in place: "It is not our place to intervene, dear sister. They made their choices. Now they must suffer the consequences."

In a disturbing display of innocence, the child crawls across the rocky landscape while their parent's and dog's bodies bob lifelessly in the sea yards away. The boys' varying sounds of distress and fascination fill the air with each discovery of a pebble, shell, or seaweed.

“So what now?” Freddie asks, pulling her coat tightly around herself.

Her brother gently takes her elbow and steers her back towards the car. "We await an opportunity, trusting that the Lord will provide."

In the distance, the child's cries gradually fade away on the wind.

*****

As he exits the tattoo shop and enters the cool night air, the darkness embraces him like an old friend.

The transformation that has taken place within him is profound, marked by a newfound sense of self-assurance and purpose.

The silence of the night amplifies the sound of his footsteps as he confidently strides across the dimly lit car park, the glow of streetlights casting shadows around him.

The doubts and fears that once plagued him have now been replaced by a quiet determination fueled by the boldness etched into his skin.

The intricate tattoo adorning his body pulsates with energy, infusing him with a confidence that causes him to stand straighter and move with conviction.

The next full moon is only days away; he is determined to be ready.

~~V~~

Chapter Text

Then

Somewhere in Europe

With his eyes, Will traces the jagged path of the scar on his cheek in the mirror. It seems more prominent than usual, dominating his other features.

Once a symbol of his rebirth, it now triggers an intense self-consciousness. Thoughts of Antoine, with his natural grace and effortless confidence, only serve to emphasise his own rough edges and lack of polish.

His gaze moves over the custom-made suit, each detail meticulously crafted under Hannibal's discerning eye. The fabric hugs his form, the deep blue specifically chosen to complement his eyes.

He questions whether the impeccably tailored suit, with its sharp lines and carefully chosen colour, can compensate for his lack of elegance and the ugly scar that mars his skin. 

The thought makes his stomach churn as he fumbles with the tie Hannibal has chosen for him. Reaching for the cologne, also selected by Hannibal, a sudden clarity washes over him—his need to outshine Antoine.

With a frustrated grunt, he rips off his tie and drags his hands through his hair, freeing his curls from the constraints of the bespoke styling products.

He plucks the pocket square from his suit pocket, letting it flutter through his fingers to the floor. A satisfied smile curls his lips as he unbuttons his shirt, exposing the length of his neck, fully aware of Hannibal's weakness for this particular part of his anatomy.

He forgoes cologne altogether and instead chooses to embrace his natural scent.

With a final curt nod at his reflection, Will leaves the room. No longer merely a reflection of Hannibal's influences.

***

Bathed in the golden hues of dusk, Antoine stands with his back to the room, holding a glass of wine with graceful, slender fingers as he gazes out at the garden beyond.

Will drops himself into the armchair, stretching out his limbs to fully claim the space, exuding an air of effortless indifference.

Antoine's head twitches in his direction, but his gaze remains fixed on the view. Now, without his jacket, he looks relaxed and at ease in the surroundings. He feels at home. He has been here before.

Will furrows his brow, attempting to suppress the resurfacing emotions stirring inside him as he watches the subtle movement of muscles beneath Antoine's opulent vest.

“You are American,” Antoine’s thickly accented voice oozes through the air.

"Guilty."

“Americans often are.”

Will narrows his eyes, “I’m fairly certain the French are not without guilt.”

Antoine's hearty laughter reverberates throughout the room, provoking a surge of annoyance in Will as he shoots a fierce glare at the back of his head. "So you're Hannibal’s…," he pauses, tilting his head toward Will, “... friend .”

Will snorts, "Is that what he told you?"

“I have offended you,” Antoine crafts a look of feigned contrition as he turns to face him. “I assure you it was not intentional.”

Will shakes his head and smirks, “What are your intentions?”

“I can’t say I know what you mean.” Antoine's expression shifts, a flicker of smugness crossing his face. "Merely reconnecting with an old…” his smile widens, “... friend ."

Jealousy gnaws at Will. A gnarled beast feeding on his neuroses, whispering poisonous thoughts in his ears, conjuring torturous images of Hannibal and Antoine entwined on silk sheets. His knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on the armrest.

"Hannibal has never mentioned you," Will declares sharply. A flicker of surprise in Antoine's raised eyebrow prompts him to temper his tone as he continues in a more composed manner: "Perhaps you are being overly generous in thinking yourself a friend."

"Yet, you knew me on sight, Mr Graham," Antoine remarks as he elegantly folds himself into the chair opposite.

"Not from Hannibal. You must have..." He waves his hand idly through the air, "...slipped his mind."

"I imagine there is much Hannibal has withheld from you.” Antoine casually sips his drink, “He is, after all, a man who enjoys his secrets."

Will's subtle lip twitch does not escape Antoine's keen eyes despite Will's attempt to mask it behind a widening grin. "Hannibal shares with me anything of significance," Will quips wryly, “Perhaps you do not fall into that category."

"It appears you are determined to provoke me, Mr Graham," Antoine remarks with a glint of amusement. "I'm curious to know what about me incites such conduct."

Will laughs bitterly, his resentment surging, "You sure do think highly of yourself."

Antoine's smile widens as his piercing blue eyes lock with Will's, and the room seems to shrink for a moment. "I have every reason to, I can assure you," he says.

Will's nostrils flare as both envy and suspicion claw at his insides. Hannibal’s unknown intentions hang heavy in the air, imbuing the evening with a sense of foreboding anticipation.

With a devilish grin, Antoine lifts his glass in a toast. "Here's to an evening filled with delectable food, copious wine, and stimulating company.”

"I trust you will not be disappointed," Will retorts, his voice edged with a hint of challenge.

A flicker of intrigue crosses Antoine's face as he lifts his wine to his lips. He takes a slow sip as he considers Will. "I believe you may be right, Mr Graham.”

The air in the room crackles with tension as Hannibal suddenly materialises at the threshold, hands clasped behind his back. "Gentlemen, dinner is now served," he announces.

***** 

"Will,” Hannibal's accent curls around his name, “You have neglected your tie." Amusement briefly flickers across his face before fading back into his composed expression.

"I went with a more casual look," Will says with a shrug, his tone subtly challenging. Hannibal furrows his brow slightly but refrains from further comment.

Antoine elegantly unfolds his napkin and breathes in the delicious aroma of the food on his plate. "Oh, Hanni, how I have missed your cooking."

Will chokes on his drink and frantically gropes for his water, only for Hannibal to gently place it within his grip. Will shoots him a piercing look over the rim of the glass. “Hanni?” he gasps.

"Are you alright, Will?" Hannibal inquires, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Will leans back in his chair and places his glass on the coaster, offering up a smile. "I’m good," he says, giving Hannibal a questioning look, to which Hannibal responds with a slight quirk of his brow.

With a final glance towards Will, Hannibal proclaims: "Roasted figs with Parma ham and goat's cheese. Skanaus!"

A quiet cough captures Will's attention as lifts his fork to start on his appetiser. With a condescending smile, Antoine remarks, "That's your fish fork, Mr. Graham."

Will's cheeks flush, and in a tone spiked with venom, snipes, "A fork is a fork." 

Antoine chuckles, a sound that simultaneously unnerves and angers Will. "He is refreshingly unrefined, Hanni. How delightful."

"This fork bullshit can be learned," Will remarks, then adopting a refined lilt, adds, “If one was so inclined.” Then staring pointedly at Antoine, "However, being an asshole, that shit is ingrained."

“That is unfortunate,” Antoine takes a sip of his drink. “Rudeness is a weak imitation of strength.”

Will readies himself to unleash a heated retort, but his momentum falters as he catches sight of Antoine's smug grin. Instead, he deliberately drags his tongue across his teeth before saying calmly in a clipped tone, “Europeans have a reputation of being rude.”

"And Americans are known struggle to differentiate between ironic quips and mere abusive language."

Will aggressively plunges his fish fork into the ripe fig, spearing a succulent piece. "Have you even been to America?" he asks, shovelling it into his mouth. 

Hannibal emits a soft clicking sound from his throat, subtly indicating his disapproval of Will's table manners. In response, Will rolled his eyes and deliberately chewed in an exaggerated manner, clearly displaying his lack of concern.

Antoine's smile broadens as he savours the exchange. "Once," he replies, raising his glass to his lips for a sip of water. "Los Angeles. Everything there is organic... except the people." He pauses and looks at Hannibal, expecting a reaction to his witty remark, only to find his attention solely on Will. Antoine shrugs, "At least it was very clean."

"They don't throw their garbage away; they turn it into TV shows," Will comments gruffly through a mouthful of goat's cheese.

“Ah yes…” Antoine's face breaks into a bright smile, his eyes crinkling with delight, “I saw that. I have to admit, at the time, I thought Pauly Shore was an odd choice to play acclaimed FBI Profiler Will Graham.” Dabbing his mouth with his napkin, Antone adds, “However, having now met you, I consider it inspired.”

Will drags his napkin roughly across his mouth, “Not as inspired as Jean-Claude Van Damme as Dr Hannibal the Cannibal Lecter.” Tossing the napkin onto the table, he snatches up his wine glass and drains it.

“Yes, that was a peculiar choice.” Antoine sighs with a frown in Hannibal’s direction, “I expected to turn on to the news to find the casting agents featured in one of Il Mostro’s masterpieces.”

“An insufficient quantity of Anti-acid exists in the world to remedy the indigestion that meal would have induced,” Hannibal says, tearing his eyes away from Will and offering Antoine one of his fabricated smiles.

Recognising it, Antoine's smile falters for a second before he composes himself: “I imagine being on the run has played havoc with your creativity, Hanni.” Antoine nods towards Will: “However, you seem to have discovered an alternative outlet for your impulses and amusements.”

Will flexes his fingers, tightening his grip on his fish fork. He defiantly pierces a fig, the sound of metal meeting porcelain echoing through the room.

"It is essential that we maintain a discreet presence," remarks Hannibal as he twists the stem of his wine glass between his index finger and thumb, "Yet, with the addition of my new... collaborator," he adds, casting a fond gaze towards Will, "I am confident that our artistic endeavours will reach unprecedented levels."

“Yes,” Antoine purses his lips, “how did you two… collaborators meet?”

Hannibal and Will lock eyes, and in an instant, the room around them seems to blur and fade away as they become immersed only in each other.

"Hanni?" Antoine's voice tries to pierce through their bubble. "Hannibal!" he says more insistently.

Hannibal slowly shifts his gaze towards Antoine, a hint of confusion flickering across his face. He appears first perplexed by his presence and then seemingly disappointed.

Will smiles, basking in the annoyance radiating from Antoine. “Don't play coy; you know exactly how Hanni and I met.”

“I never play coy, Mr Graham,” Antoine forcibly grins at him, “I can assure you.”

“But you do play.”

Antoine looks directly at Hannibal, which makes Will bristle with rage, "It depends on the stakes."

"Where do you currently reside, Antoine?" Hannibal inquires, concealing his amusement at the unfolding dramatics with his glass. 

“Riga is where I lay my head…for now.”

“That's close to Lithuania.” Will remarks sucking his teeth.

"Very good, Mr. Graham," Antoine scoffs before turning to Hannibal with a smirk, "And they say Americans are ignorant about geography."

“Asshole,” Will mutters, raising his glass to his lips.

Antoine leans forward and is about to retort when Hannibal interjects, “Do you have a studio there, Antoine?”

With a final glance at Will, who smiles acidly at him, Antoine says, “Of course. If you intend to return to your homeland, I must insist you take a detour and come see it.”

“Though I don’t feel in any way indebted to my homeland –  I may owe it one last pilgrimage.”

Under the table, Will's grip tightens into a clenched fist; his knuckles turn white as he envisions leaping over the dining table with his fish fork in hand.

“...will you? Mr Graham?”

Will blinks and refocuses on Antoine, who is now speaking directly to him. "Will I... what?"

“Do you feel compelled to return?” Antoine prods with an unflinching stare, “Do you find yourself yearning for your homeland?”

“There is nothing there for me.”

“No?” Antoine looks around him with an exaggerated look of incredulity, “Not: a wife, Mr Graham? A son? A pack of mongrels?”

Through gritted teeth, Will firmly repeats, "There is nothing there for me."

“Nothing there for you, Will Graham, or for those like you?” Antoine leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me, are you the monster, or does it merely control you?”

“We are not monsters.”

Hannibal buries his smile at Will’s instinctual use of ‘we’ and explains, “We are simply more attuned to our primitive inclinations. We can shed our layers to reveal our raw human urges and wants. It is a liberating experience.”

"The concept is so foreign to the common man that they have redefined 'primal' to be synonymous with 'animalistic'.” Antoine tilts his head in thought. “Yet, every day, we are all driven by our desires and impulses, hiding beneath a facade of civility?”

“The line between human and beast blurs more than we care to admit; we are all our slaves to our carnal needs," Will says, twisting the edge of the tablecloth in his fist.

“Is it that sort of party?” Antoine glances at Hannibal, then turns to Will and winks, “I’m not usually one for sharing.”

Will responds with a grunt, his eyes narrowing as he focuses on Hannibal, who is reclining in his chair, unruffled and relaxed. Amusement dances in Hannibal's eyes, his smile subtly hidden by the rim of his wine glass.

“I imagine sex with you is quite a Kafkaesque experience, Mr Graham,” Antoine licks fig juice from his finger as he speaks.

Will snorts, followed by a sharp intake of air through his teeth. His eyes lock onto Hannibal, demanding attention and a reaction. Hannibal denies him both by focusing on his food.

“I meant it as a compliment, Mr Graham.”

“I know you did.” Will’s head snaps in Antoine’s direction.

Finally acknowledging his simmering rage, Hannibal extends his hand towards Will and remarks, "No, it is not that sort of party." 

Antoine shrugs as he eyes their conjoined hands, “That is a shame.”

Will grins as he interlocks his fingers with Hannibal's. “It’s still early; I’m sure if you hit the bars, you can pick up some drunk local.”

"Mr. Graham, you misunderstand me," Antoine's eyes blaze with contempt. "In his pursuit of something as trivial as love, Hannibal has unfortunately sacrificed the very quality that truly made him intriguing: his mystique."

Hannibal's lip twitches subtly, briefly betraying his annoyance. "How so?"

“The world has gazed upon the face of the elusive Il Mostro…all because he wanted to impress…,” Antoine's disdain lands on Will like a physical punch, “... a boy. That is a damn shame.”

"A boy?" Will hisses, feeling anger surge through his veins.

Hannibal squeezes his hand, a warning. “Being seen carries its own merits.”

“By those strategically shaved and domesticated apes?” Antoine gestures towards the window and shakes his head, “The artist, the innovator I knew, would never have entertained such a notion. You have reduced your legacy to a movie of the week. Your face plastered on the Netflix recommendations page.”

The table falls into silence as Will watches Hannibal intently. He is completely focused on Antoine, his face blank. Will gives Hannibal’s hand a tug, which Hannibal appears not to notice.

Relaxed and unperturbed, Antoine leans back in his chair, savouring a leisurely sip of wine as the candlelight flickers across his face. "Who, in your opinion, is the most significant author of the past century? Not the best, but rather the one whose work has sparked intense scrutiny and debate, therefore the most influential."

Will furrows his brow while tracing the rim of his wine glass with his finger and says, "Hemmingway."

“Albert Camus.” Hannibal offers.

Antoine shakes his head and jabs the air with his index finger, "No, Salinger. Film director?"

"Bergman," Hannibal says quickly as he swirls the wine in his glass.

“No. Kubrick. Contemporary artist?”

“Picasso”

“Hockney” Will offers.

“Banksy. Electronic music group?”

“No fucking idea.” Will shrugs, draining his glass, “Hannibal?” Hannibal shakes his head.

“Call yourselves educated men.” Antoine scoffs, then waves his hand dismissively through the air, “Anyway, Daft Punk.”

Hannibal gives Will a questioning frown, but Will simply shrugs in response.

“So, gentlemen,” Antoine drums his fingers on the table, “What connects all these figures in their respective fields?”

Will and Hannibal gaze at Antoine, the air heavy with tension, as they wait in silence for his response.

Antoine savours his wine, purposely finishing it, “None of them were willing to be seen or photographed. Choosing to remain elusive like myths, thus enhancing their power.”

Letting his words settle, Antoine pours himself another glass of wine and offers the bottle to Hannibal and Will, who both decline, "You've become a cliché, Hanni. There are t-shirts bearing your face - it's all incredibly tacky. You no longer reflect the essence of a true artist."

Hannibal takes a moment to process Antoine's words, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I have always existed in hyperbole; this is just another aspect,” he replies, his jaw slightly clenched. "There is value in being visible, in revealing your true self to the world. In a way, it makes you more powerful and feared."

"Jesus revealed himself," Will murmurs, "providing a face for Christianity. A religion based on fear and awe."

Antoine chuckles, swirling his wine around in his glass. "Hanni is not Jesus... however, he is in danger of becoming a dashboard ornament.”

Hannibal sits back in his chair, emanating a serene malevolence, his dark eyes fixed on Antoine. A slight chill permeates the room, accentuating the heavy silence that Hannibal allows to fester and mutate between them until he eventually speaks, "The t-shirts, the fame, the message boards—they are merely a byproduct of the times we live in. We live in a capitalist society. Its power is inescapable."

“So, we can’t do anything to change the world until capitalism crumbles. In the meantime, we should all go shopping to console ourselves.” Antoine chuckles, raising his glass in a toast to the table before taking a drink.

"Capitalism is, in its very essence, an art form," Hannibal continues, "An Apollonian creation that stands in contrast to nature. It is hypocritical to derive pleasure and convenience from it while looking down on it. We all owe a debt to a capitalist society whether we want to or not."

“Give Caesar his due,” Will adds with an upturn of his lips.

Hannibal nods before saying, “Though external perceptions may not always dictate an artist's essence, I do believe an artist can dictate external perceptions.”

“Yes, exactly, “ Antoine sits forward, leaning on the table towards Hannibal, “The essence of your art was its elusive nature. Art that fully reveals its origins or meaning tends to lose its impact. It is like a magic trick.” He reaches out and tightly grips Hannibal's arm, “The beauty of your creations stems from the mystery and complexity they maintain, allowing the observer to interpret and engage with them on a deeper, more cerebral level.”

Will and Hannibal stare at Antoine's hand, the atmosphere in the room shifting sharply. Will tightens his grip on his knife, and Antoine, observing the motion, withdraws his hand with a bemused smirk before casually taking a drink of his wine.

With a nod, Will resumes eating his food, "What about your art, Antoine?" he asks, prompting Antoine to smile genuinely for the first time.

Hannibal refills Will's and his own wine glasses while Antoine steeples his fingers under his chin and remarks, "They say good artists imitate, great artists steal. I snatch and reshape."

“Oh yeah?” Will says, his voice dripping with disdain. “But is your face on a t-shirt?”

With a pointed look at Will, Antoine gracefully wipes his mouth with his napkin, “There are four stages to my craft.”

”Like cancer.” Will snides, taking a drink of his wine.

“One less than encephalitis, Mr Graham.”

Will glares at Hannibal, who wears a truly sombre expression, causing Will to feel unnerved and start fidgeting with his cutlery.

"Hanni always did break his favourite toys," Antoine purrs with evident glee, "so that he could reassemble them to his liking."

Hannibal's eyes narrow slightly, revealing a brief hint of his smouldering anger.

Antoine leans back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on Will. "The first stage is curiosity," he explains, his voice low and seductive. “The insatiable desire to seek out the beautiful, the interesting,” he smiles foxily with a tilt of his chin, “the unusual."

Will tightens his grip on his fork, his knuckles turning white. Through gritted teeth and with a strained voice, he asks, "And the second stage?"

Antoine smiles, his eyes falling onto Will's clenched fist. "Manipulation," he replies, the word rolling off his tongue like poison. "The art of twisting another's will to suit your desires, curiosity or distraction."

Will's anger bubbles beneath his skin, and his leg begins to bounce subtly with pent-up adrenaline. "And then?"

"Creation," Antoine answers, his voice filled with a dark satisfaction. "The ability to re-shape; to create chaos or beauty at will."

Will's face pales, the colour draining from his cheeks as a stark realisation sinks in.

Antoine leans forward and whispers, “Oh, did Pinocchio think he was a real boy?”

Will swallows deeply, his eyes locked with Antoine's. "And the fourth?" he challenges, his voice low and dangerous.

Antoine's smile widens, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, Mr Graham, can’t you tell?" he chirps cryptically.

"Hannibal, what is happening?" Will snaps, then inhales deeply, an attempt to steady the rage surging through him. "Answer me, Hannibal," Will shouts, slamming his fist onto the table with such force that everything on it is momentarily airborne.

Antoine laughs heartily, clutching his chest. "Oh Hanni, he’s adorable," he exclaims. "Unhinged. Soooooooo much psychosis behind that face of celestial beauty. Tell me, Mr Graham, why did you pull Il Mostro off a cliff?”

Thrown off by the abrupt shift in conversation, Will is momentarily left speechless. Seeking clarity, he looks to Hannibal, who is pointedly avoiding his gaze.

Finding his voice, Will says simply, “A public service. I would be ridding the world of three serial killers.”

Antoine shifts his attention to Hannibal, “He wanted you to die.”

“He expected us both to die,” Hannibal responds curtly.

“Is it not peculiar to live alongside the man who attempted to end your life?”

“I, too, have endeavoured to end his life on multiple occasions.”

“Both of you have a history peppered with failed murder attempts. It's quite fascinating how neither of you has been able to successfully end the other, given your intelligence and skill in the art of killing.” Antoine turns to Will, "Why did you consider suicide? You could have simply pushed Hannibal over the edge."

“What did I have to live for?”

“Your wife and son, surely, Mr Graham?” Antoine purrs with a sly smile.

“Step-son.” Will corrects, clenching his jaw.

"I do apologise. Step-son. The common belief is that love and family constitute the sole purpose of existence. It appears that this notion does not resonate with you,” he observes Hannibal’s frown and how Will’s fingers twitch towards him, “... or perhaps it does."

“They are better off without me.” Will flexes his fingers, itching to form a fist.

"Undoubtedly," Antoine replies casually, "But Mr. Graham, that's not the reason you did it."

“The Dragon fucked me up pretty bad, I thought I was dead anyway.”

Antoine smirks, “So you didn’t believe you would heal?”

Will simply shrugs, sucking air through his teeth.

Antoine’s smirk twists into a deranged grin as he leans on the table, “No, Mr Graham. You feared Hannibal would not heal and didn’t want to live without him.”

Will's skin prickles as he feels Hannibal's eyes land upon him, their weight like searing embers against his flesh. Heat rises to his cheeks, prompting him to avert his gaze to his hands.

"I must admit, I can relate," Antoine says, adjusting his napkin in his lap. "I often felt the urge to push Hanni off a cliff, too, especially when we were planning our wedding."

Will's head jerks upwards suddenly, his eyes widening as dizziness overwhelms him. The world blurs around him in a disorienting whirl. "Hannibal, you didn’t…."

With a barely perceptible smile and a slight tilt of the head, Hannibal simply states, "You never asked."

Will momentarily loses his composure, his mouth slightly open in surprise, as Hannibal's cold and remorseless reply catches him off guard.

Regaining his resolve, Will sneers, "I must confess, I'm struggling to determine who would be the bridezilla. Both of you are insufferable snobs with a penchant for dramatics."

Hannibal's rich and genuine laughter ripples through the room like a velvet symphony. "Oh, Will. Your wit remains as sharp as ever," he says, his voice dripping with honeyed charm.

Will clenches his fists, his jealousy churning like a tempest within him. He wants to expose Hannibal's vulnerable underbelly and penetrate the armour of his indifference. However, when he meets Hannibal’s gaze, he detects a flicker of something he doesn't recognise in such a context. A fleeting spark of anxiety nestled deep within his amusement. A trait so foreign and unsettling in Hannibal that Will feels a stirring in his gut.

Standing up, Will walks around Hannibal, gently brushing his hand across his shoulders. He then picks up the wine bottle and fills Antoine's glass. "You know what they say, 'Live, Laugh...'"

"Love," Antoine murmurs as he lifts his glass.

"Lobotomy," Will abruptly declares, thrusting a meat skewer into Antoine's temple.

Will watches with a detached curiosity as Antoine begins to blink rapidly.” W-w-whh-hatt happened?” he mutters, his eyelids flickering. “I-i…I c-can’t s-see. W-wha…”

In an even voice, his eyes never leaving Antoine, Will says, "You seem to find this amusing, Hannibal. Does my jealousy entertain you?"

Hannibal's smile deepens, revealing a glimmer of a predator's satisfaction. "Oh, Will," he purrs, "there's a delicious beauty in your jealousy. It sings to me. How can I not cherish such a precious gift?"

Antoine starts to sputter and jerk uncontrollably, his words turning into a rambling mess. His distress is amplified by his inability to see, leading him to stumble off his chair.

Frantic and confused, he flails on the floor, desperately reaching for the tablecloth. He yanks it off the table in his struggle, causing its contents to spill over and fall on top of him.

Will demonstrates his agility and quick reflexes by swiftly catching the bottle of wine while Hannibal rescues their glasses.

"I am not an experiment," Will states firmly as he circles the table, removing the stopper as he walks.

"I am not a toy," Will asserts as he places his hand on Hannibal's shoulder and casually pours each of them a glass of wine before setting the bottle aside.

“No longer can you wind me up and watch me. " He grabs a fistful of Hannibal’s hair and pulls his head roughly back. " Go.”

Will looks down at him, “Because you know what will happen… Hanni. ”

Hannibal's dark, enigmatic eyes sparkle with both delight and arousal.

Will grins, his own arousal stirring in his gut, “I will just fucking go.”

“Will you kill me first?”

Will purses his lips in thought, “No.”

Hannibal quirks a questioning eyebrow.

“That will be your punishment.” Will tugs sharply at his hair, “To be without me.”

“You will be without me.”

“So be it. That will be my punishment.” Will releases him and looks at Antoine, who has become tangled in the tablecloth, “Did you really stick your dick in that pig?”

Hannibal carefully smooths his hair while watching Antoine bang his head against the table leg, "On occasion."

"He knew everything about me, about us," Will's hands move to his shoulders, where he starts massaging the muscles. "You orchestrated this, Dr Lecter," he adds, leaning in close to his ear.

"I am not the architect of this particular game, Mano meilė," Hannibal murmurs as he closes his eyes, surrendering to his touch.

“Play stupid games. Get stupid prizes,” Will mutters as he watches Antoine crawl around in circles on the floor covered in the tablecloth. “He knew you.”

“Not like you.”

Will's hands circle his neck, his fingers flexing on his carotid. "No one will know you as I do." His voice grows low and intense, "I will not allow it."

"Such a possessive creature," Hannibal coos as he reaches out for him, only for Will to withdraw with a shake of his head.

“You wanted to marry him?”

Hannibal tosses him a small smile. “He certainly seemed to be under that impression.”

“Did you love him?”

“He was a distraction,” Hannibal says, lifting his glass, “merely a prop to occupy my time.”

Will clucks his tongue.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Were you in love with Alana?”

Hannibal’s glass pauses en route to his mouth, a furrow creasing his brow as he looks at Will. “Do my words have any bearing if you have already drawn your own conclusions?”

Will sucks his lower lip between his teeth and leans against the table. “Just answer the question.”

Hannibal nods, and Will can see the words he selects and discards as he chooses how to respond. “No. I did not love Alana.”

“You hesitated.”

“I prefer to carefully consider my responses before expressing them.”

“As you tend to do when you’re manipulating or lying,” Will volleys, not unkindly, just stating a fact.

“I certainly didn't love that,” he gestures at Antoine, who, having managed to escape the tablecloth, is on his hands and knees sniffing the rug. “I confess he possessed a certain charm but ultimately proved to be quite dull.”

Will is looking at him again, eyes shrouded and searching. Hannibal sighs and folds his hands in his lap. “I observed Dr Bloom’s tendency to form attachments quickly and to have a habit of blinding herself to the bad in order to see the good, despite evidence to the contrary. I saw an opportunity to exploit these traits to my advantage.”

“Her compassion for you was convenient.”

"It was."

Will nods as he casually nudges the remnants of their dinnerware on the floor with his foot.“You withheld knowledge of my encephalitis in order to blind me.”

“Yes.”

“Whereas Alana always saw the good, I always saw the bad. She was a more viable option to ensure your freedom.”

Hannibal leans in, speaking softly and earnestly, “You were the worst, yet I couldn’t resist.”

Will's body briefly twitches towards Hannibal, lulled by the tone. So, he forcibly straightens his back and states firmly, “You fostered codependency because you needed to ensure mine. That’s why you tried to eat me. A desperate, last-ditch effort to rid yourself of …” he turns to look at Hannibal, “your own codependency.”

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers, his eyes glassy at the memory. “If Mason's men hadn't disrupted me, I am not certain I would have been able to continue on without…” The unspoken “you” hangs in the air between them.

Will dips his head, seeking his eyes, “The Ripper is not suicidal.”

"I found myself in a rather precarious position. I didn't just want you; I needed you. You changed me."

“I know.” Will smiles, placing his hand flat on the table as he leans towards him. “It’s important that you remember that. It is also important that you remember who you belong to.”

Hannibal leans back in his chair, his face glowing with a combination of awe and reverence. "I take pleasure in witnessing your possessiveness, my love, whether it be through bloodshed or through your groans and demanding hands in our bed." 

Will watches as Antoine stumbles onto his back and begins babbling incoherently. A touch of sadness can be heard in his voice as he motions towards him with his hand. “He is just…just so like you, not like me.”

"That was to his detriment," Hannibal says, leaning forward and taking Will's hand. "Never compare yourself to anyone, for no one is comparable."

“You are ridiculous.” Will smiles, his cheeks flush.

“Besides, I don’t need a cultured, refined partner,” Hannibal says, a smirk teasing his lips, “I am happy with you.”

Will's smile grows wider as he attempts to stifle a laugh, “You’re such an asshole.” 

Antoine's movements are growing increasingly frantic as he inches closer to them. When he reaches Will's legs, he grabs hold of his trousers and begins tugging on them.

Leaning over, Will grasps hold of the skewer and swiftly yanks it out with one motion - causing an immediate gush of crimson blood to spurt forth through his wound like an open faucet.

“The rug,” Hannibal sighs, sipping his wine.

“Yeah, that rug really tied the room together.”

Hannibal tilts his head and points his finger at Will, “I get that reference.”

“See, I’ll drag you into the twentieth century yet, old man.”

Hannibal grins, then, seeing the skewer in Will’s hand, whines in a martyred voice, “Did it have to be my antique skewer? It was once owned by Wilhelm Karl, Duke of Urach.”

“One go through the dishwasher, and it’ll be grand, Hanni .”

Hannibal scowls, sidestepping the blood as it pools on the floor. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, William?”

“Maybe.” Will grins, making Hannibal return the smile despite his best intentions not to.

“Guess we will have to move now,” Will says matter-of-factly, rolling his shoulder and massaging the joint.

“Yes, and as a testament to Chiyoh's dedicated tutelage…you, my darling boy, can handle the logistics.” 

Will groans, letting his head fall back. "Fuck."

“Come now, mano meilė; you can not expect to partake in all the fun, not the administrative duties.”

“I bet Van Damme wouldn't make Pauly Shore do admin.”

"I would not be so sure."

*********

Now

The Cabin

“They say the difference between poison and medicine is merely the dosage.” Chiyoh tenderly cradles Freddie’s head as she wipes her sweat-drenched face with a cool cloth. “How can we understand those who willingly overdose? Hannibal and Will found in each other both the lethal dose and the paradoxical cure that made their broken parts whole.”

“You should write greeting cards, Chiyoh, that was fucking beautiful….fucked up but beautiful.”

Chiyoh releases a slight sigh of irritation as she methodically squeezes the cloth into the basin.

"Speaking of fucked up," Freddie pauses for a moment to moisten her raw, chapped lips with her tongue. "I've been wondering if Hannibal ever received the gift my brother sent him."

Chiyoh freezes, causing the cloth to slip from her hand into the basin with a splash, “I don’t…I can't say I know-”

Abruptly, a series of intense convulsions take over Freddie's body. Her limbs thrash wildly against the restraints. The chair legs lift and crash back down as each spasm surges through her frame. The veins on her neck bulge while her eyes threaten to burst from their sockets.

Chiyoh grabs Freddie’s shoulders as her back arches in a painfully acute curve, thrusting her back down against the cold metal frame of her chair, holding her in place.

Finally, Freddie slumps in the chair, drooling from one corner of her slack mouth. The weight of exhaustion causes her head to fall against her chest.

Chiyoh retrieves the washcloth to clean and soothe her and then offers her some water, holding the glass as she takes small sips.

Freddie lets her head fall onto her shoulder and rolls her eyes in Chiyoh's direction, whispering, "Thank you."

“You are very welcome, Ms Lounds.” Chiyoh smiles tenderly down at her as she delicately sweeps her hair from her forehead.

Through shrouded eyes, Freddie observes her, “You like to be of use.”

“Yes. I like to have purpose.”

“For someone like you to lose their purpose is quite harrowing. You lose your whole sense of else. Your identity.”

“I imagine so.”

Even though her eyes are starting to fade, they still retain a flicker of curiosity, “Is that why you resented Will?”

“I grew very fond of Will Graham.”

Freddie snorts, a bubble of snort forming in her nostril, “Yeah, but by then, it was too late, wasn’t it.”

Chiyoh straightens her back, “I can’t say I know what you mean.”

Freddie grins at her, “Will confided in you, and you used it against him.”

Averting her gaze, Chiyoh straightens her back and clasps her hands behind her.

“You invited Antoine, didn’t you?” Freddie forcefully spits out the words but then succumbs to a coughing fit that seems to rattle her bones.

Chiyoh gazes intently at her, her stoic and controlled expression revealing little of the swirling emotions inside her.

“What about the assassin? My brother’s gift?” Freddie gasps, her breaths coming in harsh bursts.

Chiyoh pursues his lips and looks up at the night sky.

A smile spreads like an oil spill across Freddie’s face. “I fucking knew it. So the gruesome twosome never saw it,” Freddie hums, “My brother considered it a courtesy to let Hannibal know his intentions.”

Her attention is drawn to Chiyoh’s hands, which are starting to twitch. Upon closer inspection, she sees that Chiyoh has started picking at the skin surrounding her nails.

Stretching her neck, Freddie muses, “Imagine how differently things might have turned out if he had seen it. He may have killed my brother sooner, and the Count and Countess could have been living their best life somewhere out there, and we wouldn’t be here in their burnt cabin trying to appease their ghosts.”

Chiyoh's head jerks toward her, but her eyes stay fixed on the stars above.

“You realised something about my brother, didn’t you?” Freddie prods. “I never saw the display, but I know my brother altered it. What did you not want Hannibal to see?”

Dropping her head, Chiyoh slowly turns to face her. “It was…a proposal. An attempt to court Hannibal."

Freddie opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by a coughing fit that results in a blob of mucus being emitted from her throat onto her lap. With a guttural chuckle, she lifts her head slowly, peering through her sweat-soaked curls. “Well, well, well, aren’t you a clever girl.”

Chiyoh stares at her, her eyes glassy, her lips trembling. “What am I if I have no use?”

“The child that is rejected by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth." Freddie nods her head, letting it loll on her neck, "I can relate.”

Chiyoh smiles sadly, tilting her head up in a bid to prevent her gathering tears from escaping.

“You invited the Ex and destroyed my brother’s gift...all for your own fucking agenda.”

Chiyoh nods slowly, her hand instinctively rising to cover her trembling lips as she fights to suppress the deep well of grief and anguish that threatens to spill over and shatter her.

Freddie lets her head roll to her other shoulder as she closes her eyes. "Sounds like something I would do, babe.”

 ~~V~~

Chapter Text

Two years ago

Buffalo, New York

The dog has been barking all afternoon. Each sharp yelp cuts into Agent Jack Crawford's concentration like a machete, clawing at his already frayed nerves as he surveys the scene with a detached professionalism.

The garden is filled with memories of happier times, from bicycles tucked away among the shrubs to a frequently used dining set on the paved patio, and an old swing set with a worn frame and rusty chains swaying gently in the light breeze. These remnants of the Leeds family's past—weekend barbecues and lazy summer days—stand in stark contrast to the horror lurking just beyond the threshold of their home.

His team bustles around him with efficiency and purpose, taking photographs and documenting the scene while others carefully bag evidence. Nearby, a few neighbours linger just beyond the yellow caution tape, drawn in by the commotion. Their faces show concern and curiosity as they exchange hushed whispers, trying to piece together the unfolding drama. “Such a lovely family,” “What a tragedy,” and “In my day, you could leave your door unlocked,” they murmur. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Jack feels a wave of despair wash over him. He takes a deep breath, willing the chaos around him to fade away so he can think.

His gaze wanders up to the second-floor windows of the house, where one particular window draws his attention. On the windowsill, a fluffy plush rabbit sits, its button eyes seemingly fixed on him with an unnerving intensity. A peculiar feeling of being judged washes over him, prompting him to look away.

In the distance, sirens wail, signalling the approach of backup, and Jack shakes his head in resignation, knowing that even with the additional resources, the killer will remain free to strike again.

The swing set creaks loudly as the wind picks up, startling Jack, who flinches involuntarily. Glancing around sheepishly, he lets his head fall back, emitting a weary chuckle as exhaustion creeps into his bones.

Amid the chaos of clicking cameras, bustling agents and whispering neighbours, Jack notices a red-headed woman conversing with a uniformed officer. Jack lets out an exasperated groan and drags his hands down his face. "Ms. Lounds, you know better than this," he bellows, “I will have you removed by force if necessary."

“Just researching my next article,” Freddie says, smiling wide, showing too many teeth. “How the only thing on the up in the law enforcement stats is police brutality.”

Jack's face tightens, the lines of his forehead deepening as he presses his lips together in a thin line. He reluctantly raises his hand, signalling to allow her in.

The officer steps aside, raising the tape that marks the boundary of the scene, allowing Freddie to pass underneath. With a smug smirk, she tosses a syrupy “Thank you” to the young man while smoothing her coat.

Jack stands with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a deep scowl etched on his face as he observes her. In contrast, Freddie strolls effortlessly across the lush green lawn, exuding an air of relaxed confidence. Her curls bounce gently in the breeze as she walks, one hand casually resting on the strap of her bag, the other tucked into her coat pocket, completely unfazed by Jack's watchful gaze.

As she draws closer, Jack wonders whether he can leverage her interference to his advantage. He knows that media attention typically complicates investigations, often leading to distractions and premature conclusions. However, he can’t ignore the fact that her connections to individuals who inhabit the darker corners of society could prove useful. 

Adrenaline surges through him, temporarily lifting the burden of fatigue. He straightens his back and squares his shoulders while Freddie, after a theatrical survey of their surroundings, halts before him.

Freddie's gaze locks onto him confidence oozing from her every pore. She tilts her head slightly, considering him with a small smile. He can sense the gears working behind her calm façade, calculating and plotting, and he questions if he should trust her.

“So the FBI has hit a brick wall, Agent Crawford,” she states. Then, tossing her curls, adds with a toothy grin, “That was not a question, by the way.”

Jack emits a near-growl, turning his gaze away and drawing a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

"I suppose—" begins Freddie, stopping as the dog barks once more. Her eyes widen, her body tense, and her breath hitches in her throat. Uncertainty flickers across her face while she remains motionless. "I suppose..." she tries again but stops. Jack looks on with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. He softly touches her arm, jolting her back in the moment. With a slight shake of her head, she resumes, "I guess we'll have to wait 29 days and hope the killer makes a mistake," brushing her hair back from her face.

Jack’s eyebrows shoot up involuntarily, and he silently curses himself for his lack of control. He forces a cough, a quick huff that allows him to regroup. “29 days?” he asks flatly.

“Save it, Agent Crawford; we both know our man is working on a lunar cycle.”

Jack grunts and sighs, “What do you want, Ms Lounds?”

“You know the usual,” Freddie chimes in a sing-song voice: “World peace, end to poverty…” The dog lets out a fierce yelp that makes her flinch. She momentarily appears quite rattled but swiftly composes herself, “A million-dollar book deal.”

Jack makes a show of looking around but keeps Freddie in his eyeline. "Never took you as the charitable type, Ms Lounds."

Freddie smirks, her voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm. "Oh, Agent Crawford, what are you insinuating? That I don't have a heart?"

Jack's expression remains stern as he leans in closer. "That is open to debate."

Freddie tilts her head, her smile widening. "You know what else is open to debate, Agent Crawford, whether the FBI has a brain and since you lack the courage to admit you need help…perhaps we should all plan a trip to Oz."

Jack's eyes bore into Freddie, his anger bubbling below the surface. "I don't need help, Ms Lounds."

Freddie emits a derisive sound that slices through the air. "Oh, you most certainly do."

"Not yours."

"Even though you clearly do, and would be lucky to have it,” she leans in, and her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “It is not my help I was offering.”

Jack huffs out a laugh, “Who then? One of those maniacs who subscribe to your channel?”

“Takes one to know one, Agent Crawford.”

"I guess it does," he says with a sneer, pressing his lips together.

Freddie straightens her back. "This killer is unlike any other you've encountered before. They’re cunning and methodical, and they leave no evidence behind. Conventional methods will only lead you in circles. But you already know this, don’t you?"

Jack raises an eyebrow,  "And what do you suggest, Lounds?"

Freddie's grin widens. "It may be time to call on the biggest maniac of them all."

“Lecter?” Jack lets his head fall back and throws out an incredulous chuckle, “He won’t help; he’ll just fuck with us for his amusement.”

“Close, but not quite the maniac I was thinking of, Agent Crawford."

Jack's gaze sharpens on her, while Freddie offers him a sweet smile, allowing the tension to mount. "When was the last time you spoke with Will Graham, Jack?"

*****

Now

The Cabin

Chiyoh leans back in her chair, the wooden surface creaking softly beneath her weight. She gazes upward, where the stars twinkle like distant lanterns. “I always thought them victims of fate,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Powerless pawns in a game beyond their control.” She pauses, then adds, tilting her head towards Freddie, “But now I see they were instead pawns in a game orchestrated by you and… your brother.”

"And you." 

Chiyoh drops her head momentarily then  returns her gaze to the stars.

Freddie smiles grimly, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. “You know, my brother once told me…” She lifts her gaze to the inky canvas above. “He once told me those weren’t stars…but holes.”

“Holes?” Chiyoh echoes, furrowing her brow in curiosity.

“Holes to let the air in,” Freddie wheezes, struggling to catch her breath. She smiles briefly at the irony.

“Your brother saw himself as a creature ensnared,” Chiyoh says softly, her voice carrying a weight of understanding.

Freddie stares into the nothingness, the dim light casting shadows across her face. “Aren’t we all…” she murmurs, “...in one way or another?”

“Yes,” Chiyoh dips her head, seeking her attention, “you and your displaced trauma, for one.”

Freddie slowly turns her head until her eyes meet Chiyoh's, sending a shudder through her. A tremulous breath escapes Freddie as she whispers, "You and your obligation to the devil for another."

Chiyoh bites her lip, fingers twisting and fidgeting in her lap. "Cages of our own construction," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air like shadows as her thoughts wander someplace else.

Freddie smiles sourly, “The caged fear freedom, for the cage is all they know.”

A thick silence settles over them, wrapping around them like a fog, leaving only the sound of their breaths lingering in the air. Chiyoh shatters the stillness with a question that has been plaguing her. “What of the dog?” she asks.

“What dog?” Freddie squints at her.

“The dog…it kept barking. You felt the need to mention it. It reminded you of something.”

Freddie looks at her with glazed eyes, “Yes.”

Chiyoh leans in and places a hand on her knee, “Something you had forgotten,” she coaxes.

"Yes," Freddie whispers, a solitary tear slipping from the corner of her eye, tracing a slow path down her cheek.

*****

Twenty-Eight years ago

Talbot County

Fredrica Cooper perches on the counter, her legs swinging to and fro, occasionally knocking against the display case beneath with a gentle thud that punctuates the stillness of the quiet gas station.

Sunlight spills into the store, filling it with a soft, warm light. She clutches her toy bunny tight against her chest and squints out the window at her brother, who is assisting an elderly woman with the gas pump.

Only moments earlier, her father had vanished into the back room, accompanied by a friend familiar to Fredrica and a strange girl. Her long, bleached hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was dressed in an oversized hoodie that swamped her small stature, and her complexion was wan and haggard. In her arms, she cradled something that wriggled incessantly. “Don’t put that down; it’ll piss everywhere.” Fredrica heard her father say as they walked by.

Doggy. Fredrica thinks, craning her neck to get a better view before they can close the door behind them.

Fredrica lets out a sigh and turns her focus back to her brother, who is currently holding the woman's sizable bag as she rummages through its contents. Fredrica swings her legs, occasionally peeking at the door to the back room that has fallen ajar — a repair her father has always intended to make but never got around to. Seizing the opportunity, she reaches out and deftly snatches a lollipop from the rotating display.

A piercing, whining sound slices through the air from the back room.

Doggy. Fredrica pops the bright red lolly into her mouth, the sweet and fruity flavour bursting on her tongue. With excitement bubbling inside her. She shifts slightly, straining her neck to catch a glimpse of the dog, eager to see if it’s as fluffy and lively as it sounds.

Her father’s strained voice drifts in through the crack of the door, “Shut that fucking mutt up,” he shouts, clearly irritated by the constant yapping.

"It's just a cub, Si," she hears Bud say, his voice carrying a note of desperation.

Fredrica leans further forward, trying to get a better view. The dim light in the room casts long shadows, making it difficult to see clearly. Craning her neck, Fredrica peers around the door's edge. Her gaze catches only the sight of her father's leg and arm, his fingers clasping a cigarette. The smoke ascends in a spiral, coiling and unfurling, dissipating like ghosts, she muses. Suddenly, he lifts his hand and flicks the cigarette-

A bell rings as her brother enters the shop, “Where’s dad?”

Fredrica grabs the counter's edge to keep her balance and nods towards the back room. She pops the lolly from her mouth: “He has a doggy back there. Do you think he will let me pet it?”

Her brother narrows his eyes at the door and shakes his head, “No, Freddie, stay…just stay there.”

He approaches the door, his feet dragging against the floor. As he nears the threshold, he stops. Shifting from one foot to the other, he takes a breath and finally finds his voice. “Dad… Sir.” He clears his throat, attempting to steady himself. “There’s a lady who wants to buy lottery tickets. Um, Sir?” He tilts his head towards the door, waiting for a response. Their father’s face suddenly appears in the gap, making him flinch away. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he snaps as he pushes the door close, only for it to swing back a moment later.

Her brother, gnawing at the skin around his thumb, pauses briefly before turning to face her. “Hey, Freddie, wanna go outside? That lady is wearing a wig, and it keeps slipping…come see.” He reaches out to her with his hands.

“No, I want to see the doggy.” Freddie pouts, looking forlornly at the door.

The noise behind the door grows louder, and her brother casts an anxious look in its direction. "Come on, Freddie, let's go outside," he urges, extending his hand but she skillfully evades his grasp.

Their father’s voice suddenly rings out, “SHUT THAT THING UP!”

The siblings stare at one another, momentarily stunned. Freddie furrows her brow, and her lips part as if to speak when a high-pierced shriek slices through the air, followed by a loud smack - flesh meeting flesh - a palm hitting a face, “You can shut the fuck up too!.”

Tugging at her arm, her brother says, “C’mon, Freddie. I’ll give you a piggyback.”

Once again Freddie deftly dodges his grabbing hands, her eyes fixed on the gap. There is the distinct sound of shuffling feet, and they see their father pin Bud up against the wall, “Why did you bring it here, Bud?”

"I'm sorry, Si... I didn't…," Bud stammers, a raw burn mark sits high on his cheekbone, watering his eyes. The atmosphere is thick with tension as the two men lock eyes. "Please," he says, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I didn't-"

Silas leans in, his voice hushed but fierce as he hisses, "GET IT OUT OF HERE!" In a fluid movement, he seizes Bud by the shirt and hurls him to the ground, where Bud disappears from view. Silas remains standing, hands on hips, taking deep breaths, as the sound of crying resumes.

With eyes ablaze, Silas spins towards the noise. His gaze sharpens, fists clench, and then he disappears from view.

“Leave him alone, mister,” they hear the concealed girl beg. “You’re scaring him; he can’t help it.” Her disembodied words hang in the air, pulsing with fear and urgency.

“Don’t scare the doggy.” Freddie suddenly shouts out.

In a panic, her brother grabs her arm. “C’mon, Freddie. Let’s go outside, come on!”

Freddie pulls her arm from her brother’s grip, “Stop pulling me. DADDY!!!!

"Please don't—shh," he whispers urgently, gripping her shoulders and casting a worried glance toward the back room.

“Then stop grabbing me.”

Suddenly, Silas Cooper’s face appears in the gap in the doorway, “What’s going on out there?”

Freddie swiftly hides the lolly in the folds of her dress.

Silas glares at his son, “Leave your sister alone.” Seeing the woman in the forecourt, he says, “Go out and tell her we don’t have any lottery tickets. If she makes a fuss, give her a free box of chocolates, the mint centres; they’re nearly out of date, and send her on her way.

“Yes, Sir.”

Silas glances back over his shoulder briefly, then turns his attention to Freddie. He smiles warmly as he says, “You okay, Princess?” Why don’t you take a lollipop? Daddy will only be a minute.”

When the whining starts again, Silas rolls his eyes and clenches his jaw before disappearing into the room. “Shut that thing up or….or God help me, I will shut it up.”

Freddie pops the lolly back into her mouth and grins at her brother.

“Please come outside with me.”

Freddie shakes her head, her curly hair bouncing as she sucks on her lollipop and swings her legs.

With a deep sigh, he grabs a box of chocolates from the shelf. As he exits the store, the tiny bell chimes softly overhead, its sound trailing after him as he steps onto the forecourt. He pauses momentarily and looks back at his sister, who playfully sticks her tongue out at him.

Freddie watches as her brother relays the lie and gives the old woman the chocolates. She beams inanely at him and ruffles his hair before getting into her car and driving away.

As the bell rings, signalling her brother’s return, there is a large bang from the back room. Freddie leans forward, trying to get a better view through the gap. Suddenly, her brother is at the counter, grabbing her by the waist to keep her there. “Do you wanna see a magic trick, Freddie?” he asks, his eyes wide, desperate to keep her attention on him.

Freddie screws her face up in disbelief, “You can’t do magic.”

“Watch,” he snatches a straw from a nearby container and pushes it into his ear, only to reappear from his nose.

Freddie giggles and claps her hands in delight. “Again, again.”

From the back room, the crying is getting louder. “Mister, please, please..don’t…don’t.”

“Was I speaking to you? Now shut that thing up.”

Freddie looks towards the door, “Daddy, daddy…is the doggy sad? I can-”

Her brother lunges forward, placing his hand over her mouth. “Ssh, if you’re quiet, I’ll make sure you get to pet the doggy.”

“You promise,” Freddie mumbles against his palm.

"Yes, now be quiet, okay?” His sister nods, and he releases her. As they glance back at the door, Bud comes into view. He is sweating profusely, his hands outstretched pleadingly, “Si, please just…”

At that moment, a high-pitched yelp rings out; it is immediately followed by Silas Cooper shouting, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” and then a sound like a fist hitting a wall.

Freddie and her brother stare in horror - at the blood splattered over Bud’s face and chest and the crumpled form on the floor, its neck bent at an impossible angle.

There is a tense moment of silence before the hidden girl lets out a bloodcurdling scream, and Bud grabs his hair with both hands, stumbling backwards, his eyes wild, “Silas, what have you done?”

Freddie’s brother clutches her to him to shield her from the horrors beyond the door.

“Poor doggy,” she says into her brother’s chest, popping the candy back into her mouth.

*****

Now

The Cabin

“Reality is an endless battle of contrasting memories,” Chiyoh says thoughtfully. “It’s incredible how our minds work, conjuring narratives that will shield us from harsh realities." She pauses for a moment, allowing her words to settle in. “Our brains instinctively know when to soften the edges of painful experiences. It’s not about lying to ourselves but protecting ourselves.”

Freddie remains stoic, her blank eyes fixed at a point in the distance as the fog that has clouded her thoughts begins to disperse. A flicker of pain crosses her face. “I remember now…” she murmurs, the words barely escaping her lips, sounding almost like a confession. Her heart quickens slightly as the missing fragments of that day resurface—she sees the limp body again. The vision is horrific: the small frame crumpled and still, the angle of its head contorted in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

“It wasn’t a dog, was it, Ms Lounds.”

“No.”

Chiyoh waits, her heart thumping in her chest.

Slowly, Freddie turns to face her, “It was a baby.”

~~V~~

Chapter Text

Then

Somewhere else in Europe

"I'm pretty sure the neighbours can hear us through the walls," Will remarks as he wrestles with a particularly stubborn jar of jam.

Hannibal hums passively as he takes the jar, opens it and returns it to Will’s still-open palm without looking up from his newspaper.

Throwing Hannibal a withering look, Will scoops a spoonful of jam and lets it drop onto his pancakes with a loud plop. Raising his orange juice to his lips, he turns his head to look out over the bustling bistro patio, only to wince when the overly sweet, synthetic flavour assaults his taste buds.

“It’s not freshly squeezed, I’m afraid,” Hannibal states leisurely as he turns a page. “Do you wish to send it back?”

Will sticks his tongue out to rid himself of the lingering taste. “No, it’s fine. It’s drinkable.”

Hannibal lowers the newspaper to watch as Will grunts and pushes the glass to one side. With a shake of his head, he returns to his paper, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "And yet you are not drinking it."

"Coffee's great," Will deflects, cradling the cup and inhaling its rich scent. "I think it's Jamaican Blue Mountain."

Hannibal folds his newspaper neatly and places it on the table. "I wonder; what would the Will Graham — who dined exclusively on the Pop-Tart and the instant noodle — think of this Will Graham, sitting before me?"

Will squints at him over the rim of his cup, "What do ya mean?"

"In my efforts to broaden your culinary horizons, I fear I may have inadvertently created a..." Hannibal's voice trails off as he raises an eyebrow suggestively.

"Monster?" Will offers, then with a smirk, adds, "No, worse—a snob."

Hannibal stirs his coffee and sighs, "Gods do create in their image."

“It’s interesting how I’m more shocked at you admitting you’re a snob than referring to yourself as a god?”

Hannibal narrows his eyes at him, then leaning forward, sweetly purrs, “Drink your orange-flavoured beverage, William.”

Will looks at the bright, almost neon liquid and rolls his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Such an asshole."

Hannibal smiles, his honeyed voice low and seductive, "And you, my resplendent inamorato, are a food snob.” Then, shaking out his napkin, adds, “I blame myself, of course."

"I blame you, too. This could be the worst thing you’ve ever done to me."

"All things considered, I imagine it just might be."

Will lets out a long, theatrical sigh. “I would roll my eyes, but I feel I’m one eye roll away from my ocular muscles spasming and my eyeballs popping out.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Will.”

“Yeah, that’s your thing .”

“It is,” Hannibal retorts evenly as he sips his coffee, “and if you attempt to pilfer it, I will kill everyone on this patio and burn it to the ground.”

Will rolls his eyes and shifts his gaze to scan the other patrons. Amidst the bustling crowd, he spots a familiar figure seated a few tables away, their head buried in a book—they’re clearly not reading. Taking a drink of his coffee, he says casually, “You know we’re being followed, right?”

“I am aware,” Hannibal says simply as he arranges his croissants and sliced fruit on his plate.

Will pops a grape into his mouth. “So we doing something about it or what, cheekbones?”

"Eventually," Hannibal says, smoothing the napkin on his lap.

In a quick and practised motion, Will snatches a croissant from his plate. Hannibal's intense gaze holds him in place, the pastry suspended midway to his mouth. His eyes flick between the croissant and Will's face, then with a slight shake of his head, says, “Mylimasis, you were discussing our neighbours.”

Will shoves the pastry into his mouth and rips it in half, flakes scattering across the table, “Yeah, I think they can hear us fucking through the walls.”

"I have no doubt." Hannibal sighs as he surveys the mess on the table, "But what has prompted you to bring it up now?"

“You know Maria and Diego?” Will drops the remaining croissant onto his plate and licks his fingers, “They live in the apartment below us.”

“Yes, a most amiable couple.”

“Yeah, well, the other morning, Maria winked at me and said, “Suenas muy enamorado””

Hannibal smiles, “She believes we are very much in love. What a charming and astute young woman.”

“Sounds, Hannibal,” Will leans across the table, his voice dropping to a whisper, “We sound like we're very much in love.”

Hannibal chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement, “Perhaps you misheard.”

Will shakes his head and stuffs the rest of the pastry into his mouth. "What about the bananas, then, eh?" he asks.

Hannibal's gaze drifts upwards as he considers, his eyes unfocused. "Yes, I couldn't help but notice we appear to have a rather excessive amount in our possession."

Will huffs, emitting a puff of crumbs, “Diego grows them and insists on giving us them.”

"How exceptionally kind and neighbourly of him."

“Yeah, it is,” Will says, swiping idly at the crumbs, “Just that every time he does, he slaps me on the back and says, “mantén tu energía alta.”

Hannibal chuckles again, his voice warm and jovial. “He’s concerned for your well-being, mylimasis. Bananas are rich in potassium and, as Diego correctly suggests, an excellent energy source and ideal for recovery after…exertion.”

Will groans and rolls his eyes before leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “He said, “Amantes insatiable, haces el amor como adolescentes.” Then he winked and slapped me on the back again."

Hannibal raises his napkin to his mouth to conceal his laughter.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Will retorts, his voice tinted with the threat of retribution. “He wouldn't say that to you, that’s for fucking sure.”

“You are clearly more personable than I am, my love,” Hannibal says with a teasing smile, “Besides, a very handsome yet very stern former FBI profiler advised me to keep a low profile and avoid socialising with the neighbours. He said, and I quote, “My face is on everything from Lunch boxes to Litter boxes.”””

“You know, I didn’t expect you to handle that shit so calmly,” Will says, reaching for his orange juice only to grimace when he remembers and push it further away. “I figured seeing your face plastered all over this junk would piss you off.” Will redirects his hand to Hannibal’s sliced watermelon.

"It was certainly an unforeseen development,” Hannibal pushes his plate closer to Will, “Still, I find myself fascinated by the resourcefulness and entrepreneurial spirit of the creatives involved."

“With your face popping up everywhere can only increase our chance of being recognised.”

“People are not as observant as they believe themselves to be. Most individuals are so engrossed in their mediocre lives and petty concerns that they only notice what they seek or expect to encounter. My longer hair and the addition of my beard have significantly enhanced my capacity to blend in effortlessly and to move around undetected.”

"Also, it gives me something to grab onto." Will declares with a wink, then, to illustrate his point, takes hold of Hannibal's beard on both sides. "It’s like your face has handles."

With an exasperated sigh, Hannibal swats away his hands. "Really, William. Such talk at the breakfast table and in public, too? No wonder your antics are the talk of the apartment building."

"At least my head isn't on a PEZ dispenser," Will grins.

“How whimsical,” Hannibal says lightly, sipping his coffee.

With an exaggerated look of horror, Will grabs his wrist. "Who are you? What have you done with Hannibal the Cannibal?"

Hannibal shakes off his grip with a disapproving snort. "I am not so fragile that a few trinkets bearing my image would cause me indignation," he says, piercing him with his glare.

“I expected that website to go down on the account that all of their vendors had been inexplicably made into sausages.”

“I was initially offended and rather perplexed at the notion of my likeness adorning such products. However, on the advice of the rather handsome former FBI profiler, I decided to “ unclench ” and consider it a compliment. Besides, I'm curious to see what oddity my face will appear next.”

“I hope it's a douchebag.”

Hannibal tilts his head, "Should that be the case, I will accept it with humour and grace." Then, bringing a slice of watermelon to his lips, he adds, "That reminds me, we must acquire new bedding."

Will freezes, and a grape falls from the corner of his mouth, “You wouldn't?”

“Wouldn’t what, my love?” Hannibal asks sweetly as he watches the grape roll across the table.

“You fucking would, wouldn’t you?”

“I have no doubt you are correct, but I must insist you elaborate.”

Will leans forward on his elbows, “That’s the dream. Taking your narcissism to a whole new level. To fuck me on sheets bearing your smug face. Why stop there…let's rig out the whole apartment. Let's stock up on the “Murder Husbands” merch Freddie is flogging...I saw a doormat that said, “C’mon in, we would love to have you for dinner.”

Hannibal eyes widen slightly as a laugh is unexpectedly pulled from him. “How delightful. I insist we acquire one.”

Will waves his hand dismissively, “There are sex toys, you know.”

When Hannibal merely shrugs, Will grits his teeth and hisses, "There's a ball gag, Hannibal, with your fucking face on it."

Unbothered, Hannibal butters a slice of sourdough. "How fortuitous. That will prove useful in curtailing your passionate outbursts during coitus."

“Me?” Will squeaks, his eyes wide. “Wait a fucking-”

"Just think, it would save you from any further awkward encounters with the neighbours, " Hannibal remarks, relishing his partner's growing irritation. "Or we could explore more subdued sexual positions, ones that don't involve poorly engineered furnishings or the mistreatment of communal spaces."

Will holds his hands up in surrender, “Whoa now, let’s not get crazy…”

Hannibal tilts his head thoughtfully, "Perhaps we should abstain from intimacy altogether until we move on in a few months."

The two men lock eyes—a standoff. The bustle of the cafe, with its chatter and clinking dishes, fades to a distant hum. One raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement creeping in before being swept away, replaced by a contrived severe veneer. The other's jaw tightens, a tiny twitch of his lip revealing his struggle to maintain his composure as their gazes hold steady, locked in their shared defiance.

Finally, with a sly grin, Will leans in, his voice barely above a whisper. "We could just kill them."

Across from him, Hannibal's stoic features soften into a warm, indulgent smile.

Leaning back, Will flings his arm over the back of his chair and, with a casual flick of his wrist, adds, “Fuck it, we’ll kill everyone, then we can be as loud as want.”

"Don't be ridiculous, William," Hannibal says calmly, his voice unwavering as he gently wipes his mouth with a linen napkin. "If we were to eliminate everyone on earth, how would we arrange for the production and delivery of our custom-made bedding and ball gags?"

Will trying to suppress the amused twitch at the corner of his mouth, absentmindedly reaches for the glass of orange juice, only to push it away again, much to Hannibal’s amusement.

With a small smile, Hannibal says, "Perhaps we should continue to serenade our neighbours. Just think of the bananas."

Unable to contain it any longer, they find themselves succumbing to a fit of laughter, “You’re such an Asshole,” Will says as he reaches out and caresses his face. “But you're my asshole.”

Hannibal squints at him, his mouth dropping into a slight frown. "William, while I appreciate the sentiment, your choice of words do rather diminish the romanticism of it."

*****

The Next Day

Hannibal sweeps into the kitchen, where Chiyoh sits, drinking tea and scrolling on her phone. “I intend to propose to Will," he declares.

She sets her cup down with a sigh, “And you expect me-”

“Would appreciate your assistance,” Hannibal interjects, placing a placating hand on her shoulder, “in organising the event.”

“Perhaps it would be prudent to await his response before you start planning?” she states flatly, her gaze steady yet weary.

“This is for the proposal, mano mieloji sesuo.” Hannibal smiles warmly, his eyes bright as he draws her attention to the leather-bound book he has placed on the table before her.

“The proposal?” she echoes with a slight furrow in her brow.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, tapping the book lightly as he sits beside her.

Chiyoh reaches for it, feeling its thickness between her hands. "Is this all just for the proposal?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says with a nod, “There is a separate set of binders for the wedding.”

“Coloured-coded and cross-referenced, I imagine,” Chiyoh jokes, flipping through the pages.

“Naturally,” Hannibal replies without a trace of irony.

Chiyoh shakes her head and says, "Vicuna suits," her finger tracing over the sketches in the book. "Do you think Will will appreciate such opulence?"

Hannibal leans back, "While my Will is not one for extravagance, he does appreciate quality and craftsmanship."

Chiyoh hums in response, thumbing further into the book. "This is all very elaborate,” she frowns as she studies a lavish floral archway, “Just for a proposal."

With a piercing gaze and a fleeting hint of irritation playing across his features, Hannibal snips: "This is not merely a proposal, but the merging of twin flames, the reunification of souls." His voice then takes on a lower, more introspective tone: "We must pay homage to the divine forces that foresaw the intertwining of our fates."

“Will lacks the sophistication to appreciate such effort. I doubt he would know the difference between Cashmere and Vicuna.”

“Yet I would, and it would prove insufficient,” Hannibal says tartly, taking the book and fanning through the pages, his eyes skimming the contents.

"Given your history, I should not be surprised.” Chiyoh sighs, leaning back into her chair with her tea.

Hannibal becomes utterly still, the open book resting heavily in his hands, forgotten. His stare lands on Chiyoh like a weight. “Chiyoh,” he says, his voice calm but sharp, hinting at his growing impatience. “I insist you elaborate.”

“By ambushing him with such a display of wealth and opulence, Will will feel obligated to accept your proposal, will he not?” Chiyoh says evenly, defiantly meeting his stare, “Is this not just another manipulation?"

A brief look of shock flashes across his face before it disappears, replaced by his customary stoic state. "Will chose me, Chiyoh. He's here because he chooses to be."

Chiyoh takes a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, her gaze unwavering as she considers him. “You have manipulated everyone who has become ensnared in your orbit,” she says, letting the weight of her accusation hang in the air. Then, with a flippant shrug, she adds, “You always get what you want, Hannibal. You want Will Graham to be your husband—and so, of course, Will Graham will be your husband.”

"Will is here with me because he chooses to be," Hannibal reiterates, his voice steady but conveying a subtle warning.

“Do you believe that by proposing to him, he will stay?” Chiyoh scoffs, her finger tracing the handle of her cup.

Hannibal slams shut the leather-bound book and drops it onto the table, the sound reverberating through the room. His eyes narrow, and his lips tighten into a thin, taut line. "You speak with unwarranted authority on subjects of which you have little knowledge," he remarks. "Is this ignorance or cruelty, Chiyoh? I believed you to be above such shallow tactics."

Chiyoh sighs softly and reaches for his hand. “Hannibal…” she starts, but her voice falters when he abruptly pulls away, creating distance between them. The sudden withdrawal unnerves her, but she pushes on, “You appear quite smitten, Hannibal,” the softness of her tone fails to hide the subtle accusation. She purses her lips as he holds her gaze, his expression inscrutable. “Smitten is borne of the smite—to be stricken with a devastating affection.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “He will devastate you, Hannibal.”

"He loves me." The words tumble from his lips, sharp and fragile, shattering as they hit the air.

Chiyoh reaches for his hand again, “How can you be so sure?” she says gently, her face softening. “Has he told you?”

A sharp, sudden pang of pain contorts Hannibal's features as he shakes his head. His furrowed brow and clenched jaw betray his struggle to remain composed. "But I can feel it," Hannibal says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Where once there was a void, an emptiness that gnawed relentlessly, reminding me that a part of me was missing. Now, a warmth fills me. It's like a fog has lifted, revealing a clarity I never thought possible and a sense of completeness I never dared to imagine."

She tilts her head slightly, her eyes searching for his: "It is in the warm embrace of love that we understand the person we aspire to be. Yet, amidst the brutal trials of war, we unearth the unvarnished truth of who we truly are."

“You believe he will betray me.”

“Again, Hannibal. I believe he will betray you again. It is your pattern.” Then, with a sardonic twist of her lips, she sneers, “Your love language .”

Hannibal's eyes widen with disbelief as he hisses, "What do you know of love?" The sharpness of his tone slices through the air, causing Chiyoh to flinch away and drop his hand.

She gazes into the distance and softly utters, "Nothing." Her unspoken words dissipate into a heavy, resigned sigh as she adds, "I've never had the opportunity to..."

Hannibal’s face softens, the intensity giving way to something more tender. He extends his hand toward her, but she recoils, retreating further from him.

Lips trembling, her voice low and brittle, she asks, "Hannibal, why do you persist in yearning for the sea despite not knowing how to swim?"

“Is that your way of saying I won’t survive him?”

“It’s my way of saying you must learn to swim alone rather than cling to him. For when the storm comes, he will sink you to save himself.”

"Love is not without its risks and sacrifices. I am willing to face them all for Will, no matter the consequences," he says, his fingers delicately intertwining with hers as he raises her hand to his cheek.

"Love's complex nature can both elevate and destroy us. I know you, Hannibal. I know the lengths you are willing to go to to pursue what you desire. However, love can blind us to the truth. It clouds our judgment and lures us down treacherous paths. Promise me that you will tread carefully; that you will protect yourself."

Hannibal stares at her intently. "The beauty of our love lies in necessity. Long ago, we both shed the need of others. A love that seeks nothing in return knows no fear. Why do you harbour such cynicism?"

"Why are you so hopeful?" Chiyoh volleys back, her voice trembling with desperation as tears collect on her lashes.

“Unlike cynicism, hopefulness takes effort to cultivate and requires commitment. Hopefulness is the warrior emotion that lays waste to cynicism.”

Chiyoh shakes her head, a sad smile pulling her lips tight, “Your stubborn hope will be your end, Hannibal. I need you to be clear-minded and focused; I cannot tend two broken hearts.”

“Is your heart broken, my sweet sister?”

She dismisses his question with a wave of her hand; her voice tinged with a hint of resignation. “There is a cruelty in loving him when all he can promise is devastation.”

“It is our nature to hurt others. We must seek those worth suffering for.”

“You deem him worthy?” Her voice is high-pitched and incredulous, frustration evident in every syllable.

“We have passed through hell to be together; we have nothing left to prove to the other.”

“You are drunk on the idea that this love will heal your brokenness.”

“It will. It already has.”

Chiyoh looks up, her eyes locking with Hannibal's, and in that moment, she sees it: the depth of his love for Will and his desperate plea for her to accept it. With a heavy breath, she says, “Very well, Hannibal," placing her hand on his. “You deserve happiness.” For as long as it may last. The weight of these unspoken words pierces her heart as she musters a rigid smile. “If this makes you happy, then so be it."

Hannibal smiles softly, "Thank you."

She squeezes his hand, “Where do you envision this event taking place?”

“The Cappella Palatina at night.” He states casually as he flips to a page depicting images of the venue.

Chiyoh chokes on her tea. “What the fuck!”

Hannibal flinches at the words, “Chiyoh! I’ve never heard you utter profanities before; it is rather jarring and unbecoming of you.”

“I'm sorry. I have been spending too much time with your paramour. At your behest, I must add.”

Hannibal smiles at the mention of his beloved, “My Will does have a salty yet sweet mouth,” he says dreamily.

Chiyoh sighs dramatically, “Okay, Lord Byron. How do you intend to gain access to the Cappella Palatina at night?”

“Details, my dear sister. Mere details.”

“Quite important details,” she states while sipping her tea.

“I wish to fill the chapel with Kadupul Flowers.”

“Of course you do. Why settle for lilies, roses or even orchids when you can ask for Kadupul Flowers? Scarce and delicate blooms that only live for a few hours before withering away.”

“They are considered mythical. It would be a symbolic gesture to show Will how precious our relationship is to me and how I do not take one moment for granted.”

The words stirred up a palpable sense of unease in the depths of her stomach, carrying a prophetic significance. Despite this, the warmth in his voice and the genuine smile began to have a contagious effect on Chiyoh. "I shouldn't be surprised; subtlety has never been your strong suit, brother," she remarks, raising an eyebrow at him. He chuckles in response as she smiles and quips, "And what about the ring? Painite-encrusted rhodium, I presume?"

Hannibal’s face brightens, dismissing her sarcasm with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been sketching styles that I believe would suit him.” He opens the book, revealing depictions of rings. “What do you think about this one?”

Chiyoh traces the simple but elegant design with her finger. “It’s beautiful.” Then, turning more pages, she adds, “This could take weeks.”

“So be it. The price of perfection.”

In that instant, the distinct sound of keys jingling reverberates through the apartment, blending with the swift, agile tapping of Botticelli's claws on the wooden floor of the hallway.

Hannibal deftly closes the leather-bound notebook and cradles it against his chest as he hears the door creak, heralding his beloved's arrival.

Will enters the room carrying an armful of ripe yellow bananas, their sweet aroma filling the air. On seeing Hannibal, he flashes him a toothy grin, who rises from his seat as if drawn by an invisible force towards him. He wraps his arm around Will's waist, pulling him close to his side. With a tender look, he whispers, "There he is, my love."

Will leans in, placing his head on Hannibal's shoulder, and whispers, "Take me out tonight," his lips brushing against his neck with every word.

“On a date or by sniper, mano meile? How fortunate it is that our dear Chiyoh has graced us with her presence.” Hannibal takes the bananas from his hands and places them on the table.

A faint blush spreads across his cheeks when he sees Chiyoh. She stands with her arms crossed against her chest. Raising an eyebrow, a derisive scoff escapes her lips, clearly unimpressed by something— that something probably being him.

“She would and all, you know,” Will quips, his hand circling Hannibal's waist, tugging him back into an embrace.

"Indubitably," Hannibal says easily, throwing a potent look in her direction over Will's head.

A silence fills the room, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Will's eyes flit around, briefly pausing at a crack above the window, which he takes a mental note of, before settling on the notebook that Hannibal clutches to his chest. Meanwhile, Chiyoh's gaze follows the intricate patterns of the rug beneath their feet, her jaw clenched to stifle any words she might later regret.

After what feels like an eternity but is only a few seconds, Hannibal breaks the silence. "Please, excuse me," he says, "I have a phone call I must make." With that, he gracefully steps away, furtively gesturing to Chiyoh from behind Will's turned back. She tilts her chin in annoyance and fights the urge to roll her eyes. With a final lingering glance at the pair, Hannibal leaves the room.

“Hello, Chiyoh. It’s been a while.” Will says dryly with a barbed upturn of his lips.

“Has it?” she retorts flippantly.

“I haven’t seen you since….let me think.” He tilts his head in feigned thought, tapping his chin theatrically with his finger, “Since just before, Antoine paid us an unexpected visit.”

“Is that so?”

Will steps closer, leans in, and hisses, "I know it was you."

Chiyoh stands defiant in silence, her gaze fixed on him.

“You invited him. You invited Antoine into our home.”

“A home that was once Antoine’s,” Chiyoh sneers, “That is now his tomb.”

With a shake of his head, he places his hands on his hips, “I'm getting so fucking tired of people trying to come between myself and Hann-”

“Are you threatening me, Mr Graham?” Chiyoh snaps, cutting him off.

“Just offering some advice." Will shrugs, "It may be in your best interest to stop whatever you think you are doing.”

“You can't intimidate me, Will Graham; you don't matter enough.”

Will stares at her, a knowing smirk twisting his face, “Oh, you know that's not true, Chiyoh,” he coos, circling her.

She tilts her chin upward while maintaining a watchful gaze from the corner of her eye, carefully tracking his movements.

"Why? Why did you do it?" Will asks softly, his warm breath caressing the nape of her neck.

Her parched throat feels like sandpaper as she struggles to swallow. She turns towards him, her eyes closing as she confesses, "It pains me."

“What does?”

“Watching him love you so much, knowing you will never love him the same way.”

“You don't know what you are talking about.”

“Don't I?”

“You saw the tin.” Will licks his lips, crossing his arms, “Are those not the actions of a man in love?”

Chiyoh's eyes flash with anger, her posture stiffening. “You think a box of trinkets can compensate for your betrayals?”

“Chiyoh-”

“A man in love is easy to deceive, Will Graham; he only sees what he hopes to be true.”

Letting his head drop, Will sighs, “Why are you doing this? I thought we were becoming friends. I want us to be friends. I love-”

Chiyoh’s voice cuts through his words like a machete. "Do you?" she asks sharply, her eyes piercing his. "Your love is an illusion. Smoke and mirrors."

"I love him," Will states defiantly, his back straightening and his eyes narrowing to slits.

“You love the power you have over him.”

Will clenches his jaw at her words. “What of the power he has over me?”

“Hannibal is powerless when it comes to you, Will Graham, and you know it.”

Will's shoulders slump, causing his head to fall to his chest in defeat. "Why are you doing this?" he asks wearily.

“You are his weakness. He never had a weakness before.”

“Together we are stronger…" Will insists, reaching out to touch her arm. "It’s only in separation that we become weak.”

Chiyoh shakes her head, sidestepping his hands. “He strengthens you by weakening himself. You are a distraction. You make him vulnerable.”

Through gritted teeth, Will hisses, “Have you any idea what I would do for that man? What I have done for him.”

“If it weren’t for you, Hannibal would still be in Baltimore and not on the run after spending three years in a mental asylum.”

In a swift movement, Will slams his hand down on the table, “And you would still be trapped in a rotting castle babysitting a murderer, eating rodents.”

Chiyoh moves away from him, her hands forming tight fists, rage pulsating through her veins. She glances towards the archway through which Hannibal disappeared as if anticipating his return. When he doesn't, the fury drains from her, and she suddenly looks despondent and adrift.

Following her gaze, Will retorts sharply, “Is that what this is about? Your possessiveness of him?” Then, seeing her face, he says, “No, you…you think Hannibal is replacing you, don’t you? How can he? He-”

“Don’t…just don’t. You know nothing of Hannibal and I.”

Will tilts his chin as he considers her, “I know Hannibal adores you," he says softly, "I know he respects you. You may be the only person he does. I want us to be friends. You are important to Hannibal, so you are-.”

“Important to you?”

“Yes.”

“The foundation of friendship is trust; how can I trust you?”

“You can trust me.”

She emits a dismissive snort as she shifts her weight. “I want to. I need to,” she whispers, “But I can't. I just-?”

“Just do it." Will takes a tentative step towards her, "Trust me. Stop all these games, and trust me.”

Her eyes scan his face, meticulously analyzing every expression and nuance as she considers his words. "I'll be watching you, and if you—" Her sentence trails off as she raises her hand to her temple.

Will places a cautious hand on her shoulder, “I'll gladly take your bullet if I ever betray that man again.”

Chiyoh stares at him, shimmering with unshed tears, and nods. Hesitant to approach, Will offers her a soft smile and beckons, "Come here," gently guiding her into his embrace. Initially, she stands rigid, her body tense with uncertainty. Gradually, the tension melts away, and she surrenders to his hold.

Taking a step back, an awkward silence settles between them. They exchange furtive glances, accompanied by half-uttered sentences that trail off into heavy sighs, forced coughs and the shifting of feet.

Finally, Chiyoh looks away, her attention drawn to something on the counter at the far end of the kitchen, which makes her cease her brow in confusion. “Tell me, Will Graham: Why do you have so many bananas?”

**********

Now

The Cabin

"You were so blinded by jealousy you couldn’t see, could you?" Freddie's lip twists into a gleeful sneer as a trickle of brown spittle seeps down from the corner of her mouth.

"I was not jealous. I was concerned," Chiyoh states calmly, "I could see that Hannibal was..."

"Blah, Blah, Blah. Excuses. You acted out of good old-fashioned jealousy, hiding behind the pretence that you were protecting him." The words hang there, stinging.

"My only concern was protecting Hannibal."

"Your only concern was protecting yourself and your role in Hannibal’s life. You wanted nothing in his life that wasn't you." Freddie starts to shake violently, the restraints digging deep into her skin as she struggles to catch her breath.

"That's not true.” Chiyoh looks away, ignoring her distress, “I had no romantic feelings for Hannibal. He was my family."

Freddie takes a deep breath, her rattling chest echoing in the still night air, "But not his equal."

Chiyoh stares at her, contempt radiating off her in waves.

"Will was his equal.” Freddie gasps, her chest heaving with each strained breath, her eyes dull and unfocused, rolling in their sockets, “They were in love. Hannibal didn’t mean to neglect you. He probably didn’t even realise he was. You were always so fiercely independent."

"Am I so capable that I don’t require any thought or attention? Is that it?” Chiyoh snaps, her cheeks flushing with rage.

“People in love are selfish; they don’t mean to be, but they are. The man he had chosen had finally chosen him.”

Suddenly, Chiyoh is on her feet, her eyes blazing, “I chose him too. I always chose him. What about me? Do I no longer matter, just because he…just because Will Graham finally decided he wanted to be with him? I was always with him, even when I was in Lithuania.” The memories rush back: her unwavering loyalty—even from a distance. “Everything I did was for him, and he just discarded me when…when…he, when Will…” She struggles to find the words, the pain tightening in her chest, “What about me?”

Her question hangs in the air, heavy and raw. “What about me?”

~~V~~

Chapter Text

Now

The Cabin

Chiyoh's words hang heavy in the air, wrapping around them like a thick blanket.

Beyond the cabin's remnants, a thick darkness stretches out, swirling and shifting like a restless ocean. Shadows twist and turn, pulling the women further into their tangled thoughts.

Chiyoh tilts her head back and closes her eyes, as a soft breeze swirls around her, carrying the murmurs of the restless spirits.

Freddie sits a short distance away, trembling in the worn, rickety chair. With each violent jolt, the metal frame groans and creaks in protest.

“Are you cold?” Chiyoh asks softly, her voice piercing the silence.

A flash of uncertainty flickers across Freddie’s face before she finally says, “I don’t know.”

Chiyoh notes that her lips have taken on a deep shade of purple, a vivid contrast to her pale, almost translucent skin that glistens with a sheen of sweat. Her once fierce eyes are now dull and vacant, sunken deep within her skull, amplifying her fragility and weariness. Her vitality has been stripped away, leaving behind a husk that bears little resemblance to the woman she once was. Time is running out.

Freddie’s breath quickens, hitching painfully in her throat as she stares frantically into the encroaching gloom.  “No, please,” she gasps, her fingers digging into the chair’s armrests, “I don’t…I didn’t…stop it…go away!”

Peering into the inky blackness, Chiyoh’s heart is impossibly loud as she strains to see. “Is it them?” she breathes, fear coiling in her stomach. She wraps her arms around herself with trembling hands as if to shield her from whatever lurks there.

Freddie’s breaths come in sharp, jagged bursts. She clenches her eyes tightly,  shutting out the sinister whispers that weave through the air, wrapping her in an icy grip of dread that coils around her heart.

“We have been expecting them,” Chiyoh states, calm and somewhat distant. With a deliberate movement, she steps closer, the soft glow of the moonlight highlighting the sharp angles of her face. “It’s time for you to face them, Ms. Lounds.”

“No! You don’t understand!” Freddie gasps, her voice cracking with the effort. “They…It’s not—”

“Breathe,” Chiyoh implores, firm yet soothing. “Tell me what you see.”

Freddie gazes into the distance, her eyes wide, tears threatening to spill over. “Them… they— they— them—,” she stammers, her voice barely a whisper as she shakes her head vigorously, trying to dispel the swirling chaos. Long-buried memories claw at her like phantom fingers, each one more vivid and haunting than the last. “Make them go away, I’m not ready… I didn’t…,” she pleads, her voice trembling, the words spilling out, colliding with each other.

Chiyoh touches her knee, “We can only ignore them for so long, Ms Lounds. We must confront them. Together.”

Soothed by the touch, Freddie feels the tightness in her muscles dissolve, and her breath returns to its natural rhythm. "Together," she murmurs, savouring the word on her tongue.

“Together,” Chiyoh echoes, squeezing her knee.

For a brief moment, the oppressive weight lifts just enough to allow a pocket of peace to bloom. Yet, Freddie senses them lurking, watching—their damning whispers entwining around her thoughts, creeping beneath her skin and chilling her blood. “I can’t, I’m not… I didn’t…”

Chiyoh dips her head to command Freddie's attention. “Denial may seem like a haven,” she warns, "It is nothing more than a fleeting illusion, providing only temporary shelter from the truth.”

Freddie releases a harsh, mocking laugh, “And you would know,” she shoots back, her tone laced with scorn. “Wanna be roommates?”

Chiyoh tilts her chin, “All that guilt and resentment you carry must be utterly exhausting.”

Freddie's jaw tightens as she grips the armrest, the cold metal biting into her skin. "You tell me."

The two women lock eyes, their gazes sparking with an intensity that crackles in the air between them.

After a long, charged moment, Chiyoh’s eyes drift away, a soft sigh escaping her lips, the discord dissolving around them. “We appear to have reached an impasse,” she sighs as she wrings the damp cloth into the basin. “I propose a change of subject.”

Placing the cool rag on Freddie’s feverish forehead, she asks, “What do you imagine your mother would think of the person you have become?”

The corners of Freddie’s mouth twitch as she wrestles with the question. “Nothing.” she states dully, “What, with her being fucking dead and all.”

With a sad smile, Chiyoh remarks, “You still harbour resentment towards her.”

Freddie’s head droops sluggishly to one side, and a thin stream of bile oozes from the corner of her mouth, glistening faintly in the low light. It drips slowly, pooling on her chin before tracing a serpentine path down her neck, leaving a slick, gelatinous trail.

“You believe she failed you, " Chiyoh says evenly, fixing her with a wilful stare. “Both you and your brother.”

“She was our mother,” Freddie snaps, her voice sharp and brittle, slicing through the air like a razor, exposing the raw, festering resentment that simmers within her. As she speaks, a thick, putrid cloud of mucus escapes, “She was supposed to protect us.”

Chiyoh grimaces as the foul spray hits her chest. "She was just as much a victim as you," she says, wiping her coat with the cloth.

Freddie emits a snort, “Her indifference was, in many ways, crueller than my father’s… inclinations.”

“You believe she could have done more.”

Freddie attempts a smirk, but her lips contort awkwardly, resulting in a lopsided scowl, “I believe she could have done something, anything. She chose nothing.”

“Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is…nothing.”

“And you would know, wouldn't you?”

Chiyoh’s eyes darken as she abruptly halts, the dishcloth hovering mid-air like a ghost. Freddie watches her intently as a series of emotions flicker across her face—shock quickly gives way to fiery indignation that finally surrenders to sadness. The cloth slips from her fingers, landing on the table with a soft thud. “Did your brother seek out your father’s accomplices?” she asks, a slight tremor in her voice as she swallows hard.

“Proposing another subject change?” Freddie's fingers twitch, her nails digging into the cold, unyielding metal of the armrest.

Chiyoh shrugs, “I am open to engaging in any topic you find pertinent.”

Freddie leans back and tilts her chin, “I want to talk about those who live in glass houses and insist on throwing stones.”

When Chiyoh stands there, silent and still, a slow, predatory smile creeps across Freddie’s face. “You, too, find refuge in denial,” she says, her tone thick with disdain. “But you’re seeking redemption, and you need to unburden yourself; that’s why you dragged me here, isn’t it?” She gestures towards the IV drip, its sterile tubing snaking down towards her. “Tick-tock, bitch,” Freddie taunts, “Tick-tock.”

******

Then

Kent County

Bud Anderson hangs the shirt and blazer on the back of the wardrobe door and takes a moment to look them over.

As his fingers glide over the material, a surge of arousal stirs in his stomach as he recalls the many times he has donned this attire.

He narrows his eyes, his gaze drawn to a frayed thread dangling from a tear in the fabric. A reminder of the fierce struggle that had occurred just three nights ago— reckless choices that had almost led to disaster.

The girl he had lured into his car proved much more defiant and tenacious than he had initially anticipated. The moment the door locked and he made his move, she shifted from a willing participant into a flurry of resistance. In the tussle, one of her acrylic nails must have snagged the button of his shirt.

At first, her defiance had momentarily stunned him. However, instead of fear, he felt a surge of adrenaline, making it even more exhilarating when he finally subdued her.

He traces the frayed thread with his fingertips and considers replacing the button—restoring the shirt to its former glory and mending what has been broken. Yet, buried deep within him, a quiet realisation takes root: some things are beyond repair.

Dragging his eyes from the shirt, he catches his reflection in the cracked mirror of the wardrobe door.

For a brief moment, the glass reflects the sadness and self-loathing he has concealed for years. Then, just as quickly, it shifts to a fierce resolve and steely determination. He targets each girl with precision and intense focus, almost to an obsessive degree. Every choice is deliberate and planned with care. This meticulous preparation allows him to appear charming and spontaneous, masking his true intentions. Yet he is becoming reckless, overcome by -

A faint sound intrudes his thoughts. He has constructed an elaborate network of fine wires and tiny bells around the perimeter of his secluded home. Concealed among the foliage, each metal chime stands watch, alerting him to the slightest of movements.

Bud peers out the window, a gnawing knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. The sun hovers low, its dying rays casting an orange glow, making the trees shimmer like dying embers. It could be a wandering raccoon or a curious deer, but his finely tuned instincts tell him something more sinister is lurking out there.

He glides soundlessly through the dimly lit house, with the precision of a predator. Each footfall deliberate, to avoid any treacherous floorboards that may betray him with their creaks and groans.

After years of refinement, this alarm system, although simple, has become his most reliable ally. A man governed by his unique urges understands all too well that he cannot afford to let his guard down; complacency is an indulgence he simply cannot afford.

He pivots towards the back door and opens it just enough to allow a slender beam of pale light to slice through the darkness outside. The shadows twist and contort, transforming the familiar surroundings into a tapestry of distorted shapes and indistinct corners.

A soft rustling catches his ear, making him quickly turn his head. He instinctively puts his hand on his waist, fingers grazing the cool surface of a small knife hidden in its sheath—both a tool and a weapon.

The sound abruptly ceases, plunging the scene into an eerie stillness. Time seems to warp, each passing second stretching out. Just as he considers going back inside, a figure unfurls from the shadows. The long, slender silhouette towers over him, unnaturally gaunt with sharp angles, exuding an unsettling menace.

Bud lunges forward and tackles the intruder, the weight of his body pinning him firmly beneath him, his knife glinting as he holds it taut against his throat,  “How does it feel to be overpowered by an old man, huh?”

“Familiar.”

Bud squints down at the form sprawled beneath him, confusion knitting his brow. “What—” he begins, but the words die in his throat as a sharp, searing pain radiates from his hip, a fiery jolt that steals the breath from his lungs.

Seizing the opportunity, the man swiftly flips him onto his back, slamming his head into the ground and tossing the discarded knife into the bushes.

Bud watches with wide eyes as the man gracefully rises to his feet, his movements reminiscent of a panther. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he brushes off the dirt clinging to his clothing. Then, with an air of theatricality, he shakes out his long coat; the fabric billowing dramatically around him like liquid silk, before settling into place.

“Who-Who the fuck are you?” Bud gasps as a strange feeling surges through him; like his limbs are solidifying. Panic grips his chest, “I—I can’t move! What the fuck have you done to me? What have you done?” Words rush out in a chaotic stream, marked with confusion and fear. His eyes flit anxiously within their sockets as the crushing weight of his helplessness settles over him.

The man looms over him with a glint in his eye. “Do you not recognise it, Mr Anderson?” When Bud just stares frantically back at him, he adds with a nonchalant shrug, “I guess it being from the victim’s standpoint is unfamiliar to you.”

With a weary sigh, he crouches down and in a sharp, clipped tone, enunciating each word with deliberate precision, says, “It’s the paralytic you used on those girls, Bud.” He elongates the single syllable, emphasising the ‘B’.

“Wha-What girls?”

“Come now, Mr Anderson. Don’t feign ignorance now.” The man’s smile widens, revealing teeth that seem too sharp, too eager for violence.

“What girls? What the fuck you talking about?”

The man shakes his head, bends down, and grabs Bud by the ankles. He pulls Bud's limp body across the threshold into the house, the old floorboards creaking under the strain.

“You got the wrong guy,” Bud protests vehemently, his voice cracking as he attempts to control his panic. He twists his head wildly, the frantic motion causing his scalp to scrape against the rough surface of the floor.

The man scoops Bud up and drops him roughly into an armchair. He leans in, his hand gripping the headrest and asks, “You are Bud Anderson, are you not, the one who counted Silas Cooper and Larry Johnston among your friends? The same men who cloaked their cruelty in the mantle of charity, preying on defenseless women with false promises of aid, leaving in their wake a trail of shattered lives and brutalised bodies.”

Bud's eyes race across his face. "W-Who are you?" he stammers.

"I am a servant of God, Mr. Anderson.” The man declares, straightening to his full height. "Do you value life, Mr. Anderson?" The man turns away only to look back over his shoulder with a frown, "Or should I ask; do you value your own life?"

"I-I...Please...just wait."

"I asked you a questions, Mr. Anderson."

"Yes...yes I do...please."

"Good, I find it meaningless to take the life of those who don't cherish it."

 “You don’t have to do this; let's talk about this.”

“Talk?” the man smiles as he perches on the arm of the couch opposite and removes a pack of cigarettes from his coat, “When you encounter a swordsman, you draw a sword, Mr Anderson. You do not recite poetry with those who are not poets.”

He extends a cigarette toward Bud, who turns his head away, his lip curling into a disdainful snarl. An amused smirk dances across the man's face as he shrugs and flicks his lighter, causing a flame to burst to life.“Fire can either cleanse or destroy,” he says, looking directly at Bud through the flame. “But who gets to decide?”

“You?” Bud sneers.

“Most would say, God, Mr Anderson,” he states, leaning in closer his eyes glistening with malice, ”How often they forget that the devil is adept at destruction, too.”

The veins in Bud's neck throb and bulge as he struggles to adjust his position, wedged at an awkward angle in the chair.

The man inhales deeply from his cigarette, drawing the smoke into his lungs as it swirls around him. He observes Bud with a mild curiosity, as he rolls the cigarette between his fingers, the glowing tip accentuating the sharp angles of his face. “He was favoured by God,” he muses, his voice low and contemplative, “but he allowed his jealousy to devour him, leading to his fall from grace. He lost sight of his true purpose, he became distracted by the trivialities of man. Do you understand?”

Bud's mouth flaps as he struggles to form words, “I-I.”

Leaning forward, the man lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “How much of the evil in the world can we truly attribute to him?” he asks, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Humans, such petty and cowardly creatures, tend to shift the blame, always quick to say, ‘The devil made me do it.’ The truth is, no persuasion is required; they go to him willingly, coerced by their salacious desires.”

“I don’t-”

"However, the devil sought me, Mr. Anderson. He found me the day my father's skull shattered under the weight of a hammer."

Bud's eyes widen in shock, “My God, you’re Silas’s boy, aren’t you?”

The man disregards the question and presses on, "I have looked into the eyes of the Devil and emerged unscathed, Mr. Anderson. Why do you think that was?"

“Il Mostro,” Bud mutters.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Anderson.”

“Wha—Wha-” Bud stammers, momentarily lost and confused, words have escaping him.

“Why do you think that was?” the question insists, unyielding.

“I-I don’t know,” he manages, his voice trembling, feeling like prey under the watchful gaze of a predator.

“We have unfinished business,” the man continues with a wistful smirk, “But I am at an advantage, Mr. Anderson.”

Bud's mouth flutters open and close, a jumbled array of incoherent mutterings spilling forth from his lips. His thoughts whirl chaotically, racing through his mind as he desperately tries to connect the dots of this horrifying situation.

The man grins, baring his teeth, “I know something that everyone else has forgotten.” He pauses deliberately, allowing the weight of his words to hang in the air. His gaze is sharp and unwavering as it zeroes in on Bud, who stares back, his mouth slightly agape.

“What—what?” Bud stammers. A thin sheen of sweat beads on his forehead, glinting in the low light in the room.

"That he too is merely a creature of God, Mr. Anderson. He carries the weight of his own frailty." As he speaks, he looks around the room, searching for a suitable place to discard his spent cigarette. After a brief pause, he hesitantly drops it into a battered cup resting on the cluttered coffee table. "This Devil has a distinctly prosaic weakness, which is disappointing, but I plan to exploit it nevertheless."

“W-what is that?”

The man leans back, his hands resting in his lap. He tilts his head, his gaze fixed intently on Bud, allowing a heavy silence to settle around them. Then he abruptly asks, "How do you feel?"

"I don't feel anything," Bud snaps, immediately wincing at his choice of words.

"That, my friend, is obvious. However, in terms of your physical comfort, this is as good as it will get. Things are unlikely to improve from here on, Mr Anderson."

As the man speaks, a surge of anxiety courses through Bud, his heart thunders in his chest. The man, with a knowing smile, reaches into the deep folds of his coat and produces a small glass vial.

He raises it, angling it to catch the faint light, a look of awe on his face. "This is quite a brew," he remarks, "It renders the victim paralysed from the neck down, but their mind remains sharp, and they're able to speak…” he turns to meet Bud’s horrified stare, “ and to scream, but little else. How deliciously sadistic.”

Letting his hand drop into his lap, he adds, “They needed to be aware, didn’t they, Mr Anderson? Otherwise, what was the point? It was vital you could hear them beg; to vocalise their fear. Did it make you feel powerful? Did you feel like a God?”

“I didn’t do nothing.”

In an instant, the man is on his feet, “Mr Anderson, you seem to forget that I was there to bear witness to your circus of cruelty and depravity. I saw what you did, I saw it all.”

“You can’t prove a thing, boy,” The words ooze out of Bud’s mouth, “No one gonna believe good old Bud Anderson capable of just things.”

The man towers over him, his eyes blazing, “You think the world grants you immunity just because you wear a mask of respectability? The charity work, the illusion of servitude—none of that matters now. In this room tonight, your sins are to be laid bare and you will be held accountable.”

“Judge not, that ye be not judged, asshole.”

The man lashes out and shoves the armchair, causing Bud's limp body to jolt violently within it. He lets his head fall back and takes a deep breath to regain his composure. His gaze sweeps the room, and a sneer curls at the corners of his lips. “For a man who claims to fear God and is a child of the Gospels,” he taunts, his voice dripping with disdain, “I see no signs of faith. Where are your religious icons or sacred imagery to pledge your devotion? Are you so consumed by your sins that you can't bear to look God in the eye?”

Bud glares up at him, a mix of anger and fear in his eyes. His mouth is slightly open, and thick saliva drips slowly from his lips, gathering at his chin before falling onto his shirt.

Averting his eyes, the man says, “I must retrieve something from the car."

Bud watches as he opens the front door and steps outside, leaving it ajar. Taking his chance, Bud begins to shout, “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

The man reappears, framed in the doorway, his figure half-shrouded in shadow. He is pulling something behind him, that appears to be groaning. He pauses for a moment, a small smile curling at the corners of his lips. “If you feel like screaming, by all means, do so,” he says, his voice low and tinged with a dark amusement.

Looking back out into the surrounding woods, he adds, “That is why you procured such a remote dwelling, is it not? To let them scream. To make them scream. Out here there is no one to hear…only Bud Anderson and Larry Johnston…and God.”

With a deep grunt, the man heaves Larry, who is bound and gagged and tosses him onto the worn couch. Larry's body lands with a dull thud, the cushions sinking under the weight as he wrestles against his restraints, a look of wild panic in his wide eyes.

Bud's heart races as he struggles against the invisible force that pins him to the chair. He attempts to twist his body and kick with a leg that won't respond. A surge of panic thrashes through his veins, as vivid images of the girls flash before him— the ones he pretended to help, the ones who would never be missed.

He tilts his head toward Larry, whose eyes are as large as saucers, filled with both fear and confusion. Larry’s gaze flickers nervously between Bud and their captor, whose piercing eyes, deep-set and viscous, evoke a faint memory of someone Larry once called a friend.

“Larry!” Bud hisses, “What the fuck is happening? Did you lead him here, you fucking bastard?”

“Lead me here?” the man laughs, a sound that is both disarming and chilling. “Oh, Mr Anderson, you weren’t hard to find. I just followed the trail of missing girls”

Bud stretches his neck to get a better view of him and speaks in an overly calm, reasonable tone, “I have money. Take me to an ATM…”

“An ATM?” The man smiles, amused. “Admit your transgressions, Mr Anderson. You may salvage that one shred of dignity still within your grasp.”

Suddenly enraged, Bud snarls, “Do you know how fucking crazy you are?”

“You mean the nature of this conversation?”

“I mean fucking you.”

The man purses his lips and nods his head, “I was considered mentally unstable for a time,” Then, tilting his head, he adds, “But don’t you think insanity is a point of view.”

He readjusts Bud’s body in the armchair, propping him up until his arms and hands lay flat on the armrests. “To you, I may seem like a monster, but  I see myself as a saviour. Someone who cleanses the world of filth…like you and Mr Johnston, here.” He turns toward Larry, who recoils against the couch.

The man’s eyes narrow as he studies Larry, “Do you remember them, Mr Johnston?” he asks, his voice dropping to a whisper as he prowls towards him. “Do you remember their faces, their names, their screams? Or will you, too, deny them?”

Larry shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. The gag cuts into the sides of his mouth where saliva is beginning to pool, laced with blood. He struggles against the bindings, the rough rope biting into his skin. A dark stain spreads across the crotch of his trousers, making the man take a step back in disgust.

“Are you scared, Mr Johnston? Tell me, did those girls soil themselves? Did it repulse you, or did you revel in it?”

“What do you want? I will do anything.”

The man pivots towards Bud, the tails of his coat billowing out around him at the motion. He lunges forward, caging him in the chair. “Is that what they said?” he sneers.

“Wha-Wha-”

“The girls? Did they promise to do anything in exchange for their lives, too?”

Bud spits in his face, and the man grabs his jaw, squeezing it with a ferocity that makes Bud’s eyes bulge, "You're not just traitors to your fellow man,” he growls, “but to God Himself. Now it's your turn to know the meaning of loss."

“Fuck you,” Bud manages as the man tightens his grip, squeezing his mouth together.

“Brave words from the man currently paralysed and at my mercy.” The man shoves his head away before straightening up and running his fingers along the lapels of his coat, smoothing out the creases, and restoring his appearance.

Noticing a weathered toolbox resting on the dining room table, he strides over and rummages through the contents, his fingers brushing against a pair of gleaming pruners. He inspects them closely, admiring their sharp blades and sturdy construction, before returning them with a soft clink.

His gaze then lands on a hefty hammer, its sturdy handle worn smooth from years of use. He hefts it in his hand, feeling it's reassuring weight. With a grin, he swings it through the air, the whoosh of it slicing through the stillness of the room. Something out of sight catches his attention and he lets the hammer drop to his side as he disappears into the adjoining room.

When he returns he has the priest outfit held out before, his eyes scanning it with interest. “Is this how you hunt in plain sight, Mr Anderson? Under the guise of a man of God.”

Bud turns his head away, his jaw tightening as he sucks his teeth in frustration.

“I shall be taking this, Mr Anderson. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

“No, it would not, but asking for permission before taking something from someone is considered polite.” He smiles warmly at him, all teeth and menace.

Bud grunts and shifts his focus to Larry, who is watching the whole scene with frantic eyes.

“You see,” the man continues, draping the outfit carefully over a dining room chair, “I have a date with the Devil and  I fear he may require some wooing.” With a raised eyebrow he addresses his two captives, “As fellow men of the world it is customary to seek your counsel on such matters, however, I believe your particular brand of wooing will not be fitting to my needs or indeed intentions.”

“You gonna kill the man who killed your Pa? Isn’t he locked up?” Bud smirks, rolling his eyes at Larry, who sinks further back into the couch.

“Not for long.” He steps quietly behind the armchair and with a casual gesture, threads his fingers into Bud's hair. Bud instinctively attempts to pull away, but the man tightens his grip, seizing a fistful of hair and yanking Bud's head back, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I notice your bedroom mirror has been smashed…” he says, “Have mirrors become your torturers, Bud? You can't bear the Lord’s gaze or your own. What will become of you, I wonder?”

Bud glares up at him and is about to retort, when he is suddenly released and the man shifts his attention to Larry, “Do you know what the most common question is at brothels, Mr Johnston?”

Larry shakes his head vigorously, his heart pounding in his chest as he instinctively sinks deeper into the worn fibres of the couch. He watches with horrified eyes as the imposing figure strides closer.

“What is the youngest girl you’ve got?” The man says idly as he folds onto the couch beside him, the hammer still in his hand.

“They were all legal,” Bud snaps, his eyes defiant.

The man’s eyes remain on Larry. “Most of them were barely teenagers, Mr Anderson.”

Larry looks at Bud, propped unnaturally in the chair, as the man continues, “Do you not think those girls had dreams that reached beyond the squalor of their surroundings? Lost in darkness, were they not seeking a flicker of light?”

The man leans forward, looming over Larry, who instinctively recoils, pressing himself against the back of the chair. “And what did they find? Pain. Abuse. They became vessels for depravity.”

“It was- I tried-,” Bud says, shaking his head, “I tried to help-”

“Help?” The man’s head snaps towards him, “You think handing out pity is help? They were drowning in desperation. They needed more than your rehearsed lines and contrived sincerity. They needed guidance, compassion, and hope. Instead, they found cowards, predators and fiends.”

“Those girls….they never did anything they didn’t want to.”

“Are you saying they consented? That they were given a choice? That they chose to engage in those barbaric acts of sexual gratification?”

“Yes, they did,” Bud says firmly as Larry nods furiously, tears streaking his face.

“Is it a choice when you're made to choose between surrendering your body or watching your children starve? Is it consent when the other option is to be beaten, mutilated, or killed?”

Locking eyes with him, Bud raises his chin defiantly, his expression icy and threatening as he asks in a low, menacing tone, “Are you still afraid of the dark, boy?”

This causes the man to hesitate, his brow furrowing in confusion as he studies him intently. After a moment, he takes a deep breath, regaining his composure and says, “No, I became-”

“The dark?” Bud scoffs, “Cut the bond villain bullshit, boy. You’re not scaring anyone.”

“No, Mr Anderson.” The man slowly rises to his feet, a cruel grin stretching his features, “I became the light. The blinding light. I am the scream. I am all their screams. I am the furious balancing.”

“You think you’re doing this for them?” Bud snaps, anger surging within him. “You think this twisted savagery is retribution? No—this is just feeding your sickness! Like father, like son.”

“I am nothing like my father.”

“A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit. Neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Wherefore by their fruits, ye shall know them. Isn’t that what the good book says.”

The man closes his eyes and takes a deep, steady breath. “You’re afraid,” he says, grasping the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. Then, with a glint of madness, he adds, “But that's okay. I want you to savour that fear—you who savours the fear of others.”

Bud’s heart races, “You believe in redemption through violence,” he says, voice steady now. “You are no better than your old man. You seem to forget you were-”

“You think you can judge me?” The man shouts, pointing at him with the hammer, “When I am but a product of your cruelty. I WAS A CHILD. I was scared.”

“You didn’t look scared, boy. In fact, you looked pretty into it…as I recall.”

“He was my father; you were adults…my compliance kept me safe, kept my sister-”

“Aww…sweet little Frederica, with her red curls and rosy cheeks, I think of her often, I-”

The man brings the hammer down on Larry's skull with a swift, decisive motion, the impact producing a sickening crunch that echoes off the walls. Larry's body jerks violently and then slumps back onto the couch, his limbs twitching wildly, a thin stream of blood seeping from the wound in his head.

“Oh, how rude of me. I interrupted you, please,” The man settles back onto the worn couch and lays the hammer across his lap. With a focused intensity, he turns to Bud, "Please continue.”

Bud’s voice trembles as a scream becomes wedged in his throat, “I-I was s-sayin-I-I…I-I was sayin’...”

The man gestures with the hammer, “Yes, you were about to accuse me, a thirteen-year-old boy at the time, of being complicit in the mutilation, abuse, rape and murder of multiple females varying from the ages of 8 to 50. Granted, most of them were between 12 and 30, but I do recall one. A lady around 45 called Shelly, do you remember her?”

Bud swallows deeply, his eyes darting from Larry’s convulsing form to the man with the hammer in his lap. “I-I-I-I d-don’t….I-I-I c-can’t remember…”

The man smiles and nudges his knee with the hammer. “Of course you do, Bud. She was the woman you, Larry, and my father insisted “made a man of me” while you all watched and shouted instructions.”

“I-I…”

The man stands up and begins to pace around the armchair, “Yes, a rather tragic woman; she had just escaped an abusive husband and had developed an overreliance on opioids if I remember.” The man pauses and rests the hammer next to Bud’s head on the back of the chair, “Something you and your fellow fiends exploited.”

Bud inhales sharply, his throat tightening as he grapples with a surge of panic. His mouth quivers, fighting to maintain its composure, while his gaze is locked onto the hammer, coated in his friend's blood, just inches from his temple.

Leaning over the back of the chair he asks,  “Do you remember grabbing me by the hips to force me to penetrate a woman who was shaking so bad she had to be held in place by Mr Johnston.”

Bud tightly shuts his eyes, his jaw clenched as he bites down hard on his lower lip, the taste of iron mingling with the salt of tears he didn’t realise were streaming down his face.

“I remember the ash from the cigarette you had clenched between your teeth fell over my shoulder onto her stomach…I watched it flutter down the rolls of her belly into her pubic hair as you forcibly made me thrust in and out of her.”

He moves to face Bud, who turns his head away, but the man grabs his face forcing him to look at him.

“Afterwards, she stroked my cheek and said, “I have a son your age.” I asked where he was, and she said, “I don't know. I hope far from here. “ He releases his grip and stretches his back, relishing the deep, resonant crack of his vertebrae realigning. The hammer dangles at his side, its dark metal surface catching the light.

“Please, I will do better.” Bud splutters, “I want to be better.”

The man laughs, a chilling sound that echoes through the room. “Better? Can you even fathom what that means? Redemption isn’t a path paved with good intentions; it’s wrought through blood and sacrifice. You will come to learn that.”

“Please, I will do better. I will repent. I will make this better.”

“How exactly, Mr Anderson? Your crimes can not be undone. You are not our Lord; you can not raise the dead. You can not undamage the damaged.” He casts a look at Larry, who has finally stopped twitching. Larry lies in a heap on the couch, his bloodshot eyes fixed vacantly on the ceiling.

“Please…”

Taking one of Bud’s limp hands, he says, “How many innocents have been defiled by these, I wonder?”

Suddenly enraged, “Innocents?” Bud scoffs, “They were street trash. Whores, Druggies, Alcohos, We were doing them a fucking favour.”

“They were born of the divine, yet you saw them as tools for your perverse pleasure, believing it was your right to defile them. You will now learn that with actions come consequences. There is a karmic balance that must be restored.”

The man lets his hand fall and he strides over to the toolbox and carefully lifts out the pruners. He deftly releases the catch, and with a satisfying snap, the blades leap apart, glinting with a sharp, polished brilliance. “You took from each of those girls; now the debt is due.”

He kneels beside the armchair and takes hold of Bud’s wrist with a firm grip. His elbow rests heavily on the plush armrest, providing stability as he leans closer. Bud’s hand lies motionless before him, fingers splayed wide and unresponsive. “One finger for each girl, I think. Though I fear we will soon exhaust your digits, it is fortunate we have other body parts to consider. The Good news is you won’t feel it. The bad news is if you live long enough for the paralytic to wear off…” he pauses and looks Bud directly in the eye. “I imagine the pain will be excruciating, but this is what ye sowed, so shall ye reap.”

Bud's eyes widened in horror, the bravado that had once defined him crumbling like ash. The pruners glint ominously in the dim light, sharp and unforgiving.

“Wait,” he stammers, “You don’t have to do this. We can talk this through.”

“No more talking,” the man replied, his voice steady and unyielding. “Talking never helped those girls, did it? All their pleas for mercy were met with violence. So shall yours.”

Taking his Bud's index finger, the man says, “This one is for little Sally with the stained unicorn shirt…you shattered her pelvis …but continued to chase your pleasure, regardless.”

As the first crack of bone reverbs around the room, little Sally appears before him…

“For Betty, who cried so hard she vomited…”

Crunch.

“Tina who screamed for her mummy…”

Crack.

“Lottie who lay silently, she had a flower beret in her hair…”

Snap.

“Pauline who spoke softly to her son who watched from the corner...”

As each girl appears, summoned by their name, Bud Anderson whispers. "I’m sorry..." One by one, they drop their gazes, and they turn away from him.

*****

Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane

Will Graham stands at the sink in the cold, sterile bathroom.

The stark white tiles radiate an almost blinding brightness beneath the relentless, flickering glare of the fluorescent lights, which emit a persistent hum and buzz, resonating like a swarm of irritated bees.

A nauseating cloud of antiseptic permeates the air, its sharp, biting odour clawing at his senses. The pungent haze invades his nostrils and amplifies the relentless throbbing in his temples.

Cradling the package in his palm, he feels a surge of emotions swell within him—a potent blend of arousal and anticipation. The box is adorned with an illustration of a ship battling fierce waves, its sails billowing against a stormy sky. The imagery throbs with a primal energy; a premonition - as he too is poised to navigate the uncharted waters.

As Will lifts his gaze to the mirror, a sudden chill courses through him. There, looming ominously behind him stands a priest.

The man stands tall and imposing, his eyes sharp and piercing as they fixate on Will. A peculiar smirk tugs the priest's lips as if he knows a secret that evades Will’s grasp. A surge of unease washes over Will, making his ears ring.

"Hello, Father," Will says, fashioning a small smile.

The priest stands in silence, his gaze fixed intently on the reflection of Will in the mirror.

Will turns to face him, his mouth opening to speak when the priest suddenly asks, "Visiting a loved one?" He nods at the cologne in Will's hand.

Will narrows his eyes and licks his lips. "In a manner of speaking," he replies, glancing down at the box and tracing the ship's image with his thumb. "It’s an inside joke."

The priest's eyes glint as he nods, as though Will has divulged a secret. "How delightful," he muses, his voice rich and velvety, each word flowing like warm honey.

Despite the tight knot of anxiety coiling in his stomach, Will finds himself compelled to share further, “It’s just…,” he begins, his voice a mere whisper, trembling, as his fingers gently trace the worn edges of the box. “A reminder of the pastimes—of someone...”

“Special?” The priest moves closer, each step fluid and graceful as he glides across the tile floor. The garish fluorescent lights appear to flicker and dim in reverence to his presence. "Connection," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "can be an incredibly powerful force. It can either anchor us or cast us adrift."

Will's heart races as he instinctively takes a step back; the priest's scrutiny makes him feel exposed and vulnerable. “I guess so,” he replies, his voice strained as he forces a laugh that rings hollow.

The priest nods slowly, “I’ve counselled many souls in turmoil,” he reflects, his voice low and steady. “Some grapple with the heavy burden of love, feeling its sweet yet suffocating grip, while others are ensnared by the chains of sin, wrestling with their inner demons.” Stepping closer, he adds, “And then there are those who find themselves trapped between the two.”

Will’s mouth goes dry, his grip tightening on the cologne. "It's complicated,” he stammers.

“I imagine you tell yourself it is.”

Will squints at him, straining to focus as his surroundings blur into a swirling haze. The room sways gently, reminiscent of a ship tossed in a tempest. With growing unease, he stretches out his free hand, searching for the edge of the sink to steady himself.

The priest inches closer, "This place," he says, gesturing expansively with a sweeping motion of his hand, "is saturated in so much darkness and despair that it has seeped into its stones. Lost souls meander aimlessly here, trapped in their grief and bewilderment, ripe for the plucking. A simple, kind word can lure a lost lamb to the slaughter, and it will go willingly."

"Are you here to save them, Father? Guide them back to the light?" Will focuses on the priest’s shirt where a button is missing.

"In a manner of speaking," the man's mouth twists into a cruel facsimile of a smile. ”Are you lost? Do you need guidance?”

Will smiles, “I was lost…for a long time. Now I finally see the way,” he asserts, a sudden defiance bubbling up inside him.

The priest’s lips curl in a slow, enigmatic smile. “Do you fear the devil?”

Considering his words, Will’s eyes scan the man before him, “I have no need to.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m not the one who talks shit about him from the pulpit.”

“Ah, a connoisseur of the divine and the profane.” He takes another step closer, the shadows deepening around him. “What do you think lies in the hearts of those confined within these walls?”

Will ponders the question, a frown knitting his brows. “I think we are all just one bad day away from ending up in a cell here. We all struggle with our demons, don’t we?”

“Struggle?” the priest muses, his voice a whisper. “And yet, some embrace their darkness willingly. They seek it out. They find strength in it.” He leans in, and Will can see the depths of the man's eyes, swirling with a mixture of fervour and something darker. “But it always comes with a price. Are you willing to pay that price?”

“What price would that be?”

“The price of your soul, your autonomy, your life,” the priest replies, his expression becoming almost lustful. “The devil always seeks a toll. Are you prepared to pay?”

“Not if you are equals,” Will retorts, but there is a quiver in his voice.

The priest steps back slightly, his smile unfurling into something more brittle, angry. “There is always a sacrifice.”

Will hesitates as distant laughter from beyond the bathroom echoes against the tiles. He clutches the box tighter, feeling the smooth cardboard pressing against his palm. “We pray to the Devil because God has abandoned us.”

The priest’s gaze sharpens. “The devil will not bother you when you languish in sin. It is only when you try to return to the light that he will attack.”

“Is it not better, the devil, you know?” Will asks, the words escaping him before he fully registers them. "Knowing is wisdom, knowing yourself is enlightenment."

A cruel smile breaks across the priest’s face, “No one contains more knowledge than the devil, yet is no better off for it.”

“Knowledge is power, Father.”

“And power corrupts,” the man murmurs, reaching out, fingers brushing the edge of the cologne box.

Will’s heartbeat quickens. “What did you say?”

“In God, we triumph.” The man’s face stretches into a seedy grin, each word calibrated to send shivers through Will’s resolve. “He has plans for you, Mr Graham.”

There follows a moment of intense silence as the two men stare at each other before Will turns his attention back to the cologne in his hand. “Hopefully, it doesn't involve Him dropping a roof on me.”

When he lifts his gaze, he finds the priest has vanished, leaving behind only the ominous creaking of the door as it swings slowly shut.

Will narrows his eyes at the doorway before removing the cologne from the box. He sprays a generous amount against his neck, the sharp, musky scent enveloping him in a cloud of nostalgia. His mind drifts to Hannibal in his cell and anticipation stirs within him, knowing that his devil is waiting to guide him into the dark….and that he will go willingly this time.

Lost to his thoughts, Will Graham fails to realise he never shared his name with the priest.

~~V~~

Chapter Text

Then

Somewhere in Europe

"Are you still sulking?" Will asks, prodding his steak tartare with his fork.

“I may require some time to dismount this particular high horse, mano meile.” Hannibal’s brow furrows as he studies him. Will's middle finger sticks out at an awkward angle as he clumsily grips his knife, stabbing at his food.

Will offers a casual shrug, his cheeks bulging with pieces of meat, “C’mon cheekbones, it’s only mini golf. So you’re a bit shit. So what.”

Hannibal set his wine glass down on the table with a sharp clink. “A bit shit?” he repeats, incredulous. “I have never been ‘a bit shit’ at anything in my life.”

Will settles back in his chair, “Well, suck it up, buttercup,” he says, using his tongue to dislodge a piece of meat.

When Hannibal’s frown only deepens, he sighs and adds, “If it’s any consolation when it comes to ripping a man’s throat out with your teeth….you’re right up there with the best of them.”

“Them?” Hannibal echoes, the word forced out from between gritted teeth. “I insist on names.”

Will dabs his mouth with a napkin, “Perhaps a rematch.”

“No,” Hannibal asserts firmly, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his wine.

“Your lips may say no,” Will remarks with a playful smirk, “But your ego says-”

“Read my lips,” Hannibal interjects, glaring at him over the rim of his glass.

“Why can't you just admit when you're wrong?”

“Because when I'm wrong, it's not quite the same as when others are wrong…it just feels….”

“Humiliating,” Will offers.

“Anomalous.”

“For fuck sake, Hannibal. Can’t you just laugh it off?”

“I find no amusement in failure. Surrendering to mediocrity does not align with my pursuit of transcendence.”

“I imagine it was quite the profound existential crisis—to be outdone by an animatronic windmill.”

“It certainly leads one to reflect on the intricate dynamics of victory and defeat. Should such a minor misfire impede a lifetime of meritorious accomplishments?”

“Or a lifetime of petulant tantrums,” Will quips, a teasing lilt in his voice. “I'm starting to wonder if Napoleon had a Hannibal complex.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow slightly as Will leans in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Another megalomaniac who refused to acknowledge defeat. This guy led armies but was famously shit at bowling, and don’t even think about asking him to put up a shelf. Yet, he was a colossal show-off and all-around smarty pants.”

Hannibal studies him for a moment, a smirk tugging the corners of his mouth. “Despite your intention, I am not offended. The commander exhibited remarkable efficiency and a tendency for grand, ambitious endeavours. He—” Hannibal pauses when he notices Will trying to manoeuvre his fork with his finger extended at an awkward angle to his hand. “What is the meaning of this?”

Will drops his knife onto the plate with a clang, “Remember when you accused that ten-year-old girl of sabotaging the windmill.”

“She was fifteen if she was a day.” Hannibal huffs, rearranging his napkin on his lap.

"It was her birthday party, Hannibal," Will sighs, shutting his eyes and rubbing his temple. "Her tenth birthday party."

Hannibal dismisses him with a wave of his hand, “How does that pertain to your inability to use a knife and fork?”

“You know that shit fit you threw when she rolled her eyes at you?”

Hannibal presses his lips tightly together, his eyes narrowing as his mind drifts back to the events that unfolded just hours ago.

“Yeah,” Will nods, his fork punctuating the air between them, “Remember during your rant on etiquette and the collapse of modern society, you somehow lost control of your putter, sent it flying, knocking out the course's mascot, Goofy Goober?”

Will inadvertently flexes his fingers and a jolt of sharp pain shoots through his hand, causing him to wince. Hannibal’s stern demeanour shifts instantly. “Oh, my love,” he says tenderly. Did it strike you?”

Will stares at him, his eyes wide and his lips puckered in a pout. Hannibal reaches across the table, his expression shifting to one of concern. When suddenly, Will’s face splits into a grin, “Nah,” he chuckles, “was laughing so much I fell ass over tit, caught it in the Clown’s mouth.”

Hannibal pulls away sharply with a huff and takes a drink of his wine. “Goofy Goober's world of adventure and mini golf is a death trap populated with sociopaths.”

“Ten year olds.” Will corrects him with a smile.

"I stand by my actions."

“Temper tantrum.”

Hannibal emits a disgruntled snort, “I remain resolute that the young lady meddled with it,” he declares, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, “For reasons that I am certain are nefarious in nature.” As he speaks, he notices Will flinch, his face contorting as he attempts to flex his fingers once again. “Would you like me to take a look at it?”

“Nah, it’s fine.”

Hannibal smiles quietly as he watches Will focus on picking up his knife to continue eating.

“Finding this amusing?” Will asks, cocking an eyebrow. “Sadist.”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle with delight, “Just wondering how you will drive without the use of that particular appendage.”

Will squints slightly, a hint of frustration etched on his face, as his fork slips from his fingers and falls onto the table with a clang, “It's so obvious you've gone through life with no one ever telling you to shut the fuck up. “

“I did, as you so eloquently put it, “shut the fuck up” for many years.”

“Trauma aside…I bet you never really stopped talking, did you? Even when you say nothing, I can still hear you, often in stereo and surround sound. It's quite something, how you can tell me how much I'm annoying you with just a quirk of your eyebrow”

Hannibal quirks his eyebrow.

Will gestures frantically with his knife, "Yeah just like that."

Hannibal shakes his head, “Silence is as much a weapon as words, and I have wielded both.” Then he frowns as he observes Will struggling to cut his meat. “Do you require assistance?”

“It’s fine. I’ve got the hang of it,” Will declares, his fork scraping against the porcelain as he pursues a piece of steak around the rim of the plate.

Hannibal arches an eyebrow. “Yet, you approach it as though it has inflicted a transgression upon you.” He swirls the dark red wine in his glass before taking a slow, deliberate sip. “Perhaps it merged without signalling.”

“Listen, that fucker-”

Hannibal leans forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, “Ah yes, this is one of my favourites from your rant repertoire; I do hope you will conclude with how everyone who drives slower than you is an idiot and everyone who drives faster is a maniac.”

Will rolls his eyes and groans, “Well, at least I can drive stick.”

“So can I,” Hannibal, raising one shoulder in a fluid, graceful shrug, “I simply prefer not to.”

With a grunt, Will finally cuts through the tender steak. A triumphant grin spreads across his face as he raises a perfectly sized forkful of beef aloft. He pauses for a moment, savouring the victory, before popping the morsel into his mouth, closing his eyes to fully savour the taste.

“Yes, well done, William. A true testament to your tenacity.” Hannibal raises his glass in a mock salute.

Will bows his head in a gesture of gratitude, then points at Hannibal with his now empty fork, “You can’t go about tossing golf clubs, threatening ten-year-olds and buying Harpsichords and bottles of 1945 Romanée-Conti Grand Cru.”

When Hannibal attempts to fashion of look of innocent ignorance, Will finds himself battling a smile, “Yeah, you thought I hadn’t noticed, didn’t you? You’re gonna get us caught, Hannibal. What good is a fucking Harpsichord or a fancy bottle of wine when you are strapped to a bed in the nuthouse? Huh? What good are all your fancy suits if you are restricted to a polyester blend jumpsuit and velcro pumps? You need to consider what is more important to you, your freedom or your ego?”

Hannibal adopts a feigned-pained expression, “Must I decide right now?”

“You need a good dose of the reality, doctor. Every rub may be irritating, but how else can we clean and maintain the mirror? You can’t get insurance once you need it.”

“Will, as usual, your simple homespun wisdom has pricked the balloon of my pomposity.”

“What happened to that restraint and control I was so impressed by when I first profiled you?”

“What can I say-being in love makes me whimsical.”

Will lets out a deep groan of frustration and tilts his head back, draining the last remnants of his wine.

With a grin, Hannibal casually glances around the restaurant and reaches for the wine to refill their glasses. "It seems we have the pleasure of the organ grinder rather than his monkeys."

“Oh yeah?”

“And as usual, I was correct in my extrapolations.”

“Who?” Will tilts his neck to subtly look around, only to come face to face with an unfamiliar crotch.

“Hannibal, how serendipitous! " the man exclaims, grinning down at them. Dressed in a sharply tailored suit, he has an air of confidence mixed with an unsettling familiarity that makes Will's stomach churn.

“Bertrum, what a truly unexpected delight,” Hannibal says smoothly, his voice a well-crafted blend of charm and affability.

“May I?” the man asks, gesturing at an empty seat.

Hannibal fashions a courteous smile, "Of course, Bertrum. Join us."

Will shoots a cautious glance at Hannibal, silently questioning his motives for inviting this strange man into their company.

Bertrum settles into the seat with a satisfied grin. "When I saw you, I couldn't resist the opportunity to catch up with the celebrated Dr Lecter and the notorious Will Graham," he says, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

"You flatter us,” Hannibal replies smoothly, though there's a sharpness to his tone. "Will, this is Dr Bertrum Du Maurier MD APA Phd Psy.D FAAN.”

“Boy, it isn't spelt like it sounds, is it?” Will quips, sipping his wine, ignoring his outstretched hand.

Looking amused, Bertrum glances at Hannibal briefly, "Ah yes, Mr Graham. My sister Bedelia told me you were rather…challenging."

Will dabs his mouth with his napkin and tosses it onto his plate, “I doubt that is the word Bedelia used.”

Bertrum smiles as he nods at Hannibal’s offer of a glass of wine. “It is true; my sister can be quite abrasive and unforgiving. She did once refer to the Spanish Inquisition as "tough love” for heretics.“

“Bedelia’s perspective has always had a certain distinct charm.” Hannibal pours a generous amount of wine into Bertrum’s glass, the deep red liquid catching the light.

Bertrum raises his glass and takes a slow, deep breath, savouring its complex aroma. With an enraptured smile declares, “As expected, this wine is simply exquisite, Hannibal.”

Will tightly presses his lips as he looks at Hannibal, who seems completely unfazed. Hannibal’s focus is solely on their guest, projecting a calmness that only heightens Will’s irritation.

“Are you dining alone, Bertrum?” Hannibal inquires, his voice light and casual, effortlessly shifting his leg to avoid the sharp kick that Will aims at him from beneath the table. 

“Yes. I find dining alone is a time for quiet reflection; essential to one's mental health.” The man shrugs, his smile never wavering. "But I couldn't resist the opportunity to hear how a round of mini golf humbled the great Hannibal Lecter."

Hannibal's eyes narrow, his fake smile faltering slightly. "You have been eavesdropping, Bertrum. That is rather uncouth of you."

“Some would say damn right rude,” Will mutters, dragging his tongue across his teeth.

Bertrum fashions a pout. "Please forgive me. But it is quite a delightful image - the esteemed Dr. Lecter struggling with a tiny putter. Finally, a game of which you are not a master."

Will struggles to hold back his amusement, pressing his napkin to his mouth as he looks over at Hannibal, whose face, for a brief moment, transforms into a mask of cold fury, every trace of cordiality stripped away.

Hannibal is about to retort when Bertrum shifts his focus to Will, “You are quite famous in medical circles, Mr Graham; there are whispers that you have what some might call superpowers.”

Will sucks his teeth as his finger grip the stem of his glass, “Yeah, my superpower is foresight.” He gives Hannibal a pointed look.

Bertrum swallows deeply, “My sister was right you are...” he pauses as he looks directly at Will, “…vexatious.”

“I knew you were going to say that.” Will’s smirk is met momentarily with a scowl before Bertrum rearranges his face into a more affable expression.

“How is dear Bedelia?” Hannibal inquires, skillfully redirecting Bertram’s attention towards him.

“Unfortunately, my sister and I had a disagreement.”

“Isn’t that a shame.”

“I refused to buy our nephew a Barbie doll, as I believe it gives unrealistic expectations.”

“Of the female form?” Will says dully.

“Of how easy it is to rip a woman's head off.” Betram’s eyes flash. He stares intently at Will, who glances at Hannibal, who is hiding his amusement behind his wine glass.

“Toys are just toys. They have little bearing on who we become.”

“I don’t know about that”, Bertrum retorts, his voice laced with sharp mockery as his gaze flickers between Hannibal and Will. “What might start as a simple toy can spiral into an all-consuming obsession, reshaping the player beyond recognition.”

Seeing Hannibal narrow his eyes and clench his jaw, Will shifts in his seat and asks, “So, where is dear Bedelia these days? Still in Baltimore?”

“She is travelling the world, exploiting her notoriety as the former Mrs. Hannibal the Cannibal.”

“They were never married.” Will states firmly, smacking his lips as he takes a drink.

“Indeed,” Bertrum says tentatively, exchanging a look with Hannibal, “She is also attempting to court the attention of yet another heir to the Cavendish transportation empire.”

“Another?” Will raises an eyebrow, suddenly interested.

“My resourceful sister has gone through that family like a recessive gene. Quite the social climber.” Then, leaning forward, his voice oozing with sleaze, Bertrum asks, “You are in a sexual relationship with your psychiatrist; how do you find that affects your therapy?”

Despite the unexpected nature of the question catching him off guard, Will maintains an air of composure; his expression revealing nothing: "I'm going to give him another year, then I’m going to Lourdes.”

Bertrum smiles thinly at Will before turning his attention to Hannibal, “At least he is pretty to look at, Hannibal. You do make quite the couple, aesthetically speaking, that is.”

“I find we complement each other perfectly, aesthetically and otherwise.”

“Perfectly fucked up…he’s perfect. I’m fucked up.” Will sneers, ”Though it is a sliding scale. Insanity is relative, after all.”

“It depends on who has who locked in what cage.”

Hannibal and Will exchange a look, and just as Hannibal is about to retort, their guest sharply turns his attention back to Will: “Tell me, do you use any kind of artificial stimulation, like marijuana, Will?”

“I don't respond well to being mellow. I have a tendency to ripen and then rot.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrow at Will and says breezily, “Bertrum is a Neurobiologist, Will.”

“Of course you are.”

“Tell me, Mr Graham, have you ever used any artificial stimulation during intercourse?”

“We use a large vibrating pineapple.”

Bertrum sighs wearily, “Well, if you ask a psychopath such a thing, what do you expect?”

“Have you just diagnosed me, Dr Du Maurier?”

“Difficult to avoid.”

A flicker of irritation passes through Will, and he can feel Hannibal’s penetrating gaze on him as he snides, “Maybe you should stick to tedious small talk instead of trying to analyse me.”

“I am a passionate advocate for mental fortitude. I believe that challenges are merely opportunities for growth—though I imagine you’ve experienced enough growth, especially with Hannibal’s influence, haven’t you?”

Will arches an eyebrow, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his demeanour. “Growth often leads to shredding parts of yourself, Dr Du Maurier. One must consider whether the evolution is worth the cost.”

Bertrum feigns a chuckle that clashes with the tension in the air. “How does it feel to be at the mercy of both your own unique psyche and the questionable practices of your psychiatrist-turned-lover?”

Hannibal interjects smoothly, “Will isn’t at the mercy of anything, Bertrum. He navigates the complexities of his mind with admirable skill.”

“Indeed,” Bertrum waves a dismissive hand. “I imagine it would be a compelling thing to witness, especially when struggling to control your more primal urges.” His eyes gleam with a hint of challenge.

Will glares at him steadily, the tension crystallizing into something charged. “Do you consider yourself an expert on primal urges, Dr Du Maurier?”

“A connoisseur, at best,” Bertrum replies, leaning closer, his tone conspiratorial. “It’s truly fascinating the ease with which one slips into the darker impulses when one feels safe. The mask of civility is, after all, only a veneer.”

Hannibal’s interest piques. “What lies beneath your own veneer, Bertrum? You appear beguiled by darkness and yet claim to study it objectively.”

Bertrum’s glinting eyes narrow slightly but never lose their playful impudence. “I find it’s not so much the darkness but the struggle between light and shadow that intrigues me - I find it reveals what we are truly capable of.”

Will exhales softly, “And what do you think we are capable of, Bertrum?”

“I believe your capacity for both destruction and creation is virtually limitless,” Bertrum leans back, savouring his words like a good vintage.

Hannibal nods, his expression inscrutable. “A profound perspective. Do you believe that we can control those capabilities, or are we merely slaves to them?”

Bertrum holds Hannibal's gaze, the grin still in place but more calculated now. “That’s the dilemma, isn’t it? Control can be an illusion. In the end, we must embrace our complexities, not simply subdue them. Was that not that part of your unconventional methods when you were in practice?”

"I prefer to think of them as innovative," Hannibal retorts smoothly, his voice rich and melodic. He leans back, studying Bertrum with a predatory intensity.

Will clears his throat, "This is what made Hannibal such a good psychiatrist."

“And lover too, I imagine,” Bertrum, seeing an opportunity to provoke, presses on, "Are you a product of these practices, Mr. Graham?"

"I'm not just a product of my environment. I'm an active participant, Dr. Du Maurier."

Bertrum chuckles lightly, “I suppose that depends on whether you consider sleeping with your psychiatrist a form of entrapment or liberation, Will?”

“Neither,” Will says firmly before taking a drink and offering no further elaboration.

Hannibal watches the exchange with an amused look, “It’s a matter of perspective, Bertrum.”

“Or recklessness,” Bertrum retorts with a smug snort.

Hannibal gestures for the dessert menus, “Will you be joining us for dessert, Bertrum?”

“As tempting as that sounds, I must decline as I have a pending appointment. However, I’m having a little soiree on Friday, quite an intimate affair; I would be delighted if you both would join me.”

“We would be honoured,” Hannibal says, accepting the dessert menus from the waiter with a gracious nod.

Will shoots him an annoyed glare and swiftly kicks him under the table.

“Splendid!” Bertrum beams and produces a card like a magic trick, “Dinner at eight, gentlemen. Elegant casual if you would be so kind,” he adds with a pointed look at Will. He then excuses himself with a slight bow and clicks his fingers in the air to attract the attention of the Maître d.

As Bertrum glides between the tables towards the exit, Will remarks, “You do realize this is a trap, right?”

“I have no doubt.”

“Yet you are entering it willingly?"

“I find I enjoy a certain amount of chaos.”

“How dangerous is he?”

“Not as dangerous as he believes he is. God does favour fools as they are more entertaining to watch. Have you decided on a dessert?”

Will rolls his eyes and scans the menu. The words dance across the page, merging into a blur as his mind churns with an overwhelming tide of probabilities and potential outcomes, each more intricate and horrifying than the last.

“Have you decided what you want, mano meile?” Hannibal presses, eyeing him over his menu.

“What do you think Bertrum has planned for us?”

“I imagine something that ends with my death and your brain in a jar.”

“Wonderful.”

“So William, what shall it be? I hear the Tiramisu is exquisite.”

“We should probably discuss a plan of sorts, don’t you think?”

“Later. Now, what do you want?”

Will tries to concentrate on the menu in front of him, his eyes scanning the options, but his mind drifts away once more.  “I bet he has henchmen,” he muses, “He just has that kind of vibe. Very arch."

“Yes, I imagine we will indeed be outnumbered…” Hannibal looks directly at him with a sly smile and adds, “But not outwitted.”

"You're not concerned about this at all, are you?"

“There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing how bad things can get.” Hannibal says, his eyes still on the menu, “I believe the Tarta de Santiago has won awards.”

“Nothing like a little existential dread to whet the appetite,” Will drones dully as he forces his attention to the menu before him.

“Indeed,” Hannibal says with a small twitch of his lips.

Will watches Hannibal for a moment before muttering, “Maybe we should just skip this…this soiree altogether.”

“Why? Are you not curious what will happen?”

“We could be walking into an ambush.”

Hannibal hums distractedly, “I find myself seduced by the Lemon posset with raspberries. I would like to share it with you if you would indulge me. I take pleasure in feeding you by hand.”

Ignoring his request, Will leans forward, clutching the menu to his chest, “Do you think Bedelia is part of this?”

With an incredulous snort, Hannibal shakes his head and takes a sip of wine. "How long does it take you to choose a dessert?"

“I’m going for the record.” Will winks at him before returning his attention to the dessert listing.

Hannibal’s mouth twitches as he fights the inclination to smile. “Insufferable menace.”

Will scans the menu one more time before tossing it to one side. He leans back in his chair, raising his eyebrow at Hannibal, who returns with a questioning eyebrow of his own. “I know what I want.” Will states defiantly.

“And what is that, my petulant boy?”

“I want to go home so you can fuck me,” Will simply, his eyes boring into Hannibal.

“What about the neighbours?” Hannibal enquires carefully relinquishing his own menu and clasping his hands together on the table.

Will tilts his chin, pursing his lips in thought, and then, with a smirk, says, "Let's see how you get on before we tag them in, shall we?” 

~~V~~

Chapter Text

Then

Somewhere in Europe

It was during his early morning walk with Botticelli that Will discovered the small, scruffy dog nestled among the sand dunes.

The state of her mated and dirty coat indicated that she had been alone for some time. When Will moved closer, he saw that her belly was round and swollen.

“I tried to coax her out,” Will tells Hannibal as he arranges pieces of wood on the balcony. “But there was no shifting her; she's a very frightened girl.”

“Does she have much longer to go?” Hannibal inquires, his forehead creasing as he envisions the chaos a litter of puppies will unleash upon their lives.

Will pauses, glancing up at him thoughtfully. "Maybe a week or two," he says. "I believe she's in the final stretch. I'll make a bed for her and ensure she's comfortable while she waits for her pups."

Hannibal smiles, helpless to the charm of the look of concentration on Will’s face as he measures out the wood, tucking the pencil behind his ear. "I guess I will have to look into obtaining a more suitable residence," he remarks, "preferably one with a large garden if our family is to grow."

Will shifts his weight and leans back on his ankles. "You'd really do that?" he asks, a look of surprise and delight crossing his face.

A now familiar warmth pools in Hannibal’s stomach—a feeling he has come to cherish. “For you? Anything?” he says softly, his fingers threading through his unruly curls, sliding down to cup his jaw. Will instinctively leans into his touch, his eyelashes fluttering shut. “I must prepare dinner now,” Hannibal murmurs with a trace of reluctance.” I will call for you when it is ready.”

Will softly hums in response and tenderly kisses his palm. He keeps a hold of his hand until Hannibal is out of reach.

On his way to the kitchen, Hannibal spots Chiyoh in the study, reading a book. With a final glance at Will on the balcony, he slips into the room and quietly closes the door.

“How are preparations for the proposal coming along, mano sesuo?” Hannibal asks, sitting in the chair behind the desk.

Chiyoh puts her book to one side and settles back into the couch. “I’ve been gathering and procuring the necessary resources,” she states, her voice calm and measured. “All should be in place by the end of the month.”

“Excellent,” Hannibal smiles broadly. “Please go ahead and acquire the Royal Suite at the Four Seasons and charter the plane. Tell me, did Plácido confirm his attendance?”

“Yes, Señor Domingo was honoured that you wished for him to perform at such an event. He has rearranged his tour to accommodate.”

“Splendid.”

Leaning forward, Chiyoh says, “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Plácido Domingo.”

“Let's just say the tenor owes me a favour, he found himself-”

Suddenly, a chorus of expletives floats in from the balcony, causing Hannibal to pause and a wide grin to split his face.

Chiyoh's head twitches in the direction of the tirade, “What’s Will doing out there?”

“He is constructing a bed for a pregnant mongrel he found nesting on the beach.” Hannibal's smile widens as he lets his head fall back, revelling in the dulcet tones of his beloved.

Chiyoh quirks her brow and emits a snort, “I imagine I will now have to procure additional pet supplies.”

Opening his eyes, Hannibal tilts his head at her, “Yes. We will also be relocating to accommodate what I imagine will be an unruly pack of hounds.”

Chiyoh lets out a resigned sigh, her eyes roaming the room pretending to scan the book spines on the shelves to mask her irritation. "He is truly a beacon for the lost and vulnerable," she mutters, voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and disdain.

Hannibal's gaze drifts toward the door, his keen senses picking up the soft murmur of voices beyond.

He can hear Will engaging in conversation with someone, most likely their neighbour from the apartment below. "He can relate to them; that's what draws them to him."

“Like he drew you."

“We were destined for each other.”

“Perhaps as a punishment.”

Hannibal inhales sharply, "If I must suffer, then be it at his hands," he states, “ Chiyoh, this petty side you have recently exhibited is becoming…” His voice trails off as his attention drifts, distracted by Will politely declining the offer of bananas in hesitant Spanish and sharing the news of the pregnant stray.

Without taking his eyes off the door, Hannibal asks in a low voice, “What of the other matter?”

Chiyoh observes the slight tilt of his head when Will mentions Hannibal’s alias. “As suspected,” she says, her voice even, “Dr. Du Maurier is indeed concluding with Dr. Bloom. That invitation you received? It’s undoubtedly a trap.”

Hannibal nods absentmindedly, his gaze fixed on the door as if he could pierce the heavy wood with the sheer force of his will and catch a glimpse of his beloved beyond it.

Chiyoh takes a deep breath and clears her throat, “There is another matter that requires your attention, Hannibal.”

Hannibal reluctantly tears his gaze away from the door and turns to meet her eyes. In that instant, the air between them shifts and becomes charged with an unspoken tension as he waits for her to continue.

Chiyoh pauses for a moment and takes another deep breath. “It’s Ms. Lounds,” she begins, her voice firm yet cautious, “and her friend—”

A soft knock on the door precedes Will peeking around the edge. “Sorry to intrude…” he starts, his eyes darting between Hannibal and Chiyoh. “I thought maybe you’d like to come with me to see the dog...” He pauses, looking back and forth between them. “Am I interrupting? I can come back.”

As he reaches for the door to close it, Hannibal suddenly jumps to his feet and yanks the door wide open. “Not at all, mano meile,” he declares with a flourish. “Let us go check on the expectant mother.” He gestures towards Chiyoh with a dismissive sweep of his hand. “We were discussing nothing of importance.”

Chiyoh forces a smile. “Yes, nothing of importance,” she echoes, her voice trembling slightly as she struggles to suppress the rising bile in her throat, a bitterness threatening to spill over.

*****

“Wanna drive, Cheekbones?”

Will and Hannibal emerge from the apartment building, greeted by the warm embrace of the evening air tinged with the scent of the blooming jasmine.

“No, my love. I wish to sit back and admire your handsomeness,” Hannibal replies, a playful glint in his eyes. The fading light highlights the sharp angles of his jawline and the contours of his face, emphasizing the striking features that still ignite the butterflies in Will's stomach.

With fake frustration, Will rolls his eyes, but a genuine smile sneaks through, “So, what’s the plan?” he asks, opening the trunk of the car to load the empty coolers.

As Hannibal gracefully settles into the passenger seat, he takes a moment to adjust his tie and smooth down his collar. “What do you suggest, my love?” he asks once Will has taken his place beside him.

“I say we unleash hell…” Will declares, adrenaline surging through his veins like wildfire.

“...then a pleasant dinner, I think,” Hannibal concludes with a sly grin.

As they sit in the slow-moving traffic, Will steals a glance at Hannibal, his voice tingling with exhilaration. “You know, this will be the first time we’ve killed together since the Dragon.”

“Yes, I was just thinking that myself, my love.” Hannibal feels the elation radiating from Will, a powerful wave that stirs something primal within him. A slow, predatory smile creeps across Hannibal's lips as he revels in the intoxicating frisson that pulses between them.

Bertrum Du Maurier's residence is an ostentatious and stark structure consisting almost entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. It stands boldly behind a formidable iron gate, surrounded by towering walls, creating a fortress that offers both seclusion and privacy from unwanted attention.

“Someone thinks he’s a Bond villain." Will quips.

“Delusions of villainy, how dull.” Hannibal dips his head to get a better view. "Yes, it is rather vulgar," he says, “but one cannot account for taste."

"Let's hope his actual taste is better," Will smirks.

"Indeed, mano meile," Hannibal smiles, patting Will's thigh before giving it an affectionate squeeze.

As they step onto the porch, the door swings open, revealing Bertrum with a fixed smile straining his features. Sweeping his arm dramatically through the air, he declares, “Welcome to my humble abode, gentlemen,” followed by a small bow.

Bertrum leads them into a minimalist, sterile antiseptic room. The walls are painted a harsh, clinical white, creating an unsettling sense of emptiness. Oversized, garish artwork—chaotic explosions of colour and exaggerated shapes—renders the space both overwhelming and disorienting.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Bertrum invites, his voice smooth as silk as he gestures towards an austere piece of furniture that vaguely resembles a sofa. “I have a bottle of Macallan whiskey that I’ve been saving for the perfect moment—and, of course, the perfect company.” 

“Where are the other gu-?” Will starts before darkness envelops him, swallowing the room whole.

****

Around Will's motionless form, chaos erupts in a cacophony of destruction and pain: ear-piercing screams, the tearing of flesh and the snapping of bones.

The sound of bodies hitting the floor with dull thuds is only punctuated by the scraping and scuttling of those desperately seeking escape.

Will finally stirs when a warm, thick spray splatters his skin, gathering in the folds of his eyelids and running down his cheeks. The sharp, metallic smell of blood fills his senses, forcing him to consciousness with a jolt.

At first, everything is a blur, flashes of vivid crimson and deep purples swirling in his vision. The anguished screams that once filled the space have now faded into an unsettling hush, leaving an almost eerie stillness in their wake.

Will blinks slowly, and as the world around him comes into sharp focus, he sees Hannibal hunched over a body sprawled on the floor.

As their eyes lock, Hannibal's expression softens, a stray hair slipping across his face. He whispers Will's name, the single syllable barely audible.

The smell of blood intensifies with each breath Will takes. He frantically scans the room, taking in the carnage.  The air is saturated with the aftermath of violence - twisted limbs, faces frozen in death, and scattered body parts. The once stark white walls are now splattered with human blood and viscera.

Hannibal rises from his crouching position and saunters over to where Will lies, clutching a severed head by the hair.

Will struggles to lift himself onto his elbows, wincing at the ache in his head. With a sulky pout, he sighs, “I missed it.”

“You did, my love.” In a swift yet practised motion, Hannibal wraps the severed head of Bertrum Du Maurier in plastic before placing it in one of the coolers.

Will lets himself fall back onto the ground. He reaches behind him and feels Hannibal's jacket. With a quick tug, he yanks it out from under him and tosses it at Hannibal, “So, while you were slaughtering an entire squad of henchmen, you somehow found time to fold your jacket and place it beneath my head.”

Hannibal grins, the dried blood cracking on his face as he catches the offending item of casual designer wear. “You are always my priority, my love. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he says.

Will gestures to the second bloodstained cooler sitting neatly beside the door, “Been foraging, doctor?”

Hannibal gives a curt nod, “Yes, I managed to retrieve some select cuts.”

Will watches Hannibal tidy the plastic in the cooler and shut it with a decisive click. "What you gonna do with that?" Will muses, "A paperweight? Or a chalice, like Byron?"

"It is a message," Hannibal replies, his voice smooth and low.

“To who?”

“Dr Bloom,” Hannibal states as he offers his hand to Will, who stumbles slightly as he rises. As he regains his balance, Hannibal pulls him close. Their chests pressing flush together, heartbeats mingling in the silence.

“Such an odd pairing,” Will says, bringing his arms up and around his neck.

“Nothing binds like nebulous intentions,” Hannibal reflects, his voice low and contemplative. His hands move smoothly along the contours of Will’s hips, fingers trailing down to firmly grasp the enticing curve of his ass, the touch both possessive and intimate. With a swift, deliberate tug, he pulls Will closer still as if to merge their bodies. "Dr. Bloom had designs on my demise, and Bertrum... well, he had designs on our brains.”

Will tilts his head, his lips brushing against Hannibal’s. “The mad scientist and the ice queen join forces with one goal…our deaths,” he whispers.

“My death,” Hannibal corrects, nipping softly at Will’s bottom lip. “Bertrum intended to keep you alive. It was essential for his analysis of your gift.”

Will pulls back enough so he can look at him, “Fantastic, so your brain would be in a jar, and I would have spent the rest of my life strapped to a bed. Seems all rather outlandish and unbelievable.”

“Out of context, perhaps,” Hannibal murmurs, his voice low and tantalizing as he draws Will closer, their foreheads touching.

“In what context would this be deemed normal?” Will replies playfully, nudging his nose against Hannibal’s.

“Ours,” Hannibal states firmly, his hands skillfully kneading the firm muscles of Will’s ass.

“I’m furious, you know.”

"Of course you are. I know how much you derive pleasure from being furious."

Will gives the hairs on the back of his neck a sharp tug, “But I missed all the fun,” he whines.

“I will ensure that you remain conscious next time for when the violence erupts,” Hannibal promises, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Such a gentleman!” Will teases, his lips curling into a grin. Then, his gaze flickers to the cooler at their feet. “So how are you going to get that head to Alana? FedEx?” he quips with a spark of playfulness as he nips at Hannibal's jaw.

“Don't be ridiculous, Will.” Hannibal scolds as he tugs at his earlobe with his teeth, “DHL is far more proficient in the transportation of severed body parts.”

****

Hannibal finds Will sitting on the beach, his silhouette lit by the fading glow of the dipping sun. The waves gently crash against the shore, swirling around his feet and leaving behind a fleeting shimmer of foam before retreating back into the vast ocean.

A heavy ache hangs in the air—the puppies they had eagerly awaited have perished. The mother, weary yet resilient, is recuperating back at the apartment, where she has found a place to heal and belong.

“We don't deserve dogs,” Will murmurs softly, his voice barely rising above the gentle lapping of the waves. He drags his fingers through the sand, letting its fine grains slip between his fingers. His gaze drifts toward the horizon, where the sky and sea blend together in a breathtaking fusion of soft pastels.

Hannibal lowers himself onto the sun-baked ground beside Will, the dying rays of sunlight casting a warm glow on his skin. “I imagine that is true,” he says thoughtfully as he follows Will’s gaze into the distance.

“As a species, we deserve each other as we are cruel and narcissistic. We prioritize our own desires and egos over others. In contrast, dogs embody purity and devotion; they offer unconditional love and loyalty without judgment. They exist on a higher moral plane, and we could learn from them. In many ways, they are the better species.”

“Look at you,” Hannibal says, his voice a soft murmur almost swallowed by the sound of the ocean. “If I allow myself to stare too long, I fear I may never be able to tear my eyes away.”

Will tilts his head upward, the setting sun illuminating the tears pooling in his eyes. “I’m a mess,” he whispers, his voice trembling with devastation and exhaustion.

“You are a masterpiece,” Hannibal replies, his tone soothing and resolute. “You don’t realise how beautiful you make my world just by existing in it.”

Will lowers his head, feeling a wave of bashfulness wash over him as the cool sea breeze gently swirls through his curls, wrapping them around him like a wild halo. The sun casts a warm glow on his face, accentuating the soft contours and the hint of a shy smile.

Hannibal reaches out and, with a gentle touch, tilts his face to meet his gaze. “You have empowered me to achieve something I once believed was beyond my reach.”

“To be seen?”

“To fall in love,” a gentle and loving smile graces Hannibal’s face, a rare tenderness he reserves solely for Will.

Will gently tilts his face into the inviting curve of Hannibal's palm, which opens to receive him.

“I knew you the moment our eyes met,” Hannibal says softly, his fingertips gently tracing his jawline. “Perhaps from a previous life, one in which my love for you still lingered, unfinished.”

Will pulls away and swipes at the corners of his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I was an impending car crash,” he said softly, “and you were the only one at the scene.”

“When I first laid eyes upon you, I was consumed with a rush of desire so intense, stealing the breath from my lungs,” Hannibal's voice cracks slightly. “I knew instantly you would either be my saviour or my downfall. My initial instinct was to destroy you, to eliminate the threat you posed. Then I thought I could just take you like I had previous lovers. But over time, I found I wanted to deserve you, to be worthy of you.”

“Worthy?” Will shakes his head, snatching a handful of sand and letting it pour back out from his closed fist. “How you see me…I can’t…”

“How do you see yourself?” Hannibal inquires, his penetrating gaze gliding over Will's profile, caressing every curve and angle.

“As a collection of scars,” Will murmurs, his fingers tracing shapes in the sand. “Scars woven together with threads of neuroses, barely contained bitterness, and simmering rage.”

“Love is either a shrine where you worship daily or a scar that reminds you that you have loved and lost….ours is a shrine of scars.”

“And we are the most devout of worshippers.” Will declares, his eyes piercing the horizon where the final rays of sunlight surrender to the encroaching twilight. “I never felt like myself until... until you forced your way into my life and left it in ruins.”

“Ruin is the road to transformation, my love,” Hannibal states simply, grasping his hand and pressing a kiss on his wrist.

Will gives a slow nod, his eyes drifting away, and a wistful smile briefly tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Hannibal moves closer. “You charm me and torment me in equal measure, Will Graham. I always knew our love would be a massacre,” he says as his hand brushes a stray curl behind his ear.

Will feels a warmth spread through him, making his breath hitch in his throat. The weight of Hannibal’s words wraps around him like a comforting blanket. “You don’t have to say those things to make me feel better,” he murmurs quietly, a blush blooming on his cheeks.

“Perhaps,” Hannibal smiles, the intensity of his gaze igniting a fire within Will. “But I can promise you this: there is nothing about you that does not captivate me.”

Feeling an unexpected wave of shyness wash over him, Will leans closer, gently nudging Hannibal's shoulder with his forehead. The warmth of the moment settles around them as he releases a delicate sigh, the weight of his unspoken thoughts too much to bear.

“I learned something significant today,” Hannibal confesses, his gaze drifting momentarily to the ground as he gathers his thoughts. “You can spend countless months yearning to craft the ideal moment, but often, the most beautiful moments occur unexpectedly, unplanned, and raw.”

Hannibal gently takes Will's hand in his own, looking deep into his eyes. “You are undeniably the most exquisite creature I have ever encountered,” he declares, his voice low and filled with emotion. “Will Graham, will you marry me? Bind your life to mine and make me the happiest man to ever stalk this earth.”

Will gazes intently at Hannibal, his eyes glistening with unshed tears that finally spill over and trail down his cheeks. His voice shakes, his lips trembling as the weight of his feelings crashes over him, leaving him both elated and overwhelmed: “Yes…Yes….Of course, I will marry you.”

Hannibal pulls him tightly against his chest, and with an urgent yearning, he seeks his fiancé's lips. When their mouths meet, it’s nothing short of an explosion—a kiss that ignites something deep within them, a kiss that resonates with a strength that trembles the very core of their beings, leaving them gasping and elated, their hearts beating in unison.

As they reluctantly pull apart, their eyes meet, drinking in the sight of each other, etching this moment into their shared memory palace.

Will lightly drags his teeth along Hannibal’s jaw, descending to the area where his pulse races just beneath the warm skin. Drawing back, he tilts his face into the warmth of Hannibal's neck, breathing in his familiar and soothing scent.

A sharp intake of breath causes Will to pull back slightly and look at Hannibal’s face. Tears shimmer in Hannibal’s eyes, reflecting the soft, dull light. Will delicately traces the path of tears streaming down the older man's face with his fingers. Hannibal leans into the gentle touch, his breath warm against Will's hand as he softly kisses his palm.

With a voice soft and full of wonder and warmth, Will remarks, “This isn’t quite how I imagined you proposing.”

“Oh, so you have imagined it?” Hannibal jests, gently cupping Will's face in his hands.

Will laughs bashfully. “This is so different from the lavish Hannibal Lecter. Where’s the grandeur and the drama?”

“All we need is you, me, and the moon.” Hannibal glides his thumb along Will's bottom lip, and Will playfully nips at it with his teeth.

“Yes,” Will exhales, “you, me, and the moon.”

****

Freddie Lounds lowers her camera and looks at the man leaning against the car; his eyes fixed on the newly engaged couple on the beach. “What now?” she asks.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“Lecter has been neglectful and taken those who seek to protect him for granted. There is a crack in his armour, and the rot is starting to set in.”

“Hell hath no fury….” Freddie murmurs, scrolling through the images on her camera.

“Indeed, sister, Indeed.”

~~V~~