Chapter Text
Hannibal sighed over the contents of their refrigerator the next morning: a few stalks of celery, leftover tomato and onion from the cheeseburgers last night. At least they'd used up all the American “cheese." He scrambled them all together with the rest of their eggs and toasted the remaining two hamburger buns under the broiler, while Will made the coffee and tossed the rest of their perishables.
Will laughed to see the toasted hamburger buns on their plates, with butter and jam alongside. "It's like something my dad might have done," he explained, and Hannibal wasn't sure whether or not to feel insulted. Will munched his way through their odd breakfast without complaint and every evidence of enjoyment, and Hannibal wondered, a little, why he bothered.
Then, the packing. After six days, the detritus of their lives had settled and flowed into every crack in the house: keys left in the kitchen, shoes by the back door, books stacked on the back of the toilet. The dogs watched the activity with concerned expressions and pricked ears, and more than once Hannibal or Will turned and almost stepped on a paw or bumped into a furry flank.
"Hey," Will said, "did you want this music? On the piano?"
"No," Hannibal said from the kitchen, where he was making note of what in the pantry needed replacing.
"Are you sure? Didn't you want to finish it?"
"It's finished, but it's for piano. I only have a harpsichord at home, and in my office."
Will's incredulous expression was clear from the silence, though Hannibal couldn't see it. "O...kay."
Hannibal smiled. "I have an excellent memory; if I wish to recreate it for harpsichord, I will. You know, there's still a lot of fish in the freezer here; I think it could keep, in a cooler with ice. Are you sure you don't want it?"
"Nah," said Will. "Leave it for your guests. They'll love it."
Hannibal had the sensation, as he walked each room, put back exactly the way it had been before, that he'd been at the theater and become immersed in some play. Now the curtain had gone down, the lights had come up, and he was drawn out of the suspended world and had to get in his car and go home. He turned out the light in the study after collecting his drawings, then in the living room, dining room, and finally the kitchen. He went downstairs and checked his bedroom, then the bathroom. The caretaker would come and check it all again, after they'd left, and would mail to them anything that had been left behind, but Hannibal liked to be sure.
Will was outside, loading up the car. The dogs bumped up against his legs, tails wagging and tongues lolling. Will pulled a wry expression. "You guys don't know we're not going to the park," he said. "We're going on another six hour car ride. You're not gonna like that part."
The dogs only heard the word 'park.' Their excited panting grew more fervent; tails wagged harder.
Once the dogs were all bundled into the car and lying down, Hannibal got in on the passenger's side, and Will in the driver's seat. Will did not start the engine right away; he sat in the front drive and stared up at the house. "It's weird," he said. "On the day we got here, I thought this house was so incredibly fucking pretentious. But after a while I got used to it, I guess."
"The human brain is incredibly good at normalizing experiences," Hannibal said.
Will snorted. "You don't have to tell me that." He started the car and pulled away from the house, onto the road. They stopped by one of the Hamptons' many delis to pick up some sandwiches, and then it was onto the highway, toward Baltimore.
The drive would have been five and a half hours, perhaps six, without the dogs. With the dogs it was eight, because Will insisted on frequent stops to walk and water them. Hannibal didn't mind; he was not as young as he used to be, and long periods of sitting no longer agreed with him. He was as glad of the opportunity as the dogs for a chance to stretch his legs.
It was during one of these stops, sitting on a low wall outside of a Wendy's and eating their deli sandwiches while the dogs rolled on the grass, that Will said, "I thought it was going to be weird. Going on vacation with my therapist."
"Am I your therapist?" Hannibal picked a piece of pastrami out of his sandwich and handed it to Buffy, who gobbled it down and licked her lips for more. Harvard and Chester came trotting up to investigate.
Will had finished his sandwich and left the wrapper on the grass for the dogs to nose through. He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his arms. "No. Not really. We're past that point now, aren't we?"
"I believe we passed it a long time ago." Hannibal tossed the end of his sandwich onto the grass for the dogs to squabble over. He glanced at Will to find the other man smiling and returned it with an involuntary smile of his own. It made his stomach flip. "I would say that we're friends."
"Friends," Will murmured. He squinted up at the sky. The smile had not left his face. "I don't think I've ever had a friend who'd loan me his vacation house for a week."
"And now you do." Buffy put her paws up on Hannibal's leg to sniff his hands. Hannibal pushed her off gently.
"I guess I do." Will looked at Hannibal. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Hannibal replied.
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It was dark by the time they arrived in Baltimore, with Hannibal at the wheel. He recognized the streetlights, the dark and shuttered businesses, his neighbors' homes, and yet it was like he had never seen them before. He felt as if he had been gone seven years rather than seven days, and that the houses should have changed their colors in that time, put in new landscaping, grown up new trees. Hannibal pulled up in front of his house and put the car in park, but did not turn off the engine.
Will got out of his seat and stretched with a sigh and a pop of his back. "Is it okay if I let the dogs out for a little bit, here?"
"Of course," Hannibal said. He got out of the driver's seat and left the door open. The headlights spilled yellow light on the faux cobbles of his driveway. Will opened the hatchback and the dogs spilled out, circling and sniffing and wagging their tails.
"Would you like to come inside for dinner?" Hannibal asked. He wasn't even sure what he had in the kitchen; any perishables in the refrigerator were surely spoiled by now.
Will looked up at him, startled, and then back at the dogs. He pursed his lips. "Nah," he said. "I should probably get back, feed the dogs. Besides, I imagine you want to settle back in." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Thanks, though."
"Of course," Hannibal said, quietly.
"And thanks for everything else, too," Will said. "I had. It was good."
Hannibal nodded.
Will left. Hannibal watched him go from his front step, until the tail lights were red pinpricks in the distance, rounding the corner.
The house was cold. Hannibal turned on the heat and walked from room to room, turning on the lights. The décor in each room was meticulous, everything at right angles, perfectly hung or stacked or placed, and all of it his taste, and only his, from the antler chandeliers to the old medical prints on the walls to the antelope head over the fireplace. He checked the messages on his home phone and his work phone: one message from Alana, reporting that Abigail was making progress; one message from a patient, who said she'd forgotten that Hannibal was on vacation and that it wasn't urgent, she would call back later; one message from a colleague asking if he would be able to take a referral; several hang-ups, likely from telemarketers or charity fundraisers. He turned the light off in each room as he left it, until he reached the kitchen. A bag of forgotten spinach wilted in the bottom of the crisper. Hannibal threw it in the garbage can. He would need to go grocery shopping tomorrow.
At last, with nothing left to do, he went upstairs. He emptied the contents of his suitcase into his laundry hamper and shed his clothes, covered in dog hair and odor from the long car ride. He took a long, hot shower in his spacious marble bathroom and crawled naked into bed. He'd changed the sheets before he left, so that they were clean now, with that clean-sheets feeling that could not be overestimated.
It was quiet. Hannibal could not hear the ocean.
He wondered if Will were home yet.
---end---