Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will isn’t healing.

His body has nearly knit itself back together, of course. The wounds to his chest and cheek are closed and fading. But Hannibal sees the truth when he looks into Will’s eyes: beneath the surface, something is still bleeding. He is too silent, too passive.

He wishes they had not survived. The knowledge stings Hannibal like saltwater.

(The water of the bay was brackish and cold. He felt every wound in the merciless grasp of the water. But most of all, he felt that Will never let him go.)

Will is fading before his eyes. Resigning himself to something. Whether that something is life or death is beyond Hannibal’s ability to divine. This, too, stings. He is gentle with Will, quiet and careful, as though he’s a porcelain teacup poised to fall and shatter at any moment. He might not be able to save Will a second time.

(He pulled Will from the water, pushing his own body well past its limits. He lost consciousness, afterward. Stared into black for what felt like an eternity. When he woke, his hand was clutching Will’s shirt. He didn’t breathe until he felt Will’s chest rise and fall.)

Will doesn’t respond to gentleness. Hannibal wonders whether he’d respond to confrontation, but is reluctant to try. It’s the latest in a long line of mysteries.

(The first mystery was the moment Hannibal looked at Will and wanted. The second, when the scent of Freddie Lounds’ perfume caused a pain somewhere behind his breastbone, as though he’d been pierced and torn. The third, when he looked at Will’s slack face as they lay, bleeding and near death on the sand, and his only thoughts were we are together and I love him, still.)

Will is lost to him. Remote and alone behind a wall that is deceptively transparent and elusive. It can’t be touched or broken through. The barrier is behind Will’s distant eyes and cracked smile.

He is alive and he doesn’t want to be. It’s a feeling Hannibal has never experienced. The entire length of his life, he has wanted nothing more than to be fully, deeply alive.

(At the foot of the bluff, he wondered when being alive began to mean being with Will.)

Another morning dawns in their latest safehouse, only the third they’ve occupied since their emergence from the Chesapeake Bay. It’s remote and cold; they are the only two humans for miles. Hannibal watches Will across the table as Will mechanically eats his breakfast. He looks at Will, close enough to touch…

…and feels alone.

Hannibal clenches his jaw, but leaves the table without a word. Nothing he says would have an effect in any case. But there are means of influence other than words. Will is frozen in stasis; Hannibal will find a way to set him in motion.

Chapter Text

I.

“Where are we?” Will asks, voice rough with disuse. The house before them is large and dark. Three stories, a wraparound porch, a coat of paint that looks as though it would be pale yellow in the sunlight. The moon has turned it into something closer to silver. They’ve only been in the car for a couple of hours. Hannibal usually puts more distance between safehouses.

For the first time in weeks, Will’s intuition prickles like a limb too long asleep.

Hannibal had told him to pack his things as they always did when it was time to move. As always, Will had complied in silence, asking no questions. Hannibal’s expression had been flat and withdrawn — but something had twitched behind that veil.

“Where are we?” Will asks again, an edge of demand in his tone. Beside him, Hannibal cuts the engine and the lights. They’re parked a short distance down the long and winding drive, stopping before their lights could pierce the hedges on the front lawn. Before the engine could be heard from the house.

Before whoever is inside could detect them.

“Who’s inside?” Will grinds out. What he means is I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.

Hannibal looks only at Will, studying his face, the slight shake of his hands.

“Come and see,” he says, and climbs from the car, leaving the door slightly ajar. Avoiding any sounds that might give them away, Will knows. He follows him.

The drive is made of gravel. They walk on the damp grass. The house looms over them, the windows gaping like empty eye sockets in the moonlight. There’s a distant metallic clanging.

“Hannibal—“ Will warns, but Hannibal silences him with a gesture. Will can make out the stiffening of his shoulders in the dark. Whatever’s going on here, something is wrong. Will pulls even with him instead of trailing behind. They’re safer together.

The screen door is rocking back and forth on its hinges, an empty, clanging sound. Behind it, the front door is open. There is nothing but darkness inside.

The prickle in the back of Will’s mind becomes a scream. Danger.

Hannibal walks forward, of course.

Will seizes his arm. “Don’t,” he hisses. He studies Hannibal’s face and draws a few conclusions. “You don’t know what’s in there.” The statement has no effect on Hannibal, but Will can still feel that it’s true. “It’s not safe,” he tries again. The ghost of a smile warms Hannibal’s expression.

“Then come with me,” Hannibal replies, and turns back to the door. Will wants to yell at him, but the pressing silence of the night has swallowed his voice. Tearing the quiet would feel like violence; a shout threatens to plunge the tension through his skin like a blade. Will grits his teeth and follows Hannibal up the stairs. The tapping of the screen door mostly covers the hollow sound of their footsteps on the porch. Will’s nerves scream regardless.

Hannibal enters first; Will can hear him inhale once he joins him in the dark. Will can’t smell anything.

“The house is empty,” Hannibal says, whispering, still. “I am almost certain.”

“Almost,” Will mutters, searching for the nearest light switch. “You have a knife?”

Hannibal nods, just visible in the shadows.

Will steps toward the light switch — and nearly trips over something large on the floor. The heavy thump makes his heart freeze and then race. He knows what he will see even before he flips the switch and the lights blaze to life.

A crumpled body. A man, early forties, stocky build, dark hair and complexion. Will doesn’t know him. He glances at the blood pooling around his head as he checks for a pulse and, after a moment, shakes his head. Nobody will ever know him again.

“Who is this?” Will asks, his voice approaching a normal volume. The house feels empty. The silence doesn’t tremble with concealment and held breaths. It’s a fallible feeling, Will knows, but his instincts are good and Hannibal’s nose is better.

“I’m not sure,” Hannibal answers. Will shoots a quick look at him. There’s something behind that statement, a but or an I suspect. But he seems determined not to elaborate and Will doesn’t care enough to press him. Whatever Hannibal’s plans for the night were, they seem to have gone awry. Will can’t be bothered to deal with dead men or with riddles.

“In that case,” Will says, “Can we go now?”

Hannibal is stoic, but there’s something about his air that reminds Will of a magician interrupted mid-act. It gives Will a cold stab of satisfaction to see him frustrated. But, as always, his perception doesn’t only extend to the things he wants to see. He also sees the concern behind Hannibal’s eyes. The same concern he’s seen for weeks as Will has grown more silent and withdrawn. The stab of satisfaction becomes a stab of something else entirely. It’s a convoluted swirl of emotion. Anger is the only part of the cocktail he’s willing to allow.

“Hannibal,” he says, anger swelling like a wound. “Where the hell—“

A sound splits the silence: a high, warbling cry. They turn to stare at the staircase leading from the foyer to the landing above.

Will pushes past Hannibal when he recognizes the sound. Somewhere, a child is crying.

He makes the landing before Hannibal starts up behind him, his steps measured and methodical. Will opens every door on the long hallway, following the sound further into the house. The crying isn’t pained or desperate, just miserable and very much alone. The need to stop the sound pulls at Will like fishhooks embedded in his skin. The echoes of someone else’s misery are all he can hear and feel; for the first time in weeks, he can’t hear or feel his own.

The second floor is empty. The darkened master bedroom looks slept in, but the other bedrooms are all empty and undisturbed. No sign of anyone. Will catches sight of Hannibal waiting on the second floor landing as he finally turns to ascend the narrow stairs leading to what might be a small third floor or an oversized attic. He climbs.

The cries get louder. Will thinks the child can’t be very old, but it’s certainly not an infant. The door at the top of the stairs is closed, but it opens easily enough, revealing an attic filled with boxes and plastic-covered furniture. It’s maze-like in the dark, a tight tangle of dust and debris. A small, round window allows a shaft of moonlight into the room, lighting Will’s way.

“Hello?” he calls, loud enough to be heard, but gentle enough not to startle. The crying chokes off abruptly. Will hears Hannibal climbing the stairs behind him.

Will scans the room and steps toward a pile of boxes with a tiny crawlspace near the base. He crouches down and just glimpses a pair of wide eyes. “Hey,” he says, “It’s okay. You can come out.”

A whimper is the only response. The sobs begin again, more powerfully than before, and Will can hear the fear in them. It drags across his skin like blades. Behind him, Hannibal has found the light switch. Under the boxes, Will can finally make out the figure of a small boy, no more than three or four years old. He's red-faced and curled in on himself, fresh tears staining his cheeks. Will sucks in a sharp breath.

He stares at the familiar face in front of him. He’s seen it before, only once, in a photo on Alana Bloom’s desk. He knows where they are. He knows who this is.

“Will,” says Hannibal.

Will suppresses the urge to turn around and punch him. “Hannibal,” he says, not bothering to veil the fury in his tone. “This is Morgan Verger.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “I imagine it is.”

Morgan’s cries only intensify. It sounds as though he’s having trouble breathing.

“Morgan,” Will says quietly. “Come on out now. I’m going to help you.” The wailing continues; Morgan doesn’t even pause for air.

Hannibal’s hand is on Will’s shoulder, moving him aside gently but insistently. He crouches down and meets Morgan’s eyes. “Morgan, my name is Hannibal,” he says. “And this is Will. We’re going to help you find your mothers.” The crying trails off into hiccups and gasps. “But first I think we should get you something to eat.” Morgan hesitates. “Would you like something to eat, Will?” Hannibal turns to look at him expectantly. The look becomes faintly exasperated when Will doesn’t immediately reply.

“Oh,” says Will stupidly. “Yes.”

Hannibal nods and looks back at Morgan. “Let’s have a snack, Morgan. Come out now.” Morgan shifts forward just slightly, wide-eyed. Hannibal coaxes him forward with words of praise and outstretched arms. “Very good, Morgan. Just like that.” When Morgan finally emerges, looking very small in a pair of rumpled pajamas, he practically collapses into Hannibal’s open arms, gripping him tightly and burying his face in his shoulder. Hannibal stands and carries him downstairs. Will blinks and follows.

He arrives at the second story landing in time to see Hannibal deliberately shift to block Morgan’s view of the body in the foyer as they descend the stairs. He’s also talking in a low voice, distracting him. They disappear into a corridor.

Will follows the sound of their voices down the hall, one deep and calm, one high and hesitant. Hannibal is coldly regarding a box of cereal when Will steps into the kitchen. Morgan is nodding at the box eagerly. Hannibal places him at the table; Will makes himself useful by hunting for a bowl and a spoon. When Hannibal sets about pouring the cereal and the milk, Will gets his first good look at the boy.

Morgan Verger is small, with close-cropped light brown hair. He’s wearing soft pajamas printed with planets and stars and he looks almost unbearably like Alana. Will looks away.

Hannibal’s disgust over the cereal is obvious in the stiff way he hands Morgan the spoon. When Morgan takes his first bite, Hannibal looks slightly pained. Will almost smiles; he remembers how angry he is just in time to avoid it.

“So this is where they’ve been hiding,” he says, cold as stone. “How long have you known about it?”

Morgan flinches a little as he chews.

“Lower your voice,” Hannibal says without emotion. Then: “I’ve kept track.”

“Of course you have,” Will mutters, barely managing to avoid a few more choice words. “I can’t believe—“

“Can’t you?” Hannibal interjects calmly.

Will stares at him. “No,” he says at last. “You’re right. I can. So what was the plan tonight? Get me here under false pretenses, involve me in—“ —death? He stops himself from saying the word. No need to frighten the kid. “I wasn’t responding the way you wanted, so you decided to introduce, what, some external stimuli?” His rage is white-hot and barely containable; he’s almost shaking with it. It flares, burning him — and gutters like a flame with nothing to consume but ashes. In a moment, he’s as cold and numb as ever. He swallows hard and grinds his voice into something almost level. “This is never going to change, is it? It will always be—“ he pauses a long time and Hannibal’s eyes bore into him. Will refuses to meet his gaze. “It will always be this,” Will says at last. The words pour from him like blood, leaving him drained and exhausted. “Well I can’t do this.”

He can feel Hannibal’s distress even without looking at him. He takes up more and less space in the silent kitchen, the way a star crushes in on itself — just before it explodes.

Will flinches from painful memories and raises his hand to halt whatever confrontation they’re rapidly approaching.

“We have bigger problems to worry about. Like what happened here. You weren’t expecting that.”

“I wasn’t,” Hannibal confirms. When Will finally forces his eyes up, he sees Hannibal’s distress like a fire in the distance. A safe distance for now, but chewing its way closer bit by bit.

Will sighs.

“What would you have us do, Will?” Hannibal lingers over the word us.

Will has a headache. He rubs at his temple absently, trying to banish the pain there. Trying to banish the faint heat of Hannibal’s desperation and the tears that still linger in Morgan’s eyes. What he ought to be feeling is overwhelmed, but there's something in his chest that isn’t fear or despair or resignation. Will feels purpose. He seizes it and feels almost calm.

“We need to find Margot and Alana.”

Chapter Text

II.

“Bad guys,” Morgan says when he finishes his cereal. “Momma said run.”

He launches into a description that is long and mostly unintelligible to Will. Hannibal listens carefully to the entire recitation. When Morgan lapses into silence, looking tiny, rumpled, and gray, Hannibal turns to Will and translates: “Kidnapping. I don’t believe he saw precisely what happened or how many there were.”

Will restrains himself from showing his dismay, feeling Morgan’s eyes on his face. He nods at Hannibal. “I’m going to take a look,” he says, turning toward the hall that leads back to the foyer and the cooling corpse there.

“Careful,” whispers Morgan as Will passes the doorway, his voice cracked from however long he’d spent crying. Will has the uncomfortable feeling that it might have been a very long time.

“Don’t worry,” Hannibal says to Morgan. Will hears the chair creak as Morgan is shifted back into Hannibal’s arms. “Will is safe.”

Will hears the rest of the sentiment clearly. If he wasn’t, I would go with him.

A rustle of clothing as Morgan settles himself against Hannibal’s shoulder. Will realizes he’s lingering in the hallway and forces himself back into motion.

The body is crumpled on the floor exactly as before. It’s always strange, Will thinks, seeing bodies that can no longer move. He studies the tiny forehead wound, clearly the source of the puddled blood; the curl of the dead man’s fingers, where he’d no doubt been gripping a gun when he fell; the fine spray of blood that is mostly on the floor by his feet and only barely on the white wall behind. There are scuff marks by the stairs and the door. A single bullet is lodged in the drywall beside the doorframe. Will closes his eyes and lets the pendulum behind them swing.

The pooled blood disappears first. Another swing and the stocky man is upright, a gun in his hand and a blank expression of shock on his face as a bullet sinks deadly and deep behind his skull. One last swing, and the man is outside, crouched in the dark, muscles coiled for a fight.

I am not alone, thinks Will. A job this important takes a team. We’ve been waiting for our chance for a long time. My targets are always visible, always guarded. We have them now. Here, in the middle of nowhere. No one will notice their disappearance, because they disappeared on their own. Now we’ll get what we want.

Will fights the urge to shake off the man and his violent mind, running the images in his mind forward. He watches as the nameless man and his partners break into the house. But their targets are ready for them. A bullet whizzes past, missing them in the dark. Swearing, someone hits the lights. The second bullet finds its mark, and the man blinks once, falls. I’m going to die, thinks Will, ignoring the cold horror of the feeling. Don’t leave me here.

But his cohorts do leave him, subduing the targets and scuffing the floor as they drag them outside. One of them takes the fallen man’s gun. Maybe it was traceable.

The man stares sightlessly, his body radiating the last of its heat in the dark.

Will opens his eyes. The body is stiff and cold.

When he goes through his pockets, they’re all empty. No phone, wallet, or keys. He returns to the kitchen.

Hannibal is standing by the window, rocking slightly from side to side. Morgan is asleep on his shoulder.

“Did you find anything?” he asks in a whisper.

Will shakes his head. “They might be hired guns. Or at least this one, since they didn’t have any qualms about leaving him. Of course, they might have thought no one knew about this place. They could be planning to come back and collect him. We should leave.”

Hannibal nods and precedes Will out the door. Will turns off every light as they go, leaving the house wrapped in shadows. Hannibal pauses in the doorway to the foyer. “Will, the light?”

“I’ll get it. Go ahead.”

“The light first, please.”

Realization dawns. Hannibal doesn’t want to risk Morgan seeing the body. Will feels something thorny and bitter in his throat. It claws its way out before he can think better of it. “I thought you believed in growth through trauma.”

Hannibal turns to meet his eyes placidly. “There is some truth to that. But before a certain age, trauma does not inspire growth. It only causes damage.”

Will stares at him for a long moment. And then he walks past him to kill the lights.

They leave the house with careful steps once their eyes adjust to the darkness.

===

“Where are we going?”

They’re on the main road when Will finally breaks the tense silence. Hannibal is in the backseat with Morgan still asleep on his shoulder. Will is behind the wheel. It’s the first time he’s driven in a long time.

“Not far tonight,” Hannibal answers. There aren’t any streetlights and Will can just barely make out his eyes in the dark. “Morgan needs to sleep and recover. We need to discuss our options.”

Will nods and watches the passing exits for a motel.

“You sure that stopping is the best plan? Whoever did this already has a head start on us.”

“True,” Hannibal replies. “But I believe I know who is responsible. I need some time to make inquiries about their whereabouts.”

Will wants to slam on the brakes and demand that Hannibal explain himself, but he’s tired and there’s a kid in the backseat, so he settles for a tight, angry voice when he asks, “And how do you know that?”

Hannibal answers with a question of his own. “Do you remember the men who moved us between Florence and Muskrat Farm, Will?”

Will frowns, shaking his head. “Not well. I wasn’t in any shape to notice details.”

“You spent the majority of the journey unconscious,” Hannibal agrees evenly. As though he hadn’t been responsible for the injury and the drugs that would have kept Will that way. Will waits to feel angry about the memories, but all he can feel is a bone-deep weariness.

“It was the Deogracias family that handled our transportation. Mason employed three brothers in America and several more family members in Italy. I met Carlo, Matteo, and Tommaso during our near-miss with the pigs.”

Will nearly snorts about the our in that statement—he had, after all, been standing with Mason for most of it—but it was true enough, in the end. He’d cut Hannibal free. But there had been a body dangling from the harness when he’d raised it from the pig pen to check. Will pushes away the memory of the cold and breathless moment when he hadn’t been sure whether Hannibal was at the end of that harness. But it hadn’t been him. It had been—

“Carlo,” Will remembers. “He was in the pig pen.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agrees. “And Matteo visited me in my office.” Never to emerge again, Will fills in silently. “I wasn’t sure what became of Tommaso until tonight.” Anticipating Will’s question, Hannibal continues, “All told, I spent a fair amount of time in the presence of the Deogracias family. I’d recognize their peculiar body odor anywhere.”

“You smelled them.”

Hannibal nods in the dark.

“Why didn’t you say something before?”

“I wanted to hear your conclusions before muddying the waters with outside facts.”

Will sighs, but doesn’t complain. Hannibal had told him fairly quickly, all things considered.

“Muskrat Farm was populated largely by members of the Deogracias family the night we escaped,” Hannibal muses quietly.

Will frowns. “I thought you—” he trails off, remembering Morgan’s presence just in time.

—killed them all.

“The police reports said there weren’t…that there were no…”

…survivors.

Will tries again. “You were covered in—“

—blood.

There’s just no kid-friendly way to say any of this. All at once, Will feels old and tainted.

Hannibal, for his part, is completely calm. “Yes,” he says, a blanket agreement to the unspoken horrors. “But surely the entire family didn’t cross the ocean with us. There must have been some who remained behind. And, of course, there is the elusive Tommaso.”

“Great,” Will mutters. “So we know who did it. How do you plan on finding them?”

“I have a few contacts in Florence. I’ll get in touch.”

“Any idea why they did it?”

Hannibal’s eyes glitter in the dark. “Why does anyone do anything, Will? Or perhaps I should rephrase. Why do people with no gifts and no imagination do anything?”

Will ignores Hannibal’s attempt to set himself and Will above everyone else, although he becomes complicit in the sentiment when he understands it and answers, “Money.”

Hannibal nods. “I don’t imagine Mason Verger paid very well after his death. And I don’t imagine Margot paid at all.”

An exit sign promising a selection of cheap and out-of-the-way hotels looms in the headlights. Will sighs and pulls off the highway.

===

They find a motel cheap enough that the front desk will accept cash and Will is ninety percent sure the security cameras are for show. The room isn’t the worst Will’s ever stayed in, but that’s not much of a recommendation. Hannibal doesn’t react. He settles Morgan on the bed. Morgan rubs his eyes and blinks in confusion.

“Lie down,” Hannibal says quietly. “It’s time to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

Morgan nods sleepily and curls up against the pillow. Hannibal disappears without a word.

Will sits in the chair by the door and knits his fingers together to keep from nervously drumming them against the armrests. A hitched breath is Will’s only warning before Morgan is crying.

He kneels by the bed, trying not to look as desperate as he feels. “What’s wrong?” he asks, realizing too late that it’s a idiotic question. What isn’t wrong?

“Momma,” Morgan wails. “Want Momma.”

Will spends a long moment paralyzed by the misery of the little boy. He’d never been good with small children. They were too needy and fragile. What could he possibly tell him? Your mothers were taken by some terrible men who won’t hesitate to kill them if they don’t pay. But don’t worry, we’ll try to find them before anybody dies. Well, anyone we care about. Hannibal’s better at killing than anyone I know. Except me, maybe.

Their collective misery increases in time with Morgan’s sobs.

“Morgan,” says Will, finally. “Don’t worry—“

The door opens and Hannibal is by Morgan’s side in an instant. “We’ll look for them tomorrow, Morgan. Do you like bedtime stories?”

Morgan blinks, a few heavy tears rolling down his face. His breaths are ragged, but he nods.

Will gets out of the way. He busies himself with arranging the suitcases Hannibal brought while Hannibal tucks Morgan under the blankets.

“Once upon a time, there was a large black spider.”

“A spider?” croaks Morgan, tired but interested.

“A large black one,” Hannibal confirms. “He lived all alone in his beautiful web. And one day, at the very edge of his beautiful web, he met a caterpillar who lived in a nearby tree.”

“The spider is bad,” Morgan decides.

“Why do you say that?” Hannibal asks, settling himself on the side of the bed.

Morgan’s eyes are wide, but his tears have mostly dried. “Spiders eat bugs.”

Hannibal considers. “That’s true,” he says at last. “But do you think they eat their friends?”

Morgan looks confused, but finally shakes his head. Hannibal continues. “The caterpillar became the spider’s very good friend. They both spun silk, you see, in very intricate designs that shimmered in the light and swayed in the wind. Other creatures of the forest marveled at their work.”

“Is he going to eat the caterpillar?” Morgan whispers.

Hannibal smiles, launching into a long story of the adventures of the spider and the caterpillar. How they climbed tall trees together and explored the forest where they lived. Sometimes, they even worked together on webs.

Will listens to Hannibal’s story as he stretches himself out on the second bed. His body is heavy and he’s pretty sure he could fall asleep like this, still in his clothes, on top of the slightly musty duvet. He forces his eyes open again, and sees that Morgan seems to be fading. His eyes are drooping as he listens.

“One day, the spider looked for his friend the caterpillar, but he couldn’t find him,” Hannibal continues quietly, careful not to disturb the sleep creeping over Morgan. “All he found was a something he’d never seen before. It was long and it shone in the light. Inside, he could see his friend’s face. It was like looking through glass, unable to touch. His friend had built a chrysalis.”

Morgan is asleep. Will isn’t far off from sleep himself. He keeps his eyes shut as Hannibal moves about the room almost silently, finally settling on the bed with Will. “I don’t want to disturb Morgan,” is his only explanation. Will nods, eyes shut.

“Children are very much like dogs, Will,” Hannibal continues after a moment. “They’re sensitive to the emotional cues of those around them. You were afraid, so Morgan cried.”

Will refuses to open his eyes. “I’m not afraid of a kid, Hannibal.”

“No. But you are afraid of disappointing him.”

It takes a great deal of effort to stop the flinch that coils in Will’s muscles, but he manages. He rolls onto his side, his back to Hannibal. “I’m going to sleep.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply. Will feels him lift the blanket and slide under without touching him. He finally cracks an eye and sees the steady rise and fall of Morgan’s chest in the bed opposite. He feels Hannibal’s distant warmth at his back.

Will doesn’t fall asleep quickly, but when he does, he dreams of caterpillars and butterflies.

Chapter Text

III.

The clock reads 4:04 when Will wakes for the first time. He’s freezing on top of the duvet, and his clothes feel stiff and uncomfortable. He rolls onto his back and finds Hannibal’s side of the bed empty and cold. Will can hear him just outside the door, speaking in what sounds like low and rapid Italian.

He hauls himself upright in the dark and pulls off his outer layers, tossing them over a chair. When he climbs back into bed and slides under the duvet, he glances at Morgan before closing his eyes. Morgan is still sleeping peacefully.

===

Will wakes to a jab in the back and sunlight breaking weakly through the curtains.

“He kicks in his sleep,” Hannibal says from behind him. “I didn’t realize.”

Will rolls over. Morgan has migrated into their bed sometime in the last few hours. He has a deathgrip on Hannibal’s chest and appears to be using him as a pillow. Hannibal is looking intently at his tablet and doesn’t seem phased. He’s also dressed, groomed, and radiating the aura of a man without a care in the world.

Will doesn’t feel capable of verbalizing yet, so he settles for a faint groan.

“Coffee is on the table,” Hannibal says and scrolls on his tablet.

After a few sips, Will sits on the bed Morgan abandoned. “You were on the phone. Did you have any luck?”

Hannibal nods. “The Questura di Firenze never disappoints. I contacted the inspector who sold us to Mason in years past.” He sees Will’s question before it comes and smoothly intercepts it. “Without revealing my identity, of course. He is still quite amenable to bribery, and once I’d wired some money, he became very open about the polizia’s information regarding the activities of the Deogracias family. Tommaso Deogracias is not only alive and well, his name is on the lease of two properties within drivable distance of the safehouse they attacked.” He passes Will the tablet; Will finds himself looking at a map with two points marked. It’s a drivable distance, but not an easy one. If they pick the wrong location out of the gate, they won’t be able to check the other until tomorrow at the earliest. Will presses his lips into a line.

“It never fails to disappoint me how much information is willfully exchanged for money,” Hannibal muses. “The one should be more important than the other.”

“You don’t look disappointed,” Will mutters, passing the tablet back. If anything, Hannibal looks pleased with himself. Not that Will can complain. It’s good information. “Any idea which one we should hit first?”

“I’m considering,” Hannibal says, but it’s Will’s face that he’s studying. “What’s your plan, Will?”

“That’s a good question,” Will answers, and his voice breaks over an aborted laugh. “I wish I knew the answer. I—“ he pauses and something like despair creeps over him. “Morgan should have his mothers. We were there to hurt them. I’d rather help.”

Hannibal looks thoughtful. “Saving the wounded bird rather than crushing it,” he murmurs after a moment. Bedelia’s words, once upon a time. Will’s anger is instantaneous, but undirected. He doesn’t know whether Bedelia heard the analogy from Hannibal — or the other way around. Will sighs.

“You don’t have to come,” he says. His voice, counter to his intention, sounds gloomy. “In fact, you shouldn’t. How can I trust you not to finish what you wanted to start?”

Hannibal’s expression occupies the liminal space between offended and amused. Will can also perceive something bright and cold around the edges.

Fear. Of what, Will isn’t sure.

Will keeps pressing. “Alana told me you threatened her. And her family.”

Between them, Morgan is still soundly asleep. Hannibal’s hand is resting on his hair.

Will lets out a weary breath. “How can I possibly trust you, Hannibal?”

Morgan inhales and shifts in his sleep. Hannibal strokes lightly across his hair, settling him. The silence is long.

“Trust me the same way I trusted you,” Hannibal says at last. “When we were meant to leave together. Trust is the combination of choice and foolishness. Sometimes such investments pay off.”

Will fights the urge to flinch away from Hannibal’s direct and piercing gaze. “Your trust didn’t end well,” he whispers.

“I didn’t allow it to,” Hannibal replies. There’s something ragged at the edge of his voice. “I should have waited for your choice instead of making my own. Now we will never know what might have been. We only know what is. The choice is yours now. It always should have been yours. Make it.”

Will’s head swims. Finally, he nods.

Hannibal smiles. “Let’s begin with the western location,” he suggests. “It’s remote. Ideal for hostages.”

Will agrees without an argument. After all, Hannibal would know.

===

Their voices and movements finally wake Morgan. Hannibal produces a box of his favorite cereal from somewhere and he eats in silence as Will carries suitcases to the car.

There’s a brand new car seat in the backseat. How much had Hannibal accomplished while they’d been sleeping? Will sighs and heads back to the room.

The water is running in the bathtub when he returns. “I thought we were leaving,” Will says. Hannibal is pulling toddler-sized clothes from a shopping bag.

“He needs a bath,” Hannibal says by way of explanation. “Then we will leave. Would you like to help him or shall I?”

Will stares. “He can’t do it himself?”

Hannibal blinks once. “He’s three, Will.”

There’s no further discussion; Hannibal assumes control. Will feels vaguely put out, like he’s been misjudged somehow. He sits on the bed and studies the map on Hannibal’s tablet as he waits.

The water in the tub finally stops running. Will hears Morgan splashing around. They’re talking a little, back and forth, voices blurred by the echo of tile surfaces all around. But Morgan sounds happy.

Will stares at the little red dot representing their first destination and hopes his mothers are still alive.

===

Morgan settles into his car seat easily enough. He’s wearing a remarkably stylish ensemble of slacks, a blue button-up, laced dress shoes, and a jacket. Will fights the urge to ask how long it took Hannibal to find an outfit he approved of and whether he’d been disappointed that there was no time for tailoring. Hannibal makes no objection when Will settles into the driver’s seat, contenting himself instead with programming the GPS and flipping through the radio until he finds the local classical station. An opera is playing. Will doesn’t recognize it, but he hears a harpsichord and Hannibal looks particularly blissed out, so it’s probably something Baroque.

Will pulls away from the hotel, following the route on the GPS. “Um,” says Morgan behind them.

“Yes?” Hannibal prompts.

“Can we listen to a good song?” Morgan asks.

Will can’t help himself; he laughs.

Hard.

Hannibal’s expression is distantly sour. Will knows what he'll say. Something about taste and the importance of developing it early. He interrupts before Hannibal can even open his mouth to speak.

“Hannibal,” Will says with something close to glee. “He’s three.” With that unassailable defense, he changes the station.

Will monitors Hannibal’s expression as the miles fly by. After hours of listening to a radio station aimed at kids, he’s progressed from miffed to martyred. Lulled by the motion of the car, Morgan eventually falls asleep; Will takes pity on Hannibal and turns the radio off.

They don’t speak as their destination nears. Will feels dread welling up in his chest like a flood ready to drown him. Hannibal seems eager in his distant, controlled way. Will wonders about how much he’s missed the thrill of investigations.

The thrill of the hunt.

The red dot on the GPS turns out to be a run-down warehouse with a wire fence, a deserted parking lot, and no signs of life. It’s a short distance from the highway, out of sight and out of the way. There are no neighboring structures anywhere on the horizon.

Hannibal looks at Will expectantly.

“I’ll check it out,” Will answers Hannibal’s unspoken question. “If this looks like the place, I’ll come back and get you.”

Hannibal nods. He doesn’t say be careful or don’t do anything stupid. Instead, Hannibal watches him climb from the car and simply says, “I’ll wait for you.”

===

Dust swirls around Will’s feet as he walks across the empty parking lot. Hannibal doesn’t ask him any questions when he’s back in the driver’s seat; his stride seems to have told him everything.

“No one’s been here in years as far as I can tell,” Will says, already reversing the car and angling for the thin strip of road that will carry them back to the highway. “We wasted an entire day.”

“We narrowed our options,” Hannibal replies, resetting the GPS. “We’re not out of time yet.”

“We might be,” Will mutters darkly, and tries not to think of the statistical likelihood that Alana and Margot will both be dead before they can find them.

Several miles have fallen away behind them before Hannibal speaks again. “Assuming the worst, Will?”

“Not assumption,” Will says, feeling tired. “Experience. The worst is usually the truth.”

===

Morgan wakes up long before they’re ready to stop for the night. He fidgets in his car seat before finally making an unintelligible announcement that includes the words hungry and potty. Will takes the first exit he can find. Hannibal takes Morgan to the bathroom at a gas station while Will fills the tank. He almost regrets that he’s missing the opportunity to see Hannibal in a gas station bathroom. The image pulls a grin from him. For a fraction of a moment, Will forgets to feel the burden of responsibility. For Morgan, for Alana and Margot, even for Hannibal.

Even for himself.

The moment passes; the ache is back in his chest and his smile crumbles away.

Hannibal is buckling Morgan into his car seat when Will drops himself back behind the wheel.

“You’re not gonna like this,” he says to Hannibal. Hannibal freezes for a moment as he adjusts Morgan’s shoulder straps. Will waits until Hannibal is buckled in himself to continue. “Morgan needs a snack. I’m going to get him something while we’re here.”

“From a gas station,” Hannibal answers, not quite a question.

“Yeah. It’s the easiest thing. Do you think he has any food allergies?”

“Doubtful. There’s no family history on either side. I’ll make him something when we stop for the night.”

“You think we can find a suite with a kitchenette anywhere near here?” Will retorts. “More importantly, do you think he can wait?”

As if proving a point, Morgan leans forward as far as his shoulder straps will allow and points vigorously. “Chicken nuggets!” he says. Will and Hannibal both follow the trajectory of his finger to a Burger King across the road.

Hannibal’s recoil is almost visible. “He’s had nothing but processed sugar in the past twenty-four hours,” he says, still addressing Will.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to have that explained to him. Especially when he’s so hungry. You want chicken nuggets, Morgan?”

That inspires a long stretch of enthusiastic babbling and nodding and bouncing within the confines of the car seat. Hannibal looks distantly pained, but doesn’t protest again.

Will orders a kid’s meal with chicken nuggets for Morgan and a Whopper Meal for himself. Hannibal pointedly doesn’t ask for anything. Will decides to eat and drive to save time. He can feel Hannibal’s disapproval radiating like heat.

“I’ll drive,” Hannibal offers. The tone is one of command. “You can eat.”

“I’ve got it—“ Will starts, just as a slice of tomato, lubricated with entirely too much ketchup and mayonnaise, falls directly into his lap.

“—shit,” he finishes.

“Language,” Hannibal warns sharply, but it’s too late.

“Shit!” Morgan chirps happily. “Shit! Shiiiiiit!” The string of expletives breaks off as he stuffs a chicken nugget into his mouth.

“When we find his mothers,” Hannibal sighs, “you will be explaining his vocabulary.” He watches ruefully as Morgan demolishes his nuggets and fries. “You’ll also be explaining the state of his health.”

Chapter Text

IV.

When they stop for the night, Hannibal picks a slightly nicer hotel. Will would have preferred a place that would let them pay in cash, but Hannibal seems confident in the strength of their false identities and the credit cards that go with them. Will is too tired to argue. Besides, a decent hotel means a clean bathroom.

The hot shower works wonders on his stiff back and shoulders after a day in the car. When he emerges, Hannibal has settled Morgan in one of the beds. Morgan eyes the TV speculatively, but he asks for a story. Hannibal hangs his jacket in the closet and sits at the foot of the bed.

“Where were we?” he asks thoughtfully. Always theatrical, Will thinks. He’s surprised when the thought is fond and not bitter. “Ah yes,” Hannibal continues. “The spider and his friend.”

Will combs his hair, tosses dirty clothes into his suitcase, and pretends not to listen to the story.

“The caterpillar had built himself a chrysalis,” Hannibal begins. Morgan, propped on two pillows, listens avidly. “He was inside a very long time. Every day, the spider came to visit him, hoping he would come back out again. Something was happening inside the chrysalis. A change. The spider wasn’t sure what was changing or when his friend might return. Do you know why a caterpillar makes itself a chrysalis?” Hannibal asks.

Morgan shakes his head.

“They go inside and turn into butterflies. Have you ever seen a butterfly, Morgan?”

Morgan nods enthusiastically, giving a disjointed description of an encounter with a butterfly outside his house. Will wonders if he means Muskrat Farm. Hannibal listens attentively and nods.

“Yes, Morgan, exactly. Caterpillars become butterflies. The spider knew this, but he wasn’t sure about it. His friend the caterpillar was becoming something — but what? The spider came back again and again and whispered to his friend through the walls between them. He told him about the trees they would explore when he came out again. He told him about the webs they would build together.”

Morgan slides under the covers, sinking into his pillow as he listens. Hannibal pauses to tuck the blanket around him. “One day,” he continues, “the spider returned to find that the chrysalis was open.”

Morgan’s eyes go wide. Will drifts to the window, listening just as hard.

“The caterpillar was gone. But, beside the empty chrysalis, there was a beautiful butterfly.”

“With wings?” Morgan interrupts excitedly.

“With wings,” Hannibal agrees. “And large eyes. He could see everything. The spider was overjoyed. His friend was with him at last. He wanted to embrace him with all his heart.”

This is where the happy ending ought to be, Will thinks distantly. A simple story, a tiny mystery, a taste of angst, quickly resolved. Easily digestible for children. But he knows Hannibal isn’t finished.

Morgan waits. The air of the room around them seems to grow heavy and still, as though it, too, is waiting for the end of Hannibal’s story.

“But his friend the butterfly was silent and unmoving. He would not embrace the spider and he would not speak. He only stared with his new eyes at the spider who had been his dearest friend.”

“Is he dead?” Morgan gasps.

“An excellent question,” Hannibal replies. “But no, the butterfly was not dead, although he was trying to be. He didn’t want to fly with his new wings or go on adventures with his friend the spider.”

“He won’t talk to the spider?” asks Morgan. “Why?”

“He was sad,” Hannibal answers.

“He should talk to his friend,” Morgan decides. “And not be sad anymore.”

“I agree,” Hannibal says.

Will has had about enough of this bullshit.

“You forgot the part where the spider hurt him,” Will interjects savagely. “And ate his friends.”

Morgan looks confused. “He did?”

“That’s why the caterpillar — butterfly — whatever — was so upset. He didn’t want to talk, because there wasn’t anything to say. The spider just kept hurting him and hurting people who didn’t deserve it. And he would never stop. The caterpillar just wanted it to stop.”

Will can feel Hannibal’s gaze, but he refuses to meet it. He feels like a wound suddenly drained: empty and aching. Morgan is frowning hard.

“I don’t like this story,” he says, and lays down.

“Yeah, try living it,” mutters Will.

Hannibal whispers softly to Morgan for a moment. “Time to sleep now,” he continues in a normal tone of voice. “Goodnight, Morgan.”

“Goodnight,” Morgan answers sleepily. Hannibal turns off the light.

Will stares through the window. Outside their door, a hanging fixture provides the only light. Dozens of moths circle it, flinging themselves fruitlessly at the glass.

He feels Hannibal’s approach in the dark. “What did you tell him?” he asks. Hannibal hovers somewhere behind his shoulder.

“I gave him a better ending. The one you told was upsetting.”

Anger surges in Will’s chest, scorching and destructive. “Imagine that,” he says bitterly. But the anger cools and Will feels a hint of distant regret. “Do you think he’ll be able to sleep?”

“He’ll be fine,” Hannibal answers. The silence between them is thick and it never settles. “Will you?” Hannibal adds after a moment.

A laugh, broken and wild, bubbles in Will’s throat; he holds it back so Morgan can sleep. “I haven’t been okay in a long time.”

“I’ve noticed.” It’s a simple statement, even loaded with months and years of context and suffering. Will is shocked when it slips between his ribs like a blade.

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty for abandoning you?” Will whispers. “I’m already so guilty about so many things. I’m not sure I can feel that one.”

“No,” Hannibal replies. “I’m trying to help you carry whatever guilt you feel.” Another long and loaded pause. “I want to help you.”

Will can’t stop the laugh this time, but he restricts it to a low rasp. “Isn’t that what you said the first time around?”

Years of memories and injuries hang between them. But they’re only mist to Will now, pale reflections of thing he felt once upon a time. The one thing that looms before him, solid and terrifying, is the prospect of the future. “What do you want from me?” he asks, and it feels like opening a vein.

“I want—“ Hannibal begins.

“You want me to be you,” Will interrupts, suddenly unable to stem the flow of his words. “You want me to kill and destroy and create with you. I can’t, Hannibal, I can’t…” He scrubs his hands across his face roughly. “I can’t stay with you. Not like this. Not unconditionally.”

Hannibal is silent a long time. Will won’t look at him.

“And if I’m prepared to stay with you unconditionally?” Hannibal says at last.

Will turns, finally, and stares. The light bleeding through the window is pale and casts blue shadows. Hannibal’s stoic expression flickers in silver and shadow, somehow stark and soft at once. He’s entirely sincere.

“Fuck you,” Will whispers through clenched teeth, so angry that tears are burning in his eyes. “‘Unconditionally?’ It’s always conditions with you. And when I can’t meet them, I end up bleeding and alone. You want me to be something I can’t be. I don’t know how many ways I can say it: I can’t be you.”

Will has rarely seen Hannibal react to pain, physical or otherwise. But he feels his flinch shiver in the air between them. “It’s possible I’ve projected a little,” Hannibal says at last.

“A little—“

“But I don’t want you to be me.”

Will blinks. Hannibal doesn’t usually interrupt him.

“Then what in God’s name do you want?”

Hannibal takes a step closer. Through the window Will can hear the moths beating themselves against the glass.

“I want you to be with me,” Hannibal says. “More to the point, I want to be with you. Unconditionally. Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do — or not to do.” The silver light makes Hannibal’s eyes shine in the dark. “Stay with me.”

Will’s mouth falls open, but for a long moment he can’t speak. “You’re not serious,” he forces out at last.

“I am.”

Will can only stare. Words have failed him completely.

Hannibal always moves with grace. But now, when he reaches for Will, his motion comes with a curious lurch, as though he's forgotten how to reach for someone — or never knew how in the first place. Not an act, Will's brain registers, while it's still capable of processing. The moment Hannibal's lips touch his, all thought stops.

The touch pulls an involuntary gasp from behind his frozen lips. It takes him a moment to recognize that he isn't startled; he’s relieved. The endless, mounting pressure between them has finally burst, and Will finds the storm is cleansing instead of destructive. He hadn't realized he wanted this until the moment it occurred. Now he wants nothing else.

Hannibal's lips are fervent against his; he's trying to converse through touch, since words have repeatedly failed them. Will wonders whether this might be the better language for them after all. Hannibal's hands rest against Will's elbows, his grip just shy of bruising. The yearning in his touch burns more than his grip.

His fingers loosen after a moment. Will can almost feel the descent of Hannibal’s despair as he sighs against Will's lips — and begins to pull away. He moves slowly, as though fighting a force much stronger than gravity. Will can almost feel it, the pull trying to crush them together. He wonders about the impact, about whether it might destroy them. But the only alternative is separation. He knows neither of them can survive that.

For once in his life, he decides to move with his urges instead of against them. Will grasps Hannibal’s shoulders and only has a fraction of a second to appreciate the shock behind his eyes before he's kissing him back.

It’s a collision at first, jarring, almost confrontational in its intensity. But the feverish grasping gentles into softer touches. After a moment, Hannibal is almost tender. Will’s mind is quiet and his heart is full of a new ache. He never wants to let go.

Their lips brush when Hannibal repeats himself. “Stay with me.”

Will can barely breathe, let alone think. Fortunately he’s granted a temporary reprieve.

“Um,” says a small voice. Morgan is upright in the far bed. “Are you kissing?” he asks, sounding faintly scandalized. Will is glad for the darkness; it prevents Hannibal from witnessing either his mortification or his intense struggle not to laugh.

“Yes,” Hannibal replies. Without Will’s long relationship with Hannibal, he’d never have been able to detect the stress fractures in his voice. “Go to sleep, Morgan.”

The blankets rustle as Morgan settles himself. “Goodnight,” he calls.

“Goodnight,” says Hannibal, and all at once, he’s pressing his lips against Will’s again. “Stay with me,” he insists in a whisper.

Will can’t seem to find any words. So he kisses him in lieu of an answer.

Chapter Text

V.

Will wakes the next morning to the sound of Morgan humming to himself. It’s a simple and repetitive melody; Will wonders whether it’s a song he heard from his mothers. He banishes the thought and forces himself upright. Morgan is eating more of his favorite cereal at a corner table, his legs dangling from the too-large chair. The look he gives Will is uncertain. “Good morning,” he says with far too much energy for the early hour.

“Good morning,” Will echoes automatically, trying not to sound too brusque. The kid is wary of him as it is. “Where’s Hannibal?”

Morgan points to the door. Will grabs a handful of Morgan’s cereal and eats it on his way over. Hannibal is leaning against the slightly rusted railing around the second-story walkway, watching the thin light of early morning spill across the parking lot. Will moves to stand beside him.

“How did you sleep?” asks Hannibal.

Will snorts. “You slept well,” he mutters. Will had been painfully aware of Hannibal’s proximity beside him all night. Morgan had migrated to Hannibal’s side, and Will eventually drifted off, noting bitterly that Hannibal wasn’t having any trouble sleeping.

“My apologies,” Hannibal says smoothly, and pulls Will into his arms before Will can quite process the motion. He shivers against the feeling of lips against his throat, jaw, and cheek. By the time Hannibal kisses him properly, he’s almost trembling. He certainly doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed by the neediness of his answering sigh. Hannibal smiles against his lips.

“Good morning, Will,” he whispers. One hand has found its way under Will’s shirt, stroking at the skin of his back. Will shivers again, leaning in—

“Hannibal?” calls Morgan from inside the room. “I need more cereal.”

Hannibal feathers one last kiss at the corner of Will’s lips and smooths his shirt back into place. Will blinks slowly, feeling nearly drugged as Hannibal steps away and disappears into the room.

“How do you ask?” says Hannibal’s muffled voice.

“Please can I have more?” Morgan recites dutifully.

“Yes, you may.”

Will stands alone and wraps his arms around himself against the early morning chill. Eventually his head stops spinning. Just in time: Hannibal is back, not so much at his side as pressed up against it. Will watches the sunrise; Hannibal watches Will.

“What if we can’t find them?” Will asks quietly. In the stillness of the morning, it feels as if his words are restricted to them alone, the vibrations limited to their sphere and inaccessible to anyone else’s hearing. As if the two of them exist alone in the world. “What if we’re not in time?”

Hannibal considers the question carefully. “Morgan can stay with us,” he concludes. “If you wish.”

Will looks at him, terrified and comforted by the certainty in Hannibal’s eyes. They stand together and watch the sun rise.

===

The morning is a flurry of preparation. Will tries to help Hannibal pack, but he’s shooed away from any and all organization. Hannibal assigns him the task of watching Morgan as he packs the car. Will is perversely pleased that Hannibal feels confident enough in their newfound equilibrium to bully him in mundane things.

Will doesn’t have equal confidence in his ability to interact with Morgan. He turns on the TV when Hannibal is out of the room and ignores his reproving stare when he returns. Nevertheless, he seems bound and determined to maintain contact with Will. He trails fingers across his shoulders as he passes, strokes his wrist when he has a moment to linger, drops a kiss against his hair just before he departs. Will feels warm, lit up, relaxed. It’s a strange feeling.

“Morgan,” Will asks when the cartoon they’re watching breaks for a commercial. “What was the end of your story last night?”

Morgan eyes him speculatively. “The caterpillar was sad,” he recites from memory, eyes drifting back to the TV screen.

“Yes, I remember,” Will says. “But what happened after that?”

“After?” Morgan echoes, confused for a moment. “Oh. After that, he was happy again.”

===

They reach the second facility leased by Tommaso Deogracias with plenty of daylight to spare. It’s another isolated roadside warehouse, rundown and beneath notice to anyone who didn’t have a reason to look twice. Will sees a number of parked vehicles even from a distance. They leave their own car beside the road, screened by trees from the warehouse. Morgan climbs into Hannibal’s arms as soon as they leave the car.

“We shouldn’t take him,” Will says, nodding at Morgan. “One of us should stay here.”

“You can’t walk into this by yourself, Will,” Hannibal says calmly, but there’s something implacable in his tone. Will sighs.

“We need to take out the sentries first.” He points out two distant figures hovering by the outer gate and the doorway to the warehouse.

Hannibal nods. “Morgan, can you stay with Will for a moment while I take care of something?”

Morgan shakes his head emphatically, tightening his grip on Hannibal's shirt as if to underline his point. Will doesn't have to make use of his empathy to see the clear threat in the boy's body language: he isn't releasing Hannibal without a fit of epic proportions.

“It seems that you'll need to handle this, Will.” Hannibal is guileless, his aura almost as innocent as Morgan's.

Will suspects them both of ulterior motives and collusion.

“I hate you,” he mutters at Hannibal, but his voice comes out without any heat.

"No, you don't!" Morgan retorts, giggling as though Will is obviously kidding.

Maybe, Will thinks with distant hysteria, he is.

Hannibal's smile is faint but warm. "No," he agrees. "He doesn’t."

Sighing, Will holds out a hand. Hannibal reaches into his pocket, extracts a knife, and presses it into his hand like a gift. Will turns away.

“Will,” Hannibal calls after him. “Be careful.”

There’s a painful knot in his throat, but Will doesn’t want to analyze why. He nods instead.

“You’ll see when it’s safe to get closer,” he says, and wonders at the sensation he drags with him. He feels as though his words had come out in the wrong shape — as though he’d wanted to say something else entirely.

===

If the sentries are mercenaries, they’re more muscle than training. Will is a lot smaller than the two he sneaks up on, but he doesn’t have any trouble bringing them down. A blow with the butt of his knife takes one out; the tranquilizer gun he immediately swipes brings down the other. They’re also carrying guns that don’t shoot tranqs. Will takes those as well. He drags the bodies out of sight and waits for Hannibal by the main door.

When Hannibal materializes, he’s carrying Morgan piggyback. Will is hard-pressed not to laugh at the sight. The weight of the gun in his hand sobers him up.

Without warning, Hannibal grasps him by the hair and kisses him hard. Will’s mind fills with static.

“You were magnificent,” says Hannibal, pulling back just slightly.

“Eww,” Morgan complains.

Will shakes his head to clear it. “Take this,” he says, offering Hannibal a tranquilizer gun. Hannibal begins to refuse. “You can’t engage at close quarters.” Will nods at Morgan. Hannibal relents and takes the gun.

“Follow me at a distance,” Will says and finally pulls the door open.

===

After picking his way through a deserted office and an empty corridor, Will emerges in the main body of the warehouse. Steel beams lace a web high overhead; lower, a system of catwalks ring the space and converge on a central hub with two levels and windows on all sides. On the ground level, Will sees two figures in chairs arranged back to back. Even at this distance, Will recognizes both Margot and Alana.

Relief surges in his blood until his head rings. They’re alive. And they’re alone — in the tiny room, at least. Will hears voices echoing from somewhere nearby. He ducks behind the nearest pile of boxes and listens until he’s sure where the voices are coming from. He risks a look to confirm. There they are: three men in an office beyond the central hub. They’re laughing and relaxed. Confident in their efforts and their safety. And why shouldn’t they be? They can see their hostages and they have no reason not to expect success.

Will smiles grimly. They have no idea what’s coming.

He drops to his knees and crawls toward the central hub to keep himself from their line of sight. His bad shoulder burns with the effort and he clenches his jaw against a grunt of pain, hoping to God that the door is unlocked. He raises a hand and twists the doorknob silently. It gives with a click. Will slips inside, shutting the door after him.

Margot and Alana are staring at him with twin looks of shock and disbelief. They’re barefoot and dressed in wrinkled pajamas. Nylon ropes bind them both to their chairs. The only good thing about the tape over their mouths is that it keeps them from shouting in surprise. Will grimaces, still crouched low.

“Uh,” he says at last. “Hi.”

Alana’s shock is beginning to shift towards an uncertainty that looks too close to fear for Will’s taste. He counters it by explaining, “I’m here to help. I know I’m supposed to be dead. I’ll explain later if we’re still alive and you still want me to.” He moves to inspect the bonds holding them to their chairs. Strong ropes, good knots. He pulls out the knife Hannibal gave him and makes short work of them. The reddened rope burns on their wrists and ankles make him wince.

Margot reaches for the tape over her mouth; Will grabs her wrist, shaking his head. “Not yet,” he whispers. “They can see you. Stay put. I’ll get them in here and we’ll go at them together.”

He scans the room. “Use the chairs,” he says at last.

Margot is the first to nod. Alana looks at her for a long moment, then at Will. Finally, she nods too.

The cut ropes are pooled around their feet, but they remain in place, miming the hold of restraints. Will crouches beside the door and deliberately reaches up to shove everything he can reach off the table beside him. Heavy files and paperweights smash onto the concrete floor with a resounding smack.

He hears the distant murmur of laughter and conversation become agitated shouts. Quietly, he cocks his stolen gun — not the tranq this time.

They wait.

The door crashes open with a clatter of heavy footsteps and cocking pistols. Will is already firing.

The first man’s shoulder sprays blood where the bullet hits; he falls with a shout of surprise and pain. Margot smashes a chair over the second man’s head and his gun skitters away. The last man looks dazed and frightened when Margot steps aside for Alana, who slams the chair across his forearm. He howls as he drops his gun. Will thinks his arm might be broken. He doesn’t stop to check before shooting him in the leg.

The sound of tape tearing free mingles with the chorus of pained grunts.

“Pigs,” Margot says, her contempt ice cold. Alana’s arms are already around her.

Will swaps guns and puts a tranq round into each of the three men. The pained sounds slip into labored breathing.

“Will,” says Alana.

“Will, what the hell,” says Margot.

“It’s a long story,” Will mutters. “Was this all of them? I got the two outside.”

“I think so,” nods Alana. “How did you find us? Why are you here?” The almost-fear is back in her eyes and Will hates it.

“We brought Morgan—” he begins.

The naked relief on their faces only lasts a moment. Will watches Alana’s expression turn to ice and knows that Hannibal is behind him. He turns in time to see Hannibal step delicately over the fallen bodies and pooling blood.

“Margot,” he says. “Alana. I’m glad to see you’re both alright.”

“What is he doing here?” asks Margot coldly. But Will can see that she’s afraid and bracing herself for pain. Alana looks almost gray, but her jaw is set and her eyes are hard. She’s not prepared to beg for mercy.

The sight makes Will admire her and mourn for the Alana he knew all at once.

“No,” Will starts, “We’re not here to hurt you—“

“We?” Alana interrupts. “You’re here with him?”

Once upon a time, Will had been on the receiving end of pitying looks from Alana Bloom — and he’d hated it. Now she looks at him with blossoming horror.

Will hates this more.

“Oh no,” Hannibal interjects. “I’m here with him. Morgan? You may open your eyes now.” And Morgan’s little head pops up over Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Momma!” he yells in excitement bordered with distress, and wriggles down from Hannibal’s back to throw himself at them.

Their collective tears squeeze Will’s heart uncomfortably. He turns to drag the bodies out of Morgan’s possible line of sight. The third man he grasps by the arms and hauls away does look faintly familiar. Perhaps he’s the last of the infamous Deogracias brothers. He almost asks Hannibal to confirm his identity, but when he turns back, Hannibal is watching the emotional family scene before him with interest.

Morgan is babbling about the last few days of his life in-between all the kisses being pressed to his hair and cheeks. Will hears both his and Hannibal’s names mentioned quite a few times. Margot finally scoops him up and balances him against her hip. Alana crowds close and strokes a hand through his hair.

“I want to thank you,” Margot says quietly. “But I don’t understand.”

“I haven’t understood anything in a long time,” Will answers with a sigh. “Take the victories when they come. Here.” He tosses her a key ring from one of the abductor’s pockets. “Take that car. Get out of here and report all this.” He glances at Hannibal. “Maybe don’t mention us. We should go.”

Hannibal nods absently, still staring at the family unit in front of him.

Alana’s expression is as hard and brittle as flint. “Thinking about your promise, Hannibal?”

“There can be no bargains between lions and men,” Hannibal says to himself. His smile is amused when he turns it on Alana. “On the contrary,” he says lightly. “I’m considering new ones.”

“You won’t be seeing us again,” Will says to Alana, but it’s Hannibal’s gaze he tries to catch. “Right?”

Hannibal meets his eyes and smiles faintly. “I said whatever you wanted to do — or not to do. Very well, Will.”

Will exhales and tries not to sound as grateful as he feels when he says, “Let’s go.”

“Leaving?” Morgan asks suddenly, staring at Hannibal. He wriggles free of Margot’s grasp and flings himself into Hannibal’s outstretched arms. Will winces at the horror on Alana and Margot’s faces. “Bye-bye,” Morgan whispers, his little face contorted with emotion.

“Goodbye, Morgan,” Hannibal answers, patting his back gently. “Be very good for your mothers.” He places him back on the ground as though he’s handling precious china.

Morgan’s mothers snatch him back like they’d snatch him from a predator’s mouth or a cliff’s edge. Morgan doesn’t seem to notice.

Hannibal nods to them both. “Goodbye,” he says simply. “I wish you all the best. I’ve given the matter some thought, and I believe the world is better with your family in it.” He turns away and waits at the door for Will.

“Goodbye, Morgan,” says Will. Morgan waves at him.

“Will,” says Alana, her voice thick. “Thank you.”

Will nods and turns to where Hannibal is waiting for him. His face is warm and open. Will realizes that he wants to go with him. In fact, he can’t wait. A smile threatens to escape without his permission.

Morgan’s whisper cracks the silence. “Momma,” he says, his voice carrying clearly. “They kissed.”

Alana gives him a startled glance. Margot is shaking her head. “Hush, sweetheart, I’m sure you misunderstood—“

“He didn’t misunderstand,” Hannibal supplies helpfully. The smile he’s wearing is as close to a smug grin as Will have ever seen on his face.

“Oh—“ Will starts.

“—shit,” Morgan finishes for him, possibly recognizing his tone of resignation.

Will hopes the earth will swallow him up. Alana and Margot speak at the same time.

“What—“

“Where did he learn—“

“We’re leaving,” Will reiterates forcefully, and steps through the door, attempting to drag Hannibal with him through sheer force of will. It seems to be an effective strategy; when he steps out of the warehouse and into the fading sunlight, Hannibal follows close behind.

Will waits to feel the weight of responsibility and guilt, but nothing crushes him. He feels light enough to fly. More importantly, he feels light enough to live.

“Morgan didn’t hug me,” he gripes without meaning it. “I can’t believe it. Dogs love me.”

Hannibal looks at him fondly. “Children are not dogs, Will. And there are others who love you.”

Will’s smile is involuntary. “That’s good to know.”

Chapter Text

Postlude

Before Hannibal’s eyes, Will is healing.

The last rays of the sun throw a golden sheen over the world. The light glitters against the crystals in the parking lot asphalt and shines like molten gold on the sheets of the warehouse’s tin roof. Drenched in the fading sun, Will looks like an artist’s model posing by firelight. His smile is calm and genuine. Hannibal has so rarely seen it. He tucks the image away like a treasure to be pored over in secret. He hopes in time to have many such smiles to hoard and cherish. They won’t decrease in value as they become more numerous, Hannibal is sure.

Will pulls the stolen guns from his belt. The bullets chime musically against the concrete as he unloads them all. He scrubs absently at each of the grips to remove his fingerprints, then drops them in a patch of grass that has erupted through the cracking asphalt. The grass and weeds wave lazily in the wind. The chorus of night sounds is just beginning: the buzzes and clicks and screams of a thousand different insects. In the tiny island of grass, a butterfly lingers in the last rays of the sun. Will studies it distantly.

“The story you told Morgan,” he says after a moment, “how does it end?”

“I don’t know,” Hannibal admits. “It isn’t only my story.”

Will’s smile is gilded in dying light and potential. Hannibal jealously hoards it away. Will pulls the keys to their car from his pocket; the metal chimes in his hand. “Let’s go find out,” he says.

Hannibal is only too happy to follow him. He may not know the end of the story, he reflects as they walk together, but if he had to hazard a guess, he thinks the story didn’t have an ending so much as a beginning. The caterpillar was the one who metamorphosed, but the story of the spider and his friend really began when they both changed.

Hannibal climbs into the car on the passenger’s side, watching as Will starts the engine and studies the highway to decide on a direction. He hasn’t asked for Hannibal’s input yet, and Hannibal is in no hurry to provide any. He’s much too busy considering a much weightier matter.

Perhaps love, he thinks, is not the enlightenment of a single soul. Perhaps it belongs instead to the realm of mysticism and alchemy. A thing impossible in nature: mutual metamorphosis.