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“You sure you can’t stay?” Hannibal asked as he looked up at Will.
Will fumbled with the wine bottle in his hands. “Uh, I don’t think I’d be good company.” He watched the bottle spin easily in his hands, his nerves twitching with anxiety. He turned his body to glance at the busboy passing behind him. Normally, he felt at home in Hannibal’s kitchen, but the added number of people made him feel uneasy.
“I disagree,” Hannibal replied as he continued to prepare the food. Will looked up at him, his eyebrows furrowing as he couldn't help but think, Perhaps good company for a psychiatrist …
“But, before you go,” Hannibal's words broke Will's thoughts. Will felt at ease when Hannibal finally looked away from him to concentrate on completing the dish. “What became of Mr. Silvestri’s donor?”
Will arched his eyebrow slightly as he recalled the way Hannibal gracefully reattached the man’s kidney before securing him for transportation. “You saved his life,” he commented as he tapped his thumb against the bottom of the bottle, a common yet irritating nervous tic of his.
Hannibal caught sight of Will tapping his thumb, sensing the gears in his head turning. He’s catching on faster than I thought, he noted as he looked up at Will. “It’s been a long time since I’ve used a scalpel on anything but a pencil.”
“Why’d you stop being a surgeon?” Will asked as he shifted his body. Something was pushing him into asking Hannibal.
“I killed someone,” Hannibal honestly replied. “Or, more accurately, I couldn’t save someone,” he looked up, noticing Will nod his head in understanding. “But it felt like killing them.”
“You were an emergency room surgeon. It has to happen from time to time,” Will tried to rationalize that Hannibal must have known he would lose a patient eventually. Even the best fumble at times.
“And it happened one time too many. I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts. I fix minds instead of bodies,” he said as he straightened, eyes remaining on Will. “And no one’s died as a result of my therapy.”
Will let a small chuckle escape his throat, nodding in agreement as he thought of all the people Hannibal has treated. He thought of himself and how Hannibal perfected his ability to solve these recent murders. He’s helped me so much, and I can't even stay for his dinner party.
“I have to go,” Will finally stated, lightly biting his lower lip as he stepped forward. He felt more at ease the closer he got to Hannibal, the other people fading into the background. “I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.” He placed the bottle of wine on the counter in front of Hannibal.
“Or is that Rippers?” Hannibal asked as he looked from the wine bottle to Will.
Will shook his head. He was almost insulted, on the Ripper's behalf, that Jack and the team insisted Silvestri was the Ripper. “Devon Silvestri was harvesting organs, but not with the Ripper. No connection between them.”
“Jack must be devastated.” Hannibal looked back down at the dish he was preparing, idly busying himself to keep from staring at Will.
“I suppose he is.”
Hannibal looked up at Will, surprised to hear his statement. Jack is devastated, but not you? Part of him wanted to ask Will his true feelings about the Chesapeake Ripper, while the other part enjoyed playing this game of half-truths with him.
“Enjoy the wine.” Will offered a faint smile before he exited the kitchen, leaving Hannibal with his thoughts.
Hannibal’s eyes lingered on the door Will's retreating form disappeared behind. He set down his utensils on the counter as he moved towards the lower cupboard hiding his kitchen’s trash. He pulled the door open and stared down at the material Will tried—but failed—to discretely discard. Laying neatly at the top of the trash was a crumpled bunch of golden ribbon along with a small white tag.
Hannibal carefully picked the tag up as he examined it. ‘Dr. Lecter, I’m sorry for not attending your party. I am, however, very glad you were there today. Thank you, Will.’ Something pulled in his chest, a small ache forming around his heart cavity. New and … alarming, he thought, noting this unknown feeling. Perhaps it’s the same dull ache Franklin said he worried about. I feel it now, because with Will, I'm not … alone, he attempted to rationalize the feeling.
Hannibal quickly pulled the ribbon attached to the tag cleanly out of the trash. He thoughtlessly closed the cupboard door with his empty hand as he inspected the tag, committing its form to memory. He walked back to his spot at the counter, ignoring the busboys and their desperate attempts to not bump into his walking form. He picked up Will’s bottle of wine, gently wrapping the ribbon back around its neck and base. He pulled the material tight, using the faint creases as guidelines to ensure he tied the bow in the exact same way Will originally intended it to be.
Hannibal leaned back to view the bottle. Just as Will intended. He smiled to himself, returning to the dish he was previously working on. Time passed quickly, counting down to the moment his guests would start arriving. He pulled the knot out of his apron, folding it precisely before gently placing it on the edge of the counter.
Hannibal began to exit the kitchen when he remembered Will’s bottle. He turned back to retrieve it when one of the busboys reached for it. “Not that one,” he sternly said. The busboy recoiled his hand from the wine bottle, the force in Hannibal’s voice frightening him.
“Terribly sorry, sir.” The busboy nodded before gathering the other bottles and exiting the kitchen as quickly as possible.
Hannibal picked up the bottle, fondly looking at it as he turned it in his hands. He walked into the pantry, setting it on one of the high shelves to keep it out of the busboys’ hands. When the time is right; when he forgives me … Will and I shall share it.
~0~0~0~0~0~
There was almost something playful in the manner Hannibal tossed his patients’ notes off the balcony and onto the floor. Will looked up and smiled as Hannibal tossed the books and pages with immense accuracy so they would not hit him. Hannibal looked down, making sure Will was watching him when he tossed a book directly at him.
Will opened his arms as the book gracefully dropped into his hands. He flipped open the cover of the book, instantly recognizing the warped clock he had drawn—what felt like—ages ago. “These are your notes on me.”
Hannibal turned his body to peer down at the book in Will’s hands. “So they are,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. He faintly smiled as he inspected one book and tossed another book down into the pile forming around Will’s feet. He was happy with throwing away the pieces of the life he had built without Will, determined to start anew, and the first step—for Hannibal, at least—was to honestly confess his trickery with Will.
Will approached the fireplace, books in hand as he scanned through his own. He was so lost in thought, he didn't hear Hannibal descend the ladder from the balcony. He briefly hesitated before tossing the file into the fire. He watched the flames consume the pages, erasing the written confession of what Hannibal did to him. Just like that, it's gone … forgotten. “Won’t your patients need these after you’re gone?” He asked, distracting his thoughts as he turned his back to the fireplace. He approached Hannibal, now that he was on the same level of him, watching him lean over a series of books at his side desk.
“The FBI will pore over my notes if I left them intact. I will spare my patients the scrutiny. I’m dismantling who I was and moving it brick by brick,” Hannibal stated as he flipped through the books, checking their contents.
Will carefully watched Hannibal as he spoke. He respected him for such a courtesy, yet part of him was unsure if Hannibal's true intent was to spare scrutiny, or to build trust with him. 'Dismantling who I was.' Perhaps I did change you. He smiled as he thought of the man Hannibal evolved into since their friendship began. The fire's cackle in response to Hannibal tossing more books onto it caused Will to break from his thoughts.
“When we’ve gone from this life,” Hannibal turned from the fire to look back at his office, the space that had become intimately associated with his time with Will. “Jack Crawford and the FBI behind us, I will always have this place.”
“In your memory palace?”
“My palace is vast, even by medieval standards,” Hannibal looked at Will as he spoke. “The foyer is of Norman Chapel in Palermo. Severe, beautiful and timeless. With a single reminder of mortality. A skull. Graven in the floor.”
“All I need is … a stream,” Will admitted, almost sheepishly. He was almost embarrassed to admit that his memory palace wasn't a palace at all. It was a stream, surrounded by wilderness. A place Hannibal Lecter would not find very elegant.
“In those moments where you can’t overcome your surroundings, you can make it all go away.”
“Put my head back, close my eyes, wade into the quiet of the stream,” Will continued as he looked at Hannibal briefly before resting his eyes on the pages burning in the fire.
“If I’m ever apprehended, my memory palace will serve as more than a mnemonic system. I will live there,” Hannibal admitted as he moved back to his desk in order to flip through other books.
Will turned and approached Hannibal as he asked in concern, “Could you be happy there?”
“All the path’s chambers are not lovely,” Hannibal confessed, looking at Will as his body straightened. “Light and bright. In the walls of our hearts and brains, danger waits. There are holes in the floor of the mind.”
Will watched Hannibal sort the papers some as his guilt rose. I’m to send him to my worst nightmare … to his own worst nightmare. He’ll be alive, but tied down, unable to defend himself. To be poked and prodded by doctors like Chilton. He tried to ignore the churning in his stomach as he thought of being locked up again, grabbing more papers to discard in the fire.
Hannibal fondly watched Will’s back as he leaned forward to grab more papers. He never enjoyed chaos as much as this moment, and not that he would admit it, he was thankful to Will for creating it. The intrusion of a foreign scent brushing against his nostrils broke his thoughts about Will. It was a familiar scent, but not one that belonged to Will. Will has a distinct smell. A humble one. This one is … ostentatious. He closed his eyes, wading through his memory to place the owner of such a smell. It started slowly when suddenly it built from hair fibers to construct an entire being. Freddy Lounds.
For the first time in his life, Hannibal felt some unknown feeling drop heavily in his chest, settling in his stomach. That’s … impossible, he thought as he opened his eyes once more. But Hannibal knew he was correct in pinpointing the owner of the smell. He knew he had been tricked. He knew Will lied to him. He looked at Will as disbelief fell over him. He quickly looked away, unable to accept that he let himself be fooled by someone.
I let Will goad me into this, Hannibal thought as he looked at the remainder of his patients’ files, anger and heartache falling over him. Because I was blinded by … fondness.
~0~0~0~0~0~
“Do you know what an imago is, Will?” Hannibal asked as he observed the food decorating the table.
“It’s a flying insect,” Will absentmindedly replied, thankful that Hannibal decided to break the silence. He felt as if they were a bickering married couple, giving each other the silent treatment throughout dinner.
“It’s the last stage of a transformation,” Hannibal explained.
“When you become who you will be?”
“It’s also a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis.” Hannibal paused as he thought about his wording. “An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.”
“An ideal,” Will added as he looked from his plate to the table.
“The concept of an ideal …” Hannibal took a deep breath before continuing. “I have a concept of you, just as you have a concept of me.”
“Neither of us ideal,” Will replied as the guilt kept him from looking at Hannibal. He once told him that he disliked making eye contact with people. ‘See too much, don’t see enough.’ But it was different with Hannibal. When he looked at him, he knew Hannibal was seeing right through him. He would be able to see my lie.
Hannibal looked at Will for a few moments, dedicating his form to memory as he debated telling Will the truth. ‘I know you lied. And I’m not sure what is worse: you lying or my willingness to forgive you.’ “Both of us are too curious about too many things for any ideals,” he finally stated, looking away from Will.
For the first time, Hannibal questioned his decision to reveal himself to Jack, creating a reckoning that even Will would not survive unscathed. “Is it ideal that Jack die?” Hannibal asked, looking back at Will.
“It’s necessary,” Will replied, looking at Hannibal for the first time since their dinner began. “What happens to Jack has been preordained.” He quickly looked away from Hannibal to drink his wine, determined to hide himself. Jack has this covered. No one will die. And this can end, he tried to reassure himself.
“We could disappear now,” Hannibal offered a solution. “Tonight.” Will looked at Hannibal, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as his words registered. “Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite.”
It sounded too good to be true. A paradise created from a clean slate, one without consequences.
“Then this would be our last supper,” Will stated, forcing a smile. He wanted Hannibal to retract his offer, to take away his option to escape with him. He wanted there to be only one option, striping him of the burden to control what happened. If we left now … would he stop? Could this—whatever this is between us—work? A small voice questioned in the back of Will’s mind.
“Of this life,” Hannibal replied as he looked at the table. Forfeit this life … for a life of honesty … with Will. He enjoyed the thought of sacrificing the life he built in secret for a life with Will. He was positive he was ready to live a life without being the Chesapeake Ripper. “I’ve served lamb,” he stated in an attempt to convince Will that he isn’t just a killer. That he changed, for the better.
“Sacrificial,” Will sternly stated, reminding Hannibal of his past actions.
“I don’t need a sacrifice,” Hannibal honestly stated in defeat. “Do you?” He was exasperated with Will's attempts to feign innocence; to place the blame on him alone, when it was the FBI that now elicited him for a slaughter. But, he knew Will had to sacrifice, yet wasn't sure what Will would choose to sacrifice in the end. He had hoped to gain favor in Will's eyes. Either throw away a life of imprisonment with them or a life of freedom with me.
“I need him to know,” Will honestly admitted. To have Jack know I was right. That I saw you when no one else did. I saw you because you saw me. “If I confess to Jack Crawford right now …” Would he forgive me?
“I would forgive you,” Hannibal stated. It was a near plea for Will to trust him. He was giving Will the chance to admit his betrayal, and not face any consequences for such actions.
Will looked at Hannibal in surprise. Would you really forgive me?
“If Jack were to tell you all is forgiven, would you accept his forgiveness?” Hannibal needed to know if Will was rejecting his proposal because it was him and not someone else. If I wasn’t what I am, would you confess to me and run away together?
Will stared into Hannibal’s eyes, a heavy silence falling between them. He pursed his lip slightly, attempting to formulate a truthful response. “Jack isn’t offering forgiveness. He wants … justice.” If Jack knew that I … enjoyed killing Randall Tier … He’d have me locked away too. And I wouldn’t survive like you could. “He wants to see you,” he whispered. “See who you are. See what I’ve become.” He looked away, closing his eyes before stating, “He wants the truth.”
Hannibal could see how forced Will’s small smile was and gave up his desperate fight to have him join him. “To the truth, then.” He picked up his glass of wine, inhaling it’s fragrance before adding, “And all its consequences.” He stared down the table, unable to look at Will. He recalled the several dinners he hosted, realizing that he never foresaw an ending like this. I never foresaw Will Graham entering my life.
~0~0~0~0~0~
Hannibal held the bottle of wine loosely as he twisted his hands around it, mimicking the way Will had handled the bottle when he gave it to him. The ribbon was rough against his skin, the tag annoyingly snagging on his thumb. It was meant to be a symbol of their friendship, but Hannibal couldn’t bring himself to share the bottle with Will. Now that he has made his choice … this life—this game—is at its end. Something inside him snapped, resulting in the bottle hurling towards the wall. The bottle shattered on impact, an explosion of liquid and glass staining the elegant wall of Hannibal’s kitchen before cumulating on the floor.
Hannibal stared at the scattered shards of glass as they lay drenched in the liquid they once contained. He was reminded of the teacups he often dropped out of mere curiosity. He knew the bottle wouldn’t piece itself back together, just like the teacups. But out of all those teacups, Will had come back together, after all. He is the exception … Perhaps, some day, we too shall come back together.
“Dr. Lecter,” a concerned female voice came from behind him.
Hannibal turned and looked at Abigail as she leaned against the door's frame, concern covering her features. “Everything is … fine.” His statement was reassuring enough that Abigail released her hold on the doorframe. “It’s almost time, Abigail.”
“To see Will?” Abigail asked, still uncertain of her purpose in what was to transpire.
“To say goodbye. To everyone,” Hannibal replied as he moved to begin picking up the bottle’s shards. One of the shards ran along the tip of his index finger, slicing through several layers of skin. He slowly turned his hand over to observe the cut. Blood slowly emerged along the cut before running along the contours of his finger, pooling on his fingernail as it slowly dripped down to mix with the ruined wine. The small pain radiated from the wound in a way Hannibal was not accustomed to. It wasn't the physical pain, but something else; something that Hannibal could not place. I’m to have a reminder, then? A cautionary tale, he thought has he tightly closed his hand into a fist.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine. You should go back upstairs. Remember what I told you,” Hannibal instructed as he discarded of the bottle’s shards and ribbon in the trash.
Unbeknownst to Hannibal, it was his small sentimentality that got the better of him when he pulled the tag off of the ribbon, securing it in the front right pocket of his pants. He was abnormally aware of the tag as he walked over to the counter, the tag gaining a strange ethereal weight as the seconds droned on.
Hannibal managed to stop the bleeding as he watched Abigail’s retreating form ascend the stairs to the upper level. He began to cook what he suspected would be a final meal for either him or Jack. Preferably, but unfortunately, Jack’s last meal. The phone’s sudden ringing interrupted his concentration. He calmly wiped his hands against his apron before picking up the phone, acting abnormally at ease when he answered, “Hello?”
A moment of silence passed before Will’s voice whispered, “They know.”