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We could disappear now. Tonight.
Driving home that night, Will Graham kept reminding himself that the man who had uttered those words was a monster. That that surprising offer changed nothing – a lie spoken by a dragon with its maw open, ready to devour him. An illusion, just like the one he’d crafted to catch the monster. A world that could never exist.
Leave a note to Alana, and never see her and Jack again.
Noone had to be hurt. None of the people once close to him had to burn with him. All he had to do was step back, straddle the dragon, and close the door to the world he'd leave behind. Let the illusion become his life. Wasn't life a stage?
I would forgive you.
The voice inside his head felt more real than the blurred lights of the cars he passed on the road. He could still feel the warmth of the fireplace behind him, see Hannibal's subtle expression – the spark of warmth there that had never been genuine before, never like it was then. A soft glow that became him, made him almost human.
All is forgiven.
Everyone alive could stay safe. Could stay free. And perhaps, just perhaps, there was hope of a better future.
He couldn’t let that tempt him. Couldn’t let himself fall into that trap. Beverly, Abigail... Every single victim of the Ripper called for him to stay strong, to hold to the truth.
He reached his little house, fed his dogs – and even in that found little comfort. His mind remained behind, circling inside the illusion he’d created himself, the last conversation replaying over and over in his mind.
He poured himself a drink – the glass full to the brim, no ice.
That night, he held imaginary conversations with the presences inside his mind, and when unconsciousness finally claimed him, he saw the familiar monster again, the dark feathered stag. He was holding the hunting rifle, aiming it.
Garreth Jacob Hobbs was standing right by his shoulder, snickering, the stink of his rotten flesh thickening the air.
“What are you waiting for?”
A split second was all it took for the gun to be aimed at the man, and kill him a second time. Permanently, Will hoped. The stag's presence came behind him. Warm. Comforting. Enveloping. A friendly monster ready to take him away from the rot of this life.
He woke up almost calm, this time.
Once at the door to Hannibal’s house, he felt his throat constrict. He swallowed, glanced at his wristwatch. 3:20 am.
I stand at the door and knock...
“Doctor Lecter.” He croaked, once the door’d opened to reveal the man’s face, creased in concern. “I- I've fed my dogs.”
Silence. Will blinked.
“I don't want to wait anymore.”
A second passed.
“What about the truth, Will? Do you not want Jack to see you anymore?”
Will couldn’t entirely suppress the shaking in his voice. “I don't- we don't need to see Jack and Alana for the truth to come out, do we?” He swallowed hard, closed his eyes. “I can confess outside their presence.” He opened his eyes again, only to find Hannibal's dark pupils swallowing his words.
Hook, line and sinker, but there was no hook. Not on Will's side. Not now.
Hannibal gave him a small nod, and stepped out of the way, gesturing for him to come in.
“And all will be forgiven,” he said as the younger man brushed past him.
******
Will never read the note Hannibal left for Alana that night. He was upstairs, showering and changing into clothes prepared for him while the older man was writing.
They left shortly after that, Will falling quickly asleep on the Bentley's passenger seat. They reached another of Hannibal's abodes, and from there, drove to the airport, where they boarded their first plane, the one that would take them across the ocean.
Hannibal had everything planned, and Will only had to let himself be carried. Guided from car to plane, from airport to taxi, from taxi to another airport in a blur that seemed only interrupted by the necessary drudge of customs and controls.
He could see their reflection in the eyes of the people they encountered – the tall, well dressed, healthy man holding the frail, sick looking shadow that was him against his side. One woman even volunteered to take them to the airport’s medical center, which Hannibal declined politely before Will could even think of talking.
It took his addled mind longer than it would usually have to come to the obvious realisation.
“Will you stop drugging me once we're there?” Wherever /there/ was. He'd known a minute ago, but couldn't be bothered to check his ticket again.
Hannibal flashed him an amused look as they reached their boarding gate.
“I was just thinking we have enough time to enjoy a hot beverage before we're called for boarding.”
He gave him a bemused look, but still he took the tea handed to him a minute later, and opened his mouth for the little white tab that came with it.
He tried to think of Alana, of Jack, of the life he'd left behind just a few hours before. All his mind could find to say was that he'd done the right thing, that everyone alive was safe.
That he was alive. For now. Away from everyone, alone with the monster.
He was fast asleep when they reached the house, in the hills overlooking Florence, and the man now known as Dottore Fell carried him over the threshold, up to the master's bedroom.
He was unaware of the first kindness done for him, and of the first punishment, too – of the surrogate daughter who had boarded a plane the day after them, her spared life arrested and hidden away from him until Hannibal decided otherwise.
******
The drugs afforded him dreamless sleep for three whole days, while the man he had locked his life with busied himself with details better dealt by himself. Prepared his awakening.
The first aspect of his new life he was made aware of with clarity were the stars embroidered in the deep blue velvet canopy above his bed.
He swallowed, staring at the artificial sky for a moment. Breathing.
When he mustered the courage to turn around in bed, he froze, staring outside the tall window by the side of the bed. From where he was, he could only see the sky, a few treetops. A little black bird flew past. He sat up, stood, walked to the window that he opened, breathing in fresh, fragrant air.
He stood like this, transfixed, staring at the vision of paradise before him. The house he was in looked like it had, in some not so distant past, been part of a farm. The land surrounding it was lush, sunkissed – part of it was now occupied by vineyards. The road that ran alongside them drew a lazy curve around the edge of an orchard encased in centuries old stone walls.
But the detail that held Will’s attention the longest was the stream that the dirt road overlooked, running across the land, from a row of trees to behind the corner of the massive house itself. Closing his eyes, he could hear its soft song in the distance, the little noises of water running free.
Finally, the smell of food being cooked hit his nose. His stomach growled, despite the reservations he had about the origin of whatever meat was sizzling in a pan downstairs.
He closed the window with a last look at the beautiful scenery outside. This was his life now – all of it, not just what was outside the window. He'd chosen this. And he needed to deal with what was inside, now.
The bedroom was small, with little furniture, with an en suite bathroom where clean clothes were waiting for him – new clothes, but his host had had the decency to not try to make him wear a suit and a paisley tie. These were just like what he was used to wear, if a little more upscale, the fabric thicker and the design more elegant.
He followed the scent of food downstairs to the kitchen, where Hannibal greeted him with a smile and a gesture to go sit at the counter.
“Hello, Will.”
“Hello, Doctor Lecter.”
“You're just in time for a very belated breakfast,” he remarked as he put egg and meat scramble on two plates, one that he put in front of his friend, who gave it a quick glance.
“Thank you for this... And for trusting me enough to let me get up,” he said, unsmiling. “Am I allowed to ask where we are, or is that gonna earn me more days of medicated unconsciousness?”
Hannibal offered him coffee before he poured himself a cup, sat across from him with a good natured expression that made Will want to punch him in the face. He was as radiant as the sun that filtered into this house's kitchen from the high window behind him. Almost incongruous. From here, Will could hear birds chirping outside, the distant sound of the stream. He blinked.
“Eat your breakfast, Will. You need solid food.”
Will flicked the wrist where a length of bandaid marked the spot where an IV had been. “Yes.” He wanted to eat – the food smelled, of course, delicious. But-
“Pancetta di Calabria makes for a subtler taste than bacon, what do you think? It is made exclusively out of pork belly, unlike American bacon, which may also be fat back.”
Will had a smile at the slight stress Hannibal'd put on the word /pork/. He nodded, and tried to appear more relaxed than he felt as he tucked in. There was no point being contrary with the man he had chosen to follow. He was no longer bait fishing, and if this world was made of illusion, then so was he – and so was Hannibal.
“It is delicious. I can taste the pepper in the meat, but not so much that it hides its flavor,” he tried.
Hannibal nodded with little smug smile – complimenting his cooking was always welcome.
“I bought this from one of the best butcher's shops in Firenze,” he explained, and Will's smile back was a little wider.
“Italy, then... Thank you for sparing me the shopping trip downtown,” he said sarcastically, then decided to stop mentioning the fact he had been drugged – Hannibal wasn't going to apologise anytime soon, and he didn't seem in a particularly didactic mood, either.
And if he heard him mention fate and how things “had to happen” one more time, he thought he was going to scream.
They ate in their own version of companionable silence for a moment, Will taking in his surroundings. Was this going to be the backdrop of his new life? There was little doubt inside Will's mind. He could smell the still quite recent paint job on the kitchen walls. The place, however, was too bare for Hannibal Lecter, too rustic. He suspected the wooden furniture and vintage counter, whose cheery honey colour clashed with the now dark grey and red pattern on the wall, would not be staying much longer. He'd been rushed, then. That was... A good surprise. Like a wrinkle in the man's always impeccable suits. Something human that had possibly been put there by design, but was there nonetheless. Closing his eyes above the cup of coffee he had just been served, he saw him in his mind, working tirelessly to make this place into a home for himself – for them.
This was for him, too. This place that wasn't in the heart of the city, the way Hannibal would have wanted for himself – although that also made sense now that their status had changed.
Speaking of which:
“What's your new name, Doctor Lecter?” He asked when he opened his eyes again, his thoughts clearer for the little moment of pleasant thought.
“I am Dottore Philéas Fell.”
Will nodded, and waited for Hannibal to give him his new identity. When that didn't come, he tipped his head in curiosity.
“Aren’t you going to tell me mine?”
Hannibal shot him a cryptic glance as he finished his breakfast plate.
“Shall we go outside for a little breath of fresh air?”
******
The orchard was a little world of its own, an old cobbled path winding through the tall peach and pear trees, to a well, and a little pond that connected to the narrow stream on the other side of the wall. They sat on a sun warmed stone bench, and when Hannibal hooked an arm around Will's waist, tugging him against his side, and taking his hand in his, the younger man almost let himself relax, bask in that warmth. He could just be content here, like this; at least, he could see himself try. Entertain the thought – the fantasy. Leave the past behind, start life anew, cultivate the vine he had managed to twine inside the other man's chest. Watch it grow.
That place that was so different from Hannibal's old universe gave him hope against hope.
It didn't take long for the colder, logical part of his brain to reassert itself, however. To tell him this was appearances. Too good to be true.
But Hannibal's smile never faltered, and he seemed genuinely content to be there, with him. To tour the property with him. They held hands as they crossed the bridge over the charming little stream. Will saw fish rush past, scared by the vibration of their footfalls.
The afternoon was ending when they reached the house again, and they went back inside, to the now darker kitchen – all the darker for the time spent outside.
“It is a shame that we reached Florence when we did,” Hannibal said, speaking at last above the cup of tea he'd just poured for himself. “Had we managed to catch an earlier flight, we might have made it on time to see the last representation of Mozart's next to last opera: La Clemenza di Tito.”
Will looked over the rim of his own cup into the other's eyes. “My knowledge of Roman emperors is a little rusty, Doctor Lecter,” he remarked, inviting the other to fill him in.
“Before he became emperor, Titus lead the Roman army through the siege of Jerusalem, which ended with the destruction of its famous Second Temple. Yet, he is remembered and praised even today as a benevolent leader, a man for whom violence was only ever to be used as a last resort. Mozart's opera focuses on the plot fomented by his wife to be, to assassinate him.”
He looked at Will, tilting his head as if in thought. “When she repented, and admitted to her doings, Titus wanted to have her and everyone involved in the plot sentenced to death, yet what he did instead was pardon their crimes. He is remembered today for that act of forgiveness.”
Oh.
Will blinked hard, and when he opened his eyes again his blue eyes were too bright. That same tormented, haunted look as that fateful night, when Hannibal had made the offer he'd ultimately accepted.
There was no sympathy to be found in Hannibal's chiselled features, however. He was staring at him now, listening; waiting.
Suddenly, the half-redecorated kitchen looked a lot like a stage, out of which Hannibal could take any piece without thinking twice.
Will stared up at the rapidly fading light coming out of the window. If birds were still chirping outside, he couldn't hear them over the rushing of his blood, pumped by a suddenly frantic heart. The good old fight-or-flight response... Except he had flown, and there was not much of a fight left in him.
He gave Hannibal a forced smile.
“I wanted you arrested,” he said, throat tight. “That's one step above killing you, isn't it?” He huffed a humorless chuckle.
Hannibal watched him, that same calm interest in his eyes he'd always had when listening to Will during their sessions – and for a moment, Will was back there, in the dark office, under the too-high ceiling. All the sun in Italy would not suffice to chase those shadows away.
A blink of thought asked Will whether he even wanted it to.
He exhaled slowly, trying to calm down. Nobody was in danger but himself, and he was reasonably sure Hannibal wanted to be his friend, still. But if he was wrong... He wouldn't be the only one to suffer, he knew.
“Jack Crawford was the other half of that plot,” Hannibal said.
Will nodded slowly. “Yes,” he breathed. “He would have... Seen.”
Hannibal remained perfectly motionless.
“You never intended to kill him.”
Will shook his head, glancing into those dark, narrowed eyes, then away.
“Because he was your friend,” Hannibal supplied.
“Yes.” No. Because he never intended to kill anyone... Not like Hannibal did. He thought. He hoped.
“And together you would have taken my freedom... Or my life, perhaps.”
Will looked at him, eyes too bright. “No, never your life,” he countered, unaware of the fervent accent in his voice.
Hannibal leaned forward, chin on his hand in an oddly casual posture.
“Is that all you wish to confess, Will?”
“Yes.”
Hannibal’s eyes darkened with something like sadness, and he turned around to grab the tablet he had left on the kitchen counter. He switched it on, gave it to Will.
On the screen, tattlecrime.com was announcing Freddie Lounds’s great return, and her revelations on the Ripper case – a two headed, Janus like killer that was in reality Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham.
Will’s stomach knotted painfully, like a stab below his chest. Of course. Of course. Why didn’t he think… But he thought he’d have more time. How long had he been under?
He needed to come clean, now. He stared into those inky pupils, that inscrutable, unnerving expression.
“I- I never killed Freddie Lounds. That was a lie, too.” He looked down. He hadn't become the creature Hannibal thought he had – now came the time to see whether whatever he now was in reality still pleased the master of the house that was his entire world enough to forgive him.
He wasn't expecting to be spared, no. If this place was paradise, he had no doubt that the man who held the keys to it could chuck him out of it and into eternal darkness at a whim. All he could do, for him and for everyone else that had had the misfortune to cross Hannibal Lecter's path, was to try to earn peace. The forgiveness that had been offered a few thousand miles ago – was the offer still standing? He didn't know.
What he did know was that, with Hannibal Lecter, pardon would come at a price.
He forced himself to look into the man's eyes. There was hope in the way they grew warmer, oh, barely, half a degree on a thousand degree scale. But that was still a half degree that hadn't been there before- before he'd entered the doctor's life. Will chose to focus on that spark, not on the jagged edged rock it had briefly revealed.
He swallowed. “I'm... Asking your forgiveness, Doctor Lecter.” He flashed him a smile that was all the tighter that taut muscle kept his jaw from trembling too badly.
He looked above at the window again, blinked hard when he thought he heard the song of the stream – he knew better than to believe it was anything but his imagination. And when tears rolled down his cheeks, he didn't try to stop them this time.They were an offering, too. An appeal.
He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the dark silhouette of Hannibal shift, loom in closer, until his face was being held by two warm, strong hands, and he was slowly pulled up to stand and face his captor. The pads of square thumbs gently wiped the tears off the corners of his eyes. Will's smile softened and shook, his eyes locking with the other man's, just a few inches away, only to shy away again, then return. At that distance, he could see the tiny specks of red in the monster's eyes. Hannibal had a small smile of his own, his eyes still inscrutable.
“You have wronged me, Will,” he said finally. “You lied to me, and when I offered you my forgiveness, you lied to me a second time.” His face hardened, all trace of smile gone. The hold on Will's face became a grip, fingers digging into his skin. “You have insulted me. Did you really think I wouldn't see through it?”
Will blinked hard when the doctor's hand moved to put a thumb across his lips. He mouthed a “please,” against it. “I chose you.” Please, forgive me.
Hannibal stared into his eyes for a long time, and Will didn't dare look away.
“You chose the option that would spare your friends,” Hannibal accused. “How can I ever trust who you are, Will? What you truly want? Do you even know that, yourself?”
Will didn't answer that, staring, shivering, into those impenetrable eyes.
Hannibal closed the distance between them, his thumb brushing away to let lips meet lips in a dry, yet gentle kiss, which Will responded to with a shiver, leaning in. One strong hand let go of that beloved face with a last caress, a patch of warmth along the younger man's spine that stopped on the small of his back, moved to his side, then off him.
He leaned against him, chests and belly now touching – offering himself completely.
The short blade of the linoleum knife cut through his shirt and flesh like butter, stabbing his side right above the hipbone then following its curve to his lower belly. It took a split second for the pain to register and he cried out as hot blood started flowing, pouring onto the floor, its scent thick in the air. He reflexively jerked back, but the hand that had been holding his face was now a death grip on the back of his neck. He already had lost the strength to cry out again when the blade twisted inside him. He let out a strangled whimper, a wet gasp when Hannibal pulled out the knife. They stared at each other, will's face a mask of agony, eyes wide clinging to the small spark he could see in the monster's, like a man dying of cold trying desperately to keep fire alive.
“Do you know what trial by ordeal is, Will?”
Will shook his head, and when that made him lose his balance, Hannibal was there to catch him, to hold him firmly against him and his blood drenched them both, pooled on the floor between their feet.
“It's an ancient judiciary custom traces of which are found in many civilisation, from Babylon to medieval Europe. The accused is put through a test of life or death, and survival can only occur with the help of God, who alone knows the truth of men.”
Will gasped, his face pressed against Hannibal's collarbone, shaking and clammy with shock. He could feel himself slip, his legs give way under him. He reached up for the solid body against his, clinging with quivering, faltering strength. He whimpered when his neck was pulled back, looked up into the implacable face of the man who’d pretended to be his friend once again.
“Tell me, Will: what is your truth?”
He stared up, eyes pleading, desolate, unable to parse what the other meant. He had just spoken his truth, offered it to him bare. What else did he want?
Hannibal tilted his head, staring, listening. There was no hiding the sadistic glee in his eyes, the ever present pleasure of watching someone die. And Hannibal didn’t need, nor want to hide.
And this time, it was special – because it was Will, the man he’d let come so close, close enough to see him. Know him. The man who’d gifted him a drop of his empathy. There was pain in what he was doing, pain for himself, too, not just for his victim. And that made the moment special as well, like a wine with a new, dissonant note that made the mellowness of the rest come out even richer by contrast.
There was all that in Hannibal Lecter’s eyes, Will could see. And, in return, there was no anger in Will. No judgement. There was no room for that now – only complete understanding, or perhaps not even that. With every heartbeat, his mind thinned, like the silver at the back of a mirror, leaving only clear glass. Does a window understand the light that shines through it?
“You only have a minute left, Will.”
Will blinked, trembling. He was so cold now, warmth seeping out of him with every heartbeat, no matter how hard he tried to press his hand over his underbelly to slow the bleeding.
He was going to die. He was certain, now. And he wasn’t even scared, not really. All he wanted was to feel less cold. He tried to lean into Hannibal’s body now, to seek warmth, but the other didn’t let him. He demanded an answer.
He blinked and tears fell freely off his ashen cheeks.
“P-please,” he managed, a mouthed murmur more than a word the little voice he had left deformed by pain.
And still Hannibal stared. That wasn’t good enough.
“I-I- P-p-please, Hann-Hann’bal… For-giv me.”
A smile caressed the monster’s face, even as a tear rolled down his cheek.
“I forgave you a long time ago, Will.”
And still, he remained motionless, holding him like this, watching him die.
Will nodded – the little that he could. Saying thank you – saying anything at all – was beyond his strength, now.
He’d been judged already. He’d tried to defend himself but the god before him remained unconvinced, and he was running out of time, each drop of blood leaving his body another grain of sand down the near empty hourglass.
Each time he blinked, he found his world had contracted further, until it was just Hannibal and him, suspended in the darkness.
“You can let go, now, Will,” he said, and his voice was… sensuous, almost seductive. “Close your eyes, wade into the quiet of the stream.”
But Will didn’t. Couldn’t.
The one thing he was certain of was that he wanted the life that was being denied to him. Wanted this, all this, with the monster holding him against his heart. And he would cling to it, to him, until the darkness had closed its jaws on him forever.
That was what remained with him until the end, once everything else had disappeared out of the narrow world of his dying thoughts – Hannibal’s grip on him, and their locked gazes.
Darkness claimed him like fingers pinching a flame.
******
Like it was designed to do, the ordeal had uncovered the truth. Both their truths, now one and the same. Nothing like death to strip away all pretenses.
Hannibal stood by the wide hospital bed where Will laid, buried under thick blankets, his sallow face resting on the pillow. The red bags of blood from Hannibal's fresh victim the only patches of a healthy colour, slowly draining to infuse the pale body with life again.
Hannibal hadn’t needed a sacrifice. Will had. There would be more, more flesh, more blood, more minds destroyed, laid to waste on the altar of Will’s becoming. And Hannibal would never stand between Will and his needs.
Given the choice to let go and die, Will Graham had chosen to live. Pushed to the limit, he had chosen life, this life, with him.
And just as Hannibal was about to let him go, he'd found he couldn't. Had worked quickly and efficiently to bring him back.
He sat by the bedside, held the young man’s pale hand in his, watched as eyes fluttered, awareness threatening to return.
Tormented blue eyes snapped open, staring up at him, quivering. A moan escaped the chapped lips.
Hannibal gently brushed a lock of hair out of that beloved face as the needle he’d prepared for the occasion sank into the catheter. He smiled benevolently down at that anguished face. All was well.
He waited until the wavering flame of consciousness had been blown out of those eyes once more before he pressed a kiss to the damp forehead.
“One step closer to paradise, Will. I have faith in you,” he murmured.