Work Text:
Solitude is Fine
La Solitude est une Belle Chose
It starts with a click. The sound of a switch blade being readied, steadied, safe and sound in a capable and calloused hand. There will be a fight, that much is certain. Resentment fouls the air and carries with it the scent of redemption; there will be a reckoning, but it isn't now and it isn't here. A sequence of events have been set into motion, but they are nowhere close to completion. Jack Crawford is simply a bump in the road, a murmur in Hannibal's heart valve. An irritation, a complication and an annoyance. Dear Jack, as predictable as they come, simply and swiftly manipulated into the man he is today.
Ballet music to Hannibal Lecter's ears rips him from his reverie; he is here to kill or be killed, and tonight, his demise is not on the menu.
“Too much, or just enough?” He asks, and his words hang in the air like vapor, like the ghost of Bella Crawford's last breath as her husband murdered her. He feels Jack Crawford before he sees him, smells him. Glass shatters around Hannibal, who is violently thrown to the ground, discourteously destroying a case of antique torture devices. It occurs to him to use one of the weapons to his advantage, but when the time comes, he can't bring himself to ruin such a piece of art with Crawford's brain matter. Another time, perhaps, but not now. Hair assaults his vision, disheveled strands splaying over his forehead and into his eyes. Jack Crawford is circling him like a lion circling its prey, its food. Hannibal Lecter is not food, by any means, he is something much worse. He is the poison kept under the sink, saved for an unfortunate occasion.
Crawford's foot connects with Hannibal's rib cage, slamming into his heart causing his ears to ring, disorientating him, humiliating him, and that is just what Crawford wants. Glass shatters for a second time, and it all feels like an act. Like a marvelous performance nearing its climax; Hannibal thinks there might be some truth to it from where he lays, rolling onto his stomach and into a thousand of pieces of shattered glass. They cut into his palms, mimicking the feel of pins and needles in his fingertips. Jack hits him once, square in the jaw, and Hannibal's face connects with the wooden flooring. A humiliation; he can grant Jack this one humiliating act. He is tired, more so than that, he is lonely. He is accustomed to being alone, to being the outcast, to being admired from afar but never approached. That was, until he met Will Graham, and Hannibal was no longer alone. Solitude is fine, but you need to tell someone that solitude is fine; and he had found that someone in Will. And he had done what he does best and gutted him, full of compassion, betrayal, and most of all, regret. He had loved Will, and he had gotten nothing but deceit in return.
Crawford drags Hannibal by the ankle, obviously maintaining ignorance to art, having snatched one of the torture hooks from the smashed casing. It works, because Hannibal is writhing in discomfort, a sharp tug of metal tearing at his skin, but he will not become weak. Weakness is not in his blood; not physically, but emotionally... emotionally he is vulnerable to only one. The only one who ripped out his heart and kept it locked away for his own amusement. Hannibal should feel resentment for Will Graham, but he does not. And it's the only thing keeping him from murdering Jack Crawford. Because murdering the retired detective is not his responsibility, it is Will's. And he cannot rob Will of that amusement. Jack Crawford's time will come.
It isn't until Jack slams Hannibal's clothed back against a pillar that the cannibal knows he isn't prepared for what Jack has planned. That perhaps he should just let him do it, let it be over with and allow Jack Crawford the praise he thinks he deserves. The man who killed the monster of Florence, the man who single-handedly took down Hannibal Lecter. Not a title worthy of Signor Pazzi, but of Jack, perhaps. Hannibal makes his way towards the windowsill, crawling and dragging his limbs to where Pazzi had previously sat, before Hannibal watched his bowls vacate his body with mild amusement. He hoists himself up and onto the sill and heaves a sigh of... something. Not of defeat, but acceptance; it is a breath of fresh air and both he and Jack know he needs it. His shirt is speckled red down to his cuff links, and he is winded and limping. A sorry sight, he assumes, but whatever Jack Crawford needs to live with himself is what Hannibal will provide. He will not surrender his freedom, but his life was something up for grabs. He had nothing to clutch for balance; he was no longer Will Graham's paddle. He had no reason to maintain the façade of a regular life, no one to protect. Bedelia Du Maurier is capable of protecting herself, and Hannibal knows it.
Crawford closes in on him, giving him a look of exasperation; there is blood on his hands, soon to be more. Dark knuckles are crusted and bruised, and Hannibal is sure the skin on his face fairs the same. Jack has very large and capable hands, similar to the rest of his body. A fair fight, of course, but not when Hannibal hadn't fought back.
“How will you feel when I'm gone?” Hannibal asks, momentarily swirling the blood circulating his mouth. He can taste a sickly sweet copper, and savors it. He does not taste frightened. Blood seeps down from his nose and into his mouth; a broken nose, and a burst and swollen upper lip. He has to hand it to Jack.
There are tears welling in Crawford's dark eyes, from adrenaline, or the salty tears of bereavement, he doesn't know. “Alive,” he says, and Hannibal can't help but agree with him.
Alive, he can hear Will Graham's voice echo in his mind, oceans apart and months in the past. Hannibal is caught up in self deprecation, and above all else, he is lonely.
Talented feet move in on Jack, absent of shoes and sound, they float across the wood like a ghost. Maybe Hannibal has a concussion, the idea is likely, but when Will Graham's stoic features come into focus, Hannibal knows he is not imagining it. Capable hands incapacitate Jack Crawford easily, and the shock on the older man's face is worth the pain Hannibal Lecter soaks in.
“I can't let you do this, Jack,” Will says as quietly as he had approached, making eye contact with Hannibal. The cannibal's eyes are tired, swollen, and above all else, surprised. Will Graham is in Florence again, and this time, he has found Hannibal. Here to capture him, perhaps, but from where Hannibal is perched, Will's arm around Crawford's neck does not seem make it seem like he is preparing for an arrest. No... this is a betrayal of another magnitude.
“Why?” is all Crawford asks, like he knows; he knows he is going to die, and all he wants to know is why. Hannibal observes the exchange in silence, taking in Will Graham's bruised form. A head wound, dripping blood onto the ground beneath his socks, a split lip and tamed hair. He looks like he has had a similar evening to Hannibal. Their paths were destined to cross tonight, that much is certain as they both seem in the midst of losing conscious.
“You picked your side, and now I've picked mine,” Will says, and that is all Hannibal needs for confirmation that he will not die by the hand of Will Graham this evening. Will Graham is here to murder Jack Crawford to spare Hannibal's life, and he will allow it, because this is an inauguration in blood. An induction to their way of life, the life of a killer. Hannibal reeks of pride as Will gently lowers Jack Crawford to the ground, squeezing the life of of him with his forearm. The larger man does not fight it; it is not defeat, it is acceptance. In the briefest of moments, Hannibal hopes Jack finds Bella in the afterlife.
Will takes a long time to breathe in the situation, dried blood and dirt under his nails and matted to his forehead. Hannibal wants to bathe him and care for him, to convey his gratitude and his regrets, but there will be time for that and the time is not now. Not when Will is vulnerable. The younger man straightens his back and for a moment, he towers over Hannibal, clutching at the dominance he knows he's bound to lose. He holds his hand out to Hannibal, palm raised to the ceiling, stained with blood and dirt. Hannibal accepts it, and Will helps pull him to his feet.
“An interesting evening I'm having.” Hannibal offers, accent thick with blood and saliva which he swallows with a grimace.
Will Graham stifles a short, forced laugh as he allows Hannibal's strong arm to wrap around his waist for support, staining his overcoat as they slowly, slowly make their way to the exit. The stretch of wood beneath Hannibal's feet feels longer than it had when he had first entered, pristine and presentable, nothing compared to the sorry state he found himself in now.
“My evening pales in comparison,” Will says, and Hannibal allows himself a glance at the younger man, who has a soft, delicate smile on his face like this is where he belongs, or where he has longed to be, with Hannibal by his side.
“I've missed you, Will,” Hannibal says it before he thinks himself around it. A hand moves inside Will's coat pocket, before emerging with a small switch blade. Hannibal's switch blade; fallen from his hand when Crawford threw him into the display. Will simply hands Hannibal the knife and looks at him, eyes betraying his silence. There is a message in them, an apology, forgive me. And Hannibal does, taking the blade from Will's hand, fingers brushing his. He does, because he aches to have Will Graham back in his life, someone to share his solitude, someone to carry his burden.
He flicks the knife back into place and sets it back into his pocket. It ends with a click.