Work Text:
“You have nowhere to go, Dr. Lecter. You can't run this time." Will points the gun toward Hannibal, hands trembling. An unsuspecting witness might think him untrained; nothing could be further from the truth. If he were forced to shoot, the shake in his hands would diminish in a moment. He would not miss. Hannibal knew this; the world did not.
“You know I do not run." He utters the word with disdain.
“I thought I knew that, but I suppose I don't know much at all—would you say that's true?"
“I wouldn't say you were wrong." A glance from Will's eyes (bloodshot and damp) to the barrel of the gun (clean and deadly) betrays his calm demeanor. Hannibal's eyes rarely show more than his attention—now, however, they convey a guilt Will had been previously blind to.
Will peers deep into Hannibal’s eyes. The so-called "guilt" he sees isn't for his actions, nor is it for his victims. It's for him—it's for Will—for ruining whatever complex bond the two shared before. Even if Will were to forgive him, it would never be quite the same.
“Of course I'm not wrong. I know everything now. I know everything, Hannibal." The word, that cursed word, hangs heavy in the back of his mind. Something prevents him from saying it.
Murderer, he thinks. So much more than that.
“Quite a heavy assumption, isn't it? You believe you know many things. You have always been conflicted; do you remember the first day we met?"
A bead of sweat drips down Will's forehead. He blinks harshly and sends it into the hollow of his parted mouth. His breathing is heavy, yet each inhale and exhale remains carefully measured. He considers the question; it's out of place. It's manipulative, and it's Hannibal's last-ditch effort to pry apart his mind and settle himself deep in the groove that runs down the center of Will's brain. Regardless, he feels himself regressing to many months ago, when he had been younger; when Hannibal had seemed much older, and when the beginning of their bond had begun to blossom.
He knows that deep down, something is terribly wrong with him. He fears the knowledge that he has become one of Hannibal's victims in a much more metaphorical and internal sense than the corpses he has discovered—one by one. When he jolts awake, shirt soaked with nightmares and whispers of something else, he can feel himself sinking deeper into a pit of Hannibal's design. Will ponders the question for a moment, considering how to respond. "I remember."
“What did you think of me then?"
“Will shakes his head to deflect the words.
“Tell me, Will—what did you think when you first saw me? Were you afraid of me?"
“No. I wasn't afraid then, and I'm not afraid now." Despite how blatantly false his statement appears, Will isn't scared, nor is he angry. His trembling, his furrowed brow, his sweaty fingers clenching the grip of his gun—none of it means he's mad.The only emotion Will can comprehend is betrayal. He's rather sick, actually—his head feels hot, almost on fire.
“When I first met you, I thought you had potential."
“Potential," he spits. "You would call it potential."
"Let me finish. You had the potential to be something beyond yourself. I made you that. You would have continued living your life by someone else's design."
"But of course, my life can be lived by your design, can't it? Because you're above the rules. You always have been. You are now."
"I would never place you in a position you would be unsafe within. I made you what you are now because I care deeply for you. I had no other way to show you."
It clicks for Will then that his slow descent into madness has been Hannibal all along. The night terrors, the burning headaches, the episodes where everything went black—when he began to crumble, it had been Hannibal. When he was thrust into the depths of his mind and emerged with no answers, it had been Hannibal.
Whatever he had to do to manipulate me away from the truth, Will thinks.
Hannibal's victims weren't only the half-eaten corpses; no, Will had been one of them all along. Slowly yet surely, Hannibal had been devouring him from the inside out. He wondered how long it would have taken for him to be consumed entirely—perhaps in both the metaphorical and literal senses. Despite all of it, he does feel remnants of the alleged care Hannibal has extended to him throughout their relationship. Perhaps it's all been leading up to this moment. Maybe it's all been so Hannibal can use the past as a weapon to seal Will's future.
"You certainly show your care in a peculiar manner," he chokes out, bitter and hurt. "I did love you. Deeply. Enough that I chose to be blind to all the signs telling me what you are."
"And what am I?"
Will's grip on his gun falters. His hand slips a little, and he chokes out the beginning of a breathy wail into the cold dark. He's suddenly aware of his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest. "Don't make me say it, Hannibal."
Murderer. Worse than that. Say it.
Will shakes his head and laughs airily. The fire roaring in his head has begun to scorch the edge of his vision, painting the forest with a fuzzy vignette. "You lost your chance to escape with me. I would always have found out—you always would have killed me."
Hannibal takes a tentative step forward.
“Don't come close to me."
"Would you shoot me down? Truly and honestly, do you have it within yourself to do so?"
Will shakes his head in place of an answer. He fears that if he opens his mouth, all the wrong words will spill from it.
“You know what I am," he murmurs.
Will nods weakly.
Hannibal takes another step toward him. Will places his finger over the trigger and stares intently into Hannibal's eyes, wishing so deeply to read them; to crawl into his brain and know what he's done, how much of what he's said is true. Another footprint molds its way into the damp soil in between them.
"You can't come back," Will whispers. Hannibal is now close enough to hear him. "I won't let you go again. You know you—you know you can't come back." He trembles, and his hand becomes weak enough for Hannibal's gentle grip to pry the gun from his heavy grasp. Will doesn't fight back, only allowing himself to become disarmed as he shakes his head in self-directed disbelief. He can hear sobs, and it takes him a moment to realize they are his own.
Hannibal's hand finds its way to Will's shoulder. He says nothing, simply places a sickenly sweet pressure on it; this is goodbye. This is a goodbye that means despite everything—past, present, and future—it isn't over. Will considers the possibility that this may never end. He considers why the prospect is equally enticing and petrifying. He considers that perhaps Hannibal feels this way too.
"Go, Hannibal." There is a stretching, agonizing silence before he can hear footsteps disappear through the heavy wood. Will closes his eyes for a long while—maybe minutes, maybe hours; time warps as he waits in the forest to be alone again. He doesn't open them until he's sure he'll see nothing but the pine trees grasping at the moon.