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Will's tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, and though she has told herself that she is not afraid of this man, when he stands and the edge of one of her kitchen knives glints from his hand, the smile stretched over her stomach burns.
Hannibal stares at her like a cat, both hands held up with the fingers of one wrapped securely around the hilt of the knife; he cocks his head, the strands of his hair falling almost boyishly over his forehead. Will notes that he's dyed it, though he's a very distinctive looking man so it wouldn't be that difficult to determine exactly who he is. "I only wished to see you, Wilhelmina."
Will purses her lips, finger twitching to be on the trigger and just end this entire mess. She could explain herself to Jack, could move to a different city or even country, but she knew this man's ghost would follow her. "Then why do you have the knife?" She murmurs, sidestepping in order to gain access to the kitchen where her cell phone sits. Will's eyes glance to where Hannibal's fingers tighten ever so slightly around the hilt, but he offers her a placating smile and she tries to ignore the sweep of her stomach at the sight of it.
The flames consume all of his papers; years of patient files and his own personal sketches, ramblings, and conclusions are eaten by gluttonous flames. Will stares into the fire, the heat causing her shortly cropped hair to curl on end even more; Hannibal hands her paper after paper, and when her eyes catch on the hastily and incorrectly drawn clock, she lets out a whoosh of breath.
"Where will you go once this is all over?" She hadn't meant to say it out loud, but Hannibal considers the question while feeding the flames with even more papers. The pop and crack of hand-bound leather are like gun shots in the darkened office.
They manage to convince each other to put down their respective weapons, and he even helps put away the groceries. Hannibal's hands are warm and have more callouses than Will remembers when they 'accidentally' brush up against one another; the kitchen is too small, she decides, feeling his presence seep into the cracks she hadn't realized having. They haven't seen each other without bullet proof glass between them in over five years, so Will tells herself that she isn't surprised by the jolt of electricity that runs down her spine at having him so close.
Hannibal picks through her food choices with a slight curl of his lip, scoffing softly at seeing the amount of frozen meals she had bought. He cooks for her, something that Will should have been paranoid of, but she's stopped eating meat and the only thing strong enough to poison her is under the bathroom sink.
"How have you been,Will?" Hannibal checks the noodles, making sure they are being cooked al dente; he doesn't look at her, and addresses the food much to Will's annoyance. It's much easier to read someone she previously couldn't when they're turned to her. His long fingered hand stirs the blood red pasta sauce, and the smell is more enticing than any of her frozen meals would've been.
"I've been...better." Will watches his hands as they work, leaning against the counter with the comfort of her gun only a breath away. She knows that he would be faster with the chief's knife in hand and be able to pin her to the counter like a butterfly on a cork board. Her face burns where the scars are, and Will wonders if Hannibal is proud of his manipulative skills when he saw them. (She pushes down the slight panic that he might find them, find her ugly).
He hums softly, and then turns to silently offer her a small spoonful of the pasta to taste. She stares at it for a moment, but Will had watched him cook it so she knows it's not poisoned. It feels like a very domestic scene, and briefly she wonders if this what it would've been like if she had fled with him.
The rich taste of the tomatoes explode over her tastebuds, bringing Will back to Italy, to chasing him and his ghosts around Europe. It reminds her of early mornings having not slept at all and wandering a narrow Italian street and an old woman already cooking the Sunday dinner, who crooned out to Will "Bella, bella..."
"I'm glad to see prison hasn't robbed you of your ability to cook." Will says a little flatly, opening her eyes after not realizing she had closed them. Hannibal gives her a crooked smile and turns, stirring the sauce with a flourish.
"And time has not robbed you of your sarcasm." He quips back; it's almost as if the past five years haven't happened, but the phantom burn of knifes ripping into Will's flesh reminds her.
Hannibal serves them both a small plate of spaghetti, frowning when she comments that she doesn't have any wine do go with it. Will waits till he's eaten a bite before digging in, ignoring that she'd already sampled. "Have you come here to kill me?" She asks, twisting noodles around and around her fork.
He chews for a moment, considering before placing his fork down and meeting Will's gaze. Her stomach flips because it's too easy to read him now; there is a bloodlust that hadn't been there previously (or maybe it was just better contained back then), and the twisted love she had felt that day years previously. Anger, distrust, lust--it's an odd cocktail of emotions that leave Will's head spinning. "Do you want me to?" Is all he says.
A knot forms in Will's throat, but she swallows passed it and continues to hold his gaze. "No."