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This dinner, if possible, is even more beautiful than the last.
It’s got a little less decorum, fewer candles and a smaller table, but these details only serve to make it more intimate. The women at the table don’t look nearly as peaceful as Bedelia had, but it doesn’t matter. Will smiles anyways.
Hannibal pulls his chair out for him, and when he sits and regards the two he’s able to truly appreciate the aesthetic of it all.
Margot’s face is set, her eyes red-rimmed despite beautiful make-up. She’s trying so hard to be blank, emotionless. Even still, Will knows she’s afraid of him.
His heart thrums in his chest at the thought.
Alana, on the other hand, still has some fight left in her eyes. When Hannibal pours a glass of wine over her shoulder, she looks ready to bite off his hand. Will inclines his head slightly in warning. She settles, glaring at the wall above Margot’s head.
An arm sits on the table, though it’s cooked differently from Bedelia. Will doesn’t know the technicalities of it, but Hannibal will lull him to sleep by a whispered step-by-step of his preparation of the limb later on. The thin fingers are outstretched delicately, unpainted nails flawlessly manicured.
Neither woman can look at it. Hannibal smiles brightly.
Will smiles back, eyes easy. “It looks delicious, Hannibal.” He says, the first words at a dinner among once-friends.
Alana looks to him. “I was praying this wouldn’t happen to you, Will.” It comes out a whisper, so full of pity. Will shakes his head.
“Will has evolved, Alana,” Hannibal says evenly, moving from plate to plate as he serves. “He has always been himself, though. The only thing that has changed is your perception of him.”
“No,” Margot speaks, voice raw.
“No, he didn’t change.” She looks up at Hannibal with deadened eyes. “You bring out the worst in him.”
Hannibal smiles at her as one would smile at a passerby on the street. Small, calculated, not too enthusiastic. “Have you considered the idea that you and Alana bring out the worst in each other? That all couples do so to some degree?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Not like this.”
“You and Alana killed a man under each other’s influence.” Will points out, sipping his wine. “What makes this so different?”
“We killed out of necessity.” Alana snaps, looking to Will. “What do you call this?”
“Necessity.” Hannibal fills in, taking his seat. This was his kill, not Will’s. “I made a promise, Alana. I keep promises.”
Her eyes tear up, torn between anger and hurt and fear. “But Margot didn’t -”
“Your relationship belonged to me, made from stolen time. I had to remind you of that fact.” He cuts a piece of his food, looks Alana in the eyes. “She will still be able to hold your son. I didn’t take both of her arms. You should thank me.”
Alana looks away. Margot’s eyes find the ceiling.
Hannibal looks between them, pleased. “Eat. You both look famished.”
Neither of them move. Hannibal doesn’t appear to be bothered, taking bites from his own plate in the midst of a silence only broken by the shaky breaths of the two beside them.
Suddenly Alana lunges at Hannibal with the scrape of a chair against the floor, all sharp red nails and bared teeth. She fits in two long scratches down his cheek before a gunshot sounds, and she stops in her tracks.
Margot gives a small scream, bringing up her only remaining hand to clutch at the new wound in her shoulder. It bleeds darkly between her fingers. There’s an almost sacrificial look to it.
Will brings the gun to Margot’s head, face set and deadly. “Sit down, Alana.”
Slowly she retreats back to her place at the table, Margot’s shuddering breaths the only thing to bring her back from whatever she thought she could accomplish by this act. Hannibal wipes the blood on his face carelessly away with his napkin. “I’m so sorry, Margot. Will and I have grown fiercely protective over one another. Such a pity Alana had to get you involved.”
Alana is trying to catch Margot’s eye, trying to give a silent apology. Margot’s eyes however are shut tightly, silent tears slipping down her cheeks and onto her chest. There, they mingle with the blood slowly slipping out of her. Will takes a bite of his food after tucking away his gun, watching them as if he were observing two birds in the wild. Fight, Flight, or Die.
The rest of the meal is eaten in relative silence, like the last one, but this time an entire conversation is held between Will and Hannibal with their eyes. They’d adopted a silent language in the weeks between this death and Bedelia’s, broken only between smiles and curious glances to the women at the table.
Neither of them eat, so when Will and Hannibal finish their meals they don’t bother waiting for them. Instead they stand, and Will offers Hannibal a knife. He rejects it with a shake of his head, though.
Margot is trying to look away from the scene, but Will moves behind her to take her face in his hands, hold it tightly so that she’s forced to take in the scene playing out in front of her.
Hannibal stands behind Alana, running a hand through her brunette hair. He smiles, remembering distant times.
“Our affair feels like it was decades ago rather than years, doesn’t it?” He asks conversationally, fingers gripping her hair a little tighter as he speaks. “But I can still remember that entire night so clearly. The night I made a promise.”
Alana doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, her eyes unmoving on some fixed point in the distance.
His eyes move up to Will and linger there, soft and loving. There’s no other way to describe it. “I’ve made quite a few promises as of late. And I intend to keep them all.”
Alana’s eyes fill with tears. Will wishes he could feel pity for her. “Are you-”
“No,” Hannibal answers before she can even choke the words out, wrapping long fingers around her delicate neck. “Margot and your child will live. I won’t bother them. They’re innocent, aside from involving themselves with you.” His grip tightens.
She takes in a gasp, trying to breathe through Hannibal’s strong fingers. Margot tries to look away, but Will holds tightly to the scene. Quietly, she’s weeping.
Hannibal reaches up, traces his fingers along Alana’s jaw. Then, almost soundlessly, he snaps her neck.
Adrenaline runs through Will’s body at the silence, at the sag of Alana’s body as Hannibal props her against the chair so that she doesn’t slip down. Her eyes are wide and glassy, and slowly drying tear tracks run down her cheeks. Hannibal’s eyes linger on her for just a moment before he turns to Margot, who’s shaking with silent sobs.
“I wish you the best of luck with everything, Margot. Truly.” He nods at Will, and he finally releases her to crumple in grief or pain or both. “I’m afraid we can’t stay any longer. It has been a pleasure serving you.”
He offers Will a hand, and he takes it.
They leave the small mountain cabin together, fingers curled upon each other in something possessive and beautiful, keeping as close as possible to one another as they flee.
“Where to now?” Will asks once they’re far enough away to relax, driving down an empty road beneath the darkening sky.
Hannibal has a loose hold on the steering wheel, face full of peace but made of steel. “There’s one more person I made a promise to, Will.”
Will doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to, anymore. Any enemy of Hannibal’s is an enemy of his. He doesn’t need to know a name, see a face. Will would go where Hannibal led.
After a moment of content silence between them, Hannibal speaks again. "I will always protect you, Will. Do you understand?"
He understands. This isn't an average promise, it's a confession. It's the words neither of them have been willing to say, but that have always been true. He nods.
"I trust you."