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I’m not going to miss you.
I don’t want to think about you anymore.
Goodbye, Hannibal.
He had said that to Hannibal—had watched the hurt on his face, and the stiff, unsure walk that had followed after.
And despite all those words—all those barbed words spoken to inflict damage—all Will seemed to do now was think about Hannibal.
He had rejected Hannibal—once again—but why was it now, that he was feeling so very abandoned?
By the time that Jack had arrived with his squad, Hannibal and Chiyoh had vanished. Will had stayed put in bed, numb but knowing that he was going to ache come morning. He had been unresponsive to Jack—it had been that way for the first month or so.
As if from sheer exhaustion, he had cocooned himself with sleep, barely rising for food or drink.
And when sleep had been exhausted, he had suddenly felt the urge—the need—to go look for Hannibal.
After all this time, you’d still go to him? He had asked himself—and the answer had come back in a voice that was a mixture of his and Abigail’s—yes.
But of course, he couldn’t move. He didn’t know where to start. He wanted to fight it, this need. In the back of his mind, he tried to convince himself that Hannibal would come back for him. So he pretended to wait, while he was making up his mind on what to do next.
He had waited—and waited. Waited until he had felt himself grow itchy with restlessness. And that was when he had realised that he was a danger to himself—that was when he had finally forced himself to the trivial task of arranging for his dogs to come back. At least they helped fill some of the time that went into thinking about Hannibal.
Finally, as if Jack had had enough of Will’s silence, he had come knocking, without even calling first.
“How have you been, Will?” Jack had finally asked—after Will had answered all the questions that Jack had asked him about Hannibal’s disappearance; after Jack had hinted to Will that he wanted Will back in the field.
Will had looked away again—in fact, he hadn’t been able to maintain eye-contact for more than two seconds the minute Jack had walked in. Jack knew Will was pining—recognised that it wasn’t just pining, but pining for a lost love.
“I can’t sleep, I can’t eat…” Will had replied. “I don’t know what I want to do except—” he had stopped himself mid-sentence.
“Will—you have to cut Hannibal out,” Jack had said, stern.
Will had chuckled, not knowing what else to do. Hannibal meant something to him—and for some reason, he was unable to let go. This pretending that the truth was otherwise was becoming a little old.
“For once, maybe leave the house?” Jack suggested.
“What if he comes find me and…I don’t know…”
“Would you go with him?”
Will kept silent, guilty.
*
Jack should’ve forced Will into custody—he should’ve dangled Will as bait for Hannibal, but instead he did something else. He had surprised Will by sending over a psychiatrist. Maybe he was acting more as a friend than a colleague, Will reflected. No, he only wanted Will to feel normal enough so that he could drag him back into tracking down Hannibal and other various killers.
“You’re depressed, and you need someone to talk to. Someone who doesn’t know a thing about you. Just give it a try.” Jack had texted. Puzzling logic—Will thought.
He had let the guy in, just because Will was impressed that he had agreed to drive all the way in the snow to Wolf Trap. He had stuttered and stumbled through his first session, barely letting himself talk. But at least he had managed to acquire a prescription for sleeping pills.
*
Will shifted in his heavy sleep. The pills were strong, and worked as they were intended to—for the past three nights that he had taken them, they had knocked him out for ten hours straight. He heard the dogs bark for a few seconds—but then they quietened down, as if they had been silenced with snacks. Will cracked one eye open to look what was going on but jerked back in shock. It was Hannibal, watching him, hands deep in his pockets—some of the dogs were clinging to his legs, hoping for more treats.
“Hello, Will.” Hannibal said, head tilting slightly. “I see you have a new psychiatrist.”
It almost felt like a threat—except that Hannibal was smiling so endearingly that Will felt fear leave his body. He dropped his head back, tired. “What do you want?” he croaked, eyes already closing to drift back into sleep. That wasn’t what he had meant to say—he thought, mind foggy.
But then he jerked awake again when he felt the bed dip under Hannibal’s weight. He watched as Hannibal leaned closer and reached out to caress the side of his face, and then his hair, as if to soothe him back into sleep. “Only this,” Hannibal whispered.
After a battle that lasted about two seconds, Will lifted his own heavy hand and reached out to place it onto Hannibal’s other hand. He groggily recalled that time in Florence when Hannibal had drugged him—how gentle he had been. And then the chaos that had ensued after. Was something similar to that violence only waiting to happen now? He’d have it coming if it was.
“Hannibal…” Will said, as if to ask him that very question. But sleep was at his heels, overtaking him.
“Sleep, Will.” Hannibal whispered, voice sweet as honey.
*
When Will woke up next, he genuinely had to wonder if it had all been a dream. He looked down at his unharmed body—nothing had changed—except the hope that was budding inside his chest. Hannibal hadn’t forgotten him. He was gonna come back for him.
*
And then Will waited—and waited again. He continued seeing the new psychiatrist and played along, but flushed his stash of pills down the drain, because he wanted to be wide awake the next time Hannibal came to visit. He wanted to see him—to truly lay his eyes on him, to—to tell him that he was sorry. He wasn't exactly seeking forgiveness, but he wondered, what would forgiveness look like, coming from Hannibal? Would something definitive and violent have to happen first?
Weeks passed—restless and sleepless nights. Hannibal was nowhere in sight, and the old familiar realisation dawned on him that maybe he was hallucinating again. Maybe, out of sheer desperation, his mind had conjured up a perfect image of Hannibal, one who had so affectionately caressed him back to sleep—one who had left him unharmed and without bloodshed.
But there had to be another way to prove that he wasn’t going crazy again. His next experiment was to turn off all the lights of the house and pretend to go to sleep, instead of waiting pathetically on the couch.
But still no Hannibal.
*
Crying wasn't something that Will did often—really, when was the last time that he had cried? But it was happening to him now—suddenly—in the secluded quiet of his bathtub; thankfully away from the curious eyes of the dogs. That would have been too much. He cried and submerged his face quickly into the water, so that it seemed like tears had never been shed. There was no proof, not even the trickle that he would have felt down his face.
When he got out, he was overheated and numb—vaguely wanting to run out of the house and into the snow, just to feel something. He pushed the thought out of his mind and dressed himself for bed, wishing he hadn’t gotten rid of the sleeping pills.
He gathered the dogs and put them to their respective beds, who were all looking at him differently—or was he imagining it?
He made sure to pet them all to sleep—he pretended that they needed him, but really, he was the one who needed them. After all of them had fallen asleep, Will walked to his own bed and eyed the cabinet where he kept his whiskey—what if he were to get drunk? Would that help him sleep? He took a step towards it when he heard a car drive up. Instead of running to the door to check if it was really Hannibal, he remained frozen where he was, thinking—it couldn’t be.
But it was. Soon he saw a shadow flit by and the doorknob being nudged. Will hadn’t even locked it.
Finally, his feet moved and he found himself opening the door. There Hannibal was, face lifted as if in surprise that Will was out of bed. After a moment where Hannibal seemed to be staring at him with awe, he stepped forward and into Will’s space, shutting the door behind him. This was it—he couldn’t bear it anymore. Shakily, Will stepped forward until he was against Hannibal—he circled his arms around his waist. “You’re back,” Will said, as if to convince himself.
“I couldn’t keep away,” Hannibal said. “not when it comes to you.” His arms began circling Will too—strange that this was the first embrace that they had ever shared that wasn’t tainted with gushing blood.
“I thought I imagined you,” Will murmured.
Hannibal stepped back and lifted a hand, cupped it to the side of Will’s face—and then his eyes drifted inevitably to the scar on his forehead. Will had to keep from flinching when he felt Hannibal’s thumb slide along it. It was healed now, barely. He exhaled, waiting for—for what? A sudden burst of violence. But what came instead was the opposite: so unrecognisable, that he stopped breathing. Hannibal was kissing his scar—pressing his lips into it, as if he could make it disappear.
When he drew back, Will didn’t know what to say. But he was sure what he wanted to do. He leaned forward a little, still afraid of it—but Hannibal understood, and met him halfway for a kiss. It was strange at first—until it wasn’t. Will felt tears sting his eyes, as if from relief.
“Are we past apologies and forgiveness?” Will asked, unsure. “What I said to you…” he paused, the memory refreshing in his mind—still sharp and painful.
“Let it flow away, Will.” Hannibal said, a sad smile on his lips. “In the current of the stream.”
“I hurt you,” Will projected, not sure what point he was trying to make.
“And I you—over and over again.” Hannibal said. “Yet here you are, in my arms.”
Will smiled, aware of the scars he bore on his body, and in his mind. He had forgiven Hannibal for that. “Take me with you,” he said, in a rush. Otherwise, he might falter—he didn’t want to repeat what had already happened in Hannibal’s kitchen.
Hannibal smiled, and nodded once in satisfaction. “The tea-cup has finally gathered itself up,” he said, running the back of his fingers down Will’s face.