Chapter Text
Earbuds were probably the strangest gift Chiyoh could have given Will after getting him and Hannibal situated in their safe house somewhere in Eastern Europe. Will found them one day, nestled in the cardboard bags that contained their weekly groceries with a simple note: “Will.” For three days, he ignored the tiny box, too scared that he would miss the sounds of Hannibal waking for a trip to the bathroom or to request food or a new book from the study. A fractured right ankle, a broken left arm, and a gunshot wound to the gut had left Hannibal needing Will’s assistance for nearly every task that wasn’t sleeping, eating, and reading. No, it was better to sit in the quiet stillness of their new home than to risk missing his cue.
And if nightly in that quiet stillness, Will crept to sit in front of Hannibal’s closed door, scarring cheek pressed to the white oak despite the ache it caused across his entire face to listen for sounds of Hannibal’s life, well, who could blame him? There were occasions when he found himself nodding off there, drooling gently onto his own shoulder and absolutely certain the other man was somehow awake within, listening to him snore or else shift against the door in his sleep. If he had ever noticed Will’s strange midnight ritual, Hannibal never mentioned it.
It started with just one earbud, and only on the lowest possible volume and only while Hannibal was absolutely certain to be asleep. He had managed to pair the little pods to his phone with relative ease and established a Spotify subscription courtesy of his new identity’s credit card. Thank you, Florin, he thought to himself, though he took a moment to mourn the loss of the private playlists from his past life. But now, staring at his phone, his mind was suddenly a void, unsure if he had ever liked any music at all and half-convinced those playlists had never existed in the first place. Somewhere in the vast expanse of decision paralysis, he remembered his father turning on the Classic Country radio station to drown out the sound of the rain when he was little. The memory was faded, hard to find when he actively sought it, but if he stopped thinking about it, he could remember swaying at the kitchen counter while he watched the leftovers spin in the microwave. Eyes closed, he could almost hear the rumble of his father’s voice telling him that staring at the microwave would turn him into a zombie. He allows a little smile at one of his few good memories with his father to creep across his lips and tug at his injured cheek.
A glance out the window confirmed it was still raining, and he strained his ears to listen for Hannibal. He heard nothing and typed “Classic Country” into the search bar, clicking on the “Classic Country Mix” and hitting shuffle before he could change his mind. The first two or three songs were lost to Will’s concentration on peeling the skins of carrots without losing any flesh of his own, but he stopped in his tracks as the new song began. He remembered this one in the far reaches of his memory, had almost forgotten about it if he was being totally honest. He paused the song and slipped just down the hall to check that Hannibal was still sleeping soundly before he raised the volume with 1, 2 cautious clicks of the volume key and started the song again. Tracy Lawrence’s voice drifted into his right ear, and Will smiled despite the strain on his cheek.
Hank Williams sings "Kaw-Liga" and "Dear John"
Time marches on, time marches on
After slicing the carrots into thin circles, he started the song again– only one more time , he swore to himself –and began to wash and cut stalks of celery. He swayed gently to the music and mouthed along to the words, too shy in the sprawling quiet of their home to even consider humming.
The South moves north, the North moves south
A star is born, a star burns out
The only thing that stays the same is
Everything changes, everything changes
When he added the celery to the dutch oven to soften alongside the carrots, he indulged himself with one more listen– okay last one, for real this time –while he measured out the broth, orzo, and chicken breast for the soup.
Later that evening, Will crept into Hannibal’s room to deliver dinner and medications. The untrained eye would believe the man was sleeping, reclined as he was on his mountain of pillows and breathing evenly. Will had perfected the art of reading his microexpressions, however, and pushed the door open further. Hannibal’s nostrils flared, and his eyes fluttered open slowly as Will got closer– surely wandering the halls of his memory palace , Will thought to himself –and glanced between Will and the tray in his hands, head slightly tilted to the side.
“What have you brought me this evening, Will?”
Truth be told, this was a dish he was generally quite proud of his ability to make. The soup had many steps, including tempering eggs, and it had never disappointed in the past. It was Walter’s favorite on sick or rainy days, assuming Molly hadn’t made a venison stew, which was his everyday favorite. Now, his confidence in his culinary abilities withers under the probing gaze of the gourmand lounging in the bed before him.
“It had a fancy name when I first learned the recipe, but I mostly just call it lemon and dill chicken soup,” Will answers, setting the little tray atop Hannibal’s legs.
“And where did you first learn to make this soup? Even in terms of fragrance, it differs greatly from your typical comfort food fair.”
I should lie, Will thinks. A pause. He’d know I was lying. He sighs and tells the truth.
“It was in Molly’s recipe cards. She inherited them from her grandmother. Wally liked it when he was sick, said it warmed him up.”
Another pause. Hannibal lifts a spoonful of the soup, inhales deeply through his nose, and sips gently from the spoon. Suddenly, the temptation to feed Hannibal the soup himself overwhelms Will, and he has to restrain the hand that twitches to reach for the spoon. Hannibal’s face stays stubbornly neutral, though he does take another spoonful. Then another. Will is ready to settle into the armchair near the bed with his own bowl when Hannibal finally speaks.
“In these moments, do you see me as another frail stray to heal and retrain, Will?”
Will’s head snaps up, simultaneously outraged and in awe that Hannibal has made a comment which attacks himself as well as Walter. The man’s face is still stubbornly neutral, sipping his soup as if he has paid no insult to himself or anyone else.
“Are you comparing him to a dog , Hannibal? It wasn’t like that. You know it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t there to retrain or heal him. He was my son.” The final word is thick on Will’s tongue. Walter was his stepson, not his son, and Will had never said anything otherwise. Perhaps he chose the word to hurt Hannibal in retaliation, and if that was indeed his motivation, it worked. Hannibal’s eyes flash with unguarded emotion for the first time since he gutted Will in his Baltimore kitchen.
“Interesting that you take no issue with myself as the dog in this analogy. I wonder what bothers you more– comparing your little Walter to some stray animal or comparing him to me?”
Will’s anger gets the best of him. He knows better than to rise to the bait, so obvious that it lacks any true craftsmanship. Nevertheless, this wound is too fresh. He storms out of the room, leaving his own bowl of soup to cool forgotten on the small table. Even as he slams the door and stomps to the kitchen to clean up the aftermath of dinner, he knows this argument is ridiculous. I should have lied , he thinks. But then he’d have asked why I lied .
He sighs, anger dissipating and leaving only exhaustion in its wake. Two bone-tired and vicious men locked in one house with no outlet for their attention but one another was going to escalate from arguments to double homicide much too quickly at this rate. Will fishes his earbuds from his pocket and indulges himself with one more listen to Tracy Lawrence as he scrubs the dishes.
As the angels sing an old Hank Williams song
Time marches on, time marches on
Time marches on, time marches on
Yeah, time marches on, time marches on