Chapter Text
Hannibal counted the ticks of the second hand. Five before Will spoke.
“It’s my stag night.”
Five more before he continued.
“And Beverly has been asking for weeks what I wanted. She gave me suggestions, asked me about my favorite things to do.” He took a step closer, Hannibal took a step back. “And it occurred to me how she and I have been speaking less. How she wouldn’t know what my favorite things to do are because they’ve changed. You changed them. And now all my favorite things to do are things I do with you.”
The foyer had never felt so small. Hannibal was at his most stoic, silent since Will pushed him aside and entered without invitation. They were on opposite sides, hovering near opposite walls. Two animals caged, even without witness they were a spectacle.
“I wanted to give her the names of a few of your overpriced restaurants. Or ask to go to one of those stuffy bars. But the idea of being there without with you seemed,” three ticks, “pointless.”
Two ticks.
“I leave for my honeymoon tomorrow night. That’s two weeks. And when I get home, there’s the move. Then I’m gone.”
Four ticks, Will was looking for a reaction. Any hint to what Hannibal was thinking or feeling. He was given none.
“And when I thought about my last night in this city the only thing I wanted to do was be with you. If you don’t want to stay here, we can go out. If you don’t want to talk, we don’t have to. If you don’t want to be in the same room with me, I’ll sit outside on your steps until sunrise. I don’t care about the circumstances or stipulations. I just want to spend these last few hours with you.”
Sixteen ticks. “I suppose you’ll want something special for dinner? I was planning on duck.”
Relief. “It doesn’t have to be special.”
“Our last supper.” He was leaving the room, leaving Will to follow. “The meal must match the occasion.”
And follow he did. “So must the conversation. Our last, Hannibal - ”
He caught his hand, pulling him to a stop. Hannibal resisted the impulse to pull away, to retreat. Two animals in close quarters, he felt cornered. He didn’t trust himself here.
“Tell me everything you haven’t.”
Will said it like he meant it. Like he’d gladly spend the night listening to every frivolous detail that Hannibal had to offer him. He didn’t understand just how much the man had to tell.
“Everything I don’t know about you. Everything you might have said if we had more time.”
Impulse. “I regret ever meeting you.”
It hung in the air and Hannibal, for the life of him, could not remember deciding to say it. Or ever having thought it in the first place. Cornered animal, spitting and hissing, he couldn’t trust himself.
So he tried again. “I had a sister.”
And Will’s stricken, wounded expression softened to one of shy curiosity. And Hannibal found himself working to undo his blurted mistake. And so he told Will everything.
“I play the theremin.”
“I love the way you are with your dogs.”
“I have a small collection of vinyl.”
“I noticed your hair is three different hues in the sunlight.”
“The duck will be ready soon.”
Will prompted him only once.
“Will you miss me?”
I will miss your company and our conversations. I will miss your criticizing my ‘overpriced’ restaurants and ‘stuffy’ bars. I will miss those dogs and your small house and the smell of you hidden beneath the scent of wet fur. I will miss our walks and your voice and the promise of seeing you the next day. “Yes. I think so.”
“I’ll miss you.” His voice shook. “I’ll miss you everyday.”
Softly. “And I you.”
“I play the piano. I love your laughter lines and your hair when it isn’t gelled. I hate half the food you’ve served me but somehow, when you make it, it’s my favorite thing.” Will glared hard at a spoon he was clutching. “And I will miss you.”
Hannibal took the spoon from his hand and replaced it with his own.
Speaking softer still. “And I you.”