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“Hello, Will.”
At the sound of that familiar voice, rich with an accent he wouldn’t be able to identify if he didn’t know better, Will perks up. Only Hannibal could make his name sound like a caress when there is so much bad blood between them, as if the past week hasn’t happened. He wonders at first if it isn’t a hallucination—but no, since Minnesota, since they found the encephalitis, since he started treatment, his hallucinations have been few and far between.
He turns his head, slowly, mechanically, and sure enough, there’s Hannibal, looking as calm and composed as ever. As if nothing has changed. Everything about him is a portrait of darkness, from the rich chocolate brown of his suit to the midnight blue of his shirt—an outfit too absurd for Will’s imagination to ever conjure. Hannibal stands still in front of the cell, dramatic shadows cutting across his face.
It’s stupidly symbolic.
Will gets up. His motions are stiff and robotic; he still hasn’t learned how to function in a cage. He goes to the bars, stands there, faces the man who put him here. He lets himself go cold with rage. He lets it flood his veins with ice. He waits until he can speak with the chilled promise of a blizzard. Then he says, “Hello, Dr. Lecter.”
The corner of Hannibal’s lips curl in what would be called a half-smile on anyone else. But on Hannibal, it’s like lifting a veil. He can see clearly now; the devil’s smiling straight at him.
Will isn’t afraid to meet his eyes. Not anymore. There’s nothing to fear now that he has already confronted his worst fears. He has gone quietly insane. He has lost his sense of self. He has been framed for five murders he didn’t commit. He has faced it all because Hannibal, the only man he trusted and might have loved, brought his fears to life. There’s nothing to fear now, nothing to feel but rage. If this is rock bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up, and he fully intends to claw his way out of this personal hell.
There’s nothing to fear but the ghost of his own emotions.
Hannibal is still smirking at him, and Will can’t stand it. “Why did you come here?” he demands.
The smile fades. Hannibal purses his lips. He’s quiet for a moment, giving Will time to wonder why he’s still staring at Hannibal’s lips. “Did you truly think I wouldn’t?” he asks back.
“I did try to kill you.” With good reason, he thinks.
“I wouldn’t abandon you, Will.” He says it so sincerely—and Will does understand. He does. Hannibal isn’t a perfect psychopath; he’s something worse.
Will can’t help it. He laughs, cold and sharp, rain turned to hail. He’s surprised Hannibal missed the parallel. “You asked me once,” he starts slowly, clearing the laughter from his tone, “if I felt abandoned. Do you remember what I told you?”
“If I recall, you said abandonment required expectation.”
Will nods. “So ask me again.”
“Do you feel abandoned, Will?”
“Yes.”
“I’m right here.”
“Really?” Something slips in Will’s careful construction of calm. He sees the doubt in Hannibal’s eyes and amends, “Oh, don’t worry. I know you’re here corporally. But you’re showing me a different version of yourself. You’ve pulled back your mask. You’re not the version I—” he swallows the rest of the sentence. What is he supposed to say? The version who fucked him slow and sweet? The version who brought him breakfast in bed the morning after? The version he fell in love with?
There’s nothing he can say. His heart is wild in his chest, arrhythmic with nostalgia. He feels his resolve slipping, sand through his fingers; he can’t hold on to his rage, and when it leaves, he knows he’ll be left with nothing but heartbreak.
“Will,” Hannibal murmurs, taking half a step forward. “You know I am not a psychopath.”
“Aren’t you?” Will asks, hopelessly, uselessly, utterly in spite of everything he knows to be true.
Hannibal wrinkles his nose, the way he used to at the scent of Will’s aftershave. Before he gave Will a bottle of something expensive and French. “Will.” It’s an admonishment this time, and it says everything Hannibal doesn’t.
It’s true. Will knows Hannibal isn’t a psychopath, feels emotions, and cares for Will, in his own sick and twisted way. It would be easier, he thinks, if Hannibal didn’t care, if he had done this because he felt nothing for Will rather than—this.
The rage is gone, but he still feels cold. Cold and lost. Like the time his father took him sailing, and he fell overboard. He remembers the chill of the water, the terror of it all as he treaded water and waited for his father’s strong hands to pull him to safety. He feels like that now, wonders what Hannibal must see in his eyes. He tries to look away, to hide his cowardice, to hide his hurt.
But then Hannibal is closer, his chest nearly touching the bars between them. He reaches through them, and then. His strong hand—so like Will’s father’s, though a surgeon’s calluses are nothing like a mechanic’s—reaches toward Will’s face. It pauses there, a bird suspended in flight. There’s a beat—their hearts, their memories, but no words—before Hannibal’s fingertips to descend. His touch is feather-light against Will’s cheek.
Will half expects a guard to yell out “No touching!” but this isn’t a sitcom. This is a psychiatric hospital, and Dr. Lecter is a universally respected psychiatrist. It’s Will who is supposed to be the dangerous one. Oh, the irony. If only they knew. If only they could see it. If only this touch would break the paradox suspending them on the wrong sides of the mirror.
If Hannibal were here, behind bars, Will wonders if he would stand in Hannibal’s place, visiting him. He wonders if—
Not if, he tells himself. When.
It’s a distraction, this game. It isn’t working. It can’t erase the five searing points of contact between their skin. He closes his eyes, leans into the touch until he can feel the full of Hannibal’s palm against his skin. Strong hands, safety, false security. This is surrender, he thinks, he’ll give himself over with abandon.
“I won’t abandon you,” Hannibal repeats, his voice teeming with a strange sincerity. “No matter what comes to pass, I won’t abandon you.”
“I know,” Will answers.
And he knows that when the time comes, when their positions are rightfully reversed, he won’t be able to abandon Hannibal either. There’s no one else for either of them; there’s nothing else besides this, this madness, this disease, this deadly love.
There’s nothing else, nothing to do but give in.