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Chapter Text

16th October, 2014

📍The Lyric Baltimore, Maryland

It's hard to miss her amongst the crowds once he notices her. She's barely as tall as the counter and she struggles for a bit, positioning her feet on the bars connecting the legs of the stool and hoists herself on it. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, swishing with every one of her reckless movements until she's comfortable and pats the counter in triumph.

Hannibal smiles to himself admiring her determination before noticing her trying to get the attention of a server.

He takes a sip from his champagne, flits his eyes back to his conversation partner who hasn't seem to notice his drifting and absence from the conversation. He interrupts her, rather rudely for his tastes but he's polite enough that she smiles regardless. “Apologies, would you excuse me for a moment?”

She nods eagerly. He was already certain she wouldn't refuse but it feels good to be proven right - after all, she would detest losing his favour.

Hannibal is nothing if not extremely perceptive about the people he associates himself with. It's formidably facile to weave through social situations with a well constructed personality when he's well versed about the machinations of people. With knowledge and understanding comes the ease to render those machinations flexanimous.

And so with a polite smile offered to her and the assurance that she's entirely placated, Hannibal leaves her and traipses over to the counter. He tentatively slots in the side next to the girl. He observes her. She wouldn't be more than ten years old. There's a sizable distance between them so she doesn't feel cornered.

“Hello.” He greets and she turns to face him instantly, abandoning her earlier task. Her hair whips around her shoulders and she tilts her head with a small frown at being addressed.

She doesn't respond - which from anyone would be terribly rude but Hannibal understands that from her, it's nothing but childish reservations and precautiousness. A distinct opposition to the naivety and gullible trust from most children around her age. He can already tell she's smart.

Hannibal offers her a practiced smile in response to the questioning arch of her brow. “You have the stance of someone about to make a reckless decision.”

Perceptive as he had assumed, she makes a guilty expression which she hides by turning back to face the counter. He imagines she knows nothing of service here would be within her age range.

She blows a breath and says, “Well, I'm thirsty.”

Hannibal spares her further scrutiny and halts a waitstaff to serve a glass of water. Unlike in her case, they respond quickly and a glass full of water is placed on the counter between them.

Her eyes light up in gratitude and she mutters a thanks before pulling the glass closer to take a healthy gulp. An unfamiliar fondness - entirely genuine and unpracticed as usual - rises to the surface at her childishness. It's been a long while Hannibal has encountered such innocence.

“How old are you?” He asks on a curious whim, and the sound of her glass hitting the counter follows his now empty glass.

Previous apprehension discarded now that she has deemed him worthy of her time, she turns slightly to him and says, “Nine.”

Hannibal hums, internally appraising his perception before dropping his voice to a lenient conversational tone to respond, “I would assume you didn't come here on your own. I'm sure you know it's much easier to get the things you want with your parents.”

“Parent.” She corrects too quickly. “I only have one parent.”

It's not very often that a child is present at the opera. A single parent with a child too young to be left alone at home would be an ideal scenario. He guesses she must have wandered off during the intermission, bored or adventurous perhaps. He doesn't imagine she particularly finds the art exciting.

Hannibal nods, tilting his head in exaggerated curiosity. “Whom I imagine must be curious about your whereabouts now, no?”

She gives him an overdramatic sigh and leans slightly on the counter. Her tells assure him that he's been deemed worthy of her full attention now. “They probably haven't noticed I'm gone.”

“Oh?”

The surprise is more from how open-minded she has been raised. It's an impressive development from the past two decades.

Hannibal has a few acquaintances - colleagues - who are still rigid in a backward and conservative mindset. He imagines they would fume if they were informed that a child - barely a decade old - was intellectually superior to them. He shifts his attention back to the annoyed curl on her lips and slight frown between her brows.

“They're pretty occupied with their date who I'm sure hates me by now. And I'm bored. I hate the opera.” She states plainly, clearly ticked off at her parent for being dragged along.

Hannibal admires her bluntness. He wonders who her parent must be. They must not be a regular visitor here, he guesses because otherwise they would've stuck out to him in some way. If their daughter is so boldfaced and intelligent. He smiles, genuinely interested. Nothing but the art in this building has successfully captivated his attention in his years here.

Curious, he inquires, “What's your name?”

Ever so intuitive, she gives him exactly what he needs. A last name. “Abigail. Abigail Hobbs.”

He doesn't recognize it so he nods anyway, hoping he can get an introduction to the older Hobbs. He offers her his hand in an offer for a shake. “Hannibal Lecter.”

Abigail's lips quirk up in a smile, eyes lighting up, likely at the opportunity of being treated as an equal. She takes his hand and then chuckles at the alarming fit. He allows her to squeeze and move his hand in an up and down motion.

When she pulls back, she mutters, “Fancy.”

Hannibal allows his finger to make a clink where it strikes the base of the wine glass laying empty on the counter. An impressed smile finds its way to his lips. “A generic adjective, don't you agree?”

Abigail chuckles and raises a brow at him. “Well, you are fancy. Not in a special way, you're not different from anyone else here. You're all fancy and unexciting.” She turns to gesture to the mass of bodies, stuck in the world of conversations, a good number of them shallow and pretentious.

Appraisingly, he mouths. “Clever.”

Her response is a nervous laugh as though she didn't expect to be praised for the blunt words. She tucks her hair behind her hair and ducks to hide her face. It's the way her sparkly fabric of her gown shifts as she kicks her feet that reminds Hannibal she's still just a kid despite her intuition.

“I get that a lot. I'm surprised you didn't get offended.” She admits.

Hannibal hums, choosing his next words with curious intentions. “Truth, when blatantly spoken can be either easy or difficult to receive - more often, the latter - but nonetheless, remains the truth. It would be unseemly to be offended.”

As he expects, she doesn't point out the complexity of the response. But she squints, seemingly running the words in her head and trying to dissect them. Astoundingly clever. He's more eager now to meet her elusive parent.

“Most adults get upset when I speak.” In defeat, she concedes, “What does unseemly mean?”

A refill of champagne is slid over to him by the waitstaff and Hannibal nods in gratitude. He takes a whiff of the drink, looking at Abigail over the rim of the glass then responds, “Lacking taste and… fancy.”

Abigail laughs at her word of choice thrown back at her then mouths, “You're interesting.”

Unsurprisingly, her approval means more than many in this room. Unable to stall any longer, he asks, “Who is your parent?”

“Will. You can't miss them.” She perks up and looks through the crowd of people. “The first visibly panicked face you see would probably be him. He must've noticed I'm gone now.”

Hannibal offers her his hand again, this time to help her down from the stool. “May I escort you to find them then?”

Her lips thin in consideration, displeased at the abrupt end of the conversation but eventually deciding reuniting with her dad is more important, she takes his hand and mumbles, “I guess.”

Hannibal assists her off the bar stool and keeps a firm grip on her hand as he leads her through perfumed bodies. The intermission would be ending soon.

“You should speak to your parent if you find their partner distasteful.” He tells her.

Abigail looks up at him like the words are incredulous. Then she chuckles to herself as if she made a joke in her head. “I want to be full of words like you when I'm older.” It's almost rude but Hannibal supposes she deserves the pass.

“It was lovely to speak to you too, Abigail.”

She smiles brightly but her response doesn't come because she suddenly pauses and points. “There he is!” and immediately detaches from him to slip past people deep in conversations.

Hannibal spots him instantly just as well. Abigail is right, he does stand out. It's not difficult to tell even if Hannibal only sees the expanse of his back and a head full of tousled vibrant curls moving from side to side, subtly frantic. His stance alone seems unsure and Hannibal guesses that perhaps, it must be his first time here. Out of his depth and looking for an escape - or in this case, his daughter.

The curiosity of what he must look like is quickly sated because when Abigail crushes into him in a hug, he immediately turns around to return it.

And then standing about seven feet away, Hannibal feels a wave of something new coil inside of him. Will is beautiful, utterly beautiful. For a surprising amount of time, words fail Hannibal entirely and he stares, speechless and unmoving, at the way the hard edges to Will’s features soften as he threads his fingers through Abigail’s hair. His eyes are a bright blue - almost the exact mixed shade as Abigail's - only more vibrant and captivating.

Beneath the cologne and scents lingering in the air, Hannibal can tell that the distinct scent of fresh fruits, motor oil and dogs he noticed earlier from Abigail earlier is a prerogative of her father’s as it is significantly heightened in the air.

There’s everything distinct about him that has Hannibal enraptured. That has him standing with a wine glass in his hand in a crowded room, wondering if he would get the opportunity to learn more about them beyond their pretty face. He doesn’t hear over the loud chatters but he watches Will’s lips form around a worried, “Where did you go?”

And then Abigail whips around to his direction instantly and that draws Will’s attention to Hannibal. Their eyes meet along the lobby - nothing dramatic, just observation. But Hannibal is certain some of his perfectly constructed control and coordination stumbles and shatters. Just a single moment, something insignificant yet feeling preserved in time.

Abigail says, “I made a friend.” Her voice is loud enough to be heard.

Will looks briefly panicked - it’s subtle but it’s there - as though they realized they would be obligated to show gratitude. But then it completely fizzes out and he seems to reflect back Hannibal calm and near frigid demeanour. He seems to want to approach Hannibal for a moment but then he looks back at Abigail, mouthing words that Hannibal doesn't catch.

He decides to make the step forward to approach them but he’s instantly interrupted by a familiar - unwelcome - voice behind him along with a light tap on his shoulder. It’s reflexive the way he turns around and masks his disdain at confirming the presence of Franklin Froideveaux calling his attention.

“Dr. Lecter?” He asks with feigned surprise that irritates Hannibal more than he would like. “What a surprise! Two times in a month, must be fate.”

Hannibal would argue stalking - which was now alarming enough that he mentally makes a note to recommend him a new therapist - but all he offers is a stiff nod. Without offering the courtesy of a response, he turns around to find Will only to find him gone. His eyes drift around the room on instinct trying to find ruffled curls and a hunched figure but his skimming proves fruitless.

It takes a lot to school his expression of irritation when Franklin calls his attention yet again - as though he hadn’t already put a wedge in Hannibal’s plans already.

Hannibal forces a smile. “Yes, apologies. A strange coincidence, it is.”

After the end of the event, Hannibal lingers around near the exit hoping to spot that face now permanently etched in his mind but he finds nothing of Will or Abigail - almost like they were never there. As though Hannibal had fabricated the entire events of the night in his head.

What a shame. Will Hobbs had been quite a rare specimen.

29th May, 2016

📍Bloom Residence, Georgetown

Hannibal balances the tupperware on one hand and the food storage tote hangs from his fingers as knocks with the other. He had promised Alana a home cooked dish delivered to her home for a long while now. It was due to make good on that promise.

She often frequented his house than he did hers when they had meals together but an excessive experimentation the previous day left him with enough to stock her for two days at least. Enough to initiate a friendly visit. More than anyone else, Alana was always immensely grateful towards his dedicated meal preparations - which did nothing for him psychologically but it doesn’t deter the fact that it pleases him to hear.

A rhythmic knock echoes and then the sound of footsteps and muffled voices follows after. He doesn’t wait long before the door is swinging open.

Surprisingly, Alana is not the figure staring back at him. As far as he was concerned, she has lived alone for as long as he’s known her.

Recognition washes over him as he looks down at the much shorter girl blinking up at him, frozen in surprise. Her brows squint as though she’s raking at her head to find out why his face is so familiar. Hannibal - having a keen memory for faces, and especially one that made quite an impression on him - has beat her to it.

Nothing could've prepared him for this surprise but he can’t say he’s in any way displeased. Quite the contrary, he has no words to describe how pleased at this. Perhaps fate did have a way of offering second chances.

He smiles genuinely. “Hello.”

Abigail blinks up at him before she seems to have her own moment of epiphany. Hannibal guesses the distinct accent must’ve been enough to jog her memory despite the near two years gap. What a smart child she still was.

“It’s you.” She mutters, recovering from her shock and Hannibl nods.

“Quite the coincidence.”

Realizing that she’s kept him standing too long with full hands, she moves aside to the side and allows him to walk in. She offers to relieve his loaded arms but Hannibal politely declines. “I’m surprised you remember me.”

Abigail makes a face at that as if she’s still trying to place him, the exact circumstances surrounding their meeting perhaps - which was not the case for him as that night had quite stuck with him.

After a few seconds, she smiles widely, “Opera guy.” Her epiphany lasts only a second as they traipse into the living room - where Alana seems to be absent from as well.

A spark lights up under his skin as he realizes that Will must be a friend of Alana’s - the only viable explanation for her presence here - and there was a high chance that he was around as well. What were the odds of the both of them having a close mutual friend and yet never once met.

“Clever as always.” He commends her as he takes the familiar bend to head towards the kitchen.

Abigail chuckles, tucks her hair behind her hair and kicks around the floor as she shadows him on the way to the kitchen. “How do you know Alana?”

“Once a student, now a dear friend and colleague of mine.”

Hannibal feels no compulsion to dumb down his words for Abigail. She must be eleven, or about that - growing in all as well as her intelligence. “She’s a friend of your father.” He doesn’t bother phrasing it as a question.

Abigail nods. She assists him to place the tupperware and bag on the kitchen counter when they arrive. She kneels on the kitchen stool and observes the contents of the storage bag without asking permission - satiating that inevitable childish curiosity.

Her tone is mischievous when she says, “They’re exes.”

Satisfied with cataloguing all the ingredients in the bag, she peeks up at him again. “But that was a long time ago now though. She watches over me when Will has work on the weekends. Are you baking something?”

Hannibal hums, taking off his suit jacket and stepping out to hang it on the coat rack. “For desert, yes.” He says loud enough for her to hear. He’s stepping back to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves when Alana finally shows up. She’s wafting off bathroom products so he assumes she was in the bath when he arrived and must have rushed out.

Her eyes widen in pleasant surprise, rushing closer to accept a hug. “Hannibal, oh my god, what a lovely surprise.”

“I believe I promised you a homemade dish.” He says when they part and she smiles fondly.

“About time. It’s been a minute.”

They walk together to the kitchen where Abigail is already poking her head out. “A new recipe perfected yesterday. I presumed you might appreciate the excesses with freshly prepared desert and a friendly face.” That earns one of Alana’s soft appreciative looks.

“Well what would I do without your cooking?” She says teasingly but doesn’t await a response as she notices Abigail’s presence as well. Polite as ever, her first action is to introduce them.

“Oh, Hannibal, this is my friend’s kid, Abigail. Abigail, this is my colleague and friend.” She gestures between them as they all take various places in the kitchen. Abigail assumes her position on the stool and Alana offers Hannibal the apron he usually uses on his occasional visits.

Abigail gives him a knowing look over the counter, seemingly as uninterested in pointing out that this is definitely not their first meeting as he is. Alana remains none the wiser as she off-loades the ingredients in the bag and continues, “He’s an excellent cook so lunch is saved.”

She pokes at a potato on the counter with a sly smile. “Well, what are we making?”

Alana makes an amused sound, retrieving the knife for Hannibal and tying on her own apron. “Abigail is always eager to join the adults.”

Abigail looks ready to contest but Hannibal beats her to it, unable to help the fondness in his voice. “She’s sharp. I like it.”

“Well her dad is the smartest person I know. They talk to her like a colleague rather than a kid. Watching them converse is frankly frightening.” She starts working to peel the potatoes as she speaks.

Hannibal perks up in interest at more information about Will, somehow more interested in meeting him even now that his guesses have been confirmed to be accurate. He hopes this time to at least get a chance to meet them. It would be quite a shame for fate to open up a second opportunity to meet and know them, only for it to slip away by a hair’s breadth.

He hums, joining her in her task, contemplating a response that doesn’t reveal his interest and fixation on someone who mere minutes ago he believed he would never even meet.

Abigail‘s voice overshadows his thoughts. “He’s not the smartest anymore since I won our scrabble game last week.” She points out with a tint of pride as she tilts her head and leans on the counter. Hannibal makes an impressed sound that makes her smile widen.

Alana humors her and pats her hair with her clean hand. “Right, of course. My apologies. You’re the smartest one now.”

She brushes off their glazing and ducks her face to point at the potatoes being attended to. “Can I help with that?”

“Perhaps something less tasking.” Hannibal suggests and she nods after a moment of reluctance. “Okay.” He can't in good faith give a child a knife - regardless of how wise beyond her years she is - not unless it was absolutely necessary to satiate a curiosity, of course. She seems to understand that.

They work together in tandem. Abigail assists with moving and washing out bowls, chopping boards and knives while Alana takes on bigger tasks with him.

Soon he's plating their meals and dismissing them to wait to be served in the dining room. He has a deep appreciation for Alana's taste in kitchen ware, the way they easily enhance the beauty of the meal.

Hannibal isn't particularly expecting to impress Abigail but he hopes to grab her interest with the display. It isn't so ambitious to want the attention of both the daughter and parent.

When he announces the main course and serves them, taking a seat opposite Alana and with Abigail at the head of the table, she gives him a cheeky look and mutters, “Fancy.” She gets a light chiding from Alana but Hannibal only shares a knowing look and smile with her.

She spends most of the time eating keenly observing Hannibal and Alana as they converse as though gauging the level of the relationship. Afterwards, she insists on assisting with the cleanup so she's standing on her toes, receiving the rinsed out plates to dry them.

Halfway through, she abruptly asks, “Do you play scrabble? Alana has a board.”

Hannibal can't say he doesn't expect it. He hums. “I'm more fond of and biased to chess. Do you play?”

She makes a contemplative sound, drags the rag along the ceramic plate a little roughly. “Will says my manipulation tactics are easy to guess.”

“Scrabble it is, then.”

They wound up on the dining table. Alana, on one end typing away at her laptop and occasionally sipping from her cup of tea while a board gradually getting filled with tiles lays on the other end of the table between Abigail and Hannibal. Several words make lines and shapes, taking up almost every inch of the board as time inches further.

The air in the room is silent and comfortable aside the occasional thoughtful hums or sighs from either one of them.

Abigail spends a healthy amount of time calculating her next move when their tiles are almost entirely exhausted. She squints at the board and Hannibal smiles, watching the calculative look on her face, analyzing and debating her next move. She’s been a formidable opponent so far for someone so young but she’s still several points behind.

After a moment, she places three tiles lined up in front of the word, ‘red’ forming ‘spurred’.

Impressive.

She gives him a haughty look, sensing his appraisal. When Hannibal plays his tiles, she frowns at the board for a moment before looking up at him suspiciously. “Do you read the dictionary everyday or something?”

“In my youth, often. Do you?”

She clicks her tongue and raises a brow. “No? It’s… unexciting. I like to learn from people.”

“Unique.”

When the first game ends, Hannibal has the higher score and she observes the board for a long moment before demanding a rematch. Thankfully, he has a very free Sunday to spend as much as time here - if Will shows up then all the better for him.

Halfway through a third heated game, Alana steps away to take a call. Abigail plays her turn and absently speaks, “Also, I forgot to mention, I go by Abigail Graham now. Will is now legally my parent.”

Hannibal visibly schools his expression to mask any outward surprise. He had assumed Abigail was Will’s biological child - she definitely looked it when they stood side by side - and knowing she isn’t only rekindles his curiosity. It definitely explained why any internet search for ‘Will Hobbs’ always proved unsuccessful. He was Will Graham.

He doesn’t ask her any intrusive questions, appreciating her openness and trust but respecting her immaturity. It could be a sore subject - or not - but Hannibal wants to hear it from her parent instead. Someday, perhaps.

Taking it with a nod, he contemplates his next move. “Unfortunately, I remain the uninteresting Hannibal Lecter.”

Abigail laughs and rolls her eyes. “You’re interesting.”

Barely a few minutes later, the sound of a well timed knock comes floating in. Hannibal reflexively perks up in interest as Alana goes to welcome her guest.

And fate really must have some design that’s entirely out of Hannibal’s control because a familiar patch of curls appear in the periphery of his view and all his attention is drawn from the game to the figure walking into the living room. They share a hug and a few words with Alana - inconsequentials that he has no interest in.

Will doesn’t look visibly different - Hannibal would remember, of course, they had a face that occasionally visited his dreams - but it was the subtle differentials that spoke of his age. A hardened edge to his features. His presence fills the room in a way that strikes Hannibal because it feels impossible that he should while looking well-worn and tired around the eyes.

Hannibal wonders if he’s as beautiful in his suffering as he is in pleasure. He wonders if it's always so effortless and accidental for Will - sharp jawline, unfathomable depths to his eyes - if it’s always this easy for them or if they have to try. He likes to imagine it’s the former.

It’s unfortunate that all the knowledge and musings he has about Will Graham remain mere assumptions.

Their eyes meet and for a single moment, he sees a visible wave of recognition wash over Will’s face. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to revel in the victory of being recognized because at that same moment, Abigail seems to notice his presence as well. Instantly, she abandons the game, crosses over from the dining room to the living room and into Will’s arms.

Will’s entire attention turns to her, his lips curve in a brilliant smile and he crouches down to hug her properly. She ruffles his hair when she pulls away. “Did you catch any bad guys today?”

“No, not today.” A kiss to her forehead then he rises to his full sight.

Alana offers him a drink and heads over to the kitchen without waiting for a response - to avoid his decline, Hannibal can tell. Will gives her disappearing form a fond smile before his eyes seem to drift back to the dining table.

Their eyes meet yet again - something brief sparking in the air, a flicker, a speck, of curiosity perhaps. Or possibility. It doesn’t last. Hannibal can instantly tell they are avoiding his eyes when they look away - discomfort, likely or the fear of being perceived. He doesn’t ask. They haven’t said a word to each other yet something feels static and alive between them.

Will looks over the board game. Then to Abigail, he says, “You seemed to be having fun. Did I interrupt?”

“I found a worthy opponent.” She says cheekily and Will gives her a dirty look at the jab at his one-time loss.

And then finally, when there’s seemingly no other option but to address him, Will looks in his direction - still not meeting his eyes - and their voice is breathy when they say, “Thank you… for uhm, keeping her company.” They pause and then fumble their lower lip between their teeth and by every god ever worshipped they are a stunning creature and Hannibal can not will his eyes to look away.

“And at the opera too. I never got to thank you for bringing her to me. So… uh, thank you.”

Hannibal hums, taking the words in - picking up hints of a dwindling southern accent and the blatant awkwardness in his tone. He looks even more beautiful subtly peeking up at Hannibal from beneath his lashes. He appeared simple and anxious - to a regular eye - but Hannibal knows too well about making forts to detect one so easily.

Still, he chooses a lighter response. “It was hardly a chore. Abigail is quite the unique conversationalist, it's been a lovely pleasure.”

Will looks up at Hannibal at that, holds his gaze longer than he has since he walked in then drops his eyes and chuckles as if in disbelief. “That’s new.” is all he says and Hannibal imagines it must be rare that anyone appreciates Abigail’s bluntness - or theirs in fact. Unsurprising but unfortunate.

It’s what interests him so much about the both of them - Will, particularly - how different they were from the tireless shallowness he’s been acquainted with, so many, lacking any depth, that don't deserve even a second glance. What would they know about handling an eccentric mind?

In that line of thought, he chooses to respond, “Intelligence is often threatening, no?”

A look of conflict passes Will’s face as though they realize the statement is not just referring to Abigail. It tapers off to a hesitant understanding. Hannibal wonders how he can feel so keen to a person he doesn’t even know yet.

When his eyes drift to Abigail to take the spot off of Will, she’s looking between the both of them with a muted but keen observatory lens. Something in the way she looks at Will tells him she’s likely never seen him quite so speechless and lacking of a response.

She decides to take the reins of the conversation. “He’s bluffing. He beat me three rounds already.”

Hannibal gives her an amused hum and gestures to the abandoned game. “I believe the third game has yet to be concluded.”

Abigail turns her attention to him, gives him a mischievous look, clicks her tongue then says, “Beating a child three times won’t do anything for your ego.”

Will turns to her incredulous, livid at her tone and choice words. Hannibal finds it amusing, daring - how she’s willing to test if his leniency would waver. Admirable. Her father does not share the sentiment.

He instantly chides, “Abigail!” She looks up with Will with a practiced apologetic expression and they sigh, “Just.. go get your bag.”

They share a look as she leaves the living room and disappears completely out of sight.

And then there were two.

Hannibal can instantly see the shift in Will’s expression when they seem to realize it - traces of uncertainty and awkwardness filling in the air. They look everywhere but at Hannibal.

Their fingers slip into their pocket to stop them from twitching. They look no more different than a cornered animal. It must not be so often that anyone reads through his many million masks.

Curious as to how far he can prod, Hannibal takes a direct approach, “Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Will makes a sound like a scoff and meets his eyes finally. He looks long enough that he seems to almost entirely absorb Hannibal’s calm coordinated exterior. They step forward toward the dining room and Hannibal can pick up the scent of his aftershave - extremely unfortunate.

“Quite the observer, aren’t you?” Their tone borders on the line between slight annoyance and curiosity.

Hannibal is thoroughly flattered at being the subject of their interest - even for just a single moment. “Observing is what I do. The eccentric is particularly difficult to resist. I can’t shut it off more than you can control your breathing.”

Unapologetically, Will’s eyes drift back to the floor. “I’m not a big fan of being observed… or analyzed.”

There’s something restrained in them that Hannibal finds maddenly beautiful to experience just a peek from the buried layers.

He hums in acknowledgement, fiddles with a letter tile lying on the table and proceeds undeterred. “I imagine perception from others must frighten you for fear that it might be true. Quite the irony, how much the human mind craves but fears being seen.”

Will ‘s eyes shoot up instantly, appearing caught and simultaneously perplexed at Hannibal’s audacity. And yet again, speechless. They don’t seem to find any words for a moment - only keeping a heated staring match with Hannibal - and don’t get the chance to say any because Alana finally emerges from the kitchen with a bottle and glasses in her hands. “I found whiskey in my stock. Stay a bit for drinks?”

The clink of glass hitting the marble table echoes in the room. Will looks desperate for an escape as she sets three glasses on the table.

“I..” They start, looking between Hannibal and Alana and then the table. The escape comes in the form of Abigail traipsing in with her bag secured on her shoulders. Will moves to take her hand. “Maybe some other time. Abigail has school tomorrow, she should get to bed early.”

Hannibal can barely mask his disappointment. He wonders then if he had sabotaged his only opportunity when Alana nods and offers to walk them out.

The door shuts with a finality that dampens something in him.

Alana shows up by the table again. “I suppose I should bring boring old champagne then.”

He offers only a smile at her teasing. He flips over the word tile as she returns to the kitchen with a glass and the bottle, losing himself in a myriad of thoughts. One person shouldn’t monopolize and neutralize his coordinated control this much.

The chair beside him is pulled out. Alana pours him a glass and he receives it with a polite ‘thank you’. The bottle hits the table with a thunk after her glass is filled as well.

She hums, “What are you thinking?”

“Wondering.” Hannibal starts then pauses contemplatively. Vaguely, he continues, “Just how many times you can almost meet a person before it begins to have significance.”

Alana looks to the living room area and then back at Hannibal, a muted realization taking over her expression.

She gives him a teasing smile. “Hmm.. perhaps, three more?”

“Perhaps.”

7th July, 2019

📍Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts

The years bleed into one another as they so often do.

The most interesting moments remain skimming through Freddie Lounds’ article telling the story behind a tableau, amateurish as always but no doubt appraising in the undertones - though amusing would be the right word. And besides the occasional unique patients he sees that grasp his attention - for only a short period of time, unfortunately - Hannibal is quite bored.

Bored with Baltimore as a scene in fact. Though that was a thought for yet another day.

This is certainly not his scene but a recommendation and its revolutionary aesthetics had him buying a ticket for the show anyway. It’s a complete turn around from experiencing the art within a closed space. The Filine theatre is open air, massive, booming in the summer. Hannibal isn’t averse to the occasional change, although he supposes this one might be a rare indulgence from time to time.

A spilled drink and a rude comment at the wine table has Hannibal politely asking, “May I have your business card?” barely containing his irritation.

The man looks briefly surprised before raising a brow quite rudely and slipping his hand into his pocket to retrieve it. He walks away with a huff and Hannibal mentally notes a new recipe he’s been meaning to try.

He tries the white wine and hums appreciatively. When he turns to leave, he's met instead with a familiar face.

Fate must be quite hilarious, it seems.

It’s not too difficult to recognize her. She’s not so different in his memory - shorter, perhaps but she has the same smile as she did years ago - only a few finer edges to her formerly round face. She’s certainly not the child she was three years ago and Hannibal can barely contain his surprise.

Twice may have been a coincidence. But three times entirely by chance seemed so unbelievable. Some part of him was resigned to the fact that the Grahams - Will Graham in particular - would remain nothing but a memory to him.

He thought of Will occasionally through the years. Hannibal would often find himself scanning the walls of the opera house in Baltimore searching for the shadow of ruffled curls and blue eyes. His visits to Alana’s significantly increased - almost subconsciously even. And on the very rare occasion, he let himself indulge in seeking out more information on Will - one self-indulgent and disappointingly fruitless internet search would do well to render Hannibal prone to singular thoughts about them for a week or two.

It’s difficult to forget, as though the memory of them - seemingly fleeting and entirely insignificant - was ineffaceable even with time. It’s driven him to an unnerved state often when he realizes how little control he has over the entirety of it.

Abigail beams at him, her skin is pale even under the sunlight and her hair - longer now - falls over her shoulder. A branded coffee cup with a straw peeking out is gripped in her hands and a sweater casually tied around her waist.

This time, Hannibal is the one taking longer to recover from his surprise, simply observing her in disbelief.

“Are you following me?” She teases, head tilted, the corner of her mouth lifting.

Hannibal can’t help a fond smile. The scent of the wine fills his scenes as he brings the rim closer to his face then he takes a controlled sip. “I must be doing a terrible job at it. I’ve lost quite a few years.”

Abigail chuckles. Her hand moves to push aside the stray curls dangling over her face. “Three actually.” She corrects, and Hannibal briefly wonders if perhaps the memory of their last meeting has stayed with her as much. “I’ll be fourteen in a month.”

Despite having mentally made the calculation, it's still quite a slight surprise to have the full picture. Somehow within their two - now three accidental meetings - he's watched her grow from a child to a teenager. Helpless to the line of thought, Hannibal wonders how Will must've changed as well. Wonders if they're here with her as well today. Wonders if he would be given a third chance.

Only time and circumstance could possibly tell. The one variable, unfortunately out of Hannibal's control. He swirls around his glass, matching Abigail's humor. “Then it seems I must sharpen my skills.”

“Maybe.” She tilts her head to the side and then she gives him a once over - whether in disbelief or scrutiny, he’s unsure. Something in her eyes tells Hannibal he must likely look out of place here to her. She says just as much.

“I was so sure I was seeing things when I spotted you across the field but not many would be dressed in a three piece suit in a park in the summer.” She gestures to the many patrons drifting towards the amphitheater. “This doesn’t seem like your scene. Not very fancy and pretentious.”

Brusque and curt as always - tongue sharper than in his memory. It remains a refreshing difference from the usual pencil lickers and banal grasping sycophants he unfortunately has to remain acquainted with. A breath of fresh air. Something really interesting to amuse and tickle the back of his throat.

Hannibal hums, gives her an even more pretentious response to sate his curiosity. “We all evolve and adapt. Change is but another inevitable phenomenon; to welcome it is growth.”

Predictably, she snorts and gives him an amused look. He takes another well timed sip of his wine. Then looks to the gradually filling theater and adds, “And Bernstein is a lovely performance I would dread to miss at the expense of tolerating a few philistines.”

She laughs this time. The brown liquid in her transparent cup moves around in tandem with the shakes of her shoulder. “You clearly haven’t changed. You still sound so polite while being rude.”

It's too fond for how little they realistically know each other. Yet, his tone is no different when he responds, “And you make no effort to try still.”

Abigail shakes her head, kicks the coarse ground as she steps closer as if to conspiratorially whisper. “Well… some stranger once told me, ‘truth sucks but needs to be heard.’ Turns out, I’m a really good listener.”

A call back to their first conversation - five years ago - brings back the unbidden memory of the feeling of seeing Will under the lights of those halls for the first time across a crowded room. He wonders if they would still be strangers if he had tried harder.

Wonders then, if he could impact them as he has left a mark on Abigail.

“Many of what we hear and experience impact and shape our mind, whether intentional or not.”

Abigail gives him a wistful smile. She pokes her tongue on the inside of her cheek, thinking. “You’re intentional.” She finally says. “All the time, I think. Not today though, I actually surprised you.”

There's a tint of pride in her voice. Like she's gleeful to have cut through his put together exterior. Like she can tell there must be more within.

Hannibal wonders if she has even begun to realize how much potential she has. Innocent like a lamb but cunning as a fox beneath that outer skin. He nods, accepts with a practiced ease. “Tomorrow is always a surprise. Only how we react and the choices we make lie within our control.”

Abigail brightens, takes a deep breath and he watches the way the sunlight flares against her hair. She glances towards the stage where the murmur of the crowd has begun to thicken. Then back at him. “Even now you’re still the most interesting person here.”

It's impossible to conceal how thoroughly pleased he is to hear that.

Something in him flares up with the confirmation that Will must have brought her here today as well. It seems she always leads him to them.

“I can’t imagine you’re willingly here for the opera which you detest.”

Abigail chuckles. “I don’t detest it. I said that when I was nine. I actually like the sun and the music - all the contained chaos here.” She purses her lips and looks subtly over her shoulder as if in anticipation. She continues, sipping from her drink. “And the other option was another fishing trip. Summer fishing isn’t half as fun as spring.”

Hannibal decidedly doesn't ask if she ran off from her parent. Instead, he perks up at the intentional reveal into their lives. “You fish?”

“With Will, yeah. Fly fishing, they started teaching me a few years ago.” Her voice softens. “It’s nice and quiet.”

And right then, they're interrupted by an eerily familiar voice. He supposed time would've entirely worn away the memory of Will's face and voice but the second he hears it, Hannibal's eyes instantly move to look over Abigail's shoulder.

“Abigail, why did you-” They cut off, eyes widening in recognition when they see him as well. Their lips remain parted around silent words, concern for Abigail's whereabouts dissolving to an expression of disbelief and surprise. Almost like he's wondering what silly trick fate must be playing on all of them as well.

Abigail bodily turns to him with an apologetic look. “Sorry, I saw a friendly face. I wanted to say hello.”

Hannibal feels the air grow static and thick with something unnameable. With a full view of Will now in a flannel with two top buttons undone and painfully plaid pants, Hannibal still manages to find him beautiful. There's more to tell about his age now, but nothing quite dims the color of his eyes and the curve of his lips. His hair flutters in the evening wind.

And after a moment of silence where Hannibal does no more than observe and twirl the glass in his hold and be observed in return, Will finally speaks up. “It's you.”

A whisper. An acknowledgement. Hannibal aches to be closer to them.

Tentatively, he mouths, “Hello.”

There's a tiny quirk to Will's lips, almost amused at the simplicity of his response. He mirrors Hannibal. “Hello.”

And fate really was somewhat cruel because another opportunity slips right through his fingers yet again. Abigail points it out, looking to the center stage. “The overture is about to begin.”

There's a flicker of something in Will's face but nothing else. He takes Abigail’s hand. She waves at Hannibal before they turn to leave. “Enjoy Bernstein. I’ll see you.”

She says it like a promise. Hannibal has no trust in uncertainties but he can't help but believe there's a slim chance he would see them again - whether it would be too late then or not, he doesn't know. Hannibal sips his wine with an almost painful resolution as he watches their figures walk away.

And then Will turns around. Their eyes meet over the slowly dimming air. Nothing dramatic yet again but he thinks this time it's somewhat significant. At least not just from his end. It lasts only a single moment - nothing decipherable in their eyes - and then it ends.

In a moment, they are gone in the crowd of bodies. Yet again.

It's almost subconscious how Hannibal’s eyes skim over the theatre at the beginning, the intermission and end of the show, searching with lingering hope for the fragments of them amongst the mass of banal people.

20th April, 2020

📍Abandoned Warehouse, Winchester, Virginia

Hannibal wipes his scalpel clean of the lingering stains of blood before placing it aside. He thumbs along the flowers in the chest cavity of the body before him with his still gloved hands and hums appreciatively. Pleased at the display, he inspects the state of the organs retrieved, seals them and stores them in the cooler for the long drive ahead.

After a thorough examination and cleaning of the scene, Hannibal steps back - with his materials all packed up - and admires.

The day is much darker than when he had arrived here with the unconscious body in the first place when he exits the building. Driving beyond state lines with questionable evidence was definitely risky but the dark of night and a few secluded routes he's familiar with now gives enough elusion to scale through unscathed. It's always more effective to leave a display further and further away from his safety nest.

The scent of antiseptic infiltrates his nose as he slips into the rented car after securing everything else in the back seat.

Roughly thirty minutes into his drive back to Baltimore, the heavy noise of pouring rain overrides the soft muted sound of music from the speaker of the car. He turns on the wipers as the glasses fog up the longer the rain persists.

It's even heavier as he drives past Wolf Trap, unable to help the nostalgia from the memory of only a few months ago. He finds himself often taking a path here with his kills, as if with silent hope of another chance encounter. Albeit futile so far.

Perhaps another two years must be needed first.

The rain doesn't stop even when he's past Maryland state lines and driving into Baltimore. The roads are silent and deserted, both because of the rain and the time of night, he presumes. Distantly, his eyes scan around his surroundings, perusing through thoughts in the walls of his mind with one hand on the steering wheel. He would be returning the rented car tomorrow, but certainly wouldn't be taking it to his home. His car still waits in an abandoned car park.

Hannibal mentally notes the landmarks around him, indicating he's close to said park. It's in his observation that he notices a skeletal looking bus stop ahead and almost immediately the shadow of a figure curled up at the side, uncaring of the rain beating down heavily on them.

Curiosity leads Hannibal to slow the car, lowering the passenger glass to observe the prone form as he drives past. He can't help but sniff out an opportunity where it presents himself.

They must hear his car slowing because they look up instantly and even in the dimmed light, Hannibal instantly recognizes her. Every cog in his brain draws to a stop, surprise unfiltered in his expression as his thoughts take an entirely different turn. He truly didn't expect it would be so soon again.

Abigail's eyes widen slightly as she finally notices the person in the car parked in front of her. She peels away from the bus stop and even in the dark, he can see streaks of tears running down her face, smeared makeup, fingers clutching her purse.

Of every possibility he quite imagined, this particular one was extremely far-fetched. Certainly not with body parts and organs in his car and her well worn expression and red rimmed eyes by a near deserted bus stop of all places, late at night.

Curiosity lingers at the back of his mind at the strange circumstances but he gives her a controlled expression instead.

“Would you care for a ride?” He asks simply, leaning over the passenger side to look up at her properly. Her lips part for a second then close back, docile and distressed in a way she usually isn't. Eventually, she nods, then reaches over to open the door and slip into the passenger side.

Her hair is soaked and sticking to the sides of her face. She's barely much different from when he last saw her, except now she looks like a girl cosplaying a woman in her flowery pink dress barely reaching her knees and her lips bold red, her makeup smeared but not washed off.

Abigail distinctly avoids his gaze and Hannibal turns off the ignition, leaning back in his seat to offer her a moment of comfortable silence to collect herself.

“This is how all good serial killer movies start.” She mutters after a moment of silence.

Hannibal can't help a huff of amusement at her ability to joke even in her suffering. “Comedies as well.” He counters. That's enough for her to turn to look up at him, a tiny quirk of her lips as she seems to take him in as well.

Abigail wipes her hand over her face, dispelling the lingering drops of water and most of her ruined makeup. Then her gaze drifts down and she clutches her purse on her lap. “I thought we'd at least get two more years.”

She voices out his previous thoughts and he hums wistfully. “So did I.”

A moment of silence passes. Desperate to turn the attention from herself, she clears her throat and asks with a feigned casual lightness as a complete disregard to their current - and absurd - situation, “What are you doing out this late anyway?”

Hannibal chooses to humor her. After all, offering her the illusion of comfort would make her suggestible to revealing the truth on her own - or to prodding at least. “On my way to my home in Baltimore. Returning from a friend in need.”

She turns to observe the backseat. Hannibal observes her expression as her eyes flick over the cooler, watches for suspicion in her expression. All she asks is, “Cooking for them?”

Hannibal knows she’s smarter than she’s pretending to be but then again, it is even smarter to play ignorant than prod further and know too much. He nods, meets her eyes. “Something of the sort. Offering my aid in a general sense.” They share a brief moment of eye contact before she looks down at where her fingers twitch on her purse.

“You're a good person.”

The words hang in the air for a moment. Hannibal finds them amusing - the irony of them but also the fact that he knows she doesn’t believe that. Not in the regular sense at least.

He pushes up the sleeve of his jacket slightly to check the time. He's spent a long time on the drive already and even longer might alter the flavor of the meat, not properly preserved. When he looks back to Abigail, she quickly turns away from him, caught.

Tentatively, he starts, “I assume you were waiting for the bus. May I take you home?”

Apart from the glaring opportunity to hopefully see Will - or at the very least, know where they live - Abigail is also wet and uncomfortable and somehow within the years he has grown quite a - distant but - profound care for her well-being. Well, likely an extension of his - now superficial - affection for Will Graham but nonetheless, her comfort was a priority.

She looks uncomfortable for a moment. Lips parting and closing with uncertainty for a few seconds, she finally says, “It's completely out of your way. All the way in Wolf Trap.” Something alive coils inside of Hannibal. He had been somewhat right.

Uncaring for the distance and trying to mask his anticipation with a persistent concern instead, he assures, “The night is mine to do as I please. I could turn around.”

Abigail snorts, raises a brow up at him. “That's ridiculous.”

“I would hardly be at ease leaving you here with no assurance of a means to get home.” He hardly has a credible knowledge on the bus schedule but he doesn't doubt that none would be coming any time soon. Abigail must know that as well.

Perhaps, she wasn't even waiting for the bus, maybe just running. A myriad of thoughts flood the center of his brain but none enough to form a solid assumption. Hannibal knows she would end up telling him anyway.

The sound of her fingers tapping against her purse reverberates in the quiet space, muted sounds of the downpour outside surrounding them. Then she throws her head back on the headrest and sighs harshly. “I was going to call Will to pick me up. I have a bit of battery left, I was just…” She pauses, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “... sulking, I guess.”

Hannibal takes that with a nod of contemplation. There must be a crack somewhere, he's certain of that.

“It would certainly be easier for both of you if I assisted. But if you prefer, it would be safer if you sat in here and waited instead. It would take about an hour for your father to arrive if you called him now.”

She perks up at his offer, watching him below the safety of her lashes. Her tone is incredulous when she asks, “So you'd wait an hour with me then?”

A smile - thoroughly genuine. “Your company is always a breath of fresh air.”

Abigail laughs nervously and twists her hair on her finger. “I'm not the best company now.” Then she turns to him, as though expecting him to usher her out at the admission. Hannibal could argue that he could see that even before offering but his expression must say it all because her shoulders slump in defeat.

Glancing outside the window, observing the darkness outside and the pouring of rain against the glass lasts a few moments for her. Then she decides, “Take me home, please. I'll direct you.”

Hannibal nods, pleased at how easy predicting her has become for him. He turns the key, starts the car and turns around. The soft hum of the speaker bubbles to life, muted sounds of the concerto filling the space and the silence as he drives steadily. He focuses on the road ahead, doesn't offer as much as a side glance to Abigail's figure - curious now, he can tell from insight alone.

The moment drags on for a while. Admittedly, she lasts longer than he expects before she breaks the silence with a predicted question but he imagines she must've been collecting herself. He had interrupted her mulling anyway.

Her voice is much clearer when she finally asks, “Are you not gonna ask?”

So human, despite the magnitude of her sufferings.

Hannibal only hums, making light of the entire situation. He decidedly keeps his eyes on their path ahead. “Your truths are yours to tell, Abigail. Your secrets are yours to keep in the same vein.”

Abigail makes a mildly frustrated sound. Then a small huff, short of a chuckle. He glances over to see the annoyed flush coloring her face. “God, you're always so proper.” She finally breathes, frustrated at his courtesy it seems. Perhaps it would be easier for her if she opens up upon persuasion. But Hannibal knows better results would come from making her safe and comfortable - not poked like an animal. She continues with a sigh. “I don't mean this in a bad way but you're kind of the last person I wanted to see now, not with me like…” Her hands gesture over her sorry state. “this.”

Hannibal can surely not assure her that this is exactly how he likes her. Vulnerable, with all emotions bared and skin shed.

Instead, he polishes his words but not marring honesty. “Our vulnerabilities define us. They render us human, we can hardly help them, only control and tame it when possible. I think it's quite beautiful when we can not help giving into our human nature regardless.”

Right then, Abigail looks up at him with a subtle realization taking over her features.

He can't say he isn't thoroughly impressed when she calls him out. “Easier to manipulate.”

Hannibal gives her a pleased smile before turning his full attention to the road.

“I suppose so.”

Despite her epiphany and awareness of his manipulations, only a few minutes pass in silence before she seemingly decides to tell him anyway.

The lowered sound of her voice follows the nervous tap of her feet, colored in slight embarrassment. “It was just… a stupid date.” She starts, then pauses, offering him a brief suspense - within which he imagines every possible scenario that would've led her here. Then, “I snuck out because my dad would obviously freak out if I brought up a night date an hour away. Clearly they would've been right to because he turned out to be an absolute piece of shit.”

Hannibal instantly turns her, tilting his head to the side with a chiding expression at the crass language.

Abigail chuckles, offering a guilty but apologetic smile. “Right. Language. Of course, you don't curse.” She says more to herself. Hannibal observes her for a moment, terribly fond before turning away.

“Quite uncouth, don't you think?” He agrees.

“I suppose so.”

The air of amusement fizzles out with a drawn out pause where she takes a shaky breath to ground herself perhaps.

Predictably, she willingly unwraps more. He can see her fidgeting from the corner of his eyes - looking anywhere within her view but at him when she continues. “It started out normal, you know? Dinner, irritating small talk. He was interested in getting to know me, and I thought ‘finally, something normal’. And then I realized what he was really interested in knowing.”

A pause. The air grows thicker, silence amplified by the rain slowly fading to soft pattering and drizzles.

Hannibal has a well indurated conjecture on just what her estranged meal partner must have been interested in knowing - along with a more vivid supposition on what must've happened. He supposes it should've been inevitable, he also has endless curiosities about her, yet to be satisfied, ever since he read the infamous article not quite long ago.

The silence seems to stretch long - only the distant sound of a faint drizzle and tires on the road fill the space - before she finally mutters, “He brought up my father.” When Hannibal gives her no outward reaction, she clarifies, “Not Will. My biological father.”

He knows that, of course. Regardless of that, he remains nonplussed. Years ago, she had offhandedly implied that she was adopted and in spite of what Hannibal had learned recently, as far as she knew, he knew nothing about her biological father - or her past.

Almost immediately, she bites out a frustrated, "Don't do that.” causing him to turn to her instinctively.

There's a frown perched between her brows, partly disappointed and part defiant - daring him to deny. Hannibal dampens an impressed smile. He supposes he should've expected her to see through this particular facade. “I know you know.” She forces out and looks away. “If you didn't on your own, you would've read about it recently anyway.”

The article had been horrendously tasteless, a sour taste left lingering in his mouth at Freddie Lounds’ churlish and purkish tactics. She was useful to him but unfortunately, terribly rude and selfishly opportunistic. Hannibal has no regard for a standard moral compass but oftentime, he wondered if killing her would be abetting.

Though, the article had been quite informative regardless and thus, appreciated.

Hannibal's sparingly and seldom search on Will Graham has always proved fruitless, linking him to a few cases, vagaries and eventually deadends. Abigail Hobbs, he had never once considered trying, assuming that surely she had no internet presence.

Lounds had provided a sufficient backstory on the Minnesota Shrike and a ‘scandalous’ update on what has become of his - in her words - cannibal daughter. Tasteless. But useful. Although, he would've quite loved to hear it from the source instead.

Lowering down his facade, Hannibal concedes with a nod. “Quite tasteless even for a tabloid journalist.”

Abigail laughs, strained and self deprecating, as if relearning the absurdity of her situation. He observes her from the corner of his eyes. She's still just a child, despite it all, unaware and ignorant of how much more she could be.

She scoffs. “Right.”

Hannibal says nothing, allowing her to become comfortable enough to either say more or relax in the silence instead. The air remains still around them, offering her space yet no apparent escape. A light thump follows as Abigail drops her head back on the headrest.

“I always knew my life was going to be fucked up.” She finally starts, voice rough. “But moving far away, new school and new place - new life - made it easy to forget. And then one afternoon, Freddie Lounds shows up in my school for an interview, asking for ‘my side of the story’ now that I’m old enough to talk. The next day, everyone knows. Abigail Hobbs: daughter of a cannibal.”

Terribly disrespectful.

Hannibal observes her slumped shoulders, her trembling fingers picking at her nails and her eyes lingering on the window. Her voice cracks when she continues with a haunted finality, “I try to ignore it - pretend all of it never happened to me - but this is always going to follow me for the rest of my life. I'll never escape it.”

Upon her silent gesture, Hannibal takes a right turn, driving through the empty road bracketed by vegetation under the illumination of the headlights. She observes the area as if to ensure they're on the right path before turning her attention back to him when he speaks.

“Then perhaps you should face it and stop running. Our experiences can not be shed, they become a part of us. You bruise when you force it off.”

Abigail makes an incredulous sound, parroting back, “Running?” Her fingers clutch tightly at the hem of her dress, containing the heave of emotions he imagines are currently rushing through her. “I’m not running. If anything, I walked right into it.”

Hannibal contemplates her argument in silence, forcing her to sulk in her thoughts or fill the silence with more. He imagines the space must be constricting for her, suffocating with emotions she has spent years trying not to feel.

Shakily, she adds in an almost inaudible voice. “You know Will killed my father. He…” She pauses, exhales and squeezes her eyes shut - perhaps reliving it.

Hannibal knew that, of course - the article did not fail to point out every absurdity. But he doesn't imagine that Abigail gets to admit it - even to herself - often. What a fascinating insight it had been to learn the basis of their unusual relationship. All the more interesting.

There's a sheen of annoyance in her voice when she continues, “He was… an officer on the case. I saw him stuff my father with ten bullets in the kitchen when I was six. I think I've done everything but run.”

Helpless to the thought, Hannibal regrets that he hadn't met Will nine years ago. It would surely be a sight to witness them, unrestrained and in touch with the basest of human instincts - even if it were just for justice.

She looks to him as though awaiting his horrific expression but he simply responds, “Proximity is neither confrontation nor acceptance. Living in the shadow of your trauma, bearing it as though it were a stone in your pocket weighing you down is not facing it. Survival isn't freedom.”

Abigail bites down on her trembling lips hearing that. Hannibal wonders if what she shares with Will is love or a more evolved kind of trauma bonding. Maybe a mix of both.

“I just… I want to erase it. I want it to not be a part of me. This perception haunts me.”

Hannibal revels in her honesty and fear. She has no need for the latter, really. “You can't shed your skin but you can wear it with grace. Denial suggests cowering, escape; fear. Accept it. Revel in it.” He turns to gauge her incredulous expression - wide eyes and lips parted in surprise - as she tries to grasp the words. It's quite a shame anyone had ever convinced her to conceal herself.

“He told me he was scared that I'd bite off his dick.” She bites out unceremoniously, shrewd as Hannibal imagines her companion was with her. His lips twitch in barely contained disdain.

Then she curls into herself, face twisted up in somewhat disgust. “He wanted to know if I missed eating people. How do I accept that?”

“You're not a slave to perception, you've never been. Your father's darkness does not define you, but it's shaped you, carved out the depths of which you've made.” He refocuses on the road ahead, pleased at the way she takes his words in. “You are not a ghost of his actions. You're not just your father's daughter.”

She leans back on her seat, calmer. Then she breathes, “I'm Will's too.”

“And your own creation, yes.”

A brief moment passes where she contemplates his words and Hannibal observes the dampness of air, the downpour having fizzled out entirely.

“It's fucked up, isn't it?” She clears her throat, uncertain - and taking the reins of self deprecating where Hannibal has failed to ridicule her. “Living and loving the person who ended my old life and gave me a new one.”

“Unusual, perhaps. But the foundation of a relationship is only one factor to determine its success.” The underlying message is there for her to agree or disagree. When she says nothing, Hannibal mentally confirms what he already assumed to be true. Despite the odd and traumatic start of their relationship, they've succeeded either way.

Admirable.

Abigail sighs, seemingly less burdened than when he had found her. They drive quietly for a few minutes more before she decides to offer him more. Hannibal is already much content with all he's known and most importantly, her trust but more of both could never be refused.

He idly wonders how long she has gone without anyone to discuss this with - not with the fear of being victimized or villainized. All of that fear has faded to something more relaxed and comfortable with him, he can smell it on her over the hints of her perfume still lingering.

“They only let me have me because no one else would've taken me in.” She starts, breaking the silence. “When they took me home from the hospital, I remember looking at the front porch and asking ‘Is this where my mum died?’ and asking where all the blood and her body was.” Her tone shifts to something amused, lips curling up slightly. “I think I'll never forget the mildly horrified looks from everyone around. Everyone but Will. They just held my shoulder and told me crime scene cleaners cleaned her blood and my mother was cremated. I had no clue what it meant but I liked being taken seriously, I guess. So I liked him.”

Not only is it quite interesting that she has managed to retain her traumatic memories - strong enough to survive without blocking any - the fondness in her voice reliving such a memory is outstanding. Though, Hannibal quite understands firsthand what it's like to be taken by the eccentric mind of Will Graham.

She continues after a reminiscent pause, “At first, I think they viewed me as something untainted they needed to protect to stop feeling guilty. And I liked being around them because they treated me like a person, not a child or a victim. It was weird at first when he took me in as a guardian but then it just… made sense. He never smothered me, he just let me exist. And somewhere along the line, we just… understood each other.”

Hannibal offers her a hum, following another wordless direction into an unfamiliar path.

“Will gave you a sanctuary, not freedom. Sanctuaries give the illusion of safety every so often.” He gives her an honest opinion, sensing how much she appreciates blatancy to compassion and pity.

Beautiful.

She burst into a sudden chuckle, realization spilling over her features. . “I… wow.” She mouths and Hannibal studies her, hair falling over her face as she runs her fingers over her face. “I've never said any of that outloud before... Not even to my court ordered psychiatrist.” Her shoulders shake in her laughter and she absently adds, “I think she probably hated me for pretending to be mute.”

Catching herself in another reveal, she admits with a sheepish smile, laughter fading entirely. “I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I'm… more out of it than I thought.”

Hannibal decidedly doesn't outright state that perhaps she has come to trust him because of the ease and comfort he offers her, the depths he recovers in her, exposing her at her truest. He could only prod so much at her vulnerability. Instead he suggests, “Perhaps a part of you knows that I never recoil from the truth.” A pause. “I don't see you as a victim nor do I intend to make you palatable. I've always been content to know you as you are.”

Abigail swallows, shifting in her seat in the way that reveals how uncomfortable it is for her to hear that - words he imagines she's never heard.

“Right. That's… rare.” She admits, small and muted. He hums, pleased.

“If it helps, I'm quite used to this. Being a psychiatrist exposes me to several kinds of pathologies. The very flavor of humanity.”

She breaks into a fit of chuckles at the coincidence, glancing up at him disbelieving. “You're a psychiatrist?” Hannibal nods with a fond smile. “Alana said you were a surgeon or something.”

“Previously, yes. But I reverted to a less… life risking form of medicine.”

Teasingly but curiously, she asks, “Was this a session then?”

The road ahead is quite solitary, well into their drive but he follows direction nonetheless. He corrects, “An open friendly conversation.” Abigail relaxes in her seat at that, looking out the window with an amused expression.

“Not usually the type of friendly conversations I have. My friends are like fifteen at best. We talk about trashy movies and boys.” She says with a tone that exposes how badly she wants him to affirm that she's above all that superficiality. But she knows already. She just needs to unlock those depths.

To her face, he says, “You are special, Abigail. Not in spite of what you carry but because of it.” To which she only blinks at him for a moment before he's forced to look away and focus on the road. After a moment, she breathes out in a bid of realization. “You want me to be proud of it.”

Clever as always.

“Pride and shame are alike. Neither give real power, they are mere titles, names. What you've made of yourself is much more relevant.” He tells her simply and hopes he would get to see her become something other than herself - see the manifestation of his influence in her life so far. Someday perhaps.

Abigail absorbs it like she does everything else.

Then thoroughly pleased with herself and his approval, she admits, “He- my date, He asked me if I was eating people with my new murderer of a dad and I ‘accidentally’ spilled my drink on him. He said, ‘go fuck yourself, crazy bitch’ and that’s how I officially lost my ride home.”

Hannibal's lips twitch at the crude language but otherwise amusement - and hints of pride - rush over him. Clicking his tongue, he states blandly. “That might have been an injustice to said drink.” When she breaks into a full body laugh, Hannibal smiles subconsciously. He is quite fond of her now.

“This was just… kind of a test anyway.” She starts when the sound of her chuckles fade out to a sigh. “I think I may be done with boys for an entire lifetime.” Hannibal allows the words settle over the air, then wonders if he was the first person she was telling - reveling in the extent of her trust. She continues, uncertainly. “Is it weird that a part of me wanted to be wrong about this? Like I wanted to be normal in one thing at least.”

He imagines despite her liberal upbringing and parent, the world remains far beyond progressing and external influences have tainted her mind nonetheless. Taking the simple route, he simply counters, “Are you of the opinion that love is unnatural?”

Predictably, she sits up, livid at the accusation, to clarify. “No. I just… I mean other girls my age like boys not girls. It’s.. yet another differential in me.” Her voice trails off as though she doubts the sensibility of her own words.

“You are different in your experiences and the way they have shaped you. What you feel is not aberrant, Abigail. It’s simply who you are.”

The reassurance must be enough because she relaxes back in her seat, head falling back against the head rest. Conversationally, she turns the spotlight of the conversation to him once again. “Well, quid pro quo, doctor. What about you? Do you like girls?”

Hannibal smiles, amused. It is a painfully small-minded question as far as he's concerned but he imagines she wants to ease her mind as well. Just to please her, he says, “My desire spectrum is vast. I’ve yet to fall within limitations or constraints such as gender.” It earns him a small chuckle as she directs him through a large seemingly empty vast space of land.

“Mhm, greedy.” She teases.

“I suppose you could say that.”

The comfortable silence between them only lasts a few more minutes because she points at the only house within distance with the lights on, signalling the end of their journey. Anticipation grows beneath the layers of his skin as he draws the car to a slow stop, parking just before the front porch. It's a quiet place - serene and comfortable, he imagines. Not to his tastes, but very telling to Will's personality.

Hannibal gives Abigail a look of reassurance after slotting out the key before stepping out of the car. He walks over to the passenger side and opens the door for her to step out. She takes a grounding breath before wiping over her face more harshly then stepping out, gripping the handles of her purse.

He gives her enough space to breathe and only falls into step behind her when she starts walking towards the porch.

Apparently, his entrance was not unnoticed because the door swings open right as they climb the steps. Barking fills the air immediately, followed by a quiet sound of surprise. Will's face comes into view with a serendipity as it so often does and Hannibal allows himself to take in their appearance.

They look ragged, gripping the edge of the doorframe, eyes widened and lips parted, taking in the scene - Abigail, specifically - with surprise, relief and a tangle of varying emotions that Hannibal imagines must be weighing on them painfully. Their eyes are heavy with worry and sleeplessness - well worn and exhausted - hair ruffled and wild like he's been tugging at it and yet he somehow manages to take Hannibal's breath away.

A mix of scents linger in the air, Hannibal takes a deep inhale to identify each distinctly, learning them in some way. That thing burning within his skin grows. It's the closest he has been to Will since he had merely seen them six years ago. He wonders when they have come to take up this much space in his mind.

There's a dog nudging at his feet, barking for attention but Will's doesn't linger from Abigail who has been unmoving, head tilted downwards with a meekness that suggests she expects a scolding. Hannibal watches them keenly, every slight twitch and quirk, observing the tells from their body language. Will steps forward albeit subconsciously - still taking in Abigail as if he doubted that she was a figment of his imagination - and that seems to spur Abigail to finally break the silence.

Abigail’s voice trembles, fingers twitching at her sides, eyes fixed on the ground. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-”

She's instantly interrupted by the impact of Will suddenly stepping forward to pull her into a hug. Stepping away from the entrance allows the dog - or dogs as Hannibal belatedly realizes - to rush out of the house, down the steps and around the building, barking gleefully at their taste of freedom. One nudges the base of Hannibal's pants and he offers his hand to be sniffed - and unfortunately, licked - as a peace offering before it seems to run off with his companions.

His eyes drift almost instinctively to Will and Abigail. They grip on to her with enough relief and fear that Hannibal can tell they were scared to have lost her - something they were perhaps not used to feeling. That crushing debilitating fear of abandonment that creeps in all on it's own along with connection and expectation. Living in such a secluded place, Hannibal assumes is all part of Will's aversion to connection - or prevent the disappointment from lacking the ability perhaps. Something they must have been well accustomed to before Abigail. The fear must still be somewhat new.

Hannibal longs now more than ever to discover the inner workings of the man before him, to walk the halls of his mind, the way he's infiltrated Hannibal's. He wants to know them in a way they fear to be known. In his entire life, Hannibal doubts he's been this fascinated - and infatuated - with any being aside the superficial or for his amusement.

What he'd give to earn even just a sliver of Will's attention again.

Abigail muffles apologies into Will and they run their fingers through her hair, pulling her closer with whispered reassurances - ’It's okay's and ‘you came back’s - which Hannibal imagines must be for themself. They seem to forget his presence, nestling into each other for comfort.

It is odd perhaps, the basis and nature of their relationship, in the bigger picture but it appears to be just wrong enough to suffice - and intriguing to him as well.

The moment finally passes when Abigail pulls away leaving Will to plummet with the weight of his emotions, almost lost as his hands fall to his sides. His eyes move past Abigail's shoulder to see Hannibal and there's a hint of surprise in their expression that reveals they must've forgotten they were not alone. Abigail speaks up before either of them. “I missed the bus. I was gonna call you but Hannibal was driving by and saw me. He, uh, offered to take me home.”

Will blinks at him, lips parting around words that don't seem to form as he takes in the explanation. Hannibal imagines they must be torn between expressing their gratitude and pointing out the kooky coincidence. They seem to decide to face Abigail instead. “You're freezing. Change and sit by the fire.”

Abigail nods meekly and before entering the house, she turns to give Hannibal a fond smile with a glint in her eyes. “Thank you… for everything tonight.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Her face softens as she nods. “Good night. See you.” She offers with a lilt to her voice that tells Hannibal she believes they would meet again without trying or interfering with fate. Hannibal might share the sentiment - no matter how uncertain. He returns a ‘goodnight’ and an affirmative smile.

When the door shuts behind her, the warm light illuminating the porch fades entirely to a dimness from the sky light alone. There was no other house around here for miles. Just the both of them a few feet apart, the sounds of distant barking and night critters and a flickering light at the side of the house.

Will clears their throat and when they speak, they decidedly do not look at Hannibal. “Thank you… for bringing her to me. Again. I’m sorry you had to come all this way. I could’ve picked her up. I-”

Hannibal interrupts their rambling - inhaling the scents of motor oil and a generic wash from their hair - unable to help the fondness of his tone. “As I said, it was a pleasure. Conversing with her is never a dull experience.” They look up as though the honesty of the words had caught them off guard.

After a breath, they huff out a chuckle and look to the side, tucking a straying curl back in place. “Yeah, she always lays out her thoughts, whether tasteful or not.” Their tongue peeks out to wet their lips and Hannibal imagines how running a finger along the bow of his upper lip will feel - how it would feel between his lips.

His throat feels almost parched when he responds, “As she should.”

For a few passing seconds, nothing but a tense and heavy silence exists between them. Hannibal is undecided as to whether their ticks and twitches are from nerves or discomfort. He wants to invite Will for dinner, or at the very least establish a means of communication. Walking away this time would feel as though he was throwing away his final chance - a fourth was quite rare even.

Before he's done choosing the best words to parse out the request, Will looks up at him and breaks the silence. “Would you want to… do you mind coming in for a drink?” The words hang in the air for a stretched out moment where Hannibal runs the words through his brain and assures himself that he had heard them right, where he tries to school his expression, mask his anticipation and contain the hope growing inside of him.

On the back of his mind, he remembers his intention to return home as soon as possible s to preserve his spoils and with only a single glance over his shoulder at his car, he decides that it could wait a few more minutes. Fraternizing with Will - being invited into their space and home no less - could certainly not wait.

Unfortunately for him, before he can offer an affirmative response, Will instantly backtracks in a fit of nerves - Hannibal only belatedly noticed. “Right. It’s terribly late. I’m sorry… again. And thank you.” There's an almost audible drop in Hannibal's chest. Their lips stay parted as though they have more to say and something stirs alive within his skin, a shred of hope. It's shattered when they sigh and look away, making to turn around.

“Goodnight, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal swallows a thick heavy breath, completely unable to school his disappointment when he returns, “Goodnight, Will.”

◇⋆｡˚.~Interlude~.˚｡⋆◇

Will's head drops on the door with a light thump and his stomach turns with leftover nerves and a sour taste bubbling all the way to his throat. From the disappointment or self deprecation, he's not quite certain.

He breathes out a drawn out sigh, so far from relieved. The weight of the relief and fear he'd felt over Abigail has left him quite emotionally raw and he's ruminating in thoughts of what if and yet again a strange sense of loss. Something bristles unbidden beneath his skin.

He wonders if Hannibal was still out there, maybe staring at the hard wood of the door as Will is doing. They haven't heard his car drive away. It is possible that he's perhaps waiting for that invitation again, any kind of olive branch. They still have to round up the dogs, they could step out now and just… do something. But the thought is fleeting and far out of reach. Certainly there's no way Will has occupied as much of his mind and attention as Hannibal has theirs.

“I'm guessing you still didn't talk to him.”

Abigail's voice pulls him from his thoughts and he whips around instantly to see her standing wrapped around in a blanket with the patterned pants of her pajamas speaking out from beneath. An exhale almost shaky escapes his parted lips when he registers the words. It's almost exasperating how easily she calls him out when he's told her nothing. It shouldn't be a surprise, really. She's always been extremely perceptive - whether as a result of her trauma or otherwise, they don't know.

Will runs a hand through his hair, worrying his already throbbing scalp and sighs with slumped shoulders. Distantly, he hears the sound of keys clinging and almost a second later, the screeching of wheels driving away.

A questioning brow joins her expressive face and Will can help but feel fond at her presence all over again. “I thanked him.” They say simply and quicken their steps to the kitchen to make her something hot. They will discuss tonight… eventually, but they're emotionally exhausted and they don't want her to feel suffocated or ambushed.

Abigail trails slowly behind him with an incredulous hum. “You should've invited him to dinner.”

They blink at her, staring with a sullen realization over the counter. She is right. Will should've. He wants to. But he doesn't know that he can, he doesn't know that he can invest in yet another futile attempt. For starters, Will barely knows Hannibal Lecter aside from second hand information and a few chance meetings - four now, but who's counting - and he definitely has no clue what runs inside of his head. It would be ridiculous to assume when he doesn't even know what he himself wants.

A few second pass before he shifts his attention back to filling the kettle, decidedly offering no response.

“He doesn't have a gender preference by the way… If it changes anything.” She continues suddenly after a moment of silence and before he can perk up at the blunt prodding, she's already walking off. “I'm going to get the dogs.” She says almost teasingly, entirely well aware of exactly how Will is dealing with hearing that.

They only let out a breath when the door closed shut and they look down to find their fingers gripped tightly over the handle of the kettle. With a resolute sigh, Will desperately tries to dispel every thought in his head as he continues his task.

Chapter Text

12th August, 2024

📍 John Hopkins University, Maryland

The sound of applause as the projector displays the final slide and he gives a concluding statement grows and then fades as he begins to pack up his materials. The sliding of chairs and the sound of feet exiting the auditorium follow after. Hannibal takes a deliberate slow pace to invite any curious questions personally and receive any friendly greeting from a colleague or the like, just as he does when he's seldom invited to guest lecture or deliver orientation as an alumni of the university.

None came so far which wasn't unusual for this particular age range of audiences. Notes and devices secured, Hannibal makes a mental note of the rest of his day's schedule and monitors the thinning of the crowd by sound alone before turning around to leave.

Right then, he notices a figure slipping through and approaching the podium. Hannibal slows his motions, instinctively rendering his demeanor approachable but spares them little attention in his descent. It's her voice that finally draws his attention and has him perking up in curiosity to make out the figure approaching him.

“Hello.”

She's much taller now, shoulders squared and hair spilling in loose curls down her shoulders, bobbing with wind as she inches closer with a wide smile. The light in the auditorium catches her cheekbones and her eyes brighten in recognition, a distinct blue that assures Hannibal that he isn't hearing and seeing things this time.

It's been long enough that Hannibal had resolved to live with fleeting memories only and the haunting sound of Will's voice - or Abigail's laughter - in crowded rooms. Perhaps fate had ended its cruel game with them - or so he had thought apparently.

Abigail is old enough that he doesn't doubt she's alone but after four years, seeing even just her is a breath of fresh air. She bounces on her feet, drawing to a stop a few feet before him.

In a disbelieving mutter, Hannibal breathes out, “Abigail.” to which her response is an even wider smile. Like it was the most natural thing, like perhaps no time had passed at all. She's once again proud to have caught him by surprise.

This might be his favourite coincidence so far. He knows she wouldn't be here if she wasn't already accepted to study in the university. Where he had once studied many years ago now.

“Dr. Lecter.” The emphasis on his last name is in the accent of the person who introduced him on stage only an hour ago and he wonders how long she sat planning her ambush. “What a surprise.” She says, sarcasm dripping from her words. Because it's certainly not a surprise at all, perhaps, a full circle would be more accurate. It's not a surprise because despite not knowing fate's timing, they had both been expecting this.

It's almost unreal reviewing the whole picture. She has a room in his memory palace now. The distant swell of the orchestra, the smell of wet asphalt and damp air, every small encounter threaded together. Ten years of missed opportunities and second chances. The external sound of chattering and footsteps fade a dull hum around them.

Hannibal humors her with a wistful hum and steps closer. “Medicine?” He asks, allowing the extent of how pleased and impressed he is to slip through. She must get the message because she blushes and tucks her hair in a similar gesture as Will, recognizing the wordless praise.

“Not exactly. Pre-med. Forensic medicine. This was my first choice.” She pauses and gestures to the expanse of the hall as if to say ‘fancy’ without needing words. Hannibal's lips quirk up in a knowing smile almost instinctively. “I honestly didn't believe I was actually gonna get in. But here I am. And here you are.”

Hannibal nods, appreciating the depths of her words. Here they were after all this time, still at the mercy of the unpredictable tides of fate. The lack of control is not quite as disorienting as it used to feel. It's entirely dimmed by the lighter emotions regarding their situation.

“The limits to our capabilities are an illusion alone.” He assures her.

Curious, he adds, “Were you inspired by your parent?” To which she surprises him by shaking her head.

“Not… fully. I think I would've always wanted to work in the FBI. I'm just… glad I actually have the opportunity to. Despite, y'know…” She trails off, breaching the subject with a newfound ease, entirely devoid of the fear and shame that filled her years ago during their conversation. Very telling of her growth superseding the superficial and physical alone. He's thoroughly proud.

In a different time frame, she would've been a suspect of her father's crimes, the farthest from normalcy as possible. Fortunately, that doesn't matter because in this life, she doesn't have to struggle to survive. Hannibal doesn't think she would be any less interesting even then but perhaps this is easier and healthier - for her.

He concurs, “It would certainly be a shame to refuse a brilliant mind like yours.”

Abigail snorts and raises a brow at him. “Stop flattering me, I'm an adult now.”

Hannibal desists from pointing out that he still sees the same determination and recklessness in her as he did in the little girl he had approached climbing a bar stool, that she still has so much growing up to do - out of perceptions and influences and into herself. Instead, he placates, “I rarely see the need to be dishonest, not to you.” Although, his amused tone must give it all away still.

“Of course not.” She rolls her eyes and before he can express disdain for the action, she quickly perks up with a wide smile and an offer. “Well, I was going to stop for a coffee then drive home. Do you want to walk me out?”

Hannibal tells her he was already headed there and he offers her a hand to lead her out of the now entirely vacant auditorium.

They talk lightly as he walks her to her car outside the building. She tells him of her skepticism and hesitations concerning the university along with vagaries and randoms to fill the years gap between their last meeting up until date and Hannibal listens, occasionally offering her reassurances and conversational replies.

Much to his disappointment, she says nothing of Will and despite enjoying her company alone, he's helpless to the thought of them. He wonders if their absence means fate has yet to give him a last chance as it has with Abigail.

When they reach her car - one he assumes belongs to Will if his memory of their last meeting serves him right - she draws to a stop and turns to him suddenly, cutting off her previous statement. She gives him an expectant look, one which Hannibal fails to read the sentiment behind.

Finally deciding to spare him, she shrugs with a feigned casualty and says, “This is the part where you… y'know, hand me like, your business card or something and tell me to reach out to you for anything and I smile and say thanks.”

Hannibal can't help a small chuckle, a mirror of the first taste of her unsavory bluntness but a far cry from the circumstances and familiarity now. His smile fails to fade as his fingers slip into the pocket of his suit to retrieve the familiar thickness nestled there. It would be a pleasant and welcome change to establish some intentionality in their relationship going forward.

Abigail can barely contain the brightness in her eyes when he places the card in her waiting hands. She observes the card, flipping and weighing it in her hold, staring at it like it's the next best thing. And yet when he responds, she gives him an exasperated - but fond - look.

“I suppose so.”

28th August, 2024

📍 FBI Academy, Quantico

“The Jacobis in Chicago. The Leeds in Buffalo. A month apart or thereabout. Three weeks later, the Fosters in Georgia. All in sync or a day short of the full moon.” Jack Crawford concludes as he pins a picture of the deceased family on the board. “Very unclear motive. Buffalo and Chicago are four states apart. And nothing has been found to link these two families yet. No clue how he's choosing them.”

Hannibal takes a controlled sip of the coffee handed to him upon his arrival - bland and unfortunately tasteless - before putting it aside to focus on the board, observing patterns and details.

He hasn't read the case file in detail yet. After all, Alana Bloom had only recommended his services to Jack Crawford the previous day before the man reached out instantly. He's worked passively on consulting cases but never this close.

They must be desperate. Quite amusing.

Such a shy boy, this killer was. He's learning and growing with each kill, becoming something other than himself. Nothing quite religious but his actions are symbolic in some sense. He would have to explicitly go through files and invade the mind of their killer before deciding whether he would aid the FBI in catching him or lead them astray and watch them run around in circles. Either was equally amusing.

The killer was interesting, but not quite enough that Hannibal would want to see or be seen by him. But he would certainly make things interesting for the time being.

Hannibal observes the crime scene photos laid out on Jack's table. “Their deaths aren't personal. You know a fair amount about how these families died. How they lived is how he chooses them.”

He observes a brief realization on Jack's face. “Happy ready-made families.” A frustrated groan accompanied by the thump of his fist connecting with the board follows next. He mutters to himself. “Too generic a profile.”

Further conversation between them is interrupted when the door swings open without preamble and both heads turn in the direction of their visitor instinctively.

Hannibal has to do a double take - tampering down the flicker of anticipation and hope beneath the disbelief - when he catches sight of flannel tucked into plain pants and a head full of untamed curls, currently shutting the door behind them.

Jack Crawford, on the other hand, seems to be expecting them because he immediately walks over to welcome them. The moment Jack speaks, they turn around with a cup of coffee not unlike Hannibal's in their hold, lifting their face to observe the room. Hannibal has to suck in a sharp breath when their eyes meet across the office.

“Thank you for coming, Will. We need as many minds on this as possible.”

Will stills as much as Hannibal does, eyes widening slightly in recognition but otherwise none of their body language gives away their surprise - certainly not enough for Jack Crawford to notice as he simply gestures for Will to follow him to the board. Will who remains unmoving and stares at Hannibal with slightly parted lips.

This is certainly not the scenario Hannibal had pictured meeting Will again. And he has flipped through almost every possibility by now.

He was well aware that Will was an investigator, and was involved with the FBI - not as an agent though - Freddie Lounds had not spared any information possible on him. But Hannibal hadn't quite imagined they would meet within these walls when he had agreed to Crawford's offer the previous day. He hadn't expected to see Will at all.

It's only been over two weeks since he saw Abigail. Perhaps, he had been right and fate had different designs for them.

Their moment of recognition might've just been a few seconds or perhaps more but there's a persistent lurch in Hannibal's chest as he takes in Will in their entirety, admiring the subtle and muted but definitive changes the years apart have given them. It ends too soon when Will breaks their stare to sip from his coffee and take tentative steps into the office.

There's a hesitance and reluctance in him that tells how much he doesn't want to be here. No doubt he would have hesitations about being so close to a killer yet again. The last one had left him a daughter.

Hannibal watches him unabashedly - barely listening to Jack's words - as he awkwardly moves over to take a seat, completely uncaring of Jack's gestures. Will knows he's being watched and he twitches under the attention, but doesn't as much as spare Hannibal a glance in return.

When they finally speak, it's to interrupt Jack's monologue - laying out the details of the case. “I've read about the murders.” They mutter rather bluntly.

The corner of his lip twitches almost instinctively in mild amusement. Agent Crawford is not as pleased. Even still, Will barely acknowledges his look of disdain, burying their face in sipping from the cup of coffee - uncaring or perhaps, unaware of their unsavory manners and ignoring both pairs of eyes on them.

Hannibal merely looks between the both of them, then traipses over to take the seat next to Will, mirroring them and taking a sip of his own coffee as well. It earns him a side glance but that's all the acknowledgment he gets before Will looks away again.

Jack, for his part, has all the patience of a man walking on thin ice and eggshells, refraining from courting his temper. He takes his own seat opposite, leans both elbows on the desk, eyes trained on Will. “Then tell me what you know about them.”

Will sets the cup back on the table at that, the dark ring it imprints, bleeding into the file beneath. They don't apologize - don't even notice it - as their eyes drift over to observe the photographs pinned on the board and then to those laid out on the desk. His head tilts slightly and Hannibal studies him, watching almost in awe as Will seems to absorb every detail presented without much effort.

Then just as suddenly and eerily, Will speaks up, “He isn't forcing his way in, he's letting himself in.” His voice is flat, almost entirely detached from the present, eyes never wavering from the photos as though he seemed to be taken by the beauty of it.

“Did the families have pets?”

The theory behind the question takes a minute for Hannibal to wholly understand and the insight alone has him instantly floored by Will yet again. Of course, he's been aware of the unique workings of their mind for some time now but Hannibal has yet to have an opportunity to truly witness Will beyond fleeting moments alone.

Something persists tugs in his chest as he observes Will's attentive form, untamed hair and awkward mannerisms, helpless to the delight he feels at the chance to see beneath the veil of him finally, to explore those depths Hannibal has only peeked at through thick curtains over the years.

Hannibal briefly glances at Crawford who seems to share his thoroughly impressed nuance at the new line of thought. He skims through the files before him one by one - the Jacobis, the Leeds, the Fosters.

“Dogs.” Jack mutters with a nod. “They all had dogs.”

Will blinks in a moment of thought, almost withdrawn as though he were somewhere far away inside his head. “You should go through their last transactions. They would've visited a vet the night before they were murdered. He would… hurt the pets, eliminate an early warning system and allow himself in.”

Astounding. Fascinating. Hannibal holds a bated breath.

The words are ominous enough that Jack casts Hannibal yet another unsettled glance over the table. For a moment, Hannibal wonders if the agent had in fact seeked him out, not to profile this elusive killer but Will Graham - or perhaps, it was both, two birds with one stone. Unfortunately, Hannibal has no intention of fulfilling that should his hypothesis be right.

Professional curiosity was eons far away from how Hannibal truly feels towards Will. Never since he had glanced at them from across the lobby of the opera house had Hannibal ever wanted their relationship to be professional. He wants to know and learn Will in every sense and word, but much more intimately.

Off his look, Jack hums after a moment of silence, digesting the information. “He's not just getting off a bus then. He's got a plan. He'll be staying in town overnight a day or two ahead.”

“Don't put a warning in the papers.” Will responds almost immediately as though he could anticipate his thoughts already. “Maybe a private bulletin to veterinarians and animal shelters to report any suspicious mutilations. This killer, he likes to read about himself.”

Jack looks as relieved as he is impressed, taking it with a nod as he retrieves his phone to supposedly relay said instructions. His reply is stiff nonetheless. “We still don't know his motives yet.”

To that, Will simply responds by taking a final swig of their coffee before placing the cup down and exhaling from his nose. Their eyes fall closed in contemplation, drifting somewhere far once again, searching for an answer within the confines of their own skull.

Hannibal is all too elated to water the soil and nurture the extent of Will's imagination that his dilemma on choosing to apprehend this killer for the FBI or not is swiftly cast aside. Will, as always, is a factor Hannibal can't seem to be able to account for. Unpredictable as ever. Perhaps it's why it's easy to key in his contributions freely.

He inquires without a second thought, “Are there descriptions of the grounds? What were the yards like?”

The case file is perused yet again. Jack faces him, brows pulled together. “Big, fenced, with trees. Why?”

“If this pilgrim feels a special relationship with the moon, he might like to go outside and look at it before tidying up. Fences would provide the privacy of that sort, if one were nude, say. He would like to appreciate what he's become, no?”

The response seems to draw Will's attention to Hannibal entirely, their musing evidently abandoned. Will sits upright then, turning to look at Hannibal, unflinching in the way they meet his eyes now as though they were only seeing him for the first time. There's an unearthed rapport and understanding. Hannibal swells internally under the observation, unable to repress that selfish urge to earn more of it.

Words take shape between the curve of Will's parted lips, eyes never straying from Hannibal's. “You think he's disfigured.”

The words are breathed with such ease as though Will had extracted the thought directly from Hannibal's mind. It's not a question, it's not even a confirmation despite how Hannibal hadn't even alluded to the thought in his earlier response.

Hannibal can barely dampen the bout of pride that washes over him. He contains it in a nod, bodily turning to face Will, cup of coffee abandoned as well. “There's a possibility that he might believe he is, yes.”

Will's eyes flicker with something new, a spark of interest that they had lacked upon their arrival. He looks over the bodies or the Leeds one more time, slides the single shot of Mrs. Leeds face closer to map out the possibility. Shards on her eyes and mouth. Beauty in its restrained way.

“The mirrors were smashed, not for the image he wanted to create.” They mouth with a newfound insight that draws all of Hannibal's attention as always. “The shards are set up so he can see himself… in their eyes.”

An almost instinctive curl of his lip marks his admiration at the true extremities to which Will can see so effortlessly. How terribly accurate Hannibal knows he is. What a truly astounding thing he was.

It's only when Jack responds that Hannibal is forced to acknowledge another presence in the room outside of the little bubble inside of Will's head that Hannibal has managed to infiltrate quite successfully. Bothersome, Crawford asks, “Is he creating a fantasy then? Happy homes, pre-made polished families. Is his motive of resentment and envy or is he building a new family?”

Hannibal makes no personal evaluation of the words, merely registers them and instead studies the way Will takes them in, fingers fiddling with the wrist cuffs of his shirt, laid back and seemingly less tense in his posture.

Absently, Hannibal concurs, “He needs a family to escape what's inside him.”

Almost as though a silent ‘like you’ had been echoed right after, Will lifts his gaze to stare up at Hannibal sharply - with shoulders stiffening and lips parting as though Hannibal's words were yet another weight he's compelled to address. There's unfiltered surprise leaking through, evident in their locked jaw and glazed over eyes as though they're seemingly only recognizing the thought to be true about themself as well.

As genuine as Will's relationship was with Abigail, they aren't unlike this killer who needs human connection to shed the unsightly thing living beneath their skin. Hannibal wishes he would get the opportunity to behold Will come into his own instead - or help him in fact, sink his fingers beneath the exteriors and pry out that lovely thing that Will fights to keep inside with every inch of him.

Somehow, Will manages to become even more interesting, drawing Hannibal in like a moth to the flame, like insects to a rotted corpse.

Will doesn't argue this time, doesn't flay up defensively. They remain bristled although, searching his eyes frantically for what Hannibal imagines must be an answer to the questions running through their mind - no doubt raving at how well Hannibal must understand beneath their shields and well made forts.

Overall, an improvement from the last time he had pried beneath the surface. Hannibal offers him no more than a thin lipped smile.

An exhale. Then Will looks away to focus his attention on Agent Crawford yet again. “He isn't building though.” Hannibal mourns the loss of Will's intense gaze but listens keenly nonetheless. “Preserving. He chooses them because something in them speaks to him. It has to be them because they're the best thing he's ever known.”

“Until the next family proved to be better. The next best thing.” Hannibal completes, absorbing the venture into Will's mind at its most honest with all the fascination and delight of an addict.

Will nods and there's a slight uptick of his lips when he glances at Hannibal yet again. A brief flicker of understanding.

They continue, “There'll be more as he grows.” Their voice is flat, each conclusion, an offering as though they were reading a script.

But in his eyes, Hannibal marks an unveiled interest. Hannibal revels in it, something in him coming alive at the realization that Will understands as much as Hannibal does him. He sees the world as banal as Hannibal does, stripping it piece by strange piece - with a view so different from Hannibal's that it fits just right

Unwittingly, he swallows a thick breath. It's as though Hannibal had been going through life, sliding chess pieces on an empty space unaware and Will has just slid a board beneath.

Fate really was spectacular as it was hilarious.

Jack interrupts his line of thought, exhaling with a relief tempered by unease. “What is he growing into?”

This killer surely was a magnificent thing, watching the world through his red haze but unfortunately, nothing could captivate Hannibal more than Will Graham by now. It could be likened to borderline obsession perhaps but knowing what he knows now, Hannibal is certain that he must have them. He wonders if they even know lies within them as they speak of this killer's instincts as though they were his own.

Hannibal watches Will intently as he responds, pulling his lip between his teeth and mirroring Jack's unease then, the cadence of his response one and the same. “Something other than himself. Something… elevated. This is his becoming.”

Pure empathy, Hannibal marks the realization with a stilted breath. Such an uncomfortable but beautiful gift.

He imagines it must frighten Will, to live within the skin and mind of another so easily. It must be why they seem to abhor perception pointed towards them. Hannibal wonders - if they lose parts of themself each time they adopt the thoughts of another or if perhaps it's the complete opposite, absorbing so much that their true sense of self may be muddled by now. He would love to take Will by the hand and extract him from beneath the veil.

It would truly be breathtaking to experience Will's becoming - and not in windows through the years but intimately. Although he supposes that would take years to court.

Silence stretches thin in the air between them for a moment where Jack appears unsettled at the ominous response yet again and Will is entirely uncaring of the taut tension. Hannibal breaks it with ease. “This killer would ideally have childhood disturbances, perhaps violence or a similar pathology. He hates himself, this is how he intends to change, in order to become something worth looking at.”

A sigh from the other end of the table. Crawford pushes, “That's still too wide. How do we catch him?”

“Maybe you wait.” Will says suddenly, with an unblinking stare, eyes tracking over the gruesome photos laid out with an admirable ease. “Wait for the next house he wants to inhabit. He must've already chosen them by now.”

They're being humorous. Hannibal is thoroughly amused. Jack, not so much. For his part, he swallows his temper, tampering around Will with all the diligence of diffusing a ticking bomb. Unsurprisingly as it appears the FBI needs Will in this case. They wouldn't be here otherwise.

Eventually, Agent Crawford chooses to say, “Fear makes you rude, Will.” and then rises from his seat to approach the board again.

When Will looks up, his eyes meet Hannibal's. They don't look away, holding his gaze and appraising his lingering amusement before absently mouthing, “I'm not afraid.” Hannibal can't help but be endeared by his defiance and blatancy - a trait he so often despises in anyone else. It would in fact not be the first thing that sets Will Graham apart from anyone he's ever met.

“I want you to get closer to this, Will.” Jack responds without a beat.

Will scoffs, pushing back from the table, livid at the suggestion as evident in the way he snaps to Jack immediately. “No.” He deadpans. “You said you needed a profile. I've given you a profile.”

“I said, one case. You help us catch him, then you can return to your classroom and read the next ones in the paper.” Jack is quick to counter.

Will twitches at the blatant manipulation. Hannibal studies them, sourness bubbling to their core - as though being aware had not rendered them any less susceptible. What a ravenous thing, his guilt must be. It's what he has built his family on. It's what he lives with.

Their fingers run over his face in an uncoordinated motion, shoulders slumped as though in defeat. “It's not as though I have a choice, do I?” The question is rhetoric as Crawford's silence proves - even the walls of the office must be well aware the response would no doubt be in the affirmative. “I can't have you showing up with crime scene photos at my doorstep where my daughter could see them, can I?”

It's quite distasteful that Jack could lower himself to such blatant manipulation tactics but Hannibal can't will himself to be offended when it has brought Will to him one more time. They, of all people, should know Abigail could handle it nonetheless.

Suddenly Will rises from their seat, barring the opportunity for a response. Both pairs of eyes in the room fall on their figure instantly - Hannibal almost instinctively perking with the pull to follow if they intended to leave. Apparently not, because Will only asks, “May I have the case file for the Fosters?”

Agent Crawford moves instantly to grant that request. As he does as well when Will mutters, “I need a moment.” The sound of Jack retaking his seat is the only solemn noise following the request and Hannibal watches curiously as Will takes slow strides to the board, backing the both of them and taking a grounding breath. Hannibal doesn't need the imagery to tell the exact moment that Will's eyes fall close.

It's remarkable. Watching him sink into a state of mind other than his own, far away from his body. A rare kind of imagination. Something in him wishes this crime belonged to him, to have Will walk willingly along the intricate walls of Hannibal's mind.

Their breathing pattern changes for a solid minute, a thick gust of air exuding their lungs, loud within the quiet walls. The extrusion must be nerve wracking because Will suddenly pants softly, shoulders near trembling before he snaps his head. It's hard not to marvel at the honesty of it all, eyes wild, breaths untamed and fingers gripping the file in his hold.

Then he's sputtering a bout of scattered words. “He touched her. He took off his glove, to…uh, to feel her eyes. Like you would um, appreciate your reflection in the mirror. He was filled with so much… emotion, he had to have.”

Without a moment to consider, Agent Crawford is springing to his feet, phone to his ear. “Get me Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller.” And the rest of his instructions fade to merely a muffled sound when the door swings open, his footsteps following the path out and then the door slams shut. Leaving them both alone yet again.

The absence he leaves is immediate, like a vacuum. But thoroughly appreciated.

For a moment, all Hannibal can manage is watching Will come back into his body after such a well detailed reconstruction. Their eyes remain trained on the floor, seeking out the walls rather than as much as glance in Hannibal's direction. They take slow quiet steps back to the desk and the thump of the thick file hitting the hard word fills the silence.

“I hadn't quite expected our paths to cross here.” Hannibal decidedly says after recycling a few other options and discarding them.

He certainly does not expect Will to take the reins of the conversation. Will whose uncertainty floods the air and suffocates the room like an all consuming thing that no one could escape.

They breathe out a sound somewhere a huff and a strained chuckle. “Neither did I.”

The shallow amusement lingers somewhere between a visible hesitation and stillness, a faint tremor of something unspoken hanging in the air between them - something that Hannibal has yet to give a name to. Regardless, he remains determined to bridge past the chasm that Will creates - not only with the way they lean on the table, facing the opposite wall but in their gestures and mannerisms.

The depths are entirely natural when he leans back on his seat and says, “Yet here we are again. Slaves to the hand of fate.”

Will turns him at that, glancing over their shoulder, regarding him with an almost imperceptible emotion.

Their lips part in consideration for a few passing seconds before he mutters, a hint of incredulity seeping into his voice at the thought of it. “Fate? You believe this is fate?”

Hannibal tilts his head in a bout of interest, wonders then where the limitations of Will's beliefs would lie. “What else could it be?” He leans forward with curiosity, enough that his presence should feel heavier, not invasive but undeniable. “Most of what we do and say is defined by motive. But the circumstances and happenings surrounding our intentionality are far beyond control.”

Pride spills between the crevices of the layers of Hannibal's skin at how easily he seems to trap Will's attention now. They turn to face him once again, eyes unwavering on him as though they intend to pry the depths of Hannibal's thoughts as well, almost as though they can't help it. It's almost intoxicating. The thought of holding even just a shred of monopoly over Will.

Will blinks, feet drawing him even closer. Hannibal inhales deeply - as much for some sense of coordination as it is for cataloguing the distinctness of Will's scent colonizing the air of the room, nearly driving to the brink of what one could only adequately describe as madness. He's completely taken by Will.

They take slow, tentative steps towards where Hannibal remains sitting, curious eyes on him when they mutter, “You seem to be handling that lack of control admirably.” every bid to appear casual failing entirely.

It's not an accusation, although it's deliberately delivered as one. He wonders then if it's steadiness that seems to unsettle Will. Hannibal has earned his interest, but not their certainty. He would love nothing more than to earn it, whatever way he could.

He simply nods in concurrence, “Whereas it troubles you.”

That causes their steps to draw to a stop altogether, that terribly familiar apprehension seemingly building up more forts. Hannibal presses further, regardless. “Not because the circumstances displease you but because you loathe to be thrust the reins of control when you did not learn the route yourself. You have the uncertainty of someone unsure whether to retreat or step further.”

The air thickens, tension sprouting up like roots, spreading until it threatens to suffocate them both. Hannibal knows he's gnawed somewhere deep and significant in them. Their posture falters, the distinct change to the stillness of their breaths, twitch of their brow.

Hannibal is helpless yet again to the inescapable thought that has haunted him for years.

Will is unspeakably beautiful, in a disorienting and unpredictable way that has never failed to stun him. Hannibal looks at him now, observing and cataloguing every minuscule detail of them, the minute and characteristic change in their features and every part of him aches for Will even more. Even more so in their discomfort as in their honesty.

The weight of his gaze falls to the ground once more when he grits out, “You're as always insufferably quick to assume you understand me.” It's quite petulant - the tone of his words - as it rings hollow as well, complementary to his feet scraping on the floor with discomfort.

Hannibal smiles, unable to help his amusement. It would be quite the sight to strain to the self constructed limitations he has forced himself into. They're both quite aware Hannibal has never been wrong about them, whether eight years ago in Alana's living room or now within the confines of Jack Crawford's office alike. He wonders what it truly would take for Will to snap, how far they would need to be pushed.

“I don't imagine you would be so defensive at mere assumptions if they were distant from the truth.” Hannibal lays out the words, honest and confrontational, enough to draw a reaction but sparing Will any more discomfort from the scrutiny.

Quite successful in its execution, Will exhales with slumped shoulders then allows his gaze drift back to meet Hannibal's again. A concession of defeat or merely a lack of argument - Hannibal doesn't imagine they would be so different.

Completely averting any form of acknowledgement - affirmation or the contrary - Will draws back to respond to his earlier statement. “Maybe it's the former.”

To retreat, rather than step further.

It would be disheartening to hear if Hannibal hasn't already begun to find his path along the complicated maze surrounding the man before him. It's almost amusing to watch them lie so blatantly to themself. They must do it every so often, obscuring their sense of self a little more each time.

Hannibal can't help the way his voice softens with fondness. “Yet you're still here.”

Will stills, caught in deceit and caught off by his affection. He blinks as if only processing the thought himself before shaking himself out of it. They seem to peruse for an argument, decidedly settling on the safest option. “For Jack… And the case.” The words seem just as foreign to them as well. They dread even being here.

“Convenient.” Hannibal offers smoothly after a beat. “Convenient but not convincing.”

The quiet breathes long enough that Hannibal can only wonder what thoughts are running through the confines of their mind. He watches Will with a keenness like no other, taking in the presence of their being as a whole, memorizing the distinct traits to finetune the details in his memory palace. It's as though Will has taken over every room by now and somehow they aren't aware of the maddening pull they have on him.

The curve of their lips thin to a fine line, fingers moving to tuck a stray piece of hair back in. The silence holds beneath them, static like a live wire, even more so when their eyes meet yet again.

A breathy exhale. “Suppose I am… as pleased but unsure as you assume I am. What would that mean…” Will pauses, blinking away to puff out an unsteady breath. The cadence of their voice drops by several pitches when they add. “for us?”

Hannibal could easily tell Will right then. It would be terribly easy to articulate the words, enunciate the sudden manner at which something so invasive and spectacular had begun to infiltrate the layers of his skin from the first time he had met Will. The ease with which they seemed to have spread through the crevices of his mind like a parasite, a contagion, shaping thought and instinct alive. Slipping through the walls like a haunting.

What had sprouted as a single shrub of curiosity has metastasized into a garden of permanence - when it had grown this bountiful, Hannibal is unsure. When his endless fascination became so profound, he's unsure. The ways he wants Will can not be simply too magnanimous to truly contain in words - he has even yet to mark the true extents - but surely he could find a way.

And yet, Hannibal knows neither of them are quite ready to hear those words fully articulated.

Instead, Hannibal merely tilts his head, tentatively and selectively choosing words that would dampen the eagerness with which he wishes to grab the opportunity presented. “Perhaps you would be amenable to a request then.” He allows the suggestion to hang for a beat, earning a stilted, curious look from Will. “An intentional meeting. To upscale against fate for once.”

Their lips part slightly and Hannibal can almost tell the exact moment their breaths begin a different rhythm. Slowly, Will mutters breathlessly, “What would that entail?”

The moment stretches thin between them, gazes prying beneath the layers of skin to reveal something more unbidden and raw and genuine. Hannibal allows him to infiltrate his forts as much as Will seems to allow it.

Undoubtedly, they can feel the weight of Hannibal's words before they're even uttered. “Join me for dinner.” Words which coax out a faint but stilted breath from Will almost instantly. Their eyes fall closed in a moment of disorientation as though overwhelmed merely at the peek through the veil.

All Will manages eventually after a moment of lips parting and closing around inarticulate words is parroting back, “Dinner?”

Hannibal swallows a thick gust of air, aching with a sense of vulnerability that has been quite foreign to me for as long as he remembers.

“Yes.” He breathes, tongue pushing past pressed thin lips to wet them. He wonders then if he would really be able to even let go. Clearing his throat to regain the illusion of assurance, he continues, “Conversation over food leaves a far more open-minded setting than the walls of this office.”

Will's eyes fix on him then again, almost disbelieving when they ask, “You want to talk about the case over dinner?”

“Perhaps, amongst other topics of conversation, yes.”

An array of entirely contrasting emotions pass through Will's features then, expression and body language morphing in interest, as well as curiosity, disbelief and something almost akin to a dull amusement. Then they huff out a strained and humorless chuckle, raking twitching fingers over the expanse of their face.

“That sounds…” He breathes and then pause, unblinking. “like a terrible idea.”

Hannibal feels the weight of something unnamed suffocate the air of the room, the weight of it almost unbearable. “Most worthwhile things do.” He answers smoothly, without missing a beat, almost scarred by the way Will seems to see him, now barer and devoid of his well coordinated control.

Almost like a whispered admission, Will shakes their head in disbelief rather than dismissal to mutter with a distinct thickness to their almost inaudible voice. “I don't know what you want from me, Hannibal.” He seems to muse to himself rather than the man across from him.

Hannibal studies him, takes in the tension of his hands now sliding into his pockets to contain them, the restless energy beneath the stillness and the silence. Even in his denial, Will is quite beautiful and honest.

A moment of contemplation passes where Hannibal absorbs the words and eventually decides to lay out plain but genuine truths rather than the convoluted. Heavier than he imagines the weight of a single word to hold, the drop is evident in the change of air when he simply says, “Time.”

Will blinks with faltering breaths, as if to really understand the depths of the word. They nod after a moment, eyes flitting over the plain walls and then to the hard word of the table, anywhere but on the man across from him. Hannibal leans back in his seat, allowing them a moment to take it in, muting his curiosity about what they must consider this to be and simply offering them space - as difficult as it seems to be.

Unfortunately, whatever response Will intended to offer does not find its way past the confines of his parted lips as the sound of approaching footsteps spare him the decision. The weight of something solid weaves itself into Hannibal, disappointment which he's unable to mask due to its sheer magnitude. Will watches him with distant eyes before looking over to the door when it swings open and Crawford steps in once more.

The moment collapses, folded neatly out of sight, but unfortunately not out of mind.

Jack makes a beeline with quick steps to regain his position on his seat. “Apologies for the long departure. Mrs. Foster's body is currently being re-examined, there's talcum powder but we might be able to get a partial fingerprint.”

Hannibal, of course, can not will himself to look away from Will as he moves to retake his seat as well, the honesty of him drifting to hide behind yet another mask.