Archive of Our Own

Even before Will opened his eyes, he knew the scent of the ocean, salt-sharp and familiar. Still by the seashore, then. The last thing he remembered was the warmth of Hannibal's body folded around him as they crashed into what felt like solid concrete.

Then, nothing; just darkness, until this moment.

His fingers uncurled to touch the ground beneath him, reluctantly obeying his command, since it hurt to move even a millimeter. There was no sand under his hand, no rocks. Only soft sheets, and he was dry, even comfortable, though his mind was fuzzy.

He began to lift his right hand, and found it pressed back down to the sheets, gently but firmly.

"You're under mild sedation, Will. It was necessary in order to transport you safely here and ensure your healing. Please don't try to move."

Hannibal. Twin waves of relief and despair swirled through Will's fogged mind. So they were both alive, then. And not in a hospital, because Will would be without Hannibal if that was the case. He fought the heavy lethargy and pried his eyes open, and found Hannibal sitting at the edge of the bed, his hand resting atop Will's.

"Where..." The word broke, rusty, and Will winced and tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Hannibal reached to the bedside table and lifted a cup to Will's lips, the straw touching his chapped lips gently. The water was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

When he'd had his fill, he finished his thought. "Where have you brought us?"

"Somewhere safe. You can rest. We are in no danger here."

Will squinted at him, at the cuts and bruises on his face and neck, the sling on his left arm, and his fingers twitched toward Hannibal's belly, unsure if what he remembered was even real. But the hand over his pressed down even more firmly, and Hannibal said, "I will survive, and so will you. It seems to be our particular specialty, survival. Now rest."

The sea rushed up to claim Will again, soft this time, and he went willingly.

The next time he woke, it was dark, and the scents of wood smoke and roasted chicken permeated the air. This time, awareness came harsh and fast, and Will closed his eyes again, processing images which assaulted him too quickly to assimilate. Blood. Pain. A sharp knife sliding through cloth and skin, disgorging blood; Will seeking and finding Hannibal's predatory gaze in the darkness. Finding his eyes, and seeking their approval.

He shuddered, and was unable to keep himself from crying out as his muscles wrenched in protest. The wound in his shoulder throbbed back to life.

A moment later, the door to the small room opened, and Hannibal stepped inside, closing it softly behind him. "You are awake, then. Good. I feared your body was simply too exhausted to knit itself properly together, and you might sleep another day even without the medication."

Will took his first good look at the room, and at Hannibal, in the flickering firelight. The room was rustic, very small; Will was tucked into a bed with an iron bed frame beside a bedside table made of unfinished driftwood. An upholstered chair which had seen better days was off to one side, and a book rested in the center of the split seat cushion, amidst the faded flowers. Fire danced in the fireplace, glinting off polished hearthstones.

Hannibal seemed at home in the room, in a way incongruous with the carefully constructed avatar Will knew him to be. He had several days' growth of beard, shot through with silver, and was dressed down in a soft-looking gray sweater and black trousers. He looked as though he could slip on boots and walk with Will down to the shed behind his house, turning his hands to the task of repairing boat motors, the two of them working side by side.

It was all illusion, of course. Another flash of memory: Hannibal leaping onto Dolarhyde's back, snarling and pulling with his teeth.

Will swallowed and set the memory aside, for a moment.

"I've made some soup," Hannibal said, as he set down a small brown earthenware bowl. "It's best if you try to eat; you need nourishment. Are you hungry?"

"For information," Will rasped. Hannibal sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at him, and Will sighed. "And for soup."

"Excellent." Hannibal set three pillows behind Will, then gently lifted him to a sitting position, grunting as he did so. Will could see the lines of pain in his face, though Hannibal's expression didn't change at all. It was reassuring; any outward show of discomfort would have been an act for Will's sake, and if nothing else Will hoped they had abandoned those pretenses for good now. Hannibal was beyond petty considerations like pain. He was beyond many things Will had yet to come to terms with.

Hannibal brought the bowl close and lifted the spoon to Will's lips. Will took a sip, and another, pointedly not asking the question about the source of the chicken.

It was strange letting Hannibal feed him without fear of what might follow after, but the ordinary gave a vestige of normalcy to the sense of disaster humming under Will's skin, waiting to be set free or settled down. For his part, Hannibal seemed content to talk about the hints of saffron in the soup, and the history of chicken broth in Poland, and Will let Hannibal's cultured voice wash over him as it had in the days before their friendship had formed. Before he'd known Hannibal. Seen him.

Before.

When he had finished most of the soup, he settled back against the pillows and stared at Hannibal, who seemed to be waiting for Will to begin. So he did. "Where are we?"

"Coastal Maine, far from the well-traveled paths. I have had this house in reserve for many years, in case of emergency." Hannibal gestured to the raw wood around them, some of which seemed on the verge of rotting through and collapsing at any moment. "No caretaker comes here, so the building itself is in poor shape, but sufficient for our needs at the present moment."

"How many of these safe houses do you have?"

Hannibal smiled. "Wealth has a few distinct advantages." He set the bowl down and reached for Will's shirt, opening it gently to expose the bandage over Will's right upper chest and shoulder. Another flash of memory: the knife, coated with blood, wrenched from his flesh with a slippery pop. Will grimaced. "Are you experiencing pain?" Hannibal asked, as his fingers dipped beneath the edges of the gauze, lingering as they lifted the cloth.

"Yes."

"Sharp or dull?"

"Dull. Aching." Will didn't look at his shoulder; he looked at Hannibal, at the efficiency of his movements, of the hands which could crush, could destroy and maim, which had taken Will apart to his foundations. That he should seem so ordinary, even with all the facades and masks pulled away, was still something to marvel at. Hannibal would probably take exception to being considered ordinary in any way, but then again, he had gone to great pains to be just that, in this place where the extraordinary would be noticed.

Will supposed that if he were to look in a mirror, the everyday, unremarkable monster which might stare back would be no less worthy of amazement. That he should feel so profoundly disinterested in how much of his own darkness was visible should have been alarming. Instead, he settled back into the pillows and let Hannibal tend him, never taking his eyes off Hannibal's face.

"Fill in the gaps for me," Will said.

"We both lost consciousness upon impact with the water. Fate decided for us that we would be tangled together - your arm, twisted beneath my sweater. It took some time for me to reach the rocks, and I ensured you reached them also." Something about the way Hannibal said it, the touch of possessiveness in his tone, made Will look away. "Once I was able to get to dry land, it was not difficult to find the road, and to take a vehicle from a startled driver under the pretense of requiring police assistance."

"Of course it wasn't," Will murmured. He didn't ask about the driver. There could be no witnesses to place them near the scene. "Is there a town near here?"

"Yes. I've been there once or twice." Will understood the reason for the beard, now. "Quick trips to the market for produce and supplies."

"Might raise suspicion if you keep buying gauze."

"No need; I had those things on hand." Hannibal gave him a quick glance filled with amusement, and Will could not control the small smile of his own in return. With the smile came new pain, and the pull of stitches high on his right cheek. He set his teeth and ignored it.

"What about you?" Will asked. This time, he did move to touch, and he plucked at Hannibal's sweater in a vague, fluttering way, like a bird unsure of the impulse to take flight.

"A dislocated shoulder from impact with the water, and a broken rib. And the gunshot wound, as you know. Unfortunately my wounds were too severe to bandage on my own, so I had to seek out and employ the services of a doctor once I had ensured you would not bleed to death."

"Did anyone along the way survive the experience of our survival?"

"No," Hannibal answered. "You may take comfort, however, that I was in a hurry, and so I was quite merciful."

Will resisted the urge to explain how the time when it might have mattered to him had ended, like an hourglass running out, the moment he and Hannibal had tipped over the edge of that cliff.

"How goes the manhunt?"

"There is no official manhunt at present. The FBI believes us both to be dead."

"Convenient."

"Do you think so?" Hannibal finished cleaning the stitched wound, and pressed fresh gauze into place. "Before I stopped Francis from breaking your neck, I shed my jacket and re-positioned the camera he so helpfully left on the floor."

"So they saw our...execution."

"Yes. And its aftermath." Such a small term for all it encompassed, the visceral thrill and dark joy of blood in the moonlight. Will's heart began to race, pressing against his skin where Hannibal's hand still rested.

Hannibal tilted his head to the side, giving Will that curious, assessing look he'd fixed on him so often. "The lack of bodies might have given Jack pause, but the area is well-known for suicides carried out to sea." He pulled the sides of Will's shirt together, but did not release them. "Even so, I expect Jack will not stop until he achieves some degree of certainty."

"I assume you're doing all you can to prevent that."

"For now, this is all that can be managed. Later on, perhaps, I will try to find a clever way to put his suspicions to rest. It is inconvenient, I suppose, that we did not die." Hannibal paused. "Assuming, of course, that you meant for us to die."

In the momentary silence, Will could hear the crash of waves outside. "I meant for us to fall," Will answered. It was honest, but honesty didn't begin to unpack the complicated rush of desire and finality which had led him to lean to his left.

"You began falling so long ago, this eventuality hardly seems to be more than another step." Hannibal fastened the two middle buttons of Will's clean white shirt, enough to hold it closed.

Will tried to force his heart to slow. It didn't work. "You didn't try to stop me."

"No." Hannibal's hand rested on Will's belly, low; his handiwork burned beneath, a healed but raw wound. "There was very little to lose, and everything to gain."

"Freedom," Will said.

"Freedom," Hannibal agreed, "one way, or the other."

They were quiet together. The sound of rolling waves filtered through the walls, counterpoint to the crackling fire.

Hannibal's hand stayed warm and heavy on Will's stomach.

There had been a moment on the cliff when Will had considered turning back and pulling Hannibal away from the edge. But it would have meant living with the knowledge of his power, embracing his own delight in what he and Hannibal had done. To become was one thing; to inhabit, another.

Yet here they were, alive. Hannibal had chosen him long ago for the potential Will had denied. Will had made his own choices; fate had intervened. Fate, and Hannibal's ability to bend the world to his will, or so it seemed.

"We are, both of us, what we have made of each other," Hannibal said. "At this moment in time, it is for us to discover what that means."

"You expected it," Will said, the words barely a breath.

"Yes," Hannibal said, and now his face had lost the soft rounded lines of compassion, and the glint of ferocious hunger sparked into his eyes. "We have spoken before of how God must feel when He kills. You remember?"

Will could barely move with how tight his chest was; he gave one brief nod.

"How does it feel to have chosen to take three lives, and set such a brilliant design into motion?"

More than anything, Will wanted to turn his face away, to think of the bright stream, clean and new. Even as quick breaths shivered through him, he obeyed the old command in his head - stay here, with me - and let the tides of blood seep up through his skin. Hannibal's eyes devoured every scrap of feeling Will could not keep from rising in his body, in his voice, when he found enough of it to whisper, "Inevitable."

Hannibal's hand curved to the side of Will's face, a touch so gentle it felt like the painless bite of a scalpel. "You are magnificent, cloaked in the force of your righteousness," Hannibal said softly. "But beneath that fire there is only blood, and it is the blood which makes you beautiful."

It's beautiful.

Will shook his head right and left, desperately, and squeezed his eyes shut. Hannibal traced his closed eyes with his thumb, delicately, like a butterfly attempting to fly through glass. Blood rose up through his skin, all-encompassing, engulfing, and only Hannibal's touch allowed him to breathe.

When he found himself again, Hannibal had gone, and an ancient quilt was tucked over him. Will curled on his side, heedless of the clawing ache in his shoulder, and tried to think of nothing at all.

Instead, his mind supplied memories: of his dogs at his feet, and of Dolarhyde sprawled in a cooling puddle of blood, and of Hannibal's tender expression as they fell toward the darkness of the abyss.

**

It was two weeks of soup and strange, stilted conversations before Hannibal would let Will out of bed for longer than it took to bathe and change the linens. In that time, Will took the iPad Hannibal gave him without question and read every fresh and gleeful article Freddie Lounds posted to TattleCrime.com - SERIAL KILLER SUICIDE PACT! and DRAGONS, CANNIBALS AND COPS OH MY were his favorites - and searched the web for any indication that he was a wanted man, instead of a dead one. He found dozens of leaked stills from the cam footage Dolarhyde had unwittingly supplied for them, and was unable to stop himself from staring at the sight of himself in Hannibal's arms, looking as though he was covered in black tar. Hannibal's eyes were closed, and if Will believed he was capable of bliss, it's the word he would have used for the expression on his face.

Being officially dead was an odd conundrum - should he resurface, and resume a life he had all but left behind anyway, just for the sake of living inside that skin? Will wondered, in odd moments, how Molly must feel, whether Walter was mourning the loss of yet another father figure, or if the sense of loss he felt had already been processed when he learned of Will's past.

He didn't miss Molly as much as he might, if he had ever really loved her the way she deserved to be loved. He missed the dogs more, and was amazed that even that kernel of self-awareness did not cause him to feel even the smallest twinge of guilt. At least they were with Molly; she had the best of him now, instead of the worst.

Nothing else tied him to the past. His work at the FBI was finished. Jack should have left well enough alone. By now Alana was in hiding with her family, if she was smart. Will had given up teaching when he'd given up his career as a profiler. And Molly would certainly recognize a lost cause, given her experience with strays. There would be no one waiting, if he found his way home.

He could go back, put on Will Graham's skin, and meld into the world that had already devoured every part of him that was good and useful...

...or he could simply be what he had become in the moonlight.

The picture of Will and Hannibal falling, suspended at the moment in time before gravity took them, was branded on the surface of his mind's eye. In that next moment, between the act, and the completion, there had been only warmth and satisfaction. And Hannibal's voice, a rumble in his ear. Close your eyes. Like a lullaby for a sleepy child.

He had helped to rid the world of one serial killer, and had attempted to divest it of two more. It wounded him to have failed so thoroughly; the relief was only mitigated by the vestiges of disgust, which seemed to be fading with each day of healing.

As if by unspoken agreement, Will and Hannibal never approached the elephant in the cottage. They spoke of the storms over the sea, and of the menu, and sometimes Hannibal would chuckle when Will side-eyed the meat. "No one has yet been rude enough to justify the risk," he said, and Will laughed quietly, because he was living inside a macabre version of Freddie Lounds' imagination.

It seemed the time of surprise over his own capabilities had come and gone, and what was left was infinite knowledge, coupled with certainty.

"There's fishing tackle in the shed by the dock," Hannibal said to him, on the first day he was well enough to dress and move around, stiffly, like an old man.

"I'm out of the fishing business," Will said, provoking another small huff of laughter from Hannibal.

"For sport, this time. Instead of professionally."

So Will took his suggestion, and sat at the edge of the tiny dock, casting lines for fish that would never bite.

"He only wants the best for you, you know."

"If by 'best' you mean he'd prefer that I bring home fresh cuts of the rude every two weeks or so and help filet them for dinner, then I'd agree," Will answered. He didn't turn his head, but Abigail was there, a patterned scarf wrapped around her throat; he could see it from the corner of his eye. It was Alana's scarf. And Alana's perfume.

"I know why you're here," Abigail said. She leaned back on her hands, kicking her feet out over the water. "But why am I? You said goodbye to me. I didn't think you needed me anymore."

"I didn't die," Will said. "Maybe you're here to remind me of that fact."

"Maybe," Abigail said. "Or maybe it's different, now that you know."

That knowledge of his nature sat across Will's shoulders like a wet wool sweater, bearing him down until he was sure the dock would crack beneath it. He could feel it always, the pressure growing greater until it was his greatest desire to stop struggling and let it bear him under.

"One of us should say it," Abigail prodded.

"I've never seen the point in acknowledging the obvious." Will set the fishing pole aside, its useless line dangling free.

"To make it real." Abigail pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. "You see so much. But not your own future. Not without him."

"I can't go back," Will said, even though it was the worst kind of lie. He could go back, but he would be the man who helped Hannibal Lecter escape. Who murdered the Dragon instead of delivering him to a pale and useless version of justice.

"Then all that's left is to live in the present." She gave him a sidelong glance. "At least you're still alive."

"Through no fault of my own." When Abigail rolled her eyes, Will smiled.

"You can still make choices. Isn't that what you told me? That no one could decide what kind of person I was going to be."

"I'm not a person anymore," Will said. "I'm...less than a person. Less even than the sum of my choices."

"You're Will Graham. You killed the Great Red Dragon." Will heard the finality of past-tense, and wondered if her pronouncement of identity was equally doomed to the past. "You have infinite patience. Maybe it's time you went back under the house to wait."

"I'm not even sure what I'm waiting for."

"For the chance to do what only you can do," she said, and her voice was the sound of waves rushing forward over rocks.

Will looked down at the water. His skin itched with the sense-memory of salt; his fingers were stiff, and his body ached. He pushed himself up from the empty dock and turned toward shore.

**

"Swordfish with capers, in a lemon and clarified butter reduction," Hannibal said, "with roasted potatoes and dill." He set the dish down on the table with the same flourish as ever, despite the fact that the dish was blue and white patterned - dishes one might buy at the yard sale of a deceased grandmother's estate - and had a chip out of its lip.

"Sorry I couldn't catch you anything fresh from my hand to prepare," Will said, as he took a large helping of the fish. He had missed Hannibal's cooking. Just the idea of it made him ravenous long before he came to the table. As much as he loved the scents of butter and dill - so long as his brain was not simmering in them - he liked the way Hannibal's gaze rested on him as he enjoyed each mouthful of food.

"It seemed an unlikely pursuit from a practical perspective, you must admit."

"I've waited longer for less."

"You can be quite patient, when you have prey in your sights." Hannibal took a sip of his wine. His beard was gone, newly shaved away when Will had returned from the dock, although his hair was still longer than Will had ever seen it. His own hair was wild and curling about the nape of his neck, and if he trusted himself with anything sharper than a table knife, he would already have cut it.

"Are we talking about this now?" Will ate another bite of the fish. It was delicious.

"It seemed pointless to begin until you were in a position to fully discuss all options."

"About that," Will said. The potatoes were done to perfection, crisp on the outside, creamy on the inside. "You've been very diligent in treating my wounds."

"It seemed just, given that I did not inflict them." Hannibal took a bite, paused to nod to himself with approval, and added, "Not the physical wounds, at any rate."

The sling had disappeared from Hannibal's arm over a week ago, and he had recovered much of the grace of motion Will was accustomed to.

"You wouldn't want all that psychic scar tissue unwound," Will said. "Considering how tight the knot it's formed has become."

"There are no knots," Hannibal said. "No ties."

"Aren't there?" Will polished off the fish with a huge and ungraceful bite, which Hannibal seemed pained to ignore. He gestured around the room with his fork. "Everything with you comes at a cost, Hannibal. Everything ugly and everything beautiful, all of it exacts some kind of price."

"A cost you have willingly paid, in the past."

"You have an interesting definition of willing."

"Some hunters cannot resist the chase, despite the possibility that their prey will turn on them." Hannibal sipped his wine. "You stepped into the trap beside me, and then pulled the snare closed."

"And here we are."

"Yes." Hannibal stood and poured Will a fresh glass of wine; Will hadn't even noticed he had drained the first. "You know of course that I must leave the country very soon. To avoid any chance of accidental detection."

"Back to Europe?"

"I think not. Interpol is very active on the trail since the incident with Pazzi."

"Yes, the incident," Will said dryly.

"Easier to make my way south, given the relative simplicity of crossing borders by boat and car." Hannibal took a sip of his wine, and after a small hesitation, added, "Argentina, perhaps."

"Plenty of sunshine and rude tourists."

The moment stretched between them, and Will tilted his head back to look at the moon ascending in the nighttime sky, framed perfectly in the large front window. Almost a full month since he shed one skin, vaguely person-shaped, and climbed into another.

When Hannibal spoke, there was an echo behind the words; Will could hear them arriving before the sound began. "I know you have a preference for cooler climates."

"I did once." Will tilted his head, so he could catch the shadow of Hannibal's profile, lit and darkened by the firelight behind him and the moonlight to his side. "In another life."

Out of habit, Will took a quick inventory of weapons at the table. Knives, impeccably sharp; two within reach. One was closer to Hannibal than to Will, but then again, he would only need one. His fork, which could do limited damage, enough only to delay the inevitable, to buy time. No centerpiece, but the heavy ceramic dish was empty now. All crude and ineffective, but Hannibal could improvise as well as Will. Perhaps better; Will had witnessed how well Hannibal escaped certain doom, even with inferior opponents.

He remembered the bones of drowned songbirds crunching between his teeth, and the exquisite taste of Armagnac in his throat.

"Negotiation implies an exchange of equals to arrive at a compromise." Hannibal leaned back in his chair, the stem of his wine glass held delicately between two fingers. "We are equals, certainly, but not every situation can result in satisfaction for all parties." He moved the knife from his plate to the corner of the table, equidistant between himself and Will.

Will stared at it for a moment, possibilities unfolding in his mind like night-blooming jasmine, before he pushed it over to Hannibal. He was rewarded with a tiny but genuine smile - if his internal gauge of genuineness could be trusted.

When Will spoke, his words were clear. "What do you want in return for sparing the others?"

"All of you," Hannibal said without hesitation. "All, Will. You will let me see you as you have become, those parts of you that you tried to murder, just as you have seen me. As you will see me. And you will allow yourself to revel in that part of you I treasure, which you can no longer deny."

All the hair on Will's body stood on end. The pull of gravity was stronger now than it had been on the cliffside. He could tell himself he was saving Molly's life, that he had saved Walter. He could tell himself, again and again, until he stopped believing it, and knew it for the lie it had become.

"I assume there will be conditions on your part," Hannibal said. So easily, the door swung open, and Will tipped it wide.

"If I go with you, you would have no reason to remove the remaining obstacles to my becoming."

"Precisely."

So Molly and Walter would be safe. "And Alana?"

"I owe her a debt," Hannibal said. "One that is long overdue."

"She's part of the bargain."

"And Jack, I suppose."

Will was silent for a moment. Jack Crawford was a decent man, but a ruthless one, and he had stopped giving a shit about anything but his own warped perception of justice long ago. "If he learns we're alive, he'll never stop hunting us."

The glittering flash of joy in Hannibal's eyes at Will's use of the plural was so bright and fierce, Will had to look away. "For a very long time now, Jack has played Scylla to my Charybdis. Harm from all sides, and safe passage from none."

"When one is already inside the belly of the beast, there's no point in counting victories."

"Fair enough. Perhaps that is a bridge best crossed only if necessary."

"Yes."

"And Bedelia?"

"She's not part of the package."

"You have no objections to the conclusion of my relationship with her, then?"

"She's a distraction." The taste of copper pennies was on his tongue when Will added, "An extra cog in the wheel, no longer needed."

"Agreed."

"The final wife," Will murmured into his glass, closing his eyes to take in the scent of apples and berries in the wine. He took a long sip, and the taste of blood on his back teeth dissipated.

"You kept me waiting for three years," Hannibal said. "Behind glass like an animal, while you slipped into a new life."

"I...slipped into a facsimile of what I used to be," Will said. "Trying to undo the damage, but it was too late."

"It was always too late. You simply refused to embrace the truth until circumstances intervened and forced you to unwind the darkness."

"I'll point out that you stepped into that cage on your own," Will said. "I'm not to blame for the fact that you thought it was your own brilliant idea."

"Wasn't it?"

They traded feral smiles, predator to predator, each holding the rules to their own private games, shared only with each other.

Softly, Hannibal said, "You wish to punish yourself. But which is the greater punishment: to deny yourself all that you crave, or to endure it?"

An unanswerable question, which locked Will's tongue and seized his words momentarily. He met Hannibal's eyes, and allowed himself that small pleasure, now that he knew once again what he was seeing.

"I won't eat them," he heard himself say, so easily, the same ease with which he had gutted Dolarhyde.

"I wouldn't expect you to. We have established that you don't share my appetites." Hannibal held his stare. "But there will be others, deserving of your knife, and of their transformation. That is what we will share."

The words of agreement wouldn't rise. Will couldn't pull them out from the place in his belly where they coiled, waiting to be brought forth. He couldn't imagine it, and yet he could, the example of what had already come to pass blending so easily with what was yet to come.

"I told you the teacup was never coming back together," Will said. "All the shards have flown apart."

"We have taken the pieces and mended them," Hannibal said. "Bound them with gold, to remind us that what once was broken can be repaired."

"Not the same as time reversing to a perfect whole."

"When one cannot go back, one must move forward, with recognition that what was once broken is now merely transformed to something imperfect, but no less beautiful."

The walls of the cottage seemed to move in by degrees, smothering Will in domesticity and the appearance of safety, but his body knew the trap. His heart began to race again, adrenaline coursing, seeking the way out. But there was no way out, there were only choices.

"Were you expecting an answer tonight?"

"When you decided to bring finality to our relationship, you surrendered only your oldest desires," Hannibal said, and Will remembered those moments: a confession of hunger, to kill Hannibal, to use his hands. "Now the sound of the clock is in your mind, and it is speaking of a new surrender, to time and the variables of this new universe."

"So that's a yes, then," Will said, one corner of his mouth curling up.

"That's a yes." Hannibal's small smile was similarly wry as he stood and began clearing the table. Will stood also, and poured himself another glass of wine.

He went out to the small porch, not unlike the one he had left behind in Wolf Trap, and stood bathed in the moonlight.

Decisions, he had told Bedelia, were made of feelings. There was no equation to balance here, no logic to put behind it. There was not even a choice, because to choose other than what was offered was to condemn his friends to death. Not his responsibility, but something within his power to prevent, for as long as his surrender held allure for Hannibal.

He would have liked to be persuaded that it was a struggle, or a compromise of his most certain self, but in an instant he scornfully set that aside. He could tell himself he was a noble man, a man making the sacrifice for others, and once it might have been true. But now there was only the blood, and the desire, and the wickedness.

And Hannibal.

He stood on the porch until he was chilled to the bone, until the wine was long gone and the sounds from within the cottage had stopped, and then he slipped inside and went to the small bedroom which had been his own for the duration. The fire was blazing high and cheerful, and Hannibal was waiting there, a hardbound book with a frayed cover in his hands. Will eyed him, and set his empty glass down on the mantel.

"Shall I go?" Hannibal asked, closing the cover of his book.

Will didn't answer. He faced the fire, shed his jacket and tossed it aside, followed by the knit sweater, and then he went to work on the buttons of his shirt. His back was to Hannibal, but he felt those observant eyes upon him every moment, like a lion stalking near. He wadded up the shirt and tossed it aside, and a slight rustle was his only warning before Hannibal was behind him, close enough for his warmth to cut the chill at Will's back.

"This will doubtless scar," Hannibal said, lightly brushing two fingertips against the healing wound on his cheek. Will hissed, and Hannibal pressed harder, briefly; Will leaned into the pressure a moment, before Hannibal withdrew.

"Not the first time I've been carved up by a killer." He drew in a long breath. "I'm leaving pieces of myself behind at every stage."

"Metamorphosis," Hannibal said. Slowly, slowly, Hannibal's hands pressed warm to Will's sides, then slid around to his belly. Hannibal ran his thumb across the scar bisecting Will's abdomen with unerring precision. It was as if he had been shocked; Will's back curved into a sharp arch, and he tilted his head back against Hannibal's shoulder. His cock thickened with sudden arousal. "What I took from you when I carved into you was not your blood, nor your life. I took your denial, Will. I gave you the knowledge you needed to be free."

"Transformation requires neither agreement, nor permission," Will said.

"Nevertheless, both are present in you. Or will you deny this, even now?"

"No," Will said, settling back into his skin, anchored by Hannibal's touch.

"Now that you have decided to endure," Hannibal said, his lips close to Will's ear, "what else will you learn about yourself?"

"You've stopped casting yourself as teacher?"

"I was never that. Guide, perhaps. The whisper in the darkness which points toward the beauty of the night."

"Poetic, for what we've endured."

"There is poetry in surrender," Hannibal said. "As there is in taking control of all things one wants. The two things are not mutually exclusive. Francis knew this. It is what allowed him to find his own becoming."

"You tore his throat out," Will whispered, every atom in his body striving toward Hannibal's touch.

"Teeth are a convenient weapon, as the Dragon well knew."

"That's not why," Will said. "A statement of purpose. The Dragon knew that also."

"Yes." Hannibal slid his hand up Will's chest, to the healing wound opposite his heart, and pressed his parted lips to the nape of Will's neck. Will's cock jerked; he bit his lip, and blood trickled down his chin. He lurched forward, shoulder striking the mantel and provoking a gasp of pain even as he twisted his body to face Hannibal.

In the space between heartbeats, there was no decision; there was just Will's hand, rising to grip the base of Hannibal's neck, and their mouths pressed together, Will's blood on Hannibal's tongue, and Hannibal's hands sunk into Will's hair, curved against his skull.

"You said all of me," Will whispered into Hannibal's mouth.

Hannibal took his mouth again, deep and savage, his tongue flickering over Will's self-inflicted wound.

Time stretched, encompassing a series of small surrenders, or victories; Will was no longer sure how to categorize any of it. He allowed himself to become lost in each moment: the clink of his belt buckle coming undone, and the button of his jeans clacking as it rolled across the wooden floor, sent flying by the violence of Hannibal's hands as he uncovered Will. Hannibal's teeth grazing the jut of Will's hipbone, and the harsh shock of breath leaving his body as Hannibal's mouth descended over his cock, relentless, driving Will back toward the spiraling darkness over the sea.

When he came, Will shuddered, canting his hips forward while Hannibal's fingertips brushed over his anus. It was not as if Hannibal hadn't already penetrated him in a thousand different ways; they had climbed inside each other long ago, nesting in each other's skin like bacteria in a wound, festering to infection and waiting for the opportunity to devour.

Will swayed in place while Hannibal removed his shoes, socks and jeans, and after a pause, his back hit the soft quilt, and Hannibal crouched over him, nude. "Stay with me, Will," he said, voice low and deep, before taking another brutal kiss, sharing Will's own taste with him.

"Where else would I go?" Will asked hoarsely, and he wrapped his hands around Hannibal's bare shoulders, pressing at the bruises there to see Hannibal's head snap back, eyes closed. It was only another tiny leap in time before Hannibal's climax flooded over Will's skin, evidence of uncalculated triumph, though it was unclear who the winner was.

Will yanked Hannibal closer, kissing the panting breaths from his mouth, until Hannibal pulled back to nose at Will's neck. He grazed his teeth down the vulnerable curve of Will's throat, and then left the bed in one fluid movement. Will sank down deeper into the softness, conscious of nothing but a deep desire for sleep. The bridge had been crossed. In the morning, they could continue on.

Warmth at his belly; Hannibal, with a damp towel, cleaning up the mess on Will's skin. "You don't usually leave traces behind," Will said, and then a chuckle escaped him, because they had ascended a new tier in their theater of the absurd.

"Nothing can erase what we know to be here between us now." Hannibal shifted to his back beside Will, not touching him; Will turned to his side and curled toward Hannibal.

"I hadn't thought..." Will pressed his face forward, until his forehead touched Hannibal's ribs, the muscles shifting there as Hannibal placed his hand on Will's back, completing the circuit. "That you would want...this. I thought it was a means to an end, with you. Or...aesthetics."

"You are speaking of Alana or Bedelia, I presume. In each case, your assessment is accurate."

"But not with me."

"No. Not with you." Hannibal's hand stroked down the length of his spine, then returned to shape itself to his shoulder again. Will straightened his body and tilted his head up, to find Hannibal watching him. "I am capable of tenderness, you know."

"One more tool in your vast arsenal of manipulations."

"True enough. But I think we are long past that."

"I'm not sure we'll ever be past that," Will said tiredly.

"A topic for another time." Hannibal's weight left the bed, and his hands left Will's skin; Will's body drifted after them of its own accord, until he was sprawled across the bed. The soft quilt slid out from beneath him and then settled over him, and between one vaguely accusatory thought and the next, Will was asleep.

**

Morning brought with it a new set of aches and pains, which hooked into Will's bones and remained there, tugging gently as he stood in the shower and washed himself clean. He pressed his cheek to the cool tile and pretended, just once more, that he was in Wolf Trap, that water was meant to renew, and never drown, that he could be warm inside, and not as cold as death.

When he switched off the water, he closed the door in his mind, and the lights of his little ship on the vast Virginia farmland-sea winked out of existence.

He dressed in the clothes Hannibal had obtained for him, which were not unlike the clothes he might have scrounged for himself, save for their pressed and laundered state: a blue button-down shirt, black trousers, the same belt Hannibal had ripped off his hips the night before. In his black wool socks, he moved across the cold floors, silent in his pursuit, until he reached the tiny kitchen. Hannibal stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. To his left, a smaller cast-iron skillet filled with crisping bacon; to his right, a heavy pitcher of milk.

Will let the pleasant fantasy of smashing the skillet into Hannibal's temple play out, and then he nudged one of the chairs away from the kitchen table and sat down, unfolding his napkin to lay it across his lap.

"Good morning," Hannibal said, giving Will a small smile over his shoulder. "I thought you might not mind some eggs and toast this morning."

"Peasant food," Will said, smiling down at his own plate as Hannibal dished out the eggs, and set two slices of bacon beside them with a spatula.

"Hearty and filling, suitable for the beginning of a long journey." Hannibal sat down opposite him, and the hunger in his eyes as he watched Will taste the eggs was not related to the meal. Once, it would have raised a flush of annoyance, or of lust, on Will's skin. Now, he smiled into it, feeding the flames.

"You've made arrangements," Will said, not so much a guess as a confirmation of assumed facts.

"We will leave tonight. There's a bit of driving ahead of us, and then we will catch a private plane, and be on our way." Hannibal forked up a bite of eggs, and said, "I had hoped one day to show you Italy, and Florence in particular, but Buenos Aires has its charms. You might come to appreciate them, given time to accustom yourself to them."

"This all has a surreal and familiar quality to it," Will said.

Hannibal tipped his juice glass in Will's direction. "The last wife," he said, an echo of a conversation never heard and only incidentally introduced to this new life.

Will tipped his glass in return, and savored the burn as it crept down his throat.

There wasn't much to pack, though Will couldn't help wishing for a weapon of some sort, a sturdy handgun or a knife. He was quite sure if wanted them, he'd be able to obtain them when they reached their destination. He'd never been a fugitive before, and he wasn't now - quite - but close enough that any distinctions of status lost all meaning. He was certain he did have paperwork waiting for him, because Hannibal was a meticulous planner, and this was not the first time he had planned for precisely this scenario.

Will wondered if the ink was still drying on his new passport, or if it was three years old.

He sat down on the dock while the sun vanished into the other side of the world, and then he walked up the gravel drive beside the cottage and met Hannibal there, standing beside what was unquestionably a stolen older-model Cadillac. When he let Hannibal see his amusement, Hannibal smiled. "Beggars can't be choosers in this instance," was all he said, unlocking the trunk.

One small bag apiece, and then they were driving down a winding coastal road, straight into the deepening darkness. Will tilted his head back against the headrest and imagined what kind of home they would make for themselves. Two predators in search of prey: one nesting inside the lair, and one beneath, biding his time.

Waiting for the snake to slither by.