Chapter Text
Baltimore Metropolitan Concert Hall – Achilles & Patroclus
Saturday, 6:29 p.m.
As Will and Hannibal took their seats in the private box, Abigail could not help feeling slightly overwhelmed by the beauty of the opera house. She had never seen anything so extravagant, not even among Hannibal’s more impressive possessions.
The room was vast, their private box offering an unobstructed view of the stage below.
She ran the curtain through her hand as she walked by, the red velvet was plush beneath her fingers. The woodwork old and polished to a soft gleam, she rested her hands on the railing, taking it all in. Above them, crystal chandeliers hung like constellations, their light diffused and golden, as though thousands of fireflies had been caught and coaxed into stillness.
So pretty.
If she were honest, she had not wanted to come when Hannibal first asked. Of course, like many things Hannibal offered, it had turned out to be a wonderful new experience, so she had not protested very hard.
“Come, mažute. Take your seat,” Hannibal said, amused, patting the chair in front of him. “If you enjoy the décor, I suspect the opera will not disappoint.”
She giggled as she sat and smiled fondly at him, curious to see what the night might hold.
The house began to quiet as the lights flickered once, twice, signaling the start of the evening.
Abigail glanced at Will. He smiled when he caught her looking, but there was something distant in his eyes, a thin, strained edge that had not been there earlier. Not unhappy. Just… elsewhere.
Oh.
Her chest tightened. She hoped tonight would not be hard for him. She hoped she had not taken something from him without meaning to. This was supposed to be good. This was supposed to be theirs.
New memories, she reminded herself. Better ones.
As the first notes of Achilles’ theme rose from the orchestra pit, Abigail watched Hannibal watching Will, the quiet intensity of it, the care.
Everything would be fine.
It had to be.
Intermission
Will needed a drink. Probably two. That would get him through the night.
The music was beautiful and tragic, far more than he had expected. Perhaps it was an empathic carryover from the whole tragic day. He had never been very good at compartmentalization. But standing at the bar with his arm looped comfortably through Hannibal’s, he did not think that was it.
He was actually feeling surprisingly okay.
He was here.
They had survived.
And that was what it was all about, wasn’t it?
His family.
As Hannibal handed him a glass of Redbreast 21, Will caught a familiar sight at the far end of the bar. Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier stood there in a floor-length rose-gold gown, a champagne flute balanced elegantly in her hand, watching him.
He lifted his glass in a brief salute. She mirrored the gesture immediately, then turned back to her companion without a word.
Survivors.
He was pulled from his thoughts by Komeda’s voice, rising just above the hum of conversation.
“Hannibal, darling. I do believe this gentleman has been trying rather hard to get your attention.”
A rotund man with a shock of tightly trimmed frizzy curls and an ill-fitting tuxedo hovered at the edge of their group, craning forward with unmistakable eagerness.
Hannibal’s posture shifted. Subtle. Immediate. Will felt the familiar arm slip from his own and reappear at his waist, pulling him in.
“Hello, Franklyn,” Hannibal said, his tone polite and dismissive in equal measure.
Will’s grip tightened around his glass.
Franklyn.
Oh. No.
He knew that name.
Will watched Abigail freeze, the way children do when an undercurrent passes between their parents. Not understanding the reason, but sensing when something fundamental has shifted.
And suddenly, the night felt less safe than it had a moment ago.
Hannibal did not make a habit of discussing his patients, but he had let it slip one night after receiving twenty messages in rapid succession regarding an “emergency cheese recommendation.” He had not replied. That had not stopped the messages.
Will sighed.
Tonight?
Really?
Hannibal had known Franklyn would come. Not because he had invited him. Hannibal never invited Franklyn anywhere. But men like Franklyn orbited moments of beauty and proximity to power the way moths circled flame, mistaking warmth for welcome.
Franklyn was inconvenient. Loud. Incurious in the ways that mattered.
Worst of all, Franklyn wanted.
Not in the simple, appetitive sense Hannibal understood and respected, but in the grasping, needy way of someone who believed proximity entitled him to intimacy. Franklyn did not wish to be understood. He wished to be included.
Dangerous.
Hannibal felt Will shift beside him, the tightening of muscle in his arm almost imperceptible. Will had recognized the name. Good. His instincts were intact.
Franklyn smiled too broadly, eyes shining with the unearned confidence of a man who believed himself remembered fondly.
“Hannibal, I wasn’t sure you’d seen me,” Franklyn said, already speaking as though the space between them had been negotiated.
“I see you,” Hannibal replied pleasantly.
Which was not the same thing at all.
Franklyn had always been a liability. He talked too much. He noticed too little. He wanted Hannibal to reflect something back that Franklyn could not generate on his own. And now he had inserted himself into Hannibal’s carefully balanced life at a moment of fragility.
Franklyn would not understand the stakes.
He never did.
Hannibal’s gaze flicked briefly to Will, then back to Franklyn. The calculation was automatic. Precise.
Franklyn was not a threat because he was dangerous.
Franklyn was a threat because he was sloppy.
And sloppiness was how beautiful things unraveled.
Will watched as Franklyn reached out his hand. Hannibal hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it, a flicker of distaste crossing his face as he shook it. The expression would have been imperceptible to most of the surrounding society.
Will arranged his face into something resembling calm and exchanged a glance with Abigail, trying to soothe her. He could not tell whether it landed. Her hypervigilance was clearly at an all-time high.
Franklyn gestured offhandedly to a tall, impeccably dressed dark-skinned man standing just behind him.
“This is my friend Tobias,” he said, as if commenting on the weather, his eyes never leaving Hannibal.
When Will met Tobias’s gaze, he felt it immediately.
The coldest eyes he had ever seen.
Eyes that had killed.
Not from cruelty or hunger or desire, but because they could. Because there was nothing left to lose.
A true predator.
Will’s hand tightened at Hannibal’s waist as he met Abigail’s eyes. She saw it too. He was sure of it.
Will could not speak, but Hannibal filled the silence smoothly.
“Good evening.”
Komeda, blissfully unaware of the shift in the air, asked brightly, “And how do you two know each other?”
Hannibal smiled at her, warm and practiced. “Oh, Komeda, there should remain some mystery to my life outside the arts.”
She tittered, delighted.
Franklyn, never one to miss a social misstep, said breathily, “I’m one of his patients.”
Abigail inhaled sharply, eyes widening.
Will moved instinctively to soften the moment. “Are you enjoying the performance?”
“I love it,” Franklyn said reverently, his gaze still fixed on Hannibal.
“Do be careful not to say too much,” Hannibal replied mildly. “One must leave something for this week’s discussion.”
Then, without missing a beat, Hannibal shifted just enough to break the line between them. His hand settled lightly at Abigail’s back.
Not possessive.
Not urgent.
Simply present.
“Have you met my daughter?” Hannibal asked, his voice warm, proud, unassailable.
Abigail stiffened for a fraction of a second. Then she understood.
She stepped forward smoothly, chin lifting, expression settling into the polished grace Hannibal had taught her without ever naming it as a lesson.
“Abigail Graham-Lecter,” she said, offering her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Franklyn blinked, visibly recalibrating. His attention fractured as the unspoken rules of the room reasserted themselves.
You do not interrogate a man while his child is present.
You do not linger.
You do not press.
Hannibal watched it happen with quiet satisfaction. A shield does not have to be crude to be effective.
Will felt it then. The redirection. The way Hannibal had used nothing but truth and affection to close the space Franklyn had tried to occupy.
Abigail glanced back at Hannibal once.
He gave her the smallest nod.
Thank you.
She returned it without smiling.
You’re welcome.
Franklyn, defanged by civility and circumstance, was already being pulled away by another conversation, another glass, another obligation he could not refuse.
Hannibal did not look back.
He had what he needed.
“Margot,” Hannibal called, his voice pitched to carry. “You look lovely this evening. Come along, Abigail. There is someone I want you to meet.”
Will glanced back once.
Franklyn and Tobias stood where they had been, watching them go.
A shudder ran through him.
They wanted different things.
But they were both dangerous.
The city thinned behind them as the Bentley moved through the dark, streetlights giving way to long stretches of quiet road. The engine purred softly, steady and unobtrusive, as though aware it was carrying something fragile.
Abigail sat curled against the door of the backseat, shoes off, heels tucked beneath her dress. Velvet pooled around her knees as she watched the lights smear into gold and white against the glass.
Will sat in the passenger seat, one hand resting loosely on his thigh, the other braced against the door. He had not spoken since they left the opera house.
Too quiet.
Hannibal noticed, of course. He always did. But he said nothing, eyes forward, hands relaxed on the wheel, giving Will the space to return to himself.
The music lingered behind Will’s eyes, threaded through his chest. Achilles’ grief. Patroclus’ absence. Devotion so absolute it scorched.
He swallowed and shifted.
Abigail glanced over. “Dad,” she said softly. “You okay?”
Will blinked, as though he had forgotten he was not alone. He turned toward her and offered a smile that almost worked. “Yeah. I’m fine, Abby.”
She did not argue. She studied him, head tilted, filing something away.
“It was sad,” she said instead. “But beautiful. I didn’t expect that part.”
Will exhaled. “Yeah.”
Hannibal spoke gently. “Tragedy reveals what people are willing to give. And what they cannot survive losing.”
Will’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled once, then relaxed.
“I kept thinking,” Will said quietly, “that it wasn’t the war that destroyed him. It was the waiting.” He shook his head. “Knowing exactly who he was without the one person who saw him.”
The car grew very still.
This was not a tragedy about death.
It was about what living costs afterward.
Abigail slid across the seat and rested her hand over Will’s wrist. Warm. Solid. Real.
“You’re not alone,” she said simply. Referring to more than the opera.
Will nodded once, unable to trust his voice.
Hannibal glanced at him. There it was. The crack. Not fear. Recognition.
“You were very brave tonight,” Hannibal said.
Will huffed softly. “That’s not usually how people describe crying at the opera.”
“People are often incorrect.”
Abigail smiled and leaned back, tension easing a fraction.
After a long moment, she asked quietly, “Did Achilles know it would destroy him? Or did he just not care?”
The question settled like a held breath.
Will closed his eyes.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that Achilles knew exactly what it would cost.”
“He was warned,” Will continued. “Live quietly or love fully and lose everything. It wasn’t a mystery to him.”
“Then why did he do it?” Abigail asked.
Will swallowed.
“He cared,” he said. “More than he cared about surviving it.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” Abigail replied.
The car hummed on.
Hannibal rested his hand over Will’s knee. Anchoring.
Will did not look at him.
Because if he did, he might say something he could not take back.
The realization settled, cold and precise.
Achilles had not been destroyed by loss.
He had been destroyed by choosing not to live without love.
The silence pressed thick against the windows.
Abigail broke it. “Tėtis. That man. Franklyn.”
“Yes, mažute?”
“I don’t like him.”
“That makes three of us,” Will said.
“But, he wasn’t the scary one,” Abigail continued.
“No,” Will said. “He wasn’t.”
“The other man. Tobias. He was waiting.”
“He was,” Will said, sounding as if there were more to that thought.
Hannibal glanced at him, “What did you see Will?”
“He’s empty,” Will added after a moment. “Finished. Whatever he feared already happened.”
“I am sorry,” Hannibal said. “I did not anticipate someone like Tobias.”
“But you knew Franklyn would come.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me.” Will was incredulous.
“I did not wish to sour the evening,” Hannibal said simply.
Will thought for a minute. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he said, scrubbing his palm over his face in resignation.
Abigail leaned forward. “Next time, you should tell him. Not because he can’t handle it. But because he can.”
Hannibal’s face twitched and his eyes widened slightly.
“You are correct,” Hannibal said. “Both of you.”
“He’s dangerous,” Will said. “If he comes near us, we need to know.”
“I promise.”
The silence that followed was not easy, but it was aligned.
As the Bentley carried them home, the music finally faded, replaced by breath and motion and the fragile continuity of family.
But the story had lodged itself deep inside Will.
And it was not done with him yet.
{*REVELATION: Grounded Part II*}