Fear, anger, hate, remorse, rage, worry. All these blended together to form a heavy weight that seemed to bury itself deep in Hannibal’s abdomen. His disdain for being caught off guard was only exacerbated by the sight before him. His family was split. Will was bleeding, pacing wildly; his body covered in blood and new wound that would form faint white scars. His face was taught and stern, grey ebbing its way into his hair in a single streak. Normally, this would have been an idyllic sight of his husband, but now the worry, it ruined it all.
“Damn them all,” hissed Will, “Jack…we should have killed him.”
Hannibal reached out, resting his hands on his love’s shoulders, “My love, now is not the time for rash action. We will kill Jack, but right now we need to make ourselves scarce.”
“Will be fine, we trained them for this.”
His entire body is a burning white blaze of pain; it shoots up his limbs in agonizing pulses, worsened, exacerbated by the burning shame and fear in his head. His mind raced, he knows where he is being carried, and the voices ring about around him, talking fast. They are familiar, though from the roiling pains, that doesn’t bode well, these men were the same men from before, from the break in. The FBI have their roots deep, and have often reached out for his help, though it was through his own carelessness that he found himself in this state.
Much to his growing chagrin, hate, spite and shame burning along with the pain. The air is thick and muted with the scent of blood, violence, fear, adrenaline, which is suffocating when mixing with Alistair’s own. Alistair groaned, trying to open his eyes but he can see nothing but shadows looming over him, blurred figures hovering around out of focus. Trying to sit up a strong burning pain rips through him causing bile to rise in his throat. Gunshot wound. He can only lift so far against the pain when he finds that his is being held down.
Imprisonment, Capture, his mind races, then what, they are keeping me alive? Alistair could feel his own pulse spike.
Alarms resounded, the cacophony of blaring sirens. Monitors rang and screamed for attention. The air was heavy with the bite of antiseptics and other disinfectants, as burning liquids were placed onto Alistair’s wounds.
“Fucking Christ,” a voice called above him, “Agent Crawford was right, we finally caught him.”
“FOCUS, damn it! He and his family are to be captured, if possible alive,” a screaming pain wracks Alistair’s body as forceps are inserted into his stomach.
Alistair tries to move more, to pull away. Normally, this pain wouldn’t compare, but it is the shame of it all, and his worry that has him unhinged. With the movement, he finds that he is handcuffed to the gurney, both arms locked down, and his legs strapped.
Opening his eyes more, his vision is still blurred, but he can see that he is in the back of an ambulance. What can we use? Think you idiot. What would Papa and Dad have you look for? Alistair let his breathing slow for a moment, letting his vision go black as he shifted into his head, a golden pendulum swinging across his vision as he looked over the interior of the ambulance. Right hand is more loosely cuffed. Platter of tools to the left, a set of scalpels and surgical tape, white, thread and four curved needles.
A bump in the road pulls him from his thoughts, tearing him viscously from his own mind.
“Calm down, if you keep flinching like that I might hemorrhage one of your internal organs,” bit the women with the forceps, “for fucks sake, you and your whole hellish clan, your damn sib—”
Alistair tensed and spat out, thick globs of spit, mucous and blood. Blinding the woman.
“Gah Fuck,” she hissed.
Alistair pulled at his right hand, dislocating the thumb as he pulled it through the cuff. Hurriedly, he smashed it against the bars of gurney, wedging his thumb back into place with a sickening crunch. Alistair yelled in pain as he grabbed one of the scalpels and slammed it into the neck of the first officer. He brought the edge down, tearing his throat before he had a moment to respond. A fountain of blood sprayed over the inside of the cabin, painting it crimson, the liquid burning hot. Iron filled Alistair’s mouth, the taste is thick and warm.
Alistair turned, glaring, moving to end the other, but then his blurred vision began to darken. He felt a sharp piercing pain in his own neck, and warm flutter seems to spread from the sting. The last thing he remembers is the muffled sound of voices screaming as he fell into darkness. He fought the growing shadow, careless and beaten twice in one day; at least the screaming would stop, and his anxieties would forcibly be expelled from his consciousness. Where did this all start. I guess from the beginning, dumbass.
The cold, the fear, the euphoria; all of it washed over Will as fell. In his arms; the strong devout force that allowed him to flourish, to become. To the world they, the pair of them, William Graham and Hannibal Lecter, would be fallen angels. Their momentous fall from grace being their deviancy from their lives before. Lives full of the normalcy; agency and crime, psychology and sociology, lectures and dinner parties. Yet, it is here in the fall, mere moments before the swift embrace of sable stony water that it all becomes clear.
Will remembers those moments well, then the water hits. Harsh and unforgiving. The bitter chill and biting cold pulling them both into focus, as they rose from the depths. The pair of them swam to shore, blood tinging the water heavily. Chiyoh was waiting for them.
She had arrived with a boat, medical supplies, and all they would need to move forward from this old life. Will remember what it felt like, his body screaming to let himself die, but his heart, now it was different, he had a new forged life, a new forged love. These feeling only growing in fervor as the weeks of recovery began. They had slayed the ‘Dragon’, his corpse now cold and bled clean, they were dead, their ties to the past forsaken. Free from Jack Crawford, free from the Verger-Bloom estate, free from it all.
TattleCrime seemed the only place, in fond remembrance of them. The ‘Fallen Angels’, the ‘Murder Husbands.’ These names made Will laugh, much to Hannibal’s chagrin, how fitting and foul they both were, they did, quite literally, fall from a cliff, and with this new life, husbands. Freddie still believed them to be alive; commenting on her articles, in chatrooms with theories of how they could have survived the fall, how they could have escaped. They were hit and miss, some more outlandish than others. Commenters were mixed review of insisting that they had died or making affirmations of her so-called genius on the survival theory.
Amidst the recovery, the pair shared their first meal, their first real meal as husbands. Bedelia Du Maurier. She was beautiful, her leg was one of the most masterful meals ever prepared by Hannibal. In that meal, her silence was bought. Hannibal had found himself feeling merciful, in a rare moment of romantic bliss. The three of them ate and then said their final goodbyes.
Months had passed since then; the villa they had retired to is warm now with the glow of a fire. The villa was resided in the southern end of Germany; in a small provincial fishing hamlet. Will had found himself growing weary in the passing months, his hands aching with the urge to tear flesh, to hunt with his husband. Their previous hunt had only been months ago, and now in this town, the people here had welcomed them with open arms. He could feel he was ready, his body healed, the deeps of the wounds now just angry scars on his skin. Will closed the book he was reading, sighing as he rested his head against the back of sofa.
Hannibal raised his head, “You sound more exasperated, everything alright?”
Will smiled softly, “Yes, I was just thinking.”
“Perish the thought,” smirked Hannibal, as he raised his head from the sketch pad in his hands.
“Cheeky, I will remember this dear, especially when you are deep in thought. The next time you are stuck on a musical idea, you are on your own.” Will stands and stretches, walking over to stir the coals in the fire. “Can I ask you a question?”
Hannibal cast him another look, and nods.
“Do…do you, how would you…”
Hannibal frowned lightly.
“Damn I am sorry, okay, how would you feel about starting a family?”
Will waited, the seconds ticking by like decades before Hannibal closed his pad, taking a minute to compose his thoughts, “Feeling paternal, are we?”
Will sighed, “I am not trying to be so pushy, but, our lives.”
“They are ours now, and you want to live. You suggested our last supper of our old lives almost a year ago. We have since healed, loved, hunted and flourished in our new lives. You feel safe in our circumstances now.”
Will smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “Don’t think me foolish, I know the risk involved, medical reports, files, the paper trail alone would be nightmarish. I just, we kill, we eat, we are careful, even more so now. And, I see you, the way you look at the people in town. The neighbors, the families that come to you for their sessions. You have a sentimental look on your face.”
Hannibal hesitated for moment pursing his lips.
“I just want to know where you stand love, what you think?”
“Well,” He paused, “I think that life is not worth living if we do not seek greater challenges. In the regards to those looks, yes, the idea of a child of our own, that makes me happy. A youth, to carry on our thoughts, to be raised under the care and tutelage, to be better. An alpha among the fodder of omega.”
The pair shared a smile; Will grinning so wide that his teeth showed slightly. A devilish flare in his eyes.
“Though, if we are to set upon this endeavor, I suggest we have some dinner. I am running low on ‘prime cuts’ and I believe I have found a prime pig for the slaughter.”
Hannibal knows what Will showed him, the subtle glance in his smile. Hannibal could see him, all of him in the contradiction of water, the dichotomy of his natures. Will is intrepid, raging against mountainous shores, and presents an overwhelming chasm of darkness, chaos, and disorder. He is a great expanse for Hannibal to travel and foster, and no matter how harshly his seas rage, no matter how he froths and thrashes and tries to drag Hannibal into the new dark depths, Hannibal sails him easily, steers Will's currents and flows as one who is union with them.
Will is also gentle and caring, a rippling rolling stream. He can bring vigor, a sense of vitality in fertile soil. He fetters and roils himself in the moment, a child-like sense of bliss that grows in their shared vision. He now had all he wanted, to share with someone who was like him, a deep nebulous soul in grand expanse. This contentment, this ardor, only grew when Hannibal could wade into him, and meet him body and soul.
Finally, Will could be frigid, bitterly cold and icy. He had the authority, the strength in him to sink great ships, to pull those unworthy into the crushing frozen depths. He can claw through steel, bite iron, rend sinew from bone, and slaughter all of those who challenge him unprepared and unknowing.
He is a Leviathan of the deep sea, a pagan God of the ocean, and he is Hannibal's.
These thoughts bloom as they walked into their villa, the air heavy with iron as they drag in the body of their kill. A tourist in the town, someone who would not be missed. Rude and belligerent, degrading of the townsfolk in his arrogant ideal of self-worth. He was in his late twenties, and burly, his body was bulky with muscle and lean marbled meat. Killing him was the easy part, luring him away with a light conversation in English, a banter on women and beer.
Hannibal was glad to be rid of him; a quick drag of a knife across his throat silencing the idle prattle of a wanton fool.
Taking him apart, that was child’s play. What was once an unpracticed art, taking time and precaution, now is light-handed and dusted with smiles, jokes, and flirtatious remarks.
“So, what are we having tonight dear?”
Hannibal took a moment, “Pork fillets, with a balsamic cranberry sauce?”
Will smiled, “Sounds delicious, and refined.”
“Everything this ‘pig’ wasn’t. Let this be a transformation then.”
“From base vulgarity to decadent appreciation,” laughed Will, “truly you are a hopeless romantic.”
“I prefer the term Vitruvian man, mano meile.”