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Largo isn't quite as scenic as Sugarloaf, but the trailer park in Largo isn't haunted with Will's nightmares like the bungalow in the Keys was, and there are far fewer annoying tourists to deal with further away from the nice beaches and resorts.

And the rent is more affordable, which is good, because it takes at least half a bottle of Jack Daniels to get him even halfway to tipsy now, and Will's decided there's nothing left worth trying to be sober for.

He lives off of cheap liquor and frozen microwave dinners and his pension checks from the FBI, and he wonders if it was the drinking or the depression that made him so numb that when he opens his door to find Hannibal Lecter sitting at his trailer's kitchen table, his only reaction is to slam the door closed after himself with more force that usual and get two glasses for whiskey instead of one.

"You do not look well, William," Lecter whispers, folding his pale hands together on the cheap plywood table.

Will lets out a sound too broken to be a laugh and offers Hannibal a glass. "Fuck you."

"There is no need to be profane, Will."

"Why the fuck not?" Will isn't actually aiming to get a rise out of Hannibal, but he gets one; Hannibal flushes red and his nostrils flare. Will feels proud for a moment, rewards himself with a long sip of his whiskey.

"It's rude," Hannibal tsks.

"And concealing a life-threatening disease from me, murdering dozens of people, gutting me, nearly killing Abigail Hobbs twice, and living a gigantic fucking lie wasn't rude, Dr. Lecter? And I know you're not going to kill me."

Hannibal flares his nostrils again, a subtle gesture most wouldn't notice. "Why do you believe that? I am capable of ripping you to pieces and bleeding the life from your flesh in thousands of ways, Will. Perhaps I just hadn't decided on the best method when we parted last."

"Because you're a surgeon, Dr. Lecter, and a killer, and if you wanted me dead, you wouldn't have sliced me open like that, not when you had the chance to do anything you wanted."

"I sent Francis Dolarhyde after you and told him to kill you and your family."

"You sent a killer you knew I had gotten into the headspace of and could handle after me."

Hannibal leans back a little, crossing his legs thoughtfully. He's thinner and paler than Will remembers, but he's still just as composed, just as elegant and poised and fucking insufferable. "I had no idea that you could handle Dolarhyde in a fight. Especially since Mr. Dolarhyde was usually a creature of surprise attack," he says mildly.

"No. No. You knew." Will takes another slow gulp of his whiskey. "I can see right through you, Dr. Lecter."

"And what do you see, Will?" Will leers and slams his glass down. "I see a spoiled little rich boy who got his favorite toy taken away and has been throwing a temper tantrum ever since."

Hannibal's nostrils flare again, and his face flushes slightly, posture tensing. "I allowed you to live, Will. Do not make me regret that decision."

"I'm not scared of you." Will's voice doesn't waver.

"You should be." There's an edge in that, something that sounds less composed than before. Hannibal's perfect control is starting to slip.

"Nah. What's in you to be scared of?"


"Wrong. There's nothing in you to be scared of. Fear is what gives you power, Dr. Lecter, right? Fear is what you thrive on. Fear and all those other base human emotions. Because you see yourself as above them, right? But you aren't, are you? Not really. If you were, you wouldn't be sitting here.

"You're a narcissist, Dr. Lecter. It's why you won't actually take any IQ exam or any other test they try to give you. They think it's because you're too clever for them, but that's a lie, isn't it, Dr. Lecter? It's because you're terrified that the results will come back and they'll know everything about you, and there'll be nothing special left about you." Will all but spits the last four words. "I'm not scared of you, Dr. Lecter. I can see right through you."

Hannibal's mask slips, composure at last gone. He rises from his seat fluidly, ready to strike.

Will has him pinned down to the cheap carpeting, sitting astride his chest, before Hannibal even has a chance to attack.

"I have underestimated you," Hannibal murmurs, the breath knocked out of his lungs. He does not, however, struggle against Will's grasp on his wrists or try to roll him off his chest. "You did not grow soft in retirement—"

There might have been more to that statement, but Will cuts off Hannibal's prattling by pressing their lips together.

It's not really a kiss at first, Hannibal for once completely frozen in shock, but after a few seconds he gathers himself back together, and then it's rough and biting and Will can taste the whiskey in Hannibal's mouth, the blood when Hannibal bites his tongue just hard enough.

It's been years since they did this, and back then they had always maintained a veil of civility. It was never so bitter.

Will likes it.

Time has changed them both, for better and for worse.

Will leans his body weight on Hannibal's wrists, freeing one of his hands to press into Hannibal's throat, a vague threat.

"Angry, Will?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Fuck you." Will presses a little tighter on his throat to watch Hannibal's face redden and his nostrils flare.

Hannibal manages to snort a laugh. "Planning to strangle me?"

Will's been half-hard in his jeans since he started bleeding, and he knows Hannibal can tell. The fact remains that between the alcohol and the mental numbness he's sunken into, this is the closest to actually feeling something that Will has come in months, possibly years.

He slowly releases Hannibal's throat.

They'd been good at this, at violence and half-assed threats and manipulation and lying and pretending not to see beyond the masks they wore.

Will stands up and heads towards the bedroom. "Fuck me."

Hannibal settles onto his knees and dusts off his jacket. "Manners."

"Come and fuck me before I change my mind and put a hole in your skull like I fucking should."

The older man smiles. "Remarkable boy."