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This is His Design

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Hannibal would think this a beautiful spectacle.


He would appreciate it, in his own way, and respect the artist who put it there, even though it wasn't the type of kill he would make.


Will thinks it's beautiful too.


The wings of glass unfurl and Will doesn't want to find this so mesmerizing, so angelic. He doesn't want to be proud of himself for this display.


But he does and he is nonetheless.


There's a good chance that Hannibal won't find this gift. There's a good chance no one will ever see it. And that in itself gives him a little rush.


Nobody will ever discover this spectacle. Nobody knew there was anything to find before, so nobody will look now.


He displayed the body, a dragonfly, an angel, that Chiyoh had stabbed through the throat.


This is his design.


He took one, long, last look at the peaceful corpse and went on his way, his new companion leaving with him.




She tosses him off the back end of the train.


In hindsight, he should have seen it coming. He doesn't want to kill her for it. He's not that petty, not yet. Hell, it would even be funny if his knee didn't ache from where he'd hit it on the ground.


He does itch for something to take out his frustration on though. A lone hitchhiker walking along the same tracks he is, a deer, hell, he would even fish with his hands if he came to a river.


(There's something different, personal even, about fishing with his hands that he can't quite name. It's waiting for just the right moment, for a fish to swim by your legs and you catch it off guard and move quickly enough to grab it. It's not like luring with a rod. Will prefers fishing with a rod. Perhaps in more ways than one.)


He walks along the tracks. He's not expecting another train, the schedule at the station had said this was the last one for the night. If he makes it to the city by morning, he'll have lost very little time.


As if by providence, a stag bolts across the tracks, quickly, but not quickly enough.


Will smiles to himself and wishes he were holding a rifle pulls out his pistol. He has time for a detour.




Will dislikes Dr. Cordell. He doesn't hate him, not really. He doesn't really hate anyone except maybe the man sitting at the other end of the table, Mason Verger himself.


He doesn't hate Hannibal, as much as he wants to.


Mason is rambling some nonsense about stealing his face to eat Hannibal (which is absurd, Hannibal would never willingly let himself be devoured so sloppily) and Cordell leans in close.


Will takes a chunk out of his face. If he's going to die he's going to be as petulant as possible. Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal is smiling, and if Will didn't know better he'd say he looked proud.


Will's a little proud of himself too, to be totally fair.




He watches passively, mostly. After three years of peace, of quiet, of love, the cold in his mind is jarring. He sips his wine as Hannibal struggles on the ground, his composure lost for the first time in a long time.


The rest is honestly a bit of a blur after that.


He instinctively goes for his gun when Dolarhyde sets up the camera, and soon the Dragon is on him.


Hannibal comes to his aid after Will and Dolarhyde stab each other a few times and they slay the Dragon together. Will cuts his chest open and Hannibal bites his throat out.


They stand together on the edge of the bluff in the small amount of moon, covered in blood that is and isn't their own.


Their words mean nothing.


Their words mean everything.


Will embraces him, resisting the urge to kiss him like he kissed Molly, like he kissed Margot, like he kissed Alana.


Hannibal grips at Will's shirt as he realizes what's happening, as Will pushes them over the edge but he persists, and they fall together.


Will's last conscious thought is that he's going to die.


They hit the water with a splash.