Chapter Text
“Hello?”
Hannibal’s tone is light and unconcerned, if a bit distracted, and Will is suddenly able to loosen his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and softly breath out, his lips forming Hannibal’s name without conscious prompting.
Until he heard that familiar, accented voice Will was certain of what he was about to say: a simple warning, short as he could make it, to afford as much time as possible for Hannibal to flee the confrontation that had gotten wildly out of control. If it was ever controlled at all, which suddenly seemed a laughable delusion – was there ever anything in Will Graham’s life that he had command over?
But now, feeling the self-assured presence enveloping him through sound alone, Will hesitates.
He had little opportunity to think about consequences after receiving news of his imminent arrest, only to react as swiftly as he could, jumping in the car and using back roads to evade a small fleet of police cars closing in on his home. If he concentrates, he can still hear the shrill screech of sirens in the distance and can vividly imagine his home being ransacked for evidence of his alleged crimes. Good thing that he’s moved all that’s remained of Randal Tier out of his shed after the unfortunate encounter with Miss Lounds.
“Is something the matter?” Hannibal’s voice returns him to the reality of a bumpy road that winds through the forest and the unfair absurdity of his position. Hunted for a crime of trying to catch a killer – the universe is probably still undecided if it is more or less funny than going to BSHCI for being the killer he’d tired to catch.
Of course, if there was anyone with half a brain in Kade Prunell’s employ, they would have simply gone to Dr. Lecter’s house instead of chasing their tails in Wolf Trap, Virginia. Or maybe madam investigator just hopes that the recalcitrant agent and his pet psycho will still be able to pull off their plan while she covers the Bureau’s collective ass with a hastily issued arrest warrant. Certainly, saving face is much higher on her priority list than saving innocent lives; not that she is alone in this attitude – Jack has most certainly long forgotten any noble purpose he had for catching the Chesapeake Ripper together with the notion that he can do something himself instead of barking orders and venting frustrations on his subordinates (when he’s not sending them to prison).
“Will?” Hannibal prompts, sounding just a little bit concerned with continued silence.
“I’m an idiot,” Will says, as much to himself as in response to the psychiatrist’s earlier question.
“Is that a general statement or does it pertain to anything in particular?” comes an amused query.
“Both?”
It is surprisingly easy to fill his words with humor instead of despair or weary resignation, the familiar cadence of Hannibal’s voice relaxing Will against all protests of reason and conscience.
It’s an hour’s drive from Baltimore to Wolf Trap – the time usually spent painstakingly reassembling Will Graham the Bureau’s loyal, if not altogether official, agent on the mission of capturing the most dangerous serial killer of their time. Will is routinely thorough and careful in reconstructing the standard system of moral values, reminding himself that his only source of enjoyment should come from doing the right thing (and, if he is a little bit lax with restrictions, from the thought that he is bringing justice for all of Chesapeake Ripper’s victims, and that means for himself as well) and cautioning himself that he must not find amusement in Hannibal’s notions of divine retribution or be charmed by his subtle compliments.
Funny, how less than a minute is necessary to get into the mindset of Will Graham the unpredictable creature that had emerged from Hannibal’s carefully crafted chrysalis. It almost begs the question of who is the real one?
Hannibal has an answer to that, and Will – theoretically – has one as well; today’s dinner was supposed to be about determining which one of them is right; but now Will feels as if he can no longer sustain his careful balancing act, having irrevocably lost his sense of equilibrium.
He’s too distracted by his thoughts to properly watch the road and an unseen bump almost makes him drop the phone, which results in awkward fumbling and cursing under his breath. Through it all Hannibal waits patiently on the other end of the line, with none of the standard psychiatric fare of ‘what prompted such criticism of yourself’s and ‘why do you feel that way’s. He undoubtedly wants to know what’s going on, but expects Will to get to the point at his own pace. For once, Will would have preferred some leading questions, because he’s still undecided – tries to persuade himself he’s unsure – of what’s to be done now that the meager safety net he had is torn to sheds.
It will be so easy to fall into the bitter comfort of blaming everything on Hannibal. He’s done it so often in the recent weeks; his righteous fury kept him warm in the bowels of the asylum and sustained him through the trials of double life. But it rings hollow now, used to often to reign himself in when the dark part of Will that resonated with Hannibal tried to get a foothold in his mind and soul.
After all, should the catalyst be blamed for the entirety of the chemical reaction? Yes, it gives the final push, but all the reagents, all the potential has already been there, simmering beneath the surface and waiting for the opportunity to explode (and the irony of tapping into the darkness that Hannibal wanted him to embrace in order to prove the esteemed doctor ultimately wrong is not lost on Will). But even more importantly, despite his initial intentions Hannibal was not able to remain unaffected – the trap he’s willingly stepped into is the best proof of that. Will knows beyond a shadow of doubt that he is not just a plaything anymore – got elevated from that status a long time ago – so the real question now is this: is his pride or morality worth choosing of two sides that betrayed him the one that only wants to use him instead of the one that yearns to accept him?
Will smiles darkly, almost feeling the antlers bursting out of his spine.
“You’ve asked me to run away with you, without confronting Jack.”
“And you refused,” there is an undertone of resigned finality in Hannibal’s words that sparkles the beginnings of a revelation at the back of Will’s mind, but it’s not as important as what he plans to say next.
“I have a counter-offer for you: how about we don’t run at all?”