Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The young woman must be no more than twenty-six or so years old. Will watches her from a second floor window, the one in the library behind the piano. On a clear day, the sunlight tends to spill through the curtains to pool over the instrument, reflecting light from the ivory keys. Today is partly cloudy, not much sun, but the blue sky is visible for the first time in what seems like weeks, bringing people out from the safety and warmth of their homes.

A couple is walking the park outside, hand in hand, heads bent close in intent conversation. The man walks with a languid sort of ease, hair a messy mop, coat open over his blue sweater. The woman, on the other hand, strides forward with purpose, coat cinched shut against the cold, angled bob fluttering over her bright red scarf.

Will wonders if they look that incongruously harmonious, Hannibal and her, when they walk side by side. This couple stands together in a way that showcases the years behind their relationship, an easy and intimate comprehension of the other thrumming in the small spaces between their limbs. A detail-oriented, thorough perfectionist, this young woman; Will can see it in her hair and her clothes and the way she tilts her head. In contrast, the young man broadcasts a laidback ease with the chaos of the world, in the lax slope of his shoulders and the lightness around his lips. Even at his young age, he has done much and seen much; very little surprises him anymore.

“What are you thinking?” Hannibal hums into her ear. He comes up to wrap around her in a possessive embrace, arms winding over her stomach and across her hip. She leans into it despite herself; his hands knowingly fit over the light bruises hidden under her clothing, bruises he put there just last night.

“My mind is clearer,” Will tells him, “my vision sharper. My perception. For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t hurt to look.”

Hannibal says nothing, instead following her gaze outside. He watches them too, this couple ambling around the small park in front of the row of townhouses. “Mr. and Mrs. Takahashi. They live across from us on the opposite row.”

“Ah,” Will nods, “the photographer husband and his writer wife. That makes sense.”

“What does?”

Will relays her observations with quiet words. “Look at how she walks. The precise line of her haircut. The folds of her trench coat.”

“Attention to detail.”

“Severe attention,” Will turns around, wrapping her own arms around his torso and setting his chin upon his chest. “Sounds like a certain someone I know.”

“I used to get so distracted as a child,” Hannibal confesses with a hum, “always reading every word of every footnote, always coordinating every color, always feeling so put out when I couldn’t correct a minutely crooked line on the dining table. The urge is no longer as intense, but perhaps only because I have learned to channel it through every aspect of my life. It can certainly be debilitating if left unchecked.”

Obsessive-compulsive disorder. Will is not surprised, but she warms whenever she hears of stories from Hannibal’s childhood, that distant faded mirage from whence he was shaped. She wants to know everything there is to know about him, even (especially) about these little faults he carries into the future. It makes him more than an idea, more than a mere flight of her fancy; it makes him human.

“When you are better and if you are amenable, we should have them over for dinner,” Hannibal resumes, referring to the couple outside. “They have returned from their journeys at last. I am certain that they will have the most interesting stories.”

“Sure,” Will agrees. “Put it down on the schedule book. Maybe invite Jack and his wife. Beverly and a doctor friend of yours who is single.”

“Before or after the wedding?”

Will laughs, delighted. “Before, Hannibal; I don’t think we’ll manage to get a wedding ready until at least the summer.”

Hannibal smiles down at her, that soft narrowing of his eyes, the bend of his lips as they lift. “Benjamin, one of the ER attending physicians, is as of yet unattached. He is an adventurous young man; perhaps his temperament will find a match with Beverly.”

“One of your former students?”

“The only former resident of mine that I have agreed to hire into our team so far, though he did leave for a brief fellowship in Switzerland before returning to us as an attending.”

“You’ll hire Ariadne’s friend, though.”

“If Yuriko would like to stay, there will be a place for her, yes. But I will not tether her from her ambitions; she has much potential and deserves the freedom to pursue her own interests.”

Humming once again, Will presses her face into his neck and inhales. Cedarwood, vetiver, pine. She closes her eyes. “This Benjamin a handsome fellow? Beverly has 'exacting standards,' or so she likes to say.”

“Oh, quite handsome. Fit as well, and he can be a bit of a charmer when he’s interested.” Will has to grin; Hannibal likes to pretend that he’s above such things, but he notices the good-looking ones. Aesthetics and all. “If Beverly proves to be interesting to him, then he will make the effort.”

“Oh, she’ll be interesting alright,” Will says with confidence, “she snagged my attention, after all.”

Will allows herself to sink into Hannibal’s hands, raising her arms to clutch at the headboard. Her chest heaves with each breath; she feels hot all over, hotter than the worst of her fevers, Hannibal’s searing lips stoking the fire. His hips push against her, heavy and insistent. She allows her legs to fall open, hooking her ankles behind his back as he fills her up excruciatingly slow. A groan from her throat; she lifts her hips to urge him faster.

Maintaining his pace despite her vocal complaints, Hannibal frames the bones of her hips in his hands, holding them just so. There are still bruises there from last night. They might have gotten carried away; it’s been a little while.

He reaches between her legs to where they are joined, still slowly thrusting as his finger traces up, finding her clit and stroking. Her hand flies to clutch at his arm, fingers digging in hard enough to break skin.

“Ah—Hannibal—too much—”

He bends down to place an open mouth over her chest, across her collarbones, over her breast. “No such thing,” he assures her, “when you are with me. Let go, Will. I have you.”

Will gasps, body rocking upwards from a thrust. Too much. Hannibal wants her to orgasm first, and then again, and then a third time after that, deriving his pleasure from watching her fall apart—it’s not because he likes her vulnerability, but because he relishes in her absolute, unflinching trust. She trusts him and it gives him power; with pleasure and an encompassing provision, he repays that trust.

I have you, he says with his eyes. Will holds his gaze, biting down on her lip as her first orgasm smashes into her body like a breaking wave. Trust me, his eyes implore, and Will tastes blood.


“Does it hurt?” Hannibal asks afterwards, when they lie tangled together under a spill of moonlight. The drapes are open tonight, the skies clear. He presses a kiss upon her mouth, licking at her bruised lip. “You bit down on it with some force.”

“And whose fault was that, hmm?” Will stretches out underneath him, pulling them closer together. It does hurt, with a sweet ache that she wants to keep forever.

Hannibal pulls back, cupping the weight of her head in one hand, thumb pressing down on the bruise. The ache grows stronger, Will breathes harder; Hannibal watches her with glittering eyes. When the split on her lip begins bleeding again, small red droplets gathering over the cut, he leans down for another kiss. The taste of her blood shared between them, Hannibal hums against her mouth with delight.

It’s good, Will thinks languidly, it’s good that I’m not the only one. Hannibal is obsessed. She can see it now. Hannibal obsesses over her, over every detail of her life and every mark on her body, over every thought that passes across her mind. She works her fingers into his hair, holding him in place. If she is falling, she will not fall alone; she will take him down with her, over the edge of the cliff and into the abyss below.

It’s alright. It’s more than good. The darkness is theirs; they fell in love with it a long time ago.

On Saturday morning, as promised, Hannibal leaves early. Will wakes up when the other side of the bed is still sleep-warm but empty, sheets desolate in his absence. She curls into a ball and draws the blankets around her. She can still hear him, dressing in the bathroom perhaps, but it doesn’t make her any less lonely.

“Good morning, my darling,” he greets her when he emerges, dressed and ready for the day even at such an ungodly hour. Gentle fingers card through her hair. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“Mm. Market. I know. S’ok. You were gone and it woke me up.”

They have slept and woken together for more than twelve days now and for Will’s body, it has become a rhythm.

“I will be back before you know it,” Hannibal assures her.

Will turns over to lay on her back, blinking up at him with bleary eyes. “Ridiculous, aren’t we? Barely able to tolerate separation. What are we to do when it’s time to return to real life?”

“We shall be miserable. I, for one, will constantly long for your presence beside me.” Even as he tells her so, he rises from the bed and makes ready to leave. “I must go. The fish wait for no man.”

Laughing, Will waves him away. “Go get ‘em, then. Don’t let the best ones get away.”

“Never,” he smiles, donning his coat. “Your medicines are on the table, please do not forget to take them.”

With a warm goodbye, he is gone at last, leaving Will alone for the first time in almost two weeks. She lays motionless in their bed, listening to the sounds of the house settling around her. It is quiet.

She tries but finds herself unable to return to sleep. After about an hour, she abandons the effort and rises to tug the sheets in order, take her medicines, and indulge in a bath. His tub is large enough for her to spread her limbs and submerge, luxuriating in the humid heat, the oils against her skin, and the candles smelling of rosewood and figs. It takes her a while to step out. She finds one of Hannibal’s cable-knit sweaters and tugs it over her naked body without giving it too much thought; something about the scent of it… the dogs nose at her ankles when she comes downstairs. Food and water for them, then.

After showering them with affection, Will wanders around. In Hannibal’s absence, it is as though the rooms have frozen into still life photographs, the quiet house holding its breath until its master returns to grace the halls once again. But within each panel of this place is a story of Hannibal’s picking. There are many rooms in Hannibal’s house: the cellar, shelves full of preserves, produce, and wines; the library and adjoining study, walls lined with books and artefacts; and the dining and sitting rooms, meant to awe, exhibit, scintillate, and entertain. Will has enjoyed unraveling them one by one, taking her time to savor the subtleties, the clues hidden away in a framed portrait, the secrets ensconced within the pages of a book.

The two adjoining townhouses he bought were remodeled to his obvious specifications, its interior dimensions clearly catering to his priorities. If a guest walks through the foyer in a straight line, the foremost doors open to the dining room. The kitchen is large and well-appointed, filled with light from windows facing the street out front and the garden behind them. Walls have been removed to unite the whole of the second floor for an expansive library and study, one half of which is for working and the other half for leisure. The leisurely half is Will’s favorite space in the house: for the theremin and harpsichord, for the floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with classics, for the roaring fireplace, for the comfortable divan, for the tall windows bringing in light from outside.

There is even a space in the basement, next door to the cellar, that has been refitted as an indoor gym, complete with weights and equipment, overhead beams and parquet floors, yoga mats and balancing balls. Will happily recalls the morning she spent sitting on a yoga mat watching Hannibal work out. Oh, the thoughts that ran through her head; Beverly would have been proud.

She wanders through the dining room, hands hovering over the table. Will thinks of the menu Hannibal has prepared, an elaborate and sensuous presentation of the season. Well, Hannibal doesn’t think it’s elaborate at all, “quite simple, really,” he had said, but it’s elaborate enough for Will. She doubts there is much she can do to help him out, although he has assured her that there will be plenty for her to do. How long until he comes back? Will catches the thought with a sigh.

On his desk in the study is a portrait of her in charcoal, unfinished. The one he drew of her while she slept on the divan, her cheek pillowed on her arm, her face a picture of exhaustion. But somehow, under the spill of light and through the strokes of his thoughtful lines, she still looks divine, an otherworldly quality about the curl of her eyelashes and the tips of her fingers. Is this how Hannibal sees her? If so, then he's further gone than she’d imagined.

We're both far gone, she muses, we're in this too deep.

It's going to destroy her if this falls apart. Her stomach falls as she thinks of the risk, like a dark chasm yawning under her feet. Nevertheless, she clings tightly to this reality she and Hannibal have created together, because it's all she has. She just has to do all she can to make sure they stay together.

"Kaiseki ryori, at its roots a Buddhist convention, traditionally has two aperitifs, eight courses, dessert, and tea," Hannibal explains, fussing over the onion dressing while Will cleans the fish. "They are fairly small servings, however, so what we have is enough." (1)

"Gods, it should be.” The ingredients spread over the kitchen island is dizzying in both number and variety. "You'd think we were cooking for twelve."

Apart from roots, legumes, and vegetables Hannibal already had in his stock, he brought home mussels and scallops, sea urchins and seaweed, caviar and sea cucumbers, salmon, trout, sea bream, oyster, and crab. Certainly Will's surprise is not to be mistaken for dislike—she is more than eager to partake of whatever delicious creation will emerge from these disparate parts—but she has never before seen so much of food for one table. Considering present company, maybe she should get used to it.

"If we were cooking for twelve, darling, I'd require more help. Ah, that is sufficient, I think," Hannibal tells her, so she surrenders the sea bream to his command. He takes the cleaned fish to the cutting board, where with a sharp Japanese blade he sections it into six. This fish will be broiled and served as the fifth or sixth course, Will forgets; Hannibal has the menu in his head.

Despite herself, Will enjoys their day spent preparing in the kitchen, only briefly disturbed by a lunch they share in the dining room, where Hannibal relishes feeding her sushi by hand. She practices a handful of knife techniques (Batonnet, Brunoise, chiffonade), familiarizes with strange vegetables (lily root, physalis, taro stalks), and becomes a beginner saucier. It must be a skill honed within and transferred from the hospital, this ability to keep running track of six different dishes and teach at the same time. Within these walls, Hannibal is in his element: the apron is his mantle, the kitchen his well-ordered kingdom.

At four in the afternoon, they are mostly finished. They have prepared everything that can be done in advance, some dishes keeping warm while others chilling in the fridge. Will has laid out the many little bowls and plates, now sitting in stacks on the island, waiting for their time. The soup will be the last, which Hannibal will set to simmer closer to dinner.

"Beverly's leaving her place now," Will relays, thumbing through her phone which she left on the nightstand in their bedroom. "Alana says she will be here in an hour and a half."

"Time enough to bathe. Will you join me?" Hannibal holds out his hand, beckoning Will into an embrace.

"I don't think I'll ever say no," she smiles, "so you can stop asking and just manhandle me like I know you want to."

Hannibal sniffs, diffident even as he turns on the shower and lifts his sweater off of Will. "That would be rude. You are not a child."

"I took advantage of your bathtub this morning," Will steps under the hot spray of water, "why haven't I done that before?"

"Did you like the candles? I chose them for you."

Of course he did. Rosewood and figs. Hannibal isn't the type to luxuriate in a bath by himself, unless there is a purpose behind it—soaking sore legs and aching muscles after hours in surgery, perhaps.

Will answers with a kiss, standing on tiptoes until Hannibal bends down and accommodates her instead. He hums into her mouth and makes her way down the column of her throat, tipping her face up to the water such that she has to close her eyes. There is time enough for this, Will absently thinks. His hands curve underneath her thighs, lifting her with ease; when her back meets the wall, laughter peals out of her mouth in delight.

"Better make it quick, then," Will grins into his jaw, hooking her ankles behind his back.

Hannibal only smiles. "We have time."

Nevertheless, he takes little of it to satisfy both of them. Will emerges from the water languid and flushed. Before they dress, he sits her down and takes her vital signs for the log. "Those are manipulated values," Will accuses him, "they shouldn't count." Her heart rate is lower than they have been and her blood pressure textbook perfect; sex does wonders for the body.

"One of the earliest lessons I teach my residents is to never regard a single value, but to look at the overall trend," Hannibal cheekily points out. "It is a single value, my dear. The trend is what matters."

Will laughs, "Last night's value was also affected! And so was this morning!"

"And yet you look better than you have all week already, even after only two days of my, ah, ministrations."

"Someone's cocky."

"Last I checked, you seemed to like it." Hannibal teases with a playful glimmer in his eyes, but does follow with a more serious note, "Have I ever failed to satisfy you?"

"Never," Will smiles, and for that she doesn't even have to think.

They dress and prepare side by side; he insists in drying her hair for her and in turn she buttons his shirt and cuffs. Will opts for a turtleneck to hide the bitemarks and small bruises on her shoulders and neck, although she allows Hannibal to choose the color.

"This one," he says, handing her a ribbed sweater in indigo blue, the color so deep it is almost black. "It'll bring out your eyes."

To match, she wears a black skirt that falls right below her knees and the same black heels she wore at the opera. Hannibal, of course, coordinates with her colors, wearing a slate grey suit pinstriped with a blue of the same tone as her sweater but a lighter shade. It also brings out his eyes, which are startlingly golden in this light; she wonders what that eye color would look like on a child of theirs. Her stomach clenches with sudden, choking want.

"I appreciate that you take such good care of this," Hannibal takes her hand and slips the alexandrite ring onto her finger, rubbing his thumb once over its sparkling surface. He places a kiss on it for good measure. "It gives me joy to see you wear it."

"It's two centuries old; the least I can do is respect it," she snorts. Meanwhile, he drapes the rose necklace around her neck, afterwards smoothing his hands down the length of her arms. Complete ownership: Will reads it in his eyes. Mine, his hands tell her, all mine. She revels in it.

When has she last been this spoiled? Has she ever been this cared for? What will Alana think? Beverly will not let her live it down. An eager anxiety knots in her belly until she is worked up and tense once more, the afterglow of Hannibal's attention dimming when they return downstairs. It's not all bad, though; she finds herself excited to see Beverly again and looks forward to Ariadne and Yuriko. Even the prospect of observant, incisive Alana doesn't seem so intimidating anymore. Will can handle the scrutiny; this is home ground, and she is not alone.

Hannibal catches her humming as she helps set the table, plucking at the bone-white twigs and the cherry blossom petals scattered among them. “What song is that?” he asks, lighting the candles in the middle.

Will smiles. “Looking out on the morning rain, I used to feel so uninspired,” she sings, dancing out of Hannibal’s reach and towards the kitchen. “And when I knew I had to face another day, lord, it made me feel so tired. Before the day I met you, life was so unkind, but you’re the key to my peace of mind.”(2)

“Likewise,” Hannibal assures her, steps sure behind her own, “your smile has brought light to my life.”

Will turns to accuse him of being a romantic sap, but her words are stolen by the ring of a bell.

“That would be our guests,” he sighs.

“I’ll get them,” she chuckles, tiptoeing for a quick kiss to his jaw when she passes him by. “Tend to the dishes, chef. Beverly will be hungry.”

Some of the dogs follow her to the door, emerging from the warmth of the living room where they were mostly curled up near the fire. They are overall well-behaved, having been fed before Will and Hannibal went up to shower. Cooper nudges her leg and gives a single bark, perhaps able to smell Beverly through the threshold.

Will can hear them talking through the door: Beverly’s voice is bright, saying something indeterminate to Alana, and then laughter from them both. They’re getting along swimmingly, it seems. Then again, they both possess more social skills in their pinky fingers than Will does in her whole body. She shakes her head and tells herself to get over it; they are her guests, she is the host. This is not the time, Graham.

“Hi,” Will smiles when she opens the door for them, “thanks for coming.” The cold is thankfully bracing when it hits her. Can’t fuck up tonight.

“Willow Graham!” Beverly whistles, stepping inside to hold her at length with both arms. “Or should I say Willow Lecter?”

“Not married yet, Bev. You’d know, you’re invited. Hi, Alana. I hope Bev hasn’t given you too much of a hard time,” Will exchanges a brief hug with her, glad that they are still able to do as much. The dogs nose around their legs, tails wagging away, excited about new scents. Well, Alana and Beverly are both familiar, but anything recently from outside excites canine noses; they’re refreshingly simple to please, Will’s dogs.

“We actually parked next to each other down the street,” Alana smiles, smartly dressed in pinks and mauves underneath her grey coat. “It’s always so hard to find parking in this neighborhood, and with the new development two blocks down, it hasn’t gotten any better.”

“Gentrification!” Beverly sheds her layers too; Will, as a proper host, takes the coats and puts them away, snagging the tasseled end of a scarf before Cooper can put it in his mouth. “Hey, cutie pie! Will, is it just me, or did he get fatter since the last time I saw him?”

“Fatter, definitely. Hannibal feeds them too well. Speaking of the devil, come on in, he has champagne, I think.”

Will leads them into the living room, or reception as Hannibal calls it, where they are swarmed with more dogs. Alana bends down to hug Georgie and coo at Winston; Beverly already has Cooper in her arms. Hannibal enters shortly with a tray of refreshments, though he stops at the door to observe the rabble with much amusement.

“Well, hello there, Dr. Debonair!” Beverly greets, swinging around with a happy dog lolling at her shoulder. Alana laughs behind her. “Thanks for having us over. Will’s told me about your fantastic—”

“—don’t say it—”

“—cooking, Willow Graham, I was going to talk about his cooking, what did you think I was going to say?” Beverly wears that shit-eating grin of hers that Will can only roll her eyes at. “Christ on a stick, girl, keep it PG-13, there are innocent ears around! Poor Cooper’s still a baby, can’t be corrupting him this early or he’ll forever be traumatized!”

“Cooper is a cavalier fellow, he won’t mind,” Hannibal assures them all, handing Alana a flute of champagne while Will gets a glass of something non-alcoholic. Must be the sparkling concoction he was stirring with the yuzu earlier. (Apparently, Keppra, her antiepileptic, does not mix well with alcohol.) “There is more than enough champagne, but I can get you beer, Beverly. I am told you prefer it.”

“The beer,” Alana nods, sipping her own champagne with appreciation but sending a nudge of a look at Beverly. “He brews his own.”

Beverly gapes; Hannibal nods. “The beer, it is. Perhaps one later for you as well, Alana.”

“I do have to drive home,” Alana chuckles, just as the doorbell rings once again. “More guests?”

Will goes to open the door once more, finding her own intern and Hannibal’s resident looking about with great interest. The two of them are dressed to match, grey dresses and black coats, leggings and ankle boots, as if to drive further home that they are twins in all but blood.

“Good evening, Miss Will,” they chime in perfect unison, Ariadne looking quite sober but Yuriko bright-eyed in excitement. “Thank you for having us as guests.”

“Oh, er, good evening as well,” Will blinks, taken aback at their voices in perfect stereo. “Come on in. I hope you didn’t have a hard time finding the place.”

“Oh, no, we live quite close,” they both say, still in stereo even as they begin to shed their coats.

“That,” Beverly notes from the doorway, “is freaky. Cool! But freaky.”

“So we’ve been told,” they say, words in perfect sync but tones in counterpoint; Yuriko sounds like she has recently ingested large amounts of caffeine. “We’re not offended.”

“Sensei, konbanwa!” Yuriko chirps, sighting Hannibal and snapping into a sharp bow. “Ojamashimasu!”

“Ojamashimasu,” Ariadne echoes, also falling into a bow but a softer one. “Gokigenyo, Lecter-hakase.”

“Youkoso, ofutaritomo,” Hannibal responds in perfectly pitched Japanese. (3)

Will assumes that they are formal greetings from guest to host, going by the pleased twinkle in Hannibal’s eyes. They, more than anyone else here, might actually appreciate the menu tonight.

“Alana, Beverly, one of my residents on rotation, Yuriko Reizei,” Hannibal introduces as the common acquaintance. “She is close friends with Miss Black, whom you both know.”

“It’s a small world,” Beverly remarks, as Alana exchanges greetings with Ariadne. “Gotta be careful who I pick up at the club.”

“That’s your concern?” Will drily snorts, handing the girls their champagne. Hannibal briefly disappears to fetch Beverly’s beer; Yuriko giggles into her drink.

“Legitimate concern! What if I pick up Jack’s brother’s wife's cousin or something?”

“Jack doesn’t have a brother,” Will points out.

“Not the point!”

Winston nudges Ariadne’s leg, tail wagging away. “Hello there,” she greets the dog, meeting its brown canine eyes. “What’s your name?”

“That one’s Winston,” Will then points to the others and in succession introduces, “Georgie, Lila, Buster, Mango, Dee, and that one in Beverly’s loving arms is Cooper.”

“Wow,” Yuriko blinks. “Seven!”

“Sending off some of them to new homes,” Will sighs, reaching down to rub Winston’s head. “I’m only keeping two.”

“Oh, I see,” Yuriko nods, “because sensei’s a cat person.”

“Is he?” Ariadne asks, head tilting sideways in that peculiar manner of hers. “He could also pass for a dog person, I think?”

“At first impression, maybe, but once you work with him, you’ll see. He’s a total cat person,” Yuriko insists, “fastidious, independent, territorial. You should see him when one of our baby ducklings bungle a procedure on one of his patients. He gets like a cat dropped in water. Hiss hiss, hackles raised! Judging the level of your intellect with his glowing eyes, inferior peon!”

Alana, Beverly, and Will all erupt in varying shades of laughter; Ariadne only says, “Huh.”

Hannibal then returns, beer in hand and good humor about his shoulders. “I seem to have missed the punch line once again. Do share, what are we laughing about?”

Will grins at him. “Cat people.”

The others erupt in laughter once more.

It’s the meds and the rest, the company, the warmth: Will feels good, and as a result, her vision is unleashed. She lets it go for the first time in a while, allowing the curtains to fall back. Everyone here is safe, she thinks, everyone here I know.

Alana has picked her best color for this night: she feels unsure of her welcome and is reinforcing herself through her impeccable appearance. She looks good and she knows it; from this knowledge, she can derive confidence to redirect where it is sorely needed. Yuriko and Ariadne are radiating curiosity, eyes roving about the shelves on the wall and the art they can see, the dogs, the humans, Will and Hannibal themselves—but they are being polite about it, reining in the urge to ask until a more opportune moment. Beverly, for her part, is just having a good time: she is with friends; there are dogs; and, the booze is good. Beverly is the easiest to please.

They sit for dinner without further ado; after all, nothing lowers barriers like sharing a meal. Hannibal sits at the head of the table, Will to his right and Yuriko to his left. Beside Yuriko sits Ariadne; beside Will sits Beverly; and at last, beside Beverly sits Alana.

"What's on the menu for tonight?" Beverly nudges her, eager for spoilers.

"Japanese," Will smiles, declining to elaborate any further. "Part of the experience is not knowing, or so I am told."

Yuriko, at the mention of Japanese, begins to vibrate. "Masaka—kaiseki?" (4)

"Yes, that's what Hannibal called it," Will nods, "you'll have to forgive me, my Japanese is non-existent."

Yuriko shoots a gleeful grin at her twin-friend, who appears impressed. "Kaiseki ryori is quite difficult to prepare," Ariadne remarks. "It must have taken all day."

"Just about. I helped where I could. But he refused help for the serving," Will sighs, to which Alana responds with a laugh.

"Hannibal has always served his meals himself," she says, "he relishes the theatrics of it, I think."

"You seem to have known him for quite some time, Dr. Bloom," says Ariadne, snooping but in a polite manner.

Alana then explains their prior professional relationship, all the while with Will sipping on her citrusy drink and tamping down her irrational jealousies. What passed between him and Alana is now long gone: Will has seen for herself the truth in Hannibal's eyes. Now if only her heart could listen to reason.

"He did derive a lot from Japanese cuisine for his past culinary creations," Alana is now telling Yuriko, "minimalist aesthetics and such. But I don't think I've had a full Japanese menu at his table, so this should be a treat."

"Does he throw dinner parties?" Beverly asks, "because I'm so in. Dibs on a seat, Mrs. Lecter!"

"He hasn't for a while," Will chuckles, "but I'll let him know."

"Oh, it's been so long since the last time we had kaiseki," Yuriko moans longingly, grabbing Ariadne by the shoulder. "Remember when we were in Kyoto and had dinner at that overpriced kaiseki restaurant that was allegedly the best, but it was like trash next to the spread we had at Koya-san?"

"But the monks had an unfair advantage, Yuri-chan; they began the tradition." (5)

"I will forever remember Gion by that horrible shiromiso they served us at that place. Horrible." Yuriko shudders, shaking her head. "The food has ruined my memory of that whole district!"

"Food has always been a vehicle for memory. You can consume something and remember it forever. The food will be gone, but the memory remains," Hannibal comments, emerging from the kitchen with a tray balanced in his hand. "A true chef serves memory and soul through the food, which then in turn incites memory and soul from the guest; it becomes a conversation. What does this remind me of? What does it provoke in you?"

As a signal that the meal has begun, his words resound like poetry. Will folds her hands in her lap and looks up, expectant, as Hannibal serves her first. "Sakizuke: the first course."

Pink and fresh hamachi wrapped delicately around a pyramid of bright orange salmon roe, seasoned with basil and adorned with a single basil flower. Painfully simple, a splash of spring-time color against a bone-white plate.

There is silence across the table as they are served and bid to savor the taste of the opening notes in a symphony. The hamachi evokes the Pacific upon her tongue, salt and sun, a gift of the ocean.

Yuriko makes a small noise, eyes closed and lips lifted in delight. "Shiokaze. The salty breeze against your face when you stand on a hill overlooking the sea."

"Haeryong," Beverly nods, "where my mother is from. Fairly boring town, lots of farms, little temples, the sea. Great seafood, though! I've only been once."

"She doesn't return home often, your mother?" Hannibal asks.

"What captive, after a taste of freedom, ever wants to return to the cage? Or so she likes to tell me. Her family is incredibly conservative; they wanted her to marry some stuffy dude from some bigshot political clan and set up a family, et cetera, yadda yadda. Well, the day after graduating with her degree, she took a train to Incheon, a plane to San Francisco, and a job at a pharmaceutical firm as a research assistant. Never told them about any of it until she was already sitting in her roomshare off of Haight Street. Never looked back since."

Will laughs, easily able to imagine a woman with Beverly's same indomitable spirit and bright, cheerful smile. "Your mom sounds badass."

"She was when she was single," Beverly snorts, "but then she got married, birthed three kids, and became exactly what she ran away from. Super conservative upbringing, remember? I went to Catholic school. Get it?"

"But why," Ariadne asks, perplexed, "would she subject you to the very environment she loathed when growing up?"

"Because as much as she hated it, she knows it taught her discipline and grit," Hannibal elucidates with the ease of someone who obviously agrees. "She wanted to impart the same gifts to you."

"Oh, it taught me grit, alright," Beverly grumbles. "Nothing like a good sneak out of Catholic school to teach you about the sacrifices you have to make in life." Quietly, Alana laughs.

Hannibal rises from his seat to fetch the second dish, quietly and once again refusing Will's offer to help. Yuriko carries on with the conversation.

"At least you got to go to school," she points out, "because I didn't. We were always traveling too much. It was never worth it to actually enroll anywhere. I was tutored or self-taught most of the time."

"Your parents' work required the travel?" asks Alana.

Yuriko nods, hair bobbing around her petite freckled face. "Maman is a marine biologist and otou-san an overqualified photojournalist with a post-grad ecology degree. They met on a research stint in Patagonia. Maman was pregnant within six months. Très scandaleux! Except they didn’t care; Maman kept diving until she couldn’t and otou-san bullied his project’s direct oversight into letting him stay with her.”

“Your mother is French?” Will asks, curious. Yuriko’s accent does not sound Quebecois or Parisian like Hannibal.

“French-Norwegian! She grew up dividing her time between Bergen and Tangier,” Yuriko adds with a grin at Beverly’s perplexed look. “Grand-père and mormor—grandmother—were in academia too. Mediterranean Islamic history and biochemistry, respectively.”

“Okay, you made me feel like a stranger to planet earth with that one paragraph,” Beverly blinks. “I am uncultured swine.”

Alana, however, is chuckling. “You are definitely Hannibal’s type of student.”

“I defer to your experience, senpai,” Yuriko exaggeratedly bows, as low as she can manage without planting her face on the table. Will assumes that she is acknowledging Alana’s seniority as Hannibal’s prior protégé. How many protégés has he had, Will wonders? (How many of them got as close as Alana?)

Hannibal arrives with the second dish, which he calls hassun. There are eight small portions of food arrayed artfully in lacquered Japanese dishes. This time, the dishes are black, making the bright colors stand out in stark contrast for their eyes to feast upon.

“Alright, what am I eating?” Beverly asks, chopsticks poised in the air.

In order, Hannibal enumerates, “Deep fried ginkgo nuts in physalis, or groundcherries; dried konoko, or ovary of sea cucumbers; lily bulbs, pureed, with caviar; sea urchin with nori seaweed sauce; okra with ume, or plum, sauce; hirozuiki, white taro stalks; baby cucumbers with a traditional moromi-miso dip—it will be salty, with the taste of barley; and finally, shiromiso with renkon. You are meant to have the soup last to prepare your palate for the next dish.”

Will places the sea urchin in her mouth, acknowledging the unusual texture and feeling as though they are diving down deeper into the ocean with each course. Ariadne is making distinct sounds of delight, tonight more bright-eyed than Will has ever seen her, and Yuriko is crooning, “Konoko, renkon, nori ume miso~” with childlike joy.

“Oh my god,” Beverly groans, “where have you been all my life? Can I please be a permanent guest at your table?”

“Certainly,” Hannibal tells her, “and I shall be offended if you do not come to the dinner parties. Of course you are invited to the wedding, isn’t that so, darling?”

“Of course,” Will balances a slippery pickled cucumber on top of a chunk of okra, “who else will straight up tell me if I look fat in the dress?”

“Is there a dress?” Alana asks, leaning in, intrigued.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, at the same time that Will says, “Not yet.”

Will turns to frown at him. “Yes?”

“It is, of course, contingent upon your approval.”

“Do I want to know how much of this you’ve already planned out?”

“Perhaps later, when you are more mentally prepared for it,” Hannibal teasingly denies her. “Eat your lilies, darling.”

After the second course, they are served sashimi, dashi-fermented salmon which Will had helped prepare. Mukozuke, Hannibal calls it, fresh fish before anything that has been cooked, in order for the tongue to enjoy it without distractions.

“My parents used to tell me a story about when they were in Patagonia,” Yuriko tells them, “and they had nothing to eat but salmon and squirrel meat because their supplies had gotten washed away in the river during a storm. Maman still hates salmon to this day; you can’t make her eat it.”

“But salmon aren’t native to Patagonia, are they?” Ariadne frowns; Will has to wonder who walks around holding such random trivia in their heads.

“They aren’t; they were introduced there. That’s part of what Maman and otou-san were studying.”

Their fourth dish is the grilled course, yakimono, traditionally done with grilled fish but Hannibal is serving brined and marinated Wagyu beef instead. There is a hot stone upon which they are meant to sear the thin, red cuts of raw meat.

“But how long were your parents out in the wild without supplies?” Alana asks. “That must have been difficult, even for them, and especially back then.”

“Oh, a week or so, but they weren’t alone. They had local guides with them who knew what to do. And besides, in that environment, they shouldn’t lack for food if they get creative.”

Ariadne tilts her head and wonders, “If one had to resort to consuming human flesh in such a situation, would that be too creative?”

A beat of silence pulses across the table, but only because Yuriko’s mouth was full; as soon as she swallows, she says, “In an extreme situation, where there are no other options, and human flesh was available? I don’t see why not.”

Alana makes a face. Beverly says, “Remind me not to get stranded on the Pacific with you lot.”

“I mean, I don’t know about killing your fellow castaway for meat,” Yuriko continues, speculative. “I did swear an oath.”

“I didn’t,” Ariadne points out, “I can butcher for us, Yuri-chan.” Alana puts down her chopsticks and coughs.

“Child,” Beverly says now, “you are so special.”

“It would be a foolish waste of resources, in such a scenario. It could mean survival,” Will points out. “There are documented cases. The line we draw to separate ourselves from what we refuse to do in the context of civilization can bend and easily break under threat of death in the wild. Remove us from civilization and we’re barely more than wild animals. After all, everything that constitutes what we know as civilization are constructs we created to shackle ourselves.”

Bobbing her head in agreement, Yuriko asks, “What do you think, sensei? Would you consume human flesh if the situation were dire enough?”

For his part, Hannibal beatifically smiles at them and points out, “I do know how to get the best cuts.”

“Ha,” Will drily snorts, while the rest of the table erupts in halfway outraged laughter. “You think you’re so funny.”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” and Will can see that he must be enjoying himself; he’s almost grinning. “I consider my humor a personal point of strength.”

“Alright, then, chef,” Will challenges playfully, “what would be your best cuts for steak de humain?” Tongue literally in cheek, she picks up her last strip of seared Wagyu to dip it in salt, pepper, and mirin-infused soy sauce. The flesh all but melts in her mouth.

“Since you seem sincerely interested, I shall indulge your curiosity,” Hannibal is chuckling now. “The flank will yield a nicely marbled portion of meat because of the balance of fat and muscle typical of most humans in this area. If the source is an athlete, the thighs will produce lean, healthy cuts. But perhaps the most tender pieces will come from the psoas major, which, while multi-functional, are rather deep and often underutilized in most people unless they happen to exercise with plenty of weights.”

“So literally tenderloins!” Yuriko chirps. “Yum!”

“I,” Beverly declares, “have learned that all of you are special. Very, incredibly special. In the most special of ways.”

Sensing a natural segue in the conversation, Hannibal rises to collect their dishes and bring the next course out. When he disappears into the kitchen, Beverly tells Will, “I see now why you’re good together. The two of you are weird.”

“Unique,” Will corrects, “I like to think of us as unique.”

“Weird.”

The fifth dish, aemono, is a cold dish to contrast with the last one. The oyster is elegantly presented before Will, now adorned with the finicky onion-based dressing Hannibal was laboring over earlier in the day. Anywhere else in a restaurant, such a dish would cost a miniature fortune, especially during this season, but Will can dare say that Hannibal’s rendition is finer than any oyster dish they can find in the best restaurants in town. She has to wonder if Hannibal is friends with other local chefs or if he spurns their company in his own form of quiet elitism.

“Voluntary survivalist cannibalism aside,” Hannibal says, “I heard from Will that congratulations are in order, Beverly.”

Beverly’s face splits open with a wide grin. “Thanks! It was totally unexpected.”

“Nah,” Will dismisses, just as Alana says, “It was entirely expected. Jack doesn’t pick people on baseless whims.”

They exchange a glance and Will continues, “We might have our professional disagreements, Jack and I, but I will say that he’s a talented profiler in his own right. Perhaps not in the way that is very useful on the field like I am, but he knows people. He recognizes talent. And besides,” she nudges Beverly with an elbow, “your skillset is far more diverse than mine, what are you being shy for?”

“Oh, do you mean the technical skills?” Beverly flaps a hand, “You pick those up practically by osmosis where I went to college.”

“And that is where, precisely?” Hannibal inquires.

“UC Berkeley. Tech town. Tons of awesome people, but unfortunately not far enough away from my overbearing parents, so I had to go elsewhere for grad school.”

“Oh, I like Berkeley a lot,” Alana lights up. “California has such nice weather, and I’ve enjoyed the people there the few times I’ve gone for conferences. What did you major in? We probably have mutual acquaintances.”

“Probably, it’s a small world, and it gets even smaller the more specialized you become. I did Integrative Biology,” Beverly grins, “to trick my parents into thinking I’m taking it for pre-med but actually I was gunning for Forensics all along.”

“They would not have approved of Forensics?” Ariadne asks, plate having been cleaned very thoroughly of the onion dressing. Ariadne must like oysters. Expensive taste.

“They don’t mind it so much anymore, but the thought of their precious eldest daughter in law enforcement would have been too un-traditional back then. And anyway, they really wanted me to become a doctor. You know, Asian parent.”

“Yep,” Yuriko nods authoritatively, “doctor, or lawyer, or go home. Or, well, don’t ever go home.”

“That’s not why you became a doctor, though,” Will says.

Yuriko laughs. “Oh, no! Maman knew I was going into the biosciences when I skinned and dissected a cat at age eleven. I picked out the web of vasculature in its lungs and learned how to dye it blue and red from one of Maman’s chemist friends. Otou-san took nice pictures and helped me mount it. It’s still on display in our house in Bergen! –oh, the cat was already deceased, of course; I’d never hurt a furry friend!”

Hannibal nods in approval. “A worthy project to train your skills in anatomy. I shall keep it in mind for our future children.”

“So long as you leave my dogs alone,” Will side-eyes him in an unsubtle warning.

“I would never touch the dogs, darling, they are part of the family. No, we will find a suitable subject.” He says this while reaching for their dishes, rising for yet another cycle. “Please excuse the wait, I will take a moment to plate the next dish. Now would be a good time for a break if you wish to use the ladies’ room. Do enjoy the sake; it is seasonal and quite delicious, if I do say so myself.”

Once again, Will offers to help; once again, Hannibal refuses. Stymied, she sags against her seat with a sigh, watching Beverly pour Alana some sake as the twins hold a non-verbal debate with only eye-contact and elbow nudges.

She considers Yuriko, Hannibal’s bright protégé, whose unorthodox upbringing shines through her words and ideas. The two of them, Yuriko and Ariadne, share a moral ambiguity that would be disturbing if Will herself didn’t share a similar kind. Perhaps because neither of them grew up in the context of common social structures, perhaps because of what they have studied over time—this is the type of person Hannibal prefers. Morally ambiguous, flexible, and therefore capable of a more encompassing, unbiased view of the world.

That’s why Alana won’t do, Will realizes all of a sudden, not with her upright morals and her conventional upbringing. Stable foundations but it boxes her into preconceived social constructs. Too limited. Too common.

And if Hannibal is anything, he is a purveyor of the uncommon.

He returns shortly with the sixth dish, while Beverly and Alana are deep in conversation about California. Will looks up at him with a soft smile.

We are both unique, she thinks, briefly catching his hand when he sits down once again, and that’s alright. We can be unique together.

Thereafter are four more courses they enjoy before dessert: nimono, a simmered course of crab meat with winter melons and dressed in ginger sauce; mushimono, sea bream broiled with magnolia leaves; su-zakana, trout cooked with kombu in a vinegar and ponzu base; and gohan, the rice course, with an assortment of tsukemono, or pickled vegetables, to break the monotony of the rice. Will doesn’t think she has enough space for dessert, but Hannibal has worked hard for each course, and besides which, it must be good to have Yuriko so excited.

“Mizumono is the best part of kaiseki,” she nods vigorously, “and it doesn’t matter how much you ate because there’s always a separate stomach for dessert.” Ariadne nods to this declaration. “It’s still the tail end of winter so it should be something sweet and heavy, like bean paste.”

She is correct, of course; Hannibal brings out warabimochi paired with shirokoshi-an, a sweet white bean paste that is lighter than the azuki red bean Will has had with Japanese desserts before. To aid their digestion, Hannibal has brewed high-quality gyokuro for them to enjoy.

They take the tea into the study upstairs, where twin gasps of delight erupt from Ariadne and Yuriko upon sight of the floor-to-ceiling shelves, the harpsichord, the fireplace and the art. Yuriko zooms toward a particular collection of books on the wall, their spines an old red-tinted leather, and drags Ariadne with her. They explode into rapid-fire enthusiastic French, too nuanced with their shared jargon and too strangely accented for Will to completely understand.

“Uh-oh, the nerds have found a shiny,” Beverly chuckles, now once again carrying a comatose Cooper in her arms. She wanders around the shelves while Alana seats herself near the fire. Beverly eyes a few of the volumes on the sciences section and clicks her tongue. “Very nice collection, doc. Acquisitions or inheritances?”

“A bit of both,” Hannibal says, “although a large section of the Lecter library was destroyed during the war and subsequent Soviet occupation.”

“Eastern Europe?”

“Lithuania. It’s a shame; I am told that several of my ancestors were also avid purveyors of fine art and literature. I have most of the most precious remaining volumes here with me, and a few in Paris, but what has been lost is surely greater.”

“Sensei,” Yuriko interrupts with a giddy sort of disbelief, “is that an original?” She points at La scapigliata, hanging half-dressed in shadow on the wall. She reads the answer on Hannibal’s face and lets out a high-pitched squeak, whirling to clutch at Ariadne. “I told you it was the original!”

Alana looks around, noting aloud that only a few items have changed, although she does comment on the new mahogany work desk across from Hannibal’s. On it sits Will’s laptop, papers, and sundry documents from work. “An actual workdesk instead of sitting on the couch with the dogs?”

“It’s nice,” Will smiles, glancing over. “I think I’ll actually get shit done. Although I might not sign up to teach next semester, we’ll see.”

“Oh? Other plans?”

Will reads hesitance and jealousy in Alana’s face: she is thinking of a wedding, a honeymoon, a child…

“Jack hired me back, gave me an intern, and instated Beverly to give me a partner,” Will says in stark counterpoint. “Freak bout of encephalitis aside, the groundwork is being laid out for a team, and he obviously wants me to lead it. You know as well as I do how Jack gets when he latches on to an idea.”

“You think it’s his idea?” Beverly frowns. “I mean, that’s the direction the whole bureau is going with profiling; they don’t like you guys working independently anymore. Burnout risk is too high. The thing with Gideon two years ago, and then you taking a break until recently…”

Will shrugs. “Of course he’s also competing with Strauss, who from what I hear has a solid team in the works, but that’s a secondary motive for Jack. He has quarry to catch first.”

“The Ripper,” Alana sighs. “He won’t let go of it.”

“Nope!” Beverly tosses the last of her wine back. “Not since Miriam Lass.”

Alana tilts her head in curiosity. “Who’s Miriam Lass?”

“A baby agent Jack was growing a few years ago, I met her a few times when she came to ask questions. I was new, back then. She was also new. An intern.” Beverly clicks her tongue. “She went missing and they still haven’t found her.”

“Missing?” Alana is taken aback. “What was she doing?”

“Investigating the Ripper, of course. Jack has a fixation on the guy. Although back then, I get the impression that Jack was only chasing the Ripper because he needed rep under his belt and the Ripper’s pretty much the biggest fish you could catch. And then Miriam goes missing—”

“—so it becomes personal,” Alana sighs with a frown of understanding. “I’ve always wondered why. Jack’s not the type to randomly choose what he’s gonna chase.”

“A very deliberate man, Jack Crawford,” Hannibal muses, arm coming to rest around Will’s shoulder. They are pressed together, side to side, their limbs aligned. “What a frightening prospect, to be hunted with such persistent focus. This Ripper must be quite accomplished indeed.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who he is, you read TattleCrime,” Will snorts.

“No, he doesn’t,” Beverly gasps in dismay.

“Yes, he does.”

“I only began reading it because I was curious about you,” Hannibal chuckles. “If you wish me to stop, just say the word.”

Will rolls her eyes, exchanging a look of disappointment with Beverly. “Far be it for me to rob you of your lurid sensationalist entertainment, Dr. Lecter. We must all have a supply of the requisite degenerate brain rot in our lives, and where better to acquire it than straight from the vile source?”

The room vibrates with laughter, Alana coughing on the mouthful of wine she was about to swallow.

“One has to wonder how Miss Lounds acquires her material. She always seems to be ahead of the curve,” Ariadne remarks, opting to sit on the floor to have Georgie spread on her lap.

Yuriko sprawls next to her, having deconstructed a wooden puzzle that sat on one of the shelves; she is now attempting to solve it. “Maybe she’s like Rita Skeeter! A secret Animagus! Check your clothes for a bug!”

Beverly snorts. “If she were an Animagus, she’d be a snake. Or a cockroach. The gross kind that flies.”

“A fox,” Will hums, looking into the fire, where the orange edges of the flame remind her of how Freddie’s hair had gleamed under the hospital’s fluorescent lights the last time they saw each other many months ago. “Cunning and wild. Fast, too. Light on her feet. Hard to catch. Always underfoot. She’s impressive in her own right. Highly intelligent and not the least bit sociopathic with how she uses human relationships around her. If pushed, she won’t stop at anything to get what she wants. She might even commit murder for it, although she’s too smart to let it get that far in the first place. Always an escape route available. Always a scapegoat too.”

Alana exhales loudly, releasing a long breath as her shoulders sag forward. “Will, how long have you been feeling ill?”

Blinking at the sudden turn of conversation, Will turns. “Sorry?”

“I’ve forgotten how… incisive you are, when you’re on your game. Maybe because we haven’t really spent much time recently,” and there is an echo of regret there, a little touch of hurt. “But hearing you now—you’ve been sick for far longer than you’ve let on, haven’t you? Because now, the difference is obvious. You haven’t been yourself in a while.”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that, because… does she want to admit how ill she’s been? How much she’s been ignoring it? All the things it says about how she regards herself… all the connotations it would bring to the table. She doesn’t want to sour Beverly’s perception of her. Or Hannibal’s. Although at this point, she doubts there is anything she could say or do, short of outright murder, that would chase him away. And yet…

“In some ways, the illness was useful to me,” Will confesses quietly. “The… forts I’ve built in my head, the boundaries, they… were more, ah, porous, I suppose you could say. It was paradoxically easier to do what I do. Sink into their minds, subsume their lives, think like they think. Harder to pull myself out afterwards, of course, although Hannibal helped a lot, but it was useful. I learned a few things. The boundaries between sanity and insanity really is a social construct, you know.” Hannibal’s hand tightens on her shoulder, grounding.

They are quiet for a while, until Alana looks to Hannibal and asks, “Have the serologies for her CSF workup returned yet? I’m curious what virus they’ve isolated.”

“Just today, in fact,” Hannibal nods, to which Will curiously looks up. He smiles down at her, that minute shift of expression that is just for her. “Powassan virus encephalitis, quite rare and therefore of much interest to some of my colleagues in Infectious Disease. They might want to talk to you, darling.” (6)

“I don’t even know what it is.”

“A tick-borne flavivirus closely related to the deer tick virus, transmitted to humans from six different species of ticks,” Ariadne recites, as though reading from an encyclopedia. “The tick Ix. scapularis, however, is the likeliest vector, given that it is a generalist feeder and readily bites humans. This is the same tick that transmits Lyme disease across most of North America. One must wonder where you were exposed to such a thing.”

Beverly’s face makes a moue of cautious disgust. “The woods in the back of your house?”

“Minnesota,” Will frowns.

“Oh.”

“Why Minnesota?” Ariadne asks, head once again tilting in that birdlike manner of hers.

“We had a case there,” Beverly grimaces, “awful thing. Had us tramping around the forest looking for the unsub’s lair. Those woods were deer-hunting grounds. Great, now I’m itchy.”

“Oh, you’re quite safe now, if you’ve come this far without exhibiting symptoms,” Ariadne reassures her.

“Still. I got all up in that cabin and the unsub butchered deer in there too. Ugh. I need a shower.”

“Am I allowed to ask what that case was about?” Yuriko looks up from her puzzle, which is almost complete.

Will’s lips twist in a mirthless smile, recalling their earlier conversation. “Funny that you should ask. That killer was a cannibal. Not the survivalist cannibalism, mind, but the kind that justifies it as honoring his kill. Like native tribes do when they use every part of an animal’s carcass. Except it’s not the same thing, because that’s not honor.”

“No?” Yuriko tilts her head, a perfect mirror to Ariadne.

“Consumption is not about honor, nor has it ever been. At its root, consumption is one organism triumphing over another, a movement of nature, a note of evolution. At its best, consumption can a proof of superiority and therefore a celebration of victory, but at its most base, well,” Will sighs, “it’s the strong squashing the weak. It’s a statement of debasement. They weren’t even worthy of being treated with the honor befitting a human being in death; they were just prey to overcome and then consume, at the behest of the predator. He was just calling it honor to make himself feel better. We’re all capable of such grand illusions if we put our minds to it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Men are, in reality, conduits of food, tombs of animals, harbingers of death, and coverings that consume, deriving life by the death of others,” Hannibal hums, pressing an affectionate kiss into her hair, “but then if we were all to realize this truth, well, it would be a very uncomfortable world indeed.”

Will turns further into Hannibal’s warmth, although Beverly raises a (refilled) glass at Hannibal’s words. “You’re terribly cavalier about all this, doc. Gotta say, you’ve got tough skin to be able to keep up with us.”

“I’ve seen and done things in my own time, and my life has not always been full of ease as I make it seem. Eastern Europe under Soviet occupation was not a pleasant place to grow up,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Will has calculated the timeline for herself since learning of Hannibal’s past: he would have been a child during the heat of the underground revolts against Lithuania’s second Soviet occupation. The resistance was strong then, in the ‘70s and ‘80s, but the international support was not. Human rights violations would have been rampant. The Soviets would not have taken kindly to an ancient lineage like that of Hannibal’s family; after all, their line has been extant since the old kingdoms of the Baltic. They were representatives of a history incosistent with the communist manifesto, a history people could use as propaganda. A history that needed to be suppressed.

Tilting her head back on his shoulder, Will looks into Hannibal’s face, wondering at how fortunate she is that this man has made it to her. “The things we are capable of,” she hums, “the things we will do for belief.”

“It makes for a beautiful armor, but a clumsy weapon.”

Will smiles now, eyes dark. “You know what makes for a deadly weapon? Garrett Jacob Hobbs used it.”

“Hate?” Ariadne guesses quietly.

Beverly shrugs. “Dunno, I’m not the profiler.”

“The mirror of hate,” Hannibal answers correctly, “which is love.”

“Bingo,” Will snaps her fingers.

Alana chuckles. “You have an aptitude for this, Hannibal. Perhaps the next time you consider a career change.” There is an edge to her words, but it is mild and more playful, perhaps because of the few drinks she’s had to loosen her up.

“Yeah, doc, you’ve already tagged along to one case, wasn’t that fun?” Beverly grins. “Different, I know, but fun!”

He chuckles along, fingers drumming on Will’s upper arm and shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to step on Will’s toes.”

Will snorts. “Oh, don’t worry about my toes, they’re all numb from all the stomping Jack’s done the past few months.”

“You really ought to tell him that,” Alana sighs. “Otherwise he won’t back off.”

“Jack’s Jack; he will never back off. Not until we catch the Ripper, and maybe not even then. Men like him, they always need something to chase, and I’m his best hound.”

“Alright, fine, I lose, I just—” Alana sighs and holds her hands up, “I just don’t want you to break, Will, alright, so please just take care of yourself. I don’t like seeing my friends hurting like you were.”

And for a moment, perhaps because she has had enough alcohol for it, or perhaps because being in Hannibal’s study overwhelms her with memories of what once was, Alana is shrouded in a veil of complete surrender, a veil she does not wear well. Defeat does not suit a woman of strength such as her.

Will sits up out of Hannibal’s embrace and reaches out, driven by an urge to comfort. Placing a tentative hand on Alana’s shoulder, Will tries to convey her gratitude. “You know I appreciate everything you do for me, right?”

It takes a her a moment, but Alana swallows with an audible click and looks up with a sad smile. “Well, if you want to appreciate me better, then you need to learn to appreciate yourself. Let Hannibal teach you. There’s only one of you in the world, Will, and no matter what Jack says, these killers are not worth breaking yourself over. You’re worth more than that. Don’t let them break you.”

Will nods. “I won’t.”

“And when you forget,” Beverly pipes cheerfully, “the rest of us will be here to remind you of who you are. So you don’t lose yourself in them anymore, like you did with poor ol’ Georgia. After all, what else are friends for?”

In that moment, the surge of affection rushes through Will with such strength that it takes all of her strength not to cry. So she just smiles.

“Thanks, you guys. Really.”

All this time, she suffered in silence and loneliness, but in truth, she has never been alone.

They enjoy a few days of silence and the solace of each other’s company after their successful dinner, well-deserved, Will thinks, because the dinner exhausted her more than she cares to admit. Hannibal is unnecessarily apologetic when she sleeps the whole of the following day, coddling her with her favorite soups and the privilege of having Winston sleep in the bedroom with them.

Despite her exhaustion, she doesn’t spike a fever, something they both take as a positive sign of her recovery. It reassures Hannibal that she can be left alone for a day, so that he may attend a symposium wherein he is billed to speak.

“Of course you’re going,” Will frowns, fingers stilling where they are combing through his hair. “I’ll be fine here. You do what you have to do.” She has already cost him enough time off work.

“It is no big concern of mine, missing the symposium,” Hannibal starts to say, but she shushes him with a finger, before his excuses get out of hand.

“You’re going,” Will insists with finality.

He sighs. “Very well.”

Satie’s bucolic notes tinkle through the air for a moment, until Hannibal, who is laying with his head on Will’s lap, sighs once again.

“I dislike leaving you here alone for so long.”

“Nine hours, Hannibal.”

“A whole day.”

“Nine hours. Or less, knowing you. I’ll be just fine.”

Hannibal seizes her hand to press kisses into her fingers. “I will attempt to be home as early as I can.”

“Don’t walk away from the required socialization on my account,” Will snorts. “They start talking when you start disappearing.”

Nevertheless, on the day of the symposium, Hannibal puts off his departure long enough to surely miss the first speaker and returns home far earlier than Will thought he would. Early enough to prepare dinner, he says, but Will knows it’s because the separation chafes. She had been similarly restless the entire day, attempting to lose herself in a book in vain. She amused herself with the piano for a few hours, and then played with the dogs, and then sat on the kitchen island eating the lunch Hannibal prepared for her with her bare fingers, delighting at how horrified he would be if he knew. She explored the guest bedrooms upstairs, imagining how one of them would look as a nursery—the one next to the master, so that they are never too far away. Pale blue walls, maybe, and a white crib with baby yellow blankets. Maybe she’ll even learn how to knit.

When he comes home, she is there at the door, at once in his arms before he even removes his coat. Hannibal pulls her in, hand closing firm around the back of her neck, mouths pressed together in relief. They are almost like teenagers in their eagerness, Will thinks, as she breathes in and strokes her tongue against his. She smooths her palms down the broad spread of his shoulders: mine.

“How was your day?” she asks when they pause long enough to speak, seeking out his eyes which glow golden in the waning afternoon light.

“Duller without you. Have you eaten?”

“Not since lunch. I had a coffee, though.” Will helps him out of the coat and then tucks her arm into the crook of his elbow, tugging him towards the kitchen. “I would like pasta tonight.” She can ask these things now, she is not alone, she has someone to ask, and it feels good, so good, to have the certainty of his affection. Will can scarcely imagine a time without it.

Their time together continues uninterrupted for the next two days. Will is almost convinced that they are the only two people left in the world, until Thursday afternoon, when the doorbell rings and shatters their peace.

“Hello, Jack,” Will actually has a smile for the man, although Hannibal does not. Nevertheless, Hannibal has invited him into the living room downstairs, where Will comes down to meet him. Hannibal has gone to fetch them tea.

“Will. You look well.” He sounds stiff; there is a case.

“I’m very well, thank you for visiting. Sorry I’ve been out for so long, but it sounds like you guys closed the last case just fine without me, so.”

“Yes, well, Georgia Madchen surrendered herself and closed it for us.”

“I heard.”

Silence stretches between them for a moment, Jack unable to look her in the eyes. It is a strange reversal, Jack avoiding her gaze. He blames himself for her illness. It isn’t entirely his fault, although his pushing didn’t help. No doubt Alana has had words with him about it.

Jack clears his throat. “How much longer do you think you’ll be out of the field?”

Best hound, Will huffs with amusement. “Where’s the case?”

Jack sighs, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He holds his response as Hannibal returns with tea. They pour and stir in a brief, weighted silence.

Hannibal peers into Will’s face, sipping his tea, and then tilts his head. “There is a case.”

Will smiles, chagrined. “Jack hasn’t said anything yet. I think he doesn’t want to step on your toes.” They’ve already discussed how her own toes are a non-issue.

Jack throws both of his hands up. “I don’t want to push too hard if you’re still not ready. But I have to ask, at least. You’re the best we’ve got.”

“It is just two weeks since her seizure, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal frowns in reproach. “Will is much better, yes, but she is still in recovery.”

“I understand, I do.”

“How bad?” Will asks.

Jack inhales, squaring his shoulders. “Bad. Difficult case, and a bureaucratic nightmare. I need it solved fast, otherwise I would ask Strauss for Rossi.”

“Whatever happened to Gideon?”

“Tied up in Nevada on another case, that one’s pretty bad too,” he sighs. “Don’t think I didn’t consider him.”

Will lowers her teacup and looks up into Hannibal’s face. “Can’t go unless the doctor releases me, though.”

Visibly, Jack deflates, shoulders sagging in dismay. Hannibal, however, has not looked away from Will, seemingly reading something from the lines of her face. “Agent Crawford, will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Uh, of course. Of course.”

Hannibal offers her a hand and leads her upstairs to the study, where he crowds her against the back of the couch and frames her face with his hands. He strokes her cheekbones, peers into her eyes, and searchingly asks, “Do you think you can handle it, returning to the field?”

“I think so,” Will nods, “although I’ve never been the best judge of my own capacity, I think we can both agree.”

“You were addled by your disease, it only stands to reason that your judgment was affected,” Hannibal shakes his head, pondering. “I do not want you to relapse, but I do not want to hinder your passion either. You find purpose and fulfillment in what you do; it would be remiss of me to keep you from it.”

Something twinges in Will’s chest, a chord of emotion that almost chokes her throat. Tiptoeing, she presses their lips together briefly in gratitude. “I think I’ll be fine, but I’ll defer to your judgment. Whatever you think is best, doctor.”

Hannibal peers at her for a moment more, before they separate with twin sighs. Hand in hand, they return downstairs, where Jack is waiting.

“I must apologize, Agent Crawford,” Hannibal says; Jack sags once again, looking down into his empty cup of tea, “but would it be possible for me to accompany Will on the case?”

Will turns; Jack blinks.

“I understand that it is a federal investigation, and that there would be... stipulations,” Hannibal inclines his head, “but if I were present to monitor Will’s wellbeing and ensure that she doesn’t tire herself...”

Jack straightens to attention. “I can make it happen. You’ll need to sign some documents, but the bureau has hired medical consultants on a case by case basis before, it’s not like there’s no precedent. If you just so happen to be there to watch Will’s condition, well, no one needs to know that, do they?”

But before things can go any further, Will grips and tugs at Hannibal’s hand, turning to level him with a concerned frown. “Hannibal, no. You’ve already taken two weeks’ leave for me. This is too much.”

“Will, what did I tell you? There is no such thing when you are with me.” When she remains staunchly unimpressed, he gently adds, “The department owes me quite a lot of holiday time. I did not take any vacations last year, or the year before that, and we are entitled to at least a month every year, not including sick time. It is of no concern to take another week or two if it means I can accompany you.”

“If you prefer, Will can be strictly advisory only,” Jack even adds, attempting to sweeten the deal.

Will pins him down with a look. “No. If you want me on it, it’s mine.”

Jack dips his head, surrendering the point but unable to obscure his satisfaction. He knows he’s already won.

“Beverly and Alana giving you ideas,” Will clicks her tongue and shakes her head, but in truth, the thought of returning to the field is a little easier to swallow if she knows that Hannibal will be there. He will be able to see if Will starts fraying at the edges again, he’ll catch it before it gets actively bad.

All I need is one case, Will knows, one case to bolster my confidence.

If she can do this, if she can test her mettle against a case and succeed, then she will know that she’s ready to return and take on the reins of a team full-time.

“Do I have your full authority?” Will asks.

Jack grins. “Of course, SSA Graham.”

“Fine. Where’s the case?”

NOTES AND REFERENCES:

(1) Kaiseki ryori 会席料理 used to refer to the frugal meals served in the style of austere Japanese tea ceremonies by the Zen Buddhist monks in the 16th century. However, modern kaiseki derives influences from a number of traditional Japanese haute cuisines, notably yusoku ryori (imperial court cuisine) from 9th century Heian-kyo, shojin ryori (lit. devotion cuisine, Buddhist cuisine served in temples) from 12th century Kamakura period, honzen ryori (cuisine from samurai households) from 14th century Muromachi period, and cha kaiseki (tea ceremony cuisine) from 15th century Higashiyama period.

There are different formats and interpretations of modern kaiseki, depending on where you are eating and what training the chef has. (And also how much money you’re willing to shell.) At its core, kaiseki is considered an art form that balances taste, texture, presentation, and temperature of food. Fresh, high-quality ingredients are key in order to emphasize natural flavors. Seasonal, local ingredients are often included as well. Formal kaiseki can include up to 14 courses and take up to 4 hours to complete. There is traditional order of dishes but courses can be added, removed, or modified at the discretion of the chef. With his menu, Hannibal has changed some things around, so it’s not as traditional as formal kaiseki, but I can assure you it’s just as expensive.

(2) This song is Aretha Franklin’s You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman. I originally had City of Stars from La La Land here, but changed it up in light of recent events. RIP, queen. Thank you for your soul.

(3) Ojamashimasu: lit. [I] am about to intrude, means “please excuse my intrusion” and routinely said before entering someone else’s house or private space. Gokigenyo: “how do you do” or “farewell,” may be used interchangeably, very formal and old fashioned way of greeting an honored person. Youkoso, ofutaritomo: lit. welcome to both of you, youkoso is a routine welcome you will often get when you are ushered into a restaurant or, in this instance, someone’s house.

(4) Masaka—kaiseki? “Could it be—kaiseki?”

(5) I would say that the most traditional kaiseki I had in Japan was the dinner we had the night we stayed at a Buddhist temple with the monks at Koya-san. Koya-san (Mt. Koya) is a temple settlement in Wakayama just south of Osaka, first settled by the monk Kukai in 819 AD where he eventually founded Shingon (Esoteric) Buddhism (derived from Vajrayana Buddhism). The monks there allow travelers to stay at the temple for a few days in order to experience how life is in a Buddhist monastery. They cook shojin ryori everyday, and while it’s not fancy food, it is very clean and healthy eating, painstakingly prepared with attention to taste and freshness.

On that note, the fanciest, most extravagant, and arguably most delicious meal I had in Japan was a 14-course kaiseki dinner at a very exclusive, expensive restaurant in Kyoto called Nakamura. (It wasn’t even that expensive, though, considering the ingredients... spent about $430 per person, including sake and tea.) The restaurant boasts three Michelin stars and the current chef is the sixth generation in the family; they have been in business since 1827, almost 200 years, and used to cater to emperors. Every piece was edible art and the service was phenomenal. They only have four private rooms, each with a view of a Japanese garden, so reservations are a must. I died for the dessert: homemade fig ice cream topped with nashi pears, grapes, yellow peaches, and glazed with white wine jelly. Also, the (expensive af) Hamasaka snow crab was fucking delicious. That meal was life-changing. Here’s a preview.

(6) Powassan virus encephalitis, as Ariadne told you, is transmitted through tick bites and yes, it can occur as a co-infection with Lyme disease. It’s not that common but it is curable and more doable than anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis in this case. Cases have happened in Minnesota. There is no standardized treatment; about 50% of cases result in permanent neurological damage and about 15% result in death.