Dr. Hannibal Lecter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rhymeswithcannibal) wrote2017-05-24 08:30 am
rhymeswithcannibal) wrote2017-05-24 08:30 am
Until we get a real season 4...
[Continuing from thread here.]
The weather forecast for Bethany Beach, Maryland said there was a 30% chance of thunderstorms for the next two days, but currently all the weather seemed to be bringing was cloud cover just dense enough to turn the entire sky steel gray.
Hannibal had a spring in his step as he slid out of the passenger side of the rundown pickup truck they'd bought for cash and never transferred out of the original owner's name. They could leave this behind without worrying that it would ever ever track back to them. No breadcrumbs for Uncle Jack at this marina to have him looking at boats that had been docked for a minimum of three years and then recently left.
"It's the farthest slip from the parking lot," he said as he opened the tailgate and reached in to drag a heavy, wheeled cooler out and settle it on the gravel at his feet.
Five months after they'd died at the cliff house, Hannibal had put some effort into changing his appearance. His skin was tanned, his hair was longer and shaggier, his beard was full, but could never be full enough to hide his distinctive cheekbones, and he was wearing jeans, work boots, a heavy fisherman's sweater, and a bandage on his left hand that he ignored as he worked.
"The keys are in a combination lockbox hidden on deck. I engaged a service to come in quarterly to ensure that the boat was aired out and maintained to a functional standard. We shouldn't have to spend too much time getting our house in order before we can leave."
The weather forecast for Bethany Beach, Maryland said there was a 30% chance of thunderstorms for the next two days, but currently all the weather seemed to be bringing was cloud cover just dense enough to turn the entire sky steel gray.
Hannibal had a spring in his step as he slid out of the passenger side of the rundown pickup truck they'd bought for cash and never transferred out of the original owner's name. They could leave this behind without worrying that it would ever ever track back to them. No breadcrumbs for Uncle Jack at this marina to have him looking at boats that had been docked for a minimum of three years and then recently left.
"It's the farthest slip from the parking lot," he said as he opened the tailgate and reached in to drag a heavy, wheeled cooler out and settle it on the gravel at his feet.
Five months after they'd died at the cliff house, Hannibal had put some effort into changing his appearance. His skin was tanned, his hair was longer and shaggier, his beard was full, but could never be full enough to hide his distinctive cheekbones, and he was wearing jeans, work boots, a heavy fisherman's sweater, and a bandage on his left hand that he ignored as he worked.
"The keys are in a combination lockbox hidden on deck. I engaged a service to come in quarterly to ensure that the boat was aired out and maintained to a functional standard. We shouldn't have to spend too much time getting our house in order before we can leave."
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He didn't raise an eyebrow at engaged a service, knowing the vessel was maintained would mean less concern about rot or mechanical failure. He did wonder if Hannibal had the time or inclination to see the hull valves tampered with, shuttered in case Will had ideas of scuttling the ship. The idea did have symmetry; reborn in water, returning to the grave in water. Though, not now. Not yet.
Will rolled his shoulder, "I'll check the fuel levels. Your service should have maintained a nearly full tank." Especially with a vessel stored for years. If the tank was half full or less, they would have to pump it and refuel or risk that the ethanol had separated or the humid air had infiltrated and increased the water content in the tank. Better not to take a chance.
He fell in step beside Hannibal, his own boots carefully rinsed of dried mud before coming to the Marina, heavy flannel rolled up just below his elbows to expose forearms. Will had cut his hair shorter, just before the ends curled, and maintained full but shorter facial hair. The scar remained partially visible.
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The hull valves were untampered. The original plan would have had Abigail in the third bedroom, and no matter how much Will wanted to kill Hannibal, he trusted that Will would never have hurt her. Now all that remained was that third bedroom and the clothes that were tucked away in its drawers.
If Will wanted to kill him, there were some excellent knives to be found in the galley.
He pulled a pack with his clothes out of the truck bed and slung it over his shoulder before pulling out grocery bags to balance on the cooler's lid when he got moving, pulling it along on rugged wheels.
"While you do that I'll see our supplies put away and ensure that the navigational equipment is still in working order. You should show yourself around, get to know your new home."
He had purposefully not described the Home Away to Will, but he imagined that he was expecting something more modest than the 62' yacht that waited for them in the last slip from the parking lot. As they walked along the bobbing dock, he scanned its length, looking for any sign that he should drop everything, grab Will, and run.
He was overtly smug by the time they reached their slip and their new home.
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There began a sinking sensation in Will's chest as the gravel path took them past the warehouse of dry-docked vessels and onto the damp boards of the slip. A frown pinched his brow as they passed the more modest crafts bobbing gently in the water. He had expected some some extravagant feature, a nod to Hannibal's flair for showmanship, custom paint or custom patterned marine vinyl upholstering the seats sunk into the nose of the ship.
Slip by slip they came closer to the end of the wooden decking and the sinking sensation in Will's chest crescendoed to swallow the lingering hope that there was one more slip obscured by the yacht. There was nothing starboard of the yacht but the third side of the slip.
The hollow thud of his boots on the wood planking stopped and he nearly dropped the bag slung over his shoulder. Will's mouth pressed into an unhappy line and he could feel a knot of tension forming just between his shoulder blades. He had the fleeting and petty thought, as he stared at the yacht, of kicking Hannibal's cooler into the water and watching the securely packed contents float away on the current.
But that would be evidence.
Instead, he tore his gaze away from the yacht to roll his eyes heavenward, then settle his gaze on Hannibal's chin. "I see why you never described the vessel, doctor." A firm and unhappy note to his tone in using Hannibal's title, though leaving off the surname for their being in a slightly public area.
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He idled the engine far enough out to avoid running aground, assisted by the depth detection systems built into the satellite navigation. "This is as far in as we'll get."
Will did not wait for Hannibal's acknowledgement to drop anchor. He moved to the bow to mind the mechanical winch, measuring out the first third of line and waited patiently for it to settle. The deck was warm under the soles of his bare feet, though not uncomfortably so. After an intense and hopefully well muffled shower, Will hadn't bothered to put on anything more than the swim trunks found in his drawers, and a solid colored t-shirt.
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He wore a light pink linen shirt open to show his chest and stomach, a pair of loose plaid cotton shorts in a pattern of complementary pink and blue plaid, and canvas deck shoes. He wore his swim briefs under the shorts. In short, Hannibal was dressed to be seen, even if the only person likely to see him was Will.
"Do you need any assistance with the anchor?" If not, he would return to finishing with packing the cooler. A full-sized cooler might seem like overkill, but not only was lunch up to his somewhat decadent standards, but he still planned to return with whatever mollusks and edible seaweed he might forage.
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His attention now was firmly on the anchor, ensuring that they were solidly held to the bottom of the ocean floor, that the boat would not drift nor turn with any change in tide. "I do not," Will answered, dropping the anchor the second third of the way down, waiting for it to settle.
Will had initially arched a brow at the size of the cooler, then remembered Hannibal's statement about foraging. He was slightly curious what Hannibal had intended to bring back on board. After another long moment, he dropped the anchor the rest of the way, allowed a moment for it to fully turn and catch in the sea floor. Will straightened and picked up his beach towel from the heap he had let it fall into, tossed it over one shoulder and padded to the back deck. "We're secure."
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His sunburn bloomed and faded and eventually matured into a solid tan. He stayed clean-shaven, but allowed his hair to stay a bit longer and shaggier than had been his wont in his old life. Not once did he wear a three-piece suit.
He was happy, but he was happy in part because he knew that day by day they drew closer to a city where he could walk streets where it was unlikely he would be known of or recognized. Where they could walk together with little fear of recognition.
And this was that day.
Cuba's dearth of facilities that would meet their needs had made Havana Harbor their best option for docking, albeit less so if they wanted a speedy getaway by sea. He deferred to Will's experience in piloting them into the slip that the port authorities had directed them to and took the role of casting lines and putting out the bumpers once they were safely docked.
In turn, he handled the authorities when they boarded the yacht to check ship's logs, passports, and go about the relatively painless job of clearing their official admission to Cuba. He answered in fluent Spanish with a noticeable Russian accent, smiled, charmed, and had references for rental brokers and the name of several excellent restaurants from them before he showed the men off the boat and back onto the dock.
Coming back inside, he beamed at Will. "Shall we go see which we find first? A home, a suitable restaurant, or a stray dog?"
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He joined Hannibal in those few special meals when it suited him and refrained when it did not. His choice in doing so was less to the taste and more interest in Hannibal's reactions when he did or did not. There would, in the future, be overtones of manipulation to that choice. Will had no doubts Hannibal would know exactly what Will was doing, but the interest lay in how Hannibal responded, whether the intent behind the act mattered as much as the act itself.
And he took very opportunity to engage Hannibal in Spanish lessons. With a good understanding of linguistic principles, he picked up on grammar, conjugation, and structure, though still lacked vocabulary and experience. He let Hannibal, upon docking, field that. Only stood aside, sleeves rolled over his forearms and handled the manual labor.
He'd cut his own hair short, kept no facial hair aside from stubble. Between those changes and the facial scar, he imagined he looked quite different than in his previous life.
Will raised a brow at Hannibal beaming, "A restaurant that allows animals in case we stumble across a stray dog on the way?" He was mostly teasing on the second half.
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Just as he was pleased to encourage Will's linguistic growth. Switching between languages came naturally to Hannibal, but once they set foot on Cuban soil, the majority of his public conversation with Will would be in Spanish. They could relax into English on the yacht or in their home, once they could agree on one.
Of course he was beaming. They were no longer escaping; they had escaped. Yes, Hannibal was still a wanted man in many countries and Interpol would be very interested if they got a whiff of him, but there were so many possibilities available to them now.
And this time, this escape, he wasn't in mourning.
He set about closing windows in preparation for leaving their interim home for the first time in weeks. "I believe that I have read that dogs and cats are often quite welcome in restaurants in Havana. Perhaps you will have a canine dinner companion without a sudden adoption."
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And Hannibal would have tweaked the kitchen of whatever place they bought anyway.
The grounds were quiet and private, if a little over grown, a sturdy privacy fence surrounding the whole property with a solid, if slightly weathered, gate in front. The pool was modest and solid, though a strange color of green with the pumps in disrepair. With a little work, Will gathered he could tweak them and switch out a chlorine system for salt water. Better for people and canines.
As the realtor opened the gate, Will arched a brow and gestured Hannibal in first, "It's quiet. Private."
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Will would be happier with constructive ways to stay occupied, but he was also trying to constrain Hannibal's activities to those same constructive occupations. Will would expect him to see the manipulation and would likely expect him to chafe.
Hannibal, silently studying the house, fixed his expression into the kind of careful neutrality he expected Will to read as disapproval and unwillingness. He walked through the gate, step by measured step, looking everywhere, giving back nothing for Will's statement until he'd reached the front door.
"Save for children daring one another to trespass at the derelict house down the street?"
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Will recognized that expression of careful neutrality and as Hannibal passed him at the gate, Will raised one brow, silently challenging Hannibal's wordless declarations of unwillingness. He closed the gate behind them, leaving the lock off and followed, looking over the solid but aged porch with slightly crumbling columns. WIll moved to one column, lay a hand against the exterior, pushing lightly, assessing whether the wear was superficial or went down to the support beam. Satisfied, he stepped back and wiped his hand on his jeans.
"It wouldn't stay derelict," Will replied, giving no outward reflection of the faint amusement rising in his chest at Hannibal's expense. It would pass and probably too quickly when they were eventually negotiating in private.
The realtor was saying something about the house being charming and having character as she stepped into the foyer, clearing her throat on a cough at the dust and carefully stepping over some of the fallen crown molding. Will tipped his head, "Floors aren't in bad shape."
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No one died.
Yet.
By certain stretches of the imagination, the house was habitable - there was a functional downstairs bathroom, running water, electricity (in some rooms where it wouldn't start a fire) and even a small refrigerator in the kitchen for cold drinks and meals that Hannibal brought from the yacht. By Hannibal's standards, they had weeks if not months before he'd consider leaving the yacht's creature comforts for the home he and Will were almost literally building together.
After a day spent mounting ceiling tiles, his neck, back, and shoulders ached. With no bathtub on the yacht to soak the aches away, the next best option was heading off the worst of the aches with some stretches. Ever practical, this put Hannibal poolside, changed into his bathing suit for proper mobility that jeans and a t-shirt wouldn't afford, lying on his stomach while he gripped the top of his feet and pulled them up toward his shoulders.
Dignified? As far as Hannibal was concerned, yes.
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The first project Will had taken on at the house was the pool. Plaster and tile had been in surprisingly good shape under a fine layer of slime and thick green water. He had converted the system from chlorine to salt water and in the first few days of the system running, tamed the overgrown vegetation around the pool area.
Renovation was cathartic in a way, the physical element forcing a certain amount of the physical tension that lived in Will's muscles away and the sheer amount of work giving him something to do, something to focus on aside from every possible murder scenario Hannibal could be involved in.
The end of the day found Will scooping leaves and various small lizards from the pool with a net on a telescoping handle, trying very hard not to stare at Hannibal contorting himself in nothing but a very small piece of spandex. That was fine. This was fine. His fingers only tightened fractionally on the handle of the pole as he cleared his throat and looked decidedly elsewhere than the display of flexibility and skin.
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Keep the knife in your pocket, Will.
Will's choice of salt water was one Hannibal approved. Not having the constant scent of chlorine on the grounds was only a plus for him.
The best thing about the renovation was ensuring that each detail met his approval. He might have to argue or bargain with Will for decor, but the quality of the work was above reproach when they were hands on with every aspect of the renovations.
On second thought, the best thing about the renovation might be the glances Hannibal caught of Will when he shifted between poses, kneeling up before leaning forward to rest his forehead on the towel he was using in lieu of a mat and stretching his arms out on the ground over his head. He rested in child's pose for a full minute before pushing up, hands on the ground, feet planted, back straight and ass up in the air, feeling the stretch in his shoulders and hamstrings.
All perfectly legitimate yoga poses, all actually useful for helping fend off soreness later, all as perfectly stylized as possible for Will's sake even when sweat slid down his forehead, traced his nose, and dripped off its tip onto the towel.
He held the pose, lifted his head and looked at Will. "You should join me sometime. I can suggest adjustments to accommodate your shoulder injuries."
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Today was mostly about heavy lifting. Furniture was coming in, as with the bed for the guest room, but more importantly, so were a few items earmarked for the basement, including a locking freezer. The stainless steel table had been easy enough to get downstairs, but without the special stair climbing hand truck that he'd used in Baltimore, it was good to have Will on the other end of the freezer as they maneuvered it down the stairs.
"It's an interesting experience to have someone to share the heavy lifting," he said with only a hint of strain in his voice as he carefully put a foot back to plant it on the next step down. "I've always had to do these things alone before."
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With Hannibal in the position of trust, Will let him set the pace down the stairs, doing his best to keep his end of the freezer steady and not to outstep Hannibal's movement backwards. "Is that what makes it interesting, or is it having someone to share the heavy lifting knowing exactly what the heavy lifting is for?"
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Safe on the floor, he shifted his grasp to compensate for the changing angle as Will continued down the stairs and kept backing up. "And I couldn't just be killing deliverymen indiscriminately. I purchased all of the specialized equipment out of state and brought it home myself."
He'd certainly learned a lot about plumbing and wiring from the experience. It had served him well during the renovations here in Havana.
"Which is to say that it's interesting to have someone to share all aspects of my life with rather than carefully curating every element for public consumption." It sometimes chafed, but not as much as a glass cage or a straitjacket.
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And there had been a pleasantly unspoken rule about the impracticality of murder on the boat. Now there was an entire basement and locking freezer dedicated to Hannibal's pastime and Will had condoned it.
Issues for another time. He had finished all the preparations for the boat being more or less uninhabited to the extent it had been recently, ensuring the fuel levels were high enough to avoid condensation and water in the tanks, checking that the windows were sealed, locking it down. He had also restocked the non-perishables food items and necessities that they had used while at sea and while docked.
Just in case a hasty departure was necessary.
He was heading home just as the cooler temperature of early evening began to settle over the city. It was a pleasing walk back to the house as the sun slowly set and the damp smell of coming rain lingered in the air.
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Will would always have more to rein Hannibal in on than just decor. Try as he might, watch though he would, Hannibal could and did still steal away time that he didn't account for when they were together. Today he'd stolen away most of the day and the result hung down in the basement.
Well, most of the result. Part of the result was currently occupying his attention as he moved from the stove top to the oven to the counter to braise, roast, chop, and season for a meal meant to celebrate not just their new home, but an anniversary.
One year ago Will Graham, the Chesapeake Ripper, and the Great Red Dragon had died. Will and Hannibal had seen each other, and in that seeing, had let all else go. Old lives, old names, old grudges.
He had a celebratory meal to prepare, and the guest of honor was someone who would have Will joining him at the table.
Hannibal couldn't wait.
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But Will had not been with him to wrest Hannibal away from all of those enthusiastic choices, they had time apart for various tasks and indulgences. This is where Will extended his trust. He would begin the 'but verify' portion of that particular phrase later on, when he and Hannibal had settled in and began a new routine in the face of the decline in renovation work. Catching Hannibal coloring outside the lines wasn't just a matter of brandishing the cold retaliation of his disapproval in an effort to keep Hannibal from doing so again (Will knew that would never happen, Hannibal would just adapt), Will could also admit to enjoying the thrill of thwarting Hannibal, outwitting him.
He made his way through the repaired and repainted gates, lingering for a moment to look over the reclaimed front yard, the foliage tamed from the wild snarl of weeds and shrubs that had overgrown the property on their first inspection. It was a strangely satisfying sensation, opening the door to the home they had made together, knowing Hannibal would be there.
"Boat's restocked and locked up. I was thinking we should have a second set of keys made and stashed somewhere. In case." In case of a hasty departure. He locked the door behind him and headed towards the sound of Hannibal moving about the kitchen.
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The moon was full and large, reflecting light on the rippling, black surface of the ocean and the smaller black void of the pool. He pressed his palms to the window sill and leaned in, resting his forehead against the cool glass. Hannibal was cutting easily through the water on an evening swim. Will watched the muscles of his shoulders and back bunch and flex with every stroke, feeling very little guilt at spying on what was obviously a private moment, given the state of Hannibal's undress.
People who share houses shouldn't swim naked in the pool if they didn't want the possibility of being seen. Not that Hannibal didn't want to be seen, he was a peacock and relished the opportunity to spread his fan. That was a terrible metaphor and Will felt badly for even thinking it. He turned his attention to the flashes of skin given up to him by the water.
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Tonight he was restless. The late Guillermo Morales had been properly butchered and all remains disposed of. The renovations were done on the house, the earliest he could continue his efforts to drill into Havana society was several days away with a cocktail party for donors hosted at a museum. He had energy to burn.
So laps in the pool. His body could operate smoothly without too much of his attention. He'd had time to rebuild the muscle that confinement had cost him, his endurance was back to a level he considered acceptable, and the physical exhaustion after a hard swim should buy him respite from his restlessness.
He was aware that Will, if he woke, could see him swimming. Let him if he chose. Hannibal didn't swim nude during the day or even when Will was likely to be awake. There was always a level of plausible deniability to the exhibitions.
He got out of the pool when his shoulders and arms were almost too heavy to lift and his breath was burning in his lungs, padding over to retrieve a towel from the back of one of the poolside lounge chairs and start drying his hair while he dripped water on the stone pavers.
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This after the difficulty of obtaining an appropriately sized tissue expander and all of the medical supplies and tools that Hannibal judged would be necessary for the removal.
And after guiding Will through inserting the tissue expander, and the months of healing and slow expansion, during which Hannibal had been forced to curtail and adapt his exercise regimen.
Hannibal was a patient man and he had an exciting meal to prepare later, but he was damn well ready for this to be over with.
He lay on the table down in the basement under the merciless lights that had been installed for other, even bloodier purposes, and centered himself, allowing none of his impatience for this to be over or his concern for Will's ability to show.
"Just as we've practiced. I'll be here to talk you through any issues."
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The months of the tissue expansion were bizarre enough for Will to watch, he couldn't imagine how Hannibal felt to have that silicone balloon under his skin, slowly enlarging, slowly stretching the skin over it.
He set up his sterile field as practiced, waist high and on a small rolling cart to the side of the table. Opening the surgical drape, he lay it over Hannibal's back, centering the open square in the middle over the scar and skin expansion sight. Pressing the edges of that open square, Will ensured they adhered to Hannibal's skin.
The large barreled syringe came next, Will pushed the plunger all the way down, assuring no air in the barrel. At the end of the syringe was not a needle, but a piece that locked into the valve of the ballon, opening it to drain the saline out. With careful hands, he connected the syringe to the balloon valve and paused to let Hannibal know, "I'm going to drain the expander now."
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