rhymeswithcannibal | Until we get a real season 4...

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."

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Will gave it a long minute of solid considerations before answer, "Halfway between piqued and incensed." No blood had been drawn, no wounds jabbed, though there were no weapons or readily available wounds to avail of with his fingers. And he had not been near enough to the sort of angry which would see him attempting to sink teeth and nails into Hannibal in a physical confrontations.

Knocking Hannibal down from incensed would be the goal of asking that, yes.

Wil eventually joined Hannibal back on the sand, needing to give his own walk no such consideration while picking through the rocks of the tide pool. It was a very humanizing thing, however, seeing Hannibal in those less than dignified positions, on hands and knees to scoop up crab, the affected heron walk.

In Hannibal's experience, Will was more dangerous when his anger was coldly contained than when it made it to the surface as it had earlier. Will in a cold fury was more likely to hurt Hannibal in ways that mattered, as evidenced by the scars he bore on his wrists and his heart.

"Midway between piqued and incensed would seem to be our sweet spot for productive, if heated, discussion," he observed while he carefully extricated the sea urchins from the bag's mesh. "Now we have it on the map and can endeavor to navigate no farther in our inevitable future heated discussions."

Endeavor being the operative word.

Will would have more opportunities to see Hannibal in humanizing situations. That illusion of untouchability had been easy to maintain when he controlled how and when people saw him, but living together 24/7 would dispel that illusion entirely, likely starting with the faint bloom of pink that was beginning to rise across Hannibal's nose, shoulders, and arms.

Will's cold calculation was less likely to involve an accidentally fatal or debilitating wound. His cold calculation would be painful, yes, but thoughtful enough to ensure that Hannibal lasted in order to feel the ache of it.

"A therapeutic level of anger to aide in the verbal reopening of old wounds?" He raised one eyebrow. "We have a map with no instructions on how to avoid going past our anger sweet spot." And there were some instances, some things that made Hannibal who he was, that could stoke Will's rage to something incandescent. He is quite sure that it is the same for Hannibal, in turn, even with all of his self control.

And Will being Will thought nothing of reaching out to press a finger into the bloom of pink on Hannibal's arm where it lay bare from the unbuttoned shirt. He pressed until the skin blanched, then lifted his finger and watched the color rush back in,

"Our map has gone beyond the 'here there be dragons' stage. We have traveled the fraught paths, drawn the roads in scars." He settled the urchins into the bucket with such care that one might think he intended to keep them as pets rather than have them for dinner later.

He straightened and watched Will indulging - what? Curiosity? Incredibly mild sadism? A perverse sense of humor?

All of the above, Hannibal guessed, looking from his arm to Will's face with an affectionate softness to his humor. "Let us endeavor to make new mistakes rather than revisit sights we've seen before."

Will imagined the tender care the urchins received was to prevent stress and thus ensure their flesh was tastier. He is well aware of Hannibal's preference for meat that isn't shot through with fear and stress.

All of the above.

He met that affectionate softness with a wry humor, "I look forward to making new mistakes with you." But in truth, those things in the past felt very close, just under the surface of his skin, as solid and inflexible as the scar tissue on his abdomen, winding paths through muscle, nerve and vein. But the memory of those old hurts was temporally distant, he looked back on that night in Hannibal's kitchen, at the night of Hannibal's surrender, at the whole of his trek through Italy as something very distant from this, from now. Three years away from Hannibal had created a gulf.

It was neither good nor bad, simply, strange.

Urchins also died easily. If the urchin died, they wouldn't be eating it, and Hannibal wouldn't relish the disappointment. Keeping the urchins from stress both improved their flavor and the likelihood that they'd survive to be enjoyed.

Will had used his three years to attempt to create a new life, putting that between him and Hannibal. Hannibal had spent his three years in stasis, living in memory; he hadn't had enough new experiences to create a gulf.

"You had initially thought that my suggestion for an outing today was a mistake." Living in memory kept the past close, in all its depth of emotion, both love and hurt. Touch that hurt with indication that it was coming again, and Hannibal would leave Will with new scars and offer only surgical care as apology. "May we have many such mistakes in the days to come."

Hannibal did seem quite adept at keeping things alive when necessary.

Will was not sorry in the slightest for Hannibal's incarceration. He considered it profoundly justified, if for nothing else than to even out Will's own time at the BSHCI courtesy of Hannibal. Though he did not intend to outright mention this to Hannibal, he was sure the man knew or could at least guess.

"I changed my mind," He said blandly. Though perhaps he might once more think it had been a bad idea if his own sunburn developed, Will was prickly under that particular sort of pain.

They were complicated men, apart, and more so together. Will had no intention of betraying Hannibal again so thoroughly, there were, hewover, some lines that were not yet fully formed, that he was not sure where his choice would fall on either side of them. They would see. And if Hannibal struck out at him and Will considered it unjustified, Hannibal would be performing surgical care on himself.

He could keep things alive when it benefited him in some way.

Hannibal was well aware of Will's feelings on his incarceration. He wasn't going to hold it against him; he'd made the choice to turn himself in and accepted the consequences. That they were on a beach together proved that his choice had been worth the gamble.

He covered the top of the bucket with the collection bag to shade the contents and rose, slipping a wet hand under his shirt to test the oncoming sting of sunburn on his shoulders. He couldn't say he'd enjoy the burn, but he would wholeheartedly appreciate it for what it said about his life. There were no sunburns in BSHCI.

"I have found myself grateful for your recent changes of mind." He wouldn't even poke Will's sunburn if it developed. A friendly hand on Will's shoulder might be another matter.

"Are you ready to return to the yacht or do you have other designs?"

And Hannibal would be less the color pale, cave dwelling things that exist without sunlight and more of a color that resembled something approximating human.

"I'm ready to return to the yacht," And there was a phrase that Will would never have thought himself capable of uttering. There wasn't even the hint of sarcasm, just something slightly annoyed at the edges of his tone.

And Hannibal thought Will had a shade of sadism in him, handling Will's potential future sunburn would not be gladly met. On the other hand, he was more used to being outdoors and natural sunlight.

That yacht was their home. If Will was nettled about its extravagance, he had no one to blame but himself. Hannibal certainly wasn't going to be bothered about it. After all, Will seemed to need something to be irked about if he was going to live with Hannibal.

"I could have asked if you were ready to return home," he said as he picked up the bucket and started back down the beach toward their cooler. "Do you think you'll be able to think of it as home?"

They both knew that Hannibal had more than a shade of sadism. More like the entire spectrum.

The yacht was a temporary method of escape. Will hardly thought of it as home. Everything about it was far to Hannibal for Will to be entirely at ease. It felt like being put away in his proper place in Hannibal's domain, each of them moving through their own spheres that Hannibal had made for them, but missing a third part whose emptiness echoed in the closed door of an unoccupied room.

And there were no dogs.

"No." Will said bluntly, no hesitations about his answer. "It was your design for another life." The 'a life you chose to end' was politely implied. "You carved out places for people who don't exist or don't fit there anymore. The emptiness echoes like a crypt, a tomb for what might have been." And they were not the bereaved come to pay their respects.

One corner of Will's mouth jerked up, "I consider home more a person than a place, at the moment." And he decided did not make eye contact with that statement.

The yacht was home for now, but there was a palpable void in that empty room, as though its emptiness was magnified in the absence of the heartbeat that had been meant to bring it to life.

In theory Hannibal understood that a home that he and Will shared would have to have some elements of both of them to create an inclusive environment. In practice... he'd try. His plans to accommodate Will's dog habit had to show that he was willing to bend a little.

He absorbed Will's answer with a slight tilt of his head and a level stare. The subtext was written in bold print and fortunately Hannibal wasn't going to offer, No you as a retort. They had both contributed to the loss that empty room signified.

What he might have said about plans, people, and circumstances changing died on the vine with Will's last sentence. He faltered and was glad that Will wasn't going for eye contact in that moment before he caught himself and could find a response that was lighter than the weight of emotion those words laid on him. "Then you'll never be homeless."

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Until we get a real season 4...

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