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 cut the engine and reached up to flip down the visor, it's thin felt had come unglued years long ago, held in place with thumb tacks, worn away at the edges to expose crumbling yellow foam. He slid the keys between visor and the roof of the truck cab, unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out onto the gravel. Will left the drivers side window rolled halfway down and the door unlocked.

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.

When the Home Away had become a backup escape plan instead of the place he'd prepared for Will and Abigail, having a service in to ensure it was always ready for that someday escape was just good planning. Someday the account from which the slip rental and maintenance services were paid would have run out, but that no longer mattered.

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.

No. Will would never have hurt her. But seeing that third bedroom, it would hurt him. Renew the ache of her loss. He would not turn that pain on Hannibal. He would feel the sensation of the loss within him flow, then ebb. Like the tide.

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.

Hannibal would certainly be put out by the waste of decent meat. Will's penchant for eschewing his name when he was displeased with him was becoming endearing. He imagined telling Will that and had to restrain a smile for the scowl that imaginary Will wore.

No, that was a thought best kept to himself.

Instead he tempered his smugness down to faint good humor and cocked his head at Will. "It was meant to be a pleasant surprise." He tugged at the cooler and pulled it down the slip's walkway to the aft of the yacht where he could jump down onto the bathing platform and pull the stairs into place to allow Will to more easily join him.

"Perhaps you could hold your ire until we are at sea."

Hannibal's good humor drew the flat line of Will's mouth down into a scowl. "Oh, it was a surprise."

A surprise that Hannibal knew Will would not find pleasant. No need to imagine a scowling Will when Hannibal had one in the flesh to behold.

He ran one hand down the side of his face, beard rough under his fingertips as he drew them across the coarse hair at his jawline. Will took in a lungful of sea air and moved down the walkway, stopping next to the cooler and waiting for Hannibal to put the stairs in place.

His scowl twisted into a disdainful smile, brow furrowing. "I could. And it would set a precedent for putting off consequences until you could think of another distraction from them."

Still endearing, but that could also be because Hannibal was currently buoyed by freedom, recent murder, and the prospect of shaving this beard and trimming his hair. There was very little that was going to bring him down just then.

"I was thinking rather of the way that sound carries over water," he said, casting an eye down the dock once he'd gotten the stairs locked in place. "I give you my word that I will try no distractions once we're somewhere less public."

He indicated the cooler with a nod of his head. "Please pass that down."

He wasn't going to apologize and Will had to know that. He was frankly quite curious to see how Will would express his displeasure.

Will spread his hands and inclined his head to concede the point, then bent pick up the cooler, lifting with his knees. When he straightened, the unhappy scowl was back.

He did not heft the cooler at Hannibal, but offered it over the small chasm of water between the slip and the side of the boat.

Will did not expect an apology, he knew Hannibal wasn't sorry in the slightest. And while he appreciated that Hannibal (pride or no) would not offer a false placation, he had to drive the point home that withholding information under the pretense of surprise would not be tolerated.

Hannibal's attention flicked from the cooler to Will's expression and back again. It would probably float, at least briefly, but it would be inconvenient if Will risked it just because he was piqued by a surprise he should have anticipated.

He climbed the step and reached out to take the cooler from Will, preferring to act as though Will would be reasonable.

Will was often unreasonable.

"Thank you."

That was one of the reasons for Will's ire. Though, he would not admit it.

Ruining Hannibal's selection of meat would be too harsh a reprimand for this particular transgression. He also preferred to keep that option open for use in future reprimand.

Hannibal's standards of reason were notably skewed.

"You're welcome," He said, tempering his tone to something with a less hostile note, the scowl easing.

Ruining Hannibal's selection of meat would be wasteful. Could he say a tragic waste of a human life with a straight face? Of course, but they'd both know how little he meant it.

He took the cooler and swung it down onto the bathing platform, setting its wheels to keep it from rolling off into the water, doing Will's job of annoying Hannibal for him. Once it was settled, he turned back, ready for the relay of the rest of their cargo from the dock.

Once everything was transferred, he could go up onto the main deck to retrieve the keys and start opening up the doors and windows to air out the main and lower decks.

"You can reach the engine room through there," he said, indicating a door directly off of the swimming platform which led into cabin space meant for a crew they'd never hire. "Since you mentioned wanting to check our fuel supply."

Perhaps Will would find his stateroom in the fore of the lower deck a more pleasant surprise, with drawers holding clothes that were a blend of Will's style (such as that was) and Hannibal's preference for quality. Nary a plaid suit to be found.

If Hannibal attempted that tactic, Will would twist his face into an approximation of sympathy, cup his hand on the back of Hannibal's neck and reply with, life that you chose to waste by choosing those actions.

After the grocery bags and miscellany were on board, Will boarded. He watched Hannibal ascend to the main deck, then turned and stepped to the edge of the bathing platform. He looked out over the water and found a peace in it. When he heard Hannibal's approach again, he half turned, "The engine room." He repeated, though with slight amusement and less ire. "I'll be in the engine room, then."

Will said nothing further, but shook his head and headed through the indicated door. He passed the small crew area and opened the door into a well sized space. The manual for operations was thick and still pristine next to the maintenance log on the wall. Will would go through it later. For now, he checked the gauges, glad that whomever had kept up the boat had enough sense to keep it full while wet docked.

He spent a bit of time looking over the engine itself, familiarizing himself with it and the locations of the kits for emergency repair. Some time later, Will emerged back onto the bathing deck and entered the ship proper. He opened doors, familiarizing himself with the nooks and sliding panels, storage areas set cleverly into the ship.

Will found the room meant for him and ran a finger lightly over the groove in one of the mirrored panels on the wall. He slid it back, exposing inset drawers. Will ran fingertips over the drawer faces, settling his fingers on one protruding knob and opened it. A faint smile, half frustration, half fondness, the expression used for Hannibal more than for any other, at the contents. He closed the drawer softly and slid the mirror back into place. He exited the room , moving back into the hall.

One of the doors would lead to the place Hannibal had made for Abigail.

He exhaled and the breath came out with a slight shake. Rather than continuing to open doors, he headed up deck to find Hannibal.

While Will familiarized himself with the layout and found his room, Hannibal turned on the fridge and freezer and found the stereo, setting light harpsichord music as a quiet background to the task of putting away the supplies that they had brought on board - not all of which were evidence.

Abigail's room lay below him, haunted by lost futures. This home had been prepared with three in mind, and if he allowed himself, he could see the ghosts of plans he'd made - of bumping around in the galley, cooking while Abigail acted as his sous, of the three of them swimming in brilliant blue tropical waters, and basking on the flybridge. He'd had other plans for cities they would visit and sights they would see, and that empty room would be home to those ghosts until familiarity banished them to corners of his mind he just wouldn't visit.

None of which slowed him down as he bustled around, putting things to rights, arranging things just so for the necessity of laying his mark on everything around him.

By the time Will came up from the lower deck, Hannibal was in the cockpit, checking weather reports. He smiled down at Will as he ascended the stairs and cut his eyes toward the screens. "Intermittent light rain expected, but nothing that would prevent our departure. Were you satisfied with the state of the engines?"

"The service you arranged to maintain it was competent," Will replied. He stepped into the cockpit beside Hannibal and looked over the nautical gauges, familiarizing himself with their location. The satnav and autonav systems were more complex, higher end versions of the systems he was familiar with. Will would not have a problem using them. Or appreciating some of the features.

He didn't turn to Hannibal, Will kept his gaze on the slip and the dry dock storage behind it. He tipped his head slightly to the side, in Hannibal's direction, and lifted a hand to rest lightly over Hannibal's bandaged hand.

"It is a nice boat," Will admitted. He stroked his fingertips up over Hannibal's fingers, across his knuckles, over the bandage. Then pressed down sharply over the gouge the bandages covered, maintained pressure as he turned to look at Hannibal, then. "Next time, no surprises in things that concern our continued freedom."

He released his pressure on Hannibal's wound. "Shall we undock?"

"I'm pleased to hear it." The service had been well-rated and bonded and he would have definitely held it against them if the boat hadn't been ocean-ready when they arrived.

Will might not have looked at him, but Hannibal was studying Will. After all the time they had spent together in the past five months, he still found Will unpredictable at times. In this moment, the surprise wasn't that Will chose to inflict pain for his pique; the surprise was the way the world narrowed down into the gentle touch of Will's fingers against his before Will tried to make his point.

He didn't look down at his hand, didn't give any sign that the pressure on the wounds Bedelia had made bothered him at all. "I'm glad you like it; I had wanted you to be comfortable."

And no, he wasn't going to play the chastened subject. He indicated the helm to Will. "I'll cast off and rely on you to pilot us out."

A displeasure the service would have survived as any outcalls that lead to missing employees would have an investigation following at the heels. An investigation that would have lead to a boat docked for three years and taken to sea for the first time.

Better that the company had done a thorough job and they could leave without notable incident.

As in that night in Hannibal's kitchen, as in the night on the cliff, Will gained from Hannibal's touch. From touching Hannibal. He could, instinctively, reach a blind hand out and know Hannibal would be there. It was a strange thing, taking comfort in knowing Hannibal was there, touching him, even when that touch was not always a source of comfort.

Will did not expect Hannibal to acknowledge the correction, nor did he do so himself. It was unnecessary.

He gave a sharp nod, not looking at Hannibal. "I'll take it slow out of the harbor." With the overcast sky and slim chance of rain, the harbor was nearly empty. No need to throttle up yet, he wondered idly if Hannibal had spent extended time on the open ocean.

Repercussions didn't have to be immediate; Hannibal had a long memory and his business card rolodex/take-out menu had been more for the drama of the selection than because he needed reminders. Regardless, the service providers were safe.

Hannibal had no fear of touch and wasn't as reticent about it as an American, but he'd been driven to touch Will in ways and with a frequency that he didn't reach out to other people. When had it transformed from a subtle power play into a sincere desire? He wasn't entirely certain, but there had been no power play in the way he had washed and bandaged Will's knuckles the night Will killed Randall Tier.

It was in those still moments when he could most easily see how Will had found his way in through the cracks.

With that thought, warmth on the backs of his fingers and a contrasting ache in his hand, he clasped Will's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze before leaving him to pull in the bumpers and cast the lines. He'd studied and taken short trips, but this would be his first extended open ocean voyage.

It seemed right to let Will guide them out into those fathomless waters just as it would be right to have a bottle of wine open and glasses poured when Will was ready to step away from the helm.

If they ever agreed to return to American shores. If, at the last small wick of the span of their relationship, burning down to the metal anchor plate, Will agreed to indulge in a round of theater with Hannibal. Then Will would not slack the leash for negligent employees, but for bigger, meatier fish. The price for theatrics would be Freddie Lounds.

Hannibal's act of washing the combined blood of Will Graham and Randall Tier from Will's bruised and bloody knuckles was as physical as it was metaphysical. Rinsing the blood Will had on his hands from Hannibal's attempted murder away, cleansing the sin as Hannibal had cleansed himself by claiming ownership of his crimes and freeing Will from guilt's shadow. They each had their motivations, but this was tenderness in the aftermath of violence.

It had started before that particular moment, Will's becoming. When Hannibal became Will's anchor. Something to keep him from drifting or to pull him down into the deep, turbid waters. The moment with Matthew Brown, Will had felt the change. But the moment with Hannibal in the aftermath of Randall Tier, Will had wanted it. However tentatively.

Will tipped his head slightly, cutting his eyes to the side to glance at Hannibal when he felt the warm hand on his shoulder, the gentle squeeze. He closed his eyes and faced forward again. When he opened his eyes, the boat was free from sheltering restraint and Will eased it out slowly from the slip, getting the feel of the larger craft and the precision of the responses.

He navigated manually through the harbor, one hand on the wheel, the other keeping a gentle pressure on the throttle, taking them through the sedate, lapping waters. As they passed into the rougher waves of the ocean, the weight and balance of the craft kept them steady.

When land was no longer visible from the deck, Will set the satnav and auto navigation systems to keep them in off shore waters.

Will leaned his shoulder against the frame separating the helm from the deck, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Harpsichord notes drifting through the sea air, the sound of a cork loosened from a bottle of wine, Hannibal looked in his element and Will took the moment to watch.

Will could all too easily distract Hannibal from retribution against almost anyone by pointing him at Freddie Lounds. Once she was gone, though, he still had a promise to keep. If Alana was the reason for that last light between them going out, there was a certain rightness to it. All that would be needed to play out the final act of their drama would be for Jack to join them. Everyone who had somehow survived that rainy night in Baltimore could take a last bow.

He'd pushed the sleeves of his sweater up on his forearms, and was moving with a lightness that should have been accompanied by humming to himself as he polished wine glasses and set them out by the open bottle of chardonnay that stood next to an unopened cabernet sauvignon. Was the wine up to his pre-capture standards? No, but he didn't need Will to correct him into not dropping the same clues that had led Alana to him in Florence.

He hadn't been caught by finding him at Whole Foods, though. In the past he'd preferred smaller, more exclusive grocers. He glanced up and greeted Will with a flash of a smile before turning to begin setting out some of the spoils of that last grocery trip - figs, lavender, honey, gorgonzola and goat cheeses.

"Have we reached international waters?" The figs, lavender, and honey went in a saucepan along with a goodly splash of the chardonnay before he put the pan on the stove top and finally poured the wine into their glasses. "If so, we're due a moment to enjoy our successful getaway."

One last dinner party with all of the guests in attendance? In some world, this is how Will allows Hannibal to end it. In some world, Hannibal bargains this last, final act of theatricality. Will it be this world? That would remain to be seen.

Will's eyes lingered on Hannibal's exposed forearms, on the faint reminders of Matthew Brown gouged indelibly into the canvas. Perish the thought that Dr. Hannibal Lecter, former purveyor of José's Cheese Shop, the most prominent fromagerie in Baltimore, Maryland be caught browsing the cold bar of a store that sold their cuts in plastic tubs with pre-printed weight and price on the label.

Occasional indulgence would be allowed, but habit would not.

Will straightened at that smile, stepping fully from the hem. "We are now sailing in the preferred waters of gamblers and drug runners." He gave his own tight smile, "And international fugitives." Though he had steered them and chartered their course further into international waters than the typical middle America gambling cruises preferred to keep to.

Will accepted a glass, holding the stem between fingers, one corner of his mouth turning wryly up, "Not prone to sea sickness, are you?"

Hannibal could be patient; they had a whole world of people to meet and possibly want to kill. Perhaps Alana and Jack would just keep sliding lower and lower on Hannibal's list. There was something to be said for both Alana and Jack spending the rest of their lives just waiting for their pasts to come back and kill them.

In the years since Matthew Brown and given him those scars, Hannibal had come to terms with them without too much difficulty. The Verger brand on his back was far more offensive.

"And retired Russian businessmen and their crew," Hannibal said, raising his glass to look at the wine with the light hitting it through the window. "We aren't fugitives; we are the dead." Not that some people were going to buy the official story.

He took a sip and looked at his glass as though weighing his opinion of the wine before sipping again. It would do.

"It seems that I'm not." Barring a bit of queasiness he wasn't going to acknowledge. "Did you ever have trouble when you were younger?"

Like the deep, quivering breath inhaled before taking a steep plunge, there was something exciting in the open possibility of the future. How things would ultimately turn out. There was the hunger for conclusions and the pleasure in self denial, in savoring the journey to those conclusions.

They were marks by proxy of Will, physical signs of the change Hannibal had helped effect in him as the caterpillar metamorphosed in its chrysalis. The Verger brand was nothing of the sort. Will would help Hannibal excise the marked piece of flesh if and when necessary. He was wicked with a fillet knife.

"Are we the dead? Or did we die and rise from the water something else."

Will watched Hannibal drink, engrossed in his expression, the determination of whether the vintage available to the mundane masses pleased his palette.

"There's a pressure point for the relief of motion sickness. Ancient seafaring wisdom passed culture to culture through the hub of boat docks." Will said with a hint of dry amusement that verged on humor.

Will set his glass of wine down and leaned his hip back against the counter, gaze settled at a middle distance. "If I did, I don't remember." His brow furrowed. "The rocking of waves, gentle or not, has always been a sense of comfort and familiarity." Soothing the side effects of his empathy on the amygdala with the motion as well as the association of something simple. Boats. Motors. No complex problems.

Will had given Hannibal the gift of a future of bright anticipation and a deeper appreciation of his freedom than he'd had in many years.

He caught Will's scrutiny and his smile deepened. "We are the dead and we are risen, not like Christ, but more like Jonah, delivered from God's punishment in the deep by the consonance of God's mercy."

He sipped his wine and set it aside for the moment to attend to the figs, adjusting the cooktop's heat and setting the pot restraint to keep the pot from sliding with the waves that slapped at the hull from time to time.

"The comfort of the waves' motion is often presented as a callback to the womb, before fear or pain or hunger. I like the hubris of it - the pitting of a tiny creature like a human against the engulfing, indifferent vastness of the ocean we left behind millions of years ago. The ultimate one-sided grudge match."

"God's mercy." Will made a dismissive sound in his throat. "God's pardon. Or his joke. Amusement at all of the pieces in complex play as he sits across the game board from himself. No score kept. Just waiting for the pieces to do something interesting."

Will looked sternward across the deck, watching the wake they cut through the water. "That makes sea sickness sound like a rejection of the womb. Or a warning to stay away lest fear and pain and hunger cease again in the dark water." He shifted his gaze to Hannibal and arched a brow, then turned and straightened, picked up his wine glass.

"We know the danger, but we can't stay away. Like calling to like." He took an absent sip of the wine. "And now we're pitting ourselves against the vastness."

Hannibal left the figs to continue to simmer and moved back to the slim bar between the galley and the common area. "You must admit that we are very interesting pieces."

"Seasickness is nothing so sweeping, but perhaps one could see it as a manifestation of the ingrained human search for stability. Some can adjust to instability and carry on about their lives, others are too caught up in old patterns to ever adjust and can only retreat to land or live ill at sea."

He studied Will's face as he had done so often, never tiring of guessing what went on behind his eyes. "Are you speaking of the danger of the ocean or of what is between us?"

"Entertaining pieces." It was the same thing, but Will thought the player at the divine chessboard would not consider any of the pieces with so flattering a term.

Will followed, though passed beyond the bar to perch at the edge of one of the seats. He did not relax back into the cushions, but maintained a posture like he might rise at a moment's notice for whatever reason.

"Do you consider me adjusted in my instability?" Will's brow furrowed as he considered the wine in his glass, not looking at Hannibal. He felt ... not stable, not exactly, but moored. Purposeful. Less apt to drift off.

Will did look up at Hannibal's question, he gave brief eye contact then dropped his gaze to Hannibal's chin. "Yes."

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Until we get a real season 4...

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