Will Graham Lover

You sit with your back against the old gnarled walnut tree, picking at your nails in nervous frustration, your head clearly somewhere else. This is “your spot” where you always go when you need a moment to yourself. The giant tree is like an old friend, its massive branches like arms providing you shelter, shade, and a quiet place to reflect. It’s damn near a pet to you.

“Why you actin’ all pissy lately.” Arthur kicks your boot to garner your attention, his face turned down into an annoyed scowl. 

“No reason,” you reply dismissively, maintaining your averted stare out into the forest that rings the camp. 

“Bull shit.” Arthur rounds to the other side of you, filling your view with his massive trunk of a body so that you’re forced to look at him. “You’ve been moping around like a goddamn wet rag. What’s your problem?”

“I said it's nothing!” you snap back, making you instantly cringe as your response has more venom that you intended.

“Yeah, whatever, fine. Don’t tell me, then,” he pouts, waving his hand in the air in surrender. 

Your legs instinctively curl in towards your body, a vacant look settled upon your stormy face while you stare off into space again. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

A slight head shake tosses his honey-brown locks as his mouth opens to say something, but no argument comes out. A gloved hand scratches the back of his neck in confusion as to what could possibly be so bad that you won’t talk to him. “Is this a ‘lady thing’?”

But the moment your eyes shoot wide open, Arthur knows he’s guessed wrong. “What?! Jesus, Arthur, no it's not a ‘lady thing’!”

‘“Then why can’t you tell me!”

“Because!”

“Because why? You tell me everything else!” he pushes.

“Because it's about you, jackass!” And your eyes go wide as the full moon at the realization that you just opened Pandora's box to your deepest secret:  you are hopelessly in love with your best friend, one Mr. Arthur Morgan. 

But the problem is, not only is he oblivious to it, he is in love with someone else:  Mary Gillis, now Mary Linton. And despite her having broken Arthur’s heart and married someone else, the man is still carrying a smoldering torch for the woman, the flames fanned back to life ten-fold when a letter from this ghost from his past showed up for him a few weeks ago.

Arthur’s large body flinches back slightly at your vague revelation, his arms folding across his broad, rigid chest. “What the hell did I do?”

“Nothing, forget I said anything,” you mutter, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert, your stomach twisting into knots and wishing with every fiber of your being that this conversation wasn’t happening right now. 

“Now, hold on!” His azure eyes flash at you, and it's obvious he’s not going to let this go. “If you’re pissed at me, I deserve to know why.” He looms over you now, his thumb jutting back into his chest at his demand. 

You take a deep sigh and rub your temples with your thumb and forefinger, trying to reel your swirling emotions in before you say or do something you’ll regret. “I’m not pissed at you, Arthur.”

He raises a taunting eyebrow at you. “You sure about that?” 

Your much smaller frame draws up defensively, your chin dropping in warning. “I said I’m not mad, Arthur,” you caution, the words slow and careful, “but I’m gonna be if you don’t stop flappin’ your damn mouth.”

Finally, Arthur recognizes your encroaching breaking point with each twitch of your lips and makes one last attempt, extending his hand to you to find out what has got you wound up like a hornet. “Oh, come on, Y/N. What’s going on?”

“I said drop it!” Your cheeks flush red-hot and you storm off, brushing past his shoulder, leaving him staring after you in confusion. 

—----------------------------------

Your tantrum with Arthur leaves you feeling like a boulder sits in your gut. Trying to hide away from facing the inevitable, you spend the rest of the afternoon out riding your horse. You take to the open fields, letting the warm summer winds engulf you. You push your horse at full speed as if you could outrun your feelings for Arthur. But all this does is make you realize that there is no going back now. You’ll have to confront this sooner or later. 

Slinking back to camp, you find the one person who knows your little secret. You talk to Abigail about it and, of course, she encourages you to tell Arthur how you feel. “Everyone wants to know they are loved,” she rationalizes. 

But the idea of exposing your heart terrifies you, even if it is to Arthur. Your hands clench open and closed, your breathing becoming short. “What if he don’t feel the same?” you ask, your voice sounding pathetic and small. “He’s still hung up on Mary.”

But your answer does not deter Abigail’s opinion. “Maybe he’s still hung up because he doesn’t know he has options.” She leans forward to catch your eye, her gaze burning into yours. “You’ll never know until you tell him.”

Your eyes glisten as you close them and pull in an expansive breath, holding it before slowly pushing it out between trembling lips. Abigail is right. You can’t win anything if you’re not willing to risk for it. What if he says ‘no’? But, what if he says ‘yes’? And you sweep her into a tight hug which she gladly reciprocates.  

—------------------------------------

The next morning, you find Arthur sitting quiet and content outside his tent writing in his journal. You stop to admire how his brows knit slightly, consumed with whatever he is committing to those pages. 

Your mind skips back to when he handed you a journal of your own after you inquired about his. It was a gesture that meant the world to you, because not only did someone bring you a gift, but he was extending to you a glimpse into his own world. He was offering you the same opportunity that he had, sharing his passion with you. This was something that he has not done for anyone else, making this a singular thing that he only shares with you and no one else. The thought makes your heart flutter, honored at this trust, and you take a deep and steadying breath to propel yourself forward. 

“Hey, can I talk to you a second?”

Arthur looks up from the worn leather book on his lap, surprised to see your timidly smiling face greeting him. 

A small grin of relief tugs at the corner of his lips when he realizes you aren’t snapping at him anymore. “Hey… yeah, sure.” 

You sit down next to him, the morning sun kissing his profile, gently heating the worn wooden chair as if it is waiting for you. You hand him a steaming-hot cup of coffee as a peace offering. His tired eyes instantly brighten as he catches the hints of cinnamon mingling with the strong, smoky aroma of the freshly ground coffee beans. 

No one makes coffee like you do. Arthur has no idea what you do or how you do it. It could be witchcraft for all he knows. And he doesn't care so long as you share your efforts with him. He takes a deep sip, the almost-scalding liquid cascading over his tongue, savoring the caramelized, earthy notes and humming in contentment. “Now, that’s a good cup of coffee.”

His compliment makes you smile despite the butterflies in your stomach as you partake from your own cup to quench your parched throat. 

“Look, Arthur, I’m sorry I’ve been a crab-ass lately. It’s just that…” Your eyes cast down to the dark brown liquid, as if trying to find the courage to continue in the steam that gently dances in the air under your nose. 

Arthur is quick to pick up on your fidgeting again. “Just what? Y/N, are you ok?” His face turns down in concern. You are never one to show weakness, so this sudden display of odd behavior doesn’t sit well with him. And worse yet, the fact that you can’t talk to him about it is unsettling. ”If something’s wrong, you know you can tell me.“

You finally tear your gaze from the cup in your slightly shaking hands to meet his. Why does he have to be so sweet? Maybe this is a good sign? Maybe he does feel the same?

“No, nothing’s wrong. At least, I don’t think so.” Your lips get pulled into your teeth.

“Then what in the hell is eatin’ at you?” Despite the harshness of the words themselves, they are delivered with a softness that echoes concern. 

“Arthur,” You swallow hard and close your eyes for a moment. Just say it!, your mind screams. Quit dicking around and do it, for Christ’s sake! 

Arthur’s whole body is rigid as he leans forward on his knees, nervously waiting for whatever bad news it is that you are about to tell him. But what you say next is NOT what he is expecting to come out of your mouth. 

“I’m in love with you.”

Your proclamation is met with stinging silence. And you anxiously wait in anticipation for his answer. And when it doesn’t come, your breathing stops, your knee bouncing slightly as your heartbeat thunders in your ears. 

“Wait…what?” His face screws up, trying to decipher what you’ve just said. 

“I’m in love with you, Arthur, have been for awhile.” You nod in acknowledgement, the sentiment hangs soft and vulnerable in the air like the summer fireflies. 

The outlaw shifts uncomfortably, rubbing his hand along his jawline as he finally comprehends what you’re telling him. And then, the reality of it really sets in. “Shit.”

Your mouth falls open as you clutch the coffee mug in your hand as if it were a lifeline. “What's wrong? Is that a bad thing?”

But Arthur won’t look you in the eye at first, searching for the words that struggle to come. “I just…I just didn’t think I’d ever have to worry about that sort of thing with you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Your eyes begin to sting, causing you to start blinking rapidly as you try to figure out the meaning behind his statement. 

“I don’t know.” He shrugs haplessly. “I just never thought of you as a woman like that, I guess.”

Shit, he may as well have slapped you across the face. It would have stung much less. A huff of exasperation expels from your nose as your head quickly draws back. The anger from yesterday begins to surge within your belly again. You feel stupid, embarrassed. 

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head and abruptly stand, ready to storm off again before he sees the tears rimming in your eyes.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that!”

You spin on him, then, the frustration displayed all over your features. “Then what did you mean, Arthur? Huh? What, that you don’t even see me as a woman?!”

“No, that’s not-”

“That's exactly what you said!” you bite back, cutting him off.

Arthur is quick to his feet to explain himself. “You and me, we’re friends. Best friends.” He motions emphatically between you two. ”No bull shit, no games. And I always liked that, relied on it. Respected that, even. I’ve never had to watch myself around you.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you challenge back. “Why does any of that have to change?” You step closer to Arthur now and look up into his face, desperate for an explanation that makes sense to your rapidly- breaking heart. 

“Because! I’m not good at that sort of thing,” he says sheepishly, hand coming up behind his neck.

“I’m not either. But that’s why it could be so good for us.” You reach over and gently take his hand in both of yours. Your voice softens to a level Arthur has never heard from you before. “Regardless of how we got here, Arthur, the fact of the matter is, I love you. So, I’m askin’ you, is there a chance that you love me too?”

He stares into your expectant face, your eyes wide with adoration and anticipation. And Arthur knows that what he has to say next will be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. 

“I’m sorry, but…I don’t….I don’t feel that way.”

Despite the softness of his voice, the words are deafening. Your chest feels like a thousand daggers have been plunged into your flesh, wedged between your ribs as it knocks the breath out of your lungs just the same. Your skin flashes burning hot before turning ice cold.

But the look of sheer pain in your eyes cuts him. Arthur has fought alongside of you for years. You’ve been through hell and back together, and never has he seen that look of pain and devastation on your face. And to know he’s the cause of it makes Arthur want to die. 

You stand motionless, numb and not sure what to say or do. Exposed and vulnerable, you took a chance and gave yourself to him. And he denied you. 

As if struck by lightning, you turn on your heel to bolt away, to find a shadowy corner of the world to hide, but Arthur is too quick and his arm shoots out from his side and grabs your wrist. “Y/N, wait, don’t go like this.”

Like a wounded animal caught in a trap, you yank your arm from his grasp, bristling at the feeling of his dry, calloused hand on your skin. ”You’re a goddamn fool, Morgan,” you seethe at him. “You’re still going to hold out that she’ll come back to you, aren’t you?”

But you instantly regret bringing up Mary. You shouldn't have done that. Despite your devastation, it is a low-blow and you know it. A tidal wave of apprehension fills your body head to toe when shock darkly scatters across Arthur’s features. The fact that you’d throw his greatest weakness back in his face in retaliation suddenly sets him to anger as well. 

“What do you want from me, Y/N?” he growls out defensively, eyes narrowing at you.

“Tell me you want me. I want you to tell me you want me, Arthur. Tell me you feel the same for me that I feel for you,” you cry desperately, eyes now red as the tears begin their descent down your cheeks. 

A sigh of resignation ripples through Arthur’s lungs. “But I don’t,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t lie to you like that. Not about this.”

Your palm comes up to cover your mouth before you get sick in the grass. Your eyes screw shut as you back away from him, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. “I’m such an idiot,” you whisper with a broken voice. “I should have known I wasn’t good enough.”

“It’s not about that, Y/N.”

“Then what in the world could it be, Arthur? I’ve never been beautiful. Never been ‘dainty’. Never been sugar and sweetness. I’m covered in dirt and smell like my horse. But I had hoped that you, of all people, could see past all that.” Your hand floats up to land over your heaving chest. “To see my heart. And see what I could give to you.” 

But as you stare into Arthur’s ocean-colored eyes, you realize now what his answer to your confession is and that he has no intention of changing it. The tears stream freely down your face, and he watches as they drop one by one off the edge of your trembling chin. “But you don’t want it, do you?” 

“Ah hell, Y/N. I don’t know what to say,” he mutters. You can see the look of guilt and remorse in his eyes. And you know that he is not trying to be mean or cruel. Arthur would never intentionally hurt you. And that is what makes this even harder to endure.

“Don’t. It's okay.” You hold your quivering hands up to hush him from saying anything else, as one more word from his perfect lips may push you over the edge of your sanity. “I shouldn’t have said anything. ‘Cause now I’ve ruined everything.”

“You haven’t ruined anything.” He reaches out to try to reassure you, but you are quick to step out of his grasp and he smartly doesn’t pursue it. 

“Oh, but I have, Arthur. Because how can we even be friends with this oddness between us, now?”

With a heavy heart, you walk away from your friend, all motivation evaporated from your soul. This magnificent thing between you and Arthur took years to build and only moments to destroy.

As you head to your horse, desperate to get the hell out of camp, you halt and make a bee-line for Abigail who is hanging the morning laundry. 

“Thanks for your stupid advice!” you holler at her. 

Abigail startles at your outburst, eyes wide with confusion. “Y/N, are you alright? What happened?” 

“What do you think happened? Now everything has gone to shit. I should have just left things as they were!”

And before Abigail can protest, you are out of earshot and on your horse, headed out of camp.

—------------------------------------------

The days that follow are awkward and ugly, to say the least. You avoid Arthur at all costs and won’t even speak to Abigail. But even worse, you become withdrawn and depressed, a shadow drifting through the camp rather than interacting with it. Gone are feelings of camaraderie between you and the gang, for Arthur IS the gang. His presence is known and felt everywhere within it. And Arthur is the last person you want to be around right now. 

But it doesn’t just stop with the camp interactions. After Arthur’s rejection, something within you breaks and you quickly become less like yourself and more of a ghost, a shell of what you once were. Or maybe you’ve just learned to channel your pain and anger to become someone else altogether. 

You become reckless, taking chances that you would normally never have in the past. You hang out in the bars and saloons, rather than coming back to camp at night. You’ve even started going upstairs with strange men on the nights where you’re too drunk or too heartbroken to care. You do jobs with Bill and Sean instead of Arthur, wanting nothing to do with him. When Arthur returns to camp from his own jobs, you’ll immediately leave. You can’t stand to be in the same place at the same time anymore. And, of course, he notices. So eventually Arthur avoids you altogether, as well. What was once a strong, unrelenting friendship has become nothing more than passing strangers. And when you two are in camp at the same time, you both keep your eyes averted, never looking at each other. Because of course you can’t be friends when you still feel like this.

Dutch, on the other hand, loves it. You become another “Arthur”, hard and fearless. A force to be reckoned with. And now that you and Arthur are not speaking, there is no more distraction and he can split the two of you up to be more efficient, two alpha leads to be sent out on jobs. But you have little-to-no regard for your own safety. Every time you return to camp, there’s another wound, another bruise. Your clothing becomes more and more tattered. The more dangerous the job, the better as far as you’re concerned. You’ll take any job Dutch hands you without question. 

While some in camp consider this bravery, others begin to see it as suicidal.

The self loathing takes its toll on you in a most nasty way. You’ve always had self doubt and low self esteem. But you feel in your bones that no one could ever love you the way that you yearn for. You’re hot tempered and ill mannered. You are far from what most men consider beautiful. But despite that, you and Arthur have always had a connection. He’s never judged you, never made you feel less than what you are. If anything, Arthur makes you feel better about yourself than you ever could on your own. He has always accepted you just as you are, embraced it, even. And he was your only chance, your only chance, at being loved. But if even he can’t bring himself to see you in that tender, loving light, what hope do you have to find love anywhere else?

It isn’t long before everyone in camp avoids you and your toxic attitude. You constantly get into harsh arguments with Grimshaw, standing nose to nose and shouting at the top of your lungs. During one altercation, she slaps you when you won’t back down, to which you immediately respond with an equally hard and fast slap of your own, causing her to reel back at the audacity of your actions. “Don’t you ever raise your hand to me again.” You point your finger in her face, inches from her nose. “Or I will put a bullet in you. Do you understand me, you old crone?!” 

But it doesn’t stop there. At some point, Sean ends up with a black eye when he makes a joke at your expense. You even pull a gun on Micah in camp when you’ve hit your limit. Hosea tries to pull you aside to talk to you about your reckless behavior, but all it does is throw you into a rage, like a cat that’s had its tail stepped on.

And then one day, it all comes to a head. You end up getting caught in town and are set to be hung. 

You are drowning your sorrows at the end of a bottle as usual in the saloon and one of the patrons gets too rough with one of the working girls, smacking her around. Watching the young woman’s head snap violently to the side with a sharp cracking sound causes something to fracture in your brain. Time stands still, all color draining from your vision except red. 

The woman barely has time to stand up straight again before the sound of gunfire ricochets within the small room. Without a moment’s hesitation, you pull your gun and shoot her attacker between the eyes, no questions, no remorse, nothing but a look of emotionless disgust plastered on your face. 

When others try to intervene, you shoot them too. No one is spared from your blind wrath. It is as if you have no control over what you are doing, your body moving of its own destructive accord. You launch your fists into faces that you don’t even take a second look at, and break chairs over anyone who dares to get in your way. It isn’t until you feel something hard shatter against the back of your skull that you stop. The whiskey bottle knocks you off balance just long enough for two men to take advantage of your weakness, each grabbing a dangerous arm. 

It eventually takes five men to bring you down. They beat you into submission, kicking you in the ribs once they have you on the filthy wooden floor of the saloon. Angry faces look down over you and spit on you, jeering and taunting you relentlessly. You are only half conscious by the time they drag you down the steps of the saloon. 

————————————-

Arthur is making his way back to camp and decides to stop for a drink, when he catches the tail-end of the brawl. Before he can even enter the saloon, he can hear the hollering and commotion of broken furniture from the street.

At first he keeps his head down, not wanting to get involved, as whatever is happening inside sounds bad. But his stomach drops when he sees two men dragging someone one out of the saloon, and instantly recognizes it’s you as you continue to hurl insults despite being dragged through the mud. Hand on his revolver, Arthur is about to intervene, but a mob has quickly formed around you. Arthur can’t do anything by himself right now, so he decides to wait until nightfall to break you out and get you out of town. “Goddamn it, Y/N,” he sharply mutters under his breath.

The outlaw gives it a few hours before he creeps along the building walls, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen. It’s quiet out, no one walking about as the moon sits high, casting its silvery shadows along the world below. It doesn’t take long for him to scout the jailhouse where you are being held. 

Cautiously approaching the premises, Arthur peers through the barred window to find you leaning out on your elbows onto your knees, head hanging. Your face is bruised from where they beat you and your clothing filthy and torn from where they drug you through the street to the jail house.

“Jesus,” he whispers sadly, the word escaping his lips without him even knowing it.

You lift your head at the sound of his voice outside your window. It is a siren song that always sits in your ears just so. Even in your darkest hour, after everything that has happened between you two, Arthur’s voice still makes your heart beat a little faster. 

He is relieved to see your eyes are still surprisingly bright, still burning with that fire that no one could ever extinguish. He holds your gaze as you slowly blink at him, your left eye swollen and red from the broken blood vessels. He can’t believe it’s come to this. 

“What are you doin’ here, Arthur?” you asked tiredly. 

Arthur swallows thickly, resolve settling into his veins. “I gotta get you out of here.”

“Don’t bother.” You shake your head, leaning back against the wall.

“What? Quit being ridiculous. Now, help me figure out a way to get you out of this mess”, he hisses sharply. 

You do your best to hide a painful wince that radiates from what is most likely a broken rib as you shift your weight on the hard bench. “I said don‘t bother. I’m not your mess to clean up. I deserve to be here, Arthur.” 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” you nod slowly. ”I shot that man. I caused that ruckus in town. And I deserve to hang for it.”

“Y/N, quit screwing around!” Arthur punches the wall with his palm in frustration. “This is serious!”

“I know it is. And that’s why I’m in here. Hell, I’m just as bad as Micah Bell.”

Hearing such a thing cross your bruised lips crushes Arthur’s heart. “You are not seriously thinking you need to be cast with his lot?”

“Why not? I have no shame for what I did. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, too. Besides, they ain’t gonna let a crazy woman like me just walk out of here. The men in this town like to keep their women in line. They plan to make an example of me.”

Arthur’s mouth pulls into a tight, thin-lipped frown. “I asked around. You were protecting that woman.”

“Nah. That was just the catalyst, I’m afraid.“ You wave him off with that smirky grin of yours.  “And, besides, I’m done, Arthur. I’m at the end of my rope. Literally“, you chuckle. 

Your comment lands like a gut-punch to the seasoned outlaw. “That ain‘t funny.”

“Wasn't meant to be.“ You tilt your head slightly as you take in the sight of him, committing to memory all of the details of his handsome face, every little mole and freckle, the crow’s feet along his beautiful eyes, every little thing that you have dreamed of in the privacy of your tent. For you know that this will most likely be the last time you set your tired eyes on him. 

A ragged, exhausted sigh of resignation escapes your battered frame. “But go on, Arthur. Go back to Dutch. Go back to Mary.”

A spark of anger ignites Arthur’s weathered face. “Is that what this is about? Jesus, I can’t believe we’re still on this.”

“No,” you answer him calmly. “This is about me being sick and tired of being ‘sick and tired’. Tired of fighting. Tired of fighting what I can’t change.”

“So you’d rather die if you can’t be my woman? Is that it?”

“I guess so,” you shrug, acting as if this was nothing more than you losing a game of dominoes to Hosea. 

Suddenly Arthur’s tone changes from authoritative to panic as he realizes he’s not getting anywhere and you’re not going to cooperate. Intimidation is his specialty, what he’s known for, was bred for. But it is a tactic that has never worked on you. And all of the anger and resentment of the last few weeks melts away as Arthur realizes he’s going to lose you. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

”Y/N, please,” his voice cracks in desperation. “I’m begging ya. Don’t do this to me. I can’t stand to see you swing.”

But all you can offer him is a sad smile. “Then don’t watch.”

“Goddamn it, Y/N! Will you stop this?!”

Gathering what little energy you have left, you slowly pull yourself from the hard metal bench, taking a moment to get your balance, and walk to the window, standing just a few inches from him now. You can smell the cigarettes and leather on him, filling your nostrils and intoxicating your broken mind.

Arthur is overcome with unease as he gazes into your haunted face. “Look, I know things ain’t been good with us lately. But now’s not the time to be worryin’ about that,” he pleads. 

“It's too late for me, Arthur. But I’m okay with it. Really. I’ve made my peace.” Your unsettling calmness makes him shift his weight, his palms turning clammy and numb. 

“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?” Arthur desperately searches your face for any signs of hesitation, any inclination that you will concede to let him help you. 

“Like I said, I’m tired. And I can’t keep watching you from afar, Arthur. That’s not fair to you or me.”

Arthur rushes forward, reaching to grab your hands through the bars. “Please, Y/N. Come back with me. We can talk about this.”

Your gaze falls to your entwined hands, startled at this show of tenderness. Your fingers flex slightly under his, relishing the feeling of them and burning the sensation of it into your memory. Arthur’s hands are warm, always so warm. 

After a brief indulged moment, you pull your hand out from under his and raise it to float up to cup his bleak face. Arthur’s bearded skin sits in your palm, your thumb hovering slightly over his plump bottom lip. God, how you’ve dreamed to hold him as tenderly as this. But you know in your heart there’s nothing to talk about. You only want one thing and it's the one thing that he cannot give you. You’ll never be happy without it. So what’s the point to all of this?

Another wistful grin ghosts across your lips. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” And before he knows what’s happening, you lift your chin over your shoulder. “Guards! There’s a man at my window!”

Panic makes Arthur’s blood cold as he gasps, clamping down on your hand even tighter as if you are about to be taken from him. “What are you doing?!”

“You better go, Arthur, and fast, lest they catch you, too.”

“Shut it in there!” rings a voice from the front of the jail. 

“There’s a man at my window!” you yell again with more urgency, but never taking your eyes off Arthur’s. “You better get in here!”

Arthur’s fearful eyes quickly dart from you, to the door and back, his mind scrambling to grasp at straws on how to get you out of here. But he’s out of time. 

“Damn you,” he whimpers brokenly, a slight tremble to that chiseled, scarred chin of his. 

Your eyes. Arthur never realized just how striking and beguiling they are, until he watches them flutter like fairy wings for just a fraction of a second at his statement. 

“Yep. Damn me, alright.” And you gently pull your hands back from him entirely and walk backwards back into the darkness of the cell like a stone being dropped into the lake. 

He can hear the rustling of feet and the jingle of spurs along the floor just on the other side of your wall. And reluctantly Arthur takes off before the guards can catch him. 

With his heart racing like a wild mustang, Arthur ducks into an alley, trying to think. He throws himself back up against a brick wall, his mind swirling to try to come up with a plan. He can’t let this happen. He has to get you the hell out of here. If only Hosea was here, he’d know what to do. But Arthur doesn’t have time to race back to camp for reinforcements to free you as you are due to be hung at sunrise. And the town is crawling with lawmen and mob mentality. He won’t be able to spring you on his own. 

For once, Arthur Morgan is helpless.

———————-

The next morning, the crowd gathers at the gallows, the fractured sunlight catching the wooden platform, making it glow like an ominous sentinel looming over the town. You squint slightly as they drag you out into the street, vaguely aware of the rope that bites into your wrists that are bound behind you. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, a bizarre calm settling over you as you take comfort that this will all be over soon. But as you shuffle through the mob, you don’t look up. You know he’s out there somewhere. And you can’t even begin to think of what your heart will do if you see him. You just need to get to the end and your suffering will finally be over. 

Arthur stands in the middle of the crowd, watching as they march you from the jailhouse to the platform. “C’mon, girl. Look at me. Look at me,” he mutters, willing you to acknowledge him. His heart beats fiercely within his chest and his palms sweat. Guilt begins to ravage him. Did he make a mistake? He doesn’t feel that same way about you, but he can’t stand idly by and let you get hung for it. But what happens if he rescues you? For what? More unhappiness and loneliness for you? 

You are now set in place upon the gallows for all in attendance to see. A slight breeze whistles past your ear, lifting the wisps of hair from your neck. The damp smell of mud and horse shit carries in the air. There is a strange silence hanging in the crowd, as if everyone is waiting with baited breath to see if you’ll beg for your life, try to escape, anything relating to the fire you have shown them. But you won’t give them that satisfaction. You meant what you said to Arthur:  you’re tired. You’re ready to go. 

The sheriff asks if you have anything left to say.

“No,” you say calmly. ”Not that anyone cares to hear.”

You step forward, your boots scraping softly on the sun-dried wood. The sheriff places the worn noose around your neck, pulling your hair back and away from your face. 

As the slightly-frayed rope tightens around your neck, you steal a glance upward. And like a magnet to steel, you find those blue eyes amongst an ocean of indifference in the crowd. They are filled with fear and long-standing friendship. You can see his heartache in those eyes. The heavy, worrisome crease in his forehead bearing the weight of your actions in his shoulders.

Your lip quivers slightly, eyes turning glossy knowing that the last thing you will see in this life is Arthur’s face. He looks scared, hurt. You suddenly feel a sharp pang of guilt for causing him this pain. You’ve never wanted to hurt him. You always protected him. Protected him from the harshness of your world, protected him from those who would hurt him. Even protected him from himself at times. But you can’t protect him from this. And you are the one to inflict that pain. 

Maybe you’ve been too selfish in your own misery. But you didn’t want Arthur to see this, to see you dangling from a rope like a fish. Everyone in the gang knows this is a reality of your lifestyle. But still, it's not an easy thing to see. And Arthur sees the apology in your gaze. 

“Wait…” you suddenly whisper, your wilted plea hanging on the soft breeze for a fraction of a moment as all goes quiet. A sharp ache pierces through Arthur’s ribcage when he sees your attempt, your eyes going wide with an acknowledgement that you truly know what’s happening to you, now. But it's too late. The sheriff throws his weight into the lever and the floor creaks as the door drops beneath you. 

“NO!!” Arthur reaches out for you, but the weight of the crowd in front of him swallows his effort.

The sickening crack of your neck is drowned out by the collective gasp of the crowd. Arthur watches in horror as your body comes to an abrupt halt, harshly jolting in an unnatural movement, before swaying gently back and forth. Thankfully, your neck breaks instantly from the force and you don’t have to hang there, lingering and choking. A quick, violent spasm of your small frame and it's over. 

“No”, Arthur whispers brokenly. His gloved hand comes up over his mouth. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening! Your face goes slack, eyes bulging slightly and almost closed. One could see the color of your eyes should they care to look. Your proud shoulders hang limply, your head tilted at an abnormal angle to the side. And it's almost like a smile sits lightly on your face. A smile of relief. 

Suddenly, you don’t look so terrifying. You look small, fragile. Gone is that hellcat that the law had to cage to contain. You look just like anyone else. Funny how death is the great equalizer of us all. 

This whole thing is just so surreal to Arthur. His mind is screaming and yet void of any coherent thought all at once. You’ve always been like a fox, always able to talk your way out of anything or squirm your way through a crowd. But either way, never have you been caught before. It never ceased to amaze Arthur how you could do that. And a thought suddenly cracks through his thoughts, shattering Arthur’s collective reasoning:  what if you let yourself get caught on purpose? What if this was part of your plan all along?

Arthur tries to swallow the churning of his stomach. He’s failed you. You were the one person that he could always count on and he couldn’t even offer the same to you in return. The one person who was always unquestioningly at his side. His partner, his trusted gun, his confidant.

His one true friend.

And now you are gone. What will he ever do without you?

When the crowd disperses, Arthur gathers his wits and slowly staggers towards the platform. Despite the gruesome sight, he can’t take his eyes off your lifeless body. He stands before you, eyes casting up and down over you, taking in your bluing skin, before bringing his trembling hands up to rest on your boots.

“I'm so sorry, Y/N.” But the words ring hollow in his chest as he knows full well that it’s too little, too late. 

“Do you know her?”

The nasally drawl of the local sheriff cuts into Arthur’s thoughts, bringing him back to the waking world. “Yeah.”

Thankfully, the sheriff recognizes the emotional toll overtaking the man standing before him and wisely chooses a respectable tone. Truth be told, he wasn't all that sorry you took care of those idiots back at the saloon last night. “You family?” he gently asks.

‘You family?’ A simple question in of itself, yet laden with so much meaning behind it. “Closest she’s got,” Arthur manages to mumble out. 

“You want the body, then? For burial, I mean?”

Just the slightest movement to be considered a nod comes from Arthur. “Sure. Yeah, let me take her home.”

————————-

Never has Arthur been so reluctant to return to camp. He sits listlessly in his saddle, shoulders hunched to his ears. Despite being summer, the air carries an unnatural chill to it, the wind snapping at the nape of his neck and sending shivers down his spine. Never once does he turn back to look at the burden atop of your horse that he leads behind him. That would make it all too real, and it’s a long ride home.

It’s late afternoon by the time he crests the hilltop, sighing heavily and preparing for the onslaught of questions and shock that he does not want to deal with. 

“Took you long enough!” The deep baritone of Dutch’s voice is first to reach Arthur’s ears. “Where have you b-” but Dutch’s admonishment is cut short when he sees Arthur’s face and then the wrapped body on the back of your horse.

The gang leader's dark eyes widen in confusion. “What the hell happened?” he says in hushed shock. “You were supposed to go get her.”

Arthur pours himself out of his saddle, keeping his eyes forward and careful not to look back towards your horse. “Yeah, well, I did. And I brought her home where she belongs.”

The next few hours are a blur as the gang prepares to bury you. It didn’t take much discussion of where to lay you to rest, either:  under your walnut tree, of course. Everyone is distraught. Tilly and Mary Beth cry. Karen turns to drinking. Abigail is angry. She doesn't want to blame Arthur, but it is his fault, as far as she’s concerned. If he wasn’t so damn hung up on that other woman who wants nothing to do with him…

After the men help fill in the grave, they quietly meander back to the fire and raise a toast to your memory. It is a solemn sight, a few shared stories, but mostly discreet eye rubs and the occasional mournful sniffle fills the atmosphere. Javier strums a sad, gentle melody that reminds him of you on his guitar. The soothing melody helps to calm his grief-stricken friends. You could be a total pain in the ass, smart-mouthed and obstinate, but you were always one of them, through and through. 

But Arthur remains at your grave, refusing to join the others. The bottle he grabbed from the provisions wagon quickly empties, as gulp after gulp pours down his throat, burning its way down, hoping to chase away the pain until he feels nothing at all.  

Regret hangs heavy on his soul as he stares at the mound of dirt before him. Flashes of your lives together dance in his mind like someone flipping pages of a book. How the morning sun speckled across your face when you drank your coveted morning coffee. How you hated getting wet in the rain. How you bit through Arthur’s belt when he had to pull a knife out of your thigh after a job. How you’d stand back to back with Arthur in a gunfight, a whirlwind of controlled chaos. How he’d bring you tea when your stomach would knot up at your time of the month. How you tended to his bruises when he’d get into bar fights. And, of course, how you held him when he sobbed on your shoulder when Eliza and Isaac were taken from him. Seems like a lifetime ago and yet, at the same time, like it only happened yesterday. So much has happened in your brief time together on this earth. And now, Arthur can’t even fathom one second without you in it 

Hosea knows his son well. He quietly watches from afar and can see Arthur’s heart breaking as he sits motionless under the oak tree just as you used to do, the guilt eating him alive the way scavengers pick apart a carcass. No one dares approach Arthur in this state. But the old man won’t let him wallow like this for too long. He quietly makes his way back to your grave-site, placing a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he lowers himself to the ground next to him. 

The two sit in silence for a bit, the birds chirping overhead, the occasional nickering from the horses off in the distance. 

“She was my best friend, Hosea.” The broken sound of Arthur’s voice hangs in the air without him looking away from your grave. “And I couldn’t give her the one thing she really needed. How could I do that to her?”

This whole thing is harder than Hosea thought it would be. And that’s saying a lot. He draws a quick sniff to collect himself before he even tries to speak, swallowing the painful knot lodged in his throat from his own grief. 

“I’ll admit, I didn’t understand it myself, sometimes, how you two couldn't find your way to each other. You and Y/N were two peas in a pod, two halves of an apple.” A lamenting smile graces the older man’s weathered lips. “She understood you better than you understood yourself.”

“She was the only one who could hear all the things I never said,” agrees Arthur. 

“But she wasn’t ’the one’, was she?”, Hosea asks gently. 

“She shoulda been,” Arthur spits out bitterly. ”If I wasn’t so damn stupid! So damn selfish!”

“You can’t do that, son. The heart don’t work that way. It just wasn’t meant to be. And Y/N got caught in the fire.”

“Just like everyone else who gets caught up in my life.” Arthur just sits, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Hosea’s grey eyes settle upon his son. “Were you in love with her, Arthur?”

He sniffles, thinking on the question. “I cared for her.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

“What the hell difference does it make now?” Arthur finally breaks his dazed trance to look at Hosea. 

The anguish in Arthur’s eyes almost breaks Hosea. “It made a big difference. To her, at least.” Hosea points an arthritic finger at your final resting place. 

“I could’ve tried harder,” croaks Arthur. “Maybe she’d be alive if I would’ve just…”

“Just what? Pretended to be in love with her? Now, you and I both know Y/N was too smart for that. In fact, that would’ve been worse.”

“Worse than her being dead?”

Hosea lets out a deep sigh and brushes off the imaginary dust on his pants. “She made her choice, Arthur. You’re going to have to accept it, no matter how hard it is.”

Arthur’s only answer is an unsatisfied scowl as he turns back to you. With a heavy heart, Hosea pats his shoulder once more before standing to give leave and let his son grieve in peace. 

——————

The girls carefully sort through your things, no sense wasting anything. Arthur can hear them talking in hushed tones as they reminisce, sometimes sweet, often sad.

It’s been two days since Arthur brought you home. And he’s been sitting under that damn tree ever since. At first, everyone just let him be, let him mourn for you in peace and quiet. Then, it became more of a “don’t poke the bear” situation. But when he refused to eat, Ms. Grimshaw made it a point to bring him food. But no amount of coaxing would pull Arthur from your graveside. 

Before long, Abigail tentatively comes over to him with a look that he cannot place. She lingers just out of arm’s reach, her blue eyes darting nervously as she clears her throat. 

“We’ve sorted her things. Thought you may want this.” Abigail’s hands reach out, offering him a small book. Your journal. “Since you gave it to her, and you two were best friends and all, I figured you may want it.”

Arthur’s belly somersaults as numb fingers take the leather book from her. He stares at it for a moment, his rough fingers gliding over the smooth leather binding. 

“Right, then,” she mutters softly, trying to be careful not to provoke him. Abigail hesitates before walking away, trying to find words of comfort that she knows will fall on deaf ears. “I’m sorry about Y/N. I really liked her.” Abigail sniffs back a rogue tear that threatens to unravel her composure. “I will miss my friend, dearly.” 

Arthur tears his vacant eyes from the journal to meet Abigail’s, but she’s already shuffling off, her hand covering her mouth to muffle the sobs wracking her chest. 

Arthur sighs deeply, filling his lungs with the humid summer air. His crystalline blue eyes flit to your grave before back to the book in his hands. He hesitates a moment before pulling back the cover and the very sight of your handwriting leaps from the pages and makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. In the journal are your private thoughts and sketches, just like his own. 

Arthur proceeds to spend the next few hours reading through your journal. And to his surprise, it brings him a bit of comfort. The pages are filled with your anecdotes and adventures together. He smiles despite himself at the memories, can hear your voice and personality within the words on the page. But then he begins to see the passages where you’ve written about your feelings for him. 

He notes how it started out as shy and confused notions that, in time, developed into something so much deeper. And as he continues to read, Arthur realizes just how much he was unaware of your true feelings. He had no idea how intensely you felt for him down in your heart. A brief wave of anger washes over him. God, how he wishes you would have said something sooner. 

This was so much more than a crush, more than a love, even. Arthur begins to see how you saw him through your eyes. Words like “artist” and “tender soul” reach his gaze. “Bravest person I’ve ever known”. He sees that you had found parts in him that he didn’t even know existed, things he could never see about himself.

It’s not just what you talk about in your writing, but how. You notice the most ordinary things about Arthur and act as if they are things of wonderment. His eyes, which are mentioned multiple times, are described as “blue as sapphires with flecks of sunset gold”. His hands are written to be “strong and unyielding, large compared to most. And yet can be so tender and careful.” Arthur stops for a moment and looks at his hand, flipping it over, trying to look past the dirty fingernails and slightly bruised knuckles to see what you’re talking about. 

But it is your longing that sharply startles him. Passage after passage talks about how lonely you are and how you long for touch, long for that sweetness and devotion that other women seem to find so easily. But most of all, you crave it from Arthur. 

You believe you have found the missing piece to yourself in Arthur, and firmly believe that it is him, and only him, that will complete your soul. “I’ve heard tell that you will know if the right hands hold your heart by how it feels. And I can’t imagine anyone else’s hands around mine than Arthur’s. I love him with the fire of a thousand suns. He has found the wildness within my heart. But instead of trying to tame it, he tore open my cage and set me free. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.”

And on and on it goes. Dreams of what your life could be together fill the pages. Everything from simple moments of waking warm and safe in each other's arms, to leaving the gang altogether to start somewhere new, together just the two of you. “Maybe even a family to replace the one he lost years ago. I could only pray I’d be able to provide something so beautiful for him, as he so rightfully deserves.”

Arthur starts to think that maybe he didn't know you as well as he thought, as he is now seeing you in a whole new light. Apparently, you had the ability to look through a lens of shattered dreams and hard realities and still managed to see love.

Just as he sees himself reflected and remade in your written words, he realizes a whole new depth to your soul that he was robbed of and didn't even know it. Here, buried in your journal, Arthur has discovered a love that he never believed anyone could ever feel for the likes of him. It is a love that, like you, he craved for himself but never felt he deserved. And it was you who held the key all along. 

But of course, it makes perfect sense, now that you’re gone and your walls are down, exposed for anyone to see. Of course, it would be you. Who else in this world would it ever be? 

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” Arthur mutters, sniffling back tears that threaten to reveal the depth of his sadness as the profound realization hits him. He feels like such a fool. How could he be so blind? Everything he has ever wanted was right in front of him all this time. 

“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?” But Arthur knows exactly why. He’s always hung Mary out in front of himself like a carrot in front of a horse. And you had to sit there and watch it, listen to his belly-aching while your own gut twisted with the realization that you’d never feel that sort of love and affection from him for yourself. 

Eventually he finds the entry of the day you confessed. “I told Arthur today. Sat him down and told him the truth over a cup of coffee. But sadly, he don’t feel that way about me. I guess deep down I knew that would be his answer, but I still hoped I was wrong. Funny how it took a cup of coffee to prove that he don’t love me. Maybe this will be where our story ends.”

If only he could go back in time. So much time wasted, so many missed opportunities. All gone now. 

As Arthur flips to the last few pages, a piece of paper flutters out and into his lap. Arthur picks it up, flipping it over and his breath catches in his throat. It’s a photograph of you and him. God, he forgot all about that day. It was something that he indulged you in after a successful job. A few drinks had encouraged him to sit still long enough to get your portrait taken together. You had pretended to be a couple for the photographer. Maybe that’s why he forgot about it. He thought the idea was ridiculous at the time, which is probably why you’ve kept the photograph tucked away, a guilty pleasure of a daydream you saved for yourself while he went about his business like it was nothing. 

Arthur can’t take much more of this. His movements are slow like molasses as he rubs his forehead with numb fingers, shaking his head in utter disbelief.  With a deep, shuddering sigh, his gaze falls to the last entry in the journal. He freezes as his stomach roils with a sour, bitter feeling. It’s a letter. A letter you wrote to him. 

“Dearest Arthur-“ The words almost cause him to retch into the grass right then and there before he can read another damn word.

“Dearest Arthur

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone, one way or another. I’m hoping you can make some sense out of all these pages. Lord knows I never could. 

I know I could have loved you like no other if you would have just given me half a chance. Maybe we could even have been happy for a bit. But I know now that your heart wasn’t in it, wasn’t mine. It never was and never will be. That’s why I told you I understood how you feel about Mary, to love someone who tries but can’t love you back the same. I know that heartache because that’s how I feel for you. 

Silly notion, ain’t it? People like us, trying to find love in this cold world. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch that flame and feel its warmth on my skin. I had hopes once, but I now understand that that is all it is, hopes. And I can’t live on hopes and dreams anymore. Can’t afford to. So I let you go, Arthur, and myself along with you like a dandelion seed on the wind. No hard feelings, I promise. 

I know you and you’ll brood and be ugly over this for awhile. But don’t be. I’ll think of you fondly and hope you’ll do the same for me. Remember the good times we had, riding out in the prairies, getting into trouble at the saloons, or even just sitting quietly by the fire. 

Take care of the girls for me and make sure John stays in line. Tell Hosea to take his medicine and rest like he should. 

I will miss you something terrible, Arthur. But I will carry you in my heart forever, wherever that may be. And I hope you will do the same for me.

Yours always

Y/N

Arthur chokes out a sob, burying his face in his left hand while he clutches your journal to his chest with his right. He didn’t know a heart could be broken so badly. His countenance crumbles like an avalanche, uprooting and tearing apart everything in its wake. His fingernails dig into his scalp as he clutches his hair in anguish. He wants to open up and scream to the heavens, let his agony bellow out into the air, for it is too painful to keep contained in the flesh and bone of his chest. Arthur is about to break, driven to the brink of madness, because right now, he doesn’t want to feel anything. And yet, even in death, you make him feel everything. 

“You were so right, Y/N,” Arthur sobs. “I am a goddamn fool.”

———————

When he’s sure the tears have stopped and he’s too exhausted and worn out to suffer it any longer, Arthur tears himself away from your grave. He has to leave you eventually and can’t handle sitting on the hard ground for much longer. 

Slowly standing, he brushes the dirt from his pants and places his hat back upon his head, brim pulled way down low to cover his bloodshot eyes. He looks up into the branches of the walnut tree, squinting at the peppered sunlight skipping through the leaves, making them glow warmly. The branches sway gently with the wind as if waving goodbye, thanking him for grieving your loss with it.  Arthur’s lips purse in silent acknowledgement before he stumbles his way back into the camp. 

“Mr. Morgan!” 

The sound of Mr Pearson’s voice cuts into Arthur’s brain like a spike being driven through his temple. He stops, looking briefly at the portly man who rushes over to him. 

“I have something for you. Was in town getting supplies and whatnot and this came for you.” The cook hands him an envelope, but quickly shuffles away, lest he get caught in the aftermath of Arthur’s ongoing foul mood. 

Arthur flips the letter over in his hands in confusion. And then his breath stops altogether as he realizes who it’s from. 

Mary.

The letters of his name blur as angry tears threaten to flood his vision yet again. The sight of her perfect, script handwriting is a sign of Fate’s cruel mockery, ever trying to torture him for his mistakes. 

Arthur takes one look at it, then looks back over to the mound of fresh dirt that hides you from him, keeping you safe for all eternity now. His sad eyes linger, heavy with regret and self hatred. 

He reaches over and tosses the unopened letter into the fire. The flames quickly wrap around the delicate paper and Arthur watches as the handwriting disappears into the ether, reduced to ashes.

Just like his life. 

*This amazing image comes from @papaue00

**If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! I'm kinda proud of this one, actually.

typical warnings apply!

The brisk air’s silence is only broken by the occasional breath from Hannibal or you. It’s a bit of a cold night, but not unbearable. Hannibal’s suit is torn on one arm. You think there’s blood on your face somewhere. The two of you are almost trapped in this moment. You’re not sure if you want to escape it, but you must. You have to. Right?

Your fingers twitch at your side. Every logical part of you knows what to do: knows to remain here, among the wreckage. Waiting for Jack to arrive. Waiting to be told what to do. Waiting, waiting, waiting. You’ve never had the luxury of taking initiative, of making decisions that truly felt like yours. 

Everything still feels like a blur: your conversation with Dolarhyde, the ensuing fight, Hannibal’s sudden appearance. Hannibal saved your life. He could’ve left you to die… but he didn’t. 

“Thank you,” you manage to say. The remark leaves your lips far too easily.  

“You’re welcome,” Hannibal responds. In that moment, he knows he has you.

“I thought I was about to meet my end,” you admit breathlessly. Your throat burns from Dolarhyde’s grip. You cough, clear your throat. The effort does nothing to quell the nervous energy vibrating along your skin. “A watery grave,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. Your lungs burn from the Dragon’s claws digging into your throat. 

“In your tomb by the sounding sea,” Hannibal says. It takes you a moment to recognize the adjusted line from Annabel Lee. Of course Hannibal’s quoting Edgar Allan Poe. Of course he is. You stare at him for a long moment, wondering just how you’re supposed to respond to that. Then you remember part of a stanza from the poem: 

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. 

Your stomach turns in unease. “I’m no maiden,” you remind him. 

Hannibal’s attention is so intense, you feel as if you’re being ripped apart. “No,” he agrees. He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by your objection. Perhaps he was expecting it. But your attention is soon captured by a perplexing idea: namely, the reasoning for why he mentioned the poem. Hannibal is hopelessly intentional. He would only make mention of it if it was relevant to the matter at hand. 

There’s one obvious conclusion to come to: one that’s been staring you in the face these long years. You have fought it off at some junctures, embraced it at others. The evidence has been piling up since the moment the two of you met: Hannibal wants to govern your thoughts.

Little does he know, he already does—at least, to a certain extent. Hannibal is always making his presence known in the twisting halls of your mind palace, his steps sure and quiet yet echoing in your ears all the same. 

Your hand twitches at your side. You want to do… something. You’re not quite sure what that something is, but you suspect it to be violent in nature. The knife in your hand feels heavy and light all at once, the blade glimmering in the dim moonlight. Dolarhyde’s blood drips from it, an inky black in the darkness. 

Hannibal locks eyes with you, sees the ferocity dripping from your fingers. Then he laughs delightedly. You want to be annoyed, instinctually. But you recognize the gesture for what it is: he’s amused, almost anticipative. He would not mind if you killed him, you think. 

“Shall we?” Hannibal hums, tearing you away from your thoughts. You blink and come back to yourself, only to find the bloodied pavement where Dolarhyde’s corpse once was to be empty. Hannibal must’ve thrown his body off the cliff, leaving him to sink beneath the treacherous waters below. He evidently disposed of the bloody knife in the same manner; the gun rests at his side. 

With a pointed clearing of his throat, Hannibal demands your attention. You watch as he reaches out, offers you a hand. 

…You take it far too quickly. His grip is deceptively light, but you’re not foolish enough to think you can escape it. Hannibal’s compassion is always illusory. He is always giving you these allowances, as if even the smallest of your actions is only permitted by his approval (or, even, his disapproval). 

If your hand shakes, he makes no mention of it. If your heart races, if your ears ring, if your eyes somehow can’t drift away from his presence at your side… he makes no indication of noticing. But you know he does notice. There is very little that escapes his attention. He is purposefully leaving these things unacknowledged, giving you some semblance of freedom. 

But you have never been free. The thought drags you back to the time spent visiting Hannibal in his cell, irritation and unease and restlessness clawing at your skin and ripping it away. A gilded cage is still a cage, you remember thinking. That same thought haunts you now. You are not a mere onlooker any longer. You are now an accomplice. 

“Where will you go, exactly?” you ask. Your skin is thrumming, urging you to make one final move on the chessboard. (As if the pieces haven’t already been cleared, as if victory hasn’t already been declared.)

Hannibal’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly at your question. You want to laugh. “We will go to Europe,” Hannibal responds. His eyes find yours, as if daring you to argue. 

“Lithuania?” you ask instead, your voice dripping with faux innocence.

Hannibal smiles, a venomous thing. “Italy,” he says, completely dodging your attempt to bring up his past. But, his smooth misdirection is an answer in and of itself. He doesn’t wish to go back to the country he lived in as a child, because it was never a home. Interesting. 

Hannibal’s hand slips from yours when you reach his car, as he opens the passenger door for you before heading around the vehicle to take the driver’s seat. You watch as he calmly starts the car, the engine slowly humming to life. You’re quiet, only observing as he glances behind him and pulls out of the driveway. Despite the knowledge that his attention must be captured by driving, you swear you catch him glancing at you multiple times. The gestures are so quick and subtle that you eventually write them off. 

You’re silent as Hannibal drives, your thoughts running a mile a minute as you attempt to rationalize your own behavior. Why are you letting this happen? 

“No one has captivated me as you do,” he admits, his voice a swift and firm departure from the uncomfortable silence. The confession clings to the air long after it’s uttered. For several minutes, you’re speechless. 

“That’s… not good,” you settle for saying weakly. Somehow, that’s all you can bear to say. 

“It isn’t,” Hannibal agrees. 

“Will you eat me?” you ask slowly, dreading the answer. He has scarred you before—he could easily do it again. 

“No,” he responds with inexplicable certainty. 

“My lungs are inedible, unfortunately,” you say after a few moments, your fingers jittering restlessly against your thigh.  

“Yes, you made sure of that, didn’t you?” Hannibal remarks, referencing your smoking addiction nonchalantly. You inhale sharply, not expecting him to catch on so easily. But you know better than to give him a verbal response, instead clasping your hands in your lap and letting your gaze wander across the scenery outside. Hannibal’s intended destination quickly becomes clear, as he drives down your street and soon pulls into your driveway. 

The familiarity with which he rounds the car and opens your door for you… The strange air of domesticity settling over this moment… You have to make a concerted effort to unlock your front door instead of thinking about such things. 

“You were here recently,” you recall as you enter your home. Just the other day, in fact. You can’t see Hannibal’s expression behind you, can only hear the slight satisfaction in his voice. 

“Yes,” he confirms easily. Hannibal nudges the door shut behind him, polite as always. (He knows better than to leave fingerprints behind. His hands rest at his sides, despite the strange look on his face that almost suggests he wishes to explore the space further.)

“You stole my knife,” you point out as you make your way through the living room, “and took a shower?” You’re sure your disbelief is obvious. 

“The facilities at Baltimore State Hospital left much to be desired.” Hannibal’s gaze wanders across the various surfaces of your home, as if searching for remnants of you. He’s unknowingly chasing after dust and shadows. This house hasn’t felt like a home for a while now. 

“I’m curious about why you decided to come here,” you hum as you head to your bedroom and start packing your bag. Gods, what the hell are you doing? You need to stop, you need to put your foot down and stay here. You’re— You’re throwing your entire life away. Everything you fought for: your career at the FBI, the relationships you cultivated with your coworkers and peers. It will all go down the drain. You have to fight off your spiraling thoughts, refocusing on the conversation. 

“This isn’t the place you would visit to go unnoticed,” you remark, before realizing the error in your thinking aloud. “Wait. You wanted me to notice, didn’t you?”

A smile. “Yes, I did.”

It’s so quiet, he can probably hear you swallow. You bite the inside of your cheek and reach under your nightstand, grabbing your dagger and securing it to the inside of your boot. You try your best to be subtle about it, but in Hannibal’s presence, it’s virtually impossible to do anything unnoticeable. 

“There’s a dagger in your boot,” Hannibal remarks at some point, as you finish gathering your things. 

“There is, yes,” you answer, not bothering to lie. Hannibal already knows. “Never know when you may need it,” you say somewhat breathlessly, affected by his proximity. You quickly brush past him, slinging your bag over your shoulder. After one last look at the life you built, you step through the doorway and settle on the porch. It almost seems to take Hannibal a few moments to recover from your remark, but eventually he emerges from your house and allows you to lock the door behind you. 

You run your fingertips along your keys, the occasional jab of pain grounding you to the present. It’s hard not to sneak glances at Hannibal as he drives, cataloguing anything and everything that has changed since he was last free. But your attention is quickly captured by another unsettling concept: you have no idea what happens next. Hannibal said you’re going to Italy, but how are you going to get there? Airport security these days is no joke—Hannibal wouldn’t stand a chance at traditional international travel. 

Then again, Hannibal doesn’t really do traditional, you realize as he pulls onto what appears to be a small runway. There’s a jet resting in the center of the space. Your brow furrows as you watch Hannibal exit the car and shake hands with some stranger (evidently the pilot). Then his gaze finds yours and you realize you’ve been lingering by the car awkwardly. 

You’re nervous as you head up the steps and settle into the seat across from Hannibal, tense and restless as you look anywhere but at the man across from you. You’re not even sure just where your fear is coming from: uprooting your whole career, leaving your home and job, flying, being in Hannibal’s company… It’s all nerve-wracking. It’s somewhat of a miracle you haven’t fallen headfirst into a panic attack. (And not for lack of trying. Your thoughts have been a hot mess recently.)

“You seem uncomfortable,” Hannibal says as the jet’s engines roar and the plane takes off. If he were one for offense, you think he’d sound offended. But he only sounds contemplative. Perhaps there’s an echo of something in his voice—something resembling genuine emotion. You quickly suppress the thought.

“I am uncomfortable,” you admit. Nothing about this situation is normal or comforting. You’re on a private flight to Europe with the cannibal you spent years hunting down. As the jet climbs higher in the sky, you’re forced to come to terms with the recognition that you will never be able to return to your old life. “I think… I’ll be uncomfortable for a while.”

“You made your choice,” Hannibal states. Is he trying to reassure you or himself? It’s hard to tell. 

“I did,” you nod. You run your fingers along the elegant upholstery of the seat. You’re not used to such luxury. It seems needless, unnecessary. Yet Hannibal appears at home within it, surrounded by elegance and refinement. You have always wondered, in the dead of night, if Hannibal’s refined tastes double as camouflage. You’re not sure if you’ll ever truly know. 

“I’m grateful,” Hannibal states. Your neck nearly snaps with how quickly you look up at him again. Your hands are shaking, you think. You can’t even begin to acknowledge the implications of that statement. 

“I’ve never flown like this before,” you confess, trying to change the subject. Everything’s making you nervous. You can already feel a pressure migraine coming on, searing through your cheekbones and dripping down your jaw. Your adrenaline from the fight is slowly fading, even in Hannibal’s presence—leaving room for fatigue and exhaustion to set in. Your eyes burn when you blink. You don’t know what’s happening. You don’t know what’s happening, you don’t know—

“It’s relaxing,” Hannibal admits, dragging your attention back to him. “Moreso than a normal flight. And far quicker.”

You take a slow breath in, out. Try to remember why you’re here. What you chose. How you’ll proceed. Why you’ve done this to yourself. You’ve never been the best at handling change, yet here you are: hundreds of thousands of miles in the air, across from someone who can and will tear your throat out without hesitation. You’ve made far better decisions. 

“What will you do in Europe?” you question. You don’t need to elaborate. 

“Survive,” Hannibal responds. 

“I can see you thriving,” you remark, glancing out the window and watching as the jet carves a path through the air. The clouds are a pale grey, unassuming. There’s a powerful sense of foreboding clinging to your skin now. Not only have you abandoned your old life, but you’ve abandoned security, safety. Hell, you’ve abandoned your identity. You can’t walk around with the same name anymore. Any progress you made? Gone. It’s terrifying. And… maybe a little bit exhilarating too. 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal acknowledges. 

“Some people don’t want to survive.” An observation. You should stop there. This conversation is quickly veering into dangerous territory, and you’re the one to blame. You need to stop talking, you need to keep your lips pressed shut firmly enough to hurt, you need your teeth to dig into your gums and rip them to shreds, you need need need need— “Sometimes it has to be fought off… the urge to welcome death.” 

This time, Hannibal’s eyes snap to yours. You’re digging your nails into the skin of your palms. You can’t meet his eyes—don’t want to see the comprehension reflected in them. It must be nice, you think to yourself, to not have all the answers. To still have that kind of wanderlust, that hunger for knowledge without recognizing the consequences. But Hannibal and you are somewhat similar in that regard: you have both been burdened with knowing better. 

“I presumed you were feeling better.” Hannibal’s voice is an anchor to reality and a departure from it all at once. 

You shrug, your tongue locking itself to the roof of your mouth. It’s easy to forget that Hannibal was once your therapist. You used to discuss things like this with him. You used to have someone like that to talk to: someone who understood you. 

“Tell me,” he implores you. 

So you do.

You’re not so deluded as to think it’ll be the same as before—it clearly isn’t. It’s very different. But it’s… good. You don’t have to keep such a close eye on your words. You don’t have to speak in riddles. You don’t have to tiptoe around the Ripper and the conflicted feelings he stirs within you. Because Hannibal and you are on the same level now. You no longer have an advantage—a notion that is both frightening and relieving. 

“You don’t fully trust me,” Hannibal says some time later, when you’ve ripped yourself apart and hastily put the misshapen pieces back together. 

It takes you far too long to respond. “No,” you confess. Although, it’s hardly a confession if you’re both aware of it. 

“Wise of you,” he acknowledges. You laugh at the thought. Wise. You haven’t been truly wise in a long, long time. 

As your exhaustion from the day’s events threatens to overtake you, your thoughts begin to leave your lips unfiltered. “I’d prefer that you didn’t take my other kidney. Just so we’re clear.” Your eyelids are stinging. You’re so, so tired. (A kind of fatigue you know sleep can’t fix.)

“Perfectly,” Hannibal says, far too sincerely for your liking. Then a wry smile rises on his lips. “And I’m afraid you need that one, my dear.” 

“For now,” you mutter darkly. Hannibal chuckles. You don’t think you said anything particularly funny. Then again, Hannibal’s amusement is often confusing. 

You fall asleep too quickly to see the fondness glimmering in his eyes.

You wake some time later to a headache and a prickling feeling across your skin. As your surroundings begin to clarify, you remember yourself. You’re flying to Italy with Hannibal Lecter. And… he’s staring at you intently. 

“Were you watching me sleep?” you ask, not sure if you want to hear the answer. 

“Yes.” Hannibal doesn’t bother to deny it. 

You just sigh.

“I’m surprised you were able to sleep,” Hannibal remarks. The way he utters that statement makes you think he’s preventing himself from saying more. 

“Why?” you eventually ask, taking the bait. 

“We are at our most vulnerable, in our sleep,” he answers. 

“I’m very tired,” you justify. Neither of you believe it. 

“Sure.”

You roll your eyes. Hannibal just smiles. He looks weirdly content—and has appeared that way ever since you first took his hand. Does your company really provide him with so much joy? You can only hope you live long enough to find out.

Your new home in Europe is… more lavish than you were expecting. Hannibal brings you to a stately home, two floors with elegant architecture and arched doorways. It doesn’t rid you of the foreboding in your chest—the bone-deep feeling that something will go wrong. As time passes and you start to acclimate to this new environment, you slowly unlearn that paranoia and wariness. But it takes effort. 

Against all odds, the FBI doesn’t come looking for you. You have to wonder if everyone thinks you’re dead—that you fell into the raging waters beneath the cliffside, as you were fighting Dolarhyde. You’re not nearly as remorseful about the whole thing as you thought you would be. You’re starting to learn that your old life was… Well. It was good. You made it for yourself. But somewhere along the way, you grew bored and bogged down by the same routine that was supposed to comfort you. 

Despite the FBI’s continued search for Hannibal, he lives a life of charismatic luxury here in Europe—as he charms many of the locals. Few are suspicious of him; everyone loves him. It’s somewhat amusing to see Hannibal like this—he seems so much more in his element. He frequently attends art exhibitions and dinner parties. You prefer to remain in the periphery, detached from the luxury and pretense of it all. (As if that will somehow absolve you of your countless sins. As if your crimes can ever be forgiven.)

Strangely enough, Hannibal hasn’t been nearly as active as he was before. He still seems to indulge in the occasional human organ, which you adamantly refuse to acknowledge or participate in. But his appetite here in Italy seems far less voracious than it was in America. While before, it seemed like he was trying to attract attention, now Hannibal seems content with slipping under the radar. Almost as if… he was trying to remain firmly fixed in someone’s sights… and now that he is… 

You shake your head. It’ll do you no good to get distracted by these thoughts. The truth of the matter is that you still feel out of place. Hannibal has created something of a place for himself here. But you… you still feel like an outsider. You’re not sure what it is, exactly. Maybe it’s just the fact that Hannibal’s type of people aren’t really your type of people. Dinner parties aren’t your scene. But it’s hardly proper to complain about having more than you could ever need. Right? Who cares if you lost your old life, your friends, yourself? Because you have Hannibal. And that’s enough. Right?

These thoughts run through your mind as you stare at Hannibal one night, watching him read quietly on the bed. You’re standing in the middle of the room, unable to tear your eyes away from him. He’s captivating. You’ve denied yourself that truth for years now. Hannibal is beautiful. But… beautiful things are often dangerous.

“Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me,” Hannibal recites from his well-loved copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. You blink and look over at him, only to find he’s already looking at you. “I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit.” There’s an accountability lingering in his gaze. This isn’t a mere recitation. There’s a question written between the lines of that statement.

“You’d be surprised,” you mutter wryly before you can stop yourself, before you can hide the strange expression ripping through the skin of your face. You try to move past it, but it’s too late: Hannibal has already fixated on your reaction. You’ve already tripped his snare. 

“Would I be surprised?” Hannibal muses, looking up from his book once more as he focuses on you. Your lips are pressed together firmly as you stare at him. If Hannibal is bothered by your silence, he doesn’t show it. “You have killed before,” he states instead. “Garret Jacob Hobbs, Frederick Chilton, Abel Gideon.”

You try to fight the strange compulsion of honesty brewing in your chest. But you’re fooling yourself. You have never been able to hide from Hannibal for very long. The two of you see each other far too well. And as you rifle through your thoughts, Hannibal just waits in silence. (He waited for years—a few minutes is child’s play.) 

The name tears through your esophagus on its way up your throat, shredding your skin and filling your mouth with the taste of blood and bile. “Clark Ingram.” 

Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow. He looks mildly perplexed. “Who?” You have to fight off a laugh at the unapologetic confusion on his face. It’s hardly obvious, but you’ve grown used to reading between the lines of his expressions. Right now, he seems both bewildered and slightly irritated by his own ignorance. 

“He was a psychiatrist,” you explain slowly, nearly tripping over the words. “He killed over a dozen people, buried their corpses in a field.” Your hands move about restlessly as you try to gather your thoughts, fighting off the nauseating memory of the victims’ bodies buried in a symmetrical line across that grassy plain. 

“And he deserved death,” Hannibal hums. It’s a question, despite the certainty with which he speaks. 

“Yes,” you confirm, your fists clenching at the memory of his cruelty. You remember the horrible pit in your stomach at the sight of the burial grounds he created for his victims. There’s the familiar sting of acid at the back of your throat. “Prison would not have been enough for him.” You feel a familiar prickling in your eyes, tears building. You settle for clenching your jaw and fighting the frustration off. 

“Prison is dehumanizing; it may have been enough.” Ah, and Hannibal’s speaking from experience now, isn’t he? You struggle not to let out a sarcastic remark at his comment. He senses you don’t like that answer. Before you can say anything more—make a dig at Hannibal and his insatiable pride—he’s continuing to speak.

“You wanted to see him die,” Hannibal maintains, almost narrating as he gets up and takes a step closer to you. His book rests entirely abandoned on the bed, his attention captured elsewhere. His eyes almost seem to glimmer, even in the dim light. “At your own hand.” 

“Nothing premeditated,” you clarify. Like it really matters. “I went to speak with one of the stable hands who had been present when they found a victim. He was acting a bit strangely, guarding the corpse of the horse she was found in. They had taken the dead foal from the mother’s womb, leaving it empty. But it wasn’t empty when I arrived.”

“Ingram was in there,” you recall with disgust. You can almost feel the heat swarming around you, the disgusting humidity of the organs wrapping around your form. You’ve had nightmares about it—being torn from the horse’s womb, only to find Hannibal, Gideon, the Dragon, Ingram, Chilton staring down at you. “I cut him out. He lunged at the stable hand, I raised my gun.” If Hannibal notices you’re keeping the description of this “stable hand” infuriatingly vague, he doesn’t comment. You’re grateful—Peter Bernardone is one of the few people you like. (One of the many people you lost, to this seemingly insurmountable distance, to this new life.)

“You shot him,” Hannibal concludes for you. 

You don’t bother answering that. “I thought of you,” you blurt out instead before you can stop yourself. Hannibal’s eyes are glittering dangerously now. You feel like a fish on a hook, speared through the roof of your mouth as you’re slowly dragged to the predator in front of you. “If you would stop me. It was a few years ago,” you recall. “I think you would have.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal acknowledges. A quirk of his lips, another step forward. “I would’ve hated to do it.” 

“I know,” you murmur. You haven’t budged, despite Hannibal’s approach. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”

“He is,” he acquiesces, seeming almost pleased. “There was no one to stop you.”

“No,” you agree after a moment.

“Did he beg for his life?” Hannibal asks lightly. By the tone of his voice, you would almost say the question is casual and innocent. But it is far from innocuous. You know Hannibal is building the scene in his head, imagining the blood splattered at your feet from Ingram’s rapid gestures; the fury running through your veins; the eerie stillness with which you held your weapon. 

“Yes, he begged,” you say, the words ringing through the air with the force of a gunshot. 

“You didn’t listen,” Hannibal smiles. Another jolt of fear. He takes another step, settling before you. There is comprehension, understanding, intrigue, excitement, obsession in his eyes. You should not have told him this. 

“I didn’t listen,” you remember to confirm, when he raises a brow expectantly. 

“You think of him often,” Hannibal asserts, a smirk teasing his lips. 

“The light leaving his eyes, the look on his face… the pit in my stomach,” you answer, the words tasting bitter as you utter them. 

“It made you feel alive,” Hannibal observes.

“...Yes,” you say very quietly. He still hears it, because the distance between the two of you has been rendered inconsequential. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond verbally, but his hand carves a tauntingly slow path through the air. You don’t flinch, although you know you should. When did your body stop reacting to Hannibal warily? When did you grow to accept his intimidating presence? When did you abandon self-preservation and allow yourself to remain pliant beneath his grip? You used to recoil, writhe, fight and escape it. But now, you just freeze. 

Hannibal’s eyes explore your face. His hand rests on your shoulder after a visible moment’s contemplation. 

“I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man should ever give to a friend,” Hannibal admits in the quiet air. Another recitation, yet he utters it with such emotion and nuance that you find it hard to connect to another’s words. 

“I have never been quite sure,” you admit after a moment, swallowing hard. The air feels stiff and warm, heavy and uncompromising. “—what we are.” 

“You said I am an enigma,” Hannibal remembers. “In kind, you are something of a mystery to me.” 

“I can’t be a mystery forever,” you answer, trying to make him understand the fundamental disconnect between you both. “You, maybe. But not me.” You have kept things from Hannibal, but it will only be so long before he rips your ribs apart and lays your soul bare. He will lose interest eventually. 

Hannibal frowns at the statement. “A misguided notion,” he chastises you, his hand tracing the line of your shoulder. Your heart stutters in your chest. Everything around you seems to freeze in anticipation. His hand finds your collarbone, your throat, your jaw. “You have been, and always will be, endlessly fascinating to me.”

Before you can process that statement, Hannibal’s hand slips from your face and he walks away, leaving you to stare after him yet again. How many times have you watched him retreat? Yet… he comes back each and every time. Yet, no matter what you say or do, he returns to you. You had always likened yourself to a puppet on his string… but is he not the same? Is he not tethered to you, in return? 

“You have him on a leash, don’t you?” Abel Gideon had said once. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.” 

You had dismissed the remark at the time, thought it an exaggeration or a joke. But now, as you stare at the neglected book on the bed you share with Hannibal, you have to wonder if it holds a semblance of truth. 

On quiet nights like these, Hannibal loves to remind you that you wouldn’t have been able to evade him for long. He never would have been far, supposedly. In another world—one in which you didn’t abandon your friends and betray the FBI—you would be frightened at the thought. But in this solitary existence shared only between you and Hannibal, the thought is comforting. 

Despite Hannibal’s reassurances, it’s easy to still wonder if you made the right choice. You miss your friends: Beverly; Freddie; hell, even Jack. This life with Hannibal is lavish, luxurious… but it is also lonely. It’s just the two of you: forever bound to each other with unspeakable acts of cruelty. 

…Then again, there are far worse fates.

You still have nightmares, for example. But now, there is someone to wake you from them—someone to hold you in gentle (bloodstained) hands and reassure you that everything will be alright. You still have your doubts, but then you see the way Hannibal looks at you: as if you’re his entire world. You think you will soon be utterly consumed by him. And your worst fear is that you won’t oppose him—rather, you’ll invite him to unhinge his jaw and engulf you. You fear you won’t flee or fight, but instead embrace the pain. 

Because there is nothing else left for you. Because it is just the two of you, bonded to one another through cruelty, pride, pain, antipathy. You are enmeshed in bloodied skin; murky waters concealing unknown depths; fleeting, vicious smiles; and unspoken vulnerabilities lingering in the air. 

Hannibal Lecter defines you. His voice reaches your ears, even in the begrudging silence of your solitude. “I imagine the Ripper feels as if no one understands him,” he told you in his office all those years ago. Sometimes, you can close your eyes and see his expectant gaze; feel those damn armchairs inching closer and closer together. “No one, except, perhaps, you.”

“...That’s not love,” you had said, despite suspecting otherwise. If only you had known just how far you would fall. Just how much of yourself would be lost, in the hunt to decipher someone else. “That’s just… understanding.” 

“To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal stated with certainty. 

“I fear the ordinary mind wouldn’t be able to handle his love,” you reasoned. 

“You’re far from ordinary,” Hannibal argued. 

Looking back, you had known what he meant—but you didn’t want to believe it. Hell, you had known Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper from that fateful night when he found you sleepwalking on the road. Yet, you ignored the facts for so long… and for what? For those circular conversations, late at night in his extravagant office? For those tense moments, when the silence just seemed to drag on forever? For Franklyn Froideveaux’s corpse, neatly gift-wrapped and placed in your office—practically addressed to your attention?  

While Franklyn’s murder may have been the first poem Hannibal wrote for you, it’s certainly not the last. And you soon find yourself devouring the words with rapt attention, profound feelings settling in your chest amidst the phantom wreckage of your old life. 

You haven’t been the same since Hannibal Lecter. The moment you locked eyes in Jack’s office, your destiny had been written in elegant swooping lines. 

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

ENDNOTES:

I am a SLUT for Edgar Allan Poe and Oscar Wilde, y’all. It had to be done. This fic is self-indulgent. Also. I’m very proud of the “I’m no maiden” line, since it works for readers of any gender!!! For anyone who identifies other than female, it’s more literal; but it even works for fem readers, as the line then asserts the reader’s autonomy and independence. Mwahhahahha!

I really hope the conversations between Hannibal & the reader were as confusing, circular, and twisted as I wanted them to be. Sobs. I tried my best to cultivate a persistent tension throughout the entire chapter 🙏

Anyways, wow. Wow. I can’t believe we’re at the end. This is crazy. I’ve greatly enjoyed each and every moment of writing this story, and I’m so honored by all the attention and engagement it’s gotten. All of your likes, reblogs, and comments have kept me going. My life has changed a lot since I first started writing this series, but the one constant is the enjoyment I’ve gotten from writing these fics.

I’m so so grateful for your support. I really hope you enjoyed this series as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave a comment if you did! I’d love to hear it. <3

I’ll still be around, writing reader-insert pieces. Hannibal is never far from my mind, so there will likely be more oneshots to come. And who knows, maybe I’ll get that second ending for this story posted eventually. I have an Abigail oneshot idea too. But no promises!!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you! 🖤🔪

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