#a-kent

Both men focus on the present and then Will looks away, too fast, swallowing down a guilty flicker of want.

“These are not the circumstances I had planned for, but nonetheless. This is for you, Will”. He feels Hannibal’s gaze drilling through, pinning him like a butterfly.

“Tell me that this is some kind of a joke”, vowels drawling, bone-tired.

“If that’s the case, humour me”.

Incredibly, Will finds himself walking to the kitchen counter. The present, because that’s the only thing the box could be, pretty in pink and reds, looks like the textbook definition of a “gift”. Will finds it unbearably unfair, so he crumbles the ribbon and tears the paper to shreds with clawed fingers. He finds the edges of the thin cardboard box and meeting Hannibal’s eyes he pulls, until the white insides emerge from within shredded reds.

There is something too close to approval in the way that Hannibal leans closer.

Will picks up the mug and it feels unnaturally warm in his hands.

“At least it is not a teacup”, Will says, eyes unfocused.

“Not a teacup,” Hannibal agrees.

“I am tired. So please tell me what’s the metaphor this time”.

“You drink coffee. And you enjoy decorative figurines of dogs”.

“A border collie?”

“I thought the breed would not have mattered”.

“So you bought me a mug with a decorative image of a dog on it”.

“So it would seem”. And then, subversive, “Happy Birthday Will”.

Will stays silent for a while, tracing the painting of the collie absent-mindedly. To his untrained eye it looks nice. Simple. Homey. There is no question whether it would fit right in next to his mis-matched pots and pans, his untuned piano, his dog figurines.

And then he feels another wave of vertigo hit him hard, and before he has a chance to finish spasming warm, strong hands close around his.

“Please allow me to set up the guest room for you. It will only take a few minutes, and you can drive to Jack first thing in the morning.”

The sickly spinning in Will’s slows down, all senses zeroing in on Hannibal’s hand around his own. He nods.

By the time Hannibal walks in the kitchen the next morning, Will is gone. And so is the bone-white mug, leaving behind the shredded wrappings in a neat little pile. Hannibal cleans up but a long strip of ribbon finds its way to his dressing gown’s pocket. Long hours later, as he is about to turn in for the night, his fingers re-discover the ribbon. Walking to the bookcase, he touched some spines, perused. He picks up a copy of Kerouak’s On the Road, leafs through the pages and then, maybe finding some words he was searching for, Hannibal slips the slip of ribbon between two pages and lets the book close around it.

Less than two weeks later, Hannibal seeks Randal Tier on Will.

————————————

Will breaks into Hannibal’s house for the first time two weeks after being released from the hospital. He only makes it to the kitchen before the sense of homecoming chases him out, stomach violently spasming in acid-white pain.

He is back, and then back again, easily side-stepping the occasional police officer. It takes a few angry battles before he melts into the floor, before he lets the house console him.

Abigail doesn’t judge. She doesn’t tell him that his obsession is becoming pathological and she doesn’t pity him. He loves her all the more for that.

And does he feel closer to her in there! She guides him through rooms, talking to him about breakfasts and dinners and piano lessons. She tells him what she really thinks of the gaudy paintings. They leaf through books and notes - the ones that pick her interest - but mostly seat, breathe, resting their wounds in the nest that born them.

“I am so cold”. They must have been seating in the study for hours, the gloom daylight long gone. “Make us some hot chocolate?”

And Will walks to the kitchen, steps steadier now that the pull of scar tissue has become as natural as breathing. He is no longer scared by how comfortable he feels surrounded by the gutted counters and dusty floors; his blood has seeped into the cracks and airborne, claimed the walls. It belongs to him now.

So he rummages through cupboards and drawers looking for instant cocoa, set on his fool’s quest. Will has the hardest time denying Abigail.

And then he stills. Fingers wrapped around bone-white ceramic, he brings the mug closer to his face but he doesn’t need to see. He can feel the fit against his palms, sturdy material just-a-bit-too warm for an inanimate object. There is no light in the house but the faint glow of the city behind matted windows. He can just make out the painted silhouette of a mutt, speckled gold and brown. There is some Shepherd in the mix, Will thinks, squinting, and maybe some Chow - which company would choose to decorate their mugs with mutts? And then “Oh”.

Abigail tugs on his sleeve, eyes bright. “See?”

And Will sees, still for long moments until Abigail speaks up again, “It is time Will”, and Will places the hand-painting mug in his backpack, softly, tenderly, next to the tightly wrapped linoleum knife, before they leave Hannibal’s kitchen for the last time.

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