Chapter Text
Prologue
“...as a wheel turns smoothly, free from jars, my will and my desire were turned by love, The love that moves the sun and the other stars.”
-Dante, Paradiso
Hannibal pulled himself through the crowd gracefully, smiling widely and tipping his head in greeting as he passed. His fingers were pinched around the stem of a champagne flute, half-consumed after it was risen in the air and sipped in a toast to the newly wedded couple.
He loved weddings. He was not an immovable man, and the romantic in him was always swayed by the lovingly spoken vows between the betrothed. Love was its own sort of poetry, and it created poets out of everyone- even those who were less skilled with words. A language of its own crafted by memories and happiness, diction and cadence found in shared jokes and comfort in the arms of another. The receptions that followed were just as enthralling, rituals strewn together in a culmination of adoration. Slow dances across a tiled floor as the delicate notes of a love song shifted above, speeches and toasts made in honor of the couple.
It was hard not to be swept away in the spirit; in the joy and love and life beginning anew, even if he did not personally know the couple except in name. The bride was the daughter of a former colleague from his days as a surgeon, and he would be remiss to turn down an invitation simply because he had no personal relationship with her.
“Hannibal!” a voice called, and he turned in the direction of it with a smile affixed in place.
“Marshall,” he returned warmly, approaching the man. His cheeks were ruddy, reddened by his indulgence in the open bar and flutes of champagne carted around on silver trays. Glassy eyes crinkled merrily at Hannibal, and he threw his arms outward, one settling around his wife’s shoulder and the other around his daughter’s, pinching the white veil. “Thank you for inviting me to such a lovely event. And congratulations,” Hannibal said, turning to the bride and raising his champagne in a private toast.
She smiled, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks. “Thank you for coming.”
“Hopefully you’ll return the favor soon, Hannibal,” Marshall said in a chortle, eyebrows waggling salaciously. “Have you brought a date with you tonight? A future Missus Lecter?”
His wife, Vivian, pinched her lips, swatting at her husband in a way that was meant to seem playful but belied her embarrassment, eyes narrowing for only a second before they softened. “That hardly seems appropriate,” she muttered, the words terse.
Hannibal chuckled goodnaturedly, lips pulling into a smirk. “I take no offense. And I hope that, should I ever be the one upon the altar, that the one standing opposite me will be well worth the wait,” he said, settling the flute to his lips and taking an indulgent sip. He felt warm, the alcohol a pleasant heat in his belly that spread across his chest and cheeks, the ballroom filled with so many bodies that the air was compressed with their mingled breaths. The music resonated within him, vibrating against the floor and sending tremors up his legs.
“Oh! Have you met Vivian’s friend? Mara? You would simply adore her- she’s a dancer. She went to Julliard, right?” Marshall said, turning to his wife for confirmation and grinning broadly when she nodded. “Yes, Julliard! Fabulous dancer. You might have even seen her perform before. Shall I introduce you?”
Hannibal finished the rest of his champagne, bubbling foam clinging against the sloping walls of the slim bulb. He set it down on the tray of a passing waiter with a quiet thanks, turning back to Marshall with a polite smile. “I am always delighted to meet new people, especially one so talented.”
Marshall chuckled, pulling his arms away from the two women and settling a warm palm between Hannibal’s shoulders, clammy even through the several layers of his formal wear. “Excellent. I’m certain you two will hit it off, you have so much in common,” he said, with all the merriment of a drunk believing he’s bestowed a precious gift onto someone.
‘I sincerely doubt that,’ Hannibal thought bemusedly, offering only a chuckle to abate the inebriated man. He had no reason to dislike Mara, and he was certain she would prove to be an invigorating date for the rest of the evening, but his patience was already waning with the man beside him. The hours had dragged by since the initial ceremony, and most of the guests in attendance were well into the celebration. Heads tossed back in unrestrained delight, intoxicated laughter ringing through the space. He loved weddings, but there was a point where the indulgence often veered into something unrefined. Bordering on lewd and it was quickly reaching that point. Gone was the delicate romance, swiftly being replaced by boorishness.
“Who knows? Perhaps a year from now we’ll be back here for your wedding, hmm?” he said, using the hand settled on Hannibal’s back to clap him fondly. He guided him across the ballroom, pausing every so often to wave or shout something at someone as they passed. He came to an abrupt halt beside a table, bending forward at the waist to speak quietly to a woman seated at the otherwise empty table.
Hannibal glanced down, recognizing the woman in the sage green gown. The widow Lucille Sutcliffe, the wife of a former colleague of Marshall’s, and Hannibal shifted closer, catching the tail end of the conversation.
“...for being here, I know Vivian was always delighted when she saw you at these sorts of events. She’s right over there if you’d like to-”
“Actually, I was just about to get going,” Lucille interrupted, her voice quiet as she grabbed a small purse set on the table before her. “Thank you for inviting me. It was a beautiful ceremony, and your daughter is lovely.” She rose from the chair, folding a knit shawl over her forearm and making a sudden departure, Marshall’s mouth hung open with words he didn’t have a chance to say.
He clamped his lips shut, shaking his head as he turned back to Hannibal. When he next spoke, it was in as discreet a whisper someone as drunk as he could manage, words slurred with the lowered volume. “I didn’t want to invite her what with the whole-” he trailed off, flourishing a hand through the air in a fluttering motion. “But Vivian insisted.”
Hannibal rose a brow and tilted his head to the side, feigning ignorance.
Marshall sighed as if put out, but Hannibal knew he was elated to share his gossip as the man tucked even closer against him to keep the words away from the partygoers. “The word through the grapevine is that the FBI discovered some child pornography while they were investigating Donald's murder. But they kept it all hush-hush. Ill will, speaking of the dead and all that,” he whispered conspiratorially.
Hannibal frowned, muted horror and repulsion pulling at his face. “How awful,” he said. It was wrong, the information distorted in the way rumors tended to be. The FBI had made no discovery, their investigation surface level to preserve the privacy of the victim and his family. It wasn’t until two years later that Lucille herself discovered it, finally summoning the strength to clear out her husband’s home office and finding it neatly tucked away in several books on his shelf. Perhaps he thought it was safer than storing it digitally; where physical evidence could be destroyed, the other was forever encoded in ones and zeros, digitized crimes stored for eternity. He probably didn't account for it being discovered posthumously.
Alana had been particularly distraught when she learned of it, appearing at Hannibal’s doorstep at eleven in the evening. She had spent two hours oscillating between asking if Hannibal knew anything and answering the question for herself, knowing his responses were sealed behind the veil of doctor-patient confidentiality but wanting them anyway. She drank a full bottle of wine in the process, and eventually fell asleep in his guest bedroom.
When she awoke, it was with a headache and blank spaces in her memory where she had forgotten about the praises she sang to the Chesapeake Ripper, unaware that he sat beside her, drinking them up the way she did the expensive bottle of Malbec.
Nothing more had been said on the matter- Will was no longer a patient for either of them and was a nearly five-hour drive away in college, where he lived for the past two years. Whatever had happened was in the past, and he was moving forward, as far away from Baltimore and Wolf Trap as he could manage in the time being.
Marshall cleared his throat, drawing Hannibal’s focus away from his straying thoughts. “Anyway, hardly the sort of thing to talk about at a wedding. Which was why I didn’t want to invite her to begin with-” he trailed off.
Not the sort of thing one discussed at a wedding, but he had a hard time not discussing it.
“Then let us bury the subject,” Hannibal interjected, smiling politely. “I believe you promised to introduce me to a talented young woman?”
Marshall blinked owlishly before sputtering a laugh, eyes crinkling merrily. “Ah, of course! I saw her right over here.” He placed his clammy palm on Hannibal’s back once more, leading him towards the woman in question.
She was beautiful, white teeth bright between her stretched lips that pulled into a wide smile as she leaned forward, extending her hand out to Hannibal. He held it gently, lips brushing across her knuckles. She had the lithe body of a skilled dancer wrapped within a peach-colored dress, bronze skin shimmering beneath the chandeliers, dark hair with golden highlights tossed in loose curls down her back. Marshall introduced them before feigning an excuse to leave, winking salaciously at Hannibal as he brushed beside him.
"Marshall tells me you're a fantastic dancer. Is there anything I might have seen you in?" he asked, smiling softly.
She hummed shyly, cheeks flushed from champagne and the praise. "Most recently I've been performing as Odette in a production of Swan Lake at the Murphy Center. We still have a few more weeks of shows planned," she said.
"An excellent ballet. I've yet to see that particular production, though I must ask which ending your rendition features?"
She beamed, pleased at Hannibal's knowledge of the work and the various iterations. "It's the Mariinsky version of it."
He tutted, eyes glistening teasingly. "I admit the Mariinsky isn't my favorite version, though I'm sure you perform it beautifully."
"Not a fan of happy endings?" she asked coquettishly, eyelashes fanning as she glanced up at him.
"On the contrary, I adore happy endings. Especially when its bestowed upon two young lovers besting the demon who cursed them for so long. But I admit, I do adhere to the school of thought that sometimes a happy ending where one did not originally exist can seem forced, and even threaten the integrity of the story trying to be told," he said with a slow roll of his shoulder. He tilted his head, glancing up at the ceiling- gilded gold with large chandeliers flickering with faux candles, hoping and half-succeeding to capture the warmth of a flame. "Not all happy endings look the same, either. I have a bit of fondness for the one performed by the American Ballet Theater. A more modern reproduction, but one that adheres to the heart of the original while still presenting a happy ending."
She furrowed her brows. "Don't they both die in that one?"
"Yes, but in their sacrifice, the curse is broken, and they ascend to heaven in an embrace. What happier ending can there be than an eternity spent with their beloved? There is so much suffering and anguish in our world, and they've been freed of that, leaving only joy and each other to stretch before them," he reasoned, and she nodded slowly, considering her words as she sipped on her champagne.
"When you put it like that, I see what you're saying," she agreed, setting the empty glass on the table behind her. "I suppose there is a sort of romance about it."
He smiled, eyes sliding to the dance floor beside them, tables scattered in a ring around it. Dresses flourished with twirls, heels clicking against the parquet flooring. "Would you be so kind as to do me the honor of dancing with someone so talented as yourself?" he asked warmly, voice rich and flirtatious as he held his hand out, palm facing skyward.
She accepted Hannibal’s proffered hand with a grin, and he swept her onto the dance floor, where he spent the rest of the evening, drawing peeling laughs and pleased smiles when he demonstrated he was no amateur himself.
~x~
It was nearly two in the morning by the time he returned home, flicking on the lights to his foyer and hanging his coat. He smelled of sweat and champagne, even if he kept his consumption to a safe moderation for the long drive ahead of him. Marshall had insisted he stay, that there were still a few rooms set aside in their block at the hotel just in case anyone lost themselves in the celebration but Hannibal declined.
He preferred being home when he could manage it, preferring the comfort and familiarity of his walls and furnishings to the strange luxuries of a hotel. They felt like another world, and though he didn’t mind traveling on occasion, he found a desire to settle was growing more and more ardent with each passing year. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of attending a wedding and the wistful air that came with it. Love was always shiny and brilliant in the beginning, like a rush of dopamine and oxytocin that would slowly taper and wither away in time. But for now, it was a beautiful thing, so stunning it pulled others into its joy like a black hole.
He made his way into the kitchen, settling the contents of his pocket onto the steel counter. Keys, wallet- a neatly folded floral napkin with Mara’s name and number written across the soft outline of peonies. He pulled a glass from the cupboard, striding towards the fridge but came to a stop with his hand grasping the handle, realization dawning on him that something in the home wasn’t quite right. There was a soft breeze fluttering against his cheek like a breath, the smell of the outside- thick with the scent of rain and freshly turned soil in his garden. A trickling sound filled his head, bouncing around his skull as his eyes fell to the sink, a steady stream of water dripping into the basin below. He glanced upwards to the window above it. The latch was broken from the force of being pushed open, and there was mud smeared on the windowpane from a dirty shoe- a trail of it smeared to his floors, still wet.
He set the glass back on the counter as noiselessly as he could manage, reaching out to the knife block beside him and pulling out a recently sharpened blade. Any distinctive smell of an intruder had been washed away by the smell of rain, and he turned slowly- gaze held to the floor where the muddy footprints came to a stop at the door to his pantry, a sliver of light cutting through where the door was not fully pressed into the frame.
He pinched his lips, frowning at the sight.
In all his years in this life- in his carefully maintained facade of normalcy- he had never come under suspicion, yet the sight of his pantry door pulled open was an unnerving one. The broken latch on the window and messy path of dirt and mud spoke of an intruder within his home that- whether or not he was searching for something in particular or just looking for valuables- had made a grave mistake. They would not leave his home as easily as they entered in, and he crept slowly to the pantry, pulling the door open and glancing around the small space.
Golden light fell on the shelves from the above fixture, illuminating the emptiness and the first few steps to his basement, hidden door tossed aside.
The muscles in his jaw clenched at the sight of it, and he closed the pantry behind him before descending down the steps. He was familiar enough with the stairs by now to know how to walk when he wanted to make as much noise as possible- a terrifying descent, the echoing sounds building upon the fear of whatever unfortunate soul found themselves strung from the ceiling or strapped to a surgical table. He made certain to step to the far end, avoiding the croaking middle that was beginning to wear with use, sinking inward. He was silent as he came to the basement, the pale, white light buzzing noisily above him and the fan of the refrigeration unit churning with enough sound that he would not be heard.
There was someone in the center of the room, back towards him and he considered a slow approach, sneaking up on the intruder with his knife ready to strike before he caught sight of the curls hidden beneath the tied cap and lowered the blade to his side.
“Will?” he asked, startling the young man who turned to him with a gasp, eyes wide.
He had not seen him since he first left for school- his summer break spent working multiple jobs to offset the building debt left in the wake of his studies. The time spent apart left a hollow ache of loneliness, though not as painful as it had once been. There was a promise with this separation, an unspoken agreement to return when time allowed for it. Will was not taken from his life, simply displaced for the time being- settling into his newfound freedom and opportunity and he could be patient knowing it was temporary.
Two years since they had last seen each other or even spoke, and yet it was as if no time had passed at all. A warmth settled in him as the eyes- a gray with shimmering strands of green in this light- softened in recognition at Hannibal, the tension unspooling in his shoulders. He ducked his head, embarrassed to have been caught after breaking and entering the home and it was only then that Hannibal saw him more clearly, the surprise at his presence swiftly giving way to concern. Will's lip was split, a cut dividing the swollen bottom lip in half and the start of a bruise was blossoming under his eye, yellow unfurled like a rose across his cheek.
Hannibal narrowed his eyes at the sight and descended down the final steps to stride across the floor. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, reaching a hand outward. His fingers curled around Will's chin in a loose clasp and he turned his face gently to examine the bruise, pleased to see there were no obvious signs of an orbital fracture. He didn’t move his hand, however, and his fingers slowly caressed the skin of Will's jaw, rough from the facial hair that was growing in more evenly now. He looked older with the manicured hair. Gone was the wide-eyed and surly boy who averted gazes and hid behind the frames of his glasses, curls brushing over his brow. He was replaced by a young man with broadening shoulders and the firm lines of his jaw cut out by the trimmed beard.
Will's lips twitched and pulled into a small smile that Hannibal returned. But it faltered, and Will averted his gaze as he cleared his throat to speak. “I tried knocking, but you weren’t home. So I sort of helped myself.” He grimaced, looking rueful as he glanced behind him, shirking free of Hannibal’s touch and it was only then he realized Will was wearing a smock, blood-smeared and staining his torso.
His gaze finally pulled away from him, settling on the body spread on the table behind them, blood and bruises mottling the skin. Blood matted the once blond hair, and the back of the head was crumpled inward, collapsing under the force of something hard and blunt. Glassy eyes stared unseeing at the mounted hooks above him, lips parted in a frozen breath, forever held in time.
Will swallowed, turning to glance back at Hannibal. “I...may have done something impulsive.”