Chapter Text
Hannibal sat across from Will, legs crossed at the knees and body language neutral. They were on a private charter to Lithuania, though Hannibal had no idea why.
The day had started off like usual, with Hannibal cooking breakfast and Will waking Abigail. They’d eaten together, then parted ways for work. Hannibal had dropped Abigail off at school and sketched Will for three out of four of his morning appointments. It wasn’t until he’d driven home for lunch and seen Will’s Jeep in the drive that the day went sideways.
Will had packed a single backpack for them both and called the jet. He had their passports in his pocket and the swirling waters of turmoil in his eyes. Hannibal had asked about the occasion—the suddenness of it; the need—but Will had only shaken his head.
“Trust me,” he’d said, and Hannibal did.
Into Will’s Jeep, over to the airport, and into the sky. Trust, trust, trust. A text chain with Matthew where he agreed to watch over Abigail with no clear time limit and the pilots confirming that there was no scheduled flight home. Trust, trust. Watching Will stare out the window, tears glittering in aurora borealis eyes, and not asking anything.
Trust.
When their plane finally touched down, the sun had finished making its rounds. Time zone shifts pushed their two AM landing to nine, a new day dawning on a sleepless night. Hannibal exited the aircraft to find an unfamiliar airport, and Will took his hand. They glided through both security and customs, then to the parking lot outside. A nondescript grey sedan awaited them, its driver bothering only to question if they were the Lecters before handing over the key.
Will tossed their luggage in the backseat, then opened the driver’s side door. Hannibal settled into the passenger’s seat, hoping to see a GPS. Will started the car, apparently having already memorized the necessary directions, and started driving.
“Will—”
“It was a peat bog.”
Hannibal blinked at the window, scenery still unfamiliar, then at Will. “Beg pardon?”
“The color stuck out to me first, then the texture. Rich, dark browns clumping together and moss that grew in tufts. And I could’ve brushed it off as childish renderings, but your sketches are so realistic and your memory is so good that I just…” Will shrugged, shoulders tense and grip on the wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He glanced at Hannibal, eyes a glistening, tumultuous sea. “It wasn’t a swamp. It was a peat bog.”
Pieces of the puzzle started to click together on the farthest reaches of Hannibal’s subconscious, too wild and painful to be true. “Are you taking us to a peat bog?”
“No.” Will flipped on the blinker and stared out the windshield, achingly resolute. “I’m taking us to a morgue.”
The world tilted on a new axis. Hannibal’s heart beat in his ears. He opened his mouth to say something, but his throat felt too dry.
It occurred to him, then, that there had been bottles of water on the plane, and he should have grabbed one. Hannibal knew better than most just how uncomfortably hot Lithuanian summers could be. He should’ve anticipated needing a drink once they left the airport and prepared for the occasion.
Why hadn’t Will let him prepare?
Will, as if reading Hannibal’s mind, reached into the back and snagged a water bottle from the side pouch of his pack. He handed the bottle to Hannibal without looking and said, “We’ll be there in ten.”
“It’s been thirty years.”
“It’s a peat bog.”
Will said it like it meant something, and perhaps it did. Hannibal opened his bottle, normally sharp mind blank, and took a drink. Will waited, clearly expecting something that Hannibal would not—could not—give. A minute of silence stretched into two, then three, and eventually Hannibal had to ask, “Why is that important?”
“It’s—” Will pushed out a breath through his teeth. “Shit. Okay. Um, when peat rots, it releases humic acid. The pH levels are—fuck. Um, they’re kind of like vinegar, and—”
“She could be preserved.”
Will grimaced, giving face to the troubled emotions inside Hannibal’s own chest. “Preserved isn’t the best word for it. I mean, technically she could be, but they’re um… Jesus Christ, how do I say this? They’re called bog bodies.”
A frown tugged at Hannibal’s lips, but not for the crude terminology. For the they. It implied that what’d happened to Hannibal’s sister was not a singular occurrence; their trauma nothing special. She was just a girl, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he just a boy, running irreparably late.
Rather than voicing any of that, Hannibal asked, “How did you find her?”
Will relaxed his shoulders, but it was a purposeful thing. An attempt to relieve stress. “I’ve been paying a team to dredge the peat bogs between your family’s castle and the orphanage.”
Hannibal’s thoughts slowed, and the fact that Will wouldn’t be the first point of contact for any naturally discovered remains finally clicked into place. Anger reared its head only for indignation to knock it to the side. Hannibal seethed. “How long?”
“Fourteen months.”
Betrayal laced itself through Hannibal’s ribs. He hid his flinch in a snarl, his hurt in a well-placed gibe. “Funny how you have no problem interrogating me about my extracurricular activities and any bodies which may impact our future together, but when it comes to your own search for corpses, no details need be shared.”
Will turned his head, pain a gorgeous veil. “You don’t mean that.”
“Your hypocrisy has nothing to do with what I believe—”
“You’re angry, Hannibal. Not obtuse. Don’t threaten our relationship unless you mean it.”
Hannibal pursed his lips, and Will pulled into the parking lot. Neither man apologized.
Moments passed in terse silence before Will quietly conceded, “I didn’t want to tell you until it was a sure thing. In case it was never a sure thing.” He turned off the car and motioned out the windshield, to a drab brick building where Mischa never should have stepped foot. “It’s a sure thing now.”
“It could still be a mistake. A misidentification—”
“They compared the body against your DNA. She’s a match.”
Denial formed a tight ball in Hannibal’s chest, but the truth snuggled deeper. It whispered that Will was brash and impulsive, yes, but he was also cautious. And if there was even a sliver of a doubt in Wills mind, he would’ve traveled across the world to personally verify before even thinking of dragging Hannibal in. That, in turn, meant the body in the morgue really did belong to Hannibal’s sister, and no matter what Hannibal did or didn’t do, the story of Mischa was about to come to an end.
Will reached across the center console to touch the back of Hannibal’s hand, endlessly gentle. Hannibal veered away from him, gripping the water bottle instead. His thoughts raced and tumbled. His hands felt clammy and cold. He meant to defend himself again—to find some new reason why this was ridiculous and they should just go home—but what actually came out was, “They don’t look open.”
“That’s because they’re not. The morgue shut down a few years ago, and the mortician’s being paid under the table, just like the team who searched for Mischa.” Will tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, restless energy adding tension to his posture and a furrow to his brow. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do with the body, but Maryland’s strict about its burial laws. I didn’t want to take any chances.”
The knowledge that Will had genuinely thought this through bumped into the idea that this shouldn’t be happening at all, and in a rare moment of indecision, Hannibal asked, “What do we do now?”
“We go inside. The mortician will point us in the right direction, then fuck off until I tell him to come back. If you want me in there with you, I’ll be there. And if you want me to fuck off right along with him, I’m gone. Whatever you want, whatever you need: I’m here for it.”
Hannibal’s pride towered, insisting he pretend confidence, but against the weapon of Will’s empathy, it was useless. He stared out the window and said, “I don’t know what I want.”
“That’s okay. We can wait here as long as you’d like. We can turn around and find a hotel, then come back tomorrow or the next day or the day after that.”
The words Mischa isn’t going anywhere went unsaid, but Hannibal heard them anyway. Sorrow pushed a needle through the thick muscles of his heart, pain sharp and thin. He’d kept his sister waiting for over thirty years. Was he really so brazen as to deliberately add days to the tally?
Hannibal’s hand found the door handle without his permission, and the answer was no. They exited the vehicle, Hannibal’s water bottle lost to the floorboards, and crossed the lot.
A tall, blonde woman met them at the entrance, and Hannibal identified her as a doctor by the patented, “I’m sorry for your loss,” look on her face. She was used to delivering upsetting news, and her condolences were skin-deep.
She asked, “Are you the patrons?” in heavily accented English.
Will nodded. “That’s us.”
“Right this way.” She led them into the building, which looked exactly as abandoned as Will had claimed. As they walked, she said, “I’d first like to offer my condolences. I know it’s been a long time, but the loss of a loved one is a pain unlike any other. Whatever you feel today, it’s valid.”
Hannibal’s “Thank you,” sounded clipped, even to his own ears.
The woman glanced back, approving rather than affronted. She didn’t want to condole him any more than he wanted to be condoled. “As requested, there has been no autopsy, identification has been limited to a DNA comparison, and the only file on record is physical.” She turned left, down a dimly lit hall. “The file containing her information and any observations made by either myself or the extraction team is on the table next to her.” They stopped in front of a wooden door with a frosted window pane. “Once you enter this room, I’ll leave the premises. If you require my services again, you need only call.”
Silence trickled in as she waited to see if they had any questions. Will said, “Thanks. We’ll keep that in mind.”
The woman dipped her head in a curt nod. She left.
Hannibal stared at the door while Will stared at Hannibal, and it was the ridiculousness of his own bone-deep reluctance that eventually got Hannibal moving. He’d seen corpses before (made corpses before) and Mischa had been dead for more than three decades. Having her body here wouldn’t change anything. Hannibal turned the knob and pushed the door inward.
A shriveled, mummified child laid prone on a silver table, arms at her sides and legs outstretched. Her head was turned to the side, her eyes black holes. The skin on the backs of her limbs had been eaten away, revealing bone, and her stomach was a hole, but the rest of her had been preserved. Her skin and remaining organs were shriveled and brown. Dark blonde hair flowed down past her shoulders. The body had been cleaned, the hair washed and brushed, and for a moment, Hannibal saw a tableau.
The papers would call it Mischa’s Sacrifice. She’d be laid on a silver platform—a pedestal rather than an autopsy table—and stadium lights would shine down on her from every angle. For the nutrients she had given Hannibal were the only reason he’d lived, and the love she had showered upon him was the only reason his staccato heart had found its rhythm.
Tears burned his eyes and blurred his vision. Pride for her beauty mixed with sorrow for her death, and his breath caught in his lungs. He broke down sobbing.
Will rubbed warm circles onto his back and reminded him to breathe, but it felt a world away. Where Hannibal stood, there was only him, and there was only Mischa.
The sister he’d failed to protect.
The meal he’d failed to finish.
The world swayed. Hannibal didn’t remember crossing the room, but he stood next to the table. The metal was cool to the touch, Mischa’s skin tough and leathery. He stroked the backs of his fingers down the curve of her cheek, and if there was ever a time to believe in god, this was it.
Hannibal wanted to beg for mercy and to bargain. He wanted to switch places with his sweet angel and allow her to experience the joys of life in his stead. He asked for all of this, over and over again in his head, insisting that if he’d had just one minute longer or even retroactive knowledge of her impending demise, he’d have done it better. He’d have loved her more freely. Treasured her more intensely. Been grateful for her every waking breath.
God, of course, didn’t respond.
Hannibal held onto the table as his legs gave out, then lowered his knees to the floor. His chest shuddered with every hyperventilating breath, and his throat ached from crying. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he acknowledged thirst and thought again of the water bottle he’d left in the car. Will joined him on the floor, one strong arm around Hannibal’s waist and forehead pressed to Hannibal’s shoulder. There was nothing Will could say or do to help, and he knew it.
“She—she was—” Hannibal sobbed harder.
“I know.”
“I should’ve never gone into town. I should’ve stayed—should’ve—should’ve protected her.”
“If you’d stayed, the soldier would’ve gotten you both.”
Hannibal turned his head, and Will straightened. Hannibal buried his face in Will’s shirt. Will hugged him tight. He didn’t know how long he cried, but his abs hurt from the strain of it. The gentle shaking of Will’s shoulders told Hannibal his husband was crying, too. Will was empathy at its finest and empathy at its worst, but Hannibal, at least in that moment, didn’t care. Whatever pain Will felt was plebian in comparison to Hannibal’s own. Whatever Will thought he understood, he didn’t.
When Hannibal’s tears finally ran dry, he felt empty. Empty like his emotions had seeped out with his tears. Empty like Mischa, with her organs in his belly. He leaned against Will because the motivation required to lift his own body was too much to muster, and he stared at the dirty linoleum floor.
Will said, “Do you want me to go get your water?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this while we were in America?”
Will traced Hannibal’s vertebrae and kissed his scalp. Hannibal laid close enough to feel the beat of Will’s heart against his ear. Will’s voice didn’t waver as he said, “If I’d told you, you wouldn’t have come. You’d have left her here, the same way you left Lady Murasaki and your parents and your childhood home, and that big hole she left in your heart would never even get the chance to heal.”
Hannibal ground his teeth together, defensive from the offset. “I would’ve come.”
“No. You wouldn’t have. It hurts too much, and you’re too protective of yourself. You’d have thought about it, for a time, then had someone bury her here on a family property. And if we ever visited, it would be to a grave, headstone carved by strangers and body grassed over with no real comprehension of what lay beneath.”
Hannibal tried to pull away, but Will only held him closer. Turmoil pumped through Hannibal’s body, and with the truth of Will’s words came anger. Who was Will to say that Hannibal had needed to see this? Who was Will to decide what sorrows Hannibal should have to endure? If Hannibal had wanted to hide away—to leave Mischa in the broken depths of Lithuania where he’d first lost her—that was his choice.
Hannibal pushed Will away again, this time with enough force to separate them. He stared Will down, for once hating the collar on his darling’s throat and the compassion in aurora borealis eyes. “You had no right.”
“No. But I did it anyway.”
“You—”
“We can still bury her here. We can bury her legally, at your castle, or take her back to the bog. I have the coordinates. We can also take her home.” Will held out a hand. Hannibal didn’t accept. Will continued, “Our forever home is almost finished. We’ve got a few walls left to paint, and it needs furnishing, but that’s it. And there’s a great fishing spot on the property, one with a willow nearby. If you wanted, I was thinking we could bury her beneath it. Then you could sit with her while you sketch, and she could be surrounded by her family.”
Hannibal had thought he’d cried himself dry, but the tears returned. Softer this time. “It isn’t fair.”
“It was never fair.” Will dropped his hand and stood, long legs taking him to a nearby table. He picked up a thin manilla folder and a little plastic bag, then strode back over. He sat cross-legged on the floor next to Hannibal, laid the file on the linoleum, and held out the bag.
A little plastic bracelet lay crumpled at the bottom of the bag, pink and yellow beads looking exactly as cheap and exactly as pretty as the first time Hannibal had seen them. Any doubts he’d harbored about the identity of the body cracked open, and a fresh, subtle kind of sadness flowed out. He reached up, fingers trembling, and accepted the jewelry.
“I had the excavation crew search for it nearby. And when they found it—when they cleaned it up and the picture looked like it’d come straight out of your sketchbook—I knew we had to come.” Will ruffled his own hair, looking as drained as Hannibal felt. “I’m sorry.”
Hannibal shook his head and hugged the bracelet to his chest. He didn’t have it within him to tell Will that it was alright, just as he didn’t have it within him to give thanks. The agony of his loss, even thirty years after the fact, was too fresh to waltz past, and the unfairness of it all bequeathed fury.
Will had brought Hannibal to Lithuania so that Hannibal could heal, and he’d stayed by Hannibal’s side so that Hannibal could have an outlet. Someone to blame as he worked through his sorrows. Someone who could take any lashes Hannibal saw fit to bestow while gifting only love in return.
They both knew Hannibal’s anger would fade until only sorrow remained and that love would eventually patch the damage. They both knew Hannibal would look back on this one day, grateful for Will’s intervention, and give his thanks in a sonnet. But for the moment (the hour, the week, the month), all he had was grief.
Hannibal leaned against Will once more, angry at everything and nothing, and soaked in his husband’s comfort. Will’s hand returned to Hannibal’s back, gentle as ever. Neither of them spoke, but a decision was reached, and after thirty long years of longing and regret, the path to closure opened.
Through the muck of the bog, the orphanage, the in-laws. Across continents, careers, and all measures of morality. Into their backyard, next to a babbling brook and beneath the sunshine dappled grass at the base of a willow tree.
Two Lecters had boarded a plane to Lithuania that morning. Three would fly home.