Chapter Text
She remembers all too clearly how the silence finally breaks.
The sound of the rain thudding against the windows and battering at the roof is so constant, so relentless, it takes her a few seconds to realize that the phone is ringing. The faint memory of a different phone ringing in a different kitchen keeps her rooted to the floor with dread and anticipation as Hannibal answers the phone.
"Hello?" A polite nothing, but the word seems clipped, expectant.
Abigail watches him closely, vainly hoping for some change in his expression or demeanor that would let her in, let her know what was going on behind the facade.
For once, she is not disappointed.
A sudden flood of indistinct, frantic murmuring flows from the receiver, and Hannibal goes completely still, muscles coiling and stiffening. He listens silently as the caller keeps talking, pouring out words drowned out by distance and the rain, and she keeps watching, anticipation lessening and dread growing.
His eyes, darker than usual in the low light of the kitchen, flick over to her where she stands frozen at the kitchen island and hold her gaze. Staring into them, the first word that leaps to Abigail’s mind is indecision, and that startles her and scares her.
Whatever could rattle Hannibal Lecter could bring the world crumbling down.
Just as quickly, his gaze shifts. "I know," he says quietly, cutting off the noise at the end of the line. "I know everything, Will."
Her eyes widen at the old, but familiar name.
"Where are you now?" he asks. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have thought his voice almost urgent.
A pause. Hannibal seems to weigh his words, scales hanging in the air. Then: "Go to where the Ripper made his gallery. Tell me what you see."
With that, he hangs up the phone with a click. She inhales unsteadily, the pounding of the rain echoing the blood pumping in her ear.
"Abigail."
The rest of her breath sucks in with a quiet gasp.
"Go upstairs and pack your things." His voice is calm, as if trying to soothe a spooked animal. "One bag only. Take only what you cannot live without."
"What’s going on?" she asks, unable to keep the trepidation out of her voice. "Where are we going?"
Hannibal finally turns to her, his face carefully neutral again. "The FBI has issued a warrant for Will’s arrest," he says simply. "We are leaving before they decide to turn their attention here."
"What about Will?" she presses, heart climbing in her throat.
"We are meeting him." The corners of his mouth soften; it’s the closest thing to a real smile she’s seen on him, but there is still a tightness, a pain to it. "It is important that we remain together. Look after each other." The smile does not reach his eyes, dark and unfathomable. "Protect each other."
She doesn’t know what to say to that. If she’s being honest with herself, she doesn’t think that Hannibal knows what it means to truly protect someone — not out of self-interest or curiosity, but affection.
"Go and pack, Abigail." His voice is a little firmer now. "We mustn’t keep Will waiting."
It is the most vulnerable she has ever seen Will, even when his mysterious sickness clawed at his brain and left him helpless in the wake of his extreme empathy. His expression when she steps out of the shadows inside the abandoned observatory is jarring, and for a moment, she is inexplicably terrified before she realizes that it is not anger on his face upon seeing her, but pure shock.
He stares at her for a long time, the pallor of his skin and the rain streaking down his face from his soaked hair gleaming in the dim chamber; in this lighting, he looks almost unchanged from when she last saw him: sweating, shaking, snarling. But he doesn’t look threatening now. He just looks lost.
Tearing his gaze away from her, Will looks aside at Hannibal, almost frantic, and it suddenly strikes her that he thinks she isn’t there in the flesh: just another hallucination conjured by his fractured mind.
Hannibal nods.
Will looks back, his eyes widening and shining as he blinks back tears. "Abigail?" he whispers, choked.
She tries to smile, but the cold and her stress makes it weak. "Hi, Will."
He crosses to her and wraps his arms around her, pulling her into an unexpectedly strong hug. After a moment, she awkwardly curls her arms around him and leans her head against his chest, feeling his panicked heartbeat slow and stabilize. She suddenly realizes that this is the first human contact besides Hannibal she’s had in months, and her fingers dig into his wet coat, clinging to it like a lifeline.
"How?" he asks, his voice cracking. "How?"
"The teacup I’ve shattered has come together." Hannibal’s voice is almost too even, too calm. "A place has been made once more in the world for Abigail. A place has been made for all of us to be together."
Abigail feels cold fingers against the side of her head and colder air as her hair is moved away from where her ear used to be, and she hears Will’s quiet, but sharp intake of breath. He loosens his hold on her to look at Hannibal, his gaze hardening.
"Now is not the time for explanations," Hannibal says before Will can open his mouth. "By now, the FBI will have arrived at your house and Jack at mine, and they will see that we have fled. We must act quickly."
"And I suppose you have a plan?" There is a dryness to his words — something of the Will she remembers — but more of a quiet bitterness.
Hannibal approaches them, and Abigail notices a strange gleam in his eyes. "I am always prepared, Will."
He moves frighteningly fast. In an instant, Will is yanked away from her and a choked scream escapes her throat as Hannibal’s arms snake around Will’s waist and neck and hold him fast, lifting him nearly off his feet.
"Forgive me, Will," Hannibal murmurs, his voice still measured and calm even as his arm presses down on Will’s neck. "I can no longer take chances. Fool me once —"
Gasping, eyes wide with sudden panic, Will kicks wildly and tries to pry Hannibal’s hands off of him, but his struggling soon becomes more feeble until he goes almost completely limp, slumping backwards. Hannibal does not let him fall, instead bending down with Will’s body still cradled in his arms and then, almost gently, laying him down on the tile floor.
Heart leaping into her throat, Abigail drops to her knees besides Will and reaches out for one of his wrists, but Hannibal’s fingers find Will’s pulse before hers can.
"Don’t worry, Abigail. He will be all right." He straightens up, eerily casual for a man who just choked someone into unconsciousness.
"I don’t understand," she says, and she hates how very small and childish her voice sounds. "I thought you said once that Will could be trusted."
Hannibal pauses, his eyes shifting away from her and back to Will’s still, pale face, and something cracks in the mask he wears when he does.
"Once Will could be trusted," he agrees. He does not make eye contact, his gaze still fixed on Will, and this minor breach of etiquette surprises her. "But you and I both know that Jack Crawford cannot be."
She swallowed. Considering his juvenile attempts at mashing the gory puzzle pieces of Garret Jacob Hobbs’ crimes together, she hadn’t thought the head of the BAU would be as large of a threat to her, but somehow, even with all his bluster and fumbling, Crawford had glimpsed the piece she’d tried so hard to hide from everyone — Dr. Bloom, Hannibal, but Will most of all.
How had he felt when he realized that the daughter of the man he’d killed, the daughter he’d tried to look after and protect like she was his own child, should have gotten one of those nine bullets in her chest?
It comes to her then. "Will and Agent Crawford are working together? To — to do what? To — catch you?" she finishes, disbelieving.
Then again, there were all the other serial killers the FBI had sought in vain, all the other monsters in human’s clothing; those two had caught them all, sooner or later. The Chesapeake Ripper — no, Hannibal Lecter, she thought — was just the one who’d held out the longest; she didn’t have any trouble imagining that Agent Crawford was more than a little frustrated about that particular failure.
But Will?
Hannibal exhales, a small puff of breath turning cloudy in the frigid air, that same fragmented expression still on his face. Overhead, rain continues to thud down on the roof of the observatory.
"I thought you said that it was important for us to remain together," she persists. "Look after each other, protect each other —" Her voice breaks.
"It is," he says, taking her hand, the one that had fallen by Will’s limp wrist, and guiding her to her feet. His hand is warm with life, but she sees that the shards of his mask have reformed into one of deathly cold determination. "And we will."
She does not move. Her gaze is still on Will.
"I am on my honor to look after you, Abigail," he says, almost gently, as he clasps her hand in both of his and looks her in the eye. His maroon eyes are black and glittering in the low light. "You must look after me as well. You must trust me."
Abigail can’t argue with that. After all, what choice does she have — really?
Better the devil I know, I suppose, she thinks morbidly as Hannibal lets go of her hands and bends down to gather up Will in his arms.
Outside the rain-streaked window, the night rushes by in a steady stream of dark and rain. Within, in the back seat of Hannibal’s Bentley, Abigail’s eyelids flutter open and closed, but her racing thoughts don’t let her fall asleep.
She doesn’t know where they’re going, and she doesn’t want to ask. Probably somewhere by plane, judging by the single bag resting on her lap (no need to check luggage with only a carry-on), but Hannibal had changed the license plate on the Bentley before they left, so they probably had a ways to go by car first.
For a brief moment, she wonders where they’ll go, and a whirlwind of glossy travel brochures and National Geographic photographs twirls through her mind. Europe, most likely — any one of those cities hundreds of years old that are only ever referred to by their name because everyone knows what country they’re in. In any case, she can’t see Hannibal in his three-piece suits anywhere south of the equator — or anywhere more than an hour from an opera house or a symphony hall.
And then her thoughts turn to Will, and she thinks that someone like him, who can see so keenly into the hearts and minds of others, would never be comfortable in the big and bright cities Hannibal loves. Maybe in a town too small to go on a map, or somewhere in the countryside where the trees outnumbered the people. She imagines that after all he’s seen, all he’s been, he’d like the quiet.
She doesn’t think about where she’d like to go. It’s been too long since she truly lived anywhere — thanks to them.
Abigail’s unfocused gaze goes to the front of the car, the washed-out headlights illuminating the deserted road outside and throwing everything inside into shadows. Hannibal is driving just over the speed limit, his hold on the wheel relaxed. Will is buckled into the passenger’s seat, his head leaning on the car door. The radio is playing some slow, mournful string piece; even though she still has her coat and gloves on, she feels chills prickling over her skin.
Will stirs, and his head lolls to the other side, against his shoulder, and Hannibal glances over. He reaches out, fingers threading through the other man’s curls as he cups Will’s skull, and nudges his head upright again. It’s hard to tell in this light, but she thinks that Hannibal’s expression seems softer, less guarded — but still uncertain.
Abigail finally gives in to weariness and lets her eyelids fall. The last thing she sees before the rain lulls her to sleep is Hannibal placing his hand back on the steering wheel, his eyes lingering on Will for a moment longer.