Every thread of his clothes and his sheets, the weight of his blankets, the pounding of his own heart and the rush of blood in his veins. Especially the blood. For a brief second, Will is utterly sensible of everything around him.
It means that he's acutely aware of what's missing, too. There's no blood on him, his bed, his clothes; there's no pain at all, and if by some miracle Hannibal didn't kill him (it wouldn't be the first time), he ought to be either in immense pain or a medically-induced haze (it wouldn't be the first time for that, either). He's in neither.
This whole taking-stock takes perhaps three seconds. Then he struggles into a sitting position in a flailing panic.
"What the fuck is going on?"
It takes him an hour to understand what's happening.
It's yesterday. He doesn't know how, or why, but it's yesterday; he hasn't reached his conclusions about the body (Stephen Just) and the Hannibals, and he hasn't confronted them, and he hasn't taken the truly idiotic step of provoking them to
( ... )
One of her smiles and tucks the other's short hair behind her ear as they approach the fire, wineglass held companionably in a stray left hand.
An ordinary day.
Brighter, perhaps, for the recent murder; there's a certain temporary stabilizing effect when they make a kill, a certain tendency towards cheerier moods.
He has to go talk to them. He has to. He did yesterday, so he has to now. But we can't forgive you twice, do you understand? Do I? Are there rules? Can I just let them go? Imagine what you would do, Will, if you could go back in time. He knows the answer to that last one, at least: whether or not there are rules to this insane happening, he can't let them walk around with blood on their hands. He has to go talk to them. I regret it came to this, Will. The memory of the knife in his throat (the stiletto in his side) is as vivid as if it just happened.
All he can do is stare at the Hannibals settling into their chairs. He's too terrified to move.
Her peripheral vision catches him and she lifts her eyes, tilting her head slightly, an expression of (subtle) genuine concern crossing her face as her double remains occupied with the wine.
"Will? Is something wrong?"
At the sound, the other Hannibal looks up to match; her smile fades and she sets down the wineglass with careful precision.
"You helped us." Softly. "You listened. About Mischa. It's not right that this should be what you get in return."
So yes, in a sense. They're sorry for killing Stephen, because it had unintended consequences to someone who matters.
They don't know where the balance lies, between letting someone like Stephen go and letting a new death have this kind of effect on Will. Both choices are terrible--
--but they're beginning to suspect the latter might be worse.
He pales slightly at the mention of Mischa. You know nothing about our sister-- "What I get doesn't matter," he says, a little too loud as he drowns out the voices of memory. He notices the change, and his next words are quieter. "It doesn't matter one damn bit."
Hannibal bites her lip and looks away; Hannibal meets his eyes, her voice clear and quiet.
When you want to do two things at once, it's nice to delegate.
"If we take greater care in future--" Something breaks in her; she clenches her jaw, drops her gaze to the table for the briefest of seconds, and starts again, eyes bright with some close cousin of anger. "If we stop killing people in the bar, are you going to reject that because it is done out of concern for your sensibilities instead of some mythical apprehension of the greater good?"
Every thread of his clothes and his sheets, the weight of his blankets, the pounding of his own heart and the rush of blood in his veins. Especially the blood. For a brief second, Will is utterly sensible of everything around him.
It means that he's acutely aware of what's missing, too. There's no blood on him, his bed, his clothes; there's no pain at all, and if by some miracle Hannibal didn't kill him (it wouldn't be the first time), he ought to be either in immense pain or a medically-induced haze (it wouldn't be the first time for that, either). He's in neither.
This whole taking-stock takes perhaps three seconds. Then he struggles into a sitting position in a flailing panic.
"What the fuck is going on?"
It takes him an hour to understand what's happening.
It's yesterday. He doesn't know how, or why, but it's yesterday; he hasn't reached his conclusions about the body (Stephen Just) and the Hannibals, and he hasn't confronted them, and he hasn't taken the truly idiotic step of provoking them to ( ... )
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One of her smiles and tucks the other's short hair behind her ear as they approach the fire, wineglass held companionably in a stray left hand.
An ordinary day.
Brighter, perhaps, for the recent murder; there's a certain temporary stabilizing effect when they make a kill, a certain tendency towards cheerier moods.
Reply
But we can't forgive you twice, do you understand?
Do I? Are there rules? Can I just let them go?
Imagine what you would do, Will, if you could go back in time.
He knows the answer to that last one, at least: whether or not there are rules to this insane happening, he can't let them walk around with blood on their hands. He has to go talk to them.
I regret it came to this, Will.
The memory of the knife in his throat (the stiletto in his side) is as vivid as if it just happened.
All he can do is stare at the Hannibals settling into their chairs. He's too terrified to move.
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"Will? Is something wrong?"
At the sound, the other Hannibal looks up to match; her smile fades and she sets down the wineglass with careful precision.
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He swallows. He stands. He walks closer, hands nowhere near his gun.
"You killed Stephen Just."
His voice, to his surprise, is quiet and even, in sharp contrast to the fear in every tight muscle of his body.
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Something approaching contrition shows in face and voice when they speak.
"If we'd known it would have such an effect on you..."
The sentence trails off into uncertainty. They'd have what? Hidden the body better? Hardly a long-term solution. Not killed him at all? Ridiculous.
Felt worse about it?
Well, they seem to be catching up on that one nicely, at least.
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"What?" he prompts, bitter. "You'd have buried him instead of leaving him where anyone could find him?"
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"We don't know."
It's a hard admission, but--
"Something. We never meant to frighten you."
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He swallows, hard.
"I'd -- like you to come talk to Security with me."
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"The area outside isn't under their jurisdiction."
They've hurt a friend and they don't know how to fix it.
It's not in them to ask, to lift their heads and inquire as to what might be done.
Perhaps they're afraid he has no answer.
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"I'm sorry."
Hannibal feels-- trapped. Between a pair of very bad choices.
An apology isn't going to cut it.
But it's true and it's something and it isn't a step on either of the unpleasant paths she sees stretching out in front of her.
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"Why?"
Not for killing Stephen, he'll bet.
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"You helped us." Softly. "You listened. About Mischa. It's not right that this should be what you get in return."
So yes, in a sense. They're sorry for killing Stephen, because it had unintended consequences to someone who matters.
They don't know where the balance lies, between letting someone like Stephen go and letting a new death have this kind of effect on Will. Both choices are terrible--
--but they're beginning to suspect the latter might be worse.
Which is its own kind of disconcerting.
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You know nothing about our sister--
"What I get doesn't matter," he says, a little too loud as he drowns out the voices of memory. He notices the change, and his next words are quieter. "It doesn't matter one damn bit."
Reply
When you want to do two things at once, it's nice to delegate.
"If we take greater care in future--" Something breaks in her; she clenches her jaw, drops her gaze to the table for the briefest of seconds, and starts again, eyes bright with some close cousin of anger. "If we stop killing people in the bar, are you going to reject that because it is done out of concern for your sensibilities instead of some mythical apprehension of the greater good?"
Reply
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