Hors D'oeuvres (Hannibal One-shots)

Le Pardon de Dieu

Summary: Will forgives like God forgives.

Hannigram, season 3 finale.

This is one hell of a whump. You have been warned.

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It's worth stating that Hannibal contemplates killing Will as they watch the moon rise through the wide bay windows and Will doesn't deny that he could let Hannibal die at the hands of the Red Dragon. Hannibal sets down the wine glass that he was cleaning and picks up the corkscrew bottle opener, fingering its sharp tip and imagining the different places he could drive it home. He knows he could best Will in a fair fight. So in an unfair one, with the element of surprise on his side, killing him would be no problem.

But he can't do it. He can't kill him now, not now that Will has helped him escape from prison. Not now that they're together again. Not now that Will is so close that Hannibal could reach out and touch him, hold him, keep him. You couldn't have killed him before that, mocks a voice that sounds suspiciously like Bedelia, but Hannibal can't deny it. He holds the corkscrew in one hand, bottle of wine in the other, and lets the truth sink in. He can't kill Will. He doesn't want to.

It stings like a bitter betrayal, except this time, it's coming from himself.

"My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will," says Hannibal, looking at him and then away as he waits for a response.

"If you're partial to beef products, it is inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow."

Hannibal chuckles. But what strikes him is that he's never seen Will as a cow. He has always been a different specimen altogether, something special, something unique and rare, meant to be savored, like an orlaton. And yes, it is inconvenient to feel compassion for an orlaton, no matter how intriguing and beautiful. No matter how sweetly it sings.

Hannibal twists open the bottle of wine with a pop, sniffs the cork, and sets the corkscrew down on the piano. His only weapon, rendered impotent by the cork embedded in it. The worst part is that he doesn't regret it for a moment. He picks up the wine glasses and takes them to Will.

"Save yourself, kill them all?" he says, handing Will a glass and pouring him a generous amount of wine.

"I don't know if I can save myself." After a long pause, Will looks up and meets his eyes, as if he could bore right into his very soul. "Maybe that's just fine."

Hannibal holds his gaze for as long as he dares, but for once, Will isn't the first to look away. It's Hannibal who turns, breaking eye contact, and steps away, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Outside, shadows flicker. Bushes rustle where there is no wind, and a strange, pungent scent lingers. It's feral. Shot through with adrenaline. Anticipatory.

They have company.

"No greater love hath man than to lie down his life for a friend," Hannibal says, pouring a glass of wine for himself, and he thinks it's the closest he'll ever get to telling Will that he loves him. That feels like betrayal, too. It is the very universe betraying them, giving them one last chance to be together before snatching it away.

When Hannibal finishes pouring, he holds out his glass and tips his head in the equivalent of a toast. Will's eyes meet his, then flit away. Hannibal takes it as an opportunity to step between him and the bay window as Will says,

"He's watching us now."

Will's eyes find Hannibal's again.

Hannibal takes one last moment to memorize his beloved's face. "I know."