Spectre in the Night || Will [perhapsmercytoo]
Hannibal Lecter was on the run. That is, he had escaped custody and was now in hiding. He did not, in fact, run.
He had enjoyed several days of utter peace and serenity in a hotel room kindly sponsored by a certain tourist, and the distance to Chilton and his clumsy prodding had allowed him to free his mind and focus on things other than plotting the asylum director’s impending demise—— naturally, he was still going to die. That was a given, considering the discourteous treatment he had been subjected to under Chilton’s care, but at the moment it was not a priority—— he had unfinished business in Florida.
He had heard of Will’s state through whisperings in the hallways of his prison when Chilton had taken everything that wasn’t bolted to the floor from him; he had seen the severity of the injuries in the faces of his caretakers. No one mentioned Will Graham to him directly. No one dared speak his name in the cold halls of the asylum. Dr Lecter was amused by this more than exasperated.
As if it was a secret code to set off a bomb. Perhaps it was.
Now, several weeks after his much discussed escape, he was finally standing in the shadow of Will’s house, and he found that he felt none of what he’d thought he might feel. There was no more room for anger and resentment in him. Forgiveness might have been somewhat of a stretch, but knowing that he had reduced Will to a broken drunk did wonders for his benevolence.
He could barely wait to see his face.
He had exercised patience long enough now. It had been no trouble, after his time in the asylum, to enjoy the outside world, revel in its vastness and appreciate the richness it offered all his senses. No, waiting was no trouble for Hannibal Lecter. He had waited years for this moment; what were a few more days?
He had retrieved one of his many diligently prepared identities and was almost ready to leave America behind. Almost——— he was not quite finished here yet, there were still unfinished thoughts and conversations to be considered. He had to set a punctuation mark before moving to the next paragraph.
He had waited this long to come here because he had suspected Jack might anticipate this move. Even though Will was no longer officially one of his, Hannibal thought he might have guessed that it would be easiest to catch him through the burden of old attachments.
There were no police forces on the property; he knew because he had been watching it for some days now. Will was the only human occupant of this house, and he had no guests. Hannibal doubted he ever did, beyond the endless bottles of liquor he seemed to cling to now more than ever.
Good. It would make what was to come that much easier.
It was night when he quietly slipped inside the house, no stranger to subtly breaking and entering, and the years of imprisonment had hardly affected his skills in that specific area——— or indeed most others, he suspected. Driving a car had been difficult at first, his body no longer used to the gentle motions, but similarly to driving a bike, he had not unlearned it.
He wondered what a conversation with Will would be like. If it was like driving a bike—— natural, an instinctive reaction of the body to a much practised action, or if it would be an awkward meeting between friends who no longer had anything to say to each other.
Perhaps a little bit of both. Practised in saying too much through too little. Silences that were not empty but crushing. Laden with burdens procured by both.
He wondered how much Will was capable of taking before he crumbled under the weight.
In the darkness of the house, resting quietly under a clear night sky, no one was asleep. Hannibal moved to the room he thought Will would be in and stopped in the doorway. A spectre in the night. He remained motionless when his voice carried like a jack-hammer over the quiet that had engulfed the property.
“Strangely reminiscent of your old house—— your tastes appear to have changed very little.”