Retrograde

thenecronon:

Will shuts the
door behind him and stands in a bathroom he doesn’t recognize. A
mason jar of sea glass squats on the counter by a chipped enamel
sink where there should be a double vanity with vessel sinks, and a
photo hangs on the wall behind it of Will and Walter smiling over a
large gar. When he looks in the mirror, it’s to find a beard grown
in overnight, hair shaggy and two inches longer than explicable.

Several hours
later, Molly stands on the veranda of their shared cottage. Ivy
crowds the gable. A wooden placard that reads GRAHAM, hand-carved,
hangs beneath by one of its rusted chains. Molly’s hair, still
mussed from sleep, sweeps across her forehead and shoulders.

She watches him
back the Tahoe (You sold the car, honey. Don’t you remember?)
out of the drive, pulling her robe against the autumn air and
crossing her arms. Quietly angry like he remembers her at the end. Remembered.

She hadn’t
believed him when he’d said he didn’t remember. Any of it. Not
retirement, not the foreclosed cottage in Sugarloaf, its slate roof
missing shingles like teeth where straight-line winds off the
Atlantic had stolen them.

No.

He’d snaked an
arm around a waist, pressed a kiss to a neck.

He’d mistaken
her for Hannibal. Hannibal, in their villa on the Argentine coast.
Not the continental US. Not Molly. Not Sugarloaf Key.

Will’s hands
shake on the wheel. The camouflage seat covers smell like menthol,
and he’s craving the cigarette he missed with coffee; he hasn’t
smoked since his early 20s, but his fingers are yellowed, hands dry
from drink. On one, there’s a wedding ring. He touches his face and
feels the scar–completely healed–through his beard. Same wallet.
Different phone. He picks it up and flips it open. He knows the
number by heart and hopes to God it connects.

“Will?”

“Jack. Where’s
Hannibal.”

“What’re you
talking about, Will?”

“Hannibal.
Where is he?”

“Where you put
him.” Silence. “Where he’s been for three years.”

“Baltimore?”
Will gambles.

“Will, is
everything okay? Did something happen?”

“I need to talk
to him.”

“It’s been
years. You can’t just call out of the blue and ask for favors like
that. There’s no reason–”

“Jack, please.”

There’s a
pause. Will hears Jack sigh. A glass clinks and something rattles.
“I’ll tell them you remembered something. Something about–”
Paper now. Pages. “We got this new guy–tentatively calling him
‘Buffalo Bill.’ I had a trainee lined up for an interview, real
hotshot, but I’ll tell her we got someone else. Just this once,
because I made a promise.” Jack’s voice drops, more weary than
Will remembers it. “And if anyone can get Lecter to talk, it’s
you. I thought you weren’t coming back. We thought you were
done. After…”

“I’ll be
there. How soon?”

“Three days.”

“Okay, yeah.
Thanks, Jack.”

“Don’t mess
this up, Will. I don’t understand it, but I need all the help I can
get on this one. Three days.”

Jack hangs up.

Will drives.

***

Will puts his
room on the one of the cards he finds in his wallet. He drops his bag
on the floor by the bed, sits, and calls Jack to touch base.
Everything is still go.

***

“The FBI must
be gagging for it if they’re sending you in. What I can’t
figure out,” Lecter continues, turning. His profile is creased with
age, hair striped by silver. “Is why you’ve come. Polite life in
Sugarloaf not all it’s cracked up to be? Did you tire of looking in
the mirror every morning and seeing a man whose–” Hannibal’s
face slackens. He sucks in a sharp breath and steps, curiously,
closer. “No, there is something different about you.” Lecter’s
eyes widen into flat, black discs, amber bands reignited as he moves
beneath the overhead light. “Your eyes. So very…” An
anticipatory tongue darts out to wet dry lips. “Alive.”

“Tell me. About
that night. On the cliff.”

“You were
there, Will.”

“You don’t
remember?”

“I’ve aged
but not atrophied. I remember.” Almost singsong, but Will can parse
the mild offense. And an uptick that sounds distinctly dangerous.
Hannibal’s interest is always dangerous. “What is it, Will? Come
for the old scent again, or… something else.”

Will balks.
Hannibal smiles.

“Something
else, then. Do they know?”

“How do you?”

“Do you
remember, Will? About time and teacups?”

Or, that time I said I was thirsty for some Show!Will/Novel!Hannibal and, upon not finding any, wrote an intro for some. Sharing now for no particular reason.