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It takes time for Hannibal to adjust to life in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He finds himself frequently wondering how Will dealt with this new thing, or that ordeal, but rather than feeling guilty about putting him in here before, Hannibal feels as though this new shared experience adds another layer to their kinship.
When Will returns to him – because he will, one day, when he can no longer survive the separation he himself had voiced apprehension about, he will return to him – they will be able to discuss it and know that they have both been through same irritations and indignities.
He spends a great deal of time, far more than usual, withdrawn into his mind palace. Some days, he doesn’t come out at all. Mostly, he shows Will Florence, the way he has wished to for so long; they walk the Vasari Corridor, the Giardino Bardini, see the Museo La Specola and stroll around the Piazzo Santo Spirito at sunset and all the while, hand in hand. He has relived his favorite moments with Will over and over again, more times than he can count; the day they met, the moment he’d walked back into Hannibal’s office when Hannibal thought him dead at the hand of Tobias Budge, the evening he had entered his dining room to find Will presenting him with Randall Tier’s body, beaten beyond recognition. Seeing Will again for the first time in so many months in the Uffizi Gallery. Carrying Will out of Muskrat Farm with his back burning from the brand and his tired, over-stretched joints screaming in protest. Sometimes, when he allows himself the weakness, he imagines a different morning after than the one they had shared; Will waking up and asking him why they’re still in the country and haven’t already fled far away from Jack’s prying reach, Will waking up and asking him why he’s sat in the chair so far from the bed as opposed to lying beside him, he himself falling asleep whilst keeping watch and Will running a hand through his hair to wake him, fully dressed and bags packed for them to leave together.
He tries not to stray to that path of thought too often, however, because sometimes – more often than not – it shakes his confidence in the belief he has that one day, he and Will shall be reunited. He cannot allow the one thought that propels him through the endless drudgery of life in an asylum to become a thought that he cannot trust.
He’s midway through drawing Michelangelo’s David from memory when he’s disturbed by the double doors, on the other side of the glass, opening.
“A call from your lawyer.” The orderly says to him as she rolls the phone table across the floor. She plugs the cable into the phone jack, and leaves. She backs up a few paces before she shows him her back – even in an impenetrable glass cage he’s still the scariest thing she’s ever met. Hannibal smiles slightly as he reaches for the phone.
“Raymond.” He says pleasantly when he answers, “After our last conversation I was under the impression you no longer wished to represent my legal interests.”
There’s a pause, and in the instant before Hannibal opens his mouth to speak again, a familiar voice says, “It’s not Raymond.” The foundation of Will’s Louisiana accent clings to his voice in soft traces beneath it’s weather beaten, whiskey warm body, and Hannibal allows himself a moment to delight in the sound of it, and the memories it invokes.
His eyes slide shut, and he’s strolling across the courtyard of the university where he worked as Doctor Fell in Florence. He sees his beloved standing up ahead, leaning against one of the tall stone pillars with his hands in his pockets. “Will.” He says, resisting the urge to walk faster to him and instead slowing his pace, giving himself time to drink in his presence here. “How are you?”
“I’m… adrift.” Will answers, pushing off of the pillar as Hannibal ascends the small stack of steps to put them on the same level. “I am officially no longer an employee of the FBI and as of this morning, I’ve sold my house.”
“Oh?” Hannibal says, surprised as he pulls open the heavy oak door to the chapel at Palermo, the next room in his mind palace, “Back to Louisiana to repair boat motors?” He asks as they walk into the church side by side.
“I’m loathe to go back anywhere.” He answers, “And Alana is afraid I’ll go back to you.”
“Hence your calling under an alias.” Hannibal says, now understanding the ruse, “Where then shall you go?”
Will pauses though it doesn’t seem deliberate, and tips his head back to look up at the intricate artwork on the domed roof above them. “I found a cabin in the Adirondacks. It’s in the middle of nowhere, even more remote than-”
“Than your little boat on the waves?” Hannibal asks, and Will turns back around to face him. He can recall the scene in his head all too clearly, the two of them sat opposite one another in Hannibal’s office as Will poured out his darkest and most vulnerable secrets. It’s the only time I feel safe, he’d said along with that particular confession.
“No unwanted visitors.” Hannibal observes, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, “I wonder who would be more unwelcome a guest on your doorstep: me, or Uncle Jack.”
Will actually laughs at that and rubs a hand over his mouth as he sits down on the marble steps. He seems almost speechless – amused and heartbroken in the same tired sigh – and Hannibal would give all he has left to his name to go back six months, to the day Will arrived in Florence, and change things. To patch Will up after Chiyoh’s bullet to his shoulder, and then to say or do something, anything other than sawing Will’s head open with a bone saw. Knowing what came after, he would find a way to convince Will to run with him then and there, they’d be half a world away by now and, seeing Will so obviously distressed, he’d be able to do something about it.
Hannibal’s mind palace flickers at the edges, like a television set with bad reception, and for a moment blood drips out of a ruler straight cut in Will’s forehead, down his face and staining his blue plaid shirt. Hannibal blinks to banish the image.
“I’d say you’re on reasonably equal footing, there.” Will answers honestly, “But at least I know what to expect with you by now. The only thing I can trust with Jack is that he’ll always use me.”
“And now you’re putting your foot down at last, no longer willing to be used.” Hannibal says, feeling warm pride curling in his stomach. He’d wanted Will to learn to resist Jack and his insensitive advances from the first of their ‘conversations’ and it’s a relief to know that in his absence, Jack will not have free reign to further or entirely ruin Will’s mind.
“The end of an era.” Will responds dryly, “I suppose you’re a decent therapist after all. You managed to help me, Margot is finally happy… both because of your influence and notwithstanding it.”
“I shall try to see that as a compliment.” Hannibal says with a pleased, affectionate little smile on his face that suggests he doesn’t have to try very hard at all.
Will smiles back, the same way he used to sometimes when Hannibal had said or done something to genuinely amuse him or bring him joy. Hannibal finds himself unused to dining on so many regrets, but takes comfort in the fact that they are having this conversation at all. Perhaps the next one shall come sooner than this one had.
“How’s prison?” Will asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Hannibal’s mind palace doesn’t flicker on him again, but the smell of his cell slips past his defenses – disinfectant, primarily, with the scent of fresh paint still lingering at the edges. “It’s not Florence.” He answers, “And the food is terrible, but I can’t otherwise complain.”
“Of course, your… special cell.” Will says, visibly amused, “Freddie Lounds is leading the charge on complaining about the abuse of tax payer dollars being spent on giving you books and art supplies and… something about a whole new wing dedicated solely to the worst prisoner the BSHCI has ever known.”
“They’re scared of me.” Hannibal answers with a small, pleased smile on his lips, “They’ve put me behind a sheet of missile proof glass with a door that only opens from the outside and restricted access to me to the extent that I almost never see anyone else. I’m told it’s escape proof.”
“Well, if anyone could find a way it would be you.” Will answers, darkly amused and wishing he was being sarcastic.
“Everybody needs a hobby.” Hannibal answers primly, avoiding giving him a real answer. He could find a way to escape, of course he could. There’s a reason everyone is terrified of him, a reason they’ve sunk millions of dollars into retrofitting an entire wing of the BSHCI just to try and keep him in it – and all this before he’s even been found guilty of actually committing a crime, never mind sentenced to one facility or another. They’re already so afraid of what they think he’s capable of and the truth is they don’t even know the half of it.
All of that being said: Hannibal is in here for a reason, and that reason is not that Jack Crawford caught him and put him away where he belongs. He had ample time to get away after Will had made his intentions for staying put and away from him entirely clear that morning, but he had decided that that simply wouldn’t do. He had started Will’s pseudo-therapy with the intention of helping him to get in touch with the truth of himself, to learn to live unencumbered by society’s expectations for him, and clearly, that hasn’t happened yet. What kind of doctor would he be, what kind of friend, to leave before the job is done?
The other edge of that particular sword is, of course, the fact that getting away from Jack and the FBI somewhat loses it’s appeal when he realizes that doing so also means getting away from Will – something he has absolutely no desire to do.
That is why he’s here, and also why he will remain here for the foreseeable future until Will returns for him.
Because he will. Of course he will. All that remains now is to await the inevitable day when he does, but Hannibal doesn't mind. He's waited all his life for a companion like Will - no, not like him, only him - he'll wait for him to return for as long as it takes.