Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The constant roar of the jets overhead drifts to the tarmac below, teasing at a life of adventure just out of reach. The loudness causes safety and health hazards, and puts everyone on edge to the point where there’s a high turnover among employees in his area. But for Will, it helps drown out all the noise in his head.

He thinks too much. His inner mind-noise goes full-turbo, all damn day.

Though truth be told, it may be his conscience nagging at him. He’s on the upper-side of his thirties. And this job, which would be rough for any straight-laced citizen, is just part of his side-hustle.

The mail haul lands and Will slips the cart into the freight hold where he rifles through the envelopes, feeling for newly issued credit cards. He pockets several into his backpack -- it's a good take today -- and then pushes the cart onto the conveyor belt. Easy peasy.

He punches out at the employee exit and goes through security where he places his bag. Jimmy Price pats down his bright blue onesie with the fluorescent vest that all the baggage handlers wear. Will suspects that he likes feeling him up. Jimmy gives a cursory look into his backpack.

“Have a good weekend, Will,” Jimmy gives him that husky voice after, like he needs a cigarette.

Will nods his goodbye. Always a pleasure for them both. Whatever it takes for Jimmy to get his rocks off and for Will to make it to his car again. When he settles in the driver’s seat, he catches how fast his heart is racing. His fingers are shaking so hard he can barely start the car. He really is getting too old for this.

It’s a quick drive up 95 to Catonsville, once he gets a handle on himself. He lives in a quasi-suburban enclave on the Southside, a townhouse community next to the highway that used to be acres of cow fields. Now, one of the most notorious criminal enterprises has taken up residence in its rolling hills. Very few expensive cars are on these streets. It’s solidly working class and the rest of the community is too busy trying to survive to notice what’s going on under their noses.

The only giveaway of the gangster in their midst is the solid steel front door on the two-story brick townhouse. Jack Crawford reigns here. Will parks down the block. He lives a few streets over, and the walk home after he turns in his haul will bring his blood pressure down.

He dreads the walk up the stoop to Jack’s house. He tries to ignore the low grumble in the pit of his stomach. A weak protest at that.

Beverly Katz, Jack’s enforcer, sits in the corner of the porch in the shadows. She approaches with a headnod. Exchanges a look with Will.

She pats him down. She does not do this for kicks, like Jimmy. This is serious business for her. And while Will has been vouched for, he’s not from around here. He’s still treated as a stranger. She’s Jack’s eyes and ears, and she never seems to like what she sees when she looks at Will.

“Sleeping much, Will?” Beverly asks in a way that makes it clear she doesn’t give a shit, but warns that his sagging appearance is raising alarms for her.

“Alana doesn’t allow for that much,” he overshares around Beverly. Another red flag.

Beverly doesn’t comment, which means he offended not only his girlfriend but a woman who could stab him by his balls and serve them up for Alana’s lunch. He recoils as the screen door slams shut behind him.

Beverly probably saw Alana today, as she runs small errands for Jack and his crew. This is the way things have worked around this block for decades and that’s the way it always will be. Alana sees nothing wrong with it. A little extra pocket money, she calls it. And he believed her, until it began to feel like it cost too much for this little bit of change.

Alana and Beverly were born and raised in this cow patch and went way back. The Bloom and Katz family ate Thanksgiving dinners together, the turkey provided by Jack. Beverly will no doubt pass along Will’s inappropriate comments to Alana the first chance she gets.

Will dumps his shoes next to the grandfather clock in the small foyer. There are two upstairs levels, that’s strictly reserved for the private residence. He doesn’t even look at the formal living room, decorated in cool grays and blues and modest crystals.

He heads down to the basement, where the operation is in full swing in the tight space. Money is counted. Drugs weighed. Guns stripped of serial numbers. Will tries to avoid looking at this.

He drifts over to Brian Zeller, in a corner keeping an eye on everybody, who extends his hand for the envelopes. Long ago, Will made the mistake of thinking he’d wanted a handshake and had avoided his touch like the plague. Zeller had not been amused that Will found his hands too dirty to shake. They are not on the best of terms.

Zeller slices open the envelopes with an antique switchblade and makes Will wait as he activates the accounts on his phone. He will sell the identities. Because they were just issued, it may take several weeks before the people get the bill for the charges and realize they’ve been hacked. It’s a good racket. Zeller hands Will a nice cut for his part in the deal.

Now that Brian has assumed the new identities and therefore access to thousands of dollars of credit lines, Will usually heads home. But today, a hand is held out to wait. A mumble about Jack wanting to see him.

This is unexpected. Will is still in his baggage uniform. As Beverly noted, he looks like shit.

He catches sight of Jack and Brian huddling in the foyer. Beverly steps into the house, joining them. It is unsettling, to say the least. If Beverly reports that he has trouble sleeping because the thought of getting caught keeps him up at night...

Will exhales shallowly. Beverly does not know this about him, despite how close she is to Alana. Hell, he’s even managed to keep this from Alana. He’s had to. She's one of them.

Will watches the trio talk amongst themselves. Jack has lost some weight as of late, maybe out of his sympathy for his sick wife. The rumors about what she has are pretty bleak, and Jack has been scarce, letting Beverly and Brian handle the more day-to-day work.

But the times Will has seen Jack have been odd. He has been talking of children lately. Building a legacy. Primed to make a move to something bigger and better than this block. He’s a man with a plan, and Will thinks, better for it.

“Will,” Jack calls out in greeting from a distance.

Will waves. He remains where he is. He feels clammy and he twists an empty credit card envelope in his hand.

With Zeller out of sight, the operation has come to a halt. The rest of the Crawford crew steps outside for a smoke break or a bite of lunch. Much to Will’s surprise, he may actually be left alone with the boss.

Over the years, he’s gotten to know all of these guys. BBQs. Birthdays. Jack treats his crew well. But his mouth twists as the basement empties out. He knows, deep down, that no one will bail him out when Jimmy calls airport security to take him out of the employee exit in bracelets.

Will tries to prepare himself if called to give Jack an update about his work. He wants to warn Jack that his racket isn’t sustainable. Security moves cameras around every week. Eventually, they’ll get wise to the loading docks. Already, they keep a closer eye on all the employees. One day, he’ll get caught.

Jack beckons him closer, to join them in the foyer. Will shuts his eyes tightly. Blinking hard. Beads of sweat course down his cheeks. He crosses towards them.

One minute he is standing in front of Jack Crawford and the next Will is passing out.

*

When Will comes to, they’ve dragged him onto a couch in Jack’s living room and called Alana to his side. She’s a smart woman. She pocketed all the cash from his cut, just in case.

The commotion has brought Bella out of her bedroom. She brings Will a glass of water. When Jack sees Will’s eyes refocus, he leans in close.

“You alright, Will?” Jack asks, but he’s swimming in triplicate in Will’s eyes. Even in a set of three Jacks, Will can see Jack knows, knows that something is up with him. He wants to tell Jack he’s right. He is not made for this life.

“I’m fine,” Will insists. And his stomach lurches. He clutches it, forcing the bile back down.

He looks to Alana for reassurance. She has the money and that’s what counts. He’s doing this for her. She likes designer clothes. A man who drives a good car. She keeps herself up with her mani-pedis and hair appointments. This is the cost of being with someone as beautiful as Alana. And extra luxuries are outside his pay range as it stands.

“Did you eat anything on your shift at all today?” Alana coaxes him to lie back.

He thinks for a moment. They are too busy to break for lunch, despite the union rules. He could, but lately, he hasn’t been able to keep anything down. He simply waves the question away.

But he finds his head sinking back into the cushion and gazing up at Jack. For a quick flash, their eyes meet. And Jack’s breath is taken away. He had never been this close to Will Graham. He is a beautiful man once the focus is taken off the uniform and scruff he wears like a second skin.

Will recognizes that look of appreciation. He’s heard the noise about his eyes. His curls. His full lips. Most men will dismiss him as looking too feminine. Even Alana’s mother, without fail every Sunday brunch after church, will comment on what pretty babies he will make with Alana. Over time, he’s created his armor to redirect those surprised stares. But now Jack's noticed and he sees the wheels turning.

Jack sets the empty glass of water down on the coffee table and shoots the hovering figures that suddenly surround them with a hard look.

“Everyone out,” Jack commands.

The room clears immediately. Will crests a second wave of nausea. He’s afraid Jack will ask him to take his hand and propose. Whatever is happening at this moment feels extremely intimate.

Will forces himself to sit up at least. Jack gives him a hand. Will catches Jack giving him an appraising look, again.

“What is it, Jack?” Will asks, his voice rasping out feeble sounds. Jack's brow furrows, making his concern very clear. At least it’s true that Jack is now longer swimming before his eyes. Will waves this off, his eyes clear again. They settle, on somewhat normal terms.

“I have a job for you,” a solemn tone has been taken, as if he knows Will can’t do one more thing.

He thinks of Alana, and reminds himself that he wants to give her more than his heart. He wants to take her around the world. In style. Flying first class.

“What is it?” Will repeats.

“Delivering a message to the funny farm up the road,” Jack reveals, casually.

“The Baltimore State Hospital?” Will starts.

“For the Criminally Insane,” Jack finishes. “I know. But it won’t be for long. And you get to walk out of there, right?”

Jack smiles encouragingly at his own joke. Will doesn’t. He knows that hospital. He knows the kind of people who get sent there. Hell, depending on his mood, he could land there one day himself. Today being a case in point.

Will considers his options. He looks at the steel door. He wonders what will happen if he goes through that door and never comes back.

He looks at Jack. He has zero options. They both know he can’t say no.

“If I do this,” Will negotiates, “you need to find someone else for the mail caper.”

Will can’t believe how easy that was. He asks for more money, too. Jack accepts his terms. Without hesitation. He should have known then that it was too good to be true.

*

Alana likes to go out when she’s happy. His friends have recently re-opened The Brass Elephant, a legendary Baltimore restaurant that closed during the recession. Everything that was down is looking up again.

A lot of glad-handing and champagne to be had at the Elephant. Even with a friends and family discount, the bill is astronomical. And Alana mostly had a liquid dinner.

The bonus that Jack had given him empties from his overstuffed wallet. Alana’s eyebrow raises. Even with as drunk as she is, she can’t resist asking what exactly does Jack have him delivering.

“A message,” is all Will can say. And he’s being honest.

“Is it a dangerous message?” Alana considers him.

“It depends, I guess,” Will shrugs. The messenger is certainly a known entity. The receiver, considering where he’s going… Will fixes a well-practiced smile on his face.

“Be careful,” is all Alana will say on the matter.

*

Will had scrubbed the stench of the runway off of him, but no matter how hard he sloughed, the dirt never seems to come off his hands. Alana would regard them too with disgust. She preferred him to use his lips and keep the lights dimmed.

Tonight, they stagger into their little rowhome, with their hands all over each other. The alcohol makes them forget the world outside their door. Will should feel safe. They’ve celebrated their good fortune. Things are only going to get better for Will as this job moves forward.

But his erection flags. Strangely, he opts to be honest with her. He shares how nervous he is about the new job. He doesn’t know what he’s walking into. If he were smarter, he would have asked Jack who he was meeting with. And why he was chosen to deliver this message.

He pulls Alana up from her knees and brings her to his chest. He tells her that he just wants her to hold him. He hopes it’s alright to just want to be held from time to time. He hopes she realizes that it can be just as intimate as any other sexual act. If not better.

But she wants him to be normal, functioning. The opposite of broken or damaged or unable to get it up. He knows he’ll hear the jokes whenever the erectile dysfunction ads appear on television. The pressure to be like other men. He’s familiar with her brand of humor. And he’s sure all of her boyfriends, who all came up in Jack’s crew before going to jail or getting killed, have had moments like this. She’s been programmed to expect more though.

Alana doesn’t pretend to understand the need to simply cuddle after the night they’ve had. The disappointment comes off her in waves. And he knows that lately his behavior has been off-putting. That she realizes how sensitive he is and that it’s not working for her.

How did he ruin such a great night?

*

He staggers, bleary-eyed, down the corridor leading to the visiting room. At the crack of dawn, Beverly had dropped by to give Will the message, and right away, Will knew. He just knew, in his gut, that he was fucked.

He lurches into the chair and almost expects the orderly to cuff him to the ring in the center of the table. He is told to wait and is left alone. The credentials that had gotten him this far apparently provided for a private meeting.

Will smoothes his suit. Beverly had also provided him with this too since he was to be a junior attorney, from a well-respected firm in the city. The business card looked real enough. Will pocketed it in his bureau in advance. In case he’d need an attorney for his own arrest down the road.

Will takes off the jacket. Baltimore swamp heat and institutional funk assail his senses. He places his briefcase on the table, but it’s unnecessary to pull out the letter. He knows its contents by heart.

The door creaks open. He catches a flash of the pale gray jumpsuit, much like his own airport-issued one. While Will is clear where he is, he’s still surprised by the sight of the man approaching in chains.

He shuffles into his seat across from Will. An orderly secures the prisoner’s handcuffs for limited mobility to the hook in the center of the table. Will swallows before looking up to consider the man before him.

The prisoner looms above. His face a death mask. His jumpsuit clinging to his lean body.

Most criminals recognize another criminal in their midst. Will doesn’t get this sense with this particular man. He seems polite, educated, mild-mannered. Aristocratic, even.

He’s not what Will’s expecting, at all. He contemplates if he had been Jack’s accountant. What he could have possibly done to end up here. To Will, he looks too good for this world.

The two sit across from each other, one in chains and one free, assessing. They wait until the guard closes the door and the locks latch into place. Will remembers to exhale. He’s made it this far.

“I was expecting someone from the firm, Mr. Harris,” a silky voice reduces Will to his real station in life.

Caught, Will pulls his gaze away from the man’s mouth and insists, “I am from the firm.”

“Which attorney do you answer to?”

Will realizes he’s in some kind of trance from being in this guy’s presence. He shudders, then straightens in his seat. He clasps his hands in front of him to stop them from shaking.

He meets the challenge in the prisoner’s gaze. He reminds himself that he will walk out of here and receive another whopping amount of money for a 30 second conversation.

“If you’re who you say you are, your shoes would match the quality of your suit,” the prisoner reasons. “Your aftershave would not be found in the local drugstore. You would not have remained standing until I sat down like the poor little Southern boy you are deep down. Where are you really from, Mr. Harris?”

A searing gaze is exchanged. Will feels this man’s eyes could bear down into his skull and seep into his bones.

“You’re not an attorney, any more than I am,” the prisoner concludes. “Who are you and why are you here?”

Will looks down at his scuffed shoes, the tell-tale wear and tear on the briefcase he’d had in better days and thinks of his dad falling out in the parking lot of a dive bar and dying there in a drunken heap. He reddens in shame. He gathers himself, not out of defiance but out of fear. He doesn’t want to look too closely at himself, let alone have this man see what he fears everyone can see.

“Jack Crawford sent me,” Will whispers.

“I don’t remember seeing you on his block.”

“I didn’t grow up in Baltimore,” Will concedes. “You wouldn’t’ve seen me.”

“But I see you now.”

“Yes,” Will sighs. “And I see you.”

Amused by this: “Oh, you do? And what do you see?”

Will allows himself to settle back in his seat and he spreads his legs slightly. A confidence is projected. This is the one gift he has. Mirroring others. And he doesn’t believe it will fail him now.

“You sabotaged yourself. Got too bored being Jack’s whipping boy. And you hurt him. Because you wanted out.” Will looks around at the caged room. “You pretend being here is no different from being out there. You think you can endure this.”

The room fills with silence. And the death mask has cracked. The eyes are no longer mocking and superior. Will has leveled him. They are equals now.

“He knows,” Will states. “That you slept with Mrs. Crawford. That you promised to run away with her. That you broke her heart. And that you had no intention of honoring any of that. This… was a way of letting you marinate with that. He’s patient. His reckoning will come.”

Will absorbs that he delivered Jack’s message with more sound and fury than he had imagined. His blood is pumping. He stands, righteous. Done.

Anyone else would be shaking in their prison-issued sneakers. Instead, Jack’s prisoner remains unmovable as a statue. They share a look of what Will considers to be admiration.

“You don’t care,” Will realizes, in awe.

A slight smile dawns on those full lips. Will shakes his head and pulls himself from his righteous stand. He leans closer to the prisoner, to whisper this:

“The next time he won’t send some country bumpkin to deliver a message,” Will warns him. “He will send a killer and –“

“He sent you.” This is said simply.

“I’m not an enforcer. I’m merely the one who brings the message.”

“Jack’s messenger. Will you return the favor?”

Will swallows. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the guard standing in the window, but their closeness hasn’t alarmed him. He nods.

“First, a message for you, one that I hope you’ll take to heart.”

Another look exchanged. Will waits with baited breath.

“There’s nothing wrong with you…”

A relieved half-smile escapes Will’s lips before he can pull them back into line. It is beginning to disturb him, the effect this man has on him. And the prisoner feels it too. He stops and considers Will.

“It strikes me at once that I failed to introduce myself. Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

So there’s the source for the formality, the precision of his verbal cuts. Will holds back. Jack had warned him not to get personal.

“Dr. Lecter –“

“Aren’t we past the point of formalities?”

Will has forgotten the fake name he usually gives to everyone else not associated with Jack Crawford. He has forgotten all falsities it would seem around this name. Will relents. “Hannibal, I’m Will.”

Each man seems grateful that they’re being treated as human beings. Will returns to his seat. He understands the appeal of this place now. Hannibal’s company is certainly better than what is waiting for him out there.

“Besides your observation that I did not exactly dress the part,” Will teases, “what would you like me to tell Jack?”

“The message isn’t for Jack. It’s for you, Will.”

“Me?”

“I don’t care about Jack. I care that you have the same look in your eyes that Bella Crawford does,” Hannibal frowns.

Will shifts in his seat. A dark cloud drifts over his features. His eyes find a sincerity in Hannibal. Sympathy, even.

“I don’t feel sorry for you, as I did for her,” Hannibal continues. “Her situation is more complicated. So I have to ask you, what would it take for you to walk away from Jack? What do you need to leave?”

Will catches how startled he must look. How wrecked.

“Dr. Lecter, don’t,” Will shakes his head. He stares down at his fingernails, digging into his palm.

“Don’t what, Will?”

“Don’t tempt me like that.”

Will looks at him, raw. Hannibal leans forward until his fingers brush against Will’s. The touch creates a current between them.

“She was trapped, as you are trapped. I offered a way out. That was all. I’ve known for a long time that Jack’s known. Every moment that I’m in here, I’m reminded of who put me here.”

“If this is true,” Will releases a shaky breath, “why send me here?”

“The warning is not for me. But for you. Whatever you were planning to do, consider another option. Or wind up here. Or worse.”

Will takes another breath. He refuses to see things Hannibal’s way.

“You were her doctor,” Will surmises. “Why would you do something so reckless with Jack Crawford’s wife?”

“Love can mend and it can destroy. It can be passionate and obsessive. It hinges on one thing – if you can’t live without the person...”

Will considers Hannibal. He remembers Bella Crawford handing him a glass of water when he fainted. She is still beautiful. Even in her heartbreak.

“I offered her a new life,” Hannibal continues. “A last wish before dying. She’d wanted to do this one thing for some time. It was a dream come true.”

“She wanted to escape?”

“Will," Hannibal admits, "I didn’t think I’d end up here.”

A rueful micro-smile. Will smiles back. “Neither did I.”

Will assesses him. The enormity of trying to help Bella Crawford escape her life makes Will gaze upon Hannibal with a reverence, an admiration that he’s never felt before. He has been in the presence of powerful men, Bella’s husband being one of them, but never one with integrity and grace. A heart that alights as well as burns. Hannibal considers how much a savior Will Graham needs and lets him find his way forward.

“How is Bella?” Hannibal can’t resist asking.

“Not herself,” Will concedes. “So you’ll just sit in here and rot? An innocent man.”

“Not so innocent.”

Will’s sense of fairness flares up. Hannibal is truthful, to a point. Will wants to say more, but Beverly is outside waiting. He nods his goodbye to Hannibal.

*

Will unknots his tie and unbuttons his shirt. He misses the coolness of the silk against his skin. Expensive things are nice, he has to admit. He had promised Beverly he would return the suit and report into Jack. He wonders what would happen if he didn’t return it? If he defied Jack.

He stands in front of Alana’s full-length mirror and regards himself in his birthday suit. He can count the flat bones along his breastplate. His ribs. His shoulders are wider because of all the bags he lifts. He wonders what Hannibal would think of his body. Why he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Hannibal.

He slides on his own clothes. Baggy black shirt that hides his figure. Tight navy dungarees that shows off his ass. A natural blush rests on his cheeks, as if he has climbed a mountain. He looks the same, but he doesn’t feel like the same man from this morning. It feels as though Hannibal had left the hospital with him and wouldn’t let go.

He hears Alana moving around downstairs. Probably back from her own errand for Jack. Or one of her many shopping sprees. He doesn’t want to share anything about his. He wants to keep it all to himself.

He catches his reflection in the mirror, startled. Why keep Hannibal a secret between them –

Another figure steps into the reflection of the mirror. Will practically jumps out of his skin. It’s Bella Crawford.

“You scared me,” Will breathes.

“I heard you saw Hannibal today,” Bella steps in delicately and takes a seat on Will’s bed. Will grimaces. He imagines this is how Hannibal got in trouble.

“He asked about you,” Will gives her, as a gift.

In her hand, she holds the familiar folder of a travel agent package. The tickets and itinerary would be inside. Will licks his lips.

“Tickets to Fiji,” Bella states the obvious, “still good, still insured.”

He isn’t sure what Bella is asking him. He waits. She clears her throat.

“They shouldn’t go to waste,” she says. “You and Alana should have them.”

The package sits between them. The possibilities take his breath away. She stares openly at him.

“Hannibal has that effect on people. What do you know about Dr. Lecter?” she inquires innocently.

Will shrugs. He only knows what Hannibal opened up inside of himself. Some long-lost, hidden treasure. It’s enough, but he can’t tell her that.

Bella describes Hannibal’s dinner parties. The cushions and pillows thrown on the floors and the guests sitting sprawled out, drunk, feeding each other grapes and canapés. Her eyes light up describing how comfortable he made his guests feel. How alive the parties made Bella feel.

Will’s lip curl. He can only imagine how the rest of the nights went. The wine and laughter, the cover of night.

She has moved on to the present without him, and Will struggles to keep up.

“Paradise would have that effect on people. And that’s where you’ll be going. Do you know much about Fiji?”

From his job, Will’s aware it’s a honeymoon destination, but that’s all. He pulls up his desk chair and takes a seat across from Bella. She knows that Jack has allowed them to buy everything in this house. He might as well own it. He definitely owns them.

“Cannibalism was a way of life in Fiji. The men who settled there came from across the sea and that’s how they survived the journey. Whoever they were at war with over the centuries they would break their arms and then roast over the fire, or if someone was recently buried they would rob their graves. The flesh tasted like pork, they said. Their weapons are designed to crush human bones. Hannibal said if Jack landed on shore, he would arm himself and eat him.”

She laughs. She seems delirious. Why is she talking about cannibalism? Will reaches to steady her.

“You’ll be safe if you go there,” Bella insists.

“Is Jack poisoning your food, Bella?” Will surmises. “Should I –“ They both look away, Calling the cops would be ridiculous. Jack owns the cops too.

“Is he safe there?” Bella gathers herself.

“No,” Will responds, firm. Their eyes meet. She has to see that he blames her. He feels compelled to appeal to her sense of righteousness. “Hannibal doesn’t belong there, Bella.”

“What can I do?”

“A statement from you would go far to clear his name --“

“A confession?” she scoffs.

“I got inside,” Will spells out for her. “Jack now knows he can get someone else to him. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Don’t ask this of me, Will,” Bella rises, backing out of the room. “Go to Fiji and forget about this. Forget about him."

She has left the package. Evidence that he’ll need. Proof that that was the extent of all the courage she had to give.

He follows her down the stairs. For a moment, he thinks he has the same floor plan she must in her home. How much they have common between them now.

“I think you loved him once, Bella,” Will tells her. “You save the people you love.”

“Up to a point and then you let go,” she sighs. “Use the tickets, Will.”

She closes the door, leaving with a finality that sharpens his resolve.

*

Will has changed back into the silk dress shirt and sits at the dining room table, waiting.

Alana finally comes home. He realizes he has no idea what she does all day. Especially when it concerns Jack.

It’s the secrets that fracture their future more than any promise could.

She approaches the dining room table with caution. Since Will hasn’t been eating lately, it makes her cautious just to see him sitting there.

“What have you done?” she raises an eyebrow, her hand drifting over the travel agent package. He doesn’t answer. Waits for her reaction.

She opens the folder and touches the two first-class, one-way tickets to Fiji. She flips through the folder, beyond the brochures and paperwork, searching.

“What about coming back?” she pouts.

“Why bother?”

He looks around. They have nothing worth taking, nothing worth coming back to. This is their chance.

She gives a choked laugh. Her eyes dart around the room. She can’t imagine leaving the place she called home for any length of time.

“But my family is here, Will,” she gives excuse after excuse. “My shops. My doctors.” As if there aren’t doctors in Fiji. She then throws it back in Will’s face.

“Don’t you want to come home?”

He shrugs. Fingers the silk cuff lining his wrist. He levels his gaze at her.

“I want to get far, far away from this place and start over,” he declares.

They are unable to reach any truce. She refuses to come without reassurances that there will be a return date. Will refuses to make any promises he can’t keep.

He loved her once. With all his heart. Now he knows what Bella meant. It will come back around, if it were meant to be.

He rises, easing the shirt off his broad shoulders on the way upstairs. He will return the suit to Jack. And pack a few things for the trip.

*

Beverly opens the steel door and takes the suit bag off Will’s hands. Will doesn’t remove his shoes in the foyer. It’s a tactic used to slow down anyone who may run. He wants to keep his options open.

Jack brings him up to his private area, past the ornate dining room and the old-fashioned kitchen, where Bella sits, having her nails done. She doesn’t look at Will when he passes.

“We’ll sit outside,” Jack takes in how pale Will looks. “You look like you need to soak up some vitamin D.”

Jack stalls to grab a few shot glasses and a bottle of tequila. Will almost runs into the back of him. Will holds open the door, as if he’d done this a million times, and Jack barrels out, setting their drinks on a high table in the sun. They mosey onto the stools, throwing back the shots.

“All we need are some steamed crabs and Natty Boh,” Jack sighs.

“Just like down in the ocean, hon,” Will repeats the standard Baltimore reply, that even an outsider like him knows.

It forces a laugh out of Jack. They share a smile. Jack’s a good guy, someone he would’ve enjoyed hanging out with, if it weren’t for the business between them.

And the business is always there. Will realizes Jack can hear everything that is happening in the basement, out here. Beverly takes up her post out by the tool shed, eyes always on Jack.

Jack wants Will’s report. The time in which Dr. Chilton took to look Will over rather than his documents. How his briefcase was given a cursory scan by an orderly. The number of guards that escorted him to the private conference room. Where the cameras were posted. The lack of attention paid to them once in the conference room. The medical room that had one unguarded nurse inside.

At the end of it, Will surprises Jack by telling him he could get back in. “It’s always easier the second time,” he sells it hard.

“You?” Jack’s mouth is open, stunned. “You’re not a killer, Will.”

That’s the second time he’s heard that in the course of one day.

He thinks of all the things people have killed for in Jack’s crew. Money. Drugs. Family. Honor. Territory.

He is not killing for those things. He’s not quite ready to explore the reasons for doing this yet. But he knows it's outside the usual box.

Jack is looking at him. Expecting an answer. Will composes himself.

“Hannibal talked about love and passion,” Will reveals. Jack's messenger, Hannibal called him. He steals a pointed glance over at Bella, whom they can see clearly through the window.

The implication is cemented. Jack throws back another shot. Will does the same.

“Let me do this for you,” Will heralds.

Jack’s eyes narrow. He’d never known Will to be ambitious. To want to be part of his inner circle.

But then his eyes fall on the gauzy screen of the door, through which he can see his wife. And the betrayal clouds what he knows about Will.

Jack gives his nod of approval and then Will is dismissed. He reaches for the bottle, and chases the bitter taste in his mouth with another shot.

*

Another sleepless night. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees Hannibal’s face, looming.

An early morning knock at the door. This time, Beverly takes him out to a field to practice shooting. The gun feels heavy in his hand.

She fits the gun into a hidden compartment in a new briefcase. He is handed the briefcase. He is given a full suit with new shoes too.

The whole look is quite a distraction for Dr. Chilton. Will makes sure he flirts back this time. Dr. Chilton lingers with him as his briefcase is looked over.

“Is there some new development with Hannibal’s case?” Chilton angles for gossip.

“The lion’s share of his case was built on a lie,” Will whispers conspiratorially to him. “I plan to get him off.”

Chilton hands him his card. “I certainly hope that you do, Mr. Harris.” Their fingers brush as Will takes it. If Chilton feels how fast his pulse is going, he doesn’t let on.

“I’ll call you if anything develops,” Will smiles, keeping it professional.

As he moves down the hall, the warmth he exuded disappears. A frost has descended over his features. But then he sees Hannibal in the window of the door, and a bloom spreads over his cheeks.

Hannibal soaks in the man who Jack sent to kill him. The new suit. The new shoes. The new briefcase.

“Mr. Harris, I wasn’t expecting for it to be you to kill me,” he signals, low, to the briefcase.

“My name’s Will Graham,” Will corrects, “and I’m going to get you out of here.”

Hannibal’s eyes widen as the gun slaps against his jaw and he collapses in a heap to the floor. Faintly, he hears Will call for the guard. He is lifted onto a gurney and taken to the medical wing.

He tries to fight the dizziness that threatens to take him under, but in the end, he succumbs to it. Hannibal’s last thought is that Jack will get word quickly that there was an incident at the hospital. Getting out of Chilton’s grasp will not be the major hurdle.

Escaping Baltimore when Jack’s eyes are everywhere will be something else entirely. Hannibal is in awe of this Will Graham, who squeezes his hand at his side, coaxing him to back to consciousness. He can't imagine Will's life before they met. How Fate brought them into the back of a stolen ambulance. How far Will must have fallen before he decided to crawl out of the abyss and pull them out of the long reach of Jack Crawford.