Will can see the moment things shift, and it's so clear and immediate that Will can't help but doubt it's legitimacy. Hannibal's eyes are warm, depth to them again, the layer of ice that had formed melted away. It's those eyes, even when within Will could see into a soul that craved as much darkness and death as it did light and life, that caught Will, that stayed his hand in the moments when he could have struck, when he should have rebelled. In moments between them when they've been alone, together in Hannibal's office or seated at Hannibal's table, Will has seen the heat of something more than friendship in Hannibal's normally cold eyes. Will knows enough to not try to guess to what kind of emotion that heat pertains, but even without knowing, he can easily label it as desire.
An unrequited hunger like that, belonging to a man with tastes like Hannibal Lecter's, is more dangerous than almost anything else in the world. But Hannibal's always known, even longer than Will has, that the sentiment is hardly unrequited. Hannibal had been easily able to find those low embers in Will that Will himself had never detected, fanning them to flames without Will even realizing until he was already burning up inside. Part of that had been a very real fever, but the smoldering that remains has nothing to do with encephalitis.
Will watches Hannibal's hands as he cuts his food, his mouth as he speaks. The words are kind, even, and honest; he wants Will to have the chance to say goodbye to the only family he has in this life, to have the opportunity to tell Alana that he's gone and isn't coming back. Will suspects that Hannibal has an ulterior motive for that note, a bit of salt in Alana's wounds, reminding her that she was nothing more than a device to him, a pawn in his game. There's a part of Will that enjoys that notion too, writing a note telling a woman who rejected him that he's run away with a man who purported to care about her, a man to whom she was unbendingly loyal even as she told Will to stay away from him.
Will's eyes focus on Hannibal's throat as he swallows, as he brings his goblet to his lips and drinks, leaving a red stain of wine behind on his pale lips until he licks it away. Will feels heat low in his belly, and for the first time he imagines that maybe Hannibal would rather have Will by his side, alive and whole, than dissected and served as his dinner.
The question catches Will off guard, and he wonders if this is another test, if answering the right or wrong way will decide his fate. Honesty, he decides, is the best path forward from this point, and he picks up his own wine, holding it in hand and swirling the liquid in the bowl of the glass.
"Jack isn't offering forgiveness," he finally replies after a moment's thought, his eyes on the alcohol in his glass. "He wants justice," he adds, raising his eyes to Hannibal's, their gazes locking in the dim firelight. "He wants to see you, see who you are, see what I've become. He wants the truth." Will sets down his glass without taking a drink from it, then shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
"He's expecting my betrayal," Will says, his voice low. He's made his choice here, tonight, of whose man he is in this room. If he's going forward with Hannibal, he needs to do it will a clean slate, all his lies laid bare.
"It was my idea," he admits, speaking so quietly that he's nearly whispering, unable to keep the quaver out of his tone. "I orchestrated everything. To catch you, to prove to Jack, to everyone, what you'd done to me." He pauses, watching Hannibal's eyes, attentive to any change in them. "It was my idea to fake Freddie's murder, to convince you I'd butchered her. To gain your trust." Will feels sick at the admission, afraid, but he pushes on, ready to accept whatever consequences that his confession might bring.
"It's not an act anymore," he murmurs, emotion shaking his voice. "I'm becoming what I was pretending to be, bit by bit. Wanting to kill Ingram wasn't for your benefit; it was for me. The feelings I confessed to you about wishing I'd taken his life were true." He has to pause again, to swallow, needing to get these last words out. "I want to run away with you, Hannibal," he says, hoping Hannibal can see the truth in his eyes, can hear it in his voice. "It's all I want."
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Date: 2016-01-31 08:23 am (UTC)An unrequited hunger like that, belonging to a man with tastes like Hannibal Lecter's, is more dangerous than almost anything else in the world. But Hannibal's always known, even longer than Will has, that the sentiment is hardly unrequited. Hannibal had been easily able to find those low embers in Will that Will himself had never detected, fanning them to flames without Will even realizing until he was already burning up inside. Part of that had been a very real fever, but the smoldering that remains has nothing to do with encephalitis.
Will watches Hannibal's hands as he cuts his food, his mouth as he speaks. The words are kind, even, and honest; he wants Will to have the chance to say goodbye to the only family he has in this life, to have the opportunity to tell Alana that he's gone and isn't coming back. Will suspects that Hannibal has an ulterior motive for that note, a bit of salt in Alana's wounds, reminding her that she was nothing more than a device to him, a pawn in his game. There's a part of Will that enjoys that notion too, writing a note telling a woman who rejected him that he's run away with a man who purported to care about her, a man to whom she was unbendingly loyal even as she told Will to stay away from him.
Will's eyes focus on Hannibal's throat as he swallows, as he brings his goblet to his lips and drinks, leaving a red stain of wine behind on his pale lips until he licks it away. Will feels heat low in his belly, and for the first time he imagines that maybe Hannibal would rather have Will by his side, alive and whole, than dissected and served as his dinner.
The question catches Will off guard, and he wonders if this is another test, if answering the right or wrong way will decide his fate. Honesty, he decides, is the best path forward from this point, and he picks up his own wine, holding it in hand and swirling the liquid in the bowl of the glass.
"Jack isn't offering forgiveness," he finally replies after a moment's thought, his eyes on the alcohol in his glass. "He wants justice," he adds, raising his eyes to Hannibal's, their gazes locking in the dim firelight. "He wants to see you, see who you are, see what I've become. He wants the truth." Will sets down his glass without taking a drink from it, then shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
"He's expecting my betrayal," Will says, his voice low. He's made his choice here, tonight, of whose man he is in this room. If he's going forward with Hannibal, he needs to do it will a clean slate, all his lies laid bare.
"It was my idea," he admits, speaking so quietly that he's nearly whispering, unable to keep the quaver out of his tone. "I orchestrated everything. To catch you, to prove to Jack, to everyone, what you'd done to me." He pauses, watching Hannibal's eyes, attentive to any change in them. "It was my idea to fake Freddie's murder, to convince you I'd butchered her. To gain your trust." Will feels sick at the admission, afraid, but he pushes on, ready to accept whatever consequences that his confession might bring.
"It's not an act anymore," he murmurs, emotion shaking his voice. "I'm becoming what I was pretending to be, bit by bit. Wanting to kill Ingram wasn't for your benefit; it was for me. The feelings I confessed to you about wishing I'd taken his life were true." He has to pause again, to swallow, needing to get these last words out. "I want to run away with you, Hannibal," he says, hoping Hannibal can see the truth in his eyes, can hear it in his voice. "It's all I want."