Hannibal gets out of Will's car, leaving Will behind, his own feelings whirling around him, Hannibal's smile, the warmth of his kiss, of his touch on Will's cheek, all of it lingering. He knows without being told that, despite all the outcomes Hannibal told Will he'd imagined, there were only two paths away from Hannibal's table tonight: loyalty and love or deception and death. And Will hadn't chosen the way he did to save his life.
Unbuckling his own seatbelt, Will meets Hannibal on his porch, gives him a bare glance before he moves to unlock the door, pushing inside and trusting that Hannibal will follow him. Will's dogs rush immediately to greet him, tails wagging, one of them letting out an occasional bark, two of the smaller ones jumping up against his legs. Only Winston stands back, seemingly eyeing Hannibal as if he knows, not that Hannibal's a killer, but that Hannibal is taking Will away.
Will kneels, reaching around and rubbing furry backs and patting flanks, not ducking away from the licks across his face. "I know, I know," he tells the dogs softly, making sure to touch each one, give them attention in turn, his goodbye. He doesn't have time to cook for them, like usually would, so he stands and goes into his kitchen, taking raw meat out of the refrigerator, cutting it quickly into pieces on the cutting board by the sink.
He stops, when he's done, looking at the redness of the meat, the roughness of the chunks, and he sees the future. He swallows around a thickness in his throat that isn't fear; it's something thrilling, something that steals the breath right from Will's lungs.
Taking the cutting board to the other room, he drops bits of meat into half a dozen metal bowls, dividing it, the dogs crowding around, gulping the raw flesh down. It's like a perfect, poetic metaphor, and Will raises his eyes to find Hannibal watching, not the dogs but Will's face, seeing, understanding.
"Give me two minutes to pack a bag," Will says, setting the cutting board on his desk and moving to get a sturdy duffle bag from underneath his bed.
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Unbuckling his own seatbelt, Will meets Hannibal on his porch, gives him a bare glance before he moves to unlock the door, pushing inside and trusting that Hannibal will follow him. Will's dogs rush immediately to greet him, tails wagging, one of them letting out an occasional bark, two of the smaller ones jumping up against his legs. Only Winston stands back, seemingly eyeing Hannibal as if he knows, not that Hannibal's a killer, but that Hannibal is taking Will away.
Will kneels, reaching around and rubbing furry backs and patting flanks, not ducking away from the licks across his face. "I know, I know," he tells the dogs softly, making sure to touch each one, give them attention in turn, his goodbye. He doesn't have time to cook for them, like usually would, so he stands and goes into his kitchen, taking raw meat out of the refrigerator, cutting it quickly into pieces on the cutting board by the sink.
He stops, when he's done, looking at the redness of the meat, the roughness of the chunks, and he sees the future. He swallows around a thickness in his throat that isn't fear; it's something thrilling, something that steals the breath right from Will's lungs.
Taking the cutting board to the other room, he drops bits of meat into half a dozen metal bowls, dividing it, the dogs crowding around, gulping the raw flesh down. It's like a perfect, poetic metaphor, and Will raises his eyes to find Hannibal watching, not the dogs but Will's face, seeing, understanding.
"Give me two minutes to pack a bag," Will says, setting the cutting board on his desk and moving to get a sturdy duffle bag from underneath his bed.