mirrortouch | 01 | 🕐

[ It's not something that really ever becomes routine, it doesn't matter how often he wakes up someplace strange and uncharted. The voice on the line sounds about as scattered as he feels. ]

My name is Will Graham, it's- [ He's pulling back his sleeve to look for a watch that's not there. ] I don't have the time. I don't- I don't have the time.

[ Hang on, don't get too lost. ]

It's not clear to me exactly where I am, but- [ a dry laugh ] you probably already knew that. This isn't even my phone. But you probably knew that too.

[ He's missing details. He's missing plenty. His voice trails off for a short while before he can get his bearings enough to speak again, and even then it's almost unconsciously. ] I don't know. I don't know.

[ It's as if the fact that he has no idea sparks him back into the present. His voice grows more composed, if somewhat cracked. ] So if you're hearing this, if anyone is hearing this - [ is anyone hearing this? ] - any singular indication will be key.

[ Another beat. ]

I feel as though I've strayed a long, long way from home.

[ The air goes dead, and then so does the line. ]

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That's a comfort.

[ That could be construed as sarcasm, but the information in and of itself? ]

That's a relief, actually.

[ Everyone else just tells him that he's dead. It might be unfortunate just what this is, this small bit of sanity and from whom he has to hear it. Hannibal grounds just about as much as he upsets, intervenes. Nearly is good, though, nearly, he can deal with easier. He can play pretend and not invite himself into a world where it's Freddie Lounds who's shot and killed him. Freddie Lounds. He'd have almost rather it been Hannibal. An unjust death, but an earned death.

'Nearly,' he thinks, and it sets Will's mind spinning. When he speaks, he has careful control of what's coming out, but it almost sounds frazzled, or at the very least with some seriously stony sincerity. ] Very nearly. [ He'll admit to that. ] I didn't shoot you. [ Another beat. ] Jack shot me. [ But Will didn't shoot Hannibal.

Nor the other time. A time Hannibal doesn't remember. In fact, there have been a number of points where it would have been so easy to prey upon him, slit his throat while he slept, hang him from the highest tree and watch his feet thrash and thrash and still, so still, all at once. ]

None of it seems apropos. The ways in which I've thought of killing you.

[ Despite the topic of conversation, he sounds quite calm, largely detached from the idea of it. ]

I used to lie within my dreams, pricked and prodded by a bed of nails that the weight, the sheer weight of something unexplained. I thought its name to be Hannibal Lecter. [ Hannibal doesn't get a glance tossed his way, rather Will actually starts to lift the cup. ] And nobody could quite see it happening.

[ He sips once, wets his lips and watches the tea. ]

I have traveled - a weary road of acceptance to get to where I am with you now, Doctor Lecter. [ The formality, he doesn't quite know how to drop; maybe it's that layer of detachment again. ] A way paved with thorns and intermittently sprung bear traps.

[ There's a level of compliment underneath that, almost. A 'you should be proud of yourself'. ]

[Hannibal weaves a path between tone and words, said and unsaid. He watches the ripple of liquid in the cup, smells the heavy smell of coffee beans and reunion in the air. The latter doesn't have a true smell, of course, just a weight on the palate, a heaviness on the roof of his mouth.

He isn't perturbed by Will's confession, not about Jack - he thought Jack might follow - and not about his fantasy. Will lives in a world full of fantasy, weaves them into his reality in elaborate and beautiful tapestries.

He wonders how Will killed him in his dreams, how many different ways, how often hands wrapped around his throat. Abigail dreams of gutting them both, and he encourages and discourages them at once. He will always encourage Will to give voice to his darkest thoughts, even if they involve Hannibal's own demise.

Death is nothing to be feared, after all.

The unuttered compliment is noticed, of course: Hannibal does not smile and duck his head, there is no point in being humble when he is not. Shifts his head, adjusts his shoulders, gives the vaguest semblance of gratitude. He is proud.]

You saw it happening.

[The road unfolded before him, bear traps and all. Hannibal can imagine them: there were so many thorns to lay down in his path, still, when the Admiral snatched him away from the creature comforts of his home.]

But no one would bear the weight with you.

Because you - made it that way - [ It's a little vindictive, tightly said, too quick on the draw, but he settles down fast enough. One of his thumbs scratches at a brow. ] 'Saw' being the operative word, I didn't - [ see see see ] see until later on.

[ The thorns, the bear traps, even as they were accumulating about his legs, bearing him down. ] Hindsight is always 20/20.

[ But he does have one thing, and he watches Hannibal's shoulders shift, he takes in careful consideration of all of these reactions he gives, minute and muted as they may be, but each one a story regardless. Sometimes he knows where the tale is going, sometimes he's thrown for a loop.

Here and now, they each have their own separate semblances of control - Hannibal has home team advantage for the time being, absolutely. But Will knows more than he does, and can reveal as much or as little as he likes in tiny rattlesnake strikes. ]

I remember it all now, you know. Alana, [ he says the name carefully, a tentative list of who may be in his corner rather than in Hannibal's, ] she helped me. In the only way she knew how, but she gave me something - awfully important. A clearer picture.

[ Not that she believed him. ]

[It is always about seeing between them. Seeing the truth, seeing what is and is not there, seeing the divide and the lack thereof. The distance of separation has decreased between them, it has decreased greatly, and Hannibal is almost jealous of the time Will has gathered around him, the experiences and knowledge that surround him like armor.

Experience and knowledge that Hannibal has not.

He is jealous, in that way.

Alana's name inches out of Will's mouth, and Hannibal wonders what the other man would do if he drew up a list for him, handed over the information as clear as day for him to do with what he would.

It would be almost comedic, he thinks: distrust would reign, but so would surprise. Hannibal would never be so open as that. The idea does amuse him.]

What did she paint for you?

A mural.

[ His teeth grit as he recalls, once and all over again - the tube down his throat, the perfect means through which Hannibal framed him, it always stands all too clear in his mind now. ] A masterpiece, a palette of whites and greens and all too much grey filter, at first, like an old movie -

[ All dedicated to Hannibal. ]

These lost memories - [ his gaze is fleeting, towards Hannibal, a darkened look that blames, what you took from me ] - they blaze much brighter than what surrounds it, begging to be noticed with their unlock from the confines of my mind.

[ In boxes, in cages, in mislabeled file folders. His mind is a mess. But he knows where just about everything is inside of it. That doesn't mean he chooses his words any less thoughtfully, or that he knows which ones to grasp for next.

You used me. You abandoned me. I thought we were friends. A long time ago. ]

Doctor Bloom helped clear my mind, so to speak. Swept some of the clutter out from underneath the threadbare rugs.

01 | 🕐 | audio

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