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week one - train to the afterlife (u wish hannibal)
[ The last thing Hannibal remembers is falling.
There's a bit more than that, naturally, but that's the overwhelming part of it. There's blood in taste, smell, and sight, and perhaps that should be more prominent, but it's not. Instead, it's the warmth of an embrace in the cold wind coming from the ocean. A moment before they had fallen, he had felt Will's weight shift, and Hannibal certainly could have stopped it. But in truth, he hadn't wanted to.
He'd always been enchanted with how he might meet his end in the way that he was enchanted by particularly good music or art. It sparked his imagination, because there were many ends he could picture, but none were certain. He didn't desire death, of course, since living was far more fun, but he'd always hoped that when he did die, it would be in some elegant, grandiose way. Being dragged off a cliff into the blood black sea below was perfect for that idea he had in his head.
What came after was something he had never concerned himself nearly as much with, though. It was perfectly obvious to him, because no matter the story or theology, his own fate in that respect was fairly certain if there was anything at all. He wakes before Will and peers around curiously, but his lips only pull up into a faint smile. A train is a bit quaint and unexpected in terms of an afterlife, all that said. Because what else could it be? He would accept that just as easily as a vision that comes from the final firings of his neurons. Both may as well be true.
When Will stirs, Hannibal's attention is pulled away from the setting and to the man sitting across from him instead. Hannibal crosses one leg over the other, and they sit in a mirror of a scene that feels almost old by now. With the same cool clarity as always, Hannibal speaks when he knows Will will be awake enough to hear him. ]
Hello, Will.
There's a bit more than that, naturally, but that's the overwhelming part of it. There's blood in taste, smell, and sight, and perhaps that should be more prominent, but it's not. Instead, it's the warmth of an embrace in the cold wind coming from the ocean. A moment before they had fallen, he had felt Will's weight shift, and Hannibal certainly could have stopped it. But in truth, he hadn't wanted to.
He'd always been enchanted with how he might meet his end in the way that he was enchanted by particularly good music or art. It sparked his imagination, because there were many ends he could picture, but none were certain. He didn't desire death, of course, since living was far more fun, but he'd always hoped that when he did die, it would be in some elegant, grandiose way. Being dragged off a cliff into the blood black sea below was perfect for that idea he had in his head.
What came after was something he had never concerned himself nearly as much with, though. It was perfectly obvious to him, because no matter the story or theology, his own fate in that respect was fairly certain if there was anything at all. He wakes before Will and peers around curiously, but his lips only pull up into a faint smile. A train is a bit quaint and unexpected in terms of an afterlife, all that said. Because what else could it be? He would accept that just as easily as a vision that comes from the final firings of his neurons. Both may as well be true.
When Will stirs, Hannibal's attention is pulled away from the setting and to the man sitting across from him instead. Hannibal crosses one leg over the other, and they sit in a mirror of a scene that feels almost old by now. With the same cool clarity as always, Hannibal speaks when he knows Will will be awake enough to hear him. ]
Hello, Will.
no subject
I don't speak any Spanish, but I'm sure I can get by. With you.
[ Which is direct enough to fluster himself a little and he sighs softly, eyes looking away for a moment to where Hannibal's hands sit in his lap. A moment later, Will reaches forward to lace his fingers with one and gives a soft squeeze. ]
I suppose we should --
[ Then the train stops, the whistle blares and the Sheriff calls from outside. Will's focus is taken away and he pulls his hand back, looking out towards the window. There's a small frown on his face as he looks there and then back to Hannibal, finishing his sentence despite being thrown off so sharply. ]
We should see where we are, first.
no subject
But he's disarmed by the contact. His mouth falls open slightly as he takes in a quiet breath that's too soft to be a gasp. He's so happy in that moment, because even more than the words, that touch, the intimate intertwining of their fingers like a knot, that makes it real. Whether this was the afterlife or something stranger, it hardly matters.
Yet it doesn't last. It takes Hannibal a moment to recollect himself, though only just a moment. By the time Will turns back to him, the glassy look in his eyes is fading quickly. For the first time, he gives more attention to where they are than who is here with hin. He looks to the window to see the town, then to the people around them that become more than faces in a featureless crowd. ]
I suppose we should.
[ Like others, he stands, and he immediately rebuttons his suit jacket, though he does briefly glance down towards his stomach and then to Will's head. His smile quirks differently, less warm and more playful. ]
How's your head, Will?
no subject
He'll follow him off the train, sticking close by to murmur his response in the meantime. ]
Off-center. Like I got water in my nose.
[ Which really is just ironic, he thinks, considering where they were supposed to end up. He wonders if he really did get water in his nose, it would be fitting. Could also just be another hallucination. ]
no subject
[ Hannibal continues to lead the way, at least in a manner of speaking. He follows the crowd more than he leads it, mingling in with everyone else. He's taking stock of the people he sees, and in more ways than one. It's a natural consequence of his diet. He looks at people and often thinks of what part of them may be best on a plate. Though in equal measure, he notices the variety of age, of nationality, everything normal that a good psychiatrist would. Some killers have a problem with this, but for Hannibal, these two halves are never in conflict with each other.
He looks to Will and smiles in a way that reaches to his eyes, but is also very slightly smug and teasing all at once. Because he is an asshole. ]
Should I be asking you to draw a clock for me?
no subject
The next time you ask me to draw a clock for you, I hope you're prepared to eat it. I think it's fair to say I'll be getting second opinions from now on.
no subject
It is. Our relationship is more complicated than simply the doctor and patient by now, so I would encourage it. Letting biases bleed into work is unprofessional.
[ He absolutely didn't miss the fact that his is still first though :) ]
no subject
Because you've never let that happen before, sure. Jesus, Hannibal.
[ And he wants to stay, he thinks, and continue whatever this is but he's really not liking the pressure in his head and the way the town is staring to swim in front of him a little. So, this is what he does --
He takes Hannibal's hand again, just a loose grasp around his wrist to tug him close so Will can lean in and murmur. ]
Not feeling so hot. Find out what you can, alright? I need to get some air.
[ He lets go after, slipping through the crowd then to find his bearings somewhere quiet -- and empty -- again. This, of course, means going behind the Saloon to puke but, you know. ]