Warning: Murder incoming, FYI.
Hannibal drove him out of the city that night. There was a fire in his eyes that matched what Will had seen in his bed, though it stemmed from another place entirely. Hannibal’s passions, it seemed, presented the same to even Will’s discerning eye.
“Do you have something specific in mind, or are we just…going?” Will asked, lolling in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s ridiculously luxurious car.
“I always have something in mind,” he answered, angling an amused glance at Will. “Considering how Mathilda’s death affected you, it occurs to me that you aren’t utilizing your talent to the fullest, Will. When I asked you if it bothers you, you said no. Was that a lie?”
“No,” Will said, turning to look out at the passing scenery. They were reaching a less populated area, passing less return traffic. “It wasn’t a lie and, no, it doesn’t bother me, per se.”
“‘Every death since then is a weight around my neck’,” Hannibal echoed back at him, amused.
“They aren’t irreconcilable,” Will said, his fingers spreading on the warm leather seat, exploring the texture with his sensitive fingertips. “I carry their weight so it isn’t meaningless, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it all over again.”
“You deceive yourself,” Hannibal decided.
“I compartmentalize,” Will corrected him, smiling a little. “Time hasn’t taught me patience, Doctor Lecter, but it has taught me pragmatism.” Continue reading