hannigram | gorged, drowned, plucked, and roasted

22.

The apartment is crammed with antique dark furniture and damask; stiff, pretentious elegance, just like its owner. However, he's not the one haunting it.
The ghost that greets Hannibal and Will when they cross the threshold wears a familiar smirk; despite her bruised neck and blood-injected eyes, Bedelia hasn't lost a crumb of her aplomb. She follows them as they explore the rooms, rolls her eyes when Will changes Hannibal's dressing and scoffs as they plan their next moves.

'He's using you just as Crawford did,' she says when Hannibal is not with them. 'Same as he did with me. Same as he does with everyone.'

Will ignores her, and she just gets more annoying. 'You and I, we know blaming him is like blaming a lion for devouring his prey - or for playing with it if he is well-fed. Believing feral beasts will spare us in reason of our charming personality is a fool's last mistake.'

'Lions don't eat each other,' Will replies within himself. 'They hunt together.'

'Only when convenient, Will. They'll eat a cub if they think they can get something out of it. Not to tell, it's adorable you believe you are a lion; must be another of those things he persuaded you of.' She grabs his hand, as if she could. 'Everything serves a purpose to him. Ask yourself what you're beneficial to, and try to stay relevant.'

Will peeks at his lion, chopping vegetables with the same perfect focus he reserves to hunt - or sex - and probably with a similar enjoyment.
Bedelia's warning leaves a bad taste in Will's mouth but certainly isn't making him take precautions. On the contrary, her words - provided they're true - make Will realise he's fine with being used and even eaten when no longer needed. Those both sound like a fair price to pay in exchange for what Hannibal is giving him.

Will swallows a sigh and turns Sogliato's laptop toward Hannibal. La Stampa website writes that the police hilariously declared Pazzi's killed himself.

'Means they are joining the party along with Jack and Mason.' Hannibal peers at the chairs around the long ornate table. 'I wonder if we have room enough.'

'Well, we invited them all, didn't we? Now we can't just say we don't have the seats.'

'You are right, Will. We'll make do. I am pretty sure Sogliato keeps the good china in that buffet cabinet over there.' They exchange a half-smile. 'We better get to work. They'll be here before we know it.'

Will does a soldier's salute and turns on his heels to go digging drawers for a tablecloth.

'My bet is Mason rings first,' his voice is loud enough to reach the kitchen.

Will hears pans banging and sizzling before a reply comes.

'I go with Jack, provided he can walk better than me. Pazzi must have told him our guest's name before his fall.'

'And Mason could've bought the police and learnt it from them.'

'What we seem to agree on is that la Polizia will be a no show, after all.'

'They're way less motivated than the other two - unless they work for Mason, but that puts him first on the list again. What does right guess win?'

'One dare, one truth.' Hannibal comes back from the kitchen to assess the white linen and the silver cutlery. He is about to express his approval but the cheerful ding from the elevator makes him turn his head toward the entrance.

'Showtime, Will,' he whispers with a warm smile.

The Goldberg Variations play softly as Jack crosses the ajar door, a slight limp and a gun in his hand. He looks around crossing hallways and rooms, finding nothing out of place until he stumbles into Will, smiling at him from the head of the dining table.

'Last time we were to dine together, you showed up early and I too late. It's good we're all on time today.'

'We're still missing someone.' From under the door frame, Jack points his chin at the table, set for three. He steps in and gives his shoulders to the closest wall from where he scans the corners. 'What's for dinner?'

'Never ask. Spoils the surprise.' With a foot, Will shifts the chair at his left off the table. He shows Jack his empty hands, opens his jacket to prove there are no weapons on him.

'Not only he makes you sit with the grown-ups, but he also gives you the master's place.' Jack moves closer for a chance to peer into the seemingly empty kitchen, gun still drawn. 'The illusion of a long lash is how he gets you. Damn, I bet he scolded you good for sparing me last day.'

Will lifts one of the cloches, revealing a fuming broth. Thyme and parsley vapour fills the air.

He glances at Jack's gun. 'Can't say you seem very grateful for that.'

'Can't say I am.' Jack looks around again and takes another step closer. When he talks again, he looks old, sounds exhausted. 'How could he change you like this?'

'He didn't. He just made what I am apparent. This is what he does.'

Jack shoves the barrel of his gun against his friend's forehead, his eyes stinging. 'You're trying to say that all those times you made yourself sick just to help me catch monsters, you were already one of them.'

'The way an egg is a bird and a caterpillar a butterfly.' Will presses the gun steadier against his skin, his eyes bored into Jack's. 'The way an agent is a killer.'

An arm juts out from under the table, a blade flashes. Jack drops hard to the floor, his Achilles heels slashed.

'Teaches you better not bet against me,' Hannibal says.

When Jack wakes up, he is strapped at the same chair Will offered him. His head is on fire and the room blurry, but he can focus on the man sitting before him just fine; a bruised, slightly tense Hannibal Lecter, thoughtfully buttering his bread. A bit out of place in his dark sweater and sit at the table, when one has seen him mostly in his jacket and attending it.

'I didn't have an opportunity to ask you during our last encounter, but did you enjoy the exhibition? A different kind of evil minds museum.'

'Not so different,' Jack slurs. His muscles don't seem to work right.

Will stands behind them. He pours three glasses of wine and raises a toast to old friends only Hannibal can join.

There's something on the table Jack can't quite make out until Hannibal takes it in his hand. He switches it on, and it starts buzzing furiously.

'You built a career digging into the criminal mind,' he hands the saw to Will. 'It is only fair we repay the favour.'

Will smiles to Hannibal and places a quick kiss on his lips. Then, he ponders the tool in his hand, finds it's not that different from one he might use to repair a boat. The screeching it makes when it cuts through flesh and bone is chilling, though. Blood drips down from Jack's forehead to his shirt in fat round drops. All he can do is stare with his wide pupils at the man in front of him, clearly enjoying the view.

After that, it's all very fast. In a blur, five Italian police officers dash into the room, guns drawn.

Will watches Hannibal slowly kneel and lace his hands behind his head. Then, he imitates him.
Three cops cover the room; the other two keep their guns on Will and Hannibal. At a distance.

A slim, smartly dressed man strolls in. He takes in with a glance the kneeled cannibals and the tied up, drugged, bleeding man.

'Sono un agente dell'FBI,' Jack shouts. Then, with both recognition and resignation. 'Benetti, it's me, Crawford... but you're not here to make an arrest, are you?.'

'Correct,' Benetti says. He nods to the man behind Hannibal, and he strikes him to the back of his head, making him drop to the floor. Will watches as he is promptly hog-tied with zip ties, and his head gets covered with a black bag.

Benetti points at Will. 'Anche questo. Paga doppio per tutti e due.' He turns to Jack. 'There's no price on your head, Crawford.'