maskormenacelogs | we came out from the deep

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we came out from the deep

WHO: Will Graham & People (it's always people, gosh)
WHERE: All over
WHEN: Month of November
WHAT: All the things do not dead open inside
WARNINGS: Hannibal season 3 spoilers and everything that comes with the canon. Cannibalism and murder and bad psychiatry and worse lighting and terrible stuff I will update if anything else needs to be added.

All starters to be posted in comments. But as an important note, Will's returned from roughly four years gone by in canon and has visibly changed. He now has a scar along his forehead (picture one and picture two) and for the first half of November will be sporting a cut along his right cheek that's been stitched up. The scar on his forehead has been there for years now, the cheek wound is fresh.

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[She gets the additional warmth of those slightly calloused hands, one already taking to working through her hair. Not that Will really cares if he gets Abigail's hair in his face—in fact, he's quite fond of just that—but it feels natural. Like how he focuses on the feel of heartbeat between them, signs of life and health and everything Hannibal had taken from her. Everything he assumed Abigail Hobbs would never have again for nearly four years, having seen her life end while he watched, powerless. So she's not the only one having some eye issues, either. Will shakes his head and lets out another quick laugh at the implication they shouldn't try the dog food recipe again because Will shouldn't leave again. He can't. Made sure he couldn't. But how does he tell her that, or anyone?]

Then don't. I'm not going anywhere. [He has nowhere to go, just like Abigail, and finally puts some distance between them so he can look at her face. Try for eye contact, thumb gently running over her cheek in a manner he no longer cares if Hannibal had done.] You and I are the same now. I took Hannibal with me.

[Steady words despite the wariness he has about it all. Hannibal had kept her, had used her as a tool as he did everyone he came across. Would Will confessing to making Hannibal as dead as the two of them be something she found good? Or would it upset her, attached to the monster still? As much as he doesn't like approaching the fact Abigail is dead, she knows. She was there. She knows, and Will ignoring it won't change that. But now they're the same. Now they're both allowed to rest. What's the point in shying away?]

[ she squints, forehead wrinkling like she doesn't quite get what he's trying to tell her, though she doesn't shy away from will's touch or linger on the fact that he's catching her tears against his thumb. she does understand, of course. "I took Hannibal with me" leaves little room for confusion, but the idea of will being dead is just... mind-boggling to her. will was the one that was supposed to survive.

her hand flutters between them, pressing her palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding with surety beneath her fingers.

hannibal is dead.

will is dead and abigail is dead, but hannibal is dead. every nightmare is over. (except the nightmares of memory and the everpresent threat that hannibal could come here.) hannibal is dead.

instead of ask questions or begging for clarity, abigail nods once before whispering like ooooooooh, ] April is gonna kill you.

[And beat it does, Will's eyes carefully trained on her face. Her beautiful, vibrant face with her bright, perceptive eyes. He's effectively smushed to the floor again for the second time in the past several hours and Will honestly can't be bothered by it. He had been positive, for a time after Chilton left him be in the hospital, his heart had kept beating despite the bloodbath only for Abigail. For his determination to see her survive, to wake up near her, to just...know, no matter what it took, how she pulled through. Or didn't.

He waits, mind on high alert, concerned. Hopeful. Curious, not pleading. Not yet, he has no—oh. Will's the luckiest person on any Earth right now. Dead they both may be, he can see that much.]

She'll have to catch me first. [Light, though it's difficult, and Will drops one hand so he can put it over hers, gripping slender fingers tightly without moving hers an inch. When Abigail died, so did a part of Will. It continued to beat and pump blood and do just what it was supposed to, but hers was a death he couldn't recover from. How nice for the two of them to finally be reunited, kickstart the old withered rot back into actual health. Pieces of the puzzle put back in place and it's a miracle his heart doesn't just burst right out of his chest. That's not going to happen, but his voice is thick enough to make all constricted feelings known.] I've had to live without you for the last four years. We should probably never do that again, either.

[His grip on her hand is slightly tighter than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, but there is a desperate cling generally not present. It echoes in his tone, the way his eyes are wider, how he blinks more than he really needs to.]

I'm so sorry, Abigail. I'm sorry I let him...I'm sorry. For everything.

[ ♪ last hope -- paramore

her face falls, not because of his apologies, which she downright ignores, having come to terms with will's choice that night long ago when yuri had been outed and abigail asked him about hannibal and forgiveness, but because, ] You were gone for four years?

[ without her and april and grey? (the latter two she realizes idly he wouldn't remember anyway, but it still makes her chest ache.)

her face crumples further, thoughts drawn to alana inexplicably, and freddie. she wants to ask after freddie's well being, still mistakenly believing that alana had died the night abigail shoved her out the window, but she stops herself even as more confused tears trip and skitter down her cheeks. she doesn't move to wipe them away, letting them fly down to the floor. samson whines softly, sensing the emotion in the room, but she ignores him for the moment, shifting to rock back though she makes no move to tug her hand back as she sits up, obviously lost in a miasma of thoughts and questions. ]

Did you go my funeral this time? [ presumably he was in the hospital this time and not chilton's but her morbid curiosity and black humor gets the best of her. did they change the date of death on her gravestone? did will look at "beloved daughter" in delicate cursive beneath her full name and feel a tug of emotion to a world he didn't realize even existed or was abigail just his broken tea cup still? ] I hate to think you missed it twice.

Edited 2015-11-10 07:02 (UTC)

[Abigail pulls away and his grip on her hand grows without him thinking about it—no, no, he just got her back, here in a world where Hannibal Lecter won't come out of the corner and take her life again while he can do nothing to stop him. There's a flicker of pure fear, nostrils flared, mouth parted, eyes wide, like she's going just to up and float away. They already had to say goodbye once, to release each other, and Will can't stop the possibly selfish desire for that to never happen again, to grab her and hold her to him if it'll prevent her being gone, as though if he held her tightly enough he could absorb her. Put her back in his heart, his mind, the only place he'd been able to make for her in a world that was crueler to Abigail Hobbs than it had any right to be, for absolutely no Goddamn reason.

So even though she doesn't take her hand away, Will moves to sit up as well, as though she's tugged some invisible marionette strings and he can't do anything else. He wouldn't want to, even if that was the case. He loved Molly, and he loves April, and even with a broken spirit he still loved Jack, Alana (Hannibal, too, unfortunately), but none of that compared to his love for Abigail Hobbs. Even if he knew he had blinders. Some of it was misplaced. He loved the Abigail he had crafted in his head because he never got to know her long enough or well enough by the usual standards to love her, didn't matter. What he felt was real and important and he had been honored, in his own way, when Hannibal revealed he took him to a secret place he'd once shared with Abigail. Technically, the two of them weren't related. Will wasn't so gone he couldn't realize that. But the bonds connecting them as family were strong enough, and by that black humor—Will considered them blood related. They met, lived, breathed, and died in blood, what the hell else would they be?

Which is why when she asks that question he has every response of if she'd asked her real father. Not Hobbs, but a better father. A father who loved well, who loved her, who did the best he could without a freak on his back. Who would never force her to do anything she didn't want to unless it was truly for her own good. Who'd never keep her under the fear if she didn't go along, he'd kill her, and certainly wouldn't keep her in a basement while he sat upstairs and comforted the rest of the world about her death, poor Will Graham losing his marbles. Throwing parties and taking lovers, living a lie of a life while Abigail was stuck, essentially frozen in time as the rest of the world simply kept going. Thinking she was dead. Like Will had for these past four years. Knowing, not thinking. Knowing he saw her, saw the bag, saw...

He blinks rapidly, but it does nothing for the wetness around his eyes, and for the first time, Abigail isn't alone in her tears. He makes no move to wipe them away, shaking his head as he tries to find the right words. Only works to make it seem like his lips are quivering, which he doesn't bother to stop.]

No, I wasn't. Awake then. [He's still bitter about it, never mind he understands the reasons. He's still slighted that not only did Hannibal kill her, he put Will in a state he couldn't attend her funeral. A state where he couldn't attend, see the flowers Hannibal had sent, and scatter them like the unwelcome insult they were.] I visit. Soon as Hannibal was put away, I went. Couple times a year. The anniversary. Your birthday. My birthday. V...Valentine's Day.

[His voice finally catches up to his eyes, cracking as he clings to her hand over his heart. Perhaps this is all the answer she needs to the idea Will considered her nothing more than a busted teacup.]

I'd bring you tulips. Larkspurs. Wildflowers. Talk to you when I cleaned your...place. [Her tombstone, he means. Can't bring himself to directly say.] You always talked back. I could hear you so clearly, we'd talk for hours.

[So maybe some of those dates had changed when he got married, but. Molly couldn't have kept him away forever, and it was always easier to let Will do what he wanted than try to stop him. He wanted more than anything in the world for Abigail to have survived. The next best thing he could do was visit her resting place, and Molly was smart enough to realize no force on Earth could have stopped him when he had his mind on something. Or, more accurately, someone. The most precious and beloved someone he would ever have.]

[ hannibal gives her nothing, not even the courtesy of the last of her family at her damn funeral. it speaks to her relationship with hannibal that she isn't surprised. and that she fully blames him.

will's not the only bitter one, right now.

she knows that she died. she's been aware of that fact since it happened. hannibal was far more precise than her father ever was, he would never have left it to chance that she lived, and the moment she took his hand she knew that her time was up. abigail had taken hannibal's hand willingly. her fate was sealed when he said her name. she could have run, she could have sprinted out the door and leapt over alana's broken body and just run, but her nightmare would have never ended. she had let hannibal win so she could be free and so will could be free -- free of her. free with the certainty that she was gone and could never be hurt again and will could fight back.

she had thought she'd wanted him to say yes until he'd said no.

absently: ] Larkspurs are Marissa's favorites. [ that's why they're in the garden. a veritable cascade of her best friend's favorite flowers tucked beneath the roses under her window. whatever flower magic adam had had affected those as much as the roses, but she hadn't admitted that to him. ]

What did I say? I hope it was interesting. [ she's trying very hard to ignore will's tears because it feels like it makes her own death ...more real, almost. seeing him mourning her when he's less than a foot away feels intrusive and unfair. she'd heard it, glimpses and whispers of it, when she was tucked away at hannibal's, but to witness four years of grief is something else entirely. she'd died and he had genuinely grieved for her, for years. it's all that's keeping her tone light and flippant because if she cracks, she's certain that grief will pull her under and force her to grieve her own death and, abstractly, will's. that's something she's never allowed herself to do and she doesn't want to start now, even if it feels callous and cheap in comparison to will's honesty. ] Hopefully no rattling chains and spooky woooooos.

[Perhaps there had been a tugging memory in his mind when he chose her flowers. Perhaps he had been drawn to certain among them due to a conversation in a world he could have never properly remembered. The Abigail Hobbs in his head might have encouraged it in simple conversation on their yacht ride across the Atlantic, even. To the rest of the world, Will had sailed across the ocean to find Hannibal by himself. In reality (in his reality), he'd had a first mate. One who took the other bed in the hull. Who asked him if he was asleep or not, and when he wasn't (which was often), had conversations about anything and everything. Who was given cups and plates of food that went untouched, but propriety demanded that courtesy be given. Abigail understood that, and nothing went to waste. He'd just eat what she hadn't the next time and the cycle continued.]

No, no. [She gets a quiet laugh, a shake of his head, amused, tears starting to abate as the grip on her hand eases.] We had...months of conversations. You were always very interesting.

[Before she died, even. Will's not sure how much is good to say. How does he explain Molly? How does he explain the fact that a dead Abigail attended their wedding? Not as a flower girl, but as a spirit only he could see in the corner, watching with a grin on her face. How Will had imagined her in a dress Alana would have picked out to purposefully keep her burial clothes out of his head. Lord, it all sounded completely insane, didn't it?]

Do you have any questions? About...what happened after. The kitchen. I'll tell you whatever you wanna know.

[She deserves it. There are very few things he can't tell Abigail, and all of them relate to Frederick Chilton. Other than that? She's free to pick at the buffet of Will Graham's head, as per usual. An offer he wouldn't give anyone else from Baltimore, one she can take or leave as she so chooses.]

[ she shakes her head, mulling over the fact that she'd kept will company after death. as a ghost, haunting him really, though he isn't making it seem like that.

that's what ghosts do, they haunt. that's inescapable. ]

I died, what else is there to know? [ she died, will didn't. which is how she would prefer it, frankly. anything after that is wishful thinking for a life she didn't get to lead. she knows how that ends too, will and hannibal dead, apparently.

but that was will's choice, probably the real victory, if anyone is honest. hannibal took choices away, he whittled them down to one choice, and will had chosen differently despite that. ]

[He finally lets go of her hand, long enough to wipe at the wetness left around his eyes before he plants it on the carpet behind him, perfectly at ease to be sitting on the ground. Why wouldn't he be, when Abigail is there?]

You ever change your mind, let me know. [An open, extended, eternal offer. Quite literally eternal, since all they have in this world is time. Time they don't have back home.] Hungry? I brought us a snack.

[He nods to the food. Well, really, more to the teas. He might have been gone for years and had a hell of a time getting back on his feet this past weekend, but it would take so much more than time and horror for him to forget all of Abigail's favorite things. And it would take a miracle of both God and the devil for Will to pass up the chance to share anything at all with Abigail.]

[ she could make it morbid, remind him that people bring food after funerals, but she refrains just this once, thinking better of it. ]

Can't say no to a snack. And if we don't eat it, Samson probably will. [ the dog raises his head at his name like yes, hello? ]

Then we better get on that. Grape's bad for dogs.

[Sorry, Samson. You are a majestic, incredible animal, and being Abigail's means Will wants to protect him all the more. So gobbling down sandwiches with Abigail it is, Will putting one hand on the edge of her bed to gingerly lift himself to a sit, cracking open the drinks and handing Abigail hers. Playing dad or playing host, well, it's anyone's guess at this point. Who says those are mutually exclusive anyway?]

To us?

[Because he can think of nothing better to toast to than a comfortable sort of afterlife spent with Abigail, without the looming terror of Hannibal around, without the knowledge the young woman he's seeing is a figment of his imagination desperately trying to avoid having to cope. She deserves better than that. To them, to her, to the devil his due and his due forever ignored as important in the face of Abigail's breathing, living self.]

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we came out from the deep

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