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Once, there were three fisherman. Friends and sometimes rivals, all. At the end of a long day, they came together with their catch to judge who had done the best, and found that all three of them had only caught fugu. They jested some halfhearted arguments as to the sizes, but all three knew that to make a proper meal of their catches could be deadly. None of the fishermen were willing to confess to their fear, so they went home to prepare their stew. As knowledgeable fishermen, they knew which parts were most poisonous. They removed the liver and the ovaries, and when the stew was done it smelled delicious.

But when it came time to taste, no one stepped forward. "Let us find someone else to test it," said the wisest of them. "We will bring some to the beggar in town. We will be seen doing a kindness, and in turn, he will do us one." the fishermen all nodded their agreement, and packed a bowl for the beggar. All together, they went to find the beggar. The old man was surprised but grateful, and seemed to enjoy the stew immensely. When nothing had happened to him, the fishermen delightedly returned home to partake of their meal.

The next day, the beggar saw them on their way to the water to begin their day again. He was delighted to see that they were in good health - for he had hidden the stew, and only pretended to eat when the fisherman asked how it was. He knew better than to trust a stranger.

[Hannibal pauses and gives the ghost of a smile.]

Some men are wise, and some men only believe they are so.

Fugu is the Japanese word for pufferfish. They are considered delicacies there, and rightfully so. Fugu sashimi and milt are quite excquisite. A good fugu chef will not serve the liver, as that is where the potent neurotoxin is at its most powerful: but the flesh surrounding the liver is tender, and much less poisonous. It will likely not kill a man, but good fugu will leave the lips and tongue tingling.

[The smile fills out.]

A reminder, of how close one has brushed death.

[Private to Mal]

I suppose you fared well during the latest odyssey?

[Private to Damon]

Forgive me for not saying it sooner, but your actions with Maladicta upon your arrival were inspired.

[Spam for Abigail]

[He does not bother knocking, when he reaches her door. Instead he stands outside it, carefully taping three things to her door. It is, as is his wont, artful. The first page, trimmed to have rounded edges, has German lyrics, beautifully written out. It looks calligraphic. It is taped at an angle, and, overlapping at the corner, is another page, similarly trimmed, similarly written. It is the English translation of the song.

Between the pages, he very carefully tapes a rosehip, with its many shades, red and purple and black.

When he finishes, he admires the lay out for a moment before turning to go.]

[Spam for Alana]

[He carries a manilla folder gently, so as not to smudge any of the lines within. He walks with a little smile on his face, though he doesn't offer it to anyone he passes. This smile is not for them, and neither is what he holds. When he reaches Alana's cabin door, he pauses to make certain the trip did not blur any of his carefully drawn lines, and knocks.]

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[When she opens her door, she almost walks out without seeing it. Walking out the door is habit, part of the beginning of every day.]

[When she catches sight of it, though, the tableau laid out before her . . .]

[She doesn't retch. Not this time. Not anymore. She presses one hand to the scarred whiteness of her throat, closes her eyes, and leans against the door frame. Then she peels the rosehip off the door and crushes it in her hand, letting the petals spread and fall to the hallway floor, to be scattered by the progress of people.]

[She leaves the poems up. She doesn't care, she tells herself. It doesn't matter.]

[Then she goes and finds him in the dining hall. This is a safe place. Ben will be able to find her here if things go wrong. But that's not what she's thinking about first and foremost. No, first comes the fact that this used to be Hannibal's domain, and it's been taken from him.]

[She wants to spit in his face. Instead, she slides into the seat across from him and stares, unblinking.]

You wanted to talk to me?

[He isn't eating, though there is food sitting in front of him. Though fare could certainly be worse, Hannibal is a perfectionist. He is very particular about what he puts in his body.

Mostly, he is people watching, observing the comings and goings of his fellow passengers with crossed legs and hands in his laps. She picks a good location, though it's not immediately clear in his demeanor: Hannibal is good at hiding, even his agitation. And though this particular kitchen is below his typical standards, he doesn't like being asked to leave.

When Abigail shows, he smiles welcomingly, but doesn't move when she sits.]

I told you a riddle, once. [Sang it to her with blood flowing, repeated it with her teeth in his skin.] Giving you the answer only seemed fair.

[She scoffs.]

You elevated that riddle by incorporating it in death. Otherwise, what would I care?

[She has no conception that it might be important to Hannibal for any other reason than cruelty. It is so difficult to conceptualize of him as a feeling creature and her murderer at the same time. And yet, once she did.]

[Don't think about it, she tells herself. So she doesn't.]

Why a rosehip? What's the significance?

[He would be - not sad, but something like it, if he knew she'd crushed the present. As it is, he reaches out, adjusts the angle of his fork beside his mostly full plate.]

That riddle has more significance than [your death is what he wants to say, and doesn't let himself] you allow it. I would not have picked so haphazardly.

[He settles his hands in his lap again.]

You have it with you? [He can smell it.]

No.

[She almost tells him that she destroyed it, but something - empathy? cruelty? - stops her. Instead she just shakes her head and moves on.]

I just touched it. Are you going to tell me or not?

The rosehip is the answer. I'm sure we could extrapolate many meanings for its every use. In the end, it's simply and old children's song.

[A folk song sung to children, not a warning, not a threat. Perhaps a lesson in not mistaking something for what it is not, perhaps just a song. They are the kindest words he ever sang to her, in some way, unburdened by his expectations for her.

But that, too, is a kind of lie.

He runs his thumb over the back of one hand.]

I'm afraid that is all there is to tell.

Then the answer is there's no answer.

[She narrows her eyes at him, shoulders squared, protective if not exactly aggressive. It sounds genuine. But then, everything he says sounds genuine. That's his ugliest characteristic; truthfulness is so far from his natural state that he can mimic it flawlessly.]

You expect me to believe it was all for comfort? That this was - some kind of Hannibal version of my father telling me it was all going to be okay? You can't be serious. Everything is purposeful with you.

[Is that what this is? she thinks, in maddening circles. Is it meant to drive her mad, searching for meaning? Is the rosehip meant to destroy her again? Is she thinking too hard?]

[She could kill him. She could just as easily believe him.]

[The truth is not permitted in his thoughts and it certainly isn't allowed to be spoken. Not to Abigail, who would understand and not, who would be kind and cruel. Not to anyone. His existence is one of survival, and wholly based on the ability to move forward without looking back. He has been looking back on her a great deal, and things are growing tangled.

Leaning forward after a moment, Hannibal holds her gaze, as open as he can be without giving truth to the lie that is his openness.]

It was for comfort. [His own. The only memorial service he could give her.]

You are chasing thoughts in circles, Abigail. You'll go mad that way. [That, certainly, is no one's comfort but his own.]

[Something in her breaks. Under his gaze, she feels less than. She feels shattered. Burnt out. A lightbulb blinking before its inevitable extinction.]

Why are you doing this to me?

[She rubs fiercely at the corners of her eyes. She will not cry for him anymore.]

Will isn't here. There's nothing to be gained by hurting me, or by comforting me. You already killed me once. Do you want to do it again?

[She flickers, hovers on that edge, and it makes her beautiful.

And it makes him frown. Just slightly, a small crease in his brow.]

My interest in you is not solely based around Will.

[A beat.]

I saved your life once, too. You've never asked if I want to do that again.

[Is that real? She doesn't know. But it's enough to make her pause.]

. . . Do you? Would you? If it didn't get you anything.

[His answer will mean nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. He's nothing. She should walk away now.]

[She doesn't move.]

[She doesn't move, and he doesn't answer immediately. He considers her, considers what keeps her rooted to the chair. His eyes find her throat and the scar there but only briefly.]

I would.

[If it didn't lose him anything. If the status quo remained utterly equal and she remained alive? Probably. Possibly.

If her killer wasn't more interesting. None of that shows. The 'truth' of his words remain.]

[She believes him. She hates that. But right now, today, this minute, she believes him. Under certain circumstances, he'd save her again.]

[Slowly, she blinks, eyeing him like a snake.]

So would Will. You're very similar.

Yes. [He smiles, and it's not entirely satisfied or pleased at first; ninety percent, but there is the briefest spark of something else.]

He would save you again, too.

[He wants to reach out, brush the hair behind her ear. He considers offering his hand. He doesn't move.]

I am sorry the rosehip upset you, Abigail. [Possibly. Probably.]

[Something else. It intrigues her. She wants to see more of it. (She is terrified of it.)]

[Despite thinking better of it, she reaches to cover his hand with her own.]

Someday, maybe you'll even get him to kill me.

[Which means she doesn't know, not even a little bit, if she believes him or not. Doesn't know what it would mean to her if he really was sorry. She doesn't want to love him.]

[But she loves him so much.]

[He turns his hand under hers, slowly. He doesn't grab, barely closes his hand around hers, letting the pads of his fingers brush her hand instead.

Maybe he will. Maybe he will stand by, and watch Will choke the life from her. They will harvest her organs and lay her body to rest.

Or.]

Or perhaps you will kill him. [He says it, not like 'maybe you and I will go fishing,' not like it's nothing, not like it's something mundane. He would like very, very much, for Abigail to open her mind. To set aside her horror and see people as they truly are.]

Perhaps you and I will kill someone together.

[There's a moment when she wants to tear away. To flee. To melt into the nothingness of the hallways and become a spirit of this place, or to hide in her bed crying. He's gotten her again. She should be so afraid. Last time they were this close, she was attacking him; he was ready to kill her.]

[But the moment passes. She squeezes his hand lightly, shakes her head.]

If I killed him, it wouldn't be with you. It would be on my own. [There are things Will Graham owes her that Hannibal couldn't even begin to comprehend.]

[She does not address the possibility that she and Hannibal might kill someone else together. She doesn't want to admit how real that possibility is.]

[The moment passes, and he let's his fingers close just slightly around hers, not quite returning the squeeze but strengthening his grip. She no longer feels fleeting.

He nods, slowly. He would like to watch, he won't lie and say otherwise. If that is how the hand played out, he would very much like to watch her kill Will Graham.]

How would you do it?

[She tips her head to one side, watching him guardedly.]

You don't think that's highly dependent on the situation?

[Because she does. She really, really does. She does not think she would plan it out much in advance, because she would want it to be something important, organic to both of them. She also does not want the act of her premeditated murder to be the last thing Will thinks about. It would hurt him. She just wants to kill him, not hurt him.]

[It's all dependent on the circumstances.]

[She is pretty certain that she would use a knife. The value of that particular instrument isn't lost on her even now.]

Any situation can be adjusted to your needs.

[But he concedes with a small inclination of his head. Her murder, her set up, her story. She can take the lead in this.

At least, he will make every effort to make her think she can.]

When you consider it late at night, in the dark of your room. How do you see the scene unfold?

[Her lip trembles, just slightly. Of course he knows she considers it. If Will shows up, she is abruptly certain that he'll push her towards it. After all, he'll come back, and it will break her and push Will at the same time. Convenient.]

[She shakes her head, but it's not a no.]

There are only so many ways to kill a man as smart as Will.

[This is not an answer. She wants him to answer for her. She knows he knows. She would use a knife. She would always use a knife against Will. With him, she's no fisher.]

[He sees what she wants just as he sees the way her lip trembles. In the back of his thoughts, he thinks of their song, and swallows the urge to hum, to soothe her fears.

His thumb strokes over her knuckles instead, and he never breaks eye contact, barely blinks.]

We both know you would use a knife. You are a hunter.

[She would gut him like she gut Nick Boyle. The unwashed ginger was practice. Will is the goal.]

. . . Yes.

[She pauses before she speaks, but only infinitesimally. Yes. She would. There's no point trying to deceive him. Why did she think there ever was? He knows everything about her, and he always has.]

[Hopelessness threatens to choke her at the same time she feels she has come home.]

I am a hunter.

[She echoes his words with a dull passivity that later she will rail against herself for. She feels very small, and not nearly alone enough.]

[He hears her dullness, and two options present themselves in his mind: chide or support her for it.

It is easiest, when she follows unquestioning. It would make her eventual betrayal all the more beautiful. But with Ben's interference, that path would twist and turn in ugly before that time comes.

He wants her to embrace the darkest corners of her thoughts, to cease being disgusted by the shadowy remnants of what she's done or the guilt that has been haunting her. His hand tightens under hers, catching her attention rather than bruising.]

You are not this small, Abigail.

[She is tempted to scratch at him, press her nails against his soft palms making half-moons until he winces and lets go. But she doesn't. She's too stuck in those dark corners now, tugged far away from the world she knows and the afterlife she is beginning to understand. Adrift.]

[Her eyes slide up, catch his; she sighs, and tips her head to one side, like she's thinking. But there's nothing to think about. He's right. She hates his rightness like she hates the concept of evil, like she hates pain, like she hates fear. Like she hates Will. Like she loves him.]

Define 'this'. I'm not a mindless hunter. I'm not a beast. I'm more than I look, not less. But you have to define it.

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