[she may as well be in the room with them, with how full the kitchen feels. he sees how Will's eyes linger on the floor, on the exact spot where Hannibal had held her, gasping and choking against the blade that he sliced through her skin. he was slicing Abigail, but he may as well have sliced Will in that moment, too. the smile he left him had been as much of a gutting as Abigail's death.

Will talks of his confession to Jack with a sentiment that almost sounds kind. dream-like. it makes him pause by the stove, eyes blinking away emotions he'd hidden, hand lingering on the kettle that he knew Will would be agreeable to.

he takes his words in silence, faces him with an expression akin to longing. longing for the actions that took place not to have happened, longing for Abigail's life, longing for Will. Will hadn't been so forthright with him behind glass -- he'd cleverly left that information out of Hannibal's reach, buried and burned it -- until now. he knows the company she kept him comforted him. he kept her alive in ways Hannibal never could.

was it guilt that tugged at Will, or something more?]

Would you have admitted that to him, or more importantly to yourself, if the consequences of our actions hadn't overlapped as they did?

[and why didn't he come to dinner, instead? he knows why. swallows the reason down in his throat. the fault fell on Will. he had given him everything, shown him everything, for it to be crudely turned around on him. as much as he is grateful for Will's presence, for what they'd done, the topic churns potential forgiveness into grudging when it's as fresh and surfacing as it is now.

they have to talk about it. they never did - they glided over past conversations, time being scarce. now time is all they have.]

You must have known we would always find our way back to each other.