[it's the afternoon, but Hannibal is nostalgic and the food he begins to prepare reflects that. breakfast for lunch, not unlike what he'd given Abigail during one of their too-few moments together. teacups are set out on their respective saucers, with bags of chamomile tea delicately placed inside of them. the 'what ifs' are a dead end, but that doesn't stop Hannibal from wanting to dissect Will's thoughts about that night, about Beverly. parts of what he says are reassuring; they can't change the past, and Hannibal is satisfied with the outcome.

he moves around the kitchen, silent as he listens. he believes that it does revolve (somewhat) around him. he was right at his side and pulling the strings. Will's right - he could have walked away at any time, could have denied Jack his help. that isn't who he is, though, and Hannibal looks at him with a glint of understanding behind his eyes.]

One foot in the world you fought so desperately to deny, the very world I invited you to know. Is it a fall from grace, or a becoming?

[the kettle whistles, perhaps timed as perfect as the words that slice into air. tea poured, the saucer with its cup is placed before Will on the island counter.]

Grace was never your suit; had it been, we wouldn't be here — [he glides casually into another train of thought,] Honey?

[but the honey is already being put out in front of him, in a glass container with a small wooden dipper.]