Chapter Text
Clarice Starling gets a postcard every year, at the same date. The date is not her birthday, or any major holiday- no holiday at all, actually. The day she gets these postcards are instead the day she killed Jack Crawford. The images on the back of the postcards are always a different place, a different country- Athens, Greece; Wellington, New Zealand; Berlin, Germany; Reykjavik, Iceland. She doesn’t believe the senders are actually getting the postcards from those places though. She thinks that it's a security measure, in case someone besides her ever finds them. Maybe they were bought off of Amazon, though the thought is almost laughable, so probably not.
No one knows she gets these postcards, not even Ardelia.
Clarice feels guilty about that, hiding this from her. She also finds her guilt both comical and embarrassing. She doesn't feel guilty for the murders, does not feel guilty for providing Hannibal and Will with the tools they need for their escape, but she feels guilty for hiding postcards from Ardelia?
She keeps them in a small cabinet in the room they have converted to her office. When Clarice gets them in the mail she reads them once, and then quickly hides them away, only rereading the messages on them when she has had a particularly rough day- or, she’ll never admit, when she misses the senders.
They comfort her, these short letters, for reasons she doesn’t like to dwell on.
She’s reading one now.
Dear Clarice,
How is life treating you? We’ve heard about the latest case you solved, and Will and I were quite curious about it. The news said the bodies were crafted in the image of famous statues- how far did this sculptor get before you cleared out his workshop? No photos were available online, though perhaps that’s less to do with an unappealing piece and more with no one being able to stomach looking at such a photo, let alone taking it. Oh, what a time to miss Mrs. Lounds. We hope you still dream of music, Clarice, and that the notes do not sour.
Fondly,
Hannibal and Will
Even though she already knew what the words were, Clarice still cringes.
The Sculptor , as the bureau had gotten in the habit of calling him, killed people in Illinois, twisting and mutilating their bodies to look like famous works of Hellenic art. Nike, Venus de Milo, The Rape of Proserpina . By the sketches in his home, it looked like the next one he was hoping to make was Eros and Psyche. Clarice caught him by simply going to a museum; She went to a museum of Hellenic art to better understand the killer, and saw a man, and just knew . She took a photo of him, and one day later Alexander Sinclair was investigated and arrested. His victims included a cashier at his local grocery mart, his neighbor’s ex-babysitter, a librarian, and a gardener in the neighborhood.
This was last week. The postcard came two days ago. On the front of it is Paris, a nighttime picture of the Pyramide du Louvre , and the back has a lovely script, which Clarice knows to be Hannibal’s.
Clarice is sure that the photo is a little tongue in cheek humor; two out of three of the original sculptures are in the Louvre.
Clarice lightly tracing her finger under Hannibal and Will’s name, her nail catching on the card.
Where are they right now , Clarice wonders. She hasn’t heard of any bodies made in tableaus of Will and Hannibal’s caliber anywhere in the world. She knows they’re still killing, she knows it, can't think of a reason why they wouldn't, but she has no idea where. She wonders what they’re doing right now. If they think of her besides their yearly ritual.
She puts the postcard back in the cabinet, and gets ready for bed.
***
Over 200 miles away, Hannibal and Will dock a boat.
“I still feel like it's safer ,” Will says, stressing the last word like it's something he has had to repeat a lot recently, and is getting tired of it; He has, and Hannibal is sure he is. “To do this not right under the FBI’s nose. We could go to,” Will throws his hands up a little, pausing getting changed. Hannibal, sitting on the boat’s bed, is dressed already only because Will has paused multiple times to complain and rant, and therefore is taking longer than usual. “I don’t know. New Hampshire.”
“Will.” Hannibal says. The word is filled with both love and impatience.
“I know.” Will responds tiredly. “I know.” He buttons up his coat.
“We will be fine, Will.” Hannibal soothes, standing up and moving behind his husband, rubbing his shoulders. Will leans into it without thinking.
“We’ve been caught before.” Will reminds him.
“We were too curious, too careless.” Hannibal says. “We won’t be this time.”
Will turns to look at Hannibal, raising a gloved hand to cup Hannibal’s face. “She’ll have guards. Protection.” Will smiles wryly. “We’re not exactly young men anymore.” Will strokes the wrinkles around Hannibal’s eyes, more prominent right now because of his smile. His graying hair is turning white. We are getting older, Hannibal thinks. It’s a wonderful thought. Everyday with Will is a gift, Hannibal is well aware, and the fact that they have spent so many of them together amazes him, still.
“And yet, look at all we are still accomplishing.”
Will’s hand drops to Hannibal’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I like your plan.”
“I know.” Hannibal tucks a loose curl behind Will’s ear. “You’ve gotten very cranky in your old age.” Hannibal says this just to make Will laugh, which he does, a rough little chuckle, head down. He presses his forehead to Hannibal’s cheek.
Hannibal turns his head to accommodate him, nose in Will’s hair- receding a little in the front, and only now starting to grey around the temples- and breaths in the scent of Will. He loves this man. He hopes that that will be his last thought on this Earth. I love you, Will Graham.
“If we can’t get her to come to us, we’re leaving.” Will says, breath tickling Hannibal’s ear. The sensation causes Hannibal to smile. “I won’t have us in prison again.” He grips Hannibal tighter. “I won’t, Hannibal.”
“Don’t you trust me, Will?” Hannibal questions. He doesn’t expect Will to respond. He knows the answer.
Will pulls back to give him a dirty look, and then pulls him in for a kiss.