empathicfault | PSL: Travels outside the Barge (w/Malcolm)

PSL: Travels outside the Barge (w/Malcolm)

Piloting their new ship is a little difficult. It takes reading the (somehow enclosed) manual back-to-front and learning the control panel, now situated in what looks like a little closet on the window side of the living room. It's in the new hallway that leads to the small courtyard, which Will intends to decorate once they get this one chore done first.

Thankfully, the majority of the controls are intuition-based, going off the person who puts their hand on a small orb on the panel. The rest, as it turns out, is tweaking. And luckily (or otherwise), no tweaking is necessary for their first flight.

They're heading to Will's home world.

But Will doesn't specify where, just a year later than he left. he inadvertently brings them to where he'd left. The door opens from a wall of Hannibal's cliffside home, and looks out onto the driveway. The Dragon's wings are still there, staining the cement. They overlook the grey day and the churning seaside.

Will finds himself stuck in the doorway, unsure whether he's compelled to walk out and remember or slam the door shut and take them elsewhere.

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“But he doesn’t want more than that. Other people do. Or they might, but he convinces them otherwise when they’re vulnerable. Young…” He glances at Will. “Sick. Guilty.” He looks at the board. “Desperate. Ambitious. Hungry.”

Will practically takes a bow as Malcolm gets into the sick and guilty portion of vulnerability. He thankfully hasn't been either for a long time, now.

He continues Malcolm's thoughts. "Unable to say no, for whatever reason. That's his ideal. He thought he got me back by appealing to my family. Suffice it to say, he did the opposite." No going back to the FBI, no going back to the rubble of a life he'd somehow cobbled together into something functional-looking.

"I think he always knew he was sending me out there to die," he says, with a shake of his head. "At least if I got myself killed, he could be regretful to my corpse. Harder to do when a living, breathing person still exists. And when you know you're still going to use them."

He realizes his voice has gone flat. Part of this is winding himself up, but it's tipped over to being more angry and less fun. They might still be waiting a few hours, after all. "I'm going to see if we got lucky and he forgot his laptop here today."

Malcolm just follows him through the house, glancing around as they go, until he feels compelled to ask about it.

"When did his wife die?"

"I found out she was terminally ill with cancer about a month into working for him," Will says first. "She died just before I sailed to France. Hannibal sent a card to the funeral."

He pauses as he goes through the items in Jack's study, but- no luck on the laptop. It barely looked like Jack had even been in here for years. "Jack thought it was a tease- and it was, of course. But not only that. Bella was one of the few people Hannibal took a genuine liking to."

And being here was settling the dead man further in Will's bones, because Will knows Hannibal's thoughts like they're fact. What had Bedelia said about agency? That Hannibal was the only one who truly had it here. Like a sort of mass sociopathy, where everyone agreed on who the 'real' person was.

"This world isn't good for me," Will confesses to Malcolm, after noticing where his thoughts are taking him. "But we won't be here for too much longer. Just enough for closure."

"Do you still feel him here, even though he's gone?" Malcolm asks quietly. He doesn't mean Jack.

Will had been about to head up the stairs, but he stops in the hallway at the question. He thunks his head back against the wall, solid but gently. His eyes slip halfway shut.

"I do. It's like he's...ingrained into the fabric of this universe. And now he's gone, and I'm the only piece of him left here, to make sense of this madness. It's..." He trails off and looks at Malcolm, his own expression somewhere between lost and resigned. "It's easier than ever to see his point of view. And I want this to be mine."

His words to Jack. His punch. His victory. Something to share with Malcolm, as he desires.

“It is yours, though,” Malcolm points out. “If you think about it, Jack never did anything but favours for Hannibal. Not the least of which was handing you to him on a silver platter. You’re the one that has a real quarrel with him. And I do, because he was careless with you and could have broken you and he was okay with the possibility of that outcome, just like Hannibal was. When it comes down to it, both of them only wanted you for what you could do with them. For how they could… use your ability to direct you and glorify themselves. Laying him out on the carpet… that’s your righteous anger talking.” He steps close enough to lay his hand over Will’s heart. “Your justified rage. Your street justice. Your… fitting farewell to all this.”

No one here would ever argue these details with him. While Will looks like he'll step forward with a rebuttal, Malcolm's reminder that he too has a bone to pick takes a lot of the steam out of it.

"There's more I would do," he says, biting his lip and worrying it for a moment. "If I was stuck here."

He looks up at Malcolm again and gives him a small, conspiratorial smile. "But I'm not." Not alone again. Ever. Not subsumed, not tolerated. He can still be himself and only seek to edit a little for the sake of avoiding demotion.

This discussion seems to have sparked something. His eyebrows raise as he thinks it over. "I might give him a taste, of what he'd made of me...before the Barge picked me up."

Malcolm gives him a sly smile.

"I assume you don't mean pancaked at the bottom of a cliff.'

That tickles a sincere chuckle out of him. "I do not."

With twinkling eyes, he adds, "You'll see. -or rather, hear. In a little bit."

It does take several hours for Jack to come home, the time pushing 11pm when he arrives. Will's had a couple of frozen meals by then. When Will finally hears the car pulling into the driveway, he shuffles them both to the walk-in pantry, shuts the door, and pulls out the burner phone. They'll just have to get another.

Jack walks in and tosses his keys onto a small dish on the table by the entrance. He sets his bag down by the chair and pauses for a moment- contemplating the solitude, Will guesses- before he starts heading up the stairs.

Will calls the number he remembers. He can hear it ringing. "This is Jack," he hears on the phone, voice curt.

"I start with the back, flaying the skin and pulling it taught. The time I knew I had to stop. The time I was told I'd regret stopping. This one gets his wings first."

He'll credit Jack, he's hoofing it up those steps as quietly as he can.

"Will?? Will, I-"

"I hang the skin with lures, recreating the ones that were used to frame me. The lies that were believed. You will not want to stay where I put you, so I set up an IV full of curare to keep you still. Still, but feeling. Because the pain is something you need to experience first-hand."

Will's not reacting to Jack, which is becoming harder with every word uttered. The man is not trying to be quiet anymore, now booming so hard he's easy to hear through the walls. Pleas at first, but by this point it's more of a command. "You have to stop this, you can't become everything you hated!"

Will continues, and Jack has to lower his voice eventually to hear him. Will hears the landline dialing in background, just the clicks of the receiver moving. "I mount your body on a stag's head, chest down. The wings need to stand tall."

"If this is a threat, you picked the dumbest--"

"Once mounted, I stuff a perfect replica of Goya's Tan bárbara la seguridad como el delito into your mouth. And then I leave you. You'll have to wait until someone comes to save you. Or...not."

He lets Jack get out another belligerent word, but he doesn't hear it. He only hears his own voice now, saying, "This is my design."

He disconnects the call. Jack should be noticing the displaced items in his bedroom right about now...even if he's still apparently screaming into the phone. Will squeezes Malcolm's hand in the dark, but the low light still reveals the contentment on his face. He's in his element.

“I love Goya,” Malcolm whispers. “It was a nice touch. No other artist captures the desolation of the soul the way he did.”

Even while he whispers, his head is tilted slightly, listening for Jack’s footfalls or his voice.

Jack's footfalls are not hard to hear. He stops for a mere moment, then stomps down the stairs. He's clearly doing a sweep of the house, and the kitchen will be the last place he checks. As he looks into the study, Will slips out of the pantry and waits behind the half-closed door to the kitchen.

He doesn't direct Malcolm- he figures his husband can decide where he wants to place himself.

Jack pushes the door open slowly, turning on the light in the process. Will lets it swing past him and aims a kick at Jack's knee, which causes the Head of the FBI's Behavioral Unit to fire his gun wildly into the ceiling as he falls to the ground. Will stomps on Jack's gun-wielding hand and hears the bones crunch.

"You're very lucky I don't plan to kill you, Jack. You might not want to push it."

Malcolm stays where he is for a moment, until Will knocks Jack down. As Will issues his warning, Malcolm casually steps over and picks up Jack’s gun. He takes out the clip with practiced ease and then empties the chamber before thumbing each bullet out of the clip one by one.

“Glock 19M. A standard issue FBI sidearm.” He examines it, holding it with his free hand. “You clean it about half as often as you should. Careless. Didn’t your firearm instructor at Quantico tell you that could result in a misfire?” He tosses the gun away from himself and finishes emptying the clip before dropping it on the floor.

"It's been a long time since he had to defer to a firearm instructor, rather than the other way around," Will replies.

Jack attempts to grab one of the kitchen nook chairs and Will steps harder on the hand. One of the bones slides under his foot, and he can hear Jack's breathing catch. "Hey, now. We're here for a talk, and to punch you. So, let's get that show on the road."

"Who the hell is this, Will? Friend of Hannibal's?" Jack looks back. He somehow managing a steely-eyed gaze at Will, despite his current physical position. Will raises an eyebrow.

"This is Malcolm Bright, my husband," Will says, gesturing towards him. "Former FBI agent and brilliant profiler. We...have a lot in common."

"Congratulations," Jack says, very clearly not in a congratulatory mood. "Where's Lecter?"

Will's jaw sets as he looks up to Malcolm, then back down. He doesn't like where this is going.

Malcolm, on the other hand, smiles.

"Will killed him," he says happily. "He did tell you that you should be glad he isn't here to kill you. It seems like it would be a lot easier."

He steps over to the fridge, looking at a picture there. A picture of Jack and Bella. He studies it a moment, then looks at Jack.

"Then again, maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing for you. You were a workaholic while she was alive, but even that doesn't give you life anymore, does it? The work? It's hollow. Everything's hollow. Even now, determined and angry, your face is still hollow."

The words hit Jack far more solidly than anything physical. That he can power through. This? He can't even get mad on behalf of his wife. He looks down, frustrated and ashamed.

-but not for long. Will can see the black tar overtake Jack, ink spilling out around him. Jack doesn't look up to speak, just continues lying on the ground, where he's been put.

"Sounds to me like you didn't finish your work then, Will. Because Lecter's out there. Alive. Set up a display on the anniversary of your 'death.'" Jack looks back at Will, sees Will's face paling. "How could you not know? It was all over every goddamned newspaper!"

Malcolm looks at Jack, studies him, tilting his head a little bit. He notices Will's change of palour, but doesn't match it. He's analyzing.

"If you were ever good at this job, it's been a while. Your heart isn't in it anymore. So how do you know it was Lecter and not an acolyte or admirer picking his moment to become a copycat?" he asks with simple curiosity. "Will wasn't here to consult. So... how can you be sure?"

"There were plenty of signs. Including a literal calling card he left at the scene," Jack spits. But he's winding down. The tar is starting to pull him under. Will doesn't trust it.

Jack looks up at his face. "Take a look at my files if you don't believe me. If you're the only one who would know, might as well look."

"I don't look for you anymore," Will snaps. But he does want to know.

He turns to stare at Malcolm for a moment and takes a calming breath. He says to Malcolm, "Watch him. He'll try to regain mobility as soon as I take my foot off of him." Unsaid but obvious- Jack will underestimate Malcolm's physical capabilities.

Will looks down the hall. He steps a little harder on the broken hand before releasing it, hoping for some disorientation before Jack tries anything. And then he's heading for Jack's bag, an overstuffed soft briefcase with files and his computer inside.

Edited 2025-09-12 15:17 (UTC)

Malcolm just smiles at Will at the warning. He looks at Jack. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but if he is alive it's your lucky day. Will will probably kill him."

Jack just watches him until his attention wanders back to the photos on the fridge.

But Will probably hears one scream from the other room and when he returns, Jack's broken hand is pinned to the kitchen table with a butcher knife from the block on the counter and Malcolm is perched on the counter beside the block now, eating a Twizzlers from his pocket.

He looks up when Will returns. "I missed both the ulnar and median nerves on purpose. He's welcome."

Will doesn't even look up at the scream. Malcolm, in this respect, is honestly better suited to handle the situation than he is. Besides, he's digging through Jack's files until he finds the tableau.

It's against one of the trees directly in front of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The subject was one Will had been reminded of recently, for much less nefarious purposes: Saint Sebastian. The man was secured up at the wrist, with literally dozens of arrows piercing him at all angles. The man looked very similar to Will, which was not a surprise.

He manages just a quirk of amusement on his lips at Malcolm's nonchalant declaration. Will glances at Jack and nods. It was a job well done.

"It's him," he says once he's in the room, tossing the picture down on the counter next to Malcolm. After another moment, he adds the one behind it- a recreation of a card left with Miriam Lass' arm, "What Do You See?" written in red ink. Something they never released to the public- and Freddie never managed to get her hands on.

"We have to go," he says to Malcolm, the words weighty. "Back to Molly. Now."

If that ice cold fury back at that chocolate shop was what he thinks it was? She's in imminent danger.

Jack perked up at the new information. "Molly? Will, is he in Washington? We can get people there. But you have to work with me on this. You know you're the only one who can-"

Will had been walking to the hallway. He stops and turns back, emotionless, to punch Jack directly in the face. That shuts him up for now, at least. Will looks back to Malcolm, a tired smile suddenly appearing. Malcolm can get his in too, if he wants.

Edited 2025-09-12 23:18 (UTC)

Malcolm catches his look and smiles modestly, gesturing at Jack with his Twizzler.

"I already stabbed him," he says, heading to keep pace with Will for their door. He's not beyond Jack's earshot when he points out "it's fine if you kill him..."

They're inside the ship with the door shut by the time he adds "Just make sure he gets to know you like me better first. And that you think I'm hotter than he is."

Edited 2025-09-12 23:26 (UTC)

Jack calls after them as they head down the hallway, desperate to gain Will's expertise again. Will throws one more disgusted look at the man, but the moment passes quickly and Malcolm has so many more interesting things to say.

"I...I'm not sure what I'm going to do with Hannibal," Will admits. He reaches us to cup Malcolm's jaw with his hand and smirks. "But I'll make sure he knows that. It'll enrage him."

Will's staring him in the eyes as he continues. He's almost still joking- it's an easy cadence to take, thanks to Malcolm's upbeat attitude. "You are going to have to be careful. His focus will be on removing you, and he's not as easy to deal with as Jack."

He continues down the hall to the console room. The dogs are away in the courtyard at the moment- Will didn't want to have them possibly at risk, on the off-chance something went wrong and Jack managed to get in. He doesn't think Hannibal would stoop that low (despite everything), but they'll stay there for now.

"Likewise, it's fine if you kill him. As much as that's not your style. These might be unique circumstances."

Malcolm sobers as he considers that, his hand absently finding fabric to cling to at Will’s waist.

“I’ll do it to save myself or someone else. But… I don’t think I can do it in cold blood.” He looks up at Will with suddenly concerned eyes. “Don’t let him take you with him this time,” he pleads in a sudden burst of urgent, earnest words.

Will had been moving with purpose, but when he feels that Malcolm's got his shirt, he stops cold and turns back to him. He takes the request with a deep breath inward and shakes his head.

"No. I won't, Malcolm. I've given enough of myself, far more than I should've. No one gets the rest but you." He reaches up and grasps Malcolm's hand in his, and he squeezes it.

He's been shaken out of his single-minded focus on getting to Hannibal 'in time'. And as such, he lets out a small sigh. "Say the word, and we're gone. I mean it. I hate that I've endangered Molly again, but maybe it's a sign that I shouldn't have interfered in the first place." Closure is clearly something that is going to keep eluding him. "I trust you to have a clearer head than me, here."

Malcolm presses his lips together. More than anything, he doesn’t want to lose Will, but… “We can’t just leave him here to hurt people. He’ll never stop. Just… I mean, I know he’s always in your head. That he always will be to some degree. Just don’t let him get under your skin. Don’t let him dance you into making a mistake.”

He’s not, these days, worried about Hannibal seducing Will away from him.

“I think… I think we might be the only people that can stop him. So… let’s go get him.”

PSL: Travels outside the Barge (w/Malcolm)

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