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“Um… neither. Just black. …I don’t, traditionally, eat food prepared by people who want to kill me. Or that I’m hallucinating,” Malcolm informs him.

"A good thing for you, then, that I am neither a hallucination, nor do I want to kill you." He speaks while facing the stove, attending to the omelet.

"Are the hallucinations a daily occurrence, then?" Does Will patiently wait through them, watching for the ghosts that torment this man?

“I don’t know if I’d say ‘daily’, but you’re standing next to my antipsychotics, so…” Malcolm informs him.

His antipsychotics, both antidepressants, the benzos…

He lets himself out of his restraints and pads towards the kitchen. He’s still not convinced this is real.

“Will thinks you want to kill me. He’s a pretty perceptive guy.”

"Will's gift of perception is clouded when it comes to those he cares deeply about," Hannibal replies. He slides the omelet off the pan and onto a plate. "And he did not have complete information. I have my own Will Graham waiting for me back home."

He looks up from the plate he's dressing, having drizzled a parmesan sauce over the whole thing. "I'm sure I will find my own to be superior, but I must admit my curiosity over his circumstances here."

He pours a mug of black coffee for Malcolm, into his 'warden' mug, then garnishes the omelet and sets it on the counter, where tableware has already been set. "When you hallucinate, is it generally a full sensory experience?"

“It’s exactly like real things,” Malcolm tells him. He’s never tried eating, but drinking water felt real. “And I usually walk if I’m not restrained, so sometimes it’s also at least partly real.”

He does approach the counter and he pulls his mug close as soon as Hannibal lets go of it, more territorial than jonesing for caffeine. Will gave him that. He pours a glass of water from the pitcher on the counter, then opens each pill bottle, keeping them in the same order and the same tidy line. He only takes them once he has them all in his hand, though he still takes them one at a time. Then he closes each bottle, returning each to its place.

“Will came here after killing you, so maybe you have the same Will Graham but, like, last year,” Malcolm suggests.

"Perhaps," answers Hannibal, unbothered. He pours the rest of the coffee into his own mug, one he picked from noticing the wearing-down of the interior. It must see frequent use.

He takes a small sip (drinking it black, as well) and smiles at the taste. "He has tried to kill me numerous times. It was only the last in which I realized- it was a necessary fuel for his metamorphosis. He could not Become as he is without it."

Malcolm sees the deliberate provocation in drinking from the mug Will drinks from. He pulls his own mug, his gift from Will, closer, wrapping both hands around it, but doesn’t otherwise react. Of course his brain has Hannibal play it like that.

“What he Became that day is dead.”

"Did he?" Hannibal lets out a non-committal hum as he starts on his own omelet, cracking the eggs with one hand into the pan.

"What if what he did was toss a coin? If it came back to him, then it would pay for the ferryman. But if the waves instead took it, then perhaps a new future would have been bought and paid for."

“That’s what this place is offering him, but he didn’t know that when he made his choice. He just couldn’t live with the damage you’d do if he let you stay in the world,” Malcolm tells him.

Hannibal busies himself with whisking (yes, in the pan), then adding cheese and sausage. Of course, that conveniently adds a space where there is no response to Malcolm's extremely charitable version of events.

"Tell me, Mr. Bright," he says, once the flurry of cooking has simmered down. "Are you familiar with the Many Worlds Interpretation of quantum mechanics, postulated by Brian Greene? If not the exact theory, I imagine you've heard and seen variations on it here on board."

“I’m familiar with it,” Malcolm says in a tone that says ‘don’t condescend to me’. Obviously he’s familiar with it; this is in his head. “Are you saying you’re from an alternate universe where Will ran away with you?”

"Perhaps so. It wouldn't have taken much. Perhaps a rock had been placed a few inches to the right, so an impalement or breaking hip became a bare graze instead. In that case, what's to stop one of us from catching on to the other, us both together as we washed up on shore? What's to stop us from bandaging each other and moving on from there?"

He takes the pan expertly tosses the omelet, catching it after it's flipped. "If he wanted me dead as a doornail, no chance for survival? He could have merely slit my throat."

Malcolm takes a casual sip of his coffee.

"Maybe you're just not the dramatic one in that relationship," he suggests. He considers the plate and pulls it over after a moment. "What's in this?"

Hannibal looks briefly down, and the smile he wears on his face is slightly different than his previous. There's an air of fondness and contentment to it. No. For once in his life, he is not the dramatic one.

The question breaks him out of his brief reverie. "Ah. For your plate, I have used a mild white cheese, fresh basil, parsley and time, with a parmesan sauce. Sliced cherry tomatoes for garnish, and if you're feeling particularly adventurous."

Malcolm watches him warily for a moment, then takes a small bite. He puts his fork down, but that’s no reflection of his feelings about the situation. He always has to let the first bite of new food sit for a few minutes.

“It’s good. What are you having?”

Hannibal nods with a small, performative smile, his appreciation for the compliment. "Mine is much the same, with the addition of some breakfast sausage. It should cook quickly and then I can join you properly."

He is content to focus on the cooking, not feeling the need to fill the quiet with anything. It's partially because he's enjoying himself and partially because he wants Malcolm to realize that things are not escalating. This is not a hallucination or a night terror.

Malcolm nods gamely.

“Right. Sorry. Who are you having?”

Hannibal's expression doesn't change, but there's a twinkle in his eyes as he pauses to look over to Malcolm. "Ah, the sausage wasn't from my stores, I'm afraid. It was probably bought in your last port, if my guess is correct. Excellent meat, regardless. But a bit too heavy for your stomach, I should think."

He slides his omelet off onto another plate and begins dressing his own. "I must admit, I'm not familiar with the mechanics of this...flood, is it? If I will return to the time I left or shortly after. I am hoping for the former, as Will and I were just preparing to have an old friend for dinner."

“Wait… this is a flood? How would you know that?” Malcolm asks.

"It appears to be a flood. I had the fortune of arriving here hours ago, so I've been doing some reading." He nods his head over to where he's left Will's communicator. "It's fascinating, the entire system. Particularly the ambiguity of it. What is redemption for one is not redemption for all."

He drizzles the same parmesan sauce on his dish, affixes far more sliced tomatoes and stares at it for a moment before deeming the plate done. He turns off the burner and carries the plate around to the seating area, taking a place next to Malcolm at the stools.

Malcolm moves over a stool so there’s one between them.

“You read the messages on Will’s communicator? You have boundary issues, huh? Though his Warden also does that so…” he shrugs and takes another small bite of omelet. “So what’s this about,” he gestures between them with his fork, “if you don’t want to kill me. Because I don’t buy that you’re going to wish me a happy life with Will.”

Hannibal sits primly, even on a kitchen barstool, and cuts a perfect piece of his meal. He doesn't seem to notice Malcolm's forced space, or honestly anything as he savors his omelet.

Bite taken, he looks to Malcolm. "I must admit, I would not be quite as amenable to the situation if I didn't know what was happening. Thankfully, whatever the Admiral's abilities, he informed me early. So for now, I am merely curious about this life my love has taken, this fork in the road. And I am also curious about you, Malcolm Bright. What has my dear Will seen in you to attach himself so?"

Malcolm takes another small bite of omelet, a sip of coffee.

"Well, we've both worked as profilers for the FBI. We're both fascinated by the psychology of murder. We're both neurodivergent." He levels his gaze at Hannibal. "We've both been abused by serial killers that called the abuse 'love'."

Astonishingly enough, Hannibal's gaze drops down to look at his coffee when the expected accusation comes. He takes a long, deliberate sip, and wishes Malcolm didn't have to put it like that.

"Yes, I have been made extremely aware of the depth and severity of the damage my actions have done," he replies, frowning at his innocent drink. The expression disappears quickly, replaced with more curiosity. "Your fascination has its own origin point, does it not? Learning of your father's ill deeds, and being subject to them yourself."

"Anyone's fascination with anything has an origin point," Malcolm tells him reasonably. "My dad only tried to kill me twice. You know. For his own good," he adds flatly.

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