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"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.

"'Only," Hannibal repeats, then takes another bite. Instead of savoring it, he looks thoughtful.

"You wanted to understand him, then? Enough so you could catch people like him. But you are also terrified of being like him, which is where you and Will first found common ground."

Malcolm takes another tiny bite, though it’s his usual size of bite.

“Correct. But we tested whether I could choose the path he chose from the point that he began to walk on it and I couldn’t.”

Hannibal pauses for a moment, turning to face Malcolm slightly more on his stool. His expression (as always) is hard to read, but seems to be a mixture of confusion, concern, and deep interest.

"You...recreated the Hobbs case? I assume Will played the role of Garrett Jacob Hobbs for you."

"It wasn't so much 'playing' the role as letting Hobbs emerge," Malcolm tells him. "But I think you know." An assessing pause back at him and his eyes narrow slightly. "Yeah. I think you know about that." He turns his attention back to his plate, shaving off another tiny bite with the side of his fork. "That's why you worked so hard to make sure you'd get in there, too."

Hannibal watches Malcolm's face. His own is blank, now that he seems to have wrestled his own mild display of emotions back under his control.

He hums and then looks away, back to his plate. "I understand if you find it hard to believe, but initially he was not supposed to know me. Not truly. However, even with his health deteriorating, he found me. He pierced through every layer of obfuscation I had."

Hannibal licks his lips and takes another perfectly-sized bite. Only after consuming it does he ask, "How did he fare, after that role-playing exercise was finished?" He is doing his best to come off as nonchalant about the question, but there's a seed of worry in it.

“He did okay. Because I helped him. Also… I think what I did surprised him enough that Will had to come back to talk about it.”

He looks over at Hannibal.

“He’s the only one, isn’t he? The only one that has… really seen you.”

"Others have seen glimpses, but very few. They turned away at the sight. Even when trying to murder me, Will has never done so." His voice warms as he speaks. It's clear that means a lot to him.

"What was it you ended up doing, that surprised Will so?"

"I disarmed him. And arrested him. And saved his daughter too," Malcolm tells him. He takes another tiny bite of omelette. "I hunted serial killers for the FBI for ten years. My solve rate was over eighty percent compared to a Bureau average in the sixties. And I never discharged my firearm at a suspect. Not once. ...I did get thrown down some concrete stairs and cattleprodded a little bit. But that comes with the territory," he admits gamely.

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