The music in Hannibal’s finales is super important to me, a crescendo to the season, but as you progress through those seasons it shows Hannibal breaking away from what’s happened previously and becoming it’s own story in it’s own right.
Hannibal: Are you a killer, Will? You. Right now. This man standing in front of me. Is this who you really are? Will: I am who I’ve always been. The scales have just fallen from my eyes. I can see you now.
I was looking forward to sitting on the porch in nothing but my t-shirt and boxer-briefs, cradling an icy glass of whiskey to my head as the muggy heat and weight of work slowly dissipated with the oncoming night.
Instead, Hannibal’s here, probably to talk about the Wedding.
Oh god, I shouldn’t think of it like that. I should be smile-y and idiotically happy about it, like Buster on doggie steroids.
I can’t stay outside with the dogs all night. Hannibal might notice.
The dogs stop mawing* me for treats. My god, everything sticks, even my glasses as I climb the steps to my house.
He hasn’t noticed me just yet, and I’ve one of those sacred split seconds where I get to see him completely unguarded, without masks, behind no veils. Forget the heat. Forget wedding fatigue. There’s the man – that’s the man.
A truck pulled up to Will’s hidden retreat, a visitor was a rare thing, and branches and leaves crunched under it’s tires. A delivery man stepped out with a clipboard, and smiled as the pack of dogs barked at him, and ran toward the truck, standing at a distance to guard the house from the newcomer, except for Buster, who went to sniff at the man’s shoes.
Will looked over, curiously, and told Molly to stay in, he’d get this. He wandered out, and looked the man over suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Delivery for William Foster,” the man said. The dogs all went quiet and sat down when Will came out, except for Buster who went to sniff the truck, curiously.
“Are … you Mr. Foster?”
Will sighed. “Yes, that’s me.” He whistled at the six dogs to get back, the one having just passed recently.
“Perfect, sign just there,” the man said, and handed Will the clip board with a pen, then headed to the back of the truck with Buster at his heels, smiling at him.
“Quite a feisty little guy here, I’m sure they’ll get along fine,” he said, and brought out a large, expensive looking animal carrier in his arms with the words “Lupo Italiano - Cuccilo” on the side and the coat of arms of the breeder beneath.
“He’s the essence of small dog syndrome,” Will muttered, signing his name to the paper work, and held the clip board back out for whenever the man took it.
The man set the carrier on the nearest picnic table with great care, then took the clipboard and went back to the truck. The dogs sniffed the air and they all swarmed around the carrier, sniffing at it as a dark, fuzzy face with blinking, pale eyes gazed out.
Will watched the man and then went to the carrier, hushing the dogs quietly. He went over and looked inside it at the small, dark thing with light eyes.
“Hey there pal…”
“He’s a beautiful one,” the man said as he carried bags and bags of what looked like frozen, vaccum-sealed meat out and piled it on the table. “I’ve never seen a puppy with that coloring before from any breeder. I can’t imagine how much you paid for him, but he’s good as gold, only had a little howl once when I got him from the plane.”
“Howl?” Will asked, looking the puppy over and getting the distinct feeling that it wasn’t just a dog. It wasn’t a dog at all.
Hannibal: What do you see here?
Will: It's two bunnies clawing each other to death over a lima
bean. [Lector writes in his pad] Forgive me, Dr.
Lector, but this game seems rather silly.
Hannibal: Well, I understand how you might feel that way but it's
helpful to me. Now, last one. [holds another ink-blot up]
Will: It's a woman.
Hannibal: [noting down] Okay, then.
Will: She's skinning a pigeon with a hatchet.