[an odd chord to be struck at such a time. Hannibal thinks of how he drops his teacups, of Abigail's slit throat, of Will; gutted open on his floor, blood spilling out all around him and sinking into the edges of tile. a stain on his memory.

he's sorry it came to that, knew there were possibilities for other outcomes that never happened. he'd planned for them, but Will had been just unpredictable enough. looking at Krouse, head tilted and eyes steady as hair and skull presses against glass.]

You struggle to live up to your own unrealistic, high expectations. Bring yourself back down and you might be happier with the outcomes.

[something inside of him nearly chides, but instead keeps his tone level:] I think you'd be surprised.