Archive of Our Own ^beta

The moment you meet Will Graham for the first time, you know.

You can smell it, thrumming through veins just beneath the man’s pale skin, a burning fevered sweetness that could almost be mistaken for sickness, if not for the way it makes your mouth run dry and your teeth ache to be buried in the man’s flesh, yearning for the chance to devour him utterly.

For just a moment you contemplate it, imagining the way his heart would beat faster in astonishment and horror as you crush the BAU director’s head between your bare hands to dispose of the lone witness, pumping more of that delicious scent into the room for a few precious seconds before you throw him onto the desk, leaning in to kiss him sweetly on the mouth before ripping into his throat with your teeth. It would almost be worth it, you think, even though you would have to change your name again and start over afresh at least a decade ahead of schedule.

It is a beautiful fantasy, but already you know Will Graham is not one to be glutted upon and tossed away like a broken china doll once you have had your fill. This one is a vintage to be savored. An opportunity for something rarer and more divine than just a new plaything to alleviate the boredom of eternity for a little while—a chance for true companionship.

You have been disappointed before, certainly, and lost much in the process. You have nothing left to lose now, however, and this one you know is different. He is, after all, already partly yours.

A knack for the monsters, Jack Crawford had said when he brought the man’s file to your office. If only he knew how right he was.

“Will Graham, meet Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” says Jack Crawford, unknowingly providing your current alias for his introductions. “The two of you will be working together to help me build this killer’s profile.”

A muscle twitches on the left side of Will Graham’s jaw. Does he sense the lie, you wonder, or is it merely an effect of the “antisocial behavior” Crawford described to you, a sign of discomfort at the thought of working so closely with another? He does not offer to shake your hand, ignoring you almost entirely as he speaks briskly to Crawford about the abducted girls, all business.

Quite rude, but you allow it for now as you add your own comments and force him to engage you in the conversation. You are intrigued by the intuitive leaps he makes and fascinated by the words he chooses to describe each one. He has a penchant for vivid metaphor and hushed elegiac tones that would better suit a poet than an officer of the law. You watch and you listen and you covet.

You wish you could dig your claws into his brain, the better to understand how that enchanting mind works, but you will gladly settle instead for having the man’s soul.

*

It is a marvel what can be learned at almost no personal effort in this modern age of information and technology. A quick search later that afternoon confirms what your senses have already told you—yielding various familial archives and personal documents which include the birth certificate of one William Quincey Graham, born in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana, to parents Nathan Graham and Wilhelmina Harper, unmarried. You find it interesting that a family clearly attached to the idea of passing down their ancestors’ names generation after generation would nonetheless leave a simple spelling error of the family surname on Quincey Jr.’s immigration papers to Texas uncorrected.

Even more interesting are the results of a more detailed perusal of the family’s history—an uncommonly high count of violent disturbances, personal tragedies, domestic abuse, and even deaths by unnatural causes. More than one “Harper” was committed at some point in his or her lifetime to an asylum or similar institution, including the unofficial patriarch Quincey Jr. himself.

You are somewhat amused and strangely gratified to know that your legacy has left such an indelible mark. Poor Jonathan would turn in his grave if he knew how the corruption in his wife’s blood has continued to plague his own progeny well over a century later. You smile coldly at the thought.

You wonder curiously if William knows anything at all of your shared history. Perhaps he grew up on dark fantastical tales told by his mother to keep him in line, Be a good boy or the dreaded Count will come for you! As titillating as the thought is, however, you find it doubtful that particular chapter in the family’s history would have survived the long journey across the Atlantic. Far more likely it was left behind along with the original name, perhaps not an error in spelling at all but a deliberate attempt on Quincey Jr.’s part to distance himself from the peculiar ramblings of an eccentric grandparent—not that his efforts did him much good in the end.

And here you are, two mornings later, darkening the doorway of the last living descendent of a once-hated enemy and a treacherous former paramour, like a gothic revenge story come full circle, seeking not his destruction but something that one might consider to be far crueler. In truth, you are doing no more than is your right, at last reaping the reward for a seed you planted long ago.

“May I come in?” you ask once you have exchanged pleasantries, or rather offered yours in return for a startled, silent gaze.

“Where’s Crawford?” he asks, trying to peer around your shoulders as though he expects the man to step out of hiding from behind you.

“Deposed in court. The adventure shall be yours and mine today.” Eye contact with him is as elusive and grudgingly given as it was before in Crawford’s office, but never mind that for now. The two of you will work on it together over time. “May I come in?” you repeat patiently.

He hesitates, and you know it is not merely the habit of a taciturn individual. You can see it in the tensed set of his shoulders and the mildly confused pull of his brows as he looks anywhere but at you, that he does not understand his own reticence to your request. A wary mongoose who can feel the pressure suffocating air from his lungs and the brush of something unfamiliar against his skin, but cannot see the cobra tightening its coils around him. You find it wonderfully endearing.

The tacit nod he gives when he can find no valid excuse to deny you entrance is invitation enough. You cross the threshold, smiling as you do so, feeling triumphant. It is only a cheap motel room, not his home, but you are confident that invitation will come as well in time. You will make sure of it.

“I hope you can forgive my intrusion so early upon your day. I brought breakfast to make up for it,” you announce, revealing the contents of the package you brought with a proud flourish.

“Oh…well, uh, all forgiven then,” he says, gesturing to the small table at the window, his slight smile more of an awkward uptwist of the lips and a clear indicator that he is not practiced at wearing one often. You promise yourself that there will be a brighter, more sincere one on his face before breakfast is over.

“You’re not eating?” he asks after he sits, glancing down at the plate piled high with fluffy eggs and “sausage” in front of him. Your place at the table is empty.

“I already ate,” you lie. Despite what the myths may say, you can partake, and frequently do both for pleasure and for appearance’s sake in front of guests, though you do not need to and only pick and graze lightly at your own portion during dinner parties. So far no one has ever noticed that you do not finish everything on your plate except for the meat.

Will Graham might notice, you suspect, but that is not the only reason you choose not to share this meal with him. The protein scramble you prepared for Will is special not only for the pieces of Cassie Boyle’s lung currently speared onto his fork, but for the additional ingredient you stirred into the eggs as well while you whisked them this morning—just a few precious drops of life sliced from your own wrist and dripped into the yolk before the cut could heal.

“Mm, this is delicious, thank you,” Will tells you before taking another hearty bite.

“My pleasure,” you answer sincerely. This is the first time you have shared so much as a drop of your own blood with another in over a century. You have no worries that this will be another Renfield fiasco, however. Will Graham technically already shares some of your blood, after all, however indirectly and diluted over the generations it may be. This will not put him in thrall, enslaving his heart and mind to you, but you hope it will make him at least mildly more receptive to your suggestions and strengthen the affinity he unknowingly already feels for you because of his heritage.

The two of you discuss the case together, including the lovely courting gift you left in the field for him yesterday. You are delighted to learn he recognizes it as such, though not the exact nature of the gift or its intended recipient, and that he can spot the differences between it and the inferior handiwork of this so-called Shrike. He appears to be equally delighted by your assessment of him as Jack’s “fragile little teacup,” laughing as you are certain he has not done in quite a long time.

The gentle grin that remains on his face afterward is as radiant as you hoped it would be. You will be the only one to put it there from now on, time and time again, until he cannot possibly know happiness without you.

*

Fortunately, you need no invitation to enter any office or other place of business, else this trip to various construction companies would be very tedious and make you appear more than a little eccentric to your traveling companion. The assigned task proves fruitful right away at your first stop, providing you an opportunity to witness Will’s unusual talent firsthand when the resignation letter of one Garrett Jacob Hobbs catches his attention.

Calling Hobbs is a gamble. You do not know what he will do once the pair of you arrive, but you are curious to find out. More importantly, you are curious how Will will react. You do not have to wait long to find out.

The woman Hobbs shoves outside is all but dead on her feet already. There is no hope for her. Still, you rush out of the car with Will and are quickly at her side on the front porch. “Go. I will see to her,” you insist. Will does not need to be told twice.

As you predict, she is dead within seconds, her blood spurting weakly against your hand as you rest it casually over her throat to give the appearance that you at least tried to save her life, until finally it ceases to flow altogether. A pity that it will all go to waste, but you are here for a specific purpose and certainly much stronger than your baser impulses.

You hear shouting and shots ringing inside through the open front door, and quietly lament that you cannot enter and watch your new intended end another human life. Instead you must wait, under the pretense that you are still attempting to save the unfortunate Mrs. Hobbs, until either Will comes out or someone inside calls to you for help.

Or the third option, which is simply to wait until the house belongs to no one and you are allowed to enter freely. You sense it, like a curious intangible pressure between yourself and the open doorway has been lifted, almost the same moment you hear a devastated sob and Will’s voice croak out in a soft, broken whisper, “No.”

You go to him immediately. Will is a sight to behold. Spattered from head to toe in the blood of his enemy and that of the girl whose life has ebbed out its last onto the patterned linoleum floor, it takes every ounce of self-control you possess not to sweep him up into your arms and ravish him right there, in full view of the pair of corpses growing cold beside him.

His eyes shine with unshed tears as he stares sightlessly at the girl, kneeling beside her with one hand over the gash still sluggishly eking out dead blood between his fingers, clearly distraught and thankfully ignorant of your own plight as you lower yourself to kneel beside him. “She’s gone,” he whispers without looking at you.

You affect an expression of mourning and regret as you say, “So is Mrs. Hobbs.” He looks at you then and a single tear falls at last, streaking through droplets of blood on the side of his face and adding to his loveliness. “We failed them,” his voice quavers.

Were he anyone else, you would consider subtly challenging such a statement by refusing to accept any part of the supposed “failure” as your own. In this instance, however, you choose to interpret that “we” as the opportunity that it is. What better way to bring two people closer, after all, than through shared tragedy and loss?

With your clean hand, you reach over and close the girl’s wide, unseeing blue eyes. With the other, now red and sticky from the mother’s blood, you grasp Will’s equally soaked fingers and pull them back from her throat.

He allows it, fingers curling around your own instead of pulling away. The two of you remain like that until sirens and the crunch of gravel in the driveway signal that backup has arrived too late.

*

The days are a cold, dreary blur after that morning. You ignore Jack Crawford’s calls. You continue giving lectures as always, but your students have noticed how your usual standoffish demeanor has gotten more pronounced lately and have thankfully tried to bother you less often with questions at the end of class, allowing you to pack up and rush off before most of them have even gotten their notes together so you can avoid being ambushed there as well.

You know that you can’t hold out like this forever. Eventually Jack will get tired of your evasions, force you to face him head-on and give him a direct answer. By then you hope to have a clear answer to give.

You’re not entirely sure why Jack wants you on the team so badly after what happened. Abigail Hobbs and her mother died on your watch, yet it seems the only result Jack cares about is the end of the Shrike abductions and murders.

Alana has tried to get you to open up as well, but you are no more interested in that conversation for the moment than you are in Jack’s continued job offers. You cannot imagine discussing it with her and having to endure her assurances that there was nothing more you could have done, that what you did achieve was somehow good enough when you know better.

The only one who really seems to understand is Doctor Lecter. You remember expressing to him once the two of you had cleaned up and changed that you weren’t sure you wanted to be back in the field again if this was how it would be, and after you were finished he shared that he used to be a surgeon but had switched to psychiatry after he lost a patient on the operating table.

“Though it would seem I have not escaped the burden of responsibility for the lives of others quite as well as I had thought,” he had admitted wryly. “Death seems to have followed me after all, in spite of my choice to walk a different path.”

“Guess there’s no point in me quitting either then,” you had said.

“I am sure whatever choice you make, it will be the right one.” He had then handed you his card and said, “Please call. I am always happy to talk with a friend.” And that is how you find yourself, for the first time in your life, willingly carrying on conversations that last for longer than just a few minutes with a man who practices psychoanalysis for a living.

What starts as impromptu chats over the phone somehow evolves into regular meet-ups at Hannibal’s office, where you speak more openly and honestly with him than you imagine you ever would under more “official” circumstances. You can’t exactly pinpoint what it is that makes him stand out from all the others—maybe it’s simply the fact that he’s not your therapist, or the way he looks at you with interest yet doesn’t make you feel like a subject of study—but you feel drawn in and strangely comfortable around him in ways you normally wouldn’t around another human being. It’s almost as though Hannibal Lecter is not a new fixture in your life at all, but rather an old and familiar friend.

Maybe in some small way it’s almost worth it, you think, to look down at your own hands and remember how they felt painted in blood, so long as you can also remember how they felt being held by another pair of hands just as stained as your own.

“Will!” The voice catches you off-guard further down the hallway, making you freeze in place. You grimace. So much for avoidance.

“Will, do you have a second?” Jack asks as he walks up to you.

“Not really, Jack. I have a class to get to.”

“I know you’re lying, Will. I looked up your schedule.”

You cross your arms protectively over your chest, caught in the lie and out of excuses. You decide to cut straight to the point and get it over with. “Look, I just don’t know that fieldwork is right for me anymore, Jack,” you say, staring resolutely at one of the buttons on his coat.

“Well I do know, and I say that it is.” You snort in response to that and reach up to adjust your glasses. “We could have really used your help on this last one,” he continues.

Stammets, aka “Mushroom Garden Guy,” as your students had taken to calling him. No matter how you tried to ignore anything to do with the BAU and their goings-on, you couldn’t avoid hearing about it. “You caught him just fine on your own without my help. Just as you always have before.”

“We would have caught him faster if you were with us,” he responds with surety, as though it were fact rather than his opinion. You don’t argue with him. It’s probably true. You can admit that much to yourself without any false modesty.

“Just come out with us for the next one,” he says. “Think of it as a trial run before you make up your mind.” It’s not entirely an unreasonable request, although you wonder how many “next ones” after that he’ll rope you into if you let him. Still, you find yourself nodding in agreement.

“Great. Now normally this would be the part where I recommend that you get a psych eval.” He holds his hand up right as your jaw drops, angrily about to protest that he would suggest something like that after he all but just begged you to come back in the first place. “You shot Garrett Jacob Hobbs nine times, Will. I have a right to be a little concerned,” he says. “However, I spoke with Doctor Lecter before I came to you to see if he would do the evaluation. He said it would be ‘inappropriate’ given that the two of you have apparently struck up a personal relationship since the incident,” he adds, surprisingly, without judgment. “He also gave me his unofficial opinion that you were fit for the job if you wanted it, so that’s good enough for me,” he finishes, clapping you congenially on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Will, you’re hired. I’ll see you around.”

With that he walks away, leaving you to stand there feeling a mixed bag of emotions, unsure if you want to laugh or hit something. One thought that makes itself heard louder than the rest though is that Jack provided Hannibal with the perfect opportunity to poke around in your brain uninhibited and the man didn’t take it.

Any lingering doubts you may have had are gone. You step outside into the fading light of dusk with a smile on your face, warmed by the knowledge that for once someone actually values your friendship over your usefulness or the intrigue of having you as a patient. Even the chill that creeps in from the unusual amount of light fog blanketing the area is not enough to dispel your mood as you slide into the seat of your car.

*

The first real test comes when Jack cashes in on your silent agreement to join their next investigation. You have no idea how long you’ll be gone, but you need someone to feed the dogs while you’re away. You hate to ask such a huge favor, but Hannibal seems not to mind at all, and is in fact delighted by the chance to finally meet your adopted family of strays.

“I’ll leave a spare key for you under the doormat. You can just come over and let yourself in anytime,” you say into the phone cradled snugly between your head and your shoulder while you use your hands to pack.

“I will certainly do that.”

“Thank you so much again for doing this.”

“Will, it is absolutely my pleasure.”

You’re glad you decided to do this over the phone. Hannibal is one of those rare people who only says these sort of things out of genuine and heartfelt meaning rather than mere politesse, and something about the way he says it now makes you blush for reasons you can’t explain. “Right. I’ll, uh, see you when I get back,” you say before hanging up.

The next few days are a horror show of more and more bodies cropping up. Entire families. Parents slain by their own children, siblings murdered by their own brothers. The science team all make macabre jokes about wishing they could strangle their own relatives, but Jack asks you in all seriousness what could possibly drive someone to want to annihilate their own flesh and blood.

The question makes you feel queasy. You realize of course that he’s only asking because he wants to know if you’ve sussed out a motive for the Lost Boys yet. It has nothing to do with your personal history. He wouldn’t know to ask about that. No one does.

Hannibal can obviously sense that something is wrong when you see him later that afternoon. After you explain a little about the case and the boys’ motives—more than you probably should, honestly, but Jack trusts Hannibal enough that he probably wouldn’t mind too much—he asks a few leading questions about your own family, and in particular, your mother.

“Now this is starting to feel like a therapy session, Doctor,” you answer scathingly.

Hannibal bows his head contritely. “That is certainly not my intention. Allow me to correct the imbalance by telling you a little of my own background.”

“Quid pro quo?” you ask through gritted teeth, still on the defensive.

“I had a brother, Radu, and a little sister called Mischa. My brother and I were never close, but my Mischa…she was everything.” He pauses, and all of your anger melts away, replaced by the intense well of love and pain you can feel radiating from him as you look into each other’s eyes.

You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to continue, to apologize for making him feel like he should share something that obviously still affects him deeply, but you’re too transfixed to say anything. “She was sickly and always…childlike, even as she got older,” he says delicately. “My mother was dead. My brother and father were both ashamed of her. They barely acknowledged her existence. My father even denied that she was his. He insisted that it was impossible for his bloodline to have produced such a ‘weak’ child.”

“What happened to her?” you ask in a hushed whisper.

“My father and brother both passed when I was still a fairly young man.” He shrugs as though it matters little to him. “She was left to my care, and care for her I did, far better than my father ever could or wanted to. But in the end it hardly mattered what I tried,” he says, swallowing past a lump in his throat and glancing away from you finally. “She died all the same.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, at a loss for anything else to say.

He looks up at you again and smiles sadly. “It was a long time ago,” he tells you.

You cannot possibly leave it like this. It’s not fair to let him share something this big without giving anything in return. The trouble is you have no idea how to begin. You don’t talk about your past for a reason. Earlier you had mentioned that you and your father moved around a lot to different boatyards, different towns, even different states when you were younger. It’s easier to start there.

“My dad took migratory jobs that forced us to move all the time because it made it harder for anyone to track us. When we left Louisiana, he neglected to tell anyone where we were going, which included my mother, so technically by taking me with him he was committing child abduction,” you say.

“Not all parents choose to live near enough to their ex-spouses to allow for shared custody,” he replies neutrally.

“My dad didn’t trust her around me at all anymore, but he knew that was a legal battle he’d never win. She had more money than him because of her inheritance, and most court systems back then had a higher bias in favor of the mother, no matter how unfit.”

“And what did she do to prove herself so unfit that he would go to such lengths to keep you from her?”

“She tried to kill me.”

You’ve certainly managed to surprise him, if the delicate raising of his eyebrows is anything to go by. “I should think that would be reason enough for any judge to rule in his favor.”

You laugh without humor. “You don’t know Louisiana judges,” you say cynically. “He couldn’t prove that’s what happened, and when in doubt, people tend to believe the mother. Her lawyer spun it to sound like my dad made the whole thing up and got her arrested under false pretenses.” You shake your head. “I’m not saying my dad made the right call, but he was scared. He thought they were gonna take me away from him and hand me over to my mom. So one night he packed everything we owned that could fit into his truck, buckled me into the seat beside him, and just drove,” you say, letting your hand float outward, motioning directionlessly off into the distance.

“I’m very glad he did,” says Hannibal. “Else I may never have known you otherwise.” The two of you share another smile at that. “May I ask how it happened? What your mother did? How old were you then?”

“I was five,” you say. “Old enough to take baths on my own without supervision, but for some reason she came into the washroom. Wandered in really. I’m not sure she knew where she was to be honest.” You stand and wander aimlessly in the direction of the bookshelves. “She was pacing around,” you say, unconsciously mirroring her movements as you remember them. “Muttering to herself,” you add softly, although you don’t repeat what she said, ‘I won’t let him take me. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.’

“I think I asked her something. If she was okay, maybe? I don’t remember. She walked over to me,” you say, striding purposefully over to Hannibal’s chair. His eyes seem to darken, or maybe it’s only the shadows of the room making it appear that way, but you’re too caught up in your own story to really take notice either way.

“She knelt down next to the tub.” You lean against the arm of the chair, almost sitting on it. “Then she put her hand on my head, pushed me down, and held me under the water.” You weren’t afraid at first, you remember. You were as calm and serene as she was, reflecting her own peaceful expression back at her through the water until your lungs started to burn. You started to thrash about after that, but her arms were much stronger than they looked, strong enough at least to hold down a forty-pound child with ease. “Luckily, my dad got home early.”

You don’t remember much of what happened the rest of that day, but a few things stand out in your mind with perfect clarity. The first pull of air back into your lungs as your father wrenched your mother backwards and yanked you out of the bathtub. The scratch of her nails against the bathroom door after he barricaded her in. Her crooning voice begging to be let out. (“Nate, I didn’t mean it. You know I’d never hurt him, suge. Willy baby, tell Daddy you want to come back to Mommy now.”)

Your dad’s hands had trembled as he dried you off and helped you get dressed, but otherwise he tried to hide any outward sign of his distress in front of you. He sat you on his lap outside on the front porch until the cops arrived, rocking you back and forth in his arms and kissing your forehead, promising you that everything would be okay.

“And here you are now,” says Hannibal, snapping you back to reality, maroon eyes blazing into your own, “vibrant and fierce, and brimming with life.” You realize suddenly that your hands are gripping tightly onto his shoulders, fingers digging into the folds of his crisp tailored jacket, though he seems not to mind. You try to pull your hands back, embarrassed, but he stops you, reaching up to grasp them with his own.

“Hannibal, what are we doing?” you ask in a whisper.

Instead of answering immediately, he sits up straighter and leans in, reaching one hand up to cradle the side of your face. “I believe we are living,” he says, and just like that you are leaning in the rest of the way to kiss him. You may be the one who initiates it, but Hannibal quickly takes charge, lightly tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth and sucking it into his mouth, making you moan.

It’s relatively chaste compared to most kisses, yet you feel light-headed and dizzy by the time your mouths part. Your lips are tingling. “You sure you want to get on this train?” you ask breathlessly, pulling back a little. “Maybe I wasn’t being clear before. My entire life is nothing but one huge minefield of fucked up and crazy. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting a ticket to that.”

Hannibal smiles at you warmly, his eyes crinkling in fond amusement. “Yes,” he says, and runs his hand gently up your arm, making you shiver. “Yes, I’m quite sure.”

You don’t notice it until you get in your car later to head home and suck in your bottom lip, remembering, only to taste copper. A quick glance in the mirror shows that your lip is split open. Hannibal must have bit down harder than you thought. For some reason, the thought of it makes you smile.

*

You are lying in bed, adrift. You can’t sleep. Are you already asleep? Somehow you can’t tell.

The air is thick, cloying and sweet. Hazy like smoke. Is there a fire? No, the dogs’ barking would wake you. You must be dreaming. This is a dream.

The thick smoke is everywhere in the room, drifting over the bed. You must have kicked your bedcovers off sometime in the night, leaving nothing but a thin old t-shirt and underwear between you and the chill of the room. The fog is warm though, surrounding you. Tendrils of it creep across your skin, making you shiver.

You’re dizzy from breathing so much of it in. Delirious, imagining that somehow it’s breathing you in just as much as you’re breathing it, puffs and swells of air like it’s taking the scent of you in.

It pushes against you more insistently, insubstantial wisps of mist and vapor somehow weighing you down, holding you in place, and making you tremble with every caress. It’s crawling all over you and getting in everywhere, your eyes, your hair, your mouth. Soaking through your clothes and reaching you in places that haven’t been touched in a very long time, and oh god.

You draw one of your knees up on the bed and gasp, gripping the bedsheets tightly beneath your fingers and toes. Part of you is afraid, nervous and confused about what’s going on, but you couldn’t get away if you tried, not when it starts undulating against you, inside you, touches alternating between featherlight enough to leave goosebumps trailing in their wake and intense enough to feel frighteningly solid and real.

You wake up outside, standing barefoot in the grass, gazing over at your little house that looks like a boat drifting out of the harbor in the early morning fog and pre-dawn light.

The fog behaves exactly as ordinary fog should, and not like dream fog. Of course it does. You run a tired hand over your face and laugh at your own stupidity, embarrassed. What an absurd nightmare fantasy to develop, even in your imagination.

The motion of your arm hurts a bit. Puzzled, you take a closer look at it and see a swelling purple bruise in the crook of your elbow, right where the veins are. Strange. You must have hurt yourself while sleepwalking.

*

There was a risk in telling William about Mischa. Everything in your decision to mention her hinged upon him not asking too many questions, for the simple reason that you do not wish to dishonor her memory by lying about her.

What you said about her before was entirely true. She was a frail and delicate creature even at seventeen, forever innocent and sweet but never strong of mind. Your sister in life—and your child in undeath.

You can admit to yourself now that part of you had hoped the transformation would have some positive influence on her intellectual capacity, but alas, this was not to be. She remained unchanged in that regard but became more willful, and because of her increased strength, more difficult to tame whenever she felt excitable. You dismissed all but two of the servants, loyal young women Mischa had always favored because of their kindness to her, and granted them both the same dark gift you gave Mischa so they could continue to help you care for her and keep her company whenever you were away throughout the centuries to come.

You sigh as you stare into the crackling fireplace, drinking a blood-wine concoction of your own making without really tasting it, too caught up in bittersweet memories of the past.

This is not a time for bitterness or sorrow, however. Your long epoch of solitude is at last coming to an end. The seduction of Will Graham is coming along magnificently. It will not be much longer before you can take him into your arms and truly claim him as yours forevermore.

In public as Hannibal Lecter, respected psychiatrist and friend, you have been careful to remain the perfect gentleman, respectful and courteous of Will’s personal time and space. The two of you have agreed to “take things slow” and see where this leads, progressing no farther than long, slow kisses on the couch and chaste caresses above the waistline. You get the impression that Will has received precious little care or gentleness from previous romantic encounters in his short lifetime, and so are more than happy to provide both in ample supply during the daylight hours, often surprising him with sweet gestures and tender kisses to his hand or cheek, bringing a shy blush to his features that is lovely to behold.

After the sun sets, however, you unleash your true desires upon him and revel in your monstrous nature. It is delightful and satisfying to watch him unravel during your nightly visits, feverish and mystified by everything that is happening to him, incapable of distinguishing dream from reality as he unknowingly opens his arms and his veins for you night after night like a poisoned blossoming flower.

And you do so love the way he squirms and bites his lip in shame when you catch him remembering the previous night’s depravities in the daytime, unconsciously associating your scent and the brush of your lips against his skin with the amorphous, shapeshifting man-beast that steals into his home and ravishes him in his blood-soaked dreams.  

Yes, you think eagerly with anticipation. You should make arrangements and begin preparing the basement. It will be soon.

*

“Somebody was partying hard last night,” Katz says with a knowing wink at you when she walks in.

“What?” you ask, confused at first, before remembering you traded your glasses this morning for a cheap old pair of sunspecs you found buried under the spare jacket in your car. “Oh. My eyes are just feeling a little sensitive to the light. Headache.”

“Yeah, hangovers will do that.”

“It’s not a hangover,” you say, though it might as well be. You feel like you haven’t slept for days—the shades are as much to hide the bags under your eyes as they are to darken your vision. The dreams and the sleepwalking have been getting stranger and more intense lately.

Your sight isn’t the only sense that’s been sensitive lately either. Everything is too loud. Your nerves are crawling and alternately run hot or cold at any given moment, seemingly at random. You almost vomited on the sidewalk on the way to the Academy building today, overwhelmed by the smell of freshly mown grass. You’re probably coming down with something, and shouldn’t even be here frankly.

Jack’s only comment on your minor wardrobe alteration when he comes in a few minutes later is a disbelieving, “Really, Will?”

“Yes,” you answer testily, giving no further elaboration. Jack looks at you for a moment and then shrugs, quickly moving on as the others file into the debriefing room. The meeting is blessedly short, but afterwards you have to go with Jack and Alana to the one place in Baltimore you’d rather hoped never to set foot in—the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

The hospital director is an oily, spineless worm whose name you don’t even bother to remember. You barely even remember why you’re here—some patient killed a nurse or something. You’ve been too distracted, irritable, and pissed off at the world in general today to really listen to what anyone was saying. Maybe you should just go home. Maybe you should go see Hannibal. The thought of him makes you brighten a little. Maybe that really is all you need to make the world seem a little less dull and grey.

“Are you uncomfortable being in my hospital, Mr. Graham?” the director asks oversolicitously.

You think about telling him, ‘My grandfather spent the last few years of his life in a place like this, until he paid someone to smuggle a gun in and shot himself in the head.’  It would almost be worth it just to see what kind of reaction that gets. Probably not a good one for you, judging by how the oily man—Chilton, that’s his name—is looking at you the way a rare insect collector might look at a particularly interesting new specimen of beetle.

Alana cuts in smoothly, returning the conversation to the topic at hand and saving you from actually having to reply. Later though, when the two of you are left alone together for a few minutes, she asks, “Are you uncomfortable, Will? You do seem agitated.”

“I’m fine,” you snap. Has she always been this nosy? God, she must be. You wonder why you never found it so annoying before. Maybe it’s just this sickness you’re coming down with making you more aggressive and on edge than normal. “Sorry,” you add as an afterthought.

“It’s okay,” she says, smiling in that way that used to make you feel giddy and bashful just being around her. It does nothing for you now. “How are things between you and Hannibal?” It’s no secret that the two of you are dating now.

“Things are good. We’re good,” you say, returning her smile now.

“That’s good,” she says, though her own smile seems a bit forced now. Her eyes seem to linger on the shades you’re still wearing and the fresh bruise on your collarbone, just visible beneath your shirt when you lean forward in your seat. “You know, if you ever need to talk…”

“I don’t,” you say, smile fading. You stand as soon as the guard calls your name and tells you that Gideon is ready for the first interview. You follow the man down the hall without looking back.

*

Forest smells, but no forest, no stars. Only endless blackness surrounding you on all sides.

The dripping echoes loudly in your ears, one drop after another like a leaky tap, falling into a still puddle of water, drip, drip, drip. You can’t see it, but you can hear it. Drip.

“Willy baby,” she calls in a singsong voice. You turn away from the direction of her voice and run, dry sticks and leaves crunching beneath your feet. She laughs, and the sound of it echoes everywhere. Drip.

“Silly Willy. I’m not the one chasing you anymore, remember?”  That’s right. She’s dead now. She’s dead, and your father is dead, and your grandparents are all dead, everyone and everything that has ever tied you to this life, for better or for worse, is gone now except for the dogs.

She is not the only one in the shapeless darkness. The other is here also, watching you. You wonder what form he will take tonight—a fog, a wolf, a ravenstag, a beast? A man?

You’re still running, still being watched. You stop when your bare feet splash into the puddle. You found it. That means you win, right?

The next drop falls on your forehead and slides down. You tip your head back and open your mouth, allowing the next one to land on your tongue.

It is not water.

You cough and sputter, trying to spit it out. She laughs and laughs and laughs.

“You’re the one he wants,” she whispers, right into your ear. “Go to him.”

You wake up shaking in a cold sweat. The dogs perk their ears and look up at you curiously.

It’s not dark out yet. You came home early and decided to take a nap, trying to catch up on some much needed rest. The sun is only just now beginning to set. A wolf howls outside, causing a shiver to run down your spine, and your dogs give answering howls back. All seven of them.

You don’t want to be here anymore.

You quickly throw on pants and a shirt, grab everything you need, and head out to the car. You get out your phone and dial the number for Hannibal as you pull out of the driveway.

He picks up on the third ring. “Will?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“I need to see you. Right now.”

“Very well. I can be at Wolf Trap in—”

“I’m already on my way to you.”

A pause at the other end. “I see. I won’t be at the office anymore by the time you arrive. I trust you remember the way to my home?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall see you soon.”

*

“It’s the family curse,” you say, laughing nervously. “We all go a little mad in the end.”

Hannibal takes another delicate sip of his wine. “I disagree,” he says, leaning back casually in his chair.

You turn your head away from the window you’ve been staring through to gape at him. “Have you been listening to a word I said?” you ask, standing. “I’m losing it.”

“Are you?”

You just admitted to driving two hours out to your boyfriend’s house because of a dream you had that made you feel frightened of staying put in your own house. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. That’s what terrifies you most of all. “I mean I have to be, right?”

He sets his glass aside and walks over to you. “Have you considered the alternative?” he asks, leaning forward and cupping your cheek with his hand.

You laugh, reaching up to pull his hand away from your face. “Listen, if you’re not gonna take me seriously…”

His hand squeezes yours in a vicelike grip when you try to pull back, his other arm coming around your waist to pull you in close. “What does he do, this devil of yours, when he visits you in the night?” he murmurs.

“I…what?” you ask breathlessly, face flushing. “I…I didn’t say anything about…”

“Does he talk to you of destiny?” he asks, hand releasing yours to tilt up your chin. “Of eternity and loss, and fates intertwined?”

“He…he doesn’t say anything.” Finally you manage to wrench yourself free and take several steps back. “Hannibal, what the hell?”

“Perhaps you are simply not listening carefully enough.” His smile is the same pleased upward tilt as ever, but something, maybe the way the firelight casts shadows over his face, makes it seem almost predatory now. You swallow and stare into his eyes, maroon darkened almost to black.

“Hannibal…”

“You may continue to call me that if you like,” he says. “I have gone by many names.”

You blink, and suddenly he’s not halfway across the room anymore, but standing right in front of you. You cry out, stumbling backwards into the wall.

He boxes you in with his arms and leans forward, pushing his knee between your legs. His body feels solid against yours, hard and unyielding like a statue. You tremble, a mixture of terror and arousal pooling low in your gut.

“Oh, the things I will do to you tonight,” he growls low in your ear, before his mouth latches onto yours with a ferocity you didn’t know he had, forcing your lips apart with his tongue and thrusting it in, biting and sucking at you hungrily like he wants to eat you alive. You are helpless to the assault, whimpering pathetically when he bites down hard enough to open your lip again and greedily sucks up every last drop of blood that oozes out. Your arms come up around his neck like they have a mind of their own, drawing him in even closer.

He pushes you suddenly and you fall backwards, landing in a sprawl onto a luxurious mattress covered with sinfully soft grey silk sheets. You barely have time to wonder how you got here when you know you were just downstairs in the sitting room before he climbs over you and starts tearing off your clothes, popping buttons and literally pulling everything off in tatters and shreds with sharp, elongated fingernails.

“What a picture you make,” he snarls, tracing each and every bruise and mysterious puncture mark scattered all over your body with his fingernails, trailing shallow scratches in his wake. You groan, finally beginning to understand but well beyond caring, as long as you can keep having this strange, intense pleasure-pain that only he can provide.

He leans down and laps up the blood welling from the cuts, trailing lower and lower with his tongue and his teeth. His long, sharp eye teeth. “God, what are you?” you gasp out.

He looks up at you, his mouth hovering just over your painfully hard cock, and grins sharply. You moan wantonly, your fingers clenching into the bedsheets, desperate and terrified all at once.

Without warning, he glides his lips over the shaft and swallows you down to the root. You groan incoherently and buck upwards, hissing at the sharp tug of his teeth as you do so but completely overwhelmed by the warm, wet suction of his mouth on you.

He wastes no time with playing coy, licking and sucking and overloading your senses until you come in jerking, shaking spurts down his throat.

You throw your arm over your eyes and lay there, panting, nerves tingling in pleasure and exhaustion, too drained of energy and essential bodily fluids to care for the moment what happens to you anymore.

You hear the rustle of clothing being removed and feel your knees being nudged apart. You lower your arm to look then, and your heart leaps into your throat at the sight of Hannibal naked, kneeling between your legs and slicking up his big, erect cock with what looks like a mixture of blood and semen.

You think about commenting on how unsanitary that is, but it seems absurdly unnecessary to remark upon now, in light of recent circumstances. You giggle uncontrollably at the thought, a well of hysterics bubbling up in your chest.

“Shhh, there there, Iubitul meu, it’s alright,” he says, lining himself up and kissing you sweetly on the mouth. You realize you’ve been crying only after he brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. He keeps kissing you slowly and languidly, swallowing your pained grunts and groans as he pushes all the way inside.

The ache is nearly unbearable at first since you weren’t prepared beforehand, but after a few minutes it gets easier. It starts to feel good, although it’s too soon for you to get hard again. You draw your knees up higher and run your nails down his back, trying to mar his perfect skin with a few scratches of your own.

“Ah,” he breathes, angling his thrusts harder and deeper. “Dragostea mea,” he whispers roughly, and you feel the hot splash of him coming inside you.

You relax your limbs and let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes falling closed, utterly spent. “My god,” you whisper.

Hannibal runs his fingers through your sweaty curls, nails still overlong but only grazing gently against your scalp.

*

“There is no God here,” you answer, gazing fondly at this boy you adore so. “Only us,” you whisper right against his ear. With a sharp tug, you tighten your fingers in his hair and tip his head back farther, then sink your fangs deeply into the exposed flesh of his neck.

The sharp, agonized scream he lets out is the loudest you’ve caused yet, and it is sweet music to your ears, for it is the sound of your triumph.

He struggles violently, instinctually, clawing and pounding his fists and trying to push you away. His muscles clench and spasm uncontrollably, inner walls tightening around your softening cock. And still you drink. And drink and drink, until the fragile human in your arms weakens and his struggles cease, and the ambrosial nectar on your tongue slows its flow to almost a trickle.

In the last precious few seconds of Will Graham’s mortal coil, you slice your wrist open with a single sharp talon and press it to his lips, massaging his throat with your fingers to force him to swallow as much of your gift as possible before his heart ceases to beat.

“Don’t be afraid,” you tell him, gently kissing his forehead. “It’s only a temporary death.”

Will Graham’s eyes flutter shut and his breathing stops.

*

Three days. Such a short amount of time to seem like such a long wait. You ache to hold him once more, hear him laugh, see him smile. It is tortuous that you must allow so much time for your gift to take hold. Even worse, to agonize over the possibility that perhaps it did not take hold, that in trying to preserve your one source of true joy in too many eras to count you may have instead destroyed it and all possibility of happiness evermore. The mere thought of it makes you pace and watch the basement door anxiously, as though any moment it may open on its own even though you know it is far too soon for that.

It is an easy matter to tell Jack that Will is too unwell to go in—a blood infection, you tell him over the phone, smirking humorously to yourself—and that you will be caring for him in your own home for the duration of his long sabbatical. You estimate a couple of weeks when he asks how long it will be, figuring that will give you enough time to teach Will the basics he needs to know and train him in controlling his urges around others.

Jack’s requests to see Will for himself, or you for that matter, are quickly withdrawn after you explain the high possibility of contagion to him. After that, a cancellation of all of your appointments for the next few weeks, and a quick call to a dog care service to look after Will’s loyal pets so you do not have to leave Will alone in your home several times a day to feed them, you consider all of the necessary arrangements settled.

And so they would be, were it not for the unannounced, unsolicited visit of one terribly worried—and terribly angry—Alana Bloom on the morning of the third day.

“Where is he?” she asks as soon as you open the door, brushing past you inside without invitation. Rude.

“I assume Jack must have told you about our conversation,” you say, shutting the door behind you. “You should not be here now, Alana. This is not a good time.”

“Jack told me alright,” she says, scoffing bitterly, and begins marching up the stairs. “Blood infection, my ass.”

“Excuse me?” you say. Alana Bloom cursing in front of you. This may be a first. And a last.

She stops halfway up and turns to glare down at you. “You’re not the only one with a medical background, Hannibal. I know a bullshit line when I hear one. What’s really going on here?”

“Are you accusing me of something, Alana?” you ask, careful to maintain your aura of calm and neutrality and appear nonthreatening. “Have we not been friends for several years now?”

“I thought we were,” she says. “Then you and Will met. He started acting differently, and I,” she pauses, looking away, obviously finding difficulty in the words she’s about to say. “I’m beginning to think I may not actually know you that well at all.”

Such a perceptive girl. A pity about her timing.

“You wish to see Will?” You gesture that she should come back downstairs. “Then come, follow me.”

You lead her into the basement. She looks around aghast, eyes widening at the variety of butchering tools and plastic sheeting in the corner even though you keep your hobby workspace neat and pristine. It is an amusing occasional pastime, feeding mortals the flesh of their own, though you have not indulged it often since you began your courtship of Will.

“What is this?” she asks, clearly frightened but trying not to show it or make any sudden movements for the phone you know is in her jacket pocket. Luckily you own a very costly device that scrambles the GPS signals of any electronics in your home, so her location will not be traced here. These modern times do so like to present you with ever unique challenges to overcome as the years go by.

“Will is there,” you say, pointing to the sturdy table at the center of the room.

She goes as if she cannot help herself, hands shaking and breath coming out erratically as she nears the long mahogany coffin laid out on it. Your own is in a well-hidden spot on one of the secret lower levels, rarely used since you do not need to rest as often as you become older and more powerful, but you do not want Will to feel too overwhelmed or lost after his first awakening.

She has trouble with the heavy, hermetically sealed lid, so you go to help her, easily prying it open with one hand. She does not notice your surprising strength, too distracted by the sight before her eyes.

“Oh god, no!” You resist the urge to swat her hand away as she reaches in and presses her fingers to your beloved’s throat, trying to feel for a pulse.

“No,” she repeats, voice breaking and tears springing into her eyes. Unexpectedly she turns to you, banging her fists ineffectually against your chest. “Why? What have you done? What have you DONE??”

“I am sorry, Alana,” you say.

Subduing her is a tragically simple task, her thoughts bent too much on crippling grief and fruitless railing against you for your perceived crimes to focus enough on self-preservation.

She can scream all she likes for hours if she so chooses. The walls of your basement are soundproof.

*

You wake up.

You are somewhere dark, earthy. Not natural though. A small, confined space. Man-made. You shift and feel soft, crumbling soil caress against your skin. That must be where the earthy smell is coming from.

You press your hand up against the roof of your prison, scratching lightly against the wood. This would be the time for panic normally, you think. They buried you alive. They buried you alive and they buried the dirt with you. What a peculiar, cosmic joke.

And yet, you are not afraid. You feel calmer and more clear-headed than you ever have in your life. You press your hand against the roof again and lightly push.

The lid swings open easily. The place you are in now is bright and white, hurting your eyes at first, but they adjust quickly. You sit up. The soil runs easily down the silk robe you are wearing. It is almost the same shade of white as your skin. Hannibal does have an eye for things like that, you think with a soft smile.

A quiet gasp arrests your attention. It’s a woman you know, chained against the wall, her hair a mess, dried tears streaked down her face. Alana.

“Will?” she asks, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “H-how?”

You climb out of the box, quick and graceful, and walk over to her on bare feet, kneeling in front of her. Now that you are closer, you realize that she smells amazing. Your throat burns, the way it did when you were drowning, not so long and a lifetime ago. You lean in, burying your nose in her hair.

She startles and tries to kick you away. Now you’re angry. Why would she do a thing like that? You grab at her, growling.

“Will, no,” she says. “Will, no, please, please.” Pretty Alana. You liked her once, you remember. You think you may like her even more now. She smells so nice, and you’re so thirsty.

*

Sunset. Your love is awake at last, and he is so beautiful you almost could weep.

There is dirt still in his curls and the lovely robe you chose for him is now stained with crimson. His wide blue eyes and pale smooth face, clean-shaven for once after you groomed him, give him a deceptively soft and cherubic countenance. He is perfect.

“Hannibal,” he says to you as you come down the stairs. “Hannibal, I’ve done something terrible.” A single tear rolls down his face, glistening and red.

“Lubitul meu," you say soothingly, stepping carefully over the corpse crumpled on the floor between you. “Do not fret. You have done no more than is in our nature.” You wipe his tear away with your finger and suck it into your mouth. “The blood is life. You take that life into your body and you live.”

“But she—”

“She is nothing,” you say firmly, taking his face between both of your hands. “She would have taken you away from me if she could. For that she had to die. Do you understand?” you say, pressing your forehead to his. “Nothing is as important to me as you. I cannot lose you. Never. Do you understand?” you repeat.

“Yes,” he croaks out. You wrap your arms around him tightly and kiss him long and deep, no longer afraid of cracking his ribs and breaking him.

“What do we do now?” he asks once your lips finally part from each other’s, gasping for air like the creature of habit he is since he no longer needs it.

You grin at your darling companion. The answer to that question is simple, joyous, and clear.

“We live.”