Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello Reader! This is going to be one of those fics which bend the laws of probability, so before we get into it I’d like to set the stage. I have intentionally chosen a highly unlikely premise with this fic, and created a dystopian social class structure that is extremely simple. I invite you to take this indulgent flight of fancy with me.

Our story is set in an alternative universe where cannibalism is completely socially acceptable. Cannibalism is considered a hallmark of fine dining and superiority, meaning that the more pronounced a person’s cannibalistic tendencies, the more sophisticated they are considered to be.

In order to keep this cannibalistic society from descending into chaos, three distinct classes exist and are strictly maintained. People of the different classes do not socially mix except on special occasions and relationships between people of different classes are heavily taboo. The three classes are the upper or elite class, the middle or common class, and lastly, the lower or slave class.

The elite class control the majority of society's wealth, and practice cannibalism. They enjoy a highly sophisticated standard of living, and make the most significant financial contributions to the ‘meat market,’ aka the human flesh trade. It is illegal to kill a person from the elite class. Canon characters in this class include Hannibal Lector, Bedelia du Maurier, Maison and Margot Verger.

The middle class represent the vast majority of ordinary working people, most of whom cannot afford to purchase human meat and do not therefore typically engage in cannibalism. Many middle class people aspire to become wealthy enough to join the elite ranks. Many others struggle to survive, only making just enough money to keep them out of the slave class. It is illegal to kill a person of the middle class. Canon characters in this class include Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom.

The slave class is comprised of empoverished people who would depend on the state if that was an option. These might be people who have accrued tremendous debts they can no longer pay, or people who have worked their whole lives only to have no savings left, or children who have been handed over to the system with the absence or unavailability of parents. They become slaves to the meat industry and eventually are processed for consumption. They are bought and sold as property by members of the elite. They are stripped of their human rights. The system reinforces the idea that these people are inferior and unworthy of life. Canon characters in this class include Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs.

I am sure that most of you would pick up these details as we went along anyway, but to save everyone confusion I decided to clearly state them upfront. I sincerely hope you enjoy this fic, me and my best friend have made this a passion project over the last few months and many hours have been lovingly poured into its creation.

Bon Appetit!

Chapter Text

That morning Hannibal selected a silk tie in the shade ‘oyster shell’ to compliment his shirt. The sky outside his window was a blank, white slate and the light that entered his bedroom window was exceptionally clear. It was a pleasant day for an auction. An important date in Hannibal’s diary, but not an unusual one.

Hannibal was known to attend the Clearfair auctions every spring, from the opening of their showrooms in February to the conclusion of their final sale in May. You might say he was a devoted client.The only reason he would not attend Clearview in May was if he had made a substantial purchase in the meantime. But Hannibal liked to attend the later auctions anyway, to observe the scene at play and meet with his friends.

The Clearview auction was a much celebrated and award-winning event which was established amongst the first human auctions at the end of the 20th century. It sold independently sourced meats and had garnered great support from the artisanal flesh market following several years of celebrated success.

The one concern Hannibal entertained regarding Clearview concerned its unorthodox meat acquisition process. For the past two seasons, the company had generated a fair deal of controversy after selecting and presenting distinctly unusual human meats. Hannibal remembered one occasion when a disabled human was put up for sale.

The subject has been missing whole limbs when they were put on display, but instead of marking down the product as other auction houses might have done, Clearview had actually raised the price. They had claimed the meat had a ‘unique cranial flavour profile due to adverse rearing conditions.’ Hannibal had partaken of that particular flesh at the dinner table of his dear friend Dr. Straussel six months later, and found he had to agree. The brain matter had the robust flavour profile Clearview had promised; a serene mixture of bitter sinew and soft grey matter in almond and tarragon sauce.

Many had found Clearview’s unorthodox approach vulgar. Some chose to question whether Clearview was making fun of the human meat market and its elite clientele. Certain journalists enjoyed a great deal of success feeding this rumour mill. Hannibal recalled a certain red-headed reporter by name of Freddie Lounds with distaste. He had been particularly satisfied to read of her eventual arrest and ruin, and subsequent drop into the slave class. Having never been personally disappointed by Clearview, Hannibal was inclined to view its critics as anti-intellectuals who resisted artistic innovation, like frightened, stunted cavemen.

And so, despite the recent criticism and scandal, Hannibal felt that Clearview was deserving of his trust. Consequently, much of the Baltimore cannibal elite found that they too could forgive Clearview. Hannibal’s public support and seal of approval continued to be a mark of distinction on any purveyor of human flesh.

For the past twenty years Hannibal Lecter had swiftly risen to the esteemed ranks of the Cannibal class. Highly educated, engaging, and always excessively polite, he charmed each of his guests entirely. His dinner parties were a highly anticipated event, and invitations were as coveted as they were rare.

Most importantly, Hannibal was undoubtedly a ‘connoisseur;’ one of those rare individuals blessed with a true appreciation of cannibalism. Someone who did not simply settle for human flesh, but actively prefered it. Yes, these persons were the product of excessive and complex trauma. But in this world, no matter the cost, strength and beauty are always revered. Hannibal Lecter considered himself the perfect example of both.

Having selected his tie, Hannibal moved on to picking his jewellery. He decided that an elegant silver plated watch would serve very well, and accent his new silver cufflinks. He was a firm believer in the idea that beauty must extend to every aspect of one’s person to be considered true. He was hopeful that there might be a pig today who would aesthetically compliment his plans for lammas, when he would throw his next dinner party.

At half past twelve he stepped out into the bright, late winter sunshine, and Hannibal found he had to shield his eyes as he stepped to the car. Once seated behind the wheel he selected Introitus from his Mozart playlist and, humming to the tune, backed out of his driveway.

It took almost thirty minutes to reach the Clearview auction site. Hannibal remembered when he had first made this trip, and how it had taken him the better part of an hour. Of course, he had made this journey many times since then.

Clearview could be a little difficult to find; the handsome barn and connected manor house were hidden down a slip road that twisted and turned its way up a green hill. When at last the property came into view, it burst from the landscape magnificently. The house itself was framed by a line of trees which abruptly gave way to a breathtaking view of the lake. The main house and offices were connected by sandy pathways, and a showing platform had been raised between the house and the waterfront.

Hannibal made a right turn to guide his car towards the guest parking. He was a little early, and very few cars were parked in the assigned bay. He was pleasantly surprised and decided that he would take some time to look around the set up before the socialites descended. As much as he enjoyed the flattery and attention of a social occasion, Hannibal's preference was for peace and quiet.

Frequently Hannibal was asked by his hosts and friends how he was enjoying the social world of Baltimore. He had always replied with great reserve and humility, owning that he had never been more delighted, that he was honored by the attention, etc, etc. But it was all a lie. Boredom had crept over Hannibal, slowly and steadily, for many years. He accepted it quietly as, after all, what else could he do? True inspiration had deserted him.

Stepping out onto the gravel drive, Hannibal gave the young valet a polite smile as he handed him his keys. The boy flushed and nodded once before hurrying off to get Hannibal’s car serviced. He spared the valet one approving glance over his shoulder before moving on.

The driveway followed a gentle incline before meeting the house. Rather than approach the front steps, Hannibal veered left towards the temporary structure that would become the auction main stage.

This stage was arranged with delicate white garden chairs, and an aisle along which the merchandise would be paraded. The set up was similar to a private fashion show. Clusters of artificial flowers, white rose, hibiscus and blue cornflowers were tied to every chair. Hannibal mused happily over how much the arrangements looked like a wedding. It was the sort of detail that far too many of his peers today would miss.

A little further along to the left of this stage was a now empty holding pen. The gate was white washed steel, and a distinct hum told Hannibal that the fence was electrified. It was unlikely the voltage was high enough to do serious harm, or even burn the livestock. Just enough to give them an unpleasant sting should they stray out of line.

They would sell the key pieces first, one or two signature beauties to set the tone of the event. The more ordinary articles would follow in order of value. And last but not least, the rarities. Clearview liked to reward its patient guests with a surprising treat towards the end of the event. It was likely that this wildcard item would be controversial, if the previous two years were anything to go by.

Hannibal turned a little to his left as he heard a small but intentional cough. The soft touch of a delicate hand pressed his elbow, and he turned to smile at Bedelia du Maurier. He had not heard her approach.

Dr. du Maurier was amongst Hannibal’s esteemed peers. He had always held a curiosity for her bordering on fondness. She was one of the few in his social rank who he would actually deign to share his opinion with, despite not being a connoisseur herself.

Her dress today was immaculate as always. A long eggshell coloured pencil dress and corresponding heels matched her platinum hair very well. She answered his look with a thin lipped smile.

“Good Afternoon, Dr. Lecter.”

“Bedelia,” he offered a gentle incline of the head. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You knew I would be here.”

Hannibal smiled, and leaned down to politely kiss her cheek. “Are you in need of fresh stock? You need only ask, Bedelia. I am more than happy to open my pantry to you.”

Hannibal knew for a fact that Bedelia only participated in cannibalism to secure the patronage and clientele her lifestyle depended on. She was born and bred to this existence, but like so many of her class, had never truly embraced that which Hannibal held so dear.

On many occasions she had attended Hannibal’s dinner table. On many occasions Hannibal had watched her squirm as he carved and plated her dinner. Sometimes she excited him to a red-eyed fury over her active, ever present, inappropriate discomfort.

But, for the most part, he found her company stimulating. And of course, he thought as he ran his eyes down her body, she was aesthetically perfect. Practically his equal where fashion was concerned. How could he not admire her?

“I… That is most kind of you.” Bedelia’s eyelashes fluttered delicately as she repressed a nervous spasm.

Hannibal also knew that Bedelia never purchased live meat at an auction such as this one unless she had a butcher on hand to process her purchase for her.

In fact, Bedelia purchased and consumed supermarket human meat at home, like most of Hannibal’s peers. And they all bored him, with their idle small talk and underdeveloped senses. None of them were like him. Bedelia and her ilk were an acceptable distraction, but they were shallow in a way Hannibal could never understand.

“Not at all.” He pressed his fingers into her side, slipping her a confidential smile.

Other patrons of Clearview had begun to ascend the driveway and the blank noise of a growing crowd became distinct. Over Bedelia’s shoulder Hannibal could see certain faces he recognised. One or two caught his eye as they began to drift in their direction.

Hannibal drifted between groups of guests for a while. Almost all of Clearview’s guests knew him or knew of him, and wanted a word. By three o’clock he had led a small cluster inside to sign in and was flattered by the attention. They had enjoyed afternoon tea in the reception hall, and Hannibal began to feel that pleasant anticipation which he attended these auctions for.

Clearview had arranged their main reception hall with similar flowers to those outside. White roses dipped their heads in graceful longstem vases. Several small sofas and chairs upholstered in the same egg shell blue sat around the apartment, and long tables draped with white cloth reached around the walls. It was on these tables that the immaculate waiting staff deposited their snacks.

The tea was darjeeling, and came with a selection of almond pastries. Of course, he touched nothing except the tea.

Over the course of the afternoon the rest of the guests drifted inside. Amongst the late comers Hannibal saw Dr. Straussel. He was joined by his new secretary, Mr. Hugo, and shortly Miss Diornett and Miss Faucel arrived.

Dr. Straussel, like Hannibal and Bedelia, was a member of the local psychiatric professional community. Unlike Hannibal, he had called Minnesota home practically his whole life, but had travelled extensively for work and study. If Hannibal considered anybody his best friend, Johann Straussel came the closest to that definition.

Since Hannibal’s arrival in Baltimore some ten years ago, Straussel had sought to take him under his wing. He had quickly acquiesced to acknowledge that Hannibal was his equal in conversation, and frankly, his superior in the kitchen. The respect which Straussel extended to Hannibal went far to establish him in their little elite community. Hannibal had so admired Straussel’s manner and style of living that he had asked him to help decorate his home, and the friendship had stuck ever since.

It helped that Straussel was also a first-rate connoisseur and often an accomplice to Hannibal's more elaborate projects. It seemed that they shared one aesthetic mind and goal. Hannibal would never deign to actually confide in Johann of course, and likewise, Johann was careful with Hannibal. Not quite careful enough; Hannibal always made it a point to excavate his friends' personal lives, one way or another.

Hugo was Straussels' latest personal assistant. Hannibal could only wonder from glancing at the boy how long this particular affair would last.

Miss June Diornett and Miss Celine Faucel at last drifted in, and Hannibal greeted them individually. He would always extend such courtesy to fellow connoisseurs, and the two ladies were the last of these in their little elite community.

He spent much less time with Diornett and Faucel than he did with Straussel, and therefore was less familiar with them. They were companions of a sort and lived together out on the plantation ground which once belonged to Diornett’s family, of whom she was now the only surviving member. The two were inseparable, and always fashionably late. He could only assume this was some hideous French affectation Celine had brought with her when she emigrated here, and had since infected June with.

At long last the gong sounded and the guests began filtering outdoors for the main event.

By this time, the human wares had been herded into the holding pens. As soon as the crowd saw them an expectant buzz filled the air. Hannibal ran his eyes over the first line. As usual, they were selling the women and children first. He suppressed a grimace. The butchery of the young was standard practice amongst his peers, and a particular pastime of Diornett. But, he had always found it distasteful and declined to participate when he could.

Hannibal preferred to select his wares based on moral character. The depraved intricacies and failures of the flesh he consumed interested him. A human who had led a complex moral life was exactly his speciality. It was why he so appreciated the flavour profile booklet that came with every auction purchase from Clearview. But children had no moral character at all. They were the equivalent of intellectual silly putty and no matter what his contemporaries might believe, were inedible. And there was something else, some hidden discomfort inside him that he could not explain.

The women held some interest for him however. He carefully considered the first lot that had been led to the pavilion stage as they all took their seats.

The first hour came and went. A bidding frenzy followed two of the women and one of the children; deeply engaging for Hannibal, but he declined to bid. The child went to Diornett for a very neat price, and he congratulated her. She was seated on his left.

Hannibal had chosen a seat which shouldered the aisle, and was close to the front. This gave him ample view of the stage and the announcer. It also gave him priority viewing as each item was paraded down the aisle and back for the viewers examination.

The auction was conducted in the conventional manner. The lot was brought to the main stage in chains. The auctioneer introduced the specimen including age, sex, weight, etc, and any notable points that might induce the bid. As they were introduced the specimen was prompted to walk the length of the aisle, under the auspicious gaze of all. Bidding then ensued, and the sold meat was led to a separate holding arena to be labelled and dressed.

Following the initial excitement there was a period of stagnation where routine items went for routine prices. Hannibal watched the sun slowly drift towards the horizon behind the auctioneer's desk and leaned further back into his chair. He started to relax his shoulders as he contemplated the peaceful view.

It did not especially matter if he made a purchase today. After all, it was still early in the season. Nothing in the line up which he could see from his chair particularly jumped out at him, and he began to feel a familiar sense of disappointment. The prime flesh on sale, which Clearview had opened, was nothing special: Freddie Lounds, who went for an appropriately low price, and a cherubic infant.

Once they reached the men’s category Hannibal made the effort to sit up. This was his preffered sex, after all.

The sun had just begun to disappear from view, and a spectacular orange glow cast all of the assembled in bronze, as though they were ancient statues fixed to hallowed ground. The containment area fence buzzed loudly as the lock was released.

The next specimen was tugged forward. The gate swung shut behind him with a crash. Hannibal caught sight of a mop of unruly dark hair, and smirked. The meat class truly was a dissolute race, without any redeeming qualities. He was sure that whatever he was about to see was undeserving of life, and perked up a bit.

The lot mounted the stage and was thrust forward by the guard. “Lot 768.” began the auctioneer “beginning the male category age twenty to fourty, ladies and gentlemen. A unique piece, 38 years old, a recent ex criminal profiler and teacher.”

Hannibal’s eyes fixed on the young man who stood with his hands bound. Heavy chains held his wrists and ankles. At the guards prompt, he began shuffling down the centre aisle. His eyes remained trained on the floor. Most of Hannibal's peers looked away quickly. They returned to their tea and idle conversations. Miss Diornett whispered something in Hannibal's ear, but he did not hear her.

“A truly interesting article, ladies and gentlemen, a true rarity such as Clearview prides itself on. The item before you is a recent release from the Baltimore State Hospital, and has a diagnosis of Anti-NMDA encephalitis. All this and incredible intellectual ability in a hansome frame, who could ask for further enticement?”

As the auctioneer had said, the man had a handsome, rugged cut face, even if it was marred by ill-tended stubble. On the other hand, his figure was under-developed. He was neither especially fat, nor athletic. In fact, he looked actively unwell. Sleep-deprived, malnourished, tormented. Members of the meat class were rarely cheerful, but even by the usual standards… His expression was blank and cold.

Or so he thought.

On the word ‘enticement,’ the man happened to look up. He stood barely a foot from Hannibal’s chair, and met his gaze directly. Hannibal flinched as if struck.

The eyes which met his own were the almost grey of storm clouds. They were as clear as water, and unforgiving as a reflection. It was pure rage. And suddenly, he just knew. He knew that this man could understand him, in a way which nobody else present was capable of. He felt sure that if given the opportunity this one lowly, miserable, unworthy thing would lay him and his secrets bare. It was unforgivable. It was unforgettable.

It was worth any price to possess, and to destroy.

Chapter Text

Will had the feeling his dream had been a happy one when he woke that morning. If only he could remember it now. Sunlight glared in through the barred window. The days had not lengthened much since winter's end.

Will saw in hindsight how this winter had been his undoing. He looked on the past now much as one looks on a lucid nightmare; events unfolded before his eyes and he was powerless to stop them. But it had not been a dream. Last winter had really happened.

For much of it, he had been out of his mind.

Will had always been nervous, precise and at times even depressed but he had never experienced anything like what had happened after Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He had spent weeks assisting Jack Crawford profile The Minnesota Shrike. A chance string of events had led him right to Garrett Hobbs’s doorstep. But someone had tipped Garrett off and by the time Will arrived, he had already murdered his wife.

Will had found Garrett holding his daughter at knife point. Will heard the words leave his mouth, and heard Abigail’s terrified whimpering. But it was as if he wasn’t really there. All he could see was the knife at Abigail’s throat, glinting in the sun. The gun in his outstretched hand became intolerably heavy as every instinct he possessed screamed at him to drop his weapon, and run.

But he hadn’t been able to take his eyes away from the knife. When Hobb’s arm jerked across his body, slashing Abigail’s throat, Will had opened fire. He had found himself attempting to squeeze the life back inside Abigail seconds later, his hands around her throat. Her father died on the floor next to him, wheezing his last goodbye:

“...See? See?”

He had heard the sirens approaching that day, signalling that aid was near. But it was as if someone else had heard those sirens, not Will Graham. He had watched himself as if in a dream as he shot Garrett Hobbs and attempted to save Abigail’s life. It was as if a part of him had been thrust out of the real world, and had never made it back since.

The slideshow of memories that continued from this point were disjointed and mercilessly grotesque. Will would remember the things which had happened in the Hobbs household suddenly, when he was teaching a class, or talking to his friends, or even when he was asleep. Hobbs’s apparition followed him everywhere. He couldn’t help but feel it was some sort of punishment. The worst part of this punishment being that he had to pretend he could ignore it.

He still couldn’t tell whether he was trying to prove something to Jack Crawford, to Alana, to himself, or even to Hobbs. But it couldn’t possibly matter now.

Jack had seemed thrilled, at first. His eyes were so glazed over by his success he didn’t notice the hole that had been ripped open in Will. It just kept widening and widening, like an unattended tear in a reliable old coat. Will knew that Jack didn’t want to have to replace him, but he would if it came down to it. So he hid what was going on and at first, he did a good job.

Then the panic attacks got worse. His hallucinations of Hobbs became more frequent and more aggressive. Some terrible realisation drifted just outside of Will’s consciousness. He could feel it closing in, and began waiting on it desperately, but it would never reveal itself. Instead, his world just became more and more complicated. At some point, reality began to let go. And one night, it abandoned him altogether.

It had started as a sleep walk in which Will had been convinced he was awake. Slowly making his way downstairs, he listened to the silence and tried to identify what was wrong with it. Then he realized that his dogs were missing. And whilst he was looking around his living room he heard the shadow in his kitchen speak to him. It asked him to go in there, so he had.

There was Abigail's corpse, horribly multilated on the stove top. And a stag that leant over her, leaning in towards her face. Will yelled for it to get away, feeling his stomach turn ice cold. A strange rushing sound grew louder and louder in his ears as the stag turned to face him.

He woke up on his knees in the middle of his living room. One of the dogs licked his ear and he could sense the others nearby, watching him. He breathed a sigh of relief. And then he looked at his hands. He held Hobbs’s face between them, a gore drenched mask of skin. But Will was awake. And Hobb’s horrific remains were real.

Alana later described to the police who attended the scene how Will had called her at 3am. He had sounded hysterical on the line. Wet, blubbed sobs and shaking words as he begged her for help. Alana had asked what was wrong, thinking there was someone in the house with him. But Will would only say “Don’t you understand? Don’t you see?”

Then, in an apparent moment of clarity, Will had asked Alana to come quickly but not to call an ambulance. He couldn’t be alone right now but “don’t call for help, Alana, please. I can’t afford it. I don’t have insurance.”

Medical debt related bankruptcy was the leading cause of persons dropping into the slave class. Will knew it, Alana knew it. Everyone in their social circle was constantly aware in the back of their minds of the risk.

She’d gotten into her car and drove out to see him, and tried ringing him again from the road. When he hadn’t picked up, she’d panicked and called 911. The ambulance and Alana arrived to find Will with fresh tears still drying on his face. There was no sign of Hobbs anywhere. Will had looked blankly at the paramedics as they entered, and tried a polite smile.

He was told all of this later, at the hospital, unable to remember anything. He sat quietly in the pristine blue and white room in his cotton surgical vest. He picked at his food, and tried not to fall asleep. All Will knew was that he wasn’t safe anymore. And everyday, the money trickled out of his account, sure as sand through an hourglass.

He tried requesting self-discharge, only to be informed if he was let go he would pose a risk to himself. The vision of the shadow stag curled in at the corners of his vision, and he knew if he went home it would be waiting for him. And that the next time, it might actually succeed in making him hurt someone. Or hurt himself.

So, he had crawled back into his hospital bed corner. He accepted the drugs as the small voice deep down, his father’s voice, pleaded with him to stop. To think. The reality of what was happening to him and where this road would lead became indistinct. The hazy effect of the anti-psychotics allowed him to swallow himself, and everything he thought he believed in. A future in the slave class slowly became a numb threat. The days started to merge into a confusing blur.

He tried calling Jack, Alana, anyone he could think of. Promises for financial help came readily, and a few checks drifted in. They were quickly swallowed up by the state medical centre where Will was receiving treatment. But everybody that Will had known personally had been like him- just struggling to keep above the slave class income line. He didn’t have the heart to refuse Alana’s visits, but he found it impossible to look at her intense, guilt-ridden smile.

“At least she came to visit.” He would remind himself when he struggled to hold his temper. It was better than Jack Crawford, or any other of his old colleagues. He understood why they stayed away, though. Will’s encroaching poverty was like a disease that others in the middle class struggled to avoid.

He heard two of the nurses talking about him one day, whilst he was pretending to be asleep.

“He’s going to drop into the slave class any day now, apparently. No insurance, no family.”

“Really?”

He was sure he could hear the second nurse wrinkle her nose in disgust as she spoke. She was very young, maybe only in her late teens.

“What’ll happen to him?”

“The state department’ll pick him up. They might sell him straight away or he’ll go to ward thirteen.”

Will thought he heard a strained note of sympathy in the older nurse’s voice. The younger one was silent. He supposed they were watching him and didn’t dare open his eyes.

It was only two days after this fateful conversation that the doctor came to see him. He was accompanied by two police officers, and Will knew when he saw them what it meant. They were customarily called on occasions like this in case the slave tried to make a break for it. Will calmly folded his hands in front of him and smiled.

“Hello Doctor.” He said pleasantly. The Doctor in question looked sober. He cleared his throat and thumbed through some pages on his clipboard. When at last he spoke, it was in a robotic monologue.

“Mr Graham, it is my duty to inform you that you are now a member of the slave class according to the results of the previous week’s financial review. Your identity and existing property are now formally seized by the state, and you are hereby stripped of your full citizen status. You will be removed from this ward immediately and taken to a separate facility, where you will stay until you are sold or processed.”

As the doctor finished speaking, a group of nurses Will hadn’t seen before rolled up a transport gurney, and began moving him onto it. None of them spoke to him. For the first time, the reality of his situation began to sink in.

Once he was strapped into the gurney under a white sheet, the nurses moved him quickly out of his bay and into the corridor. They seemed to travel for miles under the same harsh fluorescent lights. At long last, the corridors started to get darker, and Will began to hear strange moaning and nonsensical chatter. The crisp white hospital walls gave way to barred cell doors. Ward Thirteen.

Before he came here Will had never heard of it, but he surmised from the nurses’ gossip it was a housing pen for unstable slaves. It was hard to believe, looking at it now, that they were still in hospital and not in jail.

The gurney was brought to an abrupt stop. Will turned his head to one side so he could watch the heavy cell door on his right being unlocked. There was a metallic buzz as the lock released and the door swung inwards. Will was carried inside, and lifted onto a white plastic chair that had been fixed seamlessly onto the wall. The nurses went about unclasping his restraints in a manner which felt rehearsed.

Eventually, Will felt the last buckle relax, and the nurses removed themselves from the room within a matter of seconds. Will had barely cleared his throat when the door was slammed shut behind them. He had wanted to ask what was going to happen to him. The lights in this room stung his eyes, and he squinted to adjust.

It was a padded cell. Will let out a hoarse laugh. It was worse than a melodrama; he could hardly believe such a place was real, let alone still in hospital use. There was absolutely no echo at all and Will pressed his lips together, disquieted. The padded walls were slate grey and stained in places. Other than the chair, which doubled as a toilet seat, there was a single white slat bed and tear-proof mattress without covers. Above, there was a shielded white light that generated the awful, ever present glow.

Will tried calling out, to no avail. He tried listening, first to the hum of the electric light and then to sounds from other patients. He hoped they would turn the lights off soon.

The following stretch of time could have been hours, or days. At first this gave Will gross anxiety. He would pace the floor and touch the walls, and curl up in the corners and cry. The crying would make him feel even worse, so eventually he stopped. He would just sit and stare, moving between the bed and the floor.

After some time he realised he could press the palms of his hands over his closed eyes for some release. It felt familiar and pleasant, like another human’s touch. It also created an escape from the fluorescents. But exhaustion would come crashing down every time he did this. Will was still desperate not to fall asleep. Something told him the dreams he experienced in this place would be far from sweet.

Meals came twice a day, delivered through a slat in the bottom of the door. Will had been startled the first time he was fed, but the food was a welcome distraction once he realised what it was. He noticed that there wasn’t any medication with his meal.

He had felt something well up inside him. At first he thought it was anger, then fear. Then he thought he might actually be sick. He took a deep breath, and took a bite of his bread roll. He swallowed forcefully, without chewing. He imagined that the panicked feeling was being swallowed back to wherever it came from, along with the bread.

The nightmares came back the very next day. At times, he was Hobbes. Sometimes he was Abigail. There would always be blood, and endless, unfolding pain. He would wake screaming and the padded cell would consume his sound, until he began to think it would consume him.

The relentless neutrality of the white walls and the silence generated rage within him. It was painfully real, to the point of his other emotions fading into the background. He dared the nurses to come back for him, loudly. He would beg, then jeer, and then would lie exhausted. The walls stayed the same.

Eventually he began to wish they would just sell him already. At least it would bring an end to this. Almost as soon as he began to wish it, like some ill-fated manifestation, the day came.

Will flinched at the sound of the loud metallic buzzer. The door swung open, just as it had when he arrived. He stared, and waited. For what seemed an eternity, there was no movement or sound from outside. Will cautiously slid onto his feet from where he’d been sitting cross legged on the mattress, never taking his eyes off the door.

He started walking towards the room's centre, slowly allowing the corridor to come into view. There was a man outside the door with a gun.

Will had ducked to the floor with his arms above his head within seconds. His heart leapt into his throat, and a muted gunshot sounded. There was a dull thud and blistering pain as a tranquiliser dart made contact with his thigh. Will stared at it with muted horror, before the room faded to black.

He woke almost instantly, but immediately realised he must have been out for a long time. Ward thirteen and the white padded room were mercifully gone. They had been replaced by a straw lined metal cage. Other men surrounded him, and Will realised as he sat up that they were all naked, including him. His ear ached horribly, and he reached up to feel what felt like a plastic earring.

His stomach rocked as he looked up into the faces watching him curiously. They all had yellow cow tags with serial numbers attached to their ears.

Some of the other slaves were watching Will, but the majority stared listlessly out of the cage, or at the floor. They were all men, but there the comparisons ceased. They were of every age, every skin tone, every sort of face and disposition from the anxious to the apathetic. As Will looked around, some met his gaze directly. Others broke away.

They were quiet and as Will slowly got to his feet they began to turn away. He couldn’t see outside the cage at first, for how many of them were in there. Then one of them moved, and Will got a view of what he could only assume was a slave storage site..

The straw that littered the inside of their cage extended to the warehouse floor. A domed wooden ceiling was hung with huge, low yellow lamps. Watery daylight also ventured in from a massive sliding door about thirty yards from where Will stood. Between him and that door were two or three parked four wheel drives. There were groups of suited individuals quietly walking around these cars. He counted about twenty grey suits. Some of them were talking on their phone whilst others hung back in small groups. Others wandered around the many cages.

Will could see at least ten cages besides his own and the general murmur of shuffling bodies and breathing hinted at many more. God knew how large this place really was. Or how long it would take for them to be moved.

“Do you know where we are?” he asked a grey haired man to his left. The man turned watery eyes on him. He had a peculiarly infantile expression.

“Market.” He replied. Will stared at him, and shrugged. The man gave an exasperated sigh, which must have been a touch too loud as it was greeted by a chorus of shushes from the other slaves. He continued in lowered tones, “The auction dealers come here, they pick out who they want. Today's the last day before processing.”

“What?” Will whispered. His mouth had gone dry suddenly. “Processing as in…?”

“Stock liquidation.” The old man pressed his lips together and looked away. “In the literal sense. If you’re going to be sick, go to the back, would ya?”

Will pressed his eyes shut. He tried his old technique of pressing his palms against his eyes and counted up to ten. Then back down again, slowly.

There was no way he was going to be picked for auction. He had a snowball's chance in hell, just like all the other wasted ‘produce’ in this cage. They were diseased, or past their prime, or simply not worth the effort. He tried sinking down into a crouch, as there was no room to sit. The other slaves ignored him. He supposed they had seen this before, like the old man who clearly knew the ropes of this place. He wondered how long he’d been here.

Hours drifted past and the sky grew dark. The grey suits wandered past their cage a few times, and looked disinterestedly inside. A couple of times they reached inside to pinch someone's arm or shake someone awake. Will wondered to himself why nobody thought to break the hand which entered, snake-like, into their habitat.

At long last, a suit stopped, and Will looked up to find a man was staring directly at him. His eyes were narrowed into slits. For a long time, Will and him simply stared at one another: one wide-eyed in fear, the other contemplating. The man raised a finger, and a warehouse employee in a grey uniform appeared at his shoulder.

“That one there, number… I can’t read that tag, can you?”

“Number 3456, sir. Dark haired male, about 40 years old?”

“Yes, that's the one.”

The attendant looked to his customer and back at Will, a crease forming between his eyes.

“You are aware this is the cage from the psychiatric unit, aren’t you? Pardon me Sir but we usually reserve this lot for processing; sausage meat, hot dogs, that sort of thing.”

The man in the suit seemed bemused, and broke eye contact with Will so he could face the attendant fully.

“Tell me a little about this… patient, then, if you’ll be so kind.”

The attendant scurried off, and returned moments later with a large plastic wrapped binder. He began flicking through it as the gentleman waited, his two puffy hands resting on a bamboo walking cane. At last the attendant muttered “aha,” and turned the binder towards his customer.

“Slave 3456, recently discharged from Baltimore state mental hospital,” he summarised. “38 years old, male, diagnosed with Anti-NMDA encephalitis. Confusion, hallucinations, memory loss, the works.” He snapped the binder shut.

“I’ll take him,” the suit smiled.

“But Sir-”

“Unless of course someone else has staked a claim, I charge you to find a good reason why I can’t take him, young man. He’ll go to auction at Clearview, they’ll take an interest in an item like this.”

The attendant gave a short nod and, frowning heavily, unlocked the cage. The suit stepped back as two guards rushed in, holding black batons. Will caught his sharp blue eyes once before he disappeared from view. A baton slammed into his stomach, and Will folded double, gasping for breath. A black sack was pulled roughly over his eyes.

Two strong arms lifted him by the shoulders and dragged him forward. His bare feet trailed first along straw lined floorboards, then metal bars, then cold and wet concrete. He heard the iron cage door slam shut behind him and despite himself he felt relief flood through him. Whatever fate awaited him now, it couldn’t be worse than that he had left behind.

An image of the pale old man flashed past his eyes, and the relief quickly turned to cool, sludge-like guilt. After a few minutes he was handed up into what was quickly revealed to be a trailer, as the black sack was whipped off. There were five or six other men in the trailer, presumably other purchases of the blue eyed suit. They helped Will up the steps inside, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Within a few minutes the trailer around them shuddered as somewhere an engine roared into life. They lurched forward, and then they were off. Will sank gratefully onto the floor with the other slaves. Still, even now, none of them spoke. Sleep claimed him quickly, and when he woke the truck had stopped. Cold air and fresh sunlight crept in through the barred window. Will realised at some point in the journey that one of the other slaves asleep next to him had taken his hand in theirs.
He had the feeling that the dream he had had was a happy one; the first happy dream in months. He stared at the sleeping hand resting in his and squeezed it back, as gently as he could manage.

All too soon the doors were swung wide and the same guards as before became visible, still wielding batons. They banged against the trailer doors, and shouted for the slaves to get to their feet. Slowly and shakily they did so, and the man who had held Will’s hand let go as they filed towards the door.

They were transferred to another interior holding pen, some distance away from a large manor house, and what Will assumed was the auction pen where he would meet his fate. More guards handed them pale grey pyjamas to put on as they entered, and they began to split up into gender and age categories. Will was filed into a room for men around his own age, of whom there weren’t many.

Soon the blue-eyed gentleman from before appeared, and briefly he explained that he was a collector for Clearview Auctions, their current location. In due course each group would be filed out to an external holding area once the guests began to arrive, and the auction would commence. The clientele they would be sold to were all elite class individuals, who they might think of as private collectors as opposed to mass wholesalers.

It was as the collector had said: one the groups were led outside into the bitter cold, and shut into their pens. each category was worked through, one slave at a time. Some were sold, some were returned to their cages. Will watched some of the sales transpire from his limited view point, but for the most part stood and stared at the ground.

At long last, the cage was opened and Will’s arm was roughly taken by a guard. “Lot 3456!” the auctioneer announced.

So this was it. Will closed his eyes, and willed himself to see the crime about to transpire from the point of view of the elite whose eyes were now trained on him, the auctioneer, the Clearview estate. In fact, society at large was responsible for this act and all that preceded it. He willed himself to understand, as he had always been able to before. He failed. Perhaps it was the scope of considering so many complicit people.

He was hauled up to the auction stand, his eyes still closed. He could hear the auctioneer speaking, but what he said was lost on him. He could hear a dull rushing in his ears and considered the possibility of fainting, right here, in front of them all as adrenaline caught up with him. Here it was his fate would be decided, ripped away from him once again.

In the bitter cold of that morning, a flame was lit inside Will. Hatred coiled up inside him, white hot and venomous. His eyes snapped open and he questioned, as he looked out over them all, whether he would be able to contain his feelings. A hand was planted firmly into his back, and he was shoved forward.

He wished silently that this could have been his moment of execution, so that he could ask God personally what all of this was for.

He began his slow, shuffled march down the centre aisle, looking from one vacant, well-dressed person to another. He willed them to speak, dared any one of them to make a claim on his life. He turned his head.

And that was when he saw him, seated directly by his side

The immaculate, beautiful man, who met his gaze head-on, and smiled.

Chapter Text

The slave must have stared at Hannibal for less than a minute, but to him, it seemed to last an eternity. 

At last, the slave continued his weary march down the aisle. No spark of interest had lit his eye. He did not know who Hannibal was, and presumably did not care. But Hannibal stared at the space where he had been for a few moments. At last he turned in his chair and watched the slave retreating. 

The slave turned at the end of the aisle and began marching back. Something in Hannibal’s chest soared when their gazes met  a second time. He felt as though the man looked at no one but him, and his gaze was no less direct, no less baffling. 

The slave looked away as he mounted the auction stand and turned to look dismally out over the audience. The auctioneer cleared his throat. 

“Well then, we’ll start the bidding at ten thousand. Do I hear ten thousand, ladies and gentlemen?”

Hannibal’s eyebrows knitted together. They were underselling him, surely. But as he took a cursory glance over his shoulder, he suspected that Clearview were merely playing it safe. Absolutely nobody looked up, and those who happened to be facing forward showed no sign of interest. 

‘Very well’ Hannibal thought as he turned back around. He looked objectively at the slave, from head to toe. He casually raised a finger as the auctioneer met his eye. 

“I hear ten thousand! Who will raise eleven thousand, ladies and gentlemen? A real bargain and a true rarity, let me remind you.” 

Hannibal smiled a little. He hadn’t planned to make his seasonal purchase today. But as he crossed his hands in front of him, ideas flowered, blood red and vibrant in his mind. Oh, the many possibilities. He looked at the lot again, who was now intent on studying the skyline. The inspiration he now felt was worth, well… an arm and a leg. But he would get away with robbery at ten thousand. 

“Yes Sir! I see eleven thousand.” The auctioneer pointed with his gavel to the back of the pavilion. 

Hannibal’s eyes picked up. Resisting the urge to turn around he raised his hand again when prompted. 

“That’s twelve thousand from the gentleman in front, and-”

“twenty thousand.”

Recognising the voice, Hannibal at last turned around. Straussel had the nerve to smile broadly in his direction. Hannibal gave an answering indulgent smile, and spoke without turning back to the auctioneer 

“Twenty one thousand.” 

He had bid too soon, he knew he had. And Straussel, who couldn’t care about this particular sale, who had already made his purchase from this category, and who unfortunately enjoyed competitive sportsmanship more than anything else had seen Hannibal’s weakness. 

He turned back to the front and declined to look at Straussel again. Straussel bid twenty two thousand moments later. Hannibal folded his hands into fists in his lap. 

“Twenty three thousand!” called out another voice.

“Twenty four!” echoed another. Straussel’s tampering had stirred the audience into action.

“Sir?” the auctioneer looked pointedly to Hannibal, and in the following silence you might have heard a pin drop. Hannibal felt heads turn to look in his direction.

His eyes flickered upwards towards the man in shackles. He wore a blank expression still, but a trace of surprise seemed apparent in his look. 

“Thirty thousand.” Hannibal returned, quietly. 

“Thirty five thousand.” Straussel, again, and Hannibal felt his pulse begin to quicken. 

“Thirty six thousand.”

“Fourty! 

The murmuring erupted, and the auctioneer had to bang his gavel twice for order. “Settle down please! Ladies and Gentlemen!” 

Hannibal exhaled slowly, and looked at his feet. 

“Sir? The gentleman in front?” The auctioneer could barely contain his excitement. Hannibal remained silent, considering. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, if you please.” The auctioneer smiled widely, turning his attention back to Straussel. “I hear fourty thousand! Last chance on lot 3456, going for fourty thousand dollars to the gentleman in the back.” 

“fifty thousand.”

Hannibal straightened himself in his chair and made a habitual adjustment of his tie. The murmurs stilled once more into silence as everyone waited for Straussel to speak. 

Hannibal could feel disbeleieving eyes trained on the back of his head. He stared resolutely forward. 

“Fifty thousand from the gentleman in front! Will anyone raise him? Anyone? No?” The auctioneer raised his gavel, clearly delighted with the late spectacle. 

Yes, a spectacle. It was a ridiculous sum, never mind that Hannibal could more than afford it. Fifty thousand dollars. What was money to a man like Hannibal Lecter, especially in the face of… 

He looked once more at the slave, who at last returned his gaze. In the face of true inspiration. 

Damn Straussel. Damn him and his own superfluous sport. He felt peculiarly exposed, and was so unused to this feeling that he had acted rashly. He had no regrets; he must own this man. But now, they could all see that in him. And would question why. Hannibal hated for people to ask him questions he did not know the answer to. 

“Going, Going…” the gavel slammed down. 

“Gone! Sold to the gentleman in front.” 

Hannibal’s blood seemed to sing in his veins. Victory, ever sweet. Humiliation of his competitor assured. He turned to give a warm and generous smile to Straussel, who blithely returned it. 

“My dear Dr. Lecter…” a voice whispered haltingly. He recalled suddenly that June had been sitting on his left for the whole of this exchange.

He inclined his head towards her ear. He could hear the unasked question in her silence: Why? But at last, she only sighed and patted his arm.

“I look forward to seeing what you make of him,” she smiled. How generous, for one so unaccustomed. 

Hannibal made some small talk, then, with those around him including June. He hinted carefully at future plans and projected all the certainty in his decision he could muster. Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, he watched the lot being escorted off the stage. 

The gong sounded shortly after, signalling their break for refreshment. 

Will felt the eyes of his new owner on the back of his head long after he had exited the pavilion. 

Time flowed past him like water; everything seemed slightly slowed down. He floated to his new cage under careful escort by security. One thought rang out over and over again: who was he?

The man who had bid an unbelievable fifty thousand dollars. Will recalled the complacent face after it was out of his sight. He had been middle aged, with cool brown eyes. His grey hair had been swept elegantly over his high brow, and his suit had been immaculate. But who was he? 

Will pushed and pushed against the eyes that hovered now in his imagination, as though they were a door that would grant him access to whatever black chasm lay within. 

Who would pay fifty thousand dollars for his life? Not even his life, but his flesh. He had half expected not to sell at all, and had been bracing himself for being sent back to the meat grinder. He was under no illusions as to the standard of his body by consumer standards. 

And yet, here he was, being escorted to the holding area for purchases. 

The guard led him first to a low, white washed building that adjoined the outdoor holding area. They entered through a side door, behind which was another white washed room and secretary behind her desk. The guard produced papers which the secretary checked against Will's tag and her computer, before waving them through. Will supposed they had receipt of purchase documents.

The next room was a shower chamber. He was instructed to strip off, under the reluctant eye of the guard and two white coats, who reminded him of the state hospital doctors. He let his mind drift back to the auction outside as he stripped, prefering to contemplate the strange man over his present surroundings. 

When the man who was now his master and the other gentleman in blue had their bidding war, Will noticed that the latter of these two had not taken his eyes from the gentleman in grey. He had looked at Will perhaps once, and had never appeared seriously agitated. Will suspected that he was nothing more than a pawn in this man’s game , an opportunity to torment the gentleman in grey . 

Money truly seemed to mean nothing to these people. A raw, aching part of Will wondered what that could be like. Stranger still to him was the concept of the auction itself. Seeing it  in real life, especially from the stocks, was far more horrifying than he could have imagined. 

Every other instant, the price for his life jumped exponentially. His eyes had flickered from one face in the crowd to another, wondering which would eventually become responsible for his demise. More than once his gaze had been drawn to the man who had brought him at last. He had had to make a conscious effort to not look at him more than once or twice. 

What had the man  been thinking, when at last the gavel fell and Will's fate was sealed? Had he been relieved? Nervous, to have spent so much?  When Will had looked down on him and their eyes met, he thought that he held the impression of a general on the brink of triumph. 

He must not have been an especially skilled or experienced buyer. Will lingered for sometime on the idea that the man in grey was stupid. He couldn’t… quite accept it. A chill ran through his body as he realised there was disappointment, mingled in with his horror and grief. He was actually disappointed in this man. This monster.

The barked orders of the guard snapped him out of his reverie. He was directed beneath a faucet  which briefly blasted him first with scalding hot, then freezing cold water. He was given a coarse towel to dry himself with, and a new set of clothes. These were of slightly higher quality than what he’d been shown before; a white cotton shirt and pyjama trouser matching set. 

One of the white coats approached before he dressed, and explained that there would be a brief medical exam. He was asked a few routine questions, was looked over once, and had his eyes, mouth and ears examined more thoroughly. The second doctor moved to detach Will's tag whilst the first was conducting his inspection. 

He squeezed his eyes shut at the grating jolt of pain. The tag, after all, was essentially a fresh piercing. The yellow plastic triangle was unlocked and removed quickly. His ear was wiped with an antiseptic that stung horribly, and a white dressing was sellotaped over the top. 

Finally, he was allowed to dress. The white coats stepped away and the guard returned to prod him towards the door before he’d even fully pulled the t-shirt over his head. Every part of Will ached horribly, and he shuddered to think of returning to the winter outdoors. Still, the guard hefted his baton, and Will walked quickly to the exit. 

The shock of cold on his still damp skin was immediate. The guard pointed him towards the last enclosure Will would occupy. This one was slightly better than the last, having been floored over with clean wooden boards. It wasn’t as crowded either; there were only four other men sold so far besides Will. 

Heaven above him had been encased in clouds of chill marble, forming an impenetrable barrier to the sun. All that reached him and the other poor souls in their cage was a watery half light. It was so desperately cold. But he supposed, at least he was clean. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He felt more human, in that moment, than he had in a long time. 

Hannibal tapped the silver spoon against his teacup once, twice, before setting it on the saucer. His long finger curled around the cup's handle and he lifted it to his lips, never once letting his gaze leave Straussel’s face. 

Staussel faced him from where he sat casually on a plush blue chaise longue. He’d put his feet up and crossed his ankle. The look he fixed on Hannibal now was sharp, but sparkling.

“I admire your composure, Hannibal. I myself am exhausted by this business.”

Around them patrons of Clearview milled, sampling miniature foods from silver trays and sipping tea. They had returned to the guest room, and Hannibal and Straussel claimed the central seating area. Hannibal felt more than one curious gaze drift in their direction, and smiled assuredly.

“My dear Straussel, I am sure I do not know what you mean.” The cup of tea rested untouched in his lap. “This morning was most entertaining, but hardly a troubling exchange. All in the spirit of good fun, was it not?” 

Straussel took his feet off the sofa and faced Hannibal seriously. His hands folded in front of him as he replied. “Of course. Only I hardly seem to know where the games begin and cease with you.” A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “I should be used to that by now and tip my cap, so to speak, at a deserved victory.” 

Hannibal nodded politely, and placed his teacup elegantly on a passing waiter's tray. As the conversation drifted forward, he pondered the morning's events. Straussel ever muddied the line between friend and opponent. He supposed, indulgently, that that was what he enjoyed about his company. Most of the time. 

Straussel usually knew exactly how to challenge his friend whilst holding a serious offence at arm's length. And, Hannibal would readily admit, there was no serious cause for offence here. However, he had felt indignant since the lot in question had left his sight. His lot, he reminded himself. His property. That knowledge did very little to soothe his annoyance. 

He could not help but feel that his forgiveness of Straussel was forced. It was as if… in that boy, the lot that now belonged to him, he saw a course of action that was bound to happen. He did not believe in fate. But, he believed from the moment he had seen him that he was to own him. Straussel had intruded on that communion and had almost unwittingly succeeded in severing it altogether. 

This was disquieting in a way which he hardly understood. He badly wanted time to understand it on his own. Only now, of course, he was expected to endure the dullness of tea, and socializing. He could not believe at this moment that he had ever enjoyed being poked and pressed by his peers. They were like a swarm of flies around his attention. 

Before two long, Diornett and Faucell had joined them with tea. Diornett sat next to Hannibal and Faucell joined Straussel, who politely made space. Some minutes of idle conversation drifted by, in which both Diornett and Faucell complimented Hannibal on his purchase. This prompted June to at last turn her full attention on Hannibal, and he braced himself for what he knew was coming. 

“I will confess I am surprised by your choice, Hannibal. But then I suspect you are well aware of that.” 

Hannibal smiled coyly and took a sip of tea, which made her laugh. June had always had a pleasant laugh, high and spirited like church bells. It was a surprisingly youthful sound from one made mature before her time. 

“Yes, I thought as much. Nothing escapes you, does it? Which makes me wonder, what is it about this man you’ve acquired that puzzles the rest of us?”

There was a barely concealed hush. Both Faucell and Strausell turned their eyes on Hannibal and Diornett as they pretended to continue their own conversation. For a moment , Hannibal felt nothing at all. Then a sharp, red edge of hunger and anger, unpleasantly mixed, lit up inside him. 

Blithely  unaware, she continued “Your taste has long run in an unorthodox strain, I know. But before now I have always noticed and appreciated a great deal of common sense in your human meat criteria. But, not only is your choice today of inarguably substandard quality there is also… barely anything special about him. At all.” 

He had known she would not understand, and sneer on the basis of that misunderstanding. So confident was she in her right to enquire, to criticise. What would she, a child butcher, know of good taste? 

He turned his scorching gaze on Diornett and opened his mouth to answer. 

“Sir?”

An interrupting voice snuffed the flame with dull surprise. For a moment Hannibal was stumped, before he became aware of the Clearview attendant hovering over his left shoulder. He turned to face the well attired youth, who appeared quite nervous. 

All fell silent. Hannibal raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. The youth swallowed. “Sir if you please, the purchase papers are ready for review at your convenience. Would you like to conclude your transaction now, or at the end of the event?”

His companions waited patiently on his response. He could stay and finish the auction, although there would be no additional purchases at this late stage. But if he did, he would have to continue his conversation with June and then, horror of all horrors, make up with her at the end. Alternatively he could get his self-indulgent treat and go.

He had no real desire to squabble. Additionally he did not want to betray his own confusion, and, reluctantly, he felt forced to admit that June had made a fair point. He had no clue in himself as to what had made Lot. 3456 so special. 

He smiled pleasantly to the young man beside him. “Thank you. Yes, I believe I will conclude my business now.” 

Turning back to Diornett, he gently squeezed the hand she held up as if to place upon his shoulder. “My apologies Madam.” He placed the hand firmly back into her lap. “To be continued at a later date?”

A nod was all he got in response. Straussel rose as he did, and both he and Faucell made their polite goodbyes. Hannibal brushed off his suit jacket and followed the attendant, who led him swiftly from the drawing room into the house reception. He could almost feel his friends curiosity follow him out of the room. It clung about him as an all too irritating cobweb, easily brushed away by the clear winter sunshine. 

The attendant led him to an armchair facing a wood panelled desk. A secretary appeared with papers in hand, and began a summary once Hannibal was comfortably seated. The papers were handed over for his approval, and a cursory glance told him all was in order. He filled out a check and a couple of forms, and scattered a handful of signatures on the documents in front of him. And that was all. The transaction was completed.

“Have you arranged for your own transport Sir?” the secretary asked

“Yes thank you, I drove here.” 

“Very good Sir. Your item is ready for you to collect.” 

Feeling a pleasant buzz of anticipation, Hannibal waited in the hallway for an attendant to fetch his gloves and coat. Once these were put on, he was led out the front doors and towards the right of the house. The separate holding pens came instantly into view, in which the considerably cleaner slaves awaited their new masters.

He saw him almost at once, standing with his hands tucked into his armpits against the cold. He was looking in their direction, peering as if trying to make out who it was. 

Will did not recognise him straight away. He saw only what appeared to be two grey suited figures emerging from the house. They began walking towards the cages and he assumed they were guards. Until their faces came into distinct view. His heart sank, ice cold, into his stomach. It was him. 

All too soon, his new owner and the accompanying staff member reached the pen. A word was given to the guard by the attendant and he was pointed out. The pen gave a metallic clang as it was unlocked, and the guard marched forward, taking Will by the arm. He did not resist as he was led out of the gate, leaving his fellow prisoners behind him. 

For one wild, reckless moment he considered trying to run. He almost believed he could get away from the guard, that he would be faster than the attendant. That if he could just break the tree line… 

All those thoughts faded away as he beheld the man who stood with his hands folded in front of him, in his new dark wool coat and supple gloves. He looked at Will so generously. 

He stood, unable to break away from the condescending gaze fixed on him. The look that this man gave him, so warm and encompassing, promised he would not survive their separation from this point onwards. 

Will stood mute as the attendant handed the gentleman his papers of ownership. He could barely hear what was being said. A sound like rushing water had filled his ears. A giddy swing of nausea overtook him, and he thought that he might faint. 

Was it his encephalitis, still? He had been feeling progressively unwell over the last few days, but something about the man before him made it so much worse. The attendant and the guard stepped away, already turning heel.

Suddenly, he felt firm pressure at his elbow. He looked down to see that his new master had stepped forward, and now held his arm in an unyielding but gentle grip. He looked up into his face. The monster’s carefully neutral expression turned to a smile. 

“My name is Hannibal Lecter, and I am your legal owner going forward. Are you alright? You look as though you ought to sit down.” 

Chapter Text

“I…” 

Will barely knew what to say. Hannibal stood barely more than a foot away from him, and had inclined his head. There was a softness, and curiosity in his expression. 

“... no. Thank you.”

It felt strange to hear himself speak. He realized it had been several days since anyone had asked him a question  about himself. 

“Well, I have told you my name,” Hannibal continued. “I would like to know what I may call you.” 

This proved a shock. He wasn’t sure why he had assumed that all elite persons must address their human property as their serial number. He had imagined ‘you’ or ‘it.’ The doctor had told him that his name had ceased to be Will Graham, after all. 

They had told him he was no longer Will, but that did not make it true. In his own mind, he knew who he was. 

“I’m Will.” He gave thought to his words. His throat felt dry and scratchy as he spoke. “My name is Will.” 

He eyed Hannibal with some suspicion. He couldn’t imagine why this man would want anything so personal from him as a name. Whatever his motivation, it couldn’t be pleasant. Did he really mean to address him by name? No other elite had done so.

“Thank you, Will. Come, let's get you into the car.” 

Hannibal turned Will gently to one side as they were talking, and began walking him towards the car park.

He watched Hannibal from the corner of his eye as they walked. He supposed that he was the first elite person – the first real cannibal – he’d ever met. People like Hannibal simply did not mix with people below their bracket, and vice versa. 

Hannibal’s manners had thrown him off, yet that same overpowering aura radiated off of him. It was as if it had a direct line to Will's self-control from the point where they touched. He could not reason with the fact that he was walking sedately with this man to his car. 

When they reached the car park Hannibal’s car, a stream-lined luxury sedan, was waiting for them. He retrieved his keys from a wide eyed valet, and then released Will to open the back door. 

“Please.” He gestured courteously for Will to sit. 

Will could hardly believe it. He looked once over his shoulder, then into the interior of the car. It appeared to be a perfectly normal back seat. Suppressing a sigh, he nodded to Hannibal, and slid into the car. Where else could he go?

To his surprise, Hannibal ducked his head under the door frame, and leaned in after him. He took both Will’s hands in his own, and before Will could ask what he was doing, produced a pair of hand restraints attached to a retractable line from under his seat. 

This was a little more like what he’d expected. Reluctantly he allowed Hannibal to bind his hands in front of him. With this task accomplished, Hannibal pushed Will gently back into his seat and fastened his seatbelt. “Safety first,” he smiled.

He supposed the hand restraints made a certain amount of sense. He pictured himself getting his hands around his captor’s neck and forcing him off the road. He watched as Hannibal slid into the driver's seat and eyed Will in the rearview mirror. It was only a quick glance before he turned the key and began pulling out of the bay.

That one glimpse of his expression offered very little. Will couldn’t read this man the way he had read others. There was so much conflicting information; the look his master gave him was at once curious and cold, which he would expect. But then, something in the brightness and intensity of that glance… it was almost as if Hannibal were furious. 

But why the careful manners, if that were the case? And what reason could he possibly have to be angry with him? Could it all simply be a part of whatever game he intended to play out?

Will repressed a shudder and leaned back into his seat. His eyes drifted shut. It was also possible he was simply exhausted, and sick. This was not the time to attempt any psychological insight on his new owner. 

He listened to the hum of the engine, and began to wish he could fall asleep. It was warm inside the car, warmer than Will had felt in days. But every time sleep drifted near, he pinched his hand convulsively. Every now and then he lifted his eyelids so he could scan the surrounding scenery. 

Hannibal drove them through crisp Baltimore countryside, the roadside flanked by dark trees against the fading winter sky. He had absolutely no idea where he was; all of the roads looked exactly alike. 

He flinched as Hannibal cleared his throat. 

“Will,” he began. “I’d like to tell you a little about myself and the habits which I am accustomed to, as we are going to be living together for a while. I’d also like to let you know what to expect over the next few months.”

He paused, and Will realised he was waiting for a response. “Go right ahead.” He murmured. He hoped he hadn’t sounded too sardonic.

“I am now your private owner, legally speaking, and am entitled by that ownership to do whatever I like with you. You may have assumed that after taking you home with me, I would kill you straight away. If so, you have been mistaken.”

Will felt his hands begin to shake, and squeezed them tighter in his lap. He listened on in mute horror. 

“You see, once I have made my main purchase of the season, I like to plan what will become of his meat in advance. This usually culminates in a fine dining event I host at my own home, come the season’s end. I only begin making these plans and preparations after I have made the purchase, as the meat itself and its unique characteristics will be my inspiration. It is why I always make my main purchase early in the season. I have never repeated a menu, in all my years here. I humbly endeavour to always create fresh, original cuisine.”

Will detected from Hannibal’s voice a frank lightness that suggested he wasn’t bluffing; he really did take pride in his human cooking. He spared Will a glance over his shoulder as they paused on a traffic light. 

“Does that all seem clear to you?”

Will found he could only nod.

Clearly satisfied, Hannibal turned back towards the traffic. “You are my inspiration, Will. I hope we will work well together.” 

An end of season dinner party. That meant Hannibal intended to keep him alive for at least six months. Six months of God only knew what. Almost as though he could hear Will's thoughts, Hannibal continued on.

“In that time, I am sure you will understand I wish to keep you in as good health as I can. Therefore you can expect to receive adequate stimulation, activities and so forth, whilst under my control. You will also eat well, and have a warm bed.”

He spared Will a smile in the mirror, almost as if to say ‘won’t that be nice.’ Will did not deign to return the gesture. He felt that he was beginning to understand, the pieces slowly falling into place. 

He was a toy. A very expensive, edible toy.

He supposed he ought to be grateful. He was well aware that it could be much, much worse. He wasn’t sure on his first impression whether Hannibal was the type to humiliate or torture, when it came to the end. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything, not even fear. 

Was he really angry with him, as he had originally suspected? When he addressed him he spoke so calmly. 

They had been driving for nearly an hour before the car slowed, and took a right turn into a narrow driveway shaded by more trees. They came to a stop before a high automated fence, made from smooth oak panels and reinforced with metal. A security camera clicked and whirred as Hannibal’s driving plate was registered, and they were allowed access. 

Will found his tiredness momentarily subsided in favour of sheer awe as they came upon the house. He leaned his face close to the glass to get a better view. 

The manor house was a late 1920s build, during the golden age of manufacturing in this part of the state. It’s architect had clearly been a fan of the gothic style, whilst keeping an ear to the ground in terms of reflecting modern tastes. It was built in an L-shape around a square courtyard, around an original fountain piece now drained for the winter.

Square chimney stacks reached like turrets between the gables, in which nestled original gothic windows set deep in stone. The pale brickwork did not distract from the decorative masonry that appeared at the cornerstones and around the wide front door, nor from the garden now in slumber. 

The house itself was penned in by sleeping yew hedges. Around the courtyard smaller beds hinted at flowers in the Spring. Delicate trees, now stripped of their leaves, fanned outwards from this point forming the chorus to this greek stage. Further on, for the front gardens did stretch on towards the drive, were many beds of dark earth and winding paths between them. The blunted roots of certain perennials lingered there in the dirt, promising light and colour once more when the weather turned. 

All was still. In one pale yew tree a red breasted robin alighted, pecked, and disappeared again. 

The paths between the beds all connected at the courtyard, and at a single set of stone steps to the gravel driveway, flanked by a pair of fainting stone beauties, now crept over with green-growing vine. 

Hannibal pulled the car to a stop in front of the steps and turned to look over his shoulder at the house. The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Welcome to my home.” 

Will wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it hadn’t been this.

He began to realise that over the last few days, he had felt as though he were being reborn. Like for a newborn, every sight was unexpected, and every feeling wasraw,unknown and unbearable. Especially in this moment, gazing for the first time upon Hannibal’s home

Will simply stared at the empty bushes. He thought with a pang how sorry he would be not to live to see the hydrangeas bloom. 

Hannibal got out of the car and stepped around to Will's passenger door. Will swung his feet around to get out as Hannibal opened the door for him, but remembered at the last minute that he was tied down. 

Hannibal chuckled, and reached in to unclasp him. He had to press close to Will to do this, and at once his ear was by Will's mouth, his hair beneath Will's nose. For a terrible moment Will was struck by a wild unconscionable impulse to rip Hannibal’s ear off with his teeth. To pounce on him the second his hands were untied. To strangle him here in the wet gravel. 

The lock clicked and Will froze, his pulse beating heavily in his throat. Hannibal’s hair smelled fresh and human, like skin, like dried sweet grass. 

Before the thought had left his head, Hannibal had said quietly. “Now. Let me show you why you will not be able to escape.” 

Will briefly registered a growing ache in his wrists, and realised that although Hannibal had unlocked his restraints, he still held both of Will's hands crossed over one another in his grip. He applied a light and steady pressure. Not enough to really hurt, but enough to draw his attention. 

“Shall we?” He guided Will out of the car, still holding him. Only once they were both upright and the car door closed, Will was released. He felt badly shaken. His sudden impulse for murder had vanished along with Hannibal’s proximity. 

It was impossible to look away from Hannibal, now he was focused on him. Will was reminded of how he had felt in the auction yard. 

The dying sun that caught the windows was dazzling. He shivered as, almost companionably, Hannibal took his arm and turned him around. “Take a look at the tree line.” He pointed at the opposite side of the drive, away from the house. As he spoke he shrugged his coat off, draping the warm woollen fabric over Will's shoulders. “What do you notice?”

Will stared for a moment and Hannibal waited patiently. Quietly, Will replied “I can’t hear the road.” And it was true. The driveway before the gate must have been much longer than it had felt in the car.

“Good.” Hannibal seemed pleased. “What else?” 

“I don’t know, I guess… the tree line is thick.” As he peered down a brief incline he also realised that to reach the tree line, a person would need to abandon the high ground. The house was positioned almost like a fort, affording excellent views but also… 

“There’s not much chance of hiding, is there?” He swallowed. Hannibal looked as pleased as if someone had handed him an unexpected Christmas bonus. 

“Quite. And you will notice that even if a person were to reach the tree line, there isn’t much he could do to break through the bramble, is there? The trees are far too close together, which is also why we cannot hear the road. Think of them as a sound-proofing wall.”

“So… what you’re saying is this might as well be Sleeping Beauty’s castle.”

“If you like, yes. But I don’t want you to think of this as a fortress, Will. There is no need for Prince Charming to come and cut you free, because you are not asleep and gathering dust. Quite the contrary, I hope you will live vividly, whilst you are here.”

Will turned to look at his companion and the smile he received was so genuine, he felt he had to pinch himself. Hannibal had to be insane, or was it Will who was losing his grip again? This might very well be some elaborate fever dream. 

To his surprise, Hannibal dropped to a sudden crouch and scooped up a stone from the path. “Observe, please.”  

Straightening himself, he threw the stone in an arc, making one fluid motion. Will watched the stone make its flight, expecting it to disappear into the tree line. He flinched as the stone instead zapped against an invisible wall of electricity. It rebounded, lightly scorched, into the grass. 

“An electric fence surrounds the perimeter of the property. I went to some lengths to make it virtually undetectable, no obvious wires or anything like that. The connecting links are so small they are difficult for the human eye to see, even up close. This protects the view, of course, and I think it worth the hassle. It also conveniently prevents any curious person from tampering, after all, if you can’t see where the breaks in the line are...”

Will understood his meaning perfectly. 

“Come.” Hannibal said brightly “Let’s take a look at the gate.”

Hannibal walked with one hand on Will’s back, guiding him inexorably back down the way they had come. 

The gate was, as Will had suspected, some ways back down the road and well into the tree line. It appeared much larger up close. A metal keypad and intercom system were fixed into the gate post. Above it, the camera Will had seen earlier spun around to face them on approach. There were motion detectors as well, then. 

“Who’s watching the cameras?” he asked. 

He hadn’t expected a response, but Hannibal responded unfazed. “This one? Nobody, it's automated. It recognises certain faces and vehicles and allows them through. Anyone else will have to use the password.

“What's the password?” Will smiled faintly.

Hannibal grinned at him, and simply turned him back around. They began their long walk back to the house. 

“There are other cameras of course, but we’ll leave those as a surprise, shall we? You will be glad to know there are no cameras in the house. I value my privacy above all else.”

“I was beginning to suspect that might be the case.” 

Will listened to the sound of their feet crunching in the gravel, and the murmurings of the woods. Distantly, a bird trilled it’s evening song. 

“Thank you for the coat.” He offered after a few moments.

“You’re welcome.”

It was pleasant to enter the warm interior as night fell. Hannibal could smell the heady aromas originating from his kitchen, which promised his slow cooked meal was going splendidly. 

His new subject paused in the doorway behind him. When he looked back, he noticed that, despite being only a little shorter than himself, Will was dwarfed by his coat.  A crease formed in Hannibal’s brow. He would have to get a few good meals into him over the coming months. Clearview really didn’t protect the health of its assets well enough. 

Earlier that day, as he collected Will, he had still felt a cloud of resentment following him. He had done his best to let it dissipate during the car ride. It would not do to appear inhospitable to his ‘guest.’ True, Will’s manners in return had been a little rough. He was only a slave class boy after all. Really, what more could Hannibal expect? But he would have to try and polish him up before he could present him in public.

He had made his bed, now he would have to lie in it. He spared another glance in Will's direction as he drifted silently in Hannibal’s trail, like a stray. He looked at the hallway around him with wide-eyed wonder, and shrunk a little further into the coat. 

Hannibal felt that same heat, a strange fire in his chest whenever he looked at Will. It kindled there, and then burned its way downwards into his stomach. It reminded him why he had made this choice. And now, they were alone. No Straussel, no Clearview. He could explore this feeling, understand it. Dissect it. 

Will sloughed off his coat, and looked around. Of course, he was forgetting himself. He stepped forward and took the coat. 

“You must be hungry,” he smiled. Will blinked, and returned his gaze to the ornate art deco chandelier that threw warm light over them both. 

“No, thank you.” 

“Nonsense” Hannibal fussed. He led the way through to his dining room, leaving the coat in a hall closet on the way there. He set about laying the table for two, offering Will a glass of wine, which he also refused. Once the table was set, he prompted Will to sit down, and was relieved when the boy actually acquiesced. 

He poured Will a glass of water, and then went to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves expertly as he went. 

Twenty minutes later he had plated up two ‘beef’ cheeks in red wine, with a refined creme dressing. Simple fare by his standards, but just the thing after a long and chilly day outdoors. He swept the plates up with expert precision and delivered them back to the dining room. He noticed that Will's glass of water sat untouched. 

“Bon appetit.” 

Will's plate was placed before him, and Hannibal took his natural place at the head of the table, on Will’s right hand side. 

Will stared at his dinner, without touching it. He sat up straight, with his hands folded politely in his lap. 

“Thank you, this is beautiful. But I’m really not hungry.” 

When Hannibal looked closely, he perceived that Will was trembling. He might still be cold. Or he might be struggling to swallow what was in front of him. Both physically and psychologically. 

“You have never eaten human meat before?” It was best, he thought, to get straight to the point.

“No.”

“You must eat, Will.”

“May I have something else.”

“You will not get anything else here.” 

Will fell silent, and Hannibal watched him for a long, terse moment. At last, with a sigh, he attacked his own beef cheek. It was starting to get cold. And still, Will did not move.

Irritation, flickering and sharp, sparked up in him. Some reluctance was normal, especially from slaves. They were generally uninitiated and uninterested in his cuisine. There was usually some pleasure in watching them roil at the dinner table, but not this time. He couldn’t exactly describe why he’d thought Will would be different. 

Will looked at him with large, glazed over eyes. He looked as though he might collapse off his chair with exhaustion. Surely, he must be starving. But he turned his face away from Hannibal's food, mouth set in a thin line of determination. 

So he was stubborn, to the point of foolishness. Very well. He could deal with that. 

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“You are not a vegetarian.”

“I have decided just now that I am a vegetarian.”

“You are not a vegetarian because I say you are not a vegetarian.” 

Hannibal paused eating. He met Will's gaze over a white napkin he pressed to the red sauce staining his lips. Will inhaled sharply.

He could be obstinate, if he wished. Hannibal would show him that of the two of them, he was stronger willed. 

Eventually, Will must eat.

Chapter Text

That first night, Hannibal had shown Will to his room. It had been prepared since the previous autumn. It was a neat little guest bedroom with a single narrow window, decorated in cool shades of blue and lilac. His own room was right across the hall. He’d shown him in, and attempted to present him with fresh pyjamas and other clothes already waiting in his chest of drawers. Will had walked straight to the bed and crawled in, wearing the same white pyjamas he’d arrived in. 

Hannibal had decided to leave it, for now. Will was in all probability insensible with tiredness. So, he had gently explained that he would be just across the hall should Will need anything. He also mentioned that Will would not be locked in. At this, Will had turned and looked at him. His eyes were wet.

“Thank you.” he murmured. Hannibal simply nodded, and left. That night he lay awake in bed, pondering what Will had meant. 

From Will's room he heard only silence, all night long. 

The following morning, Hannibal wasn’t certain that he had slept especially well. His dreams and the dark shadows of his bedroom had drifted into one, and before he knew it it was 7am. He shuffled his way out of bed and looked at work emails until he felt more awake. He wandered down to the kitchen to make some lapsang tea, and pondered waking Will, but decided against it. 

He wanted to form a plan on how best to manage his new ‘guest.’ He’d been lenient the day before. Hannibal liked to think he wasn’t unreasonable; after all, he was a psychiatrist. Everything in Will’s behaviour so far had reflected his circumstances. Affording him some time to adjust was not only polite but necessary to ensure the future stability of their time together. 

He considered the possibility of force feeding Will, should it come to it. It was likely that his resolution to not eat would break down in a few days. Then again, it might not. Hannibal did not want to risk any detrimental consequences to Will’s flesh. However, the idea of holding Will down and forcefully inserting food… filled him with distaste. 

A keen and simple pleasure in Hannibal’s life was watching his associates eat from his table of their own free will. It was the most instinctive form of communication for him. And, he concluded, a vital part of the process he would enact on Will in the coming months. 

So, Will must eat. And he must do so willingly. Hannibal’s first task would be to make that happen. 

Stimulated by this thought, he jumped into action by setting about breakfast. He had a Danish pastry case chilling in the fridge, which he baked with folds of home cured bacon and a delicious, dripping cheese sauce. Bacon was an excellent entry food to Hannibal’s kitchen, as the flavour profile of human and pig were so similar. The smell which wafted out from the kitchen into the hall as he cooked was familiar and mouth-watering.

As if on cue, Hannibal heard Will’s light step on the stairs overhead. Before too long he began to feel watched, and saw from the corner of his eye a face hiding behind the door frame. A satisfied smile broke across his face. Will could not resist, after all. 

“Why don’t you come in?” He asked, without turning around. “I won’t bite.”

Will retreated a step or two backwards, and seemed to consider turning tail. But, after a prolonged moment, he crept cautiously into the kitchen. It would seem he had slept; his skin was puffy with sleep and had a healthier flush to it this morning. His bed tousled hair was much the same as it had looked before, Hannibal noted with amusement. He would have to try to do something with it. 

Will gingerly approached the kitchen island at Hannibal’s back, and folded his hands on the counter. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Will. How did you sleep?”

“Well.”

If Hannibal noted a hint of surprise in Will’s voice, he chose not to comment on it.  “Glad to hear it. Are you ready for breakfast?” He slid a piping hot cheese and bacon pastry onto a plate and sneaked a glimpse at Will’s face. 

Will's eyes were trained on the pastry with a glazed, animal look that he knew so well. He watched his throat bob in an attempt to swallow the saliva which had no doubt pooled in his mouth. 

Hannibal offered a sugar sweet smile as he turned and slid the plate towards Will, along with a fresh cup of orange juice. 

He joined Will at the island a moment later with his own plate, and watched carefully. The seconds slid by into minutes that felt like hours. At long last, Will cleared his throat and said “No, thank you.”

Hannibal cocked his head to one side. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re still not hungry?”

“No, I am hungry.” Will turned to look at Hannibal. “I… I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter.” 

“Sorry? What for?”

“I am sure you put a lot of… skill into this. But I can’t.”

Hannibal began tearing his own pastry into quarters. “At least you did not lie to me, just now. That would be very awkward, if I felt you couldn’t be trusted.”

Will seemed to stand up straighter at this remark. And there it was, then. The first secret which he could use to break Will down into nothing. This slave likes to think of himself as trustworthy. How pitifully honorable.

“It wouldn’t be worth it, to make a lie that obvious.” 

“Yes, obviously you are starving.”

Will cringed away from him, and he thought to try another approach. He softened his posture deliberately. 

“Now really, what is the point of this? Do you think it is poisoned?” To emphasise the point he reached across and plucked a bacon rosette off of Will’s breakfast. He popped it into his mouth. It gave a satisfying crunch, and Will convulsively shivered.

“No, it can’t be, can it? I don’t mean to kill you now, Will, and I certainly don’t wish to see you suffer.” 

Will's eyes remained trained on his plate, and tears began to prick at the corners of his eyes. 

Suddenly, the words seemed to cross Hannibal’s lips before he had even really had the chance to think about them. “You could be comfortable here, I would make sure of it. Don’t you see that? Don’t you see why? I cannot believe you wish to die. Is that it? Starvation is a terrible death Will, I would not allow it.” 

“I am well aware of that.” Will seemed to almost spit his words. Not out of malice, Hannibal realised, but through sheer effort of self-control.

Will met his gaze and there it was, once again. What he had seen at the auction yard in that very first moment. The grey of storm clouds, a keen edge of steel. “I do not. Want. to die.”

Hannibal simply stared. He believed him. How could anyone not believe him? Then this rebellion… is that what it was? A kind of self-mandated strike?

Will pushed his plate firmly away from him, untouched. “My apologies, Dr. Lecter. I understand if there are consequences, but you must excuse me. I cannot eat this.”

He slid away from the counter and back to the doorway. The lower part of his face seemed to tremble as he whispered, “I hope you understand.”

I hope you understand.

Will made some indistinct remarks on getting dressed which Hannibal barely heard. He watched as Will retreated back around the door frame, and heard his light footsteps on the stair. He had half expected him to run away, but he walked. 

How dare he walk away. In defiance of how bone-shatteringly weak he really felt and what he had left in this kitchen, in defiance of Hannibal . That was what it was, what it had to be. That was why Will would not eat, would rather starve himself to death than face the alternative. It was not merely pride: something told Hannibal that Will was not vain. But he was determined. 

He was determined to undermine Hannibal. The control that he ultimately held over Will’s destiny could not face up to Will’s sheer self-restraint, or so he believed. 

I hope you understand . And he did. Hannibal understood perfectly. 

After taking a few moments to calm himself, Hannibal followed Will upstairs. He found him handling an outfit Hannibal had laid out on the dresser for him the other day. He froze as Hannibal appeared in the doorway. 

Hannibal merely leaned against the frame and nodded for Will to continue. The outfit he had selected was a pale blue oxford shirt and a dark pair of trousers, house loafers and warm socks. “It is cold outside. I would add a jumper,” he murmured, “perhaps the charcoal cashmere. If you look in the lowest drawer you will find it.” 

He watched Will hesitate, and almost made his mind up to kill him right then and there. But then, Will had opened the drawer. He had picked out the jumper Hannibal selected. He got kind of stuck as he tried to put it over his head. 

Hannibal exhaled, and stepped forward to help his head through the snuggly jumper. His dark curls had popped out first, followed by his flushed face. “Thank you.” he had said, breathlessly. 

A quiet, amused thought entered Hannibal’s head. He couldn’t quite believe that Will had known how to identify ‘charcoal cashmere’ on sight. Perhaps he’d just gotten lucky. 

There was something about Will which threw him endlessly off guard. With him, he moved in an  instant from murderous rage to blithe amusement, and back. It was unsettling. He had wanted to kill him, hadn’t he? Looking at Will’s grateful expression just now, he could barely remember the feeling.

Will betrayed, in every moment, every exchange, a core of decency that managed to reach through to Hannibal no matter how stubborn or rebellious he decided to behave. Hannibal was his master, his cannibal. Hannibal would feast on his flesh and torture him horribly, for all Will knew. But he was just so polite , so charming , even so. 

It was almost as if he didn’t know how to behave otherwise. And Hannibal knew all too well how rare that was. 

Will tasted metal when he woke that morning, and probed the inside of his ragged cheek with his tongue. He’d bitten himself awake.

Minutes after Hannibal had left him in his crisp, wonderfully soft bed he’d fallen into involuntary unconsciousness. The tide of sleep could be held off no longer. And, like he’d expected, the nightmares had come crashing down.

Only these had been new. Abigail and the stag still futured, appearing wraithlike in every other flickering scene. But in far more vivid detail he was forced to watch the old man and others he’d seen at the warehouse face the human meat grinder. When he’d looked down, he’d found his own torso disappearing into its metal teeth.

The scene changed, and this time he saw Abigail on the auction stand instead of him, whilst he sat in the audience. He bid on her life, again and again, panic rising fast as Hobbes outbid him. He held the kitchen knife, keen and ready in his palm. 

Flung out of sleep, he’d jolted upright, and was immediately dizzy. The early morning light filtered through the closed blinds. He’d wondered for a moment why he was so warm, and why it was so quiet. Then, he remembered.

Whilst he was feeling the cut on his cheek his stomach had contracted painfully, and began grumbling. He willed it to stop, sitting as still as he could. Eventually it settled, and he slid out of bed. 

It’d been too long since he’d eaten. The night before he’d refused the meal Hannibal had given him. He’d been left speechless by the gesture. The picture that was Hannibal Lecter became all the more confusing, with every generous act. He was having trouble telling the difference between his hidden threats and his parental doting.

And that was exactly the problem. He was certain that Hannibal was playing a game, and it involved Will eating at his table. And Will had decided that he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of playing along. 

They had taken everything from him. But this, eating human flesh, was where he could draw the line.

He’d padded to his bedroom door, and tried the lock. Open, just like Hannibal said it would be.  

Outside on the landing he paused. Downstairs he could hear a faint sizzling, and a delicious breakfast aroma had drifted up to him. Sunlight flooded through the wide skylight over the hallway and made dappled shapes on the cream carpeted stairs.

This place was like heaven, or the closest thing to it that Will had ever experienced. And it was simply too much. The contrast, after the last few days he had spent living in a literal horror show…

And Hannibal was downstairs, cooking. Trying to tempt him into playing his game, his way. Well he could go to hell. 

He had no idea what it felt like to be Will. None of them did. And this place, this way of life that Hannibal lived was cruel. It was cruel to show it to him then snatch it away. It was deeply wrong that anyone should live in this much comfort when there were slaves rotting in warehouses. The very idea that it was their suffering which made Hannibal’s lifestyle possible made him sick.

He decided that he truly loathed Hannibal. Smug, handsome, protected; he might as well have represented everything that was wrong with the class system. He could never have imagined this place and the world of the elites, growing up outside of it. Now that he saw it, he couldn’t swallow. 

A desperate, frightened aching part of his soul just wanted to accept it all, he knew. He couldn't deny how badly he wanted to relax back into that warm bed or eat a piping hot meal, whatever was in it. He sympathised with that part of himself as much as he was disgusted by it. 

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him. He’d been too quick to give up but all of a sudden, he felt like strategizing again. The cards had been dealt. Will would die in this beautiful cage, and if it was the last thing he ever did he would make sure he died on his own terms, not Hannibal’s. 

Even if that meant starving. It wasn’t much but it was a small, glimmering scrap of power. And it was worth it to see the smile wiped off that elite bastard's face. Even if it hurt. Even if he suspected it would drive him mad. What else did he possibly have to lose? 

With this thought, he walked calmly downstairs. Better to face his challenges head on. He would not cower and hide anymore. Schooling his features into neutrality, he entered the kitchen and had his little play at Hannibal’s table. He’d done everything he could to seem well-behaved. After all, this was a dangerous game and despite his intentions, he was still afraid of what Hannibal might do if pushed too far.

Time slipped past. One mealtime fed into the next, and Will awaited each with more and more anxiety. He held out, never touching a scrap on his plate. Hannibal never did give him anything that didn’t contain meat of some kind, even as the cold irritation he saw in his eyes those first few days turned to genuine concern. 

Or, what he supposed passed for genuine concern. He did not doubt the man he lived in was well practised in the art of manipulating others. Hannibal had an ease around him and other people that was simply too polished to be natural. He was effortlessly charming and kind, and Will was sufficiently grateful. Day after day. Hour after hour.

He started resorting to sneaking downstairs at night, hoping to at least find some bread. He had pounded in his chest, certain Hannibal would catch him any second. The locked cabinets and fridge had been a bitter anti-climax.

As time passed, Will began to feel worse and worse. The nightmares continued and began to pick up steam again. A few times he had been woken by Hannibal, who had come to his bedside after hearing his screams. Will shrugged away from his touch, and Hannibal would let him. 

He was so hungry he couldn’t think of anything, could barely do anything. He tried to remember why he was doing this to himself and couldn’t. Time after time, Hannibal would place a beautifully prepared meal under his nose and press him to eat. But it might as well have been mold infested garbage. Will wanted to scream at him. How many times had he wanted to tell him he wasn’t his fucking doll? but he never did. He found he spoke less and less. 

He just wanted it to end already. Surely his body had been through enough, why couldn’t it just be over? He didn’t understand why Hannibal didn’t give up on him and kill him already, like he’d promised. Will was losing weight and fast. If Hannibal didn’t kill him soon he’d make a terrible meal. 

Only Hannibal’s anger kept him going. He’d tried pleading, he’d tried threats. He’d once tried putting needles under Will’s fingernails, promising all the while it was for his own good. Will had won that round, and Hannibal had left the room. He’d been calm, of course but Will knew that he couldn’t stand that he was winning. 

He had tried shouting at him, asking him if he really thought it was worth it. Will had barely heard him. Of course it was worth it. 

His failing physical and mental health fed into one another, and Will wasn’t sure exactly when it was he lost control. He only really became aware that it had gotten out of hand when the final snap came.

Hannibal had been lecturing him about his appearance, again. Will struggled to take in the lessons in personal care which Hannibal seemed determined to impress upon him. Usually the comments on his poorly selected socks or badly combed hair washed over his head. But on this one occasion, every word met its mark.

“It has been almost a month,” Hannibal had said curtly “and yet you still carry on this silly defiance, Will, that you think I do not notice. You are in even worse shape than you were when you came here and that is no one's fault but your own. Your shirt is untucked, your beard is mess-”

“So kill me.” Will spat. Hannibal became still. Will realised with a jolt that he had never interrupted him before. A dangerous voice, one he did not know and did not like, told him it was too late to stop now. “Just kill me!” His voice became shrill. 

He felt dizzy, caught up in his own momentum. Hannibal moved towards him. Suddenly panicked, Will was on his feet. They had been sitting in the grand dining hall, at the very same places they had on their first night. 

“Will” Hannibal said in a quiet voice, reaching open palmed for him as he might have to one of his dogs. Soothing. Encompassing. Only Hannibal’s embrace promised death. 

No. No. Not like this. Hannibal still won, this way.

He was out of time. He was out of options. He spun, looking blindly around him for something, some way out of this. He’d had enough and was half mad with hunger, he simply couldn’t do this anymore. 

Hannibal took another step towards him and Will flinched back, smacking into a glass fronted cabinet. A wild, hideous idea took hold. Will stepped aside and took hold of the cabinet with both hands, pushing with all his strength. The antique toppled forward and crashed into the dining table. Hannibal swore and his arms flung up to protect his face.

Shattered glass and china was thrown over the tabletop and surrounding carpet. Before Hannibal could react, Will snatched up a large piece of shattered teacup. It was beautiful, as it should be. It was his escape. 

‘Your end, on your terms’ the dark voice whispered.

“Will!” Hannibal was skidding on glass towards him, voice raised in panic, hand outstretched. Now, he had to do it now.

Will sped the shard upwards towards his throat, baring his carteroid artery. He caught a glimpse of Hobbes across the room, and returned the smile he gave him.

Chapter Text

The shard of teacup glinted in the afternoon sunlight. 

It followed its arc and punctured Will's neck. Hannibal reached him moments later, his right hand seizing Will’s wrist. He forced his aim off course and the Teacup shard grazed him as it was flung outwards, away from its intended course. 

Hannibal’s other arm slid around Will’s waist and the two of them fell to their knees. Will felt the impact of Hannibal’s torso slamming into his, then the sharper sting of broken glass cutting into his knees as he hit the carpet.

Hannibal gave his wrist a subtle twist, forcing him to drop the shard of teacup. Within seconds, he had Will pinned down to the floor. His arm moved from around Will’s waist, and then his hand was around his throat. His other hand still gripped Will’s wrist, holding it above his head.

Will assumed for a blind, terrified moment that this was it. That he had missed his one opportunity, and now Hannibal would kill him. But the grip around his neck, whilst hard as stone, was not suffocating. He realised that Hannibal was merely applying pressure to the superficial wound he had succeeded in making.

Shame, cold and unfamiliar, slid down into his stomach as he looked up into Hannibal’s face. The expression he saw there was set in stone, and dark, as though Hannibal had been thrown into shadow. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

He wriggled under Hannibal’s grip, but only a little, and when Hannibal began to shush him he ceased struggling all together. He hadn’t really wanted to do it. And the weight of that thought fell upon him, and then his tears gathered themselves together into disjointed sobs.

Hannibal continued to shush him, easing the tension he had been placing on Will’s wrist before slowly letting him go. The mask of stone he wore did not change, nor did he move his eyes from Will’s face as he reached into his own breast pocket for his handkerchief. 

Will’s eyes slid to the corner of the room he’d seen Hobbes in moments before. There was nothing, only cream wallpaper and curtains. He didn’t know what was real anymore.

What had he tried to do? Oh, God. 

The spasm of energy, a rotten mix of anger and grief, that had prompted him to take his own life had evaporated. It had been replaced by a confusing mixture of sharp fear, exhaustion, confusion, hatred, and… gratitude. Gratitude for Hannibal. For not letting him go through with it. 

“ Only so he can kill you himself later, '' whispered a voice inside. He supposed it was right, but he couldn’t deny his feelings. He was still glad Hannibal had stopped him, and afraid at the same time. Afraid of being alive. Afraid of the man hovering over him. And afraid of himself. 

Precisely but gently, as if not to startle him, Hannibal pressed the handkerchief to the cut on Will's neck. It was bleeding substantially, but not enough to really be dangerous. 

He guided Will’s hand to his neck, prompting him to hold the handkerchief to his own wound. Will obeyed, and watched Hannibal get to his feet. His suit was torn and blood stained, but he dusted himself off absently, as though it were nothing. He offered Will a hand and Will took it, feeling as though they were in a dream.

As soon as he was on his feet, Hannibal had wrapped an arm around him, and Will was immediately glad as he found the strength in his legs was all but gone. “Don’t struggle, please.” Hannibal whispered in his ear. He needn’t have said anything. Will was beyond resistance.

The two of them staggered down the hall, making it at last to a fainting couch by the front door. Hannibal deposited Will onto this article and sat at his side, inspecting his neck.

“What about your knees?” Will protested weakly as Hannibal fussed over him. His hands were cold to the touch and although grateful, Will was repulsed to be touched. 

Hannibal ran a hand through Will's hair in response and he had to admit, despite how he felt, the movement was soothing. His hand slowed at the base of Will’s head, and gripped the back of his neck. 

“Why would you do such a thing?” His whisper was so close to Will’s ear. Will swallowed. His stomach turned over. “You will never do such a thing ever again.” 

The tears from earlier were not yet dry on his cheeks and his jaw still trembled, but Will fought to make the words come out. “You can’t stop me from trying.”

“Can’t I?” The grip on the back of his neck tightened. He forced himself to look Hannibal in the eye, and what he saw there confirmed his worst suspicions. Hannibal could and would do anything, any horrible, impossible thing to keep Will under control. But he pushed himself to keep talking.

“I’ll make you a promise, right now, if you like. You can choose what the promise will be.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, his grip never faltering. 

“You-” Will swallowed, and tried again. “You can have one of two promises. I promise I will find a way to kill myself before I let you kill me, or I promise I won’t. I will promise not to try that again, if you’ll let me have more freedom. In this house. With you. Whilst I can still be alive.”

Will's clothes were torn and stained with blood. His curls were glued to his brow with fresh, cold sweat. He looked unflinchingly into Hannibal’s gaze, even as he trembled. How exactly could one be so tiresome, and yet so interesting.

Hannibal hadn’t bargained on this, though Will’s behaviour that afternoon was not entirely unpredictable. His condition had gotten worse and worse as the days passed, and Hannibal was beginning to reach the end of his tether. More than once, he had considered giving in and ending this ridiculous play. Especially when Will woke him at night, screaming.

It sawed at a certain raw nerve in his chest. Seeing Will, always bedraggled, always miserable, made it so much worse. Had he really assumed that Will would give up? The other slaves had been happy enough after a few days, slipping easily into a soft blanket of denial. But not him.

Every time he thought to kill Will, something stopped his hand. There was the pathetic, glassy-eyed stare that Will always gave him. And the gentle manners he maintained, no matter how sick he got. As long as Hannibal explicitly told him to do it, he did as he was told and did not answer back. He said please and thank you. 

At least until that afternoon, when unwittingly Hannibal broke the final straw. What was it he’d said? He wracked his mind, pouring over the possibilities. This he had to understand, for it was his key to knowing Will at last. Will, who had almost been taken away from him.

For a terrible moment, as he cradled his neck on that settee, he considered squeezing until the light in those stormcloud eyes went out. To pour his rage like libations over Will’s body, for his rage was terrible. What Will had tried to do was truly in defiance of God.

And of him. That, he knew.

He did not like to think of those seconds in which he’d realised what Will was going to do. How his heart had squeezed tight in his chest, how time had seemed to halt. How painfully slow he had felt as he’d raced to intercept his hand. It had been such a long time since he’d known a feeling like that.

And it was fascinating, wasn’t it? Now he was here, with Will in the hallway. Holding him. Considering his proposal. There was, he realised, an manipulative streak in Will which delighted him. 

He truly was attempting to blackmail him with suicide. It was wonderful; it was new. And best of all, it offered him a means to keep Will around for a while longer. To dig, and find out just how deep that strain of manipulation went. He’d been at the end of his rope but now, at last, here was a fresh burst of air.

He paused, and turned his head aside to give the impression he was considering Will’s words.

“You understand,” he said at last “that should you… promise not to end your life, Will, that would mean you cannot starve yourself to death, either?”

He allowed himself some small satisfaction as Will replied “yes.” He whispered the word like a prayer.

“You will end your fast? You will eat what I give you?”

“...yes.” 

“And you say that in return for not ending your life, I will give you more freedom. What freedom, Will?”

Will sighed a little. His face seemed to crumple in on itself as though he might cry, and for the first time, he leaned into Hannibal’s hand.

“Just freedom. I want to make my own choices about how I live my life here with… you. I want to wear what I want to wear. I want to go where I like and do what I like in the house. I wouldn’t damage any of your things.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Hannibal heard himself say softly 

“I want personal space. I like being on my own, with no locked doors. I guess when I say freedom, that is what I mean.”

A vision of Will’s first night flashed before Hannibal’s eyes, and how Will thanked him for not locking his bedroom door. He shrugged the thought aside. This exchange was beginning to remind him of sessions he’d held with patients. 

His hand slid away from the back of Will’s head. He let his fingers drift over his stubbled jawline, and gently turned Will’s chin.

“Promise me.”

Will lifted his chin higher, shifting off from Hannibal’s touch as he said the words: “I promise.”

“Promise what.”

“I promise not to kill myself.”

“Ever again?”

Will’s mouth quirked up at the corners into an almost smile. “Well I’ve never actually succeeded in killing myself, so I can’t exactly promise not to do it again.”

“Will.”

He exhaled, and smile softened. “I promise to not try to kill myself, ever again.”

“What is the American expression, scout’s honour?”

“I wasn’t in the scouts.”

“That surprises me.” Hannibal made a final check on Will’s neck as he spoke. He’d need an antiseptic, but no stitches. With some relief he recognised that Will’s would bare no scars.

“Why?”

He pushed himself up and offered Will a hand up. Once on his feet, the man seemed small again. Hannibal was reminded of the ordeal he’d just experienced, and was still experiencing.  “You seemed the type. Determined.”

Will gave a low chuckle, as he leaned into the arm Hannibal offered. “Foolhardy, maybe.”

It seemed that having made his deal, he was ready to begin accepting Hannibal’s help. But he stared at the floor. And Hannibal couldn’t help but wonder what he was really thinking. The two of them made a slow shuffle to the stairs, as Hannibal suggested Will go to bed. The steps were hell on his flayed knees, but they made a steady ascent together nonetheless.

Will pushed away from Hannibal as they reached the landing, preferring to lean on the bannister. He looked a little green, like he might be sick. “Thank you, Hannibal.”

“You might also take a hot bath. It will clean out your scrapes and soothe the nerves.”

Will gave him a pointed look.

Right. Freedom. This was his end of the bargain.

Clearing his throat, he took a step back. “Well, I will leave you to it.”

Will nodded, and Hannibal took his cue to return back downstairs. He couldn’t help but steal a glance over his shoulder and saw Will did indeed turn right, into the bathroom.

As he headed back down, he thought with a sigh on the destroyed tea cabinet. He was not looking forward to seeing it again, and registering the loss fully. He did not much look forward to clearing up, either. He would likely ask Will to help him; it would be good for them both. Will could use a guilty conscience.

Yes, that was exactly what was needed. For someone like Will, positioned in a moral conflict, and who personally possessed a capacity for destruction. 

He reached the hall again and trotted around the corner into the dining room. There the shattered tea cabinet lay, utterly devastated. A great capacity for destruction, apparently. Later on he would scrap the cabinet, pick up glass, and research replacements for his chinaware. What a spoiled, little terrorist Will could be; that had been his best 19th century Worcester tea set.

He stood and watched the sun glinting off the fallen glass in silence. After a while, he heard the distant rumblings of the pipes and the rush of the bathroom faucet. 

He decided he was quite happy to let Will think that he was in control, for now. If it meant he would eat again, and accept his help, and stay alive. 

Which reminded him, he’d better get started on dinner. It was a relaxing thought, and he mused the possibilities. A victory dinner, but simple and easy to digest. Will hadn’t eaten  properly in days, after all. Perhaps a ‘chicken’ salad and freshly grilled aubergine, drizzled with miso dressing on a bed of rice.

Sighing audibly, he shrugged off his suit jacket and made his way to the kitchen, where he kept his mini first aid kit. He sat on an island stool and carefully began cleaning his own knees with a damp swab. His approach was methodical, his attention complete. He breathed in and out, and let his rage evaporate.

He reminded himself that he could kill Will whenever he wanted, if respecting his personal space at all times proved to be too much. But he’d have to get the drop on him first, which he hadn’t expected. But then again, Will seemed to excel in the unexpected.

Chapter Text

That evening, Hannibal had found Will in his library. He had been perched on the steps of his sliding ladder, looking for all the world like an owl settled on its nest. He’d wrapped a huge wool blanket around himself, and his curls were still damp from his shower. Even when wet, they stuck up from his head at precarious angles. 

Hannibal had politely asked if he would join him downstairs for dinner. For a moment, he thought Will hesitated. But, he placed a bookmark in the text he’d chosen, returned to the shelf and climbed down. He left the blanket in the library, and elected to stay in his pyjamas. As Hannibal followed him downstairs he pressed his lips together, and silently congratulated himself on his own self-restraint.

At the dinner table, he’d pulled Will’s chair back for him, then served their meal. It reminded him of their first night together: the stony silence had been the same. Will thanked Hannibal quietly as he received his plate, and Hannibal noticed with approval that Will waited until Hannibal sat down before picking up his fork.

Clearly Will had some understanding of social etiquette, even if he did not personally choose to practice it. But Hannibal felt it was his responsibility to interject on that point. He cleared his throat as Will nervously poked a spinach leaf on the edge of his appetiser. 

“Whilst I respect your need for personal liberties in the house Will, I hope you might accept a few suggestions.” Will bristled, and he quickly added “not on what you do with your personal time, of course. Only on these meals we share together and I hope someday, we’ll share with others.”

Will placed his fork down. “What sort of suggestions?” he asked demurely. With some irritation, Hannibal suspected he appreciated the brief distraction.  

“To do with your manners. Your manners are very good, most of the time..” they both cringed a little, remembering the earlier events of that day. Will still had a cotton swab taped to his throat. “But one can always seek perfection.”

“Perfection is embodied.” Will reached tentatively for the wineglass Hannibal had taken before him. He swirled its contents and took a sip. “Not achieved. If a person is not perfect to begin with there's very little point in their pursuing it; they will never reach that standard to which they aspire.” 

“The pursuit of perfection is surely the point. I think it is the entire point of living.” 

“Life imitates art.” Will offered a smile. “Something tells me you believe perfection is attainable.”

Hannibal smiled in return. He gestured to Will’s plate. “To return the subject at hand, humour me, please. I’d like to give you some instructions on dinner party manners.”

“Will we be attending many dinner parties?”

“We might.” 

A spark flickered in Will’s eyes at Hannibal’s words. 

“Depending on whether or not I think you’re ready.”

Will pouted a little, and Hannibal reached across to refill his wine glass. “You understand I can allow you to behave as you wish here, it really doesn't matter to me. But I can’t make the same allowances at the homes of my friends. Your behaviour reflects on me.”

Will swirled the wine in his glass thoughtfully, and gave a small nod. “Alright.” 

Satisfied, Hannibal removed his napkin from beneath his cutlery and folded it, indicating for Will to do the same. He spent a few minutes briefly detailing how to slide a napkin onto your lap elegantly, and which knife and fork to use with each course. Will accepted this information quietly, copying what Hannibal did. 

“This, for example” Hannibal indicated Will’s plate. “Is your starter, a light meal to whet the appetite. For this you would select the smallest fork.” 

Will picked up the silver instrument with trembling fingers.

“Gather a small amount of everything onto the prongs of the fork. Your aim is to create a small mouthful which you can eat politely.”

Will pushed salad leaves and cuts of meat around his plate until he’d created a reasonable bite. 

“And with the curve of the fork facing upwards, smoothly deliver the parcel into your mouth.”

There was a long silence. Will stared at the fork in his hand, considering. Hannibal watched as Will tentatively opened his mouth. Before the fork passed his lips he hesitated one last time. Then he ate.

It was his first taste of human flesh. Hannibal watched, delighted, as Will chewed slowly. His face crumpled and he hummed, almost as if he were trying not to cry, or moan, or both. He knew the meal was exquisite. And that Will’s present hunger was beyond comprehension. 

Hannibal found he couldn’t look away. His napkin became crumpled in his fist under the table. 

For the briefest instant, he saw it. Ecstasy and horror, mingled in Will’s expression. He took another sip of wine to wash down his bite, and the mask of schooled neutrality slipped back into place.

What had he expected? Crying? Pleading? Appeals and offers of friendship?

No. Will was not like any slave he’d known. He glanced at Hannibal and smiled. His eyes were blank and dark. 

Hannibal allowed a hush to fall as Will continued eating. After his first hesitation he managed to eat as though nothing was wrong. Hannibal wondered if Will had decided that having committed the irreversible sin of the first bite, he might as well continue.

He tucked into his own plate, pleased, and barely noticed the meal slip by, looking up only now and then to check Will really was eating and not hiding the meal in his napkin. He offered a comment every now and then on the way Will held his fork or sipped from his wine, doing his best to be kind. Some comments Will ignored, other’s he made an effort to respond to.

And so, the days began to tick by. Will ate his meals with the same transparent discomfort, but with acceptance. Hannibal secretly congratulated himself on his own foresight in not torturing Will to submission. He doubted that he would have achieved such results if he had. He wondered everyday at Will; what stories did he tell himself to make this alright? But, curious as he became, Hannibal never pried. It was Will’s secret, to share as he wished.

In increments Will’s body looked healthier, softer, fuller. It was like watching Spring return to a frozen garden. A rose blush bloomed in his cheeks and along his arms, and his hair began to shine. The eyes remained withdrawn, but he stood a little taller. His hands still shook, but he walked with a longer step. ‘One day at a time’ Hannibal reminded himself.

The nights remained dismal for a while. Almost every night Will woke up screaming. Hannibal tried checking in on him, but the look which Will would give him when he opened his bedroom door was always… unconsolable. He would be curled up on his bed, which he’d pushed into the extreme corner of his room away from the door. His nightshirt would be sweated through, and the bedsheets tangled about him. His face was always leeched of colour, and wet with tears. He would look at Hannibal with murderous eyes. And Hannibal would shut the door.

Despite never getting enough sleep, Will remained remarkably quiet during the day. If he needed something he waited patiently until Hannibal was done working. If it were not for his nightly horrors, in many ways, he was a perfect house guest. On more than one occasion Hannibal had seen him walking the gardens alone, pausing only to speak to a robin redbreast. When he wasn’t doing that he was reading, or exploring the house. 

Hannibal only watched, from behind corners and half open doors. They met face to face in passing, on the corridors and in the library. And of course, they ate every meal together. Very little passed between them, at first. Will would cast down his eyes when meeting Hannibal and pause deferentially to let him pass by. Hannibal would smile and thank him, and Will would nod. 

At dinner, Hannibal would consider his careful instruction on dinner etiquette and Will improved quickly, proving to be a fast learner once he decided to apply himself. A kind of normalcy settled down around the house, and Hannibal wondered if this would be their rhythm. He couldn’t quite explain his disappointment; he’d just hoped for more. 

Then came the night when everything changed.

The wine was superb. 1929, an excellent grape from a catastrophic year. Will felt the dark waves crash over his shore, and pull the shards of the broken teacup out to sea. 

The very first sip went straight to his head. He felt like a dying man who’d stumbled on an oasis, and was now drowning in it. He was afraid if he looked down at his plate, and the fork he was lifting to his mouth, he would stumble. So he looked at Hannibal instead.

His mouth closed around the soft mouthful. It didn’t taste like poison. It was heaven. A soft fold of meat and dressing that collapsed instantly over his tongue. He couldn’t have spat it out even if he’d wanted to. And God help him, he didn’t want to.

He was grateful that Hannibal allowed the rest of the meal to progress in silence. At the best of times, he found Hannibal’s conversation overwhelming and he needed every ounce of his courage to make it through his plate. His stomach began to hurt once he’d put down his fork, and a flash of panic must have registered on his face as Hannibal quickly reminded him that it was normal for him to feel unwell. He hadn’t eaten for several days.

Will couldn’t decide whether he would prefer to vomit or not. But in the end, his stomach settled. As days passed, Hannibal kept serving him small portions of easily digestible foods until he could graduate onto regular meals. By that time his body had settled somewhat, but his mind skipped and jumped its way through the hours between feedings.

Hannibal’s new social etiquette classes felt like some new, frustratingly defensible form of torture at first. He could admit that Hannibal had a point; his social graces were lacking, compared to his host. It seemed ludicrous, however, that this fault should be corrected  considering how long he would remain alive. But, glinting like a dangling, silver lure was Hannibal’s hint. They might go to dinner parties, Hannibal and him. Dinner parties at other people’s homes, which meant leaving the estate.

He was no fool. Clearly, Hannibal dangled this half promise before him in order to hurt him. To lift his hopes and snatch them away. Will accepted this to be true and yet found himself powerless to resist. At the very least, if Hannibal made good on his hint, he might see some different and beautiful things before he died.

So he ate quietly, and over time learned to eat elegantly. He did his best to ignore the ticklish pleasure he felt at Hannibal’s praise over his improvement. He tried his hardest to stand up straight and not drag his feet. It was actually quite nice to have a goal to focus on, something to distract him from everything else. 

Hannibal watched him like a hawk, but surprised him endlessly with his patience. His captor played a long, subtle game. It was difficult to remain alert at all times, and especially in his weakened state. Exhausted, Will simply elected to observe Hannibal in return and remain baffled. He picked out his own clothes from the selection Hannibal provided and quickly got them muddy out of doors, or creased, or sweat stained. He watched Hannibal notice, and say nothing.

There were particular comforts which he found impossible to resist.

One day, Will came down to breakfast and found the table ready and waiting with orange juice, a cooling tray of patatas bravas and a fresh plate of cold meats. Upon his plate waited a little white box, tied with a shiny red ribbon.

Will turned to Hannibal, who was standing by the kitchen sink. His immaculate shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he was busy polishing a glass mixing bowl. He stared back at Will unflinchingly, with a slight smile on his face. Will knew that look. It was the expression Hannibal used when he had introduced a new stimulant into his animal’s enclosure, and was waiting to see how it would react with an almost boyish curiosity.

Will drifted over to his chair and sat down. “A little something” Hannibal started, casually turning to put away the glassware. “You can go ahead and open it.”

With trembling fingers, Will tugged at the red silk bow and lifted the box lid. He expected some sort of cruelty, even now. Perhaps the cow ear tag back again, or a new, more sophisticated form of branding. Raw, recognisably human remains for him to eat, possibly. 

Nestled in a red silk cushion lay a syringe. And a tiny clear bottle, with a sealed lid. The bottle had been placed so that the label faced upwards. Will furrowed his brow in an attempt to read the small print, and heard a chuckle from across the kitchen.

“I looked over the medical background Clearview provided, and found the name of your last treatment facility. I made a few calls; it was fairly easy to obtain the details of your most recent care. I took the liberty of conferring with your previous clinician and we agreed that I was in an excellent position to continue your treatment here. That is your medication; you may recognise it.”

Hannibal indicated the white box. So clean, so meticulous, and organised. So precisely did he offer his explanation, Will found he was left speechless. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest. A mixture of awe, horror, and profound relief struggled to hold sway on his emotions. 

Hannibal seemed pleased. He went on with the dishes, and Will struggled to reclaim his voice. He managed to clear his throat.

“Th…thank you.”

“Not at all.”

“When does treatment start?”

“Now.”

Will flinched as his heart skipped a beat.

Hannibal put down the last plate he’d been drying, and moved from around the kitchen counter. He walked the length of the kitchen to his own table, towards the end seat in which Will sat. His smile remained fixed, much like a rising cobra. Will found he could not look away.

At last he reached Will’s side, and unfolded his hands. Will felt as though he couldn’t breathe. 

“May I?”

Without looking at it, Will held out the white box. At once, Hannibal’s movements were professional, precise. He pulled out a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket that he’d clearly placed there in advance. Slipping them on he took up the bottle and syringe. The needle entered the bottle, and he held his instrument up to the light to correctly pull the dosage. 

With a gentle touch he lifted Will’s t-shirt sleeve. Will hissed as the needle scratched, and Hannibal made a sympathetic shushing sound. 

“Hannibal?” Will found himself asking once it was done. “I thought you… brought me because I had anti-NDMA encephalitis. Why would you help me get better?”

Hannibal gently placed a plaster over Will’s sore arm. “I am sure when the time comes, your cranial matter will be exquisite Will” he replied with a smile. “You cannot imagine what extensive permanent damage has already been done to your brain. I see little need to prolong your suffering, at this stage.”

And so, they quietly continued. Will imagined he could guess the source of Hannibal’s kindness. His end goal was to kill and eat him, with as much attention to the aesthetic as he could afford. Will’s suffering and illusions of comfort now were all a part of that great masterpiece.

But he had to confess, he could not explain away all of Hannibal’s attempts to make him comfortable. The gesture of providing his medication had been simply… kind. From a man who Will had thought merely brutal and fixated only on art, it was practically civilised. A second shock of the same kind came a few nights later. 

Will’s treatment eased his restless despondency and mania, but did not seem to help his nightmares. Every night, still, he was tortured anew. Flung from sleep, he woke shivering and sweat soaked, fumbling for the light. On more than one occasion he had woken to see Hannibal's face peer in concern from around the bedroom door. He had always willed him silently away in shame and hatred.

One night after he had started his course of medication he woke as he had done so many nights before, crying. He heard Hannibal’s light footsteps on the landing, and again saw his bright, watchful eye looking in on him from the doorway. For some reason, he found his fury was soothed. Not feeling the usual full effect of shame therefore, he wished desperately to not be alone.

This feeling must have registered in his glance, because Hannibal appeared at once surprised, then cautious as he tiptoed into the room. He approached Will’s bedside, leaving the door open so that the warm light of the landing would flood them both. He sat down on the end of the bed, folded his hands in his lap and sighed.

Will had paused, a hesitant animal. He ached in a way he could not explain, and his body, drenched in quickly cooling sweat, felt unbearably cold. Hannibal only waited, seeing what Will would do. 

Slowly, Will leaned forward. Hannibal’s body language relaxed, and became more open, welcoming the gesture. Will took this as his cue to allow his body to lean into Hannibal’s side. He put his head on Hannbal’s shoulder uncertainty. With heart breaking tenderness, Hannibal put his arm around him. 

A shuddering sob tore through Will’s chest. All the pain and confusion, the weariness and anxiety of the past few weeks burned him once more. The simple human touch from Hannibal he’d resisted so long… He had no idea how desperately he needed it. 

His shame and relief swelled up inside him, and he sobbed like a frightened child. He found himself curling up against Hannibal, letting him support his full weight.

“It was just a nightmare.” Hannibal whispered. His thumb tracing slow circles on Will’s side. “Just a nightmare, Will.” His voice sounded weary beyond belief but he stayed with him, whispering small comforts until near dawn. 

An unspoken boundary was passed. Many such nights followed. They never spoke, yet Hannibal never failed to come to Will’s side once he cried out. In the few words of comfort Hannibal did offer, Will might have sworn he heard a lightness he had never heard before. Almost as though Hannibal were glad, though he could not imagine why. 

All he could bring himself to feel, as the days and night slowly became bearable, was inescapable relief. 

He began to fear that these little generosities that Hannibal seemed to offer so effortlessly, were beyond his power to resist. Come what may.

Chapter Text

Hannibal received many letters, both professional and personal, at home. Will noted the small stack of mail that waited beneath the letter box each morning with some interest, but never pried. Often, Hannibal took his correspondence to the breakfast table with him, and sat reading it whilst waiting for Will to finish. On most mornings he registered no particular interest. But one morning in particular, a heavy red envelope slid out of the stack of letters. 

As Hannibal flipped it over Will caught a glimpse of the gold watermark on the stationary. A gothic letter M sat astride a V. It was not one he recognised. Hannibal cleaned his knife and used it to slit the envelope. A cream sheet of paper slid out into his hand.

Will raised his eyebrows as Hannibal scanned the letters' contents. Hannibal looked up to meet Will’s gaze, but did not smile. 

“Everything okay?” Will heard himself asking the question before he had a chance to think about it. 

“We’ve received an invitation.” Hannibal cleared his throat, and dropped the invite on the stack of mail. “Are you familiar with the Verger family?”

Even Will, who was entirely removed from high society and even then, fairly immune to gossip, had heard of Mason Verger and his sister. The Verger family estate spanned generations and held extensive influence over the human meat market. Their own meat packing company dominated the commercial field.

Will shrugged. “Familiar isn’t the term I would use.”

“I assume you know as much as the general population, more or less. Did you know that Mason and his sister are both of the elite class?”

“I would have assumed as much.”

“And that Mason is an aspiring connoisseur?” 

Will paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Hannibal leaned back in his seat and waited for Will’s response. 

“...no, I did not know that.” 

Hannibal exhaled and stood. He stepped around the table, speaking as he reached to refill his mug of coffee. “Every year, Margot and Mason Verger hold a number of parties at their estate throughout the auction season. All of the parties are orchestrated by Mason, and some are quite elaborate, even themed. The cream of the social elite are invited. Naturally, you and I are requested.”

“Me?” Will interrupted, turning around in his chair.

Hannibal afforded him a small smile. “Naturally.”

“But.. I…”

“Forgive me, of course,you are not familiar with how my social circle likes to do things; for the duration of our time together, you will be treated by my peers as though you were my guest, which I hope you will agree is accurate. On many occasions you may be treated as an extension of my household, which will grant you access to events otherwise exclusively elite.” 

Will remembered allusions Hannibal had made to Will attending parties outside of his estate. He’d believed him at the time. Even so, he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. 

“So people will just… treat me the way they treat you?”

Hannibal chuckled, causing a faint blush to bloom on Will’s cheek. “Not quite. I expect they will be kind, even condescending. But no one will find it odd that you’re there. Take a look.”

He indicated the invite, and Will looked more closely. Sure enough, it had been addressed to ‘Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and Property’

“That's me? How do they know?”

“Know that I…have a new slave? Gossip spreads like wildfire, which you will come to know very well. Besides, Mason makes it his business to catalogue the lives of others.”

Will did not miss the bitterness in Hannibal’s tone as he made his last remark. He summoned an image of Mason Verger. He had seen him interviewed on TV once or twice, and his meat products had lined the shelves of his local supermarket. He wondered what it was about the meat magnate that offended Hannibal so.

Hannibal tapped Will’s shoulder. “We will be attending. I think you’re ready. Finish your breakfast.”

On the afternoon of the party, Hannibal stood in the hall with a trench coat folded across one arm and an umbrella in hand. It had been steadily raining for the past few hours, with no sign of letting up. Outside the sky was already pitch black. The headlights of their taxi cut through the night and caught the stained glass in his front door.

Hannibal glanced at the clock as it struck seven. As it chimed, as if on cue, Will appeared at the head of the stairs. Hannibal turned his gaze towards him and smiled, exhaling the last of his frustrations.

He watched as an angel descended towards him, slowly and awkwardly. Will had agreed that they could suspend his rule of Hannibal not choosing his dress just for the evening. He had admitted the day before that he had no real experience in cocktail attire, which Hannibal already knew. However he had accepted Will’s acquiescence, and selected his ensemble to compliment his own. The results were simply radiant; a term which Hannibal never used lightly. 

Will was dressed in a deep grey double breasted suit. The crisp shirt collar had just the slightest lavender tint to perfectly compliment the royal blue tie. A clean white pocket square, a pin, and a pair of tan oxford shoes completed the set. 

Hannibal, on the other hand, had chosen for himself a midnight blue suit with a slim, straight silhouette. He wore a sharp white collar over a faint blue and white striped shirt, and deep indigo tie. A warm chesterfield coat was already wrapped around his shoulders. 

He waited until Will had reached the bottom of the stairs before stepping forward and adjusting his tie. Will had tied his ties like a schoolboy who had never so much as heard the word ‘Windsor’ in his life. 

Will looked askance and shuffled his feet, doing his best to stand up tall. The suit he had chosen fit him well enough, but it lacked the precision favoured by Hannibal. He had truly hoped that Will would come to take a little more interest in fashion; then he might persuade him to take a trip to Hannibal’s tailor.

Satisfied, Hannibal dusted off Will’s shoulders and beamed at him. “Ready to go?”

Will nodded, and Hannibal held out the coat he’d been holding for Will to slip on. They walked together out to the car with Will sheltered beneath Hannibal’s umbrella. He stood so close to Hannibal that he felt him trembling.

As they slid into the back seats, Hannibal wondered if it were the cold, excitement, or nerves that affected Will. Excitement for the party? For the chance of escape? He supposed it could have been any number of things. Fortunately, he was prepared for everything.

Will rested his head against the window as soon as the car started to move. For a time Hannibal watched him watching raindrops race along the glass. It was silent. Before he knew it, they were pulling into a gravel driveway. 

The Verger Family estate was lit up with soft white lights. Cars snaked their way up the long drive and past the front of the house. Hannibal saw Will straighten up as they approached. His hands curled into fists, crumpling the front of his jacket.

“There's nothing to be nervous about.” Hannibal said gently. 

Will chose to say nothing, but Hannibal saw his grip relax ever so slightly.

The taxi came to a stop and a house attendant holding an umbrella approached. He opened the door first for Hannibal before taking a step back. Hannibal walked around the car to open the door for Will, who tentatively took the hand Hannibal offered and stepped out into the cold, wet night. The attendant stood close behind the two of them, holding out the shelter of his umbrella, and gestured for the taxi driver to move along.

They stood for a moment, and Hannibal gazed into Will’s face.. They were still holding hands. Hannibal noticed how cold Will’s fingers seemed in his; not like those of a frightened animal at all, but of a statue.

The attendant cleared his throat. “Invitations, please.”

Will blinked at the intrusion, and quickly dropped Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal reached for the invites in his coat pocket, whilst doing his best to suppress his irritation. The attendant gave the invites a cursory glance, and gestured for the two of them to follow. 

He led them up the white stone steps to the double front doors, which had been thrown wide open. Warm light and the sound of chattering voices reached out to greet them. Someone was playing a grand piano just out of sight, and a second attendant waited to receive their coats just inside the door. 

The hallway and the staircase beyond were full of partygoers in evening dress. A brassy chandelier glittered above the scene as porters weaved their way through the crowd with trays of shining glass. Hannibal frowned with distaste as he scented the air. Mason always did have an inferior taste in champagne. The alcohol was expensive trash, designed to incapacitate his guests. 

No sooner had the two of them slid into an empty space in the throng, they were approached by a polished young woman in a structured black gown. Her dark hair was loose and cascaded down her shoulders. Her icy smile did not reach her eyes.

“Good evening.” She proffered a hand, which Hannibal took as she came to a stop. “I’m Margot. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Hannibal Lecter.” He beamed at her, and gestured to Will. “And this is my property, Will Graham.”

Will nodded and reached forward to shake Margot’s hand. She ignored the gesture. Hannibal cleared his throat and Will retracted the hand quickly, blushing crimson. 

He’d forgotten for a moment who he was next to Hannibal, and in the eyes of the world. He was nothing, and nobody. Most people he met would not want to shake his hand, or speak to him. As he watched, he could have sworn he saw the facial muscles around Margot’s icy smile twitch, before she looked away. He supposed it was easier for her if she pretended he was not a person at all. 

Her face was familiar, and he recalled the few instances he’s seen her on television or in magazines. This was a woman vastly different from the polished, all American public persona he remembered. She responded succinctly to Hannibal’s compliments and remarks after her and her brother's well-being, with no emotion whatsoever. Remembering it was impolite to stare, he did his best to cast his eyes disinterestedly around the room. Doing so, he began to feel as though he were being watched. His eyes were drawn upwards, to the middle of the tall spiral staircase.

There against the railing was a man with closely cropped hair and sharp eyes, which reminded him instantly of the grey suited man who’d purchased him for Clearview. Recoiling slightly, he watched the man’s smile grow wider. There was something about him which was like a mischievous boy – his gaze was the magnifying glass, and Will was the ant.

To his discomfort, the man began descending the staircase, just as Hannibal turned his head. There was no perceptible change in Hannibal, yet Will felt something shift. His eyes had become fixed on the man, a smile frozen in place. Will had never seen Hannibal behave this way before. Coldness radiated from him. He slowly began to realise that he’d never truly seen him hostile until this moment. 

The blond man had reached the foot of the stairs and was now walking directly towards them with his hands in his pockets. Margot turned, presumably to make her exit, and stopped dead. 

“Margot.” The blond man drawled, both a greeting and a dismissal. He sidled into their circle and Margot slid immediately into his shadow. The expression on her face had soured, but she remained silent. 

“Well now,” the man extended a hand which Hannibal shook. “About time we lured you out, Dr. Lecter.” 

Will couldn’t place his accent. It was a strange mix of transatlantic colloquialism and southern drawl, muted down by layers of pretence. His voice slid through the static of the room, disquieting and impossible to ignore; the ghost of a time long since past. 

“Mason.” Hannibal replied quietly. “Punctual as ever.”

“Oh, to the minute, old sport” Mason’s eyes slid across to Will. He suppressed an involuntary shiver, and did his best to smile. “And I take it this is your boy?”

“My property,” Hannibal corrected. He rested his hand against Will’s shoulder. “This is Will.”

“Nice to meet you,” Will added politely. 

There was a silence in which Mason’s gaze lingered on Will, before he at last looked away, disinterested. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he replied in a tone which suggested anything but.

Mason switched his disarming smile back to Hannibal, and for a moment, an uncomfortable silence prevailed. Mason started again, “You really must tell me where you dig ‘em out, Dr. Lecter. I knew your refined palette was unique, but I hardly expected you to select a specimen so… vapid.” He emphasised his last word with a nod towards Will.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Hannibal replied, each word succinctly pronounced.

“Well, he’s simply unappetizing, Sir!” Mason smiled big, as though they were all in on the same joke. Behind him, Margot visibly shivered. “I like a gaudy young man, a garish young man! I assure you the flavour is second to none; did you take a look at our stock pens when you were driving in?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Pity. You’d have seen the Verger pens at their finest, I always keep my best close at hand. We’ve a breeding programme maintained by specialists and the crop this year does daddy proud. Rigorously maintained to achieve their personal best flavour, building on the best genetics. You’ll taste a couple tonight.” 

Will’s stomach turned over on itself at the words ‘breeding programme.’ He focused on breathing steadily, and prayed he wouldn’t be compelled to vomit. 

“Your meticulousness does you credit, Mason.” Hannibal turned his head aside to politely consider the refreshment table. “I look forward to sampling your product tonight, as always.”

Will reflected that Hannibal had uttered the word ‘product’ with some bite, and judging by Mason’s expression, he hadn’t missed the subtle dig either. 

“May I?” Mason smiled at Hannibal, and raised his hand towards Will. Will felt as though his heart had frozen. He glanced quickly at Hannibal, and was horrified to see him nod slowly, signalling his consent. Mason took hold of Will’s wrist and pulled him a step or two forward.

Elite class members might allow slaves into their homes, or invite them to their parties, but never allow them to forget their place. A slave was expected to obey any order, even one not issued by their owner. Although not strictly necessary, it was common courtesy to ask the slave owner’s permission before taking such liberties. It was common courtesy to permit it.

Hannibal had told Will he should expect that some of his peers would want to examine him in the same way one would assess a horse, and that Hannibal would be bound by decorum to accept. But Will had assumed he had been exaggerating.

Mason stepped up to Will and snapped his fingers. An attendant appeared at his side bearing a silver tray on which sat a box of disposable surgical gloves. Mason snatched a pair and pulled them on with a rubber snap. Without further delay, two expert fingers pushed Will’s lips apart. 

“Bite together.”

Will realised the monotone remark was meant for him, and obeyed. His every instinct demanded he step away from Mason, but he was positive the consequences would be severe. He trembled slightly, but Mason seemed not to notice. His eyes found Hannibal’s, which were fixed intently on him. He let his mind drift into that familiar stare, allowing himself to dissociate out of Mason’s touch. Hannibal was his anchor.

“Open.”

Will stretched his jaw wide and waited as Mason peered into his throat, pressing his tongue flat with one finger.  Around them, nobody paid any attention to what was happening. Will felt panic creep over him as Mason moved on to holding his right eye wide open. Anything could happen to him, and nobody would care. No one would do anything to stop it. Except…

He refocused on Hannibal. The casual smile he’d once worn had slipped. Every muscle in his beautiful face was taut as if physically pained. He never allowed his eyes to leave Will, and Will acknowledged that at the very least, Hannibal saw him. Hannibal cared, if not for Will, then for the insult Mason offered him. That cloak of indignation was his one hope for protection, and he sheltered in it readily.

Mason roughly felt over Will’s arms and around his torso, pinching at the abdomen. Will inhaled sharply through his teeth as Mason unnecessarily gave the stomach flesh a small twist, aiming to bruise. He wondered if Hannibal saw, and if he’d dare say anything. Mason slipped him a smile that Will couldn’t translate. 

He took a step back, discarding his gloves on the attendant’s tray and waving him away. “As I thought, the tone I’d typically look for just isn’t there. I’d bet that you were playing the long game, and that you were planning on leaving him a year to plump up. But there’s not much to ripen.” 

“I respectfully disagree.” Hannibal folded his hands behind his back. “Although of course, I would be interested to hear your reasoning.”

“Take the fat depth for instance.” Mason drew an instrument from his coat pocket that glinted silver. “I presume you know what this is for?”

“A knife.” Hannibal smiled indulgently. “Presumably for measuring the depth of fat? 

“Very good.” Mason toyed with the razor thin blade in his hand. It was no larger than the palm of his hand. Will felt his throat go dry. Mason wasn’t serious… was he?

He looked wildly in Hannibal’s direction, but his face was a mask of perfect civility. No concern registered. No indication of disapproval. 

Will’s heart was beating out of control. He felt sure he must be sweating through his shirt. They weren’t being serious. Hannibal wasn’t really going to let Mason stab him. Was he?

Hannibal cleared his throat as Mason took another step towards Will. The knife hovered mere inches from Will’s gut. He struggled to keep his breathing even, unable to tear his eyes away from the blade. 

But it was not Hannibal who broke the silence. A slender hand gripped Mason’s arm. His face became neutral at once, a display of severe indifference, as he turned to face Margot. 

“Now, now, Mason.” She wilted slightly under Mason’s attention, but stood her ground. “We can’t demand Dr. Lecter’s attention all evening, can we?”

Mason shrugged away from her touch, making no attempt to hide his disgust. Straightening the lapels of his dinner jacket, he glanced around the room, and discreetly slid the knife back in his pocket. 

Air returned to Will’s lungs as it disappeared. Whatever threat Mason posed had passed them by, for the moment.

“...Yes of course.” Mason reluctantly turned back to Hannibal, who raised his eyebrows. “Which reminds me, you must see about our dear Margot. Do put her on your consultation list, won’t you?”

“Are you seeking a therapist?” Hannibal addressed Margot, who flushed crimson.

“She needs a little ventilation,” Mason interrupted. “To air one’s grievances, spill the guts.” He pinched Margot’s chin affectionately as he turned on heel, leaning in close to her face. She recoiled from his touch. “...so to speak.” 

He walked off into the crowd, and the three of them watched him leave. 

 Margot turned back to Hannibal, holding her empty glass with both hands. “Mason is right, I’m seeking a therapist. I was hoping you’d be available for a consultation-”

“But of course. ” Hannibal smiled politely, and flicked a neat, cream business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “Do not hesitate to contact me. I’m sure I can fit you in.”

Margot nodded, and discreetly slid the business card up her sleeve. “Thank you. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

She, too, drifted away and Will and Hannibal were once again alone. Will felt strangely close to tears. He took a deep breath, let his eyes close for a moment. He felt Hannibal lean close to his ear, and his words came as a whisper. “Don’t let it show. Inhale. Exhale.”

Will did as he was told, focusing on his breathing. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders dissipated, and he regained control. 

“Good. Remember, you’re safe.”

“Am I?” Will couldn’t help whispering in response. 

Hannibal paused before answering. “You are safe with me.”

Will opened his eyes as Hannibal stepped away from him. He plucked two flutes of champagne from a passing silver tray and handed one of them to Will. “I suggest we try to follow Margot's lead, and have a pleasant rest of the evening.” 

They stood for a moment, sipping their champagne, before Hannibal guided Will into the throng. A few people stopped and greeted Hannibal, and Hannibal dutifully introduced Will. Will smiled and nodded half a dozen times, immediately forgetting each new name as it was told to him. The champagne made him feel slightly unwell, and he remembered suddenly he’d barely eaten before they left. 

He paused to look directly upwards into the pleasantly swirling lights of the chandelier. The pianist had moved onto a pleasant nineteenth-century waltz, and the people seemed to sway around Will in time to the music. Taking that as his cue to hand his half empty glass to the nearest waiter, he suddenly caught sight of the snack table. 

Sparing a glance towards Hannibal, who was happily engaged in a mild theoretical debate with some of Mason’s contemporaries, Will doubted he would be missed for a couple of minutes. He’d contemplated drifting off into the crowd and out the front door, but he really had no idea what he would do then. Mason’s house and grounds were littered with attendants and guards tonight, and even then, it was pitch black outside and raining heavily.

He walked over to the snacks and took a brief overview of his options before putting a couple of mini sausage rolls on a paper napkin. He’d little doubt what was in them, but by this point, he considered it one more minor sin on a steadily increasing list. He hated to admit it, but the more time passed, the less he hesitated to eat. Even so, he mumbled “sorry” to his sausage roll before biting into it.

Less than two bites in, he began to feel the distinct sensation he was being watched, for a second time of an evening. He paused, then continued to chew slowly, telling himself it was just the wine. Or yet another curious elite.

“Hmm…Piggy Piggy.” Mason’s voice murmured from Will’s left side.

Will froze, and turned slowly, mouth full, sausage roll still in hand. 

Mason had appeared directly behind him. He wondered how he hadn’t heard him approach. Nobody else seemed to be looking their way. Will’s eyes frantically sought Hannibal, but he’d lost him in the crowd. 

Mason took another step closer and Will swallowed his mouthful, feeling positively sick. 

“Good?” Mason gestured to the rolls, and Will nodded. “I’d expect so. Some of our very best, though I doubt you’d be a critic.”

He sneered at the word ‘critic,’ and looked Will up and down. Will realised Mason was waiting for him to speak, and managed, “Hannibal has attempted to… educate me.”

“Has he now?” Mason folded his hands. “You looked as though you were enjoying yourself. How very like him. Your master and I don’t often see eye to eye. He prefers his pigs as pets, you see, whereas I prefer to raise my animals under different circumstances.”

“Really?” Will struggled to meet Mason’s gaze, but the more he retreated into himself, the more eager Mason seemed. 

“Oh indeed. There is a certain appeal, I suppose, in dressing up your animals. You’re quite the pretty porker in that suit.”

He ran a hand over Will’s waist. Will held as still as he possibly could, praying for this to end.

He stepped closer still and wetted his lips. “It’s a shame I was interrupted earlier; you strike me as a squealer.” 

Will’s eyes stretched wide. It was at that moment he caught sight of Hannibal, moving swiftly towards them from across the room.

Mason pinched his side in the same place he’d bruised him earlier. “I’ll stick you yet, Will.” His whisper was pure venom as he melted back into the shadows. 

By the time Hannibal reached Will, Mason was gone. 

The rain beat a tattoo against the taxi windows as they drove home that night. Hannibal listened as the sound filled up the space between them. There was a dark stretch of space in the backstreet between Will and himself. It might as well have been an unbreachable chasm.

He’d tried asking Will what Mason had said to him back at the party, but he’d only received a non-answer. 

“Oh, nothing, really. Well, he disagreed with the way you treat your livestock, generally speaking.”

Will had been white as a sheet. When Hannibal had helped him into his coat later on, there had been a tremor in his hands when their fingers brushed. He’d asked a second time if Will was alright, and Will had apologised for drinking too much.

“Will.” He tried again. Will’s profile was framed by the hazy glow of passing street lights. He turned his head ever so slightly. 

“Will…” Hannibal heard himself repeat the name, as a sigh. “Please tell me.”

For a minute there was only silence, and he assumed Will meant not to answer him. But then, hesitantly, he spoke. 

“Mason said some things which were… unsettling.”

“Such as?”

“That he would ‘stick me’. That he thought I was pretty.”

Hannibal turned his full attention to Will. He sounded caught, as though he were struggling to form the words. 

Will closed his eyes. “He couldn’t… you wouldn’t let him-”

“No.” Hannibal reached across the darkness, and took Will’s hand. Will looked back in surprise, blinking away tears. “Never.”

“But he-”

“I don’t particularly like Mason Verger, and I certainly do not care what he thinks, or wants. You are mine. I promise, I will never allow him to undermine my authority by harming you.” 

Will paused, and Hannibal allowed his thumb to trace small circles over the back of his hand. 

“Hannibal, may I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“Does Mason Verger rape his…meat?”

The silence which followed felt like a weight in Hannibal’s stomach. He considered his words carefully. “I don’t know.” After a pause, he added “I think it is very likely.”

Will inhaled sharply. He retreated into his corner of the backseat, sliding his hand free from Hannibal’s. He looked again out of the window, and Hannibal settled back into watching him.

He closed and opened his fist, letting all the tension he felt, all the rage, slowly dissipate. He should have known something like this would happen. Mason Verger could never be trusted to behave like an adult.

And now, he had committed two unpardonable sins. The first and most important of these was his unspeakable rudeness. There was little else Hannibal loathed as much as a lapse in discretion. The second was that he’d attempted to undermine the relationship between himself and his slave. Hannibal had no doubt that if Mason had threatened to rape Will, it was to get to him.

Hannibal had spent hours unravelling Will Graham’s sanity, and had settled in for the long game. Inch by inch, step by step, mile by mile he would break Will’s resolve. He suspected in his heart that there was something about Will which Will himself refused to acknowledge: that he was no better than Hannibal. Only when he had personally succeeded in crushing Will’s ego would the game be over. 

He did not want Will’s fragile psyche tampered with by anyone else. And Mason had a habit of stealing other people's toys. 

He fixed his gaze squarely on his prize, and silently vowed that should Mason ever show him such discourtesy again, or so much as look in Will’s direction, he would make sure he regretted it.

Chapter Text

For a few days after the Verger’s party, things were on edge. Will continued to struggle with sleep, and Hannibal in turn struggled to support him. He was wretched with tiredness; he had started noticing bags under his eyes when he looked in the mirror. It was worth it, of course. And he had dealt with worse than this before. But, he was forced to acknowledge with some discomfort, his own tiredness brought him further sympathy for his pig. Hannibal was receiving a taste of the insomnia which Will had been dealing with for months, alone. 

At least now, with Hannibal, they both had an idea of when this would end. 

It was a clear, blue skyed morning that promised a mild day ahead. Hannibal was reviewing his patient’s notes at the kitchen table for a change, when he heard the doorbell ring. He glanced up at the clock, frowning. His next client wasn’t due until midday, and it was just past eleven. 

He stood and stretched, before shuffling his notes into a neat pile and walking to the hall. He smiled curiously as he opened the door. Diornett stood on his front step. She smiled broadly at him from beneath large tortoiseshell sunglasses. Hannibal smiled reflexively, and noticed Diornett’s car parked in his driveway. 

He’d forgotten that he’d allowed Diornett and Faucell the key combination to his front gate last year. Until now, they’d neglected to use it. 

“Hannibal.” Diornett extended a hand, which Hannibal took. “I hope we’re not intruding?”

“We?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow. Diornett stepped aside, revealing a young woman hiding in her shadow. Hannibal had never seen her before. Her head was bowed, and her long brown hair was swept forward as though it would shield her from his gaze. She refused to meet his eyes. She couldn’t be more than eighteen.

“My latest adopted daughter, Abigail.” Diornett placed a hand on Abigail’s back. “I don’t believe you’ve met, so I thought I’d bring her along today.” 

Diornett tended to refer to her slaves as her ‘adoptees.’ They were almost all children or young adults. Like many of Diornett’s slaves, Abigail was identifiable by the pristine white shirt, navy knit vest and skirt set she’d been dressed in, similar to a private school uniform. Diornett and Faucell sometimes brought as many as ten children throughout the auction season. Apparently, this was a buying year. 

Hannibal smiled at Abigail indulgently. “The pleasure is mine.”

He’d long kept his opinions to himself on Diornett’s taste in pigs, but she’d never brought one to his house before. Diornett folded her hands and cleared her throat, drawing his attention.

“Abigail and I thought we would stop by so I could return the book you kindly lent me.” Hannibal noticed that she did indeed hold in her hands his own volume of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. “Is now a good time?”

“I have a little under an hour until my next client arrives.” Hannibal stepped aside, allowing Diornett and Abigail into the hall. “I’d be delighted to take tea with you.”

“Thank you, that’d be lovely. Abigail, don’t touch anything dear.” Diornett cautioned her ward as she hung up her coat. Abigail had drifted further into the hallway and extended a hand towards the oil painting hung there. But something other than Diornett had stalled her hand.

Hannibal followed her gaze to where Will stood frozen at the head of the stairs 

Will’s eyes were locked on the girl now standing at the foot of the stairs. She stared back at him. Time seemed to stand still, as he confronted what he was sure, at first, was another hallucination.

But this vision of Abigail, if it was a vision, was so different from the others. And Hannibal could see her. And the woman, who he remembered from the auction. He’d heard her call Abigail her adopted daughter. Will felt the room spin, and gripped the bannister tightly. 

Did she recognise him? He searched her face, pleadingly, but she appeared only confused. Frightened, haunted maybe. He could understand that, after everything she’d been through. After everything they’d been through, together. 

The Abigail Hobbes he knew hadn’t been an elite girl. She had been lower middle class, like him. He’d thought she was safe. She was supposed to be safe. Surely, that was the point of everything. Everything he had endured would have some meaning, some hidden good in it if she…

The answers slid into place. Will screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to understand. It was too easy. Too obvious. She had been transferred to a state hospital, like him. And whatever money her parents had left her, it couldn’t have been much. Not to mention her legal fees, or any other outstanding debts her father may have burdened her with.

She’d dropped into the slave class. Will opened his eyes, and let them fall with undisguised hatred on the woman Abigail had walked in with. She was an elite who attended auctions, and Abigail was a slave. Their relationship could only have one trajectory.

Hannibal cleared his throat, capturing the woman’s attention before she could notice Will. 

“Come right this way” he smiled, and taking the woman by the arm, led her into the morning room. Abigail spared Will one lingering, frightened glance before trailing in their wake.

Will stood and stared at the place where Abigail had stood for some minutes. He clenched his hands into fists, remembering the slippery feel of her neck as he’d held her life together. The hideous colour of her arterial blood, thick and dark and living, staining him permanently. 

Hannibal turned the book over in his hands. His thumb traced careful, lingering circles over a torn edge on the spine. It had been bound in soft blue cotton, some time in the 1940s. Now, the binding was aged and liable to disintegrate. If misused.

Diornett, Abigail and himself were seated across from each other on soft cream sofas, arranged around an antique coffee table set with tea and cakes for three. Late morning light flooded the floor to ceiling windows and lit up the dark wood flooring. Matching cabinets lined the walls filled with mementos from his travels, and occasionally his past slaves. The very same book he now held in his hands usually lived in one of these same cabinets.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” Diornett leaned in confidentially, placing a hand on Hannibal's knee. “I believed Celine caught it on something. A loose nail? I hope it is mendable.”

The disgust he felt was immediate, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. Nonetheless, he smiled politely around it. “Think nothing of it- thankfully I have an excellent bookbinder in the city; I’m sure he will make short work of this.”  

It was true that the tear would be easily fixed. What Diornett and that idiot Faucell did not know was that this specific volume had accompanied Hannibal over many, many years. Perhaps ‘haunted’ was a better adjective. As he traced the fabrics pattern with his finger tips, he was brought back to the attic rooms of Castle Lecter. Misha’s face and most particularly her eyes, the same colour as this fabric, wide with curiosity. Back when the two of them loved to learn.

He swallowed whatever peculiar feeling was threatening to surface. He had never ceased to love knowledge, whereas Misha had learned too much.

Diornett couldn’t possibly understand the sentimental value of this specific volume, nor the gesture of unspoken trust he had made in lending it to her. She had violated that trust. She might as well have violated…

Hannibal’s eyes slid to Abigail. For half a moment, he thought he saw Misha sitting where she was. He squeezed his eyes shut, repressing a shiver.

“My dear Hannibal, are you quite well?”

“Of course.” His eyes snapped open, and he beamed on his so-called friend. “Simply tired.”

“Celine and I will pay for the book to be mended.”

“That is very kind of you, Madame.” 

An uneasy silence settled over the room. Abigail took a sip from her tea, whilst keeping her gaze level with the floor. Hannibal perked up a little as he regarded her.

“Tell me, June, when did you acquire this young lady?”

Abigail’s teacup clattered loudly as she returned it to its saucer. The poor girl had frozen in place. 

“We picked up dear Abigail at the New State Meat Market, nearly a month ago.” Diornett’s hand drifted absently to Abigail’s cheek, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Lovely, isn’t she?”

“Quite lovely.”

“Celine and I usually pick up a few items from New State around this time of year.” June smiled wide, showing broad, yellowed teeth. “We like to restock the pantry before the season really gets going.”

Abigail cringed away from June’s touch.

“She’s helping Celine and I with the younger children- it’s so nice to have one or two teenagers around the house, though usually they can be a bit of a handful. I’m very glad to say we’ve not had that problem with Abigail. Have we, dear?”

“No Ma’am.” Abigail mumbled. Hannibal reflected that she’d responded quickly, as though she’d been drilled on what to say. 

He wondered to himself what he would do to June, as they quietly sipped their tea and made some small talk. Celine, too. As long as he had known the two of them, they had purchased and consumed children. And for all that time, he had never been able to put his finger on what it was about that practice that repulsed him so, and demanded retribution. 

As he tenderly held his damaged book, he felt closer to understanding than he ever had before. 

June and Abigail left just before twelve. Will had hovered in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway with a mug of herbal tea in his hands, straining to hear what was being said. At long last the door to the morning room had opened. 

Hannibal escorted the woman and Abigail to the front door. Will stared longingly at the back of Abigail’s head, willing her to turn around. He felt as though if he could just give her an encouraging smile, it would be something. It wouldn’t be enough. He was beginning to be afraid that it wouldn’t ever be enough, but he could still give her something. He could offer her some small scrap of protection. 

But the woman he did not know, Abigail’s owner, turned around instead. She met Will’s expressionless gaze and gave him an uncomfortable smile. It was the kind of smile that put a bad taste in his mouth.

At last, the front door closed on the two of them. Will stepped out from around the door as Hannibal turned to him, opening his mouth to speak. But Hannibal raised a hand, cutting him off. 

“My next client will be here in five minutes. We will discuss this later.” 

All afternoon, Will wandered aimlessly around his usual routes of the house and gardens. He tried picking up a book once or twice, but his attention only drifted back to Hannibal’s locked study door. All afternoon, Hannibal’s clients arrived and left, one after another. Will was shut out of Hannibal’s office as he conducted his sessions. 

Time passed, and Will ground his teeth together and waited, never feeling able to sit down for two minutes together. At long last, five o’clock rolled around. Hannibal walked his last patient of the day to the door and waved them into their car. 

Will, who had been waiting by the coat rack, gave a sigh of relief and took a step towards Hannibal. One look at Hannibal’s face, however, dried up all the words that he’d been holding on to.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice was low and steady. “See me in my office, please.” 

He walked past Will and up the stairs. Will faltered before following him, feeling compelled to do as instructed. What other options were available to him? He could feel his pulse as he mounted the stairs, beating against his chest. He tried to ignore it, whilst recognising the familiar old fear. 

Hannibal waved Will into his office and followed after, sliding the door shut after him. A fresh wave of nausea overtook Will as he watched the door close. He swallowed it down, and steeled himself to meet whatever came next. 

Hannibal took an easy seat in his therapist chair, and gestured for Will to sit across from him.

“First, let me make something clear,” he began as Will sat. “You are never, under any circumstance, to show my guests such discourtesy again.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You positively glowered at June Diornett this morning.” 

June Diornett. So that was the woman’s name. Will considered this fresh knowledge carefully, tucking it away for later. 

“When you behave poorly, it reflects badly on me. Secondly, I do not appreciate being stalked, least of all in my own home.”

Will bit his lip, fighting the retort he itched to say. Hannibal sighed, and pressed his fingers to his brow as if to smooth the creases forming there. Will waited, and as the moment passed, he hesitantly began again. 

“Hannibal… I’m sorry, about earlier. But, I know that girl.”

Hannibal slowly lowered his hands, focusing on Will intently now.

“She was June Diornett’s slave, you know, the young girl from this morning?”

“Abigail.”

Will inhaled sharply as Hannibal spoke her name. He knew this wasn’t smart. He shouldn’t let Hannibal see how much power Abigail held over him. But he felt as though he did not belong to himself. Carried on the tide of panic, he pressed on.

“Yes. She is Diornett’s slave, isn’t she?”

“Yes. She brought her nearly a month ago.”

Will pressed his palms over his eyes, and leaned back into his chair. Hannibal watched him curiously, pressing his fingertips together.

“I… she… Abigail is the reason I am here.”

“The reason you are here with me, or here on this earth? Or both?”

Will’s eyes snapped open and focused on Hannibal’s

“She is the reason I’m a slave.”

“Then you must hate her. Do you hate her, Will?”

“No.” 

“Do you cherish her?”

“Yes.” 

Will’s words were barely a whisper. Hannibal tilted his head to one side, and smiled.

“Tell me.”

And Will did tell him. Haltingly, as he struggled for breath. Stopping and starting several times over, but never giving in completely until he’d said it all. How he’d pursued Hobbes, and destroyed him. How he’d saved Abigail, and been punished by her ever since.

He barely understood the bond he now held with this girl. But as the words passed his lips, he felt he was attending confession. And as he looked into Hannibal’s eyes, he did not only feel absolved of all his despair, but blessed. He could have wept. He could have screamed.

When he had finished his story, Hannibal got to his feet. He ran a careless hand through Will’s hair..

“Thank you for your honesty. I think you had better get some sleep before dinner.”

“Hannibal?”

Will’s eyes were turned upwards, bright and pleading. He’d exposed his past. He was beyond holding back now, letting his need show clearly in his face.

“Yes?”

“I want to see Abigail again.”

Hannibal paused.

“Naturally.”

Will waited, letting the silence fill the room and them himself. He made himself control his breathing and regained his composure. He stood slowly. He and Hannibal stood side by side. It occurred to him distantly that they had never been this close. 

Before he could step away, Hannibal spoke.

“I may contrive to attend a dinner party at Diornett and Faucell’s, and take you with me. If you will promise to let me dress you for the occasion. Of course.”

Chapter Text

Margot Verger sank slowly back into the chair, and crossed her legs. She assessed the man sitting across from her, and kept a tight grip on the lacquered handbag she held in her lap.

Hannibal waited patiently for her to speak.

It was a glowing afternoon, and his office was immaculate as always. The coffee table between them was set for tea. He had brewed two cups of delicate lapsang, and the aroma drifted pleasantly through the air.

He had been rather surprised when Margot had originally reached out for a consultation. When he’d gotten off the phone he’d meticulously pencilled the appointment into his diary, and spent a long time afterwards pondering the entry.

It had been a few weeks since his and Will’s distressing evening together at the Verger estate. He assumed this was a fact Margot was also aware of. She squirmed in her seat under his gaze.

The minutes ticked quietly past. At long last Margot leaned forward, breaching the silence.

“Thank you for making time to see me.”

“Not at all, Margot. I’m happy to help.”

She paused, pressing her lips together, and Hannibal decided to prompt her a little further.

“We spoke briefly on the phone about what it is you hope you achieve through therapy. In this initial session, I am hoping you will be able to explain those aims in a little more detail. I will then be able to give you an idea of what my approach will be.”

Margot considered his words carefully, weighing up her answer. Hannibal was somewhat surprised when she decided to start out with the truth.

“Seeing as this session was the will of my brother, Dr. Lecter, I think it may serve us better to discuss his aims for this arrangement first.”

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. “I’m all ears.”

“You do not seem surprised.”

“Should I be?”

Margot’s lips quirked upwards into an almost smile; a rarity for her. “No. I expect as much from you.”

“How interesting. I would like to come back to the subject of your regard for me later, if you don’t mind. But, you were saying?”

Margot relaxed back into her chair. “Mason directly requested I see you for a consultation. Considering that he is paying for my treatment, I felt obliged to do as he asked.”

Hannibal did not miss the bitter tone that had crept into Margot’s voice. He was positive that there was more to Mason’s involvement which Margot chose not say. However he remained silent, letting her go on.

“He discovered I was attempting to seek therapy and insisted on ‘helping’.”

“I see. And do you believe Mason is invested in your councilling for reasons other than brotherly concern?”

Margot’s hands closed tightly around her handbag as he spoke the words ‘brotherly concern.’ A shame, really; it was a well selected designer piece from last season, and she was creasing the material.

“Mason does not care about my therapy. Or to put it more accurately, Mason does not care about any benefits therapy might offer me. He does, however, care deeply about how my being in therapy might serve him.”

Hannibal leaned forward. “And this… interest of Mason’s, in your councilling. Would you say it is recent?”

“He began to express his interest earlier this year.”

“Why is it, Margot, you believe your brother is not genuinely interested in your wellbeing?”

Margot gave a hollow laugh, and Hannibal did his best to show a puzzled expression. He suspected Margot knew as well as he did that Mason’s temperament was well known. But he needed her to say it aloud. 

Margot’s laughter died off, and a blank look entered her eyes.

“My brother communicates with me not through what he says, but through what he makes me do. He is making me be here, which I think is Mason’s way of saying he knows that I am enduring pain. He wants me to recognise that the only way I can access help is through him, even though he is the ongoing source of my pain. Some joke.”

Margot tipped her head back and gave Hannibal a disarming smile. “My brother has an enduring sense of humour.”

“So then, you believe your brother is paying for your councilling to humour himself?”

“That is almost certainly true. But Mason has other interests outside of humiliating me, Dr. Lecter.”

An image of Will’s frightened face as Mason’s fingers probed the inside of his mouth flashed before Hannibal's eyes. 

He blinked the image away and exhaled, making himself offer Margot a neutral smile.

“Oh?”

“You needn’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“A few possibilities spring to mind. I am aware Mason is an eclectic man.” 

Margot waited, and Hannibal considered the amused expression of her face as the most genuine he had yet seen. He mused that Margot liked to play games with others, too. She looked quite remarkably like Mason at this moment, and he entertained the idea of telling her.

But if he did that, she would shut herself up like a fan. And there was more yet he wanted to hear.

He considered her words carefully. Mason was obsessed with his pigs, of course. But more than that he was obsessed with himself. So the question was, why would Mason engineer a meeting between Hannibal and Margot, if not to serve his own interests? And how would such a meeting benefit him? 

Margot leaned forward to take her teacup. She sipped delicately, and Hannibal waited until she’d returned her cup to the saucer before speaking. 

“Did Mason send you here so you could spy on me?”

Margot looked up, and gave him an empty smile that Hannibal considered a touch too controlled. 

“... Mason has many spies. He doesn’t need me for that.”

“He has always denied you opportunities.”

“Yes.” Margot pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Opportunities and… significance.”

The rest of the consultation passed without incident, or any note Hannibal considered particuarly important. He reassured Margot once their hour was up that he would set about referring her straight away. 

“Mason will be disappointed that it didn’t work out.” Margot said as they shook hands. 

“You will tell him that I am referring you?”

“I won’t need to. He’ll know.”

Hannibal turned her words over in his mind long after she had left. He was glad she had been his last patient for the day. He’d had the foresight to place her at the end of his scedule, suspecting that something concerning would come up.

“He has always denied me any real significance.”

Hannibal began disinfecting the seat on which Margot had sat, as he did after all his patients. He gathered the cups they had drunk from onto a tray and saw that Margot’s cup had been stained by the plum imprint of her lipstick. 

“My brother communicates with me not through what he says, but through what he makes me do.”

Hannibal realised he had known for some time that Mason Verger was abusing his sister. It had only taken until now for him to conciously recognise it. He turned Margot’s teacup carefully over in his hands. 

There was a familiar feeling creeping over him. He began to feel as though a spider was weaving a web closely around him. He had not yet been caught in its sticky threads, but he could feel them, growing closer and closer.

Mason wanted something from Hannibal, but there was simply not enough evidence for him to conclude what that was. First he toyed with Will, and now he sent Margot as his convoy. Did he want Hannibal to know what he was doing to Margot?

No. He did not think it especially likely that Mason cared what he knew. But it mattered to Margot. She had wanted someone to know. 

It did not especially matter what Mason had done or was doing to Margot, under the law, if nothing could be proven. Even if somehow there was a case to be made, Mason could easily squash it flat; his influence and money reached too far. 

It was really too bad. Hannibal would have liked to have seen Mason put nicely out of the way. 

He sighed, and pressed a hand to his brow. A migraine was brewing there, and it would only get worse as the night progressed. He had been under too much stress lately between Will and his dinner party arrangements, and now this.

He thought perhaps he might arrange to see Straussel this week.

He perked up a little, and strolled around his desk, flipping open his diary. Yes, he had a perfect slot this weekend. They could go into the city, perhaps do a little shopping. 

He tapped his mobile and sent a text to Straussel suggesting they meet for brunch. Within a few minutes Straussel had confirmed, and suggested they also bring their slaves. 

Hannibal mused he had not yet met Straussel’s pig, and wondered if Straussel still remembered Will from the Clearview auction. Thinking it could not matter much he readily agreed. Straussel then texted back that he wanted to take his slave clothes shopping later in the day, and invited Hannibal and Will to join them.

Hannibal hesitated. If he took Will clothes shopping with Straussel, it would appear amiss if he did not purchase him anything. But Will had specifically stipulated that Hannibal would allow him to wear whatever he wanted, as a part of their ‘agreement.’ 

Well, he supposed that Will did not technically have to wear anything he brought him. That wasn’t really the point of taking him shopping. The point was that he and Straussel had a pleasant day out, enjoying one of their key interests. He was certain Will would behave himself, regardless. Besides, what right had Will to object? He was a little sick of bending to his feelings, of late. 

He texted back an affirmative and feeling far better off, lifted the tray of dirty teaware in a neat swing and began walking to the kitchen. He would make a simple dinner for Will and himself and get an early night’s sleep.

He tucked away the lingered discomfort of the afternoon, parceling it into another part of his mind for later.

 He suspected that this was not the last he had heard from Margot. He only hoped the Verger’s would give him some peace and quiet for the time being, if not peace of mind.

Chapter Text

The air humidifier hummed pleasantly from somewhere along the pale linoleum ceiling. A gentle breeze caught the blue chiffon curtains decoratively draped across the wide floor to ceiling windows. Just beyond, Will could faintly hear the murmur of traffic. 

The shop assistant’s shoes tip-tapped against the polished floor as she approached with another armful of garment bags. Will worried for her; he didn’t understand how she could manage all of that on four-inch heels. 

Hannibal and Straussel  talked quietly between themselves, seated on royal blue couches between a glass table loaded with flowers. Vases of similar flowers were placed on similar tables all around the store, and the scent was intense. 

He thought bitterly that he might be sick. 

He stood with his arms outstretched as another assistant reached around his chest with a tape measure. Hannibal had a book of fabric samples on his lap that he tossed through casually as he talked, lingering on some, passing over others.

It reminded Will all too readily of the auction. He wondered what it must have been like for Hannibal. Hannibal, who had done this a hundred times. Who was so assured and so at home here in this high-end gentlemen's atelier.

“The steel blue would be charming.” Straussel pointed to a tweed which Hannibal had paused over. “To match his eyes.”

Will realised he was talking about him. 

Straussel’s slave was a young man with brown eyes seated on Straussel’s right. Unlike Straussel, he sat upright with his hands folded in his lap. He paid rapt attention as Straussel and Hannibal talked, beaming as though this was the single greatest experience of his life.

Will could not understand him. He peered intently at the slave's face, trying to see behind the mask. But there was nothing. No hint of the horror and discomfort Will had been feeling all morning.

They were the same, and Will knew he should feel for the blonde man seated in front of him. But they might as well have been on separate worlds.

When Hannibal had informed Will they’d be going out into the city the night before, he hadn’t quite believed it. 

Hannibal explained that Straussel and his slave would meet them for an early lunch, but Will was barely listening, too busy riding a wave of euphoria at the thought of seeing ordinary people.

When Hannibal further explained that they’d be going clothes shopping, his reverie was brought to an abrupt halt. 

“What?” he interjected. Seeing the wounded expression on Hannibal’s face, he cleared his throat and back tracked. He still suspected that, with Hannibal, it was better not to push incivility too far.  “Excuse me. What do you mean?”

“I will be going clothes shopping with Straussel after brunch, and naturally you will accompany us.”

Will had narrowed his eyes. “When we made our deal, I specifically said-”

“That you wish to choose what you wear. And I have every intention of respecting that condition. 

Will had not liked something about the smile that spread across Hannibal’s features.

“You may wear what you like, however, you failed to stipulate that I may not buy you anything to wear. Or that you would not accompany me on shopping excursions. Or that you would not try anything on, once inside a store.”

“I would like to reopen negotiations.” Will had spat through gritted teeth.

“Come now, Will, you can’t mean to tell me that you will kill yourself if I force you to go shopping tomorrow. You must admit this is childish. Besides, you were quite content to visit my tailor for Verger’s party.”

“I thought that was a one off.”

Will had fumed silently as Hannibal had brought his face close to his.

“I ask you to indulge me.”

And so, here they were. In a store which almost exclusively catered to the elite class. The attendant measuring Will made no attempt to hide his disgust as he wrapped his tape measure around Will’s body. It was all Will could do to keep his temper in check. He was sick of people treating him as though he were dirty, just because he was an…animal. 

All that morning, the day in the city with ordinary people which he’d so anticipated had been one disappointment after another. Sneers and alienated stares followed him wherever they went. He had forgotten how prejudiced middle class people were against the slave class, as a rule. Had he really been one of them, only months before?

Will liked to think that he was a moderate person. He never actively disliked the slave class before, or treated them as lesser. 

But he had never noticed how marked the prejudice in his peers really was before now. Had he been so blind? Or had he been wilfully ignorant? 

“If you’ll step down, please.” The attendant gestured for Will to step down off the raised platform. He slipped the sample jacket off Will’s shoulders once they were at eye level, and hurried away with it. 

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asked, addressing the attendant refreshing Hannibal and Straussel’s tea. Once again, he was ignored, and it was only through tremendous self-control Will felt he could prevent himself from rolling his eyes.

“Take a right, through the wide door on the left, next to the private changing rooms.” Hannibal answered him, without looking up. He was too engaged in the catalogue open on his lap.

Relieved to be at least momentarily dismissed, Will followed the route he had indicated. The men’s room was at least clean, stark and white; no scent of flowers anywhere. 

Reaching the sink, Will ran the water as cold as it would go, and splashed his face and neck. He was sure the water splash marks on his white t-shirt would merit some remark from Hannibal. The kind of remark he’d never make at home, only here, in front of his friends.

Home. 

Will looked at himself in the mirror, horror-stricken. He looked like himself. Or rather, a polished, well-groomed version of himself. Despite his best efforts, Hannibal had crept in on him. 

The bitterness which he had nurtured all morning was mounting, and Will just didn’t feel like tamping it down. 

Home? Hell should have been a more apt description. And yet, here he was, wishing to go back. How could he? His stomach rolled over as he looked in the mirror with undisguised hatred. 

He’d started to grow comfortable, somehow. He could think of books in Hannibals’ library he’d started reading, and wanted to go back to finish. Favourite spots in the garden. Even…

He hoped dimly the running faucet would cover the sound of his despairing sob. He pressed a hand over his eyes and finished the thought. 

Even favourite meals. 

He couldn’t believe it. He’d never felt frustration like this. The morning had served as a brutal reminder of how distant he and Hannibal really were. Two opposite ends of a social spectrum, worlds apart. Hannibal had nearly succeeded in drawing Will into his world. But no more.

Hannibal. Will felt a strange twist of guilt as he pictured his master’s face. He knew there were worse monsters in this world than the one he’d ended up with. He couldn’t explain why, but felt as though Hannibal wouldn’t understand why he had to leave. In Hannibal’s eyes, Will wouldn’t be leaving his own consumption. Will would be leaving him . 

He noticed a biro by the sink, perhaps left there by a hasty employee filling out the cleaning chart. With trembling fingers, Will reached into his pocket and found the lunch receipt Hannibal had given him to hold onto. Turning it over, he scrawled a note. There wasn’t much space. He stuck to the bare bones.

‘Hannibal – I cannot deny a chance at freedom, but I am grateful to you. I am sorry to leave like this, but I am unable to stay. Please forgive me. – Will.’

He left the biro where he had found it, and the note pinned beneath it.

Will made himself think logically. Soon they would wonder where he was, maybe send the other slave in after him. Will did not trust him to take his side; for whatever warped reason, he was loyal to Straussel.

But, he had to acknowledge this was a golden opportunity. He was alone, in public. Outside of the estate. No fences. Hannibal had trusted him this far because he thought Will had come to be reliant on him. Maybe Will had believed that, too. That was their mutual mistake. 

It wasn’t likely he would get far. But there was still a chance… 

If he could avoid the police. If he could blend into the crowd, passing as a middle class citizen, as long as he kept going… maybe if he snuck onto the metro, he could get out of the city limits, and then? God only knew. But if he could just get that far.

They would hunt him. Hannibal would hunt for him, and then? What happened when he was caught. 

Will suppressed the swing of nausea that arose as he considered the myriad of possibilities. One horrendous image after another past his eyes. He used to hear about escaped slaves on TV, back when life was normal. Punishments were graphic, and infinitely varied.

And if nothing else, Will trusted Hannibal to be creative.

It wasn’t an ideal setting. Idiotically, he hadn’t planned for this. But there was no time like the present. He quickly patted his hands dry and switched off the faucet. Schooling his face into a meek and impassive mask, he stood up straight and strolled out of the room. 

As Will walked towards the sofas, Hannibal suddenly looked over his shoulder and met Will’s gaze. Will felt his heart drop into his stomach.

“There you are. We were getting worried.”

“I’m sorry, I… remembered I left something in the changing rooms, when we were trying on trousers earlier.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes slightly, still smiling. “What was it?”

“You remember, the… ah…” Will grasped at straws. “You gave me a packet of aspirin this morning. I put the packet in my trouser pocket and I think they fell out when I was changing.”

This was true; Will had claimed a headache that morning hoping it would get him out of shopping.

“Oh.” Hannibal looked away, almost reluctantly. “Just leave them.”

“I still have a headache, actually. I need one.” 

With a sigh, Hannibal spared Will one glance, before nodding his assent. “Let me know if you find them. There may be some more in the car.”

Will nodded and forced himself to walk calmly, as though he had all the time in the world. All the way to the curtained changing room area, he felt Hannibal’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. 

He took a right turn, entering the long corridor of individually curtained changing cubicles. And there at the end, exactly as he remembered, was a fire escape. 

Walking steadily towards the door, Will listened for any sign that an attendant was approaching. Some of the cubicle curtains were drawn shut; did that mean there were others in here changing? Could they hear him opening the door? Would they get to him on time? His heart pounded in his chest as he reached the door and ever so slowly, pressed down on the handle. 

The door opens with a tell-tale gust of air, but no other sound. Silently, he slipped out into the alley that ran alongside the building and shut the door behind him. 

He didn’t stop to look back through the glass. He barely paused to look where he was going before he started walking, breaking out of the alley into a busy main street. The crowds flowed past him, all eyes sliding off his face, forgetting him instantly.

“Easy… easy…” he told himself, forcing himself to calmly walk, as though he knew exactly where he was going. It would be a deadly mistake to break into a run. He prayed to God that his fear did not show on his face.

Crossing the street, he took a few random turns, getting into smaller side streets where there were fewer people, and fewer shops, which should mean fewer cameras. Ten, then twenty, then thirty minutes past. He let himself start to speed up.

 The section of main road he’d just turned onto seemed familiar, and if he could just follow it as far as the underpass, then he was confident he could make his way to the train station from there. 

He’d barely thought the words. He’d barely just allowed himself to think I can make it . A car roared as it rounded the corner ahead and came tearing towards him, travelling far too fast. Hannibal’s white sedan. 

Will burst into a run, ducking right under a railing and skirting his way over a fresh building site. He heard Hannibal’s car squeal to a stop, and pulled a flimsy construction frame down behind him. He jumped the next fence, and pulled himself up onto a dumpster. It faced a low wall with a railing fixed atop. He made the leap and grabbed hold of the railing, pulling himself up.

His heart pounded in his chest, and his legs burned, but he didn’t dare slow down. Falling over the railing he rolled himself up and kept running, along a pavement that bordered an overpass. Up ahead there was a break left into a residential area. He risked a glance left as he turned, and saw Hannibal leap the railing with athletic precision. 

The pathway he’d turned onto was a concrete strip running between the walled back gardens of houses on either side. Not good; he assessed Hannibal’s starting speed to be far greater than his. He saw a trashcan coming up and veered left, jumping on top of it. Pushing himself up onto the wall, he felt a hand grab at the back of his leg, and kicked viciously. 

His kick found some purchase, and he heard Hannibal grunt in pain. The kick was the last push he needed to get up onto the wall, and over it. He fell on flat slate paving, and pushed himself up, gasping for air. The fall had knocked all the air from his lungs. 

Stumbling, he ran across the porch, aiming for the vine covered drain pipe that ran up the side of the house he’d just invaded. There were children at the back door screaming; he ignored them. Reaching the pipe, he grabbed fistfulls of vine and began pulling himself upwards. His feet found some purchase on the wall. 

But a hand closed in a fist on the back of his T-shirt.

“NO!” Will screamed, struggling furiously as Hannibal wrapped an arm around his throat. 

The vines gave way, and Will felt himself falling backwards. His torso slammed into Hannibal’s as the two of them hit the ground. Will’s temple cracked against the stone floor, and black stars popped in front of his eyes. 

The last thing he remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was the ragged breathing at his ear. It was the sound of a lethal animal striking the killing blow. Hannibal’s chest heaved, and his arms tightened. He imagined Hannibal dragging him downwards into swirling blackness. 

When he awoke, the first thing he was aware of was a pounding headache at his temple. Something cold was pressed against the side of his face. Will opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the light. There was movement; he realised he was in a moving car. Someone had done his seatbelt. 

When he lifted his head, the cold object came with him. It felt like an ice pack. Had someone attached it to his head? 

His eyes slowly focused on his surroundings. He was in the backseat alone, and his hands were zip-tied to the seat, in between his legs. The driver looked to the side for a moment , hearing him move, but then turned his attention back to the road.

“Hannibal?” Will’s voice cracked. He felt profoundly sick, and tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

Hannibal said nothing, continuing to look ahead. 

Will stared at the back of his head with disbelief. He closed his eyes, fighting the tears that threatened to fall. His whole body shook as he remembered. He wondered why he was still alive. He wondered how long he had left to live. He wished his heart to stop. 

A hundred threats, pleading words and prayers threatened to push past his lips. He willed himself to breath, and hold his silence, as Hannibal held his. He managed, and a hideous calm settled over him as he focused on breathing out, breathing in. He let the pain sink over him. 

He’d lost. He’d butchered his one chance. Now Hannibal would butcher him.

Where were they going? Back to the estate? Or the stockyards? Perhaps Hannibal was so repulsed he would return him to clearview, where he’d be sent to the meat grinder. A thousand dismal possibilities spun before Will’s eyes.

Blackness crept back into the corners of his eyes. He surrendered himself to it, slipping back into merciful sleep.

Chapter Text

When Will awoke, he was sitting upright. He gazed forward with bleary eyes, recognising Hannibal’s dining room. He found himself at the head of the table, tied into his chair at the wrists and ankles. Hannibal sat on his right, watching him.

Will had never seen Hannibal unkempt before. He’d loosened his tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt. There were no stains on his shirt, nor was a single one of his hairs out of place. His bronze eyes were calm, but a hungry intent seemed to glimmer behind them, like a shark moving in for the kill.

Will shivered. His own shirt was damp with sweat and stained with dirt. His head was throbbing and his palms stung where he had scraped them. Sometimes, he felt that Hannibal was barely human. 

Looking into those eyes, Will braced himself for the kill. Tense seconds passed.

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal broke the silence, his voice low and steady.

Will didn’t dare answer. 

Hannibal exhaled slowly, and leaned forward. For a moment, Will stopped breathing.

“Will.” Hannibal spoke levelly. “I am exceedingly disappointed in you.” 

Will heard it. The slightest quiver in Hannibal's voice, expressing his all-consuming rage.

“I gave you a precious gift. I gave you my trust, and look how you’ve repaid me.”

“I’m sorry.” Will barely recognised his own voice. It was the softest whisper, thick with tears.

“You could not help betraying me.” 

Will squeezed his eyes shut, unable to prevent the tears from rolling down his cheeks, cutting pathways through the dirt and blood.

“It’s alright now, Will. You will not betray me again. I will make sure of it. And I will be more careful in future to remember what you are. Just as you will be careful to remember what I am.”

A tiny alarm beeped, and Will opened his eyes to see Hannibal adjusting his watch. With unsettling composure, Hannibal pushed himself to his feet and fetched a box from the sideboard, before approaching Will. 

Will inhaled at the sharp scratch of the needle as it entered his arm. 

“It is  five o’clock.” Hannibal explained gently.

Will was unsure he heard Hannibal correctly. Five o'clock was the time he usually received his medication. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the facts. Hannibal had just administered his daily medicine. But why? Why medicate him, if he was to die imminently?

He turned as far as he could in the chair, seeking Hannibal’s eyes again. He needed to understand. But Hannibal astutely avoided looking at him. 

“Now then.” 

Hannibal’s hand pressed into the back of Will’s head suddenly, forcing him to bend forward. Will inhaled sharply, gasping through the fresh pain as his head smacked against the polished tabletop.

His head was held there for a moment, and Will struggled feebly, gasping for air. He heard the whisper of fabric being undone. Hannibal deftly pushed his silk tie, bunched up in his hand, past Will’s lips. 

“Please try not to bite through your tongue.” He asked calmly, stuffing Will’s mouth. 

Will’s eyes stretched wide. He barely had time to react before Hannibal had struck downwards like a cobra, biting into his shoulder.

Will screamed as Hannibal’s teeth pierced flesh. The sound was barely a groan around the makeshift gag, and Hannibal responded by biting harder, pushing him further into the table. 

The pain accelerated, pushing Will into a place where only his own screams existed, and the white hot, intolerable pain at his shoulder. Hannibal’s teeth twisted inwards, digging deeper. They opened and shut again, creating a ragged tear in the meat.

Will felt his own blood running along the table, warm against his face and shirt. He gasped for air, uttering one final shriek as Hannibal’s head ripped backwards. He took a mouthful of Will’s shoulder with him. 

It felt like the reverse of an embrace. A black and rotten sort of tenderness. The pain was beyond anything he’d ever felt. Shaking, he felt the wound at his shoulder pulsate. He felt utterly alive, every nerve he possessed vibrating. 

Hannibal stood, releasing him. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, finishing his mouthful. He rested the fingertips of his other hand against Will’s back.

“Stay there.” He commanded. 

In complete shock, Will obeyed. He felt unable to move, but doubted that he would have disobeyed even if he had. 

“You’re not being punished.” Hannibal’s hand disappeared, but returned moments later at his shoulder. Will moaned as a cloth was firmly pressed against the fresh wound. “There’s nothing to worry about. That is all, for now.”

Will listened in disbelief as Hannibal continued to speak calmly. “I needed to give you a reminder from which I might also benefit, so that you are in no doubt as to the nature of our relationship.”

Hannibal’s fingers appeared at Will’s mouth, gently fishing inside for the wet and crumpled tie. Will relaxed his jaw, allowing Hannibal to release the gag. 

“Do you understand?”

Will pressed his lips together.

“Think about it for a moment. And I apologise in advance; this will hurt.” 

With a pair of gauze scissors, presumably from some out of sight first aid kit, Hannibal cut the ragged ruin of Will’s t-shirt, further exposing the bitemark. 

Will gasped, and groaned as Hannibal wetted a cloth with antiseptic and pressed it to his wound. The groan grew into a sound more akin to guttural howling. The antiseptic hurt  almost as badly as the bite. Hannibal shushed him, stroking the back of his head absently.

Will closed his eyes, feeling Hannibal’s fingers run through his hair.

“Do you understand, Will?” Hannibal asked him again.

Will nodded 

“What are you?”

“Your food.” The words were barely a whisper.

“That is correct.” Hannibal’s fingers stroked through Will’s hair tenderly, as he continued to hold the cloth firm at his shoulder. “If you run from me again, I may have to take your legs. But I sincerely hope this won’t be necessary.”

“It won’t.”

“If you ever forget, you may look at this mark on your shoulder. And I, also, will see this mark and…”

Will listened, hearing the slightest trace of hesitation in Hannibal’s voice.

“...and remember I own you.”

“I won’t forget.”

Will turned his face to the side, lifting himself up. Hannibal helped him lean back, until he once again sat upright. He turned his face to Hannibal’s, cheeks drained of colour, eyes bright with tears.

He stared at Hannibal’s lips, considering the dark stain of his own blood. “May I ask you a question?” he murmured.

“Of course.”

“Are you not going to kill me, now?”

Hannibal considered for a moment before answering. “No.”

“... why did you give me my medication? Before you bit me?”

Hannibal gave him a puzzled look. Will couldn’t quite believe he registered genuine concern behind those blank eyes.

“...because you need your medication.”

Will choked on the words he could not say. ‘But it was kind. Why are you still being kind to me?’

He did not understand. Even though Hannibal had maimed him, he had paused to be kind. He had decided not to kill him, yet. He had given Will what he needed, before taking what was his.

He had begun to think he knew Hannibal. But as he looked at the man in front of him, all he could see was a dark labyrinth from which he could not escape. He had been so blind. He knew nothing about him.

How could someone instil such terror, and such tenderness? He defied all usual and rational explanation. Will began to suspect that nobody really understood Hannibal at all. His brokenness ran far deeper than normal people could perceive. 

He has assumed that every action Hannibal took, every small kindness, was another means of manipulating him. But was that true?

Could it be possible that simple gestures of kindness and courtesy were a part of Hannibal? Something he would extend to anybody at all, even a slave, because that was just who he was. 

Inhuman brutality and love, in equal parts.

Once he’d regained his composure, Hannibal set about packing Will’s wound and banadaging it. He thought Will had handled it relatively well, remaining quiet and letting him work.

Once he was satisfied he undid Will’s restraints and took him upstairs to bed. He doubted Will would sleep, but he offered no complaints as Hannibal instructed him to rest. He suspected he would be complacent for a few days at least. 

He made his way downstairs, thinking that he must make them both something to eat. But he found that he wasn’t hungry. He pressed a finger to his stained lips, and found that his hands were trembling. 

The decision to mark Will had been an impulsive one. Before that afternoon, he had never really considered it. He was endlessly frustrated by this quality that Will seemed to bring out of him. 

But clearly, not frustrated enough.

He had been looking for a reason to kill Will, and Will had practically handed it to him. 

He reached his blood stained fingers into his trouser pocket, and crumbled the note Will had left him between them. 

Reaching the kitchen, he headed for the sink and splashed some cold water over his face and neck. Filling a glass, he drank deeply, washing down the remnants of Will’s taste.

His blood, and flesh, had been exactly what he’d always expected. Hauntingly familiar. Almost akin to his own. Biting into Will had felt like biting into himself. It was a divine feeling, and a disturbing one. It was almost like a prayer – a sacred communion.

He put his fingers in his mouth, and prised the metal retainer he had been wearing loose. It was a custom design: stainless steel, with razor sharp incisors. It gave him the animalistic bite which nature had cruelly denied him. He wrapped it carefully in his silk pocket square, and tucked it away.

He hadn’t expected it to mean so much. Perhaps that was why he hesitated, now. He pulled the note from his pocket and looked at it.

Will’s note. It was blunt and inelegant, confessional and sincere. He asked Hannibal to forgive him. The second Hannibal had found that note in the bathroom and read the words, he had forgiven him, wholeheartedly. He only realised this reading the smudged and blood-stained words a second time.

He remembered the terror and fury he had felt, feeling that Will had been ripped away from him. The ice cold calm that had consumed him as he followed Will’s scent out into the street. It was blind luck that had led him down the right street at the right time – or providence. Hannibal had always believed that ultimately, God was on his side. 

But even so, he couldn’t shake how easy it would have been to miss him. And how easily Will had gotten under his skin. It was something about the note. Will had taken precious seconds out of his escape time to write him a note.

Not because he cared about Hannibal, surely. The only possible explanation he could deduce was that the impulse to defer to authority was so ingrained in Will that he could not ignore it. Even when his own life was at risk. 

Perhaps that was why he could not kill him. 

Will operated on a basis of civility – common decency was the core of his identity, not a pillar with which he propped up his ego, like most men.

How rare. How interesting. How beautiful. And how torturous. Hannibal began to suspect that even as his desire to consume Will grew, so did his respect for Will. He had never felt this way before. He did not know what to do.

How could he ever eat him? And yet, How could he not?

Chapter Text

It took several days for Will to fully recover the use of his left arm, under Hannibal’s attentive care. Hannibal assured him that, with the exception of a little stiffness and a substantial scar, there should be no long-lasting pain or damage. Sure enough, the bite healed surprisingly well. Hannibal had bitten into him with a surgeon’s precision, and had provided meticulous care. 

Will took the initiative to look up Straussel’s number in Hannibal’s address book, and call him to apologise for ruining their day out. It was a gesture that impressed Hannibal significantly, and went some way towards melting the icy composure that had formed between them.

But, the line in the sand had been drawn.  Hannibal still allowed Will his requested freedoms at home, but they no longer went out together, and Hannibal tightened his security so that Will had no chance of running away. If Will was a little more afraid of him than he had been, Hannibal supposed this was for the best. But Hannibal, too, felt shaken by the escape attempt in a way that he could not disregard.

He agreed to take on some referral work that month, thinking it would do him good to change up his routine. Though it pained him to admit it, he disliked being away from Will so much, especially now. Really, Will couldn’t have chosen a worse time for his botched escape attempt. But, he hadn’t known, and it couldn’t be helped.

One ordinary Thursday, Hannibal had a breakfast of poached ‘halibut’ and lemon slices on tuscan toast with Will, before collecting his bag and car keys and taking his leave, as usual. Surprisingly, Will followed him to the front door.  

As Hannibal was about to enter his car, he looked back and found, to his surprise, that  Will was standing on the doorstep in his pyjamas, cradling his cup of coffee. When Will caught his eye, he actually waved. Hannibal waved back, uncertain of himself. Should he be suspicious?

He did his best to snap out of his disconcerting thoughts on the drive to work, playing a few of his favourite arias to calm his mind. He succeeded in having quite a pleasant morning, and was even able to catch up on his notes. But his good mood lasted until mid-afternoon, when he received an unexpected visitor.

“Hannibal.” 

He looked up in surprise from his desk. Mason Verger’s bizarre intonation was unmistakable. But he hadn’t heard him come in; Mason had not knocked.

He had been conducting his business that morning from an office usually occupied by one of his colleagues, on a loan. He had no doubt if Mason really wanted to know where he was, he could have found out. But he had not exactly broadcasted his working location for the day. Which means that Mason must have gone out of his way in order to see him today.

The first and most obvious location he would have gone too was Hannibal’s house. Hannibal thought of Will at home alone when Mason came to call. His heart sank into his stomach. 

“Mason. An unexpected pleasure.” Hannibal slid cautiously to his feet.

“May I?” Mason gestured to Hannibal’s empty patient chair. 

Hannibal nodded. “By all means.”

Mason discarded his walking stick and driving gloves casually, dropping them down on Hannibal’s coffee table. He sunk down into the patient chair. Hannibal thought that Mason looked around himself as a child would at a fairground. Everything was endlessly amusing to him. It would seem that Hannibal was involved in some new novelty Mason had invented for himself.

Fighting the urge to audibly sigh, Hannibal strolled around his desk, and smiled companionably.

“To what do I owe this encounter?”

“I’m sure you’re hard at work, Hannibal, so I’ll get right to the point.” Mason folded his hands in his lap and leaned forward, eagerly. Hannibal realised he was waiting for him to join, and so took a seat across from him.

“I’m afraid this must be brief, Mason. As you say, I have much to get on with.”

“No doubt, no doubt…” Mason rolled the words around his mouth, considering his next words. “I wanted to thank you, of course, for seeing our little Margot.”

Hannibal chose to remain silent. Mason smiled, cold eyes fixed forward. 

“Sorry it didn’t work out, of course.”

“Yes… ultimately, Margot and I concluded that the conflict of interests between her and myself made working together impossible.”

“Conflict of interests?”

“That I knew her and other members of the Verger family personally, of course. Which undermines the therapeutic relationship.”

“Oh, naturally.” Mason raised his hands in a mock defence. “Whatever you say, Doctor.”

Hannibal began to feel a little irritated. Mason had said he would get straight to the point, and he doubted that he was here merely to express false gratitude. If he would only cut to the chase, he could stop wasting Hannibal’s time.

Almost as if he could read Hannibal’s mind, Mason pasused, and leaned back in his chair. 

“Well now that that’s dealt with- A little birdie tells me you’ve had an unpleasant incident, and I took it upon myself to express my concern.”

The look of delight which crossed Mason’s features suggested anything other than concern, but this was not what worried Hannibal.

“Really. And what has this little birdie informed you of?”

“Your unsubstantial piggy took it upon himself to take flight.” Mason grinned unpleasantly “If only pigs could fly.” 

“Indeed.” 

“It is true then? Your ah… Will, wasn’t it? He’s graduated from leech to escaped convict.”

Hannibal paused, allowing the weight of his disregard to be felt in the room. “...yes, for all of half an hour.”

“I’d think the length of his absence was irrelevant, wouldn’t you? The real concern is the psychology of an animal like that. A pig that’s apt to run is not worth keeping sir, mark my words.”

“Usually, I would be inclined to agree. But Will and I cannot be separated at this time; I have a duty to fulfil his potential.” 

Mason scoffed audibly, and Hannibal sat up a little straighter.

“You know as well as I do that the slave class are a dissolute race. They’re simply inferior, both in intellect and taste. I mean their sense of discernment of course, not their flavour.” Mason smiled at his own joke. 

Hannibal smiled, again electing silence.

“They’ll take and they’ll take. And it does not do to spare the rod. I know. Dear Margot will have illuminated you on that point.”

He uttered his sister's name with mocking emphasis. Mason took the same knife he’d carried at the party out of his pocket, and began toying with it. Still, Hannibal’s face remained a neutral mask.

“Take my advice sir, you will lay off this petting of slaves I notice you’ve become accustomed to, or this will continue to happen. Why not take a gander at the Verger method, you’ve my open invitation.”

“That is very kind, I’m sure I shall.”

“Drop by, why don’t you. I’d be happy to show you a thing or two.” Mason rested the point of his knife on the armrest of his chair and began worrying the fabric. Still, he kept that hostile smile fixed on Hannibal.

Hannibal’s eyes trained on the mark Mason was making in his patient seat. A seat he would now have to pay to replace. He let his smile slip. If Mason caught a glimpse of the true Hannibal, he did not see that it particularly mattered. Perhaps it would do him some good.

He spoke slowly, folding his hands into fists in his lap.

“Thank you for your opinion, Mason. I’m sure it will give me much to consider. Discipline and discretion are invaluable tools in the handling of slaves.” His eyes narrowed. “And they should be used frequently.”

“... I hope you do not mean to suggest I’ve been indiscrete.”

“Certainly not.”

“Because if anyone is to be accused of indiscretion, with a runaway slave, sir-” 

“I must stress that I do not mean to imply you have been indiscrete, Mason” Hannibal interrupted. “My apologies.”

The words hung heavy in the air between them. At length, Maison cleared his throat, and adjusted his position.

“The misunderstanding is mine.” His jovial smile slid back into place, and Hannibal had to repress a disgusted grimace.

“Well now, this little tittle tattle has been pleasant but I must return to work.” Mason got to his feet, rebuttoning the front of his jacket. “Thank you for your time.”

Hannibal got to his feet and shook the hand that Mason extended. “Not at all.”

“I’m glad we could address any misunderstanding. If you ever need a helping hand, or friendly advice…”

“A kind offer, thank you. And now you really must excuse me.”

Mason snatched up his cane and gloves and allowed Hannibal to walk him to the door. 

Once it had been shut firmly behind the intruder, Hannibal exhaled slowly. He stood for a second, regaining control over his breathing. He could feel the animal in him, creeping to the surface. He turned and took a stroll about the room. It seemed impossibly quiet, now that Mason had left.

His eyes were drawn at once to the dent that Mason had made in the upholstery. It took concentrated effort to drag his eyes away from that spot.

Returning to his desk, he sat back in his chair and pressed his fingers together, considering. 

Mason had to die. 

To arrive in the first place, without an appointment? To barge in without knocking and presume upon his valuable time? The thought alone was enough to make him bristle. 

But to then actually suggest that Hannibal did not have full control of Will, and to offer advice? This upstart, pretentious stain on Hannibal’s landscape had to be disposed of. As soon as feasibly possible.

It only got worse from there. He suggested that he be more cruel with Will, as though that would solve any of his problems. God only knows what he would have to say to his colleague to explain the chair. No, that was the final straw. He admired his own self-control for not leaping out of his seat and strangling Mason right then and there. God knows how badly he’d wanted to.

Hannibal acknowledged that unfortunately, the next opportunity to kill Mason may not be for some time. These things deserved his full attention, and careful planning after all. He plunged himself into a kill, wholehearted. Now that his intention was set, he could take the time to consider what he would do, and when.

Patience was second nature to Hannibal. It was one of his essential qualities which always seemed to come naturally to him. Feeling suitably calmed by his decision, he made a few quick notes in his personal diary on the subject. 

Naturally, considering that they concerned the murder of an elite person, they were written in one of his less valued notebooks. He would of course have to burn it, later on. 

It had been a while since Hannibal had contrived to kill a member of the elite class. He thought it might be a refreshing task; a stimulant to his grey matter. Though it would not be easy. Mason was a well-protected, highly public figure. Still, Hannibal had always aimed high throughout his career.

Despite the events of the afternoon, he made a tolerable attempt to conclude his work for the day, and was able to leave for home in good time. He wondered if Mason had been by the house, as he’d originally feared. As he pulled into his own driveway, everything appeared as he had left it that morning. But he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Will?” He jogged up the last few steps to the front door, which was left ajar. Pushing gently inside he left his coat and briefcase on the sideboard and called out again. 

“Will!”

There was quiet. He walked steadily to the living room, then the kitchen, then the dining room, putting his head around every door. Will was nowhere to be found. 

His heartbeat started to pick up and he took the stairs two at a time, still calling Will’s name. There was nobody upstairs either, in his bedroom or Will’s. Running back downstairs, his first thought was to call the police. 

Perhaps Will had tried another escape attempt. He had seemed different that morning; he should have paid more attention to that. Or…

A horrible thought took hold of him as he reached the phone. Perhaps Mason had come here. The gate would have recognised his car and let him in. And Will…

Oh God. What if he had taken Will? That was exactly the sort of thing Mason would do. 

He had already started dialling 911, barely holding his composure, when he heard a soft voice.

“Hannibal?”

Will’s voice. 

Hannibal spun around. Will stood with a hand on the kitchen doorway. There was that hesitant look in his eyes he’d seen so often recently. Behind him, the kitchen door to the back garden swung open.

The garden. He’d been in the back garden. 

Hannibal placed the phone back on the receiver with trembling fingers. He took a moment to lull the furious creature within him back to sleep. Will was alright. 

“Hannibal?” Will asked again. He edged around the door frame and slowly approached, watching Hannibal’s eyes for the slightest change. There was a smear of dirt on his cheek, and in his hands he held… a potted rose bush.

“What do you have there?” Hannibal asked. His voice was surprisingly steady, compared to how he felt. 

Will looked askance, a blush creeping into his cheek. “It’s um… it’s one of your new rose bushes. I saw on the weather forecast there's going to be a late frost overnight so I’ve been moving them into the greenhouse for you. Don’t want to kill the new buds.”

Hannibal lifted his eyebrows. “I did not take you for a gardener.”

“Neither did I to be honest.” Will tried a smile “I just wanted…something to do.”

“That is considerate of you. I usually have a man come in for that sort of work”

“It’s no trouble.”

Will lingered, staring at the phone Hannibal had just put down. He still struggled to meet Hannibal’s gaze. 

Hannibal realised that without his noticing, his heart had resumed its usual steady pace. He wasn’t sure exactly what had come over him. Of course Will was safe- he’d made sure the house was impenetrable. 

“Hannibal… there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

Hannibal was taken abruptly out of his reflection. He refocused his attention on the man in front of him, and nodded for Will to continue. Will hesitated for a moment, then began to speak slowly, as though his words were rehearsed.

“...I forgive you.”

A heavy pause followed. Hannibal heard the clock ticking in the next room, and the breeze moving through the trees outside. He hardly breathed, waiting for Will to continue.

“I forgive you for being what you necessarily are. I have thought about it, and I accept that I do not know you yet. I haven’t seen behind the final veil, and I may never see behind it. I may never place the final puzzle piece that will answer the question of you. But, I accept that. It was driving me mad before.”

Will paused to inhale and slowly closed his eyes, focusing on his own words. 

“Even without fully understanding you, I accept you anyway. And the reason why is I feel I owe you that much. After all, you have forgiven me.”

Hannibal felt something squeeze tightly in his chest at Will’s words, as though his own heart would stop beating. There was nothing in the world he avoided as avidly as being seen. So how did Will…?

But Will hadn’t finished. Voice trembling now, he continued. 

“I know that you forgave me for running away the second you found me. You didn’t have to. Everyone would have expected you to kill me. But you didn't, which means…”

He swallowed, as though pushing his emotion back.

“You’re my friend.”

Hannibal let the words hang between them for a long moment. Gently, he took the flower pot from Will and placed it on the floor beside them. 

“I have always tried to be your friend, Will.” Hannibal whispered. He might have added that eating Will was only the natural course of that friendship, but kept the thought to himself.

Will nodded, looking again at the floor. 

Hannibal suppressed the urge to hold Will’s face between his hands and tilt his face upwards, so he could search his gaze for the truth. Instead, he mustered his self-control and squeezed Will’s shoulder. 

“And you, are you a friend of mine?” He asked gently. “Friends trust each other. I am honored to be your friend. But I can’t be sure that you’re a friend of mine until I am certain of you. Until I know you are loyal.” 

He recalled that when he had first met Will, he suspected that Will liked to think himself a loyal person. 

The smile he gave Will now was viper sharp, and sweet as honey. 

Will returned the smile Hannibal gave him, mirroring it as best he could. 

He’d only realised what he was going to say to Hannibal half an hour before he’d returned home from work, and that was barely time to rehearse.

Even so, the delivery of his lines came surprisingly easily. The almost-tears were a little much. He hadn’t intended them. He reasoned with himself that emotions were high, anyway. His show of feeling had nothing to do with what he was saying.

Yes, he admitted to himself that Hannibal had become a bizarre safe space in a world of hell. His apparent refusal to kill Will before his allotted time proved that. He did not believe now that Hannibal would kill him until right before his dinner party, come season’s end. 

It felt like a bargain between them. Some hidden rule book. The state of affairs between them should have been lawless. So why did he feel as though they had developed an accord? And when did it happen?

Not overnight, but slowly, piece by piece, with the surety of grains of sand pouring through an hourglass. All he had now was time. That was Hannibal’s ongoing gift to him. 

When Hannibal told him that he needed to know he was loyal, he assumed that was the end of their discussion. But then Hannibal squeezed his shoulder, preventing him from turning away. 

“Would you like to be my friend?” he asked

“Yes.” Will said quickly, feeling uncertain of where this was going. He tried his best to keep his smile open, and obliging.

Hannibal paused. Will felt his smile slip as the light left Hannibal’s eyes.

“Then you’ll have to prove it.”

Chapter Text

Light filtered through the pale grey blinds of Bedelia Du Maurier’s office, while a silver fronted clock ticked a quiet rhythm from the marble mantelpiece. Hannibal gazed admiringly at the structuralist artwork framed above it – a tasteful copy of Rodchenko’s Composition no. 47 .

The silence stretched between them pleasantly as Hannibal continued to appraise Bedelia’s office – not quite comfortable enough to truly feel at home in, but not sterile enough to put you on your guard. He had always held her attention to detail in great esteem. 

Bedelia crossed her arms and lent back into her elegantly neutral armchair, waiting for him to resume their conversation. Hannibal reflected that only she could make that gesture appear refined. 

“How does it feel to be living with Will Graham?” she asked. Her silvered voice was barely a murmur. 

Hannibal paused for a moment before answering her. “Stimulating.”

“And now? After his escape attempt? Does it feel as it did before?”

“Does he inspire me, you mean?”

“All interactions inspire something within us, Hannibal. Love, hatred, envy, hunger . Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would not.”

“Oh?”

When Hannibal looked over the years of his life, he wondered how many times he had met another human and been left utterly cold. Too many to count. It wasn’t something he’d ever really considered before. 

“I believe true inspiration is a higher experience than the everyday result of human interaction. It is a rare experience, defined by mutual feeling and transformation.”

“I see. And would you say that Will has given you ‘true inspiration?’”

Hannibal paused. Always in these therapy sessions, he walked a tightrope with Bedelia. He allowed her to get close enough to the truth in order to appear convincing, but not too close.  It was necessary that he attended personal therapy, for his own accreditation. He allowed her far closer to the veil than he did most people. Perhaps one day he would lift the veil and show her his true self. 

He smiled. “Yes – I would say Will has revitalised me. And I believe I have revitalised him.”

“And how does it feel, knowing this, but also knowing that he chose to leave you?”

The remark stung, and he thought with some discomfort that Bedelia probably knew it. He shrugged casually.

“Man will withdraw from that which most reminds him that he is living. I have reminded Will everyday of his own mortality. Like retracting a hand from a hot stove, his mind tells him to pull away. This is true for most slaves.” 

“But most slaves do not run away.”

“The leap between instinct and action is an impassable distance for most. With Will, not so, it would seem.”

“How troubling for you.”

“I prefer to look at it as a challenge.” Hannibal’s eyes lit up as he spoke. A challenge, indeed. One which he was sure to overcome. 

Bedelia’s answering smile was appropriately vague. 

He liked to challenge Bedelia during these sessions, but not to overcome. Bedelia had never proved herself an obstacle. He challenged her just enough to subdue her curiosity in him. She would not push him too far if she was afraid of what would happen.

“Over the years, I have found there were unique challenges in all of my slaves.'' Hannibal began to reminisce, looking fondly at his therapist. 

“There was that young man whose eyes I removed early, having found myself in need of  a leaving gift for a colleague. I watched him grope blindly through the house for months, unable to find the door to the garden. I was sure I would trip over him one day as he was crawling along, and break my neck.” He chuckled pleasantly. Bedelia did not smile.

“Or that artist from London. How fond I was of that experience, I look back on it frequently. You remember, I had him paint the gardens. He produced some beautiful landscapes of my estate.”

“You had him paint using his own bodily fluids as medium.” Bedelia’s voice had lowered.

“We had so much in common.” Hannibal smiled happily, folding his hands in his lap. “Did you know, when I finally served him, I was inspired by his own work.”

“I do. I was at that dinner party; you hung all of his paintings in the dining room.”

“And presented him in his own style. The effort of such a complicated sculpture, I will admit, stretched my capabilities. But that is the nature of art, is it not? We submit to it’s torture, and reap our rewards.”

Bedelia looked as though she were being tortured, despite her best efforts to maintain a neutral expression. Hannibal could feel her heightened pulse from across the room. 

Most elite person’s processed their pigs and were done with it. Only the connoisseurs heightened the experience to the ritual. He felt it did Bedelia good to remember occasionally that he was one of that select group. 

He had considered her fear of him carefully over the years. She was partly in denial, of course. Bedelia would like to think that the power in this relationship was shared equally, therapist to client. 

Was it simply that she did not relate to his aesthetic impulses? He had thought often they were of one intellectual mind. It was curious that she could not extend their similarities in taste to the stylised consumption of human meat.

The distress she exhibited when he discussed his victims stemmed from a deep seated desire for self-preservation, not out of any compassion for her fellow man. No. He suspected that Bedelia’s empathy had been buried deep within her long ago, like so many of their class. It could not operate in their conscious mind, or they would simply go mad.

Unlike Hannibal, whose compassion had never really existed at all. 

He saw Will before him suddenly. His wild, storm-cloud eyes. His complete despair, and unshakable conscience. 

He hesitated. And Bedelia noticed. 

She sat forward, interested. He could see the clockwork turning behind her eyes as she formulated her next question. 

“And now you find that you are being stretched, once again. Tell me, what does Will bring out in you?”

“Time will tell.” 

“You must have a sense of what is rising to the surface. You say he inspires you. What is it he inspires you to do?”

Hannibal had begun to plan how he would serve Will’s flesh from the day he brought him home. Already, he’d placed an international order for specific herbs and spices he would need. But looking into Bedelia’s eyes, he knew this was not what she meant.

For once, the two of them were on the same page. 

For much of their relationship, Will had been Hannibal’s trigger. He had always tolerated Mason before, but his discourtesy to Will had set in motion his plans for Mason’s murder. He had always ignored Diornett and Faucell’s practices before now, but since Will’s arrival he was less able to tolerate them.

Was this what Bedelia was referencing? Could she be aware? He thought back over their conversation, analysing what had been said. He often spoke about his slaves in these sessions, as they were an obvious influence and distraction in his life. But he also talked of other things, such as his clients and his social life. Had he focused too much on Will?

He had led this session by describing Will’s escape attempt. He had meticulously avoided any language which would hint at his true feelings. He had struck strictly to a narrative recount, adding a fine veneer of humour such as you might expect to hear at a cocktail party, whilst the host shared an amusing anecdote.

That was all he intended the event of Will’s escape to be, in the eyes of other people. 

But, he could see now he had done his task too well. Bedelia saw through it precisely because it was too well constructed, and she knew that disguises were what he did best. He had betrayed how much he had thought of Will these past weeks.

“I suppose…” he answered carefully, assuming a puzzled look. “That Will is a creature of religious inclination. His commitment to the moral concerns of the human race is that of a devout man.”

“And you… mirror him?”

“Like calls to like.” He smiled “I would never say I was a moral person, however prayer calls to prayer. Will inspires devotion.”

“And to whom will you pray?”

“To God, naturally.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. He was willing to continue playing this game with her. Although, he wasn’t sure where she was taking it.

Bedelia leaned forward, clasping her hands in front of her. 

“I believe you worship destruction, Hannibal.”

“What you call destruction, Bedelia, I see as God’s will.”

A pause settled between them. The clock ticked distantly, reminding them both that their session was nearing a close.

“Ask Will to tell you his Gods,” Bedelia suggested. “They may be different from your own. And knowing this may help you to… empathise with him.”

Hannibal felt taken aback. Had not their whole dialogue up until now been dominated by his empathy for Will? Bedelia surely could not accuse him of lacking enthusiasm where Will was concerned. 

“...and why would I want to do that?” he asked, offering a venomous smile. 

Bedelia’s remark had drifted dangerously close to expressing sympathy for the slave class. This was a disgrace, and would stain her reputation badly, if it were to become widely known.

Hannibal had been so concerned with how others perceived his relationship with Will for good reason. He was currently safe; his previous actions had been enough to raise suspicion, but not enough to merit an accusation. 

Although he did feel for Will, that was a private matter. Bedelia was a fool indeed if she thought he would talk of it openly, naming it, acknowledging it. 

Bedelia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, reminded no doubt of her tenuous position. 

“I only meant to suggest, if you come to see the world as Will sees it, you may understand his movements better. The machinations of his mind. His desires, his impulses… this will offer you some respite.”

This will offer you some respite. She said the words so certainly, as though they could not be disputed. Disquieted, Hannibal sat and watched, as Bedelia refreshed her cup of tea. He began to understand that his and Bedelia’s definitions of ‘empathy’ varied wildly.

He had thought he felt for Will deeply, but she would have him feel as Will.

As one strove to embody Christ. 

Shaking himself mentally, Hannibal discarded the thought. At the very least, this session will have given him something to reflect on. But he was displeased. It was never a good sign when his therapy sessions did not go exactly as he intended.

He noticed Bedelia flex her wrist as she placed her teacup back down. 

“How’s your arm?” he asked politely. Bedelia stiffened, not meeting his gaze. This was more like their usual dynamic.

“Fine.” She said quietly.

“If it’s giving you any bother-”

“Not at all. Not really. And I think we've reached the end of our time today.” 

She looked up at him from under her eyelashes, willing him to cooperate. Satisfied, he complied. 

“Of course.” Sliding gracefully to his feet, he rebuttoned the front of his jacket and smiled down on her. 

Bedelia’s arm was in all likelihood fine, despite having reached down a violent patient’s windpipe months before. The spasms she felt in her wrist now were psychosomatic: the ghost of pain.

It had been Hannibal who found her that day, and Hannibal who had kept her secrets. The patient had been an elite class member. Even if Bedelia had claimed self-defence, she likely would not have escaped a lengthy prison sentence, and Hannibal simply hadn’t wanted to have to find another therapist, not after discovering one perfectly suited to his needs. So he had covered for her

And as she looked up at him now, he saw in her face a mixture of fear, resentment and gratitude. Gratitude in its most perfect form. The kind of gratitude that was useful to him. 

She had come to understand him a little better that day. That was his gift to her. He felt that she understood that. And that, ultimately, was how they could still remain friends.

“Be careful.” she murmured as Hannibal headed towards the door. 

Hannibal paused, his hand on the doorknob, and turned back to her. 

“When you feel the need to express your feelings,” she clarified, turning her head to one side. “I trust you to be discreet. Only, you do not always remember where the boundaries lie.”

Heavy silence filled the room. The truth of what Hannibal was, and what he had done, swayed unseen and unspoken between them.

“I see.” Hannibal smiled “Do not worry; you’ve misunderstood me. I am always aware of where the boundaries are. I simply choose to defy them, as is necessary.”

He opened the door and left, shutting Bedelia in her office with her memories.

Chapter Text

“Would you like the chance to prove your loyalty to me?”

Will startled, and lowered his book to his lap. Apparently he hadn’t noticed Hannibal joining him in the tearoom, where, until this interruption, he had been curled up in an armchair and was thoroughly engrossed in Guilliver’s Travels . 

Hannibal had settled himself into the sofa opposite, and was content to waste away his work break simply observing Will until something at last compelled him to speak out. 

Will’s expression was so open when he was startled. Unassumingly, he put the book aside and straightened himself.

“Of course,” he replied. Hannibal wondered if his tone was artificially sincere, but chose not to dwell on it. 

He produced a thick cream envelope from his pocket and held it up for Will to see. Will’s eyes fixed on the envelope with distrust. Hannibal could hardly blame him; the last envelope he’d shown him contained an invite from the Vergers.

He removed the blue and white card from the envelope, and turned it over.

“I have been invited to a fundraiser, on behalf of the state-wide police department. Several members of the Baltimore FBI academy staff will be in attendance.”

He watched as Will visibly stiffened at the mention of his previous place of employment. 

“How did you get invited to something like that?”

“I may have pulled some strings.” He smiled indulgently as Will frowned. “I am allowed to bring a plus one. Will you be my plus one, Will?”

Will hesitated, and Hannibal pressed on.

“I haven’t told you all the details yet, which you should think about before you answer. Firstly it’s a fundraiser, and a masked ball. Formal attire, and of course, masks will be required.” 

Will looked as though the prospect of a masked ball did nothing to entice him. Hannibal sighed, and put the letter to one side. He gazed meaningfully at the man across from him.

“I am conscious that this would not be an easy event for you. Several of your old work colleagues may attend, and you’ve not seen them since you were middle class – isn’t that right?”

Will nodded.

“I sought tickets to this event because I feel it would be good for you to fully release your old self, and old life. Seeing your past friends may grant you closure. And…” 

Hannibal made a show of hesitating, waiting until Will’s attention was entirely fixed on him.

“June and Celine will be there with Abigail, I believe.”

Will remained motionless, his eyes fixed intently on the man across from him. If Hannibal didn’t have Will’s full attention before, he certainly did now.

Will slowly closed his book, appearing as nonchalant as he could manage. 

“I see.” He said disinterestedly. He turned the book over to cast his eyes over the blurb. 

A silence fell between them for a while. Hannibal waited patiently, and eventually, inevitably, Will rejoined the conversation.

“Why would they take her? Is it not an adults only event, I thought these things usually were.”

“Abigail is eighteen now. Technically, she’s not a child.”

“Even so.”

“It is not unusual for a slave to accompany their master to such events, as you are well aware. Especially if the slave in question is the owner’s choice for the season, should they possess many slaves.”

Will paused. “You mean-”

“I expect Celine and June are conducting Abigail’s farewell tour.” Hannibal smiled gently as the words sunk in. “As I am conducting yours.”

Hannibal watched Will’s face slowly change as he registered that this season was likely to be Abigail’s last. He was at last rewarded with the change in Will’s demeanour he had anticipated. 

“So how does one behave at a masked ball?” Will asked quietly, in that wry tone of his that Hannibal was growing to love.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

A local airhanger of some historical significance, having last been of real use during the second world war, had been renovated as a private venue some years since. It had been requisitioned for the evening as a ballroom. 

The dark and cavernous interior was lit with dim purple and blue lights. Overhead long banners of silk fluttered in a mysterious breeze, in shades of blue, silver and white. A disco ball somewhere far above their heads spun shards of light across a lacquered dance floor below. Will could see the burry shapes of his and Hannibal’s silhouettes in it’s polished surface. 

Tables to seat four or five people were clustered around the floor, each draped with a pristine table cloth, and adorned with silverware and name placards. Will thought to himself that it resembled a wedding reception he’d been to once. Only it also seemed like a dream he’d once had, which had been forgotten until now. Everything caught in the glamour of the space seemed caught in a hazy magic of chill air, glittering lights and smoke. 

“It’s cold here.” He murmured, looking up. He couldn’t see to the top of the hall, obscured in darkness. 

“When everyone is gathered it will feel quite warm, I’m sure.”

Hannibal lingered close by Will’s side. Will could hardly blame him; their last public appearance had ended in Will’s disastrous escape attempt. He turned his eyes on the man standing next to him.

Hannibal was wearing a light evening wear set in grey. There were touches of silver in the weave of the fabric which caught the spotlights beautifully. He had opted for a simple dark shirt. Across his brow, an elegant lattice mask stretched, curving down over his cheekbones and between his eyes. It was silver filigree, set with black stones that reminded Will of spots of ink. 

“If you are cold, we could stand closer to the stage.” He offered, and Will shook his head.

“No, it’s alright. You can see everyone who enters better from this position.”

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Yes- and, we’re far enough away from the door that you can decide whether or not you want to speak to the person who came in, and if you do not, grant us enough time to escape or find someone else to talk to.” 

Hannibal gazed at Will with a bemused expression. Will shrugged, and turned his face to look out across the ballroom.

“I’ve noticed how you like to do things.”

“You’re remarkably observant. I’m sure your previous department regarded you as a great asset.”

Hannibal’s expression did not change, but Will saw his gaze sharpen, focusing in on his reaction. He was testing him; attempting to see how nervous he really was about the night ahead. 

He was right. Will had been a tremendous asset to Jack, and everyone else on the team, thanks to his abilities. It was that same gift that had facilitated his downfall. He struggled to look at his gifts now with any sort of pride. Hannibal must know that. 

His old friends, too, must struggle to think of Will as they had done. His drop into the slave class had effectively disowned him from his old life. None of his old colleagues had attempted to contact him after he was transferred into Hannibal’s care, as far as he knew. He didn’t even know if it was possible for them to find him. 

He felt a twinge of regret. Did he resent them for their absence? After all this time? He realised with a jolt that it had been months since he’d last seen them. It felt as though no time had passed at all. 

Almost as though he’d manifested it, he saw Jack Crowford enter the ballroom at that exact instant. He inhaled sharply, a move that he was sure had not been lost on Hannibal. But for the moment, his attention was preoccupied. Hannibal made no indication of wanting to move as Jack approached them. Will followed his lead; he was no coward. 

Jack extended his hand before he’d even reached them. Will realised with a jolt he was extending his hand towards Hannibal. 

“Dr. Lecter.” Jack beamed warmly as Hannibal shook the hand he was proffered. “So good to see you again.”

“Please, formalities will not be necessary. You may call me Hannibal.” Hannibal smiled back, and Jack's eyes slid over to Will. Will frowned as he shook the hand Jack offered less eagerly to him. How did Jack and Hannibal know each other?

“Don’t worry, Will.” Jack said quietly, breaking Will out of his contemplation. “I’ve asked the team to treat you as we’ve always treated each other, tonight.”

Will nodded slowly, letting Jack’s words sink in. He was shocked at the confidence with which Jack had addressed him. Even Hannibal appeared taken off guard. As Jack continued not to break Will’s gaze, Will felt tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. He cursed himself, and willed the tears not to fall.

Jack spoke to him as he might have done anyone, as he’d always spoken to Will, before he was a slave. He’d specifically instructed the team to do the same so that just for tonight, Will might feel… at home. As though nothing had happened. That was a hell of a risk, and to make such a statement in front of Hannibal…

Will pressed Jack’s hand between both of his. “Thank you.” He whispered, voice breaking. Jack smiled once, and drew back. Turning back to Hannibal, he spoke lightly again, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. 

“I was delighted to forward your request for invitations, Hannibal. I hope this means you're considering working with our department again in the future?”

Will watched Hannibal’s face closely. Since when had Hannibal collaborated with the FBI? Was this something he’d pursued privately, after purchasing him? Jack hadn’t been surprised to see him. How long had he known Hannibal and more urgently, how long had he known Will was his slave?

Hannibal wore the mask Will associated most with a beautiful but unmoved statue. His features were smoothed over and his smile was fixed as he accepted Jack’s compliments on his and Will’s attire. 

Will reflected as they talked that Jack seemed quite eager to impress Hannibal. It was amusing, but disconcerting at the same time. He appreciated Jack’s civility towards him, but he couldn’t ignore a pressing fact: he remembered that Jack and his wife had always been interested in the elite class. Jack had never discussed his aspirations with Will. But watching him ingratiate himself now, he couldn’t help but feel that Hannibal was a man Jack wanted to emulate. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

“You will accept a dance with my pig, later, of course?” Hannibal asked politely as they conversation winded to a close. He’d managed to neither confirm nor deny working with Jack in the future, despite Jack’s insistence on the topic. Will wondered if that was for his benefit. 

Jack’s face distorted, briefly betraying his discomfort and horror. But he quickly recovered himself. 

“Of course. The third?” This he asked of Will, and Will nodded. Jack gave a short nod to them both, and moved on. 

Hannibal had let Will know that he would control who Will danced with before the event. It was customary at dances like this one for a slave to dance the last dance with their owner, and for owners to grant dances from their slave to other party goers in the meantime; a hangover from centuries ago, when balls were more common occurrences. 

Still, Will was rattled by his request on Jack. He thought Jack had looked slightly reluctant. He reminded himself that that was perfectly natural; their social roles had been completely transformed since the last time they’d seen each other. It was natural that they should both feel discomfort at the idea. 

With a glance at Hannibal, he wondered if Hannibal didn’t take some petty amusement from that. A flare of anger sparked in his chest, and he did his best to quell it. He didn’t always understand how Hannibal felt, he had to acknowledge that. He also had to acknowledge that he didn’t understand how Hannibal got under his skin so easily. 

More guests had drifted in as Hannibal and Jack were talking, and now the ballroom was beginning to grow crowded. Hannibal had been right, it was much warmer. A band had picked up a soft jazz rendition of bewitched . A low level of chatter began to fill the hall. 

More people drifted up to great Hannibal, and Will accepted as Hannibal offered him as a dance partner to Alana. She had been less bold than Jack but seemed positively relieved to see him. She remarked that he looked very well, and wished them both a pleasant evening. At this point, an attendant passed with flutes of champagne, and Hannibal picked up two, pressing one into Will’s hand as he watched Alana leave.

He felt an ache in his chest that he could not explain. He’d borne so much resentment for her for so long. He couldn’t bring himself to feel that same hatred tonight. He realised slowly how much of his resentment for his old colleagues was born from fear. That didn’t mean he was thrilled to see them. But he was calm. 

The flute of champagne was cold in his hand, and he took a sip.

“Not yet.” Hannibal whispered close to his ear. He paused, following Hannibal’s gaze to the main stage, where a spotlight had been fixed on a group of individuals clustered around a microphone in front of the main band. He recognised Jack in their numbers, as well as the local chief of police, and someone who he assumed was a representative of the academy board, and a fourth elite person who now leaned into the microphone.

“Ladies and Gentlemen” he began, and waited for the chatter to die down. “Thank you for being here tonight at the fourth annual fundraiser ball for the Baltimore State Police Department.” 

A smattering of applause followed. The man paused politely, allowing it to dissipate before continuing. “We’d like to thank our generous sponsors for their life-saving contributions this evening, and of course, the remarkable team responsible for making this evening as special as can be. We won’t yammer on too long, we’d like for you all to relax and enjoy tonight's entertainment. But first, a toast. If you’d all like to collect a glass of champagne.”

Feet shuffled and glasses clinked as the last few people without champagne flutes collected theirs, and raised them high. Will found himself raising his own glass with Hannibal, and every member of the group on stage. 

“To the men and women of the Baltimore State Police Department. Thank you for your tireless service in keeping our streets safe, and protecting our class system.” 

“To our police department!” came the reply. Some cheered, and glasses clinked, as everyone sipped their drinks. Will joined them. He couldn’t help but feel the champagne had a bitter taste. 

The band struck up in force and the crowd cheered, dispersing quickly towards the bar and the floor as couples took their places. Will finished his drink in one and left his glass on a nearby table. He wanted to get some fresh air. But just as he was turning to Hannibal to ask, he stopped in his tracks.

June and Celine drifted in, fashionably late. They looked around expectantly, and stepped aside so that the attendant could take their coats. And there she was: Abigail.

She hung close to the fold’s of June’s long evening dress, and was turning a clutch purse nervously over in her hands. They’d put her in a lilac silk evening gown with a posy of flowers pinned at the waist, and matching elbow length gloves. Her mask was made of flowers, to match the dress. She looked like she were going to senior prom. 

Will felt Hannibal’s hand close tightly around his arm. He had noticed them too, then. Will wouldn’t be going anywhere. 

June and Celine took a turn about the hall, in the opposite direction from Will and Hannibal. Abigail followed dismally in their shadow, and quickly disappeared from sight. But it didn’t matter. She was here, and she was in one piece for now. She was safe. Will felt a loosening in his chest as he exhaled. He felt as though he’d released a burden he hadn’t even known he was carrying. 

Hannibal’s hand slid down Will’s hand to his wrist, and pulled him gently towards the dance floor. Will did not resist, though he still craned his neck trying to catch another glimpse of Abigail. Hannibal had requisitioned both the first and last dance for himself, but Will didn’t particularly mind. He had seen what he’d come here to see.

Hannibal pulled him around to face him, and Will’s shoulder wound jolted painfully. Brought back into himself, he turned to face his partner. Hannibal’s hand lifted Will’s right hand and his left hand rested on Will’s waist. Dean Martin’s Sway started to play and Hannibal swayed them both into a gentle rumba. 

For the previous week, Hannibal had drilled Will in a few basic dances, including latin samples. He hadn’t taken to it naturally, and had grown increasingly nervous as the week had worn on. He’d hated to think of the other dancers' eyes on him, observing his every mistake. 

But now, in the moment, he responded reflexively. He found his nerves had disappeared with the breeze. Perhaps it was just being reassured by Abigail’s presence. He felt he no longer cared what others thought of him; he was more like his old self, again. He focused on Hannibal, and observed his stony composure as he led Will expertly around the floor.

It struck Will that he seemed different than he had moments before… Hannibal did not usually drag him by his wrist, and he was being unusually quiet. A thought suddenly seized hold of him. Could Hannibal possibly be… jealous?

He allowed a small smile to cross his lips as he looked into Hannibal’s face. When Hannibal did not respond he turned his face away, eyeing the crowd. He caught sight of a flash of lilac. Abigail was there, in the front, watching the dancers. He smiled at her. And sure enough, Hannibal’s grip tightened at his side.

Will didn’t see if Abigail had smiled back, they were whisked away across the dance floor too quickly. 

Perhaps Hannibal was simply annoyed by Will’s focus on Abigail. That was a more logical explanation. After all, Will had suspected for some time that Hannibal became fixated on things which he did not completely understand and Will doubted that he, or anyone else, could entirely comprehend his feelings for Abigail. Least of all himself. 

Hannibal spun Will away from him, then drew him back in close as the band gave a final flourish.

Chapter Text

“I didn’t fall down.” Will said softly, as Bedelia approached. The next dance was her claim. 

“I noticed; that’s a remarkable improvement.” Hannibal said, nodding over Will’s shoulder to Bedelia. “Keep up the hard work.” 

He turned Will around, and presented his hand to Bedelia with a short bow. Will caught a glimpse of the look Hannibal and Bedelia exchanged. 

He knew her from the clearview auction, and Hannibal had explained she was his esteemed peer and therapist. It seemed bizarre to him that, considering the nature of their relationship, they would mix in the same social circles. Then again, every convention of the elite class he had so far seen had appeared bizarre. 

Bedelia smiled politely as Will bowed, and took up a position with her for the next song which turned out to be a much slower dance, in the form of ‘fly me to the moon.’ Will silently expressed gratitude that he’d worked on leading a waltz privately, without Hannibal’s help. 

He experienced a brief terror that he would accidentally step on Bedelia’s foot. But, they swung into step with one another. The lights dimmed, and as they swayed Will began to feel more relaxed. 

Bedelia made a few polite remarks on Will’s appearance, which he returned. He had no doubt she had heard about him from Hannibal, but she remained elegantly remote. The barriers between their two classes felt more obvious, and Will assumed they would have little discussion during their dance. 

But then, Bedelia tilted her head and caught his gaze directly. It caught him off guard, and he almost missed a step. In a voice so quiet that even he strained to hear it, Bedelia said “I need to talk to you about Hannibal.” 

Will wasn’t entirely sure how or why he was able to keep dancing, maintaining a neutral expression. He recognised the look in Bedelia’s face. It was sheer human desperation. It was the sort of look he was used to seeing on other slaves, and it appeared bizarrely out of place on this beautiful, glittering person. He understood immediately that this conversation was one which was not supposed to take place.

Were they noticed? And where was Hannibal? He cast his eyes around the audience as he spun Bedelia around. He saw only the shadowy face of a masked crowd of onlookers. A spinning, glittering cast from a fairytale, completely unrecognisable. And no sign of Hannibal anywhere. But he knew all too well, that did not mean he was not listening.

“Not now.” He said under his breath as he pulled Bedelia back into him.

“It has to be now. There’s no other time.” Bedelia squeezed Will’s shoulder tight. 

The song entered its refrain, and Will knew there wasn’t much time left till they parted. He sighed, and gave the slightest possible nod.

“Hannibal is dangerous.” Bedelia whispered, looking over Will’s shoulder. He wondered if now that it came to it, she could not confess and meet his gaze at the same time. Her right hand trembled in his grasp.

“I’m aware.”

“To others besides yourself. He has murdered before- elite class people.” 

Will attempted to repress the shock, but Bedelia gave him a pointed look.

“You didn’t know.”

“...no. I did not.” But did the news really surprise him? Or was it just something he was waiting to hear? 

“Nobody else knows, amongst his friends.” 

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” 

Will allowed Bedelia to lean into a dip, and as he did so she met his gaze head on. The look she gave him cut to the core. It was the unflinching gaze of desperate honesty. 

She pulled close to him as he lifted her back up, and whispered quickly in his ear. “I want you to prove it. There has to be something, and you live with him. And you know how to build a case against someone, you’re an ex-profiler. You can do this. I can’t.”

“...why would I do this?”

“For justice. To see him held responsible.”

Will could have laughed, and for a bitter moment he considered dropping her flat. What about justice? What about his justice? Here they were dancing at a police fundraiser for God's sake, and there wasn’t one person in the whole building who understood justice. 

Bedelia squeezed his arm. “For yourself, then.”

“How is this serving me? I’m taking all the risk.” 

“If Hannibal is brought to justice, you’ll be seized by the state. You’d be considered evidence. It may take months, or years for you to be resold. Maybe not ever.”

Will felt as though his heart went still, for half a beat. If he was never resold… it wouldn’t be much of a life but… he would live. He would survive.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered.

“I’m frightened.” She ducked her head, once again self-conscious. “I begin to suspect he no longer trusts me. ‘ With good reason, apparently ’ Will thought.

“You’re afraid you’re next.” 

“Help me, Will. Help yourself.” Bedelia pulled away as the last few bars of the song played. She gave him one last glance before stepping back into the crowd. 

Will flinched as he felt a hand close on his shoulder. He hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. He turned, and faced Jack Crawford, who was beaming. Evidently he had heard nothing. Will’s feet hurt; he couldn’t really face another dance. But he smiled through his pain and as though nothing were wrong, accepted Jack’s arm. 

Hannibal watched as Bedelia slid back into the crowd. Her silver spangled dress glimmered in and out of sight between the onlookers, like a silverfish pushing against the current. At long last, she approached the bar. 

He considered following her. But, spun slowly on his heel and found Will again on the dancefloor, in the arms of Jack Crawford. The two of them circled each other politely as the band aired their way through ‘it had to be you.’ They were engaged in conversation which Hannibal could not hear, but he didn’t need to. He could see from Jack and Will’s relaxed body posture and easy smiles that they were merely catching up. 

He was sure Jack would make some well-meaning concerns clear for Will’s wellbeing. Will would make a wry joke, Jack would laugh. There was so much they could never say to one another, and they both knew it. But they were both adept at self-composure; a product of years at the FBI Academy.

He’d kept close, as Will and Bedelia had taken the floor. Weaving through the front of the crowd, he’d remained hidden in plain sight, just like always. And he had heard every word. 

So, Bedelia had choked, at long last. He felt a peculiar sinking feeling, and realised it was genuine regret. He was sorry to have to let Bedelia go. She had been invaluable to him, and a good friend. But every journey must end, and all human affections must meet their ultimate conclusion. Birth, life, death. Bedelia was fast approaching her time to die. Hannibal would help her take that final leap.

He had a steadily growing list. First Mason Verger, now his psychiatrist. He would have to find a way to discreetly work Bedelia into his plans, and sooner than he’d anticipated. She would be a slippery catch, and she was apparently determined to work Will into her schemes.

And Will? He had given nothing away. Hannibal focused closely on his face as he talked to Jack. He smiled brilliantly, and danced as easily as any debutante. That haunted expression never quite left his eyes, as always. But he was as happy as he’d seen him in months. 

Perhaps that was due to his conversation with Bedelia. The promise of freedom, and the chance to betray Hannibal, was dangling right within his grasp. And here he was, dancing with a special agent. Would he say anything to Jack that might prompt an investigation?

The song drew to its close and Jack escorted Will to the bar. Silently, Hannibal tailed them. He watched as Will gratefully took a seat, and accepted the beer Jack brought for him. The two sat silently for a while, and Will raised his drink to a few of his colleagues that passed by them both. He smiled, but he looked tired. After everything he’d heard tonight, Hannibal doubted he’d get much sleep. 

Will was allowed a brief rest before taking another turn, this time with Alana as a dance partner. Hannibal too was obliged to accept requests from other partygoers, and make requests of his own to offer respect where it was due. He took one turn first with Celine and another with June, who thereafter preferred to dance with each other for the rest of the night. 

He was somewhat relieved when he asked for Abigail’s hand, as he was informed her dance card was already full. Custom dictated he must at least ask for a dance with her, but he anticipated the prying conversation he would have with Will about it later. He doubted his unruly pet would be capable of letting it alone. Slaves were not permitted to dance with other slaves. So, that was all the interaction he expected to have with Abigail for the rest of the night. 

The time passed, and Hannibal drifted through the crowds, dancing occasionally upon request, and always keeping an eye on Will. Will moved through the crowd of police officers and government officials with an easy smile on his face. At long last, the last dance came. 

Hannibal approached Will slowly, who was leaning against a table, pushing a cocktail stick around the inside of a martini glass. A crystal blue light swung over Will’s face. Hannibal was momentarily struck dumb. 

He’d been watching Will all evening. But had he ever really seen him?

Will was wearing a dark plum suit, with narrow lapels and a dark open collared shirt. He’d picked the outfit for him, of course, and had it tailored but ... Under the glow of the blue spotlight the fabric shimmered, appearing like a dark current; a river unseen but heard and felt in the dead of night. 

The mask Hannibal had gifted him glimmered: a black and purple interpretation of his own dreams. Dark antlers were picked out in rhinestones around his eyes, and gathered on the tops of his cheekbones. It was based on the nightmares Will had told him about. Hannibal had chosen the design to challenge Will. But now, looking at him, he felt as though he were the confronted one. 

Will turned and saw him, and his posture changed. He was no longer remote and thoughtful. All at once he appeared… relieved. The martini glass was forgotten, left on the table's edge. 

“At last” Will said quietly as Hannibal offered him his hand. Hannibal thought he might have stopped breathing, considering all the implications of what Will had just said. But he continued, “after this we can go, right?”

Hannibal chuckled, and led Will out towards the dance floor. The lights had dimmed, and the band had picked up their instruments once more.

“Of course.” 

The band struck up an argentine tango. Will stepped into place at Hannibal’s hand, and let his hand rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. 

The music was like a caress, providing a steady rhythm which their feet instinctually followed. It was like the pulse of a heartbeat. Standing tall, the two of them glided across the floor.

Will’s posture remained perfect. His eyes never broke from Hannibal’s gaze. Hannibal wondered if the knowledge Bedelia had shared had emboldened Will, and his grip on his back tightened. The argentine tango required that they remain close; their faces only a few inches apart. 

Hannibal searched the eyes behind Will’s glittering mask. Did he mean to betray him, once more? Jack Crawford had been making amends to him all night; Will had every opportunity to speak up. But could he merely be waiting until he had evidence to corroborate his claims?

Will merely smiled, an angel in black. The music picked up, and blood racing, Hannibal guided him ever more fiercely around the floor. 

The ballroom was almost deserted. It was long past midnight, and almost all the other guests had chosen to retire early. But here they were, Hannibal and Will. Dancing to a treacherous tune, after all this time. Hannibal spun Will in a graceful arc. Will met him halfway, spinning on his leading foot, folding himself precisely into Hannibal’s waiting arms. 

He turned his cheek towards Hannibal, and Hannibal noticed the way the light caught the perfect line of Will’s throat. He dragged his eyes away, repressing the feeling which overtook him in that instant. 

He happened to catch a glimpse of Jack, standing on the edge of the floor. He met Hannibal’s gaze and smiled, raising his glass.

In a fraction of a second, Hannibal had analysed his posture and expression, seeking a hint of mistrust. But Jack was an open book. He met Hannibal’s look warmly. There was no tension between them, and nothing, as far as he could tell, was hidden in those eyes. 

In the next moment, he’d turned away from Jack and spun Will out of his turn. He and Will walked in a slow circle around each other, pulled back together in the current of the song. They swayed in time, their footsteps circling one another.

The ballroom faded around them. There was only the blue shimming spotlight, and the music, and the dance floor. And Will’s shadowy figure, lithe in his arms. As beautiful and dangerous as a promise. Will had come here tonight to prove his loyalty to Hannibal. He doubted either of them had expected how far he would be tested. 

He felt, guiding Will into a dip, that he was anchored to the earth by the man he was holding. Will kept him tethered to reality as they spun their way through this dream, just as he supported Will throughout their dance.

He knew Will had not betrayed him. Yet.

He felt Will’s fingers close tightly on his shoulder, and caught the flash of a smile on his lips as he drew him back upwards towards him. Will let Hannibal support his full weight, and the two turned expertly back into the dance to a scattering of applause. 

He could have danced with Will forever. The sway of the music compelled his heart to beat, and his feet to move. And though the man in front of him wore a mask, just as he did, they moved in tandem with each other. A perfect pairing. 

He felt Will’s heartbeat as the crescendo climbed, and his breathing became laboured. But there were no words. One look between them and he knew they would not stop. Will would not cut the cord between them. They would see this dance to its conclusion.

Chapter Text

Will woke up gasping for air, eyes flung wide open. He stared up at the dim patterns on his bedroom ceiling. The silence and the dark pressed in on him and for a few moments, all he could hear was the sound of his own laboured breathing.

He focused on lengthening the inhale and exhalation of air, feeling his heart rate gradually slow. His T-shirt clung to his sweat-slicked skin, his legs tangled in his bed clothes. 

He knew where he was. He was okay. He lightly closed his eyes, repeating these words to himself. 

Hannibal was nowhere to be seen – Will probably hadn’t woken him up. He didn’t always wake screaming, these days. He stretched out a stiff and trembling arm to his bedside light, which cast the room in a low, warm light once switched on. His shoulder still hurt terribly, though it was now completely healed – he could always rely on his body to keep the score, he mused grimly. 

He was glad Hannibal wasn’t here, this time around. He needed to think about what he’d seen in his dreams alone. 

The contents of his dreams had changed many times since he had started living with Hannibal. There was always darkness, a kind of shadow that folded itself over his conscious mind and held him in paralytic fear. Sometimes he got a sense of something in that darkness, taking shape like ghosts in the mist.

Sometimes he saw Hobbes, or Abigail, replaying the scene of the homicide. Often the black stag, ever elusive, would linger just at the tail end of what he envisaged. Invariably there would be some distorted sight of the stock yards or the Verger pens, horror inducing and inescapable. Sometimes he saw himself on the butcher’s table being carved up. But before now, he had never particularly dreamed of Hannibal.

Until this past week, following the fundraiser. A shift had occurred, and now his nightmares futured himself and Abigail… and Hannibal too. 

He saw himself walking along the banks of a river, just beginning to thaw. He saw Baltimore as winter was beginning to end, and spring crept in over the landscape. Wet, black bundles floated downstream in and among the chunks of ice. Blood eddied in the reeds, and swept over the mud banks. Bodies, beyond count. Humans who had once been slaves and were now no more than carcasses. They all floated downstream, lost to the roar of the flood. And Will walked upstream, away from their final destination.

He turned his back on the current. The walk led him uphill, and was slippery underfoot, but he pressed onwards. Fresh buds peeked through the mud. The snowdrops would arrive soon. 

When he looked up, searching for an end to his climb, he saw a shadowy figure on the top of the hill. They were backlit by the setting sun, and their features were hidden. As he drew closer, he realised that it was Hannibal. He stood watching Will’s ascent, smiling, his hands in the pockets of his coat. 

“Come on,” a soft voice called out. Will turned, surprised, to his left. Abigail stood there. She reached out and took his hand. Hers were so small in his. “We’re going to be late.”

Will nodded, and continued walking, holding Abigail’s hand firmly. Her hand was slick with blood. Her own or Will’s, he couldn’t tell. But it didn’t seem to matter. They were walking towards Hannibal, and then together, they would all go home. 

It was always on the thought of home that Will was flung from sleep, gasping for air. It was somewhere between a dream and a nightmare. He was terrified to his core, and yet he also felt safe, as though the dream were a reality he could shelter in for a while. He got the sense that his mind was trying to shape a kind of acceptance. Perhaps even a hope for the future. 

He knew how dangerous that was, but he couldn’t stop it. He’d been living in his current circumstances for so long that he couldn’t help but feel that it was his new normal. And he was starting to dream. To look to the future, and hope. 

It wasn’t necessarily a surprise to him that he associated Abigail with the future. That had been the anchor of his sanity: he was meant to die, so that Abigail could live. But in the dream, it felt as if she were one guiding him forward into the light, not the other way around. Perhaps part of him just wanted to escape. But then, why would they be walking towards Hannibal?

He stood on top of that hill like an angel, smiling benevolently downwards. He had been haunted by this man. Scared, physically and mentally. Hannibal had kept him like an oath, and in so doing, had driven him nearly to the brink of insanity. So why did he see him now as a guardian? A goal before him, rather than a horror to be left in the past?

He struggled to connect the dots, pulling himself silently out of bed. The simple clock that Hannibal had placed on his bedside table ticked methodically. He let himself linger in front of it, aching with tiredness. All he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and go to sleep. He made himself stretch instead, becoming more aware of his body. It help to shake off the fears that plagued him.

What was the connection between Hannibal and Abigail? He might have thought in the past they couldn’t be further apart in his feelings than night and day. One inspired hatred, the other compassion. One was a monster, the other was innocent. Recently he’d begun to see that reality was a little more complicated than that. Yes, Hannibal was a monster. But he was a monster who cared, genuinely about his prey. 

Hannibal’s love was not a refuge to Will, and certainly not to Abigail. He must always be careful not to be tempted into thinking it was. That Hannibal’s regard for him would ultimately keep him safe. He had realised some time ago that the more Hannibal’s affection for him grew, the more dangerous his position became. 

But he couldn’t deny the part of him that clung to Hannibal’s tenuous compassion, in a world where he and Abigail were meat. It was irrational, but then so was his fixation on Abigail. It was as if Abigail were his reason for staying alive, and Hannibal was his means. 

He had begun to see that Hannibal and Abigail were being tied together in his mind. The boundaries between them had begun to blur. One was his predator, the other a coveted and precious redemption. He would never have come to Hannibal without Abigail. He would have no ties to Abigail now without Hannibal. One did not exist without the other. 

Whatever future he saw for himself with Abigail, Hannibal had to be a part of it. 

He hadn’t forgotten what Bedelia had said. He had a chance to be free of Hannibal forever, and potentially even survive the system. It was a fragile glimmer of hope that he would be a fool to abandon. Perhaps with time and distance, he’d be able to heal, little by little. Hannibal would become a memory and Abigail would be forgotten.

However, the very thought of losing her filled him with encompassing dread. It was so terrible a thought he believed he might be sick. He couldn’t cope with it, and thrust it away from himself. 

The horrific truth of the matter was that Hannibal was his link to Abigail. He needed to protect her, and he could only do that through him. But he also needed to save himself. Timing would be everything. It was a matter of walking the razor's edge; relying on Hannibal, whilst not allowing Hannibal to see he would betray him in the end. 

He needed Hannibal’s support to find a way of getting Abigail out of danger. That would be his objective, for now. All other concerns paled in comparison. This is what he was compelled to do, even at risk to himself. 

Will slowly sunk back into his bed. The sheets had cooled. He covered himself, and turned back towards the patterned ceiling. He pictured Abigail’s face as he closed his eyes. He needed to know she was alright. Always, it came back to this wishing he could know she was okay. As if his mind was stuck on her, like a scratched record. 

He had never intended to be a father. He simply couldn’t afford it, so it had never even been a question. He’d never had anyone with whom he thought he could start a family before, either. Of course he’d always had a soft spot for animals. They were a way for him to express the care he felt for others. To take care of something that truly mattered. 

The feelings he experienced for Abigail were much like those he’d always assumed a father should feel. Perhaps he was simply so guilt ridden over robbing her of her real father, and effectively plunging her into the slave class…

He screwed his eyes shut. No. No, he couldn’t let himself think that what was happening to Abigail was his fault. 

What were Diornett and Faucell doing with her? Was she kept safe, and comfortable like he was? Or did they keep their slaves as the Vergers did? 

Hannibal had said that Diornett and Faucell preferred purchasing slave children, and that they kept many of them at one time, like some sort of corrupt orphanage. Why had they only brought Abigail out with them in public if that was the case? Was she some sort of favourite?

Will remembered Hannibal’s words at the party, close to his ear. “I expect Celine and June are conducting Abigail’s farewell tour.”

She was getting too old. Out of all of Diornett and Faucell’s children, Abigail would be the next to die. 

Will focused on breathing in, and breathing out. His hands balled into fists under the covers, crumpling the bed sheets. He didn’t know when it was going to happen. If it would happen fast, or slow. He didn’t know yet what he could do to stop it. But he swore silently to himself that whatever he had to do to see her, and talk to her, he would do it. 

Diornett and Faucell were holding a costumed garden party in two days, and he and Hannibal had been invited. That was what he would focus on. He would find a way to help her at that party. 

He had to; they were both running out of time.

Chapter Text

“Well?” 

Hannibal pressed a finger to his lips, and did not speak for some time. At last he murmured, “perfect.” 

Will stood on a footstool in the drawing room, turning slowly around so Hannibal could make a final assessment of his costume. They were due to leave for the Diornett estate in ten minutes. 

Will wore a cream jacket over a deep blue striped shirt with white cuffs. His cufflinks were miniature silver playing cards. The look was pulled together by a midnight blue bowtie and a black bow headband, buried in the dark mass of his curls. His socks were blue and white striped inside of black patent shoes with a buckle. 

“Shouldn’t one of the women have been Alice?” he asked, pushing his chin towards the floor. 

Hannibal smiled and folded his arms. His own ensemble included an eccentric red velvet top hat, and deep plum waistcoat with a diamond pattern overlay. His trousers were high waisted and his white undershirt had billowing sleeves. It brought to mind a Victorian gentleman, or perhaps some sort of pirate. He’d chosen supple red gloves, the colour of gore, and a gold pocket watch hung at his waist. Playing cards, the quintessential ‘10/6’ price tag, and even feathers were stuck into the band of his hat. 

“The roles were randomly allocated,” He explained. “I think it worked out as well as could have been hoped.”

“Easy for you to say, you got a character that actually suits you.” 

“I will decline to comment. Except to say I think that Alice suits you very well.”

Will scoffed and fidgeted with his cufflinks. A faint blush had crept into his cheeks. Whether he was pleased or embarrassed, it was hard to tell. 

“Aren’t we all a little old for costume parties?” Will grumbled, accepting the hand Hannibal offered him to step down. 

“You forget, there will be children in attendance” Hannibal added quietly. 

Will felt his heart drop suddenly into the pit of his stomach. He’d forgotten that today’s event was ostensibly for the children’s benefit. Diornett and Faucell held an annual garden party on their estate to which all their personal friends of the elite class were invited. It was always themed, and always crowded with the children held as slaves.

He couldn’t begin to imagine an event he would less like to attend. But Hannibal had suggested they both go when he received his invitation, and Will had jumped at the chance. He would endure whatever he had to in order to talk to Abigail.

The two of them went out to the car, and Hannibal allowed Will to sit in the front passenger street. Considering where they were going, it was safe to assume that Will would make no escape attempt. The drive was scenic, but almost three hours, made barely tolerable to Will by Hannibal’s morose classical playlist. Unbelievably, the music seemed to put his master in an upbeat mood. 

He grit his teeth as Hannibal cheerfully started humming along with perfect pitch to ‘Dies irae’ with the windows rolled down. Just a couple of sleep-deprived guys, dressed as Alice and the Mad Hatter, blasting classical music about death, going for a drive. He considered it a small wonder they didn’t get pulled over. But then again, the police had proved themselves capable of ignoring the insanity of the elite class thus far. Perhaps we really are all mad here. 

At long last, the car turned along a track which led them to a pair of cast iron gates, darkened with age. Hannibal leant from the car window to punch a number into the intercom fixed to the gatepost. Will leaned forward silently, and consigned the number to memory. 

The gates swung slowly open and Hannibal drove forwards. Will glanced up at the walls as they passed through, and shivered. The walls surrounding the property were capped with needle-thin spikes and barbed wire. Not so much intended to keep intruders out, but to keep the residents in. 

The car snaked its way along a gravel drive that passed green plantation fields and eventually mounted a grassy hill. Will saw a tire swing hanging from one of the many beautiful old trees lining the road. Crocuses and early primrose grew together in clumps all around. It was a beautiful, clear spring day. 

The estate’s history was a muddied one. It had existed long before the class system, slavery had always been a blight on the American conscience, in one form or another. Will found it difficult to look out over the extensive property, lovingly maintained by its owners. It showed no indication of the horrors which had happened there centuries ago, or those which were still occurring. 

The house finally came into view as the car rounded the last curve of the drive. A false front of white grecian columns set off the low, square mansion elegantly. Hydrangea bushes crowded each window and hyacinth had been encouraged to climb every wall. Will assumed that in summer, the scent would be overpowering. 

The car circled the drive, and came to a stop outside the front steps. The front door was thrown wide open. Will peered into the cool shade of the interior hall, but saw no one. 

Hannibal stepped out, and circled the car. He helped Will out of his seat, and as if he had appeared from thin air, a footman appeared at the same time. Will flinched, but the footman ignored him, taking the car keys from Hannibal. He was wearing a playing card costume, belonging to the suite of hearts. 

Hannibal placed his hand on Will’s shoulder, guiding both towards the waiting front door. Behind them, the playing card got into the car and drove off. Will glanced behind, watching him leave. He had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t help but wish that Hannibal had not handed over their means of escape so easily. 

Telling himself that he was just being paranoid, he made some attempt to straighten his jacket and tie. 

The inside of the house was cool and dark. The Diornett’s ancestral home was walled and floored with intricate panels of dark wood. Vases full of red roses were set in many alcoves along the hallway, and upon miniature tables here and there. Will noticed that in every bouquet, there were one or two white roses, hastily painted red. There were more red rose petals strewn across the white carpeted floor. Will realised with some discomfort that they reminded him of splashes of blood. 

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear airy sounds of a garden party- music and what he hoped was children’s laughter. He had always felt nervous, hearing children play in the distance. Their laughter always sounded so much like screaming.

He flinched as Hannibal absently corrected his hair ribbon. “Stay here,” he said absent-mindedly. “I’ll go let June and Celine know we’ve arrived.” 

Will watched Hannibal leave. As the minutes passed, he began to listen to the ticking of a grandfather clock placed close by the door. With each passing second, the clock seemed to grow louder, as they often do in uninterrupted silences. Will began to realise how tired he was, and wished Hannibal would hurry back. He could barely keep his eyes open. 

He decided to seat himself on the staircase, just for a moment. Allowing himself to lean against the bannister, he closed his eyes. 

The chiming of the hour disturbed him. His eyes flung open, as the clock announced midday. The clouds at that moment parted, and bright sunlight flooded the hallway through the open front door. And there, in the doorway, was a young girl. Abigail.

She did not appear to notice him, and was looking around herself in agitation. A pair of white rabbit ears were perched atop a crown of braids. She wore red glass, heart-shaped earrings, and a red waistcoat over a billowing white shirt and white trousers. An oversized pocket watch was fixed to the waistcoat by an elegant gold chain, which she now held open in her hand. Will realised it was this which he had heard ticking earlier. 

Abigail was studying the face of her watch with frantic concern. “Oh no…” she muttered. 

“What’s the matter?” Will called gently. She looked up, and frowned before returning her attention to the watch. 

“I’m going to be late.” she looked around her, and started towards another doorway. “I’m going to get in such trouble…”

Was she talking to him? She seemed to be paying no attention to him at all. Will got to his feet, forgetting his tiredness at once. These were the first words she’d ever said to him. In fact, this was the first time they’d ever had the chance to speak in private. 

“Abigail-” he started, but Abigail was already pushing aside the door, and was disappearing from view. “Wait!”

He chased after her, into what appeared to be some sort of library. He just caught sight of a red waistcoat and white cotton tail disappearing behind another door. 

“I need to talk to you!” 

He skidded around an antique globe and just caught the door before it swung shut. He didn’t understand. Why would she run from him? Was it him she was running from, or someone else she was running towards. She had seemed terribly distressed- Will only prayed he was not the cause. He had a terrible sinking feeling as he followed her into another corridor that led past a narrow staircase that must have once been a servant's passage. The dark panelled walls had given way to sand coloured stone, and he could hear the sounds of a bustling kitchen somewhere out of sight. 

“I won’t hurt you! Abigail, wait!” 

He had lost sight of her now but could hear the patter of her footsteps, and her voice still distantly murmuring “I’m late, I’m going to be very late. They’ll be so angry, oh no, oh dear.”

A horrible anxiety sunk over Will. What could she be late for? Did she mean Diornett, and Faucell. If they were angry, he would stand up for her. If only she would let him catch up to her. If only he could explain that he never meant her any harm, or that he never would have shot her father, if there had been another way. 

The servants' passage gave way into a cool stone room that was clearly being used for laundry, as several machines and dryers surrounded the walls. A pair of white french windows were opened onto a sandstone courtyard. Birds chirped out of sight, and a fountain bubbled in the courtyard’s centre. Unable to see where else Abigail could have gone, Will stepped out into the sunlight. 

The walled courtyard had but one exit; a narrow cast iron gate fitted into the wall. Will skirted the fountain and pushed through the gate, entering the shaded woodland that lay just beyond. He thought he saw a flash of white in the undergrowth ahead of him, and began to run after it. 

He found immediately that the path through the woods was treacherous underfoot. Raised roots, potholes and brambles tripped him at every turn. He could hear a murmur on the breeze, and realised that the artificial woodland must give way onto the lawn where the garden party was well underway. As he was thinking this, Will’s foot caught in a rabbit hole. He was sent plummeting down, face first onto the hard mud. 

He lay there for a few seconds, heavily winded. Allowing himself first to regain his breath, he lifted himself up slowly. His hands were grazed and his head throbbed. The world seemed to spin before his eyes. He wondered distantly if he had hit his head. 

Lifting himself slowly to his feet, he made some attempt at brushing off his outfit. He stared dimly at the clump of trees where he thought he’d last seen Abigail and to his dismay, she was nowhere in sight. He’d lost her, then. 

With a sigh, he glanced behind him. He was bewildered to find that he could no longer see the courtyard. How far had he run? And how on earth was he going to find his way back? Hannibal would be seriously put out if he returned to find that Will had vanished. 

He started walking back in the direction he came. There was no sense in his getting even more lost, and he’d just have to hope he’d have another chance to see Abigail. But as he wandered, the woodland path seemed to stretch endlessly ahead. Beginning to feel slightly panicked, he picked up the pace. 

He slowed at intervals, trying to catch his breath. He noticed on one such occasion there were small things glittering in the grass, around the roots of almost every tree. What he thought at first were stones turned out to be brightly wrapped sweets. ‘Perhaps they’re doing an easter egg hunt for the children’ he thought to himself. Stopping, he scooped up a handful of candy. There were brightly coloured, powdered bonbons inside the wrapping. Each one was stamped with the words ‘EAT ME.’ 

With a sigh, Will popped a couple of candies in his mouth and put the rest in his pocket. He was starving – and he doubted the kids would miss a handful, when the ground around him was practically littered with treats. 

At length he came to a fork in the road. Several paths split off and winded away in different directions through the thick foliage. He was sure he hadn’t come this way. Despairingly, he looked all around himself and his eyes caught suddenly on a signpost he hadn’t noticed. 

On closer inspection, the sign was less than helpful. Its bold and colourful lettering declared each path to lead ‘upwards,’ ‘this way,’ ‘that way,’ and ‘sideways’ to name a few. Realising it was just another decoration for the party, Will sighed and pressed his face into his hands. 

He began to hear someone singing- distantly at first, but surely growing louder. He froze as he recognised the voice, and looked upwards slowly. There was no one on the path in front of him.

“Lost, are we?”

Will, spun on the spot, startled. In the shade of a nearby tree, he saw the gleam of an unnaturally white, wide smile. Mason Verger sidling forward onto the path. He was dressed in a deep purple sporting suit, black shirt, and supple black leather gloves. A set of purple cat ears were nestled in his hair, and a bushy tail wrapped around one of his legs. Most disturbingly, his eyes were transformed by contacts into feline yellow slits. 

“I… no. Well yes, I mean…” Will backed up a step as Mason advanced. 

“Quite alright. The party hasn't started yet.” Mason had both his hands in his pockets, and was circling Will with ease. “Where’s your master, hm?”

“Can you tell me which way I ought to go?” Will skirted the question. Perhaps Mason wouldn’t try anything if he thought Hannibal was nearby.

“Well, that depends...” Mason smiled his unnerving smile, and stepped around one tree. Unbelievably, he reappeared from behind another, several feet away. “...on where it is you’re trying to get to.”

Will blinked, trying to wrap his head around what he’d just seen. He became aware of a powder coating his lips, and tentatively licked away the powdered sugar. A grim realisation slowly dawned on him. Perhaps those sweets weren’t as innocent as they’d seemed.

Not letting himself dwell on the implications of this, he refocused his attention on Mason.

“Did you see…” He hesitated before supply Abigail’s name to Mason. “...the white rabbit, pass through here?”

Mason gave a low chuckle that Will disliked. “Why, I did.” He pointed with one hand to his left, and with the other to his right. “She went that-a-way.” 

“Very funny,” Will sighed “where did she go?”

“Where did who go?”

“The white rabbit.”

“What rabbit?” 

Will squeezed his hands into fists and exhaled slowly with the effort to not strike Mason where he stood. Before he could retaliate, Mason spoke again.

“Of course if I wanted to find a white rabbit, I would ask the Mad Hatter.” 

“The Mad Hatter?”

Will remembered Hannibal and hesitated, and grinning broadly, Mason rejoined “If you know where he is, of course.”

“Yes of course” Will answered quickly. He picked a path to his right and began confidently walked down it, away from Mason. He prayed that he looked as though he knew where he was going. 

“Or you could ask the Hare.” 

Will flinched as he realised that Mason was walking along by his side. When had he moved? He could have sworn he never saw him move. 

“Yes.” He replied, becoming less certain by the minute.

“Of course, he’s as mad as the hatter.” 

“And I suppose you think you’re the least mad, of all the people I might speak to.” 

He felt the brush of what he first thought was Mason’s hand around his waist, but then realised it was his tail. Startled, he turned on the spot. Mason had vanished. He stared around himself, bewildered, as the ghost of an unsettling southern laugh turned into a disembodied voice:

“Oh I’m afraid, most everyone’s mad here.”

Chapter Text

Will had turned and walked hurriedly away, chased by Mason’s incorporeal laughter. He knew that the man was only playing with him. To what end, he did not dare consider. But his laughter followed him all along the length of the path, until he wondered if it were not issuing from inside his own head. 

A scene burst upon him which interrupted these thoughts, as the trees suddenly cleared into a little open area facing the lawn. A long table had been positioned in the centre of this clearing, and laid with a silver tea service on top of a lace tablecloth. A bizarre arrangement of seats, which must have been brought out especially from the house, were put out; armchairs and stools and kitchen chairs and divans. As Will walked up to the table, he saw it was heaped with plate after plate of cakes and other sweet treats. He also saw a selection of savoury pastries, primarily Victorian meat pies. 

At the opposite end of the table from where Will stood, three figures were seated. Will felt a surge of relief as he recognised Hannibal among them. If Mason was still on his tail, perhaps that would scare him off. The other two figures, he realised, were Straussel and his slave.

Straussel wore a peculiar yellow and green check waistcoat, that gave him the appearance of a late-century dandy, and cream plus fours, as though he were about to embark on a golfing trip. A tall and dark pair of rabbit ears were balanced precariously on his head. His slave, on the other hand, wore a far more semble of pale blue waistcoat, trousers, and white shirt. He had draped his long tail over his arm for safe keeping, and his demure appearance was completed by a pair of mouse ears and pink whiskers. 

As Will approached, he saw that Hannibal and Straussel were apparently in the middle of congratulating one another. 

“Exceptional tea, Hannibal. And quite the outfit, if I may say so.”

“Yes, and quite the party.” Hannibal agreed, refilling Straussel’s teacup. 

“Excuse me-” Will began as he approached Hannibal. He’d been planning to explain first why he’d left the spot Hannibal had instructed him to remain on, but before he could do so, he was interrupted. 

“No room!” hiccuped the dormouse, and this chorus was taken up by both Hannibal Straussel in varying tones of condescension.

“No room, no room!” 

Taken aback by this lapse in Hannibal’s usual demeanour (although he did not know to expect anything more from Straussel), Will exclaimed “No room! But there's plenty of room!” He gestured to the long expanse of the empty tea table before them. 

“I had thought you would offer no objections to being excluded.” Hannibal said aside, looking at Will pointedly. He detected the merest hint of scorn in his master's voice. “Considering your prior reluctance to dine with the likes of us.”

He took a long sip from his elegant teacup, never breaking eye contact with Will. 

Will pressed his lips together, and suppressed his frustration as a blush crept up into his face. It seemed hardly fair that Hannibal should reference his early rebellion to the cannibal lifestyle. On reflection, he recognised that not that much time had passed. But it felt as though years had gone by. He looked on that time in his life, and the pain he had felt, with discomfort. 

Or could Hannibal be referencing his and Straussel’s elite status, and Will’s inability to accept the class system? That was a dangerous allusion to make, especially in public. Will couldn’t believe that Hannibal would be so careless. He was distracted from his thoughts as Straussel leaned across to them both.

“What we mean to say is, it is very rude to sit down without being invited.” 

He addressed this last remark to Will, almost as though Hannibal had not spoken at all. Will thought suddenly that it was possible he might not have heard what Hannibal had said. He was happy to continue this strain of conversation, as long as it took them further away from the dangerous topic Hannibal had suggested.  

“I shouldn’t like to be rude.” 

Hannibal’s eyes shone brightly as he interjected. “No indeed. No failing in man is less tolerable to me than rudeness.”

Will suppressed the shiver that ran down his spine as he listened to these words, and gazed into Hannibal’s eyes. 

“Very well, then if my master will invite me, I should be very glad to join your tea party.” He murmured his reply as though it were an entreaty to a dangerous animal.

“Well Hannibal?” Straussel turned to Hannibal expectantly, and Hannibal smiled at Will without a hint of warmth reaching his eyes.

“Will you kindly join us, Alice?”

“I will.”

“Hooray!” Straussel and his dormouse slave cheered, promptly ushering Will into a seat. Apparently, his early ‘rudeness’ had been forgotten. Will struggled to check his exasperation, and only succeeded due to Hannibal’s watchful presence. 

“You must have a cup of tea.” Will found that Straussel was pushing a teacup into his hands.

“Thank you, but I… alright then, I guess.”

He might have said he didn’t like the kind of tea they were drinking - the plain English kind that you were supposed to have with breakfast- but flattened his complaints, ever conscious of Hannibal’s approval. He had noticed in himself a tendency to care a great deal about what Hannibal thought of him, lately. Disquieted, he pushed the thought aside as focused on his original goal. 

“Now that we’re friends again, I wonder if any of you have seen Abi- I mean, the white rabbit?”

“I have an answer to that!” piped up the dormouse. Will looked to his left in surprise. He had never heard Straussel’s slave speak without being spoken to before. He observed him crumpled into his chair with his teacup held close, and smiling dimly. With some disgust, he thought at once that he might be drunk. If he was, neither Hannibal nor Straussel seemed to pay it any mind. Will could only assume they were the cause of his inebriation. To what end, he did not want to consider. 

“I have an answer!” the dormouse repeated himself, and hiccuped. 

“Well then! Out with it!” Straussel slammed his fist against the table, with more force than Will considered necessary. 

“Twinkle, twinkle, little bat… how I wonder… where you’re at…” the dormouse began. Will groaned, and sunk back into his chair. 

“You supercilious creature, we're not looking for a bat! We’re looking for a rabbit.” Straussel interrupted him. The dormouse carried on singing drunkenly into his teacup regardless. 

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Will.” Hannibal rejoined, quietly. “And when you’ve come to the end, pray, stop.” 

Will still could not imagine why they were all acting so odd. He had never heard Hannibal speak in this way before, and he began to get the feeling that it was all a part of some terrible joke, which only he wasn’t in on. 

“...okay. I saw the white rabbit whilst I was standing in the hall, so I ran after her. But she ran away, and I chased her all the way into the woodland where I got lost. And then Mason was there, he’s the cheshire cat-”

“Cat!” Straussel’s slave boy squeaked, sitting bolt upright in his chair. “Cat! Where?”

“Cat!” The reply came at once as the table was thrown into uproar. Will watched in disbelief as all party members besides himself sprung to their feet. “Cat, where?” 

A furious burst of activity from Hannibal and Straussel followed, as they cleared teacups in order to vault over the table and seize the slave boy. They hauled him up onto the table, pinning him in between them on either side. Shouts of “Cat!” and “Silence! Stop that!” filled the air, until Will could hardly tell what outburst issued from which person. 

He began to protest, attempting to raise his voice over the din, with little success. Hannibal and Straussel ignored him completely, and Will watched in horror as they began to stuff the slave boy violently into a very large teapot. He barely had time to wonder at the gigantic vessel, and why he hadn’t noticed it before. He could have sworn it wasn’t there a minute ago. 

Whilst he was being abused, the slave showed very particular distress. He carried on exclaiming “cat!” and offered no objection to being forced head first into a kettle. Hannibal and Straussel succeeded in lifting the boy into the pot, and shutting the lid, effectively silencing him. Will hardly believed he could be more astonished, until he realised that Hannibal and Straussel were singing. Or, more accurately, Straussel was singing, and Hannibal was whistling along in perfect pitch to the tune of ‘twinkle twinkle little star.’ 

“I don’t have time for this!” Will pushed himself to his feet. He would just have to deal with Hannibal’s wrath over his rudeness later; it wasn't as if Hannibal had a leg to stand on, seeing as he was behaving intolerably himself. It distressed him to see Hannibal so out of character, for reasons he could not fully explain. But whatever the cause of his frustration, he couldn’t stand it any longer. 

“Time?” echoed Straussel “Who’s got the time?” 

“Time? Oh dear, no time- I’m so late.” 

Will turned on the spot, eyes stretched wide. And sure enough, Abigail had appeared from the bushes and was walking quickly towards Hannibal and Straussel. 

“Abigail!” Will exclaimed, but she paid him no attention. Passing straight by Hannibal and Straussel, she exchanged a look with Hannibal that caught Will’s attention. It was significant; implying a depth of understanding which he would not have previous anticipated. It immediately raised questions for Will, and introduced new anxieties that he could barely name. 

The moment lasted less than a second, and then Abigail had passed Hannibal and was hurrying away, still muttering to herself. Will didn’t have to think twice before starting after her. He spared a glance to Hannibal and Straussel as he passed them, but they had returned to mocking the dormouse. 

Only too glad to leave them to it, he carried on. He might have felt sorry for the dormouse, but he was so strange, and so seemingly removed from what was happening to him. He let go of his concerns, reluctantly surrendering that which was beyond his ability to help. 

He followed after Abigail through the trees, calling after her to wait as before. To his surprise, she actually slowed her pace, and looked over her shoulder at him sceptically. 

“I can’t talk.” she said, somewhat crossly. “I’m-”

“Late, I know. What are you late for?”

A frown crossed Abigail’s face “the Queen.”

“The Queen?” He puzzled 

The cogs in his brain began to turn quickly, and he sorted through the catalogue of Alice in Wonderland characters, making faces to names, and deducing the likeliest answer. 

“...Diornett?”

Abigail said nothing, but as he turned to look at her she nodded once. The Queen of Hearts, and as the owner of this estate, the ruler of Wonderland. Figures. 

“What do you mean you’re late, exactly?” 

“I’m late to court” 

“But what does that mean- hey wait!” 

Abigail had started speeding up again and with a surge of anxiety, he picked up his pace to keep up with her.

“Abigail… let me know how I can help you!”

“You want to help me?” 

She didn’t look at him as she replied, only focusing on the path ahead. He was sure she recognised him. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but something in her manner told him it was so. She was frightened, and with some discomfort he acknowledged that she was likely also unstable. That wasn’t so hard to believe. What was harder to face was that with every passing moment, he was only making her more frightened. 

Perhaps it was simply that he reminded her of the unspeakable- her father’s death. Perhaps it was more complicated than that. But whatever the cause might be, it was clear she wanted nothing to do with him. 

“I don’t need your help.” 

“Abigail…”

They walked in silence for some time. Will thought might at least take the opportunity to apologise, if he could find the words. But he still wanted to find out whether she was in immediate danger. He understood if she never wanted to see him again, as much as that crushed him- but she was going to die, and there was some way he could intervene, he would have to disregard her wishes if it meant saving her life.

“You may not be ready to hear this… but I’m conscious I may never have another opportunity to tell you how sorry I am. I am truly sorry about everything.”

Abigail pressed her lips together and kept walking. He took her silence as permission to keep speaking. He thought carefully about how to frame his next sentence. To ask her outright if she was in danger would be pointless; of course she was in imminent danger. She might even think that he was making fun of her. So, he diverted back to their previous topic, in the hope he could keep her talking long enough to glean some useful information.

“I will leave you alone, if you’d prefer that. But… before I go, what is court? This… thing you’re late for?”

Abigail gave a bitter laugh, which surprised him.

“The court of the Queen of Hearts- there’s to be a trial.” 

Will’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. “Are you on trial?”

“No, it’s the knave.” she gave him a sceptical look. “Don’t you know the story, Alice?”

“Is that what this is all about?” he sighed, putting his hands in his pockets. Whilst they’d been walking they wandered into a hedge maze, dotted with white roses. The floral scent was intense, and he began to feel nauseous. 

“I can’t stay and talk to you. You should know I’m already terribly late and… if you don’t hurry up, you’ll be late too.” 

He looked around in alarm, but Abigail had already broken away from him and was hurrying down a diverging path in the maze. 

“Abigail! Wait, I don’t know the way!”

He hurried after her, but two turns later and she was already out of sight. He kept walking quickly, hoping the exit to the maze would become apparent. He was anxious to get out; he almost felt as though the walls were closing in on him and the scent was overpowering. 

Quite out of breath, he suddenly burst upon an opening in the maze that led onto a miniature garden. With great relief he saw that at the other end of the little garden, there was an archway, and on the other side a sloping green lawn leading back to the house. He could see a long picnic table set with chairs, and the tinny sound of a gramophone being played, and what he thought was children’s laughter.

Leaning against the maze wall to catch his breath, he caught a glimpse of activity to his right, and was startled to discover that he was not alone.

Around the perimeter of the little garden stood ornamental rose trees of a different variety to the kind inside the maze. The tree closest to Will on his right was surrounded by three children who he supposed couldn’t be much older than nine or ten. They were all wearing sentinel uniforms emblazoned with the different suites of a deck of cards. Between them, they were furiously pulling roses from the tree and dipping them in buckets of what he thought at first was red paint.

He realised that the rancid scent from which he’d been fleeing was stronger here than it was anywhere else he’d been. And as he looked closely and the dark red sheen of the bedraggled roses, he understood why. It was gore. The blood under the midday sun gave off a strong metallic scent, and was congealed thickly over every flower. Will clasped a hand over his nose and mouth.

The blood was smeared over the hands of the children, but they did not seem to notice, nor did they pay Will any mind. The three of them were visibly pale beneath their uniforms, and went about their task calmly enough, but with the relentless energy of persons who had received a terrible shock, and were now driven by adrenaline. 

“What are you doing?” Will asked, and startled, one of the children dropped their paintcan and turned to look at him. A dark flood of gore washed over the grass and sunk quickly into the fresh earth at their feet.

“Oh now you’ve done it!” One of the other children cried. He picked up the paint can and thrust it into the hands of the child who’d dropped it, who looked as though he were about to cry. “There won't be enough left to do the rest of the roses.” 

“Hang on a minute, just… stop what you’re doing.” Will walked towards them slowly, holding up one outstretched hand in an attempt to soothe the visibly agitated group. As they each turned to look at him, he saw there was only wariness in their gaze, where there should have been only innocence.

“We can’t stop!” rejoined the child who had spoken before. He appeared to be the oldest. “There isn’t enough time, she’ll be here soon.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were meant to put only red roses in the garden this morning, but no one told us… they only said roses. They were so angry when they found out and told us we have to have all of these roses painted red, like in the story book, by the time the party starts.”

“That isn’t paint.” Will replied thickly. 

All four of them slowly turned and stared at the dripping rose bush. The children looked between themselves and back at Will. He wished he had never had to see children look at him in that way. 

At that moment, trumpets sounded from across the lawn. With a yelp, the eldest boy threw his own paintcan of gore over the last white roses directly behind him and knelt down in the grass. The other children followed suit, but there were still roses left white by the time they were all kneeling. 

“This is all your fault.” One of them whispered bitterly at Will.

“What is? I still don’t know-”

But in that instant, Will was cut off as the trumpets grew louder, and a small procession of characters appeared at the archway. Coming directly towards them was a crowd of children, of varying ages. Each and every one was dressed as the kneeling children were, as sentinels from a pack of cards. Some of the older children led the younger ones by the hand. After them appeared Abigail, trumpet in hand. She sounded the approach of the adults, who followed soon after. 

 Will recognised Hannibal, Straussel, and his slave boy first. They were all behaving more like themselves for the time being, much to his relief. Then came a woman in a long blue and silk dress, with a lengthy train that she draped across one arm. The costume was orientalist in design, and was decorated with a line of miniature false appendages, like those of a caterpillar, down the length of her torso.

 She held a long cigarette holder in one hand, and puffed on it intermittently. He dimly recalled seeing her face before, and placed her at Diornett’s side when Hannibal had purchased him from Clearview. He concluded it was likely this figure was Faucell. 

After this person came Mason. He strolled along with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at Will. Then came Margot, close to his side. She also wore the livery of the queen of hearts, which consisted of a tunic, leggings, boots, and fringed minstrels cap. She held before her a tray of blood red jame hearts. And at long last, behind her came Diornett. 

She was not much changed from the last time Will had seen her, except for her attire. She wore the heavy black and white gown of the Queen, complete with white ruff collar and glittering red crown. She smiled warmly to her assembled guests, including Will. Will felt a rage begin to burn in his chest such as he had never felt before when looking into her face. 

The crowd assembled themselves around the perimeter of the garden, and Will watched as Abigail approached the centre, scroll and trumpet in hand. Delivering a final flourish on her instrument, she tucked it under her arm and began to read from the scroll. 

“Presenting her royal majesty, the Queen of Hearts, the members of the court, and the residents of wonderland. The trial will now commence!” 

The children giggled and cheered as Margot approached the centre garden, accompanied by two of the children who had assumed the role of guards. She came to a standstill in front of the Queen. Abigail reappeared at the Queen’s side, and continued to read aloud.

“The knave of hearts stands accused of stealing the Queen’s jam tarts. How does the accused plead?”

Before Margot could answer, Diornett waved a hand. “Wait!” she shouted, startling Will. She pointed over Margot’s shoulder, and the whole company turned to look in Will’s direction.

For one horrifying moment, Will thought it was him that she was pointing at with such vehemence. But then he realised that it was the trembling group of children kneeling behind him, and the painted rose bush. 

“What is the meaning of this? Who has been painting my roses red.” Diornett strode across the grass towards the trio and Will, and the rest followed close behind her, the knave of heart’s trial quite forgotten. 

“Please forgive us your majesty.” One of the children whimpered.

“Please! It wasn’t my fault!” another cried out, pointing to his comrades. “It was their idea!” 

“Our idea!” his friends retorted. “It’s your fault too!”

Will felt like shouting that the children had only been painting the roses with gore because someone had made them. Just as they were only participating in this ridiculous charade because someone was making them. 

He looked over the Queen’s shoulder at the group of witnesses. Most of the adults stood and watched impassively. The younger children stared, open mouthed, oblivious to the implications of what they were seeing. But the older children and most particularly Abigail watched on with pale faces and trembling hands. They had seen this play before evidently, and knew how it would end. 

“And you!” Will flinched as Diornett turned on him, her skirts rustling in the grass as they swept around her. “What is your part in all this?”

“I…”

He stood mute, grasping for what to say. All eyes turned on him, and as he fought the rising panic in his chest, he locked eyes with Hannibals. At once he realised this was not the mad hatter he had met before but his Hannibal, the true Hannibal. Silently his master mouthed the words. “Play the part.”

Very well. He would trust him; there was little else he could do.

“...Your majesty, I’m Alice.”

Chapter Text

“Alice?” 

The Red Queen had repeated his words back to him, and a light of recognition came across her face. She laughed, and said “But of course! How marvellous, Hannibal has done very well with you. That decides it.”

She turned and facing the general assembly raised both her hands for silence. 

“Children, ladies and gentlemen. I am very pleased to announce that I have selected our Alice in Wonderland costume contest winner. Please congratulate Alice, played by Hannibal’s slave.”

Will looked round in surprise as the company burst into applause. He caught Hannibal's gaze a second time. He beamed at Will as he clapped, evidently enjoying the praise which also extended to himself by association. Will could only accept that as fair. His costume was really Hannibal's creation, after all. 

“And now, your reward, before we all go and eat.” The Red Queen continued as the clapping died down. 

Will was pleased that at least for the moment, the children cowering at Diornett’s feet had been forgotten. They themselves had begun to realise this, and were discreetly retreating backwards towards the hedge maze. 

“If you please, Alice, you will choose our pig for today.” 

Time seemed to hold still. The courtyard fell silent, and all Will could hear for one terrible moment was the sound of his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. He turned slowly and met Diornett’s smile, which he was realising never quite reached her eyes. 

“Excuse me?” he asked quietly. 

Every eye in the assembly was fixed on him. There would be no assistance. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. 

“You will choose a pig, please, for today. One of the slaves present here. To be eaten.” 

Diornett gestured to the lineup of playing cards young and small. They all looked up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Each awaiting their fate. Will became dizzier and dizzier as his eyes passed down the line. They were children. All of them, children. And he was to send one to their death, in front of them all. 

Diornett was saying something distantly about how he may approach the children if he wanted to, but he could barely hear her. He was going to pass out, or vomit, or both. There was no question that he couldn’t do it. He looked again for Hannibal in the crowd, beseeching God silently to help him. But there was only silence, and a terrible black fear at the back of his mind that threatened to swallow him whole. 

Before he could find Hannibal, however, another voice piped up. 

“What about them?” 

He looked and saw Abigail point, with a trembling finger towards the playing card children who had painted the rose bush. As she pointed, she looked not at the children she was condemning, but directly at Will. 

“Aha! Quite right my dear.” 

Diornett pushed past Will and seized upon the terrified playing cards. 

“If you please Alice, rather than give you full choice from my stock, I’d rather you select from between these three. There is nothing I dislike more than children who keep secrets from their owners.” 

She said this last to Will in an almost confidential tone, as though they were allies. He gazed at her in disbelief, allowing long seconds to pass. He didn’t dare speak until he was positive he had full control of himself. Or God only knows what he might have been compelled to say. 

He spared Abigail one glance. She had to have known that by reminding Diornett, she was sentencing these children to death. 

Was it merely for his sake? Could it be possible that she had come over to Diornett and Faucell’s way of thinking, much like Straussel’s slave boy? Or was she merely working to preserve her status as Diornett and Faucell’s apparent favourite.

He looked away quickly, a black flood of grief swelled up inside his chest. He could hear the darkness echoing again- and Hobb’s whisper. 

“See?” 

He would not look at her. He would not face the truth of what she was capable of. He did not want to see.

His gaze focused on the three small figures crouched beneath the Queen, gazing up at him with wet, pleading eyes. He tried to think of what was kindest. What he would have wanted, in their shoes. But all the while, a voice inside of him that he did not recognise questioned the point of mercy.

They were all going to die. Some sooner than others. Perhaps it was better that they should all go as soon as possible. They all deserved it, slaves and masters alike. Humankind was irreparably, hideously flawed. Yes. They all deserved to die.

And perhaps if he did this. It would bring him closer to Abigail… who was apparently no better than any of them.

“Take all three.”

The party fell silent. Even Diornett hesitated. And for once, Will felt every pair of eyes fixed on him in horror, and did not care. 

“Kill all three of them.” 

The slaves at his feet erupted into short, staggered cries and pleads for mercy. But their despair was quickly drowned out by the applause of the surrounding guests. 

“Very well. Off with their heads!”

Diornett gestured, and a group of sentinels from the collection of cards broke from their group. They hauled the unlucky three to their feet and began marching them towards the house. The rest of the guests relaxed into conversations amongst themselves.

Will stared upwards into the bright spring sunshine. A migraine was beginning to throb behind his eyes, and he felt disorientated. He lifted his hands to his face, and willed the pain to disappear. He felt a hand on the centre of his back. 

Turning, he met Hannibal’s steady gaze and soft smile. 

“Come along.” He said simply. 

Feeling as though he were still in a dream from which he could not wake, Will trailed after Hannibal through the grass towards the picnic tables and the other guests. The children played amongst themselves in the grass. Giggling and shrieking, they manipulated a brightly coloured kite that needed four of them to manage. 

He gazed wearily at them, attempting to understand how they could behave as though nothing was wrong. His eyes drifted upwards and he saw that the colourful kite was in the shape of a large fish. He thought that the kite string resembled a fishing line. And as his eyes refocused on the children, he understood a little better.

How many times had he gone fishing in his dreams, with Abigail by his side? 

Playing, even when you were asleep, was how you kept from going mad in wonderland. He let Hannibal take his hand and pull him away towards the picnic table, and the meal that would inevitably be served there. 

Hannibal listened as Will explained what had happened in hushed tones. They sat together through lunch, and he allowed Will to talk without interruption for most of it. On any other occasion, he would have reminded Will that his chatter was likely a distraction from what it was he was eating. He would have discouraged him, gently trying to get him to appreciate what he was putting in his mouth. But this time, Hannibal admitted that he welcomed the distraction for his own sake. 

He never liked visiting the Diornett estate. He had suspected that any interaction between Will and Abigail would further drive Will into his waiting arms, and contribute to the general decay of Will’s sanity. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. But as soon as they arrived, he knew the day would be dismal. 

He listened with some interest as Will described his attempt at chasing Abigail, and how that led him to bump into first Mason, then himself and Staussel. He was confident that the chase at least had really happened, but his own insane behaviour at the tea party was completely made up. Perhaps the encounter with Mason was also only partially accurate.

He found he had difficulty swallowing his food at this last thought. He really would have to question Diornett and Faucell more thoroughly on the drugs with which they’d laced the various sweet treats available. They seemed to enjoy toying with their guests, with as little regard for their well being as they had for their slaves. 

He supposed he should empathise with that. But there was something about Diornett and Faucell’s games and parties and general lifestyle that he could not stomach. And he knew deep down, it was because of the children. 

He had felt his skin crawl from the first instant he saw the children in their costumes and discussed the premise of the party with Diornett. Almost as though he were cold. As though he were trapped in that house, with those men, and Misca.

He’d had to excuse himself to the men’s room. He stayed for some time, silently cursing the costume and makeup which prevented him from splashing cold water on his face. Only later had he ventured out and decided a stroll in the woods would set him to rights before he went back for Will. 

He’d run into Straussel and his slave around a tea party set up, and before he knew it he’d fallen into easy conversation. They all generally enjoyed the coincidence of their all happening to run into one another at the tea party as the mad hatter, the hare and the dormouse. Then, low and behold, Will had shown up. He had been initially delighted, until he’d realised that Will had clearly been drugged.

They had attempted to get him to sit and eat and drink something, but he kept rambling on about the white rabbit, and had eventually run off. Staussel had persuaded him to let him go, reminding him that there was no way he could escape, and suggesting that perhaps it was better if Will worked off whatever was in his system on his own. 

He’d gone to Diornett directly afterwards and asked for some explanation. She told him about the sweets and the rare combination of psychedelics within them. 

“Unless he’s eaten too much, he’ll be quite safe- they’re really not that powerful.” she’d reassured him. But he’d fretted all afternoon, keeping an eye out for Will, and wondering how Diornett and Faucell could be so thoughtless as to make psychedelics available to the highly unstable, traumatised minds in their possession. And in his.

Every time he ran into one of the slaves, particularly the younger girls, he was overcome by sensory and emotional recollections of a past he could barely describe, even to himself. It had been a torturous morning. When he’d at last caught up with Will, he’d been so relieved to see him, and when the ‘court’ assembled and Will pronounced the winner, he’d been fascinated… and temporarily distracted from his own problems.

Perhaps it was the drugs, or a combination of that and the intervention of Abigail, which was better than he possibly could have hoped. He would discover the particular details of how her actions had affected Will later. For now, he would revel in Will’s decision to kill all three of the potential victims.

Something within Will had snapped, at long last, and he was beginning to express his violent impulses. The same murderous impulses which Hannibal had always suspected were there. The same impulses which he understood entirely, because he recognised them within himself.

He began to entertain hopes that he would have considered impossible mere months ago. Was it possible? Could a slave become a conoisseur, once initiated into the cannibal lifestyle?

Really, he did not know whether he should thank Diornett or not. 

He suggested that they go home in the early afternoon, and Will had quietly nodded his assent. He had begun to grow drowsy towards the end of the meal. A symptom, Hannibal suspected, of the drugs wearing off. 

He thanked Diornett and Faucell gracefully and delivered Will to the car. Not particularly wishing to talk, he deposited Will in the backseat this time around. For some time he sat in the driver's seat, composing himself. It had been a long day for them both. He was thrilled with Will’s progress on the one hand, and sick to his stomach on the other. His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Is something wrong?”

He looked over his shoulder and met Will’s gaze. He was touched by the genuine interest he saw there.

“No. Nothing is wrong.” 

He turned the key in the ignition, cutting their conversation short. He might want to speak to Will about the party later, but for now he needed to collect his thoughts. 

It was a long drive. It seemed far longer than the drive down. All the while, he felt Will’s eyes on the back of his head watching him. He could see how tired his pig had become, glancing at him every now and then in the rearview mirror. Will looked pale, and his eyelids dropped as he leaned back in his seat. But he never stopped watching Hannibal. 

Perhaps he was conscious that something was wrong. His previous comment would seem to indicate that was the case. Hannibal pushed the thought aside with a small shake of his head. No, it wasn’t possible. He had never so much as hinted his past to Will before. He was only imagining that Will was capable of that kind of empathy, and perceptiveness.

By the time they arrived back home, Hannibal felt utterly exhausted to his core. The distress which had been triggered at Diornett and Faucell’s had only grown, until it lived and breathed beneath his skin. A kind of living fury and fear boiled within him. He had come to inhabit the same feelings he had felt as a boy, all those years ago. He saw Misha before him, and found he could not make her image disappear. 

He stepped slowly from the car, every one of his senses heightened. Will stepped quietly out as he opened the door for him. The two of them stood looking at each other for some time. He saw the same watchful caution in Will’s features that he had observed on the drive home. 

Perhaps Will was instinctively aware of Hannibal’s heightened state. He imagined that in his look and manner there was something of the cold rage that he was now struggling to control. He only hoped that Will understood that the rage was not caused by him. 

Will’s finger’s touched the sleeve of Hannibal’s shirt cuff, ever so slightly. It was the smallest gesture, and more than enough. It told him that Will noticed, and though he could not possibly be aware of all that Hannibal was currently experiencing, he was there should he need him. 

He seized upon the thought as it occurred to him. Yes. He needed Will, to make this horror dissipate. He must regain control, and then he would return to normal. He saw the glassy film of Will’s grey eyes and the miniature spasms of his musculature. He heard his shallow breathing and could almost taste his blood, once again. 

This feeling that gripped him was the original source of his need to kill. As he stood close to Will and regarded his property with a predator's eyes, he felt that urge again. 

“Perhaps” he said, as quietly as a prayer. “I should kill you now.”

Will did not react, except to go completely still. His eyes did not move from Hannibal’s face. As if in a dream, Hannibal put his hand around Will’s arm and led him to the house. There was no aggression in the act; no struggle and no spasmodic violence to which he was accustomed. The two of them walked, arm in arm, as easily as any two companions to the grave. 

He led will through the main hall, now cool and dark with the approaching evening. In the kitchen he paused to unlock the sealed door by his fridge, punching the numbers into the keypad. He was aware of Will’s watching him doing this, and to his surprise, was not particularly alarmed. He reasoned it did not matter if Will knew the keycode to his meat larder- a room which had never allowed his slaves to enter alive before. Will too would soon be dead, and his secrets would die with him. 

The large metal door slid softly aside with a gust of cold air. Hannibal flicked a light switch to his right, and ushered Will inside. 

The larder resembled the interior of a professional kitchen. Spotless metal panelling lined the walls, and stainproof slate grey tiling covered the floors. Along one wall were a set of glass-fronted fridges, in which were carefully sealed parcels of human meat, which were each carefully labelled in Hannibal’s elegant script. A large floating island, fitted with a drain and resembling a morgue table, dominated the space. Steel fronted Cupboards ran around the walls, and beneath the shining countertops on which sat various kitchen implements, such as his dehydrator, and vacuum packing machine. Along an empty stretch of wall above the sink, he had installed four magnetised knife racks, each bearing the instruments of his craft. 

It was to this which he led Will. He hadn’t planned on this. He had originally meant to slaughter and prepare Will at summer’s end, in time for his end of season banquet. That was his design. He carefully observed the man next to him, surprised by his continued composure. 

He detected a subtle shift in Will’s countenance. His heart rate had elevated slightly, and a thin sheen of sweat was forming on his brow. He was more afraid than he was willing to let on, but he was doing a remarkable job of controlling himself. Did he understand that Hannibal was in earnest?

He released Will’s arm, and took hold of a parcel he’d left on the floating island. He folded back the box’s lid, and beckoned for Will to look inside. 

“These are for you.” 

He allowed Will to reach inside and pull on the packets of carefully stored plants- some cut and dried, others still growing in small pots of fresh soil. A subtle aroma rose from the box which Hannibal expected Will would not be able to detect. He’d ordered an array of fragrant herbs with which to experiment. Their confused aroma had a peculiarly medicinal smell, tinged with a heady sweetness. 

He fondly observed Will turn over the very herbs that would enhance his flesh in his hands. As the full meaning of his words descended over Will, he watched his slave slowly place each herb back in their case. He noticed the apparent care with which Will handled each herb. It was as if a spell had been cast over them both, and they were each bound to respect the sanctity of this moment. 

“For me?”

Will repeated his words quietly, and Hannibal knew it was only a rhetorical question. There was no need to clarify, for Will and he were of one mind and one understanding. Never had he experienced such a union with one who he was destined to consume. 

Wishing to extend the moment, he gestured for Will to open a cabinet behind him. He leaned over Will’s shoulder and extracted a leather bound journal from inside, next to his box of recipe cards. The two of them leaned against the counter in silence as Hannibal flicked through his book to the correct page. 

At last, he landed on the pages he was searching for. He showed Will anatomically correct drawings of Will himself, in the nude. He’d labelled each drawing carefully, describing in the margins where he would make each incision, and what method he intended to use to extract every organ. He’d made some additional drawings of the organs in question and notes for the preparation and storage of each, as well as Will’s musculature, his skeleton, his marrow, blood and other fluids. 

He’d also begun working on the design of his table for his last glorious dinner party. He’d made serving suggestions and planned accompaniments to Will’s body, at this time preferring fresh greens to seasonal roots. He’d made some sketches on the presentation of his meal, and begun compiling a list of fine wines which might accompany Will’s flavour profile best. 

In the quiet hours of the evening he’d worked at his design privately, often waiting until Will was asleep so he was sure he would not be disturbed. He had always been confident he would reveal his intentions for Will’s body to Will. But prior to this moment, he had thought he would wait until the moment of execution. He had thought he would only show Will his plans when they were perfect and complete.

But here he was, showing Will his work in progress. His eyes remained fixed on Will’s face as he watched his slave slowly turn from page to page. He felt a curious emotion rising to the surface, like bubbles in the foaming flood of his turmoil. Will did not recoil from his work, or betray any hint of horror. Instead, the drawing seemed to absorb his attention. His finger’s lightly traced each sketch as he took in every detail. 

The strange feeling rose higher in him, spreading across his cheek in a warm flush. It reminded him of intoxication. The respect which Will was showing him at this moment exceeded his expectations. 

Silence ruled the space between them. Hannibal waited patiently until Will had finished studying his work book, feeling as though a part of him had been flayed raw. He realised that he had instinctively chosen to give Will a sacred gift; some small part of himself. Was this an unconscious recompense for the gifts he would now forcibly extract from Will?

Will carefully shut the journal and with a sigh, placed it on the counter behind him. He regarded Hannibal for a long moment. Then he turned, and to Hannibal’s surprise, reached for the knife rack. He tensed, expecting some sort of attack. But Will only detached a thin and wicked blade with apparent ease, and flipped it over in his hand.

Holding the knife’s blade he turned to Hannibal, and offered him the handle.

Hannibal stood stunned. Will waited for the space of a heartbeat. Then he stepped gently forward, seeking Hannibal’s gaze. 

“You want to kill me, don’t you?”

The whispered words became unnaturally loud, caught in a room designed to contain the sound of screams. 

“Yes.”

He heard himself respond without feeling any connection to the words. He was lost in Will’s storm-cloud eyes. He felt distantly aware of his hand reaching for the knife Will offered him. 

“...You’re in pain, aren’t you?

He heard the subtlest inflection in Will’s voice, betraying fear. Will continued to speak with barely suppressed emotion.

“I don’t know what’s happened, or what it is you’re feeling but… whatever it is, if killing me would make you feel better…”

He closed the distance between them, taking the final step that pushed the knife handle firmly into Hannibal’s hand. The knife tip pressed into Will’s stomach without puncturing it. Looking down, Hannibal saw blood dribble from between Will’s clenched fingers, as he gripped the knife blade too tightly.

“Then that’s okay.”

He felt Will’s free hand reach around to hold the back of his neck. Their temples were pressed against each other. He felt the cool surface of Will’s brow, and closed his eyes.

“I want you to kill me, it will help you.”

He let the words sink into him. Will would really allow him to do this, to use his body in this most final way, to assuage his own fury? He invited unimaginable pain, just to satiate his master's whim.

Once he had thought these words, they seemed to produce a transformative effect within him. Sheer wonder and joy mingled with his sickness. The two of them stood in this posture for minute after minute, breathing heavily. Poised on the brink of destruction.

Will’s submission effected a curious change upon him. His bloodlust was not mitigated, but soothed. He felt as though his rage were contained by Will. As though through sheer selflessness and superiority of mind, Will had consumed his desire to kill. 

He felt his grip on the knife blade slacken. He opened his eyes and looked into the face of the man before him. He reached again for his rage. He willed the furious beast within to rise up and compel him to murder, as it had done so many times before. He tried to force himself to want to destroy this perfect man.

He felt the strength of Will’s words, and was forced to concede that he could not crush this creature before him. He had underestimated Will. Whatever it was in him that made him feel this way, it was utterly unique. And it sanctified Will; he could not destroy him. At least, not like this. 

He let his hand release the knife. It clattered as it hit the floor, splattering the small puddle of Will’s blood. 

The words he chose did little to express all that he felt.

“Will…you do not deserve to die.”

Chapter Text

Apparently overcome, Will collapsed, fainting into Hannibal’s arms.

Hannibal sunk to the floor, taking the full weight of Will’s unconscious body. His arms shook as he wrapped them tightly around his slave and lowered him to the floor. 

He waited with his hand at Will’s cheek, and at length, Will was brought back to consciousness. He helped him to his feet, and the two of them left the meat larder. For the first time in his life, Hannibal felt eager to leave that sacred space.

Murmuring reassurances to Will, he helped him to the living room and had him lie down on the couch with his head elevated. He pulled one of the side tables to Will’s side, and quickly fetched a glass of room-temperature water and a box of sweet biscuits he usually reserved for Christmas. He felt as though he were functioning on autopilot - going through the motions of being Will’s master. 

Once he had seen Will eat and drink, he excused himself, explaining that he would be gone for some time. He knew what he had to do. His equilibrium was shattered, and he must kill to feel remotely human again. The shock which Will had given him had only temporarily subdued the most monstrous parts of him. 

He recalled a certain mountain trail in the woods nearby. Thrill-seeking mountaineers from the middle class would often explore those trails alone, sometimes camping out for days without letting any of their loved ones know where they were… perhaps he would get lucky. Taking his coat and keys, he hurried outside. Everything else he would need was in the boot of his car. 

Hours later, he returned under the cover of darkness. He quietly pulled the car into the drive and went to the boot to check on the now-occupied body bag. Seeing his kill exactly where he’d left it, he felt soothed and decided to go in and check on Will before transferring it to the house. Although he had not yet fully processed the afternoon’s events, he trusted himself to behave rationally again.

He opened the front door quietly and saw the living room door was still open, and the lights were still on. He removed his mud-stained shoes and left them outside, before padding his way across the hall and gently pushing the living room door aside.

Will remained sitting on the sofa, though at some point in Hannibal’s absence, he’d switched out his Alice costume for his usual navy pyjamas. He’d also made himself some tea and was eating his way through the cookie tin Hannibal had left him. 

“I left you those so you could have some sugar, after fainting. I did not mean for you to help yourself to the whole tin.” 

Will tipped the cookie tin upwards as he munched on the shortbread still in his hand. Hannibal could see he’d left plenty of cookies inside and was quite touched to see that Will had left Hannibal’s favourites.

Satisfied, he excused himself a second time, assuring Will he would be back. He returned to his car and began the routine process of dragging his kill to the kitchen. He had to drag the bag past the open living room door on his way. He felt Will’s eyes linger on him and the body as he passed. 

Once the kill was safely disposed of, he made some effort in the kitchen to reorganize his appearance. He looked as immaculate as always, yet he felt compelled to make some effort for Will’s sake. All too happy to discard his own costume, he changed into the spare evening ensemble he kept in his car for just such occasions. It had been stashed neatly with the body bag in a waterproof case and had been brought into the house with the body. 

In a far more appropriate trouser and soft cashmere sweater set, he washed his hands and face at the kitchen sink, and re-combed his hair. Why was he so unnerved? He was infuriated to discover he could not simply suppress the frantic beating of his heart. Feeling he could no longer delay, he returned to the living room. 

Will watched silently as Hannibal approached, and took a seat next to him on the sofa. They sat quietly for a few moments, the cookie tin lying untouched between them. 

The reality of the last few hours hung heavy between them. Hannibal wondered if Will was waiting for him to speak first. When he glanced in his direction, he found Will’s waiting eyes fixed calmly on his face. He betrayed no hint of the discomfort that now tortured Hannibal.

How could he be so calm? Or was he simply adept at hiding his true emotions? Reluctantly, Hannibal conceded that could be the case. Will ought to be badly shaken. He ought to be frightened of Hannibal, desperate to get away from him. Where is the man who ran away from him? The man who hated him so profoundly those short months ago. 

He weighed his feelings carefully, not allowing them to sway his judgment or influence his behavior. It seemed more important than ever that he do so now, after such a serious lapse. He had been so overwhelmed by his bloodlust he had almost killed Will. And then perhaps even more incomprehensibly, he had been so captured by his feelings in the moment, and by how Will had behaved, that he had not followed through. 

To say that he had surprised himself was an understatement. Nothing could have prepared him for Will’s response. He had behaved as though he depended on Hannibal for his very reason to exist. He searched the eyes of the man across from him, looking for some indication this was true.

Was it so impossible that Will had come to believe in him that much? 

And how was it possible that he had not noticed? Nothing in Will’s manner over the last weeks had changed drastically- he was still the same quiet, anti-social, thoughtful creature he’d known him to be. He was certainly consistent; at every turn, he’d managed to cancel Hannibal’s plans in one way or another. 

He felt a steady, immutable frustration- the same frustration Will had always inspired, but today, here and now, it was particularly difficult to ignore. Perhaps because it confounded him so. He landed on the idea that Will had done everything to manipulate him. Even in offering himself. He could have bet on the chance that Hannibal would spare his life.

That idea of Will was consistent with what he generally thought of slaves. He knew he should not put the possibility to one side. But oh, how badly did he not want that to be true. Sitting and looking at Will, he felt again that soaring, dizzying sensation he had felt when Will had offered him his life. 

He shouldn’t underestimate Will, and he did not intend to. But he was willing to disregard that fact one moment, just one moment, to bask in the beauty of Will’s sacrifice. 

He was no simple offering to his cavernous, black hunger. His actions represented something so indicative of sanctity that Hannibal could not stand the idea that they were contrived. 

His reverie was interrupted by Will clearing his throat. He realized they had been sitting quietly together for some time.

“Where did you go?”

Will’s voice was scratchy, and more than a little tired. Hannibal smiled as best he could.

“A mountain trail I know of, nearby. Hikers get into accidents there frequently.”

“I see.”

The two of them paused, quietly acknowledging the fact of Hannibal’s murder- and the other murders it implied. Hannibal noticed that for once, there was no need on his part to feign innocence. It was an unexpected relief. Will leaned towards him slightly, as though to speak in confidence. 

“I have something to tell you.”

“You can tell me anything, Will.”

Will nodded once, and exhaled slowly, as though he were summoning the courage to confess a secret.

“At the masked ball… Bedelia Du Maurier told me what you were. She told me what you’ve done, to elite-class people.”

In the space that followed, you could have heard a pin drop. Hannibal’s hands curled slowly into fists in his lap. Will’s eyes followed the movement and lingered on Hannibal’s hands. 

“She wanted me to help her get you arrested. I think she thought that there’d be evidence, here. Something in the house I could use to prove what you’d done.”

“She was right.”

There was no judgment in Hannibal's tone; only gentleness. He reached over and placed his hand over Will’s. Will paused and nodded once. 

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Perhaps not.” 

“I just wanted you to know I wouldn’t have… hurt you in that way.” 

Slowly, Will turned his palm upwards, enclosing the hand Hannibal had placed over his. Their fingers interlaced. 

Hannibal carefully assumed a mask of neutrality. He had to be careful not to hint that he’d known about Bedelia already. He still felt the importance of controlling Will carefully, for which purpose he would have to hold his cards close to his chest. 

Even so, he couldn’t deny he was relieved. There is less of a need for secrecy now. He might be more open about his plans when he was at home, even sharing them with Will. Bedelia would never have become a problem, he wouldn’t have allowed it. But once again, it was gratifying to know he and Will were on the same page.

It was incredible that Will would make such a declaration. He had to know how much danger he would be putting Bedelia in by doing so. A smile crept over Hannibal’s lips despite himself as he remembered the one aspect of the garden party he had relished in: Will’s newly discovered ruthlessness. 

He felt his hopes from earlier were confirmed; Will would and could put others' lives at risk to protect himself… and apparently, to protect Hannibal. His heart practically swelled with pride, and he gripped Will’s hand ever more tightly.

Will would willingly sever his last tie to freedom. He could not reason away his decision to tell Hannibal about Bedelia. It had to mean that Will had chosen Hannibal. He had realized that his best chance was with his master. His rightful place in life was by his side. Hannibal recognized the same feelings responding within his own heart. He too was better off with Will near him. To inspire him, to reassure him. To change him. 

It was further confirmation of what Will’s sacrifice had inspired him to hope; that Will had chosen and would continue to choose loyalty to Hannibal over morality and safety. He had at long last succeeded in dominating him. Will had been shown the whole lawless, flawed picture of Hannibal, and had chosen him anyway.

He felt the sudden urge to lean forward and close the space between them. To press his mouth to Wills. To claim victory through his lips, and surrender to the heady, irrepressible joy that he knew would drown him, if he chose.

Startled, he turned his face away. The impulse was unexpected and unbidden. He felt a flush creep up his neck, and uncertain of himself, decided to push the thought away.

“Hannibal?”

He turned back to Will, abruptly snatched from his thoughts.

Will’s face hung so close to his, mere inches away. His eyes had softened. 

Hannibal held still, as Will seemed to fall forwards. Their lips met as if compelled by gravity. Shakespeare’s words entered his mind before he was swept away:

‘Then move not whilst my prayer's effect I take.’

Will could not describe how it felt to kiss Hannibal. He had not exactly meant to do it. The energy in the room had simply changed. He had surrendered to his instincts, barely stopping to consider what it would mean. For one terrible moment, he thought he had crossed a line. Then Hannibal’s mouth had opened under his. And then they had become lost, together, caught in ravenous darkness. 

The flood of insatiable hunger was released inside of him. He felt as though Hannibal’s kiss had consumed him, body and soul. His pleasure mingled with his own living terror, as Hannibal gripped his face in both hands. They shouldn’t do this; it broke every written and unspoken law.

They broke apart, and it was over as quickly as it had begun. They sat breathing heavily for some time, Hannibal still holding his face. Quietly, the clock on the opposite wall ticked. The world was the same, and yet everything had changed. Then, his master’s grip slowly softened and finally released him. He knew from a glance that Hannibal was as stunned as he felt. 

All afternoon and evening, he had been thinking about how to play Hannibal into his hands. He had sensed his chance was near. Hannibal was vulnerable after the party, and Will knew instinctively who Hannibal needed him to be. He didn’t know how he’d guessed what Hannibal wanted and needed so easily.

He’d gotten too close to Hannibal for comfort. And now, apparently. Something new and dark had bloomed between them. The thought turned his stomach. This was the man who he revolted against. The symbol of everything he reviled. And yet… 

Listening to Hannibal breathe, he remembered again the wet taste of his lips and the heat of his breath. His throat went dry, and he squirmed inwardly, torn between want and distrust. He could not look at this part of himself that reacted to Hannibal’s body in that way. He could not understand it, and he could not make it fit with his idea of who he was. Who he had to be. 

He was tired, and still faintly uneasy following his experience at the garden party. Already it had begun to feel like a bad dream. He was sure he was mostly sober, at least.

He had needed Hannibal to truly see him as a friend. Perhaps with this between them, he finally would. And that would make it possible for Will to suggest by degrees that Hannibal should kill Diornett. 

He had been planning how to prevent Abigail’s murder for some time. Bedelia’s revelation had given him the insight into Hannibal’s character that he needed. If Hannibal had killed elite people before and gotten away with it, then he was the best equipped out of the two of them to end Diornett’s life. Will now only needed to convince him this was a good idea. 

Of course, once Hannibal had done the hard work for him, he would ultimately betray him. His plan was to run away, but only with Abigail. If he couldn’t save her life as well as his own, he didn’t see the point in saving his life at all.

He looked again at Hannibal’s profile, cast in silver by the newly arisen moon. His hair hung over his eyes, throwing them into shadow. The only suggestion he was a living man and not a perfect statue was the red flush on his bitten lips. 

This changed nothing. He knew what he had to do. Hannibal was a monster- and he would not be his victim. Regardless of how he felt.

Hannibal helped him to his feet and without speaking to one another, they quietly exited the living room. They climbed the stairs to bed side by side, and when they reached the second landing, Hannibal walked into his bedroom, and Will into his. He paused to look over his shoulder once in the doorway and found Hannibal doing the same.

“Goodnight.” He’d whispered.

“Goodnight.” Hannibal had replied, and the two of them had shut their doors. 

There would be no conversation about what had happened, apparently. Maybe they would carry on as though it had never happened. Will knew as well as Hannibal that relationships between elite-class people and slaves were heavily taboo. Hannibal himself had often hinted that he thought the nature of Straussel’s relationship with his slave was unnatural. 

Perhaps Hannibal was disgusted. Perhaps he was confused. Perhaps he too was playing games. Will had been mistaken; the kiss was a fluke. A mistake. Will’s stomach sank at the thought, and disquieted, he made himself go to bed.

He’d only kissed Hannibal to further manipulate him. It might have been unnecessary, but it had ultimately served his purpose. He’d given up Bedelia and surrendered himself to Hannibal’s mercy for the same reason- to save Abigail’s life. He had no reason not to betray and crush Hannibal, in the end. 

All through the night he repeated these words to himself as if through repetition he would come to believe them.

Chapter Text

The hired car made its way along a darkened street, the city lights glittering far above them. Inside, Hannibal and Will sat side by side in the back seat, separated from the driver by a closed partition. A bottle of champagne sat open between them in an ice tray, but their two glasses had barely been touched. 

Silence ruled, as it had done these past few weeks. Will closed and opened his palms nervously. Hannibal was taking him to the opera that evening, and had given him a brand new suit, probably the most expensive thing he would ever wear. It fit him like a glove, and he was afraid to get it dirty.  He recalled the very first day he met Hannibal, how the man had compared him to a very expensive and edible doll, to be dressed up and paraded around. That might have been true, at one time. But things had changed.

Since the night of the kiss, Hannibal barely spoke to or spent time with him at all. The days had slipped by, one after the other,and not knowing how to breach the chasm that seemed to stretch out between them, Will waited in silence.

It was as if Hannibal had turned into a living statue, beautiful and cold. Will could only assume it was the kiss they had shared that had effected this change. If he could have taken it back now, he would have. He felt as if he’d ruined everything, and the steady, helpless decline had sunk over him. 

He could hardly explain his own unhappiness. He tried to tell himself that he was merely disappointed that the kiss had driven them apart rather than brought them closer together, because he needed Hannibal’s ear for the homicide he was the stage. But such explanations fell short. They did nothing to comfort him. 

As they went through the motions of attending this final evening together, he could not deny that he felt as though he’d lost a friend. A strange and merciful confidante. A steadfast enemy. And his future partner in crime. 

He swallowed his own shameful longing, piece by piece, as time sped onwards. How could he form the words ‘ I miss you? ’ Nevermind speak them aloud. 

Hannibal looked at his companion from the corner of his eye, as Will gazed out the window. He looked absolutely perfect. His tailor had done a wonderful job; Will looked as though he were made to wear black tie. Hannibal had even arranged for him to see his personal barber for the event. Will’s stubble was smoothed, his usually messy locks neatened, but Hannibal was privately pleased that the barber had not clipped away all of Will’s curls.

He looked perfect, and the night was proceeding exactly as planned. He’d marked this day out in his calendar months ahead of time, and over the last few days the final ingredients he would need to process Will’s body had arrived. It was drawing close to the time when he had planned to kill Will and as per tradition, he was taking his slave out for one last dazzling view of civilization.

It was a night he’d always enjoyed with his past slaves, whatever the circumstances. Therefore, he could not explain to himself why he was so hesitant. When he first saw Will that evening, dressed and ready to go, his heart had swelled with both pride and sickness. Looking at him now, he felt that same concoction of emotions. 

He dared not contemplate the reason for this change. Just as he had avoided all thoughts of the kiss these weeks past. He had hardly known what to do. Distraught at first, he had not been able to find the words to apologise to Will, for his blatant act of disrespect to him and what he was sure Will must view as a blatant abuse of the power he held over him. 

It did not matter if Will had initiated, swayed no doubt in his moment of weakness and vulnerability towards the only man he knew he could trust. Hannibal should not have given in. It was he, Hannibal, who was to blame for what occurred. It was his duty as Will’s master to safeguard him on his journey to the grave. Any personal feelings between them could only disrupt that sacred mission. 

Not to mention the personal abhorrence Hannibal had always held for masters who engaged sexually with their slaves. Forced to regard himself as the hypocrite, he had struggled silently in self-revulsion. How could he explain all of this to Will? And as time had passed, he began to feel that it was too late to apologise and make amends. 

He only hoped that tonight would be special; something wonderful which Will would carry with him always. Moved by the thought, he decided to go ahead with the next stage of his ritual. Clearing his throat, he waited until Will had turned fully to him.

He reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in a black silk pocket square. He placed it solemnly into Will's hands. The silk folded away, revealing an opera programme, and an ivory handled pair of gillian binoculars. This exact gift he had given to each of his slaves on this special night, and he kept every programme after they had passed away.

Will received this gift dispassionately, as he had done so many others. For whatever reason, on this particular occasion it hurt Hannibal more than he could possibly say. To see Will receive this most sacred of offerings with the same melancholy resignation… 

He didn’t know what else he’d expected. Perhaps this was the proof he was looking for, that Will did not forgive him, and their connection was nothing special. Destined, as so many other connections between master and slave, for the grave. 

The car pulled up outside the equite brocade entrance to the libretto opera house. Hannibal exited first onto the red carpet, and helped Will out of the car behind him. He presented his tickets to the attendant as their car drove away, and were ushered into the glittering reception hall. Hannibal helped Will out of his sable overcoat which he had leant him for the occasion, before removing his own and handing both to the cloak attendant. There was a quiet atmosphere of gentle murmuring, as Baltimore’s finest society mingled in pleased anticipation. 

The two of them made their way up the wide ornate staircase towards the gallery, and from there to the adjoining corridor that would lead them around to Hannibal’s private box. He had invited no other friends to join them that evening. It was an occasion only to be shared by Will and himself. The bell rang as they entered the box, signalling for all to take their seats. 

They were afforded a few minutes to make themselves comfortable and talk quietly if they chose before curtain up. Looking into the crowds gathering below them, Hannibal noticed the Verger private box was occupied. Both Margot and Mason Verger were attending, with a few personal friends no doubt. It annoyed him that they had to be present, but he supposed it could not be helped. Mason looked up and met his gaze, tipping his hat towards him. Hannibal gave a polite but stiff nod in response. 

The lights went down and the orchestra picked up the prelude to Gounod’s Faust. The production was exquisite; Marie Chagnon reprised her infamous Marguerite, and by all rights Hannibal should have been spellbound. In some respects he was, but not by the opera. He watched as Will became fully immersed in the first act, making use of the binoculars he’d gifted him. Illuminated only by the soft glow of the distant stage lights, he was impossible to look away from. 

He was so magnetically beautiful, a fact which Hannibal had been all too aware of these past few days. But here, in the darkness, surrounded by exquisite music, Will was transformed. Every fibre of Hannibal’s being felt attuned to his presence. They sat so close together, he imagined he could feel the warmth of his body. All he had repressed these past few weeks pushed its way to the surface of his mind.

Hannibal thought, for one instant, that he might say or do something to broach the space between them. He could hardly prevent himself from doing so. To be so close to him and to do nothing was an impossibility. Thus compelled, he found himself reaching across the space between them, meaning to take Will’s hand in his. 

To his dismay, Will suddenly stood. Refastening the front of his jacket, he turned to Hannibal bent close to his ear to ask if he might be excused- he wanted some fresh air. Hannibal nodded. Will could hardly escape- the security at the libretto was excellent, and Will had been marked as a slave when they came in. 

And so Will left him, alone with his thoughts in the silence. Never before had solitude pressed in on him like a cage. 

Will exhaled as he drew the curtain shut behind him, exiting Hannibal’s private box. He walked a few paces with his hands in his pockets, enjoying the cool air conditioning that the box lacked. It did something to calm his nerves.

Through the course of the first act he had begun to feel increasingly overwhelmed. He would readily admit that before he was a slave, he knew nothing of opera and cared very little for the arts. That was still true, but he had to admit that the show tonight was beyond his expectations. The music was divine, and the production quality exceptional. Plus there was an additional seductive glamour in the means of arriving, the fine attire, and the private box.

But to experience all of this, and to be seated by Hannibal throughout was too much. He had felt so acutely aware of his presence, for every moment of it. He couldn’t bear the thought that what was so spectacular for him was everyday for the man at his side. That what felt like a magical evening in another reality for Will, was a routine Hannibal had repeated countless times, with countless slaves. 

Shaken, he quietly made his way down the corridor. Thankfully there was no one else around. Most of the audience had been drawn to the refreshments being served on the opposite side of the house. Feeling a little more collected, he thought he might turn back around. He had walked some way, and wanted to make it back to Hannibal in time for the second act to start. 

Just as the thought occurred to him, he rounded the corner to perceive another figure, walking quickly towards him. The person was overdressed in a grey silk evening ensemble. He realised the man was Mason Verger with a kind of mute horror; there was no one less desirable to him that he could have bumped into. Not to mention that at the sight of Mason, he felt an immediate uneasiness. 

Mason met his eyes and smiled. Feeling unable to avoid him without appearing rude, Will slowed down and allowed Mason to approach. 

“Well isn’t this a nice surprise” Mason drawled, sounding utterly contrived. Will couldn’t shake the unpleasant feeling that this was no chance encounter. Beginning to feel afraid, he took a step to the side, meaning to move around Mason altogether. But Mason stepped with him, blocking his path.

“Mason, please leave me alone.”

He backed up a few steps and spun on his heel, walking away as quickly as dared. Mason of course followed, easily keeping up. 

“My my, this is hardly polite behaviour.”

“I’ve asked you to leave me alone. I would not think your continuing to follow me is particularly polite, either.” 

A door appeared on Will’s left and he pressed his shoulder into it. He was sure the entrance to the stairwell was somewhere around here, and that had to be it. But to his horror, the door led him into a wide room used for storage, with no other exits. Cleaning supplies surrounded the walls of what once may have been a spacious office, back when the building was new. 

The lights came on with a pop. Will turned just in time to see Mason slip through the door, and shut it behind himself. His other hand rested over the light switch. He gave Will an ice cold smile.

“Now. What shall we talk about?”

Will hurriedly backed up, until he hit one of the office tables still occupying the space. He felt as though his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth, and he grasped at straws, desperately thinking of what to say. 

“We…we should go. I think we’re not supposed to be here.”

“You took us in here.”

“I made a mistake. I was looking for the stairwell.”

“Oh? Nevermind.”

Mason began slowly sidling forward. He didn’t move directly towards Will, but kept between him and the door. 

“You look quite fetching. I hope you’re enjoying your last night.”

Will felt dizzy, almost as though he were going to be sick.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, your last night alive, of course. I hope you’re enjoying it.”

The silence hung thick between them for a few moments, before Mason started again.

“That is, Hannibal usually kills his slaves the day after… or didn’t you know?”

“You’re lying.” Will heard the words pass his lips like an oath.

“What shocking manners. I’m quite surprised Hannibal didn’t teach you better.”

Will fought the urge to tell Mason to fuck off, and gripped the desk behind him with both hands. Inside him, his heart was beating like a jackhammer. He didn’t like this – whatever it was that was happening, it made his skin crawl. He just couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut that something was very, very wrong.

Mason slid his suit jacket off his shoulders, and tossed it with a sigh onto an empty stack of wet floor signs. 

“I’ve been wondering what Hannibal intends to do with you. Troublemaker that you are, I assume it won't be pretty.”

“Stop it.”

“I wonder what you’re going to taste like, after everything. I’m always invited to Hannibal’s end of season soiree, you know. I’m not sure what I’m looking forward to most, eating you myself, or watching Hannibal enjoy eating you.”

“I said stop.”

Mason was taking off his cufflinks. He placed them one by one on top of his folded jacket, and began rolling up his sleeves. His forearms were not what Will had expected them to be: pale and unused to labour. Mason’s arms showed the strength gained through a hands-on approach to his work.

“Your impatience is astounding. I’ve never known a slave speak to me like that; I’d say it was refreshing but that would be a lie. It’s repulsive. And if Hannibal knew his work, he’d have squashed that out of you a long time ago.”

At the mention of Hannibal’s name, Will’s temper flared. At last, he snapped, and regretted the words as soon as they’d passed his lips.

“You’ll never be Hannibal. You wish you were like him, but you’re nothing like him and you never will be.”

The second he spoke the words, he knew what he had done. It was written all over Mason’s face. The tension in the room shifted, taking on a new, subtly dangerous current. Suddenly, he felt as if there was no air. He tried to convince his feet to move, but he was frozen in place. Mason’s gaze hardened. He slowly began stalking towards Will.

“Do you know how a master behaves?”

His words were soft and venomous. His hands reached for his belt. Adrenaline coursed through Will’s body and he was suddenly able to move again. He lunged for the door, aiming to duck beneath Mason’s arm. But with incredible force, Mason’s hand closed around his throat and thrust him backwards. His body slammed against the table. 

“It is clear to me that Hannibal has never shown you what a true master is, or should be. But you will know. I will show you mastery.” 

“Please...” 

Will begged, but Mason was pushing him backwards, onto the tabletop. He tried grappling with the hand that held his throat and the other, which had taken grip on his waistband. His feet kicked outwards, pitifully striking the air. He could barely breathe. White hot terror flooded his body as Mason’s left hand began unbuckling his belt. 

He tried to say ‘no,’ but his throat had closed up, leaving him capable only of producing strange animalistic sounds, expressing fear. He changed tactics and tried to claw at Mason’s face, but this earned him only a swift and brutal blow to the face from Mason’s fist, momentarily released from his waistline. Another blow knocked him flat against the table seconds later. Stars burst in front of his eyes, as he was left stunned .

Mason immediately returned to pulling at Will’s trousers, forcing himself between his legs so as to keep them pushed apart. He leaned his full weight against one forearm that he laid across Will’s throat. Will felt the tears welling up in his throat as his clothes were stripped away, his bare skin of his lower abdomen shivering.

Will thrashed, still struggling feebly, still pleading. Even with a bloodied nose and choked by sobs, he was able to make himself audible.

“Don’t!”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Hannibal will kill you… don’t, please stop…”

“Even if I kill you, all that I’ll have to do is pay a fine. Not even the full price of what he paid for you. That is all he’ll be able to do.”

He smiled, and paused for a moment to grip Will’s bloodied, trembling face in his hand, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“That is barely a mild annoyance to me, financially speaking. I throw away that kind of money daily. And that is all you will ever be worth, to me, to Hannibal, to the world. Do you understand? You are mine to use, to kill, to fuck. You are nothing.”

He emphasised the final word by slamming Will’s head back into the table, drawing blood. Will groaned slowly, now barely conscious. Mason slowly forced him to turn around with his hand pinning his neck, until he was bent over the table top.

All too soon, the intermission came, greeted by general applause. Hannibal applauded enthusiastically, genuine in his delight. Fine classical music had always been chief amongst his personal interests. As the applause died and the lights came up, the general murmuring arose once more as people headed to the foyer. 

Hannibal checked his watch, wondering where Will could have got to. He’d never known Will not to be punctual before. He looked around, half expecting him to walk in. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, and turned his attention towards contemplating the first act. It had of course been a dazzling success. But as he reflected, he could not put his worries about Will aside. 

Will was likely heading to the foyer like everyone else. He was a little annoyed with him; he might have stayed until the first act was complete, at least. These thoughts were interrupted, all of a sudden, as something caught his eye. 

As he turned his head, he perceived a winking light. It flickered brightly from somewhere in the seats below. He was about to look away, thinking it was likely a stagelight catching someone's jewellery, but then his gaze focused in on the source. The winking light emerged from the Verger private box.  

His eyes met those of Margot Verger, who was looking up at him intently. She held her own binoculars in her hands, and was tilting them back and forth to intentionally reflect the light. From the way she was looking at him, he could only assume she had meant to catch his attention. 

Her complexion was pale and her eyes wide. She looked at him pleadingly, real fear behind her gaze. Hannibal quickly scanned the box around her. There was no assailant; surely there was no immediate danger to herself. Even Mason had…

Hannibal froze. 

Mason’s seat was empty. Had he left for the intermission like everyone else or had he…

Oh, God. 

Will. 

Hannibal was out of his seat in an instant, and flinging the curtain aside in the next. The corridor was now full of idle people, some of whom turned their heads disinterestedly in his direction. He took off to the left. His stomach turned over on itself, as he had no idea which direction Will had gone in. 

But just like the last time he had nearly lost him, he relied on his gut instinct. He could have sworn he detected the faintest trace of Will’s scent in the air. It was a scent now as familiar to him as his own. He pushed his way violently through the crowds, breath ragged.

With every passing second he became more and more sure his Will was in danger. He willed himself to reach Will on time. He had to believe he could save him. The alternative was too horrifying to even consider.

Chapter Text

Will closed his eyes against the dizzying agony in his head. He pressed his cheek into the hard surface of the table, his sobs muffled against it and looked within himself, reaching for the last of his strength to get him through this.

He’d stopped kicking. Mason had both his arms crossed behind his back, and was pinning his wrists in place with one hand. Although he strained against his grip, he moved very little. An aching tiredness had sunk over him; he realised his body had given up the fight.  A fresh wave of panicked tears rose up in him. But if he cried, the sound fell on mute ears. 

Mason would not stop, and there was no one who could help him. This was going to happen. He was going to be raped. Without quite meaning to, he found himself looking for somewhere to take shelter from that reality. He could already feel himself slipping away, dissociating…

With a bang, the door  burst open, and suddenly Will was being pulled violently backwards, off the tabletop. Mason was thrown to the floor but he kept a steadfast grip on Will’s wrists, dragging Will down with him. 

Three bodies hit the ground together, and became a writhing struggle of limbs. Will untangled himself quickly, Mason having been forced to release his hold. He rolled under the table and scrambled backwards into a sitting position, putting as much distance between himself and the two men still grappling on the floor. 

He gasped for air, the tears not yet dry on his cheeks, and watched on in disbelief. He didn’t recognise his saviour at first. He was moving too fast, and he struggled to get a glimpse of his face. But then the man was on top of Mason, pinning him, and was beating him with his fists. 

With a surge of indescribable emotion, he recognised Hannibal. Hair and suit unkept and nose bloodied, he was barely recognisable. His eyes were fixed on Mason, and almost fully black from his heavily dilated pupils. He moved with horrifying speed as his fist connected with the side of Mason’s jaw. 

A sickening crack echoed through the room, and Mason howled. The sound brought Will back to reality, and terror flooded his system once more. 

“Stop!”

He crawled forward, reaching for Hannibal. Hannibal was still lost in his fury, and had resorted to pinning Mason in a choke hold. 

“Hannibal! Stop, just calm down!”

Will readjusted his trouser band and pushed up onto his feet. He threw his arms around Hannibal’s torso and hauled him back with all his strength. Hannibal staggered to his feet in Will’s grasp, eyes trained on Mason. He delivered a brutal kick to Mason’s stomach which threw both him and Will off balance. All the while, Will continued shouting for him to stop, and Mason continued wailing.

More footsteps hurried towards them as their screaming attracted a crowd. A group pushed aside the door as Will was dragging Hannibal back. Straussel pushed his way through the crowd and flung himself forward, assisting Will in restraining Hannibal. Whispering and barely concealed gasps spread through the crowd as more people filed into the room. Someone outside began shouting for security. 

Margot was also able to push her way to the front, and went straight to Mason’s side. Interestingly, Will noticed that in doing so she positioned herself between Mason and him. She barely spared him one glance. But from that one look, he knew; she had known. Perhaps she had merely known what Mason was capable of. It had been a look of pity. 

“My friend, what has happened?”

Straussel gasped for air, releasing Hannibal but standing between him and Mason. The look on his face was one of utter shock 

“I had thought…are you not friends?”

“No.”

Hannibal uttered the word, low and guttural. Will had never heard him speak like that before. 

“He attacked me!”

Mason was crawling to his feet, with Margot’s help. A snarl was distorting his bloodied features. The enraged look he was giving Hannibal was mixed with disbelief. Will slowly realised that Mason had genuinely underestimated what Hannibal would do to protect him.

Hannibal remained mute, chin raised and eyes fixed forwards. Will looked on desperately, willing him to say something; to defend himself like he’d defended him. He tried to re-adjust his crumpled shirt and tie, and keep his voice from shaking as badly as his legs.

“That isn’t true. Hannibal was protecting me; Mason attacked me.” 

He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat, and his voice got quieter.

“He was only defending his property.”

“Shut up.”

Will looked up in shock as Mason snarled at him. The next moment, Hannibal was lunging for Mason a second time. Straussel’s feet skidded on the floor as he put his whole weight behind holding Hannibal back. 

There were shocked whispers from the watching crowd. Nobody else appeared willing to intervene. But then, several security guards were pushing their way through. They replaced Straussel in restraining Hannibal, shouting for people to get back and for Hannibal to desist. 

“Never speak to him again.”

Hannibal spoke in that same voice which seemed utterly removed from the gentleman Will had known. He watched on as Hannibal’s face transformed into a mask of pure, undisguised loathing.

“If you ever so much as look at him again, Mason-” 

“What” Mason spat “Or you’ll what?”

Hannibal fell silent. He knew better than to publicly threaten Mason. And Mason knew it. 

“All that you’ve done tonight is confirm what we already know; that you’re too comfortable with that slave.”

Mason’s voice grew louder, making sure everyone in the room could hear him.

“Why don’t you kill him? It’s a little past slaughtering time, is it not?” 

“Sir, be quiet. Get that one out of here” 

One of the security team cautioned Mason as two others began walking Hannibal towards the door. Mason only raised his voice higher, ignoring the guard.

“You’re avoiding his death, Hannibal? You think we haven’t noticed?”

The crowds parted slowly and Will trailed after Hannibal. He met Straussel’s eyes once as the elite pressed his shoulder in passing. The look in his eyes was all confusion, but there was no ill will. Even as they made it into the corridor, Mason’s voice could still be heard trailing them.

“I should dare to question Sir, after that little display, whether you’re a connoisseur at all!”

After a minute as it became clear that Hannibal would not resist, the security guards released him and merely accompanied them both to the exit. Will came to Hannibal’s side. They shared one look. Hannibal’s face communicated rage still, but a quiet dignity that Will envied desperately. He felt nothing but shame.

To his surprise, Hannibal put his right arm around his shoulders. He pinned Will close to his side, allowing Will to lean into him as they were escorted out. Will could only imagine how mortifying it must have been for Hannibal to be publicly humiliated like this, in front of his more distinguished friends. They would now miss the rest of the opera Hannibal had been looking forward to. He could barely believe that Hannibal was willing to look at him at all.

They collected their coats and then passed the front doors in silence. The guards left them there with a stern warning not to reenter. It was now late into the night, and the rain was falling heavily. If their suits hadn’t already been ruined by the scuffle, Will would have regretted their getting wet. The water stung against the cuts on his face, and within seconds his hair was plastered to his head. He turned his face towards the pitch black sky and closed his eyes. It didn’t matter; the rain was wonderful. It felt like being washed clean. 

Hannibal gently released his shoulder, and Will turned to look at him. Hannibal smiled faintly, and slowly took Will’s hand.

“Walk with me?”

“What about our hired car?”

“It won't be here for hours. I think we’d better take a taxi.” 

“Okay.”

Will let Hannibal guide him down the darkened street. There were no streetlights along this stretch of road, and they were utterly alone. Under any other circumstances, he would have been afraid. But with Hannibal next to him, and with everything that had happened, he questioned what he had left to be afraid of. 

After a while, they had walked far enough from the opera house to be out of sight. Rounding a corner, Hannibal suddenly pulled them both into an decorative alcove, offering some small respite from the rain. 

Will’s heart lurched and before he knew what was happening, Hannibal was holding him so tightly he could barely breathe. Both his arms were flung about his shoulders, and his head was buried in Will’s shoulder. Hannibal’s immense strength should have frightened him, but the hug felt secure. 

A sob tore through his chest. Hannibal remained motionless, allowing Will to crumple into him. He pressed the side of cheek into Hannibal’s hair and cried wretchedly for some minutes. Hannibal murmured softly, a current of emotion underlying his words.

“I’m so sorry, Will.” 

They stood there, holding one another for some time. Hannibal waited patiently until Will could speak. When the words came, they were hiccuped through his tears. 

“We should find a pharmacy.”

Hannibal leaned back and accessed Will’s injuries with a concerned eye.

“Actually, Will… I think you should have that looked at. Your injuries might be superficial, but they should be dressed properly. You may need a couple of stitches. I’ll give you the choice of going to A&E, or you can come home and I’ll take care of it myself.”

Seeing Will hesitate, he backed up a step to give him some air, gently placing his hand on his shoulder. 

“Whatever you are most comfortable with.”

Will nodded, blinking away the last of his tears.

“Please, can we just go home?”

Hannibal nodded once, before ducking out into the rain to hail a taxi. 

It was quiet in Hannibal’s kitchen. The lamp in the corner of the patio had been lit, casting a soft glow over the two figures now seated at the floating island. Outside the rain continued to fall. It made a soothing refrain against the roof over their heads. 

Hannibal had served a bourbon on the rocks to Will and himself. They sat with their hands cradling their ice cold glasses. Almost an hour ago, Hannibal had sat Will under the surgical light in his office and stitched the cut on his face. He’d applied an antiseptic, and taped surgical gauze over the wound. Will had cried intermittently and Hannibal had paused each time, sitting with him until he was ready to continue. 

It might very easily have taken them much longer than it did. Even if it had been hours, that would have been fine. Just as long as Will was okay. 

All the while, he comforted himself with detailed imaginings of what he was going to do to Mason. Several ideas fitted through his mind, each more beautiful than the next, like strange moths fluttering through a dark room. 

He offered to fetch Will a change of clothes, thinking of his favourite pyjamas, but Will had refused. Not wanting to push it further, he’d suggested a drink instead. And now here they were. 

Will’s face was hidden in shadow, the lamp light catching him at an angle. They had finished their drinks in silence, and Hannibal was just getting up for a refill when he heard Will softly speak.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry. I’m so sorry, for the position I put you in-”

“Please… don’t talk like that.”

He interrupted, placing his glass down on the table and leaning over to touch Will’s hand.

“It’s not your fault, Will.”

He hated the silence that followed. He lingered, wishing that Will would acknowledge the statement.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

The words came out as a hiss, and he gripped Will’s hand more firmly. Still, Will hung his head in silence. He pictured Mason’s smug face and felt a living, dangerous fury roil within him. But then, Will tilted his head back. His eyes were bright with tears.

“I’m just… I’m so grateful to you.” 

“I know. There’s no debt, I don’t want you to think that.”

“I don’t. I just don’t understand. Why are you doing all of this for me when I- I was the one who…”

“What are you talking about?”

“I ruined everything. Tonight, and… when I kissed you. You shouldn’t have had to protect me.”

Hannibal stared down in shock as Will reached desperately for his hand. 

“Believe me, if I could take it all back now I would.”

Hannibal withdrew his hand from Will’s grasp as if he’d been burned, stumbling to his feet. 

He backed away a step and unable to meet Will’s pleading gaze, he turned his back. The anger he’d felt towards Mason still burned in him. This new knowledge from Will was suddenly more than he could bear. Before he could stop himself he was turning on his heel, struggling to keep his anger in check. 

“Don’t ask me not to protect you.”

It broke him to see Will recoil in fear from his apparent anger, but he couldn’t stop. He paced the floor, conscious of Will’s eyes on him, and turned to lean on one of the kitchen chairs. 

“I imagine it was so terrible for you to kiss me. So terrible that you wish it had never happened; yes, I understand you perfectly. I quite agree. If that’s what you think, then it never should have happened at all.”

“What are you talking about?”

Will had crumpled back into his seat, but was bravely facing him still. His face had drained of colour, and he gripped the side of the kitchen island as though his life depended on it. 

“I thought you hated it. I thought you hated me for touching you, in that way. That’s why you’ve been so distant.”

He sounded as though he were trying to convince himself as much as Hannibal. Trembling, he forced himself to continue, caught in the tide of confession. 

“Everyday, I have anticipated a reckoning.  I have not been able to breathe in this house. Every day since that kiss I have waited.”

Hannibal gazed steadily at the man in front of him, half convinced he was dreaming. He struggled to regain his composure. To remember he was a gentleman. He was barely able to whisper the question. 

“Waited for what?”

“...For you.”

Chapter Text

He had said too much; betrayed too much of what he still felt. One look into Will’s face and Hannibal knew it. 

His slave faced him with wide, bright eyes and blood drained cheeks. He had gotten to his feet, and was now leaning against the kitchen island for support. His crumpled and bloodied shirt was partially untucked, and his collar was unbuttoned.

But Hannibal had never seen him quite like this. Despite the bruises around his eyes and the rainwater dampening his curls, he was still Will. He was still beautiful. He was still utterly enticing. Raw, uncontainable desire coursed through him. The need for Will, the want of him, consumed him utterly. He could do nothing to prevent it. Somehow he knew there would be no end to this hunger. 

And yet, what Will had said bothered him. It was truly frustrating to think that he still did not see the truth. 

“Everything I have done these past few weeks, has been for you. Everything has been for your benefit. In fact, since before the kiss, for months this has been true. How is it you still don’t see that?”

Will told himself that at least he could say he tried to fight it. He had tried to hold his feelings at bay, but every word Hannibal spoke sent shivers down his spine. The pleasure was delicate but irrepressible, and that familiar feeling of want came over him again. He’d known it when he and Hannibal had kissed: he wanted Hannibal to hold him again, to kiss him, to devour him, to comfort him. 

He looked into Hannibal’s eyes and saw the endless pain behind the rage. He wanted Hannibal to know, suddenly, that he was in pain, too. That he had ached, day after day, alone, for him. 

He knew he was vulnerable. The memory of what Mason had tried to do was still raw. He knew he was frightened. But his fear only heightened the tender impulses he felt looking at his master. That alone should have been enough to make him question everything about who he was. 

But he was so tired of questioning himself.

He was so tired of pretending that he didn’t want Hannibal, desperately.

He closed his eyes, and exhaled a soft sigh. 

“Please… God, forgive me.”

When he opened his eyes again, they locked on Hannibal and Will repeated his prayer. He wondered if it would ever be heard in heaven. There was no doubt in his mind that it would be heard on earth, by one who considered himself Will’s God.

“God, forgive me.”

Will’s prayers extinguished Hannibal’s fury in one instant. Suddenly and forcefully reminded of Will’s blamelessness, Hannibal stepped quickly forward. He instantly regretted all he’d said. He meant to put his arms around Will, to comfort him. Will had asked him for forgiveness and he would receive it, in abundance. 

But Will seized both his outstretched hands, grasping him by the wrists. He pulled Hannibal towards him, and all of a sudden their lips were pressed together in a fierce kiss.; Before, Will had been tentative, questioning. Now he was adamant. The heat of his lips, crushed against Hannibal’s, was headier than any wine he’d tasted. 

But even so, Hannibal found the strength to pull away, pushing Will back into the island. The two of them stood gasping for air, as Hannibal searched Will’s face.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

The words tore through his throat, low and guttural. He felt as though he were drowning, and Will lip’s were pure oxygen. But he forced himself to be still, waiting for the response. He had to be sure.

“Yes.”

Will’s reply was breathless. Heart-breakingly raw, and pleading.

“Hannibal… kiss me.”

Will’s hand released his wrist and wrapped around the back of his head, clenching his hair in his fist. Any thoughts of restraint flew from Hannibal’s mind as Will brought his mouth close to his ear and whispered.

“Please.”

Hannibal turned his face and pressed his lips to Will’s in silent surrender. Relief and terrible, insurmountable pleasure coursed through him. The softest moan pressed through his lips over Will’s mouth. As if in response, Will’s lips parted and the kiss deepened. 

It was just as intoxicating as before. As sweet as black cherry wine, and just as dangerous. Having given in, Hannibal felt as though he would be compelled to kiss Will forever. To hear Will sigh and feel his lips move against his; it was more than any rational man could bear. 

The kiss was confirmation that Will truly did feel as he felt. Carried by the emotion of this discovery, he bit none-to-gently into Will’s lower lip. Not enough to injure, but certainly enough to elicit delicious pain. He was rewarded with a soft groan from Will, which prompted him to reach for his throat. 

Still kissing him, he dug two fingers into the knot of Will’s tie and gently loosened it. His fingers quickly found the studs which buttoned Will’s formal white collar. By God, he looked exquisite in his evening attire. 

The collar being unfastened, he pushed his hands beneath it. Will’s tan skin burned to the touch. The sight of it had his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. Will began to kiss his cheek and the soft area below his jaw as he slid the shirt and jacket from his shoulders. 

Hannibal’s hand cupped the base of Will’s head, gently baring his neck. He pressed his mouth to the pulse and kissed his way along the line of his throat. Will shivered as his mouth found the ragged edge of his scar. 

Before he had been breathless, caught up in Hannibal’s intoxicating touch. But now, as Hannibal kissed over the bite mark, a groan pushed past his lips. The old memory elicited pain and fear. The touch of Hannibal’s tongue felt perverse, in sharp juxtaposition to all that had come before. Will squirmed as he realised how much he liked it. 

Hannibal gasped as Will’s hand returned to the back of his neck, sliding upwards to grab a fistful of his hair. The sound was so soft, reminiscent of the unassuming gentleman Will had known him to be. It occurred to him that he was the corruptor. As much as Hannibal was taking charge of the situation, it was he, Will, who drove him to act. The thought heightened his pleasure into dizzying lust. 

Hannibal’s hands wrapped around the back of Will’s thighs. In one clean movement he lifted him up and sat him on the kitchen island. He had always been shocked by how easily Hannibal lifted him, as though he was as light as a feather. Hannibal attacked the front of his shirt, ripping the buttoned front open as Will wrapped his legs around his waist. 

Then Hannibal’s hands were running along his naked chest. Will tried to focus, with his fingers tangled in Hannibal’s tie, attempting to undo it. He was sure Hannibal must feel his frantically beating heart. How many times had Hannibal heard the same from his victims, mad with terror? But not like this. Never like this. 

The tie came undone in his hands. Using the bow tie as leverage, with one hand gripping either side, he pulled Hannibal towards him for another kiss. As their lips met, Hannibal leaned forward and Will relaxed into him, allowing him to push forward between his legs. He gasped, breaking the kiss as he felt Hannibal’s hard on pressing into his.

For a moment he froze, remembering Mason. How he’d trapped Will in a position similar to this one. He thrust the memory to the back of his mind. He didn’t want it to taint the present moment, but there was an uneasiness he couldn’t put aside. 

He felt a warm hand close over his. Looking up into Hannibal’s eyes, he realised his struggle must have been apparent in his face. Hannibal had stilled, breathing lightly, and was holding his hand with utmost gentleness.

“Are you alright? We can always stop.”

Feeling as though his heart were splitting open, Will cupped Hannibal’s cheek in his hand. He could have sworn that he had never been so handsome as he was in that moment. 

“I don’t want to stop.”

“Tell me if you do.”

“I will. I promise.”

Hannibal pressed his lips to Will’s in response. He felt  something settle within him. He didn’t particularly care anymore if this was good; if it was right. He wanted this. 

“Not here” he breathed, as Hannibal wrapped a hand around his waist. 

Hannibal helped him push off the counter. Will moved immediately to the door, gently pushing out of Hannibal’s touch. He felt Hannibal’s eyes on him, and dared to glance back once to see Hannibal stalking towards him. Almost out of habit, he started speeding up, and saw Hannibal pick up his speed to match him. 

His heartbeat pounded in his ears and he felt himself instinctively pulling away from Hannibal’s grasp. He knew that when he caught him the game would be over, like a lamb before a wolf. He smiled, and saw Hannibal lunge for him from the corner of his eye, and before he knew what he was doing he was running through the hall. He was mere inches out of Hannibal’s grasp. 

Skidding around the corner of the stairs, he raced upwards, remembering the last time he ran from Hannibal like this. Then, his only thought had been to get away. This time, he savourd  the anticipation of being caught. He laughed as Hannibal reached for him, only just missing the edge of his jacket. He caught a glimpse of Hannibal's bright eyes. He looked ravenous. So terribly alive. 

Was this the man who he would have done anything to get away from? Now all he wanted was to be captured by him, to be torn to pieces. 

Hannibal seized hold of him on the first landing, and they slammed into the wall. Will’s laughter was stifled at once by Hannibal's passionate kiss. He returned in kind, feeling as though he would be crushed in Hannibal’s arms. He put his arms around Hannibal’s neck and allowed him to guide them both towards his bedroom. 

The door was gently opened as they stumbled inside. Will thought distantly that this was the first time he had ever been in Hannibal’s room. It was surprisingly similar to his own, decorated in midnight blue and slate grey. Moonlight fell through the wide windows facing the bed, illuminating the clean white sheets and midnight blue comforter. White gauze curtains were lifted on an invisible breeze. 

Pushing the door shut, Hannibal pulled Will to him. Cradling his head in both hands he kissed him as though he were a dream. As though he were everything that he had ever wanted. The two of them moved backwards until they were collapsing into Hannibal’s bed. 

Hannibal rolled on top and paused, kneeling over Will as he began taking off his belt. Breathless, Will mirrored him, taking off his own. The sight of Hannibal poised above him, his face thrown into shadow, as he pulled his belt free completely overwhelmed him. He wished he could record the memory and play it over and over again. 

Hannibal looked down from where he knelt, breathing lightly. His shirt was crumpled, his fly was undone. He held his leather belt in his hand. He never thought he would allow another to see him like this. 

Will lay on the bed beneath him, shirt open, revealing the span of his perfect chest, rising and falling lightly where his heartbeat. His trousers were crumpled and half open, showing a glimpse of boxer briefs. He had been made to bend his knee so that Hannibal could kneel between his legs, and his bulge pressed notably against his trouser seam. 

Will’s eyes were fixed on his, like two shimmering points of light in the almost darkness. A rose blush had crept across his cheeks and parted lips. Will was struggling still with his own belt. He was so heartbreakingly beautiful. 

His own hands closed over Will’s, helping him. The belt at last slid free. Hannibal placed his hands behind Will’s knees and softly pushed his legs upwards. Will allowed him to pull his shoes and socks off, and then tug his trousers and underwear out from under him. All the while, Hannibal felt his desire press painfully against his own trouser seam. It was growing to be almost unbearable. 

Will gasped and flushed still deeper as he sprung free. He turned to press his cheek into the cool sheets, sighing as Hannibal ran his fingers along the taught length of him. Hannibal closed his hand around Will’s sex and fumbled with his own waistband. As he leaned further forward Will reached for him, helping him. His delicate hands tugged Hannibal free. 

At Will’s touch he groaned, his eyelids fluttering. His hand began pulsing a rhythm along Will’s sex which Will mirrored. He distantly felt his tip graze against Will’s abdomen. All he could hear were Will’s soft sighs. He panted Hannibal’s name, alternately punctuating his moans with the word “yes.” 

He could feel his pleasure mounting within him, pushing him dizzyingly forwards, upwards. He wanted more. He needed more. Gripping the back of Will’s knee and pushing it towards his shoulder a second time, he took his own sex in hand. The moan that Will made as he realised what Hannibal was going to do was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. He wanted to hear that sound every day, for the rest of his life. 

Will’s body shifted beneath his, becoming pliant. He doubted he would be able to take him. He was fairly certain, in fact, that Will had never done this before. But Will had become malleable beneath his touch, all lithe limb and trembling sighs. He waited one moment more, hearing Will breathe the word “yes,” before pushing himself in.

To his surprise, the initial resistance gave way as Will took his head into him. He forced himself to pause, holding himself over Will with trembling arms. Will went totally still, breathing lightly, eyes closed. Will held him so tightly that he dared not push any further. Until something gave unexpectedly, and he found himself slowly sliding forwards. 

They moaned together, and Will held him close, face pressed against Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal found himself holding them both up with one arm, and cradling Will’s head with his other hand. He found a strength he’d never known he had, feeling as though he could never let him go. 

He fit so easily inside of him. As though it were meant to be. Will accepted this piece of him so naturally, so beautifully. His heart swelled with pride and desire mingled together, as Will melted under him. 

The two of them flexed, and breathed, and sighed. Will begged him not to stop. He felt Will’s warm, wet head rubbing against the plain of his stomach. He pressed their bodies ever closer, lost in his silk-like touch. 

He steadily began to thrust, barely able to restrain himself. He felt as though the two of them were being pulling by a current, towards one unavoidable destination. He heard Will’s guttural moans, growing ever louder as he gradually lost control. It was perfect; he was perfect. His beautiful Will. His creature. 

It was their turn. Their time, as it was meant to be. They were always going to reach this point, together. As Will pressed his mouth to his ear and asked Hannibal to take him, to use him, to give him all of him, he lost his grip on sanity. Flinging away his restaint he gave himself away to the desire, and tore into him. 

Will screamed, clawing at his back. Hannibal felt the sharp sting and knew his nails had drawn blood. That was good. He should mark him; should claim him as his own just as Hannibal had marked him. 

They were one organism. One body, sharing one heartbeat. In perfect tandem, finding one perfect release in the fading darkness.

Chapter Text

Hannibal waited quietly with his hands in his lap until the freshly boiled water was ready. Checking the temperature had decreased to seventy degrees celsius, he poured it gently over the ornate silver tea strainer he had placed over Will’s cup. A smile crossed his lips as he remembered how Will had struggled with using the kitchen at first, being unused to celsius over fahrenheit. Hannibal had personally selected his kitchen equipment in Europe and then had it shipped abroad.

The dried tea leaves inside uncurled as if by magic, resembling strange sage green flowers. He enjoyed their delicate perfume as he set a timer for one minute. He allowed his eyes to follow the tea leaves as they floated in the water, carefully checking to see if the tea was strengthening to his preference. He had prepared a small dish containing a portion of honey – not too sweet, nor heavily scented. He didn’t want it to overpower the green tea's natural aroma.

He was glad of the task. Its meticulous nature was something he could focus on. A distraction from the anxiety that had buzzed through him since he arose that morning. Will had still been asleep. He’d allowed himself one quiet moment to enjoy the sight of his bare back in the early morning light. He hadn’t realised Will slept on his stomach. With his arms cradling the pillow beneath his head and the light catching his shoulder muscles and tousled hair, he looked positively angelic. 

Hannibal had slid free of the sheets and wrapped himself in his dressing gown before tietoing out. He had the feeling that Will would want some time to himself when he woke up; he was always so shy in the mornings. He also needed a moment, if he was being honest. To clear his head. To quell his nerves. And to make them both some tea. 

Once the tea was prepared, he arranged the two cups on a silver tray and carried it upstairs. He knocked gently on the bedroom door, and pushed it aside to find Will sitting up, with the sheets wrapped around him. He was gazing at the window with the stillness of one who had just woken up.

Hannibal smiled and cleared his throat. Will turned his head towards him at the sound, and the smile he gave him was enough to shatter his conscience all over again. 

Will leaned forwards to accept the teacup and saucer Hannibal extended skillfully towards him. Their fingers brushed against each other beneath the cup, and Hannibal leant down to kiss Will on the cheek as he blushed profusely. The tea had a delicate perfume that reminded him of spring. Giving it a tentative sip he was surprised by how quickly it soothed his nerves. Hannibal must have known he’d need something like this.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, drinking their tea. There was nothing quite like the light of an early summer morning. When Will searched for his old familiar fears, he couldn’t find them. He was tired, and yet he felt rested. He was in some discomfort and yet he was relaxed. He looked at Hannibal, and found a natural smile came to his lips. The same smile he could not repress earlier when Hannibal walked into the room. 

He watched Hannibal turn red, sipping his tea. He maintained eye contact as always, but there was something different about his manner. Almost as though he had shrunk into himself, his shoulders were hunched forward. He noticed that Hannibal had also chosen to sit on the edge of the bed, maintaining a respectful distance between them. 

“You’re being very cautious this morning. You remember that you’re the one who bites, not me?”

He raised an eyebrow as he spoke and was rewarded with a soft laugh. It occurred to him that he had never really seen Hannibal flustered before. It was uncanny- even disorientating.

“I’m aware that I’ve been reserved with you, Will, up until this point which… no longer feels right. I should be less cautious with you, as you put it.”

The words were emphasised with a look that reminded Will of the night before. A blush spread across his cheek to match Hannibals. 

“But… if I am being honest, I can hardly bring myself to believe that what occurred last night really happened.”

“I know.”

He slid his hand across the bed, taking Will’s hand in his. Will squeezed the hand in response.

“How are you feeling?” 

Will turned the question over in his mind. He was a little sore still, and tired, but not unhappy. When he recalled the events of the previous night he was a little embarrassed, but only a little. The way he’d been with Hannibal, the way he responded to him – It felt right. 

He’d never felt so closely connected with another human being. Hannibal wasn’t the first person he’d been with, but this was the first time in which he felt as though he was on an equal footing with his partner, as ironic as that was. 

They had both been unsure. They had both been scared, and with too much to lose. And even so, they had taken this step together. 

He knew who Hannibal was, and yet he’d chosen to trust him in this most intimate of ways. And Hannibal had respected that trust. Now he understood that fact, he wondered how he ever could have doubted him.

It felt as though he were thinking clearly for the first time in weeks. His anxiety and fears were dissipated, and his self-confidence had returned. He told Hannibal as much in fewer words. 

Hannibal listened in silence, nodding his agreement. But Will couldn’t help but notice the frown which creased his brow.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not really. I was just wondering if… if you were really feeling good.”

“Yes, of course.”

Will realised as he gently offered his reassurances that all he was saying was true.

“It was wonderful. Really.” 

He turned his head to one side, seeking out Hannibal’s gaze.

“Is that really what's bothering you?” he asked quietly “I mean, you have to know that last night was amazing for me, don’t you?”

He privately enjoyed the renewed blush that this question brought to Hannibal’s cheek. Hannibal exhaled, and squeezed Will’s hand a little tighter.

“You know that my plan was to kill you soon.”

Will’s heart dropped into his stomach, but he did not allow himself to react. Focusing only on Hannibal's words, he waited for him to continue. 

“I have remade my plans several times on your account, Will. I am seeing more and more clearly that my initial intentions for you, and the manner in which I was to honour your body, are impossible. I’m sure it will not come as a surprise to you that this relationship is radically different to any other which I have had.”

“You mean with any of your other pigs.”

The words fell soft as a blade between them. But as he looked into Hannibal’s face, Will knew he’d done the right thing by speaking them. 

“I want you to know that you are a better man, amongst men. To me, you are a profound gift. One that I have not sought, but cannot relinquish now that I’ve discovered it. Why would I send you into God’s waiting arms, if I would so much rather hold you in mine?”

Will felt as though he were barely breathing whilst Hannibal continued, unawares. The sheer euphoria of knowing that Hannibal was beginning to give up on the idea of butchering him was one thing. His joy at hearing Hannibal speak about him in such a way was quite another. 

“What we’ve done is… unspeakable, in my social circle” Hannibal reminded him. “At one time, I would have thought it unconscionable, also. But lately, I find myself to be a changed man.”

“That is very well, but even so we must try to keep this a secret.”

Hannibal raised his eyebrows, and Will returned the look.

“That’s what you were going to say next, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yes. But you surprised me.”

“It seems I’ve been doing that a fair bit lately.”

The two of them shared a smile such as they had never shared before, as though they were truly two conspirators. Will thought to himself that it was a strange feeling, but a happy one, nonetheless.

“I’m merely surprised that you would offer to keep this a secret so readily. You do understand that this would be solely for my benefit?”

Will shook his head gently. 

“Your reputation is mine. I wouldn’t particularly care- only that I know how important your social position is. Your position amongst your peers is crucial to protect your social mobility. Which keeps you safe, which in turn keeps me safe. It is therefore to my benefit to keep this to myself. Besides…” 

He leaned in towards Hannibal’s ear, applying the slightest pressure to his arm.

“Some things deserve privacy, regardless of the circumstances. I wouldn’t want anyone to know the way we've behaved, even if we were free. It’s more than a secret; it’s our secret.”

Hannibal turned his head with a sigh, and placed a gentle kiss on Will’s brow. He looked pleased, but was still clearly troubled.

“You are so eager to be loyal to me,” he said quietly. “I have to wonder why.”

Will pulled back to look at him as Hannibal placed his teacup on the bedside cabinet, before turning to take Will’s hand in both of his own.

“Don’t misunderstand me; I’m delighted. You can’t know how much. I feel as though I can trust you, which naturally makes me wonder why you trust me. I think you’ve made the right choice, but I can see that it’s a choice you’ve come to over time. What changed? When did this happen?”

Will thought carefully for a moment before responding. As he began to speak, he turned his face upwards to meet Hannibal’s gaze, and hoped that doing so would give the impression of radical honesty.

“You mean because I’ve always known you will destroy me, one day?”

“Naturally.”

“I’ve come to believe that you will always choose justice. Before anything else. Certainly before love.”

He paused to see if Hannibal would refute him, but his master only listened. Will was mildly disturbed by the intensity of his gaze, and realized he genuinely believed what he was saying. If nothing else, Hannibal truly did believe in a system of justice of his own design. What interested him more was that he recognised that was a quality he admired. In this way, Hannibal and him were alike. He wondered to himself if Hannibal recognised this too.

“In the end you will choose what’s right, even before social convention. We both know that really, you do not care about what they all think. Your peers. Even your friends. You would not kill the way you do if you did.”

Still, Hannibal listened. As Will spoke his voice had lowered into a whisper, almost as if they could be overheard.

“And you would not… love me, the way you do. If you cared what they think. You choose to love me the same way you choose to kill. Your feelings drive you to it against your will, maybe. But you still choose to act on them. You choose death, and you choose me. I think you always will choose both, because you know it is right.”

Hannibal leaned in close as though he would punctuate his words with a kiss, but Will placed a hand on his shoulder, needing to finish what he had to say. If he didn’t, he expected that he would lose his nerve. 

“Knowing this, I choose loyalty to you. Because I trust that if you decide I have to die, it will be for a good reason. The right reason. Any other reason would be immoral.”

“I would never disrespect you in that way.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t make a waste of you. You would be-”

“Honoured.” 

For once, Hannibal smiled as Will interrupted him. It was almost heartbreaking to witness. 

Privately, he ruminated that Hannibal would most likely not eat him. Just as long as he found Will fascinating. Will had no idea how long that would last, but it should at least buy him some time to manipulate Hannibal and then escape.

He felt genuine sorrow twist inside of him at the thought. That was disquieting, and he silently admonished himself as he smiled into Hannibal’s eyes. Perhaps he could admit that he desired Hannibal, and perhaps he could live with that. But he did not care about him, or his feelings.

He would insist to himself that was the truth as many times as necessary for it to sink in. He was just lonely, and afraid. He needed shelter, and Hannibal’s adoration was like a warm embrace he never wanted to leave. He knew one day he would. But increasingly, he was frightened that when it came down to it, he wouldn’t be able to.

Not whilst Hannibal was holding him like this. Everyday, he looked and looked at this beautiful, horrifying man and felt that he was looking in a distorted mirror, becoming less and less distorted by the day. His judgments upon Hannibal became less and less secure as time went by.

Was he losing himself? Or a far more terrifying thought: was he finding himself? Here, with this man?

The path he’d chosen to tread was treacherous in the extreme. It was always going to be a dangerous life, walking by Hannibal's side. But he’d underestimated just how strong Hannibal’s influence could be. He worried that his sanity had at last started to become undone. Why else would he feel this way, after everything they’d been through?

He was now far too close to the monster. Close enough to realise that the monster was within him, and that was more than he could bear. There was no going back from here. No way that he could now choose another path.

Hannibal and him were in this together, side by side, until the end. Whatever that might be. And deep down he knew that for as long as he stayed close to Hannibal’s side, he would be at risk. 

If his hope for himself was wavering, however, his hopes for Abigail remained strong. He knew in his heart that whatever else Hannibal might be, he was not a child murderer. Some hidden trauma prevented him from condoning such evil. 

As long as Hannibal was not pushed to extremes of emotion, liable to make him unpredictable, he felt that he could trust Abigail with him. 

This was crucial; it meant that whatever happened to Will, as long as he could get Hannibal and Abigail together, Abigail would probably survive. He needed that as a backup, just in case he and Abigail could not escape together. He might have to die, in order for Abigail to live.

If he was being honest, he would say that Abigail was a better version of himself, in many ways. A less guilty victim. So if he died but Abigail survived in consequence, that would be okay. He could accept that as an outcome.

He was persuaded to respect Hannibal a little more, knowing he would take care of her. He couldn’t really help it. Fundamentally, Hannibal was superior to other members of the elite class. Even if it was for all of the wrong reasons. 

He only hoped that this new found admiration would not prevent him from destroying him, in the end.

Chapter Text

Will nervously adjusted his cufflinks one last time, and smoothed the lapels of the jacket Hannibal had chosen for him. He took a deep breath as the ballroom doors swung wide, and lifted his chin. A proud, bored expression settled over his face. 

Hannibal and him entered side by side, assuming a careful disinterest in one another. They did not hold hands, as they had done in the car. Will remember the distinctly reassuring pressure of Hannibal’s fingers closed around his own. 

“It would be bad form not to attend.” 

A week prior saw Will and Hannibal seated across from each other at the kitchen table. Hannibal had reached across the table to take Will’s hand as he broke the news. 

Will grimaced. He’d known he'd have to see Mason again sometime but… so soon? 

His feelings must have been apparent on his face. 

“Think of it this way – if we see the Verger’s now, it will get it out of the way.” 

Hannibal’s eyes were full of concern. But there was a brightness in his gaze that betrayed urgency. He was quite determined to go.

“You don’t have to come with me, you know. One of us must attend; after that very public fight with Verger it would be bad form not to.”

“But people will ask questions.”

“People are already asking questions. Either way, we invite attention.”

“Because of your fight with Mason?”

“That, and your continued existence.”

Hannibal had replied so softly that it smothered some of the vile associations his words conjured up in Will’s mind. 

“If I don’t go, people will think I’m dead and then be quite surprised when I reappear.”

“If you do go, people will question why you aren’t dead already.”

“How typical of people; they insist on knowing that which they’d be better off not knowing.”

“How like children they are.” 

Hannibal had smiled, and Will had found himself smiling in return.

“...I’ll go.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t care what people think. But I want Mason to know he hasn’t frightened me into hiding. He thinks I ought to crawl behind you on hands and knees.”

Hannibal lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“Show him who you are, my love.” 

Will refocused, seeing the room before him. He fought the urge to grimace, and breathed in carefully through his mouth. All he would have to do was walk through it at Hannibal’s side. Then they would join a game and he would be able to sit down or lean against something.

The massive, antiquated ballroom was lit by its famous crystal chandelier. The triumph of 19th century illumination glittered above their heads, throwing pearls of light over the heavy damask curtains that hung along every wall. These were blood red, and so dense that they seemed to absorb the light, making even the brilliance of the chandelier seem dim.

This effect was heightened by the haze of cigarette smoke that hung over the heads of the guests. A red carpet had been rolled across the dance floor, effectively muffling the guests footsteps and absorbing their spilled drinks. Raucous laughter greeted them along with heated arguments and hushed conversations, each rising from a separate corner of the room where a game of roulette, poker or blackjack was taking place. 

The Verger casino night: a spectacle in the elite social calendar that was everything Hannibal had described it to be and more. Will had readied himself but he was still unprepared to see slaves shuffled between one owner and the next as games were lost and bids were claimed.

To the elite guests, the thrill of gambling with human lives might have stemmed from the monetary value that each slave embodied. They were each of them living gambling chips; yet another method by which the system dehumanised them. 

But Will suspected it ran deeper than that. As he looked around, he saw the transfixed faces of Verger’s guests. Their eyes lit up as the game unfolded. Their looks contorted with extreme emotion; all-consuming rage or transcendent joy. Social convention was like a screen which usually obscured what these people were. But here in the gambling hall, the screen was partially folded back, and a glimpse of the beast within was revealed. Will wondered if this was Mason’s design.

He felt Hannibal’s hand briefly touch his side, and allowed himself to be guided down the steps into the hall and through the crowd, moving between the card tables. He sent Hannibal a warning glance. They’d agreed before they arrived that they would be careful not to touch, or at least not touch in a way that would imply intimacy.

“Hannibal!”

His thoughts were interrupted as Straussel pushed his way through the crowd to greet them. There was nothing out of the ordinary there, at least. Will was glad to know that Hannibal had at least one enduring ally.

His eyes strayed to the nearest gambling table. He immediately wished he’d kept his eyes trained to the floor. Spectators and players alike were crowded around the roulette table, so much so that it took a few moments for Will to see what was happening. Players pushed forward their playing chips and stated their bids. But instead of dollars, they bid grams. 

“Twenty grams on red thirty-two”

“Fourteen on red twenty!”

The wheel was spun and all eyes followed the wooden marble clatter around to its destined slot. 

“Red Thirty!” came the shout from the dealer. Groans of disappointment echoed from the crowd, as a pair of attendants pushed their way firmly through towards the elite who had placed the losing bet. But they barely acknowledged him at all, instead seizing the visibly panicked slave by his side. The slave began pleading, but no one around them except for Will paid any attention. 

The two attendants dragged the slave towards the front of the roulette table where the dealer waited. His resigned master watched on, a bored expression on his face as the slave was made to put his hand on the adjoining table. The dealer had spread a clear plastic sheet over the table, and produced a weighing scale as well as a stack of ziplock bags.

Then a machete appeared in his hand. The movement was so fast, Will hadn’t time to register the knife being swung. The next thing he knew, the slave was screaming like an animal. The hand lay on the table, severed from its owner.

Will watched on in mute horror as the dealer dispassionately placed the hand on the weighing scale. 

“Fifty-seven grams, fourteen grams over what's due. Would you like the additional fourteen grams as house credit sir?” 

“Please.” The slave's owner did not so much as look at his struggling  property as he replied, picking instead at a loose thread in his jacket. 

Will wanted to vomit. All around him, he could hear the screams and cheers of others as similar games were carried out. The smell of blood was thick in the air and hideously potent. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. 

He felt Hannibal’s hand on his arm, and knew he had just witnessed the dismemberment too. Blearily opening his eyes, he saw the two attendants press a thick cloth over the slaves wound, and begin dragging the slave towards the doors on the far wall. The slave in question had passed out, and now hung lifeless between them.

“Where are they taking him?” he whispered. His voice shook, sounding more like a childs than a mans.

“He will receive medical attention” Hannibal supplied gently. “When he is fit to do so he will be returned to his master, and play with continue.”

Will felt his strength beginning to fail him. For a long time, he’d felt the strain of his reality pressing down, creating miniature cracks in his sanity. As he watched the dealer package the slave's hand in a labelled ziplock back, he felt those cracks begin to deepen. 

“Will, look at me.”

Will tore his gaze away from the roulette table and met Hannibal’s gaze. His master’s face was a dispassionate mask. The very image of cold, removed beauty. He focused on his eyes. He imagined that he only existed in Hannibal’s gaze. The white noise that threatened to swallow him faded away. This place and these people, so monstrous, were not real and could not hurt him. 

Then Hannibal broke his gaze, distracted as Straussel cleared his throat next to him. He was returned to the present, and the sounds of the gambling hall returned. He looked between Straussel and Hannibal, who were exchanging a look, and with a surge of anxiety he understood. 

They had been foolish to come here. Straussel had seen the way they looked at one another, the way they had touched. If he didn’t know, he suspected. 

Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, but Straussel beat him to it. 

“If the two of you are ready, I think we must take an interest in the game. Once Andrew and I have taken a tour of the room we will retire for nightcap, I hope you will join us.”

“Thank you, I would be delighted.” 

Hannibal answered quickly as Will blushed. He glanced at the boy at Straussel’s side, who had finally been given a name. Andrew returned his glance with some interest. He had not missed the look between Will and Hannibal either, then. 

Will looked at the floor, allowing his shoulders to curl inwards, assuming the image of a frightened object. The one benefit of being in his position was that it occasionally afforded him an excuse to avoid eye contact with others. This allowed him to look inwards and compose his thoughts. 

Perhaps it was alright. Hannibal had hinted that Straussel also had relationships with his slaves that were outside of what was considered normal. It was possible they would find sympathy with him, and it would not get out any further. But they had not been careful enough. He would try to remain in this posture for the rest of the evening, giving the impression that he was a frightened and carefully controlled object.

Next to him Hannibal straightened, letting his severe and impassioned gaze land somewhere in the crowd. That was good- it was the version of Hannibal that these people would be used to, if they knew him. Better that he assume the image of the cool and disinterested elite man.

If Straussel noticed Hannibal and Will’s discomfort and subsequent shift in manner, he chose not to comment on it. 

“Shall we?”

Will followed Hannibal’s cue, and followed behind as he and Starussel fell into step. Andrew joined him, and Will squirmed internally. The idea that Andrew thought that he and Will were the same was deeply disconcerting. He supposed on one level, he was right. But Andrew seemed to relish his position. Will stole another glance into his mild and good-natured face. 

It didn’t seem possible that Andew could be plotting Staussel’s demise, as he was plotting Hannibal’s. He had thought so little of him before. But was there a chance that he was merely a better actor than Will? Could he be planning something? The thought nauseated him. More and more, he was beginning to feel he had underestimated everyone.

Hannibal and Straussel meandered through the crowd, talking quietly between themselves and watching as bet’s were played. Will and Andrew trailed in their wake. All too conscious of his surroundings, Will became increasingly afraid to let Hannibal out of his sight. They passed a wheel of fortune to which a house slave was strapped like a medieval torture device. A little further on they watched as hands were dealt and (literally) lost, sometimes substituted for a foot, or a tongue or an eye. 

Eventually they approached a screened dias at the back of the hall. A velvet rope barrier had been placed around it. The lights were dimmer back here, and it was quieter, being somewhat removed from the rest of the casino.

“Excuse me,” Staussel enquired of the security guard standing by the rope. “May I ask what this is for?”

“This is a private game, Sir.”

“I see. Likely some sort of set up for Veger’s special guests. Let’s go.” 

Straussel spoke loudly enough for all of them to hear, and Will was relieved as Hannibal turned to accompany him. Perhaps now they would go to another room for drinks, and wait until this horror show had passed. 

As they were turning away, a familiar face appeared. Margot Verger stepped from behind the curtain. She wore her hair up in a dark swath, pinned with purple flowers that matched her dress. Her dark eyes fell on Hannibal, and then slid to Will. The group paused.

Margot stepped forward, placing her hand on the guard’s shoulder. 

“We would like more ice, please inform the caters.” 

The security guard nodded, and left the five of them standing together. Margot smiled warmly, and extended a hand to Hannibal.

“How nice to see you again.”

“Thank you for inviting us, the pleasure is all mine.”

Hannibal took the hand she proffered. Straussel shook her hand next, and asked if she was enjoying the party. Will thought he saw a reflexive spasm in Margot’s jaw at the question. She looked at Straussel with empty eyes.

“Of course.”

There was a polite pause, during which Margot lingered, toying with her clutch purse. Both Hannibal and Straussel looked at her expectantly.

“Would you care to join us?” She gestured to the screen behind her. “I am playing poker with a few colleagues.”

“We wouldn’t want to interrupt your play.” Hannibal quickly countered her suggestion with a snake-like smile. “Is Mason with you?”

“Mason is not here yet, no. We’re beginning a new game shortly; there would be no inconvenience.” 

Hannibal paused, and Straussel glanced at him once. 

“Thank you” Straussel eventually replied. “We’d be glad to join you.”

Will felt his stomach drop, he looked between Straussel, Hannibal and Margot. He lingered as Straussel and Andrew stepped forward, approaching Margot who unfastened the rope barrier for them. 

Hannibal fell into step beside him. Feeling faint, he walked slowly up to the dias and passed the barrier, avoiding Margot’s eyes. She closed the barrier behind them and walked ahead towards Straussel, allowing Will and Hannibal space. They had one chance to talk, and Will didn’t have the first idea what to say.

“We need only play one game. You are not at risk”

Hannibal’s words were a murmur next to his ear, quiet enough that none of the others in their party should hear. 

“...Maybe I should be.”

Will listened to the words come out of his mouth, barely understanding them. But then as he looked into Hannibal’s discomforted face, he realised. And then the bleak but calm surety of a plan began to steal over him. It was an idiotic, incomprehensible idea. But it might just work. And they had no time to think of another option.

“You should bet me.”

“Will-”

“Not a part of me. All of me. You wanted to show the world that you didn’t care about me, or what happens to my life. So bet me. It will cancel out any rumour about us that your fight with Verger might have started, it has to.”

“What happens if I lose?” 

“You won’t – you’re playing Straussel and Margot. You can hardly suggest that either of them are out for blood. I think these ‘colleagues’ of Margot are likely peers from her elite circle of generational wealth. You will outmatch them.”

He turned as Margot and Straussel disappeared behind the scene, quickly placing his hand on Hannibal’s arm. He squeezed tight, wishing that he would have to let him go in less than a minute. 

“You can read others’ dishonesty better than anyone else I know. You will give nothing away in your looks, you are a natural born poker player. You will win.”

He released Hannibal’s arm just as the two of them stepped around the partition. A long poker table was set with ornate chairs, and illuminated by a glittering chandelier overhead. Around the table the other players were already seated, waiting for the game to begin. They looked up as Hannibal and Will entered. 

Will’s eyes found Hannibal’s one last time.

“You have to.” 

Chapter Text

The chandelier was a smaller copy of the larger ornament that dominated the central ballroom. It glittered pleasantly above their heads, lit with candles. The portioned off dias was otherwise gloomy and spherical, all of the light being focused on the central table.

The poker table was long and an unconventional, dark plum colour. Ornate chairs were seated around it at regular intervals. In each of these chairs, a player was seated; a host of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen that Will did not recognise. Including Straussel and Hannibal, their party numbered to eight. 

Hannibal and Straussel were shown to two of the three empty places, and Will and Andrew were instructed to stand directly behind their respective owners. An attendant appeared out of the shadows to offer Hannibal and Straussel champagne, which Hannibal politely declined. Will remembered a previous comment that Hannibal had made to him about the suspect liqueur that the Verger’s provided their guests. 

A few pointed looks were shared between the players. Will looked over the players heads, instinctively seeking out the slaves that hovered behind their masters chairs, just as he did. Some stared at the floor, summoning the courage they required. Other’s looked intensely at the back of their master’s heads, as though they could telepathically influence their bids.

An attendant in a house uniform stepped forward, and cleared their throat. Their sickly smile beamed over the table as all eyes turned towards them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know the game is no limit poker, five communal cards, two in the hole. I represent the Verger household this evening; holder of the stakes. There is a minimum buy-in for this game of one adult slave.”

Will glanced at Hannibal nervously, but Hannibal stared at the speaking attendant only, showing no discernable fear. 

“Please enjoy the game.”

The attendant stepped aside, and was replaced at the centre of the table by the dealer. Without further ado the dealer began skillfully shuffling the cards. The cards were dealt to each player with an elegant flick of the risk that was so fast, it was hard to follow. 

Will thought suddenly there was a distinct chance that the Verger’s could cheat. He didn’t expect it of Margot, but Mason… He swallowed the tide of rising panic as he watched the remainder of the cards being played. Why, God, could they not have gotten out of this? And what possessed him to tell Hannibal to bet his life? Some spasm of temporary madness, perhaps. It was far too late to back out now 

Hannibal discreetly looked at his cards by folding the edge towards him, in such a way that Will couldn’t see his hand. How very like him Will thought bitterly, and attempted bravely to prevent even a hint of his frustration from crossing his face. Hannibal might have the perfect poker face, but Will certainly did not.

The attendant spread three cards along the table. The nine, the eight and the five of hearts. 

“Four players. Place your bet. Check. Check.” 

The attendant made their way around the table until they came to Margot, who paused before placing two red chips onto the table.

“Bet. Fifty thousand grams.”

The circle followed her lead, as the man on the right placed one red chip. The next two players folded, and then came Hannibal’s turn. He folded without hesitation, never removing his eyes from Margot’s face.

The dealer placed the next card on the table. The nine of spades.

“Madam?”

Margot quietly placed another chip on the table, her eyes focused on the cards.

“One hundred thousand grams. Sir?”

The man on Margot’s right hesitated. Eventually, he placed his chip on the table.

“Call.”

The round was repeated, and the last card laid bare. The two of hearts.

Margot’s head turned to the side. She played absently with the chips in front of her, not seeming to hear as the dealer called on her. Almost as an afterthought, she tossed another two chips forward. 

“Two hundred thousand.”

The gentleman next to her matched her bet a third time. Will began to wonder if he was trying to catch her attention. Without so much as glancing at him, Margot turned over the two cards in her hand. She had a full house: the two spades and clubs looked blankly up at them all from the table. Surely, the final word. The gentleman next to her folded, and Margot accepted the chips pushed towards her with perfectly manicured, white hands.

Will watched on, transfixed as another round was played in much the same way. The elites gathered at the table sipped their drinks and cooly assessed their cards. They gambled away human flesh by the pound. Their victims watched on from over their shoulders, silent and passive. Had anyone called on him to speak, he would have been unable to do so, stunned into apprehensive silence. 

At last, in the third round, Hannibal made his play. Will had sensed it, detecting the subtlest shift in his body language. He attempted to prepare himself, but his heart still dropped to the floor as the dealer called on Hannibal, and his master placed one two chips down.

“Twenty thousand grams.”

Will did a hurried calculation in his head, feeling his panic grow by the second. Twenty thousand grams; that was almost one fourth of his total body weight. That would mean losing both of his legs, at least…. 

Did Hannibal know what he was doing?

Margot and Straussel matched his bet. Before Will knew what was happening, Margot had raised the stakes to fifty thousand. She was matched by Straussel, and the two of them turned to Hannibal expectantly. Will caught the gleam in Margot’s eye as she turned her attention towards them.

She thinks he’s bluffing he realised. He had barely thought the words before Hannibal raised again to seventy thousand grams. They were creeping into dangerous territory. If the house took seventy thousand grams of Will’s flesh, he would certainly die. Will wondered with a swing of nausea whether they had surgeons on site.

Margot distracted him by going all in, a move which caused a stir around the table. Straussel folded, and all eyes were on Hannibal once more. He paused, luxuriating in the attention. Will considered that of what he’d seen so far, Margot was the viper of the pack. She certainly would take no prisoners; she was the player to watch.

Hannibal caused the murmurs to erupt into whispering as he met her bet, sliding all his pieces forward. He felt as if he could breathe again- this was what he had wanted Hannibal to do in the beginning. He saw Straussel look between Hannibal and Margot in shock. 

He knew that he hadn’t seen it coming, that Hannibal would risk losing Will altogether was not compatible with whatever idea of them he had privately held. Good – his plan was working. 

But it was still deadly high stakes. Will watched as Margot turned over her two cards, heart pounding. 

“Full house, kings and aces.” 

Will felt as though he would pass out. But then Hannibak slid his cards across the table towards the dealer, never taking his eyes from Margot’s face. The two Jacks caused a fresh ripple of commotion.

“Four of a kind, Dr. Lecter wins.” 

Will exhaled slowly. Though he couldn’t see Hannibal’s face, he could well imagine the self-satisfied smile that was likely spread across his face. Across the table, Margot was visibly sour, and Hannibal was still looking at her. Somehow it didn’t surprise him that Margot was a sore loser.

The dealer announced a short break, asking players to reconvene in an hour. Hannibal flexed, and turned around in his chair. He motioned to the server, asking for water. Not once did he look at Will. 

Will felt as though he could do a cartwheel. He was okay. Hannibal would walk away with him and a few fresh cuts for his larder. Someone was always going to get hurt in this game, and as much as he recoiled in shame from his own delight, he was just so glad it wasn’t him. 

More importantly, they had successfully crushed any rumours about the two of them being intimate, they had to have done. Hannibal had recklessly gambled with Will’s life and limb in a public place. That was not the attitude of a lover, and this wretched society would know it. 

“Excuse me.”

A voice cut through the crowd, silencing all present. It was a voice Will knew all too well. A voice he would have happily gone his whole life without ever hearing again. 

All heads turned and watched as a figure stepped forward from the shadows. His light step was accompanied by the tap of habitual cane. Mason Verger stepped into the light, and smiled as only he could.

He turned his head lazily towards the dealer 

“Resume play.”

“Mason.” Margot cut in, her tone gentle, but wavering. “Our guests were breaking for refreshment.”

“Oh dear.” 

Mason spoke sardonically as he pulled off his white evening gloves. He pushed both gloves and cane towards the nearest attendant and placed his now bare hand on the back of the vacant seat.

“I suppose my friends will indulge me with a quick game? I have enjoyed watching the proceedings immensely, and I’d hate to miss out.”

As he spoke his final words his eyes landed on Hannibal, glittering like ice. Will repressed a shudder considering that Mason had been watching them all the while. How could he not have known? Mason’s eyes slid upwards, seeking Will’s, but he turned his head to the side.

Mason smirked, taking a seat. And as if compelled by gravity, all of the guests turned back to the table. 

“One game.” Margot agreed quietly.

Will stared at the back of Hannibal’s head, horror-stricken. He wished, not for the first time, that he had the ability to read Hannibal’s mind. 

He had to know that to stand up now and walk away would cause a scene- possibly reminding those present of the very public brawl Mason and Hannibal had shared the last time they were seen together. That was, if they weren’t already thinking about it. 

He must sit in, but that didn’t mean he had to play. Silence fell as the dealer cleared his throat and once again began shuffling the cards. Mason snapped his fingers, and a pair of shivering, terrified slaves appeared behind his chair. Another attendant approached and handed him a flute of champagne. 

The first three cards were dealt, the queen of hearts, the ace of spades, and the king of clubs. The dealer deferred to Mason, and Mason bid absently three thousand, his eyes still glued to Hannibal.

The attendant moved around the table, and most folded. Will looked anxiously at Straussel as the dealer called on him. He met Will’s eyes and gave him a warm smile. Will felt the strain of his anxiety lessen; Straussel would help him. He would bid if only because he knew what Mason would do to him, if he won. 

“Fold.” Straussel spoke quietly, his smile never faltering.

Will thought he had misheard. Straussel was still smiling generously. But there was a hardness in his eyes. He suddenly felt trapped in his gaze, and remembered what was all too easy to forget: that this seemingly gentle and romantic friend of Hannibal’s was also a killer. 

He saw Hannibal tense, and knew that he felt the betrayal as acutely as him. Straussel and Hannibal had known each other for years; it was far more likely that the blow cut Hannibal far deeper.

Then something occurred to Will which he could barely stand to acknowledge. Looking at Straussel, he felt as though he could suddenly see the game, and Hannibal and Will, from his eyes. He knew about the two of them, or at the very least he suspected. Hannibal betting Will’s life in the last round had shaken his confidence, but he was not yet convinced.

He was watching Will and Hannibal for a sign of reaction. He wanted to see Will’s fear, and Hannibal’s anger. He wanted to increase the odds that Mason would win, in fact, he probably hoped that Mason would win.

Just so that he could watch Hannibal lose Will. And then he would know for sure what they were.

And just as this realisation settled over Will, he hoped for Straussel’s sake that Hannibal did not also see Straussel’s design. It would break his heart. 

The dealer moved on, unawares, and passed over Margot, who checked. At last, they landed on Hannibal.

“Your bid, Sir?”

Will heard Hannibal quietly exhale. The room fell silent. Then Mason’s voice, an insidious purr, crept across the table.

“Don’t go easy on me, now.”

“Naturally.” 

Came Hannibal’s response. Will heard the smile in his voice – the smile that Hannibal always wore the monster was close to the surface. He already knew that they couldn’t back down. Mason knew it. They all knew it

He watched helplessly as Hannibal matched Mason’s bet.

“Well then” Mason purred. “Let's play.”

Chapter Text

The game lingered on for some time, as Mason’s guests feigned interest, presumably out of courtesy to their host. But one by one, they began to drop off like flies. Will had to wonder if these people, who knew Mason intimately, were well aware of the kind of monster they were betting against. 

Hannibal had bid and won Will back once over already, and Will wasn’t sure how much more he could stand before fully breaking down. But he forced himself to act composed, fixing his gaze on a spot on the wall. Hannibal needed to focus on saving his life, and he couldn’t do that if he was worrying about him. 

Only Hannibal, Mason and Margot lingered, in the end. Will could barely stand to watch as the dealer shuffled, bringing them into the last phase of the game.

“three players.”

He laid out the cards. There on the table were the ace of hearts, and the 6, 8 and 4 of spades. 

“Your bet, Sir?”

He gestured to Mason, who smiled blithely. The dealer nodded, accepting the look as a check. Margot checked, and Hannibal followed suit. The dealer nodded, pronouncing the three players before revealing the next card. Unbelievably, it was the ace of spades. 

Mason and Margot checked again, but it was Hannibal who lingered. Will stared at the back of Hannibal’s skull. He had a horrible feeling about what came next. He watched helplessly as Hannibal pushed all his counters forward.

“All in.”

The dealer nodded. “Bet, all in. One adult male slave.”

Will barely had time to panic before he heard Mason speak. 

“Raise.”

There were audible gasps as Mason slid an obscene pile of chips forward. 

“Raise. Two adult male slaves.” the dealer acknowledged. “Madam?”

Margot paused, and Will saw the ice cold smile that Mason sent her way. With his eyes fixed on her, she stared blankly at the tabletop, retreating inwards. Or so he had assumed. 

“Seven and a half adult male slaves” she said quietly, to the awed whispers of the onlookers. She pushed her chips and cards forward, still refusing to meet Mason’s gaze. 

Will couldn’t even comprehend how much money she had just laid down, let alone the cost of human life. Was superficially beating Mason that important to her? 

He’d assumed she’d joined the game as Verger, as Mason’s ally. As one united front, despite the transparent coldness between the two siblings. But there was more to this game than met the eye. And apparently, more than one serious player.

Mason smiled gently, his eyes sliding to the cards spread between the dealer's hands. Will saw him glance once at the two cards in his hand. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his smiling face.

Will thought at once, with chilling certainty, that this was the real face of Mason Verger. That behind his southern mannerisms and hunger and greed there was simply… nothing. Considering that he might soon belong to such a man turned his stomach. 

Nevertheless, despite Mason’s self-control, he couldn’t help but feel that Margot had ticked him off. His suspicions were confirmed as Margot glanced anxiously in Mason’s direction. Only once, but it was enough to betray her fear.

This seemed to be the signal that Mason was waiting for. He gave a low chuckle, and shuffled his remaining cards in front of him. 

“Call.” He drawled, pushing his chips forward. 

You could have heard a pin drop. The dealer looked between the three of them nervously, and Will felt his heartbeat begin to climb. He heard it pounding in his ears as he looked at Hannibal for what might have been the last time.

Hannibal slid his cards across the table with his usual controlled yet elegant gesture. Will could have laughed out loud as he saw the cards, feeling relief crash over him. 

“Full house, eights full of aces.” 

Surely, it was the winning hand. The Verger’s had fallen to infighting and demonstrative gestures of wealth that ultimately meant nothing. Surely. 

Margot looked once at Hannibal’s hand, then turned her eyes towards Mason. She waited, with her elegant hand tucked beneath her chin. Mason looked at her only once. His attention was on Hannibal as he flamboyantly threw his cards towards the dealer. 

“Higher full house. Aces full of sixes.”

For a moment, Will thought he had heard the dealer incorrectly 

Then a ringing began to fill his ears as he saw Mason’s ice cold eyes lock with his. 

“No. No, no, no.” Someone was murmuring. He felt someone squeeze his arm, and recognised one of the porters by his side, steadying him. He understood then that he was shaking, and the person who was murmuring was him. 

He looked disbelievingly at the back of Hannibal's chair. His master had not moved, nor visibly reacted. Will felt as distant from him as if he were on the opposite side of the earth. 

All the while, Mason grinned, looking more and more with every passing moment like a snake coiled to strike. 

“Madam?” questioned the dealer quietly. 

Margot turned disinterestedly to the side, almost as if she was considering getting up from the table. She slid the cards in a carefully controlled manner towards the dealer, and turned them over. A collective gasp was heard, as the audience broke into furiously excited whispering. 

Margot had laid down the seven and five of spades. A smattering of applause followed 

“Five and seven of spades… a straight flush”

The dealer accepted Margot’s cards, barely concealing his interest. Mason’s eyes were now fixed on Margot’s cards. He still wore his smile, but the light had been extinguished from his gaze. Without a word, he withdrew from the table. Snatching his cane from the waiting attendant, he disappeared into the shadows.

“Miss Verger wins.” 

Margot smiled graciously, and passed the dealer a generous tip. She did not so much as glance in the direction of Hannibal. Will felt little comfort, although he infinitely preferred her ownership to that of her brothers. Still feeling as though he might collapse at any moment, he watched as Margot absently snapped her fingers. 

Two larger attendants appeared suddenly from the corner of the room and began circling the table. They looked directly at Will, and navigated the space with terrifying ease. Will panicked, looking around for help. Within seconds the two attendants were on him, pinning him between their massive frames.

Will gasped, feeling as though his lungs would be crushed between the two men who at once began dragging him away from the poker table. 

“No!” he managed to shriek, but his cries fell on deaf ears as the elites around him showed only bored indifference. Will struggled, attempting to look back at where Hannibal was still seated at the poker table. He remained frozen in place, his eyes fixed on the cards that had sealed Will’s fate. 

Will wished desperately for Hannibal to turn around and look at him. For Hannibal to rush to his side. But as Will screamed, Hannibal remained silent and calm.

Will began to struggle less, his scream dying in his throat. He stared in disbelief as he was torn away from Hannibal through the crowd. He could not believe that Hannibal would not even turn and look at him, in the end.

As the attendants took him through a double set of doors, he lost sight of the casino and entered a dark corridor that took them past the kitchens. Will turned his face away from the open kitchen door, loathe to confront what he knew would be occurring inside. He grimaced with his eyes screwed shut, blocking out the sound of inhuman pleading and stunted screams issuing from that door.

All the while, his mind was spinning. One terrible thought succeeded another, in a never ending spiral. Could it be that Hannibal did not particularly care about him, after all they had been through? Was this merely a particularly bitter disappointment for him, which he would soon recover from? 

Would no one help him, therefore? Would he die? Oh, God, would he die here? Now?

He hadn’t the strength, but the attendant dragged him speedily onwards nonetheless. They seemed not to notice his lack of compliance- clearly, they were well used to their role. He wondered if they too, perhaps, were slaves. He couldn’t imagine any amount of money that could possibly make this job palatable for an ordinary man.

That being said, he had seen first hand the extent of what men were capable of when driven by greed. 

They passed by a long flight of stairs that took them to a fire exit. Dragged out into the dark, the wind and cold instantly wrapped around them, untidying Will’s hair and clothes. The attendants took a sharp turn, dragging Will down a flight of metal stairs. 

Once they reached the ground, they marched into the dark, heading further into the Verger property than Will had ever seen before. In the dark the willow trees which bordered the drive became monstrous, creating a misshapen shadow against the evening sky. 

Will felt his feet being dragged over the Verger’s manicured lawns. They had been walking for only a few minutes before he felt the grass beneath his feet change to gravel. He could make out the shape of a cattle shed, looming towards them. Evidently, Mason liked to keep his stock close at hand.

The attendants took Will inside the shed through a sliding barn door that reminded him all too well of the auction pens at clearview. It had just started to rain, but it wasn’t much warmer inside the barn. 

They took him to a steel trap that was originally used to hold cows. Will was thrown down into the cage, and as he hit the straw-covered floor he heard the gate clang shut behind him. He lay there for some minutes in silence, listening to the attendants retreating footsteps.  

After a while he crawled on his hands and knees to the gate. There were no other slaves in the holding pen with him, and he could hear no one else. He tried shaking the gate, and clumsily got to his feet, trembling all over. A mantle of razor sharp chicken wire had been laid across the enclosure, and was attached to the gate in such a way that made climbing free impossible. 

Will kicked the gate once in frustration, and listened to the sound echoed dimly throughout the darkness. Then he slowly sunk to the floor, wrapping his hands around his knees. Curled into a ball, he at last allowed his feelings to sink over him, here where no one could see. 

He missed his warm bed. And that thought alone caused fresh tears to drip down his cheeks. It was terribly cold inside the barn- the kind of cold that you couldn’t get used to. Will wondered at how Mason could keep his slaves in these conditions. Didn’t he care about them getting sick? 

Then again, he supposed Margot and Mason didn’t necessarily mean to keep him alive much longer. 

A sob tore through his throat. He tried to push thoughts of what they would do to him away, but in the pressing darkness there was no escape. The one image that his mind kept returning to was that of Hannibal’s dispassionate face as they took Will away.

Hours passed, and the night darkened by degrees. Will lay down at one point on his side, still curled into a ball. He couldn’t keep from shivering. He held his hands over his mouth in a feeble attempt to preserve warmth. 

He had resigned himself to the immutable horror that he had imagined would soon follow. He only hoped that he would die quickly. After everything he had been through, he guessed that it wouldn’t take much for his body to give out on him. 

Something told him, however, that Mason wouldn’t allow his death to be brief. He was Margot’s slave, but that was a flimsy veil of protection. He did not doubt Mason’s influence over his sister. 

At long last, there was a stir from outside. Will lifted his head to see the sliding barn door being opened once again. The cool night air rushed in, and his eyes were drawn to a flickering torch light. 

He recognised Margot Verger, standing in the doorway with a flashlight in one hand and an umbrella in the other. She had put a cream wool coat over her evening dress, that trailed behind her in the dirt. But she did not seem to care.

She looked directly at him, considering. Then she looked back in the direction of the house. Some minutes passed. He wondered why she didn’t come in out of the rain, before it occurred to him that she wanted to be visible. She was waiting for someone.

As if on cue, he saw a  dark figure approaching the torch light from the house. With a surge of relief, he recognised Hannibal. He too had retrieved his coat, but walked without an umbrella, his head turned down against the storm. Water had plastered his pearlescent hair to his head. 

He approached Margot, and the two of them began talking quietly. Will stared directly at Hannibal, wishing that he would turn and look at him. Did he know he was there, mere feet away? Surely he did. But Hannibal’s face was a mask. 

Then Hannibal’s eyes turned right, once, and for the briefest instant he met Will’s gaze head on. Those eyes had never looked so bright, nor so cold. It struck Will to his core, and he physically felt himself cringe away. 

And then Hannibal’s eyes were gone, as though he’d never looked at him at all. Will was left staring hopelessly at the two conversing figures, feeling the weight of all he had lost. Hannibal was letting him go. He knew, in his core, that Hannibal would leave him there. 

Crushed, he let himself curl back into a ball. He felt as though he might never walk again.

Hannibal watched Margot Verger closely as he approached. She stood quite at ease in the doorway to Verger’s cattle shed, looking for all the world as though she had merely stepped out for some fresh air.

She turned and softly met his gaze. The two of them considered one another as Hannibal stepped forward, accepting the shelter of her umbrella. It was a wretched night. Thunder rolled across the heavens, and the pattering of raindrops was a soft accompaniment to their conversation. 

“What is this about?”

He withdrew his hand from his coat pocket, revealing the hastily scrawled note Margot had written on a napkin, and slipped into his pocket over cocktails. The hurried elegant script was quickly becoming illegible as the ink spread into the wet napkin. But you just make out the location and time of their meeting.

Margot quickly took the napkin from him, tucking it inside her coat. 

“I will sell Will to you.”

Hannibal had thought that Margot sought to manipulate him further by inviting him here. He could see now he was right. 

“What are your terms?” 

He asked the question seriously, with the clipped tone he usually reserved for his business associates. If nothing else, Margot had proved that she deserved to be treated as such that night.

She exhaled quietly, and looked up at him through her long lashes.

“In return, I want you to kill Mason.”

The two of them stood in silence for some time, listening to the rain. The words hung between them like a noose. Hannibal wondered if Margot could be persuaded to put her head through it voluntarily.

“Why not kill him yourself?”

Margot looked towards the house almost reflexsively. But to her credit, she did not baulk from the suggestion. 

“I’ve had enough of getting my hands dirty. After years of crawling behind him, through the filth.”

As she softly spoke, her gloved hand tightened around the handle of her umbrella. She looked on at the house, letting her eyes rest on a light issuing from one of the bedroom windows. 

“I think you will come to regret not enacting this death.”

Hannibal spoke gently, as he was telling the truth. He looked curiously at Margot’s face, inviting her attention to return to him. Margot merely smiled.

“I don’t know why you’re trying to dissuade me, when I’m giving you what you want.”

Hannibal considered for a moment. They looked into one another’s eyes, and Margot lifted her hand. Hannibal took it in both of his, holding it protectively.

“Margot.”

“Dr. Lecter?”

“Never put me in a corner again.”

Margot’s smile froze. But she nodded, and led him inside. Hannibal walked ahead of her, his long stride quickly outpacing hers. They approached Will’s cage, and Hannibal felt his guts twist as he saw Will curled on the floor. He looked like a wounded animal caught in the forest. Slowly succumbing to death in the dark, alone. 

He never took his eyes from him as Margot fetched the keys and unlocked the enclosure. He stepped around her as the door swung wide, and was crouched at Will’s side in an instant. He placed his hands gently around Will’s shoulders and turned him towards him.

Will looked up at him with wet, disbelieving eyes. Hannibal pulled him forwards, enveloping him in his embrace. He was so cold, and so very heavy in his arms. 

“Oh Will…”

He exhaled slowly, pulling Will up to standing. He wrapped the folds of his coat around them both. Will was trembling, and so terribly quiet. He could barely hear his shallow breathing. 

“Forgive me.”

Hannibal realised that fresh tears were sliding down his cheeks, and dripping into Will’s hair. Once, he had felt secure in his hold of this man. Will was his. Or so he’d thought- but God had twisted the hands of fate. How ugly the world seemed, suddenly. It was capable of taking Will from him. 

The two of them walked slowly from the cattle shed, trailed by Margot. Hannibal felt her eyes on them, observing, but he did not particularly care. Margot would hold the events of this evening close to her chest, as would he. She broke away from them as they reached the drive, heading back towards the house.

“Aren’t you coming? Will’s coat…”

“Keep it.”

He steered Will towards the line of waiting cars, picking out his own and reaching into his pocket for the keys. Will murmured, beginning to come around to what was happening.

“It’s all right Will.”

He spoke softly, barely considering his words. They issued from his heart, he could not bear to censor them.

“I’m here. I’m so sorry; everything is going to be alright now. We’re going home.”

At the word ‘home’ he felt Will shudder, beginning to silently cry. He held Will to him even more tightly, making it difficult for them to walk. He could hardly breath as he focused on just getting them to the car. 

“You’re safe now. I promise.”

Chapter Text

In the days that followed the Verger casino night, a strange shade had fallen across Hannibal and Will’s relationship. There was something different, indescribable and helpless. 

Hannibal had kept his arms around Will the whole drive home, and afterwards it was as if he still embraced him. Will was never not in his thoughts, but he no longer thought of him with the same assured pleasure. 

He now lived with an anxiety he had never known before. It made him hold fast to Will in more ways than one, and he became more attentive than ever. He even took Will fishing once, by the local stream out in the woods.

It had done him good to see Will smile again; a rare occurrence. But it tugged painfully at some knot within his chest. He kissed him gently, by the river, in the house, on the garden lawn, on the stairwell. Over and over again, but he could never quite seem to get it right.

He had been shaken by the Verger incident- it had shown him just how easy it would be to lose Will forever. And as he kissed him, he couldn’t dispel the idea that despite having gotten him back, he was losing him.

Will had not been sleeping or eating well again since his brush with death. His health recovered by degrees, not helped by the terrible cold he suffered after his spell in the Verger holding pens. Hannibal had nursed him dutifully, bringing chicken broth and fresh water and tissues to his bedside.