Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arc 1 "“folie à deux.”"

The kitchen was dimly lit, with flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced across the smooth tabletop and played upon the walls like restless spirits of the souls stored in the freezer. The table was set for just the two of them; Will's dogs had been banished to the garden and fed there, granted only minimal indoor visitation rights due to a not entirely unexpected flea infestation of Will's property. Hannibal has been doing laundry daily, out of spite, sound isolated windows were the only reason the dog was not a side dish on their table. He even set the table, with the flat china and polished silverware, his favorite heavy crystal glasses filled with a deep red wine.

The star of the dinner was a Crushed peanut and coconut marinated hen with lemongrass infusion and vegetable skewers on garlic steamed jasmine rice laying gracefully between them, carved into delicate flat pieces, steaming with tropical flavors enhanced by the mango sorbet that he was going to serve with warm fruit, left wrapped tightly in a large banana leaf in the still hot oven.
Will was eating his food silently, just the sound of a fork touching the porcelain scraping along Hannibal’s spine like a piece of chalk ripping through the silence of a classroom. He looked up to admire the sharp profile of the man that lost quite a bit of weight in the last few months, slowly gaining it back over the last week.

"A penny for your thoughts, Will," Hannibal announced, his voice tinged with a warmth that seemed almost genuine.

Will Graham looked up, his eyes distant and surprisingly enough, confused with a hint of dread. Hannibal smiled, curious.

"Thank you, Hannibal," Will replied “for the dinner” his neutral mask, was getting on Hannibal’s nerves.

Hannibal brought a forkful of chicken to the lips, chewing slowly. The meat was slightly off on the well-cooked side for his palette, the bird was slightly too large to cook through to perfection, Hannibal made a mental note to weigh his poultry before buying a whole carcass next time, adjusting the temperature would only burn the marinade. The skin was crispy and golden, just as he wanted it to be. William licked his lips, unaware of the sensuality of the move, a simple hungry man that didn’t eat his packed lunch today either.

"To extended therapy and new beginnings," he toasted with wine, playing off the neutral tone. Will made a face, behind that mask of his, the slight twitch of the upper lip the slight tension of the eyebrows, movement of the tongue in that mouth of his. The wine was cold and soothing, fruity with a tropical sweetness that really heightened the lemongrass scent in the shiitake mushrooms, crunchy bell paper cubes, and smallest ripe baby corn he could find, the sweetness and earthiness complimenting the wine. The flavors are a distraction, from the mundane,

"So, how are you finding our living arrangement?" Hannibal asked, cutting into his chicken with surgical precision, physically annoyed by the flat masking adding a hint of theater performance to a dinner that was supposed to be a relaxed and lovely evening.

"It's... different," Will said cautiously. "I'm not used to sharing my space, especially with my therapist."
Hannibal smiled, fully aware that with the hygiene of the younger man, his cum was most likely still inside of him from the morning fuck they had. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it, isn't it?" Hannibal mused,
"It provides a unique opportunity for observation and analysis."

Will looked up, his eyes meeting Hannibal's. "Is that why you agreed to this? For your article?"
Hannibal paused, trying to remember which excuse he used, to drag the FBI agent out of the filthy bug-crawling hole, he called a living room, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Partly, yes. Your condition presents a fascinating case study. But I also believe that this arrangement can be mutually beneficial. You need therapy, and I can provide it in a more intensive setting."
Will took a bite of his chicken, thinking aloud "And what do you get out of it, besides material for your article?" words froze on his tongue a second too late, spoken out aloud.
Hannibal smiled, a well-performed act, a chilling expression crawling like a shadow into his eyes. The shadow sent a shiver down Will's spine. "The pleasure of your company, of course. And the opportunity to delve deeper into the complexities of the human mind."

Will felt a knot tighten in his stomach, a sense of unease that he couldn't shake. "And what have you discovered so far?"

"That you are a man of many layers, Will," Hannibal replied, his voice tinged with neutral ice of indifference. Will felt his heart skip a beat, did he mess it up now? The playful atmosphere that they had might never return now. Trying to phrase an apology, without quite knowing the words. They did not talk of their relationship, in full human words besides a few grunts, too busy or too rushed to get some rest, their schedules too full of meeting each other to speak of anything other than three cases demanding both of their assistance, spring was a season for casual local homicide in Baltimore.
"And what happens when you get to the core?" Will spoke, unsure if he wanted clarity, easy sex wasn’t easy to find with his profession and things were as easy as they could be, at their age.
Hannibal tilted his head, registering the flat hypnotic stare, the autism of the younger man was obvious in moments such as these, and if instructions and clarity were, what he wanted, the man was quite obviously not thinking of it deeply enough, trapped in a mist of confusion.

"That, my dear Will, is what I am most eager to find out." fake sweetness made his tongue remember the tartness and sweetness of the ginger honey in his pantry. The room fell silent. Will looked down at his plate “Are we having just conversations, still?” he asked, pushing the mushroom into a lake of sauce, blindly searching for validation. The feeling of crossing a line, growing stronger. Anxiety scratching at his ribcage from the insides.

Hannibal mused, saying nothing, observing the panic. A delicious sight, of tension in a long muscular neck and tighter jaw. A flash of raw anger. Oh, unaware anger, a rant blossoming.

“Is that what all of this is about? From the start? You found me, first. I do not believe that Jack found you. You have your client list already. You obviously don’t need the cash. I don’t own you to be your experiment forever, and for what, for being fed?” Will froze, pushing the chicken into the sauce “For sex?” last words almost inaudible "Because I'm a puzzle that you want to solve?" Will spoke louder, remembering his frustration, quite annoyed with unnecessary attentiveness and the mothering, to be picked up and dropped off like a child on the playground, with Hannibal not even listening to him, not taking it seriously.

"Would you like a drink, Will?" Hannibal offered, standing up. Gesturing to a cabinet filled with an array of bottles with golden liquids.

"Sure," Will replied, frowning.

Hannibal poured two glasses of Scotch and handed one to Will, holding the glass in on the side to avoid accidentally touching his hand. The amber liquid glowed in the dim light, casting a warm hue that contrasted with the chill that hung in the air.

"To friendship," Hannibal toasted, raising his glass.

Will hesitated for a moment, the word "friendship" hanging in the air like an unspoken question. He was toyed with. Finally, he raised his glass and clinked it against Hannibal's. "To friendship," he echoed sarcastically, taking a sip of the burning fire water. The alcohol hurt his throat, the only way around it is to drink it all faster. He gulped, forcing himself to swallow.

"So, how are you finding the therapy?" Hannibal asked, breaking the angry silence.

"Which part is therapy," Will hissed "Every time, I think, that we are having therapy, you are breaking the spell, somehow. You are not explaining how moving here is supposed to help me. I might be sleeping better, but I do not see where this is going."

Will looked down, his thoughts drifting to the maze of alcohol. "You want me to think about things. "

Hannibal leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Will's. "Sometimes, the things we least want to understand are the things we most need to."

The words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation wrapped into one. Will felt a shiver run down his spine, a mixture of fear and excitement that he couldn't quite place.

“Are we having a homosexual relationship?” Will blurred out."

"Neither one of us is a homosexual man” Hannibal chuckled. “What would give you such an impression?” gaslighting felt childish, in their situation, but he couldn’t stop himself, Will blushed, quickly turning crimson from his chest up to his ears.

Will felt his heart pounding in his chest, a drumbeat of emotion that he couldn't ignore. "Stop messing with my head!"

Hannibal leaned back, his eyes narrowing "...therapist" he spat out, pointing to the obvious.

“Friendship?” Will shouted.

“A puzzle?” poison dripping from Hannibal’s tongue. “Time, to work on that ego, William.”

“My ego? I am surprised that every single wall, around here is not covered in your rear end.” Will said, too drunk to use words.

“That is my private bedroom.” Hannibal stood up, gathering the dishes.

“What am I doing in your private bedroom, then?”

“Today, you are sleeping there.” Hannibal bit his teeth together, holding back from breaking the plates against the metal of the sink. Will walked after him. Standing too close, he backed him up into a corner. The knives sang on the wall, hung in their order, strong magnets holding them just in reach. Instead, he turned around slapping Will across the face, silencing the rant that was about to give him a headache. Second slap, turning Will's skin a pretty shade of pink. Third slap making his cock twitch. The dark-haired man stumbled back, leaning on his clean countertop with dirty jeans, and his shoulders dropped. Hannibal didn’t stop, slapping his cheek again, harder, this time catching the cheekbone. Will looked up, reacting to the pain pulsing up to the middle of his face, eyes hazy, calming down.

Chapter Text

Will woke up startled, his head pressed hard into the cushioning of the overpriced king-sized bed that dominated the space, the frame was built into the wall behind them, with movable parts and back support for optimal comfort, now misused with his lower body angled down. Slickness between his legs barely registering behind the sharp burn of penetration through his asshole, he was on his stomach with his arms bent and bound behind his back, something sharp and thin around his forearms, his left hand numb and ice cold.

Hannibal’s bedroom was a sanctuary of meticulous order and elegance, a space that reflected him, a space with plenty of shiny surfaces for Will to see their gliding reflection through the corner of his eye. His forehead hurt sharply from the carpet burn of being tossed and dragged across the fabric of the middle of the bed, and struggling to breathe. The walls were painted a deep charcoal grey, like a backdrop for the erotic painting of a naked male in a golden frame, the figure of Hannibal painted in Renaissance style. He wasn’t a wallflower, he dated primarily men in the college, and he could take some dick too, this however in no form or shape like the tender passions of his youth. Too busy arching back to lift his upper body just enough for a gasp of air, his body pounded fast and hard from behind. He wished for a giant accident, of being left the fuck alone, of shit all over Egyptian cotton comforter in deep blue color, thrown to the side. His shoulder spasmed, Hannibal's nails digging into the skin deep enough to reach the muscle, the man was taking a harder grip slamming his body into him from above. Friction alone didn’t even get him hard. Exhaustion settling in, Hannibal’s orgasm became a part of their morning routine, just a few weeks ago his life didn’t include being dragged out of bed and thrown into the tiles of the shower. Hannibal turned the cold water on and left without a word, every morning. He was changing sheets, straightening the fabrics with a steamer, cooking a full breakfast with a hot soup and the smell of cooked eggs.
 

How Will despised eggs.
 

Today was no acceptation, a cold thin blade gliding up Will's inner thigh, cutting through the thick zip cuffs on his wrist, pain in his fingertips making him sob. Soon enough his feet were standing on the floor. The tiles were as hard and cold as always, water pouring down his head, washing away the lube between his thighs. His cock pulsing up for attention, just another routine. Was it just days ago, when he cried about it, getting them late for work. The timer clock ticking on the bathroom sink was turned to 20 minutes. He could not be late for breakfast, not again, concentrating on jerking off into the corner of the room, imagining a soft set of wet tits. Getting through the grooming and shaving by the time the timer rang, his clothes laid out on his side of the bed.

The bedroom was not a mess anymore, devoid of clutter. He put his jeans on, twisting the button for a little comfort. A thick grey t-shirt and his own green sweater, already knowing better than to sit down on the bed to put the socks on. The cologne bottle was uncapped and standing on the black dresser against one of the walls. Will sprayed it on his hand, swiping Hannibal’s scent over the nape of his neck, putting the tiny round cap back on the bottle, and walking out of the bedroom just in time as the coffee was poured into a cup, for him.

He sat down, the house was still mostly a mystery, the sight of his dogs through the glass door, running in the small, enclosed city garden was a physical relief. He will ask, for their seating to be rearranged, he would prefer to sit on the other side and look at his dogs. He would go out to them, after work, but not yet. A full plate with food was placed in front of him. Which part was therapy, Will thought. He was allowed to speak his mind in the afternoon, at dinnertime, but not now. Hannibal was cold as always, scribbling in notes on the sides of a cookbook. A loud heavy ink pen was held in his hand. Will ate his eggs and sausages, staring at the cabinets, the dishes were organized by shape and size. If anything, Hannibal got into a more irritated mood, after sex, a sharp contrast to his boyfriends of the past. But anything was better, than spending another day out in the field with swollen welts across the back of his legs. Hannibal was a brutal lover, to say the least.
Will´s movements were sluggish, weighed down by the remnants of last night´s alcohol and he just had one of those bodies, naturally rebelling against early mornings. Every morning with Hannibal was an early morning. The sound of morning traffic just started to run, down the street behind this forsaken house full of small rooms and doors. His coffee was strong and dark. He wanted to go back to sleep, even if he needed to go back into Hannibal’s bed.

“Are you ready to go?” Hannibal asked, standing up. The dishwasher rumbled in his kitchen, the table getting cleaned with effortless stroking, the surface possibly polished from human fingermarks. Hannibal didn’t ask, he communicated a gently phrased order. Will sighed inwardly, standing up from his chair, and returning an empty mug to Hannibal’s possession. In the hallway, his shoes were moved and waiting for him to glide his feet into them. Will wondered, if maybe there were cameras set up all around these cold rooms, it felt too intimate to put his shoes on and be watched the way Hannibal did it, standing behind him, leaning on the wall with a flat expression on his face.

And once the door closed, the tension faded, and the mask returned. Everybody loved Hannibal Lecter. The neighbors. Will´s students. The coworker. His dogs.
Hannibal sensed Will´s discomfort, a slight downturn of his mouth indicating a mix of concern and curiosity “You seem… less than your usual self, this morning”, he observed reviewing their schedule for the day. An email containing a GPS location and a map was sent over by the FBI.

Hannibal smiled, expecting a snappy response, instead Will just glared at him through the eyelashes.
“I had a bit to drink last night. Not my best decision, considering today´s early start” Will spoke dryly.
“Ah,” Hannibal said, a knowing smile forming on his lips. “The eternal struggle between immediate pleasure and future responsibility”.
Will ran a hand through his hair, staring out the window as Hannibal drove them through the city traffic "Well, let's hope I can still function well enough to be of use today."
Hannibal answered, a note of sweetness sending an unpleasant shiver down Will's spine, down to his still throbbing, hurt asshole “I have no doubt you will, Will” the barely hidden smugness pissing him off.

The woods were wet and full of moss, a short drive followed by a walk down a tourist path leading to a lake. The murderers did not try to hide the body, throwing it to the side, the woman landing on her side, found by the rangers in a few weeks’ time.

"This place feels... off," Will finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with an unsettling intuition, walking up and down the path tourist path through a forest area up to some hills.

"That's precisely why we're here, isn't it?" Hannibal replied flatly, he picked a suit that was slowly getting moist from the morning dew.

Will reached a clearing, a space where the trees seemed to shy away, looking around.

“It doesn’t make sense to throw her, there. She is out of sight, from here.”

Hannibal shifted his weight, to his left foot, glancing around the territory. The body was displayed awkwardly, but the murderer didn’t dispose of it, the body was placed to be found, which was unusual. “Is the body, whole?” A flash of realization crosses the feature of Jessica, the FBI agent, walking back to the founding grounds and kneeling to look up from the perspective of the body. The victim, forced to die, walked up on the platform where Will Graham stood, the hills and trees in the way to see anything else. One murderer smashed the scull of the woman, the other standing up above her, watching.

The car's interior was warm and dry, and Hannibal drove them back to Baltimore humming a radio tune.

"You seem preoccupied," he observed.

"I can't shake the feeling from the woods," Will admitted, his eyes staring out the window but not really seeing. "But I have to focus; I've got a lecture soon."

Hannibal smiled, remaining silent, dropping the man off at the office entrance to the university.

Will pushed open the doors to the lecture hall, expecting the usual buzz of students settling into their seats. Instead, he was met with a room shrouded in darkness, the murmurs of the students filling the air like static. "Professor Graham, the electricity's out," a student informed him.

Will still too distant in thoughts paused, considering his options. As he stood there, a wave of anxiety washed over him, almost as if the walls of the lecture hall were closing in. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing loudly in his ears. His palms grew sweaty. For a moment, his vision blurred, the faces of his students morphing into indistinct shapes. It was a silent anxiety attack, one that he had become all too familiar with, yet it never got easier to manage.

Then, decisively, he pushed through the fog of his anxiety. "Alright, everyone. Your homework is to write a one-page analysis of the psychological profile we discussed last class. Due next lecture. One extra point will be added to your final grade for finishing in groups, if I were you, I would head over to the library. I am looking for a display of understanding of perspective analysis. "
The students nodded, their silhouettes moving in the dark as they began to pack their belongings. Will moved, seeing the crowns on the trees in the shadows of the lecture room.

Will stood in line at the university cafeteria trying to gather his thoughts, a cup of coffee in hand. He glanced at his watch and realized he had some unexpected free time. He considered using the key in his pocket, to go see his dogs, squirming away from the idea. Hannibal would pick him up in three hours.

"Maybe I can use this time to dig deeper into that case," he thought to himself.

Just then, Alana walked into the cafeteria surrounded by a group of students, noticing Will.

“What the hell happened to you; you look pale.” She said, projecting worry.

Chapter Text

Will slumped into the plush chair in Alana Bloom's warmly lit office, the scent of lavender in the air providing a stark contrast to the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Alana, her eyes a mix of concern and curiosity, offered him a glass of water.

"You're spiraling, Will," she said, her voice tinged with a motherly warmth as she sat down across from him.

"Yeah, well, spiraling's sort of my default setting. I'm like a human fidget spinner," Will quipped, taking a sip of water with a steadier hand than before.

Alana chuckled, her eyes softening. "I'm glad you can joke about it, but this is serious, Will. What's your next move?"

Will shrugged, his posture more relaxed now. "Actually, I've made a decision. I'm moving in with Hannibal."

Alana's eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. She took a moment to consider Hannibal Lecter, his impressive credentials, and the oddly deep connection he'd formed with Will. "You're doing what now?"

Will leaned forward, locking eyes with her. "Look, Alana, I've tried everything. SSRIs, CBT, even dabbled in mindfulness-based stress reduction. But it's like trying to apply Bandura's social learning theory to a subject that refuses to be conditioned. Hannibal's offering a more existential approach."

Alana leaned back, her eyes narrowing but her lips still curved in a half-smile. She thought about Will's personality, recalling the younger, vibrant student she'd first met in college. The man before her was pale and tired, yet there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes that she hadn't seen in years. "That's a drastic step, Will. Transitioning from a disordered environment to a controlled one could either be a breakthrough or a breakdown."

"Drastic times call for drastic measures," Will replied, leaning back and stretching his arms. Alana's eyes pulled forward unusual band bruise on his wrist.  "Hannibal thinks my anxiety isn't just a pathology; it's a form of hyper-vigilance. He wants to explore that through a more Jungian lens, see if it can be integrated rather than suppressed."

Alana sighed, her eyes twinkling as if she were both amused and concerned. "Will, you're walking a fine line here."

He leaned forward again, earnest but with a twinkle in his eye. "I know. But right now, that line's all I've got. It's either that or becoming a professional spiraler. Do they have a league for that?"

Alana laughed, finally letting her guard down. "Alright. But you keep me in the loop, okay? And if you start to feel like you're losing yourself, you pull the plug. Promise me."

Will nodded, his eyes locking onto hers. "I promise, Alana."

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the city as Hannibal's sleek, black car pulled up in front of the FBI building. Will emerged from the revolving doors, his face a mask of exhaustion and relief. As he slid into the leather seat, Hannibal greeted him with a warm smile.

"Good evening, Will. How was your day?"

"Long," Will replied, his eyes already drifting to the window as they pulled away from the curb. The cityscape gradually gave way to the wooded outskirts, the trees adorned in their autumnal splendor. It was a peaceful transition, one that Will found himself looking forward to each day.

Hannibal navigated the winding roads with practiced ease. "I had a rather interesting session today. A patient grappling with existential dread. It's fascinating how the fear of the unknown can manifest in so many intricate ways."

Will nodded, his eyes still fixed on the passing scenery. "People fear what they can't understand."

"Indeed," Hannibal said, his voice tinged with a knowing smile. "Yet, it's that very fear that often leads to the most profound revelations."

The car glided through the wooded area, the setting sun filtering through the trees and casting dappled shadows on the road. Will felt a sense of serenity wash over him, a stark contrast to the chaos that usually plagued his mind.

"As much as I'd love to delve into the complexities of the human psyche, I'm more interested in how your meeting with Dr. Bloom went," Hannibal finally said, his eyes meeting Will's in the rearview mirror. "I saw the two of you conversing in the park."

Will turned his gaze from the window, meeting Hannibal's eyes. "It went well. Alana's concerned, but she understands why I'm doing this. She's known me long enough to see that conventional methods haven't exactly been fruitful."

Hannibal nodded, his eyes returning to the road as they pulled into the driveway of his stately home. "I'm pleased to hear that. Alana is a perceptive woman; her endorsement, tacit or otherwise, is valuable."

The two men exited the car, the chill in the air signaling the approach of winter. Will felt Hannibal's eyes on him as they walked to the front door, a sense of anticipation hanging in the air.

As they stepped inside, Will began to remove his coat, the weight of the day slowly lifting. Hannibal closed the door behind them, standing momentarily in the narrow space behind Will. His eyes fixed on the figure of Will reflected in the mirror, he was ruffled and unkept but still a depicted show, in the height of his youth, his form a perfect blend of strength and beauty, his features exquisitely detailed, the nose and jaw always catch Hannibal’s attention. He felt a pull, an inexplicable magnetism that drew him closer to the FBI agent. He could see himself, using rope and cement to turn him into a statue of Icarus, just to circle him like the sun. The tension in sculpted muscles and the serene expression Will had, were all a constructed front created by an artist. Almost ideal reactions. In other settings, with a less emphatic take on the world, the man could have been so much more. As he stood there, Hannibal felt a wave of emotions wash over him. He had always been a man of control, his desires and inclinations meticulously curated to fit the life he had built. But in that moment, he felt a crack in his armor, a fissure in his carefully constructed identity.

"Should I let him go" The question materialized in his mind, unbidden yet impossible to ignore. It was a query he had never seriously considered, dismissing it as irrelevant in the grand scheme of his ambitions. But now, it lingered, demanding attention.

He thought about his relationships, the women he had courted, and the men he had admired. Could his appreciation for the male form, his deep-seated respect for men of power and intellect, be indicative of something more? Would an emotional connection with a man be more fruitful, than one he had with women in the past? Sexual tensions and all their expressions were beside the point set of cards that they have been dealt.

Hannibal took a step back, his eyes still locked onto Will's back, the man removing his shirt and pants, stepping out of his clothes, and entering his home. He took his left glove off, to distract himself, watching the juicy asset of an FBI agent, walking straight to the garden, closing the glass door behind him. The dogs barking. Hannibal started to fold the clothes, drying off the bottom of their shoes before putting them in a cabinet. He hung the coats in a temperature-controlled closet, with some of his day suit jackets.

Some of the crisp autumn air still hung in the hallway, suddenly bringing Hannibal into a cheerful mood. He dropped the keys into a porcelain bowl. The air outside had been tinged with the scent of fallen leaves and damp earth, a smell that always filled him with a sense of nostalgia and anticipation for the season's culinary offerings. Their early morning walk in the forest has been delightful. His thoughts naturally drifted to the kitchen, the sanctuary where he could translate his experiences and emotions into a language all its own: the language of food.

He mentally scanned his pantry as he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs. A pork tenderloin, perhaps, marinated in a mixture of rosemary, garlic, and a touch of Dijon mustard. He could pair it with a side of roasted sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and parsnips, all caramelized to perfection. And for a sauce, a reduction of red wine and a hint of balsamic vinegar would add a layer of complexity.

Hannibal made his way to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he went. He could already smell the mingling aromas of rosemary and garlic, could already taste the succulent pork paired with the tangy sweetness of the sauce. It was as if the dish already existed, fully formed in his mind, waiting to be brought to life.

As he began to gather his ingredients, Hannibal felt a sense of profound satisfaction, his eyes drifting out to the garden, his green wall of moss and Italian lemon trees. A beautiful naked man on his property. Enclosed. The tall walls, closing in his inner garden were one of the main features in his design when he ordered the property to be built, a masterpiece to crown his hunting grounds.

Chapter Text

Hannibal lingered, brushing his fingers across the bottle named Seaweed Umami, which contained the dehydrated loin of a blond from Cleveland. Perhaps he was approaching the middle-age blues, he looked up at Will Graham tending to the needs of the beasts, all seven of the dogs already looked in better shape since the groomer visit last week. The man sprinkled the green powder into the oil, preparing the sauce. Perhaps he was lonely, he thought, reaching for the phone in his pocket and dialing a number to Martha, the woman always a cheerful talker and an acquaintance who understood their distance, yet remained easy to listen to, suggesting that Hannibal take on another dinner hosting. A waiting list, to enter his home. The republican party was willing to pay for any wimp he had, for the theater and drama he added. Culinary artistry, they called it. Hannibal felt worshiped by their praise but the secret was, just proper portion sizes and good grill marks on the steaks. He knocked on the window, ending his conversation. There were a few cuts he could use in the freezer, but there wouldn’t be time to hold a sitting before late November he decided, a maximum of four guests, his eyes glued to the muscular thighs of an FBI agent on his lawn. Hannibal knocked on the window once more, a little louder, Will turned around, his hair wild, his cock twitching as he stood up, rushing inside through a side door. At least, this exemplar was easily the train, Hannibal smiled, listening to the water sounds from the bathroom, remembering his early attempts at kidnapping of classmates, arranging thinly carved meat beside the potatoes.

Perhaps he was hungry for conversation, he thought, savoring a bite of his making. "The interplay of flavors is like a well-orchestrated symphony, don't you think?" he mused, setting down his fork.

Will Graham, had cleaned his hands, feet, and his ass, the smell of dog gone "You make every meal feel like a lesson in existentialism."

"Ah, but life itself is an existential puzzle, is it not?" Hannibal retorted, his eyes twinkling with delight.

Their conversation flowed so naturally, a dance of words and ideas that Hannibal found exhilarating. "You seem to enjoy our talks," Will observed.

"The pleasure is mutual," Hannibal replied "Your insights often serve as delightful counterpoints to my own."

It was then that Will decided to push the boundaries of their relationship. "Ever wonder what it would be like to argue with me? A real argument, not just intellectual sparring."

Hannibal paused, intrigued by the proposition, initially startled by the prospect of arguing with food. But Will Graham wasn’t a meal, or was he "An argument is a form of intimacy, a revealing of one's true self. Is that what you seek, Will?"

"Maybe I want to see if you're capable of real emotion," Will leaned in, challenging the man before him. "You're so composed, so cold. Doesn't anything rattle you?"

Hannibal's eyes narrowed, but his composure remained unbroken, perhaps he longed for something sensory. "Ah, you're trying to provoke me, for the second day in a row. A fascinating tactic. Why would you wish to add that to our agreement?"

“Agreement” Will repeated, hesitating, slightly disarmed by Hannibal's perceptiveness. "I admire you, Hannibal. You're what many would aspire to be: intelligent, cultured, and in control. But that control, it's like a wall. I wonder what's behind it."

"Control is a tool, Will, not a barrier," Hannibal responded, his voice tinged with a seriousness that cut through the room's warm atmosphere. "It allows me to navigate the complexities of the human mind, including my own."

"And what about my mind?" Will asked softly, his eyes searching Hannibal's for an answer. "You've been navigating it for a while now."

"Indeed," Hannibal leaned in, shifting the focus of their conversation. "And I've noticed you've been more anxious lately. Your hands tremble, your gaze wanders. These are symptoms, Will, not character flaws."

Caught off guard, Will sighed. "I didn't expect you to turn this into a therapy session."

"Sometimes the most revealing conversations happen when we least expect them," Hannibal replied, his voice softening. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"You know, I've been thinking. Would it be possible to change my permanent seat at this table? I'd like a view of the windows."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Permanent seating? I'm flattered you consider your place at my table as such. But you do realize that would put your back to the door?"

"I'm aware," Will nodded. "Maybe it's time I get comfortable with a little discomfort."

"Ah. Very well, next time you shall have your view of the windows."

"Thank you, Hannibal," Will smiled, eating his food. “Where do you want me, afterward?”

 “By the couch, will be fine, standing,” Hannibal noted, pouring cold ginger ale into his glass. The meal finished as the men retrieved to the living room. Hannibal actually owned a television, the kind that pretended to be a dark painting that Will could not even find a remote for, walking to the corner of an unpleasantly long and narrow leather couch. Hannibal watched the European channels, they did not have a single pharmaceutical add-on, not a single read-aloud of side effects and brain tumors, even colors milder and softer to the eye. He was surprised by how quickly he lost the sense of embarrassment from being in the nude. He was not treated abnormally, so what was the point in wasting all that energy on overreactions. Hannibal put a nitrile glove on his right hand, dipping his hands into a jar of lube that he brought with him from the kitchen. Will moved his hands behind his back, holding his left wrist with his right hand.

For Hannibal, this was most likely, not even erotic, he thought, the man was an emergency room surgeon in the past. How many times did he do this to hundreds of patients, Will wondered as Hannibal’s slick fingers reached their destination, gliding into his asshole. He could take one finger quite easily, even distract himself long enough for the second one to slip in. But doing it, while standing up was a very different experience, the fingers moved lazily, massaging his hole. He throbbed and hurt for a few hours in the morning, but it was not as bad as he feared. Now, Hannibal was gentle, circling the rim of his hole with firm and slippery pressure. The third finger pushed in. That was slightly too much, now. This is where Will would stop if he was on his own.

The texture of the glove felt cold and sterile, he wished he could feel the warmth of touch instead. But the idea of verbalizing his suggestions felt idiotic with his dick hanging out like a decoration, he rather not walk like a crab between his lectures, not again and not tomorrow. He had been hurt in the past by his lovers, he had punishments as a child, and he even broke a bone as a teenager. He was for the most of it, mentally okay with being a submissive man, to both men and women in his life. The belly fear was easily identifiable, warm, and heavy like being frozen in the sensation of falling backward off a cliff. That fear was not about the pain, however present it was. It was the fear, of how fast the mood shifted. He feared the unpredictable.

That feeling was worse than the caress of a cane.

Hannibal didn’t stop on the third finger, stretching his hole slowly, rhythmically gliding the three fingers in and out, ignoring him completely. That is when Will learned that Hannibal was ambidextrous, the man changing a channel with his left hand. Will wouldn’t be able to do it to someone else while holding a straight face. His hole throbbed from every stroke now. The image of perhaps a whole fist going up his ass, as Hannibal is on the phone, providing therapy to someone actually in need of it, made his dick throb. His balls tightened moving higher, as his dick swelled up into erection.

Hannibal shaved him on their first day, sculpting him to his liking. Never in the past, did Will even consider that he would enjoy a man, measuring how much pubic hair to leave him, but how much would fit in a fist. Just the memory of how it felt, to be measured and tugged, gave him a tingle. He could not look away, glancing down at his cock, the gland was pink, and the foreskin was still too tight. But he could, already smell himself. He wanted to jerk off.  In college, it felt like he sold some of his youth to the academia. He wasn’t invited to the parties or had any close friends. He returned to the dorms, to sleep and left to study. And on the second year, his roommate whom he barely knew moved out on his own and nobody else moved in. Will took it as an opportunity, masturbating more frequently on his time off. He learned to kiss. He learned to give head. He even learned to have hands-free orgasms with a curved toy that he bought in a shop with purple walls, those were the days before Amazon Prime delivery.  It was meant for women, he learned later. Hannibal’s fingers were long and beautiful, he wouldn’t keep going, surely not, Will thought, biting his lower lip, the fourth finger pushing into his asshole. Now, the stretch hurt in an uncomfortable way, the tension tightening, he could feel his prostate pulsing not being found, and brushed against with the back of Hannibal's hand, but the man completely ignored it. He wanted to cum, in his bravest fantasies grinding his hips on Hannibal's hand like a dog in heat. Maybe participating in a redundant experience, as leaving a load on those serious eyebrows and straight nose. His precum smelled sweeter. The lube was drying up, every touch warmer. At least, the doctor was not creative about it, simple and rhythmic stroking stretching the dual ring of muscles around his cone-held fingers, getting deeper and deeper, stretching his sore hole a thumb pressed hard between his balls. 

Chapter Text

The room was filled with the mechanical hum of exercise equipment and the rhythmic thumping of feet against the treadmill. Hannibal, seated at a rowing machine dried the sweat on his shorts, he looked almost serene despite the fine mist of sweat that covered his forehead and drenched his t-shirt and arms. His eyes were focused, but not on the machine or his own reflection in the mirror ahead, they were on Will Graham, who was on a treadmill across the room.

"...what did you say to her?" Hannibal asked, his voice calm but probing.

Will, heaving and folded in half, taking a moment to catch his breath, was still kept naked beside a pair of sneakers and some socks bouncing to Hannibal’s delight. "I shouted," he coughed out, "Words. How stupid she is. She was fifteen years old. I pushed her." The treadmill seemed to tighten its grip on Will's lungs as he spoke, each word a struggle. "Imagining her exchanging me... I felt out of control. "

Hannibal paused, letting the words hang heavy in the air. He then engaged the rowing machine, pressing with his legs and gliding back and forth. His thighs bulged with muscle, a testament to the control he exerted over his body—a control that Will so desperately sought.

Will looked at the treadmill's control panel and reluctantly pressed the button to increase the speed. He was too tired to mask this self-imposed punishment, too consumed by the ever-present nightmares that haunted him. His gift of empathy was not always a finely tuned instrument; it often lacked the counterbalance of sympathy, especially for the suffering of others in personal relationships.

Hannibal noticed the change in speed, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're punishing yourself," he observed, not as an accusation but as a simple statement of fact.

Will's breathing was ragged now, each inhalation a battle. Hannibal stopped rowing for a moment, considering the question. "Pain can be a teacher, but it's not the only one. Your lack of control, it's not a flaw, Will. It's a fissure, a crack through which your true self can shine."

Will slowed the treadmill, finally allowing himself a moment of respite. "And what if I don't like what shines through?"

Hannibal resumed his rowing, his movements smooth and deliberate. "Then you change it, not by running faster or rowing harder, but by understanding why it's there in the first place."

Will looked at Hannibal, his eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and clarity. "And what if understanding it scares me more than the act itself?"

Hannibal locked eyes with Will, a knowing smile forming on his lips. "Then, my dear, you're finally getting to the heart of the matter." The feeling filled Will´s chest, the same one that clung to him in his nightmares, the way the face of his first girlfriend already could not do.

  Their mornings were like the rave music that Will hated with a passion, that did things to his mind, the beat was too loud and crumbled structures until nothing else stood a chance. He performed through FBI training with the same melody on repeat. Becoming a mask, he designed for others. Performing for everyone around him. Overbooked schedule. He kept himself at the peak of health. Peak of sensory filtration. He had constructed a persona so convincing and full of charm, that even he had started to believe it. The constant inner monologue, the relentless drive to excel—it was exhausting, but it was also exhilarating.

  But then came the burnout, a crash so devastating that it took years to recover. Years filled with disappointing glances from his colleagues his own guilt, self-doubt, and a crippling fear that he had lost his edge. The sensory wall that he had built to filter the world around him had crumbled, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.  It was a dangerous place to be, but it was also strangely comforting, empowering even.  He could no longer deny the reality of his conditions,  his own feelings, put aside to tune with the others. How many years have it been since he had clarity, of how feelings feel in his body. Now, he felt hurt. Hannibal was violent, leaving bruises on his arms, as he pounded fast and hard into his asshole through the dehumanizing spasms of raw pain. Will´s body sobbed, tearing. The edge of the pain came, and it went away too fast, shocking sharpness exchanged with the familiarity of throbbing friction. The clarity was gone with it. Heat pulsing up in bursts of shame.

 Today he was hard as a rock, forced to feel his own cock grind into the bedsheets. Then, unexpectedly the man behind him took a call still fully inside of him, an emergency therapy session requesting immediate attention. Hannibal spoke softly in French.

 Will froze, shame filling the corners of his eyes with salty anger. Hannibal held the phone with his shoulder, listening to the male voice of the patient while gliding hands across Will's body. He struck him, humiliating him further with a full hard swat across the back of his head. The tears burst out of his eyes. The therapist took a firm grip on his hair, pulling backward, throwing him off the bed to the floor, a dick stuffed into his mouth. The skin on his knees burst from the impact with the hard floor, bleeding, his eyes burning from the tears. The dick tasted of ass, shoved into the back of his mouth. Hannibal held him by the hair, moving his hips to rock, thrusting into his mouth with increasing speed. Will gaged, struggling to breathe.

“Take a deep breath, Franklyn,” Hannibal spoke, switching to English in the softest voice Will had ever heard, rushing to inhale before the man moved, speaking French, simultaneously face fucking Will. Too hard and too fast. Tears made Will´s vision blurry, he looked up meeting Hannibal`s hazel eyes, the sunrise crept over the edge of the wall hiding them from the civilization, reddish light filling the bedroom, Hannibal’s eyes a bright maroon red. The sight made his dick throb.

The therapist stretched his legs out, wrapping them around Will. He finally let go of his hair, his scalp was scratched and hurting from where the nails dug into the skin.  Hannibal’s thighs on his shoulders, his dick in his mouth. Hannibal was cumming like a cat stretching in the sunlight, falling back on the bed, glowing up into a smile while talking on the phone.  Will kept sucking on the pink gland, watching Hannibals' tummy spasm, salty cum filling his mouth, for the first time since they started to fuck reaching down to masturbate in front of Hannibal. Rock hard in his own fist, pushing into his hand without a drop of lube, not needing it, precum leaking under his foreskin. Horny. So Horny. Hannibal watched him, a dark silent gaze. Will couldn’t hide it, bobbing his head on his own, pressing forward to suck on Hannibal's dick. Feeling the heavy heat, expanded into numbness in his limbs and the warmth, his dick throbbed, brain shutting off into a vibrating spasm of pleasure. Their first mutual orgasm was better than Will imagined, refusing to do without this for another day.

Starving for more.   

Chapter Text

Hannibal stepped out of the bedroom, the plush fabric of his expensive bathrobe caressing his skin. He held a phone to his ear, his voice a soothing baritone as he spoke to his patient. "Remember, deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth."

As he moved through the living room, the room remained chilly and dark, the gray light of the increasingly rainier Friday morning seeping through the curtains. The atmosphere was a stark contrast to the warmth of his robe.

Entering the kitchen, he placed the phone on speaker and set it on the marble countertop. "Visualize a place where you feel safe," he continued his hands busy grinding coffee beans, allowing the coffee to bloom. The aroma filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent from outside.

Stepping outside for a moment, he refilled the bowls of beasts. He moved efficiently, stepping away from wet, wagging tails before closing the glass door.

A quick check of the fridge followed, bringing out the blue and brown farm eggs and bacon along with a jar of fig marmalade. His sourdough starter required some attention and feeding, a quick spoon of flour bringing his morning routine to an end.

He filled the French press and put the skillet on low heat, and soon enough, the sizzle of bacon filled the room, attracting the attention of one very alert FBI agent who had just entered the kitchen, yawning.

"Are you visualizing?" Hannibal asked, flipping the bacon strips with practiced ease.

"Yes, Doctor Lecter," came the shaky reply from the phone.

"Good," Hannibal responded, his attention focused on the sunny-side-up eggs in the skillet. They cooked to perfection, the yolks vibrant and inviting. He sprinkled the dish with some salt, and plated the eggs and bacon meticulously, adding a sprig of parsley for garnish.

He picked up the phone again, brushed a hand through Will's hair, and walked out of the kitchen. "You need to centralize on your feelings," he said, reaching the door to his home office. With a soft click, the door closed behind him, sealing off the room like a vault. He sat at his desk, surrounded by books and artifacts of his hunts, listening to Will leave and drive away to work. Restlessly sharpening a pen, he sketched out a couple of measurements in a notebook.

In the lecture hall, Will Graham stood at the podium, a stack of notes in hand. The room was abuzz with anticipation as he surveyed the crowd of experienced FBI agents, their faces reflecting curiosity and skepticism.

"Good morning," Will began, his measured voice immediately commanding the room's attention. "Today, we're embarking on a journey into the intricate realm of understanding the minds of serial killers."

An agent raised his hand. "Mr. Graham, your reputation precedes you. We're here to learn and apply your expertise."

Will nodded appreciatively, acknowledging the seasoned team that had gathered before him. "Thank you for your open-mindedness. Serial killers are elusive subjects, and our understanding of their psychology is continuously evolving."

Throughout the lecture, Will meticulously examined the evidence from the recent cases of bodies discovered in the forests around Baltimore. He methodically analyzed crime scene details, body positioning, and emerging patterns, all displayed on the screen behind him.

"Now, let's explore the potential gender of the perpetrator," Will said, his tone carefully explanatory. "Based on the available evidence, it's plausible to assume we're dealing with a male serial killer." He directed the audience's attention to specific case elements displayed on the screen.

"The positioning of the victims' bodies implies a motive for control and dominance," he continued. "Furthermore, the calculated brutality suggests an alignment with the methods often observed in male serial killers. Additionally, the remote location of the crime scenes and the disposal method indicate a level of physical strength and familiarity with the area."

He paused, allowing the information to settle in. The room was rapt with attention, the skepticism from earlier transformed into an eagerness to comprehend his analysis.

As Will Graham continued his lecture, a female FBI student raised her hand, her question delivered with a measured tone. "Mr. Graham, have the victims in these cases shown signs of sexual assault prior to their deaths?"

Will paused, considering her question, and the room's focus shifted to the images of the crime scenes displayed on the screen behind him. The images were graphic, depicting the grim reality of the murder scenes.

"Given the level of decomposition of the bodies," Will began, his voice steady, "it's challenging to establish definitively whether they were sexually assaulted before their deaths." He gestured to the images, pointing out specific details.

He continued, "However, what we can discern from the evidence are the skin bruising patterns on the victims' ankles and wrists. These patterns suggest the possibility that they were bound, likely with their arms restrained behind their backs before they were fatally stabbed."

A collective shiver passed through the audience as they absorbed this unsettling information. Will's ability to analyze such gruesome details was both fascinating and chilling.

Will's expression grew contemplative. "The style of these murders, characterized by the binding and the stabbing, often carries an erotic and arousing element for the perpetrator. It's important to note that this kind of violence is not personal in the traditional sense."

He walked back and forth, his gaze never wavering from the images on the screen. "What we may be looking at here is a murderer who seeks to exert control and dominance over their victims. It's entirely possible that the victims had previously been in abusive relationships with the same individual who ended their lives."

The room was silent, the weight of Will's analysis hanging heavily in the air. The female student who had asked the question nodded, her face a mask of professional determination.

Will emphasized, "However, it's crucial to exercise caution and avoid hasty assumptions. Serial killers exhibit an inherent unpredictability, and our primary objective is to gather extensive evidence before formulating any definitive conclusions."

Nods of agreement circulated among the agents as they absorbed the knowledge. Will had deftly shifted the focus from personal perceptions to evidence-based analysis, offering the audience valuable lessons in investigative methodology.

As the lecture concluded, the agents left the room, leaving the man at the podium, brushing his fingers tenderly across the ever-angry dark bruise on his wrist.

Chapter Text

 Hannibal found himself struck by inspiration as he entered the quest room, mindlessly kicking the bag that Will left on the floor, the idea taking root in his mind. With swift decisiveness, he resolved to embark on this endeavor, aiming to complete it within a few hours.

  First, he ventured out to acquire the necessary materials going for a walk. A trip to the nearby lumberyard yielded a fine, single pole of sturdy wood he easily carried on his shoulder, bringing a few more items in a bag. From there, the tools he required had already been in his basement. The wood was softer than cutting stiffened flesh, the smell of it, however sweeter.

  Returning upstairs, he cleared the room, removing the bed that had once occupied the space. The architectural drawings of his house were a huge help once again, as with all of the modifications he made in the space to host his interests. The blank canvas now awaited the transformation he had envisioned. With precision and care, he measured and drilled the metal into the ceiling, the central pole positioned in the middle of the space. He measured once more, the shelf was more of a challenge, shorter pieces of wood screwed on, and he used a pair of Wills jeans to measure the length from floor to the shelf, aligning the last pieces. Ideally, he should have built it in the basement. Ideally, he needed to stop toying with his meal. Once the structure was complete, he sanded and polished the wood, coaxing out its natural oak beauty with each stroke.

  Hours passed, and as the rain outside continued its tranquil symphony, Hannibal put the finishing touches on his creation, a dildo placed on the shelf. One of his favorites, a heavy toy with a wide knot base and shapely red length with a black gland hugged by a fine pattern of scales, a true centerpiece. He vacuumed and changed the curtains to a heavy blue velvet one, from the other room. Still not fully satisfied with the arrangement, he moved the bookshelves from the living room into now much smaller space, bringing an armchair and a round carpet for his own comfort.  

  He checked with his sketches and measured again before screwing the cuffs into the wood at a palm height from the floor. The last piece remained, Hannibal climbed up and down the ladder installing the suspension points. One directly in front of the pole, and two more at an arm's width. It was enough for now, but he spent half an hour measuring for future installations around the room. The space had a lovely location by the entrance door, he could bring the people in, and carry them to their positions with less effort than prepping the basement took for his sessions. Collapsible stand would have been an easier choice, but far from a quick delivery, was hard to sanitize and his carpenter skills were not at a level, suited for construction projects, perhaps a skill to develop in the future, he thought trying out the hooks by looping some rope through them and hanging down off the ceiling. The hooks did not bulge or turn, to Hannibal`s delight not even powder dust sprayed from the concrete, always a giant mess to clean up.

   The man gathered the tools and closed the door, deciding on serving lamb and bone broth for dinner, opening the electronically sealed door down to his basement with a thumbprint, a layer of wine sliding aside to reveal the staircase. His space was clean and fresh, UV lights turning from purple to white light. His equipment hanging on the wall, for each hammer and a saw a well-deserved space. His meat in the freezers. He preferred a fresh cut as far as organ dishes went, but the bones only got more tender with slight aging, femur bones cut to soup-appropriate pieces. Grabbing one of vacuum vacuum-sealed packages, walking back upstairs.

Will Graham was driving back when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and saw it was his father, a man who lived far away in Austin, Texas. He answered with a warm smile, his father's strong accent immediately filling the car.

"Hey there, Dad," Will greeted, his voice changing melody.

"Will, my boy! How's life treatin' ya?" His father's voice was filled with warmth and affection.

Will sighed, thinking about the distance that separated him from his family. "Just another day out here. Rain is pouring down, today. "

His father, always the joker, couldn't resist a playful tone. "So, Will, found yourself a good... partner yet?"

Will chuckled, "Well, there's someone special in my life who cares about me a lot."

"I figured so. You would be homeless otherwise. And what's goin' on with that house of yours, son? Heard from the contractors or somethin'?"

"Yeah," Will replied. "Found some wood rot in the foundation. That awful smell I told you about."

His father laughed. "Rotten wood, huh? It’s all that damn snow, I tell ya.  Well, you better get that fixed, son."

Will nodded. "They put plastic over it. Said, that it will take about four months, pa. But the property is beautiful. Acres of forest and even some sheep around."

His father, not wanting to be too direct, simply replied, "Sounds nice, Will. Are you treating your lady friend well?"

“I´m doing my best.” Will laughed, “Oh this traffic, wait a second.” he shifted gear, and the cars swished by in the dark with blinding flashes of light. “I call you on Sunday, son. Take care, bye.”

Will, squirmed out of his wet clothes, the rain picking up into a storm, stepping in naked into the warm kitchen. Hannibal was dressed in a pair of tailored pants and a red sweater, picking out a large bone, from a clay pot. The scent of meat made Will's mouth water. Hannibal ignored him, his eyes sharp and calculating, focusing intently on the bone.  With a surgeon's precision, he carefully wields a sharp knife, deftly carving away any remaining bits of meat and gristle from the bone. The blade glides smoothly, revealing the ivory surface beneath.

The dogs were inside, curious and waiting for a treat, smelling the meat scent in the air, greeting him with warm noses pressed to his knees. Will sat at the table, on his place, slowly spreading his legs. That caught Hannibal’s attention.  A soft chuckle. The wine served was warm and with black paper and peppermint, burning the insides of the mouth with fruity heat.  

Will guessed that the meal was a soup, met with a clear liquid served with basil. The aroma was making his mouth water. A meat on a bone served on top. He ate, suddenly starving.

Will sat down on the couch, Hannibal did not join him, clearing their dinner plates away.

"How was your lecture today, Will?"

Will leaned back, a small smile on his face. "It went well. They seemed engaged. How about your day?"

Hannibal nodded. "Productive, as always. We managed to make progress, our mornings shouldn’t be disturbed again." He paused, then added with a hint of amusement, "And the dogs, how are they faring in their temporary confinement?"

Will chuckled. "They're not thrilled, but they'll survive the night. I'd rather not have them accidentally shatter your historic objects, you know." The was no warning, not even a change of intonation, Hannibal was behind him, Will´s body going limp in a rear naked choke, Hannibal’s arm encircling his neck and applying pressure on his throat and chest. Blood pumping in his ears. His fingers dug into the hairs on Hannibal´s forearm. The taller man dragged him to the side of the couch. Will kicked a lamp down, dragged across the floor into the guest room.

“…no” he begged; a dog collar tightened around his neck. Coughing. Dropped to the floor. Hannibal pulled a rope, and the collar dragged backward and up, choking him. Will bit his tongue, blood filling his mouth, forced to stand up on the toes before the rope stopped to pull, his chest punched, his wrists cuffed up and arms tied to the sides, to the walls. That exact morning, he was changing socks in that very room, now it was different. Darker. Hannibal lifted him up like a ragdoll, moving him backward to hang on top of something slippery, gravity bringing his weight down. His asshole burned up in pain, as his body sunk on a giant dildo underneath him.  “It hurts” he begged.

“Why wouldn’t it hurt?” Hannibal wondered in the softest voice, gagging Will with a short plastic dildo gag and stepping away.

Chapter Text

 Hannibal watched in silence as human survival instincts took over in a flash of raw panic. Will struggled to pull himself up, muscles bulging in his upper back and biceps, the rope and cuffs moved in the air as the balance game began. FBI agent decided on the structured approach, repeatedly lifting, and allowing his body to sink down on the dildo, stretching strategically until he no longer stood on the tip of his toes, shifting into a more stable position with both feet on the wooden floors. Hannibal kneeled, shaking his head slightly side to side, just to lift up the feet of the bound man, locking the ankles to the cuffs attached to the lower part of the pole, holding the younger man suspended in hanging position, most of the body weight supported by the shelf.The dildo gliding in deeper into Will's body, down to the massive silicone knot.

Hannibal loved this part, the change of expressions, at the realization. The increasing sensitivity as body temperature rose. The blush on the neck. The hardening nipples. The human body just couldn’t help itself, turning to arousal in moments such as these. He could feel the heat radiating almost in waves of pheromones. Mindlessly brushing a hand across his own groin. Will radiated unfiltered and serene suffering, starting to cry, the mask of shame shattering against the simplicity of pain, the silenced anger giving in to tangible submission. He tore, Hannibal understood, catching a scent of blood, a heavy sweet iron note to the salty and slightly sweet heat of human skin. Dark locks sticking to the face of the man, fresh tears bursting out the corners of his eyes, saliva covering his chin. Hannibal was attracted to the sharp features of Will's face, perhaps now, more than ever. Ruining the beauty with his own hands, was a rare pleasure to indulge in. Admiring beads of sweat on the muscular chest. A vision better than Hannibal could have imagined, bringing out his pen and paper, and sketching quickly. The show of struggle against time made his body throb with anticipation. The beauty of agony and sacrifice. The fragility of human existence. Naked unprotected soles of male feet.

A longing woke up in him as he shaded the collar hugging the neck of the man in front of him. Unwilling to address it, the man brushed the longing aside, focusing on catching the moment with sharp practiced lines. Perhaps he was lonely, after all, the warmth in his belly pulsing to his cock, imagining that the man in front of him, chose to suffer for his pleasure. For his enjoyment, only. Blue–green cloudy eyes full of tears. Arrangements between them, are for functional purposes only, he reminded himself. He was too old to play games such as these, anyway.

Will felt a pang in his chest, a physical ache that mirrored the ache in his soul dissociating from the body. Drowning in a flood of cruelty. The water sipping through the walls. The man in front of him was not a man, but a shadow circling Will in freezing cold water filling his lungs.

Did he truly feel flattered?

Now?

The thrill of being bent to surrender, a melody ringing in his ears. Isolated, willing, or coerced under laws of seduction. Just a flickering candlelight of desire under the pressure of the ocean. Drowning in the warmth pulsing through his body.

Hannibal did not leave.

Hannibal would never leave.

Restrains loosened, his body heavy and done, lifted up and made the stand. Collar unbuckled. And he stood, drifting with the waves. In this state, Will did not need to feel, did not need to think, did not need to plan. He could see intention as vividly as he could see the seaweed forest reaching up for the sun. The juvenile pride. Rage. The longing.  Hannibal froze, as Will fell forward, recognizing the temptation of vulnerability, grasping hard into Hannibal’s jaw with cold strong fingers, pressing their lips together in their first kiss.

Chapter Text

Hannibal needed a break, his steps echoed in the dimly lit street as he followed the trio of men through the gritty, piss-scented district. The air hung heavy with winter frost, his hands cold. The neon sign from the nearby club flickered, casting eerie shadows on the pavement. The men moved with a distinct swagger, their shoulders too wide for full rotation of their arms. Boxers. Young and strong. Good reflexes, flesh bursting with flavor. He wanted the younger one, but it did not truly matter, not today.

The men rushed to get inside, a scent of men, violence, and sweat lingered on Hannibal’s palette as he disappeared in the roaring crowd of gambling fools. The music pulsated through the space, a throbbing beat that seemed to echo the rhythm of Hannibal´s heartbeat. The men in front of him made their way to the middle of the crowd. The tallest and skinniest of them turned his face, a sharp jawline, and too big of a nose. When did Hannibal start to review beauty through the lens of Will Graham's image in his mind. The throbbing between his legs, an unwanted distraction as an image of a man, unconscious and asleep on his bed flashed by his eyes. So unprotected and on his back, with legs spread like a slut, the shadow of a curve of the hip to the inner thigh made Hannibal’s mouth water for all the best reasons.

The atmosphere grew electric, people squeezing him forward to the stage, where two black men were swinging. A cheer and laughter and an unmistakable crack of fists hitting flesh. The crowd groaned and turned, as Hannibal made his way forward the tall brunette with the lean thighs, and his friends talking loudly. Frustrated to stand in the shadows, Hannibal stepped forward, feeling the blade in the pocket of his coat, the boxers in front of him looked up at the stage, bouncing in excitement, distracted with a set of strong punches. Something sweet about the flashes of red and yellow across the skin of the man he was hunting. Complete oblivious joy, reaching to the ring with fighters, where the man had their raw and primal dance of fists. Beauty in the chaos. His fingers squeezing the blade, the stab of hunger feeling off place, the longing making his cock throb in his pants. How humiliating, he sighed, letting go of the weapon, stuck in a hoard of imbeciles for at least another half an hour. He did find a mediocre release in the moist hotel room, pounding a brunette whore in the ass, folding her over the edge of the bed, and thinking of drawing that he left behind. The one where Will sobbed with his eyes closed. All but a crown of thorns was missing in that image.

Will awoke, his eyes heavy with fatigue, struggling to focus and orientate in the space. He was cocooned in the tangled sheets, a dull throb permeated his skull, and an unrelenting ache that felt like a clamp on his mind.

For a moment, he simply lay there, unmoving, existing. The back of his neck exploded with pain every time he turned his head. Breathing through his mouth, the back of his throat dry and scratchy. He could taste the salt, swallowing air with each shallow breath. His body, hot and sweating unresponsive, his mind creating a numbing distance that dragged him back into a lucid storm full of stags and crying wind.

Hannibal carefully selected a Ceylon cinnamon stick from a jar, examining it with an almost obsessive attention to detail. With a flick of his wrist, he effortlessly shreds the cinnamon stick into delicate, fragrant shards. The aroma filled the room, enveloping him like a warm embrace with a hint of citrus tone.

As he worked, Hannibal's gaze drifted to the bedroom door, not yet ready to check on Will after leaving in the middle of the night.  The morning sun cast long shadows across the floors, he savored the solitude. In a nearby bowl, he combined the freshly ground cinnamon with a mixture of sugar and butter, blending them together. The result is a velvety, aromatic paste that promised decadence.

He bought a sheet of puff pastry on the way back, spreading the cinnamon-sugar-butter mixture evenly across the surface, expertly rolling the pastry into a tight spiral and cutting to size.  The oven breathed out heat, as he slid the baking sheet into it. Procrastinating a moment later with making a glaze, with some sugar and rose water, in denial of the white sauce monstrosity the Americans coated their sweet breads in. The door in the bedroom was looking gloomier by the second.  Refusing to address anxiety, the man spent the half hour that the cinnamon rolls needed deep cleaning the floors and surfaces of his kitchen and brushing the dust out of pantry shelves, the clock not even 5 a.m.

Despite his weakened state, Will couldn't help but muster a sassy note as he fixed his gaze on Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The man poised with an air of unwavering confidence, stood by the bedside, in a three-piece suit, holding a delicate porcelain plate bearing a single cinnamon roll. Bringing the crumbs to bed.

Will's voice, though tinged with exhaustion, carried a note of defiance as he spoke, his words laced with a hint of sarcasm. ”Ah, Dr. Lecter, how considerate of you to grace me with your presence. I assume this cinnamon roll is your idea of a miraculous cure?"

Hannibal maintained his professional demeanor, his gaze remained fixed on Will "Mr. Graham, your condition is dire. It is imperative that you regain your strength."

Will chewed slowly, swallowing the handful of pills on the side of the plate one by one with the sweet pastry "You know, I can't help but recall that it was your gourmet indulgences that led me to this sorry state in the first place."

Hannibal's lips curled ever so slightly, acknowledging the truth in Will's words, though he remained stoic. His voice, when he spoke, was measured and smooth, like a practiced symphony conductor "Yes, well, culinary pleasures can sometimes carry unforeseen consequences."

Another bite of the cinnamon roll passed Will's lips, his gaze fixed on Hannibal "Unforeseen consequences, or is that just your eloquent way of saying you loved me for a while now?"

Hannibal shrugged, masterful in the art of deflection, and refused to concede to the accusation directly. He responded with a composed tone, his words like carefully chosen brushstrokes on a canvas. "I assure you, Mr. Graham, my intentions have always been rooted in your well-being."

Will couldn't help but smirk "Of course, because force-feeding me pastries is the latest breakthrough in therapy."

At last, Hannibal allowed a faint smile to grace his lips. "No complaints, I see." He closed the door behind him, putting Will on bedrest for the day.

Chapter Text

The scene was shrouded in an eerie stillness, broken only by the muffled whispers of the FBI team as they converged around the lifeless figure. A woman, her once-pale skin now tinged with the cold pallor of death, lay motionless on the bed, her dark wavy hair cascading over her like a funeral shroud. The clock had mercilessly ticked away nearly three days since the heinous crime had been committed.

Jack Crawford, with an urgency etched into his features, addressed his team with a somber resolve. "This case demands our utmost diligence," he began, his voice firm yet tinged with unease. "We're confronted with a murder that has festered in silence for days." FBI team followed a meticulously choreographed protocol. Photographers captured every angle of the crime scene, documenting the victim's position on the bed and the pattern of curtains casting shadows over her. Their flashes punctuated the gloom, freezing each detail in time.

Will Graham, his gaze fixed upon the lifeless form, was silent and still, slowly looking from the floor to the feet of the body, positioned to hang in the air. The body was not dragged to the bed, the woman walked inside. Fragrant of sweet perfume. The man followed her.

Will offered his insights, and the room listened, his words delivered with quiet determination. " The killer wants us to remember this." The man pointed to the feet of the woman. The photographer kneeled to take more pictures. Will swayed slightly, where he stood. The woman died, being choked to death, and her jeans dropped to the floor in a moment of passion. Her legs were blue from the bruises, and coagulated blood between pale stiff ass cheeks. The body has been raped, while still alive.

Beside Will, Hannibal Lecter, the ever-enigmatic, added his own observations, his tone as smooth as polished obsidian. "It's an exhibition of power," he remarked, his eyes never leaving the curl of hair on the back of Will`s neck. "—all of it signifies an individual who craves control."

Jack Crawford nodded, his expression acknowledging the expertise of his team. "We must determine if there are any distinctive elements in the killer's method, a signature that might lead us to them."

Forensics technicians, clad in protective gear, began their meticulous examination. Swabbing jar full of Hannibal’s DNA, and carefully cataloged every item in the room. Neon lights were shut off in the daylight, the purple and pink glow, gone, taking the magic of the kill with it. The girl stiffened in Hannibal`s hands, frozen in the kaleidoscope of colors.

Hannibal, forever shrouded in mystery, engaged in a discourse with Will, delving into the chilling psychology of the perpetrator. "Will, there's an undeniable artistry at play here," he remarked, his voice holding a peculiar fascination. "A killer who values aesthetics as much as brutality."

Will, ever the pragmatic analyst, shunned away from the crime scene by forensics starting to lift the body, responded, "Indeed. The artistry tells us that we're dealing with someone who craves the spotlight, someone who wants control.“ words felt like cotton candy in Wills mouth. He looked up, a blue direct gaze. Hannibal was smiling back, not even ashamed of it. Jack was behind them. Will could scream. There were guns in the room. Hannibal´s eyes were growing dark and soft. “Control” Will repeated.

“Control” Hannibal confessed, not blind or stupid to the reaction.

In the dimly lit corridor, Will Graham stood, frozen in front of the taller man, his mind racing with a realization that sent shivers down his spine, his knees weak.

“Lack of Empathy” Will murmured softly,  his voice tight and detached. "This killer exhibits a profound inability to empathize with the suffering of their victims. Their actions are devoid of any consideration for the pain they inflict."

"Manipulative Behavior," he continued, his analytical mind dissecting the evidence, heat rising in his chest "They use charm and cunning to gain trust,"

“Hurry up” Jack called walking past them with rushed steps, phone crying out in his hand.

"Sense of Entitlement," Will said, his tone becoming more determined. "There's an inherent belief that they are entitled to gratification, and this entitlement extends to the bodies of their victims, a disturbing assertion of power."

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, looking at Will`s lips spitting out more heartbreak "Grandiosity," the FBI agent spoke softly " A grandiose sense of self-importance, as if they exist above the laws that bind society.”

“Sexual violence, "Hannibal held the mask, walking Will down the stairs to the floor below them, checking on the rooms until they found one left open, pushing the shaking man inside.

“Medical insight” something shattered.

"Impulsivity and Risk-Taking," Will concluded, sitting down on the hotel bed, and looking up at Hannibal, his words carrying a weight of grim understanding. "There's an element of impulsivity, a willingness to engage in high-risk behaviors, including sadistic acts, driven by their uncontrollable urges." Will transcribed the textbook definition, and watched Hannibal unzip, and take his cock out of his pants. The foreskin pulled down in front of Will's eyes.

The killer, in front of him stepped in closer, pushing a dick into Will´s mouth. Will sucked, energy leaving his body, throbbing heat in his chest pulsing through his spine with every heartbeat. The grip on his hair, nails dug into his scalp, the man was moving the hips with uncompromising long thrusts, and Will let him, drowning in shame. Every conversation he had with Hannibal, every meeting, every touch, every grisly murder scene arranged unusually so, in the jurisdiction of their department. Every meal.

A memory of his voice, like an echo of cries in the wind in his dreams “He is eating them”, Will remembered, overwhelmed by his own orgasm, creaming his underwear like a teenager, pinned into the bed under his therapist, the man on top of him gliding the rock hard uncut and torturously long cock in and out of his mouth. Hannibal’s whole-body weight on Will`s chest, arching and moving with primal rhythm.

Chapter Text

Will was on the bed, the threadbare sheets beneath him feeling coarse against his skin, they had been there for a while, the flickering neon sign outside turned on casting an eerie, restless glow across the cramped space, creating a play of dim shadows that dance on the muscles of the man sitting beside him.

The purple glow changed to a green glow, his mind was going numb, heart grappling with emotions. The distant sounds of evening seeping into the room. They missed several phone calls. They missed meetings. Patients and students left waiting. The sounds poured into his mind, with a cacophony of car horns, distant chatter, and sirens that reverberated through the thin walls.

In his mind, he retreated to his sanctuary, ignoring Hannibal’s face leaning in closer to him, lips moving, sounds adding to the melody in his head. He felt it, the cold, making his calf cramp, the river of his life flowing off the hill. The wind was full of cries carrying burning ash and leaves from a forest, burning as the stag approached the water. Finding him, wherever he runs. The scent of earth and the taste of ash was palpable, a stark contrast to the stale air of the hotel room. Shadow of the giant stag aligning with an outline of Hannibal’s torso.

Will`s heart skipped a beat.

Hannibal’s hand felt cold. The towering trees rustled, a soft whispering symphony adding to the wind echoing in his ears. Hannibal`s presence was stable and protective. An unsettling revelation washed over him, and his chest stirred. Hannibal’s eyes were like darkened pools, reflecting the crimson flashes of the cityscape beyond the grimy window.

 Will remained silent, struggling to express what he felt, faced with a tender touch. The scent of the hotel room, a blend of disinfectant and mustiness, filled his lungs. He felt dirty. Will closed his eyes, seeking refuge. As he exhaled, it was like breathing life into an artificial doll, filling his own body.  Exhaustion dragged him backward, into the water. Icy cold splashes around him. A calming and distant hum inside of him. The giant stag no longer felt menacing. Instead, it watched over him, a guardian. His chest throbbed. He felt safe. Relief. The mask he has worn as a second skin, abandoning his body. Hurt and vulnerability, oddly ticklish and easy to just feel.

Hannibal's formal attire seemed incongruous with the situation, yet his strength was evident as he carried Will securely down the stairs and into the gaping doors of a car. Hannibal drove and then left him alone. People walking on the other side of the glass. The door was not even locked. Will could have run away, but he didn’t.  The man didn’t try to feed him a salty and oily-smelling sandwich that he ate on his own, instead making him gulp down coffee. Hannibal even brought their phones. Will looked at his own phone, thrown casually into the cupholder between them, at hand reach. Will could have called someone, but he didn’t.

All he was, was nauseous.

The dogs. Will realized, with a sharp flash of worry. They couldn’t leave, without the dogs. But they didn’t leave and didn´t run, driving down the familiar streets into the woods and up the hill to Hannibal´s house.

They didn’t speak. Hannibal peeled the cloths off Will´s body, with a blank expression, that he probably had while dismembering a body. The man did not project anything other than consideration, a sincere one at that. Cold fingers and large hands, stroking his skin, lifting him once more without a puff or a huff. Image of a big grey wolf, getting barfed at, bringing laughter into Will's chest. He chuckled harder, the wool three-piece Hannibal wore only missing a tail at the back. And the barf, he did, hugging his porcelain friend. Drifting off to sleep, while the Hannibal scrubbed and yanked him around under hot water.

Quite honestly, Will expected more of a reaction, he spent almost eight years in FBI training, and simply expected more than a lazy twitch of fear, when Hannibal reached forward, squeezing Will underneath him, into a hug. Will was clean, naked, and bound, with his wrists and ankles cuffed up, and Hannibal´s cock between his thighs. In their third year, they put all the cadets into the back of a car one by one and drove around simulating a situation of kidnapping. Will remembered very clearly, masturbating in the bathroom before and after that exam, blaming his autism for confusing stress, excitement, and erotic arousal. The man behind him slept deeply, his face pressed to the back of Will's head. He could give Hannibal a bruise if he used his knees and head. Maybe two bruises. Will stared at his own phone, lying on the side table. The phone was placed neatly, with a charger squished into its depths. Somehow the little green pulsing on the side of the phone, convinced Will to abandon the heroic escape plans, his dogs playing in the garden, heard from a slightly open bedroom window.  

Chapter Text

If you asked most people what their childhood smelled like, they would have a hard time explaining it. But not Will, he knew the scent of steel and burning coal and the dull sweetness of grass in the fields. Today, most of the area was roads, concrete put in the ground, and Storage Units, as the local refrigerator industry built out and swallowed the town. Those who could, moved up into the city, those who couldn’t went to the other side of the river and stayed there. As a younger teen, Will watched the criminologists and officers of the law in shiny cars swishing by the main road by their school. All the kids did, excited by lights and radio sounds in the heat of early summer. Dreams were hard to come by on their side of the river, and something good came out of everything, as his dad used to say, drying his oil-stanched hands before dinner.

 It was just he and his dad, their whole lives, they rented a couple of rooms above a shop, directly behind the tall, white church nested at the town core, its spire reaching high into the sky, a metal bird turning with the wind creaking loudly during the storms.  

They were not rich but had enough. His dad was a mechanic, the streets marked by wear and tear, made the cars jump, and provided plenty of business with wheels jumping off and scrapes and tears. Everyone knew that, and locals slowed down around cracked asphalt moving up the roads to the hills, city folk speeded ahead and there were a few crashes, but none as large as the summer Will turned 14.

It was a spectacle, the glistening cars and swearing men on a Sunday, plastic bag where the bodies went. The search down the river. A car fell, diving down off the old bridge into the river, crashing at a waist depth, but someone survived the side doors swinging. The man drowned, his legs broken, but the water dragged him a good mile and a half down the creek. They didn’t make it on television, but the newspapers had a blast. Will ran at the head of the pack to watch the police officers and men who, he later learned were criminologists walking across the whole town, slowly, watching them like criminals. The sound of sirens and crackling of police radio excited him like nothing else.

 They even went into the church on a Sunday, on a sweltering day, to talk with more people. He got a full-year scholarship and ran. Year by year the determination grew and escalated every time he went into the locker room with the other guys, exited by their backs and arms. Girls excited him too, but there was something different about the way boys excited him. The shame and pleasure, mixed to one.

Will was in every club and every sports event through his youth, but it was the math that got him through in the end. His path became clear in his later teens – to enter the police academy or die trying, the smooth sailing once he actually got there for the FBI application was unexpected, as a poor scholarship case, but good grades, good hand cream, and eager participation in gloryhole events could have helped. Will suck the cocks like he worshiped Jesus, kneeling in that bathroom, memories of heat and scent of steel and burned grass guiding him through life. It guided him through work, hunting the killed. And here he was, at the peak of his career, at Hannibal Lecter’s table, watching the Megalodon of serial killers moving around his own house, around Will, as if the man belonged there, organizing a dinner party through endless phone calls. A wooden crate with enough ingredients to feed an army dropped off by the front door on Wednesday, for a trial. In this world, the dinners had pilot episodes and men never took their dinner in boxers with a can of beer and some Mac and Cheese directly, microwaved with siracha squeeze on the side. Hannibal could actually die, from Will's dad grocery shopping at "five-and-dime stores" and Will's perspective on Macdonald's hot pocket pies counting for apple a day dining, through almost all of his life.

Now, he has tasted three kinds of scallops and all of them tasted soft and of warm butter and was getting bored just listening to a discussion on the eatable garnish. Besides murders and endless sex, he and Hannibal didn’t have much in common day to day. Will was getting desperate for some other kind of stimulation, and his phone returned to him, only when they left the building. The locking in the bathroom helped for a couple of days, but even there, there wasn’t much he could do. The dogs were locked outside and he was locked inside. Will was willingly getting back to the therapy exercises, to get away from the polite participation in a routine of Hannibal’s hobbies and Hannibal’s wants and needs. He missed just zoning out after work, watching a game, instead of getting pounded over the kitchen counter like a morbid version of a portable housewife, overwhelmed by constant piano melodies in the background.  

He asked for adventure, didn’t he, watching those men in shiny cars with dead body, that excited him, and he got exactly what he asked for, an adventure of his life, God's intention or not. To work on a case involving a serial killer was a rare thing to begin with, he did not qualify with his record of dropping guns on the ground instead of shooting.

Now where was he and where were they?

He sat in front of one, blood and flesh, even not minding, sucking Hannibal’s dick now and then. And if he knew something, it was that serial killer girlfriends did this, to survive. What did it matter, that Will liked it, liked the texture of gland on his tongue and heavy hand on the back of his head, sucking and kneeling would lead him to his grave or into a courtroom, as a detective of his era.

By dumb luck perhaps.

Or intention.

Or a little bit of both.

Chapter Text

His mother was neat with her yellow button-ups. A head of dark curls, just as he had. Blue-green round eyes, just as he had. Neat and tidy, smiling at him from the few pictures left of his maternal grandmother. The woman didn’t smile, in his memories, she was smoking a lot, sitting on a towel by the river. He remembered the fine lace on the edge of her white bra, hugging her breasts. The sounds of water. Bologna sandwiches wrapped tightly in folded paper. She wore a red lip. His mom had big hair. He helped pick the picture for the missing posters.

The woman would shapeshift, from an angel to a screaming banshee. Will could remember as she lifted him up and carried him on her side, even after he started school, on her good days. And her feet as she walked past him on her bad days. The last time he saw her, she was wearing a brown jacket that felt soft to the touch. In their town, girls wore dresses and shoes with straps on them. He remembered sitting in the back of the car as they drove around, back, and forward, the trees flashing. They never found the body.

For a year he waited, waited for her to come back, over the hill, like in his dreams. But she didn’t come back, and nothing in their house smelled sweet from then on. He got longer and needed new shoes. And she didn’t pick them for him.

His girlfriend looked just like his mother, something about the dark bouncy hair made him pick her out. He had some cash, helping his dad with the tires, and helping the preacher driving the man from town to town on the weekends. He kept to himself, and Charlie loved that. She was supposed to be a boy and turned out to be a girl, and the whole town knew that. She had a rounded face and a dark reddish head of hair. He remembered her, but he couldn´t recall her face, just as he had forgotten his mother's face. She was small and serious with dark eyebrows and sad eyes. Her daddy hit her hard and often, and Will drove her away from it all, for a little while.

They kissed in the car, in the woods.

He learned to pick his time, carefully, stroking the top of her thigh, touching the nape of her neck.

He held her like a bird, kissing her cheek and her forehead, as she opened herself to him.

She sniffled, as he squeezed and fucked her, the bouncy dark hair made him just as angry as the fine white lace edge of her panties. She rubbed the tears away and never cried again, in just a few weeks wearing the yellow tank tops that he bought for her, she even smiled as he pulled her hair and railed her in the woods. It seems that he only ever enjoyed the sex, out in the woods. The irony, of it all, the dark green woods around Hannibal`s house make it almost impossible to run from the property. Will would be disappointed if Hannibal didn’t leave at least a few traps in between the tall green trees with the hills that would make it so much harder to run.

Chapter Text

He used Charlie’s death, to write an essay that got him into the FBI, she helped him write it. Back then, the two of them were just kids looking up at the skies, telling each other about the lives they would have. At home, she read the bible page to page, her thoughts turning into sentences that made everyone feel the same kind of feeling. And Will picked it up, like the scent of deer in the woods. Charlie had a talent for forming feelings into words. It was inspiring. It was touching. Profoundly democratic. Bringing the American dream back into law enforcement. It made him out, to be this dreamer of a man, striving for a dream of many. Hopeful.

The girl was not hopeful in the woods, she froze almost immediately when he approached her with the belt. She took her yellow dress off, allowing him to swing at her once or twice, the belly in her loin was starting to show and they both knew what it meant. She was hopeful. But her dreams of a wedding and white dress would slaughter the potential he had. The pain made her twitch, the elegance of a young woman running through the woods still haunted him in his wet dreams. She did not hesitate. She ran. Not for herself, but for the baby. A flash of dark hair against the auburn leaves of maples. Rage boiled in him, spilling over. Motherhood taking away, someone else from his life.

Hannibal would be proud, for how he snapped her neck.

Hannibal would be proud, of how he hid her body.

He left for college, as he was supposed to.

She became beloved by the whole town, with yet another missing poster up on the board by the school.

Chapter Text

Jack gazed at Hannibal with a weary expression, a photograph of the second victim in his hands, the job etched into every line of his face. "Hannibal," he began, "Will been unpredictable lately. It's affecting our process."

Hannibal, his features composed, leaned forward ever so slightly. "I've observed the same, Jack. Will's connection to these cases can be... unstable at times."

Jack sighed, his voice filled with a mix of frustration and empathy. "You've seen it. He walks around, and then it’s like he doesn’t listen anymore. "

Hannibal nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "As long as he continues to point us in the direction that yields results it shouldn’t be a problem. "

Jack locked eyes with Hannibal, a silent understanding passing between them. "We can't afford to lose him. He's the best we've got."

Will sat at his desk, grading a stack of papers. The soft, ambient light of a desk lamp casts a warm glow, creating a cocoon of solitude. Outside his office, Jack Crawford and Hannibal Lecter walked up and down the hallway, frustrating him through the day by accidentally coming into his sight. His students did well, the theories made sense, and the men were almost ready to work on undisclosed cases from the archives. Earnest work from a few of them could have solved a case or two. But most of the men revealed more about themselves than about the murderer. Will could understand them, Hannibal was a generalist, matching his energy to the scene, the man was difficult from every angle. The earlier murders were flat and often unemotional, effective, that’s why the copycat spirit was so strong with some of them.

Jack stopped; his gaze fixed on Will through the open door. Hannibal, always perceptive, watched Will with a hint of a smile in his eyes. "Jack," he said in a low, contemplative tone.

Jack ignored the therapist, his voice hard. "Are you done? The details, the patterns – that's his strength."

Will blinked. Jack gently placed a hand on Hannibal's shoulder. "Go in, talk to him. Keep his focus." The man moved so that Hannibal could step into the office, walking away from them, as if, they needed more alone time through the day. The performance of collective determination was quite a stunning act. Jack suspected that Will didn’t care or cared too much, with no in-betweens, requesting Hannibal to be there for his own piece of mind, not for Will or his sake. Working the homicides either brought people together or pushed them apart, and Jack was feeling the push, drifting away from the neutrality that he treated Will when they first met to viewing him as a tool.

Will glanced at the half-finished sentence on his notepad and let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm starting to miss the times, Hannibal," he mumbled, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "When we could look forward to our sessions. It feels like we're not... connecting as deeply anymore."

Hannibal Lecter, immaculate in his blue suit and a delicate white-on-white patterned shirt, appeared otherworldly in the midst of the chaos that was Will's office.

"I had the impression that you never put that much effort into them, to begin with," Hannibal replied in his velvety voice, his dark eyes fixed on the profiler. "Our relationship has evolved in unpredictable ways."

Will sighed, his frustration giving way to introspection. "It's not that I don't appreciate the time we spend together. It's just that… I feel trapped."

Hannibal's lips curved into a subtle, smile.

Will nodded, his gaze meeting Hannibal's. "I value what we have. I do."

Hannibal pushed away from the doorframe, stepping closer to Will, leaning over him, tall as ever, pressing their lips together. A short kiss, with the door to his office open.

“Kept.” the man whispered against his lips.

 The heat exploded out of Will's chest, creeping up his neck "I would appreciate, it if you used your words and talked, instead of adding more work." A swishing movement over a pile of papers on his desk, intended to visualize his point crashed to pieces.

His empathy was tangible. Hannibal was bird-dancing around him. He was showing himself to Will and did so, willingly and for him. Every bruise on the bodies of the girls in the woods. Hannibal's hands on the arms and thighs of the women meant for him.  He couldn’t possibly know everything about Charlie, could he, Will suddenly thought, feeling like play dough in the hands of a man, that didn’t even touch him.

Chapter Text

His hands moved with practiced grace washing the mild soap off his plating dishes. "Rudeness," he growled to himself in an almost soundless, discontented tone, the cadence of his voice betraying his irritation. To him, the ill-mannered were nothing but a blight on the very essence of civilization. As he dried the plate, his annoyance deepened thinking back on the day he had. His patient list needed a revision. The woman on his couch developing a critical side that leaned forward narcissistic abuse forward a familiar of his, a funny and shy older man with nasty cough and a private beehive providing Hannibal with jugs of liquid sweetness. Will was sunbathing with the dogs, developing a nice even tan. Strong lean thighs moving on the other side of the window in front of Hannibal’s eyes.

 To tarnish a man, disrespect him, Hannibal hissed under his breath, emphasizing the thoughts. Constructive criticism was one thing, but the ignorance of the uneducated was another. Their inability to appreciate the nuances of work put into art gnawed at him like a festering wound.

Will walked into his kitchen, without washing the grass off his soles, with dirty hands gripping the lid of the pot. The aroma of biff and human filled the air, almost finished, needing a few more moments, the onions in the sauce not yet caramelized to a degree Hannibal wanted, seeking for sticky sweetness to balance the bitterness of the chestnut spread he used. Naked FBI agent scooped up the meat that was kept on the bone, already tender "Hannibal, is this even edible?" he spoke, eating, licking his whole beech wood Le Creuset spoon, teeth pressing against the wood. Hannibal watched the pink tongue touch the wood, stillness filling his loins. "I don't know, Hannibal, this looks like it came straight from a horror movie." the "hangry" man continued. He skinned people alive for less, watching Will use his fingers, putting them in his dinner.

"Hannibal, I appreciate your culinary talents, but do we really need to venture into the realm of the unknown tonight?" Will spoke, poking his goulash with saliva covered spoon. Yes, there was a bundle of herbs in the pot, he also had the Hungarian babakovász in the oven, the darker rounded loaves of sourdough designed to be ripped apart and dipped into the sauce.

"I'm not sure my palate can handle this" the insufferable man continued.

" It's a delicacy. But if you'd rather stick to bland and predictable, I understand." Hannibal smiled.

They plated the food and sat down to eat. Hannibal had his journal in front of him and Will graded through the last few papers.

 The compliment felt like a whip. Hannibal needed a second to process, bread soaked in savouriness and sweet black garlic a welcomed distraction "I've got to hand it to you, you've really outdone yourself with this... concoction." William spoke with a tone so thoughtless, so mild, intentional kindness braided with venom. Pang of arousal, faced with such fearless critique, was as always confusing, Hannibal shifted, feeling the shape of the zipper of his trousers. Will did not quite challenge him, he just expected better. He did not change in the last few years, not even a little bit. 

Will did not remember it, and it seems that Alana never pointed it out either, but they met so many times. In his classes, the absent-minded Will was inattentive but did spectacularly on the exams. Hannibal was just rising up the ranks and took care of tasks in the psychology department, without leading any classes of his own. Alana was pretty and young. Popular with the staff and she asked clever questions, straightforward and aloud, in a class full of silent sheep. She and Will appeared to be dating for the entirety of their coursework, and Hannibal was quite amused by the dark-haired woman always searching for her boyfriend who seemed to have been unaware of the status of a boyfriend. Will was in less than three percent of his classes, Hannibal counted. They had by far more interactions one by one, outside of the class, when the young man, sucked his dick in a local pub gloryhole for loose change. Hannibal must have used, his student, on a daily basis through four semesters straight.

Chapter Text

In the quiet embrace of a Saturday morning, Hannibal Lecter's home transformed into a sanctuary of freshness. The soft sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle rays upon the collection of exquisite linens and silk drapes that adorned his abode. It was a weekly ritual, a testament to his unwavering devotion to self-care.

As Hannibal moved gracefully through his home, each step seemed to choreograph a symphony of his private ritual. One of many, but one that kept bringing him so much joy. His keen eye appreciated the subtle patterns and delicate weaves of his linens, making each piece a unique work of art. It was more than just cleaning; it was a celebration of the craftsmanship. Every stroke of the fabric, every careful fold, was an ode to the artistry of his possessions.

With a trusty small hot air steamer in hand, he approached the curtains with precision. A ladder accompanied him, ready to assist in reaching those elusive, hard-to-reach spots. A homage to the fabrics that had become a part of his life. Crisp cold drinks on a tray in the kitchen provided moments of relaxation, punctuating the routine as his eyes wandered.

In every corner of his home, from the sleek kitchen countertops to the glass display cases that showcased his cherished collection, Hannibal's meticulous attention to detail was evident. He welded a feather tool to gather the thin layer of dust, that evidently increased with so many dogs nearby, wielding a harmonious blend of vinegar and water, not just to banish dirt but to bestow a radiant shine upon surfaces. His commitment to a home free of unpleasant odors was unwavering. Baking soda was his secret ally, generously sprinkled in various locations. After a brief wait, he masterfully vacuumed it away, leaving an ambiance that was both fresh and inviting.

Throughout the morning, the washing machine hummed, its comfortable sound becoming a comforting backdrop. Each spin and wash cycle was like a heartbeat, a reassuring rhythm of order.

Hannibal's attire, a practical yet stylish cleaning apron, loosely fitted jogging pants, and a cozy sweater. In the basement, where a potent chlorine solution awaited, Hannibal took precautions with a plastic covering for forearms and a mask.

To care for wooden surfaces, he employed a mixture of olive oil and freshly squeezed lemon juice. The exceptional concoction not only cleansed but also left behind a lustrous sheen, accompanied by a subtle citrus aroma that lingered in the air, imparting his home with a distinct charm.

As he dealt with stubborn stains on clothing and upholstery, Hannibal's satisfaction grew. He had a homemade paste at the ready, a blend of hydrogen peroxide and baking soda. Applied, allowed to sit, and then rinsed, this secret weapon effectively vanquished even the most resilient of blemishes. Bloodstains, a recurring challenge, were met with ease. A discreet spray bottle of hydrogen peroxide in his wallet allowed him to swiftly eliminate most of the mess with just a tissue or two, and there was a jug of this miracle solution in his car.

With each completed task, Hannibal stepped back to admire his work. The brilliant sunshine that poured through the windows cast a warm glow over his immaculate home, and the autumn freshness in the air was the finishing touch, to display on his couch. Will, wasn’t reliable with a broom, as practice showed, banished to the couch, in a few weeks they had together, the isolation from consumption of porn and news of questionable quality left the FBI agent desperate enough, to wander off and explore. At first, Hannibal didn’t mind, he quite enjoyed the company. But he had just one set of protection gear in the household and chlorine damage to Will`s lungs was not a risk he was willing to take.

The banishment was held with some comfort, the blind developed an interest in art, and the deaf learned to play violin with enough time passing by. Hannibal was quite entertained, by the blush on William’s chest when he caught him, migrating the dildo from the guest room to display on his shelves, to cuddling it on the couch. The toy was a magnificent piece of art, he had to agree, but best displayed with plenty of lube and a man riding it, which they both agreed on.

Chapter Text

In his heart there was a place where time seemed to slow, the swamps come alive with a peculiar magic at sundown. Most of it must have been from his imagination, as they never traveled that far south.

In his dark murky waters, and stale air grown thick with the pungent scent of damp earth and the musty perfume of decay. Moss dangled from cypress branches, swaying when touched, casting shadows upon the water's surface. As a boy, he must have lost his mind, sinking his toes into the water, running into the wet softness, the water turned from clear and dark as night into a brownish cloud around his waist. Just a few meters away from the main paths, the humidity wrapped around him, leaving the skin on the back of his neck slick. The temperatures in these swamps were relentless, in the summer. But Will could not keep away from the togetherness that it brought him. In this cauldron of heat, he fell asleep and woke up, the water felt like a simmering soup. The sweat on his brows trickled down his face, carrying with it the salty tang of his own excitement. The vibrant green of the cypress leaves created a mirror world in dark reflections.

The ground, a soggy, uneven mass, seems to shift with every step. The trees leaned towards him, their roots protruding like gnarled fingers reaching out from the underworld. It feels as though you've entered a realm where the rules of nature no longer apply. And his mother was among that, like a fae, stillness taking her, her eyes open and watching the skies, from under the water. As years passed, his hope of her returning faded and his visits grew less frequent, his body grew but the ghostly body in the water never changed or moved, the yellow dress a strong contrast to the water, her thighs white as snow in the dark water.

Her touch was cold and electrifying, just as when she was alive. He remembered caressing her for attention and being pushed away, regardless of how many times he tried. Her laughter chilling. She moved too much; the stillness of death suited her better.  The world seems to hold its breath, in a place like this, and Will did the same, stroking himself into orgasm after orgasm. Heart pounding in his chest and the murmur of danger of not-so-distant wildlife gave him the chills. Beneath the murky surface, eyes like obsidian orbs watched him from the distance, scent of alligator territory was engraved in his memory. The reptile moved slowly; Will could hear the splash of water as it sunk into the water.

Fear electrifying.

To see one, gave him a boner, to not see one peeked his senses, pumping hips into his fist. How many of them watched him stand there, on their turf. The massive green and brown body concealed in the dark warm water surrounding him. He was panting now, using both hands, one to pump and the other to grab and squeeze his balls, digging the fingers into the orbs. Heat pulsing from his spine to his fingertips, pain sharp but pleasure sharper, under the alligator's gaze cutting through the muddied veil to fixate on him. Unblinking, stillness. Its jaws, lined with rows of serrated teeth, remain clenched.

He gasped. Comfort of tension breaking with his soul emptying in strands of cum on his hands. From his youth's wet dreams to collapsing to his knees in the shower, under Hannibal’s gaze, everything leads him to a few drops of salt on the tiles. Hannibal stepped on his head, long foot with long toes, heavy and hard pressure, crashing his face into the tiles. Cum still pulsing out of him, as he licked the cum, tongue warm, gliding over hard and smooth tiles.  

Fantasies of deafening snaps, bone-chilling thuds, and being dragged into the water by ice cold dead hands of his mother awakened a turmoil of hot tears in the corners of his eyes. Players searching for silence.

And Hannibal gave him silence, raw power of his kick, his foot smashing his balls into his groin. He trashed backward, pressing naked back into the wall, a fantasy far from reality. His legs kicked on their own. Pain like no other. On the third kick, the stillness came, heat of endorphins dragging him under the surface. Afterglow made his head swoon, as Hannibal stepped in under the water, standing above him. He did not count the kicks any longer, accepting bolts of electricity following one after another. His balls were swelling up and too hot to stay attached to him, smashed into his body. Cold water poured down his face.

And the world did hold its breath.

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s gaze lingered on the wet and beautiful man, a man who possessed an extraordinary and rare ability to harmonize with any environment he was put in. A gift or a curse, either way, a delicious sight. So fluid. So soft. Sensitivity to details, washing like waves along the chore.

 Akin.

 And so needy.

To Hannibal, Will's unique empathy conjured images. Will moved through the channels of human emotions, lacking all control of his own but slamming into other people, opening doors to souls, needs, and wants. And remained intact, insanity rippling in the stillness of waters. Will´s attention like the warmth of a sunbeam on a thin crystal of ice, awakening life in him.

Under Hannibal’s gaze, the water trickled over broad shoulders, tight arms, and legs. Blue eyes turning foam green in the dark. Long eyelashes. Proportional beauty of a hot-blooded Renaissance man. A good cock and an ass sculpted so well, he caught himself longing for the tactile experience of holding into it, on the most tiresome of moments. A low-hanging set, the ball sack felt good and soft under the sole of his foot. Impressive lips and lovely and agile tongue. Hannibal preferred stamina to strength, toned muscles were tender and absorbed the butter better. He preferred obedience and absentminded loyalty. He preferred anticipation. Buildup and ambition.

Dark locks tangled and heavy, very wet as he brought the man closer, putting his dick in between Will's lips. The man sucked, looking up at him. And he swallowed, water and piss pouring into his mouth. Blinking away water from his eyes. Eyelashes heavy.  

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s eyes glazed over, his movements slowing down. The team did a spectacular job catching the woman, who did in fact poison two elderly gentlemen in her care. The operation was months in the making and guys went through hundreds of videotapes, the nurse changing shifts. The FBI did their job as they were supposed to. The woman was young, with a round face and olive forearms. They were there to confirm attempted murder, on their way to return to the office, and possibly get out to show themselves at the excavation dig up north, where their assigned murderer left victims in his spare time. In the car Will did the only thing he could do, reaching out to touch Hannibal’s hand. The therapist twitched away. They sat in silence for a little while.

They went home. Frustration oozed off Hannibal, with every overly controlled tilt of his head and step he took in oddly pointy shoes.

“Hey,” Will called, Hannibal walking away from him.” Listen. Stop. We got her first, you cannot hunt them all down on your own. ” Completely ignored.

The sound of the knife against the chopping block in the flat and cold emptiness of the hallway. Chop. Chop. Chop.

The door was left unlocked.

Hannibal cannibal, the thought crossing his mind making his whole body shake with laughter. 

“Feeling better?” he asked, breathing through his nose, the fist slammed deep into his stomach. “Not yet” Hannibal replied, taking a better grip on his right elbow, his arm folded behind his back.

The sensation was not entirely unpleasant as long as he kept his abs tightened, Hannibal didn’t try to hurt him, not really. Swinging rhythmically from the side, slamming fist from upper to lower abdomen, unused to using bare knuckles. The skin was reddened, turning into a bruise. Will didn’t mind bruises, smiling slightly at how the tension left his now, possibly boyfriend's shoulders with every thud. They stood closely, in the kitchen, so close they could kiss, the scent of Hannibal’s skin felt warm on Will's tongue. A moment of lost concentration ended with all air leaving his body, flat hard fist landing hard into his diaphragm. Hannibal smiled, breathing out. Will chuckled, tensing up and tilting back slightly, resting against Hannibal’s side, shifting on his feet like a tomcat in heat.

Chapter Text

The street was shrouded in darkness, save for the glow from inside the warmth of the car, where Will sat with his coffee. Hannibal was on the ground squeaking, wearing a plastic suit with long sleeves, silently and diligently moving the blade.

“Watching is participation” The words left his lips like a kiss, Hannibal froze in mid-movement not turning around, the knife in his hands singing. The drunk taking a shortcut through the local park, was already dead.

The street smelled of pennies and rain, morning dew soon gathered in overgrown grasses, where Hannibal was throwing body parts one by one.

Will´s breath misted in the chilly night air, this corner of the town was abandoned for a reason, too expensive to sanitize, a slow two-foot wide creek leaving flakes of turquoise rust all around the area, smell of rot coming from the pipes. Shit of the city flowing out in the open, not even homeless risking to sleep in the wild. Far in the distance a road going up the hill, a night truck lazily gliding down, so far, the hum of the engine felt like background to orchestras of cicadas. His fingers drummed softly on the steering wheel.

The sound of bone touching bone disturbed his dinner. His hand instinctively went to the pocket of his jeans, picking out a peppermint. Unquestionably a leg separated from the body. Hannibal stood up, using the hood of the car to remove a grey sneaker with green lines on it and pull off the remaining piece of pantleg, using a saw to take what he needed.

The night cast elongated shadows up Hannibal’s torso. The foot severed in just a few long dragging movements with the instrument. Muscles bulging under the plastic. Shadow of the stag gleaming in his imagination, moonlight showering the horns.

Chapter Text

The morning met them with a grey veil, the long grasses leaning low, yearning for the embrace of winter. Each blade bent with grace, surrounding the crime scene. It rained through the night, their footsteps damn, the ground softened and still.

The team gathered, the body had a bit of a pungent and oily smell, that sipped in through double masks and gloves. The dew-kissed grasses surrounded a decomposed torso.

The girl was packed and moved, like a doll on the makeshift table, the earth layer around her dug out into plastic tubs, for evidence. The young woman was of slim build, with dark hair. Siren wailing in the distance. Hannibal shook his head, under his gaze.

“What day is it today?” Jack asked out loud.

Hannibal as polite as always replied “A Friday.”

Beverly Katz, her gloved hands immersed in a plastic bag containing the victim's remains, made a discovery. "We are missing a liver," she announced, her voice carrying a mix of frustration and controlled anger. "He didn't stitch her up, again. Our man is getting sloppy."

“They always do” Brian chuckled, vacuum sealing the soil.

As the day progressed, the damp earth scent, mixed with the aroma of death and decay, clung to the investigators as they returned to the city. And that is when the meetings began, one after another. Prolonged ones, in the lecture hall and at the long tables. Hannibal left and returned with coffee. Jack was getting wired up, his nerves wound tight, as his voice grew louder. The woman would be victim number three, and another one was going to go missing that same afternoon. The bodies are revealed to the public, their place taken by someone else.

All they knew right now, is that the killer drove a Honda truck, some fibers were found on the clothes of the second victim, and the body was transported in the back seat and not in the truck and kept warm for an extended period of time, after their deaths.

Will wanted a shower, lifting his face up forward the cold rain, a throbbing headache pounding in his temples. People walked in and out, the sharp lightning humming. Phones rang, the hotline revealing that nothing they did prevented another kidnapping. At least, Hannibal was not involved, sitting beside him and answering questions. Hannibal seemed less drained by the presentations, but more annoyed with him, as he rejected the meatballs in a thermos and the chocolate protein bar out in the field, his stomach turning from the smell of cooked food. His coffee was undrinkably sweet and with cream, but he finished it. The clock moved too slowly, the desire to escape only growing as Jack handed them the handouts with a summary of every case.

The map pinpointed the bodies far away from Hannibal’s house, a five-minute drive off the main road. Bodies hung on the antlers. In the state of Washington alone, Amazon reported a staggering daily average of 57 complete antlers sold. Deer typically shed their antlers each year, and local bars picked up the trend of decorating with them. Hunting expert, insisting that the antlers were professionally cleaned and ready for the customer. Their murderer either didn’t buy them or melted the protection wax off before hanging the girls in the woods.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was darker. Rain pressed against the soundproof windows, a hiss like static on every surface. Hannibal had chosen lamb: slow-cooked in wine and rosemary, the bones stripped so neatly it was surgical. The flesh pulled apart at the touch of a fork, glistening. Will, hunched at the table, barely noticed. His head bent low, shoulders hunched in that familiar knot of tension Hannibal both loathed and desired.

“You are quieter than usual,” Hannibal observed, pouring the last of the Bordeaux into Will’s glass. “The silence tonight feels less like thought and more like… sulking.”

Will looked up, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “I don’t like being handled like a specimen.”

“You moved into a surgeon’s house,” Hannibal replied lightly, lips curving. “Did you expect otherwise?”

Will stabbed at the lamb, the scrape of metal on porcelain ringing sharp. “You track me. You measure what I eat. You rearrange my clothes. It feels like” He stopped, breath catching. “It feels like I don’t exist unless you’re observing me.”

Hannibal sipped his wine, unbothered. “On the contrary, Will. Observation does not diminish you. It immortalizes you. Without an observer, what proof do we have of our own being?”

Will’s fork clattered onto the plate. His hands trembled, fury rising beneath the exhaustion. “You don’t get to play God with me. Not here, not in your kitchen, not in my head.”

Hannibal set his glass down, slow and deliberate. He stood, crossing the room in two strides, until Will’s chair scraped back against the wall. He leaned down, hands braced on either side of Will’s shoulders. The knives glittered on the wall behind him, shadows dancing with the rain.

Will’s chest heaved. His fists clenched. He looked up, defiant.

Hannibal tilted his head, studying him with surgeon’s precision. Then, without raising his voice: “Your tantrums are unbecoming, William.”

His hand cracked against Will’s cheek before Will had time to flinch. The sound echoed through the kitchen like a struck bell. Will’s eyes fluttered closed. His body leaned back against the chair, breath shuddering.

The second slap followed, harder, snapping his head sideways. A red bloom spread across his cheekbone, heat flooding beneath the skin.

“Do you feel it?” Hannibal asked softly, his breath warm against Will’s ear, as he unbuttoned his pants, yanking him off the ground.

Will’s lips parted, a ragged sound escaping; was it anger, pain, or need. He didn’t answer.

He was simply thrown, on the lamb.

Hannibal was stronger and faster, even if he kicked at him. Maybe if he stabbed him.

The man folded him over the table, his body spread and violated with two fingers pushing into his asshole. No lube. The pain was burning him. Still no lube, a soft cock pushed into his ass. The fear settled as a thunderbolt, the mess they would make. He tightened up. The humiliation arrived soon after. Hot wetness filled him. Shame, making his knees buckle. His body falling on the lamb, the wine spilling down on the floor. Hannibal pissed inside of him for several minutes, standing in his own dining room.

The third slap came sharper, the sting dragging fire across Will’s nerves, and his ass burned. His cock twitched traitorously against the table, and he hated himself for it. Hannibal’s eyes flickered down, catching the reaction, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. He backed away, firm grip on his stiffening cock.

“Ah,” Hannibal murmured. “There you are. Awake.”

Will’s gaze snapped up, raw. The rain battered the windows harder, drowning the silence. Hannibal stepped forward, and Will opened his mouth willingly, wrapping his lips around cock of his man, his face flushed with both pain and arousal as Hannibal moved, thrusting into his mouth, holding him by the side of his head.

“Eat,” Hannibal said gently, his voice like velvet over steel, leaving cum on his tongue.

And Will, shaking, swallowed, tears bursting from his eyes.

Chapter Text

Will stretched out across Hannibal’s couch, his body sinking into the soft leather. He loosened his shoulders, letting the day’s weight fall from him for the first time. The quiet in the room felt heavy but not unfriendly, colored only by the murmur of Hannibal’s voice in the next room, smooth and unhurried as he spoke to a patient over the phone. A conversation like that could take a while. Will knew he was alone for now.

His eyes roamed, restless. Hannibal’s study always had the feel of a stage set every book, every object deliberate. But one thing caught him: a slim notebook tucked between the heavier spines. Its cover was plain, dark brown paper, unlined, out of step with the rest. Will thought of Hannibal’s handwriting—the ink flowing like art, his pens delicate tools rather than instruments of convenience. That notebook could only hold something intentional.

He pushed himself up, boots whispering against the rug, and crossed to the shelf. His fingertips brushed the worn paper cover as he drew it free. It was light, deceptively unimportant in his hands. Returning to the couch, Will dropped back into the cushions, easing himself into the lamplight. He pulled his boots off with slow, practiced pushes of his heels, the leather falling to the floor. Then took his socks off. His feet flexed in the open air, toes curling briefly against the couch’s edge, pale skin marked faintly by the day’s confinement.

Comfortable at last, he opened the book.

The paper was thick, textured, faintly scented of ink. It wasn’t words inside—it was sketches. At first, statues, ancient busts, famous works of marble and stone, their angles and shadows captured with almost reverent precision. Then came faces, men from all corners of culture, some recognizable. The kind of studies one might make out of fascination or hunger.

And then, his own face.

Will froze. His eyes widened slightly, his breath catching. Page after page showed him. Himself in profile, standing, seated, walking, unaware. Some clothed, some stripped bare. His own body, carefully inked, every line studied: the curve of his ribs, the angles of his hips, even the hollow of his throat. They weren’t quick renderings; they were intimate. Intent. From the university days—years before he and Hannibal had properly met—to moments so recent he could recall the shirt he wore.

Heat rose in his cheeks, embarrassment first, but it shifted. The honesty of the images, the care in them, left him more stunned than violated. It didn’t feel like exposure—it felt like being seen. Deeply, fully. The intimacy pressed against him like a hand on his skin.

He flexed his toes against the couch, grounding himself, curling them lightly into the leather. His soles prickled from the cool air, but the space felt strangely safe. Hannibal’s voice in the other room wasn’t threatening—it was anchoring, a low rhythm that told him he was not alone, even now.

Will let his thumb rest on the edge of a sketch where his face was turned, lips slightly parted, eyes shadowed. He imagined Hannibal bent over the page, pen moving with that impossible grace, the ink drying in delicate lines. The thought sent a tremor through him. Not fear, not disgust, but something far more dangerous. He wasn’t just flattered; he was pulled in, honored, aroused.

Aroused by the sheer devotion of it. His fingertips stroked the paper.

For the first time, the question wasn’t whether Hannibal wanted him. The question was whether he was ready to admit how much he wanted Hannibal back.

Chapter Text

Will lingered on the sketches, his thumb brushing the corner of the page as though afraid to smudge the ink. The likenesses of himself were undeniable; so carefully crafted, every curl of hair, every slope of muscle, traced with devotion. The longer he stared, the less the embarrassment felt like an intrusion and more like a revelation. Hannibal had studied him the way artists studied light.

The warmth in his face settled low in his chest. His body shifted deeper into the couch, his bare feet pressing against the cool leather. The arch of one foot rested flat, toes splaying lazily, while the other dragged lightly across his ankle in a thoughtless motion. His soles, pale and a little tender after being locked in boots all day, flexed into the surface, grounding him in the moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed himself this sort of vulnerability and urge to be unguarded, staring at proof of an intimacy

He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling. He could almost picture it, Hannibal at this very desk, leaning over with his fountain pen, watching from across the room before translating every line of him onto the page. It was unsettling, yes, but it was also thrilling. The voyeurism of it, of being seen when he hadn’t known he was being watched, sank into him with a strange comfort.

The soft murmur of Hannibal’s phone call had gone silent. For a beat, Will thought nothing of it, still turned inward. But a shift in the air pulled his gaze upward.

Hannibal was there, standing in the doorway.

He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved loudly; he simply stood with his hands clasped lightly behind his back, his posture the picture of calm. His eyes, however, betrayed nothing of casual curiosity. They lingered not only on the notebook spread across Will’s lap but on Will himself: slouched comfortably into the couch, hair mussed, boots discarded, his bare feet pale in the lamplight.

Will’s toes curled instinctively under that gaze, pressing into the leather, a small attempt to root himself. He swallowed. The position felt suddenly intimate, almost indecent—caught not only reading Hannibal’s secret sketches but exposing small, unguarded parts of himself in the process. His feet, the quiet flex of his arches, the small movements of toes, suddenly seemed to matter under Hannibal’s attention, as though the detail itself might be committed to memory, studied like the rest of him.

Heat crawled up Will’s neck. Yet the fear he might have expected wasn’t there. Instead, a startling wave of safety pressed in, like being allowed to be seen, to be known. Hannibal didn’t interrupt. He simply watched, patient, letting the silence grow thick.

Will let his heel slide along the cushion, his foot brushing the curve of his calf as though unconsciously offering another angle, another detail. The notebook lay open still, a page of himself bare, vulnerable, rendered with reverence.

Hannibal remained in the doorway just long enough for Will to understand it wasn’t by accident. That he was being allowed to sit there, barefoot and rumpled, paging through something private.

Slowly, Hannibal crossed the room. His posture was as controlled as ever, hands loosely clasped behind his back until he reached the second couch across from Will. He lowered himself into it with the same grace he brought to carving a roast, never breaking eye contact.

Will shifted, notebook balanced across his thighs, trying not to be obvious about the thrum of heat pooling low in his body. But Hannibal’s eyes dipped briefly, deliberately, and lingered just long enough that Will knew he had noticed. His cock betrayed him, erect and pressing up against his jeans, throbbing as Hannibal looked down there. Throbbing as he sat down, just out of line of light, his legs spread. The damn suit. His hand.

Throbbed again, as Will looked up at Hannibal's face.

This man was fucking scary. The sharp edges of the face. A predator, Will reminded himself, gliding a hand into his underwear, cupping the base of his cock firmly, dropping the notebook on the floor to pull the rim of the jeans down. Stroking carelessly like a teenager in heat, humping into his hand, stroking too hard and too fast.

Predator.

Hannibal said nothing. He didn’t need to. A subtle lift of his chin, a nearly imperceptible nod, told Will everything. Permission. Encouragement to continue. A slight tilt of the head.

Will’s heart beat hard in his chest, but not with fear. Each sketch felt like a confession Hannibal had made without words. Across from him, Hannibal sat motionless at first, and then he crossed his legs. His shoulders relaxing, his gaze unflinching but softer. So, Will decided to continue. Decided to refuse to stop. Until he screamed.

Chapter Text

The cabin was quiet in the way abandoned places are, not truly silent, but filled with the subtle sounds of wood breathing, dust settling, the forest pressing against its walls. The agents’ boots creaked against the warped floorboards, flashlights cutting arcs of sterile light across antlers nailed in symmetrical rows.

It smelled of pine resin, old blood, and damp earth. A hunter’s den, yet something more ritualistic lingered beneath the surface, as if each nail and rack had been chosen with an obsessive eye.

Then they saw her.

The girl was not laid out as a victim but displayed, as though she were the prize at the end of a long pursuit. Her body had been lifted and fitted onto antlers bolted into the wall, each tine supporting the delicate curve of a limb, the arch of her torso. The contrast was grotesque: soft, human flesh against the rigid, polished bone of the stag. Her skin was pale, stretched taut where blood had fled. Dark hair framed her face, strands glued to her cheek with a final sheen of sweat.

The cavity of her chest was open, organs missing, yet the wound had a terrible precision. The cut was neither hurried nor clumsy; it was done with care, as if Hobbs had believed himself a craftsman, not a butcher.

The antlers themselves gleamed faintly. They had been cleaned, the protective wax melted away, leaving bone as white as ivory. Each prong cupped her like the fingers of a sculptor positioning clay. It was not death alone—it was presentation. She had been made into something he could admire, revisited in memory each time he entered the room.

Will stood at the threshold, the sight pressing against him like a weight. His empathy drew him forward, unwilling and unflinching.

I placed you here. I chose these antlers, these angles.

I cleaned them, polished them, burned the wax away so nothing would mar the purity of bone.

You were not discarded; you were claimed.

The knife was my hand of choice, not rage.

My breathing was calm.

I told you soft words as I opened you, reassured you as though comfort still mattered.

Then I hung you here, my cathedral of flesh and bone complete.

You are not a body—you are my hunt, my triumph.

The vision left him hollow. There was no rush of adrenaline, no satisfaction in the accuracy of his reconstruction. Only a deep, unshakable sadness.

He glanced sideways, needing escape, and found Hannibal watching him. The doctor’s face was unreadable, his eyes dark and still, but there was something in the way he regarded Will, clinical yet attentive. For the briefest moment, Will felt the antlers at his own back, invisible but sharp, holding him upright for Hannibal’s gaze.

Later that evening, Hannibal rolled up his sleeves and began preparing supper. The copper pan hissed as butter foamed and turned nut-brown. He placed the veal down carefully, pressing the meat so it seared evenly.

Hobbs was primitive. An amateur predator who mistook brutality for artistry. To mount young women on antlers was not creation; it was mimicry, a clumsy echo of ritual without the sophistication of true design. Hannibal’s lip twitched faintly, not with disgust but with disappointment.

He sliced shallots with clean precision, the knife whispering against the board. Hobbs harvested meat like an animal. Hannibal elevated it, transformed it.

And Will… Will had stepped inside Hobbs’ skin with grace, as though wearing it were both unbearable and inevitable. Hannibal thought of his face in the cabin, pale, eyes ringed with exhaustion, yet alight with a fragile kind of brilliance. For a second, he felt a pang of jealousy. A hint of disgust. Will was a canvas stretched thin, waiting for the brushstroke. He was raw material, luminous in his breakage, pliable beneath Hannibal’s hand. Not to be healed, but shaped. 

Hobbs was not worthy.

The case unraveled not with a single revelation but with the slow tightening of threads. Fibers pulled from the second victim’s clothes—tan upholstery from an older Honda truck. The bodies kept warm after death suggested insulation, blankets folded with care. Whoever he was, he wasn’t discarding trophies; he was tending them, preserving them.

The antlers, too, became a trail. Polished, cleaned, stripped of wax. Thousands sold across the state, but fewer buyers. Narrowed down, a name emerged: Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Minnesota hunting license. Cabin in the woods. A man who knew bone the way most knew wood or stone.

Will pieced it together under the Bureau’s relentless gaze, Jack’s voice sharp in his ears. He saw the picture before the paperwork was finished: Hobbs, the hunter, culling his chosen herd, dressing them with reverence, mounting them like kills. The pattern was as clear as blood on snow.

But what hollowed him most was the knowledge that Hobbs had help. Someone answered the phone when he was gone too long. Someone covered silence with excuses. The missing piece was not another victim, but a daughter.

Abigail Hobbs was seventeen. Dark-haired like the victims, slim and pale from a life lived in shadows. She should have been at school, yet she was raised in the woods instead, caught between childhood and womanhood.

Will saw her file—missing too many days of class, teachers describing her as quiet, intelligent, oddly detached. A girl who lived in a house where blood was a secret, where the freezer hummed with venison that was never venison.

Her name became a thread through Will’s mind. Not just a girl, but the girl. Survivor, or accomplice? Innocent, or the echo of her father’s cruelty?

In his fatigue, Will imagined her at the dinner table, chewing silently as her father carved. Did she know? Did she taste the difference? Or had she chosen not to know, shutting doors in her mind the way Will longed to shut his?

The Honda was confirmed. The cabin location pinpointed. Jack’s command was simple: move now. 

The Bureau moved with speed, black figures slipping between the pines, rifles raised, Jack’s clipped orders slicing through the forest air. To Will, it all felt distant, muffled, as though he were moving in a dream he couldn’t wake from.

He followed them up the cabin steps, his body taut with dread, his gun cold and slick in his trembling hand. The door groaned open, and the air inside hit him like a wall—thick with iron and sweat, the musk of animals and men who thought themselves alike. The walls were lined with antlers, arranged not as decoration but as monuments.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs stood in the kitchen, his daughter Abigail clutched to his chest. The knife pressed against her throat gleamed with a film of blood.

His face was fevered, his eyes bloodshot, his voice manic, swelling with theatrical grandeur. “See what they make me do?” Hobbs cried, spittle flecking his lips. “All of them! They drive me to it. You don’t understand, none of you understand! They’re taking everything from me!”

The words rang out like a performance, as though he were trying to fill the stage with his suffering. He wanted them all to witness him — his tragedy, his greatness, his fall.

Abigail didn’t struggle. Her face was pale, her dark eyes wide, but not entirely with shock. She had heard this tone before, Will realized. The wild rise and fall of her father’s voice wasn’t a revelation; it was a refrain. The way she clenched her jaw, the way her body stayed taut but resigned, told him she knew. She had always known.

Will raised his gun, his voice low, careful. “Let her go, Garrett.”

Hobbs sneered, dragging Abigail tighter against him, his knife pressing deeper. “Let her go? She’s mine. She’s everything. Without her, I am nothing. They want to take her, like they’ve taken the others. I won’t let them! Do you hear me? She is mine!”

Abigail flinched, but her eyes flicked toward Will with a glint of something that broke his heart — not hope, but recognition. She knew her father was a monster. She had known for years.

“Garrett,” Will said softly, his voice trembling, “if you love her, don’t make her watch this. Don’t make her part of you.” 

For the briefest instant, Hobbs’ manic energy cracked,

“You think you know what I am? You think you’re better than me? You’ll see. You’ll all see.”

The knife jerked. Blood welled bright against Abigail’s skin.

Bang.

The gunshot split the room. Hobbs staggered back, crimson flowering across his chest, collapsing with a guttural groan.

Abigail screamed, pulled from his grasp by agents, but her gaze clung to his body on the floor.

A hand settled on his shoulder, warm, deliberate. Hannibal.

His voice came low, intimate, curling into Will’s ear. “You saved her.”

Will’s lips parted, his voice raw. Tired. “I killed him.”

“Yes.” Hannibal’s tone was steady, soothing, but with an undercurrent of satisfaction. “And in killing him, you freed her. That is mercy, Will. However much it hurts you to see it.”

Will turned, meeting Hannibal’s gaze. The doctor’s eyes gleamed with something that made his chest tighten. Not pity. Approval. 

“You see now,” Hannibal whispered, his hand firm on Will’s trembling shoulder.

Chapter Text

Field office swelled with the noise of aftermath. Phones ringing, agents conferring in clipped tones, paperwork already piling up like sediment after a flood. The Hobbs file was growing thicker by the hour, photographs printed, witness statements compiled, evidence tagged and bagged in numbered boxes.

Will sat at the long table, his hands folded tightly together. The gun had already been taken from him—bagged, logged, left for the armory and the evidence unit to process. He hadn’t protested. The metal had felt too heavy in his grip anyway, too loud against his skin.

He answered Jack’s questions in a voice so steady it almost startled him. Detached, monotone, as if he were narrating the scene for someone else. “He had his daughter. The knife was at her throat. I fired center mass.”

Jack studied him with an intensity that bordered on suspicion, as though waiting for Will to unravel right there in the conference room. But Hannibal was already moving.

He leaned forward with his characteristic poise, folding his hands neatly on the table. “Mr. Graham acted with remarkable precision under extraordinary duress,” Hannibal said, his tone firm yet calm, the voice of a man who expected to be obeyed. “Without his intervention, the girl would not have survived. Any measure of regret is misplaced.”

The room seemed to be quiet at the smoothness of his voice. Will lowered his eyes, grateful for the cover even as it pressed on him like a weight.

The minutes blurred, Jack directing agents, Beverly offering Will a fleeting glance of sympathy, Brian cracking an inappropriate joke that went unanswered. Will felt none of it stick. He was watching from somewhere far above his body, floating above the murmur of voices and the scratching of pens.

When the meeting adjourned, Hannibal was the one to rise first, a hand brushing subtly against Will’s back as they moved out into the corridor.

They passed other agents in the hall, conversations breaking off into murmurs at their approach. Will walked with his eyes forward, expression blank, his mind still full of the echo of the shot. Hannibal matched his stride effortlessly, his presence absorbing the gazes, the whispered speculation.

“You are pale,” Hannibal observed, his tone pitched low enough for only Will to hear. “We’ll have something warm before you’re questioned again. Protein, salt. You’ll need it.”

Will gave a small nod but said nothing.

Hannibal adjusted his own coat, the movement precise, almost ceremonial. He opened the glass door for Will, letting him step out into the evening rain first, the gesture so natural it almost went unnoticed. Almost.

Will felt it, the way Hannibal moved around him, clearing space, shouldering the weight of appearances, arranging the world as though Will were something precious to be carried.

He should have resisted it. Instead, he let himself be guided.

Chapter Text

The interview room had muted walls, a soft lamp, no mirror to reflect her image back. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, bread going stale on a tray.

Abigail sat at the table, pale in the yellow light. Her cardigan sleeves hid her wrists, floral skirt brushing her knees, hair brushed until it gleamed dark against her skin, nail polish chipped, shoes with soil still clinging to the seams. Her neon yellow earings looking out of place agaist the hollow face. 

Agent Miriam Lass sat across from her, pen resting on her notepad. Her tone was calm, even.

“Abigail, I’d like you to tell me about your routine at home. What a normal day looked like.”

Abigail’s fingers toyed with the cheese sandwich, pressing the bread until it dented, then setting it back down. Her voice was soft. “It depended. Sometimes he was gone early. Sometimes we had breakfast. Waffles on Sundays.”

“When he was gone,” Lass said, “what did you do?”

Abigail shrugged slightly, as though the gesture could erase the weight of memory. “School. Homework. Chores. Nothing interesting.” Her smile was small, polite, as though she had offered enough.

Lass’s gaze held steady. “Did you ever notice how long he was away?”

“Not really.” Abigail smoothed her sleeve over her hand, covering skin as pale as paper. “Sometimes a few hours. Sometimes longer. The hunting is done by a yearly schedule;  so sometimes the deer were too young for hunting, so he stayed at home for months. He sold the meat and took some odd jobs. He had a work phone, and I think he took a certification to repair refrigerators a year ago or so. Mom knew these things better. But Mom liked to argue, and she took these square pills to sleep, and when I was in high school, I tried some, and we had a falling out about it. So we were not talking very much. ” She let the words trail off. “ Dad liked it silent, too”.

Behind Lass, Price and Zeller listened in silence, one shifting, the other scribbling notes that scratched against the quiet.

Lass asked, “When he was gone, did anyone check in on you? Neighbors, friends?”

Abigail tilted her head slightly, as though considering. “No one came by. People knew he hunted. They didn’t question it.” She looked up then, her smile faint, girlish. “They trusted me.”

The line hung in the room longer than it should have.

Lass didn’t move. “When he returned, how did he seem?”

Abigail’s lips parted, then pressed closed again. Finally, she said, “Tired. Quiet. Sometimes in a good mood.” A pause. “Sometimes not.”

Lass kept her tone even. “Did he ever talk to you about what he was doing?”

“No.” Abigail smoothed her hair behind her ear, her eyes lowering. “He didn’t need to.”

The words carried no drama, but they lingered, heavier than anything else she had said.

She looked back up, smiling again, as though she had not spoken at all. “I’ve been helpful, haven’t I?”

“You’ve given us information,” Lass replied evenly. “Thank you.”

Abigail folded her hands together in her lap, the sleeves of her cardigan covering everything once more. She sat very still and composed, like someone caught between presence and absence. She looked less like a survivor than like a schoolgirl, observing them. 

The interview room was empty now, and Abigail’s presence reduced a faint scent of her shampoo lingering in the air. In the conference room down the hall, the team gathered under a low hum of fluorescents, case files spread wide. Jack Crawford stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, the weight of decision already pressing his jaw tight. Miriam Lass sat two chairs down, posture composed but not rigid. Her suit was understated, slate grey, hair pulled neatly back, though a strand had slipped loose near her temple. She didn’t fix it. Miriam had a way of letting imperfection sit, as though it made her more approachable. When she spoke, her voice carried a low steadiness, touched with warmth, almost conversational — a tone that drew people out rather than pinned them down.

“She’s careful,” Miriam said, flipping open her notes. Her eyes moved across the room as much as the page, gauging how her words landed.“She gives fragments of the ordinary. That’s not just trauma. That’s control.”

Beverly Katz shifted, arms folded. “Or it’s the only way she knows how to survive. Hobbs taught her to stay quiet. Not to tell. That’s learned.”

Miriam’s hand smoothed a corner of the page, a small gesture of thoughtfulness. “Learned, yes. But it isn’t passive. She doesn’t just withhold, she manages. Deflects. She understands what’s expected and performs it.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened. “You think she’s manipulating us.”

“Not consciously,” Miriam said quickly, leaning forward slightly. Her hands rested loosely on the table, open. “She isn’t calculating like Hobbs. It’s more instinctual. She’s aligning herself to whoever has authority, the way she aligned herself to her father. That’s what children do in abusive households. They adapt to survive. But that adaptation can look like deception.”

Price scratched his pen across the file. “She admitted people trusted her when Hobbs was gone. That didn’t sound accidental.”

Zeller shook his head. “That’s just pride. Teenagers like being useful.”

“No,” Miriam said softly, shaking her head once. “That was identity. She needed to matter to him, and covering was how she mattered. When you live under someone like Hobbs, your sense of self fuses with their approval. Pulling her away from that is going to feel like tearing skin.”

Her words hung heavier than the others’, quiet but cutting. Jack watched her closely, his expression unreadable, though the set of his shoulders eased slightly. He trusted Miriam’s instincts more than he admitted aloud.

Jack finally spoke, his tone clipped. “Material witness. Possibly a liability. That’s why we decide now who handles her.”

“Not Lecter,” Beverly said quickly.

Jack’s head turned toward her.

Miriam shifted in her chair but didn’t look away. “She’s right. Abigail’s suggestible."

Jack exhaled through his nose, steady. “Lecter’s expertise is valuable. We don’t dismiss that.”

Price leaned forward, hesitant but firm. “But look at Will. He’s deteriorating."

Zeller barked out a laugh, sharp and dismissive. “Deteriorating? Please. He was unstable the minute you brought him in, Jack. We’re just pretending this is news so we can all act shocked when he finally cracks.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself.”

But Zeller wasn’t done. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, as if he enjoyed testing how far he could push. “You trust him because Alana Bloom signed off. Because she says he’s fit. But let’s be real here — she’s too close to him. Always has been. That evaluation wasn’t objective; it was personal. And we’re all paying for it.”

The room shifted. Beverly stiffened, her jaw tightening. Price looked down at his notes, avoiding eye contact. Miriam’s expression remained composed, but her gaze sharpened like a blade.

“You don’t get to question Dr. Bloom’s integrity,” Miriam said, her voice low but firm. “Not here. Not like that.”

Zeller smirked, leaning back, clearly enjoying the tension he stirred. “Why not? Someone has to. We all tiptoe around Graham like he’s some fragile genius, but he’s dragging us down with him. Half the time he looks like he belongs in a psych ward, not a field unit. And Alana? She’s too invested to admit it.”

Jack’s jaw flexed, his voice cutting across the table. “You don’t like how I run this team, you say it to me, not through cheap shots at my people.”

But Zeller pressed on, tone sharp, challenging. “Fine. I’ll say it to you: Will Graham is not fit for fieldwork. And if you can’t see it, maybe you’re the one too close.”

Price nodded reluctantly. “If the goal is to get Abigail to speak in her own words… Alana’s probably our best shot. She’s not another authority figure barking at her. She can meet her halfway.”

Jack finally spoke, voice low but certain. “Abigail doesn’t need another interrogator. She needs someone who can reach her without triggering defense. Someone she can trust enough to let the mask slip.”

Miriam glanced up from her notes, meeting Jack’s eyes. “That’s Alana. No one else in this room.”

Silence settled for a beat. Even Zeller had no comeback ready.

Beverly finally broke it, her voice dry. “Then let’s hope Alana’s as good at breaking masks as Abigail is at wearing them.”

Chapter Text

Will sat in the car, knees drawn too high, the glovebox pressing against him. The night draped across the street like damp cloth, wet concrete catching and smearing the line of streetlights. Hannibal’s hands rested on the wheel—steady, immaculate—tapping now and then in rhythms only he heard. He did not ask questions.

The yellow earring swung once as Abigail tilted her head, and Will’s mind split. One half lunged forward in brutal fantasy: rip it off, hear the lobe tear, blood bright against her throat; crush the bead between his molars until it splintered; press her skull into the stairwell tile until she stilled. The other half recoiled, sickened, ashamed.

The apartment building rose above them—new brick, cheap balconies that would rattle at the first storm. Abigail’s silhouette passed across the stairwell light, Alana’s voice a faint tether as they carried their bags inside. Will had memorized the exact address, copied it down with the fever of a child writing scripture. It had not been information. It had been in possession.

Then the wave arrived. Inside him, like frost spreading over glass. Sound dulled, color flattened. Will went still. Alana’s car backed out of the lot, headlights sweeping across them with indifferent brilliance, and Will registered the movement like a hunter clocking prey. Light. Temperature. Distance. Breathing. Angle of departure. Sounds.

But there was no warmth in the knowing.

His pulse slowed.

Muscles softened into stone.

The wave churned. It whispered for blood, for the hot wetness of it on his hands.

Images flashed, snapping Abigail's neck, feeling her heart, driving his teeth through her skin, the blunt weight of smashing her bone. Hobbs’ voice mumbled through it all, an endless liturgy. Charlie’s ghost flickered. His mother's embrace, golden like the sun. 

Hannibal watched, and something rare ignited.

This was not collapse.

This was arrival.

Will handled the dissociation as a blade. 

Transforming into artifact.

Hannibal smiled in almost pitch black of the car, vindicated by his own intuition. How many times had he indulged fantasies of finding this exact soul, only to be disappointed?

Will was no disappointment.

Will was hunger itself.

Chapter Text

The door shut with a soft click, and Hannibal turned immediately, closing the distance as though there had never been one. His mouth claimed Will’s with urgency.

Will staggered back a step, caught against the wall.

Coats and layers slid from their shoulders in Hannibal’s hands, not tossed but peeled away with the same precision he brought to his knives. First Will’s jacket, guided down his arms and left crumpled at their feet. Then Hannibal’s own, shrugged off without care for its immaculate tailoring. Each piece of clothing fell as barriers did, one by one.

Hannibal kissed without pause.

His lips were fierce, his teeth grazing and biting. His tongue demanded entrance and received it.

His hands never ceased moving: tugging Will’s shirt loose from his belt, pressing flat against his chest, sliding upward to frame his throat with reverent strength.

Will’s hands hovered, hesitant, caught in paralysis. But Hannibal did not falter, or frankly ,cared. Hannibal did not relent; his hands traveled deliberately, cupping the side of Will’s throat, flattening over his chest, anchoring him to the here and now. Pulling the wild curls with both of his hands, until the man melted into him, stumbling forward to be pushed back into a hard wall. Their legs tangled up. Hard edges discovered. 

“Let me,” Hannibal murmured, pressing the half-naked man into the wall, his teeth gliding deep into Will's flesh and biting the naked shoulder. Blood, adding iron to their kisses.

His fingers worked at Will’s buttons, baring skin inch by inch. Laughing as he ripped the fabric off, when challenged in the slightest. His mouth followed his hands, sealing new ground with kissing the collarbone, throat, and lips again, relentlessly. He lifted the FBI agent off the floor, smashing him into the wall hard enough for fine china to shatter in the cabinet ahead of them. 

At first, Will felt as if floating just above his own body, watching Hannibal's eyes. Eyes red like crimson.

By the time Hannibal was free of his own suit, Will’s detachment cracked. His hands found Hannibal’s hair, clutched his shoulders, his ribs, his back, grasping so desperately, as though finally learning how to breathe.  He opened his mouth against Hannibal’s. Opened his legs against Hannibal’s.

Hannibal pressed him down into the bed, lips never breaking from his skin for long. Will melted under it. At home. 

Chapter Text

The lecture hall hummed beneath the flickering breath of fluorescent light. A faint tang of stale coffee clung to the air, mingling with the dry ghost of old markers and sweat from too many restless bodies. Yet the silence inside was profound, reverent — as if the walls themselves were listening.

Will Graham stood at the front without slides, without props. He needed nothing but the weight of his voice. His sleeves were rolled, his eyes hollowed by memory, and when he spoke it was not to instruct but to summon.

“Intelligence doesn’t create violence. It refines it. It doesn’t light the fire — it shapes the smoke, makes it rise in controlled patterns. The clever killer leaves crumbs in the dark. The intelligent one builds a life where the trail itself dissolves.”

He paced slowly, words dragging shadows behind him.

“Garrett Jacob Hobbs was clever. His ritual was hunting. Preservation. He mistook compulsion for sophistication. But clever rituals collapse. Intelligence builds rituals that sustain. A life lived not despite the crimes, but through them.”

The students’ pens scratched with nervous devotion. One raised her hand, her question tumbling forward.

“Jeffrey Dahmer — wasn’t he intelligent? Why did he leave so much behind?”

Will’s gaze slipped past her, beyond her, toward some figure only he could see.

“Dahmer understood enough to build a ritual. But his wasn’t built on mastery. It was built on need. He wanted presence — flesh that never abandoned him. His trophies weren’t control. They were comfort. His intelligence couldn’t contain his compulsion, and compulsion always leaves a trail.”

He moved closer to the rows, voice lowering, almost intimate.

“Some killers make violence into sex. Others make sex into violence. Albert Fish — his cruelty inseparable from his arousal, each act of pain a prayer to his own appetite. Dahmer — necrophilia braided into his terror of loneliness. Ted Bundy — charming, theatrical, every kill an erotic performance. Andrei Chikatilo — impotent in flesh, but found release in the frenzy of stabbing. Sexuality is not the cause. It is the channel. Violence is the desire itself, and the body is its stage.”

A hand rose, tentative, cutting through the thick silence.

“Why so many homosexual killers? Is it revenge against men who harmed them?”

The words hung in the air, fragile as glass. Will let the silence stretch, weighted, before answering.

“Orientation is not the spark. It is only the shape of the flame. Dahmer was gay, but he did not kill because he was gay. He killed because he could not bear abandonment, and sex was the chain he used to bind. Gacy’s desires were same-sex, yes, but what drove him was sadism — the intoxication of humiliation, the delight in domination. Bundy was not homosexual at all, and yet his killings were inseparable from lust. Chikatilo was married, a father, yet his murders were his only release. The violence is not born from love, or lust, or even hatred. It is born from possession — the longing to devour, to make another body an extension of the self.”

The students scribbled faster, though some had stopped entirely, transfixed, pens trembling in their fingers.

Will’s final words came like a benediction, soft, terrible.

“The most dangerous killers are not monsters in alleys. They are the ones who shake your hand. Who pour your wine. Who invite you to their table. You will not see them until it is far too late. Because every smile and every gesture of civility… is part of their ritual.”

Chapter Text

The alley glistened with dampness, bricks slick with rain and mildew. Sergeant Devon Marks stood beneath the jaundiced lamp, his shoulders stooped, the sag of suspension heavier than any badge he had ever worn. His breath steamed in the chill, curling like smoke from a dying fire.

Freddie Lounds arrived like a flame carried into the dark — hair copper, recorder hidden in her palm, camera dangling at her side. “You’re late,” she said, a smile slicing across her face.

Marks’s eyes darted nervously. “This is the only time you get.”

Her recorder blinked alive. “You gave me Will Graham. Why?”

Marks exhaled, voice tight with regret. “He’s unstable. Doesn’t belong in the field.”

Her grin sharpened. “Then you’ve given me a headline. My readers will devour him.”

Marks turned, as though the words had already poisoned him. “I shouldn’t be talking to you. Crawford finds out—”

Mark's brains splashed on Freddie's face.

A gunshot echoed.

A man emerged as though the dark itself had chosen a shape. Eldon Stammets, pale and damp, smelling faintly of soil left too long in a closed cellar. But his smile was wide, warm, almost disarmingly kind. “Evening!” he chirped brightly, as though interrupting nothing more sinister than a casual chat between friends.The gun flashed once in his hand, revealed like a party trick.Stammets looked up at her with that same bright smile, eyes alight with enthusiasm. “And you must be Freddie! Oh, I’ve read your work. So deliciously cruel. Sharp. Like a little scalpel of words.”

Freddie’s breath caught, her throat refusing sound.

“You and I are going to be friends."

Her body recoiled instinctively, shoulders pressing into the wet brick behind her. She could smell him now, not a body odour or sweat, not blood, but dampness and the sweet reek of rot.

“Come,” he said brightly, extending a hand as though inviting her to dance. His tone was sing-song, horribly sincere. “I want to show you something wonderful.”

The woods swallowed them whole, branches clawed at Freddie’s coat, roots twisted underfoot, the night air heavy with moisture and decay. She stumbled after him, recorder still clutched in her palm, its blinking red light the only witness to her terror. Eldon Stammets moved ahead lightly, almost skipping, as if leading a guest to a garden party, his voice loud and carried easily, untroubled.

“You know, Baltimore’s a wonderful region,” he said, ducking beneath a branch. “So many… like minded people. You’d be amazed at how small the world feels when you’re in this line of work.”

Freddie stared at the back of his head, the unruly hair damp with mist, his jacket stained and careless. He did not look like a predator, but a man who had forgotten mirrors existed. He laughed suddenly, bright and sharp, the sound jarring against the quiet woods. “Sometimes I think of it like there is a community, perhaps there is enough of us to rent a hotel and start a convention. Each of us with our own style, our own philosophy. Some go for spectacle, some for efficiency, some just for… flavor.”

Freddie’s throat tightened. Her feet dragged, but he did not notice. He kept talking, voice buoyant, conversational, as though reciting trivia.

“Take Hobbs, for instance. Oh, he was a craftsman. A hunter, precise, almost elegant. What a pity he’s dead. Met him twice myself. Truly, I admired him, you know. We all did. His work… it had a kind of purity. Feeding your family from your own hands, your own kill. Beautiful work. ”

He turned suddenly, walking backward now, his grin wide, his eyes alive with an innocent brightness that made Freddie’s stomach twist. “And then there’s Graham. The mirror man. Imagine being able to see us, to feel us, to know what we are. Isn’t that delicious? He would be a guest of honor at our convention. A pity he belongs to the FBI. They’ll ruin him. They ruin everything.”

He waved a hand carelessly, dismissing the Bureau as though they were an inconvenient draft in an otherwise pleasant room. “I don’t worry about them. Or you, Freddie. You’re just a messenger. Words don’t stop the roots.”

They broke into a clearing. The air thickened with sweetness. The earth was freshly turned. Rows of bodies half sunk into soil lay before her, pale faces slack, mouths dark with the eruption of fungi. Mushrooms sprouted from eyes, from lips, from folded hands, colonies spreading in delicate fans and clusters.

Stammets spread his arms with theatrical delight. “My farm. Isn’t it magnificent? Each one connected. Not alone, not wasted. They feed the fungi, the fungi feed the earth, and the earth feeds us all. A perfect cycle.”

Freddie gagged, bile rising in her throat, her recorder still blinking, capturing his sermon in every word, every breath.

He beamed at her, utterly without menace, utterly without shame. “This is what Hobbs would have loved. Feeding through death. A pity he’s not here to see it. But Graham… Graham would understand.”

Freddie’s knees threatened to buckle, the smell clawing into her lungs. Stammets tilted his head, grinning as though he had just revealed a beloved family recipe.

“You’ll write about it, won’t you?” he asked brightly.

Chapter Text

The bullpen was quiet this late, most agents gone, the hum of the fluorescents louder than the shuffle of paper. Jack Crawford’s office glowed faintly through the blinds. Inside, Freddie Lounds sat like a flame against the dark glass, hair damp with mist, recorder on her lap. She hadn’t even wiped the dirt from her shoes.

Jack stood behind his desk, shoulders squared, jaw tight.“ That’s all he wanted. Attention.“

Her eyes gleamed, hard. “He said he’s not alone.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Not alone?”

“He told me Baltimore has many killers. Active. Specialists. Each with their own style.” She leaned forward, voice quick, clipped. “He wasn’t rambling. He was sure. Matter-of-fact. He talked about Hobbs. Said they admired him. And Graham,..” Her smile cut thin. “He called Will the guest of honor.” Freddie pressed. “He said there’s a network. Online. Passwords. Referrals. A closed circle. He joked about a convention. Lectures. Demonstrations.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” she snapped, smile sharpening. “What if he wasn’t bragging? What if he’s right? While Graham’s chasing one body at a time, the rest are comparing notes.”

Jack leaned in, voice low. “Or he saw exactly how to get to you. And you’re running straight here.”

Freddie looked up at the black glossy surface of the windows, reflecting her own pale face at her. 

Phyllis appeared in the doorway, robe drawn tight, her eyes soft but sharp. “It’s late,” she said. “You’re still working.”

Jack didn’t look up. “I’m calling Will. He’s not answering.”

“You’ve called him three times tonight already.”

“Four,” Jack corrected, his voice low. He rubbed his jaw. “No answer. Not at the house. Not on the road. Nothing.”

Phyllis crossed to him, laid a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not a child. Maybe he doesn’t want to answer.”

Jack exhaled hard. “I know Will. When he doesn’t pick up, it isn’t because he’s ignoring me. It’s because something’s wrong. He folds into himself. Cuts everyone out. That’s when bad things happen.”

“You can’t chase him every time he disappears,” she said gently.

“Yes, I can.” Jack’s voice came sharper than he intended, the words too fast. He closed his eyes, softened. “He’s not built for this job, Phyllis. Not built for the weight I put on him. He’s unraveling, and I keep pulling the thread.”

Her hand squeezed his shoulder, steady. “Then maybe he’s trying to find a way to hold himself together. Maybe you have to let him.”

The fifth call broke through.

Finally, the line clicked alive.

“Jack,” Will’s voice came, warm but a beat too casual.

Jack exhaled, tension leaving him in a rush. “Finally. Where the hell are you?”

There was a pause — just the sound of Will breathing. Then: “I’m not home.”

“No kidding,” Jack said, eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. “Where?”

“With someone.” The answer came quickly, almost rehearsed. A softer note followed. “A girlfriend.”

Jack blinked, surprised. “A girlfriend?”

“You sound shocked.”

“I am. You’ve never mentioned her.”

“That’s because she isn’t your business,” Will said, the firmness undercut by the lightness in his tone. “I’m allowed some privacy, Jack.”

At last, his voice softened, almost fatherly. “As long as you’re all right. That’s what matters. Call me in the morning. Don’t make me come looking for you again.”

“I’ll call.”

The line went dead.

Jack let the phone fall onto the seat beside him. Relief came, but thin, fragile. 

 Will rolled his eyes, throwing the phone back on the seat of the couch. Stretching his neck, kneeling on the carpet between Hannibals legs, returning to the quite urgent task of slowly bobbing his head up and down on the tied up throbbing cock. 

Chapter Text

They took Stammets at dawn, in a rain that made everything look soft until you touched it. Then it was all edges. The FBI came in without the sirens, just the low growl of engines and the wet slap of boots. The greenhouse sweated under plastic, breath steaming the ribs, and the rows.

Jack Crawford walked point with his coat unbuttoned, face set in the hard neutrality he kept for moments like these. Will Graham followed a step behind, pale with sleeplessness, pupils blown wide as if the dark were printed inside his eyes.

“Left,” Will said, hardly louder than the rain. “He’ll hear the door and try the potting shed. He wants a straight line he can control.”

Three agents ghosted that way. The door of the greenhouse rattled. A shadow shifted behind the dew-lensed plastic, and then Eldon Stammets burst out with a gardener’s spade like a banner. He was smiling. He always smiled. The agents moved, Stammets froze as if posing, spade slipping to the mud.

“You’ll ruin the crop,” he said, almost mournful, eyes flicking past Jack to Will.

“I’ve seen enough,” Will said, voice steady, Stammets smiling wider, docile under the hands that pushed him toward the cars. “It’s the others you should worry about.”

By evening, the city had wrung out most of the water and settled into that damp quiet that carries news like a scent. Freddie Lounds was home in a top-floor apartment that pretended it had a view by putting the fire escape in a strategic position. She put a glass of wine where the light could catch it and treated her recorder like a talisman, keeping it within reach as she typed. Stammets’s voice, stored in its little red eye, was a vein of gold she meant to mine.

She filed one story, then another. The site’s traffic needle jumped into the red. With every refresh, the comment count multiplied: fear, outrage, the usual slurry of conspiracy.

She called a name that wasn’t in her phone so much as it was in the muscle memory of her thumb. “You owe me,” she said without hello.

A pause. Breathing from some public place: a bus shelter, maybe, or a bar that never got past the ‘soft opening’ sign. “What kind of owe?” a man asked, all throat and nicotine.

“The dangerous kind,” she said. “You like those.”

He laughed. “I like money.”

“You’ll get it when I get the address.”

“There’s a place north,” he said. “Not on a map the way you’d think. Times I’ve tailed a delivery truck past the last mailbox and into trees. You follow the line of the river until you hear dogs. If anyone’s got a back door into this… club you’re chasing, it’s him.”

“Him who?”

“Man who doesn’t wave to neighbors,” the man said. “Doesn’t have any. Won’t say his name on a line. But the address? I’ll text you a drop pin you can’t trust and directions you can.”

The ping lit her screen. She swallowed the last of the wine like a dare and grabbed her coat.

Forty-five minutes south, Hannibal Lecter poured tea into a cup.

“You did well,” Hannibal said.

“I did what I always do,” Will said, and took the tea because he understood that refusing it would be more intimate than accepting. “He talked. That’s all they want to do. Talk. “

“Talking is how we attach meaning,” Hannibal said mildly. “Even to the inexcusable.”

Will stared at the steam. “He made it sound like a guild. Like there’s a newsletter.”

“Professional associations are often comforting to those whose work isolates them.”

Will’s mouth ticked. “Says the man who prefers a single table.”

Hannibal smiled, holding his commentary to himself, leaning on the counter as Will migrated from the kitchen to the couch. He paused, as his phone plinged, informing him of movement in the woods around Will`s property. 

Freddie’s tires hissed on the last mile of gravel. The map went blind five minutes back; the pin he’d sent her floated in a gray nowhere like a lost ship. Trees leaned in close. When she killed the engine, the woods exhaled, as if relieved at the sudden chance to be louder than a machine.

A house crouched there, more inclination than design. The porch sagged, the railing had an opinion about the weather, and the door wore its paint like a winter coat that had given up. But the place was tidy in the way certain minds are tidy: nothing sentimental, nothing out of place, just a fierce competence that looked like neglect from the road. She didn’t go to the door. Doors were for people who got asked inside.

She went to the line of pines that shouldered the house and looked for outbuildings.

She kept to the perimeter. The woods thickened into a tangle so committed to itself that even light seemed to get snagged. A creek murmured. The ground went soft and then softer. Freddie put one hand out to the nearest trunk to keep her balance and felt something that wasn’t bark: wire, again. Not a fence. A thought.

The woods closed quickly, branches arching overhead, weaving a canopy that swallowed the road behind her. The air felt damp, thick with loam and the green rot of fallen leaves. Her boots caught on roots hidden under moss. She cursed softly, brushing away low branches that clawed her sleeves like fingers.

She tried to keep the house in sight, its crooked outline visible through breaks in the trees. But each time she adjusted her course, the trees rearranged themselves. A stand of pines she thought was to her right suddenly loomed from the left.

She tried. She picked a tree, fixed her eyes on it, and kept walking. But the ground pulled at her. Low marsh pooled where it shouldn’t, making her skirt the wet patches, each detour bending her path just a little more. When she looked up again, the house was gone.

The night pressed heavier. And then she found the house again, just between the branches, walking straight at it.

 Hannibal  was mildly entertained, standing on the porch in the shadows, watching the redhead woman walked straight to him. 

“I have something you’ll want,” she said, lifting two fingers from her pocket like a magician revealing there is nothing hidden. “Stammets talked. About a network. About a ‘guest of honor.’ You know what that means.”

Hannibal’s expression did not change. If anything, it became more attentive the way a knife becomes brighter when you bring it to a whetstone.

“It means, Ms. Lounds,” he said, “that you are in the habit of collecting dangerous ideas.

He smiled as the woman screamed, recognising him from the brief meeting they had had after her first article was published, turning around and running.  

He pounced in his jogging shoes, following after her. 

Chapter Text

The concrete stank of smoke and gasoline. A black scar stretched across the floor where the flames had eaten through. What remained of Freddie Lounds sat slumped in a charred wheelchair, skin pulled tight and blackened, hair reduced to brittle ash. A melted recorder had been duct-taped to her lap. It still blinked, a small, pathetic pulse, its battery hanging on like a witness too terrified to die.

Zeller gagged once behind his mask. “They cooked her alive.” His voice cracked, small in the vast echo of the garage.

Beverly Katz crouched closer, flashlight beam sweeping over the body. “The straps are industrial glue. No chance of escape. Whoever did this wanted her trapped, wanted her to feel everything.”

Jack Crawford stood stiff, jaw locked, eyes on what was left of Freddie. “There’s a message,” he said, nodding to the recorder. “We’ll pull it clean. Whatever it says—it’s why she’s dead.”

The team moved carefully, documenting, measuring, and photographing. Every click of the camera felt like a funeral bell.

The echo of their footsteps carried through the garage. Will’s face was pale, washed even paler by the overhead fluorescents. 

“She chased the story,” Hannibal murmured beside him, voice low, “And found what she was looking for.” He purred, leaning into the kiss, cupping Will`s ass dressed so cruelly in baggy jeans,  moment of calm before they were swamped with obligations. 

On the table, a recorder sat propped upright. Its casing was scorched, the plastic bubbled from heat, but the drive had survived. A tech had coaxed the sound out of it.

Jack pressed play.

Freddie’s voice filled the room. First panicked, words tumbling over one another. Pleading. Then the sound of her breath, ragged, turning into screams. The scrape of wheels on concrete, the muffled command of a man’s voice. A hiss like ignition. Fire roaring into the microphone until it drowned everything.

The room sat through it. No one spoke until Jack shut it off.

Jack turned, his voice hard but tired. “She thought she was onto something. A network of killers in Baltimore. She wouldn’t let it go. Now we’re left with this.” He gestured toward the blackened remains, the hands curled, fused by heat into claw-like contortions.

Zeller shook his head. “A network of serial killers? That’s not just unlikely—it’s impossible. The odds of even two working in tandem are microscopic. They don’t collaborate.”

“Serial killers are solitary by nature,” Beverly added. “Compulsions are private. Methods are proprietary. They don’t post them on message boards or compare notes.”

Jack’s jaw worked. “And yet Freddie believed it. Believed it enough to die for it.”

The silence stretched.

Will finally spoke, his eyes fixed on the ruin of Freddie’s body. His voice was quieter than the hum of the fluorescents. “This isn’t collaboration. It’s an imitation. They didn’t just kill her—they staged her. The burning, the wheelchair, the recorder.” He tilted his head slightly. “That’s not networking. This is a message.”

Hannibal’s gaze followed Will’s, his tone measured, almost academic. “Killers do not cooperate. But they are aware of one another. They observe. They appropriate. It is not a network, but a conversation conducted in spectacle and violence. One corpse responding to another across time.” He gestured lightly toward the melted recorder. “This tableau is not about secrecy. It is about visibility. Whoever did this wanted to be recognized by their peers. Or by the Bureau.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re saying Freddie’s articles gave them directions?”

Printed out versions of Freddie's articles lay on the table between them. Will glanced at the pale young woman in the central photo frame on one of the articles and at the other photograph with his own image. 

Will’s throat tightened. “ Abigail!” The team heard him. Jack was already on the phone, to secure the location and safety of the girl. Hannibal did not move a muscle in his face, just his shadow softened, observing the performance. 

Chapter Text

The agents sat scattered around the long table. A map of Baltimore and its outlying rural areas was pinned on the screen, marked with red dots for prior murders. Jack paced, jacket unbuttoned, voice flat with fatigue.

Beverly leaned forward, voice careful. “You mean Abigail Hobbs. And Will.”

The room went quiet.

Jack nodded once. “Those are our most vulnerable. Abigail, because of her father. Wil,l because of his visibility in these cases, the way his name circulates in the press.” He hesitated, then added: “And Will works for us. That makes this the Bureau’s responsibility.”

“We’re out of time. Whoever killed Freddie isn’t finished. The risk to Will and Abigail is immediate. If they’re snatched, it’s on us.”

Zeller raised a hand, uneasy. “Then standard procedure—safe house. We rotate agents, keep them locked down until we neutralize the threat.”

Beverly shook her head. “That works if the killers don’t know our playbook. These guys are sophisticated. It’s somebody who studies our cases, our history. If we put Will and Abigail in one of our safe houses, we might as well hang a welcome sign.”

“Abigail isn’t Bureau property,” Katz countered. “She’s a civilian. Putting her in a government safe house risks drawing even more attention to her.”

Jack rubbed his temple. “I’ve got Washington breathing down my neck. We can’t risk either of them being taken. If we use one of our standard locations, it leaks, and they’re both dead before sunrise.”

Then Hannibal spoke, his tone smooth, calm, as if the words were obvious. “If I may offer a suggestion.”

Jack looked at him.

“My home is secure. Secluded, yet close enough for the Bureau to maintain contact. It is familiar to Will. I can provide both a safe and… stabilizing environment for him and Abigail.” Hannibal’s hands folded neatly on the table. “They would not stand out as Bureau assets there. They would be, simply, guests.”

Will sat silent, his eyes flicking from Jack to Hannibal, then down to the table. He didn’t argue. He didn’t agree. But he didn’t look surprised.

“Still,” Katz said, frowning. “You’re not law enforcement. We’d be handing them over to a civilian.”

“Not a civilian,” Hannibal corrected gently. “A licensed psychiatrist, already consulting for the FBI. I have no desire to obstruct your authority. You may post an agent outside my door if it calms your nerves. But inside, they will be safe.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. He hated it. He hated all of it. But the logic was sound, and time was bleeding away. “All right,” he said at last. “We’ll do it. Abigail and Will stay at your place until this blows over.” He looked around the room, daring anyone to challenge him. “Nobody breathes a word outside this team.”

Hannibal’s lips curved, a polite, almost humble smile.

Chapter Text

The car curved along the cliff road, mist curling off the sea and streaking the glass. Jack’s hands rested firm on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. Beside him, Will sat quiet, his gaze caught somewhere between the waves and the sky. In the back seat, Hannibal looked entirely at ease, as though this were a pleasant excursion rather than an escort to a safehouse.

“It’s good you’ll have space,” Jack said finally, directing his words at Will without breaking his focus on the road. “No noise, no eyes on you. Just time to let things settle.”

Will gave a faint nod but said nothing.

“Time alone,” Hannibal said softly, his voice low and steady, “can be either a burden or a luxury. Its weight depends on what one brings into it.”

Jack gave a small hum, noncommittal, and kept driving.

Some time later, with the radio station playing between them. 

Hannibal leaned forward just enough that his reflection caught Will’s attention in the mirror. “When the world is stripped away,” he continued, gently, "such things arrive precisely when they are most needed.”

Will’s eyes flicked up, catching Hannibal’s in the glass. The look was brief, but it lingered.

Jack let out a loud grunt of approval. “If that’s how you want to frame it, Doctor, I’ll take it.Always so poetic.  ”

Hannibal’s mouth curved faintly, a polite smile to no one in particular. “Stability can be offered in many forms.”

The car crested the last rise, and the cliffside house emerged, hunched against the grey horizon. Below it, the sea churned dark and restless, spray clawing up at the rocks.

The car curved around the final bend, and the cliffside house came into view; grey stone against a darker sea.The landscape was stripped of color, the world muted into shades of slate, charcoal, and dull silver. The sea churned restlessly, its surface broken into a thousand shards of movement, as though the water itself had grown restless under the burden of the sky. It was not a comforting view. It pressed down, vast and indifferent, making the house feel smaller than it was, a fragile outpost at the very edge of the world.

“You’ll be safe here. I’ll have agents rotate checks every day. Call me if there’s anything off.” Jack gave Hannibal a short nod of trust. “Doctor.”

“Jack,” Hannibal said, smiling warmly. “You may rest easy.”

Jack got back in the car, the crunch of tires on gravel fading until only the sound of surf remained.

Minutes later, another vehicle approached. Abigail climbed out, carrying a duffel, her hair tugged wild by the wind. Two agents followed one tall, nameless, already scanning the perimeter, the other Miriam Lass, watchful but calm. She fell into step beside Abigail as they entered the house.

“You okay?” Miriam asked quietly, her voice professional but not unkind.

Abigail shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes. “I guess. Just feels… small. Like being folded up and put away somewhere.”

“That’s how safehouses feel,” Miriam said. “Uncomfortable, but they keep you alive. You’ll have a radio, direct line to Jack’s team. Anything feels wrong, you say so. Understand?”

Abigail nodded, clutching the strap of her bag. “Yeah.” A beat passed before she added, softer, “As long as the internet works. I’ve got school stuff to do. Keeps me busy.”

“It works,” Miriam said, giving her a small nod. “Jack made sure.”

Abigail gave a faint smile that didn’t quite hold. She looked down at the floor as they walked. “It’s easier… if I don’t think too much. About dad.”

Miriam glanced at her but kept her tone even. “That’s not for you to carry. None of that is yours.”

Abigail’s shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped. “Feels like it is, sometimes.” She didn’t look at Miriam, only at the bag clutched in her hand.

The agents moved through the house with efficient motions: checking locks, windows, and the back entrance. They left Abigail a radio, a stack of numbers on a clipboard, and a reminder of schedules and contact protocols. Miriam set the list on the kitchen counter.

“This is temporary,” Miriam told her. “Storms pass. I am just a phone call away, in the blue hotel that we passed on the way.”

Abigail nodded again, eyes flicking briefly toward Will at the window. His reflection stood beside Hannibal’s in the storm-lit glass, both men silent, the sea roaring darkly below.

Chapter Text

Will carried duffel bag in one hand, the other tightening briefly on Abigail’s shoulder as she trailed behind him. She was pale, a little stiff in her movements, as though every step was borrowed courage.

Hannibal lingered near the kitchen, already on the phone, his voice low and precise. Will didn’t listen to the words. He only caught the cadence—measured, professional, detached from the sight of them dragging their exhaustion across the polished wood floors.

Will stopped in the living room. The place didn’t look lived in; it looked curated. Art on the walls, furniture designed more for elegance than comfort. He took it in quietly, his mouth curving, not quite into a smile. “Safe house,” he said, mostly to himself. “Doesn’t exactly scream middle-class psychiatrist.”

Abigail sank onto the couch, clutching a pillow like she could anchor herself with it. “He doesn’t need to scream anything,” she murmured, her eyes darting to Hannibal’s silhouette.

Will lowered himself to a chair across from her, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked at her, not at the view, not at the wealth gleaming around them. “You all right?”

She shrugged. The pillow rose and fell against her chest. “My dad killed my mom. You killed my dad.” The words were flat, practiced, like she’d said them too many times in her head. She bit her lip, then glanced at him. “And now we’re hiding in a glass palace with him.”

Will let out a breath through his nose. He didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That about sums it up.”

For a moment, silence. The ocean beyond the glass surged and retreated, an endless pulse.

“I don’t hate you,” Abigail added suddenly. Her voice cracked, just a little.

Will tilted his head, studying her. “That doesn’t mean you should like me.”

Her eyes flickered, but she held his gaze. “I don’t know what I should do. But you… you don’t feel like a stranger. Not the way he does.”

Will leaned back, letting her words settle in the air. He could feel Hannibal’s voice still flowing from the kitchen, foreign and composed, like another ocean entirely. He turned his focus back to Abigail, his tone low and steady. “I don’t know how to make this easier for you. But I’m here. If you want me to be.”

Abigail’s fingers tightened on the pillow, and for the first time since they’d arrived, some of the tension left her shoulders. “Okay,” she said, almost a whisper.

Will gave a small nod, his expression unreadable but his voice warmer. “Okay.”

Hannibal moved like he was born to the space, one hand balancing the phone against his ear while the other unloaded groceries with practiced precision. Packages rustled, knives clicked lightly against the counter.

He spoke in that steady, patient cadence, something about a dream analysis, the progress of a treatment plan. His voice was soft enough to feel like background music.

Will leaned on the edge of the island, arms folded. Abigail sat on one of the stools, watching Hannibal lay out herbs, vegetables, and cuts of meat with the care of an artist arranging paints.

Will leaned on the edge of the island, arms folded. Abigail sat on one of the stools, watching Hannibal lay out herbs, vegetables, and cuts of meat with the care of an artist arranging paints.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Will said quietly, glancing at her.

She raised her eyebrows. “What part?”

Will tipped his chin toward Hannibal, who was already arranging ingredients like he was in a cooking competition no one else could possibly win. “This. Us. Watching someone build lunch like he’s plating for Michelin stars.”

Abigail hugged her arms around herself but allowed a faint smile. “Better than motel food.”

Will gave a short laugh. “That’s not hard. My cooking? It’s closer to sandwiches and take-out. If I’m really pushing myself, maybe scrambled eggs.”

That earned a real laugh from her, brief and surprised.

“You laugh,” Will went on, mock-serious, “but you haven’t seen my eggs. They’re… edible. That’s about the nicest thing I can say.”

Abigail shook her head, the smile lingering. “So what, you’re saying this isn’t normal?”

Will’s voice softened,“We don’t have to pretend otherwise.”

Her smile tilted, more playful this time. “My expectations of adult life are already wrecked. Maybe this is normal. Maybe you’re the weird one for not julienning carrots.”

Will chuckled, leaning back like he was conceding the point. “God, I hope not. If Hannibal’s the standard, then I’ve been doing adulthood wrong since I learned how to boil water.”

Abigail grinned, some of the sharpness in her eyes softening into warmth. “Explains a lot.”

Will gave her a mock glare. “Careful. I might put you on dish duty for that one.”

She laughed again, freer this time.

Hannibal ended his call, setting the phone down like a finished tool. He turned back to them, hands moving seamlessly to chopping vegetables. The blade’s rhythm tapped against the board, crisp and controlled.

Shards of carrot fell away in precise matchsticks, thin enough for light to pass through them. Shallots yielded under the knife with a papery sigh, their sharp perfume blooming into the air. He swept the neat piles into small porcelain bowls, arranging them as though the counter itself were a stage.

The pan hissed when he set it to heat, the oil blooming in a shimmering sheet. Garlic hit first a soft gold, just before it could burn, then the carrots, the shallots, the faint green snap of asparagus. Hannibal worked with almost clinical grace, turning the pan with a flick of his wrist, coaxing out color without losing bite.

A cut of fish so bright it looked to be glowing, its skin still gleaming silver, went into another pan. The skin kissed the surface with a crackle, curling at the edges as the flesh whitened in increments. He pressed it flat with the back of a spatula, not a wasted movement, not a sound out of place but the music of the sear.

The room filled with warmth and a layering of scents, citrus and sea, butter and thyme, as a hug. 

Will glanced sideways at Abigail, who had unconsciously leaned forward on her stool, her lower lip bitten.

Chapter Text

After dinner, he cleaned with the same precision he had used to cook, each knife washed, dried, and set back into its exact slot. Counters gleamed, pans polished, every surface restored to a state of immaculate readiness.

Abigail lingered at the kitchen table while reading her history textbook, her eyes getting heavy. Hannibal warmed milk in a copper pot, stirring in cardamom, turmeric and ginger a soft gold blooming against the pale froth. He poured it into a large porcelain cup and handed it to her. 

“Golden milk,” he said gently. "Try it"

She took it obediently, fingers wrapping around the cup for warmth. Will watched her sip, eyelids drooping almost immediately. Hannibal placed a hand lightly against her shoulder and nodded toward the hallway. “Rest now. Tomorrow will be easier,” Abigail nodded, carrying the cup with her upstairs, her footsteps fading.

When the house grew quiet, Will noticed the shift. Hannibal moved not just as a host but as a warden. Panels slid into place across certain windows; discreet grey shutters locking with muted clicks. Keypads blinked alive near doors, green turning to red as bolts engaged. It wasn’t just secure. It was airtight.

Will wandered, curious, shadowing Hannibal’s movements. He found monitors embedded in a recessed alcove near the living area: feeds from discreet cameras mounted among the trees, motion sensors tracking heat signatures through the woods. Some footage cycled through lists of “points of interest”—neighboring properties, highways, even his own house in Wolf Trap flickering briefly on the screen.

Will stared at it for a long moment, something inside him tightening. Then, unexpectedly, easing. Hannibal had been watching.

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me,” Will said at last, his tone quiet but steady, as his eyes landed on his own house. 

Hannibal appeared at his side without a sound, drying his hands with a cloth.  His gaze lingered on the screen, then shifted to Will. “I prefer to be prepared for all outcomes.”

Will’s lips quirked faintly. “Or obsession.”

A smile ghosted across Hannibal’s mouth. “The two often share a border.”

Hannibal gestured. “Come. You should see the rest.”

He led Will down a set of narrow stairs to the basement. The air grew colder, the walls bare and clinical. The space opened into a chamber that was both kitchen and laboratory. Gleaming stainless-steel counters ran the length of the room. Hooks and rails gleamed under bright lights. Knives were aligned with surgical precision, saws hung beside cleavers in orderly display. Industrial freezers hummed softly in the background.

Most were empty now, shelves wiped clean, only faint frost clinging to the metal. Yet the room bore the unmistakable gravity of what it had been built for. It smelled faintly of disinfectant, a clinical note that covered everything else.

Will walked slowly, eyes grazing over vacuum sealers, meat grinders polished to a shine, scales precise enough for a chemist. He touched nothing, but his gaze lingered.

“You could process anything down here,” he murmured.

“Anything,” Hannibal agreed, his voice calm, almost reverent.

Will turned, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “It’s all so professional.”

Hannibal studied him carefully, savoring the lack of revulsion, the measured curiosity instead. “I take pride in my craft. Wealth allows refinement.”

Will gave the faintest of smiles, unexpected even to himself. “And will I end up, here?” he asked, leaning on a steel box with a glass door, a couple of neat pieces of red meat lying on the top shelf, the width it about the width of an adult's thigh. 

The basement was quiet except for the hum of the freezers. "Are you unhappy in my bed?" Hannibal asked, smiling. 

Chapter Text

Will moved closer, his footsteps sharp against the concrete. There was no hesitation in him now, just that peculiar resolve, the one Hannibal had always seen flickering in him, threatening to ignite.

“You keep everything so precise,” Will said, his voice a low rasp. “Control everywhere I look.”

“Order allows freedom,” Hannibal replied, soft but unyielding. 

Will’s breath hitched once, more like a laugh with no humor in it. He stepped closer, chest nearly brushing Hannibal’s. 

His hands at Hannibal’s lapels, driving him backward in a sudden, forceful push. Hannibal’s ass met the flat of the steel table, the sound of unlocked wheels reverberating in the room, table crashing into the wall with muted gong. His eyes widened slightly.

Will crowded in, his body pressing into Hannibals. The air between them gone taut and trembling. His voice was a murmur against Hannibal’s cheek, heavy with heat and defiance. “You watch me.”

Hannibal’s breath left him in something close to a laugh, low, intimate, dangerous. “Yes,” he whispered, lips inches away. “I do”

The words broke whatever distance remained. Will’s mouth caught Hannibal’s in a sudden, bruising kiss. It was all teeth and heat and inevitability, Will pushing harder, pinning him against the cold steel. Hannibal yielded with exquisite precision, meeting pressure with pressure, answering the violence of it with an equally honed hunger.

Their breaths tangled in a sharp, ragged, unwilling to part. Hannibal’s hand rose, sliding into Will’s hair, not to restrain but to anchor. Will’s grip on him was iron, desperate, as if tearing something out of himself and giving it away in the same moment.

When they finally pulled apart, both had eyes burning with something raw and unspoken. Hannibal’s lips curved into the faintest smile, as though tasting victory and surrender in the same mouthful, leaning back on the steel table. 

“You’re not afraid,” he murmured.

Will’s reply was ragged, defiant, almost a growl. “Maybe I should be.”

And then Hannibal laughed, the way he never remembered himself to laugh before. 

Chapter Text

Her food journal lay open—columns in neat, fine print. Breakfast: tea, two crackers (90) apple (80). Dinner: chicken broth (100)  Next to the numbers, a smaller column: deserving? y/n. Some entries held a soft, desperate n. Abigail sighed. With the public feedings Hannibal insisted on, she wouldn't be able to hide her habits for much longer. She moved back on the floor, standing in a plank with her hair hanging down. 

The phone buzzed. It had learned to buzz like a hornet, high and thin, promising both pain and proof. She could not help herself and checked, kneeling beside the bed,  because not checking was worse.

A new group: HOBBS TRUTH.

The header image was her school’s exterior in early snow. The first post showed a locker scrawled in red marker: MURDERER’S DAUGHTER.

Comments braided around it—jokes, fear disguised as swagger, adult strangers in the thread using words like psychopathy as if it were a garnish. A teacher had clicked “sad.” A local true-crime podcaster had commented, “We’ll cover the ethics of this next episode.”

She counted to ten, then began push-ups: slow, steady, quiet. She counted again, writing the number in the exercise log: 5 / 10 / 10.

The phone buzzed again, impatient with this compromise. She glanced down. A message request: you should’ve been caught too. Another: i’d let you do it to me lol. A third, with a screenshot of a fake AIM chat claiming she confessed to “practicing” on cats. She swallowed, reminding herself to breath. 

Not checking was worse. 

Dad would have wanted, for her to be brave and face all of them.

She stretched, standing back in a plank. Counting the seconds.

Her phone was a soundless rage, but it vibrated beside her on the floor like a snake. 

The phone’s screen showed a new upload—her school picture morphing into her father’s mugshot.The comments ran slick: same eyes; cold; she knew. She watched it twice, then pressed Report. The site asked why. She chose Harassment.

“The public adores a narrative scaffold. A girl, a father, a scandal" she whispered, Alanas words. 

Abigail set her timer and started the music: laying on her back looking into the ceiling and breathing deeply.

A new buzz.

A stranger had uploaded a T-shirt: HOBBS HUNTING CLUB in collegiate font.

Same smile. Same eyes.

A new snake bite. 

A new article loaded: “THE HOBBS LEGACY: BLOODLINES OF VIOLENCE.” The author had chosen a family photo—her, ten years old, between her parents. Her mother’s smile was small, polite. Her father’s hand rested on her shoulder, fingers curved like ownership. Abigail’s stomach twisted. She stared at the photo until her eyes blurred.“A genetic predisposition?” the article read."Can sociopathy be inherited?”.

Tears blurred her vision. 

Abigail focused on a small shadow on the ceiling from the lamp.

The words had already branded her thoughts. She rubbed her arms, pulling out the fine hairs. Her mind chased fragments of his voice, that grand tone he used even while slicing venison in the kitchen:
We are better than them are, Abigail. We are built for precision, not pity.

Chapter Text

“Eldon Stammets,” Jack said, tapping the photo pinned to the top corner of the board. “He’s talking again.”

Alana Bloom stood near the table, reviewing the printed interview transcripts. She hadn’t been to Quantico since the news of Will’s move to the safehouse, now every hallway felt too quiet without him.

“What’s he saying?” she asked.

Jack’s voice was low, matter-of-fact. “He claims Hobbs wasn’t working alone. Said there’s a group — ”

Alana frowned. “Could be delusion.”

“Could be,” Jack said. “Except the phrasing matches something we picked up from another case in Pennsylvania. Different killer. It’s not copycat behavior — it’s coordination.”

He moved closer to the board. The photos were pinned in rows: families frozen in their living rooms, tables set, eyes open. Clean scenes, no struggle.

Alana studied the images quietly. “We’ve seen this kind of precision before. Ritualistic control.”

Jack nodded. “We think someone inside this network panicked when Hobbs died. Maybe he was their first exposure. Maybe his death sent them underground. And now they’re testing new methods — probing what gets our attention.”

Alana took a sip of coffee "Jack, perhaps you should talk to Will, I am not a behaviour specialist. "

“Per my order,” Jack said. “The Bureau believes Will and Abigail could still be targets. The public thinks the Hobbs case is over. But the word’s out — whoever this group is, they know we’re watching. So we need to keep working and keep Will and the girl out of our way. Off-grid.”

She hesitated. “And Hannibal?”

Jack’s tone hardened. “He’s the only one Will responds to. You’ve seen the reports — he’s stable when he is around, volatile when he’s not. If that’s what it takes to keep him grounded, I’ll take it.”

“Truth is,” he said quietly, “the Bureau doesn’t trust Will Graham right now. Not the way they used to.”

Alana didn’t reply. She knew better than to defend Will too quickly.

Jack went on, voice even but rough. “You know the Bureau. They can handle strange, they can handle brilliant — but they don’t handle unstable.” He set the cup down. “And Will’s been volatile. More than once.”

Alana watched him. “What kind of incidents?”

Jack exhaled through his nose, the sound tired. “Three that mattered.”

He raised a finger. “First, Quantico. The training consult last month — he pulled a weapon on the projection screen during a classroom sim. Thought the gunman in the video was in the room with him. Twenty cadets watching. Behavioral filed it under ‘stress response,’ but it shook people.”

Another finger. “Then the recovery scene. After Hobbs. He pushed an agent into a wall — hard enough to bruise his ribs — because he thought the guy was contaminating evidence. The man was bagging fibers exactly by the book. Will couldn’t see straight through the blood.”

Jack paused, his jaw tightening. “And the third… he cut the scene short, stormed out before the M.E. finished. Drove six hours through the night without telling anyone where he was going. I found him on the shoreline two days later, sitting in the car with the engine running. Gun in the glovebox.”

“You know what worries them most?” he said finally. “Not the outbursts. Not even the unpredictability. It’s how Will forgets them.”

Alana’s head lifted slightly. “Forgets?”

“After each incident,” Jack said, “he acts like nothing happened. He’s lucid, calm, almost embarrassed if anyone brings it up. The night after, I asked if he remembered hitting the agent. He looked right at me and said, ‘I didn’t touch him.’”

He rubbed his hands together, voice tightening. “We pulled the body cam. It’s all there. He grabs the man, throws him. He’s shouting. Then a minute later, he’s still at the scene, quiet, taking photos like nothing happened. It’s like a switch flips off and he doesn’t even know it was ever on.”

Alana folded her arms. “Dissociation. He compartmentalizes under stress. It’s a defense mechanism, not intent.”

Jack nodded, but his tone stayed grim. “Try explaining that to the Deputy Director. They see a man who doesn’t remember what he does with a loaded weapon in his hand. They see risk. And they’re not wrong.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That’s why Lecter’s there. He’s the only one Will stays steady around. He listens to him. Hell, he even eats when Hannibal tells him to. The man’s got more control over Will’s pulse rate than I do.”

Alana’s expression tightened, but she said nothing.

Chapter Text

Jack’s words still echoed in her mind: He forgets, Alana. He shakes it off like it never happened.

She’d seen it herself. The strange calm Will wore after violence, the way he would tilt his head slightly, like someone listening to an echo only he could hear. When he smiled, it was small and fragile, as if borrowed from another life.

Her phone buzzed. A short text from Jack:

Hannibal checked in. All stable.

She stared at it longer than she needed to.
“Stable.” The word always sounded like a temporary condition.

Alana shut off the desk lamp and left the office. The hallway lights were dimmed to night mode, amber and soft. She walked slowly, her heels clicking in rhythm with the rain outside.

She thought about the last time she’d seen Will — shaking in a hospital corridor, blood on his shirt from Hobbs, trying to tell her something that wouldn’t come out as words. She’d taken his hand. He’d barely noticed.

And now he was hidden away with Hannibal Lecter.

It had been nearly three months since Will and Hannibal started co-living and doing intense therapy.  Hannibal Lecter has spent an ungodly amount of time and resources on Will, in his own time, alone.  She’d approved the arrangement reluctantly, back when Will still looked like he was trying to crawl out of his own skin. Will insisted on radical methodologies at times. And at times, they seem to have worked for him. 

Alana needed to believe it too. 

But now, three months later, she couldn’t quite reconcile the reports she read with what she knew about either man.
They spent their days together, apparently. Went to work together. Shared meals. Fishing trips. Evenings reading by the fire. Alana needed to admit to herself that she had read those descriptions one too many times in Hannibal's check-in notes. They were meant to sound clinical, factual, but something in the phrasing always caught her breath. She could picture it too clearly: the soft light, the quiet between them.

It shouldn’t have bothered her. It did.

There was always that word — my.

Alana tried to tell herself it was clinical. That Lecter was the kind of man who invested completely in his work — a perfectionist, nothing more sinister than that. But there was something about his phrasing, the subtle possessive tone, that made her stomach tighten every time she read his reports.Will has responded well to my methods. Will finds the routine comforting. Will trusts me.

Three months of proximity could change anyone. But Hannibal Lecter was a man who preferred control to companionship. He didn’t share space without intent. If he was still there, it was because the arrangement benefited him too.

Alana’s hand lingered on the door handle. The rain outside hissed like static against the street.

She imagined Will sitting by the fire, dog at his feet, Hannibal nearby with a glass of wine.

She tried to picture that version of Will: comfortable, compliant, trusting. The image didn’t fit. Not the Will she knew. Not the Will who flinched from touch, who couldn’t hold another person’s gaze for long.

And yet, when she thought of the reports — of the steady handwriting, the warm phrasing — she could almost believe it. Almost.

She whispered it aloud before stepping into the rain.

“Stable.”

It shouldn’t have bothered her. But it did bother her.

Because it wasn’t her sitting across from him.

She told herself it was nothing more than concern — a professional’s discomfort with blurred boundaries. But jealousy had a way of wearing sensible disguises.

And Hannibal Lecter… Hannibal was a strange man. Brilliant, yes — disarmingly courteous, endlessly articulate — but strange in ways that resisted diagnosis. His mind was a locked room she’d never been able to open. Every observation she’d made contradicted the last: fastidious yet indulgent, compassionate yet cold, distant yet oddly drawn to broken things.

She’d written once, in her notes, that Lecter’s empathy appeared “structural rather than emotional” — a construct, not a feeling. He understood people in the way an anatomist understood the body: by taking it apart.

Maybe that was why Will interested him. Will didn’t fit into any structure. He bled past his own outlines.

Chapter Text

The house was still when Abigail slipped outside.
The sky over the cliffs was pale grey, the kind of light that made everything look softer than it was. She wore a thin sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her breath ghosting in the cold air.

Running was always her favorite form of control. The rhythm steadied her — step, breath, heartbeat. It kept her from thinking about food, about sleep, about the things she avoided naming out loud.

She followed the gravel path down toward the edge of the property, the sound of the sea below muting the rest of the world. When she reached the road, she kept running faster and farther. Past the bare trees, through the mist, until she could see the town below. It wasn’t much of a town, just a scattering of houses and a diner with its lights still off. She slowed near the end of the street, her pulse fluttering in her throat. A Bureau car was parked near the inn.

Abigail turned back, heart climbing higher in her chest. The run uphill burned. Her lungs ached, her stomach knotted. She liked that feeling. It made her light and fast. 

By the time she reached the house again, the sun had lifted enough to turn the windows to white. The kitchen smelled faintly of roasted coffee. Hannibal was there, standing by the counter in his robe, reading the newspaper as if the world hadn’t moved since she left.

“Good morning,” he said, voice smooth, unhurried.

Abigail froze in the doorway, waiting for the reprimand, for him to mention she’d gone off property, that she’d broken the invisible rules of safety Jack had laid down. But Hannibal didn’t even look up from his paper.

“I went running,” she said finally.

“I can see that,” Hannibal replied, sipping his coffee. “You should take water next time. The air here is very dry.”

That was all. No scolding. No alarm. Just calm acknowledgment, which somehow felt worse.

“Will’s still asleep,” Hannibal added after a moment.

Abigail nodded, though she wasn’t sure why he’d told her that. She moved toward the hall quietly, intending to shower. But as she passed the bedroom door, half open to the corridor, she paused.

The room was dim, curtains half drawn, the sheets a tangle. Will was naked and on his side, face turned toward the window, one hand resting near the pillow beside him. The lines of muscle in early morning light. A lot of muscles for a man wearing so much flannel. 

Hannibal’s jacket hung on the chair nearby, a psychoanalysis journal on the nightstand. The evidence was clear. 

Abigail didn’t linger. She just looked once, then turned away.

Upstairs, she stripped off her sweatshirt and stared at her reflection in the mirror, flushed cheeks, hollowed eyes, and collarbones sharp under pale skin. She pressed her fingers to her stomach and waited for the panic to fade.

Downstairs, if she really listened, she could hear Hannibal moving — the sound of porcelain, the low murmur of his voice, speaking softly to Will now awake. There was no tension in it, no surprise, just the rhythm of a morning routine.

Abigail sat on the edge of her bed, pulling her knees close. She wasn’t sure if she felt safe here or trapped in something that only looked like safety from the outside.

Chapter Text

Hannibal had packed the basket himself, of course. Linen napkins, slices of bread wrapped neatly in parchment, small jars sealed with string. He carried it easily in one hand while Will trailed behind him with the folding chairs, and Abigail followed a few steps back, her hands deep in her jacket pockets.

They’d walked this path a dozen times, but the air felt different today — brittle, expectant.

“So,” Will said over his shoulder, “you’re coming willingly this time. No sulking about being dragged outside.”

Abigail smirked. “I’m not sulking. I just think you two like the sound of your own company.”

Hannibal glanced at her, amused. “A fair assessment. But company is an art form, Abigail. One improves with practice.”

“Sounds like therapy talk,” she said.

“It often is.”

They reached the ridge overlooking the sea. The wind smelled faintly of salt and iron. Hannibal spread the blanket with quiet efficiency, his movements deliberate, ritualistic. Will dropped the chairs nearby and sat down heavily, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Abigail hesitated before sitting. The sight of them, side by side, comfortable in their silence, brought back the image she’d tried not to think about for days. The open bedroom door.

“You two spend a lot of time together,” she said finally. Her tone was light, casual, but her heart sped up the moment she said it.

Will raised an eyebrow. “We live in the same house, Abigail. That’s kind of unavoidable.”

“Yeah, but…” She shrugged, looking out at the waves. “You seem close.”

Hannibal poured wine into two glasses, handed one to Will. “Proximity creates familiarity,” he said. “Familiarity breeds understanding.”

“Sometimes misunderstanding,” Will added dryly.

Abigail looked at them both. “The FBI doesn’t know everything that goes on here, do they?”

That earned her a long silence. The waves filled it.

Will’s expression tightened, unreadable. “What makes you think they need to?”

The wind picked up, tugging at her hair. Hannibal’s gaze drifted toward the sea again, distant and reflective. “Trust is rare,” he said. “When it exists, it should not be questioned too loudly.”

Abigail looked at him, then at Will, who had already turned his eyes back to the water.

“I wasn’t questioning,” she said softly. “Just trying to understand what kind of family we’re supposed to be.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved, almost kind. Will laughed. 

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled of rosemary, smoke, and iron.

Hannibal stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, a phone balanced between his shoulder and ear. The call was routine, something about an academic consultation for a former patient, yet his hands moved with the kind of focus that made everything else seem secondary. Before him lay a large round cut of meat, heavy with marrow. The blade of his boning knife glinted as he worked along the curve of the bone, each motion smooth and deliberate. He hardly seemed to notice the act itself; it was muscle memory, an old ritual.

“Yes,” he said into the phone, his tone calm, cultured. “...pressure in the wrong place ruins the structure entirely.”
He paused, listening, then smiled faintly. “That is a lovely suggestion.”

In the living room, the air was warmer, filled with the scratch of a pencil and the occasional turn of a page. Abigail sat cross-legged at the coffee table, her laptop open beside a stack of papers, math homework from the college she still attended remotely. Numbers steadied her and didn’t ask for emotion. Will sat beside her on the couch, a paperback open in his lap, glasses slipping down his nose. Every so often, he’d glance over, frowning slightly as she muttered through a formula.

“You’re talking to the math again,” he said.

Abigail didn’t look up. “It listens better than people do.”

He let out a snort, small and genuine, then went back to his book. Outside, wind rattled the windowpanes, the surf below throwing its steady rhythm against the cliffs.

When the call ended, Hannibal washed his hands, wiped the blade, and placed the trimmed meat aside for the stockpot. His voice carried from the kitchen.
“How fares academia this evening?”

Abigail answered without looking up. “Still thinks I’m bad at calculus.”

“Then you must prove it wrong,” Hannibal said. “Perseverance is the difference between mastery and surrender.”

Will chuckled. “She’s sixteen. Let her surrender a little.”

Hannibal appeared in the doorway, drying his hands with a linen towel. “Even a little surrender requires purpose. Otherwise, it’s simply giving up.”

Abigail looked up at them both — Will in his worn sweater, Hannibal immaculate even in casual clothes — and felt again that odd contrast that defined the house. One man all gravity, the other precision. Between them, she occupied the still space neither could quite reach.

Hannibal returned to the stove, setting the shank to sear in the pan. The sound filled the room, sharp and alive. Will turned a page. Abigail solved another problem.

Will stood up. Hannibal leaned in, offering a taste of the dish. 

Will chuckled. 

Abigail solved another problem.

Listening to the hiss of the pan and the rhythm of pencil against paper, soft crackling of the fire, and the sounds of the sea far below them. 

Then another problem cracked. 

And the wine bottle did too. Wine tasted so sour to her that she didn`t even want to join the men, flirting by the countertop. She glanced up, catching a reflection of Hannibal brushing a hand through Will's hair. Her parents never showed affection so openly. 

 She smiled, domesticity perched on the edge of something she did not dare to define.

Chapter Text

The house was creepy.

Grey steel. Reflection of the woods and the skies. 

Hannibal Lecter stood framed by the dim interior light, immaculate in a charcoal suit despite the hour. His expression carried the same poise Miriam Lass remembered from Bureau briefings: the polite half-smile of a man for whom time and weather were irrelevant.

“Agent Lass,” he said, his tone precise but warm. “What a surprise. You’ve come all this way again.”

“Routine welfare check,” Miriam replied, showing her badge. “Jack asked that I confirm Abigail’s well-being in person.”

“Of course.” He did not move from the threshold. “She’s resting upstairs. We keep early mornings here; the air makes one drowsy. I wouldn’t disturb her.”

She nodded, professional. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“I’m afraid not today.” The smile did not shift. “She’s fragile when her sleep is interrupted. I’ll tell her you came.”

Behind him, the hallway was orderly to the point of sterility. Everything gleamed—floorboards, framed prints, a polished umbrella stand. The scent of citrus oil and broth hung faintly in the air. Nothing humanly messy lived in that space.

From the woods beyond the cliff road came a sudden crack of branches—a deer, maybe, or a fallen limb.
Miriam’s body reacted before thought: shoulders tight, hand drifting toward her belt instinctively.
Hannibal did not flinch. Not a turn of the head, not a pause in breath.

“You startle easily, Agent,” he said mildly, eyes returning to her. “Out here, the wind invents its own noises.”

His voice was measured in rhythm, evenly spaced like steps on marble.
No small hesitations, no filler words. A clinician’s cadence.

Miriam forced a small exhale. “I’d still like to verify she’s here, Doctor. Bureau protocol.”

“You have my word she’s here,” he said. “Would you prefer to wake a frightened patient for a photograph? I think not.”

Polite. Perfectly reasonable.

She noted his stance: spine aligned, hands loosely clasped before him, body angled so the doorway remained filled.
She couldn’t see into the house; he’d positioned himself just right for that.

When she thanked him for his time, he inclined his head slightly, stepping forward only enough to hold the door.
“Do tell Jack that all remains well,” he said. “We are content here.”

That word—we—landed heavier than it should have.

She left without turning her back until she reached the gravel path. The sea wind felt colder than it had moments ago.
Five minutes of conversation, no threat, no raised voice—and still her heartbeat refused to slow.

Chapter Text

The night wind came off the Atlantic in long sighs, pressing against the windows. Inside, the fire crackled low, turning the room gold and copper.

Abigail sat cross-legged on the rug, her textbook open, pages full of margin notes. “So the assignment says to write about the causes of the French Revolution,” she said. “We covered taxes and famine, but it feels like it’s missing something. It’s all just… economic.”

Hannibal looked up from his chair, the flames catching the reflection in his eyes. “Economic causes are the skeleton,” he said. “But revolutions are made of organs — of resentment, envy, humiliation. The French peasants did not only starve; they were watched while starving. The court turned hunger into theatre.”

Abigail frowned, pencil tapping. “That’s not in the book.”

“Few American textbooks mention the Affair of the Diamond Necklace,” Hannibal continued smoothly. “A scandal that made Queen Marie-Antoinette appear both greedy and foolish, though she was neither. Or that the Enlightenment salons were financed by bankers who profited from both monarchy and revolt. History is rarely moral; it is transactional.”

Will glanced over from the couch, book half-closed on his knee. “So you’re saying the revolution wasn’t inevitable. Just… staged?”

“In part,” Hannibal said. “Every society needs a myth for its birth. The French prefer theirs dramatic.” He smiled slightly, then added, “From a psychological standpoint, revolutions are mass identity crises. The people become one body, rejecting a part of itself. In that sense, it is very close to trauma.”

Abigail wrote quickly, eyes bright. “That’s a better paragraph than the textbook gave me.”

“You may borrow it,” Hannibal said. “But do not quote me. Your teacher will think you plagiarized.”

Will chuckled under his breath. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying Hannibal the way one might study an unfamiliar map. “You sound like you were there.”

Hannibal turned his head toward him, with the faintest hint of amusement. “I had good teachers.”

Something in his tone made Will look up fully, curiosity flickering. Hannibal noticed the movement — that subtle, physical tilt of Will’s head, the way his pupils widened when he wanted to ask how someone knew what they knew.

“Boarding school,” Hannibal said, answering the unspoken question.

Will smiled faintly. “Of course.”

“Collège Saint-Michel de Fribourg,” Hannibal added, his voice almost a reminiscence. “Technically Swiss, but entirely French in temperament. They taught Latin by candlelight and considered emotional restraint a virtue. It leaves an impression.”

Abigail looked up. “Sounds awful.”

Hannibal’s smile deepened just a little. “Discipline rarely feels pleasant while it’s shaping you.”

Chapter Text

The air still smelled of rain when Abigail came in. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing even but shallow — not from exertion anymore, but from holding something in.

Hannibal was o the couch by the fire, reading. The lamp beside him cast a circle of amber light over the armchair and the rug. When he looked up, his expression softened.

“Come,” he said. “Sit by me.”

She hesitated at first — a learned reflex — then crossed the room and sank into the chair opposite him. The firelight shimmered across her face, still pink from the cold.

“I took another run,” she said.

“I can tell.” He smiled faintly. “Running can calm the body when the mind will not rest. It releases tension — until it becomes its own form of tension.”

Abigail nodded, staring at the flames. “I just needed to move. When I stop, I think too much.”

“Thinking is not the enemy,” Hannibal said. “Only when it turns inward and becomes punishment.”

For a while neither spoke. The fire cracked softly. She could hear the clock ticking in the hall.

Then Abigail said, almost quietly, “I read something online. People still write things about me. About him.”

Hannibal didn’t ask who him was. He simply said, “The world is unkind to what it does not understand.”

She looked up, eyes wide with a kind of tired confusion. “Did my dad… use everything? Like, when he—” She stopped, the rest of the question dissolving in her throat.

Hannibal’s face did not change. “You are asking if he wasted.”

She nodded, eyes glassy.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice low. “Garrett Jacob Hobbs was a man of systems. He treated death as work, and in his way he believed he honored the life he took. He told himself that nothing should go unused.”

Abigail’s hands twisted together in her lap. “So he thought he was respecting them.”

“In his mind, yes. A misguided reverence.” Hannibal’s gaze stayed steady, unjudging. “But reverence and cruelty often wear the same mask.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.”

“There is no single way,” he said gently. “You can grieve him without forgiving him. You can understand him without becoming him.”

Her shoulders eased slightly, a small exhale escaping her. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is not simple,” Hannibal said, leaning back. “But it can be borne. You are learning to live with a man who exists in you as memory and shadow. The trick is not to hate the shadow. Simply to see it.”

Abigail stared into the fire. “Sometimes you sound like him,” she murmured.

Will’s voice came from the doorway. “He’s good at that.”

She turned. He’d been standing half in shadow, a mug in one hand, listening longer than she’d realized. The smell of coffee drifted in with him as he crossed the room and sat down beside Hannibal on the couch. His shoulder brushed the older man’s sleeve; neither seemed to notice.

Hannibal glanced toward Will with a small, knowing smile. “We were discussing fathers,” he said.

Will nodded. “Never a simple topic.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes on the fire now too. “You okay?” he asked Abigail.

She shrugged. “I guess. I just… I don’t know how to feel about any of it. My dad, the things people say. It’s all still there, like it’s waiting for me to pick it up again.”

Will nodded slowly. “You don’t have to pick it up. Sometimes you just let it sit until it stops calling your name.”

Abigail looked between them, then looked down at her hands on her knees. She inhaled.

“Sometimes his cooking tastes like his,” she murmured.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly. “And do you mind that?”

Abigail hesitated, then exhaled. “It surprised me.”

For a moment, the fire cracked and the room held the kind of silence that felt alive.

Will broke it with a small huff of breath — almost a laugh. “Well, to be fair,” he said, “Hannibal’s cooking’s better than Hobbs’ ever was.”

Abigail’s mouth twitched, unsure if she should smile. Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes, amusement, perhaps, or pride.

“I would hope so,” he said finally.

That earned a genuine laugh from Abigail.

Chapter Text

Abigail’s laughter hung in the air a heartbeat longer than it should have, as if the walls themselves were reluctant to let it go. It came out high and thin, catching on the edge of her breath.
Will smiled faintly, the way someone might when the room feels lighter for once.
But Hannibal only watched her—calm, still, head slightly tilted.

The sound died out of her, leaving a quiet that felt suddenly sharp. The fire popped. Somewhere outside, the wind pressed against the windows like a hand testing the glass.

Abigail drew her knees closer, the air too heavy in her chest. “It’s strange,” she said softly. “How my life always ends up like this. Men with… complicated appetites.” She tried to make it sound like a joke, but her voice caught halfway through.

Neither man laughed this time.

“All my life,” she said softly, “it’s just been… men like this. Dangerous. My dad. Then everything after.”

Will opened his mouth, but she went on, voice shaking.
“And now you two. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel bad. That’s what scares me. I hated being the victim, and now. I don´t know if I am a victim, now. ”

She stopped. The air seemed to shift.

Hannibal’s eyes met hers, steady, unreadable. “You are not a victim here, Abigail,” he said. “You are safe. We are only dangerous to those who would harm you.”

The words should have been reassuring. They weren’t. The firelight flickered over his face, turning every shadow sharper.

Her pulse skipped. “I keep wondering,” she said, forcing the words, “what exactly I’ve survived.”

Hannibal smiled, the smallest possible curve of the mouth. “The truth,” he said, “has a taste all its own.”

Something in his tone, too even, too certain, made her body go still. Every nerve seemed to step back from the moment. Her breath slowed; her hands went cold.

Her heart pounded in her chest. 

She felt so alive. 

Abigail laughed, reaching up to rub her face, hard enough to leave pink marks on her cheeks.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I guess it does.”

No one moved.

Hannibal’s gaze stayed on her, not cruel, not kind, simply measuring. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, the kind used to soothe startled animals.
“Breathe, Abigail,” he said. “No one here wishes you harm.”

“Yeah,” she murmured angrily, looking Hannibal straight in the eyes, “Are you going to eat me? Kill me?”

Will’s posture was loose, almost slouched, yet deliberate. He turned his head oh so slightly, and Hannibal held back his tongue. 

Abigail`s eyes widened in shock. " I have not decided yet." Will Grahm spoke softly, the shadows behind him moving as Abigail could swear, a ghost of her father lingered in the room. 

Chapter Text

Abigail stood at the window, watching the water sheet down the glass.

“I used to like rain,” she said. “Now it just feels like waiting.”

Hannibal, at the stove, stirred something fragrant. “Waiting can be restorative. It allows the mind to wander.”

Will sat at the table, cleaning a fishing reel. “Yeah,” he said, “but not everyone likes where their mind wanders.”

Abigail smiled at that — small, knowing. “Guess that’s why people run.”

Hannibal’s glance flicked toward her, gentle but sharp. “Or why they learn to stay still.”

Will read the message out loud. “Stay available for updates.”

Abigail frowned. “Do they ever just say hi?”

“No,” Will said.

“They’re the FBI,” Hannibal added mildly. “Emotional brevity is policy.”

Will rolled his eyes.

Abigail sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, sighing at a half-finished essay.

“Writer’s block?” Will asked from the couch.

“More like writer’s boredom,” she said. “The assignment’s on The Scarlet Letter. We’re supposed to talk about shame in Puritan society. I don’t even know what to say.”

Hannibal, reading nearby, looked up. “Shame,” he said, “is society’s way of maintaining control through fear. The Puritans excelled at it.”

Abigail made a face. “So what, I just say they were scared of everything?”

Will chuckled. “Pretty much.”

Over breakfast, Abigail recited a pun she’d seen online.

Will groaned. “That’s terrible.”

Hannibal chuckled. “It’s efficient. Two meanings, one sentence. Language economy.”

“See?” Abigail said triumphantly. “He gets it.”

Will muttered, “You’ve created a monster.”

Abigail stood at the counter, scrolling through her phone, her earbuds hanging loose.

Will came in, hair still damp from the shower. “You know Hannibal’s going to pretend that bagel is an insult to cuisine, right?”

She smirked. “It’s a normal breakfast, Will. Not everything has to be a ceremony.”

Hannibal’s voice floated in from the pantry. “Breakfast is a ceremony, if one chooses to begin the day with respect.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “Respect for what? Carbs?”

“Balance,” Hannibal said, emerging with a filled basket of fruit and a knife. 

Will met her gaze, smiling. “He’s been up since five.”

Abigail poked at the food. “Do you ever just… eat pizza?”

“Of course,” Hannibal said. “Though I prefer to make it myself.”

Will grinned. “You should’ve seen the look on the delivery guy’s face last time Hannibal asked about the dough fermentation.”

Abigail flipped through channels until she stopped on an old sitcom rerun.

“Why are they all laughing?” Hannibal asked after a moment.

“It’s a laugh track,” she said. “They added it so people know when it’s supposed to be funny.”

“Manufactured emotion,” Hannibal murmured.

Will threw him a look. “Don’t ruin everything.”

“Hold the knife like this,” Hannibal said, guiding her hand.

Abigail frowned at the cutting board. “You act like I’m defusing a bomb.”

“In a sense, you are,” he said. “Every meal is a small act of peace between hunger and restraint.”

Will leaned against the doorframe. “You make sandwiches sound existential.”

“They are,” Hannibal said calmly.

She found him sketching at the dining table.

“Didn’t know you painted,” she said.

Hannibal smiled faintly. “I observe first. Paint second.”

She leaned closer. “That’s me.”

“Of course,” he said.

Abigail read from the handwritten list Hannibal gave them, walking ahead of them in the supermarket.

“Fennel bulbs, duck eggs, and chestnut flour,” she said flatly. “This sounds like a witch’s pantry.”

Will looked over her shoulder. 

She smirked. “Do I even want to know what the saffron’s for?”

“No,” Will said. “No, you don’t.”

The sea was relentlessly violent, hitting the cliffs all day.

“Feels like the edge of the world,” Abigail said.

Will squinted at the horizon. “Technically, it’s just Maine.”

“Don’t ruin it,” she muttered, and Hannibal’s faint smile followed her voice, as he leaned in to kiss Will.

Abigail held up a single striped sock. “It’s been three loads. Where do they go?”

“Laundry purgatory,” Will said.

“Entropy,” Hannibal offered from behind his paper.

Abigail blinked. “So… hell, basically.”

“We can go get some new clothes, all three of us, it's almost November,” Hannibal said, nodding to the light blue strappy top that Abigail was wearing. 

Chapter Text

Abigail slid in late with an apology and damp hair, smelling faintly of soap and morning air. She dropped into her chair with the gracelessness of exhausted youth and reached for a skewer, eyebrows up. “You made this for a Tuesday?”

“For any day we decide deserves it,” Hannibal said.

Will gestured at the platter. “He’s adjusting my definition of Tuesday.”

Abigail grinned and, with a fork poised midair, added, “And my definition of ‘we.’” She took a bite, brightened, and made a small pleased sound that belonged to every kitchen everywhere. “Okay. That’s ridiculous.”

They ate like this—quiet, then small conversation that built and broke like waves. Hannibal asked Abigail about office supplies she might need for her classes, agreeing on at least a few more of notebooks and pens; Will gave an update on a filter clogged by leaves; Abigail announced that the flea offensive had turned a corner (“We’re winning,” she declared, triumphant, “and I’m not even itchy.”). The dogs, exiled since they moved into their new household, thumped approvingly against the back door served a royal breakfast of raw eggs, boiled meats, and fish pate.

“So,” Hannibal asked, carving a clean slice of eggs. “How are you finding our arrangement? Honestly.”

Will glanced at Abigail, then back to his plate. “Different,” he said.

Abigail pointed a fork between them. “You both talk like… synchronized introverting.”

Hannibal nearly smiled. “A talent we’ll try not to squander.”

Will tipped his head. “There are worse talents.”

Abigail wiped her fingers on her napkin and leaned back in her chair. “So what’s the plan for today?”

Will looked up from the paper he was pretending to read. “Groceries,” he said. “Maybe a hardware stop. Hannibal’s got a list.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow. “Of course he does.”

Hannibal didn’t deny it. “Order prevents waste,” he said simply, folding the list into his pocket. “And besides, we need to restock the pantry.”

Abigail smirked. “You mean your laboratory.”

Hannibal did not reply, standing to clear the plates.

Will hid a small smile behind his mug. “We’ll need dog food too. And laundry detergent.”

“I have that noted,” Hannibal said, already rinsing dishes in the sink with that quiet efficiency that made the room feel orchestrated rather than lived in.

Abigail sighed in exaggerated drama. “You two make errands sound like a military operation.”

Will shrugged. “They’re safer that way.”

When the table was cleared, they gathered their things. Abigail tugged on her coat, the one she’d patched herself with a crooked square of denim on the sleeve. Hannibal adjusted his scarf, choosing one the color of coffee grounds. Will patted his pockets for keys, finding a condom and a handful of dog biscuits, and finally—triumphantly—the right key. Locking the house behind them. 

Outside, the morning had settled into a thin, steady brightness. The air smelled faintly of pine and salt. Hannibal’s car waited on the gravel drive, sleek and almost ostentatiously clean.

Will opened the door for Abigail. She slid into the back seat, pressing her hands to the window as the cliffs receded behind them. “Feels like we’re escaping,” she said.

Hannibal chuckled, driving them through the woods.  The road unwound before them, narrow and winding through firs and glimpses of ocean. The car hummed like something content. Will rested his arm along the door frame, eyes on the sea whenever it flashed into view. Hannibal drove with both hands light on the wheel.

Abigail sat forward between the seats. “Can we stop for coffee on the way back?”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked to her in the rearview mirror. “You’ve already had coffee.”

“That was breakfast coffee. This would be reward coffee.”

Will nodded solemnly. “She’s right. That’s a separate category.”

Hannibal sighed with the faintest smile. “Then we shall reward ourselves accordingly.”

They reached the town by midmorning. The parking lot of the coastal mall was half full; gulls stalked the asphalt, picking through last night’s debris. Abigail hopped out first, stretching her arms wide as though the air felt different here.

“Where first?” Will asked, locking the car.

“Stationery,” Hannibal said.

“Feels like school shopping,” she said, trailing after them through the automatic doors. The smell of waxed floors and pretzels hit them immediately, warm and artificial.

The mall wasn’t large three long corridors, a skylight that turned the ceiling pale gold, but after weeks of seclusion, it might as well have been a city. People moved in soft, distracted clusters. A child’s laughter bounced off the tile. Somewhere, a radio played a decade-old pop song.

Abigail turned in a slow circle, smiling despite herself. “I forgot people come in herds.”

Will chuckled. “And they migrate to sales.”

Hannibal steered them toward the first shop, the kind that sold journals and imported pens. Abigail ran her fingers across the spines of notebooks, testing the texture of each. “Do people actually fill these?”

“Sometimes,” Will said. “Mostly they start strong and give up after five pages.”

“Projection,” Hannibal murmured without looking up from a display of fountain pens.

Will shot him a look; Hannibal’s expression didn’t shift.

At the register, Abigail added a small tin of colored pencils. “For when I get bored with writing,” she explained. Hannibal paid without argument.

The grocery store came next. The three of them moved down the aisles with practiced rhythm—Abigail pushing the cart, Will scanning labels, Hannibal examining produce with delicate judgment.

“No canned soup,” Hannibal said at one point, plucking a tin from the cart.

Abigail frowned. “That’s for emergencies.”

“We’ll survive,” he replied, replacing it with dried lentils.

Will smirked. “You just downgraded her apocalypse plan.”

“She’ll thank me when civilization collapses,” Hannibal said evenly.

By the time they reached checkout, the cart looked like the pantry of someone expecting a polite siege: rice, herbs, olive oil, three kinds of tea, and, somehow, two bags of grapes. Abigail beamed at her small victory.

Lunch came in the form of compromise: a café overlooking the parking lot, serving sandwiches and soup with a view of gulls squabbling over fries.

“This is depressing,” Abigail said, unwrapping her sandwich.

“Authentic,” Will corrected. “A genuine mall experience.”

Hannibal stirred his tea with patient disdain. A woman passed them by, watching for a moment too long, her eyes heavy.

Abigail snorted. 

Will smiled. “Fair.”

Hannibal raised his cup slightly, as though toasting the observation.

After lunch, they wandered through smaller shops: a bookstore where Abigail chose a mystery novel, a plant stall where Will debated the ethics of bringing home something alive, a tiny artisan bakery where Hannibal insisted on sampling the bread.

“Ice cream?” Abigail asked, rushing in front of them. Hannibal’s approving nod was slow, almost ceremonial. “Of course,” he said.

They followed her toward the small parlor tucked beneath the escalators, where the air was ten degrees colder and smelled of vanilla, sugar, and the faint metallic chill of refrigeration. The mall at midday was alive in a way the morning never managed to be. The lunchtime crowd had arrived: couples balancing paper cups of coffee, retirees walking slow circles for exercise, teenagers spilling laughter like coins across the tiled floor.

Light from the skylight struck the polished surfaces in sheets, white, sterile, yet oddly beautiful. Every sound was softened by distance and repetition: footsteps on tile, the faint click of jewelry at a nearby stall, the whisper of shopping bags brushing denim. The hum of conversation rose and fell, anonymous but comforting, a steady pulse beneath the overhead music that no one truly heard.

Abigail pressed her palms to the glass of the display case, her breath fogging the surface. “Pistachio,” she decided. “Or maybe mango.”

Abigail grinned. “Then I choose both.”

She handed over a few crumpled bills and turned, spoon already in her mouth, while Hannibal watched the crowd with detached interest, until his eyes caught the familiar face. Eldon waved at him, holding an ice cream cone. The man was supposed to be in prison. Beside him, Randall Tier. Across the room, none other than the hive Queen Katherine Pimms.

Impossible.

Not together.

Their eyes met his across the atrium like a photograph developing too fast.

He didn’t move. The air around him felt charged, sharp with refrigeration and something metallic.

Abigail turned at the same moment, smiling around her spoon. The crowd shifted, revealing the young man walking toward her. Hoodie, pale knuckles on the hilt of something that caught the light. For an instant, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. Then Will shouted her name.

The blade flashed.

People screamed, the sound collapsing into itself. Abigail’s hand flew to her throat, red already running between her fingers. The spoon clattered to the tile. Will reached her before she hit the floor, catching her weight against him, pressing hard to stop the blood. His voice was calm, automatic — field-training taking over — Pressure. Stay with me. Pressure.

Hannibal was beside him in seconds, pulling his scarf free, folding it tight. “Hold,” he said quietly, binding the wound with surgical precision. Around them, chaos spread: shoppers scattering, alarms half-triggered, the echo of boots on tile.

Security converged, then paramedics. The attacker was gone, lost in the noise and color of panic.

By the time they loaded her into the ambulance, Abigail’s breathing had thinned to a whisper. Will climbed in beside her, his hands still bright with blood, knuckles white around hers. Hannibal watched from the curb as the doors closed, the siren taking the air with it.

Later, in the hospital’s sterile light, Jack would find Will outside the ICU, shirt stiff with dried red, eyes fixed on the window where machines blinked and Abigail lay still, her face turned slightly toward the glass. The doctors would use the words severe trauma, blood loss, and induced coma.

Surveillance would confirm what Hannibal already knew: the impossible faces in the crowd were real. Someone was building something, and  Nicholas Boyle, twin brother of Cassie Boyle, was the young protégé of their craft. 

Chapter Text

The air-conditioning hums in the rhythm of sleep that no one manages anymore. The soft pulse of monitors becomes a metronome against which every thought is measured. Abigail lies beneath a net of clear tubing and white sheets, her throat wrapped in pale bandages that climb almost to her jaw. A ventilator tube sits like a strange blossom between her lips; the machine sighs for her, steady, indifferent. An IV pump clicks and releases, sending a timed stream of fluid through a line taped against the inside of her elbow.

The doctors have said the same thing for three days now: stable but guarded. The laryngeal structures spared; vocal cords uncertain. They mention nerve trauma, the risk of infection, the slow nature of tissue recovery. They talk about time as though it were medicine, and Will hates them a little for that.

He woke on the narrow couch by the window, neck aching, shirt rumpled and sticking to his back. The light through the blinds is thin, the color of paper. Alana’s voice filled the room, reading softly from a novel she must have pulled from the waiting-room shelf—something domestic, something gentle. Her tone is careful, meant for Abigail but really meant to reassure herself. When she notices Will stirring, she folds the book on her knee and smiles, small and tired.

“Morning,” she says.

He sits up slowly, rubbing his face. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven. You should get breakfast before Jack drags us both out of here.”

He glances toward Abigail. “Any change?”

“Her vitals are steady. They’ve dialed back the sedation a little. She moves her fingers sometimes.”

He nods but doesn’t speak. The relief feels unsafe, like glass that could crack if he exhaled too hard. His eyes flick toward the ventilator tubing, the neat coil of sensors taped at her collarbone, the IV pole with its hanging bags labeled in handwriting he doesn’t understand. Each beep and whisper of machinery carries its own kind of accusation.

Alana closes the book and sets it on the chair beside her. “You should go home for a few hours,” she says. “Get an actual night’s sleep. Hannibal said he’d stop by after clinic hours.”

Will huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Hannibal always says that.”

She studies him for a long moment. “You trust him,” she says finally.

“I do.”

Her expression shifts, something quick and then carefully hidden. “He seems… protective of you,” she says, pretending to adjust the blanket at Abigail’s feet. “You’ve let him become the point of contact for everything: your treatment plan, your sleep schedule, even your meals.”

“He’s my doctor,” Will replies, voice low. “That’s what he’s supposed to be.”

“That’s what I was supposed to be, once,” she says before she can stop herself, and then immediately looks away, embarrassed.“People talk, Will.”

The silence that follows hums with the machines, mechanical and even. Will leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the linoleum floor. “I know,” he says finally. “You were the first person who actually tried to help.”

“I still would,” she says softly. “If you let me.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t want to get pulled into my mess.”

“You think Hannibal isn’t?”

Will looks up at her, and the weight of exhaustion sits heavy behind his eyes. “He doesn’t scare easily.”

“Neither do I.”

There’s a flicker between them, that old unspoken current, something that once might have been a possibility if they were still pale and excluded students on autumn nights studying together at the city hall library, now just a small ache of recognition. He sees the flame in Alanas chest, and he hates that he sees it. Alana folds her hands in her lap, hiding the rest of the thought.

Jack appears in the doorway before either can speak again, coat still damp from the rain. “We need to talk,” he says quietly. “Both of you.”

Alana rises. “About what?”

“Next steps,” Jack answers. “Hannibal’s already been briefed. I want you home for a day, Will. Alana, ride with him. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Will glances at Abigail once more. Her chest rises and falls with the ventilator’s rhythm, the only movement in the room. “I’m not leaving her,” he says automatically.

Jack’s tone softens. “She’s not alone. The nurses are here, and Hannibal will check in this afternoon. You’re no good to her if you collapse.”

Will doesn’t argue, but his hands tremble slightly as he reaches for his jacket. Alana notices. He tucks them into his pockets before she can comment.

As they step into the hallway, the door swings closed behind them with a soft click, sealing the room’s faint symphony of machines away. The corridor smells of disinfectant and over-steeped coffee. Alana walks beside him in silence until they reach the elevator.

“Will,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to do all of this alone.”

He looks at her, a tired, rueful half-smile tugging at his mouth. “I know,” he says. “But I’m better at being alone than most people.”

Rain threads the city into blurred reflections, the windshield wipers beating in slow time. Jack drives with the same intensity he uses to interrogate, eyes forward, one hand loose on the wheel. The government sedan smells faintly of damp leather and takeout coffee. Will sits by the window, face turned toward the glass, watching streetlights slide across the dark. Alana sits in the back, arms folded, her voice an occasional presence in the hum of the tires.

Jack breaks the silence first. “We found more digital evidence this morning. A storage locker over by the Inner Harbor—phones, external drives, the usual junk. They’d been networking. Serial enthusiasts, maybe. Some of the names matched old victim databases. We’re looking for who was running it.”

Will doesn’t look up. “People collecting murder like baseball cards.”

Jack’s mouth tightens. “Something like that. The Bureau likes calling them archivists. Makes it sound academic.”

“Collectors of consequence,” Will murmurs. “They don’t kill, they curate. They want to live close to the art.”

“Whatever they call themselves,” Jack says, “we’re peeling them apart. Two arrests already. One of the drives had connections to a psychiatric practice, but not Hannibal’s. I checked.”

Will’s reflection flickers against the glass. “You don’t need to tell me that.”

“Maybe not,” Jack says. “But I know how you think.”

“Do you?”

Jack glances at him. “I know when you’re holding something back.”

Alana’s voice slides in, gentler, trying to cool the edges. “Jack, he’s barely slept in days. Can you save the interrogation for when he’s had coffee and consciousness?”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Fine. I’ll talk to the dogs. They probably listen better.”

Alana’s mouth lifts in a small smile. “You might get further with them.”

The road hums beneath the tires, the rhythm of it steady, lulling. Will blinks, his thoughts already drifting toward the house—the memory of paws on tile, the soft thud of loyalty that doesn’t ask for explanation.

“They’re already there?” he asks.

Alana nods. “Agent Price dropped them off an hour ago. They’ve made themselves comfortable. Your basset’s claimed the couch. The shepherd’s guarding the window like a sentry.”

“That sounds right,” Will says quietly.

Jack glances into the rearview mirror. “You sure about this, Alana? Taking on six dogs and a traumatized profiler as weekend projects?”

She leans her head against the seatback, smiling faintly. “I’ve had worse roommates.”

Jack chuckles. “That’s the spirit.”

Will finally turns from the window. “They’ll be safer with her. My place… isn’t safe for anyone.”

The words land heavier than he intends. Alana’s gaze flickers to him, softening. “Will, that isn’t true. You’re safe now.”

He doesn’t answer. His fingers twitch against his thigh, that old restless tic of anxiety creeping back when silence stretches too long. Jack notices but says nothing. They all hear the unspoken: Abigail still isn’t awake.

Jack changes the subject. “Hannibal called in, said he’ll stop by the hospital later. He wanted to know if you’d eaten.”

Alana’s eyes lift at that, a faint twist of irony in her tone. “Of course he did.”

Jack smirks. “Lecter worries about him more than I do.”

“Lecter’s worry,” she says, “always sounds like an experiment.”

Will exhales through his nose, half amusement, half weariness. “You don’t trust him.”

Alana meets his gaze in the mirror. “I trust him to be himself.”

“And you don’t trust me to know what that means?”

“I trust you,” she says softly. “That’s the problem.”

Jack’s phone buzzes; he checks the screen, frowns. “Lab wants me in by five,” he mutters. “New data from Quantico. We’ll stop at Alana’s, drop you both off, and I’ll head back.”

“Thank you,” Alana says, polite and final.

They drive the rest of the way in companionable silence. The rain thickens, soft percussion on the roof. Will presses his palm against the cold window glass, his breath fogging faint halos that vanish as quickly as they form.

When they pull up to Alana’s house, the porch light glows amber in the mist. Two dogs stand behind the front window, tails wagging, shadows shifting against the curtains. Will can almost smell the wet fur, the familiar weight of belonging.

Jack kills the engine. “Looks like you’ve got a welcoming committee.”

Alana unbuckles her seatbelt. “They’ve been restless since they arrived. Waiting for him.”

Will opens the door and steps into the rain, breathing deep, as if the air itself might clear his head. “They don’t wait for me,” he says. “They wait for routine.”

Jack gets out too, standing by the open door. “Routine’s good. Keeps everyone alive.” He pauses, tone softening. “We’ll find who did this, Will. I promise you that.”

Jack studies him a moment longer, then claps a hand to his shoulder. “Get some rest,” he says, before climbing back into the car and pulling away.

Alana unlocks the front door, dogs crowding the entryway with the frantic joy only animals understand. Will kneels among them, letting their weight and noise anchor him for a moment. Alana watches quietly, her expression unreadable in the low light.

“They’ve missed you,” she says.

He runs a hand through fur still damp from the earlier rain. “They don’t forget,” he answers. “That’s the problem with creatures who love too easily.”

Alana looks at him, a faint sadness ghosting her features. “Maybe that’s what saves them,” she says.

“Or ruins them,” Will replies, hating himself for the coldness and sarcasm he hides from this ever-willing woman, who could have given him enough. 

Chapter Text

It’s raining the way it rains in the deep woods—steady, relentless, a rhythm older than language.
The tin roof catches every drop and turns it into percussion, the kind that measures thought instead of time.

Will stands in the center of his living room, a long, narrow space paneled in pine and shadow. The air smells of wet earth and iron. The floorboards are scarred, worn smooth by paws and boots; now they gleam faintly, emptied of motion. Every bowl is washed and stacked, leashes hung in orderly loops by the door. Without the dogs, the house feels like a body missing its pulse.

He has never been afraid of solitude. 

The woods surrounding the property pressed close, the trees hunched like witnesses. He knew every inch of them, every break in the undergrowth. This isolation had been deliberate; solitude was the only condition under which his mind could stay in one piece. He was the hunter here, the axis around which everything turned. He had trained his pack to move like one organism, to follow, to guard, to find. He had made himself the center of their world unquestioned, unchallenged.

And he made himself the center of Hannibal's world too. Unexpectedly so. 

He left the door unlocked, walking deeper into the house. Taking off the jacket on the way and throwing it on an empty chair. 

The house bore his mind’s architecture. Maps pinned to walls, corners of photographs blackened by match flame. Knives waited out on a shelf, all sharpness and polish. His little darling, hobbies. A row of mason jars along the shelf, each holding fragments of something once alive. On the mantel sat a single photograph of his father, tilted as if he might disapprove of the rest. 

He stripped off his wet shirt, the movement fluid, efficient. Beneath it, the body of someone who worked, not posed: lean muscle carved by repetition, shoulders cut by labor, the wiry strength of a man who ran until he forgot he was running. The exhaustion sat deep in him, but it didn’t dull his precision.

He’d long ago stopped thinking of himself as fragile, but it still amused him how easily others had believed it. They’d seen the shy man at the edge of meetings, the one who stammered through briefings, hands curled too gently around a service weapon. They’d believed the soft-spoken smile, the nervous blink, the quiet posture of a man supposedly frightened of his own shadow. Even in the Bureau, where everyone mistrusted everyone else, they’d decided he was safe, too harmless to suspect, too empathic to deceive.

He had watched them watch him, and learned how to perform their expectations until they became armor. The trick was to let them think they were protecting him. He knew what his face looked like when he said he didn’t like guns, how his voice broke slightly when he talked about nightmares. They mistook sincerity for weakness. They mistook empathy for absence of will.

The truth was quieter, heavier. He understood violence as he understood weather—inevitable, sometimes cleansing, always personal. Fear had never kept him from pulling a trigger; morality had. And morality, he knew, was only the leash empathy held. He’d spent years keeping that leash taut, because he knew what it felt like when it snapped.

The house reflected that struggle. It was half monastery, half shrine. A wall of hunting trophies he’d never bothered to display properly, left unmounted, antlers bound with wire. Shelves of old case files beside anatomy texts and dog-training manuals, their spines worn into illegibility.

He wondered if Hannibal knew it all. 

Their early meetings too intentional in nature. 

He probably did, Will decided, entering the shower. Under the hot water, his cock awoke, throbbing in his fist, remembering the way his doctor traced his spine with kisses, kneeling behind him to worship him day and night. His doctor. 

Orgasm was unfulfilling by himself. Disappointing even. Physical. 

He moved through the space barefoot and naked, the boards creaking under his weight, his reflection flickering in the dark window glass. Outside, the forest swayed and whispered; rain drummed harder on the tin roof. He didn't bother with turning the lights on. He caught his own image in the glass—tired eyes, steady gaze—and thought of the story others told about him: the kind man who collected strays, the profiler too gentle for his own work. They’d built that narrative because it made them comfortable. After all, no one wanted to believe that empathy could live so close to something feral.

He heard the car approaching, before he saw it, the forest carrying sound on fine gravel roads he built himself. He leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open doorway and let the rain’s chill settle into his skin. Every nerve felt alive, humming with the same alertness that kept the woods breathing around him. He thought of the Bureau, of their polite distance, their suspicion tempered by pity. He thought of Hannibal. His cock throbbed as Hannibal drove into his property, the warm glow of the car almost golden. He wore a large black sweatshirt and some black soft pants, carrying groceries in one arm. 

Will smiled as Hannibal's eyes widened, watching him with fire burning hot. The way his irises widened in the grey light and heavy rain. How this man had seen his performance and wanted more. 

But fatigue didn’t spare them. 

And Hannibal stepped up, kissing him like a starved man. 

And Hannibal confessed to recognizing the people who had run, while Abigail bled in his arms.

And Hannibal cried, rageful tears of not being able to protect them.

And Will held him up, stroking his head, watching the rain with darkness inside of him, let free. 

Chapter Text

The sky above Wolf Trap is a hard, impossible blue. The air smells of pine sap and clean dust, sunlight cutting through the trees in narrow columns. The gravel shimmered beneath it, pale and sharp, each stone reflecting a small, unkind truth. Hannibal’s car was parked beside the porch, black and reflective as a still pond. Alana pulled in next to it, tires whispering through the dust, the heat of the engine humming long after she turned it off.

She sat for a moment, her hands still on the wheel. It wasn’t the drive that made her hesitate.

She wasn`t supposed to be bothered. But she was. It was the car beside her.

She’d told herself this visit was professional. Twice. 

Will’s house stood quiet, windows open to the fresh air. She climbed the steps to the porch and smoothed her jacket.

Will had a way about him to notice people with an expression of such softness. He appeared a moment later, barefoot and half-dressed, hair still damp from washing, the pale cotton of his shirt clinging where it shouldn’t have, tracing the long lines of his shoulders and the narrow pull of his waist and the strong, very male legs, a slight peekaboo of skin between the fabric edges. Alana looked up higher. He blinked into the light, startled, then smiled faintly.

“Alana,” he said. “Didn’t hear you drive up.”

“Hybrid,” she replied, her voice lighter than she felt. “Great car for stalking.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Um, I’m compelled to go cover myself.”

“I have brothers,” she said.

He gave her that familiar, crooked half-smile, the one that could be shy or defensive or both. “Well, I’ll put a robe on just the same. You want a cup of coffee? And more immediately, why are you here?”

“Only if it’s good.”

“It’s not.”

She laughed, stepping past him into the house without waiting for permission. The space was cleaner than she remembered; she could see it in the order of things: dishes rinsed and drying, books stacked neatly instead of scattered.

When Will returned, he’d thrown on a flannel over his T-shirt, still unbuttoned, the fabric darkened slightly where the damp shirt clung to him. He poured two mugs without asking how she took it, then handed her one and leaned against the counter.

“So,” he said. “Why are you here, Alana?”

She sipped her coffee, grimaced. “Because I’m tired of hearing about you from other people.”

“That sounds like a Jack complaint.”

“It’s not Jack I’m thinking about.”

He frowned slightly, waiting. She met his gaze, steady, a small spark of defiance behind the gentleness.

“You’ve been distant,” she said."Jack, wants you to stay with the girl, he thinks Abigail was an accomplice to her father’s crimes. I don’t want to get in the middle of you and Jack, but if I can be helpful to you as a buffer– "

Will smiled, "I–I like you as a buffer. I also like the fact that you rattle Jack. He respects you far too much to yell at you, no matter…how much he wants to."

Will’s brow furrowed, a flicker of discomfort passing across his face."Abigail  doesn’t have anyone."

“Yes.” She set the cup down, too sharply. “I spent ten years learning how to talk to you. Ten years of being careful. But I need to tell you something, now. You can’t be her everyone, no, wait, I’m going to find another way to say it. This sounds insulting."

He looked at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, softly: “Alana, say it in the insulting way.”

Alana exhaled, "Dogs keep a promise a person can’t."

"I’m not collecting another stray." Will sighed. 

“I know,” she interrupted. “That’s the worst part.”

“You don’t have to do this alone,” she said. “Not everything has to fall on you. I could—” She stopped herself, breath unsteady. “I could be your someone. Not a buffer. Not a colleague. Just… us.”

Will’s brow furrowed, the air between them instantly charged with confusion and retreat. His voice dropped, awkward, careful. “Alana…”

But before he could finish, a quiet sound interrupted them a rhythm of footsteps in the hallway.

Hannibal stepped through the doorway,  his suit pants a deep green, and the sleeves of his cotton shirt were rolled; his presence made both of them straighten without realizing it.

“Dr. Bloom,” he said pleasantly. “I thought I heard your voice.” His tone was warm. He looked from her to Will, assessing.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he continued, smiling faintly. “Will and I were in the middle of a discussion about boundaries. A difficult but necessary topic ”.

Will glanced away, the flush in his face more irritation than embarrassment.

Alana forced a small, brittle smile. “We were just talking,”

“Indeed,” Hannibal replied, his faint smile acknowledging both the truth and the lie. “Will inspires… openness. He always has. It’s a quality that draws others in.”

Will looked up, wary. “Hannibal—”

Hannibal did not look away, dropping his eyes to the low-cut blouse Alana picked out that morning. 

Alana held his gaze, spine straight, face still.

But Hannibal went on, voice perfectly courteous. “He values you, Dr. Bloom. Deeply. But I fear you may overestimate what he’s able to return.”

Alana stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Hannibal’s gaze didn’t waver. “Will’s affections are more complex than most. They don’t fall where they are expected.”

The words hung like frost. Will glanced down, his silence giving them weight.

Alana set her cup on the counter. The sound of it striking porcelain was sharp enough to startle the air. “You have an extraordinary way of making kindness sound like a diagnosis,” she said.

Hannibal inclined his head. “Only when it serves to prevent misunderstanding.”

For a moment, they simply stared at one another.

Then she turned to Will, her voice small but steady. “Take care of yourself,” she said.

He nodded, unsure what else to offer.

She walked past Hannibal without looking back. Outside, the sunlight was too bright, the air too still.

"Was that necessary?" she heard Will ask, almost running to her car.

Chapter Text

The overhead lights hummed, just a fraction above comfort — a thin, steady pitch that vibrated in Will’s skull like pressure before thunder. The air in the Behavioral Sciences floor was dense with static, screens humming, vents hissing faintly. Someone at the back of the room kept clicking a pen. A single, repetitive sound. Click. Click. Pause. Click. It wasn’t loud, but it landed like a pulse through the noise.

Will’s fingers flexed against the edge of the table. The smell of cheap shampoo, citrusy and synthetic, drifted from somewhere to his left. Beneath it, a faint trace of cigarettes. Someone hadn’t brushed after smoking. He could smell the damp ash of it each time they spoke and a hint of mint from the gum. Every sense collected and uninvited.

He could feel it in the air pressure, as if his skin was pushed faintly inward, his body holding the breath.

Jack Crawford was standing over the table, voice even but worn. “We’re re-examining Cassie Boyle’s evidence. Everything. Forensics found an anomaly beneath the clavicle.”

Zeller passed around a printout. Katz’s perfume lingered faintly on the paper. “Residue matches preservation compounds,” she said. “Ethylene glycol, acetone, polymer resin. It’s controlled work.”

Will nodded once. His voice was distant. “Preservation,” he said. “Not violence. Reverence.”

The pen clicked again. Will’s head twitched, just slightly.

“Reverence?” Katz echoed, skeptical. “You’re saying this guy worshipped her?”

Will didn’t respond. His eyes stayed locked on the photographs. His breathing slowed. The fluorescent hum softened, folding into the clicking, the low murmur of voices. A field of noise that blurred to stillness. Hannibal noticed as Jack lifted his hand up in the air, and the team collectively held their breath. One. Two. He was inside the picture now. Three.  Inside the symmetry.

“He’s not copying Hobbs,” he said finally, voice low, monotone. “He’s restoring him.”

Jack frowned, lowering his hand, guiding the group to inhale. “Graham, you want to explain that in English?”

Will didn’t blink.

His gaze traced the wound.

Traced the shape of it, the precision of the line.

He wasn’t there anymore.

The hum became wind.

The buzz became a heartbeat.

He felt Hannibal's hands stroking his face.

Cold icy morning air.

“Graham.” Jack’s tone sharpened. “Will.”

No response.

Katz exchanged a look with Price, then with Jack. “He’s zoning,” she whispered.

“Zoning,” Price repeated, uncertain.

“Zoning,” Zeller muttered. “He’s gone. Who wants some coffee?”

No one knew what to do when Will went silent.

Then Hannibal stood.

He’d been quiet the whole time, seated near the end of the table, hands folded, eyes on Will like one might study a candle’s flicker.

He moved slowly, deliberately, the way calm walks into a room full of nerves.

“Will,” he said softly, stepping up behind him. The tone was almost musical — just enough command wrapped in gentleness. “Will”

No reaction.

He stepped closer. “You were speaking of restoration,” he said again, lowering his voice to a gentle tone.

A flicker. A breath.

Will blinked.

Hannibal was pressing a hand to the middle of his back. 

    ....“ He. He is preserving her,” he murmured. “Not like Hobbs. Hobbs destroyed what he loved. This one… wants to keep her perfect. Cassie was arranged for memory. Cassie is the memory.”

“Copycat,” Zeller said, uncertain.

“He,” Will replied. “is a believer.”

Hannibal’s gaze lingered on him. “An admirer of purity,” he said. "But Cassie is a message left in Hobbs' territory, but she was not left by him. She is a message to stop. That he is discovered. That he can no longer hide. Hobbs was warned by another killer."

Jack folded his arms. “What about the compound? Resin, glycol ”

Will turned to him, focus narrowing again. The hum faded once more, replaced by the mechanical rhythm of the pen clicking. He could see Jack’s reflection in the photograph was distorted, fragmenting around Cassie Boyle’s frozen face.

“It’s what you use,” Will said slowly, “when you want something to outlast decay.”

“Taxidermy,” Price muttered.

“Artistry,” Hannibal corrected softly. “Both glycol and resin are found in preservation—and in creation. They’re used in oil paint, in the priming of canvas. It’s the difference between embalming a body and preparing a masterpiece.”

Katz raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying our guy moonlights as a painter?”

“Many painters begin with dead things,” Hannibal said, a faint smile flickering. “Animals, fruit, lovers. The process is the same: select, pose, preserve. The only difference is medium.”

Price gave a low whistle. “That’s one way to justify it.”

“Justification,” Hannibal replied, “is an artist’s first brushstroke.”

Zeller coughed to hide a laugh. Katz didn’t. “You sound like you admire him,” she said.

“I admire anyone who bothers to finish what they start,” Hannibal said pleasantly. “So few killers are disciplined anymore.”

Jack finally spoke, “So we’re dealing with someone who thinks he’s perfecting Hobbs’ work.”

“The devil you know,” Hannibal murmured, “still believes in order. The one you fear now believes in beauty.”

Will’s jaw tightened. His eyes stayed on the photographs. “Cassie wasn’t displayed,” he said. “She was offered.”

That word hung in the air. Even the pen clicking stopped.

“To who?” Katz asked, voice small now.

Will looked up slowly, pupils wide. “To whoever was watching.”

Jack exhaled, rubbing at the corner of his eye, his thumb smearing a faint crescent of fatigue across his temple. “Let’s take five,” he muttered. “Before we all start sounding like him.”

Will left first. No one stopped him. He moved like someone walking through a dream that didn’t belong to him, silent, focused, his eyes somewhere else entirely. The door opened, shut, and he was gone.

The others followed slowly, Katz still scribbling notes, Price and Zeller whispering in uneasy tones that pretended to be jokes. Jack trailed after them, shoulders stiff, head lowered as though the air itself had grown heavier since the meeting began.

Only Hannibal remained in the room for a moment longer. Jack smiled at the comfort of his presence. Hannibal adjusted his cuffs a grey silk against grey suit, a tone-on-tone precision that caught the weak light, hiding a shadow of humor in his eyes that only Will would have sensed. 

By the time they joined the team in the corridor, his voice had already resumed its conversational charm. Dry and too-sweet coffee was served from paper cups.
“Art and theology have always been siblings,” he said lightly, as though continuing a lecture rather than a case briefing. “Both make meaning out of suffering. Both frame the unspeakable in something beautiful enough to look at.”

Katz frowned, the edge of irritation in her voice cutting through the low hum of the hallway’s fluorescent lights, that even Hannibal could feel like a slow crawl up his spine “You make murder sound like a museum exhibit.”

“Only bad art offends the curator,” Hannibal said smoothly, his expression warm but unreadable.

Price muttered, “You must be fun at gallery openings.”

“I prefer private showings,” Hannibal replied. The faintest smile curved his mouth, not reaching his eyes.

Zeller gave a short, nervous laugh, glancing at Katz as if to confirm whether it had been a joke. Katz didn’t answer; her mouth twitched, eyes narrowing with something between irritation and curiosity. The air shifted, subtly charged. Amusement softened into more deliberate teasing, the way conversation lingers a beat too long after the point’s been made. Hannibal’s gaze flicked from one face to another, unhurried, entirely aware of the tension he’d planted.

At the far end of the corridor, the lecture hall door stood ajar, and they looked inside. Beyond it, Will’s silhouette was still. He hadn’t turned on the lights. The faint silver wash from the rain outside illuminated him in partial outline. Jack followed their gazes, his own expression softening just slightly. He took a few steps toward the door, then stopped. The tension in his shoulders eased, then drew tight again. He shut the door quietly, leaving Will in the half-dark.

“He’s processing,” Jack said.

“Indeed,” Hannibal murmured gently and professionally, remembering to adjust his body language to a most empathetic presentation, the closed door awakening a stab of irritation in him. 

His eyes lingered on the closed door, then on the Picnic roast of Jack's shoulder. “Stillness can be the most eloquent form of thought.”

Hannibal’s reflection in the window was faint and double; it was evening already, and he adjusted the perfectly practiced expression for one last performance of the day. 

Jack, closing the shop up for the day with a vibrant tone. 

Chapter Text

Hannibal could feel it before he saw him. Tension moving through the air like static before lightning.
He had stayed behind, waiting in the elevator. The hum of the motor filled the small, metal box, that strange sanctuary humming between floors—the only place in the Bureau where eyes were not allowed to follow. The lights above cast a low, surgical glow, painting the edges of his face in sterile gold and worry-shadowed gray. He stood motionless, hands folded neatly before him, every breath measured.

When the doors opened with a whisper, Will was already there.
He didn’t speak.
He simply stepped inside and pressed the button again, letting the doors seal them in once more. The soft click of isolation closing around them. Three minutes and forty-five seconds of privacy.

Will’s footsteps were clipped, deliberate, echoing against the brushed steel.
Rain had soaked through his coat, leaving dark crescents where his shoes touched the floor. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead; his eyes were darker for it, deep and hollow like the waterlogged earth outside.
When he finally looked up, the stillness in him was worse than fury.

Hannibal exhaled once, a quiet surrender.

“You told me,” Will said, voice low, restrained, dangerous in its calm, “that curiosity was a virtue.”

Hannibal turned his head slightly, studying him. His mouth went dry.

“It is,” he said softly, and it sounded too much like confession. His gaze lingered on the hard, trembling line of Will’s mouth.

“Abigail is in a coma,” Will continued, “because you wanted to play god in a field full of killers.”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t move, but something inside him did, a tremor under the skin, a fracture disguised as composure. He folded his hands behind his back to hide them.
“I engaged them,” he said, voice level, “to understand their design. Understanding is not playing god.”

Two minutes, twenty-nine seconds left.

Will’s laugh was short, cold, cruel, only because it hurt. “You don’t understand people, Hannibal. You dissect them. And when you’re done, you mount what’s left and call it insight.”

Hannibal’s eyes lowered. Shame flickered briefly. The hum of the lights thickened, pressing behind their ribs, a pulse neither could escape.

When Hannibal stepped closer, it wasn’t an  apology, not exactly. His voice gentled.“Anger,” he said, “is an honest response to betrayal. You are right to feel it.”

Will looked up, exhaustion softening the edges of his rage. “Then stop giving me reasons to.”

Hannibal inclined his head, the motion careful, reverent. “A promise,” he said quietly.

The elevator’s descent slowed.

Will’s next words landed like a blade laid bare. “Was it for me?”

Thirty seconds left.

A pause. 

“Who else?” Hannibal said at last.  And smiled, because the truth had already devoured them both.

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t stopped.
It pressed against the windows like static, filling the house with the illusion of calm.
Hannibal had lit the fire. It allowed him to pretend warmth was choice, not need. His tie was undone, sleeves rolled.

Will sat on the couch, half turned toward the flames, half away from him. His hair was still damp. A half-empty glass of red wine hung from his hand.

“You talk about curiosity,” Will said finally, voice tight. “But you just wanted to see how far you could go before something broke. You wanted to see if I would break.”

Hannibal glanced toward him. “ You are angry.”

“I’m furious.” He said it flatly, without volume, which made it worse.

“I’ve been profiling killers for half my life,” Will continued. “I see what drives them — what they crave, what they lie to themselves about. But you—” He stopped himself, took a shallow breath. “You call it art. You call it understanding. But it’s ego, Hannibal. That’s all it ever was.”

Hannibal turned, hands behind his back, every inch of him composed except for the tremor that started in his jaw and stopped only when he tightened it.
“I did not seek ego. I sought communion.”

“With them?” Will snapped. “With Hobbs? With the ones that rushed to kill because you whispered something clever in their ear?”

The sound of rain thickened, a rhythm against glass. Hannibal took a step forward, slower than breath. “You think I inspired them?”

Hannibal’s silence lasted too long. When he spoke again, his voice was too soft. “I was lonely.”

Will let out a bitter laugh. “You had me.”

“That,” Hannibal said, “came later.”

The words landed between them like something dropped and left to bleed.

Will set his glass down too hard; the wine rippled. “And before me? You played with lives because you were bored?”

“I think you fed them,” Will said. “And for what? So you could have something to talk to about death?”

Hannibal didn’t answer. His silence wasn’t a denial.

Will’s voice rose, the anger finally finding shape. “You think they’re your disciples, don’t you? These men are carving and cutting and stringing up people like trophies. You think they understand you.”

“They imitate,” Hannibal said softly. “Understanding is rarer.”

Will gave a short, sharp laugh that had no humor in it. “You’re too autistic to even see it. You can’t feel what they feel. You can’t smell it. These idiots worship you, Hannibal. Half of them don’t even know it’s you, but they copy your little rituals like they’re holy. The FBI has entire divisions monitoring fan sites—teenagers writing elegies for murderers, people collecting crime scene photos like postcards. You’ve made a religion out of rot.”

The words hit hard, precise. “And you like it.”

Hannibal’s gaze didn’t flinch, but the faintest shift betrayed him — that minute tightening at the corner of his mouth, pride and pain tangled beyond separation.

“I do not seek worship,” he said finally, too quiet. “But I do not refuse recognition.”

Will stepped closer, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Of course not. You’re the best. The most resourceful. The most cruel. And a fucking cannibal on top of it. Congratulations, Hannibal — you win the worst kind of fame.”

The firelight caught in his eyes — something wild and sick and brilliant all at once. “And for what? For me? For Abigail? For the thrill of being seen?”

Hannibal’s silence lasted too long. The air between them changed, dense, unbreathable.

When he spoke again, his voice was small, almost human. “I was lonely.”

Will let out a low, bitter laugh. “You had me.” acknowledging his own past.

Will was not laughing now “You had me.”

The emphasis landed like a cut not loud, not cruel, just precise enough to open something Hannibal had spent decades suturing closed. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It rang.

Hannibal’s breath caught. He took a step forward, too quickly, then stopped himself.

“Will…” His voice broke its practiced cadence, softer, unguarded. “No. You are mistaken. I have you still.”

Will faced him, eyes cold, wounded. Something inside Hannibal recoiled not from anger, but from terror, old and unreasoning. His mind filled with a dozen winter nights in silence: a sister’s laughter swallowed by the wind, the sound of wolves circling hunger. Loneliness had always been the original predator.

He swallowed hard. “I love you,” he said, almost too fast, the words unpolished, uncalculated. “I am sorry.”

Will blinked, stunned not at the words, but at the tremor behind them.

Hannibal’s hands flexed once at his sides, shaking. “You cannot imagine what solitude does to me. What I become when I am left behind.”

Will’s anger hesitated, for the first time in his life. 

“What, exactly, do you become?”

The fire cracked, and Hannibal’s gaze fell to it; his reflection shimmered, half-shadow, half-flame. “Hungry,” he said simply. “A need to consume what would abandon me. To preserve it. To keep it inside, where it cannot leave.”

Will stared at him, his expression unreadable, voice low. “That’s not love.”

“I know.” Hannibal looked up, eyes glassy, voice raw and beautiful in its wreckage. “But it’s the closest I’ve ever come.”

He took a slow breath. “I did not mean to hurt her. Or you. Please don`t leave me. I will make it up, I promise. Just dont leave me like Misha did.”

Will said nothing. He only sat there, his own breathing uneven, the anger still there but muted by the shock of what he was seeing.

Hannibal lowered himself to the floor without seeming to decide it. The movement was graceless, his knees touching the rug, his hands hovering in the space between pleading and restraint until he put his hands on the floor. The firelight turned his face into something almost unfamiliar, replacing panic by naked terror.

“Please,” he said again, the word barely there. “I am not able to let you go. Please, Will. Don’t make me.”

Will’s breath shuddered out of him. The sound of rain filled the silence, heavy and rhythmic against the windows.

“Misha,” Will said quietly. “Who’s Misha?”

Hannibal didn’t answer at first.

When he did speak, the voice was smaller than Will had ever heard from him.

“My sister,” he said. “She died when we were children. I was meant to protect her. I failed. I thought… if I could hold what I love close enough, keep it inside me, it could never leave again.”

The words came out disjointed, half confession, half defense.

Will took a slow step forward, still wary. “You can’t keep people that way, Hannibal.”

“I know,” Hannibal said. “But you asked what I become when I’m alone. This is it.”

The fire popped; shadows wavered over the walls.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Hannibal stayed on his knees, the posture neither proud nor submissive, only stripped of the elegance he hid behind.

“You don’t get to decide who stays,” Will said at last.

Hannibal’s eyes fluttered shut, a faint tremor running through him. “I know.”

“That decision is mine.”

Will reached out, fingers brushing through Hannibal’s hair, slow and careful, the touch almost reverent. The salt-and-pepper strands caught the firelight like silver thread. He rested his hand on the back of Hannibal’s head, steadying him.

Hannibal leaned into it without hesitation — a quiet, instinctive submission. His breath hitched once, then slowed, matching Will’s rhythm.

“I’m staying,” Will said. The words were simple, but they broke something open in the air — the tension, the fear, the unspoken ache of two men who’d been circling the same wound for too long.

Hannibal’s shoulders sagged, a sound escaping him that wasn’t quite relief, wasn’t quite pain. His hands unclenched against the rug.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

End of Arc 1 "“folie à deux.”"

Chapter Text

Steam drifted through the open bathroom door as Hannibal stepped out, drying his hair with slow, practiced movements. His robe hung loose around him, damp at the collar. Will was already on the bed, in a T-shirt and boxers, one arm behind his head, a book open but unread. The lamplight made everything look warmer than it was. Outside, the rain pressed against the windows — the first storm of the season coming with a vengeance.

Hannibal lay down beside him, the mattress dipping just slightly. For a moment, neither spoke.

“I used to think quiet was something I had to earn,” Hannibal said finally, voice low. “That peace only arrived after blood stopped moving.”

Will turned a page without reading it. “You don’t have to earn it here.”

A pause. Then, softer: “You still think about them?”

“I do,” Hannibal admitted. “Not as trophies. More like... old friends. People who revealed themselves completely. In the end, there’s an honesty in that I never found anywhere else.”

Will’s eyes met his. “You’re talking like they wanted it.”

“No,” Hannibal said, shaking his head. “They never did. But in the moment before,  I think I saw who they were. And they saw me. It wasn’t power. Perhaps... recognition.”

Will sighed. “Recognition’s overrated. The Bureau still doesn’t see you, not really. But they won’t, and that shouldn’t bother you. You’ve already been seen.”

Hannibal studied him, not analyzing, just looking. “By you.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “By me. And it’s enough.”

For a while, all they could hear was the rain against the glass. Hannibal reached out, tracing a line over Will’s wrist,  a gesture that felt like both apology and thanks.

“I don’t need the world to look anymore,” Hannibal said quietly. “Only you.”

Will let his eyes close. “Then stop looking back at it.”

“You never talk about your life either,” Hannibal said. He cracked his neck softly. “You ask questions but give very few answers.”

Will’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “There’s not much to tell.”

“I doubt that,” Hannibal said, turning slightly.

“I grew up in a place where everyone worked with their hands. My father fixed cars. I fixed whatever I could reach. Nobody talked about feelings. You learned to keep your head down and do the job. That’s where I learned to look people in the eye...when I had to.”

Hannibal watched him quietly.

“I remember the pattern of things,” Will continued. “The church shadow crossing the road every afternoon, the click of the radio when the news came on, the sound of wrenches dropping on concrete. The system made sense. People didn’t. They said one thing, did another, expected me to just... absorb it. I couldn’t. I learned to imitate.”

Hannibal nodded slowly. “And you learned it very well.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “Well enough to pass for normal when I need to. But I can’t lie the way you can. You lie like it’s art.”

“It’s survival,” Hannibal said simply.

“That’s what I used to think,” Will replied. “But now it feels like a habit. Like the killing. Like needing people to see you.”

He said it as a simple observation. Hannibal didn’t flinch.

“You think I need to be seen,” Hannibal said.

“I know you do. ” Will gave a half smile. “I used to need that too. Now I just want to be left alone. Or close to someone who doesn’t make me explain myself.”

Hannibal reached over, resting a hand on Will’s knee. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Will looked at him, finally. “I know. That’s what makes it worse.”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Worse?”

“Because I can’t hide here,” Will said. “You don’t fill in the blanks for me. You wait.”

“I wait,” Hannibal echoed.

Will breathed out slowly. The house was alive with small sounds, the hum of the light, the ticking clock from the kitchen, rain threading through the gutter.

“When I was fourteen,” Will said after a while, “a car went off the old bridge outside town. Everyone ran to see. I watched the men, calm, methodical, like they knew what to do with the chaos. I wanted that. I thought if I could understand what people did at their worst, I’d finally understand them the rest of the time.”

“And did you?”

“No,” Will said. “But I learned to see the structure underneath the mess. I can’t unsee it now.”

Hannibal leaned back against the headboard. “That’s why you saw me before the others did.”

Will nodded. “It wasn’t intuition or empathy. Just tuned-in pattern recognition. You edit spaces around you.”

Hannibal smiled faintly. “And yet you stayed.”

Will met his gaze. “Yes.”

“You should have run.”

“You would’ve caught me.” Will laughed softly. “Fear is wasted energy. I spent my whole life trying to filter out that noise.”

The light flickered once as the storm rolled closer. Neither moved.

“You don’t need the world to see you,” Will said finally. “You just need to stop performing for ghosts.”

Hannibal’s voice was barely audible. “And you?”

“I stopped pretending I was fixable,” Will said.

Hannibal looked at him for a long moment. “Tell me about your mother.”

Will let out a sharp laugh. “That’s some lazy psychoanalysis.”

Hannibal smiled faintly. “Humor deflection — noted.”

“Do you hate women, Will?” he asked quietly.

Will blinked, taken off guard. “What?”

“Abigail. Alana. They both share the flavor. " Hannibal smiled. " Was your mother a brunette?"

"You circle them." Hannibal's smile widened.

Will’s jaw tightened. “That’s not hate.”

“No,” Hannibal said softly. “But they are your type, aren’t they? Smart, frightened, already half lost."

Will turned his face away, staring at the ceiling. “You always go straight for the nerve.”

“It’s where truth lives,” Hannibal said.

Then Hannibal leaned closer, his voice dropping. “I wonder, what do you feel when you touch them? When do you remember her?” His hand slid into Will's boxes, gripping his cock hard enough for the man to jump. 

Will’s throat worked. “Like glass,” he said finally. “Like trying to hold something that cuts even when you’re gentle. Women feel like crushed glass to me, too sharp but familiar.”He spread his legs, Hannibal's hand gripping his dick harder. Hard enough to send electricity of raw pain down to his toes.

Hannibal didn’t answer. He only brushed a stray curl from Will’s forehead, his fingers pausing there. His grip got harder, squeeing Will's soft ballsack flat on the palm of his hand.

“You mistake pain for clarity,” Hannibal murmured.

Will tilted his head back, eyes closed shut, voice trembling, “And you mistake control for love.”

Hannibal smiled, small and tired. “Touché.”

Chapter Text

The Meyerhoff Symphony Hall was larger than Will expected. The air carried a faint chill, and the soft hum of hundreds of low conversations made Will’s skin prickle. He could smell the polish on the floor, the perfume from the crowd, the paper programs folded and refolded between hands. Too many things to track at once.

He tugged at his cuffs again. The suit felt too tight at the shoulders, too smooth under his fingers. He kept adjusting the blue tie like it was trying to strangle him. Hannibal had chosen the suit himself: deep navy, subtle pattern in the weave, crisp white shirt. It fit too well to be borrowed. He also dressed him carefully and slowly. 

Hannibal leaned close as they took their seats, voice pitched low so only Will could hear. “You look good,” he said. “Don’t fidget. Just breathe.”

Will’s hand twitched against his thigh. “Too many sounds. Too many people.”

“It will settle,” Hannibal murmured. “When the music begins, the air itself will align.”

Will gave a short huff. 

“Breath,” Hannibal said, reaching out and grasping his hand with a painful iron-hard grip. “No one here is looking at you the way you think they are.”

Will glanced around. The crowd was polished, quiet. The kind of people who had season tickets, who nodded at Hannibal like they already knew him. He noticed the curious looks and the way they softened when Hannibal smiled back. Hannibal settled in beside him, straightening his own jacket. His tie was deep wine red, his pocket square crisp and deliberate. He looked proud to be there, proud to have Will beside him. Everything gleamed, brass fixtures, black shoes, instruments being tuned. 

The lights dimmed. Hannibal leaned in a little closer. “This place always smells the same,” he murmured. “Wood polish, metal strings, and the faintest trace of old paper. They built it in the late seventies — the maple keeps the acoustics clean.”

Will blinked, his mind catching on the detail. “You’ve noticed that?”

“Every time,” Hannibal said. “The wood breathes differently depending on the humidity. You can hear it in the strings. The violinists have bruises on their necks. Right where the chin rests presses. And another one on their collarbones. Years of practice.”

Will’s shoulders eased, a bit of focus returning to his eyes. “That sounds painful.” 

“It’s devotion,” Hannibal said softly. “It becomes part of them.”

The orchestra tuned; the sound filled the room in a slow wave. Will’s heartbeat picked up on too many sounds blending together. He focused on Hannibal’s voice again, the steady rhythm of it.

“Tonight’s Sibelius,” Hannibal said. “He wrote this piece for a friend, a violinist who couldn’t quite master it. It’s difficult, unruly. You’ll hear it in the first few bars like the fight between precision and emotion.”

“Sounds like you picked it on purpose,” Will said, managing a half smile.

“Maybe,” Hannibal replied, smiling back.

The conductor walked out. The music started as a whisper then one clear note, drawn slow, almost hesitant. Then more joined, building, layering into something wide and cold and clear.

Will sat back. The sound filled every corner of the room, too much at first, but soon it settled into a rhythm he could follow. His mind began to map it. The way the notes moved through space, how the violins spoke to the brass, how each part folded into the next. It was order. He breathed. 

Hannibal noticed. “See?” he murmured. “Structure helps.”

Will exhaled. “You’re smug when you’re right.”

“I prefer it, when you’re comfortable,” Hannibal said simply.

That stopped Will for a moment; the plain sincerity of it felt heavy.

The second movement began, softer, almost tender. The music was steady and sad and somehow kind. Will felt his chest unclench, the sharp edges of awareness dulling into calm.

When the applause came, it felt like waking from a deep sleep.

Hannibal turned his head toward him, voice low. “You listened beautifully.”

Will gave him a dry look. “I just sat still.”

“That’s all it takes sometimes,” Hannibal said. Then, after a moment, “I’m glad you came with me.”

Will’s reply was quiet, almost embarrassed. “So am I.”

They stayed seated through the intermission, neither speaking much. Around them, people murmured softly, programs rustling. Hannibal let go of his hand, to brush invisible lint from his sleeve. The gesture was small, almost absentminded.

Will leaned back in his chair.And when the next piece began, he didn’t notice the tie at all.

The concert hall lights rose slowly, and the audience remained seated for a moment, a polite hesitation that came at the end of any shared experience. Then, in waves, people began standing, stretching, the low rustle of expensive fabric replacing applause.

Will stayed seated. He didn’t like the crowd pressing all at once toward the exits, the rising voices, the scrape of chair legs. He watched people gather their programs and adjust their jewelry.

“Let’s give them a minute,” Hannibal said quietly beside him. “No sense standing in the crush.”

Will nodded, grateful for the excuse. Hannibal sat back, perfectly composed, his expression serene. Around them, the rows emptied gradually, the smell of perfume and wool lifting as people drifted toward the lobby.

When they finally stood, the hall had thinned enough to move comfortably. The air outside the auditorium was warmer, carrying the scent of champagne, pastries, and the faint metallic tang of the catering trays. A small reception had gathered, few patrons lingering to talk, to eat, to be seen.

Hannibal steered Will toward a side table. “They always serve a small supper after a gala performance,” he said. “If we don’t eat now, you’ll be hungry before we reach home.”

“I’m not really hungry,” Will said.

“I made dinner,” Hannibal said with a small smile. “But that’s for later. This is to keep you from being miserable in the car.”

The servers moved efficiently, filling slender glasses of champagne, replacing empty trays with practiced hands. Will followed Hannibal’s lead, taking a glass because it seemed expected. The bubbles hissed gently against his lip.

Three kinds of canapés were arranged in neat geometric rows: paper thin rye squares topped with smoked trout and dill; small toasted rounds with fig and prosciutto; and delicate pastries filled with a cream that tasted faintly of truffle. Next to them, a small tray of glossy chocolate cakes, layered, dusted with gold leaf.

Will picked one of the toasts, more for something to do with his hands than from appetite. Hannibal took a little of everything, his movements precise but unhurried, the kind of elegance that drew no attention because it was so natural.

A pair of older patrons, a woman in emerald silk and a man with an understated gold watch, greeted Hannibal warmly. “Dr. Lecter,” the woman said. “I didn’t see you last month.”

“I was away,” Hannibal said easily, smiling. “The performance was exquisite tonight.”

“Indeed,” the man agreed. His eyes flicked to Will, then back to Hannibal, a brief, polite acknowledgment. “And this must be your guest.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said simply. “Will Graham.”

“Lovely to meet you,” the woman said, her tone gentle. She did not press, did not linger on introductions. The conversation turned lightly — about the soloist, the acoustics, the conductor’s tempo. Will listened, contributing only a few quiet observations.

The people around them were practiced at self-contained dignity. There was no curiosity about who Will was or what his presence meant. This was Hannibal’s world.

When another acquaintance called his name — “Hannibal! You missed the Prokofiev last season!” — he turned with a small smile, answering easily about being occupied. Will actually blushed, as he remembered what they did last season and the season before that. But Hannibal kept a hand lightly at Will’s shoulder, a silent tether. So, besides forest hunting after young girls, this man found the stamina to fuck his brains out and to maintain an opera schedule.    

Will realized that this was what comfort looked like for Hannibal, a connection without intrusion.

After a while, Hannibal excused himself to retrieve their coats. Will stood near the tall glass doors, the champagne still cold in his hand, listening to the murmur of voices and the faint hum of traffic beyond the glass. The polished marble floor reflected the light in soft amber tones. He thought about the way the violin’s sound had filled the air like breath; it felt, somehow, like the conversation.

Hannibal returned, coats draped neatly over one arm. He handed Will his without a word, helped him into it with the same unhurried care he gave to everything. The wool smelled faintly of rain and cedar from Hannibal’s wardrobe.

They stepped out into the cool night air. The rain had stopped, but the street still gleamed under the lamps, catching the reflections of passing cars.

“Saturday night in Baltimore,” Hannibal said, slipping on his gloves. “Everyone is either rushing home or lingering where the music has been.”

Will smirked. “And those in there?”

“The ones we just left?” Hannibal’s tone warmed with amusement. “Old romantics, every one of them. They come for the illusion of youth, the wine, and the comfort of being moved without consequence.”

Will’s mouth curved. “You say that like you’re not one of them.”

“Oh, I am,” Hannibal said lightly. “Except I prefer being moved with consequence.”

Will huffed a laugh, shaking his head as they walked toward the car. “That sounds about right.”

Hannibal looked pleased. “It was a good evening,” he said. “You were good company.”

“Even though I nearly strangled myself with the tie?”

“Especially because of that,” Hannibal replied, and his smile deepened. 

They reached the car, water beading on the dark paint. Hannibal opened the door for him, and Will hesitated before getting in.

When Hannibal came around to the driver’s side, the faint scent of rain and cedar followed him into the car. He started the engine, but didn’t shift into gear right away. The air between them was warm, dim, thick with everything unspoken.

Will sat angled toward the window, watching a bead of water crawl down the glass. “You said earlier that we were friends,” he said. His tone was quiet, deliberate. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

He turned slightly toward Will, the leather of his glove brushing against the seam of the seat.
“And what conclusion have you reached?” he asked, voice low enough that it almost disappeared into the space between them.

Will kept his gaze on the window, watching the streaks of light sliding across the glass.
“What we have…” He hesitated, breath catching. 

Hannibal watched him in profile. The streetlight outside shifted as a car passed, glancing across Will’s face before falling into shadow again. His eyes caught the next flare of light — warm, crimson red-gold.

The air felt smaller then, quieter. Hannibal moved a fraction closer, his voice soft.“You don’t need to explain it,” he said.

Will finally turned to meet his eyes. Neither of them spoke. The distance between them folded away. Hannibal reached up, his fingers brushing Will’s jaw, the touch slow, deliberate, asking rather than taking. Will didn’t pull back. His breathing steadied, the edges of tension giving way to something quieter.

Hannibal’s forehead came to rest lightly against his temple. “You are very brave,” he said, the words nearly a whisper.

Will let out a slow breath. “Or foolish.”

“Sometimes they’re the same thing,” Hannibal said.

Outside, the rain thickened, washing the reflections from the glass. Inside the car, everything else fell away. 

Chapter Text

The drive back was mostly silent. The city thinned out, trading concrete for the dark hush of trees slick with rain. By the time they reached Hannibal’s house, the wind had turned cool and clean, the kind of air that followed a storm. Inside, the house was warm, full of the faint scent of citrus oil and roasted herbs. The lights were low — not dimmed for effect, just soft, lived-in. Hannibal slipped off his gloves and jacket, moving with his usual quiet precision.

“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the table. “I’ll reheat dinner.”

Will dropped his coat over the back of a chair and watched as Hannibal unwrapped a covered dish from the oven. Steam rose, carrying the smell of fennel and garlic and something sweet beneath it. A copper pot waited on the stove, glistening with a thin sauce that caught the light like varnish.

“What are we eating?” Will asked.

“Duck,” Hannibal said. “Roasted with honey and orange. There’s celeriac purée, and a salad of endive and blood orange. You’ll like it; it balances the richness.”

Will leaned back in the chair. “You could’ve just said ‘duck.’”

“I could’ve,” Hannibal said, faintly smiling. “But that would sound like I don’t care. And I do.”

Will tilted his head. Hannibal looked down at the cutting board, knife paused above it. “Cooking for you feels... easy. It’s just making sure you eat.”

Will nodded, quiet for a moment. “You do that a lot.”

“What?”

“Take care of people. Even the ones you hurt.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightened, but his tone stayed soft. "I did hurt you, didn`t I?"

"Many times," Will replied calmly. 

Hannibal looked at him then, not defensive, not searching. “You don’t flinch when I admit these things.”

“Why would I?” Will said. “You’re not lying.”

“No,” Hannibal said. “Not to you.”

He finished plating the food and set one dish in front of Will. The glaze shone darkly under the lamp. Hannibal sat opposite him, posture less rigid than usual, the faintest uncertainty showing at the corners of his mouth.

Will picked up his fork. “Smells good.”

"Would you prefer compensation for times you were hurt? "Hannibal asked, pouring the wine. 

"I am an adult man with a loaded gun, not a common whore-" Will chuckles, tasting the duck. 

“‘Common’ is hardly the word I’d use,” Hannibal said, pouring a little more wine into Will’s glass. The gesture was careful, almost reverent. “And I wasn’t offering payment. I was offering...”

Will smirked, cutting another piece of duck. “Penance?”

Hannibal’s eyes lifted. “Do you think me Catholic?”

“I think you’re sentimental,” Will said. “And you disguise it as philosophy.”

That earned a soft laugh, rare and quiet. “Then tell me, how would you balance it?”

Will shrugged. “You could start by not trying to turn every apology into an aesthetic exercise.”

Hannibal leaned back slightly, still smiling. “And you could stop pretending that forgiveness doesn’t interest you.”

“I’m not pretending,” Will said, tone dry. “I just haven’t decided if you’ve earned it.”

“Perhaps it isn’t something to earn,” Hannibal murmured. “Perhaps it’s something given… like appetite.”

Will set down his fork, meeting his gaze. “You always did mix hunger with affection.”

Hannibal didn’t deny it. “I told you once,” he said softly, “that what I take, I cherish. It’s no different with you.”

Will tilted his head. “You’re calling me a meal now?”

“A memory,” Hannibal corrected. “And a present indulgence.”

Will smiled, small, tired, but sincere. “You’re getting better at this. Talking without hiding behind ten layers of metaphor.”

“Progress, then,” Hannibal said.

“Don’t give me credit,” Will replied. “You were halfway human before I got here.”

Hannibal’s laughter came quietly, the kind that lived more in his breath than his voice. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Will said. “You wouldn’t have tried so hard to control me, otherwise. You basically snatched and kidnapped me in your layer.”

Hannibal’s gaze softened, the memory flickering across it, lust and recognition. “We were both… unprepared for honesty.”

Will chewed thoughtfully.

Hannibal nodded once, quietly. “And do you trust me now?”

Will’s answer was slow, deliberate. “Enough to sit here. Enough to eat your cooking.”

“That’s almost affection,” Hannibal said, voice low, teasing.

“It’s more than almost,” Will replied, holding his gaze. “Don’t get greedy.”

Chapter Text

Will gently pushed on Hannibal's head, as the man slid down lower, sucking on his dick. They did not make it out of bed that morning; they didn´t even pretend anymore, that hint of face fucking a cannibal did not turn him on. Not that he wasn`t one himself, at this point. Half of the dishes Hannibal made contained ingredients from the freezer. 

His mouth was softer than his knives, just a wet tongue moving with enthusiasm Will never met before. He was not just sucking, but suckling. Not just bobbing head, but overwhelming him with sounds and groans, gliding with enough saliva to cover his chin and drip on the bedsheets below them. He wasn't careful as women are; he was gripping his ballsack, twisting it, adding an exciting flash of tightness and pain to the already electric wall of pleasure. He wasn't ashamed or aware of time, dissolving in the mechanics of it all. Nothing turned Will off more than a hint of confusion and a sprinkle of disgust some women felt, looking at his body, especially the virgin ones, awaiting instructions.

Hannibal was serious and rock hard, grinding his hips into their bed with a deep grunting sound muffled by the blowjob. Hannibal was bigger than he appeared in his suits, with wide collarbones and an exciting trail of hair on his chest. He was somehow too skinny, like a wolf in early spring, with the ribs showing, under his chest. Oh, Will enjoyed a chest of a man, the firmness to squeeze and nipples, too sensitive to believe. Sometimes feeling like he floats on affection, approaching Hannibal in his office from behind, unbuttoning just a few buttons just to stroke the soft hair on his chest in the wrong direction to annoy and to call him to round up for the day. Other times, he was crying into that chest, fucked raw and painfully just to cum as his tender asshole is licked and stroked, learning to use his prostate instead of just sitting on it, as Hannibal whispered, training him to cum. 

He was long and lean muscle, hot to touch, smell of him coated everything in this house. Not the shampoo or the cologne. The raw human smell. Left on his jackets and his coat. His car. Left in his couch. Left on Will for a few hours, they were apart.  

Will throbbed, the gland of his dick sucked rhythmically. And then their eyes met. And Will came, overwhelmed by unapologetic burning worship. 

Chapter Text

The house smelled like coffee, warm metal, and the faint mineral scent of wet earth. Will had pulled on one of Hannibal’s shirts, sleeves rolled once, collar slightly skewed. He was standing at the counter, chopping mushrooms, the skillet hissed when he added them, a soft rush of steam rising as the butter browned. Hannibal appeared in the doorway,  hair still damp from the shower. 

“You’ve invaded my kitchen,” Hannibal said mildly.

“Temporarily occupied,” Will replied. “You were wasting the ingredients.”

“I was saving them,” Hannibal countered. “There’s a difference between restraint and neglect.”

“You say that about people, too,” Will said, turning back to the stove.

Hannibal came closer, peering into the pan. “An omelet?”

“Frittata,” Will corrected. “Leftover beef, mushrooms, whatever cheese you had hidden behind your moral superiority.”

Hannibal leaned beside him, arms folded. “You’re using too much butter.”

“I’m in your house,” Will said. “The butter’s implied.”

Hannibal laughed quietly, moving to the counter to pour himself coffee.

“You’ve started without me,” he said, voice still rough from the morning.

“You were taking too long,” Will replied, reaching for the salt. “Figured you’d appreciate initiative.”

“I appreciate consultation,” Hannibal said, moving closer. “You’re using the good butter.”

“You own four kinds,” Will said. “I picked the one that didn’t look like it belonged in a museum.”

“That’s cultured French butter,” Hannibal said mildly.

“It’s breakfast,” Will said.

Hannibal smiled faintly and reached past him for the pan handle. “May I?”

Will stepped aside, just enough. Hannibal reached for a plate and flipped the eggs with a practiced motion, the soft scrape of the spatula punctuating the quiet.

“Please,” Hannibal said, “and a touch of feta.”

Will gave him a look. “You just want to correct me.”

“I want to help you succeed,” Hannibal said smoothly. He reached for a loaf of bread, slicing it thin with unhurried precision. The butter still foamed at the edges of the pan, and he laid the pieces in, letting them brown until the kitchen filled with that faint, nutty scent.

The eggs rested on a wooden board as the toast sizzled. Hannibal’s movements were clean, measured; Will’s were looser, instinctive. Their elbows brushed when Will opened the packet of cheese. He crumbled the feta with his fingers, the salt of it clinging to his skin. Hannibal leaned in slightly, inspecting the plate.

“It’s edible,” Will said dryly.

Hannibal’s mouth curved as he kissed Will’s cheek, soft and quick, unceremonious. “Better than edible.”

Will smiled, faintly. “Careful. That almost sounded like praise.”

“It was,” Hannibal said. “I just disguised it.”

Will huffed a laugh, setting the knife down. “You’re insufferable before noon.”

“I could say the same,” Hannibal said, sliding a plate toward him. “You’ve been restless all morning.”

Will glanced over, shoulders tightening slightly. “Abigail.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said softly.

Hannibal considered this, slicing through a piece of toast. “They’re not hunting anymore,” he said. “They’re organizing. Or at least imitating the form of it.”

“Which means they’re looking for a leader,” Will said.

Hannibal’s mouth twitched. “You think I’d make a good cult leader?”

“Yes,” Will said without hesitation. “You just prefer the privacy.”

Hannibal gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “I was never very good at group projects,” he said lightly. “Too much compromise, not enough vision.”

Will smirked. “You? Not a team player? I’m shocked.”

“I admire craftsmanship in others,” Hannibal said, “but collaboration dulls the edge. And besides…” He met Will’s eyes. “I find individuals far more compelling than crowds.”

Will’s expression softened. “You mean me.”

“I mean us,” Hannibal said quietly.“We function as a pair. Introduce too many variables, and it collapses.”

Will looked away, thoughtful. “And Abigail?”

“She complicates the equation,” Hannibal admitted. “But not irreparably.”

“You didn’t seem thrilled about her being here last time,” Will said.

“I wasn’t,” Hannibal said honestly. “ I can’t deny that it was… instructive. Watching you care for her.”

Will tilted his head. “You sound almost jealous.”

“Jealous, yes,” Hannibal said, without hesitation. “ You were gentler. Kind. It made you more… charming. It was disarming.”

Will gave a small, tired smile. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not exactly father material.”

“Neither am I,” Hannibal said, then paused, as if reevaluating his own words. “But she’s ours, in a way, our responsibility. Until she wakes.”

Will looked up, quiet. “And if she doesn’t?”

Hannibal’s gaze held his.

“Then she becomes our ghost. And we owe her protection all the same.”

Will studied him for a moment. “You surprise me sometimes.”

Hannibal shrugged lightly. “I find myself… unwilling to let her vanish. I wish you were trying to charm me, by association.”

Will snorted. “You’re a little harder to charm.”

“True,” Hannibal said. “But the constant challenge has its appeal.”

“Glad I keep you entertained.”

“Entertained,” Hannibal repeated. “Provoked. Engaged. Matched.” Their fingers brushing briefly.

Chapter Text

The light in Abigail’s long-term care hospital room was the color of weak tea. Plastic flowers by the window, a metal frame bed, and one rickety chair. A monitor clicked out its steady pulse.

Hannibal stood at the foot of the bed, gloved hands folded. His expression was unreadable, the faint crease between his brows the only sign of thought.
Will sat by the window, restless, rubbing at the seam of his jeans.

“She’s stable,” Will said. “That’s what matters.”

“Stable,” Hannibal repeated quietly. “Like water in a cracked glass.”

Will frowned. “It’s clean. She’s getting care.”

Hannibal’s eyes moved across the chipped paint, the curtain that didn’t quite close. “This is maintenance, not care.”

“Looks the same to me,” Will said.

“Precisely,” Hannibal said.

“She deserves quiet, sunlight, linen that hasn’t been bleached to transparency.”

“Not everyone gets your standard of luxury, Doctor.”

Hannibal’s mouth curved faintly. “That is why they wither.”

Hannibal left Will in the room and walked the corridor with his usual deliberate grace. The nurses’ station smelled of coffee and disinfectant.

“I’d like to transfer Miss Hobbs to private care,” he said, setting a business card on the counter.

The first nurse, young and polite, blinked. “Oh sir, the patient’s an orphan under state coverage. Transfers like that need court permission. There are forms—”

“I will pay the expenses,” Hannibal said, smooth and final. “All of them.”

The nurse looked stricken. “It isn’t about the money, Doctor Lecter. It’s the legal guardianship.”

A voice came from behind them.
“Perhaps I can help.”

Another nurse stepped forward, taller and pale, with an oddly careful calm. His name tag read Francis D.

He smiled kindly at the first nurse. “I work with administration. Why don’t you let me handle this? A quick discussion with our legal department, and Doctor Lecter will have what he needs.”

Hannibal tilted his head, smiling. He did not reveal his name to the stranger. 

Relieved, the first nurse nodded, already gathering papers. “Of course. Thank you, Francis.”

Hannibal’s gaze flicked to the man. The stillness behind that polite smile was too deliberate.

“Follow me,” Francis said. “We can talk somewhere quieter.”

The room they entered had no patients, only unused equipment stacked against the wall. Francis closed the door gently, then turned, expression suddenly alight with something close to devotion.

“I knew it was you,” he said softly. “No one else could have done what you’ve done. To create with such honesty.”

Hannibal’s face remained still. “And who, precisely, do you think I am?”

“Il Mostro,” Francis breathed. “Florence—Primavera, wasn’t it? Rinaldo Pazzi never understood what he was chasing. But we did. We’ve been watching you ever since you came to Baltimore.”

“‘We’?” Hannibal asked.

Francis’s smile widened. “Others like me. Like you. The real ones. We came here because you stopped hiding. You used your name. No masks, no pseudonyms. It is an inspiration. ”

Hannibal tilted his head. “And what is it you want?”

“For you to lead us,” Francis said. “To show us what art can be. To be the Ripper.”

“I prefer solitude,” Hannibal said quietly. “Committees ruin composition.”

Francis’s voice wavered between worship and fear. “You’ll change your mind. We can show you how loyal we are. We already have.”

Hannibal’s tone chilled. “Explain.”

“The girl,” Francis said, almost tenderly. “She’s safe. She’ll be returned once we’ve spoken. Please, Lecter.”

For a heartbeat Hannibal said nothing. Then—calm, even pleasant—

“Then we should go fetch her.”

Francis nodded, relieved. “Yes. This way.”

They descended into the service level of the hospital, where the walls turned to bare concrete and the air smelled of coolant and rain seeping through stone. The corridor stretched long and silent, lit by cold white bulbs.

At the far end, a figure appeared—female, in scrubs, pushing a wheelchair. Abigail sat in it, head bowed, still asleep, the IV line swaying gently with the motion.

Francis exhaled. “See? No harm. She’s yours again.”

Hannibal’s eyes moved from Francis to the woman. Her hands were too tense on the wheelchair handles, her gait too careful. Pretending.

“Interesting choice of emissary,” Hannibal murmured.

Before Francis could answer, a noise echoed from above—distant shouts, the clash of voices, alarms.

Hannibal looked up.

A nurse appeared.

Young. Calm. She wore blue scrubs, her hair tied back neatly. The badge on her chest caught the light — temporary ID, laminated but new.

“Doctor Lecter asked me to check the IV line,” she said. “He’s arranging transfer papers.”

Will blinked. His brain lagged half a second behind the words. “He what?”

“Transfer to private care,” she said, smiling, patient. “It’s routine.”

Something about the smile was wrong — too measured, too still. But his body was slow to react; fatigue and relief fought in equal measure. Of course Hannibal would move things faster than bureaucracy. He always did.

Will nodded, rubbing at his face. “Yeah. Sure. Just… be gentle with her.”

The nurse adjusted the IV. Her hands were steady, practiced. She moved with the ease of someone who knew hospitals intimately.
Then she wheeled the equipment slightly closer to the door.

Will’s phone buzzed. A message.
HANNIBAL: Speaking with administration. Everything will be arranged soon.

He frowned — the wording too similar to what the nurse had said. His instinct prickled. He looked up.

The bed was still there, but the nurse was now behind it, releasing the wheel locks.

“Hey—wait,” he said, standing.

She smiled again, the same still expression. “Just moving her for imaging.”

He took a step forward. The hallway lights flickered from the rainstorm outside. Another nurse’s voice called down the corridor, muffled by distance.

When he looked back, the bed was already half through the doorway.

“Wait!”

He reached the elevator door as it closed behind her, catching a glimpse of her profile turning away. Cold, sharp jawline, familiar. The wheels squeaked once, then faded. Will recognized the profile from the wanted website at the FBI- . His hand was sweating as he grasped the handle, running down the stairs. 

He turned left, then right. No sign of her. The sound of wheels was swallowed by the elevator ding.

He pressed the button. Nothing. He took the stairs two at a time, the air tasting metallic, too dry. Every sensory detail sharpened until it almost hurt — the hum of the fluorescents, the smell of detergent, the pattern of footsteps above and below him.

When he reached the ground floor, he caught the reflection of a gurney turning the corner. He followed.

He pushed through a pair of swinging doors, heart pounding, pulse in his ears.

He reached for his gun, automatically taking the safety off. 

At the far end of the corridor, a door burst open, Will, wild-eyed, breathing hard. His gaze locked on Abigail, then Hannibal, then the strangers between them.

His finger pressed, the bullet settling in the skull of the nurse as her brain splattered across the wall, her body dropping forward. Pushing. The wheelchair rolled, pushed into the wall, and Abigail's torso fell limp, her head hitting the wall with a short thud.  

Hannibal ran forward. Blood on the wall where Abigail's head smashed into the concrete.

Francis, already gone. 

Chapter Text

The alarms broke the stillness of the basement, echoing against concrete and fluorescent hum. Will’s hands locked around the pistol, breath steady. The nurse was already down, her body collapsed midmotion, skull opened by the round, blood patterning the far wall. The echo folded in on itself. The wheelchair rolled until its front wheels struck the wall with a hollow clack.

Abigail didn’t move. Couldn’t. 

“Gun down,” Hannibal said sharply, already moving toward her. His voice cut through the noise like clean glass.

Will’s body responded to the tone before the words registered. He flicked the safety on, holstered, stepped back, palms open. “Hannibal..."

“Later,” Hannibal said. “Now we keep her alive.”

He crouched beside Abigail’s still form. The front of her gown was spattered crimson. Hannibal’s fingers quickly examined for the arterial pulse, a faint sound, and pupils equal. A line of blood cut from her hairline down across her temple. Her nose was clearly fractured, swelling fast, the bridge skewed. Beneath the dressing at her throat, the sword slash swelled and pulsed with each fragile breath.

“She struck the wall,” Hannibal said evenly. “Broken nasal bridge, scalp laceration. The coma persists.”

“Is she—?”

“She is breathing,” Hannibal said, tone flat. 

Hospital staff began flooding the corridor starting with running security, nurses, then the rapid response team.

“Gun on the floor!” a voice barked.

“FBI,” Will said, hands raised. His voice cracked once, steadied. “I fired. Suspect down. Victim unconscious. Head trauma. Coma patient. Help us. ”

The guards hesitated, then called in the code. More staff arrived. Hannibal moved aside only when the trauma nurses reached them, his movements precise, detached.

They worked on Abigail: collar, airway check, vitals. “Still unresponsive,” a nurse said, shining a light into her eyes. “Pupils reactive.”

“She was already comatose,” Hannibal said. “Traumatic head strike now added.”

“CT and neuro ICU,” the lead nurse ordered sharply “Move.”

They lifted her, transferred to a gurney. Hannibal stepped close as they began rolling her away. “Handle her gently,” he said. His tone wasn’t a plea, it was an order.

The red streak on the wall behind them glistened as they passed.

BPD arrived within minutes, sealing the area, taping off the body. Will sat against the wall, fingers trembling despite himself, an officer standing guard nearby. He was pale, quiet. Hannibal stood several feet away.

The first detective on scene, Sergeant Laird, glanced at Will. “You the shooter?”

“Yeah,” Will said quietly. “Special Agent Graham. FBI.”

“Then you know the drill,” Laird said, nodding to the forensics team. “Hands bagged, weapon secured. Full statement after.”

Will didn’t argue. The paper bags rustled as they taped his wrists.

The FBI’s local ASAC, Crawford’s substitute for the night, arrived twenty minutes later. The mood shifted from police control to Bureau procedure, a slow, methodical, bureaucratic beast.

“Scene belongs to SIT now,” the ASAC said, eyes flicking to Will. “He’s ours.”

Hannibal watched silently as the agents documented: weapon on the floor, spent casing marked, photographs of blood spatter. The nurse’s ID was found false, her fingerprints already smudged with adhesive.

“Whoever she was,” one tech murmured, “she knew hospital protocols.”

“She knew which room to enter,” Hannibal said softly.

A Bureau medic drew Will’s blood, logged vitals. No alcohol, no benzodiazepines only prescribed fluoxetine noted.

Hannibal was questioned next, his answers clinical and minimal. “The patient, Abigail Hobbs, has been in a coma since her assault. The woman you see there attempted to remove her from care without authorization. And she pushed her into the wall. We were too far away to reach her. Mr. Graham acted to stop her.”

“You saw her try to take the patient?”

“I saw the aftermath,” Hannibal replied. “I saw enough.”

The detective jotted that down.

When the SIT team completed the initial sweep, the ASAC turned to Will. “You’re on administrative leave pending review. You did what you thought necessary, but the Bureau will process this by the book. You understand that.”

“Yes,” Will said.

“Good.”

Hannibal’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his stillness deepened. “And the girl?”

“She’s being stabilized,” the agent said. “She’ll be transferred back to long-term care once neurology clears her.”

Hannibal inclined his head slightly. “I will make arrangements.”

No one asked what that meant.

Three days later, after the FBI’s internal review began, the transfer paperwork went through quietly. The state hospital, overwhelmed, signed off on an application from Dr. Hannibal Lecter to act as Abigail Hobbs’ private medical guardian and caregiver. The petition cited his medical qualifications, financial guarantees, and an existing therapeutic relationship with both patient and Bureau oversight.

All entirely legitimate on paper.

The ambulance arrived at dusk. The driver checked the order twice. “You’re sure this address is right? This ain’t a facility.”

“It is private care,” Hannibal said smoothly, standing in the doorway of his home, gloves on, immaculate. “The room is prepared. Temperature, monitors, feeding pump, it is all standard.”

The stretcher came inside. The house was silent except for the hum of the ventilator in the corner of the converted guest room, Abigails former room. 

Abigail lay there, unmoving, her throat scar raw pink beneath new sutures, her nose set and taped, forehead closed with butterfly strips. The steady click of the monitor pulsed through the room.

Hannibal adjusted her pillow, smoothed a hand through her hair, then checked the IV site. His face softened, just barely.

“You are safer here,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.  Behind him, the monitor beeped on, steady and faithful.

The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint trace of salt from the sea below the cliffs.

Abigail lay motionless beneath crisp linen, throat bandaged, face pale but peaceful. Her breathing was steady, the ventilator’s soft hiss matching the distant rhythm of waves.

The front door opened and closed with measured authority. Hannibal did not need to turn to recognize the footsteps.

“Doctor Lecter.”

Jack Crawford entered first, his expression composed but edged with fatigue. He paused just inside the threshold, letting his gaze move from the medical equipment to the girl in the bed.

“This is what she needs,” Hannibal said quietly. “A calm environment. Familiar care. Less bureaucracy, more humanity.”

Jack exhaled, nodding once. “You’ve got both now.”

Two agents followed him inside, carrying additional supplies — saline, tubing, sterile packs. The woman with them wore no suit jacket, just a Bureau polo under her coat. A medical duffel hung from her shoulder.

“Miriam Lass,” Jack said. “You’ve met.”

Hannibal turned, smiling faintly. “Indeed. I didn’t realize the Bureau cross-trained its agents in medicine.”

“I served four years as a combat medic before Quantico,” Miriam said, setting down her bag. “Jack thought I’d be useful here. I handle trauma, post-operative monitoring, and field triage. Plus, I know how to keep records the Bureau can read without redacting half the text.”

Jack stepped forward, gesturing toward Abigail. “Lecter’s her registered caregiver. You’re her medical operator and Bureau liaison. You’ll log every dose, every change in vitals, and file daily reports through the secure channel. Anything off, you call me directly. No middlemen.”

“Yes, sir,” Miriam said.

Hannibal folded his hands. “A wise arrangement.”

Jack’s tone hardened. “This isn’t a favor, Lecter. It’s containment. Will’s shooting brought half the Bureau’s attention back onto this girl. We need her alive, but out of sight. You were the only physician qualified — and willing — to take her. I don’t like it, but I’ll take controlled discomfort over another disaster.”

Hannibal inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Jack’s gaze lingered on him a long moment before he looked to Miriam. “You know what to do.”

She nodded. “I’ve already reviewed her file.”

Jack gave the room one last, hard look before turning for the door. “Then she’s yours. Keep her breathing.”

“Her coma’s deep. Damage to the cortical tracts was extensive. She might not wake up.”

“She will,” Hannibal said.

“I’ll take the night rotation,” she said. “You get some rest.”

“I rarely sleep deeply,” he said. “But thank you.”

Miriam glanced at him. A flicker, then gone. She picked up her tablet. “I’ll file the initial report.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

She nodded once, then looked toward the bed. Abigail’s chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm.

Miriam watched her for a long moment. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

Hannibal’s voice was low, almost tender. “That’s why she’s still here.”

Miriam hesitated, then gathered her tablet and left, the soft sound of her boots fading down the hall.

Hannibal remained where he was, the sea reflected in the glass beside Abigail’s bed. He reached out, brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his touch precise and almost reverent.

The monitor kept its steady rhythm.

In the next room, Miriam logged her first report.

Observation Report: Agent Lass, 2300 hours.
Condition: Stable. Coma remains unbroken. Vital signs consistent with post-traumatic baseline.
Respiration and circulation maintained without distress. Intravenous nutrition administered as scheduled. Minor swelling persists at nasal bridge; forehead sutures clean. Tracheal wound intact with no sign of infection.
Skin tone and perfusion within acceptable limits. Reflexes absent.
Patient demonstrates no spontaneous movement or response to verbal cues.

Environment:
Clean, climate-controlled, and medically appropriate. Equipment well maintained. No contamination or procedural irregularities observed.

Encrypted Note – Crawford Access 
No dust, no fingerprints. Nothing feels lived in.

Every movement is measured. Word deliberate. His speech pattern feels constructed. I don’t think he relaxes.

It is sterile. 
I can’t prove anything yet, but I don’t believe he’s harmless.

Will verify security camera coverage tomorrow..
Request permission to maintain independent log for behavioral documentation.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled of coffee and sea. The windows were open to the gray sky, the sea restless and white. Jack stood by the counter, a mug in his hand, speaking in short commands to the agents outside. Two men in Bureau jackets were threading cables along the baseboards, setting up surveillance and network feeds. The low static of their radios filled the room in waves. Miriam sat near the table, silent, hands clasped, watching.

Hannibal moved easily among them, sleeves rolled, tie still immaculate. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and level, the kind of calm that didn’t need to ask for authority.

“Please be careful with the cabinet by the north wall,” he said to one of the technicians. “There are delicate instruments stored there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jack turned from the window. “You’re getting a lot of accommodations here, Doctor. Not many civilians would allow a federal installation in their home.”

Hannibal smiled faintly, wiping his hands with a linen towel that smelled faintly of citrus. “I find transparency refreshing. Besides, if it keeps your agents at ease, it keeps me at peace.”

Jack’s laugh was short, humorless. “You’re going to need that peace. After the hospital, we can’t risk another incident.”

Hannibal reached for a carving knife, slicing a loaf of fresh bread with careful precision. The crust cracked softly.

“I agree,” he said. “Abigail’s safety depends on predictability.”

Miriam’s eyes followed the movement of his hands.

Jack turned back toward him. “And Graham? Is he predictable?”

The question hung in the air. The only sound was the sea and the slow tick of the kitchen clock.

“Will is on restricted duty,” Hannibal said at last. “He called me this morning.”

Jack’s tone cooled. “You’re still in contact.”

“He sought reassurance,” Hannibal said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “He feels adrift. The Bureau takes away a man’s weapon and calls it evaluation, but what they really take is identity.”

Jack crossed his arms. “He’s not himself. You’ve seen that.”

“I’ve seen strain,” Hannibal said. “Empathy can become corrosive when it has no outlet.”

“Empathy doesn’t make a man pull a trigger that fast,” Jack said. “Or stare too long at a dead body.”

Hannibal set the knife down gently. “You think he’s dangerous.”

Jack didn’t answer directly. “Two new killings in the last month. Both detailed. Both deliberate. Not Ripper work, not copycat either. Whoever it is, they understand Will’s methods. They use them.”

Hannibal turned slightly, enough for the light from the window to catch the side of his face. “You think he’s involved.”

Jack’s silence was louder than speech.

“I think he’s… close to it,” Jack said finally. “Too close for comfort.”

Hannibal’s eyes drifted toward the ocean. The reflection of gray waves moved across his pupils like smoke. “Perhaps proximity gives him insight.”

“Or infection,” Jack said.

The room went quiet again. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped once, the faint reminder of Abigail’s stillness.

Miriam broke the silence. “Agent Graham is capable of control. He’s proven that.”

Jack looked at her. “You sound confident.”

“I’m observant,” she said. “That’s all.”

Hannibal gave her a small approving nod before turning back to the pot on the stove. He lifted the lid. Steam curled upward, rich with the aromas of garlic and rosemary.

“I am preparing lunch,” he said mildly. “It seems only polite to feed those who come to protect my home.”

Jack frowned but didn’t refuse. “We’re fine.”

“Then at least take bread,” Hannibal said, slicing another piece. “You’ve all been working since dawn. Nutrition improves judgment.”

One of the agents hesitated, then took the offered slice. The look on Jack’s face hovered somewhere between irritation and surrender.

“You could charm a wolf into a pen,” Jack muttered.

Hannibal smiled. “Wolves only enter willingly when they believe the pen is their idea.”

Jack Crawford stood near the door, a file in one hand. His tie was loose, his eyes bloodshot, the look of someone who hadn’t been sleeping right.

“You’re not under suspension,” Jack said, finally breaking the silence. “But you’re off the field. No firearm, no travel. Restricted duty until the review clears.”

Will nodded once. “You don’t have to explain it, Jack. I know how this works.”

“Do you?” Jack asked. “Because the way you went for that shot...” He stopped, closed the file. “It was clean, Will. Every angle says so. But it was fast. Too fast.”

“I saw a threat.”

“You saw something before anyone else did,” Jack said. “That’s what’s got people talking.”

Will frowned. “Talking?”

Jack sighed, leaning against the wall. “You’re the profiler who sees into killers’ heads. You shoot someone, and half the Bureau starts whispering you’ve gone native.”

“I’m not a killer,” Will said.

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Will’s voice cracked just slightly. “Because sometimes you sound like you don’t.”

Jack ran a hand over his face. “I pushed you into this work. You think I don’t lie awake at night wondering if I broke something in you?”

Will’s throat tightened. “You didn’t make me who I am.”

“No,” Jack said softly. “But I keep putting you in rooms that remind you.”

He sat across from him. The light made both of them look pale. “The Bureau doesn’t believe anyone can see as deep as you claim to. They think you get lucky. Or that you stage it. They can’t explain you, and they don’t like what they can’t explain.”

Will gave a tired laugh. “So now I’m a suspect in competence.”

“You lose hours in your own head,” Jack said. “You start a sentence, then finish it five minutes later like no time passed. People are worried, Will. They see a man about to snap.”

Will’s jaw tightened. “People or you?”

Jack sighed. “Both.”

“I’m still doing the work,” Will said. “Better than anyone.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Jack replied quietly. “No one believes someone can do it that well and come back clean.”

Will gave a humorless laugh. “So good becomes suspicious.”

“It becomes frightening.”

Jack opened the folder. “Since the Hobbs case, you’ve needed Lecter to keep you steady. I signed off on those sessions because I thought he’d help you manage the empathy, not feed it.”

“He does help,” Will said.“You don’t know what it’s like inside those rooms after a crime scene. It’s noise. He makes it quiet. He pulls the focus back.”

“Pulls it back or pushes you further in?”

Will shook his head. “You think I don’t notice the difference? He listens. Nobody else does.”

Jack sat down across from him. “He’s good at that. That’s what makes me nervous.”

Will frowned. “You don’t trust him.”

“I trust results,” Jack said. “And lately, the results look too close to your guesses.”

Will blinked. “What guesses?”

Jack slid two photographs across the table. Each one showed a woman posed on a dais of painted canvas, the flesh treated like marble, limbs lacquered with resin. “Two bodies. Baltimore. Posed. Preserved. Whoever did this used plaster, pigments, and gold leaf, like an art installation.”

Will’s face went pale. “That’s what I said about Hobbs’s copycat. About how someone like that might use art supplies, treat the body as… material.”

“Exactly,” Jack said. “Your words are in the crime-scene report, almost verbatim.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It means whoever’s doing this reads you, Will. Or read through you.”

Will leaned forward, voice breaking. “You think I’m involved?”

Jack’s expression softened; his voice dropped. “No, Will. I think you’re being watched.”

Will frowned. “What?”

Jack slid a folder across the table, but didn’t open it. “We’ve got leaks. Somebody’s been feeding information from our internal case files to an external channel, the timing details and scene reports. Then these murders start showing up, precise as if they were reading our notes.”

“So the Bureau thinks it’s me.”

“They think it could be anyone.”

Will leaned forward, voice low. “You think it’s someone on your team.”

Jack nodded once. “And I’m letting them believe it might be you. It’s the only way the real rat panics. I activated the whole department, told them all eyes are on you. We’ll see who moves wrong.”

Will’s breath caught. “You’re using me as bait.”

“I’m protecting you the only way I can,” Jack said. “If I tell them what I know, we lose our lead.”

“What do you know?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He sat down across from him, the chair creaking under his weight. “I know you don’t have time for murders, Will. Neither does Lecter. I’ve been to that damn house at midnight, unannounced, and I’ve seen you both there.”

Will froze. “Jack”

Jack raised a hand. “Don’t bother lying. I saw the kitchen lights. You were cooking for the girl. He was slicing something, you were standing too close. Later, I saw the bedroom door open and—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “You think I wanted to see that?”

Will stared down at the table. “We didn’t plan—”

“No,” Jack said, his tone a rough whisper. “You never do. You find each other in the wreckage, and you call it therapy.”

He rubbed his eyes. “You think I don’t understand? After Hobbs, you needed someone who could hold the noise still. He’s that person for you. I get it. But you crossed a line, Will, and now I have to make sure the Bureau doesn’t see it.”

Will’s voice shook. “You could’ve told me you knew.”

“What would that change?” Jack asked. “You’d still go to him. You’d still need him. I don’t have the right to take that away, not when he’s the only thing keeping you functional.”

The air felt heavy. Will’s throat worked as he tried to speak. “You hate it, though.”

“I hate what it could cost you,” Jack said. “And I hate that it makes you vulnerable in ways you can’t see. That’s why I’m watching everything now. Every file. Every signal. Somebody’s bleeding information from inside our unit. Until we find who, you stay still, and you let me take the heat.”

Will leaned back, trying to breathe evenly. “So, all this restricted duty it’s just a show?”

“It’s protection,” Jack said. “If they think you’re under suspicion, the real leak won’t hide. They’ll try to run or reach out. We’ll trace it.”

“And when they do?”

Jack’s eyes went hard. “We shut it down.”

Silence again. The hum of fluorescent light pressed between them like static.

Will looked at him, voice unsteady. “And if someone else sees what you saw?”

“Then it’s on me,” Jack said. “Not you. I’ll handle it.”

He stood, collected the folder. “I shouldn’t have come to that house, Will. But when I saw you both—” He exhaled. “For the first time, I believed you weren’t chasing the darkness anymore.”

Will’s voice was quiet, almost a confession. “He makes me feel like I am not drowning.”

Jack nodded. “That’s why you can’t lose control now. You keep your head clear. Hannibal helps you function, fine. Just remember he’s not the only one watching out for you.” he reached for the door, then turned back. “The Bureau may think you’re the monster, Will. I don’t. But if this leak keeps feeding them blood, I’ll have to choose between you and the whole unit. Don’t make me do that.”

Jack left.

The door closed with a soft hiss, leaving Will alone with the sound of the lights and his pulse thudding against the quiet.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking, not from fear, but from the realization that Jack had seen everything, and still chose to protect him.

He whispered to the empty room,

“He shouldn’t have.”

Chapter Text

Beverly Katz was hunched over her laptop, black curls tied up in a messy knot, a mechanical pencil between her teeth. Her eyes flicked between the screen and a tray of samples, her rhythm sharp and precise, the kind of motion that came from living in labs instead of offices. Jimmy Price leaned against the counter, eating dry cereal out of a paper cup like it was dinner. Zeller hovered near the whiteboard, tapping a marker against his palm, restless energy barely contained.

Jack wasn’t in yet. Without him, conversation came easier.

Zeller broke first. “You know what I don’t miss? The smell. Every time Graham came back from a scene, he brought it with him… whatever smell... it stayed after a few hours.”

Beverly shot him a look. “You’re not exactly Chanel No. 5 yourself, Brian. Doesn't he have, like, three dogs at home?”

He ignored that.

Zeller broke the silence. “Does anyone else think it’s weird we’re still calling him Agent Graham?”

Price didn’t look up “Technically, he’s not an agent.”

“That’s my point,” Zeller said. “He’s a professor. A teacher. Guy walks in here straight from a lecture hall, never done time in the field, and suddenly we’re supposed to act like he’s our messiah.”

Beverly frowned. “He’s good at what he does.”

“Yeah, too good,” Price said. “Like he’s reading from a script only he’s seen.”

“You both liked him fine when his ‘script’ was closing cases,” Beverly said.

Zeller shook his head. “Liked the results. Didn’t like the man. There’s a difference.”

He leaned forward, voice low. “He doesn’t talk like we do, doesn’t move like we do. Have you ever noticed that? When we walk a crime scene, we’re working. He’s… somewhere else. Staring through the air like he’s waiting for a ghost to show up.”

Price snorted. “That’s just his process.”

“His process,” Zeller said, “is getting people killed. All of it’s orbiting him.”

Alana Bloom entered just in time to hear the last line. She stopped just inside the doorway, lips pressed thin. “You’re not seriously suggesting Will’s to blame for what happened at the hospital.”

Zeller leaned back. “I’m saying the center of gravity around here keeps shifting toward him, and every time it does, somebody ends up bleeding.”

Alana crossed her arms. “He’s under observation, not indictment.”

“Feels the same from this side of the badge,” Price said.

Beverly looked between them. “You guys ever think maybe he just… doesn’t belong here? He’s not one of us, and that’s why we can’t figure him out.”

“Exactly,” Zeller said. “He’s a specialist. Jack dropped him in the middle of us like we’re supposed to babysit the Bureau’s pet savant.”

“He’s a consultant,” Alana said evenly.

“He’s a headache,” Price replied. “Half the unit’s walking on eggshells every time he’s in the room. The other half’s praying he doesn’t start narrating their dreams.”

Beverly exhaled. “You’re all being unfair.”

Price glanced up. “You’ve worked with him the most. You ever feel like he sees too much?”

Beverly didn’t answer right away. “Yeah,” she said softly. “But that’s not a reason to crucify him for it.”

Alana`s voice was calm, careful. “Is that really how we talk about colleagues now?”

Price straightened instantly. “We’re venting, Doctor Bloom.”

Alana’s gaze moved from one to the other, steady but not cold. “Try doing it without dehumanizing the man. Will’s under observation, not exiled.”

Zeller raised his eyebrows. “Observation’s the Bureau’s way of saying they don’t trust him.”

“They don’t trust what they don’t understand,” Alana said.

Beverly muttered, “Sounds familiar.”

Before anyone could answer, the door swung open. Jack Crawford stepped in, shoulders square,

The room fell silent.

Jack didn’t shout. He never needed to. His presence carried weight all on its own — the kind that made people straighten up without realizing it.

“Let’s hear it,” he said. “Lydia Morris, Elliot Myers — both posed, both preserved. New body on the board yet?”

Beverly clicked a few keys, pulling up a new set of photos. “Victim three came in overnight. Same radius. Materials match the last two.”

Price made a face. “Whoever’s doing this has way too much time and art-school debt.”

Jack gave him a sharp look. “Focus.”

He stepped closer to the board. “He’s using the bodies as a medium. Paint, plaster, resin. We’ve seen this kind of staging before — it’s performance, not compulsion.”

Zeller leaned on the table. “Or somebody’s copying the copycat.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “You think it’s a coincidence the work resembles Graham’s reports?”

The silence that followed said everything.

Beverly spoke first, softly. “You can’t blame Will for that.”

“I’m not blaming him,” Jack said. “I’m saying somebody’s using his words like a recipe.”

He didn’t add anything else.
He let the silence sit long enough for the discomfort to start showing on their faces.

Zeller was the first to fill it. “So, what, somebody’s copying the profiler instead of the killer? That’s—” he hesitated, “—twisted even for Baltimore.”

Price leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Or it’s him. You can’t ignore the timing, Jack. Every time Graham steps away, someone steps in sounding just like him.”

Jack didn’t move. “Go on.”

“You think it’s crazy?” Price asked. “He knows every case, every file, every procedure. The copycat could be someone feeding off that.”

Beverly frowned. “He’s not feeding anyone. He barely speaks to us.”

“That’s the problem,” Zeller said. “He doesn’t talk, doesn’t connect, just vanishes inside himself until he comes back with an answer. Nobody works like that. Not here.”

Alana shifted her weight, voice measured. “You all wanted him when he was closing cases faster than anyone else. Now that he’s falling apart, you want to burn him for it.”

Price muttered, “Falling apart’s contagious in this place.”

Jack finally moved, just a small shift of posture, crossing his arms, leaning against the table. He looked at each of them in turn, the same way he’d study a crime scene before deciding what didn’t fit.

“You’re all worried,” he said quietly. “Good. Worry keeps you sharp. But you don’t have all the facts, and I’m not going to hand them to you until I do.”

Beverly frowned. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning the leak isn’t coming from outside,” Jack said. “It’s coming from somewhere inside this building.”

The air went still.

Price straightened, defensive. “You think it’s one of us?”

“I think someone has access they shouldn’t,” Jack said, keeping his tone neutral. “And until I find out who, you’ll keep your heads down and your mouths shut. We can’t afford gossip when someone’s listening.”

Zeller tried for humor and failed. “That’s comforting.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You want comfort, go see a therapist. You want to work, start finding me patterns that connect these victims. Not speculations about colleagues.”

Chapter Text

The forensic lab was half-dark, the hour late enough that only the motion sensors kept the lights from shutting off entirely.
Evidence tables gleamed under strips of cold white. Machines hummed a steady lullaby of fans and soft beeps. The scent of solvents, metal, and coffee gone sour hung in the air.

Beverly Katz stood in the glow of a monitor, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back with a pencil. She’d been there since morning. Her workstation looked like an organized explosion. Files, fragments, small jars of resin dust lined up like offerings to patience.

She was muttering to herself. “Come on, talk to me, you chemically pretentious bastard…”

The door creaked open.

“Still at it?” Jack Crawford’s voice carried the low fatigue of someone who’d spent too many nights in the same shoes.

Beverly glanced back. “You say that like there’s ever a time I’m not at it.”

Jack stepped in, hands in his pockets. “Most people go home eventually.”

“Yeah,” she said, adjusting the focus on her microscope. “And most people don’t get results.”

Jack smiled faintly. “Can’t argue with that.”

He stopped beside her table. “What are we looking at?”

“Residue from victim three’s surface coating,” she said, leaning back to give him room. “Fancy word for ‘paint job,’ basically. Only this isn’t from an art store. It’s industrial polymer mixed with solvent compounds used for mold casting.”

Jack squinted at the data on the screen. “Like commercial manufacturing?”

“More like someone who really enjoys breaking OSHA regulations for art.” She popped off one glove and pointed. “This blend’s rare. You can’t buy it at Michaels. It’s lab supply stuff — controlled, expensive.”

He nodded, absorbing it. “You can trace it?”

“Already running the serial batch through the chemical registry. If our killer bought it legally, he left a footprint.”

Jack gave her that look — the one between respect and worry. “How long since you’ve slept?”

“Define ‘slept,’” she said, deadpan.

Jack almost laughed. “Don’t make me write you up for being indispensable.”

Beverly grinned, but there was a tiredness behind it. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d have to find someone else who can tell the difference between resin and bone dust.”

“I’d have to find three of you,” Jack admitted.

That earned him a small chuckle — quick, genuine. It softened her expression just enough to remind him she was still young, despite the graveyard she lived in.

Jack’s tone changed slightly. “You saw Will today.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d it go?”

Beverly hesitated. “He’s… quieter.”

Jack nodded. “He talks about the shooting?”

“No. Not directly. But you can feel it. He’s thinking about it every time he blinks.”

Jack leaned against the counter. “He still working well?”

“Yeah. He’s still brilliant. Just… brittle.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the monitor. “You worry about him?”

She gave a small shrug. “Sure. He’s the kind of guy you want to wrap in bubble wrap and also maybe slap.”

Jack smiled. “That’s about right.”

They stood in silence for a moment, both watching the graph crawl upward.

Then Beverly said, “You want to hear something depressing?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “That’s usually my line.”

She nodded toward the evidence photo. “The resin from this murder? It matches trace material from the Hobbs copycat scene. Same chemical signature, same mix ratio.”

Jack’s head lifted sharply. “You sure?”

“As sure as science lets me be.” She crossed her arms. “Whoever did this knew the composition down to the solvent. That’s not random, Jack. That’s access.”

Alana Bloom stood near the break counter, waiting for the espresso machine to make its slow, complaining hiss. She had a stack of psychological reports under one arm, her coat still draped over one shoulder. The morning light from the high windows gave her face that tired, golden calm that comes only after too many sleepless nights.

Then came the sound of sneakers squeaking.

“Good morning, sunshine!”

Jimmy Price appeared in the doorway like a burst of caffeine wearing a badge. Hair still damp from a quick shower, shirt slightly wrinkled, lanyard already crooked. He carried a thermos the size of a small missile.

Alana looked up, blinking. “You’re cheerful.”

He grinned. “I’ve had three espressos and half a cinnamon roll. I could do cartwheels if it weren’t a biohazard.”

“That’s… horrifying, actually.”

“Don’t judge,” he said, walking over. “Some of us need more fuel than others. You’re one of those mysterious people who function on air and unspoken judgment.”

Alana smiled faintly. “Unspoken judgment’s calorie-free.”

“That explains your figure,” he said before realizing, then immediately put his hands up. “In a strictly non-HR way! You just look healthy. Like you’ve escaped the Quantico diet.”

Her eyebrow arched. “And this is your opening line for small talk?”

He winced. “You’re right. That sounded better in my head.”

Alana chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You’re lucky you’re charming, Jimmy.”

“I know,” he said brightly. “It’s my one survival trait. That and impeccable pipette technique.”

The espresso machine finally sputtered to a stop. Alana poured herself a cup, the smell cutting through the sterile air. Price grabbed a paper cup for himself, pouring what looked like rocket fuel.

“So,” he said, leaning against the counter, “how’s our favorite department psychologist holding up? You’ve got that ‘too many nightmares, not enough breakfast’ vibe going.”

“Professional observation?”

“Personal concern,” he said, more gently this time.

Alana looked into her cup. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long week.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels like every week’s been a long week since Hobbs.”

That name hung for a second, but Jimmy didn’t let it sour. He nudged the air between them with his thermos. “So, come on — what’s your secret? You’ve been dealing with Jack, Graham, Lecter, and an entire building full of Type A overthinkers, and you still look vaguely sane.”

“Vaguely?” she said, amused.

“Generously vague.”

She smiled, the first real one of the morning. “I compartmentalize.”

“Ah,” he said. “Classic. I tried that once, but I kept losing the compartments.”

She laughed — light, honest.

Alana Bloom sat in the passenger seat, chopsticks in hand, a sushi tray balanced precariously on a folder of case files, what Will remembered in his head, she needed wagon of documentation for.  Beside her, Beverly Katz had kicked off her boots, one leg folded beneath her as she chewed thoughtfully on a spicy tuna roll. Ahead of them, through the windshield, the crime scene waited, a clearing just beyond the treeline, dotted with yellow markers and Bureau windbreakers. The reflective tape of the perimeter line flickered like static in the light.

Beverly pointed her chopsticks at the scene.

“Woods again,” Beverly muttered, slowing the SUV. “Why is it always woods? What’s wrong with a nice, well-lit apartment murder?”

Alana smiled faintly. “You’d prefer hardwood floors and stable Wi-Fi?”

“I’d prefer somewhere I don’t have to check my boots for ticks,” Beverly said, easing the car onto the shoulder.

Alana raised her chopsticks in mock salute. 

They both smiled, the kind of smile that came easily between women who didn’t have to explain how exhausting everything was.

Beverly reached into the paper bag between them. “Soy sauce? Or are you one of those purists who thinks it ruins the art form?”

“I’m a psychologist,” Alana said. “I ruin things for a living.”

Beverly laughed, a quick, warm sound that filled the car.

Chapter Text

The diner was half-empty, glowing in its own flickering light. A rainstorm had just passed, leaving puddles that mirrored the neon sign out front: MEL’S SILVER SPOON — buzzing, fading, buzzing again.

Brian Zeller sat in his usual booth, shoulders slightly hunched, fork idly cutting at a piece of apple pie he hadn’t touched yet. His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled, badge clipped to his belt out of habit more than pride.

Helen, the waitress, came by with a pot of coffee.
“Same as always?”

“Hit me,” he said.

She poured. “You ever eat anything green?”

He smiled faintly. “Sometimes the pie’s got apples.”

She laughed and left him to it.

Zeller stirred in sugar he didn’t need, watching it dissolve. He liked this place — no uniforms, no sterile light, no bodies under sheets. Just the quiet company of people pretending life was simpler than it was.

When he finally left, the rain had stopped. The city was damp and reflective, the air thick with exhaust and late-night static. He drove across the bridge, radio low — just the muffled voice of Norah Jones, the universal background of the early 2000s.

By the time he reached Georgetown, the night had settled into something still and slow.

Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier’s office was the kind of room that silenced people the moment they entered. The walls were a pale, powder blue that caught the light like water. The carpet was cream, thick and soft enough to erase the sound of footsteps. The air carried a faint trace of lavender, not the cheap powdery kind but the clean, medicinal scent that clung to her handkerchiefs and the wrists of her silk blouses. The furniture was mid-century modern: light oak, minimal curves. A single glass vase on the end table held one white lily, freshly cut, its reflection caught in the polished surface of her desk.

The lighting was low, almost cinematic.
In that soft half-light, even the shadows looked intentional.

And in the middle of it — sitting with her ankles crossed, her posture as precise as a signature — was Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier.

She looked up from her notes when he entered. “You’re early, Mr. Zeller. That’s unusual.”

A bombshell of a woman. Everything about her seemed tuned to a lower frequency: the soft gleam of her skin against the pale fabric of her blouse, the way her voice landed so quiet and exact. Zeller wasn’t the type to lose his footing over anyone, least of all someone who could probably read every flicker of thought behind his eyes. But Bedelia was magnetic. 

He shrugged. “I apologise.”

She smiled at that, a small, knowing tilt of her mouth. “Well. ”

He sat, leaning back in the chair.

“Jack Crawford keeping you busy?”

He gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Jack keeps everyone busy. It’s his love language.”

Bedelia tilted her head. “You sound resentful.”

“I sound tired.”

There was a pause.

“You don’t usually talk about your colleagues unless prompted,” she said. “Something on your mind?”

He stared at the window behind her for a moment — watching the reflection of the lamplight ripple against the glass. “It’s strange,” he said. “You can work with people for years and still not know what they are. Or what they think you are.”

“Who are you referring to?”

He hesitated, then said, “Crawford. Maybe Graham. Maybe both.”

“Ah,” she said softly. “The Bureau’s men of extremes.”

He smirked. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Do you admire them?”

“I don’t know if that’s the word,” he said. “They take up space. They bend rooms. You stand next to them and start wondering if you’re actually standing there at all.”

“You feel invisible.”

“Not invisible,” he said quickly. “Just, secondary.”

Bedelia studied him. 

Zeller’s eyes flicked to hers, then away. "Dr Lecter"

“Something you been thinking of?”

He didn’t answer right away. “He makes people want to impress him.”

“Does he make you want to impress him?”

He gave a half-smile. “I’m not his type. He likes the delicate ones.”

“Empaths.”

“Emphaths,” Zeller repeated.

Bedelia didn’t flinch. “And you?”

“I watch,” he said. “I admire. Details. Habits. It’s easier than participating.”

“You prefer observation to involvement.”

“Sometimes”

She nodded slightly. “You know, Brian, control isn’t the same as safety.”

“I suppose,” he said quietly. “But it’s close enough.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the air vent filled the space like a second pulse.

Then Bedelia asked, “Why stay in a job that makes you feel small?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Because I’m good at it. And because if I left, I’d have to figure out who I am without it.”

Her voice softened. “That’s an honest answer. Thank you. ”

He smirked. “You get one per session.”

She smiled. “You’re not as opaque as you think, Mr. Zeller.”

He stood, straightening his sleeves. “And you’re not as reassuring as you think, Doctor.”

Her eyes warmed. “That’s never been my aim.”

He gave a small nod, a genuine one. “See you next week.”

As he left, she watched him go, posture controlled, gait steady, like a man perpetually containing something he refused to name.

Outside, the rain had started again a thin whispering against the sidewalk.
Zeller lit a cigarette he didn’t plan to finish and stood under the awning for a long time, staring at the city lights reflecting off wet pavement.

He thought of Jack’s voice, like thunder.

The pressure, the endless cycle of crime and exhaustion.

He thought of Graham’s eyes.

So blue. Unfocused, haunted.

He thought of Hannibal.

Calm wrists,  that didn’t feel calm at all.

He thought, briefly, of Bedelia,

And D cups hugged by silk.

Then he exhaled smoke, watching it drift upward.

“Everyone wants control,” he murmured. “Even the ones pretending not to.”

He flicked the cigarette into a puddle, got into his car, and drove off, back into the quiet hum of Washington traffic.

Chapter Text

Bedelia sat across from killers before.

Real ones.

Years ago in New York, before the Bureau began calling for her expertise, she’d been the discreet psychologist for certain “businessmen” whose offices were in Italian restaurants and whose grief came with bodyguards. Men who brought her envelopes of cash and spoke softly about “disappointments.”

She learned how to listen without looking afraid, how to keep her voice even while someone’s hand rested on a gun.

They’d trusted her because she never asked for confessions. Only symptoms. It was a small difference, but it kept her alive.

And so, when Hannibal Lecter walked into her office, gloved hands immaculate, eyes bright with the faintest amusement — she already knew what kind of man he was.

From scent. From presence. From the way danger wore civility like an afterthought.

“Doctor Lecter,” she said. “You’ve been difficult to schedule.”

“An unavoidable side effect of popularity,” he replied smoothly, removing his gloves one finger at a time.

Bedelia gestured toward the chair opposite her. “You’ve been quite busy. Hospital incidents. The Bureau in your home. A new patient in residence.”

“You make it sound chaotic,” he said, settling in with effortless grace. “I assure you, the situation is orderly.”

“Order imposed by whom?” she asked.

“By me, of course.”

“Abigail Hobbs,” she said. “You’ve assumed legal guardianship.”

“Out of compassion. The child’s recovery requires constancy.”

“You’ve taken her into your home.”

“She is safer there than in any institution.”

Bedelia studied him. “And does that safety extend to you?”

He smiled faintly. “Do you think I require protection, Bedelia?” 

“I think everyone who lives near violence does. Even those who believe they’ve mastered it.”

“Then you speak from experience.”

Her smile curved. “Once upon a time, I worked with men who mistook violence for language. They believed I translated it for them.”

“You learned to speak their dialect.”

“I learned to survive it.”

He laughed quietly, a real sound this time. “Ah, survival. You and I have that in common.”

“I doubt our methods align,” she said.

“I doubt that too,” he answered, tone rich with amusement.

The rain outside thickened against the windows, turning the glass opaque.

She said, “There’s been talk, you know. Certain people looking for you. Dangerous men who trade in precision rather than chaos. They think you’re one of them.”

“Admiration is the sincerest form of trespass,” Hannibal said. “Do they admire, or do they covet?”

“They’re not sure yet,” she said. “They just know your name.”

“I’ve always wanted to be remembered.”

“That’s not remembrance,” Bedelia said. “That’s recruitment.”

He gave a small, pleased sigh. “Then they have excellent taste.”

Bedelia leaned forward slightly, tone dry. “They also have a very high mortality rate. You should decline the invitation.”

“I rarely decline invitations, Bedelia.”

“Because you like to be wanted.”

“Because curiosity is such a flattering vice.”

Her lips parted — an almost laugh. “You make pathology sound charming.”

“It’s what keeps me interesting,” he said.

They sat quietly for a moment, the rhythm between them more intimate than professional.

“You’ve been honest with me lately,” Bedelia said. “Almost disarmingly so.”

“I found that honesty can be refreshing. It disorients people.”

“I’m not disoriented.”

“No,” Hannibal said. “You’re entertained.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a challenge?”

“I have one,” he said. “Will Graham.”

The name hung there like a scent neither of them could quite ignore.

“You care for him,” she said.

“I am… fascinated.”

“Clinically?”

“Clinically,” he said, smiling. 

“Obsession then.”

“Attachment,” he corrected. “I understand him too well to be objective. When he suffers, I… notice.”

“That sounds almost human.”

“I’ve never denied my humanity,” Hannibal said lightly. “Only improved upon it.”

“And you’d call that improvement empathy?”

“I’d call it curiosity with teeth.”

Bedelia laughed — a small, genuine sound that surprised even her. “You admit it so easily.”

“I told you once,” Hannibal said, “I am what I am. Why perform denial for someone who already sees the mask and the face beneath?”

“Because it’s polite,” she said.

“Politeness,” he murmured, “is for strangers.”

Her gaze lingered on him a moment too long. “And what are we?”

He smiled. “Kindred observers.”

“Of Will?”

“Of human frailty.”

She exhaled slowly. “You’re aware he’s being watched. The Bureau suspects him.”

“Jack suspects everyone,” Hannibal said. “It’s his way of staying awake.”

“And you?”

“I don’t sleep,” he said.

Chapter Text

The grocery store sat on the edge of the highway, the kind of place where the parking lot filled with fog after sunset and smelled faintly of wet leaves and exhaust. The air outside carried the sharp scent of woodsmoke, cold rain, the promise of frost waiting just past midnight.

Inside, the overhead lights were merciless. The aisles glowed sterile and endless, packed with apples that still held dew from transport, root vegetables stacked like quiet sculpture.

Hannibal Lecter moved through it like a swan through a stagnant pond,  elegant and self-contained, dressed in charcoal wool and gloves of lamb skin too fine for the fluorescent purgatory. Will, next to him, had a headarch, unshaven, eyes hollow, sweater stretched at the elbows.

“You don’t have to do this,” Will said, voice low, worn thin.

“Do what?”

“Fix things. Whatever this is.”

“I am not fixing anything,” Hannibal said, studying a carton.

They moved slowly down the aisles. Hannibal’s basket was a study in restraint — apples, rosemary, a pheasant wrapped in paper, chestnuts, a bottle of Chianti. Will’s hands twitched at his sides, restless, wanting to do something, anything, with them.

“You don’t have to stay at my place,” he said eventually. “I can manage.”

“I am aware that you can.”

“You can’t just move in with someone because you think they’re doing it wrong.”

“I’ve done far ruder things for far less reason,” Hannibal said.

Will gave a half laugh, surprised despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

Hannibal glanced at him. “And you’re unwell. Which of us is the greater inconvenience?”

They paid in silence. The cashier, a college student with chipped blue nail polish, blushed as she handed Hannibal his change. Will noticed the way Hannibal’s smile lingered, polite, kind, but heavy enough to make the girl’s pulse stutter. He hated that smile a little, because he understood exactly why it worked.

Outside, air had thickened into cold mist. Their breath came out white. The road home was dark, hemmed in by trees that had already surrendered their leaves.

“I can’t go back to Quantico,” Will said. “Jack wants me benched. Half the team doesn’t even look me in the eye anymore.”

“They mistake your insight for corruption,” Hannibal said. “It’s easier to fear what they can’t match.”

“They think I’m the copycat,” Will muttered. “The one arranging them like… installations.”

Hannibal glanced over, voice softer now. “You’re not.”

“I am aware.”

“They did mention two more cases,” Hannibal said. “That was a revelation to me”

“Are you sure?”

Hannibal chuckled, driving them out of the city. Will turned toward the window. The trees blurred past like ghosts. “They all think I’m going to snap.”

“You won’t.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because I will be there,” Hannibal smiled.

When they reached the house, Hannibal carried the groceries inside without asking. The air was cold, the windows fogged at the corners. He moved through the small kitchen. The fridge door creaked; the stove clicked once, then lit. Garlic hit the pan with a hiss. The smell filled the house quickly — warmth, oil.

Will leaned against the counter. “You’re aware you just invited yourself into my life.”

“I prefer to think of it as joining an ongoing narrative,” Hannibal said, tossing shallots into the pan.

Will rubbed at his face. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple. It’s just not easy.”

The food was ready sooner than he expected. Hannibal plated it neatly, poured two glasses of wine, set one in front of Will without ceremony. Pasta. Shrimp.

He said, almost shyly, “It’s good.”

“I don’t serve what isn’t,” Hannibal said.

Will looked up at him then. “You actually moved in, didn’t you?”

Hannibal sipped his wine. “Isolation breeds distortion.”

“That’s what you call it when someone loses their mind?”

“Among other things.”

Will leaned back, the warmth of the wine climbing into his chest. “You think you can fix me?”

“Why would I try?” Hannibal said calmly, leaning back. 

Will laughed softly, shaking his head.

Hannibal smiled, not denying it.

The heater clicked on, the sound like an exhale.

For a while, neither spoke.

When Will finally murmured, “Take me to bed,” Hannibal only nodded.

The clock on Will’s nightstand ticked in small, uneven beats.Hannibal lay on his back, motionless, one arm resting behind his head. His feet, just barely, brushed against the wooden end of the bedframe. Will shifted beside him, half asleep. He murmured something about the rain, something about the dogs. Then he felt it, the subtle stiffness in Hannibal’s body, the faint tension.

“You’re uncomfortable,” Will said, voice still rough with sleep.

“I am not,” Hannibal replied automatically.

“Your body disagrees.”

Hannibal turned his head. “It’s of no consequence.”

Will blinked at him in the dark. “You can’t just lie here like a stretched violin string all night.”

A pause. Then, softly: “I manage.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “That’s kind of the problem.” He sat up, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders. “You don’t have to manage. You can just—fix it.”

Hannibal’s eyes glinted faintly in the half-light. “Would that make you feel better?”

“It would make you feel better.”

A moment of silence, Will picking his words carefully. 

"Fix it," Will repeated slowly, an order. 

Hannibal exhaled, quiet and deliberate, and rose. He didn’t bother with the light. He moved like he knew every inch of the room by heart.

“An hour,” he said, voice calm, low. “Give me an hour.”

Will frowned. “You’re serious.”

“I am always serious.”

Within minutes, Hannibal handed Will his robe, guided him gently toward the armchair in the corner of the room, and pressed a mug of tea into his hands.

“Sit,” he said, motioning toward the chair by the window. Wearing just a pair of white boxers, translucent in the moonlight.

Will obeyed, still half in disbelief.

Hannibal, rushing to strip the sheets from the bed with surgical precision.

Will leaned back in the chair, sipping the tea. “You’ve got a strange idea of bedtime.”

Hannibal was already unfastening the slats at the base of the bed. The soft sound of metal tools followed a quiet scrape of a wrench, the slide of wood being eased loose.

Will watched him in the dim light of side table light, his movements efficient, unhurried, precise. The naked frame of his back. Moving shoulderblades. Smooth skin.  He took a sip of tea as Hannibal moved diagonally, removing a piece of wood from his old college bedframe.  

Will didn’t interrupt when Hannibal opened the window and started doing laundry. Hannibal worked methodically, bending over, frame adjusted, the lower board set aside with care. The bed was now open, longer, looser. Hannibal kneeled. 

Will looked away. Then looked back. Hannibal was moving with deliberate, slow movements, tightening the bed together.  

The pillows shaken. The floors vacuumed. Then the fresh linnens from the closet put on. 

When he finished, he stood for a long moment at the foot of the bed, breathing evenly.

“You okay?” Will asked quietly.

Hannibal blinked once, as though waking from a trance. “Yes.”

Hannibal turned toward him.

Will laughed softly. “You know, most people just roll over and deal with it.”

“Most people settle,” Hannibal said, smoothing the blanket. “You deserve better.”

Will tilted his head. “That’s what this is about? Me deserving better?”

Hannibal crossed the room and offered his hand. Will took it, lying down in the bed. Pillows cold. Hannibal slid beside him under the covers.

Will smiled faintly, the tension in him finally loosening. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Frequently,” Hannibal said as they kissed.

The house settled around them, the wind shifting outside. Hannibal’s breathing slowed, steady and quiet, and Will, lulled by the rhythm of it.

"Hannibal," Will said, running a hand over his back in the dark, falling asleep.  

"Mn?"

"It's nothing. Sleep."  Will sighed.

Chapter Text

Will woke to the sound of glass trembling.
The first light of morning was thin and colorless, filtered through frost that had crept up the window overnight. The house had gone cold enough that every breath fogged faintly in the air.

He reached for the blanket, found it across him, Hannibal standing at the edge of the bed, fastening the cuff of his shirt.

“You left the window open,” Will murmured, voice rough.

“I wanted air,” Hannibal said. “Now I regret it.”

He crossed the room and touched Will’s forehead with the back of his hand. “You’ll catch a chill if you stay there.”

“It’s freezing,” Will said.

“Then move.”

Hannibal’s tone was gentle but unarguable. He was already striking a match in the fireplace, coaxing flame into the small pile of wood he’d arranged the night before. The fire caught quickly, light blooming gold against the gray.

Will sat up, watching him.

“Come,” Hannibal said, holding out a hand. “Shower. You need heat before you stiffen.”

Will hesitated, a few moments of morning wood long enough for Hannibal to notice, lifting his eyebrows slightly. 

The water ran hot, steaming through the narrow bathroom. The mirror fogged in seconds. Hannibal stood behind Will, adjusting the temperature with clinical attention. The sound of it filled the house, soft and constant, like breathing.

“Go on,” Hannibal murmured. “Before the pipes freeze.”

Will stepped under the water, shivering until the warmth took hold. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, letting it run over him. A moment later, he felt a hand, firm, familiar, adjusting the spray, then the quiet weight of presence behind him.

No words for a long time. Just the sound of the water, the soft echo of it against tile, the house creaking as it thawed.

Hannibal’s voice, when it came, was low and steady. “Better?”

Will nodded without looking back. “Yeah. Much.”

“Good.”

There was nothing performative in it. Hannibal pushed him into the tiles, scrubbing his back with long movements of the sponge, lifting his arms, lowering them. Will breathed the hot air in, coughing slightly. Hannibal turned him around, lifting his chin up. With wet eyelashes, Will just closed his eyes. His chest washed, his shoulders and neck massaged with firm too hard movements. His back pressed into the tiles. Hannibal improvised on the go, on pure instinct, really. 

Hannibal kneeled. Will`s dick jerked up, just like earlier. The man removed the shower head from the holder and lowered the temperature, pointing the water down. Soap washing off into a puddle of bubbles. Pressure on his nipples, chest, stomach, and thigh.  Then the water hit his nut sack, and the jet pressed into his perineum and his knees buckled. The water, mercilessly steady. Hannibal wrapped his lips around his dick, bobbing his head with wet slurps. 

Will struggled, the tension building in his bladder. 

He pushed at Hannibal's head, trying to step out of the shower to piss. 

The calm predatory look on Hannibal's face made him freeze faster then iron hard grip around his thigh. He sighed, leaning into the wall behind him. 

Fucking eye contact. 

Hannibal wrapped his lips around his dick, sucking hard, his mouth so wet. With a slurping plop, he pulled his mouth off Will`s cock, causing him to gasp lightly. Before I could whine out a complaint, Hannibal purred, "Let me try something here," moving one of his hands up and pressing on Will's stomach. 

Pressing hard.

Will crumbled, feeling pinned down.

Hannibal chuckled as hot piss poured down his chest and chin. Leaning in to catch the last of it, Will did whimper as the tongue swept and glided across the gland, feeling his dick swell with blood faster than he ever remembered it doing since his teen years, his hips jerking forward as he fucked the warm mouth, holding Hannibal by the back of his head.