Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will struggled against the ropes, his wrists already raw where the coarse fibers bit into his skin. Each pull sent a burn up his arms, but the instinct to fight, no matter how futile, was almost impossible to silence. His breath came in uneven bursts, half from the exertion and half from the panic he was trying to keep at bay. The chair beneath him creaked under the strain. He was subject to his basest instincts, a chained animal chewing threw itself rather then relinquishing to the snare. 

“I’d advise you not to struggle, Will,” came a low, accented voice from somewhere in the shadows. Smooth, unhurried. Amused.

Will froze mid-wriggle, head jerking toward the sound. “How do you know my name?” His voice was a sharp growl, masking the tremor underneath. “Who the hell are you?”

Footsteps moved closer, unhurried, deliberate. The voice answered softly, almost indulgently. “Unfortunately, only I have gotten acquainted with you on one sided means... Well maybe not entirely one-sided.”

Warm breath bit at the back of his neck. The sensation made every hair on his arms rise.

“You’re quite the interesting character, I must admit,” the stranger continued, tone carrying an unnerving blend of fascination and detachment. “There will be rules set up of course, as you probably suspected. Disobey me, or try to escape, and I’ll have you plated and served for my next meal.”

A cold shiver slid down Will’s spine. The man sounded utterly sincere, the kind of sincerity that made his words more horrifying than if they’d been a bluff. This wasn’t just some unstable kidnapper—this was someone who believed every word he said. Will had worked long enough in law enforcement to recognize the type.

Slowly, he stilled his movements, letting his breathing even out. He would give the impression of compliance. In reality, he was retreating into his own mind, working through possibilities, trying to summon the empathy that had always been both his weapon and his burden. If he could sink into the perspective of his captor, maybe—just maybe—he could find an opening.

He shut his eyes under the blindfold and began replaying the chain of events, stripping them down to their psychological roots.

The pendulum swung.

“I had a knack,” Will began, his voice low but steady, “for discovering the nature and depths of a man’s mind. I could manipulate others, figure out their desires, their thoughts, without much effort. That was… until I saw a video from the FBI academy. I’d been looking into the Chesapeake Ripper—my love for psychology kept me interested in serial killers’ stories. That’s when I first came across Will Graham.”

Somewhere in the room, the stranger listened in silence.

“From the moment you started your lesson,” Will continued, “I knew there was something extraordinary about you. You didn’t read people just from training—you seemed to slip inside their heads, see through their eyes without effort. That… intrigued me. And the fact that you yourself were hard to read, that your mind had layers—made me want to peel them apart. Was it hard to read you despite my immense education or could one not read someone who did not understand who they were themself?  Was I studying Agent Will Graham, or the shadow of someone else entirely?”

Will’s tone shifted slightly, as if the words were his own confession now. “I watched more of your lessons. I felt myself… becoming obsessed. I had to see you up close, to find out how your mind works. It wasn’t hard to learn where you lived. I almost laughed when I saw you had no human company—only dogs. Too easy. And now… I have you. All to myself. This is my design.”

A slow, deliberate clap echoed in the dim space, dragging Will back to the present.

“Well done, Will,” the stranger purred. His footsteps circled before a hand found the base of Will’s skull, tilting his head upward with unsettling gentleness. “I was certain my instincts about you were correct. That is indeed my design—except…” His grip tightened slightly, “you got one minor detail wrong.”

Will’s pulse thudded in his ears. “What detail?” he asked, his voice quieter now, though he squirmed weakly against the man’s other arm as it slid around his abdomen, holding him in place.

The man leaned in again, his lips close enough for Will to feel the shape of his words. “I didn’t search the Chesapeake Ripper because I was interested in him, Will. I searched him because I am him. And I can guarantee your FBI friends aren’t even close to finding me. You, however…” The stranger’s voice dropped to a whisper. “…are stuck with someone very hungry to know everything about you.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks prior

“You made it,” Jack states, ushering Will past the FBI blockade. How could I ignore a call from you at 6 a.m.?” Will grumbles sarcastically.

Jack chooses to ignore his snarky comment, continuing, “The scene is relatively fresh, although it was left overnight.” The suburban house was heavily taped off and had many agents examining the exterior. The house was comfortable in a middle-class neighborhood with no obvious abnormalities compared to the neighboring ones. It had bland decor and no notable distinguishing features.

“New house or new start?” Will asked quietly, gazing at the bare walls with no family pictures and the stark furniture choices. “Just moved in around five and a half months ago. Looks like a new job, and the son, Peter, was enrolled in a special school nearby.”

Will paused, opening the cupboards, “A special school?” He turns to Jack, dreading to see the actual reason he was called. The tug of the heinous crime upstairs distracted his senses.

“From his adoption file, it looks like during a previous home he was taken in by, he obtained a hindering brain injury from being kicked by a horse. They could no longer take care of his needs, so he was put up for adoption again until the now deceased Guiots gave him a home.”

The loss of a parent was a grief that also festered in the back of Will’s mind. His stomach soured, and he only nodded, staring at the frames of his glasses. Jack sighed, pointing to the stairs. “You’d better go finish making your analysis.”

Mr. and Mrs. Guiot were lavishly displayed as suspected. The flesh of the man's cheek was sawed completely through with surgical precision. His jaw was unhinged and gaping open. His eyes were lifeless and dark. Upon closer inspection, to Will’s utter horror, the eyes were sewn open and stretched to look crazed. His body was completely nude. Mr. Guiots’ impressive muscled physique now looked garish and sickly in the lighting, with accompanying bruise likely from a struggle. His wife fared arguably worse. Her head was at his feet, mockingly a sign of subordination but not from the ripper. Her tongue was cut out as well as her eyes. Her mangled arm was in the throat of her husband. Mrs. Guiots was being held in a crush embrace in her husband’s hands. She’s also nude.

A golden pendulum slides across Will’s vision. The scene slowly rewinds in slow motion, going back to the beginning. A couple sleeping in bed together with their son’s room just down the hall, except the son is not home. He is staying at a friend’s house overnight to work on a project. The son is glad not to be home, he has told me personally. I take this opportunity to do him a favour while also catering to my own desires. These parents have inflicted great injustice upon Peter, as well as exemplifying great rudeness with every encounter between us. They are little more than filthy animals that only breed to slaughter. The father has committed a great sin upon the boy, and the wife has turned a blind eye. I do not consider myself a vigilante, but utter rudeness that partially affects me is unspeakable. I craft a tableau to represent the abuse and results. I know this boy, and acting unsavory to either of us is unacceptable. They are both conscious and breathing until the very last moments of my creation. The decapitation was saved for last. This is my design.

“It’s Saturn devouring his son,” Will chokes out at last, stumbling from the grotesque tableau. “The boy, Peter he knows the killer. They are paying him a favour and also getting revenge for wrongs against themself. Something was done to Peter by his father. Something terrible. The killer knew and was somehow involved with Peter. The mom turned a blind eye and let it happen that’s why she’s also there. Just like the painting Saturn devouring his son, he was afraid that his son would overthrow him. Peter had been telling someone –this killer– about the abuse. They were going to help Peter overthrow the tyranny of the father. This was until the killer realized the mother was aware but turning a blind eye. He must have confronted her. She offered to come forward, but she had made her choice from the beginning by not reporting sooner. ” Will blabbers, pacing the room, continually cutting off Jack with his words and a wave of his hands. “It’s the Chesapeake Ripper.” He says, finally stilling.

“He is no vigilante ensuring justice. He’s a plain killer and you know it will.” Jack argues. Perspiration is gathering on Will’s brow and the back of his neck. His headache is throbbing, and Jack’s resistance is frustrating him. “Yes, yes, I know, but I’m telling you this is different. We find the killer we find the ripper.”

The other man’s eyes challenge his, but after a few moments of searching Will’s face, they yield. “Ok, we need an interview with the son.”

Chapter Text

Will woke to no pain. This in itself seemed like a trick.

The room was silent, not like a voidless vacuum that absorbed any thought or exhale. But in a smothering, buzzing way. Like millions of ants were scuttling across his skin. Like a scream stifled behind an unwavering hand.

Shuddering, Will sat up in his bed. His throat was dry and scratchy, and his disorientation was a tell-tale sign of drugging. His wrists were no longer bound and chafed, though they were red. His eyes were no longer obscured by fabric. To his horror, Will noticed all the clothing he was wearing did not belong to him. A light blue shirt and matching shorts clothed his body.

He knew it was foolish to be more upset about this than being confined in a stranger's home for all he knows, but knowing this man had changed him from his clothes and could have done many other things, and he’d be none the wiser, terrified Will. He was finally becoming panicked again. Instead of shutting down, he let his FBI and police force training take over his panic.

The room was beautiful. The floors were dark, lovely wood, embraced by a richly colored Persian rug. The bed he sat in had a towering carved headboard. His bedspread was woven with the softest thread. A large armoire stood across the room. There were books on the bedside table as well as a lamp. A nice desk was against the wall, accompanied by a matching chair.

He could use the sturdy chair pushed into a small desk to close off the room for his safety, buying himself time. Will was no idiot, He was sure there was some way the Ripper was watching him right now. He just needed to show a little resistance before his compliance to appeal to his ego.

Will’s profile had been right on the ripper: He will be an influential man with a taste for fine things. He will love art and elegance as shown through his work. He thought himself above all the people–no, pigs– he slaughtered. If Will followed through with this line of thought, that would lead him somewhere far worse. The Ripper was clever and would kill anyone who he thought might stop him.

But Will wasn’t dead. His fate was going to be so much worse.

Will’s head pounded, and his throat worsened. He supported himself on the headboard and wobbled onto his feet. He dragged the chair from the desk in the room and leaned it under the locked door. Returning to the bed, he waited.

No one came

* * *

Hannibal sat perusing Tattlecrime on his iPad. Now and then, he paused his reading to smirk at the monitor showing the uneasy Will. He had begun by assessing himself and quickly barred the room after making sure it was locked.

Hannibal was no stranger to waiting for his prey. Rather than sitting and waiting for Will to wake up, he wanted Will to wait for him. Oh, and Will had nothing else to do but wait. The boy would soon be forced to want Hannibal to show up when his biology called him to use the restroom. It was a rather vulgar means to draw the boy to him, but Hannibal thought himself exempt from most impoliteness.

Will’s form on the screen had been pacing for the last fifteen minutes.

Hannibal made some work calls.

Will examined the room, looking under beds, at the books only in languages foreign to him, peering under the door.

Hannibal toweled his hands and began dinner.

Finally, Will removed the chair from under the door and sat obediently at the end of the bed after straightening the covers.

Wonderful boy.

Chapter Text

Peter Bernadone sat in the interview room like a ghost waiting to remember he’d died.

He was sixteen, with longish dark hair that curled at the ends, slightly hunched shoulders, and pale hands that fidgeted nervously with a rubber band looped around his wrist. His school uniform looked too big for him as well as worn out.

Will watched from behind the two-way mirror, arms crossed, a slow unease building in his chest. He’d seen plenty of trauma. But this boy... Peter didn’t just look haunted. He looked claimed.

“I want to talk to him alone,” Will said, not taking his eyes off Peter.
Jack gave him a warning look. “You sure?”

Will nodded. “He won’t talk with you in the room. He doesn’t trust uniforms. He needs someone who looks like they’ve been through hell too.”

Jack sighed but stepped aside. “Five minutes, Will. If he shuts down, we bring in a child psychiatrist.”

Will entered quietly. No notepad. No badge on display. Just a glass of water and his worn empathy. Will sat across from him, slow and soft. “I’m not here to scare you.”
Peter mumbled, eyes still fixed on his hands. “Mr. Guiot --my foster Dad I mean-- always said I was prone to scaring easily .”

Will smiled faintly. “That’s okay. I do too.”
There was a long pause. The ticking of the old wall clock felt unusually loud.

“We know about what happened,” Will said gently. “We know your foster parents are dead. We know it wasn’t you. But we also know someone killed them for a reason.”
Peter’s fingers froze mid-twist in the rubber band. His voice came out tight and thin. “I didn’t ask them to.”

“I believe you.”

Silence again. Then, barely a whisper—“But I think... I think they wanted to.”

Will leaned in. “Who, Peter?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

Peter’s eyes finally lifted. They were bloodshot, but alert. Terrified. “Because they told me if I told anyone, they'd make it worse than it already was.”
Will’s stomach turned. He kept his voice level. “Was it your father?”

Peter hesitated. Then nodded, once. Just once.Will sat back, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. “And the person who helped you... is he someone at your school?”
Peter didn’t respond.
Will tried again. “A teacher? A counselor?”

Peter looked down again. “He... he’s not like that. He listens. He understands. He talks like no one else talks.”
“Did you tell him what was happening to you?”

A pause.

Another slow nod.

“Did he promise to fix it?”

Peter glanced at him, something sharp flaring in his eyes. “He didn’t promise. He explained.”

Will blinked. “Explained?”

“He told me people like my dad—they don’t get scared by justice. They get scared by being exposed. Humiliated. He said he wouldn’t let them keep pretending to be human.”

That didn’t sound like a teacher. That sounded like... something else.

Will’s brow furrowed. “Did he ever tell you his name?”

Peter smiled, faint and strange. “He told me names are lies. But... I called him ‘Doctor.’ He liked that.”

Will sat frozen for a moment.

A pediatrician perhaps?

He scribbled the mental note: Find Peter’s medical file. Interview his mental health providers. One of them’s the killer. Maybe even the Ripper.

“Peter,” Will said slowly, “I’m going to keep you safe. But I need to know—are you afraid of this man?”

Peter looked right at him.

“No,” he said. “But you should be.”

Chapter Text

Will finally resigned to lying on the bed after hours of waiting for this bastard. There was no clock and no window to be sure of how much time had passed, but he was sure he had been gone at least a full day or two. 

His bladder was shrieking, and his throat was throbbing from dryness as he kept desperately clearing it. Sweat stained the clothes he was wearing, and dripped from his hair-covered forehead down into his eyes. He had been trying to blink the persistent tug of sleep away for at least twenty minutes. He’d have failed at this if it weren’t for his straining bladder. 

He felt repulsive. An animal in his pretty prison, he scoffed to himself.  

His bladder insistently throbbed as if it were a timer clicking closer to zero. He whined, curling up tighter. His shame was creeping its color down his cheeks and neck.

“Hello, William.” 

Will attempted to stifle his jolt before cracking an eye open to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Hello…” He croaked at last. Play nice, play nice . He pleaded this mantra over and over again in his brain to avoid being a fool. 

“Dinner will be served as soon as I take you downstairs, but first we should atleast establish ground rules don’t you think?” The Ripper stalked forward light-footed and sure. He froze the tickign in the room and almost time itself. There was no doubting the strength behind this mans poise as well as the danger. 

It unsettled Will knowingly sitting face to face with the beast he had been chasing. He had speculated with Jack Crawford, dissected crime scenes searching for motives, hints, or any thing to lead them in the right direction. 

Now this man– no monster— was standing over him, stretching out his hand, lips still moving in speech, but not because Will had caught him, quite the opposite. Will’s stomach lurched, and his throat clicked with more dryness. 

The Ripper was staring at him expectantly. “Sorry, what did you just say?” Will asked, looking away, feeling foolish under his stare. Why should he feel foolish? This is ridiculous. 

“The rules will be:” He started slower and deliberately, “you will not attempt to escape or hurt me, you will treat me with respect and be polite, and lastly –for now– you will accept any of my orders without complaint.”

He still had his hand outstretched. Will didn't take it. If this bothered him, he didn’t show it. I mean, after all, he seemed to know Will enough that complete obedience would rouse suspicion and raise his guard instead of lowering it as Will planned. 

Will was still about to burst, and standing made it a million times worse. He staggered forward, and the taller man steadied him. 

“Everything alright?” He purred, feigning innocence. This bastard was going to make him beg, wasn’t he?

“Bathroom.” Will panted, trying to shrug the man off.

“Oh, it’s just down the hall.” This freak said indifferently. He wound his arm around Will’s waist, brushing his fingers over his abdomen. Will’s body recoiled immediately, but it was fruitless. He wasn’t going to beg, he wasn’t going to beg.

“Just say the word.” He continued. 

He wasn’t going to beg.

He felt a trickle come out, but grabbed himself to stop it.

“Can I please, please use the restroom?” He gasped, squeezing the man's bicep.

The ripper smiled like he had been kissed before, whisking him to the bathroom. Will barley made it before he quickly released himself. To his utter disgust, he noticed the man was leaning on the door frame, watching him intently. Having only noticed after he finished he scowled. “Freak.” He grumbled to himself, washing his hands. 

“What was that?” A warning voice said quietly and he looked in the bathroom mirror to see he was right behind him. 

“Why would you watch me and make me wait, you creep. That’s disgusting–” He was immediately interrupted by a swift grab of his arms being painfully pinned behind his back while he was pushed face-first into the vanity table beside the sink.

“If you recall, the second rule was to be polite and respectful.” Hissed an angry voice. “You are not indispensable if you do remember.”

The heavy pressure grated on his shoulder joints, especially the one that already had a lengthy medical history. His nose was smashed into the marble counter, and his glasses were agonizingly butting into his nose, making his vision swim. He groaned in pain, squirming and bucking to no avail for a minute before deflating in submission. 

A pause.

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry,” Will whispered robotically, lying defeated momentarily. His exhaustion and dehydration are catching up with him. The title pleased Hannibal, and he eased off. 

Will remained draped over the vanity. Play nice, play nice, his mind pleaded. Pretend to be good and he will lower his guard, it promised.

Hannibal’s face softened as he tilted Will’s face up. “Oh, you're just tired and scared.” He ran a hand that was annoyingly soothing over Will’s back. “Fear makes you rude.” 

Will scowled but didn’t resist. He slowly stood with Hannibal’s help. “I’m afraid dinner has probably gone cold by now. Let’s just go warm it up and get soem food into you.”